Chapter 12

The streams have forgotten the sea In the dream of their musical sound; The sunlight is thick on the tree, And the shadows lie warm on the ground,-- So still, you may watch them and see Every breath that awakens around.

The churchyard lies still in the heat, With its handful of mouldering bone, As still as the long stalk of wheat In the shadow that sits by the stone, As still as the grass at my feet When I walk in the meadows alone.

The waves are asleep on the main, And the ships are asleep on the wave; And the thoughts are as still in my brain As the echo that sleeps in the cave; All rest from their labour and pain-- Then why should not I in my grave?

_WHO LIGHTS THE FIRE_?

Who lights the fire--that forth so gracefully And freely frolicketh the fairy smoke? Some pretty one who never felt the yoke-- Glad girl, or maiden more sedate than she.

Pedant it cannot, villain cannot be! Some genius, may-be, his own symbol woke; But puritan, nor rogue in virtue's cloke, Nor kitchen-maid has done it certainly!

Ha, ha! you cannot find the lighter out For all the blue smoke's pantomimic gesture-- His name or nature, sex or age or vesture! The fire was lit by human care, no doubt-- But now the smoke is Nature's tributary, Dancing 'twixt man and nothing like a fairy.

_WHO WOULD HAVE THOUGHT_?

Who would have thought that even an idle song Were such a holy and celestial thing That wickedness and envy cannot sing-- That music for no moment lives with wrong? I know this, for a very grievous throng, Dark thoughts, low wishes, round my bosom cling, And, underneath, the hidden holy spring Stagnates because of their enchantment strong.

Blow, breath of heaven, on all this poison blow! And, heart, glow upward to this gracious breath! Between them, vanish, mist of sin and death, And let the life of life within me flow! Love is the green earth, the celestial air, And music runs like dews and rivers there!

_ON A DECEMBER DAY_.

I.

This is the sweetness of an April day; The softness of the spring is on the face Of the old year. She has no natural grace, But something comes to her from far away

Out of the Past, and on her old decay The beauty of her childhood you can trace.-- And yet she moveth with a stormy pace, And goeth quickly.--Stay, old year, oh, stay!

We do not like new friends, we love the old; With young, fierce, hopeful hearts we ill agree; But thou art patient, stagnant, calm, and cold, And not like that new year that is to be;-- Life, promise, love, her eyes may fill, fair child! We know the past, and will not be beguiled.

II.

Yet the free heart will not be captive long; And if she changes often, she is free. But if she changes: One has mastery Who makes the joy the last in every song. And so to-day I blessed the breezes strong That swept the blue; I blessed the breezes free That rolled wet leaves like rivers shiningly; I blessed the purple woods I stood among.

"And yet the spring is better!" Bitterness Came with the words, but did not stay with them. "Accomplishment and promise! field and stem New green fresh growing in a fragrant dress! And we behind with death and memory!" --Nay, prophet-spring! but I will follow thee.

_CHRISTMAS DAY, 1850_.

Beautiful stories wed with lovely days Like words and music:--what shall be the tale Of love and nobleness that might avail To express in action what this sweetness says--

The sweetness of a day of airs and rays That are strange glories on the winter pale? Alas, O beauty, all my fancies fail! I cannot tell a story in thy praise!

Thou hast, thou hast one--set, and sure to chime With thee, as with the days of "winter wild;" For Joy like Sorrow loves his blessed feet Who shone from Heaven on Earth this Christmas-time A Brother and a Saviour, Mary's child!-- And so, fair day, thou _hast_ thy story sweet.

_TO A FEBRUARY PRIMROSE_.

I know not what among the grass thou art, Thy nature, nor thy substance, fairest flower, Nor what to other eyes thou hast of power To send thine image through them to the heart; But when I push the frosty leaves apart And see thee hiding in thy wintry bower Thou growest up within me from that hour, And through the snow I with the spring depart.

I have no words. But fragrant is the breath, Pale beauty, of thy second life within. There is a wind that cometh for thy death, But thou a life immortal dost begin, Where in one soul, which is thy heaven, shall dwell Thy spirit, beautiful Unspeakable!

_IN FEBRUARY_.

Now in the dark of February rains, Poor lovers of the sunshine, spring is born, The earthy fields are full of hidden corn, And March's violets bud along the lanes;

Therefore with joy believe in what remains. And thou who dost not feel them, do not scorn Our early songs for winter overworn, And faith in God's handwriting on the plains.

"Hope" writes he, "Love" in the first violet, "Joy," even from Heaven, in songs and winds and trees; And having caught the happy words in these While Nature labours with the letters yet, Spring cannot cheat us, though her _hopes_ be broken, Nor leave us, for we know what God hath spoken.

_THE TRUE_.

I envy the tree-tops that shake so high In winds that fill them full of heavenly airs; I envy every little cloud that shares With unseen angels evening in the sky; I envy most the youngest stars that lie Sky-nested, and the loving heaven that bears, And night that makes strong worlds of them unawares; And all God's other beautiful and nigh!

Nay, nay, I envy not! And these are dreams, Fancies and images of real heaven! My longings, all my longing prayers are given For that which is, and not for that which seems. Draw me, O Lord, to thy true heaven above, The Heaven of thy Thought, thy Rest, thy Love.

_THE DWELLERS THEREIN_.

Down a warm alley, early in the year, Among the woods, with all the sunshine in And all the winds outside it, I begin To think that something gracious will appear, If anything of grace inhabit here, Or there be friendship in the woods to win. Might one but find companions more akin To trees and grass and happy daylight clear, And in this wood spend one long hour at home! The fairies do not love so bright a place, And angels to the forest never come, But I have dreamed of some harmonious race, The kindred of the shapes that haunt the shore Of Music's flow and flow for evermore.

_AUTUMN'S GOLD_.

Along the tops of all the yellow trees, The golden-yellow trees, the sunshine lies; And where the leaves are gone, long rays surprise Lone depths of thicket with their brightnesses; And through the woods, all waste of many a breeze, Cometh more joy of light for Poet's eyes-- Green fields lying yellow underneath the skies, And shining houses and blue distances.

By the roadside, like rocks of golden ore That make the western river-beds so bright, The briar and the furze are all alight! Perhaps the year will be so fair no more, But now the fallen, falling leaves are gay, And autumn old has shone into a Day!

_PUNISHMENT_.

Mourner, that dost deserve thy mournfulness, Call thyself punished, call the earth thy hell; Say, "God is angry, and I earned it well-- I would not have him smile on wickedness:"

Say this, and straightway all thy grief grows less:-- "God rules at least, I find as prophets tell, And proves it in this prison!"--then thy cell Smiles with an unsuspected loveliness.

--"A prison--and yet from door and window-bar I catch a thousand breaths of his sweet air! Even to me his days and nights are fair! He shows me many a flower and many a star! And though I mourn and he is very far, He does not kill the hope that reaches there!"

_SHEW US THE FATHER_.

"Shew us the Father." Chiming stars of space, And lives that fit the worlds, and means and powers, A Thought that holds them up reveal to ours-- A Wisdom we have been made wise to trace. And, looking out from sweetest Nature's face, From sunsets, moonlights, rivers, hills, and flowers, Infinite love and beauty, all the hours, Woo men that love them with divinest grace; And to the depths of all the answering soul High Justice speaks, and calls the world her own; And yet we long, and yet we have not known The very Father's face who means the whole! Shew us the Father! Nature, conscience, love Revealed in beauty, is there One above?

_THE PINAFORE_.

When peevish flaws his soul have stirred To fretful tears for crossed desires, Obedient to his mother's word My child to banishment retires.

As disappears the moon, when wind Heaps miles of mist her visage o'er, So vanisheth his face behind The cloud of his white pinafore.

I cannot then come near my child-- A gulf between of gainful loss; He to the infinite exiled-- I waiting, for I cannot cross.

Ah then, what wonder, passing show, The Isis-veil behind it brings-- Like that self-coffined creatures know, Remembering legs, foreseeing wings!

Mysterious moment! When or how Is the bewildering change begun? Hid in far deeps the awful now When turns his being to the sun!

A light goes up behind his eyes, A still small voice behind his ears; A listing wind about him sighs, And lo the inner landscape clears!

Hid by that screen, a wondrous shine Is gathering for a sweet surprise; As Moses grew, in dark divine, Too radiant for his people's eyes.

For when the garment sinks again, Outbeams a brow of heavenly wile, Clear as a morning after rain, And sunny with a perfect smile.

Oh, would that I the secret knew Of hiding from my evil part, And turning to the lovely true The open windows of my heart!

Lord, in thy skirt, love's tender gaol, Hide thou my selfish heart's disgrace; Fill me with light, and then unveil To friend and foe a friendly face.

_THE PRISM_.

I.

A pool of broken sunbeams lay Upon the passage-floor, Radiant and rich, profound and gay As ever diamond bore.

Small, flitting hands a handkerchief Spread like a cunning trap: Prone lay the gorgeous jewel-sheaf In the glory-gleaner's lap!

Deftly she folded up the prize, With lovely avarice; Like one whom having had made wise, She bore it off in bliss.

But ah, when for her prisoned gems She peeped, to prove them there, No glories broken from their stems Lay in the kerchief bare!

For still, outside the nursery door, The bright persistency, A molten diadem on the floor, Lay burning wondrously.

II.

How oft have I laid fold from fold And peered into my mind-- To see of all the purple and gold Not one gleam left behind!

The best of gifts will not be stored: The manna of yesterday Has filled no sacred miser-hoard To keep new need away.

Thy grace, O Lord, it is thyself; Thy presence is thy light; I cannot lay it on my shelf, Or take it from thy sight.

For daily bread we daily pray-- The want still breeds the cry; And so we meet, day after day, Thou, Father in heaven, and I.

Is my house dreary, wall and floor, Will not the darkness flit, I go outside my shadowy door And in thy rainbow sit.

_SLEEP_.

Oh! is it Death that comes To have a foretaste of the whole? To-night the planets and the stars Will glimmer through my window-bars But will not shine upon my soul!

For I shall lie as dead Though yet I am above the ground; All passionless, with scarce a breath, With hands of rest and eyes of death, I shall be carried swiftly round.

Or if my life should break The idle night with doubtful gleams, Through mossy arches will I go, Through arches ruinous and low, And chase the true and false in dreams.

Why should I fall asleep? When I am still upon my bed The moon will shine, the winds will rise And all around and through the skies The light clouds travel o'er my head!

O busy, busy things, Ye mock me with your ceaseless life! For all the hidden springs will flow And all the blades of grass will grow When I have neither peace nor strife.

And all the long night through The restless streams will hurry by; And round the lands, with endless roar, The white waves fall upon the shore, And bit by bit devour the dry.

Even thus, but silently, Eternity, thy tide shall flow, And side by side with every star Thy long-drawn swell shall bear me far, An idle boat with none to row.

My senses fail with sleep; My heart beats thick; the night is noon; And faintly through its misty folds I hear a drowsy clock that holds Its converse with the waning moon.

Oh, solemn mystery That I should be so closely bound With neither terror nor constraint, Without a murmur of complaint, And lose myself upon such ground!

_SHARING_.

On the far horizon there Heaps of cloudy darkness rest; Though the wind is in the air There is stupor east and west.

For the sky no change is making, Scarce we know it from the plain; Droop its eyelids never waking, Blinded by the misty rain;

Save on high one little spot, Round the baffled moon a space Where the tumult ceaseth not: Wildly goes the midnight race!

And a joy doth rise in me Upward gazing on the sight, When I think that others see In yon clouds a like delight;

How perchance an aged man Struggling with the wind and rain, In the moonlight cold and wan Feels his heart grow young again;

As the cloudy rack goes by, How the life-blood mantles up Till the fountain deep and dry Yields once more a sparkling cup.

Or upon the gazing child Cometh down a thought of glory Which will keep him undefiled Till his head is old and hoary.

For it may be he hath woke And hath raised his fair young form; Strangely on his eyes have broke All the splendours of the storm;

And his young soul forth doth leap With the storm-clouds in the moon; And his heart the light will keep Though the vision passeth soon.

Thus a joy hath often laughed On my soul from other skies, Bearing on its wings a draught From the wells of Paradise,

For that not to me alone Comes a splendour out of fear; Where the light of heaven hath shone There is glory far and near.

_IN BONDS_.

Of the poor bird that cannot fly Kindly you think and mournfully; For prisoners and for exiles all You let the tears of pity fall; And very true the grief should be That mourns the bondage of the free.

The soul--_she_ has a fatherland; Binds _her_ not many a tyrant's hand? And the winged spirit has a home, But can she always homeward come? Poor souls, with all their wounds and foes, Will you not also pity those?

_HUNGER_.

Father, I cry to thee for bread With hungred longing, eager prayer; Thou hear'st, and givest me instead More hunger and a half-despair.

0 Lord, how long? My days decline, My youth is lapped in memories old; I need not bread alone, but wine-- See, cup and hand to thee I hold!

And yet thou givest: thanks, O Lord, That still my heart with hunger faints! The day will come when at thy board I sit, forgetting all my plaints.

If rain must come and winds must blow, And I pore long o'er dim-seen chart, Yet, Lord, let not the hunger go, And keep the faintness at my heart.

_NEW YEAR'S EVE: A WAKING DREAM_.

I have not any fearful tale to tell Of fabled giant or of dragon-claw, Or bloody deed to pilfer and to sell To those who feed, with such, a gaping maw; But what in yonder hamlet there befell, Or rather what in it my fancy saw, I will declare, albeit it may seem Too simple and too common for a dream.

Two brothers were they, and they sat alone Without a word, beside the winter's glow; For it was many years since they had known The love that bindeth brothers, till the snow Of age had frozen it, and it had grown An icy-withered stream that would not flow; And so they sat with warmth about their feet And ice about their hearts that would not beat.

And yet it was a night for quiet hope:-- A night the very last of all the year To many a youthful heart did seem to ope An eye within the future, round and clear; And age itself, that travels down the slope, Sat glad and waiting as the hour drew near, The dreamy hour that hath the heaviest chime, Jerking our souls into the coming time.

But they!--alas for age when it is old! The silly calendar they did not heed; Alas for age when in its bosom cold There is not warmth to nurse a bladed weed! They thought not of the morrow, but did hold A quiet sitting as their hearts did feed Inwardly on themselves, as still and mute As if they were a-cold from head to foot.

O solemn kindly night, she looketh still With all her moon upon us now and then! And though she dwelleth most in craggy hill, She hath an eye unto the hearts of men! So past a corner of the window-sill She thrust a long bright finger just as ten Had struck, and on the dial-plate it came, Healing each hour's raw edge with tender flame.

There is a something in the winds of heaven That stirreth purposely and maketh men; And unto every little wind is given A thing to do ere it is still again; So when the little clock had struck eleven, The edging moon had drawn her silver pen Across a mirror, making them aware Of something ghostlier than their own grey hair.

Therefore they drew aside the window-blind And looked upon the sleeping town below, And on the little church which sat behind As keeping watch upon the scanty row Of steady tombstones--some of which inclined And others upright, in the moon did show Like to a village down below the waves-- It was so still and cool among the graves.

But not a word from either mouth did fall, Except it were some very plain remark. Ah! why should such as they be glad at all? For years they had not listened to the lark! The child was dead in them!--yet did there crawl A wish about their hearts; and as the bark Of distant sheep-dog came, they were aware Of a strange longing for the open air.

Ah! many an earthy-weaving year had spun A web of heavy cloud about their brain! And many a sun and moon had come and gone Since they walked arm in arm, these brothers twain! But now with timed pace their feet did stun The village echoes into quiet pain: The street appeared very short and white, And they like ghosts unquiet for the light.

"Right through the churchyard," one of them did say --I knew not which was elder of the two-- "Right through the churchyard is our better way." "Ay," said the other, "past the scrubby yew. I have not seen her grave for many a day; And it is in me that with moonlight too It might be pleasant thinking of old faces, And yet I seldom go into such places."

Strange, strange indeed to me the moonlight wan Sitting about a solitary stone! Stranger than many tales it is to scan The earthy fragment of a human bone; But stranger still to see a grey old man Apart from all his fellows, and alone With the pale night and all its giant quiet; Therefore that stone was strange and those two by it.

It was their mother's grave, and here were hid The priceless pulses of a mother's soul. Full sixty years it was since she had slid Into the other world through that deep hole. But as they stood it seemed the coffin-lid Grew deaf with sudden hammers!--'twas the mole Niddering about its roots.--Be still, old men, Be very still and ye will hear again.

Ay, ye will hear it! Ye may go away, But it will stay with you till ye are dead! It is but earthy mould and quiet clay, But it hath power to turn the oldest head. Their eyes met in the moon, and they did say More than a hundred tongues had ever said. So they passed onwards through the rapping wicket Into the centre of a firry thicket.

It was a solemn meeting of Earth's life, An inquest held upon the death of things; And in the naked north full thick and rife The snow-clouds too were meeting as on wings Shorn round the edges by the frost's keen knife; And the trees seemed to gather into rings, Waiting to be made blind, as they did quail Among their own wan shadows thin and pale.

Many strange noises are there among trees, And most within the quiet moony light, Therefore those aged men are on their knees As if they listened somewhat:--Ye are right-- Upwards it bubbles like the hum of bees! Although ye never heard it till to-night, The mighty mother calleth ever so To all her pale-eyed children from below.

Ay, ye have walked upon her paven ways, And heard her voices in the market-place, But ye have never listened what she says When the snow-moon is pressing on her face! One night like this is more than many days To him who hears the music and the bass Of deep immortal lullabies which calm His troubled soul as with a hushing psalm.

I know not whether there is power in sleep To dim the eyelids of the shining moon, But so it seemed then, for still more deep She grew into a heavy cloud, which, soon Hiding her outmost edges, seemed to keep A pressure on her; so there came a swoon Among the shadows, which still lay together But in their slumber knew not one another.

But while the midnight groped for the chime As she were heavy with excess of dreams, She from the cloud's thick web a second time Made many shadows, though with minished beams; And as she looked eastward through the rime Of a thin vapour got of frosty steams, There fell a little snow upon the crown Of a near hillock very bald and brown.

And on its top they found a little spring, A very helpful little spring indeed, Which evermore unwound a tiny string Of earnest water with continual speed-- And so the brothers stood and heard it sing; For all was snowy-still, and not a seed Had struck, and nothing came but noises light Of the continual whitening of the night.

There is a kindness in the falling snow-- It is a grey head to the spring time mild; So as the creamy vapour bowed low Crowning the earth with honour undefiled, Within each withered man arose a glow As if he fain would turn into a child: There was a gladness somewhere in the ground Which in his bosom nowhere could be found!

Not through the purple summer or the blush Of red voluptuous roses did it come That silent speaking voice, but through the slush And snowy quiet of the winter numb! It was a barren mound that heard the gush Of living water from two fountains dumb-- Two rocky human hearts which long had striven To make a pleasant noise beneath high heaven!

Now from the village came the onward shout Of lightsome voices and of merry cheer; It was a youthful group that wandered out To do obeisance to the glad new year; And as they passed they sang with voices stout A song which I was very fain to hear, But as they darkened on, away it died, And the two men walked homewards side by side.

_FROM NORTH WALES: TO THE MOTHER_.

When the summer gave us a longer day, And the leaves were thickest, I went away: Like an isle, through dark clouds, of the infinite blue, Was that summer-ramble from London and you.

It was but one burst into life and air, One backward glance on the skirts of care, A height on the hills with the smoke below-- And the joy that came quickly was quick to go.

But I know and I cannot forget so soon How the Earth is shone on by Sun and Moon; How the clouds hide the mountains, and how they move When the morning sunshine lies warm above.

I know how the waters fall and run In the rocks and the heather, away from the sun; How they hang like garlands on all hill-sides, And are the land's music, those crystal tides.

I know how they gather in valleys fair, Meet valleys those beautiful waves to bear; How they dance through the rocks, how they rest in the pool, How they darken, how sparkle, and how they are cool.

I know how the rocks from their kisses climb To keep the storms off with a front sublime; And how on their platforms and sloping walls The shadow of oak-tree and fir-tree falls.

I know how the valleys are bright from far, Rocks, meadows, and waters, the wood and the scaur; And how the roadside and the nearest hill The foxglove and heather and harebell fill.