Part 2

In those far lands beyond the Southern Sea, Traversed by knights who seek the Holy Grail, The mountains belch forth fire, and flood the slopes And valleys with the sulphurous tide of hell, Till man and all his works are whelmed beneath. Then, wearied with his rage, the demon sleeps, And o’er the frozen graves of the long dead The hopeful vine grows and the flowers bloom, And children’s voices and the song of birds Bid hush the awful memory of the past. But on some doomful night an ominous roar Startles the dreaming villager, who, looking Forth through his shivering casement, sees the sky Alive with fearful forms. The spirits of fire, Unchained from their long bondage, with fierce joy Dance onward, bearing death, while smoky palls Waver around them. With their ghostly hands From wrathful vials they pour blazing streams That lick the earth, from which is no escape But death--and death comes soon. So after peace, Which men had thought eternal, shall come war, And chase, with rumbling horror, the sweet dreams Of gentle harmony throughout the world.

Then shall the spirit of the Table Round Enter men’s hearts and make their right arms strong For deeds of war,--deeds that shall make the eyes Of those who come thereafter flash with pride.

By many a far-off height and river-side Shall fall such men as fought at Badon-hill Warring with heathen foes; and lonely hearths Shall sorrow for the dead who come no more. And, one war over, others shall succeed, And others; and the blaze of burning towns Shall blot the moon out of the midnight sky.

And some will say: ‘Now is the end at hand Of all things, and the whole fair world is doomed To sink in ashy nothingness. The wrath Of God is kindled for the sins of men.’

But when the fiery wave of war has washed The world, as gold from which the dross is burned, The nations shall rise purer, and men’s hearts Shall fear the touch of wrong; the slave ashamed And angry once to see the pitiless sun Smile on his chains, shall leap and sing for joy. Free thought shall take the ancient shield of Truth And make it bright, showing the Artist’s work, Long hid by stains and rust from longing eyes; And hoary ills shall die, and o’er their graves Shall bloom fair flowers, and trees of goodly fruit To gladden and make strong the heart of man.”

Then said Sir Bedivere: “O, good and wise, My heart is full of wonder, and I doubt Whether or not I listen in a dream Wrought by thy wizard spells around my soul. But tell me further of the Blameless Prince, The image of King Arthur,--or himself, Albeit thou sayst it not, come back again From his long sleep in Avalon. Shall he die, Or shall he live and teach men how to live Until the coming of our Master, Christ?”

Then Merlin, with a cloud upon his face, As thinking of the sorrow that must be, Yet with a silver smile about the cloud, Answered Sir Bedivere: “O, loving well And loyal to the last, the Blameless Prince, The God-sent promise of a better time When all men shall be like him, good and wise, Shall, when his work is finished, pass away; And the dark shade of sorrow’s wings shall blot The sky, and all the widowed land shall mourn; And chiefly she, his other self, the Queen, Shall weep long years in lonely palace-halls, Missing the music of a silent voice. But, though his voice be silent, in men’s hearts Shall sink the fruitful memory of his life, And take deep root, and grow to glorious deeds. And she will write the story of his life Who loved him, and though tears may blot the page, Even as they fall, the rainbow hues of hope Shall bless them with Christ’s promise of the time When they that sow in tears shall reap in joy.”

Then, sad and sore amazed, Sir Bedivere: “O, Merlin, Merlin, truly didst thou say That hid from eyes of common men like me Is that which is to be in after days; For even now I scarce can comprehend What thou hast spoken with prophetic lips. These things are very far beyond my reach. This only do I know, that I am now An orphan knight, reft of the royal sire That made me knight, giving my soul new birth And heirdom to the Christian fellowship Of the Round Table. Gladly would I give All glory ever won by knightly deed, All honour in the ranks of my compeers, All gentle blandishments of ladies fair, All that I am, or have, or prize the most, And sink into the meanness of the churl That feeds the Saxon’s swine, for but one glimpse Of my loved lord, King Arthur. But I know That he will never more to Camelot Bring back the glory of his vanished face, Nor call me his ‘true knight, Sir Bedivere.’ So I will pray, even as thou badst me pray, And as King Arthur bade me, for his soul, That to his far-off home no sigh may come, From this his orphan and unhappy realm, To mar the melody of Avalon. And though he may not hither come to me, May I not hope that I may go to him, And see him face to face, in that fair land, Whose beauty mortal eye has never seen, Whose music mortal ear has never heard, Whose glory mortal heart has not conceived.

But, Merlin, I would ask thee one thing more, If thou have patience with my blunter sense (For I am but a knight, and thou, a sage, And knowest all things)--prithee, tell me, Merlin, If, in the far-off after-time, shall come A Prince who shall be known by Arthur’s name, And bear it blamelessly as he did his.”

Then, Merlin, with a wise smile on his face, Such as a mother wears who gently tries To answer the hard question of her child, Answered Sir Bedivere: “Thou askest well, And fain am I to answer. That good Prince Of whom I spake--Albert, the Blameless Prince-- Shall be the head of many dynasties. His blood, in after years, shall wear the crown Of many kingdoms. She who loved him well Shall reign for many years when he is gone, And round her widowed diadem shall gleam The richer halo of a nation’s love, For her own sake and for the sainted dead. And she will shed the brightness of her soul On Britain’s future Kings, and they shall learn, Not only from her lips, but from her life, That who rules well must make Christ’s law his rule. And of the Good Queen and the Blameless Prince One son shall be named Arthur. Like the King For whom thy heart is sad, Sir Bedivere, He shall be true, and brave, and generous In speech and act to all of all degrees, And win the unsought guerdon of men’s love.

In a far land beneath the setting sun, Now and long hence undreamed of (save by me Who, in my soul’s eye, see the great round world Whirled by the lightning touches of the sun Through time and space),--a land of stately woods, Of swift broad rivers, and of ocean lakes,-- The name of Arthur,--him that is to be,-- (Son of the Good Queen and the Blameless Prince), Shall shed new glories upon him we loved.”

Then, by the memories of his lord, the King, Sir Bedivere was quickened into tears, But, like a boy ashamed to shew wet eyes Before a boy, he passed his mailéd hand Athwart his face, and frightened back his grief. And seeing Merlin made no sign to speak More of the Arthur of the after-time, He took the word: “Thanks, Merlin, thou art kind Beyond the limit of my gratitude, I fear me. Sorrow is a selfish thing, And much exacts from friendship. Still, I thank thee That thou hast not gainsayed my utmost quest. And, now, I pray God bless him when he comes, That other Arthur. May he keep his name As pure as his who ruled in Camelot; May he, in every wise, be like to him, Save in the pain that comes of love deceived And trampled faith; and may his far-off land Be great by noble deeds of noble men.”

Then came a sound of music from the Lake, Like the soft sighing of the summer winds Among the pine-trees, and Sir Bedivere Turned toward the sound. But as he turned again To ask of Merlin what the music meant, Merlin was gone, and he was all alone-- Alone upon the beach amid the dead!

DEVENISH.

I.

’Twas years since I had heard the name, When, seen in print, before my eyes The old Round Tower seemed to rise, With silent scorn of noisy fame.

II.

Our little boat, like water-bird, Touches the still Lake, breast to breast; No sound disturbs the solemn rest Save kiss of oar and whisper’d word.

III.

All Nature wears a placid smile Of gold and blue and tender green; And in the setting of the scene Lies, like a gem, the Holy Isle.

IV.

Hushed is the music of the oar; A little hand is placed in mine; My blood runs wildly, as with wine-- We stand together on the shore.

V.

O boyish days! O boyish heart! In vain I wish you back again! O boyish fancy’s first sweet pain, How glorious, after all, thou art!

VI.

The old Round Tower, the ruined walls, Where mould’ring bones once knelt in prayer, The Latin legend, winding stair,-- These any “tourist’s book” recalls.

VII.

But, oh! the love, the wild delight, The sweet romance of long ago, All these have vanished, as the glow Of eventide fades out at night.

KINGS OF MEN.

As hills seem Alps, when veiled in misty shroud, Some men seem kings, through mists of ignorance; Must we have darkness, then, and cloud on cloud, To give our hills and pigmy kings a chance? Must we conspire to curse the humbling light, Lest some one, at whose feet our fathers bowed, Should suddenly appear, full length, in sight, Scaring to laughter the adoring crowd? Oh, no! God send us light!--Who loses then? The king of slaves and not the king of men. True kings are kings for ever, crowned of God, The King of Kings,--we need not fear for them. ’Tis only the usurper’s diadem That shakes at touch of light, revealing fraud.

VASHTI.

“After these things, when the wrath of King Ahasuerus was appeased, he remembered Vashti.”--_Book of Esther_ ii. 1.

I.

Is this all the love that he bore me, my husband, to publish my face To the nobles of Media and Persia, whose hearts are besotted and base? Did he think me a slave, me, Vashti, the Beautiful,[A] me, Queen of Queens, To summon me thus for a show to the midst of his bacchanal scenes?

[A] Vashti means “_Beautiful Woman_;” Esther means “_A Star_.”

II.

I stand like an image of brass, I, Vashti, in sight of such men! No, sooner, a thousand times sooner, the mouth of the lioness’ den, When she’s fiercest with hunger and love for the hungry young lions that tear Her breasts with sharp, innocent teeth, I would enter, aye, sooner than there!

III.

Did he love me, or is he, too, though the King, but a brute like the rest? I have seen him in wine, and I fancied ’twas then that he loved me the best; Though I think I would rather have one sweet, passionate word from the heart Than a year of caresses that may with the wine that creates them depart.

IV.

But ever before, in his wine, towards me he shewed honour and grace,-- He was King, I was Queen, and those nobles he made them remember their place; But now all is changed: I am vile, they are honoured, they push me aside,-- A butt for Memucan, and Shethar, and Meres, gone mad in their pride!

* * * * *

V.

Shall I faint? shall I pine? shall I sicken and die for the loss of his love? Not I; I am queen of myself, though the stars fall from heaven above-- The stars! ha! the torment is there, for my light is put out by a _Star_, That has dazzled the eyes of the King and his Court and his Captains of War.

* * * * *

VI.

He was lonely, they say, and he looked, as he sat like a ghost at his wine, On the couch by his side, where, of yore, his Beautiful used to recline. But the King is a slave to his pride, to his oath, and the laws of the Medes, And he cannot call Vashti again, though his poor heart is wounded and bleeds.

VII.

So they ransacked the land for a wife, while the King thought of me all the while-- I can see him, this moment, with eyes that are lost for the loss of a smile, Gazing dreamily on as each maiden is temptingly passed in review, While the love in his heart is awake with the thought of a face that he knew!

* * * * *

VIII.

Then _she_ came, when his heart was grown weary with loving the dream of the past! She is fair--I could curse her for that, if I thought that this passion would last! But, e’en if it last, all the love is for me, and, through good and through ill, The King shall remember his Vashti, shall think of his Beautiful still.

* * * * *

IX.

Oh! the day is a weary burden, the night is a restless strife,-- I am sick to the very heart of my soul of this life--this death in life! Oh! that the glorious, changeless sun would draw me up in his might, And quench my dreariness in the flood of his everlasting light!

* * * * *

X.

What is it? Oft, as I lie awake and my pillow is wet with tears, There comes--it came to me just now--a flash, then disappears: A flash of thought that makes this life a re-enacted scene, That makes me dream what was, shall be, and what is now, has been.

XI.

And I, when age on age has rolled, shall sit on the royal throne, And the King shall love his Vashti, his Beautiful, his own; And for the joy of what has been and what again shall be, I’ll try to bear this awful weight of lonely misery!

* * * * *

XII.

The star! the star! oh! blazing light that burns into my soul! The star! the star! oh! flickering light of life beyond control! O King! remember Vashti, thy Beautiful, thy own, Who loved thee and shall love thee still, when Esther’s light has flown!

SHAKSPERE.

_April 23rd, 1864._

I.

To-day, three hundred years ago, A common, English April morn, In Stratford town a child was born, Stratford, where Avon’s waters flow.

II.

No guns are fired, no joy-bell rings: But neighbours call to see the boy And mother, and to wish them joy, And then--attend to other things.

III.

Some years glide by--the boy is man; At school they thought him apt to learn; And now he goes from home to earn His livelihood, as best he can.

IV.

He takes the stage; he writes a play; ’Tis well received; he writes again; His name is known, and courtly men Are glad to hear what he may say.

V.

For he flings wreaths of pearls abroad, Like shells or daisies idly strung; Nor sparing brain, nor pen, nor tongue, Nor waiting until men applaud;

VI.

But, like a bird, a noble song He sings, as Genius teaches him-- Regardless of the critic’s whim-- Whether he think it right or wrong.

VII.

Great Nature’s book he wisely reads: He solves the mystery of life, And cuts, with philosophic knife, The tangled knot of human deeds.

VIII.

Man’s passion--madness, hatred, guile, Hope, mercy, friendship, honour, truth; The griefs of age--the joys of youth; The patriot’s tear--the villain’s smile;

IX.

The modest gem--the tinselled gaud, Of noble worth or base pretence; The glory bought at blood’s expense; The power gained by force or fraud--

X.

On these his sun of genius shone, Making a wondrous photograph, Till even critics ceased to laugh, And owned the picture nobly done.

XI.

The chromatrope of woman’s heart; The words forgot with passion’s breath; The vanity that conquers death; The feathery smile that wings a dart;

XII.

The gentle care that makes man blest; The truth far more than jewels worth; The love that makes a heaven of earth-- All these to him were manifest.

XIII.

He touches the historic page-- The dead return to life again, And feel and speak like real men, Hero or lover, king or sage.

XIV.

The realms of air, with potent wand, He enters boldly as a king; And fays, that float on viewless wing, Sing dreamy songs at his command!

XV.

And witches point, with palsied hand, And blast the air with hellish chime; And ghosts revisit earth a time, With messages from spirit-land!

XVI.

He calls, and what men fancied dumb, Hills, groves, and lakes, and brooks, and stones, Answer him in a thousand tones, Till silence makes a joyous hum.

XVII.

In fine, he made “the world a stage,” And all upon it act their parts-- By Nature’s prompting and by Art’s-- For Art is Nature taught by age.

XVIII.

And, singing thus, he passed his days-- Not without honour, it is true-- Yet hardly understood by few, And these were slow in giving praise.

XIX.

And men had lived in mist so long, Some could not bear his blaze of light, But shut their eyes, and said ’twas night, When it ’twas just the noon of song.

XX.

But when his soul shook off its clay, And hied, its labour done, to God, Throughout the land that he had trod, ’Twas felt “A King is dead to-day!”

XXI.

And now, when centuries have flown, Some shout, “Come, build a monument, For all arrears of poet-rent,”-- As if _he_ needed brass or stone!

XXII.

O man! how oft thy acts have lied! Thou crushest those who strive to live, And makest poor pretence to give Fame unto him thou can’st not hide.

XXIII.

And some are honoured, being dead, By those who coldly turned aside, And gave them, living, but their pride, When they, perhaps, were needing bread!

XXIV.

Yet not to all such honour comes-- Only a few bright names are known Of all the “simple, great ones gone”-- The most are only found on tombs.

XXV.

But one shall never pass away-- His, who was born in Stratford town, When brave Queen Bess wore England’s crown, Three hundred years ago to-day!

SPRING.

I.

O grand, old Earth of God’s and ours, Once more thou doffest winter’s veil, Once more the budding trees and flowers And birds’ sweet music bid thee hail!

II.

Is it a time for joy or care, O Earth?--a time to laugh or weep? What myriads in thy bosom sleep, And we shall soon lie sleeping there!

III.

O Earth! ’tis hard to understand Why thou should’st thus thy children crave! For art thou not a mighty grave, Though strewn with flowers by God’s good hand?

IV.

Thou hearest not, amid thy mirth, Nor carest though thy children die, And senseless in thy bosom lie, Cold and unthought of, cruel Earth!

V.

And yet, O Earth! a little seed, Dropt by man’s hand within thy heart, Thou makest great, and dost impart To him again for every need!

VI.

O Earth! if seed that man lets fall Into thy heart, thou givest thus Back thirty, sixty-fold to us, Thou art not cruel, after all!

VII.

Nor dost thou, Earth, thy children crave; ’Tis God that sows them as His seed, And by and bye they shall be freed, As beauteous flowers for him who gave.

VIII.

O gay, Spring Earth of God’s and ours,-- Nay, rather, thou and we are His, And sun and stars and all that is,-- We bid thee hail with birds and flowers!

IN MEMORIAM.

I.

Our days of happiness Time hurries by, As though in haste his envy found relief; But in our nights of anguish his cold eye Lingers upon us, gloating o’er our grief,-- Yet in the past we fain would live again, Forgetting, for the gladness, all the pain.

II.

So pass our years. It seems a little while Since, with wild throbbings in my boyish heart, I westward gazed from my own western isle, And saw the white-winged messengers depart. Ah! little thought I then that o’er the sea Lived any one that should be dear to me.

III.

Years fled--and other eyes were westward turned, And I was on the bosom of the deep, While strange emotions in my bosom burned-- A sorrow that I thought would never sleep: For all that I had loved on earth was gone,-- Perhaps forever--and--I was alone;

IV.

Save that I heard the dear familiar noise Of the old ocean, and can well recall The bliss, the awe, the love without a voice With which I felt that great heart rise and fall, Like some untamed and tameless “thing of life” That frets for something worthy of its strife.

V.

And then I was alone amid the din Of ceaseless strugglers after wealth and power, Content to hide the better soul within, And pass in men’s applause a gaudy hour,-- To act out well a something they are not,-- To be admired and praised--despised, forgot.

VI.

I was alone, but in my fancy grew A fair ideal, fashioned from the best And purest feelings that my spirit knew; And this ideal was the goddess-guest In my heart’s temple; but I sought not then To find my goddess in the haunts of men.

VII.

And yet I found her--all-personified The goddess of my lonely-loving heart, And--as an artist, when he stands beside Some genius-fathered, beauteous child of art, Worships it mutely, with enraptured gaze-- My love was far too deep for words of praise.

VIII.

But, ah! earth’s brightest joys are bought with pain: Meeting with parting,--smiles with bitter tears,-- Hope ends in sorrow,--loss succeeds to gain,-- And youth’s gay spring-time leads to wintry years; Nought lives that dies not in the world’s wide range, And nothing is unchangeable but change.

IX.

My bliss was o’er. I was again alone Amid the scenes that I had learned to love For her dear sake; but, ah! the charm was gone From river-side and mountain-slope and grove-- All, save the memory of happy hours That lingered like the sweetness of dead flowers.

X.

And as the ground on which a temple stood Is holy, though the temple stand no more, So river, mountain, waterfall and wood Wore something of the sacredness they wore When her loved presence blessed them, and her face Made all around her smile with her sweet grace.

XI.

And I am still alone, and years have fled, And other scenes are ’round me, as I call The past by Memory’s magic from the dead, As Endor’s Sibyl brought the Seer to Saul. (May _he_ not then have thought of that good time When David’s music lulled his soul from crime?)

XII.

And I, with more of bitterness than bliss, The summoned years of my past life review, Till Hope’s red lips with love pale Sorrow’s kiss, And all things good and beautiful and true, Start rainbow-like from Sorrow’s falling tears, Spanning with hues of Heaven all my years.

XIII.

And as I ope the temple of my heart And seek its inmost and its holiest shrine, Still there, my love, my darling one, thou art,-- There still I worship thee and call thee mine; And this sweet anthem all that temple fills-- “Love cannot lose, ’tis loss of love that kills.”

[POSTSCRIPT.]

XIV.