FEBRUARY, 1850.
A LIST OF BOOKS
PUBLISHED BY
EDWARD MOXON, 44, DOVER STREET.
MISCELLANEOUS.
HAYDN’S DICTIONARY OF DATES, and UNIVERSAL REFERENCE, relating to
all Ages and Nations; comprehending every Remarkable Occurrence,
Ancient and Modern--the Foundation, Laws, and Governments of
Countries--their Progress in Civilisation, Industry, and
Science--their Achievements in Arms; the Political and Social
Transactions of the British Empire--its Civil, Military, and
Religious Institutions--the Origin and Advance of Human Arts and
Inventions, with copious details of England, Scotland, and Ireland.
The whole comprehending a body of information, Classical,
Political, and Domestic, from the earliest accounts to the present
time. FOURTH EDITION. In one volume 8vo, price 18_s._ cloth.
SHARPE’S HISTORY OF EGYPT, from the Earliest Times till the
Conquest by the Arabs in A.D. 640. SECOND EDITION. In one volume
8vo, price 12_s._ cloth.
NAPIER’S (CAPT. HENRY) FLORENTINE HISTORY, from the Earliest
Authentic Records to the Accession of Ferdinand the Third, Grand
Duke of Tuscany. In six volumes small 8vo, price 2_l._ 14_s._
cloth.
THE WORKS OF WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. In two volumes medium 8vo, price
32_s._ cloth.
By the AUTHOR of “TWO YEARS BEFORE THE MAST.”
DANA’S SEAMAN’S MANUAL; containing a Treatise on Practical
Seamanship, with Plates; a Dictionary of Sea Terms; Customs and
Usages of the Merchant Service; Laws relating to the Practical
Duties of Master and Mariners. FOURTH EDITION. Price 5_s._ cloth.
HINTS ON HORSEMANSHIP, to a NEPHEW and NIECE; or Common Sense and
Common Errors in Common Riding. By Colonel GEORGE GREENWOOD, late
of the Second Life Guards. Price 2_s._ 6_d._
CAPTAIN BASIL HALL’S FRAGMENTS OF VOYAGES AND TRAVELS. A NEW
EDITION. In one volume 8vo, price 12_s._ cloth.
LIFE IN THE SICK-ROOM: ESSAYS. By AN INVALID. THIRD EDITION. Price
3_s._ 6_d._ cloth.
GOETHE’S FAUST. Translated into English Prose, with Notes. By A.
HAYWARD, Esq. FOURTH EDITION. Price 2_s._ 6_d._ sewed, or 3_s._
6_d._ cloth, gilt edges.
HOUSEHOLD EDUCATION. By HARRIET MARTINEAU. Price 6_s._ cloth.
SELECTIONS FROM THE TATLER, SPECTATOR, GUARDIAN AND FREEHOLDER.
With a Preliminary Essay, by Mrs. BARBAULD. In two volumes, small
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EASTERN LIFE, PRESENT AND PAST. By HARRIET MARTINEAU. In three
volumes post 8vo, price 31_s._ 6_d._ cloth.
LIFE, LETTERS, AND LITERARY REMAINS OF JOHN KEATS. Edited by
RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES. In two volumes fcap. 8vo, price 14_s._
cloth.
THOUGHTS ON SELF-CULTURE, ADDRESSED TO WOMEN. By MARIA G. GREY, and
her sister, EMILY SHIRREFF. In two volumes post 8vo, price 16_s._
cloth.
DISRAELI’S WORKS.
CURIOSITIES OF LITERATURE. FOURTEENTH EDITION. With a View of the
Character and Writings of the Author. By his Son, B. DISRAELI,
Esq., M.P. In three volumes 8vo, price 42_s._ cloth.
MISCELLANIES OF LITERATURE. In one volume 8vo, with Vignette, price
14_s._ cloth.
CONTENTS:
1. LITERARY MISCELLANIES.
2. QUARRELS OF AUTHORS.
3. CALAMITIES OF AUTHORS.
4. THE LITERARY CHARACTER.
5. CHARACTER OF JAMES THE FIRST.
LAMB’S WORKS.
THE ESSAYS OF ELIA. In one volume small 8vo, price 6_s._ cloth.
ROSAMUND GRAY, ESSAYS AND POEMS. In one volume small 8vo, price
6_s._ cloth.
THE LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB, with a Sketch of his Life. By T. N.
TALFOURD. In one volume small 8vo, price 6_s._ cloth.
FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB; consisting chiefly of his LETTERS
NOT BEFORE PUBLISHED, with SKETCHES OF SOME OF HIS COMPANIONS. By
T. N. TALFOURD. In two volumes post 8vo, price 18_s._ cloth.
DYCE’S BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.
THE WORKS OF BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER; the Text formed from a new
collation of the early Editions. With Notes and a Biographical
Memoir. By the Rev. A. DYCE. In eleven volumes demy 8vo, price
4_l._ 4_s._ cloth.
WORDSWORTH’S POEMS.
WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. In seven volumes foolscap 8vo, price
35_s._ cloth.
WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. In six pocket volumes, price 21_s._
handsomely bound in cloth, gilt edges.
WORDSWORTH’S POETICAL WORKS. In one volume medium 8vo, price 20_s._
cloth, or 36_s._ elegantly bound in morocco.
WORDSWORTH’S EXCURSION. A POEM. In one volume, price 6_s._ cloth.
SELECT PIECES FROM THE POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. In one volume,
illustrated by Woodcuts, price 6_s._ 6_d._ cloth, gilt edges.
TENNYSON’S POEMS.
TENNYSON’S POEMS. SIXTH EDITION. Price 9_s._ cloth.
TENNYSON’S PRINCESS: A MEDLEY. THIRD EDITION. Price 5_s._ cloth.
CAMPBELL’S POEMS.
CAMPBELL’S POETICAL WORKS. A NEW EDITION. In one volume,
illustrated by 20 Vignettes from designs by Turner, and 37 Woodcuts
from designs by Harvey. Price 20_s._ cloth, or 34_s._ elegantly
bound in morocco.
CAMPBELL’S POETICAL WORKS. In one pocket volume, illustrated by
numerous Woodcuts, price 8_s._ cloth, or 16_s._ 6_d._ elegantly
bound in morocco.
SHELLEY’S WORKS.
SHELLEY’S POEMS, ESSAYS, AND LETTERS FROM ABROAD. Edited by MRS.
SHELLEY. In one volume medium 8vo, with Portrait and Vignette,
price 15_s._ cloth.
SHELLEY’S POETICAL WORKS. Edited by MRS. SHELLEY. In three volumes
foolscap 8vo, price 15_s._ cloth.
ROGERS’S POEMS.
ROGERS’S POEMS. In one volume, illustrated by 72 Vignettes, from
designs by Turner and Stothard, price 16_s._ cloth, or 30_s._
elegantly bound in morocco.
ROGERS’S ITALY. In one volume, illustrated by 56 Vignettes, from
designs by Turner and Stothard, price 16_s._ cloth, or 30_s._
elegantly bound in morocco.
ROGERS’S POEMS; AND ITALY. In two pocket volumes, illustrated by
numerous Woodcuts, price 10_s._ cloth, or 28_s._ elegantly bound in
morocco.
HOOD’S WORKS.
HOOD’S POEMS. THIRD EDITION. In two volumes, price 12_s._ cloth.
HOOD’S POEMS OF WIT AND HUMOUR. SECOND EDITION. Price 6_s._ cloth.
HOOD’S OWN; OR LAUGHTER FROM YEAR TO YEAR. A NEW EDITION. In one
volume 8vo, illustrated by 350 Woodcuts, price 10_s._ 6_d._ cloth.
CHAUCER AND SPENSER.
CHAUCER’S POETICAL WORKS. With an ESSAY on his LANGUAGE AND
VERSIFICATION, and an INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE; together with NOTES
and a GLOSSARY. By THOMAS TYRWHITT. In one volume 8vo, with
Portrait and Vignette, price 16_s._ cloth.
SPENSER’S WORKS. With a Selection of NOTES from various
Commentators; and a GLOSSARIAL INDEX: to which is prefixed some
account of the LIFE of Spenser. By the Rev. HENRY JOHN TODD. In one
volume 8vo, with Portrait and Vignette, price 16_s._ cloth.
DRAMATIC LIBRARY.
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. With an INTRODUCTION. By GEORGE DARLEY. In
two volumes 8vo, with Portraits and Vignettes, price 32_s._ cloth.
SHAKSPEARE. With REMARKS on his LIFE and WRITINGS. By THOMAS
CAMPBELL. In one volume 8vo, with Portrait, Vignette, and Index,
price 16_s._ cloth.
BEN JONSON. With a MEMOIR. By WILLIAM GIFFORD. In one volume 8vo,
with Portrait and Vignette, price 16_s._ cloth.
MASSINGER AND FORD. With an INTRODUCTION. By HARTLEY COLERIDGE. In
one volume 8vo, with Portrait and Vignette, price 16_s._ cloth.
WYCHERLEY, CONGREVE, VANBRUGH, AND FARQUHAR. With BIOGRAPHICAL and
CRITICAL NOTICES. By LEIGH HUNT. In one volume 8vo, with Portrait
and Vignette, price 16_s._ cloth.
SHERIDAN’S DRAMATIC WORKS. With a BIOGRAPHICAL and CRITICAL SKETCH.
By LEIGH HUNT. In one volume 8vo, price 4_s._ 6_d._ cloth.
POETRY.
_s._ _d._
MILNES’S POEMS OF MANY YEARS 5 0
---- MEMORIALS OF MANY SCENES 5 0
---- POEMS LEGENDARY AND HISTORICAL 5 0
---- PALM LEAVES 5 0
TRENCH’S JUSTIN MARTYR, and other Poems 6 0
BROWNING’S SORDELLO 6 6
TAYLOR’S EVE OF THE CONQUEST 3 6
LANDOR’S HELLENICS 6 0
(In 2 4mo.)
ROGERS’S POETICAL WORKS 2 6
CAMPBELL’S POETICAL WORKS 2 6
TALFOURD’S (MR. JUSTICE) TRAGEDIES 2 6
TAYLOR’S PHILIP VAN ARTEVELDE 2 6
---- EDWIN THE FAIR, &c. 2 6
BARRY CORNWALL’S SONGS 2 6
LEIGH HUNT’S POETICAL WORKS 2 6
KEATS’S POETICAL WORKS 2 6
SHELLEY’S MINOR POEMS 2 6
PERCY’S RELIQUES. 3 volumes 7 6
LAMB’S DRAMATIC SPECIMENS. 2 volumes 5 0
DODD’S BEAUTIES OF SHAKSPEARE 2 6
CHEAP EDITIONS OF POPULAR WORKS.
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DANA’S TWO YEARS BEFORE THE MAST 2 6
CLEVELAND’S VOYAGES AND COMMERCIAL ENTERPRISES 2 6
ELLIS’S EMBASSY TO CHINA 2 6
PRINGLE’S RESIDENCE IN SOUTH AFRICA 2 6
HUNT’S INDICATOR, AND COMPANION 3 6
---- THE SEER; OR, COMMON-PLACES REFRESHED 3 6
LAMB’S TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE 2 6
---- ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. TO WHICH IS ADDED,
MRS. LEICESTER’S SCHOOL 2 0
HALL’S VOYAGE TO LOO-CHOO 2 6
---- TRAVELS IN SOUTH AMERICA 3 6
* * * * *
LAMB’S POETICAL WORKS 1 6
BAILLIE’S (JOANNA) FUGITIVE VERSES 1 0
SHAKSPEARE’S POEMS 1 0
[Bradbury & Evans, Printers, Whitefriars.]
* * * * *
IN MEMORIAM.
IN MEMORIAM.
LONDON:
EDWARD MOXON, DOVER STREET.
1850.
LONDON:
BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.
Strong Son of God, immortal Love,
Whom we, that have not seen thy face,
By faith, and faith alone, embrace,
Believing where we cannot prove;
Thine are these orbs of light and shade;
Thou madest Life in man and brute;
Thou madest Death; and lo, thy foot
Is on the skull which thou hast made.
Thou wilt not leave us in the dust:
Thou madest man, he knows not why;
He thinks he was not made to die;
And thou hast made him: thou art just.
Thou seemest human and divine,
The highest, holiest manhood, thou:
Our wills are ours, we know not how;
Our wills are ours, to make them thine.
Our little systems have their day;
They have their day and cease to be:
They are but broken lights of thee,
And thou, O Lord, art more than they.
We have but faith: we cannot know;
For knowledge is of things we see;
And yet we trust it comes from thee,
A beam in darkness: let it grow.
Let knowledge grow from more to more,
But more of reverence in us dwell;
That mind and soul, according well,
May make one music as before,
But vaster. We are fools and slight;
We mock thee when we do not fear:
But help thy foolish ones to bear;
Help thy vain worlds to bear thy light.
Forgive what seem’d my sin in me;
What seem’d my worth since I began;
For merit lives from man to man,
And not from man, O Lord, to thee.
Forgive my grief for one removed,
Thy creature, whom I found so fair.
I trust he lives in thee, and there
I find him worthier to be loved.
Forgive these wild and wandering cries,
Confusions of a wasted youth;
Forgive them where they fail in truth,
And in thy wisdom make me wise.
1849.
IN MEMORIAM
A. H. H.
OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII.
I.
I held it truth, with him who sings
To one clear harp in divers tones,
That men may rise on stepping-stones
Of their dead selves to higher things.
But who shall so forecast the years
And find in loss a gain to match?
Or reach a hand thro’ time to catch
The far-off interest of tears?
Let Love clasp Grief lest both be drown’d,
Let darkness keep her raven gloss;
Ah! sweeter to be drunk with loss,
To dance with death, to beat the ground;
Than that the victor Hours should scorn
The long result of love, and boast:
‘Behold the man that loved and lost,
But all he was is overworn.’
II.
Old Yew, which graspest at the stones
That name the under-lying dead,
Thy fibres net the dreamless head;
Thy roots are wrapt about the bones.
The seasons bring the flower again,
And bring the firstling to the flock;
And in the dusk of thee, the clock
Beats out the little lives of men.
O! not for thee the glow, the bloom,
Who changest not in any gale!
Nor branding summer suns avail
To touch thy thousand years of gloom.
And gazing on the sullen tree,
Sick for thy stubborn hardihood,
I seem to fail from out my blood,
And grow incorporate into thee.
III.
O sorrow, cruel fellowship!
O Priestess in the vaults of Death!
O sweet and bitter in a breath,
What whispers from thy lying lip?
‘The stars,’ she whispers, ‘blindly run;
A web is wov’n across the sky;
From out waste places comes a cry,
And murmurs from the dying sun:
‘And all the phantom, Nature, stands--
With all her music in her tone,
A hollow echo of my own,--
A hollow form with empty hands.’
And shall I take a thing so blind,
Embrace her as my natural good;
Or crush her, like a vice of blood,
Upon the threshold of the mind?
IV.
To Sleep I give my powers away;
My will is bondsman to the dark;
I sit within a helmless bark,
And with my heart I muse and say:
‘O heart, how fares it with thee now,
That thou should’st fail from thy desire,
Who scarcely darest to inquire
What is it makes me beat so low?’
Something it is which thou hast lost,
Some pleasure from thine early years.
Break, thou deep vase of chilling tears,
That grief hath shaken into frost!
Such clouds of nameless trouble cross
All night below the darken’d eyes;
With morning wakes the will, and cries,
‘Thou shalt not be the fool of loss.’
V.
I sometimes hold it half a sin
To put in words the grief I feel;
For words, like nature, half reveal
And half conceal the Soul within.
But, for the unquiet heart and brain,
A use in measur’d language lies;
The sad mechanic exercise
Like dull narcotics, numbing pain.
In words, like weeds, I’ll wrap me o’er,
Like coarsest clothes against the cold;
But that large grief which these enfold
Is given in outline and no more.
VI.
One writes, that ‘Other friends remain,’
That ‘Loss is common to the race’--
And common is the commonplace,
And vacant chaff well meant for grain.
That loss is common would not make
My own less bitter, rather more:
Too common! Never morning wore
To evening, but some heart did break.
O father, wheresoe’er thou be,
That pledgest now thy gallant son;
A shot, ere half thy draught be done
Hath still’d the life that beat from thee.
O mother, praying God will save
Thy sailor,--while thy head is bow’d,
His heavy-shotted hammock-shroud
Drops in his vast and wandering grave.
Ye know no more than I who wrought
At that last hour to please him well;
Who mused on all I had to tell,
And something written, something thought;
Expecting still his advent home;
And ever met him on his way
With wishes, thinking, here to-day,
Or here to-morrow will he come.
O! somewhere, meek unconscious dove,
That sittest ranging golden hair;
And glad to find thyself so fair,
Poor child, that waitest for thy love!
For now her father’s chimney glows
In expectation of a guest;
And thinking ‘this will please him best,’
She takes a riband or a rose;
For he will see them on to-night;
And with the thought her colour burns;
And, having left the glass, she turns
Once more to set a ringlet right;
And, even when she turn’d, the curse
Had fallen, and her future Lord
Was drown’d in passing thro’ the ford,
Or kill’d in falling from his horse.
O, what to her shall be the end?
And what to me remains of good?
To her, perpetual maidenhood,
And unto me, no second friend.
VII.
Dark house, by which once more I stand
Here in the long unlovely street,
Doors, where my heart was used to beat
So quickly, waiting for a hand,
A hand that can be clasp’d no more--
Behold me, for I cannot sleep,
And like a guilty thing I creep
At earliest morning to the door.
He is not here; but far away
The noise of life begins again,
And ghastly thro’ the drizzling rain
On the bald street breaks the blank day.
VIII.
A happy lover who has come
To look on her that loves him well,
Who lights and rings the gateway bell
And learns her gone and far from home,
He saddens, all the magic light
Dies off at once from bower and hall,
And all the place is dark, and all
The chambers emptied of delight;
So find I every pleasant spot
In which we two were wont to meet,
The field, the chamber and the street,
For all is dark where thou art not.
Yet as that other, wandering there
In those deserted walks, may find
A flower beat with rain and wind,
Which once she foster’d up with care;
So seems it in my deep regret,
O my forsaken heart, with thee
And this poor flower of poesy
Which little cared for fades not yet.
But since it pleased a vanish’d eye
I go to plant it on his tomb,
That if it can it there may bloom,
Or dying there at least may die.
IX.
Fair ship, that from the Italian shore,
Sailest the placid ocean-plains
With my lost Arthur’s loved remains,
Spread thy full wings, and waft him o’er.
So draw him home to those that mourn
In vain; a favourable speed
Ruffle thy mirror’d mast, and lead
Thro’ prosperous floods his holy urn.
All night no ruder air perplex
Thy sliding keel, till Phosphor, bright
As our pure love, thro’ early light
Shall glimmer on the dewy decks.
Sphere all your lights around, above;
Sleep, gentle heavens, before the prow;
Sleep, gentle winds, as he sleeps now,
My friend, the brother of my love.
My Arthur! whom I shall not see
Till all my widow’d race be run;
Dear as the mother to the son,
More than my brothers are to me.
X.
I hear the noise about thy keel;
I hear the bell struck in the night;
I see the cabin-window bright;
I see the sailor at the wheel.
Thou bringest the sailor to his wife,
And travell’d men from foreign lands;
And letters unto trembling hands;
And, thy dark freight, a vanish’d life.
So bring him: we have idle dreams:
This look of quiet flatters thus
Our home-bred fancies: O to us,
The fools of habit, sweeter seems
To rest beneath the clover sod,
That takes the sunshine and the rains,
Or where the kneeling hamlet drains
The chalice of the grapes of God;
Than if with thee the roaring wells
Should gulf him fathom deep in brine;
And hands so often clasp’d in mine,
Should toss with tangle and with shells.
XI.
Calm is the morn without a sound,
Calm as to suit a calmer grief,
And only thro’ the faded leaf
The chesnut pattering to the ground:
Calm and deep peace on this high wold,
And on these dews that drench the furze,
And all the silvery gossamers
That twinkle into green and gold:
Calm and still light on yon great plain
That sweeps with all its autumn bowers,
And crowded farms and lessening towers,
To mingle with the bounding main:
Calm and deep peace in this wide air,
These leaves that redden to the fall;
And in my heart, if calm at all,
If any calm, a calm despair:
Calm on the seas, and silver sleep,
And waves that sway themselves in rest,
And dead calm in that noble breast
Which heaves but with the heaving deep.
XII.
Lo! as a dove when up she springs
To hear thro’ Heaven a tale of woe,
Some dolorous message knit below
The wild pulsation of her wings;
Like her I go: I cannot stay;
I leave this mortal ark behind,
A weight of nerves without a mind,
And leave the cliffs, and haste away
O’er ocean mirrors rounded large,
And reach the glow of southern skies,
And see the sails at distance rise,
And linger weeping on the marge,
And saying; ‘Comes he thus, my friend?
Is this the end of all my care?’
And circle moaning in the air:
‘Is this the end? Is this the end?’
And forward dart again, and play
About the prow, and back return
To where the body sits, and learn,
That I have been an hour away.
XIII.
Tears of the widower, when he sees
A late-lost form that sleep reveals,
And moves his doubtful arms, and feels
Her place is empty, fall like these;
Which weep a loss for ever new,
A void where heart on heart reposed;
And, where warm hands have prest and closed,
Silence, till I be silent too.
Which weep the comrade of my choice,
An awful thought, a life removed,
The human-hearted man I loved,
A spirit, not a breathing voice.
Come Time, and teach me many years
I do not suffer in a dream;
For now so strange do these things seem,
Mine eyes have leisure for their tears;
My fancies time to rise on wing,
And glance about the approaching sails,
As tho’ they brought but merchants’ bales,
And not the burthen that they bring.
XIV.
If one should bring me this report,
That thou hadst touch’d the land to-day,
And I went down unto the quay,
And found thee lying in the port,
And standing, muffled round with woe,
Should see thy passengers in rank
Come stepping lightly down the plank,
And beckoning unto those they know,
And if along with these should come
The man I held as half-divine;
Should strike a sudden hand in mine,
And ask a thousand things of home;
And I should tell him all my pain,
And how my life had droop’d of late,
And he should sorrow o’er my state
And marvel what possess’d my brain;
And I perceived no touch of change,
No hint of death in all his frame,
But found him all in all the same,
I should not feel it to be strange.
XV.
To night the winds began to rise
And roar from yonder dropping day:
The last red leaf is whirl’d away,
The rooks are blown about the skies;
The forest crack’d, the waters curl’d,
The cattle huddled on the lea;
And wildly dash’d on tower and tree
The sunbeam strikes along the world:
And but for fancies, which aver
That all thy motions gently pass
Athwart a plane of molten glass,
I scarce could brook the strain and stir
That makes the barren branches loud;
And but for fear it is not so,
The wild unrest that lives in woe
Would dote and pore on yonder cloud
That rises upward always higher,
And onward drags a labouring breast,
And topples round the dreary west,
A looming bastion fringed with fire.
XVI.
What words are these have fall’n from me?
Can calm despair and wild unrest
Be tenants of a single breast,
Or sorrow such a changeling be?
Or doth she only seem to take
The touch of change in calm or storm;
But knows no more of transient form
In her deep self, than some dead lake
That holds the shadow of a lark
Hung in the shadow of a heaven?
Or has the shock, so harshly given,
Confus’d me like the unhappy bark
That strikes by night a craggy shelf,
And staggers blindly ere she sink?
And stunn’d me from my power to think
And all my knowledge of myself;
And made me that delirious man
Whose fancy fuses old and new,
And flashes into false and true,
And mingles all without a plan?
XVII.
Thou comest, much wept for: such a breeze
Compell’d thy canvas, and my prayer
Was as the whisper of an air
To breathe thee over lonely seas.
For I in spirit saw thee move
Thro’ circles of the bounding sky;
Week after week: the days go by:
Come quick, thou bringest all I love.
Henceforth, wherever thou may’st roam,
My blessing, like a line of light,
Is on the waters day and night,
And like a beacon guards thee home.
So may whatever tempest mars
Mid-ocean, spare thee, sacred bark;
And balmy drops in summer dark
Slide from the bosom of the stars.
So kind an office hath been done,
Such precious relics brought by thee;
The dust of him I shall not see
Till all my widow’d race be run.
XVIII.
’Tis well, ’tis something, we may stand
Where he in English earth is laid,
And from his ashes may be made
The violet of his native land.
’Tis little; but it looks in truth
As if the quiet bones were blest
Among familiar names to rest
And in the places of his youth.
Come then, pure hands, and bear the head
That sleeps or wears the mask of sleep,
And come, whatever loves to weep,
And hear the ritual of the dead.
Ah! yet, ev’n yet, if this might be,
I, falling on his faithful heart,
Would breathing thro’ his lips impart
The life that almost dies in me:
That dies not, but endures with pain,
And slowly forms the firmer mind,
Treasuring the look it cannot find,
The words that are not heard again.
XIX.
The Danube to the Severn gave
The darken’d heart that beat no more;
They laid him by the pleasant shore,
And in the hearing of the wave.
There twice a day the Severn fills,
The salt sea-water passes by,
And hushes half the babbling Wye,
And makes a silence in the hills.
The Wye is hush’d nor moved along;
And hush’d my deepest grief of all,
When fill’d with tears that cannot fall,
I brim with sorrow drowning song.
The tide flows down, the wave again
Is vocal in its wooded walls:
My deeper anguish also falls,
And I can speak a little then.
XX.
The lesser griefs that may be said,
That breathe a thousand tender vows,
Are but as servants in a house
Where lies the master newly dead;
Who speak their feeling as it is,
And weep the fulness from the mind:
‘It will be hard’ they say ‘to find
Another service such as this.’
My lighter moods are like to these,
That out of words a comfort win;
But there are other griefs within,
And tears that at their fountain freeze;
For by the hearth the children sit
Cold in that atmosphere of Death,
And scarce endure to draw the breath,
Or like to noiseless phantoms flit:
But open converse is there none,
So much the vital spirits sink
To see the vacant chair, and think,
‘How good! how kind! and he is gone.’
XXI.
I sing to him that rests below,
And, since the grasses round me wave,
I take the grasses of the grave,
And make them pipes whereon to blow.
The traveller hears me now and then,
And sometimes harshly will he speak;
‘This fellow would make weakness weak,
And melt the waxen hearts of men.’
Another answers, ‘Let him be,
He loves to make parade of pain,
That with his piping he may gain
The praise that comes to constancy.’
A third is wroth, ‘Is this an hour
For private sorrow’s barren song,
When more and more the people throng
The chairs and thrones of civil power?
A time to sicken and to swoon,
When science reaches forth her arms
To feel from world to world, and charms
Her secret from the latest moon?’
Behold, ye speak an idle thing:
Ye never knew the sacred dust:
I do but sing because I must,
And pipe but as the linnets sing:
And unto one her note is gay,
For now her little ones have ranged;
And unto one her note is changed,
Because her brood is stol’n away.
XXII.
The path by which we twain did go,
Which led by tracts that pleased us well,
Thro’ four sweet years arose and fell,
From flower to flower, from snow to snow:
And we with singing cheer’d the way,
And crown’d with all the season lent,
From April on to April went,
And glad at heart from May to May:
But where the path we walk’d began
To slant the fifth autumnal slope,
As we descended following Hope,
There sat the Shadow fear’d of man;
Who broke our fair companionship,
And spread his mantle dark and cold;
And wrapped thee formless in the fold,
And dull’d the murmur on thy lip;
And bore thee where I could not see
Nor follow, tho’ I walk in haste;
And think that, somewhere in the waste,
The Shadow sits and waits for me.
XXIII.
Now, sometimes in my sorrow shut,
Or breaking into song by fits;
Alone, alone, to where he sits,
The Shadow cloak’d from head to foot
Who keeps the keys of all the creeds,
I wander, often falling lame,
And looking back to whence I came,
Or on to where the pathway leads;
And crying, how changed from where it ran
Thro’ lands where not a leaf was dumb;
But all the lavish hills would hum
The murmur of a happy Pan:
When each by turns was guide to each,
And Fancy light from Fancy caught,
And Thought leapt out to wed with Thought,
Ere thought could wed itself with Speech:
And all we met was fair and good,
And all was good that Time could bring,
And all the secret of the Spring
Moved in the chambers of the blood:
And many an old philosophy
On Argive heights divinely sang,
And round us all the thicket rang
To many a flute of Arcady.
XXIV.
And was the day of my delight
As pure and perfect as I say?
The very source and fount of Day
Is dash’d with wandering isles of night.
If all was good and fair we met,
This earth had been the Paradise
It never look’d to human eyes
Since Adam left his garden yet.
And is it that the haze of grief
Hath stretch’d my former joy so great?
The lowness of the present state,
That sets the past in this relief?
Or that the past will always win
A glory from its being far;
And orb into the perfect star
We saw not, when we moved therein?
XXV.
I know that this was Life,--the track
Whereon with equal feet we fared;
And then, as now, the day prepared
The daily burden for the back.
But this it was that made me move
As light as carrier-birds in air;
I loved the weight I had to bear,
Because it needed help of Love:
Nor could I weary, heart or limb,
When mighty Love would cleave in twain
The lading of a single pain,
And part it, giving half to him.
XXVI.
Still onward winds the dreary way;
I with it; for I long to prove
No lapse of moons can canker Love,
Whatever fickle tongues may say.
And if that eye which watches guilt
And goodness, and hath power to see
Within the green the moulder’d tree,
And towers fall’n as soon as built--
Oh, if indeed that eye foresee
Or see (in Him is no before)
In more of life true life no more,
And Love the indifference to be,
So might I find, ere yet the morn
Breaks hither over Indian seas,
That Shadow waiting with the keys,
To cloak me from my proper scorn.
XXVII.
I envy not in any moods
The captive void of noble rage,
The linnet born within the cage
That never knew the summer woods:
I envy not the beast that takes
His license in the field of time,
Unfetter’d by the sense of crime,
To whom a conscience never wakes;
Nor, what may count itself as blest,
The heart that never plighted troth
But stagnates in the weeds of sloth,
Nor any want-begotten rest.
I hold it true, whate’er befall;
I feel it, when I sorrow most;
’Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.
XXVIII.
The time draws near the birth of Christ:
The moon is hid; the night is still;
The Christmas bells from hill to hill
Answer each other in the mist.
Four voices of four hamlets round,
From far and near, on mead and moor,
Swell out and fail, as if a door
Were shut between me and the sound:
Each voice four changes on the wind,
That now dilate, and now decrease,
Peace and goodwill, goodwill and peace,
Peace and goodwill, to all mankind.
This year I slept and woke with pain,
I almost wish’d no more to wake,
And that my hold on life would break
Before I heard those bells again:
But they my troubled spirit rule,
For they controll’d me when a boy;
They bring me sorrow touch’d with joy,
The merry merry bells of Yule.
XXIX.
With such compelling cause to grieve
As daily vexes household peace,
And chains regret to his decease,
How dare we keep our Christmas-eve;
Which brings no more a welcome guest
To enrich the threshold of the night
With shower’d largess of delight,
In dance and song and game and jest.
Yet go, and while the holly boughs
Entwine the cold baptismal font,
Make one wreath more for Use and Wont
That guard the portals of the house;
Old sisters of a day gone by,
Gray nurses, loving nothing new;
Why should they miss their yearly due
Before their time? They too will die.
XXX.
With trembling fingers did we weave
The holly round the Christmas hearth;
A rainy cloud possess’d the earth,
And sadly fell our Christmas-eve.
At our old pastimes in the hall
We gambol’d, making vain pretence
Of gladness, with an awful sense
Of one mute Shadow watching all.
We paused: the winds were in the beech:
We heard them sweep the winter land;
And in a circle hand-in-hand
Sat silent, looking each at each.
Then echo-like our voices rang;
We sung, tho’ every eye was dim,
A merry song we sang with him
Last year: impetuously we sang:
We ceased: a gentler feeling crept
Upon us: surely rest is meet:
‘They rest,’ we said, ‘their sleep is sweet,’
And silence follow’d, and we wept.
Our voices took a higher range;
Once more we sang: ‘They do not die
Nor lose their mortal sympathy,
Nor change to us, although they change;
Rapt from the fickle and the frail
With gather’d power, yet the same,
Pierces the keen seraphic flame
From orb to orb, from veil to veil.
Rise, happy morn, rise holy morn,
Draw forth the cheerful day from night:
O Father! touch the east, and light
The light that shone when Hope was born.’
XXXI.
When Lazarus left his charnel-cave,
And home to Mary’s house return’d,
Was this demanded--if he yearn’d
To hear her weeping by his grave?
‘Where wert thou, brother, those four days?’
There lives no record of reply,
Which telling what it is to die
Had surely added praise to praise.
From every house the neighbours met,
The streets were fill’d with joyful sound,
A solemn gladness even crown’d
The purple brows of Olivet.
Behold a man raised up by Christ!
The rest remaineth unreveal’d;
He told it not; or something seal’d
The lips of that Evangelist.
XXXII.
Her eyes are homes of silent prayer,
Nor other thought her mind admits
But, he was dead, and there he sits,
And he that brought him back is there.
Then one deep love doth supersede
All other, when her ardent gaze
Roves from the living brother’s face.
And rests upon the Life indeed.
All subtle thought, all curious fears,
Borne down by gladness so complete,
She bows, she bathes the Saviour’s feet
With costly spikenard and with tears.
Thrice blest whose lives are faithful prayers,
Whose loves in higher love endure;
What souls possess themselves so pure,
Or is there blessedness like theirs?
XXXIII.
O thou that after toil and storm
Mayst seem to have reach’d a purer air,
Whose faith has centre everywhere,
Nor cares to fix itself to form,
Leave thou thy sister when she prays,
Her early Heaven, her happy views;
Nor thou with shadow’d hint confuse
A life that leads melodious days.
Her faith thro’ form is pure as thine,
Her hands are quicker unto good.
Oh, sacred be the flesh and blood
To which she links a truth divine!
See, thou that countest reason ripe
In holding by the law within,
Thou fail not in a world of sin,
And ev’n for want of such a type.
XXXIV.
My own dim life should teach me this,
That life shall live for evermore,
Else earth is darkness at the core,
And dust and ashes all that is;
This round of green, this orb of flame,
Fantastic beauty; such as lurks
In some wild Poet, when he works
Without a conscience or an aim.
What then were God to such as I?
’Twere hardly worth my while to choose
Of things all mortal, or to use
A little patience ere I die;
’Twere best at once to sink to peace,
Like birds the charming serpent draws,
To drop head-foremost in the jaws
Of vacant darkness and to cease.
XXXV.
Yet if some voice that man could trust
Should murmur from the narrow house:
The cheeks drop in; the body bows;
Man dies: nor is there hope in dust:
Might I not say, yet even here,
But for one hour, O Love, I strive
To keep so sweet a thing alive?
But I should turn mine ears and hear
The moanings of the homeless sea,
The sound of streams that swift or slow
Draw down Æonian hills, and sow
The dust of continents to be;
And Love would answer with a sigh,
‘The sound of that forgetful shore
Will change my sweetness more and more,
Half dead to know that I shall die.’
O me! what profits it to put
An idle case? If Death were seen
At first as Death, Love had not been,
Or been in narrowest working shut,
Mere fellowship of sluggish moods,
Or in his coarsest Satyr-shape
Had bruised the herb and crush’d the grape,
And bask’d and batten’d in the woods.
XXXVI.
Tho’ truths in manhood darkly join,
Deep-seated in our mystic frame,
We yield all blessing to the name
Of Him that made them current coin;
For wisdom dealt with mortal powers,
Where Truth in closest words shall fail,
When Truth embodied in a tale
Shall enter in at lowly doors.
And so the Word had breath, and wrought
With human hands the creed of creeds
In loveliness of perfect deeds,
More strong than all poetic thought;
Which he may read that binds the sheaf,
Or builds the house, or digs the grave,
And those wild eyes that watch the wave
In roarings round the coral reef.
XXXVII.
Urania speaks with darken’d brow:
‘Thou pratest here where thou art least;
This faith has many a purer priest,
And many an abler voice than thou:
Go down beside thy native rill,
On thy Parnassus set thy feet,
And hear thy laurel whisper sweet
About the ledges of the hill.’
And my Melpomene replies,
A touch of shame upon her cheek:
‘I am not worthy but to speak
Of thy prevailing mysteries;
For I am but an earthly Muse,
And owning but a little art
To lull with song an aching heart,
And render human love his dues;
But brooding on the dear one dead,
And all he said of things divine,
(And dear as sacramental wine
To dying lips is all he said),
I murmur’d, as I came along,
Of comfort clasp’d in truth reveal’d;
And loiter’d in the master’s field,
And darken’d sanctities with song.’
XXXVIII.
With weary steps I loiter on,
Tho’ always under alter’d skies
The purple from the distance dies,
My prospect and horizon gone.
No joy the blowing season gives,
The herald melodies of spring,
But in the songs I love to sing
A doubtful gleam of solace lives.
If any care for what is here
Survive in spirits render’d free,
Then are these songs I sing of thee
Not all ungrateful to thine ear.
XXXIX.
Could we forget the widow’d hour
And look on Spirits breathed away,
As on a maiden in the day
When first she wears her orange-flower!
When crown’d with blessing she doth rise
To take her latest leave of home,
And hopes and light regrets that come
Make April of her tender eyes;
And doubtful joys the father move,
And tears are on the mother’s face,
As parting with a long embrace
She enters other realms of love;
Her office there to rear, to teach,
Becoming as is meet and fit
A link among the days, to knit
The generations each with each;
And, doubtless, unto thee is given
A life that bears immortal fruit
In such great offices as suit
The full-grown energies of heaven.
Ay me, the difference I discern!
How often shall her old fireside
Be cheer’d with tidings of the bride,
How often she herself return,
And tell them all they would have told,
And bring her babe, and make her boast,
Till even those that miss’d her most,
Shall count new things as dear as old:
But thou and I have shaken hands,
Till growing winters lay me low;
My paths are in the fields I know,
And thine in undiscover’d lands.
XL.
Thy spirit ere our fatal loss
Did ever rise from high to higher;
As mounts the heavenward altar-fire,
As flies the lighter thro’ the gross.
But thou art turn’d to something strange,
And I have lost the links that bound
Thy changes; here upon the ground;
No more partaker of thy change.
Deep folly! yet that this could be--
That I could wing my will with might
To leap the grades of life and light,
And flash at once, my friend, to thee:
For though my nature rarely yields
To that vague fear implied in death;
Nor shudders at the gulfs beneath,
The howlings from forgotten fields;
Yet oft when sundown skirts the moor
An inner trouble I behold,
A spectral doubt which makes me cold,
That I shall be thy mate no more,
Tho’ following with an upward mind
The wonders that have come to thee,
Thro’ all the secular to be,
But evermore a life behind.
XLI.
I vex my heart with fancies dim:
He still outstript me in the race;
It was but unity of place
That made me dream I rank’d with him.
And so may Place retain us still,
And he the much-beloved again,
A lord of large experience, train
To riper growth the mind and will:
And what delights can equal those
That stir the spirit’s inner deeps,
When one that loves but knows not, reaps
A truth from one that loves and knows?
XLII.
If Sleep and Death be truly one,
And every spirit’s folded bloom
Thro’ all its intervital gloom
In some long trance should slumber on;
Unconscious of the sliding hour,
Bare of the body, might it last,
And silent traces of the past
Be all the colour of the flower:
So then were nothing lost to man;
But that still garden of the souls
In many a figured leaf enrolls
The total world since life began:
And love would last as pure and whole
As when he loved me here in Time,
And at the spiritual prime
Rewaken with the dawning soul.
XLIII.
How fares it with the happy dead?
For here the man is more and more;
But he forgets the days before
God shut the doorways of his head.
The days have vanish’d, tone and tint,
And yet perhaps the hoarding sense
Gives out at times (he knows not whence)
A little flash, a mystic hint;
And in the long harmonious years
(If Death so taste Lethean springs)
May some dim touch of earthly things
Surprise thee ranging with thy peers.
If such a dreamy touch should fall,
O turn thee round, resolve the doubt,
My guardian angel will speak out
In that high place, and tell thee all.
XLIV.
The baby new to earth and sky,
What time his tender palm is prest
Against the circle of the breast,
Has never thought that ‘this is I:’
But as he grows he gathers much,
And learns the use of ‘I,’ and ‘me,’
And finds ‘I am not what I see,
And other than the things I touch:’
So rounds he to a separate mind
From whence clear memory may begin,
As thro’ the frame that binds him in
His isolation grows defined.
This use may lie in blood and breath,
Which else were fruitless of their due,
Had man to learn himself anew
Beyond the second birth of Death.
XLV.
We ranging down this lower track,
The path we came by, thorn and flower,
Is shadow’d by the growing hour,
Lest life should fail in looking back.
So be it: there no shade can last
In that deep dawn behind the tomb,
But clear from marge to marge shall bloom
The eternal landscape of the past;
A lifelong tract of time reveal’d;
The fruitful hours of still increase;
Days order’d in a wealthy peace,
And those five years its richest field.
O Love! thy province were not large,
A bounded field, nor stretching far,
Look also, Love, a brooding star,
A rosy warmth from marge to marge.
XLVI.
That each, who seems a separate whole,
Should move his rounds, and fusing all
The skirts of self again, should fall
Remerging in the general Soul,
Is faith as vague as all unsweet:
Eternal form shall still divide
The eternal soul from all beside;
And I shall know him when we meet:
And we shall sit at endless feast,
Enjoying each the other’s good;
What vaster dream can hit the mood
Of Love on earth? He seeks at least
Upon the last and sharpest height,
Before the spirits fade away,
Some landing-place, to clasp and say,
‘Farewell! We lose ourselves in light.’
XLVII.
If these brief lays, of Sorrow born,
Were taken to be such as closed
Grave doubts and answers here proposed,
Then these were such as men might scorn:
Her care is not to part and prove;
She takes, when harsher moods remit,
What slender shade of doubt may flit,
And makes it vassal unto love:
And hence, indeed, she sports with words;
But better serves a wholesome law,
And holds it sin and shame to draw
The deepest measure from the chords:
Nor dare she trust a larger lay,
But rather loosens from the lip
Short swallow-flights of song, that dip
Their wings in tears, and skim away.
XLVIII.
From art, from nature, from the schools,
Let random influences glance,
Like light in many a shiver’d lance
That breaks about the dappled pools:
The lightest wave of thought shall lisp,
The fancy’s tenderest eddy wreathe,
The slightest air of song shall breathe
To make the sullen surface crisp.
And look thy look, and go thy way,
But blame not thou the winds that make
The seeming-wanton ripple break,
The tender-pencil’d shadow play.
Beneath all fancied hopes and fears
Ay me! the sorrow deepens down,
Whose muffled motions blindly drown
The bases of my life in tears.
XLIX.
Be near me when my light is low,
When the blood creeps, and the nerves prick
And tingle; and the heart is sick,
And all the wheels of Being slow.
Be near me when the sensuous frame
Is rack’d with pangs that conquer trust,
And time, a maniac, scattering dust,
And life, a Fury, slinging flame.
Be near me when my faith is dry,
And men the flies of latter spring,
That lay their eggs, and sting and sing,
And weave their petty cells and die.
Be near me when I fade away,
To point the term of human strife,
And on the low dark verge of life
The twilight of eternal day.
L.
Do we indeed desire the dead
Should still be near us at our side?
Is there no baseness we would hide?
No inner vileness that we dread?
Shall he for whose applause I strove,
I had such reverence for his blame,
See with clear eye some hidden shame
And I be lessen’d in his love?
I wrong the grave with fears untrue:
Shall love be blamed for want of faith?
There must be wisdom with great Death;
The dead shall look me thro’ and thro’.
Be near us when we climb or fall:
Ye watch, like God, the rolling hours
With larger other eyes than ours,
To make allowance for us all.
LI.
I cannot love thee as I ought,
For love reflects the thing beloved;
My words are only words, and moved
Upon the topmost froth of thought.
‘Yet blame not thou thy plaintive song,’
The Spirit of true love replied;
‘Thou canst not move me from thy side,
Nor human frailty do me wrong.
‘What keeps a spirit wholly true
To that ideal which he bears?
What record? not the sinless years
That breathed beneath the Syrian blue;
‘So fret not, like an idle girl,
That life is dash’d with flecks of sin.
Abide: thy wealth is gathered in,
When Time hath sunder’d shell from pearl.’
LII.
How many a father have I seen,
A sober man, among his boys,
Whose youth was full of foolish noise,
Who wears his manhood hale and green;
And dare we to this doctrine give
That had the wild oat not been sown,
The soil, left barren, had not grown
The grain by which a man may live?
Oh! if we held the doctrine sound
For life outliving heats of youth,
Yet who would preach it as a truth
To those that eddy round and round?
Hold thou the good: define it well:
For fear divine philosophy
Should push beyond her mark, and be
Procuress to the Lords of Hell.
LIII.
Oh yet we trust that somehow good
Will be the final goal of ill,
To pangs of nature, sins of will,
Defects of doubt, and taints of blood;
That nothing walks with aimless feet;
That not one life shall be destroy’d,
Or cast as rubbish to the void,
When God hath made the pile complete;
That not a worm is cloven in vain;
That not a moth with vain desire
Is shrivel’d in a fruitless fire,
Or but subserves another’s gain.
Behold! we know not anything;
I can but trust that good shall fall
At last--far off--at last, to all,
And every winter change to spring.
So runs my dream: but what am I?
An infant crying in the night:
An infant crying for the light:
And with no language but a cry.
LIV.
The wish, that of the living whole
No life may fail beyond the grave;
Derives it not from what we have
The likest God within the soul?
Are God and Nature then at strife,
That Nature lends such evil dreams?
So careful of the type she seems,
So careless of the single life;
That I, considering everywhere
Her secret meaning in her deeds,
And finding that of fifty seeds
She often brings but one to bear;
I falter where I firmly trod,
And falling with my weight of cares
Upon the great world’s altar-stairs
That slope thro’ darkness up to God;
I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope,
And gather dust and chaff, and call
To what I feel is Lord of all,
And faintly trust the larger hope.
LV.
‘So careful of the type?’ but no.
From scarped cliff and quarried stone
She cries ‘a thousand types are gone:
I care for nothing, all shall go.
Thou makest thine appeal to me:
I bring to life, I bring to death:
The spirit does but mean the breath:
I know no more.’ And he, shall he,
Man, her last work, who seem’d so fair,
Such splendid purpose in his eyes,
Who roll’d the psalm to wintry skies,
Who built him fanes of fruitless prayer,
Who trusted God was love indeed
And love Creation’s final law--
Tho’ Nature, red in tooth and claw
With ravine, shriek’d against his creed--
Who loved, who suffer’d countless ills,
Who battled for the True, the Just,
Be blown about the desert dust,
Or seal’d within the iron hills?
No more? A monster then, a dream,
A discord. Dragons of the prime,
That tare each other in their slime,
Were mellow music match’d with him.
O life as futile, then, as frail!
O for thy voice to soothe and bless!
What hope of answer, or redress?
Behind the veil, behind the veil.
LVI.
Peace, come away: the song of woe
Is after all an earthly song:
Peace, come away; we do him wrong
To sing so wildly; let us go.
Come, let us go, your cheeks are pale,
But half my life I leave behind;
Methinks my friend is richly shrined,
But I shall pass; my work will fail.
Yet in these ears till hearing dies,
One set slow bell will seem to toll
The passing of the sweetest soul
That ever looked with human eyes.
I hear it now, and o’er and o’er,
Eternal greetings to the dead;
And ‘Ave, Ave, Ave,’ said,
‘Adieu, adieu’ for evermore!
LVII.
In those sad words I took farewell:
Like echoes in sepulchral halls,
As drop by drop the water falls
In vaults and catacombs, they fell;
And, falling, idly broke the peace
Of hearts that beat from day to day,
Half-conscious of their dying clay,
And those cold crypts where they shall cease.
The high Muse answer’d: ‘Wherefore grieve
Thy brethren with a fruitless tear?
Abide a little longer here,
And thou shalt take a nobler leave.’
LVII.
He past; a soul of nobler tone:
My spirit loved and loves him yet,
Like some poor girl whose heart is set
On one whose rank exceeds her own.
He mixing with his proper sphere,
She finds the baseness of her lot;
Half jealous of she knows not what,
And envying all that meet him there.
The little village looks forlorn;
She sighs amid her narrow days,
Moving about the household ways,
In that dark house where she was born.
The foolish neighbours come and go,
And tease her till the day draws by;
At night she weeps, ‘How vain am I!
How should he love a thing so low?’
LIX.
If, in thy second state sublime,
Thy ransom’d reason change replies
With all the circle of the wise,
The perfect flower of human time;
And if thou cast thine eyes below,
How dimly character’d and slight,
How dwarf’d a growth of cold and night,
How blanch’d with darkness must I grow!
Yet turn thee to the doubtful shore,
Where thy first form was made a man:
I loved thee, Spirit, and love, nor can
The soul of Shakspeare love thee more.
LX.