THE
PROPHECY OF MERLIN
AND
OTHER POEMS.
BY
JOHN READE.
MONTREAL:
PUBLISHED BY DAWSON BROTHERS.
1870.
Entered according to Act of Parliament, in the year 1870, by
JOHN READE,
in the Office of the Minister of Agriculture.
MONTREAL: PRINTED BY THE MONTREAL PRINTING AND PUBLISHING CO.
“O living friends that love me!
O dear ones gone above me!
Careless of other fame,
I leave to you my name.
* * * *
Sweeter than any sung
My songs that found no tongue;
Nobler than any fact
My wish that failed of act.”
J. G. WHITTIER.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
The Prophecy of Merlin 3
Devenish 29
Kings of Men 31
Vashti 32
Shakspere 38
Spring 45
In Memoriam 48
Winter 54
Per Noctem Plurima Volvens 55
Balaam 59
Good Night 69
Winter Sunshine 72
Christus Salvator 73
Who hath Begotten the Drops of Dew? 74
Thalatta! Thalatta! 76
Rizpah 78
Natalie 81
The Fenian Raid (June, ’66) 84
Humanum est Errare 86
Sing me the Songs I Love 87
In Memoriam--T. D. McGee 89
Killynoogan 92
What Can I Do? 98
Hastings 99
The Naughty Boy 103
Rosa 106
Jubal 108
Apollo Dropt a Seed of Song 119
Vox Dei 120
The Old War-horse 121
Eloise 125
When the Spring-time Comes 126
Hope 130
Dominion Day 131
In My Heart 143
Sisera 146
Columba Sibylla 148
Summer is Dead 149
To a Dead Field Flower 151
The Departure of the Prince of Wales from Portland 154
Ode on the Prince of Wales’ Marriage 157
To a Snow-bird 160
The Clouds are Blushing 161
Unspoken 163
Jephthah 166
De Profundis 169
Lochleven 172
Unus Abest 174
The Prodigal’s Return 176
It is the Quiet Hour 178
ESSAYS IN TRANSLATION.
Hector and Andromache,--
The Parting 181
The Lament of Andromache 189
The Beacon Light 194
Priam and Helen 198
Song of the Trojan Captive 205
Bellerophon 208
Horace, Ode xi. Book I. 211
Orpheus and Eurydice 212
Adrian’s Address to his Soul 217
Pyramus and Thisbe 219
The Withered Leaf 225
André Chénier’s Death-song 226
The Lake 229
The Wandering Jew 233
POEMS.
THE PROPHECY OF MERLIN.
Sir Bedivere, in silence, watched the barge
That bore away King Arthur to the vale
Of Avalon, till it was seen no more.
Then, on the beach, alone amid the dead,
He lifted up his voice and sorely wept.
“Alas!” he cried, “gone are the pleasant days
At Camelot, and the sweet fellowship
Of noble knights and true, and beauteous dames
Who have no peers in all the living world,
Is quite dissolved for ever, and the King
Has gone and left none like him among men.
O happy, thrice and fourfold, ye who rest,
Both friends and foemen, in one peaceful bed,
While I am sick at soul and cannot die!
Oh! that the battle might be fought again!
Then would I surely seek the way to death,
And bleed and sleep like you, and be at peace.
But now, ah! whither, whither can I go,
Since he is gone who was my light of life,
And whom to see was bliss? What can I do
Without the voice that gave my arm its strength?
Or wherefore bear a sword, since now no more
Excalibur points forth to noble deeds?”
And then he drew his blade, and threw it far
Into the Lake, and, as he saw it sink,
“Would God,” said he, “that so I followed him.”
But with the strain his wounds began to bleed,
And he grew weak, and sank upon the ground,
And swooned.
And when he woke, he was aware
Of Merlin, who stood watching by his side.
Then cried Sir Bedivere: “O good and wise,
I bid thee welcome, for, in all the world,
There is none other I would fainer see.
Yet am I sad to see thee, for the King
Is gone, and none is left of all his Knights
Save me, and I am weary of my life.”
But Merlin, ere he answered, staunched his wound,
And gave him wine out of a golden flask,
And, by the healing art which he possessed,
Restored him sound and whole. And then he spake:
“There is no need to tell me, for I know
All thou would’st say, and knew ere thou wast born
That all these things should be. But weep no more,
Sir Bedivere. The past no man can change,
Nor make what has been other than it is.
As in the forests of Broceliande,
The leaves fall year by year, and give the oaks
All bare to wintry blasts, so, swept apace
Before the breath of Time, the race of men
Passes away, and may be seen no more.
And yet the breeze of Spring is no less sweet,
Which plays around the tender budding leaves,
And calls to life their beauty, that it is
As well a requiem as baby-song.
So weep not for the days that are no more,
But pray, as the King bade thee, 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.”
Then said Sir Bedivere: “O good and wise,
Will he return again to Camelot,
After his wound is healed, and Guinevere
Has healed that other wound that vexed his soul,
By purging her own soul of all offence?
And will he not assemble round his board
The best and bravest knights of Christendom,
And all the fairest ladies of the land,
And reign as erst he reigned in Camelot?”
* * * * *
Then Merlin: “Hid from eyes of common men
Is that which is to be in after days;
And only those can see it in whose souls
A heavenly brightness has dissolved the mist
That darkens mortal sight. And even these
Can see but dimly, as a far-off hill
Appears at even when the stars surprise
The lingering kisses of the parting sun.
But I, thou knowest well, Sir Bedivere,
Am not of mortal race, nor was I born
Of human mother nor of human sire.
Mine is the blazonry of prophet souls
Whose lineage finds in God its kingly head.
To me what was and that which is to come
Are ever present, and I grow not old
With time, but have the gift of endless youth.
As one who stands beside a placid stream,
Watching the white sails passing slowly down,
And knows a fatal whirlpool waits them all,
And yet, the while, is powerless to save,--
So watch I all the ages passing by
Adown the stream of time into the gulf
From which is no return. Alas! alas!
How oft have I, who ever love the good,
The pure, the brave and wise, wept bitter tears,
As they have passed me, joyous in their course,
And we have held sweet converse, as I thought
How soon their faces would be seen no more!
Sad, sad, Sir Bedivere, the prophet’s gift,
Who sees the evil which he cannot heal!”
And then a gloom o’ershadowed Merlin’s face,
That caused Sir Bedivere to pity him;
And they both wept, as one, amid the dead,
Thinking of all the sorrows of the world.
But Merlin, when his face grew calm again,
Began: “Come, hearken now, Sir Bedivere,
And I will give an answer to thy quest:
King Arthur sleeps in Avalon, and many a change
Must over-pass this land before he wake.
The great White Dragon of the stormy North,
Rearing his crest above the foaming waves,
Shall shake the ground, and level all the hills,--
And war shall follow war,--and blood shall flow
In every vale,--and smoke of burning towns
Shall reach the sky,--and men shall cry for aid
Unto the sea, to hide them from the foe--
And still shall Arthur sleep in Avalon.
And when the Dragon, sated with the blood
Of Christian men and women, yields at length
To a mild victor, Tigers of the Sea
Shall come, from craggy homes, to rend and tear,
And brave men’s hearts shall quail before their eyes--
Yet still shall Arthur sleep in Avalon.
The Tigers’ wrath appeased, another foe
Shall wave a foreign banner o’er the land,
And trample down beneath his horses’ hoofs
Briton, and Dane, and Saxon, till the ground
Is rank with blood, as when upon the slopes
Of Badon Arthur charged the heathen host--
Yet still the King shall sleep in Avalon.
But as the ages pass, these foes shall join
In friendship, and a nation shall arise,
Like a strong oak amid the forest trees,
Which, growing slowly, ceases not to grow,
But fastens firmly, as it aims aloft,
And spreads its branches far on every side,
A shelter to the stranger of all lands--
While Arthur still sleeps on in Avalon.
And many Kings shall rule and win renown
For this now saddened and distracted realm;
And Britain shall be great by land and sea,
And stretch her conquering arms around the world,
And gather treasures from all climes, and teach
Her tongues to distant nations, and her name
Shall be a word of praise to all the earth--
While Arthur still sleeps on in Avalon.
But though he sleep, he still shall wear the crown
As rightful lord of Britain, for on him,--
The image of a noble Christian King,
The image of a ruler sent of God,--
The people still shall look in whoso reigns.
And if there be a King of soul impure--
Or if there be a King of hand unjust--
Or if there be a King who weighs himself
Against the nation’s weal (such Kings there are
And ever shall be until Arthur wake),--
It is the _real_ King the people serve,
The Blameless Prince that never can do wrong,
And not the false usurper of his name.”
Then, wondering much, broke in Sir Bedivere:
“O Merlin, thou art far too wise for me,
Though well I love thy speech. But, in good sooth,
And plainly, as we speak of common things,
Answer me: Will the King come back again
In his own fleshly guise, the very same
As when he feasted erst in Camelot
With all the Table Round? And will he wear
The crown, and gird him with Excalibur,
And conquer heathen foes, and rid the land
Of all that speaketh lies or doeth wrong?--
Or, must he sleep for ever, and his face
Be hid away from those that love him well?
For, if I thought that it were so to be,
I never could have comfort in my life.”
Then answered Merlin: “Let me tell my tale
In my own way, and hearken till the close.
All these things happen not as we desire,
But as the ages need. Such men as he
Come not without great travail and sore pain;
They are the ripe fruit of the centuries,
Who nourish noble thoughts and noble deeds,
Give health and vigour to the sickly times,
And stir the gross blood of the sleepy world;
And when they pass away, their names, endued
With life, still head the van of truth and right:
So shall the name and spirit of the King,
Who ruled in Camelot the Table Round,
Guide Britain into ever-growing fame;
And all her Kings that reign shall reign in him,
The golden type of kingly chivalry.
And those three Queens thou sawest, three fair Queens,
So sweet and womanly, who, in the barge,
Bore, tenderly, away the wounded King,
Shall reign in Britain in the after-time,--
As, in the old time, Carismandua
And brave Bonduca whom the Romans feared
Held a firm sceptre in a gentle hand.
Of best and purest Queenhood, they, the type,
As Arthur is the type of Blameless Kings.
And as by three sweet names of holy kin
They shall be known, so shall they also shew
A triple sisterhood beneath one crown--
Britain, and Albyn, and green Innisfail.
Now, when the last of three Queens has slept
For many years, there shall arise a Fourth--
Fair, good and wise, and loved by all the land
Of Britain, and by many lands on every sea.
And in her days the world shall have much changed
From that which now we live in. Mysteries,
Save unto me in vision, now unknown,
Shall then be clear as day. The earth and air
Shall yield strange secrets for the use of men,--
The planets, in their courses, shall draw near,
And men shall see their marvels, as the flowers
That grace the meads of Summer,--time and space
Shall know new laws, and history shall walk
Abreast with fact o’er all the peopled world:--
For words shall flash like light from shore to shore,
And light itself shall chronicle men’s deeds.
Great ships shall plough the ocean without sail,
And steedless chariots shoot with arrowy speed
O’er hill and dale and river, and beneath
The solid floor we tread,--the silent rocks
Shall tell the story of the infant world,--
The falling leaf shall shew the cause of things
Sages have sought in vain--and the whole vast
Of sight and sound shall be to men a school
Where they may learn strange lessons; and great truths
That long have slept in the deep heart of God
Shall waken and come forth and dwell with men,
As in the elder days the tented lord
Of countless herds was taught by angel-guests.
And this fair land of Britain then shall be
Engrailed with stately cities,--and by streams
Where now the greedy wolf roams shall be heard
The multitudinous voice of Industry,--
And Labour, incense-crowned, shall hold her court
Where now the sun scarce touches with his beams
The scattered seeds of future argosies,
That to the furthest limit of the world
Shall bear the glory of the British name.
And where a Grecian victor never trod,
And where a Roman banner never waved,
East, West, and North, and South, and to those Isles,
Happy and rich, of which the poets dreamed
But never saw, set far in Western seas,
Beyond the pillars of the heathen god--
Shall Arthur’s realm extend, and dusky Kings
Shall yield obeisance to his conquering fame.
And She, the fourth fair tenant of the throne,
Heir to the ripe fruit of long centuries,
Shall reign o’er such an empire, and her name,
Clasping the trophies of all ages, won
By knightly deeds in every land and sea,
Shall be VICTORIA.
Then shall come a Prince
From o’er the sea, of goodly mien and fair,
And, winning her, win all that she has won--
Wedded to her, be good as she is pure--
Reigning with her, be wise as she is great--
And, loving her, be loved by all the world.”
Then spake Sir Bedivere, all eagerly:
“He, Merlin, is he not our Blameless King,
Returned from his long sleep in Avalon,
To crown the glories of the later world?”
Then Merlin: “Wait a while, Sir Bedivere,
And I will tell thee all.
In deeds of war,--
The rage of battle, and the clangorous charge
Of mailéd knights, and flash of hostile swords,
And flying spears, and din of meeting shields,
And all the use of man-ennobling might
For Christ and for His Cross, to wrest the land
From heathen foes--did Arthur win his fame.
For this, by marvels, was he born and bred;
For this, by marvels, was he chosen King;
For this he sent his heralds to all parts
Of the divided realm, to summon forth
All bravest, truest knights of Christendom
From rude and selfish war to Camelot,
That they might be one heart around himself
To send new life-blood through the sickly land,
And purge it of the plague of heathennesse.
And had not the foul falsehood of his house
Broken athwart the true aim of his life,
And set the Table Round against itself,
Ere now the heathen Dragon had been crushed,
Never again to raise its hideous head
O’er the fair land that Christ’s apostle blessed.
This was the purpose that his soul had formed--
Alas! how unaccomplished!--and he hoped
That gentle peace would be the meed of war,--
That ’neath the laurel far and wide would bloom
The flowers of wisdom, charity and truth,--
That holy men and sages, ladies fair
And famous knights, and those that from earth’s lap
Gather God’s bounties, and the men whose hands
Have skilful touch, and those who tell or sing
Of Nature and her marvels, or who fill
The scroll with records of the misty past,
And others of all arts and all degrees,
Should work, each in the place that he had found,
With one pure impulse in the heart of all,--
That Britain should be called of all the world
A blameless people round a Blameless King.
This purpose Albert, in the after-time,
(So shall the Prince be named of whom I spake,)
Shall take from the dim shrine where it has lain,
Scarce touched by dreamy reverence, many an age,
And hold it in the daylight of his life.
But not alone. She whom his heart has won,
With loving aid, shall ever at his side
(Till death them part) sustain him in his thought.
And these two, nobly mated, each to each
The sweet and ripe completion, shall be named
With loyal love and tenderest respect
By knight and lady, poet, sage and priest,
In mart and camp, in palace and in cot,
By babbling gray-beard and by lisping child,
Wherever Britain’s banner is unfurled.
So shall the land grow strong with bonds of peace,
Till men believe that wars have ceased to drench
The earth with bloody rain;--and Art shall smile
On myriad shapes of beauty and of use,--
And Wisdom shall have freer scope, and push
The boulders of old folly from her field,--
And men shall walk with larger minds across
The limits of the superstitious past,
And cull the gold out of the dross of things,
Flinging the dross aside,--and then shall be
New hopes of better changes yet to be,
When harmony shall reign through all the world,
And interchange of good for common weal
Be only law.
A palace shall arise
Beneath the guidance of the Blameless Prince,
The crystal image of his ample mind,
The home of what is best in every clime;
And thither, from all lands beneath the sun,
Shall crowd the patient workers in all arts,
Bringing the treasures of their skill. The hands
Of many nations with a brother’s clasp
Shall join together; and the Babel tongues
Of Eastern, Western, Northern, Southern lands
Shall strive no more in discord, but, as one,
Shall make harmonious music, as of yore
The sound of four great rivers rose and fell
Through fragrant splendours in the Eden-world.
And men shall say: ‘Now is the reign of peace,
Foretold by sacred sages, come at last.
And cries of war shall never more be heard
Through the fair world, but men shall take their swords
And beat them into ploughshares, and their spears
And lances they shall turn to pruning-hooks,--
Nation with nation shall contend no more,
Save as to who may reach the goal of best
Before the other, for the common good,--
And men shall only vie in virtue, skill
And beauty, fruits of hand and head and heart,--
And strength shall be in knowledge and its use,--
And right, not might, shall guide men in their acts,--
And small and great shall have one common law,--
And he, alone, shall be considered just
Who, in a doubtful matter, puts himself
In his friend’s place. So all men shall be friends:
For each shall see in other but himself,
And love him as himself. This is Christ’s rule,
Which the base world so long has set at nought,
But now restored by our All-blameless Prince,
And preached by gentle act to all the world.’
So shall men say, rejoicing; but, alas!
While yet the words rise from their gladdened hearts,
The olive garland shall begin to fade
On the sweet brows of peace; and Avarice,
Like a gaunt wolf, ever unsatisfied
As long as one lamb bleats within the fold,
Shall raise the harsh cry that awakens war.
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.
What cry was that which woke me from my dream?
I stand upon my native, island shore,
And hear the startled curlews round me scream
O’er the mute cliffs that make the fierce waves roar;
I watch the “stately ships” go sailing by,
And wonder how my heart has learned to sigh.
XV.
Ah! _that_ was but a dream. A summer’s eve
Breathes all its balmy blessings on my brow;
I feel as though the earth had got reprieve
From its death-sentence. See, the sun sets now--
The blue of heaven grows gently dark above,--
Below, blue eyes are growing dark with love.
XVI.
_That_, too, was but a dream. What startled me?
The winds are making havoc ’mong the leaves
Of summer-time, and each once happy tree
For its lost darlings rocks itself and grieves.
The night is dark, the sky is thick with clouds--
Kind frost-nymphs make the little leaves their shrouds!
WINTER.
Now lies Adonis in Prosérpine’s breast,
Who o’er him spreads a mantle lily white,
And every dryad, with disordered vest,
Teareth her hair for sorrow at the sight.
And ere he waketh, many an eye, now bright,
Shall deaden; many a rosy cheek shall pale;
O’er many a fair, young head shall rise the wail
Of those whom Death hath spoiled of their delight.
And, when, at touch of Spring, the winding sheet
That wraps thee now, Adonis, melts to flowers,
To deck thee for thy Queen; and sunny Hours,
Dancing around thee on their soft swift feet,
Sing “Wake, Adonis;” many a one shall weep
For those that in the Earth’s dark bosom sleep.
PER NOCTEM PLURIMA VOLVENS.
I.
When the weary sun has ended his journey and descended,
By his own bright, golden pathway, to his mansion in the west,
And the sentry stars have taken the sky he has forsaken,
To watch till he awaken, bright and smiling, from his rest;
II.
And the Moon is rising slowly with a light serene and holy,
The Queen of all the watchers, the sister of the Sun,
And hushed are all the noises from Earth’s unnumbered voices,
And the heart of sleep rejoices in the conquest he has won;
III.
In the still, unbroken quiet, free from day’s unceasing riot,
I love to call around me the friends of long before,
And to fill my vacant places with the well-remembered graces
Of dear, old familiar faces that may smile for me no more.
IV.
Some that shared my boyish pastime, as they seemed to me the last time
That I saw them, full of life and joy and hope that knew no bound,
But who now are sad and grieving, and have lost the gay believing
In the deeds of hope’s achieving, or--are laid beneath the ground;--
V.
Some, not merely friends for pleasure, but who cherished
friendship’s treasure
More than gold or worldly honour or gay fashion’s fickle smile,
Who would neither scorn nor flatter, who spoke honestly, no matter
How the world might grin and chatter, loving truth and hating guile;--
VI.
Some whose silvery hair seemed saintly, and whose eyes though
shining faintly,
Shed a tender lustre o’er me that will light me till the grave
That with all men I inherit takes my body, and my spirit,
Trusting in my Savour’s merit, has returned to God who gave;--
VII.
One, whom I have lost forever, but whom I will still endeavour
To deserve, though undeserving to have passed before her eyes,
For I know that while I love her, what is best and purest of her
Near me, through my life shall hover, like an angel from the skies;--
VIII.
These, by Fancy, great enchanter, called, into my presence enter,
When the Sun and Earth are sleeping and the Moon and Stars are bright,
And whatever past seemed pleasant I live over in the present,
And the cares of day are lessened by the magic of the night.
BALAAM.
While sleep had set its seal on many eyes,
Balaam, the Seer, was forth beneath the stars,
Whose beauty glimmered in Euphrates’ stream,
Gemming the mournful willows’ floating hair.
Behind him were the mountains of the east,
The dark-browed nurses of the blue-eyed founts,
Whose lone hearts were the life of Pethor-land.
Westward, beyond the river, was the waste,
O’er which, this second time, with priceless gifts,
Had come from Balak noble messengers;
And westward were the eyes of Balaam turned,
As one who waits for one who does not come,
While wild things came and passed unheeded by,
And the night wind, as with an angel’s harp,
Played lullaby to all the dreaming flowers.
And, gazing on the western sky, he saw
A picture, all whose forms were quick with life,
Where all was discord, hurrying to and fro,
As when two armies strive to gain the field;
For, from the outer realms of space, there came
Gigantic spearsmen, over whom there waved
Gay, many-coloured banners, and these flew,
Hither and thither, o’er the starry plain,
Pursuing and retreating; others came,
And others, till it seemed all Sabaoth
Had joined in conflict with the wicked one.
And then there was a change; banners and spears
Faded away, as fades away the reek
Above a hamlet on a frosty morn;
And none can tell when he sees last of it.
And, in a little while, there grew an arch,
Whose keystone was the zenith of the sky,
Like to a rainbow, joining east and west,
Beautiful, quivering, fearful, ominous,
Drawing the heart of Balaam after it.
And this, too, vanished, vapor-like, away;
And Balaam, though he waited its return,
Waited in vain; for warriors, and spears,
And banners, and the fiery flash of hosts
Embattled, and the mystic arch, were gone,
And came no more.