Poems Part 6

Soft in her lap lies drowsy-lidded Sleep, Brainful of dreams, as summer hive with bees; And round her in the pale and spectral light Flock bats and grisly owls on noiseless wings.

The flying sun goes down the burning west, Vast night comes noiseless up the eastern slope, And so the eternal chase goes round the world.

Unrest! unrest! The pa.s.sion-panting sea Watches the unveiled beauty of the stars Like a great hungry soul. The unquiet clouds Break and dissolve, then gather in a ma.s.s, And float like mighty icebergs through the blue.

Summers, like blushes, sweep the face of earth; Heaven yearns in stars. Down comes the frantic rain; We hear the wail of the remorseful winds In their strange penance. And this wretched orb Knows not the taste of rest; a maniac world, Homeless and sobbing through the deep she goes.

[_A Child runs past;_ WALTER _looks after her._ O thou bright thing, fresh from the hand of G.o.d, The motions of thy dancing limbs are swayed By the unceasing music of thy being!

Nearer I seem to G.o.d when looking on thee.

'Tis ages since he made his younger star.

His hand was on thee as 'twere yesterday, Thou later Revelation! Silver Stream, Breaking with laughter from the lake divine Whence all things flow! O bright and singing babe!

What wilt thou be hereafter?--Why should man Perpetuate this round of misery When he has in his hand the power to close it?

Let there be no warm hearts, no love on earth.

No Love! No Love! Love bringeth wretchedness.

No holy marriage. No sweet infant smiles.

No mother's bending o'er the innocent sleep With unvoiced prayers and with happy tears.

Let the whole race die out, and with a stroke, A master-stroke, at once cheat Death and h.e.l.l Of half of their enormous revenues.

[WALTER _approaches a cottage; a peasant sitting at the door._ One of my peasants. 'Tis a fair eve.

PEASANT.

Ay, Master!

How sweet the smell of beans upon the air; The wheat is earing fairly. We have reason For thankfulness to G.o.d.

WALTER (_looking upward_).

We _have_ great reason; For He provides a balm for all our woes.

He has made Death. Thrice blessed be His name!

PEASANT.

He has made Heaven----

WALTER.

To yawn eternities.

Did I say death? O G.o.d! there is no death.

When our eyes close, we only pa.s.s one stage Of our long being.--Dost thou wish to die?

PEASANT.

I trust in G.o.d to live for many years, Although with a worn frame and with a heart Somewhat the worse for wear.

WALTER.

O fool! fool! fool!

These hands are brown with toil; that brow is seamed, Still must you sweat and swelter in the sun, And trudge, with feet benumbed, the winter's snow, Nor intermission have until the end.

Thou canst not draw down fame upon thy head, And yet would cling to life! I'll not believe it; The faces of all things belie their hearts, Each man's as weary of his life as I.

This anguish'd earth s.h.i.+nes on the moon--a moon.

The moon hides with a cloak of tender light A scarr'd heart fed upon by hungry fires.

Black is this world, but blacker is the next; There is no rest for any living soul: We are immortals--and must bear with us Through all eternity this hateful being; Restlessly flitting from pure star to star, The memory of our sins, deceits, and crimes, Eating into us like a poisoned robe.

Yet thou canst wear content upon thy face And talk of thankfulness! O die, man, die!

Get underneath the earth for very shame.

[_During this speech the Child draws near; at its close her Father presents her to_ WALTER.

Is this thy answer? [_Looks at her earnestly._ O my worthy friend, I lost a world to-day and shed no tear; Now I could weep for _thee_. Sweet sinless one!

My heart is weak as a great globe, all sea.

It finds no sh.o.r.e to break on but thyself: So let it break.

[_He hides his face in his hands, the Child looking fearfully up at him._

SCENE VI.

_A Room in London._ WALTER _reading from a ma.n.u.script._

My head is grey, my blood is young, Red-leaping in my veins, The spring doth stir my spirit yet To seek the cloistered violet, The primrose in the lanes.

In heart I am a very boy, Haunting the woods, the waterfalls, The ivies on grey castle-walls; Weeping in silent joy When the broad sun goes down the west, Or trembling o'er a sparrow's nest.

The world might laugh were I to tell What most my old age cheers,-- Mem'ries of stars and crescent moons, Of nutting strolls through autumn noons, Rainbows 'mong April's tears.

But chief, to live that hour again, When first I stood on sea-beach old, First heard the voice, first saw out-rolled The glory of the main.

Many rich draughts hath Memory, The Soul's cup-bearer, brought to me.

I saw a garden in my strolls, A lovely place, I ween, With rows of vermeil-blossomed trees, With flowers, with slumb'rous haunts of bees, With summer-house of green.

A peac.o.c.k perched upon a dial, In the sun's face he did unclose His train superb with eyes and glows, To dare the sun to trial.

A child sat in a shady place, A shower of ringlets round her face.

She sat on shaven plot of gra.s.s, With earnest face, and weaving Lilies white and freaked pansies Into quaint delicious fancies, Then, on a sudden leaving Her floral wreath, she would upspring With silver shouts and ardent eyes, To chase the yellow b.u.t.terflies, Making the garden ring; Then gravely pace the scented walk, Soothing her doll with childish talk.

And being, as I said before, An old man who could find A boundless joy beneath the skies, And in the light of human eyes, And in the blowing wind, There, daily were my footsteps turned, Through the long spring, until the peach Was drooping full-juiced in my reach.-- Each day my old heart yearned To look upon that child so fair, That infant in her golden hair.

In this green lovely world of ours I have had many pets, Two are still leaping in the sun, Three are married; _that_ dearest one Is 'neath the violets.

I gazed till my heart grew wild, To fold her in my warm caresses, Clasp her showers of golden tresses,-- Oh, dreamy-eyed child!

O Child of Beauty! still thou art A sunbeam in this lonely heart.

When autumn eves grew chill and rainy, England left I for the Ganges; I couched 'mong groves of cedar-trees, Blue lakes, and slumb'rous palaces, Crossed the snows of mountain-ranges, Watched the set of old Orion, Saw wild flocks and wild-eyed shepherds, Princes charioted by leopards, In the desert met the lion, The mad sun above us glaring,-- Child! for thee I still was caring.

Home returned from realms barbaric, By the sh.o.r.es of Loch Lubnaig, A dear friend and I were walking ('Twas the Sabbath), we were talking Of dreams and feelings vague; We paused by a place of graves, Scarcely a word was 'twixt us given, Silent the earth, silent the heaven, No murmur of the waves, The awed Loch lay black and still In the black shadow of the hill.

We loosed the gate and wandered in, When the sun eternal Was sudden blanched with amethyst, As if a thick and purple mist Dusked his brows supernal.

Soon like a G.o.d in mortal throes, City, hill, and sea, he dips In the death-hues of eclipse; Mightier his anguish grows, Till he hung black, with ring intense, The wreck of his magnificence.

Above the earth's cold face he hung With a pale ring of glory, Like that which cunning limners paint Around the forehead of a saint, Or brow of martyr h.o.a.ry.

And sitting there I could but choose,-- That blind and stricken sun aboon, Stars shuddering through the ghostly noon, 'Mong the thick-falling dews,-- To tell, with features pale and wild, About that Garden and that Child.

When moons had waxed and waned, I stood Beside the garden gate, The Peac.o.c.k's dial was overthrown, The walks with moss were overgrown, _Her_ bower was desolate.

Gazing in utter misery Upon that sad and silent place, A woman came with mournful face, And thus she said to me,-- "Those trees, as they were human souls, All withered at the death-bell knolls."

I turned and asked her of the child.

"She is gone hence," quoth she, "To be with Christ in Paradise.

Oh, sir! I stilled her infant cries, I nursed her on my knee.

Though we were ever at her side, And saw life fading in her cheek, She knew us not, nor did she speak, Till just before she died; In the wild heart of that eclipse, These words came through her wasted lips:--

'The callow young were huddling in the nests, The marigold was burning in the marsh, Like a thing dipt in sunset, when He came.

My blood went up to meet Him on my face, Glad as a child that hears its father's step, And runs to meet him at the open porch.