Veritopicon
The Harvard Classics › Vol. 42

Poems

Alfred, Lord Tennyson

p. 967624 THE LADY OF SHALOTT
Part I
1N either side the river lieoLong fields of barley and of rye,That clothe the wold and meet the sky;And thro' the field the road runs byTo many-tower'd Camelot;And up and down the people go,Gazing where the lilies blowRound an island there below.The island of Shalott.
Willows whiten, asjjens quiver.Little breezes dusk and shiverThro' the wave that runs for everBy the island in the riverFlowing down to Camelot.Four gray walls, and four gray towers.Overlook a space of flowers,And the silent isle imbowersThe Lady of Shalott.
By the margin, willow-veil'd.Slide the heavy barges trail'dBy slow horses; and unhail'dThe shallop flitteth silken-sail'dSkimming down to Camelot:But who hath seen her wave her hand?Or at the casement seen her stand ?Or is she known in all the land,The Lady of Shalott?[968]Only reapers, reaping earlyIn among the bearded barley,Hear a song that echoes cheerlyFrom the river winding clearly,Down to tower'd Camelot:And by the moon the reaper weary,Piling sheaves in uplands airy,Listening, whispers ' "Tis the fairyLady of Shalott.'

Part II

There she weaves by night and dayA magic web with colours gay.She has heard a whisper say,A curse is on her if she stayTo look down to Camelot.She knows not what the curse may be,And so she weaveth steadily,And little other care hath she,The Lady of Shalott.
And moving thro' a mirror clearThat hangs before her all the year,Shadows of the world appear.There she sees the highway nearWinding down to Camelot:There the river eddy whirls,And there the surly village-churls,And the red cloaks of market girls,Pass onward from Shalott.
Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,An abbot on an ambling pad,Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad,Goes by to tower'd Camelot:And sometimes thro' the mirror blueThe knights come riding two and two:She hath no loyal knight and true,The Lady of Shalott.[969]But in her web she still delightsTo weave the mirror's magic sights,For often thro' the silent nightsA funeral, with plumes and lights,And music, went to Camelot:Or when the moon was overhead,Came two young lovers lately wed;'I am half sick of shadows,' saidThe Lady of Shalott.
Part IIIA bow-shot from her bower-eaves.He rode between the barley-sheaves.The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,And flamed upon the brazen greavesOf bold Sir Lancelot.A red-cross knight for ever kneel'dTo a lady in his shield.That sparkled on the yellow field.Beside remote Shalott.
The gemmy bridle glitter'd free.Like to some branch of stars we seeHung in the golden Galaxy.The bridle bells rang merrilyAs he rode down to Camelot:And from his blazon'd baldric slungA mighty silver bugle hung.And as he rode his armour rung.Beside remote Shalott.
All in the blue unclouded weatherThick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,The helmet and the helmet-featherBurn'd like one burning flame together.As he rode down to Camelot.As often thro' the purple night,Below the starry clusters bright,Some bearded meteor, trailing light,Moves over still Shalott.[970]His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;From underneath his helmet flow'dHis coal-black curls as on he rode,As he rode down to Camelot.From the bank and from the riverHe flash'd into the crystal mirror,'Tirra Iirra,' by the riverSang Sir Lancelot.
She left the web, she left the loom,She made three paces thro' the room,She saw the water-lily bloom,She saw the helmet and the plume,She look'd down to Camelot.Out flew the web and floated wide;The mirror crack'd from side to side;' The curse is come upon me!' criedThe Lady of Shalott.

Part IV

In the stormy east-wind straining,The pale yellow woods were waning,The broad stream in his banks complaining,Heavily the low sky rainingOver tower'd Camelot;Down she came and found a boatBeneath a willow left afloat,And round about the prow she wroteThe Lady of Shalott.
And down the river's dim expanse—Like some bold seer in a trance,Seeing all his own mischance—With a glassy countenanceDid she look to Camelot.And at the closing of the dayShe loosed the chain, and down she lay;The broad stream bore her far away,The Lady of Shalott.[971]Lying, robed in snowy whiteThat loosely flew to left and right—The leaves upon her falling light—Thro ' the noises of the nightShe floated down to Camelot:And as the boat-head wound alongThe willowy hills and fields among,They heard her singing her last song,The Lady of Shalott.
Heard a carol, mournful, holy,Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,Till her blood was frozen slowly,And her eyes were darken'd wholly,Turn'd to tower'd Camelot;For ere she reach'd upon the tideThe first house by the water-side,Singing in her song she died,The Lady of Shalott.
Under tower and balcony,By garden-wall and gallery,A gleaming shape she floated by,Dead-pale between the houses high,Silent into Camelot.Out upon the wharfs they came,Knight and burgher, lord and dame,And round the prow they read her name,The Lady of Shalott.
Who is this? and what is here?And in the lighted palace nearDied the sound of royal cheer;And they cross'd themselves for fear,All the knights at Camelot:But Lancelot mused a little space;He said, 'She has a lovely face;God in His mercy lend her grace,The Lady of Shalott.'
p. 972

Sweet and Low

SWEET and low, sweet and low ,Wind of the western sea,Low , low, breathe and blow,Wind of the western sea!Over the rolling waters go,Come from the dying moon, and blow,Blow him again to me;While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.
Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,Father will come to thee soon;Rest, rest, on mother's breast,Father will come to thee soon;Father will come to his babe in the nest,Silver sails all out of the westUnder the silver moon:Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.

Tears, Idle Tears

TEARS, idle tears, I know not what they mean,Tears from the depth of some divine despairRise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,In looking on the happy Autumn-fields,And thinking of the days that are no more.
Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,That brings our friends up from the underworld,Sad as the last which reddens over oneThat sinks with all we love below the verge;So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.
Ah , sad and strange as in dark summer dawnsThe earliest pipe of half-awakened birdsTo dying ears, when unto dying eyesThe casement slowly grows a glimmering square;So sad, so strange, the days that are no more..[973]Dear as remembered kisses after death,And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feignedOn lips that are for others; deep as love,Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;O Death in Life, the days that are no more.

Blow, Bugle, Blow

THE splendour falls on castle wallsAnd snowy summits old in story:The long light shakes across the lakes,And the wild cataract leaps in glory.Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,And thinner, clearer, farther going!O sweet and far from cliff and scarThe horns of Elfland faintly blowing!Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
O love, they die in yon rich sky,They faint on hill or field or river:Our echoes roll from soul to soul,And grow for ever and for ever.Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

Home They Brought Her Warrior Dead

HOME they brought her warrior dead:She nor swooned, nor uttered cry:All her maidens, watching, said,'She must weep or she will die.'
Then they praised him, soft and low,Called him worthy to be loved,Truest friend and noblest foe;Yet she neither spoke nor moved.[974]Stole a maiden from her place,Lightly to the warrior stepped,Took the face-cloth from the face;Yet she neither moved nor wept.
Rose a nurse of ninety years,Set his child upon her knee—Like summer tempest came her tears—'Sweet my child, I live for thee.'

Now SLEEPS THE CRIMSON PETAL

Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the whiteNor waves the cypress in the palace walk;Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font:The fire-fly wakens: waken thou with me.
Now droops the milkwhite peacock like a ghosAnd like a ghost she glimmers on to me.
Now lies the Earth all Danae to the stars,And all thy heart lies open unto me.
Now slides the silent meteor on, and leavesA shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me.
Now folds the lily all her sweetness up,And slips into the bosom of the lake:So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slipInto my bosom and be lost in me.

O Swallow, Swallow

O SWALLOW, Swallow, flying, flying South,Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves,And tell her, tell her, what I tell to thee.
O tell her, Swallow, thou that knowest each,That bright and fierce and fickle is the South,And dark and true and tender is the North.[975]O Swallow, Swallow, if I could follow, and lightUpon her lattice, I would pipe and trill,And cheep and twitter twenty million loves.
O were I thou that she might take me in,And lay me on her bosom, and her heartWould rock the snowy cradle till I died.
Why lingereth she to clothe her heart with love,Delaying as the tender ash delaysTo clothe herself, when all the woods are green?
O tell her, Swallow, that thy brood is flown:Say to her, I do but wanton in the South,But in the North long since my nest is made.
O tell her, brief is life but love is long,And brief the sun of summer in the North,And brief the moon of beauty in the South.
O Swallow, flying from the golden woods,Fly to her, and pipe and woo her, and make her mAnd tell her, tell her, that I follow thee.

Break, Break, Break

BREAK, break, break,On thy cold grey stones, O Sea!And I would that my tongue could utterThe thoughts that arise in me.
O well for the fisherman's boy,That he shouts with his sister at play!O well for the sailor lad,That he sings in his boat on the bay!
And the stately ships go onTo their haven under the hill;But O for the touch of a vanished hand,And the sound of a voice that is still![976]Break, break, break,At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!But the tender grace of a day that is deadWill never come back to me.

In the Valley of Cauteretz

ALL along the valley, stream that nastiest white,Deepening thy voice with the deepening of the night,All along the valley, where thy waters flow,I walked with one I loved two and thirty years ago.All along the valley while I walked to-day,The two and thirty years were a mist that rolls away;For all along the valley, down thy rocky bed,Thy living voice to me was as the voice of the dead,And all along the valley, by rock and cave and tree,The voice of the dead was a living voice to me.

Vivien's Song

'IN Love, if Love be Love, if Love be ours,Faith and unfaith can ne'er be equal powers:Unfaith in aught is want of faith in all.
'It is the little rift within the lute,That by and by will make the music mute,And ever widening slowly silence all.
' The little rift within the lover's luteOr little pitted speck in garnered fruit,That rotting inward slowly moulders all.
'It is not worth the keeping: let it go :But shall it? answer, darling, answer, no.And trust me not at all or all in all.'

Enid's Song

TURN, Fortune, turn thy wheel, and lower the proud;Turn thy wild wheel thro' sunshine, storm, and cloud;Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.[977]Turn , Fortune, turn thy wheel with smile or frown;With that wild wheel we go not up or down ;Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.
Smile and we smile, the lords of many lands;Frown and we smile, the lords of our own hands;For man is man and master of his fate.
Turn , turn thy wheel above the staring crowd;Thy wheel and thou are shadows in the cloud;Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.

Ulysses

IT little profits that an idle king,By this still hearth, among these barren crags,Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and doleUnequal laws unto a savage race,That hoard and sleep, and feed, and know not me.I cannot rest from travel: I will drinkLife to the lees: all times I have enjoy'dGreatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with thoseThat loved me, and alone; on shore, and whenThro ' scudding drifts the rainy HyadesVext the dim sea: I am become a name;For always roaming with a hungry heartMuch have I seen and known ; cities of menAnd manners, climates, councils, governments,Myself not least, but honour'd of them all;And drunk delight of battle with my peers,Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy .I am a part of all that I have met;Yet all experience is an arch wherethro'Gleams that untravell'd world, whose margin fadesFor ever and for ever when I move.How dull it is to pause, to make an end,To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use!As tho' to breathe were life. Life piled on lifeWere all too little, and of one to meLittle remains: but every hour is savedFrom that eternal silence, something more,[978]A bringer of new things; and vile it wereFor some three suns to store and hoard myself,And this gray spirit yearning in desireTo follow knowledge, like a sinking star,Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.This is my son, mine own Telemachus,To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle—Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfilThis labour, by slow prudence to make mildA rugged people, and thro' soft degreesSubdue them to the useful and the good.Most blameless is he, centred in the sphereOf common duties, decent not to failIn offices of tenderness, and payMeet adoration to my household gods,When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.There lies the port: the vessel puffs her sail:There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners,Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me—That ever with a frolic welcome tookThe thunder and the sunshine, and opposedFree hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old;Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;Death closes all: but something ere the end,Some work of noble note, may yet be done,Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deepMoans round with many voices. Come , my friends,'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.Push off, and sitting well in order smiteThe sounding furrows; for my purpose holdsTo sail beyond the sunset, and the bathsOf all the western stars until I die.It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.Tho ' much is taken, much abides; and tho'We are not now that strength which in old daysMoved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;[979]One equal temper of heroic hearts,Made weak by time and fate, but strong in willTo strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

636 Locksley Hall

COMRADES, leave me here a little, while as yet 'tis early morn:Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon the bugle horn.
'Tis the place, and all around it, as of old, the curlews call,Dreary gleams about the moorland flying over Locksley Hall;
Locksley Hall, that in the distance overlooks the sandy tracts,And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into cataracts.
Many a night from yonder ivied casement, ere I went to rest,Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly to the West.
Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising thro' the mellow shade,Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid.
Here about the beach I wander'd, nourishing a youth sublimeWith the fairy tales of science, and the long result of Time ;
When the centuries behind me like a fruitful land reposed;When I clung to all the present for the promise that it closed:
When I dipt into the future far as human eye could see;Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be.—
In the Spring a fuller crimson comes upon the robin's breast;In the Spring the wanton lapwing gets himself another crest;
In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the burnish'd dove;In the Spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.
Then her cheek was pale and thinner than should be for one so young,And her eyes on all my motions with a mute observance hung.
And I said, " My cousin A my , speak, and speak the truth to me,Trust me, cousin, all the current of my being sets to thee."[980]On her pallid cheek and forehead came a colour and a light,As I have seen the rosy red flushing in the northern night.
And she turn'd—her bosom shaken with a sudden storm of sighs—All the spirit deeply dawning in the dark of hazel eyes—
Saying, "I have hid my feelings, fearing they should dome wrong ; "Saying, "Dost thou love me, cousin?" weeping, "I have loved thee long."
Love took up the glass of Time , and turn'd it in his glowing hands;Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands.
Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might;Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, pass'd in music out of sight.
Many a morning on the moorland did we hear the copses ring,And her whisper throng'd my pulses with the fullness of the Spring.
Many an evening by the waters did we watch the stately ships,And our spirits rush'd together at the touching of the lips.
O my cousin, shallow-hearted! O my A my , mine no more!O the dreary, dreary moorland! O the barren, barren shore!
Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all songs have sung,Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to a shrewish tongue!
Is it well to wish thee happy? having known me—to declineOn a range of lower feelings and a narrower heart than mine!
Yet it shall be: thou shalt lower to his level day by day,What is fine within thee growing coarse to sympathize with clay.
As the husband is, the wife is: thou art mated with a clown,And the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag thee down.
He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force,Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse.
What is this? his eyes are heavy: think not they are glazed with wine.Go to him: it is thy duty: kiss him: take his hand in thine.[981]It may be my lord is weary, that his brain is over-wrought:Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch him with thy lighter thought.
He will answer to the purpose, easy things to understand—Better thou wert dead before me, tho' I slew thee with my hand!
Better thou and I were lying, hidden from the heart's disgrace,Roll'd in one another's arms, and silent in a last embrace.
Cursed be the social wants that sin against the strength of youth!Cursed be the social lies that warp us from the living truth!
Cursed be the sickly forms that err from honest Nature's rule!Cursed be the gold that gilds the straiten'd forehead of the fool!
Well—'tis well that I should bluster!—Hadst thou less unworthyproved—Would to God—for I had loved thee more than ever wife was loved.
Am I mad, that I should cherish that which bears but bitter fruit?I will pluck it from my bosom, tho' m y heart be at the root.
Never, tho' my mortal summers to such length of years should comeAs the many-winter'd crow that leads the clanging rookery home.
Where is comfort? in division of the records of the mind?Can I part her from herself, and love her, as I knew her, kind ?
I remember one that perish'd: sweetly did she speak and move:Such a one do I remember, whom to look at was to love.
Can I think of her as dead, and love her for the love she bore?No—she never loved me truly: love is love for evermore.
Comfort? comfort scorn'd of devils! this is truth the poet sings,That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things.
Drug thy memories, lest thou learn it, lest thy heart be put to proof.In the dead unhappy night, and when the rain is on the roof.[982]Like a dog, he hunts in dreams, and thou art staring at the wall,Where the dying night-lamp flickers, and the shadows rise and fall.
Then a hand shall pass before thee, pointing to his drunken sleep,To thy widow ' d marriage-pillows, to the tears that thou wilt weep.
Thou shalt hear the "Never, never," whisper'd by the phantom years,And a song from out the distance in the ringing of thine ears;
And an eye shall vex thee, looking ancient kindness on thy pain.Turn thee, turn thee on thy pillow: get thee to thy rest again.
Nay , but Nature brings thee solace; for a tender voice will cry.'Tis a purer life than thine; a lip to drain thy trouble dry.
Baby lips will laugh me down : my latest rival brings thee rest.Baby fingers, waxen touches, press me from the mother's breast.
O , the child too clothes the father with a dearness not his due.Half is thine and half is his: it will be worthy of the two.
O , I see thee old and formal, fitted to thy petty part,With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a daughter's heart.
" They were dangerous guides the feelings—she herself was not exempt—Truly, she herself had suffer'd"—Perish in thy self-contempt!
Overlive it—lower yet—be happy! wherefore should I care?I myself must mix with action, lest I wither by despair.
What is that which I should turn to, lighting upon days like these?Every door is barr'd with gold, and opens but to golden keys.
Every gate is throng'd with suitors, all the markets overflow.I have but an angry fancy: what is that which I should do?
I had been content to perish, falling on the foeman's ground,When the ranks are roll'd in vapour, and the winds are laid with sound.
But the jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that Honour feels,And the nations do but murmur, snarling at each other's heels.[983]Can I but relive in sadness? I will turn that earlier page.Hide me from my deep emotion, O thou wondrous Mother-Age!
Make me feel the wild pulsation that I felt before the strife,When I heard my days before me, and the tumult of my life;
Yearning for the large excitement that the coming years would yield,Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves his father's field,
And at night along the dusky highway near and nearer drawn,Sees in heaven the light of London flaring like a dreary dawn;
And his spirit leaps within him to be gone before him then,Underneath the light he looks at, in among the throngs of men:
Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new:That which they have done but earnest of the things that they shall do :
For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see,Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be;
Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of magic sails,Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with costly bales;
Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there rain'd a ghastly dewFrom the nations' airy navies grappling in the central blue;
Far along the world-wide whisper of the south-wind rushing warm,With the standards of the peoples plunging thro' the thunder-storm;
Till the war-drum throbb'd no longer, and the battle-flags were furl'dIn the Parliament of man, the Federation of the world.
There the common sense of most shall hold a fretful realm in awe,And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in universal law.
So I triumph'd ere my passion sweeping thro' me left me dry,Left me with the palsied heart, and left me with the jaundiced eye;
Eye, to which all order festers, all things here are out of joint,Science moves, but slowly slowly, creeping on from point to point:[984]Slowly comes a hungry people, as a lion creeping nigher,Glares at one that nods and winks behind a slowly-dying fire.
Yet I doubt not thro' the ages one increasing purpose runs,And the thoughts of men are widen'd with the process of the suns.
What is that to him that reaps not harvest of his youthful joys,Tho ' the deep heart of existence beat for ever like a boy's?
Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and I linger on the shore,And the individual withers, and the world is more and more.
Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and he bears a laden breast,Full of sad experience, moving toward the stillness of his rest.
Hark, my merry comrades call me, sounding on the bugle-horn,They to whom my foolish passion were a target for their scorn:
Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a moulder'd string?I am shamed thro' all my nature to have loved so slight a thing.
Weakness to be wroth with weakness! woman's pleasure, woman's pain—Nature made them blinder motions bounded in a shallower brain:
Woman is the lesser man, and all thy passions, match'd with mine,Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine —
Here at least, where nature sickens, nothing. Ah , for some retreatDeep in yonder shining Orient, where my life began to beat;
Wherein wild Mahratta-battle fell my father evil-starr'd;I was left a trampled orphan, and a selfish uncle's ward.
Or to burst all links of habit—there to wander far away,On from island unto island at the gateways of the day.
Larger constellations burning, mellow moons and happy skies,Breadths of tropic shade and palms in cluster, knots of Paradise.
Never comes the trader, never floats an European flag;Slides the bird o'er lustrous woodland, swings the trailer from the crag;[985]Droops the heavy-blossom'd bower, hangs the heavy-fruited tree—Summer isles of Eden lying in dark-purple spheres of sea.
There methinks would be enjoyment more than in this march of mind,In the steamship, in the railway, in the thoughts that shake mankind.
There the passions cramp'd no longer shall have scope and breathing-space;I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my dusky race.
Iron-jointed, supple-sinew'd, they shall dive, and they shall run,Catch the wild goat by the hair, and hurl their lances in the sun;
Whistle back the parrot's call, and leap the rainbows of the brooks,Not with blinded eyesight poring over miserable books—
Fool, again the dream, the fancy! but I /{now my words are wild,But I count the gray barbarian lower than the Christian child.
I, to herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of our glorious gains,Like a beast with lower pleasures, like a beast with lower pains!
Mated with a squalid savage—what to me were sun or clime?I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time—
I that rather held it better men should perish one by one,Than that earth should stand at gaze like Joshua's moon in Ajalon!
Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward let us range.Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change.
Thro ' the shadow of the globe we sweep into the younger day:Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay.
Mother-Age (for mine I knew not) help me as when life begun:Rift the hills, and roll the waters, flash the lightnings, weigh the Sun—
O , I see the crescent promise of my spirit hath not set.Ancient founts of inspiration well thro' all my fancy yet.[986]Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to Locksley Hall!Now for me the woods may wither, now for me the roof-tree fall.
Comes a vapour from the margin, blackening over heath and holt,Cramming all the blast before it, in its breast a thunderbolt.
Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or hail, or fire or snow;For the mighty wind arises, roaring seaward, and I go .

6 j 7 MORTE D'ARTHUR

So all day long the noise of battle roll'dAmong the mountains by the winter sea;Until King Arthur's table, man by man,Had fall'n in Lyonnesse about their Lord,King Arthur: then, because his wound was deep,The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him,Sir Bedivere the last of all his knights,And bore him to a chapel nigh the field,A broken chancel with a broken cross,That stood on a dark strait of barren land.On one side lay the Ocean, and on oneLay a great water, and the moon was full.Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:" The sequel of to-day unsolders allThe goodliest fellowship of famous knightsWhereof this world holds record. Such a sleepThey sleep—the men I loved. I think that weShall never more, at any future time,Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds,Walking about the gardens and the hallsOf Camelot, as in the days that were.I perish by this people which I made,—Tho ' Merlin sware that I should come againTo rule once more—but let what will be, be,I am so deeply smitten thro' the helmThat without help I cannot last till morn.Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur,Which was my pride: for thou rememberest howIn those old days, one summer noon, an armRose up from out the bosom of the lake,[987]Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,Holding the sword—and how I row'd acrossAnd took it, and have worn it, like a king :And , wheresoever I am sung or toldIn aftertime, this also shall be known :But now delay not: take Excalibur,And fling him far into the middle mere:Watch what thou seest, and lightly bring me word."To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere:"It is not meet, Sir King , to leave thee thus,Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the helm.A little thing may harm a wounded man.Yet I thy hest will all perform at full,Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word."So saying, from the ruin'd shrine he steptAnd in the moon athwart the place of tombs,Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men,Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sangShrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He , stepping downBy zig-zag paths, and juts of pointed rock,Came on the shining levels of the lake.There drew he forth the brand Excalibur,And o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon,Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forthAnd sparkled keen with frost against the hilt:For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks,Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth-workOf subtlest jewellery. He gazed so longThat both his eyes were dazzled, as he stood,This way and that dividing the swift mind,In act to throw: but at the last it seem'dBetter to leave Excalibur conceal'dThere in the many-knotted waterflags,That whistled stiff and dry about the marge.So strode he back slow to the wounded King .Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:"Hast thou perform'd my mission which I gave?What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?"And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:"I heard the ripple washing in the reeds[988]And the wild water lapping on the crag."To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale" Thou hast betray'd thy nature and thy name,Not rendering true answer, as beseem'dThy fealty, nor like a noble knight:For surer sign had follow'd, either hand,Or voice, or else a motion of the mere.This is a shameful thing for men to lie.Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go againAs thou art lief and dear, and do the thingI bade thee, watch, and lightly bring me word."Then went Sir Bedivere the second timeAcross the ridge, and paced beside the mere,Counting the dewy pebbles, fix'd in thought;But when he saw the wonder of the hilt,How curiously and strangely chased, he smoteHis palms together, and he cried aloud," And if indeed I cast the brand away,Surely a precious thing, one worthy note,Should thus be lost for ever from the earth,Which might have pleased the eyes of many men.What good should follow this, if this were done?What harm, undone? deep harm to disobey,Seeing obedience is the bond of rule.Were it well to obey then, if a king demandAn act unprofitable, against himself?The King is sick, and knows not what he does.What record, or what relic of my lordShould be to aftertime, but empty breathAnd rumours of a doubt? but were this kept,Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings,Some one might show it at a joust of arms,Saying, ' King Arthur's sword, Excalibur,Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake.Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deepsUpon the hidden bases of the hills.'So might some old man speak in the aftertimeTo all the people, winning reverence.But now much honour and much fame were lost.So spake he, clouded with his own conceit,[989]And hid Excalibur the second time,And so strode back slow to the wounded King .Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily:" What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?"And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:"I heard the water lapping on the crag,And the long ripple washing in the reeds."To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath:" Ah , miserable and unkind, untrue,Unknightly, traitor-hearted! Woe is me!Authority forgets a dying king,Laid widow'd of the power in his eyeThat bow'd the will. I see thee what thou art,For thou, the latest-left of all my knights,In whom should meet the offices of all,Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt;Either from lust of gold, or like a girlValuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes.Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice,And the third time may prosper, get thee hence.But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur,I will arise and slay thee with my hands."Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran,And , leaping down the ridges lightly, plungedAmong the bulrush-beds, and clutch'd the sword,And strongly wheel'd and threw it. The great brandMade lightnings in the splendour of the moon,And flashing round and round, and whirl'd in an arch,Shot like a streamer of the northern morn,Seen where the moving isles of winter shockBy night, with noises of the northern sea.So flash'd and fell the brand Excalibur:But ere he dipt the surface, rose an armClothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,And caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd himThree times, and drew him under in the mere.And lightly went the other to the King .Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath:" Now see I by thine eyes that this is done.Speak out: what is it thou hast heard, or seen ? "[990]And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:"Sir King , I closed mine eyelids, lest the gemsShould blind my purpose, for I never saw,Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die,Not tho' I live three lives of mortal men,So great a miracle as yonder hilt.Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling him;But when I look'd again, behold an arm,Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,That caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd himThree times, and drew him under in the mere."And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard:" My end draws nigh; 'tis time that I were gone.Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight,And bear me to the margin; yet I fearMy wound hath taken cold; and I shall die."So saying, from the pavement he half rose,Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm,And looking wistfully with wide blue eyesAs in a picture. Him Sir BedivereRemorsefully regarded thro' his tears,And would have spoken, but he found not words,Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee,O'er both his shoulders drew the languid hands,And rising bore him thro' the place of tombs.But, as he walk'd, King Arthur panted hard,Like one that feels a nightmare on his bedWhen all the house is mute. So sigh'd the King ,Muttering and murmuring at his ear, "Quick, quickI fear it is too late, and I shall die."But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge,Clothed with his breath, and looking as he walk'd,Larger than human on the frozen hills.He heard the deep behind him, and a cryBefore. His own thought drove him, like a goad.Dry clash'd his harness in the icy cavesAnd barren chasms, and all to left and rightThe bare black cliff clang'd round him, as he basedHis feet on juts of slippery crag that rangSharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels—And on a sudden, lo! the level lake,[991]And the long glories of the winter moon.Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge,Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern,Beneath them; and descending they were wareThat all the decks were dense with stately formsBlack-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream—by theseThree Queens with crowns of gold—and from them roseA cry that shiver'd to the tingling stars,And, as it were one voice, an agonyOf lamentation, like a wind, that shrillsAll night in a waste land, where no one comes,Or hath come, since the making of the world.Then murmur'd Arthur, "Place me in the barge,"'And to the barge they came. There those three QueensPut forth their hands, and took the King , and wept.But she, that rose the tallest of them allAnd fairest, laid his head upon her lap,And loosed the shatter'd casque, and chafed his hands,And call'd him by his name, complaining loud,And dropping bitter tears against his browStriped with dark blood: for all his face was whiteAnd colourless, and like the wither'd moonSmote by the fresh beam of the springing east;And all his greaves and cuisses dash'd with dropsOf onset; and the light and lustrous curls—That made his forehead like a rising sunHigh from the dais-throne—were parch'd with dust;Or, clotted into points and hanging loose,Mixed with the knightly growth that fringed his lips.So like a shatter'd column lay the King ;Not like that Arthur who , with lance in rest,From spur to plume a star of tournament,Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and chargedBefore the eyes of ladies and of kings.Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere," Ah ! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go?Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes?For now I see the true old times are dead,When every morning brought a noble chance,And every chance brought out a noble knight.Such times have been not since the light that led[992]The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh.But now the whole ROUND TABLE is dissolvedWhich was an image of the mighty world;And I, the last, go forth companionless,And the days darken round me and the years,Among new men, strange faces, other minds."And slowly answer'd Arthur from the barge:" The old order changeth, yielding place to new,And God fulfils Himself in many ways,Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me?I have lived my life, and that which I have doneMay He within Himself make pure! but thou,If thou shouldst never see my face again,Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayerThan this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voiceRise like a fountain for me night and day.For what are men better than sheep or goatsThat nourish a blind life within the brain,If, knowing God , they lift not hands of prayerBoth for themselves and those who call them friend ?For so the whole round earth is every wayBound by gold chains about the feet of God .But now farewell. I am going a long wayWith these thou seest—if indeed I go —( For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)To the island-valley of Avilion;Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it liesDeep-meadow'd happy, fair with orchard-lawnsAnd bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea,Where I will heal me of my grievous wound."So said he, and the barge with oar and sailMoved from the brink, like some full-breasted swanThat, fluting a wild carol ere her death,Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the floodWith swarthy webs. Long stood Sir BedivereRevolving many memories, till the hullLooked one black dot against the verge of dawnAnd on the mere the wailing died away.
p. 993

The Lotos-eaters

"COURAGE!" he said, and pointed toward the land,"This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon."In the afternoon they came unto a landIn which it seemed always afternoon.All round the coast the languid air did swoon,Breathing like one that hath a weary dream.Full-faced above the valley stood the moon;And , like a downward smoke, the slender streamAlong the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem.
A land of streams! some, like a downward smoke,Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go ;And some thro' wavering lights and shadows broke,Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below.They saw the gleaming river seaward flowFrom the inner land; far off, three mountain-tops,Three silent pinnacles of aged snow,Stood sunset-flush'd; and, dew'd with showery drops,Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse.
The charmed sunset linger'd low adowriIn the red West; thro' mountain clefts the daleWas seen far inland, and the yellow downBorder'd with palm, and many a winding valeAnd meadow, set with slender galingale;A land where all things always seem'd the same!And round about the keel with faces pale,Dark faces pale against that rosy flame,The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters came.
Branches they bore of that enchanted stem,Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gaveTo each, but whoso did receive of themAnd taste, to him the gushing of the waveFar far away did seem to mourn and raveOn alien shores; and if his fellow spake,His voice was thin, as voices from the grave;And deep-asleep he seem'd, yet all awake,And music in his ears his beating heart did make.[994]They sat them down upon the yellow sand,Between the sun and moon upon the shore;And sweet it was to dream of Fatherland,Of child, and wife, and slave; but evermoreMost weary seem'd the sea, weary the oar,Weary the wandering fields of barren foam.Then some one said, " We will return no more;"And all at once they sang, " Our island homeIs far beyond the wave ; we will no longer roam."

Choric SongI

There is sweet music here that softer fallsThan petals from blown roses on the grass,Or night-dews on still waters between wallsOf shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass;Music that gentlier on the spirit lies,Than tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes;Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies.Here are cool mosses deep,And thro' the moss the ivies creep,And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep,And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.
Why are we weigh'd upon with heaviness,And utterly consumed with sharp distress,While all things else have rest from weariness?All things have rest: why should we toil alone,We only toil, who are the first of things,And make perpetual moan,Still from one sorrow to another thrown;Nor ever fold our wings,And cease from wanderings,Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm;Nor harken what the inner spirit sings,"There is no joy but calm!"—Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things?[995]inLo ! in the middle of the wood,The folded leaf is woo'd from out the budWith winds upon the branch, and thereGrows green and broad, and takes no care,Sun-steep'd at noon, and in the moonNightly dew-fed; and turning yellowFalls, and floats adown the air.Lo ! sweeten'd with the summer light,The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow,Drops in a silent autumn night.All its allotted length of daysThe flower ripens in its place,Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil,Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil.

IV

Hateful is the dark-blue sky,Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea.Death is the end of life; ah, whyShould life all labor be?Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast,And in a little while our lips are dumb.Let us alone. What is it that will last?All things are taken from us, and becomePortions and parcels of the dreadful past.Let us alone. What pleasure can we haveTo war with evil ? Is there any peaceIn ever climbing up the climbing wave?All things have rest, and ripen toward the graveIn silence—ripen, fall, and cease:Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease.
vHow sweet it were, hearing the downward stream,With half-shut eyes ever to seemFalling asleep in a half-dream!To dream and dream, like yonder amber light,[996]Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height;To hear each other's whisper'd speech;Eating the Lotos day by day,To watch the crisping ripples on the beach,And tender curving lines of creamy spray;To lend our hearts and spirits whollyTo the influence of mild-minded melancholy;To muse and brood and live again in memory,With those old faces of our infancyHeap'd over with a mound of grass,Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass!
VI
Dear is the memory of our wedded lives,And dear the last embraces of our wivesAnd their warm tears; but all hath suffer'd change;For surely now our household hearths are cold,Our sons inherit us, our looks are strange,And we should come like ghosts to trouble joy.Or else the island princes over-boldHave eat our substance, and the minstrel singsBefore them of the ten years' war in Troy,And our great deeds, as half-forgotten things.Is there confusion in the little isle?Let what is broken so remain.The Gods are hard to reconcile;'Tis hard to settle order once again.There is confusion worse than death,Trouble on trouble, pain on pain,Long labor unto aged breath,Sore task to hearts worn out by many warsAnd eyes grown dim with gazing on the pilot-stars.
VII
But, propped on beds of amaranth and moly,How sweet—while warm airs lull us, blowing lowly—With half-dropped eyelids still,Beneath a heaven dark and holy,To watch the long bright river drawing slowly[997]His waters from the purple hill—To hear the dewy echoes callingFrom cave to cave thro' the thick-twined vine—To watch the emerald-color'd water fallingThro ' many a woven acanthus-wreath divine!Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling brine,Only to hear were sweet, stretch'd out beneath the pine.
v n iThe Lotos blooms below the barren peak,The Lotos blows by every winding creek;All day the wind breathes low with mellower tone;Thro ' every hollow cave and alley loneRound and round the spicy downs the yellow Lotos-dust isblown.We have had enough of action, and of motion we ,Roll'd to starboard, roll'd to larboard, when the surge was seething free,Where the wallowing monster spouted his foam-fountains inthe sea.Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind,In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie reclinedOn the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind.For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurl'dFar below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curl'dRound their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world;Where they smile in secret, looking over wasted lands,Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring deeps andfiery sands,Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships, andpraying hands.But they smile, they find a music centred in a doleful songSteaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of wrong,Like a tale of little meaning tho' the words are strong;Chanted from an ill-used race of men that cleave the soil,Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with enduring toil,Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine and oil;Till they perish and they suffer—some, 'tis whisper'd—down inhell[998]Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian valleys dwell,Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel.Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shoreThan labor in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oarO , rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more.

You ASK ME, WHY

You ask me, why , tho' ill at ease,Within this region I subsist,Whose spirits falter in the mist,And languish for the purple seas.
It is the land that freemen till,That sober-suited Freedom chose,The land, where girt with friends or foesA man may speak the thing he will;
A land of settled government,A land of just and old renown,Where Freedom slowly broadens downFrom precedent to precedent;
Where faction seldom gathers head,But, by degrees to fullness wrought,The strength of some diffusive thoughtHath time and space to work and spread.
Should banded unions persecuteOpinions, and induce a timeWhen single thought is civil crime,And individual freedom mute,
Tho ' power should make from land to landThe name of Britain trebly great—Tho ' every channel of the StateShould fill and choke with golden sand—
Yet waft me from the harbor-mouth,Wild wind! I seek a warmer sky,And I will see before I dieThe palms and temples of the South.
p. 999

Love Thou Thy Land

LOVE thou thy land, with love far-broughtFrom out the storied past, and usedWithin the present, but transfusedThro ' future time by power of thought;
True love turn'd round on fixed poles,Love, that endures not sordid ends,For English natures, freemen, friends,Thy brothers, and immortal souls.
But pamper not a hasty time,Nor feed with crude imaginingsThe herd, wild hearts and feeble wingsThat every sophister can lime.
Deliver not the tasks of mightTo weakness, neither hide the rayFrom those, not blind, who wait for day,Tho ' sitting girt with doubtful light.
Make knowledge circle with the winds;But let her herald, Reverence, flyBefore her to whatever skyBear seed of men and growth of minds.
Watch what main-currents draw the years:Cut Prejudice against the grain.But gentle words are always gain;Regard the weakness of thy peers.
Nor toil for title, place, or touchOf pension, neither count on praiseIt grows to guerdon after-days.Nor deal in watch-words overmuch;
Not clinging to some ancient saw,Not master'd by some modern term,Not swift nor slow to change, but firm;And in its season bring the law,[1000]That from Discussion's lip may fallWith Life that, working strongly, binds—•Set in all lights by many minds,To close the interests of all.
For Nature also, cold and warm ,And moist and dry, devising long,Thro ' many agents making strong,Matures the individual form.
Meet is it changes should controlOur being, lest we rust in ease.We all are changed by still degrees,All but the basis of the soul.
So let the change which comes be freeTo ingroove itself with that which flies,And work, a joint of state, that pliesIts office, moved with sympathy.
A saying hard to shape in act;For all the past of Time revealsA bridal dawn of thunder-peals,Wherever Thought hath wedded Fact.
Even now we hear with inward strifeA motion toiling in the gloom—The Spirit of the years to comeYearning to mix himself with Life.
A slow-develop'd strength awaitsCompletion in a painful school;Phantoms of other forms of rule,New Majesties of mighty States—
The warders of the growing hour,But vague in vapor, hard to mark;And round them sea and air are darkWith great contrivances of Power.[1001]Of many changes, aptly join'd,Is bodied forth the second whole.Regard gradation, lest the soulOf Discord race the rising wind;
A wind to puff your idol-fires,And heap their ashes on the head;To shame the boast so often made,That we are wiser than our sires.
O , yet, if Nature's evil starDrive men in manhood, as in youth,To follow flying steps of TruthAcross the brazen bridge of war—
If New and Old, disastrous feud,Must ever shock, like armed foes,And this be true, till Time shall closeThat Principles are rain'd in blood;
Not yet the wise of heart would ceaseTo hold his hope thro' shame and guilt,But with his hand against the hilt,Would pace the troubled land, like Peace;
Not less, tho' dogs of Faction bay,Would serve his kind in deed and word,Certain, if knowledge bring the sword,That knowledge takes the sword away—
Would love the gleams of love that brokeFrom either side, nor veil his eyes;And if some dreadful need should riseWould strike, and firmly, and one stroke.
To-morrow yet would reap to-day,As we bear blossom of the dead;Earn well the thrifty months, nor we dRaw Haste, half-sister to Delay.
p. 1002

Sir Galahad

MY good blade carves the casques of men,My tough lance thrusteth sure,My strength is as the strength of ten,Because my heart is pure.The shattering trumpet shrilleth high,The hard brands shiver on the steel,The splinter'd spear-shafts crack and fly,The horse and rider reel;They reel, they roll in clanging lists,And when the tide of combat stands,Perfume and flowers fall in showers,That lightly rain from ladies' hands.
How sweet are looks that ladies bendOn whom their favors fall!For them I battle till the end,To save from shame and thrall;But all my heart is drawn above,My knees are bow'd in crypt and shrine;I never felt the kiss of love,Nor maiden's hand in mine.More bounteous aspects on me beam,Me mightier transports move and thrill;So keep I fair thro' faith and prayerA virgin heart in work and will.
When down the stormy crescent goes,A light before me swims,Between dark stems the forest glows,I hear a noise of hymns.Then by some secret shrine I ride;I hear a voice, but none are there;The stalls are void, the doors are wide,The tapers burning fair.Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth,The silver vessels sparkle clean,The shrill bell rings, the censer swings,And solemn chants resound between.[1003]Sometimes on lonely mountain-meresI find a magic bark.I leap on board; no helmsman steers;I float till all is dark.A gentle sound, an awful light!Three angels bear the Holy Grail;With folded feet, in stoles of white,On sleeping wings they sail.Ah , blessed vision! blood of God !My spirit beats her mortal bars,As down dark tides the glory slides,And starlike mingles with the stars.
When on my goodly charger borneThro ' dreaming towns I go,The cock crows ere the Christmas morn,The streets are dumb with snow.The tempest crackles on the leads.And , ringing, springs from brand and mail;But o'er the dark a glory spreads,And gilds the driving hail.I leave the plain, I climb the height;No branchy thicket shelter yields;But blessed forms in whistling stormsFly o'er waste fens and windy fields.
A maiden knight—to me is givenSuch hope, I know not fear;I yearn to breathe the airs of heavenThat often meet me here.I muse on joy that will not cease,Pure spaces clothed in living beams,Pure lilies of eternal peace,Whose odors haunt my dreams;And , stricken by an angel's hand,This mortal armor that I wear,This weight and size, this heart and eyes,Are touch'd, are turn'd to finest air.
The clouds are broken in the sky,And thro' the mountain-walls[1004]A rolling organ-harmonySwells up and shakes and falls.Then move the trees, the copses nod,Wings flutter, voices hover clear:" O just and faithful knight of God !Ride on! the prize is near."So pass I hostel, hall, and grange;By bridge and ford, by park and pale,All-arm'd I ride, whate'er betide,Until I find the Holy Grail.

6^2 the Higher Pantheism

THE sun, the moon, the stars, the seas, the hills and the plains,—Are not these, O Soul, the Vision of Him , who reigns?
Is not the Vision He , tho' He be not that which He seems?Dreams are true while they last, and do we not live in dreams?
Earth, these solid stars, this weight of body and limb,Are they not sign and symbol of thy division from Him ?
Dark is the world to thee; thyself art the reason why ,For is He not all but thou, that hast power to feel "I am I"?
Glory about thee, without thee; and thou fulfillest thy doom,Making Him broken gleams and a stifled splendor and gloom.
Speak to Him , thou, for He hears, and Spirit with Spirit can meet—Closer is He than breathing, and nearer than hands and feet.
God is law, say the wise; O Soul, and let us rejoice.For if He thunder by law the thunder is yet His voice.
Law is God , say some; no God at all, says the fool,For all we have power to see is a straight staff bent in a pool;
And the ear of man cannot hear, and the eye of man cannot see;But if we could see and hear, this Vision were it not He ?
p. 1005

643 Flower in the Crannied Wall

FLOWER in the crannied wall,I pluck you out of the crannies,I hold you here, root and all, in my hand,Little flower—but if I could understandWhat you are, root and all, and all in all,I should know what God and man is.

644 Wages

GLORY of warrior, glory of orator, glory of song,Paid with a voice flying by to be lost on an endless sea—Glory of Virtue, to fight, to struggle, to right the wrong —Nay, but she aim'd not at glory, no lover of glory she;Give her the glory of going on, and still to be.
The wages of sin is death: if the wages of Virtue be dust,Would she have heart to endure for the life of the worm and the fly?She desires no isles of the blest, no quiet seats of the just,To rest in a golden grove, or to bask in a summer sky;Give her the wages of going on, and not to die.

645 the Charge of the Light Brigade

HALF a league, half a league,Half a league onward,All in the valley of DeathRode the six hundred."Forward the Light Brigade!Charge for the guns!" he said.Into the valley of DeathRode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!"Was there a man dismay'd ?Not tho' the soldier knewSome one had blunder'd.Theirs not to make reply,Theirs not to reason why ,[1006]Theirs but to do and die.Into the valley of DeathRode the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,Cannon to left of them,Cannon in front of themVolley'd and thunder'd;Storm'd at with shot and shell,Boldly they rode and well,Into the jaws of Death,Into the mouth of hellRode the six hundred.
Flash'd all their sabres bare,Flash'd as they turn'd in airSabring the gunners there,Charging an army, whileAll the world wonder'd.Plunged in the battery-smokeRight thro' the line they broke;Cossack and RussianReel'd from the sabre-strokeShatter'd and sunder'd.Then they rode back, but not,Not the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,Cannon to left of them,Cannon behind themVolley'd and thunder'd;Storm'd at with shot and shell,While horse and hero fell,They that had fought so wellCame thro' the jaws of Death,Back from the mouth of hell,All that was left of them,Left of six hundred.
When can their glory fade?O the wild charge they made!All the world wonder'd.[1007]Honor the charge they made IHonor the Light Brigade,Noble six hundred!

; the RevengeA Ballad of the Fleeti

AT Flores, in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay,And a pinnace, like a flutter'd bird, came flying from far away;"Spanish ships of war at sea! we have sighted fifty-three!"Then sware Lord Thomas Howard : " 'Fore God I am no coward;But I cannot meet them here, for my ships are out of gear,And the half my men are sick. I must fly, but follow quick.We are six ships of the line; can we fight with fifty-three?"
iiThen spake Sir Richard Grenville: "I know you are no coward;You fly them for a moment to fight with them again.But I've ninety men and more that are lying sick ashore.I should count myself the coward if I left them, my Lord Howard ,To these Inquisition dogs and the devildoms of Spain."

Hi

So Lord Howard past away with five ships of war that day,Till he melted like a cloud in the silent summer heaven;But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick men from the landVery carefully and slow,Men of Bideford in Devon,And we laid them on the ballast down below:For we brought them all aboard,And they blest him in their pain, that they were not left to Spain,To the thumb-screw and the stake, for the glory of the Lord.rvHe had only a hundred seamen to work the ship and to fight,And he sailed away from Flores till the Spaniard came in sight,With his huge sea-castles heaving upon the weather bow."Shall we fight or shall we fly ?Good Sir Richard, tell us now,For to fight is but to die![1008]There'll be little of us left by the time this sun be set."And Sir Richard said again: " We be all good Englishmen.Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the children of the devil,For I never turn'd my back upon Do nor devil yet."
vSir Richard spoke and he laugh'd, and we roar'd a hurrah and soThe little Revenge ran on sheer into the heart of the foe,With her hundred fighters on deck, and her ninety sick below;For half of their fleet to the right and half to the left were seen,And the little Revenge ran on thro' the long sea-lane between.

VI

Thousands of their soldiers look'd down from their decks and laugh'd,Thousands of their seamen made mock at the mad little craftRunning on and on, till delay'dBy their mountain-like San Philip that, of fifteen hundred tons,And up-shadowing high above us with her yawning tiers of guns,Took the breath from our sails, and we stay'd.

VII

And while now the great San Philip hung above us like a cloudWhence the thunderbolt will fallLong and loud,Four galleons drew awayFrom the Spanish fleet that day.And two upon the larboard and two upon the starboard lay,And the battle-thunder broke from them all.

VIII

But anon the great San Philip, she bethought herself and went,Having that within her womb that had left her ill content;And the rest they came aboard us, and they fought us hand to hand,For a dozen times they came with their pikes and musqueteers,And a dozen times we shook 'em off as a dog that shakes his earsWhen he leaps from the water to the land.

IX

And the sun went down , and the stars came out far over the summer

sea,

But never a moment ceased the fight of the one and the fifty-three.

p. 1009Ship after ship, the whole night long, their high-built galleons came,Ship after ship, the whole night long, with her battle-thunder andflame;Ship after ship, the whole night long, drew back with her dead andher shame.For some were sunk and many were shatter'd and so could fight usno more—God of battles, was ever a battle like this in the world before?
xFor he said, "Fight on! fight on!"Tho ' his vessel was all but a wreck;And it chanced that, when half of the short summer night was gone,With a grisly wound to be drest he had left the deck,But a bullet struck him that was dressing it suddenly dead,And himself he was wounded again in the side and the head,And he said, "Fight on! fight on!"

XI

And the night went down, and the sun smiled out far over the summersea,And the Spanish fleet with broken sides lay round us all in a ring;But they dared not touch us again, for they fear'd that we still couldsting,So they watch'd what the end would be.And we had not fought them in vain,But in perilous plight were we,Seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain,And half of the rest of us maim'd for lifeIn the crash of the cannonades and the desperate strife;And the sick men down in the hold were most of them stark andcold,And the pikes were all broken or bent, and the powder was all of itspent;And the masts and the rigging were lying over the side;But Sir Richard cried in his English pride:" We have fought such a fight for a day and a nightAs may never be fought again!We have won great glory, my men!And a day less or more •[1010]At sea or ashore,We die—does it matter when ?Sink me the ship, Master Gunner—sink her, split her in twain!Fall into the hands of God , not into the hands of Spain!"

XII

And the gunner said, " Ay , ay," but the seamen made reply:" We have children, we have wives,And the Lord hath spared our lives.We will make the Spaniard promise, if we yield, to let us go;We shall live to fight again and to strike another blow."And the lion there lay dying, and they yielded to the foe.

XIII

And the stately Spanish men to their flagship bore him then,Where they laid him by the mast, old Sir Richard caught at last,And they praised him to his face with their courdy foreign grace;But he rose upon their decks, and he cried:"I have fought for Queen and Faith like a valiant man and true;I have only done my duty as a man is bound to do.With a joyful spirit I Sir Richard Grenville die!"And he fell upon their decks, and he died.
xivAnd they stared at the dead that had been so valiant and true,And had holden the power and glory of Spain so cheapThat he dared her with one little ship and his English few;Was he devil or man? He was devil for aught they knew,But they sank his body with honor down into the deep.And they mann'd the Revenge with a swarthier alien crew,And away she sail'd with her loss and long'd for her own ;When a wind from the lands they had ruin'd awoke from sleep,And the water began to heave and the weather to moan,And or ever that evening ended a great gale blew,And a wave like the wave that is raised by an earthquake grew,Till it smote on their hulls and their sails and their masts and theirflags,And the whole sea plunged and fell on the shot-shatter'd navy ofSpain,And the little Revenge herself went down by the island cragsTo be lost evermore in the main.
p. 1011

6^7 RlZPAH17—

WAILING, wailing, wailing, the wind over land and sea—

And Willy's voice in the wind, " O mother, come out to me ! "

Why should he call me to-night, when he knows that I cannot go ? For the downs are as bright as day, and the full moon stares at the

snow.

We should be seen, my dear; they would spy us out of the town. The loud black nights for us, and the storm rushing over the down , When I cannot see my own hand, but am led by the creak of the chain, And grovel and grope for my son till I find myself drenched with the

rain.

Anything fallen again? nay—what was there left to fall?

I have taken them home, I have number'd the bones, I have hidden

them all.

What am I saying? and what are you? do you come as a spy?

Falls? what falls? who knows? As the tree falls so must it lie.

Who let her in? how long has she been? you—what have you heard? Why did you sit so quiet? you never have spoken a word.

O—to pray with me—yes—a lady—none of their spies—

But the night has crept into my heart, and begun to darken my eyes. Ah — you , that lived so soft, what should you know of the night, The blast and the burning shame and the bitter frost and the fright? I have done it, while you were asleep—you were only made for the

day.

I have gather'd my baby together—and now you may go your way. Nay—for it's kind of you, madam, to sit by an old dying wife.

But say nothing hard of my boy, I have only an hour of life.

I kiss'd my boy in the prison, before he went out to die.

" They dared me to do it," he said, and he never has told me a lie. I whipped him for robbing an orchard once when he was but a child—• " The farmer dared me to do it," he said; he was always so wild —

p. 1012And idle—and couldn't be idle—my Willy—he never could rest.The King should have made him a soldier, he would have been one ofhis best.
But he lived with a lot of wild mates, and they never would let himbe good;They swore that he dare not rob the mail, and he swore that he would;And he took no life, but he took one purse, and when all was doneHe flung it among his fellows—"I'll none of it," said my son.
I came into court to the judge and the lawyers. I told them my tale,God's own truth—but they kill'd him, they kill'd him for robbing themail.They hang'd him in chains for as how — we had always borne a goodname—To be hang'd for a thief—and then put away—isn't that enoughshame?
Dust to dust—low down—let us hide! but they set him so highThat all the ships of the world could stare at him, passing by.God'll pardon the hell-black raven and horrible fowls of the air,But not the black heart of the lawyer who kill'd him and hang'd himthere.
And the jailer forced me away. I had bid him my last good-bye;They had fasten'd the door of his cell. " O mother!" I heard him cry.I couldn't get back tho' I tried, he had something further to say,And now I never shall know it. The jailer forced me away.
Then since I couldn't but hear that cry of my boy that was dead,They seized me and shut me up: they fasten'd me down on my bed."Mother, O mother!"—he call'd in the dark to me year after year—They beat me for that, they beat me—you know that I couldn't buthear;And then at the last they found I had grown so stupid and stillThey let me abroad again—but the creatures had worked their will.
Flesh of my flesh was gone, but bone of my bone was left—I stole them all from the lawyers—and you, will you call it a theft?—My baby, the bones that had suck'd me, the bones that had laughedand had cried—Theirs? O , no! they are mine—not theirs—they had moved in myside.

p. 1013Do you think I was scared by the bones? I kiss'd 'em, I buried 'em

all—

I can't dig deep, I am old—in the night by the churchyard wall. My Willy'11 rise up whole when the trumpet of judgment'll sound, But I charge you never to say that I laid him in holy ground.

They would scratch him up—they would hang him again on the

cursed tree.

Sin? O , yes, we are sinners, I know—let all that be,

And read me a Bible verse of the Lord's goodwill toward men—"Full of compassion and mercy, the Lord"—let me hear it again;

"Full of compassion and mercy—long-suffering." Yes , O , yes!

For the lawyer is born but to murder—the Saviour lives but to bless. He'll never put on the black cap except for the worst of the worst, And the first may be last—I have heard it in church—and the last

may be first.

Suffering—O, long-suffering—-yes, as the Lord must know,

Year after year in the mist and the wind and the shower and the snow. Heard, have you? what? they have told you he never repented his

sin.

How do they know it? are they his mother? are you of his kin? Heard! have you ever heard, when the storm on the downs began,

The wind that'll wail like a child and the sea that'll moan like a man? Election, Election, and Reprobation—it's all very well.

But I go to-night to my boy, and I shall not find him in Hell.

For I cared so much for my boy that the Lord has look'd into my care, And He means me I'm sure to be happy with Willy, I know not where. And if he be lost—but to save my soul, that is all your desire—Do you think that I care for my soul if my boy be gone to the fire? I have been with God in the dark—go, go, you may leave me alone—You never have borne a child—you are just as hard as a stone. Madam, I beg your pardon! I think that you mean to be kind,

But I cannot hear what you say for my Willy's voice in the wind —The snow and the sky so bright—he used but to call in the dark, And he calls to me now from the church and not from the gibbet—

for hark!

p. 1014Nay — you can hear it yourself—it is coming—shaking the walls—Willy—the moon's in a cloud—Good-night. I am going. He calls.

648 To VIRGIL

ROMAN VIRGIL, thou that singest Ilion's lofty temples robed in fire,Ilion falling, Rome arising, wars, and filial faith, and Dido's pyre;
Landscape-lover, lord of language more than he that sang the " Worksand Days , "All the chosen coin of fancy flashing out from many a golden phrase;
Thou that singest wheat and woodland, tilth and vineyard, hive andhorse and herd;All the charm of all the Muses often flowering in a lonely word;
Poet of the happy Tityrus piping underneath his beechen bowers;Poet of the poet-satyr whom the laughing shepherd bound withflowers;
Chanter of the Pollio, glorying in the blissful years again to be,Summers of the snakeless meadow, unlaborious earth and oarless sea;
Thou that seest Universal Nature moved by Universal Mind;Thou majestic in thy sadness at the doubtful doom of human kind;
Light among the vanish'd ages; star that gildest yet this phantomshore;Golden branch amid the shadows, kings and realms that pass to riseno more;
Now thy Forum roars no longer, fallen every purple Caesar's dome—Tho ' thine ocean-roll of rhythm sound forever of Imperial Rome —
Now the Rome of slaves hath perish'd, and the Rome of freemenholds her place,I, from out the Northern Islands sunder'd once from all the humanrace,
I salute thee, Mantovano, I that loved thee since my day began,Wielder of the stateliest measure ever moulded by the lips of man.
p. 1015

649 MaudPart II

1I HATE the dreadful hollow behind the little wood,Its lips in the field above are dabbled with blood-red heath,The red-ribb'd ledges drip with a silent horror of blood,And Echo there, whatever is ask'd her, answers "Death."
2For there in the ghastly pit long since a body was found,His who had given me life—O father! O God ! was it well ? —Mangled, and flatten'd, and crush'd, and dinted into the ground:There yet lies the rock that fell with him when he fell.
3Did he fling himself down ? who knows? for a vast speculation hadfail'd,And ever he mutter'd and madden'd, and ever wann'd with despair,And out he walk'd when the wind like a broken worldling wail'd,And the flying gold of the ruin'd woodlands drove thro' the air.
4I remember the time, for the roots of my hair were stirr'dBy a shuffled step, by a dead weight trail'd, by a whisper'd fright,And my pulses closed their gates with a shock on my heart as I heardThe shrill-edged shriek of a mother divide the shuddering night.
5Villainy somewhere! whose? One says, we are villains all.Not he: his honest fame should at least by me be maintain'd:But that old man, now lord of the broad estate and the Hall,Dropt off gorged from a scheme that had left us flaccid and drain'd.
6Why do they prate of the blessings of Peace? we have made them acurse,Pickpockets, each hand lusting for all that is not its own ;[1016]And lust of gain, in the spirit of Cain, is it better or worseThan the heart of the citizen hissing in war on his own hearthstone?
7But these are the days of advance, the works of the men of mind,When who but a fool would have faith in a tradesman's ware or hisword ?Is it peace or war? Civil war, as I think, and that of a kindThe viler, as underhand, not openly bearing the sword.
8Sooner or later I too may passively take the printOf the golden age — why not? I have neither hope nor trust;May make my heart as a millstone, set my face as a flint,Cheat and be cheated, and die: who knows? we are ashes and dust.
9Peace sitting under her olive, and slurring the days gone by,When the poor are hovell'd and hustled together, each sex, like swine,When only the ledger lives, and when only not all men lie;Peace in her vineyard—yes!—but a company forges the wine.
10And the vitriol madness flushes up in the ruffian's head,Till the filthy by-lane rings to the yell of the trampled wife,And chalk and alum and plaster are sold to the poor for bread,And the spirit of murder works in the very means of life.

II

And Sleep must lie down arm'd, for the villainous center-bitsGrind on the wakeful ear in the hush of the moonless nights,While another is cheating the sick of a few last gasps, as he sitsTo pestle a poison'd poison behind his crimson lights.
12When a Mammonite mother kills her babe for a burial fee,And Tim our - Mammon grins on a pile of children's bones,Is it peace or war? better, war! loud war by land and by sea,War with a thousand battles, and shaking a hundred thrones.[1017]r 3

For I trust if an enemy's fleet came yonder round by the hill,

And the rushing battle-bolt sang from the three-decker out of the

foam,

That the smoothfaced snubnosed rogue would leap from his counter

and till,

And strike, if he could, were it but with his cheating yard-wand,

home.—

r 4
What! am I raging alone as my father raged in his mood?Must / too creep to the hollow and dash myself down and dieRather than hold by the law that I made, nevermore to broodOn a horror of shatter'd limbs and a wretched swindler's lie?
15Would there be sorrow for me? there was love in the passionate shriek,Love for the silent thing that had made false haste to the grave—Wrapt in a cloak, as I saw him, and thought he would rise and speakAnd rave at the lie and the liar, ah God , as he used to rave.
16I am sick of the Hall and the hill, I am sick of the moor and the main.Why should I stay? can a sweeter chance ever come to me here?O , having the nerves of motion as well as the nerves of pain,Were it not wise if I fled from the place and the pit and the fear ?
Workmen up at the Hall!—they are coming back from abroad;The dark old place will be gilt by the touch of a millionnaire:I have heard, I know not whence, of the singular beauty of Maud ;I play'd with the girl when a child; she promised then to be fair.
18Maud with her venturous climbings and tumbles and childish escapes,Maud the delight of the village, the ringing joy of the Hall,Maud with her sweet purse-mouth when my father dangled the grapes,Maud the beloved of my mother, the moon-faced darling of all,—[1018]19What is she now ? My dreams are bad. She may bring me a curse.No , there is fatter game on the moor; she will let me alone.Thanks, for the fiend best knows whether woman or man be theworse.I will bury myself in myself, and the Devil may pipe to his own.

II

LONG have I sigh'd for a calm: God grant I may find it at last!It will never be broken by Maud, she has neither savour nor salt,But a cold and clear-cut face, as I found when her carriage past,Perfectly beautiful: let it be granted her: where is the fault?All that I saw (for her eyes were downcast, not to be seen)Faultily fauldess, icily regular, splendidly null,Dead perfection, no more; nothing more, if it had not beenFor a chance of travel, a paleness, an hour's defect of the rose,Or an underlip, you may call it a little too ripe, too full,Or the least little delicate aquiline curve in a sensitive nose,From which I escaped heart-free, with the least little touch of spleen.
IllCOLD and clear-cut face, why come you so cruelly meek,Breaking a slumber in which all spleenful folly was drown'd,Pale with the golden beam of an eyelash dead on the cheek,Passionless, pale, cold face, star-sweet on a gloom profound;Woman like , taking revenge too deep for a transient wrongDone but in thought to your beauty, and ever as pale as beforeGrowing and fading and growing upon me without a sound,Luminous, gemlike, ghostlike, deathlike, half the night longGrowing and fading and growing, till I could bear it no more,But arose, and all by myself in my own dark garden ground,Listening now to the tide in its broad-flung ship-wrecking roar,Now to the scream of a madden'd beach dragg'd down by the wave,Walk ' d in a wintry wind by a ghastly glimmer, and foundThe shining daffodil dead, and Orion low in his grave.

IV

1A MILLION emeralds break from the ruby-budded limeIn the little grove where I sit—ah, wherefore cannot I be[1019]Like things of the season gay, like the bountiful season bland,When the far-off sail is blown by the breeze of a softer clime,Half-lost in the liquid azure bloom of a crescent of sea,The silent sapphire-spangled marriage ring of the land?
2Below me, there, is the village, and looks how quiet and small!And yet bubbles o'er like a city, with gossip, scandal, and spite;And Jack on his ale-house bench has as many lies as a Czar ;And here on the landward side, by a red rock, glimmers the Hall;And up in the high Hall-garden I see her pass like a light;But sorrow seize me if ever that light be my leading star!
3When have I bow'd to her father, the wrinkled head of the race?I met her to-day with her brother, but not to her brother I bow'd;I bow'd to his lady-sister as she rode by on the moor;But the fire of a foolish pride flash'd over her beautiful face.0 child, you wrong your beauty, believe it, in being so proud;Your father has wealth well-gotten, and I am nameless and poor.
4I keep but a man and a maid, ever ready to slander and steal;I know it, and smile a hard-set smile, like a stoic, or likeA wiser epicurean, and let the world have its way :For nature is one with rapine, a harm no preacher can heal;The Mayfly is torn by the swallow, the sparrow spear'd by the shrike.And the whole little wood where I sit is a world of plunder and prey.
5We are puppets, Man in his pride, and Beauty fair in her flower;Do we move ourselves, or are we moved by an unseen hand at a gameThat pushes us off from the board, and others ever succeed?Ah yet, we cannot be kind to each other here for an hour;We whisper, and hint, and chuckle, and grin at a brother's shame;However we brave it out, we men are a little breed.
6A monstrous eft was of old the Lord and Master of Earth,For him did his high sun flame, and his river billowing ran,[1020]And he felt himself in his force to be Nature's crowning race.As nine months go to the shaping an infant ripe for his birth,So many a million of ages have gone to the making of man:He now is first, but is he the last? is he not too base?
7The man of science himself is fonder of glory, and vain,An eye well-practised in nature, a spirit bounded and poor;The passionate heart of the poet is whirl'd into folly and vice.I would not marvel at either, but keep a temperate brain;For not to desire or admire, if a man could learn it, were moreThan to walk all day like the sultan of old in a garden of spice.
8For the drift of the Maker is dark, an Isis hid by the veil.Who knows the ways of the world, how God will bring them about?Our planet is one, the suns are many, the world is wide.Shall I weep if a Poland fall ? shall I shriek if a Hungary fail ?Or an infant civilisation be ruled with rod or with knout?I have not made the world, and He that made it will guide.
9Be mine a philosopher's life in the quiet woodland ways,Where if I cannot be gay let a passionless peace be my lot,Far-off from the clamour of liars belied in the hubbub of lies;From the long-neck'd geese of the world that are ever hissing dispraiseBecause their natures are little, and, whether he heed it or not,Where each man walks with his head in a cloud of poisonous flies.
10And most of all would I flee from the cruel madness of love,The honey of poison-flowers and all the measureless ill.Ah Maud, you milkwhite fawn, you are all unmeet for a wife.Your mother is mute in her grave as her image in marble above;Your father is ever in London, you wander about at your will;You have but fed on the roses, and lain in the lilies of life.
p. 1021

V

iA VOICE by the cedar tree,In the meadow under the Hall!She is singing an air that is known to me,A passionate ballad gallant and gay,A martial song like a trumpet's call!Singing alone in the morning of life,In the happy morning of life and of May,Singing of men that in battle array,Ready in heart and ready in hand,March with banner and bugle and fifeTo the death, for their native land.
2Maud with her exquisite face,And wild voice pealing up to the sunny sky,And feet like sunny gems on an English green,Maud in the light of her youth and her grace,Singing of Death, and of Honour that cannot die,Till I well could weep for a time so sordid and mean,And myself so languid and base.
3Silence, beautiful voice!Be still, for you only trouble the mindWith a joy in which I cannot rejoice,A glory I shall not find.Still! I will hear you no more,For your sweetness hardly leaves me a choiceBut to move to the meadow and fall beforeHer feet on the meadow grass, and adore,Not her, who is neither courtly nor kindNot her, not her, but a voice.

VI

iMORNING arises stormy and pale,No sun, but a wannish glareIn fold upon fold of hueless cloud,[1022]And the budded peaks of the wood are bow'dCaught and cuff'd by the gale:I had fancied it would be fair.
2Whom but Maud should I meetLast night, when the sunset burn'dOn the blossom'd gable-endsAt the head of the village street,Whom but Maud should I meet?And she touch'd my hand with a smile so sweetShe made me divine amendsFor a courtesy not return'd.
3And thus a delicate sparkOf glowing and growing lightThro ' the livelong hours of the darkKept itself warm in the heart of my dreams,Ready to burst in a colour'd flame;Till at last when the morning cameIn a cloud, it faded, and seemsBut an ashen-gray delight.
4What if with her sunny hair,And smile as sunny as cold,She meant to weave me a snareOf some coquettish deceit,Cleopatra-like as of oldTo entangle me when we met,To have her lion roll in a silken netAnd fawn at a victor's feet.
5Ah , what shall I be at fiftyShould Nature keep me alive,If I find the world so bitterWhen I am but twenty-five?Yet, if she were not a cheat,[1023]If Maud were all that she seem'd,And her smile were all that I dream'd,Then the world were not so bitterBut a smile could make it sweet.
6What if tho' her eye seem'd fullOf a kind intent to me,What if that dandy-despot, he,That jewell'd mass of millinery,That oil'd and curl'd Assyrian BullSmelling of musk and of insolence,Her brother, from whom I keep aloof,Who wants the finer politic senseTo mask, tho' but in his own behoof,With a glassy smile his brutal scorn—What if he had told her yestermornHow prettily for his own sweet sakeA face of tenderness might be feign'd,And a moist mirage in desert eyes,That so, when the rotten hustings shakeIn another month to his brazen lies,A wretched vote may be gain'd.
7For a raven ever croaks, at my side,Keep watch and ward, keep watch and ward,Or thou wilt prove their tool.Yea too, myself from myself I guard,For often a man's own angry prideIs cap and bells for a fool.
8Perhaps the smile and tender toneCame out of her pitying womanhood,For am I not, am I not, here aloneSo many a summer since she died,My mother, who was so gentle and good?Living alone in an empty house,Here half-hid in the gleaming wood,[1024]Where I hear the dead at midday moan,And the shrieking rush of the wainscot mouse,And my own sad name in corners cried,When the shiver of dancing leaves is thrownAbout its echoing chambers wide,Till a morbid hate and horror have grown-Of a world in which I have hardly mixt,And a morbid eating lichen fixtOn a heart half-turn'd to stone.
90 heart of stone, are you flesh, and caughtBy that you swore to withstand?For what was it else within me wroughtBut, I fear, the new strong wine of love,That made my tongue so stammer and tripWhen I saw the treasured splendour, her hand,Come sliding out of her sacred glove,And the sunlight broke from her lip?
10I have play'd with her when a child;She remembers it now we meet.Ah well, well, well, I may be beguiledBy some coquettish deceit.Yet , if she were not a cheat,If Maud were all that she seem'd,And her smile had all that I dream'd,Then the world were not so bitterBut a smile could make it sweet.

VII

iDID I hear it half in a dozeLong since, I know not where?Did I dream it an hour ago,When asleep in this arm-chair?
2Men were drinking together,Drinking and talking of me;[1025]" Well , if it prove a girl, the boyWill have plenty: so let it be."
3Is it an echo of somethingRead with a boy's delight,Viziers nodding togetherIn some Arabian night?
4Strange, that I hear two men,Somewhere, talking of me;"Well, if it prove a girl, my boyWill have plenty: so let it be."

VIII

SHE came to the village church,And sat by a pillar alone;An angel watching an urnWept over her, carved in stone;And once, but once, she lifted her eyes,And suddenly, sweet, strangely blush'dTo find they were met by my own ;And suddenly, sweetly, my heart beat strongerAnd thicker, until I heard no longerThe snowy-banded, dilettante,Delicate-handed priest intone;And thought, is it pride, and mused and sigh'd" No surely, now it cannot be pride."

IX

I WAS walking a mile,More than a mile from the shore,The sun look'd out with a smileBetwixt the cloud and the moor,And riding at set of dayOver the dark moor land,Rapidly riding far away,She waved to me with her hand.There were two at her side,[1026]Something flash'd in the sun,Down by the hill I saw them ride,In a moment they were gone:Like a sudden sparkStruck vainly in the night,Then returns the darkWith no more hope of light.

X

iSICK , am I sick of a jealous dread?Was not one of the two at her sideThis new-made lord, whose splendour plucksThe slavish hat from the villager's head?Whose old grandfather has lately died,Gone to a blacker pit, for whomGrim y nakedness dragging his trucksAnd laying his trams in a poison'd gloomWrought, till he crept from a gutted mineMaster of half a servile shire,And left his coal all turn'd into goldTo a grandson, first of his noble line,Rich in the grace all women desire,Strong in the power that all men adore,And simper and set their voices lower,And soften as if to a girl, and holdAwe-stricken breaths at a work divine,Seeing his g e w g a w castle shine,New as his title, built last year,There amid perky larches and pine,And over the sullen-purple moor( Look at it) pricking a cockney ear.
2What , has he found my jewel out?For one of the two that rode at her sideBound for the Hall, I am sure was he:Bound for the Hall, and I think for a bride.Blithe would her brother's acceptance be.Maud could be gracious too, no doubt,[1027]To a lord, a captain, a padded shape,A bought commission, a waxen face,A rabbit mouth that is ever agape—Bought? what is it he cannot buy?And therefore splenetic, personal, base,A wounded thing with a rancorous cry,At war with myself and a wretched race.Sick, sick to the heart of life, am I.
3Last week came one to the county town,To preach our poor little army down,And play the game of the despot kings,Tho ' the state has done it and thrice as well:This broad-brimm'd hawker of holy things,Whose ear is stuff'd with his cotton, and ringsEven in dreams to the chink of his pence,This huckster put down war! can he tellWhether war be a cause or a consequence?Put down the passions that make earth HelllDown with ambition, avarice, pride,Jealousy, down ! cut off from the mindThe bitter springs of anger and fear;Down too, down at your own fireside,With the evil tongue, and the evil ear,For each is at war with mankind.
4I wish I could hear againThe chivalrous battle-songThat she warbled alone in her joylI might persuade myself thenShe would not do herself this great wrong,To take a wanton dissolute boyFor a man and leader of men.
5Ah God , for a man with heart, head, hand,Like some of the simple great ones goneFor ever and ever by,[1028]One still strong man in a blatant land,Whatever they call him, what care I,Aristocrat, democrat, plutocrat—oneWho can rule and dare not lie.
6And ah for a man to rise in me.That the man I am may cease to be!

XII

0 LET the solid groundNot fail beneath my feetBefore my life has foundWhat some have found so sweet;Then let come what come may,What matter if I go mad,I shall have had my day.
Let the sweet heavens endure,Not close and darken above meBefore I am quite sureThat there is one to love me;Then let come what come mayTo a life that has been so sad,I shall have had my day.

XII

Birds in the high Hall-gardenWhen twilight was falling,Maud, Maud, Maud, Maud,They were crying and calling.
Where was Maud? in our wood;And I, who else, was with her,Gathering woodland lilies.Myriads blow together.[1029]3Birds in our wood sangRinging thro' the valleys,Maud is here, here, hereIn among the lilies.
4I kiss'd her slender hand,She took the kiss sedately;Maud is not seventeen,But she is tall and stately.
5I to cry out on prideWho have won her favour!0 Maud were sure of HeavenIf lowliness could save her.
6I know the way she wentHome with her maiden posy,For her feet have touch'd the meadowsAnd left the daisies rosy.
7Birds in the high Hall-gardenWere crying and calling to her,Where is Maud, Maud, Maud?One is come to woo her.
Look, a horse at the door,And little King Charles is snarling,Go back, my lord, across the moor,You are not her darling.

XIIII

Scorn'd, to be scorn'd by one that I scorn, Is that a matter to make me fret?

p. 1030That a calamity hard to be borne?Well, he may live to hate me yet.Fool that I am to be vext with his pride!I past him, I was crossing his lands;He stood on the path a little aside;His face, as I grant, in spite of spiteHas a broad-blown comeliness, red and white,And six feet two, as I think, he stands;But his essences turn'd the live air sick,And barbarous opulence jewel-thickSunn'd itself on his breast and his hands.
2Who shall call me ungentle, unfair,I long'd so heartily then and thereTo give him the grasp of fellowship;But while I past he was humming an air,Stopt, and then with a riding whipLeisurely tapping a glossy boot,And curving a contumelious lip,Gorgonised me from head to footWith a stony British stare.
3Why sits he here in his father's chair?That old man never comes to his place:Shall I believe him ashamed to be seen?For only once, in the village street,Last year, I caught a glimpse of his face,A gray old wolf and a lean.Scarcely, now, would I call him a cheat:For then, perhaps, as a child of deceit,She might by a true descent be untrue;And Maud is as true as Maud is sweet:Tho ' I fancy her sweetness only dueTo the sweeter blood by the other side;Her mother has been a thing complete,However she came to be so allied.And fair without, faithful within,Maud to him is nothing akin:[1031]Some peculiar mystic graceMade her only the child of her mother,And heap'd the whole inherited sinOn that huge scapegoat of the race,All , all upon the brother.
4Peace, angry spirit, and let him be!Has not his sister smiled on me?
XIV1MAUD has a garden of rosesAnd lilies fair on a lawn;There she walks in her stateAnd tends upon bed and bower,And thither I climb'd at dawnAnd stood by her garden-gate;A lion ramps at the top,He is daspt by a passion-flower.
2Maud's own little oak-room( Which Maud, like a precious stoneSet in the heart of the carven gloom,Lights with herself, when aloneShe sits by her music and books,And her brother lingers lateWithja roystering company) looksUpon Maud's own garden gate:And I thought as I stood, if a hand, as whiteAs ocean-foam in the moon, were laidOn the hasp of the window , and my DelightHad a sudden desire, like a glorious ghost, to glide,Like a beam of the seventh Heaven, down to my side,There were but a step to be made.
3The fancy flatter'd my mind,And again seem'd overbold;[1032]Now I thought that she cared for me,Now I thought she was kindOnly because she was cold.
4I heard no sound where I stoodBut the rivulet on from the lawnRunning down to my own dark wood;Or the voice of the long sea-wave as it swell'dNow and then in the dim-gray dawn;But I look'd, and round, all round the house I beheldThe death-white curtain drawn;Felt a horror over me creep,Prickle my skin and catch my breath,Knew that the death-white curtain meant but sleep,Yet I shudder'd and thought like a fool of the sleep ofdeath.

XV

So dark a mind within me dwells,And I make myself such evil cheer,That if / be dear to some one elseThen some one else may have much to fear;But if / be dear to some one else,Then I should be to myself more dear.Shall I not take care of all that I think,Yea ev'n of wretched meat and drink,If I be dear,If I be dear to some one else.

XVI

1THIS lump of earth has left his estateThe lighter by the loss of his weight;And so that he find what he went to seek,And fulsome Pleasure clog him, and drownHis heart in the gross mud-honey of town,He may stay for a year who has gone for a week.But this is the day when I must speak,[1033]And I see my Oread coming down,O this is the day!0 beautiful creature, what am IThat I dare to look her way ;Think I may hold dominion sweet,Lord of the pulse that is lord of her breast,And dream of her beauty with tender dread,From the delicate Arab arch of her feetTo the grace that, bright and light as the crestOf a peacock, sits on her shining head,And she knows it not: O , if she knew it,To know her beauty might half undo it.I know it the one bright thing to saveMy yet young life in the wilds of Time ,Perhaps from madness, perhaps from crime,Perhaps from a selfish grave.