POEMS.
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DIVIDED.

I

AN empty sky, a world of heather,
    Purple of foxglove, yellow of broom;
We two among them wading together,
    Shaking out honey, treading perfume.

Crowds of bees are giddy with clover,
    Crowds of grasshoppers skip at our feet,
Crowds of larks at their matins hang over,
    Thanking the Lord for a life so sweet.

Flusheth the rise with her purple favour,
    Gloweth the cleft with her golden ring,
'Twixt the two brown butterflies waver
    Lightly settle, and sleepily swing.

We two walk till the purple dieth
    And short dry grass under foot is brown
But one little streak at a distance lieth
    Green like a ribbon to prank the down.

II

Over the grass we stepped unto it,
    And God He knoweth how blithe we were!
Never a voice to bid us eschew it:
    Hey the green ribbon that showed so fair!

Hey the green ribbon! we kneeled beside it,
    We parted the grasses dewy and sheen;
Drop over drop there filtered and slided
    A tiny bright beck that trickled between.

Tinkle, tinkle, sweetly it sung to us,
    Light was our talk as of faëry bells—
Faëry wedding-bells faintly rung to us
    Down in their fortunate parallels.

Hand in hand, while the sun peered over,
    We lapped the grass on that youngling spring
Swept back its rushes, smoothed its clover,
    And said, 'Let us follow it westering.'

III

A dappled sky, a world of meadows,
    Circling above us the black rooks fly
Forward, backward; lo, their dark shadows
    Flit on the blossoming tapestry—

Flit on the beck, for her long grass parteth
    As hair from a maid's bright eyes blown back;
And, lo, the sun like a lover darteth
    His flattering smile on her wayward track.

Sing on! we sing in the glorious weather
    Till one steps over the tiny strand,
So narrow, in sooth, that still together
    On either brink we go hand in hand.

The beck grows wider, the hands must sever.
    On either margin, our songs all done,
We move apart, while she singeth ever,
    Taking the course of the stooping sun.

He prays, 'Come over'—I may not follow;
    I cry, 'Return'—but he cannot come:
We speak, we laugh, but with voices hollow;
    Our hands are hanging, our hearts are numb.

IV

A breathing sigh, a sigh for answer,
    A little talking of outward things:
The careless beck is a merry dancer,
    Keeping sweet time to the air she sings.

A little pain when the beck grows wider;
    'Cross to me now—for her wavelets swell:'
'I may not cross'—and the voice beside her
    Faintly reacheth, though heeded well.

No backward path; ah! no returning;
    No second crossing that ripple's flow:
'Come to me now, for the west is burning;
    Come ere it darkens;'—'All, no! ah, no!'

Then cries of pain, and arms outreaching—
    The beck grows wider and swift and deep:
Passionate words as of one beseeching—
    The loud beck drowns them; we walk, and
            weep.

V

A yellow moon in splendour drooping,
    A tired queen with her state oppressed,
Low by rushes and swordgrass stooping,
    Lies she soft on the waves at rest.

The desert heavens have felt her sadness;
    Her earth will weep her some dewy tears;
The wild beck ends her tune of gladness,
    And goeth stilly as soul that fears.

We two walk on in our grassy places
    On either marge of the moonlit flood,
With the moon's own sadness in our faces,
    Where joy is withered, blossom and bud.

VI

A shady freshness, chafers whirring,
    A little piping of leaf-hid birds;
A flutter of wings, a fitful stirring,
    A cloud to the eastward snowy as curds.

Bare grassy slopes, where kids are tethered
    Round valleys like nests all ferny-lined;
Round hills, with fluttering tree-tops feathered,
    Swell high in their freckled robes behind.

A rose-flush tender, a thrill, a quiver,
    When golden gleams to the tree-tops glide;
A flashing edge for the milk-white river,
    The beck, a river—with still sleek tide.

Broad and white, and polished as silver,
    On she goes under fruit-laden trees;
Sunk in leafage cooeth the culver.
    And 'plaineth of love's disloyalties.

Glitters the dew and shines the river,
    Up comes the lily and dries her bell;
But two are walking apart for ever,
    And wave their hands for a mute farewell.

VII

A braver swell, a swifter sliding;
    The river hasteth, her banks recede:
Wing-like sails on her bosom gliding
    Bear down the lily and drown the reed.

Stately prows are rising and bowing
    (Shouts of mariners winnow the air),
And level sands for banks endowing
    The tiny green ribbon that showed so fair.

While, O my heart! as white sails shiver,
    And crowds are passing, and banks stretch wide,
How hard to follow, with lips that quiver,
    That moving speck on the far-off side!

Farther, farther—I see it—know it—
    My eyes brim over, it melts away:
Only my heart to my heart shall show it
    As I walk desolate day by day.

VIII

And yet I know past all doubting, truly—
    A knowledge greater than grief can dim—
I know, as he loved, he will love me duly—
    Yea, better—e'en better than I love him

And as I walk by the vast calm river,
    The awful river so dread to see,
I say, 'Thy breadth and thy depth for ever
    Are bridged by his thoughts that cross to me.'

_____________________

 
HONOURS.—PART I.

A Scholar is musing on his want of success.

TO strive—and fail.   Yes, I did strive and fail;
    I set mine eyes upon a certain night
To find a certain star—and could not hail
    With them its deep-set light.

Fool that I was!   I will rehearse my fault:
    I, wingless, thought myself on high to lift
Among the winged—I set these feet that halt
    To run against the swift.

And yet this man, that loved me so, can write—
    That loves me, I would say, can let me see;
Or fain would have me think he counts but light
    These Honours lost to me.

                          [The letter of his friend.]

What are they? that old house of yours which gave
    Such welcomes oft to me, the sunbeams fall
Still, down the squares of blue and white which pave
            Its hospitable hall.

A brave old house! a garden full of bees,
    Large dropping poppies, and Queen hollihocks,
With butterflies for crowns—tree peonies
            And pinks and goldilocks.

'Go, when the shadow of your house is long
    Upon the garden—when some new-waked bird,
Pecking and fluttering, chirps a sudden song,
            And not a leaf is stirred;

'But every one drops dew from either edge
    Upon its fellow, while an amber ray
Slants up among the tree-tops like a wedge
            Of liquid gold—to play

'Over and under them, and so to fall
    Upon that lane of water lying below—
That piece of sky let in, that you do call
            A pond, but which I know

'To be a deep and wondrous world; for I
    Have seen the trees within it—marvellous things
So thick no bird betwixt their leaves could fly
            But she would smite her wings;—

'Go there, I say; stand at the water's brink,
    And shoals of spotted grayling you shall see
Basking between the shadows—look, and think
            "This beauty is for me;

' "For me this freshness in the morning hours,
    For me the water's clear tranquillity;
For me the soft descent of chestnut flowers;
            The cushat's cry for me.

"The lovely laughter of the wind-swayed wheat;
    The easy slope of yonder pastoral hill;
The sedgy brook whereby the red kine meet
            And wade and drink their fill."

'Then saunter down that terrace whence the sea
    All fair with wing-like sails you may discern;
Be glad, and say "This beauty is for me—
            A thing to love and learn.

' "For me the bounding in of tides; for me
    The laying bare of sands when they retreat;
The purple flush of calms, the sparkling glee
            When waves and sunshine meet."

'So, after gazing, homeward turn, and mount
    To that long chamber in the roof; there tell
Your heart the laid-up lore it holds to count
            And prize and ponder well.

'The lookings onward of the race before
    It had a past to make it look behind;
Its reverent wonders, and its doublings sore,
            Its adorations blind.

'The thunder of its war-songs, and the glow
    Of chants to freedom by the old world sung;
The sweet love cadences that long ago
            Dropped from the old-world tongue.

'And then this new-world lore that takes account
    Of tangled star-dust; maps the triple whirl
Of blue and red and argent worlds that mount
            And greet the IRISH EARL;

'Or float across the tube that HERSCHEL sways,
    Like pale-rose chaplets, or like sapphire mist;
Or hang or droop along the heavenly ways,
            Like scarves of amethyst.

'O strange it is and wide the new-world lore,
    For next it treateth of our native dust!
Must dig out buried monsters, and explore
            The green earth's fruitful crust;

Must write the story of her seething youth—
    How lizards paddled in her lukewarm seas;
Must show the cones she ripened, and forsooth
            Count seasons on her trees;

'Must know her weight, and pry into her age,
    Count her old beach lines by their tidal swell;
Her sunken mountains name, her craters gauge,
            Her cold volcanoes tell;

'And treat her as a ball, that one might pass
    From this hand to the other—such a ball
As he could measure with a blade of grass,
            And say it was but small!

'Honours!   O friend, I pray you bear with me:
    The grass hath time to grow in meadow lands,
And leisurely the opal murmuring sea
            Breaks on her yellow sands;

'And leisurely the ring-dove on her nest
    Broods till her tender chick will peck the shell;
And leisurely down fall from ferny crest
            The dew-drops on the well;

'And leisurely your life and spirit grew,
    With yet the time to grow and ripen free:
No judgment past withdraws that boon from you,
            Nor granteth it to me.

'Still must I plod, and still in cities moil;
    From precious leisure, learned leisure far,
Dull my best self with handling common soil;
            Yet mine those honours are.

'Mine they are called; they are a name which means,
    "This man had steady pulses, tranquil nerves;
Here, as in other fields, the most he gleans
            Who works and never swerves.

' "We measure. not his mind; we cannot tell
    What lieth under, over, or beside
The test we put him to; he doth excel,
            We knew, where he is tried;

' "But, if he boast some farther excellence—
    Mind to create as well as to attain;
To sway his peers by golden eloquence,
            As wind doth shift a fane;

' "To sing among the poets—we are nought:
    We cannot drop a line into that sea
And read its fathoms off, nor gauge a thought,
            Nor map a simile.

' "It may be of all voices sublunar
    The only one he echoes we did try,
We may have come upon the only star
            That twinkles in his sky."

' And so it was with me.'

                                                O false my friend!
False, false, a random charge, a blame undue;
Wrest not fair reasoning to a crooked end:
False, false, as you are true!

But I read on: 'And so it was with me;
    Your golden constellations lying apart
They neither hailed nor greeted heartily,
            Nor noted on their chart.

'And yet to you and not to me belong
    Those finer instincts that, like second sight
And hearing, catch creation's undersong,
            And see by inner light.

'You are a well, whereon I, gazing, see
    Reflections of the upper heavens—a well
From whence come deep, deep echoes up to me—
            Some underwave's low swell.

'I cannot soar into the heights you show,
    Nor dive among the deeps that you reveal;
But it is much that high things ARE to know,
            That deep things ARE to feel.

' 'Tis yours, not mine, to pluck out of your breast
    Some human truth, whose workings recondite
Were unattired in words, and manifest
            And hold it forth to light

'And cry, "Behold this thing that I have found."
    And though they knew not of it till that day,
Nor should have done with no man to expound
            Its meaning, yet they say,

' "We do accept it: lower than the shoals
    We skim, this diver went, nor did create,
But find it for us deeper in our souls
            Than we can penetrate."

You were to me the world's interpreter,
    The man that taught me Nature's unknown tongue,
And to the notes of her wild dulcimer
            First set sweet words and sung.

'And what am I to you?   A steady hand
    To hold, a steadfast heart to trust withal;
Merely a man that loves you, and will stand
            By you, whate'er befall.

'But need we praise his tendance tutelar
    Who feeds a flame that warms him?  Yet 't is true
I love you for the sake of what you are.
            And not of what you do:—

'As heaven's high twins, whereof in Tyrian blue
    The one revolveth: through his course immense
Might love his fellow of the damask hue,
            For like, and difference.

'For different pathways evermore decreed
    To intersect, but not to interfere;
For common goal, two aspects, and one speed,
            One centre and one year;

'For deep affinities, for drawings strong,
    That by their nature each must needs exert;
For loved alliance, and for union long,
            That stands before desert.

'And yet desert makes brighter not the less,
    For nearest his own star he shall not fail
To think those rays unmatched for nobleness,
            That distance counts but pale.

'Be pale afar; since still to me you shine,
    And must while Nature's eldest law shall hold;'—
Ah, there's the thought which makes his random line
            Dear as refined gold!

Then shall I drink this drought of oxymel,
    Part sweet, part sharp?   Myself o'erprized to know
Is sharp; the cause is sweet, and truth to tell
            Few would that cause forego,

Which is, that this of all the men on earth
    Doth love me well enough to count me great—
To think my soul and his of equal girth—
            O liberal estimate!

And yet it is so; he is bound to me,
    For human love makes aliens near of kin;
By it I rise, there is equality:
            I rise to thee, my twin.

'Take courage'—courage! ay, my purple peer,
    I will take courage; for thy Tyrian rays
Refresh me to the heart, and strangely dear
            And healing is thy praise.

'Take courage,' quoth he, 'and respect the mind
    Your Maker gave, for good your fate fulfill;
The fate round many hearts your own to wind.
            Twin soul.   I will! I will!

_____________________

 
HONOURS. —PART II.

The Answer.

AS one who, journeying, checks the rein in haste
    Because a chasm doth yawn across his way
Too wide for leaping, and too steeply faced
            For climber to essay—

As such an one, being brought to sudden stand,
    Doubts all his foregone path if 't were the true,
And turns to this and then to the other hand
            As knowing not what to do,—

So I, being checked, am with my path at strife
    Which led to such a chasm, and there doth end.
False path! it cost me priceless years of life,
            My well-beloved friend.

There fell a flute when Ganymede went up—
    The flute that he was wont to play upon:
It dropped beside the jonquil's milk-white cup,
            And freckled cowslips wan—

Dropped from his heedless hand when, dazed and mute,
    He sailed upon the eagle's quivering wing,
Aspiring, panting—ay, it dropped—the flute
            Erewhile a cherished thing.

Among the delicate grasses and the bells
    Of crocuses that spotted a rill side,
I picked up such a flute, and its clear swells
            To my young lips replied.

I played thereon, and its response was sweet:
    But lo, they took from me that solacing reed.
'O shame!' they said; 'such music is not meet;
            Go up like Ganymede.

'Go up, despise these humble grassy things,
    Sit on the golden edge of yonder cloud.'
Alas! though ne'er for me those eagle wings
            Stooped from their eyrie proud.

My flute! and flung away its echoes sleep;
    But as for me, my life-pulse beateth low.
And like a last-year's leaf enshrouded deep
            Under the drifting snow,

Or like some vessel wrecked upon the sand
    Of torrid swamps, with all her merchandise,
And left to rot betwixt the sea and land,
            My helpless spirit lies.

Rueing, I think for what then was I made,
    What end appointed for—what use designed?
Now let me right this heart that was bewrayed—
            Unveil these eyes gone blind.

My well-beloved friend, at noon to-day
    Over our cliffs a white mist lay unfurled,
So thick, one standing on their brink might say,
            Lo, here doth end the world.

A white abyss beneath, and nought beside;
    Yet, hark! a cropping sound not ten feet down:
Soon I could trace some browsing lambs that hied
            Through rock-paths cleft and brown.

And here and there green tufts of grass peered through,
    Salt lavender, and sea thrift; then behold,
The mist, subsiding ever, bared to view
            A beast of giant mould.

She seemed a great sea monster lying content
    With all her cubs about her: but deep—deep—
The subtle mist went floating; its descent
            Showed the world's end was steep.

It shook, it melted, shaking more, till, lo,
    The sprawling monster was a rock; her brood
Were boulders, whereon seamews white as snow
            Sat watching for their food.

Then once again it sank, its day was done:
    Part rolled away, part vanished utterly,
And glimmering softly under the white sun,
            Behold! a great white sea.

O that the mist which veileth my To-come
    Would so dissolve and yield unto mine eyes
A worthy path!   I 'd count not wearisome
            Long toil, nor enterprise,

But strain to reach it; ay, with wrestlings stout
    And hopes that even in the dark will grow
(Like plants in dungeons, reaching feelers out),
            And ploddings wary and slow.

Is there such path already made to fit
    The measure of my foot?   It shall atone
For much, if I at length may light on it
            And know it for mine own.

But is there none? why, then, 't is more than well:
    And glad at heart myself will hew one out,
Let me be only sure; for, sooth to tell,
            The sorest dole is doubt—

Doubt, a blank twilight of the heart, which mars
    All sweetest colours in its dimness same;
A soul-mist, through whose rifts familiar stars
            Beholding, we misname.

A ripple on the inner sea, which shakes
    Those images that on its breast reposed,
A fold upon a wind-swayed flag, that breaks
            The motto it disclosed.

O doubt!   O doubt!   I know my destiny,
    I feel thee fluttering bird-like in my breast;
I cannot loose, but I will sing to thee,
            And flatter thee to rest.

There is no certainty, 'my bosom's guest,'
    No proving for the things whereof ye wot;
For, like the dead to sight unmanifest.
            They are, and they are not.

But surely as they are, for God is truth,
    And as they are not, for we saw them die,
So surely from the heaven drops light for youth,
            If youth will walk thereby.

And can I see this light?   It may be so;
    'But see it thus and thus,' my fathers said.
The living do not rule this world; ah no!
            It is the dead, the dead.

Shall I be slave to every noble soul,
    Study the dead, and to their spirits bend;
Or learn to read my own heart's folded scroll,
            And make self-rule my end?

Thought from without—O shall I take on trust,
    And life from others modelled steal or win;
Or shall I heave to light, and clear of rust
            My true life from within?

O, let me be myself!   But where, O where,
    Under this heap of precedent, this mound
Of customs, modes, and maxims, cumbrance rare,
            Shall the Myself be found?

O thou Myself, thy fathers thee debarred
    None of their wisdom, but their folly came
Therewith; they smoothed thy path, but made it hard
            For thee to quit the same.

With glosses they obscured God's natural truth,
    And with tradition tarnished His revealed;
With vain protections they endangered youth,
            With layings bare they sealed.

What aileth thee, myself?   Alas! thy hands
    Are tired with old opinions—heir and son,
Thou hast inherited thy father's lands
            And all his debts thereon.

O that some power would give me Adam's eyes!
    O for the straight simplicity of Eve!
For I see nought, or grow, poor fool, too wise
            With seeing to believe.

Exemplars may be heaped until they hide
    The rules that they were made to render plain;
Love may be watched, her nature to decide,
            Until love's self doth wane.

Ah me! and when forgotten and foregone
    We leave the learning of departed days,
And cease the generations past to con,
            Their wisdom and their ways—

When fain to learn we lean into the dark,
    And grope to feel the floor of the abyss,
Or find the secret boundary lines which mark
            Where soul and matter kiss—

Fair world! these puzzled souls of ours grow weak
    With beating their bruised wings against the rim
That bounds their utmost flying, when they seek
            The distant and the dim.

We pant, we strain like birds against their wires;
    Are sick to reach the vast and the beyond;—
And what avails, if still to our desires
            Those far-off gulfs respond?

Contentment comes not therefore; still there lies
    An outer distance when the first is hailed,
And still for ever yawns before our eyes
            An UTMOST—that is veiled.

Searching those edges of the universe,
    We leave the central fields a fallow part;
To feed the eye more precious things amerce,
            And starve the darkened heart.

Then all goes wrong: the old foundations rock;
    One scorns at him of old who gazed unshod;
One striking with a pickaxe thinks the shock
            Shall move the seat of God.

A little way, a very little way
    (Life is so short), they dig into the rind,
And they are very sorry, so they say,—
            Sorry for what they find.

But truth is sacred—ay, and must be told:
    There is a story long beloved of man;
We must forego it, for it will not hold—
            Nature had no such plan.

And then, 'if God hath said it,' some should cry,
    'We have the story from the fountain-head:
Why, then, what better than the old reply,
            The first 'Yea, HATH God said?'

The garden, O the garden, must it go,
    Source of our hope and our most dear regret?
The ancient story, must it no more show
            How man may win it yet?

And all upon the Titan child's decree,
    The baby science, born but yesterday,
That in its rash unlearned infancy
            With shells and stones at play,

And delving in the outworks of this world,
    And little crevices that it could reach,
Discovered certain bones laid up, and furled
            Under an ancient beach,

And other waifs that lay to its young mind
    Some fathoms lower than they ought to lie,
By gain whereof it could not fail to find
            Much proof of ancientry,

Hints at a pedigree withdrawn and vast,
    Terrible deeps, and old obscurities,
Or soulless origin, and twilight passed
            In the primeval seas,

Whereof it tells, as thinking it hath been
    Of truth not meant for man inheritor;
As if this knowledge Heaven had ne'er foreseen
            And not provided for!

Knowledge ordained to live! although the fate
    Of much that went before it was—to die,
And be called ignorance by such as wait
            Till the next drift comes by.

O marvellous credulity of man!
    If God indeed kept secret, couldst thou know
Or follow up the mighty Artisan
            Unless He willed it so?

And canst thou of the Maker think in sooth
    That of the Made He shall be found at fault,
And dream of wresting from Him hidden truth
            By force or by assault?

But if He keeps not secret—if thine eyes
    He openeth to His wondrous work of late—
Think how in soberness thy wisdom lies,
            And have the grace to wait.

Wait, nor against the half-learned lesson fret,
    Nor chide at old belief as if it erred,
Because thou canst not reconcile as yet
            The Worker and the word.

Either the Worker did in ancient days
    Give us the word, His tale of love and might;
(And if in truth He gave it us, who says
            He did not give it right?)

Or else He gave it not, and then indeed
    We know not if HE IS—by whom our years
Are portioned, who the orphan moons doth lead,
            And the unfathered spheres.

We sit unowned upon our burial sod,
    And know not whence we come or whose we be,
Comfortless mourners for the mount of God,
            The rocks of Calvary:

Bereft of heaven, and of the long-loved page
    Wrought us by some who thought with death to cope
Despairing comforters, from age to age
            Sowing the seeds of hope:

Gracious deceivers, who have lifted us
    Out of the slough where passed our unknown youth;
Beneficent liars, who have gifted us
            With sacred love of truth!

Farewell to them: yet pause ere thou unmoor
    And set thine ark adrift on unknown seas;
How wert thou bettered so, or more secure
            Thou, and thy destinies?

And if then searchest, and art made to fear
    Facing of unread riddles dark and hard,
And mastering not their majesty austere,
            Their meaning locked and barred:

How would it make the weight and wonder less,
    If, lifted from immortal shoulders down,
The worlds were cast on seas of emptiness
            In realms without a crown,

And (if there were no God) were left to rue
    Dominion of the air and of the fire?
Then if there be a God, 'Let God be true,
            And every man a liar.'

But as for me, I do not speak as one
    That is exempt: I am with life at feud:
My heart reproacheth me, as there were none
            Of so small gratitude.

Wherewith shall I console thee, heart o' mine,
    And still thy yearning and resolve thy doubt?
That which I know, and that which I divine,
            Alas! have left thee out.

I have aspired to know the might of God,
    As if the story of His love was furled,
Nor sacred foot the grasses e'er had trod
            Of this redeemèd world:—

Have sunk my thoughts as lead into the deep,
    To grope for that abyss whence evil grew,
And spirits of ill, with eyes that cannot weep,
            Hungry and desolate flew;

As if their legions did not one day crowd
    The death-pangs of the Conquering Good to see!
As if a sacred head had never bowed
            In death for man—for me!

Nor ransomed back the souls beloved, the sons
    Of men, from thraldom with the nether kings
In that dark country where those evil ones
            Trail their unhallowed wings.

And didst Thou love the race that loved not Thee,
    And didst Thou take to heaven a human brow?
Dost plead with man's voice by the marvellous sea?
            Art Thou his kinsman now?

O God, O kinsman loved, but not enough!
    O man, with eyes majestic after death,
Whose feet have toiled along our pathways rough,
            Whose lips drawn human breath!

By that one likeness which is ours and Thine,
    By that one nature which doth hold us kin,
By that high heaven where, sinless, Thou dost shine
            To draw us sinners in,

By Thy last silence in the judgement-hall,
    By long foreknowledge of the deadly tree,
By, darkness, by the wormwood and the gall,
            I pray Thee visit me.

Come, lest this heart should, cold and cast away
    Die ere the guest adored she entertain—
Lest eyes which never saw Thine earthly day
            Should miss Thy heavenly reign.

Collie weary-eyed from seeking in the nip night
    Thy wanderers strayed upon the pathless wold,
Who wounded, dying, cry to Thee for light,
            And cannot find their fold.

And deign, O Watcher, with the sleepless brow,
    Pathetic in its yearning—deign reply:
Is there, O is there aught that such as Thou
            Wouldst take from such as I?

Are there no briars across Thy pathway thrust?
    Are there no thorns that compass it about?
Nor any stones that Thou wilt deign to trust
            My hands to gather out?

O, if Thou wilt, and if such bliss might be,
    It were a cure for doubt, regret, delay—
Let my lost pathway go—what aileth me?—
            There is a better way.

What though unmarked the happy workman toil,
    And break unthanked of man the stubborn clod?
It is enough, for sacred is the soil,
            Dear are the hills of God.

Far better in its place the lowliest bird
    Should sing aright to Him the lowliest song,
Than that a seraph strayed should take the word
            And sing His glory wrong.

Friend, it is time to work.   I say to thee,
    Thou dost all earthly good by much excel;
Thou and God's blessing are enough for me
            My work, my work—farewell!

_____________________

 
REQUIESCAT IN PACE!

O MY heart, my heart is sick awishing and awaiting:
    The lad took up his knapsack, he went, he went his way;
And I looked on for his coming, as a prisoner through the grating
    Looks and longs and longs and wishes for its opening day.

On the wild purple mountains, all alone with no other,
    The strong terrible mountains, he longed, he longed to be;
And he stooped to kiss his father, and he stooped to kiss his mother,
    And till I said 'Adieu, sweet Sir,' he quite forgot me.

He wrote of their white raiment, the ghostly capes that screen them,
    Of the storm winds that beat them, their thunder-rents and scars,
And the paradise of purple, and the golden slopes atween them,
    And fields, where grow God's gentian bells, and His crocus stars.

He wrote of frail gauzy clouds, that drop on them like fleeces,
    And make green their fir forests, and feed their mosses hoar;
Or come sailing up the valleys, and get wrecked and go to pieces,
    Like sloops against their cruel strength: then he wrote no more.

O the silence that came next, the patience and long aching!
    They never said so much as 'He was a dear loved son;
Not the father to the mother moaned, that dreary stillness breaking:
    'Ah! wherefore did he leave us so—this, our only one?'

They sat within, as waiting, until the neighbours prayed them,
    At Cromer, by the sea-coast, 't were peace and change to be;
And to Cromer, in their patience, or that urgency affrayed them,
    Or because the tidings tarried, they came, and took me.

It was three months and over since the dear lad had started:
    On the green downs at Cromer I sat to see the view;
On an open space of herbage, where the ling and fern had parted,
    Betwixt the tall white lighthouse towers, the old and the new.

Below me lay the wide sea, the scarlet sun was stooping,
    And he dyed the waste water, as with a scarlet dye;
And he dyed the lighthouse towers; every bird with white wing,
            swooping
    Took his colours, and the cliffs did, and the yawning sky.

Over grass came that strange flush, and over ling and heather,
    Over flocks of sheep and lambs, and over Cromer town;
And each filmy cloudlet crossing drifted like a scarlet feather
    Torn from the folded wings of clouds, while he settled down.

When I looked, I dared not sigh:—In the light of God's splendour,
    With His daily blue and gold, who am I? what am I?
But that passion and outpouring seemed an awful sign and tender,
    Like the blood of the Redeemer, shown on earth and sky.

O for comfort, O the waste of a long doubt and trouble!
    On that sultry August eve trouble had made me meek;
I was tired of my sorrow—O so faint, for it was double
    In the weight of its oppression, that I could not speak!

And a little comfort grew, while the dimmed eyes were feeding,
    And the dull ears with murmur of waters satisfied;
But a dream came slowly nigh me, all my thoughts and fancy
            leading
    Across the bounds of waking life to the other side.

And I dreamt that I looked out, to the waste waters turning,
    And saw the flakes of scarlet from wave to wave tossed on;
And the scarlet mix with azure, where a heap of gold lay burning
    On the clear remote sea reaches; for the sun was gone.

Then I thought a far-off shout dropped across the still water—
    A question as I took it, for soon an answer came
From the tall white ruined lighthouse: 'If it be the old man's
            daughter
    That we wot of,' ran the answer, 'what then—who's to blame?'

I looked up at the lighthouse all roofless and storm-broken:
    A great white bird sat on it, with neck stretched out to sea;
Unto somewhat which was sailing in a skiff the bird had spoken,
    And a trembling seized my spirit, for they talked of me.

I was the old man's daughter, the bird went on to name him,
    'He loved to count the starlings as he sat in the sun;
Long ago he served with Nelson, and his story did not shame him:
    Ay, the old man was a good man—and his work was done.'

The skiff was like a crescent, ghost of some moon departed,
    Frail, white, she rocked and curtseyed as the red wave she
            crossed,
And the thing within sat paddling, and the crescent dipped and
            darted,
    Flying on, again was shouting, but the words were lost.

I said, 'That thing is hooded; I could hear but that floweth
    The great hood below its mouth:' then the bird made reply,
'If they know not, more 's the pity, for the little shrewmouse
            knoweth,
    And the kite knows, and the eagle, and the glead and pye.'

And he stooped to whet his beak on the stones of the coping;
    And when once more the shout came, in querulous tones he spake,
'What I said was "more's the pity;" if the heart belong past hoping,
    Let it say of death, "I know it," or doubt on and break.

'Men must die—one dies by day, and near him moans his mother,
    They dig his grave, tread it down, and go from it full loth:
And one dies about the midnight, and the wind moans, and no other,
    And the snows give him a burial—and God loves them both.

'The first hath no advantage—it shall not soothe his slumber
    That a lock of his brown hair his father aye shall keep;
For the last, he nothing grudgeth, it shall nought his quiet cumber,
    That in a golden mesh of HIS callow eaglets sleep.

'Men must die when all is said, e'en the kite and glead know it,
    And the lad's father knew it, and the lad, the lad too;
It was never kept a secret, waters bring it and winds blow it,
    And he met it on the mountain—why then make ado?'

With that he spread his white wings, and swept across the water,
    Lit upon the hooded head, and it and all went down;
And they laughed as they went under, and I woke, 'the old man's
            daughter,'
    And looked across the slope of grass, and at Cromer town.

And I said, 'Is that the sky, all grey and silver suited?'
    And I thought, 'Is that the sea that lies so white and wan?
I have dreamed as I remember: give me time—I was reputed
    Once to have a steady courage—O, I fear 't is gone!'

And I said, 'Is this my heart? if it be, low 't is beating,
    So he lies on the mountain, hard by the eagles' brood;
I have had a dream this evening, while the white and gold were
            fleeting,
    But I need not, need not tell it—where would be the good?

'Where would be the good to them, his father and his mother?
    For the ghost of their dead hope appeareth to them still.
While a lonely watchfire smoulders, who its dying red would
            smother,
    That gives what little light there is to a darksome hill?'

I rose up, I made no moan, I did not cry nor falter,
    But slowly in the twilight I came to Cromer town.
What can wringing of the hands do that which is ordained to alter?
    He had climbed, had climbed the mountain, he would ne'er
            come down.

But, O my first, O my best, I could not choose but love thee:
    O, to be a wild white bird, and seek thy rocky bed!
From my breast I'd give thee burial, pluck the down and spread
            above thee;
    I would sit and sing thy requiem on the mountain head.

Fare thee well, my love of loves! would I had died before thee!
    O, to be at least a cloud, that near thee I might flow,
Solemnly approach the mountain, weep away my being o'er thee,
    And veil thy breast with icicles, and thy brow with snow?

_____________________

 
SUPPER AT THE MILL.

MOTHER.

WELL, Frances.

                                   FRANCES.
Well, good mother, how are you?

M.    I'm hearty, lass, but warm; the weather's warm:
I think't is mostly warm on market days.
I met with George behind the mill: said he,
'Mother, go in and rest awhile.'

F.                                                     Ay, do,
And stay to supper; put your basket down.

M. Why, now, it is not heavy?

F.                                                     Willie, man,
Getup and kiss your Granny.   Heavy, no!
Some call good churning luck; but, luck or skill,
Your butter mostly comes as firm and sweet
As if 't was Christmas.   So you sold it all?

M.    All but this pat that I put by for George;
He always loved my butter.

F.                                                     That he did.

M.    And has your speckled hen brought off her brood?

F.    Not yet; but that old duck, I told you of,
She hatched eleven out of twelve to-day.

Child.    And, Granny, they 're so yellow.

M.                                                     Ay, my lad,
Yellow as gold—yellow as Willie's hair.

C. They're all mine, Granny—father says they 're mine.

M. To think of that!

F.                                                     Yes, Granny, only think!
Why, father means to sell them when they're fat,
And put the money in the savings bank,
And all against our Willie goes to school:
But Willie would not touch them—no, not he;
He knows that father would be angry else.

C.    But I want one to play with—O, I want
A little yellow duck to take to bed!

M.    What! would ye rob the poor old mother, then?

F.    Now, Granny, if you'll hold the babe awhile;
'T is time I took up Willie to his crib.

                                                     [Exit FRANCES.
 

[Enter GEORGE.

G.    Well, mother, 't is a fortnight now, or more,
Since I set eyes on you.

M.                                                     Ay, George, my dear,
I reckon you've been busy: so have we.

G.    And how does father?

M.                                                     He gets through his
        work,
But he grows stiff, a little stiff, my dear;
He's not so young, you know, by twenty years
As I am—not so young by twenty years,
And I'm past sixty.

G.                                                     Yet he's hale and stout,
And seems to take a pleasure in his pipe;
And seems to take a pleasure in his cows,
And a pride, too.

M.    And well he may, my dear.

G.     Give me the little one, he tires your arm;
He's such a kicking, crowing, wakeful rogue,
He almost wears our lives out with his noise
Just at day-dawning, when we wish to sleep.
What! you young villain, would you clench your fist
In father's curls? a dusty father, sure,
And you're as clean as wax.

                                                     Ay, you may laugh;
But if you live a seven years more or so,
These hands of yours will all be brown and scratched
With climbing after nest-eggs.   They'll go down
As many rat-holes as are round the mere;
And you'll love mud, all manner of mud and dirt,
As your father did afore you, and you'll wade
After young water-birds; and you'll get bogged
Setting of eel-traps, and you'll spoil your clothes,
And come home torn and dripping: then, you know,
You'll feel the stick—you'll feel the stick, my lad!

Enter FRANCES.

F.    You should not talk so to the blessed babe—
How can you, George? why, he maybe in heaven
Before the time you tell of.

M.                                                     Look at him:
So earnest, such an eager pair of eyes!
He thrives, my dear.

F.                                                     Yes, that he does,
        thank God!
My children are all strong.

M.                                                     'T is much to say;
Sick children fret their mothers' hearts to shreds,
And do no credit to their keep nor care.
Where is your little lass?

F.                                                     Your daughter came
And begged her of us for a week or so.

M.    Well, well, she might be wiser, that she might,
For she can sit at ease and pay her way;
A sober husband, too—a cheerful man—
Honest as ever stepped, and fond of her;
Yet she is never easy, never glad,
Because she has not children.   Well-a-day!
If she could know how hard her mother worked,
And what ado I had, and what a moil
With my half-dozen!   Children, ay, forsooth,
They bring their own love with them when they come,
But if they come not there is peace and rest;
The pretty lambs! and yet she cries for more:
Why, the world's full of them, and so is heaven—
They are not rare.

G.                                                     No, mother, not at all;
But Hannah must not keep our Fanny long—
She spoils her.

M.     Ah! folks spoil their children now;
When I was a young woman 'twas not so;
We made our children fear us, made them work.
Kept them in order.

G.    Were not proud of them—
Eh, mother?

M.    I set store by mine, 't is true,
But then I had good cause.

G.                                                     My lad, d'ye hear?
Your Granny was not proud, by no means proud!
She never spoilt your father—no, not she,
Nor ever made him sing at harvest-home,
Nor at the forge, nor at the baker's shop,
Nor to the doctor while she lay abed
Sick, and he crept upstairs to share her broth.

M.    Well, well, you were my youngest, and, what's
        more,
Your father loved to hear you sing—he did,
Although, good man, he could not tell one tune
From the other.

F.     No, he got his voice from you:
Do use it, George, and send the child to sleep.

G.    What must I sing?

F.                                                     The ballad of the man
That is so shy he cannot speak his mind.

G.    Ay, of the purple grapes and crimson leaves;
But, mother, put your shawl and bonnet off.
And, Frances, lass, I brought some cresses in:
Just wash them, toast the bacon, break some eggs,
And let's to supper shortly.

[Sings.]

Why, you young rascal! who would think it, now?
No sooner do I stop than you look up.
What would you have your poor old father do?
'Twas a brave song, long-winded, and not loud.

M.    He heard the bacon sputter on the fork,
And heard his mother's step across the floor.
Where did you get that song?—'t is new to me

G.     I bought it of a pedlar.

M.                                                     Did you so?
Well, you were always for the love-songs, George.

F.     My dear, just lay his head upon your arm,
And if you'll pace and sing two minutes more
He needs must sleep—his eyes are full of sleep.

G.     Do you sing, mother.

F. Ay, good mother, do;
'Tis long since we have heard you.

M.                                                     Like enough;
I'm an old woman, and the girls and lads
I used to sing to sleep o'ertop me now.
What should I sing for?

G.    Why, to pleasure us.
Sing in the chimney corner, where you sit,
And I'll pace gently with the little one.

[Mother sings.]

F.    Asleep at last, and time he was, indeed.
Turn back the cradle-quilt, and lay him in;
And, mother, will you please to draw your chair?—
The supper's ready.