Calibre

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.
From a sorrow-clouded eye,
And a heart sorrow-laden,
A long, long sigh,
For the cold strange eyes of a little mermaiden,
And the gleam of her golden hair.

Come away, away, children;

Come, children, come down!
The hoarse wind blows colder;
Lights shine in the town.
She will start from her slumber
When gusts shake the door:
She will hear the winds howling,
Will hear the waves roar.
We shall see, while above us
The waves roar and whirl,
A ceiling of amber,
A pavement of pearl.
Singing, “Here came a mortal,
But faithless was she!
And alone dwell forever
The kings of the sea.”

But, children, at midnight,

When soft the winds blow,
When clear falls the moonlight,
When spring-tides are low;
When sweet airs come seaward
From heaths starred with broom,
And high rocks throw mildly
On the blanched sands a gloom;
Up the still, glistening beaches,
Up the creeks we will hie,
Over banks of bright seaweed
The ebb-tide leaves dry.
We will gaze, from the sand-hills,
At the white sleeping town;
At the white sleeping town;
At the church on the hill-side,
And then come back down,
Singing, “There dwells a loved one,
But cruel is she!
She left lonely forever
The kings of the sea.”
 SONNETS.

AUSTERITY OF POETRY.

That son of Italy who tried to blow,[8]

Ere Dante came, the trump of sacred song,
In his light youth amid a festal throng
Sate with his bride to see a public show.

Fair was the bride, and on her front did glow

Youth like a star; and what to youth belong,—
Gay raiment sparkling gauds, elation strong.
A prop gave way! crash fell a platform! Lo,

Mid struggling sufferers, hurt to death, she lay!

Shuddering, they drew her garments off—and found
A robe of sackcloth next the smooth, white skin.

Such, poets, is your bride, the Muse! young, gay,

Radiant, adorned outside; a hidden ground
Of thought and of austerity within.

A PICTURE AT NEWSTEAD.
What made my heart, at Newstead, fullest swell?—
’Twas not the thought of Byron, of his cry
Stormily sweet, his Titan-agony;
It was the sight of that Lord Arundel
Who struck, in heat, his child he loved so well,
And his child’s reason flickered, and did die.
Painted (he willed it) in the gallery
They hang; the picture doth the story tell.

Behold the stern, mailed father, staff in hand!

The little fair-haired son, with vacant gaze,
Where no more lights of sense or knowledge are!

Methinks the woe, which made that father stand

Baring his dumb remorse to future days,
Was woe than Byron’s woe more tragic far.

RACHEL.
I.
In Paris all looked hot and like to fade;
Sere, in the garden of the Tuileries,
Sere with September, drooped the chestnut-trees; was dawn, a brougham
rolled through the streets, and made

Halt at the white and silent colonnade

Of the French Theatre. Worn with disease,
Rachel, with eyes no gazing can appease,
Sate in the brougham, and those blank walls surveyed.

She follows the gay world, whose swarms have fled

To Switzerland, to Baden, to the Rhine;
Why stops she by this empty playhouse drear?

Ah! where the spirit its highest life hath led,

All spots, matched with that spot, are less divine;
And Rachel’s Switzerland, her Rhine, is here!

II.
Unto a lonely villa, in a dell
Above the fragrant warm Provençal shore,
The dying Rachel in a chair they bore
Up the steep pine-plumed paths of the Estrelle,

And laid her in a stately room, where fell

The shadow of a marble Muse of yore,—
The rose-crowned queen of legendary lore,
Polymnia,—full on her death-bed. ’Twas well!

The fret and misery of our northern towns,

In this her life’s last day, our poor, our pain,
Our jangle of false wits, our climate’s frowns,

Do for this radiant Greek-souled artist cease:

Sole object of her dying eyes remain
The beauty and the glorious art of Greece.

III.
Sprung from the blood of Israel’s scattered race,
At a mean inn in German Aarau born,
To forms from antique Greece and Rome uptorn,
Tricked out with a Parisian speech and face,

Imparting life renewed, old classic grace;

Then soothing with thy Christian strain forlorn,
A-Kempis! her departing soul outworn,
While by her bedside Hebrew rites have place,—

Ah! not the radiant spirit of Greece alone

She had—one power, which made her breast its home.
In her, like us, there clashed, contending powers,

Germany, France, Christ, Moses, Athens, Rome.

The strife, the mixture in her soul, are ours;
Her genius and her glory are her own.

WORLDLY PLACE.
Even in a palace, life may be led well!
So spake the imperial sage, purest of men,
Marcus Aurelius. But the stifling den
Of common life, where, crowded up pell-mell,

Our freedom for a little bread we sell,

And drudge under some foolish master’s ken
Who rates us if we peer outside our pen,—
Matched with a palace, is not this a hell?

Even in a palace! On his truth sincere,

Who spoke these words, no shadow ever came;
And when my ill-schooled spirit is aflame

Some nobler, ampler stage of life to win,

I’ll stop, and say, “There were no succor here!
The aids to noble life are all within.”

EAST LONDON.
’Twas August, and the fierce sun overhead
Smote on the squalid streets of Bethnal Green,
And the pale weaver, through his windows seen
In Spitalfields, looked thrice dispirited.

I met a preacher there I knew, and said,—

“Ill and o’erworked, how fare you in this scene?”
“Bravely!” said he; “for I of late have been
Much cheered with thoughts of Christ, the living bread.”

O human soul! as long as thou canst so

Set up a mark of everlasting light,
Above the howling senses’ ebb and flow,

To cheer thee, and to right thee if thou roam,—

Not with lost toil thou laborest through the night!
Thou mak’st the heaven thou hop’st indeed thy home.

WEST LONDON.
Crouched on the pavement, close by Belgrave Square,
A tramp I saw, ill, moody, and tongue-tied;
A babe was in her arms, and at her side
A girl; their clothes were rags, their feet were bare.

Some laboring-men, whose work lay somewhere there,

Passed opposite; she touched her girl, who hied
Across, and begged, and came back satisfied.
The rich she had let pass with frozen stare.

Thought I, “Above her state this spirit towers;

She will not ask of aliens, but of friends,
Of sharers in a common human fate.

She turns from that cold succor, which attends

The unknown little from the unknowing great,
And points us to a better time than ours.”

EAST AND WEST.

In the bare midst of Anglesey they show
Two springs which close by one another play;
And, “Thirteen hundred years agone,” they say,
“Two saints met often where those waters flow.

One came from Penmon westward, and a glow

Whitened his face from the sun’s fronting ray;
Eastward the other, from the dying day,
And he with unsunned face did always go.”

Seiriol the Bright, Kybi the Dark! men said.

The seer from the East was then in light,
The seer from the West was then in shade.
Ah! now ’tis changed. In conquering sunshine bright
The man of the bold West now comes arrayed:
He of the mystic East is touched with night.

THE BETTER PART.

Long fed on boundless hopes, O race of man,
How angrily thou spurn’st all simpler fare!
“Christ,” some one says, “was human as we are;
No judge eyes us from heaven, our sin to scan;

We live no more, when we have done our span.”

“Well, then, for Christ,” thou answerest, “who can care?
From sin which Heaven records not, why forbear?
Live we like brutes our life without a plan!”

So answerest thou; but why not rather say,—

“Hath man no second life? Pitch this one high!
Sits there no judge in heaven, our sin to see?

More strictly, then, the inward judge obey!

Was Christ a man like us? Ah! let us try
If we then, too, can be such men as he!”

THE DIVINITY.
“Yes, write it in the rock,” Saint Bernard said,
“Grave it on brass with adamantine pen!
’Tis God himself becomes apparent, when
God’s wisdom and God’s goodness are displayed;

For God of these his attributes is made.”—

Well spake the impetuous saint, and bore of men
The suffrage captive: now not one in ten
Recalls the obscure opposer he outweighed.[9]

God’s wisdom and God’s goodness! Ay, but fools

Mis-define these till God knows them no more.
Wisdom and goodness, they are God!—what schools

Have yet so much as heard this simpler lore?

This no saint preaches, and this no Church rules;
’Tis in the desert, now and heretofore.

IMMORTALITY.
 Foiled by our fellow-men, depressed, outworn,
We leave the brutal world to take its way,
And, Patience! in another life, we say,
The world shall be thrust down, and we upborne.

And will not, then, the immortal armies scorn

The world’s poor, routed leavings? or will they
Who failed under the heat of this life’s day
Support the fervors of the heavenly morn?

No, no! the energy of life may be

Kept on after the grave, but not begun;
And he who flagged not in the earthly strife,

From strength to strength advancing,—only he,

His soul well-knit, and all his battles won,
Mounts, and that hardly, to eternal life.

THE GOOD SHEPHERD WITH THE KID.

He saves the sheep, the goats he doth not save.
So rang Tertullian’s sentence, on the side
Of that unpitying Phrygian sect which cried,[10]
“Him can no fount of fresh forgiveness lave,
Who sins, once washed by the baptismal wave.”
So spake the fierce Tertullian. But she sighed,
The infant Church! of love she felt the tide
Stream on her from her Lord’s yet recent grave.

And then she smiled; and in the Catacombs,

With eye suffused but heart inspired true,
On those walls subterranean, where she hid

Her head ’mid ignominy, death, and tombs,

She her Good Shepherd’s hasty image drew—
And on his shoulders, not a lamb, a kid.

MONICA’S LAST PRAYER.[11]

“Ah! could thy grave at home, at Carthage, be!”
Care not for that, and lay me where I fall!
Everywhere heard will be the judgment-call;
But at God’s altar, oh! remember me.

Thus Monica, and died in Italy.

Yet fervent had her longing been, through all
Her course, for home at last, and burial
With her own husband, by the Libyan sea.

Had been! but at the end, to her pure soul

All tie with all beside seemed vain and cheap,
And union before God the only care.

Creeds pass, rites change, no altar standeth whole.

Yet we her memory, as she prayed, will keep,
Keep by this: Life in God, and union there!
LYRIC AND DRAMATIC POEMS.

SWITZERLAND.
I. MEETING.

Again I see my bliss at hand,

The town, the lake, are here;
My Marguerite smiles upon the strand,[12]
Unaltered with the year.

I know that graceful figure fair,

That cheek of languid hue;
I know that soft, enkerchiefed hair,
And those sweet eyes of blue.

Again I spring to make my choice;

Again in tones of ire
I hear a God’s tremendous voice,—
“Be counselled, and retire.”

Ye guiding Powers who join and part,

What would ye have with me?
Ah, warn some more ambitious heart,
And let the peaceful be!

II. PARTING.
 Ye storm-winds of autumn!
Who rush by, who shake
The window, and ruffle
The gleam-lighted lake;
Who cross to the hillside
Thin-sprinkled with farms,
Where the high woods strip sadly
Their yellowing arms,—
Ye are bound for the mountains!
Ah! with you let me go
Where your cold, distant barrier,
The vast range of snow,
Through the loose clouds lifts dimly
Its white peaks in air.
How deep is their stillness!
Ah! would I were there!

But on the stairs what voice is this I hear,

Buoyant as morning, and as morning clear?
Say, has some wet bird-haunted English lawn
Lent it the music of its trees at dawn?
Or was it from some sun-flecked mountain brook
That the sweet voice its upland clearness took?
Ah! it comes nearer—
Sweet notes, this way!

Hark! fast by the window

The rushing winds go,
To the ice-cumbered gorges,
The vast seas of snow!
There the torrents drive upward
Their rock-strangled hum;
There the avalanche thunders
The hoarse torrent dumb.
—I come, O ye mountains!
Ye torrents I come!
 Ye torrents, I come!

But who is this, by the half-opened door,

Whose figure casts a shadow on the floor?
The sweet blue eyes—the soft, ash-colored hair—
The cheeks that still their gentle paleness wear—
The lovely lips, with their arched smile that tells
The unconquered joy in which her spirit dwells—
Ah! they bend nearer—
Sweet lips, this way!

Hark! the wind rushes past us!

Ah! with that let me go
To the clear, waning hill-side,
Unspotted by snow,
There to watch, o’er the sunk vale,
The frore mountain wall,
Where the niched snow-bed sprays down
Its powdery fall.
There its dusky blue clusters
The aconite spreads;
There the pines slope, the cloud-strips
Hung soft in their heads.
No life but, at moments,
The mountain bee’s hum.
—I come, O ye mountains!
Ye pine-woods, I come!

Forgive me! forgive me!

Ah, Marguerite, fain
Would these arms reach to clasp thee!
But see! ’tis in vain.

In the void air, towards thee,

My stretched arms are cast;
But a sea rolls between us,—
Our different past!
To the lips, ah! of others
Those lips have been prest,
And others, ere I was,
Were strained to that breast.

Far, far from each other

Our spirits have grown.
And what heart knows another?
Ah! who knows his own?

Blow, ye winds! lift me with you!

I come to the wild.
Fold closely, O Nature!
Thine arms round thy child.

To thee only God granted

A heart ever new,—
To all always open,
To all always true.

Ah! calm me, restore me;

And dry up my tears
On thy high mountain platforms,
Where morn first appears;

Where the white mists, forever,

Are spread and upfurled,—
In the stir of the forces
Whence issued the world.

III. A FAREWELL.
My horse’s feet beside the lake,
Where sweet the unbroken moonbeams lay,
Sent echoes through the night to wake
Each glistening strand, each heath-fringed bay.

The poplar avenue was passed,

And the roofed bridge that spans the stream;
Up the steep street I hurried fast,
Led by thy taper’s starlike beam.

I came! I saw thee rise! the blood

Poured flushing to thy languid cheek.
Locked in each other’s arms we stood,
In tears, with hearts too full to speak.

Days flew; ah, soon I could discern

A trouble in thine altered air!
Thy hand lay languidly in mine,
Thy cheek was grave, thy speech grew rare.

I blame thee not! This heart, I know,

To be long loved was never framed;
For something in its depths doth glow
Too strange, too restless, too untamed.

And women,—things that live and move

Mined by the fever of the soul,—
They seek to find in those they love
Stern strength, and promise of control.

They ask not kindness, gentle ways;

These they themselves have tried and known:
They ask a soul which never sways
With the blind gusts that shake their own.

I too have felt the load I bore

I t t ti ’
In a too strong emotion’s sway;
I too have wished, no woman more,
This starting, feverish heart away.

I too have longed for trenchant force,

And will like a dividing spear;
Have praised the keen, unscrupulous course,
Which knows no doubt, which feels no fear.

But in the world I learnt, what there

Thou too wilt surely one day prove,—
That will, that energy, though rare,
Are yet far, far less rare than love.

Go, then! till time and fate impress

This truth on thee, be mine no more!
They will! for thou, I feel, not less
Than I, wast destined to this lore.

We school our manners, act our parts;

But He, who sees us through and through,
Knows that the bent of both our hearts
Was to be gentle, tranquil, true.

And though we wear out life, alas!

Distracted as a homeless wind,
In beating where we must not pass,
In seeking what we shall not find;

Yet we shall one day gain, life past,

Clear prospect o’er our being’s whole;
Shall see ourselves, and learn at last
Our true affinities of soul.

We shall not then deny a course

To every thought the mass ignore;
We shall not then call hardness force,
Nor lightness wisdom any more
Nor lightness wisdom any more.

Then, in the eternal Father’s smile,

Our soothed, encouraged souls will dare
To seem as free from pride and guile,
As good, as generous, as they are.

Then we shall know our friends! Though much

Will have been lost,—the help in strife,
The thousand sweet, still joys of such
As hand in hand face earthly life,—

Though these be lost, there will be yet

A sympathy august and pure;
Ennobled by a vast regret,
And by contrition sealed thrice sure.

And we, whose ways were unlike here,

May then more neighboring courses ply;
May to each other be brought near,
And greet across infinity.

How sweet, unreached by earthly jars,

My sister! to maintain with thee
The hush among the shining stars,
The calm upon the moonlit sea!

How sweet to feel, on the boon air,

All our unquiet pulses cease!
To feel that nothing can impair
The gentleness, the thirst for peace,—

The gentleness too rudely hurled

On this wild earth of hate and fear;
The thirst for peace, a raving world
Would never let us satiate here.
IV. ISOLATION. TO MARGUERITE.
We were apart: yet, day by day,
I bade my heart more constant be.
I bade it keep the world away,
And grow a home for only thee;
Nor feared but thy love likewise grew,
Like mine, each day, more tried, more true.

The fault was grave! I might have known,

What far too soon, alas! I learned,—
The heart can bind itself alone,
And faith may oft be unreturned.
Self-swayed our feelings ebb and swell.
Thou lov’st no more. Farewell! Farewell!

Farewell!—And thou, thou lonely heart,

Which never yet without remorse
Even for a moment didst depart
From thy remote and spherèd course
To haunt the place where passions reign,—
Back to thy solitude again!

Back! with the conscious thrill of shame

Which Luna felt, that summer-night,
Flash through her pure immortal frame,
When she forsook the starry height
To hang o’er Endymion’s sleep
Upon the pine-grown Latmian steep.

Yet she, chaste queen, had never proved

How vain a thing is mortal love,
Wandering in heaven, far removed;
But thou hast long had place to prove
This truth,—to prove, and make thine own:
“Thou hast been, shalt be, art, alone.”

Or, if not quite alone, yet they

Which touch thee are unmating things,—
Ocean and clouds and night and day;
Lorn autumns and triumphant springs;
And life, and others’ joy and pain,
And love, if love, of happier men.

Of happier men; for they, at least,

Have dreamed two human hearts might blend
In one, and were through faith released
From isolation without end
Prolonged; nor knew, although not less
Alone than thou, their loneliness.

V. TO MARGUERITE. CONTINUED.
Yes! in the sea of life enisled,
With echoing straits between us thrown,
Dotting the shoreless watery wild,
We mortal millions live alone.
The islands feel the enclasping flow,
And then their endless bounds they know.

But when the moon their hollows lights,

And they are swept by balms of spring,
And in their glens, on starry nights,
The nightingales divinely sing;
And lovely notes, from shore to shore,
Across the sounds and channels pour,—

Oh! then a longing like despair

Is to their farthest caverns sent;
For surely once, they feel, we were
Parts of a single continent!
Now round us spreads the watery plain:
Oh, might our marges meet again!

Who ordered that their longing’s fire

Should be, as soon as kindled, cooled?
Who renders vain their deep desire?—
A God, a God their severance ruled!
And bade betwixt their shores to be
The unplumbed, salt, estranging sea.

VI. ABSENCE.
 In this fair stranger’s eyes of gray,
Thine eyes, my love! I see.
I shiver; for the passing day
Had borne me far from thee.

This is the curse of life! that not

A nobler, calmer train
Of wiser thoughts and feelings blot
Our passions from our brain;

But each day brings its petty dust,

Our soon-choked souls to fill;
And we forget because we must,
And not because we will.

I struggle towards the light; and ye,

Once-longed-for storms of love!
If with the light ye cannot be,
I bear that ye remove.

I struggle towards the light; but oh,

While yet the night is chill,
Upon time’s barren, stormy flow,
Stay with me, Marguerite, still!

VII. THE TERRACE AT BERNE.

(COMPOSED TEN YEARS AFTER THE PRECEDING.)
Ten years! and to my waking eye
Once more the roofs of Berne appear;
The rocky banks, the terrace high,
The stream! and do I linger here?

The clouds are on the Oberland,

The Jungfrau snows look faint and far;
But bright are those green fields at hand,
And through those fields comes down the Aar,

And from the blue twin-lakes it comes,

Flows by the town, the churchyard fair;
And ’neath the garden-walk it hums,
The house! and is my Marguerite there

Ah! shall I see thee, while a flush

Of startled pleasure floods thy brow,
Quick through the oleanders brush,
And clap thy hands, and cry, ’Tis thou!

Or hast thou long since wandered back,

Daughter of France! to France, thy home;
And flitted down the flowery track
Where feet like thine too lightly come?

Doth riotous laughter now replace

Thy smile, and rouge, with stony glare,
Thy cheek’s soft hue, and fluttering lace
The kerchief that inwound thy hair?

Or is it over? art thou dead?—

Dead!—and no warning shiver ran
Across my heart, to say thy thread
Of life was cut, and closed thy span!

Could from earth’s ways that figure slight

B l t d I t f l ’t ?
Be lost, and I not feel ’twas so?
Of that fresh voice the gay delight
Fail from earth’s air, and I not know?

Or shall I find thee still, but changed,

But not the Marguerite of thy prime?
With all thy being re-arranged,—
Passed through the crucible of time;

With spirit vanished, beauty waned,

And hardly yet a glance, a tone,
A gesture—any thing—retained
Of all that was my Marguerite’s own?

I will not know! For wherefore try,

To things by mortal course that live,
A shadowy durability,
For which they were not meant, to give?

Like driftwood spars, which meet and pass

Upon the boundless ocean-plain,
So on the sea of life, alas!
Man meets man,—meets, and quits again.

I knew it when my life was young;

I feel it still now youth is o’er.
—The mists are on the mountain hung,
And Marguerite I shall see no more.

THE STRAYED REVELLER.

THE PORTICO OF CIRCE’S PALACE. EVENING.

A Youth. Circe.
 THE YOUTH.

Faster, faster,
O Circe, goddess,
Let the wild, thronging train,
The bright procession
Of eddying forms,
Sweep through my soul!

Thou standest, smiling

Down on me! thy right arm,
Leaned up against the column there,
Props thy soft cheek;
Thy left holds, hanging loosely,
The deep cup, ivy-cinctured,
I held but now.

Is it then evening
So soon? I see, the night-dews,
Clustered in thick beads, dim
The agate brooch-stones
On thy white shoulder;
The cool night-wind, too,
Blows through the portico,
Stirs thy hair, goddess,
Waves thy white robe!
CIRCE.

Whence art thou, sleeper?

THE YOUTH.

When the white dawn first

Through the rough fir-planks
Of my hut, by the chestnuts,
Up at the valley-head,
Came breaking, goddess!
I sprang up, I threw round me
My dappled fawn-skin;
Passing out, from the wet turf,
Where they lay, by the hut door,
I snatched up my vine-crown, my fir-staff,
All drenched in dew,—
Came swift down to join
The rout early gathered
In the town, round the temple,
Iacchus’ white fane
On yonder hill.

Quick I passed, following

The woodcutters’ cart-track
Down the dark valley. I saw
On my left, through the beeches,
Thy palace, goddess,
Smokeless, empty!
Trembling, I entered; beheld
The court all silent,
The lions sleeping,
On the altar this bowl.
I drank, goddess!
And sank down here, sleeping,
On the steps of thy portico.
CIRCE.

Foolish boy! Why tremblest thou?

Thou lovest it, then, my wine?
Wouldst more of it? See how glows,
Through the delicate, flushed marble,
The red creaming liquor,
Strewn with dark seeds!
Drink, then! I chide thee not,
Deny thee not my bowl.
 y y
Come, stretch forth thy hand, then—so!
Drink—drink again!
THE YOUTH.

Thanks, gracious one!

Ah, the sweet fumes again!
More soft, ah me!
More subtle-winding,
Than Pan’s flute-music!
Faint—faint! Ah me,
Again the sweet sleep!
CIRCE.

Hist! Thou—within there!

Come forth, Ulysses!
Art tired with hunting?
While we range the woodland,
See what the day brings.
ULYSSES.

Ever new magic!

Hast thou then lured hither,
Wonderful goddess, by thy art,
The young, languid-eyed Ampelus,
Iacchus’ darling,
Or some youth beloved of Pan,
Of Pan and the nymphs;
That he sits, bending downward
His white, delicate neck
To the ivy-wreathed marge
Of thy cup; the bright, glancing vine-leaves
That crown his hair,
Falling forward, mingling
With the dark ivy-plants;
His fawn-skin half untied