The Sisters



  We were two daughters of one race:
  She was the fairest in the face:
  The wind is blowing in turret and tree.
  They were together and she fell;
  Therefore revenge became me well.
  O the Earl was fair to see!

  She died: she went to burning flame:
  She mix'd her ancient blood with shame.
  The wind is howling in turret and tree.
  Whole weeks and months, and early and late,
  To win his love I lay in wait:
  O the Earl was fair to see!

  I made a feast; I bad him come;
  I won his love, I brought him home.
  The wind is roaring in turret and tree.
  And after supper, on a bed,
  Upon my lap he laid his head:
  O the Earl was fair to see!

  I kiss'd his eyelids into rest:
  His ruddy cheek upon my breast.
  The wind is raging in turret and tree.
  I hated him with the hate of hell,
  But I loved his beauty passing well.
  O the Earl was fair to see!

  I rose up in the silent night:
  I made my dagger sharp and bright.
  The wind is raving in turret and tree.
  As half-asleep his breath he drew,
  Three times I stabb'd him thro' and thro'.
  O the Earl was fair to see!

  I curl'd and comb'd his comely head,
  He look'd so grand when he was dead.
  The wind is blowing in turret and tree.
  I wrapt his body in the sheet,
  And laid him at his mother's feet.
  O the Earl was fair to see!

To-----

With The Following Poem



  I send you here a sort of allegory,
  (For you will understand it) of a soul,
  A sinful soul possess'd of many gifts,
  A spacious garden full of flowering weeds,
  A glorious Devil, large in heart and brain,
  That did love Beauty only, (Beauty seen
  In all varieties of mould and mind)
  And Knowledge for its beauty; or if Good,
  Good only for its beauty, seeing not
  That beauty, Good, and Knowledge, are three sisters
  That doat upon each other, friends to man,
  Living together under the same roof,
  And never can be sunder'd without tears.
  And he that shuts Love out, in turn shall be
  Shut out from Love, and on her threshold lie
  Howling in outer darkness. Not for this
  Was common clay ta'en from the common earth,
  Moulded by God, and temper'd with the tears
  Of angels to the perfect shape of man.

The Palace of Art



  I built my soul a lordly pleasure-house
  Wherein at ease for aye to dwell.
  I said, "O Soul, make merry and carouse,
  Dear soul, for all is well".

  A huge crag-platform, smooth as burnish'd brass,
  I chose. The ranged ramparts bright
  From level meadow-bases of deep grass
  Suddenly scaled the light.

  Thereon I built it firm. Of ledge or shelf
  The rock rose clear, or winding stair.
  My soul would live alone unto herself
  In her high palace there.

  And "while the world runs round and round,"
  I said, "Reign thou apart, a quiet king,
  Still as, while Saturn whirls, his stedfast shade
  Sleeps on his luminous ring."

  To which my soul made answer readily:
  "Trust me, in bliss I shall abide
  In this great mansion, that is built for me,
  So royal-rich and wide"

  *       *       *       *      *

  Four courts I made, East, West and South and North,
  In each a squared lawn, wherefrom
  The golden gorge of dragons spouted forth
  A flood of fountain-foam.

  And round the cool green courts there ran a row
  Of cloisters, branch'd like mighty woods,
  Echoing all night to that sonorous flow
  Of spouted fountain-floods.

  And round the roofs a gilded gallery
  That lent broad verge to distant lands,
  Far as the wild swan wings, to where the sky
  Dipt down to sea and sands.

  From those four jets four currents in one swell
  Across the mountain stream'd below
  In misty folds, that floating as they fell
  Lit up a torrent-bow.

  And high on every peak a statue seem'd
  To hang on tiptoe, tossing up
  A cloud of incense of all odour steam'd
  From out a golden cup.

  So that she thought, "And who shall gaze upon
  My palace with unblinded eyes,
  While this great bow will waver in the sun,
  And that sweet incense rise?"

  For that sweet incense rose and never fail'd,
  And, while day sank or mounted higher,
  The light aerial gallery, golden-rail'd,
  Burnt like a fringe of fire.

  Likewise the deep-set windows, stain'd and traced,
  Would seem slow-flaming crimson fires
  From shadow'd grots of arches interlaced,
  And tipt with frost-like spires.

  *       *       *       *       *

  Full of long-sounding corridors it was,
  That over-vaulted grateful gloom,
  Thro' which the livelong day my soul did pass,
  Well-pleased, from room to room.

  Full of great rooms and small the palace stood,
  All various, each a perfect whole
  From living Nature, fit for every mood
  And change of my still soul.

  For some were hung with arras green and blue,
  Showing a gaudy summer-morn,
  Where with puff'd cheek the belted hunter blew
  His wreathed bugle-horn.

  One seem'd all dark and red--a tract of sand,
  And some one pacing there alone,
  Who paced for ever in a glimmering land,
  Lit with a low large moon.

  One show'd an iron coast and angry waves.
  You seem'd to hear them climb and fall
  And roar rock-thwarted under bellowing caves,
  Beneath the windy wall.

  And one, a full-fed river winding slow
  By herds upon an endless plain,
  The ragged rims of thunder brooding low,
  With shadow-streaks of rain.

  And one, the reapers at their sultry toil.
  In front they bound the sheaves.
  Behind Were realms of upland, prodigal in oil,
  And hoary to the wind.

  And one, a foreground black with stones and slags,
  Beyond, a line of heights, and higher
  All barr'd with long white cloud the scornful crags,
  And highest, snow and fire.

  And one, an English home--gray twilight pour'd
  On dewy pastures, dewy trees,
  Softer than sleep--all things in order stored,
  A haunt of ancient Peace.

  Nor these alone, but every landscape fair,
  As fit for every mood of mind,
  Or gay, or grave, or sweet, or stern, was there,
  Not less than truth design'd.

  *          *          *          *

  Or the maid-mother by a crucifix,
  In tracts of pasture sunny-warm,
  Beneath branch-work of costly sardonyx
  Sat smiling, babe in arm.

  Or in a clear-wall'd city on the sea,
  Near gilded organ-pipes, her hair
  Wound with white roses, slept St. Cecily;
  An angel look'd at her.

  Or thronging all one porch of Paradise,
  A group of Houris bow'd to see
  The dying Islamite, with hands and eyes
  That said, We wait for thee.

  Or mythic Uther's deeply-wounded son
  In some fair space of sloping greens
  Lay, dozing in the vale of Avalon,
  And watch'd by weeping queens.

  Or hollowing one hand against his ear,
  To list a foot-fall, ere he saw
  The wood-nymph, stay'd the Ausonian king to hear
  Of wisdom and of law.

  Or over hills with peaky tops engrail'd,
  And many a tract of palm and rice,
  The throne of Indian Cama slowly sail'd
  A summer fann'd with spice.

  Or sweet Europa's mantle blew unclasp'd,
  From off her shoulder backward borne:
  From one hand droop'd a crocus: one hand grasp'd
  The mild bull's golden horn.

  Or else flush'd Ganymede, his rosy thigh
  Half-buried in the Eagle's down,
  Sole as a flying star shot thro' the sky
  Above the pillar'd town.

  Nor these alone: but every legend fair
  Which the supreme Caucasian mind
  Carved out of Nature for itself, was there,
  Not less than life, design'd.

   *       *       *       *

  Then in the towers I placed great bells that swung,
  Moved of themselves, with silver sound;
  And with choice paintings of wise men I hung
  The royal dais round.

  For there was Milton like a seraph strong,
  Beside him Shakespeare bland and mild;
  And there the world-worn Dante grasp'd his song,
  And somewhat grimly smiled.

  And there the Ionian father of the rest;
  A million wrinkles carved his skin;
  A hundred winters snow'd upon his breast,
  From cheek and throat and chin.

  Above, the fair hall-ceiling stately set
  Many an arch high up did lift,
  And angels rising and descending met
  With interchange of gift.

  Below was all mosaic choicely plann'd
  With cycles of the human tale
  Of this wide world, the times of every land
  So wrought, they will not fail.

  The people here, a beast of burden slow,
  Toil'd onward, prick'd with goads and stings;
  Here play'd, a tiger, rolling to and fro
  The heads and crowns of kings;

  Here rose, an athlete, strong to break or bind
  All force in bonds that might endure,
  And here once more like some sick man declined,
  And trusted any cure.

  But over these she trod: and those great bells
  Began to chime. She took her throne:
  She sat betwixt the shining Oriels,
  To sing her songs alone.

  And thro' the topmost Oriels' colour'd flame
  Two godlike faces gazed below;
  Plato the wise, and large-brow'd Verulam,
  The first of those who know.

  And all those names, that in their motion were
  Full-welling fountain-heads of change,
  Betwixt the slender shafts were blazon'd fair
  In diverse raiment strange:

  Thro' which the lights, rose, amber, emerald, blue,
  Flush'd in her temples and her eyes,
  And from her lips, as morn from Memnon, drew
  Rivers of melodies.

  No nightingale delighteth to prolong
  Her low preamble all alone,
  More than my soul to hear her echo'd song
  Throb thro' the ribbed stone;

  Singing and murmuring in her feastful mirth,
  Joying to feel herself alive,
  Lord over Nature, Lord of the visible earth,
  Lord of the senses five;

  Communing with herself: "All these are mine,
  And let the world have peace or wars,
  Tis one to me". She--when young night divine
  Crown'd dying day with stars,

  Making sweet close of his delicious toils--
  Lit light in wreaths and anadems,
  And pure quintessences of precious oils
  In hollow'd moons of gems,

  To mimic heaven; and clapt her hands and cried,
  "I marvel if my still delight
  In this great house so royal-rich, and wide,
  Be flatter'd to the height.

  "O all things fair to sate my various eyes!
  O shapes and hues that please me well!
  O silent faces of the Great and Wise,
  My Gods, with whom I dwell!

  "O God-like isolation which art mine,
  I can but count thee perfect gain,
  What time I watch the darkening droves of swine
  That range on yonder plain.

  "In filthy sloughs they roll a prurient skin,
  They graze and wallow, breed and sleep;
  And oft some brainless devil enters in,
  And drives them to the deep."

  Then of the moral instinct would she prate,
  And of the rising from the dead,
  As hers by right of full-accomplish'd Fate;
  And at the last she said:

  "I take possession of man's mind and deed.
  I care not what the sects may brawl,
  I sit as God holding no form of creed,
  But contemplating all."

      *          *          *

  Full oft the riddle of the painful earth
  Flash'd thro' her as she sat alone,
  Yet not the less held she her solemn mirth,
  And intellectual throne.

  And so she throve and prosper'd: so three years
  She prosper'd: on the fourth she fell,
  Like Herod, when the shout was in his ears,
  Struck thro' with pangs of hell.

  Lest she should fail and perish utterly,
  God, before whom ever lie bare
  The abysmal deeps of Personality,
  Plagued her with sore despair.

  When she would think, where'er she turn'd her sight,
  The airy hand confusion wrought,
  Wrote "Mene, mene," and divided quite
  The kingdom of her thought.

  Deep dread and loathing of her solitude
  Fell on her, from which mood was born
  Scorn of herself; again, from out that mood
  Laughter at her self-scorn.

  "What! is not this my place of strength," she said,
  "My spacious mansion built for me,
  Whereof the strong foundation-stones were laid
  Since my first memory?"

  But in dark corners of her palace stood
  Uncertain shapes; and unawares
  On white-eyed phantasms weeping tears of blood,
  And horrible nightmares,

  And hollow shades enclosing hearts of flame,
  And, with dim fretted foreheads all,
  On corpses three-months-old at noon she came,
  That stood against the wall.

  A spot of dull stagnation, without light
  Or power of movement, seem'd my soul,
  'Mid onward-sloping motions infinite
  Making for one sure goal.

  A still salt pool, lock'd in with bars of sand;
  Left on the shore; that hears all night
  The plunging seas draw backward from the land
  Their moon-led waters white.

  A star that with the choral starry dance
  Join'd not, but stood, and standing saw
  The hollow orb of moving Circumstance
  Roll'd round by one fix'd law.

  Back on herself her serpent pride had curl'd.
  "No voice," she shriek'd in that lone hall,
  "No voice breaks thro' the stillness of this world:
  One deep, deep silence all!"

  She, mouldering with the dull earth's mouldering sod,
  Inwrapt tenfold in slothful shame,
  Lay there exiled from eternal God,
  Lost to her place and name;

  And death and life she hated equally,
  And nothing saw, for her despair,
  But dreadful time, dreadful eternity,
  No comfort anywhere;

  Remaining utterly confused with fears,
  And ever worse with growing time,
  And ever unrelieved by dismal tears,
  And all alone in crime:

  Shut up as in a crumbling tomb, girt round
  With blackness as a solid wall,
  Far off she seem'd to hear the dully sound
  Of human footsteps fall.

  As in strange lands a traveller walking slow,
  In doubt and great perplexity,
  A little before moon-rise hears the low
  Moan of an unknown sea;

  And knows not if it be thunder or a sound
  Of rocks thrown down, or one deep cry
  Of great wild beasts; then thinketh, "I have found
  A new land, but I die".

  She howl'd aloud, "I am on fire within.
  There comes no murmur of reply.
  What is it that will take away my sin,
  And save me lest I die?"

  So when four years were wholly finished,
  She threw her royal robes away.
  "Make me a cottage in the vale," she said,
  "Where I may mourn and pray.

  "Yet pull not down my palace towers, that are
  So lightly, beautifully built:
  Perchance I may return with others there
  When I have purged my guilt."

Lady Clara Vere de Vere


  Lady Clara Vere de Vere,
  Of me you shall not win renown:
  You thought to break a country heart
  For pastime, ere you went to town.
  At me you smiled, but unbeguiled
  I saw the snare, and I retired:
  The daughter of a hundred Earls,
  You are not one to be desired.

  Lady Clara Vere de Vere,
  I know you proud to bear your name,
  Your pride is yet no mate for mine,
  Too proud to care from whence I came.
  Nor would I break for your sweet sake
  A heart that doats on truer charms.
  A simple maiden in her flower
  Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms.

  Lady Clara Vere de Vere,
  Some meeker pupil you must find,
  For were you queen of all that is,
  I could not stoop to such a mind.
  You sought to prove how I could love,
  And my disdain is my reply.
  The lion on your old stone gates
  Is not more cold to you than I.

  Lady Clara Vere de Vere,
  You put strange memories in my head.
  Not thrice your branching limes have blown
  Since I beheld young Laurence dead.
  Oh your sweet eyes, your low replies:
  A great enchantress you may be;
  But there was that across his throat
  Which you hardly cared to see.

  Lady Clara Vere de Vere,
  When thus he met his mother's view,
  She had the passions of her kind,
  She spake some certain truths of you.

  Indeed I heard one bitter word
  That scarce is fit for you to hear;
  Her manners had not that repose
  Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere.

  Lady Clara Vere de Vere,
  There stands a spectre in your hall:
  The guilt of blood is at your door:
  You changed a wholesome heart to gall.
  You held your course without remorse,
  To make him trust his modest worth,
  And, last, you fix'd a vacant stare,
  And slew him with your noble birth.

  Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere,
  From yon blue heavens above us bent
  The grand old gardener and his wife
  Smile at the claims of long descent.
  Howe'er it be, it seems to me,
  'Tis only noble to be good.
  Kind hearts are more than coronets,
  And simple faith than Norman blood.

  I know you, Clara Vere de Vere:
  You pine among your halls and towers:
  The languid light of your proud eyes
  Is wearied of the rolling hours.
  In glowing health, with boundless wealth,
  But sickening of a vague disease,
  You know so ill to deal with time,
  You needs must play such pranks as these.

  Clara, Clara Vere de Vere,
  If Time be heavy on your hands,
  Are there no beggars at your gate,
  Nor any poor about your lands?
  Oh! teach the orphan-boy to read,
  Or teach the orphan-girl to sew,
  Pray Heaven for a human heart,
  And let the foolish yoeman go.

The May Queen


The scenery is typical of Lincolnshire; in Fitzgerald's phrase, it is
all Lincolnshire inland, as 'Locksley Hall' is seaboard.

  You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear;
  To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year;
  Of all the glad New-year, mother, the maddest merriest day;
  For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

  There's many a black, black eye, they say, but none so bright as mine;
  There's Margaret and Mary, there's Kate and Caroline:
  But none so fair as little Alice in all the land they say,
  So I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

  I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake,
  If you [2] do not call me loud when the day begins to break:
  But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and garlands gay,
  For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

  As I came up the valley whom think ye should I see,
  But Robin [3] leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel-tree?
  He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yesterday,--
  But I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

  He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white,
  And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of light.
  They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what they say,
  For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

  They say he's dying all for love, but that can never be:
  They say his heart is breaking, mother--what is that to me?
  There's many a bolder lad 'ill woo me any summer day,
  And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

  Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the green,
  And you'll be there, too, mother, to see me made the Queen;
  For the shepherd lads on every side 'ill come from far away,
  And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

  The honeysuckle round the porch has wov'n its wavy bowers,
  And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers;
  And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and hollows gray,
  And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

  The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow-grass,
  And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as they pass;
  There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the live-long day,
  And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

  All the valley, mother, 'ill be fresh and green and still,
  And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill,
  And the rivulet in the flowery dale 'ill merrily glance and play,
  For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

  So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear,
  To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year:
  To-morrow 'ill be of all the year the maddest merriest day,
  For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

New-Year's Eve


  If you're waking call me early, call me early, mother dear,
  For I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year.
  It is the last New-year that I shall ever see,
  Then you may lay me low i' the mould and think no more of me.

  To-night I saw the sun set: he set and left behind
  The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of mind;
  And the New-year's coming up, mother, but I shall never see
  The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree.

  Last May we made a crown of flowers: we had a merry day;
  Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen of May;
  And we danced about the may-pole and in the hazel copse,
  Till Charles's Wain came out above the tall white chimney-tops.

  There's not a flower on all the hills: the frost is on the pane:
  I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again:
  I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high:
  I long to see a flower so before the day I die.

  The building rook'll caw from the windy tall elm-tree,
  And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea,
  And the swallow'll come back again with summer o'er the wave.
  But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering grave.

  Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that grave of mine,
  In the early, early morning the summer sun'll shine,
  Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill,
  When you are warm-asleep, mother, and all the world is still.

  When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning light
  You'll never see me more in the long gray fields at night;
  When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool
  On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pool.

  You'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade,
  And you'll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid.
  I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you when you pass
  With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass.

  I have been wild and wayward, but you'll forgive me now;
  You'll kiss me, my own mother, and forgive me ere I go;
  Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild,
  You should not fret for me, mother, you have another child.

  If I can I'll come again, mother, from out my resting-place;
  Tho' you'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face;
  Tho' I cannot speak a word, 1 shall harken what you say,
  And be often, often with you when you think I'm far away.

  Good-night, good-night, when I have said good-night for evermore,
  And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door;
  Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing green:
  She'll be a better child to you than ever I have been.

  She'll find my garden-tools upon the granary floor:
  Let her take 'em: they are hers: I shall never garden more:
  But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rose-bush that I set
  About the parlour-window and the box of mignonette.

  Good-night, sweet mother: call me before the day is born.
  All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn;
  But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year,
  So, if your waking, call me, call me early, mother dear.

Conclusion


  I thought to pass away before, and yet alive I am;
  And in the fields all round I hear the bleating of the lamb.
  How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year!
  To die before the snowdrop came, and now the violet's here.

  O sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the skies,
  And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me that cannot rise,
  And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that blow,
  And sweeter far is death than life to me that long to go.

  It seem'd so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun,
  And now it seems as hard to stay, and yet His will be done!
  But still I think it can't be long before I find release;
  And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of peace.

  O blessings on his kindly voice and on his silver hair!
  And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me there!
  O blessings on his kindly heart and on his silver head!
  A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside my bed.

  He taught me all the mercy, for he show'd me all the sin.
  Now, tho' my lamp was lighted late, there's One will let me in:
  Nor would I now be well, mother, again, if that could be,
  For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me.

  I did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch beat,
  There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meet:
  But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine,
  And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign.

  All in the wild March-morning I heard the angels call;
  It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all;
  The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll,
  And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul.

  For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effie dear;
  I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here;
  With all my strength I pray'd for both, and so I felt resign'd,
  And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind.

  I thought that it was fancy, and I listen'd in my bed,
  And then did something speak to me--I know not what was said;
  For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind,
  And up the valley came again the music on the wind.

  But you were sleeping; and I said, "It's not for them: it's mine".
  And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for a sign.
  And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars,
  Then seem'd to go right up to Heaven and die among the stars.

  So now I think my time is near. I trust it is. I know
  The blessed music went that way my soul will have to go.
  And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day.
  But, Effie, you must comfort _her_ when I am past away.

  And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret;
  There's many worthier than I, would make him happy yet.
  If I had lived--I cannot tell--I might have been his wife;
  But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life.

  O look! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow;
  He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know.
  And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine--
  Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine.

  O sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done
  The voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond the sun--
  For ever and for ever with those just souls and true--
  And what is life, that we should moan? why make we such ado?

  For ever and for ever, all in a blessed home--
  And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come--
  To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast--
  And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.

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 land,
  In 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 stream
  Along 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 flow
  From 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 adown
  In the red West: thro' mountain clefts the dale
  Was seen far inland, and the yellow down
  Border'd with palm, and many a winding vale
  And 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 gave
  To each, but whoso did receive of them,
  And taste, to him the gushing of the wave
  Far far away did seem to mourn and rave
  On 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.

  They sat them down upon the yellow sand,
  Between the sun and moon upon the shore;
  And sweet it was to dream of Father-land,
  Of child, and wife, and slave; but evermore
  Most 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 home
  Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam".

Choric Song

  1

    There is sweet music here that softer falls
    Than petals from blown roses on the grass,
    Or night-dews on still waters between walls
    Of 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.


  2

    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?


  3

    Lo! in the middle of the wood,
    The folded leaf is woo'd from out the bud
    With winds upon the branch, and there
    Grows green and broad, and takes no care,
    Sun-steep'd at noon, and in the moon
    Nightly dew-fed; and turning yellow
    Falls, 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 days,
    The flower ripens in its place,
    Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil,
    Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil.


  4

    Hateful is the dark-blue sky,
    Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea.
    Death is the end of life; ah, why
    Should life all labour 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 become
    Portions and parcels of the dreadful Past.
    Let us alone.
    What pleasure can we have
    To war with evil? Is there any peace
    In ever climbing up the climbing wave?
    All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave
    In silence; ripen, fall and cease:
    Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease.


  5

    How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream,
    With half-shut eyes ever to seem
    Falling asleep in a half-dream!
    To dream and dream, like yonder amber light,
    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 wholly
    To the influence of mild-minded melancholy;
    To muse and brood and live again in memory,
    With those old faces of our infancy
    Heap'd over with a mound of grass,
    Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass!


  6

    Dear is the memory of our wedded lives,
    And dear the last embraces of our wives
    And 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-bold
    Have eat our substance, and the minstrel sings
    Before 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 labour unto aged breath,
    Sore task to hearts worn out with many wars
    And eyes grow dim with gazing on the pilot-stars.


  7

    But, propt on beds of amaranth and moly,
    How sweet (while warm airs lull us, blowing lowly)
    With half-dropt eyelids still,
    Beneath a heaven dark and holy,
    To watch the long bright river drawing slowly
    His waters from the purple hill--
    To hear the dewy echoes calling
    From cave to cave thro' the thick-twined vine--
    To watch [9] the emerald-colour'd water falling
    Thro' many a wov'n acanthus-wreath divine!
    Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling brine,
    Only to hear were sweet, stretch'd out beneath the pine.


  8

    The 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 lone
    Round and round the spicy downs the yellow Lotos-dust is blown.
    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 in the sea.
    Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind,
    In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie reclined
    On the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind.
    For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurl'd
    Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curl'd
    Round 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 and fiery
      sands,
    Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships and praying
      hands.
    But they smile, they find a music centred in a doleful song
    Steaming 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 in hell
    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 shore
    Than labour in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oar;
    Oh rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more.

     We have had enough of motion,
  Weariness and wild alarm,
  Tossing on the tossing ocean,
  Where the tusked sea-horse walloweth
  In a stripe of grass-green calm,
  At noontide beneath the lee;
  And the monstrous narwhale swalloweth
  His foam-fountains in the sea.
  Long enough the wine-dark wave our weary bark did carry.
  This is lovelier and sweeter,
  Men of Ithaca, this is meeter,
  In the hollow rosy vale to tarry,
  Like a dreamy Lotos-eater, a delirious Lotos-eater!
  We will eat the Lotos, sweet
  As the yellow honeycomb,
  In the valley some, and some
  On the ancient heights divine;
  And no more roam,
  On the loud hoar foam,
  To the melancholy home
  At the limit of the brine,
  The little isle of Ithaca, beneath the day's decline.
  We'll lift no more the shattered oar,
  No more unfurl the straining sail;
  With the blissful Lotos-eaters pale
  We will abide in the golden vale
  Of the Lotos-land till the Lotos fail;
  We will not wander more.
  Hark! how sweet the horned ewes bleat
  On the solitary steeps,
  And the merry lizard leaps,
  And the foam-white waters pour;
  And the dark pine weeps,
  And the lithe vine creeps,
  And the heavy melon sleeps
  On the level of the shore:
  Oh! islanders of Ithaca, we will not wander more,
  Surely, surely slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore
  Than labour in the ocean, and rowing with the oar,
  Oh! islanders of Ithaca, we will return no more.

A Dream of Fair Women



    As when a man, that sails in a balloon,
    Downlooking sees the solid shining ground
    Stream from beneath him in the broad blue noon,
    Tilth, hamlet, mead and mound:

    And takes his flags and waves them to the mob,
    That shout below, all faces turned to where
    Glows ruby-like the far up crimson globe,
    Filled with a finer air:

    So lifted high, the Poet at his will
    Lets the great world flit from him, seeing all,
    Higher thro' secret splendours mounting still,
    Self-poised, nor fears to fall.



  Hearing apart the echoes of his fame.
  While I spoke thus, the seedsman, memory,
  Sowed my deepfurrowed thought with many a name,
  Whose glory will not die.

  I read, before my eyelids dropt their shade,
  "The Legend of Good Women," long ago
  Sung by the morning star of song, who made
  His music heard below;

  Dan Chaucer, the first warbler, whose sweet breath
  Preluded those melodious bursts, that fill
  The spacious times of great Elizabeth
  With sounds that echo still.

  And, for a while, the knowledge of his art
  Held me above the subject, as strong gales
  Hold swollen clouds from raining, tho' my heart,
  Brimful of those wild tales,

  Charged both mine eyes with tears.
  In every land I saw, wherever light illumineth,
  Beauty and anguish walking hand in hand
  The downward slope to death.

  Those far-renowned brides of ancient song
  Peopled the hollow dark, like burning stars,
  And I heard sounds of insult, shame, and wrong,
  And trumpets blown for wars;

  And clattering flints batter'd with clanging hoofs:
  And I saw crowds in column'd sanctuaries;
  And forms that pass'd at windows and on roofs
  Of marble palaces;

  Corpses across the threshold; heroes tall
  Dislodging pinnacle and parapet
  Upon the tortoise creeping to the wall;
  Lances in ambush set;

  And high shrine-doors burst thro' with heated blasts
  That run before the fluttering tongues of fire;
  White surf wind-scatter'd over sails and masts,
  And ever climbing higher;

  Squadrons and squares of men in brazen plates,
  Scaffolds, still sheets of water, divers woes,
  Ranges of glimmering vaults with iron grates,
  And hush'd seraglios.

  So shape chased shape as swift as, when to land
  Bluster the winds and tides the self-same way,
  Crisp foam-flakes scud along the level sand,
  Torn from the fringe of spray.

  I started once, or seem'd to start in pain,
  Resolved on noble things, and strove to speak,
  As when a great thought strikes along the brain,
  And flushes all the cheek.

  And once my arm was lifted to hew down,
  A cavalier from off his saddle-bow,
  That bore a lady from a leaguer'd town;
  And then, I know not how,

  All those sharp fancies, by down-lapsing thought
  Stream'd onward, lost their edges, and did creep
  Roll'd on each other, rounded, smooth'd and brought
  Into the gulfs of sleep.

  At last methought that I had wander'd far
  In an old wood: fresh-wash'd in coolest dew,
  The maiden splendours of the morning star
  Shook in the steadfast blue.

  Enormous elmtree-boles did stoop and lean
  Upon the dusky brushwood underneath
  Their broad curved branches, fledged with clearest green,
  New from its silken sheath.

  The dim red morn had died, her journey done,
  And with dead lips smiled at the twilight plain,
  Half-fall'n across the threshold of the sun,
  Never to rise again.

  There was no motion in the dumb dead air,
  Not any song of bird or sound of rill;
  Gross darkness of the inner sepulchre
  Is not so deadly still

  As that wide forest.
  Growths of jasmine turn'd
  Their humid arms festooning tree to tree,
  And at the root thro' lush green grasses burn'd
  The red anemone.

  I knew the flowers, I knew the leaves, I knew
  The tearful glimmer of the languid dawn
  On those long, rank, dark wood-walks, drench'd in dew,
  Leading from lawn to lawn.

  The smell of violets, hidden in the green,
  Pour'd back into my empty soul and frame
  The times when I remember to have been
  Joyful and free from blame.

  And from within me a clear under-tone
  Thrill'd thro' mine ears in that unblissful clime
  "Pass freely thro': the wood is all thine own,
  Until the end of time".

  At length I saw a lady within call,
  Stiller than chisell'd marble, standing there;
  A daughter of the gods, divinely tall,
  And most divinely fair.

  Her loveliness with shame and with surprise
  Froze my swift speech: she turning on my face
  The star-like sorrows of immortal eyes,
  Spoke slowly in her place.

  "I had great beauty: ask thou not my name:
  No one can be more wise than destiny.
  Many drew swords and died.
  Where'er I came I brought calamity."

  "No marvel, sovereign lady: in fair field
  Myself for such a face had boldly died,"
  I answer'd free; and turning I appeal'd
  To one that stood beside.

  But she, with sick and scornful looks averse,
  To her full height her stately stature draws;
  "My youth," she said, "was blasted with a curse:
  This woman was the cause.

  "I was cut off from hope in that sad place,
  Which yet to name my spirit loathes and fears:
  My father held his hand upon his face;
  I, blinded with my tears,

  "Still strove to speak: my voice was thick with sighs
  As in a dream. Dimly I could descry
  The stern black-bearded kings with wolfish eyes,
  Waiting to see me die.

  "The high masts flicker'd as they lay afloat;
  The crowds, the temples, waver'd, and the shore;
  The bright death quiver'd at the victim's throat;
  Touch'd; and I knew no more."

  Whereto the other with a downward brow:
  "I would the white cold heavy-plunging foam,
  Whirl'd by the wind, had roll'd me deep below,
  Then when I left my home."

  Her slow full words sank thro' the silence drear,
  As thunder-drops fall on a sleeping sea:
  Sudden I heard a voice that cried, "Come here,
  That I may look on thee".

  I turning saw, throned on a flowery rise,
  One sitting on a crimson scarf unroll'd;
  A queen, with swarthy cheeks and bold black eyes,
  Brow-bound with burning gold.

  She, flashing forth a haughty smile, began:
  "I govern'd men by change, and so I sway'd
  All moods. Tis long since I have seen a man.
  Once, like the moon, I made

  "The ever-shifting currents of the blood
  According to my humour ebb and flow.
  I have no men to govern in this wood:
  That makes my only woe.

  "Nay--yet it chafes me that I could not bend
  One will; nor tame and tutor with mine eye
  That dull cold-blooded Caesar. Prythee, friend,
  Where is Mark Antony?

  "The man, my lover, with whom I rode sublime
  On Fortune's neck: we sat as God by God:
  The Nilus would have risen before his time
  And flooded at our nod.

  "We drank the Libyan Sun to sleep, and lit
  Lamps which outburn'd Canopus. O my life In Egypt!
  O the dalliance and the wit,
  The flattery and the strife,

  "And the wild kiss, when fresh from war's alarms,
  My Hercules, my Roman Antony,
  My mailèd Bacchus leapt into my arms,
  Contented there to die!

  "And there he died: and when I heard my name
  Sigh'd forth with life, I would not brook my fear
  Of the other: with a worm I balk'd his fame.
  What else was left? look here!"

  (With that she tore her robe apart, and half
  The polish'd argent of her breast to sight
  Laid bare. Thereto she pointed with a laugh,
  Showing the aspick's bite.)

  "I died a Queen. The Roman soldier found
  Me lying dead, my crown about my brows,
  A name for ever!--lying robed and crown'd,
  Worthy a Roman spouse."

  Her warbling voice, a lyre of widest range
  Struck by all passion, did fall down and glance
  From tone to tone, and glided thro' all change
  Of liveliest utterance.

  When she made pause I knew not for delight;
  Because with sudden motion from the ground
  She raised her piercing orbs, and fill'd with light
  The interval of sound.

  Still with their fires Love tipt his keenest darts;
  As once they drew into two burning rings
  All beams of Love, melting the mighty hearts
  Of captains and of kings.

  Slowly my sense undazzled. Then I heard
  A noise of some one coming thro' the lawn,
  And singing clearer than the crested bird,
  That claps his wings at dawn.

  "The torrent brooks of hallow'd Israel
  From craggy hollows pouring, late and soon,
  Sound all night long, in falling thro' the dell,
  Far-heard beneath the moon.

  "The balmy moon of blessed Israel
  Floods all the deep-blue gloom with beams divine:
  All night the splinter'd crags that wall the dell
  With spires of silver shine."

  As one that museth where broad sunshine laves
  The lawn by some cathedral, thro' the door
  Hearing the holy organ rolling waves
  Of sound on roof and floor,

  Within, and anthem sung, is charm'd and tied
  To where he stands,--so stood I, when that flow
  Of music left the lips of her that died
  To save her father's vow;

  The daughter of the warrior Gileadite,
  A maiden pure; as when she went along
  From Mizpeh's tower'd gate with welcome light,
  With timbrel and with song.

  My words leapt forth: "Heaven heads the count of crimes
  With that wild oath". She render'd answer high:
  "Not so, nor once alone; a thousand times
  I would be born and die.

  "Single I grew, like some green plant, whose root
  Creeps to the garden water-pipes beneath,
  Feeding the flower; but ere my flower to fruit
  Changed, I was ripe for death.

  "My God, my land, my father--these did move
  Me from my bliss of life, that Nature gave,
  Lower'd softly with a threefold cord of love
  Down to a silent grave.

  "And I went mourning, 'No fair Hebrew boy
  Shall smile away my maiden blame among
  The Hebrew mothers'--emptied of all joy,
  Leaving the dance and song,

  "Leaving the olive-gardens far below,
  Leaving the promise of my bridal bower,
  The valleys of grape-loaded vines that glow
  Beneath the battled tower

  "The light white cloud swam over us. Anon
  We heard the lion roaring from his den;
  We saw the large white stars rise one by one,
  Or, from the darken'd glen,

  "Saw God divide the night with flying flame,
  And thunder on the everlasting hills.
  I heard Him, for He spake, and grief became
  A solemn scorn of ills.

  "When the next moon was roll'd into the sky,
  Strength came to me that equall'd my desire.
  How beautiful a thing it was to die
  For God and for my sire!

  "It comforts me in this one thought to dwell,
  That I subdued me to my father's will;
  Because the kiss he gave me, ere I fell,
  Sweetens the spirit still.

  "Moreover it is written that my race
  Hew'd Ammon, hip and thigh, from Aroer
  On Arnon unto Minneth." Here her face
  Glow'd, as I look'd at her.

  She lock'd her lips: she left me where I stood:
  "Glory to God," she sang, and past afar,
  Thridding the sombre boskage of the wood,
  Toward the morning-star.

  Losing her carol I stood pensively,
  As one that from a casement leans his head,
  When midnight bells cease ringing suddenly,
  And the old year is dead.

  "Alas! alas!" a low voice, full of care,
  Murmur'd beside me: "Turn and look on me:
  I am that Rosamond, whom men call fair,
  If what I was I be.

  "Would I had been some maiden coarse and poor!
  O me, that I should ever see the light!
  Those dragon eyes of anger'd Eleanor
  Do haunt me, day and night."

  She ceased in tears, fallen from hope and trust:
  To whom the Egyptian: "O, you tamely died!
  You should have clung to Fulvia's waist, and thrust
  The dagger thro' her side".

  With that sharp sound the white dawn's creeping beams,
  Stol'n to my brain, dissolved the mystery
  Of folded sleep. The captain of my dreams
  Ruled in the eastern sky.

  Morn broaden'd on the borders of the dark,
  Ere I saw her, who clasp'd in her last trance
  Her murder'd father's head, or Joan of Arc,
  A light of ancient France;

  Or her, who knew that Love can vanquish Death,
  Who kneeling, with one arm about her king,
  Drew forth the poison with her balmy breath,
  Sweet as new buds in Spring.

  No memory labours longer from the deep
  Gold-mines of thought to lift the hidden ore
  That glimpses, moving up, than I from sleep
  To gather and tell o'er

  Each little sound and sight. With what dull pain
  Compass'd, how eagerly I sought to strike
  Into that wondrous track of dreams again!
  But no two dreams are like.

  As when a soul laments, which hath been blest,
  Desiring what is mingled with past years,
  In yearnings that can never be exprest
  By sighs or groans or tears;

  Because all words, tho' cull'd with choicest art,
  Failing to give the bitter of the sweet,
  Wither beneath the palate, and the heart
  Faints, faded by its heat.