A Wall


O the old wall here! How I could pass
  Life in a long midsummer day,
My feet confined to a plot of grass,
  My eyes from a wall not once away!

And lush and lithe do the creepers clothe
  Yon wall I watch, with a wealth of green:
Its bald red bricks draped, nothing loath,
  In lappets of tangle they laugh between.

Now, what is it makes pulsate the robe?
  Why tremble the sprays? What life o'erbrims                                10
The body,--the house no eye can probe,--
  Divined, as beneath a robe, the limbs?

And there again! But my heart may guess
  Who tripped behind; and she sang, perhaps:
So the old wall throbbed, and its life's excess
  Died out and away in the leafy wraps.

Wall upon wall are between us: life
  And song should away from heart to heart!
I--prison-bird, with a ruddy strife
  At breast, and a lip whence storm-notes start--                            20

Hold on, hope hard in the subtle thing
  That's spirit: tho' cloistered fast, soar free;
Account as wood, brick, stone, this ring
  Of the rueful neighbours, and--forth to thee!

Confessions


What is he buzzing in my ears?
  "Now that I come to die,
Do I view the world as a vale of tears?"
  Ah, reverend sir, not I!

What I viewed there once, what I view again
  Where the physic bottles stand
On the table's edge,--is a suburb lane,
  With a wall to my bedside hand.

That lane sloped, much as the bottles do,
  From a house you could descry                                              10
O'er the garden-wall: is the curtain blue
  Or green to a healthy eye?

To mine, it serves for the old June weather
  Blue above lane and wall;
And that farthest bottle labelled "Ether"
  Is the house o'er-topping all.

At a terrace, somewhere near the stopper,
  There watched for me, one June,
A girl: I know, sir, it's improper,
  My poor mind's out of tune.                                                20

Only, there was a way ... you crept
  Close by the side, to dodge
Eyes in the house, two eyes except:
  They styled their house "The Lodge."

What right had a lounger up their lane?
  But, by creeping very close,
With the good wall's help,--their eyes might strain
  And stretch themselves to Oes,

Yet never catch her and me together,
  As she left the attic, there,                                              30
By the rim of the bottle labelled "Ether,"
  And stole from stair to stair

And stood by the rose-wreathed gate. Alas,
  We loved, sir--used to meet;
How sad and bad and mad it was--
  But then, how it was sweet!

A Woman's Last Word


Let's contend no more, Love,
Strive nor weep:
All be as before, Love,
  --Only sleep!

What so wild as words are?
  I and thou
In debate, as birds are,
  Hawk on bough!

See the creature stalking
  While we speak!                                                            10
Hush and hide the talking,
  Cheek on cheek.

What so false as truth is,
  False to thee?
Where the serpent's tooth is,
  Shun the tree--

Where the apple reddens,
  Never pry--
Lest we lose our Edens,
  Eve and I.                                                                 20

Be a god and hold me
  With a charm!
Be a man and fold me
  With thine arm!

Teach me, only teach, Love!
  As I ought
I will speak thy speech, Love,
  Think thy thought--

Meet, if thou require it,
  Both demands,                                                              30
Laying flesh and spirit
  In thy hands.

That shall be to-morrow,
  Not to-night:
I must bury sorrow
  Out of sight:

--Must a little weep, Love,
  (Foolish me!)
And so fall asleep, Love,
  Loved by thee. 

A Pretty Woman


That fawn-skin-dappled hair of hers,
    And the blue eye
    Dear and dewy,
And that infantine fresh air of hers!

To think men cannot take you, Sweet,
    And infold you,
    Ay, and hold you,
And so keep you what they make you, Sweet!

You like us for a glance, you know--
    For a word's sake                                                        10
    Or a sword's sake:
All's the same, whate'er the chance, you know.

And in turn we make you ours, we say--
    You and youth too,
    Eyes and mouth too,
All the face composed of flowers, we say.

All's our own, to make the most of, Sweet--
    Sing and say for,
    Watch and pray for,
Keep a secret or go boast of, Sweet!                                         20

But for loving, why, you would not, Sweet,
    Tho' we prayed you,
    Paid you, brayed you
In a mortar--for you could not, Sweet!

So, we leave the sweet face fondly there,
    Be its beauty
    Its sole duty!
Let all hope of grace beyond, lie there!

And while the face lies quiet there,
    Who shall wonder                                                         30
    That I ponder
A conclusion? I will try it there.

As,--why must one, for the love foregone
    Scout mere liking?
    Thunder-striking
Earth,--the heaven, we looked above for, gone!

Why, with beauty, needs there money be,
    Love with liking?
    Crush the fly-king
In his gauze, because no honey-bee?                                          40

May not liking be so simple-sweet,
    If love grew there
    'Twould undo there
All that breaks the cheek to dimples sweet?

Is the creature too imperfect, say?
    Would you mend it
    And so end it?
Since not all addition perfects aye!

Or is it of its kind, perhaps,
    Just perfection--                                                        50
    Whence, rejection
Of a grace not to its mind, perhaps?

Shall we burn up, tread that face at once
    Into tinder,
    And so hinder
Sparks from kindling all the place at once?

Or else kiss away one's soul on her?
    Your love-fancies!
    --A sick man sees
Truer, when his hot eyes roll on her!                                        60

Thus the craftsman thinks to grace the rose,--
    Plucks a mould-flower
    For his gold flower,
Uses fine things that efface the rose.

Rosy rubies make its cup more rose.
    Precious metals
    Ape the petals,--
Last, some old king locks it up, morose!

Then how grace a rose? I know a way!
    Leave it, rather.                                                        70
    Must you gather?
Smell, kiss, wear it--at last, throw away.

Youth and Art


It once might have been, once only:
  We lodged in a street together,
You, a sparrow on the housetop lonely,
  I, a lone she-bird of his feather.

Your trade was with sticks and clay,
  You thumbed, thrust, patted, and polished,
Then laughed "They will see some day,
  Smith made, and Gibson° demolished."                                       °8

My business was song, song, song;
  I chirped, cheeped, trilled, and twittered,                                10
"Kate Brown's on the boards ere long,
  And Grisi's° existence embittered!"                                       °12

I earned no more by a warble
  Than you by a sketch in plaster;
You wanted a piece of marble,
  I needed a music-master.

We studied hard in our styles,
  Chipped each at a crust like Hindoos,°                                    °18
For air, looked out on the tiles,
  For fun, watched each other's windows.                                     20

You lounged, like a boy of the South,
  Cap and blouse--nay, a bit of beard too;
Or you got it, rubbing your mouth
  With fingers the clay adhered to.

And I--soon managed to find
  Weak points in the flower-fence facing,
Was forced to put up a blind
  And be safe in my corset-lacing.

No harm! It was not my fault
  If you never turned your eye's tail up                                     30
As I shook upon E _in alt_,
  Or ran the chromatic scale up:

For spring bade the sparrows pair.
  And the boys and girls gave guesses,
And stalls in our street looked rare
  With bulrush and watercresses.

Why did not you pinch a flower
  In a pellet of clay and fling it?
Why did not I put a power
  Of thanks in a look or sing it?                                            40

I did look, sharp as a lynx,
  (And yet the memory rankles)
When models arrived, some minx
  Tripped up stairs, she and her ankles.

But I think I gave you as good!
  "That foreign fellow,--who can know
How she pays, in a playful mood,
  For his tuning her that piano?"

Could you say so, and never say
  "Suppose we join hands and fortunes,                                       50
And I fetch her from over the way,
  Her, piano, and long tunes and short tunes?"

No, no: you would not be rash,
  Nor I rasher and something over;
You've to settle yet Gibson's hash,
  And Grisi yet lives in clover.

But you meet the Prince at the Board,
  I'm queen myself at _bals-parés_,°                                        °58
I've married a rich old lord,
  And you're dubbed knight and an R.A.                                       60

Each life unfulfilled, you see;
  It hangs still, patchy and scrappy:
We have not sighed deep, laughed free,
  Starved, feasted, despaired,--been happy

And nobody calls you a dunce,
  And people suppose me clever;
This could but have happened once,
  And we missed it, lost it forever.

A Tale

(Epilogue to "The Two Poets of Croisic.")


What a pretty tale you told me
  Once upon a time
--Said you found it somewhere (scold me!)
  Was it prose or was it rhyme,
Greek or Latin? Greek, you said,
While your shoulder propped my head.

Anyhow there's no forgetting
  This much if no more,
That a poet (pray, no petting!)
  Yes, a bard, sir, famed of yore,                                           10
Went where suchlike used to go,
Singing for a prize, you know.

Well, he had to sing, nor merely
  Sing but play the lyre;
Playing was important clearly
  Quite as singing: I desire,
Sir, you keep the fact in mind
For a purpose that's behind.

There stood he, while deep attention
  Held the judges round,                                                     20
--Judges able, I should mention,
  To detect the slightest sound
Sung or played amiss: such ears
Had old judges, it appears!

None the less he sang out boldly,
  Played in time and tune,
Till the judges, weighing coldly
  Each note's worth, seemed, late or soon,
Sure to smile "In vain one tries
Picking faults out: take the prize!"                                         30

When, a mischief! Were they seven
  Strings the lyre possessed?
Oh, and afterwards eleven,
  Thank you! Well, sir,--who had guessed
Such ill luck in store?--it happed
One of those same seven strings snapped.

All was lost, then! No! a cricket
  (What "cicada"? Pooh!)
--Some mad thing that left its thicket
  For mere love of music--flew                                               40
With its little heart on fire,
Lighted on the crippled lyre.

So that when (Ah joy!) our singer
  For his truant string
Feels with disconcerted finger,
  What does cricket else but fling
Fiery heart forth, sound the note
Wanted by the throbbing throat?

Ay and, ever to the ending,
  Cricket chirps at need,                                                    50
Executes the hand's intending,
  Promptly, perfectly,--indeed
Saves the singer from defeat
With her chirrup low and sweet.

Till, at ending, all the judges
  Cry with one assent
"Take the prize--a prize who grudges
  Such a voice and instrument?
Why, we took your lyre for harp,
So it shrilled us forth F sharp!"                                            60

Did the conqueror spurn the creature
  Once its service done?
That's no such uncommon feature
  In the case when Music's son
Finds his Lotte's° power too spent                                          °65
For aiding soul development.

No! This other, on returning
  Homeward, prize in hand,
Satisfied his bosom's yearning:
   (Sir, I hope you understand!)                                             70
--Said "Some record there must be
Of this cricket's help to me!"

So, he made himself a statue:
   Marble stood, life size;
On the lyre, he pointed at you,
   Perched his partner in the prize;
Never more apart you found
Her, he throned, from him, she crowned.

That's the tale: its application?
   Somebody I know                                                           80
Hopes one day for reputation
  Thro' his poetry that's--Oh,
All so learned and so wise
And deserving of a prize!

If he gains one, will some ticket
   When his statue's built,
Tell the gazer "'Twas a cricket
   Helped my crippled lyre, whose lilt
Sweet and low, when strength usurped
Softness' place i' the scale, she chirped?                                   90

"For as victory was nighest,
  While I sang and played,--
With my lyre at lowest, highest,
   Right alike,--one string that made
'Love' sound soft was snapt in twain
Never to be heard again,--

"Had not a kind cricket fluttered,
   Perched upon the place
Vacant left, and duly uttered
   'Love, Love, Love,' whene'er the bass                                    100
Asked the treble to atone
For its somewhat sombre drone."

But you don't know music! Wherefore
   Keep on casting pearls
To a--poet? All I care for
   Is--to tell him that a girl's
"Love" comes aptly in when gruff
Grows his singing, (There, enough!)

Cavalier Tunes


I. Marching Along

Kentish Sir Byng° stood for his King,                                        °1
Bidding the crop-headed° Parliament swing:                                   °2
And, pressing a troop unable to stoop
And see the rogues flourish and honest folk droop,
Marched them along, fifty score strong,
Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song.

God for King Charles!° Pym° and such carles                                  °7
To the Devil that prompts 'em their treasonous parles!
Cavaliers, up! Lips from the cup,
Hands from the pasty, nor bite take nor sup                                  10
Till you're--

CHORUS.--Marching along, fifty score strong,
         Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song.

Hampden° to hell, and his obsequies knell.                                  °14
Serve Hazelrig,° Fiennes,° and young Harry° as well!                        °15
England, good cheer! Rupert° is near!                                       °16
Kentish and loyalists, keep we not here,

CHO.--Marching along, fifty score strong,
      Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song.

Then, God for King Charles! Pym and his snarls                               20
To the Devil that pricks on such pestilent carles!
Hold by the right, you double your might;
So, onward to Nottingham,° fresh for the fight,                             °23

CHO.--March we along, fifty score strong,
      Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song!




II. Give A Rouse

I

King Charles, and who'll do him right now?
King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now?
Give a rouse; here's, in hell's despite now,
King Charles!

II

Who gave me the goods that went since?
Who raised me the house that sank once?
Who helped me to gold I spent since?
Who found me in wine you drank once?

CHO.--King Charles, and who'll do him right now?
      King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now?                            10
      Give a rouse; here's, in hell's despite now,
      King Charles!

III

To whom used my boy George quaff else,
By the old fool's side that begot him?
For whom did he cheer and laugh else,
While Noll's° damned troopers shot him?                                     °16

CHO.--King Charles, and who'll do him right now?
      King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now?
      Give a rouse: here's, in hell's despite now,
      King Charles!                                                          20




III. Boot And Saddle

I

Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!
Rescue my castle before the hot day
Brightens to blue from its silvery gray,

CHO.--Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!

II

Ride past the suburbs, asleep as you'd say;
Many's the friend there, will listen and pray
"God's luck to gallants that strike up the lay--

CHO.--Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!"

III

Forty miles off, like a roebuck at bay,
Flouts castle Brancepeth the Roundheads' array:                              10
Who laughs, "Good fellows ere this, by my fay,

CHO.--Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!"

IV

Who? My wife Gertrude; that, honest and gay,
Laughs when you talk of surrendering, "Nay!
I've better counsellors; what counsel they?

CHO.-- Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!"

Home-Thoughts, From the Sea


Nobly, nobly, Cape Saint Vincent to the Northwest died away;
Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz Bay;
Bluish 'mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar° lay;                  °3

In the dimmest Northeast distance dawned Gibraltar° grand and gray;          °4
"Here and here did England help me: how can I help England?"--say,
Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God and pray,
While Jove's planet rises yonder, silent over Africa.

Summum Bonum


All the breath and the bloom of the year in the bag of one bee:
All the wonder and wealth of the mine in the heart of one gem:
In the core of one pearl all the shade and the shine of the sea:
Breath and bloom, shade and shine,--wonder, wealth, and--how far above them--
   Truth, that's brighter than gem,
   Trust, that's purer than pearl,--
Brightest truth, purest trust in the universe,--all were for me
   In the kiss of one girl.

A Face


If one could have that little head of hers
Painted upon a background of pure gold,
Such as the Tuscan's early art prefers!
No shade encroaching on the matchless mould
Of those two lips, which should be opening soft
In the pure profile; not as when she laughs,
For that spoils all: but rather as if aloft
Yon hyacinth, she loves so, leaned its staff's
Burden of honey-colored buds to kiss
And capture 'twixt the lips apart for this.
Then her little neck, three fingers might surround,
How it should waver on the pale gold ground
Up to the fruit-shaped, perfect chin it lifts!
I know, Correggio loves to mass, in rifts
Of heaven, his angel faces, orb on orb
Breaking its outline, burning shades absorb:
But these are only massed there, I should think,
Waiting to see some wonder momently
Grow out, stand full, fade slow against the sky
(That's the pale ground you'd see this sweet face by),
All heaven, meanwhile, condensed into one eye
Which fears to lose the wonder, should it wink.