  239 ADVERTISEMENT. These Poems are given as they occur on a list drawn up last June. A few had already been printed in periodicals. There is hardly such direct warrant for publishing the Translations; which were only intended, many years ago, to accompany and explain certain Engravings after ancient Gems, in the projected work of a friend, by whose kindness they are now recovered: but as two of the original series (the “Adonis” of Bion and “Song to the Rose” from Achilles Tatius) have subsequently appeared, it is presumed that the remainder may not improperly follow. A single recent version is added. London: February 1862.
240 TO “GRATEFUL FLORENCE,” TO THE MUNICIPALITY HER REPRESENTATIVE, AND TO TOMMASEO ITS SPOKESMAN, MOST GRATEFULLY. |
241 LITTLE MATTIE. Dead! Thirteen a month ago! Short and narrow her life’s walk; Lover’s love she could not know Even by a dream or talk: Too young to be glad of youth, Missing honour, labour, rest, And the warmth of a babe’s mouth At the blossom of her breast. Must you pity her for this And for all the loss it is, You, her mother, with wet face, Having had all in your case? Just so young but yesternight, Now she is as old as death. 242 Meek, obedient in your sight, Gentle to a beck or breath Only on last Monday! Yours, Answering you like silver bells Lightly touched! An hour matures: You can teach her nothing else. She has seen the mystery hid Under Egypt’s pyramid: By those eyelids pale and close Now she knows what Rhamses knows. Cross her quiet hands, and smooth Down her patient locks of silk, Cold and passive as in truth You your fingers in spilt milk Drew along a marble floor; But her lips you cannot wring Into saying a word more, “Yes,” or “No,” or such a thing: Though you call and beg and wreak Half your soul out in a shriek, She will lie there in default And most innocent revolt. Ay, and if she spoke, maybe She would answer, like the Son, “What is now ’twixt thee and me?” Dreadful answer! better none. Yours on Monday, God’s to-day! Yours, your child, your blood, your heart, Called ... you called her, did you say, “Little Mattie” for your part? Now already it sounds strange, And you wonder, in this change, What He calls His angel-creature, Higher up than you can reach her. ’T was a green and easy world As she took it; room to play (Though one’s hair might get uncurled At the far end of the day). What she suffered she shook off In the sunshine; what she sinned She could pray on high, enough To keep safe above the wind. 244 If reproved by God or you, ’T was to better her, she knew; And if crossed, she gathered still ’T was to cross out something ill. You, you had the right, you thought, To survey her with sweet scorn, Poor gay child, who had not caught Yet the octave-stretch forlorn Of your larger wisdom! Nay, Now your places are changed so, In that same superior way She regards you dull and low As you did herself exempt From life’s sorrows. Grand contempt Of the spirits risen awhile, Who look back with such a smile! There’s the sting of’t. That, I think, Hurts the most a thousandfold! To feel sudden, at a wink, Some dear child we used to scold, 245 Praise, love both ways, kiss and tease, Teach and tumble as our own, All its curls about our knees, Rise up suddenly full-grown. Who could wonder such a sight Made a woman mad outright? Show me Michael with the sword Rather than such angels, Lord! |
246 A FALSE STEP. Sweet, thou hast trod on a heart. Pass; there’s a world full of men; And women as fair as thou art Must do such things now and then. Thou only hast stepped unaware,— Malice, not one can impute; And why should a heart have been there In the way of a fair woman’s foot? It was not a stone that could trip, Nor was it a thorn that could rend: Put up thy proud under-lip! ’T was merely the heart of a friend. And yet peradventure one day Thou, sitting alone at the glass, Remarking the bloom gone away, Where the smile in its dimplement was, And seeking around thee in vain From hundreds who flattered before, Such a word as “Oh, not in the main Do I hold thee less precious, but more!”... Thou’lt sigh, very like, on thy part, “Of all I have known or can know, I wish I had only that Heart I trod upon ages ago!” |
248 VOID IN LAW. Sleep, little babe, on my knee, Sleep, for the midnight is chill, And the moon has died out in the tree, And the great human world goeth ill. Sleep, for the wicked agree: Sleep, let them do as they will. Sleep. Sleep, thou hast drawn from my breast The last drop of milk that was good; And now, in a dream, suck the rest, Lest the real should trouble thy blood. Suck, little lips dispossessed, As we kiss in the air whom we would. Sleep. O lips of thy father! the same, So like! Very deeply they swore When he gave me his ring and his name, To take back, I imagined, no more! And now is all changed like a game, Though the old cards are used as of yore? Sleep. “Void in law,” said the Courts. Something wrong In the forms? Yet, “Till death part us two, I, James, take thee, Jessie,” was strong, And One witness competent. True Such a marriage was worth an old song, Heard in Heaven though, as plain as the New. Sleep. Sleep, little child, his and mine! Her throat has the antelope curve, And her cheek just the colour and line Which fade not before him nor swerve: Yet she has no child!—the divine Seal of right upon loves that deserve. Sleep. My child! though the world take her part, Saying “She was the woman to choose; He had eyes, was a man in his heart,”— We twain the decision refuse: We ... weak as I am, as thou art, ... Cling on to him, never to loose. Sleep. He thinks that, when done with this place, All’s ended? he’ll new-stamp the ore? Yes, CÆsar’s—but not in our case. Let him learn we are waiting before The grave’s mouth, the heaven’s gate, God’s face With implacable love evermore. Sleep. He’s ours, though he kissed her but now, He’s ours, though she kissed in reply: He’s ours, though himself disavow, And God’s universe favour the lie; Ours to claim, ours to clasp, ours below, Ours above, ... if we live, if we die. Sleep. Ah baby, my baby, too rough Is my lullaby? What have I said? Sleep! When I’ve wept long enough I shall learn to weep softly instead, And piece with some alien stuff My heart to lie smooth for thy head. Sleep. Two souls met upon thee, my sweet; Two loves led thee out to the sun: Alas, pretty hands, pretty feet, If the one who remains (only one) Set her grief at thee, turned in a heat To thine enemy,—were it well done? Sleep. May He of the manger stand near And love thee! An infant He came To His own who rejected Him here, But the Magi brought gifts all the same. I hurry the cross on my Dear! My gifts are the griefs I declaim! Sleep. |
252 LORD WALTER’S WIFE. “But why do you go?” said the lady, while both sat under the yew, And her eyes were alive in their depth, as the kraken beneath the sea-blue. “Because I fear you,” he answered;—“because you are far too fair, And able to strangle my soul in a mesh of your gold-coloured hair.” “Oh, that,” she said, “is no reason! Such knots are quickly undone, And too much beauty, I reckon, is nothing but too much sun.” “Yet farewell so,” he answered;—“the sun-stroke’s fatal at times. I value your husband, Lord Walter, whose gallop rings still from the limes.” “Oh, that,” she said, “is no reason. You smell a rose through a fence: If two should smell it, what matter? who grumbles, and where’s the pretence?” “But I,” he replied, “have promised another, when love was free, To love her alone, alone, who alone and afar loves me.” “Why, that,” she said, “is no reason. Love’s always free, I am told. Will you vow to be safe from the headache on Tuesday, and think it will hold?” “But you,” he replied, “have a daughter, a young little child, who was laid In your lap to be pure; so I leave you: the angels would make me afraid.” “Oh, that,” she said, “is no reason. The angels keep out of the way; And Dora, the child, observes nothing, although you should please me and stay.” At which he rose up in his anger,—“Why, now, you no longer are fair! Why, now, you no longer are fatal, but ugly and hateful, I swear.” At which she laughed out in her scorn: “These men! Oh, these men overnice, Who are shocked if a colour not virtuous is frankly put on by a vice.” Her eyes blazed upon him—“And you! You bring us your vices so near That we smell them! You think in our presence a thought ’t would defame us to hear! “What reason had you, and what right,—I appeal to your soul from my life,— To find me too fair as a woman? Why, sir, I am pure, and a wife. “Is the day-star too fair up above you? It burns you not. Dare you imply I brushed you more close than the star does, when Walter had set me as high? “If a man finds a woman too fair, he means simply adapted too much To uses unlawful and fatal. The praise!—shall I thank you for such? “Too fair?—not unless you misuse us! and surely if, once in a while, You attain to it, straightway you call us no longer too fair, but too vile. “A moment,—I pray your attention!—I have a poor word in my head I must utter, though womanly custom would set it down better unsaid. “You grew, sir, pale to impertinence, once when I showed you a ring. You kissed my fan when I dropped it. No matter!—I’ve broken the thing. “You did me the honour, perhaps, to be moved at my side now and then In the senses—a vice, I have heard, which is common to beasts and some men. “Love’s a virtue for heroes!—as white as the snow on high hills, And immortal as every great soul is that struggles, endures, and fulfils. “I love my Walter profoundly,—you, Maude, though you faltered a week, For the sake of ... what was it—an eyebrow? or, less still, a mole on a cheek? “And since, when all’s said, you’re too noble to stoop to the frivolous cant About crimes irresistible, virtues that swindle, betray and supplant, “I determined to prove to yourself that, whate’er you might dream or avow By illusion, you wanted precisely no more of me than you have now. “There! Look me full in the face!—in the face. Understand, if you can, That the eyes of such women as I am are clean as the palm of a man. “Drop his hand, you insult him. Avoid us for fear we should cost you a scar— You take us for harlots, I tell you, and not for the women we are. “You wronged me: but then I considered ... there’s Walter! And so at the end I vowed that he should not be mulcted, by me, in the hand of a friend. “Have I hurt you indeed? We are quits then. Nay, friend of my Walter, be mine! Come, Dora, my darling, my angel, and help me to ask him to dine.” |
259 BIANCA AMONG THE NIGHTINGALES. The cypress stood up like a church That night we felt our love would hold, And saintly moonlight seemed to search And wash the whole world clean as gold; The olives crystallized the vales’ Broad slopes until the hills grew strong: The fire-flies and the nightingales Throbbed each to either, flame and song. The nightingales, the nightingales! Upon the angle of its shade The cypress stood, self-balanced high; Half up, half down, as double-made, Along the ground, against the sky; And we, too! from such soul-height went Such leaps of blood, so blindly driven, 260 We scarce knew if our nature meant Most passionate earth or intense heaven The nightingales, the nightingales! We paled with love, we shook with love, We kissed so close we could not vow; Till Giulio whispered “Sweet, above God’s Ever guaranties this Now.” And through his words the nightingales Drove straight and full their long clear call, Like arrows through heroic mails, And love was awful in it all. The nightingales, the nightingales! O cold white moonlight of the north, Refresh these pulses, quench this hell! O coverture of death drawn forth Across this garden-chamber ... well! But what have nightingales to do In gloomy England, called the free ... (Yes, free to die in!...) when we two Are sundered, singing still to me? And still they sing, the nightingales! I think I hear him, how he cried “My own soul’s life!” between their notes. Each man has but one soul supplied, And that’s immortal. Though his throat’s On fire with passion now, to her He can’t say what to me he said! And yet he moves her, they aver. The nightingales sing through my head,— The nightingales, the nightingales! He says to her what moves her most. He would not name his soul within Her hearing,—rather pays her cost With praises to her lips and chin. Man has but one soul, ’t is ordained, And each soul but one love, I add; Yet souls are damned and love’s profaned; These nightingales will sing me mad! The nightingales, the nightingales! I marvel how the birds can sing. There’s little difference, in their view, 262 Betwixt our Tuscan trees that spring As vital flames into the blue, And dull round blots of foliage meant, Like saturated sponges here, To suck the fogs up. As content Is he too in this land, ’t is clear. And still they sing, the nightingales. My native Florence! dear, forgone! I see across the Alpine ridge How the last feast-day of Saint John Shot rockets from Carraia bridge. The luminous city, tall with fire, Trod deep down in that river of ours, While many a boat with lamp and choir Skimmed birdlike over glittering towers. I will not hear these nightingales. I seem to float, we seem to float Down Arno’s stream in festive guise; A boat strikes flame into our boat, And up that lady seems to rise As then she rose. The shock had flashed A vision on us! What a head, 263 What leaping eyeballs!—beauty dashed To splendour by a sudden dread. And still they sing, the nightingales. Too bold to sin, too weak to die; Such women are so. As for me, I would we had drowned there, he and I, That moment, loving perfectly. He had not caught her with her loosed Gold ringlets ... rarer in the south ... Nor heard the “Grazie tanto” bruised To sweetness by her English mouth. And still they sing, the nightingales. She had not reached him at my heart With her fine tongue, as snakes indeed Kill flies; nor had I, for my part, Yearned after, in my desperate need, And followed him as he did her To coasts left bitter by the tide, Whose very nightingales, elsewhere Delighting, torture and deride! For still they sing, the nightingales. A worthless woman; mere cold clay As all false things are: but so fair, She takes the breath of men away Who gaze upon her unaware. I would not play her larcenous tricks To have her looks! She lied and stole, And spat into my love’s pure pyx The rank saliva of her soul. And still they sing, the nightingales. I would not for her white and pink, Though such he likes—her grace of limb, Though such he has praised—nor yet, I think. For life itself, though spent with him, Commit such sacrilege, affront God’s nature which is love, intrude ’Twixt two affianced souls, and hunt Like spiders, in the altar’s wood. I cannot bear these nightingales. If she chose sin, some gentler guise She might have sinned in, so it seems: 265 She might have pricked out both my eyes, And I still seen him in my dreams! —Or drugged me in my soup or wine, Nor left me angry afterward: To die here with his hand in mine, His breath upon me, were not hard. (Our Lady hush these nightingales!) But set a springe for him, “mio ben,” My only good, my first last love!— Though Christ knows well what sin is, when He sees some things done they must move Himself to wonder. Let her pass. I think of her by night and day. Must I too join her ... out, alas!... With Giulio, in each word I say? And evermore the nightingales! Giulio, my Giulio!—sing they so, And you be silent? Do I speak, And you not hear? An arm you throw Round someone, and I feel so weak? 266 —Oh, owl-like birds! They sing for spite, They sing for hate, they sing for doom, They’ll sing through death who sing through night, They’ll sing and stun me in the tomb— The nightingales, the nightingales! |
267 MY KATE. She was not as pretty as women I know, And yet all your best made of sunshine and snow Drop to shade, melt to nought in the long-trodden ways, While she’s still remembered on warm and cold days— My Kate. Her air had a meaning, her movements a grace; You turned from the fairest to gaze on her face: And when you had once seen her forehead and mouth, You saw as distinctly her soul and her truth— My Kate. Such a blue inner light from her eyelids outbroke, You looked at her silence and fancied she spoke: When she did, so peculiar yet soft was the tone, Though the loudest spoke also, you heard her alone— My Kate. I doubt if she said to you much that could act As a thought or suggestion: she did not attract In the sense of the brilliant or wise: I infer ’T was her thinking of others made you think of her— My Kate. She never found fault with you, never implied Your wrong by her right; and yet men at her side Grew nobler, girls purer, as through the whole town The children were gladder that pulled at her gown— My Kate. None knelt at her feet confessed lovers in thrall; They knelt more to God than they used,—that was all: If you praised her as charming, some asked what you meant, But the charm of her presence was felt when she went— My Kate. The weak and the gentle, the ribald and rude, She took as she found them, and did them all good; It always was so with her—see what you have! She has made the grass greener even here ... with her grave— My Kate. My dear one!—when thou wast alive with the rest, I held thee the sweetest and loved thee the best: And now thou art dead, shall I not take thy part As thy smiles used to do for thyself, my sweet Heart— My Kate? |
I. I am listening here in Rome. “England’s strong,” say many speakers, “If she winks, the Czar must come, Prow and topsail, to the breakers.” “England’s rich in coal and oak,” Adds a Roman, getting moody; “If she shakes a travelling cloak, Down our Appian roll the scudi.” “England’s righteous,” they rejoin: “Who shall grudge her exaltations When her wealth of golden coin Works the welfare of the nations?” I am listening here in Rome. Over Alps a voice is sweeping— “England’s cruel, save us some Of these victims in her keeping!” As the cry beneath the wheel Of an old triumphant Roman Cleft the people’s shouts like steel, While the show was spoilt for no man, Comes that voice. Let others shout, Other poets praise my land here: I am sadly sitting out, Praying, “God forgive her grandeur.” Shall we boast of empire, where Time with ruin sits commissioned? In God’s liberal blue air Peter’s dome itself looks wizened; And the mountains, in disdain, Gather back their lights of opal From the dumb despondent plain Heaped with jawbones of a people. Lordly English, think it o’er, CÆsar’s doing is all undone! You have cannons on your shore, And free Parliaments in London; Princes’ parks, and merchants’ homes, Tents for soldiers, ships for seamen,— Ay, but ruins worse than Rome’s In your pauper men and women. Women leering through the gas (Just such bosoms used to nurse you), Men, turned wolves by famine—pass! Those can speak themselves, and curse you. But these others—children small, Spilt like blots about the city, Quay, and street, and palace-wall— Take them up into your pity! Ragged children with bare feet, Whom the angels in white raiment Know the names of, to repeat When they come on you for payment. Ragged children, hungry-eyed, Huddled up out of the coldness On your doorsteps, side by side, Till your footman damns their boldness. In the alleys, in the squares, Begging, lying little rebels; In the noisy thoroughfares, Struggling on with piteous trebles. Patient children—think what pain Makes a young child patient—ponder! Wronged too commonly to strain After right, or wish, or wonder. Wicked children, with peaked chins, And old foreheads! there are many With no pleasures except sins, Gambling with a stolen penny. Sickly children, that whine low To themselves and not their mothers, From mere habit,—never so Hoping help or care from others. Healthy children, with those blue English eyes, fresh from their Maker, Fierce and ravenous, staring through At the brown loaves of the baker. I am listening here in Rome, And the Romans are confessing, “English children pass in bloom All the prettiest made for blessing. “Angli angeli!” (resumed From the mediÆval story) “Such rose angelhoods, emplumed In such ringlets of pure glory!” Can we smooth down the bright hair, O my sisters, calm, unthrilled in Our heart’s pulses? Can we bear The sweet looks of our own children, While those others, lean and small, Scurf and mildew of the city, Spot our streets, convict us all Till we take them into pity? “Is it our fault?” you reply, “When, throughout civilization, Every nation’s empery Is asserted by starvation? “All these mouths we cannot feed, And we cannot clothe these bodies.” Well, if man’s so hard indeed, Let them learn at least what God is! Little outcasts from life’s fold, The grave’s hope they may be joined in By Christ’s covenant consoled For our social contract’s grinding. If no better can be done, Let us do but this,—endeavour That the sun behind the sun Shine upon them while they shiver! On the dismal London flags, Through the cruel social juggle, Put a thought beneath their rags To ennoble the heart’s struggle. O my sisters, not so much Are we asked for—not a blossom From our children’s nosegay, such As we gave it from our bosom,— Not the milk left in their cup, Not the lamp while they are sleeping, Not the little cloak hung up While the coat’s in daily keeping,— But a place in Ragged Schools, Where the outcasts may to-morrow Learn by gentle words and rules Just the uses of their sorrow. O my sisters! children small, Blue-eyed, wailing through the city— Our own babes cry in them all: Let us take them into pity. |
279 MAY’S LOVE. You love all, you say, Round, beneath, above me: Find me then some way Better than to love me, Me, too, dearest May! O world-kissing eyes Which the blue heavens melt to; I, sad, overwise, Loathe the sweet looks dealt to All things—men and flies. You love all, you say: Therefore, Dear, abate me Just your love, I pray! Shut your eyes and hate me— Only me—fair May! |
280 AMY’S CRUELTY. Fair Amy of the terraced house, Assist me to discover Why you who would not hurt a mouse Can torture so your lover. You give your coffee to the cat, You stroke the dog for coming, And all your face grows kinder at The little brown bee’s humming. But when he haunts your door ... the town Marks coming and marks going ... You seem to have stitched your eyelids down To that long piece of sewing! You never give a look, not you, Nor drop him a “Good morning,” To keep his long day warm and blue, So fretted by your scorning. She shook her head—“The mouse and bee For crumb or flower will linger: The dog is happy at my knee, The cat purrs at my finger. “But he ... to him, the least thing given Means great things at a distance; He wants my world, my sun, my heaven, Soul, body, whole existence. “They say love gives as well as takes; But I’m a simple maiden,— My mother’s first smile when she wakes I still have smiled and prayed in. “I only know my mother’s love Which gives all and asks nothing; And this new loving sets the groove Too much the way of loathing. “Unless he gives me all in change, I forfeit all things by him: The risk is terrible and strange— I tremble, doubt, ... deny him. “He’s sweetest friend or hardest foe, Best angel or worst devil; I either hate or ... love him so, I can’t be merely civil! “You trust a woman who puts forth Her blossoms thick as summer’s? You think she dreams what love is worth, Who casts it to new-comers? “Such love’s a cowslip-ball to fling, A moment’s pretty pastime; I give ... all me, if anything, The first time and the last time. “Dear neighbour of the trellised house, A man should murmur never, Though treated worse than dog and mouse, Till doated on for ever!” |
284 MY HEART AND I. Enough! we’re tired, my heart and I. We sit beside the headstone thus, And wish that name were carved for us. The moss reprints more tenderly The hard types of the mason’s knife, As heaven’s sweet life renews earth’s life With which we’re tired, my heart and I. You see we’re tired, my heart and I. We dealt with books, we trusted men, And in our own blood drenched the pen, As if such colours could not fly. We walked too straight for fortune’s end, We loved too true to keep a friend; At last we’re tired, my heart and I. How tired we feel, my heart and I! We seem of no use in the world; Our fancies hang grey and uncurled About men’s eyes indifferently; Our voice which thrilled you so, will let You sleep; our tears are only wet: What do we here, my heart and I? So tired, so tired, my heart and I! It was not thus in that old time When Ralph sat with me ’neath the lime To watch the sunset from the sky. “Dear love, you’re looking tired,” he said; I, smiling at him, shook my head: ’T is now we’re tired, my heart and I. So tired, so tired, my heart and I! Though now none takes me on his arm To fold me close and kiss me warm Till each quick breath end in a sigh Of happy languor. Now, alone, We lean upon this graveyard stone, Uncheered, unkissed, my heart and I. Tired out we are, my heart and I. Suppose the world brought diadems To tempt us, crusted with loose gems Of powers and pleasures? Let it try. We scarcely care to look at even A pretty child, or God’s blue heaven, We feel so tired, my heart and I. Yet who complains? My heart and I? In this abundant earth no doubt Is little room for things worn out: Disdain them, break them, throw them by! And if before the days grew rough We once were loved, used,—well enough, I think, we’ve fared, my heart and I. |
287 THE BEST THING IN THE WORLD. What’s the best thing in the world? June-rose, by May-dew impearled; Sweet south-wind, that means no rain; Truth, not cruel to a friend; Pleasure, not in haste to end; Beauty, not self-decked and curled Till its pride is over-plain; Light, that never makes you wink; Memory, that gives no pain; Love, when, so, you’re loved again. What’s the best thing in the world? —Something out of it, I think. |
288 WHERE’S AGNES? Nay, if I had come back so, And found her dead in her grave, And if a friend I know Had said, “Be strong, nor rave: She lies there, dead below: “I saw her, I who speak, White, stiff, the face one blank: The blue shade came to her cheek Before they nailed the plank, For she had been dead a week.” Why, if he had spoken so, I might have believed the thing, Although her look, although Her step, laugh, voice’s ring Lived in me still as they do. But dead that other way, Corrupted thus and lost? That sort of worm in the clay? I cannot count the cost, That I should rise and pay. My Agnes false? such shame? She? Rather be it said That the pure saint of her name Has stood there in her stead, And tricked you to this blame. Her very gown, her cloak Fell chastely: no disguise, But expression! while she broke With her clear grey morning-eyes Full upon me and then spoke. She wore her hair away From her forehead,—like a cloud Which a little wind in May Peels off finely: disallowed Though bright enough to stay. For the heavens must have the place To themselves, to use and shine in, As her soul would have her face To press through upon mine, in That orb of angel grace. Had she any fault at all, ’T was having none, I thought too— There seemed a sort of thrall; As she felt her shadow ought to Fall straight upon the wall. Her sweetness strained the sense Of common life and duty; And every day’s expense Of moving in such beauty Required, almost, defence. What good, I thought, is done By such sweet things, if any? This world smells ill i’ the sun Though the garden-flowers are many,— She is only one. Can a voice so low and soft Take open actual part With Right,—maintain aloft Pure truth in life or art, Vexed always, wounded oft?— She fit, with that fair pose Which melts from curve to curve, To stand, run, work with those Who wrestle and deserve, And speak plain without glose? But I turned round on my fear Defiant, disagreeing— What if God has set her here Less for action than for Being?— For the eye and for the ear. Just to show what beauty may, Just to prove what music can,— And then to die away From the presence of a man, Who shall learn, henceforth, to pray? As a door, left half ajar In heaven, would make him think How heavenly-different are Things glanced at through the chink, Till he pined from near to far. That door could lead to hell? That shining merely meant Damnation? What! She fell Like a woman, who was sent Like an angel, by a spell? She, who scarcely trod the earth, Turned mere dirt? My Agnes,—mine! Called so! felt of too much worth To be used so! too divine To be breathed near, and so forth! Why, I dared not name a sin In her presence: I went round, Clipped its name and shut it in Some mysterious crystal sound,— Changed the dagger for the pin. Now you name herself that word? O my Agnes! O my saint! Then the great joys of the Lord Do not last? Then all this paint Runs off nature? leaves a board? Who’s dead here? No, not she: Rather I! or whence this damp Cold corruption’s misery? While my very mourners stamp Closer in the clods on me. And my mouth is full of dust Till I cannot speak and curse— Speak and damn him ... “Blame’s unjust”? Sin blots out the universe, All because she would and must? She, my white rose, dropping off The high rose-tree branch! and not That the night-wind blew too rough, Or the noon-sun burnt too hot, But, that being a rose—’t was enough! Then henceforth may earth grow trees! No more roses!—hard straight lines To score lies out! none of these Fluctuant curves, but firs and pines, Poplars, cedars, cypresses! |
END OF THE FOURTH VOLUME. PRINTED BY
SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE
LONDON
|
