Part 9

But he that fasted in the secret cave And called up Samuel from the quiet grave, And stood with darkness and the mantled ghosts A bitter night on shrill Samarian coasts, Knew well the end--of how the futile sword Of Israel would be broken by the Lord; How Gath would triumph, with the tawny line That bend the knee at Dagon's brittle shrine; And how the race of Kish would fall to wreck, Because of vengeance stayed at Amalek. Yet strove the sun-like king, nor rested hand Till yellow evening filled the level land. Then Judah reeled before a biting hail Of sudden arrows shot from Achor's vale, Where Libnah, lapped in blood from thigh to heel, Drew the tense string, and pierced the quivering steel. There fell the sons of Saul, and, man by man, The chiefs of Israel, up to Jonathan; And while swift Achish stooped and caught the spoil, Ten chosen archers, red with sanguine toil, Sped after Saul, who, faint and sick, and sore With many wounds, had left the thick of war. He, like a baffled bull by hunters pressed, Turned sharp about, and faced the flooded west, And saw the star-like spears and moony spokes Gleam from the rocks and lighten through the oaks-- A sea of splendour! How the chariots rolled On wheels of blinding brightness manifold! While stumbling over spike and spine and spur Of sultry lands, escaped the son of Ner With smitten men. At this the front of Saul Grew darker than a blasted tower wall; And seeing how there crouched upon his right, Aghast with fear, a black Amalekite, He called, and said: "I pray thee, man of pain, Red from the scourge, and recent from the chain, Set thou thy face to mine, and stoutly stand With yonder bloody sword-hilt in thy hand, And fall upon me." But the faltering hind Stood trembling, like a willow in the wind. Then further Saul: "Lest Ashdod's vaunting hosts Should bear me captive to their bleak-blown coasts, I pray thee, smite me! seeing peace has fled, And rest lies wholly with the quiet dead." At this a flood of sunset broke, and smote Keen, blazing sapphires round a kingly throat, Touched arm and shoulder, glittered in the crest, And made swift starlights on a jewelled breast. So, starting forward, like a loosened hound, The stranger clutched the sword and wheeled it round, And struck the Lord's Anointed. Fierce and fleet Philistia came, with shouts and clattering feet; By gaping gorges and by rough defile Dark Ashdod beat across a dusty mile; Hot Hazor's bowmen toiled from spire to spire, And Gath sprang upwards, like a gust of fire; On either side did Libnah's lords appear, And brass-clad Timnath thundered in the rear. "Mark, Achish, mark!"--South-west and south there sped A dabbled hireling from the dreadful dead. "Mark, Achish, mark!"--The mighty front of Saul, Great in his life and god-like in his fall! This was the arm that broke Philistia's pride, Where Kishon chafes his seaward-going tide; This was the sword that smote till set of sun Red Gath, from Michmash unto Ajalon, Low in the dust. And Israel scattered far! And dead the trumps and crushed the hoofs of war!

So fell the king, as it was said by him Who hid his forehead in a mantle dim At bleak Endor, what time unholy rites Vexed the long sleep of still Samarian heights; For, bowed to earth before the hoary priest, Did he of Kish withstand the smoking feast, To fast, in darkness and in sackcloth rolled, And house with wild things in the biting cold, Because of sharpness lent to Gaza's sword, And Judah widowed by the angry Lord.

So silence came. As when the outer verge Of Carmel takes the white and whistling surge, Hoarse, hollow noises fill the caves, and roar Along the margin of the echoing shore, Thus war had thundered; but as evening breaks Across the silver of Assyrian lakes, When reapers rest, and through the level red Of sunset, peace, like holy oil, is shed, Thus silence fell. But Israel's daughters crept Outside their thresholds, waited, watched, and wept.

Then they that dwell beyond the flats and fens Of sullen Jordan, and in gelid glens Of Jabesh-Gilead--chosen chiefs and few-- Around their loins the hasty girdle drew, And faced the forests, huddled fold on fold, And dells of glimmering greenness manifold. What time Orion in the west did set A shining foot on hills of wind and wet; These journeyed nightly till they reached the capes Where Ashdod revelled over heated grapes; And while the feast was loud and scouts were turned, From Saul's bound body cord by cord they burned, And bore the king athwart the place of tombs, And hasted eastward through the tufted glooms; Nor broke the cake nor stayed the step till morn Shot over Debir's cones and crags forlorn.

From Jabesh then the weeping virgins came; In Jabesh then they built the funeral flame; With costly woods they piled the lordly pyre, Brought yellow oils and fed the perfect fire; While round the crescent stately elders spread The flashing armour of the mighty dead, With crown and spear, and all the trophies won From many wars by Israel's dreadful son. Thence, when the feet of evening paused and stood On shadowy mountains and the roaring flood, (As through a rushing twilight, full of rain, The weak moon looked athwart Gadara's plain), The younger warriors bore the urn, and broke The humid turf about a wintering oak, And buried Saul; and, fasting, went their ways, And hid their faces seven nights and days.

In the Valley

Said the yellow-haired Spirit of Spring To the white-footed Spirit of Snow, "On the wings of the tempest take wing, And leave me the valleys, and go." And, straightway, the streams were unchained, And the frost-fettered torrents broke free, And the strength of the winter-wind waned In the dawn of a light on the sea.

Then a morning-breeze followed and fell, And the woods were alive and astir With the pulse of a song in the dell, And a whisper of day in the fir. Swift rings of sweet water were rolled Down the ways where the lily-leaves grew, And the green, and the white, and the gold, Were wedded with purple and blue.

But the lips of the flower of the rose Said, "where is the ending hereof? Is it sweet with you, life, at the close? Is it sad to be emptied of love?" And the voice of the flower of the peach Was tender and touching in tone, "When each has been grafted on each, It is sorrow to live on alone."

Then the leaves of the flower of the vine Said, "what will there be in the day When the reapers are red with my wine, And the forests are yellow and grey?" And the tremulous flower of the quince Made answer, "three seasons ago My sisters were star-like, but since, Their graves have been made in the snow."

Then the whispering flower of the fern Said, "who will be sad at the death, When Summer blows over the burn, With the fierceness of fire in her breath?" And the mouth of the flower of the sedge Was opened to murmur and sigh, "Sweet wind-breaths that pause at the edge Of the nightfall, and falter, and die."

Twelve Sonnets--

I

A Mountain Spring

Peace hath an altar there. The sounding feet Of thunder and the 'wildering wings of rain Against fire-rifted summits flash and beat, And through grey upper gorges swoop and strain; But round that hallowed mountain-spring remain, Year after year, the days of tender heat, And gracious nights, whose lips with flowers are sweet, And filtered lights, and lutes of soft refrain. A still, bright pool. To men I may not tell The secret that its heart of water knows, The story of a loved and lost repose; Yet this I say to cliff and close-leaved dell: A fitful spirit haunts yon limpid well, Whose likeness is the faithless face of Rose.

II

Laura

If Laura--lady of the flower-soft face-- Should light upon these verses, she may take The tenderest line, and through its pulses trace What man can suffer for a woman's sake. For in the nights that burn, the days that break, A thin pale figure stands in Passion's place, And peace comes not, nor yet the perished grace Of youth, to keep old faiths and fires awake. Ah! marvellous maid. Life sobs, and sighing saith, "She left me, fleeting like a fluttered dove; But I would have a moment of her breath, So I might taste the sweetest sense thereof, And catch from blossoming, honeyed lips of love Some faint, some fair, some dim, delicious death."

III

By a River

By red-ripe mouth and brown, luxurious eyes Of her I love, by all your sweetness shed In far, fair days, on one whose memory flies To faithless lights, and gracious speech gainsaid, I pray you, when yon river-path I tread, Make with the woodlands some soft compromise, Lest they should vex me into fruitless sighs With visions of a woman's gleaming head! For every green and golden-hearted thing That gathers beauty in that shining place, Beloved of beams and wooed by wind and wing, Is rife with glimpses of her marvellous face; And in the whispers of the lips of Spring The music of her lute-like voice I trace.

IV

Attila

What though his feet were shod with sharp, fierce flame, And death and ruin were his daily squires, The Scythian, helped by Heaven's thunders, came: The time was ripe for God's avenging fires. Lo! loose, lewd trulls, and lean, luxurious liars Had brought the fair, fine face of Rome to shame, And made her one with sins beyond a name-- That queenly daughter of imperial sires! The blood of elders like the blood of sheep, Was dashed across the circus. Once while din And dust and lightnings, and a draggled heap Of beast-slain men made lords with laughter leap, Night fell, with rain. The earth, so sick of sin, Had turned her face into the dark to weep.

V

A Reward

Because a steadfast flame of clear intent Gave force and beauty to full-actioned life; Because his way was one of firm ascent, Whose stepping-stones were hewn of change and strife; Because as husband loveth noble wife He loved fair Truth; because the thing he meant To do, that thing he did, nor paused, nor bent In face of poor and pale conclusions; yea! Because of this, how fares the Leader dead? What kind of mourners weep for him to-day? What golden shroud is at his funeral spread? Upon his brow what leaves of laurel, say? _About his breast is tied a sackcloth grey, And knots of thorns deface his lordly head._

VI

To----

A handmaid to the genius of thy song Is sweet, fair Scholarship. 'Tis she supplies The fiery spirit of the passioned eyes With subtle syllables, whose notes belong To some chief source of perfect melodies; And glancing through a laurelled, lordly throng Of shining singers, lo! my vision flies To William Shakespeare! He it is whose strong, Full, flute-like music haunts thy stately verse. A worthy Levite of his court thou art! One sent among us to defeat the curse That binds us to the Actual. Yea, thy part, Oh, lute-voiced lover! is to lull the heart Of love repelled, its darkness to disperse.

VII

The Stanza of Childe Harold

Who framed the stanza of Childe Harold? He It was who, halting on a stormy shore, Knew well the lofty voice which evermore, In grand distress, doth haunt the sleepless sea With solemn sounds. And as each wave did roll Till one came up, the mightiest of the whole, To sweep and surge across the vacant lea, Wild words were wedded to wild melody. This poet must have had a speechless sense Of some dead summer's boundless affluence; Else, whither can we trace the passioned lore Of Beauty, steeping to the very core His royal verse, and that rare light which lies About it, like a sunset in the skies?

VIII

A Living Poet

He knows the sweet vexation in the strife Of Love with Time, this bard who fain would stray To fairer place beyond the storms of life, With astral faces near him day by day. In deep-mossed dells the mellow waters flow Which best he loves; for there the echoes, rife With rich suggestions of his long ago, Astarte, pass with thee! And, far away, Dear southern seasons haunt the dreamy eye: Spring, flower-zoned, and Summer, warbling low In tasselled corn, alternate come and go, While gypsy Autumn, splashed from heel to thigh With vine-blood, treads the leaves; and, halting nigh, Wild Winter bends across a beard of snow.

IX

Dante and Virgil

When lost Francesca sobbed her broken tale Of love and sin and boundless agony, While that wan spirit by her side did wail And bite his lips for utter misery-- The grief which could not speak, nor hear, nor see-- So tender grew the superhuman face Of one who listened, that a mighty trace Of superhuman woe gave way, and pale The sudden light up-struggled to its place; While all his limbs began to faint and fail With such excess of pity. But, behind, The Roman Virgil stood--the calm, the wise-- With not a shadow in his regal eyes, A stately type of all his stately kind.

X

Rest

Sometimes we feel so spent for want of rest, We have no thought beyond. I know to-day, When tired of bitter lips and dull delay With faithless words, I cast mine eyes upon The shadows of a distant mountain-crest, And said "That hill must hide within its breast Some secret glen secluded from the sun. Oh, mother Nature! would that I could run Outside to thee; and, like a wearied guest, Half blind with lamps, and sick of feasting, lay An aching head on thee. Then down the streams The moon might swim, and I should feel her grace, While soft winds blew the sorrows from my face, So quiet in the fellowship of dreams."

XI

After Parting

I cannot tell what change hath come to you To vex your splendid hair. I only know _One_ grief. The passion left betwixt us two, Like some forsaken watchfire, burneth low. 'Tis sad to turn and find it dying so, Without a hope of resurrection! Yet, O radiant face that found me tired and lone! I shall not for the dear, dead past forget The sweetest looks of all the summers gone. Ah! time hath made familiar wild regret; For now the leaves are white in last year's bowers, And now doth sob along the ruined leas The homeless storm from saddened southern seas, While March sits weeping over withered flowers.

XII

Alfred Tennyson

The silvery dimness of a happy dream I've known of late. Methought where Byron moans, Like some wild gulf in melancholy zones, I passed tear-blinded. Once a lurid gleam Of stormy sunset loitered on the sea, While, travelling troubled like a straitened stream, The voice of Shelley died away from me. Still sore at heart, I reached a lake-lit lea. And then the green-mossed glades with many a grove, Where lies the calm which Wordsworth used to love, And, lastly, Locksley Hall, from whence did rise A haunting song that blew and breathed and blew With rare delights. 'Twas _there_ I woke and knew The sumptuous comfort left in drowsy eyes.

Sutherland's Grave

-- * Sutherland: Forby Sutherland, one of Captain Cook's seamen, who died shortly after the _Endeavour_ anchored in Botany Bay, 1770. He was the first Englishman buried in Australia. --

All night long the sea out yonder--all night long the wailful sea, Vext of winds and many thunders, seeketh rest unceasingly! Seeketh rest in dens of tempest, where, like one distraught with pain, Shouts the wild-eyed sprite, Confusion--seeketh rest, and moans in vain: Ah! but you should hear it calling, calling when the haggard sky Takes the darks and damps of Winter with the mournful marsh-fowl's cry; Even while the strong, swift torrents from the rainy ridges come Leaping down and breaking backwards--million-coloured shapes of foam! Then, and then, the sea out yonder chiefly looketh for the boon Portioned to the pleasant valleys and the grave sweet summer moon: Boon of Peace, the still, the saintly spirit of the dew-dells deep-- Yellow dells and hollows haunted by the soft, dim dreams of sleep.

All night long the flying water breaks upon the stubborn rocks-- Ooze-filled forelands burnt and blackened, smit and scarred with lightning shocks; But above the tender sea-thrift, but beyond the flowering fern, Runs a little pathway westward--pathway quaint with turn on turn-- Westward trending, thus it leads to shelving shores and slopes of mist: Sleeping shores, and glassy bays of green and gold and amethyst! _There_ tread gently--_gently_, pilgrim; _there_ with thoughtful eyes look round; Cross thy breast and bless the silence: lo, the place is holy ground! Holy ground for ever, stranger! All the quiet silver lights Dropping from the starry heavens through the soft Australian nights-- Dropping on those lone grave-grasses--come serene, unbroken, clear, Like the love of God the Father, falling, falling, year by year! Yea, and like a Voice supernal, _there_ the daily wind doth blow In the leaves above the sailor buried ninety years ago.

Syrinx

A heap of low, dark, rocky coast, Unknown to foot or feather! A sea-voice moaning like a ghost; And fits of fiery weather!

The flying Syrinx turned and sped By dim, mysterious hollows, Where night is black, and day is red, And frost the fire-wind follows.

Strong, heavy footfalls in the wake Came up with flights of water: The gods were mournful for the sake Of Ladon's lovely daughter.

For when she came to spike and spine, Where reef and river gather, Her feet were sore with shell and chine; She could not travel farther.

Across a naked strait of land Blown sleet and surge were humming; But trammelled with the shifting sand, She heard the monster coming!

A thing of hoofs and horns and lust: A gaunt, goat-footed stranger! She bowed her body in the dust And called on Zeus to change her;

And called on Hermes, fair and fleet, And her of hounds and quiver, To hide her in the thickets sweet That sighed above the river.

So he that sits on flaming wheels, And rules the sea and thunder, Caught up the satyr by the heels And tore his skirts asunder.

While Arcas, of the glittering plumes, Took Ladon's daughter lightly, And set her in the gracious glooms That mix with moon-mist nightly;

And touched her lips with wild-flower wine, And changed her body slowly, Till, in soft reeds of song and shine, Her life was hidden wholly.

On the Paroo

-- * The name of a watercourse, often dry, which in flood-time reaches the river Darling. --

As when the strong stream of a wintering sea Rolls round our coast, with bodeful breaks of storm, And swift salt rain, and bitter wind that saith Wild things and woeful of the White South Land Alone with God and silence in the cold-- As when this cometh, men from dripping doors Look forth, and shudder for the mariners Abroad, so we for absent brothers looked In days of drought, and when the flying floods Swept boundless; roaring down the bald, black plains Beyond the farthest spur of western hills.

For where the Barwon cuts a rotten land, Or lies unshaken, like a great blind creek, Between hot mouldering banks, it came to this, All in a time of short and thirsty sighs, That thirty rainless months had left the pools And grass as dry as ashes: then it was Our kinsmen started for the lone Paroo, From point to point, with patient strivings, sheer Across the horrors of the windless downs, Blue gleaming like a sea of molten steel.

But never drought had broke them: never flood Had quenched them: they with mighty youth and health, And thews and sinews knotted like the trees-- _They_, like the children of the native woods, Could stem the strenuous waters, or outlive The crimson days and dull, dead nights of thirst Like camels: yet of what avail was strength Alone to them--though it was like the rocks On stormy mountains--in the bloody time When fierce sleep caught them in the camps at rest, And violent darkness gripped the life in them And whelmed them, as an eagle unawares Is whelmed and slaughtered in a sudden snare.

All murdered by the blacks; smit while they lay In silver dreams, and with the far, faint fall Of many waters breaking on their sleep! Yea, in the tracts unknown of any man Save savages--the dim-discovered ways Of footless silence or unhappy winds-- The wild men came upon them, like a fire Of desert thunder; and the fine, firm lips That touched a mother's lips a year before, And hands that knew a dearer hand than life, Were hewn--a sacrifice before the stars, And left with hooting owls and blowing clouds, And falling leaves and solitary wings!

Aye, you may see their graves--you who have toiled And tripped and thirsted, like these men of ours; For, verily, I say that _not_ so deep Their bones are that the scattered drift and dust Of gusty days will never leave them bare. O dear, dead, bleaching bones! I know of those Who have the wild, strong will to go and sit Outside all things with you, and keep the ways Aloof from bats, and snakes, and trampling feet That smite your peace and theirs--who have the heart, Without the lusty limbs, to face the fire And moonless midnights, and to be, indeed, For very sorrow, like a moaning wind In wintry forests with perpetual rain.

Because of this--because of sisters left With desperate purpose and dishevelled hair, And broken breath, and sweetness quenched in tears-- Because of swifter silver for the head, And furrows for the face--because of these That should have come with age, that come with pain-- O Master! Father! sitting where our eyes Are tired of looking, say for once are we-- Are _we_ to set our lips with weary smiles Before the bitterness of Life and Death, And call it honey, while we bear away A taste like wormwood?

Turn thyself, and sing-- Sing, Son of Sorrow! Is there any gain For breaking of the loins, for melting eyes, And knees as weak as water?--any peace, Or hope for casual breath and labouring lips, For clapping of the palms, and sharper sighs Than frost; or any light to come for those Who stand and mumble in the alien streets With heads as grey as Winter?--any balm For pleading women, and the love that knows Of nothing left to love?

They sleep a sleep Unknown of dreams, these darling friends of ours. And we who taste the core of many tales Of tribulation--we whose lives are salt With tears indeed--we therefore hide our eyes And weep in secret, lest our grief should risk The rest that hath no hurt from daily racks Of fiery clouds and immemorial rains.

Faith in God

Have faith in God. For whosoever lists To calm conviction in these days of strife, Will learn that in this steadfast stand exists The scholarship severe of human life.

This face to face with doubt! I know how strong His thews must be who fights and falls and bears, By sleepless nights and vigils lone and long, And many a woeful wraith of wrestling prayers.

Yet trust in Him! Not in an old man throned With thunders on an everlasting cloud, But in that awful Entity enzoned By no wild wraths nor bitter homage loud.