V.

Behold! the rain is over: on the wave A new, a flashing light! Lo, she arises calm, The pale, the patient moon, and pours like balm Through the wet wood’s wrecked aisle Her own unutterably tender smile! There is no calm like that when storm is done; There is no pleasure keen as pain’s release; There is no joy that lies so deep as peace, No peace so deep as that by struggle won.

_Naught now remains, naught now remains but night—_ _Night peaceful, with the moon on field and wave!_

AN EPITAPH WRITTEN IN THE SAND, ON A BUTTERFLY DROWNED IN THE SEA.

Poor Psyche, to a Power supernal wed, How strong a fate on this thy frailness fell! What strange ironic word shall here be read? Dead sign of immortality, farewell!

I sigh not that the summer fields have lost One flying flower: who counts the butterflies? I sigh not that thy sunny hour was crossed The self-same Shadow surely waits mine eyes.

Thy piteous terror of the appointed end, For this I sigh! The billow, poised above, Fell on thee like the beast that leaps to rend; Thou couldst not know thy bridegroom Death was Love!

How otherwise thy sister, yea the Soul Bent brooding o’er these broken wings of thine!— Through all her house of mystery once she stole To the inmost room, and found a Face benign.

Now whirl her where ye must, ye waves of Law— Aye, tear her vans, her painted hopes, apart! She cannot fear, remembering what she saw: Dark bridegroom Death, she knows thee Who thou art!

EMELIE.

_O chaste goddesse of the wodes grene,_ _I am (thou wost) yet of thy compagnie,_ _A mayde, and love hunting and venerie,_ _And for to walke in the wodes wilde._

—CHAUCER’S “KNIGHTES TALE.”

She greets the lily on the stalk; She shakes the soft hair from her brows; She wavers down the garden walk Beneath the bloomy boughs. She is the slenderest of maids; Her fair face strikes you like a star; The great stone tower her pathway shades— The prison where the Princes are. _Across the dewy pleasance falls,_ _All in the clear May morning light,_ _The shadow of those evil walls_ _That look so black by night._

She is so glad, so wild a thing, Her heart sings like the lark all day; The unhooded falcon on the wing Is not more freely gay. In sun and wind doth she rejoice, And blithely drinks the airy blue, Yet loves the solemn pines that voice The grief she never knew.

In silence of the woods apart Her sure swift step the Dryads know; Full oft she speeds the bounding hart, And draws the bending bow. Fine gleams across her spirit dart, And never living soul, saith she, Could make her choose for aye to lose Her own sweet company.

But sometimes, when the moon is bright, So bright it almost drowns the stars, She thinks how some have lost delight Behind the prison bars. It makes her sad a little space, And casts a shadow on her look, As branches in a woody place Do flicker on a brook.

Last night she had a dream of men, Dark faces strange with keen desire; She heard the blaring trumpet then, She saw the shields strike fire. The pomp of plumes, the crack of spears, Beyond her happy circle lie: Thank Heaven! she has but eighteen years, And loves the daisies and the sky. _And yet across her garden falls,_ _All in the clear May morning light,_ _The shadow of the prison walls_ _That look so black by night._

ELSINORE.

It is strange in Elsinore Since the day King Hamlet died.

All the hearty sports of yore, Sledge and skate, are laid aside; Stilled the ancient mirth that rang, Boisterous, down the fire-lit halls; They forgot, at Yule, to hang Berried holly on the walls. Claudius lets the mead still flow For the blue-eyed thanes that love it; But they bend their brows above it, And forever, to and fro, ’Round the board dull murmurs go: “It is strange in Elsinore Since the day King Hamlet died.”

And a swarm of courtiers flit, New in slashed and satined trim, With their freshly-fashioned wit And their littleness of limb,— Flit about the stairways wide, Till the pale Prince Hamlet smiles, As he walks, at twilight tide, Through the galleries and the aisles.

For to him the castle seems— This old castle, Elsinore— Like a thing built up of dreams; And the king’s a mask, no more; And the courtiers seem but flights Of the painted butterflies; And the arras, wrought with fights, Grows alive before his eyes. Lo, its giant shapes of Danes, As without a wind it waves, Live more nobly than his thanes, Sullen carpers, ale-fed slaves!

In the flickering of the fires, Through his sleep at night there pass Gay conceits and young desires— Faces out of memory’s glass, Fragments of the actor’s art, Student’s pleasures, college broils, Poesies that caught his heart, Chances with the fencing foils; Then he listens oftentimes With his boyhood’s simple glee, To dead Yorick’s quips and rhymes, Leaning on his father’s knee. To that mighty hand he clings, Tender love that stern face charms; All at once the casement rings As with strength of angry arms. From the couch he lifts his head, With a shudder and a start; All the fires are embers red, And a weight is on his heart.

It is strange in Elsinore: Sure some marvel cometh soon! Underneath the icy moon Footsteps pat the icy floor; Voices haunt the midnights bleak, When the wind goes singing keen; And the hound, once kept so sleek, Slinks and whimpers and grows lean And the shivering sentinels, Timorous, on their lonesome round, Starting count the swinging bells, Starting at the hollow sound; And the pine-trees chafe and roar, Though the snow would keep them still. In the state there’s somewhat ill; It is strange in Elsinore.

FIAMMETTA.

In dream I passed the Gate that bears in black, “Here lies dead Hope.” The ineffable gold sky I saw between the pillars, looking back, And one young cloud, that slowly wandered by As though it wondered. Downward, all was dark, And through the dark I heard the sad souls cry.

Anon, although alone, I whispered, “Hark! What lifeless laughter, crackling thorny-thin?” Then grew to sight what first I failed to mark When from the accustomed light I entered in,— A group that pleasured by that barren wall As Hell some delicate-blossomed close had been: One, gesturing, spake; the rest attended all. “Declare, ye circled shades, your home on earth! Declare the names your kindred used to call!” I cried, much marveling at their mirthless mirth. A woman wavered to the space half lit By that lost sky: “In Florence had we birth; That company thou seest, who chose to sit Ten sunny days, a fountain’s flight beside, Scattering the rose, and weaving tales of wit, What time by Arno many cursing died. Yes, Fiammetta am I. _Thou little flame_ (Thus the grave Angel, to this Gate my guide), _With what vain flickering hast thou proved thy name!_ _Hast given to no chilled spirit aught of cheer;_ _Shalt now be fed and kept alight with shame,_ _And flicker evermore._”

Then did appear Her set smile’s irony, and I discerned Through those her long dark languid eyes, right clear How far below her soul forever burned. Her sleeves of scarlet hung in many a shred; Her silver chains were all to tarnish turned, And crisped were the laurels on her head. “Alas! why camest thou to this place of pain,— Why, Pampinea, Lauretta, why?” I said, “Since many souls that bore the self-same stain Tread the last ledge of Purgatory mount, And trust, made pure, sweet Paradise to gain, Where sings the grove, where flows the twofold fount. Those, angels aid on fair green rustling wings; Why then are these thus held to hard account?”

“Not such, O questioner, was the sin that brings Us hither; but on earth so weak a part We chose, that now no part in heavenly things Is granted us, nor yet will Hell’s deep heart Receive us, but in this dim borderland We dwell, and follow here our hollow art Of weaving tales, and are in semblance gay, Moved by a might we never may withstand. To our own dear delights we turned away; Forgot the city full of tears, forgot The tolling bells, abandoned even to pray; But couched in some delectable safe spot Saw breezy olives whiten like the sea, And babbled, fools, of Love, and knew him not, Who else had set us from the grim Gate free, Being giant-strong to save the souls of men. But Hate came to us, richly masked, and we Esteemed him Love; and now among us ten Sits very Hate. The life we prized is ours For aye! Yet not so far, I deem, this den From sound of suffering as our fields of flowers.” With that weird smile, she turned as if to go. Loud groaned the lurid City, the sullen fen Of Styx, and all that grief that lies below. “Farewell,” I sighed, “Fiammetta!” But she, “Not so! What life is thine? Perchance we meet again!”

HAROUN AL RASCHID.

Golden pride and fragrant light Are mine, and thereto was I born; Thronéd pomp is mine of right, Robes bestarred, or like the morn; All words of pearl to me belong Singers can string in shining song; Jewels, as perfect song-notes rare, Are mine own to waste or wear.

Not less hath this right hand power Whereof such shows are but the flower,— Power deep-rooted in the earth That shakes to royal wrath or mirth.

Yet, on many a deep-blue night, Clad and shod in coarsest wise, All my splendors must I slight For the smile of the common skies: My feet, that inlaid courts forego, Lanes of the dusty city know; I jest among the bronzéd slaves, And am well met with merry knaves, And quaft poor drink, and feel it glow; Steep me in simple weal and woe; Yea, learn to swim in those dim waves That, my palace flight before, Fawning fall with plausive roar.

Hence rumors dear shall rise and rise Of my descending and disguise; Whereat the slave’s freed soul shall sing: A Caliph looked into his eyes: How is he, then, so mean a thing? By torchlight of such memories The Caliph in himself he sees. Thus, being loved, shall live my name, Glowing in the general flame Of the people’s hearth and heart; While men lie entombed apart That were as glorious and as great, Forgot, because they kept their state; Crumbling with the crumbling Past Into a dust unnamed at last, Whence their gems procured shall be By some wiser soul like me.

A RONDEL OF PARTING.

You leave it when spring blossoms fall, The old house where the roses grew. You gave them from the garden wall, Your roses, faint of breath and hue, Whose lovely like I never knew. Can I my flock of memories call To leave it when spring blossoms fall, The old house where the roses grew?

No, no, they flit about the hall, And beat their wings, and cry for you. Be still: no more, no more at all, She enters now: apart we two Shall see in dreams, when late leaves fall, The House of Youth, where roses grew!

A CHRISTMAS GREETING.

Speed, my Thought, oh speed, my Thought, Over the miles of snow! Never before, to bear to her door Love, with his looks aglow, Hadst thou so far to go! Take for a chime bells of my rhyme Over the miles of snow!

Stand, my Thought, oh stand, my Thought! Fled are the miles of snow. Call, O Love! to her window above, In the voice her heart must know. ’Tis the time of mistletoe: Sing in the night to her window alight, In the night of stars and snow!

AT EASTER-TIDE.

At Easter-tide, when lilies blow For font and altar, virgin things, When spikes of maple scarlet show, And thin clouds white as angels’ wings, While some fresh voice the message flings “The Lord is risen!”—from long ago Rise purified the tombéd Springs, At Easter-tide, when lilies blow.

Oh, when the hallowed hour not brings Those gloried ghosts, whose brows we know, Nor I o’er change and distance throw, In midmost prayer, an arm that clings, Ah then, the deep-toned bell that rings I shall not hear, nor hear whatso The clear young voice triumphant sings, At Easter-tide, when lilies blow!

TO-DAY.

Voice, with what emulous fire thou singest free hearts of old fashion, English scorners of Spain, sweeping the blue sea-way, Sing me the daring of life for life, the magnanimous passion Of man for man in the mean populous streets of To-day!

Hand, with what color and power thou couldst show, in the ring hot-sanded, Brown Bestiarius holding the lean tawn tiger at bay, Paint me the wrestle of Toil with the wild-beast Want, bare-handed; Shadow me forth a soul steadily facing To-day!

A CONSERVATIVE.

“Your Spring,” he said, “I hate: now blast, now breeze; All weathers mixt; sharp change, confusion dire. An easy-chair, a vast December fire, A fine old russet folio—give me these! Birds’ twitterings at the dawn my ear displease, My dreams disturb. What eye could ever tire Of orderly white ways? could e’er desire The foolish haze of May? Such wishes tease No sober mind!”

But none the less did break Green from the glebe; the conéd chestnuts gave Faint fragrance out; the robin’s breast would make A flame a-field; the snow he could not save. And Spring on Spring, as wave in strong wave’s wake, Still rolls a bloomy billow o’er his grave.

A RADICAL.

He never feared to pry the stable stone That loving lichens clad with silvery gray; Torn ivies trembled as they slipped away, Their empty arms now loose and listless blown. Then turning, with that ardor all his own, “Behold, my better building!” he would say. “I rear as well as raze: nor by decay Nor foe nor fire can this be overthrown!”

What was it? Had he keener sight than we? We saw the ruin, more we could not see; His blocks were jasper air, a dream his plan. We called him, Stormer; ever he replied, “Unbroken calm within my breast I hide.” Now God be judge betwixt us and this man!

A RETROGRADE.

“What, you!” his comrades cried, “who led us long Against the dense arrays of dullards’ thought, You quit us on the march, so quickly caught By such a strain, a simple peasant-song? That breath of old brown earth is strangely strong, To lure you to the fields where hinds untaught Toil slavish, or by common coinage bought, Or meanly fearful of the Master’s thong!”

“Yea, dear the song,—although I may not sing; Yea, dear the soil,—although I delve it not! I fall not back, but peaceful pass beyond. For freedom’s sake your hearts are fiery-hot, Yet through the tramp I hear your fetters ring! Denial is the straitest kind of bond.”

THE RESOLVE.

Thou intimate, malign, benumbing power I cannot name, since names that men have made For shapes of evil shine beside thy shade, Who from the seat of mine own soul dost lower,— Darkness itself, that doth the light devour,— I feel thine urgency upon me laid To voice despair! Thou shalt not be obeyed; Thou art my master only for thine hour!

As some sad-eyed, wan woman that is slave To the swart Moor, being bid her lute to bring, Since song of her strange land her lord doth crave, With lip a-tremble dares the scourge’s sting, Refusing,—thy brute might so far I brave: I will not sing what thou wouldst have me sing!

THE NOONING.

Oh soft, soft, soft, thou slender-footed maid, Cool-clad and fair, along the sultry street At broad blue blinding noon! Light fall thy feet As e’er the wood-nymphs’ fell while Pan was laid At mid-day in some choice Arcadian shade Where not an oak-leaf laughed, and if there beat Loud the wild heart of any Dryad fleet, Hearing, she girded her warm side afraid! For where, against yon hourly-growing wall, Dull-red, the ailantus-blossoms brighter show, A little while his weariness forgot, Outstretching in a chosen shadow small, With hot wet forehead on his lax arm low, Swart Labor sleeps, without whom thou wert not!

THE INHERITANCE.