LETTER VIII.
A VISION.
I.
Yes, I will tell thee what, a week ago,
I dreamt of thee, and all the joy therein
Which I conceiv'd, and all the holy din
Of throbbing music, which appear'd to flow
From room to room, as if to make me know
The power thereof to lead me out of sin.
II.
III.
I follow'd thee. I knew that, in the wood,
Where thus we met, there was a trysting-place.
I follow'd thee, as mortals in a chase
Follow the deer. I knew that it was good
To track thy step, and promptly understood
The fitful blush that flutter'd to thy face.
IV.
I followed thee to where a brook did run
Close to a grot; and there I knelt to thee.
And then a score of birds flew over me,—
Birds which arrived because the day was done,
To sing the Sanctus of the setting sun;
And then I heard thy voice upon the lea.
V.
"Follow!" it cried. I rose and follow'd fast;
And, in my dream, I felt the dream was true,
And that, full soon, Titania, with her crew
Of imps and fays, would meet me on the blast.
But this was hindered; and I quickly passed
Into the valley where the cedars grew.
VI.
And what a scene, O God! and what repose,
And what sad splendour in the burning west:
A languid sun low-dropping to his rest,
And incense rising, as of old it rose,
To do him honour at the daylight's close,—
The birds entranced, and all the winds repress'd.
VII.
I followed thee. I came to where a shrine
Stood in the trees, and where an oaken gate
Swung in the air, so turbulent of late.
I touch'd thy hand; it quiver'd into mine;
And then I look'd into thy face benign,
And saw the smile for which the angels wait.
VIII.
And lo! the moon had sailed into the main
Of that blue sky, as if therein did poise
A silver boat; and then a tuneful noise
Broke from the copse where late a breeze was slain;
And nightingales, in ecstasy of pain,
Did break their hearts with singing the old joys.
IX.
"Is this the spot?" I cried, "is this the spot
Where I must tell thee all my heart's desire?
Is this the time when I must drink the fire,
And eat the snow, and find it fever-hot?
I freeze with heat, and yet I fear it not;
And all my pulses thrill me like a lyre."
X.
A wondrous light was thrown upon thy face;
It was the light within; it was the ray
Of thine own soul. And then a voice did say,
"Glory to God the King, and Jesu's grace
Here and hereafter!" and about the place
A radiance shone surpassing that of day.
XI.
It was thy voice. It was the voice I prize
More than the sound of April in the dales,
More than the songs of larks and nightingales,
And more than the teachings of the worldly-wise.
"Glory to God," it said, "for in the skies,
And here on earth, 'tis He alone prevails."
XII.
And then I asked thee: "Shall I tell thee now
All that I think of, when, by land and sea,
The days and nights illume the world for me?
And how I muse on marriage, as I bow
In God's own places, with a throbbing brow?
And how, at night, I dream of kissing thee?"
XIII.
But thou did'st answer: "First behold this man!
He is thy lord, for love's and lady's sake;
He is thy master, or I much mistake."
And I perceiv'd, hard by, a phantom wan
And wild and kingly, who did, walking, span
The open space that lay beside the brake.
XIV.
It was Beethoven. It was he who came
From monstrous shades, to journey yet awhile
In pleasant nooks, and vainly seek the smile
Of one lov'd woman—she to whom his fame
Had been a glory had she sought the same,
And lov'd a soul so grand, so free from guile.
XV.
It was the Kaiser of the land of song,
The giant-singer who did storm the gates
Of Heaven and Hell, a man to whom the Fates
Were fierce as furies, and who suffer'd wrong
And ached and bore it, and was brave and strong,
But gaunt as ocean when its rage abates.
XVI.
I knew his tread. I knew him by his look
Of pent-up sorrow—by his hair unkempt
And torn attire—and by his smile exempt
From all but pleading. Yet his body shook
With some great joy; and onward he betook
His echoing steps the way that I had dreamt.
XVII.
I bow'd my head. The lordly being pass'd.
He was my king, and I did bow to him.
And when I rais'd mine eyes they were as dim
As tears could make them. And the moon, aghast,
Glared in the sky; and westward came a blast
Which shook the earth like shouts of cherubim.
XVIII.
I held my breath. I could have fled the place,
As men have fled before the wrath of God.
But I beheld my Lady where she trod
The darken'd path; and I did cry apace:
"Help me, my Lady!" and thy lustrous face
Gladden'd the air, and quicken'd all the sod.
XIX.
Then did I hear again that voice of cheer.
"Lovest thou me," it said, "or music best?"
I seized thy hand, I drew thee to my breast,
"Thee, only thee!" I cried. "From year to year,
Thee, only thee—not fame!" And silver-clear,
Thy voice responded: "God will grant the rest."
XX.
I kiss'd thine eyes. I kiss'd them where the blue
Peep'd smiling forth; and proudly as before
I heard the tones that thrill'd me to the core.
"If thou love me," they said, "if thou be true,
Thou shalt have fame, and love, and music too!"
Entranced I kiss'd the lips that I adore.
LETTER IX.
TO-MORROW.
I.
O Love! O Love! O Gateway of Delight!
Thou porch of peace, thou pageant of the prime
Of all God's creatures! I am here to climb
Thine upward steps, and daily and by night
To gaze beyond them, and to search aright
The far-off splendour of thy track sublime.
II.
For, in thy precincts, on the further side,
Beyond the turret where the bells are rung,
Beyond the chapel where the rites are sung,
There is a garden fit for any bride.
O Love! by thee, by thee are sanctified
The joys thereof to keep our spirits young.
III.
By thee, dear Love! by thee, if all be well—
And we be wise enough to own the touch
Of some bright folly that has thrill'd us much—
By thee, till death, we may regain the spell
Of wizard Merlin, and in every dell
Confront a Muse, and bow to it as such.
IV.
Love! Happy Love! Behold me where I stand
This side thy portal, with my straining eyes
Turn'd to the Future. Cloudless are the skies,
And, far adown the road which thou hast spann'd,
I see the groves of that elected land
Which is the place I call my paradise.
V.
But what is this? The plains are known to me;
The hills are known, the fields, the little fence,
The noisy brook as clear as innocence,
And this old oak, the wonder of the lea,
Which stops the wind to know if there shall be
Sorrow for men, or pride, or recompense.
VI.
I know these things, yet hold it little blame
To know them not, though in their proud array,
The flowers advance to make the world so gay.
Ah, what a change! The things I know by name
Look unfamiliar all, and, like a flame,
The roses burn upon the hedge to-day.
VII.
The grass is velvet. There are pearls thereon,
And golden signs, and braid that doth appear
Made for a bridal. This is fairy gear
If I mistake not. I shall know anon.
Nature herself will teach me how to con
The new-found words to thank the glowing year.
VIII.
This is the path that led me to the brook;
And this the mead, and this the mossy slope,
And this the place where breezes did elope
With giddy moths, enamour'd of a look;
And here I sat alone, or with a book,
Dreaming the dreams of constancy and hope.
IX.
I loved the river well; but not till now
Did I perceive the marvels of the shore.
This is a cave, and this an emerald floor;
And here Sir Englantine might make a vow,
And here a king, a guilty king, might bow
Before a child, and break his word no more.
X.
The day is dying. I shall see him die,
And I shall watch the sunset, and the red
Of all that splendour when the day is dead.
And I shall see the stars upon the sky,
And think them torches that are lit on high
To light the Lord Apollo to his bed.
XI.
And sweet To-morrow, like a golden bark,
Will call for me, and lead me on apace
To where I shall behold, in all her grace,
Mine own true Lady, whom a happy lark
Did late salute, appointing, after dark,
A nightingale to carol in his place.
XII.
Oh, come to me! Oh, come, belovèd day,
O sweet To-morrow! Youngest of the sons
Of old King Time, to whom Creation runs
As men to God. Oh, quickly with thy ray
Anoint my head, and teach me how to pray,
As gentle Jesus taught the little ones.
XIII.
I am aweary of the waiting hours,
I am aweary of the tardy night.
The hungry moments rob me of delight,
The crawling minutes steal away my powers;
And I am sick at heart, as one who cowers,
In lonely haunts, remov'd from human sight.
XIV.
How shall I think the night was meant for sleep,
When I must count the dreadful hours thereof,
And cannot beat them down, or bid them doff
Their hateful masks? A man may wake and weep
From hour to hour, and, in the silence deep,
See shadows move, and almost hear them scoff.
XV.
Oh, come to me, To-morrow! like a friend,
And not as one who bideth for the clock.
Be swift to come, and I will hear thee knock,
And though the night refuse to make an end
Of her dull peace, I promptly will descend
And let thee in, and thank thee for the shock.
XVI.
Dear, good To-morrow! in my life, till now,
I did not think to need thee quite so soon.
I did not think that I should hate the moon,
Or new or old, or that my fevered brow
Requir'd the sun to cool it. I will bow
To this new day, that he may grant the boon.
XVII.
Yes, 'twill consent. The day will dawn at last.
Day and the tide approach. They cannot rest.
They must approach. They must by every test
Of all men's knowledge, neither slow nor fast,
Approach and front us. When the night is past,
The morrow's dawn will lead me to my quest.
XVIII.
Then shall I tremble greatly, and be glad,
For I shall meet my true-love all alone,
And none shall tell me of her dainty zone,
And none shall say how sweetly she is clad;
But I shall know it. Men may call me mad;
But I shall know how bright the world has grown.
XIX.
There is a grammar of the lips and eyes,
And I have learnt it. There are tokens sure
Of trust in love; and I have found them pure.
Is love the guerdon then? Is love the prize?
It is! It is! We find it in the skies,
And here on earth 'tis all that will endure.
XX.
All things for love. All things in some divine
And wish'd for way, conspire, as Nature knows,
To some great good. Where'er a daisy grows
There grows a joy. The forest-trees combine
To talk of peace when mortals would repine;
And he is false to God who flouts the rose.
LETTER X.
A RETROSPECT.
I.
I walk again beside the roaring sea,
And once again I harken to the speech
Of waves exulting on the madden'd beach.
A sound of awful joy it seems to me,
A shuddering sound of God's eternity,—
Telling of things beyond the sage's reach.
II.
I walk alone. I see the bounding waves
Curl'd into foam. I watch them as they leap
Like wild sea-horses loosen'd from the deep.
And well I know that they have seen the graves
Of shipwreck'd sailors; for Disaster paves
The fearful fields where reapers cannot reap.
III.
Out there, in islands where the summer sun
Goes down in tempest, there are loathsome things
That crawl to shore, and flap unsightly wings.
But here there are no monsters that can run
To catch the limbs of bathers; no! not one;
And here the wind is harmless when it stings.
IV.
There is a glamour all about the bay,
As if the nymphs of Greece had tarried here.
The sands are golden, and the rocks appear
Crested with silver; and the breezes play
Snatches of song they humm'd when far away,
And then are hush'd, as if from sudden fear.
V.
They think of thee. They hunt; they meditate.
They will not quit the shore till they have seen
The very spot where thou did'st stand serene
In all thy beauty; and of me they prate,
Knowing I love thee. And, like one elate,
The grand old sea remembers what hath been.
VI.
How many hours, how many days we met
Here on the beach, in that delirious time
When all the waves appear'd to break in rhyme.
Life was a joy, and love was like a debt
Paid and repaid in kisses—good to get,
And good to lose—unhoarded, yet sublime.
VII.
We wander'd here. We saw the tide advance,
We saw it ebb. We saw the widow'd shore
Waiting for Ocean with its organ roar,
Knowing that, day by day, through happy chance,
She would be wooed anew, amid the dance
Of bridal waves high-bounding as before.
VIII.
And I remember how, at flush of morn,
Thou didst depart alone, to find a nook
Where none could see thee; where a lover's look
Were profanation worse than any scorn;
And how I went my way, among the corn,
To wait for thee beside the Shepherd's brook.
IX.
And lo! from out a cave thou didst emerge,
Sweet as thyself, the flower of Womankind.
I know 'twas thus; for, in my secret mind,
I see thee now. I see thee in the surge
Of those wild waves, well knowing that they urge
Some idle wish, untalk'd-of to the wind.
X.
I think the beach was thankful to have known
Thy warm, white body, and the blessedness
Of thy first shiver; and I well can guess
How, when thy limbs were toss'd and overthrown,
The sea was pleased, and every smallest stone,
And every wave, was proud of thy caress.
XI.
A maiden diving, with dishevell'd hair,
Sheer from a rock; a syren of the deep
Call'd into action, ere a wave could leap
Breast-high to daunt her; Daphne, by a prayer,
Lured from a forest for the sea to bear—
This were a dream to fill a poet's sleep.
XII.
This were a thing for Phœbus to have eyed;
And he did eye it. Yea, the Deathless One
Did eye thy beauty. It was madly done.
He saw thee in the rising of the tide.
He saw thee well. The truth is not denied;
The shore was proud to show thee to the sun.
XIII.
Never since Venus, at a god's decree,
Uprose from ocean, has there lived on earth
A face like thine, a form of so much worth;
And nowhere has the moon-obeying sea
Known such perfection, down from head to knee,
And knee to foot, since that Olympian birth.
XIV.
And, sooth, the moon was anxious to have placed
Her head beside thee, on the waters bright.
But she was foil'd; for thou so late at night
Wouldst not go forth: no! not to be embraced
By Nature's Queen, though, round about the waist,
She would have ring'd thee with her softest light.
XV.
Ah me! had I a lute of sovereign power
I would enlarge on this, and plainly show
That there is nothing like thee here below,—
Nothing so comely, nothing in its dower
Of youth and grace, so like a human flower,
And white withal, and guiltless as the snow.
XVI.
For thou art fair as lilies, with the flush
That roses have while waiting for a kiss;
And when thou smilest nothing comes amiss.
The earth is glad to see thy dimpled blush.
Had I the lute of Orpheus I would hush
All meaner sounds to tell the stars of this.
XVII.
I would, I swear, by Pallas' own consent,
Inform all creatures whom the stars behold
That thou art mine, and that a pen of gold,
With ink of fire, though by an angel lent,
Were all too poor to tell my true content,
And how I love thee seven times seventy fold.
XVIII.
And sure am I that, in the ancient days,
Achilles heard no voice so passing sweet,
And none so trancing, none that could compete
With thine for fervour; none, in watery ways
Where Neptune dwelt, so worthy of the praise
Of Thetis' son, the sure and swift of feet.
XIX.
He never met upon the plains of Troy
Goddess or maiden so divinely fraught.
Not Helen's self, for whom the Trojans fought,
Was like to thee. Her love had much alloy,
But thine has none. Her beauty was a toy,
But thine's a gem, unsullied and unbought.
XX.
And ne'er was seen by poet, in a sweven,
An eye like thine, a face so fair to see
As that which makes the sunlight sweet to me.
Nor need I wait for death, or for the levin
In yonder cloud, to find the path to Heaven.
It fronts me here. 'Tis manifest in thee!
LETTER XI.
FAITH.
I.
Now will I sing to God a song of praise,
And thank the morning for the light it brings,
Aye! and the earth for every flower that springs,
And every tree that, in the jocund days,
Thrills to the blast. My voice I will upraise
To thank the world for every bird that sings.
II.
I will unpack my mind of all its fears,
I will advance to where the matin fires
Absorb the hills. My hopes and my desires
Will lead me safe; and day will have no tears
And night no torture, as in former years,
To warp my nature when my soul aspires.
III.
I will endure. I will not strive to peep
Behind the barriers of the days to come,
Nor, adding up the figures of a sum,
Dispose of prayers as men dispose of sleep.
I cannot count the stars, or walk the deep;
But I can pray, and Faith shall not be dumb.
IV.
I take myself and thee as mine estate—
Thee and myself. The world is centred there.
If thou be well I know the skies are fair;
If not, they press me down with leaden weight,
And all is dark; and morning comes too late;
And all the birds are tuneless in the air.
V.
I need but thee: thee only. Thou alone
Art all my joy: a something to the sight
As grand as Silence, and as snowy white.
And do thou pardon if I make it known,
As oft I do, with mine Amati's tone,
Amid the stillness of the starry night.
VI.
Oh, give me pity of thy heart and mind,
Mine own sweet Lady, if I vex thee now.
If the repeating of my constant vow
Be undesired, have pity! I were blind,
And deaf and dumb, and mad, were I inclined
To curb my feelings when to thee I bow.
VII.
Forgive the challenge of my longing lips
If these offend thee; and forgive me, too,
If I perceive, within thine eyes of blue,
More than I utter—more than, in eclipse,
A man may note atween the argent tips
Of frighted Dian whom the Fates pursue.
VIII.
It is the thing I dream of; 'tis the thing
We know as rapture, when, with sudden thrill,
It snares the heart and subjugates the will;
I mean the pride, the power, by which we cling
To natures nobler than the ones we bring,
To keep entire the fire we cannot chill.
IX.
Coyest of nymphs, my Lady! whom I seek
As sailors seek salvation out at sea,
And poets fame, and soldiers victory,
Behold! I note the blush upon thy cheek,
The flag of truce that tells me thou art meek
And soon wilt yield thy fortress up to me.
X.
It is thy soul; it is thy soul in arms
Which thus I conquer. All thy furtive sighs,
And all the glances of thy wistful eyes,
Proclaim the swift surrender of thy charms.
I kiss thy hand; and tremors and alarms
Discard, in parting, all their late disguise.
XI.
They were not foes. They knew me, one and all;
They knew I lov'd thee, and they lured me on
To try my fortune, and to wait thereon
For just reward. The scaling of the wall
Was not the meed; there came the festival,
And now there comes the crown that I must don.
XII.
O my Belovèd! I am king of thee,
And thou my queen; and I will wear the crown
A little moment, for thy love's renown.
Yea, for a moment, it shall circle me,
And then be thine, so thou, upon thy knee,
Do seek the same, with all thy tresses down.
XIII.
For woman still is mistress of the man,
Though man be master. 'Tis the woman's right
To choose her king, and crown him in her sight,
And make him feel the pressure of the span
Of her soft arms, as only woman can;
For, with her weakness, she excels his might.
XIV.
It is her joy indeed to be so frail
That he must shield her; he of all the world
Whom most she loves; and then, if he be hurl'd
To depths of sorrow, she will more avail
Than half a senate. Troubles may assail,
But she will guide him by her lips impearl'd.
XV.
A woman clung to Cæsar; he was great,
And great the power he gain'd by sea and land.
But when he wrong'd her, when he spurn'd the hand
Which once he knelt to, when he scoff'd at Fate,
Glory dispers'd, and left him desolate;
For God remember'd all that first was plann'd.
XVI.
The cannon's roar, the wisdom of the sage,
The strength of armies, and the thrall of kings—
All these are weak compared to weaker things.
Napoleon fell because, in puny rage,
He wrong'd his house; and earth became a cage
For this poor eagle with his batter'd wings.
XVII.
Believe me, Love! I honour, night and day,
The name of Woman. 'Tis the nobler sex.
Villains may shame it; sorrows may perplex;
But still 'tis watchful. Man may take away
All its possessions, all its worldly sway,
And yet be worshipp'd by the soul he wrecks.
XVIII.
A word of love to Woman is as sweet
As nectar'd rapture in a golden bowl;
And when she quaffs the heavens asunder roll,
And God looks through. And, from his judgment-seat,
He blesses those who part, and those who meet,
And those who join the links of soul with soul.
XIX.
And are there none untrue? God knows there are!
Aye, there are those who learn in time the laugh
That ends in madness—women who for chaff
Have sold their corn—who seek no guiding-star,
And find no faith to light them from afar;
Of whom 'tis said: "They need no epitaph."
XX.
All this is known; but lo! for sake of One
Who lives in glory—for my mother's sake,
For thine, and hers, O Love!—I pity take
On all poor women. Jesu's will be done!
Honour for all, and infamy for none,
This side the borders of the burning lake.
LETTER XII.
VICTORY.
I.
Now have I reach'd the goal of my desire,
For thou hast sworn—as sweetly as a bell
Makes out its chime—the oath I love to tell,
The fealty-oath of which I never tire.
The lordly forest seems a giant's lyre,
And sings, and rings, the thoughts that o'er it swell.
II.
The air is fill'd with voices. I have found
Comfort at last, enthralment, and a joy
Past all belief; a peace without alloy.
There is a splendour all about the ground
As if from Eden, when the world was drown'd,
Something had come which death could not destroy.
III.
It seems, indeed, as if to me were sent
A smile from Heaven—as if to-day the clods
Were lined with silk—the trees divining rods,
And roses gems for some high tournament.
I should not be so proud, or so content,
If I could sup, to-night, with all the gods.
IV.
A shrinèd saint would change his place with me
If he but knew the worth of what I feel.
He is enrobed indeed, and for his weal
Hath much concern; but how forlorn is he!
How pale his pomp! He cannot sue to thee,
But I am sainted every time I kneel.
V.
I walk'd abroad, to-day, ere yet the dark
Had left the hills, and down the beaten road
I saunter'd forth a mile from mine abode.
I heard, afar, the watchdog's sudden bark,
And, near at hand, the tuning of a lark,
Safe in its nest, but weighted with an ode.
VI.
The moon was pacing up the sky serene,
Pallid and pure, as if she late had shown
Her outmost side, and fear'd to make it known;
And, like a nun, she gazed upon the scene
From bars of cloud that seemed to stand between,
And pray'd and smiled, and smiled and pray'd alone.
VII.
The stars had fled. Not one remain'd behind
To warn or comfort; or to make amends
For hope delay'd,—for ecstasy that ends
At dawn's approach. The firmament was blind
Of all its eyes; and, wanton up the wind,
There came the shuddering that the twilight sends.
VIII.
The hills exulted at the Morning's birth,—
And clouds assembled, quick, as heralds run
Before a king to say the fight is won.
The rich, warm daylight fell upon the earth
Like wine outpour'd in madness, or in mirth,
To celebrate the rising of the sun.
IX.
And when the soaring lark had done its prayer,
The holy thing, self-poised amid the blue
Of that great sky, did seem, a space or two,
To pause and think, and then did clip the air
And dropped to earth to claim his guerdon there.
"Thank God!" I cried, "My dearest dream is true!"
X.
I was too happy, then, to leap and dance;
But I could ponder; I could gaze and gaze
From earth to sky and back to woodland ways.
The bird had thrill'd my heart, and cheer'd my glance,
For he had found to-day his nest-romance,
And lov'd a mate, and crown'd her with his praise.
XI.
O Love! my Love! I would not for a throne,
I would not for the thrones of all the kings
Who yet have liv'd, or for a seraph's wings,
Or for the nod of Jove when night hath flown,
Consent to rule an empire all alone.
No! I must have the grace of our two rings.
XII.
I must possess thee from the crowning curl
Down to the feet, and from the beaming eye
Down to the bosom where my treasures lie.
From blush to blush, and from the rows of pearl
That light thy smile, I must possess thee, girl,
And be thy lord and master till I die.
XIII.
This, and no less: the keeper of thy fame,
The proud controller of each silken tress,
And each dear item of thy loveliness,
And every oath, and every dainty name
Known to a bride: a picture in a frame
Of golden hair, to turn to and caress.
XIV.
And though I know thee prone, in vacant hours,
To laugh and talk with those who circumvent
And make mad speeches; though I know the bent
Of some such men, and though in ladies' bowers
They brag of swords—I know my proven powers;
I know myself and thee, and am content.
XV.
I know myself; and why should I demur?
The lily, bowing to the breeze's play,
Is not forgetful of the sun in May.
She is his nymph, and with a servitor
She doth but jest. The sun looks down at her,
And knows her true, and loves her day by day.
XVI.
E'en so I thee, O Lady of my Heart!
O Lady white as lilies on the lea,
And fair as foam upon the ocean free
Whereon the sun hath sent a shining dart!
E'en so I love thee, blameless as thou art,
And with my soul's desire I compass thee.
XVII.
For thou art Woman in the sweetest sense
Of true endowment, and a bride indeed
Fit for Apollo. This is Woman's need:
To be a beacon when the air is dense,
A bower of peace, a life-long recompense—
This is the sum of Woman's worldly creed.
XVIII.
And what is Man the while? And what his will?
And what the furtherance of his earthly hope?
To turn to Faith, to turn, as to a rope
A drowning sailor; all his blood to spill
For One he loves, to keep her out of ill—
This is the will of Man, and this his scope.
XIX.
'Tis like the tranquil sea, that knows anon
It can be wild, and keep away from home
A thousand ships—and lash itself to foam—
And beat the shore, and all that lies thereon—
And catch the thunder ere the flash has gone
Forth from the cloud that spans it like a dome.
XX.
This is the will of Man, and this is mine.
But lo! I love thee more than wealth or fame,
More than myself, and more than those who came
With Christ's commission from the goal divine.
Soul of my soul, and mine as I am thine,
I cling to thee, my Life! as fire to flame.