I wish that when you died last May,
Charles, there had died along with you
Three parts of spring's delightful things;
Aye, and, for me, the fourth part, too.
A foolish thought, and worse, perhaps!5
There must be many a pair of friends
Who, arm in arm, deserve the warm
Moon-births and the long evening-ends.
So, for their sake, be May still May!
Let their new time, as mine of old,10
Do all it did for me: I bid
Sweet sights and sounds throng manifold.
Only, one little sight, one plant,
Woods have in May, that starts up green
Save a sole streak which, so to speak,15
Is spring's blood, spilt its leaves between—
That, they might spare; a certain wood
Might miss the plant; their loss were small:
But I—whene'er the leaf grows there,
Its drop comes from my heart, that's all.20
PROSPICE
Fear death?—to feel the fog in my throat,
The mist in my face,
When the snows begin, and the blasts denote
I am nearing the place,
The power of the night, the press of the storm,5
The post of the foe;
Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form,
Yet the strong man must go;
For the journey is done and the summit attained,
And the barriers fall,10
Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained,
The reward of it all.
I was ever a fighter, so—one fight more,
The best and the last!
I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore,15
And bade me creep past.
No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers
The heroes of old,
Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears
Of pain, darkness, and cold.20
For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave,
The black minute's at end,
And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave,
Shall dwindle, shall blend,
Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain,25
Then a light, then thy breast,
O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again,
And with God be the rest!
A FACE
If one could have that little head of hers
Painted upon a background of pale gold,
Such as the Tuscan's early art prefers!
No shade encroaching on the matchless mold
Of those two lips, which should be opening soft5
In the pure profile; not as when she laughs,
For that spoils all; but rather as if aloft
Yon hyacinth, she loves so, leaned its staff's
Burthen of honey-colored buds to kiss
And capture 'twixt the lips apart for this.10
Then her lithe neck, three fingers might surround,
How it should waver on the pale gold ground
Up to the fruit-shaped, perfect chin it lifts!
I know, Correggio loves to mass, in rifts
Of heaven, his angel faces, orb on orb15
Breaking its outline, burning shades absorb;
But these are only massed there, I should think,
Waiting to see some wonder momently
Grow out, stand full, fade slow against the sky
(That's the pale ground you'd see this sweet face by),20
All heaven, meanwhile, condensed into one eye
Which fears to lose the wonder, should it wink.
O LYRIC LOVE
O lyric Love, half angel and half bird,
And all a wonder and a wild desire—
Boldest of hearts that ever braved the sun,
Took sanctuary within the holier blue,
And sang a kindred soul out to his face—5
Yet human at the red-ripe of the heart—
When the first summons from the darkling earth
Reached thee amid thy chambers, blanched their blue,
And bared them of the glory—to drop down,
To toil for man, to suffer or to die—10
This is the same voice; can thy soul know change?
Hail then, and hearken from the realms of help!
Never may I commence my song, my due
To God who best taught song by gift of thee,
Except with bent head and beseeching hand—15
That still, despite the distance and the dark,
What was, again may be; some interchange
Of grace, some splendor once thy very thought,
Some benediction anciently thy smile:
—Never conclude, but raising hand and head.20
Thither where eyes, that cannot reach, yet yearn
For all hope, all sustainment, all reward,
Their utmost up and on—so blessing back
In those thy realms of help, that heaven thy home,
Some whiteness which, I judge, thy face makes proud,25
Some wanness where, I think, thy foot may fall!
PROLOGUE TO PACCHIAROTTO
Oh, the old wall here! How I could pass
Life in a long midsummer day,
My feet confined to a plot of grass,
My eyes from a wall not once away!
And lush and lithe do the creepers clothe5
Yon wall I watch, with a wealth of green:
Its bald red bricks draped, nothing loth,
In lappets of tangle they laugh between.
Now, what is it makes pulsate the robe?
Why tremble the sprays? What life o'erbrims10
The body—the house, no eye can probe—
Divined as, beneath a robe, the limbs?
And there again! But my heart may guess
Who tripped behind; and she sang perhaps;
So, the old wall throbbed, and its life's excess15
Died out and away in the leafy wraps!
Wall upon wall are between us; life
And song should away from heart to heart!
I—prison-bird, with a ruddy strife
At breast, and a lip whence storm-notes start—20
Hold on, hope hard in the subtle thing
That's spirit: though cloistered fast, soar free;
Account as wood, brick, stone, this ring
Of the rueful neighbors, and—forth to thee!
HOUSE
Shall I sonnet-sing you about myself?25
Do I live in a house you would like to see?
Is it scant of gear, has it store of pelf?
"Unlock my heart with a sonnet-key"?
Invite the world, as my betters have done?
"Take notice: this building remains on view,30
Its suites of reception every one,
Its private apartment and bedroom too;
"For a ticket, apply to the Publisher."
No: thanking the public, I must decline.
A peep through my window, if folk prefer;35
But, please you, no foot over threshold of mine!
I have mixed with a crowd and heard free talk
In a foreign land where an earthquake chanced
And a house stood gaping, naught to balk
Man's eye wherever he gazed or glanced.40
The whole of the frontage shaven sheer,
The inside gaped; exposed to day,
Right and wrong and common and queer,
Bare, as the palm of your hand, it lay.
The owner? Oh, he had been crushed, no doubt!45
"Odd tables and chairs for a man of wealth!
What a parcel of musty old books about!
He smoked—no wonder he lost his health!
"I doubt if he bathed before he dressed.
A brasier?—the pagan, he burned perfumes!50
You see it is proved, what the neighbors guessed:
His wife and himself had separate rooms."
Friends, the goodman of the house at least
Kept house to himself till an earthquake came;
'Tis the fall of its frontage permits you feast55
On the inside arrangement you praise or blame.
Outside should suffice for evidence;
And whoso desires to penetrate
Deeper, must dive by the spirit-sense—
No optics like yours, at any rate!60
"Hoity-toity! A street to explore,
Your house the exception! 'With this same key
Shakespeare unlocked his heart,' once more!"
Did Shakespeare? If so, the less Shakespeare he!
SHOP
So, friend, your shop was all your house!65
Its front, astonishing the street,
Invited view from man and mouse
To what diversity of treat
Behind its glass—the single sheet!
What gimcracks, genuine Japanese:70
Gape-jaw and goggle-eye, the frog;
Dragons, owls, monkeys, beetles, geese;
Some crush-nosed human-hearted dog:
Queer names, too, such a catalogue!
I thought, "And he who owns the wealth75
Which blocks the window's vastitude,
—Ah, could I peep at him by stealth
Behind his ware, pass shop, intrude
On house itself, what scenes were viewed!
"If wide and showy thus the shop,80
What must the habitation prove?
The true house with no name a-top—
The mansion, distant one remove,
Once get him off his traffic-groove!
"Pictures he likes, or books perhaps;85
And as for buying most and best,
Commend me to these City chaps!
Or else he's social, takes his rest
On Sundays, with a lord for guest.
"Some suburb-palace, parked about90
And gated grandly, built last year;
The four-mile walk to keep off gout;
Or big seat sold by bankrupt peer—
But then he takes the rail, that's clear.
"Or, stop! I wager, taste selects95
Some out o' the way, some all-unknown
Retreat; the neighborhood suspects
Little that he who rambles lone
Makes Rothschild tremble on his throne!"
Nowise! Nor Mayfair residence100
Fit to receive and entertain—
Nor Hampstead villa's kind defense
From noise and crowd, from dust and drain—
Nor country-box was soul's domain!
Nowise! At back of all that spread105
Of merchandise, woe's me, I find
A hole i' the wall where, heels by head,
The owner couched, his ware behind
—In cupboard suited to his mind.
For why? He saw no use of life110
But, while he drove a roaring trade,
To chuckle, "Customers are rife!"
To chafe, "So much hard cash outlaid
Yet zero in my profits made!
"This novelty costs pains, but—takes?115
Cumbers my counter! Stock no more!
This article, no such great shakes,
Fizzes like wildfire? Underscore
The cheap thing—thousands to the fore!"
'Twas lodging best to live most nigh120
(Cramp, coffinlike as crib might be)
Receipt of Custom; ear and eye
Wanted no outworld: "Hear and see
The bustle in the shop!" quoth he
My fancy of a merchant-prince125
Was different. Through his wares we groped
Our darkling way to—not to mince
The matter—no black den where moped
The master if we interloped!
Shop was shop only: household-stuff?130
What did he want with comforts there?
"Walls, ceiling, floor, stay blank and rough,
So goods on sale show rich and rare!
'Sell and scud home' be shop's affair!"
What might he deal in? Gems, suppose!135
Since somehow business must be done
At cost of trouble—see, he throws
You choice of jewels, everyone,
Good, better, best, star, moon, and sun!
Which lies within your power of purse?140
This ruby that would tip aright
Solomon's scepter? Oh, your nurse
Wants simply coral, the delight
Of teething baby—stuff to bite!
Howe'er your choice fell, straight you took145
Your purchase, prompt your money rang
On counter—scarce the man forsook
His study of the "Times," just swang
Till-ward his hand that stopped the clang—
Then off made buyer with a prize,150
Then seller to his "Times" returned;
And so did day wear, wear, till eyes
Brightened apace, for rest was earned;
He locked door long ere candle burned.
And whither went he? Ask himself,155
Not me! To change of scene, I think.
Once sold the ware and pursed the pelf,
Chaffer was scarce his meat and drink,
Nor all his music—money-chink.
Because a man has shop to mind160
In time and place, since flesh must live,
Needs spirit lack all life behind,
All stray thoughts, fancies fugitive,
All loves except what trade can give?
I want to know a butcher paints,165
A baker rhymes for his pursuit,
Candlestick-maker much acquaints
His soul with song, or, haply mute,
Blows out his brains upon the flute!
But—shop each day and all day long!170
Friend, your good angel slept, your star
Suffered eclipse, fate did you wrong!
From where these sorts of treasures are,
There should our hearts be—Christ, how far!
HERVÉ RIEL
I
On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two,
Did the English fight the French—woe to France!
And, the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter through the blue,
Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue,
Came crowding ship on ship to Saint Malo on the Rance,5
With the English fleet in view.
II
'Twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase;
First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, Damfreville;
Close on him fled, great and small,
Twenty-two good ships in all;10
And they signaled to the place,
"Help the winners of a race!
Get us guidance, give us harbor, take us quick—or, quicker still,
Here's the English can and will!"
III
Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leapt on board;15
"Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass?" laughed they;
"Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred and scored,
Shall the Formidable here, with her twelve and eighty guns,
Think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow way,
Trust to enter—where 'tis ticklish for a craft of twenty tons,20
And with flow at full beside?
Now, 'tis slackest ebb of tide.
Reach the mooring? Rather say,
While rock stands or water runs,
Not a ship will leave the bay!"25
IV
Then was called a council straight.
Brief and bitter the debate:
"Here's the English at our heels; would you have them take in tow
All that's left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow,
For a prize to Plymouth Sound?30
Better run the ships aground!"
(Ended Damfreville his speech).
"Not a minute more to wait!
Let the Captains all and each
Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach!35
France must undergo her fate.
V
"Give the word!" But no such word
Was ever spoke or heard;
For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these
—A Captain? A Lieutenant? A Mate—first, second, third?40
No such man of mark, and meet
With his betters to compete!
But a simple Breton sailor pressed by Tourville for the fleet,
A poor coasting-pilot he, Hervé Riel the Croisickese.
VI
And "What mockery or malice have we here?" cries Hervé Riel;45
"Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you cowards, fools, or rogues?
Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings, tell
On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every smell
'Twixt the offing here and Grève where the river disembogues?
Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the lying's for?50
Morn and eve, night and day,
Have I piloted your bay,
Entered free and anchored fast at the foot of Solidor.
Burn the fleet and ruin France? That were worse than fifty Hogues!
Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe me there's a way!55
Only let me lead the line,
Have the biggest ship to steer,
Get this Formidable clear,
Make the others follow mine,
And I lead them, most and least, by a passage I know well,60
Right to Solidor past Grève,
And there lay them safe and sound;
And if one ship misbehave
—Keel so much as grate the ground,
Why, I've nothing but my life;—here's my head!" cries Hervé Riel.60
VII
Not a minute more to wait.
"Steer us in, then, small and great!
Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!" cried its chief.
Captains, give the sailor place!
He is Admiral, in brief.70
Still the north-wind, by God's grace!
See the noble fellow's face
As the big ship, with a bound,
Clears the entry like a hound,
Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide sea's profound!75
See, safe through shoal and rock,
How they follow in a flock;
Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground,
Not a spar that comes to grief!
The peril, see, is past.80
All are harbored to the last,
And just as Hervé Riel hollas, "Anchor!"—sure as fate
Up the English come—too late!
VIII
So, the storm subsides to calm:
They see the green trees wave85
On the heights o'erlooking Grève.
Hearts that bled are stanched with balm.
"Just our rapture to enhance;
Let the English rake the bay,
Gnash their teeth, and glare askance90
As they cannonade away!
'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Rance!"
How hope succeeds despair on each Captain's countenance!
Out burst all with one accord,
"This is Paradise for Hell!95
Let France, let France's King
Thank the man that did the thing!"
What a shout, and all one word, "Hervé Riel!"
As he stepped in front once more,
Not a symptom of surprise100
In the frank blue Breton eyes,
Just the same man as before.
IX
Then said Damfreville, "My friend,
I must speak out at the end,
Though I find the speaking hard.105
Praise is deeper than the lips;
You have saved the King his ships,
You must name your own reward.
'Faith, our sun was near eclipse!
Demand whate'er you will,110
France remains your debtor still.
Ask to heart's content and have! or my name's not Damfreville."
X
Then a beam of fun outbroke
On the bearded mouth that spoke,
As the honest heart laughed through115
Those frank eyes of Breton blue:
"Since I needs must say my say,
Since on board the duty's done,
And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it but a run?—
Since 'tis ask and have, I may—120
Since the others go ashore—
Come! A good whole holiday!
Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle Aurore!"
That he asked and that he got—nothing more.
XI
Name and deed alike are lost.125
Not a pillar nor a post
In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell;
Not a head in white and black
On a single fishing smack,
In memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrack130
All that France saved from the fight whence England bore the bell.
Go to Paris: rank on rank
Search the heroes flung pell-mell
On the Louvre, face and flank!
You shall look long enough ere you come to Hervé Riel.135
So, for better and for worse,
Hervé Riel, accept my verse!
In my verse, Hervé Riel, do thou once more
Save the squadron, honor France, love thy wife, the Belle Aurore!
"GOOD, TO FORGIVE"
Good, to forgive;
Best, to forget!
Living, we fret;
Dying, we live.
Fretless and free,5
Soul, clap thy pinion!
Earth have dominion,
Body, o'er thee!
Wander at will,
Day after day—10
Wander away,
Wandering still—
Soul that canst soar!
Body may slumber:
Body shall cumber15
Soul-flight no more.
Waft of soul's wing!
What lies above?
Sunshine and Love,
Skyblue and Spring!20
Body hides—where?
Ferns of all feather,
Mosses and heather.
Yours be the care!
"SUCH A STARVED BANK OF MOSS"
Such a starved bank of moss
Till, that May-morn,
Blue ran the flash across:
Violets were born!
Sky—what a scowl of cloud5
Till, near and far,
Ray on ray split the shroud:
Splendid, a star!
World—how it walled about
Life with disgrace10
Till God's own smile came out:
That was thy face!
EPILOGUE TO THE TWO POETS OF CROISIC
What a pretty tale you told me
Once upon a time
—Said you found it somewhere (scold me!)
Was it prose or was it rhyme,
Greek or Latin? Greek, you said,5
While your shoulder propped my head.
Anyhow there's no forgetting
This much if no more,
That a poet (pray, no petting!)
Yes, a bard, sir, famed of yore,10
Went where suchlike used to go,
Singing for a prize, you know.
Well, he had to sing, nor merely
Sing but play the lyre;
Playing was important clearly15
Quite as singing—I desire,
Sir, you keep the fact in mind
For a purpose that's behind.
There stood he, while deep attention
Held the judges round,20
—Judges able, I should mention,
To detect the slightest sound
Sung or played amiss—such ears
Had old judges, it appears!
None the less he sang out boldly,25
Played in time and tune,
Till the judges, weighing coldly
Each note's worth, seemed, late or soon,
Sure to smile, "In vain one tries
Picking faults out; take the prize!"30
When, a mischief! Were they seven
Strings the lyre possessed?
Oh, and afterwards eleven,
Thank you! Well, sir—who had guessed
Such ill luck in store?—it happed35
One of those same seven strings snapped.
All was lost, then! No! a cricket
(What "cicada"? Pooh!)
—Some mad thing that left its thicket
For mere love of music—flew40
With its little heart on fire,
Lighted on the crippled lyre.
So that when (ah, joy!) our singer
For his truant string
Feels with disconcerted finger,45
What does cricket else but fling
Fiery heart forth, sound the note
Wanted by the throbbing throat?
Aye and, ever to the ending,
Cricket chirps at need,50
Executes the hand's intending,
Promptly, perfectly—indeed
Saves the singer from defeat
With her chirrup low and sweet.
Till, at ending, all the judges55
Cry with one assent,
"Take the prize—a prize who grudges
Such a voice and instrument?
Why, we took your lyre for harp,
So it shrilled us forth F sharp!"60
Did the conqueror spurn the creature,
Once its service done?
That's no such uncommon feature
In the case when Music's son
Finds his Lotte's power too spent65
For aiding soul-development.
No! This other, on returning
Homeward, prize in hand,
Satisfied his bosom's yearning
(Sir, I hope you understand!)70
—Said, "Some record there must be
Of this cricket's help to me!"
So, he made himself a statue:
Marble stood, life-size;
On the lyre he pointed at you75
Perched his partner in the prize;
Never more apart you found
Her, he throned, from him, she crowned.
That's the tale—its application?
Somebody I know80
Hopes one day for reputation
Through his poetry that's—oh,
All so learned and so wise
And deserving of a prize!
If he gains one, will some ticket,85
When his statue's built,
Tell the gazer, "'Twas a cricket
Helped my crippled lyre, whose lilt
Sweet and low, when strength usurped
Softness' place i' the scale, she chirped?90
"For as victory was nighest,
While I sang and played—
With my lyre at lowest, highest,
Right alike—one string that made
'Love' sound soft was snapped in twain,95
Never to be heard again—
"Had not a kind cricket fluttered,
Perched upon the place
Vacant left, and duly uttered,
'Love, Love, Love,' whene'er the bass100
Asked the treble to atone
For its somewhat somber drone."
But you don't know music! Wherefore
Keep on casting pearls
To a—poet? All I care for105
Is—to tell him that a girl's
"Love" comes aptly in when gruff
Grows his singing. (There, enough!)
PHEIDIPPIDES
Χαιρετε, νικωμεν.
First I salute this soil of the blessed, river and rock!
Gods of my birthplace, daemons and heroes, honor to all!
Then I name thee, claim thee for our patron, coequal in praise
—Aye, with Zeus the Defender, with Her of the ægis and spear!
Also ye of the bow and the buskin, praised be your peer,5
Now, henceforth and forever—O latest to whom I upraise
Hand and heart and voice! For Athens, leave pasture and flock!
Present to help, potent to save, Pan—patron I call!
Archons of Athens, topped by the tettix, see, I return!
See, 'tis myself here standing alive, no specter that speaks!10
Crowned with the myrtle, did you command me, Athens and you,
"Run, Pheidippides, run and race, reach Sparta for aid!
Persia has come, we are here, where is She?" Your command I obeyed,
Ran and raced; like stubble, some field which a fire runs through,
Was the space between city and city. Two days, two nights did I burn15
Over the hills, under the dales, down pits and up peaks.