The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes — Volume 1
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Title: The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes — Volume 1
Author: George MacDonald
Release date: December 1, 2005 [eBook #9543]
Most recently updated: February 16, 2013
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE POETICAL WORKS OF GEORGE MACDONALD IN TWO VOLUMES — VOLUME 1 ***
Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Robert Prince, and Project
Gutenberg Distributed Proofreaders
THE POETICAL WORKS
OF
GEORGE MACDONALD
IN TWO VOLUMES
VOL. I
1893
CONTENTS.
WITHIN AND WITHOUT
A HIDDEN LIFE
A STORY OF THE SEA-SHORE
THE DISCIPLE
THE GOSPEL WOMEN--
1. The Mother Mary
2. The Woman that lifted up her Voice
3. The Mother of Zebedee's Children
4. The Syrophenician Woman
5. The Widow of Nain
6. The Woman whom Satan had bound
7. The Woman who came behind Him in the Crowd
8. The Widow with the Two Mites
9. The Women who ministered unto Him
10. Pilate's Wife
11. The Woman of Samaria
12. Mary Magdalene
13. The Woman in the Temple
14. Martha
15. Mary
16. The Woman that was a Sinner
A BOOK OF SONNETS--
The Burnt-Offering
The Unseen Face
Concerning Jesus
A Memorial of Africa
A.M.D
To Garibaldi, with a Book
To S.F.S
Russell Gurney
To One threatened with Blindness
To Aubrey de Vere
General Gordon
The Chrysalis
The Sweeper of the Floor
Death
ORGAN SONGS--
To A.J. Scott
Light
To A. J. Scott
I would I were a Child
A Prayer for the Past
Longing
I know what Beauty is
Sympathy
The Thank-Offering
Prayer
Rest
O do not leave Me
Blessed are the Meek, for they shall inherit the Earth
Hymn for a Sick Girl
Written for One in sore Pain
A Christmas Carol for 1862
A Christmas Carol
The Sleepless Jesus
Christmas, 1873
Christmas, 1884
An Old Story
A Song for Christmas
To my Aging Friends
Christmas Song of the Old Children
Christmas Meditation
The Old Castle
Christmas Prayer
Song of the Innocents
Christmas Day and Every Day
The Children's Heaven
Rejoice
The Grace of Grace
Antiphon
Dorcas
Marriage Song
Blind Bartimeus
Come unto Me
Morning Hymn
Noontide Hymn
Evening Hymn
The Holy Midnight
Rondel
A Prayer
Home from the Wars
God; not Gift
To any Friend
VIOLIN SONGS--
Hope Deferred
Death
Hard Times
If I were a Monk, and Thou wert a Nun
My Heart
The Flower-Angels
To my Sister
Oh Thou of little Faith
Wild Flowers
Spring Song
Summer Song
Autumn Song
Winter Song
Picture Songs
A Dream Song
At my Window after Sunset
A Father to a Mother
The Temple of God
Going to Sleep
To-Morrow
Foolish Children
Love is Home
Faith
Waiting
Our Ship
My Heart thy Lark
Two in One
Bedtime
A Prayer
A Song Prayer
SONGS OF THE DAYS AND NIGHTS--
Songs of the Summer Days
Songs of the Summer Nights
Songs of the Autumn Days
Songs of the Autumn Nights
Songs of the Winter Days
Songs of the Winter Nights
Songs of the Spring Days
Songs of the Spring Nights
A BOOK OF DREAMS
ROADSIDE POEMS--
Better Things
An Old Sermon with a New Text
Little Elfie
Reciprocity
The Shadows
The Child-Mother
He Heeded Not
The Sheep and the Goat
The Wakeful Sleeper
A Dream of Waking
A Manchester Poem
What the Lord Saith
How shall He Sing who hath No Song
This World
Saint Peter
Zacchaeus
After Thomas Kemp
TO AND OF FRIENDS--
To Lady Noel Byron
To the Same
To Aurelio Saffi
A Thanksgiving for F.D. Maurice
George Rolleston
To Gordon, leaving Khartoum
Song of the Saints and Angels
Failure
To E.G., dedicating a Book
To G.M.T.
In Memoriam Lady Caroline Charteris
WITHIN AND WITHOUT:
A Dramatic Poem.
What life it is, and how that all these lives do gather--
With outward maker's force, or like an inward father.
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY'S _Arcadia_.
_Written December and January_, 1850-51.
TO L.P.M.D.
Receive thine own; for I and it are thine.
Thou know'st its story; how for forty days--
Weary with sickness and with social haze,
(After thy hands and lips with love divine
Had somewhat soothed me, made the glory shine,
Though with a watery lustre,) more delays
Of blessedness forbid--I took my ways
Into a solitude, Invention's mine;
There thought and wrote, afar, and yet with thee.
Those days gone past, I came, and brought a book;
My child, developed since in limb and look.
It came in shining vapours from the sea,
And in thy stead sung low sweet songs to me,
When the red life-blood labour would not brook.
_May_, 1855.
WITHIN AND WITHOUT
PART I.
Go thou into thy closet; shut thy door;
And pray to Him in secret: He will hear.
But think not thou, by one wild bound, to clear
The numberless ascensions, more and more,
Of starry stairs that must be climbed, before
Thou comest to the Father's likeness near,
And bendest down to kiss the feet so dear
That, step by step, their mounting flights passed o'er.
Be thou content if on thy weary need
There falls a sense of showers and of the spring;
A hope that makes it possible to fling
Sickness aside, and go and do the deed;
For highest aspiration will not lead
Unto the calm beyond all questioning.
SCENE I.--_A cell in a convent_. JULIAN _alone_.
_Julian_.
Evening again slow creeping like a death!
And the red sunbeams fading from the wall,
On which they flung a sky, with streaks and bars
Of the poor window-pane that let them in,
For clouds and shadings of the mimic heaven!
Soul of my cell, they part, no more to come.
But what is light to me, while I am dark!
And yet they strangely draw me, those faint hues,
Reflected flushes from the Evening's face,
Which as a bride, with glowing arms outstretched,
Takes to her blushing heaven him who has left
His chamber in the dim deserted east.
Through walls and hills I see it! The rosy sea!
The radiant head half-sunk! A pool of light,
As the blue globe had by a blow been broken,
And the insphered glory bubbled forth!
Or the sun were a splendid water-bird,
That flying furrowed with its golden feet
A flashing wake over the waves, and home!
Lo there!--Alas, the dull blank wall!--High up,
The window-pane a dead gray eye! and night
Come on me like a thief!--Ah, well! the sun
Has always made me sad! I'll go and pray:
The terror of the night begins with prayer.
(_Vesper bell_.)
Call them that need thee; I need not thy summons;
My knees would not so pain me when I kneel,
If only at thy voice my prayer awoke.
I will not to the chapel. When I find Him,
Then will I praise him from the heights of peace;
But now my soul is as a speck of life
Cast on the deserts of eternity;
A hungering and a thirsting, nothing more.
I am as a child new-born, its mother dead,
Its father far away beyond the seas.
Blindly I stretch my arms and seek for him:
He goeth by me, and I see him not.
I cry to him: as if I sprinkled ashes,
My prayers fall back in dust upon my soul.
(_Choir and organ-music_.)
I bless you, sweet sounds, for your visiting.
What friends I have! Prismatic harmonies
Have just departed in the sun's bright coach,
And fair, convolved sounds troop in to me,
Stealing my soul with faint deliciousness.
Would they took shapes! What levees I should hold!
How should my cell be filled with wavering forms!
Louder they grow, each swelling higher, higher;
Trembling and hesitating to float off,
As bright air-bubbles linger, that a boy
Blows, with their interchanging, wood-dove-hues,
Just throbbing to their flight, like them to die.
--Gone now! Gone to the Hades of dead loves!
Is it for this that I have left the world?--
Left what, poor fool? Is this, then, all that comes
Of that night when the closing door fell dumb
On music and on voices, and I went
Forth from the ordered tumult of the dance,
Under the clear cope of the moonless night,
Wandering away without the city-walls,
Between the silent meadows and the stars,
Till something woke in me, and moved my spirit,
And of themselves my thoughts turned toward God;
When straight within my soul I felt as if
An eye was opened; but I knew not whether
'Twas I that saw, or God that looked on me?
It closed again, and darkness fell; but not
To hide the memory; that, in many failings
Of spirit and of purpose, still returned;
And I came here at last to search for God.
Would I could find him! Oh, what quiet content
Would then absorb my heart, yet leave it free!
_A knock at the door. Enter Brother_ ROBERT _with a light_.
_Robert_.
Head in your hands as usual! You will fret
Your life out, sitting moping in the dark.
Come, it is supper-time.
_Julian_.
I will not sup to-night.
_Robert_.
Not sup? You'll never live to be a saint.
_Julian_.
A saint! The devil has me by the heel.
_Robert_.
So has he all saints; as a boy his kite,
Which ever struggles higher for his hold.
It is a silly devil to gripe so hard;--
He should let go his hold, and then he has you.
If you'll not come, I'll leave the light with you.
Hark to the chorus! Brother Stephen sings.
Chorus. _Always merry, and never drunk.
That's the life of the jolly monk_.
SONG.
They say the first monks were lonely men,
Praying each in his lonely den,
Rising up to kneel again,
Each a skinny male Magdalene,
Peeping scared from out his hole
Like a burrowing rabbit or a mole;
But years ring changes as they roll--
Cho. _Now always merry, &c_.
When the moon gets up with her big round face,
Like Mistress Poll's in the market-place,
Down to the village below we pace;--
We know a supper that wants a grace:
Past the curtsying women we go,
Past the smithy, all a glow,
To the snug little houses at top of the row--
Cho. _For always merry, &c_.
And there we find, among the ale,
The fragments of a floating tale:
To piece them together we never fail;
And we fit them rightly, I'll go bail.
And so we have them all in hand,
The lads and lasses throughout the land,
And we are the masters,--you understand?
Cho. _So always merry, &c_.
Last night we had such a game of play
With the nephews and nieces over the way,
All for the gold that belonged to the clay
That lies in lead till the judgment-day!
The old man's soul they'd leave in the lurch,
But we saved her share for old Mamma Church.
How they eyed the bag as they stood in the porch!
Cho. _Oh! always merry, and never drunk_.
That's the life of the jolly monk!
_Robert_.
The song is hardly to your taste, I see!
Where shall I set the light?
_Julian_.
I do not need it.
_Robert_.
Come, come! The dark is a hot-bed for fancies.
I wish you were at table, were it only
To stop the talking of the men about you.
You in the dark are talked of in the light.
_Julian_.
Well, brother, let them talk; it hurts not me.
_Robert_.
No; but it hurts your friend to hear them say,
You would be thought a saint without the trouble;
You do no penance that they can discover.
You keep shut up, say some, eating your heart,
Possessed with a bad conscience, the worst demon.
You are a prince, say others, hiding here,
Till circumstance that bound you, set you free.
To-night, there are some whispers of a lady
That would refuse your love.
_Julian_.
Ay! What of her?
_Robert_.
I heard no more than so; and that you came
To seek the next best service you could find:
Turned from the lady's door, and knocked at God's.
_Julian_.
One part at least is true: I knock at God's;
He has not yet been pleased to let me in.
As for the lady--that is--so far true,
But matters little. Had I less to think,
This talking might annoy me; as it is,
Why, let the wind set there, if it pleases it;
I keep in-doors.
_Robert_.
Gloomy as usual, brother!
Brooding on fancy's eggs. God did not send
The light that all day long gladdened the earth,
Flashed from the snowy peak, and on the spire
Transformed the weathercock into a star,
That you should gloom within stone walls all day.
At dawn to-morrow, take your staff, and come:
We will salute the breezes, as they rise
And leave their lofty beds, laden with odours
Of melting snow, and fresh damp earth, and moss--
Imprisoned spirits, which life-waking Spring
Lets forth in vapour through the genial air.
Come, we will see the sunrise; watch the light
Leap from his chariot on the loftiest peak,
And thence descend triumphant, step by step,
The stairway of the hills. Free air and action
Will soon dispel these vapours of the brain.
_Julian_.
My friend, if one should tell a homeless boy,
"There is your father's house: go in and rest;"
Through every open room the child would pass,
Timidly looking for the friendly eye;
Fearing to touch, scarce daring even to wonder
At what he saw, until he found his sire;
But gathered to his bosom, straight he is
The heir of all; he knows it 'mid his tears.
And so with me: not having seen Him yet,
The light rests on me with a heaviness;
All beauty wears to me a doubtful look;
A voice is in the wind I do not know;
A meaning on the face of the high hills
Whose utterance I cannot comprehend.
A something is behind them: that is God.
These are his words, I doubt not, language strange;
These are the expressions of his shining thoughts;
And he is present, but I find him not.
I have not yet been held close to his heart.
Once in his inner room, and by his eyes
Acknowledged, I shall find my home in these,
'Mid sights familiar as a mother's smiles,
And sounds that never lose love's mystery.
Then they will comfort me. Lead me to Him.
_Robert
(pointing to the Crucifix in a recess_). See, there
is God revealed in human form!
_Julian (kneeling and crossing_).
Alas, my friend!--revealed--but as in nature:
I see the man; I cannot find the God.
I know his voice is in the wind, his presence
Is in the Christ. The wind blows where it listeth;
And there stands Manhood: and the God is there,
Not here, not here!
(_Pointing to his bosom_.)
[_Seeing Robert's bewildered look, and changing his tone_--]
You do not understand me.
Without my need, you cannot know my want.
You will all night be puzzling to determine
With which of the old heretics to class me.
But you are honest; will not rouse the cry
Against me. I am honest. For the proof,
Such as will satisfy a monk, look here!
Is this a smooth belt, brother? And look here!
Did one week's scourging seam my side like that?
I am ashamed to speak thus, and to show
Things rightly hidden; but in my heart I love you,
And cannot bear but you should think me true.
Let it excuse my foolishness. They talk
Of penance! Let them talk when they have tried,
And found it has not even unbarred heaven's gate,
Let out one stray beam of its living light,
Or humbled that proud _I_ that knows not God!
You are my friend:--if you should find this cell
Empty some morning, do not be afraid
That any ill has happened.
_Robert_.]
Well, perhaps
'Twere better you should go. I cannot help you,
But I can keep your secret. God be with you. [_Goes_.
_Julian_.
Amen.--A good man; but he has not waked,
And seen the Sphinx's stony eyes fixed on him.
God veils it. He believes in Christ, he thinks;
And so he does, as possible for him.
How he will wonder when he looks for heaven!
He thinks me an enthusiast, because
I seek to know God, and to hear his voice
Talk to my heart in silence; as of old
The Hebrew king, when, still, upon his bed,
He lay communing with his heart; and God
With strength in his soul did strengthen him, until
In his light he saw light. God speaks to men.
My soul leans toward him; stretches forth its arms,
And waits expectant. Speak to me, my God;
And let me know the living Father cares
For me, even me; for this one of his children.--
Hast thou no word for me? I am thy thought.
God, let thy mighty heart beat into mine,
And let mine answer as a pulse to thine.
See, I am low; yea, very low; but thou
Art high, and thou canst lift me up to thee.
I am a child, a fool before thee, God;
But thou hast made my weakness as my strength.
I am an emptiness for thee to fill;
My soul, a cavern for thy sea. I lie
Diffused, abandoning myself to thee....
--I will look up, if life should fail in looking.
Ah me! A stream cut from my parent-spring!
Ah me! A life lost from its father-life!
SCENE II.--_The refectory. The monks at table. A buzz of conversation_.
ROBERT _enters, wiping his forehead, as if he had just come in_.
_Stephen_
(_speaking across the table_).
You see, my friend, it will not stand to logic;
Or, if you like it better, stand to reason;
For in this doctrine is involved a _cause_
Which for its very being doth depend
Upon its own _effect_. For, don't you see,
He tells me to have faith and I shall live!
Have faith for what? Why, plainly, that I shall
Be saved from hell by him, and ta'en to heaven;
What is salvation else? If I believe,
Then he will save me! But, so, this his _will_
Has no existence till that I believe;
And there is nothing for my faith to rest on,
No object for belief. How can I trust
In that which is not? Send the salad, Cosmo.
Besides, 'twould be a plenary indulgence;
To all intents save one, most plenary--
And that the Church's coffer. 'Tis absurd.
_Monk_.
'Tis most absurd, as you have clearly shown.
And yet I fear some of us have been nibbling
At this same heresy. 'Twere well that one
Should find it poison. I have no pique at him--
But there's that Julian!--
_Stephen_.
Hush! speak lower, friend.
_Two_ Monks _farther down the table--in a low tone_.
_1st Monk_.
Where did you find her?
_2nd Monk_.
She was taken ill
At the Star-in-the-East. I chanced to pass that way,
And so they called me in. I found her dying.
But ere she would confess and make her peace,
She begged to know if I had ever seen,
About this neighbourhood, a tall dark man,
Moody and silent, with a little stoop
As if his eyes were heavy for his shoulders,
And a strange look of mingled youth and age,--
_1st Monk_.
Julian, by--
_2nd Monk_.
'St--no names! I had not seen him.
I saw the death-mist gathering in her eyes,
And urged her to proceed; and she began;
But went not far before delirium came,
With endless repetitions, hurryings forward,
Recoverings like a hound at fault. The past
Was running riot in her conquered brain;
And there, with doors thrown wide, a motley group
Held carnival; went freely out and in,
Meeting and jostling. But withal it seemed
As some confused tragedy went on;
Till suddenly the light sank, and the pageant
Was lost in darkness; the chambers of her brain
Lay desolate and silent. I can gather
So much, and little more:--This Julian
Is one of some distinction; probably rich,
And titled Count. He had a love-affair,
In good-boy, layman fashion, seemingly.--
Give me the woman; love is troublesome!--
She loved him too, but falsehood came between,
And used this woman for her minister;
Who never would have peached, but for a witness
Hidden behind some curtain in her heart--
An unsuspected witness called Sir Conscience,
Who has appeared and blabbed--but must conclude
His story to some double-ghostly father,
For she is ghostly penitent by this.
Our consciences will play us no such tricks;
They are the Church's, not our own. We must
Keep this small matter secret. If it should
Come to his ears, he'll soon bid us good-bye--
A lady's love before ten heavenly crowns!
And so the world will have the benefit
Of the said wealth of his, if such there be.
I have told you, old Godfrey; I tell none else
Until our Abbot comes.
_1st Monk_.
That is to-morrow.
_Another group near the bottom of the table, in which
is_ ROBERT.
_1st Monk_.
'Tis very clear there's something wrong with him.
Have you not marked that look, half scorn, half pity,
Which passes like a thought across his face,
When he has listened, seeming scarce to listen,
A while to our discourse?--he never joins.
_2nd Monk_.
I know quite well. I stood beside him once,
Some of the brethren near; Stephen was talking:
He chanced to say the words, _Our Holy Faith_.
"Their faith indeed, poor fools!" fell from his lips,
Half-muttered, and half-whispered, as the words
Had wandered forth unbidden. I am sure
He is an atheist at the least.
_3rd Monk (pale-faced and large-eyed_).
And I
Fear he is something worse. I had a trance
In which the devil tempted me: the shape
Was Julian's to the very finger-nails.
_Non nobis, Domine_! I overcame.
I am sure of one thing--music tortures him:
I saw him once, amid the _Gloria Patri_,
When the whole chapel trembled in the sound,
Rise slowly as in ecstasy of pain,
And stretch his arms abroad, and clasp his hands,
Then slowly, faintingly, sink on his knees.
_2nd Monk_.
He does not know his rubric; stands when others
Are kneeling round him. I have seen him twice
With his missal upside down.
_4th Monk (plethoric and husky_).
He blew his nose
Quite loud on last Annunciation-day,
And choked our Lady's name in the Abbot's throat.
_Robert_.
When he returns, we must complain; and beg
He'll take such measures as the case requires.
SCENE III.--_Julian's cell. An open chest. The lantern on a stool,
its candle nearly burnt out_. JULIAN _lying on his bed, looking at
the light_.
_Julian_.
And so all growth that is not toward God
Is growing to decay. All increase gained
Is but an ugly, earthy, fungous growth.
'Tis aspiration as that wick aspires,
Towering above the light it overcomes,
But ever sinking with the dying flame.
O let me _live_, if but a daisy's life!
No toadstool life-in-death, no efflorescence!
Wherefore wilt thou not hear me, Lord of me?
Have I no claim on thee? True, I have none
That springs from me, but much that springs from thee.
Hast thou not made me? Liv'st thou not in me?
I have done naught for thee, am but a want;
But thou who art rich in giving, canst give claims;
And this same need of thee which thou hast given,
Is a strong claim on thee to give thyself,
And makes me bold to rise and come to thee.
Through all my sinning thou hast not recalled
This witness of thy fatherhood, to plead
For thee with me, and for thy child with thee.
Last night, as now, I seemed to speak with him;
Or was it but my heart that spoke for him?
"Thou mak'st me long," I said, "therefore wilt give;
My longing is thy promise, O my God!
If, having sinned, I thus have lost the claim,
Why doth the longing yet remain with me,
And make me bold thus to besiege thy doors?"
Methought I heard for answer: "Question on.
Hold fast thy need; it is the bond that holds
Thy being yet to mine. I give it thee,
A hungering and a fainting and a pain,
Yet a God-blessing. Thou art not quite dead
While this pain lives in thee. I bless thee with it.
Better to live in pain than die that death."
So I will live, and nourish this my pain;
For oft it giveth birth unto a hope
That makes me strong in prayer. He knows it too.
Softly I'll walk the earth; for it is his,
Not mine to revel in. Content I wait.
A still small voice I cannot but believe,
Says on within: God _will_ reveal himself.
I must go from this place. I cannot rest.
It boots not staying. A desire like thirst
Awakes within me, or a new child-heart,
To be abroad on the mysterious earth,
Out with the moon in all the blowing winds.
'Tis strange that dreams of her should come again.
For many months I had not seen her form,
Save phantom-like on dim hills of the past,
Until I laid me down an hour ago;
When twice through the dark chamber full of eyes,
The memory passed, reclothed in verity:
Once more I now behold it; the inward blaze
Of the glad windows half quenched in the moon;
The trees that, drooping, murmured to the wind,
"Ah! wake me not," which left them to their sleep,
All save the poplar: it was full of joy,
So that it could not sleep, but trembled on.
Sudden as Aphrodite from the sea,
She issued radiant from the pearly night.
It took me half with fear--the glimmer and gleam
Of her white festal garments, haloed round
With denser moonbeams. On she came--and there
I am bewildered. Something I remember
Of thoughts that choked the passages of sound,
Hurrying forth without their pilot-words;
Of agony, as when a spirit seeks
In vain to hold communion with a man;
A hand that would and would not stay in mine;
A gleaming of white garments far away;
And then I know not what. The moon was low,
When from the earth I rose; my hair was wet,
Dripping with dew--
_Enter_ ROBERT _cautiously_.
Why, how now, Robert?
[_Rising on his elbow_.]
_Robert (glancing at the chest_).
I see; that's well. Are
you nearly ready?
_Julian_.
Why? What's the matter?
_Robert_.
You must go this night,
If you would go at all.
_Julian_.
Why must I go?
[_Rises_.]
_Robert (turning over the things in the chest_).
Here, put
this coat on. Ah! take that thing too.
No more such head-gear! Have you not a hat,
[_Going to the chest again_.]
Or something for your head? There's such a hubbub
Got up about you! The Abbot comes to-morrow.
_Julian_.
Ah, well! I need not ask. I know it all.
_Robert_.
No, you do not. Nor is there time to tell you.
Ten minutes more, they will be round to bar
The outer doors; and then--good-bye, poor Julian!
[_JULIAN has been rapidly changing his clothes_.]
_Julian_.
Now I am ready, Robert. Thank you, friend.
Farewell! God bless you! We shall meet again.
_Robert_.
Farewell, dear friend! Keep far away from this.
[_Goes_.]
[JULIAN _follows him out of the cell, steps along a narrow
passage to a door, which he opens slowly. He goes out,
and closes the door behind him_.]
SCENE IV.--_Night. The court of a country-inn. The_ Abbot, _while
his horse is brought out_.
_Abbot_.
Now for a shrine to house this rich Madonna,
Within the holiest of the holy place!
I'll have it made in fashion as a stable,
With porphyry pillars to a marble stall;
And odorous woods, shaved fine like shaken hay,
Shall fill the silver manger for a bed,
Whereon shall lie the ivory Infant carved
By shepherd hands on plains of Bethlehem.
And over him shall bend the Mother mild,
In silken white and coroneted gems.
Glorious! But wherewithal I see not now--
The Mammon of unrighteousness is scant;
Nor know I any nests of money-bees
That could yield half-contentment to my need.
Yet will I trust and hope; for never yet
In journeying through this vale of tears have I
Projected pomp that did not blaze anon.
SCENE V.--_After midnight_. JULIAN _seated under a tree by the
roadside_.
_Julian_.
So lies my journey--on into the dark!
Without my will I find myself alive,
And must go forward. Is it God that draws
Magnetic all the souls unto their home,
Travelling, they know not how, but unto God?
It matters little what may come to me
Of outward circumstance, as hunger, thirst,
Social condition, yea, or love or hate;
But what shall _I_ be, fifty summers hence?
My life, my being, all that meaneth _me_,
Goes darkling forward into something--what?
O God, thou knowest. It is not my care.
If thou wert less than truth, or less than love,
It were a fearful thing to be and grow
We know not what. My God, take care of me;
Pardon and swathe me in an infinite love,
Pervading and inspiring me, thy child.
And let thy own design in me work on,
Unfolding the ideal man in me;
Which being greater far than I have grown,
I cannot comprehend. I am thine, not mine.
One day, completed unto thine intent,
I shall be able to discourse with thee;
For thy Idea, gifted with a self,
Must be of one with the mind where it sprang,
And fit to talk with thee about thy thoughts.
Lead me, O Father, holding by thy hand;
I ask not whither, for it must be on.
This road will lead me to the hills, I think;
And there I am in safety and at home.
SCENE VI.--_The Abbot's room. The_ Abbot _and one of the_ Monks.
_Abbot_.
Did she say _Julian_? Did she say the name?
_Monk_.
She did.
_Abbot_.
What did she call the lady? What?
_Monk_.
I could not hear.
_Abbot_.
Nor where she lived?
_Monk_.
Nor that.
She was too wild for leading where I would.
_Abbot_.
So! Send Julian. One thing I need not ask:
You have kept this matter secret?
_Monk_.
Yes, my lord.
_Abbot_.
Well, go and send him hither.
[Monk _goes_.]
Said I well,
That prayer would burgeon into pomp for me?
That God would hear his own elect who cried?
Now for a shrine, so glowing in the means
That it shall draw the eyes by power of light!
So tender in conceit, that it shall draw
The heart by very strength of delicateness,
And move proud thought to worship!
I must act
With caution now; must win his confidence;
Question him of the secret enemies
That fight against his soul; and lead him thus
To tell me, by degrees, his history.
So shall I find the truth, and lay foundation
For future acts, as circumstance requires.
For if the tale be true that he is rich,
And if----
_Re-enter _Monk _in haste and terror_.
_Monk_.
He's gone, my lord! His cell is empty.
_Abbot_ (_starting up_).
What! You are crazy! Gone?
His cell is empty?
_Monk_.
'Tis true as death, my lord. Witness, these eyes!
_Abbot_.
Heaven and hell! It shall not be, I swear!
There is a plot in this! You, sir, have lied!
Some one is in his confidence!--who is it?
Go rouse the convent.
[Monk _goes_.]
He must be followed, found.
Hunt's up, friend Julian! First your heels, old stag!
But by and by your horns, and then your side!
'Tis venison much too good for the world's eating.
I'll go and sift this business to the bran.
Robert and him I have sometimes seen together!--God's
curse! it shall fare ill with any man
That has connived at this, if I detect him.
SCENE VII.--_Afternoon. The mountains_. JULIAN.
_Julian_.
Once more I tread thy courts, O God of heaven!
I lay my hand upon a rock, whose peak
Is miles away, and high amid the clouds.
Perchance I touch the mountain whose blue summit,
With the fantastic rock upon its side,
Stops the eye's flight from that high chamber-window
Where, when a boy, I used to sit and gaze
With wondering awe upon the mighty thing,
Terribly calm, alone, self-satisfied,
The _hitherto_ of my child-thoughts. Beyond,
A sea might roar around its base. Beyond,
Might be the depths of the unfathomed space,
This the earth's bulwark over the abyss.
Upon its very point I have watched a star
For a few moments crown it with a fire,
As of an incense-offering that blazed
Upon this mighty altar high uplift,
And then float up the pathless waste of heaven.
From the next window I could look abroad
Over a plain unrolled, which God had painted
With trees, and meadow-grass, and a large river,
Where boats went to and fro like water-flies,
In white and green; but still I turned to look
At that one mount, aspiring o'er its fellows:
All here I saw--I knew not what was there.
O love of knowledge and of mystery,
Striving together in the heart of man!
"Tell me, and let me know; explain the thing."--
Then when the courier-thoughts have circled round:
"Alas! I know it all; its charm is gone!"
But I must hasten; else the sun will set
Before I reach the smoother valley-road.
I wonder if my old nurse lives; or has
Eyes left to know me with. Surely, I think,
Four years of wandering since I left my home,
In sunshine and in snow, in ship and cell,
Must have worn changes in this face of mine
Sufficient to conceal me, if I will.
SCENE VIII.--_A dungeon in the monastery. A ray of the moon on the
floor_. ROBERT.
_Robert_.
One comfort is, he's far away by this.
Perhaps this comfort is my deepest sin.
Where shall I find a daysman in this strife
Between my heart and holy Church's words?
Is not the law of kindness from God's finger,
Yea, from his heart, on mine? But then we must
Deny ourselves; and impulses must yield,
Be subject to the written law of words;
Impulses made, made strong, that we might have
Within the temple's court live things to bring
And slay upon his altar; that we may,
By this hard penance of the heart and soul,
Become the slaves of Christ.--I have done wrong;
I ought not to have let poor Julian go.
And yet that light upon the floor says, yes--
Christ would have let him go. It seemed a good,
Yes, self-denying deed, to risk my life
That he might be in peace. Still up and down
The balance goes, a good in either scale;
Two angels giving each to each the lie,
And none to part them or decide the question.
But still the _words_ come down the heaviest
Upon my conscience as that scale descends;
But that may be because they hurt me more,
Being rough strangers in the feelings' home.
Would God forbid us to do what is right,
Even for his sake? But then Julian's life
Belonged to God, to do with as he pleases!
I am bewildered. 'Tis as God and God
Commanded different things in different tones.
Ah! then, the tones are different: which is likest
God's voice? The one is gentle, loving, kind,
Like Mary singing to her mangered child;
The other like a self-restrained tempest;
Like--ah, alas!--the trumpet on Mount Sinai,
Louder and louder, and the voice of _words_.
O for some light! Would they would kill me! then
I would go up, close up, to God's own throne,
And ask, and beg, and pray to know the truth;
And he would slay this ghastly contradiction.
I should not fear, for he would comfort me,
Because I am perplexed, and long to know.
But this perplexity may be my sin,
And come of pride that will not yield to him!
O for one word from God! his own, and fresh
From him to me! Alas, what shall I do!
_PART II_.
Hark, hark, a voice amid the quiet intense!
It is thy Duty waiting thee without.
Rise from thy knees in hope, the half of doubt;
A hand doth pull thee--it is Providence;
Open thy door straightway, and get thee hence;
Go forth into the tumult and the shout;
Work, love, with workers, lovers, all about:
Of noise alone is born the inward sense
Of silence; and from action springs alone
The inward knowledge of true love and faith.
Then, weary, go thou back with failing breath,
And in thy chamber make thy prayer and moan:
One day upon _His_ bosom, all thine own,
Thou shall lie still, embraced in holy death.
SCENE I.--_A room in Julian's castle_. JULIAN _and the old_ Nurse.
_Julian_.
Nembroni? Count Nembroni?--I remember:
A man about my height, but stronger built?
I have seen him at her father's. There was something
I did not like about him:--ah! I know:
He had a way of darting looks at you,
As if he wished to know you, but by stealth.
_Nurse_.
The same, my lord. He is the creditor.
The common story is, he sought the daughter,
But sought in vain: the lady would not wed.
'Twas rumoured soon they were in grievous trouble,
Which caused much wonder, for the family
Was always reckoned wealthy. Count Nembroni
Contrived to be the only creditor,
And so imprisoned him.
_Julian_.
Where is the lady?
_Nurse_.
Down in the town.
_Julian_.
But where?
_Nurse_.
If you turn left,
When you go through the gate, 'tis the last house
Upon this side the way. An honest couple,
Who once were almost pensioners of hers,
Have given her shelter: still she hopes a home
With distant friends. Alas, poor lady! 'tis
A wretched change for her.
_Julian_.
Hm! ah! I see.
What kind of man is this Nembroni, nurse?
_Nurse_.
Here he is little known. His title comes
From an estate, they say, beyond the hills.
He looks ungracious: I have seen the children
Run to the doors when he came up the street.
_Julian_.
Thank you, nurse; you may go. Stay--one thing more:
Have any of my people seen me?
_Nurse_. None
But me, my lord.
_Julian_.
And can you keep it secret?--
know you will for my sake. I will trust you.
Bring me some supper; I am tired and faint. [Nurse goes.]
Poor and alone! Such a man has not laid
His plans for nothing further! I will watch him.
Heaven may have brought me hither for her sake.
Poor child! I would protect thee as thy father,
Who cannot help thee. Thou wast not to blame;
My love had no claim on like love from thee.--How
the old tide comes rushing to my heart!
I know not what I can do yet but watch.
I have no hold on him. I cannot go,
Say, _I suspect_; and, _Is it so or not_?
I should but injure them by doing so.
True, I might pay her father's debts; and will,
If Joseph, my old friend, has managed well
During my absence. _I_ have not spent much.
But still she'd be in danger from this man,
If not permitted to betray himself;
And I, discovered, could no more protect.
Or if, unseen by her, I yet could haunt
Her footsteps like an angel, not for long
Should I remain unseen of other eyes,
That peer from under cowls--not angel-eyes--
Hunting me out, over the stormy earth.
No; I must watch. I can do nothing better.
SCENE II.--_A poor cottage. An old_ Man _and_ Woman _sitting together_.
_Man_.
How's the poor lady now?
_Woman_.
She's poorly still.
I fancy every day she's growing thinner.
I am sure she's wasting steadily.
_Man_.
Has the count
Been here again to-day?
_Woman_.
No. And I think
He will not come again. She was so proud
The last time he was here, you would have thought
She was a queen at least.
_Man_.
Remember, wife,
What she has been. Trouble like that throws down
The common folk like us all of a heap:
With folks like her, that are high bred and blood,
It sets the mettle up.
_Woman_.
All very right;
But take her as she was, she might do worse
Than wed the Count Nembroni.
_Man_.
Possible.
But are you sure there is no other man
Stands in his way?
_Woman_.
How can I tell? So be,
He should be here to help her. What she'll do
I am sure I do not know. We cannot keep her.
And for her work, she does it far too well
To earn a living by it. Her times are changed--
She should not give herself such prideful airs.
_Man_.
Come, come, old wife! you women are so hard
On one another! You speak fair for men,
And make allowances; but when a woman
Crosses your way, you speak the worst of her.
But where is this you're going then to-night?
Do they want me to go as well as you?
_Woman_.
Yes, you must go, or else it is no use.
They cannot give the money to me, except
My husband go with me. He told me so.
_Man_.
Well, wife, it's worth the going--but to see:
I don't expect a groat to come of it.
SCENE III.--_Kitchen of a small inn_. Host _and_ Hostess.
_Host_.
That's a queer customer you've got upstairs!
What the deuce is he?
_Hostess_.
What is that to us?
He always pays his way, and handsomely.
I wish there were more like him.
_Host_.
Has he been
At home all day?
_Hostess_.
He has not stirred a foot
Across the threshold. That's his only fault--
He's always in the way.
_Host_.
What does he do?
_Hostess_.
Paces about the room, or sits at the window.
I sometimes make an errand to the cupboard,
To see what he's about: he looks annoyed,
But does not speak a word.
_Host_.
He must be crazed,
Or else in hiding for some scrape or other.
_Hostess_.
He has a wild look in his eye sometimes;
But sure he would not sit so much in the dark,
If he were mad, or anything on his conscience;
And though he does not say much, when he speaks
A civiller man ne'er came in woman's way.
_Host_.
Oh! he's all right, I warrant. Is the wine come?
SCENE IV.--_The inn; a room upstairs_. JULIAN _at the window, half
hidden by the curtain_.
_Julian_.
With what profusion her white fingers spend
Delicate motions on the insensate cloth!
It was so late this morning ere she came!
I fear she has been ill. She looks so pale!
Her beauty is much less, but she more lovely.
Do I not love he? more than when that beauty
Beamed out like starlight, radiating beyond
The confines of her wondrous face and form,
And animated with a present power
Her garment's folds, even to the very hem!
Ha! there is something now: the old woman drest
In her Sunday clothes, and waiting at the door,
As for her husband. Something will follow this.
And here he comes, all in his best like her.
They will be gone a while. Slowly they walk,
With short steps down the street. Now I must wake
The sleeping hunter-eagle in my eyes!
SCENE V.--_A back street. Two_ Servants _with a carriage and pair_.
_1st Serv_.
Heavens, what a cloud! as big as Aetna! There!
That gust blew stormy. Take Juno by the head,
I'll stand by Neptune. Take her head, I say;
We'll have enough to do, if it should lighten.
_2nd Serv_.
Such drops! That's the first of it. I declare
She spreads her nostrils and looks wild already,
As if she smelt it coming. I wish we were
Under some roof or other. I fear this business
Is not of the right sort.
_1st Serv_.
He looked as black
As if he too had lightning in his bosom.
There! Down, you brute! Mind the pole, Beppo!
SCENE VI.--_Julian's room. JULIAN standing at the window, his face
pressed against a pane. Storm and gathering darkness without_.
_Julian_.
Plague on the lamp! 'tis gone--no, there it flares!
I wish the wind would leave or blow it out.
Heavens! how it thunders! This terrific storm
Will either cow or harden him. I'm blind!
That lightning! Oh, let me see again, lest he
Should enter in the dark! I cannot bear
This glimmering longer. Now that gush of rain
Has blotted all my view with crossing lights.
'Tis no use waiting here. I must cross over,
And take my stand in the corner by the door.
But if he comes while I go down the stairs,
And I not see? To make sure, I'll go gently
Up the stair to the landing by her door.
[_He goes quickly toward the door_.]
_Hostess (opening the door and looking in_).
If you please, sir--
[_He hurries past_]
The devil's in the man!
SCENE VII.--_The landing_.
_Voice within_.
If you scream, I must muffle you.
_Julian (rushing up the stair_).
He _is_ there!
His hand is on her mouth! She tries to scream!
[_Flinging the door open, as_ NEMBRONI _springs
forward on the other side_.]
Back!
_Nembroni_.
What the devil!--Beggar!
[_Drawing his sword, and making a thrust at_ JULIAN, _which
he parries with his left arm, as, drawing his dagger, he
springs within_ NEMBRONI'S _guard_.]
_Julian (taking him by the throat_).
I have faced worse
storms than you.
[_They struggle_.]
Heart point and hilt strung on the line of force,
[_He stabs him_.]
Your ribs will not mail your heart!
[NEMBRONI _falls dead_. JULIAN _wipes his dagger on the
dead man's coat_.]
If men _will_ be devils,
They are better in hell than here.
[_Lightning flashes on the blade_.]
What a night
For a soul to go out of doors! God in heaven!
[_Approaches the lady within_.]
Ah! she has fainted. That is well. I hope
It will not pass too soon. It is not far
To the half-hidden door in my own fence,
And that is well. If I step carefully,
Such rain will soon wash out the tell-tale footprints.
What! blood? _He_ does not bleed much, I should think!
Oh, I see! it is mine--he has wounded me.
That's awkward now.
[_Takes a handkerchief from the floor by the window_.]
Pardon me, dear lady;
[_Ties the handkerchief with hand and teeth round his arm_.]
'Tis not to save my blood I would defile
Even your handkerchief.
[_Coming towards the door, carrying her_.]
I am pleased to think
Ten monkish months have not ta'en all my strength.
[_Looking out of the window on the landing_.]
For once, thank darkness! 'Twas sent for us, not him.
[_He goes down the stair_]
SCENE VIII.--_A room in the castle_. JULIAN _and the_ Nurse.
_Julian_.
Ask me no questions now, my dear old nurse.
You have put your charge to bed?
_Nurse_.
Yes, my dear lord.
_Julian_.
And has she spoken yet?
_Nurse_.
After you left,
Her eyelids half unclosed; she murmured once:
_Where am I, mother_?--then she looked at me,
And her eyes wandered over all my face,
Till half in comfort, half in weariness,
They closed again. Bless her, dear soul! she is
As feeble as a child.
_Julian_.
Under your care
She'll soon be well again. Let no one know
She is in the house:--blood has been shed for her.
_Nurse_.
Alas! I feared it; blood is on her dress.
_Julian_.
That's mine, not his. But put it in the fire.
Get her another. I'll leave a purse with you.
_Nurse_.
Leave?
_Julian_.
Yes. I am off to-night, wandering again
Over the earth and sea. She must not know
I have been here. You must contrive to keep
My share a secret. Once she moved and spoke
When a branch caught me, but she could not see me.
She thought, no doubt, it was Nembroni had her;
Nor would she have known me. You must hide her, nurse.
Let her on no pretense guess where she is,
Nor utter word that might suggest the fact.
When she is well and wishes to be gone,
Then write to this address--but under cover
[_Writing_.]
To the Prince Calboli at Florence. I
Will see to all the rest. But let her know
Her father is set free; assuredly,
Ere you can say it is, it will be so.
_Nurse_.
How shall I best conceal her, my good lord?
_Julian_.
I have thought of that. There's a deserted room
In the old west wing, at the further end
Of the oak gallery.
_Nurse_.
Not deserted quite.
I ventured, when you left, to make it mine,
Because you loved it when a boy, my lord.
_Julian_.
You do not know, nurse, why I loved it though:
I found a sliding panel, and a door
Into a room behind. I'll show it you.
You'll find some musty traces of me yet,
When you go in. Now take her to your room,
But get the other ready. Light a fire,
And keep it burning well for several days.
Then, one by one, out of the other rooms,
Take everything to make it comfortable;
Quietly, you know. If you must have your daughter,
Bind her to be as secret as yourself.
Then put her there. I'll let her father know
She is in safety.--I must change attire,
And be far off or ever morning break.
[Nurse _goes_.]
My treasure-room! how little then I thought,
Glad in my secret, one day it would hold
A treasure unto which I dared not come.
Perhaps she'd love me now--a very little!--
But not with even a heavenly gift would I
Go begging love; that should be free as light,
Cleaving unto myself even for myself.
I have enough to brood on, joy to turn
Over and over in my secret heart:--
She lives, and is the better that I live!
_Re-enter_ Nurse.
_Nurse_.
My lord, her mind is wandering; she is raving;
She's in a dreadful fever. We must send
To Arli for the doctor, else her life
Will be in danger.
_Julian_
(_rising disturbed_).
Go and fetch your daughter.
Between you, take her to my room, yours now.
I'll see her there. I think you can together!
_Nurse_.
O yes, my lord; she is so thin, poor child!
[Nurse _goes_.]
_Julian_.
I ought to know the way to treat a fever,
If it be one of twenty. Hers has come
Of low food, wasting, and anxiety.
I've seen enough of that in Prague and Smyrna!
SCENE IX.--_The Abbot's room in the monastery. The_ Abbot.
_Abbot_.
'Tis useless all. No trace of him found yet.
One hope remains: that fellow has a head!
_Enter_ STEPHEN.
Stephen, I have sent for you, because I am told
You said to-day, if I commissioned you,
You'd scent him out, if skulking in his grave.
_Stephen_.
I did, my lord.
_Abbot_.
How would you do it, Stephen?
_Stephen_.
Try one plan till it failed; then try another;
Try half-a-dozen plans at once; keep eyes
And ears wide open, and mouth shut, my lord:
Your bull-dog sometimes makes the best retriever.
I have no plan; but, give me time and money,
I'll find him out.
_Abbot_.
Stephen, you're just the man
I have been longing for. Get yourself ready.
SCENE X.--_Towards morning. The Nurse's room_. LILIA _in bed_.
JULIAN _watching_.
_Julian_.
I think she sleeps. Would God it be so; then
She will do well. What strange things she has spoken!
My heart is beating as if it would spend
Its life in this one night, and beat it out.
And well it may, for there is more of life
In one such moment than in many years!
Pure life is measured by intensity,
Not by the how much of the crawling clock.
Is that a bar of moonlight stretched across
The window-blind? or is it but a band
Of whiter cloth my thrifty dame has sewed
Upon the other?--'Tis the moon herself,
Low in the west. 'Twas such a moon as this--
_Lilia_
(_half-asleep, wildly_).
If Julian had been here, you dared not do it!--
Julian! Julian!
[_Half-rising_.]
_Julian_
(_forgetting his caution, and going up to her_).
I am here, my Lilia.
Put your head down, my love. 'Twas all a dream,
A terrible dream. Gone now--is it not?
[_She looks at him with wide restless eyes; then sinks back on
the pillow. He leaves her_.]
How her dear eyes bewildered looked at me!
But her soul's eyes are closed. If this last long
She'll die before my sight, and Joy will lead
In by the hand her sister, Grief, pale-faced,
And leave her to console my solitude.
Ah, what a joy! I dare not think of it!
And what a grief! I will not think of that!
Love? and from her? my beautiful, my own!
O God, I did not know thou wast so rich
In making and in giving; did not know
The gathered glory of this earth of thine.
What! wilt thou crush me with an infinite joy?
Make me a god by giving? Wilt thou take
Thy centre-thought of living beauty, born
In thee, and send it home to dwell with me?
[_He leans on the wall_.]
_Lilia_
(_softly_).
Am I in heaven? There's something makes me glad,
As if I were in heaven! Yes, yes, I am.
I see the flashing of ten thousand glories;
I hear the trembling of a thousand wings,
That vibrate music on the murmuring air!
Each tiny feather-blade crushes its pool
Of circling air to sound, and quivers music!--
What is it, though, that makes me glad like this?
I knew, but cannot find it--I forget.
It must be here--what was it?--Hark! the fall,
The endless going of the stream of life!--
Ah me! I thirst, I thirst,--I am so thirsty!
[_Querulously_.]
[JULIAN _gives her drink, supporting her. She looks at him
again, with large wondering eyes_.]
Ah! now I know--I was so very thirsty!
[_He lays her down. She is comforted, and falls asleep. He
extinguishes the light, and looks out of the window_.]
_Julian_.
The gray earth dawning up, cold, comfortless;
With its obtrusive _I am_ written large
Upon its face!
[_Approaches the bed, and gazes on_ LILIA _silently with
clasped hands; then returns to the window_.]
She sleeps so peacefully!
O God, I thank thee: thou hast sent her sleep.
Lord, let it sink into her heart and brain.
_Enter_ Nurse.
Oh, nurse, I'm glad you're come! She is asleep.
You must be near her when she wakes again.
I think she'll be herself. But do be careful--
Right cautious how you tell her I am here.
Sweet woman-child, may God be in your sleep!
[JULIAN _goes_.]
_Nurse_.
Bless her white face, she looks just like my daughter,
That's now a saint in heaven! Just those thin cheeks,
And eyelids hardly closed over her eyes!--
Dream on, poor darling! you are drinking life
From the breast of sleep. And yet I fain would see
Your shutters open, for I then should know
Whether the soul had drawn her curtains back,
To peep at morning from her own bright windows.
Ah! what a joy is ready, waiting her,
To break her fast upon, if her wild dreams
Have but betrayed her secrets honestly!
Will he not give thee love as dear as thine!
SCENE XI.--_A hilly road_. STEPHEN, _trudging alone, pauses to look
around him_.
_Stephen_.
Not a footprint! not a trace that a blood-hound
would nose at! But Stephen shall be acknowledged
good dog and true. If I had him within stick-length--mind
thy head, brother Julian! Thou hast not
hair enough to protect it, and thy tonsure shall not.
Neither shalt thou tarry at Jericho.--It is a poor man
that leaves no trail; and if thou wert poor, I would not
follow thee.
[_Sings_.]
Oh, many a hound is stretching out
His two legs or his four,
And the saddled horses stand about
The court and the castle door,
Till out come the baron, jolly and stout,
To hunt the bristly boar!
The emperor, he doth keep a pack
In his antechambers standing,
And up and down the stairs, good lack!
And eke upon the landing:
A straining leash, and a quivering back,
And nostrils and chest expanding!
The devil a hunter long hath been,
Though Doctor Luther said it:
Of his canon-pack he was the dean,
And merrily he led it:
The old one kept them swift and lean
On faith--that's devil's credit!
Each man is a hunter to his trade,
And they follow one another;
But such a hunter never was made
As the monk that hunted his brother!
And the runaway pig, ere its game be played,
Shall be eaten by its mother!
Better hunt a flea in a woolly blanket, than a leg-bail
monk in this wilderness of mountains, forests, and
precipices! But the flea _may_ be caught, and so _shall_
the monk. I have said it. He is well spotted, with
his silver crown and his uncropped ears. The rascally
heretic! But his vows shall keep him, though he won't
keep his vows. The whining, blubbering idiot! Gave
his plaything, and wants it back!--I wonder whereabouts
I am.
SCENE XII.--_The Nurse's room_. LILIA _sitting up in bed_. JULIAN
_seated by her; an open note in his hand_.
_Lilia_.
Tear it up, Julian.
_Julian_.
No; I'll treasure it
As the remembrance of a by-gone grief:
I love it well, because it is _not_ yours.
_Lilia_.
Where have you been these long, long years away?
You look much older. You have suffered, Julian!
_Julian_.
Since that day, Lilia, I have seen much, thought much,
Suffered a little. When you are quite yourself,
I'll tell you all you want to know about me.
_Lilia_.
Do tell me something now. I feel quite strong;
It will not hurt me.
_Julian_.
Wait a day or two.
Indeed 'twould weary you to tell you all.
_Lilia_.
And I have much to tell you, Julian. I
Have suffered too--not all for my own sake.
[_Recalling something_.]
Oh, what a dream I had! Oh, Julian!--
I don't know when it was. It must have been
Before you brought me here! I am sure it was.
_Julian_.
Don't speak about it. Tell me afterwards.
You must keep quiet now. Indeed you must.
_Lilia_.
I will obey you, will not speak a word.
_Enter_ Nurse.
_Nurse_.
Blessings upon her! she's near well already.
Who would have thought, three days ago, to see
You look so bright! My lord, you have done wonders.
_Julian_.
My art has helped a little, I thank God.--
To please me, Lilia, go to sleep a while.
[JULIAN _goes_.]
_Lilia_.
Why does he always wear that curious cap?
_Nurse_.
I don't know. You must sleep.
_Lilia_.
Yes. I forgot.
SCENE XIII.--_The Steward's room_. JULIAN _and the_ Steward. _Papers
on the table, which_ JULIAN _has just finished examining_.
_Julian_.
Thank you much, Joseph; you have done well for me.
You sent that note privately to my friend?
_Steward_.
I did, my lord; and have conveyed the money,
Putting all things in train for his release,
Without appearing in it personally,
Or giving any clue to other hands.
He sent this message by my messenger:
His hearty thanks, and God will bless you for it.
He will be secret. For his daughter, she
Is safe with you as with himself; and so
God bless you both! He will expect to hear
From both of you from England.
_Julian_.
Well, again.
What money is remaining in your hands?
_Steward_.
Two bags, three hundred each; that's all.
I fear To wake suspicion, if I call in more.
_Julian_.
One thing, and I have done: lest a mischance
Befall us, though I do not fear it much--
have been very secret--is that boat
I had before I left, in sailing trim?
_Steward_.
I knew it was a favorite with my lord;
I've taken care of it. A month ago,
With my own hands I painted it all fresh,
Fitting new oars and rowlocks. The old sail
I'll have replaced immediately; and then
'Twill be as good as new.
_Julian_.
That's excellent.
Well, launch it in the evening. Make it fast
To the stone steps behind my garden study.
Stow in the lockers some sea-stores, and put
The money in the old desk in the study.
_Steward_.
I will, my lord. It will be safe enough.
SCENE XIV.--_A road near the town_. _A_ Waggoner. STEPHEN, _in lay
dress, coming up to him_.
_Stephen_.
Whose castle's that upon the hill, good fellow?
_Waggoner_.
Its present owner's of the Uglii;
They call him Lorenzino.
_Stephen_.
Whose is that
Down in the valley?
_Waggoner_.
That is Count Lamballa's.
_Stephen_.
What is his Christian name?
_Waggoner_.
Omfredo. No,
That was his father's; his is Julian.
_Stephen_.
Is he at home?
_Waggoner_.
No, not for many a day.
His steward, honest man, I know is doubtful
Whether he be alive; and yet his land
Is better farmed than any in the country.
_Stephen_.
He is not married, then?
_Waggoner_.
No. There's a gossip
Amongst the women--but who would heed their talk!--
That love half-crazed, then drove him out of doors,
To wander here and there, like a bad ghost,
Because a silly wench refused him:--fudge!
_Stephen_.
Most probably. I quite agree with you.
Where do you stop?
_Waggoner_.
At the first inn we come to;
You'll see it from the bottom of the hill.
There is a better at the other end,
But here the stabling is by far the best.
_Stephen_.
I must push on. Four legs can never go
Down-hill so fast as two. Good morning, friend.
_Waggoner_.
Good morning, sir.
_Stephen (aside_)
I take the further house.
SCENE XV.--_The Nurse's room_. JULIAN _and_ LILIA _standing near the
window_.
_Julian_.
But do you really love me, Lilia?
_Lilia_.
Why do you make me say it so often, Julian?
You make me say _I love you_, oftener far
Than you say you love me.
_Julian_.
To love you seems
So much a thing of mere necessity!
I can refrain from loving you no more
Than keep from waking when the sun shines full
Upon my face.
_Lilia_.
And yet I love to say
How, how I love you, Julian!
[_Leans her head on his arm_. JULIAN _winces a little. She
raises her head and looks at him_.]
Did I hurt you?
Would you not have me lean my head on you?
_Julian_.
Come on this side, my love; 'tis a slight hurt
Not yet quite healed.
_Lilia_.
Ah, my poor Julian! How--
I am so sorry!--Oh, I _do_ remember!
I saw it all quite plain! It was no dream!
I saw you fighting!--Surely you did not kill him?
_Julian_
(_calmly, but drawing himself up_).
I killed him as I would a dog that bit you.
_Lilia_
(_turning pale, and covering her face with her
hands_.)
Oh, that was dreadful! there is blood on you!
_Julian_.
Shall I go, Lilia?
_Lilia_.
Oh no, no, no, do not.--
I shall be better presently.
_Julian_.
You shrink
As from a murderer!
_Lilia_.
Oh no, I love you--
Will never leave you. Pardon me, my Julian;
But blood is terrible.
_Julian_
(_drawing her close to him_).
My own sweet Lilia,
'Twas justly shed, for your defense and mine,
As it had been a tiger that I killed.
He had no right to live. Be at peace, darling;
His blood lies not on me, but on himself;
I do not feel its stain upon my conscience.
[_A tap at the door_.]
_Enter_ Nurse.
_Nurse_.
My lord, the steward waits on you below.
[JULIAN _goes_.]
You have been standing till you're faint, my lady!
Lie down a little. There!--I'll fetch you something.
SCENE XVI.--_The Steward's room_. JULIAN. _The Steward_.
_Julian_.
Well, Joseph, that will do. I shall expect
To hear from you soon after my arrival.
Is the boat ready?
_Steward_.
Yes, my lord; afloat
Where you directed.
_Julian_.
A strange feeling haunts me,
As of some danger near. Unlock it, and cast
The chain around the post. Muffle the oars.
_Steward_.
I will, directly.
[_Goes_.]
_Julian_.
How shall I manage it?
I have her father's leave, but have not dared
To tell her all; and she must know it first!
She fears me half, even now: what will she think
To see my shaven head? My heart is free--
I know that God absolves mistaken vows.
I looked for help in the high search from those
Who knew the secret place of the Most High.
If I had known, would I have bound myself
Brother to men from whose low, marshy minds
Never a lark springs to salute the day?
The loftiest of them dreamers, and the best
Content with goodness growing like moss on stones!
It cannot be God's will I should be such.
But there was more: they virtually condemned
Me in my quest; would have had me content
To kneel with them around a wayside post,
Nor heed the pointing finger at its top?
It was the dull abode of foolishness:
Not such the house where God would train his children!
My very birth into a world of men
Shows me the school where he would have me learn;
Shows me the place of penance; shows the field
Where I must fight and die victorious,
Or yield and perish. True, I know not how
This will fall out: he must direct my way!
But then for her--she cannot see all this;
Words will not make it plain; and if they would,
The time is shorter than the words would need:
This overshadowing bodes nearing ill.--
It _may_ be only vapour, of the heat
Of too much joy engendered; sudden fear
That the fair gladness is too good to live:
The wider prospect from the steep hill's crest,
The deeper to the vale the cliff goes down;
But how will she receive it? Will she think
I have been mocking her? How could I help it?
Her illness and my danger! But, indeed,
So strong was I in truth, I never thought
Her doubts might prove a hindrance in the way.
My love did make her so a part of me,
I never dreamed she might judge otherwise,
Until our talk of yesterday. And now
Her horror at Nembroni's death confirms me:
To wed a monk will seem to her the worst
Of crimes which in a fever one might dream.
I cannot take the truth, and, bodily,
Hold it before her eyes. She is not strong.
She loves me--not as I love her. But always
--There's Robert for an instance--I have loved
A life for what it might become, far more
Than for its present: there's a germ in her
Of something noble, much beyond her now:
Chance gleams betray it, though she knows it not.
This evening must decide it, come what will.
SCENE XVII.--_The inn; the room which had been_ JULIAN'S. STEPHEN,
Host, _and_ Hostess. _Wine on the table_.
_Stephen_.
Here, my good lady, let me fill your glass;
Then send the bottle on, please, to your husband.
_Hostess_.
I thank you, sir; I hope you like the wine;
My husband's choice is praised. I cannot say
I am a judge myself.
_Host_.
I'm confident
It needs but to be tasted.
_Stephen_
(_tasting critically, then nodding_).
That is wine!
Let me congratulate you, my good sir,
Upon your exquisite judgment!
_Host_.
Thank you, sir.
_Stephen_
(_to the_ Hostess).
And so this man, you say, was here until
The night the count was murdered: did he leave
Before or after that?
_Hostess_.
I cannot tell;
He left, I know, before it was discovered.
In the middle of the storm, like one possessed,
He rushed into the street, half tumbling me
Headlong down stairs, and never came again.
He had paid his bill that morning, luckily;
So joy go with him! Well, he was an odd one!
_Stephen_.
What was he like, fair Hostess?
_Hostess_.
Tall and dark,
And with a lowering look about his brows.
He seldom spoke, but, when he did, was civil.
One queer thing was, he always wore his hat,
Indoors as well as out. I dare not say
He murdered Count Nembroni; but it was strange
He always sat at that same window there,
And looked into the street. 'Tis not as if
There were much traffic in the village now;
These are changed times; but I have seen the day--
_Stephen_.
Excuse me; you were saying that the man
Sat at the window--
_Hostess_.
Yes; even after dark
He would sit on, and never call for lights.
The first night, I brought candles, as of course;
He let me set them on the table, true;
But soon's my back was turned, he put them out.
_Stephen_.
Where is the lady?
_Hostess_.
That's the strangest thing
Of all the story: she has disappeared,
As well as he. There lay the count, stone-dead,
White as my apron. The whole house was empty,
Just as I told you.
_Stephen_.
Has no search been made?
_Host_.
The closest search; a thousand pieces offered
For any information that should lead
To the murderer's capture. I believe his brother,
Who is his heir, they say, is still in town,
Seeking in vain for some intelligence.
_Stephen_.
'Tis very odd; the oddest thing I've heard
For a long time. Send me a pen and ink;
I have to write some letters.
_Hostess (rising_).
Thank you, sir,
For your kind entertainment.
[_Exeunt Host and Hostess_.]
_Stephen_.
We've found the badger's hole; we'll draw
him next. He couldn't have gone far with her and not
be seen. My life on it, there are plenty of holes and
corners in the old house over the way. Run off with a
wench! Holy brother Julian! Contemptuous brother
Julian! Stand-by-thyself brother Julian! Run away
with a wench at last! Well, there's a downfall! He'll
be for marrying her on the sly, and away!--I know the
old fox!--for her conscience-sake, probably not for his!
Well, one comfort is, it's damnation and no reprieve.
The ungrateful, atheistical heretic! As if the good old
mother wasn't indulgent enough to the foibles of her
children! The worthy lady has winked so hard at her
dutiful sons, that she's nearly blind with winking. There's
nothing in a little affair with a girl now and then; but to
marry, and knock one's vows on the head! Therein is
displayed a little ancestral fact as to a certain respectable
progenitor, commonly portrayed as the knight of the
cloven foot. _Keep back thy servant_, &c.--Purgatory
couldn't cleanse that; and more, 'twill never have the
chance. Heaven be about us from harm! Amen. I'll
go find the new count. The Church shall have the
castle and estate; Revenge, in the person of the new
count, the body of Julian; and Stephen may as well
have the thousand pieces as not.
SCENE XVIII.--_Night. The Nurse's room_. LILIA; _to her_ JULIAN.
_Lilia_.
How changed he is! Yet he looks very noble.
_Enter_ JULIAN.
_Julian_.
My Lilia, will you go to England with me?
_Lilia_.
Julian, my father!
_Julian_.
Not without his leave.
He says, God bless us both.
_Lilia_.
Leave him in prison?
_Julian_.
No, Lilia; he's at liberty and safe,
And far from this ere now.
_Lilia_.
You have done this,
My noble Julian! I will go with you
To sunset, if you will. My father gone!
Julian, there's none to love me now but you.
You _will_ love me, Julian?--always?
_Julian_.
I but fear
That your heart, Lilia, is not big enough
To hold the love wherewith my heart would fill it.
_Lilia_.
I know why you think that; and I deserve it.
But try me, Julian. I was very silly.
I could not help it. I was ill, you know;
Or weak at least. May I ask you, Julian,
How your arm is to-day?
_Julian_.
Almost well, child.
Twill leave an ugly scar, though, I'm afraid.
_Lilia_.
Never mind that, if it be well again.
_Julian_.
I do not mind it; but when I remember
That I am all yours, then I grudge that scratch
Or stain should be upon me--soul, body, yours.
And there are more scars on me now than I
Should like to make you own, without confession.
_Lilia_.
My poor, poor Julian! never think of it;
[_Putting her arms round him_.]
I will but love you more. I thought you had
Already told me suffering enough;
But not the half, it seems, of your adventures.
You have been a soldier!
_Julian_.
I have fought, my Lilia.
I have been down among the horses' feet;
But strange to tell, and harder to believe,
Arose all sound, unmarked with bruise, or blood
Save what I lifted from the gory ground.
[_Sighing_.]
My wounds are not of such.
[LILIA, _loosening her arms, and drawing back a little with a
kind of shrinking, looks a frightened interrogation_.]
No. Penance, Lilia;
Such penance as the saints of old inflicted
Upon their quivering flesh. Folly, I know;
As a lord would exalt himself, by making
His willing servants into trembling slaves!
Yet I have borne it.
_Lilia_
(_laying her hand on his arm_).
Ah, alas, my Julian,
You have been guilty!
_Julian_.
Not what men call guilty,
Save it be now; now you will think I sin.
Alas, I have sinned! but not in this I sin.--
Lilia, I have been a monk.
_Lilia_.
A monk?
[_Turningpale_.]
I thought--
[_Faltering_.]
Julian,--I thought you said.... did you not say...?
[_Very pale, brokenly_.]
I thought you said ...
[_With an effort_.]
I was to be your wife!
[_Covering her face with her hands, and bursting into tears_.]
_Julian_
(_speaking low and in pain_).
And so I did.
_Lilia_
(_hopefully, and looking up_).
Then you've had dispensation?
_Julian_.
God has absolved me, though the Church will not.
He knows it was in ignorance I did it.
Rather would he have men to do his will,
Than keep a weight of words upon their souls,
Which they laid there, not graven by his finger.
The vow was made to him--to him I break it.
_Lilia_
(_weeping bitterly_).
I would ... your words were true ... but I do know ...
It never can ... be right to break a vow;
If so, men might be liars every day;
You'd do the same by me, if we were married.
_Julian_
(_in anguish_).
'Tis ever so. Words are the living things!
There is no spirit--save what's born of words!
Words are the bonds that of two souls make one!
Words the security of heart to heart!
God, make me patient! God, I pray thee, God!
_Lilia_
(_not heeding him_).
Besides, we dare not; you would find the dungeon
Gave late repentance; I should weep away
My life within a convent.
_Julian_.
Come to England,
To England, Lilia.
_Lilia_.
Men would point, and say:
_There go the monk and his wife_; if they, in truth,
Called me not by a harder name than that.
_Julian_.
There are no monks in England.
_Lilia_.
But will that
Make right what's wrong?
_Julian_.
Did I say so, my Lilia?
I answered but your last objections thus;
I had a different answer for the first.
_Lilia_.
No, no; I cannot, cannot, dare not do it.
_Julian_.
Lilia, you will not doubt my love; you cannot.
--I would have told you all before, but thought,
Foolishly, you would feel the same as I;--
I have lived longer, thought more, seen much more;
I would not hurt your body, less your soul,
For all the blessedness your love can give:
For love's sake weigh the weight of what I say.
Think not that _must_ be right which you have heard
From infancy--it may----
[_Enter the_ Steward _in haste, pale, breathless, and bleeding_.]
_Steward_.
My lord, there's such an uproar in the town!
They call you murderer and heretic.
The officers of justice, with a monk,
And the new Count Nembroni, accompanied
By a fierce mob with torches, howling out
For justice on you, madly cursing you!
They caught a glimpse of me as I returned,
And stones and sticks flew round me like a storm;
But I escaped them, old man as I am,
And was in time to bar the castle-gates.--
Would heaven we had not cast those mounds, and shut
The river from the moat!
[_Distant yells and cries_.]
Escape, my lord!
_Julian_
(_calmly_).
Will the gates hold them out awhile, my Joseph?
_Steward_.
A little while, my lord; but those damned torches!
Oh, for twelve feet of water round the walls!
_Julian_.
Leave us, good Joseph; watch them from a window,
And tell us of their progress.
[JOSEPH _goes. Sounds approach_.]
Farewell, Lilia!
[_Putting his arm round her. She stands like stone_.]
Fear of a coward's name shall not detain me.
My presence would but bring down evil on you,
My heart's beloved; yes, all the ill you fear,
The terrible things that you have imaged out
If you fled with me. They will not hurt you,
If you be not polluted by my presence.
[_Light from without flares on the wall_.]
They've fired the gate.
[_An outburst of mingled cries_.]
_Steward_
(_entering_).
They've fired the gate, my lord!
_Julian_.
Well, put yourself in safety, my dear Joseph.
You and old Agata tell all the truth,
And they'll forgive you. It will not hurt me;
I shall be safe--you know me--never fear.
_Steward_.
God grant it may be so. Farewell, dear lord!
[_Is going_.]
_Julian_.
But add, it was in vain; the signorina
Would not consent; therefore I fled alone.
[LILIA _stands as before_.]
_Steward_.
Can it be so? Good-bye, good-bye, my master!
[Goes.]
_Julian_.
Put your arms round me once, my Lilia.
Not once?--not once at parting?
[_Rushing feet up the stairs, and along the galleries_.]
O God! farewell!
[_He clasps her to his heart; leaves her; pushes back the
panel, flings open a door, enters, and closes both
behind him_. LILIA _starts suddenly from her fixed bewilderment,
and flies after him, but forgets to close
the panel_.]
_Lilia_.
Julian! Julian!
[_The trampling offset and clamour of voices. The door
of the room is flung open. Enter the foremost of
the mob_.]
_1st_.
I was sure I saw light here! There it is, burning still!
_2nd_.
Nobody here? Praise the devil! he minds his
own. Look under the bed, Gian.
_3rd_.
Nothing there.
_4th_.
Another door! another door! He's in a trap
now, and will soon be in hell! (_Opening the door with
difficulty_.) The devil had better leave him, and make up
the fire at home--he'll be cold by and by. (_Rushes into
the inner room_.) Follow me, boys! [The rest follow.]
_Voices from within_.
I have him! I have him! Curse
your claws! Why do you fix them on me, you crab? You
won't pick up the fiend-spawn so easily, I can tell you.
Bring the light there, will you? (_One runs out for the
light_.) A trap! a trap! and a stair, down in the wall!
The hell-faggot's gone! After him, after him, noodles!
[_Sound of descending footsteps. Others rush in with
torches and follow_.]
* * * * *
SCENE XIX.--_The river-side_. LILIA _seated in the boat_; JULIAN
_handing her the bags_.
_Julian_.
There! One at a time!--Take care, love; it
is heavy.--
Put them right in the middle, of the boat:
Gold makes good ballast.
[_A loud shout. He steps in and casts the chain loose,
then pushes gently off_.]
Look how the torches gleam
Among the trees. Thank God, we have escaped!
[_He rows swiftly off. The torches come nearer, with
cries of search_.]
(_In a low tone_.) Slip down, my Lilia; lie at full length
In the bottom of the boat; your dress is white,
And would return the torches' glare. I fear
The damp night-air will hurt you, dressed like this.
[_Pulling off his coat, and laying it over her_.]
Now for a strong pull with my muffled oars!
The water mutters Spanish in its sleep.
My beautiful! my bride! my spirit's wife!
God-given, and God-restored! My heart exults,
Hovering about thee, beautiful! my soul!--
Once round the headland, I will set the sail;
The fair wind bloweth right adown the stream.
Dear wind, dear stream, dear stars, dear heart of all,
White angel lying in my little boat!
Strange that my boyhood's skill with sail and helm,
Oft steering safely 'twixt the winding banks,
Should make me rich with womanhood and life!
[_The boat rounds the headland_, JULIAN _singing_.]
SONG.
Thou hast been blowing leaves, O wind of strife,
Wan, curled, boat-like leaves, that ran and fled;
Unresting yet, though folded up from life;
Sleepless, though cast among the unwaking dead!
Out to the ocean fleet and float;
Blow, blow my little leaf-like boat.
O wind of strife, to us a wedding wind,
O cover me with kisses of her mouth;
Blow thou our souls together, heart and mind;
To narrowing northern lines, blow from the south!
Out to the ocean fleet and float;
Blow, blow my little leaf-like boat.
Thou hast been blowing many a drifting thing
From circling cove down to the unsheltered sea;
Thou blowest to the sea my blue sail's wing,
Us to a new love-lit futurity:
Out to the ocean fleet and float;
Blow, blow my little leaf-like boat.
PART III.
And weep not, though the Beautiful decay
Within thy heart, as daily in thine eyes;
Thy heart must have its autumn, its pale skies,
Leading, mayhap, to winter's dim dismay.
Yet doubt not. Beauty doth not pass away;
Her form departs not, though her body dies.
Secure beneath the earth the snowdrop lies,
Waiting the spring's young resurrection-day,
Through the kind nurture of the winter cold.
Nor seek thou by vain effort to revive
The summer-time, when roses were alive;
Do thou thy work--be willing to be old:
Thy sorrow is the husk that doth infold
A gorgeous June, for which thou need'st not strive.
Time: _Five years later_.
SCENE I.--_Night. London. A large meanly furnished room; a single
candle on the table; a child asleep in a little crib_. JULIAN
_sits by the table, reading in a low voice out of a book. He looks
older, and his hair is lined with grey; his eyes look clearer_.
_Julian_.
What is this? let me see; 'tis called _The Singer_:
"Melchah stood looking on the corpse of his son, and spoke not. At
length he broke the silence and said: 'He hath told his tale to the
Immortals.' Abdiel, the friend of him that was dead, asked him what
he meant by the words. The old man, still regarding the dead body,
spake as follows:--"
"Three years ago, I fell asleep on the summit of the hill Yarib; and
there I dreamed a dream. I thought I lay at the foot of a cliff, near
the top of a great mountain; for beneath me were the clouds, and
above me, the heavens deep and dark. And I heard voices sweet and
strong; and I lifted up my eyes, and, Lo! over against me, on a
rocky slope, some seated, each on his own crag, some reclining
between the fragments, I saw a hundred majestic forms, as of men who
had striven and conquered. Then I heard one say: 'What wouldst thou
sing unto us, young man?' A youthful voice replied, tremblingly: 'A
song which I have made for my singing.' 'Come, then, and I will lead
thee to the hole in the rock: enter and sing.' From the assembly
came forth one whose countenance was calm unto awfulness; but whose
eyes looked in love, mingled with doubt, on the face of a youth whom
he led by the hand toward the spot where I lay. The features of the
youth I could not discern: either it was the indistinctness of a
dream, or I was not permitted to behold them. And, Lo! behind me was
a great hole in the rock, narrow at the entrance, but deep and wide
within; and when I looked into it, I shuddered; for I thought I saw,
far down, the glimmer of a star. The youth entered and vanished. His
guide strode back to his seat; and I lay in terror near the mouth of
the vast cavern. When I looked up once more, I saw all the men
leaning forward, with head aside, as if listening intently to a
far-off sound. I likewise listened; but, though much nearer than they,
I heard nothing. But I could see their faces change like waters in a
windy and half-cloudy day. Sometimes, though I heard nought, it
seemed to me as if one sighed and prayed beside me; and once I heard
a clang of music triumphant in hope; but I looked up, and, Lo! it
was the listeners who stood on their feet and sang. They ceased, sat
down, and listened as before. At last one approached me, and I
ventured to question him. 'Sir,' I said, 'wilt thou tell me what it
means?' And he answered me thus: 'The youth desired to sing to the
Immortals. It is a law with us that no one shall sing a song who
cannot be the hero of his tale--who cannot live the song that he
sings; for what right hath he else to devise great things, and to
take holy deeds in his mouth? Therefore he enters the cavern where
God weaves the garments of souls; and there he lives in the forms of
his own tale; for God gives them being that he may be tried. The
sighs which thou didst hear were his longings after his own Ideal;
and thou didst hear him praying for the Truth he beheld, but could
not reach. We sang, because, in his first great battle, he strove
well and overcame. We await the next.' A deep sleep seemed to fall
upon me; and when I awoke, I saw the Immortals standing with their
eyes fixed on the mouth of the cavern. I arose and turned toward it
likewise. The youth came forth. His face was worn and pale, as that
of the dead man before me; but his eyes were open, and tears trembled
within them. Yet not the less was it the same face, the face of my
son, I tell thee; and in joy and fear I gazed upon him. With a weary
step he approached the Immortals. But he who had led him to the cave
hastened to meet him, spread forth his arms, and embraced him, and
said unto him: 'Thou hast told a noble tale; sing to us now what
songs thou wilt.' Therefore said I, as I gazed on my son: 'He hath
told his tale to the Immortals.'"
[_He puts the book down; meditates awhile; then rises and
walks up and down the room_.]
And so five years have poured their silent streams,
Flowing from fountains in eternity,
Into my soul, which, as an infinite gulf,
Hath swallowed them; whose living caves they feed;
And time to spirit grows, transformed and kept.
And now the day draws nigh when Christ was born;
The day that showed how like to God himself
Man had been made, since God could be revealed
By one that was a man with men, and still
Was one with God the Father; that men might
By drawing nigh to him draw nigh to God,
Who had come near to them in tenderness.
O God! I thank thee for the friendly eye
That oft hath opened on me these five years;
Thank thee for those enlightenings of my spirit
That let me know thy thought was toward me;
Those moments fore-enjoyed from future years,
Telling what converse I should hold with God.
I thank thee for the sorrow and the care,
Through which they gleamed, bright phosphorescent sparks
Crushed from the troubled waters, borne on which
Through mist and dark my soul draws nigh to thee.
Five years ago, I prayed in agony
That thou wouldst speak to me. Thou wouldst not then,
With that close speech I craved so hungrily.
Thy inmost speech is heart embracing heart;
And thou wast all the time instructing me
To know the language of thy inmost speech.
I thought thou didst refuse, when every hour
Thou spakest every word my heart could hear,
Though oft I did not know it was thy voice.
My prayer arose from lonely wastes of soul;
As if a world far-off in depths of space,
Chaotic, had implored that it might shine
Straightway in sunlight as the morning star.
My soul must be more pure ere it could hold
With thee communion. 'Tis the pure in heart
That shall see God. As if a well that lay
Unvisited, till water-weeds had grown
Up from its depths, and woven a thick mass
Over its surface, could give back the sun!
Or, dug from ancient battle-plain, a shield
Could be a mirror to the stars of heaven!
And though I am not yet come near to him,
I know I am more nigh; and am content
To walk a long and weary road to find
My father's house once more. Well may it be
A long and weary--I had wandered far.
My God, I thank thee, thou dost care for me.
I am content, rejoicing to go on,
Even when my home seems very far away;
For over grief, and aching emptiness,
And fading hopes, a higher joy arises.
In cloudiest nights, one lonely spot is bright,
High overhead, through folds and folds of space;
It is the earnest-star of all my heavens;
And tremulous in the deep well of my being
Its image answers, gazing eagerly.
Alas, my Lilia!--But I'll think of Jesus,
Not of thee now; him who hath led my soul
Thus far upon its journey home to God.
By poor attempts to do the things he said,
Faith has been born; free will become a fact;
And love grown strong to enter into his,
And know the spirit that inhabits there.
One day his truth will spring to life in me,
And make me free, as God says "I am free."
When I am like him, then my soul will dawn
With the full glory of the God revealed--
Full as to me, though but one beam from him;
The light will shine, for I shall comprehend it:
In his light I shall see light. God can speak,
Yea, _will_ speak to me then, and I shall hear.
Not yet like him, how can I hear his words?
[_Stopping by the crib, and bending over the child_.]
My darling child! God's little daughter, drest
In human clothes, that light may thus be clad
In shining, so to reach my human eyes!
Come as a little Christ from heaven to earth,
To call me _father_, that my heart may know
What father means, and turn its eyes to God!
Sometimes I feel, when thou art clinging to me,
How all unfit this heart of mine to have
The guardianship of a bright thing like thee,
Come to entice, allure me back to God
By flitting round me, gleaming of thy home,
And radiating of thy purity
Into my stained heart; which unto thee
Shall ever show the father, answering
The divine childhood dwelling in thine eyes.
O how thou teachest me with thy sweet ways,
All ignorant of wherefore thou art come,
And what thou art to me, my heavenly ward,
Whose eyes have drunk that secret place's light
And pour it forth on me! God bless his own!
[_He resumes his walk, singing in a low voice_.]
My child woke crying from her sleep;
I bended o'er her bed,
And soothed her, till in slumber deep
She from the darkness fled.
And as beside my child I stood,
A still voice said in me--
"Even thus thy Father, strong and good,
Is bending over thee."
SCENE II.--_Rooms in Lord Seaford's house. A large company; dancers;
gentlemen looking on_.
1_st Gentleman_.
Henry, what dark-haired queen is that? She moves
As if her body were instinct with thought,
Moulded to motion by the music's waves,
As floats the swan upon the swelling lake;
Or as in dreams one sees an angel move,
Sweeping on slow wings through the buoyant air,
Then folding them, and turning on his track.
2_nd_.
You seem inspired; nor can I wonder at it;
She is a glorious woman; and such eyes!
Think--to be loved by such a woman now!
1_st_.
You have seen her, then, before: what is her name?
2_nd_.
I saw her once; but could not learn her name.
3_rd_.
She is the wife of an Italian count,
Who for some cause, political I think,
Took refuge in this country. His estates
The Church has eaten up, as I have heard:
Mephisto says the Church has a good stomach.
2_nd_.
How do they live?
3_rd_.
Poorly, I should suppose;
For she gives Lady Gertrude music-lessons:
That's how they know her.--Ah, you should hear her sing!
2_nd_.
If she sings as she looks or as she dances,
It were as well for me I did not hear.
3_rd_.
If Count Lamballa followed Lady Seaford
To heaven, I know who'd follow her on earth.
SCENE III.--_Julian's room_. LILY _asleep_.
_Julian_.
I wish she would come home. When the child wakes,
I cannot bear to see her eyes first rest
On me, then wander searching through the room,
And then return and rest. And yet, poor Lilia!
'Tis nothing strange thou shouldst be glad to go
From this dull place, and for a few short hours
Have thy lost girlhood given back to thee;
For thou art very young for such hard things
As poor men's wives in cities must endure.
I am afraid the thought is not at rest,
But rises still, that she is not my wife--
Not truly, lawfully. I hoped the child
Would kill that fancy; but I fear instead,
She thinks I have begun to think the same--
Thinks that it lies a heavy weight of sin
Upon my heart. Alas, my Lilia!
When every time I pray, I pray that God
Would look and see that thou and I be one!
_Lily_
(_starting up in her crib_).
Oh, take me! take me!
_Julian_
(_going up to her with a smile_).
What is the matter with my little child?
_Lily_.
I don't know, father; I was very frightened.
_Julian_.
'Twas nothing but a dream. Look--I am with you.
_Lily_.
I am wake now; I know you're there; but then
I did not know it.
[_Smiling_.]
_Julian_.
Lie down now, darling. Go to sleep again.
_Lily_
(_beseechingly_).
Not yet. Don't tell me go to sleep again;
It makes me so, so frightened! Take me up,
And let me sit upon your knee.--Where's mother?
I cannot see her.
_Julian_.
She's not at home, my child;
But soon she will be back.
_Lily_.
But if she walk
Out in the dark streets--so dark, it will catch her.
_Julian_.
She will not walk--but what would catch her, sweet?
_Lily_.
I don't know. Tell me a story till she comes.
_Julian_
(_taking her, and sitting with her on his knees by the fire_).
Come then, my little Lily, I will tell you
A story I have read this very night.
[_She looks in his face_.]
There was a man who had a little boy,
And when the boy grew big, he went and asked
His father to give him a purse of money.
His father gave him such a large purse full!
And then he went away and left his home.
You see he did not love his father much.
_Lily_.
Oh! didn't he?--If he had, he wouldn't have gone!
_Julian_.
Away he went, far far away he went,
Until he could not even spy the top
Of the great mountain by his father's house.
And still he went away, away, as if
He tried how far his feet could go away;
Until he came to a city huge and wide,
Like London here.
_Lily_.
Perhaps it was London.
_Julian_.
Perhaps it was, my child. And there he spent
All, all his father's money, buying things
That he had always told him were not worth,
And not to buy them; but he would and did.
_Lily_.
How very naughty of him!
_Julian_.
Yes, my child.
And so when he had spent his last few pence,
He grew quite hungry. But he had none left
To buy a piece of bread. And bread was scarce;
Nobody gave him any. He had been
Always so idle, that he could not work.
But at last some one sent him to feed swine.
_Lily_.
_Swine_! Oh!
_Julian_.
Yes, swine: 'twas all that he could do;
And he was glad to eat some of their food.
[_She stares at him_.]
But at the last, hunger and waking love
Made him remember his old happy home.
"How many servants in my father's house
Have plenty, and to spare!" he said. "I'll go
And say, 'I have done very wrong, my father;
I am not worthy to be called your son;
Put me among your servants, father, please.'"
Then he rose up and went; but thought the road
So much, much farther to walk back again,
When he was tired and hungry. But at last
He saw the blue top of the great big hill
That stood beside his father's house; and then
He walked much faster. But a great way off,
His father saw him coming, lame and weary
With his long walk; and very different
From what he had been. All his clothes were hanging
In tatters, and his toes stuck through his shoes--
[_She bursts into tears_.]
_Lily_
(_sobbing_).
Like that poor beggar I saw yesterday?
_Julian_.
Yes, my dear child.
_Lily_.
And was he dirty too?
_Julian_.
Yes, very dirty; he had been so long
Among the swine.
_Lily_.
Is it all true though, father?
_Julian_.
Yes, my darling; all true, and truer far
Than you can think.
_Lily_.
What was his father like?
_Julian_.
A tall, grand, stately man.
_Lily_.
Like you, dear father?
_Julian_.
Like me, only much grander.
_Lily_.
I love you
The best though.
[_Kissing him_.]
_Julian_.
Well, all dirty as he was,
And thin, and pale, and torn, with staring eyes,
His father knew him, the first look, far off,
And ran so fast to meet him! put his arms
Around his neck and kissed him.
_Lily_.
Oh, how dear!
I love him too;--but not so well as you.
[_Sound of a carriage drawing up_.]
_Julian_.
There is your mother.
_Lily_.
I am glad, so glad!
_Enter_ LILIA, _looking pale_.
_Lilia_.
You naughty child, why are you not in bed?
_Lily_
(_pouting_).
I am not naughty. I am afraid to go,
Because you don't go with me into sleep;
And when I see things, and you are not there,
Nor father, I am so frightened, I cry out,
And stretch my hands, and so I come awake.
Come with me into sleep, dear mother; come.
_Lilia_.
What a strange child it is! There! (_kissing her_) go to bed.
[_Lays her down_.]
_Julian_
(_gazing on the child_).
As thou art in thy dreams without thy mother,
So are we lost in life without our God.
SCENE IV.--LILIA _in bed. The room lighted from a gas-lamp in the
street; the bright shadow of the window on the wall and ceiling_.
_Lilia_.
Oh, it is dreary, dreary! All the time
My thoughts would wander to my dreary home.
Through every dance, my soul walked evermore
In a most dreary dance through this same room.
I saw these walls, this carpet; and I heard,
As now, his measured step in the next chamber,
Go pacing up and down, and I shut out!
He is too good for me, I weak for him.
Yet if he put his arms around me once,
And held me fast as then, kissed me as then,
My soul, I think, would come again to me,
And pass from me in trembling love to him.
But he repels me now. He loves me, true,--
Because I am his wife: he ought to love me!
Me, the cold statue, thus he drapes with duty.
Sometimes he waits upon me like a maid,
Silent with watchful eyes. Oh, would to Heaven,
He used me like a slave bought in the market!
Yes, used me roughly! So, I were his own;
And words of tenderness would falter in,
Relenting from the sternness of command.
But I am not enough for him: he needs
Some high-entranced maiden, ever pure,
And thronged with burning thoughts of God and him.
So, as he loves me not, his deeds for me
Lie on me like a sepulchre of stones.
Italian lovers love not so; but he
Has German blood in those great veins of his.
He never brings me now a little flower.
He sings low wandering sweet songs to the child;
But never sings to me what the voice-bird
Sings to the silent, sitting on the nest.
I would I were his child, and not his wife!
How I should love him then! Yet I have thoughts
Fit to be women to his mighty men;
And he would love them, if he saw them once.
Ah! there they come, the visions of my land!
The long sweep of a bay, white sands, and cliffs
Purple above the blue waves at their feet!
Down the full river comes a light-blue sail;
And down the near hill-side come country girls,
Brown, rosy, laden light with glowing fruits;
Down to the sands come ladies, young, and clad
For holiday; in whose hearts wonderment
At manhood is the upmost, deepest thought;
And to their side come stately, youthful forms,
Italy's youth, with burning eyes and hearts:--
Triumphant Love is lord of the bright day.
Yet one heart, under that blue sail, would look
With pity on their poor contentedness;
For he sits at the helm, I at his feet.
He sung a song, and I replied to him.
His song was of the wind that blew us down
From sheltered hills to the unsheltered sea.
Ah, little thought my heart that the wide sea,
Where I should cry for comforting in vain,
Was the expanse of his wide awful soul,
To which that wind was helpless drifting me!
I would he were less great, and loved me more.
I sung to him a song, broken with sighs,
For even then I feared the time to come:
"O will thine eyes shine always, love, as now?
And will thy lips for aye be sweetly curved?"
Said my song, flowing unrhymed from my heart.
"And will thy forehead ever, sunlike bend,
And suck my soul in vapours up to thee?
Ah love! I need love, beauty, and sweet odours.
Thou livest on the hoary mountains; I
In the warm valley, with the lily pale,
Shadowed with mountains and its own great leaves;
Where odours are the sole invisible clouds,
Making the heart weep for deliciousness.
Will thy eternal mountain always bear
Blue flowers upspringing at the glacier's foot?
Alas! I fear the storms, the blinding snow,
The vapours which thou gatherest round thy head,
Wherewith thou shuttest up thy chamber-door,
And goest from me into loneliness."
Ah me, my song! it is a song no more!
He is alone amid his windy rocks;
I wandering on a low and dreary plain!
[_She weeps herself asleep_.]
SCENE V.--LORD SEAFORD, _alternately writing at a table and
composing at his pianoforte_.
SONG.
Eyes of beauty, eyes of light,
Sweetly, softly, sadly bright!
Draw not, ever, o'er my eye,
Radiant mists of ecstasy.
Be not proud, O glorious orbs!
Not your mystery absorbs;
But the starry soul that lies
Looking through your night of eyes.
One moment, be less perfect, sweet;
Sin once in something small;
One fault to lift me on my feet
From love's too perfect thrall!
For now I have no soul; a sea
Fills up my caverned brain,
Heaving in silent waves to thee,
The mistress of that main.
O angel! take my hand in thine;
Unfold thy shining silver wings;
Spread them around thy face and mine,
Close curtained in their murmurings.
But I should faint with too much bliss
To be alone in space with thee;
Except, O dread! one angel-kiss
In sweetest death should set me free.
O beauteous devil, tempt me, tempt me on,
Till thou hast won my soul in sighs;
I'll smile with thee upon thy flaming throne,
If thou wilt keep those eyes.
And if the meanings of untold desires
Should charm thy pain of one faint sting,
I will arise amid the scorching fires,
I will arise and sing.
O what is God to me? He sits apart
Amid the clear stars, passionless and cold.
Divine! thou art enough to fill my heart;
O fold me in thy heaven, sweet love, infold.
With too much life, I fall before thee dead.
With holding thee, my sense consumes in storm.
Thou art too keen a flame, too hallowed
For any temple but thy holy form.
SCENE VI.--_Julian's room next morning; no fire_. JULIAN _stands at
the window, looking into a London fog_.
_Julian_.
And there are mountains on the earth, far-off;
Steep precipices laved at morn in wind
From the blue glaciers fresh; and falls that leap,
Springing from rock to pool abandonedly;
And all the spirit of the earth breathed out,
Bearing the soul, as on an altar-flame,
Aloft to God! And there is woman-love--
Far off, ah me!
[_Sitting down wearily_.]
--the heart of earth's delight
Withered from mine! O for a desert sea,
The cold sun flashing on the sailing icebergs!
Where I might cry aloud on God, until
My soul burst forth upon the wings of pain,
And fled to him. A numbness as of death
Infolds me. As in sleep I walk. I live,
But my dull soul can hardly keep awake.
Yet God is here as on the mountain-top,
Or on the desert sea, or lonely isle;
And I should know him here, if Lilia loved me,
As once I thought she did. But can I blame her?
The change has been too much for her to bear.
Can poverty make one of two hearts cold,
And warm the other with the love of God?
But then I have been silent, often moody,
Drowned in much questioning; and she has thought
That I was tired of her, while more than all
I pondered how to wake her living soul.
She cannot think why I should haunt my chamber,
Except a goaded conscience were my grief;
Thinks not of aught to gain, but all to shun.
Deeming, poor child, that I repent me thus
Of that which makes her mine for evermore,
It is no wonder if her love grow less.
Then I am older much than she; and this
Fever, I think, has made me old indeed
Before my fortieth year; although, within,
I seem as young as ever to myself.
O my poor Lilia! thou art not to blame;
I'll love thee more than ever; I will be
So gentle to thy heart where love lies dead!
For carefully men ope the door, and walk
With silent footfall through the room where lies,
Exhausted, sleeping, with its travail sore,
The body that erewhile hath borne a spirit.
Alas, my Lilia! where is dead Love's child?
I must go forth and do my daily work.
I thank thee, God, that it is hard sometimes
To do my daily labour; for, of old,
When men were poor, and could not bring thee much,
A turtle-dove was all that thou didst ask;
And so in poverty, and with a heart
Oppressed with heaviness, I try to do
My day's work well to thee,--my offering:
That he has taught me, who one day sat weary
At Sychar's well. Then home when I return,
I come without upbraiding thoughts to thee.
Ah! well I see man need not seek for penance--
Thou wilt provide the lamb for sacrifice;
Thou only wise enough to teach the soul,
Measuring out the labour and the grief,
Which it must bear for thy sake, not its own.
He neither chose his glory, nor devised
The burden he should bear; left all to God;
And of them both God gave to him enough.
And see the sun looks faintly through the mist;
It cometh as a messenger to me.
My soul is heavy, but I will go forth;
My days seem perishing, but God yet lives
And loves. I cannot feel, but will believe.
[_He rises and is going_. LILIA _enters, looking weary_.]
Look, my dear Lilia, how the sun shines out!
_Lilia_.
Shines out indeed! Yet 'tis not bad for England.
I would I were in Italy, my own!
[_Weeps_.]
_Julian_.
'Tis the same sun that shines in Italy.
_Lilia_.
But never more will shine upon us there!
It is too late; all wishing is in vain;
But would that we had not so ill deserved
As to be banished from fair Italy!
_Julian_.
Ah! my dear Lilia, do not, do not think
That God is angry when we suffer ill.
'Twere terrible indeed, if 'twere in anger.
_Lilia_.
Julian, I cannot feel as you. I wish
I felt as you feel.
_Julian_.
God will hear you, child,
If you will speak to him. But I must go.
Kiss me, my Lilia.
[_She kisses him mechanically. He goes with a sigh_.]
_Lilia_.
It is plain to see
He tries to love me, but is weary of me.
[_She weeps_.]
_Enter_ LILY.
_Lily_.
Mother, have you been naughty? Mother, dear!
[_Pulling her hand from her face_.]
SCENE VII.--_Julian's room. Noon_. LILIA _at work_; LILY _playing in
a closet_.
_Lily_
(_running up to her mother_).
Sing me a little song; please, mother dear.
[LILIA, _looking off her work, and thinking with
fixed eyes for a few moments, sings_.]
SONG.
Once I was a child,
Oimè!
Full of frolic wild;
Oimè!
All the stars for glancing,
All the earth for dancing;
Oimè! Oimè!
When I ran about,
Oimè!
All the flowers came out,
Oimè!
Here and there like stray things,
Just to be my playthings.
Oimè! Oimè!
Mother's eyes were deep,
Oimè!
Never needing sleep.
Oimè!
Morning--they're above me!
Eventide--they love me!
Oimè! Oimè!
Father was so tall!
Oimè!
Stronger he than all!
Oimè!
On his arm he bore me,
Queen of all before me.
Oimè! Oimè!
Mother is asleep;
Oimè!
For her eyes so deep,
Oimè!
Grew so tired and aching,
They could not keep waking.
Oimè! Oimè!
Father, though so strong,
Oimè!
Laid him down along--
Oimè!
By my mother sleeping;
And they left me weeping,
Oimè! Oimè!
Now nor bird, nor bee,
Oimè!
Ever sings to me!
Oimè!
Since they left me crying,
All things have been dying.
Oimè! Oimè!
[LILY _looks long in her mother's face, as if wondering
what the song could be about; then turns away to the closet.
After a little she comes running with a box in her hand_.]
_Lily_.
O mother, mother! there's the old box I had
So long ago, and all my cups and saucers,
And the farm-house and cows.--Oh! some are broken.
Father will mend them for me, I am sure.
I'll ask him when he comes to-night--I will:
He can do everything, you know, dear mother.
SCENE VIII.--_A merchants counting-house_. JULIAN _preparing to go
home_.
_Julian_.
I would not give these days of common toil,
This murky atmosphere that creeps and sinks
Into the very soul, and mars its hue--
Not for the evenings when with gliding keel
I cut a pale green track across the west--
Pale-green, and dashed with snowy white, and spotted
With sunset crimson; when the wind breathed low,
So low it hardly swelled my xebec's sails,
That pointed to the south, and wavered not,
Erect upon the waters.--Jesus said
His followers should have a hundred fold
Of earth's most precious things, with suffering.--
In all the labourings of a weary spirit,
I have been bless'd with gleams of glorious things.
The sights and sounds of nature touch my soul,
No more look in from far.--I never see
Such radiant, filmy clouds, gathered about
A gently opening eye into the blue,
But swells my heart, and bends my sinking knee,
Bowing in prayer. The setting sun, before,
Signed only that the hour for prayer was come,
But now it moves my inmost soul to pray.
On this same earth He walked; even thus he looked
Upon its thousand glories; read them all;
In splendour let them pass on through his soul,
And triumph in their new beatitude,
Finding a heaven of truth to take them in;
But walked on steadily through pain to death.
Better to have the poet's heart than brain,
Feeling than song; but better far than both,
To be a song, a music of God's making;
A tablet, say, on which God's finger of flame,
In words harmonious, of triumphant verse,
That mingles joy and sorrow, sets down clear,
That out of darkness he hath called the light.
It may be voice to such is after given,
To tell the mighty tale to other worlds.
Oh! I am blest in sorrows with a hope
That steeps them all in glory; as gray clouds
Are bathed in light of roses; yea, I were
Most blest of men, if I were now returning
To Lilia's heart as presence. O my God,
I can but look to thee. And then the child!--
Why should my love to her break out in tears?
Why should she be only a consolation,
And not an added joy, to fill my soul
With gladness overflowing in many voices
Of song, and prayer--and weeping only when
Words fainted 'neath the weight of utterance?
SCENE IX.--LILIA _preparing to go out_. LILY.
_Lily_.
Don't go to-night again.
_Lilia_.
Why, child, your father
Will soon be home; and then you will not miss me.
_Lily_.
Oh, but I shall though! and he looks so sad
When you're not here!
_Lilia_
(_aside_).
He cannot look much sadder
Than when I am. I am sure 'tis a relief
To find his child alone when he returns.
_Lily_.
Will you go, mother? Then I'll go and cry
Till father comes. He'll take me on his knee,
And tell such lovely tales: you never do--
Nor sing me songs made all for my own self.
He does not kiss me half so many times
As you do, mother; but he loves me more.
Do you love father, too? I love him _so_!
_Lilia_
(_ready_).
There's such a pretty book! Sit on the stool,
And look at the pictures till your father comes.
[_Goes_.]
_Lily_
(_putting the book down, and going to the window_).
I wish he would come home. I wish he would.
_Enter_ JULIAN.
Oh, there he is!
[_Running up to him_.]
Oh, now I am so happy!
[_Laughing_.]
I had not time to watch before you came.
_Julian_
(_taking her in his arms_).
I am very glad to have my little girl;
I walked quite fast to come to her again.
_Lily_.
I do, _do_ love you. Shall I tell you something?
Think I should like to tell you. Tis a dream
That I went into, somewhere in last night.
I was alone--quite;--you were not with me,
So I must tell you. 'Twas a garden, like
That one you took me to, long, long ago,
When the sun was so hot. It was not winter,
But some of the poor leaves were growing tired
With hanging there so long. And some of them
Gave it up quite, and so dropped down and lay
Quiet on the ground. And I was watching them.
I saw one falling--down, down--tumbling down--
Just at the earth--when suddenly it spread
Great wings and flew.--It was a butterfly,
So beautiful with wings, black, red, and white--
[_Laughing heartily_.]
I thought it was a crackly, withered leaf.
Away it flew! I don't know where it went.
And so I thought, I have a story now
To tell dear father when he comes to Lily.
_Julian_.
Thank you, my child; a very pretty dream.
But I am tired--will you go find another--
Another dream somewhere in sleep for me?
_Lily_.
O yes, I will.--Perhaps I cannot find one.
[_He lays her down to sleep; then sits musing_.]
_Julian_.
What shall I do to give it life again?
To make it spread its wings before it fall,
And lie among the dead things of the earth?
_Lily_.
I cannot go to sleep. Please, father, sing
The song about the little thirsty lily.
[JULIAN _sings_.]
SONG.
Little white Lily
Sat by a stone,
Drooping and waiting
Till the sun shone.
Little white Lily
Sunshine has fed;
Little white Lily
Is lifting her head.
Little white Lily
Said, "It is good:
Little white Lily's
Clothing and food!
Little white Lily
Drest like a bride!
Shining with whiteness,
And crowned beside!"
Little white Lily
Droopeth in pain,
Waiting and waiting
For the wet rain.
Little white Lily
Holdeth her cup;
Rain is fast falling,
And filling it up.
Little white Lily
Said, "Good again,
When I am thirsty
To have nice rain!
Now I am stronger,
Now I am cool;
Heat cannot burn me,
My veins are so full!"
Little white Lily
Smells very sweet:
On her head sunshine,
Rain at her feet.
"Thanks to the sunshine!
Thanks to the rain!
Little white Lily
Is happy again!"
[_He is silent for a moment; then goes and looks at her_.]
_Julian_.
She is asleep, the darling! Easily
Is Sleep enticed to brood on childhood's heart.
Gone home unto thy Father for the night!
[_He returns to his seat_.]
I have grown common to her. It is strange--
This commonness--that, as a blight, eats up
All the heart's springing corn and promised fruit.
[_Looking round_.]
This room is very common: everything
Has such a well-known look of nothing in it;
And yet when first I called it hers and mine,
There was a mystery inexhaustible
About each trifle on the chimney-shelf:
The gilding now is nearly all worn off.
Even she, the goddess of the wonder-world,
Seems less mysterious and worshipful:
No wonder I am common in her eyes.
Alas! what must I think? Is this the true?
Was that the false that was so beautiful?
Was it a rosy mist that wrapped it round?
Or was love to the eyes as opium,
Making all things more beauteous than they were?
And can that opium do more than God
To waken beauty in a human brain?
Is this the real, the cold, undraperied truth--
A skeleton admitted as a guest
At life's loud feast, wearing a life-like mask?
No, no; my heart would die if I believed it.
A blighting fog uprises with the days,
False, cold, dull, leaden, gray. It clings about
The present, far dragging like a robe; but ever
Forsakes the past, and lets its hues shine out:
On past and future pours the light of heaven.
The Commonplace is of the present mind.
The Lovely is the True. The Beautiful
Is what God made. Men from whose narrow bosoms
The great child-heart has withered, backward look
To their first-love, and laugh, and call it folly,
A mere delusion to which youth is subject,
As childhood to diseases. They know better!
And proud of their denying, tell the youth,
On whom the wonder of his being shines,
That will be over with him by and by:
"I was so when a boy--look at me now!"
Youth, be not one of them, but love thy love.
So with all worship of the high and good,
And pure and beautiful. These men are wiser!
Their god, Experience, but their own decay;
Their wisdom but the gray hairs gathered on them.
Yea, some will mourn and sing about their loss,
And for the sake of sweet sounds cherish it,
Nor yet believe that it was more than seeming.
But he in whom the child's heart hath not died,
But grown a man's heart, loveth yet the Past;
Believes in all its beauty; knows the hours
Will melt the mist; and that, although this day
Cast but a dull stone on Time's heaped-up cairn,
A morning light will break one morn and draw
The hidden glories of a thousand hues
Out from its diamond-depths and ruby-spots
And sapphire-veins, unseen, unknown, before.
Far in the future lies his refuge. Time
Is God's, and all its miracles are his;
And in the Future he overtakes the Past,
Which was a prophecy of times to come:
_There_ lie great flashing stars, the same that shone
In childhood's laughing heaven; there lies the wonder
In which the sun went down and moon arose;
The joy with which the meadows opened out
Their daisies to the warming sun of spring;
Yea, all the inward glory, ere cold fear
Froze, or doubt shook the mirror of his soul:
To reach it, he must climb the present slope
Of this day's duty--here he would not rest.
But all the time the glory is at hand,
Urging and guiding--only o'er its face
Hangs ever, pledge and screen, the bridal veil:
He knows the beauty radiant underneath;
He knows that God who is the living God,
The God of living things, not of the dying,
Would never give his child, for God-born love,
A cloud-made phantom, fading in the sun.
Faith vanishes in sight; the cloudy veil
Will melt away, destroyed of inward light.
If thy young heart yet lived, my Lilia, thou
And I might, as two children, hand in hand,
Go home unto our Father.--I believe
It only sleeps, and may be wakened yet.
SCENE X.--_Julian's room. Christmas Day; early morn_. JULIAN.
_Julian_.
The light comes feebly, slowly, to the world
On this one day that blesses all the year,
Just as it comes on any other day:
A feeble child he came, yet not the less
Brought godlike childhood to the aged earth,
Where nothing now is common any more.
All things had hitherto proclaimed God:
The wide spread air; the luminous mist that hid
The far horizon of the fading sea;
The low persistent music evermore
Flung down upon the sands, and at the base
Of the great rocks that hold it as a cup;
All things most common; the furze, now golden, now
Opening dark pods in music to the heat
Of the high summer-sun at afternoon;
The lone black tarn upon the round hill-top,
O'er which the gray clouds brood like rising smoke,
Sending its many rills, o'erarched and hid,
Singing like children down the rocky sides;--
Where shall I find the most unnoticed thing,
For that sang God with all its voice of song?
But men heard not, they knew not God in these;
To their strange speech unlistening ears were strange;
For with a stammering tongue and broken words,
With mingled falsehoods and denials loud,
Man witnessed God unto his fellow man:
How then himself the voice of Nature hear?
Or how himself he heeded, when, the leader,
He in the chorus sang a discord vile?
When prophet lies, how shall the people preach?
But when He came in poverty, and low,
A real man to half-unreal men,
A man whose human thoughts were all divine,
The head and upturned face of human kind--
Then God shone forth from all the lowly earth,
And men began to read their maker there.
Now the Divine descends, pervading all.
Earth is no more a banishment from heaven;
But a lone field among the distant hills,
Well ploughed and sown, whence corn is gathered home.
Now, now we feel the holy mystery
That permeates all being: all is God's;
And my poor life is terribly sublime.
Where'er I look, I am alone in God,
As this round world is wrapt in folding space;
Behind, before, begin and end in him:
So all beginnings and all ends are hid;
And he is hid in me, and I in him.
Oh, what a unity, to mean them all!--
The peach-dyed morn; cold stars in colder blue
Gazing across upon the sun-dyed west,
While the dank wind is running o'er the graves;
Green buds, red flowers, brown leaves, and ghostly snow;
The grassy hills, breeze-haunted on the brow;
And sandy deserts hung with stinging stars!
Half-vanished hangs the moon, with daylight sick,
Wan-faced and lost and lonely: daylight fades--
Blooms out the pale eternal flower of space,
The opal night, whose odours are gray dreams--
Core of its petal-cup, the radiant moon!
All, all the unnumbered meanings of the earth,
Changing with every cloud that passes o'er;
All, all, from rocks slow-crumbling in the frost
Of Alpine deserts, isled in stormy air,
To where the pool in warm brown shadow sleeps,
The stream, sun-ransomed, dances in the sun;
All, all, from polar seas of jewelled ice,
To where she dreams out gorgeous flowers--all, all
The unlike children of her single womb!
Oh, my heart labours with infinitude!
All, all the messages that these have borne
To eyes and ears, and watching, listening souls;
And all the kindling cheeks and swelling hearts,
That since the first-born, young, attempting day,
Have gazed and worshipped!--What a unity,
To mean each one, yet fuse each in the all!
O centre of all forms! O concord's home!
O world alive in one condensed world!
O face of Him, in whose heart lay concealed
The fountain-thought of all this kingdom of heaven!
Lord, thou art infinite, and I am thine!
I sought my God; I pressed importunate;
I spoke to him, I cried, and in my heart
It seemed he answered me. I said--"Oh! take
Me nigh to thee, thou mighty life of life!
I faint, I die; I am a child alone
'Mid the wild storm, the brooding desert-night."
"Go thou, poor child, to him who once, like thee,
Trod the highways and deserts of the world."
"Thou sendest me then, wretched, from thy sight!
Thou wilt not have me--I am not worth thy care!"
"I send thee not away; child, think not so;
From the cloud resting on the mountain-peak,
I call to guide thee in the path by which
Thou may'st come soonest home unto my heart.
I, I am leading thee. Think not of him
As he were one and I were one; in him
Thou wilt find me, for he and I are one.
Learn thou to worship at his lowly shrine,
And see that God dwelleth in lowliness."
I came to Him; I gazed upon his face;
And Lo! from out his eyes God looked on me!--
Yea, let them laugh! I _will_ sit at his feet,
As a child sits upon the ground, and looks
Up in his mother's face. One smile from him,
One look from those sad eyes, is more to me
Than to be lord myself of hearts and thoughts.
O perfect made through the reacting pain
In which thy making force recoiled on thee!
Whom no less glory could make visible
Than the utter giving of thyself away;
Brooding no thought of grandeur in the deed,
More than a child embracing from full heart!
Lord of thyself and me through the sore grief
Which thou didst bear to bring us back to God,
Or rather, bear in being unto us
Thy own pure shining self of love and truth!
When I have learned to think thy radiant thoughts,
To love the truth beyond the power to know it,
To bear my light as thou thy heavy cross,
Nor ever feel a martyr for thy sake,
But an unprofitable servant still,--
My highest sacrifice my simplest duty
Imperative and unavoidable,
Less than which _All_, were nothingness and waste;
When I have lost myself in other men,
And found myself in thee--the Father then
Will come with thee, and will abide with me.
* * * * *
SCENE XI.--LILIA _teaching_ LADY GERTRUDE. _Enter_ LORD SEAFORD.
LILIA _rises_. _He places her a chair, and seats himself at the
instrument; plays a low, half-melancholy, half-defiant prelude, and
sings_.
SONG.
Look on the magic mirror;
A glory thou wilt spy;
Be with thine heart a sharer,
But go not thou too nigh;
Else thou wilt rue thine error,
With a tear-filled, sleepless eye.
The youth looked on the mirror,
And he went not too nigh;
And yet he rued his error,
With a tear-filled, sleepless eye;
For he could not be a sharer
In what he there did spy.
He went to the magician
Upon the morrow morn.
"Mighty," was his petition,
"Look not on me in scorn;
But one last gaze elision,
Lest I should die forlorn!"
He saw her in her glory,
Floating upon the main.
Ah me! the same sad story!
The darkness and the rain!
If I live till I am hoary,
I shall never laugh again.
She held the youth enchanted,
Till his trembling lips were pale,
And his full heart heaved and panted
To utter all its tale:
Forward he rushed, undaunted--
And the shattered mirror fell.
[_He rises and leaves the room. LILIA weeping_.]
PART IV.
And should the twilight darken into night,
And sorrow grow to anguish, be thou strong;
Thou art in God, and nothing can go wrong
Which a fresh life-pulse cannot set aright.
That thou dost know the darkness, proves the light.
Weep if thou wilt, but weep not all too long;
Or weep and work, for work will lead to song.
But search thy heart, if, hid from all thy sight,
There lies no cause for beauty's slow decay;
If for completeness and diviner youth,
And not for very love, thou seek'st the truth;
If thou hast learned to give thyself away
For love's own self, not for thyself, I say:
Were God's love less, the world were lost, in sooth!
SCENE I.--_Summer. Julian's room. JULIAN is reading out of a book of
poems_.
Love me, beloved; the thick clouds lower;
A sleepiness filleth the earth and air;
The rain has been falling for many an hour;
A weary look the summer doth wear:
Beautiful things that cannot be so;
Loveliness clad in the garments of woe.
Love me, beloved; I hear the birds;
The clouds are lighter; I see the blue;
The wind in the leaves is like gentle words
Quietly passing 'twixt me and you;
The evening air will bathe the buds
With the soothing coolness of summer floods.
Love me, beloved; for, many a day,
Will the mist of the morning pass away;
Many a day will the brightness of noon
Lead to a night that hath lost her moon;
And in joy or in sadness, in autumn or spring,
Thy love to my soul is a needful thing.
Love me, beloved; for thou mayest lie
Dead in my sight, 'neath the same blue sky;
Love me, O love me, and let me know
The love that within thee moves to and fro;
That many a form of thy love may be
Gathered around thy memory.
Love me, beloved; for I may lie
Dead in thy sight, 'neath the same blue sky;
The more thou hast loved me, the less thy pain,
The stronger thy hope till we meet again;
And forth on the pathway we do not know,
With a load of love, my soul would go.
Love me, beloved; for one must lie
Motionless, lifeless, beneath the sky;
The pale stiff lips return no kiss
To the lips that never brought love amiss;
And the dark brown earth be heaped above
The head that lay on the bosom of love.
Love me, beloved; for both must lie
Under the earth and beneath the sky;
The world be the same when we are gone;
The leaves and the waters all sound on;
The spring come forth, and the wild flowers live,
Gifts for the poor man's love to give;
The sea, the lordly, the gentle sea,
Tell the same tales to others than thee;
And joys, that flush with an inward morn,
Irradiate hearts that are yet unborn;
A youthful race call our earth their own,
And gaze on its wonders from thought's high throne;
Embraced by fair Nature, the youth will embrace.
The maid beside him, his queen of the race;
When thou and I shall have passed away
Like the foam-flake thou looked'st on yesterday.
Love me, beloved; for both must tread
On the threshold of Hades, the house of the dead;
Where now but in thinkings strange we roam,
We shall live and think, and shall be at home;
The sights and the sounds of the spirit land
No stranger to us than the white sea-sand,
Than the voice of the waves, and the eye of the moon,
Than the crowded street in the sunlit noon.
I pray thee to love me, belov'd of my heart;
If we love not truly, at death we part;
And how would it be with our souls to find
That love, like a body, was left behind!
Love me, beloved; Hades and Death
Shall vanish away like a frosty breath;
These hands, that now are at home in thine,
Shall clasp thee again, if thou still art mine;
And thou shall be mine, my spirit's bride,
In the ceaseless flow of eternity's tide,
If the truest love that thy heart can know
Meet the truest love that from mine can flow.
Pray God, beloved, for thee and me,
That our souls may be wedded eternally.
[_He closes the book, and is silent for some moments_.]
Ah me, O Poet! did _thy_ love last out
The common life together every hour?
The slumber side by side with wondrousness
Each night after a day of fog and rain?
Did thy love glory o'er the empty purse,
And the poor meal sometimes the poet's lot?
Is she dead, Poet? Is thy love awake?
Alas! and is it come to this with me?
_I_ might have written that! where am I now?
Yet let me think: I love less passionately,
But not less truly; I would die for her--
A little thing, but all a man can do.
O my beloved, where the answering love?
Love me, beloved. Whither art thou gone?
* * * * *
SCENE II.--_Lilia's room_. LILIA.
_Lilia_.
He grows more moody still, more self-withdrawn.
Were it not better that I went away,
And left him with the child; for she alone
Can bring the sunshine on his cloudy face?
Alas, he used to say to me, _my child_!
Some convent would receive me in my land,
Where I might weep unseen, unquestioned;
And pray that God in whom he seems to dwell,
To take me likewise in, beside him there.
Had I not better make one trial first
To win again his love to compass me?
Might I not kneel, lie down before his feet,
And beg and pray for love as for my life?
Clasping his knees, look up to that stern heaven,
That broods above his eyes, and pray for smiles?
What if endurance were my only meed?
He would not turn away, but speak forced words,
Soothing with kindness me who thirst for love,
And giving service where I wanted smiles;
Till by degrees all had gone back again
To where it was, a slow dull misery.
No. 'Tis the best thing I can do for him--
And that I will do--free him from my sight.
In love I gave myself away to him;
And now in love I take myself again.
He will not miss me; I am nothing now.
* * * * *
SCENE III.--_Lord Seaford's garden_. LILIA; LORD SEAFORD.
_Lord S_.
How the white roses cluster on the trellis!
They look in the dim light as if they floated
Within the fluid dusk that bathes them round.
One could believe that those far distant tones
Of scarce-heard music, rose with the faint scent,
Breathed odorous from the heart of the pale flowers,
As the low rushing from a river-bed,
Or the continuous bubbling of a spring
In deep woods, turning over its own joy
In its own heart luxuriously, alone.
'Twas on such nights, after such sunny days,
The poets of old Greece saw beauteous shapes
Sighed forth from out the rooted, earth-fast trees,
With likeness undefinable retained
In higher human form to their tree-homes,
Which fainting let them forth into the air,
And lived a life in death till they returned.
The large-limbed, sweepy-curved, smooth-rounded beech
Gave forth the perfect woman to the night;
From the pale birch, breeze-bent and waving, stole
The graceful, slight-curved maiden, scarcely grown.
The hidden well gave forth its hidden charm,
The Naiad with the hair that flowed like streams,
And arms that gleamed like moonshine on wet sands.
The broad-browed oak, the stately elm, gave forth
Their inner life in shapes of ecstasy.
All varied, loveliest forms of womanhood
Dawned out in twilight, and athwart the grass
Half danced with cool and naked feet, half floated
Borne on winds dense enough for them to swim.
O what a life they lived! in poet's brain--
Not on this earth, alas!--But you are sad;
You do not speak, dear lady.
_Lilia_.
Pardon me.
If such words make me sad, I am to blame.
_Lord S_.
Ah, no! I spoke of lovely, beauteous things:
Beauty and sadness always go together.
Nature thought Beauty too golden to go forth
Upon the earth without a meet alloy.
If Beauty had been born the twin of Gladness,
Poets had never needed this dream-life;
Each blessed man had but to look beside him,
And be more blest. How easily could God
Have made our life one consciousness of joy!
It is denied us. Beauty flung around
Most lavishly, to teach our longing hearts
To worship her; then when the soul is full
Of lovely shapes, and all sweet sounds that breathe,
And colours that bring tears into the eyes--
Steeped until saturated with her essence;
And, faint with longing, gasps for some one thing
More beautiful than all, containing all,
Essential Beauty's self, that it may say:
"Thou art my Queen--I dare not think to crown thee,
For thou art crowned already, every part,
With thy perfection; but I kneel to thee,
The utterance of the beauty of the earth,
As of the trees the Hamadryades;
I worship thee, intense of loveliness!
Not sea-born only; sprung from Earth, Air, Ocean,
Star-Fire; all elements and forms commingling
To give thee birth, to utter each its thought
Of beauty held in many forms diverse,
In one form, holding all, a living Love,
Their far-surpassing child, their chosen queen
By virtue of thy dignities combined!"--
And when in some great hour of wild surprise,
She floats into his sight; and, rapt, entranced,
At last he gazes, as I gaze on thee,
And, breathless, his full heart stands still for joy,
And his soul thinks not, having lost itself
In her, pervaded with her being; strayed
Out from his eyes, and gathered round her form,
Clothing her with the only beauty yet
That could be added, ownness unto him;--
Then falls the stern, cold _No_ with thunder-tone.
Think, lady,--the poor unresisting soul
Clear-burnished to a crystalline abyss
To house in central deep the ideal form;
Led then to Beauty, and one glance allowed,
From heart of hungry, vacant, waiting shrine,
To set it on the Pisgah of desire;--
Then the black rain! low-slanting, sweeping rain!
Stormy confusions! far gray distances!
And the dim rush of countless years behind!
[_He sinks at her feet_.]
Yet for this moment, let me worship thee!
_Lilia_
(_agitated_).
Rise, rise, my lord; this cannot be, indeed.
I pray you, cease; I will not listen to you.
Indeed it must not, cannot, must not be!
[_Moving as to go_.]
_Lord S_.
(_rising_).
Forgive me, madam. Let me cast myself
On your good thoughts. I had been thinking thus,
All the bright morning, as I walked alone;
And when you came, my thoughts flowed forth in words.
It is a weakness with me from my boyhood,
That if I act a part in any play,
Or follow, merely intellectually,
A passion or a motive--ere I know,
My being is absorbed, my brain on fire;
I am possessed with something not myself,
And live and move and speak in foreign forms.
Pity my weakness, madam; and forgive
My rudeness with your gentleness and truth.
That you are beautiful is simple fact;
And when I once began to speak my thoughts,
The wheels of speech ran on, till they took fire,
And in your face flung foolish sparks and dust.
I am ashamed; and but for dread of shame,
I should be kneeling now to beg forgiveness.
_Lilia_.
Think nothing more of it, my lord, I pray.
--What is this purple flower with the black spot
In its deep heart? I never saw it before.
SCENE IV.--_Julian's room. The dusk of evening_. JULIAN _standing
with his arms folded, and his eyes fixed on the floor_.
_Julian_.
I see her as I saw her then. She sat
On a low chair, the child upon her knees,
Not six months old. Radiant with motherhood,
Her full face beamed upon the face below,
Bent over it, as with love to ripen love;
Till its intensity, like summer heat,
Gathered a mist across her heaven of eyes,
Which grew until it dropt in large slow tears,
The earthly outcome of the heavenly thing!
[_He walks toward the window, seats himself at a
little table, and writes_.]
THE FATHER'S HYMN FOR THE MOTHER TO SING.
My child is lying on my knees;
The signs of heaven she reads:
My face is all the heaven she sees,
Is all the heaven she needs.
And she is well, yea, bathed in bliss,
If heaven is in my face--
Behind it, all is tenderness,
And truthfulness and grace.
I mean her well so earnestly.
Unchanged in changing mood;
My life would go without a sigh
To bring her something good.
I also am a child, and I
Am ignorant and weak;
I gaze upon the starry sky,
And then I must not speak;
For all behind the starry sky,
Behind the world so broad,
Behind men's hearts and souls doth lie
The Infinite of God.
If true to her, though troubled sore,
I cannot choose but be;
Thou, who art peace for evermore,
Art very true to me.
If I am low and sinful, bring
More love where need is rife;
_Thou_ knowest what an awful thing
It is to be a life.
Hast thou not wisdom to enwrap
My waywardness about,
In doubting safety on the lap
Of Love that knows no doubt?
Lo! Lord, I sit in thy wide space,
My child upon my knee;
She looketh up unto my face,
And I look up to thee.
SCENE V.--_Lord Seaford's house; Lady Gertrude's room_. LADY
GERTRUDE _lying on a couch_; LILIA _seated beside her, with the
girl's hand in both hers_.
_Lady Gertrude_.
How kind of you to come! And you will stay
And be my beautiful nurse till I grow well?
I am better since you came. You look so sweet,
It brings all summer back into my heart.
_Lilia_.
I am very glad to come. Indeed, I felt
No one could nurse you quite so well as I.
_Lady Gertrude_.
How kind of you! Do call me sweet names now;
And put your white cool hands upon my head;
And let me lie and look in your great eyes:
'Twill do me good; your very eyes are healing.
_Lilia_.
I must not let you talk too much, dear child.
_Lady Gertrude_.
Well, as I cannot have my music-lesson,
And must not speak much, will you sing to me?
Sing that strange ballad you sang once before;
'Twill keep me quiet.
_Lilia_.
What was it, child?
_Lady Gertrude_.
It was
Something about a race--Death and a lady--
_Lilia_.
Oh! I remember. I would rather sing
Some other, though.
_Lady Gertrude_.
No, no, I want that one.
Its ghost walks up and down inside my head,
But won't stand long enough to show itself.
You must talk Latin to it--sing it away,
Or when I'm ill, 'twill haunt me.
_Lilia_.
Well, I'll sing it.
SONG.
Death and a lady rode in the wind,
In a starry midnight pale;
Death on a bony horse behind,
With no footfall upon the gale.
The lady sat a wild-eyed steed;
Eastward he tore to the morn.
But ever the sense of a noiseless speed,
And the sound of reaping corn!
All the night through, the headlong race
Sped to the morning gray;
The dew gleamed cold on her cold white face--
From Death or the morning? say.
Her steed's wide knees began to shake,
As he flung the road behind;
The lady sat still, but her heart did quake,
And a cold breath came down the wind.
When, Lo! a fleet bay horse beside,
With a silver mane and tail;
A knight, bareheaded, the horse did ride,
With never a coat of mail.
He never lifted his hand to Death,
And he never couched a spear;
But the lady felt another breath,
And a voice was in her ear.
He looked her weary eyes through and through,
With his eyes so strong in faith:
Her bridle-hand the lady drew,
And she turned and laughed at Death.
And away through the mist of the morning gray,
The spectre and horse rode wide;
The dawn came up the old bright way,
And the lady never died.
_Lord Seaford_
(_who has entered during the song_).
Delightful! Why, my little pining Gertrude,
With such charm-music you will soon be well.
Madam, I know not how to speak the thanks
I owe you for your kindness to my daughter:
She looks as different from yesterday
As sunrise from a fog.
_Lilia_.
I am but too happy
To be of use to one I love so much.
SCENE VI.--_A rainy day_. LORD SEAFORD _walking up and down his room,
murmuring to himself_.
Oh, my love is like a wind of death,
That turns me to a stone!
Oh, my love is like a desert breath,
That burns me to the bone!
Oh, my love is a flower with a purple glow,
And a purple scent all day!
But a black spot lies at the heart below,
And smells all night of clay.
Oh, my love is like the poison sweet
That lurks in the hooded cell!
One flash in the eyes, one bounding beat,
And then the passing bell!
Oh, my love she's like a white, white rose!
And I am the canker-worm:
Never the bud to a blossom blows;
It falls in the rainy storm.
SCENE VII.--JULIAN _reading in his room_.
"And yet I am not alone, because the Father is with me."
[_He closes the book and kneels_.]
SCENE VIII.--_Lord Seaford's room_. LILIA _and_ LORD SEAFORD.
_Her hand lies in his_.
_Lilia_.
It may be true. I am bewildered, though.
I know not what to answer.
_Lord S_.
Let me answer:--
You would it were so--you would love me then?
[_A sudden crash of music from a brass band in the street,
melting away in a low cadence_.]
_Lilia_
(starting up).
Let me go, my lord!
_Lord S_.
(_retaining her hand_).
Why, sweetest! what is this?
_Lilia_
(_vehemently, and disengaging her hand_).
Let me go. My husband! Oh, my white child!
[_She hurries to the door, but falls_.]
_Lord S_.
(_raising her_).
I thought you trusted me, yes, loved me, Lilia!
_Lilia_.
Peace! that name is his! Speak it again--I rave.
He thought I loved him--and I did--I do.
Open the door, my lord!
[_He hesitates. She draws herself up erect, with flashing eyes_.]
Once more, my lord--
Open the door, I say.
[_He still hesitates. She walks swiftly to the window, flings it
wide, and is throwing herself out_.]
_Lord S_.
Stop, madam! I will.
[_He opens the door. She leaves the window, and walks slowly
out. He hears the house-door open and shut, flings himself
on the couch, and hides his face_.]
_Enter_ LADY GERTRUDE.
_Lady Gertrude_.
Dear father, are you ill? I knocked
three times; You did not speak.
_Lord S_.
I did not hear you, child.
My head aches rather; else I am quite well.
_Lady Gertrude_.
Where is the countess?
_Lord S_.
She is gone. She had
An urgent message to go home at once.
But, Gertrude, now you seem so well, why not
Set out to-morrow? You can travel now;
And for your sake the sooner that we breathe
Italian air the better.
_Lady Gertrude_.
This is sudden!
I scarcely can be ready by to-morrow.
_Lord S_.
It will oblige me, child. Do what you can.
Just go and order everything you want.
I will go with you. Ring the bell, my love;
I have a reason for my haste. We'll have
The horses to at once. Come, Gertrude, dear.
SCENE IX.--_Evening. Hampstead Heath_. LILIA _seated_.
_Lilia_.
The first pale star! braving the rear of Day!
And all heaven waiting till the sun has drawn
His long train after him! then half creation
Will follow its queen-leader from the depths.
O harbinger of hope! O star of love!
Thou hast gone down in me, gone down for ever;
And left my soul in such a starless night,
It has not love enough to weep thy loss.
O fool! to know thee once, and, after years,
To take a gleaming marsh-light for thy lamp!
How could I for one moment hear him speak!
O Julian! for my last love-gift I thought
To bring that love itself, bound and resigned,
And offering it a sacrifice to thee,
Lead it away into the wilderness;
But one vile spot hath tainted this my lamb;
Unoffered it must go, footsore and weary,
Not flattering itself to die for thee.
And yet, thank God, it was one moment only,
That, lapt in darkness and the loss of thee,
Sun of my soul, and half my senses dead
Through very weariness and lack of love,
My heart throbbed once responsive to a ray
That glimmered through its gloom from other eyes,
And seemed to promise rest and hope again.
My presence shall not grieve thee any more,
My Julian, my husband. I will find
A quiet place where I will seek thy God.
And--in my heart it wakens like a voice
From him--the Saviour--there are other worlds
Where all gone wrong in this may be set right;
Where I, made pure, may find thee, purer still,
And thou wilt love the love that kneels to thee.
I'll write and tell him I have gone, and why.
But what to say about my late offence,
That he may understand just what it was?
For I must tell him, if I write at all.
I fear he would discover where I was;
Pitiful duty would not let him rest
Until he found me; and I fain would free
From all the weight of mine, that heart of his.
[_Sound of a coach-horn_.]
It calls me to rise up and go to him,
Leading me further from him and away.
The earth is round; God's thoughts return again;
And I will go in hope. Help me, my God!
SCENE X.--_Julian's room_. JULIAN _reading. A letter is brought in.
He reads it, turns deadly pale, and leans his arms and head on the
table, almost fainting. This lasts some time; then starting up, he
paces through the room, his shoulders slightly shrugged, his arms
rigid by his sides, and his hands clenched hard, as if a net of pain
were drawn tight around his frame. At length he breathes deep, draws
himself up, and walks erect, his chest swelling, but his teeth set_.
_Julian_.
Me! My wife! Insect, didst thou say _my_ wife?
[_Hurriedly turning the letter on the table to see the address_.]
Why, if she love him more than me, why then
Let her go with him!--Gone to Italy!
Pursue, says he? _Revenge_?--Let the corpse crush
The slimy maggot with its pulpy fingers!--
What if I stabbed--
[_Taking his dagger, and feeling its point_.]
Whom? Her--what then?--Or him--
What yet? Would that give back the life to me?
There is one more--myself! Oh, peace! to feel
The earthworms crawling through my mouldering brain!--
But to be driven along the windy wastes--
To hear the tempests, raving as they turn,
Howl _Lilia, Lilia_--to be tossed about
Beneath the stars that range themselves for ever
Into the burning letters of her name--
'Twere better creep the earth down here than that,
For pain's excess here sometimes deadens pain.
[_He throws the dagger on the floor_.]
Have I deserved this? Have I earned it? I?
A pride of innocence darts through my veins.
I stand erect. Shame cannot touch me. Ha!
I laugh at insult. _I_? I am myself--
Why starest thou at me? Well, stare thy fill;
When devils mock, the angels lend their wings:--
But what their wings? I have nowhere to fly.
Lilia! my worship of thy purity!
Hast thou forgotten--ah! thou didst not know
How, watching by thee in thy fever-pain,
When thy white neck and bosom were laid bare,
I turned my eyes away, and turning drew
With trembling hand white darkness over thee,
Because I knew not thou didst love me then.
Love me! O God in heaven! Is love a thing
That can die thus? Love me! Would, for thy penance,
Thou saw'st but once the heart which thou hast torn--
Shaped all about thy image set within!
But that were fearful! What rage would not, love
Must then do for thee--in mercy I would kill thee,
To save thee from the hell-fire of remorse.
If blood would make thee clean, then blood should flow;
Eager, unwilling, this hand should make thee bleed,
Till, drop by drop, the taint should drop away.
Clean! said I? fit to lie by me in sleep,
My hand upon thy heart!--not fit to lie,
For all thy bleeding, by me in the grave!
[_His eye falls on that likeness of Jesus said to be copied from an
emerald engraved for Tiberius. He gazes, drops on his knees, and
covers his face; remains motionless a long time; then rises very pale,
his lips compressed, his eyes filled with tears_.]
O my poor Lilia! my bewildered child!
How shall I win thee, save thee, make thee mine?
Where art thou wandering? What words in thine ears?
God, can she never more be clean? no more,
Through all the terrible years? Hast thou no well
In all thy heaven, in all thyself, that can
Wash her soul clean? Her body will go down
Into the friendly earth--would it were lying
There in my arms! for there thy rains will come,
Fresh from the sky, slow sinking through the sod,
Summer and winter; and we two should lie
Mouldering away together, gently washed
Into the heart of earth; and part would float
Forth on the sunny breezes that bear clouds
Through the thin air. But her stained soul, my God!
Canst thou not cleanse it? Then should we, when death
Was gone, creep into heaven at last, and sit
In some still place together, glory-shadowed.
None would ask questions there. And I should be
Content to sorrow a little, so I might
But see her with the darling on her knees,
And know that must be pure that dwelt within
The circle of thy glory. Lilia! Lilia!
I scorn the shame rushing from head to foot;
I would endure it endlessly, to save
One thought of thine from his polluting touch;
Saying ever to myself: this is a part
Of my own Lilia; and the world to me
Is nothing since I lost the smiles of her:
Somehow, I know not how, she faded from me,
And this is all that's left of her. My wife!
Soul of my soul! my oneness with myself!
Come back to me; I will be all to thee:
Back to my heart; and we will weep together,
And pray to God together every hour,
That he would show how strong he is to save.
The one that made is able to renew--
I know not how.--I'll hold thy heart to mine,
So close that the defilement needs must go.
My love shall ray thee round, and, strong as fire,
Dart through and through thy soul, till it be cleansed.--
But if she love him? Oh my heart--beat! beat!
Grow not so sick with misery and life,
For fainting will not save thee.--Oh no! no!
She cannot love him as she must love me.
Then if she love him not--oh horrible!--oh God!
[_He stands in a stupor for some minutes_.]
What devil whispered that vile word, _unclean_?
I care not--loving more than that can touch.
Let me be shamed, ay, perish in my shame,
As men call perishing, so she be saved.
Saved! my beloved! my Lilia!--Alas,
Would she were here! oh, I would make her weep,
Till her soul wept itself to purity!
Far, far away! where my love cannot reach.
No, no; she is not gone!
[_Starting and facing wildly through the room_.]
It is a lie--
Deluding blind revenge, not keen-eyed love.
I must do something.--
[_Enter_ LILY.]
Ah! there's the precious thing
That shall entice her back.
[_Kneeling and clasping the child to his heart_.]
My little Lily,
I have lost your mother.
_Lily_.
Oh!
[_Beginning to weep_.]
She was so pretty,
Somebody has stolen her.
_Julian_.
Will you go with me,
And help me look for her?
_Lily_.
O yes, I will.
[_Clasping him round the neck_.]
But my head aches so! Will you carry me?
_Julian_.
Yes, my own darling. Come, we'll get your bonnet.
_Lily_.
Oh! you've been crying, father. You're so white!
[_Putting her finger to his cheek_.]
SCENE XI.--_A table in a club-room. Several_ Gentlemen _seated round
it. To them enter another_.
_1st Gentleman_.
Why, Bernard, you look heated! what's the matter?
_Bernard_.
Hot work, as looked at; cool enough, as done.
_2nd G_.
A good antithesis, as usual, Bernard,
But a shell too hard for the vulgar teeth
Of our impatient curiosity.
_Bernard_.
Most unexpectedly I found myself
Spectator of a scene in a home-drama
Worth all stage-tragedies I ever saw.
_All_.
What was it? Tell us then. Here, take this seat.
[_He sits at the table, and pours out a glass of wine_.]
_Bernard_.
I went to call on Seaford, and was told
He had gone to town. So I, as privileged,
Went to his cabinet to write a note;
Which finished, I came down, and called his valet.
Just as I crossed the hall I heard a voice--
"The Countess Lamballa--is she here to-day?"
And looking toward the door, I caught a glimpse
Of a tall figure, gaunt and stooping, drest
In a blue shabby frock down to his knees,
And on his left arm sat a little child.
The porter gave short answer, with the door
For period to the same; when, like a flash,
It flew wide open, and the serving man
Went reeling, staggering backward to the stairs,
'Gainst which he fell, and, rolling down, lay stunned.
In walked the visitor; but in the moment
Just measured by the closing of the door,
Heavens, what a change! He walked erect, as if
Heading a column, with an eye and face
As if a fountain-shaft of blood had shot
Up suddenly within his wasted frame.
The child sat on his arm quite still and pale,
But with a look of triumph in her eyes.
He glanced in each room opening from the hall,
Set his face for the stair, and came right on--
In every motion calm as glacier's flow,
Save, now and then, a movement, sudden, quick,
Of his right hand across to his left side:
'Twas plain he had been used to carry arms.
_3rd G_.
Did no one stop him?
_Bernard_.
Stop him? I'd as soon
Have faced a tiger with bare hands. 'Tis easy
In passion to meet passion; but it is
A daunting thing to look on, when the blood
Is going its wonted pace through your own veins.
Besides, this man had something in his face,
With its live eyes, close lips, nostrils distended,
A self-reliance, and a self-command,
That would go right up to its goal, in spite
Of any _no_ from any man. I would
As soon have stopped a cannon-ball as him.
Over the porter, lying where he fell,
He strode, and up the stairs. I heard him go--
I listened as it were a ghost that walked
With pallid spectre-child upon its arm--
Along the corridors, from door to door,
Opening and shutting. But at last a sting
Of sudden fear lest he should find the lady,
And mischief follow, shot me up the stairs.
I met him at the top, quiet as at first;
The fire had faded from his eyes; the child
Held in her tiny hand a lady's glove
Of delicate primrose. When he reached the hall,
He turned him to the porter, who had scarce
Recovered what poor wits he had, and saying,
"The count Lamballa waited on lord Seaford,"
Turned him again, and strode into the street.
_1st G_.
Have you learned anything of what it meant?
_Bernard_.
Of course he had suspicions of his wife:
For all the gifts a woman has to give,
I would not rouse such blood. And yet to see
The gentle fairy child fall kissing him,
And, with her little arms grasping his neck,
Peep anxious round into his shaggy face,
As they went down the street!--it almost made
A fool of me.--I'd marry for such a child!
SCENE XII.--_A by-street_. JULIAN _walking home very weary. The
child in his arms, her head lying on his shoulder. An_ Organ-boy
_with a monkey, sitting on a door-step. He sings in a low voice_.
_Julian_.
Look at the monkey, Lily.
_Lily_.
No, dear father;
I do not like monkeys.
_Julian_.
Hear the poor boy sing.
[_They listen. He sings_.]
SONG.
Wenn ich höre dich mir nah',
Stimmen in den Blättern da;
Wenn ich fühl' dich weit und breit,
Vater, das ist Seligkeit.
Nun die Sonne liebend scheint,
Mich mit dir und All vereint;
Biene zu den Blumen fliegt,
Seel' an Lieb' sich liebend schmiegt.
So mich völlig lieb du hast,
Daseyn ist nicht eine Last;
Wenn ich seh' und höre dich,
Das genügt mir inniglich.
_Lily_.
It sounds so curious. What is he saying, father?
_Julian_.
My boy, you are not German?
_Boy_.
No; my mother
Came from those parts. She used to sing the song.
I do not understand it well myself,
For I was born in Genoa.--Ah! my mother!
[_Weeps_.]
_Julian_.
My mother was a German, my poor boy;
My father was Italian: I am like you.
[_Giving him money_.]
You sing of leaves and sunshine, flowers and bees,
Poor child, upon a stone in the dark street!
_Boy_.
My mother sings it in her grave; and I
Will sing it everywhere, until I die.
SCENE XIII.--LILIA'S _room_. JULIAN _enters with the child;
undresses her, and puts her to bed_.
_Lily_.
Father does all things for his little Lily.
_Julian_.
My own dear Lily! Go to sleep, my pet.
[_Sitting by her_.]
"Wenn ich seh' und höre dich,
Das genügt mir inniglich."
[_Falling on his knees_.]
I come to thee, and, lying on thy breast,
Father of me, I tell thee in thine ear,
Half-shrinking from the sound, yet speaking free,
That thou art not enough for me, my God.
Oh, dearly do I love thee! Look: no fear
Lest thou shouldst be offended, touches me.
Herein I know thy love: mine casts out fear.
O give me back my wife; thou without her
Canst never make me blessed to the full.
[_Silence_.]
O yes; thou art enough for me, my God;
Part of thyself she is, else never mine.
My need of her is but thy thought of me;
She is the offspring of thy beauty, God;
Yea of the womanhood that dwells in thee:
Thou wilt restore her to my very soul.
[_Rising_.]
It may be all a lie. Some needful cause
Keeps her away. Wretch that I am, to think
One moment that my wife could sin against me!
She will come back to-night. I know she will.
I never can forgive my jealousy!
Or that fool-visit to lord Seaford's house!
[_His eyes fall on the glove which the child still holds in her
sleeping hand. He takes it gently away, and hides it in
his bosom_.]
It will be all explained. To think I should,
Without one word from her, condemn her so!
What can I say to her when she returns?
I shall be utterly ashamed before her.
She will come back to-night. I know she will.
[_He throws himself wearily on the bed_.]
SCENE XIV.--_Crowd about the Italian Opera-House_. JULIAN. LILY
_in his arms. Three_ Students.
_1st Student_.
Edward, you see that long, lank, thread-bare man?
There is a character for that same novel
You talk of thunder-striking London with,
One of these days.
_2nd St_.
I scarcely noticed him;
I was so taken with the lovely child.
She is angelic.
_3rd St_.
You see angels always,
Where others, less dim-sighted, see but mortals.
She is a pretty child. Her eyes are splendid.
I wonder what the old fellow is about.
Some crazed enthusiast, music-distract,
That lingers at the door he cannot enter!
Give him an obol, Frank, to pay old Charon,
And cross to the Elysium of sweet sounds.
Here's mine.
_1st St_.
And mine.
_2nd St_.
And mine.
[_3rd Student offers the money to_ JULIAN.]
_Julian_
(_very quietly_).
No, thank you, sir.
_Lily_.
Oh! there is mother!
[_Stretching-her hands toward a lady stepping out of a carriage_.]
_Julian_.
No, no; hush, my child!
[_The lady looks round, and _LILY _clings to her father_.
Women _talking_.]
_1st W_.
I'm sure he's stolen the child. She can't be his.
_2nd W_.
There's a suspicious look about him.
_3rd W_
True;
But the child clings to him as if she loved him.
[JULIAN _moves on slowly_.]
SCENE XV.--JULIAN _seated in his room, his eyes fixed on the floor_.
LILY _playing in a corner_.
_Julian_.
Though I am lonely, yet this little child--
She understands me better than the Twelve
Knew the great heart of him they called their Lord.
Ten times last night I woke in agony,
I knew not why. There was no comforter.
I stretched my arm to find her, and her place
Was empty as my heart. Sometimes my pain
Forgets its cause, benumbed by its own being;
Then would I lay my aching, weary head
Upon her bosom, promise of relief:
I lift my eyes, and Lo, the vacant world!
[_He looks up and sees the child playing with his dagger_.]
You'll hurt yourself, my child; it is too sharp.
Give it to me, my darling. Thank you, dear.
[_He breaks the hilt from the blade and gives it her_.]
'Here, take the pretty part. It's not so pretty
As it was once!
[_Thinking aloud_.]
I picked the jewels out
To buy your mother the last dress I gave her.
There's just one left, I see, for you, my Lily.
Why did I kill Nembroni? Poor saviour I,
Saving thee only for a greater ill!
If thou wert dead, the child would comfort me;--
Is she not part of thee, and all my own?
But now----
_Lily_
(_throwing down the dagger-hilt and running up to him_).
Father, what is a poetry?
_Julian_.
A beautiful thing,--of the most beautiful
That God has made.
_Lily_.
As beautiful as mother?
_Julian_.
No, my dear child; but very beautiful.
_Lily_.
Do let me see a poetry.
_Julian_
(_opening a book_).
There, love!
_Lily_
(_disappointedly_).
I don't think that's so very pretty, father.
One side is very well--smooth; but the other
[_Rubbing her finger up and down the ends of the lines_.]
Is rough, rough; just like my hair in the morning,
[_Smoothing her hair down with both hands_.]
Before it's brushed. I don't care much about it.
_Julian_
(_putting the book down, and taking her on his knee_).
You do not understand it yet, my child.
You cannot know where it is beautiful.
But though you do not see it very pretty,
Perhaps your little ears could hear it pretty.
[_He reads_.]
_Lily_
(_looking pleased_).
Oh! that's much prettier, father. Very pretty.
It sounds so nice!--not half so pretty as mother.
_Julian_.
There's something in it very beautiful,
If I could let you see it. When you're older
You'll find it for yourself, and love it well.
Do you believe me, Lily?
_Lily_.
Yes, dear father.
[_Kissing him, then looking at the book_.]
I wonder where its prettiness is, though;
I cannot see it anywhere at all.
[_He sets her down. She goes to her corner_.]
_Julian_
(_musing_).
True, there's not much in me to love, and yet
I feel worth loving. I am very poor,
But that I could not help; and I grow old,
But there are saints in heaven older than I.
I have a world within me; there I thought
I had a store of lovely, precious things
Laid up for thinking; shady woods, and grass;
Clear streams rejoicing down their sloping channels;
And glimmering daylight in the cloven east;
There morning sunbeams stand, a vapoury column,
'Twixt the dark boles of solemn forest trees;
There, spokes of the sun-wheel, that cross their bridge,
Break through the arch of the clouds, fall on the earth,
And travel round, as the wind blows the clouds:
The distant meadows and the gloomy river
Shine out as over them the ray-pencil sweeps.--
Alas! where am I? Beauty now is torture:
Of this fair world I would have made her queen;--
Then led her through the shadowy gates beyond
Into that farther world of things unspoken,
Of which these glories are the outer stars,
The clouds that float within its atmosphere.
Under the holy might of teaching love,
I thought her eyes would open--see how, far
And near, Truth spreads her empire, widening out,
And brooding, a still spirit, everywhere;
Thought she would turn into her spirit's chamber,
Open the little window, and look forth
On the wide silent ocean, silent winds,
And see what she must see, I could not tell.
By sounding mighty chords I strove to wake
The sleeping music of her poet-soul:
We read together many magic words;
Gazed on the forms and hues of ancient art;
Sent forth our souls on the same tide of sound;
Worshipped beneath the same high temple-roofs;
And evermore I talked. I was too proud,
Too confident of power to waken life,
Believing in my might upon her heart,
Not trusting in the strength of living truth.
Unhappy saviour, who by force of self
Would save from selfishness and narrow needs!
I have not been a saviour. She grew weary.
I began wrong. The infinitely High,
Made manifest in lowliness, had been
The first, one lesson. Had I brought her there,
And set her down by humble Mary's side,
He would have taught her all I could not teach.
Yet, O my God! why hast thou made me thus
Terribly wretched, and beyond relief?
[_He looks up and sees that the child has taken the book
to her corner. She peeps into it; then holds it to her ear;
then rubs her hand over it; then puts her tongue on it_.]
_Julian (bursting into tears_).
Father, I am thy _child_.
Forgive me this:
Thy poetry is very hard to read.
SCENE XVI.--JULIAN _walking with_ LILY _through one of the squares_.
_Lily_.
Wish we could find her somewhere. 'Tis so sad
Not to have any mother! Shall I ask
This gentleman if he knows where she is?
_Julian_.
No, no, my love; we'll find her by and by.
BERNARD. and another Gentleman talking together.
_Bernard_.
Have you seen Seaford lately?
_Gentleman_.
No. In fact,
He vanished somewhat oddly, days ago.
Sam saw him with a lady in his cab;
And if I hear aright, one more is missing--
Just the companion for his lordship's taste.
You've not forgot that fine Italian woman
You met there once, some months ago?
_Bern_.
Forgot her!
I have to try though, sometimes--hard enough:
Her husband is alive!
_Lily_.
Mother was Italy, father,--was she not?
_Julian_.
Hush, hush, my child! you must not say a word.
_Gentleman_.
Oh, yes; no doubt!
But what of that?--a poor half-crazy creature!
_Bern_.
Something quite different, I assure you, Harry.
Last week I saw him--never to forget him--
Ranging through Seaford's house, like the questing beast.
_Gentleman_.
Better please two than one, he thought--and wisely.
'Tis not for me to blame him: she is a prize
Worth sinning for a little more than little.
_Lily_
(_whispering_).
Why don't you ask them whether it was mother?
I am sure it was. I am quite sure of it.
_Gentleman_.
Look what a lovely child!
_Bern_.
Harry! Good heavens!
It is the Count Lamballa. Come along.
SCENE XVII.--_Julian's room_. JULIAN. LILY _asleep_.
_Julian_.
I thank thee. Thou hast comforted me, thou,
To whom I never lift my soul, in hope
To reach thee with my thinking, but the tears
Swell up and fill my eyes from the full heart
That cannot hold the thought of thee, the thought
Of him in whom I live, who lives in me,
And makes me live in him; by whose one thought,
Alone, unreachable, the making thought,
Infinite and self-bounded, I am here,
A living, thinking will, that cannot know
The power whereby I am--so blest the more
In being thus in thee--Father, thy child.
I cannot, cannot speak the thoughts in me.
My being shares thy glory: lay on me
What thou wouldst have me bear. Do thou with me
Whate'er thou wilt. Tell me thy will, that I
May do it as my best, my highest joy;
For thou dost work in me, I dwell in thee.
Wilt thou not save my wife? I cannot know
The power in thee to purify from sin.
But Life _can_ cleanse the life it lived alive.
Thou knowest all that lesseneth her fault.
She loves me not, I know--ah, my sick heart!--
I will love her the more, to fill the cup;
One bond is snapped, the other shall be doubled;
For if I love her not, how desolate
The poor child will be left! _he_ loves her not.
I have but one prayer more to pray to thee:--
Give me my wife again, that I may watch
And weep with her, and pray with her, and tell
What loving-kindness I have found in thee;
And she will come to thee to make her clean.
Her soul must wake as from a dream of bliss,
To know a dead one lieth in the house:
Let me be near her in that agony,
To tend her in the fever of the soul,
Bring her cool waters from the wells of hope,
Look forth and tell her that the morn is nigh;
And when I cannot comfort, help her weep.
God, I would give her love like thine to me,
_Because_ I love her, and her need is great.
Lord, I need her far more than thou need'st me,
And thou art Love down to the deeps of hell:
Help me to love her with a love like thine.
How shall I find her? It were horrible
If the dread hour should come, and I not near.
Yet pray I not she should be spared one pang,
One writhing of self-loathing and remorse,
For she must hate the evil she has done;
Only take not away hope utterly.
_Lily (in her sleep_).
Lily means me--don't throw it over the wall.
_Julian (going to her_).
She is so flushed! I fear the child is ill.
I have fatigued her too much, wandering restless.
To-morrow I will take her to the sea.
[_Returning_.]
If I knew where, I would write to her, and write
So tenderly, she could not choose but come.
I will write now; I'll tell her that strange dream
I dreamed last night: 'twill comfort her as well.
[_He sits down and writes_.]
My heart was crushed that I could hardly breathe.
I was alone upon a desolate moor;
And the wind blew by fits and died away--
I know not if it was the wind or me.
How long I wandered there, I cannot tell;
But some one came and took me by the hand.
I gazed, but could not see the form that led me,
And went unquestioning, I cared not whither.
We came into a street I seemed to know,
Came to a house that I had seen before.
The shutters were all closed; the house was dead.
The door went open soundless. We went in,
And entered yet again an inner room.
The darkness was so dense, I shrank as if
From striking on it. The door closed behind.
And then I saw that there was something black,
Dark in the blackness of the night, heaved up
In the middle of the room. And then I saw
That there were shapes of woe all round the room,
Like women in long mantles, bent in grief,
With long veils hanging low down from their heads,
All blacker in the darkness. Not a sound
Broke the death-stillness. Then the shapeless thing
Began to move. Four horrid muffled figures
Had lifted, bore it from the room. We followed,
The bending woman-shapes, and I. We left
The house in long procession. I was walking
Alone beside the coffin--such it was--
Now in the glimmering light I saw the thing.
And now I saw and knew the woman-shapes:
Undine clothed in spray, and heaving up
White arms of lamentation; Desdemona
In her night-robe, crimson on the left side;
Thekla in black, with resolute white face;
And Margaret in fetters, gliding slow--
That last look, when she shrieked on Henry, frozen
Upon her face. And many more I knew--
Long-suffering women, true in heart and life;
Women that make man proud for very love
Of their humility, and of his pride
Ashamed. And in the coffin lay my wife.
On, on, we went. The scene changed, and low hills
Began to rise on each side of the path
Until at last we came into a glen,
From which the mountains soared abrupt to heaven,
Shot cones and pinnacles into the skies.
Upon the eastern side one mighty summit
Shone with its snow faint through the dusky air;
And on its sides the glaciers gave a tint,
A dull metallic gleam, to the slow night.
From base to top, on climbing peak and crag,
Ay, on the glaciers' breast, were human shapes,
Motionless, waiting; men that trod the earth
Like gods; or forms ideal that inspired
Great men of old--up, even to the apex
Of the snow-spear-point. _Morning_ had arisen
From Giulian's tomb in Florence, where the chisel
Of Michelangelo laid him reclining,
And stood upon the crest.
A cry awoke
Amid the watchers at the lowest base,
And swelling rose, and sprang from mouth to mouth,
Up the vast mountain, to its aerial top;
And "_Is God coming_?" was the cry; which died
Away in silence; for no voice said _No_.
The bearers stood and set the coffin down;
The mourners gathered round it in a group;
Somewhat apart I stood, I know not why.
So minutes passed. Again that cry awoke,
And clomb the mountain-side, and died away
In the thin air, far-lost. No answer came.
How long we waited thus, I cannot tell--
How oft the cry arose and died again.
At last, from far, faint summit to the base,
Filling the mountain with a throng of echoes,
A mighty voice descended: "_God is coming_!"
Oh! what a music clothed the mountain-side,
From all that multitude's melodious throats,
Of joy and lamentation and strong prayer!
It ceased, for hope was too intense for song.
A pause.--The figure on the crest flashed out,
Bordered with light. The sun was rising--rose
Higher and higher still. One ray fell keen
Upon the coffin 'mid the circling group.
What God did for the rest, I know not; it
Was easy to help them.--I saw them not.--
I saw thee at my feet, my wife, my own!
Thy lovely face angelic now with grief;
But that I saw not first: thy head was bent,
Thou on thy knees, thy dear hands clasped between.
I sought to raise thee, but thou wouldst not rise,
Once only lifting that sweet face to mine,
Then turning it to earth. Would God the dream
Had lasted ever!--No; 'twas but a dream;
Thou art not rescued yet.
Earth's morning came,
And my soul's morning died in tearful gray.
The last I saw was thy white shroud yet steeped
In that sun-glory, all-transfiguring;
The last I heard, a chant break suddenly
Into an anthem. Silence took me like sound:
I had not listened in the excess of joy.
SCENE XVIII.--_Portsmouth. A bedroom_. LORD SEAFORD. LADY GERTRUDE.
_Lord S_.
Tis for your sake, my Gertrude, I am sorry.
If you could go alone, I'd have you go.
_Lady Gertrude_.
And leave you ill? No, you are not so cruel.
Believe me, father, I am happier
In your sick room, than on a glowing island
In the blue Bay of Naples.
_Lord S_.
It was so sudden!
'Tis plain it will not go again as quickly.
But have your walk before the sun be hot.
Put the ice near me, child. There, that will do.
_Lady Gertrude_.
Good-bye then, father, for a little
while.
[_Goes_.]
_Lord S_.
I never knew what illness was before.
O life! to think a man should stand so little
On his own will and choice, as to be thus
Cast from his high throne suddenly, and sent
To grovel beast-like. All the glow is gone
From the rich world! No sense is left me more
To touch with beauty. Even she has faded
Into the far horizon, a spent dream
Of love and loss and passionate despair!
Is there no beauty? Is it all a show
Flung outward from the healthy blood and nerves,
A reflex of well-ordered organism?
Is earth a desert? Is a woman's heart
No more mysterious, no more beautiful,
Than I am to myself this ghastly moment?
It must be so--it _must_, except God is,
And means the meaning that we think we see,
Sends forth the beauty we are taking in.
O Soul of nature, if thou art not, if
There dwelt not in thy thought the primrose-flower
Before it blew on any bank of spring,
Then all is untruth, unreality,
And we are wretched things; our highest needs
Are less than we, the offspring of ourselves;
And when we are sick, they _are_ not; and our hearts
Die with the voidness of the universe.
But if thou art, O God, then all is true;
Nor are thy thoughts less radiant that our eyes
Are filmy, and the weary, troubled brain
Throbs in an endless round of its own dreams.
And she _is_ beautiful--and I have lost her!
O God! thou art, thou art; and I have sinned
Against thy beauty and thy graciousness!
That woman-splendour was not mine, but thine.
Thy thought passed into form, that glory passed
Before my eyes, a bright particular star:
Like foolish child, I reached out for the star,
Nor kneeled, nor worshipped. I will be content
That she, the Beautiful, dwells on in thee,
Mine to revere, though not to call my own.
Forgive me, God! Forgive me, Lilia!
My love has taken vengeance on my love.
I writhe and moan. Yet I will be content.
Yea, gladly will I yield thee, so to find
That thou art not a phantom, but God's child;
That Beauty is, though it is not for me.
When I would hold it, then I disbelieved.
That I may yet believe, I will not touch it.
I have sinned against the Soul of love and beauty,
Denying him in grasping at his work.
SCENE XIX.--_A country churchyard_. JULIAN _seated on a tombstone_.
LILY _gathering flowers and grass among the grass_.
_Julian_.
O soft place of the earth! down-pillowed couch,
Made ready for the weary! Everywhere,
O Earth, thou hast one gift for thy poor children--
Room to lie down, leave to cease standing up,
Leave to return to thee, and in thy bosom
Lie in the luxury of primeval peace,
Fearless of any morn; as a new babe
Lies nestling in his mother's arms in bed:
That home of blessedness is all there is;
He never feels the silent rushing tide,
Strong setting for the sea, which bears him on,
Unconscious, helpless, to wide consciousness.
But thou, thank God, hast this warm bed at last
Ready for him when weary: well the green
Close-matted coverlid shuts out the dawn.
O Lilia, would it were our wedding bed
To which I bore thee with a nobler joy!
--Alas! there's no such rest: I only dream
Poor pagan dreams with a tired Christian brain.
How couldst thou leave me, my poor child? my heart
Was all so tender to thee! But I fear
My face was not. Alas! I was perplexed
With questions to be solved, before my face
Could turn to thee in peace: thy part in me
Fared ill in troubled workings of the brain.
Ah, now I know I did not well for thee
In making thee my wife! I should have gone
Alone into eternity. I was
Too rough for thee, for any tender woman--
Other I had not loved--so full of fancies!
Too given to meditation. A deed of love
Is stronger than a metaphysic truth;
Smiles better teachers are than mightiest words.
Thou, who wast life, not thought, how couldst thou help it?
How love me on, withdrawn from all thy sight--
For life must ever need the shows of life?
How fail to love a man so like thyself,
Whose manhood sought thy fainting womanhood?
I brought thee pine-boughs, rich in hanging cones,
But never white flowers, rubied at the heart.
O God, forgive me; it is all my fault.
Would I have had dead Love, pain-galvanized,
Led fettered after me by gaoler Duty?
Thou gavest me a woman rich in heart,
And I have kept her like a caged seamew
Starved by a boy, who weeps when it is dead.
O God, my eyes are opening--fearfully:
I know it now--'twas pride, yes, very pride,
That kept me back from speaking all my soul.
I was self-haunted, self-possessed--the worst
Of all possessions. Wherefore did I never
Cast all my being, life and all, on hers,
In burning words of openness and truth?
Why never fling my doubts, my hopes, my love,
Prone at her feet abandonedly? Why not
Have been content to minister and wait;
And if she answered not to my desires,
Have smiled and waited patient? God, they say,
Gives to his aloe years to breed its flower:
I gave not five years to a woman's soul!
Had I not drunk at last old wine of love?
I shut her love back on her lovely heart;
I did not shield her in the wintry day;
And she has withered up and died and gone.
God, let me perish, so thy beautiful
Be brought with gladness and with singing home.
If thou wilt give her back to me, I vow
To be her slave, and serve her with my soul.
I in my hand will take my heart, and burn
Sweet perfumes on it to relieve her pain.
I, I have ruined her--O God, save thou!
[_His bends his head upon his knees_. LILY _comes running up
to him, stumbling over the graves_.]
_Lily_.
Why do they make so many hillocks, father?
The flowers would grow without them.
_Julian_.
So they would.
_Lily_.
What are they for, then?
_Julian (aside_).
I wish I had not brought her;
She _will_ ask questions. I must tell her all.
(_Aloud_).
'Tis where they lay them when the story's done.
_Lily_.
What! lay the boys and girls?
_Julian_.
Yes, my own child--
To keep them warm till it begin again.
_Lily_.
Is it dark down there?
[_Clinging to_ JULIAN, _and pointing down_.]
_Julian_.
Yes, it is dark; but pleasant--oh, so sweet!
For out of there come all the pretty flowers.
_Lily_.
Did the church grow out of there, with the long stalk
That tries to touch the little frightened clouds?
_Julian_.
It did, my darling.--There's a door down there
That leads away to where the church is pointing.
[_She is silent far some time, and keeps looking first down and
then up_. JULIAN _carries her away_.]
SCENE XX.--_Portsmouth_. LORD SEAFORD, _partially recovered. Enter_
LADY GERTRUDE _and_ BERNARD.
_Lady Gertrude_.
I have found an old friend, father. Here he is!
_Lord S_.
Bernard! Who would have thought to see you here!
_Bern_.
I came on Lady Gertrude in the street.
I know not which of us was more surprised.
[LADY GERTRUDE _goes_.]
_Bern_.
Where is the countess?
_Lord S_.
Countess! What do you mean? I do not know.
_Bern_.
The Italian lady.
_Lord S_.
Countess Lamballa, do you mean? You frighten me!
_Bern_.
I am glad indeed to know your ignorance;
For since I saw the count, I would not have you
Wrong one gray hair upon his noble head.
[LORD SEAFORD _covers his eyes with his hands_.]
You have not then heard the news about yourself?
Such interesting echoes reach the last
A man's own ear. The public has decreed
You and the countess run away together.
'Tis certain she has balked the London Argos,
And that she has been often to your house.
The count believes it--clearly from his face:
The man is dying slowly on his feet.
_Lord S. (starting up and ringing the bell_).
O God! what am I? My love burns like hate,
Scorching and blasting with a fiery breath!
_Bern_.
What the deuce ails you, Seaford? Are you raving?
_Enter_ Waiter.
_Lord S_.
Post-chaise for London--four horses--instantly.
[_He sinks exhausted in his chair_.]
SCENE XXI.--_LILY in bed. JULIAN seated by her_.
_Lily_.
O father, take me on your knee, and nurse me.
Another story is very nearly done.
[_He takes her on his knees_.]
I am so tired! Think I should like to go
Down to the warm place that the flowers come from,
Where all the little boys and girls are lying
In little beds--white curtains, and white tassels.
--No, no, no--it is so dark down there!
Father will not come near me all the night.
_Julian_.
You shall not go, my darling; I will keep you.
_Lily_.
O will you keep me always, father dear?
And though I sleep ever so sound, still keep me?
Oh, I should be so happy, never to move!
'Tis such a dear well place, here in your arms!
Don't let it take me; do not let me go:
I cannot leave you, father--love hurts so.
_Julian_.
Yes, darling; love does hurt. It is too good
Never to hurt. Shall I walk with you now,
And try to make you sleep?
_Lily_.
Yes--no; for I should leave you then. Oh, my head!
Mother, mother, dear mother!--Sing to me, father.
[_He tries to sing_.]
Oh the hurt, the hurt, and the hurt of love!
Wherever the sun shines, the waters go.
It hurts the snowdrop, it hurts the dove,
God on his throne, and man below.
But sun would not shine, nor waters go,
Snowdrop tremble, nor fair dove moan,
God be on high, nor man below,
But for love--for the love with its hurt alone.
Thou knowest, O Saviour, its hurt and its sorrows;
Didst rescue its joy by the might of thy pain:
Lord of all yesterdays, days, and to-morrows,
Help us love on in the hope of thy gain;
Hurt as it may, love on, love for ever;
Love for love's sake, like the Father above,
But for whose brave-hearted Son we had never
Known the sweet hurt of the sorrowful love.
[_She sleeps at last. He sits as before, with the child
leaning on his bosom, and falls into a kind of stupor, in
which he talks_.]
_Julian_.
A voice comes from the vacant, wide sea-vault:
_Man with the heart, praying for woman's love,
Receive thy prayer; be loved; and take thy choice:
Take this or this_. O Heaven and Earth! I see--What
is it? Statue trembling into life
With the first rosy flush upon the skin?
Or woman-angel, richer by lack of wings?
I see her--where I know not; for I see
Nought else: she filleth space, and eyes, and brain--
God keep me!--in celestial nakedness.
She leaneth forward, looking down in space,
With large eyes full of longing, made intense
By mingled fear of something yet unknown;
Her arms thrown forward, circling half; her hands
Half lifted, and half circling, like her arms.
O heavenly artist! whither hast thou gone
To find my own ideal womanhood--
Glory grown grace, divine to human grown?
I hear the voice again: _Speak but the word:
She will array herself and come to thee.
Lo, at her white foot lie her daylight clothes,
Her earthly dress for work and weary rest_!
--I see a woman-form, laid as in sleep,
Close by the white foot of the wonderful.
It is the same shape, line for line, as she.
Long grass and daisies shadow round her limbs.
Why speak I not the word?------Clothe thee, and come,
O infinite woman! my life faints for thee.
Once more the voice: _Stay! look on this side first:
I spake of choice. Look here, O son of man!
Choose then between them_. Ah! ah!
[_Silence_.]
Her I knew
Some ages gone; the woman who did sail
Down a long river with me to the sea;
Who gave her lips up freely to my lips,
Her body willingly into my arms;
Came down from off her statue-pedestal,
And was a woman in a common house,
Not beautified by fancy every day,
And losing worship by her gifts to me.
She gave me that white child--what came of her?
I have forgot.--I opened her great heart,
And filled it half-way to the brim with love--
With love half wine, half vinegar and gall--
And so--and so--she--went away and died?
O God! what was it?--something terrible--
I will not stay to choose, or look again
Upon the beautiful. Give me my wife,
The woman of the old time on the earth.
O lovely spirit, fold not thy parted hands,
Nor let thy hair weep like a sunset-rain
If thou descend to earth, and find no man
To love thee purely, strongly, in his will,
Even as he loves the truth, because he will,
And when he cannot see it beautiful--
Then thou mayst weep, and I will help thee weep.
Voice, speak again, and tell my wife to come.
'Tis she, 'tis she, low-kneeling at my feet!
In the same dress, same flowing of the hair,
As long ago, on earth: is her face changed?
Sweet, my love rains on thee, like a warm shower;
My dove descending rests upon thy head;
I bless and sanctify thee for my own:
Lift up thy face, and let me look on thee.
Heavens, what a face! 'Tis hers! It is not hers!
She rises--turns it up from me to God,
With great rapt orbs, and such a brow!--the stars
Might find new orbits there, and be content.
O blessed lips, so sweetly closed that sure
Their opening must be prophecy or song!
A high-entranced maiden, ever pure,
And thronged with burning thoughts of God and Truth!
Vanish her garments; vanishes the silk
That the worm spun, the linen of the flax;--
O heavens! she standeth there, my statue-form,
With the rich golden torrent-hair, white feet,
And hands with rosy palms--my own ideal!
The woman of _my_ world, with deeper eyes
Than I had power to think--and yet my Lilia,
My wife, with homely airs of earth about her,
And dearer to my heart as my lost wife,
Than to my soul as its new-found ideal!
Oh, Lilia! teach me; at thy knees I kneel:
Make me thy scholar; speak, and I will hear.
Yea, all eternity--
[_He is roused by a cry from the child_.]
_Lily_.
Oh, father! put your arms close round about me.
Kiss me. Kiss me harder, father dear.
Now! I am better now.
[_She looks long and passionately in his face. Her
eyes close; her head drops backward. She is dead_.]
SCENE XXII.--_A cottage-room_. LILIA _folding a letter_.
_Lilia_.
Now I have told him all; no word kept back
To burn within me like an evil fire.
And where I am, I have told him; and I wait
To know his will. What though he love me not,
If I love him!--I will go back to him,
And wait on him submissive. Tis enough
For one life, to be servant to that man!
It was but pride--at best, love stained with pride,
That drove me from him. He and my sweet child
Must miss my hands, if not my eyes and heart.
How lonely is my Lily all the day,
Till he comes home and makes her paradise!
I go to be his servant. Every word
That comes from him softer than a command,
I'll count it gain, and lay it in my heart,
And serve him better for it.--He will receive me.
SCENE XXIII.--LILY _lying dead. JULIAN bending over her_.
_Julian_.
The light of setting suns be on thee, child!
Nay, nay, my child, the light of rising suns
Is on thee! Joy is with thee--God is Joy;
Peace to himself, and unto us deep joy;
Joy to himself, in the reflex of our joy.
Love be with thee! yea God, for he is Love.
Thou wilt need love, even God's, to give thee joy.
Children, they say, are born into a world
Where grief is their first portion: thou, I think,
Never hadst much of grief--thy second birth
Into the spirit-world has taught thee grief,
If, orphaned now, thou know'st thy mother's story,
And know'st thy father's hardness. O my God,
Let not my Lily turn away from me.
Now I am free to follow and find her.
Thy truer Father took thee home to him,
That he might grant my prayer, and save my wife.
I thank him for his gift of thee; for all
That thou hast taught me, blessed little child.
I love thee, dear, with an eternal love.
And now farewell!
[Kissing her.]
--no, not farewell; I come.
Years hold not back, they lead me on to thee.
Yes, they will also lead me on to her.
_Enter a Jew_.
_Jew_.
What is your pleasure with me? Here I am, sir.
_Julian_.
Walk into the next room; then look at this,
And tell me what you'll give for everything.
[Jew goes.]
My darling's death has made me almost happy.
Now, now I follow, follow. I'm young again.
When I have laid my little one to rest
Among the flowers in that same sunny spot,
Straight from her grave I'll take my pilgrim-way;
And, calling up all old forgotten skill,
Lapsed social claims, and knowledge of mankind,
I'll be a man once more in the loud world.
Revived experience in its winding ways,
Senses and wits made sharp by sleepless love,
If all the world were sworn to secrecy,
Will guide me to her, sure as questing Death.
I'll follow my wife, follow until I die.
How shall I face the Shepherd of the sheep,
Without the one ewe-lamb he gave to me?
How find her in great Hades, if not here
In this poor little round O of a world?
I'll follow my wife, follow until I find.
_Re-enter_ Jew.
Well, how much? Name your sum. Be liberal.
_Jew_.
Let me see this room, too. The things are all
Old-fashioned and ill-kept. They're worth but little.
_Julian_.
Say what you will--only make haste and go.
_Jew_.
Say twenty pounds?
_Julian_.
Well, fetch the money at once,
And take possession. But make haste, I pray.
SCENE XXIV.--_The country-churchyard_. JULIAN _standing by_ LILY'S
_new-filled grave. He looks very worn and ill_.
_Julian_.
Now I can leave thee safely to thy sleep;
Thou wilt not wake and miss me, my fair child!
Nor will they, for she's fair, steal this ewe-lamb
Out of this fold, while I am gone to seek
And find the wandering mother of my lamb.
I cannot weep; I know thee with me still.
Thou dost not find it very dark down there?
Would I could go to thee; I long to go;
My limbs are tired; my eyes are sleepy too;
And fain my heart would cease this beat, beat, beat.
O gladly would I come to thee, my child,
And lay my head upon thy little heart,
And sleep in the divine munificence
Of thy great love! But my night has not come;
She is not rescued yet. Good-bye, little one.
[_He turns, but sinks on the grave. Recovering and rising_.]
Now for the world--that's Italy, and her!
SCENE XXV.--_The empty room, formerly Lilia's_.
_Enter_ JULIAN.
_Julian_.
How am I here? Alas! I do not know.
I should have been at sea.--Ah, now I know!
I have come here to die.
[_Lies down on the floor_.]
Where's Lilia?
I cannot find her. She is here, I know.
But oh these endless passages and stairs,
And dreadful shafts of darkness! Lilia!
Lilia! wait for me, child; I'm coming fast,
But something holds me. Let me go, devil!
My Lilia, have faith; they cannot hurt you.
You are God's child--they dare not touch you, wife.
O pardon me, my beautiful, my own!
[_Sings_.]
Wind, wind, thou blowest many a drifting thing
From sheltering cove, down to the unsheltered sea;
Thou blowest to the sea ray blue sail's wing--
Us to a new, love-lit futurity:
Out to the ocean fleet and float--
Blow, blow my little leaf-like boat.
[_While he sings, enter_ LORD SEAFORD, _pale and haggard_.]
JULIAN _descries him suddenly_.
What are you, man? O brother, bury me--
There's money in my pocket--
[_Emptying the Jew's gold on the floor_.]
by my child.
[_Staring at him_.]
Oh! you are Death. Go, saddle the pale horse--
I will not walk--I'll ride. What, skeleton!
_I cannot sit him_! ha! ha! Hither, brute!
Here, Lilia, do the lady's task, my child,
And buckle on my spurs. I'll send him up
With a gleam through the blue, snorting white foam-flakes.
Ah me! I have not won my golden spurs,
Nor is there any maid to bind them on:
I will not ride the horse, I'll walk with thee.
Come, Death, give me thine arm, good slave!--we'll go.
_Lord Seaford (stooping over him_).
I am Seaford, Count.
_Julian_.
Seaford! What Seaford?
[_Recollecting_.]
_--Seaford_!
[_Springing to his feet_.]
Where is my wife?
[_He falls into SEAFORD'S arms. He lays him down_.]
_Lord S_.
Had I seen _him_, she had been safe for me.
[_Goes_.]
[JULIAN _lies motionless. Insensibility passes into sleep. He
wakes calm, in the sultry dusk of a summer evening_.]
_Julian_.
Still, still alive! I thought that I was dead.
I had a frightful dream. 'Tis gone, thank God!
[_He is quiet a little_.]
So then thou didst not take the child away
That I might find my wife! Thy will be done.
Thou wilt not let me go. This last desire
I send away with grief, but willingly.
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