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SONNET

 
Oh, thou hadst been a wife for Shakspeare’s self!
No head, save some world-genius, ought to rest
Above the treasures of that perfect breast,
Or nightly draw fresh light from those keen stars
Through which thy soul awes ours: yet thou art bound—
O waste of nature!—to a craven hound;
To shameless lust, and childish greed of pelf;
Athené to a Satyr: was that link
Forged by The Father’s hand?  Man’s reason bars
The bans which God allowed.—Ay, so we think:
Forgetting, thou hadst weaker been, full blest,
   Than thus made strong by suffering; and more great
   In martyrdom, than throned as Cæsar’s mate.
 

Eversley, 1851.

MARGARET TO DOLCINO

 
Ask if I love thee?  Oh, smiles cannot tell
Plainer what tears are now showing too well.
Had I not loved thee, my sky had been clear:
Had I not loved thee, I had not been here,
      Weeping by thee.
 
 
Ask if I love thee?  How else could I borrow
Pride from man’s slander, and strength from my sorrow?
Laugh when they sneer at the fanatic’s bride,
Knowing no bliss, save to toil and abide
      Weeping by thee.
 

Andernach on the Rhine,

August 1851.

DOLCINO TO MARGARET

 
The world goes up and the world goes down,
   And the sunshine follows the rain;
And yesterday’s sneer and yesterday’s frown
   Can never come over again,
      Sweet wife:
   No, never come over again.
 
 
For woman is warm though man be cold,
   And the night will hallow the day;
Till the heart which at even was weary and old
   Can rise in the morning gay,
      Sweet wife;
   To its work in the morning gay.
 

Andernach, 1851.

THE UGLY PRINCESS

 
My parents bow, and lead them forth,
   For all the crowd to see—
Ah well! the people might not care
   To cheer a dwarf like me.
 
 
They little know how I could love,
   How I could plan and toil,
To swell those drudges’ scanty gains,
   Their mites of rye and oil.
 
 
They little know what dreams have been
   My playmates, night and day;
Of equal kindness, helpful care,
   A mother’s perfect sway.
 
 
Now earth to earth in convent walls,
   To earth in churchyard sod:
I was not good enough for man,
   And so am given to God.
 

Bertrich in the Eifel, 1851.

SONNET

 
The baby sings not on its mother’s breast;
Nor nightingales who nestle side by side;
Nor I by thine: but let us only part,
Then lips which should but kiss, and so be still,
As having uttered all, must speak again—
O stunted thoughts!  O chill and fettered rhyme
Yet my great bliss, though still entirely blest,
Losing its proper home, can find no rest:
   So, like a child who whiles away the time
With dance and carol till the eventide,
Watching its mother homeward through the glen;
Or nightingale, who, sitting far apart,
Tells to his listening mate within the nest
The wonder of his star-entrancèd heart
Till all the wakened woodlands laugh and thrill—
   Forth all my being bubbles into song;
   And rings aloft, not smooth, yet clear and strong.
 

Bertrich, 1851

THE SWAN-NECK

 
Evil sped the battle play
On the Pope Calixtus’ day;
Mighty war-smiths, thanes and lords,
In Senlac slept the sleep of swords.
Harold Earl, shot over shield,
Lay along the autumn weald;
Slaughter such was never none
Since the Ethelings England won.
   Thither Lady Githa came,
Weeping sore for grief and shame;
How may she her first-born tell?
Frenchmen stript him where he fell,
Gashed and marred his comely face;
Who can know him in his place?
   Up and spake two brethren wise,
‘Youngest hearts have keenest eyes;
Bird which leaves its mother’s nest,
Moults its pinions, moults its crest.
Let us call the Swan-neck here,
She that was his leman dear;
She shall know him in this stound;
Foot of wolf, and scent of hound,
Eye of hawk, and wing of dove,
Carry woman to her love.’
   Up and spake the Swan-neck high,
‘Go! to all your thanes let cry
How I loved him best of all,
I whom men his leman call;
Better knew his body fair
Than the mother which him bare.
When ye lived in wealth and glee
Then ye scorned to look on me;
God hath brought the proud ones low
After me afoot to go.’
   Rousing erne and sallow glede,
Rousing gray wolf off his feed,
Over franklin, earl, and thane,
Heaps of mother-naked slain,
Round the red field tracing slow,
Stooped that Swan-neck white as snow;
Never blushed nor turned away,
Till she found him where he lay;
Clipt him in her armés fair,
Wrapt him in her yellow hair,
Bore him from the battle-stead,
Saw him laid in pall of lead,
Took her to a minster high,
For Earl Harold’s soul to cry.
 
 
   Thus fell Harold, bracelet-giver;
Jesu rest his soul for ever;
Angles all from thrall deliver;
      Miserere Domine.
 

Eversley, 1851.

A THOUGHT FROM THE RHINE

 
I heard an Eagle crying all alone
Above the vineyards through the summer night,
Among the skeletons of robber towers:
Because the ancient eyrie of his race
Was trenched and walled by busy-handed men;
And all his forest-chace and woodland wild,
Wherefrom he fed his young with hare and roe,
Were trim with grapes which swelled from hour to hour,
And tossed their golden tendrils to the sun
For joy at their own riches:—So, I thought,
The great devourers of the earth shall sit,
Idle and impotent, they know not why,
Down-staring from their barren height of state
On nations grown too wise to slay and slave,
The puppets of the few; while peaceful lore
And fellow-help make glad the heart of earth,
With wonders which they fear and hate, as he,
The Eagle, hates the vineyard slopes below.
 

On the Rhine, 1851.

THE LONGBEARDS’ SAGA.  A.D. 400

 
Over the camp-fires
Drank I with heroes,
Under the Donau bank,
Warm in the snow trench:
Sagamen heard I there,
Men of the Longbeards,
Cunning and ancient,
Honey-sweet-voiced.
Scaring the wolf cub,
Scaring the horn-owl,
Shaking the snow-wreaths
Down from the pine-boughs,
Up to the star roof
Rang out their song.
Singing how Winil men,
Over the ice-floes
Sledging from Scanland
Came unto Scoring;
Singing of Gambara,
Freya’s belovèd,
Mother of Ayo,
Mother of Ibor.
Singing of Wendel men,
Ambri and Assi;
How to the Winilfolk
Went they with war-words,—
‘Few are ye, strangers,
And many are we:
Pay us now toll and fee,
Cloth-yarn, and rings, and beeves:
Else at the raven’s meal
Bide the sharp bill’s doom.’
Clutching the dwarfs work then,
Clutching the bullock’s shell,
Girding gray iron on,
Forth fared the Winils all,
Fared the Alruna’s sons,
Ayo and Ibor.
Mad at heart stalked they:
Loud wept the women all,
Loud the Alruna wife;
Sore was their need.
Out of the morning land,
Over the snow-drifts,
Beautiful Freya came,
Tripping to Scoring.
White were the moorlands,
And frozen before her:
Green were the moorlands,
And blooming behind her.
Out of her gold locks
Shaking the spring flowers,
Out of her garments
Shaking the south wind,
Around in the birches
Awaking the throstles,
And making chaste housewives all
Long for their heroes home,
Loving and love-giving,
Came she to Scoring.
Came unto Gambara,
Wisest of Valas,—
‘Vala, why weepest thou?
Far in the wide-blue,
High up in the Elfin-home,
Heard I thy weeping.’
‘Stop not my weeping,
Till one can fight seven.
Sons have I, heroes tall,
First in the sword-play;
This day at the Wendels’ hands
Eagles must tear them.
Their mothers, thrall-weary,
Must grind for the Wendels.’
Wept the Alruna wife;
Kissed her fair Freya:—
‘Far off in the morning land,
High in Valhalla,
A window stands open;
Its sill is the snow-peaks,
Its posts are the waterspouts,
Storm-rack its lintel;
Gold cloud-flakes above
Are piled for the roofing,
Far up to the Elfin-home,
High in the wide-blue.
Smiles out each morning thence
Odin Allfather;
From under the cloud-eaves
Smiles out on the heroes,
Smiles on chaste housewives all,
Smiles on the brood-mares,
Smiles on the smiths’ work:
And theirs is the sword-luck,
With them is the glory,—
So Odin hath sworn it,—
Who first in the morning
Shall meet him and greet him.’
Still the Alruna wept:—
‘Who then shall greet him?
Women alone are here:
Far on the moorlands
Behind the war-lindens,
In vain for the bill’s doom
Watch Winil heroes all,
One against seven.’
Sweetly the Queen laughed:—
‘Hear thou my counsel now;
Take to thee cunning,
Belovèd of Freya.
Take thou thy women-folk,
Maidens and wives:
Over your ankles
Lace on the white war-hose;
Over your bosoms
Link up the hard mail-nets;
Over your lips
Plait long tresses with cunning;—
So war-beasts full-bearded
King Odin shall deem you,
When off the gray sea-beach
At sunrise ye greet him.’
 
 
Night’s son was driving
His golden-haired horses up;
Over the eastern firths
High flashed their manes.
Smiled from the cloud-eaves out
Allfather Odin,
Waiting the battle-sport:
Freya stood by him.
‘Who are these heroes tall,—
Lusty-limbed Longbeards?
Over the swans’ bath
Why cry they to me?
Bones should be crashing fast,
Wolves should be full-fed,
Where such, mad-hearted,
Swing hands in the sword-play.’
 
 
Sweetly laughed Freya:—
‘A name thou hast given them,
Shames neither thee nor them,
Well can they wear it.
Give them the victory,
First have they greeted thee;
Give them the victory,
Yokefellow mine!
Maidens and wives are these,—
Wives of the Winils;
Few are their heroes
And far on the war-road,
So over the swans’ bath
They cry unto thee.’
 
 
Royally laughed he then;
Dear was that craft to him,
Odin Allfather,
Shaking the clouds.
‘Cunning are women all,
Bold and importunate!
Longbeards their name shall be,
Ravens shall thank them:
Where women are heroes,
What must the men be?
Theirs is the victory;
No need of me!’
 

_Eversley, 1852.

From Hypatia.

SAINT MAURA.  A.D. 304

 
Thank God!  Those gazers’ eyes are gone at last!
The guards are crouching underneath the rock;
The lights are fading in the town below,
Around the cottage which this morn was ours.
Kind sun, to set, and leave us here alone;
Alone upon our crosses with our God;
While all the angels watch us from the stars.
Kind moon, to shine so clear and full on him,
And bathe his limbs in glory, for a sign
Of what awaits him!  Oh look on him, Lord!
Look, and remember how he saved thy lamb!
   Oh listen to me, teacher, husband, love,
Never till now loved utterly!  Oh say,
Say you forgive me!  No—you must not speak:
You said it to me hours ago—long hours!
Now you must rest, and when to-morrow comes
Speak to the people, call them home to God,
A deacon on the Cross, as in the Church;
And plead from off the tree with outspread arms,
To show them that the Son of God endured
For them—and me.  Hush!  I alone will speak,
And while away the hours till dawn for you.
I know you have forgiven me; as I lay
Beneath your feet, while they were binding me,
I knew I was forgiven then!  When I cried
‘Here am I, husband!  The lost lamb returned,
All re-baptized in blood!’ and you said, ‘Come!
Come to thy bride-bed, martyr, wife once more!’
From that same moment all my pain was gone;
And ever since those sightless eyes have smiled
Love—love!  Alas, those eyes!  They made me fall.
I could not bear to see them, bleeding, dark,
Never, no never to look into mine;
Never to watch me round the little room
Singing about my work, or flash on me
Looks bright with counsel.—Then they drove me mad
With talk of nameless tortures waiting you—
And I could save you!  You would hear your love—
They knew you loved me, cruel men!  And then—
Then came a dream; to say one little word,
One easy wicked word, we both might say,
And no one hear us, but the lictors round;
One tiny sprinkle of the incense grains,
And both, both free!  And life had just begun—
Only three months—short months—your wedded wife
Only three months within the cottage there—
Hoping I bore your child. . . .
Ah! husband!  Saviour!  God! think gently of me!
I am forgiven! . . .
   And then another dream;
A flash—so quick, I could not bear the blaze;
I could not see the smoke among the light—
To wander out through unknown lands, and lead
You by the hand through hamlet, port, and town,
On, on, until we died; and stand each day
To glory in you, as you preached and prayed
From rock and bourne-stone, with that voice, those words,
Mingled with fire and honey—you would wake,
Bend, save whole nations! would not that atone
For one short word?—ay, make it right, to save
You, you, to fight the battles of the Lord?
And so—and so—alas! you knew the rest!
You answered me. . . .
Ah cruel words!  No!  Blessed, godlike words.
You had done nobly had you struck me dead,
Instead of striking me to life!—the temptress! . . .
‘Traitress! apostate! dead to God and me!’—
‘The smell of death upon me?’—so it was!
True! true! well spoken, hero!  Oh they snapped,
Those words, my madness, like the angel’s voice
Thrilling the graves to birth-pangs.  All was clear.
There was but one right thing in the world to do;
And I must do it. . . .  Lord, have mercy!  Christ!
Help through my womanhood: or I shall fail
Yet, as I failed before! . . .  I could not speak—
I could not speak for shame and misery,
And terror of my sin, and of the things
I knew were coming: but in heaven, in heaven!
There we should meet, perhaps—and by that time
I might be worthy of you once again—
Of you, and of my God. . . .  So I went out.
. . . . . .
Will you hear more, and so forget the pain?
And yet I dread to tell you what comes next;
Your love will feel it all again for me.
No! it is over; and the woe that’s dead
Rises next hour a glorious angel.  Love!
Say, shall I tell you?  Ah! your lips are dry!
To-morrow, when they come, we must entreat,
And they will give you water.  One to-day,
A soldier, gave me water in a sponge
Upon a reed, and said, ‘Too fair! too young!
She might have been a gallant soldier’s wife!’
And then I cried, ‘I am a soldier’s wife!
A hero’s!’  And he smiled, but let me drink.
God bless him for it!
   So they led me back:
And as I went, a voice was in my ears
Which rang through all the sunlight, and the breath
And blaze of all the garden slopes below,
And through the harvest-voices, and the moan
Of cedar-forests on the cliffs above,
And round the shining rivers, and the peaks
Which hung beyond the cloud-bed of the west,
And round the ancient stones about my feet.
Out of all heaven and earth it rang, and cried,
‘My hand hath made all these.  Am I too weak
To give thee strength to say so?’  Then my soul
Spread like a clear blue sky within my breast,
While all the people made a ring around,
And in the midst the judge spoke smilingly—
‘Well! hast thou brought him to a better mind?’
‘No!  He has brought me to a better mind!’—
I cried, and said beside—I know not what—
Words which I learnt from thee—I trust in God
Nought fierce or rude—for was I not a girl
Three months ago beneath my mother’s roof?
I thought of that.  She might be there!  I looked—
She was not there!  I hid my face and wept.
And when I looked again, the judge’s eye
Was on me, cold and steady, deep in thought—
‘She knows what shame is still; so strip her.’  ‘Ah!’
I shrieked, ‘Not that, Sir!  Any pain!  So young
I am—a wife too—I am not my own,
But his—my husband’s!’  But they took my shawl,
And tore my tunic off, and there I stood
Before them all. . . .  Husband! you love me still?
Indeed I pleaded!  Oh, shine out, kind moon,
And let me see him smile!  Oh! how I prayed,
While some cried ‘Shame!’ and some, ‘She is too young!’
And some mocked—ugly words: God shut my ears.
And yet no earthquake came to swallow me.
While all the court around, and walls, and roofs,
And all the earth and air were full of eyes,
Eyes, eyes, which scorched my limbs like burning flame,
Until my brain seemed bursting from my brow:
And yet no earthquake came!  And then I knew
This body was not yours alone, but God’s—
His loan—He needed it: and after that
The worst was come, and any torture more
A change—a lightening; and I did not shriek—
Once only—once, when first I felt the whip—
It coiled so keen around my side, and sent
A fire-flash through my heart which choked me—then
I shrieked—that once.  The foolish echo rang
So far and long—I prayed you might not hear.
And then a mist, which hid the ring of eyes,
Swam by me, and a murmur in my ears
Of humming bees around the limes at home;
And I was all alone with you and God.
And what they did to me I hardly know;
I felt, and did not feel.  Now I look back,
It was not after all so very sharp:
So do not pity me.  It made me pray;
Forget my shame in pain, and pain in you,
And you in God: and once, when I looked down,
And saw an ugly sight—so many wounds!
‘What matter?’ thought I.  ‘His dear eyes are dark;
For them alone I kept these limbs so white—
A foolish pride!  As God wills now.  ’Tis just.’
   But then the judge spoke out in haste: ‘She is mad,
Or fenced by magic arts!  She feels no pain!’
He did not know I was on fire within:
Better he should not; so his sin was less.
Then he cried fiercely, ‘Take the slave away,
And crucify her by her husband’s side!’
And at those words a film came on my face—
A sickening rush of joy—was that the end?
That my reward?  I rose, and tried to go—
But all the eyes had vanished, and the judge;
And all the buildings melted into mist:
So how they brought me here I cannot tell—
Here, here, by you, until the judgment-day,
And after that for ever and for ever!
Ah!  If I could but reach that hand!  One touch!
One finger tip, to send the thrill through me
I felt but yesterday!—No!  I can wait:—
Another body!—Oh, new limbs are ready,
Free, pure, instinct with soul through every nerve,
Kept for us in the treasuries of God.
They will not mar the love they try to speak,
They will not fail my soul, as these have done!
. . . . .
Will you hear more?  Nay—you know all the rest:
Yet those poor eyes—alas! they could not see
My waking, when you hung above me there
With hands outstretched to bless the penitent—
Your penitent—even like The Lord Himself—
I gloried in you!—like The Lord Himself!
Sharing His very sufferings, to the crown
Of thorns which they had put on that dear brow
To make you like Him—show you as you were!
I told them so!  I bid them look on you,
And see there what was the highest throne on earth—
The throne of suffering, where the Son of God
Endured and triumphed for them.  But they laughed;
All but one soldier, gray, with many scars;
And he stood silent.  Then I crawled to you,
And kissed your bleeding feet, and called aloud—
You heard me!  You know all!  I am at peace.
Peace, peace, as still and bright as is the moon
Upon your limbs, came on me at your smile,
And kept me happy, when they dragged me back
From that last kiss, and spread me on the cross,
And bound my wrists and ankles—Do not sigh:
I prayed, and bore it: and since they raised me up
My eyes have never left your face, my own, my own,
Nor will, till death comes! . . .
   Do I feel much pain?
Not much.  Not maddening.  None I cannot bear.
It has become like part of my own life,
Or part of God’s life in me—honour—bliss!
I dreaded madness, and instead comes rest;
Rest deep and smiling, like a summer’s night.
I should be easy, now, if I could move . . .
I cannot stir.  Ah God! these shoots of fire
Through all my limbs!  Hush, selfish girl!  He hears you!
Who ever found the cross a pleasant bed?
Yes; I can bear it, love.  Pain is no evil
Unless it conquers us.  These little wrists, now—
You said, one blessed night, they were too slender,
Too soft and slender for a deacon’s wife—
Perhaps a martyr’s:—You forgot the strength
Which God can give.  The cord has cut them through;
And yet my voice has never faltered yet.
Oh! do not groan, or I shall long and pray
That you may die: and you must not die yet.
Not yet—they told us we might live three days . . .
Two days for you to preach!  Two days to speak
Words which may wake the dead!
. . . . .
   Hush! is he sleeping?
They say that men have slept upon the cross;
So why not he? . . .  Thanks, Lord!  I hear him breathe:
And he will preach Thy word to-morrow!—save
Souls, crowds, for Thee!  And they will know his worth
Years hence—poor things, they know not what they do!—
And crown him martyr; and his name will ring
Through all the shores of earth, and all the stars
Whose eyes are sparkling through their tears to see
His triumph—Preacher!  Martyr!—Ah—and me?—
If they must couple my poor name with his,
Let them tell all the truth—say how I loved him,
And tried to damn him by that love!  O Lord!
Returning good for evil! and was this
The payment I deserved for such a sin?
To hang here on my cross, and look at him
Until we kneel before Thy throne in heaven!
 

Eversley, 1852.