So they, whose lot it was, cast stones; My lord had cover'd up his face : And truly, while I speak, O King, THE VIZIER. O King, in this I praise thee not, Nay, were he thine own mother's son, But being nothing, as he is, But who, through all this length of time But other loads than this his own Look, this is but one single place, Things which might vex him shall be found. Upon the Russian frontier, where Hath snatch'd a little fair-hair'd slave: And these all, laboring for a lord, All these have sorrow, and keep still, Whilst other men make cheer, and sing. Wilt thou have pity on all these? No, nor on this dead dog, O King! THE KING. O Vizier, thou art old, I young. Clear in these things I cannot see. My head is burning; and a heat Is in my skin which angers me. But hear ye this, ye sons of men! In vain therefore, with wistful eyes Says, "Happy he, who lodges there! "With cherries serv'd in drifts of snow." With curious fruit trees, brought from far; With cisterns for the winter rain; And in the desert, spacious inns In divers places; — if that pain Is not more lighten'd, which he feels, Thou wert a sinner, thou poor man! And I have meat and drink at will, Even the great honor which I have, I have a fretted brick-work tomb Thither, O Vizier, will I bear Bring water, nard, and linen rolis, Wash off all blood, set smooth each limb. Then say; "He was not wholly vile, Because a king shall bury him." COVENTRY PATMORE. HONORIA. RESTLESS and sick of long exile I'd heard of, Honor's favorite; grave, (Born 1823). Stared too: then donned we smiles, the shrouds Of ire, best hid while she was by, A sweet moon 'twixt her lighted clouds. Whether this cousin was the cause I know not, but I seemed to see, The first time then, how fair she was, How much the fairest of the three. Each stopped to let the other go; But he, being time-bound, rose the first. Stayed he in Sarum long? If so, I hoped to see him at the Hurst. To Portsmouth, where the Arrogant, I watched her face, suspecting germs That she should not be loved again. For all his rough sea face grew red, Then went I home to a restless bed. So beautiful, yet not be his, But scarce could tell, so strange my whim, Whether the weight upon my heart Was sorrow for myself or him. She was all mildness: yet 'twas writ Let him not hope to merit me." Inquiring where in aught the least, If question were of her for wife, Ill might be mended, hope increased: Not that I soared so far above As drowsiness my brain relieved, An angry answer from three farms. And, first, I dreamt that I, her knight, A clarion's haughty pathos heard, And rode securely to the fight, Cased in the scarf she had conferred; And there, the bristling lists behind, Saw many, and vanquished all I saw Of her unnumbered cousin-kind, In Navy, Army, Church, and Law; Then warriors, stern and Norman-nosed, Seemed Sarum choristers, whose song, Mixed with celestial grief, disclosed More joy than memory can prolong; And phantasms as absurd and sweet Merged each in each, in endless chase, And everywhere I seemed to meet The haunting fairness of her face. THE CHASE. SHE wearies with an ill unknown; Within a lonely castle-moat; Too many are life's mysteries For thought to fix 'tward any one. She's told that maidens are by youths She's sorry that she cannot care. Who's this that meets her on her way? Or both? Her bosom seems to say Whom does he love? Does he confer As in the grass a serpent glides, Then terrifies with dreadful strides : With subtle, swift, unseen increase; And then, unlooked for, strikes amain Some stroke that frightens her to death; And grows all harmlessness again, Ere she can cry, or get her breath. All people speak of him with praise: It nearly makes her heart his own. Ah, whither shall a maiden flee, When a bold youth so swift pursues, And siege of tenderest courtesy, With hope perseverant, still renews! Why fly so fast? Her flattered breast Thanks him who finds her fair and good; She loves her fears; veiled joys arrest The foolish terrors of her blood: By secret, sweet degrees, her heart, Vanquished, takes warmth from his desire: She makes it more, with bashful art, And fuels love's late dreaded fire. The gallant credit he accords To all the signs of good in her, Redeems itself; his praiseful words What they attribute still confer. Her heart is thrice as rich in bliss, She's three times gentler than before: He gains a right to call her his, Now she through him is so much more! Ah, might he, when by doubts aggrieved, Behold his tokens next her breast, At all his words and sighs perceived Against its blithe upheaval pressed. But still she flies: should she be won, It must not be believed or thought She yields she's chased to death, undone, Surprised, and violently caught. FROST IN HARVEST. THE lover who, across a gulf Of ceremony, views his Love, And dares not yet address herself, Pays worship to her stolen glove. The gulf o'erleaped, the lover wed, It happens oft (let truth be told), The halo leaves the sacred head, Respect grows lax, and worship cold, And all love's May-day promising, Like song of birds before they pair, Or flush of flowers in boastful Spring, Dies out, and leaves the Summer bare. Yet should a man, it seems to me, Honor what honorable is, For some more honorable plea Than only that it is not his. The gentle wife, who decks his board And makes his day to have no night, Whose wishes wait upon her lord, Who finds her own in his delight, Is she another now than she Who, mistress of her maiden charms, At his wild prayer, incredibly Committed them to his proud arms? Unless her choice of him's a slur Which makes her proper credit dim, He never enough can honor her Who past all speech has honored him. THE LOVE-LETTER. I FOUND your letter, love. How kind At Wilton. If you can, dear, come : You'll find papa and me at home. The Bishop dined with us again, We must,) with, "What we must we may." Dear papa laughed, and said 'twas sad To think how vain his girls would be, Above all Mary, now she had Episcopal authority. But I was very dull, dear Friend. A rose-leaf kissed on either side. I had startling dreams: I often woke, The summer-lightning was so bright; And when it flash'd I thought you spoke. I see the lost Love in beauty The worm and wormwood again. Earth all one tomb lies round me, With the cry I wake ;—and around me The mother and child at her feet Breathe peace in even whispers ; And the night falls heavy and sweet. -And well for thee, the central warmth And brightness of the hearth, Yet while our requiem thus we bring, O sister souls! the blue sea strives A DEATH-BED. Ar length the gusts of anguish cease; Restores the rhythmic breath. Such brightness now is round her cast, As if the gate of Heaven were past Like golden sands the moments go; Each, sparkling light with love, Heaps up the nearing death below, Steals from the life above. O love that cannot be repair'd Whate'er the future bring! Irrevocable instants, spared To plant the deeper sting! O dread alternative of woe At sight of one so dear! We cannot bear that she should go, Yet may not wish her here! Ah yet the golden moments spare THE SISTERS. ONE sleeps where the Biscayan pines -O well the rustling pine-tree-tops PRO MORTUIS WHAT should a man desire to leave? A flawless work; a noble life: Some music harmonized from strife, Some finish'd thing, ere the slack hands at eve Drop, should be his to leave. One gem of song, defying age; A hard-won fight; a well-work'd farm; A law, no guile can twist to harm; Some tale as our lost Thackeray's, bright, or sage As the just Hallam's page. Or, in life's homeliest, meanest spot, With temperate step from year to year To move within his little sphere, Leaving a pure name to be known, or not,— This is a true man's lot. He dies he leaves the deed or name, In trust to Friendship's prudent hand, Bound 'gainst all adverse shocks to guard his fame, Or to the world proclaim. But the imperfect thing, or thought, The crudities and yeast of youth, The dubious doubt, the twilight truth, The work that for the passing day was wrought, The schemes that came to nought, The sketch half-way 'twixt verse and prose That mocks the finish'd picture true, The quarry whence the statue grew, The scaffolding 'neath which the palace rose, The vague abortive throes And fever-fits of joy or gloom : In kind oblivion let them be! Nor has the dead worse foe than he Who rakes these sweepings of the artist's room, And piles them on his tomb. Ah, 'tis but little that the best, Frail children of a fleeting hour, Can leave of perfect fruit or flower! Ah, let all else be graciously supprest When man lies down to rest! |