No More Learning

My beauty as a branding now will mark me;
And shame will run before me, and await
My coming, wheresoever I would lodge.
For out of Shushan to the ends of the earth
Great news runs, with a hidden soundless speed
Through secret channels in the folks' dim mind,
As water races through smooth sloping gutters.
Swifter than any feet could bear the tale,
Going unheard, already posts abroad
A buried river, and will soon burst up
In towns and markets, far as the width of day,
A bubbling clamour, wonderful wild news:
"Vashti the Queen is judged and forced to go
Roaming the earth, outcast and infamous;
Look out for her! Be ready, if she comes,
With stones and hooting voices! "--Fare you well,
Women whom once I knew. You are quit of me:
Pardon me if I add, And I of you.


IV

Into the darkness fared the outcast Queen;
Fearless her face, and searching with proud gaze
The impenetrable hour. Behind her burned
The sky, held by the open kiln of the town
In a great breath of fire, yellow and red,
From out the festival streets, and myriad links.
Still might she taste, and still must choke to taste,
The fragrance of sweet oils and gums aflame
Capturing the cool night with spicy riches;
Still after her through the hollow moveless air
The sounded ceremonies came, the cry
Of dainty lust in winding tune of fifes,
The silver fury of cymbals clamouring
Like frenzy in a woman-madden'd brain;
And drumming underneath the whole wild noise,
Like monstrous hatred underneath desire,
The thunder of the beaten serpent-skins.
Yea, in the town behind her, flaring Shushan,
She heard Man, meaning to adore himself,
Throned on the wealth of earth as God in heaven,
And making music of his glorying thought,
Merely betray the mastery of his blood,
His sexual heart, his main idolatry,--
Woman, and his lust to devour her beauty,
Himself devoured ceaselessly by her beauty.
And well she knew, to herself bitterly smiling,
How the King seated amid his fellow-kings
Devised his grievous rage, feeling himself
Insulted in his dearest mind, his rule
Over the precious pleasure of his women
Wounded: how the man's wrath would hiss and swell
Like gross spittle spat into red-hot coals.
But as the Queen fared through the blinded hour,
Sudden against the darkness of her eyes
There came a wind of light. Crimson it was,
With smokey lightnings braided, in its first
Swift surge into the gloom before her face;
But it began to golden, and became
Astonishingly white. And as she stood
With rigour in her nerves, a mighty shudder
Ravish the light, and in the midst appeared
Vision, a goddess, terrible and kind;
And to the Queen the goddess spoke, in voice
That healed her anger with its quietness.

_Ishtar_.
I am the goddess Ishtar, and thou art
My servant. Wilt any of thou help me?

_Vashti_.
Am I then one whom gods may help? I am
By men judged hateful: surely I am thereby
Made over to the demons, and not thine.

_Ishtar_.
Yet art thou mine, because thou knowest well
Thou disobeyest me.

_Vashti_.
How do I so?

_Ishtar_.
I am the goddess of the power of women,
And passion in the hearts of men is my
Divinity.

_Vashti_.
Yea, then I disobey thee.

_Ishtar_.
And yet thou shalt not fear me wronging thee:
Tell me, O thou Despair, whither thou goest?

_Vashti_.
Thy taunt goes past me; I am not despair.

_Ishtar_.
Verily, but thou art. Is not thy mind
A hot revolter from the service due
To my divinity, passion in men's hearts?
Is there aught else that thou mayst serve? Thou knowest
There is naught else: therefore thou art Despair.

_Vashti_.
That I am infamous, I know. But even now,
Now when I learn I am to gods no more
Than to the lust of men, I will not be
Despair.

_Ishtar_.
Who means so greatly to serve pride,
That the service of the world is a thing loath'd,
Is desperate, avoided by mankind,
Unpleasing to the gods. We, who look down,
Know that the world and pride may both be served.
Yet also that it was too hard for thee
We know, and pardon. Thou shalt tell me now
Why thou refusest the life given thee.

_Vashti_.
Because I will not, woman should be sin
Amid man's life. You gods have given man
Desire that too much knows itself; and thence
He is all confounded by the pleasure of us.
How sweetly doth the heart of man begin
Desiring us, how like music and the green
First happiness of the year! But this can grow
To uncontrollably crowding lust, beyond
All power of delight to utter, thence
Inwardly turned to anger and detesting!
Till, looking on us with strange eyes, man finds
We are not his desire: it was but sex
Inflamed, so that it roused the breaking forth
Of secret fury in him, consuming life,
Yea, even the life that would reach up to know
The heaven of gods above it.

_Ishtar_.
And what, for this,
Dost thou refuse?

_Vashti_.
I refuse woman's beauty!
Not merely to be feasting with delight
Man's senses, I refuse; but even his heart
I will not serve. Are we to be for ever
Love's passion in man, and never love itself?
Always the instrument, never the music?

_Ishtar_.
I have not done with man. --Thou sayest true,
Women are as a sin in life: for that
The gods have made mankind in double sex.
Sin of desiring woman is to be
The knowledgeable light within man's soul,
Whereby he kills the darken'd ache of being.
But shall I leave him there? or shall I leave
Woman amid these hungers? Nay: I hold
The rages of these fires as a soft clay
Obedient to my handling; there shall be
Of man desiring, and of woman desired,
A single ecstasy divinely formed,
Two souls knowing themselves as one amazement.
All that thou hatest to arouse in man
Prepareth him for this; and thou thyself
Art by thy very hate prepared: wherefore
The gods forgive thee, seeing what comes of thee.
Behold now! of my godhead I will make
Thy senses burn with vision, storying
The spirit of woman growing from loved to love.

_The First Vision: Helen_.
Helen am I, a name astonishing
The world, a fame that rings against the sky,
Like an alarm of brass smitten to sound
The news of war against the stone of mountains.
I move in power through the minds of men,
And have no power to hold my power back.
Men's passions fawn upon my feet, as waves
That fiercely fawn after the going wind;
But not as the wind, shaking off the foam
Of the pursuing lust of the moaning waves,
And over the clamour of the evil seas'
Monstrous word running lightly, unhurt.
They fawn upon me, all the lusts of the world,
Bewildering my steps with straining close,
And breathe their horrible spittle against me.
Passions cry round me with the yelling cry
Of dogs chained and starving and smelling blood.
Yea, for through me the world becomes a den
Of insane greed. In helpless beauty I stand
Alone in the midst of dreadful adoration;
And, round me thronged, the fawning, fawning lusts
Open their throats upon me and whine and lick
My feet with dripping tongues, or gaze to pant
Hot hunger in my face. For I am made
To set their hearts grim to possess my life,
And with an anger of love devour my beauty;
And yet to seal up in their mastered hearts
The rage, and bring them in croucht worship down
Before me, bent with impotent desire.
A quiet place the world was ere I came
A strife, a dream of fire, into its sleep;
And with their senses ended men's delights.
But I struck through their senses burning news
Of impossible endless things, and mixt
Wild lightning into their room of darkness. --Then
Agony, and a craving for delight
Escaping sensual grasp, began in men;
And the agony was poison in the health
Of sweet desire. --The joy of me men tried
To compass with strange frenzy and desire
Made new with cunning. But still at my feet
The lusts they tarr on me crouch down and fawn
And snarl to be so fearful of their prey.
I see men's faces grin with helpless lust
About me; crooked hands reach out to please
Their hot nerves with the flower of my skin;
I see the eyes imagining enjoyment,
The arms twitching to seize me, and the minds
Inflamed like the glee-kindled hearts of fiends.
And through the world the fawning, fawning lusts
Hound me with worship of a ravenous yearning:
And I am weary of maddening men with beauty.

_The Second Vision: Sappho_.
Into how fair a fortune hath man's life
Fallen out of the darkness! --This bright earth
Maketh my heart to falter; yea, my spirit
Bends and bows down in the delight of vision,
Caught by the force of beauty, swayed about
Like seaweed moved by the deep winds of water:
For it is all the news of love to me.
Through paths pine-fragrant, where the shaded ground
Is strewn with fruits of scarlet husk, I come,
As if through maidenhood's uncertainty,
Its darkness coloured with strange untried thoughts;
Hither I come, here to the flowery peak
Of this white cliff, high up in golden air,
Where glowing earth and sea and divine light
Are in mine eyes like ardour, and like love
Are in my soul: love's glowing gentleness,
The sunny grass of meadows and the trees,
Towers of dark green flame, and that white town
Where from the hearths, a fragrance of burnt wood,
Blue-purple smoke creeps like a stain of wine
Along the paved blue sea: yea, all this kindness
Lies amid salt immeasurable flowing,
The power of the sea, passion of love.
I, Sappho, have made love the mastery
Most sacred over man; but I have made it
A safety of things gloriously known,
To house his spirit from the darkness blowing
Out of the vast unknown: from me he hath
The wilful mind to make his fortune fair.
Yea, here I stand for the whole earth to see
How life, breathing its fortune like sweet air,
Mixing it with the kindled heart of man,
May utter it proud against the double truth
Of darkness fronting him and following him,
In a prevailing, burning, marvellous lie!
And it is love kindles the burning of it,
The quivering flame of spoken-forth desire,
Which man hath made his place within the world,--
Love, learnt of Sappho! and not only bright
With gladness: I have devised an endless pain,
The fearful spiritual pain of love, to hold
In a firm fire, unalterably bright,
The shining forth of Spirit's imagination
Declared against the investing dark, a light
Of pain and joy, equal for man and woman.

_The Third Vision: Theresa_.
Come, golden bridegroom, break this mortal night,
Five times chained with darkness of my senses.
At last now visit my desire, and turn
Thy feet, and the flaming path of thy feet,
Unto these walls lockt round me like a death.
Death I would have them till thou comest; yea,
The earthly stone whereof man's fortune here
Is made, strongly into deliberate death
I have built about my soul, to fend its life
From gazes of the world. I am too proud
To endure the world's desire of my beauty;
I know myself too marvellous in love
To be the joy of aught that thou hast made:
I am to be bride of thee, of the world's maker.
O God, the heart I have from thee, the heart
Uttering itself in an endless word of love,
Is sealed up in the stone of worldly night:
Set hitherward the flaming way of thy feet,
Break my night, and enter in unto me.
Come, wed my spirit; and like as the sea,
Into the shining spousal ecstasy
Of sun and wind, riseth in cloudy gleam,
So let the knowing of my flesh be clouds
Of fire, mounting up the height of my spirit,
Fire clouding with flame the marriage hour
Wherein my spirit keeps thy dreadful light
Away from Heaven in a bridal kiss,--
Fire of bodily sense in spiritual glee
Held, as fire of water in sunlit air.
Ah God, beautiful God, my soul is wild
With love of thee. Hitherward turn thy feet,
Turn their golden journeying towards this night,--
This night of cavernous earth; and now let shine
These walls of stone, against thy nearing love,
Like pure glass smitten by the power of the sun;
And let them be, in thy descending love,
Like glass in a furnace, falling molten down,
Back from thy burning feet streaming and flowing,
Leaving me naked to thy bright desire. --
Enjoy me, God, enjoy thy bride to-night.

_Vashti_.
Too well I know the first, the scarlet clad;
And she, that was in shining white and gold,
Was as the sound of bees and waters, at last
Heard by one long closed in the dins of madness.
But what was she, the black-robed, with the eyes
So fearfully alight, the last who spoke?

_Ishtar_.
Take none of these for perfect: they are moods
Purifying my women to become
My unexpressive, uttermost intent. --
As music binds into a strict delight
The manifold random sounds that shake the air,
Even so fashioned must I have the being
That fills with rushing power the boundless spirit:
Amidst it, musically firm, a joy
That is a fiery knowledge of itself,
Thereby self-continent, a globed fire.
And she who gave thee wonder, is the sign
Of those who firmest, brightest hold their being
Fastened and seized in one enjoyed desire.
Yet even they are but a making ready
For what I perfectly intend: in them
Joy of self-bound desire hath burnt itself
To extreme purity; I am free thereby
To work my meaning through them, my divinity.
Yea, such clean fire in man and such in woman
To mingle wonderfully, that the twain
Become a moment of one blazing flame
Infinitely upward towering, far beyond
The boundless fate of spirit in the world.
But in the way to this are maladies
And anguish; and as a perilous bridge
Over the uncontrolled demanding world,
Virginity, passionate self-possessing,
Must build itself supreme, unbreakable.
--I leave thee: as thou mayst, be comforted
By prophecy of what I mean in life.
Against thee is not Heaven, and thou must
Endure the hatred men will throw upon thee.

* * * * *

The shining place where Ishtar looked at her
Empty the Queen beheld; and into mist
The glory fainted, and the stars came through
Untroubled. Into the night the Queen went on.




PART II


IMPERFECTION




MARY

[A LEGEND OF THE FORTY-FIVE]


I

_A street in Carlisle leading to the Scottish Gate. Three
girls_, MARY, KATRINA, and JEAN.

_Katrina_.
What a year this has been!

_Mary_.
There's many a lass
Will blench to hear the date of it--Forty-five,--
Poor souls! Why will the men be fighting so,
Running away to find out death, as if
It were some tavern full of light and fiddling?
And when the doors are shut, what of the girls
Who gave themselves away, and still must live?
Are not men thoughtless?

_Katrina_.
Leaving only kisses
To be remembered by.

_Jean_.
That's not so bad
As when the dead lads went beyond kissing.

_Mary_.
Poor souls! Well, Carlisle has at least three hearts
That are not crying for a lad who's gone
Listening to the lean old Crowder, Death.
We needn't mope: and yet it's sad.

_Jean_.
Come on,
Why are we dawdling? All the heads are up,
Steepled on spikes above the Scottish Gate,--
Some of the rebels rarely handsome too.

_Mary_.
Won't it be rather horrible?

_Katrina_.
A row
Of chopt-off heads sitting on spikes--ugh!

_Jean_.
Yes,
And I daresay blood dribbling here and there.

_Mary_.
Don't, Jean! I am going back. I was
Forbid the gate.

_Katrina_.
And so was I.

_Jean_.
And I.

_Katrina_.
But a mere peep at them?

_Jean_.
Yes, come on, Mary.

_Mary_.
We might just see how horrible they are.

_Jean_.
Sure, they will make us shudder;

_Katrina_.
Or else cry.

[_A_ MAN _meets them_.

_Man_.
Are you for the show, my girls?

_Jean_.
We aren't your girls.

_Katrina_.
Do you mean the heads upon the Scottish Gate?

_Man_.
Ay, that's the show, a pretty one.

_Jean_.
Are all
The rebels' heads set up?

_Man_.
All, all; their cause
Is fallen flat; but go you on and see
How wonderly their proud heads are elate.

_Katrina_.
Do any look as if they died afeared?

_Man_.
Go and learn that yourselves. And when you mark
How grimly addled all the daring is
Now in those brains, do as your hearts shall bid you,
And that is weep, I hope.

_Mary_.
O let's go back.

_Jean_.
We have no friends spiked on the Scottish Gate.

_Man_.
No? Well, there's quite a quire of voices there,
Blessing the King's just wisdom for his stern
Strong policy with the rebels.

_Mary_.
Who are those? --
I think it's fiendish to have killed so many.

_Man_.
The chattering birds, my lass, and droning flies:
They're proper Whigs, are birds and flies,--or else
The Whigs are proper crows and carrion-bugs.

[_He goes on past them_.

_Katrina_.
A Jacobite?

_Jean_.
That's it, I warrant you.
One of the stay-at-homes.

_Mary_.
Now promise me,
We'll only take a glimpse, girls, a short glimpse.

_Jean (laughing)_.
Yes, just to see how horrible they are.

[_They go on towards the gate_.
II

_The Scottish Gate, Carlisle. Among the crowd_.

_Mary_.
O why did we come here?

_Jean_.
One, two, three, four--
A devil's dozen of them at the least.

_Katrina_.
Poor lads! They did not need to set them up
So high, surely. Which is the one you'ld call
Prettiest, Jean?

_Jean_.
That fellow with the sneer;
The axe's weight could not ruffle his brow,--
How signed it is with scorn!

_Katrina_.
Ah yes, he's dark
And you are red: Mary and I will choose
Some golden fellow. Which do you think, Mary?

_Jean_.
O, but mine is the one! Look--do you see? --
He must have put his curls away from the axe;
Or did they part themselves when he knelt down,
And let the stroke have his nape white and bare?
O could a girl not nestle snug and happy
Against a neck, with such hair covering her!

_Katrina_.
Now, Mary, we must make our yellow choice;
You've got good eyes; which do you fancy? --Jean!
What ails her?

_Jean_.
How she stares! which is the one
She singles out? That topmost boy it is,--
Pretty enough for a flaxen poll indeed.
Is that your lad, Mary?

_Katrina_.
She's ill or fey;
They are too much for her; and I truly
Am nearly weeping for them and their wives and lasses.
Her eyes don't budge! She's fastened on his face
With just the look that one would have to greet
The ghost of one's own self. See, all her blood
Is trapt in her heart,--pale she is as he.

_A Man in the Crowd_.
Can't you see she's fainting? 'Tis no sight
For halfling girls.

_Jean_.
Halfling yourself.

_Katrina_.
Mary!

_Mary_.
Let us go home now: help me there, Katrina.

_Katrina_.
Yes, dear, but are you ill?

_Mary_.
No: let us go home.

_Katrina (to Jean)_.
Come, Jean. Did you not hear her gasp? We must
Be with her on her way home.

_Jean_.
You go then.
I've not lookt half enough at these. Besides--

[MARY _and_ KATRINA _go_.

Well, sir, how dare you speak to girls like that,
When they're alone?

_The Man_.
You needn't be so short;
I guess you're one to take fine care of yourself.

_Jean_.
Yes, and I'ld choose a better-looking man
Than you, my chap, if I wanted company.

_The Man_.
Come this way, you'll see better.

_Jean_.
Impudence!
Who said your arm might be there?

_The Man_.
O, it's all right.

_Jean_.
And what do you think of the rebels now they're dead?


III

_Mary lying awake in bed_.
O let me reason it out calmly! Have I
No stars to take me through this terror, poured
Suddenly, dreadfully, on to my heart and spirit?
Why is it I, of all the world I only
Who must so love against nature? I knew
Always, that not like harbour for a boat,
Not a smooth safety, Love would take my soul;
But like going naked and empty-handed
Into the glitter and hiss of a wild sword-play,
I should fall in love, and in fear and danger:
But a danger of white light, a fear of sharpness
Keen and close to my heart, not as it proves,--
My heart hit by a great dull mace of terror!

* * * * *

So it has come to me, my hope, my wonder!
Now I perceive that I was one of those
Who, till love comes, have breath and beating blood
In one continual question. All the beauty
My happy senses took till now has been
Drugg'd with a fiery want and discontent,
That settled in my soul and lay there burning.
The hills, wearing their green ample dresses
Right in the sky's blue courts, with swerving folds
Along the rigour of their stony sinews--
(Often they garr'd my breath catch and stumble),--
The moon that through white ghost of water went,
Till she was ring'd about with an amber window,--
The summer stars seen winking through dusk leaves;
All the earth's manners and most loveliness,
All made my asking spirit stir within me,
And throb with a question, whose answer is,
(As now I know, but then I did not know)
There is a Man somewhere meant for me. --
And I have seen the face of him for whom
My soul was made!
Ah, somewhere? Where is that?
Have I not dreamt that he is gone away,
Gone ere he loved me? Now I lose myself.
I only have seen my boy's murder'd head.

* * * * *

Yes, again light breaks through and quells my thought.
The whole earth seemed as it belonged to me,
A message spoken out in green and blue
Specially to my heart; and it would say
That some time, out of the human multitude
A face would look into my soul, and sign
All my nature, easily as it were wax,
With its dear image; but after that impress
I would all harden, so that nought could raze
The minting of that seal from off my being.
And yesterday it fell. An idle whim
To see the rebels on the Scottish Gate,--
And there was the face of him I was made to love,
There,--ah God,--on the gate, my murder'd lad!
Did any girl have first-sight love like this?
Not to have ever seen him, only seen
Such piteous token that he has been born,
Lived and grown up to beauty, the man who was meant
To sleep upon my breast, and dead before
The sweet custom of love could be between us!
To have but seen his face? --Is that enough
To make me clear he is my man indeed?
Why, sure there are tales bordering on my lot
In misery? --Of hearts who have been stabbed
By knowledge that their mates were in the earth,
Yet never could come near enough to be healed;
Of those who have gone longing all a life,
Because a voice heard singing or a gesture
Seen from afar gospell'd them of love;
And no more than the mere announcement had.
Ah, but all these to mine were kindly dealing;
For not till they'd trepann'd him out of life
Did he, poor laggard, come to claim my soul. --
O my love, but your ears played you falsely
When they were taken by Death's wily tunes!

* * * * *

Am I so hardly done to, who have seen
My lover's face, been near enough to worship
The very writing of his spirit in flesh?
For having that in my ken, I am not far
From loving with my eyes all his body.
What a set would his shoulders have, and neck,
To bear his goodly-purposed head; what gait
And usage of his limbs! --Ah, do you smile?
Why, even so I knew your smile would be,
Just such an over-brimming of your soul.
O love, love, love, then you have come to me!
How I have stayed aching for you! Come close,
Here's where you should have been long time, long time.
It is your rightful place. And I had left
Thinking you'ld come and kiss me over my heart!
Ah lad, my lad, they told me you were dead.


IV

_At Dawn. The Scottish Gate_.

_Mary (on her way to the gate, singing to herself)_.
As a wind that has run all day
Among the fragrant clover,
At evening to a valley comes;
So comes to me my lover.

And as all night a honey'd warmth
Stays where the wind did lie,
So when my lover leaves my arms
My heart's all honey.

But what have I to do with this? And when
Was that song put in hiding 'mid my thought?
I might be on my way to meet and give
Good morrow to my--Ah! last night, last night!
O fie! I must not dream so.

[_At the Gate_.
It _was_ I!
I am the girl whose lover they have killed,
Who never saw him until out of death
He lookt into my soul. I was to meet
Somewhere in life my lover, and behold,
He has turned into an inn I dare not enter,
And gazes through a window at my soul
Going on labour'd with this loving body. --
Did I not sleep last night with you in my arms?
I could have sworn it. Why should body have
So large a part in love? For if 'twere only
Spirit knew how to love, an easy road
My feet had down to death. But I must want
Lips against mine, and arms marrying me,
And breast to kiss with its dear warmth my breast,--
Body must love! O me, how it must ache
Before it is as numb as thine, dear boy!
Poor darling, didst thou forget that I was made
To wed thee, body and soul? For surely else
Thou hadst not gone from life. --
Ah, folk already,
Coming to curse the light with all their stares.


V

KATRINA _and_ JEAN.

_Katrina_.
Where are you off to, Jean, in such a tear?

_Jean_.
I'm busy.

_Katrina_.
O you light-skirts! who is it now?
You think I can't guess what your business is?
Is it aught fresh, or only old stuff warmed?

_Jean_.
Does not the smartness in your wits, Katrina,
Make your food smack sourly? --Well, this time,
It's serious with me. I believe I'm caught.

_Katrina_.
O but you've had such practice in being caught,
You'll break away quite easily when you want.
Tell me now who it is.

_Jean_.
The man who spoke
When we were at the Scottish Gate that day.
O, he's a dapper boy! Did you mark his eyes?

_Katrina_.
Nay, I saw nought but he was under-grown.

_Jean_.
Pooh! He can carry me.

_Katrina_.
Jean, have you heard
Of Mary lately? --I vow she's in love.

_Jean_.
Never! with whom?

_Katrina_.
The thing's a wonder, Jean.
She'll speak to no one now, and every day,
Morning and evening, she's at the gate
Gazing like a fey creature on that head
She was so stricken to behold--you mind it? --
I tell you she's in love with it.

_Jean_.
O don't be silly.
How can you fall in love with a dead man?
And what good could he do you, if you did?
One loves for kisses and for hugs and the rest;
A spunky fellow,--that's the thing to love.
But a dead man,--pah, what a foolery!

_Katrina_.
O yes, to you; for Love's a game for you.
'Twill turn out dangerous maybe, but still,--a game.

_Jean_.
Yes, the best kind of game a girl can play,
And all the better for the risk, Katrina.
But where the fun would be in Love if he
You played with had not heart to jump, nor blood
To tingle, nothing in him to go wild
At seeing you betray your love for him,
Beats me to understand. You'ld be as wise
Blowing the bellows at a pile of stone
As loving one that never lived for you.
It isn't just to make a wind you blow,
But to turn red fire into white quivering heat.
Whatever she's after, 'tis not love, my girl:
I know what love is. But perhaps she saw
The poor lad living? Even had speech with him?

_Katrina_.
Not she; Mary has never known a lad
I did not know as well. We've shared our lives
As if we had been sisters, and I'm sure
She's never been in love before.

_Jean_.
Before?
Don't talk such sentimental nonsense--

_Katrina_.
Why,
If Love-at-first-sight can mean anything,
Surely 'tis this: there's some one in the world
Whom, if you come across him, you must love,
And you could no more pass his face unmoved
Than the year could go backwards. Well, suppose
He dies just ere you meet him; and he dead,
Ay, or his head alone, is given your eyes,
It is enough: he is the man for you,
All as if he were quick and signalling
His heart to you in smiles.

_Jean_.
Believe me, dear,
You've no more notion of the thing called Love
Than a grig has of talking. But I have,
And I'm off now to practise with my notions.

_Katrina_.
Now which is the real love,--hers or Mary's?


VI

_Before Dawn, At the Scottish Gate_.

_Mary_.
Beloved, beloved! --O forgive me
That all these days questioning I have been,
Struggled with doubts.