No More Learning

"He will kiss me on the mouth
Then, and lead me as a lover
Through the crowds that praise his deeds;
And, when soul-tied by one troth,
Unto _him_ I will discover
That swan's nest among the reeds. "

XV.

Little Ellie, with her smile
Not yet ended, rose up gaily,
Tied the bonnet, donned the shoe,
And went homeward, round a mile,
Just to see, as she did daily,
What more eggs were with the two.

XVI.

Pushing through the elm-tree copse,
Winding up the stream, light-hearted,
Where the osier pathway leads,
Past the boughs she stoops--and stops.
Lo, the wild swan had deserted,
And a rat had gnawed the reeds!

XVII.

Ellie went home sad and slow.
If she found the lover ever,
With his red-roan steed of steeds,
Sooth I know not; but I know
She could never show him--never,
That swan's nest among the reeds!




_BERTHA IN THE LANE. _


I.

Put the broidery-frame away,
For my sewing is all done:
The last thread is used to-day,
And I need not join it on.
Though the clock stands at the noon
I am weary. I have sewn,
Sweet, for thee, a wedding-gown.

II.

Sister, help me to the bed,
And stand near me, Dearest-sweet.
Do not shrink nor be afraid,
Blushing with a sudden heat!
No one standeth in the street? --
By God's love I go to meet,
Love I thee with love complete.

III.

Lean thy face down; drop it in
These two hands, that I may hold
'Twixt their palms thy cheek and chin,
Stroking back the curls of gold:
'T is a fair, fair face, in sooth--
Larger eyes and redder mouth
Than mine were in my first youth.

IV.

Thou art younger by seven years--
Ah! --so bashful at my gaze,
That the lashes, hung with tears,
Grow too heavy to upraise?
I would wound thee by no touch
Which thy shyness feels as such.
Dost thou mind me, Dear, so much?

V.

Have I not been nigh a mother
To thy sweetness--tell me, Dear?
Have we not loved one another
Tenderly, from year to year,
Since our dying mother mild
Said with accents undefiled,
"Child, be mother to this child"!

VI.

Mother, mother, up in heaven,
Stand up on the jasper sea,
And be witness I have given
All the gifts required of me,--
Hope that blessed me, bliss that crowned,
Love that left me with a wound,
Life itself that turneth round!

VII.

Thou art standing in the room,
In a molten glory shrined
That rays off into the gloom!
But thy smile is bright and bleak
Like cold waves--I cannot speak,
I sob in it, and grow weak.

VIII.

Ghostly mother, keep aloof
One hour longer from my soul,
For I still am thinking of
Earth's warm-beating joy and dole!
On my finger is a ring
Which I still see glittering
When the night hides everything.

IX.

Little sister, thou art pale!
Ah, I have a wandering brain--
But I lose that fever-bale,
And my thoughts grow calm again.
Lean down closer--closer still!
I have words thine ear to fill,
And would kiss thee at my will.

X.

Dear, I heard thee in the spring,
Thee and Robert--through the trees,--
When we all went gathering
Boughs of May-bloom for the bees.
Do not start so! think instead
How the sunshine overhead
Seemed to trickle through the shade.

XI.

What a day it was, that day!
Hills and vales did openly
Seem to heave and throb away
At the sight of the great sky:
And the silence, as it stood
In the glory's golden flood,
Audibly did bud, and bud.

XII.

Through the winding hedgerows green,
How we wandered, I and you,
With the bowery tops shut in,
And the gates that showed the view!
How we talked there; thrushes soft
Sang our praises out, or oft
Bleatings took them from the croft:

XIII.

Till the pleasure grown too strong
Left me muter evermore,
And, the winding road being long,
I walked out of sight, before,
And so, wrapt in musings fond,
Issued (past the wayside pond)
On the meadow-lands beyond.

XIV.

I sate down beneath the beech
Which leans over to the lane,
And the far sound of your speech
Did not promise any pain;
And I blessed you full and free,
With a smile stooped tenderly
O'er the May-flowers on my knee.

XV.

But the sound grew into word
As the speakers drew more near--
Sweet, forgive me that I heard
What you wished me not to hear.
Do not weep so, do not shake,
Oh,--I heard thee, Bertha, make
Good true answers for my sake.

XVI.

Yes, and HE too! let him stand
In thy thoughts, untouched by blame.
Could he help it, if my hand
He had claimed with hasty claim?
That was wrong perhaps--but then
Such things be--and will, again.
Women cannot judge for men.

XVII.

Had he seen thee when he swore
He would love but me alone?
Thou wast absent, sent before
To our kin in Sidmouth town.
When he saw thee who art best
Past compare, and loveliest.
He but judged thee as the rest.

XVIII.

Could we blame him with grave words,
Thou and I, Dear, if we might?
Thy brown eyes have looks like birds
Flying straightway to the light:
Mine are older. --Hush! --look out--
Up the street! Is none without?
How the poplar swings about!

XIX.

And that hour--beneath the beech,
When I listened in a dream,
And he said in his deep speech
That he owed me all _esteem_,--
Each word swam in on my brain
With a dim, dilating pain,
Till it burst with that last strain.

XX.

I fell flooded with a dark,
In the silence of a swoon.
When I rose, still cold and stark,
There was night; I saw the moon
And the stars, each in its place,
And the May-blooms on the grass,
Seemed to wonder what I was.

XXI.

And I walked as if apart
From myself, when I could stand,
And I pitied my own heart,
As if I held it in my hand--
Somewhat coldly, with a sense
Of fulfilled benevolence,
And a "Poor thing" negligence.

XXII.

And I answered coldly too,
When you met me at the door;
And I only _heard_ the dew
Dripping from me to the floor:
And the flowers, I bade you see,
Were too withered for the bee,--
As my life, henceforth, for me.

XXIII.

Do not weep so--Dear,--heart-warm!
All was best as it befell.
If I say he did me harm,
I speak wild,--I am not well.
All his words were kind and good--
_He esteemed me. _ Only, blood
Runs so faint in womanhood!

XXIV.

Then I always was too grave,--
Liked the saddest ballad sung,--
With that look, besides, we have
In our faces, who die young.
I had died, Dear, all the same;
Life's long, joyous, jostling game
Is too loud for my meek shame.

XXV.

We are so unlike each other,
Thou and I, that none could guess
We were children of one mother,
But for mutual tenderness.
Thou art rose-lined from the cold,
And meant verily to hold
Life's pure pleasures manifold.

XXVI.

I am pale as crocus grows
Close beside a rose-tree's root;
Whosoe'er would reach the rose,
Treads the crocus underfoot.
_I_, like May-bloom on thorn-tree,
Thou, like merry summer-bee,--
Fit that I be plucked for thee!

XXVII.

Yet who plucks me? --no one mourns,
I have lived my season out,
And now die of my own thorns
Which I could not live without.
Sweet, be merry! How the light
Comes and goes! If it be night,
Keep the candles in my sight.

XXVIII.

Are there footsteps at the door?
Look out quickly. Yea, or nay?
Some one might be waiting for
Some last word that I might say.
Nay? So best! --so angels would
Stand off clear from deathly road,
Not to cross the sight of God.

XXIX.

Colder grow my hands and feet.
When I wear the shroud I made,
Let the folds lie straight and neat,
And the rosemary be spread,
That if any friend should come,
(To see _thee_, Sweet! ) all the room
May be lifted out of gloom.

XXX.

And, dear Bertha, let me keep
On my hand this little ring,
Which at nights, when others sleep,
I can still see glittering!
Let me wear it out of sight,
In the grave,--where it will light
All the dark up, day and night.

XXXI.

On that grave drop not a tear!
Else, though fathom-deep the place,
Through the woollen shroud I wear
I shall feel it on my face.
Rather smile there, blessèd one,
Thinking of me in the sun,
Or forget me--smiling on!

XXXII.

Art thou near me? nearer! so--
Kiss me close upon the eyes,
That the earthly light may go
Sweetly, as it used to rise
When I watched the morning-grey
Strike, betwixt the hills, the way
He was sure to come that day.

XXXIII.

So,--no more vain words be said!
The hosannas nearer roll.
Mother, smile now on thy Dead,
I am death-strong in my soul.
Mystic Dove alit on cross,
Guide the poor bird of the snows
Through the snow-wind above loss!

XXXIV.

Jesus, Victim, comprehending
Love's divine self-abnegation,
Cleanse my love in its self-spending,
And absorb the poor libation!
Wind my thread of life up higher,
Up, through angels' hands of fire!
I aspire while I expire.




_LADY GERALDINE'S COURTSHIP:_

A ROMANCE OF THE AGE.

_A Poet writes to his Friend. _ PLACE--_A Room in Wycombe Hall. _
TIME--_Late in the evening. _


I.

Dear my friend and fellow-student, I would lean my spirit o'er you!
Down the purple of this chamber tears should scarcely run at will.
I am humbled who was humble. Friend, I bow my head before you:
You should lead me to my peasants, but their faces are too still.

II.

There's a lady, an earl's daughter,--she is proud and she is noble,
And she treads the crimson carpet and she breathes the perfumed air,
And a kingly blood sends glances up, her princely eye to trouble,
And the shadow of a monarch's crown is softened in her hair.

III.

She has halls among the woodlands, she has castles by the breakers,
She has farms and she has manors, she can threaten and command:
And the palpitating engines snort in steam across her acres,
As they mark upon the blasted heaven the measure of the land.

IV.

There are none of England's daughters who can show a prouder presence;
Upon princely suitors' praying she has looked in her disdain.
She was sprung of English nobles, I was born of English peasants;
What was _I_ that I should love her, save for competence to pain?

V.

I was only a poor poet, made for singing at her casement,
As the finches or the thrushes, while she thought of other things.
Oh, she walked so high above me, she appeared to my abasement,
In her lovely silken murmur, like an angel clad in wings!

VI.

Many vassals bow before her as her carriage sweeps their doorways;
She has blest their little children, as a priest or queen were she:
Far too tender, or too cruel far, her smile upon the poor was,
For I thought it was the same smile which she used to smile on _me_.

VII.

She has voters in the Commons, she has lovers in the palace,
And, of all the fair court-ladies, few have jewels half as fine;
Oft the Prince has named her beauty 'twixt the red wine and the
chalice:
Oh, and what was _I_ to love her? my beloved, my Geraldine!

VIII.

Yet I could not choose but love her: I was born to poet-uses,
To love all things set above me, all of good and all of fair.
Nymphs of mountain, not of valley, we are wont to call the Muses;
And in nympholeptic climbing, poets pass from mount to star.

IX.

And because I was a poet, and because the public praised me,
With a critical deduction for the modern writer's fault,
I could sit at rich men's tables,--though the courtesies that raised
me,
Still suggested clear between us the pale spectrum of the salt.

X.

And they praised me in her presence--"Will your book appear this
summer? "
Then returning to each other--"Yes, our plans are for the moors. "
Then with whisper dropped behind me--"There he is! the latest comer.
Oh, she only likes his verses! what is over, she endures.

XI.

"Quite low-born, self-educated! somewhat gifted though by nature,
And we make a point of asking him,--of being very kind.
You may speak, he does not hear you! and, besides, he writes no
satire,--
All these serpents kept by charmers leave the natural sting behind. "

XII.

I grew scornfuller, grew colder, as I stood up there among them,
Till as frost intense will burn you, the cold scorning scorched my
brow;
When a sudden silver speaking, gravely cadenced, over-rung them,
And a sudden silken stirring touched my inner nature through.

XIII.

I looked upward and beheld her: with a calm and regnant spirit,
Slowly round she swept her eyelids, and said clear before them all--
"Have you such superfluous honour, sir, that able to confer it
You will come down, Mister Bertram, as my guest to Wycombe Hall? "

XIV.

Here she paused; she had been paler at the first word of her speaking,
But, because a silence followed it, blushed somewhat, as for shame:
Then, as scorning her own feeling, resumed calmly--"I am seeking
More distinction than these gentlemen think worthy of my claim.

XV.

"Ne'ertheless, you see, I seek it--not because I am a woman,"
(Here her smile sprang like a fountain and, so, overflowed her mouth)
"But because my woods in Sussex have some purple shades at gloaming
Which are worthy of a king in state, or poet in his youth.

XVI.

"I invite you, Mister Bertram, to no scene for worldly speeches--
Sir, I scarce should dare--but only where God asked the thrushes first:
And if _you_ will sing beside them, in the covert of my beeches,
I will thank you for the woodlands,--for the human world, at worst. "

XVII.

Then she smiled around right childly, then she gazed around right
queenly,
And I bowed--I could not answer; alternated light and gloom--
While as one who quells the lions, with a steady eye serenely,
She, with level fronting eyelids, passed out stately from the room.

XVIII.

Oh, the blessèd woods of Sussex, I can hear them still around me,
With their leafy tide of greenery still rippling up the wind!
Oh, the cursèd woods of Sussex! where the hunter's arrow found me,
When a fair face and a tender voice had made me mad and blind!

XIX.

In that ancient hall of Wycombe thronged the numerous guests invited,
And the lovely London ladies trod the floors with gliding feet;
And their voices low with fashion, not with feeling, softly freighted
All the air about the windows with elastic laughters sweet.

XX.

For at eve the open windows flung their light out on the terrace
Which the floating orbs of curtains did with gradual shadow sweep,
While the swans upon the river, fed at morning by the heiress,
Trembled downward through their snowy wings at music in their sleep.

XXI.
And there evermore was music, both of instrument and singing,
Till the finches of the shrubberies grew restless in the dark;
But the cedars stood up motionless, each in a moonlight's ringing,
And the deer, half in the glimmer, strewed the hollows of the park.

XXII.

And though sometimes she would bind me with her silver-corded speeches
To commix my words and laughter with the converse and the jest,
Oft I sat apart and, gazing on the river through the beeches,
Heard, as pure the swans swam down it, her pure voice o'erfloat the
rest.

XXIII.

In the morning, horn of huntsman, hoof of steed and laugh of rider,
Spread out cheery from the courtyard till we lost them in the hills,
While herself and other ladies, and her suitors left beside her,
Went a-wandering up the gardens through the laurels and abeles.

XXIV.

Thus, her foot upon the new-mown grass, bareheaded, with the flowing
Of the virginal white vesture gathered closely to her throat,
And the golden ringlets in her neck just quickened by her going,
And appearing to breathe sun for air, and doubting if to float,--

XXV.

With a bunch of dewy maple, which her right hand held above her,
And which trembled a green shadow in betwixt her and the skies,
As she turned her face in going, thus, she drew me on to love her,
And to worship the divineness of the smile hid in her eyes.

XXVI.

For her eyes alone smile constantly; her lips have serious sweetness,
And her front is calm, the dimple rarely ripples on the cheek;
But her deep blue eyes smile constantly, as if they in discreetness
Kept the secret of a happy dream she did not care to speak.

XXVII.

Thus she drew me the first morning, out across into the garden,
And I walked among her noble friends and could not keep behind.
Spake she unto all and unto me--"Behold, I am the warden
Of the song-birds in these lindens, which are cages to their mind.

XXVIII.

"But within this swarded circle into which the lime-walk brings us,
Whence the beeches, rounded greenly, stand away in reverent fear,
I will let no music enter, saving what the fountain sings us
Which the lilies round the basin may seem pure enough to hear.

XXIX.

"The live air that waves the lilies waves the slender jet of water
Like a holy thought sent feebly up from soul of fasting saint:
Whereby lies a marble Silence, sleeping (Lough the sculptor wrought
her),
So asleep she is forgetting to say Hush! --a fancy quaint.

XXX.

"Mark how heavy white her eyelids! not a dream between them lingers;
And the left hand's index droppeth from the lips upon the cheek:
While the right hand,--with the symbol-rose held slack within the
fingers,--
Has fallen backward in the basin--yet this Silence will not speak!

XXXI.

"That the essential meaning growing may exceed the special symbol,
Is the thought as I conceive it: it applies more high and low.
Our true noblemen will often through right nobleness grow humble,
And assert an inward honour by denying outward show. "

XXXII.

"Nay, your Silence," said I, "truly, holds her symbol-rose but slackly,
Yet _she holds it_, or would scarcely be a Silence to our ken:
And your nobles wear their ermine on the outside, or walk blackly
In the presence of the social law as mere ignoble men.

XXXIII.

"Let the poets dream such dreaming! madam, in these British islands
'T is the substance that wanes ever, 't is the symbol that exceeds.
Soon we shall have nought but symbol: and, for statues like this
Silence,
Shall accept the rose's image--in another case, the weed's. "

XXXIV.

"Not so quickly," she retorted,--"I confess, where'er you go, you
Find for things, names--shows for actions, and pure gold for honour
clear:
But when all is run to symbol in the Social, I will throw you
The world's book which now reads dryly, and sit down with Silence
here. "

XXXV.

Half in playfulness she spoke, I thought, and half in indignation;
Friends, who listened, laughed her words off, while her lovers deemed
her fair:
A fair woman, flushed with feeling, in her noble-lighted station
Near the statue's white reposing--and both bathed in sunny air!

XXXVI.

With the trees round, not so distant but you heard their vernal murmur,
And beheld in light and shadow the leaves in and outward move,
And the little fountain leaping toward the sun-heart to be warmer,
Then recoiling in a tremble from the too much light above.

XXXVII.

'T is a picture for remembrance. And thus, morning after morning,
Did I follow as she drew me by the spirit to her feet.
Why, her greyhound followed also! dogs--we both were dogs for
scorning--
To be sent back when she pleased it and her path lay through the wheat.

XXXVIII.

And thus, morning after morning, spite of vows and spite of sorrow,
Did I follow at her drawing, while the week-days passed along,--
Just to feed the swans this noontide, or to see the fawns to-morrow,
Or to teach the hill-side echo some sweet Tuscan in a song.

XXXIX.

Ay, for sometimes on the hill-side, while we sate down in the gowans,
With the forest green behind us and its shadow cast before,
And the river running under, and across it from the rowans
A brown partridge whirring near us till we felt the air it bore,--

XL.

There, obedient to her praying, did I read aloud the poems
Made to Tuscan flutes, or instruments more various of our own;
Read the pastoral parts of Spenser, or the subtle interflowings
Found in Petrarch's sonnets--here's the book, the leaf is folded down!

XLI.

Or at times a modern volume, Wordsworth's solemn-thoughted idyl,
Howitt's ballad-verse, or Tennyson's enchanted reverie,--
Or from Browning some "Pomegranate," which, if cut deep down the
middle,
Shows a heart within blood-tinctured, of a veined humanity.

XLII.

Or at times I read there, hoarsely, some new poem of my making:
Poets ever fail in reading their own verses to their worth,
For the echo in you breaks upon the words which you are speaking,
And the chariot wheels jar in the gate through which you drive them
forth.

XLIII.

After, when we were grown tired of books, the silence round us flinging
A slow arm of sweet compression, felt with beatings at the breast
She would break out on a sudden in a gush of woodland singing,
Like a child's emotion in a god--a naiad tired of rest.

XLIV.

Oh, to see or hear her singing! scarce I know which is divinest,
For her looks sing too--she modulates her gestures on the tune,
And her mouth stirs with the song, like song; and when the notes are
finest,
'T is the eyes that shoot out vocal light and seem to swell them on.

XLV.

Then we talked--oh, how we talked! her voice, so cadenced in the
talking,
Made another singing--of the soul! a music without bars:
While the leafy sounds of woodlands, humming round where we were
walking,
Brought interposition worthy-sweet,--as skies about the stars.

XLVI.

And she spake such good thoughts natural, as if she always thought
them;
She had sympathies so rapid, open, free as bird on branch,
Just as ready to fly east as west, whichever way besought them,
In the birchen-wood a chirrup, or a cock-crow in the grange.

XLVII.

In her utmost lightness there is truth--and often she speaks lightly,
Has a grace in being gay which even mournful souls approve,
For the root of some grave earnest thought is understruck so rightly
As to justify the foliage and the waving flowers above.

XLVIII.

And she talked on--_we_ talked, rather! upon all things, substance,
shadow,
Of the sheep that browsed the grasses, of the reapers in the corn,
Of the little children from the schools, seen winding through the
meadow,
Of the poor rich world beyond them, still kept poorer by its scorn.

XLIX.

So, of men, and so, of letters--books are men of higher stature,
And the only men that speak aloud for future times to hear;
So, of mankind in the abstract, which grows slowly into nature,
Yet will lift the cry of "progress," as it trod from sphere to sphere.

L.

And her custom was to praise me when I said,--"The Age culls simples,
With a broad clown's back turned broadly to the glory of the stars.
We are gods by our own reck'ning, and may well shut up the temples,
And wield on, amid the incense-steam, the thunder of our cars.

LI.

"For we throw out acclamations of self-thanking, self admiring,
With, at every mile run faster,--'O the wondrous wondrous age! '
Little thinking if we work our SOULS as nobly as our iron,
Or if angels will commend us at the goal of pilgrimage.

LII.

"Why, what _is_ this patient entrance into nature's deep resources
But the child's most gradual learning to walk upright without bane?
When we drive out, from the cloud of steam, majestical white horses,
Are we greater than the first men who led black ones by the mane?

LIII.

"If we trod the deeps of ocean, if we struck the stars in rising,
If we wrapped the globe intensely with one hot electric breath,
'T were but power within our tether, no new spirit-power comprising,
And in life we were not greater men, nor bolder men in death. "

LIV.

She was patient with my talking; and I loved her, loved her certes
As I loved all heavenly objects, with uplifted eyes and hands;
As I loved pure inspirations, loved the graces, loved the virtues,
In a Love content with writing his own name on desert sands.

LV.

Or at least I thought so, purely; thought no idiot Hope was raising
Any crown to crown Love's silence, silent Love that sate alone:
Out, alas! the stag is like me, he that tries to go on grazing
With the great deep gun-wound in his neck, then reels with sudden moan.

LVI.

It was thus I reeled. I told you that her hand had many suitors;
But she smiles them down imperially as Venus did the waves,
And with such a gracious coldness that they cannot press their futures
On the present of her courtesy, which yieldingly enslaves.

LVII.

And this morning as I sat alone within the inner chamber
With the great saloon beyond it, lost in pleasant thought serene,
For I had been reading Camoëns, that poem you remember,
Which his lady's eyes are praised in as the sweetest ever seen.

LVIII.

And the book lay open, and my thought flew from it, taking from it
A vibration and impulsion to an end beyond its own,
As the branch of a green osier, when a child would overcome it,
Springs up freely from his claspings and goes swinging in the sun.

LIX.

As I mused I heard a murmur; it grew deep as it grew longer,
Speakers using earnest language--"Lady Geraldine, you _would_! "
And I heard a voice that pleaded, ever on in accents stronger,
As a sense of reason gave it power to make its rhetoric good.

LX.

Well I knew that voice; it was an earl's, of soul that matched his
station,
Soul completed into lordship, might and right read on his brow;
Very finely courteous; far too proud to doubt his domination
Of the common people, he atones for grandeur by a bow.

LXI.

High straight forehead, nose of eagle, cold blue eyes of less
expression
Than resistance, coldly casting off the looks of other men,
As steel, arrows; unelastic lips which seem to taste possession
And be cautious lest the common air should injure or distrain.

LXII.

For the rest, accomplished, upright,--ay, and standing by his order
With a bearing not ungraceful; fond of art and letters too;
Just a good man made a proud man,--as the sandy rocks that border
A wild coast, by circumstances, in a regnant ebb and flow.

LXIII.

Thus, I knew that voice, I heard it, and I could not help the
hearkening:
In the room I stood up blindly, and my burning heart within
Seemed to seethe and fuse my senses till they ran on all sides
darkening,
And scorched, weighed like melted metal round my feet that stood
therein.

LXIV.

And that voice, I heard it pleading, for love's sake, for wealth,
position,
For the sake of liberal uses and great actions to be done:
And she interrupted gently, "Nay, my lord, the old tradition
Of your Normans, by some worthier hand than mine is, should be won. "

LXV.

"Ah, that white hand! " he said quickly,--and in his he either drew it
Or attempted--for with gravity and instance she replied,
"Nay, indeed, my lord, this talk is vain, and we had best eschew it
And pass on, like friends, to other points less easy to decide. "

LXVI.

What he said again, I know not: it is likely that his trouble
Worked his pride up to the surface, for she answered in slow scorn,
"And your lordship judges rightly. Whom I marry shall be noble,
Ay, and wealthy. I shall never blush to think how he was born. "

LXVII.

There, I maddened! her words stung me. Life swept through me into
fever,
And my soul sprang up astonished, sprang full-statured in an hour.
Know you what it is when anguish, with apocalyptic NEVER,
To a Pythian height dilates you, and despair sublimes to power?

LXVIII.

From my brain the soul-wings budded, waved a flame about my body,
Whence conventions coiled to ashes. I felt self-drawn out, as man,
From amalgamate false natures, and I saw the skies grow ruddy
With the deepening feet of angels, and I knew what spirits can.

LXIX.

I was mad, inspired--say either! (anguish worketh inspiration)
Was a man or beast--perhaps so, for the tiger roars when speared;
And I walked on, step by step along the level of my passion--
Oh my soul! and passed the doorway to her face, and never feared.

LXX.

_He_ had left her, peradventure, when my footstep proved my coming,
But for _her_--she half arose, then sate, grew scarlet and grew pale.
Oh, she trembled! 't is so always with a worldly man or woman
In the presence of true spirits; what else _can_ they do but quail?

LXXI.

Oh, she fluttered like a tame bird, in among its forest-brothers
Far too strong for it; then drooping, bowed her face upon her hands;
And I spake out wildly, fiercely, brutal truths of her and others:
_I_, she planted in the desert, swathed her, windlike, with my sands.

LXXII.

I plucked up her social fictions, bloody-rooted though leaf-verdant,
Trod them down with words of shaming,--all the purple and the gold.
All the "landed stakes" and lordships, all that spirits pure and ardent
Are cast out of love and honour because chancing not to hold.

LXXIII.

"For myself I do not argue," said I, "though I love you, madam,
But for better souls that nearer to the height of yours have trod:
And this age shows, to my thinking, still more infidels to Adam
Than directly, by profession, simple infidels to God.

LXXIV.

"Yet, O God," I said, "O grave," I said, "O mother's heart and bosom,
With whom first and last are equal, saint and corpse and little child!
We are fools to your deductions, in these figments of heart-closing;
We are traitors to your causes, in these sympathies defiled.

LXXV.

"Learn more reverence, madam, not for rank or wealth--_that_ needs no
learning:
_That_ comes quickly, quick as sin does, ay, and culminates to sin;
But for Adam's seed, MAN! Trust me, 't is a clay above your scorning,
With God's image stamped upon it, and God's kindling breath within.

LXXVI.

"What right have you, madam, gazing in your palace mirror daily,
Getting so by heart your beauty which all others must adore,
While you draw the golden ringlets down your fingers, to vow gaily
You will wed no man that's only good to God, and nothing more?

LXXVII.

"Why, what right have you, made fair by that same God, the sweetest
woman
Of all women He has fashioned, with your lovely spirit-face
Which would seem too near to vanish if its smile were not so human,
And your voice of holy sweetness, turning common words to grace,--

LXXVIII.

"What right _can_ you have, God's other works to scorn, despise, revile
them
In the gross, as mere men, broadly--not as _noble_ men, forsooth,--
As mere Pariahs of the outer world, forbidden to assoil them
In the hope of living, dying, near that sweetness of your mouth?

LXXIX.

"Have you any answer, madam? If my spirit were less earthly,
If its instrument were gifted with a better silver string,
I would kneel down where I stand, and say--Behold me! I am worthy
Of thy loving, for I love thee. I am worthy as a king.

LXXX.

"As it is--your ermined pride, I swear, shall feel this stain upon her,
That _I_, poor, weak, tost with passion, scorned by me and you again,
Love you, madam, dare to love you, to my grief and your dishonour,
To my endless desolation, and your impotent disdain! "

LXXXI.

More mad words like these--mere madness! friend, I need not write them
fuller,
For I hear my hot soul dropping on the lines in showers of tears.
Oh, a woman! friend, a woman! why, a beast had scarce been duller
Than roar bestial loud complaints against the shining of the spheres.

LXXXII.

But at last there came a pause. I stood all vibrating with thunder
Which my soul had used. The silence drew her face up like a call.
Could you guess what word she uttered? She looked up, as if in wonder,
With tears beaded on her lashes, and said--"Bertram! "--It was all.

LXXXIII.

If she had cursed me, and she might have, or if even, with queenly
bearing
Which at need is used by women, she had risen up and said,
"Sir, you are my guest, and therefore I have given you a full hearing:
Now, beseech you, choose a name exacting somewhat less, instead! "--

LXXXIV.

I had borne it: but that "Bertram"--why, it lies there on the paper
A mere word, without her accent, and you cannot judge the weight
Of the calm which crushed my passion: I seemed drowning in a vapour;
And her gentleness destroyed me whom her scorn made desolate.

LXXXV.

So, struck backward and exhausted by that inward flow of passion
Which had rushed on, sparing nothing, into forms of abstract truth,
By a logic agonizing through unseemly demonstration,
And by youth's own anguish turning grimly grey the hairs of youth,--

LXXXVI.

By the sense accursed and instant, that if even I spake wisely
I spake basely--using truth, if what I spake indeed was true,
To avenge wrong on a woman--_her_, who sate there weighing nicely
A poor manhood's worth, found guilty of such deeds as I could do! --

LXXXVII.

By such wrong and woe exhausted--what I suffered and occasioned,--
As a wild horse through a city runs with lightning in his eyes,
And then dashing at a church's cold and passive wall, impassioned,
Strikes the death into his burning brain, and blindly drops and dies--

LXXXVIII.

So I fell, struck down before her--do you blame me, friend, for
weakness?
'T was my strength of passion slew me! --fell before her like a stone;
Fast the dreadful world rolled from me on its roaring wheels of
blackness:
When the light came I was lying in this chamber and alone.

LXXXIX.

Oh, of course she charged her lacqueys to bear out the sickly burden,
And to cast it from her scornful sight, but not _beyond_ the gate;
She is too kind to be cruel, and too haughty not to pardon
Such a man as I; 't were something to be level to her hate.

XC.

But for me--you now are conscious why, my friend, I write this letter,
How my life is read all backward, and the charm of life undone.
I shall leave her house at dawn; I would to-night, if I were better--
And I charge my soul to hold my body strengthened for the sun.

XCI.

When the sun has dyed the oriel, I depart, with no last gazes,
No weak moanings (one word only, left in writing for her hands),
Out of reach of all derision, and some unavailing praises,
To make front against this anguish in the far and foreign lands.

XCII.

Blame me not. I would not squander life in grief--I am abstemious.
I but nurse my spirit's falcon that its wing may soar again.
There's no room for tears of weakness in the blind eyes of a Phemius:
Into work the poet kneads them, and he does not die _till then_.


CONCLUSION.

I.

Bertram finished the last pages, while along the silence ever
Still in hot and heavy splashes fell the tears on every leaf.
Having ended, he leans backward in his chair, with lips that quiver
From the deep unspoken, ay, and deep unwritten thoughts of grief.

II.

Soh! how still the lady standeth! 'T is a dream--a dream of mercies!
'Twixt the purple lattice-curtains how she standeth still and pale!
'T is a vision, sure, of mercies, sent to soften his self curses,
Sent to sweep a patient quiet o'er the tossing of his wail.

III.

"Eyes," he said, "now throbbing through me!