No More Learning

. . what was it--an eyebrow? or, less still, a mole
on a cheek?

XXII.

"And since, when all's said, you're too noble to stoop to the
frivolous cant
About crimes irresistible, virtues that swindle, betray and
supplant,

XXIII.

"I determined to prove to yourself that, whate'er you might dream or
avow
By illusion, you wanted precisely no more of me than you have now.

XXIV.

"There! Look me full in the face! --in the face. Understand, if you
can,
That the eyes of such women as I am are clean as the palm of a man.

XXV.

"Drop his hand, you insult him. Avoid us for fear we should cost you
a scar--
You take us for harlots, I tell you, and not for the women we are.

XXVI.

"You wronged me: but then I considered . . . there's Walter! And so at
the end
I vowed that he should not be mulcted, by me, in the hand of a
friend.

XXVII.

"Have I hurt you indeed? We are quits then. Nay, friend of my
Walter, be mine!
Come, Dora, my darling, my angel, and help me to ask him to dine. "




BIANCA AMONG THE NIGHTINGALES.


I.

The cypress stood up like a church
That night we felt our love would hold,
And saintly moonlight seemed to search
And wash the whole world clean as gold;
The olives crystallized the vales'
Broad slopes until the hills grew strong:
The fire-flies and the nightingales
Throbbed each to either, flame and song.
The nightingales, the nightingales!

II.

Upon the angle of its shade
The cypress stood, self-balanced high;
Half up, half down, as double-made,
Along the ground, against the sky;
And _we_, too! from such soul-height went
Such leaps of blood, so blindly driven,
We scarce knew if our nature meant
Most passionate earth or intense heaven
The nightingales, the nightingales!

III.

We paled with love, we shook with love,
We kissed so close we could not vow;
Till Giulio whispered "Sweet, above
God's Ever guaranties this Now. "
And through his words the nightingales
Drove straight and full their long clear call,
Like arrows through heroic mails,
And love was awful in it all.
The nightingales, the nightingales!

IV.

O cold white moonlight of the north,
Refresh these pulses, quench this hell!
O coverture of death drawn forth
Across this garden-chamber . . . well!
But what have nightingales to do
In gloomy England, called the free . . .
(Yes, free to die in! . . . ) when we two
Are sundered, singing still to me?
And still they sing, the nightingales!

V.

I think I hear him, how he cried
"My own soul's life! " between their notes.
Each man has but one soul supplied,
And that's immortal. Though his throat's
On fire with passion now, to _her_
He can't say what to me he said!
And yet he moves her, they aver.
The nightingales sing through my head,--
The nightingales, the nightingales!

VI.

He says to her what moves her most.
He would not name his soul within
Her hearing,--rather pays her cost
With praises to her lips and chin.
Man has but one soul, 't is ordained,
And each soul but one love, I add;
Yet souls are damned and love's profaned;
These nightingales will sing me mad!
The nightingales, the nightingales!

VII.

I marvel how the birds can sing.
There's little difference, in their view,
Betwixt our Tuscan trees that spring
As vital flames into the blue,
And dull round blots of foliage meant,
Like saturated sponges here,
To suck the fogs up. As content
Is he too in this land, 't is clear.
And still they sing, the nightingales.

VIII.

My native Florence! dear, forgone!
I see across the Alpine ridge
How the last feast-day of Saint John
Shot rockets from Carraia bridge.
The luminous city, tall with fire,
Trod deep down in that river of ours,
While many a boat with lamp and choir
Skimmed birdlike over glittering towers.
I will not hear these nightingales.

IX.

I seem to float, _we_ seem to float
Down Arno's stream in festive guise;
A boat strikes flame into our boat,
And up that lady seems to rise
As then she rose. The shock had flashed
A vision on us! What a head,
What leaping eyeballs! --beauty dashed
To splendour by a sudden dread.
And still they sing, the nightingales.

X.

Too bold to sin, too weak to die;
Such women are so. As for me,
I would we had drowned there, he and I,
That moment, loving perfectly.
He had not caught her with her loosed
Gold ringlets . . . rarer in the south . . .
Nor heard the "Grazie tanto" bruised
To sweetness by her English mouth.
And still they sing, the nightingales.

XI.

She had not reached him at my heart
With her fine tongue, as snakes indeed
Kill flies; nor had I, for my part,
Yearned after, in my desperate need,
And followed him as he did her
To coasts left bitter by the tide,
Whose very nightingales, elsewhere
Delighting, torture and deride!
For still they sing, the nightingales.

XII.

A worthless woman; mere cold clay
As all false things are: but so fair,
She takes the breath of men away
Who gaze upon her unaware.
I would not play her larcenous tricks
To have her looks! She lied and stole,
And spat into my love's pure pyx
The rank saliva of her soul.
And still they sing, the nightingales.

XIII.

I would not for her white and pink,
Though such he likes--her grace of limb,
Though such he has praised--nor yet, I think.
For life itself, though spent with him,
Commit such sacrilege, affront
God's nature which is love, intrude
'Twixt two affianced souls, and hunt
Like spiders, in the altar's wood.
I cannot bear these nightingales.

XIV.

If she chose sin, some gentler guise
She might have sinned in, so it seems:
She might have pricked out both my eyes,
And I still seen him in my dreams!
--Or drugged me in my soup or wine,
Nor left me angry afterward:
To die here with his hand in mine,
His breath upon me, were not hard.
(Our Lady hush these nightingales! )

XV.

But set a springe for _him_, "mio ben,"
My only good, my first last love! --
Though Christ knows well what sin is, when
He sees some things done they must move
Himself to wonder. Let her pass.
I think of her by night and day.
Must _I_ too join her . . . out, alas! . . .
With Giulio, in each word I say?
And evermore the nightingales!

XVI.

Giulio, my Giulio! --sing they so,
And you be silent? Do I speak,
And you not hear? An arm you throw
Round someone, and I feel so weak?
--Oh, owl-like birds! They sing for spite,
They sing for hate, they sing for doom,
They'll sing through death who sing through night,
They'll sing and stun me in the tomb--
The nightingales, the nightingales!




MY KATE.


I.

She was not as pretty as women I know,
And yet all your best made of sunshine and snow
Drop to shade, melt to nought in the long-trodden ways,
While she's still remembered on warm and cold days--
My Kate.

II.

Her air had a meaning, her movements a grace;
You turned from the fairest to gaze on her face:
And when you had once seen her forehead and mouth,
You saw as distinctly her soul and her truth--
My Kate.

III.

Such a blue inner light from her eyelids outbroke,
You looked at her silence and fancied she spoke:
When she did, so peculiar yet soft was the tone,
Though the loudest spoke also, you heard her alone--
My Kate.

IV.

I doubt if she said to you much that could act
As a thought or suggestion: she did not attract
In the sense of the brilliant or wise: I infer
'T was her thinking of others made you think of her--
My Kate.

V.

She never found fault with you, never implied
Your wrong by her right; and yet men at her side
Grew nobler, girls purer, as through the whole town
The children were gladder that pulled at her gown--
My Kate.

VI.

None knelt at her feet confessed lovers in thrall;
They knelt more to God than they used,--that was all:
If you praised her as charming, some asked what you meant,
But the charm of her presence was felt when she went--
My Kate.

VII.

The weak and the gentle, the ribald and rude,
She took as she found them, and did them all good;
It always was so with her--see what you have!
She has made the grass greener even here . . . with her grave--
My Kate.

VIII.

My dear one! --when thou wast alive with the rest,
I held thee the sweetest and loved thee the best:
And now thou art dead, shall I not take thy part
As thy smiles used to do for thyself, my sweet Heart--
My Kate?




A SONG FOR THE RAGGED SCHOOL OF LONDON.

WRITTEN IN ROME.


I.

I am listening here in Rome.
"England's strong," say many speakers,
"If she winks, the Czar must come,
Prow and topsail, to the breakers. "

II.

"England's rich in coal and oak,"
Adds a Roman, getting moody;
"If she shakes a travelling cloak,
Down our Appian roll the scudi. "

III.

"England's righteous," they rejoin:
"Who shall grudge her exaltations
When her wealth of golden coin
Works the welfare of the nations? "

IV.

I am listening here in Rome.
Over Alps a voice is sweeping--
"England's cruel, save us some
Of these victims in her keeping! "

V.

As the cry beneath the wheel
Of an old triumphant Roman
Cleft the people's shouts like steel,
While the show was spoilt for no man,

VI.

Comes that voice. Let others shout,
Other poets praise my land here:
I am sadly sitting out,
Praying, "God forgive her grandeur. "

VII.

Shall we boast of empire, where
Time with ruin sits commissioned?
In God's liberal blue air
Peter's dome itself looks wizened;

VIII.

And the mountains, in disdain,
Gather back their lights of opal
From the dumb despondent plain
Heaped with jawbones of a people.

IX.

Lordly English, think it o'er,
Cæsar's doing is all undone!
You have cannons on your shore,
And free Parliaments in London;

X.

Princes' parks, and merchants' homes,
Tents for soldiers, ships for seamen,--
Ay, but ruins worse than Rome's
In your pauper men and women.

XI.

Women leering through the gas
(Just such bosoms used to nurse you),
Men, turned wolves by famine--pass!
Those can speak themselves, and curse you.

XII.

But these others--children small,
Spilt like blots about the city,
Quay, and street, and palace-wall--
Take them up into your pity!

XIII.

Ragged children with bare feet,
Whom the angels in white raiment
Know the names of, to repeat
When they come on you for payment.

XIV.

Ragged children, hungry-eyed,
Huddled up out of the coldness
On your doorsteps, side by side,
Till your footman damns their boldness.

XV.

In the alleys, in the squares,
Begging, lying little rebels;
In the noisy thoroughfares,
Struggling on with piteous trebles.

XVI.

Patient children--think what pain
Makes a young child patient--ponder!
Wronged too commonly to strain
After right, or wish, or wonder.

XVII.

Wicked children, with peaked chins,
And old foreheads! there are many
With no pleasures except sins,
Gambling with a stolen penny.

XVIII.

Sickly children, that whine low
To themselves and not their mothers,
From mere habit,--never so
Hoping help or care from others.

XIX.

Healthy children, with those blue
English eyes, fresh from their Maker,
Fierce and ravenous, staring through
At the brown loaves of the baker.

XX.

I am listening here in Rome,
And the Romans are confessing,
"English children pass in bloom
All the prettiest made for blessing.

XXI.

"_Angli angeli!
_" (resumed
From the mediæval story)
"Such rose angelhoods, emplumed
In such ringlets of pure glory! "

XXII.

Can we smooth down the bright hair,
O my sisters, calm, unthrilled in
Our heart's pulses? Can we bear
The sweet looks of our own children,

XXIII.

While those others, lean and small,
Scurf and mildew of the city,
Spot our streets, convict us all
Till we take them into pity?

XXIV.

"Is it our fault? " you reply,
"When, throughout civilization,
Every nation's empery
Is asserted by starvation?

XXV.

"All these mouths we cannot feed,
And we cannot clothe these bodies. "
Well, if man's so hard indeed,
Let them learn at least what God is!

XXVI.

Little outcasts from life's fold,
The grave's hope they may be joined in
By Christ's covenant consoled
For our social contract's grinding.

XXVII.

If no better can be done,
Let us do but this,--endeavour
That the sun behind the sun
Shine upon them while they shiver!

XXVIII.

On the dismal London flags,
Through the cruel social juggle,
Put a thought beneath their rags
To ennoble the heart's struggle.

XXIX.

O my sisters, not so much
Are we asked for--not a blossom
From our children's nosegay, such
As we gave it from our bosom,--

XXX.

Not the milk left in their cup,
Not the lamp while they are sleeping,
Not the little cloak hung up
While the coat's in daily keeping,--

XXXI.

But a place in RAGGED SCHOOLS,
Where the outcasts may to-morrow
Learn by gentle words and rules
Just the uses of their sorrow.

XXXII.

O my sisters! children small,
Blue-eyed, wailing through the city--
Our own babes cry in them all:
Let us take them into pity.




MAY'S LOVE.

[Illustration: Handwritten Copy of Poem]


I.

You love all, you say,
Round, beneath, above me:
Find me then some way
Better than to love me,
Me, too, dearest May!

II.

O world-kissing eyes
Which the blue heavens melt to;
I, sad, overwise,
Loathe the sweet looks dealt to
All things--men and flies.

III.

You love all, you say:
Therefore, Dear, abate me
Just your love, I pray!
Shut your eyes and hate me--
Only _me_--fair May!




AMY'S CRUELTY.


I.

Fair Amy of the terraced house,
Assist me to discover
Why you who would not hurt a mouse
Can torture so your lover.

II.

You give your coffee to the cat,
You stroke the dog for coming,
And all your face grows kinder at
The little brown bee's humming.

III.

But when _he_ haunts your door . . . the town
Marks coming and marks going . . .
You seem to have stitched your eyelids down
To that long piece of sewing!

IV.

You never give a look, not you,
Nor drop him a "Good morning,"
To keep his long day warm and blue,
So fretted by your scorning.

V.

She shook her head--"The mouse and bee
For crumb or flower will linger:
The dog is happy at my knee,
The cat purrs at my finger.

VI.

"But _he_ . . . to _him_, the least thing given
Means great things at a distance;
He wants my world, my sun, my heaven,
Soul, body, whole existence.

VII.

"They say love gives as well as takes;
But I'm a simple maiden,--
My mother's first smile when she wakes
I still have smiled and prayed in.

VIII.

"I only know my mother's love
Which gives all and asks nothing;
And this new loving sets the groove
Too much the way of loathing.

IX.

"Unless he gives me all in change,
I forfeit all things by him:
The risk is terrible and strange--
I tremble, doubt, . . . deny him.

X.

"He's sweetest friend or hardest foe,
Best angel or worst devil;
I either hate or . . . love him so,
I can't be merely civil!

XI.

"You trust a woman who puts forth
Her blossoms thick as summer's?
You think she dreams what love is worth,
Who casts it to new-comers?

XII.

"Such love's a cowslip-ball to fling,
A moment's pretty pastime;
_I_ give . . . all me, if anything,
The first time and the last time.

XIII.

"Dear neighbour of the trellised house,
A man should murmur never,
Though treated worse than dog and mouse,
Till doated on for ever! "




MY HEART AND I.


I.

Enough! we're tired, my heart and I.
We sit beside the headstone thus,
And wish that name were carved for us.
The moss reprints more tenderly
The hard types of the mason's knife,
As heaven's sweet life renews earth's life
With which we're tired, my heart and I.

II.

You see we're tired, my heart and I.
We dealt with books, we trusted men,
And in our own blood drenched the pen,
As if such colours could not fly.
We walked too straight for fortune's end,
We loved too true to keep a friend;
At last we're tired, my heart and I.

III.

How tired we feel, my heart and I!
We seem of no use in the world;
Our fancies hang grey and uncurled
About men's eyes indifferently;
Our voice which thrilled you so, will let
You sleep; our tears are only wet:
What do we here, my heart and I?

IV.

So tired, so tired, my heart and I!
It was not thus in that old time
When Ralph sat with me 'neath the lime
To watch the sunset from the sky.
"Dear love, you're looking tired," he said;
I, smiling at him, shook my head:
'T is now we're tired, my heart and I.

V.

So tired, so tired, my heart and I!
Though now none takes me on his arm
To fold me close and kiss me warm
Till each quick breath end in a sigh
Of happy languor. Now, alone,
We lean upon this graveyard stone,
Uncheered, unkissed, my heart and I.

VI.

Tired out we are, my heart and I.
Suppose the world brought diadems
To tempt us, crusted with loose gems
Of powers and pleasures? Let it try.
We scarcely care to look at even
A pretty child, or God's blue heaven,
We feel so tired, my heart and I.

VII.

Yet who complains? My heart and I?
In this abundant earth no doubt
Is little room for things worn out:
Disdain them, break them, throw them by!
And if before the days grew rough
We _once_ were loved, used,--well enough,
I think, we've fared, my heart and I.




THE BEST THING IN THE WORLD.


What's the best thing in the world?
June-rose, by May-dew impearled;
Sweet south-wind, that means no rain;
Truth, not cruel to a friend;
Pleasure, not in haste to end;
Beauty, not self-decked and curled
Till its pride is over-plain;
Light, that never makes you wink;
Memory, that gives no pain;
Love, when, _so_, you're loved again.
What's the best thing in the world?
--Something out of it, I think.




WHERE'S AGNES?


I.

Nay, if I had come back so,
And found her dead in her grave,
And if a friend I know
Had said, "Be strong, nor rave:
She lies there, dead below:

II.

"I saw her, I who speak,
White, stiff, the face one blank:
The blue shade came to her cheek
Before they nailed the plank,
For she had been dead a week. "

III.

Why, if he had spoken so,
I might have believed the thing,
Although her look, although
Her step, laugh, voice's ring
Lived in me still as they do.

IV.

But dead that other way,
Corrupted thus and lost?
That sort of worm in the clay?
I cannot count the cost,
That I should rise and pay.

V.

My Agnes false? such shame?
She? Rather be it said
That the pure saint of her name
Has stood there in her stead,
And tricked you to this blame.

VI.

Her very gown, her cloak
Fell chastely: no disguise,
But expression! while she broke
With her clear grey morning-eyes
Full upon me and then spoke.

VII.

She wore her hair away
From her forehead,--like a cloud
Which a little wind in May
Peels off finely: disallowed
Though bright enough to stay.

VIII.

For the heavens must have the place
To themselves, to use and shine in,
As her soul would have her face
To press through upon mine, in
That orb of angel grace.

IX.

Had she any fault at all,
'T was having none, I thought too--
There seemed a sort of thrall;
As she felt her shadow ought to
Fall straight upon the wall.

X.

Her sweetness strained the sense
Of common life and duty;
And every day's expense
Of moving in such beauty
Required, almost, defence.

XI.

What good, I thought, is done
By such sweet things, if any?
This world smells ill i' the sun
Though the garden-flowers are many,--
_She_ is only one.

XII.

Can a voice so low and soft
Take open actual part
With Right,--maintain aloft
Pure truth in life or art,
Vexed always, wounded oft? --

XIII.

_She_ fit, with that fair pose
Which melts from curve to curve,
To stand, run, work with those
Who wrestle and deserve,
And speak plain without glose?

XIV.

But I turned round on my fear
Defiant, disagreeing--
What if God has set her here
Less for action than for Being? --
For the eye and for the ear.

XV.

Just to show what beauty may,
Just to prove what music can,--
And then to die away
From the presence of a man,
Who shall learn, henceforth, to pray?

XVI.

As a door, left half ajar
In heaven, would make him think
How heavenly-different are
Things glanced at through the chink,
Till he pined from near to far.

XVII.

That door could lead to hell?
That shining merely meant
Damnation? What! She fell
Like a woman, who was sent
Like an angel, by a spell?

XVIII.

She, who scarcely trod the earth,
Turned mere dirt? My Agnes,--mine!
Called so! felt of too much worth
To be used so! too divine
To be breathed near, and so forth!

XIX.

Why, I dared not name a sin
In her presence: I went round,
Clipped its name and shut it in
Some mysterious crystal sound,--
Changed the dagger for the pin.

XX.

Now you name herself _that word_?
O my Agnes! O my saint!
Then the great joys of the Lord
Do not last? Then all this paint
Runs off nature? leaves a board?

XXI.

Who's dead here? No, not she:
Rather I! or whence this damp
Cold corruption's misery?
While my very mourners stamp
Closer in the clods on me.

XXII.

And my mouth is full of dust
Till I cannot speak and curse--
Speak and damn him . . . "Blame's unjust"?
Sin blots out the universe,
All because she would and must?

XXIII.

She, my white rose, dropping off
The high rose-tree branch! and not
That the night-wind blew too rough,
Or the noon-sun burnt too hot,
But, that being a rose--'t was enough!

XXIV.

Then henceforth may earth grow trees!
No more roses! --hard straight lines
To score lies out! none of these
Fluctuant curves, but firs and pines,
Poplars, cedars, cypresses!




END OF THE FOURTH VOLUME.


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