Betrayal

(From 'A Faun's Holiday')


Meanwhile, though nations in distress
Cower at a comet's loveliness
Shaken across the midnight sky;
Though the wind roars, and Victory,
A virgin fierce, on vans of gold
Stoops through the cloud's white smother rolled
Over the armies' shock and flow
Across the broad green hills below,
Yet hovers and will not circle down
To cast t'ward one the leafy crown;
Though men drive galleys' golden beaks
To isles beyond the sunset peaks,
And cities on the sea behold
Whose walls are glass, whose gates are gold,
Whose turrets, risen in an hour,
Dazzle between the sun and shower,
Whose sole inhabitants are kings
Six cubits high with gryphon's wings
And beard and mien more glorious
Than Midas or Assaracus;
Though ...

The Day was dying; his breath
Wavered away in a hectic gleam;
And I said, if Life's a dream, and Death
And Love and all are dreams - I'll dream.

A mist came over the bay
Like as a dream would over an eye.
The mist was white and the dream was grey
And both contained a human cry,

The burthen whereof was "Love",
And it filled both mist and dream with pain,
And the hills below and the skies above
Were touched and uttered it back again.

The mist broke: down the rift
A kind ray shot from a holy star.
Then my dream did waver and break and lift -
Through it, O Love, shone thy face, afar.

So Boyhood sets: comes Youth,
A painful night of mists and dreams;
That broods till Love's exquisite truth,
The star of a morn-clear manhood, be...

How has New England's romance fled,
Even as a vision of the morning!
Its rites foredone, its guardians dead,
Its priestesses, bereft of dread,
Waking the veriest urchin's scorning!
Gone like the Indian wizard's yell
And fire-dance round the magic rock,
Forgotten like the Druid's spell
At moonrise by his holy oak!
No more along the shadowy glen
Glide the dim ghosts of murdered men;
No more the unquiet churchyard dead
Glimpse upward from their turfy bed,
Startling the traveller, late and lone;
As, on some night of starless weather,
They silently commune together,
Each sitting on his own head-stone
The roofless house, decayed, deserted,
Its living tenants all departed,
No longer rings with midnight revel
Of witch, or ghost, or goblin evil;

Token Flowers.


    Oh, not the daisy, for the love of God!
    Take not the daisy; let it bloom apace
    Untouch'd alike by splendour or disgrace
    Of party feud. Its stem is not a rod;
    And no one fears, or hates it, on the sod.
    It laughs, exultant, in the Morning's face,
    And everywhere doth fill a lowly place,
    Though fraught with favours for the darkest clod.
    'Tis said the primrose is a party flower,
    And means coercion, and the coy renown
    Of one who toil'd for country and for crown.
    This may be so! But, in my Lady...

Two loves I have of comfort and despair,
Which like two spirits do suggest me still:
The better angel is a man right fair,
The worser spirit a woman colour’d ill.
To win me soon to hell, my female evil,
Tempteth my better angel from my side,
And would corrupt my saint to be a devil,
Wooing his purity with her foul pride.
And whether that my angel be turn’d fiend,
Suspect I may, yet not directly tell;
But being both from me, both to each friend,
I guess one angel in another’s hell:
Yet this shall I ne’er know, but live in doubt,
Till my bad angel fire my good one out.

(It is supposed that Shadow-of-a-Leaf uses the word "clear" in a more ancient sense of "beautiful.")


As along a dark pine-bough, in slender white mystery
    The moon lay to listen, above the thick fern,
In a deep dreaming wood that is older than history
    I heard a lad sing, and I stilled me to learn;
So rarely he lilted his long-forgot litany,--
    Fall, April; fall, April, in dew on our dearth!
Bring balm, and bring poppy, bring deep sleepy dittany
    For Marian, our clear May, so long laid in earth.

Then I drew back the branches. I saw him that chanted it.
    I saw his fool's bauble. I knew his old grief.
I knew that old greenwood and the shadow that haunted it,--
    My fool, my lost jester, my Shadow-of-a-Leaf!
And "why," I said, "w...

    Hic pietatis honos? sic nos in sceptra reponis!

                                                VIRG.


Her Guilford clasps her, beautiful in death,
And with a kiss recalls her fleeting breath,
To tapers thus, which by a blast expire,
A lighted taper, touch'd, restores the fire:
She rear'd her swimming eye, and saw the light,
And Guilford too, or she had loath'd the sight:
Her father's death she bore, despis'd her own,
But now she must, she will, have leave to groan:
Ah! Guilford, she began, and would have spoke;
But sobs rush'd in, and ev'ry accent broke:
Reason itself, as gusts of passion blew,
Was ruffled in the tempest, and withdrew.
    So the youth lost his image in the well,
When tears upon the yielding surface fell.
The scatter'd fe...

At Fontainebleau, I saw a little bed
Fashioned of polished wood, with gold ornate,
Ambition, hope, and sorrow, ay, and hate
Once battled there, above a childish head,
And there in vain, grief wept, and memory plead
    It was so small! but Ah, dear God, how great
    The part it played in one sad woman's fate.
How wide the gloom, that narrow object shed.

The symbol of an over-reaching aim,
    The emblem of a devastated joy,
    It spoke of glory, and a blasted home:
Of fleeting honours, and disordered fame,
    And the lone passing of a fragile boy.

* * *

It was the cradle of the King of Rome.

Grant me a moment of peace,
Let me but open mine eyes,
Forgetting the empire of lies
And warfare’s majestic increase
Of national folly and hate;
Ere I return to my fate,
Grant me a moment of peace.

To what is I would turn from what seems
From a world where men fall and adore
The god that Fear shuddering bore
To Greed in the desert of dreams,
Unholy, inhuman, impure;
From the State to the loves that endure,
To what is I would turn from what seems.

No man has been richer than I,
Though he staggered with infinite gold
And bought of whatever is sold
Of the beauty that money can buy.
In the wealth that is lost in the mart
And is stored in the innermost heart
No man has been richer than I.

Humbly, a pilgrim, I stood,
W...

As yet a stranger to the gentle fires
That Amathusia's smiling Queen2 inspires,
Not seldom I derided Cupid's darts,
And scorn'd his claim to rule all human hearts.
Go, child, I said, transfix the tim'rous dove,
An easy conquest suits an infant Love;
Enslave the sparrow, for such prize shall be
Sufficient triumph to a Chief like thee;
Why aim thy idle arms at human kind?
Thy shafts prevail not 'gainst the noble mind.
The Cyprian3 heard, and, kindling into ire,
(None kindles sooner) burn'd with double fire.
It was the Spring, and newly risen day
Peep'd o'er the hamlets on the First of May;
My eyes too tender for the blaze of light,
Still sought the shelter of retiring night,
When Love approach'd, in painted plumes arrayed;
Th'insidious...

When the beautiful mountain ash is turning -
    As lovely a sight as the eyes desire;
When the leaves of the sumac bush are burning,
    Like the steady flame of a winter fire;
When the weeds by the roadside all grow golden,
    When maples are glowing and asters gleam,
It is then that the new is changed to the olden,
    And back to my heart comes the past like a dream.

Like a mirage I see the blue haze o'er me,
    The City of Youth that I left behind.
Oh! whitely its turrets are gleaming before me,
    And out of the window lean faces kind.
And I hear the echo of jubilant voices;
    There are cheeks of beauty and eyes of truth:
And every pulse in my heart rejoices -
    There's no other place like the City of Youth.

And lo! the City is full of...

I.

O’er the bare woods, whose outstretched hands
Plead with the leaden heavens in vain,
I see, beyond the valley lands,
The sea’s long level dim with rain.
Around me all things, stark and dumb,
Seem praying for the snows to come,
And, for the summer bloom and greenness gone,
With winter’s sunset lights and dazzling morn atone.

II.

Along the river’s summer walk,
The withered tufts of asters nod;
And trembles on its arid stalk
The boar plume of the golden-rod.
And on a ground of sombre fir,
And azure-studded juniper,
The silver birch its buds of purple shows,
And scarlet berries tell where bloomed the sweet wild-rose!

III.

With mingled sound of horns and bells,
A far-heard clang, the wild geese fly,
Storm-se...

Thy beauty hangs around thee like
Splendour around the moon -
Thy voice, as silver bells that strike
Upon

There lies afar behind a western hill
The Town without a Market, white and still;
For six feet long and not a third as high
Are those small habitations. There stood I,
Waiting to hear the citizens beneath
Murmur and sigh and speak through tongueless teeth.
When all the world lay burning in the sun
I heard their voices speak to me. Said one:
"Bright lights I loved and colours, I who find
That death is darkness, and has struck me blind."
Another cried: "I used to sing and play,
But here the world is silent, day by day."
And one: "On earth I could not see or hear,
But with my fingers touched what I was near,
And knew things round and soft, and brass from gold,
And dipped my hand in water, to feel cold,
And thought the grave would cure me, and was glad
When t...

In depth of loneliest wood, amid the din
Of midnight storm and thunder, spoke Despair,
While Horror, shuddering, heard that voice alone.
Oh! load of guilt! relentless misery!
Still, ever still the same where'er I fly;
No peace, no hope, not one poor moment's glimpse
Through all the blackness of eternity!
Monster of direst guilt! this mother's hand
Murder'd my babe, my new-born innocent.
I seek not mercy, no! long sought in vain
While conscience prey'd upon my secret heart,
Wasting its life in agonizing groans,
And floods of scalding tears, but now no more;
Those pangs are past, this heart is wither'd, dead!
Changed all to crime, all rottenness and stench;
'Twould taint creation were it not confined.
Parch'd are these eyes, their sorrows turn'd to ice,
A m...

Must I believe this beauty wholly gone
    That in her picture here so deathless seems,
And must I henceforth speak of her as one
    Tells of some face of legend or of dreams,
Still here and there remembered - scarce believed,
Or held the fancy of a heart bereaved.

So beautiful she - was; ah! "was," say I,
    Yet doubt her dead - I did not see her die.
Only by others borne across the sea
Came the incredible wild blasphemy
They called her death - as though it could be true
Of such an immortality as you!

True of these eyes that from her picture gaze,
    Serene, star-steadfast, as the heaven's own eyes;
Of that deep bosom, white as hawthorn sprays,
    Where my world-weary head forever lies;
True of these quiet hands, so marble-cool,
Still on ...

Christ stands at the bar of the world to-day,
As He stood in the days of old.
And still, as then, we do betray
Our Lord for greed of gold.

When our every deed and word and thought
Should our fealty proclaim,
Full oft we bring His name to nought
And cover Him with shame.

Not alone did Judas his Master sell,
Nor Peter his Lord deny,
Each one who doth His love repel,
Or at His guidance doth rebel,
Doth the Lord Christ crucify.

Like the men of old, we vote His death,
Lest His life should interfere
With the things we have, or the things we crave,
Or the things we hold more dear.

Christ stands at the bar of the world to-day,
As He stood in the days of old.
Let each man tax his soul and say,--
"Shall I again my Lord betray<...

Could I divine how her gray eyes
Gat such cold haughtiness of skies;

How, some wood-flower's shadow brown,
Dimmed her fair forehead's wrath a frown;

How, rippled sunshine blown thro' air,
Tossed scorn her eloquence of hair;

How to a folded bud again
She drew her blossomed lips' disdain;

Naught deigning save eyes' utterance,
Star-words, which quicker reach the sense;

Then, afterwards, how melted there
The austere woman to one tear;

Then were I wise to know how grew
This star-stained miracle of blue,
How God makes wild flowers out of dew.