O DEATH WHERE IS THY STING?
She sleepeth: would ye wake her if ye could?
Is her face sad that ye should pity her?
Did Death come to her like a messenger
From a far land where is not any good?
I tell ye nay: but, having understood
That God is Love, Death was her harbinger
[The rest of the manuscript is missing from the notebook.]
UNDINE
She did not answer him again
But walked straight to the door;
Her hand nor trembled on the lock,
Nor her foot on the floor,
But as she stood up steadily
She turned, and looked once more.
She turned, and looked on him once more:
Her face was very pale;
And from her forehead her long hair
Fell back like a thick veil;
But, though her lips grew white, the fire
Of her eyes did not fail.
Then as she fixed her eyes on him
Old thoughts came back again
Of the dear rambles long ago
Through meadow-land and lane,
When all the woods were full of flowers,
And all the fields of grain.
When all the birds were full of song
Except the turtle dove;
And that sat cooing tenderly
In the green boughs above;
When they hoped the same hopes, and when
He told her of his love.
Old memories came back to her
Of what once made her glad,
Till her heart seemed to stand quite still,
And every pulse she had:
Then the blood rose up to her brain
And she was almost mad.
Yet still she stood there steadily
And looked him in the face;
There was no tear upon her cheek;
Upon her brow no trace
Of the agonizing strife within,
The shame and the disgrace.
And so she stayed a little while
Until she turned once more,
Without a single sob or sigh;
But her heart felt quite sore:
The spirit had been broken, and
The hope of life was o’er.
LADY MONTREVOR
(See Maturin’s “Wild Irish Boy.”)
I do not look for love that is a dream:
I only seek for courage to be still;
To bear my grief with an unbending will,
And when I am a-weary not to seem.
Let the round world roll on; let the sun beam;
Let the wind blow, and let the rivers fill
The everlasting sea; and on the hill
The palms almost touch heaven, as children deem.
And though young Spring and Summer pass away,
And Autumn and cold Winter come again;
And though my soul, being tired of its pain,
Pass from the ancient earth; and though my clay
Return to dust; my tongue shall not complain:
No man shall mock me after this my day.
FLORAL TEACHING
O ye red-blushing summer roses, ye
Who are like queens, crowned with a rich perfume,
In whose deep heart there is no shade of gloom,
Who are a pasture for the honey-bee;
Surely your days and nights pass happily:
And when the earth, your mother, doth resume
Your little lives, do ye not think the tomb
Is full of soft leaves and looks pleasantly?
So be it with me: through life so may I deem
That this world’s course is ordered well, and give
My help to others and my loving heed.
Then when the day comes that it is decreed
I am to die, may I not cease to live,
But rest awhile waiting the morning beam.
DEATH IS SWALLOWED UP IN VICTORY
“Tell me: doth it not grieve thee to lie here,
And see the cornfields waving not for thee,
Just in the waxing Summer of the year?”
“I fade from earth; and lo! along with me
The season that I love will fade away:
How should I look for Autumn longingly?”
“Yet Autumn beareth fruit whilst day by day
The leaves grow browner with a mellow hue,
Declining to a beautiful decay.”
“Decay is death, with which I have to do,
And see it near; behold, it is more good
Than length of days and length of sorrow too.”
“But thy heart hath not dwelt in solitude:
Many have loved and love thee; dost not heed
Free love, for which in vain have others sued?”
“I thirst for love, love is mine only need,
Love such as none hath borne me, nor can bear,
True love that prompteth thought and word and deed.”
“Here it is not: why seek it otherwhere?
Nay, bow thy head, and own that on this earth
Are many goodly things, and sweet, and fair.”
“There are tears in man’s laughter; in his mirth
There is a fearful forward look; and lo!
An infant’s cry gives token of its birth.”
“I mark the ocean of Time ebb and flow:
He who hath care one day, and is perplext
Tomorrow may have joy in place of woe.”
“Evil becomes good; and to this annext
Good becomes evil; speak of it no more;
My heart is wearied and my spirit vext.”
“Is there no place it grieves thee to give o’er?
Is there no home thou lov’st, and so wouldst fain
Tarry a little longer at the door?”
“I must go hence and not return again;
But the friends whom I have shall come to me,
And dwell together with me safe from pain.”
“Where is that mansion mortals cannot see?
Behold the tombs are full of worms; shalt thou
Rise thence and soar up skywards gloriously?”
“Even as the planets shine we know not how,
We shall be raised then; changed, yet still the same;
Being made like Christ; yea, being as He is now.”
“Thither thou goest whence no man ever came:
Death’s voyagers return not; and in Death
There is no room for speech or sigh or fame.”
“There is room for repose that comforteth;
There weariness is not; and there content
Broodeth forever, and hope hovereth.”
“When the stars fall, and when the graves are rent,
Shalt thou have safety? shalt thou look for life
When the great light of the broad sun is spent?”
“These elements shall consummate their strife,
This heaven and earth shall shrivel like a scroll
And then be re-created, beauty-rife.”
“Who shall abide it when from pole to pole
The world’s foundations shall be overthrown?
Who shall abide to scan the perfect whole?”
“He who hath strength given to him, not his own;
He who hath faith in that which is not seen,
And patient hope; who trusts in love alone.”
“Yet thou! the death-struggle must intervene
Ere thou win rest; think better of it; think
Of all that is and shall be, and hath been.”
“The cup my Father giveth me to drink,
Shall I not take it meekly? though my heart
Tremble a moment, it shall never shrink.”
“Satan will wrestle with thee, when thou art
In the last agony; and Death will bring
Sins to remembrance ere thy spirit part.”
“In that great hour of unknown suffering
God shall be with me, and His arm made bare
Shall fight for me: yea, underneath His wing
I shall lie safe at rest and freed from care.”
DEATH
“The grave-worm revels now”
Upon the pure white brow,
And on the eyes so dead and dim,
And on each putrifying limb,
And on the neck ‘neath the long hair;
Now from the rosy lips
He damp corruption sips,
Banqueting everywhere.
Creeping up and down through the silken tresses
That once were smoothed by her husband’s caresses,
In her mouth, and on her breast
Where the babe might never rest
In giving birth to whom she lost her life;
She gave all and she gave in vain,
Nor saw the purchase of her pain,
Poor mother and poor wife.
Was she too young to die?
Nay, young in sorrow and in years,
Her heart was old in faith and love;
Her eyes were ever fixed above,
They were not dimmed by tears.
And as the time went swiftly by
She was even as a stately palm
Beside still waters, where a dove
Broodeth in perfect calm.
Yea, she was as a gentle breeze
To which a thousand tones are given;
To tell of freshness to the trees,
Of roses to the honey-bees,
Of Summer to the distant seas,
And unto all of Heaven.
They rest together in one grave,
The mother and her infant child,
The holy and the undefiled:
Let none weep that ye could not save
So much of beauty from the earth;
It is not death ye see, though they
Pass into foulness and decay;
It is the second birth.
A HOPELESS CASE
(Nydia.)
All night I dream of that which cannot be:
And early in the morning I awake
My whole heart saddened for a vision’s sake.
I in my sleep have joy; but woe is me!
Thro’ the long day the shadowy pleasures flee
And are not: wherefore I would gladly take
Some warm and poppied potion that might make
My slumbers long which pass so pleasantly.
And if I slept and never woke again,
But dreamed on with a happy consciousness
Of grass and flowers and perfect rest from pain,
I would leave hope a thousand times found vain,
And own a twilight solitude doth bless
Shut in from cold and wind and storm of rain.
ELLEN MIDDLETON
Raise me; undraw the curtain; that is well.
Put up the casement; I would see once more
The golden sun-set flooding sea and shore;
And hearken to the solemn evening-bell
That ringeth out my spirit like a knell.
The tree of love a bitter fruitage bore,
Sweet at the rind but rotten at the core,
Pointing to heaven and bringing down to hell.
I will not name His name, lest the young life
That dieth at my heart should live again;
Strengthening me to renew the weary strife
That ceaseth, — is this death? It is not pain.
Write on my grave: Here lieth a lone wife
Whose faith was hidden and whose love was vain.
ST. ANDREW’S CHURCH
I listen to the holy antheming
That riseth in thy walls continually,
What while the organ pealeth solemnly
And white-robed men and boys stand up to sing.
I ask my heart with a sad questioning:
“What lov’st thou here?” and my heart answers me:
“Within the shadows of this sanctuary
To watch and pray is a most blessed thing.”
To watch and pray, false heart? it is not so:
Vanity enters with thee, and thy love
Soars not to Heaven, but grovelleth below.
Vanity keepeth guard, lest good should reach
Thy hardness; not the echoes from above
Can rule thy stubborn feelings or can teach.
GROWN COLD.: SONNET
An old man asked me: What is Love? I turned
In mirth away, and would not answer him;
He filled a cup of wine up to the brim,
And yet no sparkling in its depths discerned.
Methought a death fire in his weak eyes burned
While he beholding brightness called it dim;
He sat and chuckled: ‘twas a ghastly whim
In one whose spirit had so little learned.
So shall it be with me; but so not I
Shall question: certainly the blessèd thought
Of Love shall linger, when itself is gone.
Oh nest of thorns for dove to brood upon!
Oh painful throbbings of a heart untaught
To rest when all its gladness goeth by!
ZARA
(see Maturin’s “Women.”)
The pale sad face of her I wronged
Upbraids and follows me forever:
The silent mouth grows many-tongued
To chide me; like some solemn river
Whose every wave hath found a tone
To reason of one truth alone.
She loved and was beloved again:
Why did I spoil her paradise?
Oh fleeting joy and lasting pain!
Oh folly of the heart and eyes!
I loved him more than all; and he,
He also hath forsaken me.
How have I wearied thee false friend?
Answer me, wherein have I erred
That so our happy loves should end?
Was it in thought, or deed, or word?
My soul lay bare to thee; disclose
The hidden fountain of my woes.
The Lady Moon is all too bright
Loftily seated in the skies.
They say that love once dimmed her light,
But surely such are poets’ lies.
Who knoweth that she ever shone
On rosy cheeked Endymion?
Narcissus looked on his own shade,
And sickened for its loveliness.
Grasping, he saw its beauties fade
And stretch out into nothingness.
He died, rejecting his own good,
And Echo mourned in solitude.
But wherefore am I left alone?
What was my sin, to merit this?
Of all my friends there is not one
I slighted in my happiness,
My joyful days — oh, very white
One face pursues me day and night.
She loved him even as I love,
For she is dying for his sake.
Oh happy hope that looks above!
Oh happy heart that still can break!
I cannot die, though hope is dead;
He spurned me, and my heart but bled.
Therefore because she did not speak,
Being strong to die and make no sign;
Because her courage waxed not weak,
Strengthened with love as with new wine;
Because she stooped not while she bore,
He will return to her once more.
Perhaps he still may bring her health,
May call her colour back again;
While I shall pine in fame and wealth,
Owning that such as these are vain,
And envying her happier fate: —
And yet methinks it is too late.
Thou doubly false to her and me,
Boast of her death and my despair.
Boast if thou canst: on lan
d, on sea,
I will be with thee everywhere;
My soul, let loose by mine own deed,
Shall make thee fear who would’st not heed.
Come, thou glad hour of vengeance, come,
When I may dog him evermore,
May track him to his distant home:
Yea, though he flee from shore to shore
I will be there, the pallid ghost
Of love and hope for ever lost.
Old memories shall make him sad,
And thin his hair and change his mien;
He shall remember what he had,
And dream of what he might have been,
Till he shall long for death; yet shrink
From the cold cup that I shall drink.
Who drinketh of that potent draught
May never set it down again.
What matter if one wept or laughed?
It killeth joy and numbeth pain:
It hath sleep for the sorrowful,
And for the sick a perfect lull.
A drowsy lull, a heavy sleep:
Haply it may give such to me:
And if my grave place were dug deep
Beneath the cold earth, verily
Such quietness I would not break,
Not for my cherished vengeance’ sake.
Bring me the cup: behold, I choose
For all my portion nothingness.
Bring me the cup: I would not lose
One drop of its forgetfulness.
On the grave brink I turn and think
Of thee, before I stoop to drink.
When the glad Summer time is past
Shalt thou not weary of thy life
And turn to seek that home at last
Where never enters fear nor strife?
Yea, at length, in the Autumn weather,
Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Christina Rossetti Page 60