Let it stay in the grave, that the ghosts may know!
Leave my poor gold hair alone!’
VIII
The passion thus vented, dead lay she;
Her parents sobbed their worst on that;
All friends joined in, nor observed degree:
For indeed the hair was to wonder at,
[40] As it spread – not flowing free,
IX
But curled around her brow, like a crown,
And coiled beside her cheeks, like a cap,
And calmed about her neck – ay, down
To her breast, pressed flat, without a gap
I’ the gold, it reached her gown.
X
All kissed that face, like a silver wedge
’Mid the yellow wealth, nor disturbed its hair:
E’en the priest allowed death’s privilege,
As he planted the crucifix with care
[50] On her breast, ’twixt edge and edge.
XI
And thus was she buried, inviolate
Of body and soul, in the very space
By the altar; keeping saintly state
In Pornic church, for her pride of race,
Pure life and piteous fate.
XII
And in after-time would your fresh tear fall,
Though your mouth might twitch with a dubious smile,
As they told you of gold, both robe and pall,
How she prayed them leave it alone awhile,
[60] So it never was touched at all.
XIII
Years flew; this legend grew at last
The life of the lady; all she had done,
All been, in the memories fading fast
Of lover and friend, was summed in one
Sentence survivors passed:
XIV
To wit, she was meant for heaven, not earth;
Had turned an angel before the time:
Yet, since she was mortal, in such dearth
Of frailty, all you could count a crime
[70] Was – she knew her gold hair’s worth.
XV
At little pleasant Pornic church,
It chanced, the pavement wanted repair,
Was taken to pieces: left in the lurch,
A certain sacred space lay bare,
And the boys began research.
XVI
’Twas the space where our sires would lay a saint,
A benefactor, – a bishop, suppose,
A baron with armour-adornments quaint,
Dame with chased ring and jewelled rose,
[80] Things sanctity saves from taint;
XVII
So we come to find them in after-days
When the corpse is presumed to have done with gauds
Of use to the living, in many ways:
For the boys get pelf, and the town applauds,
And the church deserves the praise.
XVIII
They grubbed with a will: and at length – O cor
Humanum, pectora caeca, and the rest! –
They found – no gaud they were prying for,
No ring, no rose, but – who would have guessed? –
[90] A double Louis-d’or!
XIX
Here was a case for the priest: he heard,
Marked, inwardly digested, laid
Finger on nose, smiled, ‘There’s a bird
Chirps in my ear’: then, ‘Bring a spade,
Dig deeper!’ – he gave the word.
XX
And lo, when they came to the coffin-lid,
Or rotten planks which composed it once,
Why, there lay the girl’s skull wedged amid
A mint of money, it served for the nonce
[100] To hold in its hair-heaps hid!
XXI
Hid there? Why? Could the girl be wont
(She the stainless soul) to treasure up
Money, earth’s trash and heaven’s affront?
Had a spider found out the communion-cup,
Was a toad in the christening-font?
XXII
Truth is truth: too true it was.
Gold! She hoarded and hugged it first,
Longed for it, leaned o’er it, loved it – alas –
Till the humour grew to a head and burst,
[110] And she cried, at the final pass, –
XXIII
‘Talk not of God, my heart is stone!
Nor lover nor friend – be gold for both!
Gold I lack; and, my all, my own,
It shall hide in my hair. I scarce die loth
If they let my hair alone!’
XXIV
Louis-d’or, some six times five,
And duly double, every piece.
Now do you see? With the priest to shrive,
With parents preventing her soul’s release
[120] By kisses that kept alive, –
XXV
With heaven’s gold gates about to ope,
With friends’ praise, gold-like, lingering still,
An instinct had bidden the girl’s hand grope
For gold, the true sort – ‘Gold in heaven, if you will;
But I keep earth’s too, I hope.’
XXVI
Enough! The priest took the grave’s grim yield:
The parents, they eyed that price of sin
As if thirty pieces lay revealed
On the place to bury strangers in,
[130] The hideous Potter’s Field.
XXVII
But the priest bethought him: ‘“Milk that’s spilt”
– You know the adage! Watch and pray!
Saints tumble to earth with so slight a tilt!
It would build a new altar; that, we may!’
And the altar therewith was built.
XXVIII
Why I deliver this horrible verse?
As the text of a sermon, which now I preach:
Evil or good may be better or worse
In the human heart, but the mixture of each
[140] Is a marvel and a curse.
XXIX
The candid incline to surmise of late
That the Christian faith proves false, I find;
For our Essays-and-Reviews’ debate
Begins to tell on the public mind,
And Colenso’s words have weight:
XXX
I still, to suppose it true, for my part,
See reasons and reasons; this, to begin:
’Tis the faith that launched point-blank her dart
At the head of a lie – taught Original Sin,
[150] The Corruption of Man’s Heart.
Dîs Aliter Visum; or, Le Byron de Nos Jours
I
Stop, let me have the truth of that!
Is that all true? I say, the day
Ten years ago when both of us
Met on a morning, friends – as thus
We meet this evening, friends or what? –
II
Did you – because I took your arm
And sillily smiled, ‘A mass of brass
That sea looks, blazing underneath!’
While up the cliff-road edged with heath,
[10] We took the turns nor came to harm –
III
Did you consider ‘Now makes twice
That I have seen her, walked and talked
With this poor pretty thoughtful thing,
Whose worth I weigh: she tries to sing;
Draws, hopes in time the eye grows nice;
IV
‘Reads verse and thinks she understands;
Loves all, at any rate, that’s great,
Good, beautiful; but much as we
Down at the bath-house love the sea,
[20] Who breathe its salt and bruise its sands:
V
‘While … do but follow the fishing-gull
That flaps and floats from wave to cave!
There’s the sea-lover, fair my friend!
What then? Be patient, mark and mend!
Had you the making of your skull?’
VI
And did you, when we faced the church
With spire and sad slate roof, aloof
From human fellowship so far,
Where a few graveyard crosses are,
[30] And garlands for the swallows’ perch, –
VII
Did you determine, as we stepped
O’er the lone stone fence, ‘Let me get
Her for myself, and what’s the earth
With all its art, verse, music, worth –
Compared with love, found, gained, and kept?
VIII
‘Schumann’s our music-maker now;
Has his march-movement youth and mouth?
Ingres’s the modern man that paints;
Which will lean on me, of his saints?
[40] Heine for songs; for kisses, how?’
IX
And did you, when we entered, reached
The votive frigate, soft aloft
Riding on air this hundred years,
Safe-smiling at old hopes and fears, –
Did you draw profit while she preached?
X
Resolving, ‘Fools we wise men grow!
Yes, I could easily blurt out curt
Some question that might find reply
As prompt in her stopped lips, dropped eye,
[50] And rush of red to cheek and brow:
XI
‘Thus were a match made, sure and fast,
’Mid the blue weed-flowers round the mound
Where, issuing, we shall stand and stay
For one more look at baths and bay,
Sands, sea-gulls, and the old church last –
XII
‘A match ’twixt me, bent, wigged and lamed,
Famous, however, for verse and worse,
Sure of the Fortieth spare Arm-chair
When gout and glory seat me there,
[60] So, one whose love-freaks pass unblamed, –
XIII
‘And this young beauty, round and sound
As a mountain-apple, youth and truth
With loves and doves, at all events
With money in the Three per Cents;
Whose choice of me would seem profound:-
XIV
‘She might take me as I take her.
Perfect the hour would pass, alas!
Climb high, love high, what matter? Still,
Feet, feelings, must descend the hill:
[70] An hour’s perfection can’t recur.
XV
‘Then follows Paris and full time
For both to reason: “Thus with us!”
She’ll sigh, “Thus girls give body and soul
At first word, think they gain the goal,
When ’tis the starting-place they climb!
XVI
‘“My friend makes verse and gets renown;
Have they all fifty years, his peers?
He knows the world, firm, quiet and gay;
Boys will become as much one day:
[80] They’re fools; he cheats, with beard less brown.
XVII
‘“For boys say, Love me or I die!
He did not say, The truth is, youth
I want, who am old and know too much;
I’d catch youth: lend me sight and touch!
Drop heart’s blood where life’s wheels grate dry!”
XVIII
‘While I should make rejoinder’ – (then
It was, no doubt, you ceased that least
Light pressure of my arm in yours)
‘“I can conceive of cheaper cures
[90] For a yawning-fit o’er books and men.
XIX
‘“What? All I am, was, and might be,
All, books taught, art brought, life’s whole strife,
Painful results since precious, just
Were fitly exchanged, in wise disgust,
For two cheeks freshened by youth and sea?
XX
‘“All for a nosegay! – what came first;
With fields on flower, untried each side;
I rally, need my books and men,
And find a nosegay”: drop it, then,
[100] No match yet made for best or worst!’
XXI
That ended me. You judged the porch
We left by, Norman; took our look
At sea and sky, wondered so few
Find out the place for air and view;
Remarked the sun began to scorch;
XXII
Descended, soon regained the baths,
And then, good-bye! Years ten since then:
Ten years! We meet: you tell me, now,
By a window-seat for that cliff-brow,
[110] On carpet-stripes for those sand-paths.
XXIII
Now I may speak: you fool, for all
Your lore! Who made things plain in vain?
What was the sea for? What, the grey
Sad church, that solitary day,
Crosses and graves and swallows’ call?
XXIV
Was there naught better than to enjoy?
No feat which, done, would make time break,
And let us pent-up creatures through
Into eternity, our due?
[120] No forcing earth teach heaven’s employ?
XXV
No wise beginning, here and now,
What cannot grow complete (earth’s feat)
And heaven must finish, there and then?
No tasting earth’s true food for men,
Its sweet in sad, its sad in sweet?
XXVI
No grasping at love, gaining a share
O’ the sole spark from God’s life at strife
With death, so, sure of range above
The limits here? For us and love,
[130] Failure; but, when God fails, despair.
XXVII
This you call wisdom? Thus you add
Good unto good again, in vain?
You loved, with body worn and weak;
I loved, with faculties to seek:
Were both loves worthless since ill-clad?
XXVIII
Let the mere star-fish in his vault
Crawl in a wash of weed, indeed,
Rose-jacinth to the finger-tips:
He, whole in body and soul, outstrips
[140] Man, found with either in default.
XXIX
But what’s whole, can increase no more,
Is dwarfed and dies, since here’s its sphere.
The devil laughed at you in his sleeve!
You knew not? That I well believe;
Or you had saved two souls: nay, four.
XXX
For Stephanie sprained last night her wrist,
Ankle or something. ‘Pooh,’ cry you?
At any rate she danced, all say,
Vilely; her vogue has had its day.
[150] Here comes my husband from his whist.
A Death in the Desert
[Supposed of Pamphylax the Antiochene:
It is a parchment, of my rolls the fifth,
Hath three skins glued together, is all Greek
And goeth from Epsilon down to Mu:
Lies second in the surnamed Chosen Chest,
Stained and conserved with juice of terebinth,
Covered with cloth of hair, and lettered Xi,
From Xanthus, my wife’s uncle, now at peace:
Mu and Epsilon stand for my own name.
[10] I may not write it, but I make a cross
To show I wait His coming, with the rest,
And leave off here: beginneth Pamphylax.]
I said, ‘If one should wet his lips with wine,
And slip the broadest plantain-leaf we find,
Or else the lap
pet of a linen robe,
Into the water-vessel, lay it right,
And cool his forehead just above the eyes,
The while a brother, kneeling either side,
Should chafe each hand and try to make it warm, –
[20] He is not so far gone but he might speak.’
This did not happen in the outer cave,
Nor in the secret chamber of the rock
Where, sixty days since the decree was out,
We had him, bedded on a camel-skin,
And waited for his dying all the while;
But in the midmost grotto: since noon’s light
Reached there a little, and we would not lose
The last of what might happen on his face.
I at the head, and Xanthus at the feet,
[30] With Valens and the Boy, had lifted him,
And brought him from the chamber in the depths,
And laid him in the light where we might see:
For certain smiles began about his mouth,
And his lids moved, presageful of the end.
Beyond, and half way up the mouth o’ the cave,
The Bactrian convert, having his desire,
Kept watch, and made pretence to graze a goat
That gave us milk, on rags of various herb,
Plantain and quitch, the rocks’ shade keeps alive:
[40] So that if any thief or soldier passed,
(Because the persecution was aware)
Yielding the goat up promptly with his life,
Such man might pass on, joyful at a prize,
Nor care to pry into the cool o’ the cave.
Outside was all noon and the burning blue.
‘Here is wine,’ answered Xanthus, – dropped a drop;
I stooped and placed the lap of cloth aright,
Then chafed his right hand, and the Boy his left:
But Valens had bethought him, and produced
[50] And broke a ball of nard, and made perfume.
Only, he did – not so much wake, as – turn
And smile a little, as a sleeper does
If any dear one call him, touch his face –
And smiles and loves, but will not be disturbed.
Then Xanthus said a prayer, but still he slept:
It is the Xanthus that escaped to Rome,
Was burned, and could not write the chronicle.
Then the Boy sprang up from his knees, and ran,
Stung by the splendour of a sudden thought,
[60] And fetched the seventh plate of graven lead
Out of the secret chamber, found a place,
Pressing with finger on the deeper dints,
And spoke, as ’twere his mouth proclaiming first,
‘I am the Resurrection and the Life.’
Whereat he opened his eyes wide at once,
And sat up of himself, and looked at us;
And thenceforth nobody pronounced a word:
Only, outside, the Bactrian cried his cry
Like the lone desert-bird that wears the ruff,
Selected Poems (Penguin Classics) Page 14