”And bakes the bread, why lives it on,
”Poor and coarse with beauty gone, —
“What use survives the beauty?” Fool!
Go, little girl with the poor coarse hand!
I have my lesson, shall understand.
IX. — On Deck
I.
THERE is nothing to remember in me,
Nothing I ever said with a grace,
Nothing I did that you care to see,
Nothing I was that deserves a place
In your mind, now I leave you, set you free.
II.
Conceded! In turn, concede to me,
Such things have been as a mutual flame.
Your soul’s locked fast; but, love for a key,
You might let it loose, till I grew the same
In your eyes, as in mine you stand: strange plea!
III.
For then, then, what would it matter to me
That I was the harsh ill-favoured one?
We both should be like as pea and pea;
It was ever so since the world begun
So, let me proceed with my reverie.
IV.
How strange it were if you had all me,
As I have all you in my heart and brain,
You, whose least word brought gloom or glee,
Who never lifted the hand in vain —
Will hold mine yet, from over the sea!
V.
Strange, if a face, when you thought of me,
Rose like your own face present now,
With eyes as dear in their due degree,
Much such a mouth, and as bright a brow,
Till you saw yourself, while you cried “‘T is She!”
VI.
Well, you may, you must, set down to me
Love that was life, life that was love;
A tenure of breath at your lips’ decree,
A passion to stand as your thoughts approve,
A rapture to fall where your foot might be.
VII.
But did one touch of such love for me
Come in a word or a look of yours,
Whose words and looks will, circling, flee
Round me and round while life endures, —
Could I fancy “As I feel, thus feels he”;
VIII.
Why, fade you might to a thing like me,
And your hair grow these coarse hanks of hair,
Your skin, this bark of a gnarled tree — ,
You might turn myself! — should I know or care
When I should be dead of joy, James Lee?
Gold Hair
A STORY OF PORNIC
I.
OH, the beautiful girl, too white,
Who lived at Pornic, down by the sea,
Just where the sea and the Loire unite!
And a boasted name in Brittany
She bore, which I will not write.
II.
Too white, for the flower of life is red;
Her flesh was the soft seraphic screen
Of a soul that is meant (her parents said)
To just see earth, and hardly be seen,
And blossom in heaven instead.
III.
Yet earth saw one thing, one how fair!
One grace that grew to its full on earth
Smiles might be sparse on her cheek so spare,
And her waist want half a girdle’s girth,
But she had her great gold hair.
IV.
Hair, such a wonder of flix and floss,
Freshness and fragrance — floods of it, too!
Gold, did I say? Nay, gold’s mere dross:
Here, Life smiled, “Think what I meant to do!”
And Love sighed, “Fancy my loss!”
V.
So, when she died, it was scarce more strange
Than that, when delicate evening dies,
And you follow its spent sun’s pallid range,
There’s a shoot of colour startles the skies
With sudden, violent change, —
VI.
That, while the breath was nearly to seek,
As they put the little cross to her lips,
She changed; a spot came out on her cheek,
A spark from her eye in mid-eclipse,
And she broke forth, “I must speak!”
VII.
“Not my hair!” made the girl her moan —
”All the rest is gone or to go;
“But the last, last grace, my all, my own,
”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,
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
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,
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
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.
‘T was 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,
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 cœca, and the rest! —
They found — no gaud they were prying for,
No ring, no rose, but — who would have guessed? —
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
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,
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
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,
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
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:
‘T is the faith that launched point-blank her dart
At the head of a lie — taught Original Sin.
The Corruption of Man’s Heart.
The Worst of It
I.
WOULD it were I had been false, not you!
I that am nothing, not you that are all
I, never the worse for a touch or two
On my speckled hide; not you, the pride
Of the day, my swan, that a first fleck’s fall
On her wonder of white must unswan, undo!
II.
I had dipped in life’s struggle and, out again,
Bore specks of it here, there, easy to see,
When I found my swan and the cure was plain;
The dull turned bright as I caught your white
On my bosom: you saved me — saved in vain
If you ruined yourself, and all through me!
III.
Yes, all through the speckled beast that I am,
Who taught you to stoop; you gave me yourself,
And bound your soul by the vows that damn:
Since on better thought you break, as you ought,
Vows — words, no angel set down, some elf
Mistook, — for an oath, an epigram!
IV.
Yes, might I judge you, here were my heart,
And a hundred its like, to treat as you pleased!
I choose to be yours, for my proper part,
Yours, leave or take, or mar me or make;
If I acquiesce, why should you be teased
With the conscience-prick and the memory-smart!
V.
But what will God say? Oh, my sweet,
Think, and be sorry you did this thing
Though earth were unworthy to feel your feet,
There’s a heaven above may deserve your love:
Should you forfeit heaven for a snapt gold ring
And a promise broke, were it just or meet?
VI.
And I to have tempted you! I, who tired
Your soul, no doubt, till it sank! Unwise,
I loved and was lowly, loved and aspired,
Loved, grieving or glad, till I made you mad,
And you meant to have hated and despised —
Whereas, you deceived me nor inquired!
VII.
She, ruined? How? No heaven for her?
Crowns to give, and none for the brow
That looked like marble and smelt like myrrh?
Shall the robe be worn, and the palm-branch borne,
And she go graceless, she graced now
Beyond all saints, as themselves aver?
VIII.
Hardly! That must be understood!
The earth is your place of penance, then;
And what will it prove? I desire your good,
But, plot as I may, I can find no way
How a blow should fall, such as falls on men,
Nor prove too much for your womanhood.
IX.
It will come, I suspect, at the end of life,
When you walk alone, and review the past;
And I, who so long shall have done with strife,
And journeyed my stage and earned my wage
And retired as was right, — I am called at last,
When the devil stabs you, to lend the knife.
X.
He stabs for the minute of trivial wrong,
Nor the other hours are able to save,
The happy, that lasted my whole life long:
For a promise broke, not for first words spoke,
The true, the only, that turn my grave
To a blaze of joy and a crash of song.
XI.
Witness beforehand! Off I trip
On a safe path gay through the flowers you flung:
My very name made great by your lip,
And my heart a-glow with the good I know
Of a perfect year when we both were young,
And I tasted the angels’ fellowship.
XII.
And witness, moreover . . . Ah, but wait!
I spy the loop whence an arrow shoots!
It may be for yourself, when you meditate,
That you grieve — for slain ruth, murdered truth.
“Though falsehood escape in the end, what boots?
How truth would have triumphed!” — you sigh too late.
XIII.
Ay, who would have triumphed like you, I say!
Well, it is lost now; well, you must bear,
Abide and grow fit for a better day
You should hardly grudge, could I be your judge!
But hush! For you, can be no despair
There’s amends: ‘t is a secret: hope and pray!
XIV.
For I was true at least — oh, true enough!
And, Dear, truth is not as good as it seems!
Commend me to conscience! Idle stuff!
Much help is in mine, as I mope and pine,
And skulk through day, and scowl in my dreams
At my swan’s obtaining the crow’s rebuff.
XV.
Men tell me of truth now — ”False!” I cry:
Of beauty — ”A mask, friend! Look beneath!”
We take our own method, the devil and I,
With pleasant and fair and wise and rare
And the best we wish to what lives, is — death;
Which even in wishing, perhaps we lie!
XVI.
Far better commit a fault and have done —
As you, Dear! — for ever; and choose the pure,
And look where the healing waters run,
And strive and strain to be good again,
And a place in the other world ensure,
All glass and gold, with God for its sun.
XVII.
Misery! What shall I say or do?
I cannot advise, or, at least, persuade:
Most like, you are glad you deceived me — rue
No whit of the wrong: you endured too long.
Have done no evil and want no aid,
Will live the old life out and chance the new.
XVIII.
And your sentence is written all the same,
And I can do nothing, — pray, perhaps
But somehow the world pursues its game,
If I pray, if I curse, — for better or worse:
And my faith is torn to a thousand scraps,
And my heart feels ice while my words breathe flame.
XIX.
Dear, I look from my hiding-place.
Are you still so fair? Have you still the eyes?
Be happy! Add but the other grace,
Be good! Why want what the angels vaunt?
I knew you once: but in Paradise,
If we meet, I will pass nor turn my face.
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,
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,
Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series Page 64