And sent it as a token
Of what their city pleasures be, —
For one, in Devon by the sea
And garden blooms, to look on.
XIX
But she for whom the jest was meant,
With a grave passion innocent
Receiving what was given, —
Oh, if her face she turnèd then,
Let none say ‘twas to gaze again
Upon the flowers of Devon!
XX
Because, whatever virtue dwells
In genial skies, warm oracles
For gardens brightly springing, —
The flower which grew beneath your eyes,
Belovèd friends, to mine supplies
A beauty worthier singing!
THE MASK.
I
I have a smiling face, she said,
I have a jest for all I meet,
I have a garland for my head
And all its flowers are sweet, —
And so you call me gay, she said.
II
Grief taught to me this smile, she said,
And Wrong did teach this jesting bold;
These flowers were plucked from garden-bed
While a death-chime was tolled:
And what now will you say? — she said.
III
Behind no prison-grate, she said,
Which slurs the sunshine half a mile,
Live captives so uncomforted
As souls behind a smile.
God’s pity let us pray, she said.
IV
I know my face is bright, she said, —
Such brightness dying suns diffuse:
I bear upon my forehead shed
The sign of what I lose,
The ending of my day, she said.
V
If I dared leave this smile, she said,
And take a moan upon my mouth,
And tie a cypress round my head,
And let my tears run smooth,
It were the happier way, she said.
VI
And since that must not be, she said,
I fain your bitter world would leave.
How calmly, calmly smile the Dead,
Who do not, therefore, grieve!
The yea of Heaven is yea, she said.
VII
But in your bitter world, she said,
Face-joy’s a costly mask to wear;
‘Tis bought with pangs long nourishèd,
And rounded to despair:
Grief’s earnest makes life’s play, she said.
VIII
Ye weep for those who weep? she said —
Ah fools! I bid you pass them by.
Go, weep for those hearts have bled
What time their eyes were dry.
Whom sadder can I say? she said
CALLS ON THE HEART.
I
Free Heart, that singest to-day
Like a bird on the first green spray,
Wilt thou go forth to the world
Where the hawk hath his wing unfurled
To follow, perhaps, thy way?
Where the tamer thine own will bind,
And, to make thee sing, will blind,
While the little hip grows for the free behind?
Heart, wilt thou go?
— “No, no!
Free hearts are better so.”
II
The world, thou hast heard it told,
Has counted its robber-gold,
And the pieces stick to the hand;
The world goes riding it fair and grand,
While the truth is bought and sold;
World-voices east, world-voices west,
They call thee, Heart, from thine early rest,
“Come hither, come hither and be our guest.”
Heart, wilt thou go?
— “No, no!
Good hearts are calmer so.”
III
Who calleth thee, Heart? World’s Strife,
With a golden heft to his knife;
World’s Mirth, with a finger fine
That draws on a board in wine
Her blood-red plans of life;
World’s Gain, with a brow knit down;
World’s Fame, with a laurel crown
Which rustles most as the leaves turn brown:
Heart, wilt thou go?
— “No, no!
Calm hearts are wiser so.”
IV
Hast heard that Proserpina
(Once fooling) was snatched away
To partake the dark king’s seat,
And the tears ran fast on her feet
To think how the sun shone yesterday?
With her ankles sunken in asphodel
She wept for the roses of earth which fell
From her lap when the wild car drave to hell.
Heart, wilt thou go?
— “No, no!
Wise hearts are warmer so.”
V
And what is this place not seen,
Where Hearts may hide serene?
“‘Tis a fair still house well-kept
Which humble thoughts have swept
And holy prayers made clean.
There I sit with Love in the sun,
And we two never have done
Singing sweeter songs than are guessed by one .”
Heart, wilt thou go?
— “No, no!
Warm hearts are fuller so.”
VI
O Heart, O Love, — I fear
That Love may be kept too near.
Has heard, O Heart, that tale,
How Love may be false and frail
To a Heart once holden dear?
— “But this true Love of mine
Clings fast as the clinging vine,
And mingles pure as the grapes in wine.”
Heart, wilt thou go?
— “No, no!
Full hearts beat higher so.”
VII
O Heart, O Love, beware!
Look up, and boast not there,
For who has twirled at the pin?
‘Tis the World, between Death and Sin, —
The World and the World’s Despair!
And Death was quickened his pace
To the hearth, with a mocking face,
Familiar as Love, in Love’s own place.
Heart, will thou go?
“Still, no!
High hearts must grieve even so.”
VIII
The house is waste to-day,
The leaf has dropt from the spray,
The thorn, prickt through to the song:
If summer of doeth no wrong,
The winter will, they say.
Sing, Heart! What heart replies?
In vain we were calm and wise,
If the tears unkissed stand on in our eyes.
Heart, wilt thou go?
— “Ah, no!
Grieved hearts must break even so.”
IX
Howbeit all is not lost.
The warm noon ends in frost,
And worldly tongues of promise,
Like sheep-bells die off from us
On the desert hills cloud-crossed:
Yet through the silence shall
Pierce th edeath-angel’s call,
And “Come up hither,” recover al.
Heart, wilt thou go?
— “I go!
Broken hearts triumph so.”
WISDOM UNAPPLIED.
I
If I were thou, O butterfly,
And poised my purple wing to spy
The sweetest flowers that live and die,
II
I would not waste my strength on those,
As thou, — for summer has a close,
And pansies bloom not in the snows.
III
If I were thou, O working bee,
And all that honey-gold I see
IV
I would not hive it at man’s door,
As thou, — that heirdom of my store
Should make him rich and leave me poor.
V
If I wre thou, O eagle proud,
And screamed the thunder back aloud,
And faced the lightning from the cloud,
VI
I would not build my eyrie-throne,
As thou, — upon a crumbling stone
Which the next storm may trample down.
VII
If I were thou, O gallant steed,
With pawing hoof and dancing head,
And eye outrunning thine own speed,
VIII
I would not meeken to the rein,
As thou, — nor smooth my nostril plain
From the glad desert’s snort and stain.
IX
If I were thou, red-breasted bird,
With song at shut-up window heard,
Like Love’s sweet Yes too long deferred,
X
I would not overstay delight,
As thou, — but take a swallow-flight
Till the new spring returned to sight.
XI
While yet I spake, a touch was laid
Upon my brow, whose pride did fade
As thus, methought, an angel said,
XII
“If I were thou who sing’st this song,
Most wise for others, and most strong
In seeing right while doing wrong,
XIII
“I would not waste my cares, and choose,
As thou , — to seek what thou must lose,
Such gains as perish in the use.
XIV
“I would not work where none can win,
As thou , — halfway ‘twixt grief and sin,
But look above and judge within.
XV
“I would not let my pulse beat high,
As thou , — towards fame’s regality,
Nor yet in love’s great jeopardy.
XVI
“I would not champ the hard cold bit,
As thou , — of what the world thinks fit,
But take God’s freedom, using it.
XVII
“I would not play earth’s winter out,
As thou , — but gird my soul about,
And live for live past death and doubt.
XVIII
“Then sing, O singer! — but allow,
Beast, fly and bird, called foolish now,
Are wise (for all thy scorn) as thou.”
MEMORY AND HOPE.
I
Back-looking Memory
And prophet Hope both sprang from out the ground;
One, where the flashing of cherubic sword
Fell sad in Eden’s ward,
And one, from Eden earth within the sound
Of the four rivers lapsing pleasantly,
What time the promise after curse was said,
“Thy seed shall bruise his head.”
II
Poor Memory’s brain is wild,
As moonstruck by that flaming atmosphere
When she was born; her deep eyes shine and shone
With light that conquereth sun
And stars to wanner paleness year by year:
With odorous gums she mixeth things defiled,
She trampleth down earth’s grasses green and sweet
With her far-wandering feet.
III
She plucketh many flowers,
Their beauty on her bosom’s coldness killing;
She teacheth every melancholy sound
To winds and waters round;
She droppeth tears with seed where man is tilling
The rugged soil in his exhausted hours;
She smileth — ah me! in her smile doth go
A mood of deeper woe.
IV
Hope tripped on out of sight,
Crowned with an Eden wreath she saw not wither,
And went a-nodding through the wilderness
With brow that shone no less
Than a sea-gull’s wing, brought nearer by rough weather,
Searching the treeless rock for fruits of light;
Her fair quick feet being armed from stones and cold
By slippers of pure gold.
V
Memory did Hope much wrong
And, while she dreamed, her slippers stole away;
But still she wended on with mirth unheeding,
Although her feet were bleeding,
Till Memory tracked her on a certain day,
And with most evil eyes did search her long
And cruelly, whereat she sank to ground
In a stark deadly swound.
VI
And so my Hope were slain,
Had it not been that thou was standing near —
Oh Thou who saidest “Live,” to creatures lying
In their own blood and dying!
For Thou her forehead to Thine heart didst rear
And make its silent pulses sing again,
Pouring a new light o’er her darkened eyne
With tender tears from Thine.
VII
Therefore my Hope arose
From out her swound and gazed upon Thy face,
And, meeting there that soft subduing look
Which Peter’s spirit shook,
Sank downward in a rapture to embrace
Thy piercèd hands and feet with kisses close,
And prayed Thee to assist her evermore
To “reach the things before.”
HUMAN LIFE’S MYSTERY.
I
We sow the glebe, we reap the corn,
We build the house whre we may rest,
And then, at moments, suddenly
We look up to the great wide sky,
Inquiring wherefore we were born,
For earnest or for jest?
II
The senses folding thick and dark
About the stifled soul within,
We guess diviner things beyond,
And yearn to them with yearning fond;
We strike out blindly to a mark
Believed in, but not seen.
III
We vibrate to the pant and thrill
Wherewith Eternity has curled
In serpent-twine about God’s seat:
While, freshening upward to His feet,
In gradual growth His full-leaved will
Expands from world to world.
IV
And, in the tumult and excess
Of act and passion under sun,
We sometimes hear — oh, soft and far,
As silver star did touch with star,
The kiss of Peace and Righteousness
Through all things that are done.
V
God keeps His holy mysteries
Just on the outside of man’s dream;
In diapason slow, we think
To hear their pinions rise and sink,
While they float pure beneath His eyes,
Like swans adown a stream.
VI
Abstractions, are they, from the forms
Of His great beauty? — exaltations
From his great glory? — strong previsions
Of what we shall be? — intuitions
Of what we are — in calms and storms
Beyond our peace and passions?
VII
Things nameless! which, in passing so,
Do stroke us with a subtle grace;
We say, “Who passes?” — they are dumb;
We cannot see them go or come,
Their touches fall soft, cold, as snow
Upon a blind man’s face.
VIII
Yet, touching so, they draw above
Our common thoughts to Heaven’s unknown;
Our daily joy and pain
advance
To a divine significance
Our human love — O mortal love,
That light is not its own!
IX
And sometimes horror chills our blood
To be so near such mystic Things,
And we wrap round us for defence
Our purple manners, moods of sense —
As angels from the face of God
Stand hidden in their wings.
X
And sometimes through life’s heavey swound
We grope for them, with strangled breath
We stretch our hands abroad and try
To reach them in our agony;
And widen, so, the broad life-wound
Soon large enough for death.
A CHILD’S THOUGHT OF GOD.
I.
They say that God lives very high;
But if you look above the pines
You cannot see our God; and why?
II.
And if you dig down in the mines
You never see Him in the gold;
Though from Him all that’s glory shines.
III.
God is so good, He wears a fold
Of heaven and earth across His face —
Like secrets kept, for love, untold.
IV.
But still I feel that His embrace
Slides down by thrills, through all things made,
Complete Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning Page 63