Through sight and sound of every place:
V.
As if my tender mother laid
On my shut lips her kisses’ pressure,
Half-waking me at night, and said
“Who kissed you through the dark, dear guesser?”
THE CLAIM.
I.
Grief sate upon a rock and sighed one day,
(Sighing is all her rest,)
“Wellaway, wellaway, ah wellaway!”
As ocean beat the stone, did she her breast,
“Ah wellaway! ah me! alas, ah me!”
Such sighing uttered she.
II.
A Cloud spake out of heaven, as soft as rain
That falls on water,— “Lo,
The winds have wandered from me! I remain
Alone in the sky-waste, and cannot go
To lean my whiteness on the mountain blue
Till wanted for more dew.
III.
“The sun has struck my brain to weary peace,
Whereby constrained and pale
I spin for him a larger golden fleece
Than Jason’s, yearning for as full a sail.
Sweet Grief, when thou hast sighèd to thy mind,
Give me a sigh for wind,
IV.
“And let it carry me adown the west!”
But Love, who pròstrated
Lay at Grief’s foot, his lifted eyes possessed
Of her full image, answered in her stead;
“Now nay, now nay! she shall not give away
What is my wealth, for any Cloud that flieth:
Where Grief makes moan,
Love claims his own,
And therefore do I lie here night and day,
And eke my life out with the breath she sigheth.”
SONG OF THE ROSE.
IF Zeus chose us a King of the flowers in his mirth,
He would call to the rose, and would royally crown it;
For the rose, ho, the rose! is the grace of the earth,
Is the light of the plants that are growing upon it!
For the rose, ho, the rose! is the eye of the flowers,
Is the blush of the meadows that feel themselves fair,
Is the lightning of beauty that strikes through the bowers
On pale lovers that sit in the glow unaware.
Ho, the rose breathes of love! ho, the rose lifts the cup
To the red lips of Cypris invoked for a guest!
Ho, the rose having curled its sweet leaves for the world
Takes delight in the motion its petals keep up,
As they laugh to the wind as it laughs from the west.
A DEAD ROSE.
O Rose! who dares to name thee?
No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet;
But pale, and hard, and dry, as stubble-wheat, —
Kept seven years in a drawer — thy titles shame thee.
The breeze that used to blow thee
Between the hedgerow thorns, and take away
An odour up the lane to last all day, —
If breathing now, — unsweetened would forego thee.
The sun that used to smite thee,
And mix his glory in thy gorgeous urn,
Till beam appeared to bloom, and flower to burn, —
If shining now, — with not a hue would light thee.
The dew that used to wet thee,
And, white first, grow incarnadined, because
It lay upon thee where the crimson was, —
If dropping now, — would darken where it met thee.
The fly that lit upon thee,
To stretch the tendrils of its tiny feet,
Along thy leaf’s pure edges, after heat, —
If lighting now, — would coldly overrun thee.
The bee that once did suck thee,
And build thy perfumed ambers up his hive,
And swoon in thee for joy, till scarce alive, —
If passing now, — would blindly overlook thee.
The heart doth recognise thee,
Alone, alone! The heart doth smell thee sweet,
Doth view thee fair, doth judge thee most complete, —
Though seeing now those changes that disguise thee.
Yes, and the heart doth owe thee
More love, dead rose! than to such roses bold
As Julia wears at dances, smiling cold! —
Lie still upon this heart — which breaks below thee!
THE EXILE’S RETURN.
I
When from thee, weeping I removed,
And from my land for years,
I thought not to return, Beloved,
With those same parting tears.
I come again to hill and lea,
Weeping for thee.
II
I clasped thine hand when standing last
Upon the shore in sight.
The land is green, the ship is fast,
I shall be there to-night.
I shall be there — no longer we —
No more with thee!
III
Had I beheld thee dead and still,
I might more clearly know
How heart of thine could turn as chill
As hearts by nature so;
How change could touch the falsehood-free
And changeless thee .
IV
But, now thy fervid looks last-seen
Within my soul remain,
‘Tis hard to think that they have been,
To be no more again —
That I shall vainly wait, ah me!
A word from thee.
V
I could not bear to look upon
That mound of funeral clay
Where one sweet voice is silence — one
Æthereal brow, decay;
Where all thy mortal I may see,
But never thee.
VI
For thou art where all friends are gone
Whose parting pain is o’er;
And I, who love and weep alone,
Where thou wilt weep no more,
Weep bitterly and selfishly
For me , not thee .
VII
I know, Beloved, thou canst not know
That I endure this pain;
For saints in heaven, the Scriptures show,
Can never grieve again:
And grief known mine, even there, would be
Still shared by thee.
THE SLEEP.
“He giveth His beloved sleep.”
— Psalm cxxvii. 2.
I
Of all the thoughts of God that are
Borne inward into souls afar,
Along the Psalmist’s music deep,
Now tell me if that any is,
For gift or grace, surpassing this:
“He giveth His belovèd — sleep?”
II
What would we give to our beloved?
The hero’s heart to be unmoved,
The poet’s star-tuned harp to sweep,
The patriot’s voice to teach and rouse,
The monarch’s crown to light the brows?
He giveth His belovèd — sleep.
III
What do we give to our beloved?
A little faith all undisproved,
A little dust to overweep,
And bitter memories to make
The whole earth blasted for our sake:
He giveth his belovèd — sleep.
IV
“Sleep soft, beloved!” we sometimes say,
Who have no tune to charm away
Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep:
But never doleful dream again
Shall break the happy slumber when
He giveth His belovèd — sleep.
V
O earth, so full of dreary noises!
O men, with wailing in your voices!
O delvèd gold, the
wailers heap!
O strife, O curse, that o’er it fall!
God strikes a silence through you all,
And giveth His belovèd — sleep.
VI
His dews drop mutely on the hill,
His cloud above it saileth still,
Though on its slope men sow and reap:
More softly than the dew is shed,
Or cloud is floated overhead,
He giveth His belovèd — sleep.
VII
Ay, men may wonder while they scan
A living, thinking, feeling man
Confirmed in such a rest to keep;
But angels say, and through the word
I think their happy smile is heard —
“He giveth His belovèd — sleep.”
VIII
For me, my heart that erst did go
Most like a tired child at a show,
That sees through tears the mummers leap,
Would now its wearied vision close,
Would childlike on His love repose
Who giveth His belovèd — sleep.
IX
And friends, dear friends, when it shall be
That this low breath is gone from me,
And round my bier ye come to weep,
Let One, most loving of you all,
Say “Not a tear must o’er her fall!
“He giveth His belovèd sleep.”
THE MEASURE.
HYMN IV.
“He comprehended the dust of the earth in a measure” [HEBREW].
— Isaiah xl.
“Thou givest them tears to drink in a measure” [HEBREW].
— Psalm lxxx.
I
God the Creator, with a pulseless hand
Of unoriginated power, hath weighed
The dust of earth and tears of man in one
Measure, and by one weight:
So saith His holy book.
II
Shall we, then, who have issued from the dust
And there return, — shall we, who toil for dust,
And wrap our winnings in this dusty life,
Say “No more tears, Lord God!
The measure runneth o’er”?
III
Oh, Holder of the balance, laughest Thou?
Nay, Lord! be gentler to our foolishness,
For His sake who assumed our dust and turns
On Thee pathetic eyes
Still moistened with our tears.
IV
And teach us, O our Father, while we weep,
To look in patience upon earth and learn —
Waiting, in that meek gesture, till at last
These tearful eyes be filled
With the dry dust of death.
COWPER’S GRAVE.
I
It is a place where poets crowned may feel the heart’s decaying;
It is a place where happy saints may weep amid their praying;
Yet let the grief and humbleness as low as silence languish:
Earth surely now may give her calm to whom she gave her anguish.
II
O poets, from a maniac’s tongue was poured the deathless singing!
O Christians, at your cross of hope a hopeless hand was clinging!
O men, this man in brotherhood your weary paths beguiling,
Groaned inly while he taught you peace, and died while ye were smiling!
III
And now, what time ye all may read through dimming tears his story,
How discord on the music fell and darkness on the glory,
And how when, one by one, sweet sounds and wandering lights departed,
He wore no less a loving face because so broken-hearted,
IV
He shall be strong to sanctify the poet’s high vocation,
And bow the meekest Christian down in meeker adoration;
Nor ever shall he be, in praise, by wise or good forsaken,
Named softly as the household name of one whom God hath taken.
V
With quiet sadness and no gloom I learn to think upon him,
With meekness that is gratefulness to God whose heaven hath won him,
Who suffered once the madness-cloud to His own love to blind him,
But gently led the blind along where breath and bird could find him;
VI
And wrought within his shattered brain such quick poetic senses
As hills have language for, and stars, harmonious influences:
The pulse of dew upon the grass kept his within its number,
And silent shadows from the trees refreshed him like a slumber.
VII
Wild timid hares were drawn from woods to share his home-caresses,
Uplooking to his human eyes with sylvan tendernesses:
The very world, by God’s constraint, from falsehood’s ways removing,
Its women and its men became, beside him, true and loving.
VIII
And though, in blindness, he remained unconscious of that guiding,
And things provided came without the sweet sense of providing,
He testified this solemn truth, while phrenzy desolated,
— Nor man nor nature satisfies whom only God created.
IX
Like a sick child that knoweth not his mother while she blesses
And drops upon his burning brow the coolness of her kisses, —
That turns his fevered eyes around— “My mother! where’s my mother?” —
As if such tender words and deeds could come from any other! —
X
The fever gone, with leaps of heart he sees her bending o’er him,
Her face all pale from watchful love, the unweary love she bore him!
Thus woke the poet from the dream his life’s long fever gave him,
Beneath those deep pathetic Eyes which closed in death to save him.
XI
Thus? oh, not thus! no type of earth can image that awaking,
Wherein he scarcely heard the chant of seraphs, round him breaking,
Or felt the new immortal throb of soul from body parted,
But felt those eyes alone, and knew— “ My Saviour! not deserted!”
XII
Deserted! Who hath dreamt that when the cross in darkness rested,
Upon the Victim’s hidden face no love was manifested?
What frantic hands outstretched have e’er the atoning drops averted?
What tears have washed them from the soul, that one should be deserted?
XIII
Deserted! God could separate from His own essence rather;
And Adam’s sins have swept between the righteous Son and Father:
Yea, once, Immanuel’s orphaned cry His universe hath shaken —
It went up single, echoless, “My God, I am forsaken!”
XIV
It went up from the Holy’s lips amid His lost creation,
That, of the lost, no son should use those words of desolation!
That earth’s worst phrenzies, marring hope, should mar not hope’s fruition,
And I, on Cowper’s grave, should see his rapture in a vision.
THE WEAKEST THING.
I
Which is the weakest thing of all
Mine heart can ponder?
The sun, a little cloud can pall
With darkness yonder?
The cloud, a little wind can move
Where’er it listeth?
The wind, a little leaf above,
Though sere, resisteth?
II
What time that yellow leaf was green,
My days were gladder;
But now, whatever Spring may mean,
I must grow sadder.
Ah me! a leaf with sighs can wring
My lips asunder?
Then is mine heart the weakest thing
Itself can ponder.
III
Yet, Hear
t, when sun and cloud are pined
And drop together,
And at a blast which is not wind
The forests wither,
Thou, from the darkening deathly curse
To glory breakest, —
The Strongest of the universe
Guarding the weakest!
THE PET-NAME.
—— — the name
Which from their lips seemed a caress.”
— Miss Mitford’s Dramatic Scenes .
I
I have a name, a little name,
Uncadenced for the ear,
Unhonoured by ancestral claim,
Unsanctified by prayer and psalm
The solemn font anear.
II
It never did to pages wove
For gay romance belong;
It never dedicate did move
As “Sacharissa” unto love,
“Orinda” unto song.
III
Though I write books, it will be read
Upon the leaves of none,
And afterward, when I am dead,
Will ne’er be graved for sight or tread,
Across my funeral-stone.
IV
This name, whoever chance to call,
Perhaps your smile may win:
Complete Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning Page 64