Relationships and Family

Regret


Long ago I wished to leave
" The house where I was born; "
Long ago I used to grieve,
My home seemed so forlorn.
In other years, its silent rooms
Were filled with haunting fears;
Now, their very memory comes
O'ercharged with tender tears.


Life and marriage I have known,
Things once deemed so bright;
Now, how utterly is flown
Every ray of light !
'Mid the unknown sea of life
I no blest isle have found;
At last, through all its wild wave's strife,
My bark is homeward bound.


Farewell, dark and rolling deep !
Farewell, foreign shore !
Open, in unclouded sweep,
Thou glorious realm before !
Yet, though I had safely pass'd
That weary, vexed main,
One loved voice, through surge and blast,
Could call me back again.


Though the soul's bright morning rose
O'er Paradise for me,
William ! even from Heaven's repose
I'd turn, invoked by thee !
Storm nor surge should e'er arrest
My soul, exulting then:
All my heaven was once thy breast,
Would it were mine again !

Pilate's Wife's Dream

I've quenched my lamp, I struck it in that start
Which every limb convulsed, I heard it fallThe
crash blent with my sleep, I saw depart
Its light, even as I woke, on yonder wall;
Over against my bed, there shone a gleam
Strange, faint, and mingling also with my dream.


It sunk, and I am wrapt in utter gloom;
How far is night advanced, and when will day
Retinge the dusk and livid air with bloom,
And fill this void with warm, creative ray ?
Would I could sleep again till, clear and red,
Morning shall on the mountaintops
be spread!


I'd call my women, but to break their sleep,
Because my own is broken, were unjust;


They've wrought all day, and wellearned
slumbers steep
Their labours in forgetfulness, I trust;
Let me my feverish watch with patience bear,
Thankful that none with me its sufferings share.


Yet, Oh, for light ! one ray would tranquilise
My nerves, my pulses, more than effort can;
I'll draw my curtain and consult the skies:
These trembling stars at dead of night look wan,
Wild, restless, strange, yet cannot be more drear
Than this my couch, shared by a nameless fear.


All blackone
great cloud, drawn from east to west,
Conceals the heavens, but there are lights below;
Torches burn in Jerusalem, and cast
On yonder stony mount a lurid glow.
I see men stationed there, and gleaming spears;
A sound, too, from afar, invades my ears.


Dull, measured, strokes of axe and hammer ring
From street to street, not loud, but through the night
Distinctly heardand
some strange spectral thing
Is now uprearedand,
fixed against the light
Of the pale lamps; defined upon that sky,
It stands up like a column, straight and high.


I see it allI
know the dusky signA
cross on Calvary, which Jews uprear


While Romans watch; and when the dawn shall shine
Pilate, to judge the victim will appear,
Pass sentenceyield
him up to crucify;
And on that cross the spotless Christ must die.


Dreams, then, are truefor
thus my vision ran;



Surely some oracle has been with me,
The gods have chosen me to reveal their plan,
To warn an unjust judge of destiny:
I, slumbering, heard and saw; awake I know,
Christ's coming death, and Pilate's life of woe.


I do not weep for Pilatewho
could prove
Regret for him whose cold and crushing sway
No prayer can soften, no appeal can move;
Who tramples hearts as others trample clay,
Yet with a faltering, an uncertain tread,
That might stir up reprisal in the dead.


Forced to sit by his side and see his deeds;
Forced to behold that visage, hour by hour,
In whose gaunt lines, the abhorrent gazer reads
A triple lust of gold, and blood, and power;
A soul whom motives, fierce, yet abject, urge
Rome's servile slave, and Judah's tyrant scourge.


How can I love, or mourn, or pity him ?
I, who so long my fettered hands have wrung;


I, who for grief have wept my eyesight
dim;
Because, while life for me was bright and young,
He robbed my youthhe
quenched my life's fair rayHe
crushed my mind, and did my freedom slay.


And at this houralthough
I be his wifeHe
has no more of tenderness from me
Than any other wretch of guilty life;
Less, for I know his household privacyI
see him as he iswithout
a screen;
And, by the gods, my soul abhors his mien !


Has he not sought my presence, dyed in bloodInnocent,
righteous blood, shed shamelessly ?
And have I not his red salute withstood ?
Aye,when,
as erst, he plunged all Galilee
In dark bereavementin
affliction sore,
Mingling their very offerings with their gore.


Then came hein
his eyes a serpentsmile,
Upon his lips some false, endearing word,
And, through the streets of Salem, clanged the while,
His slaughtering, hacking, sacrilegious swordAnd
I, to see a man cause men such woe,
Trembled with ireI
did not fear to show.


And now, the envious Jewish priests have brought
Jesuswhom
they in mockery call their king



To have, by this grim power, their vengeance wrought;
By this mean reptile, innocence to sting.
Oh ! could I but the purposed doom avert,
And shield the blameless head from cruel hurt!


Accessible is Pilate's heart to fear,
Omens will shake his soul, like autumn leaf;
Could he this night's appalling vision hear,
This just man's bonds were loosed, his life were safe,
Unless that bitter priesthood should prevail,
And make even terror to their malice quail.


Yet if I tell the dreambut
let me pause.
What dream ? Erewhile the characters were clear,
Graved on my brainat
once some unknown cause
Has dimmed and rased the thoughts, which now appear,
Like a vague remnant of some bypast
scene;Not
what will be, but what, long since, has been.


I suffered many things, I heard foretold
A dreadful doom for Pilate,lingering
woes,
In far, barbarian climes, where mountains cold
Built up a solitude of trackless snows,
There, he and grisly wolves prowled side by side,
There he lived famishedthere
methought he died;


But not of hunger, nor by malady;
I saw the snow around him, stained with gore;


I said I had no tears for such as he,
And, lo ! my cheek is wetmine
eyes run o'er;
I weep for mortal suffering, mortal guilt,
I weep the impious deedthe
blood selfspilt.


More I recall not, yet the vision spread
Into a world remote, an age to comeAnd
still the illumined name of Jesus shed
A light, a clearness, through the enfolding gloomAnd
still I saw that sign, which now I see,
That cross on yonder brow of Calvary.


What is this Hebrew Christ ? To me unknown,
His lineagedoctrinemissionyet
how clear,
Is Godlike
goodness, in his actions shewn !
How straight and stainless is his life's career !
The ray of Deity that rests on him,
In my eyes makes Olympian glory dim.


The world advances, Greek, or Roman rite
Suffices not the inquiring mind to stay;
The searching soul demands a purer light



To guide it on its upward, onward way;
Ashamed of sculptured godsReligion
turns
To where the unseen Jehovah's altar burns.


Our faith is rottenall
our rites defiled,
Our temples sullied, and methinks, this man,
With his new ordinance, so wise and mild,
Is come, even as he says, the chaff to fan


And sever from the wheat; but will his faith
Survive the terrors of tomorrow's
death ?


* * * * *

I feel a firmer trusta
higher hope
Rise in my soulit
dawns with dawning day;
Lo ! on the Temple's roofon
Moriah's slope
Appears at length that clear, and crimson ray,
Which I so wished for when shut in by night;
Oh, opening skies, I hail, I bless your light !


Part, clouds and shadows ! glorious Sun appear !
Part, mental gloom ! Come insight from on high !
Dusk dawn in heaven still strives with daylight clear,
The longing soul, doth still uncertain sigh.
Oh ! to behold the truththat
sun divine,
How doth my bosom pant, my spirit pine !


This day, time travails with a mighty birth,
This day, Truth stoops from heaven and visits earth,
Ere night descends, I shall more surely know
What guide to follow, in what path to go;
I wait in hopeI
wait in solemn fear,
The oracle of Godthe
soletrue
Godto
hear.

Gilbert


I. THE GARDEN.
ABOVE the city hung the moon,
Right o'er a plot of ground

Where flowers and orchardtrees
were fenced
With lofty walls around:

'Twas Gilbert's gardenthere,
tonight
Awhile he walked alone;

And, tired with sedentary toil,
Mused where the moonlight shone.

This garden, in a cityheart,
Lay still as houseless wild,

Though manywindowed
mansion fronts
Were round it closely piled;

But thick their walls, and those within
Lived lives by noise unstirred;

Like wafting of an angel's wing,
Time's flight by them was heard.

Some soft pianonotes
alone
Were sweet as faintly given,

Where ladies, doubtless, cheered the hearth
With song, that wintereven.


The city's manymingled
sounds
Rose like the hum of ocean;

They rather lulled the heart than roused
Its pulse to faster motion.

Gilbert has paced the single walk
An hour, yet is not weary;

And, though it be a winter night,
He feels nor cold nor dreary.

The prime of life is in his veins,
And sends his blood fast flowing,

And Fancy's fervour warms the thoughts
Now in his bosom glowing.

Those thoughts recur to early love,
Or what he love would name,

Though haply Gilbert's secret deeds
Might other title claim.

Such theme not oft his mind absorbs,
He to the world clings fast,

And too much for the present lives,
To linger o'er the past.

But now the evening's deep repose
Has glided to his soul;

That moonlight falls on Memory,
And shows her fading scroll.
One name appears in every line



The gentle rays shine o'er,
And still he smiles and still repeats
That one nameElinor.


There is no sorrow in his smile,
No kindness in his tone;
The triumph of a selfish heart
Speaks coldly there alone;
He says: ' She loved me more than life;
And truly it was sweet
To see so fair a woman kneel,
In bondage, at my feet.

There was a sort of quiet bliss
To be so deeply loved,
To gaze on trembling eagerness
And sit myself unmoved.
And when it pleased my pride to grant,
At last some rare caress,
To feel the fever of that hand
My fingers deigned to press.

'Twas sweet to see her strive to hide
What every glance revealed;
Endowed, the while, with despotmight
Her destiny to wield.

I knew myself no perfect man,
Nor, as she deemed, divine;
I knew that I was gloriousbut


By her reflected shine;

Her youth, her native energy,
Her powers newborn
and fresh,
'Twas these with Godhead sanctified

My sensual frame of flesh.
Yet, like a god did I descend
At last, to meet her love;


And, like a god, I then withdrew
To my own heaven above.

And never more could she invoke
My presence to her sphere;
No prayer, no plaint, no cry of hers
Could win my awful ear.
I knew her blinded constancy
Would ne'er my deeds betray,
And, calm in conscience, whole in heart,
I went my tranquil way.

Yet, sometimes, I still feel a wish,
The fond and flattering pain
Of passion's anguish to create,


In her young breast again.

Bright was the lustre of her eyes,
When they caught fire from mine;

If I had powerthis
very hour,
Again I 'd light their shine.

But where she is, or how she lives,
I have no clue to know;

I 've heard she long my absence pined,
And left her home in woe.

But busied, then, in gathering gold,
As I am busied now,

I could not turn from such pursuit,
To weep a broken vow.

Nor could I give to fatal risk
The fame I ever prized;

Even now, I fear, that precious fame
Is too much compromised.'

An inward trouble dims his eye,
Some riddle he would solve;
Some method to unloose a knot,
His anxious thoughts revolve.

He, pensive, leans against a tree,
A leafy evergreen,

The boughs, the moonlight, intercept,
And hide him like a screen;

He startsthe
tree shakes with his tremor,
Yet nothing near him pass'd,

He hurries up the garden alley,
In strangely sudden haste.

With shaking hand, he lifts the latchet,
Steps o'er the threshold stone;

The heavy door slips from his fingers,
It shuts, and he is gone.

What touched, transfixed, appalled, his soul ?
A nervous thought, no more;

'Twill sink like stone in placid pool,
And calm close smoothly o'er.

II. THE PARLOUR.
WARM is the parlour atmosphere,
Serene the lamp's soft light;

The vivid embers, red and clear,
Proclaim a frosty night.

Books, varied, on the table lie,
Three children o'er them bend,

And all, with curious, eager eye,


The turning leaf attend.

Picture and tale alternately
Their simple hearts delight,

And interest deep, and tempered glee,
Illume their aspects bright;

The parents, from their fireside place,
Behold that pleasant scene,

And joy is on the mother's face,
Pride, in the father's mien.

As Gilbert sees his blooming wife,
Beholds his children fair,

No thought has he of transient strife,
Or past, though piercing fear.

The voice of happy infancy
Lisps sweetly in his ear,

His wife, with pleased and peaceful eye,
Sits, kindly smiling, near.

The fire glows on her silken dress,
And shows its ample grace,

And warmly tints each hazel tress,
Curled soft around her face.

The beauty that in youth he wooed,
Is beauty still, unfaded,

The brow of ever placid mood
No churlish grief has shaded.

Prosperity, in Gilbert's home,
Abides, the guest of years;

There Want or Discord never come,
And seldom Toil or Tears.

The carpets bear the peaceful print
Of comfort's velvet tread,

And golden gleams from plenty sent,
In every nook are shed.

The very silken spaniel seems
Of quiet ease to tell,

As near its mistress' feet it dreams,
Sunk in a cushion's swell;

And smiles seem native to the eyes
Of those sweet children, three;

They have but looked on tranquil skies,
And know not misery.

Alas ! that misery should come
In such an hour as this;

Why could she not so calm a home
A little longer miss ?

But she is now within the door,


Her steps advancing glide;

Her sullen shade has crossed the floor,
She stands at Gilbert's side.

She lays her hand upon his heart,
It bounds with agony;

His fireside chair shakes with the start
That shook the garden tree.

His wife towards the children looks,
She does not mark his mien;

The children, bending o'er their books,
His terror have not seen.

In his own home, by his own hearth,
He sits in solitude,

And circled round with light and mirth,
Cold horror chills his blood.

His mind would hold with desperate clutch
The scene that round him lies;

Nochanged,
as by some wizard's touch,
The present prospect flies.

A tumult vaguea
viewless strife
His futile struggles crush;

'Twixt him and his, an unknown life
And unknown feelings rush.

He seesbut
scarce can language paint
The tissue Fancy weaves;

For words oft give but echo faint
Of thoughts the mind conceives.

Noise, tumult strange, and darkness dim,
Efface both light and quiet;

No shape is in those shadows grim,
No voice in that wild riot.

Sustained and strong, a wondrous blast
Above and round him blows;

A greenish gloom, dense overcast,
Each moment denser grows.

He nothing knowsnor
clearly sees,
Resistance checks his breath,

The high, impetuous, ceaseless breeze
Blows on him. cold as death.

And still the undulating gloom
Mocks sight with formless motion;

Was such sensation Jonah's doom,
Gulphed in the depths of ocean ?

Streaking the air, the nameless vision,
Fastdriven,
deepsounding,
flows;

Oh ! whence its source, and what its mission ?


How will its terrors close ?

Longsweeping,
rushing, vast and void,
The Universe it swallows;

And still the dark, devouring tide,
A Typhoon tempest follows.

More slow it rolls; its furious race
Sinks to a solemn gliding;

The stunning roar, the wind's wild chase,
To stillness are subsiding.

And, slowly borne along, a form
The shapeless chaos varies;

Poised in the eddy to the storm,
Before the eye it tarries.

A woman drownedsunk
in the deep,
On a long wave reclining;

The circling waters' crystal sweep,
Like glass, her shape enshrining;

Her pale dead face, to Gilbert turned,
Seems as in sleep reposing;

A feeble light, now first discerned,
The features well disclosing.

No effort from the haunted air
The ghastly scene could banish;

That hovering wave, arrested there,
Rolledthrobbedbut
did not vanish.

If Gilbert upward turned his gaze,
He saw the oceanshadow;


If he looked down, the endless seas
Lay green as summer meadow.

And straight before, the pale corpse lay,
Upborne by air or billow,

So near, he could have touched the spray
That churned around its pillow.

The hollow anguish of the face
Had moved a fiend to sorrow;

Not Death's fixed calm could rase the trace
Of suffering's deepworn
furrow.

All moved; a strong returning blast,
The mass of waters raising,

Bore wave and passive carcase past,
While Gilbert yet was gazing.

Deep in her isleconceiving
womb,
It seemed the Ocean thundered,

And soon, by realms of rushing gloom,
Were seer and phantom sundered.

Then swept some timbers from a wreck,


On following surges riding;

Then seaweed,
in the turbid rack
Uptorn, went slowly gliding.

The horrid shade, by slow degrees,
A beam of light defeated,

And then the roar of raving seas,
Fast, far, and faint, retreated.

And all was gonegone
like a mist,
Corse, billows, tempest, wreck;

Three children close to Gilbert prest
And clung around his neck.

Good night ! good night ! the prattlers said
And kissed their father's cheek;

'Twas now the hour their quiet bed
And placid rest to seek.

The mother with her offspring goes
To hear their evening prayer;

She nought of Gilbert's vision knows,
And nought of his despair.

Yet, pitying God, abridge the time
Of anguish, now his fate !

Though, haply, great has been his crime,
Thy mercy, too, is great.

Gilbert, at length, uplifts his head,
Bent for some moments low,

And there is neither grief nor dread
Upon his subtle brow.

For well can he his feelings task,
And well his looks command;

His features well his heart can mask,
With smiles and smoothness bland.

Gilbert has reasoned with his mindHe
says 'twas all a dream;

He strives his inward sight to blind
Against truth's inward beam.

He pitied not that shadowy thing,
When it was flesh and blood;

Nor now can pity's balmy spring
Refresh his arid mood.

' And if that dream has spoken truth,'
Thus musingly he says;

' If Elinor be dead, in sooth,
Such chance the shock repays:

A net was woven round my feet,
I scarce could further go,

Are Shame had forced a fast retreat,
Dishonour brought me low. '


' Conceal her, then, deep, silent Sea,
Give her a secret grave !

She sleeps in peace, and I am free,
No longer Terror's slave:

And homage still, from all the world,
Shall greet my spotless name,

Since surges break and waves are curled
Above its threatened shame.'

III. THE WELCOME HOME
ABOVE the city hangs the moon,
Some clouds are boding rain,

Gilbert, erewhile on journey gone,
Tonight
comes home again.

Ten years have passed above his head,
Each year has brought him gain;

His prosperous life has smoothly sped,
Without or tear or stain.

'Tis somewhat latethe
city clocks
Twelve deep vibrations toll,

As Gilbert at the portal knocks,
Which is his journey's goal.

The street is still and desolate,
The moon hid by a cloud;

Gilbert, impatient, will not wait,His
second knock peals loud.

The clocks are hushed; there's not a light
In any window nigh,

And not a single planet bright
Looks from the clouded sky;

The air is raw, the rain descends,
A bitter northwind
blows;

His cloak the traveller scarce defendsWill
not the door unclose ?

He knocks the third time, and the last;
His summons now they hear,

Within, a footstep, hurrying fast,
Is heard approaching near.

The bolt is drawn, the clanking chain
Falls to the floor of stone;

And Gilbert to his heart will strain
His wife and children soon.

The hand that lifts the latchet, holds
A candle to his sight,

And Gilbert, on the step, beholds


A woman, clad in white.

Lo ! water from her dripping dress
Runs on the streaming floor;

From every dark and clinging tress,
The drops incessant pour.

There's none but her to welcome him;
She holds the candle high,

And, motionless in form and limb,
Stands cold and silent nigh;

There's sand and seaweed
on her robe,
Her hollow eyes are blind;

No pulse in such a frame can throb,
No life is there defined.

Gilbert turned ashywhite,
but still
His lips vouchsafed no cry;

He spurred his strength and masterwill
To pass the figure by,


But, moving slow, it faced him straight,
It would not flinch nor quail:

Then first did Gilbert's strength abate,
His stony firmness quail.

He sank upon his knees and prayed;
The shape stood rigid there;

He called aloud for human aid,
No human aid was near.

An accent strange did thus repeat
Heaven's stern but just decree:

' The measure thou to her didst mete,
To thee shall measured be !'

Gilbert sprang from his bended knees,
By the pale spectre pushed,

And, wild as one whom demons seize,
Up the hallstaircase
rushed;

Entered his chambernear
the bed
Sheathed steel and firearms
hung


Impelled by maniac purpose dread,
He chose those stores among.

Across his throat, a keenedged
knife
With vigorous hand he drew;

The wound was widehis
outraged life
Rushed rash and redly through.

And thus died, by a shameful death,
A wise and worldly man,

Who never drew but selfish breath
Since first his life began.

Gilbert


I. THE GARDEN.
ABOVE the city hung the moon,
Right o'er a plot of ground

Where flowers and orchardtrees
were fenced
With lofty walls around:

'Twas Gilbert's gardenthere,
tonight
Awhile he walked alone;

And, tired with sedentary toil,
Mused where the moonlight shone.

This garden, in a cityheart,
Lay still as houseless wild,

Though manywindowed
mansion fronts
Were round it closely piled;

But thick their walls, and those within
Lived lives by noise unstirred;

Like wafting of an angel's wing,
Time's flight by them was heard.

Some soft pianonotes
alone
Were sweet as faintly given,

Where ladies, doubtless, cheered the hearth
With song, that wintereven.


The city's manymingled
sounds
Rose like the hum of ocean;

They rather lulled the heart than roused
Its pulse to faster motion.

Gilbert has paced the single walk
An hour, yet is not weary;

And, though it be a winter night,
He feels nor cold nor dreary.

The prime of life is in his veins,
And sends his blood fast flowing,

And Fancy's fervour warms the thoughts
Now in his bosom glowing.

Those thoughts recur to early love,
Or what he love would name,

Though haply Gilbert's secret deeds
Might other title claim.

Such theme not oft his mind absorbs,
He to the world clings fast,

And too much for the present lives,
To linger o'er the past.

But now the evening's deep repose
Has glided to his soul;

That moonlight falls on Memory,
And shows her fading scroll.
One name appears in every line



The gentle rays shine o'er,
And still he smiles and still repeats
That one nameElinor.


There is no sorrow in his smile,
No kindness in his tone;
The triumph of a selfish heart
Speaks coldly there alone;
He says: ' She loved me more than life;
And truly it was sweet
To see so fair a woman kneel,
In bondage, at my feet.

There was a sort of quiet bliss
To be so deeply loved,
To gaze on trembling eagerness
And sit myself unmoved.
And when it pleased my pride to grant,
At last some rare caress,
To feel the fever of that hand
My fingers deigned to press.

'Twas sweet to see her strive to hide
What every glance revealed;
Endowed, the while, with despotmight
Her destiny to wield.

I knew myself no perfect man,
Nor, as she deemed, divine;
I knew that I was gloriousbut


By her reflected shine;

Her youth, her native energy,
Her powers newborn
and fresh,
'Twas these with Godhead sanctified

My sensual frame of flesh.
Yet, like a god did I descend
At last, to meet her love;


And, like a god, I then withdrew
To my own heaven above.

And never more could she invoke
My presence to her sphere;
No prayer, no plaint, no cry of hers
Could win my awful ear.
I knew her blinded constancy
Would ne'er my deeds betray,
And, calm in conscience, whole in heart,
I went my tranquil way.

Yet, sometimes, I still feel a wish,
The fond and flattering pain
Of passion's anguish to create,


In her young breast again.

Bright was the lustre of her eyes,
When they caught fire from mine;

If I had powerthis
very hour,
Again I 'd light their shine.

But where she is, or how she lives,
I have no clue to know;

I 've heard she long my absence pined,
And left her home in woe.

But busied, then, in gathering gold,
As I am busied now,

I could not turn from such pursuit,
To weep a broken vow.

Nor could I give to fatal risk
The fame I ever prized;

Even now, I fear, that precious fame
Is too much compromised.'

An inward trouble dims his eye,
Some riddle he would solve;
Some method to unloose a knot,
His anxious thoughts revolve.

He, pensive, leans against a tree,
A leafy evergreen,

The boughs, the moonlight, intercept,
And hide him like a screen;

He startsthe
tree shakes with his tremor,
Yet nothing near him pass'd,

He hurries up the garden alley,
In strangely sudden haste.

With shaking hand, he lifts the latchet,
Steps o'er the threshold stone;

The heavy door slips from his fingers,
It shuts, and he is gone.

What touched, transfixed, appalled, his soul ?
A nervous thought, no more;

'Twill sink like stone in placid pool,
And calm close smoothly o'er.

II. THE PARLOUR.
WARM is the parlour atmosphere,
Serene the lamp's soft light;

The vivid embers, red and clear,
Proclaim a frosty night.

Books, varied, on the table lie,
Three children o'er them bend,

And all, with curious, eager eye,


The turning leaf attend.

Picture and tale alternately
Their simple hearts delight,

And interest deep, and tempered glee,
Illume their aspects bright;

The parents, from their fireside place,
Behold that pleasant scene,

And joy is on the mother's face,
Pride, in the father's mien.

As Gilbert sees his blooming wife,
Beholds his children fair,

No thought has he of transient strife,
Or past, though piercing fear.

The voice of happy infancy
Lisps sweetly in his ear,

His wife, with pleased and peaceful eye,
Sits, kindly smiling, near.

The fire glows on her silken dress,
And shows its ample grace,

And warmly tints each hazel tress,
Curled soft around her face.

The beauty that in youth he wooed,
Is beauty still, unfaded,

The brow of ever placid mood
No churlish grief has shaded.

Prosperity, in Gilbert's home,
Abides, the guest of years;

There Want or Discord never come,
And seldom Toil or Tears.

The carpets bear the peaceful print
Of comfort's velvet tread,

And golden gleams from plenty sent,
In every nook are shed.

The very silken spaniel seems
Of quiet ease to tell,

As near its mistress' feet it dreams,
Sunk in a cushion's swell;

And smiles seem native to the eyes
Of those sweet children, three;

They have but looked on tranquil skies,
And know not misery.

Alas ! that misery should come
In such an hour as this;

Why could she not so calm a home
A little longer miss ?

But she is now within the door,


Her steps advancing glide;

Her sullen shade has crossed the floor,
She stands at Gilbert's side.

She lays her hand upon his heart,
It bounds with agony;

His fireside chair shakes with the start
That shook the garden tree.

His wife towards the children looks,
She does not mark his mien;

The children, bending o'er their books,
His terror have not seen.

In his own home, by his own hearth,
He sits in solitude,

And circled round with light and mirth,
Cold horror chills his blood.

His mind would hold with desperate clutch
The scene that round him lies;

Nochanged,
as by some wizard's touch,
The present prospect flies.

A tumult vaguea
viewless strife
His futile struggles crush;

'Twixt him and his, an unknown life
And unknown feelings rush.

He seesbut
scarce can language paint
The tissue Fancy weaves;

For words oft give but echo faint
Of thoughts the mind conceives.

Noise, tumult strange, and darkness dim,
Efface both light and quiet;

No shape is in those shadows grim,
No voice in that wild riot.

Sustained and strong, a wondrous blast
Above and round him blows;

A greenish gloom, dense overcast,
Each moment denser grows.

He nothing knowsnor
clearly sees,
Resistance checks his breath,

The high, impetuous, ceaseless breeze
Blows on him. cold as death.

And still the undulating gloom
Mocks sight with formless motion;

Was such sensation Jonah's doom,
Gulphed in the depths of ocean ?

Streaking the air, the nameless vision,
Fastdriven,
deepsounding,
flows;

Oh ! whence its source, and what its mission ?


How will its terrors close ?

Longsweeping,
rushing, vast and void,
The Universe it swallows;

And still the dark, devouring tide,
A Typhoon tempest follows.

More slow it rolls; its furious race
Sinks to a solemn gliding;

The stunning roar, the wind's wild chase,
To stillness are subsiding.

And, slowly borne along, a form
The shapeless chaos varies;

Poised in the eddy to the storm,
Before the eye it tarries.

A woman drownedsunk
in the deep,
On a long wave reclining;

The circling waters' crystal sweep,
Like glass, her shape enshrining;

Her pale dead face, to Gilbert turned,
Seems as in sleep reposing;

A feeble light, now first discerned,
The features well disclosing.

No effort from the haunted air
The ghastly scene could banish;

That hovering wave, arrested there,
Rolledthrobbedbut
did not vanish.

If Gilbert upward turned his gaze,
He saw the oceanshadow;


If he looked down, the endless seas
Lay green as summer meadow.

And straight before, the pale corpse lay,
Upborne by air or billow,

So near, he could have touched the spray
That churned around its pillow.

The hollow anguish of the face
Had moved a fiend to sorrow;

Not Death's fixed calm could rase the trace
Of suffering's deepworn
furrow.

All moved; a strong returning blast,
The mass of waters raising,

Bore wave and passive carcase past,
While Gilbert yet was gazing.

Deep in her isleconceiving
womb,
It seemed the Ocean thundered,

And soon, by realms of rushing gloom,
Were seer and phantom sundered.

Then swept some timbers from a wreck,


On following surges riding;

Then seaweed,
in the turbid rack
Uptorn, went slowly gliding.

The horrid shade, by slow degrees,
A beam of light defeated,

And then the roar of raving seas,
Fast, far, and faint, retreated.

And all was gonegone
like a mist,
Corse, billows, tempest, wreck;

Three children close to Gilbert prest
And clung around his neck.

Good night ! good night ! the prattlers said
And kissed their father's cheek;

'Twas now the hour their quiet bed
And placid rest to seek.

The mother with her offspring goes
To hear their evening prayer;

She nought of Gilbert's vision knows,
And nought of his despair.

Yet, pitying God, abridge the time
Of anguish, now his fate !

Though, haply, great has been his crime,
Thy mercy, too, is great.

Gilbert, at length, uplifts his head,
Bent for some moments low,

And there is neither grief nor dread
Upon his subtle brow.

For well can he his feelings task,
And well his looks command;

His features well his heart can mask,
With smiles and smoothness bland.

Gilbert has reasoned with his mindHe
says 'twas all a dream;

He strives his inward sight to blind
Against truth's inward beam.

He pitied not that shadowy thing,
When it was flesh and blood;

Nor now can pity's balmy spring
Refresh his arid mood.

' And if that dream has spoken truth,'
Thus musingly he says;

' If Elinor be dead, in sooth,
Such chance the shock repays:

A net was woven round my feet,
I scarce could further go,

Are Shame had forced a fast retreat,
Dishonour brought me low. '


' Conceal her, then, deep, silent Sea,
Give her a secret grave !

She sleeps in peace, and I am free,
No longer Terror's slave:

And homage still, from all the world,
Shall greet my spotless name,

Since surges break and waves are curled
Above its threatened shame.'

III. THE WELCOME HOME
ABOVE the city hangs the moon,
Some clouds are boding rain,

Gilbert, erewhile on journey gone,
Tonight
comes home again.

Ten years have passed above his head,
Each year has brought him gain;

His prosperous life has smoothly sped,
Without or tear or stain.

'Tis somewhat latethe
city clocks
Twelve deep vibrations toll,

As Gilbert at the portal knocks,
Which is his journey's goal.

The street is still and desolate,
The moon hid by a cloud;

Gilbert, impatient, will not wait,His
second knock peals loud.

The clocks are hushed; there's not a light
In any window nigh,

And not a single planet bright
Looks from the clouded sky;

The air is raw, the rain descends,
A bitter northwind
blows;

His cloak the traveller scarce defendsWill
not the door unclose ?

He knocks the third time, and the last;
His summons now they hear,

Within, a footstep, hurrying fast,
Is heard approaching near.

The bolt is drawn, the clanking chain
Falls to the floor of stone;

And Gilbert to his heart will strain
His wife and children soon.

The hand that lifts the latchet, holds
A candle to his sight,

And Gilbert, on the step, beholds


A woman, clad in white.

Lo ! water from her dripping dress
Runs on the streaming floor;

From every dark and clinging tress,
The drops incessant pour.

There's none but her to welcome him;
She holds the candle high,

And, motionless in form and limb,
Stands cold and silent nigh;

There's sand and seaweed
on her robe,
Her hollow eyes are blind;

No pulse in such a frame can throb,
No life is there defined.

Gilbert turned ashywhite,
but still
His lips vouchsafed no cry;

He spurred his strength and masterwill
To pass the figure by,


But, moving slow, it faced him straight,
It would not flinch nor quail:

Then first did Gilbert's strength abate,
His stony firmness quail.

He sank upon his knees and prayed;
The shape stood rigid there;

He called aloud for human aid,
No human aid was near.

An accent strange did thus repeat
Heaven's stern but just decree:

' The measure thou to her didst mete,
To thee shall measured be !'

Gilbert sprang from his bended knees,
By the pale spectre pushed,

And, wild as one whom demons seize,
Up the hallstaircase
rushed;

Entered his chambernear
the bed
Sheathed steel and firearms
hung


Impelled by maniac purpose dread,
He chose those stores among.

Across his throat, a keenedged
knife
With vigorous hand he drew;

The wound was widehis
outraged life
Rushed rash and redly through.

And thus died, by a shameful death,
A wise and worldly man,

Who never drew but selfish breath
Since first his life began.

As some red planet's gleam.

Talk not of thy Last Sacrament,
Tell not thy beads for me;

Both rite and prayer are vainly spent,
As dews upon the sea.

Speak not one word of Heaven above,
Rave not of Hell's alarms;

Give me but back my Walter's love,
Restore me to his arms !

Then will the bliss of Heaven be won;
Then will Hell shrink away,

As I have seen night's terrors shun
The conquering steps of day.

'Tis my religion thus to love,
My creed thus fixed to be;

Not Death shall shake, nor Priestcraft break
My rocklike
constancy !

Now go; for at the door there waits
Another stranger guest:

He callsI
comemy
pulse scarce beats,
My heart fails in my breast.

Again that voicehow
far away,
How dreary sounds that tone !
And I, methinks, am gone astray
In trackless wastes and lone.

I fain would rest a little while:
Where can I find a stay,
Till dawn upon the hills shall smile,
And show some trodden way ?
' I come ! I come !' in haste she said,
' 'Twas Walter's voice I heard !'
Then up she sprangbut
fell back, dead,
His name her latest word.

George Edmunds' Song

Autumn leaves, autumn leaves, lie strewn around he here;
Autumn leaves, autumn leaves, how sad, how cold, how drear!
How like the hopes of childhood's day,
Thick clust'ring on the bough!
How like those hopes in their decay-
How faded are they now!
Autumn leaves, autumn leaves, lie strewn around me here;
Autumn leaves, autumn leaves, how sad, how cold, how drear!


Wither'd leaves, wither'd leaves, that fly before the gale:
Withered leaves, withered leaves, ye tell a mournful tale,
Of love once true, and friends once kind,
And happy moments fled:
Dispersed by every breath of wind,
Forgotten, changed, or dead!
Autumn leaves, autumn leaves, lie strewn around me here!
Autumn leaves, autumn leaves, how sad, how cold, how drear!

A Child's Hymn

Hear my prayer, O heavenly Father,
Ere I lay me down to sleep;
Bid Thy angels, pure and holy,
Round my bed their vigil keep.


My sins are heavy, but Thy mercy
Far outweighs them, every one;
Down before Thy cross I cast them,
Trusting in Thy help alone.


Keep me through this night of peril
Underneath its boundless shade;
Take me to Thy rest, I pray Thee,
When my pilgrimage is made.


None shall measure out Thy patience
By the span of human thought;
None shall bound the tender mercies
Which Thy Holy Son has bought.


Pardon all my past transgressions,
Give me strength for days to come;
Guide and guard me with Thy blessing
Till Thy angels bid me home.

The Living Torch
Those lit eyes go before me, in full view,
(Some cunning angel magnetised their light) -
Heavenly twins, yet my own brothers too,
Shaking their diamond blaze into my sight.
My steps from every trap or sin to save,
In the strait road of Beauty they conduct me,
They are my servants, and I am their slave,
Obedient in whatever they instruct me.
Delightful eyes, you burn with mystic rays
Like candles in broad day; red suns may blaze,
But cannot quench their still, fantastic light.
Those candles burn for death, but you for waking :
You sing the dawn that in my soul is breaking,
Stars which no sun could ever put to flight!

The Invitation to the Voyage
My sister, my child
imagine, exiled,
The sweetness, of being there, we two!
To live and to sigh,
to love and to die,
In the land that mirrors you!
The misted haze
of its clouded days
Has the same charm to my mind,
as mysterious,
as your traiterous
Eyes, behind glittering blinds.
There everything’s order and beauty,
calm, voluptuousness, and luxury.
The surface gleams
are polished it seems,
Through the years, to grace our room.
The rarest flowers
mix, with fragrant showers,
The vague, amber perfume.
The dark, painted halls,
the deep mirrored walls,
With Eastern splendour hung,
all secretly speak,
To the soul, its discrete,
Sweet, native tongue.
There, everything’s order and beauty,
calm, voluptuousness and luxury.
See, down the canals,
the sleeping vessels,
Those nomads, their white sails furled:
Now, to accomplish
your every wish,
They come from the ends of the world.
- The deep sunsets
surround the west,
The canals, the city, entire,
with blue-violet and gold;
And the Earth grows cold
In an incandescent fire.
There, everything’s order and beauty,
calm, voluptuousness and luxury.

The Balcony
Mother of memories, mistress of mistresses,
O you, all my pleasures! O you, all my learning!
You will remember the joy of caresses,
the sweetness of home and the beauty of evening,
Mother of memories, mistress of mistresses!
On evenings lit by the glow of the ashes
and on the balcony, veiled, rose-coloured, misted,
how gentle your breast was, how good your heart to me!
We have said things meant for eternity,
on evenings lit by the glow of the ashes.
How lovely the light is on sultry evenings!
How deep the void grows! How powerful the heart is!
As I leaned towards you, queen of adored ones
I thought I breathed perfume from your blood’s kiss.
How lovely the light is on sultry evenings!
The night it was thickening and closing around us,
and my eyes in the dark were divining your glance,
and I drank your nectar. Oh sweetness! Oh poison!
your feet held, here, in these fraternal hands.
The night it was thickening and closing around us.
I know how to summon up happiest moments,
and relive my past, there, curled, touching your knees.
What good to search for your languorous beauties
but in your dear body, and your heart so sweet?
I know how to summon up happiest moments!
Those vows, those perfumes, those infinite kisses,
will they be reborn, from gulfs beyond soundings,
as the suns that are young again climb in the sky,
after they’ve passed through the deepest of drownings?
-O vows! O perfumes! O infinite kisses

Beauty
I am as lovely as a dream in stone;
My breast on which each finds his death in turn
Inspires the poet with a love as lone
As everlasting clay, and as taciturn.
Swan-white of heart, as sphinx no mortal knows,
My throne is in the heaven's azure deep;
I hate all movement that disturbs my pose;
I smile not ever, neither do I weep.
Before my monumental attitudes,
Taken from the proudest plastic arts,
My poets pray in austere studious moods,
For I, to fold enchantment round their hearts,
Have pools of light where beauty flames and dies,
The placid mirrors of my luminous eyes.

Afternoon Song
Though your wicked eyebrows call
Your nature into question
(Unangelic's their suggestion,
Witch whose eyes enthrall)
I adore you still
O foolish terrible emotion
Kneeling in devotion
As a priest to his idol will.
Your undone braids conceal
Desert, forest scents,
In your exotic countenance
Lie secrets unrevealed.
Over your flesh perfume drifts
Like incense 'round a censor,
Tantalizing dispenser
Of evening's ardent gifts.
No Philtres could compete
With your potent idleness:
You've mastered the caress
That raises dead me to their feet.
Your hips themselves are romanced
By your back and by your breasts:
By your languid dalliance.
Now and then, your appetite's
Uncontrolled, unassuaged:
Mysteriously enraged,
You kiss me and you bite.
Dark one, I am torn
By your savage ways,
Then, soft as the moon, your gaze
Sees my tortured heart reborn.
Beneath your satin shoe,
Beneath your charming silken foot.
My greatest joy I put
My genius and destiny, too.
You bring my spirit back,
Bringer of the light.
Exploding color in the night
Of my Siberia so black.

White Shoulders

Your white shoulders
I remember
And your shrug of laughter.


Low laughter
Shaken slow
From your white shoulders.

Sixteen Months

On the lips of the child Janet float changing dreams.
It is a thin spiral of blue smoke,
A morning campfire at a mountain lake.


On the lips of the child Janet,
Wisps of haze on ten miles of corn,
Young light blue calls to young light gold of morning.

Population Drifts

New-mown hay smell and wind of the plain made her
a woman whose ribs had the power of the hills in
them and her hands were tough for work and there
was passion for life in her womb.


She and her man crossed the ocean and the years that
marked their faces saw them haggling with landlords
and grocers while six children played on the stones
and prowled in the garbage cans.


One child coughed its lungs away, two more have adenoids
and can neither talk nor run like their mother,
one is in jail, two have jobs in a box factory


And as they fold the pasteboard, they wonder what the
wishing is and the wistful glory in them that flutters
faintly when the glimmer of spring comes on
the air or the green of summer turns brown:


They do not know it is the new-mown hay smell calling
and the wind of the plain praying for them to come
back and take hold of life again with tough hands
and with passion.

Pennsylvania


I have been in Pennsylvania,
In the Monongahela and Hocking Valleys.


In the blue Susquehanna
On a Saturday morning
I saw a mounted constabulary go by,
I saw boys playing marbles.
Spring and the hills laughed.


And in places
Along the Appalachian chain,
I saw steel arms handling coal and iron,
And I saw the white-cauliflower faces
Of miner's wives waiting for the men to come home from the day's work.


I made color studies in crimson and violet
Over the dust and domes of culm at sunset.

Our Prayer of Thanks

For the gladness here where the sun is shining at evening on the weeds at the river,
Our prayer of thanks.


For the laughter of children who tumble barefooted and bareheaded in the summer
grass,
Our prayer of thanks.


For the sunset and the stars, the women and the white arms that hold us,
Our prayer of thanks.


God,
If you are deaf and blind, if this is all lost to you,
God, if the dead in their coffins amid the silver handles on the edge of town, or the
reckless dead of war days thrown unknown in pits, if these dead are forever deaf and
blind and lost,
Our prayer of thanks.


God,
The game is all your way, the secrets and the signals and the system; and so for the
break of the game and the first play and the last.
Our prayer of thanks.

Maybe


Maybe he believes me, maybe not.
Maybe I can marry him, maybe not.


Maybe the wind on the prairie,
The wind on the sea, maybe,
Somebody, somewhere, maybe can tell.


I will lay my head on his shoulder
And when he asks me I will say yes,
Maybe.

Mamie


Mamie beat her head against the bars of a little Indiana town and dreamed of romance
and big things off somewhere the way the railroad trains all ran.
She could see the smoke of the engines get lost down where the streaks of steel
flashed in the sun and when the newspapers came in on the morning mail she knew
there was a big Chicago far off, where all the trains ran.
She got tired of the barber shop boys and the post office chatter and the church gossip
and the old pieces the band played on the Fourth of July and Decoration Day
And sobbed at her fate and beat her head against the bars and was going to kill herself
When the thought came to her that if she was going to die she might as well die
struggling for a clutch of romance among the streets of Chicago.
She has a job now at six dollars a week in the basement of the Boston Store
And even now she beats her head against the bars in the same old way and wonders if
there is a bigger place the railroads run to from Chicago where maybe there is
romance
and big things
and real dreams
that never go smash.

Jan Kubelik

Your bow swept over a string, and a long low note quivered to the air.
(A mother of Bohemia sobs over a new child perfect learning to suck milk.)


Your bow ran fast over all the high strings fluttering and wild.
(All the girls in Bohemia are laughing on a Sunday afternoon in the hills with their
lovers.)

Horses and Men in Rain

Let us sit by a hissing steam radiator a winter's day, gray wind pattering frozen
raindrops on the window,
And let us talk about milk wagon drivers and grocery delivery boys.


Let us keep our feet in wool slippers and mix hot punches--and talk about mail carriers
and
messenger boys slipping along the icy sidewalks.
Let us write of olden, golden days and hunters of the
Holy Grail and men called "knights" riding horses in the rain, in the cold frozen rain for
ladies they loved.


A roustabout hunched on a coal wagon goes by, icicles drip on his hat rim, sheets of ice
wrapping
the hunks of coal, the caravanserai a gray blur in slant of rain.
Let us nudge the steam radiator with our wool slippers and write poems of Launcelot,
the hero, and
Roland, the hero, and all the olden golden men who rode horses in the rain.

Flanders


Flanders, the name of a place, a country of people,
Spells itself with letters, is written in books.


"Where is Flanders?" was asked one time,
Flanders known only to those who lived there
And milked cows and made cheese and spoke the home language.


"Where is Flanders?" was asked.
And the slang adepts shot the reply: Search me.


A few thousand people milking cows, raising radishes,
On a land of salt grass and dunes, sand-swept with a sea-breath on it:
This was Flanders, the unknown, the quiet,
The place where cows hunted lush cuds of green on lowlands,
And the raw-boned plowmen took horses with long shanks
Out in the dawn to the sea-breath.


Flanders sat slow-spoken amid slow-swung windmills,
Slow-circling windmill arms turning north or west,
Turning to talk to the swaggering winds, the childish winds,
So Flanders sat with the heart of a kitchen girl
Washing wooden bowls in the winter sun by a window.

Dream Girl

You will come one day in a waver of love,
Tender as dew, impetuous as rain,
The tan of the sun will be on your skin,
The purr of the breeze in your murmuring speech,
You will pose with a hill-flower grace.


You will come, with your slim, expressive arms,
A poise of the head no sculptor has caught
And nuances spoken with shoulder and neck,
Your face in a pass-and-repass of moods
As many as skies in delicate change
Of cloud and blue and flimmering sun.


Yet,
You may not come, O girl of a dream,
We may but pass as the world goes by
And take from a look of eyes into eyes,
A film of hope and a memoried day.

Child Moon

The child's wonder
At the old moon
Comes back nightly.
She points her finger
To the far silent yellow thing
Shining through the branches
Filtering on the leaves a golden sand,
Crying with her little tongue, “See the moon!”
And in her bed fading to sleep
With babblings of the moon on her little mouth.