The Poetical Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Volume 1

Browning Elizabeth Barrett

The Poetical Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Volume 1

PREFATORY NOTE

In a recent "Memoir of Elizabeth Barrett Browning," by John H. Ingram, it is observed that "such essays on her personal history as have appeared, either in England or elsewhere, are replete with mistakes or misstatements." For these he proposes to substitute "a correct if short memoir: " but, kindly and appreciative as may be Mr. Ingram's performance, there occur not a few passages in it equally "mistaken and misstated."

1. "Elizabeth, the eldest daughter of Edward Moulton Barrett, was born in London on the 4th of March, 1809." Elizabeth was born, March 6, 1806, at Coxhoe Hall, county of Durham, the residence of her father.1 "Before she was eleven she composed an epic on 'Marathon.'" She was then fourteen.

2. "It is said that Mr. Barrett was a man of intellect and culture, and therefore able to direct his daughter's education, but be that so or not, he obtained for her the tutorial assistance of the well-known Greek scholar Hugh Stuart Boyd … who was also a writer of fluent verse: and his influence and instruction doubtless confirmed Miss Barrett in her poetical aspirations." Mr. Boyd, early deprived of sight from over-study, resided at Malvern, and cared for little else than Greek literature, especially that of the "Fathers." He was about or over fifty, stooped a good deal, and was nearly bald. His daily habit was to sit for hours before a table, treating it as a piano with his fingers, and reciting Greek – his memory for which was such that, on a folio column of his favourite St. Gregory being read to him, he would repeat it without missing a syllable. Elizabeth, then residing in Herefordshire, visited him frequently, partly from her own love of Greek, and partly from a desire for the congenial society of one to whom her attendance might be helpful. There was nothing in the least "tutorial" in this relation – merely the natural feeling of a girl for a blind and disabled scholar in whose pursuits she took interest. Her knowledge of Greek was originally due to a preference for sharing with her brother Edward in the instruction of his Scottish tutor Mr. M'Swiney rather than in that of her own governess Mrs. Orme: and at such lessons she constantly assisted until her brother's departure for the Charter House – where he had Thackeray for a schoolfellow. In point of fact, she was self-taught in almost every respect. Mr. Boyd was no writer of "fluent verse," though he published an unimportant volume, and the literary sympathies of the friends were exclusively bestowed on Greek.

3. "Edward, the eldest of the family," was Elizabeth's younger by nearly two years. He and his companions perished, not "just off Teignmouth," but in Babbicombe Bay. The bodies drifted up channel, and were recovered three days after.

4. "Her father's fortune was considerably augmented by his accession to the property of his only brother Richard, for many years Speaker of the House of Assembly at Jamaica." Mr. Edward Moulton, by the will of his grandfather, was directed to affix the name of Barrett to that of Moulton, upon succeeding to the estates in Jamaica. Richard was his cousin, and by his death Mr. Barrett did not acquire a shilling. His only brother was Samuel, sometime M.P. for Richmond. He had also a sister who died young, the full-length portrait of whom by Sir Thomas Lawrence (the first exhibited by that painter) is in the possession of Octavius Moulton-Barrett at Westover, near Calbourne, in the Isle of Wight. With respect to the "semi-tropical taste" of Mr. Barrett, so characterised in the "Memoir," it may be mentioned that, on the early death of his father, he was brought from Jamaica to England when a very young child, as a ward of the late Chief Baron Lord Abinger, then Mr. Scarlett, whom he frequently accompanied in his post-chaise when on Circuit. He was sent to Harrow, but received there so savage a punishment for a supposed offence ("burning the toast") by the youth whose "fag" he had become, that he was withdrawn from the school by his mother, and the delinquent was expelled. At the age of sixteen he was sent by Mr. Scarlett to Cambridge, and thence, for an early marriage, went to Northumberland. After purchasing the estate in Herefordshire, he gave himself up assiduously to the usual duties and occupations of a country gentleman, – farmed largely, was an active magistrate, became for a year High Sheriff, and in all county contests busied himself as a Liberal. He had a fine taste for landscape-gardening, planted considerably, loved trees – almost as much as his friend, the early correspondent of his daughter, Sir Uvedale Price – and for their sake discontinued keeping deer in the park.

Many other particulars concerning other people, in other "Biographical Memoirs which have appeared in England or elsewhere" for some years past, are similarly "mistaken and misstated: " but they seem better left without notice by anybody.

R. B.

29 De Vere Gardens, W.

December 10, 1887.

Dedication

TO MY FATHER

When your eyes fall upon this page of dedication, and you start to see to whom it is inscribed, your first thought will be of the time far off when I was a child and wrote verses, and when I dedicated them to you who were my public and my critic. Of all that such a recollection implies of saddest and sweetest to both of us, it would become neither of us to speak before the world, nor would it be possible for us to speak of it to one another, with voices that did not falter. Enough, that what is in my heart when I write thus, will be fully known to yours.

And my desire is that you, who are a witness how if this art of poetry had been a less earnest object to me, it must have fallen from exhausted hands before this day, – that you, who have shared with me in things bitter and sweet, softening or enhancing them, every day, – that you, who hold with me, over all sense of loss and transiency, one hope by one Name, – may accept from me the inscription of these volumes, the exponents of a few years of an existence which has been sustained and comforted by you as well as given. Somewhat more faint-hearted than I used to be, it is my fancy thus to seem to return to a visible personal dependence on you, as if indeed I were a child again; to conjure your beloved image between myself and the public, so as to be sure of one smile, – and to satisfy my heart while I sanctify my ambition, by associating with the great pursuit of my life, its tenderest and holiest affection.

YourE. B. B.

London: 50 Wimpole Street,

1844.

PREFACE

TO THE FIRST COLLECTED EDITION OF MRS. BROWNING'S POEMS

The collection here offered to the public consists of Poems which have been written in the interim between the period of the publication of my "Seraphim" and the present; variously coloured, or perhaps shadowed, by the life of which they are the natural expression, – and, with the exception of a few contributions to English or American periodicals, are printed now for the first time.

As the first poem of this collection, the "Drama of Exile," is the longest and most important work (to me!) which I ever trusted into the current of publication, I may be pardoned for entreating the reader's attention to the fact, that I decided on publishing it after considerable hesitation and doubt. The subject of the Drama rather fastened on me than was chosen; and the form, approaching the model of the Greek tragedy, shaped itself under my hand, rather by force of pleasure than of design. But when the excitement of composition had subsided, I felt afraid of my position. My subject was the new and strange experience of the fallen humanity, as it went forth from Paradise into the wilderness; with a peculiar reference to Eve's allotted grief, which, considering that self-sacrifice belonged to her womanhood, and the consciousness of originating the Fall to her offence, – appeared to me imperfectly apprehended hitherto, and more expressible by a woman than a man. There was room, at least, for lyrical emotion in those first steps into the wilderness, – in that first sense of desolation after wrath, – in that first audible gathering of the recriminating "groan of the whole creation," – in that first darkening of the hills from the recoiling feet of angels, – and in that first silence of the voice of God. And I took pleasure in driving in, like a pile, stroke upon stroke, the Idea of Exile, – admitting Lucifer as an extreme Adam, to represent the ultimate tendencies of sin and loss, – that it might be strong to bear up the contrary idea of the Heavenly love and purity. But when all was done, I felt afraid, as I said before, of my position. I had promised my own prudence to shut close the gates of Eden between Milton and myself, so that none might say I dared to walk in his footsteps. He should be within, I thought, with his Adam and Eve unfallen or falling, – and I, without, with my Exiles, —I also an exile! It would not do. The subject, and his glory covering it, swept through the gates, and I stood full in it, against my will, and contrary to my vow, – till I shrank back fearing, almost desponding; hesitating to venture even a passing association with our great poet before the face of the public. Whether at last I took courage for the venture, by a sudden revival of that love of manuscript which should be classed by moral philosophers among the natural affections, or by the encouraging voice of a dear friend, it is not interesting to the reader to inquire. Neither could the fact affect the question; since I bear, of course, my own responsibilities. For the rest, Milton is too high, and I am too low, to render it necessary for me to disavow any rash emulation of his divine faculty on his own ground; while enough individuality will be granted, I hope, to my poem, to rescue me from that imputation of plagiarism which should be too servile a thing for every sincere thinker. After all, and at the worst, I have only attempted, in respect to Milton, what the Greek dramatists achieved lawfully in respect to Homer. They constructed dramas on Trojan ground; they raised on the buskin and even clasped with the sock, the feet of Homeric heroes; yet they neither imitated their Homer nor emasculated him. The Agamemnon of Æschylus, who died in the bath, did no harm to, nor suffered any harm from, the Agamemnon of Homer who bearded Achilles. To this analogy – the more favourable to me from the obvious exception in it, that Homer's subject was his own possibly by creation, – whereas Milton's was his own by illustration only, – I appeal. To this analogy —not to this comparison, be it understood – I appeal. For the analogy of the stronger may apply to the weaker; and the reader may have patience with the weakest while she suggests the application.

On a graver point I must take leave to touch, in further reference to my dramatic poem. The divine Saviour is represented in vision towards the close, speaking and transfigured; and it has been hinted to me that the introduction may give offence in quarters where I should be most reluctant to give any. A reproach of the same class, relating to the frequent recurrence of a Great Name in my pages, has already filled me with regret. How shall I answer these things? Frankly, in any case. When the old mysteries represented the Holiest Being in a rude familiar fashion, and the people gazed on, with the faith of children in their earnest eyes, the critics of a succeeding age, who rejoiced in Congreve, cried out "Profane." Yet Andreini's mystery suggested Milton's epic; and Milton, the most reverent of poets, doubting whether to throw his work into the epic form or the dramatic, left, on the latter basis, a rough ground-plan, in which his intention of introducing the "Heavenly Love" among the persons of his drama is extant to the present day. But the tendency of the present day is to sunder the daily life from the spiritual creed, – to separate the worshipping from the acting man, – and by no means to "live by faith." There is a feeling abroad which appears to me (I say it with deference) nearer to superstition than to religion, that there should be no touching of holy vessels except by consecrated fingers, nor any naming of holy names except in consecrated places. As if life were not a continual sacrament to man, since Christ brake the daily bread of it in His hands! As if the name of God did not build a church, by the very naming of it! As if the word God were not, everywhere in His creation, and at every moment in His eternity, an appropriate word! As if it could be uttered unfitly, if devoutly! I appeal on these points, which I will not argue, from the conventions of the Christian to his devout heart; and I beseech him generously to believe of me that I have done that in reverence from which, through reverence, he might have abstained; and that where he might have been driven to silence by the principle of adoration, I, by the very same principle, have been hurried into speech.

It should have been observed in another place, – the fact, however, being sufficiently obvious throughout the drama, – that the time is from the evening into the night. If it should be objected that I have lengthened my twilight too much for the East, I might hasten to answer that we know nothing of the length of mornings or evenings before the Flood, and that I cannot, for my own part, believe in an Eden without the longest of purple twilights. The evening, =erev=, of Genesis signifies a "mingling," and approaches the meaning of our "twilight" analytically. Apart from which considerations, my "exiles" are surrounded, in the scene described, by supernatural appearances; and the shadows that approach them are not only of the night.

The next longest poem to the "Drama of Exile," in the collection, is the "Vision of Poets," in which I have endeavoured to indicate the necessary relations of genius to suffering and self-sacrifice. In the eyes of the living generation, the poet is at once a richer and poorer man than he used to be; he wears better broadcloth, but speaks no more oracles: and the evil of this social incrustation over a great idea is eating deeper and more fatally into our literature than either readers or writers may apprehend fully. I have attempted to express in this poem my view of the mission of the poet, of the self-abnegation implied in it, of the great work involved in it, of the duty and glory of what Balzac has beautifully and truly called "la patience angélique du génie;" and of the obvious truth, above all, that if knowledge is power, suffering should be acceptable as a part of knowledge. It is enough to say of the other poems, that scarcely one of them is unambitious of an object and a significance.

Since my "Seraphim" was received by the public with more kindness than its writer had counted on, I dare not rely on having put away the faults with which that volume abounded and was mildly reproached. Something indeed I may hope to have retrieved, because some progress in mind and in art every active thinker and honest writer must consciously or unconsciously make, with the progress of existence and experience: and, in some sort – since "we learn in suffering what we teach in song," – my songs may be fitter to teach. But if it were not presumptuous language on the lips of one to whom life is more than usually uncertain, my favourite wish for this work would be, that it be received by the public as a step in the right track, towards a future indication of more value and acceptability. I would fain do better, – and I feel as if I might do better: I aspire to do better. It is no new form of the nympholepsy of poetry, that my ideal should fly before me: – and if I cry out too hopefully at sight of the white vesture receding between the cypresses, let me be blamed gently if justly. In any case, while my poems are full of faults, – as I go forward to my critics and confess, – they have my heart and life in them, – they are not empty shells. If it must be said of me that I have contributed immemorable verses to the many rejected by the age, it cannot at least be said that I have done so in a light and irresponsible spirit. Poetry has been as serious a thing to me as life itself; and life has been a very serious thing: there has been no playing at skittles for me in either. I never mistook pleasure for the final cause of poetry; nor leisure, for the hour of the poet. I have done my work, so far, as work, – not as mere hand and head work, apart from the personal being, – but as the completest expression of that being to which I could attain, – and as work I offer it to the public, – feeling its shortcomings more deeply than any of my readers, because measured from the height of my aspiration, – but feeling also that the reverence and sincerity with which the work was done should give it some protection with the reverent and sincere.

London: 50 Wimpole Street,

1844.

ADVERTISEMENT

This edition, including my earlier and later writings, I have endeavoured to render as little unworthy as possible of the indulgence of the public. Several poems I would willingly have withdrawn, if it were not almost impossible to extricate what has been once caught and involved in the machinery of the press. The alternative is a request to the generous reader that he may use the weakness of those earlier verses, which no subsequent revision has succeeded in strengthening, less as a reproach to the writer, than as a means of marking some progress in her other attempts.

E. B. B.

London, 1856.

A DRAMA OF EXILE

PERSONS.

Christ, in a Vision.

Adam.

Eve.

Gabriel.

Lucifer.

Angels, Eden Spirits, Earth Spirits, and Phantasms.

A DRAMA OF EXILE

Scene —The outer side of the gate of Eden shut fast with cloud, from the depth of which revolves a sword of fire self-moved. Adam and Eve are seen, in the distance flying along the glare.

Lucifer, aloneRejoice in the clefts of Gehenna,My exiled, my host!Earth has exiles as hopeless as when aHeaven's empire was lost.Through the seams of her shaken foundations,Smoke up in great joy!With the smoke of your fierce exultationsDeform and destroy!Smoke up with your lurid revenges,And darken the faceOf the white heavens and taunt them with changesFrom glory and grace.We, in falling, while destiny strangles,Pull down with us all.Let them look to the rest of their angels!Who's safe from a fall?HE saves not. Where's Adam? Can pardonRequicken that sod?Unkinged is the King of the Garden,The image of God.Other exiles are cast out of Eden, —More curse has been hurled:Come up, O my locusts, and feed inThe green of the world!Come up! we have conquered by evil;Good reigns not alone:I prevail now, and, angel or devil,Inherit a throne.[In sudden apparition a watch of innumerable Angels, rank above rank, slopes up from around the gate to the zenith. The Angel Gabriel descendsLucifer. Hail, Gabriel, the keeper of the gate!Now that the fruit is plucked, prince Gabriel,I hold that Eden is impregnableUnder thy keeping.Gabriel. Angel of the sin,Such as thou standest, – pale in the drear lightWhich rounds the rebel's work with Maker's wrathThou shalt be an Idea to all souls,A monumental melancholy gloomSeen down all ages, whence to mark despairAnd measure out the distances from good.Go from us straightway!Lucifer. Wherefore?Gabriel. Lucifer,Thy last step in this place trod sorrow up.Recoil before that sorrow, if not this sword.Lucifer. Angels are in the world – wherefore not I?Exiles are in the world – wherefore not I?The cursed are in the world – wherefore not I?Gabriel. Depart!Lucifer. And where's the logic of 'depart'?Our lady Eve had half been satisfiedTo obey her Maker, if I had not learntTo fix my postulate better. Dost thou dreamOf guarding some monopoly in heavenInstead of earth? Why, I can dream with theeTo the length of thy wings.Gabriel. I do not dream.This is not heaven, even in a dream, nor earth,As earth was once, first breathed among the stars,Articulate glory from the mouth divine,To which the myriad spheres thrilled audibly,Touched like a lute-string, and the sons of GodSaid Amen, singing it. I know that thisIs earth not new created but new cursed —This, Eden's gate not opened but built upWith a final cloud of sunset. Do I dream?Alas, not so! this is the Eden lostBy Lucifer the serpent; this the sword(This sword alive with justice and with fire)That smote, upon the forehead, LuciferThe angel. Wherefore, angel, go – depart!Enough is sinned and suffered.Lucifer. By no means.Here's a brave earth to sin and suffer on.It holds fast still – it cracks not under curse;It holds like mine immortal. PresentlyWe'll sow it thick enough with graves as greenOr greener certes, than its knowledge-tree.We'll have the cypress for the tree of life,More eminent for shadow: for the rest,We'll build it dark with towns and pyramids,And temples, if it please you: – we'll have feastsAnd funerals also, merrymakes and wars,Till blood and wine shall mix and run alongRight o'er the edges. And, good Gabriel(Ye like that word in heaven), I too have strength —Strength to behold Him and not worship Him,Strength to fall from Him and not cry on Him,Strength to be in the universe and yetNeither God nor his servant. The red signBurnt on my forehead, which you taunt me with,Is God's sign that it bows not unto God,The potter's mark upon his work, to showIt rings well to the striker. I and the earthCan bear more curse.Gabriel. O miserable earth,O ruined angel!Lucifer. Well, and if it be!I chose this ruin, I elected itOf my will, not of service. What I do,I do volitient, not obedient,And overtop thy crown with my despairMy sorrow crowns me. Get thee back to heaven,And leave me to the earth, which is mine ownIn virtue of her ruin, as I hersIn virtue of my revolt! Turn thou from bothThat bright, impassive, passive angelhood,And spare to read us backward any moreOf the spent hallelujahs!Gabriel. Spirit of scorn,I might say, of unreason! I might say,That who despairs, acts; that who acts, connivesWith God's relations set in time and space;That who elects, assumes a something goodWhich God made possible; that who lives, obeysThe law of a Life-maker …Lucifer. Let it pass!No more, thou Gabriel! What if I stand upAnd strike my brow against the crystallineRoofing the creatures, – shall I say, for that,My stature is too high for me to stand, —Henceforward I must sit? Sit thou!Gabriel. I kneel.Lucifer. A heavenly answer. Get thee to thy heaven,And leave my earth to me!Gabriel. Through heaven and earthGod's will moves freely, and I follow it,As colour follows light. He overflowsThe firmamental walls with deity,Therefore with love; his lightnings go abroad,His pity may do so, his angels must,Whene'er he gives them charges.Lucifer. Verily,I and my demons, who are spirits of scorn,Might hold this charge of standing with a sword'Twixt man and his inheritance, as wellAs the benignest angel of you all.Gabriel. Thou speakest in the shadow of thy change.If thou hadst gazed upon the face of GodThis morning for a moment, thou hadst knownThat only pity fitly can chastise:Hate but avenges.Lucifer. As it is, I knowSomething of pity. When I reeled in heaven,And my sword grew too heavy for my grasp,Stabbing through matter, which it could not pierceSo much as the first shell of, – toward the throne;When I fell back, down, – staring up as I fell, —The lightnings holding open my scathed lids,And that thought of the infinite of God,Hurled after to precipitate descent;When countless angel faces still and sternPressed out upon me from the level heavensAdown the abysmal spaces, and I fellTrampled down by your stillness, and struck blindBy the sight within your eyes, – 'twas then I knewHow ye could pity, my kind angelhood!Gabriel. Alas, discrowned one, by the truth in meWhich God keeps in me, I would give awayAll – save that truth and his love keeping it, —To lead thee home again into the lightAnd hear thy voice chant with the morning stars,When their rays tremble round them with much songSung in more gladness!Lucifer. Sing, my Morning Star!Last beautiful, last heavenly, that I loved!If I could drench thy golden locks with tears,What were it to this angel?Gabriel. What love is.And now I have named God.Lucifer. Yet, Gabriel,By the lie in me which I keep myself,Thou'rt a false swearer. Were it otherwise,What dost thou here, vouchsafing tender thoughtsTo that earth-angel or earth-demon – which,Thou and I have not solved the problem yetEnough to argue, – that fallen Adam there, —That red-clay and a breath, – who must, forsooth,Live in a new apocalypse of sense,With beauty and music waving in his treesAnd running in his rivers, to make gladHis soul made perfect? – is it not for hope,A hope within thee deeper than thy truth,Of finally conducting him and hisTo fill the vacant thrones of me and mine,Which affront heaven with their vacuity?Gabriel. Angel, there are no vacant thrones in heavenTo suit thy empty words. Glory and lifeFulfil their own depletions; and if GodSighed you far from him, his next breath drew inA compensative splendour up the vast,Flushing the starry arteries.Lucifer. What a change!So, let the vacant thrones and gardens tooFill as may please you! – and be pitiful,As ye translate that word, to the dethronedAnd exiled, man or angel. The fact stands,That I, the rebel, the cast out and down,Am here and will not go; while there, alongThe light to which ye flash the desert out,Flies your adopted Adam, your red-clayIn two kinds, both being flawed. Why, what is this?Whose work is this? Whose hand was in the work?Against whose hand? In this last strife, methinks,I am not a fallen angel!Gabriel. Dost thou knowAught of those exiles?Lucifer. Ay: I know they have fledSilent all day along the wilderness:I know they wear, for burden on their backs,The thought of a shut gate of Paradise,And faces of the marshalled cherubimShining against, not for them; and I knowThey dare not look in one another's face, —As if each were a cherub!Gabriel. Dost thou knowAught of their future?Lucifer. Only as much as this:That evil will increase and multiplyWithout a benediction.Gabriel. Nothing more?Lucifer. Why so the angels taunt! What should be more?Gabriel. God is more.Lucifer. Proving what?Gabriel. That he is God,And capable of saving. Lucifer,I charge thee by the solitude he keptEre he created, – leave the earth to God!Lucifer. My foot is on the earth, firm as my sin.Gabriel. I charge thee by the memory of heavenEre any sin was done, – leave earth to God!Lucifer. My sin is on the earth, to reign thereon.Gabriel. I charge thee by the choral song we sang,When up against the white shore of our feetThe depths of the creation swelled and brake, —And the new worlds, the beaded foam and flowerOf all that coil, roared outward into spaceOn thunder-edges, – leave the earth to God!Lucifer. My woe is on the earth, to curse thereby.Gabriel. I charge thee by that mournful Morning StarWhich trembles …Lucifer. Enough spoken. As the pineIn norland forest drops its weight of snowsBy a night's growth, so, growing toward my endsI drop thy counsels. Farewell, Gabriel!Watch out thy service; I achieve my will.And peradventure in the after years,When thoughtful men shall bend their spacious browsUpon the storm and strife seen everywhereTo ruffle their smooth manhood and break upWith lurid lights of intermittent hopeTheir human fear and wrong, – they may discernThe heart of a lost angel in the earth.CHORUS OF EDEN SPIRITS(chanting from Paradise, while Adam and Eve fly across the Sword-glare)Hearken, oh hearken! let your souls behind youTurn, gently moved!Our voices feel along the Dread to find you,O lost, beloved!Through the thick-shielded and strong-marshalled angels,They press and pierce:Our requiems follow fast on our evangels, —Voice throbs in verse.We are but orphaned spirits left in EdenA time ago:God gave us golden cups, and we were biddenTo feed you so.But now our right hand hath no cup remaining,No work to do,The mystic hydromel is spilt, and stainingThe whole earth through.Most ineradicable stains, for showing(Not interfused!)That brighter colours were the world's forgoing,Than shall be used.Hearken, oh hearken! ye shall hearken surelyFor years and years,The noise beside you, dripping coldly, purely,Of spirits' tears.The yearning to a beautiful denied youShall strain your powers;Ideal sweetnesses shall overglide you,Resumed from ours.In all your music, our pathetic minorYour ears shall cross;And all good gifts shall mind you of diviner,With sense of loss.We shall be near you in your poet-languorsAnd wild extremes,What time ye vex the desert with vain angers,Or mock with dreams.And when upon you, weary after roaming,Death's seal is put,By the foregone ye shall discern the coming,Through eyelids shut.Spirits of the Trees.Hark! the Eden trees are stirring,Soft and solemn in your hearing!Oak and linden, palm and fir,Tamarisk and juniper,Each still throbbing in vibrationSince that crowning of creationWhen the God-breath spake abroad,Let us make man like to God!And the pine stood quiveringAs the awful word went by,Like a vibrant music-stringStretched from mountain-peak to sky;And the platan did expandSlow and gradual, branch and head;And the cedar's strong black shadeFluttered brokenly and grand:Grove and wood were swept aslantIn emotion jubilant.Voice of the same, but softer.Which divine impulsion cleavesIn dim movements to the leavesDropt and lifted, dropt and lifted,In the sunlight greenly sifted, —In the sunlight and the moonlightGreenly sifted through the trees.Ever wave the Eden treesIn the nightlight and the noonlight,With a ruffling of green branchesShaded off to resonances,Never stirred by rain or breeze.Fare ye well, farewell!The sylvan sounds, no longer audible,Expire at Eden's door.Each footstep of your treadingTreads out some murmur which ye heard before.Farewell! the trees of EdenYe shall hear nevermore.River Spirits.Hark! the flow of the four rivers —Hark the flow!How the silence round you shivers,While our voices through it go,Cold and clear.A softer Voice.Think a little, while ye hear,Of the banksWhere the willows and the deerCrowd in intermingled ranks,As if all would drink at onceWhere the living water runs! —Of the fishes' golden edgesFlashing in and out the sedges;Of the swans on silver thrones,Floating down the winding streamsWith impassive eyes turned shorewardAnd a chant of undertones, —And the lotos leaning forwardTo help them into dreams!Fare ye well, farewell!The river-sounds, no longer audible,Expire at Eden's door.Each footstep of your treadingTreads out some murmur which ye heard before.Farewell! the streams of EdenYe shall hear nevermore.Bird Spirit.I am the nearest nightingaleThat singeth in Eden after you;And I am singing loud and true,And sweet, – I do not fail.I sit upon a cypress bough,Close to the gate, and I fling my songOver the gate and through the mailOf the warden angels marshalled strong, —Over the gate and after you.And the warden angels let it pass,Because the poor brown bird, alas,Sings in the garden, sweet and true.And I build my song of high pure notes,Note over note, height over height,Till I strike the arch of the Infinite,And I bridge abysmal agoniesWith strong, clear calms of harmonies, —And something abides, and something floats,In the song which I sing after you.Fare ye well, farewell!The creature-sounds, no longer audible,Expire at Eden's door.Each footstep of your treadingTreads out some cadence which ye heard before.Farewell! the birds of Eden,Ye shall hear nevermore.Flower Spirits.We linger, we linger,The last of the throng,Like the tones of a singerWho loves his own song.We are spirit-aromasOf blossom and bloom.We call your thoughts home, – asYe breathe our perfume, —To the amaranth's splendourAfire on the slopes;To the lily-bells tender,And grey heliotropes;To the poppy-plains keepingSuch dream-breath and bleeThat the angels there steppingGrew whiter to see:To the nook, set with moly,Ye jested one day in,Till your smile waxed too holyAnd left your lips praying:To the rose in the bower-place,That dripped o'er you sleeping;To the asphodel flower-place,Ye walked ankle-deep in.We pluck at your raiment,We stroke down your hair,We faint in our lamentAnd pine into air.Fare ye well, farewell!The Eden scents, no longer sensible,Expire at Eden's door.Each footstep of your treadingTreads out some fragrance which ye knew before.Farewell! the flowers of Eden,Ye shall smell nevermore.[There is silence. Adam and Eve fly on, and never look back. Only a colossal shadow, as of the dark Angel passing quickly, is cast upon the Sword-glareScene. —The extremity of the Sword-glareAdam. Pausing a moment on this outer edgeWhere the supernal sword-glare cuts in lightThe dark exterior desert, – hast thou strength,Beloved, to look behind us to the gate?Eve. Have I not strength to look up to thy face?Adam. We need be strong: yon spectacle of cloudWhich seals the gate up to the final doom,Is God's seal manifest. There seem to lieA hundred thunders in it, dark and dead;The unmolten lightnings vein it motionless;And, outward from its depth, the self-moved swordSwings slow its awful gnomon of red fireFrom side to side, in pendulous horror slow,Across the stagnant ghastly glare thrown flatOn the intermediate ground from that to this.The angelic hosts, the archangelic pomps,Thrones, dominations, princedoms, rank on rank,Rising sublimely to the feet of God,On either side and overhead the gate,Show like a glittering and sustainèd smokeDrawn to an apex. That their faces shineBetwixt the solemn clasping of their wingsClasped high to a silver point above their heads, —We only guess from hence, and not discern.Eve. Though we were near enough to see them shine,The shadow on thy face were awfuller,To me, at least, – to me – than all their light.Adam. What is this, Eve? thou droppest heavilyIn a heap earthward, and thy body heavesUnder the golden floodings of thine hair!Eve. O Adam, Adam! by that name of Eve —Thine Eve, thy life – which suits me little now,Seeing that I now confess myself thy deathAnd thine undoer, as the snake was mine, —I do adjure thee, put me straight away,Together with my name! Sweet, punish me!O Love, be just! and, ere we pass beyondThe light cast outward by the fiery sword,Into the dark which earth must be to us,Bruise my head with thy foot, – as the curse saidMy seed shall the first tempter's! strike with curse,As God struck in the garden! and as he,Being satisfied with justice and with wrath,Did roll his thunder gentler at the close, —Thou, peradventure, mayst at last recoilTo some soft need of mercy. Strike, my lord!I, also, after tempting, writhe on the ground,And I would feed on ashes from thine hand,As suits me, O my tempted!Adam. My beloved,Mine Eve and life – I have no other nameFor thee or for the sun than what ye are,My utter life and light! If we have fallen,It is that we have sinned, – we: God is just;And, since his curse doth comprehend us both,It must be that his balance holds the weightsOf first and last sin on a level. What!Shall I who had not virtue to stand straightAmong the hills of Eden, here assumeTo mend the justice of the perfect God,By piling up a curse upon his curse,Against thee – thee?Eve. For so, perchance, thy God,Might take thee into grace for scorning me;Thy wrath against the sinner giving proofOf inward abrogation of the sin:And so, the blessed angels might come downAnd walk with thee as erst, – I think they would, —Because I was not near to make them sadOr soil the rustling of their innocence.Adam. They know me. I am deepest in the guilt,If last in the transgression.Eve. Thou!Adam. If God,Who gave the right and joyaunce of the worldBoth unto thee and me, – gave thee to me,The best gift last, the last sin was the worst,Which sinned against more complement of giftsAnd grace of giving. God! I render backStrong benediction and perpetual praiseFrom mortal feeble lips (as incense-smoke,Out of a little censer, may fill heaven),That thou, in striking my benumbèd handsAnd forcing them to drop all other boonsOf beauty and dominion and delight, —Hast left this well-beloved Eve, this lifeWithin life, this best gift between their palms,In gracious compensation!Eve. Is it thy voice?Or some saluting angel's – calling homeMy feet into the garden?Adam. O my God!I, standing here between the glory and dark, —The glory of thy wrath projected forthFrom Eden's wall, the dark of our distressWhich settles a step off in that drear world —Lift up to thee the hands from whence hath fallenOnly creation's sceptre, – thanking theeThat rather thou hast cast me out with herThan left me lorn of her in Paradise,With angel looks and angel songs aroundTo show the absence of her eyes and voice,And make society full desertnessWithout her use in comfort!Eve. Where is loss?Am I in Eden? can another speakMine own love's tongue?Adam. Because with her, I standUpright, as far as can be in this fall,And look away from heaven which doth accuse,And look away from earth which doth convict,Into her face, and crown my discrowned browOut of her love, and put the thought of herAround me, for an Eden full of birds,And lift her body up – thus – to my heart,And with my lips upon her lips, – thus, thus, —Do quicken and sublimate my mortal breathWhich cannot climb against the grave's steep sidesBut overtops this grief.Eve. I am renewed.My eyes grow with the light which is in thine;The silence of my heart is full of sound.Hold me up – so! Because I comprehendThis human love, I shall not be afraidOf any human death; and yet becauseI know this strength of love, I seem to knowDeath's strength by that same sign. Kiss on my lips,To shut the door close on my rising soul, —Lest it pass outwards in astonishmentAnd leave thee lonely!Adam. Yet thou liest, Eve,Bent heavily on thyself across mine arm,Thy face flat to the sky.Eve. Ay, and the tearsRunning, as it might seem, my life from me,They run so fast and warm. Let me lie so,And weep so, as if in a dream or prayer,Unfastening, clasp by clasp, the hard tight thoughtWhich clipped my heart and showed me evermoreLoathed of thy justice as I loathe the snake,And as the pure ones loathe our sin. To-day,All day, beloved, as we fled acrossThis desolating radiance cast by swordsNot suns, – my lips prayed soundless to myself,Striking against each other – "O Lord God!"('Twas so I prayed) "I ask Thee by my sin,"And by thy curse, and by thy blameless heavens,"Make dreadful haste to hide me from thy face"And from the face of my beloved here"For whom I am no helpmeet, quick away"Into the new dark mystery of death!"I will lie still there, I will make no plaint,"I will not sigh, nor sob, nor speak a word,"Nor struggle to come back beneath the sun"Where peradventure I might sin anew"Against thy mercy and his pleasure. Death,"O death, whatever it be, is good enough"For such as I am: while for Adam here,"No voice shall say again, in heaven or earth,"It is not good for him to be alone."Adam. And was it good for such a prayer to pass,My unkind Eve, betwixt our mutual lives?If I am exiled, must I be bereaved?Eve. 'Twas an ill prayer: it shall be prayed no more;And God did use it like a foolishness,Giving no answer. Now my heart has grownToo high and strong for such a foolish prayer,Love makes it strong and since I was the firstIn the transgression, with a steady footI will be first to tread from this sword-glareInto the outer darkness of the waste, —And thus I do it.Adam. Thus I follow thee,As erewhile in the sin. – What sounds! what sounds!I feel a music which comes straight from heaven,As tender as a watering dew.Eve. I thinkThat angels – not those guarding Paradise, —But the love-angels, who came erst to us,And when we said 'God,' fainted unawaresBack from our mortal presence unto God,(As if he drew them inward in a breath)His name being heard of them, – I think that theyWith sliding voices lean from heavenly towers,Invisible but gracious. Hark – how soft!CHORUS OF INVISIBLE ANGELSFaint and tenderMortal man and woman,Go upon your travel!Heaven assist the humanSmoothly to unravelAll that web of painWherein ye are holden.Do ye know our voicesChanting down the Golden?Do ye guess our choice is,Being unbeholden,To be hearkened by you yet again?This pure door of opalGod hath shut between us, —Us, his shining people,You, who once have seen usAnd are blinded new!Yet, across the doorway,Past the silence reaching,Farewells evermore may,Blessing in the teaching,Glide from us to you.First Semichorus.Think how erst your Eden,Day on day succeeding,With our presence glowed.We came as if the Heavens were bowedTo a milder music rare.Ye saw us in our solemn treading,Treading down the steps of cloud,While our wings, outspreadingDouble calms of whiteness,Dropped superfluous brightnessDown from stair to stair.Second Semichorus.Or oft, abrupt though tender,While ye gazed on space,We flashed our angel-splendourIn either human face.With mystic lilies in our hands,From the atmospheric bandsBreaking with a sudden grace,We took you unaware!While our feet struck gloriesOutward, smooth and fair,Which we stood on floorwise,Platformed in mid-air.First Semichorus.Or oft, when Heaven-descended,Stood we in our wondering sightIn a mute apocalypseWith dumb vibrations on our lipsFrom hosannas ended,And grand half-vanishingsOf the empyreal thingsWithin our eyes belated,Till the heavenly InfiniteFalling off from the Created,Left our inward contemplationOpened into ministration.Chorus.Then upon our axle turningOf great joy to sympathy,We sang out the morningBroadening up the sky,Or we drewOur music throughThe noontide's hush and heat and shine,Informed with our intense Divine:Interrupted vital notesPalpitating hither, thither,Burning out into the æther,Sensible like fiery motes.Or, whenever twilight driftedThrough the cedar masses,The globèd sun we lifted,Trailing purple, trailing goldOut between the passesOf the mountains manifold,To anthems slowly sung:While he, – aweary, half in swoonFor joy to hear our climbing tuneTranspierce the stars' concentric rings, —The burden of his glory flungIn broken lights upon our wings.[The chant dies away confusedly, and Lucifer appearsLucifer. Now may all fruits be pleasant to thy lips,Beautiful Eve! The times have somewhat changedSince thou and I had talk beneath a tree,Albeit ye are not gods yet.Eve. Adam! holdMy right hand strongly! It is Lucifer —And we have love to lose.Adam. I' the name of God,Go apart from us, O thou Lucifer!And leave us to the desert thou hast madeOut of thy treason. Bring no serpent-slimeAthwart this path kept holy to our tears!Or we may curse thee with their bitterness.Lucifer. Curse freely! curses thicken. Why, this EveWho thought me once part worthy of her earAnd somewhat wiser than the other beasts, —Drawing together her large globes of eyes,The light of which is throbbing in and outTheir steadfast continuity of gaze, —Knots her fair eyebrows in so hard a knot,And down from her white heights of womanhoodLooks on me so amazed, – I scarce should fearTo wager such an apple as she pluckedAgainst one riper from the tree of life,That she could curse too – as a woman may —Smooth in the vowels.Eve. So – speak wickedly!I like it best so. Let thy words be wounds, —For, so, I shall not fear thy power to hurt.Trench on the forms of good by open ill —For, so, I shall wax strong and grand with scorn,Scorning myself for ever trusting theeAs far as thinking, ere a snake ate dust,He could speak wisdom.Lucifer. Our new gods, it seems,Deal more in thunders than in courtesies.And, sooth, mine own Olympus, which anonI shall build up to loud-voiced imageryFrom all the wandering visions of the world,May show worse railing than our lady EvePours o'er the rounding of her argent arm.But why should this be? Adam pardoned Eve.Adam. Adam loved Eve. Jehovah pardon both!Eve. Adam forgave Eve – because loving Eve.Lucifer. So, well. Yet Adam was undone of Eve,As both were by the snake. Therefore forgive,In like wise, fellow-temptress, the poor snake —Who stung there, not so poorly! [Aside.Eve. Hold thy wrath,Beloved Adam! let me answer him;For this time he speaks truth, which we should hear,And asks for mercy, which I most should grant,In like wise, as he tells us – in like wise!And therefore I thee pardon, Lucifer,As freely as the streams of Eden flowedWhen we were happy by them. So, depart;Leave us to walk the remnant of our timeOut mildly in the desert. Do not seekTo harm us any more or scoff at us,Or ere the dust be laid upon our face,To find there the communion of the dustAnd issue of the dust, – Go!Adam. At once, go!Lucifer. Forgive! and go! Ye images of clay,Shrunk somewhat in the mould, – what jest is this?What words are these to use? By what a thoughtConceive ye of me? Yesterday – a snake!To-day – what?Adam. A strong spirit.Eve. A sad spirit.Adam. Perhaps a fallen angel. – Who shall say!Lucifer. Who told thee, Adam?Adam. Thou! The prodigyOf thy vast brows and melancholy eyesWhich comprehend the heights of some great fall.I think that thou hast one day worn a crownUnder the eyes of God.Lucifer. And why of God?Adam. It were no crown else. Verily, I thinkThou'rt fallen far. I had not yesterdaySaid it so surely, but I know to-dayGrief by grief, sin by sin.Lucifer. A crown, by a crown.Adam. Ay, mock me! now I know more than I knew:Now I know that thou art fallen below hopeOf final re-ascent.Lucifer. Because?Adam. BecauseA spirit who expected to see GodThough at the last point of a million years,Could dare no mockery of a ruined manSuch as this Adam.Lucifer. Who is high and bold —Be it said passing! – of a good red clayDiscovered on some top of Lebanon,Or haply of Aornus, beyond sweepOf the black eagle's wing! A furlong lowerHad made a meeker king for Eden. Soh!Is it not possible, by sin and grief(To give the things your names) that spirits should riseInstead of falling?Adam. Most impossible.The Highest being the Holy and the Glad,Whoever rises must approach delightAnd sanctity in the act.Lucifer. Ha, my clay-king!Thou wilt not rule by wisdom very longThe after generations. Earth, methinks,Will disinherit thy philosophyFor a new doctrine suited to thine heirs,And class these present dogmas with the restOf the old-world traditions, Eden fruitsAnd Saurian fossils.Eve. Speak no more with him,Beloved! it is not good to speak with him.Go from us, Lucifer, and speak no more!We have no pardon which thou dost not scorn,Nor any bliss, thou seest, for coveting,Nor innocence for staining. Being bereft,We would be alone. – Go!Lucifer. Ah! ye talk the same,All of you – spirits and clay – go, and depart!In Heaven they said so, and at Eden's gate,And here, reiterant, in the wilderness.None saith, Stay with me, for thy face is fair!None saith, Stay with me, for thy voice is sweet!And yet I was not fashioned out of clay.Look on me, woman! Am I beautiful?Eve. Thou hast a glorious darkness.Lucifer. Nothing more?Eve. I think, no more.Lucifer. False Heart – thou thinkest more!Thou canst not choose but think, as I praise God,Unwillingly but fully, that I standMost absolute in beauty. As yourselvesWere fashioned very good at best, so weSprang very beauteous from the creant WordWhich thrilled behind us, God himself being movedWhen that august work of a perfect shape,His dignities of sovran angel-hood,Swept out into the universe, – divineWith thunderous movements, earnest looks of gods,And silver-solemn clash of cymbal wings.Whereof was I, in motion and in form,A part not poorest. And yet, – yet, perhaps,This beauty which I speak of, is not here,As God's voice is not here, nor even my crown —I do not know. What is this thought or thingWhich I call beauty? Is it thought, or thing?Is it a thought accepted for a thing?Or both? or neither? – a pretext – a word?Its meaning flutters in me like a flameUnder my own breath, my perceptions reelFor evermore around it, and fall off,As if it too were holy.Eve. Which it is.Adam. The essence of all beauty, I call love.The attribute, the evidence, and end,The consummation to the inward sense,Of beauty apprehended from without,I still call love. As form, when colourless,Is nothing to the eye, – that pine-tree there,Without its black and green, being all a blank, —So, without love, is beauty undiscernedIn man or angel. Angel! rather askWhat love is in thee, what love moves to thee,And what collateral love moves on with thee;Then shalt thou know if thou art beautiful.Lucifer. Love! what is love? I lose it. Beauty and loveI darken to the image. Beauty – love![He fades away, while a low music soundsAdam. Thou art pale, Eve.Eve. The precipice of illDown this colossal nature, dizzies me:And, hark! the starry harmony remoteSeems measuring the heights from whence he fell.Adam. Think that we have not fallen so! By the hopeAnd aspiration, by the love and faith,We do exceed the stature of this angel.Eve. Happier we are than he is, by the death.Adam. Or rather, by the life of the Lord God!How dim the angel grows, as if that blastOf music swept him back into the dark.[The music is stronger, gathering itself into uncertain articulationEve. It throbs in on us like a plaintive heart,Pressing, with slow pulsations, vibrative,Its gradual sweetness through the yielding air,To such expression as the stars may use,Most starry-sweet and strange! With every noteThat grows more loud, the angel grows more dim,Receding in proportion to approach,Until he stand afar, – a shade.Adam. Now, words.SONG OF THE MORNING STAR TO LUCIFERHe fades utterly away and vanishes, as it proceedsMine orbèd image sinksBack from thee, back from thee,As thou art fallen, methinks,Back from me, back from me.O my light-bearer,Could another fairerLack to thee, lack to thee?Ah, ah, Heosphoros!I loved thee with the fiery love of starsWho love by burning, and by loving move,Too near the throned Jehovah not to love.Ah, ah, Heosphoros!Their brows flash fast on me from gliding cars,Pale-passioned for my loss.Ah, ah, Heosphoros!Mine orbèd heats drop coldDown from thee, down from thee,As fell thy grace of oldDown from me, down from me,O my light-bearer,Is another fairerWon to thee, won to thee?Ah, ah, Heosphoros,Great love preceded loss,Known to thee, known to thee.Ah, ah!Thou, breathing thy communicable graceOf life into my light,Mine astral faces, from thine angel face,Hast inly fed,And flooded me with radiance overmuchFrom thy pure height.Ah, ah!Thou, with calm, floating pinions both ways spread,Erect, irradiated,Didst sting my wheel of gloryOn, on before theeAlong the Godlight by a quickening touch!Ha, ha!Around, around the firmamental oceanI swam expanding with delirious fire!Around, around, around, in blind desireTo be drawn upward to the Infinite —Ha, ha!Until, the motion flinging out the motionTo a keen whirl of passion and avidity,To a dim whirl of languor and delight,I wound in gyrant orbits smooth and whiteWith that intense rapidity.Around, around,I wound and interwound,While all the cyclic heavens about me spun.Stars, planets, suns, and moons dilated broad,Then flashed together into a single sun,And wound, and wound in one:And as they wound I wound, – around, around,In a great fire I almost took for God.Ha, ha, Heosphoros!Thine angel glory sinksDown from me, down from me —My beauty falls, methinks,Down from thee, down from thee!O my light-bearer,O my path-preparer,Gone from me, gone from me!Ah, ah, Heosphoros!I cannot kindle underneath the browOf this new angel here, who is not thou.All things are altered since that time ago, —And if I shine at eve, I shall not know.I am strange – I am slow.Ah, ah, Heosphoros!Henceforward, human eyes of lovers beThe only sweetest sight that I shall see,With tears between the looks raised up to me.Ah, ah!When, having wept all night, at break of dayAbove the folded hills they shall surveyMy light, a little trembling, in the grey.Ah, ah!And gazing on me, such shall comprehend,Through all my piteous pomp at morn or evenAnd melancholy leaning out of heaven,That love, their own divine, may change or end,That love may close in loss!Ah, ah, Heosphoros!Scene. —Farther on. A wild open country seen vaguely in the approaching nightAdam. How doth the wide and melancholy earthGather her hills around us, grey and ghast,And stare with blank significance of lossRight in our faces! Is the wind up?Eve. Nay.Adam. And yet the cedars and the junipersRock slowly through the mist, without a sound,And shapes which have no certainty of shapeDrift duskly in and out between the pines,And loom along the edges of the hills,And lie flat, curdling in the open ground —Shadows without a body, which contractAnd lengthen as we gaze on them.Eve. O lifeWhich is not man's nor angel's! What is this?Adam. No cause for fear. The circle of God's lifeContains all life beside.Eve. I think the earthIs crazed with curse, and wanders from the senseOf those first laws affixed to form and spaceOr ever she knew sin.Adam. We will not fear;We were brave sinning.Eve. Yea, I plucked the fruitWith eyes upturned to heaven and seeing thereOur god-thrones, as the tempter said, – not GOD.My heart, which beat then, sinks. The sun hath sunkOut of sight with our Eden.Adam. Night is near.Eve. And God's curse, nearest. Let us travel backAnd stand within the sword-glare till we die,Believing it is better to meet deathThan suffer desolation.Adam. Nay, beloved!We must not pluck death from the Maker's hand,As erst we plucked the apple: we must waitUntil he gives death as he gave us life,Nor murmur faintly o'er the primal giftBecause we spoilt its sweetness with our sin.Eve. Ah, ah! dost thou discern what I behold?Adam. I see all. How the spirits in thine eyesFrom their dilated orbits bound beforeTo meet the spectral Dread!Eve. I am afraid —Ah, ah! the twilight bristles wild with shapesOf intermittent motion, aspect vagueAnd mystic bearings, which o'ercreep the earth,Keeping slow time with horrors in the blood.How near they reach … and far! How grey they move —Treading upon the darkness without feet,And fluttering on the darkness without wings!Some run like dogs, with noses to the ground;Some keep one path, like sheep; some rock like trees;Some glide like a fallen leaf, and some flow onCopious as rivers.Adam. Some spring up like fire;And some coil …Eve. Ah, ah! dost thou pause to sayLike what? – coil like the serpent, when he fellFrom all the emerald splendour of his heightAnd writhed, and could not climb against the curse,Not a ring's length. I am afraid – afraid —I think it is God's will to make me afraid, —Permitting these to haunt us in the placeOf his belovèd angels – gone from usBecause we are not pure. Dear Pity of God,That didst permit the angels to go homeAnd live no more with us who are not pure,Save us too from a loathly company —Almost as loathly in our eyes, perhaps,As we are in the purest! Pity us —Us too! nor shut us in the dark, awayFrom verity and from stability,Or what we name such through the precedenceOf earth's adjusted uses, – leave us notTo doubt betwixt our senses and our souls,Which are the more distraught and full of painAnd weak of apprehension!Adam. Courage, Sweet!The mystic shapes ebb back from us, and dropWith slow concentric movement, each on each, —Expressing wider spaces, – and collapsedIn lines more definite for imageryAnd clearer for relation, till the throngOf shapeless spectra merge into a fewDistinguishable phantasms vague and grandWhich sweep out and around us vastilyAnd hold us in a circle and a calm.Eve. Strange phantasms of pale shadow! there are twelve.Thou who didst name all lives, hast names for these?Adam. Methinks this is the zodiac of the earth,Which rounds us with a visionary dread,Responding with twelve shadowy signs of earth,In fantasque apposition and approach,To those celestial, constellated twelveWhich palpitate adown the silent nightsUnder the pressure of the hand of GodStretched wide in benediction. At this hour,Not a star pricketh the flat gloom of heaven:But, girdling close our nether wilderness,The zodiac-figures of the earth loom slow, —Drawn out, as suiteth with the place and time,In twelve colossal shades instead of stars,Through which the ecliptic line of mysteryStrikes bleakly with an unrelenting scope,Foreshowing life and death.Eve. By dream or sense,Do we see this?Adam. Our spirits have climbed highBy reason of the passion of our grief,And, from the top of sense, looked over senseTo the significance and heart of thingsRather than things themselves.Eve. And the dim twelve…Adam. Are dim exponents of the creature-lifeAs earth contains it. Gaze on them, beloved!By stricter apprehension of the sight,Suggestions of the creatures shall assuageThe terror of the shadows, – what is knownSubduing the unknown and taming itFrom all prodigious dread. That phantasm, there,Presents a lion, albeit twenty timesAs large as any lion – with a roarSet soundless in his vibratory jaws,And a strange horror stirring in his mane.And, there, a pendulous shadow seems to weigh —Good against ill, perchance; and there, a crabPuts coldly out its gradual shadow-claws,Like a slow blot that spreads, – till all the ground,Crawled over by it, seems to crawl itself.A bull stands hornèd here with gibbous glooms;And a ram likewise: and a scorpion writhesIts tail in ghastly slime and stings the dark.This way a goat leaps with wild blank of beard;And here, fantastic fishes duskly float,Using the calm for waters, while their finsThrob out quick rhythms along the shallow air.While images more human —Eve. How he stands,That phantasm of a man – who is not thou!Two phantasms of two men!Adam. One that sustains,And one that strives, – resuming, so, the endsOf manhood's curse of labour.2 Dost thou seeThat phantasm of a woman?Eve. I have seen;But look off to those small humanities3Which draw me tenderly across my fear, —Lesser and fainter than my womanhood,Or yet thy manhood – with strange innocenceSet in the misty lines of head and hand.They lean together! I would gaze on themLonger and longer, till my watching eyes,As the stars do in watching anything,Should light them forward from their outline vagueTo clear configuration.[Two Spirits, of Organic and Inorganic Nature, arise from the groundBut what ShapesRise up between us in the open space,And thrust me into horror, back from hope!Adam. Colossal Shapes – twin sovran images,With a disconsolate, blank majestySet in their wondrous faces! with no look,And yet an aspect – a significanceOf individual life and passionate ends,Which overcomes us gazing.O bleak sound,O shadow of sound, O phantasm of thin sound!How it comes, wheeling as the pale moth wheels,Wheeling and wheeling in continuous wailAround the cyclic zodiac, and gains force,And gathers, settling coldly like a moth,On the wan faces of these imagesWe see before us, – whereby modified,It draws a straight line of articulate songFrom out that spiral faintness of lament,And, by one voice, expresses many griefs.First Spirit.I am the spirit of the harmless earth.God spake me softly out among the stars,As softly as a blessing of much worth;And then his smile did follow unawares,That all things fashioned so for use and dutyMight shine anointed with his chrism of beauty —Yet I wail!I drave on with the worlds exultingly,Obliquely down the Godlight's gradual fall;Individual aspect and complexityOf gyratory orb and intervalLost in the fluent motion of delightToward the high ends of Being beyond sight —Yet I wail!Second Spirit.I am the spirit of the harmless beasts,Of flying things, and creeping things, and swimming;Of all the lives, erst set at silent feasts,That found the love-kiss on the goblet brimming,And tasted in each drop within the measureThe sweetest pleasure of their Lord's good pleasure —Yet I wail!What a full hum of life around his lipsBore witness to the fulness of creation!How all the grand words were full-laden shipsEach sailing onward from enunciationTo separate existence, – and each bearingThe creature's power of joying, hoping, fearing!Yet I wail!Eve. They wail, beloved! they speak of glory and God,And they wail – wail. That burden of the songDrops from it like its fruit, and heavily fallsInto the lap of silence.Adam. Hark, again!First Spirit.I was so beautiful, so beautiful,My joy stood up within me bold to addA word to God's, – and, when His work was full,To "very good" responded "very glad!"Filtered through roses did the light enclose me,And bunches of the grape swam blue across me —Yet I wail!Second Spirit.I bounded with my panthers: I rejoicedIn my young tumbling lions rolled together:My stag, the river at his fetlocks, poisedThen dipped his antlers through the golden weatherIn the same ripple which the alligatorLeft, in his joyous troubling of the water —Yet I wail!First Spirit.O my deep waters, cataract and flood,What wordless triumph did your voices renderO mountain-summits, where the angels stoodAnd shook from head and wing thick dews of splendour!How, with a holy quiet, did your EarthyAccept that Heavenly, knowing ye were worthy!Yet I wail!Second Spirit.O my wild wood-dogs, with your listening eyes!My horses – my ground-eagles, for swift fleeing!My birds, with viewless wings of harmonies,My calm cold fishes of a silver being,How happy were ye, living and possessing,O fair half-souls capacious of full blessing!Yet I wail!First Spirit.I wail, I wail! Now hear my charge to-day,Thou man, thou woman, marked as the misdoersBy God's sword at your backs! I lent my clayTo make your bodies, which had grown more flowers:And now, in change for what I lent, ye give meThe thorn to vex, the tempest-fare to cleave me —And I wail!Second Spirit.I wail, I wail! Behold ye that I fastenMy sorrow's fang upon your souls dishonoured?Accursed transgressors! down the steep ye hasten, —Your crown's weight on the world, to drag it downwardUnto your ruin. Lo! my lions, scentingThe blood of wars, roar hoarse and unrelenting —And I wail!First Spirit.I wail, I wail! Do you hear that I wail?I had no part in your transgression – none.My roses on the bough did bud not pale,My rivers did not loiter in the sun;I was obedient. Wherefore in my centreDo I thrill at this curse of death and winter? —Do I wail?Second Spirit.I wail, I wail! I wail in the assaultOf undeserved perdition, sorely wounded!My nightingale sang sweet without a fault,My gentle leopards innocently bounded.We were obedient. What is this convulsesOur blameless life with pangs and fever pulses?And I wail!Eve. I choose God's thunder and His angels' swordsTo die by, Adam, rather than such words.Let us pass out and flee.Adam. We cannot flee.This zodiac of the creatures' crueltyCurls round us, like a river cold and drear,And shuts us in, constraining us to hear.First Spirit.I feel your steps, O wandering sinners, strikeA sense of death to me, and undug graves!The heart of earth, once calm, is trembling likeThe ragged foam along the ocean-waves:The restless earthquakes rock against each other;The elements moan 'round me – "Mother, mother" —And I wail!Second Spirit.Your melancholy looks do pierce me through;Corruption swathes the paleness of your beauty.Why have ye done this thing? What did we doThat we should fall from bliss as ye from duty?Wild shriek the hawks, in waiting for their jesses,Fierce howl the wolves along the wildernesses —And I wail!Adam. To thee, the Spirit of the harmless earth,To thee, the Spirit of earth's harmless lives,Inferior creatures but still innocent,Be salutation from a guilty mouthYet worthy of some audience and respectFrom you who are not guilty. If we have sinned,God hath rebuked us, who is over usTo give rebuke or death, and if ye wailBecause of any suffering from our sin,Ye who are under and not over us,Be satisfied with God, if not with us,And pass out from our presence in such peaceAs we have left you, to enjoy revengeSuch as the heavens have made you. Verily,There must be strife between us, large as sin.Eve. No strife, mine Adam! Let us not stand highUpon the wrong we did to reach disdain,Who rather should be humbler evermoreSince self-made sadder. Adam! shall I speak —I who spake once to such a bitter end —Shall I speak humbly now who once was proud?I, schooled by sin to more humilityThan thou hast, O mine Adam, O my king —My king, if not the world's?Adam. Speak as thou wilt.Eve. Thus, then – my hand in thine —… Sweet, dreadful Spirits!I pray you humbly in the name of God,Not to say of these tears, which are impure —Grant me such pardoning grace as can go forthFrom clean volitions toward a spotted will,From the wronged to the wronger, this and no more!I do not ask more. I am 'ware, indeed,That absolute pardon is impossibleFrom you to me, by reason of my sin, —And that I cannot evermore, as once,With worthy acceptation of pure joy,Behold the trances of the holy hillsBeneath the leaning stars, or watch the valesDew-pallid with their morning ecstasy, —Or hear the winds make pastoral peace betweenTwo grassy uplands, – and the river-wellsWork out their bubbling mysteries underground, —And all the birds sing, till for joy of songThey lift their trembling wings as if to heaveThe too-much weight of music from their heartAnd float it up the æther. I am 'wareThat these things I can no more apprehendWith a pure organ into a full delight, —The sense of beauty and of melodyBeing no more aided in me by the senseOf personal adjustment to those heightsOf what I see well-formed or hear well-tuned,But rather coupled darkly and made ashamedBy my percipiency of sin and fallIn melancholy of humiliant thoughts.But, oh! fair, dreadful Spirits – albeit thisYour accusation must confront my soul,And your pathetic utterance and full gazeMust evermore subdue me, – be content!Conquer me gently – as if pitying me,Not to say loving! let my tears fall thickAs watering dews of Eden, unreproached;And when your tongues reprove me, make me smooth,Not ruffled – smooth and still with your reproof,And peradventure better while more sad!For look to it, sweet Spirits, look well to it,It will not be amiss in you who keptThe law of your own righteousness, and keepThe right of your own griefs to mourn themselves, —To pity me twice fallen, from that, and this,From joy of place, and also right of wail,"I wail" being not for me – only "I sin."Look to it, O sweet Spirits!For was I not,At that last sunset seen in Paradise,When all the westering clouds flashed out in throngsOf sudden angel-faces, face by face,All hushed and solemn, as a thought of GodHeld them suspended, – was I not, that hour,The lady of the world, princess of life,Mistress of feast and favour? Could I touchA rose with my white hand, but it becameRedder at once? Could I walk leisurelyAlong our swarded garden, but the grassTracked me with greenness? Could I stand asideA moment underneath a cornel-tree,But all the leaves did tremble as aliveWith songs of fifty birds who were made gladBecause I stood there? Could I turn to lookWith these twain eyes of mine, now weeping fast,Now good for only weeping, – upon man,Angel, or beast, or bird, but each rejoicedBecause I looked on him? Alas, alas!And is not this much woe, to cry "alas!"Speaking of joy? And is not this more shame,To have made the woe myself, from all that joy?To have stretched my hand, and plucked it from the tree,And chosen it for fruit? Nay, is not thisStill most despair, – to have halved that bitter fruit,And ruined, so, the sweetest friend I have,Turning the Greatest to mine enemy?Adam. I will not hear thee speak so. Hearken, Spirits!Our God, who is the enemy of noneBut only of their sin, hath set your hopeAnd my hope, in a promise, on this Head.Show reverence, then, and never bruise her moreWith unpermitted and extreme reproach, —Lest, passionate in anguish, she fling downBeneath your trampling feet, God's gift to usOf sovranty by reason and freewill,Sinning against the province of the SoulTo rule the soulless. Reverence her estate,And pass out from her presence with no words!Eve. O dearest Heart, have patience with my heart!O Spirits, have patience, 'stead of reverence,And let me speak, for, not being innocent,It little doth become me to be proud.And I am prescient by the very hopeAnd promise set upon me, that henceforthOnly my gentleness shall make me great,My humbleness exalt me. Awful Spirits,Be witness that I stand in your reproofBut one sun's length off from my happiness —Happy, as I have said, to look around,Clear to look up! – And now! I need not speak —Ye see me what I am; ye scorn me so,Because ye see me what I have made myselfFrom God's best making! Alas, – peace forgone,Love wronged, and virtue forfeit, and tears weptUpon all, vainly! Alas, me! alas,Who have undone myself, from all that best,Fairest and sweetest, to this wretchedestSaddest and most defiled – cast out, cast down —What word metes absolute loss? let absolute lossSuffice you for revenge. For I, who livedBeneath the wings of angels yesterday,Wander to-day beneath the roofless world:I, reigning the earth's empress yesterday,Put off from me, to-day, your hate with prayers:I, yesterday, who answered the Lord God,Composed and glad as singing-birds the sun,Might shriek now from our dismal desert, "God,"And hear him make reply, "What is thy need,Thou whom I cursed to-day?"Adam. Eve!Eve. I, at last,Who yesterday was helpmate and delightUnto mine Adam, am to-day the griefAnd curse-mete for him. And, so, pity us,Ye gentle Spirits, and pardon him and me,And let some tender peace, made of our pain,Grow up betwixt us, as a tree might grow,With boughs on both sides! In the shade of which,When presently ye shall behold us dead, —For the poor sake of our humility,Breathe out your pardon on our breathless lips,And drop your twilight dews against our brows,And stroking with mild airs our harmless handsLeft empty of all fruit, perceive your loveDistilling through your pity over us,And suffer it, self-reconciled, to pass!Lucifer rises in the circleLucifer. Who talks here of a complement of grief?Of expiation wrought by loss and fall?Of hate subduable to pity? Eve?Take counsel from thy counsellor the snake,And boast no more in grief, nor hope from pain,My docile Eve! I teach you to despondWho taught you disobedience. Look around: —Earth spirits and phantasms hear you talk unmoved,As if ye were red clay again and talked!What are your words to them – your grief to them —Your deaths, indeed, to them? Did the hand pause,For their sake, in the plucking of the fruit,That they should pause for you, in hating you?Or will your grief or death, as did your sin,Bring change upon their final doom? Behold,Your grief is but your sin in the rebound,And cannot expiate for it.Adam. That is true.Lucifer. Ay, that is true. The clay-king testifiesTo the snake's counsel, – hear him! – very true.Earth Spirits. I wail, I wail!Lucifer. And certes, that is true.Ye wail, ye all wail. Peradventure ICould wail among you. O thou universe,That holdest sin and woe, – more room for wail!Distant Starry Voice. Ah, ah, Heosphoros! Heosphoros!Adam. Mark Lucifer! He changes awfully.Eve. It seems as if he looked from grief to GodAnd could not see him. Wretched Lucifer!Adam. How he stands – yet an angel!Earth Spirits. We all wail!Lucifer (after a pause). Dost thou remember, Adam, when the curseTook us in Eden? On a mountain-peakHalf-sheathed in primal woods and glitteringIn spasms of awful sunshine at that hour,A lion couched, part raised upon his paws,With his calm massive face turned full on thine,And his mane listening. When the ended curseLeft silence in the world, right suddenlyHe sprang up rampant and stood straight and stiff,As if the new reality of deathWere dashed against his eyes, and roared so fierce,(Such thick carnivorous passion in his throatTearing a passage through the wrath and fear)And roared so wild, and smote from all the hillsSuch fast keen echoes crumbling down the valesPrecipitately, – that the forest beasts,One after one, did mutter a responseOf savage and of sorrowful complaintWhich trailed along the gorges. Then, at once,He fell back, and rolled crashing from the heightInto the dusk of pines.Adam. It might have been.I heard the curse alone.Earth Spirits. I wail, I wail!Lucifer. That lion is the type of what I am.And as he fixed thee with his full-faced hate,And roared, O Adam, comprehending doom,So, gazing on the face of the Unseen,I cry out here between the Heavens and EarthMy conscience of this sin, this woe, this wrath,Which damn me to this depth.Earth Spirits. I wail, I wail!Eve. I wail – O God!Lucifer. I scorn you that ye wail,Who use your petty griefs for pedestalsTo stand on, beckoning pity from without,And deal in pathos of antithesisOf what ye were forsooth, and what ye are; —I scorn you like an angel! Yet, one cryI, too, would drive up like a column erect,Marble to marble, from my heart to heaven,A monument of anguish to transpierceAnd overtop your vapoury complaintsExpressed from feeble woes.Earth Spirits. I wail, I wail!Lucifer. For, O ye heavens, ye are my witnesses,That I, struck out from nature in a blot,The outcast and the mildew of things good,The leper of angels, the excepted dustUnder the common rain of daily gifts, —I the snake, I the tempter, I the cursed, —To whom the highest and the lowest alikeSay, Go from us – we have no need of thee, —Was made by God like others. Good and fair,He did create me! – ask him, if not fair!Ask, if I caught not fair and silverlyHis blessing for chief angels on my headUntil it grew there, a crown crystallized!Ask, if he never called me by my name,Lucifer– kindly said as "Gabriel" —Lucifer– soft as "Michael!" while sereneI, standing in the glory of the lamps,Answered "my Father," innocent of shameAnd of the sense of thunder. Ha! ye think,White angels in your niches, – I repent,And would tread down my own offences backTo service at the footstool? that's read wrong!I cry as the beast did, that I may cry —Expansive, not appealing! Fallen so deep,Against the sides of this prodigious pitI cry – cry – dashing out the hands of wailOn each side, to meet anguish everywhere,And to attest it in the ecstasyAnd exaltation of a woe sustainedBecause provoked and chosen.Pass alongYour wilderness, vain mortals! Puny griefsIn transitory shapes, be henceforth dwarfedTo your own conscience, by the dread extremesOf what I am and have been. If ye have fallen,It is but a step's fall, – the whole ground beneathStrewn woolly soft with promise! if ye have sinned,Your prayers tread high as angels! if ye have grieved,Ye are too mortal to be pitiable,The power to die disproves the right to grieve.Go to! ye call this ruin? I half-scornThe ill I did you! Were ye wronged by me,Hated and tempted and undone of me, —Still, what's your hurt to mine of doing hurt,Of hating, tempting, and so ruining?This sword's hilt is the sharpest, and cuts throughThe hand that wields it.Go! I curse you all.Hate one another – feebly – as ye can!I would not certes cut you short in hate,Far be it from me! hate on as ye can!I breathe into your faces, spirits of earth,As wintry blast may breathe on wintry leavesAnd lifting up their brownness show beneathThe branches bare. Beseech you, spirits, giveTo Eve who beggarly entreats your loveFor her and Adam when they shall be dead,An answer rather fitting to the sinThan to the sorrow – as the heavens, I trow,For justice' sake gave theirs.I curse you both,Adam and Eve. Say grace as after meat,After my curses! May your tears fall hotOn all the hissing scorns o' the creatures here, —And yet rejoice! Increase and multiply,Ye in your generations, in all plagues,Corruptions, melancholies, poverties,And hideous forms of life and fears of death, —The thought of death being always imminent,Immoveable and dreadful in your life,And deafly and dumbly insignificantOf any hope beyond, – as death itself,Whichever of you lieth dead the first,Shall seem to the survivor – yet rejoice!My curse catch at you strongly, body and soul,And He find no redemption – nor the wingOf seraph move your way; and yet rejoice!Rejoice, – because ye have not, set in you,This hate which shall pursue you – this fire-hateWhich glares without, because it burns within —Which kills from ashes – this potential hate,Wherein I, angel, in antagonismTo God and his reflex beatitudes,Moan ever, in the central universe,With the great woe of striving against Love —And gasp for space amid the Infinite,And toss for rest amid the Desertness,Self-orphaned by my will, and self-electTo kingship of resistant agonyToward the Good round me – hating good and love,And willing to hate good and to hate love,And willing to will on so evermore,Scorning the past and damning the to-come —Go and rejoice! I curse you.[Lucifer vanishes.Earth Spirits.And we scorn you! there's no pardonWhich can lean to you aright.When your bodies take the guerdonOf the death-curse in our sight,Then the bee that hummeth lowest shall transcend you:Then ye shall not move an eyelidThough the stars look down your eyes;And the earth which ye defilèdShall expose you to the skies, —"Lo! these kings of ours, who sought to comprehend you."First Spirit.And the elements shall boldlyAll your dust to dust constrain.Unresistedly and coldlyI will smite you with my rain.From the slowest of my frosts is no receding.Second Spirit.And my little worm, appointedTo assume a royal part,He shall reign, crowned and anointed,O'er the noble human heart.Give him counsel against losing of that Eden!Adam. Do ye scorn us? Back your scornToward your faces grey and lorn,As the wind drives back the rain,Thus I drive with passion-strife,I who stand beneath God's sun,Made like God, and, though undone,Not unmade for love and life.Lo! ye utter threats in vain.By my free will that chose sin,By mine agony withinRound the passage of the fire,By the pinings which discloseThat my native soul is higherThan what it chose,We are yet too high, O Spirits, for your disdain!Eve. Nay, beloved! If these be low,We confront them from no height.We have stooped down to their levelBy infecting them with evil,And their scorn that meets our blowScathes aright.Amen. Let it be so.Earth Spirits.We shall triumph – triumph greatlyWhen ye lie beneath the sward.There, our lily shall grow statelyThough ye answer not a word,And her fragrance shall be scornful of your silence:While your throne ascending calmlyWe, in heirdom of your soul,Flash the river, lift the palm-tree,The dilated ocean roll,By the thoughts that throbbed within you, round the islands.Alp and torrent shall inheritYour significance of will,And the grandeur of your spiritShall our broad savannahs fill;In our winds, your exultations shall be springing!Even your parlance which inveigles,By our rudeness shall be won.Hearts poetic in our eaglesShall beat up against the sunAnd strike downward in articulate clear singing.Your bold speeches our BehemothWith his thunderous jaw shall wield.Your high fancies shall our MammothBreathe sublimely up the shieldOf Saint Michael at God's throne, who waits to speed him:Till the heavens' smooth-groovèd thunderSpinning back, shall leave them clear,And the angels, smiling wonder,With dropt looks from sphere to sphere,Shall cry "Ho, ye heirs of Adam! ye exceed him."Adam. Root out thine eyes, Sweet, from the dreary ground!Beloved, we may be overcome by God,But not by these.Eve. By God, perhaps, in these.Adam. I think, not so. Had God foredoomed despairHe had not spoken hope. He may destroyCertes, but not deceive.Eve. Behold this rose!I plucked it in our bower of ParadiseThis morning as I went forth, and my heartHas beat against its petals all the day.I thought it would be always red and fullAs when I plucked it. Is it? – ye may see!I cast it down to you that ye may see,All of you! – count the petals lost of it,And note the colours fainted! ye may see!And I am as it is, who yesterdayGrew in the same place. O ye spirits of earth,I almost, from my miserable heart,Could here upbraid you for your cruel heart,Which will not let me, down the slope of death,Draw any of your pity after me,Or lie still in the quiet of your looks,As my flower, there, in mine.[A bleak wind, quickened with indistinct Human Voices, spins around the Earth-zodiac, filling the circle with its presence; and then, wailing off into the East, carries the rose away with it. Eve falls upon her face. Adam stands erectAdam. So, verily,The last departs.Eve. So Memory follows Hope,And Life both. Love said to me, "Do not die,"And I replied, "O Love, I will not die.I exiled and I will not orphan Love."But now it is no choice of mine to die:My heart throbs from me.Adam. Call it straightway back!Death's consummation crowns completed life,Or comes too early. Hope being set on theeFor others, if for others then for thee, —For thee and me.[The wind revolves from the East, and round again to the East, perfumed by the Eden rose, and full of Voices which sweep out into articulation as they passLet thy soul shake its leavesTo feel the mystic wind – hark!Eve. I hear life.Infant Voices passing in the wind.O we live, O we live —And this life that we receiveIs a warm thing and a new,Which we softly bud intoFrom the heart and from the brain, —Something strange that overmuch isOf the sound and of the sight,Flowing round in trickling touches,With a sorrow and delight, —Yet is it all in vain?Rock us softly,Lest it be all in vain.Youthful Voices passing.O we live, O we live —And this life that we achieveIs a loud thing and a boldWhich with pulses manifoldStrikes the heart out full and fain —Active doer, noble liver,Strong to struggle, sure to conquer,Though the vessel's prow will quiverAt the lifting of the anchor:Yet do we strive in vain?Infant Voices passing.Rock us softly,Lest it be all in vain.Poet Voices passing.O we live, O we live —And this life that we conceiveIs a clear thing and a fair,Which we set in crystal airThat its beauty may be plain!With a breathing and a floodingOf the heaven-life on the whole,While we hear the forests buddingTo the music of the soul —Yet is it tuned in vain?Infant Voices passing.Rock us softly,Lest it be all in vain.Philosophic Voices passing.O we live, O we live —And this life that we perceiveIs a great thing and a graveWhich for others' use we have,Duty-laden to remain.We are helpers, fellow-creatures,Of the right against the wrong;We are earnest-hearted teachersOf the truth which maketh strong —Yet do we teach in vain?Infant Voices passing.Rock us softly,Lest it be all in vain.Revel Voices passing.O we live, O we live —And this life that we reprieveIs a low thing and a light,Which is jested out of sightAnd made worthy of disdain!Strike with bold electric laughterThe high tops of things divine —Turn thy head, my brother, after,Lest thy tears fall in my wine!For is all laughed in vain?Infant Voices passing.Rock us softly,Lest it be all in vain.Eve. I hear a sound of life – of life like ours —Of laughter and of wailing, of grave speech,Of little plaintive voices innocent,Of life in separate courses flowing outLike our four rivers to some outward main.I hear life – life!Adam. And, so, thy cheeks have snatchedScarlet to paleness, and thine eyes drink fastOf glory from full cups, and thy moist lipsSeem trembling, both of them, with earnest doubtsWhether to utter words or only smile.Eve. Shall I be mother of the coming life?Hear the steep generations, how they fallAdown the visionary stairs of TimeLike supernatural thunders – far, yet near, —Sowing their fiery echoes through the hills.Am I a cloud to these – mother to these?Earth Spirits. And bringer of the curse upon all these.[Eve sinks down againPoet Voices passing.O we live, O we live —And this life that we conceiveIs a noble thing and high,Which we climb up loftilyTo view God without a stain;Till, recoiling where the shade is,We retread our steps again,And descend the gloomy HadesTo resume man's mortal pain.Shall it be climbed in vain?Infant Voices passing.Rock us softly,Lest it be all in vain.Love Voices passing.O we live, O we live —And this life we would retrieve,Is a faithful thing apartWhich we love in, heart to heart,Until one heart fitteth twain."Wilt thou be one with me?""I will be one with thee.""Ha, ha! – we love and live!"Alas! ye love and die.Shriek – who shall reply?For is it not loved in vain?Infant Voices passing.Rock us softly,Though it be all in vain.Aged Voices passing.O we live, O we live —And this life we would survive,Is a gloomy thing and brief,Which, consummated in grief,Leaveth ashes for all gain.Is it not all in vain?Infant Voices passing.Rock us softly,Though it be all in vain.[Voices die awayEarth Spirits. And bringer of the curse upon all these.Eve. The voices of foreshown HumanityDie off; – so let me die.Adam. So let us die,When God's will soundeth the right hour of death.Earth Spirits. And bringer of the curse upon all these.Eve. O Spirits! by the gentleness ye useIn winds at night, and floating clouds at noon,In gliding waters under lily-leaves,In chirp of crickets, and the settling hushA bird makes in her nest with feet and wings, —Fulfil your natures now!Earth Spirits. Agreed, allowed!We gather out our natures like a cloud,And thus fulfil their lightnings! Thus, and thus!Hearken, oh hearken to us!First Spirit.As the storm-wind blows bleakly from the norland,As the snow-wind beats blindly on the moorland,As the simoom drives hot across the desert,As the thunder roars deep in the Unmeasured.As the torrent tears the ocean-world to atoms,As the whirlpool grinds it fathoms below fathoms,Thus, – and thus!Second Spirit.As the yellow toad, that spits its poison chilly,As the tiger, in the jungle crouching stilly,As the wild boar, with ragged tusks of anger,As the wolf-dog, with teeth of glittering clangour,As the vultures, that scream against the thunder,As the owlets, that sit and moan asunder,Thus, – and thus!Eve. Adam! God!Adam. Cruel, unrelenting Spirits!By the power in me of the sovran soulWhose thoughts keep pace yet with the angel's march,I charge you into silence – trample youDown to obedience. I am king of you!Earth Spirits.Ha, ha! thou art king!With a sin for a crown,And a soul undone!Thou, the antagonized,Tortured and agonized,Held in the ringOf the zodiac!Now, king, beware!We are many and strongWhom thou standest among, —And we press on the air,And we stifle thee back,And we multiply whereThou wouldst trample us downFrom rights of our ownTo an utter wrong —And, from under the feet of thy scorn,O forlorn,We shall spring up like corn,And our stubble be strong.Adam. God, there is power in thee! I make appealUnto thy kingship.Eve. There is pity in Thee,O sinned against, great God! – My seed, my seed,There is hope set on Thee – I cry to thee,Thou mystic Seed that shalt be! – leave us notIn agony beyond what we can bear,Fallen in debasement below thunder-mark,A mark for scorning – taunted and perplextBy all these creatures we ruled yesterday,Whom thou, Lord, rulest alway! O my Seed,Through the tempestuous years that rain so thickBetwixt my ghostly vision and thy face,Let me have token! for my soul is bruisedBefore the serpent's head is.[A vision of Christ appears in the midst of the Zodiac, which pales before the heavenly light. The Earth Spirits grow greyer and fainterChrist. I am here!Adam. This is God! – Curse us not, God, any more!Eve. But gazing so – so – with omnific eyes,Lift my soul upward till it touch thy feet!Or lift it only, – not to seem too proud, —To the low height of some good angel's feet,For such to tread on when he walketh straightAnd thy lips praise him!Christ. Spirits of the earth,I meet you with rebuke for the reproachAnd cruel and unmitigated blameYe cast upon your masters. True, they have sinned;And true their sin is reckoned into lossFor you the sinless. Yet, your innocenceWhich of you praises? since God made your actsInherent in your lives, and bound your handsWith instincts and imperious sanctitiesFrom self-defacement. Which of you disdainsThese sinners who in falling proved their heightAbove you by their liberty to fall?And which of you complains of loss by them,For whose delight and use ye have your lifeAnd honour in creation? Ponder it!This regent and sublime Humanity,Though fallen, exceeds you! this shall film your sun,Shall hunt your lightning to its lair of cloud,Turn back your rivers, footpath all your seas,Lay flat your forests, master with a lookYour lion at his fasting, and fetch downYour eagle flying. Nay, without this lawOf mandom, ye would perish, – beast by beastDevouring, – tree by tree, with strangling rootsAnd trunks set tuskwise. Ye would gaze on GodWith imperceptive blankness up the stars,And mutter, "Why, God, hast thou made us thus?"And pining to a sallow idiocyStagger up blindly against the ends of life,Then stagnate into rottenness and dropHeavily – poor, dead matter – piecemeal downThe abysmal spaces – like a little stoneLet fall to chaos. Therefore over youReceive man's sceptre! – therefore be contentTo minister with voluntary graceAnd melancholy pardon, every riteAnd function in you, to the human hand!Be ye to man as angels are to God,Servants in pleasure, singers of delight,Suggesters to his soul of higher thingsThan any of your highest! So at last,He shall look round on you with lids too straightTo hold the grateful tears, and thank you well,And bless you when he prays his secret prayers,And praise you when he sings his open songsFor the clear song-note he has learnt in youOf purifying sweetness, and extendAcross your head his golden fantasiesWhich glorify you into soul from sense.Go, serve him for such price! That not in vainNor yet ignobly ye shall serve, I placeMy word here for an oath, mine oath for actTo be hereafter. In the name of whichPerfect redemption and perpetual grace,I bless you through the hope and through the peaceWhich are mine, – to the Love, which is myself.Eve. Speak on still, Christ! Albeit thou bless me notIn set words, I am blessed in hearkening thee —Speak, Christ!Christ. Speak, Adam! Bless the woman, man!It is thine office.Adam. Mother of the world,Take heart before this Presence! Lo, my voice,Which, naming erst the creatures, did express(God breathing through my breath) the attributesAnd instincts of each creature in its name,Floats to the same afflatus, – floats and heavesLike a water-weed that opens to a wave, —A full leaved prophecy affecting thee,Out fairly and wide. Henceforward, arise, aspireTo all the calms and magnanimities,The lofty uses and the noble ends,The sanctified devotion and full work,To which thou art elect for evermore,First woman, wife, and mother!Eve. And first in sin.Adam. And also the sole bearer of the SeedWhereby sin dieth. Raise the majestiesOf thy disconsolate brows, O well-beloved,And front with level eyelids the To-come,And all the dark o' the world! Rise, woman, riseTo thy peculiar and best altitudesOf doing good and of enduring ill,Of comforting for ill, and teaching good,And reconciling all that ill and goodUnto the patience of a constant hope, —Rise with thy daughters! If sin came by thee,And by sin, death, – the ransom-righteousness,The heavenly life and compensative restShall come by means of thee. If woe by theeHad issue to the world, thou shalt go forthAn angel of the woe thou didst achieve,Found acceptable to the world insteadOf others of that name, of whose bright stepsThy deed stripped bare the hills. Be satisfied;Something thou hast to bear through womanhood,Peculiar suffering answering to the sin, —Some pang paid down for each new human life,Some weariness in guarding such a life,Some coldness from the guarded, some mistrustFrom those thou hast too well served, from those belovedToo loyally some treason; feeblenessWithin thy heart, and cruelty without,And pressures of an alien tyrannyWith its dynastic reasons of larger bonesAnd stronger sinews. But, go to! thy loveShall chant itself its own beatitudesAfter its own life-working. A child's kissSet on thy sighing lips shall make thee glad;A poor man served by thee shall make thee rich;A sick man helped by thee shall make thee strong;Thou shalt be served thyself by every senseOf service which thou renderest. Such a crownI set upon thy head, – Christ witnessingWith looks of prompting love – to keep thee clearOf all reproach against the sin forgone,From all the generations which succeed.Thy hand which plucked the apple I clasp close,Thy lips which spake wrong counsel I kiss close,I bless thee in the name of ParadiseAnd by the memory of Edenic joysForfeit and lost, – by that last cypress tree,Green at the gate, which thrilled as we came out,And by the blessed nightingale which threwIts melancholy music after us, —And by the flowers, whose spirits full of smellsDid follow softly, plucking us behindBack to the gradual banks and vernal bowersAnd fourfold river-courses. – By all these,I bless thee to the contraries of these,I bless thee to the desert and the thorns,To the elemental change and turbulence,And to the roar of the estranged beasts,And to the solemn dignities of grief, —To each one of these ends, – and to their endOf Death and the hereafter.Eve. I acceptFor me and for my daughters this high partWhich lowly shall be counted. Noble workShall hold me in the place of garden-rest,And in the place of Eden's lost delightWorthy endurance of permitted pain;While on my longest patience there shall waitDeath's speechless angel, smiling in the east,Whence cometh the cold wind. I bow myselfHumbly henceforward on the ill I did,That humbleness may keep it in the shade.Shall it be so? shall I smile, saying so?O Seed! O King! O God, who shalt be seed, —What shall I say? As Eden's fountains swelledBrightly betwixt their banks, so swells my soulBetwixt thy love and power!And, sweetest thoughtsOf forgone Eden! now, for the first timeSince God said "Adam," walking through the trees,I dare to pluck you as I plucked erewhileThe lily or pink, the rose or heliotropeSo pluck I you – so largely – with both hands,And throw you forward on the outer earth,Wherein we are cast out, to sweeten it.Adam. As thou, Christ, to illume it, holdest HeavenBroadly over our heads.[The Christ is gradually transfigured, during the following phrases of dialogue, into humanity and sufferingEve. O Saviour Christ,Thou standest mute in glory, like the sun!Adam. We worship in Thy silence, Saviour Christ!Eve. Thy brows grow grander with a forecast woe, —Diviner, with the possible of death.We worship in Thy sorrow, Saviour Christ!Adam. How do Thy clear, still eyes transpierce our souls,As gazing through them toward the Father-throneIn a pathetical, full Deity,Serenely as the stars gaze through the airStraight on each other!Eve. O pathetic Christ,Thou standest mute in glory, like the moon!Christ. Eternity stands alway fronting God;A stern colossal image, with blind eyesAnd grand dim lips that murmur evermoreGod, God, God! while the rush of life and death,The roar of act and thought, of evil and good,The avalanches of the ruining worldsTolling down space, – the new worlds' genesisBudding in fire, – the gradual humming growthOf the ancient atoms and first forms of earth,The slow procession of the swathing seasAnd firmamental waters, – and the noiseOf the broad, fluent strata of pure airs, —All these flow onward in the intervalsOf that reiterated sound of – God!Which word innumerous angels straightway liftWide on celestial altitudes of songAnd choral adoration, and then dropThe burden softly, shutting the last notesIn silver wings. Howbeit in the noon of timeEternity shall wax as dumb as Death,While a new voice beneath the spheres shall cry,"God! why hast thou forsaken me, my God?"And not a voice in Heaven shall answer it.[The transfiguration is complete in sadnessAdam. Thy speech is of the Heavenlies, yet, O Christ,Awfully human are thy voice and face!Eve. My nature overcomes me from thine eyes.Christ. In the set noon of time shall one from Heaven,An angel fresh from looking upon God,Descend before a woman, blessing herWith perfect benediction of pure love,For all the world in all its elements,For all the creatures of earth, air, and sea,For all men in the body and in the soul,Unto all ends of glory and sanctity.Eve. O pale, pathetic Christ – I worship thee!I thank thee for that woman!Christ. Then, at last,I, wrapping round me your humanity,Which, being sustained, shall neither break nor burnBeneath the fire of Godhead, will tread earth,And ransom you and it, and set strong peaceBetwixt you and its creatures. With my pangsI will confront your sins; and since those sinsHave sunken to all Nature's heart from yours,The tears of my clean soul shall follow themAnd set a holy passion to work clearAbsolute consecration. In my browOf kingly whiteness shall be crowned anewYour discrowned human nature. Look on me!As I shall be uplifted on a crossIn darkness of eclipse and anguish dread,So shall I lift up in my piercèd hands,Not into dark, but light – not unto death,But life, – beyond the reach of guilt and grief,The whole creation. Henceforth in my nameTake courage, O thou woman, – man, take hope!Your grave shall be as smooth as Eden's sward,Beneath the steps of your prospective thoughts,And, one step past it, a new Eden-gateShall open on a hinge of harmonyAnd let you through to mercy. Ye shall fallNo more, within that Eden, nor pass outAny more from it. In which hope, move on,First sinners and first mourners! Live and love, —Doing both nobly because lowlily!Live and work, strongly because patiently!And, for the deed of death, trust it to GodThat it be well done, unrepented of,And not to loss! And thence, with constant prayers,Fasten your souls so high, that constantlyThe smile of your heroic cheer may floatAbove all floods of earthly agonies,Purification being the joy of pain![The vision of Christ vanishes. Adam and Eve stand in an ecstasy. The Earth-zodiac pales away shade by shade, as the stars, star by star, shine out in the sky; and the following chant from the two Earth Spirits (as they sweep back into the Zodiac and disappear with it) accompanies the process of changeEarth Spirits.By the mighty word thus spokenBoth for living and for dying,We our homage-oath, once broken,Fasten back again in sighing,And the creatures and the elements renew their covenanting.Here, forgive us all our scorning;Here, we promise milder duty:And the evening and the morningShall re-organize in beautyA sabbath day of sabbath joy, for universal chanting.And if, still, this melancholyMay be strong to overcome us,If this mortal and unholyWe still fail to cast out from us,If we turn upon you, unaware, your own dark influences, —If ye tremble when surroundedBy our forest pine and palm trees,If we cannot cure the woundedWith our gum trees and our balm trees,And if your souls all mournfully sit down among your senses, —Yet, O mortals, do not fear us!We are gentle in our languor;Much more good ye shall have near usThan any pain or anger,And our God's refracted blessing in our blessing shall be given.By the desert's endless vigilWe will solemnize your passions,By the wheel of the black eagleWe will teach you exaltations,When he sails against the wind, to the white spot up in heaven.Ye shall find us tender nursesTo your weariness of nature,And our hands shall stroke the curse'sDreary furrows from the creature,Till your bodies shall lie smooth in death and straight and slumberful.Then, a couch we will provide youWhere no summer heats shall dazzle,Strewing on you and beside youThyme and rosemary and basil,And the yew-tree shall grow overhead to keep all safe and cool.Till the Holy Blood awaitedShall be chrism around us running,Whereby, newly-consecrated,We shall leap up in God's sunning,To join the spheric company which purer worlds assemble:While, renewed by new evangels,Soul-consummated, made glorious,Ye shall brighten past the angels,Ye shall kneel to Christ victorious,And the rays around his feet beneath your sobbing lips shall tremble.[The phantastic Vision has all passed; the Earth-zodiac has broken like a belt, and is dissolved from the Desert. The Earth Spirits vanish, and the stars shine out aboveCHORUS OF INVISIBLE ANGELS, while Adam and Eve advance into the Desert, hand in handHear our heavenly promiseThrough your mortal passion!Love, ye shall have from us,In a pure relation.As a fish or birdSwims or flies, if moving,We unseen are heardTo live on by loving.Far above the glancesOf your eager eyes,Listen! we are loving.Listen, through man's ignorances —Listen, through God's mysteries —Listen down the heart of things,Ye shall hear our mystic wingsMurmurous with loving.Through the opal doorListen evermoreHow we live by loving!First Semichorus.When your bodies thereforeReach the grave their goal,Softly will we care forEach enfranchised soul.Softly and unlothlyThrough the door of opalToward the heavenly people,Floated on a minor fineInto the full chant divine,We will draw you smoothly, —While the human in the minorMakes the harmony diviner.Listen to our loving!Second Semichorus.There, a sough of gloryShall breathe on you as you come,Ruffling round the doorwayAll the light of angeldom.From the empyrean centreHeavenly voices shall repeat,"Souls redeemed and pardoned, enter,For the chrism on you is sweet!"And every angel in the placeLowlily shall bow his face,Folded fair on softened sounds,Because upon your hands and feetHe images his Master's wounds.Listen to our loving!First Semichorus.So, in the universe'sConsummated undoing,Our seraphs of white merciesShall hover round the ruin.Their wings shall stream upon the flameAs if incorporate of the sameIn elemental fusion;And calm their faces shall burn outWith a pale and mastering thought,And a steadfast looking of desireFrom out between the clefts of fire, —While they cry, in the Holy's name,To the final Restitution.Listen to our loving!Second Semichorus.So, when the day of God isTo the thick graves accompted,Awaking the dead bodies,The angel of the trumpetShall split and shatter the earthTo the roots of the grave —Which never before were slackened —And quicken the charnel birthWith his blast so clear and braveThat the Dead shall start and stand erect,And every face of the burial-placeShall the awful, single look reflectWherewith he them awakened.Listen to our loving!First Semichorus.But wild is the horse of Death!He will leap up wild at the clamourAbove and beneath.And where is his TamerOn that last day,When he crieth Ha, ha!To the trumpet's blare,And paweth the earth's Aceldama?When he tosseth his head,The drear-white steed,And ghastlily champeth the last moon-ray —What angel thereCan lead him away,That the living may rule for the Dead?Second Semichorus.Yet a Tamer shall be found!One more bright than seraph crowned,And more strong than cherub bold,Elder, too, than angel old,By his grey eternities.He shall master and surpriseThe steed of Death.For He is strong, and He is fain.He shall quell him with a breath,And shall lead him where He will,With a whisper in the ear,Full of fear,And a hand upon the mane,Grand and still.First Semichorus.Through the flats of Hades where the souls assembleHe will guide the Death-steed calm between their ranks,While, like beaten dogs, they a little moan and trembleTo see the darkness curdle from the horse's glittering flanks.Through the flats of Hades where the dreary shade is,Up the steep of heaven will the Tamer guide the steed, —Up the spheric circles, circle above circle,We who count the ages shall count the tolling tread —Every hoof-fall striking a blinder blanker sparkleFrom the stony orbs, which shall show as they were dead.Second Semichorus.All the way the Death-steed with tolling hoofs shall travel,Ashen-grey the planets shall be motionless as stones,Loosely shall the systems eject their parts coæval,Stagnant in the spaces shall float the pallid moons:Suns that touch their apogees, reeling from their level,Shall run back on their axles, in wild low broken tunes.Chorus.Up against the arches of the crystal ceiling,From the horse's nostrils shall steam the blurting breath:Up between the angels pale with silent feelingWill the Tamer calmly lead the horse of Death.Semichorus.Cleaving all that silence, cleaving all that glory,Will the Tamer lead him straightway to the Throne:"Look out, O Jehovah, to this I bring before Thee,With a hand nail-piercèd, I who am thy Son."Then the Eye Divinest, from the Deepest, flaming,On the mystic courser shall look out in fire:Blind the beast shall stagger where It overcame him,Meek as lamb at pasture, bloodless in desire.Down the beast shall shiver, – slain amid the taming, —And, by Life essential, the phantasm Death expire.Chorus.Listen, man, through life and death,Through the dust and through the breath,Listen down the heart of things!Ye shall hear our mystic wingsMurmurous with loving.A Voice from below. Gabriel, thou Gabriel!A Voice from above. What wouldst thou with me?First Voice. I heard thy voice sound in the angels' song,And I would give thee question.Second Voice. Question me!First Voice. Why have I called thrice to my Morning StarAnd had no answer? All the stars are out,And answer in their places. Only in vainI cast my voice against the outer raysOf my Star shut in light behind the sun.No more reply than from a breaking string,Breaking when touched. Or is she not my star?Where is my Star – my Star? Have ye cast downHer glory like my glory? Has she waxedMortal, like Adam? Has she learnt to hateLike any angel?Second Voice. She is sad for thee.All things grow sadder to thee, one by one.Angel Chorus.Live, work on, O Earthy!By the Actual's tension,Speed the arrow worthyOf a pure ascension!From the low earth round you,Reach the heights above you:From the stripes that wound you,Seek the loves that love you!God's divinest burneth plainThrough the crystal diaphaneOf our loves that love you.First Voice. Gabriel, O Gabriel!Second Voice. What wouldst thou with me?First Voice. Is it true, O thou Gabriel, that the crownOf sorrow which I claimed, another claims?That He claims that too?Second Voice. Lost one, it is true.First Voice. That He will be an exile from his heaven,To lead those exiles homeward?Second Voice. It is true.First Voice. That He will be an exile by his will,As I by mine election?Second Voice. It is true.First Voice. That I shall stand sole exile finally, —Made desolate for fruition?Second Voice. It is true.First Voice. Gabriel!Second Voice. I hearken.First Voice. Is it true besides —Aright true – that mine orient Star will giveHer name of "Bright and Morning-Star" to Him, —And take the fairness of his virtue backTo cover loss and sadness?Second Voice. It is true.First Voice. Untrue, Untrue! O Morning Star, O Mine,Who sittest secret in a veil of lightFar up the starry spaces, say —Untrue!Speak but so loud as doth a wasted moonTo Tyrrhene waters. I am Lucifer.[A pause. Silence in the starsAll things grow sadder to me, one by one.Angel Chorus.Exiled human creatures,Let your hope grow larger!Larger grows the visionOf the new delight.From this chain of Nature'sGod is the Discharger,And the Actual's prisonOpens to your sight.Semichorus.Calm the stars and goldenIn a light exceeding:What their rays have measuredLet your feet fulfil!These are stars beholdenBy your eyes in Eden,Yet, across the desert,See them shining still!Chorus.Future joy and far lightWorking such relations,Hear us singing gentlyExiled is not lost!God, above the starlight,God, above the patience,Shall at last present yeGuerdons worth the cost.Patiently enduring,Painfully surrounded,Listen how we love you,Hope the uttermost!Waiting for that curingWhich exalts the wounded,Hear us sing above you —Exiled, but not Lost![The stars shine on brightly while Adam and Eve pursue their way into the far wilderness. There is a sound through the silence, as of the falling tears of an angel