Andromeda, and Other Poems

SING HEIGH-HO!

There sits a bird on every tree;         Sing heigh-ho!There sits a bird on every tree,And courts his love as I do thee;      Sing heigh-ho, and heigh-ho!   Young maids must marry.There grows a flower on every bough;         Sing heigh-ho!There grows a flower on every bough,Its petals kiss—I’ll show you how:      Sing heigh-ho, and heigh-ho!   Young maids must marry.From sea to stream the salmon roam;         Sing heigh-ho!From sea to stream the salmon roam;Each finds a mate, and leads her home;      Sing heigh-ho, and heigh-ho!   Young maids must marry.The sun’s a bridegroom, earth a bride;         Sing heigh-ho!They court from morn till eventide:The earth shall pass, but love abide.      Sing heigh-ho, and heigh-ho!   Young maids must marry.Eversley, 1847.

A MARCH

   Dreary East winds howling o’er us;   Clay-lands knee-deep spread before us;   Mire and ice and snow and sleet;   Aching backs and frozen feet;   Knees which reel as marches quicken,   Ranks which thin as corpses thicken;   While with carrion birds we eat,   Calling puddle-water sweet,As we pledge the health of our general, who fares as rough as we:What can daunt us, what can turn us, led to death by such as he?Eversley, 1848.

A LAMENT

The merry merry lark was up and singing,   And the hare was out and feeding on the lea;And the merry merry bells below were ringing,   When my child’s laugh rang through me.Now the hare is snared and dead beside the snow-yard,   And the lark beside the dreary winter sea;And the baby in his cradle in the churchyard   Sleeps sound till the bell brings me.Eversley, 1848.

THE NIGHT BIRD: A MYTH

A floating, a floatingAcross the sleeping sea,All night I heard a singing birdUpon the topmost tree.‘Oh came you off the isles of Greece,Or off the banks of Seine;Or off some tree in forests free,Which fringe the western main?’‘I came not off the old worldNor yet from off the new—But I am one of the birds of GodWhich sing the whole night through.’‘Oh sing, and wake the dawning—Oh whistle for the wind;The night is long, the current strong,My boat it lags behind.’‘The current sweeps the old world,The current sweeps the new;The wind will blow, the dawn will glowEre thou hast sailed them through.’Eversley, 1848.

THE DEAD CHURCH

Wild wild wind, wilt thou never cease thy sighing?   Dark dark night, wilt thou never wear away?Cold cold church, in thy death sleep lying,   The Lent is past, thy Passion here, but not thine Easter-day.Peace, faint heart, though the night be dark and sighing;   Rest, fair corpse, where thy Lord himself hath lain.Weep, dear Lord, above thy bride low lying;   Thy tears shall wake her frozen limbs to life and health again.Eversley, 1848.

A PARABLE FROM LIEBIG

The church bells were ringing, the devil sat singing   On the stump of a rotting old tree;‘Oh faith it grows cold, and the creeds they grow old,   And the world is nigh ready for me.’The bells went on ringing, a spirit came singing,   And smiled as he crumbled the tree;‘Yon wood does but perish new seedlings to cherish,   And the world is too live yet for thee.’Eversley, 1848.

THE STARLINGS

Early in spring time, on raw and windy mornings,Beneath the freezing house-eaves I heard the starlings sing—‘Ah dreary March month, is this then a time for building wearily?   Sad, sad, to think that the year is but begun.’Late in the autumn, on still and cloudless evenings,Among the golden reed-beds I heard the starlings sing—‘Ah that sweet March month, when we and our mates were courting merrily;   Sad, sad, to think that the year is all but done.’Eversley, 1848.

OLD AND NEW: A PARABLE

See how the autumn leaves float by decaying,Down the wild swirls of the rain-swollen stream.So fleet the works of men, back to their earth again;Ancient and holy things fade like a dream.Nay! see the spring-blossoms steal forth a-maying,Clothing with tender hues orchard and glen;So, though old forms pass by, ne’er shall their spirit die,Look!  England’s bare boughs show green leaf again.Eversley, 1848.

THE WATCHMAN

‘Watchman, what of the night?’   ‘The stars are out in the sky;And the merry round moon will be rising soon,   For us to go sailing by.’‘Watchman, what of the night?’   ‘The tide flows in from the sea;There’s water to float a little cockboat   Will carry such fishers as we.’‘Watchman, what of the night?’   ‘The night is a fruitful time;When to many a pair are born children fair,   To be christened at morning chime.’1849.

THE WORLD’S AGE

Who will say the world is dying?   Who will say our prime is past?Sparks from Heaven, within us lying,   Flash, and will flash till the last.Fools! who fancy Christ mistaken;   Man a tool to buy and sell;Earth a failure, God-forsaken,   Anteroom of Hell.Still the race of Hero-spirits   Pass the lamp from hand to hand;Age from age the Words inherits—   ‘Wife, and Child, and Fatherland.’Still the youthful hunter gathers   Fiery joy from wold and wood;He will dare as dared his fathers   Give him cause as good.While a slave bewails his fetters;   While an orphan pleads in vain;While an infant lisps his letters,   Heir of all the age’s gain;While a lip grows ripe for kissing;   While a moan from man is wrung;Know, by every want and blessing,   That the world is young.1849.

THE SANDS OF DEE

‘O Mary, go and call the cattle home,      And call the cattle home,      And call the cattle home   Across the sands of Dee;’The western wind was wild and dank with foam,   And all alone went she.The western tide crept up along the sand,      And o’er and o’er the sand,      And round and round the sand,   As far as eye could see.The rolling mist came down and hid the land:   And never home came she.‘Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair—      A tress of golden hair,      A drownèd maiden’s hair   Above the nets at sea?Was never salmon yet that shone so fair   Among the stakes on Dee.’They rowed her in across the rolling foam,      The cruel crawling foam,      The cruel hungry foam,   To her grave beside the sea:But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home   Across the sands of Dee.Eversley, 1849.

THE TIDE ROCK

How sleeps yon rock, whose half-day’s bath is done.With broad blight side beneath the broad bright sun,Like sea-nymph tired, on cushioned mosses sleeping.Yet, nearer drawn, beneath her purple tressesFrom drooping brows we find her slowly weeping.   So many a wife for cruel man’s caresses   Must inly pine and pine, yet outward bear   A gallant front to this world’s gaudy glare.Ilfracombe, 1849.

ELEGIACS

Wearily stretches the sand to the surge, and the surge to the cloudland;Wearily onward I ride, watching the water alone.Not as of old, like Homeric Achilles, κυδει yαιων,Joyous knight-errant of God, thirsting for labour and strife;No more on magical steed borne free through the regions of ether,But, like the hack which I ride, selling my sinew for gold.Fruit-bearing autumn is gone; let the sad quiet winter hang o’er me—What were the spring to a soul laden with sorrow and shame?Blossoms would fret me with beauty; my heart has no time to bepraise them;Gray rock, bough, surge, cloud, waken no yearning within.Sing not, thou sky-lark above! even angels pass hushed by the weeper.Scream on, ye sea-fowl! my heart echoes your desolate cry.Sweep the dry sand on, thou wild wind, to drift o’er the shell and the sea-weed;Sea-weed and shell, like my dreams, swept down the pitiless tide.Just is the wave which uptore us; ’tis Nature’s own law which condemns us;Woe to the weak who, in pride, build on the faith of the sand!Joy to the oak of the mountain: he trusts to the might of the rock-clefts;Deeply he mines, and in peace feeds on the wealth of the stone.Morte Sands, Devonshire, February 1849.

DARTSIDE

I cannot tell what you say, green leaves,   I cannot tell what you say:But I know that there is a spirit in you,   And a word in you this day.I cannot tell what you say, rosy rocks,   I cannot tell what you say:But I know that there is a spirit in you,   And a word in you this day.I cannot tell what you say, brown streams,   I cannot tell what you say:But I know that in you too a spirit doth live,   And a word doth speak this day.‘Oh green is the colour of faith and truth,And rose the colour of love and youth,   And brown of the fruitful clay.   Sweet Earth is faithful, and fruitful, and young,   And her bridal day shall come ere long,And you shall know what the rocks and the streams      And the whispering woodlands say.’Drew’s Teignton, Dartmoor, July 31, 1849.

MY HUNTING SONG

      Forward!  Hark forward’s the cry!One more fence and we’re out on the open,So to us at once, if you want to live near us!Hark to them, ride to them, beauties! as on they go,Leaping and sweeping away in the vale below!Cowards and bunglers, whose heart or whose eye is slow,   Find themselves staring alone.      So the great cause flashes by;Nearer and clearer its purposes open,While louder and prouder the world-echoes cheer us:Gentlemen sportsmen, you ought to live up to us,Lead us, and lift us, and hallo our game to us—We cannot call the hounds off, and no shame to us—   Don’t be left staring alone!Eversley, 1849.

ALTON LOCKE’S SONG

Weep, weep, weep and weep,   For pauper, dolt, and slave!Hark! from wasted moor and fen,Feverous alley, stifling den,Swells the wail of Saxon men—   Work! or the grave!Down, down, down and down,   With idler, knave, and tyrant!Why for sluggards cark and moil?He that will not live by toilHas no right on English soil!   God’s word’s our warrant!Up, up, up and up!   Face your game and play it!The night is past, behold the sun!The idols fall, the lie is done!The Judge is set, the doom begun!   Who shall stay it?On Torridge, May 1849.

THE DAY OF THE LORD

The Day of the Lord is at hand, at hand:   Its storms roll up the sky:The nations sleep starving on heaps of gold;   All dreamers toss and sigh;The night is darkest before the morn;When the pain is sorest the child is born,      And the Day of the Lord at hand.Gather you, gather you, angels of God—   Freedom, and Mercy, and Truth;Come! for the Earth is grown coward and old,   Come down, and renew us her youth.Wisdom, Self-Sacrifice, Daring, and Love,Haste to the battle-field, stoop from above,      To the Day of the Lord at hand.Gather you, gather you, hounds of hell—   Famine, and Plague, and War;Idleness, Bigotry, Cant, and Misrule,   Gather, and fall in the snare!Hireling and Mammonite, Bigot and Knave,Crawl to the battle-field, sneak to your grave,      In the Day of the Lord at hand.Who would sit down and sigh for a lost age of gold,   While the Lord of all ages is here?True hearts will leap up at the trumpet of God,   And those who can suffer, can dare.Each old age of gold was an iron age too,And the meekest of saints may find stern work to do,      In the Day of the Lord at hand.On the Torridge, Devonshire, September 10, 1849.

A CHRISTMAS CAROL

It chanced upon the merry merry Christmas eve,   I went sighing past the church across the moorland dreary—‘Oh! never sin and want and woe this earth will leave,   And the bells but mock the wailing round, they sing so cheery.How long, O Lord! how long before Thou come again?   Still in cellar, and in garret, and on moorland drearyThe orphans moan, and widows weep, and poor men toil in vain,   Till earth is sick of hope deferred, though Christmas bells be cheery.’Then arose a joyous clamour from the wild-fowl on the mere,   Beneath the stars, across the snow, like clear bells ringing,And a voice within cried—‘Listen!—Christmas carols even here!   Though thou be dumb, yet o’er their work the stars and snows are singing.Blind!  I live, I love, I reign; and all the nations through   With the thunder of my judgments even now are ringing.Do thou fulfil thy work but as yon wild-fowl do,   Thou wilt heed no less the wailing, yet hear through it angels singing.’Eversley, 1849.

THE OUBIT 3

It was an hairy oubit, sae proud he crept alang,A feckless hairy oubit, and merrily he sang—‘My Minnie bad me bide at hame until I won my wings;I show her soon my soul’s aboon the warks o’ creeping things.’This feckless hairy oubit cam’ hirpling by the linn,A swirl o’ wind cam’ doun the glen, and blew that oubit in:Oh when he took the water, the saumon fry they rose,And tigg’d him a’ to pieces sma’, by head and tail and toes.Tak’ warning then, young poets a’, by this poor oubit’s shame;Though Pegasus may nicher loud, keep Pegasus at hame.Oh haud your hands frae inkhorns, though a’ the Muses woo;For critics lie, like saumon fry, to mak’ their meals o’ you.Eversley, 1851.

THE THREE FISHERS

Three fishers went sailing away to the West,   Away to the West as the sun went down;Each thought on the woman who loved him the best,   And the children stood watching them out of the town;   For men must work, and women must weep,   And there’s little to earn, and many to keep,      Though the harbour bar be moaning.Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower,   And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down;They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower,   And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown.   But men must work, and women must weep,   Though storms be sudden, and waters deep,      And the harbour bar be moaning.Three corpses lay out on the shining sands   In the morning gleam as the tide went down,And the women are weeping and wringing their hands   For those who will never come home to the town;   For men must work, and women must weep,   And the sooner it’s over, the sooner to sleep;      And good-bye to the bar and its moaning.Eversley, June 25, 1851.

SONNET

Oh, thou hadst been a wife for Shakspeare’s self!No head, save some world-genius, ought to restAbove the treasures of that perfect breast,Or nightly draw fresh light from those keen starsThrough which thy soul awes ours: yet thou art bound—O waste of nature!—to a craven hound;To shameless lust, and childish greed of pelf;Athené to a Satyr: was that linkForged by The Father’s hand?  Man’s reason barsThe bans which God allowed.—Ay, so we think:Forgetting, thou hadst weaker been, full blest,   Than thus made strong by suffering; and more great   In martyrdom, than throned as Cæsar’s mate.Eversley, 1851.

MARGARET TO DOLCINO

Ask if I love thee?  Oh, smiles cannot tellPlainer what tears are now showing too well.Had I not loved thee, my sky had been clear:Had I not loved thee, I had not been here,      Weeping by thee.Ask if I love thee?  How else could I borrowPride from man’s slander, and strength from my sorrow?Laugh when they sneer at the fanatic’s bride,Knowing no bliss, save to toil and abide      Weeping by thee.Andernach on the Rhine, August 1851.

DOLCINO TO MARGARET

The world goes up and the world goes down,   And the sunshine follows the rain;And yesterday’s sneer and yesterday’s frown   Can never come over again,      Sweet wife:   No, never come over again.For woman is warm though man be cold,   And the night will hallow the day;Till the heart which at even was weary and old   Can rise in the morning gay,      Sweet wife;   To its work in the morning gay.Andernach, 1851.

THE UGLY PRINCESS

My parents bow, and lead them forth,   For all the crowd to see—Ah well! the people might not care   To cheer a dwarf like me.They little know how I could love,   How I could plan and toil,To swell those drudges’ scanty gains,   Their mites of rye and oil.They little know what dreams have been   My playmates, night and day;Of equal kindness, helpful care,   A mother’s perfect sway.Now earth to earth in convent walls,   To earth in churchyard sod:I was not good enough for man,   And so am given to God.Bertrich in the Eifel, 1851.

SONNET

The baby sings not on its mother’s breast;Nor nightingales who nestle side by side;Nor I by thine: but let us only part,Then lips which should but kiss, and so be still,As having uttered all, must speak again—O stunted thoughts!  O chill and fettered rhymeYet my great bliss, though still entirely blest,Losing its proper home, can find no rest:   So, like a child who whiles away the timeWith dance and carol till the eventide,Watching its mother homeward through the glen;Or nightingale, who, sitting far apart,Tells to his listening mate within the nestThe wonder of his star-entrancèd heartTill all the wakened woodlands laugh and thrill—   Forth all my being bubbles into song;   And rings aloft, not smooth, yet clear and strong.Bertrich, 1851

THE SWAN-NECK

Evil sped the battle playOn the Pope Calixtus’ day;Mighty war-smiths, thanes and lords,In Senlac slept the sleep of swords.Harold Earl, shot over shield,Lay along the autumn weald;Slaughter such was never noneSince the Ethelings England won.   Thither Lady Githa came,Weeping sore for grief and shame;How may she her first-born tell?Frenchmen stript him where he fell,Gashed and marred his comely face;Who can know him in his place?   Up and spake two brethren wise,‘Youngest hearts have keenest eyes;Bird which leaves its mother’s nest,Moults its pinions, moults its crest.Let us call the Swan-neck here,She that was his leman dear;She shall know him in this stound;Foot of wolf, and scent of hound,Eye of hawk, and wing of dove,Carry woman to her love.’   Up and spake the Swan-neck high,‘Go! to all your thanes let cryHow I loved him best of all,I whom men his leman call;Better knew his body fairThan the mother which him bare.When ye lived in wealth and gleeThen ye scorned to look on me;God hath brought the proud ones lowAfter me afoot to go.’   Rousing erne and sallow glede,Rousing gray wolf off his feed,Over franklin, earl, and thane,Heaps of mother-naked slain,Round the red field tracing slow,Stooped that Swan-neck white as snow;Never blushed nor turned away,Till she found him where he lay;Clipt him in her armés fair,Wrapt him in her yellow hair,Bore him from the battle-stead,Saw him laid in pall of lead,Took her to a minster high,For Earl Harold’s soul to cry.   Thus fell Harold, bracelet-giver;Jesu rest his soul for ever;Angles all from thrall deliver;      Miserere Domine.Eversley, 1851.

A THOUGHT FROM THE RHINE

I heard an Eagle crying all aloneAbove the vineyards through the summer night,Among the skeletons of robber towers:Because the ancient eyrie of his raceWas trenched and walled by busy-handed men;And all his forest-chace and woodland wild,Wherefrom he fed his young with hare and roe,Were trim with grapes which swelled from hour to hour,And tossed their golden tendrils to the sunFor joy at their own riches:—So, I thought,The great devourers of the earth shall sit,Idle and impotent, they know not why,Down-staring from their barren height of stateOn nations grown too wise to slay and slave,The puppets of the few; while peaceful loreAnd fellow-help make glad the heart of earth,With wonders which they fear and hate, as he,The Eagle, hates the vineyard slopes below.On the Rhine, 1851.

THE LONGBEARDS’ SAGA.  A.D. 400

Over the camp-firesDrank I with heroes,Under the Donau bank,Warm in the snow trench:Sagamen heard I there,Men of the Longbeards,Cunning and ancient,Honey-sweet-voiced.Scaring the wolf cub,Scaring the horn-owl,Shaking the snow-wreathsDown from the pine-boughs,Up to the star roofRang out their song.Singing how Winil men,Over the ice-floesSledging from ScanlandCame unto Scoring;Singing of Gambara,Freya’s belovèd,Mother of Ayo,Mother of Ibor.Singing of Wendel men,Ambri and Assi;How to the WinilfolkWent they with war-words,—‘Few are ye, strangers,And many are we:Pay us now toll and fee,Cloth-yarn, and rings, and beeves:Else at the raven’s mealBide the sharp bill’s doom.’Clutching the dwarfs work then,Clutching the bullock’s shell,Girding gray iron on,Forth fared the Winils all,Fared the Alruna’s sons,Ayo and Ibor.Mad at heart stalked they:Loud wept the women all,Loud the Alruna wife;Sore was their need.Out of the morning land,Over the snow-drifts,Beautiful Freya came,Tripping to Scoring.White were the moorlands,And frozen before her:Green were the moorlands,And blooming behind her.Out of her gold locksShaking the spring flowers,Out of her garmentsShaking the south wind,Around in the birchesAwaking the throstles,And making chaste housewives allLong for their heroes home,Loving and love-giving,Came she to Scoring.Came unto Gambara,Wisest of Valas,—‘Vala, why weepest thou?Far in the wide-blue,High up in the Elfin-home,Heard I thy weeping.’‘Stop not my weeping,Till one can fight seven.Sons have I, heroes tall,First in the sword-play;This day at the Wendels’ handsEagles must tear them.Their mothers, thrall-weary,Must grind for the Wendels.’Wept the Alruna wife;Kissed her fair Freya:—‘Far off in the morning land,High in Valhalla,A window stands open;Its sill is the snow-peaks,Its posts are the waterspouts,Storm-rack its lintel;Gold cloud-flakes aboveAre piled for the roofing,Far up to the Elfin-home,High in the wide-blue.Smiles out each morning thenceOdin Allfather;From under the cloud-eavesSmiles out on the heroes,Smiles on chaste housewives all,Smiles on the brood-mares,Smiles on the smiths’ work:And theirs is the sword-luck,With them is the glory,—So Odin hath sworn it,—Who first in the morningShall meet him and greet him.’Still the Alruna wept:—‘Who then shall greet him?Women alone are here:Far on the moorlandsBehind the war-lindens,In vain for the bill’s doomWatch Winil heroes all,One against seven.’Sweetly the Queen laughed:—‘Hear thou my counsel now;Take to thee cunning,Belovèd of Freya.Take thou thy women-folk,Maidens and wives:Over your anklesLace on the white war-hose;Over your bosomsLink up the hard mail-nets;Over your lipsPlait long tresses with cunning;—So war-beasts full-beardedKing Odin shall deem you,When off the gray sea-beachAt sunrise ye greet him.’Night’s son was drivingHis golden-haired horses up;Over the eastern firthsHigh flashed their manes.Smiled from the cloud-eaves outAllfather Odin,Waiting the battle-sport:Freya stood by him.‘Who are these heroes tall,—Lusty-limbed Longbeards?Over the swans’ bathWhy cry they to me?Bones should be crashing fast,Wolves should be full-fed,Where such, mad-hearted,Swing hands in the sword-play.’Sweetly laughed Freya:—‘A name thou hast given them,Shames neither thee nor them,Well can they wear it.Give them the victory,First have they greeted thee;Give them the victory,Yokefellow mine!Maidens and wives are these,—Wives of the Winils;Few are their heroesAnd far on the war-road,So over the swans’ bathThey cry unto thee.’Royally laughed he then;Dear was that craft to him,Odin Allfather,Shaking the clouds.‘Cunning are women all,Bold and importunate!Longbeards their name shall be,Ravens shall thank them:Where women are heroes,What must the men be?Theirs is the victory;No need of me!’ Eversley, 1852.From Hypatia.

SAINT MAURA.  A.D. 304

Thank God!  Those gazers’ eyes are gone at last!The guards are crouching underneath the rock;The lights are fading in the town below,Around the cottage which this morn was ours.Kind sun, to set, and leave us here alone;Alone upon our crosses with our God;While all the angels watch us from the stars.Kind moon, to shine so clear and full on him,And bathe his limbs in glory, for a signOf what awaits him!  Oh look on him, Lord!Look, and remember how he saved thy lamb!   Oh listen to me, teacher, husband, love,Never till now loved utterly!  Oh say,Say you forgive me!  No—you must not speak:You said it to me hours ago—long hours!Now you must rest, and when to-morrow comesSpeak to the people, call them home to God,A deacon on the Cross, as in the Church;And plead from off the tree with outspread arms,To show them that the Son of God enduredFor them—and me.  Hush!  I alone will speak,And while away the hours till dawn for you.I know you have forgiven me; as I layBeneath your feet, while they were binding me,I knew I was forgiven then!  When I cried‘Here am I, husband!  The lost lamb returned,All re-baptized in blood!’ and you said, ‘Come!Come to thy bride-bed, martyr, wife once more!’From that same moment all my pain was gone;And ever since those sightless eyes have smiledLove—love!  Alas, those eyes!  They made me fall.I could not bear to see them, bleeding, dark,Never, no never to look into mine;Never to watch me round the little roomSinging about my work, or flash on meLooks bright with counsel.—Then they drove me madWith talk of nameless tortures waiting you—And I could save you!  You would hear your love—They knew you loved me, cruel men!  And then—Then came a dream; to say one little word,One easy wicked word, we both might say,And no one hear us, but the lictors round;One tiny sprinkle of the incense grains,And both, both free!  And life had just begun—Only three months—short months—your wedded wifeOnly three months within the cottage there—Hoping I bore your child. . . .Ah! husband!  Saviour!  God! think gently of me!I am forgiven! . . .   And then another dream;A flash—so quick, I could not bear the blaze;I could not see the smoke among the light—To wander out through unknown lands, and leadYou by the hand through hamlet, port, and town,On, on, until we died; and stand each dayTo glory in you, as you preached and prayedFrom rock and bourne-stone, with that voice, those words,Mingled with fire and honey—you would wake,Bend, save whole nations! would not that atoneFor one short word?—ay, make it right, to saveYou, you, to fight the battles of the Lord?And so—and so—alas! you knew the rest!You answered me. . . .Ah cruel words!  No!  Blessed, godlike words.You had done nobly had you struck me dead,Instead of striking me to life!—the temptress! . . .‘Traitress! apostate! dead to God and me!’—‘The smell of death upon me?’—so it was!True! true! well spoken, hero!  Oh they snapped,Those words, my madness, like the angel’s voiceThrilling the graves to birth-pangs.  All was clear.There was but one right thing in the world to do;And I must do it. . . .  Lord, have mercy!  Christ!Help through my womanhood: or I shall failYet, as I failed before! . . .  I could not speak—I could not speak for shame and misery,And terror of my sin, and of the thingsI knew were coming: but in heaven, in heaven!There we should meet, perhaps—and by that timeI might be worthy of you once again—Of you, and of my God. . . .  So I went out.. . . . . .Will you hear more, and so forget the pain?And yet I dread to tell you what comes next;Your love will feel it all again for me.No! it is over; and the woe that’s deadRises next hour a glorious angel.  Love!Say, shall I tell you?  Ah! your lips are dry!To-morrow, when they come, we must entreat,And they will give you water.  One to-day,A soldier, gave me water in a spongeUpon a reed, and said, ‘Too fair! too young!She might have been a gallant soldier’s wife!’And then I cried, ‘I am a soldier’s wife!A hero’s!’  And he smiled, but let me drink.God bless him for it!   So they led me back:And as I went, a voice was in my earsWhich rang through all the sunlight, and the breathAnd blaze of all the garden slopes below,And through the harvest-voices, and the moanOf cedar-forests on the cliffs above,And round the shining rivers, and the peaksWhich hung beyond the cloud-bed of the west,And round the ancient stones about my feet.Out of all heaven and earth it rang, and cried,‘My hand hath made all these.  Am I too weakTo give thee strength to say so?’  Then my soulSpread like a clear blue sky within my breast,While all the people made a ring around,And in the midst the judge spoke smilingly—‘Well! hast thou brought him to a better mind?’‘No!  He has brought me to a better mind!’—I cried, and said beside—I know not what—Words which I learnt from thee—I trust in GodNought fierce or rude—for was I not a girlThree months ago beneath my mother’s roof?I thought of that.  She might be there!  I looked—She was not there!  I hid my face and wept.And when I looked again, the judge’s eyeWas on me, cold and steady, deep in thought—‘She knows what shame is still; so strip her.’  ‘Ah!’I shrieked, ‘Not that, Sir!  Any pain!  So youngI am—a wife too—I am not my own,But his—my husband’s!’  But they took my shawl,And tore my tunic off, and there I stoodBefore them all. . . .  Husband! you love me still?Indeed I pleaded!  Oh, shine out, kind moon,And let me see him smile!  Oh! how I prayed,While some cried ‘Shame!’ and some, ‘She is too young!’And some mocked—ugly words: God shut my ears.And yet no earthquake came to swallow me.While all the court around, and walls, and roofs,And all the earth and air were full of eyes,Eyes, eyes, which scorched my limbs like burning flame,Until my brain seemed bursting from my brow:And yet no earthquake came!  And then I knewThis body was not yours alone, but God’s—His loan—He needed it: and after thatThe worst was come, and any torture moreA change—a lightening; and I did not shriek—Once only—once, when first I felt the whip—It coiled so keen around my side, and sentA fire-flash through my heart which choked me—thenI shrieked—that once.  The foolish echo rangSo far and long—I prayed you might not hear.And then a mist, which hid the ring of eyes,Swam by me, and a murmur in my earsOf humming bees around the limes at home;And I was all alone with you and God.And what they did to me I hardly know;I felt, and did not feel.  Now I look back,It was not after all so very sharp:So do not pity me.  It made me pray;Forget my shame in pain, and pain in you,And you in God: and once, when I looked down,And saw an ugly sight—so many wounds!‘What matter?’ thought I.  ‘His dear eyes are dark;For them alone I kept these limbs so white—A foolish pride!  As God wills now.  ’Tis just.’   But then the judge spoke out in haste: ‘She is mad,Or fenced by magic arts!  She feels no pain!’He did not know I was on fire within:Better he should not; so his sin was less.Then he cried fiercely, ‘Take the slave away,And crucify her by her husband’s side!’And at those words a film came on my face—A sickening rush of joy—was that the end?That my reward?  I rose, and tried to go—But all the eyes had vanished, and the judge;And all the buildings melted into mist:So how they brought me here I cannot tell—Here, here, by you, until the judgment-day,And after that for ever and for ever!Ah!  If I could but reach that hand!  One touch!One finger tip, to send the thrill through meI felt but yesterday!—No!  I can wait:—Another body!—Oh, new limbs are ready,Free, pure, instinct with soul through every nerve,Kept for us in the treasuries of God.They will not mar the love they try to speak,They will not fail my soul, as these have done!. . . . .Will you hear more?  Nay—you know all the rest:Yet those poor eyes—alas! they could not seeMy waking, when you hung above me thereWith hands outstretched to bless the penitent—Your penitent—even like The Lord Himself—I gloried in you!—like The Lord Himself!Sharing His very sufferings, to the crownOf thorns which they had put on that dear browTo make you like Him—show you as you were!I told them so!  I bid them look on you,And see there what was the highest throne on earth—The throne of suffering, where the Son of GodEndured and triumphed for them.  But they laughed;All but one soldier, gray, with many scars;And he stood silent.  Then I crawled to you,And kissed your bleeding feet, and called aloud—You heard me!  You know all!  I am at peace.Peace, peace, as still and bright as is the moonUpon your limbs, came on me at your smile,And kept me happy, when they dragged me backFrom that last kiss, and spread me on the cross,And bound my wrists and ankles—Do not sigh:I prayed, and bore it: and since they raised me upMy eyes have never left your face, my own, my own,Nor will, till death comes! . . .   Do I feel much pain?Not much.  Not maddening.  None I cannot bear.It has become like part of my own life,Or part of God’s life in me—honour—bliss!I dreaded madness, and instead comes rest;Rest deep and smiling, like a summer’s night.I should be easy, now, if I could move . . .I cannot stir.  Ah God! these shoots of fireThrough all my limbs!  Hush, selfish girl!  He hears you!Who ever found the cross a pleasant bed?Yes; I can bear it, love.  Pain is no evilUnless it conquers us.  These little wrists, now—You said, one blessed night, they were too slender,Too soft and slender for a deacon’s wife—Perhaps a martyr’s:—You forgot the strengthWhich God can give.  The cord has cut them through;And yet my voice has never faltered yet.Oh! do not groan, or I shall long and prayThat you may die: and you must not die yet.Not yet—they told us we might live three days . . .Two days for you to preach!  Two days to speakWords which may wake the dead!. . . . .   Hush! is he sleeping?They say that men have slept upon the cross;So why not he? . . .  Thanks, Lord!  I hear him breathe:And he will preach Thy word to-morrow!—saveSouls, crowds, for Thee!  And they will know his worthYears hence—poor things, they know not what they do!—And crown him martyr; and his name will ringThrough all the shores of earth, and all the starsWhose eyes are sparkling through their tears to seeHis triumph—Preacher!  Martyr!—Ah—and me?—If they must couple my poor name with his,Let them tell all the truth—say how I loved him,And tried to damn him by that love!  O Lord!Returning good for evil! and was thisThe payment I deserved for such a sin?To hang here on my cross, and look at himUntil we kneel before Thy throne in heaven!Eversley, 1852.