Love me, beloved; the thick clouds lower;
A sleepiness filleth the earth and air;
The rain has been falling for many an hour;
A weary look the summer doth wear:
Beautiful things that cannot be so;
Loveliness clad in the garments of woe.

Love me, beloved; I hear the birds;
The clouds are lighter; I see the blue;
The wind in the leaves is like gentle words
Quietly passing ’twixt me and you;
The evening air will bathe the buds
With the soothing coolness of summer floods.

Love me, beloved; for, many a day,
Will the mist of the morning pass away;
Many a day will the brightness of noon
Lead to a night that hath lost her moon;
And in joy or in sadness, in autumn or spring,
Thy love to my soul is a needful thing.

Love me, beloved; for thou mayest lie
Dead in my sight, ’neath the same blue sky;
Love me, O love me, and let me know
The love that within thee moves to and fro;
That many a form of thy love may be
Gathered around thy memory.

Love me, beloved; for I may lie
Dead in thy sight, ’neath the same blue sky;
The more thou hast loved me, the less thy pain,
The stronger thy hope till we meet again;
And forth on the pathway we do not know,
With a load of love, my soul would go.

Love me, beloved; for one must lie
Motionless, lifeless, beneath the sky;
The pale stiff lips return no kiss
To the lips that never brought love amiss;
And the dark brown earth be heaped above
The head that lay on the bosom of love.

Love me, beloved; for both must lie
Under the earth and beneath the sky;
The world be the same when we are gone;
The leaves and the waters all sound on;
The spring come forth, and the wild flowers live,
Gifts for the poor man’s love to give;
The sea, the lordly, the gentle sea,
Tell the same tales to others than thee;
And joys, that flush with an inward morn,
Irradiate hearts that are yet unborn;
A youthful race call our earth their own,
And gaze on its wonders from thought’s high throne;
Embraced by fair Nature, the youth will embrace.
The maid beside him, his queen of the race;
When thou and I shall have passed away
Like the foam-flake thou looked’st on yesterday.

Love me, beloved; for both must tread
On the threshold of Hades, the house of the dead;
Where now but in thinkings strange we roam,
We shall live and think, and shall be at home;
The sights and the sounds of the spirit land
No stranger to us than the white sea-sand,
Than the voice of the waves, and the eye of the moon,
Than the crowded street in the sunlit noon.
I pray thee to love me, belov’d of my heart;
If we love not truly, at death we part;
And how would it be with our souls to find
That love, like a body, was left behind!

Love me, beloved; Hades and Death
Shall vanish away like a frosty breath;
These hands, that now are at home in thine,
Shall clasp thee again, if thou still art mine;
And thou shall be mine, my spirit’s bride,
In the ceaseless flow of eternity’s tide,
If the truest love that thy heart can know
Meet the truest love that from mine can flow.
Pray God, beloved, for thee and me,
That our souls may be wedded eternally.

He closes the book, and is silent for some moments.

He grows more moody still, more self-withdrawn.
Were it not better that I went away,
And left him with the child; for she alone
Can bring the sunshine on his cloudy face?
Alas, he used to say to me, “my child!”
Some convent would receive me in my land,
Where I might weep unseen, unquestioned;
And pray that God in whom he seems to dwell,
To take me likewise in, beside him there.
Had I not better make one trial first
To win again his love to compass me?
Might I not kneel, lie down before his feet,
And beg and pray for love as for my life?
Clasping his knees, look up to that stern heaven,
That broods above his eyes, and pray for smiles?
What if endurance were my only meed?
He would not turn away, but speak forced words,
Soothing with kindness me who thirst for love,
And giving service where I wanted smiles;
Till by degrees all had gone back again
To where it was, a slow dull misery.
No. ’Tis the best thing I can do for him⁠—
And that I will do⁠—free him from my sight.
In love I gave myself away to him;
And now in love I take myself again.
He will not miss me; I am nothing now.

How the white roses cluster on the trellis!
They look in the dim light as if they floated
Within the fluid dusk that bathes them round.
One could believe that those far distant tones
Of scarce-heard music, rose with the faint scent,
Breathed odorous from the heart of the pale flowers,
As the low rushing from a river-bed,
Or the continuous bubbling of a spring
In deep woods, turning over its own joy
In its own heart luxuriously, alone.
’Twas on such nights, after such sunny days,
The poets of old Greece saw beauteous shapes
Sighed forth from out the rooted, earth-fast trees,
With likeness undefinable retained
In higher human form to their tree-homes,
Which fainting let them forth into the air,
And lived a life in death till they returned.
The large-limbed, sweepy-curved, smooth-rounded beech
Gave forth the perfect woman to the night;
From the pale birch, breeze-bent and waving, stole
The graceful, slight-curved maiden, scarcely grown.
The hidden well gave forth its hidden charm,
The Naiad with the hair that flowed like streams,
And arms that gleamed like moonshine on wet sands.
The broad-browed oak, the stately elm, gave forth
Their inner life in shapes of ecstasy.
All varied, loveliest forms of womanhood
Dawned out in twilight, and athwart the grass
Half danced with cool and naked feet, half floated
Borne on winds dense enough for them to swim.
O what a life they lived! in poet’s brain⁠—
Not on this earth, alas!⁠—But you are sad;
You do not speak, dear lady.

Pardon me.
If such words make me sad, I am to blame.

Ah, no! I spoke of lovely, beauteous things:
Beauty and sadness always go together.
Nature thought Beauty too golden to go forth
Upon the earth without a meet alloy.
If Beauty had been born the twin of Gladness,
Poets had never needed this dream-life;
Each blessed man had but to look beside him,
And be more blest. How easily could God
Have made our life one consciousness of joy!
It is denied us. Beauty flung around
Most lavishly, to teach our longing hearts
To worship her; then when the soul is full
Of lovely shapes, and all sweet sounds that breathe,
And colours that bring tears into the eyes⁠—
Steeped until saturated with her essence;
And, faint with longing, gasps for some one thing
More beautiful than all, containing all,
Essential Beauty’s self, that it may say:
“Thou art my Queen⁠—I dare not think to crown thee,
For thou art crowned already, every part,
With thy perfection; but I kneel to thee,
The utterance of the beauty of the earth,
As of the trees the Hamadryades;
I worship thee, intense of loveliness!
Not sea-born only; sprung from Earth, Air, Ocean,
Star-Fire; all elements and forms commingling
To give thee birth, to utter each its thought
Of beauty held in many forms diverse,
In one form, holding all, a living Love,
Their far-surpassing child, their chosen queen
By virtue of thy dignities combined!”⁠—
And when in some great hour of wild surprise,
She floats into his sight; and, rapt, entranced,
At last he gazes, as I gaze on thee,
And, breathless, his full heart stands still for joy,
And his soul thinks not, having lost itself
In her, pervaded with her being; strayed
Out from his eyes, and gathered round her form,
Clothing her with the only beauty yet
That could be added, ownness unto him;⁠—
Then falls the stern, cold “No” with thunder-tone.
Think, lady⁠—the poor unresisting soul
Clear-burnished to a crystalline abyss
To house in central deep the ideal form;
Led then to Beauty, and one glance allowed,
From heart of hungry, vacant, waiting shrine,
To set it on the Pisgah of desire;⁠—
Then the black rain! low-slanting, sweeping rain!
Stormy confusions! far gray distances!
And the dim rush of countless years behind! He sinks at her feet.
Yet for this moment, let me worship thee!

Agitated.

Rising.

Think nothing more of it, my lord, I pray.
—What is this purple flower with the black spot
In its deep heart? I never saw it before.

My child is lying on my knees;
The signs of heaven she reads:
My face is all the heaven she sees,
Is all the heaven she needs.

And she is well, yea, bathed in bliss,
If heaven is in my face⁠—
Behind it, all is tenderness,
And truthfulness and grace.

I mean her well so earnestly.
Unchanged in changing mood;
My life would go without a sigh
To bring her something good.

I also am a child, and I
Am ignorant and weak;
I gaze upon the starry sky,
And then I must not speak;

For all behind the starry sky,
Behind the world so broad,
Behind men’s hearts and souls doth lie
The Infinite of God.

If true to her, though troubled sore,
I cannot choose but be;
Thou, who art peace forevermore,
Art very true to me.

If I am low and sinful, bring
More love where need is rife;
Thou knowest what an awful thing
It is to be a life.

Hast thou not wisdom to enwrap
My waywardness about,
In doubting safety on the lap
Of Love that knows no doubt?

Lo! Lord, I sit in thy wide space,
My child upon my knee;
She looketh up unto my face,
And I look up to thee.

How kind of you to come! And you will stay
And be my beautiful nurse till I grow well?
I am better since you came. You look so sweet,
It brings all summer back into my heart.

I am very glad to come. Indeed, I felt
No one could nurse you quite so well as I.

How kind of you! Do call me sweet names now;
And put your white cool hands upon my head;
And let me lie and look in your great eyes:
’Twill do me good; your very eyes are healing.

I must not let you talk too much, dear child.

Well, as I cannot have my music-lesson,
And must not speak much, will you sing to me?
Sing that strange ballad you sang once before;
’Twill keep me quiet.

What was it, child?

It was
Something about a race⁠—Death and a lady⁠—

Oh! I remember. I would rather sing
Some other, though.

No, no, I want that one.
Its ghost walks up and down inside my head,
But won’t stand long enough to show itself.
You must talk Latin to it⁠—sing it away,
Or when I’m ill, ’twill haunt me.

Well, I’ll sing it.

Song.

Who has entered during the song.

I am but too happy
To be of use to one I love so much.

Oh, my love is like a wind of death,
That turns me to a stone!
Oh, my love is like a desert breath,
That burns me to the bone!

Oh, my love is a flower with a purple glow,
And a purple scent all day!
But a black spot lies at the heart below,
And smells all night of clay.

Oh, my love is like the poison sweet
That lurks in the hooded cell!
One flash in the eyes, one bounding beat,
And then the passing bell!

Oh, my love she’s like a white, white rose!
And I am the canker-worm:
Never the bud to a blossom blows;
It falls in the rainy storm.

“And yet I am not alone, because the Father is with me.”

He closes the book and kneels.

It may be true. I am bewildered, though.
I know not what to answer.

Let me answer:⁠—
You would it were so⁠—you would love me then? A sudden crash of music from a brass band in the street, melting away in a low cadence.

Starting up.

Retaining her hand.

Vehemently, and disengaging her hand.

Raising her.

Peace! that name is his! Speak it again⁠—I rave.
He thought I loved him⁠—and I did⁠—I do.
Open the door, my lord! He hesitates. She draws herself up erect, with flashing eyes.
Once more, my lord⁠—
Open the door, I say. He still hesitates. She walks swiftly to the window, flings it wide, and is throwing herself out.

Stop, madam! I will. He opens the door. She leaves the window, and walks slowly out. He hears the house-door open and shut, flings himself on the couch, and hides his face.

Dear father, are you ill? I knocked
three times; You did not speak.

I did not hear you, child.
My head aches rather; else I am quite well.

Where is the countess?

She is gone. She had
An urgent message to go home at once.
But, Gertrude, now you seem so well, why not
Set out to-morrow? You can travel now;
And for your sake the sooner that we breathe
Italian air the better.

This is sudden!
I scarcely can be ready by to-morrow.

It will oblige me, child. Do what you can.
Just go and order everything you want.
I will go with you. Ring the bell, my love;
I have a reason for my haste. We’ll have
The horses to at once. Come, Gertrude, dear.

The first pale star! braving the rear of Day!
And all heaven waiting till the sun has drawn
His long train after him! then half creation
Will follow its queen-leader from the depths.
O harbinger of hope! O star of love!
Thou hast gone down in me, gone down forever;
And left my soul in such a starless night,
It has not love enough to weep thy loss.
O fool! to know thee once, and, after years,
To take a gleaming marsh-light for thy lamp!
How could I for one moment hear him speak!
O Julian! for my last love-gift I thought
To bring that love itself, bound and resigned,
And offering it a sacrifice to thee,
Lead it away into the wilderness;
But one vile spot hath tainted this my lamb;
Unoffered it must go, footsore and weary,
Not flattering itself to die for thee.
And yet, thank God, it was one moment only,
That, lapt in darkness and the loss of thee,
Sun of my soul, and half my senses dead
Through very weariness and lack of love,
My heart throbbed once responsive to a ray
That glimmered through its gloom from other eyes,
And seemed to promise rest and hope again.
My presence shall not grieve thee any more,
My Julian, my husband. I will find
A quiet place where I will seek thy God.
And⁠—in my heart it wakens like a voice
From him⁠—the Saviour⁠—there are other worlds
Where all gone wrong in this may be set right;
Where I, made pure, may find thee, purer still,
And thou wilt love the love that kneels to thee.
I’ll write and tell him I have gone, and why.
But what to say about my late offence,
That he may understand just what it was?
For I must tell him, if I write at all.
I fear he would discover where I was;
Pitiful duty would not let him rest
Until he found me; and I fain would free
From all the weight of mine, that heart of his. Sound of a coach-horn.
It calls me to rise up and go to him,
Leading me further from him and away.
The earth is round; God’s thoughts return again;
And I will go in hope. Help me, my God!

Me! My wife! Insect, didst thou say my wife? Hurriedly turning the letter on the table to see the address.
Why, if she love him more than me, why then
Let her go with him!⁠—Gone to Italy!
Pursue, says he? Revenge?⁠—Let the corpse crush
The slimy maggot with its pulpy fingers!⁠—
What if I stabbed⁠—Taking his dagger, and feeling its point.
Whom? Her⁠—what then?⁠—Or him⁠—
What yet? Would that give back the life to me?
There is one more⁠—myself! Oh, peace! to feel
The earthworms crawling through my mouldering brain!⁠—
But to be driven along the windy wastes⁠—
To hear the tempests, raving as they turn,
Howl “Lilia, Lilia”⁠—to be tossed about
Beneath the stars that range themselves forever
Into the burning letters of her name⁠—
’Twere better creep the earth down here than that,
For pain’s excess here sometimes deadens pain. He throws the dagger on the floor.
Have I deserved this? Have I earned it? I?
A pride of innocence darts through my veins.
I stand erect. Shame cannot touch me. Ha!
I laugh at insult. I? I am myself⁠—
Why starest thou at me? Well, stare thy fill;
When devils mock, the angels lend their wings:⁠—
But what their wings? I have nowhere to fly.
Lilia! my worship of thy purity!
Hast thou forgotten⁠—ah! thou didst not know
How, watching by thee in thy fever-pain,
When thy white neck and bosom were laid bare,
I turned my eyes away, and turning drew
With trembling hand white darkness over thee,
Because I knew not thou didst love me then.
Love me! O God in heaven! Is love a thing
That can die thus? Love me! Would, for thy penance,
Thou saw’st but once the heart which thou hast torn⁠—
Shaped all about thy image set within!
But that were fearful! What rage would not, love
Must then do for thee⁠—in mercy I would kill thee,
To save thee from the hell-fire of remorse.
If blood would make thee clean, then blood should flow;
Eager, unwilling, this hand should make thee bleed,
Till, drop by drop, the taint should drop away.
Clean! said I? fit to lie by me in sleep,
My hand upon thy heart!⁠—not fit to lie,
For all thy bleeding, by me in the grave! His eye falls on that likeness of Jesus said to be copied from an emerald engraved for Tiberius. He gazes, drops on his knees, and covers his face; remains motionless a long time; then rises very pale, his lips compressed, his eyes filled with tears.
O my poor Lilia! my bewildered child!
How shall I win thee, save thee, make thee mine?
Where art thou wandering? What words in thine ears?
God, can she never more be clean? no more,
Through all the terrible years? Hast thou no well
In all thy heaven, in all thyself, that can
Wash her soul clean? Her body will go down
Into the friendly earth⁠—would it were lying
There in my arms! for there thy rains will come,
Fresh from the sky, slow sinking through the sod,
Summer and winter; and we two should lie
Mouldering away together, gently washed
Into the heart of earth; and part would float
Forth on the sunny breezes that bear clouds
Through the thin air. But her stained soul, my God!
Canst thou not cleanse it? Then should we, when death
Was gone, creep into heaven at last, and sit
In some still place together, glory-shadowed.
None would ask questions there. And I should be
Content to sorrow a little, so I might
But see her with the darling on her knees,
And know that must be pure that dwelt within
The circle of thy glory. Lilia! Lilia!
I scorn the shame rushing from head to foot;
I would endure it endlessly, to save
One thought of thine from his polluting touch;
Saying ever to myself: this is a part
Of my own Lilia; and the world to me
Is nothing since I lost the smiles of her:
Somehow, I know not how, she faded from me,
And this is all that’s left of her. My wife!
Soul of my soul! my oneness with myself!
Come back to me; I will be all to thee:
Back to my heart; and we will weep together,
And pray to God together every hour,
That he would show how strong he is to save.
The one that made is able to renew⁠—
I know not how.⁠—I’ll hold thy heart to mine,
So close that the defilement needs must go.
My love shall ray thee round, and, strong as fire,
Dart through and through thy soul, till it be cleansed.⁠—
But if she love him? Oh my heart⁠—beat! beat!
Grow not so sick with misery and life,
For fainting will not save thee.⁠—Oh no! no!
She cannot love him as she must love me.
Then if she love him not⁠—oh horrible!⁠—oh God! He stands in a stupor for some minutes.
What devil whispered that vile word, unclean?
I care not⁠—loving more than that can touch.
Let me be shamed, ay, perish in my shame,
As men call perishing, so she be saved.
Saved! my beloved! my Lilia!⁠—Alas,
Would she were here! oh, I would make her weep,
Till her soul wept itself to purity!
Far, far away! where my love cannot reach.
No, no; she is not gone! Starting and facing wildly through the room.
It is a lie⁠—
Deluding blind revenge, not keen-eyed love.
I must do something.⁠—Enter Lily.
Ah! there’s the precious thing
That shall entice her back. Kneeling and clasping the child to his heart.
My little Lily,
I have lost your mother.

Oh! Beginning to weep.
She was so pretty,
Somebody has stolen her.

Will you go with me,
And help me look for her?

O yes, I will. Clasping him round the neck.
But my head aches so! Will you carry me?

Yes, my own darling. Come, we’ll get your bonnet.

Oh! you’ve been crying, father. You’re so white! Putting her finger to his cheek.

Why, Bernard, you look heated! what’s the matter?

Hot work, as looked at; cool enough, as done.

A good antithesis, as usual, Bernard,
But a shell too hard for the vulgar teeth
Of our impatient curiosity.

Most unexpectedly I found myself
Spectator of a scene in a home-drama
Worth all stage-tragedies I ever saw.

What was it? Tell us then. Here, take this seat. He sits at the table, and pours out a glass of wine.

I went to call on Seaford, and was told
He had gone to town. So I, as privileged,
Went to his cabinet to write a note;
Which finished, I came down, and called his valet.
Just as I crossed the hall I heard a voice⁠—
“The Countess Lamballa⁠—is she here to-day?”
And looking toward the door, I caught a glimpse
Of a tall figure, gaunt and stooping, drest
In a blue shabby frock down to his knees,
And on his left arm sat a little child.
The porter gave short answer, with the door
For period to the same; when, like a flash,
It flew wide open, and the serving man
Went reeling, staggering backward to the stairs,
’Gainst which he fell, and, rolling down, lay stunned.
In walked the visitor; but in the moment
Just measured by the closing of the door,
Heavens, what a change! He walked erect, as if
Heading a column, with an eye and face
As if a fountain-shaft of blood had shot
Up suddenly within his wasted frame.
The child sat on his arm quite still and pale,
But with a look of triumph in her eyes.
He glanced in each room opening from the hall,
Set his face for the stair, and came right on⁠—
In every motion calm as glacier’s flow,
Save, now and then, a movement, sudden, quick,
Of his right hand across to his left side:
’Twas plain he had been used to carry arms.

Did no one stop him?

Stop him? I’d as soon
Have faced a tiger with bare hands. ’Tis easy
In passion to meet passion; but it is
A daunting thing to look on, when the blood
Is going its wonted pace through your own veins.
Besides, this man had something in his face,
With its live eyes, close lips, nostrils distended,
A self-reliance, and a self-command,
That would go right up to its goal, in spite
Of any “no” from any man. I would
As soon have stopped a cannon-ball as him.
Over the porter, lying where he fell,
He strode, and up the stairs. I heard him go⁠—
I listened as it were a ghost that walked
With pallid spectre-child upon its arm⁠—
Along the corridors, from door to door,
Opening and shutting. But at last a sting
Of sudden fear lest he should find the lady,
And mischief follow, shot me up the stairs.
I met him at the top, quiet as at first;
The fire had faded from his eyes; the child
Held in her tiny hand a lady’s glove
Of delicate primrose. When he reached the hall,
He turned him to the porter, who had scarce
Recovered what poor wits he had, and saying,
“The count Lamballa waited on lord Seaford,”
Turned him again, and strode into the street.

Have you learned anything of what it meant?

Of course he had suspicions of his wife:
For all the gifts a woman has to give,
I would not rouse such blood. And yet to see
The gentle fairy child fall kissing him,
And, with her little arms grasping his neck,
Peep anxious round into his shaggy face,
As they went down the street!⁠—it almost made
A fool of me.⁠—I’d marry for such a child!

Look at the monkey, Lily.

No, dear father;
I do not like monkeys.

Hear the poor boy sing. They listen. He sings.

Song.

It sounds so curious. What is he saying, father?

My boy, you are not German?

No; my mother
Came from those parts. She used to sing the song.
I do not understand it well myself,
For I was born in Genoa.⁠—Ah! my mother! Weeps.

My mother was a German, my poor boy;
My father was Italian: I am like you. Giving him money.
You sing of leaves and sunshine, flowers and bees,
Poor child, upon a stone in the dark street!

My mother sings it in her grave; and I
Will sing it everywhere, until I die.

Father does all things for his little Lily.

Falling on his knees.

Edward, you see that long, lank, thread-bare man?
There is a character for that same novel
You talk of thunder-striking London with,
One of these days.

I scarcely noticed him;
I was so taken with the lovely child.
She is angelic.

You see angels always,
Where others, less dim-sighted, see but mortals.
She is a pretty child. Her eyes are splendid.
I wonder what the old fellow is about.
Some crazed enthusiast, music-distract,
That lingers at the door he cannot enter!
Give him an obol, Frank, to pay old Charon,
And cross to the Elysium of sweet sounds.
Here’s mine.

And mine.

And mine. Third Student offers the money to Julian.

Very quietly.

Oh! there is mother! Stretching-her hands toward a lady stepping out of a carriage.

No, no; hush, my child! The lady looks round, and Lily clings to her father. Women talking.

I’m sure he’s stolen the child. She can’t be his.

There’s a suspicious look about him.

True;
But the child clings to him as if she loved him. Julian moves on slowly.

Though I am lonely, yet this little child⁠—
She understands me better than the Twelve
Knew the great heart of him they called their Lord.
Ten times last night I woke in agony,
I knew not why. There was no comforter.
I stretched my arm to find her, and her place
Was empty as my heart. Sometimes my pain
Forgets its cause, benumbed by its own being;
Then would I lay my aching, weary head
Upon her bosom, promise of relief:
I lift my eyes, and Lo, the vacant world! He looks up and sees the child playing with his dagger.
You’ll hurt yourself, my child; it is too sharp.
Give it to me, my darling. Thank you, dear. He breaks the hilt from the blade and gives it her.
Here, take the pretty part. It’s not so pretty
As it was once! Thinking aloud.
I picked the jewels out
To buy your mother the last dress I gave her.
There’s just one left, I see, for you, my Lily.
Why did I kill Nembroni? Poor saviour I,
Saving thee only for a greater ill!
If thou wert dead, the child would comfort me;⁠—
Is she not part of thee, and all my own?
But now⁠—

Throwing down the dagger-hilt and running up to him.

A beautiful thing⁠—of the most beautiful
That God has made.

As beautiful as mother?

No, my dear child; but very beautiful.

Do let me see a poetry.

Opening a book.

Disappointedly.

Putting the book down, and taking her on his knee.

Looking pleased.

There’s something in it very beautiful,
If I could let you see it. When you’re older
You’ll find it for yourself, and love it well.
Do you believe me, Lily?

Yes, dear father. Kissing him, then looking at the book.
I wonder where its prettiness is, though;
I cannot see it anywhere at all. He sets her down. She goes to her corner.

Musing.

Bursting into tears.

Wish we could find her somewhere. ’Tis so sad
Not to have any mother! Shall I ask
This gentleman if he knows where she is?

No, no, my love; we’ll find her by and by.

Have you seen Seaford lately?

No. In fact,
He vanished somewhat oddly, days ago.
Sam saw him with a lady in his cab;
And if I hear aright, one more is missing⁠—
Just the companion for his lordship’s taste.
You’ve not forgot that fine Italian woman
You met there once, some months ago?

Forgot her!
I have to try though, sometimes⁠—hard enough:
Her husband is alive!

Mother was Italy, father⁠—was she not?

Hush, hush, my child! you must not say a word.

Oh, yes; no doubt!
But what of that?⁠—a poor half-crazy creature!

Something quite different, I assure you, Harry.
Last week I saw him⁠—never to forget him⁠—
Ranging through Seaford’s house, like the questing beast.

Better please two than one, he thought⁠—and wisely.
’Tis not for me to blame him: she is a prize
Worth sinning for a little more than little.

Whispering.

Look what a lovely child!

Harry! Good heavens!
It is the Count Lamballa. Come along.

I thank thee. Thou hast comforted me, thou,
To whom I never lift my soul, in hope
To reach thee with my thinking, but the tears
Swell up and fill my eyes from the full heart
That cannot hold the thought of thee, the thought
Of him in whom I live, who lives in me,
And makes me live in him; by whose one thought,
Alone, unreachable, the making thought,
Infinite and self-bounded, I am here,
A living, thinking will, that cannot know
The power whereby I am⁠—so blest the more
In being thus in thee⁠—Father, thy child.
I cannot, cannot speak the thoughts in me.
My being shares thy glory: lay on me
What thou wouldst have me bear. Do thou with me
Whate’er thou wilt. Tell me thy will, that I
May do it as my best, my highest joy;
For thou dost work in me, I dwell in thee.
Wilt thou not save my wife? I cannot know
The power in thee to purify from sin.
But Life can cleanse the life it lived alive.
Thou knowest all that lesseneth her fault.
She loves me not, I know⁠—ah, my sick heart!⁠—
I will love her the more, to fill the cup;
One bond is snapped, the other shall be doubled;
For if I love her not, how desolate
The poor child will be left! he loves her not.
I have but one prayer more to pray to thee:⁠—
Give me my wife again, that I may watch
And weep with her, and pray with her, and tell
What loving-kindness I have found in thee;
And she will come to thee to make her clean.
Her soul must wake as from a dream of bliss,
To know a dead one lieth in the house:
Let me be near her in that agony,
To tend her in the fever of the soul,
Bring her cool waters from the wells of hope,
Look forth and tell her that the morn is nigh;
And when I cannot comfort, help her weep.
God, I would give her love like thine to me,
Because I love her, and her need is great.
Lord, I need her far more than thou need’st me,
And thou art Love down to the deeps of hell:
Help me to love her with a love like thine.
How shall I find her? It were horrible
If the dread hour should come, and I not near.
Yet pray I not she should be spared one pang,
One writhing of self-loathing and remorse,
For she must hate the evil she has done;
Only take not away hope utterly.

In her sleep.

Going to her.

’Tis for your sake, my Gertrude, I am sorry.
If you could go alone, I’d have you go.

And leave you ill? No, you are not so cruel.
Believe me, father, I am happier
In your sick room, than on a glowing island
In the blue Bay of Naples.

It was so sudden!
’Tis plain it will not go again as quickly.
But have your walk before the sun be hot.
Put the ice near me, child. There, that will do.

Goodbye then, father, for a little while. Goes.

I never knew what illness was before.
O life! to think a man should stand so little
On his own will and choice, as to be thus
Cast from his high throne suddenly, and sent
To grovel beast-like. All the glow is gone
From the rich world! No sense is left me more
To touch with beauty. Even she has faded
Into the far horizon, a spent dream
Of love and loss and passionate despair!
Is there no beauty? Is it all a show
Flung outward from the healthy blood and nerves,
A reflex of well-ordered organism?
Is earth a desert? Is a woman’s heart
No more mysterious, no more beautiful,
Than I am to myself this ghastly moment?
It must be so⁠—it must, except God is,
And means the meaning that we think we see,
Sends forth the beauty we are taking in.
O Soul of nature, if thou art not, if
There dwelt not in thy thought the primrose-flower
Before it blew on any bank of spring,
Then all is untruth, unreality,
And we are wretched things; our highest needs
Are less than we, the offspring of ourselves;
And when we are sick, they are not; and our hearts
Die with the voidness of the universe.
But if thou art, O God, then all is true;
Nor are thy thoughts less radiant that our eyes
Are filmy, and the weary, troubled brain
Throbs in an endless round of its own dreams.
And she is beautiful⁠—and I have lost her!
O God! thou art, thou art; and I have sinned
Against thy beauty and thy graciousness!
That woman-splendour was not mine, but thine.
Thy thought passed into form, that glory passed
Before my eyes, a bright particular star:
Like foolish child, I reached out for the star,
Nor kneeled, nor worshipped. I will be content
That she, the Beautiful, dwells on in thee,
Mine to revere, though not to call my own.
Forgive me, God! Forgive me, Lilia!
My love has taken vengeance on my love.
I writhe and moan. Yet I will be content.
Yea, gladly will I yield thee, so to find
That thou art not a phantom, but God’s child;
That Beauty is, though it is not for me.
When I would hold it, then I disbelieved.
That I may yet believe, I will not touch it.
I have sinned against the Soul of love and beauty,
Denying him in grasping at his work.

O soft place of the earth! down-pillowed couch,
Made ready for the weary! Everywhere,
O Earth, thou hast one gift for thy poor children⁠—
Room to lie down, leave to cease standing up,
Leave to return to thee, and in thy bosom
Lie in the luxury of primeval peace,
Fearless of any morn; as a new babe
Lies nestling in his mother’s arms in bed:
That home of blessedness is all there is;
He never feels the silent rushing tide,
Strong setting for the sea, which bears him on,
Unconscious, helpless, to wide consciousness.
But thou, thank God, hast this warm bed at last
Ready for him when weary: well the green
Close-matted coverlid shuts out the dawn.
O Lilia, would it were our wedding bed
To which I bore thee with a nobler joy!
—Alas! there’s no such rest: I only dream
Poor pagan dreams with a tired Christian brain.
How couldst thou leave me, my poor child? my heart
Was all so tender to thee! But I fear
My face was not. Alas! I was perplexed
With questions to be solved, before my face
Could turn to thee in peace: thy part in me
Fared ill in troubled workings of the brain.
Ah, now I know I did not well for thee
In making thee my wife! I should have gone
Alone into eternity. I was
Too rough for thee, for any tender woman⁠—
Other I had not loved⁠—so full of fancies!
Too given to meditation. A deed of love
Is stronger than a metaphysic truth;
Smiles better teachers are than mightiest words.
Thou, who wast life, not thought, how couldst thou help it?
How love me on, withdrawn from all thy sight⁠—
For life must ever need the shows of life?
How fail to love a man so like thyself,
Whose manhood sought thy fainting womanhood?
I brought thee pine-boughs, rich in hanging cones,
But never white flowers, rubied at the heart.
O God, forgive me; it is all my fault.
Would I have had dead Love, pain-galvanized,
Led fettered after me by gaoler Duty?
Thou gavest me a woman rich in heart,
And I have kept her like a caged seamew
Starved by a boy, who weeps when it is dead.
O God, my eyes are opening⁠—fearfully:
I know it now⁠—’twas pride, yes, very pride,
That kept me back from speaking all my soul.
I was self-haunted, self-possessed⁠—the worst
Of all possessions. Wherefore did I never
Cast all my being, life and all, on hers,
In burning words of openness and truth?
Why never fling my doubts, my hopes, my love,
Prone at her feet abandonedly? Why not
Have been content to minister and wait;
And if she answered not to my desires,
Have smiled and waited patient? God, they say,
Gives to his aloe years to breed its flower:
I gave not five years to a woman’s soul!
Had I not drunk at last old wine of love?
I shut her love back on her lovely heart;
I did not shield her in the wintry day;
And she has withered up and died and gone.
God, let me perish, so thy beautiful
Be brought with gladness and with singing home.
If thou wilt give her back to me, I vow
To be her slave, and serve her with my soul.
I in my hand will take my heart, and burn
Sweet perfumes on it to relieve her pain.
I, I have ruined her⁠—O God, save thou! He bends his head upon his knees. Lily comes running up to him, stumbling over the graves.

Why do they make so many hillocks, father?
The flowers would grow without them.

So they would.

What are they for, then?

Aside.

Aloud.

What! lay the boys and girls?

Yes, my own child⁠—To keep them warm till it begin again.

Is it dark down there? Clinging to Julian, and pointing down.

Yes, it is dark; but pleasant⁠—oh, so sweet!
For out of there come all the pretty flowers.

Did the church grow out of there, with the long stalk
That tries to touch the little frightened clouds?

It did, my darling.⁠—There’s a door down there
That leads away to where the church is pointing. She is silent far some time, and keeps looking first down and then up. Julian carries her away.

I have found an old friend, father. Here he is!

Bernard! Who would have thought to see you here!

I came on Lady Gertrude in the street.
I know not which of us was more surprised. Lady Gertrude goes.

Where is the countess?

Countess! What do you mean? I do not know.

The Italian lady.

Countess Lamballa, do you mean? You frighten me!

I am glad indeed to know your ignorance;
For since I saw the count, I would not have you
Wrong one gray hair upon his noble head. Lord Seaford covers his eyes with his hands.
You have not then heard the news about yourself?
Such interesting echoes reach the last
A man’s own ear. The public has decreed
You and the countess run away together.
’Tis certain she has balked the London Argos,
And that she has been often to your house.
The count believes it⁠—clearly from his face:
The man is dying slowly on his feet.

Starting up and ringing the bell.

What the deuce ails you, Seaford? Are you raving?

Post-chaise for London⁠—four horses⁠—instantly. He sinks exhausted in his chair.

O father, take me on your knee, and nurse me.
Another story is very nearly done. He takes her on his knees.
I am so tired! Think I should like to go
Down to the warm place that the flowers come from,
Where all the little boys and girls are lying
In little beds⁠—white curtains, and white tassels.
—No, no, no⁠—it is so dark down there!
Father will not come near me all the night.

You shall not go, my darling; I will keep you.

O will you keep me always, father dear?
And though I sleep ever so sound, still keep me?
Oh, I should be so happy, never to move!
’Tis such a dear well place, here in your arms!
Don’t let it take me; do not let me go:
I cannot leave you, father⁠—love hurts so.

Yes, darling; love does hurt. It is too good
Never to hurt. Shall I walk with you now,
And try to make you sleep?

A voice comes from the vacant, wide sea-vault:
“Man with the heart, praying for woman’s love,
Receive thy prayer; be loved; and take thy choice:
Take this or this.” O Heaven and Earth! I see⁠—What
is it? Statue trembling into life
With the first rosy flush upon the skin?
Or woman-angel, richer by lack of wings?
I see her⁠—where I know not; for I see
Nought else: she filleth space, and eyes, and brain⁠—
God keep me!⁠—in celestial nakedness.
She leaneth forward, looking down in space,
With large eyes full of longing, made intense
By mingled fear of something yet unknown;
Her arms thrown forward, circling half; her hands
Half lifted, and half circling, like her arms.
O heavenly artist! whither hast thou gone
To find my own ideal womanhood⁠—
Glory grown grace, divine to human grown?
I hear the voice again: “Speak but the word:
She will array herself and come to thee.
Lo, at her white foot lie her daylight clothes,
Her earthly dress for work and weary rest!”
—I see a woman-form, laid as in sleep,
Close by the white foot of the wonderful.
It is the same shape, line for line, as she.
Long grass and daisies shadow round her limbs.
Why speak I not the word?⁠—Clothe thee, and come,
O infinite woman! my life faints for thee.
Once more the voice: “Stay! look on this side first:
I spake of choice. Look here, O son of man!
Choose then between them.” Ah! ah! Silence.
Her I knew
Some ages gone; the woman who did sail
Down a long river with me to the sea;
Who gave her lips up freely to my lips,
Her body willingly into my arms;
Came down from off her statue-pedestal,
And was a woman in a common house,
Not beautified by fancy every day,
And losing worship by her gifts to me.
She gave me that white child⁠—what came of her?
I have forgot.⁠—I opened her great heart,
And filled it half-way to the brim with love⁠—
With love half wine, half vinegar and gall⁠—
And so⁠—and so⁠—she⁠—went away and died?
O God! what was it?⁠—something terrible⁠—
I will not stay to choose, or look again
Upon the beautiful. Give me my wife,
The woman of the old time on the earth.
O lovely spirit, fold not thy parted hands,
Nor let thy hair weep like a sunset-rain
If thou descend to earth, and find no man
To love thee purely, strongly, in his will,
Even as he loves the truth, because he will,
And when he cannot see it beautiful⁠—
Then thou mayst weep, and I will help thee weep.
Voice, speak again, and tell my wife to come.
’Tis she, ’tis she, low-kneeling at my feet!
In the same dress, same flowing of the hair,
As long ago, on earth: is her face changed?
Sweet, my love rains on thee, like a warm shower;
My dove descending rests upon thy head;
I bless and sanctify thee for my own:
Lift up thy face, and let me look on thee.
Heavens, what a face! ’Tis hers! It is not hers!
She rises⁠—turns it up from me to God,
With great rapt orbs, and such a brow!⁠—the stars
Might find new orbits there, and be content.
O blessed lips, so sweetly closed that sure
Their opening must be prophecy or song!
A high-entranced maiden, ever pure,
And thronged with burning thoughts of God and Truth!
Vanish her garments; vanishes the silk
That the worm spun, the linen of the flax;⁠—
O heavens! she standeth there, my statue-form,
With the rich golden torrent-hair, white feet,
And hands with rosy palms⁠—my own ideal!
The woman of my world, with deeper eyes
Than I had power to think⁠—and yet my Lilia,
My wife, with homely airs of earth about her,
And dearer to my heart as my lost wife,
Than to my soul as its new-found ideal!
Oh, Lilia! teach me; at thy knees I kneel:
Make me thy scholar; speak, and I will hear.
Yea, all eternity⁠—He is roused by a cry from the child.

Oh, father! put your arms close round about me.
Kiss me. Kiss me harder, father dear.
Now! I am better now. She looks long and passionately in his face. Her eyes close; her head drops backward. She is dead.

Now I have told him all; no word kept back
To burn within me like an evil fire.
And where I am, I have told him; and I wait
To know his will. What though he love me not,
If I love him!⁠—I will go back to him,
And wait on him submissive. ’Tis enough
For one life, to be servant to that man!
It was but pride⁠—at best, love stained with pride,
That drove me from him. He and my sweet child
Must miss my hands, if not my eyes and heart.
How lonely is my Lily all the day,
Till he comes home and makes her paradise!
I go to be his servant. Every word
That comes from him softer than a command,
I’ll count it gain, and lay it in my heart,
And serve him better for it.⁠—He will receive me.

The light of setting suns be on thee, child!
Nay, nay, my child, the light of rising suns
Is on thee! Joy is with thee⁠—God is Joy;
Peace to himself, and unto us deep joy;
Joy to himself, in the reflex of our joy.
Love be with thee! yea God, for he is Love.
Thou wilt need love, even God’s, to give thee joy.
Children, they say, are born into a world
Where grief is their first portion: thou, I think,
Never hadst much of grief⁠—thy second birth
Into the spirit-world has taught thee grief,
If, orphaned now, thou know’st thy mother’s story,
And know’st thy father’s hardness. O my God,
Let not my Lily turn away from me.
Now I am free to follow and find her.
Thy truer Father took thee home to him,
That he might grant my prayer, and save my wife.
I thank him for his gift of thee; for all
That thou hast taught me, blessed little child.
I love thee, dear, with an eternal love.
And now farewell! Kissing her.
—no, not farewell; I come. Years hold not back, they lead me on to thee. Yes, they will also lead me on to her.

What is your pleasure with me? Here I am, sir.

Walk into the next room; then look at this,
And tell me what you’ll give for everything. Jew goes.
My darling’s death has made me almost happy.
Now, now I follow, follow. I’m young again.
When I have laid my little one to rest
Among the flowers in that same sunny spot,
Straight from her grave I’ll take my pilgrim-way;
And, calling up all old forgotten skill,
Lapsed social claims, and knowledge of mankind,
I’ll be a man once more in the loud world.
Revived experience in its winding ways,
Senses and wits made sharp by sleepless love,
If all the world were sworn to secrecy,
Will guide me to her, sure as questing Death.
I’ll follow my wife, follow until I die.
How shall I face the Shepherd of the sheep,
Without the one ewe-lamb he gave to me?
How find her in great Hades, if not here
In this poor little round O of a world?
I’ll follow my wife, follow until I find.

Reenter Jew.

Let me see this room, too. The things are all
Old-fashioned and ill-kept. They’re worth but little.

Say what you will⁠—only make haste and go.

Say twenty pounds?

Well, fetch the money at once,
And take possession. But make haste, I pray.

Now I can leave thee safely to thy sleep;
Thou wilt not wake and miss me, my fair child!
Nor will they, for she’s fair, steal this ewe-lamb
Out of this fold, while I am gone to seek
And find the wandering mother of my lamb.
I cannot weep; I know thee with me still.
Thou dost not find it very dark down there?
Would I could go to thee; I long to go;
My limbs are tired; my eyes are sleepy too;
And fain my heart would cease this beat, beat, beat.
O gladly would I come to thee, my child,
And lay my head upon thy little heart,
And sleep in the divine munificence
Of thy great love! But my night has not come;
She is not rescued yet. Goodbye, little one. He turns, but sinks on the grave. Recovering and rising.
Now for the world⁠—that’s Italy, and her!

Stooping over him.

Seaford! What Seaford? Recollecting.
—Seaford! Springing to his feet.
Where is my wife? He falls into Seaford’s arms. He lays him down.

Had I seen him, she had been safe for me. Goes.

Still, still alive! I thought that I was dead.
I had a frightful dream. ’Tis gone, thank God! He is quiet a little.
So then thou didst not take the child away
That I might find my wife! Thy will be done.
Thou wilt not let me go. This last desire
I send away with grief, but willingly.
I have prayed to thee, and thou hast heard my prayer:
Take thou thine own way, only lead her home.
Cleanse her, O Lord. I cannot know thy might;
But thou art mighty, with a power unlike
All, all that we know by the name of power,
Transcending it as intellect transcends
The stone upon the ground⁠—it may be more,
For these are both created⁠—thou creator,
Lonely, supreme. Now it is almost over,
My spirit’s journey through this strange sad world;
This part is done, whatever cometh next.
Morning and evening have made out their day;
My sun is going down in stormy dark,
But I will face it fearless. The first act
Is over of the drama.⁠—Is it so?
What means this dim dawn of half-memories?
There’s something I knew once and know not now!⁠—
A something different from all this earth!
It matters little; I care not⁠—only know
That God will keep the living thing he made.
How mighty must he be to have the right
Of swaying this great power I feel I am⁠—
Moulding and forming it, as pleaseth him!
O God, I come to thee! thou art my life;
O God, thou art my home; I come to thee.
Can this be death? Lo! I am lifted up
Large-eyed into the night. Nothing I see
But that which is, the living awful Truth⁠—
All forms of which are but the sparks flung out
From the luminous ocean clothing round the sun,
Himself all dark. Ah, I remember me:
Christ said to Martha⁠—“Whosoever liveth,
And doth believe in me, shall never die”!
I wait, I wait, wait wondering, till the door
Of God’s wide theatre be open flung
To let me in. What marvels I shall see!
The expectation fills me, like new life
Dancing through all my veins. Once more I thank thee
For all that thou hast made me⁠—most of all,
That thou didst make me wonder and seek thee.
I thank thee for my wife: to thee I trust her;
Forget her not, my God. If thou save her,
I shall be able then to thank thee so
As will content thee⁠—with full-flowing song,
The very bubbles on whose dancing waves
Are daring thoughts flung faithful at thy feet.
My heart sinks in me.⁠—I grow faint. Oh! whence
This wind of love that fans me out of life?
One stoops to kiss me!⁠—Ah, my lily child!
God hath not flung thee over his garden-wall. Reenter Lord Seaford with the doctor. Julian takes no heed of them. The doctor shakes his head.
My little child, I’ll never leave thee more;
We are both children now in God’s big house.
Come, lead me; you are older here than I
By three whole days, my darling angel-child! A letter is brought in. Lord Seaford holds it before Julian’s eyes. He looks vaguely at it.

It is a letter from your wife, I think.

Feebly.

Bending over him.