Within and Without

Evening again slow creeping like a death!
And the red sunbeams fading from the wall,
On which they flung a sky, with streaks and bars
Of the poor window-pane that let them in,
For clouds and shadings of the mimic heaven!
Soul of my cell, they part, no more to come.
But what is light to me, while I am dark!
And yet they strangely draw me, those faint hues,
Reflected flushes from the Evening’s face,
Which as a bride, with glowing arms outstretched,
Takes to her blushing heaven him who has left
His chamber in the dim deserted east.
Through walls and hills I see it! The rosy sea!
The radiant head half-sunk! A pool of light,
As the blue globe had by a blow been broken,
And the insphered glory bubbled forth!
Or the sun were a splendid water-bird,
That flying furrowed with its golden feet
A flashing wake over the waves, and home!
Lo there!⁠—Alas, the dull blank wall!⁠—High up,
The window-pane a dead gray eye! and night
Come on me like a thief!⁠—Ah, well! the sun
Has always made me sad! I’ll go and pray:
The terror of the night begins with prayer.

Vesper bell.

Choir and organ-music.

Head in your hands as usual! You will fret
Your life out, sitting moping in the dark.
Come, it is supper-time.

I will not sup to-night.

Not sup? You’ll never live to be a saint.

A saint! The devil has me by the heel.

So has he all saints; as a boy his kite,
Which ever struggles higher for his hold.
It is a silly devil to grip so hard;⁠—
He should let go his hold, and then he has you.
If you’ll not come, I’ll leave the light with you.
Hark to the chorus! Brother Stephen sings.

Always merry, and never drunk.
That’s the life of the jolly monk.

They say the first monks were lonely men,
Praying each in his lonely den,
Rising up to kneel again,
Each a skinny male Magdalene,
Peeping scared from out his hole
Like a burrowing rabbit or a mole;
But years ring changes as they roll⁠—

Now always merry, etc.

When the moon gets up with her big round face,
Like Mistress Poll’s in the market-place,
Down to the village below we pace;⁠—
We know a supper that wants a grace:
Past the curtsying women we go,
Past the smithy, all a glow,
To the snug little houses at top of the row⁠—

For always merry, etc.

And there we find, among the ale,
The fragments of a floating tale:
To piece them together we never fail;
And we fit them rightly, I’ll go bail.
And so we have them all in hand,
The lads and lasses throughout the land,
And we are the masters⁠—you understand?

So always merry, etc.

Last night we had such a game of play
With the nephews and nieces over the way,
All for the gold that belonged to the clay
That lies in lead till the judgment-day!
The old man’s soul they’d leave in the lurch,
But we saved her share for old Mamma Church.
How they eyed the bag as they stood in the porch!

Oh! always merry, and never drunk.
That’s the life of the jolly monk!

The song is hardly to your taste, I see!
Where shall I set the light?

I do not need it.

Come, come! The dark is a hot-bed for fancies.
I wish you were at table, were it only
To stop the talking of the men about you.
You in the dark are talked of in the light.

Well, brother, let them talk; it hurts not me.

No; but it hurts your friend to hear them say,
You would be thought a saint without the trouble;
You do no penance that they can discover.
You keep shut up, say some, eating your heart,
Possessed with a bad conscience, the worst demon.
You are a prince, say others, hiding here,
Till circumstance that bound you, set you free.
To-night, there are some whispers of a lady
That would refuse your love.

Ay! What of her?

I heard no more than so; and that you came
To seek the next best service you could find:
Turned from the lady’s door, and knocked at God’s.

One part at least is true: I knock at God’s;
He has not yet been pleased to let me in.
As for the lady⁠—that is⁠—so far true,
But matters little. Had I less to think,
This talking might annoy me; as it is,
Why, let the wind set there, if it pleases it;
I keep in-doors.

Gloomy as usual, brother!
Brooding on fancy’s eggs. God did not send
The light that all day long gladdened the earth,
Flashed from the snowy peak, and on the spire
Transformed the weathercock into a star,
That you should gloom within stone walls all day.
At dawn to-morrow, take your staff, and come:
We will salute the breezes, as they rise
And leave their lofty beds, laden with odours
Of melting snow, and fresh damp earth, and moss⁠—
Imprisoned spirits, which life-waking Spring
Lets forth in vapour through the genial air.
Come, we will see the sunrise; watch the light
Leap from his chariot on the loftiest peak,
And thence descend triumphant, step by step,
The stairway of the hills. Free air and action
Will soon dispel these vapours of the brain.

My friend, if one should tell a homeless boy,
“There is your father’s house: go in and rest;”
Through every open room the child would pass,
Timidly looking for the friendly eye;
Fearing to touch, scarce daring even to wonder
At what he saw, until he found his sire;
But gathered to his bosom, straight he is
The heir of all; he knows it ’mid his tears.
And so with me: not having seen Him yet,
The light rests on me with a heaviness;
All beauty wears to me a doubtful look;
A voice is in the wind I do not know;
A meaning on the face of the high hills
Whose utterance I cannot comprehend.
A something is behind them: that is God.
These are his words, I doubt not, language strange;
These are the expressions of his shining thoughts;
And he is present, but I find him not.
I have not yet been held close to his heart.
Once in his inner room, and by his eyes
Acknowledged, I shall find my home in these,
’Mid sights familiar as a mother’s smiles,
And sounds that never lose love’s mystery.
Then they will comfort me. Lead me to Him.

Pointing to the Crucifix in a recess.

Kneeling and crossing.

Seeing Robert’s bewildered look, and changing his tone⁠—

Well, perhaps
’Twere better you should go. I cannot help you,
But I can keep your secret. God be with you. Goes.

Amen.⁠—A good man; but he has not waked,
And seen the Sphinx’s stony eyes fixed on him.
God veils it. He believes in Christ, he thinks;
And so he does, as possible for him.
How he will wonder when he looks for heaven!
He thinks me an enthusiast, because
I seek to know God, and to hear his voice
Talk to my heart in silence; as of old
The Hebrew king, when, still, upon his bed,
He lay communing with his heart; and God
With strength in his soul did strengthen him, until
In his light he saw light. God speaks to men.
My soul leans toward him; stretches forth its arms,
And waits expectant. Speak to me, my God;
And let me know the living Father cares
For me, even me; for this one of his children.⁠—
Hast thou no word for me? I am thy thought.
God, let thy mighty heart beat into mine,
And let mine answer as a pulse to thine.
See, I am low; yea, very low; but thou
Art high, and thou canst lift me up to thee.
I am a child, a fool before thee, God;
But thou hast made my weakness as my strength.
I am an emptiness for thee to fill;
My soul, a cavern for thy sea. I lie
Diffused, abandoning myself to thee.⁠ ⁠…
—I will look up, if life should fail in looking.
Ah me! A stream cut from my parent-spring!
Ah me! A life lost from its father-life!

Speaking across the table.

’Tis most absurd, as you have clearly shown.
And yet I fear some of us have been nibbling
At this same heresy. ’Twere well that one
Should find it poison. I have no pique at him⁠—
But there’s that Julian!⁠—

Hush! speak lower, friend.

Two Monks farther down the table⁠—in a low tone.

Where did you find her?

She was taken ill
At the Star-in-the-East. I chanced to pass that way,
And so they called me in. I found her dying.
But ere she would confess and make her peace,
She begged to know if I had ever seen,
About this neighbourhood, a tall dark man,
Moody and silent, with a little stoop
As if his eyes were heavy for his shoulders,
And a strange look of mingled youth and age⁠—

Julian, by⁠—

’St⁠—no names! I had not seen him.
I saw the death-mist gathering in her eyes,
And urged her to proceed; and she began;
But went not far before delirium came,
With endless repetitions, hurryings forward,
Recoverings like a hound at fault. The past
Was running riot in her conquered brain;
And there, with doors thrown wide, a motley group
Held carnival; went freely out and in,
Meeting and jostling. But withal it seemed
As some confused tragedy went on;
Till suddenly the light sank, and the pageant
Was lost in darkness; the chambers of her brain
Lay desolate and silent. I can gather
So much, and little more:⁠—This Julian
Is one of some distinction; probably rich,
And titled Count. He had a love-affair,
In good-boy, layman fashion, seemingly.⁠—
Give me the woman; love is troublesome!⁠—
She loved him too, but falsehood came between,
And used this woman for her minister;
Who never would have peached, but for a witness
Hidden behind some curtain in her heart⁠—
An unsuspected witness called Sir Conscience,
Who has appeared and blabbed⁠—but must conclude
His story to some double-ghostly father,
For she is ghostly penitent by this.
Our consciences will play us no such tricks;
They are the Church’s, not our own. We must
Keep this small matter secret. If it should
Come to his ears, he’ll soon bid us goodbye⁠—
A lady’s love before ten heavenly crowns!
And so the world will have the benefit
Of the said wealth of his, if such there be.
I have told you, old Godfrey; I tell none else
Until our Abbot comes.

That is to-morrow.

Another group near the bottom of the table, in which is Robert.

’Tis very clear there’s something wrong with him.
Have you not marked that look, half scorn, half pity,
Which passes like a thought across his face,
When he has listened, seeming scarce to listen,
A while to our discourse?⁠—he never joins.

I know quite well. I stood beside him once,
Some of the brethren near; Stephen was talking:
He chanced to say the words, “Our Holy Faith.”
“Their faith indeed, poor fools!” fell from his lips,
Half-muttered, and half-whispered, as the words
Had wandered forth unbidden. I am sure
He is an atheist at the least.

Pale-faced and large-eyed.

He does not know his rubric; stands when others
Are kneeling round him. I have seen him twice
With his missal upside down.

Plethoric and husky.

When he returns, we must complain; and beg
He’ll take such measures as the case requires.

And so all growth that is not toward God
Is growing to decay. All increase gained
Is but an ugly, earthy, fungous growth.
’Tis aspiration as that wick aspires,
Towering above the light it overcomes,
But ever sinking with the dying flame.
O let me live, if but a daisy’s life!
No toadstool life-in-death, no efflorescence!
Wherefore wilt thou not hear me, Lord of me?
Have I no claim on thee? True, I have none
That springs from me, but much that springs from thee.
Hast thou not made me? Liv’st thou not in me?
I have done naught for thee, am but a want;
But thou who art rich in giving, canst give claims;
And this same need of thee which thou hast given,
Is a strong claim on thee to give thyself,
And makes me bold to rise and come to thee.
Through all my sinning thou hast not recalled
This witness of thy fatherhood, to plead
For thee with me, and for thy child with thee.
Last night, as now, I seemed to speak with him;
Or was it but my heart that spoke for him?
“Thou mak’st me long,” I said, “therefore wilt give;
My longing is thy promise, O my God!
If, having sinned, I thus have lost the claim,
Why doth the longing yet remain with me,
And make me bold thus to besiege thy doors?”
Methought I heard for answer: “Question on.
Hold fast thy need; it is the bond that holds
Thy being yet to mine. I give it thee,
A hungering and a fainting and a pain,
Yet a God-blessing. Thou art not quite dead
While this pain lives in thee. I bless thee with it.
Better to live in pain than die that death.”
So I will live, and nourish this my pain;
For oft it giveth birth unto a hope
That makes me strong in prayer. He knows it too.
Softly I’ll walk the earth; for it is his,
Not mine to revel in. Content I wait.
A still small voice I cannot but believe,
Says on within: God will reveal himself.
I must go from this place. I cannot rest.
It boots not staying. A desire like thirst
Awakes within me, or a new child-heart,
To be abroad on the mysterious earth,
Out with the moon in all the blowing winds.
’Tis strange that dreams of her should come again.
For many months I had not seen her form,
Save phantom-like on dim hills of the past,
Until I laid me down an hour ago;
When twice through the dark chamber full of eyes,
The memory passed, reclothed in verity:
Once more I now behold it; the inward blaze
Of the glad windows half quenched in the moon;
The trees that, drooping, murmured to the wind,
“Ah! wake me not,” which left them to their sleep,
All save the poplar: it was full of joy,
So that it could not sleep, but trembled on.
Sudden as Aphrodite from the sea,
She issued radiant from the pearly night.
It took me half with fear⁠—the glimmer and gleam
Of her white festal garments, haloed round
With denser moonbeams. On she came⁠—and there
I am bewildered. Something I remember
Of thoughts that choked the passages of sound,
Hurrying forth without their pilot-words;
Of agony, as when a spirit seeks
In vain to hold communion with a man;
A hand that would and would not stay in mine;
A gleaming of white garments far away;
And then I know not what. The moon was low,
When from the earth I rose; my hair was wet,
Dripping with dew⁠—

Enter Robert cautiously.

Glancing at the chest.

Why? What’s the matter?

You must go this night,
If you would go at all.

Why must I go? Rises.

Turning over the things in the chest.

Ah, well! I need not ask. I know it all.

No, you do not. Nor is there time to tell you.
Ten minutes more, they will be round to bar
The outer doors; and then⁠—goodbye, poor Julian!

Now I am ready, Robert. Thank you, friend.
Farewell! God bless you! We shall meet again.

Farewell, dear friend! Keep far away from this. Goes.

Now for a shrine to house this rich Madonna,
Within the holiest of the holy place!
I’ll have it made in fashion as a stable,
With porphyry pillars to a marble stall;
And odorous woods, shaved fine like shaken hay,
Shall fill the silver manger for a bed,
Whereon shall lie the ivory Infant carved
By shepherd hands on plains of Bethlehem.
And over him shall bend the Mother mild,
In silken white and coroneted gems.
Glorious! But wherewithal I see not now⁠—
The Mammon of unrighteousness is scant;
Nor know I any nests of money-bees
That could yield half-contentment to my need.
Yet will I trust and hope; for never yet
In journeying through this vale of tears have I
Projected pomp that did not blaze anon.

So lies my journey⁠—on into the dark!
Without my will I find myself alive,
And must go forward. Is it God that draws
Magnetic all the souls unto their home,
Travelling, they know not how, but unto God?
It matters little what may come to me
Of outward circumstance, as hunger, thirst,
Social condition, yea, or love or hate;
But what shall I be, fifty summers hence?
My life, my being, all that meaneth me,
Goes darkling forward into something⁠—what?
O God, thou knowest. It is not my care.
If thou wert less than truth, or less than love,
It were a fearful thing to be and grow
We know not what. My God, take care of me;
Pardon and swathe me in an infinite love,
Pervading and inspiring me, thy child.
And let thy own design in me work on,
Unfolding the ideal man in me;
Which being greater far than I have grown,
I cannot comprehend. I am thine, not mine.
One day, completed unto thine intent,
I shall be able to discourse with thee;
For thy Idea, gifted with a self,
Must be of one with the mind where it sprang,
And fit to talk with thee about thy thoughts.
Lead me, O Father, holding by thy hand;
I ask not whither, for it must be on.
This road will lead me to the hills, I think;
And there I am in safety and at home.

Did she say “Julian?” Did she say the name?

She did.

What did she call the lady? What?

I could not hear.

Nor where she lived?

Nor that.
She was too wild for leading where I would.

So! Send Julian. One thing I need not ask:
You have kept this matter secret?

Yes, my lord.

Well, go and send him hither. Monk goes.
Said I well,
That prayer would burgeon into pomp for me?
That God would hear his own elect who cried?
Now for a shrine, so glowing in the means
That it shall draw the eyes by power of light!
So tender in conceit, that it shall draw
The heart by very strength of delicateness,
And move proud thought to worship!
I must act
With caution now; must win his confidence;
Question him of the secret enemies
That fight against his soul; and lead him thus
To tell me, by degrees, his history.
So shall I find the truth, and lay foundation
For future acts, as circumstance requires.
For if the tale be true that he is rich,
And if⁠—

Reenter Monk in haste and terror.

Starting up.

’Tis true as death, my lord. Witness, these eyes!

Heaven and hell! It shall not be, I swear!
There is a plot in this! You, sir, have lied!
Someone is in his confidence!⁠—who is it?
Go rouse the convent. Monk goes.
He must be followed, found.
Hunt’s up, friend Julian! First your heels, old stag!
But by and by your horns, and then your side!
’Tis venison much too good for the world’s eating.
I’ll go and sift this business to the bran.
Robert and him I have sometimes seen together!⁠—God’s
curse! it shall fare ill with any man
That has connived at this, if I detect him.

Once more I tread thy courts, O God of heaven!
I lay my hand upon a rock, whose peak
Is miles away, and high amid the clouds.
Perchance I touch the mountain whose blue summit,
With the fantastic rock upon its side,
Stops the eye’s flight from that high chamber-window
Where, when a boy, I used to sit and gaze
With wondering awe upon the mighty thing,
Terribly calm, alone, self-satisfied,
The hitherto of my child-thoughts. Beyond,
A sea might roar around its base. Beyond,
Might be the depths of the unfathomed space,
This the earth’s bulwark over the abyss.
Upon its very point I have watched a star
For a few moments crown it with a fire,
As of an incense-offering that blazed
Upon this mighty altar high uplift,
And then float up the pathless waste of heaven.
From the next window I could look abroad
Over a plain unrolled, which God had painted
With trees, and meadow-grass, and a large river,
Where boats went to and fro like water-flies,
In white and green; but still I turned to look
At that one mount, aspiring o’er its fellows:
All here I saw⁠—I knew not what was there.
O love of knowledge and of mystery,
Striving together in the heart of man!
“Tell me, and let me know; explain the thing.”⁠—
Then when the courier-thoughts have circled round:
“Alas! I know it all; its charm is gone!”
But I must hasten; else the sun will set
Before I reach the smoother valley-road.
I wonder if my old nurse lives; or has
Eyes left to know me with. Surely, I think,
Four years of wandering since I left my home,
In sunshine and in snow, in ship and cell,
Must have worn changes in this face of mine
Sufficient to conceal me, if I will.

One comfort is, he’s far away by this.
Perhaps this comfort is my deepest sin.
Where shall I find a daysman in this strife
Between my heart and holy Church’s words?
Is not the law of kindness from God’s finger,
Yea, from his heart, on mine? But then we must
Deny ourselves; and impulses must yield,
Be subject to the written law of words;
Impulses made, made strong, that we might have
Within the temple’s court live things to bring
And slay upon his altar; that we may,
By this hard penance of the heart and soul,
Become the slaves of Christ.⁠—I have done wrong;
I ought not to have let poor Julian go.
And yet that light upon the floor says, yes⁠—
Christ would have let him go. It seemed a good,
Yes, self-denying deed, to risk my life
That he might be in peace. Still up and down
The balance goes, a good in either scale;
Two angels giving each to each the lie,
And none to part them or decide the question.
But still the words come down the heaviest
Upon my conscience as that scale descends;
But that may be because they hurt me more,
Being rough strangers in the feelings’ home.
Would God forbid us to do what is right,
Even for his sake? But then Julian’s life
Belonged to God, to do with as he pleases!
I am bewildered. ’Tis as God and God
Commanded different things in different tones.
Ah! then, the tones are different: which is likest
God’s voice? The one is gentle, loving, kind,
Like Mary singing to her mangered child;
The other like a self-restrained tempest;
Like⁠—ah, alas!⁠—the trumpet on Mount Sinai,
Louder and louder, and the voice of words.
O for some light! Would they would kill me! then
I would go up, close up, to God’s own throne,
And ask, and beg, and pray to know the truth;
And he would slay this ghastly contradiction.
I should not fear, for he would comfort me,
Because I am perplexed, and long to know.
But this perplexity may be my sin,
And come of pride that will not yield to him!
O for one word from God! his own, and fresh
From him to me! Alas, what shall I do!

Nembroni? Count Nembroni?⁠—I remember:
A man about my height, but stronger built?
I have seen him at her father’s. There was something
I did not like about him:⁠—ah! I know:
He had a way of darting looks at you,
As if he wished to know you, but by stealth.

The same, my lord. He is the creditor.
The common story is, he sought the daughter,
But sought in vain: the lady would not wed.
’Twas rumoured soon they were in grievous trouble,
Which caused much wonder, for the family
Was always reckoned wealthy. Count Nembroni
Contrived to be the only creditor,
And so imprisoned him.

Where is the lady?

Down in the town.

But where?

If you turn left,
When you go through the gate, ’tis the last house
Upon this side the way. An honest couple,
Who once were almost pensioners of hers,
Have given her shelter: still she hopes a home
With distant friends. Alas, poor lady! ’tis
A wretched change for her.

Hm! ah! I see.
What kind of man is this Nembroni, nurse?

Here he is little known. His title comes
From an estate, they say, beyond the hills.
He looks ungracious: I have seen the children
Run to the doors when he came up the street.

Thank you, nurse; you may go. Stay⁠—one thing more:
Have any of my people seen me?

None
But me, my lord.

And can you keep it secret?⁠—
know you will for my sake. I will trust you.
Bring me some supper; I am tired and faint. Nurse goes.
Poor and alone! Such a man has not laid
His plans for nothing further! I will watch him.
Heaven may have brought me hither for her sake.
Poor child! I would protect thee as thy father,
Who cannot help thee. Thou wast not to blame;
My love had no claim on like love from thee.⁠—How
the old tide comes rushing to my heart!
I know not what I can do yet but watch.
I have no hold on him. I cannot go,
Say, “I suspect”; and, “Is it so or not?”
I should but injure them by doing so.
True, I might pay her father’s debts; and will,
If Joseph, my old friend, has managed well
During my absence. I have not spent much.
But still she’d be in danger from this man,
If not permitted to betray himself;
And I, discovered, could no more protect.
Or if, unseen by her, I yet could haunt
Her footsteps like an angel, not for long
Should I remain unseen of other eyes,
That peer from under cowls⁠—not angel-eyes⁠—
Hunting me out, over the stormy earth.
No; I must watch. I can do nothing better.

How’s the poor lady now?

She’s poorly still.
I fancy every day she’s growing thinner.
I am sure she’s wasting steadily.

Has the count
Been here again to-day?

No. And I think
He will not come again. She was so proud
The last time he was here, you would have thought
She was a queen at least.

Remember, wife,
What she has been. Trouble like that throws down
The common folk like us all of a heap:
With folks like her, that are high bred and blood,
It sets the mettle up.

All very right;
But take her as she was, she might do worse
Than wed the Count Nembroni.

Possible.
But are you sure there is no other man
Stands in his way?

How can I tell? So be,
He should be here to help her. What she’ll do
I am sure I do not know. We cannot keep her.
And for her work, she does it far too well
To earn a living by it. Her times are changed⁠—
She should not give herself such prideful airs.

Come, come, old wife! you women are so hard
On one another! You speak fair for men,
And make allowances; but when a woman
Crosses your way, you speak the worst of her.
But where is this you’re going then to-night?
Do they want me to go as well as you?

Yes, you must go, or else it is no use.
They cannot give the money to me, except
My husband go with me. He told me so.

Well, wife, it’s worth the going⁠—but to see:
I don’t expect a groat to come of it.

That’s a queer customer you’ve got upstairs!
What the deuce is he?

What is that to us?
He always pays his way, and handsomely.
I wish there were more like him.

Has he been
At home all day?

He has not stirred a foot
Across the threshold. That’s his only fault⁠—
He’s always in the way.

What does he do?

Paces about the room, or sits at the window.
I sometimes make an errand to the cupboard,
To see what he’s about: he looks annoyed,
But does not speak a word.

He must be crazed,
Or else in hiding for some scrape or other.

He has a wild look in his eye sometimes;
But sure he would not sit so much in the dark,
If he were mad, or anything on his conscience;
And though he does not say much, when he speaks
A civiller man ne’er came in woman’s way.

Oh! he’s all right, I warrant. Is the wine come?

With what profusion her white fingers spend
Delicate motions on the insensate cloth!
It was so late this morning ere she came!
I fear she has been ill. She looks so pale!
Her beauty is much less, but she more lovely.
Do I not love he? more than when that beauty
Beamed out like starlight, radiating beyond
The confines of her wondrous face and form,
And animated with a present power
Her garment’s folds, even to the very hem!
Ha! there is something now: the old woman drest
In her Sunday clothes, and waiting at the door,
As for her husband. Something will follow this.
And here he comes, all in his best like her.
They will be gone a while. Slowly they walk,
With short steps down the street. Now I must wake
The sleeping hunter-eagle in my eyes!

Heavens, what a cloud! as big as Aetna! There!
That gust blew stormy. Take Juno by the head,
I’ll stand by Neptune. Take her head, I say;
We’ll have enough to do, if it should lighten.

Such drops! That’s the first of it. I declare
She spreads her nostrils and looks wild already,
As if she smelt it coming. I wish we were
Under some roof or other. I fear this business
Is not of the right sort.

He looked as black
As if he too had lightning in his bosom.
There! Down, you brute! Mind the pole, Beppo!

Plague on the lamp! ’tis gone⁠—no, there it flares!
I wish the wind would leave or blow it out.
Heavens! how it thunders! This terrific storm
Will either cow or harden him. I’m blind!
That lightning! Oh, let me see again, lest he
Should enter in the dark! I cannot bear
This glimmering longer. Now that gush of rain
Has blotted all my view with crossing lights.
’Tis no use waiting here. I must cross over,
And take my stand in the corner by the door.
But if he comes while I go down the stairs,
And I not see? To make sure, I’ll go gently
Up the stair to the landing by her door. He goes quickly toward the door.

Opening the door and looking in.

If you scream, I must muffle you.

Rushing up the stair.

What the devil!⁠—Beggar! Drawing his sword, and making a thrust at Julian, which he parries with his left arm, as, drawing his dagger, he springs within Nembroni’s guard.

Taking him by the throat.

Ask me no questions now, my dear old nurse.
You have put your charge to bed?

Yes, my dear lord.

And has she spoken yet?

After you left,
Her eyelids half unclosed; she murmured once:
“Where am I, mother?”⁠—then she looked at me,
And her eyes wandered over all my face,
Till half in comfort, half in weariness,
They closed again. Bless her, dear soul! she is
As feeble as a child.

Under your care
She’ll soon be well again. Let no one know
She is in the house:⁠—blood has been shed for her.

Alas! I feared it; blood is on her dress.

That’s mine, not his. But put it in the fire.
Get her another. I’ll leave a purse with you.

Leave?

Yes. I am off to-night, wandering again
Over the earth and sea. She must not know
I have been here. You must contrive to keep
My share a secret. Once she moved and spoke
When a branch caught me, but she could not see me.
She thought, no doubt, it was Nembroni had her;
Nor would she have known me. You must hide her, nurse.
Let her on no pretense guess where she is,
Nor utter word that might suggest the fact.
When she is well and wishes to be gone,
Then write to this address⁠—but under cover Writing.
To the Prince Calboli at Florence. I
Will see to all the rest. But let her know
Her father is set free; assuredly,
Ere you can say it is, it will be so.

How shall I best conceal her, my good lord?

I have thought of that. There’s a deserted room
In the old west wing, at the further end
Of the oak gallery.

Not deserted quite.
I ventured, when you left, to make it mine,
Because you loved it when a boy, my lord.

You do not know, nurse, why I loved it though:
I found a sliding panel, and a door
Into a room behind. I’ll show it you.
You’ll find some musty traces of me yet,
When you go in. Now take her to your room,
But get the other ready. Light a fire,
And keep it burning well for several days.
Then, one by one, out of the other rooms,
Take everything to make it comfortable;
Quietly, you know. If you must have your daughter,
Bind her to be as secret as yourself.
Then put her there. I’ll let her father know
She is in safety.⁠—I must change attire,
And be far off or ever morning break. Nurse goes.
My treasure-room! how little then I thought,
Glad in my secret, one day it would hold
A treasure unto which I dared not come.
Perhaps she’d love me now⁠—a very little!⁠—
But not with even a heavenly gift would I
Go begging love; that should be free as light,
Cleaving unto myself even for myself.
I have enough to brood on, joy to turn
Over and over in my secret heart:⁠—
She lives, and is the better that I live!

My lord, her mind is wandering; she is raving;
She’s in a dreadful fever. We must send
To Arli for the doctor, else her life
Will be in danger.

Rising disturbed.

O yes, my lord; she is so thin, poor child! Nurse goes.

I ought to know the way to treat a fever,
If it be one of twenty. Hers has come
Of low food, wasting, and anxiety.
I’ve seen enough of that in Prague and Smyrna!

’Tis useless all. No trace of him found yet.
One hope remains: that fellow has a head!

Stephen, I have sent for you, because I am told
You said to-day, if I commissioned you,
You’d scent him out, if skulking in his grave.

I did, my lord.

How would you do it, Stephen?

Try one plan till it failed; then try another;
Try half-a-dozen plans at once; keep eyes
And ears wide open, and mouth shut, my lord:
Your bull-dog sometimes makes the best retriever.
I have no plan; but, give me time and money,
I’ll find him out.

Stephen, you’re just the man
I have been longing for. Get yourself ready.

I think she sleeps. Would God it be so; then
She will do well. What strange things she has spoken!
My heart is beating as if it would spend
Its life in this one night, and beat it out.
And well it may, for there is more of life
In one such moment than in many years!
Pure life is measured by intensity,
Not by the how much of the crawling clock.
Is that a bar of moonlight stretched across
The window-blind? or is it but a band
Of whiter cloth my thrifty dame has sewed
Upon the other?⁠—’Tis the moon herself,
Low in the west. ’Twas such a moon as this⁠—

Half-asleep, wildly.

Forgetting his caution, and going up to her.

Softly.

Julian gives her drink, supporting her. She looks at him again, with large wondering eyes.

The gray earth dawning up, cold, comfortless;
With its obtrusive I am written large
Upon its face! Approaches the bed, and gazes on Lilia silently with clasped hands; then returns to the window.
She sleeps so peacefully!
O God, I thank thee: thou hast sent her sleep.
Lord, let it sink into her heart and brain.

Oh, nurse, I’m glad you’re come! She is asleep.
You must be near her when she wakes again.
I think she’ll be herself. But do be careful⁠—
Right cautious how you tell her I am here.
Sweet woman-child, may God be in your sleep! Julian goes.

Bless her white face, she looks just like my daughter,
That’s now a saint in heaven! Just those thin cheeks,
And eyelids hardly closed over her eyes!⁠—
Dream on, poor darling! you are drinking life
From the breast of sleep. And yet I fain would see
Your shutters open, for I then should know
Whether the soul had drawn her curtains back,
To peep at morning from her own bright windows.
Ah! what a joy is ready, waiting her,
To break her fast upon, if her wild dreams
Have but betrayed her secrets honestly!
Will he not give thee love as dear as thine!

Not a footprint! not a trace that a bloodhound would nose at! But Stephen shall be acknowledged good dog and true. If I had him within stick-length⁠—mind thy head, brother Julian! Thou hast not hair enough to protect it, and thy tonsure shall not. Neither shalt thou tarry at Jericho.⁠—It is a poor man that leaves no trail; and if thou wert poor, I would not follow thee. Sings.

Tear it up, Julian.

No; I’ll treasure it
As the remembrance of a by-gone grief:
I love it well, because it is not yours.

Where have you been these long, long years away?
You look much older. You have suffered, Julian!

Since that day, Lilia, I have seen much, thought much,
Suffered a little. When you are quite yourself,
I’ll tell you all you want to know about me.

Do tell me something now. I feel quite strong;
It will not hurt me.

Wait a day or two.
Indeed ’twould weary you to tell you all.

And I have much to tell you, Julian. I
Have suffered too⁠—not all for my own sake. Recalling something.
Oh, what a dream I had! Oh, Julian!⁠—
I don’t know when it was. It must have been
Before you brought me here! I am sure it was.

Don’t speak about it. Tell me afterwards.
You must keep quiet now. Indeed you must.

I will obey you, will not speak a word.

Blessings upon her! she’s near well already.
Who would have thought, three days ago, to see
You look so bright! My lord, you have done wonders.

My art has helped a little, I thank God.⁠—
To please me, Lilia, go to sleep a while. Julian goes.

Why does he always wear that curious cap?

I don’t know. You must sleep.

Yes. I forgot.

Thank you much, Joseph; you have done well for me.
You sent that note privately to my friend?

I did, my lord; and have conveyed the money,
Putting all things in train for his release,
Without appearing in it personally,
Or giving any clue to other hands.
He sent this message by my messenger:
His hearty thanks, and God will bless you for it.
He will be secret. For his daughter, she
Is safe with you as with himself; and so
God bless you both! He will expect to hear
From both of you from England.

Well, again.
What money is remaining in your hands?

Two bags, three hundred each; that’s all.
I fear To wake suspicion, if I call in more.

One thing, and I have done: lest a mischance
Befall us, though I do not fear it much⁠—
have been very secret⁠—is that boat
I had before I left, in sailing trim?

I knew it was a favorite with my lord;
I’ve taken care of it. A month ago,
With my own hands I painted it all fresh,
Fitting new oars and rowlocks. The old sail
I’ll have replaced immediately; and then
’Twill be as good as new.

That’s excellent.
Well, launch it in the evening. Make it fast
To the stone steps behind my garden study.
Stow in the lockers some sea-stores, and put
The money in the old desk in the study.

I will, my lord. It will be safe enough.

Whose castle’s that upon the hill, good fellow?

Its present owner’s of the Uglii;
They call him Lorenzino.

Whose is that
Down in the valley?

That is Count Lamballa’s.

What is his Christian name?

Omfredo. No,
That was his father’s; his is Julian.

Is he at home?

No, not for many a day.
His steward, honest man, I know is doubtful
Whether he be alive; and yet his land
Is better farmed than any in the country.

He is not married, then?

No. There’s a gossip
Amongst the women⁠—but who would heed their talk!⁠—
That love half-crazed, then drove him out of doors,
To wander here and there, like a bad ghost,
Because a silly wench refused him:⁠—fudge!

Most probably. I quite agree with you.
Where do you stop?

At the first inn we come to;
You’ll see it from the bottom of the hill.
There is a better at the other end,
But here the stabling is by far the best.

I must push on. Four legs can never go
Down-hill so fast as two. Good morning, friend.

Good morning, sir.

Aside.

But do you really love me, Lilia?

Why do you make me say it so often, Julian?
You make me say “I love you,” oftener far
Than you say you love me.

To love you seems
So much a thing of mere necessity!
I can refrain from loving you no more
Than keep from waking when the sun shines full
Upon my face.

And yet I love to say
How, how I love you, Julian!Leans her head on his arm. Julian winces a little. She raises her head and looks at him.
Did I hurt you?
Would you not have me lean my head on you?

Come on this side, my love; ’tis a slight hurt
Not yet quite healed.

Ah, my poor Julian! How⁠—
I am so sorry!⁠—Oh, I do remember!
I saw it all quite plain! It was no dream!
I saw you fighting!⁠—Surely you did not kill him?

Calmly, but drawing himself up.

Turning pale, and covering her face with her hands.

Shall I go, Lilia?

Oh no, no, no, do not.⁠—
I shall be better presently.

You shrink
As from a murderer!

Oh no, I love you⁠—
Will never leave you. Pardon me, my Julian;
But blood is terrible.

Drawing her close to him.

My lord, the steward waits on you below. Julian goes.
You have been standing till you’re faint, my lady!
Lie down a little. There!⁠—I’ll fetch you something.

Well, Joseph, that will do. I shall expect
To hear from you soon after my arrival.
Is the boat ready?

Yes, my lord; afloat
Where you directed.

A strange feeling haunts me,
As of some danger near. Unlock it, and cast
The chain around the post. Muffle the oars.

I will, directly. Goes.

How shall I manage it?
I have her father’s leave, but have not dared
To tell her all; and she must know it first!
She fears me half, even now: what will she think
To see my shaven head? My heart is free⁠—
I know that God absolves mistaken vows.
I looked for help in the high search from those
Who knew the secret place of the Most High.
If I had known, would I have bound myself
Brother to men from whose low, marshy minds
Never a lark springs to salute the day?
The loftiest of them dreamers, and the best
Content with goodness growing like moss on stones!
It cannot be God’s will I should be such.
But there was more: they virtually condemned
Me in my quest; would have had me content
To kneel with them around a wayside post,
Nor heed the pointing finger at its top?
It was the dull abode of foolishness:
Not such the house where God would train his children!
My very birth into a world of men
Shows me the school where he would have me learn;
Shows me the place of penance; shows the field
Where I must fight and die victorious,
Or yield and perish. True, I know not how
This will fall out: he must direct my way!
But then for her⁠—she cannot see all this;
Words will not make it plain; and if they would,
The time is shorter than the words would need:
This overshadowing bodes nearing ill.⁠—
It may be only vapour, of the heat
Of too much joy engendered; sudden fear
That the fair gladness is too good to live:
The wider prospect from the steep hill’s crest,
The deeper to the vale the cliff goes down;
But how will she receive it? Will she think
I have been mocking her? How could I help it?
Her illness and my danger! But, indeed,
So strong was I in truth, I never thought
Her doubts might prove a hindrance in the way.
My love did make her so a part of me,
I never dreamed she might judge otherwise,
Until our talk of yesterday. And now
Her horror at Nembroni’s death confirms me:
To wed a monk will seem to her the worst
Of crimes which in a fever one might dream.
I cannot take the truth, and, bodily,
Hold it before her eyes. She is not strong.
She loves me⁠—not as I love her. But always
—There’s Robert for an instance⁠—I have loved
A life for what it might become, far more
Than for its present: there’s a germ in her
Of something noble, much beyond her now:
Chance gleams betray it, though she knows it not.
This evening must decide it, come what will.

Here, my good lady, let me fill your glass;
Then send the bottle on, please, to your husband.

I thank you, sir; I hope you like the wine;
My husband’s choice is praised. I cannot say
I am a judge myself.

I’m confident
It needs but to be tasted.

Tasting critically, then nodding.

Thank you, sir.

To the Hostess.

I cannot tell;
He left, I know, before it was discovered.
In the middle of the storm, like one possessed,
He rushed into the street, half tumbling me
Headlong downstairs, and never came again.
He had paid his bill that morning, luckily;
So joy go with him! Well, he was an odd one!

What was he like, fair Hostess?

Tall and dark,
And with a lowering look about his brows.
He seldom spoke, but, when he did, was civil.
One queer thing was, he always wore his hat,
Indoors as well as out. I dare not say
He murdered Count Nembroni; but it was strange
He always sat at that same window there,
And looked into the street. ’Tis not as if
There were much traffic in the village now;
These are changed times; but I have seen the day⁠—

Excuse me; you were saying that the man
Sat at the window⁠—

Yes; even after dark
He would sit on, and never call for lights.
The first night, I brought candles, as of course;
He let me set them on the table, true;
But soon’s my back was turned, he put them out.

Where is the lady?

That’s the strangest thing
Of all the story: she has disappeared,
As well as he. There lay the count, stone-dead,
White as my apron. The whole house was empty,
Just as I told you.

Has no search been made?

The closest search; a thousand pieces offered
For any information that should lead
To the murderer’s capture. I believe his brother,
Who is his heir, they say, is still in town,
Seeking in vain for some intelligence.

’Tis very odd; the oddest thing I’ve heard
For a long time. Send me a pen and ink;
I have to write some letters.

Rising.

How changed he is! Yet he looks very noble.

My Lilia, will you go to England with me?

Julian, my father!

Not without his leave.
He says, God bless us both.

Leave him in prison?

No, Lilia; he’s at liberty and safe,
And far from this ere now.

You have done this,
My noble Julian! I will go with you
To sunset, if you will. My father gone!
Julian, there’s none to love me now but you.
You will love me, Julian?⁠—always?

I but fear
That your heart, Lilia, is not big enough
To hold the love wherewith my heart would fill it.

I know why you think that; and I deserve it.
But try me, Julian. I was very silly.
I could not help it. I was ill, you know;
Or weak at least. May I ask you, Julian,
How your arm is to-day?

Almost well, child.
Twill leave an ugly scar, though, I’m afraid.

Never mind that, if it be well again.

I do not mind it; but when I remember
That I am all yours, then I grudge that scratch
Or stain should be upon me⁠—soul, body, yours.
And there are more scars on me now than I
Should like to make you own, without confession.

My poor, poor Julian! never think of it; Putting her arms round him.
I will but love you more. I thought you had
Already told me suffering enough;
But not the half, it seems, of your adventures.
You have been a soldier!

I have fought, my Lilia.
I have been down among the horses’ feet;
But strange to tell, and harder to believe,
Arose all sound, unmarked with bruise, or blood
Save what I lifted from the gory ground. Sighing.
My wounds are not of such. Lilia, loosening her arms, and drawing back a little with a kind of shrinking, looks a frightened interrogation.
No. Penance, Lilia;
Such penance as the saints of old inflicted
Upon their quivering flesh. Folly, I know;
As a lord would exalt himself, by making
His willing servants into trembling slaves!
Yet I have borne it.

Laying her hand on his arm.

Not what men call guilty,
Save it be now; now you will think I sin.
Alas, I have sinned! but not in this I sin.⁠—
Lilia, I have been a monk.

A monk? Turningpale.
I thought⁠—Faltering.
Julian⁠—I thought you said⁠ ⁠… did you not say⁠ ⁠… ? Very pale, brokenly.
I thought you said⁠ ⁠… With an effort.
I was to be your wife! Covering her face with her hands, and bursting into tears.

Speaking low and in pain.

Hopefully, and looking up.

God has absolved me, though the Church will not.
He knows it was in ignorance I did it.
Rather would he have men to do his will,
Than keep a weight of words upon their souls,
Which they laid there, not graven by his finger.
The vow was made to him⁠—to him I break it.

Weeping bitterly.

In anguish.

Not heeding him.

Come to England,
To England, Lilia.

Men would point, and say:
“There go the monk and his wife”; if they, in truth,
Called me not by a harder name than that.

There are no monks in England.

But will that
Make right what’s wrong?

Did I say so, my Lilia?
I answered but your last objections thus;
I had a different answer for the first.

No, no; I cannot, cannot, dare not do it.

Lilia, you will not doubt my love; you cannot.
—I would have told you all before, but thought,
Foolishly, you would feel the same as I;⁠—
I have lived longer, thought more, seen much more;
I would not hurt your body, less your soul,
For all the blessedness your love can give:
For love’s sake weigh the weight of what I say.
Think not that must be right which you have heard
From infancy⁠—it may⁠—

My lord, there’s such an uproar in the town!
They call you murderer and heretic.
The officers of justice, with a monk,
And the new Count Nembroni, accompanied
By a fierce mob with torches, howling out
For justice on you, madly cursing you!
They caught a glimpse of me as I returned,
And stones and sticks flew round me like a storm;
But I escaped them, old man as I am,
And was in time to bar the castle-gates.⁠—
Would heaven we had not cast those mounds, and shut
The river from the moat! Distant yells and cries.
Escape, my lord!

Calmly.

A little while, my lord; but those damned torches!
Oh, for twelve feet of water round the walls!

Leave us, good Joseph; watch them from a window,
And tell us of their progress. Joseph goes. Sounds approach.
Farewell, Lilia! Putting his arm round her. She stands like stone.
Fear of a coward’s name shall not detain me.
My presence would but bring down evil on you,
My heart’s beloved; yes, all the ill you fear,
The terrible things that you have imaged out
If you fled with me. They will not hurt you,
If you be not polluted by my presence. Light from without flares on the wall.
They’ve fired the gate. An outburst of mingled cries.

Entering.

Well, put yourself in safety, my dear Joseph.
You and old Agata tell all the truth,
And they’ll forgive you. It will not hurt me;
I shall be safe⁠—you know me⁠—never fear.

God grant it may be so. Farewell, dear lord! Is going.

But add, it was in vain; the signorina
Would not consent; therefore I fled alone. Lilia stands as before.

Can it be so? Goodbye, goodbye, my master! Goes.

Put your arms round me once, my Lilia.
Not once?⁠—not once at parting? Rushing feet up the stairs, and along the galleries.
O God! farewell! He clasps her to his heart; leaves her; pushes back the panel, flings open a door, enters, and closes both behind him. Lilia starts suddenly from her fixed bewilderment, and flies after him, but forgets to close the panel.

Julian! Julian! The trampling offset and clamour of voices. The door of the room is flung open. Enter the foremost of the mob.

I was sure I saw light here! There it is, burning still!

Nobody here? Praise the devil! he minds his own. Look under the bed, Gian.

Nothing there.

Another door! another door! He’s in a trap now, and will soon be in hell! Opening the door with difficulty. The devil had better leave him, and make up the fire at home⁠—he’ll be cold by and by. Rushes into the inner room. Follow me, boys! The rest follow.

I have him! I have him! Curse your claws! Why do you fix them on me, you crab? You won’t pick up the fiend-spawn so easily, I can tell you. Bring the light there, will you? One runs out for the light. A trap! a trap! and a stair, down in the wall! The hell-faggot’s gone! After him, after him, noodles! Sound of descending footsteps. Others rush in with torches and follow.

There! One at a time!⁠—Take care, love; it is heavy.⁠—
Put them right in the middle, of the boat:
Gold makes good ballast. A loud shout. He steps in and casts the chain loose, then pushes gently off.
Look how the torches gleam
Among the trees. Thank God, we have escaped! He rows swiftly off. The torches come nearer, with cries of search.

In a low tone.

Song.

“Melchah stood looking on the corpse of his son, and spoke not. At length he broke the silence and said: ‘He hath told his tale to the Immortals.’ Abdiel, the friend of him that was dead, asked him what he meant by the words. The old man, still regarding the dead body, spake as follows:⁠—”

“Three years ago, I fell asleep on the summit of the hill Yarib; and there I dreamed a dream. I thought I lay at the foot of a cliff, near the top of a great mountain; for beneath me were the clouds, and above me, the heavens deep and dark. And I heard voices sweet and strong; and I lifted up my eyes, and, Lo! over against me, on a rocky slope, some seated, each on his own crag, some reclining between the fragments, I saw a hundred majestic forms, as of men who had striven and conquered. Then I heard one say: ‘What wouldst thou sing unto us, young man?’ A youthful voice replied, tremblingly: ‘A song which I have made for my singing.’ ‘Come, then, and I will lead thee to the hole in the rock: enter and sing.’ From the assembly came forth one whose countenance was calm unto awfulness; but whose eyes looked in love, mingled with doubt, on the face of a youth whom he led by the hand toward the spot where I lay. The features of the youth I could not discern: either it was the indistinctness of a dream, or I was not permitted to behold them. And, Lo! behind me was a great hole in the rock, narrow at the entrance, but deep and wide within; and when I looked into it, I shuddered; for I thought I saw, far down, the glimmer of a star. The youth entered and vanished. His guide strode back to his seat; and I lay in terror near the mouth of the vast cavern. When I looked up once more, I saw all the men leaning forward, with head aside, as if listening intently to a far-off sound. I likewise listened; but, though much nearer than they, I heard nothing. But I could see their faces change like waters in a windy and half-cloudy day. Sometimes, though I heard nought, it seemed to me as if one sighed and prayed beside me; and once I heard a clang of music triumphant in hope; but I looked up, and, Lo! it was the listeners who stood on their feet and sang. They ceased, sat down, and listened as before. At last one approached me, and I ventured to question him. ‘Sir,’ I said, ‘wilt thou tell me what it means?’ And he answered me thus: ‘The youth desired to sing to the Immortals. It is a law with us that no one shall sing a song who cannot be the hero of his tale⁠—who cannot live the song that he sings; for what right hath he else to devise great things, and to take holy deeds in his mouth? Therefore he enters the cavern where God weaves the garments of souls; and there he lives in the forms of his own tale; for God gives them being that he may be tried. The sighs which thou didst hear were his longings after his own Ideal; and thou didst hear him praying for the Truth he beheld, but could not reach. We sang, because, in his first great battle, he strove well and overcame. We await the next.’ A deep sleep seemed to fall upon me; and when I awoke, I saw the Immortals standing with their eyes fixed on the mouth of the cavern. I arose and turned toward it likewise. The youth came forth. His face was worn and pale, as that of the dead man before me; but his eyes were open, and tears trembled within them. Yet not the less was it the same face, the face of my son, I tell thee; and in joy and fear I gazed upon him. With a weary step he approached the Immortals. But he who had led him to the cave hastened to meet him, spread forth his arms, and embraced him, and said unto him: ‘Thou hast told a noble tale; sing to us now what songs thou wilt.’ Therefore said I, as I gazed on my son: ‘He hath told his tale to the Immortals.’ ”

He puts the book down; meditates awhile; then rises and walks up and down the room.

Henry, what dark-haired queen is that? She moves
As if her body were instinct with thought,
Moulded to motion by the music’s waves,
As floats the swan upon the swelling lake;
Or as in dreams one sees an angel move,
Sweeping on slow wings through the buoyant air,
Then folding them, and turning on his track.

You seem inspired; nor can I wonder at it;
She is a glorious woman; and such eyes!
Think⁠—to be loved by such a woman now!

You have seen her, then, before: what is her name?

I saw her once; but could not learn her name.

She is the wife of an Italian count,
Who for some cause, political I think,
Took refuge in this country. His estates
The Church has eaten up, as I have heard:
Mephisto says the Church has a good stomach.

How do they live?

Poorly, I should suppose;
For she gives Lady Gertrude music-lessons:
That’s how they know her.⁠—Ah, you should hear her sing!

If she sings as she looks or as she dances,
It were as well for me I did not hear.

If Count Lamballa followed Lady Seaford
To heaven, I know who’d follow her on earth.

I wish she would come home. When the child wakes,
I cannot bear to see her eyes first rest
On me, then wander searching through the room,
And then return and rest. And yet, poor Lilia!
’Tis nothing strange thou shouldst be glad to go
From this dull place, and for a few short hours
Have thy lost girlhood given back to thee;
For thou art very young for such hard things
As poor men’s wives in cities must endure.
I am afraid the thought is not at rest,
But rises still, that she is not my wife⁠—
Not truly, lawfully. I hoped the child
Would kill that fancy; but I fear instead,
She thinks I have begun to think the same⁠—
Thinks that it lies a heavy weight of sin
Upon my heart. Alas, my Lilia!
When every time I pray, I pray that God
Would look and see that thou and I be one!

Starting up in her crib.

Going up to her with a smile.

I don’t know, father; I was very frightened.

’Twas nothing but a dream. Look⁠—I am with you.

I am wake now; I know you’re there; but then
I did not know it. Smiling.

Lie down now, darling. Go to sleep again.

Beseechingly.

She’s not at home, my child;
But soon she will be back.

But if she walk
Out in the dark streets⁠—so dark, it will catch her.

She will not walk⁠—but what would catch her, sweet?

I don’t know. Tell me a story till she comes.

Taking her, and sitting with her on his knees by the fire.

Oh! didn’t he?⁠—If he had, he wouldn’t have gone!

Away he went, far far away he went,
Until he could not even spy the top
Of the great mountain by his father’s house.
And still he went away, away, as if
He tried how far his feet could go away;
Until he came to a city huge and wide,
Like London here.

Perhaps it was London.

Perhaps it was, my child. And there he spent
All, all his father’s money, buying things
That he had always told him were not worth,
And not to buy them; but he would and did.

How very naughty of him!

Yes, my child.
And so when he had spent his last few pence,
He grew quite hungry. But he had none left
To buy a piece of bread. And bread was scarce;
Nobody gave him any. He had been
Always so idle, that he could not work.
But at last someone sent him to feed swine.

Swine! Oh!

Yes, swine: ’twas all that he could do;
And he was glad to eat some of their food. She stares at him.
But at the last, hunger and waking love
Made him remember his old happy home.
“How many servants in my father’s house
Have plenty, and to spare!” he said. “I’ll go
And say, ‘I have done very wrong, my father;
I am not worthy to be called your son;
Put me among your servants, father, please.’ ”
Then he rose up and went; but thought the road
So much, much farther to walk back again,
When he was tired and hungry. But at last
He saw the blue top of the great big hill
That stood beside his father’s house; and then
He walked much faster. But a great way off,
His father saw him coming, lame and weary
With his long walk; and very different
From what he had been. All his clothes were hanging
In tatters, and his toes stuck through his shoes⁠—She bursts into tears.

Sobbing.

Yes, my dear child.

And was he dirty too?

Yes, very dirty; he had been so long
Among the swine.

Is it all true though, father?

Yes, my darling; all true, and truer far
Than you can think.

What was his father like?

A tall, grand, stately man.

Like you, dear father?

Like me, only much grander.

I love you
The best though. Kissing him.

Well, all dirty as he was,
And thin, and pale, and torn, with staring eyes,
His father knew him, the first look, far off,
And ran so fast to meet him! put his arms
Around his neck and kissed him.

Oh, how dear!
I love him too;⁠—but not so well as you. Sound of a carriage drawing up.

There is your mother.

I am glad, so glad!

You naughty child, why are you not in bed?

Pouting.

What a strange child it is! There! Kissing her. go to bed. Lays her down.

Gazing on the child.

Oh, it is dreary, dreary! All the time
My thoughts would wander to my dreary home.
Through every dance, my soul walked evermore
In a most dreary dance through this same room.
I saw these walls, this carpet; and I heard,
As now, his measured step in the next chamber,
Go pacing up and down, and I shut out!
He is too good for me, I weak for him.
Yet if he put his arms around me once,
And held me fast as then, kissed me as then,
My soul, I think, would come again to me,
And pass from me in trembling love to him.
But he repels me now. He loves me, true⁠—
Because I am his wife: he ought to love me!
Me, the cold statue, thus he drapes with duty.
Sometimes he waits upon me like a maid,
Silent with watchful eyes. Oh, would to Heaven,
He used me like a slave bought in the market!
Yes, used me roughly! So, I were his own;
And words of tenderness would falter in,
Relenting from the sternness of command.
But I am not enough for him: he needs
Some high-entranced maiden, ever pure,
And thronged with burning thoughts of God and him.
So, as he loves me not, his deeds for me
Lie on me like a sepulchre of stones.
Italian lovers love not so; but he
Has German blood in those great veins of his.
He never brings me now a little flower.
He sings low wandering sweet songs to the child;
But never sings to me what the voice-bird
Sings to the silent, sitting on the nest.
I would I were his child, and not his wife!
How I should love him then! Yet I have thoughts
Fit to be women to his mighty men;
And he would love them, if he saw them once.
Ah! there they come, the visions of my land!
The long sweep of a bay, white sands, and cliffs
Purple above the blue waves at their feet!
Down the full river comes a light-blue sail;
And down the near hill-side come country girls,
Brown, rosy, laden light with glowing fruits;
Down to the sands come ladies, young, and clad
For holiday; in whose hearts wonderment
At manhood is the upmost, deepest thought;
And to their side come stately, youthful forms,
Italy’s youth, with burning eyes and hearts:⁠—
Triumphant Love is lord of the bright day.
Yet one heart, under that blue sail, would look
With pity on their poor contentedness;
For he sits at the helm, I at his feet.
He sung a song, and I replied to him.
His song was of the wind that blew us down
From sheltered hills to the unsheltered sea.
Ah, little thought my heart that the wide sea,
Where I should cry for comforting in vain,
Was the expanse of his wide awful soul,
To which that wind was helpless drifting me!
I would he were less great, and loved me more.
I sung to him a song, broken with sighs,
For even then I feared the time to come:
“O will thine eyes shine always, love, as now?
And will thy lips for aye be sweetly curved?”
Said my song, flowing unrhymed from my heart.
“And will thy forehead ever, sunlike bend,
And suck my soul in vapours up to thee?
Ah love! I need love, beauty, and sweet odours.
Thou livest on the hoary mountains; I
In the warm valley, with the lily pale,
Shadowed with mountains and its own great leaves;
Where odours are the sole invisible clouds,
Making the heart weep for deliciousness.
Will thy eternal mountain always bear
Blue flowers upspringing at the glacier’s foot?
Alas! I fear the storms, the blinding snow,
The vapours which thou gatherest round thy head,
Wherewith thou shuttest up thy chamber-door,
And goest from me into loneliness.”
Ah me, my song! it is a song no more!
He is alone amid his windy rocks;
I wandering on a low and dreary plain! She weeps herself asleep.

Song.

And there are mountains on the earth, far-off;
Steep precipices laved at morn in wind
From the blue glaciers fresh; and falls that leap,
Springing from rock to pool abandonedly;
And all the spirit of the earth breathed out,
Bearing the soul, as on an altar-flame,
Aloft to God! And there is woman-love⁠—
Far off, ah me! Sitting down wearily.
—the heart of earth’s delight
Withered from mine! O for a desert sea,
The cold sun flashing on the sailing icebergs!
Where I might cry aloud on God, until
My soul burst forth upon the wings of pain,
And fled to him. A numbness as of death
Infolds me. As in sleep I walk. I live,
But my dull soul can hardly keep awake.
Yet God is here as on the mountain-top,
Or on the desert sea, or lonely isle;
And I should know him here, if Lilia loved me,
As once I thought she did. But can I blame her?
The change has been too much for her to bear.
Can poverty make one of two hearts cold,
And warm the other with the love of God?
But then I have been silent, often moody,
Drowned in much questioning; and she has thought
That I was tired of her, while more than all
I pondered how to wake her living soul.
She cannot think why I should haunt my chamber,
Except a goaded conscience were my grief;
Thinks not of aught to gain, but all to shun.
Deeming, poor child, that I repent me thus
Of that which makes her mine forevermore,
It is no wonder if her love grow less.
Then I am older much than she; and this
Fever, I think, has made me old indeed
Before my fortieth year; although, within,
I seem as young as ever to myself.
O my poor Lilia! thou art not to blame;
I’ll love thee more than ever; I will be
So gentle to thy heart where love lies dead!
For carefully men ope the door, and walk
With silent footfall through the room where lies,
Exhausted, sleeping, with its travail sore,
The body that erewhile hath borne a spirit.
Alas, my Lilia! where is dead Love’s child?
I must go forth and do my daily work.
I thank thee, God, that it is hard sometimes
To do my daily labour; for, of old,
When men were poor, and could not bring thee much,
A turtle-dove was all that thou didst ask;
And so in poverty, and with a heart
Oppressed with heaviness, I try to do
My day’s work well to thee⁠—my offering:
That he has taught me, who one day sat weary
At Sychar’s well. Then home when I return,
I come without upbraiding thoughts to thee.
Ah! well I see man need not seek for penance⁠—
Thou wilt provide the lamb for sacrifice;
Thou only wise enough to teach the soul,
Measuring out the labour and the grief,
Which it must bear for thy sake, not its own.
He neither chose his glory, nor devised
The burden he should bear; left all to God;
And of them both God gave to him enough.
And see the sun looks faintly through the mist;
It cometh as a messenger to me.
My soul is heavy, but I will go forth;
My days seem perishing, but God yet lives
And loves. I cannot feel, but will believe. He rises and is going. Lilia enters, looking weary.
Look, my dear Lilia, how the sun shines out!

Shines out indeed! Yet ’tis not bad for England.
I would I were in Italy, my own! Weeps.

’Tis the same sun that shines in Italy.

But never more will shine upon us there!
It is too late; all wishing is in vain;
But would that we had not so ill deserved
As to be banished from fair Italy!

Ah! my dear Lilia, do not, do not think
That God is angry when we suffer ill.
’Twere terrible indeed, if ’twere in anger.

Julian, I cannot feel as you. I wish
I felt as you feel.

God will hear you, child,
If you will speak to him. But I must go.
Kiss me, my Lilia. She kisses him mechanically. He goes with a sigh.

It is plain to see He tries to love me, but is weary of me. She weeps.

Mother, have you been naughty? Mother, dear! Pulling her hand from her face.

Running up to her mother.

Song.

O mother, mother! there’s the old box I had
So long ago, and all my cups and saucers,
And the farm-house and cows.⁠—Oh! some are broken.
Father will mend them for me, I am sure.
I’ll ask him when he comes to-night⁠—I will:
He can do everything, you know, dear mother.

I would not give these days of common toil,
This murky atmosphere that creeps and sinks
Into the very soul, and mars its hue⁠—
Not for the evenings when with gliding keel
I cut a pale green track across the west⁠—
Pale-green, and dashed with snowy white, and spotted
With sunset crimson; when the wind breathed low,
So low it hardly swelled my xebec’s sails,
That pointed to the south, and wavered not,
Erect upon the waters.⁠—Jesus said
His followers should have a hundred fold
Of earth’s most precious things, with suffering.⁠—
In all the labourings of a weary spirit,
I have been bless’d with gleams of glorious things.
The sights and sounds of nature touch my soul,
No more look in from far.⁠—I never see
Such radiant, filmy clouds, gathered about
A gently opening eye into the blue,
But swells my heart, and bends my sinking knee,
Bowing in prayer. The setting sun, before,
Signed only that the hour for prayer was come,
But now it moves my inmost soul to pray.
On this same earth He walked; even thus he looked
Upon its thousand glories; read them all;
In splendour let them pass on through his soul,
And triumph in their new beatitude,
Finding a heaven of truth to take them in;
But walked on steadily through pain to death.
Better to have the poet’s heart than brain,
Feeling than song; but better far than both,
To be a song, a music of God’s making;
A tablet, say, on which God’s finger of flame,
In words harmonious, of triumphant verse,
That mingles joy and sorrow, sets down clear,
That out of darkness he hath called the light.
It may be voice to such is after given,
To tell the mighty tale to other worlds.
Oh! I am blest in sorrows with a hope
That steeps them all in glory; as gray clouds
Are bathed in light of roses; yea, I were
Most blest of men, if I were now returning
To Lilia’s heart as presence. O my God,
I can but look to thee. And then the child!⁠—
Why should my love to her break out in tears?
Why should she be only a consolation,
And not an added joy, to fill my soul
With gladness overflowing in many voices
Of song, and prayer⁠—and weeping only when
Words fainted ’neath the weight of utterance?

Don’t go to-night again.

Why, child, your father
Will soon be home; and then you will not miss me.

Oh, but I shall though! and he looks so sad
When you’re not here!

Aside.

Will you go, mother? Then I’ll go and cry
Till father comes. He’ll take me on his knee,
And tell such lovely tales: you never do⁠—
Nor sing me songs made all for my own self.
He does not kiss me half so many times
As you do, mother; but he loves me more.
Do you love father, too? I love him so!

Ready.

Putting the book down, and going to the window.

Enter Julian.

Taking her in his arms.

I do, do love you. Shall I tell you something?
Think I should like to tell you. ’Tis a dream
That I went into, somewhere in last night.
I was alone⁠—quite;⁠—you were not with me,
So I must tell you. ’Twas a garden, like
That one you took me to, long, long ago,
When the sun was so hot. It was not winter,
But some of the poor leaves were growing tired
With hanging there so long. And some of them
Gave it up quite, and so dropped down and lay
Quiet on the ground. And I was watching them.
I saw one falling⁠—down, down⁠—tumbling down⁠—
Just at the earth⁠—when suddenly it spread
Great wings and flew.⁠—It was a butterfly,
So beautiful with wings, black, red, and white⁠—Laughing heartily.
I thought it was a crackly, withered leaf.
Away it flew! I don’t know where it went.
And so I thought, I have a story now
To tell dear father when he comes to Lily.

Thank you, my child; a very pretty dream.
But I am tired⁠—will you go find another⁠—
Another dream somewhere in sleep for me?

O yes, I will.⁠—Perhaps I cannot find one. He lays her down to sleep; then sits musing.

What shall I do to give it life again?
To make it spread its wings before it fall,
And lie among the dead things of the earth?

I cannot go to sleep. Please, father, sing
The song about the little thirsty lily. Julian sings.

Song.

She is asleep, the darling! Easily
Is Sleep enticed to brood on childhood’s heart.
Gone home unto thy Father for the night! He returns to his seat.
I have grown common to her. It is strange⁠—
This commonness⁠—that, as a blight, eats up
All the heart’s springing corn and promised fruit. Looking round.
This room is very common: everything
Has such a well-known look of nothing in it;
And yet when first I called it hers and mine,
There was a mystery inexhaustible
About each trifle on the chimney-shelf:
The gilding now is nearly all worn off.
Even she, the goddess of the wonder-world,
Seems less mysterious and worshipful:
No wonder I am common in her eyes.
Alas! what must I think? Is this the true?
Was that the false that was so beautiful?
Was it a rosy mist that wrapped it round?
Or was love to the eyes as opium,
Making all things more beauteous than they were?
And can that opium do more than God
To waken beauty in a human brain?
Is this the real, the cold, undraperied truth⁠—
A skeleton admitted as a guest
At life’s loud feast, wearing a life-like mask?
No, no; my heart would die if I believed it.
A blighting fog uprises with the days,
False, cold, dull, leaden, gray. It clings about
The present, far dragging like a robe; but ever
Forsakes the past, and lets its hues shine out:
On past and future pours the light of heaven.
The Commonplace is of the present mind.
The Lovely is the True. The Beautiful
Is what God made. Men from whose narrow bosoms
The great child-heart has withered, backward look
To their first-love, and laugh, and call it folly,
A mere delusion to which youth is subject,
As childhood to diseases. They know better!
And proud of their denying, tell the youth,
On whom the wonder of his being shines,
That will be over with him by and by:
“I was so when a boy⁠—look at me now!”
Youth, be not one of them, but love thy love.
So with all worship of the high and good,
And pure and beautiful. These men are wiser!
Their god, Experience, but their own decay;
Their wisdom but the gray hairs gathered on them.
Yea, some will mourn and sing about their loss,
And for the sake of sweet sounds cherish it,
Nor yet believe that it was more than seeming.
But he in whom the child’s heart hath not died,
But grown a man’s heart, loveth yet the Past;
Believes in all its beauty; knows the hours
Will melt the mist; and that, although this day
Cast but a dull stone on Time’s heaped-up cairn,
A morning light will break one morn and draw
The hidden glories of a thousand hues
Out from its diamond-depths and ruby-spots
And sapphire-veins, unseen, unknown, before.
Far in the future lies his refuge. Time
Is God’s, and all its miracles are his;
And in the Future he overtakes the Past,
Which was a prophecy of times to come:
There lie great flashing stars, the same that shone
In childhood’s laughing heaven; there lies the wonder
In which the sun went down and moon arose;
The joy with which the meadows opened out
Their daisies to the warming sun of spring;
Yea, all the inward glory, ere cold fear
Froze, or doubt shook the mirror of his soul:
To reach it, he must climb the present slope
Of this day’s duty⁠—here he would not rest.
But all the time the glory is at hand,
Urging and guiding⁠—only o’er its face
Hangs ever, pledge and screen, the bridal veil:
He knows the beauty radiant underneath;
He knows that God who is the living God,
The God of living things, not of the dying,
Would never give his child, for God-born love,
A cloud-made phantom, fading in the sun.
Faith vanishes in sight; the cloudy veil
Will melt away, destroyed of inward light.
If thy young heart yet lived, my Lilia, thou
And I might, as two children, hand in hand,
Go home unto our Father.⁠—I believe
It only sleeps, and may be wakened yet.

The light comes feebly, slowly, to the world
On this one day that blesses all the year,
Just as it comes on any other day:
A feeble child he came, yet not the less
Brought godlike childhood to the aged earth,
Where nothing now is common any more.
All things had hitherto proclaimed God:
The wide spread air; the luminous mist that hid
The far horizon of the fading sea;
The low persistent music evermore
Flung down upon the sands, and at the base
Of the great rocks that hold it as a cup;
All things most common; the furze, now golden, now
Opening dark pods in music to the heat
Of the high summer-sun at afternoon;
The lone black tarn upon the round hill-top,
O’er which the gray clouds brood like rising smoke,
Sending its many rills, o’erarched and hid,
Singing like children down the rocky sides;⁠—
Where shall I find the most unnoticed thing,
For that sang God with all its voice of song?
But men heard not, they knew not God in these;
To their strange speech unlistening ears were strange;
For with a stammering tongue and broken words,
With mingled falsehoods and denials loud,
Man witnessed God unto his fellow man:
How then himself the voice of Nature hear?
Or how himself he heeded, when, the leader,
He in the chorus sang a discord vile?
When prophet lies, how shall the people preach?
But when He came in poverty, and low,
A real man to half-unreal men,
A man whose human thoughts were all divine,
The head and upturned face of human kind⁠—
Then God shone forth from all the lowly earth,
And men began to read their maker there.
Now the Divine descends, pervading all.
Earth is no more a banishment from heaven;
But a lone field among the distant hills,
Well ploughed and sown, whence corn is gathered home.
Now, now we feel the holy mystery
That permeates all being: all is God’s;
And my poor life is terribly sublime.
Where’er I look, I am alone in God,
As this round world is wrapt in folding space;
Behind, before, begin and end in him:
So all beginnings and all ends are hid;
And he is hid in me, and I in him.
Oh, what a unity, to mean them all!⁠—
The peach-dyed morn; cold stars in colder blue
Gazing across upon the sun-dyed west,
While the dank wind is running o’er the graves;
Green buds, red flowers, brown leaves, and ghostly snow;
The grassy hills, breeze-haunted on the brow;
And sandy deserts hung with stinging stars!
Half-vanished hangs the moon, with daylight sick,
Wan-faced and lost and lonely: daylight fades⁠—
Blooms out the pale eternal flower of space,
The opal night, whose odours are gray dreams⁠—
Core of its petal-cup, the radiant moon!
All, all the unnumbered meanings of the earth,
Changing with every cloud that passes o’er;
All, all, from rocks slow-crumbling in the frost
Of Alpine deserts, isled in stormy air,
To where the pool in warm brown shadow sleeps,
The stream, sun-ransomed, dances in the sun;
All, all, from polar seas of jewelled ice,
To where she dreams out gorgeous flowers⁠—all, all
The unlike children of her single womb!
Oh, my heart labours with infinitude!
All, all the messages that these have borne
To eyes and ears, and watching, listening souls;
And all the kindling cheeks and swelling hearts,
That since the first-born, young, attempting day,
Have gazed and worshipped!⁠—What a unity,
To mean each one, yet fuse each in the all!
O centre of all forms! O concord’s home!
O world alive in one condensed world!
O face of Him, in whose heart lay concealed
The fountain-thought of all this kingdom of heaven!
Lord, thou art infinite, and I am thine!
I sought my God; I pressed importunate;
I spoke to him, I cried, and in my heart
It seemed he answered me. I said⁠—“Oh! take
Me nigh to thee, thou mighty life of life!
I faint, I die; I am a child alone
’Mid the wild storm, the brooding desert-night.”
“Go thou, poor child, to him who once, like thee,
Trod the highways and deserts of the world.”
“Thou sendest me then, wretched, from thy sight!
Thou wilt not have me⁠—I am not worth thy care!”
“I send thee not away; child, think not so;
From the cloud resting on the mountain-peak,
I call to guide thee in the path by which
Thou may’st come soonest home unto my heart.
I, I am leading thee. Think not of him
As he were one and I were one; in him
Thou wilt find me, for he and I are one.
Learn thou to worship at his lowly shrine,
And see that God dwelleth in lowliness.”
I came to Him; I gazed upon his face;
And Lo! from out his eyes God looked on me!⁠—
Yea, let them laugh! I will sit at his feet,
As a child sits upon the ground, and looks
Up in his mother’s face. One smile from him,
One look from those sad eyes, is more to me
Than to be lord myself of hearts and thoughts.
O perfect made through the reacting pain
In which thy making force recoiled on thee!
Whom no less glory could make visible
Than the utter giving of thyself away;
Brooding no thought of grandeur in the deed,
More than a child embracing from full heart!
Lord of thyself and me through the sore grief
Which thou didst bear to bring us back to God,
Or rather, bear in being unto us
Thy own pure shining self of love and truth!
When I have learned to think thy radiant thoughts,
To love the truth beyond the power to know it,
To bear my light as thou thy heavy cross,
Nor ever feel a martyr for thy sake,
But an unprofitable servant still⁠—
My highest sacrifice my simplest duty
Imperative and unavoidable,
Less than which All, were nothingness and waste;
When I have lost myself in other men,
And found myself in thee⁠—the Father then
Will come with thee, and will abide with me.

Song.

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.