The Coming of the Princess, and Other Poems Part 5

Robed and crowned like an empress in some medieval palace, Stood the third in her place, with glances of sun-lighted splendour; Stately her height and tall as a queen in some antique story, With sheaves about her feet, and the tribute which nations render To her as the lady of Kingdoms, yet underneath the glory Of that bright legend to hers was like a containing chalice.

Last of the four, in her turret, serene and benignant, Sat in the midst of her children and maidens, a household mother; Want, and the sons of penury dwell not among her neighbours; Full is her heart of love: her hands wipe the tears of another, Yet brings she the gold and the pearls of her manifold labours, To add to that shining legend the grace of her name and her signet.

Fast closed were the gates, and mute in their places the wardens; No voice in my longing ear whispered the mystical sentence, And my heart was heavy, and chilled with the fruitless endeavour.

On this side lay the snow and the wind, like the wail of repentance, Moaned in the branches forlorn but through the closed lattices ever Drifted a stir and a fragrance of springtime over the borders.

Then through the stillness of night struck the clash and the clangor Of bells that told twelve from the towers of the neighbouring city; And lo! the great gates were flung wide, and thronged with the hurrying races-- High and low, rich and poor--and the light of ineffable pity, And infinite love shone down and illumined their faces, Faces of dolor some, of hope, of sorrow, and anger.

Loud clanged the h.e.l.ls from the towers in jubilant rudeness, And like the voice of a mult.i.tude rising respondent, The words of that marvellous legend made vocal the silence-- The voice of all sentient creatures ascended triumphant, And all the listening forests, and mountains, and islands Heard it, and sang it, "He crowneth the Year with His goodness!"

Praise Him, O sounding seas, and floods! praise Him, abounding rivers; Praise Him, ye flowery months, and every fruitful season!

Praise Him, O stormy wind, and ice, and snow, and vapor, Ye cattle that clothe the hills, and man with marvellous reason; Who crowneth the year with goodness, who prospereth all thy labour, Yea, let all flesh bless the Lord, and magnify Him forever!

BY THE SEA-Sh.o.r.e AT NIGHT.

Oh lapping waves!--oh gnawing waves!-- That rest not day nor night,-- I hear ye when the light Is dim and awful in your hollow caves.--

All day the winds were out, and rode Their steeds, your tossing crest,-- To-night the fierce winds rest, And the moon walks above them her bright road.

Yet none the less ye lift your hands, And your despairing cry Up to the midnight sky, And clutch, and trample on the shuddering sands,

That shrink and tremble even in sleep, Out of your pa.s.sionate reach, Afraid of your dread speech, And the more dreadful silence that ye keep

Oh sapping waves!--oh mining waves!-- Under the oak's gnarled feet, And tower, and village street, Scooping by stealth in darkness myriad graves;--

What secret strive ye thus to hide, A thousand fathoms deep, Which the sea will not keep, And pours, and babbles forth upon her refluent tide?--

I see your torn and wind-blown hair, Shewn far along the sh.o.r.e,-- And lifted evermore You white hands tossing in a fierce despair;

And half I deem ye hold below, In vast and wandering cell, The primal spirits who fell, Reserved in chains and immemorial woe.

Keep ye, oh waves!--your mystery:-- The time draws on apace, When from before His face, The heavens and the earth shall flee, And evermore there shall be no more sea!

RESURGAM

Into the darkness and the deeps My thoughts have strayed, where silence dwells, Where the old world encrypted sleeps,-- Myriads of forms, in myriad cells, Of dead and inorganic things, That neither live, nor move, nor grow, Nor any change of atoms know; That have neither legs, nor arms, nor wings, That have neither heads, nor mouths, nor stings, That have neither roots, nor leaves, nor stems, To hold up flowers like diadems, Growing out of the ground below: But which hold instead The cycles dead, And out of their stony and gloomy folds Shape out new moulds For a new race begun; Shutting within dark pages, furled As in a vast herbarium, The flowers and balms, The pines and palms, The ferns and cones, All turned to stones Of all the unknown elder world, As in a wonderful museum, Ranged in its myriad mummy shelves.

Insects and worms,-- All lower forms Of fin and scale, Of gnat and whale, Fish, bird, and the monstrous mastodon, The fabulous megatherium, And men themselves.

Ah, what life is here compressed, Frozen into endless rest!

Down through springing blades and spires, Down through mines, and crypts, and caves, Still graves on graves, and graves on graves, Down to earth's most central fires.

The morning stars sang at their birth, In the first beginnings of time.

What voice of dolour or of mirth At their last funeral made moan,-- Ashes to ashes--earth to earth, And stone to stone,-- Chanting the liturgy sublime.

What matter,--in that doom's-day book Their place is fixed--their names are writ, Each in its individual nook,-- G.o.d's eye beholds--remembers it.

When the slow-moving centuries Have lapsed in the former eternities,-- When the day is come which we see not yet,-- When the sea gives up its dead-- And the thrones are set, These books shall be opened and read!

WRITTEN IN A CEMETERY.

Stay yet awhile, oh flowers!--oh wandering gra.s.ses, And creeping ferns, and climbing, clinging vines;-- Bend down and cover with lush odorous ma.s.ses My darling's couch, where he in sleep reclines.

Stay yet awhile;--let not the chill October Plant spires of glinting frost about his bed; Nor shower her faded leaves, so brown and sober, Among the tuberoses above his head.

I would have all things fair, and sweet, and tender,-- The daisy's pearl, the cowslip's shield of snow, And fragrant hyacinths in purple splendour, About my darling's gra.s.sy couch to grow.

Oh birds!--small pilgrims of the summer weather, Come hither, for my darling loved ye well;-- Here floats the thistle down for you to gather, And bearded gra.s.ses ripen in the dell.

Here pipe, and plume your wings, and chirp and flutter, And swing, light-poised upon the pendant bough;-- Fondly I deem he hears the calls ye utter, And stirs in his light sleep to answer you.

Oh wind!--that blows through hours of nights and lonely, Oh rain!--that sobs against my window pane,-- Ye beat upon my heart, which beats but only To clasp and shelter my lost lamb again.

Peace--peace, my soul:--I know that in another And brighter land my darling walks and waits, Where we shall surely meet and clasp each other, Beyond the threshold of the shining gates.

MARGUERITE

Marguerite,--oh Marguerite!

Thy sleep is sound, and still and sweet, Framed in the pale gold of thy hair, Thy face is like an angel's fair, Marguerite,--oh Marguerite!

Tender curves of cheek and lips-- Sweet eyes hid in long eclipse-- Pale robes flowing to thy feet-- Folded hands that lightly meet,-- Marguerite,--oh Marguerite!

Sleep'st thou still?--the world awakes,-- Still the echo swells and breaks,-- Over field, and wood, and street Easter anthems throb and beat,-- Marguerite,--oh Marguerite!

Christ the Lord is risen again,-- Hear'st thou not the glad refrain,-- Have those gentle lips no breath, Smiling in the trance of death?-- Marguerite,--oh Marguerite!

In the grave from whence He rose, Lay thee to thy long repose,-- Sweet with myrrh and spices,--sweet With the footprints of His feet,-- Marguerite,--oh Marguerite!

Where His sacred head hath lain, Thine may rest, secure from pain.

While the circling years go round, Without motion,--without sound,-- Marguerite,--oh Marguerite!

THE WATCH-LIGHT.