Three Sunsets and Other Poems Part 3

"A sweet pale child-- Wearily looking to the purple West-- Waiting the great For-ever That suddenly shall sever The cruel chains that hold her from her rest-- By earth-joys unbeguiled.

"An angel-child-- Gazing with living eyes on a dead face: The mortal form forsaken, That none may now awaken, That lieth painless, moveless in her place, As though in death she smiled!

"Be as a child-- So shalt thou sing for very joy of breath-- So shalt thou wait thy dying, In holy transport lying-- So pa.s.s rejoicing through the gate of death, In garment undefiled."_

Then call me what they will, I know That now my soul is glad: If this be madness, better so, Far better to be mad, Weeping or smiling as I go.

For if I weep, it is that now I see how deep a loss is mine, And feel how brightly round my brow The coronal might shine, Had I but kept mine early vow:

And if I smile, it is that now I see the promise of the years-- The garland waiting for my brow, That must be won with tears, With pain--with death--I care not how.

_May 9, 1862._

[Ill.u.s.tration]

THE WILLOW-TREE.

The morn was bright, the steeds were light, The wedding guests were gay: Young Ellen stood within the wood And watched them pa.s.s away.

She scarcely saw the gallant train: The tear-drop dimmed her ee: Unheard the maiden did complain Beneath the Willow-Tree.

"Oh Robin, thou didst love me well, Till, on a bitter day, She came, the Lady Isabel, And stole thy heart away.

My tears are vain: I live again In days that used to be, When I could meet thy welcome feet Beneath the Willow-Tree.

"Oh Willow gray, I may not stay Till Spring renew thy leaf; But I will hide myself away, And nurse a lonely grief.

It shall not dim Life's joy for him: My tears he shall not see: While he is by, I'll come not nigh My weeping Willow-Tree.

"But when I die, oh let me lie Beneath thy loving shade, That he may loiter careless by, Where I am lowly laid.

And let the white white marble tell, If he should stoop to see, 'Here lies a maid that loved thee well, Beneath the Willow-Tree.'"

1859.

ONLY A WOMAN'S HAIR.

'Only a woman's hair'! Fling it aside!

A bubble on Life's mighty stream: Heed it not, man, but watch the broadening tide Bright with the western beam.

Nay! In those words there rings from other years The echo of a long low cry, Where a proud spirit wrestles with its tears In loneliest agony.

And, as I touch that lock, strange visions throng Upon my soul with dreamy grace-- Of woman's hair, the theme of poet's song In every time and place.

A child's bright tresses, by the breezes kissed To sweet disorder as she flies, Veiling, beneath a cloud of golden mist, Flushed cheek and laughing eyes--

Or fringing, like a shadow, raven-black, The glory of a queen-like face-- Or from a gipsy's sunny brow tossed back In wild and wanton grace--

Or crown-like on the h.o.a.ry head of Age, Whose tale of life is well-nigh told-- Or, last, in dreams I make my pilgrimage To Bethany of old.

I see the feast--the purple and the gold-- The gathering crowd of Pharisees, Whose scornful eyes are centred to behold Yon woman on her knees.

The stifled sob rings strangely on mine ears, Wrung from the depth of sin's despair: And still she bathes the sacred feet with tears, And wipes them with her hair.

He scorned not then the simple loving deed Of her, the lowest and the last; Then scorn not thou, but use with earnest heed This relic of the past.

The eyes that loved it once no longer wake: So lay it by with reverent care-- Touching it tenderly for sorrow's sake-- It is a woman's hair.

_Feb. 17, 1862._

[Ill.u.s.tration]

THE SAILOR'S WIFE.

See! There are tears upon her face-- Tears newly shed, and scarcely dried: Close, in an agonised embrace, She clasps the infant at her side.

Peace dwells in those soft-lidded eyes, Those parted lips that faintly smile-- Peace, the foretaste of Paradise, In heart too young for care or guile.

No peace that mother's features wear; But quivering lip, and knotted brow, And broken mutterings, all declare The fearful dream that haunts her now.

The storm-wind, rushing through the sky, Wails from the depths of cloudy s.p.a.ce; Shrill, piercing as the seaman's cry When death and he are face to face.

Familiar tones are in the gale: They ring upon her startled ear: And quick and low she pants the tale That tells of agony and fear:

"Still that phantom-ship is nigh-- With a vexed and life-like motion, All beneath an angry sky, Rocking on an angry ocean.

"Round the straining mast and shrouds Throng the spirits of the storm: Darkly seen through driving clouds, Bends each gaunt and ghastly form.

"See! The good ship yields at last!

Dumbly yields, and fights no more; Driving, in the frantic blast, Headlong on the fatal sh.o.r.e.

"Hark! I hear her battered side, With a low and sullen shock, Dashed, amid the foaming tide, Full upon a sunken rock.

"His face shines out against the sky, Like a ghost, so cold and white; With a dead despairing eye Gazing through the gathered night.

"Is he watching, through the dark Where a mocking ghostly hand Points a faint and feeble spark Glimmering from the distant land?

"Sees he, in this hour of dread, Hearth and home and wife and child?

Loved ones who, in summers fled, Clung to him and wept and smiled?