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Ebook has 217 lines and 16139 words, and 5 pages

MABEL HEBE SPRING THE BITTERN GONE BEATRICE DI TENDA SERENADE THE EAGLE WHITHER? THE MORNING STAR THE DELECTABLE MOUNTAINS THE DARK RIVER WYTHAM WOODS THE STAR IN THE EAST UNDER THE SEA WIND A CHALLENGE AT PARTING A WITHERED ROSE-BUD DE PROFUNDIS THE MOTHER SONNET--DATUR HORA QUIETI SEA MARGINS SONG--"LOVE TOOK ME SOFTLY BY THE HAND" THE BELL LLEWELLYN A SHELL THE RAVEN SONNETS ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON THE PASSAGE-BIRDS MEMNON A CONCEIT THE LAND'S END THE OLDEN TIME FATHER AND SON ORION THE GOLDEN WATER YEARS AGO VULCAN SONG--"THE DAYS ARE PAST" GUY OF WARWICK AT EVENTIDE A DIRGE TO MY DREAM-LOVE A NIGHT SCENE SONNET--"O CLOUD SO GOLDEN" FLOATING DOWN THE RIVER ORPHEUS THE SCULPTOR

M A B E L, A Sketch.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

MABEL.

ORAN.

Well, well! and so ye deem I love her not, Ye and the world that love so passing well?-- That still I trifle with her bright young life, As the wind plays with some frail water-bell, Wafting it wantonly about the sky, Till at some harsher breath it breaks and dies?

MAURICE.

Nay, not thus far would our reflections go. Friendship paints not with the foul brush of Conscience! But thou, a man of dark and mystic aims, Tracking out Science through forbidden ways, Leaving the light and trodden paths to grope 'Mid fearful speculations and wild dreams, May'st hunt thy Will-o'-the-wisp until thou lead'st Our sister, all unwitting, to her death.

ROGER.

That shalt thou answer unto us. Thy life Shall be to her life like the sun and shade, Lost in one setting.

ORAN.

Ay! thou sayest well-- Thou sayest well. How oft a random shaft Striketh King Truth betwixt the armour-joints!-- One life, one sun, one setting for us both.

Which way, then, tend your fears? What certain aim Have all these strokes you level at my ways?

ROGER.

We say that you, against all light received, Against all laws of prudence and of love, Practise dark magic on our sister's soul-- That by strange motions, incantations, spells, So work you on her spirit that strange sleep, Sombre as Death's dark shadow, presently Steals o'er her fragile body, dulls her sense, And wraps her wholly in its chill embrace; That thus, spell-bound, lost to the living world, She lies till thou again unwind her chain, And wak'st her feebly to this life of earth. Thus dost thou peril her, thou blinded man! Sett'st her dear life against thy moonstruck thought, And slay'st thy dove on Folly's altar-steps.

MAURICE.

Ay! if you loved her, would your eyes have miss'd The moonish faintness that o'erlaps her now, Melting the fresh, full, ruddy glow of health To loveliness most heavenly, yet most sad? Her cheeks, where youth once summer'd into roses, Glow now with faint exotic loveliness, Not native to this harsh and gusty earth; And from her large dark eyes there seems to gaze Some angel with mute, melancholy looks, As from a casement at this jarring world.

ORAN.

Ha! then you too have seen it; it is not, O Heaven!--is not delusion, this fond dream, But even now it works, works bliss for her. Proceed, Sir ... you were saying ... Sir, I list ... That in her eyes you saw angelic fire, Pure from the dross, the dimming clouds of earth, Deem'd now her frame ethereal, unakin To earth's clay-moulded fabrics--such, perchance, As entering heaven, might have left its dust At the bright folding portals, sandal-like, And thence, repassing in seraphic trance, Still left unclaim'd the vesture at the gate!

ROGER.

You glory in her weakness! 'Tis too much-- Rash man, beware, a bitter end will come.

MAURICE.

I fain would think that study hath o'erwrought Your heated brain to this short fever fit, That soon may pass and leave your vision clear. In truth, I note strange changes in your mien-- A wandering glance, quick, restless eagerness, Rapt snatches of deep thought, wherein the mind Seems cleaving heaven with wild extatic wings: Your cheeks are pale, and all your nervous frame Thrills 'neath some strange enthusiastic touch. Lay by your books awhile, and breathe again, As in those days gone by, the country air, The sweet, calm country air, where perfume floats Like love that finds no heart so godlike large Can clasp it wholly in its one embrace, But overflows creation with its bliss. Thus shall you quickly exorcise this madness, And cleanse your brain of these pernicious dreams.

ORAN.

This madness! I bethink me of the past, Of all the great and noble who have toil'd Amid the deep dark mines of burning thought, Wearing out life to quarry forth the Truth; Of all the seers and watchers, early and late Waiting with eager blood-hot eyes the light Rising afar in some untrodden East, Full of divine and precious influence, Calling, like Mezzuin from his minaret, The thankless world to worship and be glad; Of all the patient thinkers of the earth Who talk'd with Wisdom like familiar friends, Until their voices unaccustom'd grew, And men stared blankly at them as they pass'd: I do bethink me of them all, and know How each walk'd through his labyrinth of scorn, And was accounted mad before all men. But patience!--Winter bears within its breast The nascent seeds of golden harvest-time.

This only shall I tell you of my ways-- Straying, now here, now there, 'mid science' wealth, I have discover'd a vast hidden power-- A power that perfected shall surely work Great revolution in all human laws,-- Where stop its courses I as yet know not; 'Tis to me like the sun, that all the day Shines godlike in my vision, and, at night, Though darkness hide its brightness, still, I feel, Shines on in glory over other spheres; It is a power beneficent and good, That grants to spirit infinite control Over all matter, and that frees the soul From its flesh shackles, and its sensuous means. What else its influences, or for health, For happiness, or blessing, I say not-- Save that such glimpses of vast powers unknown Dawn on my wondering mind, that like a man Standing upon some giddy pinnacle, With a whole world seen faint and small below, I close mine eyes for very fear and joy. To her, my Mabel, do I bear in love Some first-fruits of my finding--make her rich, That, gazing through her eyes, I may behold How sweet is heaven, how dear is happiness. This is the sum of that I work on her; Then, though I thank you for your good intent, Leave me untroubled to my life of thought, Leave her all trustful in the arms of love.

ROGER.

You love her not, false man! your heart and soul Are steep'd in science till not e'en the heel, Achilles-like, is vulnerable left. Ay! wear thus feeling's semblance as you will, Pale visionary! no more shall I pause, But with strong hand arrest your mad career! Soon we return arm'd with a father's power, To snatch our sister from your fearful arts.

MAURICE.

Oh! if you love her, Sir, as once you did-- If yet upon the dial of your life Her sun mark out the short sweet hours of joy, And all too swiftly on the shadows glide-- If yet you prize the loving heart you hold, From this most mad delusion waken up, That blindly blights her whom it seeks to bless; Cease your Utopian and unsafe essays, And rather turn your studious care to call The fading roses back into her cheeks, And shed health's gladness on her feeble frame; Reflect whilst yet you may, lest late Remorse Stalk, ghost-like, through the chambers of your soul, Haunting their gloomy void for evermore.

MONK.

Faith! This is stranger than a gossip's tale! My son! the wonderment o'ermasters you-- Nay! look not thus--let Nature have her way-- Give words to joy, and be your thanks first paid To Heav'n, that sends you thus your child again.

LLEWELLYN.

The joy was almost more than man might bear! And still my thoughts are lost in wild amaze-- The child unhurt--this blood--the hound--in troth, The riddle passes my poor wits.

MONK.

Let's search The chamber well--Heav'n shield us! what is this?

LLEWELLYN.

A wolf! and dead!--Ah! now I see it clear-- The hound kept worthy watch, and in my haste I slew the saviour of my house and joy. Poor Gelert! thou shalt have such recompense As man may pay unto the dead--Thy name Henceforth shall stand for Faithfulness, and men For evermore shall speak thine epitaph.

A SHELL.

From what rock-hollow'd cavern deep in ocean, Where jagged columns break the billow's beat, Whirl'd upward by some wild mid-world commotion, Has this rose-tinted shell steer'd to my feet?

Perchance the wave that bore it has rejoiced Above Man's founder'd hopes, and shatter'd pride, Whilst fierce Euroclydon swept, trumpet-voiced, Through the frail spars, and hurl'd them in the tide, And the lost seamen floated at its side!

Ah! thus too oft do Woe and Beauty meet, Swept onward by the self-same tide of fate, The bitter following swift upon the sweet, Close, close together, yet how separate!

Frail waif from the sublime storm-shaken sea, Thou seem'st the childhood toy of some old king, Who 'mid the shock of nations lights on thee, And instant backward do his thoughts take wing To the unclouded days of infancy; Then, sighing, thus away the foolish joy doth fling.

Forth from thine inner chambers come there out Low murmurs of sweet mystic melodies, Old Neptune's couch winding lone caves about, In tones that faintly through the waves arise, And steal to mortal ears in softest sighs.

The poet dreams of olden ages flowing Through the time-ocean to the listening soul, Ages when from each fountain clear and glowing, Unto the spirit Naiad voices stole.

And still, from earth and sea, there ever pealeth A voice far softer than leal lover's lay, Bearing the heart, o'er which its true sense stealeth, Far to diviner dreams of joy away, And to the wisdom of a riper day.

THE RAVEN.

There sat a raven 'mid the pines so dark, The pines so silent and so dark at morn A ragged bird with feathers rough and torn, Whetting his grimy beak upon the bark, And croaking hoarsely to the woods forlorn.

Blood red the sky and misty in the east-- Low vapours creeping bleakly o'er the hills-- The rain will soon come plashing on the rills-- No sound in all the place of bird or beast, Save that hoarse croak that all the woodland fills.

A slimy pool all rank with rotting weeds, Close by the pines there at the highway side; No ripple on its green and stagnant tide, Where only cold and still the horse-leech breeds-- Ugh! might not here some bloody murder hide!

Pshaw! ... Cold the air slow stealing through the trees, Scarce rustling the moist leaves beneath its tread-- A fearful breast thus holds its breath for dread! There is no healthful music in this breeze, It sounds ... ha! ha! ... like sighs above the dead!

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