Ionica Part 9

So closes in the life of life; so ends The soaring of the spirit. What remains?

To take whate'er the Muse's mother lends, One sweet sad thought in many soft refrains And half reveal in Coan gauze of rhyme A cherished image of your joyous prime.

ALL THAT WAS POSSIBLE

Slope under slope the pastures dip With ribboned waterfalls, and make Scant room for just a village strip, The setting of a sapphire lake.

And here, when summer draws the kine To upland gra.s.ses patched with snow, Our travellers rest not, only dine, Then driven by Furies, onward go.

For pilgrims of the pointed stick, With pa.s.sport case for scallop sh.e.l.l, Scramble for wors.h.i.+pped Alps too quick To care for vales where mortals dwell.

Twice daily swarms the hostel's pier, Twice daily is the table laid; And, "Oh, that some would tarry here!"

Sighs Madeline, the serving-maid.

She shows them silly carven stuff; Some sneer, but others smile and buy; And these light smiles are quite enough To make the wistful maiden sigh.

She scans the face, but not the mind; She learns their taste in wines and toys, But, seem they thoughtful and refined, She fain would know their cares, their joys.

For man is not as horse and hound, Who turn to meet their lord's caress, Yet never miss the touch or sound, When absence brings unconsciousness.

Not such the souls that can reflect; Too mild they may be to repine; But sometimes, winged with intellect, They strain to pa.s.s the bounding line.

And to have learnt our pleasant tongue In English mansions, gave a sense Of something bitter-sweet, that stung The pensive maiden of Brientz.

I will not say she wished for aught; For, failing guests, she duly spun, And saved for marriage; but one thought Would still in alien channels run.

And when at last a lady came, Not lovely, but with twofold grace, For courtly France had tuned her name, Whilst England reigned in hair and face;

And illness bound her many a day, A willing captive, to the mere, In peace, though home was far away, For Madeline's talking brought it near.

Then delicate words unused before Rose to her lips, as amber s.h.i.+nes Thrown by the wave upon the sh.o.r.e From unimagined ocean-mines;

And then perceptions multiplied, Foreshadowings of the heart came true, And interlaced on every side Old girlish fancies bloomed and grew;

And looks of higher meaning gleamed Like azure sheen of mountain ice, And common household service seemed The wageless work of Paradise.

But autumn downward drove the kine, And clothed the wheel with flaxen thread, And sprinkled snow upon the pine, And bowed the silent spinster's head.

Then Europe's tumult scared the spring, And checked the Northern travel-drift: Yet to Brientz did summer bring An English letter and a gift;

And Madeline took them with a tear: "How gracious to remember me!

Her words I'll keep from year to year, Her face in heaven I hope to see."

SCHEVENINGEN AVENUE

Oh, that the road were longer, A mile, or two, or three!

So might the thought grow stronger That flows from touch of thee.

Oh little slumbering maid, If thou wert five years older, Thine head would not be laid So simply on my shoulder!

Oh, would that I were younger, Oh, were I more like thee, I should not faintly hunger For love that cannot be.

A girl might be caressed, Beside me freely sitting; A child on me might rest, And not like thee, unwitting.

Such honour is thy mother's Who smileth on thy sleep, Or for the nurse who smothers Thy cheek in kisses deep.

And but for parting day, And but for forest shady, From me they'd take away The burden of their lady.

Ah thus to feel thee leaning Above the nursemaid's hand, Is like a stranger's gleaning, Where rich men own the land;

Chance gains, and humble thrift, With shyness much like thieving, No notice with the gift, No thanks with the receiving.

Oh peasant, when thou starvest Outside the fair domain, Imagine there's a harvest In every treasured grain.

Make with thy thoughts high cheer, Say grace for others dining, And keep thy pittance clear From poison of repining.

1859.

MELLIREN

Can you so fair and young forecast The sure, the cruel day of doom; Must I believe that you at last Will fall, fall, fall down to the tomb?

Unclouded, fearless, gentle soul, You greet the foe whose threats you hear; Your lifted eyes discern the goal, Your blood declares it is not near.

Feel deeply; toil through weal and woe, Love England, love a friend, a bride.

Bid wisdom grow, let sorrow flow, Make many weep when you have died.

When you shall die--what seasons lie 'Twixt that great Then and this sweet Now!

What blooms of courage for that eye, What thorns of honour for that brow!

Oh mortal, too dear to me, tell me thy choice, Say how wouldst thou die, and in dying rejoice?

Will you perish, calmly sinking To a sunless deep sea cave, Folding hands, and kindly thinking Of the friend you tried to save?

Will you let your sweet breath pa.s.s On the arms of children bending, Gazing on the sea of gla.s.s, Where the lovelight has no ending?

Or in victory stern and fateful, Colours wrapt round shattered breast, English maidens rescued, grateful, Whispering near you, "Conqueror, rest;"

Or an old tune played once more, Tender cadence oft repeated, Moonlight shed through open door, Angel wife beside you seated.

Whatever thy death may be, child of my heart, Long, long shall they mourn thee that see thee depart.

1860