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By the many hundred years red-rusted,
She hopes they have not caught the felons.
(When fortune's malice
Lost her Calais)
THE BISHOP ORDERS HIS TOMB AT SAINT PRAXED'S CHURCH
Your ghost will walk, you lover of trees,
(If our loves remain)
In an English lane, By a cornfield-side a-flutter with poppies. Hark, those two in the hazel coppice A boy and a girl, if the good fates please,
Making love, say,
The happier they ! Draw yourself up from the light of the
moon, And let them pass, as they will too soon,
With the beanflower's boon,
VANITY, saith the preacher, vanity!
back ? Nephews — sons mine . . . ah God, I know
not ! Well — She, men would have to be your mother
once, Old Gandolf envied me, so fair she was ! What's done is done, and she is dead be
side, Dead long ago, and I am Bishop since, And as she died so must we die ourselves, And thence ye may perceive the world's a
dream. Life, how and what is it? As here I lie In this state-chamber, dying by degrees, Hours and long hours in the dead night, I
ask, “Do I live, am I dead ?” Peace, peace
seems all. Saint Praxed's ever was the church for
peace; And so, about this tomb of mine. I fought With tooth and nail to save my niche, ye
What I love best in all the world
- Old Gandolf cozen'd me, despite my ’T was ever antique-black I meant ! How care ;
else Shrewd was that snatch from out the Shall ye contrast my frieze to come becorner South
neath ? He graced his carrion with, God curse the The bas-relief in bronze ye promis'd me, same !
Those Pans and Nymphs ye wot of, and Yet still my niche is not so cramp'd but perehance thence
Some tripod, thyrsus, with a vase or so, One sees the pulpit on the epistle-side, The Saviour at his sermon on the mount, And somewhat of the choir, those silent Saint Praxed in a glory, and one Pan seats,
Ready to twitch the Nymph's last garment
To revel down my villas while I gasp The odd one at my feet where Anselm Brick'd o'er with beggar's mouldy traverstands :
tine Peach-blossom marble all, the rare, the Which Gandolf from his tomb-top chuckles ripe
at ! As fresh-pour'd red wine of a mighty pulse, Nay, boys, ye love me - all of jasper, then ! - Old Gandolf with his paltry onion-stone. ’T is jasper ye stand pledged to, lest I Put me where I may look at him! True grieve peach,
My bath must needs be left behind, alas ! Rosy and flawless : how I earn'd the prize ! One block, pure green as a pistachio-nut, Draw close : that conflagration of my There's plenty jasper somewhere in the church
world- What then? So much was sav'd if And have I not Saint Praxed's ear to pray aught were miss'd !
Horses for ye, and brown Greek manuMy sons, ye would not be my death ? Go scripts, dig
And mistresses with great smooth marbly The white-grape vineyard where the oil
limbs ? press stood,
That's if ye carve my epitaph aright, Drop water gently till the surface sink, Choice Latin, pick'd phrase, Tully's every And if ye find . . . Ah God, I know not,
No gaudy ware like Gandolf's second line — Bedded in store of rotten figleaves soft, Tully, my masters ? Ulpian serves his And corded up in a tight olive-frail,
need ! Some lump, ah God, of lapis lazuli,
And then how shall I lie through centuries, Big as a Jew's head cut off at the nape,
And hear the blessed mutter of the mass, Blue as a vein o'er the Madonna's breast And see God made and eaten all day long, Sons, all have I bequeathed you, villas, all, And feel the steady candle-flame, and taste That brave Frascati villa with its bath, Good strong thick stupefying incenseSo, let the blue lump poise between my
smoke ! knees,
For as I lie here, hours of the dead night, Like God the Father's globe on both his Dying in state and by such slow degrees, hands
I fold my arms as if they clasp'd a crook, Ye worship in the Jesu Church so gay, And stretch my feet forth straight as stone For Gandolf shall not choose but see and
can point, burst !
And let the bedclothes, for a mortcloth,
Grow, with a certain humming in my ears, As I gain the cove with pushing prow,
And straight was a path of gold for him,
That is her book-shelf, this her bed ;
She pluck'd that piece of geraniumWherein I am to lie till I must ask,
flower, “Do I live, am I dead ?” There, leave me, Beginning to die too, in the glass ; there !
Little has yet been changed, I think: For ye have stabb’d me with ingratitude
The shutters are shut, no light may pass To death : ye wish it — God, ye wish it ! Save two long rays thro'the hinge's chink.
Stone Gritstone, a-crumble ! Clammy squares Sixteen years old when she died ! which sweat
Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name ; As if the corpse they keep were oozing It was not her time to love ; beside, through
Her life had many a hope and aim,
And now was quiet, now astir, there,
Till God's hand beckon'd unawares, But in a row: and, going, turn your backs And the sweet white brow is all of her. - Ay, like departing altar-ministrants, And leave me in my church, the church for Is it too late then, Evelyn Hope ? peace
What, your soul was pure and true, That I may watch at leisure if he leers – The good stars met in your horoscope, Old Gandolf — at me, from his onion-stone, Made you of spirit, fire and dew – As still he envied me, so fair she was ! And, just because I was thrice as old
And our paths in the world diverged so
wide, MEETING AT NIGHT
Each was nought to each, must I be told ?
We were fellow mortals, nought beside ?
Is great to grant, as mighty to make,
I claim you still, for my own love's sake!
Delay'd it may be for more lives yet, What else should he be set for, with his
What, save to waylay with his lies, en-
Would break, what crutch 'gin write my In the lower earth, in the years long still,
epitaph That body and soul so pure and gay? For pastime in the dusty thoroughfare, Why your hair was amber, I shall divine, And your mouth of your own geranium’s | If at his counsel I should turn aside red
Into that ominous tract which, all agree, And what you would do with me, in fine, Hides the Dark Tower. Yet acquiescingly In the new life come in the old one's I did turn as he pointed : neither pride stead.
Nor hope rekindling at the end descried,
So much as gladness that some end
For, what with my whole world-wide
wandering, Ransack'd the ages, spoil'd the climes ; What with my search drawn out thro' Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope,
years, my hope Either I miss'd or itself miss'd me :
Dwindled into a ghost not fit to cope And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope ! With that obstreperous joy success would What is the issue ? let us see !
I hardly tried now to rebuke the spring I lov'd you, Evelyn, all the while !
My heart made, finding failure in its
As when a sick man very near to death
end So hush, — I will give you this leaf to The tears and takes the farewell of each keep :
friend, See, I shut it inside the sweet cold And hears one bid the other go, draw breath hand!
Freelier outside, (“since all is o'er,” he There, that is our secret : go to sleep !
saith, You will wake, and remember, and
“ And the blow fallen no grieving can understand.
While some discuss if near the other
graves “CHILDE ROLAND TO THE DARK Be room enough for this, and when a day TOWER CAME"1
Suits best for carrying the corpse away,
With care about the banners, scarves and My first thought was, he lied in every staves, word,
And still the man hears all, and only craves That hoary cripple, with malicious eye He may not shame such tender love and Askance to watch the working of his lie
stay. On mine, and mouth scarce able to afford Suppression of the glee, that purs’d and Thus, I had so long suffer'd, in this quest, scor'd
Heard failure prophesied so oft, been writ Its edge, at one more victim gain'd So many times among “ The Band " -- to thereby
wit, 1 See Edgar's song in “ Lear."
The knights who to the Dark Tower's As for the grass, it grew as scant as hair search address'd
In leprosy; thin dry blades prick'd the Their steps -- that just to fail as they,
mud seem'd best.
Which underneath look'd kneaded up And all the doubt was now should I
a-stare, So, quiet as despair, I turn'd from him, Stood stupefied, however he came there :
That hateful cripple, out of his highway Thrust out past service from the devil's Into the path he pointed. All the day
stud! Had been a dreary one at best, and dim Was settling to its close, yet shot one grim Alive ? he might be dead for aught I Red leer to see the plain catch its estray. know,
With that red, gaunt and collop'd neck For mark ! no sooner was I fairly found
a-strain, Pledged to the plain, after a pace or two, And shut eyes underneath the rusty Than, pausing to throw backward a last
mane ; view
Seldom went such grotesqueness with such O'er the safe road, 't was gone ; gray plain
woe ; all round :
I never saw a brute I hated so; Nothing but plain to the horizon's bound. He must be wicked to deserve such pain. I might go on; nought else remain'd to do.
I shut my eyes and turn'd them on my So, on I went. I think I never saw
heart. Such starv'd ignoble nature ; nothing As a man calls for wine before he fights, throve :
I ask'd one draught of earlier, happier For flowers as well expect a cedar sights, grove !
Ere fitly I could hope to play my part. But cockle, spurge, according to their law Think first, fight afterwards - -the soldier's Might propagate their kind, with none to
art : awe,
One taste of the old time sets all to You'd think ; a burr had been a treasure rights. trove.
Not it! I fancied Cuthbert's reddening No ! penury, inertness and grimace,
face In some strange sort, were the land's Beneath its garniture of curly gold, portion. "See
Dear fellow, till I almost felt him fold Orshut your eyes," said Nature peevishly, An arm in mine to fix me to the place, “It nothing skills : I cannot help my case : That way he us'd. Alas, one night's dis'T is the Last Judgment's fire must cure this place,
Out went my heart's new fire and left it Calcine its clods and set my prisoners
Giles then, the soul of honor - there he If there push'd any ragged thistle-stalk
stands Above its mates, the head was chopp'd ; Frank as ten years ago when knighted the bents
first. Were jealous else. What made those What honest man should dare (he said) holes and rents
he durst. In the dock's harsh swarth leaves, bruis'd Good — but the scene shifts faugh! as to baulk
what hangman hands All hope of greenness? 'Tis a brute must Pin to his breast a parchment ? His own walk
bands Pashing their life out, with a brute's in Read it. Poor traitor, spit upon and tents.