HUMANITY THERE is a soul above the soul of each, A mightier soul, which yet to each belongs: There is a sound made of all human speech, And numerous as the concourse of all songs: And in that soul lives each, in each that soul, Though all the ages are its lifetime vast; Each soul that dies, in its most sacred whole Receiveth life that shall forever last. And live in life that ends not with his breath: And gather glory that increases still Till Time his glass with Death's last dust shall fill. FROM "MANO: A POETICAL HISTORY" THE SKYLARK THOU only bird that singest as thou flyest, Heaven-mounting lark, that measurest with thy wing The airy zones, till thou art lost in highest ! Upon the branch the laughing thrushes cling, About her home the humble linnet wheels, Around the tower the gather'd starlings swing; These mix their songs and weave their figur'd reels: Thou risest in thy lonely joy away, From the first rapturous note that from thee steals, Quick, quick, and quicker, till the exalted lay Is steadied in the golden breadths of light, 'Mid mildest clouds that bid thy pinions stay. The heavens that give would yet sustain thy flight, And o'er the earth for ever cast thy voice, If but to gain were still to keep the height. But soon thou sinkest on the fluttering poise Of calm and quiet mien, was leading him In friendly converse and society: But whom he wist not: neither could he trim Memory's spent torch to know what things were said, Nor about what, in that long way and dim. But as the valley still before him spread, He saw a line, that did the same divide Across in halves which made him feel great dread. For he beheld fire burning on one side Unto the mountains from the midmost vale; On the other, ice the empire did discide, Fed from the opposing hill with snow and hail. So dreary was that haunt of fire and cold, That nought on earth to equal might avail. Fire ended where began the frozen mould; Both in extreme at their conjunction: So close were they, no severance might be told : No thinnest line of separation, Like that which is by painter drawn to part One color in his piece from other one, So fine as that which held these realms Now while his mind was fill'd with ruth and fear, And with great horror stood his eyeballs steep, Deeming that hell before him did ap pear, And souls in torment toss'd from brink to brink : Upon him look'd the one who set him there, And said: "This is not hell, as thou dost think, Neither those torments of the cold and heat Are those wherewith the damned wail and shrink." And therewith from that place he turn'd his feet; And sometime on they walk'd, the while this man In anguish shuddering did the effect repeat: Such spasms of horror through his body ran, Walking with stumbling, and with glazed eyes Whither he knew not led, ghastly and wan. Then said the other: "In those agonies No more than hell's beginning know: behold, The doom of hell itself is otherwise." Therewith he drew aside his vesture's fold, And show'd his heart: than fire more hot it burn'd One half the rest was ice than ice more cold. A moment show'd he this: and then he turn'd, And in his going all the vision went : And he, who in his mind these things discern'd, Came to himself with long astonishment. Aught of his heart's desires, in plenty❘ They burst in tumults, swollen with bloody nurs'd: For evil things he knows not to resist : worst Against himself, with self-destructive rage. But states are with another evil curs'd, For, falling into luxury with age, William Morris THE GILLYFLOWER OF GOLD A GOLDEN gillyflower to-day However well Sir Giles might sit, Although my spear in splinters flew Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée. Yea, do not doubt my heart was good, Though my sword flew like rotten wood, To shout, although I scarcely stood, Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée. My hand was steady, too, to take When I stood in my tent again, Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée — To hear: "Honneur aux fils des preux!" Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée. The Sieur Guillaume against me came, His tabard bore three points of flame From a red heart with little blame - Our tough spears crackled up like straw; But I felt weaker than a maid, Until I thought of your dear head, Crash! how the swords met, "giroflée!" The fierce tune in my helm would play, "La belle! la belle jaune giroflée!" Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée. SHAMEFUL DEATH THERE were four of us about that bed; He did not die in the night, He did not die in the day, But in the morning twilight His spirit pass'd away, When neither sun nor moon was bright, And the trees were merely gray. He was not slain with the sword, Yet spoke he never a word I cut away the cord From the neck of my brother dear. He did not strike one blow, For the recreants came behind, In a place where the hornbeams grow, A path right hard to find, For the hornbeam boughs swing so That the twilight makes it blind. They lighted a great torch then ; When his arms were pinion'd fast, Sir John the knight of the Fen, Sir Guy of the Dolorous Blast, With knights threescore and ten, Hung brave Lord Hugh at last. I am threescore and ten, And my hair is all turn'd gray, But I met Sir John of the Fen Long ago on a summer day, And am glad to think of the moment when I took his life away. I am threescore and ten, And my strength is mostly past, But long ago I and my men, And the smoke roll'd over the reeds of the fen, Slew Guy of the Dolorous Blast. And now, knights all of you, And for Alice, his wife, pray too. THE BLUE CLOSET The Damozels LADY ALICE, Lady Louise, And ever the great bell overhead Lady Louise Sister, let the measure swell Not too loud; for you sing not well And ever the chevron overhead Flapp'd on the banner of the dead; (Was he asleep, or was he dead?) Lady Alice Alice the Queen, and Louise the Queen, To break the locks of the doors below, Float from the gold strings, float from the keys, Float from the open'd lips of Louise: And ever the great bell overhead (They sing all together:) How long ago was it, how long ago, He came to this tower with hands full of snow? "Kneel down, O love Louise, kneel down," he said, And sprinkled the dusty snow over my head. He watch'd the snow melting, it ran through my hair, Ran over my shoulders, white shoulders and bare. "I cannot weep for thee, poor love Louise, For my tears are all hidden deep under the seas "In a gold and blue casket she keeps all my tears, But my eyes are no longer blue, as in old years; "Yea, they grow gray with time, grow small and dry, I am so feeble now, would I might die." And in truth the great bell overhead Left off his pealing for the dead, Perchance because the wind was dead. Will he come back again, or is he dead? Or did they strangle him as he lay there, Dear Lord, that loves me, I wait to receive Either body or spirit this wild Christmas eve. Through the floor shot up a lily red, With a patch of earth from the land of the dead, For he was strong in the land of the dead. What matter that his cheeks were pale, What if his hair that brush'd her cheek tears, Or hope again for aught that I can say, But rather, when aweary of your mirth Remember me a little then, I pray, The heavy trouble, the bewildering care That weighs us down who live and earn our bread, These idle verses have no power to bear; So let me sing of names remembered, Because they, living not, can ne'er be dead, Or long time take their memory quite |