A Hidden Life and Other Poems

THE HOMELESS GHOST

Still flowed the music, flowed the wine. The youth in silence went;Through naked streets, in cold moonshine, His homeward way he bent,Where, on the city's seaward line, His lattice seaward leant.He knew not why he left the throng, But that he could not rest;That something pained him in the song, And mocked him in the jest;And a cold moon-glitter lay along One lovely lady's breast.He sat him down with solemn book His sadness to beguile;A skull from off its bracket-nook Threw him a lipless smile;But its awful, laughter-mocking look, Was a passing moonbeam's wile.An hour he sat, and read in vain, Nought but mirrors were his eyes;For to and fro through his helpless brain, Went the dance's mysteries;Till a gust of wind against the pane, Mixed with a sea-bird's cries,And the sudden spatter of drifting rain Bade him mark the altered skies.The moon was gone, intombed in cloud; The wind began to rave;The ocean heaved within its shroud, For the dark had built its grave;But like ghosts brake forth, and cried aloud, The white crests of the wave.Big rain. The wind howled out, aware Of the tread of the watery west;The windows shivered, back waved his hair, The fireside seemed the best;But lo! a lady sat in his chair, With the moonlight across her breast.The moonbeam passed. The lady sat on. Her beauty was sad and white.All but her hair with whiteness shone, And her hair was black as night;And her eyes, where darkness was never gone, Although they were full of light.But her hair was wet, and wept like weeds On her pearly shoulders bare;And the clear pale drops ran down like beads, Down her arms, to her fingers fair;And her limbs shine through, like thin-filmed seeds, Her dank white robe's despair.She moved not, but looked in his wondering face, Till his blushes began to rise;But she gazed, like one on the veiling lace, To something within his eyes;A gaze that had not to do with place, But thought and spirit tries.Then the voice came forth, all sweet and clear, Though jarred by inward pain;She spoke like one that speaks in fear Of the judgment she will gain,When the soul is full as a mountain-mere, And the speech, but a flowing vein."Thine eyes are like mine, and thou art bold; Nay, heap not the dying fire;It warms not me, I am too cold, Cold as the churchyard spire;If thou cover me up with fold on fold, Thou kill'st not the coldness dire."Her voice and her beauty, like molten gold, Thrilled through him in burning rain.He was on fire, and she was cold, Cold as the waveless main;But his heart-well filled with woe, till it rolled A torrent that calmed him again."Save me, Oh, save me!" she cried; and flung Her splendour before his feet;—"I am weary of wandering storms among, And I hate the mouldy sheet;I can dare the dark, wind-vexed and wrung, Not the dark where the dead things meet."Ah! though a ghost, I'm a lady still—" The youth recoiled aghast.With a passion of sorrow her great eyes fill; Not a word her white lips passed.He caught her hand; 'twas a cold to kill, But he held it warm and fast."What can I do to save thee, dear?" At the word she sprang upright.To her ice-lips she drew his burning ear, And whispered—he shivered—she whispered light.She withdrew; she gazed with an asking fear; He stood with a face ghost-white."I wait—ah, would I might wait!" she said; "But the moon sinks in the tide;Thou seest it not; I see it fade, Like one that may not bide.Alas! I go out in the moonless shade; Ah, kind! let me stay and hide."He shivered, he shook, he felt like clay; And the fear went through his blood;His face was an awful ashy grey, And his veins were channels of mud.The lady stood in a white dismay, Like a half-blown frozen bud."Ah, speak! am I so frightful then? I live; though they call it death;I am only cold—say dear again"— But scarce could he heave a breath;The air felt dank, like a frozen fen, And he a half-conscious wraith."Ah, save me!" once more, with a hopeless cry, That entered his heart, and lay;But sunshine and warmth and rosiness vie With coldness and moonlight and grey.He spoke not. She moved not; yet to his eye, She stood three paces away.She spoke no more. Grief on her face Beauty had almost slain.With a feverous vision's unseen pace She had flitted away again;And stood, with a last dumb prayer for grace, By the window that clanged with rain.He stood; he stared. She had vanished quite. The loud wind sank to a sigh;Grey faces without paled the face of night, As they swept the window by;And each, as it passed, pressed a cheek of fright To the glass, with a staring eye.And over, afar from over the deep, Came a long and cadenced wail;It rose, and it sank, and it rose on the steep Of the billows that build the gale.It ceased; but on in his bosom creep Low echoes that tell the tale.He opened his lattice, and saw afar, Over the western sea,Across the spears of a sparkling star, A moony vapour flee;And he thought, with a pang that he could not bar, The lady it might be.He turned and looked into the room; And lo! it was cheerless and bare;Empty and drear as a hopeless tomb,— And the lady was not there;Yet the fire and the lamp drove out the gloom, As he had driven the fair.And up in the manhood of his breast, Sprang a storm of passion and shame;It tore the pride of his fancied best In a thousand shreds of blame;It threw to the ground his ancient crest, And puffed at his ancient name.He had turned a lady, and lightly clad, Out in the stormy cold.Was she a ghost?—Divinely sad Are the guests of Hades old.A wandering ghost? Oh! terror bad, That refused an earthly fold!And sorrow for her his shame's regret Into humility wept;He knelt and he kissed the footprints wet, And the track by her thin robe swept;He sat in her chair, all ice-cold yet, And moaned until he slept.He woke at dawn. The flaming sun Laughed at the bye-gone dark."I am glad," he said, "that the night is done, And the dream slain by the lark."And the eye was all, until the gun That boomed at the sun-set—hark!And then, with a sudden invading blast, He knew that it was no dream.And all the night belief held fast, Till thinned by the morning beam.Thus radiant mornings and pale nights passed On the backward-flowing stream.He loved a lady with heaving breath, Red lips, and a smile alway;And her sighs an odour inhabiteth, All of the rose-hued may;But the warm bright lady was false as death, And the ghost is true as day.And the spirit-face, with its woe divine, Came back in the hour of sighs;As to men who have lost their aim, and pine, Old faces of childhood rise:He wept for her pleading voice, and the shine Of her solitary eyes.And now he believed in the ghost all night, And believed in the day as well;And he vowed, with a sorrowing tearful might, All she asked, whate'er befel,If she came to his room, in her garment white, Once more at the midnight knell.She came not. He sought her in churchyards old That lay along the sea;And in many a church, when the midnight tolled, And the moon shone wondrously;And down to the crypts he crept, grown bold; But he waited in vain: ah me!And he pined and sighed for love so sore, That he looked as he were lost;And he prayed her pardon more and more, As one who had sinned the most;Till, fading at length, away he wore, And he was himself a ghost.But if he found the lady then, The lady sadly lost,Or she had found 'mongst living men A love that was a host,I know not, till I drop my pen, And am myself a ghost.

ABU MIDJAN

"It is only just To laud good wine: If I sit in the dust, So sits the vine."Abu Midjan sang, as he sat in chains,For the blood of the grape was the juice of his veins.The prophet had said, "O Faithful, drink not"—Abu Midjan drank till his heart was hot;Yea, he sang a song in praise of wine,And called it good names, a joy divine.And Saad assailed him with words of blame,And left him in irons, a fettered flame;But he sang of the wine as he sat in chains,For the blood of the grape ran fast in his veins. "I will not think That the Prophet said, Ye shall not drink Of the flowing red. "But some weakling head, In its after pain, Moaning said, Drink not again. "But I will dare, With a goodly drought, To drink and not spare, Till my thirst be out. "For as I quaff The liquor cool, I do not laugh, Like a Christian fool; "But my bosom fills, And my faith is high; Through the emerald hills Goes my lightning eye. "I see them hearken, I see them wait; Their light eyes darken The diamond gate. "I hear the float Of their chant divine; Each heavenly note Mingles with mine. "Can an evil thing Make beauty more? Or a sinner bring To the heavenly door? "'Tis the sun-rays fine That sink in the earth, And are drunk by the vine, For its daughters' birth. "And the liquid light, I drink again; And it flows in might Through the shining brain, "Making it know The things that are In the earth below, Or the farthest star. "I will not think That the Prophet said, Ye shall not drink Of the flowing Red. "For his promise, lo! Shows more divine, When the channels o'erflow With the singing wine. "But if he did, 'tis a small annoy To sit in chains for a heavenly joy."Away went the song on the light wind borne.His head sank down, and a ripple of scorn,At the irons that fettered his brown limbs' strength.Waved on his lip the dark hair's length.But sudden he lifted his head to the north—Like a mountain-beacon his eye blazed forth:'Twas a cloud in the distance that caught his eye,Whence a faint clang shot on the light breeze by;A noise and a smoke on the plain afar—'Tis the cloud and the clang of the Moslem war.And the light that flashed from his black eyes, lo!Was a light that paled the red wine's glow;And he shook his fetters in bootless ire,And called on the Prophet, and named his sire.But the lady of Saad heard the clang,And she knew the far sabres his fetters rang.Oh! she had the heart where a man might rest,For she knew the tempest in his breast.She rose. Ere she reached him, he called her name,But he called not twice ere the lady came;And he sprang to his feet, and the irons cursed,And wild from his lips the Tecbir burst:"Let me go," he said, "and, by Allah's fear,At sundown I sit in my fetters here,Or lie 'neath a heaven of starry eyes,Kissed by moon-maidens of Paradise."The lady unlocked his fetters stout,Brought her husband's horse and his armour out,Clothed the warrior, and bid him goAn angel of vengeance upon the foe;Then turned her in, and from the roof,Beheld the battle, far aloof.Straight as an arrow she saw him go,Abu Midjan, the singer, upon the foe.Like home-sped lightning he pierced the cloud,And the thunder of battle burst more loud;And like lightning along a thunderous steep,She saw the sickle-shaped sabres sweep,Keen as the sunlight they dashed awayWhen it broke against them in flashing spray;Till the battle ebbed o'er the plain afar,Borne on the flow of the holy war.As sank from the edge the sun's last flame,Back to his bonds Abu Midjan came."O lady!" he said, "'tis a mighty horse;The Prophet himself might have rode a worse.I felt beneath me his muscles' play,As he tore to the battle, like fiend, away.I forgot him, and swept at the traitor weeds,And they fell before me like broken reeds;Dropt their heads, as a boy doth mowThe poppies' heads with his unstrung bow.They fled. The faithful follow at will.I turned. And lo! he was under me still.Give him water, lady, and barley to eat;Then come and help me to fetter my feet."He went to the terrace, she went to the stall,And tended the horse like a guest in the hall;Then to the singer in haste returned.The fire of the fight in his eyes yet burned;But he said no more, as if in shameOf the words that had burst from his lips in flame.She left him there, as at first she found,Seated in fetters upon the ground.But the sealed fountain, in pulses strong,O'erflowed his silence, and burst in song. "Oh! the wine Of the vine Is a feeble thing; In the rattle Of battle The true grapes spring. "When on force Of the horse, The arm flung abroad Is sweeping, And reaping The harvest of God. "When the fear Of the spear Makes way for its blow; And the faithless Lie breathless The horse-hoofs below. "The wave-crest, Round the breast, Tosses sabres all red; But under, Its thunder Is dumb to the dead. "They drop From the top To the sear heap below; And deeper, Down steeper, The infidels go. "But bright Is the light On the true-hearted breaking; Rapturous faces, Bent for embraces, Wait on his waking. "And he hears In his ears The voice of the river, Like a maiden, Love-laden, Go wandering ever. "Oh! the wine Of the vine May lead to the gates; But the rattle Of battle Wakes the angel who waits. "To the lord Of the sword Open it must; The drinker, The thinker, Sits in the dust. "He dreams Of the gleams Of their garments of white: He misses Their kisses, The maidens of light. "They long For the strong, Who has burst through alarms, Up, by the labour Of stirrup and sabre, Up to their arms."Oh! the wine of the grape is a feeble ghost;But the wine of the fight is the joy of a host."When Saad came home from the far pursuit,He sat him down, and an hour was mute.But at length he said: "Ah! wife, the fightHad been lost full sure, but an arm of mightSudden rose up on the crest of the war,With its sabre that circled in rainbows afar,Took up the battle, and drove it on—Enoch sure, or the good St. John.Wherever he leaped, like a lion he,The fight was thickest, or soon to be;Wherever he sprang, with his lion cry,The thick of the battle soon went by.With a headlong fear, the sinners fled;We followed—and passed them—for they were dead.But him who had saved us, we saw no more;He had gone, as he came, by a secret door;And strange to tell, in his holy force,He wore my armour, he rode my horse."The lady arose, with her noble pride,And she walked with Saad, side by side;As she led him, a moon that would not wane,Where Midjan counted the links of his chain!"I gave him thy horse, and thy armour to wear;If I did a wrong, I am here to bear.""Abu Midjan, the singer of love and of wine!The arm of the battle—it also was thine?Rise up, shake the fetters from off thy feet;For the lord of the battle, are fetters meet?Drink as thou wilt—till thou be hoar—Let Allah judge thee—I judge no more."Abu Midjan arose and flung asideThe clanging fetters, and thus he cried:"If thou give me to God and his decrees,Nor purge my sin by the shame of these;I dare not do as I did before—In the name of Allah, I drink no more."

AN OLD STORY

They were parted at last, although Each was tenderly dear;As asunder their eyes did go, When first alone and near.'Tis an old story this— A trembling and a sigh,A gaze in the eyes, a kiss— Why will it not go by?

A BOOK OF DREAMS

PART I

I lay and dreamed. The master came In his old woven dress;I stood in joy, and yet in shame, Oppressed with earthliness.He stretched his arms, and gently sought To clasp me to his soul;I shrunk away, because I thought He did not know the whole.I did not love him as I would, Embraces were not meet;I sank before him where he stood, And held and kissed his feet.Ten years have passed away since then, Oft hast thou come to me;The question scarce will rise again, Whether I care for thee.To every doubt, in thee my heart An answer hopes to find;In every gladness, Lord, thou art, The deeper joy behind.And yet in other realms of life, Unknown temptations rise,Unknown perplexities and strife, New questions and replies.And every lesson learnt, anew, The vain assurance lendsThat now I know, and now can do, And now should see thy ends.So I forget I am a child, And act as if a man;Who through the dark and tempest wild Will go, because he can.And so, O Lord, not yet I dare To clasp thee to my breast;Though well I know that only there Is hid the secret rest.And yet I shrink not, as at first: Be thou the judge of guilt;Thou knowest all my best and worst, Do with me as thou wilt.Spread thou once more thine arms abroad, Lay bare thy bosom's beat;Thou shalt embrace me, O my God, And I will kiss thy feet.

I stood before my childhood's home, Outside the belt of trees;All round, my dreaming glances roam On well-known hills and leas.When sudden, from the westward, rushed A wide array of waves;Over the subject fields they gushed From far-off, unknown caves.And up the hill they clomb and came, On flowing like a sea:I saw, and watched them like a game; No terror woke in me.For just the belting trees within, I saw my father wait;And should the waves the summit win, I would go through the gate.For by his side all doubt was dumb, And terror ceased to foam;No great sea-billows dared to come, And tread the holy home.Two days passed by. With restless toss, The red flood brake its doors;Prostrate I lay, and looked across To the eternal shores.The world was fair, and hope was nigh, Some men and women true;And I was strong, and Death and I Would have a hard ado.And so I shrank. But sweet and good The dream came to my aid;Within the trees my father stood, I must not be dismayed.My grief was his, not mine alone; The waves that burst in fears,He heard not only with his own, But heard them with my ears.My life and death belong to thee, For I am thine, O God;Thy hands have made and fashioned me, 'Tis thine to bear the load.And thou shalt bear it. I will try To be a peaceful child,Whom in thy arms right tenderly Thou carriest through the wild.

The rich man mourns his little loss, And knits the brow of care;The poor man tries to bear the cross, And seeks relief in prayer.Some gold had vanished from my purse, Which I had watched but ill;I feared a lack, but feared yet worse Regret returning still.And so I knelt and prayed my prayer To Him who maketh strong,That no returning thoughts of care Should do my spirit wrong.I rose in peace, in comfort went, And laid me down to rest;But straight my soul grew confident With gladness of the blest.For ere the sleep that care redeems, My soul such visions had,That never child in childhood's dreams Was more exulting glad.No white-robed angels floated by On slow, reposing wings;I only saw, with inward eye, Some very common things.First rose the scarlet pimpernel, With burning purple heart;I saw it, and I knew right well The lesson of its art.Then came the primrose, childlike flower; It looked me in the face;It bore a message full of power, And confidence, and grace.And winds arose on uplands wild, And bathed me like a stream;And sheep-bells babbled round the child Who loved them in a dream.Henceforth my mind was never crossed By thought of vanished gold,But with it came the guardian host Of flowers both meek and bold.The loss is riches while I live, A joy I would not lose:Choose ever, God, what Thou wilt give, Not leaving me to choose."What said the flowers in whisper low, To soothe me into rest?"I scarce have words—they seemed to grow Right out of God's own breast.They said, God meant the flowers He made, As children see the same;They said the words the lilies said

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