Yes, they were kind exceedingly; most mild Even in indignation, taking by the hand One that obeyed them mutely, as a child Submissive to a law he does not understand.
They would not blame the sins his pa.s.sion wrought.
No, they were tolerant and Christian, saying, "We Only deplore ..." saying they only sought To help him, strengthen him, to show him love; but he
Following them with unrecalcitrant tread, Quiet, towards their town of kind captivities, Having slain rebellion, ever turned his head Over his shoulder, seeking still with his poor eyes
Her motionless figure on the road. The song Rang still between them, vibrant bell to answering bell, Full of young glory as a bugle; strong; Still brave; now breaking like a sea-bird"s cry "Farewell!"
And they, they whispered kindly to him "Come!
Now we have rescued you. Let your heart heal. Forget!
She was your lawless dark familiar." Dumb, He listened, and they thought him acquiescent. Yet,
(Knowing the while that they were very kind) Remembrance clamoured in him: "She was wild and free, Magnificent in giving; she was blind To gain or loss, and, loving, loved but me,--but me!
"Valiant she was, and comradely, and bold; High-mettled; all her thoughts a challenge, like gay ships Adventurous, with treasure in the hold.
I met her with the lesson put into my lips,
"Spoke reason to her, and she bowed her head, Having no argument, and giving up the strife.
She said I should be free. I think she said That, for the asking, she would give me all her life."
And still they led him onwards, and he still Looked back towards her standing there; and they, content, Cheered him and praised him that he did their will.
The gradual distance hid them, and she turned, and went.
EVENING
When little lights in little ports come out, Quivering down through water with the stars, And all the fishing fleet of slender spars Range at their moorings, veer with tide about;
When race of wind is stilled and sails are furled, And underneath our single riding-light The curve of black-ribbed deck gleams palely white, And slumbrous waters pool a slumbrous world;
--Then, and then only, have I thought how sweet Old age might sink upon a windy youth, Quiet beneath the riding-light of truth, Weathered through storms, and gracious in retreat.
EDWARD SHANKS
THE ROCK POOL
This is the sea. In these uneven walls A wave lies prisoned. Far and far away Outward to ocean, as the slow tide falls, Her sisters through the capes that hold the bay Dancing in lovely liberty recede.
Yet lovely in captivity she lies, Filled with soft colours, where the wavering weed Moves gently and discloses to our eyes Blurred shining veins of rock and lucent sh.e.l.ls Under the light-shot water; and here repose Small quiet fish and dimly glowing bells Of sleeping sea-anemones that close Their tender fronds and will not now awake Till on these rocks the waves returning break.
THE GLADE
We may raise our voices even in this still glade: Though the colours and shadows and sounds so fleeting seem, We shall not dispel them. They are not made Frailly by earth or hands, but immortal in our dream.
We may touch the faint violets with the hands of thought, Or lay the pale core of the wild arum bare; And for ever in our minds the white wild cherry is caught, Cloudy against the sky and melting into air.
This which we have seen is eternally ours, No others shall tread in the glade which now we see; Their hands shall not touch the frail tranquil flowers, Nor their hearts faint in wonder at the wild white tree.
MEMORY
In silence and in darkness memory wakes Her million sheathed buds, and breaks That day-long winter when the light and noise And hard bleak breath of the outward-looking will Made barren her tender soil, when every voice Of her million airy birds was m.u.f.fled or still.
One bud-sheath breaks: One sudden voice awakes.
What change grew in our hearts, seeing one night That moth-winged ship drifting across the bay, Her broad sail dimly white On cloudy waters and hills as vague as they?
Some new thing touched our spirits with distant delight, Half-seen, half-noticed, as we loitered down, Talking in whispers, to the little town, Down from the narrow hill --Talking in whispers, for the air so still Imposed its stillness on our lips, and made A quiet equal with the equal shade That filled the slanting walk. That phantom now Slides with slack canvas and unwhispering prow Through the dark sea that this dark room has made.
Or the night of the closed eyes will turn to day, And all day"s colours start out of the gray.
The sun burns on the water. The tall hills Push up their shady groves into the sky, And fail and cease where the intense light spills Its parching torrent on the gaunt and dry Rock of the further mountains, whence the snow That softened their harsh edges long is gone, And nothing tempers now The hot flood falling on the barren stone.
O memory, take and keep All that my eyes, your servants, bring you home-- Those other days beneath the low white dome Of smooth-spread clouds that creep As slow and soft as sleep, When shade grows pale and the cypress stands upright, Distinct in the cool light, Rigid and solid as a dark hewn stone; And many another night, That melts in darkness on the narrow quays, And changes every colour and every tone, And soothes the waters to a softer ease, When under constellations coldly bright The homeward sailors sing their way to bed On ships that motionless in harbour float.
The circling harbour-lights flash green and red; And, out beyond, a steady travelling boat, Breaking the swell with slow industrious oars, At each stroke pours Pale lighted water from the lifted blade.
Now in the painted houses all around Slow-darkening windows call The empty unwatched middle of the night.
The tide"s few inches rise without a sound.
On the black promontory"s windless head, The last awake, the fireflies rise and fall And tangle up their dithering skeins of light.
O memory, take and keep All that my eyes, your servants, bring you home!
Thick through the changing year The unexpected, rich-charged moments come, That you twixt wake and sleep In the lids of the closed eyes shall make appear.
This is life"s certain good, Though in the end it be not good at all When the dark end arises, And the stripped, startled spirit must let fall The amulets that could Prevail with life"s but not death"s sad devices.
Then, like a child from whom an older child Forces its gathered treasures, Its beads and sh.e.l.ls and strings of withered flowers, Tokens of recent pleasures, The soul must lose in eyes weeping and wild Those prints of vanished hours.
WOMAN"S SONG
No more upon my bosom rest thee, Too often have my hands caressed thee, My lips thou knowest well, too well; Lean to my heart no more thine ear My spirit"s living truth to hear --It has no more to tell.
In what dark night, in what strange night, Burnt to the b.u.t.t the candle"s light That lit our room so long?
I do not know, I thought I knew How love could be both sweet and true: I also thought it strong.
Where has the flame departed? Where, Amid the empty waste of air, Is that which dwelt with us?