Her face that the foam had whitened, Her hands that were strong to strive, Her eyes whence battle had lightened, Over all was a drawn shroud tightened To bind her asleep and alive.
She turned and laughed in her dream With grey lips arid and cold; She saw not the face as a beam Burn on her, but only a gleam Through her sleep as of new-stamped gold.
But the G.o.ddess, with terrible tears In the light of her down-drawn eyes, Spake fire in the dull sealed ears; "Thou, sick with slumbers and fears, Wilt thou sleep now indeed or arise?
"With dreams and with words and with light Memories and empty desires Thou hast wrapped thyself round all night; Thou hast shut up thine heart from the right, And warmed thee at burnt-out fires.
"Yet once if I smote at thy gate, Thy sons would sleep not, but heard; O thou that wast found so great, Art thou smitten with folly or fate That thy sons have forgotten my word?
O Cromwell"s mother, O breast That suckled Milton! thy name That was beautiful then, that was blest, Is it wholly discrowned and deprest, Trodden under by sloth into shame?
"Why wilt thou hate me and die?
For none can hate me and live.
What ill have I done to thee? why Wilt thou turn from me fighting, and fly, Who would follow thy feet and forgive?
"Thou hast seen me stricken, and said, What is it to me? I am strong: Thou hast seen me bowed down on my dead And laughed and lifted thine head, And washed thine hands of my wrong.
"Thou hast put out the soul of thy sight; Thou hast sought to my foemen as friend, To my traitors that kiss me and smite, To the kingdoms and empires of night That begin with the darkness, and end.
"Turn thee, awaken, arise, With the light that is risen on the lands, With the change of the fresh-coloured skies; Set thine eyes on mine eyes, Lay thy hands in my hands."
She moved and mourned as she heard, Sighed and shifted her place, As the wells of her slumber were stirred By the music and wind of the word, Then turned and covered her face.
"Ah," she said in her sleep, "Is my work not done with and done?
Is there corn for my sickle to reap?
And strange is the pathway, and steep, And sharp overhead is the sun.
"I have done thee service enough, Loved thee enough in my day; Now nor hatred nor love Nor hardly remembrance thereof Lives in me to lighten my way.
"And is it not well with us here?
Is change as good as is rest?
What hope should move me, or fear, That eye should open or ear, Who have long since won what is best?
"Where among us are such things As turn men"s hearts into h.e.l.l?
Have we not queens without stings, Scotched princes, and fangless kings?
Yea," she said, "we are well.
"We have filed the teeth of the snake Monarchy, how should it bite?
Should the slippery slow thing wake, It will not sting for my sake; Yea," she said, "I do right."
So spake she, drunken with dreams, Mad; but again in her ears A voice as of storm-swelled streams Spake; "No brave shame then redeems Thy l.u.s.ts of sloth and thy fears?
"Thy poor lie slain of thine hands, Their starved limbs rot in thy sight; As a shadow the ghost of thee stands Among men living and lands, And stirs not leftward or right.
"Freeman he is not, but slave, Who stands not out on my side; His own hand hollows his grave, Nor strength is in me to save Where strength is none to abide.
"Time shall tread on his name That was written for honour of old, Who hath taken in change for fame Dust, and silver, and shame, Ashes, and iron, and gold."
MONOTONES
Because there is but one truth; Because there is but one banner; Because there is but one light; Because we have with us our youth Once, and one chance and one manner Of service, and then the night;
Because we have found not yet Any way for the world to follow Save only that ancient way; Whosoever forsake or forget, Whose faith soever be hollow, Whose hope soever grow grey;
Because of the watchwords of kings That are many and strange and unwritten, Diverse, and our watchword is one; Therefore, though seven be the strings, One string, if the harp be smitten, Sole sounds, till the tune be done;
Sounds without cadence or change In a weary monotonous burden, Be the keynote of mourning or mirth; Free, but free not to range; Taking for crown and for guerdon No man"s praise upon earth;
Saying one sole word evermore, In the ears of the charmed world saying, Charmed by spells to its death; One that chanted of yore To a tune of the sword-sweep"s playing In the lips of the dead blew breath;
Therefore I set not mine hand To the shifting of changed modulations, To the smiting of manifold strings; While the thrones of the throned men stand, One song for the morning of nations, One for the twilight of kings.
One chord, one word, and one way, One hope as our law, one heaven, Till slain be the great one wrong; Till the people it could not slay, Risen up, have for one star seven, For a single, a sevenfold song.
THE OBLATION
Ask nothing more of me, sweet; All I can give you I give.
Heart of my heart, were it more, More would be laid at your feet: Love that should help you to live, Song that should spur you to soar.
All things were nothing to give Once to have sense of you more, Touch you and taste of you sweet, Think you and breathe you and live, Swept of your wings as they soar, Trodden by chance of your feet.
I that have love and no more Give you but love of you, sweet: He that hath more, let him give; He that hath wings, let him soar; Mine is the heart at your feet Here, that must love you to live.
A YEAR"S BURDEN--1870
Fire and wild light of hope and doubt and fear, Wind of swift change, and clouds and hours that veer As the storm shifts of the tempestuous year; Cry wellaway, but well befall the right.
Hope sits yet hiding her war-wearied eyes, Doubt sets her forehead earthward and denies, But fear brought hand to hand with danger dies, Dies and is burnt up in the fire of fight.
Hearts bruised with loss and eaten through with shame Turn at the time"s touch to devouring flame; Grief stands as one that knows not her own name, Nor if the star she sees bring day or night.
No song breaks with it on the violent air, But shrieks of shame, defeat, and brute despair; Yet something at the star"s heart far up there Burns as a beacon in our shipwrecked sight.
O strange fierce light of presage, unknown star, Whose tongue shall tell us what thy secrets are, What message trembles in thee from so far?
Cry wellaway. but well befall the right.