Thou art rose-lined from the cold, And meant verily to hold Life's pure pleasures manifold.

XXVI.

I am pale as crocus grows Close beside a rose-tree's root; Whosoe'er would reach the rose, Treads the crocus underfoot.

_I_, like May-bloom on thorn-tree, Thou, like merry summer-bee,-- Fit that I be plucked for thee!

XXVII.

Yet who plucks me?--no one mourns, I have lived my season out, And now die of my own thorns Which I could not live without.

Sweet, be merry! How the light Comes and goes! If it be night, Keep the candles in my sight.

XXVIII.

Are there footsteps at the door?

Look out quickly. Yea, or nay?

Some one might be waiting for Some last word that I might say.

Nay? So best!--so angels would Stand off clear from deathly road, Not to cross the sight of G.o.d.

XXIX.

Colder grow my hands and feet.

When I wear the shroud I made, Let the folds lie straight and neat, And the rosemary be spread, That if any friend should come, (To see _thee_, Sweet!) all the room May be lifted out of gloom.

x.x.x.

And, dear Bertha, let me keep On my hand this little ring, Which at nights, when others sleep, I can still see glittering!

Let me wear it out of sight, In the grave,--where it will light All the dark up, day and night.

x.x.xI.

On that grave drop not a tear!

Else, though fathom-deep the place, Through the woollen shroud I wear I shall feel it on my face.

Rather smile there, blessed one, Thinking of me in the sun, Or forget me--smiling on!

x.x.xII.

Art thou near me? nearer! so-- Kiss me close upon the eyes, That the earthly light may go Sweetly, as it used to rise When I watched the morning-grey Strike, betwixt the hills, the way He was sure to come that day.

x.x.xIII.

So,--no more vain words be said!

The hosannas nearer roll.

Mother, smile now on thy Dead, I am death-strong in my soul.

Mystic Dove alit on cross, Guide the poor bird of the snows Through the snow-wind above loss!

x.x.xIV.

Jesus, Victim, comprehending Love's divine self-abnegation, Cleanse my love in its self-spending, And absorb the poor libation!

Wind my thread of life up higher, Up, through angels' hands of fire!

I aspire while I expire.

_LADY GERALDINE'S COURTSHIP:_

A ROMANCE OF THE AGE.

_A Poet writes to his Friend._ PLACE--_A Room in Wycombe Hall._ TIME--_Late in the evening._

I.

Dear my friend and fellow-student, I would lean my spirit o'er you!

Down the purple of this chamber tears should scarcely run at will.

I am humbled who was humble. Friend, I bow my head before you: You should lead me to my peasants, but their faces are too still.

II.

There's a lady, an earl's daughter,--she is proud and she is n.o.ble, And she treads the crimson carpet and she breathes the perfumed air, And a kingly blood sends glances up, her princely eye to trouble, And the shadow of a monarch's crown is softened in her hair.

III.

She has halls among the woodlands, she has castles by the breakers, She has farms and she has manors, she can threaten and command: And the palpitating engines snort in steam across her acres, As they mark upon the blasted heaven the measure of the land.

IV.

There are none of England's daughters who can show a prouder presence; Upon princely suitors' praying she has looked in her disdain.

She was sprung of English n.o.bles, I was born of English peasants; What was _I_ that I should love her, save for competence to pain?

V.

I was only a poor poet, made for singing at her cas.e.m.e.nt, As the finches or the thrushes, while she thought of other things.

Oh, she walked so high above me, she appeared to my abas.e.m.e.nt, In her lovely silken murmur, like an angel clad in wings!

VI.

Many va.s.sals bow before her as her carriage sweeps their doorways; She has blest their little children, as a priest or queen were she: Far too tender, or too cruel far, her smile upon the poor was, For I thought it was the same smile which she used to smile on _me_.

VII.

She has voters in the Commons, she has lovers in the palace, And, of all the fair court-ladies, few have jewels half as fine; Oft the Prince has named her beauty 'twixt the red wine and the chalice: Oh, and what was _I_ to love her? my beloved, my Geraldine!

VIII.

Yet I could not choose but love her: I was born to poet-uses, To love all things set above me, all of good and all of fair.

Nymphs of mountain, not of valley, we are wont to call the Muses; And in nympholeptic climbing, poets pa.s.s from mount to star.

IX.