Put forth their hands, and took the King, And I, the last, go forth companionless, and wept. But she, that rose the tallest of them all And fairest, laid his head upon her lap, And loosed the shatter'd casque, and chafed his hands, And call'd him by his name, complaining loud, And dropping bitter tears against a brow Striped with dark blood: for all his face was white to new, And God fulfils himself in many ways, And colourless, and like the wither'd Lest one good custom should corrupt the moon world. Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard lawns And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea, Thence mark'd the black hull moving yet, and cried, 'He passes to be King among the dead, And after healing of his grievous wound Where I will heal me of my grievous He comes again; but-if he come no wound.' But when that moan had past for evermore, The stillness of the dead world's winter dawn Amazed him, and he groan'd, 'The King is gone.' And therewithal came on him the weird rhyme, more Straining his eyes beneath an arch of hand, 'From the great deep to the great deep Or thought he saw, the speck that bare he goes.' Whereat he slowly turn'd and slowly clomb The last hard footstep of that iron crag; the King, Down that long water opening on the deep year. From halfway down the shadow of the Thunderless lightnings striking under sea grave, Past with thee thro' thy people and their love, From sunset and sunrise of all thy realm, heard Of Geoffrey's book, or him of Malleor's, one Touch'd by the adulterous finger of a time That hover'd between war and wanton ness, And crownings and dethronements: take withal Thy poet's blessing, and his trust that Heaven Will blow the tempest in the distance back From thine and ours: for some are scared, who mark, Or wisely or unwisely, signs of storm, Waverings of every vane with every wind, And wordy trucklings to the transient hour, And fierce or careless looseners of the faith, And Softness breeding scorn of simple life, Or Cowardice, the child of lust for gold, Or Labour, with a groan and not a voice, Or Art with poisonous honey stol'n from France, And that which knows, but careful for itself, And that which knows not, ruling that which knows To its own harm: the goal of this great world Lies beyond sight: yet-if our slowly. Streams like a cloud, man-shaped, from That cast them, not those gloomier which mountain peak, And cleaves to cairn and cromlech still; or him forego The darkness of that battle in the West, Where all of high and holy dies away. THE LOVER'S TALE. THE original Preface to 'The Lover's Tale' states that it was composed in my nineteenth year. Two only of the three parts then written were printed, when, feeling the imperfection of the poem, I withdrew it from the press. One of my friends however who, boylike, admired the boy's work, distributed among our common associates of that hour some copies of these two parts, without my knowledge, without the omissions and amendments which I had in contemplation, and marred by the many misprints of the compositor. Seeing that these two parts have of late been mercilessly pirated, and that what I had deemed scarce worthy to live is not allowed to die, may I not be pardoned if I suffer the whole poem at last to come into the light-accompanied with a reprint of the sequel—a work of my mature life-'The Golden Supper'? May 1879. ARGUMENT. JULIAN, whose cousin and foster-sister, Camilla, has been wedded to his friend and rival, Lionel, endeavours to narrate the story of his own love for her, and the strange sequel. He speaks (in Parts II. and III.) of having been haunted by visions and the sound of bells, tolling for a funeral, and at last ringing for a marriage; but he breaks away, overcome, as he approaches the Event, and a witness to it completes the tale. come, great Mistress of the ear and eye : Thy breath is of the pinewood; and tho' years Have hollow'd out a deep and stormy Breathe but a little on me, and the sail Permit me, friend, I prythee, Sank powerless, as anger falls aside that fledged The hills that watch'd thee, as Love watcheth Love, In thine own essence, and delight thyself Even now the Goddess of the Past, that The heart, and sometimes touches but one string That quivers, and is silent, and sometimes Sweeps suddenly all its half-moulder'd chords To some old melody, begins to play muse meet The sight that throbs and aches beneath my touch, As tho' there beat a heart in either eye; The memory's vision hath a keener edge. green Its pale pink shells-the summerhouse aloft That open'd on the pines with doors of glass, A mountain nest--the pleasure-boat that rock'd, Light-green with its own shadow, keel to keel, Upon the dappled dimplings of the wave, That blanch'd upon its side. O Love, O Hope! They come, they crowd upon me all at once And heaven pass too, dwelt on my heaven, a face Most starry-fair, but kindled from within As 'twere with dawn. She was darkhair'd, dark-eyed : Oh, such dark eyes! a single glance of them Will govern a whole life from birth to death, Careless of all things else, led on with light Moved from the cloud of unforgotten In trances and in visions: look at them, You lose yourself in utter ignorance; You cannot find their depth; for they go things, That sometimes on the horizon of the mind Lies folded, often sweeps athwart in storm Flash upon flash they lighten thro' me days Of dewy dawning and the amber eves When thou and I, Camilla, thou and I Were borne about the bay or safely moor'd Beneath a low-brow'd cavern, where the tide Plash'd, sapping its worn ribs; and all without The slowly-ridging rollers on the cliffs Clash'd, calling to each other, and thro' the arch Down those loud waters, like a setting star, Mixt with the gorgeous west the light house shone, And silver-smiling Venus ere she fell Would often loiter in her balmy blue, To crown it with herself. Here, too, my love Waver'd at anchor with me, when day hung From his mid-dome in Heaven's airy While thou, a meteor of the sepulchre, Didst swathe thyself all round Hope's quiet urn halls; |