Poems

Produced by David Ross and PG Distributed Proofreaders

POEMS

BY

WALTER R. CASSELS

LONDON

1856

CONTENTS.

MABEL HEBE SPRING THE BITTERN GONE BEATRICE DI TENDA SERENADE THE EAGLE WHITHER? THE MORNING STAR THE DELECTABLE MOUNTAINS THE DARK RIVER WYTHAM WOODS THE STAR IN THE EAST UNDER THE SEA WIND A CHALLENGE AT PARTING A WITHERED ROSE-BUD DE PROFUNDIS THE MOTHER SONNET--DATUR HORA QUIETI SEA MARGINS SONG--"LOVE TOOK ME SOFTLY BY THE HAND" THE BELL LLEWELLYN A SHELL THE RAVEN SONNETS ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON THE PASSAGE-BIRDS MEMNON A CONCEIT THE LAND'S END THE OLDEN TIME FATHER AND SON ORION THE GOLDEN WATER YEARS AGO VULCAN SONG--"THE DAYS ARE PAST" GUY OF WARWICK AT EVENTIDE A DIRGE TO MY DREAM-LOVE A NIGHT SCENE SONNET--"O CLOUD SO GOLDEN" FLOATING DOWN THE RIVER ORPHEUS THE SCULPTOR

M A B E L, A Sketch.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

ORAN, _a Speculative Philosopher._ MABEL, _his Wife._ HER FATHER. MAURICE, } ROGER, } _her brothers._

MABEL.

SCENE I--_A Study. Books, pictures, and sculpture about the room, interspersed with chemical and other instruments, globes, &c.; a singular blending of science with art, indicating a delicate and speculative organization in the arranger_.

ORAN, MAURICE, _and_ ROGER.

ORAN.

Well, well! and so ye deem I love her not, Ye and the world that love so passing well?-- That still I trifle with her bright young life, As the wind plays with some frail water-bell, Wafting it wantonly about the sky, Till at some harsher breath it breaks and dies?

MAURICE.

Nay, not thus far would our reflections go. Friendship paints not with the foul brush of Conscience! But thou, a man of dark and mystic aims, Tracking out Science through forbidden ways, Leaving the light and trodden paths to grope 'Mid fearful speculations and wild dreams, May'st hunt thy Will-o'-the-wisp until thou lead'st Our sister, all unwitting, to her death.

ROGER.

That shalt thou answer unto us. Thy life Shall be to her life like the sun and shade, Lost in one setting.

ORAN.

Ay! thou sayest well-- Thou sayest well. How oft a random shaft Striketh King Truth betwixt the armour-joints!-- One life, one sun, one setting for us both.

Which way, then, tend your fears? What certain aim Have all these strokes you level at my ways?

ROGER.

We say that you, against all light received, Against all laws of prudence and of love, Practise dark magic on our sister's soul-- That by strange motions, incantations, spells, So work you on her spirit that strange sleep, Sombre as Death's dark shadow, presently Steals o'er her fragile body, dulls her sense, And wraps her wholly in its chill embrace; That thus, spell-bound, lost to the living world, She lies till thou again unwind her chain, And wak'st her feebly to this life of earth. Thus dost thou peril her, thou blinded man! Sett'st her dear life against thy moonstruck thought, And slay'st thy dove on Folly's altar-steps.

MAURICE.

Ay! if you loved her, would your eyes have miss'd The moonish faintness that o'erlaps her now, Melting the fresh, full, ruddy glow of health To loveliness most heavenly, yet most sad? Her cheeks, where youth once summer'd into roses, Glow now with faint exotic loveliness, Not native to this harsh and gusty earth; And from her large dark eyes there seems to gaze Some angel with mute, melancholy looks, As from a casement at this jarring world.

ORAN.

Ha! then you too have seen it; it is not, O Heaven!--is not delusion, this fond dream, But even now it works, works bliss for her. Proceed, Sir ... you were saying ... Sir, I list ... That in her eyes you saw angelic fire, Pure from the dross, the dimming clouds of earth, Deem'd now her frame ethereal, unakin To earth's clay-moulded fabrics--such, perchance, As entering heaven, might have left its dust At the bright folding portals, sandal-like, And thence, repassing in seraphic trance, Still left unclaim'd the vesture at the gate!

ROGER.

You glory in her weakness! 'Tis too much-- Rash man, beware, a bitter end will come.

MAURICE.

I fain would think that study hath o'erwrought Your heated brain to this short fever fit, That soon may pass and leave your vision clear. In truth, I note strange changes in your mien-- A wandering glance, quick, restless eagerness, Rapt snatches of deep thought, wherein the mind Seems cleaving heaven with wild extatic wings: Your cheeks are pale, and all your nervous frame Thrills 'neath some strange enthusiastic touch. Lay by your books awhile, and breathe again, As in those days gone by, the country air, The sweet, calm country air, where perfume floats Like love that finds no heart so godlike large Can clasp it wholly in its one embrace, But overflows creation with its bliss. Thus shall you quickly exorcise this madness, And cleanse your brain of these pernicious dreams.

ORAN.

This madness! I bethink me of the past, Of all the great and noble who have toil'd Amid the deep dark mines of burning thought, Wearing out life to quarry forth the Truth; Of all the seers and watchers, early and late Waiting with eager blood-hot eyes the light Rising afar in some untrodden East, Full of divine and precious influence, Calling, like Mezzuin from his minaret, The thankless world to worship and be glad; Of all the patient thinkers of the earth Who talk'd with Wisdom like familiar friends, Until their voices unaccustom'd grew, And men stared blankly at them as they pass'd: I do bethink me of them all, and know How each walk'd through his labyrinth of scorn, And was accounted mad before all men. But patience!--Winter bears within its breast The nascent seeds of golden harvest-time.

This only shall I tell you of my ways-- Straying, now here, now there, 'mid science' wealth, I have discover'd a vast hidden power-- A power that perfected shall surely work Great revolution in all human laws,-- Where stop its courses I as yet know not; 'Tis to me like the sun, that all the day Shines godlike in my vision, and, at night, Though darkness hide its brightness, still, I feel, Shines on in glory over other spheres; It is a power beneficent and good, That grants to spirit infinite control Over all matter, and that frees the soul From its flesh shackles, and its sensuous means. What else its influences, or for health, For happiness, or blessing, I say not-- Save that such glimpses of vast powers unknown Dawn on my wondering mind, that like a man Standing upon some giddy pinnacle, With a whole world seen faint and small below, I close mine eyes for very fear and joy. To her, my Mabel, do I bear in love Some first-fruits of my finding--make her rich, That, gazing through her eyes, I may behold How sweet is heaven, how dear is happiness. This is the sum of that I work on her; Then, though I thank you for your good intent, Leave me untroubled to my life of thought, Leave her all trustful in the arms of love.

ROGER.

You love her not, false man! your heart and soul Are steep'd in science till not e'en the heel, Achilles-like, is vulnerable left. Ay! wear thus feeling's semblance as you will, Pale visionary! no more shall I pause, But with strong hand arrest your mad career! Soon we return arm'd with a father's power, To snatch our sister from your fearful arts.

MAURICE.

Oh! if you love her, Sir, as once you did-- If yet upon the dial of your life Her sun mark out the short sweet hours of joy, And all too swiftly on the shadows glide-- If yet you prize the loving heart you hold, From this most mad delusion waken up, That blindly blights her whom it seeks to bless; Cease your Utopian and unsafe essays, And rather turn your studious care to call The fading roses back into her cheeks, And shed health's gladness on her feeble frame; Reflect whilst yet you may, lest late Remorse Stalk, ghost-like, through the chambers of your soul, Haunting their gloomy void for evermore.

[_Exeunt Maurice and Roger_.

SCENE II.--_The Same_.

ORAN.

ORAN.

Not love her! O my God! thou knowest me-- Thou, looking through me as the sun at noon That searches through the being of the world-- Thou setting life against thy glory light, As men hold up a crystal 'gainst the sun, Making its frame as nothing in the blaze!

Lo! my heart was like a chaotic world, Still, silent, 'mid the dreary waste of time. Man there was not in all its desert bounds, But hoary ruins of past wondrous things, Old unbeliefs, fierce doubts, unsightly dreams, That wearing out their wild hot-breathing life, Wearily stretch'd their writhing shapes to die; Then came she moving o'er my awe-hush'd soul, Like God's own Spirit over earth's void waters, And there arose order and life through all. She was my sun, set high to rule the day, And make my world all bright and beautiful; She was my moon, amid the stilly night Subduing darkness with her quiet smiles, And stealing softly through my anxious dreams, A sweet-soul'd hostage for departed day; She was my summer, clothing all my life With fragrant blossoms of delight and joy.

[_A pause_.

Not love her! 'Tis as yesterday the time When first my love stole fainting to her ear, In deep scarce-worded murmurs of desire. 'Twas evening, and above the weary land Silence lay dreaming in a golden hush; The summer's sunset yellow'd in the wheat, And the ripe year, with harvest promise full, Slept on the wavy slopes and verdant leas, Like one who through long hours of toil at last Sees the glad work accomplish'd, and in peace Flings him along the meadows to repose; Below, the bells of even faintly chimed, And sent their hymnal music up the breeze To where I stood, half-praying, by her side. Then all my words and thoughts that came and went, Waving about the secret of my love, Like billows plashing on a silent shore, All at one gush flow'd from me o'er her heart, And broke the banks of silence; then my love Sank through her liquid eyes to read her soul, Like diver that through waving water-floods Seeketh the priceless pearl that lies below, And there found life--found joy for evermore: It is as yesterday that time to me,-- Sweet time, when love entwines the locks of life With fragrant blossoms, like a one-hour's bride, And claspeth summer with soft pleading arms, That she, though ne'er so eager to be gone, Still tarries smiling for a last embrace, And drops her hoarded flowers upon the way: It is as yesterday--my love the same-- The love that led me through all heavy tasks, All lonely watchings by the midnight lamp, To win the fame that still might shine on her; And e'en--how dear the thought!--this wondrous power, This godlike influence which has dawn'd on me, Thus from my love takes colouring and aim! Not love her! Well, well, I'll forget the word-- The sun shines on, though blind eyes see it not.

[_A pause_.

It cannot be--this aim so deeply--weigh'd, So long and calmly sifted, cannot fail. O wondrous power! great mystery of life! Reserved for me of all the sons of men; Fruit ripening high upon the wall of heaven For me to pluck with eager, trembling hands, And press its vintage out for thirsting worlds More blessed still that into her sweet cup First may I pour the clearest of the wine-- For her--for her--ah, yes! for her supreme, I struggle onward through this blinding light, E'en at whose dazzling threshold I might stand, Pale, trembling, like a terror-smitten soul, Waiting bewilder'd at the gate of heaven. Yet once again let me the plan review, Searching within my soul of souls each part, That doubt or danger, lurking there, may thus By love's keen-scented instincts hunted be.--

[_A long pause_.

Yes! it is so--this deep magnetic sleep, That from my being passes upon her, Bindeth the body close in deepest thrall, But setteth free the soul. What real need Hath spirit of these sensuous avenues, Through which the soul looks feebly on the world? This power then opes the prison door awhile, And sends the spirit chainless o'er the earth. This know I--without eyes the spirit sees, Gains instant cognizance of hidden things, And counts all space for nothing; knowledge comes Upon it with the falling of the flesh, So that there is no thing in earth or heaven But to the unhoused spirit native is-- The mantle falls and leaves the Prophet angel! Body, then, is the prison-house of soul, And freedom is its highest happiness, Its heaven, its primal being full of joy. This power that holdeth thus the keys of life, Can then at will give moments of release, Which to the soul are as the water-brooks That scantly rise amid a sun-scorch'd waste: These, oft repeated, must at length destroy The thraldom of the flesh, and give at will A freer issue to the practised soul-- At lowest gladden it with gleams of bliss, Glimpses of heaven amid this exile time. Yes! thus, my Mabel, shall thy prison'd soul Rise to its sister angels heavenward still; And soon the mortal fetters shall hang loose, Scarce clogging aught its motions glad and free. Thus shall thy young fair frame no longer be A prison, but a meetest dwelling-place, Full of all infinite delights, and dear As is its nest to the heaven-soaring lark, That yearns down, singing, to it from the sky. These men, did they not see it in thine eyes, Amazed and fearful at the dazzling sight, As some rude passer gazing up aloft Sees from some casement, unawares, a face That makes his great rough heart on sudden rock With wonder and with worship--in her frame Did they not see the mortal waxing faint, The immortal fusing it with heavenly fire? Ay! the charm works, and thou, my life, my love, Reapest the first-fruits of my long, long toil.

SCENE III.--_A Boudoir. Flowers about it, in beautifully shaped Vases. A Greenhouse at one end. The window-panes delicately tinted, and hung with light fleecy draperies_. MABEL _working, and singing in a low voice_.

MABEL (_singing_).

At night when stars shine bright and clear, The soft winds on the casements blow, And round the chamber rustle low, Like one unseen, whose voice we hear, On tiptoe stealing to and fro--

At night when clouds are dark and drear, They moan about the lattice sore, And murmur sighs for evermore, That fill us with a chilly fear, Oft glancing at the well-barr'd door--

At night, in moonlight or in gloom, They wander round the drooping thatch, Like some poor exile thence to catch Fond glimpses of each well-loved room, And sigh beside the unraised latch--

O unseen Wind! art thou alone, Thus breathing round the sleeping land? Or roams with thee a spirit band, Blending sad voices with thine own,-- Voices that once with cheerful tone Made music round the sleeping land?

ORAN (_from the Greenhouse, unperceived_).

Ah! her dear voice. How all my nature thrills, My heart, my brain, beneath the mellow sound, Like some great dome with holy music fill'd! She is the lark, above my listening soul Hovering still with carols from Heaven's gate. She is the perfumed breeze, that evermore Sweeps music from the Aeolian strings of life. She is the sea, that fills with sweetest sound The yearning earth that folds it in its arms. Not love her--Ah! dear heart, how utterly!

[_A pause_.

What if amid these spirit wanderings, This so mysterious power can grant at will,-- What if the angels, smitten with her grace, Woo'd her away for ever from my heart? The dove came twice again unto the ark, With messages of peace, and hope, and joy, But the third time return'd not. She's my dove-- Oh! wing'd she ever from my longing heart, The waters of my life would quick subside, And leave me stranded on the shoals of Time. What if God saw her hovering aloft, And smiled her in amongst his cherubim? What if the draught of bliss should, Lethe-like, Blot me for ever from her memory, So that she sought me never, never more? Oblivion! take again this fearful power-- No more shall Fate be tempted with my wealth, Lest covetous it rob me of my all.

[_A pause_.

And yet, these are but dreams, poor selfish fears, That scum-like float and dim Love's limpid tide. Shall I thus cage my bird from liberty, And let it beat its life out on the bars, Lest some dear bliss detain it in the heavens? Shall I spill rashly forth this wine of joy, Because for me within the crystal cup Some dregs may haply rest when she has drunk? Ah, no! for her alone shall I take thought. The first pure sacrifice of Love is self! There is no peril. God that sends the power Will send the guardian angel to direct. I work for her--Heaven speed the work of love.

[_Enters the room_.

MABEL.

I waited for thee, love--'tis past the hour, And on my dial slumbers Time in shade When thou comest not to sun me.

ORAN.

I but stood There on the threshold, following thy voice Away, away through mazy lengths of dreams. Music--low music from the lips we love, Is the true siren that still lures the soul From cares of earth to the Enchanted Isles.

MABEL.

Methinks that thou art sad to-day, my husband. Let me share with thee pain as well as joy; It is the sweetest right that love can claim. We give our joys to strangers, but our grief Sighs itself only forth for those we love. We hang our sorrows on the loved one's ear, Like jewell'd pendents for a bridal feast.

ORAN.

Tell me, my Mabel, if within this sleep, To which mine art oft leads thee, there should come Some angel bright with Heaven's reflected light, Wooing thee upward with the songs of bliss,-- Tell me, my Mabel, wouldst thou freely go, Leaving this fair earth-vesture only here, Leaving me lornly gazing on the sky, Blotting its sun out with my blinding tears?

MABEL.

There is no angel but the angel Death Could sever me from thee who art all my life! What Heaven is there but that which Love creates? What songs of Bliss, save those by Love intoned? Ah! thou to me art as the sun to Day, That dies out with its setting utterly-- Thou art the ever-flowing crystal spring, That keeps the fountain of my being full-- Thou art the heart that beats with measured pulse The joyous moments of my flowing life-- Leave thee? How canst thou wrong me with the thought?

ORAN.

Dear Mabel!--Yet to-day thy brothers came, Taxing me harshly, and in cruel terms, With practising against thy precious life.

MABEL.

Oh, Heaven!

ORAN.

They dread these trances, whose dim fame Hath floated on the ignorant air to them. They deem this priceless power, new-fall'n on me, And treasured for thy sake, my best beloved, A most pernicious art, that may, perchance, Work evil upon thee; say, dost thou fear? My Mabel, hast thou faith and trust in me? Shall I proceed, or break this magic wand, Wherewith they deem that I am dower'd withal?

MABEL.

I trust in thee, my love, with perfect faith-- Am I not as the floating gossamer, Steering through ether on thy guiding breath? Am I not as the clay within thy hand, Taking the shape and image of thy thought? Heed not these idle tongues, that launch their doubts In erring love against thy watchful care. That which thou doest I accept with joy; I wait for thee as waits a full-sail'd bark The coming breeze to waft it o'er the sea.

ORAN.

Fear not! I do well think no peril lies Within this power, but virtue of rare worth, Else nevermore its wand had waved o'er thee.-- Tell me, dost bring no memory back to Earth Of all these glorious wanderings above? No certain visions of the hidden things Thou seest in that far mystic spirit-land?