• As with doves' voices, taboring
• Upon their breasts, unto the King,—
• 150 A kingly conquest, Nineveh!

• . . . Here woke my thought. The wind's slow sway
• Had waxed; and like the human play
• Of scorn that smiling spreads away,
• The sunshine shivered off the day:
• The callous wind, it seemed to me,
• Swept up the shadow from the ground:
• And pale as whom the Fates astound,
• The god forlorn stood winged and crown'd:
• Within I knew the cry lay bound
• 160 Of the dumb soul of Nineveh.

• And as I turned, my sense half shut
• Still saw the crowds of kerb and rut
• Go past as marshalled to the strut
• Of ranks in gypsum quaintly cut.
• It seemed in one same pageantry
• They followed forms which had been erst;
• To pass, till on my sight should burst
• That future of the best or worst
• When some may question which was first,
• 170 Of London or of Nineveh.

• For as that Bull-god once did stand
• And watched the burial-clouds of sand,
• Till these at last without a hand
• Rose o'er his eyes, another land,
• And blinded him with destiny:—
• So may he stand again; till now,
• In ships of unknown sail and prow,
• Some tribe of the Australian plough
• Bear him afar,—a relic now
• 180 Of London, not of Nineveh!

• Or it may chance indeed that when
• Man's age is hoary among men,—
• His centuries threescore and ten,—
• His furthest childhood shall seem then
• More clear than later times may be:
• Who, finding in this desert place
• This form, shall hold us for some race
• That walked not in Christ's lowly ways,
• But bowed its pride and vowed its praise
• 190 Unto the God of Nineveh.

• The smile rose first,—anon drew nigh
• The thought: . . Those heavy wings spread high
page: 179  
• So sure of flight, which do not fly;
• That set gaze never on the sky;
• Those scriptured flanks it cannot see;
• Its crown, a brow-contracting load;
• Its planted feet which trust the sod: . . .
• (So grew the image as I trod:)
• O Nineveh, was this thy God,—
• 200 Thine also, mighty Nineveh?

   

• ‘Victory!’
• So once more the cry must be.
• Duteous mourning we fulfil
• In God's name; but by God's will,
• Doubt not, the last word is still
• ‘Victory!’

• Funeral,
• In the music round this pall,
• Solemn grief yields earth to earth;
• 10 But what tones of solemn mirth
• In the pageant of new birth
• Rise and fall?

• For indeed,
• If our eyes were openèd,
• Who shall say what escort floats
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• Here, which breath her nor gleam denotes,—
• Fiery horses, chariots
• Fire-footed?

• Trumpeter,
• 20 Even thy call he may not hear;
• Long-known voice for ever past,
• Till with one more trumpet-blast
• God's assuring word at last
• Reach his ear.

• Multitude,
• Hold your brea dth in reverent mood:
• For while earth's whole kindred stand
• Mute even thus on either hand,
• This soul's labour shall be scann'd
• 30 And found good.

• Cherubim,
• Lift ye not even now your hymn?
• Lo! once lent for human lack,
• Michael's sword is rendered back.
• Thrills not now the starry track,
• Seraphim?

• Gabriel,
• Since the gift of thine ‘All hail!’
• Out of Heaven no time hath brought
• 40 Gift with fuller blessing fraught
• Than the peace which this man wrought
• Passing well.

• Be no word
• Raised of bloodshed Christ-abhorr'd,
• Say: ‘'Twas thus in His decrees
• Who Himself, the Prince of Peace,
• For His harvest's high increase
• Sent a sword.

• Veterans,
• 50 He by whom the neck of France
• Then was given unto your heel,
• Timely sought, may lend as well
• To your sons his terrible
• Countenance.

• Waterloo!
• As the last grave must renew,
• Ere fresh death, the banshee-strain,—
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• So methinks upon thy plain
• Falls some presage in the rain,
• 60 In the dew.

• And O thou,
• Watching with an exile's brow
• Unappeased, o'er death's dumb flood:—
• Lo! the saving strength of God
• In some new heart's English blood
• Slumbers now.

• Emperor,
• Is this all thy work was for?—
• Thus to see thy self-sought aim,
• 70 Yea thy titles, yea thy name,
• In another's shame, to shame
• Bandied o'er? *

• Wellington,
• Thy great work is but begun.
• With quick seed his end is rife
• Whose long tale of conquering strife
• Shows no triumph like his life
• Lost and won.

   

• ‘ How should I your true love know
• From another one?’
• ‘ By his cockle-hat and staff
• And his sandal-s choon .’

• ‘And what signs have told you now
• That he hastens home?’
• ‘Lo! the spring is nearly gone,
• He is nearly come.’

• ‘For a token is there nought,
• 10 Say, that he should bring?’
• ‘He will bear a ring I gave
• And another ring.’

• ‘How may I, when he shall ask,
• Tell him who lies there?’
• ‘Nay, but leave my face unveiled
• And unbound my hair.’

• ‘Can you say to me some word
• I shall say to him?’
• ‘Say I'm looking in his eyes
• 20 Though my eyes are dim.’

   

• 'Tis of the Father Hilary.
• He strove, but could not pray; so took
• The steep-coiled stair, where his feet shook
• A sad blind echo. Ever up
• He toiled. 'Twas a sick sway of air
• That autumn noon within the stair,
• As dizzy as a turning cup.
• His brain benumbed him, void and thin;
• He shut his eyes and felt it spin;
• 10 The obscure deafness hemmed him in.
• He said: ‘O world, what world for me?’

• He leaned unto the balcony
• Where the chime keeps the night and day;
• It hurt his brain, he could not pray.
• He had his face upon the stone:
• Deep 'twixt the narrow shafts, his eye
• Passed all the roofs to the stark sky,
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• Swept with no wing, with wind alone , .
• Close to his feet the sky did shake
• 20 With wind in pools that the rains make:
• The ripple set his eyes to ache.
• He said: ‘O world, what world for me?’

• He stood within the mystery
• Girding God's blessed Eucharist:
• The organ and the chaunt had ceas'd.
• The last words paused against his ear
• Said from the altar: drawn round him
• The gathering rest was dumb and dim.
• And now the sacring-bell rang clear
• 30 And ceased , ; and all was awe,—the breath
• Of God in man that warranteth
• The inmost utmost things of faith.
• He said: ‘O God, my world in Thee!’

   

• Andromeda, by Perseus saved and wed,
• Hankered each day to see the Gorgon's head:
• Till o'er a fount he held it, bade her lean,
• And mirrored in the wave was safely seen
• That death she lived by.

• Let not thine eyes know
• Any forbidden thing itself, although
• It once should save as well as kill: but be
• Its shadow upon life enough for thee.

   

• ‘Sister,’ said busy Amelotte
• To listless Aloÿse;
• ‘Along your wedding-road the wheat
• Bends as to hear your horse's feet,
• And the noonday stands still for heat.’

• Amelotte laughed into the air
• With eyes that sought the sun:
• But where the walls in long brocade
• Were screened, as one who is afraid
• 10 Sat Aloÿse within the shade.

• And even in shade was gleam enough
• To shut out full repose
• From the bride's 'tiring-chamber, which
• Was like the inner altar-niche
• Whose dimness worship has made rich.

• Within the window's heaped recess
• The light was counterchanged
• In blent reflexes manifold
• From perfume-caskets of wrought gold
• 20 And gems the bride's hair could not hold

• All thrust together: and with these
• A slim-curved lute, which now,
• At Amelotte's sudden passing there,
• Was swept in somewise unaware,
• And shook to music the close air.

• Against the haloed lattice-panes
• The bridesmaid sunned her breast;
• Then to the glass turned tall and free,
• And braced and shifted daintily
• 30 Her loin-belt through her côte-hardie.

• The belt was silver, and the clasp
• Of lozenged arm-bearings;
• A world of mirrored tints minute
• The rippling sunshine wrought into 't,
• That flushed her hand and warmed her foot.

• At least an hour had Aloÿse,—
• Her jewels in her hair,—
• Her white gown, as became a bride,
• Quartered in silver at each side,—
• 40 Sat thus aloof, as if to hide.

• Over her bosom, that lay still,
• The vest was rich in grain,
• With close pearls wholly overset:
• Around her throat the fastenings met
• Of chevesayle and mantelet.

• Her arms were laid along her lap
• With the hands open: life
• Itself did seem at fault in her:
• Beneath the drooping brows, the stir
• 50 Of thought made noonday heavier.

• Long sat she silent; and then raised
• Her head, with such a gasp
• As while she summoned breath to speak
• Fanned high that furnace in the cheek
• But sucked the heart-pulse cold and weak.

• (Oh gather round her now, all ye
• Past seasons of her fear,—
• Sick springs, and summers deadly cold!
• To flight your hovering wings unfold,
• 60 For now your secret shall be told.

• Ye many sunlights, barbed with darts
• Of dread detecting flame,—
• Gaunt moonlights that like sentinels
• Went past with iron clank of bells,—
• Draw round and render up your spells!)

• ‘Sister,’ said Aloÿse, ‘I had
• A thing to tell thee of
• Long since, and could not. But do thou
• Kneel first in prayer awhile, and bow
• 70 Thine heart, and I will tell thee now.

• Amelotte wondered with her eyes;
• But her heart said in her:
• ‘Dear Aloÿse would have me pray
• Because the awe she feels to-day
• Must need more prayers than she can say.’

• So Amelotte put by the folds
• That covered up her feet,
• And knelt,—beyond the arras'd gloom
• And the hot window's dull perfume,—
• 80 Where day was stillest in the room.

• ‘Queen Mary, hear,’ she said, ‘and say
• To Jesus the Lord Christ,
• This bride's new joy, which He confers,
• New joy to many ministers,
• And many griefs are bound in hers.’

• The bride turned in her chair, and hid
• Her face against the back,
• And took her pearl-girt elbows in
• Her hands, and could not yet begin,
• 90 But shuddering, uttered, ‘Urscelyn!’

• Most weak she was; for as she pressed
• Her hand against her throat,
• Along the arras she let trail
• Her face, as if all heart did fail,
• And sat with shut eyes, dumb and pale.