712

The rich mould of dead men's graves.

Creeping where grim death has been,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Whole ages have fled and their works decayed,
And nations have scattered been;

But the stout old Ivy shall never fade,
From its hale and hearty green.

The brave old plant in its lonely days,
Shall fatten upon the past:

For the stateliest building man can raise,
Is the Ivy's food at last.

Creeping on, where time has been,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

THOMAS EDWARD BROWN

[1830-1897]

MY GARDEN

A Garden is a lovesome thing, God wot!

Rose plot,

Fringed pool,

Fern'd grot-

The veriest school

Of peace; and yet the fool

Contends that God is not—

Not God! in gardens! when the eve is cool?

Nay, but I have a sign;

'Tis very sure God walks in mine.

JAMES THOMSON (B. V.)
[1834-1882]

713

GIFTS

Give a man a horse he can tide,

Give a man a boat he can sail;

And his rank and wealth, his strength and health,
On sea nor shore shall fail.

Give a man a pipe he can smoke,

Give a man a book he can read:
And his home is bright with a calm delight,
Though the room be poor indeed.

Give a man a girl he can love,

As I, O my love, love thee;

And his heart is great with the pulse of Fate,
At home, on land, on sea.

714

DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI

[1828-1882]

THE BLESSÈD DAMOZEL

The blessed Damozel lean'd out
From the gold bar of Heaven:
Her blue grave eyes were deeper much
Than a deep water, even.

She had three lilies in her hand,

And the stars in her hair were seven.

Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem,
No wrought flowers did adorn,

But a white rose of Mary's gift
On the neck meetly worn;
And her hair, lying down her back,
Was yellow like ripe corn.

Herseem'd she scarce had been a day
One of God's choristers;

The wonder was not yet quite gone
From that still look of hers;
Albeit, to them she left, her day
Had counted as ten years.

(To one it is ten years of years:
Yet now, here in this place,

Surely she lean'd o'er me,—her hair
Fell all about my face. .
Nothing: the Autumn-fall of leaves.
The whole year sets apace.)

It was the terrace of God's house
That she was standing on,—
By God built over the sheer depth
In which Space is begun;

So high, that looking downward thence,
She scarce could see the sun.

It lies from Heaven across the flood
Of ether, as a bridge.

Beneath, the tides of day and night
With flame and darkness ridge
The void, as low as where this earth
Spins like a fretful midge.

But in those tracts, with her, it was
The peace of utter light
And silence. For no breeze may stir
Along the steady flight

Of seraphim; no echo there,

Beyond all depth or height.

Heard hardly, some of her new friends,
Playing at holy games,

Spake, gentle-mouth'd, among themselves,
Their virginal chaste names;
And the souls, mounting up to God,

Went by her like thin flames.

And still she bow'd herself, and stoop'd

Into the vast waste calm;

Till her bosom's pressure must have made

The bar she lean'd on warm,

And the lilies lay as if asleep

Along her bended arm.

From the fixt lull of Heaven, she saw
Time, like a pulse, shake fierce

Through all the worlds. Her gaze still strove,
In that steep gulf, to pierce

The swarm; and then she spoke, as when
The stars sang in their spheres.

'I wish that he were come to me,

For he will come,' she said.

'Have I not pray'd in solemn Heaven?
On earth, has he not pray'd?

Are not two prayers a perfect strength?
And shall I feel afraid?

'When round his head the aureole clings,
And he is clothed in white,

I'll take his hand, and go with him

To the deep wells of light,

And we will step down as to a stream
And bathe there in God's sight.

'We two will stand beside that shrine,
Occult, withheld, untrod,

Whose lamps tremble continually

With prayer sent up to God;

And where each need, reveal'd, expects

Its patient period.

'We two will lie i' the shadow of

That living mystic tree

Within whose secret growth the Dove

Sometimes is felt to be,

While every leaf that His plumes touch
Saith His name audibly.

'And I myself will teach to him,—

I myself, lying so,—

The songs I sing here; which his mouth.
Shall pause in, hush'd and slow,
Finding some knowledge at each pause,
And some new thing to know.'

(Alas! to her wise simple mind

These things were all but known
Before: they trembled on her sense,—
Her voice had caught their tone.
Alas for lonely Heaven! Alas
For life wrung out alone!

Alas, and though the end were reach'd? .
Was thy part understood

Or borne in trust? And for her sake
Shall this too be found good?—

May the close lips that knew not prayer
Praise ever, though they would?)

We two,' she said, 'will seek the groves
Where the lady Mary is,

With her five handmaidens, whose names
Are five sweet symphonies:—
Cecily, Gertrude, Magdalen,

Margaret and Rosalys.

'Circle-wise sit they, with bound locks And bosoms covered;

Into the fine cloth, white like flame,
Weaving the golden thread,

To fashion the birth-robes for them
Who are just born, being dead.

'He shall fear, haply, and be dumb.
Then I will lay my cheek

To his, and tell about our love,
Not once abash'd or weak:
And the dear Mother will approve
My pride, and let me speak.

'Herself shall bring us, hand in hand,
To Him round whom all souls
Kneel the unnumber'd solemn heads
Bow'd with their aureoles:

'And Angels, meeting us, shall sing

To their citherns and citoles.