All seed is in the sower's hands:
And what at first was trained to spread
Its shelter for some single head,-
Yea, even such fellowship of wands,-
May hide the sunset, and the shade
Of its great multitude be laid
Upon the earth and elder sands.

November, 1850. 1870.

PENUMBRA

I DID not look upon her eyes, (Though scarcely seen, with no surprise, 'Mid many eyes a single look,) Because they should not gaze rebuke, At night, from stars in sky and brook.

I did not take her by the hand,
(Though little was to understand
From touch of hand all friends might
take,)

Because it should not prove a flake
Burnt in my palm to boil and ache.

I did not listen to her voice,

(Though none had noted, where at choice
All might rejoice in listening,)
Because no such a thing should cling
In the wood's moan at evening.

I did not cross her shadow once,
(Though from the hollow west the sun's
Last shadow runs along so far,)
Because in June it should not bar
My ways, at noon when fevers are.

They told me she was sad that day,
(Though wherefore tell what love's sooth-

66

But if you have done your work aright,
Sister Helen,

You'll let me play, for you said I might."
Be very still in your play to-night,
Little brother."
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
Third night, to-night, between Hell and
Heaven!)

"You said it must melt ere vesper-bell, Sister Helen;

If now it be molten, all is well." “Even so,—nay, peace! you cannot tell, Little brother."

(O Mother, Mary Mother. O what is this, between Hell and Heaven?)

1870.

"WHY did you melt your waxen man, Sister Helen?

To-day is the third since you began." "The time was long, yet the time ran, Little brother."

(O Mother, Mary Mother, Three days to-day, between Hell and Heaven!)

Here high up in the balcony.

Sister Helen, The moon flies face to face with me." “Aye, look and say whatever you see, Little brother." (O Mother, Mary Mother, What sight to-night, between Hell and Heaven ?)

"Outside it's merry in the wind's wake. Sister Helen;

(O Mother, Mary Mother, Who should they be, between Hell and Heaven?)

"Oh, it's Keith of Eastholm rides so fast, Sister Helen,

For I know the white mane on the blast." The hour has come, has come at last, Little brother!"

(O Mother, Mary Mother, Her hour at last, between Hell and Heaven!)

"He has made a sign and called Halloo! Sister Helen,

And he says that he would speak with you.'

"Oh tell him I fear the frozen dew, Little brother."

(O Mother, Mary Mother, Why laughs she thus, between Hell and Heaven!)

"The wind is loud, but I hear him cry, Sister Helen,

That Keith of Ewern's like to die."
And he and thou, and thou and I,
Little brother."

(O Mother, Mary Mother, And they and we, between Hell and Heaven!)

"Three days ago, on his marriage-morn, Sister Helen,

He sickened, and lies since then forlorn."

(O Mother, Mary Mother, What word now heard, between Hell and Heaven ?)

"Oh he says that Keith of Ewern's cry, Sister Helen,

Is ever to see you ere he die."

66

In all that his soul sees, there am I,
Little brother!"

(O Mother, Mary Mother, The soul's one sight, between Hell and Heaven!)

"He sends a ring and a broken coin, Sister Helen,

And bids you mind the banks of Boyne." "What else he broke will he ever join, Little brother?"

(O Mother, Mary Mother, No, never joined, between Hell and Heaven!)

"He yields you these and craves full fain, Sister Helen,

You pardon him in his mortal pain."
What else he took will he give again,
Little brother?

Little brother?" (O Mother, Mary Mother,

Is this the end, between Hell and Heaven ?)

"Oh his son still cries, if you forgive, Sister Helen,

The body dies, but the soul shall live." Fire shall forgive me as I forgive, Little brother!"

(O Mother, Mary Mother, As she forgives, between Hell and Heaven!)

"Oh he prays you, as his heart would
rive,
Sister Helen,

To save his dear son's soul alive."
"Fire cannot slay it, it shall thrive,
Little brother!"

(O Mother, Mary Mother, Alas, alas, between Hell and Heaven!)

"He cries to you, kneeling in the road, Sister Helen,

To go with him for the love of God!”
The way is long to his son's abode,
Little brother."
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
The way is long, between Hell and
Heaven!)

"A lady's here, by a dark steed brought, Sister Helen,

So darkly clad, I saw her not.”
"See her now or never see aught,
Little brother!

(O Mother, Mary Mother, What more to see, between Hell and Heaven ?)

"Her hood falls back, and the moon shines fair,

Sister Helen, On the Lady of Ewern's golden hair." "Blest hour of my power and her despair, Little brother!

(O Mother, Mary Mother, Hour blest and bann'd, between Hell and Heaven!)

"Pale, pale her cheeks, that in pride did glow,

Sister Helen, 'Neath the bridal-wreath three days ago." One morn for pride and three days for

(O Mother, Mary Mother,

The naked soul, between Hell and Heaven!)

"Flank to flank are the three steeds gone, Sister Helen,

But the lady's dark steed goes alone." And lonely her bridegroom's soul hath flown,

Little brother." (O Mother, Mary Mother. The lonely ghost, between Hell and Heaven!)

"Oh the wind is sad in the iron chill, Sister Helen. And weary sad they look by the hill." "But he and I are sadder still,

Little brother!" (O Mother, Mary Mother, Most sad of all, between Hell and Heaven!)

"See, see, the wax has dropped from its place,

Sister Helen,

And the flames are winning up apace!" Yet here they burn but for a space, Little brother!"

(O Mother, Mary Mother, Here for a space, between Hell and Heaven!)

"Ah! what white thing at the door has cross'd,

Sister Helen?

Ah! what is this that sighs in the frost?"
A soul that's lost as mine is lost,
Little brother!"

(O Mother, Mary Mother.

Lost, lost, all lost, between Hell and

Heaven!)

1870.

THE BURDEN OF NINEVEH

IN our Museum galleries

To-day I lingered o'er the prize

Dead Greece vouchsafes to living eyes,-
Her Art for ever in fresh wise

From hour to hour rejoicing me.
Sighing I turned at last to win
Once more the London dirt and din ;
And as I made the swing-door spin
And issued, they were hoisting in

A winged beast from Nineveh.
A human face the creature wore,
And hoofs behind and hoofs before,
And flanks with dark runes fretted o'er.

"T was bull, 't was mitred Minotaur,
A dead disbowelled mystery;
The mummy of a buried faith
Stark from the charnel without scathe,
Its wings stood for the light to bathe,-
Such fossil cerements as might swathe
The very corpse of Nineveh.

The print of its first rush-wrapping. Wound ere it dried, still ribbed the thing.

What song did the brown maidens sing, From purple mouths alternating,

When that was woven languidly? What vows, what rites, what prayers preferr❜d.

What songs has the strange image heard?

In what blind vigil stood interr'd
For ages, till an English word

Broke silence first at Nineveh ?

Oh when upon each sculptured court, Where even the wind might not re

sort,

O'er which Time passed, of like import With the wild Arab boys at sport,

A living face looked in to see :— Oh seemed it not-the spell once brokeAs though the carven warriors woke, As though the shaft the string forsook, The cymbals clashed, the chariots shook, And there was life in Nineveh ?

On London stones our sun anew The beast's recovered shadow threw. (No shade that plague of darkness knew, No light, no shade, while older grew By ages the old earth and sea.) Lo thou! could all thy priests have shown

Such proof to make thy godhead known? From their dead Past thou liv'st alone And still thy shadow is thine own

Even as of yore in Nineveh. That day whereof we keep record, When near thy city-gates the Lord Sheltered his Jonah with a gourd, This sun, (I said) here present, pour'd Even thus this shadow that I see. This shadow has been shed the same From sun and moon,-from lamps which

came

For prayer, from fifteen days of flame,
The last, while smouldered to a name
Sardanapalus' Nineveh.

Within thy shadow, haply, once
Sennacherib has knelt, whose sons

Smote him between the altar-stones :
Or pale Semiramis her zones

Of gold, her incense brought to thee,
In love for grace, in war for aid:
Ay, and who else? . . . till 'neath thy
shade

Within his trenches newly made Last year the Christian knelt and pray'd

Not to thy strength-in Nineveh.

Now, thou poor god, within this hall Where the blank windows blind the wall From pedestal to pedestal.

The kind of light shall on thee fall

Which London takes the day to be: While school-foundations in the act Of holiday, three files compact, Shall learn to view thee as a fact Connected with that zealous tract: "Rome,-Babylon and Nineveh."

Deemed they of this, those worshippers, When, in some mythic chain of verse Which man shall not again rehearse, The faces of thy ministers

Yearned pale with bitter ecstasy? Greece, Egypt, Rome,-did any god Before whose feet men knelt unshod Deem that in this unblest abode Another scarce more unknown god

Should house with him, from Nineveh?

Ah! in what quarries lay the stone
From which this pygmy pile has grown.
Unto man's need how long unknown.
Since thy vast temples, court and cone.
Rose far in desert history?
Ah! what is here that does not lie
All strange to thine awakened eye?
Ah! what is here can testify
(Save that dumb presence of the sky)
Unto thy day and Nineveh ?

Why, of those mummies in the room
Above, there might indeed have come
One out of Egypt to thy home,
An alien. Nay, but were not some

Of these thine own "antiquity"?
And now, they and their gods and thou
All relics here together,-now
Whose profit? whether bull or cow,
Isis or Ibis, who or how,

Whether of Thebes or Nineveh?

The consecrated metals found,
And ivory tablets, underground,
Winged teraphim and creatures crown'd
When air and daylight filled the mound.