Andromeda, and Other Poems

Sharing His very sufferings, to the crown
Of thorns which they had put on that dear brow
To make you like Him—show you as you were!
I told them so!  I bid them look on you,
And see there what was the highest throne on earth—
The throne of suffering, where the Son of God
Endured and triumphed for them.  But they laughed;
All but one soldier, gray, with many scars;
And he stood silent.  Then I crawled to you,
And kissed your bleeding feet, and called aloud—
You heard me!  You know all!  I am at peace.
Peace, peace, as still and bright as is the moon
Upon your limbs, came on me at your smile,
And kept me happy, when they dragged me back
From that last kiss, and spread me on the cross,
And bound my wrists and ankles—Do not sigh:
I prayed, and bore it: and since they raised me up
My eyes have never left your face, my own, my own,
Nor will, till death comes! . . .
Do I feel much pain?
Not much.  Not maddening.  None I cannot bear.
It has become like part of my own life,
Or part of God’s life in me—honour—bliss!
I dreaded madness, and instead comes rest;
Rest deep and smiling, like a summer’s night.
I should be easy, now, if I could move . . .
I cannot stir.  Ah God! these shoots of fire
Through all my limbs!  Hush, selfish girl!  He hears you!
Who ever found the cross a pleasant bed?
Yes; I can bear it, love.  Pain is no evil
Unless it conquers us.  These little wrists, now—
You said, one blessed night, they were too slender,
Too soft and slender for a deacon’s wife—
Perhaps a martyr’s:—You forgot the strength
Which God can give.  The cord has cut them through;
And yet my voice has never faltered yet.
Oh! do not groan, or I shall long and pray
That you may die: and you must not die yet.
Not yet—they told us we might live three days . . .
Two days for you to preach!  Two days to speak
Words which may wake the dead!
. . . . .
Hush! is he sleeping?
They say that men have slept upon the cross;
So why not he? . . .  Thanks, Lord!  I hear him breathe:
And he will preach Thy word to-morrow!—save
Souls, crowds, for Thee!  And they will know his worth
Years hence—poor things, they know not what they do!—
And crown him martyr; and his name will ring
Through all the shores of earth, and all the stars
Whose eyes are sparkling through their tears to see
His triumph—Preacher!  Martyr!—Ah—and me?—
If they must couple my poor name with his,
Let them tell all the truth—say how I loved him,
And tried to damn him by that love!  O Lord!
Returning good for evil! and was this
The payment I deserved for such a sin?
To hang here on my cross, and look at him
Until we kneel before Thy throne in heaven!

    Eversley, 1852.

ON THE DEATH OF A CERTAIN JOURNAL[4 - The Christian Socialist, started by the Council of Associates for promotion of Co-operation.]

So die, thou child of stormy dawn,
Thou winter flower, forlorn of nurse;
Chilled early by the bigot’s curse,
The pedant’s frown, the worldling’s yawn.

Fair death, to fall in teeming June,
When every seed which drops to earth
Takes root, and wins a second birth
From steaming shower and gleaming moon.

Fall warm, fall fast, thou mellow rain;
Thou rain of God, make fat the land;
That roots which parch in burning sand
May bud to flower and fruit again.

To grace, perchance, a fairer morn
In mightier lands beyond the sea,
While honour falls to such as we
From hearts of heroes yet unborn,

Who in the light of fuller day,
Of purer science, holier laws,
Bless us, faint heralds of their cause,
Dim beacons of their glorious way.

Failure?  While tide-floods rise and boil
Round cape and isle, in port and cove,
Resistless, star-led from above:
What though our tiny wave recoil?

    Eversley, 1852.

DOWN TO THE MOTHERS

Linger no more, my beloved, by abbey and cell and cathedral;
Mourn not for holy ones mourning of old them who knew not the Father,