Poems . Craik, Dinah Maria Mulock, 1826–1887.

EIGHTEEN SONNETS.

RESIGNING.

CHILDREN, that lay their pretty garlands by So piteously, yet with a humble mind; Sailors, who, when their ship rocks in the wind, Cast out her freight with half‐averted eye, Riches for life exchanging solemnly, Lest they should never gain the wished‐for shore;— Thus we, O Father, standing Thee before, Do lay down at Thy feet without a sigh Each after each our precious things and rare, Our dear heart‐jewels and our garlands fair. Perhaps Thou knewest that the flowers would die, And the long‐voyaged boards be found but dust: So took’st them, while unchanged. To Thee we trust For incorruptible treasure: Thou art just. page: 95

SAINT ELIZABETH OF BOHEMIA.

I.

I NEVER lay me down to sleep at night But in my heart I sing that little song: The angels hear it as, a pitying throng, They touch my burning lids with fingers bright As moonbeams, pale, impalpable, and light: And when my daily pious tasks are done, And all my patient prayers said one by one, God hears it. Seems it sinful in His sight That round my slow burnt‐offering of quenched will One quivering human sigh creeps wind‐like still? That when my orisons celestial fail Rises one note of natural human wail? Dear lord, spouse, hero, martyr, saint! erelong, I trust, God will forgive my singing that poor song. page: 96

II.

A YEAR ago I bade my little son Bear upon pilgrimage a heavy load Of alms; he cried, half‐fainting on the road, “Mother, O mother, would the day were done!” Him I reproved with tears, and said, “Go on! Nor pause nor murmur till thy task be o’er.”— Would not God say to me the same, and more? I will not sing that song. Thou, dearest one, Husband—no, brother!—stretch thy steadfast hand And let mine grasp it. Now, I also stand, My woman weakness nerved to strength like thine; We’ll quaff life’s aloe‐cup as if ’t were wine Each to the other; journeying on apart, Till at heaven’s golden doors we two leap heart to heart. page: 97

A MARRIAGE‐TABLE.

W. H. L. and F. R.

THERE was a marriage‐table where One sate, Haply, unnoticed, till they craved His aid: Thenceforward does it seem that He has made All virtuous marriage‐tables consecrate: And so, at this, where without pomp or state We sit, and only say, or mute, are fain To wish the simple words “God bless these twain!” I think that He who “in the midst” doth wait Oft‐times, would not abjure our prayerful cheer, But, as at Cana, list with gracious ear To us, beseeching, that the Love divine May ever at their household table sit, Make all His servants who encompass it, And change life’s bitterest waters into wine. page: 98

MICHAEL THE ARCHANGEL.

A Statuette.

I.

MY white archangel, with thy steadfast eyes Beholding all this empty ghost‐filled room, Thy clasped hands resting on the sword of doom, Thy firm, close lips, not made for human sighs Or smiles, or kisses sweet, or bitter cries, But for divine exhorting, holy song And righteous counsel, bold from seraph tongue. Beautiful angel, strong as thou art wise, Would that the sight of thee made wise and strong! Would that this sheathèd sword of thine, which lies Stonily idle, could gleam out among The spiritual hosts of enemies That tempting shriek—“Requite thou wrong with wrong.” Lama Sabachthani,—How long, how long. page: 99

II.

MICHAEL, the leader of the hosts of God, Who warred with Satan for the body of him Whom, living, God had loved—If cherubim With cherubim contended for one clod Of human dust, for forty years that trod The gloomy desert of Heaven’s chastisement, Are there not ministering angels sent To battle with the devils that roam abroad, Clutching our living souls? “The living, still The living, they shall praise Thee!”—Let some great Invisible spirit enter in and fill The howling chambers of hearts desolate; With looks like thine, O Michael, strong and wise, My white archangel with the steadfast eyes. page: 100

I.

BEATRICE TO DANTE.

REGARD me well: I am thy love, thy love; Thy blessing, thy delight, thy hope, thy peace: Thy joy above all joys that break and cease When their full waves in widest circles move: Thy bird of comfort, thine eternal dove, Whom thou didst send out of thy mournful breast To flutter back and point thee to thy rest: Thine angel, who forgets her crown star‐wove To come to thee with folded woman‐hands Pleading,—“look on me, Beatrice, who stands Before thee; by the Triune Light divine Undazzled, still beholds thy human face, And is more happy in this happy place That thou alone art hers and she is thine.”

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* Suggested by a statue of Beatrice, bearing this motto.

page: 101

DANTE TO BEATRICE.

II.

I SEE thee, gliding towards me with slow pace Across the azure fields of Paradise, Where thine each footstep makes a star arise. So from this heart’s once void but infinite space Each strange sweet touch of thy celestial grace In the old mortal life, struck out some spark To light the world, though all my heaven lay dark. O Beatrice, cypresses enlace My laurels: none have grown save tear‐bedewed— Salt tears that sank into the earth unviewed, And sprang up green to form a crown of bays. Take it! At thy dear feet I lay my all, What men my honors, virtues, glories, call: I lived, loved, suffered, sung—for thy sole praise. page: 102

A QUESTION.

I.

SOUL, spirit, genius—which thou art—that whence I know not, rose upon this mortal frame Like the sun o’er the mountains, all aflame, Seen large through mists of childish innocence, And year by year with me uptravelling thence, As hour by hour the day‐star, madest aspire My nature, interpenetrate with fire It felt but understood not—strong, intense, Wisdom with folly mixed, and gold with clay;— Soul, thou hast journeyed with me all this way. Oft hidden and o’erclouded, oft arrayed In scorching splendors that my earth‐life burned, Yet ever unto thee my true life turned, For, dim, or clear, ’t was thou my daylight made. page: 103

II.

SOUL, dwelling oft in God’s infinitude, And sometimes seeming no more part of me— This me, worms’ heritage—than that sun can be Part of the earth he has with warmth imbued,— Whence camest thou? whither goest thou? I, subdued With awe of mine own being—thus sit still, Dumb, on the summit of this lonely hill, Whose dry November‐grasses dew‐bestrewed Mirror a million suns—That sun, so bright, Passes, as thou must pass, Soul, into night: Art thou afraid, who solitary hast trod A path I know not, from a source to a bourne, Both which I know not? fear’st thou to return Alone, even as thou camest, alone, to God? page: 104

ANGEL FACES.

I.

I SHALL not paint them. God them sees, and I: No other can, nor need. They have no form, I may not close with human kisses warm Their eyes which shine afar or from on high, But never will shine nearer till I die. How long, how long! See, I am growing old; I have quite ceased to note in my hair’s fold The silver threads that there in ambush lie; Some angel faces bent from heaven would pine To trace the sharp lines graven upon mine; What matter? in the wrinkles ploughed by care Let age tread after, sowing immortal seeds; All this life’s harvest yielded, wheat or weeds, Is reaped, methinks: at my little field lies bare. page: 105

II.

BUT in the night time, ’twixt it and the stars, The angel faces still come glimmering by; No death‐pale shadow, no averted eye Marking the inevitable doom that bars Me from them. Not a cloud their aspect mars; And my sick spirit walks with them hand in hand By the cool waters of a pleasant land: Sings with them o’er again, without its jars, The psalm of life, that ceased, as one by one Their voices, dropping off, left mine alone With dull monotonous wail to grieve the air. O solitary love, that art so strong, I think God will have pity on thee erelong, And take thee where thou’lt find those angel faces fair. page: 106

SUNDAY MORNING BELLS.

FROM the near city comes the clang of bells: Their hundred jarring diverse tones combine In one faint misty harmony, as fine As the soft note yon winter robin swells.— What if to Thee in Thine Infinity These multiform and many‐colored creeds Seem but the robe man wraps as masquers’ weeds Round the one living truth Thou givest him—Thee? What if these varied forms that worship prove, Being heart‐worship, reach Thy perfect ear But as a monotone, complete and clear, Of which the music is, through Christ’s name, Love? Forever rising in sublime increase To “Glory in the Highest,—on earth peace?” page: 107

CŒUR DE LION.

Marochetti’s Statue in the Great Exhibition of 1851.

I.

RICHARD the Lion‐hearted, crowned serene With the true royalty of perfect man; Seated in stone above the praise or ban Of these mixed crowds who come gaping lean As if to see what the word “king” might mean In those old times. Behold! what need that rim Of crown ’gainst this blue sky, to signal him A monarch, of the monarchs that have been, And, perhaps, are not?—Read his destinies In the full brow o’er‐arching kingly eyes, In the strong hands, grasping both rein and sword, In the close mouth, so sternly beautiful:— Surely, a man who his own spirit can rule; Lord of himself, therefore his brethren’s lord. page: 108

II.

“O Richard, O mon roi.” So minstrels sighed. The many‐centuried voice dies fast away Amidst the turmoil of our modern day. How know we but these green‐wreathed legends hide An ugly truth that never could abide In this our living world’s far purer air?— Nevertheless, O statue, rest thou there, Our Richard, of all chivalry the pride; Or if not the true Richard, still a type Of the old regal glory, fallen, o’er‐ripe, And giving place to better blossoming: Stand—imaging the grand heroic days; And let our little children come and gaze, Whispering with innocent awe—“This was a King.” page: 109

GUNS OF PEACE.

Sunday Night, March 30th, 1856.

GHOSTS of dead soldiers in the battle slain, Ghosts of dead heroes dying nobler far, In the long patience of inglorious war, Of famine, cold, heat, pestilence, and pain,— All ye whose loss makes our victorious gain— This quiet night, as sounds the cannon’s tongue, Do ye look down the trembling stars among Viewing our peace and war with like disdain? Or wiser grown since reaching those new spheres, Smile ye on those poor bones ye sowed as seed For this our harvest, nor regret the deed?— Yet lift one cry with us to Heavenly ears— “Strike with Thy bolt the next red flag unfurled, And make all wars to cease throughout the world.” page: 110

DAVID’S CHILD.

IN face of a great sorrow like to death How do we wrestle night and day with tears; How do we fast and pray; how small appears The outside world, while, hanging on some breath Of fragile hope, the chamber where we lie Includes all space.—But if sudden at last The blow falls; or by incredulity Fond led, we—never having one thought cast Towards years where “the child” was not—see it die, And with it all our future, all our past,— We just look round us with a dull surprise: For lesser pangs we had filled earth with cries Of wild and angry grief that would be heard:— But when the heart is broken—not a word. page: 111

A WORD IN SEASON.

THIS is a day the Lord hath made.”—Thus spake The good religious heart, unstained, unworn, Watching the golden glory of the morn.— Since, on each happy day that came to break Like sunlight o’er this silent life of mine, Yea, on each beauteous morning I saw shine, I have remembered these your words, rejoiced And been glad in it. So, o’er many‐voiced Tumultuous harmonies of tropic seas, Which chant an everlasting farewell grand Between ourselves and you and the old land, Receive this token: many words chance‐sown May oftentimes have taken root and grown, To bear food fruit perennially, like these.