The Morning of a Love, and other poems

Preface

. «**. Ever since the idea of placing these verses before the English public was first suggested to me, I have asked myself whether I have a right to publish them without a word of apology or explanation ; for the verses themselves clearly bear evidence here and there in their contents of not having been written by an Englishman, and far more clearly still, I fear, in their general form and style. But what, on the other hand, should I explain or excuse ? A foreigner in a foreign land, if I dared to write my verses in the language I love best, and now dare to send them VI

PREFACE.

. over to that country, which, though neither the land of their birth nor of their parentage, still seems to me to be their home by right, I surely cannot put forward a claim for indulgence on that account, but must abide the issue of my own temerity. Then fly away, little verses, fly away beyond the water, and where you find an open window, enter in and nestle there ; but if cruel sportsmen send you back to me, wounded and bleeding, return to reproach me with the foolishness of this moment, in which I loose your wings, and bid you Godspeed. J. M. W. SCHWARTZ. Utrecht, Holland, New Year's Eve, 1S84. CONTENTS. The Morning of a Love PAG^ Minor Poems, Translations from Heine 2g7 PRELUDE. I breathe my kisses on this page And sigh to think, that there should be So broad a space 'twixt thee and me ; 'Twixt my wide flight and thy gilt cage The world lies open.

I am free, As ever bird on waving wing, To rise, to wander and to sing, But not to fly to thee. Then what to thee avails my right ? And what to me avails my flight ? What though I haste from stage to stage, Yet aye look back with straining sight To where my heart would be, And often pause and think of thee And breathe my kisses on this page ! Thou art my all, that all in me, Which makes me worthy of thy love. Thou art my all, and there can be No good in me but comes from thee, No bad thou canst not soar above. Thou art my all. I could not tread This darkening road but at thy side ; And truly hath my spirit said, That in thy death my life were dead, As in thy life it doth abide. my stay And it is thus, and I am torn From that which formed my strength, Away by cruel forces torn ; Ah, ne'er a heart was so forlorn, By cruel forces torn away.

Thou art my all. Then what is this ? Then what is this, that men call Me ? Each man may deem his life is his, Yet well I know that nothing is Of me myself, but springs from thee.

Part I. Part I

Thou dawnedst on my early days, As on the young green grass the sun, Ere yet his race is well begun, Strikes his first slant of silver rays. So on mine eyes, ere yet they had Well learned the blessing of their sight, Thy beauty cast its opening light, And I beheld thee and was glad. And I beheld thee. Did I know ? I saw thee grow in strength of days, And grow in beauty, and my gaze Scarce told my heart that it was so. Thus when the sun across the sky Treads his proud way of growing force, Our warmth and light seem things of course, And we scarce pause to question why. And thus my life-day was begun, And thus since o'er the fields of night The dawn broke forth in rosy light My eyes are fixed upon the sun. I will out into the woodland, And all its shades shall ring, And all its life shall listen, When I go forth to sing.

And all its life shall echo The music of my song : O love, tender and true ! O love, gentle and strong ! Smile down, thou golden sunshine, On field and flower and tree, On ev'ry plant that opens And lives and blooms in thee. Smile down, thou golden sunshine On thousand sparkling wings, That rise and fall and glitter, And on ev'ry bird that sings. Smile down, thou golden sunshine, Thy blessing from above ; And all the world shall echo The music of my love. And all the world shall welcome The sunshine of my song : O love, tender and true 1 O love, gentle and strong ! O childish dreams, O happy dreams ! Could I but dream you o'er again ! And yet methinks it often seems That ye have not been dreamed in vain. O childhood's days, O happy days ! Too lightly spent, too soon passed o'er ; Could I but live you back once more And play again my childish plays.

And did we play then, you and I ? And did I call you little wife ? That play and truth should be so nigh, And dreams should touch our nearer life. O childhood's dreams, O happy dreams ! O childhood's days, your time is past ; For dreams must fade and years fly fast, And ne'er a life was what it seems. My youth was passed in foreign lands, And I have wandered far and wide ; My ship has lain on many strands, And rocked on many a changing tide ; And thou wert ever at my side ! I travelled. It was thought, forsooth, A useful thing, that I should learn Of varied wisdom in my youth ; The task was hard, the masters stern ; I thought of thee and my return. 'Mid stranger-friends my childhood grew, Our Saxon brethren o'er the sea, Amid a happy, noisy crew Of English schoolmates, frank and free ; I played with them and dreamed of thee !

Thou knowest in what fair retreat My later boyhood's lot was cast, Where learning and enjoyment meet, And watch the Rhine sweep proudly past ; I thought of thee, and years fly fast ! And me they bore in rapid flight, Where azure skies kiss azure seas, And marble palaces gleam white 'Mid groves of gold-hung orange trees ; I thought of thee, and what were these ? And yet again my sails were set, And I beheld that sunlit shore, Where shining dome and minaret Look all the white-roofed city o'er ; And there I learned to love thee more. And wheresoe'er I sank to rest, 'Neath Gothic arch or gilded dome ; And wheresoe'er a feathered nest Called on my heart no more to roam, I thought of thee, for thou wert home ! Have you seen my girl-cousin ? O, a lovely sight is she ! Have you seen as I saw her, Clothed in gentle modesty ?

Clothed about in the garment Of her childhood, pure as light, Clothed about and safe-guarded, For her innocence is might. Strong in all her calm beauty, Strong in all her purity. Have you seen my girl-cousin ? O, a lovely sight is she. If she pass, checked the laughter, Checked the ribald song and jest ; O the purest of women, O of women loveliest. If she pass, hushed the voices, And the speakers scarce know why ; Let her pass in her beauty, Ah, too swiftly passed by. Let her pass in her beauty And her gentle modesty. Have you seen my girl-cousin ? O, a lovely sight is she ! We had not met for many years, And lo, when first we met again, I could not see thy face for tears, I could not see the sun for rain. fame I knew thee lovely, for adown The world-trod Rhine-road many came And stayed to see our ancient town ; And friends from home would breathe thy Not thine the vulgar daily praise, That beauties court amid the crowd, — The nudge, the wink, the staring gaze, The admiration, long and loud.

Yet friends from home would often tell Of thy still charms with tender pride, Of that fair face we knew so well, Of that sweet grace thou couldst not hide. And oft by simple tales they taught, How quick both heart and brain must be. I sat and listened, and I thought : In praising her they honour me. And often then I slipped away To dream in some untroubled place, And think : if she should come to-day, And I should look upon her face ! We did not meet for many years, And lo, when first we met again, I could not see thy face for tears, I could not see the sun for rain. There lay a darkness o'er thy lot, When first thou earnest to the Rhine ; For he, whose storm-winds pity not, Had veiled thy sky and left a blot Of blackest woe o'er thee and thine. To us thy widowed mother brought Her wreck of happiness, and we Knew well, that in our midst she sought Escape from what the world is taught To give and call it sympathy.

I saw thee then — a child, 'tis true — I loved thee then, yet stood apart ; And from thy sorrow, strong and new, My love shrank back. It seemed thy due To hold aloof thy orphaned heart. I loved thee then, my heart had kept The love in playful promise sworn ; And in my loneliness I wept To think, that thou shouldst say it slept, Or deem it dead — may be still-born. And oft since then I saw thee come, I saw thee go without a word ; I need not make the weary sum, How oft I saw thee and was dumb, That had no reason to be heard. 'Twas not as often as it seems, And yet methinks so often still, That visits came like sunshine-gleams In cloudy skies, like golden dreams In nights of sickness and of ill. Once from the old Swiss border-town Thy mother sent a kindly call : We linger here, we all came down To hear a preacher of renown, Why not come too, and see us all ?

Thou wilt remember that I came ; And I, alas, remember too ; Yet not to thee belongs the blame Of days of weariness and shame, — No, not to thee. What couldst thou do ? THE MORNING OP A LOVE. 21 Time sped us on. Again we met, Thou still a child, and I a youth, And in my clumsy way I set Myself to win thee. Ah, forget With what a sorry end, forsooth ! For when I did my best and strove To please thee better than before, Thy simple spirit rose above My idle parody of love, And thought me foolish — nothing more. And thou wert right, but do not task Me now with this. The wound is healed. And yet I would not seek to mask My wrong. I had no right to ask What thou couldst have no right to yield Yet thou art witness, that I ne'er Disturbed thy peace by one soft word ; I only looked my fond despair, And cast no sigh upon the air, That all the world might not have heard.

So be it, then. I loved thee well, With foolish love, may be, but true, With trusting love, whate'er befell ; The just distinctions thus to tell Is given but to the wiser few. So be it, then. Through all these years I loved and in my love was blest ; And trusted that beyond my tears, Beyond my hopes, beyond my fears There lay a paradise of rest. And trusted with that surer trust That rises lesser proofs above, Above our daily hope and lust, I trusted thee, because I must, I trusted thee, eternal love ! I trusted thee, eternal love, And knew the greater end must be, That end, to which thy children move, God's end, as unproved faith shall prove, And, sweetest heart, I trusted thee ! A scrap of paper torn and soiled, A scrap, that once was white and fair, On which a little child had toiled To write her letter, and had spoiled Her handiwork by too much care.

O little hands, that clutched the pen, O little earnest frowning eyes, O bended head, as you were then, I call you back to life again, And in my mind I see you rise. The big round letters slowly link Across the page in straggling rows ; The tiny fingers, steeped in ink, Fight bravely on and rise and sink, And piece by piece the sentence grows. Long pauses ev'ry phrase between, And two big eyes, that look perplexed, And two small, flushing cheeks, that lean On two small, rounded arms, and mean : What should I like to tell him next ? " My deerest, deerest cousin ! " There The words stand still and head the page, If but the steps that followed were As easy as the first to her — But proverbs are not always sage, Not always true, for well we know, That later steps most often were The harder, as our pace grew slow.

Small hands will tire, and ink will flow, And blots fall here, and blots fall there. O dear old letter with thy smears, Thy stains, thy blots, thy faded ink, Thou hast been spoiled by many tears, And kissed and kept for many years, Thou one, thou solitary link. Thou solitary link between Our golden hours of childish play, The innocence, that once has been, The hopes, that once were young and green, And the stern, barren, dark to-day. With awkward blush one fatal morn I shewed her what I kept so well ; And ere I guessed it, she had torn The page across in girlish scorn, And at my feet the pieces lay. And she was right. I blushed and frowned, And bit my lips with grief and pain ; And down I stooped unto the ground And took the fragments scattered round And deemed my heart was rent in tw7ain.

How old were we, when first we breathed Our love into each other's ears, When first our early love bequeathed The promise to our later years ? How old were we ? Oh, rather say : How young were we ? Why tell it thus, Lest those who hear should smile away In scorn, what was such truth to us ! Yet why avoid the laugh of those Whose ignorance but breeds their scorn ? What know they of our loves and woes ? What of our darker early morn ? Ah, what indeed ! Our baby lips Were scarcely tutored to express : " I love," and yet the word oft slips From those who know its meaning less. How young were we, when first we spoke Of later bonds for weal or woe ? The words were play ? The vow was broke ? Well, some said : Yes, and some said : No, With childish hands we seized our fate And sought to hold it, nothing more ; It seems to me, that I was eight, And then — ah me — then you were four.

And you were four, and yet it seemed No strange thing then, and now we smile ; But much has happened since we dreamed That we were happy for a while. And much is past we would recall, And much is past we groaned to bear ; And now we smile and weep for all That we were called upon to share. But most of all we weep and smile To think of days that long are o'er, When first we kissed by yonder stile, — And I was eight and you were four. A vision rises up before me, A vision in the glare of day, A memory of a time so happy, That I would not drive it away. I see her, for she stands before me, — I see her and I know, 'tis she. A child — ah, with a face of sunshine, And she stands there looking at me. A fairy, as she stands there smiling, A fairy with a fairy's hair ; Her forehead and her eyes are radiant, As I see her, borne on the air.

I see her, as she comes to meet me, To meet me with an eager rush, And crying : Are you come already ? And then wondering why I should blush. O vision of a time that never, That never will return again. O woman, thou canst know I love thee, But the child I long for in vain. Ye are of yesterday ; the page Falls shut, and I must turn away. Why should my wondering thoughts engage The memories of yesterday ? Yet let me pause. I grieve to part From these bright things, that once have been ; The colours lie upon my heart As fresh as when my youth was green. true. My brain was learned in many a thing, That now has slipped from its control ; But these sweet truths, of which I sing, Are twined around my inmost soul. I have recalled them all once more, And once more known them sweet and Away, away, your time is o'er, — The present lives, but what are you ?

I know ye live, for I had died, If ye, my higher life, were not. Ye live in me. To all beside Ye are a past, that is forgot. In each man's heart there lives a past, That sighs and sings with human breath, — That lives and throbs unto the last, And dies with him, — if death be death. Dwell thou with me, thou broken dream, Reflection of the things that were, Not fancy of the things that seem, And thou, sweet memory of her. Awake in those long hours of night, When all my other life lies still ; Arise before my spirit's sight, And let me rouse you at my will. And let me live you back again, Your treasured wealth of good and ill, — Your memories of joy and pain, When all my other life lies still. For thou, brief present, but the last Reflection of dead time art thou ; And what am I but all my past United in one throbbing Now ! ■j Thou, that hast lain asleep in me, I have recalled thee back to life ; Thy hopes, thy fears, thy doubts, thy strife.

All that has been shall once more be. Shall once more live a life above The narrow compass of my soul, That she, of whom was born the whole, May know the limits of my love. Ye memories of my youth, that stir Within my heart, your time is come ; Ye rise above the daily hum, And ye shall live again in her. And thus upon her heart I cast This life, that soars all time above ; And in the presence of my love Shall be no future and no past. PART

Part II

To thee, of those dear few, that stand Between myself and life's great Wrong, To thee I dedicate this song. To thee alone. No other hand Has thy sweet primal right to trace Each line, that holds thy mirrored face. To thee, for thou wilt understand What I have written here and why, And none so well as thou and I. For thee alone this bridge is spanned, On which we meet across the years Of hope and faith and trust and tears. And see, whatever I had planned These changing notes of mine should be, My ev'ry thought recurs to thee. To thee alone, as soft and grand The music swells throughout my soul, To thee each part, to thee the whole. And yet these lines, that thou hast scanned, Are but an echo of the chime That fills my life throughout all time. These feeble rhymes I can command Are but an echo faint and far ; I bring them thee such as they are.

I bring them thee, and in thy hand I leave my love, my claim, my plea ; I dedicate these songs to thee ! Come back, come back ! Is that what the bells are saying ? Come back, come back ! I heard them ringing and playing. Come back, come back ! Echoing over the plain ; Come back, come back ! To thy native land again. Come back, come back ! I heard, as I sat in the train ; Come back, come back ! From the city beyond the plain. My native land, across the years, Across the lands my spirit bears Me back to thee in yearning flight. Up, up my fancy soars above The clouds towards the land I love, — And lo, it meets my eager sight. The last low hillocks, that remain As sentinels upon the plain, Now sink away beyond the view ; And one great stretch of verdure lies Broad, straight and smooth before mine eyes By rows of water-lines cut through.

And dotted o'er the verdant land The many-coloured cattle stand And slowly watch me, as I pass ; While here and there amid the plain A rippling lake of yellow grain Swells up above the humbler grass. And red-roofed cottages lie hid In frequent groups the trees amid With slender spires, that pierce the air. A hundred windmills hurry round Their four great sails that sweep the ground, And water greets me everywhere. And now and then on high-raised pole The one-legged stork surveys the whole, And watches down the sluggish stream The broad-built barges slowly glide, Where rushes rise on ev'ry side And hide the far advancing team. And far away towards the coast The gleaming sand-dunes' marshalled host Stands out as bulwark of the land ; And ocean rising to his prey Strikes his vain strength on their array, A silent armament of sand, And where the silver sand-beach shines The brown-sailed smacks lie drawn in lines And, each at their accustomed tasks, Some mend the nets that lie around, Some heap the herrings on the ground, And some fill up the waiting casks.

And yonder sinking to the tide Lies the great city in her pride, The lagune-city of the north ; Triumphant o'er the shelving sands She heaps her stores from many lands, And thousands from her ports sail forth. Thou golden city of my birth, Thou richest land of all the earth, Thou conquest of a nation's might, To thee my fancy soars above The clouds, to thee, O land I love, — And lo, thou dawnest on my sight. Enough of wandering far and wide, Of seeking gain and finding loss, Of digging gold and striking dross. No house on sand shall e'er abide ; No rolling stone shall gather moss. I have but learnt in foreign lands To be a stranger in my own, And I must reap, as I have sown ; And now mine exiled spirit stands Among my countrymen alone ! Before the heavy barrier falls, That shuts me out for evermore From all I love on yonder shore, I hasten back to those old halls I knew and loved in days of yore.

The weary wanderer knocks at night And craves admittance at the door : The storm is dark, my feet are sore, And here within are warmth and light ! I am returned to rove no more. Receive me by my solemn prayer, Receive me by that voiceless cry Which calls me back, I know not why ; Receive me, for my dream is fair, And life is short and love can die. Beyond the olden city-walls Still rise the ivy-covered towers, Where now a wealth of foliage falls On shady walks and shining flowers. Where lay the danger-laden moats, Now pleasure-skiffs sail gaily by, And troops of swans with snowy coats As lilies on the waters lie. Where in a sudden curve the stream Sweeps round the colour-dotted grass, And heavy-laden branches seem To kiss the wavelets, as they pass, — - There on the water's further side The lofty chestnuts stand in line, And in the mirror of the tide Two even rows of windows shine.

The long, low house lies partly hid Where now and then the trees grow tall ; Its yellow shutters shine amid The paler yellow of the wall. In golden words upon the gate, Upon the porch is written : Rest ; And here in childhood's peaceful days God made my love a summer nest. L> And here her shielded girlhood grew And opened out in tender bloom, As one of those fair flowers, that blew Around the window of her room. I found her here among her flowers, Her black-curled darling near her hand. And wiled away the happy hours, And deemed her garden fairyland. Ye golden letters, writ above The home of all that I love best, Be ye the emblem of my love, — God grant it bring her nought but rest. And wheresoe'er my lot is cast, And wheresoe'er my fate should roam, Recall my wandering steps at last ; This house is hers, and she is Home.

New life, that lay before me, That I had dreamed in many a dream, Ah me, if I could now redeem The thoughts that oft came o'er me. Young life, young hopes, young vision Of golden glitter mid the dust, Thou sowing of a golden trust And reaping of derision. How oft my youth had pondered The glories of that clouded height. Which shone upon my distant sight, I rose to them and wondered. Why pause to ask the reason ? These stormy feasts were not for me Nor scenes of drunken revelry — But hush, such words are treason. From other lands the story Comes of a better, braver sport In cricket-field and tennis-court, And higher, manlier glory. Ah well, each change of fashion Is often too a change of name, And right and wrong oft mean the same Before the throne of passion. Enjoyment is but leisure To do the thing that we love most, And many seek their proudest boast In wantonness of pleasure.

Why speak of reformation, That would perhaps be only change ? The wasp can seek in wider range The flowers of dissipation. And what ask I of pleasure, Enjoyment, whatsoe'er it be ? That find my pleasure all in thee, In thee, my joy, my treasure. 'Twas with thy mother that 1 dwelt, When first my student life began, And in her house that first I felt The boy had grown into the man, — Or rather deemed with foolish pride, The man had laid the boy aside. Thy mother's door was never dumb To claims, that constantly increase, And when I simply wrote : I come, The answer echoed : Come in peace. For weeks of short felicity I blessed the roof that sheltered thee. How strange it seems, that I was hurled From out the stillness of thy home Upon this new and noisy world, And thus sent out to meet my doom ; How strange thy circle should have been The first to hear what I had seen.

I often marked thy still surprise To hear of things so strange and new, And fled the wonder of thine eyes And blushed, that all I told was true, — Then bit my lips to tell no more, And told the selfsame story o'er. Ah well, they were no tales for thee ; I told them in my foolish pride, And deemed, forsooth, that I should be Grown-up and manly at thy side, — But learned the shadows to despise Beneath the sunlight of thine eyes. not, see, -> False manliness, thou lasting blot Upon the fresher charms of youth, Thou seekest strength where strength is And castest off the garb of truth. Thy ripeness came before its time ; Thy bloom must fade before its prime. I wore my new-plucked honours then And wondered some should smile to For no distinction, gained by men, Excelled that cap and sash to me. I like thee well, thou boyish pride, That seest all things magnified !

Where hoary institutions raise Their heads above the axe of time, And rules of long-forgotten days Combine the strange and the sublime. We dare improvers' hands to move The customs rooted in our love. O short-lived days of widest range, O joy and pain, I scarce knew why, When all the world seemed new and strange, And thou, dear heart, wert ever nigh, That such a wondrous thing should be, One roof to shelter thee and me ! And yet my heart would often turn To friends so far, so far away, — My boyhood's friends, that I must learn To look upon as lost for aye ; And ah, how much the fate endears, Which bids us separate for years. The summons came. I stood alone Amid the children of my kind, And deemed that land was most my own In which I left my heart behind, — And had not learnt to understand, That thou wert all my fatherland. die, lj The old cathedral city lies Amid a wealth of waving green.

From far away against the skies The king of all its towers is seen, A sentinel, that from on high Looks o'er the verdant pasture-land, Through which the Rhine creeps past to And digs his grave among the sand. Across the stretch of fruitful plain The guardian forts lie scattered wide, — Some hidden half by seas of grain, Some frowning by the waterside ; And thickly strewn o'er all the land Rise mansions, villas, great and small, Where flowers are massed on ev'ry hand. Or where ancestral trees grow tall. The city in its wall of green Shrinks from the view of vulgar eyes, — Yet here and there the trees between Its lesser towers as pigmies rise, — As pigmies by that giant tall, Who stands in solitary pride, And keeps his solemn watch o'er all And all the land on ev'ry side. The avenues of chestnuts spread In long, broad lines towards the town, And there its pride and fashion tread, Its carriages pass up and down.