And one eye's black intelligence, - ever that glance O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance ! And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on. By Hasselt, Dirck groan'd; and cried Joris "Stay spur! Your Roos gallop'd bravely, the fault's not in her, We'll remember at Aix" - for one heard the quick wheeze Of her chest, saw the stretch'd neck and staggering knees, And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, As down on her haunches she shudder'd and sank. So, we were left galloping, Joris and I, Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky; The broad sun above laugh'd a pitiless laugh, 'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff; Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white, And after April, when May follows And the white-throat builds, and all the swallows! Hark, where my blossom'd pear-tree in the hedge Leans to the field and scatters on the clover Blossoms and dewdrops at the bent spray's edge That's the wise thrush he sings each song twice over Lest you should think he never could recapture The first fine careless rapture! And, though the fields look rough with hoary dew, All will be gay when noontide wakes anew The buttercups, the little children's dower, Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower! A FACE IF one could have that little head of hers! Painted upon a background of pale gold, Of those two lips, which should be opening soft In the pure profile; not as when she laughs, For that spoils all: but rather as if aloft Yon hyacinth, she loves so, lean'd its staff's Burthen of honey-color'd buds to kiss By the many hundred years red-rusted, To the water's edge. For, what expands Queen Mary's saying serves for me Open my heart and you will see Such lovers old are I and she: Dead long ago, and I am Bishop since, And as she died so must we die ourselves, And thence ye may perceive the world's a dream. Life, how and what is it? As here I lie In this state-chamber, dying by degrees, Hours and long hours in the dead night, I ask, "Do I live, am I dead?" Peace, peace seems all. Saint Praxed's ever was the church for peace; And so, about this tomb of mine. I fought With tooth and nail to save my niche, ye know : -Old Gandolf cozen'd me, despite my care; Shrewd was that snatch from out the corner South He graced his carrion with, God curse the same! Yet still my niche is not so cramp'd but thence One sees the pulpit on the epistle-side, And somewhat of the choir, those silent seats, And up into the aëry dome where live The odd one at my feet where Anselm stands: Peach-blossom marble all, the rare, the ripe As fresh-pour'd red wine of a mighty pulse, - Old Gandolf with his paltry onion-stone. Put me where I may look at him! True peach, Rosy and flawless : how I earn'd the prize! Draw close that conflagration of my church What then? So much was sav'd if aught were miss'd! My sons, ye would not be my death? Go dig The white-grape vineyard where the oilpress stood, Drop water gently till the surface sink, And if ye find Ah God, I know not, I! . . . Bedded in store of rotten figleaves soft, Like God the Father's globe on both his hands Ye worship in the Jesu Church so gay, For Gandolf shall not choose but see and burst! Swift as a weaver's shuttle fleet our years: Man goeth to the grave, and where is he? Did I say, basalt for my slab, sons? Black That's if ye carve my epitaph aright, Choice Latin, pick'd phrase, Tully's every word, No gaudy ware like Gandolf's second line Tully, my masters? Ulpian serves his need! And then how shall I lie through centuries, For as I lie here, hours of the dead night, And let the bedclothes, for a mortcloth, drop Into great laps and folds of sculptor's work : And as yon tapers dwindle, and strange thoughts |