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CRISTINA.

I.

SHE should never have looked at ine,
If she meant I should not love her!

There are plenty men, you call such,
I suppose. she may discover
All her soul to, if she pleases,

And yet leave much as she found them:
But I'm not so, and she knew it

When she fixed me, glancing round them.

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II.

What? To fix me thus meant nothing?
But I can't tell there's my weakness
What her look said!-no vile cant, sure,
About "need to strew the bleakness
"Of some lone shore with its pearl-seed,

"That the Sea feels "- 66 -no strange yearning "That such souls have, most to lavish

"Where there's chance of least returning."

III.

Oh, we 're sunk enough here, God knows!
But not quite so sunk that moments,
Sure tho' seldom, are denied us,

When the spirit's true endowments
Stand out plainly from its false ones,
And apprise it if pursuing

Or the right way or the wrong way,
To its triumph or undoing.

IV.

There are flashes struck from midnights,
There are fire-flames noondays kindle,

Whereby piled-up honours perish,

Whereby swoln ambitions dwindle, While just this or that poor impulse, Which for once had play unstifled, Seems the sole work of a life-time That away the rest have trifled.

V.

Doubt you if, in some such moment,
As she fixed me, she felt clearly,
Ages past the soul existed,

Here an age 'tis resting merely,
And hence, fleets again for ages:
While the true end, sole and single,
It stops here for is, this love-way,
With some other soul to mingle?

VI.

Else it loses what it lived for,
And eternally must lose it;
Better ends may be in prospect,

Deeper blisses, if you choose it,

But this life's end and this love-bliss

Have been lost here. Doubt you whether

This she felt, as, looking at me,

Mine and her soul rushed together?

VII.

Oh, observe! Of course, next moment,
The world's honours, in derision,
Trampled out the light for ever:

Never fear but there's provision
Of the Devil's to quench knowledge
Lest we walk the earth in rapture!
-Making those who catch God's secret
Just so much more prize their capture.

VIII.

Such am I the secret 's mine now!
She has lost me-I have gained her!
Her soul's mine: and, thus, grown perfect,
I shall pass my life's remainder,
Life will just hold out the proving

Both our powers, alone and blended-
And then, come the next life quickly!

This world's use will have been ended.

I.-MADHOUSE CELL.

JOHANNES AGRICOLA IN MEDITATION.
THERE's Heaven above, and night by night,
I look right thro' its gorgeous roof;
No suns and moons, tho' e'er so bright,
Avail to stop me; splendour-proof,
I keep the broods of stars aloof :
For I intend to get to God,

For 'tis to God I speed so fast,
For in God's breast, my own abode,
Those shoals of dazzling glory past,
I lay my spirit down at last

I lie where I have always lain,

God smiles as he has always smiled; Ere suns and moons could wax and wane, Ere stars were thundergirt, or piled

The Heavens, God thought on me his child; Ordained a life for me, arrayed

Its circumstances, every one

To the minutest; ay, God said

This head this hand should rest upon

Thus, ere he fasnioned star or sun.

And having thus created me,

Thus rooted me, he bade me grow,

Guiltless for ever, like a tree

That buds and blooms, nor seeks to know
The law by which it prospers so:

But sure that thought and word and deed
All go to swell his love for me,

Me, made because that love had need
Of something irrevocably

Pledged solely its content to be.

Yes, yes, a tree which must ascend,-
No poison-gourd foredoomed to stoop!
I have God's warrant, could I blend
All hideous sins, as in a cup,

To drink the mingled venoms up,
Secure my nature will convert

The draught to blossoming gladness fast,
While sweet dews turn to the gourd's hurt,
And bloat, and while they bloat it, blast,
As from the first its lot was cast.

For as I lie, smiled on, full fed
By unexhausted power to bless,
I gaze below on Hell's fierce bed,
And those its waves of flame oppress,
Swarming in ghastly wretchedness;
Whose life on earth aspired to be

One altar-smoke, so pure !-to win
If not love like God's love to me,
At least to keep his anger in,
And all their striving turned to sin!
Priest, doctor, hermit, monk grown white
With prayer, the broken-hearted nun,
The martyr, the wan acolyte,

The incense-swinging child,—undone
Before God fashioned star or sun!
God, whom I praise; how could I praise,
If such as I might understand,
Make out, and reckon on, his ways,
And bargain for his love, and stand,
Paying a price, at his right hand?

II.-MADHOUSE CELL.

PORPHYRIA'S LOVER.
THE rain set early in to-night,
The sullen wind was soon awake,
It tore the elm-tops down for spite,
And did its worst to vex the lake,
I listened with heart fit to break;
When glided in Porphyria: straight

She shut the cold out and the storm,
And kneeled and made the cheerless grate
Blaze up, and all the cottage warm;
Which done, she rose, and from her form
Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,
And laid her soiled gloves by, untied

Her hat and let the damp hair fall,

And, last, she sate down by my side And called me. When no voice replied,

She put my arm about her waist,

And made her smooth white shoulder bare,

And all her yellow hair displaced,

And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,

And spread o'er all her yellow hair,

Murmuring how she loved me; she
Too weak, for all her heart's endeavour,
To set its struggling passion free

From pride, and vainer ties dissever,
And give herself to me for ever:
But passion sometimes would prevail,
Nor could to-night's gay feast restrain
A sudden thought of one so pale

For love of her, and all in vain;
So, she was come thro' wind and rain.
Be sure I looked up at her eyes

Proud, very proud; at last I knew
Porphyria worshipped me; surprise

Made my heart swell, and still it grew · While I debated what to do.

That moment she was mine, mine, fair,
Perfectly pure and good: I found
A thing to do, and all her hair

In one long yellow string I wound
Three times her little throat around,
And strangled her. No pain felt she;
I am quite sure she felt no pain.
As a shut bud that holds a bee

I warily oped her lids; again
Laughed the blue eyes without a stain.
And I untightened next the tress

About her neck; her cheek once more Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss: I propped her head up as before, Only, this time my shoulder bore Her head, which droops upon it still: The smiling rosy little head, So glad it has its utmost will,

That all it scorned at once is fled, And I, its love, am gained instead! Porphyria's love: she guessed not how Her darling one wish would be heard. And thus we sit together now,

And all night long we have not stirred, And yet God has not said a word!

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