Absent

We sat on grassy slopes that meetWith sudden dip the level strand;The trees hung overhead--our feetWere on the sand.

Two silent girls, a thoughtful man,We sunned ourselves in open light,And felt such April airs as fanThe Isle of Wight;

And smelt the wall-flower in the cragWhereon that dainty waft had fed,Which made the bell-hung cowslip wagHer delicate head;

And let alighting jackdaws fleetAdown it open-winged, and passTill they could touch with outstretched feetThe warmèd grass.

The happy wave ran up and rangLike service bells a long way off,And down a little freshet sprangFrom mossy trough,

And splashed into a rain of spray,And fretted on with daylight's loss,Because so many bluebells layLeaning across.

Blue martins gossiped in the sun,And pairs of chattering daws flew by,And sailing brigs rocked softly onIn company.

Wild cherry-boughs above us spread,The whitest shade was ever seen,And flicker, flicker, came and fledSun spots between.

Bees murmured in the milk-white bloom,As babes will sigh for deep contentWhen their sweet hearts for peace make room,As given, not lent.

And we saw on: we said no word,And one was lost in musings rare,One buoyant as the waft that stirredHer shining hair.

His eyes were bent upon the sand,Unfathomed deeps within them lay.A slender rod was in his hand--A hazel spray.

Her eyes were resting on his face,As shyly glad, by stealth to gleanImpressions of his manly graceAnd guarded mien;

The mouth with steady sweetness set,And eyes conveying unawareThe distant hint of some regretThat harbored there.

She gazed, and in the tender flushThat made her face like roses blown,And in the radiance and the hush,Her thought was shown.

It was a happy thing to sitSo near, nor mar his reverie;She looked not for a part in it,So meek was she.

But it was solace for her eyes,And for her heart, that yearned to him,To watch apart in loving wiseThose musings dim.

Lost--lost, and gone! The Pelham woodsWere full of doves that cooed at ease;The orchis filled her purple hoodsFor dainty bees.

He heard not; all the delicate airWas fresh with falling water-spray:It mattered not--he was not there,But far away.

Till with the hazel in his hand,Still drowned in thought it thus befell;He drew a letter on the sand--The letter L.

And looking on it, straight there wroughtA ruddy flush about his brow;His letter woke him: absent thoughtRushed homeward now.

And half-abashed, his hasty touchEffaced it with a tell-tale care,As if his action had been much,And not his air.

And she? she watched his open palmSmooth out the letter from the sand,And rose, with aspect almost calm,And filled her hand

With cherry-bloom, and moved awayTo gather wild forget-me-not,And let her errant footsteps strayTo one sweet spot,

As if she coveted the fairWhite lining of the silver-weed,And cuckoo-pint that shaded thereEmpurpled seed.

She had not feared, as I divine,Because she had not hoped. Alas!The sorrow of it! for that signCame but to pass;

And yet it robbed her of the rightTo give, who looked not to receive,And made her blush in love's despiteThat she should grieve.

A shape in white, she turned to gaze;Her eyes were shaded with her hand,And half-way up the winding waysWe saw her stand.

Green hollows of the fringèd cliff,Red rocks that under waters show,Blue reaches, and a sailing skiff,Were spread below.

She stood to gaze, perhaps to sigh,Perhaps to think; but who can tellHow heavy on her heart must lieThe letter L!

She came anon with quiet grace;And "What," she murmured, "silent yet!"He answered, "'Tis a haunted place,And spell-beset.

"O speak to us, and break the spell!""The spell is broken," she replied."I crossed the running brook, it fell,It could not bide.

"And I have brought a budding world,Of orchis spires and daisies rank,And ferny plumes but half uncurled,From yonder bank;

"And I shall weave of them a crown,And at the well-head launch it free,That so the brook may float it down,And out to sea.

"There may it to some English handsFrom fairy meadow seem to come;The fairyest of fairy lands--The land of home."

"Weave on," he said, and as she woveWe told how currents in the deep,With branches from a lemon grove,Blue bergs will sweep.

And messages from shipwrecked folkWill navigate the moon-led main,And painted boards of splintered oakTheir port regain.

Then floated out by vagrant thought,My soul beheld on torrid sandThe wasteful water set at noughtMan's skilful hand,

And suck out gold-dust from the box,And wash it down in weedy whirls,And split the wine-keg on the rocks,And lose the pearls.

"Ah! why to that which needs it not,"Methought, "should costly things be given?How much is wasted, wrecked, forgot,On this side heaven!"

So musing, did mine ears awakeTo maiden tones of sweet reserve,And manly speech that seemed to makeThe steady curve

Of lips that uttered it deferTheir guard, and soften for the thought:She listened, and his talk with herWas fancy fraught.

"There is not much in liberty"--With doubtful pauses he began;And said to her and said to me,"There was a man--

"There was a man who dreamed one nightThat his dead father came to him;And said, when fire was low, and lightWas burning dim--

"'Why vagrant thus, my sometime pride,Unloved, unloving, wilt thou roam?Sure home is best!' The son replied,'I have no home.'

"'Shall not I speak?' his father said,'Who early chose a youthful wife,And worked for her, and with her ledMy happy life.

"'Ay, I will speak, for I was youngAs thou art now, when I did holdThe prattling sweetness of thy tongueDearer than gold;

"'And rosy from thy noonday sleepWould bear thee to admiring kin,And all thy pretty looks would keepMy heart within.

"'Then after, mid thy young allies--For thee ambition flushed my brow--I coveted the school-boy prizeFar more than thou.

"'I thought for thee, I thought for allMy gamesome imps that round me grew;The dews of blessing heaviest fallWhere care falls too.

"'And I that sent my boys away,In youthful strength to earn their bread,And died before the hair was grayUpon my head--

"'I say to thee, though free from care,A lonely lot, an aimless life,The crowning comfort is not there--Son, take a wife.'

"'Father beloved,' the son replied,And failed to gather to his breast,With arms in darkness searching wide,The formless guest.

"'I am but free, as sorrow is,To dry her tears, to laugh, to talk;And free, as sick men are, I wisTo rise and walk.

"'And free, as poor men are, to buyIf they have nought wherewith to pay;Nor hope, the debt before they die,To wipe away.

"'What 'vails it there are wives to win,And faithful hearts for those to yearn,Who find not aught thereto akinTo make return?

"'Shall he take much who little gives,And dwells in spirit far away,When she that in his presence livesDoth never stray,

"But waking, guideth as beseemsThe happy house in order trim,And tends her babes; and sleeping, dreamsOf them and him?

"'O base, O cold,'"--while thus he spakeThe dream broke off, the vision fled;He carried on his speech awakeAnd sighing said--

"'I had--ah happy man!--I hadA precious jewel in my breast,And while I kept it I was gladAt work, at rest!

"'Call it a heart, and call it strongAs upward stroke of eagle's wing;Then call it weak, you shall not wrongThe beating thing.

"'In tangles of the jungle reed,Whose heats are lit with tiger eyes,In shipwreck drifting with the weed'Neath rainy skies,

"'Still youthful manhood, fresh and keen,At danger gazed with awed delightAs if sea would not drown, I ween,Nor serpent bite.

"'I had--ah happy! but 'tis gone,The priceless jewel; one came by,And saw and stood awhile to conWith curious eye,

"'And wished for it, and faintly smiledFrom under lashes black as doom,With subtle sweetness, tender, mild,That did illume

"'The perfect face, and shed on itA charm, half feeling, half surprise,And brim with dreams the exquisiteBrown blessèd eyes.

"'Was it for this, no more but this,I took and laid it in her hand,By dimples ruled, to hint submiss,By frown unmanned?

"'It was for this--and O farewellThe fearless foot, the present mind,And steady will to breast the swellAnd face the wind!

"'I gave the jewel from my breast,She played with it a little whileAs I sailed down into the west,Fed by her smile;

"'Then weary of it--far from land,With sigh as deep as destiny,She let it drop from her fair handInto the sea,

"'And watched it sink; and I--and I,--What shall I do, for all is vain?No wave will bring, no gold will buy,No toil attain;

"'Nor any diver reach to raiseMy jewel from the blue abyss;Or could they, still I should but praiseTheir work amiss.

"'Thrown, thrown away! But I love yetThe fair, fair hand which did the deed:That wayward sweetness to forgetWere bitter meed.

"'No, let it lie, and let the waveRoll over it for evermore;Whelmed where the sailor hath his grave--The sea her store.

"'My heart, my sometime happy heart!And O for once let me complain,I must forego life's better part--Man's dearer gain.

"'I worked afar that I might rearA peaceful home on English soil;I labored for the gold and gear--I loved my toil.

"'Forever in my spirit spakeThe natural whisper, "Well 'twill beWhen loving wife and children breakTheir bread with thee!"

"'The gathered gold is turned to dross,The wife hath faded into air,My heart is thrown away, my lossI cannot spare.

"'Not spare unsated thought her food--No, not one rustle of the fold,Nor scent of eastern sandal-wood,Nor gleam of gold;

"'Nor quaint devices of the shawl,Far less the drooping lashes meek;The gracious figure, lithe and tall,The dimpled cheek;

"'And all the wonders of her eyes,And sweet caprices of her air,Albeit, indignant reason cries,Fool! have a care.

"'Fool! join not madness to mistake;Thou knowest she loved thee not a whit;Only that she thy heart might break--She wanted it,

"'Only the conquered thing to chainSo fast that none might set it free,Nor other woman there might reignAnd comfort thee.

"'Robbed, robbed of life's illusions sweet;Love dead outside her closèd door,And passion fainting at her feetTo wake no more;

"'What canst thou give that unknown brideWhom thou didst work for in the waste,Ere fated love was born, and cried--Was dead, ungraced?

"'No more but this, the partial care,The natural kindness for its own,The trust that waxeth unaware,As worth is known:

"'Observance, and complacent thoughtIndulgent, and the honor dueThat many another man has broughtWho brought love too.

"'Nay, then, forbid it Heaven!' he said,'The saintly vision fades from me;O bands and chains! I cannot wed--I am not free.'"

With that he raised his face to view;"What think you," asking, "of my tale?And was he right to let the dewOf morn exhale,

"And burdened in the noontide sun,The grateful shade of home forego--Could he be right--I ask as oneWho fain would know?"

He spoke to her and spoke to me;The rebel rose-hue dyed her cheek;The woven crown lay on her knee;She would not speak.

And I with doubtful pause--averseTo let occasion drift away--I answered--"If his case were worseThan word can say,

"Time is a healer of sick hearts,And women have been known to choose,With purpose to allay their smarts,And tend their bruise,

"These for themselves. Content to give,In their own lavish love complete,Taking for sole prerogativeTheir tendance sweet.

"Such meeting in their diademOf crowning love's ethereal fire,Himself he robs who robbeth themOf their desire.

"Therefore the man who, dreaming, criedAgainst his lot that even-song,I judge him honest, and decideThat he was wrong."

"When I am judged, ah may my fate,"He whispered, "in thy code be read!Be thou both judge and advocate."Then turned, he said--

"Fair weaver!" touching, while he spoke,The woven crown, the weaving hand,"And do you this decree revoke,Or may it stand?

"This friend, you ever think her right--She is not wrong, then?" Soft and lowThe little trembling word took flight:She answered, "No."