The Project Gutenberg eBook of Sweet Hours, by Carmen Sylva

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Title: Sweet Hours

Author: Carmen Sylva

Release Date: March 19, 2015 [EBook #48533]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Susan Skinner and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from scanned images of public domain material from the Google Print project.)

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ***

SWEET HOURS

BY

CARMEN SYLVA

LONDON

R. A. EVERETT & CO., LTD.

42 ESSEX STREET, W.C.

1904

[All rights reserved]

CONTENTS

PAGE

TO THE MEMORY OF QUEEN VICTORIA

1

A FRIEND

4

OUT OF THE DEEP

7

A CORONATION

10

DOWN THE STREAM

13

IN THE RUSHING WIND

16

UNDER THE SNOW

19

SOLITUDE

21

THE GNAT

24

REST

27

THE SHADOW

32

THE GLOWWORM

35

A DREAM

37

IN THE DARK

40

THE SENTINEL

43

LETHE

47

A DEBTOR

51

"VENGEANCE IS MINE," SAITH THE LORD

54

NIGHT

58

ROUSED

62

SADNESS

66

WHEN JOY IS DEAD

68

A ROOM

71

UNREST

74

TO THE MEMORY OF QUEEN VICTORIA

THESE ever wakeful eyes are closed. They saw

Such grief, that they could see no more. The heart—

That quick'ning pulse of nations—could not bear

Another throb of pain, and could not hear

Another cry of tortur'd motherhood.

Those uncomplaining lips, they sob no more

The soundless sobs of dark and burning tears,

That none have seen; they smile no more, to breathe

A mother's comfort into aching hearts.

The patriarchal Queen, the monument

Of touching widowhood, of endless love,

And childlike purity—she sleeps. This night

Is watchful not. The restless hand, that slave

To duty, to a mastermind, to wisdom

That fathom'd history and saw beyond

The times, lies still in marble whiteness. Love

So great, so faithful, unforgetting and

Unselfish—must it sleep? Or will that veil,

That widow's veil unfold, and spread into

The dovelike wings, that long were wont to hover

In anxious care about her world-wide nest,

And now will soar and sing, as harpchords sing,

Whilst in their upward flight they breast the wind

Of Destiny. No rest for her, no tomb,

Nor ashes! Light eternal! Hymns of joy!

No silence now for her, who, ever silent,

Above misfortunes' storms and thund'ring billows,

Would stand with clear and fearless brow, so calm,

That men drew strength from out those dauntless eyes,

And quiet from that hotly beating heart,

Kept still by stern command and unbent will

Beneath those tight shut lips. Not ashes, where

A beacon e'er will burn, a fire, like

The Altar's Soma, for the strong, the weak,

The true, the brave, and for the quailing. No,

Not ashes, but a light, that o'er the times

Will shed a gentle ray, and show the haven,

When all the world, stormshaken, rudderless, will pray:

If but her century would shine again!

Oh, Lord! Why hast thou ta'en thy peaceful Queen?

A FRIEND

OLD age is gentle as an autumn morn;

The harvest over, you will put the plough

Into another, stronger hand, and watch

The sowing you were wont to do.

Old age

Is like an alabaster room, with soft

White curtains. All is light, but light so mild,

So quiet, that it cannot hurt.

The pangs

Are hushed, for life is wild no more with strife,

Nor breathless uphill work, nor heavy with

The brewing tempests, which have torn away

So much, that nothing more remains to fear.

What once was hope, is gone. You know. You saw

The worst, and not a sigh is left of all

The heavy sighs that tore your heart, and not

A tear of all those tears that burnt your cheeks,

And ploughed the furrows into them.

You see

How others work again and weep again,

And hope and fear. Thy alabaster room

With marble floor and dainty hangings has

A look so still, that others wonder why

They feel it churchlike. All thy life is here;

Thy life hath built the vault and paved it, and

Thy hands have woven yonder curtains that

Surround thy seat, a shady sunshine.

Age

Is feeble not to thee, as all thy wishes

Are silent and demand no effort. Age

Is kind to thee, allows thee all the rest

That never came, when life was hard and toilsome.

Receive it with a smile and clothe thyself

In white, in Nature's silver crown, and sing

A lullaby of promise and of comfort.

Tell them that life is precious, after work,

And after grief and after all the deaths,

And not a loathsome burden of a life.

Old age is like a room of alabaster,

The curtains silken; thou art priest and Druid!

No mystery for thee, but Light from heaven!

OUT OF THE DEEP

THY soul grows silent, when its accents are

Disturbed, and low thy heart, when dark a burden

Has deeply covered it. Thy soul is proud.

When thou hast made it free of wants and wishes,

Then art thou rich.

Our life is seldom open,

For love and fear have shut it. When we lay

It open, there is nought to show in it,

But wounds and burning pain.

Mysterious is

Thy power, great as it may be, a trial

Of thine own will and of the curb upon

Thyself; mysterious to thyself, the more,

The greater it has grown, surrounded as

We are by fear and pain.

And when the soul

Lifts up her voice and speaks, then must she go

Against the will of people, not her own,

The will that is herself, the soul's own might.

When heaven asks, we work with joy, a dear

Beloved business put into our hands.

We dream at first to make it daintily,

Like Nature's work, so careful and so rich,

And then the dream becomes a wish, then changes

To action, to be called by us our own

Free will. And when we feel alleviated

Of suffering, we call it hope. In each

Hard battle of our life, free will is quite

The same, unbending and undone, and gave

Us never yet a ray of satisfaction,

Nor of real joy, the bleeding conqueror.

And hope is e'er the same. It dwelleth not

In hearts that are too great for hope, too great

For wishes, and that fearless never ask

Why will is but obedience, power worthless,

The greatest strength a reed, and thought an echo.

Great hearts are free of either want or wish;

They may be proud and richly clothe themselves

In lofty, burdenless, mysterious Silence.

A CORONATION

WHEN in Bohemia there were kings and queens,

The crown was laid upon the head that had

To bear and to exalt it—on the King's,

And then upon the shoulder of the Queen.

The shoulder bears the weight, the head the burden;

The shoulder lifts, the head must carry. Great

For both the heaviness, the endless pain,

For both the thorns, for both hard labour, thankless

Unending work, the sorrow of their people,

The care of each and all, the scorching tears

Of all, that make their path a desert, and

Their robe so heavy, as if dew had changed

Into the icy hangings of the frost.

The shoulder oftentimes is wounded by

The crown, the head bowed low, the heart so heavy,

Much heavier than all that heavy weight,

And yet doth woman's frail and bending shoulder

Resist the load, and still her smiling eyes

And gentle lips make all the world believe

Her shoulder bleedeth not, her toil is easy,

The load they put upon her without asking

How great her strength, is like a toy. Oh, smile!

Ye heavy-laden Queens! Let not a sigh

Escape your loving hearts, and no complaint

Break from the lips God made to heal and bless!

Oh, smile! The world doth not forgive its slaves

For looking overworked. If thou canst bear

No more, then change the shoulder, tired Queen!

DOWN THE STREAM

FROM whence the brook? From where the waters gather

In mountains' deep recesses, stone-black lakes

And dripping crevices. It ripples forth

Into the shining day with scarce a voice,

And with no strength at all, till mountain showers

And winter's snow and spring storms pour their flood

Into the dancing brook, that foams and starts

And rushes headlong down the steeps and throws

Into the Unknown all its youth and strength,

And thunders into hell, to rise again

In sheets of whiteness into dreamy veils,

To kiss the flowers' feet and overflow

The meadows; thence, o'erbridged and caught and fastened

To wheels, to grind and grind with irksome noise,

To lose all liberty, all winsome frolic,

And work till doomsday. On and on the stream

Goes widening into calm and mighty strength,

A hero of a stream, that bears the ships

Like toys, and carries legions.

Wider still

He grows, and stronger, as he drags the waters

Of hundred rivers with him to the sea.

At last his course is sluggish, tired, slow,

A living death, till, blended with the sea,

A rising tide will carry him away

Into oblivion. Such is life! A stream

From unknown heights through storm and dangerous fall,

Through unknown land and never-ending work

Unto Eternity's great, unknown sea.

You cannot rise above the height you come from,

You only widen and expand—but downwards,—

Your strength is gone, your impetus is quenched.

And then the world will call you great and grand,

And make a fortune out of all those waters:

Your tears, your blood, your work, and what you spent;

The strength of all your aims and all your falls!

IN THE RUSHING WIND

THE wind hath whirled the leaves from off the tree.

The leaves were yellow, they had lived their time,

And lie a golden heap or fly away,

As if the butterflies had left their wings

Behind, when love's short summertime had gone,

And killed them. Lightly doth the leaves' great shower

Whirl on and skim the ground, where ancient leaves

Lie rotten, trampled on, so featureless,

That you can hardly tell what formed that mould,

That never-ending burial-place of leaves.

And then the wind will shake and bend the tree,

And twist its branches off, burst it asunder,

Uproot the giant and bring low his head,

Upheave the granite block round which the roots

Had taken hold for countless centuries.

On goes the wind! The corn is green and soft—

Earth's wavy fur. It does but ripple lightly

In childish laughter at the harmless fun

That was a death-blow. But the sea awakes

And frowns and foams and rises into anger

So wild with wrath, and yet so powerless,

As if a thousand chains had chained it down,

To howl, to suffer, to rebel against

The heartless merriment of stronger powers.

On goes the wind, to shake the rock, to blow

Into a flame, the wild incendiary,

And never doth he look behind, to see,

To feel, to understand the horror he

Hath worked. The breath—the robe of Destiny—

Sweeps on, sweeps past, and never lists that hell

And heaven have awaked, in shrieking anguish,

But blows the clouds away, laughs at the sun,

And falls into unconscious, dreamless sleep.

UNDER THE SNOW

IF green the corn and burning the volcano,

Though snowclad, buried under rocks of ice,

Why shall the heart not love and burn in waving

Expectant green, or rising flames of hot

Enthusiasm, or burst into a torrent

Of wrath, though snow the summit long hath crowned?

Behold! The field is green, the seed has risen

That thou hast thrown into these aching furrows,

Once ploughed by Destiny, and sown with sorrow

And watered with the wells of tears, that dropped

Upon each grain and flowed through all the furrows.

They see the snow upon thine head, but not

The corn and not the threat'ning furnace of

Thy soul. They think it is extinct, they hope

Thou hast forgotten, that the gentle warmth

They feel is sunshine, not the stormy fire,

That cannot cease to burn: for it remembers.

SOLITUDE

THE greatest friend, the friend that dwells with thee,

When the wild turmoil of the world is thrust

Aside, when e'en thy smile may rest, that shield,

That weapon, armour, gauntlet, laid aside,

Will leave thy soul to sculpt thy features with

Her own deep chisel; when before thyself

Thou standest, as before thy judge and master,

An outcry goeth forth from thee towards

Thyself, then will great solitude enfold

Thee, and her wings will hush the tempest.

Fear not that angel's gravity, the look

His searching eye will plunge into thy heart.

Fear not the whisp'ring of his lips: Remember!

For ev'ry word of thine, each working of

Thy soul is booked, indelible the writing,

It is encircled in the movement of

The worlds and has its history. Thy soul,

Itself a world, belongs to Solitude. It is

So lonely that no crowd of friends, nor e'en

One friend can take its loneliness away.

There is but Solitude that can surround

Thy soul with beings and thy heart with sight.

It opens wide the floodgates of thy thought,

And what the world repressed, hemmed in and stifled,

Will rush like living waters through thy brain

And sweep away the nothingness of things.

Great Solitude will let thee listen. Hark!

The voices of the Infinite are singing,

The thoughts of thousands who have thought before thee

Come crowding round thy brain and fill the air,

And seek a new expression on thy lips.

Thou art in such ennobling company,

That Solitude becomes the gorgeous feast,

For which thy soul is clothed in white and purple,

Thy feet unshod tread on the holy ground

Where God has spoken. Hark! Great Solitude

Hath thousand voices and a flood of light,

Be not afraid, enter the Sanctuary,

Thou wilt be taken by the hand and led

To Life's own fountain, never-ending Thought!

THE GNAT

A LONG-LEGGED gnat with airy wings, a dart

Sharp as a needle and a searching tusk,

Was flutt'ring round my lamp, clung to my book-shelf,

And wandered over papers. Then I blew

On it, to chase it far away. But no,

Beneath the tempest of my breath it clung

Still faster to the paper's slender shelter

And moved not, till I thought my breath had killed it.

We watched each other; then it flew away.

I thought how Fate and we thus ofttimes watch

Each other, till Fate blow us into atoms,

And we remain in some weak place, in Death's

Suspense, not knowing if again the storm

Will blow. But Fate is careless and will let

Us go, if but the wings that are to take

Us hence are still untorn, unsinged, uncrushed;

Or else we creep along and die unseen,

A wingless worm, not understanding what

Those papers and those shelves contain that are

No revelation, nought but a grave, whilst others

Suck life and food, from where the storm of Fate

Hath torn us, unresisting, meaningless,

And watching with an instant's careless glance,

If we are really dead, or still may fly.

Cheat cruel Fate, keep still like death, move not,

Flutter not; then unfold thy wings, and go

Thy way, the coming morn is full of life,

Bury thy head in flowers, in the dew,

The sun is rising and thou art alive!

REST

AND did they say that rest was not so sweet,

Old age a sadness, no repose at all?

Then have they quite forgotten. They remember

No more the heartbreak of their early youth,

The battle fought for life, the angry clouds

That hid the sun, till he would shine no more,

The anguish of their nights, that made their bed

A furnace and a rack. They say: 'Twas but

A nightmare! And they smile, and yet that smile

Is sadder than a frown, much sadder than

A tear, as it is hopeless. For a tear

Has a bright spot, wherein the sun may sparkle.

That smile is sunless, be it e'er so sweet.

And know ye not how wildly ye have called

On Death, and tried to catch him by the wing,

Or let yourself be trodden under foot

By him? And wrung your hands in agony,

When he had passed you by. Ye dare not tell

Your heart what it has suffered, dare not look

Into the past again, for fear of turning

To stone, for whitelipp'd fear of waking from

Its sleep that heart to make it throb again,

Like millstones. You remember! Ah! You see!

You even try to do away with pity,

For fear of being tortured yet again,

And shaken yet again, and no more able

To quiet that unruly heart, that learnt

To fear. Oh! Have ye never known what fear

Can make of you? The wandering of your clock,

That hammers nails into your brain and hands,

The coming of the dawn, that cruel dawn,

With icy, deathlike eyes and hollow voice,

Announcing mercilessly that the day

Hath come? And were you not afraid, when night

Set in again, with redhot eyeballs, with

The lonely wringing of your soul between

Her hands, like linen, that she washed in tears,

In blood, in rivers of despair? Oh, see!

Here comes with gentle wing and loving eye

Sweet Rest, and lays her mantle round your shoulders,

And bids you fear no more, but listen to

The birds' first Alleluia to the morn,

That dances o'er the dew, up to the dawn,

And be it e'er so cold, so lifeless, like

The last of all the dawn they sang to. Fear

Is banished, anguish quenched in all the waters

That grief has steeped you in. You know that ne'er

Another day can be so dark again,

As Rest forbids the cruel dawn to break

With threat'ning eyes, as Rest shuts out the night,

And leaves thee lonely not, but fills thy sight

With loving faces at the gates of heaven.

Sweet Rest is round thee, like an autumn sun,

And sheds thy rays upon the striving young ones.

Ye long for bed again, like little children;

No longer doth the pillow seem on fire,

Your couch a bed of coals. The weary head

Is cool, the limbs lie still, and thought comes gently

Like a nurse's well-known ditty, that will lull

To sleep thee with its sameness. Rest hath come

At last, and looks into thy room, into

Thy heart, and sends forgetfulness, like balm,

Like a flower's perfume through thy silent chamber.

The clock is peaceful with its quiet beat,

And night and morn are one; they bring no struggle.

Sweet Rest hath come, great, wingèd, heaven-born,

To lead thee to thy home with angels' hands.

THE SHADOW

THE shadow of your threshold is so full

Of meaning, that the stranger knows what home

Is yours, if peace dwell here, or strife, or restless

Unsatisfied ambition. As the tree's

Deep shadow meaneth rest and comfort, or

Is poison, sleep eternal, such the house

That is a home's sweet shadow or a dark

Abode of sin, of lurking lie and danger.

The shadow of your life, that is so small

In bright midday and summer's burning sun,

Begins to lengthen when your evening comes,

And shows the beauty of the tree in outline,

Its graceful forms, its harmony and power;

And never did its beauty strike before,

As now, when lost in thought, you contemplate

The shadow on the lawn. The golden rays

That flood it, make it higher, nobler, and

Its shadow ever greater, till the night

Calls forth the moon, to make it deep and weird

As if unspoken pain had darkened it,

As if the silvery paleness of the moon

Sharpened its features into hardness almost.

Behold the shadow of thy life! Look well if

It be a threshold that reveals the strong

Unbending will, the height of all your aims,

Your passions' darkness, and the harmony

Of all the branches that were put into

Your care! Look at the shadow when your day

Is done, and winter's moon will draw its line

In naked truth, without the flattering leaves

Upon your windingsheet's unruffled snow.

THE GLOWWORM

THE mountains lost in clouds, the giant firs

Standing out 'gainst the never-ceasing lightning,

Shaken by thunderpeals, in threefold strength,

As all the valleys echoed through the night.

The mighty heads stormbent, the branches tossed

Into the sheets of water, sky and earth

In lurid light, a never-ceasing flame.

There in the grass, beneath a tiny leaf

A firefly put forth its wondrous ray,

As if no storm, no rain, no hail were nigh,

A peaceful little flame, and yet so strong,

That it outshone the lightning. It would say:

I am the same as lightning! Storm thy life

And threat'ning thunder, but thy flame O minstrel,

Thy heart's own fire, is as strong, as true,

As elementary as Fate's wild raving,

And though it throws its light but on a leaf,

That leaf may be eternal by the light

Thy soul hath shed on it. That steady flame

Burns on, when all the clouds have spent their fire,

And when the bowels of the earth have ceased

To growl in answer. Undisturbed, thy flame

Will live, defying Fate's alarm, a fearless,

Undying mighty word, as strong as lightning

And love's own sheen, thy soul's unwavering beacon.

A DREAM

METHOUGHT that unto God I prayed: Oh, Lord!

If thou wouldst deign to let poor me behold

Thy greatness, so that with my human brain

I understood it! Thus I spoke, and Lo!

I stood alone upon a mountain rock,

In utter darkness, towering rocks beyond

The dread abyss, that at my feet lay black

And fathomless, yielding no answer to

The searching eye. And, measureless, the sky

Above was dark'ning into endless night.

Then, from the deep did vapours seem to rise

In white procession, denser, and yet denser,

Until into a rising column they

Began to form—a column like a mountain,

That rose and rose and rose up to the vaults

Of darkness which it seemed to carry, all

One mass of light. And when I looked again,

That column built itself of millions and

Millions of milk-white stars that moved and shone

And seemed to lift the skies unto a height

That human sight and human word could not

Attain. And whilst I looked and wondered at

The seething worlds, the column changed and formed

Itself into the statue Buonarroti

Has made of Moses, only reaching from

The deep into the heavens, white and bright,

As if three suns, themselves invisible,

Had shed their light upon the statue, or

As if an inner light shone out from it.

The socle, not on earth, but far beyond,

Was standing on the Parthenon, that shone

As bright again with endless rows of columns.

Here was the answer: Millions and yet millions

Of rising worlds, and every people's art,

And all religions may but serve to form

My human likeness, so that men behold

Me great as mortal eye and brain encompass.

For days I walked on clouds, I lived my dream.

I heard not, saw not, thought not, but beheld

The world's Creator in the silent night,

And felt the blessing so unspeakable

Of God's own answer to my childish prayer.

IN THE DARK

THE moon has but one side of light and beauty,

The other, steeped in never-ending night,

Seems worse than dead, as in the harmony

Of spheres, she cannot even echo. And

She died they say, for love of her great brother,

The glorious Sun, whom she may never reach,

Condemned to be apart, for that great sin

Of love. He was the light and life and joy

Of all her world, how could she then refrain

And love not, when her brother was a god?

But then she died, you see, and was forgiven.

Wherefore is Earth so dark and yet alive?

Wherefore doth fire still melt the gold in depths

So fathomless, that not a spark may light

The poor outside? She wanders through the worlds,

Unknown, without a ray, and yet alive

With foaming waters and with words as proud

As flowing hair. Why art thou dark, O Earth?

If thou wert sinless, would not dancing rays

Laugh through the night and gladden other planets?

Would not thy bosom's warmth give life again

To yonder ghost, thy mate in misery?

What hast thou done to be condemned to darkness,

To be a living hell, wherein the souls

Of millions suffer until death? Thy heart

Is gold: hast thou betrayed the sun? Or hast

Thou stolen wondrous goods, in gliding from

The sun? Therefore is Death to be thy child,

A curse to wander on thy lovely sides,

That oft are torn and ever motherly

Will comfort the offender with her off'rings.

Or art thou dark because thy womb must be

The grave of all thy children, Mother Earth?

THE SENTINEL

EACH flower is a sentinel of God,

And ev'ry tree and ev'ry grassblade. Not

An unseen little stem, but that will stand

And wait and shine, and never ask wherefore

It came and why it has to wither. Thou

Art such a sentinel, O Heart! Thou hast

To stand and bloom and love beside the others,

And wither when thy work is done, the spot

Being given to another, whereupon

Thou standest. And that other heart is growing

And blooming into life beneath thy shade,

As strong as thine, as ruby-red as thine,

To wither and to fall beneath the scythe,

As thine has done. Why ask and why despair?

Why not be happy with the sun, the dew,

The other flowery hearts that, full of life

Unfold their petals, which are deep like thine,

And rich as thine? Ye are to be a glorious

And many-coloured meadow. Is it not

Enough? And must ye grumble? Must ye strive

To take away the light and dew, that fall

Not to your share? Behold the scythe! And sow

Thy seed and ask not where it falls. The wind

Of fate has carried it away, to place

Another sentinel, as unknown, as

Unsought for as thyself, in a far land,

To live when thou art gone, to bloom into

Some unexpected beauty with thy strength,

Thy blood, the thoughts that were companions once

To thee and that the wind hath blown so far

Away. Thou shalt not say unto thy seed:

"Fly thither!" It obeyeth not thy will.

Thou shalt not long to be another plant;

Thy tragedy is useless, and thy will

Is nought. With all thy strength thou art but what

Is wanted—tree or grassblade—never ask

Wherefore? Here is no answer. Fate itself

Knows not wherefore it blows, or tells thee not,

But takes thy noblest self to other climes

And leaves thee to the scythe. Complain not! Mourn not!

Long not to live another day, when thou

Art called, but bow thy head without a sigh,

In gentle acquiescence, sentinel!

LETHE

WHEN dark thy childhood, tears and grief have filled

Thy swelling heart, that understood too much,

Yet not enough to be forgiving, when

The sun was pale, and darkness lonely, when

The fear of unknown evil made thy lips

Turn cold, and wonder changed to horror, then

To dumb despair, to childhood's hopelessness,

More hopeless than old age's iron clutch

Of unbelief, the shadow of the past

Will cast a pall o'er all thy life, then say:

Go down, Remembrance, into Lethe, go!

When work was hard and sacrifice in vain,

And stones were hurled at thee, thy flowers trodden

Into the soil, that, soaked with all thy blood,

Could not resist, and giving way would swallow

Thy noblest thoughts, and teach thee to undo

Thyself, gainsay thyself, as if a coward

Were crouching on thy shoulders, making thee

Believe that all thy heroism was

A sham—then say: Go down to Lethe, Thought,

And darken not the hour when I rise

Out of myself, out of the past, into

The open day of wide forgetfulness.

When shame has crept into the rocky strength,

Into the pure recess a spotless soul

Had lent thee, and with fiery coals has burnt

A mark no rivers wash away, no winds

Can cool, that sends a shudder through thy heart,

Like snakes of cold disgust, then say again:

Go down to Lethe, not to rise and sting.

But when those eyes, that were thy sun, are shut,

When blind with tears thy gaze hath yet behold

The angel wings that carried through unknown

Untold of space thy life, thy heart, thy hope—

No Lethe then! And no forgetfulness!

But open wide thy soul: It is the sun,

The sun that sends its beauteous rays into

The dark, into the cold, into the night

And terror of thy life. If grief hath ploughed

The soil, fear not! The corn is rising, young

And green and full of hope; the sun hath called;

The sun shines full into that heart that was

So torn, so weak, that could not lift itself

Unto the heavens. They are open now,

Flooded with light; take not thine eyes away,

Bend not thy look unto the earth again,

But rise on shining wings toward the rays

That draw thee, call thee, bear thee to the light!

A DEBTOR

OH, do not say that thanklessness has been

Thy sole reward! What? Wouldst thou be rewarded?

When God had laid the gift into thy heart,

Thy hand, upon the road thou hadst to tread?

Lay all thy thanks before the feet of him

Who did not shun thy help, thy gift, thy love,

But bore the humiliation and the weakness,

And bared his heart before thy human gaze,

The heart where none but God e'er read the truth,

The burning record of despair. Be humble,

Thyself, and touch not roughly, where the wound

Is open, see the beads of anguish on

The furrowed brow, the tightdrawn lips, and hear

The tremor in the whispered words, that roll

So heavily from off the heart, and leave

It crushed, sometimes for ever. Dost thou know

What lifeblood it hath cost to speak to thee,

What tortured nights have gone before, what cry

Of anguish rose towards that God, who seemed

So merciless to him and overkind

To thee, allowing thee to be his angel,

To answer when a living word of love

Had to be spoken, and a hand put out to help.

Make him forget what he has told thee,

Let him not feel that thou hast not forgotten,

But make him help thee in his turn, when thine

The pain, the care, the fear; allow him then

To tend thee, and to pay his debt to thy

Humility, and to thy thankfulness.

"VENGEANCE IS MINE," SAITH THE LORD

THOU wouldst not be avenged if thou hadst but

Insight enough into the human heart,

Into its frailty and its cowardice.

Thou wouldst not be avenged if thou but sawest

How mad, how childish and how selfish are

The helpless ones, that did thee harm because

They thought—Ah! What then thought they! That perchance

You hated them, or trod them down, or took

Their sun away; and e'en for love will they

Destroy thee, meaning well with thee—so well,

That they as lief would see thee dead, not to

Belong to what they hate—thy work, thy friend,

Thy strong ambition, or the gift that God

Hath put into thy soul, that calleth thee

Away to other heights and other temples,

Then where they long have worshipped. They dislike

Thy road, thy word, they call it strange and dark,

And they would lead thee back to where they started

So long ago with thee, and show the wrong

Thou doest quite unwittingly. A sigh,

A smile is all thine answer, but thy way

Is chosen; then the hue and cry is raised

Against thee, and thy staunchest friends will pile

With eager hands the wood on which to burn

Thy very soul, and not a tear will quench

That fire, not a hand will save thee, for

Thou art misunderstood, misjudged, despised,

And hated by the friends, who once believed

In thee as in their God. And what revenge

Could help thee? Falling back on thee, thy arm

Struck to the ground, thy heart a desert, not

Devastated to bloom again, but burnt

To lava by your heart's own flame of vengeance.

And if forgiveness be too great for thee,

Go past, turn not thy head, speak not a word

That cannot be recalled, and that will bar

The road for ever, that will cut the cloth

Between thy foes and thee. The present hour

Hath made that foe, who may come back to thee,

And see thy truth. Be great and say: I have

No foe! I smile, and they are nought! A breath

May lay them low, so low that they must call

To me for help! Then is thy vengeance ripe!

Give help with gentle pity. Feel that thou

Art ready with a well of living waters,

With flowers still more lovely than before.

Keep down the flames that make thee a volcano.

Let lovely warmth be all their strength. For thou

Art called upon to love and not to hate,

To help and not to punish, as thine eyes

Are far too weak to see the consequence

Of human anger. Even the volcano

Is aimless, powerless, like Fate itself,

And thou canst not be Fate. Ah! Be thou then

A human heart amongst poor human hearts!

NIGHT

O NIGHT! Thou friend of Thought, of Song, of winged

Inspiration! So gentle is thy tread,

Thy hand so soft, thy look so deep, the sea

Is not so deep as thy mysterious gaze.

Revealest thou what worlds have thought in distant,

Unfathomable dream? Thou knowest wonders,

And tellest them in whispers to the dreamer.

Thou art alive with silence, gentle Night,

The silence of the Past and of the Future,

Of things untold, but not forgotten, dreams

Unreal, yet full of burning truth, and clad

In image, that they startle not our heart,

Nor wake its nerveless beating till it sounds.

In silence, wondrous Night, thou teachest what

The noisy Day would never understand:

Thou makest us descend into the mine

Yet unexplorèd of our soul, that hoards

The many destinies of thousand years

And other thousand years it wandered through.

Search in the darkness of that mine, behold!

The gold that shineth forth into thine eyes,

The treasures of those other lives that death

Transformed and left them unremembered. In

The stillness that surrounds thy search thy soul

Will show thee all its strength and weakness, all

Those errors that condemned it to another

And yet another life, to die again,

And rise again and wander, yet a stranger,

Into the changing world, but laden with

The knowledge of the past it seems to learn

And calls it history, perchance its own

Forgotten past, the very person that

It seemed to be. And now it wonders why

That person acted so and erred and wrought

Such destinies. And all the time it is

Itself that learns itself. Neglect not dreams

Nor call them worthless. Great the truths they bring,

Revealed in sights and legendary lore.

When understood they are a blessing. Learn

To understand the vision's soul, the thought

Which it conveys, the future it reveals,

The past it fetches out of yonder mine

Thy brain was far too tired or far too weak

To search. When plunged in sleep that brain that now

Is thine will listen and may learn such things

Thy soul will tell, as never book or school

Or present life will teach. Oh, blessed Night!

Spread o'er my soul thy wings and carry me

Into those worlds my brain can never reach!

Fathom not memories, but let me feel

At one with all those lights that lie upon

Thy bosom, breathing, shining there in silence.

ROUSED

SLUMBER not! Rest not! Dream not! Thou art called!

The blast has rung out o'er thy living grave;

The clouds that hung so low above thy head

Poured out their flame into thy soul, and yet

Left more, much more alive there than thou knewest of.

Awake! the years stand at thy gate, and knock

To call thee forth, the dead past comes to life,

And drives thee, with its flood of whirling waters,

Onward to action, not to idle dreaming.

Arise! walk on those waves, for they will bear thee.

Trust thine own strength, and tread the flakes of foam

Lightly, with wingèd feet, with wingèd soul!

And thou shalt see that gales have left untouched

The springtime in thy heart, still breaking forth

In admiration, thankfulness and love.

Yes, not even love is quenched, and still undimmed

Enthusiasm's banner waves on high above thee.

Thou fearest the world? And what then is the world?

The shadow of a cloud—no more. Thou wouldst not

Suffer it to become a stone to crush thee?

Up! Shake thy shining wings upon the Dawn,

And laugh the world to shame. 'Tis but a pageant,

A mockery; give up thy heart to life

In all its fulness—never to the world!

And though the world should crush thine heart and say

"Behold! 'tis dust and ashes!"—though it scatter

Those ashes to the winds—yet art thou still

Pure and unconquerable, O my heart!

Thou art of those to whom an open foe

Is but a friend disguised; to whom each blow

Serves as a force to send thee ever higher,

Far above yawning gulf and raging whirlpool.

O heart of mine, be strong! Doubt not, for doubt

Was ever the one deadly foe, whose toils

Might strangle thee. Up! fight that monster, trample

Its venom under foot. The hour has come

For thee to step forth, young again and free,

A new Sir Galahad, brave, pure and strong,

Around whom angels hover as he stretches

His spotless shield to meet the early rays

Of Heaven's bright, cloudless, joyous Morning-sun!

SADNESS

THY sadness is a leaden shroud, a rock

Of Sisyphus, which thou must upward roll

By night and day, on, on. Its downward rush

Is no relief, no help, since it but seems

Heavier at each fresh start. And still thy strength

Is waning, and thy heart aches with the tears—

The unshed tears that lie like stones upon it,

While those that flowed are rivers in thy path—

Unfathomable, fordless, dark and deep.

These thou must wade, with all thy burdens—wade

And sink with every step as 'twere thy last,

And feel such deadly weakness seize on thee

As though some raging fever laid thee low.

Thy sadness is a Nessus robe, that clings

In burning folds about thee, sears thy flesh,

And eats into thy bones. 'Tis like a weapon

A man turns on himself, whose wound nought heals,

Since it is dealt against his inmost soul.

If, then, through clouds of sadness, thou perceivest

The world, well mayst thou say of it: 'Tis hell!

For spring itself is dark, the birds' sweet carol

Cheerless and dull, thy life a very desert,

Where human faces pass like spectral visions,

And gladness is a thing so clean forgotten,

As if it ne'er had been—its very name

Become a soundless word, a ghostly whisper!

WHEN JOY IS DEAD

BE still! A corpse lies there, a poor dead thing,

With upturned face, white-lipped, the haggard features,

Whereon once played a smile that gladdened hearts,

Now set and cold. Circled with black and sunken

Are now the eyes where stars were wont to sparkle,

And Fate has drawn deep lines between the brows,

That but a short time since seemed arched for mischief,

And full of childish mirth. Close to the temples

The hair clings straight and dull and colourless.

And it was golden once, like living rays,

And waved about the head, a sunrise-halo!

The hands are folded—rigid, waxen, cold,

They that were once like rose-leaves, in whose veins

The blood coursed swiftly, full of generous warmth

And loving gifts, and flowers, and balm for sorrow.

Cold are they now, as had they never yet

Clasped children to the heart, nor with deft touch

Broidered such fairy work, nor scattered broadcast

Such fairy gifts. The feet that danced along,

Leaving no trace upon the flower-petals,

Lie stiff out-stretched, and round about them hang

In heavy folds, as were they carved in marble,

The robes that fluttered lightly in the breeze,

Like opalescent wings.

Ah! cold and dark

The grave to thee, thou Sun-child! ray of brightness!

Beloved messenger of God! Arise!

Canst thou be dead? and canst thou look so stern?

Ah, no! not stern, but martyred! Cruel hands

Have rent thy garments, dragged thee by the hair,

Burnt out thine eyes, and filled thy cup with poison,

As fit requital of thy priceless gifts,

Kind Joy, true friend! And now they see thee dead

With careless eyes, and point, and feign to think

Thou ne'er hast been! Ah, Joy! sweet Joy! arise!

Be stronger than thy foes! But no! 'tis vain!

Poor Joy was deadly tired, and now she sleeps!

A ROOM

WHITEWASHED or panelled, filled with books, with light,

With flowers, with trifles sacred to the heart,

And work so pure and sweet that morning-dew

Might settle there and feel itself at home

As though 'mid garden fragrance; while the carol

Of birds streams through the window joyously,

Mistaking that abode of peace and love

For their own woodland haunts! And in that room

A woman's dainty hands ever at work,

A woman's loving heart ever awake

For others' happiness, a woman's thought

Alive in tender memories that embalm

The past in mute forgiveness. Enter then

As 'twere a sanctuary, lay aside

Thy load of care, and yield thy weary soul

To the deep sense of comfort reigning there.

Not many words—nay, not a single word—

Need tremble through the stillness, not a sigh

With untoward avowal break the peace

That folds thee to its heart and asks no question.

Such perfect peace pervades a room like this,

'Twould seem the raging storm, the roaring sea,

Might lay themselves to rest upon its threshold.

The ghosts that haunt it come in guise of angels,

With rosy finger-tips laid on their lips,

To hush our voices to the whispered tones

Of children's prayers. Enter, thou weary wanderer,

Enter! and have no fear, for pain and anguish

Have long been wept away, and have but left

Their precious perfume and the healing balm

Of self-forgetfulness to comfort thee!

UNREST

TO toss with fevered brain and throbbing pulses

Upon thy bed at night—thine aching eyes,

Straining into the darkness, hot and weary,

Thy heart like lead, yet ever wildly bounding

Within thee, like a gun made loose in shipwreck,

That rolls from side to side, an unchained danger,

Thy pillows fire, thy couch a rack, whereon

Thy tortured limbs seem cords strung by the storm,

Thy thoughts a tangled skein, unclear, disordered,

And all the past that should have been forgotten

Rising up ghostly, in fantastic guise,

To make the present worse, to slay all hope,

To quench the beacon that till now has been

Thy only stay in night's deep gloom and horror!

This, O my soul! is Unrest, and thou knowest

Its misery but too well! All the old scars

Of former battles bleed once more within thee,

As if thy life were oozing, drop by drop.

And thou wert fain with trembling fingers seize

That foolish heart, and fling it in thy path

To trample under foot, or, further still,

Sink it in sea-depths, and then turn away

Calm and indifferent, deeming all were well

Were but its restlessness thus stilled, and thou

Free from its tumult.

Yet that heart of thine

Has weathered may a gale, and still might stand

Unshaken at the helm of life's wrecked craft,

A gallant pilot, waiting for the sign

That bids the clouds disperse, hushes the winds,

And, having calmed the waves, shall guide thy course

To sun-lit shores, sweet with immortal flowers.

Be brave, poor heart, for thou drawest near the haven,

And though thy beacon be extinguished, though

Thy rudder has been snapped, thy compass lost,

Thou still art safe, for the same Mighty Hand

That sent thee forth upon the stormy sea

Shall lead thee home and give thee rest at last!

Colston & Coy. Limited, Printers, Edinburgh

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Table of Contents

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Sweet Hours, by Carmen Sylva

SWEET HOURS

CONTENTS

TO THE MEMORY OF QUEEN VICTORIA

A FRIEND

OUT OF THE DEEP

A CORONATION

DOWN THE STREAM

IN THE RUSHING WIND

UNDER THE SNOW

SOLITUDE

THE GNAT

REST

THE SHADOW

THE GLOWWORM

A DREAM

IN THE DARK

THE SENTINEL

LETHE

A DEBTOR

"VENGEANCE IS MINE," SAITH THE LORD

NIGHT

ROUSED

SADNESS

WHEN JOY IS DEAD

A ROOM

UNREST

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE