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Alfred Austin - The Human Tragedy ACT I
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 For oftentimes the soul in hidden springs
 And subterranean currents dwells confined.
 And haply should the loss of cherished things
 Force for it sudden passage to the mind,
 Its pent—up waters will outflow, and borrow
 A tardy channel through the clefts of sorrow.

  And even now he vaunted all that lends
 An outward glamour to domestic state,
 Birth, lands, position, multitude of friends
 Among the splendid, privileged, and great.
 And if these merits hardly make amends
 For gaps confessed, add a most noble gait
 And blameless life, he was, `t must be allowed,
 A man of whom might any girl be proud.

 And Olive was not slow to note and feel
 His dumb desert and modesty sincere;
 And if at times another voice would steal
 Betwixt him and her only half—lent ear,
 As on an adder straight one plants one`s heel,
 She trod its whispers down with foot of fear
 Which breeds a cruel courage, even to dare
 Trample the hapless thing it fain would spare.

 At times her voice would falter, and her eye
 Fill with the moisture of a causeless tear,
 Or her frame tremble, as `neath sunniest sky
 Creeps a strange shiver over windless mere.
 And ever and anon with sudden sigh
 Checked she quick mirth, as flying cavalier
 Reins in his steed an instant, and looks back,
 And listens, is one following on his track.

 So passed the weeks; summer no longer reigned,
 And nearer moved the looked—for marriage morn;
 Autumn came slowly through the yellow—grained,
 Soft—whispering slopes, and took away the corn.
 The harvest moon unto a sickle waned,
 Hung o`er the golden harvest it had shorn,
 High up in heaven, still brightly curved but idle.
 The next would shine at full on Olive`s bridal.

 Musing on no such theme, but from the seat
 Of hospitable laird in shaggy Perth
 But just returned, to where deserted street,
 Famed haunts of Splendour tenantless, and dearth
 Of all that fills the void for urban feet,
 Made London seem the loneliest place on earth,
 Resolved at once to quit it for another,
 Godfrid encountered Olive and her mother.

 The shop whence they that moment had emerged,
 Plainly bespoke their errand up to Town.
 The colour to the maiden`s temple surged;
 To Godfrid`s rose—but quick repressed,—a frown.
 The kindly parent farewell visit urged.
 ``It was no distance. Would he not run down?
 `Twould quiet be, but quieter anon;
 For, three weeks more, and Olive would be gone.``

 A heartier invitation ne`er was given.
 Old fears were laid. Had Olive once to fight
 Against her heart, she not in vain had striven,
 And had not Godfrid long been lost to sight?
 He, by he knew not what emotion driven,
 But grown incautious in his own despite,
 Gave to the honest pressure swift consent:
 Yes, he would go; on Friday. And he went.

 In the slant sunlight of the young October,
 Dew—dashed lay meadow, upland, wood, and pool;
 Mid—time delicious, when all hues are sober,
 All sounds an undertone, all airs are cool:
 When Nature seems awhile to pause and probe her,
 Asking her heart if her eventful rule
 Hath blest the earth she loveth, and to brace her
 Against the wintry darksome days that face her.

 Then, side by side, and unaccompanied,
 But now for all their nearness more divided
 Than if between them swayed an ocean`s tide,
 Forth through the wonted ways they slowly glided.
 It seemed as if the summer life had died
 In their hearts too, where once it had resided,
 And Autumn had infused her solemn mood
 In them, as in the sky, the mere, the wood.

 And as nor pipe of bird, nor foliage fluttering,
 On the air`s quiet pensiveness intruded,
 But only ever and anon the muttering
 Of loosened leaf from branches scarce denuded;
 So from their lips, once so profuse in uttering
 All love—swayed sounds, at intervals exuded
 Unwilling word,—a syllable,—a sigh,—
 Stirred by no inspiration, dropped to die.

 At length they halted where a lake, hemmed in
 By wheeling bank, its liberty asserted,
 Rushed for a gorge beyond with forceful din,
 O`er boulder leaped, through moss—lipped crevice spirted,
 Scattering its strength, but resolute to win.
 Here Olive sate, with countenance averted,
 Gazing adown the fall, while he surveyed
 The springing cataract, the crouching maid.

 Their silence now seemed natural. The lake
 Was silent too, but from its bosom sent,
 Not less for their than for its own sad sake,
 This infant stream, whose vagrant babblement
 Made speech for all; as in oppressive ache
 Of those who, suffering, fain would hush lament,
 A child`s gay talk, irrelevant and quaint,
 Acquits the air of silence and restraint.

 Her head was turned away; her further cheek
 Rested upon her hand; he could but see
 The nearer tresses, rippling, soft, and sleek,
 The outlines of her form`s mild majesty,
 Shoulders whose curve a Phidias well might seek
 To leave in marble, had we such as he;
 And just one small unconscious foot to hint
 Of symmetry without excess or stint.

 He scarce had time to knit his will and brace
 His heart against the rush of tender feeling,
 With which the sight of loveliness and grace,
 In youth electric, sets the pulses reeling,
 Before she turned, but quick again her face
 Averted,—all too late! For he saw stealing
 Down it those tears which silently betray
 More than all tongues can speak, all words can say.

 Omnipotence of tears in woman`s eyes!
 She threatens, and we flout the weak pretender:
 Cold, and we beat her at her own disguise;
 She trusts to scorn, with keener scorn we rend her.
 She smiles on others, we disport a prize.
 She still shall win. She weeps, and we surrender.
 Artist! amend your craft. With shields nor spears
 Mould me your Venus Victrix, but—in tears!
 
 And Godfrid, who but now against delight
 Had fought and won, succumbing to distress,
 To Olive`s side straight hastened at the sight,
 And tried each tender tone, each near caress.
 He called her by her name as brothers might,
 Stroked her soft hand, smoothed every truant tress,
 And, when the tear—shower gathered unto storm,
 Curved his strong arm around her fragile form.

 She leaned away, she hung athwart the ledge
 Of the young torrent, and with quivering lips,
 ``Don`t,`` she cried, ``don`t! My pledge! my sacred pledge!``
 But he, like one whose foothold slowly slips,
 Once it hath passed the precipice`s edge,
 And with each struggle only deeper dips,
 Felt all his purpose leaving him, and held
 Her form more close the more her words repelled.

 And lips that once have met in days gone by,
 Meet easily again in days that are;
 And kisses seem best answer to a sigh,
 When silence were too cold and words would jar.
 How, too, might she compassion`s touch deny,
 Now he was near who had so long been far,
 Or more than feebly, fruitlessly withstand
 Kindness which conquers surer than command?

 And though the lips, since now no more forbidden,
 At length from cheating sympathy desisted,
 One hand, which hinted half the yearning hidden,
 With daintier hand was feverishly twisted,
 While one, at first withstood, at last unchidden,
 Strayed o`er her cheek, and the warm curls that kissed it;
 And thus, to love love`s guile no more abhorrent,
 Silent they sate, and watched the tumbling torrent.

 And when the spell of silence was uncharmed,
 ``Let us go home,`` she said; ```tis better so.``
 But they who fight with love are soon disarmed,
 And bare their breast in striking the first blow.
 So, lulled by that same lure which late alarmed,
 Over the stepping—stones, for weal or woe,
 Hand—linked they went, their eyes upon the ground,
 And finding even in silence too much sound.

 There was an arbour woven all of leaves,
 Woodbine, and briony, and clambering hop,
 Wild clematis its roof, wild brier its eaves,
 And living trunk of fluted elm its prop.
 Its floor was such as thrifty autumn weaves
 Of last year`s moss and this year`s faded crop
 Of white wood—sorrel, and coy flowers that grow
 In nooks where sun scarce comes and winds ne`er blow.

 And some one of the branches had contrived,
 In its unseen recess, a rustic bench,
 Whence you could watch the lake`s life, snugly hived:
 How flashed a trout, how plopped a greedy tench,
 Now skimmed a waterfowl, now dabchick dived,
 Where came the kine their lazy thirst to quench,
 Or swans, with feathers white as fluttering spray,
 Like floating islands on the water lay.

 And save the lake, its denizens, and the woods
 That girt it round, there nothing was in sight:
 Fair face of changeless water, tacking broods
 `Mong tall reeds motionless;—such spot as might
 Selected be by sandalled sisterhoods,
 Who from the world have taken timid flight,
 Craving to find from lustful fumes release,
 And in chaste Nature`s lap a pious peace.

 And, trailing slow, still hand in hand, beside
 The rushy brink, at length their footsteps came
 Unto the arbour; which when Godfrid spied,
 Halting and bending forward his tall frame,
 To peer within, ``What a sweet nook!`` he cried.
 ``Who trained these branches was not much to blame.
 Shall we not use their shade, and see, unseen,
 The yellowing Autumn trench on Summer`s green?``

  Nothing there was he now could ask but she
 Had yielded speechless and enslaved assent;
 So like to one who bows to fate`s decree,
 Under the hospitable boughs she went,
 Where, hands still joined and laid upon his knee,
 They sate down in the leafy tenement,
 Sighing to think, beyond this cloistered mere,
 Lay a rude world of noise, and hate, and fear.

 Nor when around her gently—curving frame,
 Their palms disjoined, a gentle arm was curved,
 More than soft—footed fawn that hath grown tame
 Starts at a human voice, shrank she or swerved.
 And when her face burst suddenly aflame,
 His shoulder for a screening pillow served,
 Whereon she leaned her sorrow—drooping head,
 Passive as though it were her bier or bed:

 And there remained. No word, no look, no sigh,
 Her stillness stirred. She felt the hour bestowed
 Bliss she were well content to take and die,
 Would they but off her lift life`s weary load.
 She did not wish, she did not think, to lie
 Nearer than this, but felt that pity owed
 At least one brief indulgence unto woe,
 Ere dear to—day changed to dead long—ago.

  O purity of women who are pure!
 Could men but fathom it! Longwhile she leaned,
 Quiet as sleeping babe and as secure,
 Upon the rugged pillow, where she gleaned
 Glimpses of things unseen, but not less sure:
 Till, feeling that she had too long been weaned
 From fount that fed her fondness, she upraised
 Her face, and full into his features gazed.

 But when she saw, responsive to the look,
 A sultry glow slow gathering in his eyes,
 Presaging passion`s flash, she could not brook
 The thought that she should make less good and wise
 Her new, her only idol, so betook
 Her head again to its late paradise,
 And said, with plaintive voice and still—born smile,
 ``Talk to me, Godfrid! talk, a little while.``

 ``Talk of what, Olive? Of sweet days gone by,
 Or bitter, girded will is bound to face?``
 ``No, of yourself,`` she said, ``the theme that I
 Could muse as time still ran his endless race.
 Love, though an egotist, can deify
 A vulgar fault, and drape the gross with grace.
 You are myself, and I would hear of you:—
 What you have done, and what you hope to do.``

 ``What have I done? What do I hope to do?
 Just to sit patient, Olive, in the shade,
 Till the old creeds re—form, or gospel new
 Their thinned disintegrated ranks invade.
 But hug the hideously false for true,
 Because what, since deemed vital truth, was made
 Our bosom`s idol, in our arms lies dead!—
 Better be Rachel, and not comforted.

 ``Dead, yes, stone—dead, though simulating life
 In reflex action, lingering minds mistake.
 But because now no more the dual strife,
 Fought on this earth, holds a safe Heaven for stake,
 Shall our sole weapons be the glutton`s knife,
 The banker`s shovel, and the croupier`s rake?
 Because in doubt if soul the flesh survive,
 Shall flesh be lord while soul is still alive?

 ``Look round! `Tis lord, `tis king, sole suzerain,
 Bedizened fetish of the carnal crowd;
 The oracle of joy, the god of gain,
 Hope of the humble, comfort of the proud.
 `Give us,` they cry, `fat peace, with piled—up wain,
 Cover our daughters with a golden cloud,
 Unto our sons dispense pomp, pleasure, ease!`—
 —Better a couch under the forest trees!

 ``So I must wait, and mayhap wait in vain,
 Till death the janitor shall give release;
 For life may prove to me, poor feeble swain,
 As sometimes to the strong, a bootless lease.
 Meanwhile I will not hire my soul for gain,
 Nor strut the scarlet popinjay of peace;
 Cozen chawbacons, coax the civic crowd,
 Proud to the humble, humble to the proud.

 ``If in my brain there glowed the poet`s fire,
 I then might try to rouse the sluggish time
 By clanging all the octaves of the lyre.
 Alas! for me such strains are too sublime,
 Who pipe but lowly. I can but aspire
 To bear in august Action`s heat and grime
 A private`s part. Would that the hour had come!
 Meanwhile my arm must rust, my voice keep dumb.``

 He ceased. And then no sound was there to break
 The Autumn`s shimmering haze, which seemed to rest
 Low on the woods, the woods upon the lake,
 The lake, asleep, on brooding Nature`s breast.
 There was no wind nor wandering breath to shake
 Even the long lithe water—reed`s ripe crest:
 The swans` white prows, glassed in the unstirred stream,
 Kept turning on themselves in downy dream.

 And as she gazed upon the placid mere,
 The ripples of her woe too died away;
 And from her lips came comfort, calm and clear,
 Even as the lake which hushed before them lay.
 For she descried a future, vineyards near,
 That should redeem the desert of to—day:
 A Promised Land, which, from its summit high,
 Her love could show, not reach,—since it must die.

 And then she pointed to a great Beyond,
 Which he might conquer with a freër stride,
 Because not fettered by too close a bond
 With her dwarfed nature; withal, fortified
 By knowing she would keep an outlook fond
 Still on his steps, whatever might betide,
 Even when some one worthier should have gained
 The heart she feared she only had profaned.

 A melancholy wonder filled his face.
 His eyes were turned from her, and wandered out,
 Not in the quest of Nature`s varied grace,
 Such as sometimes the spirit seeks without,
 When vexed within, but blankly upon space,
 As in a vision trancëd and devout.
 At length in words significant and slow,
 ``Let us go home,`` he said. ```Tis better so.``

 So home their way they wended by the lake
 Left among hushing woods, and past the fall
 Whose swift untutored music shall forsake
 Never their ears till death hath silenced all.
 For time which heals, still leaves a cold numb ache,
 Whose shootings ever and anon recall
 The original sharp wound, and wring from pain
 Fresh tribute to old joy`s abandoned fane.

 Long lay the shadows on the sleepy lawn
 Afront the Hall, as from the covert ways
 Issuing, their feet magnetically drawn
 Sought the soft sward where they in summer days,
 When their untroubled intercourse had dawn,
 Exchanged inaugural looks of love and praise.
 Now, all was ended. Praise and love were said;
 And, cut off in his prime, young hope lay dead.

 There was a marble basin, mid—sward placed,
 Where falling fountain—sprays subduedly tinkled,
 And, as they kept afalling, still retraced
 The broken fragile rain—dome which they sprinkled.
 Here, on its brim they sate, their loiterings paced,
 Watching the water by the drops scarce wrinkled,
 And seeing in its calm but hazy deep
 Each other`s face, as one sees face in sleep.

 Once when he turned to hide recurring frown,
 And dipped his hand into the imprisoned wave,
 Hers plunged and seized on it as though `twould drown,
 Low—moaning in the tone of them that rave,
 ``Oh! if we could but drag each other down!``
 But he, with soothing voice and aspect grave,
 Said ``Upward, you mean, Olive! as, so far,
 You have drawn me;—no siren, but a star!``

 The muffled mist came trailing up the leas,
 Hemmed in the landscape, front, and flank, and rear.
 Huddled the leaves more closely, and the trees
 Drew in their shadows stealthily, for fear.
 Then, as the horizon faded by degrees,
 More plainly plashed the fountain on their ear;
 And in their hearts they louder seemed to hark
 The drip of doom, more all around grew dark.

 Dew—dashed again and silent, in the morn,
 Lay the apparent woodlands; but not more
 Silent and dew—dashed than the gaze forlorn
 Of her who in her inmost being bore
 A woe that humbled pride, that outbraved scorn.
 The morning mounted, and the moments wore;
 Moments no grief can hurry or delay,
 Save when we scare them with our call to stay.

 The tokens of departure met her eyes
 And ears bewildered, and upon her rushed
 As with the shock of uninformed surprise.
 Her consciousness had been too wildly flushed
 For her the sober truth to recognise
 That he was really going; that lives crushed
 Are nought to Fate, whose car indifferent drives
 Betwixt exulting or o`er mangled lives.

 Farewell! Farewell! She drew him to a nook,
 Still bright with lingering flowers her winning ways
 Had coaxed from summer when it went, and took
 From out her breast something that caught the rays
 Of broken sunlight, and with voice that shook,
 Said: ``Take it and wear it in the after days!``
 ``Take it?`` he answered. ``Yes,—as I would take
 A shell,—a kingdom,—for your gentle sake.``

 Then to the porch returning, where awaited
 Motionless equipage and champing bay,
 Wonted adieux he made with voice that mated
 Ill with the looks that always will betray.
 Harshly the wheels upon the gravel grated,
 Drew back a moment, and then rolled away,
 Under the branches, through the farther gate,—
 She gazing after, trothed and desolate.

 ``I send,`` wrote Godfrid, ``but a worthless song,
 Yet one whose notes my feeling so express,
 I nurse the hope it may, devoid of wrong
 To any other, speak your own no less.
 If so, we might perhaps be made more strong,
 Nor quite so lonely in our loneliness,
 If, keeping lines in which our thoughts are blended,
 You sent a transcript with your name appended.``

 Awhile seemed utter silence sole retort.
 But just as tardy prudence `gan to turn
 And gibe temerity, came message short.
 ``They kept your letter from me. How I burn
 (I have been angry: Heaven forgive me for `t!)
 With shame to tell you what I only learn
 This very eve. Well, I have had my way,
 And send the verses, copied.`` These were they.

 Accept it, Olive? Surely, yes;
 This ring of emeralds, diamonds too:
 As I would take,—no need to press,—
 A leaf, a crown from you!
 No rudest art, no brightest ore,
 Could make its value less or more.

 Gone is my strength. `Twere useless quite
 To tell you that it is not hard
  To have one`s paradise in sight,
 Withal, to be debarred.
 And yet the generous glimpse you gave
 Was more than once I dared to crave.

 Hard! very hard, sweet! but ordained.
 We know `tis God`s own world, at worst.
 And we have only partly drained,
 And so still partly thirst;
 While others parched remain, or seize
 Fiercely the cup and drain the lees.

 So let us strive to deem it well,
 However now we stand aghast.
 Earth, Heaven, not being parallel,
 Perforce must meet at last.
 And, in that disembodied clime,
 A clasp more close may not be crime.

 You loved me too well to deny:
 I loved you far too well to ask.
 Only a kiss, a gaze, a sigh,
 A tear,—and then a mask.
 We spared the fruit of Good—and—Ill;
 We dwell within our Eden still.

 O sunshine in profoundest gloom,
 To know that on the earth there dwells,
 Somewhere, unseen, one woman whom
 No noblest thought excels;
 And that by valour to resign,
 I make her more than ever mine.

 Too late, too late, I learn how sweet
 `Twould be to reach a noble aim,
 And then fling fondly at your feet
 The fulness of my fame.
 Now—now,—I scarce know which is best,
 To strive, or lay me down and rest.

 O winter in the sunless land!
 O narrowed day! O darker night!
 O loss of all that let me stand
 A giant in the fight!
 I dwindle: for I see, and sigh,
 A mated bird is more than I.

 God bless you, Olive! Even so
 God bless your husband! He, if true
 To his sweet trust, to me will grow
 Only less dear than you.
 But should he hurt his tender charge,
 Why, hate is hot where love is large.

 Yes—yes!—God bless your wedded lot!
 My beautiful!—no—no—not mine!
 I scarce know what is, what is not,
 Only that I am thine;—
 Thine, thine, come aught, come all amiss.
 No time, no fate, can alter this!

 Strange? Yes! the human heart is subtle strange,
 And, even when most stoutly ruddered, drives,
 Through winds that veer and over waves that change,
 Unto some port, not that for which it strives.
 Tides turn its track, storm—gusts extend its range,
 The tempest strips it, and the lightning rives;
 Till, poor black hull, it seems itself to aid
 Each howling buffet, and each watery raid.

 When unto Olive Godfrid bade farewell,
 Carrying the faithful pledge of her distress,
 Still from his side unable to dispel
 The dogging memory of despair`s caress,
 And all of sweet sad sorrow that befell,
 Down to the edge of parting`s wretchedness,—
 His steps he bent to where, `mid lordly lands,
 An empty, roofless monastery stands.

 A river journeyeth past its ancient walls,
 Whereon hoar ivy thrives and night—owls build.
 Its only chant is now a waterfall`s,
 Which swells, and falls, and swells, as it is filled
 With music from the hills. The cuckoo calls
 Throughout moist May. When August woods are stilled
 In sleepy sultriness, the stock—dove broods
 Low to itself. The rest is solitude`s.

 But many a mile before the river sweeps,
 With gentle curve, around the Abbey gray,
 Straight through dense woods, in whose umbrageous deeps
 A mystic muteness lurks, it keeps its way.
 Now through a throttling gorge it gurgling leaps,
 Now flows, slow, smooth, silent as those that pray,
 `Twixt sylvan sanctuaries, whose green aisles slope
 Up to bare moor, with the bare sky for cope.

 And here it was, unwisely, Godfrid sought
 Solace for joy which yesterday was wrecked,
 But nothing found there, save the loss he brought.
 For Nature is a mirror, to reflect
 Man`s many moods, faith, doubt, fear, fancy, aught
 That may rejoice his spirit or deject,
 And, as she back projects them, to infuse
 Into their image her own lively hues.

 Thus Olive, who seemed earthly fair when viewed
 In her own lineaments, now she was glassed
 In wood, and stream, and abbeyed solitude,
 All known, all pictured loveliness surpassed.
 Then, prompt Imagination`s airy brood
 Their immaterial textures wove and cast
 Around the ethereal image, till his eye
 And heart abode with unreality.

 But Godfrid, who scanned first this perfect flower
 With gaze of tranquil homage, could not now
 Bring back the freshness of the faded hour.
 In vain the passionate verse, the rhymëd vow!
 This was but fancy`s mist, the mere heat—shower
 Which from imagination`s sultry brow
 Falls in quick rhythmic drops, to slowly clear
 And leave behind a serene atmosphere.

 But Olive, though she too might boast to have been
 Nurtured in Arcady, was woman first
 And last of all things. With an ear akin
 To each sweet sound that ever was rehearsed,
 By bird or bard, on lyre or mandolin,
 Withal deep down within her heart she nursed
 That passion for the actual and the real,
 Which still remain the woman`s true ideal.

 So every line by molten passion coined
 In the chill mould of Godfrid`s hollow song,
 She to her life`s most cherished tokens joined,
 And secret wore, lest they should suffer wrong
 From vulgar gaze, or haply be purloined
 By envious hand, and not be hers for long.
 Each wailing strophe, warbled by fancy`s throat,
 With her indelible heart`s—blood she re—wrote.

 And when her parents fain had brought the ring
 Back to her hand, and sent the rhymes away,
 She, like a gentle fearful—hearted thing
 Whom motherhood makes fierce, stood dumb at bay,
 Prompt to rebut, and ready even to spring,
 Should any seek to make her prize their prey.
 And in her eyes so wild a look she wore,
 And in her mien such force, that they forbore.

 And as the time drew nigh for her to quit
 For ever the familiar porch of home
 For the vague land where unknown spectres flit,
 She waxed as pale and restless as the foam
 Frayed by sunk rocks whereon doomed vessels split.
 From chamber unto chamber would she roam,
 Vouchsafing broken answers now, now none,
 And waiting for the setting of the sun.

 But when the days of respite came to close,
 And dawned through low dun clouds the bridal morn,
 She smiled, but like to one who mocks at woes,
 And laughed, but as they laugh who laugh for scorn.
 They said she looked like a white shut—up rose
 That haply burgeons in a time forlorn,
 When she stood veiled, and that she walked the nave
 As straight and cold as coffin goes to grave.

 Then Autumn fired the woods, and crimson glowed
 Fringed bole and feathered bough, and topmost spray,
 Which, as fell in the shrivelled foliage, showed
 Roofless and bare, that late shut out the day:
 While hurrying Winter`s drifting storm—showers flowed
 From hissing heavens, and slowly died away
 The colour from drenched Nature`s face. And then?
 Black trunks, and dirgeful winds, and dripping fen.

END OF ACT I
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