Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE WANDERER: 5. IN HOLLAND: JACQUELINE, COUNTESS OF HOLLAND, by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: Is it the twilight, or my fading sight Last Line: Thy hand, my husband, -- so -- upon thy breast! Alternate Author Name(s): Meredith, Owen; Lytton, 1st Earl Of; Lytton, Robert Subject(s): Jacqueline Of Hainaut (1401-1436); Netherlands; Travel; Jacoba; Holland; Dutch People; Journeys; Trips | ||||||||
Is it the twilight, or my fading sight, Makes all so dim around me? No, the night Is come already. See! through yonder pane, Alone in the gray air, that star again -- Which shines so wan, I used to call it mine For its pale face: like Countess Jacqueline Who reigned in Brabant once...that 's years ago. I called so much mine, then: so much seemed so! And see, my own! -- of all those things, my star (Because God hung it there, in heaven, so far Above the reach and want of those hard men) Is all they have not taken from me. Then I call it still My Star. Why not? The dust Hath claimed the dust: no more. And moth and rust May rot the throne, the kingly purple fray: -- What then? Yon star saw kingdoms rolled away Ere mine was taken from me. It survives. But think, Beloved, -- in that high life of lives, When our souls see the suns themselves burn low Before that Sun of Righteousness, -- and know What is, and was, before the suns were lit, -- How Love is all in all...Look, look at it, My star, -- God's star, -- for being God's 't is mine: Had it been man's...no matter...see it shine -- The old wan beam, which I have watched ere now So many a wretched night, when this poor brow Ached neath the sorrows of its thorny crown. Its crown! ...ah, droop not, dear, those fond eyes down. No gem in all that shattered coronet Was half so precious as the tear which wet Just now this pale sick forehead. O my own, My husband, need was, that I should have known Much sorrow, -- more than most Queens, -- all know some, -- Ere, dying, I could bless thee for the home Far dearer than the Palace, -- call thy tear, The costliest gem that ever sparkled here. Infold me, my Beloved. One more kiss. O, I must go! 'T was willed I should not miss Life's secret, ere I left it. And now see, -- My lips touch thine -- thine arm encircles me -- The secret's found -- God beckons -- I must go. Earth's best is given. -- Heaven's turn is come to show How much its best earth's best may yet exceed, Lest earth's should seem the very best indeed. So we must part a little; but not long. I seem to see it all. My lands belong To Philip still; but thine will be my grave, (The only strip of land which I could save!) Not much, but wide enough for some few flowers, Thou 'lt plant there, by and by, in later hours: Duke Humphry, when they tell him I am dead (And so young too!) will sigh, and shake his head, And if his wife should chide, "Poor Jacqueline," He'll add, "You know she never could be mine." And men will say, when some one speaks of me, "Alas, it was a piteous history, The life of that poor countess!" For the rest Will never know, my love, how I was blest. Some few of my poor Zealanders, perchance, Will keep kind memories of me; and in France Some minstrel sing my story. Pitiless John Will prosper still, no doubt, as he has done, And still praise God with blood upon the Rood. Philip will, doubtless, still be called "The Good." And men will curse and kill: and the old game Will weary out new hands: the love of fame Will sow new sins: thou wilt not be renowned: And I shall lie quite quite under ground. My life is a torn book. But at the end A little page, quite fair, is saved, my friend, Where thou didst write thy name. No stain is there, No blot, -- from marge to marge, all pure -- no tear; -- The last page, saved from all, and writ by thee, Which I shall take safe up to Heaven with me. All 's not in vain, since this be so. Dost grieve? Beloved, I beseech thee to believe Although this be the last page of my life, It is my heart's first, only one. Thy wife, Poor though she be, O thou sole wealth of mine, Is happier than the Countess Jacqueline! And since my heart owns thine, say, -- am I not A Queen, my chosen, though by all forgot? Though all forsake, yet is not this thy hand? I, a lone wanderer in a darkened land, I, a poor pilgrim with no staff of hope, I, a late traveller down the evening slope, Where any spark, the glow-worm's by the way, Had been a light to bless...have I, O say, Not found, Beloved, in thy tender eyes, A light more sweet than morning's? As there dies Some day of storm all glorious in its even, My life grows loveliest as it fades in heaven. This earthly house breaks up. This flesh must fade. So many shocks of grief slow breach have made In the poor frame. Wrongs, insults, treacheries, Hopes broken down, and memory which sighs In, like a night-wind! Life was never meant To bear so much in such frail tenement. Why should we seek to patch and plaster o'er This shattered roof, crusht windows, broken door The light already shines through? Let them break. Yet would I gladly live for thy dear sake, O my heart's first and last, if that could be! In vain! ...yet grieve not thou. I shall not see England again, and those white cliffs; nor ever Again those four gray towers beside the river, And London's roaring bridges: never more Those windows with the market-stalls before, Where the red-kirtled market-girls went by In the great square, beneath the great gray sky, In Brussels: nor in Holland, night or day, Watch these long lines of siege, and fight at bay Among my broken army, in default Of Gloucester's failing forces from Hainault: Nor shall I pace again those gardens green, With their clipt alleys, where they called me Queen, In Brabant once. For all these things are gone. But thee I shall behold, my chosen one, Though we should seem whole worlds on worlds apart, Because thou wilt be ever in my heart. Nor shall I leave thee wholly. I shall be An evening thought, -- a morning dream to thee, -- A silence in thy life when, through the night, The bell strikes, or the sun, with sinking light, Smites all the empty windows. As there sprout Daisies, and dimpling tufts of violets, out Among the grass where some corpse lies asleep, So round thy life, where I lie buried deep, A thousand little tender thoughts shall spring, A thousand gentle memories wind and cling. O, promise me, my own, before my soul Is houseless, -- let the great world turn and roll Upon its way unvext...Its pomps, its powers! The dust says to the dust, ..."the earth is ours." I would not, if I could, be Queen again For all the walls of the wide world contain. Be thou content with silence. Who would raise A little dust and noise of human praise, If he could see, in yonder distance dim, The silent eye of God that watches him? Oh! couldst thou see all that I see tonight Upon the brinks of the great Infinite! "Come out of her, my people, lest ye be Partakers of her sins!" ... My love, but we Our treasure where no thieves break in and steal, Have stored, I trust, Earth's weal is not our weal. Let the world mind its business -- peace or war, Ours is elsewhere. Look, look, -- my star, my star! It grows, it glows, it spreads in light unfurled; -- Said I "my star"? No star -- a world -- God's world! What hymns adown the jasper sea are rolled, Even to these sick pillows! Who infold White wings about me? Rest, rest, rest ... I come! O Love! I think that I am near my home. Whence was that music? Was it Heaven's I heard? Write "Blessed are the dead that die i' the Lord, Because they rest," ... because their toil is o'er. The voice of weeping shall be heard no more In the Eternal city. Neither dying Nor sickness, pain nor sorrow, neither crying, For God shall wipe away all tears. Rest, rest, Thy hand, my husband, -- so -- upon thy breast! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...RICHARD, WHAT'S THAT NOISE? by RICHARD HOWARD LOOKING FOR THE GULF MOTEL by RICHARD BLANCO RIVERS INTO SEAS by LYNDA HULL DESTINATIONS by JOSEPHINE JACOBSEN THE ONE WHO WAS DIFFERENT by RANDALL JARRELL THE CONFESSION OF ST. JIM-RALPH by DENIS JOHNSON SESTINA: TRAVEL NOTES by WELDON KEES TO H. B. (WITH A BOOK OF VERSE) by MAURICE BARING THE LAST WISH by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON THE WANDERER: 2. IN FRANCE: AUX ITALIENS by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON THE WANDERER: 2. IN FRANCE: THE CHESSBOARD by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON |
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