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[Pg 211] NEW POEMS Decoration ECLOGUE I
THE MONTHS Decoration BASIL AND EDWARD Man hath with man on earth no holier bond Than that the Muse weaves with her dreamy thread: Nor e’er was such transcendent love more fond Than that which Edward unto Basil led, Wandering alone across the woody shires To hear the living voice of that wide heart, To see the eyes that read the world’s desires, And touch the hand that wrote the roving rhyme. Diverse their lots as distant were their homes, And since that early meeting, jealous Time Knitting their loves had held their lives apart. But now again were these fine lovers met And sat together on a rocky hill Looking upon the vales of Somerset, Where the far sea gleam’d o’er the bosky combes, Satisfying their spirits the livelong day With various mirth and revelation due And delicate intimacy of delight, As there in happy indolence they lay And drank the sun, while round the breezy height Beneath their feet rabbit and listless ewe Nibbled the scented herb and grass at will. Much talked they at their ease; and at the last Spoke Edward thus, ’'Twas on this very hill This time of the year,—but now twelve years are past,— That you provoked in verse my younger skill To praise the months against your rival song; And ere the sun had westered ten degrees Our rhyme had brought him thro’ the Zodiac. Have you remembered?’—Basil answer’d back, ’Guest of my solace, how could I forget? Years fly as months that seem’d in youth so long. The precious life that, like indifferent gold Is disregarded in its worth to hold Some jewel of love that God therein would set, It passeth and is gone.’—’And yet not all’ Edward replied: ’The passion as I please Of that past day I can to-day recall; And if but you, as I, remember yet Your part thereof, and will again rehearse, For half an hour we may old Time outwit.’ And Basil said, ’Alas for my poor verse! What happy memory of it still endures Will thank your love: I have forgotten it. Speak you my stanzas, I will ransom yours. Begin you then as I that day began, And I will follow as your answers ran.’ JANUARY ED. The moon that mounts the sun’s deserted way, Turns the long winter night to a silver day; But setteth golden in face of the solemn sight Of her lord arising upon a world of white. FEBRUARY BA. I have in my heart a vision of spring begun In a sheltering wood, that feels the kiss of the sun: And a thrush adoreth the melting day that dies In clouds of purple afloat upon saffron skies.
MARCH ED. Now carol the birds at dawn, and some new lay Announceth a homecome voyager every-day. Beneath the tufted sallows the streamlet thrills With the leaping trout and the gleam of the daffodils. APRIL BA. Then laugheth the year; with flowers the meads are bright; The bursting branches are tipped with flames of light: The landscape is light; the dark clouds flee above, And the shades of the land are a blue that is deep as love. MAY ED. But if you have seen a village all red and old In cherry-orchards a-sprinkle with white and gold, By a hawthorn seated, or a witchelm flowering high, A gay breeze making riot in the waving rye! JUNE BA. Then night retires from heaven; the high winds go A-sailing in cloud-pavilions of cavern’d snow. O June, sweet Philomel sang thy cradle-lay; In rosy revel thy spirit shall pass away.
JULY ED. Heavy is the green of the fields, heavy the trees With foliage hang, drowsy the hum of bees In the thundrous air: the crowded scents lie low: Thro’ tangle of weeds the river runneth slow. AUGUST BA. A reaper with dusty shoon and hat of straw On the yellow field, his scythe in his armËs braw: Beneath the tall grey trees resting at noon From sweat and swink with scythe and dusty shoon. SEPTEMBER ED. Earth’s flaunting flower of passion fadeth fair To ripening fruit in sunlit veils of the air, As the art of man makes wisdom to glorify The beauty and love of life born else to die. OCTOBER BA. On frosty morns with the woods aflame, down, down The golden spoils fall thick from the chestnut crown. May Autumn in tranquil glory her riches spend, With mellow apples her orchard-branches bend.
NOVEMBER ED. Sad mists have hid the sun, the land is forlorn: The plough is afield, the hunter windeth his horn. Dame Prudence looketh well to her winter stores, And many a wise man finds his pleasure indoors. DECEMBER BA. I pray thee don thy jerkin of olden time, Bring us good ice, and silver the trees with rime; And I will good cheer, good music and wine bestow, When the Christmas guest comes galoping over the snow. Thus they in verse alternate sang the year For rabbit shy and listless ewe to hear, Among the grey rocks on the mountain green Beneath the sky in fair and pastoral scene, Like those Sicilian swains, whose doric tongue After two thousand years is ever young,— Sweet the pine’s murmur, and, shepherd, sweet thy pipe,— Or that which gentle Virgil, yet unripe, Of Tityrus sang under the spreading beech And gave to rustic clowns immortal speech, By rocky fountain or on flowery mead Bidding their idle flocks at will to feed, While they, retreated to some bosky glade, Together told their loves, and as they played Sang what sweet thing soe’er the poet feigned: But these were men when good Victoria reigned, Poets themselves, who without shepherd gear Each of his native fancy sang the year.
ECLOGUE II
GIOVANNI DUPRÈ Decoration LAWRENCE AND RICHARD LAWRENCE Look down the river—against the western sky— The Ponte Santa TrinitÀ—what throng Slowly trails o’er with waving banners high, With foot and horse! Surely they bear along The spoil of one whom Florence honoureth: And hark! the drum, the trumpeting dismay, The wail of the triumphal march of death. RICHARD ’Twill be the funeral of GiovÁnn DuprÈ Wending to Santa Croce. Let us go And see what relic of old splendour cheers The dying ritual. LAWRENCE They esteem him well To lay his bones with Michael Angelo. Who might he be? RICHARD He too a sculptor, one Who left a work long to resist the years. LAWRENCE You make me question further. RICHARD I can tell All as we walk. A poor woodcarver’s son, Prenticed to cut his father’s rude designs (We have it from himself), maker of shrines, In his mean workshop in Siena dreamed; And saw as gods the artists of the earth, And long’d to stand on their immortal shore, And be as they, who in his vision gleam’d, Dowering the world with grace for evermore. So, taxing rest and leisure to one aim, The boy of single will and inbred skill Rose step by step to academic fame. LAWRENCE Do I not know him then? His figures fill The tympana o’er Santa Croce’s gate; In the museum too, his Cain, that stands A left-handed discobolos.... RICHARD So great His vogue, that elder art of classic worth Went to the wall to give his statues room; And last—his country’s praise could do no more— He cut the stone that honoured good Cavour. LAWRENCE RICHARD He, finding in his hands His life-desire possest, fell not in gloom, Nor froth’d in vanity: his Sabbath earn’d He look’d to spend in meditative rest: So laying chisel by, he took a pen To tell his story to his countrymen, And prove (he did it) that the flower of all, Rarest to attain, is in the power of all. LAWRENCE Yet nought he ever made, that I have learn’d, In wood or stone deserved, nay not his best, The Greek or Tuscan name for beautiful. ’Twas level with its praise, had force to pull Favour from fashion. RICHARD Yet he made one thing Worthy of the lily city in her spring; For while in vain the forms of beauty he aped, A perfect spirit in himself he shaped; And all his lifetime doing less than well Where he profess’d nor doubted to excel, Now, where he had no scholarship, but drew His art from love, ’twas better than he knew: And when he sat to write, lo! by him stood The heavenly Muse, who smiles on all things good; And for his truth’s sake, for his stainless mind, His homely love and faith, she now grew kind, And changed the crown, that from the folk he got, For her green laurel, and he knew it not. LAWRENCE Ah! Love of Beauty! This man then mistook Ambition for her? RICHARD In simplicity Erring he kept his truth; and in his book The statue of his grace is fair to see. LAWRENCE Then buried with their great he well may be. RICHARD And number’d with the saints, not among them Who painted saints. Join we his requiem.
ECLOGUE III
FOURTH OF JUNE AT ETON Decoration RICHARD AND GODFREY RICHARD Beneath the wattled bank the eddies swarm In wandering dimples o’er the shady pool: The same their chase as when I was at school; The same the music, where in shallows warm The current, sunder’d by the bushy isles, Returns to join the main, and struggles free Above the willows, gurgling thro’ the piles: Nothing is changed, and yet how changed are we! —What can bring Godfrey to the Muses’ bower? GODFREY What but brings you? The festal day of the year; To live in boyish memories for an hour; See and be seen: tho’ you come seldom here. RICHARD Dread of the pang it was, fear to behold What once was all myself, that kept me away. GODFREY You miss new pleasures coveting the old. RICHARD They need have prudence, who in courage lack; ’Twas that I might go on I looked not back. GODFREY Of all our company he, who, we say, Fruited the laughing flower of liberty! RICHARD Ah! had I my desire, so should it be. GODFREY Nay, but I know this melancholy mood: ’Twas your poetic fancy when a boy. RICHARD For Fancy cannot live on real food: In youth she will despise familiar joy To dwell in mournful shades; as they grow real, Then buildeth she of joy her far ideal. GODFREY And so perverteth all. This stream to me Sings, and in sunny ripples lingeringly The water saith ’Ah me! where have I lept? Into what garden of life? what banks are these, What secret lawns, what ancient towers and trees? Where the young sons of heav’n, with shouts of play Or low delighted speech, welcome the day, As if the poetry of the earth had slept To wake in ecstasy. O stay me! alas! Stay me, ye happy isles, ere that I pass Without a memory on my sullen course By the black city to the tossing seas!’ RICHARD So might this old oak say ’My heart is sere; With greater effort every year I force My stubborn leafage: soon my branch will crack, And I shall fall or perish in the wrack: And here another tree its crown will rear, And see for centuries the boys at play: And ’neath its boughs, on some fine holiday, Old men shall prate as these.’ Come see the game. GODFREY Yes, if you will. ’Tis all one picture fair. RICHARD Made in a mirror, and who looketh there Must see himself. Is not a dream the same? GODFREY RICHARD And you, who say it, seem Dreaming to speak to a phantom in a dream.
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ELEGY THE SUMMER-HOUSE ON THE MOUND How well my eyes remember the dim path! My homeing heart no happier playground hath. I need not close my lids but it appears Through the bewilderment of forty years To tempt my feet, my childish feet, between Its leafy walls, beneath its arching green; Fairer than dream of sleep, than Hope more fair Leading to dreamless sleep her sister Care. There grew two fellow limes, two rising trees, Shadowing the lawn, the summer haunt of bees, Whose stems, engraved with many a russet scar From the spear-hurlings of our mimic war, Pillar’d the portico to that wide walk, A mossy terrace of the native chalk Fashion’d, that led thro’ the dark shades around Straight to the wooden temple on the mound. There live the memories of my early days, There still with childish heart my spirit plays; Yea, terror-stricken by the fiend despair When she hath fled me, I have found her there; And there ’tis ever noon, and glad suns bring Alternate days of summer and of spring, With childish thought, and childish faces bright, And all unknown save but the hour’s delight. High on the mound the ivied arbour stood, A dome of straw upheld on rustic wood: Hidden in fern the steps of the ascent, Whereby unto the southern front we went, And from the dark plantation climbing free, Over a valley look’d out on the sea. That sea is ever bright and blue, the sky Serene and blue, and ever white ships lie High on the horizon steadfast in full sail, Or nearer in the roads pass within hail Of naked brigs and barques that windbound ride At their taut cables heading to the tide. There many an hour I have sat to watch; nay, now The brazen disk is cold against my brow, And in my sight a circle of the sea Enlarged to swiftness, where the salt waves flee, And ships in stately motion pass so near That what I see is speaking to my ear: I hear the waves dash and the tackle strain, The canvas flap, the rattle of the chain That runs out thro’ the hawse, the clank of the wind Winding the rusty cable inch by inch, Till half I wonder if they have no care, Those sailors, that my glass is brought to bear On all their doings, if I vex them not On every petty task of their rough lot Prying and spying, searching every craft From painted truck to gunnel, fore and aft,— Thro’ idle Sundays as I have watch’d them lean Long hours upon the rail, or neath its screen Prone on the deck to lie outstretch’d at length, Sunk in renewal of their wearied strength. But what a feast of joy to me, if some Fast-sailing frigate to the Channel come Back’d here her topsail, or brought gently up Let from her bow the splashing anchor drop, By faint contrary wind stay’d in her cruise, The Phaethon or dancing Arethuse, Or some immense three-decker of the line, Romantic as the tale of Troy divine; Ere yet our iron age had doom’d to fall The towering freeboard of the wooden wall, And for the engines of a mightier Mars Clipp’d their wide wings, and dock’d their soaring spars. The gale that in their tackle sang, the wave That neath their gilded galleries dasht so brave Lost then their merriment, nor look to play With the heavy-hearted monsters of to-day. One noon in March upon that anchoring ground Came Napier’s fleet unto the Baltic bound: Cloudless the sky and calm and blue the sea, As round Saint Margaret’s cliff mysteriously, Those murderous queens walking in Sabbath sleep Glided in line upon the windless deep: For in those days was first seen low and black Beside the full-rigg’d mast the strange smoke-stack, And neath their stern revolv’d the twisted fan. Many I knew as soon as I might scan, The heavy Royal George, the Acre bright, The Hogue and Ajax, and could name aright Others that I remember now no more; But chief, her blue flag flying at the fore, With fighting guns a hundred thirty and one, The Admiral ship The Duke of Wellington, Whereon sail’d George, who in her gig had flown The silken ensign by our sisters sewn. The iron Duke himself,—whose soldier fame To England’s proudest ship had given her name, And whose white hairs in this my earliest scene Had scarce more honour’d than accustom’d been,— Was two years since to his last haven past: I had seen his castle-flag to fall half-mast One morn as I sat looking on the sea, When thus all England’s grief came first to me, Who hold my childhood favour’d that I knew So well the face that won at Waterloo. But now ’tis other wars, and other men;— The year that Napier sail’d, my years were ten— Yea, and new homes and loves my heart hath found: A priest has there usurped the ivied mound, The bell that call’d to horse calls now to prayers, And silent nuns tread the familiar stairs. Within the peach-clad walls that old outlaw, The Roman wolf, scratches with privy paw.
5 O Love, I complain, Complain of thee often, Because thou dost soften My being to pain: Thou makest me fear The mind that createth, That loves not nor hateth In justice austere; Who, ere he make one, With millions toyeth, And lightly destroyeth Whatever is begun. An’ wer’t not for thee, My glorious passion, My heart I could fashion To sternness, as he. But thee, Love, he made Lest man should defy him, Connive and outvie him, And not be afraid: Nay, thee, Love, he gave His terrors to cover, And turn to a lover His insolent slave.
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THE SOUTH WIND The south wind rose at dusk of the winter day, The warm breath of the western sea Circling wrapp’d the isle with his cloke of cloud, And it now reach’d even to me, at dusk of the day, And moan’d in the branches aloud: While here and there, in patches of dark space, A star shone forth from its heavenly place, As a spark that is borne in the smoky chase; And, looking up, there fell on my face— Could it be drops of rain Soft as the wind, that fell on my face? Gossamers light as threads of the summer dawn, Suck’d by the sun from midmost calms of the main, From groves of coral islands secretly drawn, O’er half the round of earth to be driven, Now to fall on my face In silky skeins spun from the mists of heaven. Who art thou, in wind and darkness and soft rain Thyself that robest, that bendest in sighing pines To whisper thy truth? that usest for signs A hurried glimpse of the moon, the glance of a star In the rifted sky? Who art thou, that with thee I Woo and am wooed? That robing thyself in darkness and soft rain Choosest my chosen solitude, Coming so far To tell thy secret again, As a mother her child, in her folding arm Of a winter night by a flickering fire, Telleth the same tale o’er and o’er With gentle voice, and I never tire, So imperceptibly changeth the charm, As Love on buried ecstasy buildeth his tower, —Like as the stem that beareth the flower By trembling is knit to power;— Ah! long ago In thy first rapture I renounced my lot, The vanity, the despondency and the woe, And seeking thee to know Well was’t for me, and evermore I am thine, I know not what. For me thou seekest ever, me wondering a day In the eternal alternations, me Free for a stolen moment of chance To dream a beautiful dream In the everlasting dance Of speechless worlds, the unsearchable scheme, To me thou findest the way, Me and whomsoe’er I have found my dream to share Still with thy charm encircling; even to-night To me and my love in darkness and soft rain Under the sighing pines thou comest again, And staying our speech with mystery of delight, Of the kiss that I give a wonder thou makest, And the kiss that I take thou takest.
7 I climb the mossy bank of the glade: My love awaiteth me in the shade. She holdeth a book that she never heedeth: In GoddËs work her spirit readeth. She is all to me, and I to her: When we embrace, the stars confer. O my love, from beyond the sky I am calling thy heart, and who but I? Fresh as love is the breeze of June, In the dappled shade of the summer noon. Catullus, throwing his heart away, Gave fewer kisses every day. Heracleitus, spending his youth In search of wisdom, had less of truth. Flame of fire was the poet’s desire: The thinker found that life was fire. O my love! my song is done: My kiss hath both their fires in one.
8 To my love I whisper, and say Knowest thou why I love thee?—Nay: Nay, she saith; O tell me again.— When in her ear the secret I tell, She smileth with joy incredible— Ha! she is vain—O Nay— Then tell us!—Nay, O nay. But this is in my heart, That Love is Nature’s perfect art, And man hath got his fancy hence, To clothe his thought in forms of sense. Fair are thy works, O man, and fair Thy dreams of soul in garments rare, Beautiful past compare, Yea, godlike when thou hast the skill To steal a stir of the heavenly thrill: But O, have care, have care! ’Tis envious even to dare: And many a fiend is watching well To flush thy reed with the fire of hell.
9 My delight and thy delight Walking, like two angels white, In the gardens of the night: My desire and thy desire Twining to a tongue of fire, Leaping live, and laughing higher; Thro’ the everlasting strife In the mystery of life. Love, from whom the world begun Hath the secret of the sun. Love can tell, and love alone, Whence the million stars were strewn, Why each atom knows its own, How, in spite of woe and death, Gay is life, and sweet is breath: This he taught us, this we knew, Happy in his science true, Hand in hand as we stood Neath the shadows of the wood, Heart to heart as we lay In the dawning of the day.
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SEPTUAGESIMA Now all the windows with frost are blinded, As punctual day with greedy smile Lifts like a Cyclops evil-minded His ruddy eyeball over the isle. In an hour ’tis paled, in an hour ascended A dazzling light in the cloudless grey. Steel is the ice; the snow unblended Is trod to dust on the white highway. The lambkins frisk; the shepherd is melting Drink for the ewes with a fire of straw: The red flames leap at the wild air pelting Bitterly thro’ the leafless shaw. Around, from many a village steeple The sabbath-bells hum over the snow: I give a blessing to parson and people Across the fields as away I go. Over the hills and over the meadows Gay is my way till day be done: Blue as the heaven are all the shadows, And every light is gold in the sun.
11 The sea keeps not the Sabbath day, His waves come rolling evermore; His noisy toil grindeth the shore, And all the cliff is drencht with spray. Here as we sit, my love and I, Under the pine upon the hill, The sadness of the clouded sky, The bitter wind, the gloomy roar, The seamew’s melancholy cry With loving fancy suit but ill. We talk of moons and cooling suns, Of geologic time and tide, The eternal sluggards that abide While our fair love so swiftly runs, Of nature that doth half consent That man should guess her dreary scheme Lest he should live too well content In his fair house of mirth and dream: Whose labour irks his ageing heart, His heart that wearies of desire, Being so fugitive a part Of what so slowly must expire. She in her agelong toil and care Persistent, wearies not nor stays, Mocking alike hope and despair. —Ah, but she too can mock our praise, Enchanted on her brighter days, Days, that the thought of grief refuse, Days that are one with human art, Worthy of the Virgilian muse, Fit for the gaiety of Mozart.
12 Riding adown the country lanes One day in spring, Heavy at heart with all the pains Of man’s imagining:— The mist was not yet melted quite Into the sky: The small round sun was dazzling white, The merry larks sang high: The grassy northern slopes were laid In sparkling dew, Out of the slow-retreating shade Turning from sleep anew: Deep in the sunny vale a burn Ran with the lane, O’erhung with ivy, moss and fern It laughed in joyful strain: And primroses shot long and lush Their cluster’d cream: Robin and wren and amorous thrush Carol’d above the stream: The stillness of the lenten air Call’d into sound The motions of all life that were In field and farm around: So fair it was, so sweet and bright, The jocund Spring Awoke in me the old delight Of man’s imagining, Riding adown the country lanes: The larks sang high.— O heart! for all thy griefs and pains Thou shalt be loth to die.
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PATER FILIO Sense with keenest edge unusÈd, Yet unsteel’d by scathing fire; Lovely feet as yet unbruisÈd On the ways of dark desire; Sweetest hope that lookest smiling O’er the wilderness defiling! Why such beauty, to be blighted By the swarm of foul destruction? Why such innocence delighted, When sin stalks to thy seduction? All the litanies e’er chaunted Shall not keep thy faith undaunted. I have pray’d the sainted Morning To unclasp her hands to hold thee; From resignful Eve’s adorning Stol’n a robe of peace to enfold thee; With all charms of man’s contriving Arm’d thee for thy lonely striving. Me too once unthinking Nature, —Whence Love’s timeless mockery took me,— Fashion’d so divine a creature, Yea, and like a beast forsook me. I forgave, but tell the measure Of her crime in thee, my treasure.
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NOVEMBER The lonely season in lonely lands, when fled Are half the birds, and mists lie low, and the sun Is rarely seen, nor strayeth far from his bed; The short days pass unwelcomed one by one. Out by the ricks the mantled engine stands Crestfallen, deserted,—for now all hands Are told to the plough,—and ere it is dawn appear The teams following and crossing far and near, As hour by hour they broaden the brown bands Of the striped fields; and behind them firk and prance The heavy rooks, and daws grey-pated dance: As awhile, surmounting a crest, in sharp outline (A miniature of toil, a gem’s design,) They are pictured, horses and men, or now near by Above the lane they shout lifting the share, By the trim hedgerow bloom’d with purple air; Where, under the thorns, dead leaves in huddle lie Packed by the gales of Autumn, and in and out The small wrens glide With a happy note of cheer, And yellow amorets flutter above and about, Gay, familiar in fear. And now, if the night shall be cold, across the sky Linnets and twites, in small flocks helter-skelter, All the afternoon to the gardens fly, From thistle-pastures hurrying to gain the shelter Of American rhododendron or cherry-laurel: And here and there, near chilly setting of sun, In an isolated tree a congregation Of starlings chatter and chide, Thickset as summer leaves, in garrulous quarrel: Suddenly they hush as one,— The tree top springs,— And off, with a whirr of wings, They fly by the score To the holly-thicket, and there with myriads more Dispute for the roosts; and from the unseen nation A babel of tongues, like running water unceasing, Makes live the wood, the flocking cries increasing, Wrangling discordantly, incessantly, While falls the night on them self-occupied; The long dark night, that lengthens slow, Deepening with Winter to starve grass and tree, And soon to bury in snow The Earth, that, sleeping ’neath her frozen stole, Shall dream a dream crept from the sunless pole Of how her end shall be.
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WINTER NIGHTFALL The day begins to droop,— Its course is done: But nothing tells the place Of the setting sun. The hazy darkness deepens, And up the lane You may hear, but cannot see, The homing wain. An engine pants and hums In the farm hard by: Its lowering smoke is lost In the lowering sky. The soaking branches drip, And all night through The dropping will not cease In the avenue. A tall man there in the house Must keep his chair: He knows he will never again Breathe the spring air: His heart is worn with work; He is giddy and sick If he rise to go as far As the nearest rick: He thinks of his morn of life, His hale, strong years; And braves as he may the night Of darkness and tears.
16 Since we loved,—(the earth that shook As we kissed, fresh beauty took)— Love hath been as poets paint, Life as heaven is to a saint; All my joys my hope excel, All my work hath prosper’d well, All my songs have happy been, O my love, my life, my queen.
17 When Death to either shall come,— I pray it be first to me,— Be happy as ever at home, If so, as I wish, it be. Possess thy heart, my own; And sing to the child on thy knee, Or read to thyself alone The songs that I made for thee.
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WISHES I wish’d to sing thy grace, but nought Found upon earth that could compare: Some day, maybe, in heaven, I thought,— If I should win the welcome there,— There might I make thee many a song: But now it is enough to say I ne’er have done our life the wrong Of wishing for a happier day.
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A LOVE LYRIC Why art thou sad, my dearest? What terror is it thou fearest, Braver who art than I The fiend to defy? Why art thou sad, my dearest? And why in tears appearest, Closer than I that wert At hiding thy hurt? Why art thou sad, my dearest, Since now my voice thou hearest? Who with a kiss restore Thy valour of yore.
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???S???S Why hast thou nothing in thy face? Thou idol of the human race, Thou tyrant of the human heart, The flower of lovely youth that art; Yea, and that standest in thy youth An image of eternal Truth, With thy exuberant flesh so fair, That only Pheidias might compare, Ere from his chaste marmoreal form Time had decayed the colours warm; Like to his gods in thy proud dress Thy starry sheen of nakedness. Surely thy body is thy mind, For in thy face is nought to find, Only thy soft unchristen’d smile, That shadows neither love nor guile, But shameless will and power immense, In secret sensuous innocence. O king of joy, what is thy thought? I dream thou knowest it is nought, And wouldst in darkness come, but thou Makest the light where’er thou go. Ah yet no victim of thy grace, None who e’er long’d for thy embrace, Hath cared to look upon thy face.
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THE FAIR BRASS An effigy of brass Trodden by careless feet Of worshippers that pass, Beautiful and complete, Lieth in the sombre aisle Of this old church unwreckt, And still from modern style Shielded by kind neglect. It shows a warrior arm’d: Across his iron breast His hands by death are charmed To leave his sword at rest, Wherewith he led his men O’ersea, and smote to hell The astonisht Saracen, Nor doubted he did well. Would wÉ could teach our sons His trust in face of doom, Or give our bravest ones A comparable tomb: Such as to look on shrives The heart of half its care; So in each line survives The spirit that made it fair; So fair the characters, With which the dusty scroll, That tells his title, stirs A requiem for his soul. Yet dearer far to me, And brave as he are they, Who fight by land and sea For England at this day; Whose vile memorials, In mournful marbles gilt, Deface the beauteous walls By growing glory built: Heirs of our antique shrines, Sires of our future fame, Whose starry honour shines In many a noble name Across the deathful days, Link’d in the brotherhood That loves our country’s praise, And lives for heavenly good.
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THE DUTEOUS HEART Spirit of grace and beauty, Whom men so much miscall; Maidenly, modest duty, I cry thee fair befal! Pity for them that shun thee, Sorrow for them that hate, Glory, hath any won thee To dwell in high estate! But rather thou delightest To walk in humble ways, Keeping thy favour brightest Uncrown’d by foolish praise; In such retirement dwelling, Where, hath the worldling been, He straight returneth telling Of sights that he hath seen, Of simple men and truest Faces of girl and boy; The souls whom thou enduest With gentle peace and joy. Fair from my song befal thee, Spirit of beauty and grace! Men that so much miscall thee Have never seen thy face.
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THE IDLE FLOWERS I have sown upon the fields Eyebright and Pimpernel, And Pansy and Poppy-seed Ripen’d and scatter’d well, And silver Lady-smock The meads with light to fill, Cowslip and Buttercup, Daisy and Daffodil; King-cup and Fleur-de-lys Upon the marsh to meet With Comfrey, Watermint, Loose-strife and Meadowsweet; And all along the stream My care hath not forgot Crowfoot’s white galaxy And love’s Forget-me-not: And where high grasses wave Shall great Moon-daisies blink, With Rattle and Sorrel sharp And Robin’s ragged pink. Thick on the woodland floor Gay company shall be, Primrose and Hyacinth And frail Anemone, Perennial Strawberry-bloom, Woodsorrel’s pencilled veil, Dishevel’d Willow-weed And Orchis purple and pale, Bugle, that blushes blue, And Woodruff’s snowy gem, Proud Foxglove’s finger-bells And Spurge with milky stem. High on the downs so bare, Where thou dost love to climb, Pink Thrift and Milkwort are, Lotus and scented Thyme; And in the shady lanes Bold Arum’s hood of green, Herb Robert, Violet, Starwort and Celandine; And by the dusty road Bedstraw and Mullein tall, With red Valerian And Toadflax on the wall, Yarrow and Chicory, That hath for hue no like, Silene and Mallow mild And Agrimony’s spike, Blue-eyed Veronicas And grey-faced Scabious And downy Silverweed And striped Convolvulus: Harebell shall haunt the banks, And thro’ the hedgerow peer Withwind and Snapdragon And Nightshade’s flower of fear. And where men never sow, Have I my Thistles set, Ragwort and stiff Wormwood And straggling Mignonette, Bugloss and Burdock rank And prickly Teasel high, With Umbels yellow and white, That come to kexes dry. Pale Chlora shalt thou find, Sun-loving Centaury, Cranesbill and Sinjunwort, Cinquefoil and Betony: Shock-headed Dandelion, That drank the fire of the sun Hawkweed and Marigold, Cornflower and Campion. Let Oak and Ash grow strong, Let Beech her branches spread; Let Grass and Barley throng And waving Wheat for bread; Be share and sickle bright To labour at all hours; For thee and thy delight I have made the idle flowers. But now ’tis Winter, child, And bitter northwinds blow, The ways are wet and wild, The land is laid in snow.
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DUNSTONE HILL A cottage built of native stone Stands on the mountain-moor alone, High from man’s dwelling on the wide And solitary mountain-side, The purple mountain-side, where all The dewy night the meteors fall, And the pale stars musically set To the watery bells of the rivulet, And all day long, purple and dun, The vast moors stretch beneath the sun, The wide wind passeth fresh and hale, And whirring grouse and blackcock sail. Ah, heavenly Peace, where dost thou dwell? Surely ’twas here thou hadst a cell, Till flaming Love, wandering astray With fury and blood, drove thee away.— Far down across the valley deep The town is hid in smoky sleep, At moonless nightfall wakening slow Upon the dark with lurid glow: Beyond, afar the widening view Merges into the soften’d blue, Cornfield and forest, hill and stream, Fair England in her pastoral dream. To one who looketh from this hill Life seems asleep, all is so still: Nought passeth save the travelling shade Of clouds on high that float and fade: Nor since this landscape saw the sun Might other motion o’er it run, Till to man’s scheming heart it came To make a steed of steel and flame. Him may you mark in every vale Moving beneath his fleecy trail, And tell whene’er the motions die Where every town and hamlet lie. He gives the distance life to-day, Rushing upon his level’d way From man’s abode to man’s abode, And mocks the Roman’s vaunted road, Which o’er the moor purple and dun Still wanders white beneath the sun, Deserted now of men and lone Save for this cot of native stone. There ever by the whiten’d wall Standeth a maiden fair and tall, And all day long in vacant dream Watcheth afar the flying steam.
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SCREAMING TARN The saddest place that e’er I saw Is the deep tarn above the inn That crowns the mountain-road, whereby One southward bound his way must win. Sunk on the table of the ridge From its deep shores is nought to see: The unresting wind lashes and chills Its shivering ripples ceaselessly. Three sides ’tis banked with stones aslant, And down the fourth the rushes grow, And yellow sedge fringing the edge With lengthen’d image all arow. ’Tis square and black, and on its face When noon is still, the mirror’d sky Looks dark and further from the earth Than when you gaze at it on high. At mid of night, if one be there, —So say the people of the hill— A fearful shriek of death is heard, One sudden scream both loud and shrill. And some have seen on stilly nights, And when the moon was clear and round, Bubbles which to the surface swam And burst as if they held the sound.— ’Twas in the days ere hapless Charles Losing his crown had lost his head, This tale is told of him who kept The inn upon the watershed: He was a lowbred ruin’d man Whom lawless times set free from fear: One evening to his house there rode A young and gentle cavalier. With curling hair and linen fair And jewel-hilted sword he went; The horse he rode he had ridden far, And he was with his journey spent. He asked a lodging for the night, His valise from his steed unbound, He let none bear it but himself And set it by him on the ground. ’Here’s gold or jewels,’ thought the host, ’That’s carrying south to find the king.’ He chattered many a loyal word, And scraps of royal airs gan sing. His guest thereat grew more at ease And o’er his wine he gave a toast, But little ate, and to his room Carried his sack behind the host. ’Now rest you well,’ the host he said, But of his wish the word fell wide; Nor did he now forget his son Who fell in fight by Cromwell’s side. Revenge and poverty have brought Full gentler heart than his to crime; And he was one by nature rude, Born to foul deeds at any time. With unshod feet at dead of night In stealth he to the guest-room crept, Lantern and dagger in his hand, And stabbed his victim while he slept. But as he struck a scream there came, A fearful scream so loud and shrill: He whelm’d the face with pillows o’er, And lean’d till all had long been still. Then to the face the flame he held To see there should no life remain:— When lo! his brutal heart was quell’d: ’Twas a fair woman he had slain. The tan upon her face was paint, The manly hair was torn away, Soft was the breast that he had pierced; Beautiful in her death she lay. His was no heart to faint at crime, Tho’ half he wished the deed undone. He pulled the valise from the bed To find what booty he had won. He cut the straps, and pushed within His murderous fingers to their theft. A deathly sweat came o’er his brow, He had no sense nor meaning left. He touched not gold, it was not cold, It was not hard, it felt like flesh. He drew out by the curling hair A young man’s head, and murder’d fresh; A young man’s head, cut by the neck. But what was dreader still to see, Her whom he had slain he saw again, The twain were like as like can be. Brother and sister if they were, Both in one shroud they now were wound,— Across his back and down the stair, Out of the house without a sound. He made his way unto the tarn, The night was dark and still and dank; The ripple chuckling neath the boat Laughed as he drew it to the bank. Upon the bottom of the boat He laid his burden flat and low, And on them laid the square sandstones That round about the margin go. Stone upon stone he weigh’d them down, Until the boat would hold no more; The freeboard now was scarce an inch: He stripp’d his clothes and push’d from shore. All naked to the middle pool He swam behind in the dark night; And there he let the water in And sank his terror out of sight. He swam ashore, and donn’d his dress, And scraped his bloody fingers clean; Ran home and on his victim’s steed Mounted, and never more was seen. But to a comrade ere he died He told his story guess’d of none: So from his lips the crime returned To haunt the spot where it was done.
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THE ISLE OF ACHILLES (FROM THE GREEK) ??? f??tat?? s?? pa?d’ ??? t’, ??????a
??e? d???? ?a???ta ??s??t?????
?e???? ?at’ ??t?? ??t?? ???e???? p????. Eur. And. 1250.
Voyaging northwards by the western strand Of the Euxine sea we came to where the land Sinks low in salt morass and wooded plain: Here mighty Ister pushes to the main, Forking his turbid flood in channels three To plough the sands with which he chokes the sea. Against his middle arm, not many a mile In the offing of black water is the isle Named of Achilles, or as LeukÊ known, Which tender Thetis, counselling alone With her wise sire beneath the ocean-wave, Unto her child’s departed spirit gave, Where he might still his love and fame enjoy, Through the vain Danaan cause fordone at Troy. Thither Achilles passed, and long fulfill’d His earthly lot, as the high gods had will’d, Far from the rivalries of men, from strife, From arms, from woman’s love and toil of life. Now of his lone abode I will unfold What there I saw, or was by others told. There is in truth a temple on the isle; Therein a wooden statue of rude style And workmanship antique with helm of lead: Else all is desert, uninhabited; Only a few goats browse the wind-swept rocks, And oft the stragglers of their starving flocks Are caught and sacrificed by whomsoe’er, Whoever of chance or purpose hither fare: About the fence lie strewn their bleaching bones. But in the temple jewels and precious stones, Upheapt with golden rings and vials lie, Thankofferings to Achilles, and thereby, Written or scratch’d upon the walls in view, Inscriptions, with the givers’ names thereto, Some in Romaic character, some Greek, As each man in the tongue that he might speak Wrote verse of praise, or prayer for good to come, To Achilles most, but to Patroclus some; For those who strongly would Achilles move Approach him by the pathway of his love. Thousands of birds frequent the sheltering shrine, The dippers and the swimmers of the brine, Sea-mew and gull and diving cormorant, Fishers that on the high cliff make their haunt Sheer inaccessible, and sun themselves Huddled arow upon the narrow shelves:— And surely no like wonder ere hath been As that such birds should keep the temple clean; But thus they do: at earliest dawn of day They flock to sea and in the waters play, And when they well have wet their plumage light, Back to the sanctuary they take flight Splashing the walls and columns with fresh brine, Till all the stone doth fairly drip and shine, When off again they skim asea for more And soon returning sprinkle steps and floor, And sweep all cleanly with their wide-spread wings. From other men I have learnt further things. If any of free purpose, thus they tell, Sail’d hither to consult the oracle,— For oracle there was,—they sacrificed Such victims as they brought, if such sufficed, And some they slew, some to the god set free: But they who driven from their course at sea Chanced on the isle, took of the goats thereon And pray’d Achilles to accept his own. Then made they a gift, and when they had offer’d once, If to their question there was no response, They added to the gift and asked again; Yea twice and more, until the god should deign Answer to give, their offering they renew’d; Whereby great riches to the shrine ensued. And when both sacrifice and gifts were made They worship’d at the shrine, and as they pray’d Sailors aver that often hath been seen A man like to a god, of warrior mien, A beauteous form of figure swift and strong; Down on his shoulders his light hair hung long And his full armour was enchast with gold: While some, who with their eyes might nought behold, Say that with music strange the air was stir’d; And some there are, who have both seen and heard: And if a man wish to be favour’d more, He need but spend one night upon the shore; To him in sleep Achilles will appear And lead him to his tent, and with good cheer Show him all friendliness that men desire; Patroclus pours the wine, and he his lyre Takes from the pole and plays the strains thereon Which Cheiron taught him first on Pelion. These things I tell as they were told to me, Nor do I question but it well may be: For sure I am that, if man ever was, Achilles was a hero, both because Of his high birth and beauty, his country’s call, His valour of soul, his early death withal, For Homer’s praise, the crown of human art; And that above all praise he had at heart A gentler passion in her sovran sway, And when his love died threw his life away.
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AN ANNIVERSARY HE Bright, my belovÈd, be thy day, This eve of Summer’s fall: And Autumn mass his flowers gay To crown thy festival! SHE I care not if the morn be bright, Living in thy love-rays: No flower I need for my delight, Being crownÈd with thy praise. HE O many years and joyfully This sun to thee return; Ever all men speak well of thee, Nor any angel mourn! SHE For length of life I would not pray, If thy life were to seek; Nor ask what men and angels say But when of thee they speak. HE Arise! The sky hath heard my song, The flowers o’erhear thy praise; And little loves are waking long To wish thee happy days.
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REGINA CARA JUBILEE-SONG, FOR MUSIC, 1897 Hark! The world is full of thy praise, England’s Queen of many days; Who, knowing how to rule the free, Hast given a crown to monarchy. Honour, Truth and growing Peace Follow Britannia’s wide increase, And Nature yield her strength unknown To the wisdom born beneath thy throne! In wisdom and love firm is thy fame: Enemies bow to revere thy name: The world shall never tire to tell Praise of the queen that reignÈd well. O felix anima, Domina praeclara,
Amore semper coronabere
Regina cara. [Pg 290]
[Pg 291]
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