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G 
 

 / 
 
 A SELECTION FROM THE 
 
 POEMS 
 
 OF 
 
 GEORGE JOHN ROMANES 
 
 M.A., LL.D., F.R.S. 
 
 WITH AN INTRODUCTION 
 
 h 
 
 T. HERBERT WARREN 
 Prtiident of Magdaltn CoUtgt, Oxford 
 
 
 LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. 
 
 LONDON, NEW YORK, AND BOMBAY 
 1896 
 
 
 All rlgbti reierved 
 
WORKS BY GEORGE J. ROMANES. 
 
 DARWIN AND AFTER DARWIN : an Exposition 
 of the Darwinian Theory, and a Discussion on I'ost- 
 Darwinian (Questions. 
 
 Tart I. The Darwinian Theory. With Portrait of 
 Darwin and 125 Ilhislratiuns. Crown Svo. los. (nf. 
 
 Part II. Post-Darwinian Questions: Ileiedity 
 and Utility. With Portrait of the Author and 
 5 Illustrations. Crown Svo. los. 6d. 
 
 AN EXAMINATION OF WEISMANNISM. Crown 
 
 Svo. ds. 
 
 MIND AND MOTION AND MONISM. Crown 
 Svo. 4,f. 6ii. 
 
 TIIOUC.IITS ON RELIGION. Edited, and with a 
 Preface, by Charlks Gore, M.A. Canon of West- 
 minster. Crown Svo. 4j. 6(/. 
 
 THE LIFE AND LETTERS OF GEORGE TOIIN 
 ROMANES, M.A. LL.D. F.R.S. Writn"n and 
 Editeil by his Wike. With Portrait and 2 Illustra- 
 tions. Svo. 15J. 
 
 LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO. 
 l^ndon, New York, .mid l^omb.ty. 
 
 f ""^ ) 
 
TO 
 
 IrRANCIS TURNER PALGRAVE 
 
 in memory of his interest in the following i>oems 
 
 and of his affectionate regard and respect 
 
 fcr the writer 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 It was among the wishes of my friend Mr. George John 
 Romanes that a selection from his poems should be 
 published, and Mrs. Romanes has asked me to help her 
 in making the selection and to write a few words by 
 way of introduction. Neither office is easy. The work 
 of many writer*? is an artistic creation which may be 
 understood and treated quite apart from the creator. 
 That is not the case with my friend's poems. He left 
 a considerable body of them. All had grown naturally 
 out of his everyday life, and are in a sense autobiogra- 
 phical. It follows that to illustrate his life almost every 
 poem is of equal importance, and also that the true key 
 to each and all of them is nothing less than the man 
 himself. The best introduction, then, will be found in 
 the ' Life and Letters ' ' which Mrs. Romanes has put to- 
 gether and given to the world. To that work this little 
 volume is a sort of note or supplement, the poems here 
 selected being intended to indicate rather than represent 
 
 ' Life and Letters of George John Kotnana (Longmans, Green iS: Co., 
 London, 1896). The chief reference to the poems is contained in pp. 228 
 ct scqq,^ where two very interesting and laudatory letters will he found, one 
 from Mr. Gladstone, and the other from the Lte Dean Church. 
 

 VI 
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 i 
 
 an aspect of the man without which his portrait and the 
 record of his many-sided sympathies are incomplete, 
 and to give in his own language some illustrations of 
 the tenour and history of his interests and his thought. 
 
 George John Romanes was born on May 20, 1848. 
 His father was a scholar and divine, being a Doctor of 
 Divinity and professor of Greek at Kingston, in Canada. 
 He may, then, have inherited a gift for language. He 
 did not, however, himself receive any very strict educa- 
 tion, and in particular seems to have had little or no 
 definite grammatical or stylistic training. Nature as 
 seen at home and in foreign travel, especially during a 
 prolonged residence at Heidelberg, and later on in sport 
 in Scotland, music and religion, these were the in- 
 fluences under which his early years were spent. At 
 nineteen / issed to Cambridge. Here religion and 
 natural science in turn dominated him and strove for 
 the final mastery. His Burney Prize Es.say on the 
 subject of ' Christian Traycr and General Laws,' as 
 lias happened in the case of not a few students after- 
 wards distinguished — a fact which is the best defence of 
 these prizes — was at once the exercise and the proof of 
 the main bent of his mind and genius. 
 
 He left Cambridge a thinker, a writer, and a natural 
 investigator. Fortunate in the possession of inde- 
 pendent means, he was able to pursue his researches 
 and his meditations with the stimulus of the scientific 
 circle of University College, London, and also in the 
 solitude and seclusion of his own retreat and laboratory 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 Vll 
 
 at Dunskaith, in Ross-shire. * Carinina sccessum 
 scribentis ct otia quaerunt' It was here that the im- 
 pulse and the inspiration to attempt verse-writing first 
 came to him, the most felt and potent influence upon 
 his whole nature at this time being undoubtedly the close 
 friendship to which he was admitted by Mr. Charles 
 Darwin. 
 
 " His writing poetry seems to have begun about the 
 time that he made Mr. Darwin's acquaintance. He 
 published a few poems anonymously in magazines not 
 long after this time, but the first to which he put 
 his name, the most ambitious he ever wrote, was his 
 Memorial Poem composed for the occasion of Mr. 
 Darwin's death. 
 
 The second landmark or epoch in his verse-writing 
 was, so Mrs. Romanes tells me, the death of another 
 friend, in 1886.' After this he wrote much more fre- 
 quently. In 1890 he moved from London to Oxford, 
 and the remaining years of his life, except in so far as 
 they were broken by travel in pursuit of health, were 
 mainly spent there. In this his Oxford period his 
 poetry seems to enter into a new phase both of feeling 
 and form. 
 
 That a man of science should also be a poet is not, 
 or at any rate ought not to be, extraordinary, any more 
 than that a poet should be in some sense a man of 
 science. For the two characters to be united in anything 
 like perfection is, however, in modern times certainly 
 ' Cf. Life and Letters y pp. 178, 179. 
 
VIU 
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 
 w 
 
 \ \ 
 
 rare, .ilthough there is, as all know, the famous instance 
 of Goethe. The difTerentiation of function and special- 
 isation of effort increasingly necessary in the modern 
 world render this natural. fn earlier times, when 
 natural knowledge, so far as it existed, was mainly a 
 matter of common general observation with the induc- 
 tions or intuitions to which it gave rise, natural 
 philosophy was closely allied to and often or usually 
 uttered itself in poetry. Notwithstanding their famous 
 feud with poetry, the early Greek philosophers were as 
 often as not poets themselves, while Lucretius, one of 
 the most poetical, is also the most truly scientific mind 
 of Rome, not a mere colic ,wOr or cataloguer, like 
 Pliny, but a man of scientific observation, attitude, 
 and reasoning. Of so-called didactic poems, on scien- 
 tific subjects, the ancient world of course offers many 
 examples, and in imitation of the ancient world our 
 own literature also, down to the end of the last century, 
 had plenty of them, among the last and not the least 
 being the once famous and famously parodied ' Loves 
 of the Plants ' of Dr. Darwin. In this century such 
 compositions have fallen out of fashion. Natural science 
 has gone beyond them. The exact detail which it 
 requires is fatal to poetry. But it does not follow that 
 a poet may not have a scientific mind or a man of 
 science a poetic one, much less that the poet may not 
 also conduct investigations or the man of science write 
 poetry on the topics on which poetry is usually written. 
 Lord Tennyson has shown again and again, in 
 
INTRODUCTION is 
 
 epithet and phrase as well as in longer passages, how 
 the truths of observation, the great ideas and speculations 
 the vistas and aper^s of natural science may lend them- 
 selves to poetry. Born in the same year with Darwin, 
 he appreciated the great scientific movement of his time 
 long before most men had grasped its significance ; he 
 kept up with it and was interested in it to his latest day, 
 and it was his well-grounded belief that in the still greater 
 expansion and discovery which he foresaw >^c poet of 
 the future would have a yet ampler opportu:»Ity than 
 had been the lot of the poet of the past. 
 
 On the other hand the late Professor Tyndall had 
 distinctly something of the poet in his composition, and 
 so h: d Professor Huxley. When Lord Tennyson died, 
 among the many threnodies which appeared not the 
 least striking was that of Professor Huxley, and among 
 the most striking was that of the Duke of Argyll, who 
 has since in his published volume more fully demon- 
 strated that the scientific philosopher may also be to no 
 small extent a poet. Darwin himself, although, as he 
 has described in the passage only too well known in his 
 autobiography, he allowed the sense to become atrophied, 
 had in his youth a great fondness for and an excellent 
 taste in poetry. In his ' Voyage of the " Beagle " ' he 
 quotes his Virgil with a happy naturalness and apposite- 
 ness which does credit to his love of good verses and to 
 his Shrewsbury training. And if in old age he forgot 
 the taste the efifect was never lost. Darwin's style is not 
 only always a distinguished literary style, but at times is 
 
 \ 
 
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 X INTRODUCTION 
 
 in the best sense highly poetical. There is no passage 
 in the verse of his grandfather Erasmus so poetical as 
 the concluding page of the ' Origin of Species,' a passage 
 which reminds the classical scholar of nothing so much 
 as of Lucretius, even as Lucretius more than any other 
 ancient seems to anticipate in some of his observations 
 and generalisations Darwin himself 
 
 li^ 
 
 i 
 
 '•i 
 
 
 The pieces here collected, however, are for the most 
 part not scientific poems, but the poems of a man of 
 science. Few of them deal with scientific subjects at all ; 
 few even deal directly with nature, and those which do so 
 show not more but perhaps rather less minute observa- 
 tion than the poems of many professed poets, such as 
 Lord Tennyson, for instance, or Lord de Tablcy or Mr. 
 Robert Bridges. They deal with the themes natural 
 and proper to the poet and personal to the writer, 
 his loves — not his hates, for he had none, but his loves — 
 his hopes, his fears, his joys, his sorrows, his passion 
 intellectual and personal for Mr. Darwin, his love of 
 wife and child, sister, relative and friend, especially his 
 playful and graceful chivalry towards the young girls 
 of his acquaintance, his warm-hearted affection for 
 the lower animals, notable and welcome in one who 
 felt it so often his duty to use them for purposes of 
 experiment, his frankness and kindness to all and 
 sundry, his kindling sympathy with deeds of daring and 
 heroism, his interest in Nature and the country, in Art 
 and Music, and again his own inner and deeper thoughts 
 
 h 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 XI 
 
 about the deepest of all themes, Life and Death, Man 
 and God. These are the topics of his verse, and run- 
 ning through them all appears the thread of his own 
 character, his largeness and loftiness of spirit, his love of 
 truth and of beauty through truth, his doubt yet his faith 
 in doubt, above all his hunger and thirst after righteous- 
 ness, a hunger and thirst most assuredly satislied. 
 
 Such are the topics of his verse, and they are topics of 
 true poetry. Where Romanes was wanting, as he himself 
 was aware, was in art. An artist he does not claim to 
 be; a poet in the fullest sense he hardly claims to be, 
 for he came to be aware more and more, if he was not 
 so from the first, that although a great artist is not 
 necessarily a great poet a great poet must necessarily 
 be a great artist. If his verses are poetic in matter and 
 in spirit that is what the author claimed for them himself, 
 and that is all that he claimed. His own modest estimate 
 of them is set forth in the sonnet which he wrote 
 for his Preface, and it is just. He confined himself to a 
 few forms ; his metres are not various ; the rhythms are 
 somewhat monotonous and the diction plain. Rare 
 rhymes, novel turns, words curiously chosen there are 
 few, if any. It may be noted that he especially affected 
 the Sonnet, the defined scheme of which is a help to the 
 beginner and the amateur, but has often in the end 
 proved a snare and a trammel even to good writers. 
 
 His poems, then, have at once the merits and the 
 defects of amateur work. That they will fix the 
 attention or charm the ear of the world is not to be ex- 
 
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 INTRODUCTION 
 
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 pected. But they are part of the man, part of his voice, 
 part of his soul, the index and the utterance of a brave 
 and beautiful a loving and lovable spirit. As such the 
 careful reader will, I think, as I have certainly done, 
 find them grow upon him in the reading. 
 
 They have, too, a pathetic interest. They are the 
 utterance of a spirit which, as they themselves reveal to 
 us, was still in the making, still growing, still through 
 action thought and suffering, learning, struggling 
 toward the light, seeking after God. 
 
 One of the most powerful and touching of these poems 
 is the sonnet called * A Hunt.' As we read it we feel how 
 with sad prescience the writer anticipated what was 
 indeed the fact. Disease crippled the singer and clogged 
 his song, and death all too early cut it short. More it 
 seems probable he might have done in his art, as more 
 he would assuredly have done in thought, had he en- 
 joyed better health and a few more years of life, for 
 in both he was still beating his music out when his life 
 came to a close. 
 
 His latest poems as they are the deepest and ripest 
 in theme are also the richest and best in form and diction. 
 In particular the last written of all, the poem on p. 8i 
 headed Hebrews ii. lo, is of all the most adequate in 
 expression, the most true to the best and deepest part 
 of his nature, the most arresting, the most worthy and 
 likely to live, the swan song of the writer's art, the 
 Nunc Dimittis of his faith. 
 
 T. H. W. 
 
 k 
 
NOTE 
 
 The poem on Charles Darwin as here given is only a selection, 
 amounting in all to about a quarter^ of the poem as written and 
 privately printed by Mr. Romanes. The other pieces are, with 
 a few clerical corrections and verbal or metrical emendations Just 
 as he himself left them, either in manuscript or privately printed. 
 They are arranged partly according to subject, partly, and 
 especially the later ones, chronologically. 
 
 i 
 
 
 r 
 
I 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Charles Darwin : a Memorial Poem 
 Sonnets etc. 
 
 Preface 
 
 What is Truth? . 
 
 Art and Nature 
 
 On my Artistic Blemish 
 
 Criticism . 
 
 The Muse 
 
 Scientific Research 
 
 Love and Nature . 
 
 A Hunt 
 
 Gloria Mundi 
 
 The Drama of Life 
 
 Day-Dreaming 
 
 Man .... 
 
 The Heart 
 
 ^.. JRAL Theology . 
 
 Man AND Nature . 
 
 Hereafter 
 
 Heart and Mind . 
 
 Ex Nihilo . 
 
 Beethoven 
 
 PAGE 
 
 31 
 32 
 
 33 
 34 
 35 
 36 
 37 
 38 
 
 39 
 40 
 
 41 
 42 
 
 43 
 44 
 45 
 48 
 
 49 
 50 
 51 
 53 
 
I 
 
 t 
 
 1 
 
 4 
 
 
 !h 
 
 it! contents 
 
 FACE 
 
 An Incident of Study 54 
 
 Two Portraits 55 
 
 To Edith 56 
 
 Frater Loquitur • • • 57 
 
 Pater Loquitur 58 
 
 Liber Loquitur 59 
 
 To MY Setters 60 
 
 To Countess : an Epitaph 61 
 
 The Sloth 62 
 
 To the Ants of Texas 63 
 
 To a Butterfly 64 
 
 Adversity's Consolation 65 
 
 Christ Church, Oxford 66 
 
 Faith .... 67 
 
 Love 68 
 
 Religions of Mankind 70 
 
 Tarasp, 1891 .71 
 
 Malvern, 1892 72 
 
 Psalm XXV. 15 73 
 
 February ii, 1892 74 
 
 Easter Day, 1892 . . 75 
 
 ♦ How much the Wife is Dearer than the Bride' 77 
 
 To Ethel 78 
 
 Madeira 79 
 
 The Riviera, 1894 80 
 
 Hebrews H. 10 81 
 
 A Tale of the Sea 83 
 
 
 i 
 
FAGS 
 
 54 
 55 
 
 56 
 57 
 
 58 
 
 59 
 60 
 61 
 62 
 
 63 
 64 
 65 
 66 
 
 67 
 68 
 70 
 
 71 
 72 
 
 73 
 74 
 75 
 77 
 78 
 79 
 80 
 81 
 83 
 
 CHARLES DARWIN 
 
 A MEMORIAL POEM 
 
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 The hour of midnight struck upon the chime, 
 And while with iron voice the mighty bell 
 Roared from his open throat the doom of Time 
 Each solemn clang upon my spirit fell 
 And held me listening in a solitary dread, 
 
 While all the shadowed stillness of the night 
 Stood tremblingly, as though some angel spoke, 
 
 Stern, unrelenting, terrible in right, 
 Who gave the message in that steady stroke, 
 Then left the rolling sound through all the world 
 to spread. 
 
 I heard it vibrate o'er the sleeping town. 
 
 And wing its way with heavy beat afar ; 
 It touched the River as he glided down 
 The vale, and bridged his waters with a bar 
 Eternal, though the Night which crossed had left 
 no trace : 
 
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 liv 
 
 4 CHARLES DARWIN 
 
 The distant mountains caught the fleeting sound, 
 
 Re-echoed it to all the throbbing plain ; 
 And onwards still I heard it speed around 
 In widening circles, ne'er to meet again, 
 Dissolving in the moonlight through a world of 
 
 space. 
 
 ♦ « « « « 
 
 O Muse of Love, did Fame belong 
 
 To him I loved, and, loving, sing ? 
 If I should waft his name in song. 
 
 Would other voices tribute bring ? 
 Or would the name in silence fall. 
 
 As falls a snow-flake on the snow. 
 To mix and melt in one with all 
 
 Its fellows in the fleeting show ? 
 That name for me a charm would bear, 
 
 Should it be known to none beside, 
 Nor would it gain a sound more dear. 
 
 If Fame had spread it ocean- wide. 
 
 For he was one of that small band 
 Who in the waves of History 
 
 Stand up, as island clifls that stand 
 Above the wide and level sea ; 
 
 % 
 
A MEMORIAL POEM 5 
 
 And time will come when men shall gaze 
 
 That ever-changing sea along, 
 To mark through dim and distant haze 
 
 One rock that rises sheer and strong : 
 And they will say, * Behold the place 
 
 Where true was steered the course of 
 Thought ; 
 For there it was the human race 
 
 First found the bearings that they sought.' 
 
 But I must sing, my friend, to thee. 
 
 As sobs the heart without a choice : 
 When thou hast been that friend to me, 
 
 How can I still my weeping voice ? 
 Though all mankind in chorus sang 
 
 The dirges of thy death, and earth 
 Through all her lands and oceans rang 
 
 With praise of thy transcendent worth ; 
 And though mankind shall always sing 
 
 The triumphs which to thee belong, 
 Though unborn generations bring 
 
 New choirs to swell the mighty song. 
 Yet I must add my single voice, 
 
 Although I scarce may hear its sound, 
 
 

 
 CHARLES DARWIN 
 
 At least by singing to rejoice 
 
 In hearing how my voice is drowned. 
 
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 My help, my guide, my stay of heart and mind, 
 
 The friend whose life was dearer than my own, 
 Canst thou, whose kindness always was so kind, 
 
 Thus leave me now so utterly alone ? 
 Thou canst not leave me in my sorest need. 
 Behold these hands outstretched in vain to 
 thee, 
 Oh, see the heart, which thou hast broken, bleed. 
 And tell me not that thou canst turn from me ! 
 Say not, as others say, this grief is vain ; 
 
 In very madness truth may find a place ; 
 And I shall not believe, through any pain. 
 That pity can be frozen in thy face. 
 
 Though Death has fixed thy soul in wintry 
 
 clay, 
 Shall burning tears not melt the ice away ? 
 
 I see the pity melting in its eyes : 
 
 That face still watches me ; it still can bless ; 
 By day and night do I behold it rise, 
 
 And speak to me old words of tenderness. 
 
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A MEMORIAL POEM 7 
 
 If thou hast gone before, and I am left, 
 
 Yet I can hear thee call where thou hast j^one ; 
 And not for long am I of thee bereft, 
 
 For, lo ! thy steps I follow one by one. 
 What time I cannot tread the lonely place 
 
 Where I beheld thee pass beyond my view, 
 I yet can send my thoughts beyond my face, 
 
 And almost meet thee there, where all is new : 
 By thee, 'mid scenes before to me unknown, 
 The beauty and the wonder to be shown. 
 
 ;i 
 
 Or can these thoughts of Hope before me flown 
 
 Be but the shapes of madness in the air — 
 Thy voice a mocking echo of my own. 
 
 And all the world a Castle of Despair } 
 \m I the substance of a hideous dream 
 
 (Whose unknown dreamer is a maniac mind, 
 Some God who made me not that which I seem. 
 
 But forced me into being undefined), 
 A shapeless ghost created by His thought 
 
 Who, in the ravings of eternal night, 
 Is thinking and unthinking systems fraught 
 
 With horrors of His own distempered sight. 
 
 
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 8 
 
 CHARLES DARWIN 
 
 In gleams of such a mind a passing note, 
 Through universal madness left to float ? 
 
 Peace, desperate heart ; fight not against thy fate, 
 
 Though newly stricken with the madding dart 
 And writhing in thy pain : 'twill not abate 
 
 The wound to force its bleeding lips apart 
 With words delirious. The struggle cease, 
 
 And when the calm of Reason comes to thee, 
 Behold in quietness of sorrow peace. 
 
 By such clear light e'en in thine anguish see 
 That Nature, like thyself, is rational ; 
 
 And let that sight to thee such sweetness bring 
 As all that now is left of sweetness shall : 
 
 So let thy voice in tune with Nature sing, 
 And in the ravings of thy grief be not 
 Upon her lighted face thyself a blot. 
 
 II 
 
 Old Abbey, beautiful and vast, 
 
 Of this proud land the noblest pride, 
 
 Where history of ages past 
 Is gathered in and glorified, 
 
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A MEMOSIAL POEM 
 
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 As tides which move with rhythmic sway 
 
 In tall sea caverns come and go, 
 Beneath thy solemn arches gray, 
 
 The generations ebb and flow. 
 Yea, thou hast seen a nation's life. 
 
 With all its triumphs, hopes, and fears ; 
 The days of peace, the days of strife, 
 
 And changes of the changing years. 
 Yet through all change one steadfast stream 
 
 The stream of living hope and prayer. 
 The trust that all is not a dream. 
 
 But that upon thine altar stair 
 There leads a way to God above, 
 
 Within whose temple here they stand, 
 And who shall join, in endless love. 
 
 The generations hand in hand. 
 And so the sacred dead are brought, 
 
 To sleep beneath thy sacred floor ; 
 The mightiest men of deed and thought 
 
 In generations gone before. 
 
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 In fellowship of death they He, 
 Of all the sons of men most great. 
 
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 CHARLES DARWIN 
 
 
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 A vast and peerless company, 
 
 In motionless and silent state. 
 O ye who consecrate this place, 
 
 Who forged the moulds of History 
 And cast the future of our race, 
 
 How awful your solemnity ! 
 Together, yet in death alone. 
 
 All ye the noblest of your kind. 
 Whose every skull of crumbling bone 
 Once held a world of living Mind. 
 Oh, where are now those worlds of Thought, 
 
 Which rolled amid the skies of Time, 
 And seemed, with blazing lustre fraught. 
 
 Of stars of glory most sublime ; 
 Which held the life of Joy and Pain, 
 
 And high Ambition's fitful glow, 
 And Love, which ne'er shall light again 
 The zenith of a darkened brow ? 
 
 These empty spheres of ruin lie, 
 
 Polluted, dark, and lifeless there ; 
 'But where those glorious worlds.'*' we 
 cry, 
 And all creation echoes, ' Where ? ' 
 
 ' 
 
A MEMORIAL POEM 
 
 The long procession waiting stands, 
 
 Rank after rank, line after line ; 
 And far-famed men of distant lands 
 
 All met in homage at his shrine. 
 The citizens, in pressing surge, 
 
 Fill far the place from side to side. 
 While from the choir a sombre dirge 
 
 Comes rolling through the arches wide ; 
 And then, when all is hushed and still, 
 
 With motion slow the pall appears, 
 While tides of sorrow rise and fill 
 
 The dried-up wells of bygone years. 
 
 11 
 
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 For now of age the frozen eyes, 
 
 Which long have coldly gazed on pain, 
 Once more are dim, and wintry skies 
 
 Dissolve in drops of summer rain. 
 Forwards we move, with solemn tread. 
 
 Through all the thousands gathered here, 
 Sing requiem music for the dead, 
 
 Behold the sinking of the bier ; 
 While sorrow, swelling wave by wave. 
 
 Seems on our breaking hearts to break, 
 
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 12 CHARLES DARWIN 
 
 And bury in that closing grave 
 
 The hope which fainting wings forsake. 
 My highest, noblest, best, O thou 
 
 Unutterably loved and great ! 
 Farewell, farewell, for ever now — 
 
 One word, one look — too late ! too late ! 
 
 Too late ! too late ! For ever more too late ! 
 
 Oh, change all-overwhelming — absolute ! 
 A change no thought can compass, gauge, or 
 state ! 
 A change from highest being to a mute 
 And empty void ! The living man I knew — 
 The mighty structure of a peerless mind — 
 The friend whose soul was open to my view — 
 
 An ordered world, as definite in kind 
 As is this planet — full as are the skies 
 
 Of systems within systems, reason-ranged — 
 All vanished — blotted out before mine eyes ! 
 This is the change ; and with it I am changed 
 To-day that universe for me doth end, 
 Which lost a world who was my living 
 friend. 
 
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A MEMORIAL POEM 
 
 13 
 
 Shall I not trust that mighty voice which cried, 
 
 And shook me in my nature with its cry, 
 Announcing, when all other hope had died. 
 
 The overwhelming truth, Thou shalt not die ? 
 E'en from the grave arose th words it spoke. 
 
 As though the heavy jaws of Death had moved 
 To belch them through the darkness that they 
 broke. 
 To Reason's eye those words may not be 
 proved. 
 Which seemed but sounds to touch the list'ning 
 heart ; 
 Yet why, among the senses of the soul, 
 Should I alone attend the seeing part, 
 
 And not draw all my knowledge from the 
 whole ? 
 I am a man, and but as man I know : 
 Let Instinct speak where Reason fails to 
 show. 
 
 I weep not for thy giant mind ; 
 
 Of thee that mind was but a part, 
 And if it had been uncombined 
 
 With all the greatness of thy heart 
 
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 14 CHARLES DARWIN 
 
 The heavy edge of Sorrow's plough 
 
 Could not have trenched the heart it breaks ; 
 Nor would my grief have been, as now, 
 
 A grief my deepest soul that shakes. 
 Ye who thus speak but know the grief 
 
 Of those who grieve that genius dies — 
 A sorrow distant, small, and brief, 
 
 Which may not even dim the eyes. 
 
 But when the heart has lost those dear. 
 
 As father, brother, child, or bride, 
 It scarcely adds another tear 
 
 To think that with them genius died. 
 As rivers swallow up the rills, 
 
 Which find in them their natural goal. 
 One deep wide grief it is that fills 
 
 All channels of the troubled soul. 
 Although we know the dead were great, 
 
 And that afar their names were spread. 
 We care not then for Fame's estate ; 
 
 They were our own, and they are dead ! 
 
 And thus it is for thee I \ireep, 
 
 Oh, more than with an orphan's moan : 
 
 
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A MEMORIAL POEM 
 
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 Thy genius through the world may sweep ; 
 Thy love for me was mine alone. 
 
 I loved him with a strength of love 
 
 Which man to man can only bear 
 When one in station far above 
 
 The rest of men yet deigns to share 
 A friendship true with those far down 
 
 The ranks : as though a mighty king, 
 Girt with his armies of renown, 
 
 Should call within his narrow ring 
 Of counsellors and chosen friends 
 
 Some youth who scarce can understand 
 How it began, or how it ends. 
 
 That he should grasp the monarch's hand. 
 
 Love, thou art God ; and God is love : 
 
 With man in man we find thee dwell ; 
 We know that thou art from above ; 
 
 And call thy name Emmanuel. 
 Almighty Love, more strong art thou 
 
 Than that which stands before my face ! 
 Oh, quench the voice that asks me now, 
 
 ' Why gaze ye into vacant space ? * 
 
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 CHARLES DARWIN 
 
 For thou to me art living breath ; 
 
 I am in thee, and thou in me ; 
 Though all creation sink in death, 
 
 Mine eyes should still be turned to thee. 
 
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 So still we hope, and, hoping, say — 
 
 Behold, we know not how or why. 
 But, feeling, know that, be what may, 
 
 Love such as ours can never die : 
 Though Change shall move, and Time disperse 
 
 These tabernacles of decay, 
 The Spirit of the Universe 
 
 Is surely mightier than they. 
 Almighty Love, more strong thou art 
 
 Than he whose hand is on my soul ! 
 I hear thine answer in my heart, 
 
 And cry, ' He cannot take the whole.' 
 
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 More strong is Love than Death, we say : 
 Then on the face of Death we see 
 
 An ashen smile that answers, ' Yea } 
 Ye knew his love : look now on me ! ' 
 
 Almighty Death, we do thee wrong ! 
 
 Love made not thee ; thou madest Love : 
 
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 A MEMORIAL POEM 17 
 
 And if thy creature seem so strong, 
 It is thy strength that he doth prove. 
 
 From thee his living breath he drew, 
 And in thy shadow gained his light ; 
 
 Thy being out of darkness threw 
 This great reflection of thy might. 
 
 And what thou gavest thou dost take : 
 Thou canst not change before our cry — 
 
 Not change, e'en for those dear ones' sake 
 Who left us in our agony ! 
 
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 I am alone among the dead ; 
 
 And this the place where he is laid — 
 One line of golden flame is shed 
 
 By Hope, who, standing as a maid 
 In that high window, strikes the ray 
 
 Of sunshine in her lamp down straight 
 Upon his marble tomb. To-day 
 
 'Tis Easter morn. Can this be fate — 
 A dim, uncertain prophecy 
 
 Which some far distant Easter Day 
 Shall in refulgence verify, 
 
 When all that is has passed away ? 
 
I 
 
 iS CHARLES DARWIN 
 
 The breath of Fame is like the wind 
 
 Which blows the spray of autumn seas- 
 A voice that calls the ready mind 
 
 To set its course before the breeze ; 
 And, not to let occasion fly, 
 
 The listless joy of ease to scorn. 
 The bending oars of Thought to ply, 
 
 While o'er the waves of Life is torn 
 The bark that rushes with the gale 
 
 And heaves upon the foamy hills, 
 Exulting wide to spread the sail, 
 
 Whose lap a growing tempest fills. 
 
 The breath of Fame is softly sweet, 
 
 As summer wind on toil-dewed brow 
 When evening veils the noonday heat 
 
 And shadow hangs from every bough. 
 'Tis then the man of mighty frame 
 
 The sinews of his toil unbends, 
 Uprears his stature to the flame 
 
 Of sunset's golden sky, which lends 
 Its light his gathered sheaves to show, 
 
 All nodding in the harvest's breeze : 
 
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A MEMORIAL POEM 
 
 And then it is that zephyrs blow 
 Beatitude on well-earned ease. 
 
 19 
 
 Fame is the joy in work begun — 
 
 The knowledge of a strength declared ; 
 Fame is reward for labour done — 
 
 Rest made delicious, strength repaired. 
 And if we work, as work we must, 
 
 With hope that what we work is good, 
 No other measure can we trust, 
 
 So purified from selfish mood, 
 To gauge the worth of what we do. 
 
 Or show ourselves what strength we find, 
 As is the judgment, stern and true, 
 
 Of many voices of our kind. 
 
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 And if we bear our kind such love 
 
 As noblest minds are wont to bear, 
 There is no joy to place above 
 
 The consciousness that all declare 
 Our toil to be the toil of strength, 
 
 Directed with a purpose wise. 
 And by our patience crowned at length 
 
 With honour in a nation's eyes. 
 
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20 
 
 CHARLES DARWIN 
 
 To be of man a mighty son, 
 
 Of Nature's womb a chosen child ; 
 
 The giant who delights to run 
 
 Mid shouts of welcome long and wild ; 
 
 To feel that we have lived indeed, 
 And like a shelter raised our name — 
 
 This is to feel no other need : 
 It is enough ; and it is Fame! 
 
 For all that I have gained from thee, O thou 
 
 Who gavest me what only thou couldst give, 
 To thee my gratitude is rising now. 
 
 As from the Earth, in all her lands alive, 
 Goes up the morning incense to the sun. 
 
 Her deep, full heart of gladness in that cloud 
 Pours out the gratitude which every one 
 
 Of all her children breathes, or sings aloud ; 
 The flowers opening gently their sweet eves ; 
 
 The fields and forests shining in the dew ; 
 The rosy flush on the arousing skies ; 
 
 And life awakening to joy made new ; 
 
 All, all are breaking into thankful praise ; 
 And thus my thankfulness to thee I raise. 
 
A MEMORIAL POEM 
 
 31 
 
 Not for the knowledge which thou gavest me, 
 Though thou didst teach as few have ever 
 taught ; 
 Not for the opening of mine eyes to see 
 The wonders of a world which thou hast 
 brought 
 Within the range of sight ; not for the change 
 
 Which thou upon this earthly face hast wrought 
 By bringing Nature's truth within that range, 
 
 And joining it for ever with our thought : 
 No, not for these this thankfulness to thee ; 
 
 But for the grandeur of a monument 
 By Nature reared to our humanity — 
 A wondrous vision, all too briefly lent, 
 
 To show, in that great type of heart and 
 
 mind, 
 Her most sublime ideal of mankind. 
 
 
 
 Dear English home ! to me how dear ! 
 
 What memories within thee dwell ! 
 Can it be true that, standing here, 
 
 I only see the outward shell 
 Of all that once belonged to thee ? 
 
 Or can it be those memories 
 
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 Alone shall come to welcome me, 
 Once wont to meet with living eyes 
 
 And clasp of hands beyond that door ? 
 Ye phantom inmates, watch these tears ! 
 
 Do I not know each room and floor 
 
 Where ye shall live through all my years ? 
 
 'Tis hard to think ye are but shades. 
 
 When all the rest is solid stone — 
 That here there is nought else that fades, 
 
 No other change, save this alone. 
 Ye*^ sweet it is to think and see 
 
 This home is spared by Change's hand, 
 With every garden, shrub, and tree 
 
 Still standing as they used to stand. 
 Were it not so, and Change should steal 
 
 Through this loved scene from end to end 
 When all had changed, should I not feel 
 
 That I had lost another friend ? 
 
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 The lilacs raise their tufts of blue. 
 Laburnums pour their liquid gold, 
 
 The hyacinths of every hue 
 
 Breathe fragrance forth a thousandfold : 
 
A MEMORIAL POEM 
 
 * In yonder ever- whispering shade 
 
 The birds still twitter, flit, and sing ; 
 And can that mavis on the glade 
 
 The one great change be ponderino- ? 
 It runs, and peeps, and listening stands. 
 
 Then runs a space, and lists again : 
 No more, sweet bird, those bounteous hands 
 
 On thee, or me, their gifts shall rain. 
 
 Again I walk in his own fields. 
 
 And in their blossom bathe my feet ; 
 I bless the fragrance that it yields, 
 
 And feel the sweetness is more sweet 
 Than ever breathed from meadow floor ; 
 
 For, like the charm of magic spell. 
 It opens wide a fastened door. 
 
 Which closed on scenes I knew so well : 
 It seems I need but turn around 
 
 To see him somewhere far or near, 
 And that I soon shall hear the sound 
 
 Of his bright voice break on mine ear. 
 
 The jangle of a world's discordant strife 
 Hath slowly been resolved to harmony ; 
 
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 CHARLES DARWIN 
 
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 A million voices jarred against thy life : 
 
 Thy death hath tuned them into melody. 
 The nations join in requiem of praise — 
 Thoughts, tongues, and creeds of every 
 degree : 
 Within this temple hall we saw them raise 
 That monument to Concord and to thee. 
 Majestic Marble, massive,'cold, and pure ! 
 
 To mark the change a fitting form art thou — 
 A solid rock for ever to endure, 
 
 And gaze on changing Time with changeless 
 brow. 
 For Truth is changeless as thy marble face ; 
 And Truth it was that Change did here 
 embrace. 
 
 Our wisdom is to trust them good ? 
 
 A mocking laugh strikes through the air : 
 A smell of slaughter, warm in blood ; 
 
 The shrieks of anguish and despair ; 
 The gasps of death, the cries of lust, 
 
 With sounds of battle struggling fought ! 
 ! , this the darkness we can trust, 
 
 And call it good .-* Away the thought ! 
 
A MEMORIAL POEM 
 
 25 
 
 To all the ravin and the wrong 
 
 Shall we, who know the right, be blind, 
 Or say such things do not belong 
 
 To those who think with human mind ? 
 
 'Tis man, and only man can tell 
 
 The evil from the good. Arise ! 
 Behold ! e'en though it be a hell 
 
 On which shall gaze thine opened eyes ! 
 *Tis we alone of things that live 
 
 Such knowledge have attained ; we know 
 That we alone can judgment give. 
 
 Who bear the Truth upon our brow. 
 If Nature is a charnel den 
 
 Of dead and dying, bruised and lame ; 
 If Conscience only shines in men. 
 
 Then let no man put out the flame. 
 
 
 
 
 'Tis better, seeing wrong, to see, 
 
 E'en though we cannot change the 
 sight, 
 
 Thnn saying, ' Things that are should be,' 
 Or that * whatever is, is right.' 
 
 
 V 11 
 
26 
 
 CHARLES DARWIN 
 
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 Vl 
 
 
 From hunger, terror, pain, and strife 
 
 The beauty of a world arose : 
 The life that grows to higher life, 
 
 And ever lovelier as it grows. 
 The more the travail and the toil 
 
 The more magnificent the birth, 
 Till, from the mound of senseless clay. 
 
 We see the glory of the earth. 
 And what gave man the god-like thought, 
 
 Or put thai r^^rning in his eyes ? 
 What splendid ti h has he been taught. 
 
 Or with what v/isdom is he w^ise ? 
 
 Then Evil is perchance the soil 
 
 From which alone the Good can grow. 
 As knowledge only springs from toil, 
 
 And toil makes precious what we know. 
 From Evil Good, and Joy from Pain, 
 
 Derive their beauty and their light : 
 And knowledge of the Wrong is gain 
 
 If it can teach us more of Right. 
 Or is there Right or is there Wrong 
 
 Within the universal Whole .'* 
 
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A MEMORIAL POEM 
 
 27 
 
 O God ! an answer, deep and strong, 
 Already sounds within the soul : 
 • Beware ! Who art thou ? Stand and sec ! 
 Thy Conscience is for thee alone : 
 
 Raise not that voice in blasphemy : 
 Thou knowest not as thou art known.' 
 
 Let Faith and Reason here join hands 
 
 As bride and bridegroom of the mind : 
 And only he who understands 
 
 The world that union may unbind ; 
 For, lo ! the sons of Thought it gains 
 
 In reason as in faith are strong ; 
 While universal order reigns 
 
 No part can be which proves a wrong, 
 But highest reason, highest right, 
 
 And greatest good must still ensure, 
 Even though with man should end the light 
 
 Of all that men can deem most pure. 
 So let it be that, come what may, 
 
 The very tomb which holds my dust 
 Shall bear the message, * Though He slay 
 
 Me, yet in Him shall be my trust.' 
 
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 28 CHARLES DARWIN 
 
 ' Who art Thou, Lord ? ' We know Thee not ; 
 
 We only know Thy work is vast, 
 And that amid Thy worlds our lot, 
 
 Unknown to us, by Thee is cast. 
 We know Thee not ; yet trust that Thou 
 
 Dost know the creature Thou hast made ; 
 And wrotest the truth upon his brow 
 
 To tell Thy thoughts by worlds unsaid. 
 So help me. Lord, for I am weak, 
 
 And know not how my way to grope, 
 So help me as I seek, I seek 
 
 The source which sent that ray of hope. 
 
 Teach me I have not understood : 
 Thy ways are ways past finding out : 
 
 Our wisdom still shall trust them good ; 
 And in tho darkness slay the doubt. 
 
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PREFACE 
 
 Be it not mine to steal the cultured flower 
 
 From any garden of the rich and great, 
 Nor seek with care, through many a weary hour, 
 
 Some novel form of wonder to create. 
 Enough for me the leafy woods to rove, 
 
 And gather simple cups of morning dew. 
 Or, in the fields and meadows that I love. 
 
 Find beauty in their bells of every hue. 
 Thus round my cottage floats a fragrant air, 
 
 And though the rustic plot be humbly laid. 
 Vet, like the lilies gladly growing there, 
 
 I have not toiled, but take what God has made. 
 My Lord Ambition passed, and smiled in 
 scorn : 
 
 I plucked a rose, and, lo ! it had no thorn. 
 
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32 
 
 SONNETS 
 
 9 
 
 WHAT IS TRUTH? 
 
 I SAW in dreams the Citadel of Truth — 
 
 A palace as of polished silver, wrought 
 
 With precious stones. Three god-like forms of 
 youth 
 
 Attempted entrance. First a Giant sought 
 
 To force the door, besieging it with blows. 
 
 He pausing, next a Child advanced with soft 
 
 Inquest ; and all about the pile he goes 
 
 In ceaseless gaze, around, adown, aloft. 
 
 Last came a Gieek-like maiden, fairy-bright. 
 
 Who held in both her hands a golden key ; 
 
 The lock was turned ; in floods of rainbow light 
 
 I saw her pass ; and then no more could see. 
 
 Where Thought and Science access failed 
 
 to win, 
 
 'Twas Art that opened, Art that entered in. 
 
SONNETS 
 
 3J 
 
 ART AND NATURE 
 
 ' I KNOW a bank whereon the wild thyme grows,' 
 
 And there I lay me down to drink anew 
 The lyric dream of Midsummer. The woes 
 
 Of Lear followed next ; and last I drew 
 Upon the ' sugared sonnets,' till methought 
 
 Their sweetness with a lotus influei.re 
 Had bathed my being in a joy that sought 
 
 To worship him who held its every sense. 
 Then on the page a creature from the grass 
 
 Leaped forth — a living gem of Italy. 
 * Behold,' it seemed to say, ' how I surpass 
 
 In wonder all the world of Poetry.' 
 
 'Twas true. Creative strength to God 
 
 belongs. 
 And weak its image in our greatest songs. 
 
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34 
 
 SONNETS 
 
 I 
 
 ON MY ARTISTIC BLEMISH 
 
 Is it that I love more than others love, 
 Or that on me love doth the more bestow ? 
 Or is it loving much that makes love grow ? 
 
 I wot not ; but I feel that far above 
 
 The grief which others tell doth my grief prove : 
 For if the poets knew what I do know 
 Of sorrow for the lost, they could not show 
 
 Such rays of joy as in their verses move. 
 
 I 
 
 They brightly sound the harp in major key ; 
 
 The minor fills all truest songs I sing. 
 But how may Art supply the remedy, 
 
 When through my thoughts a constant knell 
 doth ring ? 
 O Grave, how absolute thy victory ! 
 
 O Death, how more than merciless thy sting ! 
 
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 SONNETS 
 
 35 
 
 CRITICISM 
 
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 *Tis well to urge that Song should tell of things 
 
 As various as Nature spreads to view ; 
 Verse sweeps her harmony from all the strings 
 
 Of Life and Passion, not from but a few. 
 Thou speakest as an artist : I am none, 
 
 Nor care to learn the wisdom of thy craft : 
 What melody is mine is mine alone, 
 
 And seeks not any other strain to waft. 
 The bird of night, who sits in sombre grove. 
 
 And sings of sorrow, sorrow, mournfully ; 
 The bird of day, who bursting full of love. 
 
 Springs bathed in sunshine, sunshine, to th( 
 sky — 
 These are the voices of an unlearnt art, 
 And they the voices echoing my heart. 
 
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 THE MUSE 
 
 
 I HEARD a poet to the gods complain, 
 ' My muse is all so fitful, coy a maid 
 That when my court most earnestly is paid 
 
 She smileth at my ecstasies of pain. 
 
 And shows her virgin shield of proud disdain : 
 Yet, when abandoned, gentle and afraid 
 Her voice will follow me o'er hill and glade. 
 
 To light anew a fever in my brain.' 
 
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 I heard the answer speak in poetry : 
 
 ' O highly-favoufp^ child of mortal clay, 
 
 Thou dost deserve that I, Apollo, slay 
 
 Th 't in thy blasphemous impiety ! 
 
 Go, learn of her, who deigns with thee to 
 
 play, 
 
 The discipline of thine own constancy.' 
 
SONNETS 
 
 37 
 
 SCIENTIFIC RESEARCH . 
 
 Why should I chafe and fret myself to find 
 Some pebble still untouched upon the beach, 
 Where struggling wavelets follow each on each 
 
 Upon the tide-mark of advancing Mind ? 
 
 If, one with them and urged by those behind, 
 My utmost energy at last should reach 
 A stone unwetted by a bubble s breach, 
 
 What gain were it to me or to my kind ? 
 
 Though I should fail that further inch to go, 
 Some other soon will creep its rugged floor. 
 
 While, resting on the conquered strand below, 
 I calmly watch the rivalry before. 
 
 Rejoicing at the steady onward flow. 
 
 But at my new-found peace rejoicing more. 
 
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 Z6>r£ AND NATURE 
 
 To lie beneath the summer of the trees, 
 
 What time they lift their lusty arms on high, 
 And flicker with their leaves against the sky, 
 
 In playful wrestlings with the wanton breeze ; 
 
 To watch the shadows stealing by degrees 
 Upon the river, lisping languidly 
 His luscious kisses as he passes by. 
 
 Amid the meadow murmuring of bees — 
 
 i 
 
 :, ^ 
 
 W 
 
 i 
 
 \ 
 
 This is the joy that comes from absent pain : 
 But when, dear heart, thou sharest it with me. 
 
 All nature wakens to a new refrain. 
 
 And sings with gladness of a bird set free : 
 
 Though all else perish, and this still remain, 
 The world were Paradise, containing thee. 
 
 I 
 
 K'tM^>?*'1* *" 
 
SONNETS 
 
 39 
 
 A HUNT 
 
 I SAW a monster hunting with two hounds, 
 
 Which snuffled on the track of unseen game ; 
 For far away, beyond the utmost bounds 
 
 Of vision, lay the pasture of the same. 
 All day they tracked him, until he could see 
 
 Them gliding through the valley like a spot ; 
 But basking in the noontide sun lay he : 
 
 They were so distant that he heeded not. 
 So when at evening they surprised his lair, 
 
 And dog by dog were hanging flank by flank, 
 He ran, and ran, and ran in his despair, 
 
 Until, in midnight darkness, lo ! he sank. 
 
 I ask the hunter of their na.aes : he saith, 
 We are Decrepitude, Disease, and Death. 
 
 m\ 
 
 H,-J 
 
 hj 
 
 fii\ 
 
 
 % ill 
 
 I 1^^ 
 
if 
 
 40 
 
 SONNETS 
 
 i ■ 
 
 ■'0 
 
 
 14 
 
 m ' 
 
 ■ 
 
 r-'f 
 
 GLORIA MUNDI 
 
 The flower fades while yet the grass is green ; 
 The trees are standing with their blossom 
 
 shed ; 
 The child I loved hath drooped her lovely 
 head, 
 While reptiles crawl which Milton may have 
 
 seen : 
 The higher life, that everywhere hath been, 
 To lower life returns ere it be dead ; 
 And, when all remnant of the life hath fled, 
 Eternal matter reigns as Nature's queen. 
 
 Man is the blossom of the Tree of Life, 
 And mind the subtlest fragrance he doth bear ; 
 So all that I have known, and thought, and 
 felt. 
 Of love, and hope, and fear, and peace, and 
 strife, 
 Before my very eyes ere long shall melt, 
 As melts a morning mist into the air. 
 
 ■ fr^--4-yi^ 
 
 ■ •^'^:f::j^'^r^\%:^ff!^:s^;^!S!s^v;^^s^ 
 
SONNETS 
 
 41 
 
 THE DRAMA OF LIFE 
 
 The flies are idling all and every day, 
 
 The birds are shaded in the summer trees, 
 While to the murmur of half-slumbering seas 
 
 The flocks and herds are dozing round the bay : 
 
 All Nature teaches me to pass away 
 My little span of life in listless ease : 
 What am I better than the rest of these 
 
 Her creatures, that I do not live as they ? 
 
 V 
 
 \ 1 
 
 The mind that more than feels and sees and 
 hears 
 
 Is surely but as Nature's monster-birth : 
 To know the end before the end appears, 
 
 Yet strive for things of everlasting worth — 
 This makes a comedy of toiling years. 
 
 And man the dwarf who rouses gods to mirth. 
 
 I; f 
 
 
 ,1 
 
 (ii 
 
 1 
 
 \i 
 
I 
 
 M 
 
 
 \H 
 
 f; 
 
 B, 
 
 i 
 
 4» 
 
 SONNETS 
 
 DA Y-DREAMING 
 
 Upon a day, in spring-time of the year, 
 I sat a-dreaming where a willow stood, 
 And watched my children playing in the wood, 
 
 Their joyous faces, and their laughter clear. 
 
 Aroused in me the once familiar cheer 
 
 When I, too, was a child ; till in the mood 
 Thus caught, I murmured, ' Nature, thou art 
 good ! 
 
 * My little ones, my little ones, how dear ! ' 
 
 ,) 
 
 'Twas then I heard the voice of Nature say, 
 Behold, thy children shall lie down with thee 
 
 In homes of death and heritage of clay. 
 
 Yet, what was said but made them more to me ; 
 
 And when they called that I should join their 
 play, 
 I went with them, ah ! more than willingly. 
 
SONNETS 
 
 43 
 
 MAN 
 
 ' ■'! '1 
 
 The world, indeed, is all a passing show ; 
 
 But whence its origin ? and what its end ? 
 If I, amid its multifarious flow, 
 
 Could find a purpose with its action blend, 
 In such a knowledge I could dare to know 
 
 The pathos of the part that Man doth lend, 
 Be he the dwarf, whom heartless gods have made, 
 
 To strut, deformed, the stage of comedy, 
 With hopes imparted but to be betrayed ; 
 
 Or as a Titan, struggling with the sky. 
 And headlong hurled by that avenging blade 
 
 Which yet again he rears him to defy — 
 A giant or a pygmy, he is great 
 Who bears the sorrow of a man's estate. 
 
 1 1\ 
 
 : I. 
 
 it ) 
 
 tt ! ' h 
 
 ir 
 
 
 
 y-i 
 
44 
 
 SONNETS 
 
 ft 
 
 f 
 
 ■ \ 
 
 ' 
 
 THE HEART 
 
 The chambers of the heart were made to hold 
 Faith, Hope, and Love to God and Man ; these 
 four 
 Give life and warmth where else were cheerless 
 cold : 
 If Doubt, Despair, or Hate break through the 
 door. 
 To pillage, ravish, murder, and destroy, 
 
 They leave a ruin to record their crime, 
 And Desolation fills the house of Joy. 
 The tenement, enduring for a time. 
 Gives shelter now to evil birds of light, 
 
 And beasts of prey ; while year by year it falls, 
 Decaying into dust. When these foes smite, 
 And Sin alone is left to fill those halls. 
 
 There stands, without a purpose, plan, or 
 
 part. 
 The crumbling form of what was once a 
 Heart. 
 
SONNETS 
 
 45 
 
 or 
 
 NATURAL THEOLOGY 
 
 Arrayed in beauty did the world arise ; 
 
 Arrayed in beauty doth it ever stand. 
 O children of mankind, lift up your eyes ! 
 
 Behold Him in the clouds, the sea, the land ! 
 The firmament His glory doth declare. 
 
 The hosts of Heaven, created by His breath, 
 As shining witnesses are standing there. 
 
 O all ye skies, and all that is beneath, 
 Bless ye and magnify with endless praise ! 
 
 In us alone a stolid silence lurks : 
 The whole Creation else its voice doth raise. 
 
 O Lord, how wonderful are these Thy works ! 
 . wisdom hast Thou mad 
 
 Surely 
 
 them 
 
 all! 
 
 On Thee, on Thee let now Thy servant 
 call! 
 
 Arrayed in order did the world arise ; 
 Arrayed in order doth it ever stand 
 
 n 
 
 'i 
 
 n] 
 
 c) 
 
 
 
 
 .1 
 
 
46 
 
 SONNETS 
 
 But who declares the order to be wise, 
 
 Or fondly linds in it a Father's hand ? 
 Oh, blind to what ye see, and deaf to all 
 
 Ye hear ! The beauty is in your own eyes : 
 The loving words, which on your hearing fall, 
 Are sounds which in your own poor hearts 
 arise. 
 What man among you, had he made this earth, 
 
 But all his brothers would condemn to die ? 
 The parentage of such a monstrous birth 
 Would brand him with inhuman devilry. 
 
 Believe in love for man alone designed, 
 Or else believe in God without a mind. 
 
 ii 
 
 \ 
 
 My soul was troubled by the sin and pain : 
 
 My heart was withered by the thought of 
 God : 
 The order seemed an order to ordain 
 
 Infinite Evil, with bad tidings shod. 
 This was the only minister of things ; 
 
 And if I saw a beauty or a joy. 
 It was the beauty of a dragon's wings 
 
 And folly of an infant with its toy. 
 
 ^I»' ^BtjKWWRWMrWWfMi 
 
47 
 
 SOATJVSTS 
 Then, unawares, into mine idle hand 
 
 A touch of sweetest childhood gently crept ; 
 A face was there that seemed my thoughts to 
 brand ; 
 
 A voice said, • Father, Father,' and I wept. 
 The trust which to a h'ttle child is given 
 Forbid it not a love that is of heaven. 
 
 ri 
 
 I 
 
 M 
 
48 
 
 SONNETS 
 
 % 
 
 '* 
 1 * 
 
 k 
 
 '- 
 
 MAN AND NATURE 
 
 Time was when Nature seemed more great than 
 Man : 
 
 To her Infinity ; to him the sky 
 
 Averted from a hunger-sunken eye. 
 But thou hast taught me, as no other can, 
 Within the compass of this little span, 
 
 A greater truth than her immensity ; 
 
 And now I see in what is born to die 
 The nobler purpose of Almighty plan. 
 
 thou who thus unconsciously dost show 
 The one perfection I have found, to thee 
 
 1 yield the highest reverence I owe ; 
 
 And Gratitude the whole wide world must flee, 
 Ere from this living heart it cease to flow, 
 Or bless the all that thou hast been to me. 
 
 I 
 C 
 F 
 If 
 
 r*' 
 
SONNETS 
 
 49 
 
 
 HEREAFTER 
 
 When I look back upon my childish years, 
 
 And think how little then I thought at all, 
 Sometimes to me it now almost appears, 
 So great the change has been, 'twere but a 
 small 
 Increase of change that might transform a man 
 
 Into a spirit, standing at the throne 
 Of God, to see in full the mighty plan 
 
 Divine, and know as also he is known. 
 For why should thus so vast a growth have been. 
 
 Which all but tops the verge of earthly skies, 
 If, at the end, all that a man hath seen 
 Be blotted out before his closing eyes ? 
 So were it better still a child to be, 
 And shout young laughter through a world 
 of glee. 
 
 ' J 
 
 
 h 
 
V 
 
 so 
 
 SONNETS 
 
 if 
 
 I 
 
 HEART AND MIND 
 
 If all the dead whom I have known alive 
 
 Could rise unsheeted from their every grave, 
 What is the question I would first contrive, 
 
 And which the friend whose answer I would 
 crave ? 
 Not to the great philosopher or sage 
 
 My unreluctant tongue shall be untied. 
 Though in that hour I might believe an age 
 
 Of longing wonder could be satisfied ; 
 Not to the teacher of the ways divine, 
 
 Nor preacher of the faith he held on earth : 
 These well might follow in an ordered line, 
 
 As one by one the mind should give them 
 birth : 
 But, searching for one face, the heart would 
 
 call, 
 Dost thou renieviber mc, my all in all? 
 
SONNETS 
 
 51 
 
 EX NIHILO 
 
 t 
 
 In all the universe that reacheth round 
 
 The sense-imprisoned ken of man, no change 
 Can ever add unto the full abound 
 
 Of that which fills the never-ending range 
 Of Being : combinations that arise, 
 
 In ever-growing beauty as they pass, 
 And seem like new creations in our eyes, 
 
 Are but as images in such a glass 
 As that with which our chiL'^en cheat their 
 sight : 
 Revolving ages ply the atoms' dance, 
 A.nd when the game shall end, with fading light 
 Shall end the mar v patterns thrown by chance. 
 Or say we, Nature's fiery swaddling- 
 
 cloud 
 Returns unchanged to constitute her 
 shroud. 
 
 
 ,4 
 
 ♦ . 
 
 V 2 
 
 I/-. 
 
SONNETS 
 
 It ^ 
 
 f 
 
 ' i! 
 
 Yet, lo ! most wonderful of things on earth 
 
 Is that which lieth nearest to our ken — 
 Conception of a thought which comes to birth, 
 
 And springs to action in the world of men. 
 It comes to man amid that vast abyss 
 
 Where his own nature reaches forth to blend 
 With all the universe that was and is, 
 
 Without beginning and without an end. 
 It comes to him because he makes it come : 
 
 He calleth it, and saith ' Appear ! appear ! ' 
 And yet divineth not from what far home, 
 
 Obedient, it riseth now and here. 
 
 Yea, had it home in othe»- mind or place, 
 E'er thus it gazed, created, face to face } 
 
 
 : M' 
 
 '«' 
 
 i 
 
SONNETS 
 
 53 
 
 BEETHOVEN 
 
 Beethoven, let thy spirit call to mine 
 
 F'rom regions that no other eye hath seen, 
 Or heart of man conceived. Stand thou 
 between 
 
 The zenith of our thought and that divine 
 
 Effulgence of the Lord, whose fringes shine 
 Upon the stars, in mercy spread to screen ; 
 And when earthwards thy spirit still doth 
 lean. 
 
 It is to fill our world with sound of thine. 
 
 m 
 
 
 
 Oh, great among the greatest of our kind, 
 
 We hear its meaning where thy trumpets 
 blow : 
 
 Bevond horizons thou hast left behind. 
 And all the glory that the skies can show, 
 
 What thou hast found there is for us to find. 
 As thou hast known it is for us to know. 
 
 ,\ 
 
 ^t 
 
 m 
 
54 
 
 SONNETS 
 
 '4, ■' 
 
 w ■ 
 
 AN INCIDENT OF STUDY 
 
 I READ and thought, and thought and read again : 
 The unrolled knowledge of the centuries 
 Made discord in mine ears, and to mine eyes 
 
 Displayed the tiny gleam which human brain 
 
 Had sought to cast, and sought to cast in vain. 
 Ah, where was Truth amid these Hows and 
 
 Whys? 
 What but a phantom mocking at the wise, 
 
 Whose wisdom ended in their fruitless pain ? 
 
 I-??, > 
 
 
 Then, in a moment, what a change was there ! 
 A mighty language filled the very air. 
 
 And Truth revealed with all the world was 
 
 woven : 
 My spirit sank, with shafts of gladness 
 cloven ; 
 For God Himself had witnessed my despair, 
 And sent His blessed angel in Beethoven, 
 
SONNETS 
 
 55 
 
 TWO PORTRAITS 
 
 in 
 
 nd 
 
 Two portraits of the sweetest girl I know 
 Hang side by side, and shed a ceaseless rain 
 Of beauty, dazzling me with joy and pain : 
 
 For while the one will never deign to throw 
 
 A glance that even friendship might bestow, 
 The other constantly sends back again 
 The look that tells when hearts are knit in 
 twain. 
 
 And follows me wherever I may go. 
 
 
 h 
 
 as 
 
 ;ss 
 
 Ah ! why, if shadows thus their souls reveal, 
 May not the substance with their motions 
 move ? 
 
 Are masks to speak, and faces to conceal 
 
 What all the passion of my soul would prove ? 
 
 Oh, Mary, Mary, for one moment steal 
 The magic of those moving eyes of love. 
 
 i\ 
 
56 
 
 SONNETS 
 
 
 'n 
 
 m I 
 
 TO EDITH 
 
 To other friends in sonnets I may sing ; 
 
 How shall I sing, my greatest friend, to 
 thee? 
 
 There is no song in any poetry 
 Which would not seem an all unworthy thing 
 If made to tell thy praise ; no voice or string 
 
 Which man could tune may sound the 
 minstrelsy 
 
 That should be thine. So let me silently 
 Place on thy tomb the blossoms that I bring. 
 
 if 
 
 P 
 
 w , 
 
 As fullest feeling is by gesture shown, 
 
 May these few lines but as a gesture seem ; 
 
 As deepest grief is heard in wordless moan, 
 But as a sob do thou this sonnet deem. 
 
 No more. The greatest friend that I have 
 known 
 Has vanished, like the glory of a dream. 
 
SONNETS 
 
 57 
 
 FRATER LOQUITUR 
 
 THOU who since my childhood's day was young 
 Hast shared with me my every joy and pain, 
 Who of the stars that come or stars that wane 
 
 Art still the holiest that has been hung 
 
 1 n all the skies of memory — among 
 
 The lesser lights which move my idle strain, 
 Why have I left the greater to remain, 
 As I have left thee, sister, still unsung ? 
 
 Sole-balanced in the firmament on high, 
 Two only orbs the form of kindred wear, 
 And each to each in silent thought declare ; 
 So we, like them, have filled each other's sky, 
 As joined, like them, in Nature's infancy, 
 And each to each our silent witness bear. 
 
 
58 
 
 SONNETS 
 
 PATER LOQUITUR 
 
 Of all the little ones whom I have known 
 Ye are so much the fairest in my view — 
 So much the sweetest and the dearest few- 
 
 That not because ye are my very own 
 
 Do I behold a wonder that is shown 
 Of loveliness diversified in you : 
 It is because each nature as it grew 
 
 Surpassed a world of joy already grown. 
 
 If months bestow such purpose on the years, 
 
 May not the years work out a greater plan ? 
 Vast are the heights which form this ' vale of 
 tears,* 
 And though what lies beyond we may not 
 scan. 
 Thence came my little flock — strayed from their 
 .spheres, 
 As lambs of God turned children unto man. 
 
SONNETS 
 
 59 
 
 LIBER LOQUITUR 
 
 Take me from one who loves thee with a love 
 
 More full than any of my language bears ; 
 In all my numbers see the spirit move 
 
 Which thou hast shed upon my growing years. 
 Take me from one who in that spirit shares 
 
 The greatest gladness that a man may find — 
 To entertain an angel unawares, 
 
 Love-drawn from Heaven in form of human 
 kind. 
 Take me from one who gives his all to thee, 
 
 And of that all hath written here a part : 
 Yea, though the volume which thou hast in me 
 Revealeth not the volume of his heart. 
 
 Take me in token of a truth well tried — 
 ' How much the wife is dearer than the 
 bride.' 
 
 i 
 
 /**a 
 
6o 
 
 SONNETS 
 
 TO MY SETTERS 
 
 Most faithful children of your faithful clan, 
 Embodiments of energy and grace, 
 With eyes that glow in love, and on each 
 face 
 
 Intelligence that might become a man ! 
 
 No clockwork ever made more truly ♦'in 
 Than you in your co-ordinated chase — 
 Now fast and free, then statued to your place, 
 
 A beauty group of black and white and tan. 
 
 Yes, fondle me to all your hearts' content, 
 
 You dear old Countess, Bango, Sam, and 
 Jill: 
 
 Ah, happy days those days togetiier spent 
 Amid the breeze of Achalibster Hill, 
 
 With miles of heather bathing us in scent. 
 And bags as full as we could care to fill. 
 
 1 
 
SONNETS 
 
 61 
 
 TO COUNTESS: AN EPITAPH 
 
 No more shall field and meadow, moor and 
 grove 
 
 Bid welcome to thy tireless energy ; 
 
 No more thy master watch thy lifeful glee, 
 Who gavest all through all thy days to prove 
 One only joy all other joy above ; 
 
 Whilst I, who stood instead of God to thee, 
 
 Cared not thou couldst not share in thou<7ht 
 with me, 
 When thou didst share that greater life of love. 
 
 I 
 
 For this it was thine only joy that lent. 
 Which unto me my chiefest joy doth lend ; 
 
 And while in it thy creaturehood was spent. 
 Where seek I else my creaturehood to spend ? 
 
 Then carve ye thus upon her monument : 
 In death my fellow, as m life my friend. 
 
 
 \h \- 
 
 ■% 
 
62 
 
 SONNETS 
 
 THE SLOTH 
 
 Thou most absurd of all absurdities, 
 Thou living irony of Nature's law, 
 No wonder that in thee old Cuvier saw 
 
 Grim signs of humour in an otherwise 
 
 Not over-witty god : with ears and eyes 
 I nverted, and each serviceable paw 
 Transformed into a wretched hanging claw, 
 
 Thou hast turned topsy-turvy earth and skies. 
 
 ' O " paragon of animals," why jeer 
 At one who gazes with inverted eye ? 
 
 The " change of attitude " thou findest here 
 Is my attempt to follow thine, and try 
 
 What benefit arises in this sphere 
 
 By twisting all one's being towards the sky.' 
 
 li 
 
SONNETS 
 
 63 
 
 TO THE ANTS OF TEXAS 
 
 Ye busy, busy people of the wood, 
 
 When I behold you working every day, 
 And marvel at the wisdom you display. 
 
 It seemeth but a questionable good, 
 
 That such high instincts as you show us should 
 Be given yc/U by Nature to obey, 
 When all they serve, by all their wondrous 
 play, 
 
 Is to conserve the life of emmethood. 
 
 t 
 
 But if such end such means can justify. 
 
 Let other insects learn what this would show : 
 
 Our boasted thought can cast no sovereign eye 
 Beyond the needs of life it needs must know ; 
 
 While, like this nest of ants. Humanity 
 Doth ever sow to reap, and reap to sow. 
 
 , 4'. 
 
 *m 
 
I*— — *1 I ^ ■n il 
 
 
 ";- '•gjiir'iig'n-^iiii'- 1*'*' 
 
 I uMP^aV'*"^ '' 
 
 i 
 
 64 
 
 SONNETS 
 
 
 TO A BUTTERFLY 
 
 
 The battling labours of a Hercules 
 
 Are in the hours of thy perpetual dance, 
 Poor flutterer from the flowery meads of 
 France. 
 
 Ob, cruelly ill-timed this southern breeze, 
 
 That bears thee now across the glittering seas, 
 And mocks thee with an ever-lessening chance 
 Of meeting with the far deliverance 
 
 Of England's happy whispering of trees. 
 
 h' 
 
 
 !}V, 
 
 Yet half the space thou dost already span : 
 
 Such miles and miles those tiny wings have 
 braved, 
 Thy world is changed since first their flight 
 
 began ; 
 And if it seem, as far as eye may scan, 
 
 A world where fields to ocean are enslaved, 
 Endure unto the end, and be thou saved. 
 
 
 >■ I Ml ■ I 
 
SONNETS 
 
 65 
 
 AD VERSITTS CONSOLA TION 
 
 A Sparrow saw a stricken Eagle's pain, 
 
 As he fell headlong from the clouds on high, 
 And chirped, with pity in her s'deward eye, 
 
 ' O monarch of the world, thy proud disdain 
 
 Of such a life as mine, when thou didst reign, 
 Hath wrought this greater anguish here to die. 
 Ah ! wherefore wouldst thou climb into the sky, 
 
 And scorn our happy flittings of the plain ? ' 
 
 
 E:'J\ 
 
 
 * 
 
 M 
 
 P. 
 
 ■I 
 
 /ed, 
 
 The Eagle answered, ' Anguish well may be 
 When Heaven doth hurl a thunder from its 
 wall ; 
 Yet anguish such as this destroys for me 
 
 The terror that death brings to such as crawl : 
 These mighty wings, that dared the deepest 
 fall, 
 Await their end in peace unknown to thee.' 
 
 I 
 
 F 
 
 \ . 
 
 
 f: 
 
 \ 
 \\ 111 
 
i 
 
 ^u rri 
 
 ■Um J'tumt^ 
 
 66 
 
 SONNETS 
 
 CHRIST CHURCH, OXFORD 
 
 k: 
 
 Cathedral in the silence of the night, 
 Who lookest Godwards to the starry sky, 
 Not proudly standing dost thou magnify 
 
 Thyself in distant earth-disdaining height. 
 
 Nor boast thy bulk a monument of might ; 
 But, worshipping in low humility, 
 With folded hands and deep imploring eye. 
 
 Thou kneelest, as before the Master's sight. 
 
 u. 
 
 The meek and lowly He exalts ; so thou 
 Hast gained a glory other shrines have 
 missed. 
 
 Though least among them all, it is thy brow 
 That wears the crown of the evangelist. 
 
 To thee let all thy princely sisters bow, 
 O nursing mother of the Church of Christ. 
 
SONNETS 
 
 67 
 
 I 
 
 FAITH 
 
 Can it be true, as all the Churches teach, 
 
 Nought is of Faith but what they hold as true ? 
 Or is the Word set forth in human speech 
 
 More sure than when revealed to human view ? 
 Nay, if the truth be all that they would show, 
 
 Let him who doubted be my witness here : 
 Faith's deepest joy were it at last to know 
 
 That, while I knew it not, the Lord was near. 
 So now, with groping hands, I feel for Thee, 
 
 Who hast such words as no man ever had : 
 Oh, count it sorrow that I cannot see, 
 
 And not a sin that I was born so sad. 
 
 Though dark the eyes that stream in sight- 
 less grief. 
 Lord, I believe ; help Thou mine unbelief 
 
 ^1 
 
 i 
 
 'M 
 
 n 
 
 
 I 
 
 Vf 
 
 ♦» I 1 
 
 
68 
 
 SONNETS 
 
 % 
 
 LOVE 
 
 When others sing the praise of those they love, 
 I hear a voice that answers to mine own, 
 As when the loud and deep melodious tone 
 
 Of some great bell wakes far a sleeping grove ; 
 
 The faint responsive note doth sweetly piove 
 How truly has another spirit known 
 The meaning of the message that is thrown, 
 
 When all the powers of my nature move. 
 
 ) 
 
 And why ? Because no other voice can tell 
 The measure of the love that I have found ; 
 
 Speak they however wisely, true, and well, 
 They may not render back the full abound, 
 
 Where heart to song is as the swinging bell 
 To distant echoes of a mighty sound. 
 
SONNETS 
 
 69 
 
 II. 
 
 Yet I have seen the long-drawn billows roll 
 Upon the concave of a greeting shore, 
 And, as they broke along the sandy floor, 
 
 Lift up the voices of their ocean soul : 
 
 Then, like an angels' orchestra, the whole 
 Great bosom of the land sent back the roar ; 
 Deep called to deep, and, lo ! the mountains 
 bore 
 
 As vast a language as the watery goal. 
 
 )% 
 
 III 
 
 (1 
 
 :i 
 
 .1 
 
 n 
 
 In that one place I heard an echo wake 
 To answer worthily a mighty tone ; 
 
 And I have found but one dear heart to make 
 As infinite a meaning as my own : 
 
 There all that Love can give can Love retake ; 
 Deep calls to deep, and deep to deep alone. 
 
 ^ 
 
 It 
 
 r 
 
 
 
.^ 
 
 T^^sr^^ 
 
 i 
 
 i 
 
 1^ 
 
 70 
 
 SO.VNETS 
 
 \ 
 
 K Ij 
 
 \ 
 
 If 1' 
 
 
 RELIGIONS OF MANKIND 
 
 Have I not seen ten thousand temples rise, 
 
 In dome and pillar, minaret and spire ? 
 Do I not know that Hope, with myriad eyes, 
 
 From every zone doth gaze with one desire ? 
 And back and back, since man on earth appeared, 
 Has not the earth with such new radiance 
 shined. 
 Henceforth a world by glittering hosts ensphered. 
 That reach the answering looks of mind to 
 mind ? 
 Ah ! can it be that all do vainly reach, 
 By never-ending failure undeterred. 
 When, as the stars of Heaven, there is no speech 
 Or language where their voices are not heard ? 
 Nay, rather let me join with all my kind, 
 As one who knows of light though he be 
 blind. 
 
 
SONNETS 
 
 h 
 
 TARASPy 1891 
 
 Tarasp, I leave thee with that fond regret 
 Of one who dreams a dream of Paradise, 
 And wakes to earth again with tearful eyes ; 
 
 For of all wonders mine have ever met 
 
 *Tis those — of forest, stream, and meadow — set 
 Among thy giant crags, which pierce the skies 
 Of sapphire with their snow — supremely rise, 
 
 And leave me now to die ere I forget. 
 
 So stand a Citadel of Memory — 
 
 The time and place of this unearthly scene 
 An ever-biding refuge of the mind : 
 So be that vision of sublimity. 
 
 Which, having been, nought else can ever 
 blind, 
 O matchless valley of the Engadine. 
 
 !i: 
 
 
 4,3 
 
 k 
 
 {' 
 
 MCI 
 
 f 
 
 \ 1 
 
 I1 
 
 ««h ifA 
 
h 
 
 i 
 
 I. 
 
 72 
 
 SONNETS 
 
 
 i 
 
 MALVERN, 1892 
 
 To doze upon a sunny hill in June, 
 
 And hear the lullaby that Nature lends ; 
 To drink the cup that sweet contentment 
 blends 
 With sweeter love of those whose hearts shall 
 
 soon 
 Reverberate with joy, as they attune 
 
 Their praise to praises that achievement 
 
 sends — 
 This is to feel that bounteous Nature bends 
 A mother's smile on manhood in its noon. 
 
 But when the shadows of the twilight come, 
 And high Ambition needs must fold his wings. 
 
 While voices both of hearts and hills grow dumb. 
 Can she still bring the smile that now she 
 
 brings ? 
 Yea, by the memory of brighter things, 
 
 I'll trust her in the night that calls me home. 
 
 ,Atim 
 
SONNETS 
 
 73 
 
 V A 
 
 ent 
 lall 
 
 ent 
 
 PSALM XXV. 15 
 
 I ASK not for Thy love, O Lord : the days 
 Can never come when anguish shall atone. 
 Enough for me were but thy pity shown 
 
 To me as to the stricken sheep that strays, 
 
 With ceaseless cry for unforgotten ways — 
 Oh, lead me back to pastures I have known, 
 Or find me in the wilderness alone, 
 
 And slay me, as the hand of mercy slays. 
 
 w 
 
 ■it 
 -I 
 
 \ 
 
 nb, 
 she 
 
 I ask not for Thy love, nor e'en so much 
 As for a hope on Thy dear breast to lie ; 
 
 But be Thou still my Shepherd — still with such 
 Compassion as may melt to such a cry ; 
 
 That so I hear Thy feet, and feel Thy touch. 
 And dimly see Thy face ere yet I die. 
 
 m 
 
 i 1 
 
} 
 
 fi 
 
 n 
 
 74 
 
 SONNETS 
 
 >* 
 
 A :■ 
 
 't 
 
 FEBRUARY ii, 1892 
 
 If God us twain should separate, 
 When Death shall close our eyes, 
 
 Out of the deeps of deathless hate 
 One deathless love will rise ; 
 
 a 
 
 
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 I' ) 
 
 And, stronger than the bars of Fate, 
 'Twill pierce the nether skies, 
 
 To wing its way where one doth wait 
 With deathless memories. 
 
 Then on and on, or soon or late 
 'Twill reach those angel sighs. 
 
 And kiss at last, through Heaven's gate, 
 With thine in Paradise. 
 
SONNETS 
 
 75 
 
 EASTER DAY, 1892 
 
 The house of mourning that I enter now 
 
 Will never more rejoice in those glad eyes 
 Which looked upon their sorrow but to glow 
 
 With deeper gladness in their purities. 
 For felt they not — yea, surely well they felt — 
 
 Such loss was righted by a greater gain, 
 When all their blue blue innocence did melt 
 
 Before our answers to their lightest pain ? 
 And knew they not — yea, surely they did know — 
 
 That as our human hearts most utterly 
 From deepest fonts of love do overflow 
 
 When all their gates are loosed by sympathy. 
 So doth the very Fatherhood of Love 
 In vast compassion most divinely move ? 
 
 Those eyes, alas ! we may no longer see ; 
 
 But was not I that best and truest friend, 
 Who saw them from their very infancy. 
 
 And saw ::hen» beautiful unto the end ? 
 And were tht y not so always wont to shine, 
 
 With fuller sweetness in their youthful light, 
 
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 SONNETS 
 
 When, turning all the soul of them on mine, 
 
 They shed affection as affection's right ? 
 So I have claimed to harp the requiem lay ; 
 
 Yet sound it not in any mournful wise ; 
 For who would ask, upon this Easter Day, 
 To draw her spirit down from Easter skies ? 
 Nay, let me sing as she would have me sing, 
 Whose golden harp is loud with thanksgiving. 
 
 .1 
 
 Ah ! let us join, my oldest friends and true, 
 
 To greet with her this dawn of Eastertide : 
 It is the first that she doth drink anew 
 
 The vine of Christ, and drinks it as a bride. 
 Then not for her, but for ourselves we weep ; 
 
 And if the days be not as they have been. 
 The time is short that we shall have to keep 
 
 The flowers growing, and the churchyard green. 
 But now with her in choirs alternate ranged 
 
 We sing an anthem angels have not known, 
 The psalm of man, by earth and heaven 
 exchanged 
 In mighty hosts and swaying antiphon — 
 ' Our house is left unto us desolate : * 
 * Thy loving chastisement hath made me 
 great.' 
 
SONNETS 
 
 77 
 
 *HOW MUCH THE WIFE IS DEARER 
 THAN THE BRIDE' 
 
 What is there dearer than the maid is dear, 
 Whose virgin love, aurora-like, doth bless 
 Our whole wide world with golden happi- 
 ness? 
 
 It is that maiden of another year, 
 
 When as our very bride she doth appear. 
 Surrendering the charms we now possess, 
 Which, sweet to watch, are sweeter to caress, 
 
 And grow more subde as they draw more near. 
 
 But dearer yet, and much more dear than they, 
 Is that sweet face the years now consecrate ; 
 
 Whose golden youth has burned itself away 
 To silvery ashes of its first estate, 
 
 Leaving a love flame purified of clay, 
 And great — aye, as the love of God is great. 
 
 
 ^^i 
 
 
78 
 
 SONNETS 
 
 TO ETHEL 
 
 Ethel, thy name is as my breath to me, 
 When on the breezy sunshine of a moor 
 I draw the fragrance of the flowery floor, 
 
 Or walk along the foaming of the sea, 
 
 Where shores are lonely and the waves are free : 
 It is the word to move a magic door. 
 Where I, the fabled wanderer, lean and poor. 
 
 Become more rich than kings in finding thee. 
 
 
 Ah, sweet my treasure, what have I to give 
 For more than all the wealth of all the earth ? 
 Oh, take my heart and mind and life and 
 
 soul — 
 Take all I have — take all I am ; the whole 
 Is worthless, worthless unto such a worth. 
 Though I should have ten thousand years to live. 
 
SONNETS 
 
 79 
 
 MADEIRA 
 
 Fixed on thy sapphire throne of sea and sky, 
 And clothed with light as with a robe of gold, 
 I see thee, in thy queenly state, uphold 
 
 An ocean sceptre o'er the mists on high, 
 
 Which wreathe thy head with crown of majesty. 
 Yet in thy rocky arms thou dost enfold 
 That child who came, when ages had unrolled, 
 
 To make thee smile upon his infancy. 
 
 What though it was some other womb that bore 
 The tiny form thus wafted on thy wave ? 
 
 Did he not bring a joy upon thy shore 
 Which all thy years of grandeur never gave ? 
 
 And if his eyes shall sleep to wake no more, 
 Thy smile will vanish in his troubless grave. 
 
 
 ,1- 
 
So 
 
 SONNETS 
 
 (I 
 
 THE RIVIERA, 1894 
 
 Calm Nature, in thy blue Italian guise, 
 How vainly dost thou smile upon a mind 
 Which, seeing beauty, is to beauty blind. 
 
 Yet smOe thou on. Thou canst not sympathise 
 
 With any wearied thing that droops or dies. 
 And so, adieu. With strength and hope 
 
 resigned, 
 "Tis well that I should soon and surely find 
 
 The peace of unawakenable eyes. 
 
 . 1 
 
 / 
 
 That smile will then be no less warm and bright 
 
 For all thy children still untired of play 
 And strong in growing powers of young delight ; 
 Yet, O my dearest, come at times with 
 
 flowers 
 In darling memory of those short hours 
 We shared together as a holiday. 
 
SONNETS 
 
 8i 
 
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 pe 
 
 It 
 
 It; 
 ith 
 
 HEBREWS 11. 10 
 
 (Easter Day, 1894.) 
 
 Amen, now lettest Thou Thy servant, Lord, 
 Depart in peace, according to Thy Word. 
 Although mine eyes may not have fully seen 
 Thy great salvation, surely there have been 
 Enough of sorrow and enough of sight 
 To si ow the way from darkness into light ; 
 
 And Thou hast brought me, through a wilderness 
 of pain. 
 
 To love the sorest paths, if soonest they attain. 
 
 Enough of sorrow f-^r the heart to cry, 
 
 ' Not for myself, nor for my kind, am I ; ' 
 
 Enough of sight for Reason to disclose, 
 
 ' The more I learn the less my knowledge 
 
 grows.' 
 Ah, not as citizens of this our sphere, 
 But aliens militant we sojourn here. 
 Invested by the hosts of Evil and of Wrong 
 Till Thou shalt come again with all Thine Angel 
 throng. 
 
 
 h 
 
 
8> 
 
 SONNETS 
 
 II 
 
 N! 
 
 As Thou hast found me ready to Thy call, 
 Which ordered me to watch the outer wall, 
 And, quitting joys and hopes that once were 
 
 mine, 
 To pace with patient step this narrow line, 
 Oh, may it be that, coming soon or late. 
 Thou still shalt find Thy soldier at the gate, 
 Who then may follow Thee till sight needs not to 
 
 prove, 
 And faith shall be dissolved in knowledge of 
 Thy love. 
 
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 I I 
 
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 t to 
 
 of 
 
 A TALE OF THE SEA 
 
 -1 
 
 (; 2 
 
■^^■■1 
 
 IPP 
 
 wmmm 
 
 ■I 
 
 NOTE 
 
 The poem which follmvs, written some time between 1886 
 atid 1889, ( red in ^Longman's Magazine' for May 1895. 
 In a note .^^ nded to it the writer stated that it was 'an 
 historically accurate narration of fact. ^ 
 
wm 
 
 A TALE OF THE SEA 
 
 You want a yarn ? Then listen to a story of the 
 sea, 
 
 About as prime, I take it, as a story well could be, 
 
 And one which I can tell first-hand, because I 
 
 saw it all ; 
 Besides which 'tis so wondrous good all round 
 
 there ain't no call 
 For me to pull the bow a bit ; so here's my hand 
 
 to you 
 That, as I hope for my salvation, all I say is true. 
 We hailed from Liverpool, in autumn time, bound 
 
 for New York ; 
 Our craft a sailing vessel, good to float as any 
 
 cork. 
 We were well found in everything, specially in 
 
 the crew, 
 Which were as fine a lot of fellows as I ever knew 
 
 f: 
 
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 mmmmmm^ 
 
 wmm 
 
 86 
 
 A TALE OF THE SEA 
 
 When we were out a week the wind was blowing 
 
 sou* -sou-' west, 
 And every swell we rode upon showed us a 
 
 broader chest : 
 Next day we met the gale, and all next night it 
 
 grew, 
 And all the day and night that followed harder 
 
 still it blew, 
 Until it was the biggest storm that I have ever 
 
 seen. 
 Though I have sailed on every sea since I was 
 
 young and green. 
 And all on board agreed it was the biggest they 
 
 had known : 
 Bedad, sir, you might fancy that the ocean had 
 
 been blown 
 Into the sky; for winds and waves, and clouds 
 
 and spray, and dark and light 
 Were all mixed up together, like a mob in a 
 
 furious fight. 
 We set our course north-west by north, took in all 
 
 sails but three. 
 And wondered how the ship could live in such a 
 
 maniac sea : 
 
./ TALE OF THE SEA 
 
 a 
 
 : It 
 
 But nobly and right well she rose upon each 
 
 mountain wave — 
 Threw up her head to meet the foe defiantly and 
 
 brave ; 
 Bowed down her head when he had passed, to 
 
 gather strength again, 
 And so was always ready for the giants oi the 
 
 main. 
 It was when drawing near to noon that, on our 
 
 staiboard bow, 
 \Ve saw a vessel labouring among those fields of 
 
 snow : 
 So far as we could then make out she seemed to 
 
 be all right, 
 But, as the waves were running over thirty feet m 
 
 height, 
 We only saw in glimpses that a ship was there 
 
 at all ; 
 And, Lord, the air was full of mist as at your 
 
 Horse-Shoe Fall. 
 But by-and-by we spied her flag — the stars and 
 
 stripes quite plain. 
 And, God Almighty ! they were hung reversed 
 
 upon the main ! 
 
 i » 
 
 
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 ' ^A-t^< * *■ rr I ■ I ^jii 
 
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■■ 
 
 88 
 
 A TALE OF THE SEA 
 
 Sv * 
 
 
 So down we bore upon her course, and, in an 
 
 hour or two. 
 Were near enough to see her well, and even count 
 
 her crew. 
 Now, Bill, the mate, was bold, and strong as any 
 
 two or three, 
 A tawny British lion — Lord, a very devil he. 
 Who laughed before the face of Death, shook 
 
 Danger by the hand, 
 And why the world should shun his friends could 
 
 never understand. 
 ' So here's a go, my men/ he cried : ' a Yankee in 
 
 distress ! 
 Who cares to take a pleasure trip in go-to-meeting 
 
 dress } ' 
 A dozen hands went up at once, and they prepared 
 
 a boat 
 Before they told the captain that their notion was 
 
 afloat ; 
 But, when he heard it, up he rounded on to Bill, 
 
 and said, 
 ' The devil take you for a lunatic, both born and 
 
 bred ! 
 
1. 
 
 A TALE OF THE SEA 
 
 89 
 
 Do you suppose a boat could live in such a sea as 
 
 that, 
 Or you come out of it if you had th* nine lives of 
 
 a cat? 
 You are a crazy Scotchman, sir, and if you want 
 
 to drown 
 Jump overboard, and let us see if that will cool 
 
 your crown.* 
 So 'gin the boat the men stood still, and looked 
 
 upon the sea : 
 Indeed, me captain had spoke the truth, as true as 
 
 true could be : 
 But all the answer Bill had made was, ' You are 
 
 skipper here, 
 And maybe Scotch to English are as whiskey is 
 
 to beer.' 
 *Twas then I looked to see how yet the Yankee 
 
 craft might fare, 
 When, by my faith, the stars and stripes no longer 
 
 floated there : 
 So out I sang, ' The flag has gone ! By Jove, it's 
 
 blown away ! ' 
 And every eye was turned to look to where the 
 
 Yankee lay : 
 
 \ 
 
 /I 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 III 
 
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 »>tM* l^**.;*-* *«. *'*^%l. jtM'MM 
 
n 
 
 90 
 
 A TALE OF THE SEA 
 
 I 
 
 But not a single star or stripe from stem to stern 
 
 was shown, 
 Though no one dreamed the wonderment that 
 
 shortly would ue known, 
 For even while we looked the stars and stripes 
 
 appeared again, 
 Right briskly running up the mizzen rigging to 
 
 the main ; 
 But now, although we scarcely could believe our 
 
 very eyes, 
 The colours floated right side up ! Here, then, 
 
 was a surprise ; 
 The Yankee meant to signal that her danger was 
 
 all past ; 
 She swam as right as we were, said her colours 
 
 from the mast. 
 Thereon we raised a bit of cheer, for right well 
 
 glad were we 
 That no one now could feel a call to face that 
 
 frightful sea. 
 So calmly for a time we watched her, plunging in 
 
 and out 
 Among the waves, and not a man among us had 
 
 a doubt 
 
■n? 
 
 ■■■IHI 
 
 wm 
 
 A TALE OF THE SEA 
 
 91 
 
 But some mishap had fallen, and been set to rights 
 
 again, 
 Just at the time when we had got our boat's gear 
 
 into train. 
 ' Go, fetch my glass,' the captain cried ; ' it's rum 
 
 behaviour this. 
 To call us up by flag reversed, and then to blow 
 
 a kiss.' 
 Agin the mast, with glass as firm as limpet on a 
 
 rock, 
 Between the heavings of the sea he watched the 
 
 shuddering shock, 
 As wave by wave leaped on her deck, like wolves 
 
 with shining teeth. 
 And hung their claws upon her sides to drag her 
 
 underneath, 
 Though still she rose and shook them off, as one 
 
 by one they came, 
 A hungry and an endless pack on hunt of wounded 
 
 game ; 
 Above the tempest we could hear them roaring 
 
 round their prey. 
 And saw her plunge among them like a mighty 
 beast at bay. 
 
 
 i 
 
 11' 11 
 
 'I 
 
 ' I 
 
 , I' 
 
 
 ...js ? jifcfeaL- 
 
92 
 
 A TALE OF THE SEA 
 
 ■i! 
 
 And while we watched her agony it seemed a 
 
 desperate case, 
 With all her body broken, and with death upon 
 
 her face ; 
 But still the stars and stripes were flying bravely 
 
 over all, 
 So still we thought that they had never meant our 
 
 help to call, 
 But only signalled that we should stand by to 
 
 watch and wait. 
 For sailors best know how to steer 'twixt Too- 
 soon and Too-late. 
 But Bill, whose sight was wondrous good, was 
 
 staring like a ghost. 
 And muttered, * Damn my eyes if e'er she sees 
 
 the coast.' 
 With that I turned to watch the captain standing 
 
 'gin the mast. 
 And, as I turned, he dropped the glass all sudden : 
 
 ' Sinking fast ! * 
 He said no more just then : perhaps it was the 
 
 driving spray, 
 But 7 believe I saw him brush a woman's tear 
 
 away. 
 
 iMii iiBl - 
 
 *i fcl 
 
 ■ ■» < ' n » ' 
 
A TALE OF THE SEA 
 
 93 
 
 Yet soon we heard his voice again, as strong as 
 
 strong could be : 
 * Now, boys, you know the meaning of a Yankee- 
 doodle spree ; 
 He makes his colours turn a somersault before 
 
 they go beneath. 
 For sure as you are standing there he's face to face 
 
 with death ; 
 But he would show the Britisher he's not afraid 
 
 to die, 
 When all his hope of life is that the Britisher 
 
 should try 
 A desperate rescue through that demoniac sea — 
 
 Hush, boys ! ' — 
 For we began a round hurrah — * no time for 
 
 empty noise : 
 I tell you that I don't believe a rescue can be 
 
 done : 
 In all my life I never saw a sea so ugly run, 
 £\iid if you know me, boys, you know that sooner * 
 
 than play white 
 I'd throw my tongue upon the deck to show I'd 
 
 spoken right ; 
 
 ) 
 
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 ' II 
 
 •i'l 
 
 ^, 
 
 <.i 
 
A TALE OF THE SEA 
 
 ■■ 
 
 But I am skipper here, and duty bids me tell you 
 
 plain, 
 Whoever leaves this ship to-day will not return 
 
 again. 
 You volunteers are made of right good British 
 
 stuff, I know ; 
 And this the Yankee knows, yet sees a rescue is 
 
 no go. 
 Believe me, lads, the Yankee's right ; and brave 
 
 as right is he : 
 Hats off before the glory of the heroes of the 
 
 sea.' 
 And then we stood in silence, with our hats held 
 
 in our hands. 
 As men who need not speak again, where each 
 
 man understands ; 
 And understands a sight so great that words are 
 
 useless things, 
 And ^jeech is frozen at its source, while thought 
 
 is taking wings. 
 Then came a fearful wave astern, much taller than 
 
 the rest, 
 A moving, toppling mountain with the snow upon 
 
 its crest, 
 
A TALE OF THE SEA 
 
 95 
 
 And high above the stars and stripes we saw it 
 
 rear and fall : 
 Oh, God ! she had been sunk before our eyes — 
 
 hull, masts, and all — 
 A whole ship swallowed by one wave, which 
 
 passed along again, 
 With but a streak of foam to show the place where 
 
 she had lain. 
 Without a breath we looked upon that tombstone 
 
 of the deep, 
 And not a heart but felt a heave as in a nightmare 
 
 sleep ; 
 But not for long before the waking all on sudden 
 
 came. 
 For 'mid the white a black rose up — a ship, but 
 
 not the same. 
 The stars and stripes were gone, with masts, and 
 
 yards, and sails ; the deck 
 And hull were all that could be seen : the Yankee 
 
 was a wreck. 
 Yet to the stumps the crew were lashed, and we 
 
 could count them all, 
 Though every wave now buried them and rolled 
 
 her like a ball. 
 
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 (; 
 
 i * 
 
 'A 
 
 yk 
 
96 
 
 A TALE OF THE SEA 
 
 Then roundly sang out Bill, ' By God, sir, I can't 
 
 stand to see 
 These men go down before my eyes ; 'tis like 
 
 enough, if we 
 Attempt a rescue, we shall follow in their wake ; 
 
 but hark. 
 My men, if I shall live a hundred years that 
 
 Yankee bark 
 Will haunt me day and night, like any phantom 
 
 ship where Death 
 Is grinning in the shrouds ; and what's the use o* 
 
 drawing breath 
 if ever and again it is to think I might ha' 
 
 gi'en 
 Those Yankee lads a chance ? 'Twere all like 
 
 murder to ha' been 
 So near and watch 'em drown, wi'hout a hand or 
 
 foot to stir : 
 I'd rather death than buy my life wi' such a 
 
 thought. Aye, sir. 
 You're right to tell us 'tis foolhardy ; that we 
 
 know it is ; 
 But, lads, I canna' bide to see the Yankee go like 
 
 this. 
 
A TALE OF THE SEA 
 
 97 
 
 If he had left his colours topsy-turvy on the 
 
 mast, 
 Maybe I might ha* held my peace, and watched 
 
 him to the last ; 
 But, Lord, I canna stand you running right side 
 
 up, my friend, 
 And now I'd rather go wi' you than stay to see 
 
 the end.* 
 A shout went up, as with one voice, to tell the 
 
 captain there 
 That all his crew were British tars, who lived to 
 
 do and dare ; 
 For Bill had said what all had felt, and we were 
 
 by his side, 
 To make the captain give the word, whatever 
 
 might betide. 
 No time for parley then, and so he quickly 
 
 answered, ' Aye — 
 Now sharp, brave lads, be off, be off, to rescue 
 
 or to die ! 
 All hands to starboard, lads ; let go the boat, with 
 
 Bill to steer.' 
 Eight volunteers, and Bill as cox, jumped in above 
 
 the gear ; 
 
 H 
 
 II 
 
 i % 
 
 ('. 
 
 "A 
 
 ■I 
 
98 
 
 A TALE OF THE SEA 
 
 \ 
 
 I 
 
 But, <jad, sir, never in our lives was such a job 
 
 as that, 
 For all the while our ship was tumbling like an 
 
 acrobat, 
 And half the time we heeled to beam ends on our 
 
 starboard side, 
 Then back again to beam ends on our larboard, 
 
 while we tried 
 To catch the level moment, as we rolled betwixt 
 
 the two, 
 For dropping with a sudden rush the lifeboat and 
 
 her crew. 
 Hung on the stays, with all their oars spread 
 
 waiting in the air, 
 They looked more like a thing to fly than such a 
 
 sea to dare. 
 And in each face of all the nine there was a pair 
 
 of eyes 
 That showed the very devil of a man who does or 
 
 dies, 
 While up into the sky, and down again into the 
 
 sea, 
 We all were holding anxiously, as silent as could 
 
 be. 
 
A TALE OF THE SEA 
 
 99 
 
 Then suddenly sung out the word, * Let go,' and 
 down they went ! 
 
 Good God ! a moment afterwards, with all our 
 bodies bent 
 
 Athwart the gunwale, not a sign or vestige could 
 we find, 
 
 So turned our eyes with horror to the waste of 
 waves behind. 
 
 There, battling in the tempest, nine strong swim- 
 mers might we see. 
 
 Without a hope of helping them in their last 
 agony. 
 
 When, by the Mass, as down we dipped to star- 
 board side again, 
 
 We saw her high above our heads, and cheered 
 with might and main ; 
 
 For all the eight were pulling for their very lives 
 away, 
 
 Mixed up in mountain waves of foam and strug- 
 gling in the spray. 
 
 So they drew on, and on and on, and on and on 
 they drew, 
 
 But only now and then it was they glimpsed into 
 
 
 I 
 
 \ 
 
 \ 
 
 our view, 
 
 H 
 
 a' 
 
100 
 
 A TALE OF THE SEA 
 
 VI 
 
 i 
 
 I 
 
 ( , 
 
 And ever and anon we thought — they were so 
 
 long unseen — 
 They never more would show above the crests 
 
 that rolled between. 
 Ah, sir, it is a dreadful sight to watch a boat that 
 
 braves 
 A thousand odds to reach a wreck among a thou- 
 sand waves ; 
 And never since the world began is any sight 
 
 more grand 
 Than when at last the rope is thrown which joins 
 
 them hand in hand. 
 Next one by one we saw the shipwrecked men 
 
 pass down the line. 
 Now high in air, then plunging down in fathoms 
 
 deep of brine, 
 Till all were got aboard and stowed to balance up 
 
 the boat. 
 Which rode so deep it seemed to us she could no 
 
 longer float ; 
 But Bill was at the tiller, and no man could steer 
 
 like Bill, 
 So on they came, while cheer on cheer we raised 
 with right good will, 
 
I 
 
 A TALE OF THE SEA 
 
 lOI 
 
 Until at last the rope was thrown which joined us 
 
 hand in hand, 
 And every man was hauled on deck, as safe as on 
 
 the land. 
 Next day the storm had lulled, and when, with 
 
 blankets and with rum, 
 We got some show of life in the new faces that 
 
 had come, 
 Our skipper says to theirs, ' Now tell us all yonir 
 
 yarn, my man.' 
 With that the Yankee spat a spit, squared up, ami 
 
 thus began : — 
 • My tale's soon told,' quoth he : * 'twas yesterdity 
 
 we sprang a leak. 
 And as the gale grew stronger, sir, our vessel 
 
 grew more weak. 
 She strained, and writhed, and groaned, just like 
 
 a living thing in pain. 
 And all night long we worked the pumps, but 
 
 worked them all in vain ; 
 For hour by hour the water gained through all the 
 
 dismal night, 
 And when the morning broke at last the gale was 
 
 at its height. 
 
 4 ' 
 
T02 
 
 A TALE OF THE SEA 
 
 >. 
 
 I 
 
 9 
 
 'A 
 
 \ 
 
 You bet we were exhausted as a flock of prairfe 
 
 hens 
 When blown to sea and fluttering with no more 
 
 strength than wrens : 
 The cargo was all overboard, and yet we rode so 
 
 low 
 I saw the pumps were useless, and prepared the 
 
 boats to go ; 
 But early in the morning they were stove and 
 
 washed away, 
 So then we lashed each other fast, and waited for 
 
 the day. 
 Right glad were we to see your sail bear down on 
 
 us at noon, 
 And ran our colours wrong side up, for you were 
 
 none too soon. 
 "A Union Jack! a Union Jack!" we cried; 
 
 '• Oh, blessed sight ! 
 No chicken-hearted lubbers there, but sea-hawks 
 
 born to fight. 
 Old England to the rescue ! Mother England, 
 
 bless thy face ! 
 Brave Britisher, press onward — onward — neck 
 
 and neck thy race 
 
A TALE OF THE SEA 
 
 103 
 
 With Death astride the hurricane, in frantic, 
 
 foaming speed." 
 The hungry distance lessened, and we knew you 
 
 saw our need : 
 For then we saw you round your boat, like ants 
 
 about a fly. 
 And knew you meant a rescue — or leastways to 
 
 have a try. 
 But then it was that first we marked the heights 
 
 that rolled between, 
 For when your masts went under devil one of 
 
 them was seen ; 
 And all the sea was like a churn : Lord, how the 
 
 breakers hissed, 
 And swirled, and raced, and splashed, as if to show 
 
 how they could twist 
 A boat to matchwood. Then our voices ceased, 
 
 for every heart 
 Was filling with one thought : each knew it well, 
 
 but whose the part 
 To speak it out ? Not mine, the skipper of a 
 
 drowning crew. 
 Leastways not till the others saw what I already 
 
 knew. 
 
 I 
 
 
 
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 I 
 
 Hi 
 
 \\\ 
 
 .1) 
 
f^B^mmm 
 
 ' 
 
 104 
 
 A TALE OF THE SEA 
 
 '. 
 
 ;t 
 
 i 
 
 
 1 
 
 Ah, bitter, and yet sweet, it was to see them 
 
 whisper then, 
 ror sure was I that what they spoke was spoken 
 
 up like men : 
 I saw it in each darkened face, in each determined 
 
 eye : 
 It was a council to agree that all on board should 
 
 die. 
 At last the mate, as spokesman, came before the 
 
 mast, and said, 
 *' We guess the thing's impossible. The men's as 
 
 good as dead 
 Who should attempt to cross that sea. Now, 
 
 skipper, what say you ? 
 My mates and me have had a talk, and talked the 
 
 business through. 
 We have no stomach for the sight these Britishers 
 
 prepare : 
 You know as well as we do what it is that waits 
 
 them there : 
 And can you think, when our turn comes, that 
 
 Death will seem less grim 
 Because we saw the Britishers walk into Hell with 
 
 him ? 
 
A TALE OF THE SEA 
 
 f05 
 
 'ith 
 
 Nay, skipper, we would rather die as honest men 
 
 and true. 
 Without that awful spectacle first spread before 
 
 our view, 
 To haun^ our dying memories with every dying 
 
 face 
 That then will look upon us like a witness of dis- 
 grace ; 
 For now we may prevent in time the launching of 
 
 their boat 
 By running up our Yankee flag as it should always 
 
 float. 
 Tell, skipper, are you with us, or will you that 
 
 they shall try ? 
 You see it is impossible : wish you to watch them 
 
 die?" 
 With that I spoke up what I thought ; but added 
 
 at the last 
 That wives and babes should join in council held 
 
 before the mast. 
 " Ah, skipper," said the mate, ** you know that 
 
 there you hit me hard ; 
 And, gad, you nearly win the game by playing 
 
 such a card : 
 
 m^mmmimmimmamtnm 
 
B 
 
 1 
 
 1 06 
 
 A TALE OF THE SEA 
 
 But I have thought of her and them through all 
 
 the night and day, 
 Expecting, hoping, waiting for the father far 
 
 away, 
 Who never, never, never shall come back to see 
 
 them more. 
 My widow, oh, my orphans, would that you had 
 
 gone before !" 
 Then stood he straight upright again, and gave a 
 
 gulp or two, 
 For he had doubled up along with grief for them. 
 
 ** But you," 
 He cried — " the time is short. Oh, mates, give 
 
 heed and think again : 
 These splendid fellows will come on, and will come 
 
 on in vain ; 
 Their English hearts will perish in the broad 
 
 Atlantic wave, 
 And English hearts will mourn them as the true 
 
 that mourn the brave ; 
 For English wives, and English children, wait for 
 
 them at home ; 
 Ah, would you haunt those homes, like ours, with 
 
 feet that never come ? " 
 
A TALE OF THE SEA 
 
 107 
 
 Then, fearing waste of time, I called a vote of 
 
 hands to show, 
 When, as I live, all went for Aye, and never one 
 
 for No ! 
 Confound me, sir, if I had thought a vote like 
 
 that to find — 
 A whole ship's crew, and not a man who was not 
 
 of one mind. 
 So out I sang, " Down with the flag, and up a^ain 
 
 as fast ; 
 The Britishers will watch us sink, and understand 
 
 at last : 
 Then all the world shall hear the tale the Britishers 
 
 shall tell. 
 And proudly every heart in broad America shall 
 
 swell." 
 So, when the flag was righted, and we saw the 
 
 monstrous wave, 
 We drew our breath and waited for the water and 
 
 the grave ; 
 Yet when it broke upon us, with its towering tons 
 
 of weight, 
 My only thought in death and darkness was, 
 
 " God, Thou art great." 
 
 \ 
 
 ) 
 
loS 
 
 A TALE OF THE SEA 
 
 
 
 The rest you know in part, though you can never 
 
 rightly know 
 The adoration you inspired in that terrific row. 
 Ami when upon your English deck I clasped your 
 
 English hands 
 It seemed to draw the union close between our 
 
 native lands ; 
 For thus in mid Atlantic met, as kindred tried and 
 
 true, 
 I fek that not unworthy we of brothers such as 
 
 you.' 
 
 ^ 
 
 PKINTED BY 
 
 SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NUW-STRBRT SQUARE 
 
 LUNUUN 
 
 
■1 
 
 
 ' i.