3 PR 603] L933 Sy PRS meen: B By ee wu ee es © u ge a SEX RACE ee Re NG ONY : RS We ye WEA K os Phe re RES a { Ue Va 93 ax eh So sonia ti Sor Het pos oF, ai aif ‘i | TAT AL OL AT RAE 1 CE ran aio a 1 CS: Pus SS SSS ee Ape: Aig shen Se t mw "i eae ae Cn A pdolo$: ae K pe PR 6031.L3313 In the Dorian mood. In the Dorian Mood IN THE ae MOOD — BYVICORPLARK LONDON? JOHN:LANE THE*BODLEY-HEAD-- NEW-YORK: GEORGE Hi RICHMOND. AND.CO> moc]ecx & s cies To M.1.P., H.M.P., anp M.C. H. P. CONTENTS Toa Breton Beggar, . . i . ‘ 6 , I When the Lamp is oe a Gia os Mc 4 Twilight-Piece, ., . F é A 5 ‘ 5 Mejnun and Laili, 5 7 2 : : * 4 7 ‘Eothen, . ‘ ‘ 3 ‘ ” ‘ - II Epitaphium Citharistrize, bw we et oa OES A Story of the EvilEye, . . ; ; ; . 13 To a Greek Gem, ‘ 7 - , 3 Z . <7 Ad Cinerarium, . «lg : ‘ : . 18 The Statuary, . ‘ ‘ ‘ : Z . ar In Old Hastings,. . . ate - 26 A Secret of the Sea, . 2 5 - F . 27 The Sailor’s Return, .. : » + 30 The Veil of Isis, . ee te e 4 BS . 34 Good-night,. . . . . d : wa BB In a Norman Church, . ‘ , 4 5 < . 36 Shadows, . - , ‘ ‘ ‘ - 39 Death and the Piven: md ‘ ; ; » + 40 Toa Dead Student, . ‘ 7 : 7 : - 43 Charlotte Corday, in oh Gi Gh Bo wo Bae viii , CONTENTS At Citoyenne Tussaud’s, To Passive Obedience, . May 22, 1885, A Night of Terror, 1870, In Excelsis, 1889, Che Sara Sara, In a Garret, . Ecclesiastes, Chapter XII, Before the Time of Mowing, Confession, . A Corot in Nature, The Goddess of the iataiens Zreppa yap avayKn, An Adaptation of an episode in Virgil, On a Reading of Matthew peneld, The Night-jar, é The Violin Player, De Mortuis nil nisi Bonum, . To One who Failed, Burlesque, A Parterre of Kings, A Nocturne at Greenwich, Through the Wood, 5 The Deer in Greenwich Park, The Haunting Dream, . To One Asleep, 46 47 53 55 57 60 61 63 66 68 Jo 92 77 79 81 82 86 89 go 95 96 99 102 106 108 IN THE DORIAN MOOD TO A BRETON BEGGAR (Dol Cathedral) In the brown shadow of the transept door, Gray kings and granite prophets overhead, Which are so ancient they can age no more, A beggar begs his bread. He too is old—so old, and worn, and still, He seems a part of those gaunt sculptures there By wizard masons dowered with power and will To moan sometimes in prayer, A 2 IN THE DORIAN MOOD To moan in prayer, moving thin carven lips, And with faint senses striving to drink in Some golden sound, which peradventure slips From the altar’s heart within. What is thy prayer? Is it a plaintive praise, An intercession, or an anguished plaint, Remorse, O sinner, for wild vanished days, Or ecstasy, O saint ? And through long hours when thou art wont to sit In moveless silence, what inspires thy thought? Is thine an utter drowsing? Or shall wit Still travail, memory-fraught ? Hear’st thou old battles ? Wast thou one of those Whose angry fire-locks made the hillsides ring When, clad in skins and rags, the Chouans rose To die for Church and King? TO A BRETON BEGGAR 3 Or dost thou view in weird and sad array The long-dead Cymry—they of whom men tell That ‘always to the war they marched away,’ And that ‘they always fell’? So touching are thine eyes which cannot see, So great a resignation haunts thy face, I often think that I behold in thee The symbol of thy race, Not as it was when bards Armorican Sang the high pageant of their Age of Gold, But as it is, a long-tressed sombre man, Exceeding poor and old, With somewhat in his eyes for some to read, Albeit dimmed with years and scarcely felt,— The mystery of an antique deathless Creed, The glamour of the Celt ! WHEN THE LAMP IS QUENCHED Your casement bright athwart the night Gieams steadfastly—a golden square ! And I'm thrilled through for love of you With hope that laughs away despair ! Lo, the lamp’s out! Dark night and doubt Rush in where erst was solace sweet ; And suddenly it seems to me Some heart—some life—has ceased to beat ! TWILIGHT-PIECE Tue golden river-reach afar Kisses the golden skies of even, And there’s the first faint lover’s star Alight along the walls of heaven. The river murmurs to the boughs, The boughs make music each to each, And still an amorous west wind soughs And loiters down the lonesome reach. And here on the slim arch that spans The rippling stream, in dark outline, You see the poor old fisherman’s Bowed form and patient rod and line. IN THE DORIAN MOOD A picture better than all art, Since none could catch that sunset stain, Or set in the soft twilight’s heart This small strange touch of human pain ! MEJNUN AND LAILI (After the Persic) Druaeexp at the breast of Anguish, nursed In Sorrow’s old unnatural arms, Daily the swart Mejntin rehearsed Young Laili’s lustrous charms. For him his desert grew to be Love's golden house where evermore Madness was janitor, and he The threshold of love’s door ! The telling of his griefs oppressed The Arabians : ’mong their youth there was A tumult, and as men possessed They clamoured in his cause. 8 IN THE DORIAN MOOD Their lettered councils met : the fame Of all thou sufferedst, saidst, and didst For love's dear sake, Mejnuin, became A desert in their midst! At length their Sultan spake—he too Had plucked, whiles in love’s land he paced, Many a flower of sable hue And fruit of haunting taste ;— ‘Slave, make thy head like to thy feet In running unto Najd!_ Bestir! Be as a violent wind and fleet, And hither fetch me Her Whose eyes such miseries have wrought !’ The stripling coursed away amain, And in a twinkling homeward brought That Empress in Love's reign. MEJNUN AND LAILI Unto another slave he bent :. ‘Now go thou also forth and bring Love’s burning lamp, Love’s ornament, Love's heart-consuméd King !’ The boy sped and returned: he had Strange company when back he pressed : The wounds of separation clad Mejnin as with a vest : His cloak was his wild hair ; ’twas spann’d By a sharp comb of Arab thorn: His robe was rustling desert sand : To flint his feet were worn. ‘Look up!’ the Sultan cried, ‘O thou, Who hast in Sorrow’s gulf been lost ! Tell me! shall I exalt thee now At this young beauty’s cost ? 10 IN THE DORIAN MOOD Become a courtier, wouldst thou not Bask on her cheek, thy wanderings done?’ ‘Nay,’ cried that other, ‘’twere to blot With atomies the sun! ‘King of high hearts, it were unjust Thus rashly to forego our fates ! Enough if with one grain of dust I crown me at thy gates!’ —Madness austerely throned above The desolate hollows of his eyes— ‘Me the sharp pain,’ he cried, ‘ of love For Laili doth suffice ! ‘Nor do I pray that from her spheres One ray should light this mean worn man.’ He spake, he veiled his eyes with tears, And toward the desert ran. ‘EOTHEN'’ AttTHouGH I have not seen thee face to face, Nor haply shall, strange world of all my dreams, Yet, when I read this book, it ever seems As though I knew thee and had leave to pace Through fancy’s faith, born of the writer’s grace, Toward the city of roses and wide streams Beneath the purple mountain crag that gleams ’Gainst the red sunset in a desert place, Till through an eastward gate I pass into A world of women veiled and silent men, A white and ghostly world, stiller than thought, Where never voice or music sounds save when Some plague-stained bier is hurried out of view, Or the last slave-bride to her lord is brought. EPITAPHIUM CITHARISTRIAE STAND not uttering sedately Trite oblivious praise above her ! Rather say you saw her lately Lightly kissing her last lover Whisper not, ‘ There is a reason Why we bring her no white blossom :’ Since the snowy bloom’s in season Strow it on her sleeping bosom : Oh, for it would be a pity To o’erpraise her or to flout her : She was wild, and sweet, and witty—~ Let’s not say dull things about her. A STORY OF THE EVIL EYE THERE came unto an Austrian town, In the good days of Rezch and Reiter, A slim small maid with blood-red gown, And a bowed graybeard with a zitter. Still hand in hand the travellers went, Till in the Platz that fronts the steeple He tuned and touched his instrument, She danced before the market people. Oh, ’tis a pleasant seemly noise ! Ah, she’s so fair who treads the measure ! ‘Huzza,’ cried wives and ’prentice boys, ‘For the Herr Graybeard and his treasure.’ 14 IN THE DORIAN MOOD About her coif a merry mint Of little golden byzants dances, Which sing and ring with gleam and glint Each time she curtseys or advances. And round her pale sweet face her hair Lifts and flows out with billowy motion As strands of the gold seaweed, where The sun shines into th’ emerald ocean. There’s that within her eyes you meet In wild wood things—they’re soft and tragic : But "tis the witchery in her feet Which out-enchants all other magic! They come and go, they pass and pause, Like swallows’ wings or flames a-burning, Till half the folk cry out because Their heads are well-nigh turning. A STORY OF THE EVIL EYE 15 And half the folk laugh low, and he Who erewhile struck, now clasps his brother. The scold grows good, and cheerfully The fretting child obeys its mother. Old scores are paid ; grim men forego The cruel quests for which they panted. ‘Children, the while she dances so, Do you not guess yourselves enchanted ?’ One spake—a dark Dominican. Men started asthe sharp words stung them ;— And lo, an old outlandish man, A dark-eyed Turkish witch among them ! Then someone cast a stone ;—the deed Was his who spake—we let him claim it : Yet were there none to intercede For wizard worshippers of Mamet ! 16 IN THE DORIAN MOOD And soon arose a dreadful shout,— “'Tis th’ Evil Eye!’ and stones came flying. That burgher throng became a rout, And after—someone lay a-dying. So—lift her head upon his knee. At sight of this is wrath not minished ? Twill not last long : the tragedy In those strange eyes is nearly finished. They grow exceeding dim. ’Tis good The child hath such brave rags to cover With kindred hue the dye of blood Now that the dance and song are over ! Once more she stirred, and strove to fold His frail worn hand with faint endeavour : Then o’er the scarlet and the gold Death drew his viewless veil for ever. TO A GREEK GEM Was it the signet of an Antonine— This middle-finger ring whose bezel glows With the most lovely of intaglios Ere wrought by craftsman in an age divine? Or was it borne by grim Tiberius’ line At lustful festals and fierce wild-beast shows ? Sealed it wise edicts, or when Lucan chose His artful liberal death was it the sign? I cannot tell, nor can this lucent toy ! I only know that these small graven forms, This cymbal-playing maenad and this boy, In their delightful beauty shall live on, Crannied ‘mong crashing rocks, when Time’s last storms Have whelmed us in the sands we build upon, B AD CINERARIUM Woo in this small urn reposes, Celt or Roman, man or woman, Steel of steel, or rose of roses ? Whose the dust set rustling slightly, In its hiding-place abiding, When this urn is lifted lightly ? Sure some mourner deemed immortal What thou holdest and enfoldest, Little house without a portal! When the artificers had slowly Formed thee, turned thee, sealed thee, burned thee, Freighted with thy freightage holy, AD CINERARIUM 19 Sure he thought there’s no forgetting All the sweetness and completeness Of his rising, of her setting, And so bade them grave no token, Generation, age, or nation, On thy round side still unbroken ;— Let them score no cypress verses, Funeral glories, prayers, or stories, Mourner’s tears, or mourner’s curses ? 2 Round thy brown rim time hath polished, — Left thee dumbly cold and comely As some shrine of gods abolished. Ah, 'twas well! It scarcely matters What is sleeping in the keeping Of this house of human tatters,— 20 IN THE DORIAN MOOD Steel of steel, or rose of roses, Man or woman, Celt or Roman, If but soundly he reposes ! THE STATUARY ’Monc purple deeps and foam-engirdled shallows, . In the old Aegean, on an island hill, I know not if some dim tradition hallows The site of an evanished city still, Where, long ago, there lived, and toiled, and perished That nameless master of the Pheidian stone, Whose handywork some secret god has cherished Till now his fame to the four winds is blown. Oh, hard the path and bitter of attaining Which leads to such a long-belated fame ; Grievous the glorious toil which leaves remaining Not ev’n the shadow of the toiler’s name! 22 IN THE DORIAN MOOD Surely he was a dreamer ’mong ‘his brothers, A painful outcast from his race and time, Whose life, alas, you can re-shape from others As greatly wretched in each age and clime. Ah, how he toiled! No music at his portal, No passing laughter or clear bridal song, Could charm him from his communing immortal The lustrous fictions of his brain among. The little children singing through the city Could win no word, no greeting from his mouth : He was unmoved by irony or pity, Or the blithe heart’s-ease of that ancient South. ~ For, on a day, pacing in forest hoary, Far from the joys and cavillings of Man, He had been blinded by an untold glory, He had been maddened by the strains of Pan, THE STATUARY 23 And a great throng had passed him as he wondered, Ev'n of the gods in their transcendent grace : The bolts within bright Phobus’ quiver thundered, : And loosened raiment swept athwart his face, One moment: for the high gods in derision Filled him with torturing phrenzy, and his soul Bade him, from that day forth, record his vision In some divine and never-dying whole. The sun-shafts smote athwart his vine-clad case- ment ; The moon looked on him through the breath- ing night ; But he toiled on, unheeding, in debasement, In ecstasy, in anguish, in delight. 24 IN THE DORIAN MOOD Suns, moons, and stars, and seasons passed un- numbered ‘Over his toil, nor shaped the toiler’s lot. His spirit woke and watched: when others slumbered His art wrought on alone and slumbered not. Youth passed, age came, and his rapt face grew haggard, And hunger in his hushed house meh with him. ‘We die,’ he said at last, ‘and I, a laggard, Droop in the strife for fainting heart and limb.’ ‘Thou must be strong, O heart, in this en- deavour ! One more surpassing struggle overpast, One day, one night, then, O mine heart, for ever Our toil shall live, and. we have rest at last ! THE STATUARY 25 The tender moonlight streaming through the casement Shines on a statue, lovely past our thought : A mortal craftsman stands in mute amazement Fore the strange splendour his frail hands have wrought. There enter some, when the earliest light is creeping Toward the goddess o’er the dusty floor, To blame, as is their wont, but he is sleeping : He recks not of your guidance any more ! So in that city lived, and toiled, and perished, That nameless master of the Pheidian stone, Whose handywork some secret god has cherished Till now his fame to the four winds is blown. IN OLD HASTINGS Aw hour ere dawn, when clustered stars are wan, And such a mighty silence covers all The world of sleep, which sleep still holds in thrall, And such a shadow of night is yet upon This old sea-township, whence all light hath gone, Save where the roadway lamps, symmetrical, Glint on red roof and dimly-bastioned wall,— In the deep valley, a long hour ere dawn, Only yon gleaming hill above the town, And yon gray sea, whose dying lift and lapse Along the beach murmur unceasingly,— Only those twain would seem awake. Perhaps They commune, and the mystery of the down Is gathered to the secret of the sea ! A SECRET OF THE SEA Down at the bottom of the sea The huge old galleon lies asleep ; Red seaweeds cloak her heavily, Green seaweeds round her droop and sweep. Scarce any light descends to show Her decks made black with ancient blood, Or the few bones that dimly glow Where her stout captain last withstood The drunken shock of his wild crew Who welcomed freedom in his fall With laughter, cursing, tears, and who Met with such shipwreck after all ! 28 {IN THE DORIAN MOOD ’Tis years since the faint noontide beam, That filters to the chart-room floor, Last rested where, as in a dream, The drowned chief mutineer would pore With orbits void and bony hands Upon the chart which, day by day, Into new shapes of seas and lands The exploring sea-worms fret and fray ;— Years since that semblance of a man, That relic of unknown despair, That symbol of past crime, began Obscurely to be no more there! For centuries now the ship hath lain As drown’d forgotten ships do lie, Unknown, alone, save for some train Of shy small fishes starting by, A SECRET OF THE SEA 29 And so she still must lie until A dying sun is burning red, And earthquakes all earth’s caverns thrill, And the deep sea give up its dead ! THE SAILOR’S RETURN I Tonk I see her as she went One summer eve adown the meadow ; Slant sunshine seemed her element, And tender, lengthening shadow. For oh! her eyes were soft and fair As is the westering sun in heaven, And the dear shadow of her hair Was like the depth of even. I think I see her wending by, Her milking-pail upon her shoulder : Her frank lips smile delightfully On every poor beholder. THE SAILOR'S RETURN 31 ’Tis good-night here, and there good-e’en — To all a courteous country greeting : A blither lass was never seen At village merry-meeting. And now the pail is set adown; She stops to tie her hat more neatly, And pluck a burr from off her gown With fingers meving featly. And on one knee she kneels to cull Some many-petalled meadow vagrant. No wonder girls grow beautiful Amid a world so fragrant! | And by the gateway in the shade, With little sighs she cannot smother, She plucks—a poor unworldly maid— The petals one from t’other. 32 IN THE DORIAN MOOD ‘He loves me! No, he loves me not!’ She pressed the flower against her bosom. . . Alas, the blue forget-me-not Is now her only blossom. And I, who never knew she cared,. And never found the heart for wooing, Am standing, bowed and hoary-haired, Alone in mine undoing, . Beside the green and swelling mound Where others laid earth’s sweetest daughter, When I was far on foreign ground, Or on the weary water. Methinks that he were wise who might Unweave, with many painful guesses, The tangle tense and infinite Of man and his distresses. THE SAILOR'S RETURN 33 I cannot : so with swimming eyes Pll pluck a flower that grows above her, And pray to meet in Paradise, Because so well I love her. THE VEIL OF ISIS To lift her veil, whose broideries Are hornéd moons and lotuses, None dare, though priest and thurifer Charm her with frankincense and myrrh, And long-drawn mystic harmonies. Of all mankind's divinities None secreter than this of his! Behold, ’tis but to anger her To lift her veil. Natheless, in each man’s time there is A lifting of her veil: each des. To die, when all the hate and stir Are o’er, to be a slumberer, To dream perchance,—Oh, is not this To lift her veil? GOOD-NIGHT You linger when you say good-night : The parting touch a pang conveys. ’Tis,—' Shall we meet at morning light, Or only on the Day of Days?’ IN A NORMAN CHURCH As over incense-laden air Stole winter twilight, soft and dim, The folk arose from their last prayer— When hark, an ancient hymn! Round yon great pillar, circlewise, The singers stand up, two and two— Small lint-haired girls from whose young eyes The gray sea looks at you. Now heavenward the pure music wins With cadence soft and silvery beat : In flutes and subtile violins Are harmonies less sweet. IN A NORMAN CHURCH 37 It isa chant with plaintive ring, And rhymes and refrains old and quaint: ‘Oh Monseigneur Saint Jacques,’ they sing, And ‘Oh Assisi’s Saint.’ Through deepening dusk one just can see The little white-capped heads that move In time to lines turned rhythmically And starred with names of love. Bred in no gentle silken ease, Trained to expect no splendid fate, They are but pleasant children these, Of very mean estate. Nay, is that true? To-night perhaps Unworldlier eyes had well discerned Among those little gleaming caps An aureole that burned. 38 IN THE DORIAN MOOD For once ’twas thought the Gates of Pearl Best opened to the poor that trod The path of the meek peasant girl Who bore the Son of God. SHADOWS A sonc of shadows: never glory was But it had some soft shadow that would lie On wall, on quiet water, on smooth grass, Or in the vistas of the phantasy: The shadow of the house upon the lawn, Upon the house the shadow of the tree, And through the moon-steeped hours unto the dawn The shadow of thy beauty over me. DEATH AND THE PLAYER I waATcHED the players playing on their stage ; An old delightful comedy was theirs, The very picture of a gallant age, Full of majestic airs. Wit, virtuoso, captain, stately lord, Each played his part with smooth Augustan grace ; And, gray and curl'd, th’ Olympian perruques soared O’er each fine oval face. Anon, young Celia, poised on red high heels, Advanced with Chloe, the discreet soubrette : Her laughter rings abroad in silver peals ; Her courtiers fawn and fret. DEATH AND THE PLAYER 41 One was a whiskered son of awful Mars ; And one, the favourite, a thing of spleen, Whose pasquil jests, a stream of falling stars, Illumined all the scene. They trod a minuet, and evermore, Betwixt the curtseying lady and her thrall, A masked and shrouded dancer kept the floor, Unnoted by them all. Alas, poor player, that was Death’s Dance in- deed ! The curtain fell ; the masker’s fleshless hand Compelled thee to his chariot, which at speed Rolled home to his own land. And now with cheeks and eyelids that confess Grim stains of the last midnight’s gay disguise, The ingenious haggard actors swiftly press Where their dead brother lies. 42 IN THE DORIAN MOOD How strange a graveside—oh, how strange a scene ! The player’s double life in such eclipse ! What a morality would this have been On those once mocking lips! But they are dumb, and there’s scarce time for tears. Back to the town! They’re clamouring for our plays. ’Tis good that arch-comedian Death appears But oncé in many days! TO A DEAD STUDENT I KNEW not your thoughts, nor regarded your books, But now you are dead There is not a thought of your thinking, a book of your reading, That. my heart hath not known and read ! Alas, for the silenced lips and the dear closed eyes | They answer me not Who am seeking for clues and for glosses, tradi- tions and meanings, Ere the books and the thought be forgot ! CHARLOTTE CORDAY Tue Furies born of night and tumult mar France, and her strong impassioned children are Broken, and blind, and bleeding through despair : Yet lo! amid the darkness wild, a Star. The hair of it is as a woman’s hair ; The light of it is bright and passing fair : Lo! in the dark the swift flash of a sword : Hark! a sweet voice that cries aloud: ‘I dare! ‘I dare to break your idol o’er-adored, O Poor of France ; I dare to smite your lord. I, slaying him, have set your millions free ! Take vengeance—let me also die abhorred. CHARLOTTE CORDAY 45 ‘He being dead to whom you bowed the knee, Your eyesight shall be purgéd ; you shall see To walk when I, the murderess, am sped : Yes, you shall live through loss of him and me.’ Hail! riding by in robe of flamelike red ! Hail! lift on high thy young dishevelled head. To men’s derision pay not any heed, But take thou precedence amid the dead. To them who loved thee Death shall be for meed; They too shall follow where thy bright steps lead. From convent unto scaffold pass, beloved, And know this well that Time shall praise thy Deed. AT CITOYENNE TUSSAUD'S THE place is full of whispers—' Mark you, sirs, This one is he who struck our moralists mute Before the crime which proved him wholly brute! Mark well his face!’ The gaping sight-seers Nudge one another, and no tongue but stirs In awe-struck comment on hat, coat, and boot, Mean smirking smile, base air of smug repute, © Worn by some prince of viler murderers ! Nay, I like most these lank-tressed doctrinaires . Who cluster round their powerless guillotine; Aquiline, delicate, dark, their thin cheeks mired By their own blood—these Carriers and Héberts : They only look so proud and so serene : They only look so infinitely tired ! TO PASSIVE OBEDIENCE I (From * Les Chatiments’) O sons of the Year Two! Wars waking epic chords ! Against the banded kings together drawing swords, In Europe’s furthest bounds, Against all earthly Tyres and Sodoms far and wide, Against the northern Czar who after men doth ride, Followed of all his hounds, 48 IN THE DORIAN MOOD Against great Europe’s self with all her lords of war, With all her men-at-arms that throng her steps afar, With all her knights of thews, A crested hydra-shape that wrathfully doth rear, Singing they marched and marched, with souls devoid of fear, With feet devoid of shoes! At day-dawn, and sundown, ‘neath southern or arctic sky, With their old muskets clanking rustily shoulder- high, O’'er torrent and o’er fell, Without repose or sleep, in rags and driv’n to fast, They marched on, proud and glad, to such a trumpet-blast As blow the fiends of Hell! TO PASSIVE OBEDIENCE 49 Liberty, the sublime, was steeping each man’s thought; Navies were ta’en by storm, frontiers were made as nought, Beneath their tread divine ! O France, ’twas every day wrought marvels past compare,— Shocks, charges, battles fought, and on th’ Adige Joubert, And Marceau on the Rhine ! They drove the vanguard in, the centre they dispersed ; In rain, in snow, in floods, above their waists immersed, Onward they pressed for aye ! And one besought for peace, another flung gates wide, D 50 IN THE DORIAN MOOD And thrones, like whirling leaves dead in late autumn-tide,. Scattered on winds away ! Oh, but how great you were in battles’ midmost places, Soldiers! With lightning eyes and wild dis- ordered faces In the fight’s whirlpool blind, They glowed and shone, erect, with lifted fronts, afire ; And even as desert lions the tempest’s blast respire When blows the great North wind, So were they rapt away by their wild epic life! Drunken, they still drank in sounds of heroic strife— Steel clashed on iron bare, The Marseillaise a-wing amid the cannon balls, TO PASSIVE OBEDIENCE 51 The beaten drums, the shells, the bombs, the cymbal-calls, And thy clear laugh, Kleber ! The Revolution cried :—‘ You volunteered for me ! So therefore die to set your brother peoples free ! ” Gladly they did assent ;— ‘Go forth, my soldiers gray, my generals virgin- faced!’ And men beheld them march upon a world amazed ,— Barefoot, magnificent ! They knew not sorrow’s pangs nor yet the pangs of dread. They would, I doubt it not, have stormed the clouds o’erhead, If with reverted eyes, $2 IN THE DORIAN MOOD *Mid their Olympian race, these scorners of their doom To rear of them had seen the great Republic loom With finger toward the skies. MAY 22, 1885 SPepD is our Titan? Nay, defer The thought of death for such a man ! I know he plays at grandfather As in the old days with Georges and Jeanne : I know the bowed and glorious head To-day is silvern in the sun : Some witty word is being said, Some trancing tale is being spun. Mark thetyoung faces round his chair, Hark, eager voices echoing ! He is so dear and debonnaire, Of gray-beards let us crown him king ! 54 IN THE DORIAN MOOD Ah me, defer it as we may, Defer Death’s terror as we will, Our Victor cannot win to-day— Death is your only conqueror still. And now tired eyelids droop in sleep, And the familiar days are sped, We weep not our old friend ; we weep In a great darkness the great dead. And we forget the children’s ways, The laughing boast, the daily tryst, For he doth pass through heaven’s full blaze With Alighieri unto Christ. A NIGHT OF TERROR 1870 THEY woke me up, for my small eyes were tight Shut in night’s first sweet sleep. ‘We waken you,’ They whispered, ‘to behold the strangest sight : The seeing of such sights is given to few!’ Far off upon the horizon’s verge, the night, Which, round our mountain hung so still and blue, Was diapered with little shoots of light That rose, and curved, and burst, as rockets do. I stirred in my small bed, and ’gan to plain Because they waked me. Then I heard them say; 56 IN THE DORIAN MOOD ‘O God, the city will not live till day!’ And lo, mine eyes were changed and ’gan to feast Not as in dreams or games on that bright rain, And, on the Night of Terror, childhood ceased ! IN EXCELSIS 1889 O# how delectable it is to be Over against the sea When through deep gloaming, the drench’d dying gloaming, In long long line on line the waves go foaming Strandward, aye voicing, ‘ Yea, eternally !’ To watch where wave on wave of the rock’d flood Falls with a sibilant thud— Falls, and flows back, ’mid huge reverberations O’er the torn beach, ’mid foam for exhalations, ’*Mid foam about its falling shed for blood ; 58 ‘IN THE DORIAN MOOD To hear, while equinoctial storms subside, The vast untiring tide Singing old Nature’s mystic Jn Excélszs, Its strange self-centred psalm! Surely nought else is More sweet, more dread, more to be magnified. Nay, there is one thing more delectable Than the sea’s echoing swell ! To hear confuséd sound of many people At feast in shadow of each village steeple This day when years ago the Bastille fell ; To hear, where flags flap red, and blue, and white, The cannon’s hoarse delight, The bells, the clarions, the huge mystic throbbing Of marching feet, the laughter, the hush’d sob- bing Of such as whisper to themselves: ‘The night IN EXCELSIS 59 Slips from thy face, O France, and thou art fair Under thy laurelled hair After the traffickings of kings and traitors, After the shifts of priests and progress-haters, After much blood and infinite despair !’ To hear this is to hear beyond defeat, Republican, complete, France chaunting mitataaice her Jn Excelszs, Her ultimate choric song, than which nought else is More to be magnified, more dread, more sweet. CHE SARA SARA! PREACH wisdom unto him who understands ! When there’s such lovely longing in thine eyes, . And such a pulse in thy small clinging hands, What is the good of being great or wise? What is the good of beating up the dust On the world’s highway, vext with drouthy heat 2 Oh, I grow fatalist—what must be must, Seeing that thou, belovéd, art so sweet ! IN A GARRET In deep twilight The rain taps upon the skylight, Beating, beating, like a deathless pulse of pain : From the writing His tired hands are aye inditing He looks upward to the window dulled with rain, And he muses On the fame that still refuses To attend him as he plies life’s hungry trade, On the rapture Of the dreams he cannot capture, On the hopes that cheat, the loves that still evade. 62 IN THE DORIAN MOOD Is he dreaming ? No, ’tis but a slumber seeming, But the shadow of a dream that vanisheth; For the drifting Misty veil of sleep uplifting Hath but now disclosed the shadowy flood of death. ECCLESIASTES CHAPTER XT He hath a few more days to live, and we Go to the festal, dight with robes and flowers, And all is goodly in this world of ours, And ‘All is Vanity,’ saith he. He hath outlived the heaviest share of days: His gray locks flutter in the wind : his lips Tremble and moan as in his steps he slips, And all is Vanity always. For him the sun, and moon, and stars are dark : After the rain the clouds return for him. The keepers of his soul’s house quake in limb, The strong men bow themselves adown, and hark ! 64 IN THE DORIAN MOOD The grinders cease through being few, and those That from the windows of the spirit gaze Are darkened, and below them, in the ways, What time the grinding fails the portals close. And this old man at cock-crow riseth up To live a little o’er the long ago. For him sweet Musick’s daughters are brought low : He careth not at all for dance or cup, But feareth that which loometh out on high, For in his faltering way is many a fear ; The shrilling grasshopper he scarce can bear, And all his old desires grow near to die, Because to-day man seeketh his long home, And mourners go about the vacant streets : Oh, little day of life ; oh, bitter sweets ! ‘Whence have I come, and what shall I become ? ECCLESIASTES CHAPTER XII 65 Or ever the silver cord be loosen'd, or The golden bowl be broken on the wall, Or the full pitcher at the fountain fall, Or ever the cistern-wheel can turn no more, Then shall the dust return unto the earth Even whence it came—it trod, and shall be trod,— And the thin spirit shall go back to God Of Whom we know not, and who gave it birth. BEFORE THE TIME OF MOWING Deep in long seedling grass the meadows lie, Bedappled by the shadows of the trees : Now and again the bloom-enamoured breeze Comes for one little moment rustling by : The great soft moon with drench of golden dye Enchants the world, till all the glimmering leas Give forth strange warmth. Were all’ one’s hours like these, It were not hard, love, for us twain to die! For grief is dead now. Listen, only list To yon bird's voice: o’er bloomy orchard ground, BEFORE THE TIME OF MOWING 67 Where bridal trees rise islanded in mist, Floats out the singing of the nightingale ! ‘Oh, love, love, love, love lost, love suddenly found ’— Such is her descant. Nay, but thou art pale! CONFESSION Because she spoke no word, but parted wide Her tantalising lips, and ‘ces yeux verts,’ Which the romantic poet Baudelaire Would have held half divine, methought I spied A fault in her ; methought she gently tried To scout my love with smiling sedulous care, For that her fancy had gone otherwhere, And I had grown a shadow at her side. So long I begged her in my desperate fear For one kind word, one sigh, one tremulous breath. CONFESSION 69 ‘An you be shy, sweet, whisper in mine ear !’ I said in anguish. Then quite suddenly She spake out loud:—‘I have given my love to thee: Nothing shall change it till the change of Death !’ A COROT IN NATURE THE sunset sky burns deep and red beyond The massy oakwoods as they fade into That opaque green which is night’s very hue, So dark, so full of quiet. Every frond And mighty verdure-vested branch hath donned Dim raiment of great shadow. 'Tis a view, Quick with some sovran charm, to be by you Remembered, and perpetually re-conned. The perfect silence, the vast lonesomeness, The cool, the glow, the breath of evening, Scarce tinged with a faint scent of blossomed spring, A COROT IN NATURE 71 Scarce thrilled with a vague sense of some- thing sad, Are they not sweet, and shall you not confess That such dear pathos maketh almost glad? THE GODDESS OF THE ISLANDERS In the midmost page, the bookworm’s pasturage, Of some folio by a curious traveller writ, Hast thou read the story of the Mystic Island And such as dwelt in it? All the moons are brighter, so saith the travelled writer, In that island than the sunlight of our Junes: 'Tis a land of midnight forests, poppied meadows, And seaward-looming dunes. And such as do possess it, and as gardeners dress it, Are a sorrowful old tribe of little ease,— Men with wistful faces, women drooping darkly As weeds in their pale seas. THE GODDESS OF THE ISLANDERS 73 Endless wars oppress them, plagues and flames distress them : Their best works are fruitless or surcharged with woe, But they only whisper, ‘It is the Great Goddess, The Goddess wills it so!’ ‘Oh, but thou art glorious, wonderful, victorious, Dear transcendent Queen to whom we bow! Set the outlandish nations babbling of their godheads-—~ These art not thou, not thou ! ‘Subtile Arab trader, and Portingale invader, With his firelocks and his god in anguish slain, And the shy ascetic seeking his Nirvana, These surely preach in vain. ‘For thou art eternal, beyond dispute, infernal, A fair woman with no heart in her great eyes, 74 ' IN THE DORIAN MOOD As all day thou sittest at thy silvern mirror, Alone in the great skies. ‘Through thy mystic glass thou seeést all things pass, As in some long pageant, changing hour by hour, And amid their glory, squalor, laughter, sorrow, Thy face shines a pure flower!’ As some woman will lean o’er her window-sill, Watching every humour of a moving street, So she views her mirror. ‘Ah, but art thou helpless In old and long defeat ? ‘Canst thou not befriend, refashion, or amend ? Art thou only watching some tremendous game Like to Caracalla or to Nero, maddened With art, or life, or shame? THE GODDESS OF THE ISLANDERS 75 Or art crazed through being so lonely and all- seeing, Crazed through brooding on this world thy hands have made?’ Deaf she is and voiceless! She would never tell me, . Though evermore I prayed. Silent still she muses, or braids her hair, or chooses Gems from out their caskets for her brows sublime, And behold, each stone is sentient, and half human, A passion or a crime! Yet the glories old of diamonds and gold Scarcely do arrest her soft and dreamful gaze : ’Tis the complex agate and the cloudy moonstone Which charm her through whole days,— 76 IN THE DORIAN MOOD These and the verdure sterile of emerald, jade, and beryl, And the topaz’ mystic laughter, and the rose Of the fleshlike onyx, and the fiery sardius, And the opal’s flame-fraught snows. Dreppa yap dvayxn HECUBA, 1295. I Gaze into her loved eyes, and behold A terror there—, Death’s vague monition and the pain untold Of newly-learnt despair. Late sunglow over the oak-woods by the sea, A wind that hovers, Dog-roses breathing,—these, methinks, must be A spell o’er happier lovers. For us a pang is in the wind ; the waves And woods’ perfumes Seem dimly eloquent of unseen graves And sharp forgotten dooms. 78 IN THE DORIAN MOOD Such love as ours is but to lose hearts’-ease Beyond return : How ends that play of sweet Euripides ? Thus surely :—‘ Fate is stern !’ AN ADAPTATION OF AN EPISODE IN VIRGIL ‘Tris litore cervos Prospicit errantis; hos tota armenta sequuntur A tergo; et longum per vallis pascitur agmen.’ ENEID I, 184. A ScaLpD, whose song was ever of the Norns, Stood once on steeply seaward-facing land, When lo! arboreal horns, And far, far down, stags wandering on the sand, And after these, up a long inland vale, Coming from out of the old inland unknown, Great deer-droves looming pale And vague, for overhead thick mist is blown, Yea, overhead the cold dawn-drift is riven, And the weird wind thereof lamenteth sore, 80 IN THE DORIAN MOOD Till, by the gods’ hands driven, Silently forth from view go stags and deer. Then sang that lonely scald to the loud wind With tongue made heavy by a weight of weeping— | ‘Lo! it is human kind, In the night born, and through the dim dawn sweeping From the gods’ gaze, silent and sudden hordes, By mist-wrapt ways of shifting sand, and led By splendour-brainéd lords To the forgetting and forgotten Dead.’ ON A READING OF MATTHEW ARNOLD ARNOLD is dead, and everyone forgets His gracious doctrine, his hellenic creed, His faith in light and sweetness. ‘Tis indeed So easy to repudiate our debts Of heart and brain ! When what one most regrets Is stint of love, and ease, and wealth, who need Go wail for culture? ’Tis a colourless weed Which no one in his table nosegay sets. Yet, great Oxonian, it were meet and fit Could we but halt upon our daily stage Of petty duty, dull mechanic task, To meditate thy theme and hear thee ask, ‘Ts conduct all? Are grace, and light, and wit, Not chiefly good in this Boeotian age?’ F THE NIGHT-JAR* On the river, in the shallows, on the shore, Are the darkness and the silence of the tomb ; O’er the woods the sunset dyed an hour before Utter gloom. Only here betwixt the ramparts of tall trees, In mid-stream, the pallid waters gleam afar, Scarce a ripple on their surface, scarce a breeze, Scarce a star. Where the shadow of the ruined water-mill Hides the mill-pool and its anchored lily fleet, And the warm air seems to slumber over-still, Over-sweet, ‘They are the witches among birds.’ THE NIGHT-JAR 83 Hark the Night-jar! In the meadows by the stream : Shrills the bird’s unearthly note: I like it well, For it lulls you as the mystery of a dream, Or a spell. All the nightingales along the bowery reach Plain together when the midnight moon is bright : This bird only knows the secret speech Of dark night. Turn the boat now. Row away, friends. Let us hence, Lest the glamour of the night’s o’er-trancing breath, Plunge us one and all into that dream intense Which is Death. THE VIOLIN-PLAYER You who love music and comprehend All the pomps and triumphs of sound, Deign you to follow me, critical friend, Into my span of enchanted ground ? An infinite sky where the sun has set, A chamber of shadow and after-glow, Against the window ex s¢lhouette A model for Fra Angelico, A slim girl-form, a delicate pose, A downcast head, a glory of hair,— Often I think that such were those Who climbed the visioned Ladder of Prayer, THE VIOLIN PLAYER 85 A soft cheek pressed to a violin, And two grave eyes that haply keep Watch for the soul of the music in The notes that follow the white arm's sweep, XN —Such is my vision! Oh, unto me The child and her tune are the hunger of heart, The vague sweet sorrow, the mystery, Which are the beginning and end of Art. DE MORTUIS NIL NISI BONUM ’THwart his brow and round his eyes Mark the weary lines and deep! Nay, they baffle our surmise, And are secrets Death must keep? When a man is dead you deem That the child’s look comes apace :— Ancient hope, poetic dream, Light of first love haunt the face ! Or at most his look but is Sum of all the unsensuous side Of that life which once was his Ere he sickened, ere he died. DE MORTUIS NIL NIST BONUM 87 Nay, at last you are not loth To admit that more is there— Baffled hope, and cheated troth, Disappointment and despair ! Yet with me you have not seen How this dead man’s message mute, Proves but th’ old blood-bond between Man and some ancestral brute ! You are shocked because I read Old debauch and bygone hate In this mask as in a screed Signed by the trite mark of Fate. Nay, you shudder when I ask,— Is it that the muscles change Their old tension through the mask, Leaving it new-drawn and strange, 88 IN THE DORIAN MOOD Or is’t some dark dominant sin Makes the whole face loom so great, So ascetical, so thin, And so all inviolate? TO ONE WHO FAILED Because you failed, because you failed, Failed without ceasing, O my friend, And the strong spat on you and railed, T love you, love you without end. The weak ways and the wandering thought Are grown divine because you fell : Friend, you have won a rest unsought, By Milton’s side! you have conquered Hell, _Ay, Hell of modern seasons fled With the creeds’ refuse and the arts’, Where unideal women wed To brute men, dowered with dying hearts. BURLESQUE Tue footlights glint, the house is set, Fair ladies rustle fans and laces ; Flutings proclaim a tuning clarionet, Fiddles go through their paces. The gloved conductor mounts his chair, Whilst programme-hawkers sink their voices : He raps his desk : his baton sweeps in air— His overture rejoices. And then, in soft and swift eclipse, The curtain out of sight goes winging, And, with a glow of moving limbs and lips, The Chorus fall a-singing. BURLESQUE gr ‘A trite old scene,’ grim critics say : ‘A harbour—ships !’ nay, but you’re boorish To quarrel with these skies more bright than day These quays and houses Moorish. Critic, I dote upon this throng That swings, retreating and advancing, As though this weary world were set to song, And always, always dancing. Look, to the front, with beck and nod, With jibe and infinite gyration, The mime of mimes has sprung, the groundling’s god, The king of this mad nation. ‘Brava !’ cries gallery, and stall, Avers the man’s as mad as ever. Strange now, dear critic, I laugh not at all Although he’s monstrous clever. 92 IN THE DORIAN MOOD 'Tis drawing on—that old attack, That mood confounding brain and senses : You know this playhouse is my Church—alack ! I cannot make pretences. Critic, you damn an Arabesque In art—a ‘Music Hall Tradition’: Well, be it so, good sir : this base burlesque Is my sublime perdition. For as I watch it, evermore, Sweet pain upon my heart encroaches, Delightful languors knock at my heart’s door, Dreams haunt in its approaches. And when, in clouds of roseleaf rain, The dancers storm the scenic city, And all the panting playhouse thrills again To hear some well-loved ditty, BURLESQUE 93 I, with a difference, also thrill In joyance, vague, divine, immortal, As in the old legends fasting hermits will, Who see heaven’s opened portal,— - Till blind with light and gorgeous hue, O’erborne with music wild and tender, Crazed with the incessant joyous dance, I view An unimagined splendour. The orchestra’s music changes—dies ; The stage seems far away and shrunken ; Sudden, I plunge alone 'mid fiery skies, As one with opium drunken. Around me, through me, everywhere, As lightnings in dark violent weather, Sound, Hue, and Shape, great angels past compare, Sweep triumphing together. 94 IN THE DORIAN MOOD And Sight, Touch, Hearing, grown intense, Pursue them with a dancer’s motions, Till, merging in one quintessential sense, They die in luminous oceans. Then silence : then a shock, a jar, A shivering, and a lamentation : In heaven the untoward falling of a star, At heart a desolation. And then a voice: ‘ Well done, say I. Gad, it’s a quarter past eleven. Liked you the piece, sir?’ Can one make reply : ‘They have played plays in heaven ?’ A PARTERRE OF KINGS Wrru diamonds the boxes flashed and blazed : Bejewelled orders shone in the parterre. It was a ceremonial night: there were So many gems there that the clague amazed Forgot to cheer, and e’en the gas was dazed, So many costly modish splendours there That the cowed gallery people gasped for air The while perspiringly they gazed and praised. The portly little ava, bribed with gold Enough to make twelve Miltons roll in wealth, Sang, somewhat out of voice, her refrain old. Six wreaths were flung her—th’ impresario’s part,— Four Grand Dukes went behind the scenes by stealth, And nothing lacked that night save only Art ! A NOCTURNE AT GREENWICH Far out, beyond my window, in the gloom Nightly I see thee loom, Thou vast black city. Oh, but night is kind, Here where Thames’ waters wind, To the grim formless features of thy face. They do assume such grace In the deep darkness, starred through leagues of night, — With long streets, fringed with light, Or with the lanthorns of the ships that aye Ascend the water-way, Coasting from East and West, and North and South, To this, Earth’s harbour-mouth. Up from the darkness echoes sleepily A NOCTURNE AT GREENWICH 97 The shipman’s wandering cry, Or, like a wild beast’s call heard in a dream, The siren’s undulant scream Whistles the darkling midnight through and through, While with her labouring screw Some dim leviathan of ships drops down Past storied Greenwich town, Showing her swiftly-gliding starboard light, Green 'gainst the wide dark night. Past the great hospital she drops, and past The marshes, still and vast, Below the lines of Woolwich and the lines Of Bostal’s shadowy pines, On to that world of Saxon iprinid and fen, Old races, vanished men, Where Thames, from heron-haunted shores set free, Merges in northern sea. 98 IN THE DORIAN MOOD Here, in my chamber, ’mong my books, at peace, I watch thee without cease, Thou ancient stream, mysterious as the sky Which starless glooms on high. About me, on the volume-peopled wall, The famed old authors all Sleep their just sleep, and in the hearth’s clear beams Dante’s medallion gleams, And Brutus and great Tully o’er the shelves Commune among themselves. This silent music of what once hath been Suits well with that night scene: Nay, its essential sweetness sweeter grows, Because that river flows Through northern midnight, big with life and doom, Out yonder in the gloom. THROUGH THE WOOD (By Dartmoor, Sept., 1893) To F, W. W. ALL day long upon her throne Reason sat, Ruled the realm which is her owr Judged of this, disputed that : Now the heart doth beat alone ! In the deep lane by the hedge Trails a leaf, And along the river's edge The low wind awakes the grief In the dry heart of the sedge. 100 IN THE DORIAN MOOD Journey through the wood you must Though the tread Falter in the soundless dust, And the dark oaks overhead Shudder in a silent gust ! Journey through the wood you shall When the tors Are grown dark and tragical, And the wit no longer soars, And the valley lights enthrall ! Night hath just that mystic power Now as when, On the moor there, hour by hour, Those old Neolithic men "Mong their monstrous stones did cower While the screech-owl swept the ground, And the wolf THROUGH THE WOOD IOI Went his swift mysterious round On the shore of midnight’s gulf Where the dead sheep’s bones are found ! In a circle of gray stone Reason sat All day long among her own, Arguing this, rejecting that : Now the heart must beat alone ! THE DEER IN GREENWICH PARK PATHETIC in their rags, from far and near, The children of the slums o’erswarm the grass : Pathetic in their grace the kinglike deer Leap up to let them pass. Where riot scares the gloom and fevers burn These wizened babes were pent till morning light : Slim shadows moving ’mong the moonlit fern These shy deer strayed all night. In the hot hours London’s poor wastrels find Their paradise in this brown London Park : The lordlier brutes, in the scant shade reclin’d, Pant for the hours of dark THE DEER IN GREENWICH PARK 103 When some dim instinct of primeval years Thrills on a sudden through each dappled breast, And with untamable mysterious fears The herd is repossessed ! Then the branch’d horns are tossed: the nostrils fine Respire the sleepy breath from London’s heart, And bucks, and does, and fawns, in spectral line, Forth from their bracken start. An antlered watchman stamps a shapely hoof— Is that a tartaned Gael within the brake? Did Luath bay below the heath-clad roof— Doth Fingal’s son awake? Hath a harp wailed in Tara? Did a bough Snap in Broceliande, where Merlin keeps His drowsy magic vigil even now In the oak-woods’ sunlit deeps ? 104 IN THE DORIAN MOOD Was it a cry, borne from Caerluda town— A spell the Stag of Ages understands ? Or voices of old rivers raving down Through heathery Cymric lands ? Or—since the red stag by wild mountain streams Is he whom such weird terrors most appal; Since these be fallow deer, and yonder dreams The dom’d Stuart Hospital,— Was it the bugle, echoing as of yore In some vast chase, enwrapt in lake-side mists ? Swept Herne the Hunter by, or score on score Of silken Royalists ? Hunts captured Charles? Or hath Cromwellian shot Laid some escaping war-spent gallant low In the far ride where last year’s leaf doth rot, And, save the deer, none go? THE DEER IN GREENWICH PARK 105 Who knows what stirs them? Nay, can any guess That which their beautiful clear eyes import When, at high noon, about your hand they press, Begging in timid sort, Save haply the exile’s doom, which is the same Whether ’tis buried in the tragic eyes Of king discrowned, or wanderer without name, Bondman, or brute that dies ? THE HAUNTING DREAM Last night a melancholy dream Pursued me down the gulphs of sleep, Like some great bird that flits a-gleam In a ship’s wake on the lone deep. One of those dreams it was so sweet, And subtly sad, that when I woke, And rose, and went into the street, I dreamt although I moved and spoke : I dreamt although my hands and brain Were busy in the jarring noon ; I dreamt till night came round again, And now I dream, watching the moon. THE HAUNTING DREAM 107 Oh for the joy that might have been, Oh for the joy that shall not be, And that which thou hast never seen, And that which thou mayst never see ! TO ONE ASLEEP Wir a rush and a growl at Cannon Street, And a jest like an oath, in he leapt "Mong the clerklings demure and discreet, But ’ere Deptford he slept. Slumber hangs in the eyelids of intrigue, Sleep entraps drunken feet from beneath, But before such an infinite fatigue It is almost like death. Nay, the man might be dead before our eyes. Pale and worn, dulled and still, shrunk and cowed, Of a truth he will look no otherwise When he’s wrapt in his shroud ! TO ONE ASLEEP 109 What's his trade ? Does he toil among the ships, On the rails ? in the streets? Who can guess From the things that long since were finger-tips, Or the grime on his dress ? For at best here is only one more slave Of the toil that has used and outworn Half our kind from the cradle to the grave Since the day Man was born. Painful Science proclaims him half a brute, Old Religion maintains him God’s heir : But he knows not the matter in dispute : An’ he knew, would he care? There's the cant of ‘the Workman’s Glorious Reign’; There’s the cant of ‘ what Effort can teach ’ ; There’s the cant of ‘ the Discipline of Pain’: Does he hear when they preach ? TIO IN THE DORIAN MOOD ‘Summer burns, winter nips with snow and ice ; It is good for a man to beget ; Food and fire are the jewels of great price, And to drink’s to forget : ‘In the morning at dawn the “ hooters” cry, And at eve about dark work is o'er; You must work an’ you do not want to die’ :— That’s his creed at the core. Though he knows not the trade of his sire, Nor can tell whence his grandfather came; Though his caste is a bastard which the mire Aye begets out of shame ; Though the grime has crept inward to his heart, From the things that were once finger-tips; Though the sweat from his brow shall not depart Nor the curse from his lips ; TO ONE ASLEEP III Shall you scoff at the tenets of his creed, And aver he’s a leper to shun, Or confess, ‘Here is Tragic Cain indeed, Here is Man’s eldest son ?’ THE END J. MILLER AND SON, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH @@e JOHN LANE 3999 THE 3. BODLEY HEAD @ VIGO S" Ws 3H s elegrams BODLEIAN, LONDON . (CATALOGUES PUBLICATIONS ”BELLES LETTRES 2@atnetprecer: 1896. List of Books BELLES LETTRES (Including some Transfers) Published by John Lane The Bodley Head VIGO STREET, LONDON, W. —~== ADAMS (FRANCIS). Essays IN MODERNITY. Crown 8vo, 5s. net. [Shortly. Chicago: Stone & Kimball. A CHILD OF THE AGE. (See KEYNOTES SERIES.) ALDRICH (T. B.). Later Lyrics. Sm. fcap. 8vo, 2s. 6d. net. Boston and New York: Houghton, Mifflin & Co. ALLEN (GRANT). Tue Lower SLopEs: A Volume of Verse. With Title- page and Cover Design by J. ILLINGworTH Kay. Crown 8vo. 5s. net. Chicago: Stone & Kimball. THE WoMAN WHO Dip. (See KEYNOTES SERIES.) THE BRITISH BARBARIANS. (See KEYNOTES SERIES.) ARCADY LIBRARY (THE). A SERIES OF OPEN-AIR Books. Edited by J. S. FLETCHER. With cover designs by PATTEN WILSON. Cr 8vo. 5s. net. Vol. 1. Rounp AsouT A BRIGHTON COACH OFFICE. By Maupe EGERTON Kinc. With over 30 illustra- tions by Lucy KemP-WELcH. The following are in preparation, Vol. 11. SCHOLAR Gipsizs. By JoHN BUCHAN, With seven full-page etchings by D. Y. CAMERON. Vol. 111. Lirz IN ARCADIA. By J. S. FLETCHER. Illus- trated by PATTEN WILSON. Vol. tv. A GARDEN OF PEace. By HELEN CROFTON With illustrations by Epmunp H. New. New York: Macmillan & Co. THE PUBLICATIONS OF JOHN LANE 3 BEECHING (REv. H. C.). In A GARDEN: Poems. With Title-page designed by RoGER Fry. 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