ON THE COMMON CHORDS. 
 
 " The C Major of this life." 
 
 BROWNING. Alt Vogler, 
 
ON THE COMMON 
 
 >+. 
 
 CHORDS 
 
 OS" 
 
 VERSES 
 
 CLIFFORD HARRISON 
 
 LONDON 
 
 A. D. INNES & CO. 
 BEDFORD STREET 
 
 1895 
 
TO MY MOTHER. 
 
 TEN years have passed since to Your hands I brought 
 
 The book l I dedicated unto You, 
 And now, as then, I write, " in filial thought," 
 
 The dear inscription on this page anew. 
 
 For though You now have passed away from us 
 The foretime Dedication still holds good ; 
 
 Nay gains a new authority : and thus, 
 In unseen ways more felt than understood, 
 
 Your smile rests on the pages that I bring 
 To add to those I brought to You erewhile. 
 
 And life has few beliefs more gladdening 
 Than that I still may gain that unseen smile. 
 
 1 " In Hours of Leisure." 
 
 5 
 
6 DEDICATION. 
 
 I think with no sad memory or regret, 
 
 No aching sense of loss unsatisfied, 
 Upon Your love, but rather find it set, 
 
 Shining and living, at my very side. 
 
 Surely in nought is it more truly felt 
 
 Than when I'm happy in my work or play : 
 
 And if at times the love in tears will melt, 
 The tears by love are also wiped aw r ay. 
 
 I never writ a line You did not see. 
 
 Why should I doubt You see what now I write ? 
 Across the silence comes Your smile to me. 
 
 The Dedication gains a brighter light. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 "THE SONG THAT HAS NO SOUND" . -9 
 
 A PRAYER 13 
 
 THE BENEDICTION . l6 
 
 THE VALSE 2 5 
 
 THE SILVER BELL 2 9 
 
 A STATEMENT - 39 
 
 TO B. H 4 1 
 
 THE WAY OF IT . 45 
 
 FI*RE 5 
 
 BALLADE ... 54 
 
 A BALLADE OF BUTTERFLIES ... . 56 
 
 THE RUBAIYAT OF OMAR KHAYYAM . . 58 
 
 TO CHARLES KINGSLEY .... -59 
 
 TO ROBERT BROWNING .... . 6l 
 
 A HARMONY . . -64 
 
 INITIATION ... .68 
 
 A SON OF ORPHEUS .... -7 
 
 THE SIGNATURE . -83 
 
 7 
 
8 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 VITA MYSTICA 85 
 
 THE REED-PIPE 93 
 
 AURORE 95 
 
 VERSES IO2 
 
 LINES 107 
 
 SUNSHINE . .110 
 
"THE SONG THAT HAS NO SOUND." 
 
 " This music of the Song without a sound." 
 
 Sir EDWIN ARNOLD, "With Sadi in the Garden." 
 
 GRIEVE not that Beauty dies like summer flowers ; 
 That bright thoughts come and go like fleeting showers 
 They do but wander through this life of ours 
 To tell us of ".the Song that has no Sound." 
 
 Out of that song they come all lovely things, 
 Beauty, joy, music, brave imaginings, 
 And then pass back again with tired wings 
 
 Into their Home " the Song that has no Sound." 
 
 They find a moment's speech in this our air, 
 As Heat and Light evolve, to make Earth fair, 
 And having touched our souls, they pass to where 
 They join again " the Song that has no Sound." 
 
io "THE SONG THAT HAS NO SOUND." 
 
 Say not to Earth " Why are you silent thus ? " 
 Nor to the sky " You give no sign to us ! " 
 For both do speak with voice miraculous, 
 
 If once you hear " the Song that has no Sound." 
 
 The rainbow hanging in the fringe of rain, 
 
 The fields that clothe themselves with golden grain, 
 
 The trees that in the springtime bud again, 
 
 Are music from " the Song that has no Sound." 
 
 The waters from the seas and streams updrawn, 
 
 That fall again at sunset and at dawn 
 
 In dew anti rain to feed the flower and lawn, 
 
 They also sing " the Song that has no Sound." 
 
 See how all colours lose themselves in Light ; 
 They still are there though they have fled our sight. 
 So Music at a point from us takes flight 
 
 Into the perfect " Song that has no Sound." 
 
 Oh, love of lovers, and all love that lies 
 'Twixt souls that on the flame of love arise, 
 What are ye but the far-off melodies 
 
 That reach us from " the Song that has no Sound " ? 
 
"THE SONG THAT HAS NO SOUND." ir 
 
 The noble deed, wrought often all unknown, 
 The suffering borne without complaint or moan, 
 The rash word checked, the little kindness shown, 
 Are harpstrings to " the Song that has no Sound." 
 
 No thought we feel, yet cannot quite express, 
 
 No momentary wish or willingness 
 
 To make joy purer, or one pain the less, 
 
 But carries on " the Song that has no Sound." 
 
 Glory of morning that has just begun, 
 Pathos of eventide and set of sun, 
 Major and Minor, all are fused in one, 
 
 For keynote to " the Song that has no Sound." 
 
 The calm acceptance of a lowly lot, 
 
 The greatness that this great world values not, 
 
 The causes lost the victories forgot, 
 
 Are rich chords in " the Song that has no Sound." 
 
 The Life that first climbed up from where it fell, 
 The Discord solved, the curse changed to a spell, 
 Passion transfigured, these things go to swell 
 
 The triumph of " the Song that has no Sound." 
 
12 "THE SONG THAT HAS NO SOUND." 
 
 From star-worlds to the stone upon the ground, 
 From where Life issues, back to where 'tis crowned, 
 For him who has the ears to hear, is found 
 
 The Secret of " the Song that has no Sound." 
 
A PRAYER. 
 
 O ! MOUNTAINS, give me of your strength. 
 
 Above the clouds ye rise 
 A huge impact of Titan force. 
 
 I look on you. My eyes 
 Draw in strong Thought. That Thought 
 
 In Action realise. 
 
 O ! Beauty of the sunlit day, 
 
 Tell me your message true : 
 Let your bright ether o'er me flow, 
 
 And wash me through and through ; 
 Infuse your meanings into me 
 
 And make me one with you. 
 
 O ! Miracle of Nature, wrought 
 
 All round us every day, 
 Touch me with wonder more and more : 
 
 To darkness bring the ray 
 Whereby to read the open Book 
 
 And find the secret way. 
 
14 A PRAYER. 
 
 O ! stars unseen, but ever there, 
 Grant your beneficence : 
 
 Let me lie open to all rays 
 Of upward influence, 
 
 Nor fret myself with questioning 
 How they may come or whence. 
 
 O ! fair and most dear Memories, 
 Make Past and Future one 
 
 In all that raises Life to Love : 
 And oh ! ye eyes that shone 
 
 With such undying love on me 
 Still lead me up and on. 
 
 O ! Ache of heart unsatisfied, 
 
 Give me no lower rest 
 Than That the dim mind apprehends 
 
 As Highest and as Best : 
 Live like a searching melody 
 
 Within me unexpressed. 
 
 O ! shining Footsteps of the Christ, 
 
 Too often hid in gloom, 
 Shine out and blossom in the dust : 
 
 Life's mysteries illume, 
 And guide me on a path of Light 
 
 In worlds beyond the tomb. 
 
A PRAYER. 15 
 
 O ! Thoughts of God unspeakable, 
 
 Work in me unto Light : 
 Quicken deific impulses ; 
 
 Keep the Shekinah bright, 
 Still shining clearer through the veil, 
 
 Till faith gives way to sight. 
 
 O ! Name of God Ineffable, 
 
 Undreamt of yet by me, 
 Let my soul listen, till it hear 
 
 The far-off Melody ; 
 And on the Music of that Word, 
 
 Rise rise eternally ! 
 
THE BENEDICTION. 
 
 ADAPTED FOR RECITATION FROM "LA BENEDICTION," BY 
 FRANCOIS COPPEE. 
 
 Ix the year eighteen hundred and nine we took 
 Saragossa. I was a sergeant then. 
 As soon as the town was ours, the men 
 Were ordered to enter each street and nook 
 And search every house. So in we went. 
 
 Close-barred and shuttered at windows and doors, 
 
 (At once we saw that mischief was meant !) 
 
 The houses had a treacherous look, 
 
 As if they held part in some deadly plot. 
 
 No lie. For from all the upper floors 
 
 A very hail of bullet and shot 
 
 Fell like a fiery rain of death. 
 
 And we whispered bitterly under our breath, 
 
 " This is the work of the priests ! " And thus 
 
 Although we'd been fighting since break of day, 
 
 And the dust had well nigh blinded us, 
 
 16 
 
THE BENEDICTION. 17 
 
 And our clothes were discoloured with smoke and clay, 
 
 And our lips were burnt with the bitter taste 
 
 Of the cartridges, when at the end of the street 
 
 We spied some priests escaping in haste, 
 
 We took our aim with a pleasant sense 
 
 Of fit reward and recompense, 
 
 Which made the murderous business sweet, 
 
 And shot them down as you'd shoot down rats 
 
 Those long black cassocks and great black hats ! 
 
 My company struck up a narrow lane, 
 
 A sort of alley. I went ahead. 
 
 And as I went, with cautious tread, 
 
 (Hard in the smoke and the dust to see plain !) 
 
 I watched the roofs to left and right ; 
 
 And suddenly in the strip of the sky 
 
 I saw the dull red pulsing light, 
 
 Like the breath of a forge, from the streets hard by 
 
 Where the flames had won the victory ; 
 
 Whilst rising swift and sinister 
 
 Came the sharp shrill shrieks of the massacre. 
 
 The road was thickly strewn with the dead. 
 We trod on them : no time to pick 
 Our way, the bodies lay so thick ! 
 Well, slowly up the lane we crept. 
 
l8 THE BENEDICTION. 
 
 A sharp look out all round was kept, 
 
 As stopping at every house our men 
 
 Burst open the door, and stooping low, 
 
 As if they were storming a wild beast's den, 
 
 Entered ; and in a minute or so 
 
 Came out again with bayonets red. 
 
 It was horrible work, let it be said. 
 
 And then they'd trace upon the wall 
 
 A sort of grim sign manual, 
 
 A cross, with their crimsoned hands, to show 
 
 That the house was ours. For it's well to know 
 
 In these narrow streets that you leave no foe 
 
 At your back. Still on and up the lane we went. 
 
 Not a bit of a tune to help us on, 
 
 Not a drum tap even, silent as mutes ! 
 
 The officers thoughtful, black brows bent ; 
 
 Veterans anxious, keeping in touch 
 
 At the elbow : and every mother's son 
 
 Sickening no wonder ! at heart as much 
 
 As if we were boys and raw recruits. 
 
 Suddenly at the end of the street 
 
 We heard loud shouts in French for aid ; 
 
 Nothing for it but a rush to gain 
 
 Our friends in peril ! At once we made 
 
 A desperate charge, with answering cheers, 
 
THE BENEDICTION. 19 
 
 Right through the alley. And there we found 
 
 The men who had called, and the reason why. 
 
 It was a line of grenadiers, 
 
 Who every moment were losing ground, 
 
 Pressed back ignominiously 
 
 From some steps that rose in triple tiers 
 
 To a convent. Twenty monks at least, 
 
 Black demons with their shaven crowns ! 
 
 Were gathered on the topmost stair. 
 
 White woollen crosses were on their gowns : 
 
 And with their blood-stained arms all bare, 
 
 Their sleeves thrown back, they clustered there, 
 
 Flinging large stones and heavy sticks ; 
 
 Whilst in their midst a half-mad priest 
 
 Beat back the soldiers everywhere, 
 
 With blows from a great gold crucifix. 
 
 Bah ! it was tragic ! what a scene ! 
 
 We levelled and fired by platoon. 
 
 'Twas done quite coolly : like a machine ! 
 
 We were weary and sick, and we seemed a troop 
 
 Of butchers. An executioner 
 
 Would scarce do such work without demur. 
 
 As we fired, we saw the horrible group 
 
 Of heroes, for such in truth they were ! 
 
 Go down in a writhing heap. 
 
20 THE BENEDICTION. 
 
 As soon 
 
 As the thick smoke cleared, sure enough a mass 
 Of bodies lay there : and underneath 
 Long lines of blood crept dark and slow 
 Along and over the steps. And lo ! 
 Behind this foreground, grim with death, 
 The great church opened out, immense, 
 
 And cool, and dark ; with shadows dense. 
 
 * 
 
 Lit dimly with the rich stained glass. 
 On the high altar candles burned. 
 And in the chancel, far away, 
 Shrined as it were in dusk profound, 
 A priest, with long hair silver grey, 
 Solemnly toward the altar turned, 
 And undisturbed as though no sound 
 Had reached him of the outside fray, 
 And wars on earth did not exist, 
 And death itself were not hard by, 
 Was finishing quite tranquilly 
 The office of the Eucharist. 
 
 Look here ! a bitter blasphemy 
 Had grown to be a part of me. 
 I was a very heathen well, 
 Give it the right name infidel. 
 
THE BENEDICTION. 21 
 
 And in my time . . . there let it be ! 
 What need to tell you ? only this : 
 No sort of violence came amiss 
 To me, the battered man of blood. 
 I had no fear of gods or men. 
 The very wrinkle on my lip, 
 Which wrought an evil line 'there when 
 I smiled, proclaimed my fellowship 
 With men who laugh at what is good. 
 But this old man who calmly stood 
 So tall and white and undismayed, 
 Made me I scarce know how, afraid ! 
 
 " Fire ! " cried an officer. No doubt 
 The priest (I'm sure it was so !) heard : 
 But quietly he stood, without 
 A quiver. Not a man had stirred. 
 Sudden the old man turned about, 
 And faced us with the Sacrament. 
 
 It was the point, you'll understand, 
 
 At which the priest, concluding Mass, 
 
 Turns to the kneeling church, and has 
 
 To bless with an uplifted hand 
 
 The faithful and the penitent. 
 
 His vestments, with his_arms outspread, 
 
22 THE BENEDICTION. 
 
 Looked like great wings. A beam of light 
 
 Happening to fall upon his head, 
 
 The silver whiteness of his hair 
 
 Gleamed like a halo. Standing there 
 
 He held the Monstrance high in air, 
 
 And with it three times made the sign 
 
 Of the cross. His hands were firm as mine. 
 
 He shook no more, I tell you, sirs, 
 
 Than if he stood before a crowd 
 
 Of awed and kneeling worshippers. 
 
 Then, speaking solemnly and slow, 
 
 With that strange chaunt which, as you know. 
 
 Priests always use, he cried aloud, 
 
 " Benedicat vos, omnipotens Deus." 
 
 " Fire ! " again the word of command. 
 We watched him still and could not stir ; 
 When a soldier in our midst the cur ! 
 Took aim and fired. The old man paled. 
 But never once his courage failed. 
 His eye gleamed brighter and his hand, 
 With blessing more beneficent, 
 Lifted on high the Sacrament : 
 And once again he spake and said, 
 
 " Pater et Filius." 
 
THE BENEDICTION. 1 
 
 What anger stirred us I know not : 
 
 What murderous mist, of hatred bred, - 
 
 Blinded us, who can say ? A shot 
 
 Crashed forth again. Shame ? You are right. 
 
 A shame ! but still the thing was done. 
 
 The monk a moment bowed his head, 
 
 Whilst we stood breathless, every one. 
 
 Then, lifting up a death-pale face, 
 
 Propping himself as best he might 
 
 Against the altar slab, he tried 
 
 Feebly again in air to trace 
 
 The symbol of the Crucified : 
 
 And in a low voice every word 
 
 In that deep hush was plainly heard 
 
 With slowly closing eyes, he said 
 
 " Et spiritus sanctus ! " 
 And at the altar steps fell dead ! 
 
 The Monstrance, tumbling to the ground, 
 Rebounded three times on the stone, 
 And clattered down the steps. No sound 
 Was heard. Awe silenced every one ; 
 Yes, even us hard, hardened men ! 
 A hoarse laugh broke the silence then, 
 And a drummer-boy sang out " Amen ! " 
 
24 THE BENEDICTION. 
 
 I think perhaps since life began 
 
 For me now near its close ! almost 
 
 The only blessing I can boast, 
 
 In which I've had the smallest share, 
 
 Is this ! And some folks might declare 
 
 That given so, by such a man, 
 
 'Twas less of blessing than of ban. 
 
 But not so meant that priest, I'll swear ! 
 
 We did our duty. He did his. 
 Priests know what soldiers' duty is. 
 They too are soldiers. Vive la Guerre ! 
 
THE VALSE. 
 
 TEN YEARS AFTER "A FAREWELL." 
 
 I HEAR it still the Valse we heard that night 
 When last we met a long ten years ago. 
 
 In those ten years how much has taken flight ! 
 But it remains. Unaltered ? Yes and No. 
 
 I hear it still. But 'tis with other ears. 
 
 Its pathos deepens, but it has no pain. 
 And hearing it across the silent years 
 
 I know the meaning of its rhythmic strain. 
 
 The pain that once was as a searching flame 
 Died in my heart : and from its burial place 
 
 It rose again with wondrous bridal name, 
 And with a smile on its transfigured face. 
 
26 THE VALSE. 
 
 And you ? I see you as you were, and dream 
 All my strange dream of years so long gone past. 
 
 And looking on you, through that Valse, you seem 
 To smile as one, a conqueror to the last. 
 
 Yet is the victory yours ? No victor I ! 
 
 Victorious neither, both defeat endure. 
 Yours is an untriumphant victory, 
 
 Mine a defeat that holds investiture. 
 
 I do not blame you. Blame ? who is to blame ? 
 
 There's blame nowhere : we are but as we are. 
 Life works up from the crystal to the flame. 
 
 Each has his part and each obeys his star. 
 
 It was not you I loved : but it was you 
 
 Who broke the dream wherein I dreamed of Love. 
 Who was it that I loved so wildly ? who ? 
 
 I love Her still. Her name I wot not of. 
 
 That valse-tune too had it not power as well ? 
 
 There's something words, I think, may not explain 
 In Music. Certain 'tis it holds a spell 
 
 Which makes for joy, but moves toward it thro' pain. 
 
THE VALSE. 
 
 A valse a valse ! Lightly we think of it, 
 But there's the mystery of the fatal Three 
 
 Within its rhythmic pulse ; and thro' it flit 
 Strange hints of Hope, Desire, and Destiny. 
 
 That mystic time which sounds so cruel-sweet, 
 Suggests that dream I dreamt was but a part 
 
 Of what, in speech vibrating incomplete, 
 Makes the dumb secret of its Music-heart. 
 
 I longed to Hear : and you, you brought the word, 
 Not knowing, and not caring, shall we add ? 
 
 Not greatly ! well, so let it be. I Heard. 
 And if perchance less pain I might have had 
 
 In taking home the message which you brought, 
 Less wonder also in it might have been. 
 
 Mine was the blame, if blame there be in aught. 
 You gave me something I might not have seen 
 
 Except for you. I give you gratitude 
 
 For that. You smiled at love. Take this instead. 
 Let me not speak as one in tragic mood : 
 
 I dreamed a dream : there's no more to be said. 
 
28 THE VALSE. 
 
 Save this : that valse-tune holds the hidden clue. 
 
 There lies the secret locked ! Love is the key. 
 May kinder hands unlock It unto you, 
 
 Than that white hand of yours once was to me. 
 
THE SILVER BELL. 
 
 IN times half mythic, when the pathless wild 
 Stretched from the white Alps to the Northern sea ; 
 
 And, pioneered by hermits brave and mild, 
 Came on the Knightly Age of Chivalry, 
 
 With sword whose blade 'gainst mortal foe was keen 
 
 As was its cross-hilt 'gainst all foes unseen ; 
 
 In those far times, in the fair Teuton land, 
 There lived a youthful Prince beloved of all. 
 
 His father ruled with firm benignant hand, 
 Wearing in peace the double coronal 
 
 Of sovereignty that writes its honour true, 
 
 And Age that is a crown of honour too. 
 
 The Prince had gained that happy April age 
 When life seems glad to all who truly live. 
 And regal in his youth, his heritage, 
 
 29 
 
30 THE SILVER BELL. 
 
 His beauty, everything combined to give 
 Such plenitude of pleasure to his share, 
 That joy for him seemed written everywhere. 
 
 He saw it in the sunshine and the stars : 
 He felt its bright elixir thrill each limb : 
 
 In dark romantic tales of far-off wars, 
 In love-songs passionate, in legends dim, 
 
 In boyish game and in the ringing chase, 
 
 He wooed sweet life and kissed its blooming face. 
 
 " Father," he cried, " why say you life is sad ? 
 
 I find the world so liberal of delight, 
 That though I, like my churls and vassals had 
 
 To toil, I still should find the toiling bright. 
 The paths of life are not so harsh and rough. 
 Give us but air and sunshine 'tis enough. 
 
 " From priest and bookman, warrior, serf and sage 
 Rises this wail for happiness that flies, 
 
 As if the greybeards in revenge for age, 
 
 Grudging fair youth its flowers and sunlit skies, 
 
 By gloomy words and frowning brows were bent 
 
 To make the sadness they themselves lament. 
 
THE SILVER BELL. 3! 
 
 " I would that I the whole wide world could tell 
 How glad at heart and well content am I ! 
 
 I would my voice like some clear silver bell 
 Could ring my tale of pleasure far and nigh, 
 
 That hearing its joy-message day by day, 
 
 ' Our Prince at least is happy ! ' men might say." 
 
 The king gazed fondly at the handsome boy, 
 His hand upon the fearless golden head. 
 
 " Were there such bell maybe 'twould not be joy 
 Would set it ringing after all," he said. 
 
 " We miscall things, and change with changing years ; 
 
 Joy sometimes lives in negatives and tears. 
 
 " But see, my son, we put thy thought to test. 
 
 ' Our Prince is happy ! ' let the people say. 
 The silver bell, of which you spoke in jest, 
 
 It shall be cast and hung without delay ; 
 That we before we die may hear its voice, 
 And with our people in thy joy rejoice ! " 
 
 The furnace fires were lit ; the silver weighed ; 
 
 Rare alkalies the metals purified ; 
 The molten ore the workman's will obeyed ; 
 
 The panting slaves at forge and anvil plied ; 
 The Bell was graved with text and symbol meet, 
 Till it stood forth in every part complete. 
 
32 THE SILVER BELL. 
 
 High o'er the tower which formed the city's crown 
 The wondrous Silver Bell was duly hung : 
 
 And thence long chains and cords were carried down 
 Straight to the Prince's room ; and these were slung 
 
 With such elaborate care and perfect poise, 
 
 The lightest touch would make the Bell give voice. 
 
 Nor was this all. The cords that moved the Bell 
 
 Others did move to ring in unison 
 In sacred fane and rock-built citadel, 
 
 So that the sound might travel on and on 
 To where the limits of the fertile plain 
 Touched on the forest's limitless domain. 
 
 Thus, through the echoing city far and near 
 Melodious peals of answering bells would ring, 
 
 And as the carillon with utterance clear 
 
 Its fearless challenge to the Fates would fling, 
 
 The people were to answer to the spell, 
 
 " Our Prince is happy ! Hark the Silver Bell ! " 
 
 With sumptuous state and solemn ritual 
 
 The Bell was lifted to its aerial home. 
 Its purpose was proclaimed with trumpet call ; 
 
 And every eye turned toward the gilded dome, 
 Where, in a belfry open to the sky, 
 The Bell hung glittering like a star on high. 
 
THE SILVER BELL. 33 
 
 The courtiers and the people waited long, 
 Expectant of the silvery voice. The day 
 
 Sank to the west. Anon the vesper song 
 
 Rose from the Minster ; then the sun's last ray 
 
 Flamed on the city spires, and darkness fell. 
 
 But motionless and silent hung the Bell. 
 
 In his own chamber stood the Prince alone, 
 His hand upon the silken cord. A light 
 
 Burnt in the brazen lamp. His robe was thrown 
 Across the couch ; and through the quiet night 
 
 Came up the plash of fountains, and the sound 
 
 Of watch-drums beating out the midnight round. 
 
 " Why should I wait ? What do I wait for ? What ? 
 
 For greater happiness ? That scarce can be. 
 My joy was something that I doubted not 
 
 Until my tongue proclaimed its certainty. 
 The boast itself suggests the questioning : 
 And at a question shy joy spreads her wing." 
 
 Irresolute he mused, until at last 
 
 Sleep lulled his questions into quietude. 
 And so the one auspicious hour went past 
 
 Wherein he might have made his boasting good. 
 The Bell was his ; he might have rung it then. 
 That was his chance : it never came again. 
 
 3 
 
34 THE SILVER BELL, 
 
 For when next day his hand was on the cord f 
 And purpose shone forth clearly from his eyes r 
 
 There came a cry, and one rushed in " My lord ! 
 The King, your father, calls for you \ He dies ! 
 
 Come quickly, and receive his parting breath ! " 
 
 He went, and looked for the first time on Death, 
 
 The tale foretells itself in clearest speech. 
 
 Often the young Prince raised his hand to ring 
 The Bell, but ere that eager hand could reach 
 
 The cord, his purpose sank to faltering r 
 Or if joy came, alas ! the joy had flown 
 Before he fully knew it for his own. 
 
 When he was crowned he heard a nation's cheers, 
 His bosom swelled. Is he not happy now ? 
 
 Yes ; but within his eyes rose bitter tears, 
 
 Thinking whose crown it was that clasped his brow. 
 
 The boy-king and the orphan met in him : 
 
 The boy's heart laughed the orphaned eyes were dim. 
 
 A war broke out. His helmet led the host. 
 
 He swept his foes before him like the wind. 
 His name in triumph rang from coast to coast, 
 
 And shouting crowds his homeward pathway lined. 
 But whilst the laurel crowned anew his head, 
 His friend upon the battlefield lay dead. 
 
THE SILVER BELL. 35 
 
 Lovely his bride, betrothed from early youth, 
 " I will be true as wife and Queen," she said, 
 
 " But ask not Love. Tis best you know the truth. 
 With one I loved my heart of love is dead. 
 
 The people's good remains : for it I live. 
 
 I give you faith, but love I cannot give I " 
 
 Yet when the influence of maternal love 
 Warmed her cold heart to joy in life again, 
 
 Her husband's every look to her did prove 
 Such tender chivalry that she was fain 
 
 To own him worthy of a worthier mate ; 
 
 At last he gained her love : too late ! too late ! 
 
 He never knew it till the hour was near 
 
 When memory of it only could be his, 
 For she lay dying. In his bended ear 
 
 She whispered low, " I love you ! " Then her kiss 
 Did seal the secret of their two lives fast, 
 And in that kiss of love her spirit passed. 
 
 Let the long years roll by, with changes wrought 
 
 By wear and tear and fever of a life 
 That under all its outward calm was fraught 
 
 With penetrating sympathy, and rife 
 With that same fervid spirit which, as boy, 
 Made for such very insolence of joy. 
 
30 THE SILVER BELL. 
 
 At last the man is old and bowed and white, 
 His fourscore years are halting to their goal ; 
 
 The world is fast receding from his sight ; 
 His face grows wistful with the parting soul. 
 
 And beckoning feebly to those standing by, 
 
 He says, " Bring me the boy before I die ! " 
 
 It was his grandson. Handsome, brave, and strong, 
 Light of his eyes, hope of the old man's days ! 
 
 Tales of his prowess had been told in song, 
 And prophecy for him turned into praise. 
 
 " Summon the Prince ! " the word flies far and wide, 
 
 And the youth hastens to his grandsire's side. 
 
 Upon a couch the dying King is lain, 
 
 Even in the castle turret, where, as Prince, 
 
 He used to live. His dimming eyes again 
 
 Look on the scene on which he looked long since, 
 
 A happy-hearted boy ! His faltering hand 
 
 Stretches itself as if to bless the land. 
 
 Slowly he gazes round him. Is there not 
 
 A silken cord up yonder ? Yes. Grown old, 
 
 Dusty and frayed ! Ah ! memories forgot 
 Crowd on his brain ; a hundred scenes unfold. 
 
 He lifts his hands they touch the mouldering cord. 
 
 " Father ! " he murmurs, " I recall your word ! 
 
THE SILVER BELL. 37 
 
 " The Silver Bell has not been rung by Joy ! 
 
 Far liker 'twill be tolled for obsequy." 
 Even as he speaks, with tear-bright eyes, the boy 
 
 Runs in, and with strong arms full tenderly 
 Doth clasp him, whilst the old face raised to his 
 Feels the hot tears which consecrate the kiss. 
 
 " Father ! " he cried, "for so to me thou art, 
 
 Since other father I remember none, 
 I kneel to thee, and from my very heart 
 
 Beseech thy blessing. Bless me." "Ah ! my son, 
 Who seem'st to me in very truth 
 An angel born of my remembered youth, 
 
 " I bless thee, and I bid thee take thy throne. 
 
 And may the King of kings to your heart give 
 The will to make His sovereign will your own, 
 
 And for the welfare of His people live. 
 Prophetic light upon my soul doth shine, 
 The joy my life has missed I find in thine ! 
 
 " It come upon me in this hour of death, 
 
 With light ineffable, and hope divine. 
 Reach me yon cord. Now, with my latest breath, 
 
 Life seems beginning. Clasp my hand in thine, 
 And give me of thy strength ; for Joy has passed 
 Away from Self and found its own at last." 
 
38 THE SILVER BELU 
 
 And suddenly the Silver Bell on high, 
 
 Rang clear and full, and flung its message wide ; 
 
 And as the King fell back with broken cry, 
 The answering peal burst out on every side ; 
 
 But jangled, harsh, w r ith cruel discord crossed, 
 
 fts purpose passed away its meaning lost 1 
 
 It was a thing unthought of and forgot ; 
 
 Buried with those who mouldered in the ground. 
 Even the young Prince knew the story not, 
 
 And trembled at the unexpected sound. 
 Its only answer was his grief-bowed head, 
 And this sharp cry of pain " The King is dead I '" 
 
 Then, with a trembling voice, an aged man, 
 The Abbot of the Minster, straightway told 
 
 The tale. Swift down his cheeks the hot tears ran, 
 Remembering all the days and hopes of old, 
 
 As, stooping o'er the white and death-crowned brow. 
 
 He said, "Thank God, the King zs happy now ! " 
 
 Then all did kneel, and from the Chapel nigh 
 Floated the chant of intercessory prayer. 
 
 And as the echoing bells discordantly 
 Died sadly on the hushed and heavy air, 
 
 On every lip the voices twain were wed 
 
 " The King is happy I " and " The King is dead ! " 
 
A STATEMENT. 
 
 I WILL not sing our love, lest singing it 
 
 I mar the living song it sings unsung. 
 Love so perfected needs a perfect wit, 
 
 And most imperfect is my witless tongue., 
 
 Love, though old earth have seen its counterpart 
 Ten thousand times in every age and shore, 
 
 Is ever new-born in each living heart, 
 A thing of wonder never known before ! 
 
 And words which are not each and all its own, 
 Though they were echoes of the sweetest song 
 
 That ever lover's poesy hath known, 
 
 Would seem such new-born miracle to wrong. I 
 
 Hence it would take a verse more skilled than mine 
 To put in words as fresh as is our love, 
 
 The light that from your life on mine doth shine, 
 The faith that needs no song its strength to prove. 
 
 39 
 
40 A STATEMENT. 
 
 So if my tongue hath, all these constant years, 
 
 Been mute, nor framed a verse, sweet friend, to thee. 
 
 Blame not the heart that with such reason fears, 
 Lest it should sing our love unworthily. 
 
 But rather listen to that unheard song 
 
 Sung in my thought to thee each hour we live ; 
 
 Its poetry is sovereign sweet and strong, 
 
 And yet 'tis all mine own. That let me give . 
 
TO B. H. 
 
 (IN MEMORIAM HIS SISTER, WHO DIED MAY 23, 1885, 
 AGED FIVE YEARS.) 
 
 CHILDREN there are so bright and fair 
 They seem almost too frail and rare 
 For this our heavy earthly air. 
 
 They may not long time with us stay, 
 Even like Angels as we say 
 They come to us and pass away. 
 
 Yet in their little life's brief span 
 
 They do a work the wisest man 
 
 Were proud to make his wisdom's plan. 
 
 For they bring Love which holds no sting, 
 And in their bright companioning 
 Life half unfolds its closed wing. 
 
42 TO B. H. 
 
 The world, made better by their smile, 
 Smiles in return, and for awhile 
 Forgets its greed and veils its guile. 
 
 Such was your little sister. She 
 Incarnate music seemed to be 
 A little human melody ! 
 
 No one could look upon her face 
 Or watch her winning little ways 
 And feel no stir of answering grace. 
 
 The fairest child I ever knew ! 
 
 Her hair was silken floss, in hue 
 
 Like ripening corn. Her eyes were blue. 
 
 You know the pink convolvulus 
 
 That grows upon the sea shore ? Thus 
 
 Her flow r er-like face did look to us. 
 
 A haloed atmosphere and scent 
 Exhaled from her ; and as one bent 
 To kiss her, in acknowledgment 
 
 Of all she was, one grew aware 
 
 Of some bright aura in the air, 
 
 A something good one longed to share. 
 
TO B. H. 43 
 
 Her roseleaf lips would give a kiss 
 That spoke of purer worlds than this ; 
 Her breath was sweet as new milk is. 
 
 So like to you was she that sure 
 
 She seemed your Guardian Angel pure, 
 
 Yourself in fairy miniature ! 
 
 And people as they saw you pass 
 Would oft look back ; the picture was 
 As fair a sight and pretty as 
 
 Could well be seen : the little maid 
 All in her summer white arrayed 
 Holding your hand, demure and staid. 
 
 I have a pleasant memory of 
 That afternoon whereon we drove 
 To Gosleston Pier a place we love ! 
 
 She watched with dancing eyes the scene, 
 Sitting enthroned us two between, 
 A perfect baby Beauty-Queen ! 
 
 The little child the Holy Book 
 Tells us that Jesus blessed and took 
 As sign of Heaven, I think did look 
 
44 TO B. H. 
 
 Like her. And in her childhood sweet 
 Immortal childhood now we greet, 
 And hear the lips divine repeat 
 " Of such are the kingdom of God." 
 
THE WAY OF IT. 
 
 (WRITTEN TO A TUNE.) 
 
 LIFE at the best, dear, 
 
 What can we say of it ? 
 Be it confessed, dear, 
 
 Dark is the way of it ! 
 Less is the knowledge 
 
 The more that we know ; 
 Deeper the puzzle 
 
 The older we grow : 
 Mystery ever ! 
 
 Is it not s'o ? 
 Yes, we must own it, 
 
 That is the way of it : 
 That is the best, dear, 
 
 The best we can say of it 
 Life is compact 
 
 Of hopes and fears : 
 Life is a fusion 
 
 45 
 
46 THE WAY OF IT. 
 
 Of smiles and tears : 
 Really and truly 
 
 Much what one hears 
 
 Wise people say of it ! 
 Whether we view it 
 
 With eyes of the seers, 
 Or wish to make merely 
 
 A sort of child's play of it. 
 Still there is something 
 
 That rings through the years, 
 A longing a question, 
 
 The which, it appears, 
 Sounds more and more 
 
 On our unwilling ears 
 Strive as we may 
 
 To get out of the way of it. 
 
 Ah, but you smile ! 
 
 Dismal things may be true, 
 But they won't happen, dear, 
 
 Will they ? to you ! 
 Ah ! in our youth 
 
 That is what we all say of it. 
 If we but knew ! 
 
 If we but knew ! 
 If we but treasured 
 
THE WAY OF IT. 47 
 
 Life's tenderest flowers ! 
 If we but valued it 
 
 Whilst youth was ours ! 
 If ! and oh, if ! 
 
 And if we did this, 
 Or if we did that, 
 
 Or the other did miss, 
 Life would be possibly 
 
 Worse than it is ! 
 Looking at Life 
 
 In the radiant May of it, 
 Little we reck 
 
 What wise people say of it. 
 
 So, if Life be dreary, 
 
 And sad, and the rest of it, 
 Gold of the rainbow 
 
 Be ever the quest of it, 
 What can be done 
 
 But just make the best of it ? 
 Bad is the best, 
 
 If it's true what they say of it ! 
 Well, in our hearts 
 
 This at least we may pray of it, 
 
48 THE WAY OF IT. 
 
 Let True Love 
 
 Light every ray of it ! 
 Then if it prove, dear, 
 
 That our love is true, 
 What will it matter 
 
 To me, love, or you, 
 What wiser folk 
 
 May declare is the way of it ? 
 Let them all speak 
 
 Of life as they may of it, 
 Give us a storm-cloud 
 
 To darken each day of it, 
 Minus the rainbow 
 
 That lives in the grey of it, 
 What do we care ? 
 
 They have got the wrong lay of it. 
 They do not love ; 
 
 And Love's the mainstay of it ! 
 
 Since then of Life, dear, 
 The best we can say of it 
 
 Is, it is Mystery, 
 Make what you may of it ; 
 
 Mystery always, 
 
 The more that we see of it, 
 
THE WAY OF IT. 49 
 
 Mystery ever, 
 
 And that we agree of it ; 
 Love holds the only 
 
 Possible key of it ! 
 
 That, I believe, 
 
 Is the best I can say of it. 
 Would you know more ? 
 
 Go to Love, then, and pray of it 
 That it should teach ye : 
 
 It will. 'Tis the way of it ! 
 
FIRE. 
 
 CIRCLEWISE move the elements, 
 The Ancient wisdom saith 
 
 By death of Air the water lives ; 
 Earth by the water's death ; 
 
 Fire from the Earth ; and Air once more 
 From Fire doth take the breath. 
 
 Eternal Flux thus rules them all. 
 
 Yet, through all change they own 
 One primal, final Element 
 
 For which no name is known, 
 Even as Man is one, in whom 
 
 A Fourfold state is shown. 
 
 For Earth his Body claims, its own : 
 Mind as the Air is free : 
 5 
 
FIRE. 51 
 
 Unfathomed Water is the Soul, 
 
 Who knows its mystery ? 
 And in the Spirit that aspires 
 
 The flame of Fire we see. 
 
 Thus the states rise, and in the Fire 
 
 We find the Logos great 
 That makes one living Entity 
 
 Out of the Fourfold state, 
 And gives the Mystery of earth, 
 
 The Man Regenerate. 
 
 On every altar Earth has known 
 
 The sacred fires outshine ; 
 From every temple Man has built 
 
 Flashes the answering sign : 
 And Flame doth symbolise alike 
 
 The Good and the Malign. 
 
 And still before our altars burn 
 
 The lamps and tapers fair ; 
 The fuming censer still sends up 
 
 Its cloud into the air : 
 And Genius, Anger, Love, and Faith, 
 
 The Fiery tincture share. 
 
52 FIRE. 
 
 The Flaming Sword, the Burning Bush, 
 
 The bolts of Sinai, 
 The Pillar, Cloud and Light in one, 
 
 The Chariot from the sky, 
 The sun-bright photosphere that rings 
 
 The Name of Adonai, 
 
 The baleful fires of Ashtaroth, 
 
 Of Cybele and Bel, 
 The reek of torch and brasier, 
 
 Dark with inversive spell, 
 The awful signatures of Flame 
 
 We symbolise in " Hell," 
 
 They all are Kabalistic types 
 
 Of depthless mystery : 
 Images of the Living Fire, 
 
 Burning eternally, 
 Awful, adorable biune 
 
 Anguish and Ecstasy. 
 
 The Furnace which is martyrdom 
 
 May prove in other wise, 
 The Son of God's most radiant tryst : 
 
 Point of Ignition lies 
 In enmity : but love the Flame, 
 
 And lo ! in Love, Fear dies. 
 
FIRE. 53 
 
 Shine, Spirit ! till your Light become 
 
 My everliving Name ! 
 Burn, Fire ! until my life is wrought, 
 
 Through all its parts the same ! 
 O God ! I would aspire to grow 
 
 One with Thine Unseen Flame. 
 
BALLADE. 
 
 TO THE FOHN. 1 
 
 A WIND from the South comes up in the night ; 
 
 Over the mountains it sweeps to the lake. 
 The darkness is checkered with shadow and light 
 
 As moonbeams the racing stormclouds rake. 
 
 Are not the flowers of Easter at stake ? 
 The South Wind knows it, and seems to say, 
 
 " The Spring is up, and the Earth is awake ! 
 The snows of the Winter are melting away ! " 
 
 I' the morning, all hail to the gladdening sight ! 
 
 As fair a scene as the earth can make ! 
 Ah ! 'tis not alone that its Beauty is bright, 
 
 But its sense of Life doth the whole heart take 
 
 1 The Fohn is the south wind, which melts the Alpine snow. There 
 is a Swiss proverb that, " Unless the Fohn blows, the sun and ' le bon 
 Dieu ' can do nothing with the snow." 
 
 54 
 
BALLADE. 55 
 
 With a joy so great that the heart doth ache ! 
 Hark ! water is laughing, which many a day 
 
 Frost has held chained in a prison opaque ! 
 The snows of the Winter are melting away ! 
 
 The grasses and flowers, that lie 'neath the white, 
 Have moved in the earth : quick song-pulses shake 
 
 The blackbird's throat as he stops in his flight : 
 And deep in the drift-covered tangle of brake 
 Is born the bud of the first " snowflake." 
 
 And as children remember the flowers of May 
 The avalanche thrills with its first heart-quake ! 
 
 The snows of the Winter are melting away ! 
 
 ENVOI. 
 
 O heart ! 'twere a shame if Great Nature spake 
 And you answered not. Cry Yea to her Yea ! 
 
 And tell her for you too for Springtime's sake 
 The snows of the Winter are melting away ! 
 
A BALLADE OF BUTTERFLIES. 
 
 " Butterflies will some day be valued as one of the most important 
 branches of biological science." BATES'S " Naturalist on the 
 Amazon." 
 
 STRANGE are the truths that Great Science doth teach ! 
 
 Grave is her utterance, grand is her aim. 
 Far less inclined to a joke than to preach, 
 
 Holds she her mind in a serious frame. 
 
 Yet, when to one little fact she came, 
 Which somewhat her gravity seemed to upset, 
 
 She owned it at once the dignified Dame ! 
 Science to butterflies owes a great debt ! 
 
 Pause for a moment or two, I beseech, 
 Just to consider how trite and how tame 
 
 Sounds, after this, the poor moralist's speech 
 
 Crying to Butterflies, " Fie ! " and " For Shame ! " 
 Surely the fribbles were scarcely to blame 
 
 Were they to answer him back in a pet 
 " Rubbish ! we're things of remarkable fame ! 
 
 Science to butterflies owes a great debt ! " 
 
 56 
 
A BALLADE OF BUTTERFLIES. 57 
 
 When o'er the pink-budding boughs of the peach, 
 Sulphur- wings beat, in the song of " je t'aime ! " 
 
 When high in air, (safe from Science's reach !) 
 Foolish fritilleries flutter like flame, 
 Just as if flowers were out for a game ! 
 
 'Tis not alone (and let us regret 
 Good folks so often ignore the same !) 
 
 Science to butterflies owes a great debt. 
 
 ENVOI. 
 
 " Emperor," gorgeous in habit and name, 
 
 " Painted Lady," unpeu coquette, 
 For ever this honour you now may claim 
 
 Science to butterflies owes a great debt ! 
 
THE RUBilYiT OF OMAR KHAYYAM. 
 
 DRINK as we may the Song is magic Wine : 
 Yet at the Tavern Door what is the Sign ? 
 
 See, how he smiles who proffers us the Draught ; 
 He leaves to us the Vintage and the Vine. 
 
 Ruby or amber do you wish to see ? 
 Call the Cup either, that the Cup will be. 
 
 Is the Door open ? Enter, friend, and drink ! 
 The lock will turn if you possess the key. 
 
TO CHARLES KINGSLEY. 
 
 GREATER than many whom the world has hailed 
 
 As greatest, thou by inner greatness failed 
 
 To gain the height your footseps might have scaled. 
 
 The narrower paths in which you bravely trod, 
 With feet by purpose clean and active shod, 
 Thou took'st as limits given thee by God. 
 
 Did not the heart within thee often burn 
 From that strict chosen path aside to turn, 
 The beckoning victories of the world to earn ? 
 
 And more : did Thought not long for ampler flight 
 To regions where Thought passes Day and Night, 
 And darkness swallows what we call the Light ? 
 
 To highest point thy vision seems to rise 
 
 When facing those unworded mysteries 
 
 To which our age turns blind or blinded eyes. 
 
 59 
 
6o TO CHARLES KINGSLEY. 
 
 But the strong heart, by fiery pulses stirred, 
 
 The poet-promptings by thy spirit heard, 
 
 Were hushed for what was deemed the Higher Word. 
 
 Content and happy in thy discipline, 
 
 Disciple to the last, in thee was seen 
 
 A man ev'n greater than he might have been ! 
 
TO ROBERT BROWNING. 
 
 AFTER RECITING " SAUL," "EVELYN HOPE," AND 
 "ABT VOGLER." 
 
 GREAT poet, in whose secret mines we find the unseen 
 
 gold- 
 Singer of things unspeakable, and hardly to be told, 
 Adept at " music " more than sound, and as the Ages 
 
 old 
 
 O Mystic, silent to the world, but yet proclaiming clear, 
 To those who know, the Word of one who holds the 
 
 Inner Sphere, 
 Thy message is a magic one, and few who listen, hear ! 
 
 'Tis not the Hebrew Shepherd, nor Abt Vogler speaks 
 
 through thee, 
 They are but Names to guard thyself, and veil that 
 
 Mystery 
 Which ever hides behind a veil and speaks in Harmony. 
 
62 TO ROBERT BROWNING. 
 
 I think a sense of something great, a wonder and a light, 
 Passes from out the very words even to those whose sight 
 Takes not thy way, or taking it, notes not how high thy 
 flight. 
 
 I know that some who listen hear. Their hearing would 
 suffice, 
 
 Were all the others deaf and mute : but in some hidden- 
 wise 
 
 A deep responsive echo seems from every heart to rise. 
 
 No voice so great as thine, so freed from rhapsody or 
 
 moan, 
 Has in this age of ours been raised, with world-compelling 
 
 tone, 
 To plead for Thought which by the world is little prized 
 
 or known. 
 
 And we, who humbly and afar follow that Thought Divine, 
 Do thank thee for the shining words through which you 
 
 flash the sign 
 To us. If as I speak those words the light through them 
 
 may shine 
 
TO ROBERT BROWNING. 63 
 
 On others, nay, on one ! that light has on my spirit 
 
 shone 
 Not all in vain. Twofold my debt : the gift were great, 
 
 alone ; 
 But in it I grow giver too ; speaking, I pass it on ! 
 
A HARMONY. 
 
 ALL the world is full of music 
 
 So at least the wise folk say : 
 There is music in the sunshine, 
 
 Such as shines on us to-day : 
 Rainbow-music in the storm-cloud : 
 
 Flower-music in the ground : 
 And the harmonies of colour 
 
 Answering those of song and sound. 
 
 All, you see, is but Vibration, 
 
 Given alike to eye and ear : 
 Only, for a variation, 
 
 This we see and that we hear. 
 All's the same in different language 
 
 Springing from one root above. 
 There perhaps will find the secret 
 
 Is not far from those who love. 
 6 4 
 
A HAEMONT. 65 
 
 All the world is full of music : 
 
 Let me not my cadence miss. 
 It is sealed within your spirit ; 
 
 Let me learn it in a kiss ! 
 Everywhere I -hear it ringing : 
 
 What is the refrain thereof ? 
 Ah ! why ask ? Perhaps the secret 
 
 Is not far from those who love. 
 
 O my love, the real true Music 
 
 Just begins where this sound dies : 
 On the other side of silence 
 
 Are the spirit's harmonies. 
 As the Alchemists have told us 
 
 There is Fire beyond a doubt 
 Burning in the inner Ether 
 
 When the flame we see goes out. 
 
 Could we hear the Sound of all things 
 
 We should find it wondrous true ; 
 And amidst the whole world's chorus 
 
 I should know which Note was You ! 
 Love, to those who know, is Music 
 
 Born within the atmosphere 
 Of that world of finer essence 
 
 Which but few can see or hear. 
 5 
 
66 A HARMONY. 
 
 How the sunshine in your hair, dear,- 
 
 (I am listening !) softly sings ! 
 All the thoughts within your spirit 
 
 Vibrate true like golden strings. 
 May no discords from my life, dear, 
 
 Those vibrations falsify ! 
 All such discords now you love me 
 
 Will resolve in harmony. 
 
 Do not heed them if they tell you, 
 
 They, the over- wise, to-day, 
 That the world has grown aweary 
 
 Of the Lover and his Lay. 
 Love the root and flower of Life is, 
 
 And the world in which we move, 
 Live and move and have our being, 
 
 Has no meaning save for Love ! 
 
 He who hears it, he who sees it, 
 
 Smiles at peace amid the strife, 
 And its song will solve the riddle 
 
 Of the sphinx that men call Life. 
 Hear it in the seas and rivers ! 
 
 See it in the starlit sky ! 
 ? Tis no poet's idle dreaming, 
 
 'Tis the world's great Mystery ! 
 
A HARMONY. 67 
 
 Thus the world is full of music ! 
 
 From the air an Echo falls : 
 Even in the ground beneath us, 
 
 Something answers something calls ! 
 All the world say I ? Look higher ! 
 
 Heaven itself is made thereof. 
 And we feel we know the secret 
 
 Is not far from those who love. 
 
INITIATION. 
 
 THROUGH daily joy and daily pain 
 One truth is clear discerned, 
 
 The lessons which this life can teach 
 Must in this life be learned. 
 
 Here, or none other where at all 
 Those lessons learned must be. 
 
 Refused, they are a broken link 
 In our eternity. 
 
 Consider : we, and we alone, 
 
 And only now and here, 
 Can do that thing which comes to us 
 
 In Duty plain and clear. 
 
 There's neither small, nor mean, nor low, 
 
 To one who sees the Real : 
 Perfection raises everything 
 
 To its untired Ideal. 
 
 68 
 
INITIATION. 69 
 
 We long to know the Way : and yet 
 
 The secret of the skies 
 May lie in some rejected task 
 
 To which we close our eyes. 
 
 For he who does the will shall know. 
 
 What promise is more plain ? 
 Yet this, of wisdom's many roads 
 
 Will fewest followers gain. 
 
 Whatever comes to us to do, 
 
 Though dark it seem to sight, 
 Simply because it comes to us, 
 
 That is our road to Light. 
 
 O ! lesson hardest to be learnt ! 
 
 Some great thing to be done 
 Were easy, welcome. But this thing 
 
 Is welcome unto none. 
 
 Yet once accepted it becomes 
 
 The key of human Fate. 
 Life's Mysteries unveil themselves : 
 
 We are Initiate. 
 
A SON OF ORPHEUS. 
 
 " GOOD-NIGHT ! good-night ! The feast is done, 
 
 I must be getting on my way. 
 
 ' Happy the bride the sun shines on ! ' 
 
 And never brighter sunlight shone 
 
 Than ours this happy bridal day ! 
 
 Another glass ? Well, then, just one. 
 
 A parting bumper, as you say, 
 
 A brimming glass ! it is the last. 
 
 Swiftly the smiling hours fly past 
 
 When young feet trip it on the floor. 
 
 What ! yet another dance ? one more ? 
 
 My fiddle's tired ... old ! I too ! 
 
 Well, look you if I play for you, 
 
 You will not grudge my ndder's fee ? 
 
 And what is that, you ask, maybe ? 
 
 What and how much ? Why, listen this 
 
 A good, fair, honest, buxom kiss ! 
 
 You'll pay ? Then for your dance ; here 'tis ! " 
 
 70 
 
A SON OF ORPHEUS. 71 
 
 He fiddled well, and well the feet 
 The floor in tuneful measure beat. 
 And fast and faster went the bow, 
 And fast and faster, to and fro, 
 The dancers danced : till when the flight 
 Of foot and bow were at their height, 
 And through the merry -laughing rout 
 The rhythm of the polka swung 
 Like waves of wind the wheat among, 
 The fiddler broke off with a shout. 
 
 " Good-night ! this time, good-night, indeed, 
 In vain ye tempt, in vain ye plead. 
 No ; not another bar I'll play. 
 Have ye not danced enough I say ? 
 Toed it and heeled it all the night ? 
 For shame ! you're cruel. Nay is nay. 
 I've far to go : and ere 'twas light 
 This morning did I start from home. 
 We've had a jolly day ! Now come ! 
 Give me my fee. Then one glass more, 
 And see me safe outside the door. 
 Charles, here's my hand. God bless you, boy ! 
 Marie, good-night ! Health, wealth, and joy 
 Be yours and always all thro' life ! 
 Here's luck to bridegroom and to wife 1 " 
 
72 A SON OF ORPHEUS. 
 
 The farewell voices die away. 
 
 The light that streamed with ruddy ray 
 
 Out from the open cottage door, 
 
 Fades down and dwindles more and more 
 
 And now it gleams, and now 'tis gone ! 
 
 The road turns sharply to the right, 
 
 Up the hillside he trudges on 
 
 As best he can. 
 
 'Tis dead of night. 
 
 The clouds are scurrying o'er the sky, 
 The wind with ghostly homeless sigh 
 Wails in the trees : and hark ! hard by, 
 The night-jar croaks with bodeful cry. 
 Some snow fell on the hills last night. 
 Above the woods of fir and pine, 
 The great slopes, looming phantom-white, 
 Across the midnight darkness shine. 
 But naught of this the fiddler heeds ; 
 Well-used to dark and lonesome ways, 
 Onward with stumbling feet he speeds, 
 And only thinks of all the day's 
 Good fare and fun and that sweet fee 
 She gave and gave so willingly ! 
 And how uncommon pleased he'll be 
 (The road is rough just here and steep !) 
 
A SON OF ORPHEUS. 73 
 
 To be in bed and fast asleep. 
 Meanwhile, come courage ! step along ! 
 And cheer the darkness with a song. 
 
 For truth to tell we've had enough, 
 
 Red wine and white, good generous stuff, 
 
 Has freely flowed for every guest, 
 
 And that last bottle was the best. 
 
 A glorious day, the saints be praised ! 
 
 And if we feel a trifle dazed, 
 
 Well, what of that ? The cool night air 
 
 Revives us : and a merry heart 
 
 Is good sometimes. We have our part 
 
 Of trouble, more than is our share ! 
 
 So let us troll our song to-night, 
 
 Thankful for good wine, red and white, 
 
 And neither blame ourselves nor it 
 
 If we just trip a little bit, 
 
 And here and there forget our song 
 
 As in the dark we trudge along. 
 
 Soon be at home and safe asleep ! 
 
 Here are the cross roads. Shall we keep 
 The highroad, or that short cut try, 
 And save a good two miles thereby ? 
 A thousand feet or more below, 
 
74 A SON OF ORPHEUS. 
 
 The village lies : and yonder, see ! 
 
 The first white little patch of snow. 
 
 The road or short cut shall it be ? 
 
 The wood perhaps is dark and black 
 
 At night. Ah, bah ! We know each yard ; 
 
 No fear of straying from the track. 
 
 Safe, safe enough ! and not so hard 
 
 As that long road. We'll try the wood. 
 
 The moon will soon have risen. Good. 
 
 So in we go. 
 
 Dark, dark and still, 
 Among the tall black pines : so dark 
 You scarce can see a tree until 
 Your hand in passing scrapes the bark. 
 Onward he trudges. Not a sound. 
 He knows each turn and inch of ground. 
 How silent 'tis in here ! And hark ! 
 What's that ? 'Twas some one following ! 
 No, no : but he has ceased to sing. 
 A sense of loneliness has put 
 Its finger on his lip : his foot 
 Is somehow spurred to hasten on. 
 Look ! stop a minute, something shone 
 Out of the darkness yonder. There ! 
 It shone again and now 'tis gone. 
 
A SON OF ORPHEUS. 75 
 
 He turns to look behind, and sees 
 
 What seem two eyes of greenish glare 
 
 That watch him from between the trees 
 
 Two cruel spectral eyes that stare ! 
 
 His heart is nipped with sudden frost 
 
 Of fear. Those eyes ! And see ! another pair T 
 
 Mon Dieu ! and there ! and there ! and there ! 
 
 Encircled by them everywhere ! 
 
 " A pack of wolves ! I'm lost ! I'm lost ! " 
 
 He looks at them with freezing breath : 
 
 He knows they are the eyes of Death. 
 
 His voice breaks up the silent air 
 
 In shout on shout. Against a pine 
 
 He sets his back. The void black night 
 
 Is starred with those fierce eyes. They shine 
 
 Like some accursed magic ring 
 
 That now is slowly narrowing 
 
 To hem its wretched victim in ; 
 
 Till almost by their wicked light 
 
 He seems to see the teeth that grin, 
 
 The mouths that snarl with cruel fangs. 
 
 He feels his life each moment hangs 
 
 Over the edge of doom. But see 
 
 That pair of eyes is coming close, 
 
 Closer and closer and he knows 
 
76 A SON OF ORPHEUS. 
 
 Horror will soon be pain. His lips 
 Refuse the cry of agony 
 The heart compels. He faints and slips 
 Upon the smooth fir-needles, grips 
 A branch, and in the struggle twangs 
 The fiddle slung behind his back. 
 
 And in a moment all the pack 
 
 Of wolves start back, and listen dazed, 
 
 Arrested ! Like a flash there shoots 
 
 Across the fiddler's brain a tale 
 
 Once heard, of how these savage brutes 
 
 Are tamed by music. Heaven be praised ! 
 
 The saints forfend the hope should fail ! 
 
 Swift as the thought, the violin 
 
 Is clutched, the bow is poised : and thin 
 
 And shrill, as if with frightened wail, 
 
 The strings, with almost human cry, 
 
 Croak out their challenge, and begin 
 
 Their grim death-dance of agony. 
 
 Play, fiddler, play ! for life you play. 
 Give them your best. No moment stay. 
 Play, play, with quickening pulse and breath. 
 That catgut is the leash of Death ; 
 Once broke or slipped, 'tis at your throat ! 
 
A SON OF ORPHEUS. 77 
 
 A devil peers between each note, 
 
 And at one pause, why, in he'll slip 
 
 And have you writhing in his grip ! 
 
 Play, man, as never yet did man 
 
 Since first the fiddling world began ! 
 
 A polka ! Dance, wolves, dance ! nor glare 
 
 With those fierce eyes so still and grim. 
 
 Horribly patient stand they there, 
 
 All silently besieging him ; 
 
 But for the moment kept at bay 
 
 In some unknown mysterious way, 
 
 By some uncomprehended link 
 
 Such as no brain would dream or think 
 
 Could be betwixt such alien things 
 
 As hearts of wolves and fiddle-strings ! 
 
 And yet is it not known to us 
 
 The Thracian conquered Tartarus ? 
 
 So great is music's magic spell 
 
 It binds in one Heaven, Earth, and Hell. 
 
 But still the fiddler works amain. 
 An hour ago the self-same strain 
 Re-echoed through the dancing room 
 And gained that sweet kiss for its fee : 
 And now it almost seems to be 
 
78 A SON OF ORPHEUS. 
 
 Played in a black and stifling tomb 
 
 With grisly ghouls for company. 
 
 A witches' sabbat were less mad ! 
 
 A Brocken revel- never had 
 
 More subtly fiendish mockery 
 
 Of joy. A -dance of Death it is ! 
 
 Agony's stiff paralysis 
 
 Threatens his aching arms and hands : 
 
 And yet as on hot iron he stands, 
 
 And still he madly plies the strings, 
 
 And works the bow and madlier sings, 
 
 Shouting anon a cry of fear 
 
 In the last hope that some, mayhap, 
 
 Returning from the feast may hear. 
 
 Ah, God ! a string breaks with a snap ! 
 No time to fix another one ! 
 On, on : pray Heaven the others last ! 
 A twang a cry ! Another's gone ! 
 Sense almost swoons hope stands aghast. 
 Nothing he sees but eyes eyes eyes ! 
 The world is but a vault of black 
 Lit with those hungry lurid eyes, 
 Resounding with despairing cries, 
 Grotesque insane demoniac ! 
 
A SON OF ORPHEUS. 79 
 
 " Help ! help ! I'm lost." A twang, a crack ! 
 
 The third string gone : but one remains. 
 
 The music dwindles, falters, wanes : 
 
 Yet on its weak and trembling strains 
 
 A man's life- hangs. A slender cord 
 
 For such a weight ! A child's toy-sword 
 
 Against an armed and murderous horde ! 
 
 The brutes begin to feel the reins 
 
 Are growing slack. They edge more near 
 
 With more of hunger, less of fear. 
 
 The end is surely come at last. 
 
 The poor scraped notes diminish fast, 
 
 Although he works with might and main. 
 
 Not long will he have power to sway 
 
 The devil in the wolfish brain, 
 
 Or keep the savage beasts at bay. 
 
 And lo ! as if to make the doom 
 
 More hideous still, the Stygian gloom 
 
 Is lifted. Suddenly a glare 
 
 Of moonlight makes the whole place bright, 
 
 And with its weird and cruel light 
 
 The horror of the scene lays bare. 
 
 It is too much ! It is too much ! 
 Ah ! neither tortured string nor heart 
 
8o A SON OF ORPHEUS. 
 
 Can any longer bear their part : 
 
 They snap beneath this final touch. 
 
 Both in that awful moment fail, 
 
 And sense goes out in one sharp wail 
 
 One last despairing cry for help ! 
 
 But lo ! as all the savage pack 
 
 Bark out the signal for attack, 
 
 A shot is heard : a whip's sharp crack ! 
 
 Jangle of sledge-bells on the snow ! 
 
 And bang, bang, bang, the rifles go ! 
 
 Two brutes fall dead with snarl and yelp ; 
 
 The rest, like cowards, all turn tail 
 
 And skurrying off in wild affright, 
 
 Vanish as spectres in the night. 
 
 Prone on the earth the fiddler lies, 
 
 Nor knows the struggle's happy end ; 
 
 Nor hears the loud advancing cries, 
 
 u Courage ! We're near ! Where are you, friend ? " 
 
 Some of his neighbours going home 
 Just in the nick of time had come. 
 Their guns took up the conquering tale 
 Where music had begun to fail, 
 And made the fittest coda, sure, 
 To such a demon overture. 
 
A SON OF ORPHEUS. 8 1 
 
 The fiddler, snatched in truth from death, 
 The veriest jaws of death, they bore 
 Rejoicing to his cottage door, 
 Shouting a loud triumphant tune, 
 And left him safe and sound beneath 
 His own roof. 
 
 Late next afternoon 
 The cure, having heard somewhat 
 About the story ; (such a boon 
 To village gossips happens not 
 Too often !) takes his way to hear 
 From out the man's own mouth the true 
 Account. And as he's drawing near, 
 He thinks he spies a something new 
 Above the little carven shrine 
 Wherein, holding the Child Divine, 
 An image of Our Lady stands 
 Blessing the threshold with her hands. 
 A lamp hangs down before the niche, 
 Always alight ; to tend to which 
 Is every day the fiddler's care. 
 All this the cure knows : but there, 
 What's that ? above, against the wall : 
 Some relic or memorial, 
 6 
 
82 A SON OF ORPHEUS. 
 
 Symbol of gratitude or prayer, 
 To pious memory dedicate ? 
 The old man puts his glasses on 
 To look. His spectacles are dim. 
 Or his eyesight f ailing him ? 
 He wipes his eyes at any rate, 
 Whilst, with some text appropriate, 
 He murmurs out a benison. 
 For a strong nail is hammered in 
 Above the shrine : and from it, lo ! 
 Hangs the poor stringless violin, 
 And under it the broken bow. 
 
THE SIGNATURE. 
 
 NOT with the passing name I bear 
 
 By chrism and by heritage 
 Sign I myself, whilst years endure, 
 To you, O Friend, in friendship sure ; 
 But with a greater signature 
 
 Than pen can write upon this page. 
 
 I write it in the spirit-light, 
 
 And with that Name, unspoken, real, 
 Which not in this life will be shown ; 
 That New Name which shall be my own,- 
 The Name by which the soul is known, 
 
 And only Spirit can reveal : 
 
 The Name I hear and answer to 
 
 When life has risen to its Best ; 
 The Name that Music tells me of ; 
 83 
 
84 THE SIGNATURE. 
 
 Which lives in Silence, Light, and Love ; 
 The Name to which my life doth move 
 And till it find it, knows no rest. 
 
 The name by which I move in life 
 Is but a passing badge to me, 
 
 A badge to hold and honour well ; 
 
 The many memories it can tell 
 
 Of lives well-lived stand sentinel 
 And challenge me to keep it free. 
 
 But for the Man within the man 
 
 There is another Name, be sure. 
 Its script we may not yet divine : 
 But 'tis with that Name I would sign 
 My real self in friendship thine. 
 Take that eternal signature. 
 
VITA MYSTICA. 
 
 I. Elixir Vitce. 
 
 CALM thou the waters of thy soul, 
 
 Unruffled let them lie, 
 Till, crystal-clear, they may reflect 
 
 The overarching sky. 
 
 Let Fear be stilled : and all thy thought 
 
 Unto that point be set 
 That does not hasten on toward Hope, 
 
 Nor linger to regret. 
 
 Calm thou thy soul, till o'er its face, 
 
 As o'er primeval seas, 
 The spirit moves, and Life takes form 
 
 At the Divine decrees. 
 
 85 
 
86 VITA MYSTICA. 
 
 Forget the things that are behind ; 
 
 Water defiled may gain 
 Its purity, without an atom lost, 
 
 It does but lose its stain. 
 
 In confidence possess thy soul, 
 In Patience, Calmness, Love, 
 
 Till, crystal-clear, its waters lie, 
 Calm as the skies above. 
 
 So will they the Elixir bright 
 
 Of Life most truly be : 
 The magic draught which dowers us 
 
 With Immortality. 
 
 For sweetened by eternal springs, 
 
 And purified by Pain, 
 They are the Cup whereof who drinks 
 
 Shall never thirst again. 
 
 2. Transmutation. 
 
 IN Flesh Immortal Life begins ; 
 
 Heaven lies within, 'tis writ : 
 The Body may a temple be 
 
 If God transfigure it. 
 
VITA MYSTICA. 87 
 
 There may arise a Bethlehem 
 
 Within thy soul to-day j 
 And in the " Manger " of thy Life 
 
 Thou must the Christ-Child lay. 
 
 Not in the palace, or the Inn, 
 
 But in the oxen's stall : 
 'Twas there the Wise Men found the Birth 
 
 Of Life Celestial. 
 
 3. Magic. 
 
 THE mystery of Growth who knows ? 
 
 A silent, unseen Force, 
 Apart from thee it works its will, 
 
 And takes its unseen Course. 
 
 The seed becomes a plant, the plant 
 
 Bursts into bud and flower ; 
 By alchemy of earth and air 
 
 And nurture of the shower. 
 
 But whence the substance of the plant ? 
 
 How did it upward grow ? 
 Not from the seed, not from the mould. 
 
 The mystery none may know. 
 
88 VITA MYSTICA. 
 
 Take note the lilies of the field, 
 They neither toil nor spin ; 
 
 Plant thou the seed within the soul, 
 And lo ! the Flower within ! 
 
 4. Prima Mater ia. 
 
 THE element of Human Will 
 
 Is not yet wholly known, 
 Although its right of miracle 
 
 Has oft been taught and shown. 
 
 In Thought we hold the motive power 
 
 That made the universe : 
 Its triumph Truth could make us free, 
 
 Its slavery is our curse. 
 
 Miracles are but sovereign Thought ; 
 
 Latent, they lie in us. 
 In other truth, w r e see there's naught 
 
 That is miraculous. 
 
 If we could only realise 
 The Best our Thought can give, 
 
 That Thought alone would limit then 
 The Life we might receive. 
 
VITA MYSTICA. 89 
 
 5. The Philosopher's Stone. 
 
 TRUTH must be true in every plane. 
 
 The Magian only wrought 
 In baser substance what his soul 
 
 Discerned in worlds of Thought. 
 
 Surely the alchemy of old 
 
 Was an attempted sign 
 To show, in Matter, truths the soul 
 
 Worked out in things divine. 
 
 The New Name graven on the Stone, 
 
 The mystic Stone of white 
 These are but symbols : finite things 
 
 Ciphering the Infinite. 
 
 The search to find the Stone is hard : 
 
 Strait road and narrow gate. 
 The world cares not to walk therein : 
 
 The Life Regenerate. 
 
 The road is free to every one, 
 
 Yet heavy is the toll ; 
 By many names the road is called, 
 
 By many names the goal. 
 
90 VITA MYSTICA. 
 
 But each and all have meant the same 
 Since first the world began : 
 
 The Life that lives within the life, 
 The Man within the man. 
 
 And he who once perceives this quest 
 Nor life nor death will stay : 
 
 But Few, of even chosen ones, 
 There be who find the way. 
 
 Many, how many, lose the clue ! 
 
 Many, how many, fall ! 
 And some lose heart, and some lose life, 
 
 And scorn is given to all. 
 
 Yet he who follows out the quest 
 
 His life transmuted is : 
 Through all its Seven Spheres he feels 
 
 Celestial genesis. 
 
 The Cross becomes the Tree of Life, 
 The Crown of Thorns the Wreath ; 
 
 He spells the Words of Power that takes 
 All Victory from Death. 
 
VITA MYSTICA. 9! 
 
 His is the Inward Man that speaks 
 
 As one who sees and KNOWS : 
 The Interlaced Triangles his, 
 
 The Flaming Star and Rose. 
 
 He passes Earth's penumbral shade, 
 
 He conquers all eclipse : 
 His is the Stone of White the Seer 
 
 Saw in Apocalypse. 
 
 It squares the circle in its lines : 
 
 Numbers are fused in One : 
 Its sphere contains the Universe ; 
 
 Its light outshines the Sun. 
 
 6. The Seal of Solomon. 
 
 THE Seer that in the desert slept 
 
 Beheld the angels fair 
 Ascending and descending still 
 
 Upon the Golden Stair. 
 
 The lines descending to the Stone, 
 
 To us the Beth-el true ! 
 Became in turn ascending lines 
 
 To meet Descent anew. 
 
92 VITA MYSTICA. 
 
 Behold the mystic symbol here, 
 
 Graved on the opal stone : 
 The two Triangles Interlaced, 
 
 The Seal of Solomon. 
 
 And one descends and one ascends ; 
 
 They cross in every line : 
 And as a star shall shine the Soul 
 
 Whose Life has wrought the Sign. 
 
 7. The Word of Power. 
 
 " GIVE us a Sign ! " the people cried. 
 
 The Master stayed his hand. 
 No sign was given, save one they knew 
 
 And would not understand. 
 
 Whate'er might soothe the suffering 
 
 Was never put aside : 
 But for the sign of Magic Power 
 
 It always was denied. 
 
 Though from the Grave one rose and spake, 
 Him would not earth believe. 
 
 For he who hears not silence speak 
 Cannot the Word receive. 
 
THE REED-PIPE. 
 
 THE reed's a perfect instrument, 
 
 But hard to learn, they say : 
 A thought too much of pitch and lo ! 
 
 The sound flies off, away ! 
 
 The note at once the octave leaps, 
 
 And straight to silence goes : 
 The sound has gone clean gone but where ? 
 
 Ah ! where indeed ? who knows ? 
 
 See ! if vibrations grow too swift 
 
 They pass to the Beyond. 
 To ope that door to Eye and Ear 
 
 Who has the magic wand ? 
 
 I would be as a reed to Love, 
 
 But am not tuned aright ; 
 Too rapid the vibrations are, 
 
 The notes have taken flight ! 
 
 93 
 
94 THE REED-PIPE. 
 
 I meant to pipe a song for you, 
 But vain is such an aim : 
 
 My love has leapt to silence, dear, 
 At touch of your sweet Name. 
 
 But you have that enchanted rod 
 The unseen gates to move : 
 
 To you will silence yield the song, 
 And vocalise my love. 
 
u 
 
 AURORE. 
 
 AN OCTAVE OF SONG. 
 
 First Morning. 
 
 THE new- waked spirit sometimes sighs 
 
 For Life Eternal in the skies : 
 
 Straightway this bright thought crowns the brow,- 
 
 " Eternity is always Now." 
 
 Second Morning. 
 
 Find me the sun above these clouds, 
 
 O, heart of mine ! 
 Or take the clouds themselves as proof 
 
 The sun doth shine. 
 
 The loveliest Sign the sunshine gives 
 
 To mortal eyes, 
 Is wrought by it in falling rain 
 
 On cloudy skies. 
 
96 AURORE. 
 
 How say, " the sun shines not to-day," 
 
 Whilst day is day ? 
 The daylight is but sunlight veiled 
 
 In clouds of grey. 
 
 Live on the rays that filter through : 
 
 For every one 
 That falls on thee, it came for thee 
 
 Straight from the sun. 
 
 In shade or sunshine be content, 
 
 O, heart ! and know 
 Earth's atmosphere which makes the cloud 
 
 Makes Light also. 
 
 Third Morning. 
 
 Awake ! 
 The light of day I never yet have seen ! 
 
 Forth from its slumber let my Being break ! 
 I know, I feel, I never yet have been 
 
 Body and soul awake. 
 
 The sleep of Adam is not yet forgot. 
 
 There is a sleepless life in us that fain 
 Would take us to the Life that slumbers not, 
 
 Never to sleep again. 
 
AURORE. 97 
 
 Fourth Morning. 
 
 What is the bugle-call to-day 
 That doth to us " Reveillez " say ? 
 
 Is it some great thing to be done ? 
 Some work fulfilled ? some joy forgone ? 
 
 Or is it that life comes to us 
 With no task made solicitous : 
 
 But with an open sheet addressed 
 For us to write what seems us best ? 
 
 That were indeed the harder task 
 For watchful life from us to ask. 
 
 But we accept the challenge bright, 
 On a clear page our Day to write. 
 
 The morning bugle-call that rings 
 To us the thought of upward things 
 
 May ring at sundown on a Day 
 That has harked forward on the way. 
 7 
 
98 AURORE. 
 
 Fifth Morning. 
 
 What are the " debts " O God the which 
 
 Forgiven we ask to be ? 
 The touch of Thee that lives in us 
 
 That is our Debt to Thee. 
 
 The debtor's count grows day by day 
 
 In all we hear and see : 
 All that is meant by that word " life " 
 This is our Debt to Thee. 
 
 The Birthright given in the Christ, 
 Of which we hold the key : 
 
 The Mystery of the Sons of God 
 These are our " Debts " to Thee. 
 
 Sixth Morning. 
 
 In the dim land of Sleep 
 Where did I go last night ? 
 
 Memory is there none 
 
 Of what was said and done : 
 All has taken flight ! 
 
AURORE. 99 
 
 In that dark world of Dreams 
 We are but wanderers lost ! 
 
 Born in a world unknown : 
 
 Sailing out, alone, 
 
 Drifting, or tempest-tossed ! 
 
 Ah ! in the world of Death, 
 
 What for the wandering soul ? 
 Falling asleep, as 'twere, 
 Drifts it to some Dream-sphere 
 Where it has no control ? 
 
 If our own Thought-world makes 
 
 That unto which we go, 
 Why does it claim us not 
 When sleep has freed our Thought ? 
 
 What is Dream's phantom-show ? 
 
 Well : we arise from sleep 
 
 The dreams, they pass away ! 
 Sleep, none the less, makes us strong, 
 We greet the Light with a song, 
 And we face the coming day. 
 
100 AURORE. 
 
 See ! how bright is the Morn ! 
 
 Draw in its life-giving breath ! 
 Bright may that Morning be, 
 God ! when we wake to Thee, 
 
 After the Dreams of Death ! 
 
 Seventh Morning. 
 
 The earth to me is not the same it was 
 
 In childhood's days of " splendour in the grass." 
 
 The sunset has a different tale to tell 
 To that in youth I loved to hear so well. 
 
 The Dawn no more the message gives it had 
 In wondrous summers when I was a lad. 
 
 Ah ! how the magic boyish memories come 
 And look at me and pass : for they are dumb ! 
 
 Far-off in more than years, with changes rife, 
 I view them as they were another life ! 
 
 Even as I who knows ? may view some day, 
 The hundred lives that led me on my way ! 
 
 But no regret I feel, no sense of pain, 
 No sighs for days that cannot come again. 
 
AURORE. 101 
 
 Those sighs are past : I sighed them once, in truth ; 
 I sang my echo-song of Vanished Youth ! 
 
 But Sunrise came ! a sun not seen before ! , 
 And Earth grows young for ever in That Aurore ! 
 
 Eighth Morning. 
 
 There's nothing great and nothing small ; 
 God is alike in each and all : 
 All things are lofty to the eye 
 That sees in all, Reality. 
 
 God's Kingdom is on earth begun : 
 Time and Eternity are one : 
 And Heaven is not some distant sphere : 
 It lies about us Now and Here. 
 
VERSES 
 
 WRITTEN FOR AN ADAPTATION OF DICKENS'S 
 " CHRISTMAS CAROL." 
 
 i. Chorus of Spirits. 
 
 i. 
 
 AH ! will it last for ever, 
 The struggle and endeavour ? 
 
 Who will set thee free ? 
 The wail of wasted life, 
 Goal of a barren strife 
 
 These things wait for thee ! 
 Shadow and Illusion, 
 Phantom and Confusion, 
 
 All you love may be. 
 Flesh doth the soul conceal ; 
 Only That is Real 
 
 Which you cannot see. 
 
VERSES. 103 
 
 II. 
 
 Life turns to decay, 
 All things pass away ; 
 
 Where is Reality ? 
 Listen ! look ! 'Tis near. 
 He with ears shall hear, 
 
 He, and only he ! 
 Not in sight or sound, 
 Not in things around 
 
 Mortals find the key. 
 Flesh doth the soul conceal 
 Only that is Real 
 
 Which you cannot see. 
 
 2. A Christmas Song. 
 
 MANY our pleasures and many our pains, 
 
 Worries enough and to spare ! 
 Days there are in each month when it rains, 
 
 Days, when the skies are fair ; 
 But very good things, very, very good things- 
 
 Oh, no ! they don't often appear ! 
 Holidays many the round year brings, 
 
 But Christmas comes once a year. 
 
104 VERSES. 
 
 So 
 
 Songs we'll sing to it, 
 Bells we'll ring to it, 
 Joy we'll bring to it 
 Once a year ! 
 
 ii. 
 
 Perhaps when winds are bitter-black, 
 And the ground is hard as a brick, 
 When water-pipes burst, and glasses crack, 
 
 And coals burn all too quick, 
 When bills a many there are to pay, 
 
 And nothing to pay them O, dear ! 
 We are almost sorry that Christmas Day 
 Should come even once a year ! 
 Ah! 
 
 Yea or nay for it, 
 Say what you may for it, 
 Oh ! we pay for it 
 Once a year ! 
 
 in. 
 
 But ah 1 what matter the worry and chill 
 When we clasp the hands we love ? 
 
 We take the good and we take the ill,, 
 Press forward, and look above. 
 
VERSES. 105 
 
 For hearts grow warm when earth doth freeze, 
 
 And stars i' the dark shine clear : 
 So let us be glad (all together, please !) 
 That Christmas comes once a year. 
 Ay! 
 
 Comes with light for us, 
 Makes life bright for us, 
 Puts things right for us 
 Once a year ! 
 
 3. A Carol. 
 
 CHRISTMAS carols ! Christmas carols ! 
 
 Still we sing them year by year ; 
 Still the holy Christmas message, 
 
 " Peace on earth," the nations hear. 
 But we wait in vain ! expectant 
 
 Of that Advent in the skies ; 
 For its kingdom is within us. 
 
 And 'tis there that sun must rise. 
 Christmas Day the wondrous Birthday 
 
 Of the soul's celestial Breath 
 Whilst it gives new life to this life 
 
 Gives nativity to Death. 
 
106 VERSES. 
 
 If its Truth were born within us 
 
 Life were Immortality, 
 And a song too great for singing 
 
 Would our Christmas carol be ! 
 
 Not alone when snows are falling 
 
 Do the herald angels sing : 
 They are with us in the May-time 
 
 If our hearts are listening. 
 Summer, Winter, Seed-time, Harvest, 
 
 All alike are Christmas-time 
 Unto him who hears the Tidings 
 
 In each passing hour and chime. 
 Look above, and look within you, 
 
 Seek and find your Bethlehem : 
 For the Star the Wise Men followed 
 
 Shines for us as erst for them. 
 Every breath becomes a carol, 
 
 Every star-beam points the way, 
 And the message of the Christmas 
 
 Lives for all in every day ! 
 
LINES 
 
 WRITTEN AFTER READING A POEM BY THOMAS BAILEY 
 ALDRICH CALLED " VOICES AND VISIONS " REGRET- 
 TING THE LOSS OF THE FAIRYLAND OF YOUTH. 
 
 " In youth, beside the summer sea, 
 Voices and visions came to me. 
 
 Now one by one the visions fly, 
 
 Now one by one the voices die," &c., &c. 
 
 STILL in the common daily round 
 The visions shine, the voices sound. 
 
 Ah ! do not ever from me flee ; 
 Still to the end companion me. 
 
 Eyesight may dim and hearing fail, 
 Our Life may try to weave a veil 
 
 Between me and that shining sphere 
 That shone upon me once so clear, 
 
 107 
 
108 LINES. 
 
 But let me all these things defy 
 To dull the Spirit's ear and eye. 
 
 For Age what is it ? Time is naught 
 To him who holds the world of thought. 
 
 Away then, plaints of vain regret, 
 For youth gone by, and suns now set ! 
 
 Away with fears that days may dawn 
 When those fair visions are withdrawn ! 
 
 Those whom the gods love so 'tis sung- 
 Always (I read it thus) die young ! 
 
 Their youth, that is, lasts all their day : 
 Childhood for them fades not away ; 
 
 It only sinks within apart 
 To live for ever in the Heart. 
 
 Ah ! let me never lose the gleam 
 
 Of that true world men call a Dream ! 
 
 Mine be the blame if sense grow gross, 
 If those fair visions suffer loss. 
 
LINES. 109 
 
 Let the loud world go on amain, 
 Toiling at what it counts as gain, 
 
 Laugh with a pitying smile at what 
 It seeth and it heareth not, 
 
 Gibe at the Truth it dubs " Ideal," 
 And clutch Illusions it calls " Real" ; 
 
 But let the world be still to me 
 The same it was in Infancy ! 
 
 The same and better ! Fairyland 
 Brought living to my very hand, 
 
 And " heaven " once far beyond the sky 
 Part of to-day's reality ! 
 
 So, whilst the round years onward roll, 
 Till Death itself unloose the soul 
 
 Ay, seeing as I now do see 
 
 For ever, mine may this prayer be 
 
 " Voices and Visions, come to me ! " 
 
SUNSHINE. 
 
 As the flowers, though earth-rooted, 
 Take their colour from the sun : 
 
 So my life takes form and colour, 
 All from thee, my dearest one. 
 
 In the rose and in the lily, 
 
 In the violet, there lies 
 Beauty that is born in heaven, 
 
 Light drawn down from summer skies. 
 
 Thus the heart of every flower 
 
 Holds a sun-shaft, deep concealed : 
 
 But it throbs through all its being, 
 And in colour is revealed. 
 
 If my life gain any honour, 
 Give the honour where 'tis due : 
 
 For I hold you. in my heart, dear, 
 And the light comes shining through. 
 
UNWIN BROTHERS, 
 CHILWORTH 3ND LONDON. 
 
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 and style. Mr. Pryce has conferred a benefit upon novel readers by the production 
 of so noble and interesting a book as 'The Burden of a Woman.' " Speaker. 
 
 " Mr. Richard Pryce's latest book is also, we think, his best." Daily News. 
 
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 best novels of the year." Birmingham Post. 
 
 " This novel is good to read. . . . Mr. Pryce, we fancy, has done nothing better 
 than ' The Burden of a Woman.'" Birmingham Gazette. 
 
 "By dint of work of exceptional merit Mr. Richard Pryce has attained a very 
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 By the same Author. 
 
 Winifred Mount. 
 
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 By DBAS CROMARTY, Author of " A High Little World," etc. 
 
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 viii 
 
FEB 1 2 1986 
 
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