THE COLLECTED POEMS \jyrical and Narrative Of Mary Robinson (Madame Duclaux) LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF CAUFORNIA SAN DIEGO COLLECTED POEMS BY THE SAME AUTHOR RETROSPECT, Demy unto, paper boards, 3/6 THE NEW ARCADIA, 3/6 THE COLLECTED POEMS Lyrical and Narrative a Preface and P0rf;< 9atertu>tttr Square K Afttr <i Drawing *v JUiit Lixa Stillman. .J Plictegraph f>\ '. nti-lyft Caiifnn THE COLLECTED POEMS Lyrical and Narrative Of A. Mary F. Robinson (Madame Duclauz) Wild a Preface and Portrait London : T. Filter Unwin Paternoster Square Memii [All rights reserved.} Amori et Dolori Sacrum PREFACE I HAVE always thought that one should write poetry only as one dies ; that is to say, at the last extremity and when it is impossible to do otherwise. And yet, after some three-and-twenty years of much refraining, I find myself possessed of a considerable volume of Collected Poems, to say nothing of that larger quantity of verse disseminated in the waste-paper baskets of London, Paris, Italy, Touraine, Auvergne. By no means all my published poems are reprinted here ; I have retained such as seemed to me the best. In sending them out to affront the world anew, with some fresh companions, I have carefully re-considered them all, revised the greater part, and re-written a good many. I have hesitated under what name to publish them, and, persuaded that no reader will remember two foreign names, in addition to an English one, I have reverted to that which I bore when first I wrote them. Mary James Darmesteter has no longer a right to exist. As regards the English public, Madame Duclaux has given no proof of her existence ; she has, she hopes, before her a modest future of French prose, and leaves her English verses to Mary Robinson. I send forth this little book with scant expectance of immediate success. Entirely lyrical, intellectual, or romantic, these little poems must sound as the merest vii PREFACE tootling of Corydon's reed-pipe in ears accustomed to the martial music of our times. Yet, like all poets, I trust these little songs may find an audience to-morrow : they have that saving virtue of sincerity which is the salt of Art. But if I see the necessary grace that they possess, how clearly, alas ! do I perceive the magnificent qualities they lack ! Here there is nothing of the rush, the sumptuous abundance, the vigour, the splendour of Byron or Hugo ; nothing of that sensuous magic and flooding glory which make certain lines of Keats and Swinburne blaze, as it were, in colour on the page. Still I fancy that Wordsworth, Tennyson, Vigny, and even the immortal Goethe all the meditative poets might have cared to read some of these sober little songs. We cannot all be great poets ; but the humblest, it they be sincere, may give a genuine pleasure. I have marked in red the days on which I discovered certain poets, most certainly minor, who died centuries ago. With what delight I made acquaintance with Ausonius and Dr. Donne, still more so with Joachim de Bellay, Marie de France, or Shahid the Bactrian : dear, en- chanting books, exhumed from the dustiest corner of the library, that never counted on me for an audience. I may have to wait as long till I repay my debt to some other student who perchance, beside a bookstall of Cape Town or Honolulu, may fish my poems from the fourpenny box, or light on them in some anthology. But I count on his appreciation. Depend upon it, after the very greatest names in poetry (who are to all of us a second religion) the minor poets have the happiest lot. Each of us worships in the temples of Dante, Shakespeare, Goethe, Moliere ; but each of us also has some private niche, some inconsiderable intimate shrine, for' the poet no one praises, who is all the more our own. How dreary the state and rank of your second-best great poet, enthroned in dismal glory on the less frequented slopes of Parnassus ! Who lights a PREFACE taper or pulls a posy for Dryden or Schiller or Alfieri ? We admire them sincerely ; in theory, we love them. How often in the year do we take down their works and read them ? Take the case of a writer who, in his person, unites one of the greatest of epic writers to the most exquisite of minor poets : which do we read the more often, " Lycidas " or " Paradise Regained " ? . . . I live in a Catholic country where almost every city boasts of its historic cathedral. They are nearly always empty. But turn down the side street, enter yon barn-like chapel topped by a wooden cross : the whitewashed walls of the sanctuary of St. Anthony ot Padua are thronged with worshippers intimate and devout. St. Peter and St. Paul have their incom- parable domes ; save on highdays and holidays, they have them all to themselves ! In the work-a-day hours of life, when you snatch at a prayer in passing, as you pluck a rose over a fence, half furtively the swift petition, the familiar avowal, are, apparently, for the Lesser Saint. The chapel of the Minor Poet may be too small to admit the crowd ; it may be thronged when three or four are gathered together. None the less, it has its use and place. It is, I believe, a mis- take, to suppose, as Tolstoy contends, that no Art is legitimate save that which has for its object the happi- ness of the greatest number. Yet I admit that the poet who consciously addresses a few is, by definition, the Minor Poet, the man of a smaller race, the younger brother, who, whatever his merits, shall not obtain the full inheritance. "Shall Life be an Ode? Or shall Life be a Drama ? " wrote one day James Darmesteter, the friend of all my verses and the occasion of many among them. My life has been an Ode, of which those pages are the scattered fragments. If ever I have escaped from its tranquil sequences, it has been but for an instant and through some partial opening of the gates of Imagination, set in movement by some incident in real life or some episode of my reading, ix PREFACE I have never been able to write about what was not known to me and near. Tim Black, the Scapegoat, and most of the personages of the New Arcadia, lived on a common in Surrey near my garden gates : all of them are drawn from human models. The Romantic Ballads were inspired by my historical studies. Some persons of culture have refused me the right to express myself in those simple forms of popular song which I have loved since childhood as sincerely as any peasant. If the critics would only believe it, they have come as naturally to me, if less happily, than they came of old to a Lady Wardlaw, a Lady Linsday, or a Lady Nairn. We women have a privilege in these matters, as M. Gaston Paris has reminded us. We have always been the prime makers of ballads and love songs, of anony- mous snatches and screeds of popular song. We meet together no longer on Mayday, as of old, in Provence, to set the fashion in tensos and sonnets. But some old wife or other, crooning over her fire of sticks, in Scot- land or the Val d'Aosta, in Roumania or Gascony, is probably at the beginning of most romantic Ballads. Mine, of course, have the fatal defect of having crystal- lised too soon ; they lack the patient polish of succeed- ing generations. But that it is, most obviously, not in my power to remedy. The only way would be for my readers to learn them by heart, half-forget them, and re-write them, omitting the non-essential. It is a necessary process ; but I can only offer them in their unripeness, reminding my readers that the beautiful rispetti of the Tuscan hills, the ballads of Scotland and Piedmont, have all at one moment lacked the admirable patina which age and time alone confer. MARY DUCLAUX. OLMET, CANTAL, September, 1901. CONTENTS AN ITALIAN GARDEN AND OTHER LYRICS * An asterisk indicates the new poems PAGE FLORENTINE MAY 3 REMEMBRANCE . 5 VENETIAN NOCTURNE 6 INVOCATIONS .... ..... 7 THE FEAST OF ST. JOHN 8 TREASURE SONG 9 TEMPLE GARLANDS 10 To A ROSE DEAD AT MORNING n STREWINGS 12 PALLOR 13 TUSCAN CYPRESS . . . 14 LOVE WITHOUT WINGS 19 SEMITONES 22 ELYSIUM 24 STORNELLI AND STRAMBOTTI 25 CELIA'S HOME-COMING 27 * POSIES 29 ALTERNATIVES 30 DRYADS 31 ROSA ROSARUM 33 AN OASIS 35 CASTELLO 36 TORRENTS 17 AUBADE TRISTE 38 POPLAR LEAVES 39 SPRING UNDER CYPRESSES 40 Music 42 ART AND LIFE 43 xi CONTENTS LYRICS. PAGE A PASTORAL OF PARNASSUS 44 A SEARCH FOR APOLLO 4^ AN ADDRESS TO THE NIGHTINGALE 47 WILD CHERRY BRANCHES . 49 TUSCAN OLIVE 5 1 APPREHENSION 54 FRIENDSHIP 56 TWO LOVERS S 8 A GREY DAY . 60 A SONG 6l PARADISE FANCIES . . . 62 A DIALOGUE ......... 64 LE ROI EST MORT 65 LETHE 66 A RIFIORITA 67 A PASTORAL 68 DAWN-ANGELS 69 TO A DRAGON FLY 7O SONG OF A STORMY NIGHT ^2 TWO SISTERS 73 LOVERS 76 LONDON STUDIES 77 THANKSGIVING FOR FLOWERS 79 MAIDEN LOVE 80 LOVE, DEATH, AND ART 8 1 SONNET 82 FONS VIT.S 83 THE CUP OF LIFE 85 LOVE AND VISION . . . . . . . 86 LOVE AMONG THE SAINTS 88 THE SPRINGS OF FONTANA 91 SERENADE 93 THE FROZEN RIVER . 94 NEURASTHENIA ... 95 xii CONTENTS LYRICS. PAGE SONG ........... O^ NIGHT .......... Q- SONG .......... Og SONNET yy THE DEPARTURE ........ Ioo GOING SOUTH ....... IOI LOVE IN THE WORLD ..... IO2 THREE SONGS ........ I0 , THE DEAD FRIEND ....... I04 AN ORCHARD AT AVIGNON ...... IO 5 TWILIGHT ......... I0 - RETROSPECT ........ I0g FOREIGN SPRING ....... Irl THE SIBYL ........ n2 EPTHATHA ......... JI3 SERENA .......... II4 A FRENCH LILY ........ JJ7 SPRING ........ Ilg *MAIDENS jj ADAM AND EVE ....... I2O WRITING HISTORY ...... 12I SOLDIERS PASSING . ..... J22 THE BOOKWORM ....... I2 - MELANCHOLIA ........ I2 . SONG .......... I25 OLD SONGS ........ I2 5 *TO MY MUSE ........ I27 'MICHAELMAS . SONGS OF THE INNER LIFE. "FOREWORD *THE TWO LIONS *RELIGIONS *THE LOST SHEEP xiii CONTENTS SONGS OF THE INNER LIFE. PAGI "THE GATE OF TEARS 135 *TESTE SIBYLLA I3& *"SEEK, AND YE SHALL FIND" 137 *BEAUTY 138 'RHYTHM I4O "THE VALLEY 141 DARWINISM ... 144 THE STARS 145 ETRUSCAN TOMBS 147 FIRE-FLIES 150 THE IDEA . . . 153 THE WALL 154 154 GOD IN A HEART 155 UNDER THE TREES 156 THE IDEAL 158 A CLASSIC LANDSCAPE IOO VERSAILLES l6l THE ONE CERTAINTY l62 PERSONALITY 163 TUBEROSES 165 THE BARRIER 167 *THE ROAD LEADING NOWHERE l68 SPRING AND AUTUMN 169 FAIR GHOSTS 170 SOUVENIR 171 THE VISION 172 THE PRESENT AGE 173 LIBERTY 174 VERITATEM DILEXI ........ 175 TAKING POSSESSION . . . . . . . .176 VISHTASPA 177 ZENO 179 SACRIFICE ISO xiv CONTENTS SONGS OF THE INNER LIFE. PA r, A JONQUIL IN THE PISAN CAMPO SANTO . . . . l8l *UNUM EST NECESSARIUM 1 82 CALAIS BEACON I**5 THE GOSPEL ACCORDING TO ST. PETER . . . . l87 A CONTROVERSY l88 ANTIPHON TO THE HOLY SPIRIT I&9 POEMS AND IDYLLS. THE WIDOW 193 HELEN IN THE WOOD 195 LOSS 197 THE CHILDREN'S ANGEL 201 SIR ELDRIC 2O3 THE GARDENER OF SINOPE 205 JOTZI SCHULTHEISS 212 CONSTANCE AND MARTUCCIO 2l8 PHILUMENE TO ARISTIDES 225 THE WIDOWER OF HAIDERABAD 228 THE DEER AND THE PROPHET 23O THE SLUMBER OF KING SOLOMON 234 THE NEW ARCADIA. A THE HAND-BELL RINGERS 237 THE OLD COUPLE 240 THE SCAPE-GOAT 243 CHURCH-GOING TIM 245 THE WISE WOMAN 248 THE ROTHERS 252 MEN AND MONKEYS 260 ROMANTIC BALLADS. THE TOWER OF ST. MAUR 265 THE DUKE OF GUELDRES* WEDDING .... 272 ROSAMUNDA 277 XV CONTENTS ROMANTIC BALLADS. PJUJE CAPTAIN GOLD AND FRENCH JANET .... 279 A BALLAD OF ORLEANS 28l THE DEATH OF THE COUNT OF ARMANAC . . . 283 CAPTAIN ORTIS' BOOTY 286 SIR HUGH AND THE SWANS 289 THE MOWER 2Q2 RUDEL AND THE LADY OF TRIPOLI 2Q4 THE DEAD MOTHER 3OO THE DEATH OF PRESTER JOHN 3O3 XVI AN ITALIAN GARDEN, AND OTHER LTRICS M'affaccio alia fenestra e veggo il mare E mi ricordo chc s'ha da morirc : Termineranno le speranze care ! TUSCAN STORNELLO. Un cceur tendre qui bait le neant vaste et noir Du passe lumineux recueille tout vestige. BAUDILAJRI. F lor en tin e May STILL, still is the Night ; still as the pause after pain ; Still and as dear ; Deep, solemn, immense ; veiling the stars in the clear Thrilling and luminous blue of the moon-shot atmo- sphere ; Ah, could the Night remain ! Who, truly, shall say thou art s*ullen or dark or unseen, Thou, O heavenly Night, Clear o'er the valley of olives asleep in the quivering light, Clear o'er the pale-red hedge of the rose, and the lilies all white Down at my feet in the green ? Nay, not as the Day, thou art light, O Night, with a beam Far more dear and divine ; Never the noon was blue as these tremulous heavens or thine, Pulsing with stars half seen, and vague in a pallid shine, Vague as a dream. 3 FLORENTINE MAY Night, clear with the moon, filled with the dreamy fire Shining in thicket and close, Fire from the lamp in his breast that the luminous fire- fly throws ; Night, full of wandering light and of song, and the blossoming rose, Night, be thou my desire ! Night, Angel of Night, hold me and cover me so Open thy wings ! Ah, bend above and embrace ! till I hear in the one bird that sings The throb of thy musical heart in the dusk, and the magical things Only the Night can know. Remembrance O NIGHT of Death, O night that bringest all ! Night full of dreams and large with promises, O night that holdest on thy shadowy knees Sleep for all fevers, hope for every thrall ; Bring thou to my beloved, when I die, The memory of our enchanted past ; So let her turn, remembering me at last, And I shall hear and triumph where I lie. Then let my face, pale as a waning moon, Rise on thy dark and be again as dear ; Let my dead voice find its forgotten tune And strike again as sweetly on her ear As when, upon my lips, one far-ofFJune, Thy name, O Death ! she could not brook to hear. Venetian Nocturne DOWN the narrow Calle where the moonlight cannot enter, The houses are so high ; Silent and alone we pierced the night's dim core and centre Only you and I. Clear and sad our footsteps rang along the hollow pavement, Sounding like a bell ; Sounding like a voice that cries to souls in Life's enslavement, " There is Death as well ! " Down the narrow dark we went, until a sudden whiteness Made us hold our breath ; All the white Salute towers and domes in moonlit brightness, Ah ! could this be Death ? Invocations O SONG in the nightingale's throat, O music, Dropt as it fell by a falling star, All of the silence is filled with thy pain, Listening till it shall echo again. O song in the nightingale's throat, O music, Thou art the soul of the silence afar ! O space of the moon in the starless heaven, Raining a whiteness on moorland and sea, Falling as lightly and purely as dew, All of the shadow thou filterest through ; O space of the moon ia the starless heaven, Surely the night is the shadow of thee ! O silence of Death, O world of darkness, When over me the last shadow shall fall, Holdest thou safe in the night all around Any moon to arise, any music to sound ? O silence of Death, O world of darkness, Say, shall we feel thee or know thee at all : The Feast of St. John A MAN goes twanging a mandoline down in the valley, A girl sings late By the city gate, A chorus rings from the wine-shop, there, in the alley, (O cruel voices, cruel music making, I cannot sleep and am so sick of waking /) The lanterns strung in the Piazza burn scarlet and yellow, They swing and shine In a fiery line ; The fire-flies flit thro' the fields where the corn is mellow. (Already in the East, alas, the morrow Pales with the sick renewal of a sorrow.) THE miser loves to count his store Of barren ducats o'er and o'er : Above all pomp or pleasure He loves his golden treasure. And I do love to count alone A useless treasure of mine own Heigho ! Delights of dreaming, So dear, and only seeming ! Temple Garlands THERE is a temple in my heart Where moth or rust can never come, A temple swept and set apart To make my soul a home. And round about the doors of it Hang garlands that for ever last, That gathered once are always sweet ; The roses of the Past ! 10 To a Rose Dead at Morning O PURPLE blossoms, rained upon, O'er which the noon-day never shone, Which never knew the dearest prime And fragrance of the summer time, O blossoms, shedding all your leaves, Before they feel the coolest dew, My soul that so untimely grieves And sheds hersong is even as you ! II Strewings STROW poppy buds about my quiet head And pansies on mine eyes, And rose-leaves on the lips that were so red Before they blanched with sighs. Let gilly-flowers breathe their spicy breath Under my tired feet, But do not mock the heart that starved to death With aught of fresh or sweet ! 12 Pallor THE great white lilies in the grass Are pallid as the smile of death ; For they remember still alas ! The graves they sprang from underneath. The angels up in heaven are pale For all have died, when all is said ; Nor shall the lutes of Eden avail To let them dream they are not dead. Tuscan Cypress (SIXTEEN RISPETTI) ft* MY mother bore me 'neath the streaming moon, And all the enchanted light is in my soul. I have no place amid the happy noon, I have no shadow there nor aureole. Ah, lonely whiteness in a clouded sky, You are alone, nor less alone am I ; Ah, moon, that makest all the roses grey, The roses I behold are wan as they ! ii. What good is there, Ah me, what good in Love ? Since, even if you love me, we must part ; And since for either, and you cared enough, There's but division and a broken heart ? And yet, God knows, to hear you say : My Dear ! I would lie down and stretch me on the bier. And yet would [, to hear you say : My own ! With mine own hands drag down the burial stone. 4 TUSCAN CYPRESS in. I love you more than any words can say, And yet you do not feel I love you so ; And slowly I am dying day by day, You look at me, and yet you do not know. You look at me, and yet you do not fear : You do not see the mourners with the bier. You answer when I speak and wish me well, And still you do not hear the passing-bell. IV. Love, O Love, come over the sea, come here, Come back and kiss me once when I am dead! Come back and lay a rose upon my bier, Come, light the tapers at my feet and head. Come back and kiss me once upon the eyes, So I, being dead, shall dream of Paradise ; Come, kneel beside me once and say a prayer, So shall my soul be happy anywhere. v. 1 sowed the field of Lov with many seeds, With many sails I sailed before the blast, And all my crop is only bitter weeds ; My sails are torn, the winds have split the mast. All of the winds have torn my sails and shattered, All of the winds have blown my seed and scattered, All of the storms have burst on my endeavour, So let me sleep at last and sleep for ever. VI. I am so pale to-night, so mere a ghost, Ah, what, to-morrow, shall my spirit be ? No living angel of the heavenly host, No happy soul, blithe in eternity. '5 TUSCAN CYPRESS Nay ; I shall wander on beneath the moon A lonely phantom seeking for you, soon ; A wandering ghost, seeking you timidly, Whom you will tremble, dear, and start to see ! VII. When I am dead and I am quite forgot, What care I if my spirit lives or dies ? To walk with angels in a grassy plot, And pluck the lilies grown in Paradise ? Ah, no ! the heaven of all my heart has been To hear your voice and catch the sighs between. Ah, no ! the better heaven I fain would give, But in a cranny of your soul to live. VIII. Ah me, you well might wait a little while, And not forget me Sweet, until I die ! I had a home, a little distant isle, With shadowy trees and tender misty sky. I had a home ! It was less dear than thou, And I forgot, as you forget me now. I had a home, more dear than I could tell, And I forgot, but now remember well. IX. Love me to-day and think not on to-morrow ! Come, take my hands, and lead me out of doors, There in the fields let us forget our sorrow, Talking of Venice and Ionian shores ; Talking of all the seas innumerable Where we will sail and sing when I am well ; Talking of Indian roses gold and red, Which we will plait in wreaths when I am dead. 16 TUSCAN CYPRESS There is a Siren in the middle sea Sings all day long and wreathes her pallid hair. Seven years you sail, and seven, ceaselessly, From any port ere you adventure there. Thither we'll go, and thither sail away Out of the world, to hear the Siren play ! Thither we'll go and hide among her tresses, Since all the world is savage wildernesses. XI. Tell me a story, dear, that is not true, Strange as a vision, full of splendid things ; Here will I lie and dream it is not you, And dream it is a mocking bird that sings. For if I find your voice in any part, Even the sound of it will break my heart ; For if you speak of us and of our love, I faint and die to feel the thrill thereof. XII. Let us forget we loved each other much, Let us forget we ever have to part, Let us forget that any look or touch Once let in either to the other's heart. Only we'll sit upon the daisied grass And hear the larks and see the swallows pass ; Only we'll live awhile, as children play, Without to-morrow, without yesterday. XIII. Far, far away and in the middle sea So still I dream, although the dream is vain, There lies a valley full of rest for me, Where I shall live and you shall love again. 17 c TUSCAN CYPRESS O ships that sail, O masts against the sky, Will you not stop awhile in passing by ? prayers that hope, O faith that never knew, Will you not take me on to heaven with you ? XIV. Flower of the Cypress, little bitter bloom, You are the only blossom left to gather ; 1 never prized you, grown amid the gloom, But well you last, though all the others wither. Flower of the Cypress, I will bind a crown Tight round my brows to still these fancies down. Flower of the Cypress, I will tie a wreath Tight round my breast to kill the heart beneath. xv. Ah, Love, I cannot die, I cannot go Down in the dark and leave you all alone ! Ah, hold me fast, safe in the warmth I know, And never shut me underneath a stone. Dead in the grave ! And I can never hear If you are ill or if you miss me, Dear. Dead, oh my God ! and you may need me yet, While I shall sleep ; while I while / forget ! XVI. Come away Sorrow, Sorrow come away Let us go sit in some cool, shadowy place ; There shall you sing and hush me all the day, While I will dream about my lover's face. Hush me, O Sorrow, like a babe to sleep, Then close the lids above mine eyes that weep ; Rock me, O Sorrow, like a babe in pain, Nor, when I slumber, wake me up again. 18 Love Without Wings (EIGHT SONGS) I THOUGHT : no more the worst endures ! I die, I end the strife, You swiftly took my hands in yours And drew me back to life ! it. We sat when shadows darken, And let the*shadows be : Each was a soul to hearken, Devoid of eyes to see. You came at dusk to find me ; I knew you well enough . . . O lights that dazzle and blind me It is no friend, but Love ! How is it possible You should forget me, Leave me for ever And never regret me ! '9 LOVE WITHOUT WINGS I was the soul of you, Past love or loathing, Lost in the whole of you . . . Now, am I nothing ? IV. The fallen oak still keeps its yellow leaves But all its growth is o'er ! So, at your name, my heart still beats and grieves Although I love no more. v. And so I shall meet you Again, my dear ; How shall I greet you ? What shall I hear ? I, you forgot ! (But who shall say You loved me not Yesterday ?) VI. Ah me, do you remember still The garden where we strolled together The empty groves, the little hill Starred o'er with pale Italian heather ? And you to me said never a word, Nor I a single word to you. And yet how sweet a thing was heard, Resolved, abandoned by us two ! VII. I know you love me not ... I do not love you Only at dead of night I smile a little, softly dreaming of you Until the dawn is bright. 20 LOVE WITHOUT WINGS I love you not ; you love me not ; I know it ! But when the day is long I haunt you like the magic of a poet, And charm you like a song. O Death of things that are, Eternity Of things that seem ! Of all the happy past remains to me, To-day, a dream ! Long blessed days of love and wakening thought, All, all are dead ; Nothing endures we did, nothing we wrought, Nothing we said. But once I dreamed I sat and sang with you On Ida's hill. There, in the echoes of my life, we two Are singing still. 21 Semitones * GIVE me a rose not merely sweet and fresh, Not only red and bright, But caught about in such a thorny mesh As rankles in delight. Smile on me, Sweet ; but look not only kind The smile that most endears Trembles on pallid lips from eyes half-blind With brine of bitter tears. n. Ah, could 1 clasp thee in mine arms, And thou not feel me there, Asleep and free from vain alarms, Asleep and unaware ! Ah, could I kiss thy pallid cheek, And thou not know me nigh ; Asleep at last, and very meek, Who wert as proud as I. 22 SEMITONES in. We did not dream, my Heart, and yet With what a pang we woke at last ! We were not happy in the past It is so bitter to forget. We did not hope, my Soul, for Heaven ; Yet now the hour of death is nigh, How hard, how strange it is to die Like leaves along the tempest driven. Elysium INTO the valley of Death am I come, Into the asphodel meadow, Where in the grass there is never a tomb, Where there is rest and shadow ! All of the world is estranged to my eyes, Scarce can I see you or hear you You that are far from my faint Paradise Though 1 am with you and near you. All that I hoped for and all that I was, Drops like a cloak from my shoulders, Leaving the soul unencumbered to pass Out of the ken of beholders. Yea, in the valley of Death I awoke, Pallid and strange as a vision. All of my sorrow is vanished as smoke These are the valleys Elysian ! H Stornelli and Strambotti FLOWER of the vine ! 1 scarcely knew or saw how love began ; So mean a flower brings forth the sweetest wine ! ***** O mandolines that thrill the moonlit street, O lemon flowers so faint and freshly blown, O seas that lap a solemn music sweet Through all the pallid night against the stone, O lovers tramping past with happy feet, O heart that hast a memory of thine own For Mercy's sake no more, no more repeat The word it is so hard to hear alone ! Flowers in the hay ! My heart and all the fields are full of flowers ; So tall they grow before the mowing-day. u. Rose in the rain ! We part ; I dare not look upon your tears : So frail, so white, they shatter and they stain. STORNELLI AND STRAMBOTTI Love is a bird that breaks its voice with singing, Love is a rose blown open till it fall, Love is a bee that dies of its own stinging, And Love the tinsel cross upon a pall. Love is the Siren, towards a quicksand bringing Enchanted fishermen that hear her call. Love is a broken heart, Farewell, the wringing Of dying hands. Ah, do not love at all ! Rosemary leaves ! She who remembers cannot love again. She who remembers sits at home and grieves. 26 Celi as Home-Coming (TO F. M. R.) MAIDENS, kilt your skirts and go Down the stormy garden-ways, Pluck the last sweet pinks that blow, Gather roses, gather bays, Since our Celia comes to-day That has been too long away. Crowd her chamber with your sweets- Not a flower but grows for her ! Make her bed with linen sheets That have lain in lavender ; Light a fire before she come Lest she find us chill at home. Ah, what joy when Celia stands By the leaping blaze at last Stooping down to warm her hands All benumbed with the blast, While we hide her cloak away To assure us of her stay. 27 CELIA'S HOME-COMING Cyder bring and cowslip wine, Fruits and flavours from the East, Pears and pippins too, and fine Saffron loaves to make a feast : China dishes, silver cups, For the board where Celia sups ! Then, when all the feasting's done, She shall draw us round the blaze, Laugh, and tell us every one Of her far triumphant days Celia, out of doors a star, By the hearth a holier Lar ! 28 Posies * I MADE a posy for my love As fair as she is soft and fine : The lilac thrift I made it of, And lemon-yellow columbine. But woe is me for my despair, For my pale flowers, woe is me A bolder man has given her A branch of crimson peony ! 29 Alternatives DEAREST, should I love you more If you understood me ? If, when I am sick and sore, Straightway you divined wherefore, Then with herbs and healing store Of your love imbued me ? Nay, I have instead, you know, In your heart an arbour Where the great winds never go That about my spirit blow. Where the sweet wild roses grow, Sweeter thrushes harbour. What a joy at last to rest Safe therein from sorrow ! What a spur, when sore distressed, To at last attain your breast ! When the night is loneliest What a hope of morrow ! Dryaas THE Dryads dwell in Easter woods, Though mortals may not see them there ; They haunt our rustling solitudes, And love the solemn valleys where The bracken mocks their tawny hair. And where the rushes make a hedge With flowering lilies round the lake, They come to shelter in the sedge ; They dip their shining feet and slake Their thirst where shallow waters break. But through the sultry noon their home Surrounds some smooth old beechen stem. Behold how thick the empty dome Is heaped with russet leaves for them, Where burr or thistle never came ! And there they lie in languid flocks, A drift of sweetness unespied ; They dream among their tawny locks Until the welcome eventide Breathe freshly through the woods outside. 31 DRYADS And then a gleam of white is seen Among the huge old ilex-boughs ; The Dryads love its sombre green ; They make the tree their summer-house, And there they swing and there carouse. But, if the tender moon by chance Come up the skies with silver feet, They spring upon the ground and dance Where most the turf is thick and sweet,- And would that we were there to see 't ! Nay ! Nay ! For should the woodman find A Dryad in a hollow tree, He drops his hatchet, stricken blind I know not why, unless it be The maid's Immortal, and not he ! For none may see the nymph uncursed. And things unchristian haunt the woods . . They stoop above our wells athirst, They love our rustling solitudes Where olden magic ever broods : The Dryads dwell in Easter woods ! Rosa Rosarum GIVE me, O friend, the secret of thy heart Safe in my breast to hide, So that the leagues which keep our lives apart May not our souls divide. Give me the secret ot thy life to lay Asleep within mine own, Nor dream that it shall mock thee any day By any sign or tone. Nay, as in walking through some convent-close, Passing beside a well, Oft have we thrown a red and scented rose To watch it as it fell ; Knowing that never more the rose shall rise To shame us, being dead ; Watching it spin and dwindle till it lies At rest, a speck of red Thus, I beseech thee, down the silent deep And darkness of my heart, Cast thou a rose ; give me a rose to keep, My friend, before we part. 33 D ROSA ROSARUM For, as thou passest down thy garden-ways, Full many a blossom there Groweth for thee : lilies and laden bays, And rose and lavender. But down the darkling well one only rose In all the year is shed ; And o'er that chill and secret wave it throws A sudden dawn of red. .H *An Oasis You wandered in the desert waste, athirst ; My soul I gave you as a well to drink ; A little while you lingered at the brink, And then you went, nor either blessed or cursed. The image of your face, which sank that day Into the magic waters of the well, Still haunts their clearness, still remains to tell Of one who looked and drank and could not stay. A The sun shines down, the moon slants over it, The stars look in and are reflected not ; Only your face, unchanged and unforgot, Shines through the deep, till all the wave are lit. My soul I gave you as a well to drink, And in its depths your face is clearer far Than any shine of sun or moon or star Since then you pause by many a greener brink. 35 Castello THE Triton in the Ilex-wood Is lonely at Castello. The snow is on him like a hood, The fountain-reeds are yellow. But never Triton sorrowed yet For weather chill or mellow : He mourns, my Dear, that you forget The gardens of Castello ! 36 Torrents I KNOW that if our lives could meet Like torrents in a sudden tide, Our souls should send their shining sheet Of waters far and wide. But, ah ! my dear, the springs of mine Have never yet begun to flow And yours, that were so full and fine, Ran dry so long ago ! 37 Aubade Triste THE last pale rank of poplar-trees Begins to glimmer into light, With stems and branches faintly white Against a heaven one dimly sees Beyond the failing night. A point of grey that grows to green Fleck'd o'er with rainy yellow bars, A sudden whitening of the stars, A pallor where the moon has been, A peace the morning mars ; When, lo ! a shiver of the breeze And all the ruffled birds awake, The rustling aspens stir and shake ; For, pale, beyond the pallid trees, The dawn begins to break. And now the air turns cool and wan, A drizzling rain begins to fall, The sky clouds over with a pall The night, that was for me, is gone ; The day has come for all. Poplar Leaves 9* THE wind blows down the dusty street ; And through my soul that grieves It brings a sudden odour sweet : A scent of poplar leaves. O leaves that herald in the spring, O freshness young and pure, Into my weary soul you bring The vigour to endure. The wood is near, tut out of sight, Where all the poplars grow ; Straight up and tall and silver white, They quiver in a row. My love is out of sight, but near ; And through my soul that grieves A sudden memory wafts her here As fresh as poplar leaves. 39 Spring Under Cypresses UNDER the cypresses, here in the stony Woods of the mountain, the Spring too is sunny. Rare Spring and early, Birds singing sparely, Pale sea-green hellebore smelling of honey. Desolate, bright, in the blue Lenten weather, Cones of the cypresses sparkle together, Shining brightly, Loosely and lightly, The winds lift the branches and stir them and feather. Where the sun pierces, the sharp boulders glitter Desolate, bright ; and the white moths flitter Pallidly over The bells that cover With faint-smelling green all the fragrant brown litter. Down in the plain the sun ripens for hours Look ! in the orchards a mist of pale flowers Past the rose-hedges A-bloom to the edges, A smoke of blue olives, a vision of towers ! 40 SPRING UNDER CYPRESSES Here only hellebore grows, only shade is; Surely the very Spring here half afraid is : Out of her bosom Drops not a blossom, Mutely she passes through she and her ladies. Mutely ? Ah, no ; for a pause, and thou hearest One bird who sings alone one bird, the dearest. Nay, who shall name it, Call it or claim it ? Such birds as sing at all sing here their clearest. Ah, never dream that the brown meadow-thrushes, Finches, or happy larks sing in these hushes. Only some poet Of birds, flying to it, Sings here alone, and is lost to the bushes. Music BEFORE the dawn is yet the day I lie and dream so deep, So drowsy-deep I cannot say If yet I wake or sleep. But in my dream a tune there is, And rings so fresh and sweet That I would rather die than miss The utmost end of it. And yet I know not an it be Some music in the lane, Or but a song that rose with me From sleep, to sink again. And so, alas, and even so I waste my life away ; Nor if the tune be real I know, Or but a dream astray. Art and Life (A SONNET) WHEN autumn comes, my orchard trees alone, Shall bear no fruit to deck the reddening year When apple gatherers climb the branches sere Only on mine no harvest shall be grown. For when the pearly blossom first was blown, I filled my hands with delicate buds and dear, I dipped them in thine icy waters clear, O well of Art ! and turned them all to stone. Therefore, when winter comes, I shall not eat Of mellow apples such as others prize : I shall go hungry in a magic spring ! All round my head and bright before mine eyes The barren, strange, eternal blossoms meet, While I, not less an-hungered, gaze and sing. 43 A Pastoral of Parnassus "Ma io perdu -venlrvi f chl V concede f " AT morning dawn I left my sheep And sought the mountains all aglow ; The shepherds said, " The way is steep : Ah, do not go ! " I left my pastures fresh with rain, My water-courses edged with bloom, A larger breathing space to gain And singing room. Then of a reed I wrought a flute, And as I went I sang and played. But though I sang, my heart was mute And sore afraid. Because the great hill and the sky Were full of glooms and glorious Beyond all light or dark that I Imagined thus. 44 A PASTORAL OF PARNASSUS A sudden sense, a second sight, Showed God, who burns in every briar. Then sudden voices, strong and bright, Flashed up like fire. And turning where that music rang I saw aloft, and far away, The watching poets ; and they sang Through night and day. And very sweet ah, sweet indeed Their voices sounded high and deep. I blew an echo on my reed As one asleep. I heard. My heart grew cold with dread, For what would happen if they heard ? Would not these nightingales strike dead Their mocking-bird ? Then from the mountain's steepest crown, Where white cliffs pierce the tender grass, I saw an arm reach sk>wly down, Heard some word pass. " The end is come," I thought, " and still I am more happy, come what may, To die upon Parnassus-hill Than live away." Then hands and faces luminous And holy voices grew one flame " Come up, poor singer, and sing with us ! " They sang ; I came. So ended all my wandering ; This is the end and this is sweet All night, all day, to listen and sing Below their feet. 45 A Search for Apollo INDEED I have sought thee too long, O Apollo, Nights and days, by brakes and bowers, By wind-haunted waters, by wolf-haunted hollow, And where the city smoke-cloud lowers ; And 1 have listened hours on hours Where the holy Omphe of violins The organ oracle overpowers, While the musical tumult thickens and thins, Till the singing women begin to sing, Invoking as I do their Master and King ; But thou tarriest long, O Apollo ! Could I find but thy footprints, oh, there would I follow. Thou God of wanderers show the way ! But never I found thee as yet, my Apollo, Save indeed in a dream one day. (If that or this be the dream, who shall say ?) A man passed playing a quaint sweet lyre, His face was young though his hair was grey, And his blue eyes gleamed with a wasting fire As he sang the songs of an ancient land A singing no hearer could half understand. . . . Can this have been Thou, my Apollo ? 46 An Address to the Nightingale (FROM ARISTOPHANES) O DEAR one, with tawny wings, Dearest of singing things, Whose hymns my company have been, Thou art come, thou art found, thou art seen ! Bid, with the music of thy voice, Sweet-sounding rustler, the heart rejoice ; Ah ! louder, louder, louder sing, Flute out the language of the spring ; Nay, let those low notes rest, Oh ! my nightingale, nightingale, carol thine anapaest Come, my companion, cease from thy slumbers, Pour out thy holy and musical numbers, Sing and lament with a sweet throat divine, Ttys of many tears, thy son and mine ! Cry out, and quiver, and shake, dusky throat, Throb with the thrill of thy liquidest note. Through the wide country and mournfully through Leafy-haired branches and boughs of the yew, Widens and rises the echo until Even the throne-room of God it shall fill. 47 AN ADDRESS TO THE NIGHTINGALE Then, when Apollo, the bright-locked, hath heard, Lo, he shall answer thine elegy, bird, Playing his ivory seven-stringed lyre, Standing a God in the high Gods' quire. Ay, bird, not he alone : Hark ! from immortal throats arise Diviner threnodies That sound and swoon in a celestial moan And answer back thine own. Come, my companion, cease from thy slumbers, Pour out thy holy and musical numbers, Sing and lament with a sweet throat divine, Itys of many tears, thy son and mine ! Cry out, and quiver, and shake, dusky throat, Throb with the thrill of thy liquidest note. Through the wide country and mournfully through Leafy-haired branches and boughs of the yew, Widens and rises the echo, until Even the throne-room of God it shall fill ! Wild Cherry Branches LITHE sprays of freshness and faint perfume, You are strange in a London room ; Sweet foreigners come to the dull, close city, Your flowers are memories, clear in the gloom, That sigh with regret and are fragrant with pity. Flowers, a week since your long, sweet branches Swayed, hardly seen, in the dusk overhead ; (We live, but the bloom on our living is dead). Ah ! look, where the white moon launches Her skiff in the skies where the roof-tops spread, in. Like rocks on her course. But she rose not so Through your wavering sprays, when the April weather Smelt only of flowers a week ago On your stems, in my heart, did such blossoms blow ! Let us sigh all together ! IV. Your sigh is, perchance, for the neighbouring bushes With soft, yellow palms, or the song of the thrushes ; But mine for none of the birds that sing, No flower of the spring, But for two distant eyes and a voice that hushes. 49 E WILD CHERRY BRANCHES v. Such light and music, O blossom, Were ours when I plucked you one moonrise, and you Remember in fragrance her smile that you knew, As you lived in her hand, as you lay on her bosom Once, for a moment, and blossomed anew. VI. As I took you I looked, half in awe, where my friend Crowned with completeness All heaven's peace and the whole earth's sweetness ; So does her soul all souls transcend, So, in my love for her, all loves blend. VII. For more than the vast everlasting heaven Declares in its infinite mute appeal To hearts that feel, More than the secret and solace of even Know of God, may a love reveal. VIII. For then indeed it was clear to my soul That in loving the one I loved the whole, Fulfilled all aims, attained every goal ; And God was with me, eternity round me, Though Life still bound me. IX. Past is that hour ; but the heart's trouble lessens Because it has been. When I die, when free of its selfish screen The god in me soars to the Godhead, the Presence May seem to it first as the love once seen. x. We, flowers, have lived to our blossoming hour, And not in vain did we rise from the root ; Whether we perish or ripen to power, We know what sweetness it is to flower Let life or death be the fruit. 50 Tuscan Olives (SEVEN RISPETTI) THE colour of the olives who shall say ? In winter on the yellow earth they're blue, A wind can change the green to white or grey, But they are olives still in every hue ; * But they are olives always, green or white, As love is love in torment or delight ; But they are olives, ruffled or at rest, As love is always love in tears or jest. n. We walked along the terraced olive-yard, And talked together till we lost the way ; We met a peasant, bent with age and hard, Bruising the grape-skins in a vase of clay; Bruising the grape-skins for the second wine, We did not drink, and left him, Love of mine; Bruising the grapes already bruised enough : He had his meagre wine, and we our love. 51 TUSCAN OLIVES We climbed one morning to the sunny height Where chestnuts grow no more and olives grow ; Far-off the circling mountains cinder-white, The yellow river and the gorge below. " Turn round," you said, O flower of Paradise ; I did not turn, I looked upon your eyes. " Turn round," you said, "turn round and see the view ! " I did not turn, my Love, I looked at you. IV. How hot it was ! Across the white-hot wall Pale olives stretch towards the blazing street ; You broke a branch, you never spoke at all, But gave it me to fan with in the heat ; You gave it me without a sign or word, And yet, my dear, I think you knew I heard. You gave it me without a word or sign : Under the olives first I called you mine. v. At Lucca, for the autumn festival, The streets are tulip-gay ; but you and I Forgot them, seeing over church and wall Guinigi's tower soar i' the black-blue sky ; A stem of delicate rose against the blue ; And on the top two lonely olives grew, Crowning the tower, far from the hills, alone ; As on our risen love our lives are grown. VI. Who would have thought we should stand again together, Here, with the convent a frown of towers above us; TUSCAN OLIVES Here, mid the sere-wooded hills and wintry weather ; Here, where the olives bend down and seem to love us ; Here, where the fruit-laden olives half remember All that began in their shadow last November ; Here, where we knew we must part, must part and sever ; Here, where we know we shall love for aye and ever. VII. Reach up and pluck a branch, and give it me, That I may hang it in my Northern room, That I may find it there, and wake and see Not you ! not you ! dead leaves and wintry gloom. O senseless olives, wherefore should I take Your leaves to balm a heart that can but ache ? Why should I take you hence, that can but show How much is left behind ? I do not know. 53 Apprehension THE hills come down on every side, The marsh lies green below, The green, green valley is long and wide, Where the grass grows thick with the rush beside, And the white sheep come and go. Down in the marsh it is green and still ; You may linger all the day, Till a shadow slants from a western hill, And the colour goes out of the flowers in the rill, And the sheep look ghostly gray. And never a change in the great green flat Till the change of night, my friend. O wide green valley where we two sat, How I wished that our lives were as peaceful as that, And seen from end to end ! ii. foolish dream, to hope that such as I Who answer only to thine easiest moods, Should fill thy heart, as o'er my heart there broods The perfect fulness of thy memory ! 1 flit across thy soul as white birds fly Across the untrodden desert solitudes : A moment's flash of wings ; fair interludes That leave unchanged the eternal sand and sky. 54 APPREHENSION Even such to thee am I ; but thou to me As the embracing shore to the sobbing sea, Even as the sea itself to the stone-tossed rill. But who, but who shall give such rest to thee ? The deep mid-ocean waves perpetually Call to the land, and call unanswered still. in. As dreams the fasting nun of Paradise, And finds her gnawing hunger pass away In thinking of the happy bridal day That soon shall dawn upon her watching eyes ; So, dreaming of your love, do I despise Harshness or death of friends, doubt, slow decay, Madness, all dreads that fills me with dismay And creep about me oft with fell surmise. For you are true, and all I hoped you are, O perfect answer to my calling heart ! And very sweet my life is, having thee. Yet must I dread the djm end shrouded far ; Yet must I dream : should once the good planks start, How bottomless yawns beneath the boiling sea ! 55 Friendship FOR your sovereign sake, my friend, All my lovers are estranged, Shadow lovers without end ; But last night they were avenged. On the middle of the night One by one I saw them rise, Passing in the ghostly light, Silent, with averted eyes. First, my master from the South With the laurels round his brow, And the bitter-smiling mouth, Left me without smiling now. Then came one long used to rule All I was, or did, or had Plato, that I read at school Till my playmates called me mad. Maiden saints as pure as pearls, Beautiful, divine, austere ; Sweeter-voiced ^Eolian girls, Left their friend of many a year. 56 FRIENDSHIP But my earliest friend and best, My Beethoven, this was hard, You should leave me with the rest, Pass without one last regard. For all went and left me there, Sighing as they passed me by ; Ah, how sad their voices were ! I shall hear them when I die. " Fare thee well," they said ; " we go Scorned as shades and dreams. Adieu ! Love thine earthly friend, but know Shadows still thou dost pursue." 57 Lovers I LOVE my lover ; on the heights above me He mocks my poor attainment with a frown. I, looking up as he is looking down, By his displeasure guess he still doth love me ; For his ambitious love would ever prove me More excellent than I as yet am shown : So, straining for some good ungrasped, unknown, I vainly would become his image of me. And, reaching through the dreadful gulfs that sever Our souls, I strive with darkness nights and days, Till my perfected work tow'rds him I raise, Who laughs thereat, and scorns me more than ever Yet his upbraiding is beyond all praise. This lover that I love I call : Endeavour. a. I have another lover loving me, Himself beloved of all men, fair and true, He would not have me change although I grew Perfect as Light, because more tenderly He loves myself than loves what I might be. 58 Two LOVERS Low at my feet he sings the winter through, And, never won, I love to hear him woo. For in my heaven both sun and moon is he, To my bare life a fruitful-flooding Nile, His voice like April airs that in our isle Wake sap in trees that slept since autumn went. His words are all caresses, and his smile The relic of some Eden ravishment ; And he that loves me so I call : Content. 59 A Grey Day I WAIT alone in a stranger's land, By unremembered floods I stand, Whose shores unhaunted are. I sorrow, and who shall comfort me ? The wide grey sky or the wide grey sea ? Or Love that lingers afar ? But Love has no help for my heart's behoof; The sky is flat as a prison-roof, Hopeless of moon or star. Oh sea take my heart in thy waves and beat Its passion out at the tardy feet Of Love that lingers afar. Thou shouldst not sorrow, sad wind, but I, But I, oh I ; for canst thou not fly And follow thy wish over border and bar ? Thou, soulless wind, canst arise and go, While my wild desire is too faint and slow To reach him who lingers afar. 60 A Song LAST night I met my own true love Walking in Paradise ; A halo shone above his hair, A glory in his eyes. We sat and sang in alleys green And heard the angels play ; Believe me, this was true last night Though it is false to-day. 61 Paradise Fancies f THROUGH Paradise garden A minstrel strays, An old golden viol For ever he plays. Birds fly to his head, Beasts lie at his feet, For none of God's angels Make music so sweet. And here, far from Eden, And lonely and mute, I listen and long : For my heart is the lute ! n. On the topmost branch of the Tree of Life There hung a ripe red apple, The angels singing underneath All praised its crimson dapple. 62 PARADISE FANCIES They plucked it once to play at ball, But 'mid the shouts and laughter The apple fell o'er Heaven's edge, Sad angels looking after. And while they smiled to see it rest Beside a peaceful chapel, An old priest flung it farther still, " Bah, what a battered apple ! " HI. Sing, oh the flowers in Paradise : Rose, lily and girasole ! In all the fields of Paradise Every flower is a soul. A climbing bindweed you are there With petals lily-fine, Around my rose-bush pink and fair Your curling tendrils twine. * Too close those slender tendrils cling, So close I cannot breathe ! Till o'er my dead red roses swing, Your lilies wreath on wreath. A Dialogue She. THE dandelions in the grass Are blown to fairies' clocks ; On this green bank I pluckt (Alas) The last of lady-smocks. He. Let them die, What care I ? Roses come when field flowers pass. She. But these sun-sated sultry hours Will make your roses fall : Their large wide-open crimson flowers Must die like daisies small. He. Sweet as yet ! I'll forget (When they die) they lived at all ! 64 Le Roi Est Mort AND shall I weep that Love's no more, And magnify his reign ? Sure never mortal man before, Would have his grief again. Farewell the long-continued ache, The days a-dream, the nights awake ! I will rejoice and /nerry make, And never more complain. King Love is dead and gone for aye, Who ruled with might and main, For with a bitter word one day, I found my tyrant slain, And he in Heathenesse was bred, Nor ever was baptized, 'tis said, Nor is of any creed, and dead Can never rise again ! Lethe COME with me to Lethe-lake, Come, since Love is o'er, He whose thirst those waters slake, Thirsteth nevermore. There the sleepy hemlock grows In the night-shade ranks, Crimson poppies rows on rows Flush its quiet banks. Drink with me of Lethe-lake Deep and deeper yet, Drink with me for dead Love's sake Drink till we forget. Since our roses all are dead, Lost our laurel-boughs, Let these poppies hang instead Round our aching brows. 66 A Rifiorita FLOWERS in the wall ! How could he leave the house where he was born ? ( We children played together In warm or wintry weather) How could he leave thfe house where he was born ? I count the stones for him and love them all. Flowers on the stone ! The Siren loves the sea, but I the Past ! ( We children flayed together In warm or wintry weather) The Siren loves the sea, but I the Past ; Upon my rock I sing alone, alone. A Pastoral IT was Whit Sunday yesterday, The neighbours met at church to pray ; But I remembered it was May And went a-wandering far away. I rested on a shady lawn, Behind I heard green branches torn, And through the gap there looked a Faun, Green ivy hung from either horn. We built ourselves a flowery house With roof and walls of tangled boughs, But whilst we sat and made carouse The church bells drowned our songs and vows. The light died out and left the sky, We sighed and rose and said goodbye. We had forgotten He and I, That he was dead, that I must die. 68 Dawn-Angels ALL night I watched awake for morning, At last the East grew all a-flame, The birds for welcome sang, or warning, And with their singing morning came. Along the gold-green heavens drifted Pale wandering soals that shun the light, Whose cloudy pinions torn and rifted, Had beat the bars of Heaven all night. These clustered round the moon, but higher A troop of shining spirits went, Who were not made of wind or fire, But some divine dream-element. Some held the Light, while those remaining Shook out their harvest-coloured wings A faint unusual music raining (Whose sound was Light) on earthly things. They sang, and as a mighty river Their voices washed the night away, From East to West ran one white shiver, And waxen strong their song was Day. 69 To a Dragon Fly You hail from Dream-land, Dragon-fly ? A stranger hither ? so am I. And (sooth to say) I wonder why We either of us came ! Are you (that shine so bright i' the air) King Oberon's state-messenger ? Come tell me how my old friends fare, Is Dream-land still the same ? Who won the latest tourney fight, King Arthur, or the red-cross Knight ? Or he who bore away the bright Renown'd Mambrino's casque ? Is Caliban king's councillor yet ? Cross Mentor jester still and pet ? Is Suckling out of love and debt ? Has Spenser done his task ? Say, have they settled over there, Which is the loveliest Guinevere, Or Gloriana or the fair Young Queen of Oberon's Court ? And does Titania torment still Mike Drayton and sweet-throated Will ? In sooth of her amours 'twas ill To make such merry sport. 70 To A DRAGON FLY Ah, I have been too long away ! No doubt I shall return some day, But now I'm lost in love and may Not leave my Lady's sight. Mine is (of course) the happier lot, Yet tell them I forget them not, My pretty gay compatriot, When you go home to-night. Song of a Stormy Night IN my pale garden yesternight The statues glimmered ghostly-white, The brooding trees that haunted me Flapped dusky wings despairingly. Both air and sky death-heavy were, But oh my heart was heavier, For life (I said) is useless grief, And death an undesired relief. Then the wind rushed up Clad in darkness and hail, Whirling the rain As a rent white veil, But my heart, my heart, Was glad of the gale. The roar of the wind Grew hoarser and higher, Till the thunder spoke And its voice was fire. But my heart was freed From the storm of desire. My lilies passion-sweet are dead, Love's purple, royal roses shed, But heart and garden are besprent With flowers of patience and content. 7* Two Sisters (BIRTHDAY VERSES) AND must I welcome in the day, Mabel, that wrongs us two That takes your childish years away And buries mifle anew ? The churlish day ! I would not give A quatrain to it, as I live, But that it gave us you. Wherefore, O day, I will forget As best I can the wrong, And strive in verses neatly set, Smooth lines and ordered song, To sing (as truly as who sings The praise of other ruling kings) A welcome loud and long. But first of all be deaf a space While I call back (in vain) The presence and the dearer face Of her whose closing reign You triumph over. Ah, farewell Dear Childhood ! Listen, while I tell Your beauties once again. 73 Two SISTERS Dear banished Childhood ! now to us You seem a rarer thing Than aught of good or glorious The coming years can bring. Take back these older selves again ! Bring Mab and Nannie in the lane Playing at queen and king ! For you were Louis, Mabel, then, And I was Antoinette. You, tall and strong, a king of men ; I, less ; but don't forget I always showed at hint of fear yvvaiKog av$p6fiov\ov KJ/p, When your eyes would be wet ! Do you remember how we left The shelter of the shed, Our foes upon us right and left, And tow'rds the duck-pond fled ? You shrank. " Fly, Louis ! " I cried, " for best Is honour ! " . . . Green waves heard the rest Gurgling above my head. But you were first at climbing trees, At vaulting o'er the gate, And you were not afraid of bees, You rode the pony straight, And once you took the fence, and then, Laughing, you leapt it back again ; An Amazon of eight ! And you were kinder too than I, For often when we played, My taste for tears and tragedy Would make your soul afraid. Your pirates never felt the lash, Your blackamoors would always wash As white as any maid. 74 Two SISTERS And often when I was not well You'd bring to give me ease Such tempting gifts ! a crab-apple, Some unripe pods of peas, Nasturtium berries, heavy bread That you had made yourself, you said, And gum from damson trees ! How sorrowful you used to look, And mind much more than I, When grown-up people showered rebuke On sins that made you cry. Ah ! you were good and I was not : What made you weep would make me plot Revenge and Tragedy ! You used to think me very wise, 1 thought you very fair, For each seemed in the other's eyes A creature strange*and rare. All that I read I told to you, And rhymed you strings of verses too About your golden hair. Verses more eloquent by far Than these I write to-day, Your either eye was then a star, Your cheek the bloom of May. I twined flower-fancies round your name Yet those and these both mean the same Though writ another way. 75 Lovers So glad am I, my only Love, So glad that I could fly Above the clouds and far enough Join hands, and let us try ! We'll watch the world that spins below Amid a mist of stars j Along the milky way we'll go Towards the heavenly bars. And, smiling soft at one another, Sweet angels looking o'er Shall cry, " These lovers love each other ; Never were such before ! " London Studies OUTSIDE THE MUSEUM ALL day it rained, but now the air Is clear and fine. The sunset glow has fallen where The wet streets shine ; They take the colours of the west, The gold and rose. Yet over head, I think, is best, Where softly glows A space of luminous tender blue, But flaked with fire, As though the perfect peace there knew A pure desire. Beneath the fluted columns rise, With grey, broad frieze ; And every dove that coos and flies Is grey as these. AFTER THE STORM IN MARCH HARK ! how the wind sighs out of sight Sorrow and warning. It raged and wrestled in pain all night, It sighs at morning. 77 LONDON STUDIES The very trees where the wild winds wreak The wrongs of the city, Groan and creak as they fain would speak Pardon and pity. Heart, keep silence ; forebode no more Warning and sorrow. Who knows, the heavens may hold in store Spring for to-morrow. Thanksgiving for Flowers You bring me flowers behold my shaded room Is grown all glorious and alive with Light. Moonshine of pallid primroses, and bright Daffodil-suns that light the way o' the tomb. You bring me dreams through sleep's close-lidded gloom, Sad violets mourn for Sappho all the night, Where purple saffrons make antique delight Mid crown'd memorials of Narcissus' doom. A scent of herbs now sets me musing on Men dead i' the fennel-beds on Marathon : My flowers, my dreams and I shall lie as dead ! Flowers fade, dreams wake, men die ; but never dies The soul whereby these things were perfected, It leaves the world on flower with memories. 79 Maiden Love OH Love, and hast thou conquered my proud heart That did so long deny thy sovereignty ? Hast given lordship and command of me Even to another, lesser than thou art ? Whose footfall bids the shameful blood upstart To my pale cheeks and beat so clamorously About my head, I cannot hear or see Whose coming 'tis that bids my life depart. Ah me ! my heart is as an instrument That only answers one musician's hand, A vision one alone may represent, A cipher but one sage can understand, Yet to this one as blank, as dull, as far, As such dead things to their possessors are ! 80 Love, Death, and Art LORD, give me Love ! give me the silent bliss Of meeting souls, of answering eyes and hands ; The comfort of one heart that understands ; The thrill and rapture of Love's sealing kiss. Or grant me lest I weary of all this The quiet of Death's unimagined lands, Wherein the longed-for Tree of Knowledge stands, Where Thou art, Lord and the great mysteries. Nay, let me sing, my God, and I'll forego, Love's smiling mouth, Death's sweetlier smiling eyes. Better my life long mourn in glorious woe, Than love unheard in a mute Paradise For no grief, no despair, can quail me long, While I can make these sweet to me in song. 81 Sonnet GOD sent a poet to reform His earth. But when he came and found it cold and poor, Harsh and unlovely, where each prosperous boor Held poets light for all their heavenly birth, He thought Myself can make one better worth The living in than this full of old lore, Music and light and love, where Saints adore And Angels, all within mine own soul's girth. But when at last he came to die, his soul Saw earth (flying past to Heaven), with new love, And all the unused passion in him cried : O God, your Heaven I know and weary of. Give me this world to work in and make whole. God spoke : Therein, thou fool, hast lived and died! 82 Fans 1)it<e I LAY and dreamed beside a stream's well-head, And praised the waters cool beyond compare ; My fain lips met a fresher likeness there But drank a draught as salt as tears new shed. And, knowing from no sea the stream was fed, I wondered greatly, as I grew aware How wearily a wayworn people fare For evermore beside that river's bed. For, silently as walk the fleshless dead, They went along, and each one on his head Held straight a water-jar ; no two the same, Yet e'en the least a burden hard to bear, And each, when to the river's spring he came, Poured from his urn its weight of water there. I saw them pass me, ghostly, hollow-eyed, With faces dreamy-still, forlorn of pain, And did not dare to break their solemn chain Till, bold with fear, I thought : Whate'er betide 83 FONS VIT/E This secret I must learn and trembling cried : Oh ye wind-walking wanderers I am fain To know ye and your fate, are ye dead men ? Or exiled souls whose bodies have not died ? Then one made answer : We are they that grieved Through God's decree, that grieved and murmured not, Nor would forestall the end that He reprieved ; And after Death, ere Life be quite forgot We gather all our outgrown loss and fears And feed the stream of Life with these our tears. The Cup of Lije IN the cup of life, 'tis true, Dwells a draught of bitter dew Disenchantment, sorrow, pain,' Hunger that no bread can still, Dreary dawns that dawn in vain, Hopes that torture, joys that kill. Yet no other cup I know Where such radiant waters glow : It contains the song of birds, And the shining of the sun ; And the sweet unspoken words We have dreamed of, every one ; Love of women, minds of men. Take the cup, nor break it, then. Love and Vision MY love is more than life to me ; And you look on and wonder In what can that illusion be You think I labour under. Yet you, too, have you never gone, Some wet and yellow even, Where russet moors reach on and on Beneath a windy heaven ? Brown moors, which, at the western edge, A watery sunset brushes, With misty rays yon cloudy ledge Casts down upon the rushes. You see no more ; but shade your eyes, Forget the showery weather, Forget the wet, tempestuous skies And look upon the heather. O fairyland, fairyland ! It sparkles, lives, and dances, By every gust swayed down and fanned, And every rain-drop glances. 86 LOVE AND VISION Never in jewel or wine the light Burned like the purple heather ; And some is palest pink, some white, Swaying and dancing together. Every stem is sharp and clear, Every bell is ringing, No doubt, some tune we do not hear For the thrushes' sleepy singing. Over all, like the bloom on a grape, The lilac seeding-grasses Have made a haze, vague, without shape, For the wind to change as it passes. Under all is the budding ling, Grey-green with scarlet notches, Bossed with many a mossy thing, And gold with lichen-blotches. A Here and there slim rushes stand Aslant as carried lances. I saw it, and called it fairyland ; You never saw it, the chance is ? Brown moors and stormy skies that kiss At eve in rainy weather You saw but what the heather is Saw I, who love the heather. Love Among the Saints AT Assisi is the Church Well I know the frescoed wall : Colours dim, Martyrs slim, Saints you scarcely see at all, Till the slanting sunbeams search Through the church, Waking life where'er they fall. Every evening wall and vault, Saint and city, starts and wakes, One by one, as the sun Broadens through the dusk, and makes Greys and reds, and deep cobalt Of the vault Teem with Saints, and towers, and lakes. High among them, clear to see, Is one stately fresco set ; There they stand, hand in hand, Bride and bridegroom gravely met, Francis and Saint Poverty. Well I see All the Saints attending, yet. LOVE AMONG THE SAINTS Close their ranks by groom and bride ; Straight their faces, clear and pure ; Pale in stain, pale and plain, Fall their ample robes demure. Grave, these goodly friends beside, Stands the bride, Shorn of every earthly lure. But, when I was there to look, Not Saint Agnes nor Saint Clare (Tall and faint, like a saint) But a naked captive there Fast my wandering fancy took ; Still I look, Vainly, for that face and hair. For, amid the saintly light, From the faded fresco starts, Fair and pale, thin and frail, Round his neck a chain of hearts, Love himself in mazed affright, Out of sight Of his altar and his darts. Starved and naked, wan and thin, Beautiful in his distress, Crouches Love, whom above All the saints in glory bless. Here he may not enter in, Cold and thin, Naked, with no wedding-dress. From the altar and the shrine One turns round in frowning grace, Bids the wild, naked child, Swiftly leave the holy place. Not for thee the bread and wine On the shrine, Starving god of alien race ! LOVE AMONG THE SAINTS Yet, O Warder, was it wise Thus to spurn him r Was it well ? Love is strong, lasting long, Him thou canst not bind in Hell ; Scourge him, burn, he never dies, Phoenix-wise Riseth he unconquerable. Only martyred Love returns With an altered face and air ; Not a child, sweet and mild, Fit for daily kiss and care, But a spirit which aches and burns, Swift he turns All your visions to despair. Love you cannot reach or find, Love that aches within the soul, Vague and faint, till the Saint Cries, beyond his own control, For some answer that his blind Heart can find But in its own vain diastole. Ah, beware ! That phantom Love Drives to madness, and destroys. Yet, to all Love must call, Only we may choose the voice. And whate'er we are or prove, Loathe or love, Hangs upon that instant's choice ! 9 The Springs of Font an a THE springs of Fontana well high on the mountain, Out of the rock of the granite they pour Twenty ormore ; Ripple and runnel and freshet and fountain Well, happy tears, from the heart of the mountain Up at Fontana. See, not a step can we take but a spring Breaks from the roots of the blond-flower'd chestnuts- (Look, in the water their long golden breast-knots Flung in caress !) from a tuft of the ling, From a stone, anything, Up at Fontana. Twenty or more, and no one of the twenty Gushes the same ; here the waters abundant Babble redundant, Filling the vale with the bruit of their plenty ; Here a mere ripple, a trickle, a scanty Dew on Fontana. Surely one noonday the Prophet in heaven Slept, and the wand of the desert fell 9 1 THE SPRINGS OF FONTANA Fell to the rock, and the rock was riven. Lo, all around it eternally well (A miracle !) The springs of Fontana. Waters of boon ! Deluge or drought cannot alter your current, Swift in December and icy in June, Full when the icicle hangs on the torrent, Full when the river is dry and the noon Parches Fontana. Over the rocks ! Over the tree-root that tangles and blocks Robbing from all that resists you a sunny Scent of the cistus and rock-hidden honey, Yarrow, campanula, thyme, agrimony Flow from Fontana ! Flow, happy waters, and gather and rally, Rush to the plain. Flow to the heavenly fields of Limain, Blue as a dream in the folds of the valley ; Feed them and fatten with blossom and grain, Springs of Fontana ! Rivers of springs, Born many times in renewal unending, Bright, irresistible, purest of things, Blessing the rocks that oppose you, befriending Pastures and cattle and men in your wending Forth from Fontana. Born (who knows how ?) a mysterious fountain Out of the stone and the dust of the mountain, Bound to a country we know little of, How shall I bless ye and praise ye enough, Image of Love, Springs of Fontana ! 92 Serenade MOON of my soul, arise ! Ah me, the moon, the moon goes out in clouds ; Lo, a great darkness 4 all the heaven shrouds And night is in mine eyes. Star of my life, appear ! Ah, not a star, not one is lit on high Only along the edges of the sky There slants a falling sphere. "The Frozen River THE silver-powdered willows of the Quai Rise frosty-clear against the roseate skies, The winter sunlight mellows ere it dies And lingers where the frozen river lies. Between the hurrying wharves, a sheet of grey It sleeps beneath the parapet of stone : A sudden desolation, empty, lone And silent with a silence of its own. All round the city vast and loud and gay ! ... If one should weary of the press and din And venture here, beware ! the crust is thin ; One step and lo, the Abyss would draw him in. Athwart the happiest lives of every day Beside the Lovers' Walk, the household mart, Think ye there lies no silent road apart ? No mute and frozen Chasm of the heart ? Neurasthenia I WATCH the happier people of the house Come in and out, and talk, and go their ways ; I sit and gaze at them ; I cannot rouse My heavy mind to share their busy days. A I watch them glide, like skaters on a stream, Across the brilliant surface of the world. But I am underneath : they do not dream How deep below the eddying flood is whirl'd. They cannot come to me, nor I to them ; But, if a mightier arm could reach and save, Should I forget the tide I had to stem ? Should I, like these, ignore the abysmal wave? Yes ! in the radiant air how could I know How black it is, how fast it is, below ? 95 Song THE great things that I love I cannot do ! The little things I do I cannot love . . . I never knew Our earth so vain, so void the heavens above. A dream in daytime, aimlessly I rove, And wander through A world whose wonders are not vast enough To hide one haunting image from my view. And nought, 1 find, is sweet, and nothing true ; And one dream, only, worth the dreaming of O Love, my Love, If I could give my life and die for you ! 96 Night O NIGHT eternal and blue, Holy and soft above, You seem to lay on my forehead The touch of an infinite love The touch of a 4ove that never Will understand me aright Why should you touch me and love me, O tender and delicate night ? O night, look in with your stars On the wintry face of despair, And your stars will eddy and shrivel As leaves in a gust of the air ! 97 Song Slf- OH for the wings of a dove, To fly far away from my own soul, Reach and be merged in the vast whole Heaven of infinite Love ! Oh that I were as the rain, To fall and be lost in the great sea, One with the waves, till the drowned Me Might not be severed again ! Infinite arms of the air, Surrounding the stars and without strife Blending our life with their large life, Lift me and carry me there ! 98 Sonnet SINCE childhood have I dragged my life along The dusty purlieus and approach of Death, Hoping the years would bring me easier breath, And turn my painful sighing to a song. A But, ah, the years have done me cruel wrong, For they have robbed me of that happy faith ; Still in the world of men I move a wraith, Who to the shadow-world not yet belong. Too long, indeed, I linger here and take The room of others but to droop and sigh ; Wherefore, O spinning sisters, for my sake, No more the little tangled knots untie ; But all the skein, I do beseech you, break, And spin a stronger thread more perfectly. 99 The Departure * THE night wears on, the lawns are grey with dew, The Easter of the dawn will soon be here : And I must leave the happy world I knew, And front the Heaven I worship and I fear. Dawn that in awe and trembling I desire, Bloom in the skies as flaming and as bright As Enoch saw the chariot-wheels of fire Divide the darkness of the desert night. Ah, when beside that palm tree in the sand The fiery swiftness trembled, did his will Grow faint, to leave the long familiar land ? Or did he feel a dizzier terror still Lest, like a dream, that chariot should be gone And leave him in the wilderness alone ? 100 Going South A LITTLE grey swallow, I fled to the vales Of the nightingales And the haunts of Apollo. Behind me lie the sheer white cliffs, the hollow Green waves that break at home, the northern gales, The oaks above the homesteads in the vales, For all my home is far, and cannot follow. O nightingale voices ! O lemons in flower ! O branches of laurel ! You all are here, but ah not here my choice is : Fain would I pluck one pink-vein'd bloom of sorrel, Or watch the wrens build in our hazel bower. 101 Love in the THE olives where we walk to-day In the olive-groves are white and grey, And underneath the shimmering trees One almond-bough is faintly pink, And lilac blow the anemones. In all the flowers, in all the leaves, The secret of their pallor heaves : A tender hint of vanished bliss. A rapture just beyond the brink Of feeling, which we still must miss. Perhaps when we are dead, my dear, Our phantoms still shall wander here, And breathe in this Elysian wood (As others breathe for us, I think), A beauty dimly understood. 102 Three Songs A HEART as deep as the sea, A heart as vast as the sky, Thou shouldest have given to me, O Spirit, since I must die ! For how shall I feel and attain The joy and the fear and the strife, The hope of the world and the pain In the few short years of a life ? n. The flocks that bruise the mountain grass Send out beneath their feet Such thymy fragrance as they pass, That all the fell is sweet. Sometimes a stranger breathes thy name, O Love of long ago ! And in my heart there leaps to flame A long-remembered woe. Thou sentest them an angel, Lord, Since they were precious in Thine eyes, An angel with a flaming sword, To drive them out of Paradise. For thus they kept the dream of bliss, The hope in something out of sight, Nor ever knew how sad it is To weary of our best delight. The Dead Friend WHEN you were alive, at least, There were days I never met you. In the study, at the feast, By the hearth, I could forget you. Moods there were of many days When, methinks, I did not mind you. Now, oh now, in any place Wheresoe'er I go, I find you ! You . . . but how profoundly changed, O you dear-belov'd dead woman ! Made mysterious and estranged, All -pervading, superhuman. Ah ! to meet you as of yore, Kind, alert, and quick to laughter : You, the friend I loved Before ; Not this tragic friend of After. 104 THE DEAD FRIEND u. The house was empty where you came no more ; I sat in awe and dread ; When, lo ! I heard a hand that shook the door, And knew it was the Dead. One moment ah ! the anguish took my side, The fainting of the will. " God of the living, leave me not ! " I cried, And all my flesh grew chill. One moment ; then I opened wide my heart And open flung the door : "What matter whence thou comest, what thou art ?- Come to me ! " . . . Nevermore. HI. * They lie at peace, the darkness fills The hollow of their empty gaze. The dust falls in their ears and stills The echo of our fruitless days ; The earth takes back their baser part ; The brain no longer bounds the dream ; The broken vial of the heart Lets out its passion in a stream. And in this silence that they have One inner vision grows more bright : The Dead remember in the grave As I remember here to-night. 105 An Orchard at Avignon THE hills are white, but not with snow : They are as pale in summer time, For herb or grass may never grow Upon their slopes of lime. Within the circle of the hills A ring, all flowering in a round, An orchard-ring of almond fills The plot of stony ground. More fair than happier trees, I think, Grown in well-watered pasture land These parched and stunted branches, pink Above the stones and sand. O white, austere, ideal place, Where very few will care to come, Where spring hath lost the waving grace She wears for us at home ! Fain would I sit and watch for hours The holy whiteness of thy hills, Their wreath of pale auroral flowers, Their peace the silence fills. A place of secret peace thou art, Such peace as in an hour of pain One moment fills the amazed heart, And never comes again. Twilight WHEN I was young the twilight seemed too long. A How often on the western window seat I leaned my book against the misty pane And spelled the last enchanting lines again, The while my mother hummed an ancient song, Or sighed a little and said : " The hour is sweet ! " When I, rebellious, clamoured for the light. But now I love the soft approach of night, And now with folded hands I sit and dream While all too fleet the hours of twilight seem ; And thus I know that I am growing old. O granaries of Age ! O manifold And royal harvest of the common years ! There are in all thy treasure-house no ways But lead by soft descent and gradual slope To memories more exquisite than Hope. Thine is the Iris born of olden tears, And thrice more happy are the happy days That live divinely in thy lingering rays, 107 TWILIGHT So autumn roses bear a lovelier flower ; So in the emerald after-sunset hour The orchard wall and trembling aspen trees Appear an infinite Hesperides. Ay, as at dusk we sit with folded hands, Who knows, who cares in what enchanted lands We wander while the undying memories throng ? When I was young the twilight seemed too long. 108 HERE, beside my Paris fire, I sit alone and ponder All my life of long ago that lies so far asunder ; " Here, how came I thence ? " I say, and greater grows the wonder As I recall the farms and fields and placid hamlets yonder. . . . See, the meadowsweet is white against the water- courses, Marshy lands are kingcup-gay and bright with streams and sources ; Dew-bespangled shines the hill where half abloom the gorse is, And all the northern fallows steam beneath the plough- ing horses. There's the red-brick-chimneyed house, the ivied haunt of swallows, All its garden up and down and full of hills and hollows ; Past the lawn, the sunken fence whose brink the laurel follows, And then the knee-deep pasture where the herd for ever wallows ! 109 RETROSPECT So they've cut the lilac bush ; a thousand thousand pities ! 'Twas the blue old-fashioned sort that never grows in cities. There we little children played and chaunted aimless ditties, While oft the old grandsire looked at us and smiled his Nunc Dimittis ! Green, O green with ancient peace, and full of sap and sunny, Lusty fields of Warwickshire, O land of milk and honey, Might I live to pluck again a spike of agrimony, A silver tormentilla leaf or ladysmock upon ye ! Patience, for I keep at heart your pure and perfect seeming, F can see you wide awake as clearly as in dreaming, Softer, with an inner light, and dearer, to my deeming, Than when beside your brooks at noon I watched the sallows gleaming ! 110 Foreign Spring THE charlock and the hemlock flowers Have hung their laces o'er the green ; The buttercups are bright and sheen As though the Spring ivere ours. But through the poplar-rank there shines The white interminable way ; And down the hill the budding vines Go softly gloved in grey. Amid a purer loftier sky The foreign sun burns far and bright : . . . O mistier fields ! O tenderer light ! 1 pause awhile and sigh. ill The Sibyl BEHOLD, the old earth is young again ! The blackthorn whitens in the rain, The flowers come baffling wind and hail, The gay, wild nightingale Cries out his heart in wood and vale. {And in my heart there rises too A Mm free longing Tor some delight I never knew /) O Spring, thou art a subtle thing, Wiser than we, thou Sibyl, Spring ! Thy tresses blown across our face In Life's mid-race Remind us of some holier place (And unawares the dullest find A new religion That all their doubts have left behind /) 112 Epthatha * FOR miles beyond the orange river The olive orchards gleam and shiver, And, at the river's brink as pale, The ranks of mognlit rushes quiver. And somewhere in a hidden vale The unseen and secret nightingale Her olden woe doth still deliver, Though all the orchards know the tale. magic of the South ! Whenever Your sweet dissolving breezes sever About my heart the bands of mail, 1 too would sing, and sing for ever ! Serena (In the forests of Paraguay there grows a plant ivhick the peasants call Serena, quite unnoticeable and yet of a ptrfume so attractive that those who have plucked thejloiuer by accident are said henceforth to roam the woods incessantly in quest of another blossom.) IN Paraguayan forests there's a flower The shepherds call Serena. (Of all that blooms on herb or tree Serena is the flower for me !) The white magnolia on her brazen tower, The lemon-fresh verbena And roses where their purple clusters shower Are nothing to Serena ! For where the wild liana shrouds the forest In darkness, under cover, Serena grows, so pure and small You never notice her at all. No herborist, no botanist, no florist, Hath cared to con thee over Thou little lonely blossom that abhorrest The gazes of thy lover ! 114 SERENA But here and there methinks a weary shepherd, In quest of dewy blossom, Stoops down to pluck the grass in flower Beneath a white acacia-bower, To cool some ancient scar of ape or leopard, Some bite of snake or 'possum ; And lo ! he starts and smiles, the happy shepherd, Serena in his bosom ! And through his veins there steals a subtle wonder, A magic melancholy (So faint a sense, it cannot be A hope nor yet a memory), But something haunts the bough he slumbers under That makes it rare and holy, And lo ! the shadows arc a thing to ponder, And every herb the Moly ! . . . * Or else (who knows ?) some lithe and amber maiden Who steals to meet her lover Goes singing with an idle art To ease the gladness at her heart, Along the sombre paths and cypress-shaden Deep glades the roses cover, And fills her arms with garlands heavy laden The dewdrops sprinkle over. But, in the crown she binds, her slender fingers Have set the undreamed-of flower ; And from that moment she forgets Her lover and her carcanets ; Nor any more she sings among the singers, But wanders hour on hour Deep in the wood and deeper, where there lingers The secret and the power ! . . . Now he and she shall wander at the leading Of one enchanted vision, Recall the thing they have not seen, Remember what hath never been, "5 SERENA And seek in vain the flower they plucked unheeding, And scorn with mild derision The roses where the happy bees arc feeding Or lily-beds Elysian. O undiscovered blossom, slight and wan, set So deep in forest closes, Be mine, who ever, as thou know'st, The least apparent loved the most : Low music at the first faint-breathing onset, The summer when it closes, The silvery moonrise better than the sunset, And thee than autumn roses ! 116 A French Lily SWEET Iphigenia-soul of every day, Fair vine so trellised to the parent-stay Thou hast no single force, no separate will, But leaning grow'st,*and, flowering, leanest still ; In that walled garden where thou dwell'st alone Thou art the whitest blossom ever known ! Less full and ample than our English rose Whose generous freshness floods the garden-close, And less confiding to the gatherer's hand Than their forget-me-not o' the Fatherland, Yet, O French Lily, pure and grown apart, Thee none the less I treasure next my heart ! 117 Spring SPRING, the tender maiden, Like a girl who greets her lover, Comes, her apron laden Deep with flower and leaf we liked of old ; Not a sprig forgetting That we then demanded of her ; Changing not nor setting Out of place the tiniest frill or fold. See, the aspen still is Hung awry to droop and falter ; Still the leaves of lilies Lift aloft their tall and tender sheath. Wiser than the sages, Spring would never dare to alter What so many ages Showed already right in bloom and wreath. Ah, could Spring remember Every thrill and fancy perished In the soul's December ; Lost for ever, faded from the truth ! Holy things and tender, Dead, alas ! however cherished. Breathe, O Spring, and render That forgotten radiance of our youth ! Ill Maidens O RARE bright courage of the stars That pierce the abysmal depth of night ! Lo, dancing Hesper, Vega, Mars ! And all the heavens pulse with light. So maidens in a world of woe Smile unafraid, and, smiling, save ; As fair, as innocently brave As almonds flowering in the snow ! 119 Adam and Eve WHEN Adam fell asleep in Paradise He made himself a helpmeet as he dreamed ; And, lo ! she stood before his waking eyes, And was the woman that his vision seemed. She knelt beside him there in tender awe To find the living fountain of her soul, And so in cither's eyes the other saw The light they missed in Heaven, and knew the goal. Thrice-blessed Adam, husband of thine Eve ! She brought thce for her dowry death and shame ; She taught thee one may worship and deceive ; But yet thy dream and she were still the same ; Nor ever in the desert turned thine eyes Towards Lilith by the brooks of Paradise. 120 Writing History THE profit of my living long ago I dedicated to the unloving dead, Though all my service they shall never know Whose world is vanished and their name unsaid. For none remembers now the good, the ill They did, the deeds they thought should last for aye ; But in the little room my voice can fill They shall not be forgotten till I die. So, in a lonely churchyard by the shore, The sea winds drift the sand across the mounds And those forgotten graves are found no more, And no man knows the churchyard's holy bounds ; Till one come by and stoop with reverent hands To clear the graves of their encumbering sands. 121 Soldiers Passing ALONG the planetree-dappled pearly street, Full flooded with the gay Parisian light, I watch the people gather, left and right, Far off I hear the clarion shrilling sweet ; Nearer and nearer comes the tramp of feet ; And, while the soldiers still are out of sight, Over the crowd the wave of one delight Breaks, and transfigures all the dusty heat. So have I seen the western Alps turn rose When the reflection of the rising sun Irradiates all their peaks and woods and snows. Even so this various nation blends in one As down the street the sacred banner goes, And every Frenchman feels himself its son ! 122 The Bookworm THE whole day long I sit and read Of days when men were men indeed And women knightlier far : I fight with Joan of Arc ; I fall With Talbot ; from my castle-wall I watch the*guiding star . . . But when at last the twilight falls And hangs about the book-lined walls And creeps across the page, Then the enchantment goes, and I Close up my volumes with a sigh To greet a narrower age. Home through the pearly dusk I go And watch the London lamplight glow Far off in wavering lines : A pale grey world with primrose gleams, And in the West a cloud that seems My distant Apennines. O Life ! so full of truths to teach, Of secrets I shall never reach, O world of Here and Now ; Forgive, forgive me, if a voice, A ghost, a memory be my choice And more to me than Thou ! 123 Melancholia (For an engraving by Albrecht Durer) So many years I toiled like Caliban To fetch the stones and earth to build my fane ; So many years I thought before the brain Reluctant would divulge the final plan. Years upon years to forge the invented tools Novel, as all my temple should be new ; Years upon years to fashion and to hew The stones that should astound a world of fools. Now shall I build ? Cut bono ? lo, the salt Hath lost its savour and I have no will : What reck I now of gate or dome or vault ? Among the ruins of the thing undone I sit and ask myself Cui bono ? till The sun sets, and a bat flies past the sun. 124 Song I HAVE lost my singing-voice ; My heyday's over. No more I lilt my cares and joys, But keep them under cover. My heyday's gone : I sit and look on : Life rushes by with a sob and a moan. Wherefore should I care to tell The pang that rends me ? If it leave me, all is well ; And if it last, it ends me. The tears that rise And prick in mine eyes Drop for a world full of hunger and sighs. 125 Old Song* THIS song I wrote ah me, how long ago ! When up the stair of Heaven and down again (For even then I could not long remain), With happy feet I used to come and go. This ode I sang beneath a laurel-bough Where I had sought for Truth among the dead This little verse (and still the page is red), To soothe some easier pang forgotten now. I took the dew of lilies grown apart ; The scanty wine of amphoras ; and, bright And clear, the blood that flows from trivial scars ; But with the bitter ink of mine own heart I have not written and I must not write, Let rust and acid dim the eternal stars. 126 To my Muse THE vast Parnassus never knew thy face, O Muse of mine, O frail and tender elf That dancest in a moonbeam to thyself Where olives rustle in a lonely place ! And yet . . . thou hast a sort of Tuscan grace ; Thou may'st outlive me ! Some unborn Filelf One day may range thee on his studious shelf With Lenau, Leopardi, and their race. And so, some time, the sole sad scholar's friend, The melancholy comrade of his dreams, Thou may'st, O Muse, escape a little while The none the less inevitable end : Take heart, therefore, and sing the thing that seems, And watch the world's disaster with a smile. 127 Michaelmas WE had not thought the sky could burn so blue ! For Summer hath her storms, and Spring her veils ; But now a crystal fire seems burning through Yon vault of wide turquoise no vapour pales. The summer green is changed and manifold : The cherries and the maples flame in rose, The beechwood studs the hill with rusty gold, And yellow bend the trembling poplar-rows. And all the roses that we mourned for dead Burst out in flower and bloom from every stalk ; The purple asters burn amid the red, And starry dahlias frame the terrace-walk. Bright apples bow the trees beyond the field, The meadow-saffron springs among the grass ; For every branch now bears its ripened yield, For every floweret feels the summer pass ; For Venus dances in a frosty sky At twilight o'er the tawny mountain tops ; For all things rage and revel ere they die, And know the hour is near when summer stops. 128 SONGS OF THE INNER LIFE: IDEAS AND IMAGES " Two things fill the soul with an undying, ever-increasing admiration and respect : The night with its heaven of stars above us, and, in our hearts, the Moral Law." EMMANUEL KANT. Foreword (TO j. D.) WHEN I die, all alone, I shall look at last For thy tender face, my own, Thy face, beloved, So far removed From all our happy past . . . Nay, all day, all day long Still thou lingerest here . . . Halting in its muffled song, Thy voice, unaltered, Still murmurs, faltered, The old words still as dear. Thou art dead, years ago, Dead and in the grave ; I am all alone, I know . . . And yet how often Thy kind eyes soften, And smile and guide and save ! Smilest thou, angel-ghost ? . . . Yet, no heavens ope ! All thou art I had, and lost ; And now remember O'er life's dull ember Nor call my dream a hope. The Two Li ions Two lions stand upon my path, Nor noon nor night can hide them ; And, look I late or look I rath, I see no way beside them. And, look I forth or look I back, I see but fear and sorrow ; Two lions stand upon my track : Yesterday and To-morrow. 132 Religions (TO M. B.) I DREAMED we sat Gabriclla, thou and I Within thy garden where the roses bloom, Weaving together at an ancient loom With beams in profile on a sapphire sky. We let the roses droop, the lilies die Unnoticed . . . Each in her appointed room, We wove a weft of fabulous glint and gloom : A veil for Truth, whose temple stood hard by. Thine, Margaret, was purpled o'er with flowers, And Gabriella's rich with mystic blooth, But mine transparent as are driven showers. We rose ... I tore your broideries from the head And flung my veil across the face of Truth ; I saw her unadorn'd and woke in dread. 133 The Lost Sheep THOU grantest ease of heart, O Lord, And them that wander in distress Thou gatherest at thy knees . . . Thou leadest thy lost sheep apart Into the paths of pleasantness, Into the paths of peace. The Valley of Death was dim, O Light, And vast the waste of vain desires Where wandered mine unrest . . . Thou earnest o'er the mountain rim, Thou foundest me amid the briers To hush me on thy breast. O calm, O joy, to lie, O Love, One moment held against thy heart In breathless rapt ama?,e ! . . . J dared to think that such as I Should wander nevermore apart, But pasture in thy rays. The Valley of Death was cold, O Lord, And far from thy paternal farms I mourned and murmured there . . . But how forsaken is the fold Where, cast abandoned from thine arms, I die of my despair ! 134 The Gate of Tears (TO c. A. s.) FAR upon the farther side Of the Gate of Tears Lies a country calm and wide ; There is peace at eventide Far upon the farther side Of the Gate of Tears. Never gale or tempest blows Thro' the Gate of Tears ; That autumnal valley knows Neither nightingale nor rose ; All the hills are crowned with snows Where the snowdrop peers. There a broken heart may rest, Free from hopes or fears, Undesiring, undistress'd ; While the sunset in the west Gilds the worst and greys the best, Through the Gate of Tears. 135 Teste Sibylla With a great cry the Sibyl woke and left The long walls of Assyrian Babylon, Wrenching her torn black robes and locks undone From them that hung upon her right and left. Pale, shrieking, mad, the curious crowd she cleft Swift as a homing swallow, and darted on Thro' leagues of tawny solitude alone, Prophesying a riddle as one bereft . . . " Not for to-day I speak, but for to-morrow ! Mad, call me ! Liar, call me ! Sage and priest, To-morrow 7 shall be the fount of Truth ! " But once she faltered, babbling words of ruth And yearning hope, and a new tender sorrow, While up in heaven a star rose in the east. 136 " Seek, and ye shall Find' * THE man who learns what Life can teach Shall see beyond his soul at last ; Shall mix with all that is and reach A secret hidden from the past. The goad that spurs him past his worth Is self ; yet soon he leaves behind The shadows and the dust of earth And reaches tow'rds the Eternal Mind. 'Tis self that spws him on to truth ; And Faustus bows a whitening head Unwearied in the quest for youth, But finds the laws of life instead. So Kepler, at a prince's hope To date a victory in his wars, Shall cast a captain's horoscope And note the motion of the stars. For more than all we ask we find, And more than triumph ends our strife ; Seek on, for there are worlds behind, Seek on and reach the source of Life ! At one with earth and heaven, turn In widening circles, human soul ! Forget the Here and Now, and learn At last to contemplate the whole. 137 Beauty AND shall not Beauty reign beyond the grave ? There Life is, Life eternal, there as here : For none may die, tho' he desire the dear And dark repose of Death's abysmal wave ; Thro' Life's unending round for aeons still, Even as we moved, so must we move and change Thro' all the marvels of her mystic range : Sea, rose or tempest, soul or star or hill. But only here, perchance, we know the grace Of Beauty and the magic of her dream, And here I love to watch the things that seem The dawn that filters thro' the veils of space ; The noon that spreads a glare implacable O'er all the plain, and drives the shepherd home ; The peace of forests, and the greeny dome Of ancient oaks above a holy well. I hold my breath until the blackbird stops ; I mark enchanted, past our cottage eaves, The roses of the sunset shed their leaves In shining pink upon the mountain tops. 138 BEAUTY I watch a lonely fountain dance all night In silver music to the silent moon ; While, trembling thro' the milky skies of June, The stars shine faintly amid the flooding light. I dream ; I mix divinely soul and earth. But if hereafter, 'mid the moving stars, We find thee not in our long avatars, May I forget thee, O Beauty, and thy dearth ! 139 Rhythm O BEAT and pause that count the life of man, Throb of the pulsing heart ! Ripple of tides and stars beyond our scan ! Rhythm o' the ray o' the sun and the red o' the rose ! Thrill of the lightning's dart ! All, all are one beyond this world of shows. Neither with eyes that see nor ears that hear May we discern thee here, Nor comprehend, O Life of life, thy laws, But all our idols praise the perfect whole ; And I have worshipped thee, O rhythmic soul, Chiefly in beat and pause. O beat and pause that count the life of man, Throb of the pulsing heart ! Ripple of tides and stars beyond our scan ! Rhythm o' the ray o' the sun and the red o' the rose ! Thrill of the lightning's dart ! Yea, all are one behind our world of shows. 140 The Valley WHEN August and the sultry summer's drouth Parch all the plains and pale the mountain-tops Where thick the pasture springs, Unchanged, our valley sloping to the south Is greener than the Irish isle, and drops With waterfalls and springs. The meadows by the river, tall with flowers, The fountain leaping from the rocks above, The simple ways of man, The farms and forests of this vale of ours, Are such, methinks, as gods and shepherds love, And wait the flute of Pan. The vale has seen unchanged a thousand years Or more, and Mercury might wander back And find, the same Auverne, And greet the hollows of the mountain meres Where round the crater's brim the rocks are black Amid the beds of fern. 141 THE VALLEY For neither he nor I have ever seen The lava rushing from the crater's edge, The rocks cast up like foam ; Though somewhile, as I dreamed amid the green, I thought I saw, beyond the cypress-hedge, Those torrents blast my home. Fire, flood, fierce earthquakes of an elder world, Red flames and smoke of swirling lava streams, Tempests of ash and snow, Whereby the rock I stand upon was hurl'd Down hither, oft ye haunt, ye haunt my dreams, O storms of long ago ! That FORCE unchain'd, volcanic, belching fire, Which shook the mountains then, and filled the coombs With groaning tongues of flame, Where is it ? Still, they say, as dread, as dire, Sprung undiminished from a world of tombs, It dwells in us the same. And yet how tranquil sleeps the mountain now ! The water runnels trace their crystal rings And, thro' the grasses, gleam ; The tawny oxen pull the trident plough And turn the soil, while soft the farmer sings To cheer the straining team. How tranquil smiles the valley, broad and calm ! Those elemental energies of old Swoon they indeed beneath ? Whisper, O wind, made sweet with musk and balm ; O sunset, rain an influence in thy gold ; Answer, O cirrus-wreath ! Nay, thou shalt be mine answer, vale of rest That wast so wild and art so beautiful : Behold, I understand . . . As waterfalls, that clear the mountain crest In torrents, fill the runnels clear and full That nourish all our land ; 142 THE VALLEY So, through a myriad channels, bound in peace And fruitful, runs the Force of primitive fire, Divided and divine : The unnumbered travail of our earth's increase, The lives of men who toil, foresee, aspire, The growth of grain and vine ; The patient oxen ploughing through the clod, The very dragonflies about the stream, The larks that sing and soar, Employ the force of that tremendous God Who lurks behind our thought, beyond our dream, And whom the worlds adore. 143 Darwinism WHEN first the unflowering Fern-forest Shadowed the dim lagoons of old, A vague, unconscious, long unrest Swayed the great fronds of green and gold. Until the flexible stem grew rude, The fronds began to branch and bower, And lo ! upon the unblossoming wood There breaks a dawn of apple -flower. Then on the fruitful forest-boughs For ages long the unquiet ape Swung happy in his airy house And plucked the apple, and sucked the grape. Until at length in him there stirred The old, unchanged, remote distress, That pierced his world of wind and bird With some divine unhappiness. Not love, nor the wild fruits he sought, Nor the fierce battles of his clan Could still the unborn and aching thought, Until the brute became the man. Long since ; and now the same unrest Goads to the same invisible goal, Till some new gift, undream'd, unguess'd, End the new travail of the soul. 144 The Stars (TO j. D.) SESTINA STARS in the sky, fold upon fold or stars ! And still beyond the stars those gulfs of air Flecked soft and pale witji milkier stars beyond, Millions of miles above our dusky world : Pale stars, whose light down the unplumbed abyss Falls, ere it reach us, through a thousand years. There was a God in the unwritten years Who lit the flaming order of the stars : Let there be Light ! He said, and lo ! the abyss Grew live and tremulous with rustling air, Grew bright with stars and moons, and each a world Shining, a light to other worlds beyond. O were you even as we, bright orbs beyond Who shine and shed your glory all these years, Not light, but smoke would fall from every world ; Smoke, black with human evil, black, O stars With His neglect who lit the sparkling air ; But left within unformed and void the Abyss. 145 L THE STARS O stars that dance indifferent in the Abyss, Our Earth may seem as bright to you beyond ; Yourselves, to them that breathe your delicate air, As desolate ; Life in the Lunar years As long ; and the straight rivers of the stars And primal snows divide as drear a world. And men, perchance, as we, in every world Fill with their dreams the bright and vast abyss : A Christ has died in vain on all the stars, And each, unhappy, seeks a star beyond Where God rewards the dead through endless years . . . And so we circle, dumb, in the silent air. What shall we find more holy in all the air ? Lo, when the first huge, incandescent world Burst out of chaos and flamed a million years, Until, with too much flaming, thro' the abyss Flake after flake dropped off and flamed beyond : That was the God who lit the host of stars ! For Light, the stars ; for breath, the realms of air ; For Hope, beyond this dark and suffering world, Nought in the Abyss, nor ought in the endless years. 146 Etruscan "Tombs To think the face we love shall ever die, And be the indifferent earth, and know us not ! To think that one of us shall live to cry On one long buried in a distant spot ! O wise Etruscans, faded in the night Yourselves, with scarce a rose-leaf on your trace ; You kept the ashes of the dead in sight, And shaped the vase to seem the vanished face. But, O my love, my life is such an urn That tender memories mould with constant touch, Until the dust and earth of it they turn To your dear image that I love so much : A sacred urn, filled with the sacred past, That shall recall you while the clay shall last. IT. These cinerary urns with human head And human arms that dangle at their sides, The earliest potters made them for their dead, To keep the mother's ashes or the bride's. H7 ETRUSCAN TOMBS O rude attempt of some long-spent despair With symbol and with emblem discontent To keep the dead alive and as they were, The actual features and the glance that went ! The anguish of your art was not in vain, For lo, upon these alien shelves removed The sad immortal images remain, And show that once they lived and once you loved But oh, when I am dead may none for me Invoke so drear an immortality ! in. Beneath the branches of the olive yard Are roots where cyclamen and violet grow ; Beneath the roots the earth is deep and hard, And there a king was buried long ago. The peasants digging deeply in the mould Cast up the autumn soil about the place, And saw a gleam of unexpected gold, And underneath the earth a living face. With sleeping lids and rosy lips he lay, Among the wreaths and gems that mark the king, One moment ; then a little dust and clay Fell shrivelled over wreath and urn and ring. A carven slab recalls his name and deeds, Writ in a language no man living reads. IV. Here lies the tablet graven in the past, Clear-charactered and firm and fresh of line. See, not a word is gone ; and yet how fast The secret no man living may divine ! 148 ETRUSCAN TOMBS What did he choose for witness in the grave ? A record of his glory on the earth ? The wail of friends ? The pasans of the brave ? The sacred promise of the second birth ? The tombs of ancient Greeks in Sicily Are sown with slender discs of graven gold Filled with the praise of death : thrice happy he Who sleeps the milk-soft sleep of dreams untold. They sleep their patient sleep in altered lands, The golden promise in their fleshless hands. 149 Fire-Jlii res TO-NIGHT I watch the fire-flies rise And shine along the air ; They float beneath the starry skies, As mystical and fair, Above the hedge where dimly glows The deep gold of the Persian rose. I watch the fire-flies drift and float : Each is a dreamy flame, Star-coloured each, a starry mote, Like stars not all the same ; But whiter some, or faintly green, Or wannest blue was ever seen. They cross and cross and disappear, And then again they glow ; Still drifting faintly there and here, Still crossing to and fro, As though in all their wandering They wove a wide and shining thing. 150 FIRE-FLIES n. fire-flies, would I knew the weft You have the weaving of ! For, as I watch you move, bereft Of thought or will or love, 1 fear, O listless flames, you weave The fates of men who strive and grieve. The web of life, the weft of dreams, You weave it ceaselessly ; A strange and filmy thing it seems, And made in mystery Of wind and darkness threaded through With light these heavens never knew. O pale, mysterious, wandering fire, Born of the earth, alive With the same breath that I respire, Who know and think and strive ; You circle round me, stranger far Than any charm of any star ! HI. Ah me, as faint as you, as slight, As hopelessly remote As you, who still across the night Innumerably float, Intangible as you, I see The motives of our destiny. For ah, no angel of the stars, No guardian of the soul, Stoops down beyond the heavenly bars Our courses to control, But filled and nourished with our breath Are the dim hands that weave our death. '5 1 FIRE-FLIES They weave with many threads our souls, A subtle-tinted thing, So interwoven that none controls His own imagining ; For every strand with other strands They twine and bind with viewless hands. They weave the future of the past ; Their mystic web is wrought With dreams from which we woke at last, And many a secret thought ; For still they weave, howe'er we strive, The web new-woven for none alive. IV. And still the fire-flies come and go Each is a dreamy flame Still palely drifting to and fro The very way they came As though, across the dark they wove Fate and the. shining web thereof. Yet, even were I sure of it, I would not lift a hand To break the threads that shine and flit- For, ah, I understand : Ruin, indeed, I well might leave ; But a new web could never weave. 152 The Idea BENEATH this world of stars and flowers That rolls in visible deity, I dream another world is ours And is the soul of all we see. It hath no form, it hath no spirit ; It is perchance the Eternal Mind ; Beyond the sense that we inherit I feel it dim and undefined. How far below the depth of being, How wide beyond the starry bound It rolls unconscious and unseeing, And is as Number or as Sound. And through the vast fantastic visions Of all this actual universe, It moves unswerved by our decisions, And is the play that we rehearse. '53 The Wall THE sun falls through the olive-trees And shines upon the wall below, And lights the wall which cannot know The Sunlight that it never sees. I lie and dream ; the Eternal Mind Rains down on me and fills me full With secrets high and wonderful ; And still my soul is deaf and blind. Justice (TO M. B.) " Lord, what is Justice ? Say, Shall Man be just ? Shall mortals strike a ray Out of the dust ? " " One sage was just : He spake ' Friend, thine is thine ! Keep all thou hast, and take. Nothing is mine ! '" '54 God in a Heart ONCE, where the unentered Temple stood, at noon No sun-ray pierced the dim unwindowed aisle ; And all the flooding whiteness of the moon Could only bathe the outer peristyle. And as we passed we praised the Temple front ; But one went in ; with careless feet he trod The long-forgotten pavement moss'd and blunt And found the altar of the unprayed-to God. He reached and lit the tapers of the shrine And let their radiance flood the vault obscure ; But ah ! upon what evil things to shine, Blind, crawling, chill, discoloured, and impure. Burn on, O Light, burn clearer in the gloom, And show the foulness of the illumin'd room. '55 Under the Trees I LAY full length near lonely trees Heart-full of sighing silences ; So far as eyes could see all round There was no life, no stir, no sound. I thought no more down in the grass Of all that must be or that was ; My weary brain forgot to ache, My heart was still and did not break. So close I lay to earth's large breast I could have dreamed myself at rest ; Only that then the grass must be Above instead of under me. Wherefore, I thought, should I regain My anxious life that is so vain ? Here will I lie, forgetting strife, Till death shall end this death-in-life. Ah, no : because, O coward will, Thy destined work thou must fulfil, Because no soul, be it great or small, Can rise alone or lonely fall. 156 UNDER THE TREES Therefore the old war must not cease, The hard old inner war of peace, With heart and body and mind and soul Each striving for a different goal. Therefore I will arise and bear The burden all men everywhere Have borne and must bear, and bear yet, Till the end come when we forget. 157 The Ideal THE night is dark and warm and very still, Only the moon goes pallid and alone ; The moon and I the whole wide heavens fill, And all the earth lies little, lost, unknown. I walk along the byways of my Soul, Beyond the streets where all the world may go, Until at last I reach the hidden goal Built up in strength where only I may know. For in my Soul a temple have I made, Set on a height, divine and steep and far, Nor often may I hope those floors to tread, Or reach the gates that glimmer like a star. O secret, inner shining of my dream, How clear thou risest on my soul to-night ! Forth will I fare and seek the heavenly beam, And stand within the precincts of the light. And I will press beyond the curtain'd door, And up the empty aisle where no one sings ; There will I fall before thee and adore, And feel the shadowy winnowing of thy wings. 158 THE IDEAL So will I reach thee, Spirit ; for I have known Thy voice, and looked upon thy blinding eyes ; And well thou knowest the world to me is grown One dimness whence thy dreamy beacons rise. Nor ask I any hope nor any end, That thus for thee I dream all day, all night ; But, like the moon along the skies, I wend, Knowing no world below my borrowed light. '59 A Classic Landscape THIS wood might be some Grecian heritage Of the antique world, this hoary ilex wood ; So broad the shade, so deep the solitude, So grey the air where Oread fancies brood. Beyond, the fields are tall with purple sage ; The sky bends downward like a purple sheet A purple wind-filled sail i' the noonday heat ; And past the river shine the fields of wheat. O tender wheat, O starry saxifrage, O deep-red tulips, how the fields are fair ! Far off the mountains pierce the quivering air, Ash-coloured, mystical, remote, and bare. How far they look, the Mountains of Mirage Or northern Hills of Heaven, how far away ! In front the long paulonia-blossoms sway From leafless boughs across that dreamy grey. O world, how worthy of a golden age ! How might Theocritus have sung and found The Oreads here, the Naiads gathering round, Their pallid locks still dripping to the ground ! For me, O world, thou art how mere a stage, Whereon the human soul must act alone, In a dead language, with the plot unknown, Nor learn what happens when the play is done. 1 60 Versailles " Lt monde est r<euvre d'un grand Architecte qui est mart avant de Pa-voir acheve." B. CONSTANT. THE king is dead who planned these terraces ; The turf has grown to meadow-grass again ; The lake is rank beneath the untended trees, And down the mouldering statues drips the rain. The king is dead. Ay, he, with all his kind, Is absolutely vanished, lost, and gone, And not a trace of him remains behind ; But the forsaken palace lingers on. How desolate ! The weary waters drowned In mist, the empty alleys chill and frore, The vast and melancholy pleasure-ground Where the forgotten monarch comes no more. How like an older Folly, planned no less For beauty, where a greater monarch trod, And now, grown old, in its extreme distress Abandoned by the long-departed God ! 161 The One Certainty LIGHTLY I hold my life, with little dread And little hope for what may spring therefrom, But live like one that builds a summer's home Of branches on a dried-up river-bed, And takes no thought of frescoed blue and red To paint the walls, and plans no golden dome, Knowing the flood, when autumn rains are come, Shall roll its ruining waters overhead. And wherefore should I plant my ground and sow ? Since, though 1 reck not of the day or hour, The conqueror comes at last, the alien foe Shall come to my defenceless place in power, With force, with arms, with strenuous overthrow, Taking the goods I gathered for his dower. 162 Personality (A SESTINA) As one who goes between high garden walls, Along a road that never has an end, With still the empty way behind, in front, Which he must pace for evermore alone So, even so, is Life to every soul, Walled in with barriers which no Love can break. And yet, ah me ! how often would we break Through fence and fold, and overleap the walls, To link ourselves to some beloved soul ; Hearing her answering voice until the end, Going her chosen way, no more alone, But happy comrades, seeing Heaven in front. But, ah, the barrier's high ! and still my front I dash against the stones in vain, nor break A passage through, but still remain alone. Sometimes I hear across high garden walls A voice the wind brings over, or an end Of song that sinks like dew into my soul. 163 PERSONALITY Since others sing, let me forget, my Soul, How dreary-long the road goes on in front, And tow'rds how flat, inevitable an end. Come, let me look for daisies, let me break The gillyflowers that shelter in the walls But, ah ! it is so sad to be alone ! For ever, irremediably alone, Not only I or thou, but every soul, Each cased and fastened with invisible walls. Shall we go mad with it ? or bear a front Of desperate courage doomed to fail and break ? Or trudge in sullen patience till the end ? Ah, hope of every heart, there is an end ! An end when each shall be no more alone, But strong enough and bold enough to break This prisoning self and find that larger Soul (Neither of thee nor me) enthroned in front Of Time, beyond the world's remotest walls ! I trust the end ; I sing within my walls, Sing all alone, to bid some listening soul Wait till the day break, watch for me in front ! 164 THE Tuberose you left me yesterday Leans yellowing in the grass we set it in ; It could not live when you were gone away, Poor spike of withering sweetness changed and thin. And all the fragrance of the dying flower Is grown too faint and poisoned at the source, Like passion that survives a guilty hour, To find its sweetness heavy with remorse. What shall we do, my dear, with dying roses ? Shut them in weighty tomes where none will look To wonder when the unfrequent page uncloses Who shut the wither'd blossoms in the book ? What shall we do, my dear, with things that perish, Memory, roses, love we feel and cherish ? ii. Alive and white, we praised the Tuberose, So sweet it fill'd the garden with its breath, A spike of waxy bloom that grows and grows Until at length it Mooms itself to death. 165 TUBEROSES Everything dies that lives everything dies ; How shall we keep the flower we lov'd so long r O press to death the transient thing we prize, Crush it, and shut the elixir in a song. A song is neither live nor sweet nor white ; It hath no heavenly blossom tall and pure, No fragrance can it breathe for our delight, It grows not, neither lives ; it may endure. Sweet Tuberose, adieu ! you fade too fast ! Only a dream, only a thought, can last. HI. Who'd stay to muse if Death could never wither ? Who dream a dream if Passion did not pass ? But, once deceived, poor mortals, hasten hither To watch the world in Fancy's magic glass. Truly your city, O men, hath no abiding ! Built on the sand it crumbles, as it must ; And as you build, above your praise and chiding, The columns fall to crush you to the dust. But fashion'd in the mirage of a dream, Having nor life nor sense, a bubble of nought, The enchanted City of the Things that Seem Keeps till the end of time the eternal Thought. Forswear to-day, forswearing joy and sorrow, Forswear to-day, O man, and take to-morrow. 1 66 The Barrier LAST night I dreamed I stood once more Beneath our garden wall. I saw the willows bending grey, The poplar springing tall. O paths where oft 1 plucked the rose, O steeple in the sky, O Common swelling darkly green, How glad at heart was I ! My hand I raised to lift the latch, But lo, the gate was gone ! And all around, ay, all around There ran a wall of stone . . . O years when oft we plucked the rose, When oft we laughed and cried ! Thou hast no gate, O Youth, our Youth, When once we stand outside ! 167 The Road Leading Nowhere THE road leading nowhere Is bright in the morn ; We troop it and foot it By thicket and thorn. With fewer companions We pace it at even ; The road leading nowhere Is pleasant and even. But oh ! there's an hour That is fatal and still ; 'Tis the halt after noon At the top of the hill. 'Tis the look of the road As it slips out of sight ; 'Tis the flight of the day And the dread of the night. 168 Spring and Autumn GOD in His heart made Autumn for the young ; That they might learn to accept the approach of age In golden woods and starry saxifrage And valleys all with azure mists o'erhung. For over Death a radiant veil He flung, That thus the inevitable heritage Might come revealed in beauty, and assuage The dread with which the heart of youth is wrung. And for the consolation of the old He made the delicate, swift, tumultuous Spring ; That every year they might again behold The image of their youth in everything And bless the fruit-trees flowering in the cold Whose harvest is not for their gathering. 169 Fair G hosts WHEN the extreme of autumn whirls the oak-leaf from the forest, Till from the withered ling, The hardiest birds take wing ; Courage, O Heart ! there surges through this winter thou abhorrest, The Vision of the spring ! When the oncoming years dispel the magic of our morning Till all the Past is shed With petals falling red : Perish'd illusions, hope defeated, passion turned to scorning, Eternal friendship dead ; Ah, in how many an hour of twilight, Soft ! they wake and flutter, And hover round us yet, The ghosts of our regret : Evermore altered faces, names we never hear or utter And nevermore forget ! Rock, O tormented forest, all thy branches torn and hoary ! In vain the tempest stings ; The skies I watch are Spring's, Lovelier still and haloed with the soft poetic glory Of all remembered things ! 170 Souvenir EVEN as a garden, full of branch and blooth, Seen in a looking-glass appears more fair With boughs suspended in a magic air, More spacious and more radiant than the truth, So I remember thee, my happy youth, And smile to look upon the days that were, As they had never told of doubt or care, As I had never wept for grief or ruth. So, were our spirits destined to endure, So, were the after-life a promise sure, And not the mocking mirage of our death, Through all eternity might heaven appear The still, the vast, the radiant souvenir Of one unchanging moment known on earth. 171 The Vision SOMETIMES when I sit musing all alone The sick diversity of human things, Into my soul, I know not how, there springs The vision of a world unlike our own. O stable Zion, perfect, endless, one, Why hauntest thou a soul that hath no wings ? I look on thee as men on mirage springs, Knowing the desert bears but sand and stone. Yet as a passing mirror in the street Flashes a glimpse of gardens out of range Through some poor sick-room open to the heat, So, in a world of doubt and death and change, The vision of eternity is sweet, The vision of eternity is strange. 172 The Present Age WE stand upon a bridge between two stars, And one is half engulfed in the Abyss, While unarisen still the other is, Hidden behind the Orient's cloudy bars. * We tread indeed a perilous path by night, Yet we who walk in darkness unaghast Prepare the future and redeem the past, And know the Morning-star shall bring the light. 173 Liberty LIBERTY, fiery Goddess, dangerous Saint ! God knows I worship thee no less than they Who fain would set thee in the common way To battle at their sides without restraint, Redoubtable Amazon ! Who, never faint, Climbest the barricades at break of day, With tangled locks and blood-besmirched array, Thy torch low-smoking through the carnage taint ! But I would set thee in a golden shrine Above the enraptured eyes of dreaming men, Where thou shouldst reign immutable, divine, A hope to all generations and a sign ; Slow-guiding to the stars, through quag and fen, The scions of thine aye-unvanquished line ! '74 Veritatem Dilexi (/ Mcmoriam Ernest Renan) " TRUTH is an Idol," spake the Christian sage. "Thou shalt not worship Truth divorced from Love. Truth is but God's reflection : Look above ! " So Pascal wrote, and still we muse the page. " Truth is divine," said Plato, "but on high She dwells, and few may be her ministers, For Truth is sad and lonely and diverse : Heal thou the weakling with a generous lie ! " But thou in Truth delightedst ! Thou of soul As subtle-shimmering as the rainbow mist, And still in all her service didst persist. For no one truth thou lovedst, but the Whole. 175 Taking Possession WHEN, in the wastes of old, the Arabian Sheikh Beheld a sudden peace amid the sands, With springing waters and green pasture lands, Fringed with the waving palm and cactus-spike, Think ye he stayed to fashion fence or dyke ? Nay ! for he called into his hollowed hands Till all his hounds came trooping swift in bands Sheep-dog and wolf-hound, terrier, cur, and tyke, They bayed with deep, full voices on the calm. Then he : " So far as the last echoes die The land is mine, pasture and spring and palm ! " So men who watch afar the Hope Divine Rally a pack of sectaries and cry : " Behold the Land of Promise : ours, not thine ! " 176 Vishtaspa FOR thirty years Vishtaspa reigned alone, No King above him in the empty skies, No Lord of all earth's fallen sovereignties To mock the mighty tedium of his throne. To him the secrets of the stars were known Who was above all sages great and wise ; Yet as the years dragged on without surprise He wearied of this world that was his own. Earth is too narrow for the dreaming Soul. Ay, tho' she hold it all from pole to pole Her least desire is wider than the whole. Therefore who knows the limit of his power Disdains the trivial baubles of an hour, And plunges where the seas of silence roll. it. "Life is a dream," Vishtaspa said, "wherein The dreamer lives alone ; the rest is vain . . . My dream shall end, for I would sleep again ; Wherefore farewell, glitter and glare and din ! " 177 N VlSHTASPA He went his palace-terraces to win : " Farewell ! I cast me to the quiet plain*" He would have leapt ; but lo ! a voice spake plain : " Mortal ! thy Master saith : thou shall not sin." And at his side, unguess'd, Zoroaster trod . . . O sudden peace of heart, O deep delight Of souls outgrown religion's earlier rite, Yet spent and thirsting for the springs of God, When lo ! at last the Prophet deigns appear . . Vishtaspa reign'd in rapture many a year. 178 Zeno THE Greeks narrate that Zeno Cypriote Ger-Baal ben Manasseh, Lord of Truth Twixt Citium and Athens, in his youth Trading in Tyrian purple, plied his boat. Still in the Porch and Grove the Athenians quote The lean Phoenician merchant, swart, uncouth, Who stopped to read beside the copyist's booth, And left his cargo twenty years afloat ! He was the first who said to Man : " Renounce. Follow thy soul : thou hast no other claim ; And yield to Fate as lambs to the eagle's pounce. " Do right. Fear nothing, deeming all the same." Yet not for that we heap his tomb with crowns. But, Duty, he was first to breathe thy name ! 179 Sacrifice O PATIENT-EYED and tender saint, Too far from thee I stand, With vain desires perplexed and faint; Reach out thy helping hand. No fire is on the holy hill, No voice on Sinai now ; But, in our gloom and darkness still Abiding, help me thou. They move on whom thy light is shed Through lives of larger scope ; For them beneath the false and dead There stirs a quickening hope. So on some gusty morn we mark The reddening tops of trees, And hear in carols of the lark Thespesian promises. 180 A Jonquil IN THE PISAN CAMPO SANTO OUT of the place of death, Out of the cypress shadow, Out of sepulchral earth, Dust the Calvajy gave ; Sprang, as fragrant of breath As any flower of the meadow, This, with death in its birth, Sent like speech from the grave. So, in a world of doubt, Love like a flower Blossoms suddenly white, Suddenly sweet and pure ; Shedding a breath about Of new mysterious power ; Lifting a hope in the night, Not to be told, but sure. 181 Unum est Necessarium I THOUGHT that I was ravished to a height Whence earth was lost with all I once had known ; I saw the stars flash dwindling thro' the night, Like sparklets from a blackening yule-log thrown ; And nothing else remained of all that is Save the essential life of souls alone. Behold ! Like flowers of light against the abyss I watched them move and shine how soft and clear ! With trailing rays of light, with streams of bliss, With haloes of a heavenly atmosphere : Like flowers at dusk, when first the froth and bloom Of blond immense chrysanthemums appear To shake a loose, fresh aureole o'er the gloom (If human sense and common vision might Divine the splendours of that Upper Room Where motion, joy, and life are one with light) Like flowers made meteors, then, or meteors flowers, The radiant spirits circled holy-bright. And lo ! I heard a voice from Heaven, not ours, " This is the Race," it cried, " this is the Race Of Radiating Souls, the large in heart, And where they circle is a holy place ! 182 UNUM EST NECESSARIUM Yet not of them, O Gazer, know thou art : Look further ! " Then with anxious sight astrain 1 pierced the depth of space from part to part, And lo ! adrift as leaves that eddy in vain, I watched the vacant, vagrant, aimless dance Of Souls concentred in their bliss or pain : Unneighboured souls, the drift of time and chance. bright, unthrifty stars that glow and spend Your radiance unregarding, when my glance Fell from the fulgence where your orbits trend, So far, I felt as men who smile in dreams And wake, at rainy dawn, without a friend ! So bare they looked, bereft of all their beams ; Poor spheres that trail their cloudy mantles dim Where throb and fret a few faint feverish gleams. " Look," said the Voice, " for thou art such an one Many are ye ; the uncentred Souls are few ! " * 1 gazed ; and as we used to fix the sun In London thro' the fogs our valleys knew, Beneath their shrouds I saw these too were bright. " Be thankful ! " then acclaimed the Voice anew, Adore, and learn that all men love the Light ! " And, as the motion of their muffled fires Grew more distinct to mine undazzled sight, I half-forgot those glad and gracious quires, In pity of their dearth who dream and yearn, Pent up and shrouded in their lone desires. Aye, even as plants that grow in chambers turn Their twisted branches towards the window space, And languish for the daylight they discern, So longed these spirits for the Light of Grace ! And aye their passionate yearning would attract Some beam within their cloudy dwelling-place, UNUM EST NECESSARIUM Some dewy star-beam to their parch'd contact ; But, even as dew or raindrop, when they fall Upon the insatiate earth, are changed in the act, Cease to be water, and no more at all Are either dew or rain but only mire ! So the benignant rays of Heaven would pall And faint into a maze of misty fire At touch of these concentred spirits aye Locked in their long ungenerous desire. Thus, shrouded each alone, nor far nor nigh Their shine was shed, nor shared by any mate ; Secret and still each burned, a separate I, Lost in no general glory, penetrate With no sweet mutual marvels of the sky, And bitter isolation was their state. " Unjust Eternity ! " I mourned aghast. " O dread, unchanging, predetermined Fate, Shall evermore the Future ape the Past ? " " Thou seest nor Past nor Future," cried the Voice. " Such is the life thou leadest, such thou wast, Art, shalt be ; such thy bent is and thy choice, centre-seeking Soul that cannot love, Nor radiate, nor relinquish, nor rejoice ! Know, they are wise who squander : Look above ! " And lo ! a beam of their transcendent bliss Who, ever giving, ever losing, move In self-abandoned bounty through the abyss, Pierced to my soul with so divine a dart, 1 swooned with pain, I wakened to a kiss : " Blessed," I sang, " are ye the large in heart Irradiate with the light in alien eyes ; For ye have chosen indeed the brighter part, And where ye circle is our Paradise." 184 Calais Beacon (TO E. s.) FOR long before we came upon the coast and the line of the surge, Pale on the uttermost verge, We saw the great white rays that lay along the air on high Between us and the sky. So soft they lay, so pure and still : " Those are the ways," you said, " Only the angels tread ; " And long we watched them tremble past the hurrying rush of the train Over the starlit plain. Until at last we saw the strange, pallid electrical star Burning wanly afar : The lighthouse beacon sending out its rays on either hand, Over the sea and the land. 185 CALAIS BEACON Those pale and filmy rays that reach to mariners, lost in the night, A hope of dawn and a light How soft and vague they lie along the darkness shrouding o'er, The dim sea and the shore. And many fall in vain across the untenanted marshes to die, And few where sailors cry ; Yet, though the moon go out in clouds, and all of the stars grow wan, Their paleness shineth on. O souls, that save a world by night, ye too are no rays of the noon, No glory and flood of the moon ; But pale and tender-shining things as yon faint beacon atar, Whiter than any star. No planet names that all may tell, no meteor radiance and glow, For a wondering world to know. You shine as pale and soft as that, you pierce the stormy night, And know not of your light ! 186 The Gospel according to St. Peter TO-MORROW or in twenty centuries The sudden falling open of a lid On some grey tomb beside the Pyramid May bring the First Evangel to our eyes. That day, who knows with what aghast surprise Our priests shall touch the very deeds He did, And learn the truth so many ages hid, And find, perchance, the Christ did never rise. What then ? shall all our faith be accounted vain r Nothing be left of all our nights of prayer ? Nothing of all the scruples, all the tears Of endless generations' endless years ? Take heart ! Be sure the fruits of these remain. Hark to the Inner Witness : Christ is there ! 187 LET us no more dispute of Heaven and Hell ! How should we know what none hath ever seen ? We'll watch instead the same sweet miracle That every April work in wood and green. . . . The apples in our orchard are a bower Of budding bright-green leaf and pearly flower, No two alike of all the myriad blossom ! Some faintly-flushing as a maiden's bosom, Some pursed in hardy pink, and some as pale As whitening stars above the twilit vale. If sometimes from His balcony on high, The Lord of all the stars, with musing eye, Look down upon this orchard of our world, Methinks he marks as blossom dewy-pearled Sprung from the branches of the self-same tree, Our varying faiths and all the creeds there be ! Indifferently radiant, chiefly dear For that ripe harvest of the later year Which promises a winter-wealth of mead To fill the goblet up and brim the bowl : His wine of generous thought and ample deed Sprung from the blossom of a perfect soul. 188 Antiphon to the Holy Spirit Men and Women sing. Men. O THOU that movest all, O Power That bringest life where'er Thou art, O Breath of God in star and flower, Mysterious aim of soul and heart ; Within the thought that cannot grasp Thee In its unfathomable hold, We worship Thee who may not clasp Thee, O God, unreckoned and untold ! Women. O Source and Sea of Love, O Spirit That makest every soul akin, O Comforter whom we inherit, We turn and worship Thee within ! To give beyond all dreams of giving, To lose ourselves as Thou in us, We long ; for Thou, O Fount of living, Art lost in Thy creation thus ! 189 ANTIPHON TO THE HOLY SPIRIT Men. The mass of unborn matter knew Thee, And lo ! the splendid silent sun Sprang out to be a witness to Thee Who art the All, who art the One ; The airy plants unseen that flourish Their floating strands of filmy rose, Too small for sight, are Thine to nourish ; For Thou art all that breathes and grows. Women. Thou art the ripening of the fallows, The swelling of the buds in rain ; Thou art the joy of birth that hallows The rending of the flesh in twain ; O Life, O Love, how undivided Thou broodest o'er this world of Thine, Obscure and strange, yet surely guided To reach a distant end divine ! Men. We know Thee in the doubt and terror That reels before the world we see ; We knew Thee in the faiths of error ; We know Thee most who most are free. This phantom of the world around Thee Is vast, divine, but not the whole : We worship Thee, and we have found Thee In all that satisfies the soul ! Men and Women. How shall we serve, how shall we own Thee, O breath of Love and Life and Thought ? How shall we praise, who are not shown Thee? How shall we serve, who are as nought ? Yet, though Thy worlds maintain unbroken The silence of their awful round, A voice within our souls hath spoken, And we who seek have more than found. 190 Poems and Idylls The Widow * SHE hath no children, and no heart In all our hurrying anxious life ; She sits beyond our ken apart, Unmoved, unconscious of our strife ; Shipwrecked beyond these coasts of ours, On some sad island full of flowers Where nothing moves but memory ; Where no one lives but only he ; And all we othets barely seem The phantom figures of a dream One dreams and says, " It cannot be ! " If sometimes when we talk with her Those absent eyes light up awhile And her set lips consent to stir In the beginning of a smile, It is not of our world nor us But some remembrance tremulous, Some sweet " Ten years ago to-day ! " Or haply, if a sudden ray Set all her window in a glow, She thinks : " 'Twill make the roses blow I planted at his feet to-day." 193 o THE WIDOW His tomb is all her garden-plot, And rain or sunshine find her there. She plants her blue forget-me-not With hands but half unclasped from prayer ; Her loving mercies overbrim O'er all the tombs that neighbour him ; On each she sets a dewy-pearled Sweet pink or fernlet fresh-uncurled ; She plucks the withering violets ; And here if anywhere forgets The emptiness of all the world. Here, where she used to sob for hours, Her deep fidelity unchanged Hath found a calm that is not ours, A peace exalted and estranged. Here in the long light summer weather She brings the books they chose together And reads the verse he liked the most ; And here, as softly as a ghost, Comes gliding through the winter gloom To say her prayer beside the tomb Of him she loves and never lost. 194 Helen in the W^ood I LEFT the yew-tree shadow, thrown Slantwise across the graves, and grown So long I knew the day waxed late, And opened wide the churchyard gate ; Paused there ; for from the church behind Voices of women thrilled the wind, And organ music rose and rang : I heard the village choir that sang. But I, that had no heart for song, Sighed, shut the gate, and went along The lane (where rows of elms, wind-vexed, Nodded fantastic heads perplexed At winter's dimly*boded woes), Until the trees grew thick and close. The rain was over, but the copse Shook down at whiles some after-drops, Tho' sunshine, thro' wet branches seen, Flickered in living flakes of green, And, where below ground-ivy grew, A fallen heaven lay darkly blue. So soon ! the tempest scarce was done, And all the wet world sang and shone More lovely yet : I think the place Found but in grief an added grace ; While I the tears fell and 1 sighed : It was a year since Helen died. '95 HELEN IN THE WOOD At last I raised mine eyes. Behold, The branches green, the bracken's gold Gained a new meaning in my sight, That found the centre of their light. For down the dim wood-arches came Was it a star ? Was it a flame ? No ; there my Helen went, all white. Just as of old, above the large Sweet eyes, the hair made golden marge ; Thro' tangled fern, thro' grass still wet, Her feet went firmly on ; and yet I knew, altho' no word was said, She did not live, she was not dead. Ah, having loved we cannot lose ! The deepest grave can ne'er refuse The phantom of the Past, the ghost Of all we loved and owned and lost ! So once, one moment, Helen dear, I saw thee still beside me here. I praised the old familiar grace. . . . She paused, she looked me in the face, Smiled once her smile that understood, Passed ; and how lonely was the wood ! I trod the way I went before ; I passed the church's open door. The hymn went pealing up the sky : " O love, how deep ! how broad ! how high ! " 196 Loss DEAD here in Florence ! Yes, she died. The prophesying doctors lied Who swore the South should save her life. But no, she died, my little wife. I brought her South ; the whole long way, She was as curious and as gay As a young bird that tries its wing, And halts to look at everything. sudden-turning little head, Dear eyes dear changing, wistful eyes Your love, your eager life, now lies Under this earth of Florence, dead. All of her dead except the Past The finished Past, that cannot grow But that, at least, will always last Mocking, consoling, Life-in-show. Will that fade too ? Seven days ago She was alive and by my side, And yet I cannot now divide, The pallid, gasping girl who died From her I used to love and know. Only in moments lives the Past ! One like a sunlit peak stands out Above the blurring mist and doubt That creep about our dead so fast. All night the train has rushed through France, 1 watch the shaken lamp-light dance About my darling's sleeping face. '97 Loss And now the engine slackens pace And staggers up the mountain side ; And now the depths of night divide And let a lighter darkness through, A tangible, dim smoke of blue That lights the world, and is not Light Before the dawn, beyond the night. The vapour clings about the grass And makes its greenness very green, Through it the tallest pine-tops pass Into the night, and are not seen. A little wind begins to stir, The haze grows colourless and bright, Thicker and darker springs the fir, The train swings slowly up the height, Each mile more slowly swings the train, Before the mountains, past the plain. And through the light that is not day I feel her now as there she lay Close in my arms, and still asleep ; Close in my arms, so dear, so dear ; I hold her close, and warm, and near, Who sleeps where it is cold and deep. That is my boasted memory ; That, the impression of a mood, Effects of light on grass and wood, Such things as I shall often see. But Her ! God, I may try in vain, I shall never see her again She will never say one new word, Scarce echo one I often heard. Even in dreams she is not quite here Flitting, escaping still. I fear Her voice will go, her face be blurred Wholly, as long year follows year. 198 Loss Often enough I think I have got The turn of her head and neck, but not The face never the face that speaks. My mind goes seeking, and seeks and seeks. Sometimes, indeed, I feel her at hand, Sometimes feel sure she will understand, If only I do not look or think . . . Out of an empty cup I drink ! < & -S? * Down Lung' Arno again to-day I went alone the self-same way I walked with her and heard her tell What she would do when she was well. All else the same. Upon the hill White Samminiato watching still Among its pointing cypresses. And that long, farthest Apennine Still lifts a dusky, reddish line Against the blue. How warm it is ! And every tower and every bridge Stands crisp and sharp in the brilliant air ; Only along the mountain ridge And on the hill-spurs everywhere The olives are a smoke of blue, Until upon the topmost height They pale into a livid white Against the intense, clear, salient hue Of that mid-heaven's azure light. This, for one day, my darling knew. We meant to rest here, passing through. How pleased she was with everything ! But most that winter was away So soon, and birds began to sing ; For all the streets were full of flowers, The sky so blue above the towers Just such a day as it is to-day, When in the sun it feels like May. 199 Loss So here I pace where the sun is warm, With no light weight dragging my arm, Here in the sun we hoped would save Oh, sunny portal of the grave, Florence, how well I know your trick ! Lay all the walls with sunshine thick As paint ; put colours in the air, Strange southern trees upon your slopes; And make your streets at Christmas fair With flourish of roses ; fill with hopes And wonder all who gaze on you, Loveliest town earth ever knew ! Then, presto ! take them unaware With a blast from an open grave behind The icy blast of the wind a knife Thrust in one's back to take one's life. Oh, 'tis an excellent, cunning snare, For the flowers grow on and do not mind (Who sees, if the petals be thickened and pocked ?) And the olive, and cypresses, and ilex grow on. It is only the confident heart that is mocked, It is only the delicate life that is gone ! How I hate it, all this mask ! Those beggars really seem to bask In this mock sunshine ; even I Turn giddy in the blinding light. It is all a pretence it is all a lie Have I not seen my darling die ? Those mocking, leering, thin-faced apes, Who twang their sharp guitars all night, They are but thin unreal shapes, The figures of a mirage-show. They do not really live, I know ; But once I heard them swear and fight, " By God, the Assassin ! " then they cried. The mask fell off then. Yes, she died. The Children s Angel THE streets are dark at Clermont in Auvern. O steep and tortuous lava-streets, how plain With eyes that dream in daylight I discern Your narrow skies and gabled roofs again ! See, through the splendours of the summer heat We climb the hill from Notre Dame du Port, A mountain at the end of every street, And every mountain crowned with tower or fort. A Until, on the upmost ridges of the town, We turn into the narrowest street of all, And watch, at either end, the way slope down As steep and sudden as a waterfall ! 'Twas there, above a booth of huckster's ware, Our Angel spread her broad and carven wings. She smiled with painted eyes and burnished hair Above a motley herd of trivial things ; A Chancel-angel desecrate ! We turned To barter for a price the lovely head, The wide blue listening eyes, the brow that yearned, The slim round neck and lips of palest red. THE CHILDREN'S ANGEL But when we clasped our treasure in our hold Less perfect, like all treasure, being attained Behold, below the lovely eyes, behold About the mouth, the radiant face was stained ! "True! " quoth the Vendor, "yet if words or blows Were ought avail, or children less a pest, Those lips and eyes would blossom like the rose ! . . The children never cared to kiss the rest. " But every day, all weathers, wet or fine, Since first I hung your Angel at the door, Each blessed morning, on the stroke of nine, And every week-day evening after four, " The children from the school-house troop in bands, Rush down the street their helter-skelter run, Snatch at your Angel with their chubby hands, And laugh and leap to kiss it one by one. " And would you think they minded, if I played My lash about their necks ? Who cares ? Not they ! For impudent, delighted, unafraid, They laugh their riotous laugh and rush away." The Merchant paused. We looked each in the face The other, bade our fancy one farewell ; " Nay, keep your Angel in its olden place," We cried, " good friend ; it is not yours to sell. " What, did you think us basest of the earth ? That we, grown old, and heartsick with the truth, Should rob the little children of their mirth, And take the children's Angel from their youth." zoz Sir Eldric SIR ELDRIC rode by field and fen To reach the haunts of heathen men. About the dusk he came into A wood of birchen grey, And on the other side he knew The heathen country lay. " 'Tis but a night (he sang) to ride, And Christ shall reach the other side ! " The moon cam*e peering thro' the trees And found him undismayed, For still he sang his litanies And as he rode he prayed. He looked as young, as pure and glad As ever looked Sir Galahad. About the middle of the night He came upon the brink, Of running waters cool and white And lighted there to drink. And as he knelt a hidden foe Crept from behind and smote him so. 203 SIR ELDRIC He turned ; he felt his heart's blood run He sought his enemy : " And shall I leave my deeds undone, And die for such as thee ? " And since a Knight was either man, They wrestled till the dawn began. Then in the dim and rustling place Amid the thyme and dew, Sir Eldric dealt the stroke of grace, And sank a-dying too, And thought upon that other's plight Who was not sure of Heaven that night. He dipped his fingers in his breast ; He sought in vain to rise ; He leaned across his foe at rest, And murmured, " I baptize ! " When lo ! the sun broke overhead : There, at his side, Himself lay dead ! 204 The Gardener of Sinope WHERE loud the Pontine billows roar And lash the Paphlagonian shore ; Where first the yellow stretch of sands Breaks into green and waving sheen Of growing corn and meadow lands ; There, nestling grass and sea between, The little town Sinope stands. A mile beyond the western gate, One garden broke the desolate Waste reach of wind-swept, briny shore- A garden always green and fair With companies df roses there, And lilies maiden-white and tall. And in that place there dwelt of yore Phocas, an aged gardener. He had his house within the wall, And rarely left the garden space, Saving to do some deed of grace ; Little he spoke, and, if at all, Mere words of greeting and farewell ; Yet any looking on his face Would need no second glance to tell How great a soul lay secret there, And in his voice there rang a spell Of consolation and of prayer ; And all who knew him loved him well. 205 THE GARDENER OF SINOPE The people loved him. But the hearts Of tyrants have no sense of love, Their natures keep no pulse thereof. Yet have they passions in their blood : Sharp fears, suspicion, and the smarts Of pride misprised, and subtle darts Of envy, petty malices, And mean revenges born of these That breed and breed, a deadly brood. So when it chanced the governor Of all those Paphlagonian lands, Came once along the windy shore To bless some Temple in the sands, And heard how Phocas took his ease At home on feasts and holidays. Heeding no gods or goddesses, As giving neither blame or praise To priest or vestal but instead Worked in his garden, prayed, or read, Tended the sick, buried the dead, And, though he never sacrificed To any god in heaven or hell, Made all his life acceptable To one dead man, a criminal, Christ The governor, hearing of these things, Hated this gardener ; for a life With love and prayer for soaring wings, And scented through with innocent flowers, Was sore rebuke to his own hours With cunning, lust and malice rife. So, having found where Phocas dwelt, The lowliest of Christ's followers, He hired two privy murderers, Who often in such times as these Have rid him of his enemies ; And, having bade them go, he felt Merry, and supped and slept at ease. 206 THE GARDENER OF SINOPE The two hired murderers went their way That night, towards the quiet place Where Phocas dwelt. Yet had not they Gone half a furlong from the gate, Along the woody, desolate, Wild country, when the open space Grew thick with storm and white with hail, Rain that the wind rent as a veil, And lightning, till the thunder drowned Their voices, crying as they found The flooding sea at their feet. Aghast They stumbled, harried by the blast, Torn by the hail, half blind with fire, Weary with baffling waves that higher And colder crept at their knees. And still The storm raged on and did not tire, The storm raged on and knew no law. At last, half dead with fear, they saw Far off, dim shining on the hill, A light that was no levin-light, Steadier far and far less bright ; And, carrying it, an ancient man Walked slowly towards them. As he came The spent storm slackened, and the flame Faded. " 'Tis Zeus, our guardian ! " Said one ; the other cried, " All hail, Poseidon, ruler of seas ! " But he They spoke to merely smiled, and said Half sighing, "Much these gods avail ! Come to my house, for verily Ye have great need of rest and bread." And, turning up the hill with them, He led them through a pleasant field Of yellowing corn, until they came To a wide garden full of grass And flowering shrubs, and trees that yield Sweet fruit for eating, and a plot Of summer flowers among them was 207 THE GARDENER OF SINOPE Where, past the garden, stood a cot Of wattles, with a fountain nigh ; And, entering in, the weary men Sank down in anguish, like to die. But Phocas spread fresh rushes then And let them on the rushes lie, And gave them bread and fruit to eat With wine for drinking, clear and sweet. And when at last they sank to sleep, Buried in slumber sound and deep, The gardener rose and left the house And stood beneath his apple-trees, And watched the planets in the boughs Like heavenly fruit, and felt the breeze Breathe on him ; somewhere out of sight The thyme smelt, where his slow feet trod Along the grass ; all round the night Compassed him like the love of God. Then Phocas slept not, but he dreamed. All round him was a stir of wings And raiment and soft feet it seemed ; A shine and music of heavenly things ; A light of faces, a shimmer of hair, And heavenly maidens round him there. Dorothy, crowned with roses, stooped To pluck a rose from his red- rose tree ; White-rose Cecily, where there drooped A snowy rosebud, tenderly Laid it inside her music book. Then Agnes took an olive bough And bound it crown-wise round her brow, While Margaret all the rest forsook For daisies in the grass to look. Our Lady Mary herself came down To gather lilies for a crown And sent her angel-messenger Where Phocas, all bewildered, was. 208 THE GARDENER OF SINOPE Thus spake he to the gardener : "All the flowers thy garden has That be chiefly sweet and fair Gather them to make a wreath, Many a fragrant wreath and rare, To bring with thee to Paradise " Then all they vanished from his eyes And Phocas felt the dark like Death Thereupon he took his spade And underneath the pleasant shade Of apple boughs a grave he made. When his gravemaking was done There was some time till rise of sun, Till then he walked amid his flowers, The friends of many summer hours, And bade farewell to every one. And from all his flowers he chose Bluest violet, reddest rose, Peonies and Aaron-rod, Pinks and wallflowers, columbines, Ferns and tendrils of wild vines, And lilies for the mother of God. And having chosen and woven them To many a wreath .and anadem, He laid them in the grave, and went Back to his house, at peace, content. But when he entered at the door A pang ran through his heart, because He knew so well the roof, the floor, The home-made walls, the little flaws In workmanship, the friendly air Of all the things that made him there A home more dear than palaces ; For the last time he saw all these. He checked the sigh ; spread on the board Of meat and wine his slender hoard, And roused his sleeping guests, who lay Still on the mat at break of day. 209 p THE GARDENER OF SINOPE They, being aroused, fell to and eat Amain and drank right thirstily The rustic feast before them set And Phocas went and brought them fruit, Honey, and cakes of wheat to boot. And, when at last their feasting ends, He saith : " I fain would ask ye, friends, What errand took ye on the road That only leads to my abode ? " The younger guest laughed out " Not you Not to seek such as you we came, But some foul Christian what's his name ? May Charon take him and his crew ! " "Nay, friend (the elder said), we bore A message from the governor To one called Phocas. Know ye him ? " Then before Phocas day grew dim And Death came surging in his ears Because the worst of all his fears Grew plain before him. Quietly He rose and answered : " I am he ! " " By Zeus, the god of strangers, then," Shouted the younger of the men, " Get hence, and quickly, I pray you, fly ! " The elder said" What, overbold, Thou knowest well that thou and I Must answer for him? Let him die ! Better he than us, for he is old . . ." Whereat the younger said, " Outside Last night in the cold we had surely died, But that this gardener succoured us. I will not slay him." " Yet for us " (The elder spake) " the dreadful night And cruel storm and lightning bright Were safer than our ruler's hate." 2IO THE GARDENER OF SINOPE Here Phocas answered, "Do not wait, But make an end, and quickly. I Have God's sure warrant I shall die. Slay me and fear not. Know that death Gives all life only promiseth ; No Christian fears to die. But this I ask you : lay me in the grave Outside, where the apple-orchard is. Now make an end ; I pardon you. O Christ, my Saviour, I pray Thee, save These men that know not what they do." Then Phocas led them to the shade Of apple boughs, and on the sward Awhile he knelt. The younger prayed And wept ; the elder drew his sword, Struck at the reverent, bowed head Once, twice, and Phocas lay there dead. One brought back the bloody sword, Two claimed a murderer's reward. 211 itzi Schultheiss TOSS, I3OO [Ju'tzi Schultheiss, a medieval Mystic, loses her gifts of trance and vision, because in a moment of anger she refuses to pray for some turbulent knights.] THE gift of God was mine ; I lost For aye the gift of Pentecost. I never knew why God bestowed On me the vision and the load ; But what He wills I have no will To question, blindly following still The hand that even from my birth Hath shown me Heaven, forbidding Earth. I was a child when first I drew In sight of God ; a subtle, new, Faint happiness had drawn about My soul, and shut the whole earth out. Yet I was sick. I lay in bed So weak I could not lift my head So weak, and yet so quite at rest, Pillowed upon my Saviour's breast I smiled ; and suddenly I felt Great wings encompass me, and dwelt 212 JUTZI SCHULTHEISS Silent awhile in awe and fear, While swiftly nearer and more near Descended God. A stream of white Shining, intolerable light Blinded mine eyes and all grew dim While, stilled in trance, I dwelt with Him A little time in perfect peace ; Then, fold by fold, the dark withdrew, I felt the heavenly blessing cease, And angels swiftly bear me through The dizzy air in lightning flight Till here I woke, and it was night. My mother wept beside my bed, My brothers prayed ; for I was dead. Then, when my soul was given back, I cried, as wretches on the rack Cry in the last quick wrench of pain, And breathed, and looked, and lived again. Ah me, what tears of joy there fell ! How they all cried, "A miracle ! " And kissed me given back to earth, The dearer for that second birth To her who bore me first. Ah me, How glad we were ! Then Anthony, My brother, spoke : " What God has given," He said, " let us restore to Heaven." And, as he spoke, beneath the rod I bowed, and gave myself to God. Not suddenly the gift returned. Alas ! methinks too much I yearned For the old earthly joys, the home That I had left for evermore ; The garden with its herbs, and store Of hives filled full of honeycomb ; The lambs and calves that chiefly were, Of all we had, my special care ; My brothers, too, all left behind, 213 JOTZI SCHULTHEISS All, for some other girl to find ; And she who loves me everywhere, My mother, whom I often kissed In absence with vain lips that missed My mother more than God above. Much bound was I with earthly love. So slight my strength, I never could Have freed myself from servitude. But He who loves us saw my pain, And with one blow struck free my chain. Weeping I knelt within the gloom One evening in ray convent room, Trying with all my heart to pray, And sobbing that my thoughts would stray ; When suddenly again I felt The unearthly light and rest ; I dwelt Rapt in mid-heaven the whole night through, And through my cell the angels flew, The angels sang, the angels shone. The Saints in glory, one by one, Floated to God ; and under Him Circled the shining Seraphim. Now from that day my heart was free And I was God's ; then gradually The convent learned the solemn truth, And they were glad because my youth Was pleasing in the sight of Him Who filled my spirit to the brim. They wrote my visions down and made A treasure of the words I said. And far and wide the news was spread That I by God was visited. Then many sought our convent's door, And lands and dower began to pour With blessings on our house ; for thus Men praised the Lord who favoured us. 214 JiJTZI SCHULTHEISS For seven long years the gift was mine, I often saw the angels shine Suddenly down the cloister's dark Deserted length at night ; and oft At the high mass I seemed to mark A stranger music, high and soft, That swam about the heavenly Cup, And caught our ruder voices up ; And often, nay, indeed at will, I would lie back and let the still Cold trance creep over me and see Mary and all the Saints flash by, Till only God was left and I. The gift of God was mine ; I lost For aye the gift of Pentecost. Once, so possessed with God, I stood In prayer within the apple-wood, When some one softly called my name, And shattered all my happy mood. Towards me an ancient Sister came, " Quick, Jiitzi, to the hall ! " she cried ; And swiftly after her I hied, And swiftly reached the convent hall, Now full of struggle and loud with brawl For twenty roistering knights-at-arms All bound for Zurich's tournament, Had craved at noon the convent's alms, And though we fasted, it being Lent, No less we gave them food enew, In the great barn without the gate Because they were so rough a crew Yet, having feasted long and late, They stormed at last the postern door And sacked the buttery for more ; Then one cried " Nassau ! " Straightway one, "Hapsburg ! " The battle was begun. 215 JlJTZI SCHULTHEISS So spake the Sister, saying " Pray That Christ forgive their sins to-day ! " But I looked still before me where The unseemly blows and clamour were, And cold my heart grew, stiff and cold, For I had prayed so much of old, So vainly for these knights-at-arms, Who filled the country with alarms Too often had I prayed in vain, Too often put myself in pain For these irreverent, brawling, rough, And godless knights I had prayed enough ! " Let God," I cried, " do all He please ; I pray no more for such as these." Then swift I turned and fled, as though I fled from sin, and strife, and woe, Who fled from God, and from His grace. Nor stayed I till I reached the place Where I had prayed an hour ago. 1 stood again beneath the shade The flowering apple-orchard made ; The grass was still as tall and green, As fresh as ever it had been. I heard the little rabbits rush As swiftly through the wood ; the thrush Was singing still the self-same song, Yet something there was changed and wrong. Or through the grass or through my heart Some deadly thing had passed athwart, And left behind a blighting track ; For the old peace comes never back. The gift of God was mine ; I lost For aye the gift of Pentecost, * * * * 216 JfJTZI SCHULTHEISS God knows how I am humbled, how There is in all the convent now No novice half so weak and poor In all esteem as I ; the door I keep, and wait on passers-by, And lead the cattle out to browse, And wash the beggars' feet ; even I Who was the glory of our house. Yet dares my soul rejoice because, Though I have failed, though I have sinned, Not less eternal are the laws Of God, no less the sun and wind Declare His glory than before, Though I am fallen, and faint, and poor. Nay, should I fall to very Hell, Yet am I not so miserable As heathen are, who know not Him, Who makes all other glories dim. O God, believed in still though lost, Yet fill me with Thy Holy Ghost Let but the vision fill mine eye An instant ere the tear be dry ; Or, if Thou wilt, keep hid and far, Yet art Thou stiH the secret star To which my soul sets all her tides, My soul that recks of nought besides. Have not I found Thee in the fire Of sunset's purple after-glow ? Have not I found Thee in the throe Of anguished hearts Chat bleed and tire ? God, once so plain to see and hear, Now never answering any tear. O God, a guest within my house Thou wert, my love thou wert, my spouse ; Yet never known so well as now, Now the ash whitens on my brow, And cinders on my head are tossed ; Because the gift I had I lost. 217 Constance and Martuccio (After Boccaccio?) O LOVE, that steepest all our years In sorrow, making present bliss Bitter with recollected tears, Surely even death thy guerdon is ! But ah, could parting lovers die, They would not mourn, they would not sigh, Not death they fear, but dread the parting kiss. O Love, that bathest all our dreams In glory, since apart, afar, The phantom of the loved one seems More real than men and women are ; O Love, that when our blood runs chill Floods all the heart with memory still ; Sweet-bitter Love, be still our guiding-star ! I praise thee, while I mourn the woe Of Constance, beautiful and good, Of Constance and Martuccio, Twin lovers since their babyhood. Alas for cither breaking heart The day is come when lovers part ; For so decrees a father cold and shrewd. 218 CONSTANCE AND MARTUCCIO And they must part ! To Barbary With freighted ships Martuccio, To win what treasure there may be, To fight and spoil the paynim foe, To half-forget his lady's eyes In traffic of rare merchandise, While she remains and waits 'Tis harder so. " Take comfort," says Martuccio. " Think what delight shall ours be soon When I return, as now I go ... And is not Love so large a boon That lovers losing happiness Let slip a thing so vastly less, As men in sunlight think not on the moon ? " He ceased. With grief he dared not tell. He called her "Love," he called her "Bride," Gave one long kiss, one brief farewell . . . She fell against the fountain-side And lay awhile there, moaning low, " Martuccio ! Ah, Martuccio ! " With passionate eyes that weep not, strained and wide. And all the days and hfclf the nights She sat upon the fountain-stair, Till brooding on her lost delights Made loneliness grow lonelier there. If other maidens came her way They ceased their song and hushed their play, And with bowed heads went on and prayed for her. Until a year had passed and fled. The world again in flower with spring Made even Constance raise her head, Made even Constance smile and sing ; And in that May there came a man Weary and travel-worn and wan, As one returned from perilous wandering. 219 CONSTANCE AND MARTUCCIO Came underneath the myrtle-trees, Saw Constance by the fountain stand With lilies reaching to her knees, With roses set on either hand. About her knees the lilies rise Like starry flowers look her eyes She stands like spring and smiles upon the land. He stayed awhile and looked at her With such sad meaning in his face It seemed as though he could not bear To ruin all her tender grace. Then in his hand he took a ring, And sighed awhile to hear her sing : " Come back, my Love, come home, tor Spring is here ! " He sighed, and kneeling where she stood, Said, " Lady, I have news to tell ! " " Now Mary grant thy news be good ! " Said Constance, white as lily-bell. " 1 am a sailor, lady dear, It was my captain sent me here Martuccio Gomito. ..." Pray Heaven he's well ! " "Lady, the spring to-day is fair, But it must know a winter's blight. Lady, the lilies that you wear Will wither long before the night " " What ! Came you from so far away To tell me it is Spring to-day ? Tell what you dare not tell ! Kill me outright ! " " Constance, my lord is very ill." "Ah, Heaven," she cried, "my love is dead ! I love him ! " said she, calm and still. " Have you no word from his deathbed ? " " At the last hour this ring he gave, Saying something, but a whelming wave Drowned it and him, and all but me," he said. 220 CONSTANCE AND MARTUCCIO " But often would he speak of you " (Still Constance stood as still as stone). " Nay, Lady, weep. I loved him too. Have you no grief that he is gone ? That he went down at sea one night, Coming to claim his heart's delight ? " " I prithee leave me (Constance said) alone." He went ; she sat there hours on hours And gazed on that remembered ring. The night wind chilled to death her flowers, She felt not it nor anything. At last she raised her tearless eyes, Saw the night-quiet in the skies, And heard the nightingales begin to sing. She wandered where the lilies stood Like spirits that would shelter her, But she in her white maidenhood Made even lilies look less fair, She wrapt round shoulders, breast and head, A heavy cloak of faded red, And where the streamlet went she follow'd there. Musing this heart I dare not strike, He loved it. Neither lips he found So sweet, must poison touch. Belike I should remember underground, How all the land and all the sea, Lies cold between my love and me. Would God I were with him where he lies drown'd ! And ever where the streamlet went, Fearless through sorrow, followed she ; Above the branches creaked and bent, Where the wind caught them, heavily. The owls shrieked and the ravens mourned, But Constance never stayed or turned, But went straight on, towards an unseen sea. 221 CONSTANCE AND MARTUCCIO Until where thorns once caught her feet Thin rushes bent, and at the noise The timid lizards made retreat, And wild duck rose, fearing decoys ; She looked, and lo ! the trees were gone And overhead the white moon shone, And wet the earth shone, that the sea destroys. She followed where the waters led, (Grown wide and shallow) o'er the sands. The north-wind whistled round her head And clasped her close with airy hands, Fain to forget the drowning cries Of sailors and their widows' sighs, And caught her hair and loosed it from its bands. At last, behold on either side And all before her waters were, White waters desolate and wide, And here the wind blew roughlier. She leant against a tall black stake Of driftwood such as fishers make, To keep their boats safe when they are not there. She kissed her ring and looking down, She wept such shallow waves to see, So shallow that they could not drown " How shall I die and come to thee, My lost Martuccio ! " she cried. And then a twisted rope she spied That held to a stake some boatlet out at sea. She strained upon it with her hands That left red stains where they had stayed ; Her feet go sinking through the sands, And through the out-drifting waters wade ; She reached the boat, she slipt the rope, And, taking leave of life and hope, Lay down upon the planks, and dreamed, and prayed. 222 CONSTANCE AND MARTUCCIO And as she 'gan to pray and weep A quiet fell on sea and sky, The rough waves cradled her to sleep, The north-wind sang her lullaby, And all the stars came out to see That she was sleeping peacefully, Who slept all night, all day, until the night grew nigh. ***** At morning Prince Martuccio Looked out across the southern sea That shipwreck'd him a year ago He who was once our enemy, Who now is grown beloved and great, Who saved the King and saved the State, Who reigns the proudest prince in Barbary. And he is great and young and rich, Yet often by the sea he stands, As though his straining eyes would reach The secrets of imagined lands. And thus he saw a little craft, And watched the gentle breezes waft It slowly on towards the Moorish sands. As wanderers where no* water is, With blackened tongue and aching throat, Finding a fruit-tree, full of bliss Strip it of its desired load, And ask not, is it good or bad Or poison-sweet to send men mad : So yearned Martuccio towards the little boat. And knowing not wherefore he yearned, He watched it while it came his way, And felt not how the hot sun burned Nor any drenching of the spray. At last, when noon-day heat was o'er The boat struck sharp against the shore, Martuccio stept therein where something lay. 223 CONSTANCE AND MARTUCCIO A mantle, first, of faded red, And then a robe of laurel-green, Then a beloved brown-rippled head With sleep-flushed face the curls between, "Constance," he cried, "Constance awake ! How came you hither ? for my sake ? Or has our year-long parting never been ? " She opened wide her happy eyes That shone so strangely sweet and bright ; She said " We are in Paradise, I too was lost at sea last night, What ? did you think when you were drown'd, I could stay happy on dry ground ? No, no, I came to you, my heart's delight." Then all her passion overcame A maid who knew no maiden's art, And calling on Martuccio's name She threw herself upon his heart. But seeing how her lover smiled She grew to earth right reconciled, And nevermore did these true lovers part. For in the palace of the King They two were wed in Barbary, And plighted with the self-same ring That with both lovers crost the sea, And crost at last with both together When in the calmest summer weather They too set sail for home and Sicily. 224 Philumene to Aristides ' MASTER, for love's sake, thank me not for this That I am dying for thee, who should miss My crown of life and reason of my days Did I not spend them for thee ; thanks or praise I covet not for such a little thing. Only when in the tenderness of spring Thou wanderest afterwards where woods are fair, Then, noting clearer colour in the air, Or new unusual sweetness in the song Of lark or linnet, or, fcmid the throng Of delicate flowers, one whose hue hath caught The secret hope wherewith the spring is fraught ; Think then, " These are a message sent to me From the dear angel of my memory." So, being yet remembered of you, I Shall live, who in thy death must surely die. For often as I watch and weep and moan, Praying for thee through all the night alone, A sudden terror catches at my heart ; A spasm of anguish shoots through every part, A fire burns through my palms and through my feet. My wet eyes throb and strain in aching heat, 1 Aristides being sick unto death, his pupil Philumene makes a bargain with the gods, who accept her life in exchange for his. 225 o PHILUMENE TO ARISTIDES And in the solitary dark I moan For weariness, and sob all night alone Vain prayers for help, and toss in vexed unrest. And find no way to endure, for none is best ; Then, suddenly, a spirit makes it plain That through my fever thou art free of pain ; Thou sleepest safe, my friend ! I bear for thee What is no anguish, nay, but joy for me Ay, joy; ay, glee ; such laughter in me wakes That oftentime my swelling throat nigh breaks ! Ah, then no more I sorrow ! Till at last My fever- fit and thy relief be past, When all my soul protests, and prays in vain My ending torture may begin again. Likewise, when I make merry among my friends In song or laughter, soon my pleasure ends. My soul is shaken with a storm of fears, An anxious presage strains mine eyes to tears, I faint and yearn with unexplained regret For some prenatal blessing I forget. Unless indeed so close our natures be, Thy pain untold, unknown, is pain to me. . . . So by thy joy of life, unknown, untold, I, in the shadow of death, shall be consoled ! Lo now, it were no marvellous thing, should I, For mine own sake, long in thy stead to die. For am not 1 the prey of all thy pains ? Doth not thy fever burn and surge in my veins ? Indeed, my friend, I cannot even tell If thou being dead, my life were possible. But thou, O master and lord ! O soul of me ! Hast no such double sense ; my life to thee Is needless, unrequired, save as a price, Readily paid though poor, which shall suffice To cheat the envious darkness of thy days. But I to all the gods in heaven give praise That I, a woman, none remembereth, 226 PHILUMENE TO ARISTIDES I, even I, shall turn aside thy death ; My lips shall taste the black and bitter wine Faint ghosts in Hades press even now for thine, And I shall mix with the earth, but thou go whole Since for thy soul I render up my soul. Shall not I thank the gods and sing, being glad That in their eyes my prayer such favour had ? For thou shalt live, triumphant over death ! . . . The sharp, last agony, the catch in the breath, The ache of the starting eyes, the red, blind night, The fruitless search of hands that grasp at light, And, worst of all, the horror of what may be, Thou shalt not know, but I, but I, for thee. 227 The lF~idoisoer of Haiderabad AT morning when I wake, no more I hear her in the twilit hour, Who beats the clay upon the floor, Or grinds the sorghum into flour. And when at sunset I return, I half forget the quiet child, Still brightening up her brazen urn, Who never raised her head or smiled. But when the night draws on, I fear ! . . . She stands before me, pale as ash, And still the trembling voice I hear That bleats beneath my mother's lash. And I remember how she died Hanged to the flowering mango-bough ; For I behold the Suicide, And it is I that tremble now. . . . My mother wears upon her breast A silver image of the dead. The best of all we have the best We offer her with bended head. 228 THE WIDOWER OF HAIDERABAD We scatter water on her grave, We burn the sacred lamps for her ; For her the fumes of incense wave And fill the house with smells of myrrh. . . . The day we bore her to the tomb We paused again and yet again To scatter down the sandy coomb Our mustard seed in ample rain. For so we knew that in the night, When homewards up the path she goes, All round her in the dreamy light A pale phantasmal garden blows. She laughs to see the unhoped-for cloud Of waving, swaying, golden flowers, And gathering up her trailing shroud She flits amid the stems for hours. So every night may she delay And fill her arms with faery bloom, Until the dawning^of the day Recall the wanderer to the tomb ! So we may sleep in safety here, And fear no ghost. . . . And yet, for hours, I feel her drifting slowly near Amid the withering mustard flowers. O God ! to them that call on Thee Give life, give riches, make them strong, Or make them holy, but to me Let not Thy midnight be so long ! 229 The Deer and the Prophet A HUNTSMAN, enemy of those Who praise the prophet Mahomet, Far in the forest laid his net, And laid it deep in tangled brier-rose And tufts of daffodil and thyme and violet. One early morning, pink and grey As early mornings are in May A fallow deer went forth to take the air ; And wandering down the forest glades that way She fell into the snare. Alas, poor soul, 'twas all in vain She sought to venture back again, Or bounded forth with hurrying feet, Or plucked with horn and hoof the net ; Too well the mazy toils were set Around her russet ankles neat. All hope being gone, she bowed her innocent head And wept. "O Heaven, that is most just," she said, " In thy mysterious ends I acquiesce ; Yet of thy mercy deign to bless The little ones I left at home : Twin fawns, still dreaming on their bracken-bed When I went forth to roam, And wandered careless where the net was spread. 230 THE DEER AND THE PROPHET "And yet, O Heaven, how shall they live, Poor yeanlings, if their mother die ? Their only nourishment am I ; They have no other food beside the milk I give, And save my breast no warmth at night, While still the frost lies crisp and white, As lie it will until the roses blow." And here she fetched so deep a sigh That her petition could no further go. Now as she hushed, the huntsman strode in sight Who every morning went that way To see if Heaven had led the hoped-for prey Into his nets by night. And when he saw the fallow deer, He stood and laughed aloud and clear, And laid his hand upon her neck Of russet with a snowy fleck, And forth his hunting-knife he drew : " Aha ! " he cried, " my pretty dame, Into my nets full easily you came ; But forth again, my maiden, spring not you ! " And as he laughed, he would have slit The throat that saw no help from it. But lo ! a trembling took the air, A rustling of the leaves about the snare ; And Some-one, dusk and slim, There, sudden, stayed his hand and smiled at him. Now, never was there huntsman yet Who, when the tangled snare was set And in the snare the comely game, Endured the loosening of the net. Our huntsman turned an angry face aflame, And none the lesser was his wroth To see none other, by my troth, Than Mahomet himself, the immortal Mahomet, Who stood beside the net. 231 THE DEER AND THE PROPHET " Ha, old Impostor ! " he began But " Peace," the prophet said, "my man ; For while we argue, you and I, The hungry fawns are like to die. Nay, let the mother go. Within an hour, I say, She shall return for thee to spare or slay ; Or, if she be not here, Then I will stand your slave in surety for the deer." The huntsman turned and stared a while. " For sure, the fool is void of guile ! Well, he shall be my slave i' sooth, And work as in his idle youth He never worked, the rogue ! " Our huntsman laughed for glee, And bent and loosed the tangles joyfully : And forth the creature bounded, wild and free. But when she reached the bracken-bed, Where still the young ones lay abed Below the hawthorn branches thick "Awake," she cried, "my fawns, and milk me quick ; For I have left within the net The very prophet Mahomet ! " "Ah!" cried the little fawns, and heard (But understood not half a word). " Quick, quick, our little mother, quick away, And come back all thequicklier! " cried the fawns, And called a last goodbye ; And sat a little sad, they knew not why, And watched their mother bounding, white and grey, Dim in the distance, o'er the dewy lawns And wide, unfriendly forests all in flower. And so the deer returned within an hour. " Now," said the prophet, smiling, " kill Or take the ransom, as you will." 232 THE DEER AND THE PROPHET But on his knees the huntsman fell, And cried aloud : " A miracle ! Nay, by my nets and hunting-knife, I will not take the creature's life ; And, for a slave, until I die, Thou hast no trustier slave than I ! " No creature is so hard beset, But lo ! the undreamed-of Angel yet May interpose his power, and change the end. And no one is so poor a friend, Or so diminished to the dust, But may be worthy of a heavenly trust. 233 The Slumber of King Solomon sfcr THE house is all of sandal-wood And boughs of Lebanon, The chamber is of beaten gold Where sleeps King Solomon. With thirty horsemen to the left And thirty to the right, Upon their mighty horses set To guard him from the night. They watch as silent as the moon, Drawn sword and gathered rein ; They will not stir till Solomon Shall rise and move again. And whiter than their white armour, Brighter than spear or sword, Four Angels guard the dreaming King, Four Angels of the Lord. Four Angels at the four corners, And burning over head The Glory of God, the great Glory That never shall be said. Sleep well, sleep well, King Solomon, For He that guardeth thee, He neither slumbers, nay, nor sleeps, Through all eternity. With thirty horsemen to the left And thirty to the right, Sleep well, sleep well, King Solomon, Sleep through the eternal night. 234 THE NEW ARCADIA The Hand-Bell Ringers OR WITHIN AND WITHOUT LAST night the ringers came over the moor To ring us in Christmas-tide ; They entered in at our garden door : We sat and watched the yule logs roar, They stood on the grass outside. We sat within, i' the warmth and light, The fire leaptj-ed and blue ; Each frosted lamp was a moon of white The growing plants half hid from sight, Letting the radiance through. The white and the red lights filled the room, And flickered on bracket and ledge, On the pale sweet pinks and the cactus bloom, With its crimson flush, and the leafy gloom O" the sill's geranium-hedge. We sat, making merry, shut in from the rain And the Christmas cold outside. But hark ! the carol goes pealing again ; The ringers are out in the cold, 'tis plain, Ringing in Christmas-tide. 237 THE HAND-BELL RINGERS I left the fire with its flicker and roar, And drew the curtains back. On the edge of the grass stood the ringers four ; A dim white railing behind, and the moor A waste of endless black, With, somewhere burning, aloof, afar, A single lonely light ; But never a glimmer of moon or star To show where the unseen heavens are Through the whole dark width o' the night. In front of the rail, in a shadowy row, Stood the ringers, dim and brown ; Their faces burned with a faded glow, And spots of light, now high, now low, With the bells leapt up and down. But gaze ! the figure, barely guessed, The shadowy face grows clear : The tall, red prophet who leads the rest, The sallow lad with the hollow chest ; You see them all appear. You catch the way they look and stand, The listening clench of the eyes ; The great round hand-bells, golden and grand, Grasped a couple in either hand, And the arms that fall and rise. in. So much I behold, and would never complain, As much and no more could I see. As clear as air is the window pane 'Twixt me in the light and them in the rain, Yet strange they look to me ! 238 THE HAND-BELL RINGERS Grim, solemn figures, all in a row, Intent on the carol they ring ; But I see no less i' the pane aglow The flowers reflected, and to and fro The flames their flicker fling. My ribbon breast-knot dances across The leader's solemn brow ; The moony lamps burn low i' the moss ; And my own pale face, as it seems, they toss, With the ringing hand-bells now. So dark is the night, so dark, alas ! I look on the world, no doubt ; Yet I see no less i' the window-glass, The room within than the trees and grass And men I would study without. The Old Couple (THE WORKHOUSE OLD STYLE) An old wife speaks : THE bracken withers day by day, The furze is out of bloom. Over the common the heather is grey, And there's no gold left on the broom ; And the least wind flutters a golden fleck From three tall aspens that grow in the beck. Yet, oh, I shall miss it to-morrow night, The wild, rough sea of furze ; And the cows coming down, looking large and white, And the tink of each bell as it stirs, The aspens brushing the tender sky, And the whirr of the geese as they homeward fly. 'Tis the first grief ever I owned to mind Until to-night, good neighbour ; For I could work when John went blind, And I never dreaded labour ; And Willie grew so good a son, We never fretted, I and John. 240 THE OLD COUPLE Ah, me ! We've waited here at the gate Many and many an even, When Willie lingered a little late ; And I've thought it seemed like Heaven, To stand, the work all done, and look At the yellow and pink o' the sky in the brook. And John, I know, though he's blind as a stone, And bent with a life of pain, He'll miss it sore when he sits alone, And wish he could see it again As though it were Heaven itself. Ah, me ! There's only clouds that the blind can see. But he'll be apart in one long room, And I as strange in another ; At the end of the day I'll sit down in the gloom, And be no man's wife or mother ; And I'll miss his voice and the tap of his stick Till my throat grows choked and my sight grows thick. I'll not be dull ? There are people enough In the House ? Is that what you say ? Yes, every one there that I do not love, And only my man away, : Voices and steps coming in and out, But never the one that I care about. I'd rather starve in the snow with John ! But that 'ud be wicked, I know ; Indeed, we might live with our only son, And never stir out in the snow. But burden his back with our useless lives, And palsy the arm that struggles and strives. Nay, Will has another to think of my Will. 'Tis time the lad was wed ; He's waited long, he would wait still, Till John and I were dead : But better the Poorhouse, better far, Than only to live as a fret and a bar. 241 R THE OLD COUPLE Ah, we remember, I and John, The waiting till youth is spoiled ; I'd never owe my bread to a son, And sit while he toiled and moiled, And see the lass he hoped to wive Grow old unmarried, since I was alive. That was the way in our time, though, But I never liked the way ! It kept us single till forty, I know, And married us old and grey ; And set me only one child on my knee ; Who shall not suffer as much from me. And so to-morrow we leave the place To go to the House np yon. Yes, as you say, 'tis a sad disgrace ; We've worked hard, I and John : We've worked until we can work no more. . . . The Lord shouldn't grant a long life to the poor. 242 The Scape-Goat SHE lived in the hovel alone, the beautiful child. Alas, that it should have been so ! But her father died of the drink, and the sons were wild, And where was the girl to go ? Her brothers left her alone in the lonely hut. Ah, it was dreary at night When the wind whistled right thro' the door that never would shut, And sent her sobbing with fright. She never had slept alone ; when the stifling room Held her, brothers, father all. Ah, better their violence, better their threats, than the gloom That now hung close as a pall ! When the hard day's washing was done, it was sweeter to stand Hearkening praises and vows, To feel her cold fingers kept warm in a sheltering hand, Than crouch in the desolate house. H3 THE SCAPE-GOAT Ah, me ! she was only a child ; and yet so aware Of the shame which follows on sin. A poor, lost, terrified child ! she slept in the snare, Knowing the toils she was in. Yet, now, when I watch her pass with a heavy reel, Shouting her villainous song, It is only pity or shame, do you think, that I feel For the infinite sorrow and wrong ? With a sick, strange wonder I ask, Who shall answer the sin, Thou, lover, brothers of thine ? Or he who left standing thy hovel to perish in ? Or I, who gave no sign ? 244 Church-going Tim TIM BLACK is bedridden, you say ? Well now, I'm sorry. Poor old Tim ! There's not in all the place to-day A soul as will not pity him. A These twenty years, come hail, come snow, Come winter cold, or summer heat, Week after week to church he'll go On them two hobbling sticks for feet. These years he's gone on crutches. Yet One never heard the least complaint. And see how other men will fret At nothing ! Tim was quite a saint. And now there's service every day, I say they kep' it up for him ; We busier ones, we keep away There's mostly no one there but Tim. 245 CHURCH-GOING TIM Yes, quite a saint he was. Although He never was a likely man At his own trade ; indeed, I know Many's the day I've pitied Nan. She had a time of it, his wife, With all those children and no wage, As like as not, from Tim. The life She led ! She looked three times her age. The half he had he'ld give to tramps If they were hungry, or it was cold Pampering up them idle scamps, While Nan grew lean and pinched and old. He'ld let her grumble. Not a word Or blow from him she ever had And yet I've heard her sigh, and heard Her say she wished as he wur bad. Atop of all the fever came ; And Tim went hobbling past on sticks. Still one felt happier, all the same, When he'ld gone by to church at six. Not that I wished to go. Not I ! With Joe so wild, and all those boys It takes my day to clean, and try To settle down the dust and noise. But still out of it all, to glance And see Tim hobbling by, so calm, As though he heard the angels' chants And saw their branching crowns of palm. And when he smiled, he had a look : One's burden seemed to lose and roll Like Christian's in the picture-book ! It was a comfort, on the whole. 246 CHURCH-GOING TIM It made one easier-like, somehow It made one, somehow, feel so sure, That far above the dust and row The glory of God does still endure. You say he's well, though he can't stir : I'm sure you mean it kind But, see, It's not for him I'm crying, sir, It's not for Tim, sir ; it's for me. 247 The Wise-Woman IN the last low cottage in Blackthorn Lane The Wise-woman lives alone ; The broken thatch lets in the rain, The glass is shattered in every pane With stones the boys have thrown. For who would not throw stones at a witch ? Take any safe revenge For the father's lameness, the mother's stitch, The sheep that died on its back in a ditch, And the mildewed corn in the grange ? Only be sure to be out of sight Of the witch's baleful eye ! So the stones, for the most, are thrown at night, Then a scuffle of feet, a hurry of fright How fast those urchins fly ! The witch's garden is run to weeds, Never a phlox or a rose, But infamous growths her brewing needs, Or slimy mosses the rank soil breeds, Or tares such as no man sows. THE WISE-WOMAN This is the house. Lift up the latch Faugh, the smoke and the smell ! A broken bench, some rags that catch The drip of the rain from the broken thatch Are these the wages of Hell ? The witch who wonders ? is bent with cramp. Satan himself cannot cure her, For the beaten floor is oozing damp, And the moon, through the roof, might serve for a lamp, Only a rushlight's surer. And here some night she will die alone, When the cramp clutches tight at her heart, Let her cry in her anguish, and sob, and moan, The tenderest woman the village has known Would shudder but keep apart. May she die in her bed ! A likelier chance Were the dog's death, drowned in the pond. The witch when she passes it looks askance : They ducked her once, when the horse bit Nance ; She remembers, and looks beyond. For then she had perished in very truth, But the Squire's son, home from college, Rushed to the rescue, himself forsooth Plunged after the witch. Yes, I like the youth For all his new-fangled knowledge. How he stormed at the cowards ! What a rage Heroic flashed in his eyes ! But many a struggle and many an age Must pass ere the same broad heritage Be given the fools and the wise. " Cowards ! " he cried. He was lord of the land He was mighty to them, and rich. They let him rant ; but on either hand They shrank from the devil's unseen brand On the sallow face of the witch. 249 THE WISE-WOMAN They let him rant ; but, deep in his heart, Each thought of some thing of his own Wounded or hurt by the Wise-woman's art ; Some friend estranged, or some lover apart. Their hearts grew cold as stone. And the Heir spoke on, in his eager youth, His blue eyes full of flame ; And he claspt the witch, as he spoke of the Truth ; And the dead, cold Past ; and of Love and of Ruth- But their hearts were still the same, Till at last " For the sake of Christ who died, Mother, forgive them," he said. " Come, let us kneel, let us pray ! " he cried . . . But horror-stricken, aghast, from his side The witch broke loose and fled ! Fled right fast from the brave amends He would make her then and there ; From the chance that Heaven so seldom sends To turn our bitterest foes to friends, Fled, at the name of a prayer ! Poor lad, he stared so, amazed and grieved. He had argued half an hour ; And yet the beldam herself believed, No less than the villagers she deceived, In her own unholy power ! Though surely a witch should know very well 'Tis the lie for which she will burn. She must have learned that the deepest spell Her art includes could ne'er compel A quart of cream to turn. And why, knowing this, should one sell one's soul To gain such a life as hers The life of the bat and the burrowing mole To gain no vision and no control, Not even the power to curse ? 250 THE WISE-WOMAN 'Tis strange, and a riddle still in my mind To-day as well as then. There's never an answer I could find Unless O folly of humankind ! O vanity born with men ! Rather it may be than merely remain A woman poor and old, No longer like to be courted again For the sallow face deep lined with pain, Or the heart grown sad and cold. Such bitter souls may there be, I think, So craving the power that slips, Rather than lose it, they would drink The waters of Hell, and lie at the brink Of the grave, with eager lips. They sooner would, than slip from sight, Meet every eye askance ; Sooner be counted an imp of the night, Sooner live on as a curse and a blight Than just be forgotten ? Perchance. 251 'The Rothers As far as you can see, the moor Spreads on and on for many a mile, And hill and dale are covered o'er With many a fragrant splash and isle Of vivid heather, purple still, Though bracken is yellow on dingle and hill. The heather bells are stiff and dry, Yet honey is sweet in the inmost cell ; The bracken's withered that stands so high, But sleeping cattle love it well. Thorny fern and honeyless heather, A friend who chills with the blighting weather. A mile towards the western sun The Rothers have their wooded park ; Never another so fair an one Sees from his poise the singing lark. When Rother of Rother first began Recks not the memory of man. It stands there still, a red old house, Rother, set round with branchy pines ; The heather is red beneath the boughs, And red are the trunks where the slant sun shines, And the earth is ruddy on hollow and height : But the blood of a Rother's heart is white. 25Z THE ROTHERS Right royal faces, none the less, And gracious ways when the world is kind ; But trust a Rother in your distress, A hollow hemlock stem you find, Where you looked for a sapling to cling to and save You yet from the chasm below like a grave. And now they are ended the faithless race ; Sir Thomas was never a Rother born, He took the name when he took the place, With the childless wife he laughs to scorn : And his life is a cruel and evil life But let none pity his craven wife. She oh marvel of wonder and awe O angered patience of God ! I say God sees our sins ; for a sign I saw Set in the western skies one day White, over Rother, white and pale For many a mile over hill and dale. . . . Now let me make the marvel clear. When Edward, last o' the Rothers, died He left two orphan daughters here : Little children who scarce could ride, Clutching the mane wifh baby hands, O'er half an acre of their lands. I think I see the sorrel mare, Staid, old ; and, tumbled on her neck, Flushed faces, dimpled arms, and hair Of crimpy flax with a golden fleck ; As by the side, with timid graces, Well to the fore, the prim nurse paces. A pretty cavalcade ! Ah well, The Rothers ever loved a horse ! And so one day Sir Edward fell, Out hunting ; dragged along the gorse For yards, one foot i' the stirrup still, The hunters found him upon the hill. 253 THE ROTHERS They brought him home as cold as stone, Into his house they bore him in ; Nor at his burial any one Was there to mourn him, of his kin, Save those two babies, grave and grand In black, who could not understand. Poor wondering children, clad in crape, Who knew not what they had to mourn, Careful their sash should keep its shape That papa, when he should return, Might praise each little stiff new gown All day they never would sit down. Poor, childish mutes, they stood all day With outspread skirts and outspread hair, And baby lips, less pink than grey (So pale they were), and solemn stare ; They watched our mourning, pained and dumb, Wondering when papa would come, And give them each a ride on his horse, And toss them both in the air, and say " A Rother is sure in the saddle, of course, But never a Rother rode better than they," And sent them up to bed at last To sleep till morning, sound and fast. At last each whitish-flaxen head Drooped heavily, each baby-cheek Its pallid shadow-roses shed The straight black legs grew soft and weak Father and frocks alike forgot They fell asleep, and sorrowed not, Yet pitiable they were, alone They were, twin heiresses of five, With lands and houses of their own, And never a friend in the world alive Save one old great-aunt, over in France, Who knew them not, nor cared, perchance. 254 THE ROTHERS We little fancied she would come Quit palms, and sun, and table d'h6te For two unknown small girls at home ; But soon there came a scented note With half the phrases underscored, And French at every second word. And soon she followed. She would sigh, And clasp her hands, and swear " by God ; ' Her black wig ever slipped awry, And quavered with a trembling nod ; Her face was powdered very white, Her black eyes danced under brows of night. Such paint ! Yet were I ever to feel Utterly lost, no saint I'd pray, But, crooked of ringlets and high of heel, I'd call to the rescue old Miss May ; No haloed angel sweet and slender, Were half so kind, so staunch, so tender. She loved the children well, but most The girl who least was like herself Maudie, at worst a plaintive ghost, Maudie, at best a laughing elf, With eyes deep flowering under dew, Such tender looks of lazy blue. Florence was stronger, commonplace No doubt, but good, sincere, and kind ; There was no Rother in her face. There was no Rother I could find Within her nature ; but who knows ? My son shall not marry a daughter of Flo's. You see I hate the Rothers, I ! Unjust, perhaps ; all are not vile It may be but I cannot try, When I think of a Rother now, to smile. You hate the Jews, perhaps ? the Turks ? In every heart some hatred lurks. 255 THE ROTHERS But these two girls 1 never hated, I thought them better than their race ; Who would not think a curse out-dated When from so fresh and young a face The Rother eyes looked frankly out, In the Rother smile no Rother's doubt ? Well, they were young, and wealthy, and fair ; It seemed not long since they were born, When Florence married Lawrence Dare, Then Maud, alas ! Sir Thomas Thorn A bitter, dark, bad, cruel man Sir Thomas, now, of the Rother clan. For now we come to the very root Of the passionate rancour I keep at heart Flowering in words (but the bitter fruit Is still unripe for its sterner part) Well, Maud, too, married. Miss May was free To go wherever she wished to be. Homeless, after sixteen years Of sacrifice ! Where could she go ? But she, she smiled, choked back her tears, " Of course," she said, " it must be so, So kind, her girls, to let her come Three months to each in her married home ! " And first at Rother with the Thorns In her old home she stayed a guest ; * * * * * But must I think of all the scorns That made your age a bitter jest, Whose memory like a star appears Thro' the violent dark of that House of tears r Your Maud was changed ; a craven slave To her unloving husband now ; The bitter words she could not brave, 256 THE ROTHERS The silent hate of eyes and brow Estranged her not ; and oh, 'tis true ! To gain his favour she slighted you. And yet you stayed ! And yet you stayed Hoping to win your dear one back Thinking through pain, not sin, she strayed From the old, good, well-known heavenly track. Alas, your lamb had gone too far Farther from you than the farthest star. At last the three months ended ; then I heard Miss May was very ill ; It was the first of autumn, when Our roads are bad, so I chose the hill And the brow of the moor, as I rode away To Rother, where my good friend lay. Now for my sunset ? Is 't not strange That heaven, which sees a million woes Unmoved, should pale, and faint, and change At one more murder that it knows ? And yet I think I could declare A horror in that sunseYs glare. As I was riding over the moor My back was turned to the blazing white O' the western sun, but all around The country caught the brilliant light ; The tufts of trees were yellow, not green ; Grey shadows hung like nets between. Such yellow hues on bush and tree ! Such sharp-cut shade and light I saw ! The white gates white as a star may be : But every scarlet hip and haw, Cluster of poppies, roof of red, Had lost its colour, wan and dead ! 257 THE ROTHERS So strange the east, that soon I turned To watch the shining west appear : Under a billow of smoke there burned A belt of blinding silver, sheer White length of light, wherefrom there shone A round, white, dazzling, rayless sun. There mirror-like it hung and blazed, And all the earth below was strange, And all the scene whereon I gazed Even to the view-line's farthest range, Hill, steeple, moor, all, near and far, Was flat as shifting side-scenes are. Lifeless, a country in the moon It seemed, that white and vague expanse, So substanceless and thin, that soon I fell to wonder, by some chance Of a sketcher's fancy how would fare The tones of flesh in that white glare ? A scruple of the painter's eye Which notes all possible effect I scarcely daub, but I love to try. Full of the whim, I recollect, I stretched my own right arm and gazed : The hand showed black where the sunlight blazed. Too near, too near ! I smiled and turned, I shook the reins and rode away, Glanced where the eastern forest burned With its gold-green oaks. But who were they In the phaeton, there, beneath the trees ? Let 'em prove my fancy ! A grip of the knees, I reached them. Why, the Thorns they were ! The Thorns, livid and clear and plain In the ugly light. Nor could I dare Enquire if my friend were at ease or in pain, So bitter-sour looked Maudie's mouth, The whole face dried like grass in a drouth. 258 THE ROTHERS But what's the figure bent and weak Set up beside them, rolled in wraps ? I saw it sway ; I could not speak. I looked, let one long minute lapse Then looked again ... I stopped them. Saw- Oh, is there then on earth no law ? No thunder in Heaven ? As before, It was indeed an old grey head That jerked from side to side ; no more, Only an old grey woman, dead, That drives beside them, shawled and dressed . , They could not let her die at rest ! Wail, Maudie, wail your best ! I know You had not thought her dead ; enough You thought her dying, merely, and though The air was cold, the road was rough, Could say " Her three months' stay is o'er, She is our promised guest no more. " Now let her go to Florence Dare, No need for us to nurse her now. The drive will do her good, the air Strike freshly on her fevered brow, And, in the carriage, rwgs are spread " Where, as you know, I found her dead, Because they cast her away, my friend ! Because her nursling murdered her. There, my long story has an end At last. I leave you to infer The moral, old enough to be true : " Do good, and it is done to you." But bid me not forgive and forget ; Forget my friend, forget a crime, Because the county neighbours fret That I'll not meet at dinner-time Ingratitude and murder ? Nay, Touch pitch and be defiled, I say. 259 THE hawthorn lane was full of flower ; Across the hedge, the apple-trees Sent down with every gust of breeze A light, loose-petalled blossom-shower. The wide green edges of the lane Were filmed with kedlock-flowers, and white Archangels tall, the bees' delight, Sprang lustier for the morning's rain. The scent of May was heavy-sweet ; The noon poured down upon the land. The nightingales on either hand Called, and were silent in the heat. The herds, the flowers, the nightingales All drowsed ; and I upon the edge Of grass beneath the flowering hedge Lay dreaming of its shoots and trails. When, starting at the sound of feet, I saw the Italian vagrants pass ; The monkey, man, and peasant-lass, Who figure on our village street 260 MEN AND MONKEYS At race-time in the spring ; nor song, Caper, nor hurdy-gurdy tune Seemed left in them this blazing noon As wearily they trudged along. They did not pause to look upon The apple-blossom and the may ; They saw the road that reached away Thro' leagues of dust, aye on and on. They did not even stop to hear The rare sweet call of the nightingale ; The hurdy-gurdy's squeak and yell Was too accustomed in their ear. I watched them plod their stolid way Straight on ; till suddenly I heard The monkey mimic the singing-bird, And snatch a trail of the flowering may. And down the road I saw him still Catching and clutching the blossom white, Waving his long, black arms in delight, Until they passed over the brow of the hill. 261 ROMANTIC BALLADS The Tower of St. Maur " WHERE'S my little son, Nourrice, And whither is he gone ? The youngest son of all I have, He should not gang alone." "The child is safe enough, lady ; He's barely gone an hour : He's gone to see the mason-men, Are building at tfte tower." " You should have kept him here, Nourrice, If I was sleeping then He's over young to gang alone Among the mason-men." " Lie still, lie still, my sweet lady, There's nought to sorrow for ; The child is safe enough, I think, J' the keeping of St. Maur ! " An hour's gone by, an hour or two, And still they're out-of-door " I wish they'd come at last, Nourrice, My heart is sick and sore." 265 THE TOWER OF ST. MAUR " Now hush, lady, my sweet lady, The moon's still small and young ; If they're home before the curfew bell They'll not ha' stayed too long." St. Maur has ta'en his youngest son, To the riverside they're gone, To see the busy mason-men Building a tower of stone. " O why do they build the tower so strong Against the riverside ? I never saw the wall, father, That was so strong and wide." " God knows the tower had need be strong Between my foes and thee ! Should once Lord Armour enter, child, An ill death would ye dee." " We need not fear Lord Armour, father, Nor any of his kin ; Since God has given us such a wall, They cannot enter in." " O twice, my babe, and thrice, my babe, Ere ever that I was born, Lord Armour's men have entered in Betwixt the night and the morn. " And once I found my nurse's room Was red with bloody men . . . I would not have thy mother die As died my mother then. " And 'tis not seven nights ago I heard, clear in a dream, The bugle cry of Armour, Shrill over wood and stream." 266 THE TOWER OF ST. MAUR " But if so foul a raid, father, Fell out so long agone, Why did they never build before A wall and tower of stone ? " " Many's the time, my pretty babe, Ere ever this way you went, We built the tower both thick and broad- An' we might as well ha' stent. " Many's the time we built the tower, Wi' the grey stone and the brown. But aye the floods in autumn Washed all the building down. " And in my mind I see the morn When we'll be brought to dee Yoursel' and your seven brothers, And your young mother, and me. " And oh, were it any but Armour, Oh God, were it any but she Before the Lord, my eyes grow dark With the ill sight jhat I see." Among the busy mason-men, Are building at the tower, There's a swarthy gipsy mason, A lean man and a dour. He's lain the hammer down at last Out of his bony hand . . . " Did ye never hear the spell, St. Maur, Gars any tower to stand ? " "O what's the spell, thou black gipsy, I prithee rede it now : There never was a mason-man Shall earn such wage as thou." 267 THE TOWER OF ST. MAUR " I dare not speak the spell, St. Maur, Lest you should do me an ill, For a cruel spell, and an evil spell, Is the spell that works your will." " There's no spell but I'll risk it, man, An' the price were half my lands To keep my wife and children safe Out of Lord Armour's hands." " O, more than lands, and more than fee, You'll pay me for the spell " " An* the price were half my heart's red blood, I'd pay it down as well." " O what's the blood of a sinful heart To bind the stones that fall ? St. Maur, you'll build your christened child Alive into the wall." St. Maur has turned on his heel so light, And angry he turns away : " Gang to the devil another time When ye ask what ye ask to-day." He's ta'en his young son by the hand He's opened wide the gate, " Your mother's been sick a month by now, And she'll mourn sore if we're late." They had not gone a little way, An' the child began to call " See how the flood runs high, father, And washes at the wall ! " They had not gone a mickle way, St. Maur began to brood, " 'Tis the bugle cry of Armour, Shrill over stream and wood." 268 THE TOWER OF ST. MAUR " And must they slay me, father dear, And my seven brothers tall ? " "Gin that's the blast of Armour, laddie, I fear they'll slay us all." " And will they slay my mother, then, That looks so bonny and small ? " " Come back, come back, thou little lad To the masons at the wall." The flood runs high and still more high, And washes stone from stone " In another hour," say the masons, " Our work is all undone." The flood runs high and still more high, And the bugle rings anear ; The masons looking o'er the wall Are blue and stark with fear. There's one that's neither stark nor wan But never he looked so well ; " Shall I gang to the devil, St. Maur ? " he cries " Or say, shall I gang to yoursel' ? " He's set the child high in the air Upon his shoulder bone ; " Shall I leave them all for Armour, Or shall I take but one ? " Never an answer spake St. Maur, And never a word he said : There was not one o' the mason-men Looked half so wan and dead. The gipsy's ta'en the frighted child And set him in the wall : " There's a bonny game to play, little man, The bonniest game of all. 269 THE TOWER OF ST. MAUR " You'll stand so still and stark, my lad ; I'll build in two's and three's j And I'll throw you a red, red apple in, When the stones reach to your knees. " You'll stand so still and stark, my lad ; I'll lay the stones in haste ; And I'll throw you the forester's whistle When they reach above your waist. " You'll stand so still and stark, my lad, You'll watch the stones that rise ; And I'll throw you in your father's sword, When they reach above your eyes. " And if you tire o' the play, my lad, You've but to raise a shout : At the least word o' your father's mouth, I'll stop and pluck you out." The gipsy-man build quick and light, As if he played a play, And the child laughs with a frighted laugh, And the tower ceases to sway. St. Maur stares out of his bloodshot eyes, Like one that's well nigh mad ; The tower stands fast, and the stones rise high About the little lad. " O father, father, lift me out ! The stones reach over my eyes, And I cannot see you now, father, So swift the walls uprise. a O father, lift me out, father ! I cannot breathe at all, For the stones reach up beyond my head, And it's dark down i' the wall." 270 THE TOWER OF ST. MAUR But never an answer spake St. Maur, Never a word but one : " Have you finished your devil's work, mason, Or when will the deed be done ? " " Oh, the work is done that ye wished, St. Maur, 'Twill last for many a year ; There's scarce a sound in the wall by now A mother might not hear. " Gang home, gang home in peace, St. Maur, And sleep sound if you can ; There's never a flood shall rock this tower, And never a mortal man. " Gang home and kiss your bonny wife, And bid her mourn and fast . . . She'll weep a year for her youngest child, But she'll dry her eyes at last. " You'll say he fell in the flood, St. Maur, But you'll not deceive yoursel', For you've lost the bonniest thing you had, And you'll remember well. * " Your wife will mourn him a year, St. Maur, You'll mourn him all your life, For you've lost the bonniest thing you had, Better than bairns or wife." ^^\ The Duke of Gueldres Wedding THE Queen and all her waiting maids Are playing at the ball ; Mary Harcourt, the King's cousin, Is fairest of them all. The Queen and all her waiting maids Are out on Paris green ; Mary Harcourt, the King's cousin, Is fairer than the Queen. The King sits in his council room, The grey lords at his side, And thro' the open window pane He sees the game outside. The King sits in the Council-room, The young lords at his feet; And through the pane he sees the ball, And the ladies young and fleet. " O bonny Mary Harcourt Is seventeen to-day ; 'Tis time a lover courted her, And carried her away. " Where shall I give my own cousin ? Where shall I give my kin ? And who shall be the peer of France Her slender hand to win ? " 272 THE DUKE OF GUELDRES' WEDDING Then up and spake an old grey lord, And keen, keen was his eye : " Your friends ye have already, Sire ; Your foes ye'll have to buy." Then up and spake that old grey lord, And keen, keen, was his glance : " Marry the girl to Gueldres, Sire, And gain a friend to France ! " " O how shall I wed my own cousin To a little Flemish lord ? " " Nay ; Gueldres is a gallant duke And girt with many a sword." " What will the Duke of Limburg say If such a deed be done ? " " Last night your foes were twain, my lord ; To-day there'll be but one." "Yet Limburg is a jealous man And Gueldres quick and wroth." " To-morrow they'll hew each other down, And you'll be quit o.f both ! " O blithe was Mary Harcourt The blithest of them all. When forth there stepped that old grey lord Out of the Council-hall. O sad was Mary Harcourt And sorry was her face When back there stepped that old grey lord And left her in her place. " O shall I leave my own country, And shall I leave my kin ? " O strange will be the Flemish streets My feet shall wander in ! 273 T THE DUKE OF GUELDRES* WEDDING " O shall I learn to brace a sword, And brighten up a lance ? I've learned to pull the flowers all day, All night I've learned to dance ! "O shall I marry a Flemish knight, And learn a Flemish tongue ? Would I had died an hour ago, When I was blithe and young ? " Twice the moon and thrice the moon Has waxed and waned away ; The streets of Gueldres town are braw With sammet and with say ; And out of every window hang The crimson squares of silk ; The fountains run with claret wine, The runnels flow with milk. The ladies and the knights of France, How gallantly they ride ! And all in silk and red roses The fairest is the bride. " Now welcome, Mary Harcourt, Thrice welcome, lady mine ; There's not a knight in all the world Shall be so true as thine. " There's venison in the aumbry, Mary, There's claret in the vat. Come in and dine within the hall Where once my mother sat." They had not filled a cup at dine, A cup but barely four, When the Duke of Limburg's herald Came riding to the door. 274 THE DUKE OF GUELDRES' WEDDING "O where's the Duke of Gueldres ? O where's the groom so gay ? My master sends a wedding-glove To grace the wedding-day. " O where's the Duke of Gueldres Upon his wedding night : That I may cast this iron glove And challenge him to fight ? " Gueldres is a gallant knight, Gallant and good to see ; So swift he bends to raise the glove, Lifting it courteously. His coat is of the white velvet, His cap is of the black, A cloak of gold and silver work Hangs streaming at his back. He's ta'en the cloak from his shoulders As gallant as may be : " Take this, take this, Sir Messenger, You've ridden far for me ! "Now speed you back to Limburg As quickly as you may, I'll meet your lord to-morrow morn, To-day's my wedding-day." The morrow Mary Harcourt Is standing at the door : " I let him go with an angry word, And I'll see him never more. " Mickle I wept to leave my kin, Mickle I wept to stay Alone in foreign Gueldres, when My ladies rode away. 275 THE DUKE OF GUELDRES' WEDDING " With tears I wet my wedding-sheets, That were so fine and white But for one glint of your eye, Gueldres, I'd give my soul to-night ! " O long waits Mary Harcourt, Until the sun is down ; The mist creeps up along the street, And darkens all the town. long waits Mary Harcourt, Till grey the dawn up springs ; But who is this that rides so fast That all the pavement rings ? " Is that youself in the dawn, Gueldres ? Or is it your ghost so wan ? " " Now hush ye, hush ye, my bonny bride, 'Tis I, a living man. " There's blood upon my hands, Mary, There's blood upon my lance. Go in and leave a rougher knight Than e'er ye met in France." " O what's the blood of a foe, Gueldres, That I should keep away ? 1 did not love you yesternight ; I'd die for you to-day. " I'll hold your dripping horse, Gueldres, I'll hold your heavy lance : I'd rather die your serving maid Than live the Queen of France." He's caught her in his happy arms, He's clasped her to his side. Now God give every gallant knight. As blithe and bonny a bride ! 276 Rosamunda (AFTER A PIEDMONTESE BALLAD) " AH, love me, Rosamunda, Now love me or I die ! " " Alas, how shall I love thec ? A wedded wife am I." A " And wilt thou, Rosamunda, We put the man away ? " " Alas, how should we do it ? " " To-day or any day ! " Within thy mother's garden An asp is in the vine : Go, bray it in a mortar And put it in his wine." " Ho, wife ! Ho, Rosamunda ! Where art thou, low or high ? For I am home from hunting And sore athirst am I." 277 ROSAMUNDA "The wine is in the goblet, The wine is in the cup. It stands upon the cupboard shelf; Go, lift the cover up." " Ho, wife ! Ho, Rosamunda ! Come hither, come and see ; The good red wine is troubled . . . How came this thing to be ? " " The sea wind yester even Hath troubled it, I think." " Come hither, Rosamunda ! Come hither, come and drink ! " " Alas, how shalt I drink it When I am not athirst ? " " Come hither, Rosamunda, Come here and drink the first." "Alas, how shall I drink it, That never drank of wine ? " " Thou'lt quaff it, Rosamunda, By this drawn sword of mine ! " " I drink it to my lover, I drink it, and I die ! My lover is the king of France A dead woman am I." 278 Captain Gold and French Janet THE first letter our Captain wrote To the Lord of Mantua : " Did you ever see French Janet (He wrote) on any day ? " "Did ye ever see French Janet, That was so blithe and coy ? The little serving-lass I stole From the mountains of Savoy ? "Last week I lost French Janet : Hunt for her up and down ; And send her back to me, my Lord, From the four walls o' the town." For thirty days and thirty nights There came no news to us. Suddenly old grew Captain Gold And his voice grew tremulous. O Mantua's a bonny town, And she's long been our ally ; But help came none from Mantua-town Dim grew our Captain's eye. " O send me Janet home again ! " Our Captain wrote anew ; "A lass is but a paltry thing, And yet my heart's in two ! 279 CAPTAIN GOLD AND FRENCH JANET " Ha' ye searched in every convent-close, And sought in every den ? Mistress o' man, or bride of Christ, I'll have her back again ! " O Mantua's a bonny town, And she's long been our ally ; But help cometh none from Mantua town And sick at heart am I." For thirty days and thirty nights No news came to the camp ; And the life waned old in Captain Gold, As the oil wanes in a lamp. The third moon swelled towards the full When the third letter he wrote : " What will ye take for Janet ? Red gold to fill your moat ? " Red wine to fill your fountains full ? Red blood to wash your streets ? Oh, send me Janet home, my Lord, Or ye'll no die in your sheets ! " O Love, that makes strong towers to sway, And captains' hearts to fall ! I feared they might have heard his sobs Right out to Mantua-wall. For thirteen days and thirteen nights No messenger came back ; And when the morning rose again, Our tents were hung with black. The dead bell rang through all the camp ; But we rung it low and dim, Lest the Lombard hounds in Mantua Should know the end of him. 280 A Ballad of Orleans THE fray began at the middle-gate, Between the night and the day ; Before the matin bell was rung The foe was far away. No knight in all the land of France Could gar that foe to flee, Till up there rose a young maiden, And drove them to the sea. Sixty forts around Orleans town, And sixty forts of stone .' Sixty forts at our gates last night To-day there is not one ! Talbot, Suffolk, and Pole are fled Beyond the Loire, in fear Many a captain who would not drink Hath drunken deeply there Many a captain is fallen and drowned, And many a knight is dead, And many die in the misty dawn While the forts are burning red. 281 A BALLAD OF ORLEANS Sixty forts around Orleans town, And sixty forts of stone ! Sixty forts at our gates last night To-day there is not one ! The blood ran off our spears all night As the rain runs off the roofs God rest their souls that fell i' the fight Among our horses' hoofs ! They came to rob us of our own With sword and spear and lance, They fell and clutched the stubborn earth, And bit the dust of France ! Sixty forts around Orleans town, And sixty forts of stone ! Sixty forts at our gates last night To-day there is not one. We fought across the moonless dark Against their unseen hands A knight came out of Paradise And fought among our bands. Fight on, O maiden knight of God ! Fight on and never tire, For lo ! the misty break o' the day Sees all their forts on fire ! Sixty forts around Orleans town, And sixty forts of stone ! Sixty forts at our gates last night To-day there is not one. 282 " THERE'S nothing in the world so dear To a true knight," he cried, " As his own sister's honour ! Now God be on our side ! " The walls of Alexandria That stand so broad and high, The walls of Alexandria They answered to his cry. And thrice, his trumpets blaring, He rides around those walls ; " Come forth, ye knights of Lombardy, Ye craven knights ! " he calls. O luckless Count of Armanac, Why rode ye forth at noon ? Was there no hour at even ? No morning cool and boon ? 283 THE DEATH OF THE COUNT OF ARMANAC The swords of Alexandria You kept them all at bay. But oh, the summer sun at noon It strikes more deep than they. Oh for a drink of water ! Oh for a moment's space To loose the iron helm and let The wind blow on his face ! He turned his eyes from left to right, And at his hand there stood The shivering white poplars That fringe a little wood. And as he reeled along the grass, Behold, as chill as ice The water ran beneath his foot, And he thought it Paradise. " Armanac ! O Armanac ! " His distant knights rang out ; And "Armanac " there answered them The mountains round about. O luckless Count of Armanac, The day is lost and won : Your hosts fight ill without a chief, And the foe is three to one. At dusk there rides a Lombard squire, With his train, into the copse, And when they reach the water-side The horse whinnies and stops. THE DEATH OF THE COUNT OF ARMANAC For dead beside the white water A fallen knight they find ; His helmet lies upon the grass, His locks stir in the wind. " Now speak a word, my prisoners ! What great captain is he Who died away from battle Alone and piteously ? " Woe ! and woe for Armanac, And woe for all of us, And for his sister's honour, woe, That he be fallen thus ! For " where's the Count of Armanac ? " The Lombard women sing : " He died at Alexandria Of the water of a spring ! " Thy name is made a mock, my Lord, Thy vengeance still to pay, And we must pine in Lombardy For many and many a day ! 285 Captain Qrtis Booty CAPTAIN ORTIS (the tale I tell Petit told in his chronicle) Gained from Alva, for service and duty At Antwerp's capture, the strangest booty. Then each captain chose, as I hear, That for guerdon he held most dear, Craved what in chief he set heart of his on : Out strode Ortis, and claimed . . . the prison ! Such a tumult ! for, be assured, Greatly the judges and priests demurred ; No mere criminals alone in that Stygian Darkness died, but the foes of religion. There lay heretics by the score, Anabaptists, and many more, Hard to catch ! To let loose, when caught, your Timid hares, to forego the torture Folly ! Suddenly sank the noise. Alva spoke in his steely voice : " He's my soldier, sans flaw or blemish ; Let him burn as he likes these Flemish." 286 CAPTAIN ORTIS' BOOTY " Sire, as you please," the governor said, " Only King Philip's edict read " " Alva spoke ! What is king or Cortes ? Open the portals," cried Captain Ortis. " Loose the prisoners, set them free. Only each pays a ransom-fee ! " Out, be sure, poured the gold in buckets, Piles on piles of broad Flanders ducats. Ay, there followed not gold alone ; Men and women and children, thrown In chains to perish, came out forgiven Saw light, friends' faces, and thought it heaven. Out they staggered, so halt and blind From rack and darkness, they scarce could find The blessed gate where daughter and mother, Father and brother, all found each other. " Freedom ! Our darlings ! Let God be praised ! " So cried all ; then said one, amazed, " Who is he, under Heaven, that gave us Thought and pity ? who cared to save us ? " " Captain Ortis " (the answer ran), " The Spanish Lancer ; here's the man. Ay, but don't kill him with too much caressing ; Death's a sour salad with sweetest dressing." Danger, indeed ; for never hath been In brave old Antwerp such a scene. Boldest patriot, fairest woman, Blessing him, knelt to the Spanish foeman. Ortis looted his prize of gold, And yet, I think, if the truth be told, He found, when the ducats were gone with the pleasure, That heretic blessing a lasting treasure. 287 CAPTAIN ORTIS' BOOTY Yet my captain, to certain eyes, Seems war-hardened and worldly-wise. " 'Twere, for a hero," you say, " more handsome To give the freedom, nor take the ransom." True : but think of this hero's lot. No Quixote he, nor Sir Launcelot, But a needy soldier, half-starved, remember, With cold and hunger that northern December ; Just such an one as Parma meant When he wrote to Philip in discontent "Antwerp must yield to our men ere much longer, Unless you leave us to die of hunger. " Wages, clothing, they do without, Wine, fire even ; they'll learn, no doubt, To live without meat for their mouths they're zealous ; Only they die first as yet, poor fellows." Yes, and I praise him, for my part, This man war-beaten and tough of heart, Who, scheming a booty, no doubt, yet planned it More like a hero, I think, than a bandit. What ! My friend is too coarse for you ? Will nought less than a Galahad do ? ... Rough and ready this soldier-sort is ; Well half a. hero was Captain Ortis ! 288 Sir Hugh and the Swans (RUNG VON DER ROSEN. BRUGES, 1488) THE wintry nights in Flanders Lie thick about the grass ; We stole between the sentinels, They never saw us pass. The mist was blue on field and fen, And ridged the dykes with white ; The camp-fires of the soldiers Burned holes into the night. They could not see us through the mirk : We saw them in the glow. A price was on our either head And stealthy did we go. We crept along the inner banks Close to the waters grey We reached the castle at dawn, the castle Where Max in prison lay. (We blew the golden trumpets all For joy, a year agone : " Long live the King o' the Romans ! " The people cried as one. 289 SIR HUGH AND THE SWANS Now, for the king in prison, There's two will dare to die. There's Hugh o' the Rose, the Jester, Sir Hugh o' the Rose, and I.) We came upon the castle moat As the dawn was weak and grey : " There's still an hour," quoth Hugh o' the Rose " An hour till break of day. " Give me the files, the muted files, Give me the rope to fling ; I'll swim to the prison window, And hand them to the king. " I'll swim to the castle and back, Sir John, Before the morn is light, - And we'll both lie hid i' the rushes here Till we take the boat to-night." We tied the files, we tied the rope, In a little leather sack. Sir Hugh struck off from the mirky bank, The satchel on his back. I watched him cleave the wan water A bold swimmer was he. My heart beat high in my bosom, For I thought the king was free. I watched him shoot the middle stream And reach the other side " Fling up the rope," the king cried out That never should have cried. The sun uprist beyond the dyke : It was a deadly gleam. The startled swans that sleep i' the moat Began to whir and scream. 290 SIR HUGH AND THE SWANS Woe's me, that saw them stretch their necks And hiss, as traitors do ; I saw them arch their evil wings And strike and stun Sir Hugh. The king looked out o' the window bars, And he was sad belike ; But I could not see my lord the king For the drowned face in the dyke. The sleepy warders woke and stirred, ** The swans are mad in the moat ! " I lifted up Sir Hugh o' the Rose And laid him in the boat. I made him a sark of rushes, With stones at the feet and head. . . . In the deepest dyke of Flanders Sir Hugh o' the Rose lies dead. 291 The Mower THEY were three bonny mowers Were mowing half the day ; They were three bonny lasses A-making of the hay. " Who'll go and fetch the basket ? " " Not I." " Nor I." Nor I." They had no time for falling out Ere Nancy Bell came by. " What's in your basket, Nancy Bell ? " " Sweet cakes and currant wine, And venison and cider, lads ; Come quickly, come and dine." They were two bonny mowers Fell to among the best ; The youngest sits a-fasting, His head upon his breast. " What ails ye, bonny mower, You sit so mournfully ? " " Alas ! what ails me, Nancy Bell ? 'Tis all the love of thee." 292 THE MOWER " Now laugh and quaff, my bonny lad, And think no more o' me. My lover is a finer man Than any twain o' ye. " He's bought for me a kirtle, He's bought for me a coat, Of three-and-thirty colours, Wi' tassels at the throat. " And twenty Maids of Honour They stitched at it a year, And sewed in all their needlework The kisses of my dear ! " 293 Rudel and the Lady of Tripoli PART I. THERE was in all the world of France No singer half so sweet : The first note of his viol brought A crowd into the street. And as he sat in Avignon With princes at their wine, In all that lusty company Was none so fresh and fine. His kirtle's of the Arras-blue His cap of pearls and green, His golden curls fall tumbling round The bonniest face I've seen : But hark ! the lords are laughing loud And lusty in their mirth For each has pledged his own lady The fairest dame on earth. " Now, hey, Rudel ! You singer, Rudel ! Say, who's the fairest lass ? I'll wager many a lady's eyes Have been your looking-glass ! " 294 RUDEL AND THE LADY OF TRIPOLI His lady's portrait each has ta'en, And dashed it on the board. Then lightly laugheth Geoffrey Rudel And counts the treasured hoard. He lifts them up and lays them down With fingers nimble and deft ; He lifts them up and lays them down Till only one is left. There's only a twist of silver About a parchment skin, That's lain so close against a heart The colour's worn and thin. There's only a twist of foreign wire There's only a faded face . . . What ails, what ails Geoffrey Rudel ? He has fallen from his place. He's fallen plumb across the board Without a word or sign ; The golden curls that hide his face Are dabbled in the wine. He's fallen numb and dumb as death, While all the princes stare Then up one old Crusading Knight Arose, and touched his hair : " Rudel, Rudel, Geoffrey Rudel, Give me her picture back ! Without her face against my breast The world grows dim and black. " Rudel, Rudel, Geoffrey Rudel, Give back my life to me ! Or I will kill you, Geoffrey Rudel And take it desperately ! " 295 RUDEL AND THE LADY OF TRIPOLI Then straightway awoke and rose Rudel- And hey, but he was white ! Thin and fierce his lips were set ; His eyes were cold and bright. The picture's in his left hand, The dagger's in the right. Stabbed to the core, upon the floor Fell down that stranger-knight. Rang loud the swords in the scabbards, The voices loud and high " Let pass, let pass ! " cried out Rudel, " Let pass before he die " The lords fell back in grim array Around the dying man : " For pity and pardon let him kneel And pray, if so he can ! " But never a word said Geoffrey Save only, " Who is she ? " One moment smiled the dying man "The Lady of Tripoli!" He opened wide his sea-blue eyes, Dead, in a face of stone. . . . Out to the windy dark Rudel, Unhindered, rushed alone. PART II. " Hew the timbers of sandal wood And planks of ivory, Rear up the shining masts of gold And let us put to sea. "Sew the sails with a silken thread That all are silken too, Sew them with scarlet pomegranates Upon a sheet of blue. 296 RUDEL AND THE LADY OF TRIPOLI " Rig the ship with a rope of gold And let us put to sea. And now goodbye to good Marseilles And hey for Tripoli ! " Up and down the golden ship That's sailing to the south, Rudel goes singing to himself, A smile about his mouth. And up the masts and on the bridge The sailors stop to hear : There's not a lark in the May-heaven Can sing so high and clear ! There's not a thrush or a nightingale Can sing so full and glad. Yet there's a soul that sighs i' the song, And the soul is wise and sad. Rudel goes singing to himself As he looks across the sea " Lady," he says, " I'll sing at last, Please God, in Tripoli." For pale across the wan water A shining wonder grows, As pale as on the murky night The dawn of pearl and rose. And dim across the flood so grey A city 'gins to rise, A pale, enchanted Eastern place, White under radiant skies. O domes and spires, O minarets, O heavy-headed drowse Of nodding palms, O strangling rose Sweet in the cypress boughs ! 297 RUDEL AND THE LADY OF TRIPOLI " Heave-to, O mariners, heave ashore As swiftly as may be. Go, now, my stripling page, along The streets of Tripoli, And say Rudel, Rudel has come And say that I am he." An hour's gone by, an hour or two, But still we're far from night, When lo ! there glides along the quay A lady like a light. You could not tell how tall she was So heaved the light and fell ; The shining of enchanted gems, The waving of a veil, She drifts along the golden deck And stands before Rudel. But as she bends to kiss Rudel He starts to meet her eyes, That glitter in her ancient skin Like Fire that never dies. But as she bends to clasp Rudel, He trembles 'neath her hair, Ravelled in many a snowy ring About her shoulders bare. And as she calls his name aloud, Her voice is thin and strange As night-winds in the standing reeds When the moon's about to change. She's opened wide her bridal arms, She's bent her wintry face ; What ails, what ails Geoffrey Rudel ? He has fallen from his place. 298 RUDEL AND THE LADY OF TRIPOLI He's fallen plumb across the board Without a word or sign, His golden locks that stream so bright, Are dabbled in the wine. He's opened wide his dazzled eyes, Dead in a face of stone. Into the windy dark of Death His spirit drifts alone. 299 The Dead Mother LORD ROLAND on his roan horse Is riding far and fast, Though white the eddying snow is driven Along the northern blast. There's snow upon the holly-bush, There's snow upon the pine ; There's many a bough beneath the snow He had not thought so fine For the last time Roland crossed the moor He rode to Palestine. Now pale across the windy hills A castle 'gins to rise, With unsubstantial turrets thin Against the windy skies. " Welcome, O welcome, Towers of Sands, I welcome you again ! Yet often in my Syrian tent, I saw you far more plain." Lord Roland spurs his roan horse Through all the snow and wind And soon he's reached those towers so wan, And left the moor behind. " Welcome, Sir John the Steward ! How oft in Eastern lands I've called to mind your English face, And sighed to think of Sands. 300 THE DEAD MOTHER " If still you love your old play-mate You loved so well of yore Go up, go up, and tell my mother That Roland's at the door." "O how shall I tell you, Lord Roland, The news that you must know ? Your mother is dead, Lord Roland She died a month ago." When day was gone and night was come, When all things turn to sleep. Lord Roland in the darkness, then, Learned that a man can weep. " O why did I stay so long from home And tarry so many a year, And now I'll see thee never again, Thy voice I'll never hear. " There's a flood of death betwixt us twain, A flood that is dark and dour ; But if my prayer can feach thee, Mother, And if the dead have power, Come back from Heaven, come back, my Mother, An' it be but for an hour." It's a long, long road from Heaven to earth ; And a weary road, I ween, For whoso passed the gates of Death To reach those gardens green. 'Tis a long, long road from the heart o' the grave To the home where kinsmen sleep ; But a mother thinks no road too long Hearing her children weep. 301 THE DEAD MOTHER The moon has dropt behind the moor, The night is quiet and still . . . What makes the flesh of Lord Roland To shudder and turn chill ? Something stirs in the light o' the flame, Aye drifting nigher and nigher . . . " My hands are chill," says a voice in the wind, " I'll warm them at the fire. " Give me a crust o' your bread, my son, Give me a cup o' your wine. Long have I fasted for your sake, And long you'll fast for mine." Lord Roland stares across the dusk With stern and dreadful eyes, There's only a wind in the light o' the fire, A wind that shudders and sighs. " My limbs are faint," sighs a voice in the wind " My feet are bruised and torn " It's long I've seen no linen sheets, I'll rest me here till morn." There's an eerie shape in the chamber now, And shadowy feet that move ; The fire goes out in a sullen ash, Like the angry end of love And out of doors the red cock cries, And then the white and the grey Where one spirit crossed Whinny-moor, There's two that hurry away. And silent sits Lord Roland, alone, Stiff, with a look of dread ; And the chilly beams of morning fall About a dead man's head. 302 The Death of Pr ester Jo/in (YASHT xxn.) WHEN Prester John was like to die, he called his priests and said : " O Mages, seers, and sorcerers, sayers of holy sooth, Where's the soul of a faithful man when the body's cold and dead ? Where's the soul of a corpse on the bier ? Answer, and speak the truth." The priests stood round the couch in rows beside the dying king, " Will no one speak ? " said Prester John, " Ye who have time and breath ? " Is there not one of all my priests will answer me this thing : Where's the soul of a faithful man on the first night after death ? " Then up and spake the oldest seer, and he was white as rime : " Have I not fasted ninety years to see what none may see ? Between thy death and mine (he said) is but a little time, And what I speak, O King, I speak for me no less than thee. " When Death had loosed the soul of a man, it kneels upon the bier Among the lights about the head, lighter and brighter than they, 303 THE DEATH OF PRESTER JOHN And sings the lauds of God all night in a sweet voice and a clear, And sings the lauds of God all night until the dawn of day. " And when the watching soul hath waked until the morning rise, A wind comes rushing with the dawn, a wind of youth and mirth ; And down the breeze a maiden moveth, flying Angel- wise ; And deeper is the joy o' the soul than all the joy of earth. "The maid shall take his hands in hers and ' Welcome,' shall she say, ' Behold thy Conscience ! look at me ! Thou art my master, thou ! For I was fair, but thou hast made me fairer than the day. And I was bright ; but turn, O Soul, and gaze upon me now ! ' "Behold the Saints, in ranks of bliss, shall throng on either hand And press to greet them amorously : ' Whence earnest thou ? and when ? Ah, say how fares the world of earth, the loving, sorrow- ing land ? Art thou content with Heaven, O Soul, after the life of men I* " But One shall speak : ' Be patient, Spirits ! The will of God is best ! Respect the Soul, who, weary from the dolorous pass and sore, Enjoys eternal bliss at last and enters into rest But ask him not ye may not ask ! if he would live once more.' " UNWIN BROTHERS, PRINTERS, WOKING AND LONDON. University of California Library Los Angeles I ^^ ^^ 310/825-9188 AC NOV 1 200F RECDYRi ^ NOV 12004 JUO UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY A 000 675 847 8