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ENGLISH LYRICS 
 
NGLISH LYRICS 
 
 BY 
 
 ALFRED AUSTIN 
 
 EDITED BY 
 
 WILLIAM WATSON 
 
 AUTHOR OF "Wordsworth's gravk, and other poems' 
 
 SECOND EDITION 
 
 ^^&^^ 
 
 OP TH 
 
 unive: 
 
 ILontron 
 
 MACMILLAN AND CO. 
 
 AND NEW YORK 
 1890 
 
 All rights reserved 
 
96'6 
 A93S' 
 
 j^^^^f 
 

 -*■ 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGB 
 
 Birthday i 
 
 Primroses 5 
 
 A Defence of English Spring 9 
 
 My Winter Rose 22 
 
 Three Sonnets 24 
 
 A Farmhouse Dirge . . . . . . 26 
 
 Unseasonable Snows 38 
 
 A Spring Carol 39 
 
 At His Grave 46 
 
 A Night in June 52 ^ 
 
 Grandmother's Teaching 55 
 
 To England 6^^ 
 
 A Country Nosegay 6g *^ 
 
 The Spring-time, O the Spring-time ! ... 72 
 
 A Question 74 
 
 An Answer 75 
 
 To Beatrice Stuart- Wortley ^6 
 
 Henry Bartle Edward Frere 79 
 
 A Captive Throstle . 81 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 The Last Night .... 
 
 Farewell to Spring .... 
 The Poet and the Muse . 
 Extract from "A Letter from Italy" 
 „ ** Love's Widowhood " 
 
 -J^A Wintry Picture .... 
 < I Chide not at the Seasons 
 
 An April Love 
 
 In the Heart of the Forest 
 Why England is Conservative . 
 The Owl and the Lark 
 QlN THE Month when sings the Cuckoo 
 A March Minstrel .... 
 To Lord Tennyson .... 
 
 A Wild Rose 
 
 "**'LooK Seaward, Sentinel ! 
 I The Lover's Song .... 
 On Returning to England 
 The Passing of the Primroses . 
 ( Extract from "The Human Tragedy" 
 Is Life worth Living ? . . . 
 Wordsworth at Dove Cottage 
 A Poet's Eightieth Birthday . 
 As Dies the Year . . . . 
 
\> OF Tf{ 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 NYTHiNG in the shape of critical or expository comment 
 lay at first sight appear rather an encumbrance than a 
 jrvice to a body of poetry which, Hke the pieces here 
 elected chiefly from the volumes entitled Soliloquies in 
 ongi At the Gate of the Convent^ and Lovers Widowhood, 
 ■'. already known to readers of verse. The general title, 
 owever, under which these poems are here grouped — 
 Aih. a special fitness, as I trust I shall succeed in showing 
 
 seems to provide a natural occasion for offering some 
 [imarks upon the distinctive English note in our poetical 
 terature. 
 
 We have all heard a certain criticism upon Goethe, 
 manating from a very high quarter, and depreciating him 
 3 an intellect essentially provincial, engaged in the effort 
 :) become universal. Into the question as to what de- 
 ree, or whether any degree, of truth be contained in that 
 b 
 
viii PREFACE 
 
 verdict there is no need here to enter, but I suppose it 
 will be generally admitted that any deliberate and self-con- 
 scious effort after universality of temper and view is the one 
 hopelessly ill-fated means towards such an end. Indeed 
 it would often seem as if the opposite method were more 
 auspicious. To be frankly local, in the sense in which 
 Burns and B Granger — yes, and one may add Homer 
 and Virgil — are local, has not seldom been a direct road 
 into " the general heart' of men." Dante, the poet of a 
 city, a church, a political faction, and a but newly con- 
 solidated language, would appear to have done his best to 
 de-universalise himself; and we know with what splendid 
 unanimity the world has baffled that design. [And so it 
 seems to me that one who is in the main content to be 
 the singer of the most majestic empire known to history 
 does not thereby circumscribe himself quite so narrowly 
 as that school of theorists would persuade us, in whose 
 eyes the imperial sentiment is a stumbling-block to the 
 poet, and a doctrinaire cosmopolitanism the only rational 
 literary faith. 
 
 A nobly filial love of Country, and a tenderly passion- 
 ate love of the country — these appear to me the two 
 dominant notes of this volume. The phrases themselves 
 stand for things widely different, but it seems fated that 
 
PREFACE ix 
 
 I things themselves should be found present together 
 
 together absent. The singer of those "woodnotes 
 
 Id," which Milton adduced as Shakespeare's most 
 
 ptivating achievement, was also the poet whose page 
 
 >ounds with that great trumpet-peal of English patriot- 
 
 Q, the magnificent lines put into the mouth of the dying 
 
 incaster. To Shakespeare the England among whose 
 
 2adows he had watched the daffodils take the winds of 
 
 arch with beauty was, so to speak, the feminine coun- 
 
 rpart of that other and grander, but austerer, England 
 
 lich he thought of as " this sceptred isle," " this seat of 
 
 ars," "this fortress built by nature," "this teeming 
 
 )mb of royal kings." These were his two Englands — 
 
 e one to be sung in tender and caressing phrases, the 
 
 her to be solemnised in pomp of sonorous numbers 
 
 at surge and swell with exultation and pride. 
 
 If we turn to a different, an ignobler time, when 
 
 •' tiny pleasures occupy the place 
 Of glories and of duties," 
 
 hen the throne of literature is Dryden's arm-chair at 
 '^ills' Coffee-house, and the throne of England is the 
 'lling-place of the most venal and incapable of good 
 Hows, — do we not in that degenerate day see the love 
 Country, and of the country, alike disappearing as 
 
X PREFACE 
 
 though they appropriately stood or fell together ? Aft 
 a long eclipse they re-emerge for a moment in Colli 
 nature once more recognises herself in the "Ode 
 Evening," and the voice of nationality rings out sweet a 
 clear in " How Sleep the Brave."-^ Patriotism has again 
 become possible. But the century, as it approached its 
 close, grew distracted and bewildered with novel dreams 
 and ideals. Even Burns became acclimatised to the 
 thin intellectual cosmopolitanism which pervaded the 
 atmosphere of philosophical Edinburgh at that time ; and 
 despite his huge fund of sagacity and good sense, we 
 know in what a virulent form he caught the Gallic con- 
 tagion. His EngHsh successors chanted revolutionary! 
 dithyrambs, and embraced, with rapturous if short-lived 
 ardour, the political faith of which the outcome was to 
 be Carrier's Noyades and the September slaughters. In 
 Germany the greatest writer of modern times appears to 
 have enjoyed bandying civilities with the hero of Auster- 
 litz and Jena. It would almost seem as if the world had 
 ceded the sole right of being patriotic to France. Word 
 worth has himself recorded his own period of disaffection, j 
 when he grudged England her successes and rejoiced in ' 
 every reverse that befell her arms ; but there came a time 
 when, with all her faults and transgressions, he recognised 
 
PREFACE xi 
 
 "a bulwark for the cause of men," and his worst 
 was lest she should be governed by 
 
 '* A servile band, 
 Who are to judge of danger which they fear 
 And honour which they do not understand." 
 
 ture Wordsworth is Wordsworth the rehabilit- 
 
 patriot, who had seen France exchange despot- 
 
 r anarchy, and out of anarchy build up a new 
 
 tism without the picturesqueness of the old, and 
 
 did and vulgar as the nature of the man who was 
 
 embodiment. 
 
 It was in an England reassured by the results of " that 
 ud Sabbath " which " shook the Spoiler down," that the 
 imediate inheritor of Wordsworth's official laurel was 
 artured; and thus it seems fit and natural that we 
 ould find in Lord Tennyson the perfect expression of 
 lat twofold patriotism — the love of England viewed in 
 er abstract character as a State, this " land of just and 
 Id renown," the mother of Shakespeare's " happy breed 
 f men," who have fought for freedom from their prime 
 nd built them a throne that is broad-based upon the 
 ill of a people — and the love of that other tangible, 
 hysical England, whose features he has rendered with a 
 latchless union of literal fidelity and " impressionist " 
 
xii PREFACE 
 
 truth. Our literature prior to Lord Tennyson contai 
 no such full utterance of this dual passion, this enthusi 
 of nationality underlying an intimate and affectioi 
 knowledge of every bird that makes an English summer 
 melodious, and every flower that sweetens English air; 
 and it seems to me that if the question be asked, " Who 
 among the poets of a later generation can be said to 
 share with Lord Tennyson the quality of being in this 
 double sense English through and through ?" any com- 
 petent person trying to answer the question honestly will 
 find the name of the author of this volume of English 
 Lyrics the first to rise to his lips. 
 
 Mr. Alfred Austin would seem to love England n( 
 me less, but rather the more, because he has also 
 the spell of other countries with a keenness only possil 
 in natures which present a wide surface to impressioi 
 fin The Human Tragedy he has projected himself 
 /imaginative sympathy into the very life and spirit of tl 
 /land 
 
 '* Where Milan's spires go up to heaven like prayer," 
 
 and 
 
 "Where once-proud Genoa sits beside the sea." 
 
 But that very poem, full of Italian feeHng and aglow witi 
 
I 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 alian colour as it is, opens with a chant of English 
 
 )ring-time which is assuredly hard to match outside its 
 
 ithor's own vernal verse. As pictures to hang up in one's 
 
 ental gallery side by side with the exquisite " spring " 
 
 f The Human Tragedy, perhaps one would choose the 
 
 iitumn landscapes in Lovers Widowhood, though some 
 
 f these are harder to detach without loss or injury from 
 
 leir setting, being not so much examples of deliberate 
 
 ! ascription as of that rarer art by which a poem is satur- 
 
 ted with autumnal sentiment till the lines seem to rustle 
 
 ith fallen foliage, and their melody to come muffled 
 
 irough an indolent September haze. Mr. Alfred Austin 
 
 nay in a special sense be styled the laureate of the 
 
 English seasons, for he seems equally happy whether he 
 
 )e championing our northern April against the onslaught 
 
 )f a critic who had fallen foul of that best-abused of 
 
 nonths in an evening journal, or colouring his verse with 
 
 the gravely gorgeous pigments of the time when nature 
 
 =;eems sunk in reverie, and leaf by leaf the pageant of 
 
 verdure crumbles down, or painting for us {etching would 
 
 perhaps be the better word) the likeness of earth in that 
 
 interval of apparent quiescence or suspended life, when 
 
 her pinched and haggard features have put on an ascetic 
 
 severity, and she seems to be doing penance alike for 
 
xiv PREFACE 
 
 her summer revelries and the extravagant pomps of 
 autumn, — when 
 
 *' in the sculptured woodland's leafless aisles 
 The robin chants the vespers of the year." 
 
 Thus it is that he seems among modern poets especial! 
 
 and saliently English, in the sense in which most of o 
 
 best singers, from Chaucer onwards, have been English 
 
 a sense implying neither insularity nor prejudice nor 
 
 any resistance of foreign impressions, but an out-of-door 
 
 breeziness and freedom such as bring with them an 
 
 almost physical consciousness of enlargement and space. 
 
 None have imbibed more deeply than he the spirit of 
 
 Italy, or surrendered themselves with franker gusto to 
 
 the intoxication of southern air, yet when he comes back 
 
 to these shores he comes back 
 
 "Blessing the brave bleak land where he was bom," 
 
 somewhat as a loiterer in courts and palaces mighi 
 
 return with a newly quickened affection to the hearth and 
 
 rafters of an unforgotten rustic home. Whatsoever is 
 
 worthily and nobly English is endeared to him by every 
 
 early association and innate prepossession, but most of 
 
 all the older and simpler modes of our national life, when 
 
 still unmenaced with displacement by less comely and 
 
 more mechanical conditions. The old-world charm and 
 
 f 
 
 I 
 
PREFACE XV 
 
 ice which yet ennoble the labours of tilth and hus- 
 
 indry ; the kindly charities of rustic good-neighbourhood 
 
 d human relations of cottage and farm and hall; the 
 
 ique blending of stateliness and homeliness which 
 
 ikes the rural abodes of the gentle class in this country 
 
 am the most delectable of possible dwelling-places ; — all 
 
 ese things are found mirrored in this poet's verse, not 
 
 th any conventional idealisation, but with such simple 
 
 thfulness to the fact as is natural in one to whom the 
 
 :t is as familiar as it is dear. And together with these 
 
 ings, but oftener felt as an implicit presence than 
 
 ertly uttered, is the underlying sentiment of England's 
 
 eatness on the historic and constitutional side, the 
 
 ithusiasm for whatever is splendid and heroic in " our 
 
 ide island-story," the chivalric passion of loyalty and 
 
 legiance which flames up in quick resentment if any 
 
 Tront be offered to the object of its devotion — as witness 
 
 le noble sonnet " To England," written at the moment 
 
 hen the action of a great British minister, in despatching 
 
 iir Fleet to the Black Sea and calling out the Reserves, 
 
 lecked the advance of Russia upon Constantinople. 
 
 *' Men deemed thee fallen, did they?" 
 
 e asks — 
 
 ' Not wholly shorn of strength, but vainly strong," 
 
xvi PREFACE 
 
 and lapped in the luxury of a fool's paradise, because 
 secure, in the last resort, 
 
 " Behind the impassable fences of the foam." 
 
 But " thou dost but stand erect," he says, and the int( 
 
 loper falls back foiled, while " the nations cluster roun< 
 
 and above them 
 
 '* Thou, 'mid thy sheaves in peaceful seasons stored, 
 Towerest supreme, victor without a blow, 
 Smilingly leaning on thy undrawn sword." 
 
 This is the language, and these the feelings, of a mi 
 who has not taken up patriotism as a theme wherec 
 he can conveniently and effectively descant, but whc 
 habitual mood is one of proud thankfulness in belongim 
 to a country where, if anywhere, he may feel 
 " The dignity of being alive." 
 
 Wordsworth has told us how, 
 
 " Among the many movements of his mind," 
 there were times at which he felt for England " as a lover 
 or a child." It is as a lover that Mr. Austin habitually 
 regards her, and if to a lover's fervour he unites some- 
 what of a lover's unconsciousness of any blemish in the 
 worshipped face or form, such partiality is a thing we 
 should be loth to exchange for any spirit of more coolly 
 critical appraisement. Readers familiar with his whole 
 
r 
 
 Mtribution t 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 tribution to poetry do not, however, need to be told 
 
 lat such emotion of heart in the presence of this ideal 
 
 istress is with him, as with Wordsworth, but one of 
 
 many movements " which in their entirety represent a 
 
 ide circuit of thought and feeling. In The Human 
 
 yagedy alone the complexity of elements is such as 
 
 'ould have begotten in the work of an inferior artist an 
 
 levitable obscurity of design or incoherence of detail. 
 
 fat that poem assimilates easily into its narrative fabric 
 
 uch multifarious material as the collision of faith and 
 
 eason ; the conflict between human love and transcend- 
 
 :ntal passion in a soul dedicated to heavenly uses but 
 
 irawn aside for a time by an earthly emotion ; the secret 
 
 )f the subtle spell exercised by Catholicism upon a pure 
 
 md radiant human spirit which knows Doubt but as a 
 
 shadow and Sin as a rumour ; the immense, tragic irony 
 
 of chance, as seen in the bewildered crossing and fortuitous 
 
 overlapping of human lives, with all their momentous 
 
 mutual interaction ; the passionate abnegation or splendid 
 
 immolation of self in the service of a great public cause ; 
 
 the heroic spectacle of a people that have long lain 
 
 " pillowed on their past " rising at the sudden summons 
 
 of an idea to incarnate their dream of unity and freedom ; 
 
 the clash of theories, the dissonance of parties, the shock 
 
xviii PREFACE 
 
 of hosts on the field; — such are some of the constit 
 ents of a poem, the monumental scale of which, and tl 
 variety of its component parts, are not more remarkabi 
 than the artistic fusion of so large a mass of materi 
 as its argument comprehends. The Human Tragedy^ 
 work in which the epical breadth of the design is apt t^ 
 divert attention from the admirable adjustment of its 
 parts and the elaborate finish of its minor details, does 
 indeed bear witness abundantly enough to the wide range 
 of its author's sympathies and the diversity of his ex- 
 periences of life. In this volume, however, the capacity 
 of the poet is exerted upon a comparatively restricted 
 or at least well-defined ground. The pieces composing 
 it, though obviously written without any thought of 
 eventual grouping, are yet seen to be susceptible of col- 
 location as in a special sense English lyrics. Beneath 
 all divergences of theme this community of birth is 
 apparent. Here is an anthology of which each separate 
 flower of verse is at least indigenous to English soil. 
 
 It may be well to say a word here concerning Mr. 
 Austin's attitude towards Nature. What place does 
 Nature occupy, what part does Nature play, in his poetry ? 
 are questions which analytic criticism asks with reference 
 to most modern singers ; and assuming them to be asked 
 
PREFACE xix 
 
 th reference to the author of this volume, I for one 
 [ ould reply : Nature in his poetry does not occupy a 
 lace or play a part at all, and that is why I consider him 
 1 the truest and best sense a nature-poet. This may 
 •pear superficially paradoxical, but the truth is. Nature 
 .ould occupy no definitive place, no specifically " local 
 ibitation " in a poet's verse ; still less ought she to play 
 part, to have a rdle assigned her. There are poets, 
 jwever, and poets of power and originality too, in whose 
 ork these are the offices that Nature performs; she 
 :cupies a place — which the poet has consciously and 
 cpressly allotted to her ; she plays a part — possibly with 
 imirably calculated effect; but precisely because she 
 oes so, she proves that she is not an organic portion of 
 is work, bone of its bone and flesh of its flesh. She is 
 ne of the agents he employs, her beauty and picturesque- 
 ess are among his properties. She has been pressed 
 ito his service for definite literary uses, and even though 
 e may treat his material with skilfully artistic effect it 
 mains recognisably material, — the process of transfusion 
 as been incomplete. Other than this is the manner of 
 he masters. To them Nature is not merely a subject ; 
 he does not sit to them ; she conspires with them to the 
 Lttainment of their ends, she is their confederate and 
 
XX PREFACE 
 
 collaborator, sworn of their councils and privy to their 
 purposes. They themselves know not which is her 
 handiwork and which their own in the common out- 
 come of their joint labours. Her part has been like that 
 of the kindly elf or gnome that took the peasant's flail 
 while he slept and threshed his corn for him in the 
 night. When there is a happy collusion between 
 
 •' The Genius and the mortal instruments," ^ 
 
 I 
 
 then the poet has " great allies." Now it seems to me that 
 in Mr. Alfred Austin's verse there is truly such co-opera- 
 tion of outward and inward forces. He does not, like 
 some of the eighteenth century poets, regard Nature as an 
 appropriate object of occasional polite attentions; nor 
 yet does he profess any superstitious awe of her. She 
 is neither his protegee nor his patroness ; she is a 
 presence that interpenetrates his work, a power in secret 
 league with his own faculties. 
 
 A curious habit has arisen in modern literature of 
 degrading Nature into the position of a consolatress 
 of hypochondriacal man. Weighed down with real or 
 invented sorrows, the lugubrious poet pours forth his 
 melodious woe into what he calls the ear of Nature, 
 who is understood to play the part of a physician 
 
PREFACE 
 
 ering to a mind diseased. Nothing could well 
 
 re absurd than this practice, infecting as it does 
 
 of post-revolutionary poetry. To personify Nature 
 
 ing who has nothing better to do than to hush 
 
 comfortable and endearing words the whimperings 
 
 petulant children is to distort things from their 
 
 relations. None the less we are so largely 
 
 ,t suns and winds and waters make us," that to 
 
 in the spirit of the author of this volume, upon 
 
 phases of Nature in which she touches hands with 
 
 in which her life visibly, and on the whole benig- 
 
 , overarches ours, so that there seems to subsist 
 
 tween ourselves and her a kindly understanding — is 
 
 show a just appreciation of the limits of our commerce 
 
 ith the powers that fashion and occultly control us. 
 
 he "pathetic fallacy" may not be metaphysically de- 
 
 insible, but the presentment of Nature in some 
 
 iimanised aspect is, after all, the only valid way in 
 
 hich the life of non- sentient things can be brought 
 
 ome to our heart. In the effort after a merely pictorial 
 
 endering of the physical world the poet is pitted with 
 
 lopeless inequality against the painter, but by colouring 
 
 "Jature with his own idiosyncrasy, and adopting the 
 
 igment of a sympathetic responsiveness on her part, 
 
xxii PREFACE 
 
 he continually renders her with a subtle difference cc 
 
 municated by some admixture of himself, continually 
 
 creates her afresh to our perceptions, flashing a novel 
 
 light upon her most familiar places. Truly he is liable 
 
 at times to a sudden, sharp sense of his real separateness 
 
 and isolation — 
 
 *' How can ye chant, ye little birds, 
 An' I sae weary, fu' o' care?" 
 
 There we have the passionate cry of remonstrance, the 
 astonishment, the resentment of the individual at 
 Nature's indifference to our private joy or pain. There 
 we have the Byronic egotism adumbrated in a couple of 
 lines. But this is scarcely the normal mood of modern 
 poetry; most certainly it is not the mood reflected in 
 the ensuing pages. The author of this volume would 
 rather seem to be ever delightedly conscious of the 
 elation and buoyancy of things, to be a willing and 
 sensitive medium for all joyous impressions from with- 
 out, to draw exhilaration from the overflowing animal 
 spirits of Nature, and catch readily the contagious glad- 
 ness of the world. This gives to his work a bright 
 wholesomeness, a tonic freshness as of morning air, over 
 and above the reality and sanity which are its unfailing 
 characteristics. 
 
PREFACE xxiu 
 
 ess immemorial principles of right taste and judg- 
 are to be annulled, life, substance, reason, and 
 
 1^, with a just balance of sense and sound, are what 
 ire generations will look for in our singers. And 
 ely if poetry is not to sink altogether under the 
 largy of an emasculate euphuism, and finally to die 
 feited with unwholesome sweetmeats, crushed under 
 oad of redundant ornament, and smothered in arti- 
 al rose-leaves, the strenuous and virile temper which 
 mates this volume must come to be more and more 
 ; temper of English song. The art of dispensing with 
 as and rising superior to subject-matter is a very 
 e art, no doubt, and, with practice, its possibilities 
 
 development seem infinite, but in the end readers 
 ow weary of a vast expanse of melodious rhetoric in 
 ilch, year by year, the attenuated thing that passes 
 r thought becomes more and more an inconstant 
 ri-fire, dancing and disappearing in a boundless 
 ist of words. They ask that some life and substance 
 all inform the poet's speech. The qualities, some 
 
 them negative, others positive, which appear to have 
 
 «n first signally impressed upon our literature by 
 
 e genius of Shelley — a vertebral weakness, a want of 
 
 tellectual stamina and staying power; an absence of 
 c 
 
xxiv PREFACE 
 
 our older national characteristic of massive and burl 
 rather than agile strength ; an effusiveness, expansivenesE 
 dilution, which really argue a defective sense of propoi 
 tion and form ; a trick of seeming to be always singin; 
 in a shrill, ear -piercing treble ; — these things are S( 
 thoroughly un-English that there were needed all Shelley' 
 imaginative vision, and lyrical passion, and real, if vague 
 moral enthusiasm, to make them tolerable to Englisl 
 ears. But when the atoning qualities are absent, or bu 
 fitfully present, — when for creative impulse is substitutec 
 verbal incontinence, and the master of language become; 
 its flaccid and helpless slave, — then the decay of the bon( 
 and sinew of life and reality is felt to beget a fatal void 
 Readers are growing weary, too, of the vaunted exotk 
 graces — and uglinesses — which have been imported with 
 so much pomp and circumstance into English verse. 
 We do not require these foreign reinforcements : the 
 countrymen of Shakespeare have no need to borrow 
 either their ethics or their aesthetics from the countrymen 
 of Baudelaire ; and if we be wise we shall turn more and 
 more to whatsoever singer scents his pages, not with 
 livid and noxious Fleurs du Mal^ but with the blossoms 
 which English children gather in their aprons, and with 
 the candid breath of our hardy and hearty English sky. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 r the Muse, after all, has not yet " gone away " ; it 
 
 a dark hour for the earth if she had. But it may 
 
 to us sometimes as though the great days of her 
 
 ce and fertility were ended — as though she were 
 
 ing oppressed and silenced by a deepening sense 
 
 very vastness of man's relations with a world which 
 
 looked so simple and intelligible, but now appears 
 
 and more unknown in direct proportion as we come 
 
 w it. Or, again, one may well fancy — since youth 
 
 natural singing-time, and the youth of our race is 
 
 by — that song can never again rise with the old, 
 
 freshness to human lips. Man has entered upon 
 
 iddle age, and sees things in the hard, unlyric light of 
 
 uch experience and disenchantment. Yet this is pre- 
 
 sely why he needs the poet more than ever ; for what 
 
 the poet but the Renewer, in whom the youth of the 
 
 orld is from age to age prolonged ? The singer's title, 
 
 re may be sure, is not about to lapse, nor his function to 
 
 ecome superfluous. But let him be on his guard against 
 
 ttempting overmuch. It may reasonably be doubted 
 
 hether all existence is, as some assure us, his province. 
 
 Vhile the dramatist and the novelist may perhaps appro- 
 
 )riately deal with the whole of life, not even omitting an 
 
 xploration of its cesspools and sewers, it is the sweeter 
 
xxvi PREFACE 
 
 office of song to take us from the crowded quays and 
 wharves, far up stream, to where the wave is neither sc 
 broad nor its shores so populous, but where at least nc 
 garbage festers upon its banks, and we are consciously 
 nearer to the virgin sources of its energy, among the 
 mountains and their intimates, the stars. 
 
 WILLIAM WATSON. 
 

 'Xy^^ OF 
 
 THri 
 
 IVEB ITY 
 
 A BIRTHDAY 
 
 LOVE to think, when first I woke, 
 
 Into this wondrous world, 
 
 le leaves were fresh on elm and oak, 
 
 And hawthorns laced and pearled. 
 
 II 
 
 The earliest sound that greeted me, 
 Was the ousel's ringing tone ; 
 
 The earliest sight, lambs frisking free 
 Round barked oaks newly thrown. 
 
 Ill 
 
 The gray-green elder whitened slow 
 
 As in my crib I slept ; 
 And merles to wonder stilled my woe, 
 
 When I awoke and wept. 
 
 B 
 
A BIRTHDAY 
 
 IV 
 
 When held up to the window pane, 
 What fixed my baby stare ? 
 
 The glory of the glittering rain, 
 And newness everywhere. 
 
 The doe was followed by her fawn ; 
 
 The swan built in the reeds : 
 A something whitened all the lawn, 
 
 And yellowed all the meads. 
 
 VI 
 
 And thus it must have been I gained 
 
 The vernal need to sing. 
 And, while a suckling, blindly drained 
 
 The instinct of the Spring. 
 
 VII 
 
 The cuckoo taught me how to laugh, 
 The nightingale to mourn : 
 
 The poet is half grief, and half 
 The soul of mirth and scorn. 
 
 VIII 
 
 My lullaby, the bees astir 
 Wherever sweetness dwells ; 
 
 The dogwood and laburnum were 
 My coral and my bells. 
 
A BIRTHDAY 
 
 IX 
 
 My virgin sense of sound was steeped 
 In the music of young streams ; 
 
 And roses through the casement peeped, 
 And scented all my dreams. 
 
 And so it is that still to-day 
 
 I cannot choose but sing, 
 Remain a foster-child of May, 
 
 And a suckling of the Spring : 
 
 XI 
 
 That to Nurse-Nature's voice and touch 
 I shape my babbling speech, 
 
 And still stretch feeble hands to clutch 
 Something beyond my reach : 
 
 XII 
 
 That in my song you catch at times 
 Note sweeter far than mine, 
 
 And in the tangle of my rhymes 
 Can scent the eglantine ; 
 
 XIII 
 
 That though my verse but roam the air 
 
 And murmur in the trees. 
 You may discern a purpose there, 
 
 As in music of the bees. 
 
A BIRTHDAY 
 
 XIV 
 
 Hence too it is, from wintry tomb 
 When earth revives, and when 
 
 A quickening comes to Nature's womb. 
 That I am born again. 
 
 XV 
 
 I feel no more the snow of years ; 
 
 Sap mounts, and pulses bound ; 
 My eyes are filled with happy tears. 
 
 My ears with happy sound. 
 
 XVI 
 
 Anew I listen to the low 
 
 Fond cooing of the dove, 
 And smile unto myself to know 
 
 I still am loved and love. 
 
 XVII 
 
 My manhood keeps the dew of morn. 
 
 And what I have I give ; 
 Being right glad that I was born, 
 
 And thankful that I live. 
 
 May 30, 1884, 
 
PRIMROSES 
 
 Latest, earliest of the year, 
 
 Primroses that still were here. 
 
 Snugly nestling round the boles 
 
 Of the cut-down chestnut poles, 
 
 When December's tottering tread 
 
 Rustled 'mong the deep leaves dead, 
 
 And with confident young faces 
 
 Peeped from out the sheltered places 
 
 When pale January lay 
 
 In its cradle day by day. 
 
 Dead or living, hard to say ; 
 
 Now that mid-March blows and blusters, 
 
 Out you steal in tufts and clusters, 
 
 Making leafless lane and wood 
 
 Vernal with your hardihood. 
 
 Other lovely things are rare, 
 
 You are prodigal as fair. 
 
 First you come by ones and ones, 
 
 Lastly in battalions. 
 
PRIMROSES 
 
 Skirmish along hedge and bank, 
 Turn old Winter's wavering flank, 
 Round his flying footsteps hover, 
 Seize on hollow, ridge, and cover. 
 Leave nor slope nor hill unharried, 
 Till, his snowy trenches carried, 
 O'er his sepulchre you laugh, 
 Winter's joyous epitaph. 
 
 II 
 
 This, too, be your glory great. 
 Primroses, you do not wait. 
 As the other flowers do. 
 For the Spring to smile on you, 
 But with coming are content. 
 Asking no encouragement. 
 Ere the hardy crocus cleaves 
 Sunny borders 'neath the eaves. 
 Ere the thrush his song rehearse 
 Sweeter than all poets' verse. 
 Ere the early bleating lambs 
 Cling Hke shadows to their dams, 
 Ere the blackthorn breaks to white, 
 Snowy-hooded anchorite ; 
 Out from every hedge you look, 
 You are bright by every brook. 
 Wearing for your sole defence 
 Fearlessness of innocence. 
 While the daffodils still waver, 
 
PRIMROSES 
 
 Ere the jonquil gets its savour, 
 While the linnets yet but pair, 
 You are fledged, and everywhere. 
 Nought can daunt you, nought distress. 
 Neither cold nor sunlessness. 
 You, when Lent sleet flies apace, 
 Look the tempest in the face ; 
 As descend the flakes more slow, 
 From your eyelids shake the snow. 
 And when all the clouds have flown, 
 Meet the sun's smile with your own. 
 Nothing ever makes you less 
 Gracious to ungraciousness. 
 March may bluster up and down, 
 Pettish April sulk and frown ; 
 Closer to their skirts you cling, 
 Coaxing Winter to be Spring. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Then when your sweet task is done, 
 And the wild-flowers, one by one, 
 Here, there, everywhere do blow. 
 Primroses, you haste to go, 
 Satisfied with what you bring, 
 Fading morning-stars of Spring. 
 You have brightened doubtful days. 
 You have sweetened long delays. 
 Fooling our enchanted reason 
 To miscalculate the season. 
 
PRIMROSES 
 
 But when doubt and fear are fled, 
 When the kine leave wintry shed, 
 And 'mid grasses green and tall 
 Find their fodder, make their stall ; 
 When the wintering swallow flies 
 Homeward back from southern skies, 
 To the dear old cottage thatch 
 Where it loves to build and hatch, 
 That its young may understand, 
 Nor forget, this English land ; 
 When the cuckoo, mocking rover. 
 Laughs that April loves are over ; 
 When the hawthorn, all ablow. 
 Mimics the defeated snow ; 
 Then you give one last look round, 
 Stir the sleepers underground, 
 Call the campion to awake. 
 Tell the speedwell courage take, 
 Bid the eyebright have no fear. 
 Whisper in the bluebell's ear 
 Time has come for it to flood 
 With its blue waves all the wood, 
 Mind the stichwort of its pledge 
 To replace you in the hedge. 
 Bid the ladysmocks good-bye. 
 Close your bonnie Hds and die ; 
 And, without one look of blame, 
 Go as gently as you came. 
 
'-jbr:^ 
 
 
 OPlTl 
 
 DEFENCE OF ENGLISH SPRING 
 
 T is the artificial springtide of our imitative Northern poets. 
 3ge that till the present century hardly any English versifier — 
 Shakespeare, in a stray note or two — ever ventured to put on 
 
 I the real features of our warping English March or of our 
 English April. The calendar of our poets, especially as 
 > spring, is borrowed, or was borrowed till the end of the 
 eenth century, not from the daily reports of the Meteorological 
 -pardon the obvious anachronism — but from the "classical " 
 idar of Virgil and Theocritus. Stranger still that the absurd 
 CDce of plain observation thus introduced should have infected 
 the vocabulary and the stock phrases of everyday life, so that 
 alk to-day of a "perpetual spring" as the ideal of a perfect 
 ate : whereas if we ever thought of what we were saying (which 
 lon't do) we would certainly talk instead of a perpetual summer. 
 common expression is correct enough in the mouth of a South 
 opean, for whom spring is the delightful middle breathing space 
 reen the draughty chilliness of open winter and the sweltering 
 ity of high August noontide ; but it is simply ridiculous on the 
 II lips of the remote Hyperborean Briton. Nobody who took 
 language and his ideas direct from nature could ever dream of 
 ting up as the model of a delicious climate that alternation of 
 rling, dusty nor'-easters and boisterous, drenching sou'-westers 
 A we in England recognise as spring. — Extract from an 
 mng Paper, April 5, 1883. 
 
 Unnamed, unknown, but surely bred 
 Where Thames, once silver, now runs lead, 
 
lo A DEFENCE OF ENGLISH SPRING 
 
 Whose journeys daily ebb and flow 
 'Twixt Tyburn and the bells of Bow, 
 You late in learned prose have told 
 How, for the happy bards of old, 
 Spring burst upon Sicilian seas, 
 Or blossomed in the Cyclades, 
 But never yet hath deigned to smile 
 On poets of this shivering isle, 
 Who, when to vernal strains they melt. 
 Discourse of joys they never felt, 
 And, pilfering from each other's pa^. 
 Pass on the lie from age to age. 
 
 Well, now in turn give ear to me, 
 Who, with your leave, friend, claim to be. 
 Degenerate, but withal allied. 
 At least on mother Nature's side. 
 To Chaucer, Spenser, Shakespeare, all. 
 Foremost or hindmost, great or small. 
 My kindred, and whose numbers ring 
 With woodnotes of the English Spring : 
 Leave for awhile your polished town. 
 Unto my rural home come down. 
 Where you shall find such bed and board 
 As rude bucolic roofs afford. 
 And judge, with your own ear and eye. 
 If Spring exists, or poets lie. 
 
 Welcome ! Now plunge at once with me 
 Into the nearest copse you see. 
 
DEFENCE OF ENGLISH SPRING 
 
 le boles are brown, the branches gray, 
 ;t green buds live on every spray. 
 It 'tis the ground most wins your gaze, 
 Lnd makes you question, with amaze, 
 What these are ! Shells flung far and wide 
 By Winter's now fast-ebbing tide, 
 In language called, for him who sees 
 But grossly, wood-anemones. 
 Those, too ? Nay, pluck not. You will find 
 That they maintain a silent mind. 
 You do not understand ? I meant 
 They will not talk to you in scent. 
 Sweet violets you know ; but these 
 Have their own rustic way to please. 
 Their charm is in their look, their free 
 Unfrightened gaze of gaiety. 
 Are they not everywhere ? Their eyes 
 Glance up to the cerulean skies, 
 And challenge them to match the glow 
 Of their own bluer heaven below. 
 Anon the trunks and boughs fall back. 
 And along winding track on track, 
 Lo ! wheresoe'er you onward press. 
 Shine milky ways of primroses ; 
 So thick, there are, when these have birth, 
 Far fewer stars in heaven than earth. 
 You know them, for their face one meets 
 Still smiling in your London streets ; 
 And one I loved, but who with Fame 
 Sleeps quiet now, hath made their name, 
 
A DEFENCE OF ENGLISH SPRING 
 
 Even for those, alas ! who share 
 
 No fellowship with woodlands fair, 
 
 Wherever English speech is heard, 
 
 A meaning sound, a grateful word. 
 
 Yet unto me they seem, when there. 
 
 Like young things that should be elsewhere, 
 
 In lanes, in dells, in rustic air. 
 
 But looked on here, where they have space 
 
 To peep from every sheltered place, 
 
 Their simple, open faces seem — 
 
 Or doth again a poet dream ? — 
 
 The wondering soul of child-like Spring, 
 
 Inquisitive of everything. 
 
 Now frowns the sky, the air bites bleak, 
 The young boughs rock, the old trunks crej 
 And fast before the following gale 
 Come slanting drops, then slashing hail. 
 As keen as sword, as thick as shot. 
 Nay, do not cower, but heed them not ! 
 For these one neither flies nor stirs ; 
 They are but April skirmishers. 
 Thrown out to cover the advance 
 Of gleaming spear and glittering lance. 
 With which the sunshine scours amain 
 Heaven, earth, and air, and routs the rain. 
 See how the sparkling branches sway, 
 And, laughing, shake the drops away, 
 While, glimmering through, the meads beyoi 
 Are emerald and diamond. 
 
DEFENCE OF ENGLISH SPRING 13 
 
 id hark ! behind baptismal shower, 
 Whose drops, new-poured on leaf and flower, 
 Unto their infant faces cling, 
 The cuckoo, sponsor of the Spring, 
 Breaks in, and strives, with loud acclaim. 
 To christen it with his own name. 
 Now he begins, he will not cease. 
 Nor leave the woodlands any peace. 
 That have to listen all day long 
 To him reciting his one song. 
 And oft you may, when all is still. 
 And night lies smooth on vale and hill. 
 Hear him call " Cuckoo ! " in his dream. 
 Still haunted by the egoist theme. 
 
 Out of the wood now, and we gain, 
 The freedom of the winding lane : 
 Push through the open gap, and leap ; 
 What ! have you tumbled all aheap ? 
 Only a scratch. See ! ditch and bank 
 With the same flowers are lush and rank, 
 With more beside. As yet but single, 
 The bluebells with the grasses mingle ; 
 But soon their azure will be scrolled 
 Upon the primrose cloth-of-gold. 
 Yes, those are early lady-smocks. 
 The children crumple in their frocks, 
 And carry many a zigzag mile. 
 O'er meadow, footpath, gate, and stile. 
 To stick in pots and jugs to dress 
 
14 A DEFENCE OF ENGLISH SPRING 
 
 Their cottage sills and lattices. 
 
 As yet they only fleck the grass ; 
 
 But again hither shortly pass, 
 
 And with them knolls that now are bare 
 
 Will be a blaze of lavender. 
 
 What lends yon dingle such a sheen ? 
 
 How ! Buttercups ? No, celandine. 
 
 Complete in its own self, each one 
 
 A looking-glass is for the sun, 
 
 Soon as his waking hours begin. 
 
 To see his own efl"ulgence in. 
 
 Crave you for brighter still, behold 
 
 Yon clusters of marsh-marigold. 
 
 This is our rustic wealth, and found 
 
 Not under, but above the ground ; 
 
 Mines that bring wealth without its sting. 
 
 Enrich without impoverishing. 
 
 Yes, Cuckoo ! cuckoo ! cuckoo, still ! 
 Do you not feel an impulse thrill 
 Your vernal blood to do the same. 
 And, boylike, shout him back his name ? 
 But though he loudest, longest sings. 
 Music is shook from myriad wings. 
 Hear you the lark advancing now, 
 Through seas of air, with rippling prow ? 
 They say that from the poet's tears 
 Spring sweetest songs for unseen ears ; 
 And from its moist and lowly bed, 
 The lark mounts up aloft to shed, 
 
A DEFENCE OF ENGLISH SPRING 15 
 
 In heavenly fields beyond our view, 
 Music still drenched with earthly dew. 
 The robin, that in winter cheers 
 With his lone voice our lonelier ears, 
 Though warbling still on neighbouring bough, 
 Sings all unheard, unnoticed now. 
 Chatter the jays, the starlings flute. 
 There's not a single throat that's mute. 
 From tree to tree the finches flit, 
 Nor once their carols intermit. 
 ^The willow-warbler mounts, then drops, 
 id in his silvery solo stops 
 
 fust as it bubbles to the brim. 
 To hark if any answer him. 
 
 jgh on a bare conspicuous spray, 
 
 'hat none may doubt who chants the lay, 
 
 Voud of his undisputed skill 
 
 'o breast whatever note he will, 
 
 'he thrush runs revelling all along 
 The spacious gamut of his song ; 
 Varies, inverts, repeats the strain, 
 
 'hen sings it different again. 
 
 'he blackbird, less expert than he, 
 
 'oaxes and scolds alternately ; 
 
 'hen, with a sudden scream and rush, 
 
 [s off" into another bush. 
 
 Feigning to fear for life and limb. 
 
 Though none have interfered with him. 
 
 But listen ! ne'er on urban bough 
 
 Was perched the note you caught just now. 
 
i6 A DEFENCE OF ENGLISH SPRING 
 
 Hush ! move a little down the lane ; 
 
 When we have passed, he'll start again. 
 
 There ! Did you ever hear a strain 
 
 Of such apotheosized pain, 
 
 Such sadness almost sung to bliss, 
 
 Blending of woe and joy like this ? 
 
 Yes, he descants all day, despite 
 
 The name he borrows from the night. 
 
 Though then perchance the wails increase, 
 
 When doth true anguish ever cease ? 
 
 He is the poet-bird that sings 
 
 Through joy, through sorrow, through all things. 
 
 'Tis only we that do not hark 
 
 Until our own bright days grow dark. 
 
 Now, think you that I gleaned all this, 
 This mite of wisdom, wealth of bHss, 
 In dusty shelf and yellowing tome ? 
 Is it not rather that I roam, 
 From dawn to noon, from noon till eve. 
 Ready to gladden or to grieve 
 With every aspect, impulse, mood. 
 Of Nature's active solitude ? 
 Ah ! if you knew the hours on hours 
 One lives with birds, one spends with flowers 
 How many a time one's eyes grow wet 
 By gazing on the violet ; 
 How often all one has to show 
 For days that come, and days that go, 
 Are woodland nosegays all ablow ; 
 
A DEFENCE OF ENGLISH SPRING 17 
 
 You then, I think, would scarcely deem 
 
 One's songs of Spring a borrowed theme, 
 
 But own that English poets learn, 
 
 In every hour, at every turn. 
 
 From Nature's page, from Nature's speech. 
 
 What neither book nor bard can teach. 
 
 Nor deem this pride. I am to her 
 
 A student and interpreter. 
 
 Loving to read what lessons lurk 
 
 In her unlettered handiwork. 
 
 To find the helpful meanings writ 
 
 In waves that break, in clouds that flit. 
 
 Some balm extract for weeping eyes 
 
 From rain that falls, from dew that dries ; 
 
 Infer from her uncertain text 
 
 A hopeful creed for souls perplexed, 
 
 To them her busy calm impart, 
 
 And harmonise the human heart. 
 
 Halt we a little here, and gaze. 
 Gambol the lambs, their mothers graze, 
 While cloudland shadows o'er the grass 
 In noiseless billows break and pass. 
 Beholding these, would you not say 
 The world was born but yesterday ? 
 And while the years such scenes unfold 
 Afresh, it never can grow old. 
 Yon yeanlings, by their dam's warm fleece. 
 Fixed image of ephemeral peace. 
 How cunningly and snug they cower 
 c 
 
i8 A DEFENCE OF ENGLISH SPRING 
 
 From driving gust and drenching shower. 
 One symbol more, for me at least, 
 Who, let the world blow north or east. 
 By mother Nature once reclined, 
 Am sheltered from each bitter wind. 
 
 Yet deeper lessons may we read 
 In this unacademic mead : 
 The wisdom of untutored sense, 
 Sagacity of reverence. 
 See ! the lambs kneel, that they may di 
 From life's sweet source a deeper strain. 
 And if from Nature's lavish breast 
 We would imbibe the fullest, best, 
 All that she is so prompt to give, 
 That we may learn, that we may live, 
 Howe'er you proud town-sceptics view it. 
 We too must bend our knees to do it. 
 
 Confess this is not bookish lore ; 
 'Tis feeling only, and no more. 
 Poets lack what you learning call. 
 And rustic poets, most of all. 
 Why from the plain truth should I shrink ? 
 In woods men feel ; in towns they think. 
 Yet, which is best ? Thought, stumbling, plod 
 Past fallen temples, vanished gods, 
 Altars unincensed, fanes undecked, 
 Eternal systems flown or wrecked ; 
 Through trackless centuries that grant 
 
 
A DEFENCE OF ENGLISH SPRING 19 
 
 To the poor trudge refreshment scant, 
 Age after age, pants on to find 
 A melting mirage of the mind. 
 But feeling never wanders far, 
 Content to fare with things that are, 
 The same old track, the same loved face, 
 Familiar genius of the place ; 
 From nature's simples to distil 
 Homely receipt for homely ill ; 
 And finds, betwixt the sky and ground, 
 The sunshine of its daily round. 
 So swallows, though awhile they range 
 In quest of joy, in chase of change. 
 Once tenderer instincts flood their breast. 
 And twittering voices brim the nest, 
 Grown far too wise and well to roam, 
 Keep circling round the roof of home. 
 
 Now understand you, friend, why here 
 I linger passive all the year. 
 And let old thoughts and feelings gain 
 ; Their growth, like lichen, on my brain ? — 
 Why the loud gusts of blame and praise, 
 That blow about your London ways, 
 To me are but as wind that shrills 
 About my orchard daffodils. 
 Only to make them shake their scent 
 Unto a wider continent ! 
 But ere you go, if go you must, 
 Take this from me, at least, on trust. 
 
A DEFENCE OF ENGLISH SPRING 
 
 In that fair tract 'twixt hill and main, 
 
 I sang of in my earliest strain, 
 
 Where fades not flower, nor falls the leaf, 
 
 And Godfrid brought Olympia grief, 
 
 Oft have I heard, as Spring comes round, 
 
 The snow-fed streams begin to sound ; 
 
 Oft have I seen the almonds bloom 
 
 Round Dante's cradle, Petrarch's tomb ; 
 
 Been there when banksia roses fall 
 
 In cataracts over Tuscan wall ; 
 
 Oft watched Rome's dead Campagna breal 
 
 To asphodels for April's sake ; 
 
 Smelt the green myrtle browsed and left 
 
 By clambering goats in Ischian cleft ; 
 
 Gathered the cistus-blooms that lay. 
 
 Like flecks of fresh unmelted spray, 
 
 Round Paleocastrizza's bay ; 
 
 Drunk of the nectar wafted o'er 
 
 The wave from Zante's perfumed shore ; 
 
 Plucked Delphi's flowering bays that twine 
 
 No garlands now for brows divine ; 
 
 Stretched me on Acro-Corinth's brow. 
 
 Just when the year was young as now ; 
 
 Have half-way up Hymettus heard 
 
 In Attic grove the Attic bird ; 
 
 Sailed past the crimson Judas-trees 
 
 That flame o'er Stamboul's narrow seas. 
 
 And marked the cuckoo, from the shore, 
 
 Bid wintry Danube thaw once more. 
 
 But none of these, nor all, can match, 
 
I 
 
 DEFENCE OF ENGLISH SPRING 21 
 
 At least for him who loves to watch 
 
 The wild-flowers come, hear wild birds sing, 
 
 The rapture of an English Spring. 
 
 With us it loiters more than where 
 
 It comes, it goes, half unaware ; 
 
 Makes winter short, makes summer long, 
 
 In autumn half renews its song, 
 
 Nor even then doth hence depart. 
 
 But hybernates within my heart. 
 
MY WINTER ROSE 
 
 Why did you come when the trees were bare ? 
 Why did you come with the wintry air ? 
 When the faint note dies in the robin's throat, 
 And the gables drip and the white flakes float ? 
 
 II 
 
 What a strange, strange season to choose to come, 
 When the heavens are bUnd and the earth is dumb : 
 When nought is left living to dirge the dead. 
 And even the snowdrop keeps its bed ! 
 
 Ill 
 
 Could you not come when woods are green ? 
 Could you not come when lambs are seen ? 
 When the primrose laughs from its childlike sleej 
 And the violets hide and the bluebells peep ? 
 
MY WINTER ROSE 
 
 23 
 
 IV 
 
 m the air as your breath is sweet, and skies 
 re all but the soul of your limpid eyes, 
 the year, growing confident day by day, 
 IS lusty June from the breast of May ? 
 
 had you come then, the lark had lent 
 tin his music, the thorn its scent, 
 lin the woodbine budded, in vain 
 rippling smile of the April rain. 
 
 VI 
 
 voice would have silenced merle and thrush, 
 JAnd the rose outbloomed would have blushed to blush, 
 And Summer, seeing you, paused, and known 
 That the glow of your beauty outshone its own. 
 
 VII 
 
 So, timely you came, and well you chose. 
 You came when most needed, my winter rose. 
 From the snow I pluck you, and fondly press 
 Your leaves 'twixt the leaves of my leaflessness. 
 
 ■ 
 
THREE SONNETS 
 
 WRITTEN IN MID-CHANNEL 
 
 i 
 
 I 
 
 I .s 
 
 Now upon English soil I soon shall stand, 
 Homeward from climes that fancy deems more fair 
 And well I know that there will greet me there 
 No soft foam fawning upon smiling strand, 
 No scent of orange-groves, no zephyrs bland, 
 But Amazonian March, with breast half bare 
 And sleety arrows whistling through the air, 
 Will be my welcome from that burly land. 
 Yet he who boasts his birthplace yonder lies, 
 Owns in his heart a mood akin to scorn 
 For sensuous slopes that bask 'neath Southern skiei 
 Teeming with wine and prodigal of corn, 
 And, gazing through the mist with misty eyes, 
 Blesses the brave bleak land where he was born. 
 
 And wherefore feels he thus ? Because its shore 
 Nor conqueror's foot nor despot's may defile, 
 
THREE SONNETS 25 
 
 Freedom walks unarmed about the isle, 
 
 Peace sits musing beside each man's door, 
 ond these straits, the wild-beast mob may roar, 
 where the veering demagogue beguile : 
 hand in hand with the Past, look on and smile, 
 
 tread the ways our fathers trod before. 
 
 t though some wretch, whose glory you may trace 
 
 lonely hearths and unrecorded graves, 
 nd his Sword-sceptre summoning swarms of slaves, 
 ace our shores with conflict or disgrace,- 
 laugh behind the bulwark of the wave&^^i>^S^ 
 
 fling the foam defiant in his face. /[ ^lif J *y 
 
 '" \^.^/ ^^ 
 
 \nd can it be, — when Heaven this deep moaf inaadij^ f 
 
 \nd filled it with the ungovernable seas, 
 
 Jave us the winds for rampart, waves for frise, 
 
 Jehind which Freedom, elsewhere if betrayed, 
 
 (light shelter find, and flourish unafraid, — 
 
 rhat men who learned to lisp at English knees 
 
 )f English fame, to pamper womanish ease 
 
 Vnd swell the surfeits of voracious trade 
 
 >hall the impregnable breakers undermine, 
 
 Take ocean in reverse, and, basely bold, 
 
 urrow beneath the bastions of the brine ? — 
 
 STay, England, if the citadel be sold 
 
 For lucre thus, Tarpeia's doom be thine, 
 
 \nd perish smothered in a grave of gold ! 
 
 rarch 1882. 
 
A FARMHOUSE DIRGE 
 
 Will you walk with me to the brow of the hill, to v 
 
 the farmer's wife, 
 Whose daughter lies in the churchyard now, eased of t 
 
 ache of life ? 
 
 Half a mile by the winding lane, another half to the tc 
 There you may lean o'er the gate and rest ; she will m 
 
 me awhile to stop. 
 Stop and talk of her ^irl that is gone and no more ^ 
 
 wake or weep. 
 Or to listen rather, for sorrow loves to babble its pain 
 
 sleep. 
 
 II 
 
 How thick with acorns the ground is strewn, rent fn 
 
 their cups and brown ! 
 How the golden leaves of the windless elms come sin; 
 
 fluttering down ! 
 

 A FARMHOUSE DIRGE 
 
 27 
 
 riony hangs in the thinning hedge, as russet as 
 larvest corn, 
 
 agghng blackberries glisten jet, the haws are red 
 m the thorn ; 
 
 ematis smells no more but lifts its gossamer weight 
 on high ; — 
 
 only gazed on the year, you would think how 
 )eautiful 'tis to die. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Team scarce flows underneath the bridge j they 
 
 have dropped the sluice of the mill ; 
 roach bask deep in the pool above, and the water- 
 wheel is still, 
 meal lies quiet on bin and floor ; and here where 
 
 the deep banks wind, 
 water-mosses nor sway nor bend, so nothing seems 
 
 left behind. 
 le wheels of life would but sometimes stop, and the 
 
 grinding awhile would cease, 
 |ere so sweet to have, without dying quite, just a spell 
 
 of autumn peace. 
 
 IV 
 
 [tages four, two new, two old, each with its clambering 
 
 rose: 
 |h and plaster and weather tiles these, brick faced with 
 
 stone are those. 
 
28 A FARMHOUSE DIRGE 
 
 Two crouch low from the wind and the rain, and 
 
 the humbler days, 
 Whilst the other pair stand up and stare with a se 
 
 asserting gaze ; 
 But I warrant you'd find the old as snug as the new d 
 
 you lift the latch, 
 For the human heart keeps no whit more warm und 
 
 slate than beneath the thatch. 
 
 V 
 
 ^1 
 
 Tenants of two of them work for me, punctual, 
 
 true ; 
 I often wish that I did as well the work I have g 
 
 to do. 
 Think not to pity their lowly lot, nor wish that the 
 
 thoughts soared higher ; 
 The canker comes on the garden rose, and not on t\ 
 
 wilding brier. 
 Doubt and gloom are not theirs, and so they but woi 
 
 and love, they live 
 Rich in the only vaHd boons that life can withhold c 
 
 give. 
 
 VI 
 
 Here is the railway bridge, and see how straight do th 
 
 bright lines keep, 
 With pheasant copses on either side, or pastures of quie 
 
 sheep. 
 
¥ 
 
 A FARMHOUSE DIRGE 
 
 29 
 
 [% loud city lies far away, far too is the cliff-bound 
 shore, 
 
 the trains that travel betwixt them seem as if bur- 
 dened with their roar. 
 
 [juickly they pass, and leave no trace, not the echo 
 e'en of their noise : 
 
 you think that silence and stillness are the sweetest 
 of all our joys ? 
 
 VII 
 
 i 
 
 •nder the Farm, and these the ruts that the broad- 
 
 ' -wheeled wains have worn, 
 
 jiey bore up the hill the faggots sere, or the mellow 
 
 shocks of corn. 
 I hops are gathered, the twisted bines now brown on 
 
 the brown clods lie, 
 
 nothing of all man sowed to reap is seen betwixt 
 
 earth and sky. 
 after year doth the harvest come, though at summer's 
 
 and beauty's cost : 
 I can only hope, when our lives grow bare, some reap 
 
 what our hearts have lost. 
 
 VIII 
 
 this is the orchard, small and rude, and uncared-for, 
 but oh ! in spring, 
 
 white is the slope with cherry bloom, and the 
 nightingales sit and sing ! 
 
30 A FARMHOUSE DIRGE 
 
 You would think that the world had grown young 
 
 more, had forgotten death and fear, 
 That the nearest thing unto woe on earth was the smi 
 
 of an April tear ; 
 That goodness and gladness were twin, were one : — Tl 
 
 robin is chorister now : 
 The russet fruit on the ground is piled, and the liche 
 
 cleaves to the bough. 
 
 IX 
 
 Will you lean o'er the gate, whilst I go on ? You ca 
 
 watch the farmyard life, 
 The beeves, the farmer's hope, and the poults, th; 
 
 gladden his thrifty wife ; 
 Or, turning, look on the hazy weald, — you will not t 
 
 seen from here, — 
 Till your thoughts, like it, grow blurred and vague, an 
 
 mingle the far and near. 
 Grief is a flood, and not a spring, whatever in grief tv 
 
 say; 
 And perhaps her woe, should she see me alone, will ru 
 
 more quickly away. 
 
 " I thought you would come this morning, ma'am. Yei 
 
 Edith at last has gone ; 
 To-morrow's a week, ay, just as the sun right into he 
 
 window shone ; 
 
I 
 
 A FARMHOUSE DIRGE 31 
 
 ith the night, the vicar says, where endeth never 
 
 le day ; 
 
 s left a darkness behind her here I wish she had 
 
 ken away. 
 
 o longer with us, but we seem to be always with 
 
 T, 
 
 lonely bed where we laid her last, and can't get 
 Ber to speak or stir. 
 
 I'm at work; 'tis time I was. I should have 
 
 begun before ; 
 his is the room where she lay so still, ere they carried 
 
 her past the door. 
 aught I never could let her go where it seems so 
 
 lonely of nights ; 
 low I am scrubbing and dusting down, and setting 
 
 the place to rights. 
 
 have kept are the flowers there, the last that stood 
 
 by her bed. 
 ppose I must throw them away. She looked much 
 
 fairer when she was dead. 
 
 ank you, for thinking of her so much. Kind 
 
 thought is the truest friend. 
 sh you had seen how pleased she was with the 
 
 peaches you used to send. 
 
32 A FARMHOUSE DIRGE 
 
 She tired of them too ere the end, so she did with all 
 
 tried ; 
 But she liked to look at them all the same, so we 
 
 them down by her side. 
 Their bloom and the flush upon her cheek were alikt 
 
 used to say ; 
 Both were so smooth, and soft, and round, and both hj 
 
 faded away. 
 
 " I never could tell you how kind too were the ladies 
 
 at the hall ; 
 Every noon, or fair or wet, one of them used to call. 
 Worry and work seems ours, but yours pleasant and e; 
 
 days. 
 And when all goes smooth, the rich and poor hj 
 
 different lives and ways. 
 Sorrow and death bring men more close, 'tis joy tl 
 
 puts us apart ; 
 'Tis a comfort to think, though we're severed so, we 
 
 all of us one at heart. 
 
 5 
 
 " She never wished to be smart and rich, as so many 
 
 these days do, 
 Nor cared to go in on market days to stare at the \ 
 
 and new. 
 
I 
 
 A FARMHOUSE DIRGE 33 
 
 ed to remain at home and pluck the white violets 
 
 lown in the wood ; 
 
 d to her sisters before she died, ' 'Tis so easy to 
 
 )e good.' 
 
 ust have found it so, I think, and that was the 
 
 eason why 
 
 eemed it needless to leave her here, so took her 
 
 p to the sky. 
 
 vicar says that he knows she is there, and surely 
 
 she ought to be ; 
 though I repeat the words, 'tis hard to believe what 
 
 one does not see. 
 
 did not want me to go to the grave, but I could 
 
 not have kept away, 
 
 whatever I do I can only see a coffin and church- 
 yard clay. 
 
 I know it's wrong to keep lingering there, and 
 
 wicked and weak to fret ; 
 that's why I'm hard at work again, for it helps one 
 
 to forget. 
 
 [e young ones don't seem to take to work as their 
 
 mothers and fathers did. 
 [lever were asked if we liked or no, but had to obey 
 
 when bid. 
 
 t) 
 
34 A FARMHOUSE DIRGE 
 
 I 
 
 There's Bessie won't swill the dairy now, nor Ridu 
 
 call home the cows, 
 And all of them cry, 'How can you, mother?' wh© 
 
 carry the wash to the sows. 
 Edith would drudge, for Death one's hearth of the hf 
 
 ful one always robs. 
 But she was so pretty I could not bear to set her 
 
 dirty jobs. 
 
 ) 
 
 8 
 
 " I don't know how it'll be with them when sorrow i 
 
 loss are theirs. 
 For it isn't likely that they'll escape their pack of wor 
 
 and cares. 
 They say it's an age of progress this, and a sight 
 
 things improves. 
 But sickness, and age, and bereavement seem to wor^ 
 
 the same old grooves. 
 Fine they may grow, and that, but Death as lief ta 
 
 the moth as the grub. 
 When their dear ones die, I suspect they'll wish the) 
 
 floor of their own to scrub. 
 
 "Some day they'll have a home of their own, mji 
 grander than this, no doubt, I 
 
 But polish the porch as you will you can't keep doc s 
 and coffins out. 
 
A FARMHOUSE DIRGE 
 
 35 
 
 very well with my fowls this year, but what are 
 mllets and eggs, 
 
 heart in vain at the door of the grave the 
 'turn of the lost one begs ? 
 :h have leisure to wail and weep, the poor haven't 
 
 le to be sad : 
 :ream hadn't been so contrairy this week, I think 
 ief would have driven me mad. 
 
 lO 
 
 ^does my husband bear up, you ask ? Well, thank 
 
 you, ma'am, fairly well ; 
 fie too is busy just now, you see, with the wheat and 
 
 the hops to sell : 
 
 len the work of the day is done, and he comes 
 
 indoors at night, 
 |e the twilight hangs round the window-panes before 
 
 I bring in the light, 
 
 takes down his pipe, and says not a word, but 
 
 watches the faggots roar — 
 
 then I know he is thinking of her who will sit on 
 
 his knee no more. 
 
 II 
 
 [styou be going? It seems so short. But thank 
 you for thinking to come ; 
 
 me good to talk of it all, and grief feels doubled 
 when dumb. 
 
36 A FARMHOUSE DIRGE 
 
 1 
 
 An the butter's not quite so good this week, if you pie 
 
 ma'am, you must not mind. 
 And I'll not forget to send the ducks and all the e^ 
 
 can find ; 
 I've scarcely had time to look round me yet, work 
 
 into such arrears, 
 With only one pair of hands, and those fast wiping a 
 
 one's tears. 
 
 12 
 
 "You've got some flowers, yet, haven't you, ma'; 
 
 though they now must be going fast ; 
 We never have any to speak of here, and I placed on 
 
 coffin the last. 
 Could you spare me a few for Sunday next ? I sjij 
 
 like to go all alone. 
 And lay them down on the little mound where t 
 
 isn't as yet a stone. 
 Thank you kindly, I'm sure they'll do, and I promij 
 
 heed what you say ; 
 I'll only just go and lay them there, and then I will c 
 
 away." 
 
 Come, let us go. Yes, down the hill, and home b; 
 
 winding lane. 
 The low-lying fields are suffused with haze, as li 
 
 suffused with pain. 
 
A FARMHOUSE DIRGE 37 
 
 f 
 
 l^n mists gain on the morning sun, so despondency 
 
 gains on youth ; 
 ;rope, and wrangle, and boast, but Death is the only 
 
 certain truth. 
 ^e of life ! what a foolish love ! we should weary of 
 
 life did it last. 
 e it lingers, it is but a little thing ; 'tis nothing at all 
 
 when past 
 
 XI 
 
 acorns thicker and thicker lie, the briony limper 
 
 grows, 
 :eare mildewing beads on the leafless brier where 
 
 once smiled the sweet dog-rose. 
 may see the leaves of the primrose push through the 
 
 litter of sodden ground ; 
 r pale stars dream in the wintry womb, and the 
 
 pimpernel sleepeth sound. 
 j' will awake ; shall we awake ? Are we more than 
 
 imprisoned breath ? 
 |q the heart grows weak, then hope grows strong, but 
 
 stronger than hope is Death. 
 
UNSEASONABLE SNOWS 
 
 The leaves have not yet gone ; then why do ye con 
 
 O white flakes falling from a dusky cloud ? 
 
 But yesterday my garden-plot was proud 
 
 With uncut sheaves of ripe chrysanthemum. 
 
 Some trees the winds have stripped; but look on son 
 
 'Neath double load of snow and foliage bowed, 
 
 Unnatural winter fashioning a shroud 
 
 For Autumn's burial ere its pulse be numb. 
 
 Yet Nature plays not an inhuman part ; 
 
 In her, our own, vicissitudes we trace. 
 
 Do we not cling to our accustomed place, 
 
 Though journeying Death have beckoned us to start 
 
 And faded smiles oft linger in the face. 
 
 While griefs first flakes fall silent on the heart ! 
 
 October 1880. 
 
A SPRING CAROL 
 
 THE friend ! blithe throstle ! Is it thou, 
 Whom I at last again hear sing, 
 ?erched on thy old accustomed bough, 
 
 Poet-prophet of the Spring ? 
 es ! Singing as thou oft hast sung, 
 can see thee there among 
 
 clustered branches of my leafless oak ; 
 Where, thy plumage gray as it, 
 Thou mightst unsuspected sit. 
 Didst thou not thyself betray 
 With thy penetrating lay, 
 Iwelling thy mottled breast at each triumphant stroke. 
 Wherefore warble half concealed. 
 When thy notes are shaft and shield. 
 And no hand that lives would slay 
 Singer of such a roundelay ? 
 Telling of thy presence thus, 
 Be nor coy nor timorous ! 
 Sing loud ! Sing long ! 
 And let thy song 
 
40 A SPRING CAROL 
 
 Usurp the air 'twixt earth and sky : 
 
 Let it soar and sink and rally, 
 
 Ripple low along the valley, 
 Break against the fir-trees high, 
 
 Ofttimes pausing, never dying. 
 
 While we lean where fancy bids. 
 
 Listening, with half-closed lids, 
 Unto the self-same chant, most sweet, most satisfyir 
 
 II 
 
 Where hast thou been all the dumb winter days. 
 When neither sunlight was nor smile of flowers, 
 Neither life, nor love, nor frolic. 
 Only expanse melancholic, 
 With never a note of thy exhilarating lays ? 
 But, instead, the raven's croak. 
 Sluggish dawns and draggled hours, 
 Gusts morose and callous showers. 
 Underneath whose cutting stroke 
 Huddle the seasoned kine, and even the robin coweP 
 Wast thou asleep in some snug hollow I 
 
 Of my hybernating oak. 
 Through the dripping weeks that follow 
 One another slow, and soak 
 Summer's extinguished fire and autumn's drifting smokj 
 Did its waking awake thee, 
 Or thou it with melody ? 
 Or together did ye both 
 Start from winter's sleep and sloth. 
 
A SPRING CAROL 
 
 41 
 
 I 
 
 ip.nd the self-same sap that woke 
 
 Bole and branch, and sets them budding, 
 
 Is thy throat with rapture flooding ? 
 
 Or, avoiding icy yoke, 
 When golden leaves floated on silver meres. 
 And pensive Autumn, keeping back her tears, 
 
 Nursed waning Summer in her quiet lap, 
 
 Didst thou timely pinions flap. 
 
 Fleeing from a land of loss, 
 
 And, with happy mates, across 
 Ocean's restless ridges travel, 
 
 To that lemon-scented shore 
 Where, beneath a deep-domed 
 Carven of lapis-lazuli, 
 
 Golden sunlight evermore 
 Glistens against golden gravel, 
 ever a snowflake falls, nor rain-clouds wheel and ravel; 
 
 Clime where I wandered once among 
 
 Ruins old with feelings young. 
 
 Whither too I count to fly 
 
 When my songful seasons die, 
 And with the self-same spell which, first when mine, 
 Intensified my youth, to temper my decline. 
 
 
 III 
 
 iCrefore dost thou sing, and sing ? 
 Is it for sheer joy of singing ? 
 it to hasten lagging Spring, 
 
 Or greet the Lenten lilies through turf and tuft up- 
 springing ? 
 
42 A SPRING CAROL 
 
 Dost thou sing to earth or sky ? 
 Never comes but one reply : 
 Carol faint, carol high, 
 
 Ringing, ringing, ringing ! 
 Are those iterated trills 
 For the down-looking daffodils. 
 That have strained and split their sheath. 
 And are listening underneath ? 
 Or but music's prompting note, 
 
 Whereunto the lambs may skip ? 
 Haply dost thou swell thy throat. 
 
 Only to show thy craftsmanship ? 
 Wouldst thou pipe if none should hearken ? 
 If the sky should droop and darken. 
 
 And, as came the hills more close, 
 Moody March to wooing Spring 
 
 Sudden turned a mouth morose, — 
 Unheeded wouldst, unheeding, sing ? 
 What is it rules thy singing season ? 
 Instinct, that diviner reason. 
 To which the thirst to know seemeth a sort of 
 treason ? 
 
 If it be. 
 Enough for me, 
 
 And any motive for thy music I 
 Will not ask thee to impart. 
 Letting my head play traitor to my heart. 
 
 Too deeply questioning why. 
 Sing for nothing, if thou wilt, 
 
 Or, if thou for aught must sing. 
 
I 
 
 A SPRING CAROL 43 
 
 Sing unto thy anxious spouse, 
 Sitting somewhere 'mong the boughs, 
 In the nest that thou hast built, 
 Underneath her close-furled wing 
 Future carols fostering. 
 Sing, because it is thy bent ; 
 Sing, to heighten thy content ! 
 Sing, for secret none can guess ; 
 Sing for very uselessness ! 
 Sing for love of love and pleasure. 
 Unborn joy, unfound treasure, 
 iture no words can reach, yearning no thoughts can 
 measure ! 
 
 IV 
 
 Why dost thou ever cease to sing ? 
 
 Singing is such sweet comfort, who, 
 
 If he could sing the whole year through, 
 Would barter it for anything ? 
 Why do not thou and joy their reign assert 
 Over winter, death, and hurt ? 
 If thou forcest them to flee, 
 They in turn will banish thee. 
 
 Making life betwixt ye thus 
 
 Mutably monotonous. 
 O, why dost thou not perch and pipe perpetually ? 
 
 All the answer I do get. 
 
 Is louder, madder music yet ; 
 
 Thus rebuking : Thou dost err ! 
 
44 A SPRING CAROL 
 
 I am no philosopher ; 
 Only a poet, forced to sing, 
 
 When the cold gusts gather and go, 
 When the earth stirs in its tomb, 
 And, asudden, witching Spring 
 
 Into her bosom sucks the snow. 
 To give it back in thorn and cherry-bloom 
 When along the hedgerows twinkle 
 Roguish eyes of periwinkle, 
 When with undulating glee 
 Yaffles scream from tree to tree, 
 And on every bank are seen 
 Primroses that long have been 
 Lying in wait with ambushed eyes 
 To break forth when Winter flies, 
 Joined by all things swift and sweet. 
 Following him with noiseless feet, 
 Pelting him with April showers. 
 
 Chasing and chanting his defeat. 
 Till with undisputed flowers 
 
 Thronged are all the lanes to greet 
 Dove-like inspiring Spring, many-voiced Paraclete 
 
 Therefore, glad bird ! warble, and shrill, and carol 
 Now that Earth whom winter stripped, 
 
 Putteth on her Spring apparel. 
 
 Daintily woven, gaily tipped ; 
 Now that in the tussocked mead 
 
A SPRING CAROL 
 
 45 
 
 I 
 
 ■ Lambkins one another jostle, — 
 * Carol, carol ! jocund throstle ! 
 
 Impregnating the air with thy melodious seed, 
 
 Which, albeit scattered late, 
 
 Now will quickly germinate. 
 
 Giving us who waited long 
 
 Vernal harvest of ripe song : 
 
 Which, I do perceive, was sent 
 
 Nowise to deepen argument, 
 
 Rather to teach me how, like thee. 
 
 To merge doubt in melody. 
 
 Sing, sing away. 
 
 All through the day. 
 Lengthening out the twilight gray. 
 And with thy trebles of delight 
 Invade the threshold of the night : 
 Fntil felicity, too high, too deep. 
 Saturated senses steep, 
 id all that lives and loves subside to songless sleep. 
 
AT HIS GRAVE 
 
 Leave me a little while alone, 
 Here at his grave that still is strewn 
 
 With crumbling flower and wreath ; 
 The laughing rivulet leaps and falls, 
 The thrush exults, the cuckoo calls, 
 
 And he hes hushed beneath. 
 
 With myrtle cross and crown of rose. 
 And every lowlier flower that blows, 
 
 His new-made couch is di-essed ; 
 Primrose and cowslip, hyacinth wild, 
 Gathered by Monarch, peasant, child, 
 
 A nation's grief attest. 
 
 Ill 
 
 I stood not with the mournful crowd 
 That hither came when round his shroud 
 Pious farewells were said. 
 
AT HIS GRAVE 47 
 
 [n the famed city that he saved, 
 \y minaret crowned, by billow laved, 
 I heard that he was dead. 
 
 IV 
 
 [ow o'er his tomb at last I bend, 
 [o greeting get, no greeting tend, 
 
 Who never came before 
 Fnto his presence, but I took, 
 i'rom word or gesture, tone or look. 
 
 Some wisdom from his door. 
 
 And must I now unanswered wait, 
 And, though a suppliant at the gate. 
 
 No sound my ears rejoice ? 
 Listen ! Yes, even as I stand, 
 I feel the pressure of his hand. 
 
 The comfort of his voice. 
 
 VI 
 
 How poor were Fame, did grief confess 
 That death can make a great life less, 
 
 Or end the help it gave ! 
 Our wreaths may fade, our flowers may wane, 
 But his well-ripened deeds remain. 
 
 Untouched, above his grave. 
 
48 AT HIS GRAVE 
 
 VII 
 
 Let this, too, soothe our widowed minds ; 
 Silenced are the opprobrious winds 
 
 Whene'er the sun goes down ; 
 And free henceforth from noonday noise, 
 He at a tranquil height enjoys 
 
 The starlight of renown. 
 
 VIII 
 
 Thus hence we something more may take 
 Than sterile grief, than formless ache. 
 
 Or vainly-uttered vow ; 
 Death hath bestowed what life withheld. 
 And he round whom detraction swelled. 
 
 Hath peace with honour now. 
 
 IX 
 
 The open jeer, the covert taunt. 
 
 The falsehood coined in factious haunt, 
 
 These loving gifts reprove. 
 They never were but thwarted sound 
 Of ebbing waves that bluster round 
 
 A rock that will not move. 
 
 And now the idle roar rolls off, 
 Hushed is the gibe and shamed the scoff. 
 Repressed the envious gird ; 
 
AT HIS GRAVE 49 
 
 Since death, the looking-glass of life, 
 Cleared of the misty breath of strife, 
 Reflects his face unblurred. 
 
 XI 
 
 From callow youth to mellow age, 
 Men turn the leaf and scan the page, 
 
 And note, with smart of loss. 
 How wit to wisdom did mature, 
 How duty burned ambition pure. 
 
 And purged away the dross. 
 
 XII 
 
 Youth is self-love ; our manhood lends 
 Its heart to pleasure, mistress, friends. 
 
 So that when age steals nigh. 
 How few find any worthier aim 
 Than to protract a flickering flame. 
 
 Whose oil hath long run dry ! 
 
 XIII 
 
 But he, unwitting youth once flown, 
 With England's greatness linked his own, 
 
 And steadfast to that part. 
 Held praise and blame but fitful sound. 
 And in the love of country found 
 
 Full solace for his heart 
 
 E 
 
so AT HIS GRAVE 
 
 XIV 
 
 Now in an English grave he Hes : 
 With flowers that tell of English skies 
 
 And mind of English air, 
 A grateful Sovereign decks his bed, 
 And hither long with pilgrim tread 
 
 Will English feet repair. 
 
 XV 
 
 Yet not beside his grave alone 
 
 We seek the glance, the touch, the tone ; 
 
 His home is nigh, — but there, 
 See from the hearth his figure fled, 
 The pen unraised, the page unread. 
 
 Untenanted the chair ! 
 
 XVI 
 
 Vainly the beechen boughs have made 
 A fresh green canopy of shade, 
 
 Vainly the peacocks stray ; 
 While Carlo, with despondent gait 
 Wonders how long affairs of State 
 
 Will keep his lord away. 
 
 XVII 
 
 Here most we miss the guide, the friend. 
 Back to the churchyard let me wend 
 And, by the posied mound. 
 
AT HIS GRAVE 51 
 
 Igering where late stood worthier feet, 
 sh that some voice, more strong, more sweet, 
 A loftier dirge would sound. 
 
 XVIII 
 
 least I bring not tardy flowers, 
 tive to him life's budding powers, 
 
 Such as they were, I gave — 
 not rejecting : so I may 
 rhaps these poor faint spices lay, 
 
 Unchidden, on his grave ! 
 
 J6HENDBN, May 1 88 1. 
 
A NIGHT IN JUNE 
 
 Lady ! in this night of June, 
 
 Fair Hke thee and holy, 
 Art thou gazing at the moon 
 
 That is rising slowly ? 5 
 
 I am gazing on her now : j 
 
 Something tells me, so art thou. 
 
 II 
 
 Night hath been when thou and I 
 
 Side by side were sitting, 
 
 Watching o'er the moonlit sky 
 
 Fleecy cloudlets flitting. 
 
 Close our hands were linked then ; 
 When will they be linked again ? 
 
 Ill 
 
 What to me the starlight still. 
 Or the moonbeams' splendour, 
 
A NIGHT IN JUNE 
 
 [f I do not feel the thrill 
 Of thy fingers slender ? 
 
 Summer nights in vain are clear, 
 If thy footstep be not near. 
 
 53 
 
 IV 
 
 Loses slumbering in their sheaths 
 
 O'er my threshold clamber, 
 md the honeysuckle wreathes 
 Its translucent amber 
 
 Round the gables of my home : 
 How is it thou dost not come ? 
 
 If thou camest, rose on rose 
 
 From its sleep would waken ; 
 From each flower and leaf that blows 
 Spices would be shaken ; 
 
 Floating down from star and tree, 
 Dreamy perfumes welcome thee. 
 
 VI 
 
 I would lead thee where the leaves 
 
 In the moon-rays glisten ; 
 And, where shadows fall in sheaves. 
 We would lean and listen 
 
 For the song of that sweet bird 
 That in April nights is heard. 
 
54 
 
 A NIGHT IN JUNE 
 
 VII 
 
 And when weary lids would close, 
 
 And thy head was drooping, 
 Then, like dew that steeps the rose, 
 O'er thy languor stooping, 
 I would, till I woke a sigh, 
 Kiss thy sweet lips silently. 
 
 / 
 
 VIII 
 
 I would give thee all I own, 
 All thou hast would borrow ; 
 
 I from thee would keep alone 
 Fear and doubt and sorrow. 
 
 \ All of tender that is mine. 
 
 Should most tenderly be thine. 
 
 IX 
 
 Moonlight ! into other skies, 
 
 I beseech thee wander. 
 Cruel, thus to mock mine eyes. 
 Idle, thus to squander 
 
 Love's own light on this dark spotp 
 For my lady cometh not ! 
 
I 
 
 ^ GRANDMOTHER'S TEACHING 
 
 TDMOTHER dear, you do not know ; you have lived 
 le old-world life, 
 
 the twittering eaves of home, sheltered from storm 
 "and strife ; 
 ig cradles, and covering jams, knitting socks for 
 baby feet, 
 )iecing together lavender bags for keeping the linen 
 
 sweet : 
 ^ghter, wife, and mother in turn, and each with a blame- 
 less breast, 
 \n saying your prayers when the nightfall came, and 
 quietly dropping to rest. 
 
 II 
 
 fou must not think. Granny, I speak in scorn, for yours 
 
 have been well-spent days, 
 |d none ever paced with more faithful feet the dutiful 
 
 ancient ways, 
 mdfather's gone, but while he lived you clung to him 
 
 close and true. 
 
56 GRANDMOTHER'S TEACHING 
 
 And mother's heart, like her eyes, I know, came 
 
 straight from you. 
 If the good old times, at the good old pace, in the goc 
 
 old grooves would run, 
 One could not do better, I'm sure of that, than do ; 
 
 you all have done. 
 
 Ill 
 
 " But the world has wondrously changed, Granny, sine 
 
 the days when you were young ; 
 It thinks quite different thoughts from then, and speal^ 
 
 with a different tongue. 
 The fences are broken, the cords are snapped, th^ 
 
 tethered man's heart to home ; 
 He ranges free as the wind or the wave, and changes hi 
 
 shore like the foam. 
 He drives his furrows through fallow seas, he reaps whs 
 
 the breakers sow, 
 And the flash of his iron flail is seen mid the barns c 
 
 the barren snow. 
 
 IV 
 
 " He has lassoed the lightning and led it home, he ha 
 
 yoked it unto his need, 
 And made it answer the rein and trudge as straight i 
 
 the steer or steed. 
 He has bridled the torrents and made them tame, he hj 
 
 bitted the champing tide. 
 It toils as his drudge and turns the wheels that spin f( 
 
 his use and pride. 
 
GRANDMOTHER'S TEACHING 57 
 
 ndles the planets and weighs their dust, he mounts 
 on the comet's car, 
 
 le hfts the veil of the sun, and stares in the eyes of 
 the uttermost star. 
 
 not the same world you knew, Granny ; its fetters 
 have fallen off; 
 
 )wliest now may rise and rule where the proud used 
 to sit and scoff. 
 
 jed to boast of a scutcheoned stock, claim rights 
 from an ancient wrong ; 
 
 e bom with a silver spoon in their mouths whose 
 gums are sound and strong. 
 r I mean to be rich and great. Granny; I mean it 
 with heart and soul : 
 
 \ feet is the ball, I will roll it on, till it spins through 
 the golden goal. 
 
 VI 
 
 ' ' !t on the thought that my copious life should trickle 
 
 through trivial days, 
 
 f but a lonelier sort of beast, watching the cattle 
 
 graze, 
 0(nning the year's monotonous change, gaping at wind 
 ' and rain, 
 
 nging with meek soHcitous eyes on the whims of a 
 
 creaking vane ; 
 
58 GRANDMOTHER'S TEACHING 
 
 Wretched if ewes drop single lambs, blest so is oil 
 
 cheap, 
 And growing old in a tedious round of worry, surfeit, ai 
 
 sleep. 
 
 VII 
 
 I 
 
 " You dear old Granny, how sweet your smile, and he 
 
 soft your silvery hair ! 
 But all has moved on while you sate still in your cap ai 
 
 easy-chair. 
 The torch of knowledge is lit for all, it flashes from ha 
 
 to hand ; 
 The alien tongues of the earth converse, and whisp 
 
 from strand to strand. 
 The very churches are changed and boast new hymi 
 
 new rites, new truth ; 
 Men worship a wiser and greater God than the hs 
 
 known God of your youth. 
 
 VIII 
 
 " What ! marry Connie and set up house, and dw 
 
 where my fathers dwelt, 
 Giving the homely feasts they gave and kneeling wht 
 
 they knelt ? 
 She is pretty, and good, and void I am sure of vani 
 
 greed, or guile ; 
 But she has not travelled nor seen the world, and 
 
 lacking in air and style. 
 
GRANDMOTHER'S TEACHING 59 
 
 : lien now are as wise and strong as men, and vie with 
 men in renown ; 
 r wife that will help to build my fame was not bred 
 near a country town. 
 
 I 
 fliat a notion ! to figure at parish boards, and wrangle 
 
 o'er cess and rate, 
 |fho mean to sit for the county yet, and vote on an 
 
 Empire's fate ; 
 take the chair at the Farmers' Feast, and tickle their 
 
 bumpkin ears, 
 \\0 must shake a senate before I die, and waken a 
 
 people's cheers ! 
 the olden days was no choice, so sons to the roof of 
 
 their fathers clave : 
 it now ! 'twere to perish before one's time, and to sleep 
 
 in a living grave. 
 
 see that you do not understand. How should you ? 
 
 Your memory clings 
 the simple music of silenced days and the skirts of 
 
 vanishing things. 
 our fancy wanders round ruined haunts, and dwells 
 
 upon oft-told tales ; 
 our eyes discern not the widening dawn, nor your ears 
 
 catch the rising gales. 
 
6o GRANDMOTHER'S TEACHING 
 
 ^ 
 
 But live on, Granny, till I come back, and then perhap 
 
 you will own 
 The dear old Past is an empty nest, and the Present th 
 
 brood that is flown." 
 
 " And so, my dear, you've come back at last ? I always 
 
 fancied you would. 
 Well, you see the old home of your childhood's days ii 
 
 standing where it stood. B 
 
 The roses still clamber from porch to roof, the eld^? 
 
 white at the gate. 
 And over the long smooth gravel path the peacock still 
 
 struts in state. 
 On the gabled lodge, as of old, in the sun, the pigeons 
 
 sit and coo. 
 And our hearts, my dear, are no whit more changed, but 
 
 have kept still warm for you. 
 
 "You'll find little altered, unless it be me, and that since 
 
 my last attack ; 
 But so that you only give me time, I can walk to the 
 
 church and back. 
 You bade me not die till you returned, and so you see 
 
 I lived on : 
 I'm glad that I did now you've really come, but it's 
 
 almost time I was gone. 
 
r 
 
 GRANDMOTHER'S TEACHING 
 
 [ippose that there isn't room for us all, and the old 
 
 should depart the first, 
 [it's as it should be. What is sad, is to bury the 
 
 dead you've nursed. 
 
 Ill 
 
 I'on't you have bit nor sup, my dear? Not even a 
 glass of whey ? 
 dappled Alderney calved last week, and the baking 
 is fresh to-day. 
 lye you lost your appetite too in town, or is it you've 
 
 grown over-nice ? 
 [rou'd rather have biscuits and cowslip wine, they 11 
 bring them up in a trice. 
 what am I saying ? Your coming down has set me 
 all in a maze : 
 50t that you travelled here by train ; I was thinking 
 of coaching days. 
 
 IV 
 
 fhere, sit you down, and give me your hand, and tell 
 
 me about it all, 
 
 the day that you left us, keen to go, to the pride 
 
 that had a fall. 
 |d all went well at the first ? So it does, when we're 
 
 young and puffed with hope ; 
 the foot of the hill is quicker reached the easier 
 
 seems the slope. 
 
62 GRANDMOTHER'S TEACHING 
 
 I 
 
 And men thronged round you, and women too ! Ye 
 
 that I can understand. 
 When there's gold in the palm, the greedy world is eag 
 
 to grasp the hand. 
 
 "I heard them tell of your smart town house, but 
 
 always shook my head. 
 One doesn't grow rich in a year and a day, in the tin 
 
 of my youth 'twas said. 
 Men do not reap in the spring, my dear, nor are granarii 
 
 filled in May, 
 Save it be with the harvest of former years, stored up f( 
 
 a rainy day. 
 The seasons will keep their own true time, you can hun 
 
 nor furrow nor sod : 
 It's honest labour and steadfast thrift that alone are ble 
 
 by God. 
 
 VI 
 
 "You say you were honest. I trust you were, nor do 
 
 judge you, my dear : 
 I have old-fashioned ways, and it's quite enough to kee 
 
 one's own conscience clear. 
 But still the commandment, "Thou shalt not steal, 
 
 though a simple and ancient rule. 
 Was not made for modern cunning to baulk, nor for an 
 
 new age to befool ; 
 
i 
 
 GRANDMOTHER'S TEACHING 63 
 
 if my growing rich unto others brought but penury, 
 
 chill, and grief, 
 uld feel, though I never had filched with my hands, 
 
 I was only a craftier thief. 
 
 I 
 
 VII 
 
 [it isn't the way they look at it there? All wor- 
 shipped the rising sun ? 
 
 of all the fine lady, in pride of purse you fancied 
 
 your heart had won. 
 ^n't want to hear of her beauty or birth : I reckon 
 
 her foul and low ; 
 better a steadfast cottage wench than grand loves 
 
 that come and go. 
 ■leave to their husbands, through weal, through woe, 
 
 is all women have to do : 
 
 )wing as clever as men they seem to have matched 
 
 them in fickleness too. 
 
 VIII 
 
 Lt there's one in whose heart has your image dwelt 
 through many an absent day, 
 
 he scent of a flower will haunt a room, though the 
 flower be taken away. 
 
 nie's not so young as she was, no doubt, but faith- 
 fulness never grows old ; 
 were beauty the only fuel of love, the warmest 
 hearth soon would grow cold. 
 
64 GRANDMOTHER'S TEACHING 
 
 Once you thought that she had not travelled, anc 
 
 neither the world nor life : 
 Not to roam, but to deem her own hearth the' 
 
 world, that's what a man wants in a wife. 
 
 IX 
 
 " I'm sure you'd be happy with Connie, at least if y( 
 
 own heart's in the right place. 
 She will bring you nor power, nor station, nor weal 
 
 but she never will bring you disgrace. 
 They say that the moon, though she moves round 
 
 earth, never turns to him morning or night 
 But one face of her sphere, and it must be because sh 
 
 so true a satellite ; 
 And Connie, if into your orbit once drawn by the sac 
 
 ment sanctioned above, 
 Would revolve round you constantly, only to show i 
 
 one-sided aspect of love. 
 
 ** You will never grow rich by the land, I own ; but 
 
 Connie and you should wed. 
 It will feed your children and household too, as it y 
 
 and your fathers fed. 
 The seasons have been unkindly of late; there's 
 
 wonderful cut of hay. 
 But the showers have washed all the goodness out, 
 
 it's scarcely worth carting away. 
 
GRANDMOTHER'S TEACHING 
 
 65 
 
 s a fairish promise of barley straw, but the ears 
 look rusty and slim : 
 
 )ose God intends to remind us thus that some- 
 thing depends on Him. 
 
 XI 
 
 neither progresses nor changes, dear, as I once 
 
 heard you rashly say : 
 
 schools and philosophies come and go, but His 
 
 word doth not pass away, 
 (worship Him here as we did of old, with simple and 
 
 reverent rite : 
 he morning we pray Him to bless our work, to 
 
 forgive our transgressions at night. 
 keep His commandments, to fear His name, and 
 
 what should be done, to do, — 
 's the beginning of wisdom still ; I suspect 'tis the 
 
 end of it too. 
 
 XII 
 
 |a must see the new-fangled machines at work, that 
 
 harrow, and thresh, and reap ; 
 're wonderful quick, there's no mistake, and they 
 
 say in the end they're cheap, 
 jthey make such a clatter, and seem to bring the rule 
 
 of the town to the fields : 
 5*8 something more precious in country life than the 
 
 balance of wealth it yields. 
 
66 GRANDMOTHER'S TEACHING 
 
 But that seems going ; I'm sure I hope that I shall 
 
 gone before : 
 Better poor sweet silence of rural toil than the facto 
 
 opulent roar. 
 
 XIII 
 
 " They're a mighty saving of labour, though ; so at If 
 
 I hear them tell, 
 Making fewer hands and fewer mouths, but fewer he 
 
 as well : 
 They sweep up so close that there's nothing left 
 
 widows and bairns to glean ; 
 If machines are growing like men, man seems to 
 
 growing a half machine. 
 There's no friendUness left ; the only tie is the wage u 
 
 Saturday nights : 
 Right used to mean duty ; you'll find that now there's 
 
 duty, but only rights. 
 
 XIV 
 
 " Still stick to your duty, my dear, and, then, things car 
 
 go much amiss. 
 What made folks happy in bygone times, will make tl 
 
 happy in this. 
 There's little that's called amusement, here; but : 
 
 should the old joys pall ? 
 Has the blackbird ceased to sing loud in spring ? 
 
 the cuckoo forgotten to call ? 
 
IF 
 
 ■ ■^GRANDMOTHER'S TEACHING 67 
 
 ^B Seating voices no longer heard when the cherry- 
 I blossoms swarm ? 
 
 have home, and children, and fireside lost one 
 
 gleam of their ancient charm ? 
 
 XV 
 
 ae, let us go round ; to the farmyard first, with its 
 
 litter of fresh-strewn straw, 
 
 the ash-tree dell, round whose branching tops the 
 
 young rooks wheel and caw ; 
 
 jgh the ten-acre mead that was mown the first, and 
 
 looks well for aftermath, 
 round by the beans — I shall tire by then, — and 
 
 home up the garden-path, 
 :e the peonies hang their blushing heads, where the 
 
 larkspur laughs from its stalk — 
 
 my stick and your arm I can manage. But see ! 
 
 There, Connie comes up the walk." 
 
TO ENGLAND 
 
 Men deemed thee fallen, did they ? fallen hke Ro 
 Coiled into self to foil a Vandal throng : 
 Not wholly shorn of strength, but vainly strong ; 
 Weaned from thy fame by a too happy home, h 
 Scanning the ridges of thy teeming loam, t| 
 
 Counting thy flocks, humming thy harvest song. 
 Callous, because thyself secure, 'gainst wrong, 
 Behind the impassable fences of the foam ! 
 The dupes ! Thou dost but stand erect, and lo ! 
 The nations cluster round ; and while the horde 
 Of wolfish backs slouch homeward to their snow, 
 Thou, 'mid thy sheaves in peaceful seasons stored, 
 Towerest supreme, victor without a blow. 
 Smilingly leaning on thy undrawn sword ! 
 
 April 1878. 
 
A COUNTRY NOSEGAY 
 
 tERE have you been through the long sweet hours 
 That follow the fragrant feet of June ? 
 the dells and the dingles gathering flowers, 
 Ere the dew of the dawn be sipped by noon. 
 
 id sooth each wilding that buds and blows 
 You seem to have found and clustered here, 
 )Und the rustic sprays of the child-like rose 
 That smiles in one's face till it stirs a tear. 
 
 Ill 
 
 le clambering vetch, and the meadow-sweet tall, 
 That nodded good-day as you sauntered past, 
 
 id the poppy flaunting atop of the wall. 
 Which, proud as glory, will fade as fast. 
 
70 A COUNTRY NOSEGAY 
 
 IV 
 
 The campion bladders the children burst, 
 
 The bramble that clutches and won't take nay, 
 
 And the pensive delicate foxgloves nursed 
 In woods that curtain from glare of day. 
 
 The prosperous elder that always smells 
 Of homely joys and the cares that bless, 
 
 And the woodbine's waxen and honeyed cells, 
 A hive of the sweetest idleness. 
 
 VI 
 
 And this wayside nosegay is all for me, 
 
 For me, the poet — the word sounds strong ;— 
 
 Well, for him at least, whatever he be. 
 
 Who has loitered his morning away in song. 
 
 VII 
 
 And though sweetest poems that ever were writ, 
 With the posy that up to my gaze you lift. 
 
 Seem void of music and poor of wit, 
 
 Yet I guess your meaning, and take your gift 
 
 VIII 
 
 For 'tis true among fields and woods I sing. 
 Aloof from cities, and my poor strains 
 
 Were born, like the simple flowers you bring, 
 In English meadows and English lanes. 
 
A COUNTRY NOSEGAY 71 
 
 IX 
 
 e'er in my verse lurks tender thought, 
 
 'Tis borrowed from cushat or blackbird's throat ; 
 
 sweetness any, 'tis culled or caught 
 
 From boughs that blossom and clouds that float. 
 
 J X 
 
 (To rare exotics nor forced are these ; 
 
 They budded in darkness and throve in storm ; 
 [rhey drank their colour from rain and breeze, 
 
 And from sun and season they took their form. 
 
 XI 
 
 frhey peeped through the drift of the winter snows ; 
 They waxed and waned with the waning moon ; 
 leir music they stole from the deep-hushed rose, 
 And all the year round to them is June. 
 
 XII 
 
 So let us exchange, nor ask who gains, 
 
 What each has saved from the morning hours : 
 
 Take, such as they are, my wilding strains, 
 And I will accept your wilding flowers. 
 
THE SPRING-TIME, O THE SPRING- 
 TIME ! 
 
 The Spring-time, O the Spring-time ! 
 
 Who does not know it well ? 
 When the little birds begin to build, 
 
 And the buds begin to swell. 
 When the sun with the clouds plays hide-and-seek, 
 
 And the lambs are bucking and bleating, 
 And the colour mounts to the maiden's cheek, 
 
 And the cuckoo scatters greeting ; 
 
 In the Spring-time, joyous Spring-time ! 
 
 The Summer, O the Summer ! 
 
 Who does not know it well ? 
 When the ringdoves coo the long day through, 
 
 And the bee refills his cell. 
 When the swish of the mower is heard at morn. 
 
 And we all in the woods go roaming. 
 And waiting is over, and love is born. 
 
 And shy lips meet in the gloaming ; 
 
 In the Summer, ripening Summer ! 
 
THE SPRING-TIME 
 
 III 
 
 n 
 
 'e Autumn, O the Autumn ! 
 
 Who does not know it well ? 
 
 len the leaf turns brown, and the mast drops down, 
 
 IAnd the chestnut splits its shell. 
 ..len we muse o'er the days that have gone before, 
 And the days that will follow after, 
 ben the grain lies deep on the winnowing-floor, 
 And the plump gourd hangs from the rafter ; 
 In the Autumn, thoughtful Autumn ! 
 
 # 
 
 IV 
 
 (le Winter, O the Winter ! 
 
 I Who does not know it well ? 
 
 [hen, day after day, the fields stretch gray, 
 
 And the peewit wails on the fell. 
 Tien we close up the crannies and shut out the cold, 
 
 And the wind sounds hoarse and hollow, 
 nd our dead loves sleep in the churchyard mould, 
 
 And we feel that we soon shall follow ; 
 In the Winter, mournful Winter ! 
 
A QUESTION 
 
 Love, wilt thou love me still when wintry strea| 
 Steals on the tresses of autumnal brow ; 
 When the pale rose hath perished in my chee^ 
 And those are wrinkles that are dimples now ? 
 Wilt thou, when this fond arm that here I twii 
 Round thy dear neck to help thee in thy need,^ 
 Droops faint and feeble, and hath need of thin^ 
 Be then my prop, and not a broken reed ? 
 When thou canst only glean along the Past, 
 And garner in thy heart what Time doth leave,; 
 O, wilt thou then to me, love, cling as fast 
 As nest of April to December eave ; 
 And, while my beauty dwindles and decays. 
 Still warm thee by the embers of my gaze ? 
 
AN ANSWER 
 
 Come, let us go into the lane, love mine. 
 And mark and gather what the Autumn grows 
 The creamy elder mellowed into wine, 
 The russet hip that was the pink-white rose ; 
 The amber woodbine into rubies turned, 
 The blackberry that was the bramble born ; 
 Nor let the seeded clematis be spurned. 
 Nor pearls, that now are corals, of the thorn. 
 Look ! what a lovely posy we have made 
 From the wild garden of the waning year. 
 So when, dear love, your summer is decayed, 
 Beauty more touching than is clustered here 
 Will linger in your life, and I shall cling 
 Closely as now, nor ask if it be Spring. 
 
I 
 
 TO BEATRICE STUART- WORTLEY 
 
 MTAT 2 
 
 Patter, patter, little feet. 
 Making music quaint and sweet, 
 Up the passage, down the stair ; 
 Patter, patter everywhere. 
 
 Ripple, ripple, little voice; 
 When I hear you, I rejoice. 
 When you cease to crow and coo. 
 Then my heart grows silent too. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Frolic, frolic, little form. 
 While the day is young and warm. 
 When the shadows shun the west. 
 Climb up to my knee, and rest. 
 
TO BEATRICE STUART-WORTLEY ^^ 
 
 IV 
 
 Slumber, slumber, little head. 
 Gambols o'er and night-prayers said. 
 I will give you in your cot 
 Kisses that awake you not. 
 
 Open, open, little lids ! 
 Lambs are frisking in the meads ; 
 Blackcaps flit from stem to stem ; 
 Come and chirp along with them. 
 
 VI 
 
 Change not, change not, little fay ; 
 Still be as you are to-day. 
 What a loss is growth of sense, 
 With decrease of innocence ! 
 
 VII 
 
 Something in your little ways 
 Wins me more than love or praise. 
 You have gone, and I feel still 
 Void I somehow cannot fill. 
 
 VIII 
 
 Yes, you leave, when you depart, 
 Empty cradle in my heart, 
 Where I sit and rock my pain, 
 Singing lullaby in vain. 
 
yS TO BEATRICE STUART-WORTLEY 
 
 IX 
 
 Come back, come back, little feet ! 
 Bring again the music sweet 
 To the garden, to the stair ; 
 Patter, chatter everywhere. 
 
*• 
 
 IHENRY BARTLE EDWARD FRERE 
 
 Born a.d. 1815. Died a.d. 1884 
 
 \n> down and read — the birth, the death, the name. 
 tn in the year that Waterloo was won, 
 H died in this, whose days are not yet run, 
 which, because a year conceived in shame, 
 noble need will christen or will claim. 
 Id yet this dead man, England, was Thy son, 
 |d at his grave we ask what had he done, 
 
 to be famous, to be foiled of Fame. 
 the reply his epitaph : That he, 
 years as youth, the unyielding spirit bore 
 got from Thee, but Thou hast got no more ; 
 that it is a bane and bar to be 
 I child of Thine, now the adventurous sea 
 [I vainly beckons to a shrinking shore. 
 
 ierefore, great soul, within your marble bed 
 eep sound, nor hear the useless tears we weep. 
 
8o HENRY BARTLE EDWARD FREREj 
 
 Why should you wake, when England is asleej 
 Or care to live, since England now is dead ? 
 Forbidden are the steeps where Glory led ; 
 No more from furrowed danger of the deep 
 We harvest greatness ; to our hearths we creej 
 Count and recount our coin, and nurse our dread. 
 The sophist's craft hath grown a prosperous trade, 
 And womanish Tribunes hush the manly drum : 
 The very fear of Empire strikes us numb, 
 Fumbling with pens, who brandished once the bla 
 Therefore, great soul, sleep sound where you are k 
 Blest in being deaf when Honour now is dumb. 
 
A CAPTIVE THROSTLE 
 
 Poor little mite with mottled breast, 
 Half-fledged, and fallen from the nest, 
 For whom this world hath just begun, 
 Who want to fly, yet scarce can run ; 
 Why open wide your yellow beak ? 
 Is it for hunger, or to speak — 
 To tell me that you fain would be 
 Loosed from my hand to liberty ? 
 
 Well, you yourself decide your fate, 
 But be not too precipitate. 
 Which will you have ? If you agree 
 To quit the lanes, and lodge with me, 
 I promise you a bed more soft, 
 Even than that where you aloft 
 First opened wondering eyes, and found 
 A world of green leaves all around. 
 When you awake, you straight shall see 
 A fresh turf, green and velvety. 
 Well of clear water, sifted seed, 
 All things, in short, that bird can need ; 
 
 G 
 
82 A CAPTIVE THROSTLE 
 
 And gentle beings, far more fair 
 Than build on bough, or skim through air 
 When all without is wet and bleak, 
 Laying against your cage their cheek, 
 To make you pipe shall coax and coo, 
 And bud their pretty lips at you. 
 And when the clammy winter rain 
 Drips from the roof and clouds the pane. 
 When windows creak and chimneys roar, 
 And beggars wail outside the door, 
 And stretch out fingers lank and thin, 
 You shall be safely housed within, 
 And through the wood-fire's flickering glow 
 Watch drifting leaves or driving snow, 
 Till Marian pulls the shutters up, 
 And you go sleep, and I go sup. 
 
 But now suppose I let you go, 
 To rains that beat, to winds that blow. 
 To heedless chance and prowling foe ? 
 Mayhap this very day, alas ! 
 You will be drowned in tangled grass : 
 Or, that escaped, some slinking stoat 
 May seize and suck your speckled throat ; 
 Or hawk slow wheeling in the sky 
 Your fluttering feeble wings descry, 
 And, straightway downward flashing thence. 
 Relish and rend your innocence. 
 Should you survive, and glad and strong 
 Make autumn spring-like with your song, 
 
A CAPTIVE THROSTLE 
 
 83 
 
 ou will be lured, the very first, 
 here netted berries bulge and burst, 
 nd, by their guardian caught alive, 
 ou may, before I can arrive 
 'o bid him not be so unsparing, 
 
 Jave paid the forfeit of your daring. 
 
 'ime too will come, there will not be 
 
 Jerry on bush, or pod on tree, 
 
 Itripped be the hawthorn, bare the holly, 
 
 Lnd all the boughs drip melancholy ; 
 
 jid you will have to scrape for food 
 
 Lmid a frosty solitude. 
 
 Which shall it be ? Now quick decide ! 
 Safety confined, or peril wide ? 
 
 Then did the little bird reply : 
 " 'Tis true, as yet I scarce can fly ; 
 But oh ! it is such joy to try ! 
 Just as you came, I was beginning 
 To win my wings, exult in winning ; 
 To feel the promptings of the pinion, 
 The dawn of a divine dominion 
 Over the empty air, and over 
 Fields of young wheat and breadths of clover : 
 Pledge of a power to scale, some day. 
 My native elm-tree's topmost spray. 
 And mid the leaves and branches warm 
 Sing far beyond the reach of harm. 
 
84 A CAPTIVE THROSTLE 
 
 And shall I barter gift like this 
 For doled-out joy and measured bliss ? 
 For a trim couch and dainty fare 
 Forfeit the freedom of the air ? 
 Shall I exchange for punctual food 
 April's sweet loves and summer's brood ; 
 The dewy nest 'neath twinkling stars 
 For crushing roof and cramping bars ? 
 No ! Come what chance or foe that may, 
 Menace of death this very day, 
 The weasel's clutch, the falcon's swoop — 
 What if these kill ? they do not coop. 
 Autumn's worst ambush, winter's rage. 
 Are sweeter than the safest cage." 
 
 Off, little mite ! I let you fly. 
 And do as I would be done by. 
 
 Nature within your heart hath sown 
 A wisdom wiser than my own, 
 And from your choice I learn to prize 
 The birth-right of unbounded skies. 
 Delightful danger of being free. 
 Sweet sense of insecurity ; 
 The privilege to risk one's all 
 On being nor captive, caged, nor thrall, 
 The wish to range, the wing to soar 
 Past space behind, through space before, 
 The ecstasy of unknown flight, 
 The doubt, the danger, the delight. 
 
A CAPTIVE THROSTLE 85 
 
 I H>r know what worlds will open next j 
 "nd since Death waits both caged and free, 
 To die, at least, of liberty. 
 
THE LAST NIGHT 
 
 I 
 
 Sister, come to the chestnut toll, 
 
 And sit with me on the dear old bole, 
 
 Where we oft have sate in the sun and the rain, 
 
 And perhaps I never shall sit again. 
 
 Longer and darker the shadows grow : 
 
 Tis my last night, dear. With the dawn I go. 
 
 II 
 
 O the times, and times, we two have played 
 
 Alone, alone, in its nursing shade. 
 
 When once we the breadth of the park had crossed 
 
 We fancied ourselves to be hid and lost 
 
 In a secret world that seemed to be 
 
 As vast as the forests I soon shall see. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Do you remember the winter days 
 When we piled up the leaves and made them blaze 
 While the blue smoke curled, in the frosty air, 
 Up the great wan trunks that rose gaunt and bare, 
 And we clapped our hands, and the rotten bough 
 Came crackling down to our feet, as now ? 
 
It dearer than all was the April weather, ' 
 rhen off we set to the woods together, 
 {ad piled up the lap of your clean white frock 
 
 ith primrose, and bluebell, and ladysmock, 
 Ind notched the pith of the sycamore stem 
 |ito whistles. Do you remember them ? 
 
 V 
 
 Ind in summer you followed me fast and far — 
 
 Cow cruel and selfish brothers are ! — 
 
 nth tottering legs and with cheeks aflame, 
 
 rill back to the chestnut toll we came, 
 
 Ijid rested and watched the long tassels swing, 
 
 [Tiat seemed with their scent to prolong the Spring. 
 
 VI 
 
 id in autumn 'twas still our favourite spot, 
 
 en school was over and tasks forgot, 
 
 ^d we scampered away and searched till dusk 
 
 or the smooth bright nuts in the prickly husk, 
 
 Vnd carried them home, by the shepherd's star, 
 
 Chen roasted them on the nursery bar. 
 
 VII 
 
 D, Winnie, I do not want to go 
 pom the dear old home ; I love it so. 
 Why should I follow the sad sea-mew 
 To a land where everything is new. 
 Where we never bird-nested, you and I, 
 Where I was not born, but perhaps shall die ? 
 
SB THE LAST NIGHT 
 
 
 VIII 
 
 No, I did not mean that. Come, dry your tears. 
 You may want them all in the coming years. 
 There's nothing to cry for. Win : be brave. 
 I will work like a horse, like a dog, like a slav 
 And will come back long ere we both are old. 
 The clods of my clearing turned to gold 
 
 IX 
 
 But could I not stay and work at home, 
 Clear English woods, turn up English loam ? 
 I shall have to work with my hands out there, 
 Shear sheep, shoe horses, put edge on share. 
 Dress scab, drive bullocks, trim hedge, clean ditch, 
 Put in here a rivet and there a stitch. 
 
 X 
 
 It were sweeter to moil in the dear old land, 
 And sooth why not ? Have we grown so grand ? 
 So grand ! When the rear becomes the van. 
 Rich idleness makes the gentleman. 
 Gentleman ! What is a gentleman now ? 
 A swordless hand and a helmless brow. 
 
 XI 
 
 Would you blush for me, Win, if you saw me there 
 With my sleeves turned up and my sinews bare, 
 And the axe on the log come ringing down 
 Like a battering-ram on a high-walled town. 
 And my temples beaded with diamond sweat, 
 As bright as a wealth-earned coronet ? 
 
THE LAST NIGHT 
 
 89 
 
 XII 
 
 pray, if not there, why here ? Does crime 
 jnd upon distance, or shame on clime ? 
 your sleek-skinned plutocrats cease to scoff 
 workman's hands, if he works far off? 
 is theirs the conscience men born to sway 
 it accept for their own in this latter day ? 
 
 XIII 
 
 could be Harry's woodreeve. Who should scorn 
 o work for his House, and the eldest-born ? 
 know every trunk, and bough, and stick, 
 'uch better than Glebe and as well as Dick. 
 Loving service seems banned in a monied age, 
 ^r a brother's trust might be all my wage. 
 
 XIV 
 
 Ir his keeper, Win ? Do you think I'd mind 
 jeing out in all weathers, wet, frost, or wind ? 
 fecause I have got a finer coat, 
 )o I shrink from a weasel or dread a stoat ? 
 ive I not nailed them by tens and scores 
 [0 the pheasant-hutch and the granary doors ? 
 
 XV 
 
 I't I know where the partridge love to hatch, 
 wouldn't the poachers meet their match ? 
 
 learty word has a wondrous charm, 
 Ind, if not — well, there's always the stalwart arm. 
 fhank Heaven ! spite pillows and counterpanes, 
 fhe blood of the savage still haunts my veins. 
 
90 THE LAST NIGHT 
 
 XVI 
 
 They may boast as they will of our moral days, 
 
 Our mincing manners and softer ways, 
 
 And our money value for everything. 
 
 But he who will fight should alone be King ; 
 
 And when gentlemen go, unless I'm wrong, 
 
 Men too will grow scarce before very long. 
 
 XVII 
 
 There, enough ! let us back. I'm a fool, I know ; 
 
 But I must see Gladys before I go. 
 
 Good-bye, old toll. In my log-hut bleak, 
 
 I shall hear your leaves whisper, your branches cr< 
 
 Your wood-quests brood, your wood-peckers call. 
 
 And the shells of your ripened chestnuts fall. 
 
 XVIII 
 
 Harry never must let the dear old place 
 
 To a stranger's foot and a stranger's face. 
 
 He may live as our fathers lived before. 
 
 With a homely table and open door. 
 
 But out on the pomp the upstart hires, 
 
 And that drives a man from the roof of his sires ! 
 
 XIX 
 
 I never can understand why they 
 
 Who founded thrones in a braver day, 
 
 Should cope with the heroes of 'change and mart 
 
 Whose splendour puts rulers and ruled apart. 
 
 Insults the lowly and saps the State, 
 
 Makes the servile cringe, and the manly hate. 
 
THE LAST NIGHT 91 
 
 XX 
 
 mb will write to me often, dear, when I'm gone, 
 ^ And tell me how everything goes on ; 
 
 If the trout spawn well, where the beagles meet. 
 Who is married or dies in the village street ; 
 And mind you send me the likeliest pup 
 Oi Fan's next litter. There, Win, cheer up ! 
 
FAREWELL TO SPRING 
 
 I SAW this morning, with a sudden smart, 
 
 Spring preparing to depart. 
 I know her well and so I told her all my heart. 
 
 II 
 
 " Why did you. Spring, your coming so delay. 
 
 If, now here, you cannot stay ? 
 You win my love and then unloving pass away. 
 
 Ill 
 
 " We waited, waited, O so long, so long, 
 
 Just to hear the ousel's song. 
 To-morrow t'will be hushed, to-day that is so strong. 
 
 IV 
 
 " Day after day, and dawn again on dawn, 
 
 Winter's shroud was on the lawn. 
 So still, so smooth, we thought 'twould never be \ 
 drawn. 
 
I 
 
 FAREWELL TO SPRING 93 
 
 ow that at last your welcome mimic snow 
 Doth upon the hawthorn blow, 
 
 tnot on the bough, but melts before we know. 
 V. 
 hath the primrose o'er the sordid mould 
 Lavished treasure, than behold ! 
 • wealth of simple joy is robbed of all its gold. 
 
 VII 
 
 "hen to the woods we hie with feet of mirth, 
 )fow the hyacinths have birth, 
 S ftly the blue of Heaven fades from the face of earth. 
 
 VIII 
 
 " ou with dry gusts and unrelenting wrack 
 
 pt the liquid cuckoo back. 
 - , even ere he goes, he turneth hoarse, alack ! 
 
 IX 
 
 '• hen, in the long warm nights of June, 
 
 ^Nightingales have got their tune, 
 T nr sweet woe dies, and we are beggared of the boon. 
 
 irst drops the bloom, then darkens the green leaf; 
 Everything in life is brief, 
 
 autumn's deepening gloom and winter's changeless 
 
 grief" 
 
94 FAREWELL TO SPRING 
 
 XI 
 
 Then with a smile thus answered me the Spring : 
 
 " To my voice and flight you ding, 
 For I, before I perch, again am on the wing. 
 
 XII 
 
 " With you were I the whole year round to stay, 
 
 'Twould be you that went away, 
 Your love made fickle by monotony of May. 
 
 XIII 
 
 " Love cannot live save upon love beyond. 
 
 Leaving you, I keep you fond, 
 Not letting you despair, but making you despond.] 
 
 XIV 
 
 " Farewell, and love me still, my lover dear, 
 
 Love me till another year, 
 And you, if you be true, again will find me here. 
 
 XV 
 
 Then darker, deeper, waxed the woods ; the ground 
 
 Flowerless turned and then embrowned ; 
 And less was of sweet scent, and less was of sweet soi 
 
 XVI 
 
 Mute was the mavis, moulted was the thorn. 
 
 Meads were cut, and lambs were shorn. 
 And I by Spring was left forsaken and forlorn. 
 
FAREWELL TO SPRING 95 
 
 XVII 
 
 )m, forsaken, shall I be until 
 
 rimrose peep and throstle shrill, 
 
 in the orchard gleam the outriding daffodil 
 
 XVIII 
 
 shall I know that Spring among the trees 
 [iding is, and that the breeze 
 will fling abroad odours and melodies. 
 
THE POET AND THE MUSE 
 
 (The Poet speaks) 
 
 Whither, and whence, and why hast fled ? 
 Thou art dumb, my muse; thou art dumb, thou art d^ 
 As a waterless stream, as a leafless tree. 
 What have I done to banish thee ? 
 
 But a moon ago, the whole day long 
 My ears were fuH of the sound of song ; 
 And still through my darkly silent dreams 
 Plashed the fitful music of far-ofl" streams. 
 
 Ill 
 
 When the night turned pale and the stars grew dir 
 The morning chanted a dewy hymn. 
 The fragrant languor of cradled noon 
 Was luUed by the hum of a self-sung tune. 
 
THE POET AND THE MUSE 
 
 IV 
 
 ime on the wings of a jocund lay, 
 sorrow in harmony passed away ; 
 the sunny hours of tideless time 
 
 buoyed on the surges of rolling rhyme. 
 
 moon went up in a cloudless sky, 
 ly but melodiously ; 
 
 the glitter of stars and the patter of rain 
 notes and chords of an endless strain. 
 
 VI 
 
 ind vision, and feeling, and sound, and scent, 
 l^ere the strings of a sensitive instrument, 
 hat silently, patiently, watched and waited, 
 .nd unto my soul reverberated. 
 
 VII 
 
 I the orchard reddens the rounded fruit 
 lid the yellowing leaves, but my voice is mute, 
 he thinned copse sighs like a heart forsaken, 
 at not one chord of my soul is shaken. 
 
 VIII 
 
 lirough the gloaming broadens the harvest moon ; 
 he fagged hind whistles his homeward tune ; 
 lie last load creaks up the hamlet hill ; 
 is only my voice, my voice that is still. 
 
 H 
 
 97 
 
98 THE POET AND THE MUSE 
 
 {The Muse answers) 
 
 Poet, look in your poet's heart. 
 It will tell you what keepeth us twain apart. 
 I have not left you ; I still am near. 
 But a music not mine enchants your ear. 
 
 II 
 
 Another hath entered and nestles deep 
 In the lap of your love, like a babe asleep. 
 You watch her breathing from morn till night 
 She is all your hearing and all your sight. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Yet fear not, poet, to do me wrong. 
 She is sweeter far than the sweetest song. 
 One looks and listens the way she went, 
 As towards lark that is lost in the firmament. 
 
 IV 
 
 So gladly to her I you resign, 
 Her caress is tenderer much than mine ; 
 I hover round you, and hear her kiss 
 With wonder at its melodiousness. 
 
THE POET AND THE MUSE 99 
 
 you gaze on the moon, you see but her. 
 iear her feet when the branches stir ; 
 inrise and sunset and starHght only 
 their beauty, without her, feel more lonely. 
 
 VI 
 
 should you, poet, hope to sing ? 
 ite of Love hath a single string. 
 te is sweet as the coo of the dove ; 
 is only one note, and the note is Love. 
 
 VII 
 
 ; It when once you have paired and built your nest, 
 id can brood therein with a settled breast, 
 )U will sing once more, and your voice will stir 
 I hearts with the sweetness gained from her. 
 
EXTRACT FROM "A LETTER FRO: 
 ITALY " 
 
 Shortly, shortly, we shall meet. 
 Southern skies awhile are sweet ; 
 But in whatso land I roam, 
 Half my heart remains at home. 
 Tell me, for I long to hear. 
 Tidings of our English year. 
 Was the cuckoo soon or late? 
 Beg the primroses to wait. 
 That their homely smile may greet 
 Faithfully returning feet. 
 Have the apple blossoms burst ? 
 Is the oak or ash the first ? 
 Are there snowballs on the guelder ? 
 Can you scent as yet the elder ? 
 On the bankside that we know. 
 Is the golden gorse ablow. 
 Like love's evergreen delight 
 Never out of season quite. 
 But most prodigal in Spring, 
 
A LETTER FROM ITALY loi 
 
 ^hen the whitethroats pair and sing ? 
 'ell me, tell me, most of all, 
 
 len you hear the thrushes call, 
 ''hen you see soft shadows fleeting 
 >'er the grass where lambs are bleating, 
 
 len the lyric lark, returning 
 i'rom the mirage of its yearning, — 
 ike a fountain that in vain 
 Lises but to fall again, — 
 Seeks its nest with drooping wing, 
 >o you miss me from the Spring ? 
 
 Quickly then I come. Adieu, 
 [ouldering arch and ether blue ! 
 For in you I sure shall find 
 All that here I leave behind : 
 Steadfastness of Roman rays 
 In the candour of your gaze ; 
 In your friendship comfort more 
 Than in warmth of Oscan shore ; 
 In the smiles that light your mouth, 
 All the sunshine of the South. 
 
^ 
 
 EXTRACT FROM "LOVE'S 
 WIDOWHOOD " 
 
 The cottage where she dwelt was long and low. 
 With sloping red-tiled roof and gabled front, 
 And timbered eaves that broke the weather's brui 
 Ask you its age and date ? None cared to know. 
 Save 'twas that goodly time which men call Long-ag 
 
 And each new generation, as it chose, 
 Added a dormer there, a gable here, 
 So had it grown more human year by year. 
 It had a look of ripeness and repose, 
 And up its kindly walls there clambered many a ros 
 
 And sooth a constant smile it well might wear 
 For on a garden ever did it gaze, 
 That still decoyed the sunshine's shifting rays, 
 And bloomed with flowers which brightened s 
 air. 
 That folks who passed would halt and wish their 
 was there. 
 
 tl» 
 
 m 
 
LOVE'S WIDOWHOOD 
 
 103 
 
 ■•fashioned balsams, snapdragons red and white, 
 rhich the sedulous bees all day were throng, 
 tening from each, too busy to stay long ; 
 
 evening-primroses, that shun strong light, 
 idle with the stars and commerce with the night. 
 
 m-daisies tall, and tufts of crimson phlox, 
 dainty white anemones that bear 
 jtem name, and eastern beauty wear ; 
 ie haughty lilies, homely-smelling stocks, 
 sunflowers green and gold, and gorgeous 
 hocks. 
 
 holly- 
 
 [n truth there is no flower nor leaf that breathes, 
 Rut found a hospitable shelter there, 
 :ng fondly fostered, so that it was fair. 
 r proud gladioli with formal sheaths, 
 woodbine clomb and fell in long unfettered 
 wreaths. 
 
 Full many a flower there was you had not found, 
 Save for the scent its modesty exhaled. 
 When noonday heat or gloaming dews prevailed, 
 A fragrant freshness floated from the ground, 
 4d smell of mignonette was everywhere around. 
 
I04 LOVE'S WIDOWHOOD 
 
 Behind it was a pleasance free from weeds, 
 Where every household herb and tuber grew : 
 Kale of all kinds, bediamonded with dew. 
 Each quick green crop that quick green crop si 
 ceeds. 
 And all nutritious plants that prosper for man's needs. 
 
 But here no less did flowers abound, with fruits 
 That in September are themselves like flowers : 
 Rows of sweet-pea and honeysuckle bowers ; 
 Red rustic apples, pears in russet suits. 
 And china-asters prim, and medlar's trailing shoots. 
 
 There too grew southernwood, for courtship's aid, 
 And faithful lavender, one happy May 
 Brought from the garden of Anne Hathaway. 
 For human wants can thus be comely made. 
 And use with beauty dwell, unshamed and unafraid. 
 
 Beyond it was an orchard thick with trees. 
 Whose branches now were bowed down to the grour 
 By clustering pippins, juicy, plump and sound. 
 Where it was sweet to saunter at one's ease. 
 Screened from too sultry rays, or sheltered from tl 
 breeze. 
 
LOVE'S WIDOWHOOD 
 
 105 
 
 it ran a long straight alley green, 
 with turf and vaulted in with leaves ; 
 
 ler, on idle mornings, restful eves, 
 
 light repair, and, pacing all unseen, 
 twin life and death, and ponder what they 
 
 mean. 
 
A WINTRY PICTURE 
 
 Now where the bare sky spans the landscape bare. 
 Up long brown fallows creeps the slow brown team 
 Scattering the seed-corn that must sleep and dream 
 Till by Spring's carillon awakened there. 
 Ruffling the tangles of his thicket hair, 
 The stripling yokel steadies now the beam, 
 Now strides erect with cheeks that glow and gleam 
 And whistles shrewdly to the spacious air. 
 Lured onward to the distance dim and blear. 
 The road crawls weary of the travelled miles : 
 The kine stand cowering in unmoving files ; 
 The shrewmouse rustles through the bracken sere 
 And, in the sculptured woodland's leafless aisles, 
 The robin chants the vespers of the year. 
 
CHIDE NOT AT THE SEASONS 
 
 [IDE hot at the seasons, for if Spring 
 |th backward look refuses to be fair, 
 
 Love still more than April makes me sing, 
 id shows May blossom in the bleak March air. 
 Should Summer fail its tryst, or June delay 
 To wreathe my porch with roses red and pale. 
 Her breath is sweeter than the new-mown hay. 
 Her touch more clinging than the woodbine's trail 
 Let Autumn like a spendthrift waste the year. 
 And reap no harvest save the fallen leaves. 
 My Love still ripeneth, though she grows not sere, 
 And smiles enthroned upon our piled-up sheaves. 
 And last, when miser Winter docks the days. 
 She warms my hearth and keeps my hopes ablaze. 
 
I 
 
 AN APRIL LOVE 
 
 Nay, be not June, nor yet December, dear. 
 But April always, as I find thee now : 
 A constant freshness unto me be thou, 
 And not the ripeness that must soon be sere. 
 Why should I be Time's dupe, and wish more near 
 The sobering harvest of thy vernal vow ? 
 I am content, so still across thy brow 
 Returning smile chase transitory tear. 
 Then scatter thy April heart in sunny showers ; 
 I crave nor Summer drouth nor Winter sleet : 
 As Spring be fickle, so thou be as sweet ; 
 With half-kept promise tantalise the hours ; 
 And let Love's frolic hands and woodland feet 
 Fill high the lap of Life with wilding flowers. 
 
IN THE HEART OF THE FOREST 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 HEARD the voice of my own true love 
 Ripple the sunny weather, 
 rhen away, as a dove that follows a dove, 
 We flitted through woods together. 
 
 II 
 
 re was not a bush nor branch nor spray 
 But with song was swaying and ringing. 
 ' Let us ask of the birds what means their lay, 
 And what is it prompts their singing." 
 
 Ill 
 
 ^e paused where the stichwort and speedwell grew 
 Mid a forest of grasses fairy : 
 >m out of the covert the cushat flew. 
 And the squirrel perched shy and wary. 
 
no IN THE HEART OF THE FOREST 
 
 IV 
 
 On an elm-tree top shrilled a misselthrush proud 
 
 Disdaining shelter or screening. 
 " Now what is it makes you pipe so loud, 
 
 And what is your music's meaning ? 
 
 V 
 
 " Your matins begin ere the dewdrop sinks 
 To the heart of the moist musk-roses, 
 
 And your vespers last till the first star winks, 
 And the vigilant woodreeve dozes." 
 
 VI 
 
 Then louder, still louder he shrilled : "I sing 
 For the pleasure and pride of shrilling. 
 
 For the sheen and the sap and the showers of Spring 
 That fill me to overfilling. 
 
 VII 
 
 " Yet a something deeper than Spring-time, though 
 It is Spring-like, my throat keeps flooding : 
 
 Peep soft at my mate, — she is there below, — 
 Where the bramble trails are budding. 
 
 VIII 
 
 " She sits on the nest and she never stirs ; 
 
 She is true to the trust I gave her ; 
 And what were my love if I cheered not hers 
 
 As long as my throat can quaver?" 
 
 i 
 
IN THE HEART OF THE FOREST in 
 
 IX 
 
 quavered on, till asudden we heard 
 voice that called "Cuckoo !" and fleeted, 
 ^y all day is your name by yourself, vain bird, 
 jpeated and still repeated?" 
 
 "Cuckoo! Cuck! Cuck! Cuck-oo !" he called, 
 id he laughed and he chuckled cheerly ; 
 ir hearts they run dry and your heads grow bald. 
 It I come back with April yearly. 
 
 XI 
 
 come in the month that is sweet, so sweet. 
 Though its sweetness be frail and fickle, 
 the season when shower and sunshine meet, 
 And you reck not of Autumn's sickle. 
 
 XII 
 
 t flout at the April loves of men 
 
 And the kisses of trustful maidens ; 
 id then I call ' Cuckoo ! ' again, again, 
 
 With a jeering and jocund cadence. 
 
 XIII 
 
 ^Vhen the hawthorn blows and the yaffel mates, 
 
 I sing and am silent never; 
 
 St as love of itself in the May-time prates. 
 
 As though it will last for ever ! 
 
112 IN THE HEART OF THE FOREST 
 
 XIV 
 
 " And in June, ere I go, I double the note, 
 
 As I flit from cover to cover : 
 Are not vows, at the last, repeated by rote 
 
 By fading and fleeting lover?" 
 
 XV 
 
 A tear trickled down my true love's cheek 
 At the words of the mocking rover ; 
 
 She clung to my side, but she did not speak, 
 And I kissed her over and over. 
 
 XVI 
 
 And while she leaned on my heart as though 
 Her love in its depths was rooting. 
 
 There rose from the thicket behind us, slow, 
 O such a silvery fluting ! 
 
 XVII 
 
 When the long smooth note, as it seemed, must bre^ 
 
 It fell in a swift sweet treble. 
 Like the sound that is made when a stream from a la 
 
 Gurgles o'er stone and pebble. | 
 
 XVIII 
 
 And I cried, " O nightingale ! tell me true. 
 
 Is your music rapture or weeping ? 
 And why do you sing the whole night through, 
 
 When the rest of the world is sleeping?" 
 
IN THE HEART OF THE FOREST 113 
 
 XIX 
 
 it fluted : " My notes are of love's pure strain, 
 id could there be descant fitter ? 
 [why do you sever joy and pain, 
 ice love is both sweet and bitter ? 
 
 song now wails of the sighs, the tears, 
 'he long absence that makes love languish ; 
 thrills with its fluttering hopes and fears, 
 rapture, — again its anguish. 
 
 XXI 
 
 And why should my notes be hushed at night ? 
 
 Why sing in the sunlight only ? 
 ove loves when 'tis dark, as when 'tis bright, 
 
 Nor ceaseth because 'tis lonely." 
 
 XXII 
 
 y love looked up with a happy smile, 
 (For a moment the woods were soundless) : 
 
 he smile of a heart that knows no guile. 
 And whose trust is deep and boundless. 
 
 XXIII 
 
 nd as I smiled that her smile betrayed 
 The fulness of love's surrender, 
 
 a note from the heart of the forest shade, 
 O so soft, and smooth, and tender ! 
 I 
 
114 IN THE HEART OF THE FOREST 
 
 XXIV 
 
 'Twas but one note, and it seemed to brood 
 
 On its own sufficing sweetness ; 
 That cooed, and cooed, and again but cooed 
 
 In a round, self-same completeness. 
 
 XXV 
 
 Then I said, " There is, ringdove, endless bliss 
 In the sound that you keep renewing : 
 
 But have you no other note than this, 
 And why are you always cooing?" 
 
 XXVI 
 
 The ringdove answered : " I too descant 
 Of love as the woods keep closing ; 
 
 Not of spring-time loves that exult and pant, 
 But of harvest love reposing. 
 
 . XXVII 
 
 " If I coo all day on the self-same bough. 
 
 While the noisy popinjay ranges, 
 'Tis that love which is mellow keeps its vow, 
 
 And callow love shifts and changes. 
 
 XXVIII 
 
 " When summer shall silence the merle's loud thr 
 And the nightingale's sweet sad singing, 
 
 You still will hear my contented note, 
 On the branch where I now am clinging. 
 
■ 
 
 IN THE HEART OF THE FOREST 115 
 
 XXIX 
 
 •"or the rapture of fancy surely wanes, 
 And anguish is lulled by reason ; 
 It the tender note of the heart remains 
 Through all changes of leaf and season." 
 
 XXX 
 
 rhen we plunged in the forest, my love and I, 
 In the forest plunged deeper and deeper, 
 
 nil none could behold us save only the sky. 
 Through a trellis of branch and creeper. 
 
 XXXI 
 
 d we paired and nested away from sight 
 In a bower of woodbine pearly ; 
 And she broods on our love from mom to night, 
 And I sing to her late and early. 
 
 XXXII 
 
 Nor till Death shall have stripped our lives as bare 
 
 As the forest in wintry weather, 
 Will the world find the nest in the covert where 
 
 We dwelt, loved, and sang together. 
 
WHY ENGLAND IS CONSERVATIVE 
 
 Because of our dear Mother, the fair Past, 
 On whom twin Hope and Memory safely lean, 
 And from whose fostering wisdom none shall wean 
 Their love and faith, while love and faith shall last 
 Mother of happy homes and Empire vast. 
 Of hamlets meek, and many a proud demesne. 
 Blue spires of cottage smoke 'mong woodlands greei 
 And comely altars where no stone is cast. 
 And shall we barter these for gaping Throne, 
 Dismantled towers, mean plots without a tree, 
 A herd of hinds too equal to be free. 
 Greedy of other's, jealous of their own, 
 And, where sweet Order now breathes cadenced tor 
 Envy, and hate, and all uncharity ? 
 
 II 
 
 Banish the fear ! 'Twere infamy to yield 
 
 To folly what to force had been denied, 
 
 Or in the Senate quail before the tide 
 
 We should have stemmed and routed in the field. 
 
WHY ENGLAND IS CONSERVATIVE 117 
 
 ;hough no more we brandish sword and shield, 
 
 's keen blade is ready at our side, 
 
 lanly brains, in wisdom panoplied, 
 
 lil the shafts that treacherous sophists wield. 
 
 ►irit of our fathers is not quelled. 
 Weapons valid even as those they bore, 
 ll nain, Throne, Altar, still may be upheld, 
 S we disdain, as they disdained of yore, 
 I foreign froth that foams against our shore, 
 ( )• by its white cliffs to be repelled ! 
 
 Ill 
 
 cfore, chime sweet and safely, village bells, 
 i, rustic chancels, woo to reverent prayer, 
 ' wise and simple, to the porch repair 
 d which Death, slumbering, dreamlike heaves and 
 swells. 
 Ii hound and horn in wintry woods and dells 
 ; ke jocund music though the boughs be bare, 
 ^d whistling yokel guide his gleaming share 
 lird by the homes where gentle lordship dwells, 
 lerefore sit high enthroned on every hill, 
 
 ority ! and loved in every vale ; 
 .1 1, old Tradition, falter in the tale 
 < lowly valour led by lofty will : 
 . id, though the throats of envy rage and rail, 
 " fair proud England proud fair England still ! 
 
THE OWL AND THE LARK 
 
 A GRIZZLED owl at midnight moped 
 Where thick the ivy glistened ; 
 
 So I, who long have vainly groped 
 For wisdom, leaned and listened. 
 
 Its perch was firm, its aspect staid. 
 Its big eyes gleamed and brightened ; 
 
 Now, now at last, will doubt be laid, 
 Now yearning be enlightened. 
 
 Ill 
 
 " Tu-whit ! Tu-whoo ! " the bird discoursed, 
 " Tu-whoo ! Tu-whit !" repeated : 
 
 Showing how matter was, when forced 
 Through space, condensed and heated ; 
 
THE OWL AND THE LARK 
 
 119 
 
 IV 
 
 How rent, but spinning still, 'twas sphered 
 
 In star, and orb, and planet, 
 Where, as it cooled, live germs appeared 
 
 In lias, sand, and granite : 
 
 And, last, since nothing 'neath the sun 
 
 Avoids material tether. 
 How life must end, when once begun, 
 
 In scale, and hoof, and feather. 
 
 VI 
 
 Then, flapping from the ivy-tod. 
 It slouched around the gable. 
 
 And, perching there, discussed if God 
 Be God, or but a fable. 
 
 VII 
 
 In pompous scales Free Will and Fate 
 Were placed, and poised, and dangled. 
 
 And riddles small from riddles great 
 Expertly disentangled. 
 
 VIII 
 
 It drew betwixt " Tu-whit," " Tu-whoo," 
 Distinctions nice and nicer : 
 
 The bird was very wise, I knew. 
 But I grew no whit wiser. 
 
I20 THE OWL AND THE LARK 
 
 IX 
 
 Then, letting metaphysics slip, 
 It mumbled moral thunder ; 
 
 Showing how Virtue's self will trip 
 If Reason chance to blunder. 
 
 Its pleated wings adown its breast 
 
 Were like a surplice folded ; 
 And, if the truth must be confessed, 
 
 It threatened me and scolded. 
 
 XI 
 
 I thought the lecture somewhat long. 
 
 Impatient for its ending ; 
 When, sudden, came a burst of song ! 
 
 It was the lark ascending. 
 
 XII 
 
 Dew gleamed in many a jewelled cup. 
 The air was bright and gracious ; 
 
 And away the wings and the song went up, 
 Up through the ether spacious. 
 
 XIII 
 
 They bubbled, rippled, up the dome, 
 
 In sprays of silvery trilling ; 
 Like endless fountain's lyric foam. 
 
 Still falling, still refilling. 
 
THE OWL AND THE LARK 
 
 121 
 
 XIV 
 
 And when I could no more descry 
 The bird, I still could hear it ; 
 
 For sight, but not for soul, too higl 
 Unseen but certain Spirit. 
 
 X-XO^' 
 
 ^ 
 
 
 XV 
 
 All that the perched owl's puckered brow 
 
 Had vainly bid me ponder, 
 The lark's light wings were solving now 
 
 In the roofless dome up yonder. 
 
 XVI 
 
 Then brief as lightning-flash, — no more, — 
 
 I passed beyond the Finite ; 
 And, borne past Heaven's wide-open door. 
 
 Saw everything within it. 
 
 XVII 
 
 Slow showering down from cloudless sphere, 
 
 The wanderer Elysian 
 Dropped nearer, clearer, to the ear, 
 
 Then back into the vision. 
 
 XVIII 
 
 )n his own song he seemed to swim ; 
 
 Diving through song, descended : 
 )ince I had been to Heaven with him, 
 
 Earth now was apprehended. 
 
122 THE OWL AND THE LARK 
 
 XIX 
 
 O souls perplexed by hood and cowl, 
 Fain would you find a teacher, 
 
 Consult the lark and not the owl, 
 The poet, not the preacher. 
 
 XX 
 
 While brains mechanic vainly weave 
 The web and woof of thinking. 
 
 Go, mount up with the lark, and leave 
 The bird of wisdom blinking. 
 
IN THE MONTH WHEN SINGS 
 THE CUCKOO 
 
 Hark ! Spring is coming. Her herald sings, 
 
 Cuckoo ! 
 The air resounds and the woodland rings, 
 
 Cuckoo ! Cuckoo ! 
 Leave the milking pail and the mantling cream, 
 And down by the meadow, and up by the stream. 
 Where movement is music and life a dream. 
 
 In the month when sings the cuckoo. 
 
 Away with old Winter's frowns and fears, 
 
 Cuckoo ! Cuckoo ! 
 Now May with a smile dries April's tears. 
 
 Cuckoo ! 
 When the bees are humming in bloom and bud, 
 And the kine sit chewing the moist green cud. 
 Shall the snow not melt in a maiden's blood. 
 
 In the month when sings the cuckoo ? 
 
124 IN THE MONTH 
 
 III 
 
 The popinjay mates and the lapwing woos ; 
 
 Cuckoo ! 
 In the lane is a footstep. I wonder whose ? 
 
 Cuckoo ! Cuckoo ! 
 How sweet are low whispers ! and sweet, so sweet, 
 When the warm hands touch and the shy lips meet. 
 And sorrel and woodruff are round our feet, 
 
 In the month when sings the cuckoo. 
 
 IV 
 
 Your face is as fragrant as moist musk-rose ; 
 
 Cuckoo ! Cuckoo ! 
 All the year in your cheek the windflower blows ; 
 
 Cuckoo ! Cuckoo ! 
 You flit as blithely as bird on wing ; 
 And when you answer, and when they sing, 
 I know not if they, or You, be Spring, 
 
 In the month when pairs the cuckoo. 
 
 Will you love me still when the blossom droops ? 
 
 " Cuckoo ! 
 When the cracked husk falls and the fieldfare troof 
 
 Cuckoo ! 
 Let sere leaf or snowdrift shade your brow, 
 By the soul of the Spring, sweet-heart, I vow, 
 I will love you then as I love you now. 
 
 In the month when sings the cuckoo. 
 
WHEN SINGS THE CUCKOO 125 
 
 VI 
 
 )th, smooth is the sward where the loosestrife grows, 
 
 Cuckoo ! Cuckoo ! 
 lie and hear in a dreamy doze, 
 
 Cuckoo ! Cuckoo ! Cuckoo ! 
 'smooth is the curve of a maiden's cheek, 
 
 she loves to listen but fears to speak, 
 we yearn but we know not what we seek, 
 In the month when sings the cuckoo. 
 
 VII 
 
 warm mid summer we hear no more. 
 
 Cuckoo ! 
 vnd August brings not, with all its store, 
 
 Cuckoo ! 
 Autumn shivers on Winter's brink, 
 the wet wind wails through crevice and chink, 
 Ve gaze at the logs, and sadly think 
 
 Of the month when called the cuckoo. 
 
 VIII 
 
 Jut the cuckoo comes back and shouts once more. 
 
 Cuckoo ! 
 \nd the world is as young as it was before ; 
 
 Cuckoo ! Cuckoo ! 
 ^t grows not older for mortal tears, 
 i'or the falsehood of men or for women's fears ; 
 Tis as young as it was in the bygone years. 
 When first was heard the cuckoo. 
 
 I 
 
126 IN THE MONTH 
 
 IX 
 
 I will love you then as I love you now. 
 
 Cuckoo ! 
 What cares the Spring for a broken vow ? 
 
 Cuckoo ! Cuckoo ! 
 The broods of last year are pairing, this ; 
 And there never will lack, while love is bliss, 
 Fresh ears to cozen, fresh lips to kiss, 
 
 In the month when sings the cuckoo. 
 
 X 
 
 O cruel bird ! will you never have done ? 
 
 Cuckoo ! Cuckoo ! Cuckoo ! 
 You sing for the cloud, as you sang for the sun ; 
 
 Cuckoo ! Cuckoo ! 
 You mock me now as you mocked me then, 
 When I knew not yet that the loves of men 
 Are as brief as the glamour of glade and glen. 
 And the glee of the fleeting cuckoo. 
 
 XI 
 
 O, to lie once more in the long fresh grass. 
 
 Cuckoo ! 
 And dream of the sounds and scents that pass ; 
 
 Cuckoo ! Cuckoo ! 
 To savour the woodbine, surmise the dove, 
 With no roof save the far-off sky above. 
 And a curtain of kisses round couch of love, 
 While distantly called the cuckoo. 
 
WHEN SINGS THE CUCKOO 127 
 
 XII 
 
 But if now I slept, I should sleep to wake 
 To the sleepless pang and the dreamless ache, 
 To the wild babe blossom within my heart, 
 To the darkening terror and swelling smart. 
 To the searching look and the words apart, 
 
 And the hint of the tell-tale cuckoo. 
 
 XIII 
 
 The meadow grows thick, and the stream runs deep, 
 
 Cuckoo ! 
 Where the aspens quake and the willows weep ; 
 
 Cuckoo ! Cuckoo ! 
 The dew of the night and the morning heat 
 Will close up the track of my farewell feet : — 
 So good-bye to the life that once was sweet, 
 When so sweetly called the cuckoo. 
 
 XIV 
 
 The kine are unmilked, and the cream unchumed, 
 
 Cuckoo ! 
 The pillow unpressed, and the quilt unturned, 
 
 Cuckoo ! Cuckoo ! 
 'Twas easy to gibe at a beldame's fear 
 For the quick brief blush and the sidelong tear ; 
 But if maids will gad in the youth of the year. 
 
 They should heed what says the cuckoo. 
 
28 WHEN SINGS THE CUCKOO 
 
 XV 
 
 There are marks in the meadow laid up for hay, 
 
 Cucko( 
 And the tread of a foot where no foot should stray : 
 
 Cuckoo ! Cuckoi 
 The banks of the pool are broken down, 
 Where the water is quiet and deep and brown ;— 
 The very spot, if one longed to drown. 
 
 And no more to hear the cuckoo. 
 
 XVI 
 
 'Tis a full taut net and a heavy haul. 
 
 Cuckoo ! Cucko 
 Look ! her auburn hair and her trim new shawl ! 
 
 Cuckoo ! Cucko 
 Draw a bit this way where 'tis not so steep ; 
 There, cover her face ! She but seems asleep ; 
 While the swallows skim and the graylings leap, 
 And joyously sings the cuckoo. 
 

 A MARCH MINSTREL 
 
 Hail ! once again, that sweet strong note ! 
 
 Loud on my loftiest larch, 
 Thou quaverest with thy mottled throat, 
 
 Brave minstrel of bleak March ! 
 
 II 
 
 Hearing thee flute, who pines or grieves 
 For vernal smiles and showers ? 
 
 Thy voice is greener than the leaves, 
 And fresher than the flowers. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Scorning to wait for tuneful May 
 When every throat can sing, 
 
 Thou floutest Winter with thy lay, 
 And art thyself the Spring. 
 
I30 A MARCH MINSTREL 
 
 IV 
 
 While daffodils, half mournful still, 
 Muffle their golden bells, 
 
 Thy silvery peal o'er landscape chill 
 Surges, and sinks, and swells. 
 
 Across the unsheltered pasture floats 
 The young lamb's shivering bleat : 
 
 There is no trembling in thy notes, 
 For all the snow and sleet. 
 
 VI 
 
 Let the bullace bide till frosts have ceased. 
 
 The blackthorn loiter long ; 
 Undaunted by the blustering east, 
 
 Thou burgeonest into song. 
 
 VII 
 
 Yet who can wonder thou dost dare 
 
 Confront what others flee ? 
 Thy carol cuts the keen March air 
 
 Keener than it cuts Thee. 
 
 VIII 
 
 The selfish cuckoo tarrieth till 
 
 April repays his boast. 
 Thou, thou art lavish of thy trill, 
 
 Now when we need it most. 
 
A MARCH MINSTREL 131 
 
 IX 
 
 The nightingale, while birds are coy, 
 
 Delays to chant its grief. 
 Brave throstle ! thou dost pipe for joy, 
 
 With never a bough in leaf. 
 
 X 
 
 Even fond turtle-doves forbear 
 
 To coo till woods are warm : 
 Thou hast the heart to love and pair 
 
 Ere the cherry blossoms swarm. 
 
 XI 
 
 The skylark, fluttering to be heard 
 
 In realms beyond his birth, 
 Soars vainly heavenward. Thou, wise bird ! 
 
 Art satisfied with earth. 
 
 XII 
 
 Thy home is not upon the ground. 
 
 Thy hope not in the sky : 
 Near to thy nest thy notes resound. 
 
 Neither too low nor high. 
 
 XIII 
 
 Blow what wind will, thou dost rejoice 
 
 To carol, and build, and woo. 
 Throstle ! to me impart thy voice ; 
 
 Impart thy wisdom too. 
 
TO LORD TENNYSON 
 
 Poet ! in other lands, when Spring no more 
 Gleams o'er the grass, nor in the thicket-side 
 Plays at being lost and laughs to be descried. 
 And blooms lie wilted on the orchard floor, 
 Then the sweet birds that from ^gean shore 
 Across Ausonian breakers thither hied. 
 Own April's music in their breast hath died, 
 And croft and copse resound not as before. 
 But, in this privileged Isle, this brave, this blest 
 This deathless England, it seems always Spring. 
 Though graver wax the days. Song takes not wii 
 In Autumn boughs it builds another nest : 
 Even from the snow we lift our hearts and sing. 
 And still your voice is heard above the rest. 
 
A WILD ROSE 
 
 The first wild rose in wayside hedge, 
 This year I wandering see, 
 
 I pluck, and send it as a pledge, 
 My own Wild Rose, to Thee. 
 
 II 
 
 For when my gaze first met thy gaze. 
 We were knee-deep in June : 
 
 The nights were only dreamier days. 
 And all the hours in tune. 
 
 Ill 
 
 I found thee, like the eglantine. 
 
 Sweet, simple, and apart ; 
 And, from that hour, thy smile hath been 
 
 The flower that scents my heart. 
 
134 A WILD ROSE 
 
 IV 
 
 And, ever since, when tendrils grace 
 Young copse or weathered bole 
 
 With rosebuds, straight I see thy face, 
 And gaze into thy soul. 
 
 A natural bud of love Thou art. 
 Where, gazing down, I view, 
 
 Deep hidden in thy fragrant heart, 
 A drop of heavenly dew. 
 
 VI 
 
 Go, wild rose, to my Wild Rose dear -, 
 Bid her come swift and soon. 
 
 O would that She were always here ! 
 It then were always June. 
 
LOOK SEAWARD, SENTINEL! 
 
 Look seaward, Sentinel, and tell the land 
 What you behold. 
 
 Sentinel 
 
 t see the deep-ploughed furrows of the main 
 
 Bristling with harvest ; funnel, and keel, and shroud, 
 Heaving and hurrying hither through gale and cloud. 
 
 Winged by their burdens ; argosies of grain. 
 
 Flocks of strange breed and herds of southern strain, 
 Fantastic stuffs and fruits of tropic bloom, 
 
 Antarctic fleece and equatorial spice. 
 
 Cargoes of cotton, and flax, and silk, and rice. 
 Food for the hearth and staples for the loom : 
 
 Huge vats of sugar, casks of wine and oil, 
 Summoned from every sea to one sole shore 
 By Empire's sceptre ; the converging store 
 
 Of Trade's pacific universal spoil. 
 
 And heaving and hurrying hitherward to bring 
 Tribute from every zone, they lift their voices. 
 And, as a strong man revels and rejoices. 
 
 They loudly and lustily chant, and this the song they sing. 
 
136 LOOK SEAWARD, SENTINEL 
 
 y(2!H0RUs OF Home-coming Ships m 
 
 From the uttermost bound a 
 
 Of the wind and the foam, 
 From creek and from sound. 
 
 We are hastening home. 
 We are laden with treasure 
 
 From ransacked seas, 
 To charm your leisure, 
 
 To grace your ease. 
 We have trodden the billows, 
 
 And tracked the ford, 
 To soften your pillows. 
 
 To heap your board. 
 The hills have been shattered, 
 The forests scattered, 
 Our white sails tattered. 
 
 To swell your hoard. 
 Is it blossom, or fruit, or 
 
 Seed, you crave ? 
 The land is your suitor. 
 
 The sea your slave. 
 We have raced with the swallows, 
 
 'And threaded the floes 
 Where the walrus wallows 
 
 Mid melting snows ; 
 Sought regions torrid, 
 
 And realms of sleet, 
 To gem your forehead, 
 
 To swathe your feet. 
 
 ( 
 
LOOK SEAWARD, SENTINEL 
 
 137 
 
 And behold, now we tender, 
 
 With pennons unfurled. 
 For your comfort and splendour^'"-j;^I jQj 
 
 The wealth of the world/ f/ O'J^ ^ ^/^ ■ 
 
 '^^ 
 
 :?i? 
 
 Look landward, Sentinel, and tell the sea 
 What you behold. 
 
 Sentinel 
 
 a land of liberty and peace, 
 ncient in glory and strength, but young in mien. 
 
 Like immemorial forest Spring makes green, 
 And whose boughs broaden as the years increase : 
 Where ruminating hide and grazing fleece 
 
 Dapple lush meadows diapered with flowers, 
 Lambs bleat, birds carol, rosy children roam, 
 The glad hind whistles as he wendeth home, 
 
 And red roofs nestle under gray church-towers : 
 Whose sons have in their fearless eyes the light 
 
 Of centuries of fame and battles won 
 
 And Empire ranging roundward with the sun ; 
 Whose fair frank daughters gleam upon the sight 
 
 Fresh as the dawn and florid as the Spring ; 
 And, as from lowly porch and lordly dwelling 
 They sally forth and meet, with voices swelling 
 
 Harmoniously they chant, and this the song they sing. 
 
138 LOOK SEAWARD, SENTINEL 
 
 Chorus of Islanders 
 
 Blest be the cliffs and the crags that girdle 
 
 Our island home, 
 And blest, thrice blest, the tempests that scourge i 
 curdle 
 
 The sea into foam. 
 For the nations over the wave eat, sleep, and labour. 
 
 In doubt and dread ; 
 The spear is the child at their threshold, the naked sa 
 
 The bride by their bed. 
 But we behind bulwarks of brine and rampart of break 
 
 Year after year, 
 Drop the seed in the drill and the furrow, and har 
 our acres. 
 
 And feel no fear. 
 While they wattle their flocks, and remember the p 
 and shudder, 
 
 And finger the sword, 
 Our lambs go safe to the ewes, our calves to the udde 
 
 Our fruits to the board. 
 Welcome the sleet that blinds and the blasts that bufl 
 
 And welcome the roar 
 Of the storms that swoop on the sea and rend and roug 
 
 Around our shore. 
 For in safety the yearling fattens, the heifer browses. 
 
 The herds increase ; 
 In safety we fondle our babes, in safetyour spouses. 
 
 In safety, freedom, and peace. / 
 
LOOK SEAWARD, SENTINEL 139 
 
 III 
 
 Look again seaward, but beyond the sea, 
 And say what you behold. 
 
 Sentinel 
 
 e weeping and wailing, and the bridegroom ruthlessly 
 
 torn 
 i'rom the clinging arms of the bride, and I see and I hear 
 [Ilanking of steel and clarions clamouring clear, 
 
 I suckling mothers, wedded but forlorn, 
 iling their babes amid the half-cut com ; 
 )se fathers, as the homely days grew ripe 
 
 Vhen fruits are plucked and mellow harvest stored, 
 the soft curving sickle from their gripe 
 ?imelessly wrenched, and in its place a sword. 
 
 I I see the nations, like to restless waves, 
 lurging against each other, withal afraid 
 
 :lose and clash, lest blade prove strong as blade, 
 
 ^nd even the victor win but worthless graves. 
 
 I wearying of the days and nights that bring 
 
 ^or respite nor reward, they moan and murmur 
 
 Jnder their breath, until with accents firmer 
 
 y sadly and surlily chant, and this the song they sing. 
 
 Chorus of Armed Nations 
 
 How long shall we, we only, bear the burden 
 And sweat beneath the strain 
 
I40 LOOK SEAWARD, SENTINEL 
 
 Of iron Peace, while others gain the guerdon, 
 
 And prosper on our pain ? 
 Lo ! in their fancied fortress girt with waters 
 
 That neither fall nor fail, 
 They hear of rapine and they read of slaughters. 
 
 As of some touching tale. 
 No more they care to subjugate the billow, 
 
 Or dominate the blast ; 
 Supine they lie on the luxurious pillow 
 
 Of their resplendent Past. 
 Lulled into arrogant languor by the glories 
 
 Of their adventurous sires, 
 They tell each other old heroic stories 
 
 By comfortable fires. 
 Why should they pile up wealth who do not laboi 
 
 Why, sowing not, should reap ? 
 Let us steal out, and with unslumbering sabre, 
 
 Assassinate their sleep. 
 
 IV 
 
 Look again landward, Sentinel, and say 
 What there you now behold. 
 
 Sentinel 
 
 I see the sports deserted on the green. 
 
 And song and revel hushed within the hall ; 
 And I hear strong voices to strong voices call 
 
 To muster round the shore in martial sheen. 
 
I 
 
 LOOK SEAWARD, SENTINEL 141 
 
 id north of Trent and south of Thames are seen 
 
 Furnace and forge and factory vomiting fire, 
 hile swarthy faces, labouring through the night, 
 la giant anvils giant hammers smite, 
 
 From molten metal moulding hoop and tire. 
 11 port and arsenal rhythmic thunders ring, 
 
 And through their gateways laden tumbrils rattle ; 
 
 And England's sinewy striplings, trim for battle, 
 1 unison cheer and chant, and this the song they sing 
 
 Chorus of Islanders 
 
 Sweet are the ways of peace, and sweet 
 
 The gales that fan the foam 
 ;That sports with silvery-twinkling feet 
 
 Around our island home. 
 But should the winds of battle shrill. 
 
 And the billows crisp their mane, 
 Down to the shore, from vale, from hill, 
 
 From hamlet, town, and plain ! 
 The ocean our forefathers trod 
 
 In many a forest keel, 
 Shall feel our feet once more, but shod 
 
 With ligaments of steel. 
 Ours is the Sea, to rule, to keep, 
 
 Our realm, and if ye would 
 Challenge dominion of the deep, 
 
 Then make that challenge good. 
 [But ware ye lest your vauntings proud 
 
 Be coffined in the surge. 
 
142 LOOK SEAWARD, SENTINEL 
 
 Our breakers be for you a shroud, 
 
 Our battle-song your dirge. 
 Peaceful within our peaceful home 
 
 We ply the loom and share, 
 Peaceful above the peaceful foam 
 
 Our pennons float and fare ; 
 Bearing, for other peaceful lands. 
 
 Through sunshine, storm, and snow, 
 The harvest of industrious hands 
 
 Peacefully to and fro. 
 But, so ye will it, then our sails 
 
 The blasts of war shall swell. 
 And hold and hulk, now choked with bales, 
 
 Be crammed with shot and shell. 
 The waves impregnably shall bear 
 
 Our bulwarks on their breast. 
 And eyes of steel unsleeping glare 
 
 Across each billowy crest ; 
 Along the trenches of the deep 
 
 Unflinching faces shine. 
 And Briton's stalwart sailors keep 
 
 The bastions of the brine. 
 Ocean itself, from strand to strand. 
 
 Our citadel shall be, 
 And though the world together band, 
 Not all the legions of the land 
 Shall ever wrest from England's hand 
 
 The Sceptre of the Sea. 
 
THE LOVER'S SONG 
 
 When Winter hoar no longer holds 
 
 The young year in his gripe, 
 And bleating voices fill the folds, 
 
 And blackbirds pair and pipe ; 
 Then coax the maiden where the sap 
 
 Awakes the woodlands drear, 
 And pour sweet wildflowers in her lap, 
 
 And sweet words in her ear. 
 For Springtime is the season, sure. 
 
 Since Love's game first was played. 
 When tender thoughts begin to lure 
 
 The heart of April maid, 
 
 Of maid, 
 The heart of April maid. 
 
 II 
 
 When June is wreathed with wilding rose, 
 
 And all the buds are blown. 
 And O, 'tis joy to dream and doze 
 
 In meadows newly mown j 
 
144 THE LOVER'S SONG 
 
 Then take her where the grayhngs leap, 
 
 And where the dabchick dives, 
 Or where the bees in clover reap 
 
 The harvest for their hives. 
 For Summer is the season when, 
 
 If you but know the way, 
 A maid that's kissed will kiss again, 
 
 Then pelt you with the hay, 
 
 The hay. 
 Then pelt you with the hay. 
 
 Ill 
 
 When sickles ply among the wheat. 
 
 Then trundle home the sheaves. 
 And there's a rustling of the feet 
 
 Through early-fallen leaves ; 
 Entice her where the orchard glows 
 
 With apples plump and tart, 
 And tell her plain the thing she knows. 
 
 And ask her for her heart. 
 For Autumn is the season, boy. 
 
 To gather what we sow : 
 If you be bold, she won't be coy. 
 
 Nor ever say you no. 
 
 Say no, 
 Nor ever say you no. 
 
 IV 
 
 When woodmen clear the coppice lands. 
 And arch the hornbeam drive. 
 
THE LOVER'S SONG 145 
 
 And stamp their feet, and chafe their hands, 
 
 To keep their blood alive ; 
 Then lead her where, when vows are heard, 
 
 The church-bells peal and swing. 
 And, as the parson speaks the word. 
 
 Then on her clap the ring. 
 For Winter is a cheerless time 
 
 To live and lie alone ; 
 But what to him is snow or rime, 
 
 Who calls his love his own, 
 
 His own. 
 Who calls his love his own ? 
 
ON RETURNING TO ENGLAND 
 
 There ! once again I stand on home, 
 Though round me still there swirls the foam, 
 Leaping athwart the vessel's track 
 To bid a wanderer welcome back. 
 And though as yet through softening haze 
 White cliffs but vaguely greet my gaze. 
 For, England ! yours the waves, the spray. 
 And, be one's foothold what it may, 
 Wherever billow wafts or wends, 
 Your soil is trodden, your shore extends. 
 How stern ! how sweet ! Though fresh from Ian 
 Where soft seas heave on slumbering strands, 
 And zephyrs moistened by the south 
 Seem kisses from an infant's mouth, 
 My northern blood exults to face 
 The rapture of this rough embrace. 
 Glowing in every vein to feel 
 The cordial caress of steel 
 From spear-blue air and sword-blue sea. 
 The armour of your liberty. 
 
ON RETURNING TO ENGLAND 147 
 
 Braced by the manly air, I reach 
 My soul out to the approaching beach, 
 And own, the instant I arrive. 
 The dignity of being alive ! 
 
 And now with forward-faring feet 
 Eager I leap to land, and greet 
 The hearty grasp, the honest gaze. 
 The voice that means the thing it says. 
 The gait of men by birthright free, 
 Unceremonial courtesy. 
 None frown, none cringe, but, fearless-eyed. 
 Are kindly all ; since, side by side. 
 Authority and Freedom reign 
 In twin equality, and drain 
 Their sanction from the self-same breast. 
 And Law is wise Will manifest. 
 Yes, this is England, frank and fair : 
 I tread its turf, I breathe its air, 
 And catch from every stalwart lung 
 The music of my mother tongue. 
 
 And who are these that cluster round 
 With hastening feet and silvery sound. 
 And eyes as liquid as the dawn. 
 When laughs the dew on Kentish lawn ? 
 These England's daughters, frank yet arch, 
 Supple as April, strong as March : 
 Like pink-white windflowers in the grove, 
 That came while east and west wind strove 
 
148 ON RETURNING TO ENGLAND 
 
 For mastery, and Spring seemed late, 
 Hardy alike and delicate. 
 How well their faces fit the scene. 
 The copses gray, the hedgerows green, 
 The white-veiled blackthorn, gorse afire. 
 The cottage yew, the village spire ; 
 The pastures flecked with firisking lambs 
 Around their gravely grazing dams ; 
 The children loitering home fi-om school, 
 Their hands and pinafores all full 
 Of cuckoo-pint and bluebell spike. 
 Gathered in dingle, dell, and dyke ; 
 The comely homes one just can see 
 Through flowering belts of bush and tree,, 
 That all combine, all, all conspire, 
 To more than satisfy desire. 
 To make one love this lovely earth, 
 And bless Heaven for one's British birth. 
 
 Bewitching climes ! where late I sought 
 In change of scene a change of thought. 
 Refreshment from familiar ground. 
 And, what I sought for, more than found, 
 Where old enchantment haunteth still 
 Ligurian coast and Tuscan hill. 
 Climes I have ventured oft and long 
 To celebrate in faltering song. 
 Where fearless almond, faery larch. 
 Smiling, disarm the frown of March, 
 
ON RETURNING TO ENGLAND 149 
 
 Snow hath no terrors, frost no sting, 
 
 And playful Winter mimics Spring, 
 
 Deem me not thankless nor deny 
 
 Fresh welcome from your shore and sky. 
 
 Repose from thought so oft implored. 
 
 And ne'er refused, if, now restored 
 
 By you to health, by you to home. 
 
 Glad I return, late glad to roam. 
 
 For dear to me though wayside shrine 
 
 By silent gorge or murmuring brine ; ^ 
 
 Dear though the barefoot peasant folk 
 
 Who lop the vine and steer the yoke 
 
 Of soft-eyed, sleek-skinned, creamy beeves, 
 
 Up narrow ways to broad slant eaves ; 
 
 The stony mule-tracks twisting slow 
 
 Up slopes where cherry-blossoms blow 
 
 'Mid olive gray and ilex brown. 
 
 On to some sun-bronzed mountain town ; 
 
 The hush and cool of marble domes. 
 
 Where, wed to reverie, one roams 
 
 Through transept, chancel, cloister, cell, 
 
 Where still with far-off faces dwell 
 
 Sages and saints devoutly limned 
 
 By hands long dust and eyes long dimmed ; 
 
 Dear though all these, and ne'er forgot, 
 
 No southern shore, no sunniest spot. 
 
 Not Roccabruna's hamlet crest. 
 
 Not Eza's brow, not Taggia's breast. 
 
 Not Bellosguardo's sunset hour. 
 
 Not Dante's seat nor Giotto's Tower, 
 
I50 ON RETURNING TO ENGLAND 
 
 Nor even Spiaggiascura's foam, 
 
 Moisten and melt my heart like home. 
 
 For here the cuckoo seems more glad, 
 
 The nightingale more sweetly sad, 
 
 Primroses more akin in gaze 
 
 To childlike wonder, childHke ways ; 
 
 And all things that one sees and hears. 
 
 Since rooted in the bygone years, 
 
 And blending with their warm caress 
 
 A touch of homely tenderness. 
 
 Bid the quick instinct in one's blood 
 
 Pay tribute unto motherhood. 
 
 How should strange lands, it boots not where. 
 
 Divorce one from one's native air. 
 
 Or in a loyal breast dethrone 
 
 Unreasoning reverence for one's own ? 
 
 Yet love and reason surely blend 
 
 To stir this passion and commend ? 
 
 And who will blame if, though one seeks 
 
 In gentler tides and sterner peaks 
 
 Contrast to northern hill and main, 
 
 I cherish still and hold apart 
 
 The fondest feeling in my heart 
 
 For where, beneath one's parent sky, 
 
 Our dear ones live, our dead ones lie ! 
 
 And you, dear friend, who linger still 
 Beside the iris-crested rill 
 That silvers through your olives gray 
 From convent-capped Fiesole, 
 
ON RETURNING TO ENGLAND 151 
 
 Think not that I forget, forswear, 
 The scenes we lately vowed so fair. 
 To these your wandering footsteps bring 
 The freshness of an English Spring ; 
 And even Florence sunnier glows, 
 When Phyllis prattles and Ivor crows. 
 And though among them still you stray, 
 Sweet-lengthening-out a Tuscan May, 
 You too will here return before 
 Our Northern roses blow once more, 
 To prove to all of kindred birth, 
 For winsome grace and sterling worth, 
 Nothing can match, where'er we roam, 
 An English wife in English home. 
 
THE PASSING OF THE PRIMROSES 
 
 Primroses, why do you pass away ? 
 
 Primroses 
 
 Nay, rather, why should we longer stay ? 
 We are not needed, now stooping showers 
 Have sandalled the feet of May with flowers. 
 
 Surely, surely, 'tis time to go. 
 
 Now that the splendid bluebells blow. 
 
 Scattering a bridal peal, to hail 
 
 June blushing under her hawthorn veil. 
 
 Ill 
 
 We abode with you all the long winter through 
 You may not have seen us, but we saw you, 
 Chafing your hands in the beaded haze, 
 And shivering home to your Yuletide blaze. 
 
THE PASSING OF THE PRIMROSES 153 
 
 IV 
 
 Why should we linger, when all things pass ? 
 We have buried old Winter beneath the grass, 
 Seen the first larch break, heard the first lamb bleat, 
 Watched the first foal stoop to its mother's teat : 
 
 The crocus prick with its spears aglow 
 'Gainst the rallying flakes of the routed snow. 
 The isle-keeping titmouse wed and hatch, 
 And the swallow come home to its native thatch : 
 
 VI 
 
 Fresh emeralds jewel the bare-brown mould. 
 And the blond sallow tassel herself with gold, 
 The hive of the broom brim with honeyed dew, 
 And Springtime swarm in the gorse anew. 
 
 Vil 
 
 When breastplated March his trumpets blew. 
 We laughed in his face, till he laughed too ; 
 Then, drying our lids when the sleet was done. 
 Smiled back to the smile of the April sun. 
 
 VIII 
 
 We were first to hear, in the hazel moat, 
 The nut-brown bird with the poet's note. 
 That sings, " Love is neither false nor fleet," 
 Makes passion tender, and sorrow sweet. 
 
154 THE PASSING OF THE PRIMROSES 
 
 IX 
 
 We were stretched on the grass when the cuckoo's vc 
 Bade the old grow young, and the young rejoice ; 
 The half-fledged singer who flouts and rails, 
 So forces the note when his first note fails : 
 
 X 
 
 Who scorns, understanding but in part. 
 The sweet solicitudes of the heart, 
 But might learn, from the all-year-cooing dove, 
 That joy hath a briefer life than love. 
 
 XI 
 
 We would rather go ere the sweet Spring dies. 
 We have seen the violet droop its eyes. 
 The sorrel grow green where the celandine shone. 
 And the windflower fade ere you knew 'twas gone. 
 
 XII 
 
 The campion comes to take our place. 
 
 And you will not miss us in brake or chase, 
 
 Now the fragile frond of the fern uncurls, 
 
 And the hawthorns necklace themselves with pearls. 
 
 XIII 
 
 When June's love crimsons the cheek of the rose, 
 And the meadow-swathes sweep in rhythmic rows. 
 And foxgloves gleam in the darkest glen, 
 You will not recall nor regret us then. 
 
THE PASSING OF THE PRIMROSES 155 
 XIV 
 
 Leave us our heavenly lot, to cheer 
 
 Your lives in the midnight of the year ; 
 
 And 'tis meet that our light should be withdrawn, 
 
 Being stars of winter, with summer's dawn. 
 
 XV 
 
 For we do not sink into death's dank cave ; 
 The earth is our cradle, and not our grave : 
 The tides and the stars sway it low and high. 
 And the sycamore bees hum lullaby. 
 
 XVI 
 
 But when winds roam lonely and dun clouds drift. 
 Let Winter, the white-haired nurse, but lift 
 The snowy coverlet softly, then 
 We will open our eyelids, and smile again. 
 
 XVII 
 
 How oft have you longed that your little ones would 
 Outgrow not the charm of babyhood, 
 Keep the soft round arms and the warm moist kiss. 
 And the magic of April sinlessness ! 
 
 XVIII 
 
 Then chide us not, now we look good-bye : 
 We are the children for whom you sigh. 
 We slip 'neath the sod before summer's prime, 
 And so keep young to the end of time. 
 
EXTRACT FROM "THE HUMAN 
 TRAGEDY" 
 
 Rude Winter, violating neutral plain 
 
 Of March, through April's territory sallied, 
 
 Scoured with his snowy plume its fair domain, 
 
 Then, down encamping, made his daring valid. 
 
 Nor till May, mustering all her gallant train 
 
 Of phalanxed spears Spring's cowering levies rallied, 
 
 Did the usurper from the realm of sleet 
 
 Fold his white tents, and shriek a wild retreat. 
 
 Then, all at once, the land laughed into bloom, 
 Feeling its alien fetters were undone ; 
 Rushed into frolic ecstasies ; the plume 
 The courtly lilac tosses i' the sun. 
 Laburnum tassels dripping faint perfume, 
 Hawthorn and chestnut, showed, not one by one, 
 But all in rival pomp and joint array. 
 Blent with green leaves as long delayed as they. 
 
THE HUMAN TRAGEDY 157 
 
 III 
 
 The dog-rose, simplest, sweetest of its kind, 
 Brocaded brake and hedgerow ere as yet. 
 In grassy hollow screened from sun and wind, 
 The primrose paled and perished. The violet 
 Closed not blue eyes, to early doom resigned, 
 Ere it beheld the clambering woodbine wet 
 With honey self-distilled, and knew that earth 
 Would, at its death, be sweet as at its birth. 
 
 IV 
 
 And to its woodland grave with hasteful feet 
 Came the anemone, and o'er it flung. 
 In love but scarce in sorrow, such a sheet 
 Of pink-white petals as befits the young 
 Whose fair false hopes the kindly gods defeat : 
 While, following swift, the hyacinth upspning 
 From the soft sod, and through the sylvan shells 
 Thrust his bold stalk, and shook his scented bells. 
 
 The cuckoo, babbling egotist, from tree 
 To tree as with short restless wing he flew, 
 Called his own name, doubling the word for glee 
 The stockdove meditated, all day through, 
 Its one deep note of perched felicity ; 
 And the sweet bird to one sad memory true. 
 Finding the day for its laments too brief. 
 Charmed listening night with its melodious grief. 
 
158 THE HUMAN TRAGEDY 
 
 VI 
 
 No longer cowering by the fleecy screen 
 Of their warm dams or bleating at the ills 
 Of unkind life and norland tempests' spleen, 
 Huddled the helpless lambs, — but skipped like rills 
 Among the dykes and mounds of pastures green, 
 And orchards sunned by golden daffodils ; 
 Frisked like young Loves, in ever-shifting ring, 
 Round the old boles, flushed with the wine of Spring. 
 
 VII 
 
 A subtle glory crept from mead to mead. 
 
 Till they were burnished saffron to behold. 
 
 And, from their wintry byres and dark sheds freed. 
 
 The musing kine lay couched on cloth of gold. 
 
 Abetted by the Spring, the humblest weed 
 
 Wore its own coronal, and, gaily bold, 
 
 Waved jewelled sceptre. Stirred by some strange pow 
 
 The very walls seemed breaking into flower. 
 
 VIII 
 
 And all throughout the air there reigned a sense 
 Of deep smooth dream with odorous music laden, 
 Of life too conscious made and too intense 
 By sudden advent of excessive Aiden : 
 Bewilderment of beauty's aflluence. 
 Such as delights, though dangerous, man and maiden. 
 And then it was, by Love's despotic grace, 
 Godfrid first gazed on Olive's form and face. 
 
IS LIFE WORTH LIVING? 
 
 Is life worth living ? Yes, so long 
 
 As Spring revives the year, 
 And hails us with the cuckoo's song, 
 
 To show that she is here ; 
 So long as May of April takes, 
 
 In smiles and tears, farewell. 
 And windflowers dapple all the brakes. 
 
 And primroses the dell ; 
 While children in the woodlands yet 
 
 Adorn their Httle laps 
 With ladysmock and violet, 
 
 And daisy-chain their caps ; 
 While over orchard daffodils 
 
 Cloud-shadows float and fleet, 
 And ouzel pipes and laverock trills. 
 
 And young lambs buck and bleat ; 
 So long as that which bursts the bud 
 
 And swells and tunes the rill. 
 Makes springtime in the maiden's blood, 
 
 Life is worth living still. 
 
i6o IS LIFE WORTH LIVING 
 
 Life's not worth living ! Come with me, 
 
 Now that, through vanishing veil, 
 Shimmers the dew on lawn and lea. 
 
 And milk foams in the pail ; 
 Now that June's sweltering sunlight bathes 
 
 With sweat the striplings lithe. 
 As fall the long straight scented swathes 
 
 Over the crescent scythe ; 
 Now that the throstle never stops 
 
 His self-sufficing strain, 
 And woodbine-trails festoon the copse, 
 
 And eglantine the lane ; 
 Now rustic labour seems as sweet 
 
 As leisure, and blithe herds 
 Wend homeward with unweary feet, 
 
 CaroHng like the birds ; 
 Now all, except the lover's vow, 
 
 And nightingale, is still ; 
 Here, in the twilight hour, allow. 
 
 Life is worth living still. 
 
 Ill 
 
 When Summer, lingering half-forlorn, 
 
 On Autumn loves to lean. 
 And fields of slowly yellowing corn 
 
 Are girt by woods still green ; 
 When hazel-nuts wax brown and plump. 
 
 And apples rosy-red, 
 
IS LIFE WORTH LIVING i6i 
 
 And the owlet hoots from hollow stump, 
 
 And the dormouse makes its bed ; 
 When crammed are all the granary floors, 
 
 And the Hunter's moon is bright, 
 And life again is sweet indoors, 
 
 And logs again alight ; 
 Aye, even when the houseless wind 
 
 Waileth through cleft and chink, 
 And in the twilight maids grow kind, 
 
 And jugs are filled and cHnk ; 
 When children clasp their hands and pray, 
 
 " Be done Thy heavenly will ! " 
 Who doth not lift his voice, and say, 
 
 " Life is worth living still " ? 
 
 IV 
 
 Is life worth living ? Yes, so long 
 
 As there is wrong to right. 
 Wail of the weak against the strong, 
 
 Or tyranny to fight ; 
 Long as there lingers gloom to chase, 
 
 Or streaming tear to dry, 
 One kindred woe, one sorrowing face 
 
 That smiles as we draw nigh ; 
 Long as at tale of anguish swells 
 
 The heart, and lids grow wet, 
 And at the sound of Christmas bells 
 
 We pardon and forget ; 
 So long as Faith with Freedom reigns, 
 
 And loyal Hope survives 
 
 M 
 
i62 IS LIFE WORTH LIVING 
 
 And gracious Charity remains 
 To leaven lowly lives ; 
 
 While there is one untrodden tract 
 For Intellect or Will, 
 
 And men are free to think and act 
 Life is worth living still. 
 
 Not care to live while English homes 
 
 Nestle in English trees, 
 And England's Trident-Sceptre roams 
 
 Her territorial seas ! 
 Not live while English songs are sung 
 
 Wherever blows the wind. 
 And England's laws and England's tongue 
 
 Enfranchise half mankind ! 
 So long as in Pacific main, 
 
 Or on Atlantic strand, 
 Our kin transmit the parent strain, 
 
 And love the Mother-Land ; 
 So long as in this ocean Realm, 
 
 Victoria and her Line 
 Retain the heritage of the helm, 
 
 By loyalty divine ; 
 So long as flashes English steel. 
 
 And English trumpets shrill, 
 He is dead already who doth not feel 
 
 Life is worth living still. 
 
WORDSWORTH AT DOVE COTTAGE 
 
 But Wordsworth's eyes avert their ken 
 From half of human fate." 
 
 Matthew Arnold. 
 
 I 
 
 Wise Wordsworth, to avert your ken, 
 From half of human fate. 
 
 What is there in the ways of men, 
 Their struggles, or their state. 
 
 To make the calm recluse foreswear 
 
 The garden path, the fire-side chair, 
 To journey with the Great ? 
 
 The narrowest hamlet lends the heart 
 
 A realm as rich and wide 
 As kingdoms do, to play its part ; 
 
 Who reaps not, that hath tried. 
 More rapture from the wayside flower 
 Than all the stairs and robes of power 
 
 And avenues of pride ? 
 
WORDSWORTH AT DOVE COTTAGE 
 
 III 
 
 Whether we scan it from below, 
 
 Or bask in it above, 
 We weary of life's glittering show ; 
 
 We tire of all save Love. 
 As, when fatigued with, wood-notes shrill, 
 We listen with contentment still 
 
 To cooings of the dove. 
 
 IV 
 
 In this low cottage nested near 
 Mountain and lake, you dwelt ; 
 
 'Twas here you tilled the ground, 'twas here 
 You loved, and wrote, and knelt. 
 
 Hence, wheresoe'er your kindred dwell, 
 
 Your songs sincere our hearts compel 
 To feel the thing you felt. 
 
 Glory there is that lives entombed 
 
 In spacious-soaring shrine ; 
 A tenement more narrow-roomed 
 
 Sufficient is for thine. 
 A homely temple haply found 
 Where peasants toil and streamlets sound. 
 
 Adorned not, but divine. 
 
WORDSWORTH AT DOVE COTTAGE 165 
 
 VI 
 
 Your sacred music still is heard, 
 When notes profane have died ; 
 
 Like some familiar home-bred word, 
 You in our lives abide. 
 
 And when with trackless feet we rove 
 
 By meadow, mountain, mere, or grove, 
 We feel you at our side. 
 
 VII 
 
 Thrice-happy bard ! who found at home 
 
 All joys that needful be ; 
 Whose longings were not forced to roam 
 
 Beyond your household Three : — 
 Your own proud genius, steadfast, calm, 
 A wife whose faith was household balm. 
 
 And heavenly Dorothy. 
 
 VIII 
 
 What is it sweetens tasteless Fame ? 
 
 Makes shadowy Glory bliss ? 
 What is the guerdon poets claim ? 
 
 What should it be but this ? — 
 A heart attuned to understand, 
 A listening ear, a loving hand, 
 
 A smile, a tear, a kiss ! 
 
i66 WORDSWORTH AT DOVE COTTAGE 
 
 IX 
 
 Leave them but these, and let who will 
 Crave plaudits from the crowd. 
 
 Its vapid incense, aves shrill, 
 And favour of the proud. 
 
 The sweetest minister of Fame 
 
 Is she who broods upon one's name, 
 But calls it not aloud. 
 
 And this at least, in full, you had, 
 
 From sister, and from wife : 
 They made your gravest moments glad, 
 
 They havened you from strife ; 
 Hallowed your verse, revered your tread, 
 Maintained a nimbus round your head. 
 
 And deified your life. 
 
 XI 
 
 Hence, long as gentle brows shall bend 
 
 Over your rustic page, 
 Their pious love shall still befriend 
 
 The poet and the sage ; 
 For, when we cross your cottage sill, 
 Virtue, no less than Genius, will 
 
 Invite the Pilgrimage. 
 
WORDSWORTH AT DOVE COTTAGE 167 
 
 XII 
 
 The tallest tower that ever rose 
 
 Hath but a span to soar ; 
 Palace and fane are passing shows, 
 
 But Time will be no more, 
 When Wordsworth's home no longer leads 
 Men's far-off feet to Grasmere's meads, 
 
 And sanctifies its shore. 
 
A POET'S EIGHTIETH BIRTHDAY 
 
 " He dieth young whom the Gods love," was said 
 
 By Greek Menander ; nor alone by One 
 
 Who gave to Greece his English song and sword 
 
 Re-echoed is the saying, but likewise he 
 
 "Who uttered nothing base," and from whose brow, 
 
 By right divine, the laurel lapsed to yours, — 
 
 Great sire, great successor, — in verse confirmed 
 
 The avowal of " the Morning-Star of Song," 
 
 Happiest is he that dieth in his flower.^ 
 
 Yet can it be that it is gain, not loss, 
 To quit the pageant of this life before 
 
 1 Note. 
 
 6v oi deol tpiXodffiv airodv-fjcTKet vebs. — Menander. 
 
 ' ' Whom the Gods love die young was said of yore, 
 And many deaths do they escape by this : 
 The death of friends, and that which slays even more, 
 The death of friendship, love, youth, all that is, 
 Except mere breath." — Don Juan, Canto iv. s. 12. 
 
 " The good die first, 
 But they whose hearts are dry as summer dust 
 Burn to the socket." — The Excuision, Book I. 
 
 • ' And certainly a man hath most honour, 
 To dien in his excellence and flower." 
 
 Chaucer, The Knight's Tale. 
 
A POET'S EIGHTIETH BIRTHDAY 169 
 
 The heart hath learnt its meaning ; leave half-seen, 
 
 Half-seen, half-felt, and not yet understood, 
 
 The beauty and the bounty of the world ; 
 
 The fertile waywardness of wanton Spring, 
 
 Summer's deep calm, the modulated joy 
 
 Of Autumn conscious of a task fulfilled. 
 
 And home-abiding Winter's pregnant sleep, 
 
 The secret of the seasons ? Gain, to leave 
 
 The depths of love unfathomed, its heights unsealed, 
 
 Rapture and woe unreconciled, and pain 
 
 Unprized, unapprehended ? This is loss. 
 
 Loss and not gain, sheer forfeiture of good. 
 
 Is banishment from Eden, though its fruit 
 
 Remains untasted. 
 
 Interpret then the oracle, " He dies young 
 Whom the Gods love," for Song infallible 
 Hath so pronounced ! . . . Thus I interpret it : 
 The favourites of the Gods die young, for they. 
 They grow not old with grief and deadening time, 
 But still keep April moisture in their heart. 
 May's music in their ears. Their voice revives, 
 Revives, rejuvenates, the wintry world. 
 Flushes the veins of gnarled and knotted age. 
 And crowns the majesty of life with leaves 
 As green as are the sapling's. 
 
 Thrice happy Poet ! to have thus renewed 
 Your youth with wisdom, — who, though life still seems 
 To your fresh gaze as frolic and as fair 
 
I70 A POET'S EIGHTIETH BIRTHDAY 
 
 As in the callow season when your heart 
 Was but the haunt and pairing-place and nest 
 Of nightingale and cuckoo, have enriched 
 Joy's inexperienced warblings with the note 
 Of mellow music, and whose mind mature. 
 Laden with life's sustaining lessons, still 
 Gleams bright with hope ; even as I saw, to-day, 
 An April rainbow span the August corn. 
 
 Long may your green maturity maintain 
 Its universal season ; and your voice, 
 A household sound, be heard about our hearths, 
 Now as a Christmas carol, now as the glee 
 Of vernal Maypole, now as harvest song. 
 And when, like light withdrawn from earth to heaven. 
 Your glorious gloaming fades into the sky, 
 We, looking upward, shall behold you there, 
 Shining amid the young unageing stars. 
 
 August 6, 1889. 
 
* OF Tl(,"^^ 
 
 UNIYEE 
 
 AS DIES THE YEAR 
 
 The Old Year knocks at the farmhouse door. 
 
 October, come with your matron gaze, 
 
 From the fruit you are storing for winter days, 
 And prop him up on the granary floor, 
 
 Where the straw lies threshed and the com stands 
 heaped : 
 
 Let him eat of the bread he reaped ; 
 He is feeble and faint, and can work no more. 
 
 Weaker he waneth, and weaker yet. 
 
 November, shower your harvest down, 
 
 Chestnut, and mast, and acorn brown ; 
 1 or you he laboured, so pay the debt. 
 
 Make him a pallet — he cannot speak — 
 
 And a pillow of moss for his pale pinched cheek, 
 With your golden leaves for coverlet 
 
 1;e is numb to touch, he is deaf to call. 
 December, hither with muffled tread, 
 And gaze on the Year, for the Year is dead, 
 
172 AS DIES THE YEAR 
 
 Take down the mattock, and ply the spade, 
 And deep in the clay let his clay be laid, 
 And snowflakes fall at his funeral. 
 
 Thus may I die, since it must be. 
 
 My wage well earned and my work-days done, 
 
 And the seasons following one by one 
 To the slow sweet end that the wise foresee ; 
 
 Fed from the store of my ripened sheaves. 
 
 Laid to rest on my fallen leaves. 
 And with snow-white souls to weep for me. 
 
 THE END 
 
 ^ 
 
 Printed by R. & R. Clark, Edinburgh 
 
lyrics 
 
 iept ii^ i.^^ 
 
 iTf^- 
 
 FEB glA**^ 
 
 tB 29 1932 
 JUN 21 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA UBRARY 
 
 ^(14818»^