THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 
 
 
 i£X* 

 
 m 
 
 S*7 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 ap
 
 Ube Xove=Xettevs of a Daoabono.
 
 ' The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, 
 Moves on ; nor all your Piety nor Wit 
 
 Shall lure it back to cancel half a line, 
 Nor all your tears wash out a word of it.' 
 
 Om-vr-i-Khavyam,
 
 The Love-Letters 
 
 of a 
 
 Vagabond. 
 
 BY 
 
 EDWARD HERON-ALLEN. 
 
 ' Ah, Love ! could you and I with Him conspire, 
 To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire, 
 Would we not shatter it to bits— and then 
 Re-mould it nearer to the Heart's Desire? ' 
 
 Omar-i-Kkdyydm. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 HENRY J. DRANE, 
 
 Sausuuky House, Sa isbury Square, 
 
 Fleet Street, E.C. 
 
 mdcccxcvi.
 
 UNIFORM WITH THIS BOOK IN 
 STYLE AND PRICE 
 
 POEMS OF PASSION. 
 
 By Ella Wheeler. 
 
 MAURINE, AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 By Ella Wheeler. 
 
 POEMS OF PLEASURE. 
 
 By Ella Wheeler. 
 
 Presentation Editions of the above vol- 
 umes can be had, price Two Shill- 
 ings and Sixpence each. 
 
 A Presentation Edition of "' Love Letters 
 of a Vagabond,' can be had, printed 
 on antique paper and bound in half 
 vellum, price Five Shillings.
 
 
 To You, in music, was my soul outpoured, 
 When — years ago — I sang these songs, and now 
 Wide oceans roll between me and your grave, 
 But still your calm eyes, closed to contemplate 
 Eternity, come sometimes, my Adored, 
 And, looking into mine, have told me how 
 Death could not rob me of the Love you gave. 
 
 870402
 
 Pues la pena cruel que en mi se ha 11 a, 
 Para contalla picte nuevos modos. 
 
 * t 
 
 Mas yo milagro nunca, visto ! vivo 
 Zeloso, ausente, desdenado y cierto 
 De las sospechas que me tienen mueitn, 
 
 Y en el olvido en quien mi fuego avivo. 
 
 Dire que va acertado el que bien quiere 
 
 Y que es mas libie el alma mas rendida 
 A la de amor anligua Urania. 
 
 Dire que la enemiga siempre mia 
 Ilermosa el alma como el cuerpo tiene 
 
 Y que su olvido de mi culpa nace, 
 
 Ofrecere a los vientos cuerpo y alma 
 Sin lauro 6 palma de futures bienes. 
 
 Antes con risa en la ocasion fum 
 Descubre que cl fin mio fue Hi fiesta 
 Mas gran simpleza es avisarte de^-to, 
 Pues se que esta tu gloria conocida, 
 En que mi vida llegue al fin tan presto. 
 
 Cancion de Grlsostomo.
 
 INDEX OF THE LOVE-LETTERS. 
 
 I. — A Burden of Friendship, . 
 II. — A Ballade of Friendship, . 
 III. —Another Chance gone ! — An Everyday 
 
 Occurrence, . 
 IV. — Sympathy, 
 V. — To a Debutante, 
 VI. — Unpopularity, . 
 VII. — My Intercessor, 
 VIII.— l Le Chant a" Amour Triovipfiant,' 
 IX.— She and I, 
 X.— Nadine: A Serenade. 
 XI. — By the Banks of the Lackawanna, 
 XII. — Two Songs — I. Heart Silence, 
 
 XIII.— II. At Parting, . 
 
 XIV.— A Memory : after a Visit, . 
 
 PAGE 
 
 3 
 
 8 
 
 12 
 
 14 
 
 16 
 
 19 
 
 25 
 27 
 29 
 
 32 
 
 34 
 
 35 
 38
 
 Index of the Love- Letters. 
 
 XV.— A Rherie 
 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 4 
 
 XVI. — Awakening ! . 
 
 
 
 44 
 
 XVII. — ' My old Love lives,' 
 
 
 
 45 
 
 XVIII.—' This is not Life!' . 
 
 
 
 47 
 
 XIX. — ' Ah, nevermore ! ' 
 
 
 
 49 
 
 XX.— After, .... 
 
 
 
 5o 
 
 XXI.—' I love You so ! ' 
 
 
 
 53 
 
 XXII. — Coquetterie, 
 
 
 
 55 
 
 XXIII.— Questioning, . 
 
 
 
 57 
 
 XXIV.— Retrospection, . 
 
 
 
 £3 
 
 XXV.— Hatred ! . 
 
 
 
 
 XXVI.— Erotic Chestnuts, .... 
 XXVII. — 'On Christmas Day, for You,' . 
 XXVIII.— From a Bachelor to His Married 'Pal,' 
 XXIX.— A Ballade of Second-hand Books, . 
 
 XXX. — A Ballade of Jauss's Restaurant, 
 XXXI.— To a Child-Virtuosa, 
 XXXII. — The Fascinating Boarder, . 
 XXXIII. — Eheu Fugaces ! .... 
 
 XXXIV. — To his Dog — In Memoriam, 
 
 64 
 67 
 6a 
 73 
 75 
 77 
 80 
 
 83 
 
 85
 
 £be OlovoXetters of a IDaaabonfc. 
 
 IVES there the man, or has there ever lived, 
 Since Cain betook him to the Land of Nod 
 And took to wife a daughter — perhaps 
 more — 
 Of mat mysterious land that rests unknown 
 To the geographer of later days, 
 Who has not written love-letters ? Perhaps 
 Such man exists, or has existed, — nay, 
 Possibly you who read these lines are such. 
 If that be so, lay down this ittle book, 
 My verses are not written for vour eyes. 
 Observe, I said ' the man ' for though there be 
 Some room for doubt among he sterner sex,
 
 The Love-Letiers of j, Vagabond. 
 
 [Whereof some, more repulsive than the rest 
 
 May ne'er have known the thing that men call love], 
 
 Yet I maintain that our sweet sister-halves 
 
 Must necessarily be wise upon 
 
 The bitter pleasures and the mad-sweet pains 
 
 Which 'tis their blessed province to evoke. 
 
 Deal gently with me reader, for, methinks, 
 
 It may perhaps be I am over-bold 
 
 In thus unburdening — I almost said 
 
 My heart, but now-a-days such things are not 1 — 
 
 Unburdening my basket of the scraps 
 
 Flung into it from time to time when love 
 
 Has seemed to hover near me. Long ago 
 
 Some sage laid down the well-worn axiom that 
 
 The abstract is imposing, and therefore 
 
 Its opposite, the concrete, is grotesque : 
 
 This is my state of mind, I do protest ; 
 
 The moods that made these verses I revere, 
 
 The words wherein I wrote them I revile, 
 
 And now that I am older, and perhaps 
 
 A trifle wiser, I may safely say
 
 The Love- Letters of a Vagabond. 3 
 
 'Twere better had I checked my wand'ring thoughts. 
 With the philosophy of this first song. 
 
 I. 
 
 Lo VE is not for me and you,, H JBiu^en of 
 
 ffrien&sbip. 
 
 Let us be the best of friends ! 
 Dear ! — your lips of cherry hue, 
 Hair of gold, and eyes of blue, 
 And your lovely cheek that any rose with envy rends ! 
 Well I know should move 
 Love within mine empty heart. 
 And make it agony to part 
 From you ; 
 But alas ! on beauty and no more, love ne'er depends : 
 So let us be the best of friends ; 
 But do 7iot let us love ! 
 
 Let us be the best of friends, 
 
 Love is not for me and you ! 
 Sweet ! — your voice that croons to me 
 Scraps of old-time melody, 
 Sure inpleadingfor yoursinsof love mightcrave amends,
 
 The Love-Letlers of a Vagabond. 
 
 And successful prove. 
 Sweeter than Luscinia's flute. 
 Gaining pardon absolute 
 
 For you; 
 Yes ! — I know 'tis so, and all my soul to you ascends : 
 But let us be the best of friends. 
 And do not let us love / 
 
 Love is not for vie and you, 
 
 Let us be the. best of friends f 
 Would you know the reason why ? 
 I will tell you. — Poets cry 
 That they must surely die when love begins and 
 straightway ends ! 
 
 I, the fancy wove 
 That I loved you, dear, — and yet — 
 Knowing you're a sad coquette, — 
 Yes ! — you. 
 I will not give you for a toy, a lnve that all transcends: 
 So let us be the be si of friends j 
 But :Jo not let us love !
 
 The Love- Letters of a Vagabond. 
 
 POST-SCRIPTUM. 
 
 Love, with me, all else transcends* 
 Are you sure it's thus with you ? 
 Do you think you could 'be true ? 
 
 Really ? 
 
 * * * 
 
 Well ! — let's remain the best of friends. 
 And never let us love, 
 Really / 
 
 But it is hard, perhaps impossible, 
 To check young Cupid's flight ere yet his wings 
 Have borne him o'er the gentle meadow-land 
 That men call 'friendship,' though, indeed myself, 
 I checked him once with lilt of this 'Ballade/ 
 
 The Songsters aye among the things '&:6iUaJ<eot 
 
 i'ttentsbip. 
 
 They most extol in roundelay, 
 Have counted Love the first ;— he sings 
 The Dest who sings the last i say,
 
 The Love-Letters of a Vagabond. 
 
 So, Sweetheart, in some far-off day, 
 Before our twin-life wanes and ends, 
 
 Let men affirm of us that ' They 
 
 Were nothing more than simply friends? 
 
 Love'j lord — young Cupid — gave it wings 
 
 The wherewithal to fly away 
 The moment that the stabs and stings 
 
 Of Life should check its wild hey-day, 
 
 When Love is neither glad nor gay 
 Its gloom our fondest fancy rends ! — 
 
 Then let them think of us that ' They 
 Were nothing more than simply friends? 
 
 When I'm with You, your sweet voice rings 
 Within my soul, and makes to-day 
 
 The fairest day of fairest Springs, 
 
 'Twere death to think, when we are grey, 
 That e'er with Love we dared to play, 
 
 With Love — that all save Love transcends !- 
 Let someone tell his wife that ' They 
 
 Were nothing more than simp\y friends?
 
 The Love-Letters of a Vagabond, J 
 
 ENVOI. 
 
 Princess ! is my thought yours ? Ah, nay, 
 Tell me not where your fancy trends ; — 
 
 Let folk declare of us that ' They 
 Were nothing more than simply friends.' 
 
 Still — and I doubt me if I can regret — 
 
 Our wooing stayed not here, but grew apace, 
 
 Though at the first it seemed we should be friends 
 
 And nothing more. I well remember how 
 
 We met, ' 'twas in a crowd ' (the usual way !) 
 
 And, though I strove to linger at her side, 
 
 Our social duties parted us ere yet 
 
 We had exchanged five commonplace remarks : 
 
 Indeed, had it not been that chance once more 
 
 Flung us together in the bowl of life, 
 
 I ne'er had known her name, for, as so oft 
 
 Will happen when two kindred souls have met, 
 
 The eyes, the hair, the mouth, the smile remain 
 
 Each in the other's memory, but alas ! 
 
 Of that sweet name we strove in vain to near,
 
 The Love-Letters of a Vagabond. 
 
 n eve 
 occurrence 
 
 No syllable has caught our waiting sense. 
 'Twas thus I suffered when I met my love 
 And made for her this little roundelay. 
 
 III. 
 
 Hnotber I met you at a party— not so very long ago — 
 
 ryday And, when I was presented, on my soul I didn't know 
 That ever I should touch your hand, or see your face 
 again ; 
 
 But as I bowed before you, 
 I knew well that to adore you 
 Would be the kind of pleasure that one hardly knows 
 from pain. 
 
 We spoke a few short sentences, conventional and 
 
 weak, 
 [When people meet at parties it is but the lips that 
 
 speak], 
 And what I said that afternoon was surely far from wise; 
 But I had hardly met you 
 Ere above the world I'd set you, 
 From simply list'ning to your voice and looking through 
 your eyes.
 
 The Love-Letters of a Vagabond. 9 
 
 Tne lady who presented me — though meaning to be 
 
 kind — 
 Was surely so short-sighted as to be as good as blind, 
 For she told you ' all about me,' to instruct you what 
 to say ; 
 
 But all her pains were wasted, 
 For upon the spot we hasted 
 To utter commonplaces on the things of ev'ry day. 
 
 And hardly had we got beyond the formal ' How- 
 de-do ? ' 
 
 When some well-meaning stranger introduced a man 
 or two, 
 
 And you had to turn and talk to one, or seem to be 
 uncivil; 
 
 But talking to the other, 
 
 I felt much inclined to smother 
 
 Him— them — all male creation, — which I wished was 
 at the 'divvil.' 
 
 Next moment we were parted by some other idiot-man, 
 Who offered you a chair, some tea, a photo, or a fan
 
 io The Love-Letter c of a Vagabond. 
 
 And I was taken off to entertain some other girl ; 
 
 But as I rudely hurried 
 
 From her, fearing to be worried 
 Into talking all the afternoon to her, 'twas in a whirl 
 
 I hunted 'mid the dreary crowd of people that I'd 'met,' 
 And tried — in vain — to find the face and eyes I can't 
 
 forget ; 
 But you were go?ie — you know that I was not for that 
 to blame ; 
 
 And now my cause of sadness, 
 Which is sometimes almost madness, 
 Is that, as I smiled and bowed at you, / didn't catch 
 your iiame. 
 
 POST-SCRIPTUM. 
 
 And so you see how things go wrong ; 
 A word in a speech, a note in a song, 
 Not clearly caught spoils everything ! We've but our- 
 selves to blame, 
 But I hiozo I should have loved you had I only caught 
 your name !
 
 The Love- Letters of a Vagabond. 1 1 
 
 Had this been all, perhaps it had been well, 
 But 'twas not thus. We met, and, day by day, 
 Through the green fields, — more often through a 
 
 crowd, 
 We wandered side by side, telling ourselves 
 That we professed old cold-veined Plato's creed. 
 We laughed at love, at lovers, and the loved, 
 And told each other that such things are vain ; 
 We laughed to see the soft-furred forest things 
 Pursue each other through the underwood; 
 We laughed to see the yokel and his lasi, 
 Touch hands by accident, as, side by side, 
 They turned the creaking windlass at the well; 
 We laughed to see how men and maidens meet 
 To greet each other formally — and blush. 
 Ah ! well, our self-delusion was most rare ; 
 Perhaps the days when we, contemning love. 
 Did love most fondly, were the happiest 
 We ever spent together. Who shall sav 
 What word unspoken, what half-risen flusn, 
 What stifled sigh, what chance-note in a song,
 
 12 The Love-Letters of a Vagabond. 
 
 First rent the veil that we called comradry, 
 
 To show the fire that blazed behind its folds ? 
 
 Indeed, I knew not when for the last time 
 
 We went forth friends, and came back, just a thought 
 
 More gravely courteous than we were before, 
 
 A thought more mindful of the words we chose 
 
 In talking to each other; I forget 
 
 When friendship died, and we began to love. 
 
 'Twas then, I think, I fancied I had solved 
 
 The problem of our newer consciousness, 
 
 And told her that this thing was ' Sympathy.' 
 
 HUSH ! do not speak, lest the spell that enthralls us 
 Burst, like the smouldering spark, into flame : 
 
 Still ! — make no sign, lest the soft voice that calls us 
 Fill this whole planet, for me, with your name. 
 
 Absence is death — to be near you is madness, 
 
 Madness or death, which of these will you choose ? 
 
 Say, what is death to the angu:sn, the sadness 
 Of finding a life which we find but to lose ?
 
 The Love-Letters of a Vagabond. 13 
 
 And, — I am gone in a month ! — 'tis a second 
 Compared to the cycles we've trodden in vain 
 
 In search of each other, nor could we have reckoned 
 E'en now on the chance that united us twain. 
 
 Hush ! if you speak you'll drag down to existence 
 A Spirit that hovers our twin souls above, 
 
 To make us its own with a tender persistence 
 That wakes us at last but to say ' This is Love / ' 
 
 I knew it then, and yet I knew that I 
 
 Was all unworthy of this priceless gift, 
 
 For I had known five lustra in the world, 
 
 And thought I knew it well. I seemed to see 
 
 Our future anguish spread before us, well ! 
 
 I did my best, I think, to make her feel 
 
 That I was not the lover of her dreams. 
 
 That I was calm, dispassionate and cold, 
 
 That mine was not the passion of a boy, 
 
 That freezes, burns, despairs and hopes, and tnen 
 
 Hopes and despairs, freezes and burns again.
 
 14 The Love-Letters of a Vagabond. 
 
 And whilst I preached, I knew, as I Know now, 
 
 I was most young, and she — was but a child. 
 
 And so, one day, when laughter had grown dull, 
 
 And we had found ourselves in graver mood, 
 
 She asked of ine, as she was wont to ask, 
 
 That I should make for her another song. 
 
 This was her chiefest pleasure, were she sad, 
 
 Or merry, she would come to me and say, 
 
 ' The songs that you have made for me are old, 
 
 Make me another,' and I'd sit me down 
 
 And scribble her these ' Love-letters.' This day 
 
 She sat, resting her chin upon her hands, 
 
 And watching me with great, grave, fearless eyes, 
 
 Whilst I, aweary of love-madrigals, 
 
 Made her these verses, ''To a Debutante} 
 
 /Co a I saw you stand smiling, as many another 
 
 Has stood before now, in a soft blaze of light, 
 Receiving your friends by the side of your motner, 
 A beautiful thing all apparelled in white ;
 
 The Love- Letters of a Vagabond. 15 
 
 And as you stood, looking so happy together, 
 Behind you, the scroll of your gentle past furled, 
 
 I couldn't help wondering curiously whether 
 Would win in the struggle — your soul or the world ? 
 
 I couldn't help casting a glance up the vista 
 
 Of time, and endeav'ring, in vain, to surmise 
 Howthe future will seem, when you taste, like your sister, 
 
 The fruit of experience that makes one so wise ! 
 Do you think you'll be crushed 'neath the load of 
 exactions 
 
 Men cast in your path your fair girlhood to prove ? 
 Do you think you'll find time 'mid your thousand 
 distractions 
 
 To hallow a few nappy moments with love ? 
 
 Child ! when the trial in store for you dashes 
 Your day-dream to fragments, shall you also pray, 
 
 Like many beiore you, that out ot the ashes 
 Of joys that are past you may still think to-day 
 
 Was a day whose remembrance will brighten the ages 
 You'll pass ere another seems like it ?
 
 1 6 Tlie Love-Letters of a Vagabond. 
 
 And yet 
 
 It hardly seems fair on the first of the pages 
 Of your Book of Lite to emblazon — Regret 1 
 
 Meanwhile this fairest of all fairest maids 
 Began to own the soft Empire of Love, 
 And others [by whose side she was distraught, 
 To whose light words she turned a heedless ear, 
 Seeking with restless eyes my own that sought 
 Hers in return], began to look askant 
 Upon me, and to hate me as men do 
 Their fellow when a woman smiles on him : 
 'Twas then I writ for her this lighter ode. 
 
 And so, I'm doomed to be abused 
 By all who speak of me to you t 
 To rell the truth I'm getting used 
 
 To hearing things — thank God ! untrue, — 
 About myself, and as to be annoyed I have refused, 
 They're naturally angry that I only feel amused !
 
 The Love-Letters of a Vagabond. 17 
 
 And after all I should expect 
 
 To be abused by all that clan. 
 That weak unnecessary sect, 
 Entitled ' Unsuccessful Man ; ' 
 I think you'd guess the reason if you calmly would 
 
 reflect, 
 And why I'm so unpopular you'd readily detect. 
 
 They doubtless wonder grimly why 
 
 You let me linger at your side, 
 They strive amain to catch your eye, 
 But find their striving simplified 
 In sheer futility, and seek in vengeance to deride 
 The man who, just to talk to you, their anger has defied. 
 
 That this should be the case, of course 
 
 I feel a most profound regret, 
 
 Theirs is the gain, and mine the loss ! 
 
 I have no doubt 'tis so, — and yet, 
 
 I would not have it otherwise, preferring to be set 
 
 Apart from all men since the day when you and I 
 
 first met. 
 
 B
 
 1 8 The Love- Letters of a Vagabond. 
 
 I would that none should criticise 
 
 The least thing that you choose to do, 
 For what is worthy in your eyes 
 Is surely good, and pure, and true, 
 And, if these social idiots carp at me, I will not rue 
 Their folly, since it wins for me sweet sympathy trom 
 you. 
 
 So I shall ne'er regret that fate 
 
 Has kept for me this doom in store, 
 And if I earn man's feeble hate, 
 I'll take it all, and toil for more, 
 But if I'm crushed, you'll hearken to my prayer when I 
 
 implore 
 That you'll not close the sanctuary where I would adore. 
 
 I know not how it happened, but one day 
 The mask of friendship fell, and, in its fall, 
 Was shattered beyond possibility 
 Of even the mere semblance of repair. 
 What subtle something set our veins afire
 
 The Love-Letters of a Vagabond. 19 
 
 The day our hands did meet, and, having met, 
 
 Stayed clasped ; the day she gave me up her lips, 
 
 Unmindful of the Life she gave to me 
 
 In that long sudden kiss, but from that day 
 
 Life seemed to me a new and bonny thing, 
 
 Thenceforth she seemed a part of all I did 
 
 Or thought. She seemed to take me by the hand 
 
 And lead me gently to a newer life, 
 
 To better, purer things, to intercede 
 
 For me with God and men, and then I said, — 
 
 VII 
 
 Darling ! who out of the Eternal Past ADv Jitter* 
 
 ccssoc. 
 
 Hast come to me, twin-sister of my Soul, 
 
 To Thee, for all the good that Thou hast done, 
 
 To Thee, for all the Light that Thou hast wrought 
 
 In my dark Life, in proud humility, 
 
 And arrogance of Love, I come at last 
 
 To lay before Thy feet the single Gem 
 
 Of all my Life, my Love for Thee alone, 
 
 To do withal as seemeth best to Thee.
 
 20 The Love-Letters of a Vagabond. 
 
 Willt Thou then bear it proudly to Thy God, 
 
 Set in the fair, chaste Jewel of Thy Soul, 
 
 Saying : 'This Gaud, this tiny glitt'ring thing 
 
 'Lay hid for ceons 'mid the drift and clays 
 
 ' Of one pure human Entity, all lost 
 
 ' Amid the earthy atoms wherewithal 
 
 ' They fashioned him, and none might see or know 
 
 ' How deep amid the dross " Humanity," 
 
 ' Pure in itself, this Adamant lay hid. 
 
 ' Then I, in all my pride of Purity, 
 
 1 Sought out and found the one thing 'mid the mass 
 
 ' Of Misery, that seem'd like unto me. 
 
 ' Like follows Like, and therefore when I came, 
 
 'To search if aught of Good might be in him, 
 
 'There rose and met my Soul— to crown its quest, 
 
 'As comes the willing load-stone to the pole, — 
 
 ' The one thing, worthy of me, trustingly, 
 
 «As — answering my call — his Love met mine.' 
 
 And then the loving Angels of the Lord,— 
 If such there be,— scarce looking at the toy
 
 The Love-Letters of a Vagabond. 2 1 
 
 That Thou dost wear so proudly on Thy front, 
 And seeing naught of it for very love 
 Of Thy sweet Self, shall up and answer Thee : 
 ' For Thy Soul's sake, we do forget that e'er 
 'Thy Jewel-trove seemed aught than what it is 
 ' As now Thou wear'st it, and for Thy same sake 
 ' It shall draw near with Thee and plead to God ! ' 
 
 Then will He answer make to Thy dear prayer : 
 
 ' Oh ! Thou, who hast deserved well of God 
 
 'And men, for all the Good that Thou hast wrought 
 
 'Among them, may'st approach, and coming in, 
 
 ' Take Thy high station nigh My very Self, 
 
 'And, in the dazzling brilliancy wherein 
 
 'Thou shroudest all things-evil that may come 
 
 'Nigh unto Thee, shallt even find a place 
 
 ' For this poor Soul that Thou hast brought with Thee. 
 
 Darling ! it shall be thus when we are dead ; 
 How much the more then, whilst we live, for if 
 Thy Soul can plead successfully for mine 
 In craving pardon at the Judgment-throne,
 
 22 TJie Love-Letters of a Vagabond. 
 
 Shall Men bow down before Thy sweet Decree 
 
 That I, in all my great Un worthiness, 
 
 Have hid within myself a quality 
 
 That Thou can'st judge to make me worthy Thee, 
 
 From out the world of men that Thou hast known. 
 
 And if this quality be but my Love 
 
 P'or Thy dear Self, e'en then 'tis surely one 
 
 That makes me worthy the respect of men 
 
 Here in their midst, as Then and There, where all 
 
 Is like to Thee in Purity and Truth ? 
 
 And I, who nothing knew of this fair Gem 
 
 Till Thou had'st found it in me, kneel to Thee, 
 
 And pray that Thou in turn willt pray for me, 
 
 That, haply, even I may enter in. 
 
 Sweet !— when To-day is done, and in the ioy 
 
 Of fair To-morrow Thou art wholly mine, 
 
 I pray Thee of Thy charity forget 
 
 The clay whereout Thou pluck'st the Jewel Love, 
 
 Lest peradventure, thinking of it all,
 
 The Love- Letters of a Vagabond. 23 
 
 The Gem may seem less fair, and with the eves 
 Of Thy clairvoyant Soul, Thou'lt criticise 
 The flaws in it, that are the weary years 
 That sped 'ere Thou did'st take me by the hand. 
 
 Who e'er has loved knows well the halcyon hours 
 
 Whereof our lives thenceforward were composed, 
 
 Knows well the days of tender egotism 
 
 We knew together, she and I. [Alas ! 
 
 'Tis passing drear to be looked back upon.] 
 
 I fain would wander down that Fleuve de tendre. 
 
 And note once more the landmarks of our love ; 
 
 The day, the hour, the place, the when, the where, 
 
 We first knew love, not friendship, thrilled our souls 
 
 When her hand touched me or my own touched her ; 
 
 The boulders cast athwart the track of time 
 
 I half persuaded and half bore her o'er, 
 
 The day she gave her sweet self up to me, 
 
 And we were stricken with insanity 
 
 More sweet than all the sense in all the world. 
 
 The day she smiled, and looking in mine eves.
 
 24 The Love-Letters of a Vagabond. 
 
 The world ignoring, by the world ignored, 
 
 Gave up her sweet self utterly. [Alas ! 
 
 'Tis passing drear to be looked back upon.l 
 
 And how she said, begging as was her wont 
 
 For some new song, ' Sweetheart, our songs are 
 
 old, 
 1 Make me a new one to commemorate 
 'This day, this hour, this moment of our lives,_ 
 'That makes us one for all eternity. 
 1 Your verses have been humble, you have praved 
 ' To me for pity on the misery 
 4 That was as sweet for you as 'twas for me. 
 ' Those days are past, sing now our newer life, 
 'Sing now your triumph and my slavery, 
 ' The days are past when at my feet you knelt. 
 'And prayed to me as now I pray to you. 
 ' Chant now a paean worthy of my love 
 ' For you, my king, my master, and my God !' 
 And I, the words tear-dimmed before mine eves 
 My hand a-trembling for sheer ecstasy, 
 Chanted the triumph of Love's afternoon.
 
 The Love-Letters of a Vagabond. 25 
 
 My Angel-love, my life is yours, 
 
 And, being yours, is good at last, 
 In high disdain my soul outpours 
 
 The bitter mem'ries of the past, 
 For nothing evil may remain 
 
 For one who such a maid adores, 
 And nothing now can part us twain, 
 
 My Life is yours ! — my Life is yours 
 
 Sweetheart ! my very soul is thine, 
 
 My new heart beats alone for thee, 
 All that seemed sad shines forth divine 
 
 Since thou hast given thyself to me, 
 And naught shall come between us, dear, 
 
 We are but one, Sweet Mistress mine, 
 Go proudly on ! nor ever fear, 
 
 My Soul is thine ! — my Soul is thine! 
 
 The world is full of pain and strife, 
 But naught of it can come to us, 
 
 Since I have given you my life, 
 Our loving must be ever thus.
 
 26 The Love-Lettcrs of a Vagabond. 
 
 So ne'er let the soft mem'ry die 
 Of all my soul of you implores : — 
 
 There's none on earth more blest than I 
 Since you are mine, and I am yours / 
 
 The days that followed then, how shall 1 dare 
 
 To sing the calm delight of perfect trust, 
 
 The exquisite unconsciousness of love ? 
 
 Poets have sung the madness of love's mom 
 
 And the drear burden of satiety ; 
 
 'Tis mine to sing how sweet the moment when 
 
 A fond familiarity has ris'n 
 
 Between two souls that sought each other long, 
 
 And found each other after empty years. 
 
 So — she and I found solitude amid 
 
 The crowd that surged around us in the sea 
 
 Of life, and often, through long afternoons, 
 
 We sat together in the winter-time, — 
 
 She at her work, at some vain little thing 
 
 That with her willing hands she toiled at — J 
 
 Bent o'er my desk, surrounded by my books
 
 The Love-Letters of a Vagabond. 
 
 And papers, whilst the winter storm without 
 Mocked at our happiness, and mocked in vain. 
 And ever and anon a chapter done, 
 A song completed, or a volume closed, 
 She'd nestle at my side, and whilst I played 
 With the long silken tresses of her hair, 
 She'd read what I had writ, and wisely frown 
 In disapproval, so that I might prove 
 That all was excellent, and claim reward 
 For what I wrote upon her lips and eyes. 
 'Twas then I made this song of her and me. 
 
 They say that the weather is bad — that the snow 
 Lies thick on the ground, that the skies are grey, 
 
 That the world is a-mourning for Summer, — I know 
 That the Summer's noon closes the Winter's day ; 
 
 That out in the city the winds sob and moan, 
 But what do I care if the world's all awry. 
 
 For with its the sun shines as we sit here alone, 
 When She is at work — and so am / .'
 
 28 The Love-Letters of a Vagabond. 
 
 They say that the world — that's to say, people in it, — 
 Are treach'rous and false when they seem to be 
 fair, 
 That the praise of the mob, when you've striven to 
 win it, 
 Is just like an iceberg — it's brilliant — and bare ! 
 That nothing is worth half the trouble we give it. 
 That tears sound through when we're half mad with 
 glee, 
 But I am content with my life — as I live it, 
 When / am at work — and so is She ! 
 
 They say that life isn't worth living — that sorrow 
 
 Lies hid in our hearts when we laugh ; well — 
 perhaps ! 
 We care naught for this, and we don't want to borrow 
 
 The joy of the world — we're content with our scraps 
 And if you would know why I'm gay, notwithstanding 
 
 The chills of the world, and it's people — just see 
 That my darling and I have a sweet ' understanding,' 
 
 When all the world works — and so do ivel
 
 TJie Love-Letters of a Vagabond. 29 
 
 The winter passed, and summer came a«<am 
 
 And then we wandered out as yester-year 
 
 We wandered o'er the flower-jewelled fields, 
 
 And I would lie, and pillowing my head 
 
 Upon her dainty feet, would scribble lines 
 
 Upon her tablets; and at eve when we 
 
 Had sought once more our cottage near the sea, 
 
 She'd sit and let her fingers stray at will 
 
 Over the keys of an old harpsichord, 
 
 That creaked and twanked most direly, but I think 
 
 No melodies are half so sweet as those 
 
 She would invent for such light songs as this. 
 
 X. 
 
 I lie at your feet in the dusk, and a scrap Ittacine. 
 
 Of your lace falls and kisses my hair as you lean 
 To listen, and loosen a fold of your wrap 
 As I lie at your feet, Nadine, 
 At your miniature feet, Nadine. 
 
 And so, when I look in your eyes, I believe 
 
 I can read your soul's secrets, can guess what you 
 mean, — 
 
 A StrtVixdi,.
 
 30 The Love-Letters of a Vagabond. 
 
 And hardly know whether to glory or grieve, 
 As I look through your eyes, Nadine, 
 Through your wonderful eyes, Nadine. 
 
 And then, as you lift a soft fold of your lace 
 
 In your hand, bending forward, and hold it- 
 between 
 
 My eyes and your own, you have hidden your face, 
 With the lace and your hand, Nadine, 
 With your beautiful hand, Nadine, 
 
 And so, I fall silent. You answer, and then 
 
 Your voice takes me back to some heav'n I have 
 
 seen 
 Long ago, for our tongue becomes musical when 
 
 Tis spoke of your lips, Nadine, 
 
 Of your passionate lips, Nadine. 
 
 I'd chant you, but know that mv hymn were so old 
 Should I tell you how glorious vo" are, oh, my 
 queen !
 
 The Love-Letters of a Vagabond. 31 
 
 And the flame you have lit in my soul would turn cold 
 Should it leap to your heart, Nadine, 
 To your passionless heart, Nadine ! 
 
 We parted once, but for a little while, 
 
 When I was summoned by the needs of life 
 
 To visit far from where she stayed alone, 
 
 Passing her days in soft expectancy 
 
 Of my return, and, lying in the grass 
 
 That clothed the banks of a tumultuous stream. 
 
 My thoughts flew back to her as they were bound 
 
 To fly at ev'ry moment of the day, 
 
 And ev'ry sound that fell upon mine ear, 
 
 The shrilling of the cicada, the cries 
 
 Of golden-crested orioles that sought 
 
 Their mates amid the bushes that o'erhung 
 
 The raging torrent,— nay the waterfall 
 
 That murmured in the distance up the stream, 
 
 Whispered her name to me, and lest she think 
 
 That my new songs might be of aught but her, 
 
 I made for her this little canzonet.
 
 32 
 
 The Love- Letters of a Vagabond. 
 
 I AM alone, an hundred miles 
 
 Of mountain-land part Thee and me, 
 Yet all the champaign round me smiles, 
 
 And speaks to me of Thee ; 
 The woodland rings with joyous notes 
 
 Of happy bird and hum of bee, 
 And ev'ry song that hither floats 
 
 Doth sing to me of Thee. 
 
 The careless stream that o'er the stones 
 
 Hies fast to greet Thee by the sea, 
 Holds countless tongues whose murm'ring tones 
 
 Shall croon to Thee of me ; 
 The fire-flies wave their beacons bright 
 
 Around me, and I seem to see 
 Thine eyes, and from their tiny light 
 
 Shines love from Thee to me. 
 
 So, ev'ry creature round me seems 
 
 Our messenger of Love to be, 
 And ev'ry world-sound haunts my dreams 
 
 To chant to me of Thee !
 
 The Love-Letters of a Vagabond. 33 
 
 Alack ! although we twain did know it not. 
 
 Our day was waning and the end drew nigh, 
 
 The stifled summons from the world of men 
 
 Fell with reiteration on mine ear, 
 
 The things that should have parted us at first 
 
 Took shadow-shapes and passed before our eyes, 
 
 Shrouded as yet in dim futurity, 
 
 Panoplied in the mists of the To-be ; 
 
 The time came when we knew that we must 
 
 part, 
 Some day — perhaps — but ah ! not yet awhile. 
 And yet we knew too well it must be so 
 Sooner or later, though we steadfastly 
 Forbore to think of the unhallowed dawn 
 That was ordained to break upon the dav 
 When we should sever. Often when we sat 
 Silently and alone, immersed in thought. 
 And neither dared to read the other's mind. 
 I would look up and catch her tear-dimmed 
 
 eyes 
 
 Fastened upon me with an agony 
 
 G
 
 34 The Love-Letters of a Vagabond. 
 
 In ev'ry light that flashed in them for me. 
 
 So, we began the task of severing 
 
 The bonds that bound us, gently at the first ; 
 
 We spoke of the long years that stretched before 
 
 Our hearts, and I do well remember how 
 
 Her red lips trembled when I gave to her 
 
 One day these two sad songs, that seemed to tell 
 
 Vaguely of our drear future loneliness. 
 
 Sweetheart, when I have gone away 
 
 Out of thy life, and left thee nought 
 Save the soft mem'ry of a day 
 
 When thou did'st half divine my thought, 
 Wilt thou remember me, and say 
 
 Within thine heart, ' Full well I know 
 He loved me well,— he could not stay, 
 
 He loved— but could not tell me so ?' 
 
 Dear Love, when I seem dead to thee, 
 And others strive to fill my place, 
 
 I know thou wilt not let them see 
 That half-told secret in thy face.
 
 The Love-Letters of a Vagabond. 35 
 
 Wilt thou not whisper to thine heart 
 
 ' He must have loved me well to go 
 And live his lonely life apart, 
 
 He loved — but dared not tell me so?' 
 When all that parts us is o'erthrown, 
 
 And thou at last art wholly free, 
 Thy heart will not have ceased to own 
 
 The love it knew — and gave to me, 
 And we'll forget in high disdain ' 
 
 The years that passed so sorely slow, 
 We'll meet and ne'er shall part again, 
 
 I'll love you,— and I'll tell you so ! 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Ah ! when again men say to you II. IU ipartii 
 
 ' I love but thee,' will you forget 
 The day we parted, how the dew 
 
 Of mem'ry made your eyes grow wet ? 
 And how I kissed away your tears, 
 
 And how I swore that I'd be true 
 Till death, and how I soothed your fears 
 
 In promising to live for you ?
 
 2,6 The Love-Letters of a Vagabond. 
 
 When other men shall come to you, 
 
 And lay their hearts at your dear feet, 
 Will you forget how fast they flew, 
 
 Those hours we were together, Sweet? 
 And how within mine own your hands 
 
 Lay unresisting, for you knew 
 That though I fled to other lands 
 
 I left my heart and soul with you ? 
 
 You'll not forget how sweetly you 
 
 Gave up your lips, and made the pain 
 Of parting naught, and swore anew 
 
 That you and I should meet again, 
 When nothing stands between us, dear, 
 
 And when the dream an ev'ning slew 
 Is ours once more, — you'll know no fear 
 
 When I can live — and die— for you. 
 
 She came one day to where I spent alone 
 
 The empty hours that she might not fill 
 
 With her sweet presence, and that day we spoke
 
 The Love-Letters of a Vagabond. 37 
 
 As calmly as we could of coming days 
 
 When life for us must be all desolate. 
 
 In vain we tried to soothe each other's fears, 
 
 In vain we spoke of the impending age 
 
 As but a little while, whereafter we 
 
 Should meet again, and revel as of yore 
 
 In thoughtless happiness, and should forget 
 
 Our days of separation. Ah ! 'twas mad 
 
 To wring our souls before those days had come ! 
 
 Vainly we sought oblivion as of old 
 
 In one another's arms, in vain we strove 
 
 To drown all recollection in a kiss — 
 
 The cruel truth uprose in mockery, 
 
 And told us it was folly to forget, 
 
 Or even to pretend that we forgot 
 
 That this was the beginning of the end. 
 
 I only know that in that afternoon 
 
 The mad flame of our love flared up as ne'er 
 
 It seemed to blaze before, and, when she left, 
 
 I knew not all the ' reason' in the world 
 
 Could e'er restore to us what we had lost,
 
 38 TJie Love-Letters of a Vagabond. 
 
 And were about to lose. The atmosphere 
 Seemed subtly scented of her presence still : — 
 Then suddenly I made these lines for her. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 fl&cmorv : ^ perfumed delirium hanqs in the air 
 a - a Ihsit. & 
 
 As I sit here alone and the firelight dies, 
 And you stand here again with your exquisite hair, 
 With your passionate lips, and your pleading eyes. 
 
 It was here that you sat — if I stretch out my hand 
 I can almost believe that I touch you again, 
 
 Like the hunger-mad sailor who springs for the land 
 Thathe sees in his madness — and springs but in vain. 
 
 Do mad people know they are mad — do you think ? 
 
 And do the dead know they are dead ? tell me this ; 
 / care not ! for I should be willing to sink 
 
 Into madness or death 'neath the spell of your kiss. 
 
 You're here once again — leaning back in this chair, 
 And I am content to crouch here, at your knee, 
 
 In the flesh you are distant, but what do I care 
 That your body is there, since your soul is with me.
 
 The Love-Letters of a Vagabond. 39 
 
 I hold you still closer — your breath on my cheek 
 Drives the blood through my veins like a torrent of 
 flame, 
 
 Whilst / dare not breathe, — if my soul could but speak 
 The Echoes Eternal would answer your name. 
 
 And now? It is morning — you're still in my grasp 
 As I shut close my door, and I put out my light, 
 
 And I lie here. Alone ? Do you think I unclasp 
 Myarmsfroin your neck? — do I bid you 'Good-night?' 
 
 Ah, no ! 
 
 The day before I left, I sought her home, 
 
 Though she had told me she must be away, 
 
 And waited for her vainly for a while. 
 
 Alas ! she came not, but where she had been 
 
 Each tiny object spoke to me of her, 
 
 And there for the first time since first we met 
 
 I realised the pain of solitude ; 
 
 And, as I lay amid the Indian stuffs 
 
 That strewed the cushions of a great divan,
 
 40 The Love-Letters of a Vagabond. 
 
 The sorrow of it all came home to me, 
 And this was, in some way, my Reverie/ 
 
 XV. 
 
 3. IReverie. With all the chill of Friendship in mine eyes, 
 
 With all the fire of Longing in my soul, 
 I lie alone — for you are gone — and watch 
 The cinders, busy in their idleness, 
 Writhe into wreaths and stumble into shapes, 
 To fall once more and leave no trace behind 
 Of the weird fancies of the dying fire, 
 Its last confession, as it were, before 
 It crumbles into dry, decadent dust ! 
 
 Who was the sage who, in rough days of old, 
 When flight of time was marked alone by lust 
 Of life and near approach of frightful death, 
 Said that, of all things dangerous and bad, 
 The worst was when a woman thought alone ? 
 He spoke in wanton ignorance, for man, 
 Left solitary with his own drear thoughts,
 
 The Love-Letters of a Vagabond. 41 
 
 Is worse a thousandfold, for he blasphemes 
 Himself and all things, thinking on his past! 
 
 I lie and listen to the dying voice 
 
 Of dying day, 'mid the great city's din, 
 
 Hushed incoherent 'neath the folds of night; 
 
 I lie amid the cushions and the silks 
 
 Of your divan, and wonder whether it 
 
 Would tell of things more strange, could it but speak, 
 
 Than all these memories which start from naught, 
 
 Thrown on the screen of thought in bold relief, 
 
 Cast by the magic-lantern of the Brain ! 
 
 Wild thoughts of Days that had not any Night, 
 Of tingling joys in Life that knew not Death, 
 Of hours of Pleasure when no thought of Pain 
 Crept in to make the Pleasure dear to us ; 
 Of captive hours, chained in the bond of eyes 
 That shone for us alone, and bade us drown, 
 Of such conceits as 'Time' or 'Space,' all thought, 
 When we lay drugged in lethargy of Love, 
 And fancied our unconsciousness was Peace!
 
 42 The Love-Letters of a Vagabond. 
 
 I lie, contrasting with such halcyon hours 
 
 The wretched ones when those that we have loved 
 
 Seemed cold, or disappointment chilled the fire 
 
 Of longing in our hearts, and bade despair, 
 
 Distrust and Disenchantment take its place : 
 
 The moments when our hearts have beaten high 
 
 With wild expectancy of joys supreme; 
 
 And how those moments died, extinct in dull, 
 
 Cold misery, when Nothingness ensued. 
 
 Ah, well ! why mock the solitary hours 
 With thoughts like these? Rise up and contem- 
 plate 
 The Present, and its dazzling brilliancy 
 That shines into our eyes, and bids us cease 
 To think at all of Future things — or Past ! 
 The Now is good : take heed lest you by calm 
 Dispassionate reflection 'neath the rose, 
 See the sharp thorn of Disillusionment, 
 As, through a murky glass, the astronomer 
 Sees spots upon the Sun !
 
 TJie Love-Letters of a Vagabond. 43 
 
 The Winter waned, and with the first Spring days 
 
 I hied me wearily across the sea, 
 
 Seeking new fortunes in the newer land, 
 
 Changing all things around me save my love. 
 
 That remained steadfast, built upon the rock 
 
 Of Hope that stands eternal in the waste 
 
 Of Life, although I strove in vain to lull 
 
 The anguished longing that oppressed my soul. 
 
 I thought that time might bring a lighter mood, 
 
 That I perchance might live to see the day 
 
 When I could sit me down and live alone 
 
 With no heart-burning thoughts of yester-year. 
 
 Perhaps I might have been to some extent 
 
 Successful in the search for new delights 
 
 To drown the mem'ry of the old, alas ! 
 
 There came a little song across the sea, 
 
 An old friend sang it one soft afternoon, 
 
 And as he sang, the wild throb of my heart 
 
 Cried out aloud of her whom I had left ; 
 
 I looked, half blinded, at the printed sheet, 
 
 And saw the song was hers. That night my hand,
 
 44 The Love- Letters of a Vagabond. 
 
 Refusing me the task I set it to, 
 
 Traced, half-unconsciously, this answering. 
 
 XVI. 
 Bwafeentngl There came a Voice across the sea, 
 
 It came to me — it came to me ! 
 
 And ah ! a weary tale it told 
 
 Of nights long past, and days of old, 
 
 Before the sea relentless rolled 
 
 'Twixt you and me ! 
 
 Its Song was sad, but bravely true, 
 It came from you — it came from you ! 
 To find me in the hasting West, 
 To tell me how you sought for rest 
 In vain. Alas ! old things were best 
 'Twixt me and you ! 
 
 In future, never to us twain 
 Shall come again — shall come again ! 
 The joys we knew long years ago.
 
 The Love-Letters of a Vagabond. 45 
 
 Our souls are dead ; alas ! we know 
 
 That never more shall love-songs go 
 
 Betwixt us twain ! 
 
 I sent it her, half fearful for the meed 
 
 Of my temerity, for I had sworn 
 
 To fade from out her life, die utterly 
 
 For her, but she, repenting her decree, 
 
 Read my poor heart-cry with forgiving eyes, 
 
 And so, when weeks had passed, one sunny morn. 
 
 A little withered flower came to me, 
 
 And that was all :— but surely 'twas enough, 
 
 It told me that my Love, my old Love lived ! 
 
 XVII. 
 
 My old Love lives !— will live for me for aye, ' ®\$ x £fr» z 
 
 They told me she was dead,— they spake not true, R „dean 
 
 Redouble. 
 
 Such love as hers and mine can never die, 
 At each day's death it lives for me anew. 
 
 These know not love— but I will cherish through 
 Eternal ages her sweet trust, and I
 
 46 The Love- Letters of a Vagabond. 
 
 Ne'er will love more as they would have me do, 
 My old Love lives ! — will live for me for aye. 
 
 They tell me that I mourn her idly. Why ! 
 
 They even say that I am mad to rue 
 Our parting. 'Twas, in sooth, a sorry lie 
 
 They told me, — she was dead: they spake not true ! 
 
 Can love be born to revel for a few 
 
 Short months, then, take the tribute of a sigh, 
 And flee elsewhere for newer joys to sue? 
 
 Such love as hers and mine can never die. 
 
 They think for me the world has gone awry, 
 
 Since I have learned this song they can't construe, 
 
 Our love is mine ! — and night and morn I cry : — 
 ' At each day's death it lives for me anew !' 
 
 Sweetheart! — it is not dead this love of ours, 
 The new love that they offer me is vain, 
 
 Through the long years and months of days and hours 
 I shall be thine, — thou mine, — 1 bear no pain, 
 
 My old Love lives !
 
 The Love-Letters of a Vagabond. 47 
 
 Methinks it was some wanton Spirit-thing 
 
 That prompted her to breathe upon the love 
 
 That lay a-dying in my lonely soul, 
 
 And fan its fading embers into flame. 
 
 Long days and weeks and months crept by, and she 
 
 Never made sign again that still she lived — 
 
 That still she thought of those bright vanished days, 
 
 When we knew naught of parting or of pain. 
 
 As days of waiting gathered into years, 
 
 My quickened joy died out, and sorrow lived 
 
 Once more within my soul ; and then men came 
 
 Across the ocean and declared that she 
 
 Had proven faithless to our oft-pledged vows, 
 
 That she and I were twain indeed for aye. 
 
 I think 'twas then I realised that life 
 
 Was empty now for Love, — my Love, — was dead. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 This is not Life, since Love — my Love— is dead, Ubistenot 
 
 life ! 
 
 Since half a world holds our twin-souls apart, Kmdea* 
 
 . _ , quasi-redouble 
 
 Our love that made life, Life, took wing and fled, 
 And so, for aye a-widowed, mourns my heart.
 
 4$ Tlie Love-Letters of a Vagabond. 
 
 The world may wane, but she will ne'er forgive, 
 Shall I forget the bitter words she said ? 
 
 Ah no ! — indeed, I know not how I live, 
 
 This is not Life, since love — my Love — is dead. 
 
 They say 'tis brave to battle to be free ! — 
 That God is good. I knew He bade us part 
 
 From one another : — what is life to me 
 
 Since half a world holds our twin souls apart ? 
 
 We were but one, and this but yester-year; 
 
 My life was hers, and hers was mine (she said), 
 And now — I am alone — 'tis passing drear; 
 
 Our love that made life, Life, took wing and fled. 
 
 The race of youth for fame and fortune seems 
 A bonny thing, with love to speed the start, 
 
 But at the goal these things are but as dreams, 
 And so, for aye a-widowed, mourns my heart. 
 
 'Tis but a phrase, this glory of the day, 
 And but a curse this thing they call the Breath
 
 The Love- Letters of a Vagabond. 49 
 
 Of Life, since love is lost, and, dared I pray, 
 I'd crave of God the grace of night and death : 
 This is not Life ! 
 
 The songs I made then fell in minor keys, 
 A subtle misery invaded me 
 And spoke in every word I said, in all 
 I did. I ceased the endeavour to forget, 
 I ceased to strive to wake a love long dead, 
 Long dead in hers, but living in my heart 
 As it must live for aye, but well I knew 
 That nevermore would life hold joy for me. 
 
 Ah ! nevermore will you and I together, 
 My fair lost Love, walk hand in hand again, 
 
 Nor tell our secrets to the soft spring weather 
 As once we did, ne'er recking of the pain 
 
 That now is ours, by some unhallowed law 
 
 That bids our torn hearts cry, ' Ah, nevermore ! ' 
 
 Ah ! nevermore the bond that naught may sever 
 Shall e'er be sworn and sealed upon your eyes. 
 
 XIX 
 
 »b, 1Hcvcr= 
 move ! ' 
 
 A Song in a 
 minor key.
 
 50 The Love-Letters of a Vagabond. 
 
 Life's winter-storm has wrecked our love for ever, 
 
 And now we know how soon, alas ! it dies 
 Out of our lives, this love of ours, to soar 
 Beyond our grasp, to wail, ' Ah, nevermore ! ' 
 
 Ah ! nevermore shall we who, for a season, 
 Had all in all of one another's love 
 
 Love thus again, and ne'er may learn the reason 
 Wherefore we failed who passionately strove 
 
 To be but one in Life, and aye forbore 
 
 To dream our souls might sob, ' Ah, nevermore ! ' 
 
 And yet I felt that had she but replied 
 
 By word or sign to my love-agony, 
 
 I had more lightly borne my punishment. ■ 
 
 My joy fell from her lips, and had my pain 
 
 Been but inflicted by a word of hers, 
 
 It had not seemed so drear to me [Alas ! 
 
 'Tis passing drear to be looked back upon !] 
 
 XX. 
 
 a{tcv . I FELT, long ago, that my day-dream was past, 
 
 But I know'twould have softened the sting of my pain
 
 The Love-Letters of a Vagabond. 5 1 
 
 Had you told me yourselj 'that I'd wakened at last, 
 Had I heard your sweet voice only once, once again. 
 
 'Twas your cold cruel silence that taught me despair, 
 When no sob echoed mine as I whispered your name, 
 
 Your answer, unspoken, was cruel to bear, 
 
 And I left you in silence, — ah ! was I to blame ? 
 
 And now it's all over, I know 'tis too late, 
 
 And I know when we meet that 'twill be but to part, 
 
 But grant me one sign, for this pain 'twill abate 
 
 If it come from your lips, from your hand, from your 
 heart. 
 
 If you will but say that your heart is still true, 
 Ever silent perhaps, yet — in silence the same, 
 
 If my soul turns in answering silence to you, 
 And I love you as dearly, — ah ! am I to blame ? 
 
 And now new trials were in store for me, 
 I almost had forgotten the old pain 
 'Mid the new scenes wherein I passed my life 
 Beyond a sheet of music that she wrote,
 
 52 The Love- Letters of a Vagabond. 
 
 Or a few verses copied by her hand, 
 
 A crumpled ribbon, or a faded flower, 
 
 That she had worn, that sometimes, when I sought 
 
 For other things within my treasure-chest, 
 
 I found, there naught remained to speak to me 
 
 Of her, and of her love, and of my loss. 
 
 But one night, passing up a crowded stair 
 
 At a reception, suddenly I came 
 
 Full face to face with her. I did not know 
 
 That she had crossed the sea, I hardly knew 
 
 Whether she lived, — or had forgotten me, — 
 
 But there she stood, a radiant lovely thing, 
 
 Answering with a laugh the vapid tale 
 
 That in her ear some social idiot poured. 
 
 A sudden flush, and then she paler grew 
 
 Than she had been before, and as I bov\ ed 
 
 And stammered forth some social commonplace, 
 
 She held me out the hand, I trembling took, 
 
 To find it icy-cold beneath her glove. 
 
 We met and parted thus, but afterwards 
 
 We met repeatedly amid the whirl
 
 A Song. 
 
 The Love-Lclters of a Vagabond. 53 
 
 Men call ' society ; ' ah ! it was hard 
 
 To wear the mask of mere acquaintanceship 
 
 For her who had been, as 'twere yesterday, 
 
 My very life, my only constant thought, 
 
 And then I made for her another song. 
 
 She never saw it, — it was better so. 
 
 XXI. 
 If I am absent when we meet, 3 love i!?ou gc 
 
 And hardly find a word to say 
 Or talk of nothings as we greet, 
 
 Of trivial things of ev'ry day, 
 You mustn't think me altered, dear, 
 
 In these short months, alas ! you know 
 That it was only yester-year 
 
 I loved you so ! — I loved you so ! 
 
 If, when I meet you 'mid the crowd, 
 
 I merely bow and coldly pass, 
 You mustn't think that I've grown proud, 
 
 Or have forgotten, for, alas ! 
 Though I have tried in vain to fill 
 
 My days as seasons come and go,
 
 54 The Love- Letters of a Vagabond. 
 
 Deep in my heart I feel that still 
 I love you so ! — I love you so ! 
 
 Perhaps when we are growing old, 
 
 Maybe when we're a trifle grey, 
 Our meetings need not be so cold 
 
 As they, alas ! must be to-day, 
 And in that summer-time we'll not 
 
 Remember there was ever snow, 
 When you'll have learnt / ne'er forgot, 
 
 I'll love you so ! — I'll love you so! 
 
 It seems to me as I sit here to-day 
 And give my thoughts full rein to wander back 
 [Indeed, why should I not, now she is dead?], 
 It had been better had I gone abroad, 
 And not allowed mine eyes to see her more. 
 For she was changed in some mysterious way; 
 She was no longer her whom I had known 
 So well — [so well !] — beneath the distant skies. 
 She had grown harder, colder, though her eyes 
 Lit up sometimes, as formerly, with gleams
 
 The Love- Letters of a Vagabond. 55 
 
 That I had known so well — [so well !] — of yore. 
 They told me she was shortly to be wed 
 [For she was free and mistress of her fate 
 Once more, but her new life was not for me]; 
 And yet sometimes a pressure of her hand, 
 A word unspoken, or a thought not said 
 Seemed to encourage me in the belief 
 That she remembered. But, alas ! I knew 
 That I was not more favoured than the rest — 
 The men who danced and flirted with her when 
 They met in crowded rooms — where men lie Lest! 
 And presently I learned the bitter truth 
 That she, grown harder in the world of.lies, 
 Was nothing more than — a most fair coquette ! 
 
 XXII. 
 The ball-room for me had been lit by your eyes, Cciiuctt 
 
 That were brighter, I swear, than the gay chandeliers ; 
 The walls had re-echoed the follies and lies 
 
 We fancy we mean as we laugh down our tears. 
 The night had grown old, and the birds in the park 
 
 Just over the way were awaking to song,
 
 56 The Love- Letters of a Vagabond. 
 
 As, dazed by your beauty, I stood in the dark 
 
 In the hall, where I'd waited to see you so long. 
 At last, when you came to the top of the stair 
 
 On the arm of the man that they say you're to wed, 
 I fancied the sheen of your exquisite hair 
 
 Was an aureole circling your beautiful head. 
 And, hidden, I gazed at you, trying to find 
 
 On your bosom the rose that for me you had worn, 
 And saw that the man who was walking behind 
 
 You was wearing it now, — well, — you thought I had 
 gone! 
 And you didn't see me. I left you and never 
 
 Shall tell you the torture I suffered that night, 
 For, leaving, I knew that I'd left you forever, 
 
 And thank'd God you hadn't seen me, for the light : 
 Had you known I was there, — had you guessed at the 
 sorrow 
 
 That lay o'er my soul, you'd have wept for my pain, 
 
 You'd have told me to come and 'make up' on the 
 
 morrow. 
 
 « * * 
 
 Had I kissed you once more I'd have loved you again!
 
 The Love-Letters of a Vagabond. 57 
 
 'Twas then my heart grew cold at last for her, 
 
 'Twas then I knew that had she come to me 
 
 And held me up her lips, as long ago, 
 
 I had not loved her in the old sweet way, 
 
 And stunned by the discovery, I wrote 
 
 These lines that I have christened ' Questioning.' 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 You ask me, ' Do I love you ?' — well, maybe Questioning. 
 
 I do, but then you know my life is full 
 Of other things of more import than this : 
 So many weighty matters come to dull 
 The keen edge of my longing for your kiss, 
 That oft-times, when I take you in mine arms, 
 And feel your pulses throb for me alone, 
 And know that all of you is all mine own, 
 My soul is filled with eerie questioning 
 Lest your heart wander blindly after mine 
 Amid a labyrinth of rebel thought. 
 * * * 
 
 And then I wonder vaguely if I ought 
 To take from you an orFring so divine
 
 58 
 
 The Love- Letters of a Vagabond. 
 
 XXIV. 
 "Retrospection. 
 
 'Mais — mi sont 
 
 Us neiges 
 
 d"antan ! ' 
 
 As this, that at my feet 
 You lay — my Sweet ! 
 
 So — love, for me and her, was dead at last, 
 Was dead as well it might be, for, indeed, 
 It lingered long in both our hearts I know, — 
 Longer than light love lasts for most of us. 
 I knew that all was over, and I knew 
 That love could never come to us again, 
 And live as once it did within our hearts, 
 For, who has loved as we twain loved can ne'er 
 Love more so perfectly as once we did ; 
 New summer in our hearts could never be 
 One half so lovely as those ' neiges d'antan.' 
 
 SIGHING, she rose, and o'er her shapely head 
 Stretching her long white arms to the empty air, 
 She leaned against the window. She was fair 
 As any old-time goddess to whom men 
 Bowed low the knee in Argolis. 
 
 She said : 
 'All this, I know, is sweet and true — but then —
 
 The Love- Letters of a Vagabond. 59 
 
 ' Alas ! 'tis all so old to me, and when 
 
 ' Men say they love me, one who, long ago, 
 
 ' Swore that he loved, then left me, comes again 
 
 ' Before mine eyes, and smiles in high disdain 
 
 'To see them strive to wake a love long dead. 
 
 ' Tell me no more ! I cannot bear the pain 
 
 ' Of living it once more, dear friend, and so, 
 
 'Tell me of things more exquisite than this; 
 
 ' Of loyal friendship — love that claims no kiss 
 
 ' Of passion to belie its gentle name. 
 
 ' Ask nothing more ! nor seek my love ; you know 
 
 ' All that has died within me.' 
 
 Then, in low, 
 Impassioned whisper, did I strive to break 
 The cold frost-mantle, and for her dear sake 
 I vowed abandonment of all that life 
 Held dear for me. But presently the strife 
 I saw was ended — wasted ; so, in dull, 
 Cold misery I turned. And 'mid the lull, 
 The silence of our souls, she softly said : 
 ' Leave me to mourn alone. I am afraid !
 
 60 The Love-Letters of a Vagabond. 
 
 'For love to me may ne'er be aught but shame, 
 'And now the only memory that may 
 ' Bring joy to me is his — of yesterday ! ' 
 
 The last remains,— the last oft-acted scene 
 
 We play upon the stage of life and love, 
 
 When life has lost its flavour, and when love 
 
 Has turned to calm indifference, to sink 
 
 Still lower, or perhaps it were more true, 
 
 To say to rise — from apathy to hate ; 
 
 And I who only lived to chant her praise 
 
 In verses that for me were writ in blood, 
 
 Sat down one winter's midnight, mad with pain 
 
 And tuned my old worn lute to Blasphemy ! 
 
 XXV. 
 Ibatvcfc! / hate you! aye, as deeply as I loved you, and you 
 
 know 
 How deep the love I bore you was a little while ago, 
 When round my neck you wound your arms, and 
 
 looked into mine eyes, 
 And vowed you loved me in return, and all your vows 
 
 were lies;
 
 The Love-Letters of a Vagabond. 61 
 
 And now I hate to look at you — and will not ! Well, 
 
 you know, 
 I never should have hated, had I never loved you so. 
 
 Your low-tuned voice still rings within mine ears : you 
 
 swore to be 
 For all eternity the loving thing you were to me. 
 A few short weeks of absence — to forget me you began! 
 The weeks became a month or two — you'd found 
 
 another man ! 
 And I ? Did you suppose I'd plead, or beg you not to go? 
 Ah no ! I'd sooner hate you than descend to love you so. 
 
 I see you pass my window as you tread my lonely street, 
 A smile upon your face as forth you go, your fool to meet, 
 Whilst the man they call your 'husband' works his 
 
 weary life away 
 To provide you with the money for your lover's whims 
 
 to pay. 
 If he knew all he'd kill you — but alas ! he'll never know, 
 For the lying tongue I hate in you has made him love 
 
 you so.
 
 62 The Love-Letters of a Vagabond. 
 
 Fame ! wealth ! to see you shamed I'd gladly sacrifice 
 
 the whole; 
 To see you humbled to the dust I'd give my very 
 
 soul ! 
 Just Heav'n ! what joy to see you crouch for mercy ! — 
 
 'twould be odd 
 To see you craving pardon for your sins from man and 
 
 God! 
 And God and man would spurn you, — cast you out, — 
 
 could they but know 
 Your true self, for they'd hate you,— and I'd love to 
 
 see you so ! 
 
 The time will come — I pray for it ! — when your pol- 
 luted name 
 
 Will ne'er be whispered by the pure in heart, for very 
 shame, 
 
 When honest folk will shun you, when you'll seek a 
 home in vain ! 
 
 Then shall my triumph be— and then— I'll love you 
 once again,
 
 The Love-Letters of a Vagabond. 63 
 
 For you'll be shriven for the wrong you did me, and 
 
 you'll know 
 I never should have hated, had I never loved 
 
 you so ! 
 
 Ube i£nb of tbe Xove=!iLcttef0. 
 
 These are some trifles that I writ for her 
 Ere yet we parted first, in years gone by, 
 Trifles that in our lighter moods I made 
 For her to laugh at, — just to make her part 
 Her rich red lips upon her snowy teeth. 
 How blithely she would scold me, for she said 
 [And tried to make me think she meant it too !], 
 That this was not all fooling, that she knew 
 That deep within my wand'ring heart I felt 
 That what I wrote in merry ridicule 
 Was more than half the truth, to see me frown, 
 And stoD her rebel lips with kisses. Well !
 
 6 4 
 
 The Love-Lcttcrs of a Vagabond. 
 
 It may be that she was not wholly wrong, 
 But I have kept these follies, for they seemed 
 Part of the old sweet life when we were one. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Erotic 
 Chestnuts. 
 
 A Protest. 
 
 This first I wrote one winter afternoon 
 When she sat pouting and declared that I 
 Sang her old songs, and swore old oaths that oft 
 I'd sworn before to other, earlier loves. 
 
 You tell me all men say the same 
 
 Mendacious things when they adore, 
 If so, you ought to lay the blame 
 
 On all the men who've loved before ! 
 For surely you've no right to scold 
 
 Me when I say that ' Only you 
 Have understood me* — if it's old, 
 
 It need not therefore be untrue. 
 
 And when I say that ' I unbend 
 Alone for you. and am myself J 
 
 You need not cease to be my friend 
 Because 'twas said by some poor elf
 
 The Love-Letters of a Vagabond. 65 
 
 Who doubtless also said what I 
 Say now to you, that : — ' Any day 
 
 rd gladly lay me down and die 
 
 If yon should find me in your way J ' 
 
 And possibly e'en you've denied 
 
 The truth of statements such as this : — 
 'I'm only Jiappy by your side' 
 
 And ' Loving y oil is simply bliss.' 
 'Tis possible these have been said 
 
 By men flirtatious, bad and bold, 
 But oh ! I trust you'll not be led 
 
 To doubt them now because they're old. 
 
 P.S. 
 Now listen to me, and henceforward be wise, 
 
 ' / never have loved any woma7i but you] 
 Was remarked by Pere Adam in Paradise 
 
 Since when — as a statement — it's been untrue. 
 
 Here is the utt'rance of a Yule-tide wish 
 
 That she would have me make one Christmas dawn 
 
 [It seems as 'twere a life-time since it broke]. 
 
 E
 
 66 The Love-Letters of a Vagabond. 
 
 It was soon after I had made the rhymes 
 That are above, just after she had said 
 That I had sung her songs at second hand ! 
 And I remember how she came to me, 
 And wound her snowy arms about my neck 
 Whilst I sat writing. Out of doors the snow 
 Fell thickly on the people hurrying 
 To Church to hail their Lord's nativity; 
 A chill wind drove it, and the very dogs 
 That used to gambol in the desert roads 
 Seemed frozen, but with us a warm fire blazed, 
 And she, enwrapped in wondrous woof of silks, 
 Had huddled at my knee, whilst I sat lost 
 In some abstruse reflection. So she rose, 
 And laying her soft lips against mine ear, 
 'You have not told me how, this Christmas morn, 
 ' You love me differently to other days,' 
 She said, and then, laughing into mine eyes, 
 She laid a sheet before me, and said 'Write! 
 ' Make me an ode to celebrate the day,' 
 And so sank softly to my knee once more.
 
 The Love-Letters of a Vagabond. 6j 
 
 xxvir. 
 
 From all the forms wherewith they greet, ' On cin-istmr 
 
 2>av, for sou.' 
 I'd choose for you the best — but nay ! 
 
 How can mere words be good, my Sweet, 
 
 Enough for you on Christmas Day? 
 Alack ! for mercy I must sue, 
 
 I cannot find a word to say 
 Sufficiently expressive to 
 
 Be sent to you on Christmas Day i 
 
 1 A Merry Christmas' 1 is so old, 
 
 There's surely some far better way 
 By which my heart-wish may be told, 
 
 For you to read on Christmas Day. 
 ' The Seasons Complime7itsl I fear, 
 
 Is neither witty, grave, nor gay, 
 And I'd be loth to send you, dear, 
 
 A pointless song on Christmas Day 1 
 
 I know not in what kind of voice 
 
 You'd have me tell my wish. You pay 
 Your money and you take your choice 
 
 In things like this on Christmas Day.
 
 68 The Love-Letters of a Vagabond. 
 
 But I'll not bore you further, dear, 
 With argument, but merely say : — 
 
 ' I've loved you, Darling, through the year, 
 ' I'll love you more this Christmas Day !' 
 
 'Twas in the later days, when life became 
 
 For me a dreary thing in solitude, 
 
 An old companion of my wilder years 
 
 Became enamoured of a gentle maid 
 
 Whom he so loved that they must fain be wed. 
 
 His marriage parted us, and I declared 
 
 That this was surely not a holy bond 
 
 That tears us from our friends. We met one day, 
 
 And somewhat in such wise I twitted him. 
 
 He answered that I was all-ignorant 
 
 Of that of which I spoke. To prove me wrong 
 
 He bade me come, as oftentimes before, 
 
 He bade me visit him in his new home, 
 
 And finally, persuaded 'gainst my will 
 
 (For I was aye Bohemian at heart), 
 
 I went. His wife was sweetly, strangely fair.
 
 The Love-Lcttcrs of a Vagabond. 69 
 
 ;She made me welcome to their little home, 
 And then and there we supped right merrily, 
 And afterwards, when round the fire we drew 
 Our easy-chairs, he, she, and I, and talked. 
 He said to me, ' Bohemian that you are, 
 ' You have neglected us most sorely. Why ! 
 ' I have looked daily for a song from you, 
 ' Have sought a new Epithalamion.' 
 And so, joking, we passed it by, but late 
 That night, when my tired eyes refused to close, 
 I gat me to my desk and wrote him these. 
 
 So ! — you are married ; and it seems 
 You've found a woild of happy dreams 
 
 Where fancy unrestricted plays, 
 Whilst I my lonely lot deplore, 
 For I — am still a bachelor, 
 
 Old friend of my Bohemian days. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Jf vom a 
 JBacbdor toH.it! 
 flDaine* ' ff)al.' 
 
 An F.pitha- 
 lamion. 
 
 I dined with you to-night and saw 
 How, in obedience to the law
 
 yo The Love-Letters of a Vagabond. 
 
 Of love, your life contented stays 
 It's riot o'er the dunes of time, 
 And how your ending is sublime, 
 
 Old friend of my Bohemian days. 
 
 But what a change 'twixt now and then. 
 You're now the most sedate of men, 
 
 Your fancy now no longer strays 
 Among the joys of our old life 
 Since you have ta'en yourself a wife, 
 
 Old friend of my Bohemian davs. 
 
 And after all I must confess 
 You're to be envied — more or less, 
 
 For ' independence ' hardly pays 
 The bill when through Life's game we've run, 
 I fain would do as you have done, 
 
 Old friend of my Bohemian days. 
 
 There's no more loneliness, old man, 
 For you, since your new life began,
 
 The Love- Letters of a Vagabond. yi 
 
 I wonder why one so delays 
 The finding of that ' other half 
 (Don't think I dare at you to laugh, 
 
 Old friend of my Bohemian days). 
 
 Indeed I know your new-found joys 
 Excel the old ones with ' the boys ' ; — 
 
 Bohemianism's but a craze 
 One soon gets over, — and I own 
 'Tis solemn to live thus alone, 
 
 Old friend of my Bohemian days. 
 
 Tis poor enough this life of ours, 
 The sweets lag far behind the sours, 
 
 And while we chant our roundelays 
 There's something singularly sad 
 In our delights when we're most mad. 
 
 Old friend of my Bohemian days. 
 
 Your wife is sweetly, strangely fair, 
 Her grave eyes and her gold-grey hair, 
 And ev'ry word she softly says
 
 12 The Love- Letters of a Vagabond. 
 
 Tell me a bachelor's a fool 
 (I'm not reflective, as a rule, 
 
 Old friend of my Bohemian days). 
 
 You know that, don't you ? but, my boy, 
 The sight of your pure new-found joy 
 
 My preconceived idea slays, 
 And I, who faith and love deride, 
 Just feel an outcast hy your side 
 
 Old friend of my Bohemian days. 
 
 The solitary months dragged slowly by, 
 
 And finally I turned me to my books, 
 
 And sought their sweet true friendship as of old 
 
 Before I met my love. Ah ! they were true 
 
 To him who cherished them ; they ne'er refused 
 
 To comfort me when I was sorely tried, 
 
 And one day sitting 'mid a dingy pile 
 
 Of dusty, tattered volumes, I attuned 
 
 My lyre to sing of them, more worthy far 
 
 Than most of the vain fancies I had sung.
 
 The Love- Letters of a Vagabond. 73 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 JBalla&c 
 con&sb; 
 
 DBoofcs. 
 
 They sing- of the shadow-lands far away, 5 3BaIla ? e ' 
 
 J ' Sccont>=bat 
 
 The meads and the valleys of Acadie; 
 Of haunts where the satyr and wood-nymph play, 
 
 Of Pillars and Gates of Ivorie; 
 
 But none of these pleasaunces seem to me 
 A haven of joy — for I'm growing old, 
 
 And crave of Dame Fortune that I may be 
 "Where the second-hand books are bought and sold. 
 
 -*s j 
 
 I've haunted Brentano and John Delay, 
 
 And toyed with their stories of France so free; 
 At Putnams' and Scribners' from day to day 
 
 I've flirted with Saltus, and Roe (E. P.); 
 
 But weary of all I have turned in glee 
 To Bouton's murk shelves with their wealth untold, 
 
 Yearning for Ouaritch in Piccadilly, 
 Where the second-hand books are bought and sold. 
 
 My pulses beat high and my heart is gay 
 At finding a date that begins, M.D. — , 
 
 On a sweet old i2mo whose leaves are grey 
 With hooky ' patina' of ancientrie.
 
 74 The Love- Letters of a Vagabond. 
 
 And I kneel to the sage come o'er the sea 
 That vandals may sell him for Yankee gold, 
 
 And gladly I part with my hard-earned V, 
 Where the second-hand books are bought and sold. 
 
 ENVOI. 
 
 Ah, Princess ! these glories shall live when we 
 Are dead, and our life-blood has long run cold ; 
 
 For they are immortal — as you may see 
 
 Where the second-hand books are bought and sold ! 
 
 Again one day I tuned me to extol 
 A cherished haunt of our Bohemian days, 
 A little merry inn where artist-boys 
 Gathered each night to dine and to discuss 
 The doings of their day. They craved of me 
 A Ballade to commemorate our feasts 
 Where fellowship made up for lack of wit; 
 And sometimes, even now, when I, alone 
 Within the sacred precincts of my clubs, 
 Dine solemnly in state, I do regret 
 The days of Jauss's on Sixth Avenue.
 
 The Love- Letters of a Vagabond. 75 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Friend Fritz ! Thine hostelry is passing rare, BJBallai 
 
 Its externs genii, and its interns wags, estaurai 
 
 Thy customers are, many of them, fair, 
 
 Within thy portals humour never lags ; 
 
 There, 'neath the Yankee and Bohemian flags, 
 The stars and stripes, and red and white, we'd ' tick' 
 
 Our meals when 'bust,' but oft-times 'neath those 
 rags, 
 I could not catch the eye of Dominic* 
 
 Oh ! perfect henchman ! were you well aware 
 
 How, when alone, or dining with 'her jags' 
 (Were she brunette, or had she golden hair, 
 
 Were she an angel, or the kind that nags), 
 
 We were your slaves, and the financial tags 
 You handed us in manner deftly ' slick ' 
 
 I added dimes to — then, most 'cute of ' fags, 
 I could not catch the eye of Dominic. 
 
 At Jauss's if a stranger rudely stare, 
 Or if there lack decorum in his 'gags,' 
 
 An amazing polyglot waiter of Transatlantic fame.
 
 7 5 The Love-Letters of a Vagabond. 
 
 He's put outside at once, and should he dare 
 To come again, we scorn his money-bags, 
 He can't get served, and forth he soon ' stravags,' 
 
 For Fritz admits no man that's not a 'brick,' 
 And should / give offence to Jauss's ' stag?,' 
 
 I could not catch the eye of Dominic ! 
 
 ENVOI. 
 
 Ah Fritz ! the careless writers for the ' mags ' 
 And 'dailies' never found your soups too thick. 
 
 I'll ne'er forget how, in the bygone 'dags'* 
 I could not catch the eye of Dominic ! 
 
 Among the junior members of our band 
 
 I bear in mind a soft-eyed little maid, 
 
 Whose lot in life was to make melody. 
 
 To-day she is an artist of repute, 
 
 But then she was almost unknown, and played 
 
 For insufficient wage in concert-halls. 
 
 One ev'ning I had gone to hear her play 
 
 * Norse for ' days ' for exigency of classic form.
 
 The Love- Letters of a Vagabond. "jj 
 
 Before an audience of the better sort, 
 That night the corner-stone of her great fame 
 Was laid securely, and as I sat still 
 . And watched the rapt attentive auditors, 
 This little prophecy occurred to me : — 
 
 Child, when to-night, alone upon the stage, 
 
 With tiny hands you woke the fev'rish chords 
 In subtle harmonies weft to assuage 
 
 Passion, pain, longing beyond cure of words 
 When [ev'n as Orpheus in the old time played, 
 
 Staying great rivers that entranced seemed] 
 You wielded the deft bow, my life was stayed 
 
 And / entranced, listening, sat and dreamed. 
 
 I see you aye, as now, child-like and fair, 
 
 Swathed in the clouds of music that you made, 
 
 Whilst soft lights, streaming from your sunny hair, 
 Showed where your dimples lurked in subtle shade 
 
 And the soft cadence of the theme you breathed 
 Had all but made my wearied soul forget,
 
 ;3 The Love-Letters of a Vagabond. 
 
 Raising sweet living memories that wreathed 
 With garlands new the altars of Regret. 
 
 I see you when some other stronger hand 
 
 Imprisons that which lately sped the bow 
 [And this ere yet the running of life's sand 
 
 Has marked a decade with its silent flow], 
 And then — when bow and crowd are laid aside. 
 
 And children's hands wake fresh these echoes bright- 
 Will you remember your life's morning-tide ? 
 
 Will memory bear you back, dear, to to-night ? 
 
 Child, thus I dreamed, when suddenly I woke, 
 Roused by the thunders of applause which broke 
 
 From all who heard you. Ah ! in the To-be, 
 Will praise delight you ev'n as now, m'amze? 
 
 One day a member of our coterie 
 
 — He was a gay, hard-working journalist — 
 
 Came down, his eyes ablaze with merriment, 
 
 To tell us of a conquest he had sought 
 
 In vain. He told who in his boarding-house
 
 The Love-Letters of a Vagabond. 
 
 There dwelt an aphrodite of the shops, 
 "One of those stately, shapely nether-queens 
 That stand behind a counter all the day 
 To minister to idle women's whims. 
 He told us how she was so wondrous fair 
 That all the 'boarders' of the sterner sex 
 Cast timid eyes and languorous looks on her, 
 Whilst all the women disapproved of her, 
 As women will when one of their own sex 
 Is all too fair to win respect of them ; 
 He told us how she, conscious of her pow'r, 
 Kept all men most severely at arm's length, 
 Reserving, doubtless, her more gentle moods 
 For some well-favoured youth who, presently, 
 Would make her his, and taking her away 
 From her employ, would take a little shop 
 And set up somewhere on their own account. 
 His rhapsody was so grandiloquent 
 That I, to pass an idle hour away, 
 Scribbled the praises of his commerce-queen 
 In these four cantos, which I gave to him.
 
 8o The Love-Lcttcrs of a Vagabond. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 "Che jfascfnat= In the miserable boarding-house, where, morning', 
 noon and night, 
 I hide myself and scribble as my publisher com- 
 mands, 
 There burns no fire in my grate, I've hardly any 
 light 
 By which to make the ' copy ' that my editor 
 demands, 
 The only sunbeam shining in the darkness comes at 
 meals, 
 Where now and then I see you ; I don't even know 
 your name — 
 Your lovely face nor gentle birth nor cleverness 
 reveals, 
 You're commonplace and vulgar, but I love you all 
 the same ! 
 
 You never look at me, in vain I strive to catch your 
 eye, 
 Your ever arctic coldness puts me in a fearful 
 state.
 
 The Love- Letters of a Vagabond. 8 1 
 
 As you- dally with th' atrocity that's known to us as 
 'pie,' 
 And keep your eyelids lowered till I long to be your 
 plate ; 
 I fain would tell you of the love you cannot, will not, 
 see, 
 And take you far from here [where mutton mas- 
 querades as game] 
 To somewhere where your food the fare of gods should 
 ever be, 
 Where, commonplace and vulgar, I should love you 
 just the same ! 
 
 Your hair, like golden ashes, shines, a halo round your 
 head, 
 To see it fall unbound I'd gladly sacrifice my 
 life, 
 I'd never seem to notice when you fidget with your 
 bread, 
 Or let your spoon and fork lie, both neglected, fur 
 vour knife ;
 
 82 The Love-Letters of a Vagabond. 
 
 Nay ! if you put vour elbows on the table, or talk 
 loud, 
 Or giggle at your own remarks, 1 11 swear you're not 
 to blame, 
 If only you'd observe that I exist I'd be so 
 proud, 
 For, commonplace and vulgar, oh ! I love you all 
 the same ! 
 
 Your eyes are exquisite, but, ah ! their glance ne'er 
 answers mine, 
 Your lips, twin coral rays of crimson ecstasy 
 supreme, 
 The flush upon your cheek --['tis all your own] — is just 
 divine, 
 And all of you is faire than the goddess of a 
 dream ; 
 And though your voice is rough and coarse, I'd sooner 
 hcaxyvu speak 
 Than hear th' Eternal Echoes ring with pceuns to 
 my fame
 
 The Love-Letters of a Vagabond. 83 
 
 Ah \ won't you deign to look at me? and never count 
 me weak, 
 If, commonplace and vulgar, I still love you just the 
 same ! 
 
 And so my solitary days crept by, 
 Too slow, it seemed to me, and yet o'er-fast. 
 Full many an hour I spent in vague regrets, 
 Full many a day in vain imaginings, 
 I could not tell you what I thought about, 
 Nor what I did, nor what I wrote, indeed 
 I sometimes think I hardly thought at all ; 
 But after many months had wandered by 
 In hopeless search for kind forgetfulness, 
 I turned at last to the more serious work 
 That makes a man's life what he wills of it. 
 I woke from the old sullen lethargy, 
 To realise that life was slipping by. 
 
 Come ! fill we full our arms with flowers, 
 And cherish them : (they cannot last !) 
 
 XXX 
 
 Ebcu jf lujacca 
 
 A Plaint.
 
 84 The Love-Letters of a Vagabond. 
 
 Their little lives are spanned by hours, 
 It goes so fast, this Spring of ours, 
 It goes so fast ! 
 
 Let us give thanks to th' unseen Powers 
 
 For joys to come, for pleasures past, 
 For Youth's delight, for iove-sweet hours, 
 It goes so fast, this Youth of ours, 
 It goes so fast ! 
 
 Let us kneel low to God, who showers 
 
 Upon us these His gifts, nor cast 
 One longing glance on vanished hours, 
 It goes so fast, this Life of ours, 
 It goes so fast ! 
 
 These were the days when I laid down my pen 
 And tore away the strings of my old lute ; 
 No more like Persian Jami 'stringing pearls,' 
 No more to scribble idle fantasies,
 
 The Love-Letters of a Vagabond. 85 
 
 Until the day when, accidentally, 
 I heard that she whom I had loved — was dead. 
 I sought her then once more, and by her side, 
 Looking once more upon her frail young form, 
 I did forget that she was young and fair, 
 I did forget that she was young and false, 
 I only knew that she was young — and dead ! 
 I kissed the cold lips and the grave-closed eyes, 
 I touched once more the tiny hands and feet, 
 Then turning — I went out into the world. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 Well, well, old doggie ? You wag your tail, and if ^° bfaSog 
 
 you could only talk, 5n ™f]!]_ oda 
 
 You'd say with your tongue what you say with your 
 
 eyes — that you want to go out for a walk. 
 You know not (how could you ?) the hand that you loved, 
 
 that you warmed with your soft, moist breath 
 Will never caress you as once it did, — for it's quiet and 
 
 cold in death.
 
 86 The Love-Letters of a Vagabond. 
 
 You can't make out why I don't talk back, as you 
 
 climb up on to my bed, 
 And don't stretch out my hand to stroke you, and 
 
 scratch your woolly head. 
 There's a world of sympathy, dog-like and mute, that 
 
 shines from your purple eyes, 
 But you don't understand (how could you, doggie ?) 
 
 that anyone ever dies. 
 
 You'll want for a time to go to her house (you could 
 
 find your way alone), 
 And wag your tail and whinny to her, and ask her to 
 
 give you a bone ; 
 But that's all over, those days will never come back 
 
 for you and for me, 
 Those days that we spent all together, boy, in the 
 
 summer-time by the sea. 
 
 You surely remember those days, old dog, how she 
 
 scolded you when you leapt 
 To greet her each morn with your muddy feet, from 
 
 her door-mat where you slept ?
 
 The Love-Letters of a Vagabond. 87 
 
 How she lay in her hammock with you underneath, 
 
 never lonely and knew no fear 
 When I was away, for you guarded her well, and let 
 
 not a soul come near. 
 
 But you and I have the memory, boy, of the love that 
 
 to us she gave, 
 And we shall prize it more dearly now that they've 
 
 laid her in the grave ; 
 You didn't see her, but / did, doggie, she lay so 
 
 marvellous fair, 
 With lilies strewn on her hands and feet, and framing 
 
 her gold-brown hair ; 
 You didn't see when she went away, oh ! so far away, 
 
 and alack ! 
 She's gone where perhaps we may follow her, doggie, 
 
 but she — will never come back. 
 
 <# 
 
 Jfinfs. 
 
 Cotszon & Coy , Limited, Primers, Edinburgh,
 
 
 
 
 This book is DUE on the last 
 date stamped below. 
 
 10M-11-50 2555 470 
 
 REMINGTON RAND INC. 2D
 
 UCS0UT H ERNR «uB ffla a 
 
 7S 000 370 852 6 
 
 L 006 877 606 1 
 Hi 
 
 a&>rlc 
 
 PR 
 H6 1 
 
 rwrnmrrr-