m THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES ^ /f/J) AFTERTHOUGHTS AFTERTHOUGHTS BY WALTER A. MURSELL PAISLEY: ALEXANDER GARDNER gnblishrr bn ppointmtnt to tht Utr OJuffn Victoria 1914 LONDON : SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, HAMILTON, KENT & CO., LMD. PRINTED BY ALEXANDER OARDNEK, PAISLEY, PR 6 Al TO Jftargarst, Arthur, anb ip WHO DO NOT CARE MUCH FOR VERSES NOW BUT WHO MAY LIKE THEM SOME DAY THESE WITH THEIR FATHER'S LOVE 867467 CONTENTS, I'AGE RHYMES OK DEVON, 9 County Gate, - 9 Doone Valley, 1 1 Porlock Hill, 13 Countisbury Church, 15 Vellacott's Pool, 17 Watersmeet, - 18 The Valley of Rocks, 20 Heddon's Mouth, - 22 WONDER, - 23 THE PINE WOOD, - 36 A SPRING SONG, 28 GREAT POSSESSIONS, 30 AT CAPEL CURIO, - 33 TULLICH, 34 THE TRAVELLERS, 35 THE NIGHT SOUTH TRAIN, - 38 To MY ADOPTED LAND, - 39 MoONRISE AT ROSEMARKIE, 4! FROST, 43 PETER PAN, - 44 To A LITTLE BOY I KNOW, 45 STRIFE, 47 A SPRING MORNING IN ARCADY, - 49 THE CAROL OF THE KETTLE, - 51 8 CONTENTS. I'AGK HAUNTED, - 54 LISMORE, - 57 THE MAN WHO WALKED OUT, 59 To ALISON CUNNINGHAM, 61 DAVID LIVINGSTONE, - 63 To AN HONEST MAN, - 64 STRONE : A MEMORY, - 65 To M. D. R., - 68 IN THE SILENT ROOM, 69 HEREAFTER, - 72 To HAMLET, 73 IN MY STUDY, - 74 HEALTH AND A DAY, - 75 THE SENTIMENTAL GOLFER, 77 AMBITIONS, - 82 THE END OF THE SUMMER, - - 88 A BALLAD OF INFLUENZA, - 92 THE LARK'S SONG, 94 A NEW YEAR SILHOUETTE, - 95 SUNSHINE IN FEBRUARY, 96 R. L. S., - 97 To JOSEPH PARKER, - 99 SCRAPPED, - - IQI GRADUATION, - 104 ON MY FORTY-FOURTH BIRTHDAY, 107 THE PREACHER'S SATURDAY NIGHT, - no SONNETS, - T 1 3 THE BAIRNS, . ue To THE GENTLE READER WHO EVER GETS TO THE END OF THIS BOOK, - - 117 AFTERTHOUGHTS RHYMES OF DEVON. COUNTY GATE. HERE'S the gate, 'mid heather set ; Larks are in the heaven ; One side, lovely Somerset, The other, glorious Devon ! Here's the rich red earth at last! Hark ! the winding horn ! Lynton Coach goes rolling past The road above Glenthorne. Here's the Land of Lorna Doone, That's the road to Oare ; We shall see the Channel soon, Hear the breakers roar. 10 AFTERTHOUGHTS. Open, open, County Gate ! Quickly let me through As a lover greets his mate, Devon, I greet you ! DOONE VALLEY. 11 DOONE VALLEY. BADGWORTHY * WATER goes a-crooning through the peat, It glooms in the still deep pool ; Badg worthy Water glides through the bracken sweet, Where the silver fall is cool. Badgworthy Water runs chattering down the glen, Singing its quiet tunes ; The place is full of shadows of the old-time men, The haunt of the dreaded Doones. There by the Water-Slide, hidden in the shade, Wander the love-sick twain, Girt Jan Ridd and the dark-eyed gipsy maid, Telling their loves again. * Pronounced "Badgery." 12 AFTERTHOUGHTS. Far in the Valley the mossy ruins lie, Their hearths are waste and cold ; But Badgworthy Water still goes murmuring by, As once in the days of old. PORLOCK HILL. FOR LOCK HILL. THE horn blows merrily, loud and shrill, The coach pulls up with a clatter, There's a change of horses for Porlock Hill, For the climb is a serious matter ; Down from the roof the good folks slip To stretch their legs at the sign of the " Ship." The ruddy coachman lights his bowl And tosses the golden cider, He winks at the barmaid genial soul ! And his friendly mouth grows wider ; His laughter rings in the shadowy oak Where the brown hams hang in the peaty smoke. Now the horses are ready for Porlock Hill, You can hear their hoofs a-stamping, At the crack of the whip they are off with a will, Their restless bits all champing ; Steadily up with a tug and a strain The coach grinds on through the misty rain. 14 AFTERTHOUGHTS. From the wide moor the wind blows sweet, The soft pure air of Devon, A waft of honey, a tang of peat, Wild thyme, and the perfume of heaven ! Of the wind on the heath we drink our fill As it flows like nectar down Porlock Hill. Here is the summit, a prospect wide, The glamour of open spaces, The horses are galloping in their pride, And the wind blows keen in our faces ; The lark's song is loud and the curlews call, And the sky's deep blue is over us all. COUNTISBURY CHURCH. 15 COUNTISBURY CHURCH. WHEN worship moves my tardy soul to pray I see the lone church with its one grey tower, Perpetual comrade of the sun and shower, High on the Foreland's bare and windy brae. I see the resting-places of the drowned, Cast on the iron coast by stormy waves ; The grass grows green upon their name- less graves, And there they slumber in a peace profound. My memory holds one golden afternoon The summer sunshine filled the church with light ; I sat and watched the children's faces bright, And heard the old harmonium's drowsy tune Then, in a tone of wondrous reverence, The pleading passion of the Litany With power unspeakable came home to me, Through the deep stillness, searching, rapt, intense. 16 AFTERTHOUGHTS. Though I should live beyond the span of years I still shall keep that memory of a child, The sacred words my eager heart beguiled, I saw the sunshine through a mist of tears. VELLACOTTS POOL. 17 VELLACOTT S POOL. VELLACOTT'S POOL lies brown and deep At the foot of the fall where the salmon leap ; The foam goes creaming and eddying round Till it makes a fringe on the shallow ground. The white fall thunders day by day, The fishers stand in its glistening spray ; Above them towers the smooth, tall rock, Unmoved by the waters' silver shock. The slim rod bends, the line runs out ; There's a swirl in the pool, on land a shout ; The fisherman clings to the dizzy ledge Groping his way along the edge. There in the shallows lands the prize, Flapping and gasping a wondrous size ; We've all had a hand in it, standing round ! Old Barwell says solemnly, " Twenty pound ! " 18 AFTERTHOUGHTS. WATERSMEET. FROM distant valleys in the lonely hills, Beneath the shade of interlacing trees, The merry tumbling waters join, and pass On to their bourne in the wide open Sea. Within this dim cathedral of the woods Shy lovers are the priests and priestesses, Plighting their vows within the mystic shade, The birds their choristers, and wandering winds Prolonging their own sighs with whispering leaves. A happy meeting-place ! The waters meet, And here are meeting hands and lips and eyes ! O days of Youth, when Life is in its spring, The blood runs warm and hearts are rich in hope! There's no To-morrow, but a glorious Now, When Love and Nature make the world anew ; The present thrilling Hour is all we ask, Filled with a rich unspeakable content. WATERSMEET. 19 And here, too, human hearts have joined in one, With vows of fealty and pledges deep, And gone with all their mingled hopes and joys Into the mystery of Life's open Sea. 20 AFTERTHOUGHTS. THE VALLEY OF ROCKS. HERE'S a pretty state of things ! Sure, the Giants have been at play, Quoits or bowls or shuttlecock, But their toys are made of rock ! Or the subterranean Kings (Invisible this many a day) Wakened from their sleep profound, Yawned and stretched beneath the ground, Heaved the earth in many a mound ! Or the Gods, in merry mood, Or maybe in humour rude, Tossed the granite high in air, Let it settle anywhere, In fantastic grouping piled, Made this savage scene and wild ! Some there are who say the Devil Thus disturbed the Valley's level For the Devil's Cheese-Wring's here, And his Punch-Bowl, black and sheer : So (they say) the wicked wight In a fit of spleen or spite, Wandered here one pitchy night, Kicked Dame Nature left and right ; THE VALLEY OF ROCKS. And though now we cannot find him, Here's his relics left behind him! How the Valley came to be, Need not worry you or me ; Here it lies outspread to-day In majestic disarray. There the Castle Rock uprears ; Yonder is the Smuggler's Leap ! Mother Meldrum's Cave appears Yawning in the granite steep. On some dizzy eminence Moss-grown boulders poise immense ; Sheep-tracks wander up the height, Gaunt grey ribs peep through the grass, Mighty slabs with lichen white Scattered lie throughout the Pass. Down below, the thundering Sea Gnaws and frets incessantly At the hollows of the caves With its licking hungry waves. AFTERTHOUGHTS. HEDDON S MOUTH. IN a fold of the hills within sound of the sea There's a spot like a suburb of heaven ; There's a tangle of wood, there is moorland and lea, And you reach it by sweet lanes of Devon. I see it in day-dreams, it haunts me by night, And oft 'mid the city's din It has flashed into thought, like a bird in its flight- And they call it The Hunters' Inn. You may roam the world over for beauty or rest, Or a place to replenish your drouth, But you'll find nothing better from east to the west Than the hostel at Heddon's Mouth. WONDER. WONDER. BUSH that blazed but did not burn, Sight that made the shepherd turn ; Quick so strange a thing to see, Radiant with mystery. Lost he stood in thought profound, For the place was holy ground ; Silent, wondering, rapt, amazed, While the bush before him blazed. Deeps from us are often hid, Though we live strange things amid ; Stolid, self-contained are we, Will not turn aside to see. I would have the Wonder-sense, Not be bovine, dour, and dense, View the world with wakeful eyes, Not ashamed to feel surprise. 24 AFTERTHOUGHTS. Some are blind to shine and shade, Glory of the glen and glade, Mystery of moon and star, Fascination of the far. Some have never known the thrill Of the sunset on the hill, Primrose wood, and heathy moor With its miles of wine-red floor. Some have never felt the lure Of the salt sea, clean and pure, Or the strange line in the mist Where the sky and sea have kissed. Flowers of every scent and hue Field and hedgerow richly strew ; Creatures of the earth and air Wander forth from nest and lair ; Trees that wave fantastic arms ; Landscapes prodigal of charms ; Springtime green and summer glow, Autumn gold and winter snow ; WONDER. 25 All before the eye are spread ; But to some the earth is dead, Shows no picture, tells no tale, All is profitless and stale. Fools and slow of heart are we 'Mid the world's deep mystery ; Drear monotony of days That disclose no bush ablaze. Let me wonder like a child, Daily be my thoughts beguiled ; God will show Himself to me When I turn aside to see. 26 AFTERTHOUGHTS. THE PINE WOOD. LIKE tall dark neighbours stand the trees, Their feathery tops swing in the breeze ; Near by, the drowsy drone of bees. Mosses and needles lie outspread, Soft and silent to the tread ; A long-drawn sigh breathes overhead. When winter comes, the fierce winds roar, And wilder tumult than before Breaks loud like surf on distant shore. The storm awakes deep organ tones ; The wood as though in pain bemoans ; The earth is strewn with tumbled cones. But summer comes with azure skies ; The stately columns darkling rise ; A leafy dome upon them lies. THE PINE WOOD. 27 A pungent balsam fills the air, Like incense breathing everywhere ; The squirrel scampers here and there. And one may pensive walk awhile, As through some dim cathedral aisle, With pleasant thought the hour beguile ; Or, 'mid the hyacinthine bloom, Amid the silence and the gloom, May sit as in some quiet room ; And watch the shafts of sunlight gleam, And hear the murmur of the stream, And in the stillness brood and dream. At length the evening hour draws nigher ; Through the wood-end the sunset fire Burns like the day's funereal pyre ; The evening star translucent shines On the horizon's far confines, Seen through the pillars of the pines. AFTERTHOUGHTS. A SPRING SONG. THE days of old were days of gold, For Life was in its spring ; The earth her mystic secrets told To eager listening. With footsteps light we climbed the height, And roamed the meadows o'er : The blood was warm, the eye was bright, And Life lay all before. When woods were green with April sheen, We wandered glad and free ; Our thought no pensive Might- Have- Been, But a blithe Is To Be. And now that fast the years have passed, Has April's spirit fled ? Were loves and hopes too bright to last, And is the springtime dead ? A SPRING SONG. O well if still we feel the thrill That came with early years, Nor fled the sunshine from the hill, Quenched in a mist of tears. And well if when the year's at spring The joys that once have been Return with birds that blithely sing, When April woods are green. 30 AFTERTHOUGHTS. GREAT POSSESSIONS. THIS land belongs to the Duke of Shires, But he does not own the Sky ; With all his acres broad and fair He's not so rich as I. For all of the heaven's blue is mine, And I own the sunset's gold, And the stars of night in my heart shine bright, And they cannot be bought or sold. This land belongs to the Duke of Shires, But he does not own the Sea ; With all his acres broad and fair He has not the wealth of me. For mine are the diamonds of the spray That sparkle in summer light, And the path of pearls that the moon un- furls When she walks the waves at night. GREAT POSSESSIONS. 31 This land belongs to the Duke of Shires, But he does not own the Wind ; With all his acres broad and fair, A greater treasure I find. I rustle no bank-notes crisp and clean, But I hear the rustle of trees, As they whisper clear their secrets dear In the sough of the evening breeze. This land belongs to the Duke of Shires, But I own the Thrush's song ; The Peach's bloom and the Violet's scent, They ever to me belong. The emerald of the Field is mine, And the ruby of the Rose ; They come at my call, for I own them all, And my riches bring repose. This land belongs to the Duke of Shires, And the castle that on it stands ; But I do not covet his stately halls, Nor envy him his lands. For I know a girl who loves me true, And the half cannot be told Of her gifts to me so constantly, And I live in her heart of gold. 32 AFTERTHOUGHTS. This land belongs to the Duke of Shires, But I have a richer prize ; For I know a little tricksy man With the blue of heaven in his eyes. The Fairies danced when he was born, And the Pixies lit their fires ; He's the youngest of three that climb my knee, But the Duke has only his shires. This land belongs to the Duke of Shires, But never an acre have I ; Yet I am a happier man than he, For my wealth is without alloy. Man-traps and spring-guns, trespass-boards He spreads for my rebuke ; Yet he's not so free as a man like me, And I would not change with the Duke. AT CAPEL CURIG. 33 AT CAPEL CURIG. I HEARD the ripple in the reeds As we two tramped the road, Lake water washing through the weeds, While up and down we strode. The stars shone lustrous overhead, And a thin slip of moon ; Some night-bird brushed me as it sped, While the lake-waters croon. Our talk and chatter I forget, So light and fleet its tones, But I hear lake- water rippling yet Quiet music on the stones. 34 AFTERTHOUGHTS. TULLICH. I SEE the low stone house again Standing within the trees, Their branches twisted as in pain, Tormented by the breeze. Black Rock lies mirrored in the glass Of clear Loch Ruthven's pool ; A wandering wind comes down the pass 'Mid evening shadows cool. The blue smoke curls from farm and croft ; Bog myrtle scents the air ; The bow-winged heron sails aloft ; And peace is everywhere. And Tullich dwells within my thought, Fair as in days of yore ; For there, all sudden and unsought, Love met me at the door. THE TRAVELLERS. 35 THE TRAVELLERS. You have come from other lands, You have travelled far, Seen the waste of desert sands And the Southern Star, Seen the works of alien hands, Seen the things that are. Peoples of another race, Folk of speech unknown, Strange in custom, dress, and face, Laws and faiths their own, Each at home within his place- Only you were lone. You have sailed from sea to sea, Touched at many a shore, Faced the storm's malicious glee, Heard wild breakers roar, East and West you've wandered free, Gathering motley lore. 36 AFTERTHOUGHTS. I have still been rooted here, Bound to hearth and home ; Duty's round from year to year, Destined not to roam, Handling my familiar gear While you were on the foam. But I've had my ventures too Beyond the harbour bar, Travelling just as much as you, And as wide and far, Seeing things that come to view, Seeing things that are. Not where Eastern stars and suns Shoot their glancing beams, Nor where vast the river runs Fed by mountain streams ; My journeys have been stranger ones In the Land of Dreams. Crossing sunless plains of Doubt, Climbing hills of Fear, Sailing seas of Thought about, With no star to steer, Fightings within and fears without, Destitute of cheer. THE TRAVELLERS. 37 Treading on the brink of Hell, Dallying near the Pit ; Fascinated by the spell, Forms that beck and flit ; Horror of great darkness fell From the shame of it. In the shadows of the Past I have lived again ; In the Present, urgent, fast, Faced its hope and pain ; Gazed into the Future vast, Menacing, inane. Beasts and angels, men and devils, Human and divine, Broken prayers, Walpurgis revels, Thoughts that mount, decline, Haunt the various spirit-levels Of this soul of mine. So while you abroad have wandered 'Neath the Southern Star, I in strange lands too have pondered, Travelling wide and far, Seen the things that beckon onward, Seen the things that are. 38 AFTERTHOUGHTS. THE NIGHT SOUTH TRAIN. A BLOOD-RED eye glares through the night, A green one glimmers nigh ; A sinuous length of streaming light, The train goes roaring by. A shrill scream at the tunnel's mouth The still night doth appal ; The monster rages to the South, The hill-side swallows all. I hear the rumble distant drone Like waves on harbour bars, And in the dark I stand alone With silence and the stars. TO MY ADOPTED LAND. 39 TO MY ADOPTED LAND. O HAPPY Fate that brought me here, Brave Land of mountain, moor, and glen, Where spreading waters, deep and clear, Gleam at the foot of shadowy Ben. Some guiding Angel, rather, say, That made my footsteps hither rove ; Making my heart content to stay With gifts of beauty, home, and love. 'Mid Highland glories here I found The peace I never knew before ; Here first I stood on holy ground, When my Love met me on the moor. She stood amid the heather's glow, Best part of all the beauty there ; Nor could the generous earth bestow A gift more sweet, a sight more fair. 40 AFTERTHOUGHTS. In Scotland's heart I found my rest, From bonds of self she set me free ; Dear are her streams and hills, but best The Lass that Scotland gave to me. MOONRISE AT ROSEMARKIE. 41 MOONRISE AT ROSEMARKIE. BESIDE the grey North Sea I stood As twilight spread o'er field and wood ; The silence wrought a pensive mood, A mystic spell ; A Spirit seemed to rise and brood As darkness fell. Strange lights awoke within the wave ; No ripple came the shore to lave ; There was a stillness of the grave, A peace profound, That to the heart a feeling gave Of holy ground. The stars came out in bright array ; The ships' lights glimmered in the bay ; The tracks of sunset far away Faded and fled ; A late bird on its homeward way Passed overhead. 4 42 AFTERTHOUGHTS. I watched Culloden's lonely height, Grave of the long-forgotten fight ; And there the footsteps of the night Crept sure and slow, While shadows deep as ebonite Brooded below. Then came the Splendour ! Full and free The Moon flung silver o'er the Sea, And filled the Night with mystery So sweet and rare, I could but worship silently In wondering prayer. FROST. FROST. AN Artist came last night ; At morn the earth was white ; And on the window in the rays of dawn, Behold a world with silver pencil drawn ! Flowers, ferns, and crystals clear, Stars, streams, and hills appear, Mosses and trees, clouds, and a fairy rain, All on the canvas of the window pane ! Domes, towers, and minarets Deftly the Artist frets The Child stood gazing at the wondrous scene ; A breath it fled, as it had never been ! 44 AFTERTHOUGHTS. PETER PAN. LET me grow up in love and truth, But still retain the heart of Youth ; Let me increase in power and joy, But keep the spirit of the Boy. For see 'tis only truth and love That can hoard up Youth's treasure-trove ; And he who knows true joy and power Is he who still keeps Boyhood's dower. I want the wisdom of the Sage Without the malady of age ; And though in outward form a man, Within I'd dwell with Peter Pan. TO A LITTLE BOY I KNOW. 45 TO A LITTLE BOY I KNOW. SURELY the Fairies danced when thou wast born, And tricksy Spirits gambolled in the glade, Where moonbeams quivered in the mystic shade, And all God's creatures waked as if 'twere morn. In one brief hour the Earth seemed less forlorn That happy night : the stars a music made ; The flowers unclosed their petals unafraid ; And sweet airs whispered in the rustling- corn. For thou hadst come to love all living things, And Nature turned to thee responsive eyes, 46 AFTERTHOUGHTS. Joying to greet a new-born soul that brings The wakeful wonder that will make him wise. To Beast and Bird thy young heart leaps and clings, And Beauty stirs in thee divine surprise. STRIFE. 47 STRIFE. I HAVE known defeat ; I have known dismay ; But the Summit I fain would greet Is not reached in a day. Clouds may be on my heart, Sadness may dim my soul ; Yet the hurt that I feel and the smart Are a spur to the goal. I might be satisfied, Pain I might never know, If the heights I had never tried And my aim were low. Better the sore unrest, Better the numbing pain, If they nerve me to try my best And press on again. 48 AFTERTHOUGHTS. Praise, for the great Ideal ! Praise, for the shining- Hope! For they come with a trumpet peal With the foe to cope. So let me still attempt, Even if I should fail, Than be from the fight exempt And cowardly pale. Hopeless to change the past, Alter the way that's trod ; But if there be strife to the last It shall end in God. A SPRING MORNING IN ARCADY. 49 A SPRING MORNING IN ARCADY. THERE'S a wind among the tree-tops, There's a breeze upon the sea, And the Cuckoo's voice is floating from the coppice on the hill ; There's a sound of falling waters Where the streams are running free, And the Mavis pipes a merry tune that sets the heart a-thrill : 'tis sweet to be a Rover when it's Spring in Arcady ! I watch the soft clouds moving Across the open sky, And the white gulls dip and skim above the waters of the bay ; I see the sunlight on the sail That slowly passes by, 1 hear the children's voices call upon the shore at play : O 'tis joy to feel the Springtime in the heart in Arcady ! 50 AFTERTHOUGHTS. The primrose blooms upon the bank, The woods are rich with green, The air is filled with pleasant scents from fir-tree and from pine ; A healing rest steals o'er the mind Where the strife of thought has been, And the better side of Life begins to warm the heart like wine : For who can think but hopefully when it's Spring in Arcady ! I walk beside the sunlit sea With the friend of many years, And the lass I love is with me who has made my life a song ; We roam the woods together And throw aside our cares, With talk and play and merry jest we speed the hours along : O 'tis good to be a Lover when it's Spring in Arcady ! THE CAROL OF THE KETTLE. 51 THE CAROL OF THE KETTLE. WHILE the coals are brightly glowing, Geniality bestowing Upon the merry circle round the fire, While the shadows quaint are dancing, Mirth and merriment enhancing, And the stirring Yule-tide legends never tire I clear my throat of metal As I stand upon the settle, And endeavour to outpour my humble lay ; I calm my stertorous seething Into light and gentle breathing, And sing until I'm nearly boiled away! For I can't restrain my feelings When such jolly Christmas dealings Are at work before my brightly polished eyes ; To see the pudding stirring Without so much as whirring, Why, I couldn't ! and I know you think me wise. 52 AFTERTHOUGHTS. But here comes Master's daughter To give me further water Ah, now I'll make a splendid vocal job! I begin to boil the faster, And I sing to my dear Master From my snug and cherished corner on the hob! 'Tis the height of my ambition To become a fine musician, And I'm sure on this partic'lar Christmas Eve I've surpassed all other kettles That stand on hobs or settles, Although they may refuse it to believe ! I'm Sims Reeves among my fellows, I stand far above the bellows, The poker, shovel, saucepan, and the tongs ; They can make a precious clatter When nothing is the matter. But they cannot rise to me in point of songs! But the log is slowly dying, And I cannot sing for sighing, For, truth to tell, I'm nearly all boiled out! THE CAROL OF THE KETTLE. 53 The family are sleeping, And the sluggish hours are creeping To Christmas morning, when again my spout Will be with joy-notes vocal, Like an enterprising yokel, When he finds a pleasant, easy, paying job : But this little piece of reason Let me give, this merry season Don't forget your singing friend upon the hob! 54 AFTERTHOUGHTS. HAUNTED. O IT was eerie on that gruesome night When I sat lonely in my garret study ; Thick clouds obscured the moon's erratic light, The stars were glowing ruddy. And every creak resounding on the stair Sent chill foreboding to my heart loud- beating ; I almost thought to hear in earth or air Some apparition's greeting. The wind howled loud and blew in fitful gusts Against the groaning windows of my dwelling ; Fog wrapped it round, as rust a bar encrusts ; A stifling storm was swelling. HAUNTED. 55 I bent my brow o'er my half-written paper, And wiped my forehead with big drops all beaded ; My eyes were burning and the pallid taper From my strained sight receded. Weird ghastly thoughts coursed through my palsied brain, My veins stood out all blue and thickly knotted, When, gazing on the floor, I saw a stain Where several boards had rotted. My blood stood still, my pen fell from my hand, My flesh seemed on my body to be creeping, A hollow groan I heard with terror, and A sound of hopeless weeping. There, in the dimmest corner of the room, A gaunt and sheeted spectre seemed to linger, And as the midnight hour gave forth its boom It beckoned with its finger. 56 AFTERTHOUGHTS. I shrieked. And in the morning, when I woke, I swore upon my Testament and Tupper, No more to take, like some demented folk, Cold sausages for supper. LISMOKE. 57 LISMORE. FIVE happy days have I spent in thee, Green little Isle in the Western sea ; Roaming the hills in a dream of bliss, Tired heart and brain ask no more than this. Sweet was the scent of the new-mown hay, Sweet was the air at the break of day, Sweet was the silence that wrapped me round, Sweet was the solitude there I found. How much to a weary man it meant, So many months in the city pent, Yesterday treading the hard, straight street, Now with the heather about his feet. There overhead white wings wheel high ! And O how fair is the deep blue sky ! How good to see the green Isle unfold, Basking below in a haze of gold ! 58 AFTERTHOUGHTS. Mist on the mountains of Appin spread ; Glory of sunsets, burning red ; Moonlight on Morven, silver white ; Glimmer of stars in the sea at night ; These are thy gifts to me, Isle so green ; I shall remember what I have seen ; Oft as I walk 'mid the city's roar I shall see thee again in a dream Lismore THE MAN WHO WALKED OUT. 59 THE MAN WHO WALKED OUT. [The following record was left on the cairn, erected near the spot where Captain Gates perished on the return journey of Captain Scott's party from the South Pole : " Hereabouts died a very gallant gentleman, Captain L. E. G. Gates, Iniskilling Dragoons, who on their return journey from the Pole in March, 1912, willingly walked to his death in a blizzard to try and save his comrades, beset by hardship."] No words of ours avail thee, Gallant Soul ; A deed like thine calls not for human praise ; Thou liest now, shrouded from mortal gaze, In the white mantle of the pitiless Pole. Simple and manly was thy last goodbye, Thy comrades watching thee with foot- steps slow Pass from their sight into the blinding snow, Silent and rapt, to see a hero die. 60 AFTERTHOUGHTS. Not on thyself but others didst thou brood In that grim hour amid the whirling drift ; And thine own life was thy last willing gift, Thrilling the world as one vast brotherhood. Lonely thou wast in dying : but a cloud Of witnesses was with thee in the wild, Martyrs with hearts as simple as a child, Invisible, but glad, exultant, proud. Thy simple deed has held us like a spell, Our hearts leap up for what a Man may do, And greet thee as a comrade, faithful, true: Thou very gallant gentleman, Farewell ! TO ALISON CUNNINGHAM. 61 TO ALISON CUNNINGHAM, ROBERT Louis STEVENSON'S OLD NURSE, WHO DIED IN EDINBURGH ON JULY 17, 1913, IN HEH NINETY-SECOND YEAR. THE comfortable hand is still That smoothed the snow-white pillow-hill ; Hushed is the kindly voice that read The stories to the Boy a-bed ; That calmed the fear and soothed the pain Till morning light returned again. And had you done no more than this, The world your gentle hand would kiss ; The sick child in your sunshine grew Ah, Cummy, what we owe to you ! Now you have left us for a while, And gone to seek your Treasure Isle ; The Last Adventure you have gone, But you will not fare forth alone. 62 AFTERTHOUGHTS. For your "ain laddie" sure will know The way your weary feet must go ; The spirit of a Little Child Will come from out the Unknown Wild, To take the comfortable hand That led him through the uneven land. Ah ! just like God, this thing to do, To send with eager steps for you Death's Angel in the form of " Lou " ! DAVID LIVINGSTONE. 63 DAVID LIVINGSTONE: A CENTENARY SONNET: MARCH 19, 1913. As some vast thundercloud that hangs like night, An ebon mass upon a mountain crest, And veils of mist spread shade from east to west, Hiding all shapes of beauty from the sight ; So on the hearts of men 'mid Afric's blight, Eclipsing faith, obscuring hope and love, All forms of joy descending from above, Gloomed the grim shade of heathen thought and rite. But as the sun bursts through the darkling cloud, Driving the mist before its glorious ray, The landscape leaping from its clinging shroud In all the wonder of the living day ; So thou, Brave Soul, didst pierce that shadowed land, Loosing the light of God on every hand. 64 AFTERTHOUGHTS. TO AN HONEST MAN. A GUILELESS mind, that could not hold A base or bitter thought ; A single heart, that every day The path of duty sought ; A kindly eye, a comrade's hand, A wisdom hardly won ; A tender sympathy that showed The life of faith begun ; All these were yours, true man and friend, A fortune more than gold ; And this you left us in the bank Of Memory to hold. And we who walk life's dusty ways, Rich in what you bestowed, Will go with kindlier, tenderer hearts Towards travellers on the road. STRONE: A MEMORY. 65 STRONE: A MEMORY. THE cottage window opened on the sea, And through it came the redolence of Spring ; The air breathed softly, and the sunshine bathed The garden with its light : upon the tide Ships swung at anchor, sheltered from the storm By pine-clad hills that solemnly looked down Upon the gleaming water stretched between. I sat and watched the scene ; and suddenly A boat sped from the shadow of the hill, With one white sail that glinted like a wing Outstretched above the wave ; and silently It glided on before the favouring breeze, Until at length it touched the farther shore. 66 AFTERTHOUGHTS. Within the room she lay upon the bed, So wasted and so pale : but in her eyes Burned the bright spirit dauntless as of old. Inquiring, eager, with a word for all. And smilingly she asked us why we came And went so softly, why the shadows seemed To fall upon our faces, why we looked With such a mingled spirit in our eyes ; For in our hearts Hope fought with Fear, and Love Strove with the dread Inevitable. O swift, dark tide of Death, Bearing away the treasure of our love ; So dark beside this promise of the Spring, And golden sunshine and returning life- How thou dost seem to mock our helpless- ness ! Thou heedest not the gathering of our tears, Nor yet our anxious watching through the night, Nor the keen pain which masks itself in smiles, Lest the dear sufferer see our misery And suffer double martyrdom. STRONE: A MEMORY. 67 swift, dark Tide that bears us to the Sea, Into the mystery of the great Unknown, We cannot stay thy course, nor can we go Out with the traveller upon the flood ; We can but stand upon the hither side And strain our eyes into the silent Dark. Yet as I watch the boat put out to sea 1 think I see a light upon the sail, Outshining all thy gloomy tide, O Death ! And in my heart I hear a still small Voice, A Voice of hope which will not be denied, And tells me what I feel is good and true " The boat will land upon the farther shore." 68 AFTERTHOUGHTS. TO M. D. R. SHE left us in the year's high noon, It was the verge of June. The Summer's glory round us spread, While She was lying dead. 'Twas Winter in our hearts, and Night ; 'Twas pain to see the. light. It should have been a day of gloom When She lay in that room. Nay, but She loved the flowers and sun, And when her day was done, 'Twas right that She should choose her time 'Mid Summer's pomp and prime. IN THE SILENT ROOM. (>9 IN THE SILENT ROOM. I HAVE seen it again to-day, the still white face of death, Rigid and cold as marble, calm in its infinite peace ; And the question old as the world, since the first man drew his breath, Was answered for him when the Shadow came, and gave him his release. But the pale inscrutable smile tells nothing of what he knows, The news of the moment after he takes with him into the dark ; We have no hint or glimpse of the land whereto he goes, All that is left to us here is the clay so still and stark. But this is no man that is here, this form so rigid and pale, The man we knew was thought and love, passion, and fire, and mirth ; 70 AFTERTHOUGHTS. It is that we mourn for now, gone from us through the veil, It is not that we thrust so deep into the cold wet earth. That surely must live again, though we cannot tell how or where, Or life is a mocking jest, and we are the sport of fate. Do we climb so high at last to find nought but a broken stair ? Is the end but a granite wall, and not an entrance gate ? What should we say of a God who made the eye but no light ? Who gave the ear, but no music ? Who gave the lung, but no air ? Who made the brain but to break it, as a child a toy in spite ? Who tossed man's love aside as a thing that he could spare ? IN THE SILENT ROOM. 71 Who can receive or believe it? Not I. I would rather trust The Man who spoke of a Father's house and the mansions that are sure, Than believe that the soul I have loved can become a pinch of dust ; He is wiser than I and he knows, for his heart was heavenly pure. We are made for some better thing ; we can feel it beating within ; Frail as we are in flesh, in eternal hope we are strong ; And that which we call the end is the place where we only begin, Learning God's truth in the land where human souls belong. 72 AFTERTHOUGHTS. HEREAFTER. I HEAR of gates of pearl and streets of gold, Of saints who walk there clothed in spot- less white, With crowned heads which as the stars are bright, And waving palms which in their hands they hold. I hear of harps whose strings wake music bold, Making the mystic song sound trebly sweet, A sound of many waves that throb and beat, An endless chorus through heaven's arches rolled. I am not moved by such high state as this ; Not home would such a city be to me ; To live and learn and love would be more bliss In some fair land where I would ever be Reminded of the Earth from whence I came, But with no vestige of its sin and shame. TO HAMLET. 73 TO HAMLET. FORBES-ROBERTSON'S FAREWELL, 1913. GRACE, Beauty, Dignity, and Tenderness, Blended and fused in perfect symmetry ; He moves and speaks, and fills the eager eye, While voice and gesture do the mind impress. No crude excess of tone or gait is here, No cheap display of meretricious art, But Hamlet's self steps forth to play his part, And lives as Shakespeare drew him, large and clear. Now when my thought to bygone days inclines, And happiest hours of youth come back to me, The sweet, sad smile in memory I see, And hear the deep tones speak the deathless lines. And must the rest be silence ? So, Farewell! But through the mist of years returns the spell. 6 AFTERTHOUGHTS. IN MY STUDY. DARKNESS is round the house ; The stars drip down their light ; There stirs not a mouse In the quiet of the night. The log is burning red In the heart of the fire ; The Clock says Time for bed ! But No ! says my Briar ! There are Shadows on the wall ; There are Pictures in the blaze ; And Voices seem to call Through the mist of other days. And Thoughts come flying fast, And Fancies crowd the brain. And Scenes go moving past As I sit and dream again. HEALTH AND A DAY. 75 HEALTH AND A DAY. " Give me health and a day, and I will make the pomp of empires ridiculous. " EMEHSOX. HERE on the heath, Under the open blue, With the limitless view, And the purple beneath ; Enchanted I stand With never a fear or a care, Health and a day in my hand, And the wind in my hair. Why talk of the flight Of the arrow by day, Or the pestilence grey, And the terror by night ? The shadow of Death Falls not on a heart of oak : I am breathing the Summer's breath, I laugh at the stroke. 76 AFTERTHOUGHTS. Yet over the moor, Silent, sombre, and slow, Cloud-shadows come and go, Dark on the sunlit floor ; And piled in the west The black masses form, And I feel in my breast The monition of storm. Here on the heath 'Mid the roar of the gale, And the lightnings pale, I battle for breath ! Who wins the day Since the world began, When it comes to the fray- Is it Nature or Man ? Yet with health and a day The world I defy ! Who says I shall die And vanish away ? I am more than a clod ; Let them bury me deep ; I shall look upon God When I wake out of sleep ! THE SENTIMENTAL GOLFER. 77 THE SENTIMENTAL GOLFER. THIS is the Ness ; the sea on either hand, And all around, the circle of the hills, And in the air the dreamy wash of waves. At the far end the Lighthouse stands, and turns A fiery eye through gathering mists at night, Gilding a pathway o'er the narrow strait Where shadowy ships glide through to Inver- ness. The brown-sailed smacks creep slowly out from Auch, Swung on a full tide to the open sea. In the wide Firth the grey grim ships of war Ride silently at anchor, or are seen Slide swift and sinister along the coast. A bugle echoes from the distant fort, And throbbing through the air the roll of drums. 78 AFTERTHOUGHTS. The crulls wheel overhead on broad white & wing, Then, swooping to the water, mount again And drop the glittering diamonds of the spray. The mountain tops are powdered thin with snow This grey December day ; pale wintry ^learns o Sit ghostly on their shoulders. Near at hand I mark a splash of colour in the hedge, Where the pert redbreast sits upon a spray, And cocks at me a bright inquisitive eye. Beyond the strait, the hills rise to the clouds That drift o'er grey Culloden. Then there comes Vivid and swift a vision of the past, And in my fancy shadows come and go, And phantom cries that echo o'er the sea ; Shadows of brave men mustering in grim fight, Shouts of defiance, long-drawn cries of death; THE SENTIMENTAL GOLFER. 79 Prince Charlie's men rush o'er the darkling moor In their last desperate stand with Cumber- land. In startling day-dream I behold the fray ; The swinging tartan and the streaming plaid; The gleaming claymore and the crashing shield ; The sea of wild, fierce faces : and I hear Above the bloody tumult and the cries The piercing pipe and roll of heady drum. And then there falls a silence; and the moon Stares down upon the stark red field of death ; And poignantly upon the midnight air Wails forth the weird heart-shattering lament. Hallowed the spot to lovers of Romance, Of Beauty, Chivalry, and Daring Deed ; And oft in pensive day-dreams there I walk, And see the resting-places of the brave, The lonely cairns upon Culloden Moor. Here on the Ness, the smooth turf on the green Exhales the sweet scent of the dew-drenched earth ; 80 AFTERTHOUGHTS. And there I see the Shadows of old friends, Who in the long, warm, breezy summer days With swinging club pursued the flying ball. Now, on the drear December day, alone I tramp the course, and feel the raw keen wind Out of the east come piping o'er the tee, Bending the tall grass by the pebbly beach, Scouring my cheek and whistling through the whin. Alas for golf and sentiment ! and woe To him whose thoughts stray far beyond his ball, That wee white ball that baffles all our skill! Alone I drove and pulled and sliced and ploughed Through sandy bunkers and the unhallowed "rough " ; And no one heard the language that I used ! Alone, alone, beneath the wintry sky I faced the music ; swung and smote and hacked ; THE SENTIMENTAL GOLFER. 81 Drivelled in bunkers ; tottered through the o rough ; Hewed at the roots of heather ; lost my ball Amid the million pebbles of the shore ; Came nigh to weeping on the final tee, Where, sad at heart, at war with circum- stance, I sat upon the Wizard's granite stone, And through my tears set down these lines of woe. 82 AFfERTHOUGHTS. AMBITIONS. WHEN o'er the past I throw my een I cannot say that I've been vicious, But most undoubtedly I've been Ambitious. From earliest years I've known the fire That makes the Burglar and the Poet ; E'en now I have a mild desire To go it. The first idea my mind possessed By which I hoped to win renown, Was in the motley to be dressed, A Clown. To grin and tumble in the dust, To be the Idol of the Ring, To crack the merry jest, was just The thing. I practised standing on my head ; Through paper hoops I made a flight ; Turned somersaults upon my bed At night. AMBITIONS. 83 For weeks, to learn my lofty trade, I put myself through all my paces, And daily in the mirror made Grimaces. The vision passed. 'Twas rather tame To smirk and jest and dance boleros ; Paul Jones and Captain Kidd became My heroes. The roving life made strong appeal, Prodigiously did I admire it, And in my heart began to feel A Pirate. A belt about my waist I'd wear, With pistols, swords, and jewelled dagger, And learned with easy grace to swear And swagger. In dreadful secrecy I drew A skull-and-crossbones on my skin, Fit symbol of the devil's brew Within. But 'twas too sore a life to strive To wreck and plunder, shoot and stab. 84 AFTERTHOUGHTS. I then made up my mind to drive A cab. My rocking-horse, a fearsome breed, Wide-nostrilled and profusely spotted, Galloped and pranced, a gallant steed, And trotted. Tight-harnessed to a bedroom chair We scoured the Strand and Piccadilly ; My youngest brother was the "fare " Poor Billy ! I spilled him once upon his nose, I thought it never would be mended ; And thus again the life I chose Was ended. At length I felt the Poet's call ; I cannot see how you can blame me ; For the sole reason of it all Was Amy. What eyes she had ! what hair of gold ! How cold the heart that could resist her Once, after school hours, growing bold, I kissed her. AMBITIONS. 85 Ah, then it was I knew the spell That breathed through Shelley, Byron, Keats ! In burning lyrics I would tell The sweets Of love, and wear my hair in curl, Grow pale and thin, and feed on air ; And all because one saucy girl Was fair. Ah well ! All this was long ago, And these ambitions long since faded ; Nought else could kindle half the glow That they did. So I believed : and yet of late My soul has been consumed to see Two letters added to my plate M.P. Beyond that height man may not soar ! Clown, Pirate, Cabman, Poet, these Grow insignificant before Em Pees ! 86 AFTERTHOUGHTS. But could I stand upon my legs And speak ? Consent to being heckled ? Submit to be with rotten eggs Bespeckled ? Could I endure opponents' rage ? Pour oil on agitated waters ? The thirst of those dry throats assuage, Reporters' ? And am I sure that I can burn For hours on all the current questions ? I really feel that these are stern Suggestions. And yet, what matter ? Other men Have done the trick, so why not I ? I can at least take up my pen And try. The best plan is without a doubt To holler with the biggest crowd ; No matter if you cannot spout, Shout loud. AMBITIONS. 87 And so when next you hear of me I trust I'll reach the goal I cherish, And I'll invite you all to tea, The Terrace. So ends the tale of doubtful strife, The hazard of the odds and evens ; For now I'm settled down for life, St. Stephen's. 88 AFTERTHOUGHTS. THE END OF THE SUMMER. MEN say that the world is a passing show, That the glittering pageant of Time is vain ; As over the hills the shadows go, Things pass and never return again. The children played on the shining sand, Castles with turrets and towers they made, And the tide rolled over the work they planned, And the night never knew where the children played. The symbol mirrors the world's sad heart, As a glass wherein one sees his face ; Men say it is so all things depart, And the days of our years leave never a trace. THE END OF THE SUMMER. 89 But the Poet smiled as he listened and heard, And dreamed of the days that were rich with thought ; A deeper chord within him stirred As he reckoned the treasures the years had brought. The cloud that passed on a summer day, The shadows and gleams that the hill-side crossed, The glimmer of stars, the ocean spray, Are not of the things that are counted lost. The hill-tops gold in the evening sun, The sparkle of dew on the fresh green grass, The silence deep when the day is done Are they all illusions that wake and pass ? The heart beats high at the songs of spring, And catches its breath at the winter storm, The wealth that the summer and autumn bring Has made the blood flow more swift and warm. 90 AFTERTHOUGHTS. Who will say that such summers die ? That the wealth of the year is spent in vain ? Do they not live in the mind's quiet eye, And appear in the thoughts of the poet's brain ? I have heard the wind in the pine-wood dim, Like the roaring sound of a distant surf, I have heard the lark singing his morning hymn, And drunk the scent of the rain-drenched turf. And long days on 'mid the city's rush, Sights, sounds, and scents will return once more ; Upon my heart there will fall a hush, As I live in vision the moments o'er. Perplexed and anxious, tired and sad, Heart, hand, and brain oft need to rest, And the gleam of a memory makes us glad, And speeds the spirit upon its quest. THE END OF THE SUMMER. 91 The world of men, the wounds of Time, The scenes of youth, hopes, joys, and fears, The loves that have helped our feet to climb, Will speak in the heart in the after years. AFTERTHOUGHTS. A BALLAD OF INFLUENZA BY A VICTIM. [The Poet SHOOTING pain ; describes his Sudden chill ; Burning brain ; Very ill ; Fever heat ; Throat red ; Can't eat ; Go to bed. [And goes into Nights weary ; the depths of Littles , depression Days dreary ; Want to weep ; Wandering eye ; Vacant stare ; Going to die ; Don't care. A BALLAD OF INFLUENZA. I And becomes restive under treatment [And comes to himself in languor and luxury \_And celebrates his recovery with hilarity and a villain- ous rhyme Physic vile ; Life a bore ; Run a mile Never more ; Pallid cheeks ; Very thin ; Bed for weeks ; What a sin. Down stairs ; Shaky legs ; Easy chairs ; Beaten eggs ; Beef tea ; Constant feeding ; Seems to be What I'm needing. Out at last ; Fresh air ; Jordan past ; The world is fair ; Then a spell Where lochs and glens are ; So farewell To influenza. 94 AFTERTHOUGHTS. THE LARK'S SONG. HIGH in the light o'er summer hills Thy rapturous music shakes and thrills ; Above the valleys rich with corn Thy multitudinous notes are born ; Above the spreading heathy moors They trickle down to purple floors ; Above the silver of the streams, A melody scarce heard in dreams, Sounds in the eager listening ear In the fresh green spring o' the year. In thy full heart is no alloy, Nor sadness, only youth and joy In shrilling chorus madly blent, A gush of pure abandonment ; Sweetness and passion soaring high Losing themselves in deeps of sky, And aspiration pouring loud Pierces the intervening cloud, As though a mounting track of light Beckoned the heart to heaven's height. A NEW YEAR SILHOUETTE. 95 A NEW YEAR SILHOUETTE. THE sound of rude belated revellers Broke on the silence of the empty street, Lurching towards home with vague uncertain steps. The black night swallowed them, but bursts of song Droned in the distance, ending in a laugh. The pure white stars, sparkling and frosty clear, Tangled the sky, like gems caught in a veil; The new moon, like a shaving, lay upcurled Low in the heavens. I stood and heard the bells Ringing the young year blithely to the world. 96 AFTERTHOUGHTS. SUNSHINE IN FEBRUARY. LENGTHENING days, O widening skies, The leaden weight that on me lies Lifts lightly off, grows less the strain, 1 see the blessed sun again. To-day at peep of dawn I heard The mellow music of a bird ; 'Twas joy to hear him pipe and sing, The welcome harbinger of spring. The crocus with his flaming spears On the green bank once more appears ; The bashful snowdrop hangs her head, First-comer in the garden bed. The year sheds off its cloak of grey, Preparing for its bright array, And soon the earth with joyful mien Will don her robe of living green. R. L. S. 97 R. L. S. ON Vaea's lonely top he lies Beneath the spread of azure skies ; The Tropic trees above him wave, Green guardians of the Exile's grave ; No rush of rain nor storm-winds rude Molest his airy solitude ; In silence and in peace profound, In Death's own consecrated ground, He hears no more the ocean's beat, Nor reverent tread of pilgrim feet. In day dreams some the shrine have sought, And climbed the woody hill in thought ; And many of his kith and kind, Who hold his memory in mind, "The Road of Loving Hearts" will find. But it was here he should have lain, Where on the moor flies sun and rain ; The city of the crag and spire, Who bore this Spirit of air and fire, Should lay her vagrant son to rest Upon the Pentlands' generous breast. 98 AFTERTHOUGHTS. Though called about the world to roam He e'er beheld the hills of home ; Though alien lands his feet must tread, The heather lay before him spread ; And ever in the Exile's dreams Gloomed Scotland's Bens and flowed her streams. So, though on Vaea's top he lies, Beneath the spread of azure skies, Let not his hills of home lament, For richer should be their content. Not for his body do we mourn, Nor vainly long for its return ; For we, we hold the better part, Samoa his dust, but we his heart. TO JOSEPH PARKER. 99 TO JOSEPH PARKER. A SON of Thunder, lonely and withdrawn, Yet tingling to the finger-tips with life, Acquainted with the world's tumultuous strife, Bringing the message of God's coming dawn : A Modern Prophet, filled with visions bold, Bearing man's sins and sorrows, burdens, fears, Living his joys, more deeply still his tears, Speaking with insight clear things new and old: A Greatheart, strong in courage, swift to bless, A giant in preaching, but a child in prayer, Rousing the weak, healing the wounds of care, A man in power, a woman in tenderness : 100 AFTERTHOUGHTS. A life-long Comrade of the Book divine, Turning its wisdom into homely speech ; A heaven-sent genius impelled to teach, Holding aloft the ever-sacred Sign : I heard that Voice in youth's perplexing day, When thought was seeking an Interpreter; From him I won the vision and the spur That sent me wondering upon my way. SCRAPPED. 101 SCRAPPED. THE AFFECTIONATE CYCLIST TO HIS OLD TRAVELLING COMPANION. No more your airy wheel will glide Through woody glen, by dark loch-side, Nor through the village flash with pride, Your gong resounding, Chickens and children scattering wide, Their pulses pounding. No more the bare hill-road you'll scale, Go spinning down the spreading vale, Leaving behind a dusty trail Far in your wake, In shower or sunshine, wind or hail, Your journey take. No more you'll thread the lanes in spring, When glamour lies on everything, And busy birds are on the wing, And earth is waking From winter sleep to dance and sing, Mad music making. 102 AFTERTHOUGHTS. No more will you and I together, Abroad in every kind of weather, Pass winding through the purple heather In summer's glow, My heart as light as foam or feather As on we go. We've seen the hawthorn hedges white, Fresh woods, green fields, wild birds in flight, The stars at lighting-up-time bright, And many a scene That swims up in my thoughts at night With closing een. We've watched the sunset, bloody red, On dark Loch Ailort's waters spread, As evening crept with silent tread Down the green glen, And the slow moonrise o'er the head Of lonely Ben. And like a dream the Western Isles Come floating through my fancy, whiles, As memory muses on the miles Beside the sea, When August in her beauty smiles With sober glee. SCRAPPED. 103 O sweet has been the Friendly Road, As like a ribbon on it flowed O'er hill and dale ; and hearts have glowed To hear its call ; Health, joy, and liberty bestowed On one and all. Farewell, my Friendly Wheel, Farewell ! Swift, shining, dainty Ariel ! With you I've sped by field and fell In happiest vein, And Nature's immaterial spell Has banished pain. Another wheel may soon be mine, But you and I have secrets fine ; The old is better, like good wine So rich and mellow, Never shall steal my heart from thine This other fellow. 104 AFTERTHOUGHTS. GRADUATION. DOWN the long passage of the lofty hall, Between a lane of jubilating friends, Trooping they come, wearers of cap and gown, Radiant in scarlet, purple, green, and blue ; Successful burners of the midnight oil, Well-weighted with degrees, and now to add More letters to their names. Massed in the rear The students gather in a surging crowd, Howling, hilarious, shouting ribald songs, Relapsing into pantomime or hymns, After the fashion of their innocent minds. Peas, flour, and pellets, paper arrows fly ; A football scrimmage huddles near the door; A form capsizes, and a raucous voice Cries " Goal ! " and 'mid the pandemonium Inaudible drones on the Latin prayer. The honours are conferred. Heads dark, fair, grey, Bow underneath the comprehensive Cap, GRADUATION. 105 From whose descending shadow there emerge Medicine and letters, law, divinity, Science, mechanics, and philosophy, Bearing their various learning to the world. I, from my corner in the gallery, A privileged spectator for the nonce, Look on with envious eyes, bemoaning deep My woeful lack of scientific lore, My plenteous want of philosophic mind, My boundless paucity of scholarship, Wailing the wastage of the empty years, With no imposing vesture of degrees To clothe my academic nakedness. And yet and yet may there not be a few High, happy, hopeful things which babes may know, Confounding all the wisdom of the wise ? God ! I would be content to be a babe Could I but win the message of a flower, Pluck from the sky the poetry of stars, Unlock the cipher of a human face, Read the strange riddle of life's mystery, Or woo with watching and with waiting long 8 106 AFTERTHOUGHTS. Some living truth which in the heart would fall Like dew upon its woe and weariness. There is a power in simple human things, There is a joy in Nature's loveliness, A light which conies through beauty, toil, and pain, A lore of love, a scholarship of tears, An insight born of living day by day, A masonry of human sympathy, An education of experience, Which would outshine the learning of the schools, More welcome than the mystery of dawn. A man shall be a hiding-place from wind, A shelter from the storm, as flowing streams In desert drouth, and as the pleasant shade Of some great rock within a weary land. Ah, God ! could I be such a man as this I'd count myself a graduate indeed. ON MY FORTY-FOURTH BIRTHDAY. 107 ON MY FORTY-FOURTH BIRTHDAY. TO-DAY I am forty-four : Lord, how many years more ? I have no victories to record, I go with the bare sword. But Hope blossoms like a rose, For I at least know my foes. I am faint with many scars, But I fight on, and above are stars. It matters little to win or lose, So that the battle I choose. I have been wounded by the way, But I rise up again to-day. A voice bids me turn and flee, But what manhood would that be ? 108 AFTERTHOUGHTS. Vows, oaths, promises lie behind, Like leaves scattered by the wind. There be days that are dim with tears Hidden within the years. I will not brood upon the past, For the time travels fast. Within I see so much to blame, My heart is like one flame. So much to do, so little done, My task is but begun. So vast and stern are Life's demands, And how quickly run the sands ! I may not pause nor start anew I cry What shall I do ? The long grey road still lies before ; I falter on its granite floor. Whither does the grey road tend ? A cloud obscures the end. ON MY FORTY-FOURTH BIRTHDAY. 109 Foolish and futile now to weep Over vows I've failed to keep. Let me be grateful for the pain ; 'Tis God's spur to try again. Thanks for the perils of the day, For manhood comes that way. And I see more good than ill : So once more wakes my will. I rise and strive, though the way be long, For the love of life is strong. I press on, though the road be dark ; There's light enough to see God's mark. Truth lives : Love shines : their flags o unfurled : Error and Death to their doom are hurled : And I believe in the Friend of the World. 110 AFTERTHOUGHTS. THE PREACHER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. IT is the Sabbath eve, and on the morrow I go to try to speak the Word of Life, To comfort hearts that know the world's deep sorrow, To cheer the toilers in the midst of strife. But what am I the prophet's vesture wearing, Speaking to others in the sacred Name ? May it not be a too presumptuous daring When my own heart needs purging by the flame ? What do I know of Life's mysterious meaning, What, of the deeper mystery of God ? The flying years have brought so thin a gleaning From the strange devious pathways I have trod. PREACHER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. Ill I do not know : I am but just beginning To see light on Life's labyrinthine ways, Gathering some lore through sorrow and through sinning, Travelling the twilit avenue of days. I do not know : I am but hardly learning From the blurred scripture of the human heart ; Through my own battle and a mighty yearning I grasp a little, understand in part. Is it enough, O Lord, to know Thou knowest, And with a humble heart to learn of Thee ? That, and the grace and truth which Thou bestowest ? Were that enough, I might Thy witness be. From my own heart I draw a few things surely That God's forgiveness is as clear as day, That from His love comes strength to live life purely, That Jesus is the Life, the Truth, the Way. 112 AFTERTHOUGHTS. This must suffice, for this is all my burden, My only message as 1 onward go ; To me it is Life's first and final guerdon ; My only proof that I have found it so. Teach me, O Lord, by whatsoever schooling Shall help me Thy Glad Tidings to proclaim; Within my spirit let Thy grace be ruling, Cleaving with reverence to Thy holy Name. Wilt Thou do this, and spur my faint endeavour ? Grant me fresh hope and vision day by day ? Keep me and guide me and be near me ever? Then will I be Thy preacher, if I may. Let it be so. I have no more ambition ; Let me fight on and cheerly to the end ; Out of the depths I rise in true contrition, To find in Life a task, in Thee a Friend. SONNETS. 113 SONNETS. WRITTEN IN GRASMERE CHURCH. I. ROTHA still murmurs by the old stone wall, The Poet's dust sleeps peacefully above ; The hills, the streams, the vales that were his love Are round him still ; and peace is over all. Simple the stone that marks his quiet grave ; A name and year are all that meet the eye Of pilgrims who the hallowed spot pass by, Thinking of all he was, of all he gave. Yet though I stand with humble reverence Beside the gentle Wordsworth's resting- bed, Somehow my feet are unresisting led To the low runic cross, three paces thence, Where, 'neath the crown of thorn and passion keen, The grave of Hartley Coleridge is green. 114 AFTERTHOUGHTS. II. DWELL not in secret on forbidden things If thou wouldst keep thy soul at liberty ; Base habit like an iron fetter clings, And, as a canker, eats incessantly. Self-centred thought a brooding darkness brings Like midnight on a restless moaning sea, And hangs a weight upon the spirit's wings Which only spread and soar when will is free. I lift my eyes to these eternal hills Where the great Poet wandered deep in thought, Seeking the peace which Nature's bosom fills, And ah ! he found the precious thing he sought. That peace he sends through many a lofty line, A blessed boon to stormy hearts like mine. THE BAIRNS. 115 THE BAIRNS. A QUIET little mouse About the house ; A brow of thought, a student quite, A Miss who will sit up at night ; A lover of her friends and books, Now grave and now quite gay she looks, And happiest when she sits and "brooks""* This is our pet, Maid Margaret. L .s' A sunny smile, And full of wile, A voice that wakes the morn with song, A handy helper all day long, A sonsie, chubby, round-faced boy, Ready for any wholesome ploy, His father's and his mother's joy A jolly party Is our Artie. * A family term for inconsequent chatter on everything and nothing. 116 AFTERTHOUGHTS. A dancing sprite, A luckless wight With big round eyes of ocean blue, With questions he belabours you, A Puck and Ariel in one, A playmate of the air and sun, All animals and frisk and fun This is our Nonnie, Blithe and bonnie. TO THE GENTLE READER. 117 TO THE GENTLE READER WHO EVER GETS TO THE END OF THIS BOOK. SHOULD you in these pages look, You will find both grave and gay, In disorderly array : Life's a medley, So's my book. You may say I am mistook For the jostling fancies here ; Better separate appear ; Life's a medley, So's my book. Some must have a special hook, One for faith and one for fun ; 'Tis not natural, my son : Life's a medley, So's my book. 118 AFTERTHOUGHTS. Some must have a cosy nook Where Religion must abide, Not a friend to things outside : Life's a medley, So's my book. In my thought I cannot brook Lines of sacred and profane, Things must work together plain Life's a medley, So's my book. UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY Los Angeles This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. Form L9-50;i-7,'54 (5990)444 four sell - 60 2 Afterthoughts M990a PR 6025 M990a A 000 555 383 9