mrsim ia3Mg! WHfm> *'''vaf*««*''*T»i-'^^-- *:' THE LIBRARY OF THE UXI\TRSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES o ELtc OLD JOHN AND OTHER POEMS ^o^^m OLD JOHN AND OTHER POEMS BY T. E. BROWN AUTHOR OF 'BETSY LEE,' ' FO'C's'LE YARNS,' ETC. ?Lontioii MACMILLAN AND CO. AND NEW YORK 1893 A U rights reserved PtmUJ hf R .=L R. Pi A lit r./.-^w.,/. f 35cr The thanks of the Author are due to the Proprietors of the National Observer for permission to reprint some poems which have already appeared in the columns of that Journal. 897181 TO H. G. D. AND M. E. D. this volume is affectionately inscribed March 1893 CONTENTS P.\GE Old John .... I Chalse a Killey . i6 Aber Stations— Static Prima .... 23 Static Secunda 24 Static Tertia .... 26 Static Quarta . 28 Static Quinta 30 Static Sexta . . . . . • 33 Static Septima • 39 Epistola ad Dakyns . 42 In the Coach — No. I.— Jus' the Shy . SI Nc. II. — Yes, ma'am ! nc, ma'am ! . 57 No. III. — Conjergal Rights . 59 No. IV. — Going to meet Him . 66 No. V. — The Pazcns 70 Nc. VI.— Noah's Ark 74 Gob-ny-Ushtey .... . 76 In Memoriam .... .77 Song ..... . 78 Dunoon ..... 79 OLD JOHN The Laigh Clevedon Verses— I.— Hallam's Church, Clevedon II.— Dora III. — Sccuturus IV. — Cui l>ono.^ V. — Star- steering VI. — Per omnia Deus VII.— Norton Wood . VIII.— The Bristol Channel IX. — The Voices of Nature IIOMIM AHMIOTPrOi: . "Ne sit ANClLL/t" Lynton Verses . Lynton to Porlock (Symphnny) . The Emity Cui- Pain The Pitcher Song Veris et Favoni I.s Grilmio I bant Ouscura . St. Bee's Head An Oxford Iuyll The Schchjner . Willi khaven llAkiiork S<: A RLE IT Rocks Lime Street iiotwrlls Braddan Vic aka'.i. To K. H. Clifton . The Lilvkx.i "Not \villin«; to Stay S2 S3 84 «5 85 86 87 88 90 91 93 96 98 101 >03 107 109 12 «5 16 118 19 120 124 I JO 2S -9 >3o 132 137 •39 4' 144 CONTENTS XI PAGE ECCLESIASTES . . . . . . . I46 Mater Dolorosa 148 Indwelling 151 Exile .... 152 Salve ! . 155 In Memoriam Paul Bridson . 156 Climbing. 15S In Memoriam A. F. 160 Risus Dei 162 The Prayers 167 In a fair Garden 169 Canticle . 171 Euroclydon 173 Disguises 175 My Garden 177 Reconciliation . 178 Land, Ho ! 179 Praesto . 181 Evensong 182 Poets and Poets 183 Opifex 184 A Morning Walk 186 In Memoriam J. Macmeikin 189 "God is Love". 190 The intercepted Salute 191 METABOAH • 193 Catherine Kinrade • 194 Nature and Art 198 Life . 212 Jessie . 214 Alma Mater • 215 Triton Esuriens . 218 The Peel Life-Boat . 221 A Wish . . 226 Dante and Ariosto . 226 xii OLD JOHN PACE BorcACCio ToE. M O . 227 . 228 Caroi 229 Israel and Mkllas ^31 M. T. W. Drrams . Wesley in Heaven . 236 . 238 To E. M. O. 240 Preparation 241 Planting. • 242 Obviam . • 243 Specula 244 ••Social Science" 245 At the Play • 249 OLD JOHN Old John, if I could sit with you a day At Abram's feet upon the asphodel, There, while the grand old patriarch dreamed away, To you my life's whole progress I would tell ; To you would give accompt of what is well, What ill performed ; how used the trusted talents, Since last we heard the sound of Braddan bell, "A whin bit callants." You were not of our kin nor of our race, Old John : nor of our church, nor of our speech Yet what of strength, or truth, or tender grace I owe, 'twas you that taught me — born to teach B 2 OLD JOHN All nobleness, whereof divines may preach, And pedagogues may wag their tongues of iron, I have no doubt you could have taught the leech That taught old Chiron. For so it is, the nascent souls may wait, And lose the flexile aptness of their years ; But if one meets them at the opening gate Who fans their hopes and modifies their fears, 'i'hen thrives the soul : the various growth appears, Or meet lur sunny blooms or tempests' grappling — No wind uproots, drought quells, frost nips, blight sears The well-fed sapling. Old John, do you remember how you ran Before the tide that choked the narrowing firth, Wlicn (."unibria took you ere you came to Man I'rom distant Clalloway that saw your birth? Methinks I hear you with athletic mirth Deride the baffled sleuth-hounds of the ocean. As on you sped, not having where on earth \'ou were a notion. OLD JOHN What joy was mine ! what straining of the knees To t€st the peril of that strenuous mile, To hear the clamour of the yelping seas ! And step for step to challenge you the while, And see the sunshine of your constant smile ! I loved you that you dared the splendid danger ; I loved you that you landed on our Isle A helpless stranger. Old John, old John ! the air of heaven is calm ; No ripple curls upon the glassy sea : But, as you wave on high the golden palm, Though love subdues the thrill of victory, You must remember how at Trollaby Your five-foot-one of sinew tough and pliant Threw Illiam of the Union Mills, and he Was quite a giant. O wholesome food for keen and passionate hearts. Tempering the fine pugnacity of youth With timely culture of all generous arts. Rejecting menial tricks and wiles uncouth — 4 OLD JOHN Old John, your soul was valiant for the truth ; But ever 'twas a chivalrous contention : Love whispered justice, and the mild-eyed ruth Kissed grim dissension. Old John, if in the battle of this life I have not sought your precepts to fulfil, If ever I have stirred ignoble strife. If ever struck foul blow, as bent to kill, Not conquer, by the love you bear me still. Oh wuercede that I may be forgiven. Stern Protestant — not pray to saints ? I wi/l To you in Heaven. Old John, you mu.st have much to do indeed I I I .1111 all forgotten from your mind. Ah : blame me not : I cannot hold a creed That would impute you selfish or unkind. Ask Luther, Oilvin ; ask the old man l)lind That pain^ '1 F''' '^ : ask the grim Confession Of AU(;^i>urg what blac k error lurks l)chind Such intercession. OLD JOHN Old John, you were an interceder here ; For nie you interceded with great cries. How have I stood with mingled love and fear, And not a little merriment ! My eyes Beheld you not. Old John ; your groans and sighs And gasps I heard by listening at the gable Inside of which you knelt, and shook the skies — But first the stable. It was a mighty "wrastling" with the Lord ; The hot June air was feverish with the heat And agony of that great monochord. Our old horse, standing on his patient feet, Ripped from the rack the hay that smelt so sweet ; And, when there came a pause, their breath soft pouring I heard the cows ; while prone upon " the street " Our swine were snoring. You prayed for all, but for my father most — "The Maister," as you called him — tJiat on rock Of sure foundation he nu'oht keep the post. And (by a change of metaphor) might stock God's heritage zvith vines to endure the shock 6 OLD JOHN Of time and sense, being planted with his planting ; That so (another trope) of all the flock Not one be wanting. Old John, I think you must have met him there, My father, somewhere in the fields of rest : From doubt enlarged, released from mortal care, Earth's troubles heave no more his trancjuil breast. Oh, tell him what you once to me confessed. That, all the varied modes of rhetorick trying, Vou ever liked "the Maister's" sermons best When he 'cas crying. Old John, do you remember how we picked Potatoes for you in the days of old ? IJright flashed the g rep, and with its sharp prong pricked The i)ink-fleshed tubers. We were blithe and bold. Dear Jdhn, what jokes you cracked I what tales you told! So garrulous to cheer your " little midges," What time the setting sun shot shafts of gold Athwart the ridges. OLD JOHN And when the season changed, and hay was mown, You weighed the balance of our emulous powers, How "Maister" Hugh was strong, the ponderous cone To pitchfork ; but to build the fragrant towers Was none like " Maister WuUiam." Blessed hours The empty cart we young ones scaled — glad riders ! — And screamed at beetles exiled from their bowers, And homeless spiders. But when the corn was ripe, and truculent churls Forbade us as we culled the cushaged^ stook, Your eye flashed fire, your voice was loosed in skirls Of rage. Old Covenanter, how could you look The very genius of the pastoral crook — Tythe-twined, established, dominant ? " In our ashes Still live our wonted fires." You could not brook, You said, " their fashes." A perfect treasury of rustic lore You were to me, Old John : how nature thrives. In horse or cow, their points, if less or more Convex the grunter's spine, the cackling wives ^ Marked with the Cushag (ragwort). 8 OLD JOHN Of Chanticleer how marked, the bird that dives, And he that gobbles reddening— all the crises Yau told, and ventures of their simple lives, Also their prices. The matchless tales your own great Wizard penned To us were patent wlicn you gave the key : I knew Montrose ; stern Clavers was my friend ; I carved the tombs with Old Mortality ; I sailed with Hatterick on the stormy sea ; Curled (.'avalier, and Roundhead atrahiliar, The shifts of Caleb IJalderstone, to me Were quite familiar. JJut most of all, where all was most, I liked I'o liear tlie story of the marlyrs' doom ; The camp remote by stubborn hands bedykcd ; The bones that bleached amiil the heather bloom ; The gray-haired sire ; the intrcj)id maid for whom Old Solway piled his waters monumental, And gave that glorious heart a glorious tomb Worth .Scotia's rental. OLD JOHN 9 Old John, such stories were to me a proof That 'neath the dimpling of the temporal tides A power is working still in our behoof, A primal power that in the world abides. In virgins' hearts it lives, and tender brides Confess it. Veil your crests, ye powers of evil ! It is an older power, and it derides Your vain upheaval. Old John, do you remember Injebreck, And that fine day we went to get a load Of perfumed larch ? From many a ruddy fleck The resin oozed and dropped upon the road ; And ever as we trudged you taught the code Traditional of woodcraft. Night came sparkling With all her gems, and devious to Tromode The stream ran darkling. But we the westward height laborious clomb ; Then from Mount Rule descended on the Strang, And saw afar the pleasant lights of home. Whereat your cheering speech — " We'll na be lang " ; lO OLD JOHN Also a wondrous chirp of eld you sang, Till, when we came to Hraddan Bridge, the clinging Of that inveterate awe enforced a i>ang That stopped the singing. \'et when we gained the vantage of the hill. And breathed more freely on the gentler slope. Then (luickly we recovered, as men will ; For Life's sweet buoyancy with Death can cope, Being strung by Nature for that genial scope : And so, when you had ceased from your dejection, You talked with me of (iod, and faith, and hope, And resurrection. 'Twas thus I learned to love the various man, Rich patterned, woven of all generous dyes. Like to the tartan of some noble clan, Blending the colours that alternate rise. So ever 'tis refreshing to mine eyes To look beyond convention's flimsy trammell. And see the native tints, in anywise, Of ( iod's enamel. OLD JOHN II Old John, you were not of the Calvinists ; "The doctrine o' yElaction," you declared — You gentlest of all gentle Methodists— " A sawl-destroying doctrine." Whoso dared God's mercy limit he must be prepared For something awful, not propounded clearly, But dark as deepest doom that Dante bared, Or very nearly. On Sunday morning early to the "class," Then Matins, as it's called in ritual puff Correct, then Evensong — but let that pass ; Our curate frowns. Nor then had you enough ; But, with your waistcoat pocket full of snuff, You scorned the flesh, suppressed the stomach's clamour, And went where you could get "the real stuff" Absolved from grammar. And who shall blame you, John ? Our prayers are good — Compact of precious fragments, passion-clips Of many souls, cemented with the blood Of suffering. So we kiss them with the lips 12 OLD JOHN Of awful love ; but when the irregular grii)s Of zeal constrain the cleric breast or laic, Into a thousand fiery shreds it rips Our old mosaic. And so it was with you, Old John : the form Was excellent ; but you were timely nursed Upon a Cameronian lap, the storm Of that great strife inherited : the thirst For (lod was in you from the very first : The rushing flood, the energy ecstatic, O'erwhelnied you that you c(juld not choose but burst All bonds prelatic. No gentler soul e'er took its earthward flight l-rom Heaven's high towers, oi clove the ethereal blue With softer wings, or full of purer light- Sweet Saint Theresa, bathed in virgin dew, Your sister was ; but jenny (Jeddes was too. The false Ar( hbishop feared the accents surly Of your firm voice — you were John Knox, and you Hnlfour of lUirlev. OLD JOHN 13 Then is it wonderful in me you found Disciple apt for every changing mood ? I also had a root in Scottish ground. No tale of ancient wrong my spirit wooed In vain : I loved the splendid fortitude, Although we served in different battalions — • Your folk were Presbyterians, mine were lewd Episcopalians. What joy it was to }'ou the day I came To visit that dear home, no longer mine ! I sat belated, having seen the flame Of sunset flash from well-known windows. Nine Was struck upon the clock, and yet no sign Of my departure ; then some admiration Of what I purposed ; then I could divine A consultation. That I should sleep with you was their intent. And so we slept, being comrades old and tried. It was to me a very sacrament. As you lay hushed and reverent at my side. 14 OLD JOHN Your comely portance filled my soul with pride To think how human dignity surpasses The estimate of those who " cant abide The lower classes." And, severed by a curtain on a string, Slept Robert, and his wife, your daughter, slept ; Slept little Beenie, and the bright-eyed thing You Maggie called, she to her mother crept And snuggled in the dark. The night wind swept " Aboon the thatch " ; came dawn, and touched each rafter With tongue of gold ; then from the bed I leapt As light as laughter. IJul I must " break my fast " before I went : And so I sat, and shared the pleasant meal ; And all were up, and happy, and content ; And last you prayed. May I'ashion ne'er repeal That self-respect, tho.se manners pure and leal ! My countrymen, I charge you never stain them ; Hut, as you love your Island's noblest weal, Ciuard and maintain them. OLD JOHN 15 O faithfuUest ! my debt to you is long : ^ Life's grave complexity around me grows. From you it comes if in the busy throng Some friends I have, and have not any foes ; And even now, when purple morning glows. And I am on the hills, a night-worn watchman, I see you in the centre of the rose. Dear, brave, old Scotchman ! CIIALSE A KILLF.V To Chalse in Heavkn So you are gone, dear Chaise ! Ah, well ; it was enough^ 'I'he ways were cold, the ways were rough- Oh Heaven ! oh home ! No mure lo roam — Chaise, poor Chaise. And now it's all so plain, dear Chaise ! So plain — The wild' '' •! 1" lin. The joy, liie pain The phantom shapes that haunted. CHALSE A KILLEY 17 The half-born thoughts that daunted — All, all is plain Dear Chaise ! ^ All is plain. Yet where you're now, dear Chaise Have you no memory Of land and sea. Of vagrant liberty — Through all your dreams Come there no gleams Of morning sweet and cool, On old Barrule — Breathes there no breath, Far o'er the hills of Death, Of a soft wind that dallies Among the Curragh sallies — Shaking the perfumed gold-dust on the streams ? Chaise, poor Chaise ! Or, is it all forgotten, Chaise ? A fever fit that vanished with the night — Has God's great light C i8 CHALSE A KILLEV Pierced through the veiled delusions, The errors and confusions ; And pointed to the tablet, where In quaint and wayward character, As of some alien clinic, His name was graven all the time? All the time ! O Chaise ! poor Chaise. Such music as you made, dear Chaise ! With that crazed instrument That Ciod had given you here for use — You will not wonder now if it did loose Our childish laughter, being writhen and bent From native function — was it not, sweet saint ? But when such music ceases, Tis God that takes to pieces The inveterate complication v\nd makes a restoration. Most subtle in its sweetness, Most ^llullg in its completeness. Most constant in its meetness ; CHALSE A KILLEY 19 And gives the absolute tone, And so appoints your station Before the throne — Chaise, poor Chaise. And yet while you were here, dear Chaise ! You surely had more joy than sorrow : Even from your weakness you did borrow A strength to mock The frowns of fortune, to decline the shock Of rigorous circumstance. To weave around your path a dance Of "airy nothings," Chaise; and while your soul. Dear Chaise ! was dark As an o'erwaned moon from pole to pole. Yet had you still an arc Forlorn, a silvery rim Of the same light wherein the cherubim Bathe their glad brows, and veer On circling wings above the starry sphere — Chaise, poor Chaise. 20 CHALSE A KILLEY Yes, you had joys, dear Chaise ! as when forsooth, Right vahant for the truth. You crossed the Baldwin hills, And at the Union Mills, Inspired with sacred fury, You helped good Parson Drury To " put the Romans out," A champion brave and stout — Ah now, dear Chaise ! of all the radiant host, Who loves you most ? I think I know him, kneeling on his knees — Is it Saint Krancis of Assise ? Chaise, poor Chaise. (Ircat joy was yours, dear Chaise ! when first I met you In that old Vicarage That shelters under IJradda : we did get you By stratagem most sage Of youthful mischief — got you all unweeting Of mirthful toys, A merry group of girls and boys, 'I'm )mi1(1 a missionary meeting— And yuu did stand upon a t hair. CHALSE A KILLEY 21 In the best parlour there ; And dear old Parson Corrin was from home, And I did play a tune upon a comb ; And unto us You did pronounce a speech most marvellous, Dear Chaise ! and then you said And sthrooghed the head — " If there'll be no objection, We'll now purseed to the collection " — Chaise, poor Chaise. And do you still remember, Chaise, How at the Dhoor — * Near Ramsey, to be sure — I got two painters painting in the chapel To make with me a congregation ? And you did mount the pulpit, and did grapple With a tremendous text, and warn the nation Of drunkenness ; and in your hand Did wave an empty bottle, so that we, By palpable typology. Might understand — 22 CHALSE A KILLEV Dear Chaise, you never had An audience more silent or more sad. And have you met him, Chaise, Whom you did long to meet? You used to call him dear and siveet — Ciood Bishop Wilson — has he taken you In hand, dear Chaise ; and is he true. And is he kind, And do you tell him all your mind. Dear Chaise, All your mind ? And have you yet set up the press ; And is the type in readiness, Founded with gems Of living sapphire dipped In blood of molten rubies, diamond-tipped? And, 7i>i(/i the sanction of the Go7'ernor, Do you, a proud compositor, Stand forth, and frent the Ikmns ? Chaise, poor Chaise. ABER STATIONS Static Prima Why do I make so much of Aberfall? Four years ago My little boy was with me here — That's all— He died next year : He died just seven years old, A very gentle child, yet bold, Having no fear. You have seen such ? They are not much ? No ... no. And yet he was a very righteous child, Stood up for what was right. Intolerant of wrong — 24 ABKR STATIONS Pure azure light Was cisterned in his eyes ; We thought him wise Beyond his years — so sweet and mild, But strong For justice, doing what he could — Poor little soul — to make all children good. I almost think — and yet I am to blame — He was a difTercnt child from others ; He had three sisters and two brothers : He seemed a little king Among the children — ah ! 'tis a common thing- Parents are all the same — You've seen those kings — yes, yes — Of course . . . and yet . . . the righteousness . The . . . Never mind ! he came With me to Aber fall — That's all, that's all. Statio Sr:cuNn.\ Just listen to the blackbird — what a note The creature has I Ciod bless his happy throat ! ABER STATIONS 25 He is so absolutely glad I fear he will go mad. Look here ! this very grit I crush beneath my boot His little foot Trod crisp that day — That's it ! that's it ! Oh what is there to say ? The little foot so warm and pink ! Oh what is there to think ? His mother kissed it every night When she put out the light — And where ? What is it now ? a fascicle Of crumbling bones Jammed in with earth and stones. You say that this is old, A tale twice-told — Say what you will, Old, new, I swear That it is horrible — Horrible, blackbird, howsoe'er The Spring rejoice you with its budding bloom — 26 ABF.R STATIONS Yes, horrible, most horrible ! Though you should carol to the crack of doom, Poor blackbird ! being so absolutely glad — I hope he won't go mad. Statio Tf.rtia The stream is very sweet To-day . . . Just sec the swallow dart ! How fleet ! It sent a shiver to my heart. If he had livedo you say — Well, well— if he had lived, what then :* Some men Will always argue — yes, I know ... of course . The argument has force. If hf had lived, he »n);ht have chatr^ed — I'rom bad to worse ? Nay, my shrewd balance-setter, Why not from good to better? Why not to best? to joy And splendour? oh my boy ! I did not want this argument in the least, ABER STATIONS 27 My soul had ceased From doubt and questioning — That swallow's wing ! What a transcendent rush ! Hush ! hush ! Or, if you talk, talk low : For ... do you know . . . Just as the swallow dipt, I felt as if a soft hand slipt Its fingers into mine . . . he's near . . . He's with us . . . 'tis not right the child should hear This jangling . . . low then, low ! Or this is better ... go, Go, darling ; play upon the bank, And prank Your hair with daisy and with buttercup. And we will meet you higher up. Now then . . . if he had lived? if my sweet son Had lived? . . . You stare . . . There ! there ! 'Tis gone, 'tis gone — It was the swallow's dart That sent a shiver to my heart. 28 abi:r stations Static Quarta We have not seen the sun for many days, But now through East-wind haze He makes a shift To send a Uiminous drift, To which, as to liis full unclouded splendour The meek, contented earth makes glad surrender. (iod bless the simple earth That gave me birth ! God bless her that she looks so pleased — The soul that is diseased With this world^s sorrow — Well, sir ? ought to look ? Beyond, ami yet beyond: tiot in this narrow nook Of //is creation Will God make up //is look. The whole is one great scheme Of compensation — The net result Is all ... \ too have had my dream. As from my nonage dedicate a /iuo-tt;? Of that great cull. ABER STATIONS 29 I saw lord Love upon his galley pass Westward from Cyprus ; smooth as glass The sea was all before him. He, as /ceXeuo-rr;?, Stood at the stern, and piped The rhythms ; but, ever and anon, As worked upon By some familiar fury, grasping a scourge (An amethyst Fastened it to his wrist . . . Love's wrist !), He ran along the transtra, and did urge The rowers, and striped Their backs with blood ; whereat they lept Like maddened hounds, and swept The sea until it hissed. Then I— " Lord Love, what means this cruelty ? " But he to me Deigned no reply : Only I saw his face was wet with tears. And he did look " beyond, and yet beyond : " But those men fond And fatuous never turned Their eyes from his, but yearned 30 ABER STATIONS With an insensate yearning, having confidence That so it must be ; but on what pretence I know not — Ah most cruel lord ! Ah knotted cord ! Dull plash Of livid tissues ! flash Of oars that smote the waters to a hum . . . Come, come ! You've had enough of this— But what I meant, and what you seemed to miss, Was simply how the meek, contented earth, That gave me birth, Was pleased . . . Then you of soul diseased, And what not . . . excellent ! But that is what I incant. StATIO Q UINTA The shepherd calls — How these great mountain walls Ke-ccho ! See his dog Come limping from the bog ! ABER STATIONS 31 How far he holds him With that thin clamour ! Scolds him ? Or cheers him — which? Say both — most like. The pitch Is steep, poor fellow ! And still that bellow— Ya, ya ! Whoop ! tittiva ! And Echo from her niche Shrieks challenged. Shout, shepherd ! flout The irritable Echo till she raves ! As man behaves^ So God apportions^ doing what is best For you ^ and for the rest. As man behaves ? You do not help me much. Nay, sir, nor touch The central point at all — Retributive, mechanical — 1 see it. But outside all this I miss ... I miss . . . Sir, know you Death ? Permit me introduce . . . No ? What's the use ? 32 ABER STATIONS The use ! . . . One thing I can collect, You have but scant respect For Death, ^^'hy, sir, he made a feint That very minute at you — quaint ! The way he grins and skips — Whips ! whips ! Down ! down ! good dog ! good Death ! To heel, you rogue ! Good Death ! good dog ! You'd rather not behold him ? I've told him — 'I faith, He'd frighten you, would Death. Provoke me — yes, you did — The shepherd chid His lagging hound — I had no other thought Hut how mad Echo caught The sound Of that e.xasperant call, And made it bound Hack from the mountain wall. ABER STATIONS 33 Statio Sexta Ho ! snow Upon the crags ! How slow The winter lags ! Ha, little lamb upon the crags, How fearlessly you go ! Take care Up there, You little woolly atom ! On and on He goes . . . 'tis steep . . . Hillo ! My friend is gone, Friend orthodoxo-logical — He could not argue with a waterfall ! And here it is — my Aber , . . Stay ! I'll cross This way : The moss Upon these stones is dripping with the spray- And now one turn, left hand, And I shall stand D 34 ABER STATIONS Before the very rock : not yet . . . not yet ! Oh let me think ! No, no ! I don't forget (Forget !) — but this is sacred . . . peace then, peace ! Release From all dead things, that serve not to present At my soul's grate the lovely innocent. He had heard some idle talk Of how his father had great strength to walk And climb ; And so he thought that he must lose no time. But instantly addressed His little breast To that tall cliff, Smooth, perpendicular, too stiff F"or cragsman from the wildest Hebrides, — But he did bend his knees. And spread his little arms, and laid His body to the work, and made Such genuine effort of ascent As though he meant To reach the top, of course, and had no doubt Of what he was about — So serious — no passing whim- ABER STATIONS 35 Oh no ! 'Twas thus his father clomb And he had come To dimb like him. And is he here ? O Braddan, are you here ? O darUng, have no fear ! Speak to me ! breathe some fond thing in my ear ! But what should Braddan know Of me, and what I am, And what I want — the little lamb ! What should he know, Who four brief years ago Knew only what a little child should know ! Should some kind angel, who doth teach my child, Some angel with the love-deep eyes. Some angel charged to keep him undefiled. Hear my sad cries. And bring him unto me, Is my whole heart a thing for him to see ? Am I prepared that his sweet honesty Should search it through and through ? Oh eyes of honest blue ! Oh fearless eyes ! 36 ABER STATIONS Oh mild surprise ! Oh is there one, one chamber of my heart That's fit For him to sit Therein, till it is time to part ? Or could I come to him ? No matter where — Swim, Swim the dark river, and be there ? Could a deep acquiescence Convey me to his presence ? And if it could, What were it after all But as a young prince stood Upon the city wall, And saw his foster-father at the gate, And wondered at his mean estate, And made no sign Unto the warders ? Hut my Hraddan's mine ! Mine I mine ! and none's beside ! O heli)less men ! has everything been tried? Where does the secret bide ? Is it a simple thing perhaps? ABER STATIONS 37 Yea, after all, a very simple thing. That through the lapse Of all the ages any tide Might bring, Nay, every tide has brought Up to the level of our thought ? Is the blest converse that I crave The function of a faculty we have, But know not how to use, being, by some dark mischance. Time-prisoned in a rooted ignorance ? A faculty which, if no God forbad it. An accident might bring to hght, And some one, somewhere, waking in the night, Would know he had it. But we are cumbered with our egotisms ; A thousand prisms, Hung round our souls, refract the single ray. That else would show us instantly the way. So even now, when my sad heart aspires To height of paramount desires, These verses mock it With their rhyme-jangles, frustrate as a rocket. That mounts, and breaks, and falls in coloured fading fires. ABER STATIONS A curse Upon the impotent verse ! Vet, no ! Not so — It may be that in these The soul shall yet win something more than ease ; For song is of the essence, and, \Yho sings, Touches the central springs — Ah vain imaginings ! Let be ! let be ! Braddan, pity me ! Yes, yes ! 1 know there is another way — press, press, And I will press, sweet Braddan. Sink, thought ! sink, sink ! To think Is but to madden. Stop, heart ! You have no part In this — die, soul. Die, die ! it must be soon — The barrier's hut a film ; one gasp, and I shall swoon Into his arms — ABER STATIONS 39 Braddan ! why, Braddan ! see, I keep my tryst — God ! O Christ ! That snow Is very slow To disappear : how winter lags ! 1 see the dam Upon the crags. But nowhere can I see the little lamb. Static Septima The heavens are very blue Above the western hill ; The earth is very still — I will draw near, and view The spot Where he is . . . not. But O dear cliff, O big good-natured giant, I think some delicate dint must still remain On your broad surface, from the strain Of limbs so sweetly pliant. Behold ! The lamb ! the lamb ! fallen from the very rock ! 40 ABER STATIONS Cold ! cold ! Dead ! dead ! His little head Rests on the very block That Braddan trod — Dear lambs ! twin lambs of God ! Old cliff, such things Might move some stubborn questionings — But now I question not — See, see ! the waterfall Is robed in rainbows — what ! Our lambs? My Braddan shall have charge Of him, and lead him by the marge Of some bright stream celestial. Braddan shall be a happy shepherd boy ; No trouble shall annoy That soft green pasture — Ah, Murillo, saint ! Kind friend ! that for all sorrowing hearts did'st paint John Baptist and the Lamb — those arms thrown round That neck ! Forgive mc, Ciod, that 1 have found Some comfort in this little i)arablc — It gives me strength U) (limb the hill. And humbly so return — ABER STATIONS 41 God bless the merry burn ! I have no will But thine, O God ! I know that Thou art true — Be blue, O heavens, be blue ! Be still, O earth, be still ! Llanfairfechan, April 17, 1879. FPISTOLA AD DAKYNS Dakyns, when I am dead, Three places must by you be visited, 'I'hree places excellent, Where you may ponder what I meant, And then j^ass on — Three places you must visit when I'm gone. Yes, meant, not diif, old friend ! Kor neither you nor I shall sec the end, And do the thing we wanted : Nathclcss three places will be haunted l!y what of me The earth and air Shall spare, EPISTOLA AD DAKYNS 43 And fire and sea Let be — Three places only, Three places, Dakyns. The first is by the Avon's side, Where tall rocks flank the winding tide. There come when morning's virgin kiss Awakes from dreams the clematis, And every thorn and briar is set As with a diamond coronet — There come, and pause upon the edge, And I will lean in every ledge. And melt in grays, and flash in whites. And linger in a thousand lights ; And yield in bays, and urge in capes. And fill the old familiar shapes ; And yearn in curves, and strain to meet The pensive pressure of your feet. And you shall feel an inner sense, A being kindred and intense ; 44 EPISTOLA AD DAKYNS And you shall feci a strict control, A something drawing at your soul, A going out, a life suspended, A spirit with a spirit blended. And you shall start as from a dream. While I, withdrawing down the stream. Drift vaporous to the ancient sea, A wraith, a film, a memory — Three places, 1 )akyns. II The next is where a hundred fells Stand round the Lake like sentinels. Where Derwent, like a sleeping beauty, Ciirdlcd with that watchful duty, At Skiddaw's foot securely lies. And gives her bosom to the skies. O come ! and I will bid the moon All subtle harmonies attune That live in shadows and in heights, A mystic chorus of delights. O come where many an island bevels EPISTOLA AD DAKYNS 45 Its strand to meet the golden levels ! O lay your heart upon each line, So diamond-cut and crystalline, That seams the marble of the mere, And smoothes all trouble, calms all fear, With that sweet natural straightness, free From effort or inconstancy. O draw your thought with all its passion Along the melancholy fashion Of forms accentuate with the beat Of the great Master's rhythmic feet. But when upon the finest verge The sense no further flight can urge, When the full orb of contemplation Is stretched, a nameless tribulation Shall sway the whole, a silent stress Borne in upon that loveliness ; A burden as of human ills, A human trouble in the hills ; A quickening pulse in earth and sky. And you shall know that it is I — Three places, Dakyns. ^6 KriSTOLA AD DAKYNS 111 The next is where God keeps for me A little island in the sea, A body for my needs, that so I may not all unclothed go, A vital instrument whereby I still may commune with the sky. When death has loosed the plaited strands. And left me feeling for the lands. Even now between its simple poles It has the soul of all my souls. But then — whatever 1 have been, Whatever felt, whatever seen, Whatever guessed, or understood, The tones of right, the tints of good. The loves, the hates, the hopes, the fears, The gathered strength of all my years — All that my life has in me wrought Of complex essence shall he brought And wedded to those primal forms That have their scope in calms and storms. EPISTOLA AD DAKYNS 47 Attuned to the swells and falls Of Nature's holy intervals. And, old coeval use surviving, No need shall be for any striving, No need from point to point to press, And swell the growing consciousness, But in a moment I shall sit Sphered in the very heart of it. And every hill from me shall shoot, And spread as from a central root, And every crag and every spur To me its attitude refer : And I shall be the living heart. And I shall live in every part. With elemental cares engrossed. And all the passion of the coast. Come then, true Dakyns, be the test Most meet to make me manifest ! Come, and immediate recognise To all your moods the dumb replies. Or stretch across a kindly void The golden life-chords unalloyed With thought, and instant they shall make ^S EPISTOLA AD DAKVNS The music they were made to make. Thus shall you grow into a sense Of islandhood, not taking thence Some pretty surfaces and angles, Tricking your soul, as with fine spangles A savage studs his wanii)um belt, But patient till the whole is felt. And you become incorporate Into an undivided state. Then shall your body be as dead ; And you shall take to you instead The system of the natural powers. The heath that blooms, the cloud that lowers, The antithesis of things that bide, The cliff, the beach, the rock, the tide The lordly things, whose generous feud Is but a fixed vicissitude. Wherefore, O Maughold, if he come, If Dakyns come. Let not a voice be dumb In any cave ; I-ling up the wave In wreaths of giddy spray ; EPISTOLA AD DAKYNS 49 O'er all the bay Flame out in gorse around the " kern," ^ And let his heart within him burn, Until he gains the slope Where, in the " sure and certain hope," Sleep the long rows : Then let him quench the fiery gleams In Death's gray shadow of repose, As one who dreams He knows not what, and yet he knows I have her there That was a bud so rare. But, Bradda, if he come to you, I charge you to be true ! Sit not all sullen by the sea. But show that you are conscious it is he. It is no vulgar tread That bends the heath : Broad be the heavens spread Above, the sea beneath Blue with that blue ! And let the whispering airs ^ Cairn. E 50 EPISTOLA AD DAKVNS Move in the terns. By those strong prayers \\hich rent my heart that day as hghtning rends a cloud, And rips it till it glares To open view : by all the vows I vowed, I charge you, and I charge you by the tears And by the passion that I took From you, and flung them to the vale, And had the ultimate vision, do not fail ! Three places only — 'Ihree places, I )akyns. Clifton, December 1869. IN THE COACH No. I. Jus' THE SHY Yes, comin home from the North Sea fishin we were, past John o' Grotes, Past the Pentlands and Cape Wrath theer, twenty boats There'd be of us, and eight men and boys to every one, and how many are you makin that ? A hunderd-and-sixty, says you— You're smart though, what ? And sure enough it is — aw this ciphrin and figgurin and recknin, aw grand ! grand ! Well, when we hauled to the Southward, the wind turned a foul, you'll understand ; So we made for a bay though, the lot of us : terble narra it was to get in — That bay — but spreadin out astonishin. 52 IX TH1-: COACH And the room you navar seen — acres ! acres ! So swings to an anchor for all As aisy as aisy, and plenty to spare, just that we could call The time o' day and that : it's comfible, you know, like yandhar, and mayve a matthar Of ten fathom — good houldin, fuss-rate ridin, couldn be batthar. And at the lop of the bay there was a castle, terble though. Aw bless ye, terble uncommon, and the gardens theer all in a row. And all above one another ; and some guns that was took from the Rooshians, and a tower, and a flag goin a-haulin — I don' know the burgee, but as broad as a good tarjiaulin : And over the door, cut to a dot, aw open your eyes the widest you can ! Over the door, if you pla/.e, over the door, what next? (lod bless us ! the three legs of Man ! That was the thing. My gough ! the wondher we had ; And this and that : but at last Billy I-argher said It muss ha' been some of these ould ICarls or Dukes, or their daughters, or their nieces, or their cousins (Of coorsc, there'd be dozens) IN THE COACH 53 That got married on yandhar lek — • At laste you'd expeck There'd be some workin in and out ; and blood is blood, That's aisy understood, And navar ashamed of the ould flag, not her, but heisin it to the wind, and carvin it on the stone, like defyin, Lek as bould as a lion. Now there was a terble great lady livin in this Castle, mind ! Aye, a lady, bless ye ! and no mistake, grand, no doubt, but kind. And she come to see us, aye, and she said she was once on the Islan', ' And the people was that good to her, and that civil, and that smilin. And that plazzaiit, she said, that she couldn forget it, she said. No, she said ; and it wasn no use, she said. They were nice people, she said, the ?iice you couldn tell ; That's what she said, and she liked them well. And she wouldn take no res' of us but we muss promise then and theer To have dinner with her, aye ! dinner, think of that now ! a hundred-and-sixty of us — what ? aw I'll sweer. 54 IN THE COACH 1 )inncr though ; so promised sure cnougli ; and the day come, And there wasn a sowl of us went, not a sowl, by gum ! No! and the pipers blawin. And the curks drawin. And the i)reparati(jn they'd he havin, so I'm toul". And there wasn a sowl, no, not a sowl. And what for was that ? \\hat for ? just the shy, the shy, That's the what for, and that's the why. And that's the way with the Manx ; aw, it is though, aw, they are, they are, Mos' despard shy ; aw it's a pity for all, hut star' They will, and wink and nudge and poke and bother. And spit theer and laugh, and look like axin one another- " Are you goin, and you ? " and takin rises, and all to that, Till you can't tell is it your granny's cat Or what is it that's doin on you, hut you feel jus' a reglar fool. And all the time hitendin to he as cnol as rool. Aw dear ! it's a pity ! a pity I aw a nini lot ! Hut, whether or not, The great lady was agate of us again, 'Deed for sure she was, and she seen the nun Was shy of the dinner ; but it's Uk she th(night IN THE COACH 55 It was on account of not knowin how to behave theerselves the way they ought With theer knives and theer plates and the lek ; so axed them to tay— Aw she muss ha' been a kind lady anyway. And we promised faithful, and the day come, and she sent and she sent, And there wasn a one of us went. The shy^ did ye say ? Sartinly, nothin but the shy, That's the way we are ; aye, Treminjus though. I was raelly sorry for her, I was, I tell ye, And all the throuble that was at her theer, fit for a melya. And the disappointed — what ? and, altogather, my chiarn ! These Manx chaps isn fit, no they arn' — Terble boghs ! Well the wind veered round, and we all sailed for the Southward, Excep' two boats. Now, d'ye think she'd ha' bothered About such dunkies ? Well, that's jus' what she did, Perseverin, aye ! and considherin, and waitin. " Turn your quid ! " Says Juan Jem, Xokfuthee, lek tio hurry ! you know 56 IN THE CDACII Lck aisy all I lek keep her so! Lek wait and see! I'aticnt, is it ? I'.ut anyway the strong The kindness was in her — that's it, and the long- Suffrin lck, and navar not no capers of takin oflfince. My gough ! it's many a time I've thought of it since. What did she do but down to these chaps that was lavin behind Sixteen of them, aye— and axed them theer as kind as kind — To lay J most sartin ; what else ? and I tell ye they took heart and went. .\nd enjoyed theerselves to the full the same's it might be you or any other gent, /)'/// the res' 7 you're wondrin. Chut ! Jus' the shy, and nothin l>ut The shy. Aw, no use a' talkin, The shy it's sliawkin. iV<» raison, says you : not a bit. Amaziti, says you. Well, that's all you'll get, 'I'hat is the raiscjn, and the for and the why — Jus' the shy. IN THE COACH 57 No. II. — Yes, ma'aisi ! no, ma'am ! Yes, ma'am, no, ma'am ; We called him Joe, ma'am ; Eighteen — My name's Cregeen — Yes, ma'am, no, ma'am ; Had to go, ma'am. Faver ? aye ; Young to die ; Eighteen for spring. {Chorus of sympathisers) " Poor thing ! poor thing ! " Yes, ma'am, no, ma'am ; I'm rather low, ma'am- Bombay — Not at say. Yes, ma'am, no, ma'am ; Just so, ma'am, Clane groun', And the Pazon in his gown ; No stone, just marks. {Chorus as before) "She's thinkin of these sharks." 58 IN THE COACH Ves, ma'am, no, ma'am, Not like home, ma'am — The clothes he died in The corp was plied in. Yes, ma'am, no, ma'am ; But just to sew, ma'am, Something sof, Plazed enough, But couldn be — {Chorus as before) " My chree ! my chrec ! " Ves, ma'am, no, ma'am. We were rallin him Joe, ma'am — His chiss come. Not like to some; Yes, ma'am, no, ma'am, Come by Oow, ma'am, From Liverpool : And, of a rule, Not amiss. (Chorus as before) "She's got his chiss! she's got his chiss ! " IN THE COACH 59 Yes, ma'am, no, ma'am, These feer'ns ^ will grow, ma'am, So I'm tould. But I'm makin very bould. Yes, ma'am, no, ma'am — Rather slow, ma'am, Is this coach ; But I hope I don't encroach — In my head the pain 's. {Chorus as before) "In her heart she manes." Yes, ma'am, no, ma'am. No. III. CONJERGAL RiGHTS Conjergal rights ! conjergal rights ! I don't care for the jink of her and I don't care for the jaw of her. But I'll have the law of her. Conjergal rights ! yis, yis, I know what I'm sayin Fuss-rate, Misthress Corkhill, fuss-rate, Misther Cain, And all the people in the coach — is there a man or a woman of the lot of ye — ^ Ferns. 6o IN THE COACH Well now, that's what I wudn have thought of ye, I wudn raelly — No, I haven' ^ot a little sup. Not me — is there one of ye that wudn stand up For conjergal rights ? No, ma'am, tf}^ht 's Not the word, not a drop since yesterday. But lizzen, good people, lizzen ! I'll have her in the coorts, I'll have her in prison — It's the most scandalous thing you ever — What I this woman and her daughter — It's clane murder, it's abslit manslaughter, Aye, and I wudn trus' but beggamy, that's what it is — married yesterday mornin In Kirk iJreddhan Church, and not the smallest taste of warnin. Takes her to her house in Castletown, And jus' for I axed a (juashtin — and I'll be boun' It's a quashtin any one of you wud have axed — picks a quarrel, makes a row. The two of them, aye, the two of them — bow-wow ! Hammer and tungs ! sends for a pleeceman, puts me to the door - lUit I'll owe her ' 111 owe- her! Aisy, Mr. Cretncy? No, I'll not be aisy ; IN THE COACH 6i It's enough to make a body crazy, That's what it is, and the supper on the table. And the boss in the stable. And I said nothin, nor I done nothin. Aw, if there's law in the land. Law or justice, I'll have it, d'ye understand ? Do ye see the thing ? My grayshurs ! married is married, Isn it ? what ? and me that carried The woman's box. And that isn all ; what raison ? what sense ? Think of the expense ! think of the expense ! Don't ye know ? God bless me ! The certif'cake, that's hafe-a-crown, And the licence, that's five shillin, money down, money down ! And not a farlin off for cash, these Pazons, not a farlin ; And said she was my darlin And all to that, guy heng ! it's thrue ! it's thrue ! And look at me now ! boo-hoo-oo-oo ! Yis, cryin I am, and no wondher — You don't see me it's that dark in the coach. By the livin thundher I'm kilt mos'ly, that's what I am, almos' kilt 62 IN THE COACH With throuble and disthress and all. A jilt. You sdiy,ajiltf Hut married, married, married, d'ye hear? Married, Misthress Creer, Married afore twelve at Kirk Breddhan, Married, a reglar proper weddin And no mistake. And this woman . . . O my gough ! don't spake of her ! don't spake I /is me thafs spakin 1 Vis, and I will ! I will ! Who's to spake if I anin" ? Hut still — It's lek you don't see the coach is so dark, and no light from these houses, Hut feel of this new coat, and the pair of new irousis. Bought o' puppose, o' puppose ! what else ? Bran new ; and the shirt and the frells. And the cuffs and the collar, every d thing As bran and as new as a gull's wing — And all to plaze her, and to look accordin To the occasion, and to do her credit, and ho'rdin The teens of months. And oh if I'd only borrowed them from a neighbour. That's the thing, but bought them, bought them ; and even so they might ha' been chaber. IN THE COACH 63 Yis, they might, at another shop. But you don' see the way I'm goin, No, no, you don' — But I'd lek you to — the tears ! I'm jus' slushin the sthraw With the tears, making the coach all damp for the people — yis, I know I am, but I'll have the law, I'll have the law. Just a quashtin about a bit of proppity. The house, in fac', the very house we come into, d'ye see ? The house, her house ! of coorse ! of coorse ! But goodness grayshurs ! Who doesn know the law about a thing like that ? the iggorant ! the ordashurs ! If ever there was a thing on God's earth That was mine, it was yandhar house ! But it isn worth Talkin — -no ! There's people that'll go against anything. But what ! no suttlement goin a-makin Nor nothin, jus' everything goin a-takin Undher the common law of matrimony theer — At my massy ! at my massy ! with your lave, Mr. Tear, At my massy, sir. You'll scuse me. But you know the law. Married — my chree ! my chree ! What m "married," if that isn? it's as plain as a dus'bin — 64 IN THK COACH Your own clear lovin husbin As kind as kind 1 See the beauty of it ! And " all that's thine is mine," Isn it sayin that in the Bible? And surely the woman is li'ble As well as the man ; and to " love, honour, and obey," Isn that what they say ? But it's my heart, that's it ! my poor broken heart ! aw dear ! aw dear ! And my feelins ! my feelins ! and thai son of mine girnin from ear to ear. And his lip and his imprince, and his disrespeck, And the waste and the neglec' — Oh it's awful ! it's awful ! oh the wounds that there's no healins ! Oh my feelins ! my feelins ! But I'll see aburt, I will, I'll see aburt — The dirt ! The wife of my bosom ! Don't be mockin ! I heard a woman laughin : its shockin' That a woman 'd laugh at the lek of sucli doins, yis, it is, Downright wickedness — A woman that I could name — IN THE COACH 65 Fie for shame ! fie for shame ! But I'll have law. Look here ! is James Gell a lawyer ? You'll hardly uphould me He isn, will ye ? James Gell — the Attorney-Gineral : well, that's the man that tould me. Did I spake to him about it ? was I axin him afore 1 was anything to her ? Sartinly ! my gough ! was I goin to run my neck into a noose And navar no 'pinion nor . . . I'm not such a goose As yandhar ither, I've gorrit in writin, yis, I have, I've gorrit here— aw, you'll get lave ! you'll get lave ! Not aisy to read, but God bless me ! where's my specs ? Butlar't! lar't It's my feelins : O my heart ! my heart ! My poor heart ! my poor heart ! boo-hoo-oo-oo ! Aye, and you'd think there'd be Some semperthy, Some . . . Crow, open this door and let me out ! there's no regard with ye For a man's . . . I'll not ride another yard with ye . . . Theer then ! theer ! No, I'll have none of your good- nights ... " ' Conjergal rights ! conjergal rights ! F 66 IN THE COACH No. IV. — Going to meet him A, Yes, yes, I'll be seein him, seein Billy This very night — aw, I'm almost silly \\ith the thought. Yes, Mrs. (.>uaylc, just a year away, And he's comin home this very day. Billy ! Billy ! aw the foolish I am ! And you'll 'scuse me, ladies, won't ye now? Aw, I'll be as qui't as a lamb, Yes, I will : and it isn right To be carr)'in on like this afore people, but aw the delight ! Oh I wonder how he'll be lookin ; he's that handsome and gud. Aw, yes, aw dear ! I wud, I wud, I wud flic, I wud die ! oh the darling ! oh it's shockin. And I can't keep qui't, no, I can't, no, I can't, and it's no use o' talkin. But I'll try, Mrs. Quayle, you know mc : yes, I'll try, I'll do my best, Oh I will though, and only proper Ick. But how'l he be drcst ? () Billy, liilly ' will he have his wliitc ducks? ho, ho! IN THE COACH 67 It's me that 'd make them Hke the driven snow ; But these Liverpool washerwomen — chut ! the nasty things ! aw, I'll be bail No notion whatever, no, they haven' ; what did ye say, Mrs. Quayle ? Not to be expectin too much and I'll not be disappointed ? and I'd batthar — What, Mrs. Quayle, batthar what, what ? what ? I've got the latthar ! He's comin ! he's comin ! " On the spree," did ye say ? Like the way With such, Mrs. Quayle ? With such ! Mrs. Quayle ! Mrs. Quayle ! Who then ? whuch ? This coach is chokin me, give me air — No, no ! it isn fair, Navar ! no, navar ! navar ! No, no ! you're clavar, You've seen a dale, Mrs. Quayle, A dale, no doubt, but that you'll navar see, For I love Billy, and Billy loves me ! Is that plain ? don't you know that ? It cudn ! it cudn ! But ye come upon me that sudden. 68 IN THE COACH No, no ! that's not liilly nor natur nor nothin ; that's foolishness — Hut I can't rest — This coach is close — the hot I am and the coul' ! (C/ion/s of ctmscious women) Poor sowl ! poor sowl I V). Now then, now then, what do you say now ? Here he is, and I think you'll allow, Eh, Mrs. Quayle, you'll allow, I think, Not the smallest signs of drink. And I ast your pardon humble I do — I'm forgcttin myself. But is it you ? Is it you ? is it you ? Whisper then. The millish ven ! Close, liilly, close — (lod knows I love you, Hilly, and you love me, Don't you. Hilly? my chree ! my chrce ! Aw just to hear — Chut ! I'm foolish, but oh the dear ! The Stfoify, did ye say ? yis, Hilly, yis ! Steady it is. IN THE COACH 69 Now, Mrs. Quayle, is he drunk or sober ? Poor ould Billy ! and last October He sailed, poor chap ! And ifs me thafs drunk — With, joy you mane ? And have you got your trunk — What am I talkin? your chiss — dear me! and didn I see't Comin along the street — Of coorse, and mended — You tould me. Oh isn all this beautiful? isn it splendid ? Closer, Billy, closer then ! Crid shen ? Nothin, but . . . lizzen, Billy, whisp'rin's free I love Billy, and he loves me . . . Do you, Billy ? as God's above Do you love Me, Billy ? The word, Billy, as soft as soft — What am I thlnkin of? Aw ye said it, ye said it. And now I'll trouble ye Is he drunk or sober, this young man, W. Sayle, by name ? Aw you'll 'scuse me, won't ye ? Aw I didn mane to 'front ye. Aw nothin of the surt ; only ye see the glad 70 IN THE COACH I am it's fit to drive me mad. And I'm rather young ... at laste, not that oul', You'll 'scuse me, won't ye . . . {Chorus of conscious wofncn) Poor sowl ! poor sowl ! No. v.— Thk Pazons Whats the gud of these Pazons ? They're the most despard rubbage goin, Rcglar humbugs they are. Show me a Pazon, show me a drone ! Livin on the fat of the land, livin on tiie people's money The same 's the drones is livin on the bcescs honey. Aw bless ye! the use of them? not the smallest taste in the world, no ! Grindin down the honest worlcin man, just so ; Suckin the blood of the poor and needy, .\nd as grecdy's greedy. See the tithes, see the fees, see the glebes and all ; What's the call For the lek ? and their wives go'n a takin for ladies, and their thildhar g(/n sendin to College IN THE COACH 71 Like the fuss of the land. Aw, it bates all knowledge The uprisement of the lek. And fingerin with their piannas, Them that shud be singin their hosannahs To the King of glory constant. Clap them in the pulfit theer, What can they do ! Aw come down the steer ! come down the steer, And don't be disgracin yourself that way. That's what I've been thinkin many a time : And let a praecher take his turn, a local, aye, just try 'm ! Aw give your people a chance to get salvation. " Blow ye the trumpet in Zion ! " That's the style, and the prespiration Pourin out all over his body ! See the wrestlin, And the poor Pazon with his collec' and his pestlin And his gosp'lin. Gospel! Let it sound abroad. The rael gospel of God ! Aw then the happy I am ! Give us the Lamb ! give us the Lamb ! But he can't, I tell ye, he can't — What's that young man sayin theer — rant ? Rant indeed, is that what he's learnin At Oxfoot College, to revile the spirit that's burnin 72 IX THE COACH III the hearts of the faithful? Aye, and let it burn, let it blaze ! But here's the I'azon, if ye plaze. Cocked up with his little twinkle of a farlin rush, And 11 hauk and blush. And his snips and his snaps And his scrips and his scraps, And cndin up with the Lord's Prayer quite sudden Like the ould woman's sauce to give a notion of a puddin. Aye, puddin, and drahbin with their swishups and dishups Df tlie stale ould brotli of tlie law. If nil the hands of all the bishops Was goin crookin over his head, he wudn be a praccher, Not him, nor a taecher. You catCt be married 7vilhout o /'iizon? Can't I though? Can't I, Masther Crow ? (live me the chance: I'm a married man with a fam'ly com in, Hut if it |»la/ed tlic Lord to take Mrs. Crcer, d'ye lliink there's a woman 'd refuse to go with me iK-fore the High IJailifTdown At Castletown, And ger' a slick of matrimony put upon us ? L\ THE COACH 73 Honest ? Yes, honest thallure : l>ut holy, " ho/y inatrimony^'' thefre safn : Holy your grandmother ! — at laste, I mane, And astin your pardon, Mrs. Clague. But the idikkilis people is about the lek o' yandhar — Aisy with your leg, Masthar Callow ; thank ye ! that'll do — Yis, Mrs. Clague, and crizzenins and funarls too — • Shuperstition, just shuperstition, the whole kit, Most horrid, just popery, clane popery, that's it — Aye, popery and schamin and a lie and a delusion and snares To get money out of the people, which is the Lord's and not theirs. Money money every turn, Money money — pay or burn ! And where does it come from ? I said it before and I say it again, Out of the sweat of the workin man, Aw these priests ! these priests ! these priests — Down with them, I say. The brute beasts Has more sense till us, that's willin to pay blackmail 74 IN THE COACH To a set of rascals, to a pack of Good evenin, Pa/on (lale! Good evenin, sir, good evenin ! Step up, sir ! make room, Make room for our respected \'icar — and may I persume To ax how is Mrs. Gale, sir, and the f;\mily ; Does this weather agree — Rather damp, I dessay. And the Governor's got knighted? I'm delighted to see you, sir, delighted, delighted ! No. VL- Noah'.s Ark (On the road) "Good gracious! what in the world is this?" — "A lil cauf, ma'am." "Why, you don't mean to say . . .?"— "I'll lake it by the scruff, ma'am ; We'll just lave it at the door. It's bclongin to .Mr. .Moore. " And to think the abominable brute Was suckin at my boot ! Mr. Crow ! .Mr. Grow ! I'd have you to know "Jus* a lil cauf, ma'am Jus' a lil cauf.'" IN THE COACH 75 {Arrival at Ra7nsey) " Mercy on us ! what next?" — "A lil dunkey, ma'am." " A little what ? Good heavens ! " — " Aw, ye needn be funky, ma'am ; I'll get him out as qui't . . . Good people, bring a light ! " " But a solitary female in the dark. . . With half the beasts in Noah's ark. Mr. Crow ! Mr. Crow ! I'd have you to know . . ." - " Jus' a lil dunkey, ma'am Jus' a lil dunkey." GOH-NY-USHTKY (Water's IMouth) I SAW a little stream to-day That sprang right away From the cornice of rock — Sprang like a deer, not slid ; And the Tritons to mock — Old dissolute Tritons—" Hurroo ! " They said, "\\'e'll teach him a thing or two. This upland babe." And I've no doubt they did. But, as he lightly fell, midway His robe of bright spray He flung in my face, 'I'hen down to the soles and the cods With his sweet young grace. Ah, what will the stripling learn, l'"rom those rude mates that mountain burn, What manners of th' e.xtrcmely early gods? IN MEMORIAM Half-mast the flag by sweet St. Mary's shore, Half-mast the schooner in Port Erin bay ; Death has been with us in the night, of prey Insatiate from a fold thrice robbed before. And now he climbs to me upon the hoar And ruinous rock, and shrouds the gladsome day With sullen gloom, nor any word will say That might to strength my sinking heart restore. Speak, Death, O speak ! ^Vhat high command restrains The dark disclosure ? is it thine own will Thou workest, I adjure thee, shape of fear ? Then from the awful face a shadow wanes, And, clad in robes of light unspeakable, God's loveliest angel sits beside me here. SONG Look at mc, sun, ere thou set In the far sea ; P>om the gold and the rose and the jet Look full at me ! Leave on my brow a trace Of tcndcrest light ; Kiss me upon the face, Kiss for good-night. DUNOON Little Maggie sitting in the pew, Eyes of light and Ups of dew ! What is that to you ? what is that to you ? Little Maggie sitting in the pew. Grinding like a saw-mill, Worthy Doctor " Cawmill," What has he to do, He so lank and prosy, With Maggie plump and rosy — Little Maggie sitting in the pew ? Is burd Maggie stupid ? No, by sweet Saint Cupid ! Rhythmic little sinner. All that is within her Chiming like a psalm 8o DUNOON In the stellar calm, ( Iracious warmth of blood Making fancies bud With a tender folly Into belled corolla:, Radiating gleams Of half-conscious dreams, I'loating her on blisses Of potential kisses. Killing all the presence \\ iih a balmy pleasance, With a kind confusion. With a quick elusion Of all jjonderous matter That would fain come at her — What is that to you. Little Maggie, little Maggie, sitting in the pew? Cubic, orthodox Sink the ordered iilocks, Doctrinal adamant Riven with the fiery rant, And hammered with the hammer of John Knox Cemented with the cant DUNOON 8 I Of glutinous emotion, Compact with logic Hard-gripped, presbyterous. Something, mayhap, to us — But Maggie, with a " mawgic " Of which we have no notion. Upborne upon the tide Of her young life, has power to hide. With unbroken sweetness With a soul-completeness. All the rock and rubble, Knowing of no trouble, Flecked only With shadows of those lofty things and lonely That from the seventh sphere Pencil their diamond traces Nowhere but on the mere Of hearts that stir not from their places. Tin: LAUGH Ax empty laugh, I heard it on the road Shivering the twihght with its lance of mirth ; And yet why empty? Knowing not its birth, This much I know, that it goes up to God ; And if to (lod, from God it surely starts, Who has within Himself the secret springs Of all the lovely, causeless, unclaimed things, And loves them in His very heart uf hearts. A girl of fifteen summers, pure and free, /Eolian, vocal to the lightest touch Of fancy's winnowed breath — ah, happy such Whose life is music of the eternal sea. I^ugh on, laugh loud and long, O merry child, And be not careful to unearth a cause ; Thou art serenely pbced above our laws. And we in thee witli God are reconciled. CLEVEDON VERSES Hallam's Church, Clevedon A GRASSY field, the lambs, the nibbling sheep, A blackbird and a thorn, the April smile Of brooding peace, the gentle airs that wile The Channel of its moodiness ; a steep That brinks the flood, a little gate to keep The sacred ground — and then that old gray pile, A simple church wherein there is no guile Of ornament ; and here the Hallams sleep. Blest mourner, in whose soul the grief grew song. Not now, methinks, awakes the slumbering pain While Joy, with busy fingers, weaves the woof Of Spring. But when the Winter nights are long. Thy spirit comes with sobbing of the rain, And spreads itself, and moans upon the roof. 84 CLEVEDON VERSES II Dora She knelt upon her brother's grave, My little girl of six years old — He used to be so good and brave, The sweetest lamb of all our fold ; He used to shout, he used to sing. Of all our tribe the little king — And so unto the turf her car she laid, To hark if still in that dark i)lacc he played. No sound ! no sound ! Death's silence was profound ; And horror crcj)! Into her aching heart, and Dora wept. If this is as it ought to be, My (lod, I leave it unto Thee. CLEVEDON VERSES 85 III Secuturus Each night when I behold my bed So fair outspread, And all so soft and sweet — Oh then above the folded sheet His little coffin grows upon mine eye, And I would gladly die. IV CUI BONO? What comes Of all my grief? The Arabian grove Is cut that costly gums* May float into the nostrils of great Jove. My heart resembles more a desert land — Who cuts it cuts but rock, or digs the sapless sand. 86 CLEVEDOX VERSES V Star-steering Oh will it ever come again That I upon the boundless main Shall steer me by the light of stars ? Now, locked with sandy bars, Life's narrowing channel bids me mark Each ser>iceable spark That Holm or Lundy flings upon the dark. Thus man is more to me — l!ut oh the gladness of the outer sea ! ( ) \'enus ! Mars ! When shall I steer by you again, O stars ? CLEVEDON VERSES 87 VI Per omnia Deus What moves at Cardiff, how a man At Newport ends the day as he began, At Weston what adventure may befall, What Bristol dreams, or if she dream at all, Upon the pier, with step sedate, I meditate — Poor souls ! whose God is Mammon. Meanwhile, from Ocean's gate, Keen for the foaming spate, The true God rushes in the salmon. 88 CLEVEDON VERSES VTT Norton Wood (Doras birthday) In Norton wood the sun was bright, In Norton wood the air was light, And meek anenionies, Kissed by the April breeze, Were trembling left and right. Ah vigorous year ! Ah i)rimrose dear With smile so arch ! Ah budding larch ! Ah hyacinth so blue, We also must make free with you. U'hcrc are those cowslips hiding ? liut we should not be chiding — The ground is covered every inch — What saycst, master finch ? I .sec you on the swaying bough ! And very neat you are, I vow ! And Dora says it is " the happiest day ! " CLEVEDON VERSES 89 Her birthday, hers ! And there's a jay, And from that clump of firs Shoots a great pigeon, purple, blue, and gray. And, coming home, Well-laden, as we clomb Sweet Walton hill, A cuckoo shouted with a will — " Cuckoo ! cuckoo ! " the first we've heard ! " Cuckoo ! cuckoo ! " God bless the bird ! Scarce time to take his breath, And now " Cuckoo ! " he saith — Cuckoo ! cuckoo ! three cheers ! And let the welkin ring ! He has not folded wing Since last he saw Algiers. 90 CLEVEDON VERSES Mil The Bristol Channei, The sulky old gray Ijrute ! But when the sunset strokes him, Or twilight shadows coax him, He gets so silver-milky, He turns so soft and silky, He'd make a watcr-spanicl for King Knut. II This sea was Lazarus, all day At Dives' gate he lay, And lapped the crumbs : Night comes ; The beggar dies — Forthwith the (.'hanncl, coast to coast, Is Abraliam's bosom ; and the beggar Mcs A lovely ghost. CLEVEDON VERSES 91 IX The Voices of Nature This cluck of water in the tangles — What said it to the Angles ? What to the Jutes This wave sip-sopping round the salt sea-roots ? With what association did it hit on The tympanum of a Damnonian Briton ? To tender Guinevere, to Britomart, The stout of heart, Along the guarded beach Spoke it the same sad speech It speaks to me — This sopping of the sea ? Surely the plash Of water upon stones, Encountering in their ears the tones Of dominant passions masterful. Made but a bourdon for the chord Of a great key, that rested lord 92 CLEVEDON VERSES Of all the music, straining not the bones Of Merlin's scull. And in the ear of Vivian its frets Were silver castanets, That tinkled 'mong the vanities, and quickened The free, full-blooded pulse, Nor sickened Her soul, nor stabbed her to the heart. Strange ! that to me this gurgling of the dulse Allays no smart. Consoles no nerve, Rounds off no curve — Alack ! Comes ratlier like a sigh, A question that has no reply — Opens a deep misgiving ^Vhat is this life I'm living — Our fathers were not so — Silence, thou moaning wrack ! And yet . . I do not know . .\nd yet ... I would go back. HOMINI AHMIOTPrOS What I can do I do, nor am I vexed, Nor worn with aimless strife, As you are, being perplexed With suppositions, scribbling o'er the text Of natural life. And seeing that this is so, And that I cannot know The innumerous ills. Therefore I strew the hills And vallies with delight, That, day or night, In sad or merry plight. You may catch sight Of some sweet joy that thrills Your heart. 94 nOMINI AIIMIOTITO:: And what if I impart The same to frog or newt, ^Vhat if I steep the root Of some old stump in bright vermilion, And if the si)idcr in his (juaint pavilion Catches a sunbeam where he thought a fly, Ah, why Should 1 not care for such ? I, who make all things, know it is not much. And by analogy I must suppose They have their woes Like you : Therefore I still must strew Joys that may wait for centuries, And light at last on Socrates, Or on the frog, whose eyes Vou may have noticed full of bright suri)rise. Or have you not? Ali iIkii \'ou only think of men, lUit I would have no single creature miss One possible bliss. And this Is certain : never be alraid ! HOMINI AHMIOTPrOS 95 I love what I have made. I know this is not wit, This is not to be clever, Or anything whatever. You see, I am a servant, that is it : You've hit The mark — a servant, for the other word — Why you are Lord, if any one is Lord. -NE SIT ANCILLzE" Poor little Teignmouth slavey, Sciuat, but rosy ! Slatternly, but cosy, A humble adjunct of the British navy, A fifth-rate dabbler in the British gravy — How was I mirrored ? in what spiritual dress Appeared I to your struggling consciousness ? Thump ! bump ! A dump Of first a knife and then a fork, Then plump A mustard-pot, then slump, stump, frump, The plates Like slates — " NE SIT ANCILL/E " 97 And lastly fearful wrestling with a cork. And so I thought — " Poor thing ! She has not any wing To waft her from the grease, To give her soul release From this dull sphere Of baccy, beef, and beer." But, as it happed, I spoke of Chagford, Chagford by the moor. Sweet Chagford town. Then pure And bright as Burton tapped By master hand. Then, red as is a peach, My little maid found speech — Gave me to understand She knew " them parts " — We stood elate. As each revealed to each A mate — She stood, I sate. And saw within her eyes The folly of an infinite surprise. H LYNTOX VERSES T Mav Margery of l.ynton Is brighter than the- day ; Her eye is like the sun in heaven- Was ne'er so sweet a May. May Margery has learnt a tune To which her soul is set — The voices of all happy things Are in its cadence met — The voices of all happy things In air, and earth, and sea. Make music in the little hreast Of sweet May Margery. LYNTON VERSES 99 And has May Margery a heart ? Nay, child, God give thee grace ! He made it for thee years ago. And keeps it in a place — The heart of gold that shall be thine — But who shall have the key That opens it — ah, who ? ah, who ? Ah, who, May Margery? II At Malmsmead, by the river side I met a little lady, And, as she passed, she sang a song That was not Tait or Brady, Or any song by art contrived Of minstrel or of poet. For baron's hall, or chanter's desk ; And yet I seemed to know it. Good sooth ! I think the song was mine- The all unthinking sadness — She read it from my longing eyes, And gave it back in gladness. lOO LVNTON VERSES And yet it was a challenge too, As plain as she could make it, So petulant, so innocent, And yet I could not take it. A breath, a gleam, and she is gone- just half a minute only — So die the breaths, so fade the gleams, And we are left so lonely. Ill Milk! milk! milk! Straight as the Parson's bands, Streaming like silk Under and over her hands — What is Mary scheming ? What is Mary dreaming? Swish ! swish ! swish ! Pressing her sweet young brow Smooth as a dish To the side of the sober cow — Can she tell no tale then ? Nought but milk and pail then.' LYNTON VERSES loi Strip ! strip ! strip ! Far away over the sea Comes there a ship, The ship of all ships that be ? Ah little fairy ! Ah Mary, Mary ! IV Lynton to Porlock (Exmoor) From Lynton when you drive to Porlock, Just take old Tempus by the forelock — In any case, don't hurry ; time and tide — Of course — I know. But, where the roads divide, Upon the moor. Be sure To shun the via dexfra, And choose the marvellous ride (One half-hour extra) That zigzags to a gate Nigh Porlock town — Oh it is great, • That strip of Channel sea, 102 LYNTOX VERSES Hacked with the prime of English Arcady ! It is not that the heather rushes In mad tumuUous flushes (^Trukiini;^ 's the word I'd use) ; Hut oh the greens and blues And browns whereon the crimson dwells, The i)uds, the bells ; The drop from arch to arch Of pine and lar( h ; The scented glooms where soft sun-fainting culvers Elude the eye, And fox-gloves, like innunicrous-celled revolvers Shoot honey-tongued le ring That rises on a belt of blue Trovokes the little bashful thing To guess what may ensue When he has pierced the screen, and holds the further clue. I wonder if beyond the verge He dim conjectures England's coast. The land of ICdwards and of Henries, scourge Of insolent focmen, at the most I'aint caught where C'umbria looms a geographic ghost. BRADDAN VICARAGE 133 I wonder if to him the sycamore Is full of green and tender hght, If the gnarled ash stands stunted at the door, By salt sea-blast defrauded of its right, If budding larches feed the hunger of his sight. I wonder if to him the dewy globes Like mercury nestle in the caper leaf, If, when the white narcissus dons its robes, It soothes his childish grief, If silver plates the birch, gold rustles in the sheaf. I wonder if to him the heath-clad mountain With crimson pigment fills the sensuous cells, If like full bubbles from an emerald fountain Gorse bloom luxuriant wells. If God with trenchant forms the insolent lushness quells. I wonder if the hills are long and lonely That North from South divide ; I wonder if he thinks that it is only The hither slope where men abide, Unto all mortal homes refused the other side. 134 BKADDAX VICARAGE I wonder if some day he, chance-conducted, Attains the vantage of the utmost height, And, by his own discovery instructed, Sees grassy plain, and cottage white, Each human sign and pledge that feeds him with delight. At eventide, when lads with lasses dally. And milking Pei sits singing at the pail, I wonder if he hears along the valley The wind's sad sough, half credulous of the tale How from Slieu-whallan moans the murdered witches' wail. I wonder if to him " the boat " descending I*"rom the i)r()ud ICast his spirit fills With a strange joy, adventurous ardour lending To the mute soul that thrills As booms the herald gun, and westward wakes the hills. 1 wonder if he loves that Captain bold Who has the horny hand, Who swears the mighty oath, who well can hold, T{alf-drunk, serene command. And guide his straining bark to refuge of the land. yi BRADDAN VICARAGE 135 I wonder if he thinks the world has aught Of strong, or nobly wise, Like him by whom the invisible land is caught With instinct true, nor storms, nor midnight skies Avert the settled aim, or daunt the keen emprise. I wonder if he deems the English men A higher type beyond his reach, Imperial blood by Heaven ordained with pen And sword the populous world to teach ; If awed he hears the tones as of an alien speech : Or, older grown, suspects a braggart race, Ignores phlegmatic claim Of privileged assumption, holding base Their technic skill and aim. And all the prosperous fraud that binds their social frame. Young rebel ! how he pants, who knows not what He hates, yet hates, all one to him If Gu^eph, or Buonaparte, or sans-culotte, if Strafford or if Pym Usurp the clumsy helm, if England sink or swim. 136 BRADDAN VICARACiE Ah crude, undisciplined, when thou shalt know \\'hat good is in this England, still of joys The chiefcst count it thou wast nurtured so That thou niay'st keep the larger equipoise. And stand outside these nations and their noise. TO K. H. O FAR withdrawn into the lonely West, To whom those Irish hills are as a grave Cairn-crowned, the dead sun's monument, Ani this fair English land but vaguely guessed — Thee, lady, by the melancholy wave I greet where salt winds whistle through the bent, And harsh sea-holly buds beneath thy foot are pressed. What is thy thought ? 'tis not the obvious scene That holds thee with its grand simplicity Of natural forms ; thou musest rather What larger life may be, what richer sheen Of social gloss in lands beyond the sea, What nobler cult than where around thy father The silent fishers pray in chapel small and mean. 138 TO K. II. Yes, thou art absent far— thy soul has slipt The visual Ijond, and thou art lowly kneeling Upon a pavement with the sacred kisses Of emerald and ruby gleamings lipped : And down the tunnelled nave the organ pealing Blows music-storm, and with far-floating blisses Gives tremor to the bells, and shakes the dead men's crypt. This is thy thought ; for this thou heav'st the sigh : Vet, lady, look around thee ! hast thou not The life of real men, the home, The tribe, and for a temple that old sky ? Whereto the sea intones the polyglot Of water-pipes antiphonal, and the dome Round-arrhed goes up to dod in lapis lazuli? CLIFTON I'm here at Clifton, grinding at the mill My feet for thrice nine barren years have trod, But there are rocks and waves at Scarlett still, And gorse runs riot in Glen Chass — thank God ! Alert, I seek exactitude of rule, I step, and square my shoulders with the squad, But there are blaeberries on old Barrule, And Langness has its heather still — thank God ! There is no silence here : the truculent quack Insists with acrid shriek my ears to prod, And, if I stop them, fumes ; but there's no lack Of silence still on Carraghyn — thank God ! ,40 CLIFTON Pragmatic fibs surround my soul, and bate it \\ith measured phrase that asks the assenting nod ; I rise, and say the l)itter thing, and hate it, But Wordsworth's castle's still at Peel— thank Ood ! Oh, broken life ! oh wretched bits of being, Unrhythmic patched, the even and the odd ! But Bradda still has lichens worth the seeing, And thunder in her caves— thank God '. thank God ! THE LILY-POOL What sees our mailie in the lily-pool, What sees she with that large surprise ? What sees our mailie in the lily-pool With all the violet of her big eyes — Our mailie in the lily-pool ? She sees herself within the lily-pool, Herself in flakes of brown and white, Herself beneath the slab that is the lily-pool, The green and liquid slab of light With cups of silver dight, Stem-rooted in the depths of amber night That hold the hollows of the lily-pool — Our own dear lily-pool. . 142 THK I.I I.V- TOOL And does she gaze into the Hly-pool As one that is enchanted ? Or does she try the cause to find How the reflection's slanted That sleeps within the lily-pool ? Or does she take it all for granted, \\'ith the sweet natural lo^ic of her kind? The lazy logic of the lily-pool, Our own bright, innocent, stupid lily-pool ! She knows that it is nice — our lily-pool ; She likes the water-rings around her knees, She likes the shadow of the trees That droop above the lily-pool ; She likes to scatter with a silly sneeze The long-legged flies that skim the lily-pool — The peaceful-sleeping baby lily-pool. So may 1 look upon the lily-[)uol, Nor ever in the slightest care Why I am there ; Why upon land and sea Js ever stamped the inevitable me : THE LILY -POOL 143 But rather say with that most gentle fool — " How pleasant is this lily-pool ! How nice and cool ! Be off, you long-legged flies ! oh what a spree ! To drive the flies from off" the lily-pool ! From off" this most sufficient, absolute lily-pool ! " "NOT WILLING TO STAY" I SAW a fisher bold yestreen At his cottage by the bay, And I asked how he and his had been While I was fiir away. I^ut when I asked him of the child With whom I used to play, The sunniest thing that ever smiled Upon a summer's day — Then said that fisher bold to me — And turned his face away — "She was not willing to stay with us She was not willing to stay." " But, Evan, she was brave and strong, And blithesome as the May ; And who wuuld do her any wrong, Our darling of the bay?" " NOT WILLING TO STAY " 145 His head was low, his breath was short, He seemed as he would pray, Nor answer made in any sort That might his grief betray ; Save once again that fisher bold Turned and to me did say — " She was not willing to stay with us, She was not willing to stay." Then I looked upon his pretty cot So neat in its array, And I looked upon his garden-plot With its flowers so trim and gay ; And I said — " He hath no need of me To help him up the brae ; God worketh in his heart, and He Will soon let in the day." So I left him there, and sought yon rock Where leaps the salt sea-spray ; For ah ! how many have lost their loves That were " not willing to stay " with them, That were not willing to stay ! L i-:cci.i:siASTHS We came from cliurch, she from the Down was coming, She with a branch of may, We laden with persistence of the humming A\horein men think they ])ray ; She winning to her faded face a beauty l'"rom the kissed buds, we having heard " ilic duty Performed " with needful prayer-book thumbing, We proper, she so gay. Yet, as we met, her little joy was dashed By our spruce decency ; She hung her head as who must be abashed In her poor liberty, I'^orgetting how in that damp (Mty cellar 'I'hc sick child pines whom none but Ciod did tell her To bring bright flowers Himself has splashed \\ iili dew for such as she. ECCLESIASTES 147 Or was it but the natural rebound To what thou truly art, O worn with life ! whose soul-depths He would sound, And prick upon His chart ? Is this thy " service " ? Stay ! for very grace ! One moment stay, and lift the faded face ! O woman ! woman ! thou hast found The way into my heart. MATER DOLOROSA Aw, Billy, good sowl ! don't cuss ! don't cuss ! Ye see, these angels is grand to nuss ; And it's lek they're feedin them on some nice air, Or dew or the lek, that's handy there, O Billy, look at my poor puor bress ! O Billy, see the full it is 1 But . . . O my God! . . . l)ut navar mind! There's no doubt them sperrits is very kind — And of coorse they're that beautiful it's lekly The childher is takin to thcin directly - I-:h, Billy, L-h ? . . . And . . . oh my head ! Hilly, Billy, come to bed ! . . . And the little things that navar knew sin — And everything as nate as a pin : And the lovely bells goin ding-a-lingin — And of coorse we've allis heard of their singin. MATER DOLOROSA 149 But won't he want me when he'll be wakin ? Will they take him up when he's wantin takin ? I hope he'll not be left in the dark — He was allis used to make a wark If a body 'd lave him the smallest minute — Dear me ! the little linnet — But I forgot — it's allis light In yandhar place ... all right ! all right ! I forgot, ye see, . . . I'm not very well . . . Light, was I sayin ? but who can tell ? Bad for the eyes though . . . but a little curtain On a string, ye know — aw certain ! certain ! Let me feel your face, Billy ! Just us two ! Aw, Billy, the sorry I am for you ! Aw 'deed it is, Billy, — very disthressin To lave your childher to another pessin — But ... all the httle rooms that's theer — And Jesus walkin up the steer, And tappin lek — I see ! I see ! — O Jesus Christ, have pity on me ! But He'll come, He'll come ! He'll give a look Just to see the care that's took — Oh there's no doubt He's very gud — I50 MATEK DOLOROSA Oh I think He wud, I think Tic wud ! Hut still . . . but still . . . but I don't know O liilly, I think I'd like to go— What's that, P.illy? did ye hear a cry? O lUiam, the sweet it 'd be to die ! INDWELLING If thou couldst empty all thyself of self, Like to a shell dishabited, Then might He find thee on the Ocean shelf, And say — " This is not dead," — And fill thee with Himself instead. But thou art all replete with very thou. And hast such shrewd activity, That, when He comes. He says — "This is enow Unto itself — 'Twere better let it be : It is so small and full, there is no room for Me." E X I L E In sorrow and in nakedness of soul I look into the street, If haply there mine eye may meet As up and down it ranges, The servants of my father bearing changes Of raiment sweet — Seven changes sweet with violet and nioly, Seven changes pure and holy. But nowhere 'mid the thick entangled throng Mark I their proud sad paces, Nowhere the light upon their faces Serene with that great beauty Wherein the singly meditated duty Its empire traces : — EXILE 153 Only the fretful merchants stand and cry — " Come buy ! come buy ! come buy ! " And the big bales are drunk with all the purple That wells in vats of Tyre, And unrolled damasks stream with golden fire, And broideries of Ind, And, piled on Polar furs, are braveries winned From far Gadire. And I am waiting, abject, cold, and numb. Yet sure that they will come. O naked soul, be patient in this stead ! Thrice blest are they that wait. O Father of my soul, the gate Will open soon, and they Who minister to Thee and Thine alway Will enter straight. And speak to me that I shall understand The speech of Thy great land. And I will rise, and wash, and they will dress me As Thou would'st have me dressed ; ,54 t:xiLE And I shall stand confest Thy son ; and men shall falter — •• Behold the ephod of the unseen altar O God-possessed ! Thy raiment is not from the looms of earth, But has a Heavenly birth." I SALVE! To live within a cave — it is most good ; But, if God make a day, And some one come, and say— " Lo ! I have gathered faggots in the wood ! " E'en let him stay, And light a fire, and fan a temporal mood ! So sit till morning ! when the light is grown That he the path can read, Then bid the man God-speed ! His morning is not thine : yet must thou own They have a cheerful warmth — those ashes on the stone. IN MEMORIAL Paul Bridson Take him, O ]>raddan, for he loved ihec well — Take him, kind mother of my own dear dead ! And let him lay his head On thy soft breast, And rest — Rest ! ITc loved thee well ; and thee, my father, thee Also he loved. Oh, meet him ! reassure Tiiat heart thou prov'dst so pure — Whisper release ! And jieace — Peace ! IN MEMORIAM 157 O countrymen, believe me ! here is laid A Manxman's heart the simplest and the truest : O Spring, when thou renewest Thy sunny hours, Bring flowers — Flowers ! And bring them of thy sweetest And bring them of thy meetest And, till God's trumpet wake him. Take him, O Braddan, take him ! CLIMBIXr, When I would i^^ct mc to the upper fields, I look if anywhere A man he found who craves what joyaunce yields The keen thin air, ^Vho loves the rapture of the height, And fain would snatch with nie a perilous delight. I wait, and linger on the village sircci. And long for one to come, And say — "The morning's bright, it is not meet 'i'hat thou the hum Of vulgar life shouldst leave, and seek the view Alone from those great peaks ; I surely will go too." CLIMBING 159 But not to me comes ever any man ; Or, if he come, dull sleep Still thickens in his eyes, so that to scan The beckoning steep He has no power ; and of its scornful cone Unconscious sits him down, and I go on alone. Yet children are before me on the slope, Their dew-bedabbled prints Press the black fern-roots naked ; sunny hope Darts red, and glints Upon their hair ; but, devious, they remain Among the bilberry beds, and I go on again. And so there is no help for it, no mate To share the arduous way : Natheless I must ascend ere it grow late. And, dim and gray, The final cloud obstruct my soul's endeavour, And I see nothing more for ever and for ever. IN MEMORIAM A. F. Oii. Oct. 12, 1879. Aug. 1S75. Urigiit skies, bright sea — All happy things That, borne on wings. Cleave the long distance, glad and free — A boat — swift swirls Of foam-wake — boys and girls And innocence and laughter — She Was there, and was so happy ; and I said — " God bless the children ! " Oct. 1879. Deiui! Dead, say you ? " Vcs, the last swccl rose Is gathered — Close, oh close. Oh gently, gently, very gently close IN MEMORIAM A. F. i6i Her little book of life, and seal it up To God, who gave, who took^ — oh bitter cup ! Oh bell ! O folding grave — O mother, it is well — Yes, it is well. He holds the key That opens all the mysteries ; and He Has blessed our children — it is well. M RISUS DEI Methinks in Him there dwells alway A sea of laughter very deep, Where the leviallians leap, And little children play, Their white feet twinkling on its crisped edge. But in llie outer bay The strong man drives the wedge Of polished limbs. And swims. Yet there is one will say — " It is but shallow, neither is it broad"— And so he frowns ; but is he nearer God? RISUS DEI 163 One saith that God is in the note of bird, And piping wind, and brook. And all the joyful things that speak no word : Then if from sunny nook Or shade a fair child's laugh Is heard, Is not God half? And if a strong man gird His loins for laughter, stirred By trick of ape or calf — Is he no better than a cawing rook ? Nay 'tis a Godlike function ; laugh thy fill ! Mirth comes to thee unsought ; Mirth sweeps before it like a flood the mill Of languaged logic ; thought Hath not its source so high ; The will Must let it by : For though the heavens are still, God sits upon His hill, And sees the shadows fly ; And if He laughs at fools, why should He not ? i64 RISUS DEI " Yet liath a fool a laugh " — Yea, of a sort ; God careth for the fools ; The chemic tools Of laughter He hath given them, and some toys Of sense, as 'twere a small retort Wherein they may collect the joys Of natural giggling, as becomes their state : The fool is not inhuman, making sport For such as would not gladly be without That old familiar noise. Since, though he laugh not, he can cachinnate — This also is of (lod, we may not doubt. " Is there an empty laugh ? " Best called a shell l-rom which a laugh has flown, A mask, a well That hath no water of its own. Part echo of a groan. Which, if it hide a cheat, Is a base counterfeit ; Hut if one borrow A ( hxik U) wrap a sorrow That it may pass unknown. RISUS DEI 165 Then can it not be empty. God doth dwell Behind the feigned gladness, Inhabiting a sacred core of sadness. " Yet is there not an evil laugh ? " Content — What follows ? ^Vhen Satan fills the hollows Of his bolt-riven heart With spasms of unrest, And calls it laughter ; if it give relief To his great grief. Grudge not the dreadful jest. But if the laugh be aimed At any good thing that it be ashamed, And blush thereafter, Then it is evil, and it is not laughter. There are who laugh, but know not why, Whether the force Of simple health and vigour seeks a course Extravagant, as when a wave runs high, And tips with crest of foam the incontinent curve. Or if it be reserve i66 KISUS DEI Of power collected for a goal, which had, Behold ! the man is fresh. So when strung nerve, Stout heart, pent breath, have brought you to the source Of a great river, on the topmost stie Of cliff, then have you l)ad All heaven to laui^h with you ; yet somewhere nigh A shepherd lad Has wondering looked, and deemed that you were mad. THE PRAYERS I WAS in Heaven one day when all the prayers Came in, and angels bore them up the stairs Unto a place where he Who was ordained such ministry Should sort them so that in that palace bright The presence-chamber might be duly dight ; For they were like to flowers of various bloom ; And a divinest fragrance filled the room. Then did I see how the great sorter chose One flower that seemed to me a hedgeling rose, And from the tangled press Of that irregular loveliness i68 THE PRAYERS Set it apart — and — "This," I heard him say, " Is for the Master "' : so upon his way He would have passed ; then I to him — "Whence is this rose? O thou of cherubim The chiefest ? '' — " Know'st thou not ? " he said and smiled, "This is the first prayer of a little child." IN A FAIR GARDEN In a fair garden I saw a mother playing with her child, And with that chance beguiled I could not choose but look How she did seem to harden His little soul to brook Her absence — reconciled With after boon of kisses, And sweet irrational blisses. For she would hide With loveliest grace Of seeming craft Till he was ware of none beside Himself upon the place : — And then he laughed ; I70 IX A FAIR GARDEN And then he stood a space Disturbed, his face Prepared for tears ; And half-acknowledged fears Met would-be courage, balancing His heart upon the spring Of flight — till, waxing stout, He gulped the doubt. So up the pleached alley Full swift he ran : ^\'hence she, Not long delayed, Rushed forth with joyous sally Upon her little man. Then was it good to see How each to other made A pretty rapture of discovery. Blest child ! blest mother ! blest the truth yc taught- God seeketh us, and yet He would be sought. CANTICLE When all the sky is pure My soul takes flight, Serene and sure, Upward— till at the height She weighs her wings. And sings. But when the heaven is black. And west-winds sigh, Beat back, beat back, She has no strength to try The drifting rain Again. 172 CANTICLE So cheaply baffled ! see ! The field is bare — Behold a tree — Is't not enough ? Sit there, Thou foolish thing ! And sing ! EUROCLYDON Scarce loosed from Crete — Then, borne on wings of flame And sleet The Euroclydon came. Strained yard, bent mast. With fury of his mouth The blast Compels us to the South. Canst see, for spume And mist, and writhen air, A loom Of Clauda anywhere ? 174 EUROCLYDON Balked hopes, fooled wit ! Ah soul, to gain this loss. Didst quit The shelter of His cross? Dear Lord, if thou Would'st walk upon the sea. My prow Unblenched should turn to Thee. Wind roars, wave yelps— To Tliy blest side I'd slip, Use helps, And undergird the ship. DISGUISES High stretched upon the swinging yard, I gather in the sheet ; But it is hard And stiff, and one cries haste : — Then He that is most dear in my regard Of all the crew gives aidance meet : But from His hands, and from His feet, A glory spreads wherewith the night is starred Moreover of a cup most bitter-sweet With fragrance as of nard, And myrrh, and cassia spiced, He proffers me to taste. Then I to Him—" Art Thou the Christ ? " He saith — " Thou say'st." i7»'> DISGUISES Like to an ox I'hat staggers 'neath the mortal blow, She grinds upon the rocks : — Then straight and low Leaps forth the levelled line, and in our quarter locks. The cradle's rigged ; with swerving of the blast \Ve go, Our Captain last — Demands " Who fired that shot ? " Each silent stands — Ah sweet perplexity ! This too was He. I have an arbour wherein ramc a toad Most hideous to see — Immediate, seizing staff or goad, I smote it cruelly. Then all the place with subtle radiance glowed — I looked, and it was He ! MY GARDEN A GARDEN is a lovesome thing, God wot ! Rose plot, Fringed pool, Ferned grot— The veriest school Of peace ; and yet the fool Contends that God is not — Not God ! in gardens ! when the eve is cool ? Nay, but I have a sign ; 'Tis very sure God walks in mine. N RECONCILIATION There is a place where He hath split the hills ; No water fills The gap : — A bow-shot wide Side stands to side, Indenture perfectly opposed, The outlet closed By seeming overlap — So severed are our hearts, so rent our wills ; And yet the old correlatives remain — Ah ! brother, may wc not be joined again ? LAND, HO! I KNOW 'tis but a loom of land, Yet is it land, and so I will rejoice, 1 know I cannot hear His voice Upon the shore, nor see Him stand ; Yet is it land, ho ! land. The land ! the land ! the lovely land ! " Far off" dost say ? Far off—-x\ blessed home ! Farewell ! farewell ! thou salt sea-foam ! Ah, keel upon the silver sand — Land, ho ! land. You cannot see the land, my land. You cannot see, and yet the land is there — My land, my land, through murky air — I did not say 'twas close at hand — But — land, ho ! land. i8o LAND, HO ! Dost hear the bells of my sweet land, Dost hear the kine, dost hear the merry birds ? No voice, 'tis true, no spoken words, No tongue that thou may'st understand — Vet is it land, ho ! land. It's clad in purple mist, my land, In regal robe it is apparelled, A crown is set upon its head. And on its breast a golden band — Land, ho ! land. I )ost wonder that I long for land ? My land is not a land as others arc — Upon its crest there beams a star, And lilies grow upon the strand — Land, ho ! land. Give me the helm ! there is the land ! Ha ! lusty mariners, she takes the breeze ! And what my spirit sees it sees — Ix:ap, bark, as leaps the lhunderi)rand — Land, ho ! land. PRAESTO Expecting Him my door was open wide : Then I looked round If any lack of service might be found. And saw Him at my side : — How entered, by what secret stair, I know not, knowing only He was there. EVENSONG Eastward the valley of my soul was lit This morning : now the West hath laid Upon its fields the festal robe, And Kast hath shade. Full soon the night shall fit Her star besprinkled serge On hill, and rock, and bay ; But even then behind the mounting globe God makes a verge Of dawn that shall be day. POETS AND POETS He fishes in the night of deep sea pools For him the nets hang long and low, Cork-buoyed and strong ; the silver-gleaming schools Come with the ebb and flow Of universal tides, and all the channels glow. Or holding with his hand the weighted line He sounds the languor of the neaps. Or feels what current of the springing brine The cord divergent sweeps. The throb of what great heart bestirs the middle deeps. Thou also weavest meshes, fine and thin, And leaguer'st all the forest ways ; But of that sea and the great heart therein Thou knowest nought : whole days Thou toil'st, and hast thy end— good store of pies and jays OPIFEX As I was can'ing images from clouds, And tinting them with soft ethereal dyes Pressed from the pulp of dreams, one comes, and cries — " Forbear ! " and all my heaven with gloom enshrouds. " Forbear ! Thou hast no tools wherewith to essay The delicate waves of that elusive grain : Wouldst have due recompencc of vulgar pain ? The potter's wheel for thee, and some coarse clay ! ** So work, if work thou must, O humbly skilled ! Thou hast not known the Master ; in thy soul His spirii in(,\. s not with a sweet tontrul ; Thou art ouuiuc, and art not of the guild." OPIFEX i8s Thereat I rose, and from his presence passed, But, going, murmured — " To the God above, Who holds my heart, and knows its store of love, I turn from thee, thou proud iconoclast." Then on the shore God stooped to me, and said — " He spake the truth ; even so the springs are set That move thy life, nor will they suffer let. Nor change their scope, else, living, thou wert dead. " This is thy life : indulge its natural flow ; And carve these forms : they yet may find a place On shelves for them reserved : in any case, I bid thee carve them, knowing what I know." A MORNINX, WALK " LiK there," I said, "my sorrow ! lie thou there ! And I will drink the lissome air, And see if yet the heavens have gained their blue." Then rose my Sorrow as an aged man. And stared, as such a one will stare, A querulous doubt through tears that freshly ran ; Wherefore I said— "Content ! thou shalt go too." So went we through the sunlit crocus-glade, I and my Sorrow, casting shade On all the innocent things that ujjward pree, And coax for smiles : but, as I went, I bowed, And whispered — " He no whit afraid ! He will pass sad and gentle as a cloud — It is my Sorrow ; leave him unto me." A MORNING WALK 187 And every floweret in that happy place Yearned up into the weary face With pitying love, and held its golden breath, Regardless seeming he, as though within Was nothing apt for their sweet grace, Nor any sense save such as is akin To charnel glooms and emptiness of death. Then sung a lusty bird, whose throat was clear And strong with elemental cheer, Till very heaven seemed lifted with the joy : Jet after jet tumultuous music burst Fount-like, and iilled the expanding sphere ; Whereat my soul was fain to slake its thirst. Intent, and ravished with that blest employ. The songster ceased : — articulate as a bell The rippling echoes fell and fell Upon the shore of silence. Then I turned To call upon my Sorrow — he was not ; But oh what splendour filled the dell ! There ! there ! oh there ! upon the very spot Where he had been an awful glory burned. i88 A MORNING WALK It was as though the mouth of God had kissed And purpled into amethyst W'cin lii)s, as though red-quickening ichor rills Had flushed his heart : 'Twas he no more, no more ! 'Twas s/u-y my soul's evangelist, My rose, my love, and lovelier than before, Hew-nurtured on the far Celestial hills. "O love," I cried, " I come, I come to thee ! Stay ! stay !" But softly, silently, As pales the moon before the assault of day. So, spectral-white against the brighter blue, I'adcd my darling. But with me Walks never more that shadow. God is true. And God was in that bird, believe it as ye may. IN MEMORIAM J. MACMEIKIN Died April 1883 Excellent Manxman, Scotia gave you birth, But you were ours, being apt to take the print Of island forms, the mood, the tone, the tint ; Nor missed the ripples of the larger mirth : A lovely soul has sought the silent firth ; Yet haply on our shores you still may hint x\ dehcate presence, though no visible dint Betrays where you have touched the conscious earth. You walk with our loved " Chaise " ; you help him speak A gracious tongue, to us not wholly clear, And sing the " Hymns " — fond dream that wont to dwell In his confusion. Friend of all things weak, Go down to that sweet soil you held so dear ! Go up to God, and joys unspeakable ! "GOD IS LOVE" At Derby Haven in the sweet Manx land A little girl had written on the sand This legend—" God is love." But, when I said- " What means this writing ? ' thus she answered— "It's father that's at 'say,' And I come here to pray, And . . . God is love." My eyes grew dim- Blest child I in Heaven above Your angel bees the face of Him Whose name is love. THE INTERCEPTED SALUTE A LITTLE maiden met me in the lane, And smiled a smile so very fain, So full of trust and happiness, I could not choose but bless The child, that she should have such grace To laugh into my face. She never could have known me : but I thought It was the common joy that wrought Within the little creature's heart, As who should say — " Thou art As I : the heaven is bright above us ; And there is God to love us. And I am but a little gleeful maid, And thou art big, and old, and staid ; ,92 THK IXTERCErTED SALUTE But the blue hills have made thee mild As is a little child. Wherefore I laugh that thou may'st see— Oh laugh ! O laugh with me ! " A pretty challenge ! Then I turned mc round, And straight the sober truth I found : For I was not alone ; behind mc stood, Beneath his load of wood, He that of right the smile possessed — Her father manifest. Oh blest be God ! that such an overplus Of joy is given to us ; That that sweet innocent Gave me the gift she never meant, A gift secure and permanent ; For, howsoe'er the smile had birth. It is an added glory on the earth. METABOAH The fashions change, for change is dear to men ; " Hdvrcov yXvKVTarov /xera/SoXi]," Opined the Greek who had the widest ken — " Change of all things that be Is sweetest." Yet since Leda's egg swans strive ' To innovate no curvature on that, And gannets dive as Noah saw them dive O'er sunken Ararat. O CATHERINE KINRADE [" Another unfortunate creature was soon afterwards subjected to the same treatment, although it was admitted she had 'a degree of un- settledness and defect of understanding,' and, as was certified by the clergy, that she had submitted ' with as much submission and dis- cretion as can be expected of the like of her,' and 'considering the defect of her understanding.' The records state — ' Forasmuch as neither Christian advice nor gentle modes of punishment arc found to have any effect on Kath. Kinred of Kirk Christ, a notorious strumjiet, who had brought forth three illegitimate children, and still continues to stroll about the country, and lead a niost vicious and scandalous life on other accounts ; all which tending to the great dishonour of the Christian nanie, and to her own utter destruction without a timely and thorough reformation. It is therefore hereby ordered (as well for the further punishment of the said delinquent as for the example of t)thers) that the said Kath. Kinred be dragged after a boat in the sea at Peel, on Wed., the I7lh inst. (being the fair of .St. Patrick), at the height of the market. To which end, a boat and Ixiat's crew are to be charged by the general sumner, and the constalile and soldiers of the garrison arc, by the G Man. ' WlI.I.IAM WaI.KKK.' CATHERINE KINRADE 195 "It was certified by the Sumner General so long after as July 13th ensuing, that ' St. Patrick's day being so stormy and tempestuous that no boat could perform the within censure, upon St. German's day about the height of the market the within Kath. Kinred was dragged after a boat in the sea according to the within order.' However, poor Katherine Kinred is not yet done with, for on the 27th Oct., 1718, having had a fourth bastard child, and ' after imprisonment, penance, dragging in the sea, continuing still remorseless,' and notwithstanding her 'defect of understanding,' she is again 'ordered to be twenty-one days closely imprisoned, and (as soon as the weather will permit) dragged in the sea again after a boat, and also perform public penance in all the churches of this island.' After undergoing all this, she is apparently penitent, 'according to her capacity,' and is ordered by the Bishop ' to be received into the peace of the Church, according to the forms appointed for that purpose.' 'Given under my hand this 13th day of Aug., 1720.'" See Manx Society s Publications, vol. xi. pp. 98, 99.] None spake when Wilson stood before The throne — And He that sat thereon Spake not ; and all the presence-floor Burnt deep with blushes, as the angels cast Their faces downwards — Then at last, Awe-stricken, he was ware How on the emerald stair A woman sat divinely clothed in white, And at her knees four cherubs bright, That laid 196 CATHERINE KIXRADE Their heads within her lap. Then, trembling, he essayed To speak. — " Christ's mother, pity me ! " Then answered she — "Sir, I am Catherine Kinrade." Even so — the poor dull brain, Drenched in unhallowed fire, It had no vigour to restrain — God's image trodden in the mire Of imi)ious wrongs — whom last he saw Gazing with animal awe Before his harsh tribunal, proved unchaste, Incorrigible, woman's form defaced 'I'o uttermost ruin by no fault of hers — So gave her to the torturers. And now -some vital spring adjusted, Some faculty that rusted Cleansed to legitimate use — Some undeveloped action stirred, some juice Of God's distillini' drnpt into the core ( )f all lici iile- nu iimie In that dark grave entombed, CATHERINE KINRADE 197 Her soul had bloomed To perfect woman — woman made to honour, With all the glory of her youth upon her. And from her lips and from her eyes there flowed A smile that lit all Heaven — the angels smiled ; God smiled, if that were smile beneath the state that glowed Soft purple — and a voice — "Be reconciled ! " So to his side the children crept. And Catherine kissed him, and he wept. Then said a seraph — " Lo ! he is forgiven." And for a space again there was no voice in Heaven. NATURE AND ART I ONCE loved Nature so that man was nought And nought the works of man, \\'hethcr the human force that inward wrought My vital needs outran, And, hidden by great Pan, In its all-quickening arms the visible deadness caught- Or was it accident of time and place? I or men were few to see Where I was reared, and Nature's co|)ious grace Of form and colour free ICclipsed the piety Of childish social loves, and motions of the race- NATURE AND ART I99 I know not quite : but this to me is known, That, with a soft unrest, Soul unto soul in perfect aptness grown, I drew her to my breast, A personal creature pressed, Full of a passionate will, and moods that were her own. Her own, yet, modulate and tuned to mine. She shaped her meek replies So that I ne'er bethought me to divine If in her wondrous eyes A light congenial lies. Or, sprung from alien blood, insensate glories shine. If homogeneous with me or not The question never tried me. Or when, or wherefore, or of whom begot. She seemed to stand outside me, To soothe me and to guide me, Another, or myself reflex, who cared one jot ? 200 NATURE AND ART Thrice blest if I might roam on fell or shore In exquisite solitude, And uncontrolled the 6api " SOCIAL SCIENCE " But though this boon denied, my soul, love thou The lover, gibe not with the giber ! O ragged soul : I cannot piece thee now That, thread to thread, and fibre unto fibre, Thou with another soul Shouldst make a sentient whole : But I am proud thou dost retain Some tinct of that imperial iiiurcx grain No carrack ever bore to Thames or Tiber. AT THE PLAY As in a theatre the amused sense Beholds the strange vicissitudes of things, Young Damon's loves, the fates of clowns and kings, And all the motley of the gay pretence — Beholds, and on an acme of suspense Stands vibrant till the curtain falls, door swings, Lights gutter, and the weary murmurings Of o'er-watched varlets intimate us thence — Even so we gaze not on the things that are. Nor aught behold but what is adumbrate : The show is specious, and we laugh and weep At what is only meant spectacular ; And when the curtain falls, we may not wait : Death takes the lights, and we go home to sleep. Printed by K. ."I- R. Clark, Eiiinhurgh. BY THE SAME AUTHOR. FO'C'S'LE YARNS, including Betsy Lee, AND OTHER POEMS. Second Edition. Cr. 8vo. js. 6d. BETSY LEE: A Fo'c's'le Yarn. Extra fcap. Svo. 3s. 6d. THE MANX WITCH, and other Poems. Cr. Svo. 7s. 6d. MACMILLAN AND CO., LONDON. L-7 CkMe 4? - ^ ^ oX-cyK/^ UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY Los Angeles This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. .rm L9-in0rn O.'.l? f A3105)4J 1 PR b5o 546 f/ ■-"•'■■■■i