A A = A = 00 — ^^ cz = r — ZD 3 = o 8 -- 3> 6 = TTT- CD UJ 7 = zo 4 = 8 — 1 ' 1 RATA AND MISTLETOE RATA and MISTLETOE BY DORA WILCOX (MADAME HAMELIUS) AUTHOR OF "VERSBS FROM MAORILAND' LONDON GEORGE ALLEN & COMPANY, LTD. 44 & 45 RATHBONE PLACE 1911 [All rights reserved] Most of these Verses have already appeared in the Sydney Bulletin^ Christchnrch Weekly Press, Otago Witness^ or Nexv Age, Printed by Ballantvne, Hanson &• Co. At the Ballantyne Press, Edinburgh TO MAORILAND AND TO G. H. M. I DEDICATE THIS LITTLE BOOK 5^1 'v^^'y CONTENTS PACE To Maoriland I Sweet Fantasy 3 The Bush-Mother 5 "From Battle, and Murder, and Sudden Death 8 A London Sunday n A Maoriland Love-song 15 The Old Baringa Days 17 Nocturne ......... 21 Te Kanawa's Hunting 23 The Stowaway 28 To A Happy Bird . . . . . . .36 Dreaming 38 In Memory 40 Two Sonnets — 1. The Nightingale 43 2, The Bell-bird 44 vii PAGE Reminiscence 45 A Rose at mv Casement 48 On the Biograph 49 Hellas 53 The Legend of St. Hubert .... 55 The Long Ride 58 In Gay Bohemia 64 " I have Sisters Three," she said . . . 68 At the Turning of the Lane .... 70 A Maorilander in England . . . .72 The Fortunate Island 75 'Tis Autumn Now ! 79 New Year's Eve 80 At Westminster 85 viu Rata and Mistletoe TO MAORILAND O " Long White Cloud " upon the Deep ! Our Maoriland, dear Maoriland, Against whose headlands, stern and steep, The long Pacific surges sweep ; Our Love and Longing are towards Thee, And Thy wild hills, and stormy sea, — O Maoriland, our Motherland For ever ! Kia Ora ! Land of the Toe, and the Fern, Our Maoriland, dear Maoriland, To Thee and Thine, thy children turn ; For Thee, in hope, Thine exiles yearn, For all Thou givest everywhere, A freer life, a fresher air. O Maoriland, our Motherland For ever ! Kia Ora ! A And in the years that are to be, O Maoriland, dear Maoriland, Still be Thy daughters pure and free, Thy sons be true to them and Thee, And proud that Thou art worthy pride Who art our Hope personified. O Maoriland, our Motherland For ever ! Kia Ora ! Choose Thou the nations' better part, O Maoriland, dear Maoriland, O be not Thine the sordid heart For which no stars outshine the mart ; Nor lust of land, nor greed of gold, Nor pride of Empire uncontrolled. O Maoriland, dear Motherland For ever ! Kia Ora ! Land of the Toe, and the Fern, Our Maoriland, dear Maoriland, Thou art the Home for which we yearn. To Thee and Thine, Thy children turn, Praying the God of Righteousness Our little land to guide and bless. O Maoriland, our Motherland For ever ! Kia Ora ! 2 j^^f^^ SWEET FANTASY As I went up on Selsley Hill, On Selsley Hill, As I went up on Selsley Hill Early in the morning, — Poppies in the fields of corn Were crimsoning to the crimson morn. And I went wandering all forlorn On Selsley Hill in the morning. There was a maiden fair to see, Fair to see. There was a maiden fair to see On Selsley Hill in the morning. Her eyes were clear as a summer moon, Her lips were red as a rose in June, O, and she sang the wind's wild tune On Selsley Hill in the morning ! 3 " What is thy name ? what dost thou here, What dost thou here ? What is thy name? what dost thou here On Selsley Hill in the morning ? " " I know not what I do," said she ; " My name it is Sweet Fantasy, And there are many who seek for me On Selsley Hill in the morning." With that she kissed me free and full. Free and full, — With that she kissed me free and full On Selsley Hill in the morning. And I forgot, forgot again The stars that wax, the stars that wane. And I forgot both pleasure and pain On Selsley Hill in the morning. And then she laughed, and fled away. And fled away. And then she laughed, and fled away On Selsley Hill in the morning. False is she, and fickle is she. Sweet Fantasy, Sweet Fantasy,— Ah, but she kissed me full and free On Selsley Hill in the morning ! 4 THE BUSH-MOTHER The Kowhai swings above me A crown of glittering gold, And all along the valley New life and love unfold. The world is fair and fragrant, And hither, with the Spring, Back to the old Bush-Mother One comes a- wandering ! The shy Bush-children gather, And peer from every bough : " And who is it comes hither, Lost Brother, is it thou ? Strange, strange art thou, O Brother, Hast been so long away That neither word, nor whisper, Has power to charm to-day ! " 5 What turmoil lies behind me ! The city, and the street, The struggle, and the discord, The clang of hurrying feet,— O Mother, tender Mother, Back to thy peace I come, O put thine arms around me. Thy Prodigal, who's Home ! Thou wast my Nurse and Teacher, And I, thy foster child. Am kin to all thy nurslings So fresh, and free, and wild : Thy Birds, they were my Brothers, Thy Streams, my Sisters dear Who taught me many a ballad That only Bushfolk hear. Thine elder sons and daughters Told many tales to me ; — Thy Rata, clad in crimson. So wonderful to see ! Thy Kowhai, thy Konini, Thy Totara so tall, — Hid in thy wildernesses I knew and loved them all ! 6 O Mother, tender Mother, Thy spell is on me yet ; Thy spirit on my spirit. Thy peace upon my fret. Put thou thine arms around me, I nestle to thy breast ; Thou hast for mourners comfort. And for the toilers rest. O we who dwell in cities May journey far from thee ; But still we hear thee calling, Calling o'er land and sea ; And when the world is radiant And fragrant with the Spring, Back to the old Bush-Mother Her babes come wandering ! "FROM BATTLE, AND MURDER, AND SUDDEN DEATH" His name is Death ; and in the dark and chill They met Him, and He looked into their eyes, And instantly the Conqueror had His will. And those who heard, with pity and surprise Spoke of the dead in every house and street. Saying : " How soon the day of mercy flies ! " Spare us, Good Lord, and grant we may not meet Death, in our bloom of life and lusty days. Ere fail the eyes, or flag the flying feet ! " For these went forth unknowing on their ways. To look their last on Love, and Light, and Life, Cut off in the splendour of youth, O God of Grace ! 8 " And now there breaks shrill above storm and strife The cry of orphaned children here beneath, And wailing of the newly- widowed wife.'' And so they talk. Yet come to me, Fair Death, So that I hear no rustle of thy wing, Nor on my forehead feel thy chilling breath. Let me not know what fate the hours may bring : Be mine short shrift, swift struggle, sudden doom, And on the brink no lengthy lingering ! For O I need no watchers in my room. From whose pale cheeks the life-blood slowly drains. The while the long-drawn vigils sap their bloom, And strength ; and pallid patience alone re- mains ! — I have not cringed in peril that is past. Nor shrink I now from any mortal pains. 9 Yet spare me, Death ! lest though their tears fall fast, My dearest must rejoice when all is done. When all is done, that I am free at last ! No ! let me die with all my armour on, My conscious will, my courage, all of me I being I ! and when my course is run Thus let us meet, wherever it may be. By blaze of morn, or in the midnight dim ; One moment let me drain life royally ! — The next — alone with silence, and with Him ! 10 A LONDON SUNDAY The bells are pealing out their call to prayer Across the Square: " Come ! come ! " insistently they seem to say, " Do not delay ! " The bells are crying out from far and near, But I sit here. How lazily the sunlight filters through ! — Lazily too The wind stirs in the plane-trees' pleasant green. And there is seen Above the chimney-pots a glimpse of sky Remote and high. How still the city seems to-day ! how still ! The throb and thrill Of working life is hushed, and Sunday calm Descends like balm Upon the fever of the thoroughfare Beyond the Square. II Look ! who is coming ? now the dingy Place Shows brighter face. Fathers and mothers come, and children dressed In all their best : And friendly talk, and sound of many feet Make glad the street. They pass into the Church : now all are in, And they begin To worship Him who was so poor and lone And scarcely known ; To Him, rejected of the world, they raise Their song of praise. Like a great flower the congregation glows With white and rose ; And Wealth, and Youth, and Pride of Life are seen, And silken sheen ; And held apart, and huddled near the door Some patient poor. But where are those fast bound in misery Whom all men see ? Is there no room that they should keep away Upon this day ? Or has Christ's Minister no message then For ragged men ? 12 Go forth, O Preacher, Messenger of Peace, And seek for these : The hungry, and the homeless of the street Whose footsteps beat Into my heart from endless morn to morn, — The felon, the forlorn. Open the doors, and bid them all draw near And have no fear ; O make them welcome to the warmth and light You Rose-and- White ! To them belongs the spacious House of Prayer Beyond the Square. Pull not aside your silken robes, O Rich ! Those fingers stitch The dainty garments precious in your eyes ; Do not despise Your toiling sisters, nor your brothers wan And woe-begone. Will you not listen ? Safe from strife and storm. And full, and warm, You sit within, they wait without the door Those piteous poor Whose souls and bodies Christ our Brother fed With wine and bread. 13 Will you not listen ? Down upon your knees You Pharisees ! Beware, beware the wrath that is to come ; God yet is dumb ; But He will speak with fire and sword again Through maddened men. The wind stirs in the plane-trees' pleasant green, And there is seen Above the chimney-pots a glimpse of sky Remote and high ; The bells no longer peal their call to prayer Across the Square. 14 A MAORILAND LOVE-SONG O LOVE, wert thou a Tui, Were I a Kowhai-tree, In daylight or in darkness How gladsome life would be ! The wind might sweep the Tussock Afar upon the hill, But we would rest on the valley's breast. So wondrous warm and still. O Tui, forest-lover. About me all day long Thy shining wings would hover My tender leaves among. My buds above, below, thee In sunshine would unfold ; And unabashed I'd show thee My inmost heart of gold. 15 By night my drooping tresses Would shelter thee, my Love ; The Bush would breathe caresses, The stars would watch above, The restless sea would sing us Her sweetest melody — O Love, wert thou a Tui, Were I a Kowhai-tree ! i6 THE OLD BARINGA DAYS Is it unchanged the street we used to know, The crooked side street all unpavemented, With lines of terraced houses, long and low ? We loved one house, and often overhead Were wont to meet upon a balcony Looking beyond the lighthouse to the sea : Or linger in a garden all ablaze With many flowers, — a merry group were we Who loved, laughed, jested, meting blame or praise — Where are they now, the old Baringa days ? 17 B And sometimes on a moon-night we would steal Along the garden to the waterside, And sailing up the widening inlet feel The breath of ocean, — or drifting with the tide. Or landing on the beaches, two by two, Stretched on the sand, would dream the midnight through — The hot Australian midnight, clear of haze, — And watch the ferry-steamers come and go Like fiery serpents through the harbour maze ; — Where are they now, the old Baringa days ? For one of us the ink is choked and dry, The pen is rust, the last page disappears, ' For Blessed Angels closed it with a sigh, Written in pain, and blotted out with tears. He was too young for dying, but alas Death will not stay for Youth, and all things pass. — One hopes for Life renewed, and happier ways, But only sees a stone, a mound of grass : The flower fades, the tender leaf decays, — Where are they now, the old Baringa days ? i8 And one there was, the fairest of us all And gayest, — none on earth was merrier ! — She bore the palm of beauty at the ball. Her laughter rang the clearest — what of her ? The ring of care grows narrower with the years. The household flame burns lower, and she hears The Wolf howl close and closer as she prays ; And dim and all distorted through her tears The deathless Past arises to her gaze, — Where are they now, the old Baringa days ? And one who was our wisest and our best, Or seemed it, — one we loved and honoured so, Is but a shadow, and a name unblest ; He has gone under, and we saw him go Heedless of us ! but when the Voices call. And the soul stirs, and baser pleasures pall, There creeps to him a spectre, and she lays Her finger on the writing on the wall : " I am Remembrance ! " — so the phantom says — Where are they now, the old Baringa days ? 19 O when the street is very hushed and still, And all the house is sunk in quiet sleep, And the last light has faded from the hill. Then all the Ghosts awaken, and they creep From room to room a tip-toe on the floor, With noiseless song and laughter as of yore, And through the garden to the landing-place ; And putting forth with sail and soundless oar. Slide down the harbour to the inner bays, — They are the Ghosts of old Baringa days ! Not thus, you married lovers, O not thus For you is Recollection perilous ! For now I know your little maiden plays In spots familiar : No, it is for us That Memory into paths of madness strays, — Where are they now, the old Baringa days ? 20 NOCTURNE O WHEN the night is coming down On these long miles of London Town, — When one by one the lights appear Blurred through the city atmosphere, — When lean cats slink like shadows by, When underneath a lurid sky My world seems daubed in monotone, — then I like to walk alone, To walk alone. And sometimes strolling round the Square, 1 watch the lovers loitering there ; Though they are poor, uncouth, unwise, I look at them with envious eyes For clumsy form, and common face Are touched by Love's ennobling grace, And I who call so much my own. Still lack so much, — and walk alone. And walk alone. 21 And often in the dusk I see The outcasts of humanity ; One has a sleeping baby pressed So tightly to her ragged breast ; — She may be vile, she may be good, I know not : crowned with motherhood She is, and all my heart makes moan — Mother of God ! I walk alone, I walk alone. 22 TE KANAWA'S HUNTING A MAORI LEGEND Te Kanawa went a-hunting, And hunted all the day The big kiwi, the brown kiwi, And the little kiwi grey, Yes, the little kiwi grey : Te Kanawa went a-hunting ! Night fell on Puk6-mor6, And he had wandered far, And saw no light to left or right ; There twinkled ne'er a star. There shone nor moon nor star — Black night on Puk^-mor6 ! Upon the mountain summit, Most wonderful to see, With roots arched high towards the sky, There grows a giant tree ; Oh, what a gnarled old tree Grows on the mountain summit ! 23 Te Kanawa was a-\veary» And worn with wandering now. He built a pyre of flaming fire, Heaped high with fern and bough- Dry fern and rotten bough ;— Te Kanawa was a-weary. Te Kanawa and his comrades Under the great tree crept ; Behind them lay the world of dreams, Before the firelight leapt Ah, how the hunters slept— Te Kanawa and his comrades ! What is it wakes the sleepers ? Why shiver man and dog ? No lizard stirred, nor any bird ;— It was not croak of frog — Owl's hoot, nor croak of frog. — What is it wakes the sleepers ? Voices, voices, voices ! Voices in the night ! And pattering feet and singing sweet. And lilt of laughter light, Yes, lilt of laughter light. Whence do they come, the voices ? 24 " Hush !" said the Rangatira, " Be still — be very still ! For who comes here at midnight drear Across the lonely hill — The wild and lonely hill ? Hush ! " said the Rangatira. " It is the Little People, Who are so wondrous fair. They are as pale as the Pakeha And yellow is their hair — So yellow is their hair. What eerie Little People ! " Oh, how the hunters trembled For close the fairies came, Through branches peeping, through tree- roots creeping, To dance around the flame. And sing around the flame. Oh, how the hunters trembled ! And as the firelight flickered. And burned now high, now low, The Wee Folk neared or disappeared, Or flitted to and fro — Like shadows to and fro, Just as the firelight flickered, 25 Te Kanawa was so crafty !— Though dazed and crazed with fear, He took the tiki from his breast, The greenstone from his ear — The shark's tooth from his ear. Te Kanawa was so crafty ! On a bent stick he hung them, And drove it in the ground ; Like swarming bees in forest trees The fairies gathered round— Oh, how they buzzed around The bent stick where he hung them ! " We will not wear thy tiki," They sang, " nor touch thy stone ; But we will take for friendship's sake Their shadows for our own— Dream-patterns for our own, Of greenstone and of tiki." " Chief of the far Waikato, Our thanks to thee we tell ; The hour is here, the dawn is near ; Farewell, a long farewell- Farewell, again farewell, Chief of the far Waikato." 26 Lone, lone stands Puk^-mor6 — The Little Folk are fled; They slipped away like the mist so grey Before the morning red — Before the earliest red. Lone, lone stands Puke-more. Te Kanawa went a-hunting The little kiwi grey, The big kiwi, the brown kiwi, No more by night or day — No more by night or day Te Kanawa went a-hunting ! 27 THE STOWAWAY From yonder hill the Look-Out still frowns down upon the Bay, And round the mind Long-House now the statio7i- children play : — But nevermore the whaliftg craft beat up for Whangarei. And sometimes from the Southern Head there floats a moan, a sigh, And sometimes {so the story runs), a Shape steals softly by, Along the reach of sandy beach where still the caldrons lie. The sails were set, the wind blew wet, and at the dawn of day, The gallant 'brig, Sir Richard Bourke, sailed out for Whangarei, With seventeen strong men aboard, and me, the Stowaway. 28 A fortnight out, or thereabout, I left my hiding- place, I tossed my red-gold hair aside that half-conceal'd my face, — The storm that blackened all the sky held off a little space. The skipper he swore long and low, the mate swore long and loud, And all around with wondering looks the mariners did crowd ; But ah ! my love he turned away, hands cross'd and forehead bow'd ! " Hast thou no fear ? What dost thou here ? a woman Stowaway ! And I with sixteen men aboard outbound for Whangarei ! The first ship homeward-bound we speak shall bear thee back I say ! " And then across the foaming waves a whisper came to me; A wicked spirit muttered it, — for evil things there be, — "There is no might of Wrong nor Right shall keep thy Love from Thee ! " 29 I laughed Ho ! Ho ! both long and low to hear the skipper swear ; " And can it be dost threaten me ? Look in mine eyes and dare ! " He look'd — so might a ruin'd soul that sought salvation there ! The black cloud burst, the storm came down, 'twas black as black could be ; The lightning flashed, the tempest lashed the ocean savagely; — And in that night of doubt and fright a soul went out to sea. Then passed the storm, then sank the seas, we saw the light of day ; The mate who took the skipper's place with set lips strove to pray : " May Christ have mercy on us all 'twixt here and Whangarei ! " The wind blew strong, we sailed along across a dancing sea ; But evermore the sailormen look'd evilly on me. And, wrong or right, by day and night, they kept my Love from me. 30 Day after day passed swift away, and night sped after night, — I charmed them with a subtler spell than magic black or white, And all their hearts were in my hand by might of wrong or right ! And one, more bold, did love unfold: his arm stole round my waist. And in my locks of red-gold hair his fingers interlaced ; " O Sailor ! have a care ! " I said : " Dost dream my lips to taste ? " I looked and laughed ; he let me go, but fire was in his eyes. There was no mercy in my heart ; I watched his madness rise. And wove my spell, and worked my will in stealth, enchantress wise. And whales we sighted : — one that yielded thirty barrels then, — The second cost the lives of three unshriven sailormen ; And with fell eyes fixed full on me, no boat was lowered again. 31 We sighted land at last, and sailed for lonely Whangarei, But evermore the sailors kept my own dear Love away, And evermore I looked askance, and charmed them day by day. And South we sailed, till close to port (have mercy by the Rood !) They drew their knives in deadly strife, the deck on which we stood Ran red andrank with rubied blood,— the scuppers ran with blood. The good brig drifted, drifted on ; nor ears, nor eyes, had they For surging surf, and rugged rocks that guard the inner Bay, And I ? at last my hour was come,— safe in his arms I lay 1 They fought in silence, man to man (ah mercy ! God of Grace !) In silence ought, in silence fell, lock'd in a fast embrace, Till from the reeking shambles rose three men in woeful case. 32 They looked on him, — they looked on me, — they looked upon the dead ; And I bethought me of my vow : " I'll steer the ship," I said ; " And keep her straight, and anchor safe within the Southern Head." The waves foamed white, the sun shone bright upon a dancing sea : We made the passage safe and sound, we sailed right merrily, — There was no might of wrong nor right could keep my Love from me ! We landed on the sandy beach where still the caldrons lie. And in the Long House dwelt awhile, the Three, my Love and I, — The Long House built by sailormen on whaling trips gone by. But O the hate within their eyes in peaceful Whangarei ! Three nights they watched us, whispering low, until one dawn of day. They left to seek the Maori camp across at Ikarei. 33 C They looked towards the anchored brig that lay so still, so still ; " We fear the Witch-woman," they said ; " we fear her wicked will." Anon we watched them disappear behind the Look-Out Hill. I bent his head, and kissed his eyes : " Dear Love, we are alone, And save for bird, and forest flower, the whole wide world's our own ; Nor might of man can part us now, nor power of God unknown ! " I laid my cheek against his hand, but answer made he none ; He flung me off like a loathsome thing men fear to look upon ; — There seemed a silence in the air, — a shadow crossed the sun. " I curse thee for the powers of Hell that in thy beauty lurk ! I curse thee for the doubly-dead ! I curse thee and thy work ! I curse thee with the undying curse of Christ and Mother-kirk ! " 34 With that there came a flash of flame,— the sky was red as blood. — Then split the rocks with thundershocks, then shook the earth we trod, And with that curse upon his lips his soul went out to God ! There is no Grace for me condemned by him I loved so well ; Nor any place of rest for me,— 'twixt Sky and Earth I dwell ; The door of Heaven is barred to me, — nor may I enter Hell. And so a Shade, a homeless Form, I wander night and day : — O pray for me who lost my soul (as many maidens may), Who lost my soul, and eke my love ; O, of your pity, pray ! 35 TO A HAPPY BIRD Just a heap of crumpled feather That the wind might toss together In a hollow of the sand, Lying here within my hand. Motionless are busy feet And the loving heart that beat ; Drooping head and pinions lie Stilled by Death's supremacy. Happy Bird, more blest than I ! Little Bird, whose blameless life Closed in such a sudden strife, In the Garden of our love. Flowers shall bloom thy head above : Thou wilt know nor fear nor pain. Thirst nor hunger, snow nor rain ; Evil things shall come not nigh, And the Dreams shall pass thee by, Happy Bird, more blest than I ! 36 Little Bird, whose life was Love, He who made the Lamb and Dove Gives to them and thee a place In the Garden of His Grace. Thou shalt sing at Heaven's gate Thy Te Deum, early, late : Thou shalt sing, and thou shalt fly, Scathless, through that sinless sky, Happy Bird, more blest than I ! 37 DREAMING Last night a vision came to me, I thought my lover stood by me, And glad at heart, and gay were we, And O the fields were yellow ! My lover was so kind to me, And he was all the world to me, So near was he, so dear was he. And O the fields were yellow ! He put his arm about my waist. His good right arm about my waist. And slowly through the fields we paced,- The fields that were so yellow ! On, ever on, and on went we. Towards the land of Arcady, The fairy land of Arcady Beyond the fields so 3'^ellow ! 38 And then I woke — Ah, woe is me ! False is my lover, false to me, And it is far to Arcady Across the fields so yellow. 39 IN MEMORY R. J. S. This is only a rose Plucked from Lancashire's breast, Just a bud that one throws, Careless, under the feet, — Under a victor's feet. — Ah ! but a rose is sweet. Here let it lie with the rest. Far in that land of ours. Others will bring their song ; Others will bring their flowers, Fairer than this, I know, Fresher than this, I know, Born of the Bush, and so Laid on the bier of the strong. 40 Whence come the songs they sing ? — From the wild wind, and the sea. What are the blooms they bring ? Kowhai out of the hills, Rata red from the hills, Touched by the breath that thrills All that is wild and free ! Over a soldier's bier Turmoils of battle cease. This was a warrior here. And the party-strife, and the words, The windy war of words. Even as the clangour of swords. Sink into infinite peace. After the noontide, night : Slumber and silence sent, — Quietly after the fight Sleeps thy warrior now. What is remaining now ? Only a grave, and Thou Living ! — his monument. 41 This is only a rose Plucked from Lancashire's breast, Just a bud that one throws, Careless, under the feet, — Under a victor's feet. — Ah ! but a rose is sweet. So let it lie with the rest ! 42 TWO SONNETS I. THE NIGHTINGALE Last eve I heard an English nightingale Pouring her very soul out to the sky, When nothing moved save Solitude and I Pacing the fields together till the pale Enchanted moonlight flooded all the vale. And she sang on, and high and yet more high Toward Heaven thrilled that rich and passion- ate cry, Till at the full it seemed to flag and fail. Thou art the embodied Spirit of the Past, O Nightingale ! thou singest Love and Sorrow For all that was, for all that could not last, Being too perfect ; never shall to-morrow Assuage thy pain, nor ever grant relief For thy superb and all-consuming grief. 43 2. THE BELL-BIRD Not so thou caroUest at break of day, O Bell-bird ! when the world is flushed with light And slips triumphant from the clasp of night, And the wind wakes and blows the clouds away, And the hill-spirits rise and shout at play, Rejoicing. Then thou takest sudden flight From tree to tree, and warblest with delight. Thou and thy comrades, jubilant and gay ! Thou singest of the Future, radiant Bird ! Surely the Gods have lent thee sacred fire And taught thee songs forgotten or unheard By old-world men ! thou singest of Desire, Youth, and high Hope, and the infinity Of all we dream the Newer Worlds may be. 44 REMINISCENCE The wind round the housetops is weeping and wailing All fitfully ; I hear, in my heart, all the wearisome sobbing Of a sullen sea. Is^this summer, my friend, is this summer weather ? The day is cold. And my soul is sick with unspeakable longing For a tale that's told. . . . • • • But do you remember the gracious Springtime Long ago ? And a golden day that the Past has buried Under its snow ? Do you remember the Maori chattering Along the quay ? The bright fish gleaming, the brown sails streaming Away to sea ? 45 Do you remember the little graveyard Upon the hill ? Where the dead sleep well, with their faces east- ward, So still, so still ! Do you remember the sweet Spring breezes Whispering there ? And all the passion, and all the splendour In the soft Spring air ? It set our pulses throbbing, and beating : It stirred the God : Till we half forgot the mortals around us, Under the sod. But still we wander round their dwelling With tender tread, Lest we should waken from their dreaming The happy dead ! . Is it summer, my friend, is it summer weather ? The day is cold. And there lies on my soul an unspeakable sadness And the tale is told. 46 For you lie there with your face turned seaward, So still, so still ! Would it were I in the little churchyard Upon the hill ! 47 A ROSE AT MY CASEMENT A Rose at my casement is swinging Lazily to and fro ; A Bird in the tree-tops is singing So sweet and so low. But hush ! in the tree-tops is swelling A whisper, a word, a breath, — O Bird ! is the tale thou art telling Of Love, or of Death ? 48 ON THE BIOGRAPH Without, the crowds of London Were hurrying to and fro, In all the city's splendour, In all the city's woe ! Within, the lights were gleaming, And glowing over all The weary London faces There at the music-hall. There was a sudden silence. And I was far away On the old wharf at Akarana On a day — such a day ! They were loading up the steamers For Sydney and Fiji, — And there I saw the Monowai Lying at the quay. 49 D Then we were away inland In the days of long ago — There were the puias steaming And bubbling up below. There were the Maori maidens Dancing the poi-dance, — I saw the heave and fall of their bosoms And their eyes* dark glance. There were the old men squatting By the whares in the Pa ; Calling as we used to hear them " Tenakoe Pakeha ! " Then we drifted southward, The joy of it, — the pain ! — To the sheep-station at Te Aroha, And I was home again. They were mustering up the valley, And drafting at the yards, And the cooees of the drovers Were carried oceanwards. 50 And I knew, far up the valley, Along the bullock-track, The Bush was waiting there to greet me And call her wanderer back ; And there, beyond the woolshed. And the lone Karaka-tree, The great voice of the Ocean Was calling, calling me ! And the old Hfe came back to me Across the alien years, — The smell of sheep in my nostrils. The bleat of sheep in my ears. And barking of the sheep-dogs, Rover, and Jet, and Fly. — How the old things tug at the heart-strings Of exiles such as I ! And I thought when work was finished, And the long day o'er, We should gather in the homestead And sing as of yore. 51 Till the wekas hushed to listen, And the rafters rang again, — But we'll never meet together As we were used to then. It was over. Lights were gleaming, And streaming over all The cruel London faces There at the music-hall. A sound of many voices, — A woman's mirthless laugh, — It was only "A Trip to New Zealand," Shown on the Biograph. 52 HELLAS Whither is thy glory fled, Hellas, Hellas ? Shrunken in their stony bed Are the streams where naiads played, Treeless, barren, is the glade Where of old the Laughing God And the Virgin Huntress trod, — Hellas, Hellas ! All thy shrines are broken down, Hellas, Hellas ! On thy hillsides bare and brown, See, the ruined temples lie Open to the wind and sky ; All the worshippers are gone, And the haunting Presence flown, Hellas, Hellas ! S3 Never now Athena moves, Hellas, Hellas ! Stately through the olive-groves In the lovely Pythian dell Silent is the Oracle : And the great Apollo's lute Is for ever hushed and mute, Hellas, Hellas ! Yet thy glory never dies, Hellas, Hellas ! Steadfast through the centuries Burns thy splendour from afar Like an ever-fixed star. Grecian Story, Grecian Art Hold their empire in the heart, Hellas, Hellas ! 54 THE LEGEND OF ST. HUBERT Saint Hubert on a summer morn Rode out to hunt the deer, With horse, and hound, and lusty horn That all the world might hear. Saint Hubert hunted till the day To shades of evening grew, When sudden from the forest grey The stag came crashing through. White was the foam upon its sides, And piteous were its sighs ; Tears, salter than the salt sea-tides, Poured from its patient eyes. The good steed shivered, and the hound Slunk, whimpering, to the rear ; — Saint Hubert sank upon the ground In wonderment and fear ! — 55 And crossed himself, and inly prayed, And humbly left the place, And nevermore (the Legend said) Went forth unto the chase. For on its head that creature bore The Cross, the mystic sign, And in its look Saint Hubert saw The Love which is Divine ! We children of a later age Laugh at this simple tale, And in despite of saint and sage Ride forth by hill and vale To hunt the deer through forest glades. And many a quiet glen : Ah me, what sport for English maids, What sport for English men ! — What sport to watch the failing limbs, The flagging, labouring breath, — The glazing eye that slowly dims In agony of Death ! 56 Maker of all, whose name is Love Immortal and Divine ; Dost Thou not weep to watch above These suffering babes of Thine ? Who loves Thy creatures honours Thee,- Who pleasures in their pain, Doth nail Thee bleeding to the Tree — Christ crucified again ! Open our eyes that we may see O'er all that lives Thy sign : All life that flows from Thee, to Thee, Is, as Thou art. Divine ! 57 THE LONG RIDE Ah, the pleasant summer weather, Ah, the gleam on the good green wood, And the wind, the wind that is stirring the blood While I and my comrade gallop together ! Hail, best comrade, Life is jolly ! Let us pick the roses, and leave the holly To these chap-fallen and grey old fellows Who crawl along on their worn-out scrags, (What ! will " Youth " become one of these nags ?) Muttering, shaking their heads at our folly : " The wind blows cold, and the woods grow bare The roses are dying in your hand, And serpents hiss where the grape-vines stand, And Death rides everywhere. This is a barren and desolate land Of dust and ashes, pebble and sand." So they tell us — what do we care ? Up, good Youth ! let us pass them — thus ! 58 The apple is ripening, the apricot yellows, There are buds and flowers and fruit for us. Tramp ! tramp ! Hark to the tread of a horse behind us ! I warrant me that is some hoary old scamp Spurring his stiff old steed to find us Napping under a myrtle-tree, And read us the usual homily ! Tramp ! tramp ! Nearer now ! are they following me. This grim grey couple, rider and horse ? Do they gain upon us ? Shame, O shame ! Youth ! art thou palsied or art thou lame, Or is it too cold for thee, as for me ? I guess the rider is one called Death, And we feel the chill of his bitter breath. One more struggle, O gallant horse ! We must move a little faster perforce. One more struggle, and we are free ! Away through the wilderness, free as the wind, Youth is the steed that can leave behind The grim grey horse and his rider Death ! Comrade, was it for thee, for thee Death followed so steadily on our track ? 59 Ah, the agonised look in the frank blue eyes As he urged the shivering horse in vain, And the good beast moaned in fear and pain, Till the cold breath paralysed heart and brain. And Death caught hold of the bridle-rein ! Would it were I ! Would it were I whom Death turned back To the country whence none returns again ! II Ah, the wild wet winter weather ! Ah, the sadness in earth and sky ! Ah, the gloom ! as we ride together, The last of my old companions and I ! The violets are withered, the primroses dead, And the leaves begin to fall Faster and faster the further we ride. And the wind howls through all The forest trees on either side, And the river moans in its wintry bed. Still as we ride these mad young fools Gallop their horses behind us, around us As if the veriest sluggards they found us. Fools, young fools ! 60 Who mock at the counsel, and laugh at the warning Of us who have ridden the journey of life, And know its pitfalls, and snares, and delusions. See them gather, in scorn of our scorning. Faded nettles, and yellow toadstools. Calling them lilies and roses forsooth ! Fools, vain fools, in very truth ! Ah ! well ! let them rest in their idle illusions. Let them play as they like, with their withered leaves. Till they learn how youthful fancy deceives, And meet with suffering, sorrow, and strife. Ah, good horse, thou art old ! Thou art gaunt and toothless, stiff and lame, 1 Thou art almost blind ! But long ago thou wast brave and bold, And fleet as the wind. Gallant and game! It was long ago that we galloped so gaily Over the meadow, and through the wood, Crushing the flowers beneath us, and daily Exulting anew in our hot young blood, Yes, old horse, that was long ago, 6i Long ago, and in very truth Thou art a somewhat decrepit " Youth," And, gallant horse, as I very well know, Thou wilt grow more stiff as we travel farther. And " Age " were a name to befit thee rather ! Hark to the tramp of a horse behind us ! Hallo, comrade, art friend or foe ? Ha ! is it thou ? was it hard to find us ? That grim grey horse, and his Rider, I know, They name him Death ! I have felt the chill of his icy breath. Face to face we have met, this Death and I, But I do not think he will hunt me now, — He has seen me often, and passed me by. And my own good steed has outpaced him — yet 'Tis strange that his horse should never grow old, Or rather, I think, more fleet he will get The older he grows, more game, and more bold. And even Youth comes last in the race. And the pale horse stands in the winner's place. Tramp! tramp! Comrade, is it for thee, for thee. Death follows so steadily on our track ? 62 Good King Death ! we have met so often, So many times thou hast passed me by, That I cannot think it is time to die. Take my comrade, ah, take not me ! He is weary, and does not fear Thy horrible emblems of shroud and coffin,— Take my comrade, and let me be ! Tramp ! tramp ! How fast he follows upon my track ! Leave me a little longer yet. King Death ! — pass by me, and forget ! — On, my horse ! Ah, the deadly strain. And the rending of body and soul ! — again Struggle, old horse ! — in vain, in vain ! Have mercy, O Death ! I feel the chill of his icy breath — I feel the deadening of heart and brain, — Death catches hold of the bridle-rein, — Ah me ! the Conqueror turns me back To the country whence none returns again ! 63 IN GAY BOHEMIA O MA belle, ma Marguerite, Just this once forbear your rating. And forgive me. Sweet, my Sweet, That I keep your carriage waiting ! Am I not your faithful vassal. Marguerite ? your lightest tassel Sways not easier to your motion ! Can you question my devotion When I tell you your white hand Led me (can you understand ?) From that unconventional country, that un- fashionable land, From that bad Bohemia ? Memories of long ago, Of a time too good for lasting. Haunt me even now, you know ; Nights of feasting, — days of fasting ! 64 Fearless frolic, fun, and laughter, Dreams of Fame to follow after ! Dreams of world-wide recognition, — (Idle visions ! vain ambition !) — Ah, the glory of it then ! All the world before us when We aspiring fought and failed, just to rise and fight again In that mad Bohemia ! Some of us have clutched the crown. Snatched a leaf from Fortune's laurels ; Some gone up, — and more gone down Where go ruined minds and morals. But Constantia, sweetest singer ! Now that kings and princes fling her Diamonds for our pansy-posies. Rubies redder than our roses, Amethyst for violet, — Does Constantia forget ? Or in these her palmy days has she recollection yet Of our gay Bohemia ? One there was in days gone by Drank with us of sour and mellow, Drained Life's goblet recklessly. Boon companion, prime good fellow ! 6S E Where are now thy jests, O jester ? Where thy gibes ? for cold Hps fester In the grave where no delight is, Neither sound, nor any sight is ! What had Death to do with thee And our careless company ? Best of comrades, long departed, hast thou any memory Of our glad Bohemia ? Jones has earned a moment's fame By a vilely written novel ; Brown the poet, to our shame, Lodges in a wretched hovel, — Fame and Fortune passed him over ; — Smith the lawyer's quite in clover, And the others ? they are scattered Hither, thither, — has it mattered ? I^ — well, I who paced the street, Lacking even the bread to eat, Now in luxury and ease sit and sing at Fashion's feet Far from sad Bohemia ! 66 O ma Marguerite, ma belle ! Time goes on and we grow older ; Once I loved Bohemia well, Even Love itself grows colder. And the glory has departed, Left us grey, and duller-hearted ; Yet forgive me. Marguerite, If those other days seem sweet ! If in dreams I greet once more My old cronies as of yore In the good Bohemian fashion — What ? the carriage at the door ? Fare thee well, Bohemia ! 67 "I HAVE SISTERS THREE," SHE SAID " I HAVE Sisters Three," she said ; " I have Sisters Three ; One is Love, and one is Pain, One is Fantasy." " Pain is clad in white," she said ; " Like a lily, she ; Love goes all in ruby red, — What of Fantasy ? " " Opal robes for her," she said, " Shimmering fitfully ; And a crown upon her head Wonderful to see ! " " Only, in the night," she said, " When my Sisters Three, Circling, dance around my bed, Smile, and sing to me,' — 68 " Then I cannot tell," she said, " Which or what they be ; And I know not Love from Pain, Nor from Fantasy." 69 AT THE TURNING OF THE LANE To-night I lie in silence Here in my little bed, And listen, listen, listen Only for his tread ; For I know the hour is coming When he'll pass (dear God !) again, And I'll not be there to meet him At the turning of the lane. Once he was mine to welcome, Mine to have and to hold, Strange that a man's hot passion Should burn to ashes cold ! Will a vision rise to meet him, The ghost of Love he's slain ? Will his heart beat any faster At the turning of the lane ? 70 It's women who remember, While men forget, forget ; And it's a year since we parted, A whole long year, and yet I listen for his coming. And weep, and weep again ; I was wont to meet him and greet him At the turning of the lane. 71 A MAORILANDER IN ENGLAND Woe's me ! In Kedar's tents I live, By Babylonian waters ; And O my English friends forgive One of Zealandia's daughters ! For when I praised a paddock green That lay in sun, and shadow, You stared at me : " O yes— you mean T\izX field ? or yonder meadow ? " And when, forgetting time and place, I prattled of a whari, You murmured : " What a curious phrase ! Is it a term Ma-ori ? " And when, upon a summer's day, I spoke of " creek'' unwary, You answered : " That's the brook ! do pray Consult your dictionary ! " 72 And when, one day, He came in view Who's told in song and story, I cried ; " Tenakoe ! is it you. My well-icnown friend so hoary ? " " I've met you where the Toe grows In Waiau's gorges eery ; I've seen you on the plains, where flows The swift Waimakariri ! " Were you, on some up-country run, Once rabbiter, or dagger ? Ah welcome, welcome, wandering one ! My dear familiar swagger ! " " But Swagger, Swagger, where, I say. Are pannikin, and billy ? " — " O come away ! " you cried : " Away ! How can you be so silly ? " " How can you show such crazy joy ? We hold in evil odour This horrid tramp whom yonder boy Would call, we think, a Roader ! " 73 We went ; but sweetly on my ear Attuned to notes Colonial Fall^ " Swaggerr " Creek;' and " Paddock " dear E'en in this land baronial. So when I err in speech, forgive One of Zealandia's daughters ; For now in Kedar's tents I live By Babylonian waters. 74 THE FORTUNATE ISLAND Last night I watched, at setting of the sun, That far - off Island which men call the Blest ; And saw its pinnacles all grey and dun Flush into crimson with the crimsoning West ; And there were crags, and many a mountain crest, And many a valley opening to the strand ; And I beheld an Ocean all at rest, A golden Ocean lapping golden sand, — " Ah, would," I cried, " I too might reach that Faeryland." 75 Is it perhaps Saint Brandon's Blessed Isle, Which he beheld from Eire's stormy shore, Whereon he laboured such a weary while ? Till putting forth in haste with sail and oar, Steered for the westward, and was seen no more: Yet reached the sunset, so the legend says, And taught to bird and beast and flow'r the lore That man rejected : there lived many days, And there for ever sleeps in the cool of forest- ways. Is it that island shown to us again ? Is it Hy-Br^sil ? No, it cannot be : Hy-Br^sil was not seen by sinful men, Nor e'er beholden, Love, by such as we Who are, God knows, remote from sanctity. We are dead souls who once were tempest-tossed, We are spent billows of a troubled sea ; For we are members of that piteous host Who loved too dearly once, and all too dearly lost. 76 That is the Fortunate Island, and it lies Midway, men say, betwixt high Heav'n and Hell : And all who wander out of Paradise, Or hear remorseless Fate ring Passion's knell, There find a refuge, and forgetful dwell. While on the earth the centuries go by. No more for them shall any tempest swell, Love shall not wane, and Faith shall never die, Nor Death nor Disillusion ever shall come nigh. That were a haven. Love, for you and me, For we shall never find our resting-place In the fair fields of Heav'n's infinity. Could I, forgiv'n by all-abounding grace, Abide content to never see your face ? Or rest in Paradise the while I knew That you were banished into echoing space With fallen angels ? O alas for you ! There is no path to Heav'n for them that are not true! 77 But there what lovers you and I should meet ! There we should see (Enone in the vale No more disconsolate, for at her feet Her faithful faithless shepherd tells his tale Unchidden : yes, there Ariadne pale Clasps her returning Theseus to her breast ; And happy Dido sees her lover's sail Slide up the harbour from the empty West, And she lies waiting with her passionate heart at rest. Let us away, Love ! motionless and vast Behold that Ocean, which is Lethe's tide. And whoso bathes therein forgets the Past, That anguished Past, and present pain and pride — Ah, look upon it ! gold and vermeil dyed, Still in the sunset lingering yet awhile,— Ah, could we lose Remembrance, and abide Where summer and the Gods eternal smile, And pass away, away, Love, to the Fortunate Isle ! 78 'TIS AUTUMN NOW! 'TiS Autumn now ! No more for me The cuckoo's cry, or hum of bee, Or thrushes carolling Spring's delight With rush of wings in rapturous flight Out of the blossoming lilac-tree. And in my garden-plot I see How Asters bloom and Rosemary For Summer's delicate pink and white, — Tis Autumn now. The dead leaves drift o'er lawn and lea ; The mist creeps on — like a wraith is she ! — To veil the stream, and clothe the height ; And through calm day, and quiet night I dwell in peace with Memory, — 'Tis Autumn now. 79 NEW YEAR'S EVE Stand still, O Red Zoe, On the headland so lonely ; One light trembles only In the valley below me. II Grey cloud to the Westward ; A young moon increscent With gleam evanescent Shines out to the Eastward. ni I hear the commotion And strife of the surges ; Dull, dull as a dirge is The voice of the ocean ! 80 IV The Old Year is dying In silence and sorrow, And hither to-morrow The New Year is flying. V Pass, Old Year who gave me A lover false-hearted, A friendship soon parted, Fresh care to enslave me ! VI O Thou who art winging So fast to us mortals. From Eternity's portals, What gifts art thou bringing ?— VII Nay, pale Hope, I cast thee Far, far from my bosom ! Thou frail little blossom, The year would outlast thee ! — 8i F VIII The battle around me Is stern and unceasing ; I seek no releasing From fate which hath bound me. IX I ask no compassion, No boon from high Heaven, Her gifts were all given Long since in due fashion. — X The Voice and the Vision ! — The Eye for beholding, — The Heart for enfolding, — The Ear that can listen ! XI And mine is this tender Faint light on the mountain, — The flash of the fountain, — The sea and its splendour ! ^2 XII Come, New Year ! come, Sorrow ! And thou, Disillusion, Come strong in the fusion Of to-day with to-morrow ! — XIII For I am the master ; In ray soul there arises The strength that despises The troops of disaster. XIV The Old Year is dying In silence and sorrow, And hither to-morrow The New Year is flying. XV And out from the distance He comes, the last lover, To fold and to cover Unrest and resistance ! 83 XVI He utters no greeting, And cold are his kisses, So cold his caresses He stills the heart's beating. XVII Stand still, O Red Zoe, On the headland so lonely; One light twinkles only In the valley below me. 84 AT WESTMINSTER Westward we went one Winter day, When all the world was nipped and grey ; And fog lay like a winding-sheet Upon the river, bridge, and street, And men and horses, huge and weird, Loomed through the mist, and disappeared. Ghosts among ghosts, we drifted by, Grief and I, Grief and I ! We wandered towards the river-bank, Into a garden, chill and dank. Whose flowers were long since frozen dead, How desolate looked each empty bed ! I leaned upon the parapet, With Grief beside me, constant yet. 85 F2 And hungry gulls flew round my head So close, so close ! and screamed for bread, But I stood still ; nor cared the least For misery of man or beast ! The fog uprose : as in a dream I caught a glimpse of sky and stream, And watched, with what a hopeless eye, The mass of water racing by ! Methought, like corpses hurrying fast, I saw dead Love and Faith go past ! And in the bitterness of pain My spirit cursed my brother-men. " Cold Earth, and cruel Stream," I said, " And empty Heaven overhead, " You are not half so cold by far, Nor pitiless as my fellows are. " Would that, as in the olden days. An Angel through the waterways 86 " Might pass, and all my inmost pain Be healed, that I might live again ! " And sudden from the rushing tide A shrouded form did seem to glide ; I heard It speak : " Behold ! " It said, " Amongst the living thou art dead. — " And in the years that are to be Think not that there is balm for thee — " Yet art thou not alone, for lo. Thou hast a Blessed Angel too ! — " This Grief which dogs thee day and night, Aye present to thy spirit's sight — " This is thine Angel ! Follow on ! And thou shalt never dwell alone, — " Drink of the cup Grief offers thee, And drink with all Humanity — " What is it if thine All hath failed. If Love, if Faith, hath naught availed ? 87 " For who art thou to seek release, And what hast thou to do with Peace ? " Drink ! and henceforward thou shalt see The whole wide world is kin to thee." — The Voice was still : we moved away Out from that garden grim and grey. The fog came down on bridge and street, White, white, and cold, as a winding-sheet. Ghosts among ghosts, we drifted by, Grief and I, Grief and I ! Now day and night she teaches me, Opens my eyes that I may see, — Opens my heart that I may feel Our common woe, our common weal ! And naught there is that lives, or dies, And suffering on its Maker cries. Whose pain I have not learned to know As of a brother here below. 88 O Blessed Teacher, Angel Grief, No longer do I seek relief, / For now I know both vile and good Partake with me of brotherhood. Rich, Poor, Christ, Man, and hunted hare With me the Cup of Sorrow share. Printed by Ballantvnb, Hanson &• Co. Edinburgh &" London BY THE SAME AUTHOR VERSES FROM MAORILAND 2S. 6d. net ATHEN/EUM "That the Author is endowed with real poetic feeling is evident in the opening poem, 'Onawe,' which is simple and dignified in treatment, besides showing an admirable taste in rhythm." DAILY NEWS " Miss Wilcox has written a clever little book of verses." GLASGOW HERALD " Miss Wilcox shows a fine sense of what goes to the making of a true lyric." SCOTSMAN " Pleasant and gracefully written." LONDON: GEORGE ALLEN & COMPANY, LTD. 44 & 45 Rathbone Place, W. This book .s DUE on the last date stamped below. lOM-J 1-50 '2555) 470 REMINGTON RAND INC. 20, GIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY Wilcox ■3 Rata, and mistle- ~3t toe 386 748 8 I'Tfi^^^nTOYmgsr^ , PR 5808 VV643r miw%k m^mmmmmmmmimmmm' m