I MOODS AND METRES *s JNet MOODS AND METRES NEW LYRIC POEMS BY CHARLES NEWTON-ROBINSON The following poems in this book have appeared before : 4 The Ballad of Richmodis ' in the English Review, Septem- ber 1910; 4 Claustral Faith,' 'The Foxglove,' 4 Love in a Mist,' and 4 The Pansy ' in the Westminster Gazette. TO TRINITY COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE AND ST. PETER'S COLLEGE, WESTMINSTER OF EACH FORMERLY AN ALUMNUS THE AUTHOR DEDICATES THIS BOOK PREFACE CHARLES EDMUND NEWTON-ROBINSON, eldest son of Sir John Charles Robinson, C.B., of Newton Manor, Swanage, Surveyor of pictures to Queen Victoria, and of his wife Marian Elizabeth Newton, of Norwich, was born in London, i6th October 1853. He was educated at Westminster School and at Trinity College, Cambridge, and was called to the Bar in 1879. ^ e marr i e d Jane Anna, second daughter of Robert Stirke, and niece of the Rev. Mark Pattison, Rector of Lincoln College, Oxford. He died at Swanage, while the present volume was in preparation, on 2ist April 1913. The son of one of the greatest connoisseurs and collectors of the Victorian Period, whose pioneer work enriches the South Kensington Museum to an extent only realised by those familiar with the provenance of many of its finest acquisitions, Charles Newton-Robinson inherited the wide range viii MOODS AND METRES of his father's taste with much of his self-reliance and independence of contemporary fashions in con- noisseurship. He himself collected eagerly and in- cessantly in various directions, and formed important Collections of Drawings by the Old Masters and of ancient engraved Gems and Cameos. Of these last he made a special study, the fruits of which appeared in the Catalogue Raisonnee of this section of the Greek Exhibition of the Burlington Fine Arts Club in 1903. He had also in preparation a monograph on the subject, but this unfortunately is not far enough advanced to appear as he left it. He wrote also from time to time many critical papers for both French and English Art periodicals. But the son was less specialised than the father to the pursuit of Art, and he scattered his energies perhaps too prodigally over many activities in business, politics, and sport. The more professional side of his life was occupied with schemes of Land Development, and the towns of Lee-on-the-Solent and of Tankerton in Kent owe their existence largely to his efforts. The Land Taxes of the Budget of 1909-10 roused him to take an active PREFACE ix part in political propaganda, and he inspired and organised the foundation of the ' Land Union ' to resist ill-considered interference with the interests of owners of land. As usual he threw himself heart and soul into this agitation, and wrote the clever skit Alice in Plunderland (under a pseudonym) as well as the pamphlet called 'The Blight of the Land Taxes, and many other ephemeral articles. From boyhood he carried the same spirit and vigour even into his recreations. At Westminster he was head of the water for two seasons ; at Cambridge he went in for running and hurdle- jumping. He crossed the North Sea in a lo-ton yacht in 1874 and explored the Dutch Canals, and he gaily describes this trip in The Cruise of the Widgeon. In 1882 he wrote Picturesque Rambles in the Isle of Purbeck, a charmingly illustrated book giving the old-world surroundings of Newton Manor, his beloved country home ; then developed a passion for yacht-racing which lasted throughout his life, and he built and sailed a long series of small racing yachts through quite thirty seasons of the Solent and South Coast Club Regattas. These x MOODS AND METRES lovely and workmanlike little craft were often partly designed, and mostly steered and captained, by him- self, and won abundant laurels ; e.g. in one season Corolla (a 2^ rater) took thirty-nine prizes out of fifty-one starts in the Solent Matches. He was a member of the Council of the Yacht Racing Association to his death, and took an eager and competent share in the discussion of technicalities of design and sailing regulations. As a Fencer, however, he was best known in England and on the Continent, for he not only was an expert swordsman, but he interested himself warmly in the revival of swordsmanship in England. His favourite weapon was the epee de combat or duelling sword, and he persuaded a group of enthusiasts to found the Epee Club of London in 1900, with the consequence that English fencers began for the first time to take part in Continental tournaments. He himself was a member of several successful teams at Paris and elsewhere, especially the British Team at the Olympic Games at Athens in 1906. The article on the 'Epee de Combat ' in the British Encyclopaedia is from his pen. PREFACE XI Among so many competing interests the per- sistence of the poetic strain proved the sincerity of his impulse to lyrical expression. The Art he loved most was that of verse, and by his verse he wished to be remembered. In the free moments left him by a busy life he always returned to this, and he laboured incessantly at the craftsmanship of poetry. The lucidity of his style in prose and verse is a result of constant study, and with all their apparent simplicity his metres and rhythms are varied and original to an extent not realised by the careless reader. He lived constantly with the poets, and sharpened his sense of beauty and expression by exercises in translation, delighting also in con- versation with those who shared his enthusiasm to analyse the niceties of metre and rhythm in English and other languages. His first published volume of verse was 'The Golden Hind, a narrative poem to which various ballads and lyrics were added. Tintinnabula followed in 1890, The Viol of Love in 1895, and Ver Lyrae in 1896. This last is a volume of his collected poems with some later pieces added. xii MOODS AND METRES Moods and Metres was contemplated before the long fatal illness began, and extreme bodily weakness seemed to concentrate his mind, in these last months, on what most profoundly moved him, and even rendered it to his own feeling more lucid and ready. He did not live to see the proofs of this volume, but his signature to the contract for its publication was the last word he ever wrote. One poem, ' The Foxglove,' (p. 38), with its imagery of death and renewal, appeared in the Westminster Gazette on the day of his death. It would be out of place here to attempt any critical estimate of his work, 1 or do more than speak of its tenderness of feeling and simple and musical diction. Charles Newton-Robinson will be re- membered by those who knew him not only by his gifts and accomplishments, but as a man of singularly amiable character, and one capable of deep and constant affection. He was an idealist through all his practical activities. Scholarly as his poems may be, song came to him as natural ex- 1 An appreciative paper on thi subject by Mr. William Stebbing appeared in the English Review for May 1913. PREFACE xiii pression whenever he paused to dream or enjoy. Poetry to him was the atmosphere of life, and its true spiritual reality. The tender halo of feeling through which he had his vision of life clings delicately around his poems. CONTENTS LYRICS AND BALLADS ON A MARBLE BAS-RELIEF BY MINO DA The hand is dust which wrought this marvel-thing. SUMMER : AN ODE . . . .3 Dream ye of Summer ? Wake ! I am here ! A GARDEN IN LATE AUTUMN . . 6 The people of my garden are at peace : AN OLD MANOR-HOUSE. ... 7 Dear home of mine ! the morning sun Lights yet thy rugged stones ; JOY ....... 10 Strive not with Joy to veil or to conceal her : THE FALLEN TREE . . . .n The end it is : my days are done, WINTER PICTURES . . . .13 The trees are brown against the blue, b xvi MOODS AND METRES FACK THE CHILD AND THE COMET . 15 In the year of the great comet CORNFIELDS 17 In among the wheat-ears, THE BALLAD OF RICHMODIS . . .18 When in Cologne the plague was loose MOODS ... .28 Only the ear Attuned, can hear : MAY AND NOVEMBER . 29 The flame in the ember Is bent and abated ; ASPIRATIONS ... 30 O give me of your laughter, O give me of your tears ! TWO LIVES 31 We linked ourselves in lealdom NONPAREILLE ..... 33 The west wind kisseth and enfoldeth her A COLLEEN 34 Locks that might be spun of the night, ROSA MISERICORDISE .... 35 Take this rose, and tell it nothing ; MNEMOSYNE ..... 36 Memory, Mnemosyne ! CONTENTS xvii PAGE HOPE IN CHANGE . . . . 37 Singing for sorrow, And singing for joy, THE FOXGLOVE ..... 38 July's flower-calendar, fair foxglove, hid LOVE-IN-A-MIST ..... 39 Love-in-a-mist, verdoyant haze of leaves, THE PANSY. ..... 40 Pensee in French, Heart's Ease in English tongue ; THE BEST SURVIVES . . . .41 As, when the forest flameth, DEJECTION ...... 42 Ah me ! the quick succeeding years GASTEINER THAL . . . - 44 Gasteiner Thai, by mountain monsters guarded, OF VIOLETS: TO V. M. . . . -45 Exactly when, with shy and dewy glances, A TIROL VALLEY ..... 47 Dear Tirol valley, keen of air, like wine THE NEGLECTED PORTRAIT: AN IDYLL . 50 A portrait-painter loved a girl, whose beauty OCTOBER ...... 55 Kind is the season of the year, HEROES ALWAYS! .... 58 We have outlived our fathers, our fore-runners ; xviii MOODS AND METRES tA .K SONG : AN ODE . . 59 Song am I, and I am the child Of camp and home, of court and wild, JOCK THE ROVER . . 63 When Jock the Rover won to land, MEDITATIVE POEMS AND ELEGIES PERPLEXITY ..... 67 Are these thy ways, all-ruling God, LINES TO ONE DEAD . 68 Her locks were of the twilight, THE BREATH OF THE UNIVERSE 69 Men and women, what are we ? TIME: A SONNET. . . 70 So smoothly runs the restless tide of time A DREAM OF A DEAD STATESMAN . 71 A sudden vision took my soul, unwarned, CLAUSTRAL FAITH .... 73 When cloistered nuns, brides-maiden of their Lord, SONNETS TO DEATH I 75 Death ! when we dare to look thec in the face, SONNETS TO DEATH II ... 76 What consolation holds thy witless claw, ANDREW LANG: A SONNET ... 77 Death, hast thou torn from us dear Andrew Lang ! CONTENTS xix PAGE SOULS EARNED, NOT GIVEN: A SONNET . 78 When we are born to breathe a separate breath, GOD-GUIDED .... ~, 79 My soul is always near to God, TRANSLATIONS FROM HORACE PHAEDRUS AND SAPPHO HORACE: OD. II. 16 . . . 83 Rest is the seaman's one desire PHAEDRUS : THE FROG AND THE BULL . 85 A frog once in a meadow spied a bull, SAPPHO'S ODE TO APHRODITE . . 86 Glorious-throned, immortal Aphrodite ! SAPPHO : AN ODE ..... 88 Like to a god appears to me the man LYRICS AND BALLADS ON A MARBLE BAS-RELIEF BY MINO DA FIESOLE THE hand is dust which wrought this marvel-thing. Twelve generations from the Master count, And then three more ; so far away the time Since, pacing eve-lone, in the olive-wood, Under deep shadows, where the fire-flies range All through the summer night in Fiesole Mino, already Master, though yet young, Upon the day he wedded, one year since, Bethought him how to yield into the trust Of mute, pure marble, that most eloquent, Most reticent, and holiest of dreams, The Virgin-mother, with her infant God. Ay, there the master of the magic steel, Emulous, bright-imagining, yet perplexed, Intent bethought him by what rune of art, Could he, the humblest of all human seers, Trust the mute, innocent marble with his mood, So that it might express upon a day, The wedding of Divinity with Earth, 2 LYRICS AND BALLADS And on another, to all careless minds Mean nought but sheer humanity unsoiled. Light failed his intellect, as failed his eyes That moonless eve, till, when he turned again, They caught the glimmer of his own small hearth, And nearer coming, through the open door Was borne, amid the scents of blowing flowers, Almost as faint as they, and far between Now one sweet note, and now another note, Patient and gentle, pure and constant too, And yet so faint and broken, and so far, None else had known it for a cradle-song. But he a deep breath drew, and cried aloud ' The way is found ! ' so was it, and the stone He chose and wrought hath yet a living voice, Yet is it mute, whenas the master willed. SUMMER : AN ODE SUMMER: AN ODE DREAM ye of Summer ? Wake ! I am here ! I the new-comer, Tyrant and King. Give me your homage, love, and fear ! For all the world's desire I bring, In one hand, as a gracious Lord ; But in mine other, behold ! I bear a flaming sword. Bid long farewell to Spring, my herald sister ! She, in her sweet obedience, issueth forth, Since I have kissed her and dismissed her Unto the yearning wildness of the North ; Whither, with dancing and with laughter, Whither, with tearful glances after, All through the increasing hours of glorious day, She trails her blossom-broidered skirts away, And through the scented night still travels far, With steadfast vision bent on thee, imperious Polar star ! 4 LYRICS AND BALLADS Now I, the King, am come into my realm, My regal progress who shall thwart or stay ? Leagues upon leagues and leagues of yellowing corn Are witness to the wonder of my sway : My crown at noon the intense blue sky dome is ; At night I don the galaxy of stars, Or lightning flash that rends the brooding clouds ; And from the dawning East I take his fretted golden bars. Entinctured is the purpure of my pomp Out of the rosy evening after-glows : My ermine doth the silver glance of morn Illumine o'er the mountain-mantling snows : And for mine azure, scan the dreamy seas, That mime the blue of noon, unscarred by any breeze. All young things, beast and human, bird and flower, As dear adopted children, to my charge Hath Spring commended, and with sun and shower, I bless them, as a guerdon priceless large ; Fostering those with nature strong and sure To breathe a breath divine, and yet endure, And marrying those to kind and early death, Whose weakness my strong ardour withereth. SUMMER : AN ODE 5 The uncounted host of various-minded Hours Obey me, and in turn are these obeyed, Unto the very depths of secret bowers, By myriad blades of grass and nameless flowers ; And on the unsleeping hearts of kings their gracious wants are laid. I joy in rule : my ever-moving throne Doth year by year the rolling world explore, And leave no coign unvisited, unblest : Freely I give, gifts that are all mine own, I take no tax, nor build me any store, Come breathing life, and go, leaving behind me rest. For all the bounteous harvest of the year Is of my largesse to the world of men : Autumn and Winter, great as they appear, Are but vice-regents till I come again And come in royal state, and rule without a peer ! LYRICS AND BALLADS A GARDEN IN LATE AUTUMN THE people of my garden are at peace : In that sweet peace of latter Autumn days, When, after morning mist, the risen sun Pours through the silvery fretwork of the clouds Mild beams that pierce and warm the mild west air, Filtering through leaves which rustle scarce at all, Tho' thrummed with intermittent harmonies. Aloft, among the elm-trees' thinning tops, Rooks call, and from the distance, by the sea, The old grey four-square church tower sends a peal. Bees flit with noisy buzz from bloom to bloom, Then drink their fill in silence but a moment, And flit again to try their luck elsewhere ; While shriller notes, of little busy birds, Give me the treble of my symphony. But, O my voiceless people, O my flowers, Dew-gemmed, and quivering in the sun-warm air ! What peace of near-accomplished beauteous life Your contemplation in my soul instils ! I too Ah, let us live the glorious hour ! The winter of our passing comes not yet ; Though stealthy on the threshold weighs his foot. Let us forget, and live the glorious hour ! AN OLD MANOR-HOUSE AN OLD MANOR-HOUSE DEAR home of mine ! the morning sun Lights yet thy rugged stones ; Though thrice a hundred years at rest Have lain thy builder's bones : Fathers and mothers, boys and girls Now generations nine, Thy fore-possessor's frames are dust ; The sun still cheereth thine. Though thrice thine elms have grown and died, Elms wave around thee still ; Where rooks of ancient pedigree Yet quarrel, bill to bill : And in this autumn of the year And autumn of thy days, The old grey church on Sundays yet Peals out for thee God's praise. A sanctuary thy garden is, Stone walled and hedged with yew : About, around, the oft-turned ground Still beareth rose and rue : LYRICS AND BALLADS And still the orchard reddeneth, The fig, the vine, the quince Still ripen full their honeyed fruit As generations since. The golden wagtail on the lawn Trips fearless at his will : Red robin hoppeth on and off Thy hospitable sill : The timid martin houses him Below thy sheltering eaves, While cheery Rover keeps his watch As much for cats, as thieves. And over all the master's eye Roams lovingly and long : The wreck of winters he repairs To keep thee sound and strong. He too hath weathered many storms Unshaken, undismayed, Ere children of his children came To play, where once he played. And she, the mistress of his house And mistress of his heart, At open door and open board Still acts her gracious part, AN OLD MANOR-HOUSE As when they first together faced A world they hardly knew, In all the fearless pride of youth, Each to the other true. Dear house ! farewell ! but not for long, Though I go seeking gain, And strive and fight with all my might In cities, on the main : In desert lands, 'mid whirling sands Or furious mountain-snows ; Some day, like Robin, I '11 return, Dear home ! to thy repose. io LYRICS AND BALLADS JOY STRIVE not with Joy to veil or to conceal her : Robe her in beauty all bright things above, Art be her slave to deck and to reveal her, Let all her steps go hand in hand with Love. Him the true love, who all the world embraces, A god in old days of all men divined : Lord of all passion, virgin as the Graces, Eros the seer, not poor Cupid, blind. THE FALLEN TREE n THE FALLEN TREE THE end it is : my days are done, Alike to me are frost and sun, Alike to me are night and day, And one to me are March and May. Now, in the plenitude of life All one to me are joy and strife ; I am dying, though not dead : In the grass now lies my head, Where, a hundred years ago I was little, I was low. Once among my fellows small, Yestreen I overtopped them all. A hundred winters, ay and three, Lightly had passed over me, Till the end of a three-days' gale, Fierce with lightning, snow and hail, With one stray gust out of the North Caught me unawares, and forth Ripped my roots, that wide were spread Under, as aloft my head ; 12 LYRICS AND BALLADS Downward swayed my giant mass, Till I lay level with the grass, No more to drink the April rains Or feel the sap start through my veins : No more shall every leaf of mine Tell me is it storm or fine ; For the keels and for the ploughs Shall serve my goodly trunk and boughs. WINTER PICTURES 13 WINTER PICTURES THE trees are brown against the blue, Shrewd bites the northern blast, This wintry day : else might we say ' Surely the Summer comes at last ! ' So pure the air is, after rain ; The sunshine, at midnoon, Doth emulate some early morn Or silvery eve, in June. With filmy azure is all heaven suffused : A sheeny green floor strewed with sparkles bright, The restless bay dwells in a calm unused, Below the grassy down's impending height, Which seems to topple to its fall, o'er cliffs of sun-gilt white. The still seems moving, and the moving still. Illusions both, but Heaven-born to please, And all the dark recesses of my soul, Not oft so full at ease, i 4 LYRICS AND BALLADS Invades the sunlight of a rich content ; As deep, and yet as transient a joy, As Nature feigns o'er all the firmament ; Feigns, for already fleeting gusts annoy The patient elms, and lo ! the dulling North Speeds mist and cloudy silvers racing forth ; Fierce foam rips up the sea, the sunshine pales Moment by moment ; bitterer strikes the blast, Brown leaves fall fluttering down, ships lower sails, And arrowy sleet-flakes dizzily flash past. I seek the shelter of my stone-grey home, And through my heart old griefs begin to roam. THE CHILD AND THE COMET 15 THE CHILD AND THE COMET IN the year of the great comet Long, long ago ; one night, My mother lifted me from sleep, A babe, in childish fright. And it was past the midnight hour, All London's clamour still : She drew the blind, and lifted high The window from the sill. She wrapt me in her Shetland shawl, And holding to the bars Of my small cot, I first beheld The glory of the stars. 4 Look, baby, at the comet strange You may not see again : And those three stars, Orion's belt, And these, of Charles's Wain ! ' She loved me well, she meant it well, But on my infant soul, So late from Heaven unknowing come, A nameless terror stole. 1 6 LYRICS AND BALLADS Too deep the wonder and the awe : * Oh what may this portend ? And is the world, so new to me, Already near its end ? ' And I had eyes for nothing save The comet's glittering trail ; It held in thrall my straining sight And made my cheek grow pale. A bird of passage, young and weak And tired, in some strange land, But just alighted, so felt I, But for my mother's hand. CORNFIELDS 17 CORNFIELDS IN among the wheat-ears, Waving elbow-high, Little prayers for sunshine Whispering to the sky, In among the poppies and corn-flowers in the straw, I waited and I listened, I wondered and I saw. 1 8 LYRICS AND BALLADS THE BALLAD OF RICHMODIS A LEGEND OF OLD COLOGNE WHEN in Cologne the plague was loose It counted each tenth soul ; Of marriage-bed and maidenhead Alike, it had a toll. Rich heritage and poor old age, The gay and the unkempt, The wise, the fool, the child at school, Alike were not exempt. 3 To Mengis von Aducht's house it came And entered not by door, But as thieves by stealth go plundering wealth Clomb to the chamber floor. THE BALLAD OF RICHMODIS 19 4 For among her children three Richmodis dwelt in fear : The fair young wife, who, more than life Was to Sir Mengis dear. 5 She heard no creaking of the latch ; Through the casement open blown ; A chilly breath like the shadow of death Richmodis felt alone. 6 say \s ' Go forth, my little ones, and play : You need not quiet keep ; When you tire of play, to your father Mother is fast asleep.' 7 Richmodis on her wedding-bed Lay in her beauty's flower : Her tears were few, though well she knew She might not live an hour. She blessed her husband and her babes, Called on Christ crucified ; Across her breast her hands she pressed And then, her-seemed, she died. 20 LYRICS AND BALLADS 9 Sir Mengis rode alone all day, A hunting in the wild : When at evenfall he reached his hall There came his eldest child ; 10 Pale Ermengarde, with tear-wet eyes, And * Father dear,' she said, ' Mother doth keep so fast asleep, We children are afraid.' ii The heart of Sir Mengis stood stock-still, His cheek was pale as ice : He strode before the chamber door And burst it in a trice. 12 And there, her eyes wide open still, Laid on her wedding-bed, He saw his wife, as fair as life, But pale and cold and dead. 13 * Oh that the plague would seize us too ! Me and my children three. And were it not I guard their lot, Dead by her side I'd be ! ' THE BALLAD OF RICHMODIS 21 14 He chafed her with his strong warm hands, To warm her chilly breast ; He kissed her with his soft warm lips Upon her bosom pressed. And through her marble body warmth From his embracing stole : She could but stare, though full aware God gave her back her soul. 16 But not a flutter of the pulse, Or motion of a limb, Or lips to speak, or flush of cheek, Gave any hope to him. He lit a candle at her head, And a candle at her feet : * Sweet, for thy shrift thy wedding-shift Shall be thy winding-sheet. * None touched thee in thy life, save I, None else may touch thee dead ! Thee for the grave my hands shall lave And dress thy golden head. 22 LYRICS AND BALLADS 19 * Not even my hand shall close thine eyes ! Thus, till I come to thee, And ask for room in thy narrow tomb, Shall they keep watch for me ! 20 * Still shalt thou wear thy wedding-ring That so it may be known, Till time shall be I rest with thee I still am all thine own ! ' 21 Richmodis with her eyes beheld And knew his deeds of love : Nay every word Richmodis heard, And yet she could not move. 22 No priest would come to pray for her, No wise physician came, Who might perchance have staved her trance ;- None dared a coffin frame : Sir Mengis with his own hands laid Her in her wedding-chest ; Since all had fear to come anear The chosen of the pest. THE BALLAD OF RICHMODIS 23 24 And when the sullen morning rose He led his horses twain, Which side by side they used to ride And yoked them to his wain. And so to the Apostles' Church The living-dead conveyed : And feared, though banned, with sword in hand He forced the sexton's aid. 26 When last he threw the chest-lid up, To kiss her, lying cold, The sexton gazed with eyes amazed At her ring of massy gold. 27 They laid her in the narrow tomb Under the paven floor : No bell might toll for that sweet soul Laid there for evermore. 28 But in the dark hours of the night Befell an evil thing : With greed aflame, the sexton came, To steal the golden ring. 24 LYRICS AND BALLADS 29 Lo ! when his earthy fingers touched The living-dead's white hand, A thrill of shame flushed through her frame, And she could speak and stand ! The felon sexton, grey with dread, Made off, with haggard eyes : Richmodis rose, as one who knows Nor terror, nor surprise : 3' But like an angel doing God's will, Richmodis reached the door : The moonlight faint threw blazoning quaint Athwart the musty floor. 32 But when she saw the open street, Where the wind was sleeting cold, * O Christ ! ' she prayed, ' give aid, give aid ! To reach my own threshold ! 33 * My feet are bare, my limbs are numb, This thin silk shift is all I have to hide and warm my side, Till I reach my husband's hall ! ' THE BALLAD OF RICHMODIS 25 34 Her-seemed she heard command in Heaven, And lo ! from church to hall, The cold moon-ray shone warm as day, And her feet were not let fall. 35 A moment at the guarded gate She stayed, to hear the hour : Their due twelve times the midnight chimes Tolled from the belfry tower. 36 Richmodis then with both her hands The heavy knocker strook : But long must wait till through the grille Her maid should dare to look. 37 * O Amchen ! open straight to me ! In God's name open straight ! ' But like one lost, who sees a ghost, The girl fled from the gate. 38 * O master ! master ! come and see, Some ghost is here outside ! ' He weened it were the shade of her Which but so lately died. 26 LYRICS AND BALLADS 39 And shuddering to the porch he went : * Who stands there, in God's name ? ' * 'Tis I, thy wife ! God grants me life, Lock me not out, for shame ! ' 40 1 How canst thou be Richmodis mine I buried yestermorn ? My horses twain, it were as vain To dream, would leave their corn, 4' * And stumble up the winding-stair, And from the garret gaze, As that she could slide the stone aside, Two men could hardly raise ! ' But while he spake a noise arose, And up the winding-stair His horses twain (nor spur nor rein To guide them) sped like air. 43 And from the garret window gazed And whinnied welcome true. Those guileless eyes with no surprise, Their living mistress knew. THE BALLAD OF RICHMODIS 27 44 Sir Mengis loosened bolt and bar And took her to his heart : * Nor fraud nor spell, nor grave nor hell Us two shall ever part ! ' 28 LYRICS AND BALLADS MOODS ONLY the ear Attuned, can hear: Only the heart Full-throbbed, hath part In that devising of delight, Which master-spirits glean from light Of sunny day and summer night. Go, lovely dream ! Thou art not mine ! In thy embrace, O sprite divine ! I lie a space, Yet am not thine ! MAY AND NOVEMBER 29 MAY AND NOVEMBER THE flame in the ember Is blent and abated ; May with November 'Tis hard should be mated. The sunshine of Summer Is gold on the cornfields : The sunshine of Winter Pales on the shorn fields. Truth, love and duty Age honoureth, lonely : Youth, love and beauty Mate with youth only. 30 LYRICS AND BALLADS ASPIRATIONS O GIVE me of your laughter, O give me of your tears ! To me, who have no sorrow, To me, who know no joy. My spirit laggeth after The meteor flame of yours ; O fling me light from Heaven An aureole for mine ! The roof which hath no rafter, The empyrean arch, Will I escale and vanquish, When love shall spur my flight. TWO LIVES 31 TWO LIVES WE linked ourselves in lealdom, My maiden bride and I ; Together in life's morning, Together in the noon, Together in the gloaming We wait the night so nigh. Oh, gay was our adventure, To battle through life's whirl, Together, nothing doubting Since I was bold and young, And she so bravely happy, My lithe and lovely girl ! We played upon the mountains, We toiled upon the plains ; We climbed the seas of trouble, And overrode them all ; And now we reaped a harvest, And now we lost our pains. 32 LYRICS AND BALLADS And we have known the desert, Unkind to man and brute, And we have seen mirages, And found the bitter lakes, Where garish is the blossom And savourless the fruit. Together we have sorrowed, Together were we blest, And Death has dogged our traces, Relented and turned back ; Together we have wandered Together may we rest ! NONPAREILLE 33 NONPAREILLE THE west wind kisseth and enfoldeth her With warm and loving breath : the waves are proud That in her glance they fail upon the strand : The sun is grateful that he shines on her, Whose shadow is beloved of the sward : And where she treads, the daisies gladly die. For me she hath no name, but only ' Joy ' ! No parentage this wonder of the world. So let her come, so let her pass away, As one fair morn between two months of gloom ! Oh, thus the Aurora 'mid the Arctic snows Is born in beauty, yet is not of them ; So leaps a melody from lips unseen ; Yet the enraptured ear bids no renewal When the last cadence's fruition fades ; Thus, once for all, Love bares imperious eyes, Which, when they close, are never lit again. 34 LYRICS AND BALLADS A COLLEEN LOCKS that might be spun of the night, And eyes of forget-me-not blue, Lips like rose of the sunrise glows ; I have lost my heart to you. ROSA MISERICORDISE 35 ROSA MISERICORDISE TAKE this rose, and tell it nothing ; Let it lean upon your breast. It will listen, it will listen, To the secrets of your heart. As it fainteth, as it fadeth ; As it fainteth, as it fadeth ; It will wonder, it will question, c Who could envy human life ? ' As it fadeth, as it dieth ; As it fadeth, as it dieth ; It will give its all its odour, Pitying, to its human friend. 36 LYRICS AND BALLADS MNEMOSYNE MEMORY, Mnemosyne ! Mother of the Muses nine, What capricious ear is thine For those who venture prayers to thee ? Mortals of Deucalion's line. Memory, Mnemosyne ! Kiss our foreheads let us dream, Breathe about our ears the theme, Then the Muses' gifts will be Tune and song and wonder-gleam. Memory, Mnemosyne ! Little claim we of our own, Men had only hearts of stone ! Were it not for thine and thee, Pebble stones at random thrown. HOPE IN CHANGE 37 HOPE IN CHANGE SINGING for sorrow, And singing for joy, Poets can borrow Hope from annoy ; Pain has a morrow, Joy has an eve, In the night, there is light, Could we only believe. 38 LYRICS AND BALLADS POEMS OF FLOWERS THE FOXGLOVE JULY'S flower-calendar, fair foxglove, hid In some sequestered wayside nook, or dell Of woody cover, thy tall slender spire Hung round with bells of pinkish purple white,- Which tinkle only to the spirit's ear, Now the boon month is quickening to its end, Thy count of blossom shed records our loss. So many days of summer past and gone ! Now only near the swaying topmost bud A few last blossoms hang disconsolate, And downcast seem to gaze at Mother Earth, With passive resignation, knowing soon They too will mingle with the dusty sod, And the fair plant will seed and die, and shrink Down to the buried root for winter sleep ; To rise again, once warm with April rains. POEMS OF FLOWERS 39 POEMS OF FLOWERS LOVE-IN-A-MIST LOVE-IN-A-MIST, verdoyant haze of leaves, Half-hiding petals blue as April skies, You picture me a Northern maiden's eyes Wistfully gazing, under cottage eaves. From open casements, jasmine-garlanded. Eyes that could pierce the tomb and wake the dead With utter tenderness, and that sweet yearning Of love that see'th most when least discerning. 40 LYRICS AND BALLADS POEMS OF FLOWERS THE PANSY, OR HEART*S EASE PENSEE in French, Heart's Ease in English tongue ; Two beauteous names, not more than thy desert, Soul-cheering flow' ret, never malapert, But archly innocent and gaily young ! What is it in thy quaint face which appeals To man and maid alike ; and conjures thought Of absent loved ones, and gives peace unsought, Now wistful tenderness, now the trust that heals ? For me, my dainty pansy, fixed and sure The answer is, thy soul and aspect seem More lovely than a chance look would betray ; As of some sweet maid in true love secure, Whose large eyes turn on those who only dream Of love, and toward love's day-dawn light the way. THE BEST SURVIVES 41 THE BEST SURVIVES As, when the forest flameth, Fire flits from fir to fir, And shrivels all ; yet not avails The stout oak's heart to stir ; As the Persian host razed Athens, And the Turk tore stone from stone, But still austerely fair remains Erect, the Parthenon : So mankind's generations Pass, deaf and dumb and blind ; Yet one firm founded monument Survives immortal Mind. 42 LYRICS AND BALLADS DEJECTION AH me ! the quick succeeding years Filch one by one the joys of life ! As the old charger scenting strife, Though stiff of limb, pricks up his ears, And wonders why his hero knight Has left him browsing in the mead, And saddled him a younger steed To face the trenchant of the fight ; And so he stops before the hedge, Which once he would have brushed aside, Neighs enviously, for wounded pride ; Then stoops to crop the scanty sedge ; I, too, am summoned by a voice Unheard of others, to repeat Some strenuous act, some daring feat, But yesterday within my choice To do or leave undone ; but now A strain beyond my waning strength, A race of far too great a length For slackening stride and troubled brow. DEJECTION 43 No more I helm the slanting sail And quivering hull from wave to wave, No more, where avalanches rave, On Alpine peaks, the sun I hail. Stirrup and bridle tempt me not, Art, nerve and lures desert my foil, No pleasure comes of over-toil : Ah me ! these joys are best forgot. LYRICS AND BALLADS GASTEINER THAL GASTEINER THAL, by mountain monsters guarded, Like tranced maiden in a magic tale, When the sun finds and kisses thee, fair vale, With what a waking smile is he rewarded ! A wandering bard, who caught that smile and kept it Locked in the treasure-chamber of his mind, To make return in rhyme-gold is inclined, Before Italian beauties intercept it. Thy comely brow is pillowed on the snows, Adown thy slender neck the cataract Pulses like life's-blood towards a maiden breast ; Thy piney tresses, harbouring repose, Thy skirts, which broidered blossom never lacked, Fit with choice beauty, shyly half-confessed. OF VIOLETS 45 OF VIOLETS TO V. M. EXACTLY when, with shy and dewy glances, The pristine Violet captured early Man, History tells in none of her romances, But probably in Eden first they met : She playing her pretty part in Nature's plan, While Adam, as a gardener, had full leisure, To bathe his soul in pure aesthetic pleasure, And Eve was choosing scents for her toilette. Great must have been the mutual attraction, Or such a blameless bud of Paradise Would not have joined the party of reaction And left warm Eden for climes cold and wet, Unless, by impulse natural as nice, The seraph with the flaming sword permitted The graceless Adam, whom he rather pitied, To root your forebears up, dear Violet ! With them, I fancy, also played the truant The snowdrop, emblem of a pure white youth ; Of Eden origin one sign concluant Is how he scorns the seasons that are set 46 LYRICS AND BALLADS For coarser blooms, and pushes up, like Truth Defying Falsehood, flouting altogether The worst behaviour of the wintriest weather : True mates ye seem in this, my Violet ! Each may attend upon the Queen of Roses, But not, I think, on any meaner flower. When I perceive you tied in vulgar posies With commoners like stocks or mignonette, My heart is woe ; but still more doth it glower To see your pure blooms dragged to lower levels And used despighteously in orgic revels, Then thrown aside and on the dust-heap set ! But poets, artists, all of noble quality, In brief, the pride of all our human-kind, Worship the Violet's dear personality. A duchess, be she blondine or brunette, Possessing diamonds which a saint would blind To Heaven, let him protest never so loudly, Wears on her heart a bunch of violets proudly, But only on her brow her coronet. A TIROL VALLEY 47 A TIROL VALLEY DEAR Tirol valley, keen of air, like wine Cooled in the making, up among the snows Dusted on peaks where Edelweiss yet grows, Often for thee in London shall I pine, And the mild glances of thy yokeling kine, With whom the stubborn ploughshare willing goes, When gathered harvesting the bare land shows, And grapes are mellowing on the scanty vine. Thy peasant homes to me are gay and dear, Their cheerful balconies, their shadowy eaves ; What if the wind's awhirl with tarnished leaves ? King Winter's running-footmen, more 's the cheer They promise, now that burying snows are near, Warm harbour proffer they to men and beeves When that harsh monarch the poor vale bereaves Of all hobnobbing with the out-world drear : And eloquent thy homely church I find, Dear vale, its humble mimicry of art, Bought with scant coin, to stir the pious heart 48 LYRICS AND BALLADS Of simple peasantry, as well designed As any masterwork of Grecian mind, Or aught that Gothic sculptors could impart To wood and stone, transfigured, till we start To feel their skill, a marvel in its kind. If, screened by mountains, the reluctant sun Leaves half the valley half the year in shade, No matter ! Ye have ploughed and sown and prayed, Each year since tillage here was first begun, Ye patient hamlet fathers, doubting none But that once more the sun would melt blockade And new grass peep, buds burgeon in the glade, And yet another harvest would be won. But while my soul is charmed by mountains grey, With armies of the pine-wood overgrown, Alive and rustling in the morning-sheen, Where cheery peasants chant the livelong day, Why do mine eyes grow dim and thoughts go stray, And other memories throng in between, And move my heart to yearning blest and keen, Fair native land, for thee so far away ? Deep would I draw one breath of Yorkshire free, Half sea-whiff and half moorland heather, now, From leagues of purple on that misty brow A TIROL VALLEY 49 Where Ravenscar juts out into the sea ! And dear are Dorset's windy downs to me, Where the white cliffs of Swanage, like a prow, Stem the unsleeping surge, and therebelow Shelter the cosy townlet under lee ! 50 LYRICS AND BALLADS THE NEGLECTED PORTRAIT AN IDYLL A poRTRAiT-painter loved a girl, whose beauty Words could not hint, or colours match ; her grace Transcended wonder ; those who looked on her, With introspecting vision, deemed her form The incarnation of some tropic blossom, Wherein all sunshine gathered in a flame, Which through a lantern-film of lucent flesh Glowed ardent ; she, as it were, an altar-shrine, And he, the flower of manhood, her arch-priest. Withal her voice was gracious, and her talk, Womanly, not too grave, and not too thin. Close friends were they from April into June, Fair-harboured in a garden-hid pavilion, With rose and honeysuckle intertwined, There, where the Alpine mountains cool their feet In thy capricious waters, Garda Lake. Their souls, to him it seemed, were in accord So close, that nought could jar the unison ; THE NEGLECTED PORTRAIT 51 And when she had sat to him seven brief hours in all, Upon as many days, and he had painted A miniature vision of her face, Wherein, love helping his consummate skill, Her image was more lovely than herself, He thought, ' What gift can please her more than this ? Done by my hand, a miracle of art, A champion of her beauty 'gainst all time ? To-morrow is her birthday we shall see.' Late in the morning, when the sun grew warm, He came in from the garden, clad in white, The lover and the artist in the man Transfiguring him, so that he looked and moved Heroic, if her eyes had only seen ; But combing her strange red-gold locks she sat ; Her gaze averted from the garden door. He pressed unheard into the morning-room, And kissed her, suddenly, bending from behind, Upon the immaculate splendour of her brow. She kissed in turn, uplooking, with her head Thrown back, and seeing some small thing in his hand, Said : ' What do you bring me as a birthday gift?' 52 LYRICS AND BALLADS ' My queen of heaven ! ' he said, ' my perfect one, Time after time I have given you little jewels, Chosen with care and beautiful in their kind, But now to-day I think I owe you this, Done with my own hand, and all life's whole art And all my lover's soul instilled in it.' And so he set the portrait in her palm. But she, expecting to have seen a gem Sapphirine, opal, ruby or emerald, Set round perhaps with pearls of Orient, Gave a slight start ; and in that moment it seemed To him as if a little chilly cloud Had come between him and the morning sun. And then came other words than she had ready, And other far than those he hoped and longed for, A little coldly and uncertainly : * Oh, thank you ! what a wonderful surprise ! The face looks so much better in the frame You thought, perhaps, I helped, by sitting to you, And ought to have reward Yes, yes, it 's like me ; But have you caught the colour of my hair ? And are the eyes as large and limpid as mine? You smile ! I 'm often told they 're large and limpid. Thank you, my dear, I '11 take great care of it, And I am proud because it 's our joint work.' THE NEGLECTED PORTRAIT 53 So saying, she put the matchless work of art In a compartment in her dressing-case, And snapped the lock. To him it seemed as if The disc of the moon were creeping o'er the sun, At midday. Sullen-yellow seemed the sky, And a chill seemed to invade his very heart. At last he gathered words. ' I 'm glad it pleases you, Even with some defects, how could it bear Direct comparison my love with you ? But you are the only one in all the world To whom it should be better than any mirror. Still if some other gift would please you more, Say so, our minds are open to one another, My only wish is you should love my gift. And since an artist such as I, perforce, Is something of a bargainer in this world, I make no silly boast in telling you, The trifle 's valuable, as such things go/ And still the eclipse kept stealing o'er his heart. She flung a sharp glance on him, and reaching out Snapped open her dressing-case, and took the portrait Softly between her smooth and waxen fingers, Which never worked, save for her person's care. ' Valuable ? ' she said, ' I never thought of that. Of course / couldn't sell it : but you could. 54 LYRICS AND BALLADS That is, my dear, suppose you wished to do so ! ' And the eclipse was total in his heart. He said : The work is of my very best : The fruit of all my life of art is there. The painting has the inner light of love ; Yet it must fade. A picture, scarcely dry, Falls ever back a little from its best, And this is no exception. 'Well, the value Of such a masterpiece of my hand, just now, Is equal to a pile of sterling gold Such as would make that spray of diamonds yours You coveted.' ' Oh,' cried she, clapping her hands, * Then it will buy me just the thing I want Our joint work you yourself of course can sell it And possibly get something for yourself. How sweet you are, to do such things for me ! My darling ! ' ' Very well,' he said, * then be it so !' And the eclipse drew slowly past his heart. But that same week these two went opposite ways, And never met again. OCTOBER 55 OCTOBER KIND is the season of the year, And mellow for the furrows ; October, sending woods to sleep And beasties to their burrows. Hark ! puppies yelping through the brake, Bode Reynard's offspring trouble, And now the shooters, right and left, Are busy in the stubble. The woods are raining gold and red, When breezes brush their tresses, And every hedge, with Autumn hues, The seeing eye caresses. Now bryony, with scarlet balls, Hath ivy-green for fellow, And hips and haws and holly shine Red through the brambles yellow. With glory of uncounted blooms The garden 's yet a tangle : There for the primest honey-sweets The busy insects wrangle. 56 LYRICS AND BALLADS With asters, roses, mangolds, Sweet-peas and stocks and daisies, Valerian and golden-rod, Each bed a very maze is. And up, around, and in between Climbs gay nasturtium blossom, With purple-blue convolvulus bells : Blow ! soft south-winds, and toss 'em ! For every eve of dying airs, Of calm and drowsy gloaming, We dread the sunshine 's gone for good, And killing frost is coming. Now push the oak-log on the hearth, And closely draw the curtain ; Of merry dreams to-night, at least, I '11 try to make quite certain. So, Mary, bring a brace of trout, Then serve the young cock-pheasant I shot last Wednesday, whizzing from The spinney of Mount Pleasant. Bring up the 'eighty-seven port, The walnuts and the medlars ; Let pork regale the yokel sort And porter fuddle pedlars. OCTOBER 57 Soon as the bubbling coffee 's drawn, Light me a mild Havana : And now for dreams ! and first of all, Of sea-rocked, home-bound Anna ! Sweet Anna ! through the mist of tears, Which hangs about my eyesight, I see myself again a boy, Who sought to shine in thy sight. What matters if the year and I Are each in our October? I hear a singing in the air Not for the tamely sober. Thanks, kindly rill of Paradise ! My pint of 'eighty-seven : For just a glimpse of Anna's eyes, Deep, dark and bright as heaven ! 58 LYRICS AND BALLADS HEROES ALWAYS ! WE have outlived our fathers, our forerunners ; We are much older : They, some say, were bolder : And hardier : they would fight and bleed Where we flinch and slack our heed. We are no match for Nelson's gunners, Or the squares of Waterloo, Cry the croakers Is it true ? There are none better than the best ! Great is our debt indeed To those who stood the test In Britain's hour of need : There are none better than the best ! Yet, as we once had heroes, So have we heroes now ; No feebler we of sinew, And we are the broader of brow : Dare we lag behind the best ? SONG 59 SONG AN ODE SONG am I, and I am the child Of camp and home, and court and wild, Of seaman, hunter, soldier, slave, And King and Queen, and man and wife, In joy and grief and peace and strife : And now I hush a babe asleep, And now I thrill the minster nave To glorify a martyr's grave ; And now I chant athwart the deep To speed the ship for peace or war, and spur to arms the brave. I was before, and not till after Was Music born, with Love and Laughter. On mortal breath I took my wing, Long ere with pipe or string Musicians played harmonious parts : Long before language grew, Fire- new and fresh I flew From the free lips of men and their free hearts. 60 LYRICS AND BALLADS Lowly I began : Rough the first man, Striding, rejoicing, through the sunless forest ways ; Chanting his uncouth lays ; Words had they few yet a meaning : Wild was the woman, clad in her long hair, Crooning to her youngling in the rock-set lair, Crooning to her youngling till the weaning. Harsh-mouthed was I, In the beginning ; But when the measured word Once the dour spademan heard, With his woman at her spinning ; In their loves, and in their labour, To the din of pipe and tabor, To the swaying of the dance, To the shaking of the lance, I, Song, the Heaven-sped, Unto proud Verse was wed ; Were seldom bride or groom so worth the winning ! Lo ! and then the sisters three, Music, Dance and Poesy, Came, bearing each a gift supreme To seal our union divine : Such gift as only poets dream, They of the Muse's chosen line. SONG 6 i For few indeed were great bards ever Prevailing by their proud endeavour, To sing amid the silence of their brothers ; Who by loyal acclamation, Yielding tacit admiration Accorded them the place above all others. Yet these few, and they their peers, Through the mazes of the years, Millenniums ere father Homer touched the lyre, Boldly championed the true While in Art they sought the new, In ever-changing moods of song, ablaze with heavenly fire. Nameless, alack ! they rest On the Earth Mother's frigid breast Beneath forgotten cities, in the deserts and the seas : Fame for them was brittle, Gold gat they little, Art only their reward and song alone their ease. Yet men desist not, New bards resist not The magic and the spelldom of my charms, I, Song undying, Lead with banners flying, And souls of high poets leap to arms. 62 LYRICS AND BALLADS Let whatever come, I, Song, will not be dumb. Brother of joy, and brother, too, of sorrow. Hymning and chanting, Heartening and haunting, Glad with men to-day, and sad, perchance, to- morrow ! Let Life's order alter, Art and Learning falter, And new men wild men be ; Tenting on the good land, Hiding in the wood-land, Listen yet, listen yet for me ! For I will sing where the mountain flocks Are tended by the free, And I will sing with the fisher-folk By the mystery of the sea, And I will sing where man may live By plough or nomadry. Till the sun starves out and the stars grow dim, And Earth lies cold and stark, When the Universe flashes to fiery dust, And the flame of Life is dark. JOCK THE ROVER 63 JOCK THE ROVER (FOUNDED ON THE OLD FRENCH POEM OF * JEAN RENAUD') WHEN Jock the Rover won to land, Hiding his death-wound under his hand, His old blind mother knew his tread, And ' Welcome ! son of mine,' she said, ' For joy you bring to the house of joy, Your bonny wife has borne a boy.' ' Ah, mother ! not my bonny wife, Nor yet my bairn may glad my life, For I grow cold in the clutch of Death ! Lay me a bed for my last breath, But lay it softly, mother dear, That so my wife may never hear.' And at ebb of tide and at midnight's toll, Jock the Rover breathed out his soul. * O tell me quickly, mother dear, What hammering noise is that I hear ? ' 64 LYRICS AND BALLADS * Sweet my son's wife, that 's no more Than the carpenter come to mend the door.' * O tell me soothly, mother dear, What doleful chant is this I hear ? ' * Sweet my daughter, that 's no more Than a beggar whining at the door.' * O tell me truly, mother dear, What sobs and moans are those I hear ? ' * My darling, that 's no less, nor more, Than a mother mourning the babe she bore.' * Then tell me wherefore, mother dear, Your own eyes drip with tear on tear ? ' * Alack ! because I cannot hide The grave is dug for Jock that died ! ' ' O mother ! speak the sexton true That he shall dig the grave for two, And in my coffin let there be Room for my bairn as well as me ! ' MEDITATIVE POEMS AND ELEGIES PERPLEXITY ARE these Thy ways, all-ruling God, Only to breathe whose name were crime If once, in all the lapse of Time, One mortal in Thy presence trod, And knew, in awe Are these Thy ways, To crush the good, to quell the just, To lay the beautiful in dust, And so exalt the foul and base ? If this be true, then must we bend Sad brows, and own our ' right ' and * wrong ' Mere human fancies, which belong But to the means, and not the end : The world a parlous ford for souls, By which they reach that further side Of life's cold river purified, And tempered to their perfect wholes. 68 MEDITATIVE POEMS AND ELEGIES LINES TO ONE DEAD HER locks were of the twilight, Her cheek was of the rose, Her gait was as through Paradise An angel-maiden goes. There blew a black blast out of the North Her body quailed her soul came forth, Shining through her stricken frame ! Heaven called her by her earthly name, And she made answer, unafraid, * When hath Thy servant disobeyed ? ' And now she treads in Paradise The meads I may not see ; Yet well I know, yet well I know, The flowers beneath her light foot blow And are not crushed, like me ! THE BREATH OF THE UNIVERSE 69 THE BREATH OF THE UNIVERSE MEN and women, what are we ? Pan-pipes blown by destiny. Ah, the agonising tunes ! Riddle-music writ in runes, Descanting superhuman themes, Lit with laughter, dark with screams ! Ever blows the mighty breath, Scarce divine we what it saith : Snatches of discordant airs Mock our ears and cheat our prayers. Hard indeed is felt the curse, This breathing of the Universe, Through such throbbing reeds as we, Souls of men and women, be. 70 MEDITATIVE POEMS AND ELEGIES TIME So smoothly runs the restless tide of Time That of its motion take we little care, So gently borne ; till suddenly aware, Perhaps by noise of some cathedral chime From towers ahead, not seen yet, or by loss Of some familiar landmark, left astern, We in life's barque, which never may return, Take thought of that wild bar, too soon to cross. May it be quiet then, and no wave toss Our placid barque, so little fit for sea ; And may the haven, which we long for, be A kindly host, although our freight be dross, And we poor mariners ; yet willing then New seas to adventure, tried and riper men. A DREAM OF A DEAD STATESMAN A SUDDEN vision took my soul, unwarned, At break of night, when birds acclaim the dawn (Though not till after knew I place and hour), And in this wise : I, moving in a dream, Oblivious, purposeless and unaware, Entered a sunny chamber, where there sat A form to me familiar as my own. The face was turned away, but as I neared He rose : the shape and features of a friend I knew : his very presence, in his prime. He rose, and held each hand of mine in his, With glad accost, his lips astir with smiles, While his blue eyes intently looked in mine. So have I seen him often on the sea, Curbing the helm through tumult of the waves, Or striding at my side the flying wheel, Through lanes alight with glory of the May ; Or else in eager mood among my guests. And I addressed him, living man to man, By once familiar name, now rarely heard. 72 MEDITATIVE POEMS AND ELEGIES But even in the utterance, meseemed A mortal anguish recked his quivering frame. And in a mute appeal his eyes were set. Then with drooped eyelids, pale, he swayed and leaned On me, and wordless, faded from my arms, And I was ware of commune with the dead. But spirit unto spirit speaketh not With earthly language, and his silent gaze Told, as one saith, ' I fought a fight that failed, But nobly failed ; and by a chance blow felled, Am reft of hope that, once the fight retrieved, I might be one with heroes, and again Strive in the van, untiring, undismayed. Knows then thy muse no music, and no verse, O friend and poet, that unhallowed thus, Among the living, I unheeded wait ? ' CLAUSTRAL FAITH 73 CLAUSTRAL FAITH LINES SUGGESTED BY A PASSAGE OF c LA CITE DES LAMPES,' A TALE BY CLAUDE SILVE WHEN cloistered nuns, brides-maiden of their Lord, And rapt in holy trance and voiceless prayer, Lift from their hearts the load of worldly care By kneeling at the Cross of the Adored, (Which, as they dream, He bore to earn their grace,) And making light of God's fair universe, Morn, noon and even the same tale rehearse, And scourge the body and conceal the face, And so behind the bolts themselves have barred, Themselves by voluntary vows immure, On faith reliant, and in faith secure, And all the outworld's jangling disregard : What if the rock of their reliance fail ? A flimsy phantom, reared on shifting sands : Poor shelter gives a house not made with hands, Against the flood, the lightning and the hail. 74 MEDITATIVE POEMS AND ELEGIES Yet even so, what matter if they err, These worshippers of transcendental light ? What matter, to the blind man if 'tis night, Whose eyelids, closed on day-dreams, never stir? In our own souls alone the sun may shine : The radiant splendour of no dawn is true, Save that which gleams athwart the trackless blue, Vaulting the dusk world of the soul divine. And surely, though in splendid error born, The faith of these poor nuns no shock destroys, Already through this life it earns them joys, And other truth, save peace of mind, they scorn. SONNETS TO DEATH SONNETS TO DEATH DEATH ! when we dare to look thee in the face, If that be face, where caverns mimic eyes ; That fleshless mask, where pity nor surprise Nor aught of human sympathy hath place : No more, blind executioner ! we dread Thy sudden, or thy long-impending dart, Painless, or grateful to a bleeding heart ; Since a time comes when all would fain be dead. Yet must we sorrow, when by God's decree, Inscrutable, some friendship thou hast wracked, Or slain a hero loved with worship wild ; Some beauty rare, some full brain, wise and free, But yet more hateful art thou, Death, in act To steal a tender mother from her child. 76 MEDITATIVE POEMS AND ELEGIES SONNETS TO DEATH ii WHAT consolation holds thy witless claw, Death ! thou dumb slave of God, who canst not tell One secret of thy Master's : if to hell, Or heaven, thy victim journeys by His law ? Most who live long discern life's doubtful worth ; Since to the vulgar life is but a toy, Or unloved yoke-fellow no fount of joy Why should these dread return to Mother Earth ? Unless they be great sinners. But the wise, Who draw from life all store it hath of pleasure, And bear with fortitude its many pains ; These know how blest is he that youthful dies, And how at last, when life holds no more treasure, Old men may count even Death among their gains. ANDREW LANG 77 ANDREW LANG DEATH, hast thou torn from us dear Andrew Lang ! Like sudden frost in Autumn comes the news That by his urn of dust the kindly Muse Hath set the genius with the torch. A pang Clutches my heart when I reflect what load Of years I bear since first with joy we met. And now it is too late, oh ! what regret ! As one who, travelling an accustomed road, Noteth one day a new-extinguished hearth, That not more often by its welcoming fire I stepped aside to warm my grateful hands : And now the house is cold and bleak the garth. Yet deem not that those friendly flames expire ! Hearths wait for spirit fires in many lands. 78 MEDITATIVE POEMS AND ELEGIES SOULS EARNED, NOT GIVEN WHEN we are born to breathe a separate breath, Perfect in shape, yet helpless human elves, With vaguest cognisance of having selves, Beginning travel toward the goal of death ; How can we match the quick-maturing young Of lower creatures, which from that same day Of birth can run and leap and fight and play, Though, like ourselves, they need the sustenance wrung From milky motherhood ? Who then may dare Affirm God gave each helpless human child A spark of immortality, reserved From other lives that breathe the common air ? Surely must men to hope be reconciled That God may one day grant a soul deserved ? GOD-GUIDED 79 GOD-GUIDED MY soul is always near to God, For, if I understand, Though I am but a nameless flower, God gardeneth the land. If I am but a falcon lone, God lifts me in the air ; A sterlet, finning through the main ; The deep is God's own lair. A gem within a mountain's womb : God's eye thereto can see : A shooting star in empty space : God still directeth me. God gave to man free-will, but not Strength to mature his ends. The foot that follows in God's ways May slip, yet not offends. And if I sin in thought or deed, I am God's erring child : And though His chiding sear my heart, Yet His reproof is mild. TRANSLATIONS FROM HORACE PHAEDRUS AND SAPPHO HORACE OD. II. l6 REST is the seaman's one desire When o'er the wide Aegean tost, Clouds darkly hide from him the moon, And all his guiding stars are lost. For rest the war-worn veteran aches : O Grosphus ! rest : which neither gold, Nor gems, nor robes of state secure ; Rest : which is neither bought nor sold ! Not even pride of civic power, And riches even less avail, To soothe vexations of the soul, And cares which palace-doors assail. Happy the man who sits content, With earthen dish and frugal fare, Beside his father's board his rest Is never troubled with a care. 84 TRANSLATIONS Why, in our trivial span of life Are we so busy ? why roam we Through countries lit by alien suns ; Though exiles, from ourselves not free ? Care climbs the prows of battleships, Care rides with every troop of horse, More swift than stags, more swift than clouds, Flung by the mad south-wester's force. If only happy one short hour, Why need our souls look far and wide ? With smiles let sorrow be assuaged ! What life has no unhappy side ? Death stole Achilles, bright and young, While sad old age Tithonus knew : And haply Time shall spare for me The years he may deny to you. A hundred fleecy flocks are yours, A hundred herds low round your hall : And racers whinny through the parks, That grace a princedom yours are all. To me, Fate, offering no false hope, Has but a modest farm allowed, The rare breath of the Grecian muse, And sense to shun the carping crowd. THE FROG AND THE BULL 85 THE FROG AND THE BULL PHAEDRUS A FROG once in a meadow spied a bull, And struck with jealousy of such vast size Blew out her pimply skin before her brood : * Now, am I bigger than the bull ? ' she cried : 4 Why no ! ' said they ; with effort and with pain She puffs her hide, and asks her brood again : ' Now, which is bigger ? ' * Why/ they say, * the bull.' Stung to the quick, she blows herself too full, And dies, poor reptile, bursting with the strain. 86 TRANSLATIONS SAPPHO'S ODE TO APHRODITE GLORIOUS-THRONED, immortal Aphrodite ! Child of Zeus, deviser of lures for lovers, Hear me ! not with anguish nor bitter longing Tease me, O goddess ! Come ! if ever, hearing my voice afar off, Thou aforetime earnest at my beseeching : Lo ! I see thee quitting the fair and golden House of thy father. Yoke thy car to beautiful teams of birdlings, Urging swift wings over the low and dark earth ! Down from heaven's canopy, through the mid-air, Soon shall they reach me ! Then thou, dear and holy one ! gently smiling, Shalt unveil thy fair and immortal features, Asking what has suddenly come upon me ? Why am I sobbing ? What my wild heart dearly desires to happen ? Who is it, tell me, thou wouldst have to love thee ? Who is it dares repel thee, or even slight thee ? Tell me, my Sappho ? SAPPHO'S ODE TO APHRODITE 87 Though he shun thee, soon shall he madly seek thee: Though he spurn gifts, soon shall he be the giver : Though he hate thee, soon shall he love none other, Howso unwilling ! O come swiftly, free me from cruel anguish ! All my soul desireth, give me, O goddess ! Fight on my side ; ever my true ally be ! Ever and ever ! 88 TRANSLATIONS AN ODE SAPPHO LIKE to a god appears to me the man Who sits by thee, and hears thy gentle voice And matchless laughter ; merest thought of thee Makes my heart throb my bosom, and rejoice ! And when I see thee but a little space, Words have I none, my tongue as mute appears, A subtle fire steals over all my face, Mine eyes grow dim, there 's ringing in my ears ; A dew runs down me, utter tremblings thrall My body pale as withered grass I grow, Half dead I seem ; but love restoreth all : Once more myself, all shall be dared, I vow. Printed by T. and A. CONITABLK, Printer* to Hi* Majrtty at the Edinburgh University Press A 000 694 946 5