3ALLADS OF ThE NoRTH 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 H. E. HAMILTON KING 
 

 
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BALLADS OF THE NORTH 
 
 ETC. 
 
BALLADS OF THE NORTH 
 
 HARRIET ELEANOR HAMILTON ^ING_ ^/^i^P 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 author of the disciples aspromonte 
 'a book of dreams' etc. 
 
 RrBOR -SCIENT I/ 
 
 LONDON 
 KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH, & CO., i PATERNOSTER SQUARE 
 
 1889 
 
( The rights of liamlalion and of reproduction are reserved) 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 BALLADS OF THE NORTH. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Ballad of the Midnight Sun — Part I. . .3 
 
 „ Part II. . . 14 
 
 The Haunted Czar 24 
 
 The Irish Famine 40 
 
 All Souls' Day 54 
 
 Father Mackonochie 60 
 
 The Glastonbury Thorn 69 
 
 LONDON STREETS. 
 
 ' To a Great and Good Physician ' . . . . 85 
 
 Working-girls in London 92 
 
 Dives 98 
 
 Farewell Hymn 108 
 
 The Shade of Chatterton in 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 MISCELLANEO US. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Crocus. , . 123 
 
 The Siege ok Strasburg 126 
 
 The First of June 129 
 
 The Impenitent Thief 138 
 
 The Seasons 147 
 
 Harebells 154 
 
BALLADS OF THE NORTH 
 
THE BALLAD OF THE MIDNIGHT 
 
 SUN. 
 1883. 
 
 PART I. 
 The still white coast at Midsummer, 
 
 Beside the still white sea, 
 Lay low and smooth and shining 
 
 In this year eighty-three ; 
 The sun was in the very North, 
 
 Strange to see. 
 
 The walrus ivory lay in heaps 
 
 Half-buried in the shore. 
 The slow stream slid o'er unknown beds 
 
 Of golden ore. 
 Washings of amber to the beach 
 
 Light waves bore. 
 
4 THE BALLAD OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN 
 
 Sprays of white, like foam-flowers, 
 
 Betwixt the skies and seas, 
 Swayed and poised the sea-gulls 
 
 In twos and threes. 
 Clustered like the stars men call 
 
 Pleiades. 
 
 The white marsh-flowers, the white marsh-grass 
 
 Shimmered amid the grey 
 Of the marsh-water — mirrored 
 
 Over and under, they 
 Stood stiff and tall and slender. 
 
 All one way. 
 
 The upper spake to the lower, 
 ' Are ye, or do ye seem ? ' 
 
 Out of the dim marsh-water 
 Glided as in a dream 
 
 The still swans down a distance 
 Of moonbeam. 
 
THE BALLAD OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN 5 
 
 The willow-warbler dropped from the spray 
 Sweet notes like a soft spring shower, 
 
 There was a twitter of building birds 
 In the blackthorn bower, 
 
 All broken from bare to gossamer 
 In an hour. 
 
 A garden white lay all the land 
 In wreaths of summer snow, 
 
 The heart of the year upspringing 
 Swift and aglow, 
 
 In pale flame and slender stalk, 
 Smooth and low. 
 
 The white heath and white harebell 
 Let their chimes rise and fall. 
 
 The delicate sheets of wood-sorrel 
 Unfolded all. 
 
 For a bed of bridal — 
 Or a pall ? 
 
6 THE BALLAD OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN 
 
 Powdered with pearl, auriculas, 
 And beds of snowdrop sheen. 
 
 Frostwork of saxifrage, and fair balls 
 Of winter green : 
 
 There was no room for foot to pass 
 In between. 
 
 One only pink, the fragrant bloom 
 
 Of all blooms boreal,* 
 Every face of every flower 
 
 With looks funereal 
 Bent to earth, and faintly 
 
 Flowering all. 
 
 Down in the closely crowded camp 
 Of the fresh snowdrops lay, 
 
 Fever and famine-stricken. 
 None his name to say. 
 
 Sick to death, a traveller 
 Cast away. 
 
 1 Linnea borcalis. 
 
THE BALLAD OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN 7 
 
 Brother might be of Balder 
 
 The beautiful, the bold, 
 By Northern stature and by limbs' 
 
 Heroic mould, 
 And the uncurled faint hair 
 
 Of pale gold. 
 
 Faintly the words were uttered, 
 Low, betwixt moan and moan : 
 
 ' Here in the wilderness, 
 Lost and alone, 
 
 I die, and far away. 
 Hast thou known ? 
 
 ' Fame, and story of wonder. 
 Wind of rumour had blown 
 
 My name to thine, my feet 
 Up to thy throne : 
 
 What has the world been since ?- 
 Thee alone. 
 
8 THE BALLAD OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN 
 
 ' I passed and bowed before thy face, 
 
 And once thine eyes met mine ; 
 Once I have kissed thy hand ; — 
 
 Hast thou no sign ? 
 Here with my last sad breath 
 
 I am thine.' 
 
 The white hares nibbled fearlessly 
 Among the tender green ; 
 
 The silver foxes stayed and watched, 
 Quick-eyed and keen ; 
 
 The little ermine soft of foot 
 Stole between. 
 
 But the white world changed and quickened 
 
 To a red world, the same ; 
 For with splendour as of sunset 
 
 And sunrise flame, 
 From the highest heaven to the lowest, 
 
 Midnight came. 
 
THE BALLAD OF THE MLDNLGHT SUN g 
 
 The pulsing colours of the sky 
 
 Deepened and purified ; 
 All glorious chords of gold and red 
 
 Struck out and died ; 
 Stilled in one heavenly harmony 
 
 Spread out wide, 
 
 In one ethereal crimson glow ; 
 
 As if the Rose of Heaven 
 Had blossomed for one perfect hour, 
 
 Midsummer Even, 
 As ever in the mystic sphere 
 
 Of stars seven. 
 
 An opening blush of purest pink. 
 That swiftly streams and grows 
 
 As shoreward all the liquid waste 
 Enkindled flows, 
 
 Every ripple of all the sea 
 Rose on Rose. 
 
lo THE BALLAD OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN 
 
 ■ — Through the heavens of midnight 
 
 Came a bitter cry, 
 Flesh and spirit breaking, 
 
 Mortal agony ; 
 Died away unanswered 
 
 Through the sky. — 
 
 But all the dim blue South was filled 
 
 With the auroral flame. 
 Far out into the southward land 
 
 Without a name 
 That dreamed away into the dark, — 
 
 When One came. 
 
 Suddenly came stepping, 
 Where the roseate rift 
 
 Of the boreal blossoms 
 Crossed the snowy drift 
 
 In a trailing pathway, 
 Straight and swift. 
 
THE BALLAD OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN ii 
 
 Her robes were full and silken, 
 
 Her feet were silken-shod, 
 In sweeping stately silence, 
 
 Serene she trod 
 The starry carpets strewing 
 
 The soft sod. 
 
 The eyes of the veronica 
 Looked out and far away, 
 
 A golden wreath around her head 
 Of light curls lay, 
 
 And rippled back a shining shower. 
 In bright array. 
 
 About her neck the diamonds flashed 
 
 In rivers of blue fire ; 
 But whiter her soft shoulders than 
 
 Her white attire, 
 And tenderer her tender arms 
 
 Than heart's desire. 
 
12 THE BALLAD OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN 
 
 She fronted full the crimson flood 
 
 Of all the Northern space, 
 And all the hue of all the sky 
 
 Was in her face ; 
 The Rose of all the World has come 
 
 To this place. 
 
 A vision of white that glowed to red 
 With the fire at heaven, at heart, — 
 
 Nor paused nor turned,— but straight to him 
 Who lay apart. 
 
 On she came, and knelt by him, — 
 Here thou art ! 
 
 At the first hour after midnight, 
 As in the eider's nest, 
 
 The weary head sank soft into 
 A heavenly rest ; 
 
 Is it a bed of roses, — 
 Or her breast ? 
 
THE BALLAD OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN 13 
 
 At the second hour the cold limbs 
 
 Felt comfort unaware ; 
 Flickering, a golden glow 
 
 Warmed all the air : 
 Is it the hearth-flame lighted, — 
 
 Or her hair ? 
 
 At the third hour, round the faint heart 
 
 Failing in chill alarms, 
 Is it some silken coverlet 
 
 Still wraps and warms 
 In close and closer clasping ? — 
 
 Or her arms ? 
 
 At the fourth hour, to the wan lips 
 There came a draught divine : 
 
 Some last reviving cup poured out 
 Of hallowed wine, — 
 
 Or is it breath of hers 
 Mixed with thine ? 
 
14 THE BALLAD OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN 
 
 At the fifth hour all was dimness 
 
 Alike to him and her ; 
 One low and passionate murmur 
 
 Still moved the air ; 
 Is it the voice of angels, — 
 
 Or her prayer ? 
 
 At the sixth hour there stirred only 
 The soft wave on the beach \ 
 
 Two were lying stilly, 
 Past sound or speech, 
 
 Fair and carven faces, 
 Each by each. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 The Summer Palace stood by night 
 Lit up in dazzling sheen, 
 
 The doors unfolded, and the pomp 
 Stirred in between ; 
 
 — To a burst of royal music 
 Came the Queen. 
 
THE BALLAD OF THE MLDNIGHT SUN 15 
 
 Her eyes like stars of speedwell 
 Shone down the great saloon ; 
 
 She came, and all before her 
 Knew it was June ; 
 
 The passing of her presence 
 Was too soon. 
 
 The little curls around her head 
 Were all her crown of gold, 
 
 Her delicate arms drooped downward 
 In slender mould, 
 
 As white-veined leaves of lilies 
 Curve and fold. 
 
 All in white, — not ivory 
 
 For young bloom past away, — 
 Blossom-white, rose-white. 
 
 White of the May ; 
 'Twixt white dress and white neck, 
 
 Who could say ? 
 
i6 THE BALLAD OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN 
 
 She moved to measure of music, 
 As a swan sails the stream ; 
 
 Where her looks fell was summer, 
 When she smiled was a dream ; 
 
 All faces bowing towards her 
 Sunflowers seem. 
 
 O the rose upon her silent mouth. 
 The perfect rose that lies ! 
 
 O the roses red, the roses deep, 
 Within her cheeks that rise ! 
 
 O the rose of rapture of her face 
 To our eyes ! 
 
 The tall fair Princes smile and sigh 
 For grace of one sweet glance. 
 
 The glittering dancers fill the floor, 
 The Queen leads the dance ; 
 
 The dial-hands to midnight 
 Still advance. 
 
THE BALLAD OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN 17 
 
 Dance down to the melting music ! 
 
 Hark to the viols' strain ! 
 Their notes are piercing, piercing, 
 
 Again, again ; 
 The pulse of the air is beating 
 
 Throbs of pain. 
 
 Does the dancing languish slower ? 
 
 Oh, the soft flutes wail and sigh ; 
 In silver falling and calling. 
 
 They seek reply ; 
 And the heart is sinking, sinking, 
 
 Why, ah why ? 
 
 Oh, the high harp-strings resounding ! 
 
 So long, so clear they are : 
 A cry is ringing in heaven 
 
 From star to star, 
 Rising sharper and fainter 
 
 From afar. 
 
1 8 THE BALLAD OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN 
 
 The Queen has danced from end to end ; 
 
 Oh, the candles burn so bright ! 
 But her blue eyes look far away 
 
 Into the night ; 
 And the roses on her cheeks and lips 
 
 Have grown white. 
 
 Oh, why is the Queen so pale to-night ? 
 
 And why does silence fall, 
 As one by one they turn to her, 
 
 Upon them all ? 
 Whence comes that cold wind shivering 
 
 Down the hall ? 
 
 The hour draws close to midnight, 
 The banquet board is spread ; 
 
 The lamps are lit, the guests are set. 
 The Queen at the head : 
 
 For the feasting at kings' tables 
 Grace be said ! 
 
THE BALLAD OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN 19 
 
 The shaded hght of rubies 
 
 Streams from every part 
 Down the golden supper ; — 
 
 Who is sick at heart ? 
 Oh, hush ! for the Queen is hstening, 
 
 Lips apart. 
 
 She sits with wide and open eyes, 
 The wine-cup in her hand ; 
 
 And all the guests are ill at ease, 
 Nor understand ; 
 
 Is it not some enchanted 
 Strange far land ? 
 
 The twelve long strokes of midnight 
 With clash and clang affright ; 
 
 The rose-glow seems to darken 
 Before their sight ; 
 
 But the Queen has swooned back heavily, 
 Cold and white. 
 
20 THE BALLAD OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN 
 
 They lifted her, a burden 
 
 Like broken lily-flowers ; 
 They laid her on her own bed, 
 
 Within her bowers ; 
 They mourned, and they tended her, 
 
 For six hours. 
 
 At the first hour after midnight. 
 The Queen nor spoke nor stirred ; 
 
 At the second, by her bedside. 
 No breath they heard ; 
 
 They said, ' Is she living ? ' 
 At the third. 
 
 At the fourth hour they watched sadly 
 
 At her feet and her head ; 
 At the fifth, standing idle, 
 
 No word they said ; 
 At the sixth, ' Bring candles 
 
 For one dead.' 
 
THE BALLAD OF THE MLD NIGHT SUN 21 
 
 Swept low down across the East, 
 
 Through the morning grey, 
 A flock of white clouds swiftly. 
 
 Dim, far away ; 
 Like a flight of white wings : — 
 
 What were they ? 
 
 Through the palace suddenly. 
 Through every floor, 
 
 Wailed a wind and whistled, 
 Shook every door, 
 
 Rattled through the windows, 
 Then passed o'er. 
 
 And as they stood with tapers tall 
 Around the Queen, there came 
 
 A soft and far-ofl" fluttering 
 Over her frame, 
 
 And from between her sleeping lips. 
 One faint flame. 
 
22 THE BALLAD OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN 
 
 They take her hand, they call on her, 
 
 She answers them likewise ; 
 She sits upright, she looks around, 
 
 With her blue eyes, 
 And a smile as of thy secrets, 
 
 Paradise ! 
 
 Winter is here, and has not brought 
 
 The Traveller of renown ; 
 Why has he not come back again 
 
 To court and town ? 
 Rumours and questionings pas 
 
 Up and down. 
 
 Is it only the wolves of the Northland 
 Know where his bones lie white ? 
 
 Only the swans could tell us. 
 In southward flight ? 
 
 Is it only the wind could whisper 
 To the night ? 
 
THE BALLAD OF THE MLDNIGHT SUN 23 
 
 The Queen sits still and smiling, 
 
 She hears the talk prevail, 
 She speaks no word, she gives no glance, 
 
 She tells no tale ; 
 In the golden shadow always 
 
 She is pale. 
 
24 
 
 THE HAUNTED CZAR. 
 
 Roman Romanovitch, forgive 
 The vilest of all men and worst ! 
 
 Amid this death-in-life I live ; 
 
 Hear me but once whom thou hast curst ! 
 
 My doom, my anguish I confess ; — 
 
 Mercy on me the merciless ! 
 
 Roman Romanovitch, there peals 
 Imperial music of the march 
 
 Along my pathway, as it wheels 
 On from triumphal arch to arch : 
 
 They say my face is wan and white ; — 
 
 Thy cries ring round me day and night. 
 
THE HAUNTED CZAR 25 
 
 Roman Romanovitch, my bed 
 
 Is deep with down, and flaxen-white ; 
 
 The fresh and ghastly stains of red 
 Are wet against my cheeks all night ; 
 
 Where'er I turn, where'er I toss, 
 
 Some stiffening limb creeps cold across. 
 
 In purple and in gold I stand, 
 Amid the worship of the crowd ; 
 
 Their hearts, their lives are in my hand ; 
 The people say that I am proud : 
 
 I in the dust beneath thy feet, 
 
 Roman Romanovitch, entreat ! 
 
 A dying voice of torture wails 
 
 Through all the church's chants divine ; 
 It rises — and the banquet pales ; 
 
 I drench the darkness down with wine ; 
 But when my lips are at the brink, 
 'Tis blood I taste, and blood I drink. 
 
26 THE HAUNTED CZAR 
 
 In the same hour, upon me broke 
 In sweat of agony and fear 
 
 The act I never could revoke, 
 For ever haunting eye and ear. 
 
 Yes, years are past — and long ago 
 
 I see a sunrise on the snow ; 
 
 And thou and I in that low light. 
 And a few more, of armed men ; 
 
 — Helpless and bound — but I upright ; 
 None but my slaves about us then ; 
 
 My word their law, my will their guide : 
 
 — But there was no man on thy side. 
 
 Thou, martyr just and innocent, 
 Against me sworn, and it was well ; 
 
 Thou the avenging angel sent, 
 I the black instrument of hell. 
 
 But here I have thee : — spare thy breath !- 
 
 Long shalt thou call in vain on death. 
 
THE HAUNTED CZAR 27 
 
 Shriek after shriek rings through the North ; 
 
 My laughter answers every cry ; 
 Prayer after prayer sobbed feebly forth ; 
 
 Pray on, pray on, for it is I ! 
 At last — O God ! — the curses fall ; 
 My God, I hear — Thou hearest all. 
 
 Did it not end ? Do I not know ? 
 
 Was it not I who did this thing ? 
 Was there not silence in the snow 
 
 Between us, and a mightier King? 
 I think at last those lips were dumb \ — 
 Why will their cries not cease to come ? 
 
 I see thee, — no, it is not thou ! 
 
 I saw thee once, and thou wast fair ; 
 A step like mine, an angel's brow ; — 
 
 But what is this, that ghastly there 
 Droops to my feet, all dark and wet ? 
 Lift up thy face ! Let me forget ! 
 
THE HAUNTED CZAR 
 
 It is not thou, I know full well, 
 
 This spectre my own sins have made ; 
 
 This will go with me down to Hell, 
 Whilst thou in Paradise art laid ; 
 
 Oh, come thyself, and cast behind 
 
 This, horrible and deaf and blind ! 
 
 Oh, if thou couldst but look on me, 
 Roman Romanovitch, thy heart 
 
 Would melt for very charity. 
 
 Among the angels where thou art ; 
 
 Thou couldst not turn thine eyes and see,- 
 
 Ah God, did I not look on thee ? 
 
 Did not God make us, I and thou ? 
 
 Have pity even for His sake ! 
 My hair is bleached upon my brow. 
 
 At every rose's fall I shake ; 
 My eyes, they say, are wild and wide ; — 
 O Ghost, at last be satisfied ! 
 
THE HAUNTED CZAR 29 
 
 Roman Romanovitch, we two, 
 
 Are we not men of flesh and blood ? 
 
 Ah mangled flesh and blood, too true, 
 They cry against me up to God. 
 
 Thou hast me in a grip so sure ; — 
 
 Oh, how can heart of man endure ! 
 
 Had we not mothers, both of us ? 
 
 Were we not born by ways the same ? 
 Nay, I unworthy to be thus 
 
 The son of woman, whence I came 
 Must be the way I know too well, 
 The way I go, the gate of hell. 
 
 Did not Christ die for thee and me ? 
 
 Ah, not for me ! 'Twas I who slew ! 
 I pierced, I nailed Him to the tree ; 
 
 He was with thee. He held thee through 
 He left me then ; — but thou, my Saint, 
 Against me pourest thy complaint 
 
30 THE HAUNTED CZAR 
 
 Within His arms, upon His breast ; 
 
 His tears have washed and made thee white 
 Of all thy crael wounds, and drest 
 
 Thy swooned eyes again to light ; 
 For very pity all this while 
 He wept until He saw thee smile. 
 
 Oh, visit me, and let me pay 
 
 With blood, and all thy justice take ! 
 
 I supplicating writhe and pray 
 
 For this absolving judgment's sake. 
 
 Not once, but for a thousand years, 
 
 Scourge me in blood and shame and tears. 
 
 Oh, strike, but only do not spare ! 
 
 Before thy hands I kneel, I fall ; 
 My flesh in stripes of crimson tear. 
 
 Still, still to kiss thy feet I crawl ; 
 Past sense, past moans, but this to win. 
 Leave me not, pardon not my sin ! 
 
THE HAUNTED CZAR 31 
 
 Wilt thou not hear ? Wilt thou not heed ? 
 
 In vain, in vain ! — no hand but thine 
 Can heal or hurt ; — this ermine weed 
 
 Still wraps me soft ; this crown of mine 
 Bums on my brows, and no one stirs 
 Round me but delicate flatterers. 
 
 Ah no, the fires of hell begin 
 
 For me, unpurged, unshriven below ; 
 Thy deeper justice thou must win, 
 
 The soul and not the body's woe ; 
 And what am I, that I should dare 
 The suffering of the saints to share ? 
 
 Thy bitter moans, that could not wring 
 One moment's respite from my hate ; — 
 
 They called Him, and He came, thy King, 
 But round me hell hes desolate : 
 
 If He were here, — too late, alas ! 
 
 His feet no more this way will pass. 
 
32 THE HAUNTED CZAR 
 
 For could He come, His ears would pierce 
 A bitterer, more heartrending moan ; 
 
 Where coiling serpents mingled fierce, 
 
 Gnaw with fresh fangs through breast and bone; 
 
 Undying anguish wept and wailed, 
 
 Unheard, unanswered, unavailed. 
 
 Beneath the Altar yet they cry, 
 
 Avenge us, Lord ! — ah, do they know 
 
 They are avenged ? that in reply 
 
 The swords through soul and spirit go ? 
 
 How many ages past and gone, 
 
 And still those souls keep crying on ! 
 
 It is not for the torments run. 
 Nor for the torments yet to be ; 
 
 But that I know what I have done, 
 But that whom I have slain I see ; 
 
 It is for very love of thee 
 
 That my heart breaks in agony. 
 
THE HAUNTED CZAR 33 
 
 Alas, my brother, all the years 
 Our souls together may not save ; 
 
 I may not water with my tears 
 
 The grass that grows above thy grave ; 
 
 Thy very bones would stir and cry 
 
 With horror at me, drawing nigh. 
 
 O sweet, O sacred limbs, yes mine ! 
 
 For my heart holds them passionately ; 
 It is thy home, it is thy shrine, 
 
 Though never may I reach to thee ; 
 To kiss thy feet I could not dare, 
 Thou even sleeping unaware. 
 
 Might I but watch, one hour of all, — 
 Upon thy brows the least caress. 
 
 The lightest touch of love should fall 
 Too roughly for my tenderness ; 
 
 Nor should disturb them, wandering by. 
 
 The blue wings of the butterfly. 
 
 D 
 
'34 THE HAUNTED CZAR 
 
 To wait upon thee from afar, 
 
 To serve thee to thy lowest need, 
 
 Thy slave more fond than mothers are, 
 Although thy scorn were all my meed ; 
 
 — O dream too deep for my despair, 
 
 But once to touch thy golden hair ! 
 
 I have no Christ — I cannot kneel 
 To any, my beloved, but thee, 
 
 My mocked, my murdered one ; to feel 
 Thy pardon first ! It may not be. 
 
 No more. Did I not hear thee pray 
 
 So long, so long, to me that day ? 
 
 Roman Romanovitch, I bow 
 
 Beneath thy curse ; no more I strive 
 I do not ask thy pity now, 
 
 Thou wiliest it, with soul alive. 
 What else is left me to atone ? 
 Have all thy will ! I am thine own. 
 
THE HAUNTED CZAR 35 
 
 Yet, even at the last, there streams 
 Something like hope into my heart ; 
 
 I hold it fast within my dreams. 
 
 That hour when I shall have my part ; 
 
 Down in the depth of all, I know, 
 
 Stronger than death, it must be so. 
 
 Once we must meet, however long 
 The bead-roll of the centuries 
 
 Is counted by the Planet's Song ; 
 The dead in Christ shall first arise ; 
 
 And I no more may hide my head. 
 
 That day when Hell gives up her dead. 
 
 The earth and heaven in thunders flee 
 Before His face : each awful page 
 
 Unrolls of human history. 
 
 Written in blood from age to age ; 
 
 Then Christ, the Slain and Risen anew, 
 
 Shall speak and judge between us two. 
 
36 THE HAUNTED CZAR 
 
 And first to me, outcast, who stand, 
 Nor dare to look on Him or thee, 
 
 Nor meet thy holy eyes and grand, 
 Amidst thy shining company, 
 
 The awful Judge will turn and say : 
 
 ' Most miserable man, to-day 
 
 ' The sum of all thy scarlet sin 
 
 Is written up, and found no more ; 
 
 And thou snow-white may'st enter in 
 My Temple — am not I the Door ?— 
 
 And by that way, that door, thy strife 
 
 Of penitence hath led to life. 
 
 ' Do I not rule above the stars. 
 To bind or loose from any curse ? 
 
 Against me Hell hath got no bars, 
 No spaces hath the universe ; 
 
 Thy weeping still was in my ears 
 
 Through all the music of the spheres. 
 
THE HAUNTED CZAR 37 
 
 ' But thou didst mourn and I did mourn, 
 
 Together mourning thy disgrace, 
 In thy dark prison-house forlorn, 
 
 Though never couldst thou see My face ; 
 Nor hast thou known a Victim bleeds, 
 A Priest for ever intercedes. 
 
 ' Baptism of water and of fire 
 
 Each soul of My redeemed must prove ;- 
 Oh, drowned amidst Love's anguish dire. 
 
 And burnt amidst the flames of Love, 
 Come unto Me at last, and rest 
 Long-lost, long-loved, upon My breast ! 
 
 ' And thou, O Martyr merciless. 
 Thou who so long from age to age 
 
 Hast shared serene in blessedness 
 Among the Saints their heritage, 
 
 The crimson crown, the deathless palm, 
 
 No looking back disturbed thy calm. 
 
38 THE HAUNTED CZAR 
 
 ' The hands of angels carried thee 
 To Paradise, and dried thy tears ; 
 
 The leaves of that immortal Tree 
 
 Have healed thy wounds these many years, 
 
 Beside the living water's stream 
 
 Lying in one unbroken dream. 
 
 ' Short was thy pain, and long thy rest, 
 Earth was thy loss, and heaven thy gain ; 
 
 Oh, safe and sheltered with the blest. 
 No after-thought didst thou retain, 
 
 Wrapt in My love, and didst forget 
 
 The soul thou mightest succour yet. 
 
 ' Thy peace was won, thy triumph crowned : 
 Hath Love no thought for them that slew ? 
 
 Love in the Highest, in the Profound, 
 Crucified every day anew. — 
 
 Where Love is, there must Suffering be ; 
 
 O Unforgiven, depart from Me.' 
 
THE HAUNTED CZAR 39 
 
 Then will I spring forth, then will seize 
 My one last moment of all time ; 
 
 ' Not me, but him, Lord, take with these ! 
 Mine was his crowning and his crime ; 
 
 A martyr made by pangs so sore. 
 
 As froze his heart for evermore. 
 
 ' He is Thine own ; he has but slept ; 
 
 Now he will wake and love again ; 
 So long to him in vain I wept, 
 
 He, too, at last must weep, -a rain 
 That reconciles him to Thy heart. 
 Take back Thine own, — as I depart.' 
 
 Then surely, over the abyss, 
 Roman Romanovitch, I see 
 
 Thee, glorious, bending with one kiss 
 For me, accursed, even me. 
 
 Thine eyes forgive me from the brink 
 
 At last, as out of sight I sink. 
 
40 
 
 THE IRISH FAMINE. 
 
 Bantry, 1847. 
 
 1 WILL not speak of the famine, the terrible year that 
 
 fell ; 
 We lived through it ; what one has lived through, one 
 
 does not always tell :— 
 The hard months, the long months, the months that 
 
 were sinking and sore, 
 Till the fever closed over us all, for the living could 
 
 bear no more. 
 
 The Winter was over ; but Spring — that never would 
 
 come again. 
 For a handful of food was not left, nor a spoonful for 
 
 those in pain, 
 
THE IRISH FAMINE 41 
 
 Who lay, the dying and sick, in the fever, bare on the 
 
 floor, 
 While the starving children, like wolves, prowled 
 
 round and cried at the door. 
 
 Half were dead — rest their souls ! — but their bodies 
 
 might not rest well, 
 For hands were not left to bury them, — heaped 
 
 they fell 
 In the open pits together, hundreds, naked and 
 
 cold ; 
 The rest were waiting to follow, our time was nearly 
 
 told. 
 
 In the beginning of April, the day I sickened, came 
 
 down 
 The rumour of some strange doctor arrived in the 
 
 town ; 
 He came, — but what matter to us, who already were 
 
 half in the grave ? 
 It was food, not medicine we wanted, — it was too late 
 
 to save. 
 
42 THE IRISH FAMINE 
 
 I cannot tell how he came, — as the morning breaks 
 
 from the sea ; 
 'Twas a mortal man they told me, — it might or it 
 
 might not be, — 
 He came, — but my eyes were dazzled,— a glint of 
 
 gold there gleamed, 
 And though I lay in the fever, of the Saints in Heaven 
 
 I dreamed. 
 
 I have heard of the Angel of Death — but this was 
 
 the Angel of Life, 
 Young, and smiling, and slender, and stripped as it 
 
 were to the strife, 
 To the wrestle by day and by night with the Terror 
 
 that held us before, 
 For Death and Despair fled away as he came in at 
 
 the door. 
 
 He had neither silver nor gold, he had neither name 
 
 nor fame. 
 He had nothing at all in the world but the bag in his 
 
 hand as he came, 
 
THE IRISH FAMINE 43 
 
 And a barrel of meal for a gift that was sent to him 
 
 by a friend, 
 But that was a good while after, when things had 
 
 begun to mend. 
 
 But there was a hand by day, and there was a step by 
 night. 
 
 In the huts where they lay on the earth without fire 
 or candle-light. 
 
 And a voice that spoke through the dark, and a breast 
 upon which to lean. 
 
 Close, close in the shivering sickness, and the sorrow- 
 ful sighs between. 
 
 He held to their lips the cold water, they drank it and 
 
 they revived ; 
 He bent down over the dying, they looked in his eyes 
 
 and lived ; 
 And still, as the unseen arrows flew ever more fast and 
 
 thick. 
 There was one that battled alone for the lives of all 
 
 the sick. 
 
44 THE IRISH FAMINE 
 
 He did battle alone, and he won ; — scarce one died 
 
 after he came ; 
 They fell, they sickened by hundreds ; he saved them 
 
 all the same. 
 *To God be the glory,' — he said so, — as for three 
 
 months, night and day, 
 He lived and he moved among us till the fever 
 
 passed away. 
 
 The Famine was over too, and like the dove to the 
 
 ark, 
 Hope came back to the earth, and of life to our breasts 
 
 a spark ; 
 We were weak, we were wan in the sun, but there we 
 
 all stood that day 
 Safe and well — ah the sorrowful moment ! when he 
 
 was to go away. 
 
 It was not a fine sight, truly, we were but poor folks 
 
 at best. 
 He was all there was to look at, nothing to say for the 
 
 rest ; 
 
THE IRISH FAMINE 45 
 
 There was not much to speak of in clothes, and what 
 
 Httle there was was torn ; 
 But his Reverence was there in black, very decent, if 
 
 somewhat worn. 
 
 And he stepped up and spoke for us all, ' Sir, if I may 
 
 make so bold, 
 In the name of these poor people whom you see here, 
 
 young and old, 
 (And they wouldn't be here now, saving the excellent 
 
 deeds you have done), 
 We wish to present our respects and our thanks to 
 
 you, everyone. 
 
 ' We have come through a time of trouble — but many 
 
 did not come through, — 
 And we who are saved alive are all of us saved by 
 
 you; 
 To God and the Saints be the glory, and praises for 
 
 evermore, 
 And those who are dead were sorry that you didn't 
 
 arrive before. 
 
46 THE IRISH FAMINE 
 
 ' And we'll always be wishing you well, Sir, by the holy 
 
 Peter and Paul, 
 (Though it's always Paul you speak by, and never 
 
 poor Peter at all). 
 And myself will pray to St. Peter, that when you come 
 
 to the gate, 
 He'll be pleased and proud to see you, and you 
 
 needn't have long to wait. 
 
 ' And nothing have we to give you, and you are poor 
 
 as we, 
 But that will not last long, I'm thinking, for you have 
 
 the luck as we see ; 
 But the blessing, the best of blessings, — the true 
 
 heart's love and the prayer 
 Of those who were ready to perish — will follow you 
 
 everywhere. 
 
 ' And as you have dealt with us. Sir, in our time of 
 
 trouble and woe. 
 May the Lord Himself deal with you wherever your 
 
 road may go ; 
 
THE IRISH FAMINE 47 
 
 And this is a sad day for us, that we must lose you 
 
 indeed, 
 But never can we forget you ; and we bid you now 
 
 good-speed.' 
 
 Then old Aileen took up speaking — ah ! she was the 
 
 woman, the wise, 
 She could tell (though she never told them) the names 
 
 of the stars in the skies, 
 And the midsummer midnight moonwort she could 
 
 find and use for a charm, 
 Ninety years old and upwards, whom the fever could 
 
 not harm. 
 
 ' The seventh son of a seventh son ; — but this was a 
 
 wondrous birth, 
 The seventeenth babe of his mother, and she no 
 
 more on the earth ; 
 And now he is parting from us, nor his face may we 
 
 more behold ; 
 So listen to me for the last time, to the words of me 
 
 who am old. 
 
48 THE IRISH FAMINE 
 
 ' Our life is writ in the stars, and the stars their courses 
 
 must run ; 
 But God will be shining in heaven when all their 
 
 courses are done ; 
 And what is written is written, and fate our footsteps 
 
 debars. 
 For we are the dust of the earth, as the earth is the 
 
 dust of the stars. 
 
 ' We have done some work together ; I have taken 
 
 your hand in mine, 
 My old eyes have looked it over, and have read it line 
 
 by line ; 
 And oh ! I see the great things, the wonderful things, 
 
 the true. 
 That wait thee, O young man, yonder, and the work 
 
 that thou hast to do. 
 
 * We are poor, we are naught in the world, we are 
 little wanted here, 
 
 Perhaps it were best for all that we should but dis- 
 appear ; 
 
THE IRISH FAMINE 49 
 
 You did not think so, you came to us the lowest 
 
 and least, 
 You saved us, you smiled upon us, you turned our 
 
 famine to feast. 
 
 ' But oh ! in the times to come, it will not be such as 
 we ! 
 
 Too great are the multitudes waiting, too long are the 
 hues I see ; 
 
 They have looks that are not ours, they have thoughts 
 we have not known. 
 
 Great and proud ones are among them, but with sor- 
 rows of their own. 
 
 * Oh, the hands that reach for comfort, oh, the feeble 
 
 feet that press, 
 Oh, the hearts whose moans are breaking through the 
 
 hour of their distress, 
 Oh, the eyes that turn in anguish seeking thine amidst 
 
 their tears. 
 Hast thou all this burden on thee, and for all this 
 
 length of years ? 
 
 E 
 
50 THE IRISH FAMINE 
 
 ' Hast thou all this glory on thee ? — that thy touch 
 
 can loose and bind, 
 That despair awaits thy coming and deliverance stays 
 
 behind, 
 That as thy daily passing leaves a daily track of light 
 Through the city, hearts, praying God for thee, must 
 
 follow out of sight. 
 
 ' Thank God for thee ! it echoes like a singing of souls 
 
 in peace ; 
 Up and up a pathway shining brighter still as days 
 
 increase, 
 Farther than I can follow, where the golden stairs 
 
 ascend ; 
 We sang it first to God for you — angels sing it at the 
 
 end. 
 
 ' And thy strength shall be made perfect, the giver as 
 
 the gift, 
 The head that is ever the highest, the step that is sure 
 
 as swift ; 
 
THE IRISH FAMINE 51 
 
 And the sun that knoweth no setting out of thine eyes 
 
 shall shine, 
 And the Spirit of the Comforter shall ever dwell with 
 
 thine. 
 
 ' And you that have here no mother, — but, O my son, 
 
 my son 
 
 Methinks that the Blessed Mary looked on just such 
 another one ; — 
 
 Methinks there were days in a lifetime when she for- 
 got her fear, 
 
 As she saw the face that I see, and heard the voice 
 that I hear ! 
 
 ' That face, — the dying faces are upturned to catch 
 
 its light, 
 And fainting spirits hang round it to be quickened 
 
 with new delight ; 
 But my heart outruns, as hers did, all the praising and 
 
 the power. 
 And sees further, and cries in anguish — God help 
 
 thee through that hour ! 
 
52 THE IRISH FAMINE 
 
 ' Shall I pray to the Saints in Heaven for thee, who 
 
 thyself art a Saint on earth ? 
 Shall I pray to the Blessed Mother ? nay, she smiled 
 
 down at thy birth ; 
 To the Father of Spirits, the Highest, the cry of our 
 
 hearts must be. 
 Give Thy best to this one beloved, and let him not 
 
 fall from Thee. 
 
 ' Ah, how long is the road and how toilsome, or ever 
 
 we come to rest ! 
 But the last of straits was the sorest, and the last of 
 
 sights was the best : 
 And now the hard times are over, and my work in 
 
 the world is done ; 
 But I thank the Lord He has spared me to behold 
 
 thy face, my son.' 
 
 The young man spoke not a word, as he stood before 
 
 old Aileen ; 
 But he stooped bareheaded, and kissed her hand, like 
 
 the hand of a queen ; 
 
THE IRISH FAMINE 53 
 
 And there was not an eye that was dry of old or of 
 
 young in the crowd, 
 As he passed out of sight and was gone, and the 
 
 weeping was long and loud. 
 
54 
 
 ALL SOULS' DAY. 
 
 We drave across the Ocean to the West, 
 On one November night of storm and rain ; 
 
 When morning dawned the winds were laid to rest, 
 And quiet was the main. 
 
 And in the lull of the day-dawning dim 
 
 A stranger stood on the deck and looked around, 
 
 And lordly spake to the Captain asking him, 
 * Whither is this ship bound ? ' 
 
 And the Captain answered, ' Sir, we sail on yonder, 
 Straight onward to the Islands of the Blest, 
 
 To the Haven of the Saints who went before us, 
 Far in the farthest West.' 
 
ALL SOULS' DAY 55 
 
 ' And whom do you carry on your good ship forward? ' 
 ' Valiant hearts, and full of faith are every one, 
 
 That will not fail till they reach the land of glory, 
 Past the setting of the sun.' 
 
 ' The way is long,' said the stranger musing inly, 
 ' Yea,' said the Captain, ' and a perilous way ; 
 
 With the storm, the deep, the dark, the air's dominion, 
 We must battle night and day.' 
 
 ' I am here,' said the other, * to conduct, if any 
 Will forsake the blessed quest, and tarry here ; 
 
 On this night alone I pass my post, and challenge 
 Whomsoever may draw near. 
 
 * Here lies the country invisible and haunted 
 Of All Souls, the innumerable, the sad. 
 
 And the night is here, and the morning when is granted 
 That some message may be had. 
 
56 ALL SOULS' DAY 
 
 ' All night their shadowy shores were round you lying, 
 Albeit with holden eyes you marked them not, 
 
 Around you streamed the anguish and the sighing 
 Of those whom ye forgot. 
 
 ' And if any here will stay and break their voyage, 
 I have come to be their convoy thitherward, 
 
 Though the place be desolate and full of weeping, 
 1 will be their guide and guard.' 
 
 But the Captain spake, ' Not one of these assembled 
 Will turn back disheartened from the Glorious Way ; 
 
 There lies our path across the utmost ocean ; ' 
 With one voice they answered, ' Yea ! ' 
 
 And the other said, ' Are there none whom ye re- 
 member. 
 
 Who the feast of All the Saints may never share ? 
 Are there none who think on you, and ask forgiveness. 
 
 Yet to hope it do not dare ? ' 
 
ALL SOULS' DAY 57 
 
 Then I spake, because the face of power and pity 
 Arrested and subdued me to his mind, 
 
 ' Let these pass on unto the Golden City, 
 But I will stay behind.' 
 
 He took my hand, and in a moment after 
 We two upon the waves were all alone, 
 
 In a small boat that swiftly stemmed the w-aters, 
 And the tall ship was gone. 
 
 And the grave ferryman asked, as I sat wondering, 
 ' Grieve you not for the lost track of the Blessed 
 Dead, 
 
 For the vision of All Saints, and all their splendour ? ' 
 ' Nay, mine were no Saints,' I said. 
 
 And I asked him, ' In your lost land and forsaken, 
 Is there no hope, is it evermore the same ? 
 
 Hath there not any come to bring good tidings ? ' 
 ' Yea,' he said, 'once One came.' 
 
S8 ALL SOULS' DAY 
 
 ' And from this country is there no departing ? 
 
 Is there no day of dehverance for All Souls ? ' 
 ' Nay, I know not of the times,' he answered sighing, 
 
 * Seals are upon those scrolls.' 
 
 Now the day was breaking, and the light grew clearer, 
 Yet no glow of sunrise swept across the sky, 
 
 But a deep, sad blue coloured all the air and water. 
 And the land, as we drew nigh. 
 
 In the blue of the hyacinth rose a hundred miles. 
 Dark, and a darkling shadow across the bay ; 
 
 In the blue of the larkspur lay a thousand isles, 
 Open and low to the dawning of the day. 
 
 And the distant sky was cloudy blue and tender. 
 Not as the light of the sun makes blue the day ; 
 
 And his garments were dark-blue who sat before me, 
 And light-blue was the spray 
 
ALL SOULS' DAY 59 
 
 Of his oars, and all the morn melted in mystery 
 Of some new life begun, of some unknown sense 
 
 And the face before me grew more beatific, 
 And the low light more intense ; 
 
 And the world grew magical and hushed in wonder, 
 And the gliding dream grew sweeter and more 
 sweet ; 
 And I cried, ' Oh, what shore is this where we are 
 landing ? 
 Whom are you taking me to meet ? ' 
 
6o 
 
 FATHER MACKONOCHIE. 
 
 Rose-red o'er Ballachulish 
 
 The sunset dies away, 
 And glorious to the last expands 
 
 The short December day ; 
 The purple islands of the West 
 
 Stretch down the ocean way ; 
 ■ The great and lonely mountain-land 
 
 Looms inland ghostly -grey. 
 
 Suddenly with the evening 
 
 The snow begins to fall, 
 And wailing voices of the North 
 
 In the wild winds to call ; 
 
FATHER MACKONOCHIE 6i 
 
 And night wears on, and still they wait, 
 
 Nor hear within the hall 
 Thy homeward steps, O father 
 
 And friend, beloved of all ! 
 
 Oh, dark upon Loch Leven 
 
 Comes down the winter night ; 
 The desert spirits that love not man 
 
 The lonely hills affright ; 
 The blinding whirlwinds and the snow 
 
 Beat out all sound and sight, 
 No moon is there, nor stars to give 
 
 The wanderer any light. 
 
 Oh, many on wild winter nights 
 
 Have been out here too late, 
 And left among the haunted glens 
 
 A hearthstone desolate ; 
 Poor men and women, none have marked 
 
 Their name or their estate ; 
 And now the father of the flock 
 
 Has come to share their fate. 
 
62 FATHER MACKONOCHIE 
 
 Oh, awful is the wilderness, 
 
 And pitiless the snow ; 
 But down in dim St. Alban's 
 
 The seven lamps burn aglow. 
 And softly in the Sanctuary 
 
 The priest moves t'o and fro, 
 And with one heart the people pray ; 
 
 And this is home below. 
 
 And higher, in the House of God, 
 
 Seven lamps before the Throne, 
 The golden vials of odours sweet. 
 
 The voice of praise alone ; 
 With the beloved, the redeemed, 
 
 Whose toil and tears are done, — 
 And this is in the Father's Home 
 
 That waits for everyone. 
 
 O Priest, whom men unkindly judged 
 Too fixed on rule and rite. 
 
 In this thine hour no ritual comes 
 To help thee through this night ; 
 
FATHER MACKONOCHIE 63 
 
 None but the Everlasting Arms 
 
 Support thee with their might, 
 None but the unseen Comforter 
 
 Upholds thy soul in flight. 
 
 For thee no priest, nor passing bell, 
 
 No holy oil or wine. 
 No prayer to speed the parting soul, 
 
 No sacred word or sign ; 
 Long as thou hast by dying beds 
 
 Ministered things divine, 
 Nor voice nor hand of earthly friend 
 
 May minister to thine. 
 
 There is none other left but Thou, 
 
 O Jesus, now give ear ! 
 Far off is every help and hope, 
 
 O Jesus, now draw near ! 
 The heart is sinking and the flesh, 
 
 O Jesus, save and hear ! 
 Darkness and death — Oh, show Thy Face, 
 
 O Jesus, Lord, most dear ! 
 
64 FATHER MACKONOCHIE 
 
 One kneeleth in his chamber, 
 
 Near midnight, at his prayer. 
 He feels a cold breath suddenly, 
 
 A presence in the air : 
 The white wraith flits before his eyes, 
 
 Awe-stricken and aware ; — 
 Yet till the morrow all unknown 
 
 Whose visiting was there. 
 
 No funeral tapers round thee burn. 
 
 No hand thy bed to dress, 
 No watchers kneeling round in prayer 
 
 And tears of tenderness. 
 The vigil and the fast are kept 
 
 Beside thee none the less, 
 By the dumb creatures in their love 
 
 And living faithfulness. 
 
 The deerhound and the terrier 
 Lie watching foot and head, 
 
 They only left of all on earth 
 To guard thy dying bed. 
 
FATHER MACKONOCHIE 
 
 Two nights and days the searchers toil, 
 The trackless wastes they tread, 
 
 In howling darkness, storm, and snow, 
 Until they find the dead. 
 
 Thy feet are bruised upon the rocks, 
 
 In struggle stiff and sore, 
 Thy corpse is frozen in the snow, 
 
 With snow-wreaths mantled o'er ; 
 Thy face is calm, — the smile of one 
 
 Remembering pain no more ; — 
 Their hearts were lightened of a load. 
 
 Seeing the look it wore. 
 
 Ill-omened Pass ! laid under ban 
 
 By curse from sire to son, — 
 The elemental powers have raved 
 
 O'er torrent and o'er stone ; 
 Untamed and hostile hitherto. 
 
 At last their worst is done, 
 A holier death has hallowed thee,— 
 
 The Cross its place has won. 
 
 F 
 
66 FATHER MACKONOCHIE 
 
 The funeral barge is on its way 
 
 Across the pearly seas ; 
 One great white sea-bird flies before, 
 
 With waving wings of peace ; 
 All shrouded white, the mountain-heights 
 
 Still silently increase ; 
 Thy violet pall with flakes that fall 
 
 Has grown snow-white as these. 
 
 They wait within the city, 
 
 Stricken with grief, to lay 
 Their dead within St. Alban's, 
 
 For one sad night and day. 
 Around thy bier the music wails. 
 
 Thy people weep and pray ; 
 Thy mourners fill the streets on foot. 
 
 Along the funeral way. 
 
 O soul, that hast already passed 
 Beyond this earthly bourn, 
 
 In London, in the narrow streets 
 They miss thee, and they mourn ; 
 
FATHER MACKONOCHIE 67 
 
 Thy face still haunts the holy house 
 
 Where thou wilt not return ; 
 The hearts are aching day by day, 
 
 AVith whom thou didst sojourn. 
 
 Is not thy sleep the smoother 
 
 Because of hearts that ache ? 
 Is not thy rest the deeper, 
 
 That thy own heart did break ? 
 Because to-day the sick and sad 
 
 Are weeping for thy sake, 
 Surely their sighs have gone before, 
 
 Thy bed in heaven to make. 
 
 To fast among the hungering, 
 
 To serve among the poor, 
 To toil among the weary, 
 
 Among the sick endure ; 
 To intercede for sinners, 
 
 The tempted to secure : — ' 
 Thy lifelong path of pilgrimage, 
 
 Most strait, most steep, most sure. 
 
68 FATHER MACKONOCHIE 
 
 Sleep on in Christ. ' O Lamb of God ! ' 
 
 Resounds the Passion hymn ; 
 And heaven is opened, and we join 
 
 The song of Seraphim : 
 One Presence fills, unites, transforms, 
 
 Beneath these arches dim. 
 And they who wake, and they who sleep. 
 
 Together live in Him. 
 
69 
 
 THE GLASTONBURY THORN, 
 
 My son, thou sayest that thy Hfe 
 
 Is past its blossom time, 
 And thou hast neither fruit nor flower 
 
 To show for all its prime ; 
 
 That thou hast watched and waited long. 
 
 Nor spared to toil and pray, 
 And nought for all thy strife remains, 
 
 But to be cast away. 
 
 Now listen what to me befell 
 
 When all the year was past. 
 And in the winter what a grace 
 
 Was brought to me at last. 
 
70 THE GLASTONBURY THORN 
 
 For I was old, and all my house 
 Were sleeping in the tomb, 
 
 When came the Word of God to me 
 To leave my fathers' home. 
 
 I took my staff, and all alone 
 I wandered to the west ; 
 
 A long and weary pilgrimage, 
 Till God should bid me rest. 
 
 I passed by sea, I passed by land, 
 I found strange folk and wild, 
 
 Until one day before my feet 
 This Vale at sunset smiled. 
 
 The voice within spake suddenly, 
 ' Here is thy place to dwell : ' 
 
 I struck my staff into the ground. 
 And here I built my cell. 
 
THE GLASTONBURY THORN 71 
 
 I cleared a little space of earth 
 
 Beside it either hand, 
 And planted in my garden plot 
 
 The flowers of Holy Land. 
 
 Oh, sweet and soft with mist and rain 
 
 Is all this island air ; 
 The little birds among the boughs 
 
 Make music everywhere. 
 
 And when the streams in Spring unbind, 
 
 Trickling the moors across, 
 The violets blue, the violets white, 
 
 Are hidden in the moss. 
 
 The people came about my door, 
 
 A simple woodland race. 
 And many a meal I shared with them 
 
 In many a dwelling-place. 
 
72 THE GLASTONBURY THORN 
 
 I spake to them of Christ the Lord, 
 And of the things I knew ; 
 
 They hstened, and they made no sign, 
 No faith among them grew. 
 
 But soon my garden flowers took root 
 
 With little care or toil, 
 And flourished through the summer months 
 
 Upon the stranger soil. 
 
 Anemones in April days 
 Of silver shower and shine 
 
 Were messengers from scarlet fields 
 Of spring in Palestine. 
 
 And starry-pointed, white and gold, 
 The pale narcissus head, 
 
 Along the shady bank in May, 
 A foreign fragrance shed. 
 
THE GLASTONBURY THORN 73 
 
 The rosemary put forth in June 
 Her shoots both sweet and strong ; 
 
 I thought of burning rocky paths 
 The desert sides along. 
 
 Oh, glorious white as heaven's own light, 
 
 The Lily rose, a Queen : 
 A sun by day, a star by night, 
 
 Glimmering my prayers between, 
 
 And when the hot and cloudless sky 
 
 Lay over field and fold. 
 In August, in the harvest time. 
 
 Flamed forth the marigold. 
 
 Mary ! Mary ! at thy name 
 My head in dreams is bowed ; 
 
 1 muse upon thy face with thoughts 
 I cannot speak aloud, 
 
74 THE GLASTONBURY THORN 
 
 The far-off years roll back, my soul 
 
 Across the bitter sea 
 Returns, and there is only one 
 
 Day of all days for me. 
 
 O Mary ! Mary ! for my loss 
 
 I mourn until I die ; 
 The very thieves and murderers had 
 
 A better place than I. 
 
 Yet I too had my turn at last, 
 I who awoke too late ; 
 
 The lowest of thy servants still 
 Outside the door may wait, 
 
 And find forgiveness in his task ; 
 
 Yea, even unto me 
 Was granted gift my heart must keep 
 
 In mute humility. 
 
THE GLASTONBURY THORN 75 
 
 O Mary ! Mary ! I have seen ! 
 
 It cannot pass away ; 
 Thy face is living in my heart 
 
 For ever, night and day. 
 
 Oh, on one night of wondrous light, 
 
 Thy Babe upon thy knee, 
 When first He smiled, O mother mild. 
 
 One Joseph stood by thee. 
 
 But I, another Joseph, stood 
 
 Beside thee at the end ; 
 And when thine arms took back their own. 
 
 Did I thy will attend. 
 
 Another night — oh, such a night 
 Again earth will not see ! — 
 
 For that night's sake forget me not, 
 Until I come to thee ' 
 
76 THE GLASTONBURY THORN 
 
 I wander far, I lose myself ; — 
 What was the flower, the last, 
 
 That told me that the summer days 
 In this green land were past ? 
 
 I think it was the myrtle soft, 
 
 I sheltered by the wall. 
 That flower of fate that blooms so late, 
 
 For maiden's coronal. 
 
 But when the time of flowers was past. 
 And Autumn leaves were sere. 
 
 Darkness drew on, and all the wold 
 With wailing winds was drear. 
 
 Early the Winter settled down, 
 The snow fell thick and deep. 
 
 The birds were hushed, the frozen rills 
 Were bound in glassy sleep. 
 
THE GLASTONBURY THORN 77 
 
 And when at last drew nigh at hand 
 
 The holy Christmas Eve, 
 A pathless wilderness of white 
 
 Was all I could perceive. • 
 
 I was alone, and not a step 
 For many weeks had crossed 
 
 The buried moors, and I of men 
 Forgotten seemed, and lost. 
 
 My food was spent ; for many days 
 
 I had not broken fast ; 
 A little bird whose breast was red 
 
 Had shared my crumbs — the last. 
 
 And now it seemed my time was come 
 
 My labour to forsake ; 
 And sadly and in tears I knelt. 
 
 And to my Master spake, — 
 
78 THE GLASTONBURY THORN 
 
 ' Lord, Thou hast set me here to sow 
 The seed of faith for Thee ; 
 
 I sow in vain, I may not reap, 
 Nor blade, nor corn I see. 
 
 ' Thou callest me, and I must come 
 Out of Thy garden ground, 
 
 With empty hands, and incomplete. 
 Once more defaulting found. 
 
 ' I know I shall forget my fault. 
 When once I see Thy face ; 
 
 But, Lord, this is one bitter hour 
 For the lost time of grace.' 
 
 Then at midnight, all silently, 
 
 A spirit drew me forth ; 
 The three bright stars high overhead 
 
 Were pointing to the North. 
 
THE GLASTONBURY THORN 79 
 
 But a strange glow was in the air, 
 
 Vibrating sparks and strings. 
 And all the midnight was alive 
 
 With throbbing souls of things. 
 
 A quivering pulse of blood-red flame 
 Leapt up the heavenly height, 
 
 And soft and swift the rosy fire 
 Played in and out the night. 
 
 And all the world was lighted up, 
 I could not see from whence ; 
 
 I heard strange music in my ears, 
 I could not catch its sense. 
 
 The snow blushed crimson fitfully, 
 Like water turned to wine ; 
 
 I stepped into the open air, 
 And saw a wondrous sisrn. 
 
8o . THE GLASTONBURY THORN 
 
 For there my staff of pilgrimage, 
 That in the ground stood fast, 
 
 Had shot into a living stem, 
 Whose boughs were outward cast ; 
 
 And every branch was quick with leaf, 
 And bud and flower and thorn ; 
 
 Beneath my gaze in still amaze 
 The opening blooms were born. 
 
 O tree so bright 'mid snowy white. 
 How didst thou smile on me : 
 
 The Master at the Feast to-night 
 Hath not forgotten thee ! 
 
 And when the Northern Lights had died. 
 And night lay still and deep, 
 
 My eyes for very blissfulness 
 Did close themselves in sleep. 
 
THE GLASTONBURY THORN 
 
 I cannot tell what voices near 
 In sleep conversed with mine ; 
 
 I do not know if angels came 
 To bring me bread and wine. 
 
 But I lived on, I wanted not, 
 
 I was not left alone ; 
 Our Master needs no other help 
 
 When He would feed His own. 
 
 And the next spring, at Easter-tide, 
 When the soft ferns unrolled, 
 
 And all the moorland sea of gorse 
 Tossed its fresh waves of sfold, 
 
 A thousand souls with one accord 
 
 Came to the water's side, 
 And bowed themselves beneath the Sign 
 
 Of Christ the Crucified. 
 
 G 
 
82 THE GLASTONBURY THORN 
 
 And since that day a thousandfold 
 The word has borne increase ; 
 
 This fair and fruitful country lies 
 All in one bond of peace. 
 
 They have not seen what I have seen, 
 They have not touched the Hand ; 
 
 Blessed are they, because by faith 
 They love and understand. 
 
 O Lord, Thy purpose does not fail, 
 The work is Thine alone ; 
 
 All times are harvest times with Thee : 
 Enough, to be Thine own. 
 
LONDON STREETS 
 
85 
 
 ' to a grea t and good 
 physician: 
 
 God hears to-day, and every day, for thee 
 Blessings and prayers uncounted ; therefore hear 
 Once for thyself, to greet thee this New Year, 
 
 What He hears always : — little though it be 
 That words can tell. We thank Him for thy life, 
 Fulfilled in one strong, simple, selfless strife 
 With pain and ill ; that, never taking breath 
 For one hour's ease, wrestles all day with death. 
 And conquers in His Name ; and for the power 
 For soul and body's aid, that is thy dower, — 
 The mighty gift of healing, half of God, 
 And half of some steep journey nobly trod. 
 Some sublime hour of sacrifice in youth, 
 Where the two ways met, — this world's praise, and 
 Truth. 
 
2,6 'TO A GREAT AND GOOD PHYSICIAN' 
 
 Is not the time of trial without fear 
 Because the comfort of thy voice is near? 
 Have we not known how, all these years gone 
 
 by, 
 
 Wherever called thee the most hopeless cry, 
 Wherever want most sad, and pain most sore, 
 
 Wherever most thy heart was pierced and rent. 
 Through the dark hours thy steadfast watchings 
 wore, 
 
 The touches of thy tenderness were spent. 
 Till from the saved, the succoured, the consoled. 
 One blessing wraps thy name a thousandfold ? 
 
 Ah, to how many a man, like Hercules, 
 Hast thou brought home out of the gates of 
 death 
 The best-beloved, and joined hands of these 
 That parted hopeless ; — or brought back the 
 
 breath 
 Which even to the last had ebbed away 
 In little, lovely, moaning forms that lay 
 Chill on their mothers' bosoms ! Who shall say 
 
' TO A GREAT AND GOOD PHYSICIAN' 87 
 
 Of what deliverances from what despairs 
 How many still are mindful in their prayers, 
 And still remember thee by ! At thy door 
 Even now what anxious faces evermore 
 Wait for the pity of thine eyes to cross 
 The story of their sickness or their loss ; 
 And no one goes away without some balm, 
 The pain made softer, or the fear more calm. 
 What restless forms to-day are lying, bound 
 On sick-beds, waiting till the hour come round 
 That brings thy foot upon the chamber stair, 
 Impatient, fevered, faint, till thou art there, 
 The one short smile of sunshine to make light 
 The long endurance of another night. 
 
 But of thy loving-kindness and thy care, 
 Hope, that thy footsteps follows everywhere, 
 Skill without measure, patience without fail. 
 Each one who knows thee knows a separate 
 
 tale; 
 But only God knows all. — And if to some 
 (Are they indeed His best-beloved ? ) there come 
 
Z'TO A GREAT AND GOOD PHYSICIAN' 
 
 Hours of severer proof, and furnace-tried, 
 Which may not be cut short nor turned aside, — 
 When the art fails then the love triumphs more ; — 
 The last and best of gifts is yet in store. 
 Through uttermost extremity of pain. 
 Through darkness of deep waters, comes a strain 
 (The words return, the sense is mazed and dim), 
 ' And there appeared an Angel, strengthening 
 
 him.' 
 And thy face is the vision, and thy voice 
 
 Is soft above the tempest, though it close 
 
 Over one sinking in slow fires. Who knows 
 How many hearts for evermore rejoice 
 For that revealing what a friend may be. 
 For that upholding they have had of thee 
 In that unspoken, solemn fellowship ! 
 This blessing go with thee from heart and 
 
 lip:- 
 Because for our sake, us the sufferers. 
 
 Thou makest of thy moments and thy hours 
 From sunrise unto sunset ministers 
 
 Unspared, unwearied, unto needs of ours, — 
 
'TO A GREAT AND GOOD PHYSICIAN' 89 
 
 (From sunset unto sunrise who shall say 
 
 How often ?) still foregoing day by day 
 
 The common ease and pleasure of the way, 
 
 Without self-pity and without regret 
 
 Wholly to thy heroic labour set, — 
 
 May God repay thee better than thy loss, 
 
 And such stray streaks as cannot choose but v 
 
 cross 
 The daily toil and tedium of thy track 
 Yield unto thee a sevenfold sunshine back ! 
 
 The grace of God upon thee, may'st thou feel 
 The shortened slumber and the hasty meal 
 Refresh thee as a Sacrament ; — thy sense 
 Be quickened into rapture more intense 
 Because thy joys are fewer ; — and the green 
 Valleys be fairer because far between. 
 The first white flashing of a swallow's wing, 
 Glimpses of pear-trees between walls in spring. 
 The morning air from new-mown fields in June, 
 The water-lilies on a Sabbath noon, 
 
C)o 'TO A GREAT AND GOOD PHYSICIAN' 
 
 The solemn river-sunsets through the smoke, 
 The first reviving smile from eyes awoke 
 Out of Death's shadow unto life again, — 
 Be sweeter unto thee than other men. 
 
 And because mortal sorrow needs must fall 
 On all men, and the highest most of all. 
 And some sharp struggle crowns each perfecting. 
 And that our lower love no shield can bring 
 
 Between thee and the higher Love to stand, 
 That strikes for Love's own sake unfaltering, — 
 
 Therefore when thou too stretchest out thy hand 
 For help, when thy need cometh, doubt, or pain, 
 Or loss, or other anguish of this earth. 
 And though we died for thee our death were vain, 
 And though we gave all it were nothing worth. 
 And of the many thousands whom thy face 
 Hath comforted, can none return the grace, 
 Being less than thee, — may the one Higher One 
 Do to thee even as thou to us hast done, 
 O Soother of our sorrows ! May'st thou see. 
 Steadfastly gazing towards Eternity, 
 
' TO A GREAT AND GOOD PHYSICIAN' 91 
 
 The heavens opened, and at God's right hand 
 With the same smile as once thy Master stand ; — 
 Nor only so, but come down from His place, 
 And stand beside thee, and His arms embrace 
 Nor ever let thy hand go, holding fast, 
 Till all the tyranny be overpast. 
 
 New Year's Day. 
 
92 
 
 WORKING-GIRLS IN LONDON. 
 
 ' Is NOT this the time of flowers, 
 
 And of birds that sing ? ' 
 ' Here we know the days and hours, 
 
 Not the Spring.' 
 
 ' Is not this the age for pleasure, 
 
 And for hohdays ? ' 
 ' We have neither ease nor leisure. 
 
 Work always.' 
 
 ' Are not ripe fruits now in season. 
 Honey, cream, and cake ? ' 
 
 ' Daily bread for us is reason 
 Thanks to make.' 
 
WORKING-GIRLS IN LONDON 93 
 
 ' Are not these the days for playing 
 
 On the garden-grass ? ' 
 ' We, our daily work delaying, 
 
 Starve, alas ! ' 
 
 ' Are not these the nights for wearing 
 
 Robes of gossamer ? ' 
 ' Summer finds us burdens bearing, 
 
 Spite of her.' 
 
 ' Are not cool streams flowing whitely, 
 
 Water-lily lit ? ' 
 ' Here within close walls we nightly 
 
 Stifling sit.' 
 
 ' Is not this the month for lying 
 In the green leaves' shade ? ' 
 
 ' Summer breezes fresh are flying. 
 Fast we fade.' 
 
94 WORKING-GIRLS IN LONDON 
 
 ' Will not Love come here to-morrow, 
 For bridegroom and bride ? ' 
 
 * Here Love meanetb pain and sorrow 
 Multiplied.' 
 
 ' Is not this the time of roses, 
 
 Opening red and bright ? ' 
 ' In the Chapel one reposes, 
 
 Shut and white.' 
 
 ' If of good things life bereft us, 
 What avails the rest ? ' 
 
 < Still the better things are left us. 
 And the best.' 
 
 ' Are not some among you living 
 Who can cheer the way ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, their lives in service giving, 
 Day by day.' 
 
WORKING-GIRLS IN LONDON 95 
 
 ' Would you not with your rich neighbour 
 
 Change, and cast off care ? ' 
 ' Christ our poverty and labour 
 
 Chose to share.' 
 
 ' Refuge have you none, unholpen, . 
 
 From the strife and din ? ' 
 ' Yes, the Church stands always open, 
 
 Hushed within.' 
 
 ' Is there not one hour suspended 
 From the hard world's wrong ? ' 
 
 ' Softly sounds when day is ended 
 Evensong.' 
 
 ' Would you for fine houses rather 
 Leave your chambers bare ? ' 
 
 ' Still in secret speaks Our Father 
 To us there.' 
 
96 WORKING-GIRLS IN LONDON 
 
 ' Are the days not long and dreary, 
 
 And the years afar ? ' 
 ' Leaning on Thy breast Thy weary 
 
 Children are.' 
 
 ' In your conflict have you never. 
 
 Recompense for loss ? ' 
 ' Yes, One Presence with us ever 
 
 Bears our cross.' 
 
 O young feet, ye can but falter 
 On your road at length ! ' 
 
 ' Still we kneel before the Altar 
 For fresh strength.' 
 
 ' Have not some, O faithful daughters, 
 Sunk beneath the wave ? ' 
 
 ' One we know in the deep waters, 
 Swift to save.' 
 
WORKING-GIRLS IN LONDON 97 
 
 * Are there not dark hours, too lonely 
 
 For all help, at last ? ' 
 ' Through the darkest ones Christ only 
 
 Holds us fast.' 
 
98 
 
 DIVES. 
 
 O Lazarus, between us lies 
 A gulf which neither yet can pass ; 
 
 And yet one speaks, and one replies, 
 Between us close no walls of brass ; 
 
 My life is lost, my soul undone ; 
 
 But Abraham calls me still his Son. 
 
 Thy brother too ! Year after year. 
 In this deep dungeon of the dead. 
 
 Have we not soul to soul grown near, 
 By interwoven fateful thread, 
 
 Remembering how our days have run 
 
 Together, underneath the sun ? 
 
DIVES 99 
 
 Thine eyes upon me used to wait 
 With a mute pleasure and caress ; 
 
 As I went in and out my gate 
 They almost smiled for gentleness ; 
 
 They seemed to thank me passing by, 
 
 For sight of one so fine as I. 
 
 Those patient eyes reproached me not, 
 Their envy poisoned not my good, 
 
 They seemed to say, ' So mean my lot, 
 I cannot serve thee as I would.' 
 
 I took the will, and was content 
 
 With thy admiring wonderment. 
 
 Thou hadst no sister, Lazarus, 
 
 Thou hadst no friend of human kind ; 
 
 Thy desolate heart was turned to us. 
 Some solace for its love to find ; 
 
 The tender flattery I could read, 
 
 But nothing of the piteous need. 
 
loo DIVES 
 
 I and my brethren were to thee 
 Thy pageant, freely thine to share ; 
 
 Thou in thy mouldering rags might'st see 
 How cool fine Hnen was to wear ; 
 
 And every day a sumptuous feast 
 
 I spread before thine eyes at least. 
 
 Thou didst my every sense offend, 
 And yet I sometimes looked thy way, 
 
 I knew thee for a humble friend, 
 I gave thee leave to see me gay ; 
 
 Gracious and generous to excuse 
 
 Thy want of worth, thy want of use. 
 
 Out of my luxury's excess 
 
 I spared no single drop for thee ; 
 Out of thy utter nakedness 
 
 Thou gavest heavenly gift to me ; 
 For ever seeming to implore 
 My pardon that it was not more. 
 
DIVES 
 
 ' Most worshipful, I cannot serve, 
 I am a blot in thy fair sight. 
 
 No slave's least portion I deserve, 
 I taint the air, I mar the light : ' 
 
 Yet I forgave thee all this wrong, 
 
 And sometimes threw a dole alone. 
 
 Lazarus, how fiercely ached 
 
 Thy burning sores the whole day long ! 
 How was thy bitter thirst unslaked ! 
 
 No drop of water cooled thy tongue. 
 And yet my hard heart did not melt ; — 
 
 1 know it now, for I have felt. 
 
 How meek and hopeless thy desire 
 For crumbs that from my table fell ; 
 
 O Lazarus, the flakes of fire 
 
 Fall on my heart, in rain of hell ! 
 
 Oh, the slow pangs, day after day 
 
 Thou starving at my side away ! 
 
DIVES 
 
 And yet I missed thee from thy place, 
 
 My daily life was incomplete, 
 My pompous march had lost its grace. 
 
 The meal unwatched became less sweet ; 
 By thy humility my pride 
 No longer could be satisfied. 
 
 We are not fixed so far apart 
 But that I knew thy face again, 
 
 Thy patient face that held my heart 
 By one last link not snapt in twain 
 
 It seemed a simple thing at first 
 
 To call for thee to slake my thirst. 
 
 Should I not send thee to and fro. 
 My messenger with willing feet. 
 
 Back to my father's house to go. 
 Along the well-remembered street ? 
 
 Wouldst thou not hasten, glad and proud, 
 
 So much promoted and allowed ? 
 
DIVES 103 
 
 And thou, I know — yes, thou art not 
 
 Less loving than in days of old ; 
 Thy wistful watch was not forgot ; 
 
 I seem to hear the sigh that told 
 Thou too wast frustrate of thy task : — 
 To minister thou still dost ask. 
 
 Was this indeed the face I saw 
 So carelessly, so many days ? 
 
 Oh, blessed be the fires that draw 
 The veil from my besotted gaze ! 
 
 Thou angel, that I now see plain. 
 
 Whom I did never entertain ! 
 
 Too late for me, too late it is ! 
 
 Dogs were more pitiful than I ; 
 I never gave thee any kiss, 
 
 Thy unanointed wounds were dry : 
 But oh, in vain, how many years 
 Have I not washed them with my tears ! 
 
I04 DIVES 
 
 But, O my Lazarus, it is gone ; 
 
 For ever past is all thy pain ; 
 If for one hour I might atone, 
 
 I would not bring it back again : 
 My everlasting loss I bear, 
 Once mine, but once, for love and care ! 
 
 Lazarus, my Lazarus, from afar 
 
 Still toward me turned thy face I see. 
 
 Me from thy smile doth none debar. 
 Thine eyes look out to comfort me ; 
 
 Thy hand a sterner law controls : 
 
 It is not set between our souls. 
 
 How can I ask thee to forgive. 
 
 Who of my crimes no reckoning took ? 
 "Who by a monster used to live. 
 
 And yet couldst bear on him to look ? 
 Whose spirit dwelt its griefs above. 
 And only felt the angels' love ? 
 
DIVES 105 
 
 We cannot now be reconciled, 
 
 Where strife has never entered in ; 
 
 Thy charity, thy suffering mild, 
 
 Working with God thy peace to win, 
 
 Have worked this miracle as well, — 
 
 To save a soul alive in hell. 
 
 And still behind thee seems to grow 
 
 Another, dimly like to thee, 
 Whose looks meet mine, till scarce I know 
 
 If it were thou or it were He 
 Who all those years lay on thy bed. 
 Unloved, unknown, uncomforted. 
 
 Weep not for me, O Lazarus ! 
 
 On Abraham's bosom thou dost hide 
 Thy tears that flow to see me thus : 
 
 Must we not patient both abide ? 
 My sins are greater than my doom : 
 That which I was, may hell consume ! 
 
io6 DIVES 
 
 Through all the torment stern and strange, 
 I feel, as winter feels the spring, 
 
 In me and all around a change. 
 
 Some far-off day the years will bring : 
 
 Perchance thy prayers have brought it near ; 
 
 God's will be done, both there and here ! 
 
 And then, O Lazarus, thou shalt come, 
 And to thy Master draw me near ; 
 
 It IS thy hand shall lead me home. 
 It is thy voice shall give me cheer ; 
 
 And thou too shalt have thy desire 
 
 Fulfilled at last, although by fire. 
 
 By all our past that we have earned, 
 May it not be that thou and I, 
 
 Together yet, both hearts that yearned. 
 Thou, O beloved, set on high, 
 
 And I within the lowest place, 
 
 May serve one Master face to face? 
 
DIVES 107 
 
 Lazarus, my Lazarus, we will go 
 
 Together, I on thee will wait ; 
 That souls made wiser by our woe 
 
 May learn their lesson not too late. 
 What need of words between us now ? 
 We know each other, I and thou. 
 
io8 
 
 FAREWELL HYMN FOR 
 BISHOP SMYTHIES OF EAST AFRICA. 
 
 St. Alban's, October ioth, 1888. 
 
 Christ has called thee. On thy mission 
 
 Thou art going forth to-day ; 
 Home and country, ease and safety, 
 
 These are bonds to hold and stay : 
 Stronger is the hand constraining ; — 
 
 Christ is calling, — come away ! 
 
 Down the jungle-swamps of fever, 
 Down the dark slave-driver's track, 
 
 Through the roaring of the lions. 
 
 Through the Unknown, shapeless, black. 
 
 Through the savage hosts of slaughter, 
 Christ is leading ; — look not back ! 
 
FAREWELL HYMN 109 
 
 Dearer than all else, He draws thee 
 Where no stream of gladness runs ; 
 
 He has given thee His message 
 To His most forsaken sons ; 
 
 Filled thy heart with His own pity 
 For His sheep, the long-lost ones. 
 
 Some have gone before, and fallen, 
 Not until their work could stand :— 
 
 Follow, to fill up their places, 
 
 With the torch from hand to hand, 
 
 Till the African vast blackness 
 Glitters with a beacon-band ! 
 
 Lights are shining in dark places, 
 Seeds are springing from the tomb. 
 
 O'er the desert-wastes already 
 Breaks the Rose of Martyrdom ; 
 
 Saints we knew with dusky faces 
 Smile upon us out of home. 
 
Tio FAREWELL HYMN 
 
 Speed thee ! Here are tears of parting, 
 Friend looks sadly upon friend ; 
 
 Shall we here once more have meeting ? 
 What shall be His crown to send ? 
 
 In the peace He gives thou goest ; 
 God be with thee to the end ! 
 
ITI 
 
 THE SHADE OF CHATTERTON. 
 
 Brooke Street, Holborn. 
 
 The church on winter afternoons 
 
 Is warm, is dark, 
 The cold wind whistles down the street, 
 
 Sighs and moans, — hark ! 
 Out of a hundred years of waste, 
 
 Of seas without a mark, 
 The dove on weary wing beats back 
 
 To the ark. 
 
 Oh, I am poorer than you all, 
 
 More weak, more thin ; 
 Oh, I go mourning all alone, 
 
 Unsaved from sin. 
 
112 THE SHADE OF CHATTERTON 
 
 I will go out before your Feasts 
 And glorious Songs begin ; 
 
 Let me in when the lights are low, 
 Let me in ! 
 
 Oh, the cold fogs, for those who rest 
 
 Not in the tomb ! 
 Oh, it is cold along the street, 
 
 In sleet and gloom ! 
 Oh, it was cold a hundred years 
 
 Up in the haunted room ! 
 I sat and shivered comfortless 
 
 For my doom. 
 
 I left a name, a short sad tale, 
 
 A mournful shade ; 
 Some words of pity followed me. 
 
 Men praised, none prayed ; 
 Careless, a withered laurel leaf 
 
 Upon my grave they laid ; 
 Then they forgot me, till you came 
 
 To my aid. 
 
THE SHADE OF CHATTERTON 113 
 
 You built a church for sanctuary, 
 
 Thither I fled ; 
 You worshipped there, I Hstened to 
 
 The words you said ; 
 You kept the vigils of the year, 
 
 Remembering the dead ; 
 You wrote my name, by all who pass 
 
 To be read. 
 
 A Cross upon the door drives ill 
 
 Spirits away ; 
 I clasped it close, it was the first 
 
 That came my way ; 
 I kissed it weeping, — ' Oh, how long 
 
 I waited for this day ! ' 
 I came unbidden with the rest. 
 
 Let me stay ! 
 
 I haunt the empty space between 
 
 The font and door ; 
 When you go home I stay on guard, 
 
 Your janitor ; 
 
 I 
 
114 THE SHADE OF CHATTERTON 
 
 I do not sleep at nights, but they 
 Seem shorter than before ; 
 
 A shadow in the shadow I He 
 On the floor. 
 
 Far off I see your Altar Lights, 
 
 I hear your Song ; 
 The church is filled, but I am left 
 
 Out of the throng. 
 Oh, I am Thine, though spurned of Thee 
 
 Have I then done Thee wrong ? 
 Out of the deeps I call on Thee, — 
 
 For how long ? 
 
 I suffer in your midst, so much 
 
 At least I share ; 
 I love, though I am not beloved. 
 
 My soul lies bare : 
 The pale ghosts cannot be forbid 
 
 To pray, and wail in prayer ; 
 You could not sweep away my sighs 
 
 From the air. 
 
THE SHADE OF CHATTERTON 115 
 
 I do not know your Christmas Day, 
 
 I keep your Lent ; 
 You know the Father's face and hand, 
 
 Above you bent ; 
 If He would have me for His slave, 
 
 I would be well content ; 
 With bleeding heart I kneel with you, 
 
 Penitent. 
 
 All glorious things within me stirred, 
 
 As in the bud \ 
 Heroic deeds and wonderful 
 
 Throbbed in my blood ; 
 Dim and wild echoes came to me 
 
 Along time's rolling flood ; 
 I wove them into words, I half 
 
 Understood. 
 
 The creed of Christ was spoken round, 
 
 I knew it not. 
 Wild music sounded in my brain. 
 
 My heart was hot ; 
 
 I 2 
 
n6 THE SHADE OF CHATTERTON 
 
 The fires of hell, the fires of heaven 
 Were mingled in this spot ; 
 
 I had no sign, it seemed as if 
 Heaven forgot. 
 
 sorrow of fate ! the seasons keep 
 
 Their time on earth : 
 Why should the seasons of the heavens 
 
 Fail of their mirth ? 
 Of daisies and of primroses 
 
 The May-Day hath no dearth ; 
 But the Flower of the Gods in January 
 
 Came to birth. 
 
 Faces that were unseen by me, 
 Voices unheard ! 
 
 1 would have waited on your will, 
 
 For one kind word. 
 I could have lived ! I would have been 
 
 Your happy singing-bird ; 
 You should have been more glad for me. 
 
 More heart-stirred. 
 
THE SHADE OF CHATTERTON 117 
 
 I pass you, though you see me not, 
 
 Along the street ; 
 I watch your coming as for friends, 
 
 Kind eyes I meet : 
 The pavement echoes with the tread 
 
 Of ministering feet ; 
 In the grey morning I am first 
 
 Out to greet. 
 
 boys to-day ! in Bands of Hope, 
 
 In Guild, in Roll, 
 One of your days of everyday 
 
 Had saved my soul ; 
 One word of all the words you hear 
 
 Had made my spirit whole ; 
 
 1 would have begged your wasted crumbs 
 
 For my dole. 
 
 You hunger, but you will not starve 
 
 Without a friend ; 
 There are dark times, — you have a hope 
 
 Lights up the end ; 
 
ii8 THE SHADE OF CHATTERTON 
 
 You toil, but others toil with you, 
 For you their lives they spend ; 
 
 You fall, — hands are stretched out to you, 
 To amend. 
 
 kindly led, be kind to me, 
 
 Comfort me too ! 
 
 1 was as young as you, give me 
 
 A place with you. 
 Of all the gifts so freely given, 
 
 Leave me at least a few ; 
 Spare me sometimes out of your prayers 
 
 One or two. 
 
 O priests, who daily minister. 
 
 Give me some sign ! 
 For me who have but tears to drink, 
 
 Where you pour wine. 
 Is there no bond of fellowship, 
 
 Our hearts to intertwine ? 
 When you confess the people's sins. 
 
 Speak for mine ! 
 
THE SHADE OF CHATTERTON 119 
 
 I am no longer desolate, 
 
 I have a home ; 
 Familiar footsteps come and go 
 
 Amidst the gloom : 
 Yours is the Children's Bread,— to wait 
 
 The Master exiles some : 
 I shall be watching here, when next 
 
 He shall come. 
 
MISCELLANEO US. 
 
123 
 
 THE CROCUS. 
 
 Out of the frozen earth below, 
 Out of the melting of the snow, 
 
 No flower, but a film, I push to light ; 
 No stem, no bud, — yet I have burst 
 The bars of winter, I am the first, 
 
 O Sun, to greet thee out of the night ! 
 
 Bare are the branches, cold is the air, 
 Yet it is fire at the heart I bear, 
 
 I come, a flame that is fed by none : 
 The summer hath blossoms for her delight, 
 Thick and dewy and waxen-white, 
 
 Thou seest me golden, O golden Sun ! 
 
124 THE CROCUS 
 
 Deep in the warm sleep underground 
 Life is still, and the peace profound : 
 
 Yet a beam that pierced, and a thrill that smote 
 Called me and drew me from far away ; — 
 1 rose, I came, to the open day 
 
 I have won, unsheltered, alone, remote. 
 
 No bee strays out to greet me at morn, 
 I shall die ere the butterfly is born, 
 
 I shall hear no note of the nightingale ; 
 The swallow will come with the break of green. 
 He will never know that I have been 
 
 Before him here when the world was pale. 
 
 They will follow, the rose with thorny stem, 
 The hyacinth stalk, — soft airs for them ; 
 
 They shall have strength, I have but love 
 They shall not be tender as I, — 
 Yet I fought here first, to bloom, to die, 
 
 To shine in his face who shines above. 
 
THE CROCUS 125 
 
 O glory of Heaven, O Ruler of Morn, 
 
 Dream that shaped me, and I was born 
 
 In thy likeness, starry, and flower of flame ; — 
 
 1 lie on the earth and to thee look up, 
 Into thy image will grow my cup. 
 
 Till a sunbeam dissolve it into the same. 
 
126 
 
 THE SIEGE OF STRASBURG. 
 
 The siege of Strasburg ! — for in those dread days, 
 Strasburg the Virgin stood before her foes 
 More helpless, hopeless, than Andromeda ; 
 Chained to her pile, but with fair-fronting eyes, 
 And breast bare to the pitiless storm that smote, 
 And smote her bleeding but inviolate limbs ; 
 While round and over her the iron hail 
 By day fell, and the red rain fell by night, — 
 And knew no succour coming nor to come ; 
 And still endured, and made no sign, and said, 
 ' The end is not yet come, and day by day 
 My agony shall stay their feet from France ; 
 Therefore I die by inches.' And all knew 
 Her doom was on her ; and the world without 
 Sent never a message to her, nor farewell, 
 
THE SIEGE OF STRASBURG 127 
 
 Nor any eye met hers but the ringed eyes 
 
 Of the grey cannon, round against her set, 
 
 That marked each shuddering and each streak of fire. 
 
 As the bombs struck her and she still endured. 
 
 But once for mercy spake aloud, as when 
 She sent her girls and children to the gates, 
 Having kissed them as who should not meet again. 
 And said, heart-broken, ' Let but these depart.' 
 And back the answer came to her, ' Too late ! 
 Die all— or yield — together,' So they stayed. 
 And as the fire waxed fiercer round her heart, 
 Prayed yet once more in her extremity, 
 ' Send us some draught of sleep, some fever balm. 
 For those who he with hps and limbs on fire 
 Within our hospitals ! ' And yet once more 
 The answer was sent back to her, ' Too late ! 
 No more till the surrender ! ' Tjien she ceased. 
 And prayed no more to man, nor yet to God ; 
 And all her thousands set themselves to death 
 Within her walls, and starved to skeletons. 
 Or sickened in the darkness underground, 
 
128 THE SIEGE OF STRASBURG 
 
 And came forth but for burial of their dead. 
 
 And ever overhead the heaven was brass, 
 
 And through the empty streets the sheets of fire 
 
 From house to house by dayhght scorched and leapt, 
 
 While the continuous rocking roar was yet 
 
 O'ercrashed a moment as the roofs fell in. 
 
 And week by week the faces that remained 
 
 Grew greyer, ghastlier ; and her soldiery 
 
 Dropped at their posts, and mangled limbs were strewn 
 
 On their own hearths, and, as the shells came through, 
 
 Her little children in their mothers' arms 
 
 Were torn to pieces, and her babes were born 
 
 Between the boomings as their fathers died. 
 
129 
 
 THE FIRST OF JUNE. 
 
 Last night I lay upon my bed, 
 
 With sinking heart alone ; 
 Long weeks, long months I so have lain, 
 
 Weeping and making moan. 
 
 All May has passed \ I hardly know 
 If swift spring-rains have stirred. 
 
 There hath not broken through the dark 
 One flash of flower or bird. 
 
 But sleep stole on me unawares, 
 
 Even on me at last ; 
 Though drop by drop the minutes faint 
 
 Like hours at midnight passed. 
 
 K 
 
I30 THE FIRST OF JUNE 
 
 Short was the sleep, since even now 
 The summer dawn is nigh ; 
 
 But health and healing it has brought ; 
 I wake — but is it I ? 
 
 I feel no more these limbs of pain, 
 I draw no sobbing breath, 
 
 Life has come back to me at last. 
 And God remembereth. 
 
 How many years since I have known 
 
 A waking glad like this : 
 Nay, can I once recall an hour 
 
 So peaceful as it is ? 
 
 I have forgotten when it was 
 That I such ease have known ; 
 
 What hinders me from rising up 
 And going forth alone ? 
 
THE FIRST OF JUNE 131 
 
 Why should I too not wander out 
 Through the sweet morning mist, 
 
 And see the sunrise out of doors, 
 That all my life I missed ? 
 
 The house is hushed and sleeping. 
 My footsteps noiseless fall. 
 
 From door to door, from stair to stair 
 Peace rest within on all ! 
 
 The door is opened easily, 
 I stand beneath the sky ; 
 
 The old watch-dog remembers me, 
 Nor stirs as I go by. 
 
 Here on the lawn my children play ; 
 
 Across the stile I pass, 
 Out of the dewy garden 
 
 Into the meadow grass. 
 
 K 2 
 
132 THE FIRST OF JUNE 
 
 The grass is cool and damp and tall, 
 It rustles to my knees : 
 
 Year after year does morning bring 
 Airs upon earth like these ? 
 
 As to the crimson East I turn 
 The rising sun to meet, 
 
 The clover and the daisies dim 
 All close about my feet. 
 
 The cuckoo gives the signal call 
 From hill to hill unseen, 
 
 From every side the hymn of birds 
 Fills all the fields between. 
 
 Down to the brook, across the bridge ; 
 
 Where deep and high and dank 
 The orchis heads crowd through the grass. 
 
 And leaning from the bank 
 
THE FIRST OF JUNE 
 
 The guelder-rose dips in the stream, 
 And golden flags are hung, 
 
 Out of whose midst the water-hen 
 Awakens with her young. 
 
 I have heard said, the kingiisher 
 Was used to haunt this brook, 
 
 But seen no more of latter years : 
 He comes again, for — look ! — 
 
 The flashing of his wings goes by 
 Almost against my face : 
 
 He is not shy to-day, within 
 This willow-fringed place. 
 
 The sun is up, the mist is cleared, 
 All the still land lies fair ; 
 
 As up the sloping leas I pass, 
 The sweetest grass grows there. 
 
134 THE FIRST OF JUNE 
 
 All in among the crowded lambs, 
 They do not run away ; 
 
 The field-mice flit along the path, 
 Like little friends at play. 
 
 The larks sing high in the blue sky 
 As if in heaven they were ; 
 
 I too am free and full of glee 
 Out in the open air. 
 
 And now I pass th' horizon hill 
 That bounds my window-view ; 
 
 O house of love, O house of pain, 
 For how long time ? — adieu. 
 
 Oh, I have wandered many a mile 
 Through a country wild and sweet ; 
 
 I am not tired, I do not want 
 To stay, or sit, or eat. 
 
THE FIRST OF JUNE 135 
 
 It seems as if at last the soul 
 
 And body were reconciled ; 
 I think there once was such a day 
 
 When I was a little child. 
 
 A wicket-gate leads to a wood, 
 
 And as I enter through, 
 The speedwell from the bank looks up 
 
 With eyes of heavenly blue. 
 
 The flowers smile up, the birds sing down, 
 
 Come in, they sing and say ; 
 The wood is dark and fragrant-fresh 
 
 With June's first hour and day. 
 
 I wander deep, I wander far 
 Into the green wood's heart ; 
 
 I come unto an open space 
 Where the low branches part. 
 
136 THE FIRST OF JUNE 
 
 Beyond the level summer lawn 
 The forest oak-trees spread ; 
 
 Under the stateliest of them all 
 The moss has made a bed. 
 
 Oh, on soft couches laid in vain 
 With aching limbs across, 
 
 How often have I dreamed of this- 
 A bed of earth and moss 1 
 
 Here I will rest — Oh, everywhere 
 Is rest and health at last ; 
 
 How can such utter weariness 
 So suddenly be past ? 
 
 The wood-doves murmur over my head, 
 Soon ! soon ! soon ! for a sign : 
 
 But who is this beside me 
 Whose eyes look into mine ? 
 
THE FIRST OF JUNE lyj 
 
 ' Oh, can it be you come back at last ? 
 
 And where is it I meet with you ? 
 Are not the waste wide waters 
 
 Of Death between us two ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, all these years, by night and day, 
 I have watched beside the gate ; 
 
 I have looked down the road that you would 
 come, 
 I have waited early and late ; 
 
 I have been weary in Paradise, 
 Oh, it was long to wait ! 
 
 * Do you not know that you have come 
 
 Across the waves in sleep ? 
 And this is your birthday morning 
 
 Together we will keep.' 
 
138 
 
 THE IMPENITENT THIEF. 
 
 Save thyself first ! if Thou indeed 
 Be Christ, the King of Israel, 
 
 Now is Thy time, Thy time of need, 
 To help Thyself and us as well. 
 
 I will not own Thee ^faster thus, 
 
 Who canst not save Thyself nor us. 
 
 I do not call Thee Christ ; for me 
 No Christ is, nor hath ever been ; 
 
 Long underfoot we trampled Thee, 
 Now Thou hast equal place between. 
 
 ' Thou lifted up from earth shalt draw 
 
 All men ' — but not this one outlaw. 
 
THE IMPENITENT THIEF 139 
 
 I do not call Thee Lord ; if Thou 
 
 Didst make this world, it was ill-made : 
 
 It is too late to save me now, 
 Long, long ago I wanted aid. 
 
 I am no servant, no, nor friend. 
 
 Who did not find Thee till this end. 
 
 Thou didst not save me when my birth 
 Doomed me to shame and misery. 
 
 Thou didst not save me when the earth 
 Her misbegotten scorned in me. 
 
 Thou didst not save when my first crime 
 
 Drove me and fixed me to the slime. 
 
 The tortured men for hidden gold 
 That made my pastime and my prey, 
 
 The children into slavery sold, 
 
 The butchered corpses by the way. 
 
 The ravished maidens in despair, 
 
 Thou didst not save, I did not spare. 
 
I40 THE IMPENITENT THIEF 
 
 Thou wilt not save in days to come, 
 No, not Thine own, Thine innocent ; 
 
 The lips that called on Thee are dumb 
 In death, when all their cries are spent 
 
 Thy little ones without a friend 
 
 Wail day and night, and none defend. 
 
 Gaunt, hollow-eyed, the millions pass 
 In blank and fathomless despair ; 
 
 Imploring hands to heaven, alas ! 
 They lifted, but Thou wast not there ; 
 
 The sick, the starved, the shamed, the slave, 
 
 Thou didst not show Thyself to save. 
 
 I know Thee long, I saw the crowd 
 
 That strove to touch Thy garment's hem. 
 
 The tears that flowed, the heads that bowed, 
 I mocked at Thee, I mocked at them ; 
 
 Thy face I saw. Thy voice I heard. 
 
 Yet nothing in me spoke or stirred. 
 
THE IMPENITENT THIEF 141 
 
 How many, who will call Thee Lord, 
 Turn on their side again to sleep ; 
 
 Thy blood, Thy tears for them were poured, 
 No need for them to bleed or weep : 
 
 They are content that Thou hast died 3 
 
 But I with Thee was crucified. 
 
 They fix their eyes on Thee for gain 
 
 Of Thy completed sacrifice, 
 They buy their pleasure by Thy pain. 
 
 Set free, for Thou hast paid the price ; 
 I go not free, I pay the cost. 
 Yet they are saved and I am lost. 
 
 Some stand afar, and some allowed 
 Near— but no closer may they win. 
 
 Once on Mount Sinai in the cloud 
 Moses alone might enter in : 
 
 Here on Mount Golgotha we Three, 
 
 Alone within the Agony. 
 
142 THE IMPENITENT THIEF 
 
 ' On Thy right hand, on Thy left hand, 
 Within Thy kingdom. Lord, to sit ; ' 
 
 So prayed she who has come to stand 
 Here, where she Httle dreamed of it. 
 
 I have not asked nor prized the grace, 
 
 But I have first the left-hand place. 
 
 ' To them for whom it is prepared.' 
 How long ago? Have I been led 
 
 By eyes that knew, by hands that cared, 
 Down all dark ways, until this dread 
 
 Accomplishment, and set on high 
 
 In this unlooked-for company ? 
 
 If Thou art Lord, and Thou didst choose 
 Those who should drink this cup with Thee, 
 
 The saint, the friend Thou didst refuse, 
 To lay Thy fatal hand on me ; 
 
 Peter with Jesus would have died, 
 
 Yet I am here, and he denied. 
 
THE IMPENITENT THIEF 143 
 
 O Mother of Sorrows, in thy place ! 
 
 The sword is piercing through thy heart ; 
 The years ran on, the years apace, 
 
 The slow hours rend thy soul apart ; 
 But through my flesh the nails are driven, 
 Part in thy pains to me is given. 
 
 Kings cast their crowns before Thy feet, 
 Praying Thee, use us for Thy sake ! 
 
 Earth's fairest for Thy service sweet 
 Their bed among the vilest make ; 
 
 Saints spurn their flesh to share Thy lot ;- 
 
 Yet all of these approach me not. . 
 
 I suffer with Thee to the last, 
 
 I drink the dregs of all with Thee, 
 
 The world's Redeemer holds me fast 
 Beside Him on His cross to be ; 
 
 But the Redemption He will win 
 
 Will touch me not, nor take me in. 
 
144 THE IMPENITENT THIEF 
 
 Didst Thou exalt me to this height 
 Of awful fellowship with Thee, 
 
 To cast me back into the night 
 Of sin, and sin's satiety ? 
 
 To point a moral and adorn 
 
 Thy triumph's tale, have I been born ? 
 
 ' With the same baptism baptized ' 
 As Thou Thyself, the worlds between, 
 
 I the most vile and most despised, 
 I whom no water has made clean, 
 
 What meaning in my fate is found, 
 
 For me unwilling brought and bound ? 
 
 None weep for me ; no rudest pang 
 Is spared, and no last cruelty : 
 
 Here to the whole world's gaze I hang, 
 Whole generations gaze at me : 
 
 They will not pity me ; but Thou— 
 
 I feel Thy pity on me now. 
 
THE IMPENITENT THIEF 145 
 
 ' Forgive, they know not what they do,' 
 Though open wounds are plain to see ; 
 
 Dost Thou perchance forgive me too, 
 Who have but flung hard words at Thee ? 
 
 Words are but little gain or loss 
 
 To Him who hangs upon the cross. 
 
 The hours are dark, the hours are slow, 
 Their shadows are the shadow of fire ; 
 
 Yet in their flame some foul stains go. 
 Some scales drop from me and expire. 
 
 Yea, I receive my deeds' reward. 
 
 Yea, here and now, some sight restored. 
 
 ' The last shall be the first ; — the first 
 
 Last ' — ah ! who knoweth what swift flame 
 
 Eats out the heart of things accurst, 
 
 Burns from the soul the shroud of shame ? 
 
 Who knoweth what new blood may run 
 
 In the new veins with Thee made one ? 
 
 L 
 
T46 THE IMPENITENT THIEF 
 
 O Crowned with thorns ! dost Thou infuse 
 Through Suffering, Love itself in me ? 
 
 Apart from Thee I cannot choose ; 
 Can I unloose my soul from Thee? 
 
 Between us Thou hast forged a bond 
 
 That reaches through the worlds beyond. 
 
 Thou speakest low, Thou speakest yet, 
 
 O heart of mine, and can it be ! 
 Are these my eyes with tears are wet? 
 
 O voice that no one hears but me ! 
 But between Thee and me alone 
 Some words have passed, some words are known. 
 
 What hast Thou said ? — Ah this shall be 
 Recorded not in any page — 
 
 To me the lost, whose memory 
 
 Accurst shall pass from age to age ? 
 
 This secret I with me shall keep 
 
 There where the just and unjust sleep. 
 
147 
 
 THE SEASONS. 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 A VOICE comes nearer as the fresh winds sweep, 
 
 And pierces through the dreaming of the Earth, 
 Wherein as ever, waking or asleep, 
 
 She labours still for each revolving birth. 
 She knows afar the voice, through fields of air, 
 Of her, before whose coming, blue and fair 
 
 The heavens enlarge themselves, and softly meet 
 With the horizon hills of shadowy blue 
 Whence run the lodsened waters, azure too. 
 
 While the blue violets spring to kiss her feet. 
 Our hearts leap in us, as thou comest. Spring ! 
 Joy runs before thee, thou whose touch can bring 
 All hidden life to its own conscious hour. 
 The breaking of its own form to the flower, 
 
 *L 2 
 
148 THE SEASONS 
 
 The swelling of its own heart to the bud, 
 And to the maiden's cheek the quicker blood. 
 
 The waving wings of birds in unison 
 Before thee spread thy secret to the air, 
 And the winds sweep with it across the bare 
 
 Boughs of the forest, till they too bear on 
 The rushing music of the wild south-west. 
 O first fair hours, shall not the last be best ? 
 And here they come, the promise of the year, 
 Young dreams, young hopes, winged from another 
 
 sphere. 
 Although their tender feet are on the flowers, 
 These budding wings must grow with growing hours ; 
 Yet stay with us awhile your fairy flight, 
 And make the whole way lovely with your light ! 
 
 SUMMER. 
 
 Sing me thy songs, O Summer ! let me hear, 
 
 Now that the boughs are green, the winds are laid, 
 Through the warm noonday silence of the shade. 
 
 The things thou hast to give, fulfilled and near. 
 
THE SEASONS 149 
 
 A fire of poppies burns within the wheat, 
 
 And through my eyelids shoots its slumberous heat, 
 
 With dazzling images of all bright things ; 
 
 The very dreams have folded their sweet wings, 
 
 As if they had arrived at their own shore, 
 
 And had no need to wander any more. 
 
 A scent of bean flowers comes across the breeze, 
 
 Filled with the busy murmur of the bees, 
 
 And all the distance lies in hazy gold ; 
 
 And even as thou singest, I behold. 
 
 Amid the leafy windings of the plain, 
 Some lane of roses leading lone and low 
 
 Into a bower of bliss for me to gain. 
 Awaiting me until the sunset's glow. 
 The lilies and the hollyhocks stand tall 
 On the smooth lawn against the cottage wall, 
 The doves' white wings upon its low roofs brood, 
 And the great lime-trees guard its solitude. 
 Shall I not enter in, and be content, 
 Past the long rows of bees that homeward went ? 
 They too have made their home about its door. 
 And hive for me their golden summer store. 
 
ISO THE SEASONS 
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 Where is the promise of thy golden days, 
 O Summer, of thy softly- fleeting hours ? 
 Is this the end of thy delightful ways? 
 
 The year is waning : — what is left for ours ? 
 Through leafless branches chilly blows the air ; 
 Yet let us turn, our garnered wealth to share, 
 And comfort us with warmth of corn and wine, 
 Strengthening our hearts to meet the year's decline. 
 But where are thy heaped treasures manifold. 
 Thy purple fruitage, and thy sheaves of gold ? 
 The showers of spring, the sultry summer's sun 
 Have been before thee, and their part is done ; 
 What more is wanting to the harvest-home. 
 Pressed full and full, and plenty left to come ? 
 Spring passed in hopes, and summer passed in dreams. 
 Thy passing should be glorious too, meseems. 
 What is this scanty fruit so poor, so cold, 
 Thy branches scatter, and thy fingers hold ? 
 Is this the measure but of one day's meal ? 
 What for the sinking heart of days that steal 
 
THE SEASONS 151 
 
 With lengthening shadows towards me, and the store 
 Of bounty that should overflow my door ? 
 
 purple hills, O purple wastes all bare. 
 
 Ye mock me, thinking of the days that were ! 
 
 1 stretch my empty hands in vain, in vain ; — 
 These idle hands that had in all the past 
 Their own part waiting them : — and yet, at last. 
 
 Is it too late some working space to gain ? 
 
 Are not these arms still strong? — Too well I know, 
 
 This is the time to reap^ and not to sow. 
 
 WINTER. 
 
 O FLY for shelter, for the storm is near, 
 The evil days are come, the wintry foe ; 
 Nothing avails us now, but such life- glow 
 
 As we have gleaned and gathered through the year. 
 
 O cruel Winter, with thy frowning face, 
 
 From thee there is no hope, no gift, no grace ; 
 
 Already saved and sure our home must be. 
 
 Or now we perish, outcast, utterly. 
 
152 THE SEASONS 
 
 But where, on all the desolate blasted plain, 
 Rises the refuge that our steps should gain ? 
 Where is the guarded flame, the heaped hearthstone. 
 Which patient toil and thought have made our own, 
 Beneath the roof where winter winds howl past. 
 Yet cannot shake its doors and windows fast ? 
 Alas, no work of hands, no warmth of heart 
 Have fenced for us the harbouring rest apart : 
 The frozen bed of earth, the snowy pall, 
 The last, the only birthright left of all. 
 Yet this world's utter loss is not the end : 
 Now, open. Heaven, and to our need descend ! 
 O children of the air, fair hopes and dreams. 
 Whose light wings fluttered by the Spring's sweet 
 
 streams, 
 'Twixt earth and heaven, have ye not heavenward 
 
 grown. 
 Lifted by faith and prayer into your own 
 Ethereal likeness, and your wings at length 
 Grown into angels' pinions by the strength 
 Of trial, and of daily duty done. 
 Till now ye fly full-furnished every one, — 
 
THE SEASONS 153 
 
 Come, dear companions of our vanished year, 
 And bear us to your own immortal sphere ! 
 
 Alas ! alas ! and is it even ye, 
 Naked and shivering from the blast that flee 
 With earthbound limbs, and wings as tender still 
 As those that opened first at the first thrill 
 Of the Spring's touch, — our friend who brought us 
 life ;— 
 
 And now our enemy is here, with death ; 
 We have no weapons, no defence for strife. 
 
 And all is over ; — this is our last breath : 
 Hopeless and homeless on the waste world driven, 
 And fallen back to Earth, tho' born for Heaven. 
 
154 
 
 HAREBELLS. 
 
 The bells are ringing and ringing, 
 Little low bells on the earth ; 
 
 Sweet as a woodlark's wild singings 
 Little clear laughter and mirth. 
 
 The sunshine breaks, and all around 
 
 A streak of sky runs over the ground, 
 Where the poor man's way is open still, 
 The bells of England on heath and hill. 
 
 Lie and rest on the dry turf here, 
 
 A soft, soft flutter comes rustling near ; 
 
 One eye-level of dazzling blue 
 
 Dances and streams the wind's way through. 
 Slumber steals through the nodding band. 
 
HAREBELLS 155 
 
 So, for an hour, dost thou dream, and say, 
 ' I shall have my heart's desire to-day : ' 
 Then rise and go, thou hast thy way ; 
 These are the bells of Fairy Land. 
 
 The statelier flowers may keep their pride, 
 We fear no footsteps, we do not hide ; 
 On the trodden turf of the waste roadside 
 
 We are blown and beaten in breaths of blue ; 
 The wings of the gnat are not so thin ; 
 
 But we smile in singing the wild days through. 
 We are here for any who care to win. 
 Close by is the city's smoke and din ; 
 
 Even its children can walk so far, 
 
 The poor, the sick, may reach where we are. 
 We too are lowly, we too are frail, 
 Therefore we too outlast and prevail. 
 
 Here, high up on the open hill, 
 The air of autumn is rude and chill : 
 The great star-thistle, the tormentil. 
 Purple and gold on the bare hillside, 
 
156 HAREBELLS 
 
 Cling to the earth with arms clasped wide, 
 As though they might never else abide ; 
 
 But the wind that sweeps the down on high 
 
 Scatters our light as it passes by, 
 
 Shakes out our peals of melody : 
 These are the bells of Eventide. 
 
 The gold and the white open the year, 
 The iris and rose are no longer here, 
 The green of the woods is turning sere, 
 
 The lily has bowed, it could not stand. 
 But the year's last flowers are tender and blue. 
 The flowers that are faithful when flowers are few. 
 We guard the path till the harvest is through : 
 
 These are the bells of Holy Land. 
 
 Finest and frailest of all the flowers, 
 We are left alone in the autumn hours, 
 To bear the brunt of the storms and showers ; 
 The skies above us are grey and sad : 
 
HAREBELLS 157 
 
 But the hue of heaven to earth we bring, 
 But the heart of heaven in our bells we ring ; 
 Low, low, low, — are you listening ? 
 The heart of heaven is gay and glad. 
 
 Come away, come away, come away ! 
 The eyes of the angels are blue and grey. 
 
 There is one coming down the crowded street, 
 He is passing out, he is coming this way. 
 Here, up here, where the winds are at play ; 
 
 At the turn of the road you cannot but meet : 
 You will know his face, you will understand, 
 He need not speak, he will reach his hand, 
 Oh, the surprise, too sweet to say ! 
 The bells are ringing in Angel Land. 
 
 One to go, and many to stay : 
 Each his turn,— you have come this way. 
 Why are we dancing here so gay ? 
 Why has the music just begun ? 
 
158 HAREBELLS 
 
 Like a peal of church-bells down they run, 
 Down, down, down, from a height away. 
 
 Thousands on thousands, one by one, 
 Each a spirit — off and away ! 
 
 Do you not know, do you not see, 
 
 Blue as the breadths of the sky and sea. 
 
 The light of love, of eternity ? 
 The bells are ringing in Heaven to-day ! 
 
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