Dreams to Sell May Kendall Digitized by \he Internet Arciiive in 2007 with funding from IVIicrosoft Corporation http://www.archive.org/details/dreamstosellOOIFish 35 Woman's Future 38 SEA AND SHORE. The Ship op Dreams 43 The Ship of Death 45 The Mermaid's Chapel 47 CONTENTS I'.\GE The Outward Bound 49 Ballad of the Boatman 51 Boat Song S4 Ballad of the Boat 55 Sunset 57 TOWN AND COUNTRY. Night at the Exhibition 61 Legend of the Crossing-swsepbr 64 A Board School Pastoral 66 Legend of the Maid of All Work 68 At the Winning-post 71 A Proselyte of the Gate 74 Ballad of the Cadger 76 ART. In the Gallery 81 Minor Dramas 84 The Sculptor 87 Incident in Real Life, related by an Eve-witness in Marble 90 Shakespeare , 93 The Last Performance 94 . IN CHURCH. Hbraclitus in Church 99 To Beatrice loi Church Echoes 103 In the Choir io6 CO.VTEXTS MEMORIES. PACE To THE Next Mebting m The Trvst 113 Ballau 115 BUUOENS 118 Garlands 119 InSOFFICIHNCY 121 The King's Daughter 123 Ballad 135 ExiLB 128 GOOU-BVK 130 PSYCHOLOGICAL. Lost Souls 133 Sydney Carton 134 Otherworldliness 136 Failures 138 Morality 141 A True Knight 143 EVENSONG. F.VEWSONC 149 l My thanks are due to Messrs. Cassell & Co. (Limited) for allowing me to reprint verses which appeared in the Magazine of Art, For similar permissions I have to thank the Proprietors of Punch, the Editor of the St. James's Gazette, and the Editor of Longman's Magazine, % THE JESTER 'I AM THY FOOL.' {Moriturus Regent Sa/utat.) SMILE once more, my king, my friend ! Smile once more at me ! Let me only, to the end, Your brave jester be. All the merriment I know There's a hand arresting : With an easy heart I'd go, Could I leave my jesting. See, I'm just as strange and quaint, And my mood's as wild — Oh, why is your laughter faint ? Smile as once you smiled. Every smile I won from you Was an instant's peace : While the world's work you went through You had this release. '/ AM THY FOOL- What you gave me I know best, I can never tell — I had nothing but a jest — Say I jested well. Smile once more, my king, my friend ! Smile once more at me — Could I only to the end Your brav€ jester be ! SCIENCE LAY OF THE TRILOBITE. A MOUNTAIN'S giddy height I sought, Because I could not find Sufficient vague and mighty thought To fill my mighty mind ; And as I wandered ill at ease, There chanced upon my sight A native of Silurian seas, An ancient Trilobite. So calm, so peacefully he lay, I watched him even with tears : I thought of Monads far away In the forgotten years. How wonderful it seemed and right, The providential plan, That he should be a Trilobite, And I should be a Man ! And then, quite natural and free Out of his rocky bed, That Trilobite he spoke to me, And this is what he said : LAY OF THE TRILOBITE • I don't know how the thing was done, Although I cannot doubt it ; But Huxley — he if anyone Can tell you all about it ; ' How all your faiths are ghosts ard dreams, How in the silent sea Your ancestors were Monotremes — Whatever these may be ; How you evolved your shining lights Of wisdom and perfection From Jelly-fish and Trilobites By Natural Selection, • You've Kant to make your brains go round, Hegel you have to clear them. You've Mr. Browning to confound. And Mr. Punch to cheer them ! The native of an alien land You call a man and brother. And greet with h)ann-book in one hand And pistol in the other ! • You've Politics to make you fight As if you were possessed : You've cannon and you've dynamite To give the nations rest : LA y OF THE TRILOBITE The side that makes the loudest din Is surest to be right, And oh, a pretty fix you're in ! ' Remarked the Trilobite. * But gentle, stupid, free from woe I lived among my nation, I didn't care — I didn't know That I was a Crustacean.' I didn't grumble, didn't steal, I never took to rhyme : Salt water was my frugal meal. And carbonate of lime.* Reluctantly I turned away. No other word he said ; An ancient Trilobite, he lay Within his rocky bed. I did not answer him, for that Would have annoyed my pride : I merely bowed, and raised my hat, But in my heart I cried : — * He iras not a Crustacean. He has ance discovered that he was an Arachnid, or something similar. But he says it does not matter. He says they told him wrong once, and they may again. LA y OF THE TRILOBITE * I wish our brains were not so good, I wish our skulls were thicker, I wish that Evolution could Have stopped a little quicker ; For oh, it was a happy plight, Of liberty and ease, To be a simple Trilobite In the Silurian seas ! A PURE HYPOTHESIS A PURE HYPOTHESIS. (A Lover ^ in Four-diiHtnsumed space, describes a Dream.) AH, love, the teacher we decried, That erudite professor grim, In mathematics drenched and dyed. Too hastily we scouted him. He said : ' The bounds of Time and Space, The categories we revere, May be in quite another case In quite another sphere. ' He told us : * Science can conceive A race whose feeble comprehension Can't be persuaded to believe That there exists our Fourth Dimension, Whom Time and Space for ever baulk ; But of these beings incomplete. Whether upon their heads they walk Or stand upon their feet — We cannot tell, we do not know, Imagination stops confounded ; We can but say " It may be so," To every theory propounded.' A PURE HYPOTHESIS Too glad were we in this our scheme Of things, his notions to embrace, — But — I have dreamed an awful dream Of Three-dimensioned Space ! I dreamed — the horror seemed to stun My logical perception strong, That everything beneath the sun Was so unutterably wrong. I thought — what words can I command ? That nothing ever did come right. No wonder you can't understand : / could not, till last night ! I would not, if I could, recall The horror of those novel heavens, Where Present, Past, and Future all Appeared at sixes and at sevens, Where Capital and Labour fought, And, in the nightmare of the mind. No contradictories were thought As truthfully combined ! Nay, in that dream-distorted clime, These fatal wilds I wandered through, The boundaries of Space and Time Had got most frightfully askew. A PURE HYPOTHESIS ' ^Vhat is " askew " ? ' my love, you cry ; I cannot answer, can't portray ; The sense of Everything awry No language can convey. I can't tell what my words denote, I know not what my phrases mean ; Inexplicable terrors float Before this spirit once serene. Ah, what if on some lurid star There should exist a hapless race, \Vho live and love, who think and are, In Three-dimensioned Space ! BALLAD OF THE ICHTHYOSAURUS BALLAD OF THE ICHTHYOSAURUS. ( T/te Ichthyosaurus laments his imperfect advantages. He aspires after the Higher Life.) I ABIDE in a goodly Museum, Frequented by sages profound : 'Tis a kind of a strange mausoleum, Where the beasts that have vanished abound. There's a bird of the ages Triassic, With his antedilu\dan beak, And many a reptile Jurassic, And many a monster antique. Ere Man was developed, our brother, We swam and we ducked and we dived, And we dined, as a rule, on each other — What matter, the toughest survived. Our paddles were fins, and they bore us Through water : in air we could fly ; • But the brain of the Ichthyosaurus Was never a match for his eye. ' He could not really fly. After so many millions of years, perliaps he may be excused for slipping in a matter of detail. BALLAD OF THE ICHTHYOSAURUS Geologists, active and eager, Its excellence hasten to own, And praise, with no eulogy meagre. The eye that is plated with bone. ' See how, with unerring precision. His prey through the wave he could spy. Oh, wonderful organ of vision. Gigantic and beautiful Eye ! ' Then I listen in gloomy dejection, I gaze, and I wish I could weep ; For what is mere visual perfection To Intellect subtle and deep ? A loftier goal is before us, For higher endowments we sigh. But the brain of the Ichthyosaurus Was never a patch on his eye ! It owned no supreme constitution. Was shallow, and simple, and plain, While mark but the fair convolution And size of the Aryan brain. 'Tis furnished for School Board inspections, And garnished for taking degrees, And bulging in many directions, As every phrenologist sees. BALLAD OF THE ICHTHYOSAURUS Sometimes it explodes at high pressure Of some overwhelming demand. But plied in unmerciful measure 'Tis wonderful what it will stand ! In college, in cottage, in mansion, Bear witness, the girls and the bo)^, How great are its powers of expansion, How very peculiar its joys ! Oh Brain that is bulgy with learning, Oh wisdom of women and men, Oh Maids for a First that are yearning, Oh youths that are lectured by Wren ! You're acquainted with Pisces and Taurus, And all sorts of beasts in the sky, But the brain of the Ichthyosaurus Was never so good as his eye ! Reconstructed by Darwin or Owen, We dwell in sweet Bloomsbury's halls. But we couldn't have passed Little go in The Schools, we'd have floundered in Smalls Though so cleverly people restore us, We are bound to confess with a sigh That the brain of the Ichthyosaurus Was never so good as his eye ! THE CONSCIENTIOUS GHOST THE CONSCIENTIOUS GHOST. {Psychical.) ' TV /TY duties,' IVX ' I've ne he remarked with tears, never sought to shun ; Yet hard it is that at my years They have again begun. ' No one believed in me, or cared If I my vigils kept ; My diligence the public spared, And undisturbed I slept. ' Yet now I never close my eyes But in my dreams I see These Psychical Societies Descending upon me. ' They ask me whether I forgot To wander round the moat ; They wonder what I mean by not Steering my phantom boat. ' T%ey would not think it such a joke To rattle fetters through The weary night till morning broke, As Duty bids me do ! THE CONSCIENTIOUS GHOST ' Alas,' he groaned, 'on blood-stained floors Again to fight and fall ! To shiver round the secret doors, The draughty banquet hall. ' I say it was a heartless thought — Wherever he may dwell Who on us this disaster brought, I'd like to haunt him well. • And ah ! ' he cried, with rapture grim, ' One thing consoles me most : We'll make it very warm for him When once he is a ghost I ' When every honest phantom sleeps He'll have to freeze in cells^ And wring his hands by mouldy keeps, And jangle rusty bells.' He paused, his fetters to arrange, Adjust his winding-sheet ; He murmured, * In this world of change One can't be too complete ! ' He fixed on me a glance of woe. Then vanished into air ; ^ I heard his clanking fetter go Right down the winding stair. THE CONSCIENTIOUS GHOST Yet sometimes, when 'mid wind and rain I'm lying warm and dry, I seem to hear him clanlc his chain Beneath the dismal sky. 'TAKING LONG VIEWS' 'TAKING LONG VIEWS.' ('Take short views.' — Sydney Smith.) HIS locks were wild, and wild his eye, Furrowed his brow with anxious thought. Musing I asked him : ' Tell me why You look thus vacant and distraught?' Sadly he gazed into my face : He said, ' I have no respite, none ! Oh, shall we wander into space Or fall into the sun ? • Astronomers I've sought in tears, And ah, 'tis terribly remiss That after all these anxious years They cannot even tell us this ! Though each man seems to prove his case. Each contradicts the other one. And — do we wander into space Or fall into the sun ? ' * Comfort ! ' I said, ' I can't discern The nature of our planet's end. Nor should I greatly care to learn. We've many aeons left, my friend ! 'TAKING LONG VIEWS' Whether we last from age to age A frozen ball, or turn to flame, To me, at this inspiring stage, Is very much the same. ' Observe Humanity's advance. And Evolution's giant strides ! Remark on what a smooth expanse The nation's barque at anchor rides ! The march of Intellect retrace.' He moaned : ' I don't care what we've done. Oh, shall we wander into space Or fall into the sun ? • If we should fall, you understand, Such heat the crash would generate The solar system might expand Into its primal gaseous state. It would be awkward, I maintain, The same old cycle to renew ; For once let things come round again. And we should come round too ! ' I cried : ' The prophecy forbear ! Of finite woes we have enough. What, travel through the old despair, Experience the old rebuflF ! ' TAKING LONG VIEWS' I'd rather haunt the void Afar For endless ages, would rejoice To be a harmless frozen star, If I might have my choice ! ' He gazed at me with aspect strange. He only said : ' How would it be If this poor planet should derange The solar system's equity ; If when the sun our planet met The sun himself began to fall, Another system to upset, And so on through them all ? ' ' Peace, peace ! ' I said. ' However dark The destiny the aeons bear. You won't be here the wreck to mark.' He cried : ' That causes my despair. I want to know what will take place, I want to see what will be done. Ok, shall we wander into space Or fall into the snn ? ' THE LOWER LIFE THE LOWER LIFE. IT might seem matter for regret That Evolution has not yet Fulfilled our wishes. The birds soar higher far than we, The fish outswim us in the sea, The simple fishes. But, evolutionists reflect, We have the pull in intellect, And that's undoubted : Yet still we cry : ' Can this atone For fins or pinions of our own. Not to be scouted ? ' We hold that Evolution's plan, To give as little as she can. Is sometimes tr)ang. Fair share of brains, indeed, we win ; But why not throw the swimming in, WTiy not the flying ? THE LOWER LIFE But ah, she gives not more or less. We pay for all that we possess, We weep and waver. While Evolution, still the same. With knights or pawns pursues the game. And shows no favour. As onward yet life's currents roll, The gaining of a higher goal Increaseth sorrow ; And what we win at its own cost We win ; and what we lose is lost. Nor can we borrow. If we have freedom, we lose peace. If self-renunciation, cease To care for pleasure. If we have Truth — important prize ! We wholly must away with lies, Or in a measure. * Is wisdom, then, the only test. Of lot superlatively blest ? There have been others. Our aeon too will pass, and then Are monads so much less than men ? Alas, my brothers 1 THE LOWER LIFE This higher life is curious stuff, Too high, yet not quite high enough, A mingled vial ! This higher life is sold too dear — Would I could give a lower sphere An equal trial ! Ah, could I be a fish indeed, Of lucky horoscope, and creed Utilitarian, 'Mong blissful waves to glide or rest, I'd choose the lot I found the best. Or fish or Aryan ! Or could I be a bird and fly Through forests all unhaunted by The shooting season, I'd tell you which I voted for. The Eight of airy pinions, or The March of Reason ! a? NIRVANA NIRVANA. SOME hold, life's transitory pain Arises from our being fractions : When we to Unity attain, Behold the end of fret and factions ! They say each individual soul Will in a general Soul be blended. And that the universal whole Is certain to be something splendid. Then enmity will pale and pall : We shall be brothers, more than brothers ; For if we are ourselves at all We shall be also all the others — One fancies Huxley might display A faint concern, as wondering whether He'd time to have a parting fray With Gladstone, ere they rushed together— Critics no longer we shall flee, Nor care how base the things they say are. They will be we, and we shall be The Critics, just as much as they are. NIRVANA A sea of light, a gulf of bliss, An end of individualism, The Universal Sufiirage this. The blessed goal of Communism ! Alas, we want the joys of earth, Our books, our cricket, and our tennis ; Within Nirvana's glorious dearth Small comfort for the hearts of men is. We choose — in truth, we may not choose — Yet dreams there are we'd not surrender, Poor memories we would not lose For any universal splendour. The joy that lit our early years. Old jests wherein the heart rejoices — More than the music of the spheres We love the well-remembered voices. We love our feuds, our party views, Our idle heresy and schism : The time may come, we cannot choose 'Twixt M. Comte and Methodism. Let us be human, while we can Enjoy this strange terrestrial tangle : Nation with nation, man with man. While yet we may, oh let us wrangle ! THE CONQUERING MACHINE THE CONQUERING MACHINE. (After a visit to tJie Inventions Exhibition.) YOU say that 'Evolution's blind, Her purpose unforeseen,' — Nay, for as types she leaves behind, She keeps for ever in her mind The Conquering Machine ! Even now, — O future years of grace. The prophecy fulfil ! Our hearts the dawning influence trace, The * nerve of steel ' we try to brace, Or bend ' the iron will. ' Now, to the eye of faith displayed. The coming form is seen ; In every office, every trade, I watch, in human garb arrayed. The Conquering Machine ! In the dim watches of the night I see the portent rise. THE CONQUERING MACHINE A creature of unearthly might, Irradiate with electric light, And justly focussed eyes ! By careful Evolution planned With many a gliding wheel, To warn, to comfort, to command. To fly, to drive a four-in-hand. Or dance a Highland reel ! Volition vain will fret no more The Automatic Soul, Emotion then will fail to score. While reflex action takes the floor, And dominates the whole ! Machines no conscience will neglect. No scruples will endure. For conscience, in that realm correct Of automatic intellect, W^ill be a sinecure ! Ay, driven no more by passion's gale. Nor impulse unforeseen, Humanity shall faint and fail, And on her ruins will prevail The Conquering Machine ! THE CONQUERING MACHINE Responsibility begone ! Let Freedom's flag be furled ; Oh, coming ages, hasten on, And bring the true Automaton, The monarch of the world ! A PIOUS OPINION A PIOUS OPINION. {Mythological.) ' r^INDERELLA; they say, *is not trae, 'Tis a Mdrchen : ' — we listen and wince, - ' 'Tis a Myth of the Dawn or the Dew, And she never did marry the Prince, Nor, clad in the old frock dust-laden, Look up in his face once for all ; And he knew her, — the beautiful Maiden With whom he had danced at the ball ! ' She's a Myth of the Storm or the Rain, And she had not a Godmother even ! And it's too undeniably plain That we never can meet her in heaven ! And children who thither retreat Must leave Cinderella behind ; For Henry the Eighth they may meet, But Sintram they never will find ! No doubt they'll have time to be glad in Goliah, the mighty and glum, But not in Tom Brown, or Aladdin, Or dear Puss in Boots, or Tom Thumb. A PIOUS OPINION No doubt we'll have singers and sages, Processions of poets and seers. But amidst the elect of the ages, We shall pine for the Three Musketeers ! Don Quixote, Sii Lucius O'Trigger, Old Sancho, the wisest and best, — With painful but orthodox rigour We lay thena for ever to rest ! 'Tis to us for existence they look, But of otirs we're beginning to doubt. Ah ! what if we're all in a book, And just being written about ? That book, — we must skip the beginning, — The end is beyond us indeed. Of the tale that the mortals are spinning, And none but Immortals can read. But for mansions we know not nor number, There is room in the realms of the air, Our heroes may sleep not nor slumber. And Porthos may welcome us there. ' M. K. A. L. ' Readers may insert the name of their favourite hero, ' Mr. Bennett,' ' Uncas.' No room for Umslopogaas, however ! Nor for Charles Ravenshoe or Chingachgook. EDUCATION'S MARTYR EDUCATION'S MARTYR. HE loved peculiar plants and rare, For any plant he did not care That he had seen before ; Primroses by the river's brim Dicotyledons were to him, And they were nothing more. The mighty cliffs we bade him scan, He banned them for Laurentian, With sad, dejected mien. ' Than all this bleak Azoic rock,' He said, * I'd sooner have a block — Ah me ! — of Pleistocene ! ' His eyes were bent upon the sand ; He owned the scenery was grand, In a reproachful voice ; But if a centipede he found. He'd fall before it on the ground, And worship and rejoice. We spoke of Poets dead and gone, Of that Maeonian who shone O'er Hellas like a star : EDUCATION'S MARTYR We talked about the King of Men, — ' Observe,' he said, * the force of k^v, And note the use of 70^ ! ' Yes, all that has been or may be, States, beauties, battles, land, and sea, The matin songs of larks. With glacier, earthquake, avalanche, To him were each a separate ' branch,' And stuff for scoring marks ! Ah ! happier he who does not know The power that makes the Planets go. The slaves of Kepler's Laws ; Who finds not glands in joy or grief. Nor, in the blossom and the leaf. Seeks for the secret Cause ! THE PHILANTHROPIST AND THE JELLY-FISH 3s THE PHILANTHROPIST AND THE JELLY-FISH. HER beauty, passive in despair, Through sand and seaweed shone, The fairest jelly-fish I e'er Had set mine eyes upon. It would have made a stone abuse The callousness of fate. This creature of prismatic hues, Stranded and desolate ! Musing I said : ' My mind's unstrung, Joy, hope, are in their grave : Yet ere I perish all unsung One jelly-fish I'll save ! ' And yet I fancied I had dreamed Of somewhere ha\'ing known Or met, a jelly-fish that seemed As utterly alone. But ah, if ever out to sea That jelly-fish I bore, Immediately awaited me A level hundred more ! 36 THE PHILANTHROPIST AND I knew that it would be in vain To try to float them all ; And though my nature is humane, \felt that it would pall. ' Yet this one jelly-fish,' I cried, ' I'll rescue if I may. I'll wade out with her through the tide And leave her in the bay.' I paused, my feelings to control, To wipe away a tear — It seemed to me a murmur stole Out of the crystal sphere. She said : * Your culture's incomplete. Though your intention's kind ; The sand, the seaweed, and the heat I do not really mind. ' To wander through the briny deep I own I do not care ; I somehow seem to go to sleep Here, there, or anywhere. ' When wild waves tossed me to and fro, I never felt put out ; I never got depressed and low, Or paralysed by doubt. THE JELL Y-FISH ' 'Twas not the ocean's soothing balm. Ah no, 'twas something more ! I'm just as peaceful and as calm Here shrivelling on the shore. ' It does not matter what may come, I'm dead to woe or bliss : / haven! t a Sensorium^ And that is how it is.' 38 WOMAN'S FUTURE WOMAN'S FUTURE. COMPLACENT they tell us, hard hearts and derisive, In vain is our ardour : in vain are our sighs : Our intellects, bound by a limit decisive. To the level of Homer's may never arise. We heed not the falsehood, the base innuendo, The laws of the universe, these are our friends. Our talents shall rise in a mighty crescendo, We trust Evolution to make us amends ! But ah, when I ask you for food that is mental, My sisters, you offer me ices and tea ! You cherish the fleeting, the mere accidental, At cost of the True, the Intrinsic, the Free. Your feelings, compressed in Society's mangle, Are vapid and frivolous, pallid and mean. To slander you love ; but you don't care to wrangle : You bow to Decorum, and cherish Routine. Alas, is it woolwork you take for your mission. Or Art that your fingers so gaily attack ? Can patchwork atone for the mind's inanition ? Can the soul, oh my sisters, be fed on a plaque ? WOMAN'S FUTURE » Is this your vocation ? My goal is another. And empty and vain is the end you pursue. In antimacassars the world you may smother ; But intellect marches o'er them and o'er you. On Fashion's vagaries your energies strewing. Devoting your days to a rug or a screen, Oh, rouse to a life work — do something worth doing ! Invent a new planet, a flying-machine. Mere charms superficial, mere feminine graces, That fade or that flourish, no more you may prize ; But the knowledge of Newton will beam from your faces, The soul of a Spencer will shine in your eyes. Envoy. Though jealous exclusion may tremble to own us. Oh, wait for the time when our brains shall expand ! When once we're enthroned, you shall never dethrone ns- . The poets, the sages, the seers of the land ! SEA AND SHORE THE SHIP OF DREAMS. WHEN silent lies the sleeping town In its profoundest rest, There is a ship comes sailing down Upon the River's breast. Wide-winged as that enchanted swan, She saileth through the night, And purple grows the gloom upon The magic of her flight. The barque she bears no mortal name. No crew of mortal mould, Ulysses' ship of song and flame, Of cedar wood and gold ! She is the ship that Turner knew On the enchanted seas. She floats far isles of music through. And isles of memories. THE SHIP OF DREAMS And she is mystically fraught With dreams remembered long. That drift on all the tides of thought And all the seas of song. She hath Ulysses by her helm, As in the olden time ; This ship of a diviner realm, And of a fairer clime. THE SHIP OF DEATH THE SHIP OF DEATH. WHEN silent lies the sleeping town, Unknown to human ken Another ship goes sailing down, Bearing the souls of Men. She is the ship of shadowy mist. Of mist and mournful grey. There is no gloom of amethyst About her pallid way. As silent as that dim ship came She steals into the dark. She is no ship of mortal name, But an eternal barque ! Her deck is thronged vrith shadows wan, She will not pause or stay, So speedily she bears them on. All on an unknown way. But sometimes when the dusky tide Hath filled the widening stream. That wan and shadowy ship will glide By the ship of song and dream. 46 THE SHIP OF DEA TH Whereon the watchers dimly know A terror in the dark, A pallor ; but a fading glow Flushes the shadowy barque ! THE MERMAID'S CHAPEL THE MERMAID'S CHAPEL. DEEP in the bay the old church lies, Beyond the storm wind's power, The waves that whelmed it ever play In ripples round the tower. And if you look down through the tide — Many and many a time You may catch the glimmer of its stones, Or hear the sweet bells chime. For they that dwell deep in the sea. Below the wind and rain, The mermen and the mermaidens, Have built it up again. They have made fast the ruined walls With their immortal hands, And strewn its aisles with red sea flowers, And with the wet sea-sands. And when a drifting boat comes back. Rock-shattered, to the shore, With never captain at the helm Nor sailor at the oar, 48 THE MERMAID'S CHAPEL Then down below the stormy foam The sweet old bells ring free. They call upon the mariners Who come no more from sea. THE OUTWARD BOUND THE OUTWARD BOUND. • (~\^ where do you sail with banners gay, V--' With sound of music and harp and drum ? ' • To the Southern Seas I sail away, But once more I'll come.' ' Oh when shall we see your anchor cast, And when will our golden days begin ? ' — • When a year and a day are fled and past Will my ship come in.' ' Now the Northern skies are grey and bleak. And windy and wild the Northern shore ; And whoso a fairer harbour seek They return no more.' ' But not for me is the Southern spring. And not for me is the Southern cheer. 'Tis a gift for you that I go to bring. In a day and a year ! ' ' Oh many another gallant barque Has sailed away with an easy vow ; But though yet their friends the ocean mark, They are absent now. B THE OUTWARD BOUND ' For never a storm their path beset. And proudly their ships o'er smooth seas float ; And you will forget as they forget, In the clime remote. ' And true and bravely your words intend. And faithful your glance ; but well know I 'Tis a long god -speed that I bid, my friend. And a long good-bye ! ' ' Oh trust me or doubt — I must away, And small is the faith men have in men ; But yet, perchance, in a year and a day I will come again.' ' Though your vow be firm, yet count the cost — If you should come when the time is told. And only to find the old friends lost, And the warm friends cold ? ' ' My pledge I'll keep though your pledges fall, My gift I'll bring at your own behest. Be it to wedding or funeral, I'm a bidden guest. ' There's one thing only can keep me back. And still I'll look on the dear old town When the sails are rent, when the storm is black, When the ship goes down.' BALLAD OF THE BOATMAN BALLAD OF THE BOATMAN. {North Coast.) ACROSS the river, to the pier, In summer or in snow, Morning or evening, year by year. You may see the boatman row. In many a slowly changing face. Or sunny hair grown grey, The mute memorial he can trace Of his declining day. And some to alien harbours sail. And many come no more ; But yet, until his hand shall fail. He labours at the oar. One day in the fourteen we give, With altruistic care. That he the higher life may live Of worship, praise and prayer. And for the rest, let Nature steep, While the slow seasons run, In pure aesthetic rapture deep, The spirit of her son. BALLAD OF THE BOATMAN Let him adore, with passion high, The river and the spray, The solemn glory of the sky, For eighteen hours a day ! Perhaps his life Arcadian We hardly would embrace. Who travel in the very van Of Science, Art, and Grace. Our spirits seek a higher goal. An income higher far, A wider culture than the soul Of him, a poor old tar. The summer sunsets come and go, Upon the river blaze — He little cares to heed them, though They end his weary days. In the old time, the youth long lost. He loved the wind and tide. The strong breeze blowing from the coast, The free, fresh riverside. But now he feels, with a dull pain, One longing more and more — Never to see the tide again, Never to hear the oar. BALLAD OP THE BOATMAN There is one tide no tuming knows, Whose current cannot rest, Whose wave for ever ebbing goes Into the ocean's breast. For ev» ebbing, drawing near To its great merging place ; And men who travel from the pier Shall miss the boatman's face. BOAT SONG. BOAT SONG. WE have rowed hard 'gainst the tide When land was undescried. Now ship the oar, and glide With the wave, Too soon lest we should reach The unfamiliar beach, And parting each from each, Find the one boon denied That we crave. The one thing we demand Out of this unknown land. Before clear grows the strand, The clouds lift. In faith let us implore — See one form on the shore. The burning hope restore I So be it — rest your hand. Let us drift. BALLAD OF THE BOAT BALLAD OF THE BOAT. DEEP in a sandstrewn, fresh repose. The old boat lies and cannot stir ; Around its keel the salt wind blows. And many a wild sea traveller About the planks will poise and fly ; There dart across its tranquil rest The hardy sea bird's haunting cry, The glimmer of the sea bird's breast. Most beautiful, and bleak, and bare, The brown links stretch, for ever blown By winds that wash with keenest air The cemetery green and lone. The grave where the dead sailor lies, Close folded in his dwelling dim. Under the wide and windy skies Lies the old boat and waits for him. 'Tis only when a high strong tide In the year's spring comes pouring in. Through every creek and shallow wide, And sways the seaweed old and thin, 56 BALLAD OF THE BOAT And covers all the weeds that lie Rankly about the wind-tossed pool. And reaches grasses long and dry, The sharp sea-grasses wan and cool. Until the boat that lies asleep Is washed about with sandy foam — The old boat dreameth of the deep. Recovering its ancient home. Now once again the sail is set, Again they leave the shore behind, And it is on the ocean yet. Driven before a stormy wind ! SUNSET SUNSET. AND now for the last cruise I go, And on a lonely quest : Yet the winds wake, the strong tides flow For ever to the west. Good-bye ! All wild and strange the seas, And silent is the beach. I know, however veer the breeze, This port I shall not reach. Yet far beyond these darkening skies What guiding stars may be ! And golden suns may set and rise Upon an unknown sea. The eastern heaven is bleak and cold, But day is nearly done ; My boat rocks in a track of gold, I follow the setting sun. And ever stronger blows the wind, And darker is the shore. Oh, is it death that lies behind, And life that lies before ? 58 SUNSET Good-bye for ever, love ! and yet, What may the darkness hide ? By sea or land, if we two met, I should be satisfied. TOWN AND COUNTRY NIGHT AT THE EXHIBITION. {After Closing Hours.) The Machinery. SEE all the printing presses turning. Silently as a dream ; Silently is the fuel burning, Silently floats the steam. What do they print here undetected, All in the dead of night ? Manuscripts for the Great Rejected ? The poems Phantoms write ? A train that never runs by daytime, A beautiful toy train. Is running onward in its playtime, And running back amain. Dolls have come from another quarter, Dolls on the platform stand ; Beckoning to a wooden porter You see a waxen hand. NIGHT AT THE EXHIBITION Into the first class, calm and stately. Beautiful waxen dolls Enter with floating hair sedately, Enter with parasols. Into the third class packed away there Are dolls that speak in Dutch. They have excursions just as gay there, They do not pay so much. How do they reach their own toy centre ? Do they take trams and flies ? None can tell. When the porters enter Quietly each one lies. Never a single thread unravelled. Faces serene and bright — No one guesses how far they've travelled In the dead of night ! The Antiquities. See, stealing through yon alley narrow, WTiose is the shadow grim ? He has come hither for his allrow. Likewise the bones of him. From the museum if he borrow His skull, his battle-axe, They'll be replaced before the morrow In their respective racks. NIGHT AT THE EXHIBITION 63 The Music Room. See the harpsichord open yonder, Keys the dead master pressed. Oh, whose fingers are they that wander Over these chords of rest ? Darkness scrutiny all defying Over the player broods : Through the Music Room there are sighing Magical interludes. Every watchman and every keeper, Lulled by a secret spell, Sinks to a slumber deeper, deeper — No one will ever tell. Never a bore the revel vexes, All things always go right ; None imposes, and none perplexes — In the dead of night ! 64 LEGEND OF THE CROSSING-SWEEPER LEGEND OF THE CROSSING-SWEEPER. THE boarders look so good and new, A saint it would annoy ! To squirt upon them two by two Would be my greatest joy. The boarders think — I know it's true, I am a wicked boy. Save one — I've never known her stare As if I were a wall That had no business to be there, Or anywhere at all ; And once — to stop she didn't dare — She let a sixpence fall. She smiled to show she couldn't wait, And gently said, ' Good -night.' You bet I pulled my cap off straight, I nodded all my might ; But now she seldom comes : I hate To see her look so white. LEGEND OF THE CROSSING-SWEEPER 65 There is a place — she^ll go some day, Right up above the sky. It is uncommon bright and gay. Swells live there when they die. Some tell us any fellow may, But that is all my eye. They stand with harps and crowns in rows, For doing all they should ; But I should miss her, I suppose, I'd save her if I could — Only a boy that never goes To Sunday school's no good. And I'm the worst boy in the town, I lark, I fight, I swear, I knock the other fellows down And lick them. I don't care. They'll give her such a harp and crown, But I shall not be there. Those crowns — if one could hang about The gate, till all was done — She'll stand in a white gown, no doubt, With gold hair like the sun. I'd like to see them given out, I'd never ask for one. A BOARD SCHOOL PASTORAL A BOARD SCHOOL PASTORAL. ALONE I stay ; for I am lame, I cannot join them at the game, The lads and lasses ; But many a summer holiday I sit apart and watch them play. And well I know : my heart can say. When Ella passes. Of all the maidens in the place, 'Tis Ella has the sunniest face. Her eyes are clearest. Of all the girls, or here or there, - '^js Ella's voice is soft and rare. Arid Ella has the darkest hair. And Ella's dearest. Oh, strong the lads for bat or ball, But I in wit am first of all, The master praises. The master's mien is grave and wise ; But while I look into his eyes. My heart, that o'er the schoolroom flie3, At Ella gazes. A BOARD SCHOOL PASTORAL 67 And Hal's below me every day ; For Hal is wild, and he is gay, He loves not learning. But when the swiftest runners meet. Oh, who but Hal is proud and fleet, And there's a smile I know will greet His glad returning. They call me moody, dull, and blind, They say with books I maze my mind, The lads and lasses ; But little do they know — ah me ! How with my book upon my knee I dream and dream, but ever see Where Ella passes. LEGEND OF THE MAID OF ALL WORK LEGEND OF THE MAID OF ALL WORK. "T^WIXT Kensington and Drury Lane -*■ Are four long miles. The road is plain, For I have trod it, all the way. It was the glory of the spring, And westward I went wandering Upon my one whole holiday. The world grew brighter ; more and more, A different look men's faces wore ; But I was lonely and half lost, As they an alien people were. I think that no one saw me there More than a shadow or a ghost. But oh the Gardens, wide and green ! And oh the long, long miles between ! Yet when the weary day is done, I sleep, I am too tired to pray, And then God lets me steal away. Four miles away, to Kensington. LEGEND OF THE MAID OF ALL WORK 69 So swift the dream ! I seem to wait A moment, trembling, at the gate — It's Paradise that lies before. There blows a cool, refreshing breeze, And the grass knows me, and the trees, And then I am afraid no more. How soon it fades — I scarce am there — There's a chill mist falls everywhere, And music dies, and once again I hear the caged birds cry and cry, As Seven Dials passing by, I enter into Drury Lane. But once, I never shall forget How, dreaming or awake, I met A lady in that pleasant land. Oh, fair she was to look upon ! Smiling she gave me, and was gone, A bunch of lilies from her hand. Now sometimes, in that hardest time Of sultry noonday, when I climb, Half faltering, up the dizzy stair, When the walls stagger, turn like wheels. The fragrance of the lilies steals Pure through the hot and stifling air. LEGEND OF THE MAID OF ALL WORK I think folk never grow so base In such a pleasant dwelling-place, They can give smiles to every one ; I think they all are good and kind, That flowers are always there to find, In happy, happy Kensington. AT THE WINNING-POST AT THE WINNING-POST. (In Mentoricun, Fred Archer.) SO all the cups I've won, You say, won't serve me now, Shall gain no respite, none, From the death that burns my brow. And a worthless race I've run. Honoured an idle vow. And you come, my friend, to pray- You, dead to earth's renown, You who are early grey With treading evil down, Who give your life away For a far other crown. And all too late, you'll show How I have toiled and strained. And let the substance go. And never yet attained The fleeting shadow — no ! My heart's desire I've gained. AT THE WINNING-POST I have — my kind of fame. For this alone I've striven : The guerdon I'll not blame For which my life was given. This for my own I claim, I hold, as you hold Heaven. I've bought Fame — Heaven you've bought- No, friend, I do you wrong ! 'Twas not for Heaven you fought So terribly and long. Some far diviner thought Your sufifering made strong. Believe me then ! like you, I never counted cost. When the strong impulse drew From blind life passion tossed My whole soul, that I threw Upon the stake — and lost ? I've spent life royally As you, of ease not dreamt : I've never sought to be From suffering exempt : The slave fought like the free, And held earth in contempt. AT THE WINNING-POST I've given up more and more The things that men count fair : I've set no shred of store But on my single care : And now — does all not score ? Is what is left despair ? You've joys that earth transcend For my poor leaf that dies ; Yet I've betrayed no friend, I've never dealt in lies, I rode straight to the end. And have not lost the prize. And I say, for half the strain, I had been a saint in bliss. Why, I have challenged pain From this life, proved all amiss. To force me to refrain ! Can God make nothing of this ? A PROSELYTE OF THE GATE A PROSELYTE OF THE GATE. "1 T TE laughed at him up at the College, » V We fellows — his name was a jest. So easily we won our knowledge, While he blundered on at the quest. We dubbed him our Wrangler, we joked him. We called him all soul, or all mind, Our irony never provoked him, He knew he was always behind. I've seen him at lecture, — how often I Stare hard, like a studious saint, At the desk, till his features would soften As if by mesmeric constraint ; Till out of his brow passed the tension, The strain from his eyes, and he'd cease To strive with his dull apprehension, And sit there asleep and at peace ! I wish we had spared our derision. We hardly had jested so much, When I think of the look of contrition With which he would start at our touch. A PROSELYTE OF THE GATE I fancy he worshipped the kindly Professor ; but nought seemed to score ; And yet he went working on blindly, Failed on, and toiled on all the more. And now his probation is over, He's left us, to follow, small doubt, The strange light, that seemed to discover Strange meaning, that sometimes shone out On his face, spite of failure and fetter, And pierced the dull years to the end. We shall miss him far more than a better : One knew he would die for a friend. So be it ! but if the Forever, Not all for the readier brain. Take count of his ceaseless endeavour, I fancy he too will attain. Ay, he'll pass the keen wits, the quick guessers, And gladly behind him they'll fall. He'll go up among the Professors, And he'll be the pride of them all ! 76 BALLAD OF THE CADGER BALLAD OF THE CADGER. REMEMBER the old hawker With trumpery tin ware, Brooches and pins, and medals Containing the Lord's Prayer ? For an ideal vagrant He would not be one's choice. He had a leer rapacious. And a discordant voice. I've sometimes spoken with him As he his medals cried, When for his scanty guerdon He trudged along Cheapside. * Philanthropy, they call it. Is all the rage,' said he, ' But bless your 'art, the gentry 'Ud never look at me ! ' They wants a blooming orphan, Blue eyes and yaller curls. Or they wants a wasted widder, Or half-starved sewing girls. BALLAD OF THE CADGER 77 ' They likes their money's vally, It isn't in their beat To look at an old cadger Goes hawking on the street. ' " Go down among the masses ! " WTiy, every blessed toff — It isn't us he cares for, It's showing hisself off ! ' But one day— with his burden He scarce had strength to pace — He fell, and all the trinkets Scattered about the place. And we knew the end was nearing To his life of want and lies ; But we raised him from the pavement, And we carried him to Guy's. Then there hurried to his bedside A curate white and spare ; And he looked a poor fanatic, But he was strong in prayer. For he prayed for this our brother Who had so little chance. Because of want and training And adverse circumstance. 78 BALLAD OF THE CADGER And he wasn't hard upon him, He knew what he'd gone through ; But he prayed as if he meant it, As if God meant it too ! And then the pallid curate. Knowing a sign sufficed, Said, * Raise your hand, my brother, If you believe in Christ ! ' Then over the hawker's features A smile of cunning broke. And his hands seemed groping after The medals as he spoke : * The Bulwarks of Religion, Penny complete, all there / Together on a farthing. The Creed and the Lord's Prayer ! ' ART IN THE GALLERY. COULD we but view the villain clearer From this far eyrie where we sit, Ah, were it but a fraction nearer, The Gallery, to the costly Pit ! Were not the heroine's crowning speeches By the crowd's clamour half dispelled, Till meaning fades before it reaches — The Gallery were unparalleled. The Boxes curious glasses level. They've no such pleasure rapturous : 'TIS we who in the acting revel. The play, the joy, are all for us. Alas, poor Boxes, dosing, doubting, To us you seem extremely small, The drama critically flouting, WTiile we believe it, all in all ! With opera-glasses when yoo wrestle, They seem to make you wholly blind ; The vessel's not a real vessel. The ocean is not to your mind. 6 IN THE GALLERY Even rolling barrels make you blunder — These barrels you can not hear through ! Too stupid ! WTien you know 'tis thunder, Why should the barrels trouble you ? Our plaudits make the triumph certain. You are as though you had not been : 'Tis we who call before the curtain The actors, after every scene. The heroine we welcome gladly, The hero with his martial pose ; But there's the villain ! wildly, madly. We hoot the villain as he goes ! We dreamed — it was our heart's desire — Some palmy night, should Fate be willing, We would put on our best attire. And seek the Pit, and pay the shilling — This year, next year ! but Fortune's slow, Or her poor clients must forget. The new plays come, the old plays go, And we are in the Gallery yet. The night comes when our feet shall falter. Up the steep stair too weak to crawl, And from the throngs that shift and alter We shall be absent— that is all. IN THE GALLERY We shall grow dull, yet, feebly caring To scan the playbill huge and bright, Shall wonder how the folk are faring Who from the Gallery gaze at night. For yet the play the throng entrances, The heroine their hearts adore, The villain plausibly advances — We shall not hoot him any more, Who sit till the last act is over Of this poor play that halts and palls, Old memories seeking to recover In silence, till the curtain falls. MINOR DRAMAS MINOR DRAMAS. I. IT died out of the crowded hall, The frenzy of delight. They hardly let the curtain fall, The stage was half in sight, When out there burst the wild recall, — And I'm their star to-night. Right in the foremost rank I see Your radiant face, my friend, Aglow with its old faith in me Whom now the throng commend. And you are kind and strong and free, And loyal to the end. So be it— not for you I play, Who have your garlands shed ; But 'tis for one who went away Before the shouts were dead, With lips that had no word to say. And with averted head. MINOR DRAMAS 85 II. Oh, I saw his garland lie At her feet, like Spring. I'd not fling her flowers, not I ! Faint and withering, The poor buds, that fools to buy Barter everything '. All men praised her — I was mute ; If she missed my voice, Other voices better suit — She may have her choice. I'll keep silence absolute When the crowd rejoice. There are some who can unfold All their heart and mind. Others have a speech more cold. And a glance less kind, And a passion, as I hold, Deeper, undivined. IIL There's one thing I cannot do, There's one blossom rare I can never give to you. MINOR DRAMAS Not for all my prayer. Yet I plucked the best that grew, And the flowers are fair. God give you the rose you lack, That you seek alone ! Yet do not forget to take This poor wreath I've throvm. I'll not ask for one flower back — It is all your own. What, if any voice you missed, Mine there should remain ; I may praise you as I list, I will not refrain ; I have nothing to resist, Nothing I to gain. THE SCULPTOR THE SCULPTOR. AN evil image did I rear, I hewed it out of pallid stone, A terror, and a ghastly fear, Beloved of me alone. And garlands at its feet I cast, And fell before it on the ground, And my heart worshipped ; but there passed One kingly, yet uncrowned, Upon whose lips there played a smile That might all suffering despise ; And yet I saw how pain, the while. Sat throned in his eyes. And lightly, royally he spake. As though it were a small decree : ' Out of this image thou didst make Carve out a saint for me.' Then left me, with the glance now known Unceasingly, while yet I dreamed Upon his beauty, and the tone Long echoing ; and it seemed THE SCULPTOR As though there chanced, a moment's space A wonder strange, unspeakable : The fleeting likeness of his face Upon the marble fell. And viler grew the image then Than aught on earth, as to deride His name who passeth not again At mom or eventide ; Yet passed, wherefore I may not rest Till from this haunting horror dim I have fulfilled his one behest. Carved out a saint for him. I know not why the boon he sought, \Mio could all loveliness behold. Nor if the image may be wrought To a diviner mould. There is no echo can recall The passing voice that blessed and banned I see my own grey shadow fall Before me on the sand. I know not if he may divine From far off lands unswept by storm. If e'er an alien beauty shine Upon the joyless form. THE SCULPTOR Yet must I heavily pursue The endless task I fear and hate, Out of the fiend a saint to hew — And as I work I wait. AN INCIDENT IN REAL LIFE AN INCIDENT IN REAL LIFE, RELATED BY AN EYE-WITNESS IN MARBLE. YOU saw him as you entered in. He stood at the right hand, A terra-cotta Philistine Upon his wooden stand. 'Tis he who never cared a pin For what was really grand. He treated us as things of nought, The statues calm and fair ; He said the building he had bought. Or we should not be there ; He owned he had the right, he thought. To criticise and stare. The earliest dawn of morning crept Into the gallery wide ; We all, as though we had not slept. Stood calmly side by side : His glimmering lyre Apollo swept. That in low tones replied. AN INCIDENT IN REAL LIFE It breathed a music sad and strange, Of living days and dead, The echo of the years of change Since the old gods had fled, In mockery of the wider range They had not cared to tread. Rolled stony tears down many a face, Pluto was reconciled, And sad CEnone, for a space. Was from her woe beguiled, And Homer looked down from his place. And even Dante smiled. It was the Philistine — ah, shame ! ^^'ho did the fearful wrong ; Down on the mystic cadence came His accents harsh and strong. He cried : * Now Mr. What's your name. Give us a comic song.' Silent the mighty harper stood. But with a look askance The luckless Philistine he viewed. The calm, complacent glance, The virtue of his attitude, His vacant countenance. AN INCIDENT IN REAL LIFE Apollo touched the mystic wand That was for him alone ; The statues all looked cool and bland As if they had not known : A tremor shook the wooden stand — The Philistine was prone. And hurrying footsteps entered in, Men viewed the vanquished o'er, With yet the old superior grin, Eut crumbling more and more, A terra-cotta Philistine In fragments on the floor. SHAKESPEARE SHAKESPEARE. BECAUSE you are beyond us and above. Therefore we need no longer fret Our nature's shadowy limit to remove, And further in our fancy set The bound we baffle love with lingering to regret. But since the difference is infinite, Our souls in you may be at peace, Nor ever weary for their lack of wit, And from their failings have release. Our good and evil clash, but you are more than these. THE LAST PERFORMANCE THE LAST PERFORMANCE. THE last time the curtain arises On two hours of bliss unalloyed. My rival his mischief devises — What matter ? his treachery's void. I scorn him : I know whose the prize is. I, seeming foredoomed to confusion, And he, with so many a spell — Who would have believed the conclusion ? 'Twas I that she loved passing well. She loved me — no idle delusion. Why, I could have pitied his sinning That left me so utterly blest ; And I had small claim to the winning Except to have loved her the best, In truth, from the very beginning. Two hours ! and the comedy's ended That gave me the touch of her lips : While it lasted, the rapture was splendid, A glory well worth the eclipse, Like Fate, when the curtain descended. THE LAST PERFORMANCE And Fate leaves the villain in clover, The villain who fled in his rage ; And I, the poor fortunate lover, Am standing alone on the stage ; And all the performance is over. IN CHURCH HERACLITUS IN CHURCH. TO-NIGHT the choir is all aglow : Beneath the nave lies dim. The organ's notes in the minster flow, The voices rise in the chant we know, Or the well-remembered hymn. Oh could we keep the smallest thing Of all the seasons send ! But the old days the new days bring ; And each hour in the lighted choir they sing Is nearer to the end. The singers' voices shall grow old. The master's hair be grey. We know already their time is told, When the tide that swept them from our hold Shall sweep their years away. Their very memory will be fled — Another cycle run — When the last life drop has long been shed, And the great earth whirls cold and dead About the fireless sud. HERACLITUS IN CHURCH 'Mid all the aeons that fade and go, Vapour, and cloud, and clay, Stars and suns, and flame and snow. Our music had its day, A breath on the breast of the winds that blow. So swiftly swept away. TO BEATRICE TO BEATRICE. THE squire's daughter. THE girl I love is just fourteen, With face so sweet and bright. I think about her all the day, I dream of her at night. She never knows — how can she know ?- That I'm her lover true ; For I sit with the Bluecoat Bo)^, And she's in the Squire's pew. Yet still I strive her glance to meet — Her eyes are large and grey — There's only half a church between, But what a world away, my dear, Ob what a world away ! I watch her when the psalms begin. Singing so earnestly ; And I am sure I heard her voice Ring through the chant to me. I watch her when the vicar reads And when we kneel to pray : TO BEATRICE There's only half a church between, But what a world away, my dear, Oh what a world away ! By the great pillar as she sits, She looks so slight and fair ; The light of the stained window falls Upon her yellow hair, A bar of glowing amethyst ; And to myself I say : * There's only half a church between, But what a world away, my dear. Oh what a world away ! ' If I were rich and I were free, How great would be my joy ! I'd be a grand Etonian, And not a Bluecoat Boy. Yet there she sits, her smile I know, Her smile I met to-day : There's only half a church between. But what a world away, my dear, Ah what a world away ! CHURCH ECHOES CHURCH ECHOES. I. Vicar's Daughter. DOWN in the depths of this fair church— A man may find them if he search, There lie six pews that are called Free, And there the strange Bohemians be. (Have mercy upon them, miserable offenders.) We Philistines in cushioned pews Have prayer-books more than we can use. They have one prayer-book that they share. They do not kneel : they sit and stare. (Have mercy upon them, miserable offenders.) Decorously we meet their view As if they were an empty pew. We are above them and beyond. And reverently we respond. (Have mercy upon them, miserable offenders.) 2. Charity Child. The Vicar's daughters look so good. We think that they are made of wood. Like rests for hymn-books, there they stand. With each a hymn-book in her band. CHURCH ECHOES Half through the sermon once we tried To hold our eyelids open wide, That we might know if they could keep Awake, or sometimes went to sleep. ' It was no use, we may be wrong. The Vicar preached so very long ; And keep awake we never could— We think that they are made of wood. 3. Tramp. Hardly includes us in its glance The Vicar's glassy countenance : The Verger with superior eyes Surveys us in a still surprise. But when the organ's notes begin I heed not any Philistine : To hear the music is my bliss ; And I'm at home where music is. Through ranks of aliens to and fro I see the true musician go. So dim their eyes, they cannot trace The light unknown upon his face. ' For if they can go to sleep they are not made of wood . CHURCH ECHOES Here week by week I come, and see No hand stretched out to welcome me ; And I am in a friendless land — But music takes me by the hand. IN THE CHOIR IN THE CHOIR. ALL bygone memories have their dwelling In this vast shadow of ancient stone, In the sound of music, slowly swelling Through sombre arches and alleys lone. So strange the tones from the organ flowing, One half could fancy the player sees Musicians passed from our earthly knowing, Who throng in silence about the keys. The old, old chords in his chords are blended. And phantom fingers his hands control. Their life on earth, till all song be ended. Shall yet endure in the Master's soul. The many given to music wholly, Who won renown in their land and day, Now dwindled to names that perish slowly. On the tide of ages borne away, Like those of our time who toil, aspire. Rekindle with passion the strains of old. Their whole lives mount to their soul's desire. And leave a fame that will soon grow cold. IN THE CHOIR Their resting-places may none discover, Where the deft hands lie below the sod. Grant, when their music on earth is over. They have a place in the choir of God. MEMORIES TO THE NEXT MEETING. IF we had known — how many a thing We would have said and done ! \^^lo wandered idly questioning Unto the set of sun. If we had guessed — if we had known. If I could read aright And recollect the very tone In which you said good-night ! Oh could your lonely vigil tell WTiat more the silence meant, Or know the faith unspeakable That to the hand-clasp went ? We looked for doubt to disappear, Uncertainty and dread : ' And everything will be made clear Next time, next time ' — we said. TO THE NEXT MEETING Oh, if the hour were incomplete What need to be perplexed ? It was so easy — we should meet The next day, or the next. But when the dawn came still and grey There was no word nor sign- So deep the sunless river lay Between your life and mine. THE TRYST THE TRYST. THE slow hours wane : true is the path That brings me to the end. Through the dim night I come to you, My love, my only friend ! About the wide, wild meadow-land The wind is leaping free ; And ever round my onward way The surging of the sea. Between two clouds a gleam of light Upon my pathway thrown ; It falls upon the tranquil face Of one who waits alone. Oh hard and bitter was the day, The anguish of the fight ; But you shall soothe it with your hand, Soft as the wind of night. For calm is in your hand, my dear, And peace is in your tone : Your voice is as the voice of them Who come in dreams alone. THE TRYST And faith is in your heart, my dear, Beyond all longing true. As through the wide, wild meadow-land I come alone to you. Even now upon your raven hair The dreaming moonlight lies. The deep compassion of the night Is in your steadfast eyes. And rolling years can never mar. And death can never own The beauty of your face, my dear, The magic of your tone. BALLAD BALLAD. HE said : * The shadows darken down, The night is near at hand. Now who's the friend will follow me Into the sunless land ? * For I have vassals leal and true. And I have comrades kind, And wheresoe'er my soul shall speed They will not stay behind.' He sought the brother young and blithe Who bore his spear and shield : — ' In the long chase you've followed me. And in the battle-field. ' Few vows yx)u make ; but true's your heart, And you with me will win.' He said : ' God speed you, brother mine, But I am next of kin.' He sought the friar, the grey old priest Who loved his father's board. The friar he turned him to the east And reverently adored. BALLAD He said : * A godless name you bear, A godless life you've led, And whoso wins along with you His spirit shall have dread. ' Oh hasten, get your guilty soul From every burden shriven ; Yet you are bound for flame and dole. But I am bound for heaven ! ' He sought the lady bright and proud Who sate at his right hand : ' Make haste, oh love, to follow me Into the sunless land.' She said : * And pass you in your prime ? Heaven give me days of cheer ! And keep me from the sunless clime Many and many a year.' All heavily the sun sank down Among black clouds of fate. There came a woman fair and wan Unto the castle gate. Through gazing vassals, idle serfs, So silently she sped ! The winding staircase echoed not Unto her light, light tread. BALLAD His lady eyed her scornfully. She stood at his right hand ; She said : ' And I will follow you Into the sunless land. • There is no expiation, none. A bitter load I bore : Now I shall love you nevermore, Never and nevermore. ' There is no touch or tone of yours Can make the old love wake.' She said : ' But I will follow you. Even for the old love's sake.' Oh, he has kissed her on the brow. He took her by the hand : Into the sunless land they went, Into the starless land. BURDEN'S BURDENS. 'T^HE burden of the wan sea flowers -^ So brief a summer can dispel, While o'er them watches, crowned with towers, The sea-washed citadel Eternal, and the mountains dwell Above the living and the dead — The burden of man's restless hours, Of graves grown green with careless showers That lie unvisited. The burden of the wandering sea, The burden of the stars and sun : * In us is not eternity, Our being and yours are one. Only in your communion We are, and have endurance thus : The shadows of your soul are we, That change and fail ; nor can we be Save when God looks on us. ' GARLANDS GARLANDS. BUT what shall grace your raven hair, And what the garland you shall wear About your brow of palest snow ? The crown of hope, whose golden rays Tempt weary eyes from weary days, And new flowers spring as old flowers go ? Ah no ! With memory's wreath of pain I crown you. Crown me, dear, again. But there's a garland fairer far. No crowns of blessed angels are With this in beauty to compare. A glory in a sunless place, God's smile upon a pallid face — Love's crown, beloved, shall we wear ? Ah no ! With memory's wreath of pain I crown you. Crown me, dear, again. And some may call you all uncrowned. And none may mark the dim wreath bound With thorns invisible, keen and strong. Yet proudly decked we are alway GARLANDS With crowns enduring till the day The desert blossoms into song. Wherefore with memory's wreath of pain I crown you. Crown me, dear, again. INSUFFICIENCY INSUFFICIENCY. IF I could only wake with you, This weary while you have to spend, Keep vigil with you the night through, As friend may do with friend ! So meagre is my spirit's power. Now, even for you I love the best, I cannot watch a single hour, I sleep and take my rest. If I could bear the ceaseless strain That with your nobler spirit strives, Awhile for you endure the pain, I'd give a hundred lives. There's not one thing that I can do. Not suffer with you for a day — But I must idly watch, till you Have worn your life away. If 'twere a force one could command, Something that could be said or done, As by the raising of the hand To draw the load on one— /NS UFFICIENCY To raise the hand's an easy thing. How readily would cease your strife And mine begin — but who may bring Such glory into life ? So I can never love you well, You who have given all to me ; Yet for brief instants I can tell What love was meant to be. When the pulse throbs, the deep tears start Then all goes by — your load you bear. God will not let me break my heart, No, not for your despair ! It is my load that you have borne, It is my guilt has weighed you down, I've helped to bind the shadowy thorn Into your conqueror's crown. Yet haply God may still accord, In a far juster land than this, I may have pain for my reward. And you eternal bliss. THE KING'S DAUGHTER THE KING'S DAUGHTER. « (~\^ what hast thou for me, strange guest, v_/ On this my banquet night, Whereunto all have brought their best. And thou shalt bring delight ? ' « My gift thou mayest well forga A heavy heart I bring, A restless pain— tears none may know, Care at the banqueting.' ' Oh, churlish guest, what evil cheer Thou givest to my hand ! Thy presence makes the garlands sere Of my delightful land. But I will keep my festivals. My merry heart I'll keep ; I'll have my joy that never palls, And laughter and sweet sleep.' ' Oh, lady, look into my eyes. And therein read my name ; And if my gift thou dost despise I'll leave thee without blame. THE KING'S DAUGHTER Thou shalt go back into thy place, And thou shalt have no dread, And thine shall be the fairest face. And thine the lightest tread.' ' I've sinned gainst thy gift too long, Now give and do not spare : I'll leave the laughter and the song ; I'll take all thou dost bear. So thou wilt never hence depart, And never set me free — A light heart or a heavy heart, It is all one to me ! ' BALLAD BALLAD. HEAVILY did the long years move, Heavily hangs the night, But I am bound to meet my love. Wherefore my heart is light. On through the glittering town I press, On through the eddying street — Lonelier than a wilderness. With throngs that melt and meet, A maze of clamour and of cries. Hurrying, dreary, banned. Shall I not look into her eyes ? Shall I not touch her hand ? Then pain will be forgotten all — Janet, I come apace ! My love ! — I saw the lamplight fall Upon a distant face. There, where the deepest shadow lies About the ancient door, Where tremulous music ebbing dies, We shall stand, my love, once more. BALLAD As we an old time vigil kept, There listening alone — Hark, through the city's clamour swept The organ's thunderous tone ! Oh, wayworn wanderer, what is this ? She's in a far, far land ! Never but in a dream of bliss Her hand shall touch thy hand. Oh hasten on — she will not stay. Though the clouds weep and lower. There's moonlight, many a league away, Upon the minster tower. Many and many a league of sea. Wrapped in a deep repose. There shall come no organ sound to thee By any wind that blows. About it lies the town asleep. The chanting all is done. Long memories of music steep The grey and tranquil stone. The weary ways you wander down, The streets of light and change — They are not in the old, old town. But a city vast and strange. BALLAD At every thoroughfare and lane The far hand beckoneth ; The shadow flits and dies again Into your dream of death. Follow ! the dream is life and fire ! The dream is all thine own ; And thou shalt gain thy heart's desire. If in a dream alone ! EXILE EXILE. ' /^~\H cease from pleading, and leave me lonely, ^^ The shadows deepen, the day is late. One red gleam lingers for yoii, you only — Oh win your way through the golden gate ! ' For white and pure are your shining pinions As the white glow of the morning star, And you shall walk in the saints' dominions, And you shall be as the angels are.' ' For your despair I am despairing, Not for the darkness and the cold. This be far from me, all uncaring, To pass alone through the gates of gold. ' Not so easily had you parted, True to the faintest pledge were you. What, you ever were faithful hearted — Shall no other be faithful too ? ' Yet should I leave you in your anguish, I have no place with the seraphim ; For my shining pinions droop and languish. My robes of glory are stained and dim. EXILE I ' The weight of your sm has the bright plumes broken, Dark on my brow its shadow lies ; And fear and guilt, for my strong love's token, Have dimmed for ever my starry eyes. ' Have you not been a generous donor ? All your bounty was mine to claim. Since with you I have shared your honour, Shall I not share your guilt and blame ? ' Oh love, the last gold gleam has vanished Into the gloom of the leaden sky. Too late it is for the wholly banished The gates of the sun to enter by ! ' And none may know what the night is bringing. What tears shall rain in the darkness down ; But better the weeping than the singing. The joyless singing with harp and crown.' GOOD-BYE GOOD-BYE, THE day was heavy with wind and rain When last we said good-bye. When I and my love shall meet again There will be cloudless sky. I clasped your hand, but I made no sign, I could not speak nor stay ; Yet something flashed from your eyes to mine I dream of, night and day. And strangers stood in the dreary street, And marked each glance and tone. When I and my love once more shall meet We shall be all alone. There's many a troth breaks easily. There's many a love may quail. I know, wherever our tryst may be. We two shall never fail. And death may sweep our years apart. And all but faith shall die. As my own heart I trust your heart — A long, a long good-bye ! PSYCHOLOGICAL LOST SOULS. THEY passed before my threshold, The lost souls, one by one. I watched them from the daybreak, ' Unto the set of sun. I said : ' My soul's unshaken Because I have not sinned. Surely they reap the whirlwind, They who have sown the wind.' The burden of their &ilure It was no more my own Than a far distant struggle Lost in a land unknown. Till it seemed a sudden shadow Over my threshold crossed. And I knew the play was ended, And my own soul was lost. SYDNEY CARTON SYDNEY CARTON. I WISH that I could write for you, As Dante wrote for Beatrice, Like some Crusader, fight for you, ■ Dauntless, till death should bid me cease Saying, when the dim veil began O'er that last rapture to descend, * What though I feared not God nor man. Yet I have loved you to the end.' I wish that I could sing to you. You who love music passing well. All passion I would bring to you That in a human voice might dwell. I wish, my worthless life to crown, The soul of harmony were given — I'd call divinest music down, Even from the very gates of heaven. I wish that I could die for you, That God would hear my one request, With this poor life to buy for you The treasure that you loved the best. SYDNEY CARTON So wonderful a boon to me, So easy yet, for God to give ! Knowing the glory that would be, I think that I could dare to live. I wish that I could live to you, Do deeds of honour in your praise, The hard-won garland give to you. The guerdon of my blameless dajrs. I'd be a hero and a saint. O'er sin and death ride conqueror. Alas, my love is poor and faint. And frailer than the gossamer ! 136 OTHERWORLDLINESS OTHERWORLDLINESS. YOU say your soul's a mass Of sin — it is, may be. Worse things have come to pass Than your iniquity. The destitute of grace Can bear some common load : The vilest of the race Can break stones on the road. Repentance can't atone For the brief day's demands — Oh, let your soul alone. Leave wringing of your hands. While the few seasons run, Hell, heaven, is not your goal. Is there nothing to be done But just to save your soul ? Of sins you may be proud Over the common share — You'll be lost in a crowd Wherever you may fare. O THER WORLDLINESS Yet God will still protect His own, and their renown, Nor will the world be wrecked Though your small bark go down. Be your heart blacker far Than ink, or white as snow — Men care not what you are. But what you do, they know. Unto your dying day, With men, your name enrol, For men do what you may — And leave to God your soul. 138 FAILURES FAILURES. A ND you have failed, O Poet ? Sad ! ■'-^ Yet failures are a commonplace. Boast not as though you only had Secured a failure in the race. You see them thick on every hand As blackberries ; but you, you say, Because your nature was so grand, Have failed in a peculiar way. You weep : * I had such lofty aims. My soul had yearnings truly great. Than broken altars, dying flames, I had deserved a better fate. And others gain my heart's desire They win the prize I vainly crave ; And they will set the Thames on fire When I am mouldering in my grave. ' What matter, yet ? The years of blight The fair and laughing seasons bring — And if you flee or if you fight, It is a very little thing. FAILURES 139 Small anguish hss^you undergone. Poor fool, to write, with careful art, Your melancholy sonnets on. When some, to fail, would break the heart ! Go, look into some dingy street Your mood aesthetic scorns to pace. Mark well the throng ; you will not meet One happy or one careless face. Have these not failed, on whom the rain Strikes cheerless from the sky of grey ? No lurking comfort in their pain Of subtle self-esteem have they. They live their wasted lives, and die, Nor much their destiny bewail. While you to all the world must cry : ' Alas, but see how / can fail ! Compassionate my fruitless tears, Peruse the volumes of my woes, The burden of my blighted years, In metre some, and some in prose ! ' You fail ? Then take it at the worst. Shall some not gloriously succeed ? Ah, waive awhile your lot accurst. To triumph in a noble deed ! FAILURES Nay, but you grudge the victory, Nor heed how the hard fight prevailed. Through Time's exulting harmony You shriek, * Alas, but I have failed ! ' MORALITY MORALITY. * /~\ H could thy vision make me strong, ^~-^ Could I but hear thy voice. The waste should blossom into song, The desert should rejoice.' ' That desert infinite and bare There is no stream to bless ; The only crown that thou shalt wear Thy crown of faithfulness.' * There's good no evil can destroy. Bom wholly to attain. Song crowned it passes, strong with joy — I ask but healing pain. ' For some God's smile lights up the spheres, They are so pure within — Oh let me wash away in tears. In tears of blood, my sin.' ' Thou shalt have nd supreme distress To purge thy soul with fire. Thou shalt but have long heaviness, Long failure of desire.' MORALITY ' I know my strife shall not prevail, I see my labour cease ; And yet, before I wholly fail, Shall I not have release ? ' ' If Death shall only seal thy shame 'Twill be an old, old thing : To stronger hearts than thine, there came Too late, his rescuing. ' Thou hast no right 'gainst guilt to plead, No right to shun remorse. Seek not from evil to be freed But by thy spirit's force. ' So to the last resisting breath Not utterly o'erthrown, Thou shalt have earned thy right to death, And conquered the unknown ! ' A TRUE KNIGHT A TRUE KNIGHT. * T EST unprized thy love should be, J — ' Hide it deeper ' Say the wise ones. Why, love's free, Air's no cheaper. Of a homage to repent Unrewarded I've no fear. Love was not meant To be hoarded. For your heart they lie in wait, Many a suitor. Sagely of their wisdom prate — Love's my tutor. Oh, their bargains they may boast. Sure and stealthy. I alone in loving most Am most wealthy. If my nature I deny In its essence. Hide my heart away, and lie In Love's presence, A TRUE KNIGHT So myself I shall approve, I, disdaining Heavenly or earthly love Won by feigning. I'll not make love merchandise, Nor consider Where to gain a better price. Higher bidder ; Chaffer on to make things pay, Weighing, testing. To find out the wisest way Of investing. Not alone your dear love's worth Do I care for — He who loves, no love on earth Need despair for. Though in vain my service pleads In my favour. In your name I'll do brave deeds, Ever braver. Bid me leave you, fear not lest I shall linger. Or to alter your behest Stir a finger. A TRUE KNIGHT I've no subtle lies to tell For your smaring : Well you know I love you well, Love unsparing. So you grant them what they claim- Clear their vision : I choose rather hate or blame, Or derision. From your gold hair to your glove They have proved you : Truly they have won your love — I have loved you. EVENSONG EVENSONG. YOU hear the sound Of the reapers' feet. Leaf and flower they've bound, And tares and wheat. Light or heavy sheaf. Heavy heart or light. To gladness or grief, Good-night ! ' Oh, weary reaper, With golden grain ! Hast thou reaped in joy, Who didst sow in pain ? May the ripened com Thy toil requite ! Till the breaking mom. Good-night ! ' In tears as I sowed I have reaped in tears. I have borne my load Of the priceless ears. EVENSONG But the wind is cool, And the west is bright, And the sheaf is full, Good -night ! PRINTED DV SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE LONDON (^ ' V z:.::f^