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 LIBRARy 
 y/V/VERSfTY Of CALIFORNIA 
 
 Rimsm
 
 POEMS
 
 _)
 
 POEMS 
 
 BY • «V^^^ 
 
 EMILY HICKEV 
 
 LONDON 
 ELKIN MATHEWS, VIGO STREET 
 
 MDCCCXCVI
 
 PR ^\iqo 
 Ho.
 
 TO 
 
 MY VERY DEAR FRIEND 
 
 ANNIE ELEANOR RIDLEY 
 
 IN MEMORY OF 
 
 187I — 1895
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Ballad of Lady Ellen i 
 
 The Passion of King Conor 
 
 .. 
 
 
 12 
 
 A Wolf Story 
 
 .. 
 
 
 i6 
 
 Two Women and a Poet 
 
 .. 
 
 
 19 
 
 The Lady of Comfort 
 
 • • 
 
 
 23 
 
 Baa, Baa, Black Sheep 
 
 .. 
 
 
 26 
 
 The Children's Knight 
 
 .. 
 
 
 29 
 
 " Your joy no man taketh from you" ... 
 
 .. 
 
 
 31 
 
 To a Wee Laddie 
 
 •• 
 
 
 34 
 
 I Think of You as of a good Life-boat 
 
 .. 
 
 
 37 
 
 A Mill Ballad 
 
 .. 
 
 
 .. 38 
 
 In a Swiss Wood 
 
 .. 
 
 
 40 
 
 To the Czar, Nicholas IL... 
 
 .. 
 
 
 42 
 
 Death and Life 
 
 .. 
 
 
 44 
 
 The Ship from Tirnanoge ... 
 
 • • 
 
 
 .. 46 
 
 '• And After This— " 
 
 .. 
 
 
 49 
 
 To R. N 
 
 .. 
 
 
 50 
 
 To Miranda who Sleeps ... 
 
 • • 
 
 
 SI 
 
 Love and Grief. I. 
 
 .. 
 
 
 52 
 
 Lf)ve and Grief. IL 
 
 .. 
 
 
 S3 
 
 A Choice 
 
 .. 
 
 
 54 
 
 Ad Poctam 
 
 .. 
 
 .. 
 
 55
 
 The Ballad of Lady Ellen 
 
 THE ARGUMENT 
 
 THERE was a very mighty famine in the land, and the people's cry 
 went up day by day, and many of them died. And ihe Lady Ellen, 
 their Duke's daughter, sold her jewels and her rich robes, that the people 
 might have wherewith to stay their hunger : for her father, the Ruler 
 of the land, cared not a whit whether the folk lived or died, and would 
 not hearken to the praying of his daughter on their behalf 
 
 Then, when she had spent all that she had, the lady went forth 
 into the city, in the disguise of one of mean estate : that with her own 
 eyes she might see the plight of the people, and hear it with her own 
 ears. 
 
 And lo ! she learned how the emissaries of the Evil One were 
 buying the souls of the folk, and how the folk were selling their souls 
 that they might have bread for themselves and for their children. 
 
 Then the larly, knowing this dreadful thing, ])rayed once more to 
 the Duke, her father, on the folk's behalf, and found his heart as hard 
 as the nether millstone. 
 
 And so she sold her own soul to the Evil One for a mighty sum, 
 and bought therewith food and seed-corn for the people. 
 
 So j)lenty drave out famine, and the emissaries of the Evil One 
 were hounded forth, not as at thai time to return. 
 
 And the soul of the Lady Ellen fared forth to hell, and lo ! at the 
 very heart of hell she found the Lord's heaven, and was laid to rest on 
 the bosom of Mary. 
 
 •' Say, what ails you, danj^hter mine ? 
 The flowers are sprin^^nn^j fair and fine ; 
 
 " Never a cloud in the sky so blue ; 
 And the whole big world is glad but you.
 
 " Call your page, and bid him bring 
 Your fair white horse, the gift of the king ; 
 
 *' Light as a bird that flies the air, 
 
 He'll bear you away from your brooding care." 
 
 " Nay, I prithee, father, nay ; 
 I will not ride my horse to-day." 
 
 " Summon hither your bower-lady 
 With the voice as sweet as voice can be ; 
 
 *' And when she sings her goodly song, 
 Your trouble will not tarry long," 
 
 *' Nay, my sire, no song for me : 
 I will not hear the sounds of glee. 
 
 " Aye and ever I hear them cry, 
 My kith-folk in their misery." 
 
 " Daughter, you cannot see the poor, 
 
 They are banned and barred from your father's door. 
 
 " How should you know their wants and woes ? " 
 *' My soul hath eyes and I see with those." 
 
 •' Daughter, to-night shall a feast be spread, 
 Where the king's son shall be banqueted ; 
 
 *' High on the dais shall be your seat, 
 As for mine only heir is meet. 
 
 " Your maids must busk you royal fair, 
 With a golden circlet round your hair ; 
 
 " And a stately robe of cramoisie. 
 Set with the fine lace daintily. 
 
 *' Bid your ladies bring for you 
 
 The scented glove and the broidered shoe ;
 
 " Let fiery-hearted rubies deck 
 
 Your rosed-white ears and lilied neck. 
 
 *' And lest too bright your beauty shine, 
 Fling over all, fair daughter mine, 
 
 " A wimple of golden tissue free, 
 A faery mist from head to knee." 
 
 " O father, what have I to do 
 
 With scented glove and broidered shoe ? 
 
 " Lovely robe and precious gem, 
 What have I to do with them ? 
 
 " All I had I have sold to give 
 Wherewith to bid the people live. 
 
 " How can I flaunt in rich array, 
 When the people sit in rags to-day ? 
 
 " How can I taste of dainty meat, 
 When the people have not what to eat ? 
 
 " Father, father, fair to own 
 
 Are the lands your father's fathers won ; 
 
 And the castle girt with the broad deep moat, 
 Where a war-famed banner high doth float ; 
 
 " And goodly fair, indeed, to see 
 
 Are piles of the red and the wliite money. 
 
 " But castle and lands and fee are naught 
 To the worth of the souls the Saviour bought. 
 
 " The black-winged famine, day by day. 
 Swoops on their lives like a bird of prey, 
 
 " And the people know they are but dead 
 For lack of needful flesh and bread. 
 
 B — 2
 
 " Father, take of your golden store, 
 And give it to the starving poor. 
 
 *' I pray you in the dear Lord's name 
 To help the souls for whom He came." 
 
 He laughed a scornful laugh and long — 
 •' I care not for the folk a song ! 
 
 *' And if you will not grace my board, 
 I care not, daughter, by the Lord ! 
 
 " The king's son shall be my heir, 
 Instead of you, my daughter fair." 
 
 Lady Ellen kneeled and steept 
 
 The hard floor with the tears she wept : 
 
 But harder than the marble stone 
 
 Is the human heart to hardness grown. 
 
 " Myself will go," the lady said, 
 
 " And see how they die for lack of bread. 
 
 I who have lived at joyous ease, 
 Would to God I might die for these." 
 
 Low she spake to her bower-lady, 
 "Whose heart was gentle as heart can be ; 
 
 And the two went out from the castle gate, 
 Dight like women of low estate. 
 
 They went through the city side by side, 
 And saw themselves how the people died. 
 
 And they saw a thing more dread to see 
 Than curse of famine and drought could be 
 
 And they heard a thing more dread to hear 
 Than toll of a death-bell on the ear.
 
 Oh, the dearth was raging stark and sore 
 From the eastern to the western shore ; 
 
 And the Duke that owned the wide country 
 Never a moment's care gave he : 
 
 But the Prince of Hell was 'ware, and sent 
 His powers to bring him great content. 
 
 They sit in a room of a hostel there, 
 Two swart men with raven hair. 
 
 Day by day, with keen hawk-eye, 
 They watch the people's misery. 
 
 Strange dark men who understand 
 Right well the language of the land. 
 
 Trippingly that language goes 
 Upon the hssom tongues of those. 
 
 Gold in heaps they are counting o'er. 
 And the hostess marvels at the store. 
 
 " O fair sirs, the people cry 
 Day by day in their misery. 
 
 «' O fair sirs, but hear their prayer ; 
 Gold enow ye have, and to spare." 
 
 ♦* Nay, good hostess, bid them come 
 Each alone, to this our room. 
 
 •* All that will may have, be sure, 
 Gold enow their ills to cure." 
 
 The poor come to the hostelry, 
 And enter where the strangers be ; 
 
 Enter a high room carven fair ; 
 
 A room that was once a king's chamber.
 
 One by one they leave the place, 
 With a dreadful change on every face. 
 
 For those were the devil's emissaries, 
 Who dealt in souls for merchandise. 
 
 Little they gave for the worn and old, 
 But for the young they gave much gold. 
 
 And to all the folk that there did come 
 They said they would give a king's ransom 
 
 For a virgin soul of purity. 
 In a virgin body fair to see. 
 
 Oh, this was the thing the lady learned, 
 Before her footsteps home were turned. 
 
 This was the thing more dread to see 
 Than curse of famine or drought could be. 
 
 This was the thing more dread to hear 
 Than toll of a death-bell on the ear. 
 
 Back from the city the lady came. 
 
 Pierced to the heart with sorrow and shame ; 
 
 Back she came in her wordless woe, 
 That would not suffer a tear to flow. 
 
 She went, in sackcloth garmented ; 
 With Lenten ashes upon her head, 
 
 And came to her father's princely seat. 
 And knelt in her anguish at his feet. 
 
 " What mean you, maid, to put to shame 
 Your father's house and your father's name, 
 
 " That you come in sackcloth garmented, 
 With the dust of Lent upon your head ? *'
 
 Tears of blood were the words she spoke, 
 ♦' Father, father, save the folk ! " 
 
 He looked on her in his anger grim, 
 As low she bowed herself to him : 
 
 And spake at last in his bitter jest, 
 
 •' To sell your own white soul were best ! 
 
 "Your lily-soul, bedewed with prayers. 
 Is worth a world of such as theirs 1" ' 
 
 All night long the lady prayed ; 
 
 " Slay me, O God, for these," she said. 
 
 For the flame at the ruby's heart that burns 
 Is nought to the fire in the soul that yearns 
 
 To save a soul in its jeopardy, 
 Or perish instead, if so may be. 
 
 And when the sun was risen again. 
 She went alone to the evil men. 
 
 " What will ye give me for a dole. 
 If I render you up my soul ? " 
 
 " Oh, we will give thee what thou wilt 
 For the goodliest soul that ever was spilt." 
 
 They dealt her out the price she would. 
 
 And she signed her name to the bond in blood. 
 
 She gave to the poor, and loud they swore 
 To deal with evil men no more. 
 
 And then the lady sent a quest 
 
 To the cornlands of the far-off west ; 
 
 For freighted ships of golden corn 
 Across the wide sea to be borne.
 
 8 
 
 The corn was worth its weight in gold, 
 Which the western folk to the lady sold. 
 
 They said, when fourteen days were o'er, 
 The corn would come to the waiting shore. 
 
 Corn for bread, and corn for seed ; 
 Corn enow for the people's need. 
 
 None should trade with the Evil One, 
 Till the fourteen days were past and gone. 
 
 Because of the gold that free did come 
 By the Lady Ellen's martyrdom. 
 
 The Lady Ellen looked afar 
 
 Out toward the land of the western star ; 
 
 As she sat in her chamber day by day, 
 Her eyes on the wide sea far away. 
 
 Until at last she saw them come, 
 
 The fair white ships of her love's ransom. 
 
 Down she fell on her bended knee, 
 When the sails at last her eyes could see ; 
 
 " Now when they will, they e'en may take 
 My soul that's lost for my people's sake." 
 
 She bad that none should come to her ; 
 
 And she drew the bolts of her high chamber ; 
 
 And no one knew, save God alone, 
 
 What anguish and woe to her were known. 
 
 Till her body no more could bear the stress 
 Of her soul's exceeding bitterness.
 
 But never she swen^ed from the path of love 
 To the heart of Hell and the fires thereof. 
 
 Into the harbour the vessels rode, 
 Laden each with a costly load. 
 
 And the black-winged famine flew away 
 For the food and the seed that came that day. 
 
 They hounded forth the evil men, 
 Never to come to the land again. 
 
 And strength came back once more to the weak. 
 And the parched mouths for joy could speak. 
 
 They went in throngs to praise and pray 
 At the place where Lady Ellen lay. 
 
 But Lady Ellen, who loved them so. 
 
 Was gone from the sound of their weal or woe. 
 
 They burst the bolts of her chamber-door, 
 And found her stark-dead on the floor. 
 
 The body that erst was fair to see 
 Was the writhen spoil of her agony : 
 
 And dark on the face the woe was sealed 
 Of the death unhouselled, unannealed. 
 
 The soul so pure and charitable 
 Fared alone to the gates of hell. 
 
 Naked made of its body's dress ; 
 Clad in its great love's loveliness. 
 
 Open the gates, and let her win 
 
 To the flame and the awe and the pain therein !
 
 lO 
 
 Right to the heart of hell she fared, 
 All unharmed and all unscared. 
 
 She to whose unpolluted sight 
 
 The flame was glory, the darkness light. 
 
 Sounds of wailing to other ears — 
 To hers the music of all the spheres, 
 
 That drew to the Empyrean bliss 
 Where the mystic Rose of the Blessed is, 
 
 Abloom by the lake reflecfled bright 
 From the very Uncreated Light. 
 
 Oh, far apart are east and west, 
 And far apart are toil and rest, 
 
 And far apart are morn and even, 
 And far apart are hell and heaven ; 
 
 And of heaven above or hell below 
 Where is the man who thinks to know ? 
 
 Yet the soul that Love makes strong to dare 
 The heart of hell, finds heaven is there. 
 
 Oh, a new light dawned in Mary's eyes. 
 When the soul came into Paradise ; 
 
 For on her the Lord had laid behest 
 To bring that soul to the sweetest rest. 
 
 Up she rose from her high queen-seat. 
 With the sheen of the blessed on her feet ; 
 
 Drew to the soul that entered there, 
 And laid it upon her bosom fair :
 
 II 
 
 Even the soul where God did see 
 The very self of Charity. 
 
 " Christ the Lord hath brought to His bliss 
 " Thee, whose love was a love like His : 
 
 *' Darling of Jesus, lie to-day 
 
 " Here in the bosom where Jesus lay." 
 
 Note. — This ballad was suggested by a story included through a 
 mistake in Mr. \V. B. Yeats's collection of Fairy and Folk-tales of the 
 Irish peasantry. This story of " Countess Kathleen O'Shea," which 
 Mr. Yeats has dramatised, and Mrs. Hinkson (Katherine Tynan), has 
 made the foundation of a poem, neither of which works I have seen, 
 is, I am informed, certainly no Irish legend. It was translated, or 
 adopted, from the French by Mr. John Augustus O'Shea, and published 
 in an Anglo-Irish newspaper, whence, in all good faith, Mr. Yeats 
 reprinted it in his Irish Folk-tale book. I have made very con- 
 siderable alterations and additions, as anyone who knows the version 
 in Mr. Yeats's book will easily see at once.
 
 12 
 
 The Passion of King Conor 
 
 An Old Irish Legend 
 
 In the Red-Branch House, in Emania, they kept the 
 
 Ball of Dread, 
 The lime-bound brain of Mesgedra, whom Conall had 
 
 sent to the dead ; 
 Till the fools of Conor stole it, the creature of wreak 
 
 and death, 
 And played therewith in their folly, till it came to the 
 
 sight of Keth : 
 And Keth, the son of Magach, he stole the fate-ball 
 
 then. 
 And carried the death in his girdle, for the king of the 
 
 Ulstermen. 
 
 There was none upon earth like Conor who sat on the 
 
 Ulster throne ; 
 So great and comely and mighty, the peer of him ne'er 
 
 was known : 
 So fair of the face and the body, and prudent, well- 
 
 speeched and wise ; 
 In race, in arms, and in raiment, full glorious in all 
 
 men's eyes. 
 
 'Twas Keth of the sons of Connaught was fain to slay 
 
 the king ; 
 And he watched till his time was come, and he cast the 
 
 ball from a sling ;
 
 13 
 
 And it sank in the forehead of Conor, and low and quiet 
 
 he lay ; 
 And Fingen the leech was with him, and tended him 
 
 night and day. 
 
 He rose from his bed of healing with life gone grey 
 
 and dim ; 
 No more of the combat's glory or the lustre of love 
 
 for him ; 
 Nor anger nor joy must he cherish, but sit, a broken 
 
 thing, 
 With the light gone out of his life, great Conor MacNessa, 
 
 the king ; 
 And seven were the years that went from the time of 
 
 his quieting. 
 
 Then, lo ! on a fair spring day, there came a darkness 
 
 and fear. 
 And the strong earth moaned and shook, and Barach 
 
 the Druid came near. 
 When the king was fain to know why the earth was 
 
 wrapt in shade. 
 With never a glearn of light but the levin that maketh 
 
 afraid. 
 
 Said Barach, Jesits the Christ, the Son of God most High, 
 Is hanging nailed on a cross, between the earth and the 
 
 sky. 
 And Conor the king said, Why ? What evil thing hath He 
 
 done ? 
 What ill is laid to His charge ? A nd Barach made answer, 
 
 None. 
 Then Uim, the Guiltless and Pure, said Conor the king, 
 
 they slay ? 
 And Barach, he bowed the head, and answered him 
 
 only Yea.
 
 14 
 
 Then Conor MacNessa, mad with sorrow and anger, 
 
 leapt 
 From the seat where, seven slow years, his body its 
 
 calm had kept ; 
 He rushed to the woods amain, and wild in his passion 
 
 drew 
 His sword, and hacked at the trees, as if each were the 
 
 form of a Jew : 
 And the wrath of his soul foamed out at his lips all 
 
 white and dry ; 
 And the great veins swelled on his brow, and the fierce 
 
 blood streaked his eye. 
 
 Oh, why did He leave me untold ? For I would have 
 
 championed Him ; 
 Yea, I would have sprung to His side; and a combat fierce 
 
 and grim 
 Have waged for His sake, for His, Who is dying unhelpt, 
 
 alone ; 
 And a high king's valour and might those evil hearts should 
 
 have known. 
 
 'Tis I would have hclpt Thee, Christ, 'tis I would have 
 
 sided with Thee ! 
 ^Tis I would have conquered Thy foes, and set the innocent free ; 
 O Christ ! O Christ ! they defile Thee ! They slay that Body 
 
 of Thine ! 
 And I in my strength would have saved Thee, with even this 
 
 body of mine. 
 
 Ifs oh ! for the fight I would wage there ! Would stand by 
 
 Thy side ; nor rest 
 Nor stay, though they pierced me and hewed me ; and Thee, 
 
 Thou Fairest and Best, 
 
 Yea, Thee, for Whom earth is a-wailing, Thee, Lord, would 
 
 1 shield with my breast.
 
 15 
 
 jfesus ! Jesus ! I hear it / the wailing for Thee Who 
 
 must die/ 
 Oh, hut it slays me to listeti ; full grievous and bitter the cry / 
 And I hear, and mine arms cannot reach Thee, the sorrow of 
 
 dyitig to stay ; 
 And mine heart is crushed with the anguish; and yet they 
 
 slay Thee and slay. 
 
 And lo ! with the might of his passion, the fate-ball leapt 
 
 from his head ! 
 And even as the Saviour was speaking the great It is 
 
 finished, 
 The anguish and torment were ended, and Conor 
 
 MacNessa lay dead. 
 
 Note. — It was the custom amongst the Ancient Irish to mix the 
 brains of their slain foemen with lime, and knead them into a ball. 
 Several of these balls have lately been found at Old Connaught, the 
 estate of Lord Plunket, Archbishop of Dublin. 
 
 This story is to be found in O'Curry's Manuscript Materials of 
 Irish History. 
 
 I may add that, had I known of Mr. T. D. Sullivan's fine treat- 
 ment of this legend before I versified it, I should probably have left 
 it untouched.
 
 i6 
 
 A Wolf Story 
 
 Instinct or reason, which, good sirs ? Oh, instincfl in 
 
 brutes, you say ! 
 And reason only in lordly man ! Well, think of it as 
 
 you may, 
 I'll tell you of something not unlike to reason I saw one 
 
 day; 
 Is it only men that are makers of law ? Perhaps ! Yet 
 
 hearken a bit ; 
 I'll tell you a tale ; say you if e'er you have heard a 
 
 stranger than it. 
 
 It was many and many a league away from the place 
 
 where now we are ; 
 And many a year ago it happed, in the land of the Great 
 
 White Czar. 
 It was morn ; I remember how cold it felt, out under a 
 
 low pale sky. 
 When we moored our boat on the river-bank, my 
 
 comrade Leigh and I ; 
 And the plunge in the water unwarmed of the sun was 
 
 less for desire than pluck, 
 And we hurried on our clothes again, and longed for our 
 
 breakfast luck ; 
 When, all of a sudden, he clutched my arm, and pointed 
 
 across. And there 
 We stood up side by side and watched, and as mute as 
 
 the dead we were.
 
 17 
 
 We saw the grey wolfs fateful spring, and we saw the 
 
 death of the deer ; 
 And the grey wolf left the body alone, and swift as the 
 
 feet of fear 
 His feet sped over the brow of the hill, and we lost the 
 
 sight of him, 
 Who had left the dead deer there on the ground, uneaten 
 
 body or limb. 
 So, when he vanished out of our sight, we rowed our 
 
 boat across. 
 And lifted the carcass, and rowed again to the other 
 
 side. " The loss 
 For you, good Master Wolf, much more than the gain 
 
 for us will be ! 
 'Twere half a pity to spoil your sport except that we fain 
 
 would see 
 The reason why, with hunger unstaunched, you have 
 
 left your quarry behind ; 
 Red-toothed, red-mawed, forgone your meal ! Sir Wolf, 
 
 we'll know your mind ! " 
 
 Hungry and cold we watched and watched to see him 
 
 return on his track. 
 At last we spied him a-top of the hill, the same grey 
 
 wolf come back. 
 No more alone, but a leader of wolves, the head of a 
 
 gruesome pack. 
 He came right up to the very place where the dead 
 
 deer's body had lain, 
 And he sniffed and looked for the prey of his claws, the 
 
 beast that himself had slain ; 
 The beast at our feet, and the river between, and the 
 
 searching all in vain ! 
 
 He threw up his muzzle and slunk his tail, and whined 
 so pitifully, 
 
 c
 
 i8 
 
 And the whole pack howled and fell on him, — we hardly 
 
 could bear to see. 
 Breaker of civic law or pact, or however they deemed 
 
 of him, 
 He knew his fate, and he met his fate, for they tore him 
 
 limb from limb. 
 
 I tell you, we felt as we ne'er had felt since ever our 
 
 days began ; 
 Less like men that had cozened a brute than men that 
 
 had murdered a man.
 
 19 
 
 Two Women and a Poet 
 
 I. Elsa 
 
 My one beloved is mine, and I am his ! 
 
 My poet beautiful and great of soul ! 
 
 The coming days may bring me joy or dole, 
 But naught remains for me to gain or miss. 
 My soul hath met his soul in that still kiss, 
 
 My life stands fearless out, a perfect whole, 
 
 My brow is lucent with the aureole 
 Set round it by his great love's emphasis. 
 
 I know not how such glory as this can be ; 
 I am as one who, after heavy noise 
 
 Of tempest and the shouting of the sea, 
 Comes to a Paradise of perfecfl joys. 
 Where every gift and grace, in equipoise, 
 
 Goes round a sun of light, eternally. 
 
 II. Mildred 
 
 Because he loveth her she goeth blithe ; 
 
 The veriest bliss of blisses doth she taste ; 
 
 And I, too, love him ! Shall 1 bid him haste, 
 That fell Anatomy who bears the scytiie, 
 
 C — 2
 
 20 
 
 To spoil her grand white bosom, leave her lithe 
 White limbs with all their grace for aye disgraced, 
 And lay her perfect body's beauty waste, 
 
 Who holds my lover bound with cord and withe ? 
 
 Leave her the beauty, O God, for Time to set 
 His ill slow fingers on with touches dim ! 
 Leave her the radiancy of face and limb ! 
 
 Let her be deadly fair a season yet ! 
 
 But, if thou be just God, make her forget 
 
 That once she loved and was beloved by him. 
 
 in. A Poet 
 
 How long ago ? Have years or only days 
 
 Gone by ? We live in sense and not in years. 
 
 They said — what was it ? — an ugly piece of work. 
 
 Well, one may think that out of ugliness 
 
 The perfecTt beauty shall be born some day : 
 
 Or shall we say, things are not as they seem ? 
 
 Nothing is fair or ugly in itself? 
 
 Who would have thought that small-faced, soft-eyed child, 
 
 Mildred, who lay upon my breast and cooed, 
 
 W^ould slay another, and then kill herself? 
 
 The world is very evil ; O dear God, 
 
 When shall Thy light arise and all be peace ? 
 
 W^e poets are forerunners of the time 
 
 When all shall run in rhythmic harmony : 
 
 W^e, the great poets, like the Weimar sage, 
 
 Who keep us calm amid the tempest's roar. 
 
 The lesser poets are beaten, driven about, 
 
 Are passion's slaves. Well, well, they have their place ; 
 
 They take the big world's anguish on their heart, 
 
 And so their songs, half-stifled, only rise 
 
 To sink ; a poet should be no mere man,
 
 21 
 
 And these are men. God give us gracious calm 
 To float immortal song on : I am calm, 
 Yet touched by gentle sorrow's tenderness, 
 Which lies on me hke dew upon a flower. 
 
 These little women ! It is very strange ! 
 Mildred's small face, white star in glooms of hair, 
 Slight body like a child's, and little soft 
 Child-hands ; who would have thought she could have 
 
 slain 
 That Elsa, glorious-limbed and Juno-tall ? 
 
 my poor Elsa, I would not see you dead, 
 
 1 keep the memory of your beauty safe ! 
 
 She poisoned you. She said — what was it she said ? — 
 
 / did not mean to make tJw woman die, 
 
 But take a memory away from her. 
 
 They thought her mad, and shut her up away 
 
 From fair world-life : and then she slew herself; 
 
 And all for love — why should she not have known 
 
 That love is but a Uttle part of life, 
 
 As poets know, and all harmonious souls ? 
 
 Mildred was not harmonious ; Elsa was ; 
 
 One living harmony of spirit and sense. 
 
 One flame-like motion quick and passionate. 
 
 Well, these things rightly apprehended blend them- 
 selves 
 In life, to make the harmony of song. 
 Shall Mildred's tear-drenched kisses leave a taste 
 Of brine upon my lips ? Not so, not so. 
 Nothing shall break this splendid calm of mine. 
 One cannot sing in tempest, therefore, peace. 
 The small among us cannot do the work, 
 The great wait for the greater ones to come. 
 Shall 1 keep earth a- waiting .-* Surely not.
 
 22 
 
 They are at rest, Elsa and Mildred too, 
 Mildred, poor passion-beaten barque ! God brings 
 Such to the haven where they fain would be. 
 
 Ah, I will weave their story into my life, 
 And so my Art will be the richer much. 
 I, Goethe-like, will drink experience 
 In at each pore. Good-night, dear Mildred, now. 
 If Elsa blended spirit more with sense, 
 You sounded passion's glorious monochord 
 Full deeply. Well, good-night, my lady dear ! 
 Good-night, dear Elsa ! 
 
 It is night, and peace.
 
 23 
 
 The Lady of Comfort 
 
 '* Fair damsel, thou hast been called the Lady of Comfort, because 
 everyone who enters thy presence sorrowful returns contented and 
 happy." — Gesta Romanorum, Ixiii. 
 
 She was my friend of many years, 
 Glad for my joy, sad for my tears ; 
 
 And unto many as unto me 
 
 She gave the grace of her sympathy. 
 
 All our griefs and our joys she knew, 
 Suffering and rejoicing too. 
 
 Hers to give and ours to take ; 
 Tacit covenant naught should break. 
 
 None of us ever guessed or thought 
 Our Lady of Comfort needed aught ; 
 
 For as for her, her soul was fed 
 From the very source of life, we said. 
 
 Before that lovely presence of hers 
 Our souls undid their barriers ; 
 
 And the stonework of reserve fell low. 
 Even as the walls of Jericho,
 
 24 
 
 When seven times seven the ark had gone 
 Around, and the trumpets' blast was blown. 
 
 But we never thought that she could swerve 
 From her gracious calm and sweet reserve ; 
 
 She who walked with a stately mien, 
 Over herself and her world a queen. 
 
 But once this woman let me see 
 The quivering heart of her agony. 
 
 She laid her head upon my knees, 
 And spake in words like unto these : 
 
 " Let me weep for a little while ; 
 Me who so long have worn a smile ! 
 
 *' Let me sob for my broken joy, 
 As a little child for its broken toy. 
 
 " I have laughed with friends and cheered their 
 
 way : — 
 Oh, let me weep for myself to-day ! 
 
 " I have not suffered mine heart's distress 
 Upon the heart of the world to press. 
 
 " I have taught my lips to be bravely dumb 
 About the gone that no more may come. 
 
 *' But to-day the big tears blind mine eyes ; 
 I have but played at being wise. 
 
 " To-day my sobs are deep and long ; 
 I have but played at being strong.
 
 25 
 
 ** God, give me mine own, own drink and food ! 
 I have but played at being good." 
 
 Strong and calm through good and ill, 
 
 I had thought her before, and I think her still ; 
 
 None the less great because I saw 
 
 The tears that awed as a man's might awe ; 
 
 And heard her low full voice sustain 
 A weight that was heavier than pain. 
 
 And I was just as I used to be ; 
 Except that now I had learned to see. 
 
 So there was never fear nor pride 
 Betwixt us twain till the day she died.
 
 26 
 
 Baa, Baa, Black Sheep 
 
 They say I'm very foolish ; 
 
 They hint it isn't right, 
 To love one little black sheep 
 
 Far more than all the white ! 
 
 The white sheep are gentle, 
 
 And never apt to stray ; 
 My black sheep is often cross, 
 
 And sometimes runs away. 
 
 My black sheep is sometimes 
 
 The very naughtiest 
 Of all naughty things that be ! 
 
 Yet I love him best 1 
 
 He flings me defiance ; 
 
 Pretends to butt me too ; 
 He scampers when I want him, off 
 
 To the hillside blue ; 
 
 So fast I cannot catch him, 
 But e'en must sit and wait 
 
 Until he comes back again, 
 When he has gaed his gait.
 
 27 
 
 Sometimes, all unweary, 
 
 Comes my bonny thing ; 
 (Bonny heather-smell doth love 
 
 Round his fleece to ding.) 
 
 Comes with a strange light, 
 A strange depth in his eyes. 
 
 Caught from where I do not know, 
 In some unknown wise : 
 
 Looks into my face, then, 
 
 Till indeed I seem 
 Like to one that knoweth not 
 
 If he see or dream. 
 
 But in a moment. 
 
 Broken is the spell ; 
 Off goes my black sheep, 
 
 Where, I cannot tell ! 
 
 Bad little black sheep ! 
 
 How you plague me, — oh, 
 They tell me I must tether you, 
 
 Never let you go ! 
 
 Such a tiny radius 
 
 You'd have ! — but where's the good ? 
 I wonder who could tether you, 
 
 If indeed he would ! 
 
 O bonny black sheep, 
 
 If you make me fret, 
 Just a minute's look at you. 
 
 And I quite forget ! 
 
 Dear, I would not change you. 
 
 Even if I could ; 
 Naughtiest of naughty things! 
 
 Best of all the good !
 
 28 
 
 " Baa, baa, black sheep ! 
 
 Have you any wool ? " 
 " Yes, sir, that I have, 
 
 Three bags full ! " 
 
 Three bags, black sheep, 
 
 Very soft and fine ! 
 Richest fleece on all the downs, 
 
 Bonny black sheep mine. 
 
 One lock of your wool 
 
 Is worth the Golden Fleece 
 
 Brought in the olden time 
 From the land of Greece. 
 
 Black sheep, black sheep, 
 I would not have you tame : 
 
 Oh, but life has gone on wings. 
 Since the day you came ! 
 
 If you bring trouble. 
 
 Weariness, annoy. 
 Better than the fairest calm, 
 
 Is your gift, joy. 
 
 Black sheep, comely sheep. 
 
 Wander at your will ; 
 Come belated, early come, 
 
 And welcome still. 
 
 For black sheep, black sheep, 
 
 Right well I know 
 Little were the whole world's worth, 
 
 If you must go.
 
 29 
 
 The Children's Knight 
 
 With eyes that look up sunward, 
 The knights of Love ride onward, 
 
 To fight the fight ; 
 They ride, the wrong redressing, 
 The weak ones hfting, blessing, 
 With heart and life confessing 
 
 The true, the right. 
 
 Munificent and loyal, 
 
 And courteous as the royal, 
 
 Noble and true ; 
 Our eyes have looked upon them, 
 With hearts that fain had won them 
 All blessing fair to crown them 
 
 That life e'er knew. 
 
 And we, whose lips have sung them, 
 Discern and know among them 
 
 His armour bright ; 
 The vow his heart hath made is 
 To none of all sweet ladies ; 
 He rideth where the shade is ; 
 
 The children's knight. 
 
 He heard the children crying; 
 The little children, lying 
 Where devil's hoof
 
 30 
 
 On rosy life had trodden ; 
 And green grass lay blood-sodden ; 
 For them he fought, Childe Roden, 
 In armour proof. 
 
 Unceasing and unresting 
 
 (The swift stag for his cresting), 
 
 Well hath he fought. 
 The legend which he beareth 
 Below that crest he weareth, 
 (Oh, well for him who dareth !) 
 
 A II good or nought 1 * 
 
 O little children, love him ! 
 None loveth you above him, 
 
 Your minstrel knight ; 
 On heart, voice, life, so fully, 
 He bears your passion duly ; 
 Would give his life up truly 
 
 For your sweet right. 
 
 O little arms, clasp round him ! 
 
 True knight, good knight, ye found him ; 
 
 O childhood's eyes, 
 Smile into his who gave you 
 Love that so burned to save you ; 
 Heart to heart must he have you. 
 
 His great love's prize. 
 
 * Tout bien ou jien.
 
 31 
 
 "Your Joy no Man taketh from You" 
 
 " // n'y a pas de milieu, la Croix barre plus ou moins la vue libre 
 de la nature ; le grand Pan n'a rien ^ /aire avec le divin CrucifU." — 
 Ste. Beuve. 
 
 O Christ, who layest, a babe, at the bosom of Mary 
 
 sweet ; 
 O child, whose Father's will was the first of thy drink 
 
 and meat ; 
 
 O man, whose love could dare to win the terrible crown 
 That circleth his brow alone who layeth his life adown ; 
 
 Thee painter and sculptor show with a face o'ershadowed 
 
 deep 
 For the anguish of all the world and the woe its lovers 
 
 reap. 
 
 Thy hands and feet are pierced, side wounded, brow 
 
 enthorned, 
 And patience lives on the lips of the smitten of God and 
 
 scorned. 
 
 And yet while they tell of a love that boundless woe 
 
 sustained, 
 At the bar of the human heart arc one and all arraigned :
 
 32 
 
 For they say thy cross bars out the glory of earthly 
 
 things ; 
 The flush of the sunset sky, the light that is early 
 
 spring's ; 
 
 The beat of the sea's high heart against her lover's 
 
 breast ; 
 The spirit making its form in the body manifest ; 
 
 The wild sweet thrill i' the blood young mating creatures 
 
 know ; 
 The solemn calm that broods on the everlasting snow ; 
 
 The bliss of a poet's heart when his perfect song is made ; 
 The joy of the warrior-soul whom nothing maketh afraid. 
 
 They say that, afar in the dark, dear Pan, our lover, lies, 
 In a dreadful silence lapt, struck dead by thy lightning 
 eyes. 
 
 Dear Pan, great Pan, who came to the place of men's 
 
 abode, 
 A beam of the warm sun-smile alive on the lips of God. 
 
 Nay, Christ, thou lover of life, thou never slewest him 
 
 thus 
 Who came in the morn of the world with beauty and 
 
 cheer for us. 
 
 They say it who show thy face like his that never hath 
 
 smiled, 
 Thou wonder of all the world, God-strong, more pure 
 
 than a child. 
 
 We look in thine eyes that smile as the eyes of God, 
 
 and see 
 The less in the more ; not thee in Pan, but Pan in thee.
 
 33 
 
 Thou greater and higher than he, by the stoop to the 
 
 dread abyss, 
 And the rise to the shining heights of love-begotten bliss. 
 
 For the gate in the shape of a cross, whose wardens are 
 
 death and night, 
 Is the gate to the life of life ; the gate to the light of 
 
 light.
 
 34 
 
 To a Wee Laddie 
 
 I CALL you many a name, my king ! 
 
 No font-name is enough for me, 
 All prettiness of call I bring 
 
 From fairy tale and history ; 
 But mostly after two whereon 
 
 A light from Shakespere's spirit fell, 
 I love to call you, little one ; 
 
 Even after Puck and Ariel. 
 
 And hereby, stranger, may you guess 
 
 A little of this laddie's kind, 
 His pretty ways and mischievousness. 
 
 In Ariel and Puck combined ; 
 His nimble, supple movements — oh, 
 
 Full oftentimes I cannot tell 
 If here be Robin Goodfellow, 
 
 Or here be delicate Ariel ! 
 
 I think I should not wonder much, 
 
 My little tricksy Puck, some day 
 To see the dairy at your touch 
 
 Play some queer prank and melt away. 
 I know when bowls of cream are set 
 
 Their calm is very oft assailed ; 
 And sometimes, Puck, you quite forget 
 
 That butter fails if cream has failed.
 
 35 
 
 Full often, Ariel mine, you work 
 
 Most bravely for an hour or so, 
 And 'neath your gravity scarce will lurk 
 
 A touch of Robin Goodfellow ; 
 But then you claim, as Ariel claimed, 
 
 That shortly I should set you free, 
 And boldly ask, and unashamed, 
 
 For time of gladsome liberty. 
 
 And, gently be your spriting done. 
 
 You seldom let one quite forget 
 You want the time of spriting gone, — 
 
 Away from task and lesson set 1 
 Away, away, to joyous play, 
 
 Such play as Ariel could not know ; 
 You sport with human younglings gay, 
 
 More blest than Robin Goodfellow. 
 
 I know you often plague your maid, 
 
 My bonnie Robin Goodfellow ! 
 And yet I know the girl, unpaid. 
 
 Would gladly follow you to and fro : 
 For you have that within you, dear, 
 
 Which somehow seems to cheer and bless ; 
 The ether is always blue and clear 
 
 Beyond fleece-clouds of naughtiness. 
 
 O laddie, how your voice goes up 
 
 In melody at church, as though 
 Your soul were just an incense-cup 
 
 Wherefrom sweet clouds of worship go ! 
 One scarce would think that, in the pause 
 
 Antiphonal, it could be true 
 You fain would eat that apple, was 
 
 Under the rose bestowed on you. 
 
 D — 2
 
 36 
 
 But there be times, oh, rarely sweet F 
 
 Times when my whole soul knoweth well 
 Beside me walk an angel's feet, 
 
 Not feet of Puck nor Ariel : 
 A human angel, with the eyes 
 
 That sure have met the eyes of God, 
 In walking through some Paradise 
 
 Where feet of mine have never trod. 
 
 I have no name to call you by, 
 
 My darling, at such times as this; 
 I only watch you reverently, 
 
 And in the silence bend to kiss 
 That sweetest face and loveliest 
 
 Has e'er been looked upon by me, 
 Who entertain this angel guest, 
 
 Not unawares, but wittingly.
 
 37 
 
 I Think of You as of a Good Life-boat 
 
 I THINK of you as of a good life-boat 
 That, once a-launch, thrilled aye and throbbed to meet 
 The mastered waves against her bow to beat, 
 And leap to the great ocean full afloat, 
 Where, wild about the sharp rocks of the world, 
 There was a storm of angry spray upswirled, 
 As passionate hands, in wanhope's struggles fierce, 
 Beat the strong waves till foam arose on foam, 
 Yet drew them none the nearer life and home. 
 And oh, to save them from the loss and curse, 
 
 And snatch them from the moaning deep, and bring 
 Safe to the quiet place of sheltering 1 
 
 You have ceased to ride the storm, who breasted well 
 The dreadful surges and the tempest's swell ; 
 Who brought the wrecked from terror of the sea 
 Into the haven where they fain would be. 
 
 Oh, well for you, and yet alas for me !
 
 38 
 
 A Mill Ballad 
 
 (From the French of Gustave Nadaud) 
 
 In the heart of a country wild, 
 Where the unbelievers be, 
 
 Was a king so good and wise, — 
 Long, long ago lived he : 
 
 He was kind as a father is, 
 
 And rich as the earth, ywis. 
 
 Turn tlie mill, turn the mill, Jack ; 
 Not yet have I filled my sack. 
 
 But his subjects they rebelled 
 
 Against his majesty, 
 And drove him from the throne, 
 
 Nobody knoweth why : 
 From town to town he past ; 
 A mill his shelter at last. 
 
 Tuvn the mill, turn the mill, Jack ; 
 Not yet have I filled my sack. 
 
 Nor glory nor fear had he, 
 
 This king, as he worked alway ; 
 
 No murmur lived on his lips ; 
 This miller he sang all day ; 
 
 All night he slumbered deep : 
 
 Of yore could he never sleep. 
 
 Ttirn the mill, turn the mill, Jack\ 
 Not yet have I filled my sack.
 
 39 
 
 But once on a day there came 
 
 Of those who had driven him away, 
 A host of folk to his cote, 
 
 For changeable souls are they : 
 " Take back the crown for thine head ! " 
 ** Nay ! I give it to you instead ! " 
 
 Turn the mill, turn the mill, Jack; 
 Not yet have I filled my sack, 
 
 ** My wife is a miller's wife. 
 
 And millers my sons shall be : 
 
 The water runs in the stream : 
 
 The corn in the field grows free : 
 
 All else doth change," he said ; 
 
 •' But aye is there need of bread ! " 
 
 Stop the mill, stop tJie mill. Jack ; 
 For tww have I filled my sack.
 
 40 
 
 In a Swiss Wood 
 
 I SAT and watched the water fall 
 
 Adown the gray rocks rough and tall, 
 
 Which Nature there did robe and crown 
 
 With marvellous wealth of green and brown. 
 
 A small white butterfly did flit 
 
 Across the rainbowed breast of it. 
 
 One up on high, one down below, 
 
 I saw two monkshood clusters grow. 
 
 The long fair grasstufts which the sun 
 
 In southering glory looked upon 
 
 Lay soft and deUcate, like the hair 
 
 Of little maidens kneeling there ; 
 
 And the high mountains caught the glow 
 
 On crests of everlasting snow. 
 
 The whortleberries on the bank 
 
 Beside me of the sunshine drank, 
 
 That flushed their green to living red ; 
 
 And on the happy air was shed 
 
 The sunkissed pinetrees' quickening scent ; 
 
 Its fragrance through and through me went. 
 
 The little ants moved busily 
 
 O'er shed pine-needles close to me ; 
 
 And now and then the human folk 
 
 Passed by ; I knew not if they spoke
 
 41 
 
 Or no, because the water sang 
 
 So loud, and bonny bell-flowers rang ; 
 
 And budding grasses at my feet 
 
 Thrilled as they felt the live air beat 
 
 In rhythmic rapture all around, 
 
 A glory of sense and light and sound. 
 
 Through voiceful peace and restful stir 
 
 There Nature drew me so to her, 
 
 That, were it but for once, I vaunt 
 
 I knew not either wish or want.
 
 42 
 
 To the Czar Nicholas II. 
 
 Czar Nicholas, whose life is sudden hurled 
 On the high dreadful splendours of the world ; 
 
 We give thee tears, because thy father lies 
 With Death's eternal calm upon his eyes ; 
 
 And pity, for thine heart had turned away 
 From all the glory and terror of that sway. 
 
 To him, Death's solemn gift of quietness : 
 To thee, Hfe's very sorest strain and stress ; 
 
 Vigils of awe, and festivals of dread ; 
 
 Care by thy throne, and trouble by thy bed. 
 
 Yet to thy face the face of Hope is set, 
 
 With eyes that oft have wept, and still are wet. 
 
 For his the past, who lieth cold and dumb ; 
 But thine the present, and the near-to-come. 
 
 He gave the gift of Peace ; oh, be it thine 
 To give the larger gift, and more divine ! 
 
 Let not thine eyes, O Czar, refuse to see 
 No gift avails the land that is not free.
 
 43 
 
 Let not thine ears, O Czar, refuse to hear 
 The cry sent up to God from year to year : 
 
 Nor, if thou see and hear, shut sight and sound, 
 Guarded by Fear and Sloth, in night's profound. 
 
 Thou lonely great one, set thy strenuous might 
 Against the clash of elemental fight. 
 
 Dare, as the saviours of the world must dare ; 
 Bear, as the saviours of the world must bear. 
 
 And if thou win, of Love thy guerdon take ; 
 And if thou perish, perish for Love's sake.
 
 44 
 
 Death and Life 
 
 None may know the reason why 
 All our earth-time, you and I, 
 Must be strangers utterly. 
 
 Slow or fast the earth-time wends, 
 And the due probation ends ; 
 Then comes Life to make amends. 
 
 Once we thought that Life was come 
 Quickening what was fallen numb. 
 Death stood there, and smote us dumb. 
 
 O'er the mountain-peaks, that even, 
 Leapt the sudden rose-red levin, 
 From the mighty-clouded heaven. 
 
 Shelter for a moment known : 
 Then a roof, with sudden groan. 
 Fell, and smote us twain to one. 
 
 All we saw was one quick flame : 
 Then the crash and darkness came ; 
 Light and darkness all the same. 
 
 All we knew was one great light. 
 In the rapture of the night ; 
 Earth and earth's evanished quite.
 
 45 
 
 Now at last we two might swerve 
 From our passion-wrought reserve ; 
 Dominated, heart and nerve, 
 
 By remorseless ecstasy ; 
 
 For we thought we were to die 
 
 There together, you and I. 
 
 Brave and true, and brave and true, 
 Struggle o'er for me and you. 
 Now our happy spirits knew. 
 
 Death was there, sweet death who had 
 All Love's glory unveiled, unclad ; 
 We beheld it and were glad. 
 
 It was death, dear death and blest, 
 Lovely death whose hand had prest 
 Mouth to mouth and breast to breast. 
 
 Saved t one cried ! We spoke not, we ; 
 
 All our knowledge, verily, 
 
 Death was gone from you and me. 
 
 Emptied cup that full did brim : 
 Sunlit peaks all gray and dim : 
 Death was gone, and Life with him.
 
 46 
 
 The Ship from Tirnanoge* 
 
 We two were alone by the sea ; 
 I, and the man I loved with me. 
 
 Our eyes were glad, and our hearts beat high, 
 As we sat by the sea, my love and I ; 
 
 Till we looked afar, and saw a ship : 
 Then white, white grew his ruddy lip ; 
 
 And strange, strange grew his eyes that saw 
 Into the heart of some deep awe. 
 
 His hand that held this hand of mine 
 Never a token gave nor sign ; 
 
 But lay as a babe's that is just dead : 
 And I sat still and wondered. 
 
 Nearer and nearer the white ship drew : 
 Who was her captain, whence her crew ? 
 
 Her crew were men and women bright, 
 With fair eyes full of unknown light. 
 
 * The Land of Youth.
 
 47 
 
 From far-off Tirnanoge they came, 
 
 Where they had heard my true-love's name : 
 
 The name the birds and waves had sung, 
 Of one who must bide for ever young. 
 
 Strong white arms let down the boat ; 
 Song rose up from many a throat. 
 
 Glad they were who soon had won , 
 A lovely new companion. 
 
 They lowered the boat and they entered her ; 
 And rowed to meet their passenger : 
 
 Rowed to the tune of a music strange, 
 That told of joy at the heart of change. 
 
 I heard her keel on the pebbles gride, 
 
 And she waited there till the turn o' the tide. 
 
 While they kept singing, singing clear, 
 A song that was passing sweet to hear : 
 
 A song that bound me in a chain 
 Away from any thought of pain. 
 
 They paused at last in their sweet singing, 
 And I saw their hands were beckoning, 
 
 In a rhythm as sweet as the stilled songs, 
 That passed to the air from their silent tongues. 
 
 He rose and kissed me on the face, 
 And left me sitting in my place. 
 
 Quiet, quiet, life and limb, 
 
 I, who was not called like him.
 
 48 
 
 Into the boat he entered f?rave, 
 
 And the tide turned, and she rode the wave ; 
 
 And I saw him sitting at the prow, 
 With a rose-light about his brow. 
 
 The boat drew nigh the ship again, 
 With all its lovely women and men. 
 
 I saw him enter the ship and stand, 
 His hand held in the captain's hand. 
 
 The captain wonderful to see, 
 
 With eyes a-change in depth and blee ; 
 
 A-change, a-change for ever and aye, 
 Blue, and purple, and black, and gray ; 
 
 And hair like the weed that finds a home 
 In the heart of a trail of white sea-foam. 
 
 I wist he was no mortal man, 
 
 But he whose name is Manannan.* 
 
 They sailed away, they sailed away, 
 Out of the day into the day. 
 
 * The sea-god of Irish legend.
 
 49 
 
 it 
 
 And After This—" 
 
 I READ the angel's hest in his dread eyes, 
 And when he turned I followed, shivering 
 For lack of that lost body used to cling 
 
 About me till God smote off its disguise. 
 
 So followed I who could none otherwise, 
 
 Until he brought where God had bidden him bring, 
 Even to a place wherein was everything 
 
 That erst exceedingly I used to prize. 
 
 There saw I gold and jewels uncounted spread ; 
 
 There heard I voices pealing forth acclaim ; 
 There saw I lust in fullness banqueted. 
 
 Lust's dearth and fullness were to me the same ; 
 
 And nought to me was wealth and nought was fame ; 
 And nothing had 1 won to love instead. 
 
 B
 
 50 
 
 To R. N 
 
 Oh, say thou not, Now I shall go to sleep f 
 For he* who said it did not sleep, but die. 
 Close not thine eydlids on our agony ; _ 
 
 Stay with us, hold our hands in fellowship. 
 
 While darkness broods above us dread and deep. 
 Lift thou thy silver-trumpet voice on high, 
 And let it bear up to God's ear the cry 
 
 Of souls too numb to plain themselves and weep. 
 
 Brother, O brother, do not ask to go 
 
 Into the calm awhile ! Dear brother, stay ! 
 The world hath need of mighty ones to-day 
 
 To raise the right, the wrong to overthrow. 
 
 No loon can draw the great "Odysseus' bow : 
 
 No weakling wield the hammer of Thor's grim play. 
 
 * Byron.
 
 51 
 
 To Miranda, who Sleeps 
 
 Awake, dear heart, awake ! tlwu hast slept well ! 
 
 The dawning light hath set the world astir 
 
 With chirp and warble of birds, and faery whirr 
 Of winglets, quivering in the broken spell 
 That sleep had laid on nature : strange to tell, 
 
 Miranda sleepeth yet ; strange, for it were 
 
 A wonder if the delicate ear of her 
 Knew not this multitudinous matin-bell. 
 
 But still Miranda sleeps ! What was to meet 
 In dreamland, what, or whom, for thee to lie 
 Unmindful of the glory of earth and sky, 
 
 With little quiet hands and quiet feet ? 
 
 And still thou sleepest, and thy sleep is sweet. — 
 Dear heart, I would not waken thee, not I. 
 
 E — 2
 
 52 
 
 Love and Grief 
 
 I 
 
 Dead Love, dead Love, now shall thy burial be ! 
 I give thee rainbowed hope to be thy shroud : 
 I lay the beauty maketh women proud 
 
 On thy dead heart : I set my girlhood's glee 
 
 In that strait bed which now doth compass thee, 
 Immortal as I thought, to mortal bowed, 
 With all thy supreme godhead disallowed. 
 
 Dead Love, dead Love, and what shall comfort me ? 
 
 What new fresh loveliness will yet arise 
 From his dear dust and ashes, his that erst 
 
 Made the whole realm of beauty pale and dim ? 
 What blossom of glory from his grave shall burst ? 
 I will not look and see it with the eyes 
 
 That opened at his kiss, and looked on him.
 
 53 
 
 Love and Grief 
 
 II 
 
 Alas for the mortality of grief ! 
 
 Next year, perhaps, and next year I may shun 
 The full sweet life of things beneath the sun, 
 
 But only now am I of mourners chief. 
 
 Too soon I shall have drunken Time's relief ! 
 A Httle while, and healing will have run 
 Through every vein, forgetfulness begun ! 
 
 O Love, dead Love, that woe should be so brief ! 
 
 And shall this be indeed the end of all ? 
 
 The sleepy drench of Time to soothe and lull 
 
 Into the calm that now I shudder from ? 
 This hand, which felt thy bosom throb, to cull 
 Flowers from thy grave for memory-coronal ? 
 Love, tluxt to this fashion Grief should come /
 
 54 
 
 A Choice 
 
 If I might choose one gift God's hand could yield, 
 
 What would I crown my life withal to-day ? 
 
 With love, or gold, or fame, or absolute sway, 
 Or beauty such as women's who have thrilled 
 Men's souls and senses till no more they willed 
 
 With their own wills, but only must obey ? 
 
 Or would I choose to have my mother-clay 
 Lapping me round, whose pain at last were stilled ? 
 
 What would I choose, and what would I forgo ? 
 
 Would all desire go up in that swift cry, 
 
 Were it one little minute's space, to know 
 God's love which passeth knoivlcdge, verily ; 
 
 And, ere the glory fadeth off, to die ? 
 
 Would God, that I were sure of choosing so !
 
 55 
 
 Ad Poetam 
 
 O POET of the golden mouth, on you 
 God's benison for music sweet and true. 
 
 Your web of song is full divinely wove ; 
 A warp that's joy across a woof that's love. 
 
 If rudest thorns have sharply pierced your hand, 
 Blest, with the Rose upon your heart, you stand. 
 
 If you have known the awe and gloom of night, 
 Your element was still the eternal Light. 
 
 If you have tasted bitter woe and teen, 
 
 More wholesome-sweet for that your song hath been. 
 
 And to the music dropping from your tongue 
 No taste of morbid gall hath ever clung. 
 
 No pestilential sloughs of decadence 
 
 Have ever clogged your spirit, fouled your sense. 
 
 In vital grace and virile sanity. 
 
 Of earth and heaven, O poet, you are free. 
 
 Sing on, sing on the strain he knoweth best 
 
 Who hath the heavens' blue road, the earth's brown nest.
 
 The Author thanks the Editor of The Athenaum for leave 
 to reprint To Miranda who Sleeps, and Love and Grief; 
 and the Publishers of Longman's Magazine and of Good 
 Words for the same courtesy in the case of To a Wee Laddie 
 and Your yoy no Man taketh from you, which appeared in 
 their respective Magazines.
 
 WORKS BY EMILY HICKEY 
 
 Michael VilUers, Idealist ; and other Poems 
 
 Smith, Elder i2r Co. 
 
 Verse-Tales, Lyrics, and Translations 
 
 Elkin Mathews 
 A Sculptor ; and other Poems 
 
 Strafford: a Tragedy, by Robert Brotvtting, With 
 Pre/cue and Notes by E. H. Hickey, and Intro- 
 duction by P7-of. S. R. Gardiner, LL.D.
 
 Printed by R. ffolkard dr» Son, 
 Ig, Devonshire Street, Bloo7nslmry, London, U'.C.
 
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 Leigh Hunt. Frederick Wedmore. 
 
 Selwyn Image. P. H. Wicksteed. 
 
 Lionel Johnson. W. B. Yeats.
 
 The Publications of Ellcin Mathews 
 
 ABEOrr {DR. C. C). 
 
 Travels in a Tree-Top. Sm. 8vo. 5^, 7te(. 
 Philadelphia : y. B. Lippincott Cotnpany. 
 
 " Dr. Abbott pleases by the interest he takes in the subject which he treats . . 
 and he adorns his matter with a good English style . , . Altogether, with its 
 dainty printing, it would be a channing book to read in the open air on a bright 
 summer's day — Athtnaum. 
 
 " He ha5 an observant eye, a warm sympathy, and a pen that, enables us to see 
 with him. Nothing could be more restful than to read the thougiits of such nature- 
 lovers. The very titles of his chapters suggest quiet and gentle things." — Dublin Herald. 
 
 " A delightful volume tliis of Nature Sketches. Dr. Abbott writes about New 
 England woods and streams, scenes neither quite familiar nor quite strange to us who 
 know the same things in the old country. The severer winter makes some difference, 
 as, for instance, in the number of birds that migrate there, but are stationary here; 
 and there are, of course, other differences in both fauna and flora; nevertheless, we 
 feel, in a way, at home, when Dr. Abboit takes us on one of his delightful winter or 
 summer excursions. This is a book which we cannot recommend too highly." — 
 Spiaator. 
 
 The Birds About Us 73 Engravings. Second Edition. 
 Thick or. 8vo. 55. 6d. net. 
 
 Philadelphia : J. B. Lippincott Cotnpany. 
 
 BA7EMAN {MAY). 
 
 Sonnets ano Songs. With a title de.sign by John D, 
 Mackenzie. Fcup. 8vo. 35. 6d. net. 
 
 BINYON {LAURENCE). 
 
 Lyric Poe.ms, witli title page by Selwyn Image. Sq. 
 i6mo. ^s. net. 
 
 "This little volume of Lyric Poems displays a grace of fancy, a spontaneity 
 and individuality of inspiration, and a felicitous command of metre and diction, which 
 lift the writer above the average of the minor singers of our time. . . . We may 
 expect much from the writer of ' An April Day,' or of the strong concluding lines on 
 the prescnr age from a piece entitled ' Present and Future." " — Timis. 
 
 "The product of a definite and sympathetic personality." — GIthe. 
 
 "The impression that this volume makes upon us is that the writer has caught 
 the spirit of Maithew Arnold, and that in no common degree. , . . Quite 
 Tllianesque in its force and colour. " — Sftclalor. 
 
 P'lRST IJooK OF London Vision.s. (Elkin Mathews' 
 Shilling Garland). Fcap, 8vo. Wrapper, is.net. 
 
 [In the press. 
 BLACKMORE {R. D.) 
 
 I'KiN';ii.i.A : Ok. Some Tales in Verse. By the Author 
 of "Lorna Doonc." With Eleven full-page Illustrations 
 and numerous vignettes and initials by Lmuis Fairi'a.x- 
 MucKLEY and Three by James W. R. Linton. 
 Crown Svo. lo.;. net.
 
 The Publications of Elkin Mathews 
 
 BLACKMORE (/?. D.)— continued. 
 
 "• FriiigilU' must be looked upon as Mr. Blackmorc's diversions, and as such 
 it is very delii;hiful. A whimsical originality, an imaginative wealth of detail, a 
 pleasant sense of humour are among Mr. Blackmorc's qualities as a poet." — Sftakir. 
 
 " Mr. Blackmoic's verse is cultured and careful ; it is full of knowledge ; it has 
 every quality which commands our respect; it has an old-world charm of gentleness 
 and peace.'' — Mr. W. L. Courtney, in the Daily Telegraph. 
 
 "The charming and accomplished drawings of Mr. Fairfax-Muckley, so finely 
 designed, so admirably decorative." — Mademy. 
 
 BOIVCHER {HAVERING). 
 
 The C Major of Life : A Novel. Cr. 8vo. 35. 6(i. net. 
 New York : Frederick A. Stokes Company. 
 
 [Isham Facsimile Reprint.] 
 BRETON (NICHOLAS). 
 
 No Whippinge, nor Trippinge, but a kinde 
 FRIENDLY Snippinge. London, 1601. A Facsimile 
 Reprint, with the original Borders to every page, with 
 a Bibliographical Note by Charles Edmonds. 200 
 copies, printed on hand-made paper at the Chiswick 
 Press. i2mo. 35. 6d. net. 
 
 Also 50 copies Large Paper, ^s. net. 
 
 Facsimile reprint from the semi-unique copy discovered in the autumn of 1867 by 
 Mr. Charles Edmonds in a disused lumber room at Lamport Hall, Northants (Sir 
 Charles E. Isham's), and purchased lately by the British Museum authorities. When 
 Dr. A. B. Grosart collected Breton's Works a few years ago for his " Chertsey 
 Worthies Library," he was forced to confess that certain of Breton's most coveted 
 books were missing and absolutely unavailable. The semi-unique example under 
 notice was one of these. 
 
 BRIDGES (ROBERT). 
 
 New Poems. (Elkin Mathews' Shilling Garland). 
 
 [/« preparation. 
 BYRON (MAT). 
 
 A Little Book of Lyrics. [/n preparation. 
 
 CARMAN (BLISS) & RICHARD HOVET. 
 
 Songs from Vagabondia. With Decorations by Tom 
 
 B. Meteyard. Fcap. 8vo. 55, net. 
 Boston : Cope land &= Day. 
 
 " The Authors of the small joint volume called ' Songs from Vagabondia,' have 
 an unmistakable right to the name of poet. These little snatches have the spirit of a 
 gipsy Omar Khayyam. They have always careless verve, and often careltss felicity ; 
 they are masculine and rough, as roving songs should be. . . . Here, certainly, 
 J9 the poet's soul. . . . You have the whole spirit of the book in such an unfor-
 
 Vigo Street, London, W. 
 
 CARMAN (BLISS) &- RICHARD HO FET— continued. 
 
 getable little lyric as ' In the House of Idicdaily.' . . We refer the reader to the 
 delightful little volume itself, which comes as a welcome interlude amidst the highly 
 wrought introspectivepoetry of the day. '—FRANCIS THOMPSON, in Merry England. 
 
 " Bliss Carman is the author of a delightlul volume of verse, ' Low Tide on 
 Grand Pre,' and Richard Hovey is the foiemost of the living poets of America, with 
 the exception, perhaps, of Bret Harte and Joaquim Miller, whose names are more 
 familiar. He sounds a deeper note than either of these, and deals with loftier 
 themes.' — Dublin Expren. 
 
 " Buth possess the power of investing actualities with fancy, and leaving them 
 none the less actual ; of setting the march music of the vagabond's feet to words ; of 
 being comrades with nature, yet without presumption. .'Vnd they have that charm, 
 rate m writers of verse, of drawing xhe reader into the fellowship of their own zest 
 and contentment." — Athenaum. 
 
 CHAPMAN (ELIZABETH RACHEL). 
 
 A Little Child's Wreath : A Sonnet Sequence. With 
 title page and cover designed by Selwyn Image. 
 Second Edition. Sq. l6mo., green buckram. y.6d.7tct. 
 
 New York : Dodd, Mead &' Company. 
 
 " Contains many tender and pathetic passages, and some really exquisite and 
 subtle touches of childhood nature. . . . The average excellence of the sonnets 
 is undoubted." — flfcctaUr. 
 
 " In these forty pages of poetry . . . wc have a contribution inspired by 
 grief for the loss of a child of seven, which is not unworthy to take iis place even 
 beside ' In Memoriam.' . . . .Miss Chapman has ventured upon sacred ground, 
 but she has come off safely, with the inspiration of a divine sympathy in hir soul, and 
 with lips touched with the live coal from the altar on which glows the flame ot 
 immortal love " — VV. T. S I EAD, in The Review of Reviews. 
 
 '» Full of a very solemn and beautiful but never exaggerated sentiment." — 
 LOGROLLtR, in Sl<ir. 
 
 "While they are brimming with tenderness and tears, they are marked with the 
 fkillcd workmanship of the real port."— Gliiigcw Herald. 
 
 "Evidently dcsciibcs very rtalarid intense sorrow. Its stiains of tender sym- 
 pathy will appeal specially to those whose hearts have been wrung by the loss ol a 
 young child, and the verses are touching in their simplicity " — Mornintr I'tit. 
 
 " Rc-asjurcs us on its first page by Us sanity and its simple tenderness." — Btalman. 
 
 COLERIDGE (HON. STEPHEN). 
 
 The Sanctity of Confession : A Romance. 2nd edi- 
 tion. Printed by Clowes & Son. 250 copies. Cr. Svo. 
 2s. net. [ i^ery few remain. 
 
 "Mr. Stephen Coleridge's sixieenth-ccntury romance is well and picaiantly 
 written. The -tylc is tnrr.ughoui in keeping with the story; and wc should imaginn 
 that II c huioricai probabilities arc we I observed." — Pall Mall Gaxitle. 
 
 Mr. GlaUjToNK wnlc»:-"l have read the s,ii)'.uljr!y well told story. . . . 
 It opens up queitioin both deep and dark ; it canmii be riRlit i'> accept in religion 
 or anything eUc a secret which dcsuoyi the lift of an innocent (ellow creature."
 
 The Publications of Elkin Mathews 
 
 CORE IN {JOHN). 
 
 The Elizabethan Hamlet : A Study of the Sources, 
 and of Shakspere's Environment, to show that the Mad 
 Scenes liad a Comic Aspect now Ignored. With a 
 Prefatory Note by F. York Powell, Professor of 
 Modern History at the University of Oxford. Small 
 4to. 3^. 6ci. net. 
 NerM York : Charles Scribner's Sons. 
 ..." when we add that so competent a judge as Professor York Powell 
 expresses his belief in a Prelatoiy Note that Mr. Corbin has 'got hold of a truth that 
 has not been clearly, if at all, expressed in our Elizabethan studies — to wit, that the 
 i6th century audience's point of view, and, of necessity, the playwright's treatment 
 of his subject, were very different from ours of to-day in many matters of mark' — and 
 express our own concurrence in this, we have said enough to recommend Mr. Corbin's 
 little book to the attention of all Shakespearian students." — Times. 
 
 CROSSING {IV ILL I AM). 
 
 The Ancient Crosses of Dartmoor; with a Descrip- 
 tion of their Surroundings. With II plates. 8vo. cloth. 
 ^s. 6d. net. \_Ve>'y fe7U remain. 
 
 DAVIES {R. R.). 
 
 Some Account of the Old Church at Chelsea and 
 OF its Monuments. \_In preparation. 
 
 DE GRUCHY {AUGUSTA). 
 
 Under the Hawthorn, and Other Verses. With 
 Frontispiece by Walter Chane. Printed at the 
 Rugby Press. 300 copies. Cr. 8vo. 5^. 7tet. 
 Also 30 copies on Japanese vellum, i^s. net. 
 
 " Melodious in metre, graceful in fancy, and not without spontaneity of inspira- 
 tion." — Times. 
 
 " Very tender and melodious is much of Mrs. De Gruchy's verse. Rare imaginative 
 power marks the dramaiic monologue • In the Prison Van.'" — Speaker. 
 
 " Distinguished by the attractive qualities of grace and refinement, and a purity 
 of style that is as refreshing as a limpid stream in the heat of a summer's noon. . . . 
 The charm of these poems lies in their naturalness, which is indeed an admirable 
 quality in song.'' — Saturday Review. 
 
 DIFERSI COLORES SERIES. 
 See HORNE. 
 
 DOWSON {ERNEST). 
 
 Dilemmas : Stories and Studies in Sentiment. (A Case of 
 Conscience. — The Diary of a Successful Man. — An 
 Orchestral Violin. — The Statute of Limitations. — 
 Souvenirs of an Egoist). Crown 8vo. y. dd.net. 
 
 New York: Frederick A. Stokes Company.
 
 Vigo Street, London, W. 
 
 DOirSON (ERNEST)— continued. 
 
 " Unquestionably they are good stories, with a real human interest in! them." — 
 St. Jamtfi Gaxene. 
 
 "' A Case ot Conscience' . . . an exceedingly good story. At first sight 
 it might appear unfinished, as one of the problems presented is left unsolved ; but one 
 soon feels that anything more would have spoilt the art with which the double tragedy 
 of the two men's lives is flashed before the reader in a few pages." — Athemrum. 
 
 "These stories can be read with pure enjoyment, for along with subtlety of 
 thought and grace of diction there is true lefinement." — LiverpacI Aitrcury. 
 
 Poems {Diversi Colores Series). With a title design by 
 H. P. HoRNE. Printed at the ChisVvick Press, on 
 hand-made paper. i6mo. ^s. net. {Shortly. 
 
 " Mr. Dowson's contributions to the two series of the Rhymer^i Bmx were 
 subtle and exquisite poems. He has a touch of Elizabethan distinction. . . . 
 Mr. Dowson's stories are very remarkable in quality." — Boitm Literary If^orld. 
 
 FIELD {MICHAEL). 
 
 Sight and Song (Poems on Pictures). Printed by 
 Constables. 400 copies. i2mo. $s. net. 
 
 \ Very few remain. 
 
 Stephania : A Trialogue in Three Acts. Frontis- 
 piece, colophon, and ornament for binding designed 
 by Selwyn Image. Printed by Folkard & Son. 
 250 copies (200 for sale). Pott 4to. 65. net. 
 
 [ Very few remain, 
 
 "We have true drama in 'Stephania.' .... Stephania, Otho, and 
 
 Sylvester M., the three persons of the play, are more than mere names 
 
 Besides great cfTort, commendable effort, there is real greatness in this play ; and the 
 blank verse is often sinewy and strong with thought and passion." — Sptaktr. 
 
 '" Stephania' is stiiking in design and powerful in execution. It is a highly 
 dramatic 'trialogue' between the Emperor Otho 111., his tutor Gerbert, and Stephania, 
 the widow of the murdered Rom.in Consul, Crescentjus. The poem contains much 
 fine work, and is picturesque and of poetical accent. . . ." — fViitminittr Review. 
 
 A Question of Memory : a Play in Four Acts. 
 ICO copies only. Svo. ^s. net. [Very few remain. 
 
 Attila, My Attila ! A Drama in Four Acts. 
 
 With a Facsimile of Two Medals. (Uniform with 
 
 Stephania), Pott 4to. 5^. net. 
 Chicat^o : Way Cr' IVi/liams. 
 
 It deals with the strange and desperate adventures of Honoria, daughter of the 
 famous Emprcts Galla Placidia. This young princrss may reasonably be regarded as 
 the New Woman of the fi'lh century, and it is from this point of view that Michael 
 Field has prc^nted her aulacilici and ilieir punishment. The title page reproduces 
 a medal which, in Gibbon's words, "exhibits the pleasing countenance of Honoria," 
 together with one that represents her mother.
 
 8 The Publications of Elkin Mathews 
 
 G ALTON {ARTHUR). 
 
 Essays upon Matthew Arnold {Divei-si Colores Series), 
 Printed at the Chiswick Press on hand-made paper. 
 Cr. 8vo. 55. net. \_/n preparation. 
 
 GASKIN {ARTHUR). 
 
 Good King Wenceslas. A Carol written by Dr. Neale 
 and Pictured by ARTHUR J. Gaskin ; with an Intro- 
 duction by William Morris. 410. 35. 6d. net. 
 Transferred to the present Publisher. 
 
 "Mr. Arthur J. Gaskin has more than redeemed the promise of his illustrations 
 to Hans Christian Andersen's tales by his edition of the late Dr. Neale's carol of 
 ' Good King Wenceslas.' . . . The pictures, pictorial borders, and initial letters 
 are remarkable both for the vigour of the drawing and the sense of the decorative 
 •tyle which they exhibit. Mr. William Morris has shown his interest in the artist't 
 works by contributing a prefatory note." — Daily Hivis. 
 
 GASKIN {MRS. ARTHUR). 
 
 An a. B.C. Book. Rhymed and Pictured by Mrs. 
 
 Arthur Gaskin. 60 designs. Fcap. 8vo. 35. 6d. net. 
 
 Chicago: A. C. McClurg Ss' Co. [^Second thousand. 
 
 HAKE {DR. T. GORDON, " The Parable Poet.") 
 
 Madeline, and other Poems. Crown 8vo. 5^. net. 
 Transferred to the present Publisher. 
 
 "The ministry of the angel Daphne to her erring human sister is frequently 
 related in strains of pure and elevated tenderness. Nor does the poet who can show 
 so much delicacy fail in strength. The description of Madeline as she passes in 
 trance to her vengeance is full of vivid pictures and charged with tragic feeling. 
 The individuality of the writer lies in his deep sympathy with wnatever affects the 
 being and condition oi man. . . . Taken as a whole, the book has high and 
 unusual claims." — Athmaum. 
 
 "I have been reading 'Madelme' again. For sheer originality, both of conception 
 and of treatment, I consider tliat it stands alone." — MR. Theodore Watts. 
 
 Parables and Tales. (Mother and Child. — The Crip- 
 ple.— The Blind Boy.— Old Morality.— Old Souls.— 
 The Lily of the Valley.— The Deadly Nightshade.— 
 The Poet). With a Biographical Sketch by Theodore 
 Watts. 9 illustrations by Arthur Hughes. New 
 Edition. Crown 8vo. 2>^. 6d. net. 
 
 "The qualities of Dr. Gordon Hake's work were trom the first fully admitted 
 and warmly praised by one of the greatest of contemporary poeis, who was also a 
 critic of exceptional acuteness — Rossetti. Indeed, the only two review articles which 
 Roseetli ever wrote were written on two of Dr. Hake's books: ' Madeline,' which he 
 reviewed m the Academy in 1S71, and ' f arables and Tales,' which he reviewed in 
 the Fortnightly in 1875. Many eminent critics have expressed a decided preference 
 for ' Parables and Tales ' to Dr. Hake'i other works, and it had the advantage of being
 
 Vigo Street, London, W. 
 
 HAKE (DR. r. GORDON)— continued. 
 
 enriched with the admirable illustrations of Arthur Hn^'a^:'' - Saturday Ri-.Uw,. 
 January, 1895. . 
 
 " The piece called ' Old Souls ' is probably secure of a distinct place in the liter- 
 ature of our day, and we believe the same may be predicted of other poems in the 
 little collection just issued. . . . Should Dr. Hake's more restiictid, but lovely 
 and sincere contributions to the poetry of real life not find the immediate response 
 they deserve, he may at least remember that others also have failed lo mf et at once 
 with full justice and recognition But we will hope for good encouragement to his 
 present and future woik; and can at least ensure the lover of poetry that in these 
 simple pages he shall find not seldom a humanity limped and pellucid— the v.cU-spring 
 of a true heart, with which his tears must mingle as with their own clement. 
 
 "• Dr. Hake has been fortunate in the beautiful drawings which Mr. Arthur 
 Hughes has contributed to his little volume. No poet could have a more congmial 
 yoke-fellow than this gifted and imaginative artist."- D. G. RossETTI, in the 
 Ftrtnigktly. 187J. 
 
 HEMINGl'/AY {PERCY). 
 
 Out of Egypt : Stories from the Threshold of the East. 
 Cover design by Gleeson White. Crown 8vo. 
 35. 6d. net. 
 
 " This is a strong book.'' — Acadimy. 
 
 " This is a remarkable book. Egyptian life has seldom been portrayed from the 
 inside. . . . The author's knowledge of Arabic, his sympathy with the religion 
 of Islam, above all his entire freedom from Western prejudice, have enabled him to 
 learn more of what modern Egypt really is than the average Englishman could 
 possibly acquire in a lifetime at Caiio or Port Said.'' — African Review. 
 
 "A lively and picturesque style. . . undoubted talent." — Mancly iter Guardian. 
 
 " But seldom that ilie first pioduction o. an author is so mature a'ld so finished in 
 style as this. . . . The sketches are veritable spoils o( the Egyptians- gems of 
 sproe in a setting of clear air, sharp outlines, and wondrous skies —A/orcinj hiadrr. 
 
 "This book places its author amongst those writers from whom lasting woik of 
 high aim is to be expected.' — Tki Star. 
 
 "The tale . . . is treated with daring directness. . . An impressive and 
 pathetic close to a story told throughout with arresting strength and simplicity."— 
 Daily Nrwi. 
 
 " Genuine power and pathos." — Pall Mall Gaxttte. 
 
 The IlArrv Wanderer (rocms). With title design by 
 Charks I. ffculkes. Printed at the CiiiswiCK Press, on 
 hand-made paper. Sq. i6mo. 5.J. tie/. [/ii the press. 
 
 HICKEY {EMILY H.). 
 
 A Volume of Poems. With a rrontisjiiccc by Marv 
 
 E. Swan. {In prepaiatiou. 
 
 Verse Tales, Lyrics and Translations. Printed at 
 
 the Arnold Press. 300 copies. Imp. i6mo. Sj. net. 
 
 [ Very fav remain. 
 'Miss Mickey's 'Verse Tales, Lyrics, and Translations' 'almost invariably 
 reach a high level of finish and completeness. The book it a slrini; of little rounded 
 pearls. — jUhmawr..
 
 10 The Publications of Elkin Mathews 
 
 HINKSON {HENRY A.). 
 
 DuEi.iN Verses. By Mkmhers of Trinity College. 
 Selecled and Edited by II. A. IIinkson, late Scholar 
 of Trinity College, Dublin. Pott 4to. 5^. net. 
 
 Diihllii: Hodges, Figgis ^ Co., Limiled. 
 
 Includes contiibutions by tlie following : — Aubrey de Vere, 
 Sir Stephen de Vere, 0-car Wilde, J. K. Ingram, A. P. Graves, 
 J. To'liiunter, W. E. II. I.ecky, T. W. Rolleston, Edward 
 Dowden, G. A. Greene, Savage-Armstrong, Douglas Hyde, 
 R. Y. Tyrrell, G. N. Plunkett, \V. Macneile Dixon, William 
 Wilkins, George Wilkins, and Edwin Hamilton. 
 
 " A plcaja;-.t volume of contemporary Iiish Verse. . . A judicious selection." 
 — Timti. 
 
 "Wherever there is a group of Irish readers in near or far-off lands, these 
 *Dubli;. Verges' will be sure to command attention and applause."— C/.iii;<)a'//<r.i/i. 
 
 HINKSON (KATHARINE). 
 
 Sloes on the Blackthorn : a Volume of Irish 
 Stories. Crown 8vo., 35. 6J. nd. [/,; preparation. 
 
 <' HOBBY HORSE (THE)." 
 
 An ILLUSTR.A.TED Art Miscellany. Edited by Herbert 
 P. Horne. The Fourth Number of the Nov/ Series 
 will shortly appear, after which Mr. Matiiews will 
 publish all the numbers in a volume, price ^i. i.r. /let. 
 
 Boston : Copeland cr' Day. 
 
 HORNE [HERBERT P.) 
 
 DiVERsr CoLORES: Poems. Vignette, &c , designed by 
 the Author. Printed at the CHiSWiCK Press. 250 
 copies. i6mo. 5^. net. 
 Transferred by the Author to the presmt Fuhlisher. 
 " In those fev/ poems Mr. Home has set before a tasteless age, and an extravagant 
 age, examples of poetry which, vi'ith^jut fear or hesilation, we consider to be of true 
 and pure b -x-xv; ." —Ami-y acthin . 
 
 '• With all h:s fondnc-s for sixteenth century styles and themes, Mr. Horne is yet 
 sufSciently individual in his thought and mannci'. Much of his seniimunt is quite 
 latter-day in tone and rendering ; h: is a child of his time."— C/cA*. 
 
 "Mr. home's work is almost always caccfuliy felicitous and may be compared 
 with beautiful filagree work in ver.-c. He is fully, perhaps too fully, ci nscious of the 
 value o; re triint, and is certainly in need of no more culture in triehaiilling of verse 
 — of such verse as alone he cares to work in. He has already the merits of a finished 
 aru'st— or, at all e/cnis, of an artist who is capable of the utmoit fi:iish."— Pa// 
 Mall CiKif.e.
 
 Xo. 
 
 II. 
 
 Xo. 
 
 III. 
 
 No. 
 
 IV. 
 
 No. 
 
 V. 
 
 Vigo Street, London, W. ii 
 
 HORNE (HERBERT P.) -continued. 
 
 The Series of Books begun in "Diversi Colores" by 
 Mr. IIe.rbert P. Horxe, will continue to be pub- 
 lished by Mr. Elkia Mathews. 
 The intention of the series is to give, in a collected and 
 sometimes revised form, Poems and Essays by various 
 writers, whose names have hitherto been chiefly asso- 
 ciated v.'ith the Hobby Horse. The series will be edited 
 by Mr. HERBERT P. Hoi-ne, and will contain : 
 
 Poems and C.a.rol3. By Selwyn I.mage. 
 Ess.ws UPON Matthew Arnold. By Ar- 
 thur Galton. \Immcdiaidy. 
 Poems. By Ernest Dowson. \_Immediaidy. 
 The Letters and Papers of Adam Le- 
 gendre. \In preparation. 
 Each volume will contain a new title-page and ornaments 
 designed by tlie Editor ; and the volumes of verse will be 
 uniform with " Diversi Colores." 
 
 HORTON {ALICE). 
 
 Poems. {Shortly. 
 
 HUEFFER (0 LIFER F. MADOX). 
 
 Sonnets and Poems. With a frontispiece. \Shortly. 
 
 HUGHES {ARTHUR). 
 See Hake. 
 
 HUNT {LEIGH). 
 
 A Volume of Essays now collected for tlie first time. 
 Edited with a critical Introduction by R. W. M. 
 Johnson, \_hi the press. 
 
 IMAGE (SELWYN). 
 
 Poems and Carols. {Diversi Colores Series.— New 
 
 Volume). Title design by II. P. IIorne. Printed 
 
 on hand-made paper at the Ciiiswn K Press. i6mo. 
 
 5v. «,•/. [/«•'' ready. 
 
 "A. UicaitUtsv/.hohAvc: '_ reckoned Mr. 
 
 c',./,- I .;'.-. A volume uf poc:, ' ^1 Mr. tlkiii 
 
 .M2i:.cv/-, ij.:^rc liHi^. 'I'hoJc who ..-. .-.. , -., . ■ liiutco work 
 
 will tx icr to fmc! a fcal and deep ;)Ocl:C c'.i.rm in tlilj book." —D.ilh Chnnldt.
 
 12 The Publications of Elkin Mathews 
 
 IMAGE (SELIVTN)— continue J. 
 
 "No one else could have done it (i.e., written ' Poems and Carols ') in just this 
 way, and the artist himself could have done it in no other way.'' "A rcmaikable 
 impress of personality, and ihis personality of siiigul.ir rarity and interest. Every 
 piece is peticctly ccnipose.l ; the ' mental cartooning,' to use Rossetti's phrase, has 
 been adequately done . . . an air of grave and hf^mely order . . . a union of 
 quaint and subtly simple homeliness, with a somewhat abstract severity. ... It 
 is a new thini, the revelation of a new poet. . . . Here is a book which may be 
 trusted to outlive most contemporary literature." — Stiturdjy Review. 
 
 " .An intcn'cly personal expression of a personality of singular charm, gravity, 
 fancifulness, and interest ; work which is alone among contemporary verse alike in 
 regard to substance and to foim . . . comes with more true novelty than any 
 book of verse published in England for some years." — Aihertrum. 
 
 " Some men seem to avoid tame as sedulously as the majority s.-ekit. Mr. Sclwyn 
 Image is one of these. He has achieved a charming fame by his very shyness and 
 mystery. His very name has a look ot having been designed by the Centurv Guild, 
 and it was certainly first publi5hed in T/'c Ci-inury Guild HMy Horsed — The Realm. 
 
 "In the liny little volume of verse, 'Poems and Carols,' by Selwyn Image, 
 we discern a note of spontaneous inspiration, a delicate and gracclul fancy, aiid 
 con'iderable, but unequal, skill of versification. The Carols are skilful icproductions 
 of that rather archaic form of composition, devotional in tone and felicitous in 
 sentiment. Love and nature are the principal themes of the Poems. Itisdiflicult 
 not to be hackneyed in the treatment of such themes, but Mr. Image successfully 
 overcomes the difficulty." — The Times. 
 
 " The Catholic movement in literature, a strong reality to-day in England as in 
 France, if working within narrow limits, has its newest interpretation in Mr. Selwyn 
 Image's 'Poems and Carols.' Of course the book is chaiining to look at and to 
 handle, since it is his. The Chiswick Press and Mr. Mathews have helped him to 
 realize his design."^ — The Sketch. 
 
 ISHAM FACSIMILE REPRINTS- Nos. III. and IF. 
 See Bretox and Southwell. 
 *^* New Elizabethan Literature at the Briti.sh Aluseum, see 
 The Titnes, 31 August, 1894, also Notes mid Queries, Sept., 1S94. 
 
 [By the Author of The Arl of Thomas Ilardj}. 
 JOHNSON {LIONEL). 
 
 TOEMS. With a title design and colophon by H. P. IIorne. 
 
 Printed at the Chiswick Press, on hand-made paper. 
 
 Sq. post 8vo. ^s. net. 
 Also, 25 special copies at 155. net. 
 Boston : Copeland and Day. 
 
 " Full of delicaie fancy, and display much lyrical grace and felicity. " — Times. 
 
 " An air of solidity, combined with something also of severity, is the first 
 mprcssion one receives from these pages. . . . The poems arc more massive 
 than most lyrics are; they aim at dignity and attain it. This is, v.'c believe, the first 
 book of verse that Mr. Johnson has published; and we would say, on a first reading, 
 that for a first book it was remarkably mature. And so it is, in its accomplishment, 
 its reserve of strengih, its unfaltering style. . . . Whatever form his writing 
 takes, it will be the expression of a rich mind, and a rare talent." — Saturday Review.
 
 Vigo Street, London, W. 13 
 
 JOHNSON {LIONEL)— continued. 
 
 "Mr. Lionel Johnson's poems have the advantage of a two-fold inspiration. 
 Many of these austere strains could never have been written if he had not been 
 steeped in the most golden poetry of the Greeks; while, on the other hand, side by 
 side with the mellifluous chanting, there comes another note, mild, sweet, and 
 unsophisticated— the very bird-note of Celtic poetry. And then again one comes on 
 a very ripe and affluent, as of one who has spoiled the very goldencst harvests of song 
 of cultivated ages . . . Mr. Johnson's poetry is concerned with lotiy things and 
 is never less than passionately sincere. It is sane, high-minded, and lull of felicities." 
 ~~}llustrated London Nni^s, 
 
 "The most obvious characteristics of Mr. Johnson's verse are dignity and 
 distinction ; but beneath these one feels a passionate poetic impulse, and a grave 
 fascinating music passes from end to end of the volume." — Rtahn. 
 
 'Mt is at once stately and passionate, austere, and free. His passion has a sane 
 mood: his fire a white heat. . . . Once again it is the Celtic spirit that makes 
 for higher things. Mr. Johnson's muse is concerned only with the highest. Her 
 flight is as of a winged thing, that goes 'higher still and higher,' and has few 
 flutterings near earth." — Irish Daily Jndtftndtnt. 
 
 JOHNSON (EFFJE). 
 
 In the Fire, and other Fancies. With frontispiece 
 by Walter Crane. Imperial i6mo. 3^. 6c/. net. 
 
 LAMB {CHARLES). 
 
 Beauty and the Beast. With an Introduction by 
 
 Andrew Lang. Facsimile Reprint of the rare First 
 
 Edition. IVith 8 choice stipple engravings in brown 
 
 ink, after the or ii^inal plates. Royal l6mo. '}^s. bd.net. 
 
 Transferred to the present Publisher. 
 
 LEGENDRE {ADAM), 
 
 The Letters and Papers of. {Diver si Colons Series.) 
 
 \_In preparation. 
 MARSON {REV. C. L.). 
 
 A Voi.u.ME OF .Short Stories. \^In preparation. 
 
 MARSTON {FHILIF BOURKE). 
 
 A Last Harvest: Lyrics and Sonnets from the 
 JiOOK OF Love. Edited, with Biographical Sketch, 
 by Louise Chandler MouL'ioN. 50ocopies. Printed 
 by Miller & Son. Post Svo. $s. net. 
 
 [ l^ery few remain. 
 Also 50 copies on hand-made L. P. icf. dd. net. 
 
 [ Very fno remain. 
 "Among the sonnets with which the volume concludes, there are some fine 
 examples of a form of verse in which all competent authoritici allow that Marston 
 excelled 'The Bcadih and Beauty of the Spacious Night," 'T<i All in Haven,' 
 'Kriend^hip and Love," ' Love'» Descried Palace' — these, to mention no others, 
 have the ' high icriousncss ' whicJi Matthew Arnold made ihe test of true poetry." — 
 Alhinaum.
 
 i4 The Publications of Elkin Mathews 
 
 MASON {A. E. IV.). 
 
 A Romance of Wastdale. Crown 8vo. 35. 6J. nd. 
 New York: Frederick A. Stokes Company. 
 
 MEYNELL (IVILFRID). 
 
 The Child set in the Midst. By Modern Poets. 
 With Introduction by W. Meynell, and Facsimile of 
 the MS. of the "Toys" by Coventry Patmore. 
 Royal i6mo. 2>^.6d. net. 
 
 MORRIS {WILLIAM). 
 See Gaskin, 
 
 MORRISON (G. £.). 
 
 Alonzo Quixano, otherwise Don Quixote: being a 
 dramatization of the Novel of Cervantes, and espe- 
 cially of those parts which he left unwritten. Cr. 8vo. 
 15. net. 
 "This play, distinguished and full of fine qualities, is a brave attempt to enrich 
 our poetic drama. . . . The reverence shown for Cervantes, the care to preserve 
 intact the characteristics the Spanish master lingered over so humorously, yet so 
 lovingly, have led Mr. IVIorrison to deserved and notable success." — Academy. 
 
 MUSA CATHOLIC A. 
 
 Selected and Edited by Mrs. Wm. Sharp. \_In preparation. 
 
 MURRAY {ALMA). 
 
 Portrait as Beatrice Cenci. With Critical Notice 
 containing Four Letters from Robert Browning. 
 8vo. 2s. net. 
 
 NOEL {HON. RODEN). 
 
 My Sea, and other posthumous Poems. With an Intro- 
 duction by Stanley Addleshaw. Cr. 8vo. y. 6d. 
 net. \_Inimediately. 
 
 Selected Lyrics from the Works of the late Hon. 
 Roden Noel. With a Biographical and Critical 
 Essay by Percy Addleshaw. Illustrated with Two 
 Portraits, including a reproduction of the famous picture 
 by W. B. Richmond, R.A. \^In preparation. 
 
 Poor People's Christmas. Printed at the Aylesisury 
 Press. 250 copies. i6mo. is. net. \_ Very friu remain. 
 
 "Displays the author at his best Mr. Noel alv/ays has sonietliing 
 
 to say worth saying, aiid his technique — though like Browning, he is too intent upon 
 idea to bestow all due care upon form — is generally sufiicient and sometimes 
 masterly. We hear too seldom from a poet of tuch deep and kindly sympathy." — 
 Sunday Times,
 
 Vigo Street, London, W. 15 
 
 O'SULLWAN {VINCENT). 
 
 Poems. With a title-design by Selwyn Image. 
 
 [/m preparation. 
 
 POWELL {F. YORK). 
 
 See CORBiN. 
 
 PROBYN [MAY). 
 
 Pansies : A Book of Poems. With a title-page and cover 
 design by Minnie Mathews. Fcap. 8vo. 3^. 6a. net. 
 
 " Miss Probyn's new volume is a slim one, but rare in quality. She is no mere 
 pretty verse maker; her spontaneity and originality sre btyond question, and so far 
 as colour and picturesquencss go, only Mr. Francis Thompson rivals her among the 
 English Catholic poets of to-day." — Sketch. 
 
 "• This too small book is a mine of the purest poetry, very holy, and very 
 refined, and removed as far as possible from the tawdry or the common-place. ' — Irish 
 Mmthly. 
 
 " The religious poems arc in their way perfect, with a tinge of the mysticism 
 one looks forin the poetry of two centuries ago, but so seldom meets with nowadays.'' 
 — Cathilic Times. 
 
 " Full of a delicate devotional sentiment and much metrical felicity." — Times. 
 
 RHYMERS' CLUB, THE SECOND BOOK OF THE. 
 
 Contributions by E. Dowsox, E. J. Ellis, G. A. Greene, 
 A. HiLLiER, Lionel Johnson, Richard le Gal- 
 lienne, Victor Plarr, E. Radford, E. Rhys, 
 T. W. Rollestone, Arthur Symons, J. Tod- 
 hunter, W. B. Yeats. Printed by Miller & Son. 
 500 co]nes (of which 400 are for sale). i6mo. 55. ucf. 
 50 copies on hand-made L.P. lOs. 6d. net. 
 
 Nr.o York : Dodd, Mead &= Co. 
 
 "The work of twelve very competent verse writers, many of them not unknown 
 to fame. This form of publication is not a new departure exactly, but it is a recur- 
 rence to the excellent fa'hion of the HIi/abclhaii ace, when ' l-'ngland'a Helicon,' 
 Davison's ' Pociical Rhapsudy,' and 'Pha-nix Nest,' v/ith scores of other collections, 
 contained the best songs of the best song-writers of that tuneful epoch." — Bind and 
 U^hiit. 
 
 "The future of these thirteen writers, who have thus banded themielvc* 
 together, will be witched with interest. Already there is fulfilment in their work, 
 and there i< much promise." - ^feaier, 
 
 •' In the intervals of Welsh rarebit and stout provided for them at llic 'Cheshire 
 Cheese,' in Fleet .street, the members ol the Rhymers' Club have produced some very 
 pretty poems, which Mr. lakin Mathews has issued in his notoriously dainty 
 manner. ' — I'all Mall Gaxellt.
 
 l6 The Publications of Elkin Mathews 
 
 RUDING {WALT). 
 
 An Evil Motherhood : an Impressionist Novel. 
 
 With a Frontispiece by Aubrey Beardsley. Cr. 8vo. 
 
 35. 6(/. net. 
 New York: Frederick A. Stokes Company. 
 
 SCHAFF (DR. P.). 
 
 Literature and Poetry : Papers on Dante, Latin 
 Hymns, &c. Portrait and Plates. 100 copies only. 
 8vo. io.f. net. [ Very few remain. 
 
 SCULL {IV. DELAPLAINE). 
 
 The Garden of the Matchboxes, and other Stories. 
 Crown 8vo. 35. 6d. net. [In preparation. 
 
 SHARP {IF ILL I AM). 
 
 Ecce Puella and other Prose Imaginings. Cr. 8vo. 
 3^. 6d. net, 
 
 SHILLING GARLAND {ELKIN MATHEIVS'). 
 See Bridges and Binvon. 
 
 SONG OF SONGS, WHICH IS SOLOMON'S. 
 
 Twenty Drawings from designs by Althea Gyles. 4to. 
 
 One Guinea net. 
 Also 25 copies on special paper, Two Guineas net. 
 
 [In preparation. 
 
 [Isham Facsimile Reprint]. 
 S[OUrHlVELL] {R[OBERT]). 
 
 A Fovrefovld Meditation, of the foure last 
 things. Composed in a Diuine Poeme. By R. S. 
 The author of S. Peter's complaint. London, 1606. 
 A Facsimile Reprint, with a Jiibliographical Note by 
 Charles Edmonds. 150 copies. Pruited on hand- 
 made paper at the Chiswick Press. Roy. i6mo. 
 5^^. net. 
 Also 50 copies, large paper, ys. 6d, net. 
 Facsimile reprint from the unique fragment discovered in the autumn of 1867 by 
 Mr. Charles Edmonds in a disused lumber room at Lamport Hall, Norihants, and 
 lately purchased by the British Museum authoiities. This hagmci.t supolies the first 
 sheet of a previously unknown poem by Robert iouihwcU. the Roman Catholic poet, 
 whose religious fervour lendj a pathetic beauty to everything that he wrote, and 
 future editors of Southwell's works will find it necessary to give it close study. The 
 whole of the Poe.Ti has been completed from two MS. copies, wiiich differ in the 
 number of Stanzas.
 
 Vigo Street, London, W, 17 
 
 SYMONDS (JOHN ADDINGTON). 
 
 In the Key of Blue, and other Prose Essays. 
 With cover designed by C. S. Ricketts. Printed at 
 the Ballantyne Press. Third Edition. Thick 
 cr. 8vo. 2)S. 6ci. net. 
 
 New York: Macrnillan Qj' Co. 
 
 "The variety of Mr. Symonds' interests I Here are criticisms upon the Venetian 
 Tiepolo, upon M. Zola, upon Mediasval Norman Songs, upon Elizabethan lyrics, 
 upon Plato's and Dante's ideals of love; and not a sign~any where, except may be in 
 the last, that he has more concern for, or knowledge of, one theme than another. 
 Add to these artistic themes the delighted records of English or Italian scenes, with 
 their rich beauties of nature or of art, and the human passions that inform then. 
 How joyous a sense of great possessions won at no man's hurt or loss must such a 
 man retain." — Daily Chnnide, 
 
 "Some of the essays are very charming, in Mr. Symonds best style, but the 
 first one, that which gives its name to the volume, is at least the most curious of t..e 
 lot." — Sftaher. 
 
 "The other essays are the work of a sound and sensible critic." — National 
 Obierver. 
 
 "The literary essays are more restrained, and the prepared student will find them 
 full of illumination and charm, while the descriptive papers have the attractiveness 
 which Mr. Symonds alwavs gives to work in this genrt." — MR. JAS. ASHCROFT 
 NuBLE, m Tht Littrarj IVorld. 
 
 TENNYSON {LORD). 
 
 See PIallam,— Van Dyke. 
 
 rOD HUNTER {DR. JOHN). 
 
 A SiciLiA.N Idyll. With a Frontispiece by Walter 
 Crane. Printed at the Chiswick Press. 250 copi<'s. 
 Imp. i6mo. i^s.iu't. 50 copies hand-made L. P. Fcap. 
 4to. \os. 6(i- net. \_Vcry fcio remain. 
 
 " He combines his notes skilfully, and puts his own voice, so to speak, into 
 them, and the music that results is sweet and of a pastoral tunefuliii-.ss " — Sfiamr. 
 
 " The blank verse ia the true verse of pastoral, quiet and scholarly, with frequent 
 touches of beauty. I he echoes of Theocritus and of the classics at large are modest 
 and felicitous. '—>4nrf'-ya«iin. 
 
 "A charming little pastoral play in one act. The verse is singularly graceful, 
 and many bright gems of wit sparkle in the dialogues." — Literary World. 
 
 *' Well worthy of admiration for its grace and delicate finish, its clearness, and 
 its compactncsi." — Atherxaum. 
 
 Also the following works by the same Author transferred 
 to the present Publisher, viz. : — Laukella, and other 
 Poems, 5^. net. — Alcestis, a Dramatic I'ocm, 4-r, net. 
 — A .Study OK Shelley, t^s.dd. net. — Forest Songs, 
 and other Poems, 35. net, — TiiE Banshee, 3^. net. — 
 Helena in Tkoas, is. Gd. ntt.
 
 1 8 The Publications of Elkin Mathews 
 
 TYNAN (KATHARINE). 
 See HiNKSON. 
 
 FAN DYKE (HENRY). 
 
 The Poetry of Tennyson. Third Edition, enlarged. 
 Cr. 8vo. 5^. 6d. net. 
 
 The additions consist of a Portrait, Two Chapters, and the 
 Bibliography expanded. The Laureate himself gave valuable 
 aid in correcting va^-ious details. 
 
 "Mr. Elkia Mathews publishes a new edition, revised and enlarged, of that 
 excellent work, 'The Poetry of Tennyson,' by Henry Van Dyke. The additions 
 are considerable. It is extremely interesting to go over the bibliographical notes 
 to see the contemptaous or, at best, contemptuously patronising tone of the reviewers 
 in the early thirties gradually turning to civility, to a loud chorus of applause." — 
 Anti-JaKbin. 
 
 " Considered as an aid to the study of the Laureate, this labour of love merits 
 warm commendation. Its grouping of the poems, its bibliography and chronology, 
 its catalogue of Biblical allusion and quotations, arc each and all substantial accessories 
 to the knowledge of the autnor." — DR. RICHARD GarNETT, in the lUuitrated 
 Londm News, 
 
 JFATSON (E. H. LACON). 
 
 The Unconscious Humourist, and other Essays. 
 
 [/« preparation. 
 
 [^Mr. Wedmoris Short Stories. Nezu and Uniform Issue. 
 Croivn Svo., each Volume t^s. 6d. net.] 
 
 JVEDMORE (FREDERICK). 
 
 Pastorals of France. Fourth Edition. Crown Svo. 
 3^. 6d. net. '[Ready. 
 
 New York : Charles Scribner's Sons. 
 
 " A writer in whom delicacy of literary touch is united with an almost disem- 
 bodied fineness of sentiment." — At/unaum. 
 
 " Of singular quaintness and beauty." — Contemporary Review. 
 
 "The stories are exquisitely told." — TAe World. 
 
 "Delicious idylls, written with Mr. Wedmorc's fascinating command ot 
 sympathetic incident, and with his characteristic charm of style." — Illustrated London 
 News. 
 
 "The publication of the 'Pastorals' maybe said to have rerealed.not only anew 
 talent, but ancwlitcrary ^enre. . . Thecharmof the writing never fails." — Bookman 
 
 "In their simplicity, their tenderness, their quietude, their truthfulness to the 
 remote life that they depict, 'Pastorals of France ' are almost ptrfecr."— .r/'^cr.iror.
 
 Vigo Street, London, W. 19 
 
 WEDMORE {FREDERICK)— continued. 
 
 Renunciations. Third Edition. With a Portrait by 
 J. J. Shannon. Cr. 8vo. 3^. 6d. net. [Ready. 
 
 Neio York : Charles Scribner's Sons. 
 
 "These are clever studies in polite realism. ' — Athenirum. 
 
 " They are quite unusual. The picture of Richard Pelse, with his one moment 
 of romance, is exquisite." — St. James's Gapcette. 
 
 '"The Chemist in the Suburbs,' in 'Renunciations,' is a pure joy. . . . The 
 story of Richard Pelse's life is told with a power not unworthy of the now disabled 
 hand that drew for us the lonely old age of M. Parent." — MR. Traill, in 7ht 
 Nnu Rtvirw. 
 
 "The book belongs to the highest order of imaginative work. ' Renunciations ' 
 are studies from the life — pictures which make plain to us some of the innermost 
 workings of the heart." — Madimy. 
 
 "Mr. Wcdmorc has gained for himself an enviable reputation. His style has 
 distinction, has form. He has the poet's secret how to bring out the beauty of 
 common things. . . ' The Chemist in the Suburbs,' in ' Renunciations,' is his 
 masterpiece." — Saturday Review. 
 
 " We congratulate Mr. Wedmore on his vivid, wholesome, and artistic work, so 
 fuU of suppressed feeling and of quiet strength." — Standard. 
 
 English Episodes. Second Edition. Cr. 8vo. 3.f. 6d. 
 net. [Ready. 
 
 New York : Charles Scribner's Sons. 
 
 " Distinction is the characteristic of Mr. Wedmore's manner. These things 
 rema»n on the mind as things seen ; not read of." — Daily News. 
 
 " A penetrating insight, a fine pathos. Mr. Wedmore is 3 peculiarly fine and 
 sane and carefully deliberate artist." — tVeitminster Gaxetie. 
 
 "In 'English Episodes' we have another proof of Mr. W'edmorc's unique 
 position among the writers of fiction of the day. We hardly think of his short 
 volumes as ' stories,' but rather as life-secrets and hearts' blood, crysialiscd somehow, 
 and, in iheir jewel-form, cut with exceeding skill by the hand of a master-workman.' 
 . . The faultless episode of the 'Vicar o( Pimlico' is the best in loftiness of 
 purpose and keencss of interest ; but the ' Fitting Obsequies ' is its equal on different 
 line*, and deserves to be a classic.''— AforW. 
 
 "' English Episodes' arc worthy successors of 'Pastorals' and 'Renunciations,' 
 and with them should represent a permanent addition to Literature." — Mademy. 
 
 There may also be had the Collected Edition (iSqj) of ' ' Pastorals 
 of France" and "Renunciations," with Title-page by 
 John Fulleylove, R.I. ^s. net. 
 
 IVICKSTEED {P. H., Warden of Vniwrsity Halt). 
 Dante : Six Sermons. 
 
 *^* A Fourth Edition. (Unaltered Reprint). Cr. 8vo. 
 
 2j. net. 
 
 " It is impossible not to be struck with the reality and carncstnesi with which 
 
 Mr. Wickstccd 5cck> to do justice to what arc the riuprcmc elements o( the Commtdla, 
 
 i» spiritual aignificancc, and the depth and intightofiu moral teaching." — Guardian.
 
 20 The Publications of Ellcin Mathews 
 
 IVYNNE {FRANCES). 
 
 Whisper ! A Volume of Verse. Fcap. 8vo. buckram. 
 25. 6(i. net. 
 
 Transferred by the Author to the present Publisher. 
 
 " A little volume of singularly sweet and graceful poems, hardly one of which 
 can be read by any lover of poetry without definite pleasure, and everyone who reads 
 either of them without is, we venture to say, unable to appreciate that play of light 
 and shadow on the licart of man which is of the very essence of poetry." — Ipiciattr. 
 
 "The book includes, to my humble taste, many very charming pieces, musical, 
 simple, straightforward and not 'a? sad as night.' It is long since 1 have read a more 
 agreeable volume of verse, successful up to the measure of us aims and ambitions."— 
 Mr. ANDREW Lang, in Longman s Magaxine. 
 
 TEATS {IV. B.). 
 
 The Shadowy Waters. A Poetic Play. [/« preparation. 
 
 The Wind among the Reeds (Poems), [bt preparation. 
 
 Mr. Elkin Mathews holds likewise the only copies of the 
 following Books printed at the Private Press of the Rev. 
 C. Henry Daniel, Fellow of Worcester College, Oxford. 
 
 BRIDGES {ROBERT). 
 
 The Growth of Love. Printed in Fell's old English 
 type, on Whatman paper. loo copies. Fcap. 410. 
 
 Shorter Poems. Printed in Fell's old English type, on 
 Whatman paper. 100 copies. Five Farts. Fcap. 410. 
 f^2. I2s. 6d. net. [Very few remain. 
 
 HYMN I ECCLESIM CFRA HENRICI DANIEL. 
 Small Svo. (1882), £1. 155. net. 
 
 BLAKE HIS SONGS OF INNOCENCE. 
 Sq. i6mo. loo copies only. 155. net. 
 
 MILTON ODE ON THE NATIVITY. 
 Sq. i6mo. 105. 6d. net. 
 
 LONDON: VIGO STREET, W. 
 
 (a
 
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