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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES

 
 POEMS 
 
 OLD AND NEW
 
 BT THE SAME AUTHOR 
 LIFE OF DANTON 
 
 With Portraits 
 Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. net. 
 
 LONGMANS, GREEN & CO.
 
 POEMS 
 
 OLD AND NEW 
 
 BY 
 
 A. H. BEESLY 
 
 FORMERLY ASSISTANT MASTER AT 
 MARLBOROUGH COLLEGE 
 
 LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. 
 
 39 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON 
 NEW YORK, BOMBAY, AND CALCUTTA 
 
 I912
 
 4 099 
 
 NOTE 
 
 The present volume contains the poems published 
 by the late Mr Beesly in 1895 under the title of 
 Ballads and Other Verse, together with the shorter 
 pieces included in Danton and Other Verse (1896). 
 The long poem consisting of scenes from the life of 
 Danton has not been reprinted, with the exception of 
 a single lyric. Some later verses not hitherto published, 
 or only published in periodicals, have been added. 
 The poems which originally appeared in Longman's 
 Magazine, the Nation, the Wiltshire Advertiser, 
 and the Marlburian, are reprinted by the kind per- 
 mission of the editors of those journals. 
 
 It is hoped that a collected edition of Mr Beesl/s 
 ballads and lyrics in a cheap and convenient form will 
 be welcome to many of his old pupils and friends, and 
 will at the same time help to make these poems known 
 to a wider circle. 
 
 8S7'153
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 BALLADS AND OTHER VERSE (1895) 
 
 DEDICATION . 
 
 1. SIR CHRISTOPHER MINGS 
 
 2. A FEAT OF 1 794 
 
 3. A FEAT OF 1892 
 
 4. GENERAL KUKUSHKA 
 
 5. THE SACK OF ISMAIL 
 
 6. THE MUhArRAM MYSTERY-PLAY 
 
 7. THE regiment's RETURN 
 
 8. AN INVOCATION 
 
 9. A STREET CRY . 
 
 10. STONE-BROKE . 
 
 11. MORTMAIN 
 
 12. AVE DOMINE . 
 
 13. PROVERBS XXII. 2 
 
 14. A LAST CLIMB . 
 
 15. BEFORE A READING OF ' THE HECUBA ' 
 
 16. A STROLL IN SPRING 
 
 17. ODIOSO CONCITA VENTO AEQUORA . 
 
 vti 
 
 3 
 3 
 7 
 
 10 
 
 13 
 15 
 18 
 21 
 
 23 
 
 25 
 27 
 29 
 
 33 
 36 
 39 
 41 
 46 
 
 47
 
 Vlll 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 18. THE TRUE LOVE 
 
 19. A FEUD OF THE DESERT 
 
 20. XPYSAVrHS KP0K02 
 
 21. WORDSWORTH'S SISTER . 
 
 22. AN OLD ENIGMA 
 
 23. A VIGNETTE OF VENICE . 
 
 24. AN OLD-FASHIONED SONG 
 
 25. EXTINCTUM CINEREM SI SULPHURE 
 
 26. APRIL 1893 .... 
 
 27. ZWEI HERZEN UND EIN SCHLAG 
 
 28. lONA 
 
 29. A SOUTH SEA ISLAND 
 
 30. FLEBILE LUDIBRIUM 
 
 31. STAGNATION .... 
 
 32. time's REVENGE 
 
 33. TEARS 
 
 34. A CHRISTMAS SONG . 
 
 35. ' AGE, I DO ABHOR THEE' 
 
 36. ' AGE, I DO DEFY THEE ' . 
 
 37. AN agnostic's APOLOGY . 
 
 38. TEMPORA MUTANTUR 
 
 39. A woman's LAST WORD 
 
 40. THE PLOUGHBOY'S SONG . 
 
 41. THE nihilists' SUICIDE . 
 
 42. DILEXIT 
 
 43. THE OLD school GATE 
 
 47 
 48 
 
 49 
 SO 
 51 
 51 
 52 
 
 TANGAS VIVET 53
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 44. AN AUTUMN SCENE . 
 
 45. SLEEP ON NOW 
 
 46. A DEATH-BED . 
 
 47. A CHANGE IN THE WEATHER 
 
 48. AMPHIBIOUS . 
 
 49. A WHALING SONG 
 
 50. A DAY BY THE SEA . 
 
 51. AD POPULUM PHALERAS . 
 
 52. ENNUYfiE. 
 
 53. A materialist's GLOSS . 
 
 54. GOOD FRIDAY, 1889 . 
 
 55. AN ACADEMY PICTURE 
 
 56. RECOGNITA 
 
 57. DIES IRAE 
 
 IX 
 
 PAGE 
 
 75 
 77 
 78 
 
 79 
 82 
 
 83 
 85 
 87 
 88 
 
 89 
 90 
 91 
 91 
 92 
 
 FROM D ANTON AND OTHER VERSE (1896) 
 
 1. SONG OF LUCILE DESMOULINS 
 
 2. ANDRE'S RIDE . 
 
 3. HAY-TIME 
 
 4. TIT FOR TAT 
 
 5. BULL POINT 
 
 6. A WILTSHIRE SCENE 
 
 7. FORTEM POSCE ANIMUM MORTIS TERRORS 
 
 CARENTEM 
 
 97 
 98 
 100 
 103 
 104 
 107 
 
 109
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 ADDITIONAL POEMS 
 
 1. THE nationalist's APPEAL .... 
 
 2. EXIT BANDY 
 
 3. SPRINGTIME 
 
 4. THE MAYPOLE 
 
 5. WINDERMERE 
 
 6. MAY I9OI 
 
 7. AUGUST 1902 
 
 8. QUATRAIN 
 
 9. IN MEMORIAM : JOHN SHEARME THOMAS. 
 
 10. IN MEMORIAM : THEODORE LLEWELYN DAVIES 
 
 11. A SUSSEX CHURCHYARD 
 
 PAGE 
 
 117 
 
 119 
 
 121 
 
 122 
 
 123 
 
 125 
 
 126 
 
 126 
 
 127 
 
 130 
 
 130 
 
 NOTES . 
 
 133
 
 BALLADS 
 
 AND OTHER VERSE
 
 \
 
 DEDICATION 
 
 To you who once scanned, star by star, 
 The heavenly host of English song 
 With me, nor thought the quest was long. 
 
 The stretch of exploration far ; 
 
 When first your youthful fancy caught. 
 
 It may be, some auroral light 
 
 To beacon you to infinite 
 Horizons of adventurous thought : 
 
 To you, in memory of old times. 
 And, ev'n if not a line should live, 
 Assured that you will yet forgive 
 
 The gift, I dedicate these rhymes. 
 
 I. 
 
 SIR CHRISTOPHER MINGS.' 
 
 Sir Christopher Mings was a shoemaker's son. 
 
 He clouted a shoe ere he sighted a gun, 
 His mother was born aboard of a hoy, 
 And she suckled her lusty sailor-boy, 
 And she taught him to make 
 Such a name for her sake, 
 As caused the dour Dutch dogs to quake. 
 
 So here's to the name of Sir Christopher Mings, 
 A great name,— greater than my lord the King's ; 
 He fought and bled for England, 
 He's lying dead for England,
 
 SIR CHRISTOPHER MINGS 
 
 And foul fall shame 
 On England's fame, 
 When Englishmen forget the name 
 Of stout Sir Christopher Mings ! 
 
 He swept the Channel from end to end, 
 From chalky Dover to flat Ostend, 
 And never a Dutch dog of them all 
 Durst yelp while he was Admiral : 
 
 He had such a whip 
 
 To make them skip, 
 If ever they ventured athwart his ship ! 
 
 But worth must wither with Kings like Charles, 
 And the hands that kinged him were Albemarle's 
 ' A shoemaker's son ! Odd's fish ! it is plain 
 'Twould anger the Stuart and Castlemaine.' 
 
 So London may fume, 
 
 And the fleet be in gloom, 
 But Rupert and Albemarle rule in his room. 
 
 'Twas on a Friday, the first of June, 
 We sighted the Dutch in the afternoon ; 
 Half-seas over at anchor they lay. 
 Between the Foreland and Dunkirk Bay : 
 
 And we swore not to shirk. 
 
 As we set to work, 
 Till we sent them flying to strong Dunkirk. 
 
 And from Friday noon until Monday night 
 The sea was a-fire with the roaring fight. 
 And the sun rose up, and the sunset fell, 
 And the calm stars shone on the raging hell ; 
 
 And the chain-shot swings, 
 
 And the grape-shot rings, 
 And fiercest of all fights Sir Christopher Mings.
 
 SIR CHRISTOPHER MINGS 5 
 
 Crash ! from the guns of the stubborn Dutch — 
 Sir Christopher Mings must walk with a crutch : 
 Crash ! through his shoulder : crash ! on his face — 
 Sir Christopher Mings is in evil case, 
 
 As he falls by the mast, 
 
 With his faith still fast 
 In Rupert — in Rupert, for rescue at last. 
 
 But Tromp and De Ruyter — they knew their trade, 
 
 And Monk was a madman, and Rupert delayed, 
 
 And the Swiftsure — the craven — sailed off to the 
 
 Nore, 
 And the Prince Royal ran on the Galloper shore, 
 
 And, shame to be said, 
 
 We turned and we fled. 
 Oh, well that Sir Christopher Mings lay dead ! 
 
 They came to the Court, and old Rowley heard, 
 And, a while, old Rowley spake no word, 
 But his eye for a moment looked like a King's, 
 As it filled with a tear for Sir Christopher Mings, 
 
 The stoutest in fight, 
 
 The loyallest knight. 
 That ever drew sword for his land's birthright. 
 
 He was borne to his grave by his brave old tars, 
 Their faces all grim with the seaming scars : 
 Not a man of the throng was of noble strain — 
 My Lords were all courting the Castlemaine ! 
 
 But the bravest and best 
 
 Of Englishmen pressed 
 To lay Sir Christopher Mings in his rest. 
 
 And scarce in his grave was their hero low, 
 When up stepped the bearers, a dozen or so :
 
 6 SIR CHRISTOPHER MINGS 
 
 Their eyes were all wet, though their teeth were set, 
 They had served him long, and they loved him yet — 
 
 And they spake this prayer. 
 
 With their grey heads bare, 
 To him they knew to be highest there. 
 
 ' We are here, we twelve, we have nought but life, 
 And we pledge that life to our Captain's strife ; 
 In the blood of the Dutch we would slake our grief, 
 Give us a fire-ship, choose us a chief. 
 
 And we'll shrivel the wings 
 
 And burn out the stings 
 Of the wasps that killed Sir Christopher Mings.' 
 
 O Captain and Men, be your praises sung 
 Wherever men utter our Island's tongue. 
 And when for her life-blood her worst foe springs, 
 God send her a second Sir Christopher Mings ! 
 Whate'er his degree. 
 With spirit as free, 
 To hold her inviolate Queen of the Sea. 
 
 So here's to the name of Sir Christopher Mings, 
 A great name — greater than my lord the King's ; 
 He fought and bled for England, 
 He's lying dead for England, 
 And foul fall shame 
 On England's fame, 
 When Englishmen forget the name 
 Of stout Sir Christopher Mings !
 
 II. 
 
 A FEAT OF 1794.^ 
 
 Dumas ! Dumas ! the brave Dumas ! 
 
 He came from La Vendee : 
 With chamois-hunters, high and low 
 He climbed the Alps, he scaled the snow : 
 Said he, ' I will not homeward go 
 Till I have found a way 
 To drive from out 
 His last redoubt 
 The foe we hold at bay.' 
 
 Dumas ! Dumas ! the brave Dumas ! 
 
 Five days he left our ken : 
 The sixth— and hark ! the thunderous cheers 
 As with his trusty mountaineers 
 In camp he comes to mock our fears 
 And make us once more men : 
 ' He is not dead,' 
 The soldiers said, 
 ' He's found the fox's den.' 
 
 Dumas ! Dumas ! the brave Dumas 
 
 Said, ' Soldiers ! hark to me. 
 Though snow may blow and frost may freeze, 
 We've trapped the crafty Piedmontese, 
 We've tracked their lines on hands and knees. 
 There's none that's left to see ; 
 And now ere one 
 Short month is done 
 We'll capture Mont Cenis.' 
 
 Dumas ! Dumas ! the brave Dumas ! 
 What shifts of war he knew !
 
 A FEAT OF 1794 
 
 With clasping-irons point-device 
 He shod our feet that o'er the ice 
 We scrambled up each precipice, 
 Then down like lightning flew, 
 Till day by day 
 That martial play 
 Steeled every nerve and thew. 
 
 Dumas ! Dumas ! the brave Dumas ! 
 
 At length our march was made, 
 ('Twas on the 19th Floreal) : 
 We never saw, we never shall 
 See sterner sight : Death's arsenal 
 Amid the clouds seemed laid, 
 An Alp for wall, 
 And over all 
 The fortress-like stockade. 
 
 Dumas ! Dumas ! the brave Dumas 
 
 Spake ere he led us on : 
 ' My lads ! let no man's footstep trip 
 Nor halt to help, 'tis death to slip. 
 And let no outcry leave the lip 
 To tell a comrade's gone ; 
 We dare to-day 
 Nor stop nor stay 
 Until the post is won.' 
 
 Dumas ! Dumas ! the brave Dumas 
 
 In silence waved his sword, 
 And up and up that grim ascent 
 With breathless sobs we struggling went, 
 And now we saw the rock was rent.
 
 A FEAT OF 1794 
 
 And raced with one accord, 
 
 Whate'er might hap, 
 
 To cross the gap, 
 And win the ' First's ' reward. 
 
 Dumas ! Dumas ! the brave Dumas ! 
 
 His soldiers loved him well ! 
 EVn then in helpless overthrow 
 From crag to crag, from snow to snow, 
 We saw three of our bravest go. 
 Yet dumb as death they fell ; 
 They had to die, 
 But not one cry 
 Aroused a sentinel. 
 
 Dumas ! Dumas ! the brave Dumas ! 
 
 His crowning hour was come. 
 No foe's eye watched, as all arrayed 
 In snow-white vesture we essayed 
 To clamber o'er the palisade, 
 
 Nor heard we beat of drum ; 
 The dim plateau 
 Was swathed in snow 
 And dumb as we were dumb. 
 
 Dumas ! Dumas ! the brave Dumas 
 
 With force could match each wile. 
 ' Too slow,' thinks he ; ' the foe awakes,' 
 And straight his foremost stormer takes 
 And tosses sheer across the stakes, 
 And smiles a hero's smile. 
 And still in sleep 
 And silence deep 
 Our foemen lay the while.
 
 lO 
 
 Dumas ! Dumas ! the brave Dumas ! 
 
 His hundreds were but three, 
 Yet at their shock the Piedmontese 
 Went down hke wheat-ears to the breeze ; 
 Oh when were stauncher men than these, 
 Or stouter chief than he ? 
 So here's Hurrah 
 For brave Dumas 
 And captured Mont Cenis ! 
 
 HI. 
 
 A FEAT OF 1892.^ 
 
 Lieutenant MacMunn his orders were brief, 
 
 ' March straight for Sadon, 'tis the time for relief : 
 
 Your force is but small, only eighteen in all. 
 
 Be wary and hasten, or ill will befall, 
 
 There are rascals by scores on the scent of the stores.' 
 
 ' The more the more fun,' 
 
 Thought Lieutenant MacMunn. 
 
 Trilirra ! trilirra ! the bold bugles rang, 
 
 Trilirra ! and into our saddles we sprang : 
 
 Our marching was slow, but we'd seen not a foe 
 
 As we camped in the brush with the second sun low : 
 
 And quiet and deep, that night, was the sleep 
 
 Of all except one — 
 
 Lieutenant MacMunn. 
 
 At dawn, as we mounted, the Jemadar said, 
 
 ' Lieutenant MacMunn, let me ride on ahead. 
 
 With the horse I am on I'll be soon at Sadon.' 
 
 He stayed but to catch our ' Good luck ' and was gone : 
 
 And onward we pressed amid laughter and jest. 
 
 When — ' Hark, there's a gun ! ' 
 
 Said Lieutenant MacMunn,
 
 A FEAT OF 1892 II 
 
 ' On, on for the river ! ' The river — good Lord ! 
 It is broad, it is deep, there are foes at the ford : 
 In the trench, on their knees or their bellies, at ease, 
 They pour out a volley of bullets like bees : 
 Another — ping-ping — and the bees have a sting, 
 
 ' Come, what's to be done?' 
 
 Said Lieutenant MacMunn. 
 
 And then to the Jemadar, ' Here you must stay, 
 And five along with you, to keep 'em in play : 
 Lower down we can try if a shallow be nigh : 
 Good luck, and we'll tickle their flank by-and-by. 
 You Goorkhas, you three, quick, march, follow me.' 
 
 And we went at a run 
 
 With Lieutenant MacMunn. 
 
 We plunged through the river — it rose to the breast — 
 And buzz came the bees again out of their nest, 
 But not a man sank, and safe at the bank, 
 One shake, and like hunters we rushed the rogues' 
 
 flank, 
 And they scuttled in fear, like rats, at our cheer. 
 
 ' Not badly begun,' 
 
 Said Lieutenant MacMunn. 
 
 Then out spake a voice — and no coward's — and said, 
 ' Begun ! — Ere it's ended we all shall be dead. 
 Back, back, while you may, 'twere madness to stay. 
 Not twice the men with us could hold on their way.' 
 ' Oh come, my lads, come, remember the rum, 
 
 Sadon has got none,' 
 
 Said Lieutenant MacMunn. 
 
 So on through the jungle we hasted amain, 
 And whizz came the bullets' thin whistle again ; 
 All round us they rung, every bush had a tongue, 
 And down went the Jemadar shot through the lung,
 
 12 A FEAT OF 1892 
 
 And a twinge and a twist, and it's ' There goes a wrist, 
 But still I've got one,' 
 From Lieutenant MacMunn. 
 
 We bound up their wounds and we mounted our man, 
 And charged them again, and again the rogues ran. 
 ' You'll follow me well ? ' 'We will, Sir,— to hell ! ' 
 And we bundled them out of the jungle, pell mell, 
 And fast as they made, from stockade to stockade. 
 
 Each web was unspun 
 
 By Lieutenant MacMunn. 
 Night fell, and the track in the darkness was lost. 
 And bridge there was none, with a flood to be crossed, 
 And when we were through what else could we do 
 But, faint though we were, fall to fighting anew ? 
 And still, on and on, not a sight of Sadon ! 
 
 ' Good God, for the sun ! ' 
 
 Said Lieutenant MacMunn. 
 
 Then all of a sudden a mule gave a snort. 
 
 And we burst out a-cheering, for there was the fort : 
 
 Yes, there, not a doubt, and quick to our shout, 
 
 And hip-hip-hurrahing the boys bustled out. 
 
 ' So here you are, come ! ' ' And here is the rum. 
 
 They've robbed us of none,' 
 
 Said Lieutenant MacMunn. 
 
 They laughed till they cried, and they cried till they 
 
 laughed, 
 And 'The boys with the rum' was the bumper they 
 
 quaffed. 
 And all of them swore it was worth all and more. 
 To see the old daredevil pluck to the fore. 
 And England had still, for working her will. 
 So gallant a son 
 As Lieutenant MacMunn.
 
 13 
 
 IV. 
 
 GENERAL KUKT^SHKA.* 
 
 KUKUSHKA calls, ' The spring is here, 
 The winter's gone, the summer's near.' 
 The mellow message everywhere 
 Swells the last breath of April air : 
 The heights of Oural catch the word. 
 And Baikal's sleeping heart is stirred : 
 O'er ice-locked steppe and frozen fen 
 It thrills to sad Saghalien : 
 By Neva's bank and Yenisei 
 'Tis flung back from each tinkling sleigh : 
 And round each steaming samovar. 
 Through all the far realms of the Czar, 
 In tent, and hut, and palace-hall. 
 There's rapture at Kukushka's call. 
 Kukiishka calls- — the exile hears. 
 And turns to hide his starting tears ; 
 The foul air of his dungeon seems 
 One moment purified, in dreams. 
 One moment — and in fancy he 
 Can breathe, as only breathe the free ; 
 Or stifFning from Kara's bleak mine, 
 That rich note warms him as with wine ; 
 He'll chafe no more beneath the chain, 
 No more he'll brook a slave's disdain : 
 Better to die by scourge or shot 
 Than hear that voice and heed it not ; 
 A dastard he whom death appals 
 When General Kukiishka calls. 
 Kukushka calls, but not to all 
 Comes comfort at Kukushka's call.
 
 14 GENERAL KUKUSHKA 
 
 Across the misty leagues of snow 
 Behold the chain-gang wending slow — 
 Cling-clang, cling-clang — with stumbling tread 
 And eyes of death, and limbs of lead, 
 Like beasts that know the drover's goad, 
 Silent they stagger on their road : 
 Or should some pitying ear avail, 
 Break forth in melancholy wail : 
 
 ' We are driven from the city 
 
 To the wilderness : 
 Little Father, have compassion 
 
 On our sore distress. 
 ' We are footsore, we are weary. 
 
 We have come from far : 
 We are broken by the anger 
 
 Of our Lord the Czar. 
 'You have wives and little children. 
 
 We have lost them long : 
 By the love that we must forfeit. 
 
 Hear our begging-song.^ 
 ' We are very cold and hungry, 
 
 Spare a little bread : 
 If you will not have compassion 
 
 We shall soon be dead. 
 ' We are on the road to bondage 
 
 In the sunless mine : 
 We are fainting — of your plenty 
 
 Spare a little wine. 
 ' We are very sorrowful. 
 
 Help us on our way • 
 Turn not from us, Little Father, 
 
 Pity us, we pray.'
 
 15 
 
 So wailing, o'er the waste of snow, 
 
 The chain-gang passes row by row, 
 
 And row by row they still prolong 
 
 Their melancholy begging-song, 
 
 Till lost to eye and ear again 
 
 They're swallowed by the deathlike plain. 
 
 In vain, O bird of mellow throat, 
 For these thy resurrection-note : 
 As ashes on the coffin fall, 
 So sounds for them Kukushka's call. 
 
 V. 
 
 THE SACK OF ISMAIL.^ 
 
 ' Take I small, ^ 
 It is my ivill.'' 
 
 I STOOD beside our General 
 When that stern message came. 
 
 And once and twice he read, with all 
 His warrior heart aflame ; 
 
 Younger the wrinkled visage grew, 
 Straighter the stooping form, 
 
 And fire flashed from his eyes' dim blue 
 
 As clouds are lit in storm : 
 
 'We hail,' he cries, 'our Mother's will. 
 
 We swear to capture Ismail.' 
 
 That month we stood on Danube's bank 
 Hard by the leaguered Town, 
 
 But saw it not — in vapours dank 
 The fortress veiled its frown,
 
 i6 THE SACK OF ISMAIL 
 
 When swift a sudden wind arose 
 
 And swept the mists away, 
 And lo ! our brethren's camp, and close 
 
 The grim Turk held at bay : 
 And thrilled to heaven, as thunders thrill. 
 Our fierce ' Hurrah for Ismail.' 
 
 Oh, dark and drear December's days, 
 
 And hard our comrades' lot. 
 But in the answering cheer they raise 
 
 Their woes are all forgot : 
 No more they reck of hunger, cold, 
 
 And suffering sore and long ; 
 Each haggard eye gleams bright and bold. 
 
 Each quailing heart beats strong, 
 ' Suvorofif' hark ! ' Suvoroflf,' till 
 The shouts are heard in Ismail. 
 
 ' Now yield thee, Aidos Mehemet, 
 
 And yield ere set of sun : 
 The fish that's in the fisher's net 
 
 Its fate as soon might shun.' 
 But ere that winter sun is low 
 
 Hath Aidos answer given, 
 'The Danube flood shall cease to flow, 
 
 The stars shall fall from heaven. 
 Ere thou, to work the she-wolfs will, 
 Set foot in sacred Ismail.' 
 
 As each man fiercely clutched his sword 
 While thus the herald spoke. 
 
 The silence of the council-board 
 Our youngest captain broke : 
 
 ' Arise ! to arms ! delay 's disgrace, 
 
 Let's take the town or die.'
 
 THE SACK OF ISMAIL 17 
 
 Suvoroff kissed him on the face 
 
 And cried exultingly : 
 ' To-day for prayer, the next for drill,* 
 The third day woe to Ismail ! ' 
 
 The third day yet was darkness, when 
 
 Heaven blazed with rushing light ; 
 Again the signal, and again 
 
 The rocket's fiery flight ; 
 Then, in the after hush, you heard 
 
 A mustering army's hum, 
 And ere the dreaming Turk has stirred, 
 
 Right on his lair we come, 
 And all the darkling air we fill 
 With shouts of ' Death or Ismail.' 
 
 Our General pointed to the fosse : 
 
 ' My lads, the ditch is deep, 
 But he who wins his way across 
 
 Has harvest rich to reap. 
 And were the trench as trenches ten, 
 
 And twice as high the wall. 
 Yet would ye quit yourselves like men 
 
 That fail not though they fall. 
 Sons of my heart ! your oath fulfil, 
 On, on with me, for Ismail ! ' 
 
 Then all along those lines of fire 
 
 To arms the Moslem flew, 
 Afar the cannon roared, and, nigher, 
 
 A hundred bugles blew ; 
 And now the cross is backward borne. 
 
 And now the crescent wanes. 
 And fast the wounded fall, as corn 
 
 Levelled by summer rains, 
 
 2
 
 i8 
 
 And, o'er their comrades' corpses, still 
 The stormers rush on Ismail. 
 
 That livelong day the tide of war 
 
 Now ebbed, now flowed, in blood, 
 And still the Turk's swift scimitar 
 
 The Cossack's lance withstood : 
 They sallied from the Bender Gate, 
 
 They thrust our ladders low, 
 Like fiends they fought us, hate for hate, 
 
 Like soldiers, blow for blow, 
 But, when the stars rose calm and still, 
 Our standard waved o'er Ismail. 
 
 O shining stars, what sights of dread 
 
 Ye watched, ere broke the morn : 
 The tears by weeping women shed, 
 
 The conqueror's brutal scorn. 
 The babe slain at the mother's breast, 
 
 The human beast of prey 
 Which raging, roamed, and would not rest 
 
 With strength still left to slay. 
 With strength to slay, and blood to spill- 
 Woe and alas for Ismail ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 THE MUHARRAM MYSTERY-PLAY.^ 
 Hang the mirrors round the wall, 
 Trim the lamps and light them all. 
 O'er the great white laver's rim 
 Pour in water to the brim, 
 Fire the brazier heaped with pine : 
 Hossein ! Hossein ! 
 Ah, ah, Hossein !
 
 THE MUHARRAM MYSTERY-PLAY 19 
 
 All is ordered well ; advance, 
 Ye who lead the sacred dance, 
 Circling-wise be your array, 
 Leftward let your circle sway : 
 Allah lend you aid benign ! 
 Hossein ! Hossein ! 
 Ah, ah, Hossein ! 
 
 Let not hp or footstep fail, 
 Loud and louder raise your wail. 
 Fast and faster beat the breast, 
 Beat and die, — your death is blest : 
 Drunk ye are, but not with wine : 
 Hossein ! Hossein ! 
 Ah, ah, Hossein ! 
 
 Not with wine your flesh is red. 
 Blest the blood your veins have shed, 
 Fallen are some that shall not rise. 
 Fallen, but passed to Paradise. 
 Now your mystic ring untwine : 
 Hossein ! Hossein ! 
 Ah, ah, Hossein ! 
 
 Lift your eyes up from the dust, 
 Lo ! your Lord in whom ye trust, 
 He is marching for the war. 
 Naked shines his scimitar. 
 Fair his face, his form divine. 
 Hossein ! Hossein ! 
 Ah, ah, Hossein !
 
 20 THE MUHARRAM MYSTERY-PLAY 
 
 See his weeping children kneel : 
 Sore and sad their last appeal : 
 ' Hast thou then thy babes forgot ? 
 Leave them not, oh, leave them not : 
 All our lives are one with thine. 
 Hossein ! Hossein ! 
 Ah, ah, Hossein ! ' 
 
 Who is she that makes no moan. 
 Veiled and still as carven stone ? 
 ' Leave thee ! — nay, 'tis Allah's will, 
 Allah's hest must all fulfil, 
 Wife, thy rebel love resign.' 
 Hossein ! Hossein ! 
 Ah, ah, Hossein ! 
 
 Changed the scene — our Lord is dead. 
 All the traitor's work has sped. 
 Throng we to the rampart-gate, 
 There the funeral pomp to wait, 
 Soon its bickering spears will shine : 
 Hossein ! Hossein ! 
 Ah, ah, Hossein ! 
 
 Lo ! the bier, and lo ! his son 
 Clasps him as he lies thereon, 
 And a dove beside him clings 
 White and lovely, but its wings 
 Spots of blood incarnadine : 
 Hossein ! Hossein ! 
 Ah, ah, Hossein !
 
 21 
 
 Wild our wail, and hoarse our cries, 
 Tears rush from our strairiing eyes ; 
 Booth and stall and alley throb 
 With the storm of shriek and sob 
 Echoing on from line to line : 
 Hossein ! Hossein ! 
 Ah, ah, Hossein ! 
 
 Prince and Hero, fare thee well ! 
 Be thy slayer accurst in hell ! 
 Thee the glorious Houris greet, 
 Thee shall Islam's sorrow sweet 
 In its heart of hearts enshrine ! 
 Hossein ! Hossein ! 
 Ah, ah, Hossein ! 
 
 VII. 
 THE REGIMENT'S RETURN. 
 What sets the steeples reeling 
 With the mad bells pealing ? 
 What stirs the exulting cheering that is rising to a roar ? 
 Why is every man forsaking 
 His forgotten task, and making 
 From the counter and the market to the shore ? 
 'Tis the bugling and the drumming 
 That tells the lads are coming, 
 Are coming, are coming 
 From the war. 
 
 Oh, the weary months of waiting ! 
 Oh, the weeping, and the hating 
 Those that ruled the bloody game, 
 And the strong who did the wrong ! 
 Theirs the crime, be theirs the shame !
 
 22 THE REGIMENT'S RETURN 
 
 But to those that only knew 
 What a soldier's sword should do, 
 Our thanksgiving and honour we outpour, 
 As we welcome them coming, 
 The gallant lads coming, 
 Our own lads coming 
 From the war. 
 
 Quick, take your stand, 
 To shake them by the hand 
 As they step fast by, 
 'Mid the glory of July, 
 In the old, bold manner, 
 — Tossing feather, blowing banner, 
 Rent and reddened as we knew it not of yore,— 
 From a score of battles coming, 
 With their tattered colours coming, 
 The gallant lads coming 
 From the war ! 
 
 With a swinging tramp they go, 
 
 Row by row, 
 And a hundred march as one. 
 All the scabbards and the epaulettes a-glitter in the 
 
 sun. 
 All the handkerchiefs a-flutter from each window and 
 door : 
 Little Jack upon your shoulder 
 Will remember, when he's older, 
 How he saw the lads coming. 
 The gallant lads coming, 
 The glad lads coming 
 From the war.
 
 Who is she that falls a-weeping 
 For a lover not returning ? 
 Oh, shame, and still your yearning, 
 Be proud of him who's sleeping ! 
 You have heard his glorious story. 
 Would you rob him of his glory. 
 Of the glory he has won for evermore ? 
 But for him they'd not be coming, 
 
 To-day not be coming, 
 
 The happy lads coming 
 From the war. 
 They pass, and all the cheering 
 Is dying from our hearing 
 With the martial music's sound 
 And the tramp that shook the ground ; 
 And the crying crowds which press them, 
 With a last ' God bless them,' 
 Scatter, each man to his calling as before. 
 But with hearts beating higher. 
 And eyes still afire, 
 That saw the lads coming. 
 The gallant lads coming. 
 
 The dear lads coming 
 From the war. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 AN INVOCATION. 
 
 O Snow, cease snowing, 
 O East, cease blowing : 
 Come, welcomest, best 
 Soft Wind of the West, 
 Unfetter, unharden 
 Our frost-fast garden,
 
 24 AN INVOCATION 
 
 Come and unfold 
 
 — Firstling of Spring — 
 
 The Aconite's gold, 
 And the goldener blaze 
 That the Crocus displays ; 
 With thy small, warm, slow drops, 
 Come, waken the Snowdrops ; 
 Bid Scilla break through 
 
 Her fostering earth 
 
 To earliest birth 
 Of heavenliest blue : 
 
 Come, and fill up, 
 
 Fill to the brink, 
 
 Purple and pink 
 
 Hepatica's cup ; 
 
 Let Arabis show 
 A brighter, whiter, delightfuller snow. 
 
 Into a pleasance 
 Change by thy presence 
 
 Hedgerow and lane, 
 That, ev'n where the shade is. 
 Glad Lords and Ladies 
 
 Hail thee again : 
 
 Loosen the chain 
 
 That winter has set 
 On Primrose, Anemone, Violet ; 
 To half-hid Daffodil 
 
 Whisper thy will ; 
 Make green grass greener still, 
 And crimsoner the crimson-petalled Daisies ; 
 So shall the little children swell thy praises.
 
 25 
 
 Soon to thy calling 
 The Swallow 
 Will follow, 
 And rising and falling 
 On wings like its song 
 The Lark to the heavens will earth's rapture prolong ; 
 And the Rooks will be breaking 
 The twigs for nest-making, 
 ' Caw, caw ! ' a busy note 
 Thick bursting from each throat : 
 And gently and low as with love half-aswoon 
 The Ringdove will croon : 
 And the Plover 
 Will hover 
 Aloft as a lure, 
 That no eye discover 
 Her nest on the moor : 
 And over and over 
 Bold Blackbird and Thrush will be trilling and trying 
 The music to set all their sweethearts a-sighing. 
 Come then, and mock not our hope grown stronger. 
 Linger no longer, 
 O welcomest, best 
 Soft Wind of the West ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 A STREET CRY. 
 
 ' Fresh watercresses ! ' 
 ' Fine fresh watercresses ! ' 
 
 Rhythmical, sweet. 
 
 In the dust and the heat, 
 And the reek that oppresses 
 
 The long stone street,
 
 26 A STREET CRY 
 
 Echoes her cry 
 As the girl goes by : 
 
 Nearer, you hear her 
 Unwearied persistence, 
 Till far in the distance 
 The notes of it die. 
 
 And one, who has lain 
 
 Long vigil keeping, 
 Through days that were pleasureless, 
 Nights that were measureless. 
 
 Mazes of fever 
 And mists of the brain, 
 
 Wakes from brief sleeping, 
 And smiles as she passes, 
 
 Smiles, and again 
 
 Slumbers, to weave her 
 
 Cry into his dreams : 
 
 And, dreaming, he seems, 
 
 In his dear land of Devon, 
 Stretched on green grasses 
 
 Beneath its blue heaven, 
 
 By well-beloved streams, 
 
 Crystalline, pure 
 
 From the Tor and the Moor, 
 
 With laughter and leap 
 
 Across meadow and lea 
 
 Rushing down to the sea. 
 
 How it lives in his sleep — 
 
 All the flash and the dance 
 
 Where the lithe minnows play 
 In shallow and hollow, 
 
 And jewelled wings glance 
 At the sweep of the swallow.
 
 27 
 
 And long mosses sway 
 Far down in the cool 
 Sudden depth of the pool ! 
 And the whitethorn has made 
 Its precinct of shade 
 For the bank's mimic bay, 
 The whitethorn— and in it 
 Is lilting the linnet, 
 Unstayed, unafraid, 
 All the midsummer day, 
 Till sunset-glow flushes 
 The points of the rushes. 
 Sunset ! 'tis streaming 
 Into his chamber 
 In scarlet and amber : 
 No dream he is dreaming, 
 But wakes from his vision 
 Unfevered, unaching, 
 (O rapture of waking, 
 O moment Elysian !), 
 And, smiling, he blesses 
 The girl with the cresses. 
 
 X. 
 
 STONE-BROKE. 
 Two battered hurdles, 
 
 A heap of stones, 
 A hayband wrapping 
 
 The hurdles' bones. 
 A sack in tatters, 
 
 And in it thrust 
 Straw half rotten. 
 
 And grass half dust.
 
 28 STONE-BROKE 
 
 There, through the autumn, 
 A grey old man 
 
 Began to hammer 
 Ere day began ; 
 
 And there, while hngered 
 
 A ray of hght, 
 He sat and hammered 
 
 From dawn till night. 
 
 And through December 
 He hammered still, 
 
 Though cold, and ragged. 
 And old, and ill. 
 
 ' The House ? ' 'No, better 
 
 To die instead, 
 Or go on living 
 
 On naught but bread.' 
 
 And so through all of 
 The long grim frost 
 
 He worked, as grimly, 
 Counting the cost. 
 
 The windy wayside 
 Was bare and bleak. 
 
 The icy East blew 
 Week after week. 
 
 His eyes grew dimmer, 
 His back more bent, 
 
 Slower and slower 
 His hammer went. 
 
 But he hammered early. 
 He hammered late.
 
 29 
 
 Till his heap had gathered 
 
 To yonder gate. 
 He hammered, hammered 
 
 Till all was done, 
 The whole heap finished 
 
 To its last stone. 
 
 The last stone broken, 
 
 He did not stir : 
 He seemed a watcher 
 
 Or listener. 
 
 He sat, nor heeded 
 
 The cold snows blown — 
 His own heart broken. 
 
 Himself a stone. 
 
 XL 
 
 MORTMAIN. 
 ' Let the dead past,' who hath said, 
 
 ' Bury its dead ' ? 
 The past is present with us still 
 
 For well or ill : 
 And still and still will memories, 
 
 Like ghosts, arise. 
 Of far-off hours with rapture fain 
 
 Or scarred with pain : 
 Familiar footsteps on the floor 
 
 Sound as of yore. 
 The door-hinge turns, and lo ! there stands, 
 
 With outstretched hands, 
 One who, it seems, just now had left 
 
 You unbereft.
 
 30 MORTMAIN 
 
 And close you clasp in your embrace 
 
 A mother's face, 
 — With that dear gaze of yearning care, 
 
 Half love, half prayer — 
 Or sister's, or, as once she smiled, 
 
 A little child 
 Who, after, glorified your life, 
 
 As worshipped wife : 
 Till poor seems all that's left of bliss 
 
 By what you miss. 
 Or darker visions of the night 
 
 Your soul affright, 
 And ' Take, O God,' your pale lips pray, 
 
 ' Those eyes away. 
 Those stern eyes, with the dreadful stare 
 
 Of fierce despair.' 
 You wronged that man, you stole his fame. 
 
 You smirched his name, 
 Took all he gave, then passed him by, 
 
 Or let him lie 
 — Poor Lazarus — while at your doors 
 
 Dogs licked his sores. 
 Or else, yourself, with sad self-scorn. 
 
 You see re-born. 
 And shrink, beholding in a son 
 
 Deeds you have done : 
 In vain you dreamt long years would cleanse 
 
 Your old offence, 
 And how upbraid him, when the mud 
 
 Was in his blood? 
 Your reckless rage, your sullen mood. 
 
 Your will that stood 
 Infirm, and straight to pleasure's charms 
 
 Laid down its arms,
 
 MORTMAIN 31 
 
 You own in him, with doubled force 
 
 Of old remorse. 
 Ah, who shall say what agonies 
 
 And stifled cries 
 Are his, who struggling with his past 
 
 Has learnt at last 
 The strife is vain, and he cannot 
 
 Relax one jot 
 The serpent coils still tightening, 
 
 That round him cling ! 
 If haply he could right old wrongs, 
 
 Perchance he longs 
 To publish in the market-place 
 
 His hid disgrace. 
 And stand forth by some Hester Prynne, 
 
 With all her sin 
 (Made his) emblazoned on her breast. 
 
 Scarlet, confessed : 
 But shame were not atonement — nay, 
 
 'Twere worse that way, 
 And should the sower own the seed 
 
 'Twould spread the weed : 
 He can but bear as best he can 
 
 His own soul's ban. 
 Abiding in the gathering gloom 
 
 Relentless doom. 
 Whatever snow-bright wonderland 
 
 His eyes once scanned. 
 With radiant confidence to climb 
 
 Its peaks sublime, 
 He sees no more, no more may wrest 
 
 From life its best, 
 But slow steps on the sands must set 
 
 Of vain regret.
 
 32 MORTMAIN 
 
 And grope for polestar, grown for him 
 
 Fitful and dim. 
 What's left him then ?— This, not to be 
 
 A Pharisee, 
 And not forget sloughed sins, as might 
 
 The hypocrite ; 
 To cast no stone, to swell no cry 
 
 Of 'Crucify': 
 And should men in his praises speak 
 
 Of strength (how weak !) 
 To hug the vulture at his breast 
 
 As welcome guest. 
 It may be he shall never feel 
 
 Will fused to steel, 
 Nor ever, all a lifetime through. 
 
 Faults done undo, 
 Nor ever know a heart so sure 
 
 And self-secure, 
 That, should temptation, twenty-fold 
 
 Its strength of old, 
 Assail him, yet would guard the gate 
 
 Inviolate. 
 But, ev'n as seven years mould afresh 
 
 A man's whole flesh, 
 The coward soul may bold become 
 
 For martyrdom, 
 The sordid soar, the fraudful prize 
 
 Truth more than lies. 
 So, though the past be unforgot 
 
 And buried not. 
 The wider wave of aftertime 
 
 May purge its slime, 
 And — so men strive — howe'er they fall, 
 
 There's hope for all.
 
 33 
 
 XII. 
 
 ave domine. 
 Father. 
 At last 'tis come : ye heard our Jailer's words. 
 One hour or less of life, and lo ! 'tis ours, 
 The crown of glory incorruptible. 
 Methinks already I behold the gates 
 Of pearl, the golden streets, the wall all gems, 
 And glorious companies of Shining Ones 
 Descending from the City of our God 
 To bid us welcome, when we have put off 
 This mortal for our immortality. 
 I thank thee, O my God, for all Thy grace, 
 And chiefly that Thou boldest these my sons, 
 —Bone of my bone and heart-blood of my heart,— 
 Worthy, with me, to be Thy witnesses. 
 Come, then, my children, let us praise the Lord 
 That He hath chosen us, and with His praise 
 Still on our lips, exulting wait our call 
 To the arena. 
 
 Son. 
 
 Father, hark ! that roar 
 Unmans me, 'tis the Libyan lion's note. 
 And I bethink me how I heard it first. 
 And how first saw the beast, and what befell. 
 'Twas midsummer, and by the upland spring 
 Our flocks were well-nigh watered, and, forespent, 
 Under the shadow of a giant oak 
 Which edged th' adjacent forest, drowsing, lay 
 Our mother's brother. Brooding sultriness 
 Fevered the air with taint of coming storm, 
 
 3
 
 oA AVE DOMINE 
 
 I 
 And 'neath black clouds the sun sank sullenly : ' 
 
 I watched them, wondering where the storm would 
 
 break, 
 
 When lo ! I saw the thicket stir, and forth, 
 
 Roaring, as if indeed the sky were riven, 
 
 Sprang, with the splendour of a thunderbolt 
 
 Out of a quiet heaven, the forest beast. 
 
 His lurid eyes shot sparks of fell green fire. 
 
 And menace heaped the masses of his mane. 
 
 As on our kinsman's form resistlessly 
 
 He lit, and, gripping, bore him forestward : 
 
 Oh, what a shriek it was which clove the night ! 
 
 And swift we snatched our arms and followed him, 
 
 Still tracking him by dreadful gouts of blood. 
 
 And once we saw him with his burden dropped 
 
 Mumbling it as a house-cat mouths a mouse. 
 
 And as he sighted us, and gripped again. 
 
 Growling, we heard the horrid crunch of bones. 
 
 And once and twice again that woeful shriek, 
 
 And, though through all that night we followed him. 
 
 We saw him not nor heard him any more. 
 
 Oh, father, I am young, how shall I front 
 
 That fate, unflinching, when to dream of it 
 
 Ev'n now turns sleep to madness ? Lo ! I see 
 
 The bars drop, and the lion leap, and all 
 
 The heathen throng with pitiless set eyes 
 
 Aflame with lust of blood. Oh, father ! 
 
 Thy face, I know, will then turn heavenwards. 
 
 And tranquilly— as when at eventide 
 
 Thou kneltest on the desert sands, alone, 
 
 In olden days— thy lips will breathe the prayer 
 
 ' Of Him who pleaded for His murderers, 
 
 ' Forgive them, for they know not what they do.'
 
 AVE DOMINE 35 
 
 But I shall cower, and wail, and shame myself 
 And thee, and do dishonour to our God. 
 
 Father. 
 Courage ! my son ; it shall be given thee then 
 What thou shalt do, yea, even in that hour 
 Shall courage fill thee other than thine own. 
 And by thy side shall stand the Anointed One, 
 To other eyes than thine invisible, 
 Smiling, and in His hands the Crown and Palm, 
 And swiftly, in the twinkling of an eye. 
 All pain shall pass to rapture, and the yells 
 Soften to angel-songs and harps of heaven. 
 Wherefore, my son, and all my sons, once more 
 Ere yet the call comes, with united voice 
 Uplift the strain I taught you yesternight. 
 Not doubting that our God will grant our prayer. 
 
 Lord God of Sabaoth, Thou 
 Hearest prayer, we pray Thee now 
 Leave us not in our distress. 
 Help us in our helplessness : 
 When from all the Circus come 
 Yells that mock our martyrdom. 
 When the furious, glowering beast 
 Gloats upon his quivering feast. 
 By each torment of Thy cross 
 Teach us then that life were loss, 
 By each memory of Thy pain 
 Teach us that to die is gain. 
 When we shrink from claw and fang, 
 Teach us, thou that knew'st the pang 
 Of the spear that pierced Thy side, 
 Of the nail that crucified,
 
 36 
 
 Yea, by all Thine agony, 
 Teach Thy servants how to die. 
 Lord God of Sabaoth, Thou 
 God that hearest, hear us now ! 
 
 Lord God of Sabaoth, hear, 
 
 Comfort us, and calm our fear : 
 
 We would bear, like Thee, the rude 
 
 Railing of the multitude : 
 
 Patiently, as Thou hast worn. 
 
 We would wear Thy crown of thorn : 
 
 We would share Thy bloody sweat, 
 
 Watch with Thee on Olivet : 
 
 From Thy scourge we would not shrink, 
 
 Of thy bitter cup would drink : 
 
 But our flesh is faint and frail, 
 
 Help us, lest our hearts should quail : 
 
 By Thine own soul-stricken plea 
 
 'Why hast Thou forsaken Me?' 
 
 Leave us not, sweet Saviour, lest. 
 
 If we lean not on Thy breast, 
 
 Mortal fear our faith should quell 
 
 In the strife with Death and Hell : 
 
 Aid us, save us from such fear : 
 
 Lord God of Sabaoth, hear ! 
 
 Jailer. Christians, come forth ! They clamour for 
 you. Come ! 
 
 XIIL 
 
 PROVERBS XXII. 2. 
 
 Look, friends, for awhile, with me 
 From my casement on the quay.
 
 PROVERBS XXII. 2 37 
 
 Leaning by the lamp-post stands 
 A silent man, with sinewy hands, 
 
 With sinewy hands, but ashen face, 
 On it hunger's haggard trace. 
 
 Like a death-knell to his soul 
 Sounds the ceaseless carriage-roll. 
 
 He can see, as each goes by, 
 Ladies loll luxuriously : 
 
 Tiny greyhounds, sleepy pugs 
 Swaddled, on their laps, in rugs : 
 
 Footman, coachman, caped in fur, 
 Madam's self in miniver : 
 
 Every shop a flare of light. 
 
 With the wide world's riches dight. 
 
 And the fresh-lit lamps afar 
 Blazing, semicircular. 
 
 Tier on tier, and seaword borne 
 To the crescent's farthest horn. 
 
 As he lingers on the quay. 
 By the sullen-plunging sea, 
 
 Hark ! the band begins to play, 
 — Brisk and tuneful minstrels they : 
 
 To the merry measure set. 
 Harp and horn and clarionet. 
 
 Ringing from the hills around. 
 Cheer the fisher, seaward-bound. 
 
 With their rising, falling notes. 
 Rising, falling, with the boats.
 
 38 PROVERBS XXII. 2 
 
 But the song of seraphim 
 Were but jangled noise to him : 
 
 Drowned seem all sweet sounds to be 
 In the sullen-plunging sea. 
 
 Otherwhere his thoughts have flown, 
 To the room he calls his own, 
 
 Where a fever-wasted wife 
 Feeds an infant with her life : 
 
 Where, beside them, pine for bread 
 Other little ones half dead : 
 
 Where through rotting roof and door 
 Rain and snow of winter pour. 
 
 And the only music known 
 Is the night-wind's monotone. 
 
 Now the moon is overcast — 
 Now the man has moved at last, 
 
 Muttering— is it prayer or curse? 
 Prayer or curse, the Universe 
 
 Echoes it since time was young, 
 Echoes it in every tongue : 
 
 Hope has never hushed it once, 
 That sad voice, of millions 
 
 Crushed by fate's wheels ironshod. 
 Still upbraiding a deaf God.
 
 39 
 
 XIV. 
 
 A LAST CLIMB. 
 
 Once more, O Giant of Hills, 
 
 Granite-strewn, grey with the storms 
 
 And ruin of infinite time, 
 
 I stand on thy summit, and gaze 
 
 On the pageant outspread at my feet. 
 
 Fairer than ever the scene 
 
 To eyes that shall see it no more : 
 
 Blue is the far-flashing sea, 
 
 Blue every motionless tarn. 
 
 Heaven has no blot on its blue : 
 
 Thinly a wreath, as of smoke, 
 
 Wraps one peak in its folds, 
 
 Leaving the crest of it clear : 
 
 Everywhere else is the blaze 
 
 Of an all-irresistible sun, 
 
 Rain-released, radiant, supreme. 
 
 Hail to thee, life-giving Hill, 
 
 Healer austere and august 
 
 Of the soul that has pined in the plain ! 
 
 Sharp thine elixir and strong, 
 
 Blent of the winds and the sea 1 
 
 Weary no longer, I hail, 
 
 In the triumph of overcome toil. 
 
 Splendour of distances, deep 
 
 Draughts of ineffable air. 
 
 Vigour of fast-ebbing strength, 
 
 Freshness of far-away years, 
 
 Youthfuller fancy, return. 
 
 Yea, O thou Ancient of Days, 
 
 In the might of thine age I am young,
 
 40 A LAST CLIMB 
 
 Strong in the strength of thy rocks, 
 Glad, as when first as a boy 
 All of thy vision I saw, 
 — And rejoiced — as I see it to-day 
 Solemn, majestic, unchanged : 
 Little thou knowest of change. 
 Years are as moments to thee, 
 Gauntly thou fightest the frost, 
 Grimly deridest the rain. 
 Even the lightnings unleashed 
 Strike thee and scarce leave a scar ; 
 Drear is thy warfare and lone, 
 Seldom the song of a bird, 
 Seldom the lowing of kine 
 And the manifold cries of the vale 
 Rise to thy kingdom of cloud : 
 Even the dizzy cascade 
 Poised by yon emulous heights 
 Over the roaring ravine 
 Seems but the silence of snow 
 Sun-scorning, waterless, dumb : 
 Only the elements' voice 
 Visits thee — voice of the heaven. 
 Voice of the spheres in concent, 
 Voice of the discord of storms : 
 And to the spirit of man 
 Surely a note of that voice 
 Stored in thy mystical stones 
 Speaks, and it answers, and knows 
 Life elemental its own. 
 Life that was life before birth. 
 Life that with death cannot die. 
 Yea, in thy presence sublime.
 
 41 
 
 All of man's being responds 
 
 Twofold in rapture to thine, 
 
 Rapture of sense, in the pomps 
 
 Of the earth and the sea and the sky. 
 
 Rapture unknown to the flesh, 
 
 Passing all measure of words, 
 
 As of one who should walk for a while, 
 
 Translated, transfigured, entranced, 
 
 Understanding the secret of Time, 
 
 Unamazed by the tears of the world. 
 
 In heaven of the heavens, with a God. 
 
 Hill that I love, may I still. 
 Yielding my sleep to thy spells. 
 Commune with thee in my dreams ! 
 Now 'tis the hour of farewell ; 
 Slowly the shadows advance, 
 Slowly thy garment of light 
 Leaves thee, and lake after lake, 
 Peak after peak disappears, 
 And the sea is a phantom of mist, 
 As I leave thee alone with the night. 
 
 XV. 
 
 A READING OF THE HECUBA. 
 
 Philopolis, an Athenian, loq. 
 
 I. 
 This is the day and this the hour. 
 
 The sun 
 In all the gardens of the palaces 
 Of Rome hath half assuaged his noonday heat : 
 Pleasant it is amid the ilices, 
 In hearing of the mellow fountain-plash. 
 To miss the throbbing streets, the glare and roar
 
 42 A READING OF THE HECUBA 
 
 Of the great Forum : and, an hour or two, 
 To dream that this is Athens, this the slope 
 Of blossoming Hymettus, and with eyes 
 Half-closed to think the light between the leaves 
 Ilissus twinkling, not the sullen roll 
 Of yellow Tiber : and, as yonder shafts 
 Gleam from the sunset on the distant hills, 
 To fancy those far spaces the blue sea 
 By fresh breeze blown to foam round Salamis. 
 
 Athens, home divine of godlike men. 
 Mother ! when shall I see, no more in dreams, 
 Thy sun, and seas, and glorious shrines again ? 
 This Rome is as the body to the mind : 
 
 1 loathe this barbarous pomp, these sottish feasts, 
 These trampling Triumphs, and these Senators, 
 Tyrants to all beneath them, supple slaves 
 
 To the grim lord of all, Tiberius. 
 
 Yesterday, as I chanted a sweet song 
 
 Of Sappho in the moonlight, a thick voice. 
 
 Dull with the fumes of gross Falernian, 
 
 Scoffed at me, ' Greek, the glory of thy bard 
 
 Must pale in lustier presence : stay that strain, 
 
 And listen to our laughing Satirist, 
 
 Gay minstrel of the many-metred Ode ! ' 
 
 And then he hummed a tinkling city-song — 
 
 Metallic, unmelodious, like our strains 
 
 As note of sparrow is to nightingale's. 
 
 Oh, had he heard the full-mouthed harmony 
 
 Of our immortal masters, even he 
 
 In that ethereal music had awoke 
 
 To nobler sense. But I, Philopolis, 
 
 Was fired to magnify our mighty names — 
 
 ^schylus, Sophocles, Euripides,
 
 A READING OF THE HECUBA 43 
 
 Kings crowned on golden thrones of Tragedy : 
 With many another singer of our race, 
 Of strength sublime or lyric loveliness — 
 Tyrtaeus, who from Spartan flint struck fire, 
 And Pindar, bugle-voice of listed Thebes, 
 Simonides — one name of double fame — 
 Alcasus, Sappho, and the sire of all, 
 Blind Homer, with a sea-like roll of sound 
 Thundering forth his grand hexameter. 
 And then my patron's children, bold-eyed boys, 
 Tasting the sweet cup of Hellenic song 
 Often ere this by sips, became athirst 
 For larger draughts : and I am pledged to-day, 
 This summer evening on the pleasant sward, 
 At such length as the allotted hour allows, 
 To read from one of our old Dramatists, 
 As best I may, in this rude tongue of Rome. 
 
 Sit down, Sirs, on the honey-scented grass. 
 
 And listen to the tale of Hecuba, 
 
 Most tragic of all tragedies. And first 
 
 Consider well the pathos of the play : 
 
 Troy-town hath fallen by fire, Troy's king is dead : 
 
 And in some harbour of the Chersonese 
 
 Th' Achaean fleet lies waiting for fair wind 
 
 To waft them home to Hellas. In the tents 
 
 Many a captive woman strains her eyes 
 
 To the dim shore, where, from their burning homes, 
 
 Rises to heaven the rolling smoke of Troy : 
 
 And Queen of these is Hecuba, bereaved 
 
 Of many a dear one and all queenliness. 
 
 But only half heart-broken. Still she clings 
 
 To life and two fair children, one a boy,
 
 44 A READING OF THE HECUBA 
 
 Her youngest, Polydorus, fled to Thrace, 
 
 One here, a budding girl, Polyxena. 
 
 This verse tells how she lost the twain of them, 
 
 And how avenged the murder of her son. 
 
 And hark ! with what a deep melodious roll, 
 
 Solemn sonorous vowel-sound, begins 
 
 The prelude to this mournful history : 
 
 "Hkw, veKpSiv Kev9fJi.(i)va koX (tkotov irvX.a<i 
 
 XiTTwv, Lv "Aiorys ^(upts w/ctcrTai ^ewv, 
 
 Meet utterance for a phantom-voice to make. 
 
 II. 
 
 And so the tale is told. And when was told 
 So sad a tale with such soft melody ? 
 The rich and wailing music of the chords 
 Bespeaks, Sirs, think ye not, a master's hand. 
 Whose sweet low minor note shall fill the world 
 And echo through the ages ? Deathless love 
 In all hearts shall enshrine the glorious girl 
 Who shrank from shame but smiled in Death's stern 
 
 eyes. 
 Sorrowing only for a mother's woe. 
 And she the mother ! Often in my dreams 
 I see her rise, a vision terrible. 
 The woman slowly lost to womanhood, 
 The tigress-mother maddening for her whelps, 
 The poor weak slave transformed appallingly 
 To grandeur by the passion of revenge. 
 And then slinks by that other figure, king 
 Only in name, eternal type of men — 
 Hypocrites even to their own heart's heart — 
 Who love to take the tide-flow, and secure 
 Ride on its crest to sleek successfulness,
 
 A READING OF THE HECUBA 45 
 
 But stem the current — not to win high heaven ! 
 Who only fear one God— the popular voice, 
 Who only know one law — propriety, 
 And deem prosperity and virtue one : 
 Mean herd, and richest-pastured for all time. 
 Or else, still dreaming, I behold a face, 
 Of clear-cut, cold, and cruel lineaments. 
 Lit treacherously by a subtle smile, 
 And know Odysseus, forger of false keys 
 To unlock the coffers of all other minds 
 To his own profit : glibly balancing 
 The yeas and nays of every argument 
 With one set purpose : fluent to produce 
 Disinterested proof that wrong is right. 
 And patriotic pleas for selfishness : 
 Whom only traitors trust. 
 
 Or else once more, 
 I hear a hollow phantom-voice, or see 
 Once more the bright youth and the sacred maid 
 Stand at the altar, picturing for men 
 Relentless force and dauntless innocence. 
 And then faint strains of choral music float 
 Silvery-soft across the dreadful sound 
 Of the knife falling, and I wake to life : 
 Yet wake not, neither shall the world awake. 
 So as to break loose from the magic spell 
 Woven by thee, divine Euripides ! 
 The centuries pass, the kingdoms wax and wane, 
 Hellas to-day, to-morrow, Sirs, maybe, 
 E'en this proud city, mistress of mankind ; 
 But still the master's words shall live in power. 
 To sway our conquerors' conquerors, and to charm 
 Many a wild race now without a name.
 
 46 
 XVI. 
 
 A STROLL IN SPRING. 
 
 Cups of yellow, 
 Bells of blue, 
 Hyacinth and cowslip hue : — 
 Wiser wits may sort in classes 
 — Each wild beauty by its fellow — 
 
 All the small stars peeping through 
 The inextricable mazes 
 Of the labyrinthine grasses 
 And innumerable daisies : 
 I'm content that all I know is 
 All the grassy way I go is 
 Gemmed with yellow, 
 Bright with blue. 
 
 Swift and Swallow, 
 Flying breeze. 
 Twinkling twigs on all the trees, 
 That's a text which needs no teacher, 
 That's a theme which all may follow : 
 
 Science, let me dream at ease 
 With what honey-sweet advances 
 Sun and shower each leafy creature 
 Woo to leave its winter trances : 
 I'm content, for all your scorning. 
 Just to watch, this April morning, 
 Swift and Swallow, 
 Flying breeze. 
 
 I
 
 47 
 
 XVII. 
 
 ODIOSO CONCITA VENTO AEQUORA. 
 No charm thou hast for me, O Sea, in storms : 
 Fell children are they of the self-same Fate 
 Which unappeased and uncompassionate 
 Works all the woe that all the world deforms, 
 And blights each generous impulse ere it warms 
 Man's soul, thereby left doubly desperate, 
 As owing very existence to the hate 
 And deathful conflict of life's teeming swarms. 
 But when thy waves are lulled to halcyon calm, 
 And all the warring winds have fallen asleep, 
 And on thy soft breast sea-birds rise and fall. 
 Thy whispers soothe me like some solemn psalm 
 Announcing easeful rest to them that weep, 
 To blind eyes light, eternal life to all. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 THE TRUE LOVE. 
 
 Love, they say, is a beautiful boy. 
 
 With wanton wile and a roguish smile, 
 And the pain of his dart has a pleasant smart, 
 And sighs are his music, and tears his toy : 
 
 But Love, Love, Love, 
 Thou radiantest, rarest 
 Of spirits, and fairest. 
 They but debase thee, 
 Defame and deface thee. 
 Blending earth's air with thine ether above ; 
 Hast thou but touched with thy fire thine adorer. 
 Faith beckons surer. 
 Passion is purer,
 
 48 
 
 Truth may have quailed, but thy breath will restore 
 
 her, 
 They that renounce gather strength for the trial, 
 Self is self-slain in the soul's self-denial, 
 
 Sacreder, dearer 
 
 Light, though austerer, 
 Shines through the myths of the old from the new 
 Love, 
 
 Known for the true Love, 
 Love that alone has the strength to subdue love. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 A FEUD OF THE DESERT. 
 
 Out, and into the dark, 
 Horse, with thy load. 
 Out, and into the dark. 
 On thy dark road : 
 Horse of my heart, thou speedest fast and far. 
 With naught to guide thy rider but the dim North 
 Star. 
 
 Grim and short were our words, 
 
 Fierce was the fight. 
 Sharp was the clash of swords, 
 Swift was our flight ; 
 Hundreds we were when yesternight began. 
 And now I ride the freeman sole of all my clan. 
 
 Wolves ! they would spare not one. 
 
 Dealers of death, 
 Slayers of wife and son ! 
 
 I held my breath,
 
 49 
 
 Watching them slay, and slay, and Ali stood 
 With red and starting eyes, and fetlocks drenched with 
 blood. 
 
 Curse on the cruel Khan, 
 
 Curse on his brood ! 
 Plague and death be the ban 
 Blasting their blood ! 
 Horse of my heart, lost pride of Candahar, 
 Away, to seek the armies of the Great White Czar ! 
 
 XX. 
 
 XPYSAYPHS KP0K02. 
 
 When Midsummer dozes, deep-drugged by its roses, 
 I have not a song I can sing to the rose, 
 
 No note I remember in sombre November 
 To mate with the bleak Autumn wind as it blows, 
 
 And singing for pleasure I echo no measure 
 Attuned to the dolour of winter-white snows. 
 
 Let others chant praises of Lilies and Daisies, 
 Or paint the proud Aster's pink, purple, and blue. 
 
 Or vaunt in their fancies bevelveted Pansies, 
 Or rave of the Daffodil drenched with the dew : 
 
 Far rarer the regions that own my allegiance, 
 Far brighter their blossom of splendider hue. 
 
 Hush, poets, no treason ! one flower of one season 
 To challenge your homage I crown as your king : 
 
 Gay gold of the Crocus, whose cresset has woke us 
 The bud and the bird to out-thrill and out-sing. 
 
 My champion I name thee, my chosen I claim thee. 
 Thou soul of the sunshine, and spirit of spring ! 
 
 4
 
 so 
 XXI. 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S SISTER.^O 
 
 I SEE them at the waterside, 
 
 The sister and the brother, 
 Two mortal spirits glorified 
 
 By love for one another. 
 By love, and by one sense that links 
 The every thought which either thinks. 
 Responsive to the self-same chords, 
 Their tongues are tuned to chiming words ; 
 They watch with sympathetic eye 
 Lake, tarn, and mountain, earth and sky, 
 And lost in kindred rapture hall 
 All loveliness of hill and dale, 
 Of sight and sound — the spring's first trill, 
 
 The daisy and the daffodil. 
 
 ' We walked along the waterside 
 
 And saw a few bright daffodils : 
 And far and farther on the shore. 
 
 Beside the woods, below the hills, 
 They grew in number more and more, 
 
 Long belts of shining daffodils : 
 They made the mossy stones their pillow 
 
 And laid their golden heads upon them, 
 And not a sunflake on the billow 
 
 Could sparkle so that it outshone them : 
 They tossed, and reeled, and danced, and seemed 
 
 (While ever the merry sunbeams streamed 
 
 Across their mystic dancing) 
 As if they verily danced with a wind 
 Blown from a land where no man sinned, 
 
 They looked so gay and glancing.'
 
 51 
 
 Ah, dear dead heart, thy fancies thrill 
 Through all thy brother's harpstrings still, 
 As fresh as any daffodil. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 AN OLD ENIGMA. 
 
 Quenched is the light of his face, 
 
 Dulled is the fire of his eye. 
 Naught can relume or replace 
 
 Life in the veins that are dry, 
 Love in the lips you embrace. 
 
 Never again shall he see 
 
 Summer or rapture of Spring, 
 Never again shall he be 
 
 Tranced as the nightingales sing — 
 Colder than Winter is he. 
 Spirit which nothing could tame, 
 
 Why art thou darkened and dumb ? 
 Hero or martyr, thy name 
 
 Should through the ages have come. 
 Lighting the world like a flame. 
 
 Longing an answer to find, 
 
 Vainly our broken hearts bleed, 
 
 Hard is the web to unwind, 
 Dark is the riddle to read, 
 
 Blindly we grope with the blind. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 A VIGNETTE OF VENICE. 
 
 No wind was on the still lagoon. 
 
 The tide was half 'twixt ebb and flow 
 
 And sailing slow a silver moon 
 Shone down upon San Spirito :
 
 52 
 
 And silent as that silver sphere 
 
 They drifted in their gondola, 
 And, drowsing, watched the gondoHer, 
 
 And, dreaming, heard his quick ' Hola ! ' 
 
 ' Hola, hola ! ' — as thunders break, 
 
 The Avenger's shouts their dreams dispel 
 
 A shriek, a fireflash o'er the lake. 
 
 And he tastes death, and she knows hell. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 AN OLD-FASHIONED SONG. 
 
 Forehead fair as falling snow, 
 
 Hands as foaming milk for whiteness, 
 
 Lips rose-red, and eyes aglow 
 With an April morning's brightness. 
 
 Voice so blithesome that you know 
 
 No lark's note to match its lightness, — 
 
 Song of mine could ne'er express 
 
 Half Lucinda's loveliness. 
 
 If she sighs the hours are sad. 
 
 If she smiles the skies shine bluer. 
 
 Heaven and Earth and Sea are glad 
 Making hushed obeisance to her. 
 
 Whispering winds, as though they had 
 All love's amorous accents, woo her, — 
 
 Ah, might I with them caress 
 
 Bright Lucinda's loveliness ! 
 
 All her ways are ways of peace. 
 
 Naught she knows of cark or cumber, 
 
 Charms for pining hearts' release 
 Hath she as the stars in number :
 
 53 
 
 Sorrows at her footstep cease, 
 
 Feverish eyes are lulled to slumber,- 
 Angels hail and mortals bless 
 Loved Lucinda's loveliness. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 EXTINCTUM CINEREM SI SULPHURE TANGAS VIVET. 
 
 They loved to madness, then there came 
 
 The madness of remorse : 
 ' Courage,' he cried, ' from depths of shame. 
 
 May spring divinest force.' 
 
 And her soul throbbed to his, as when 
 
 Her lips thrilled to his lips, 
 And innocence smiled out again 
 
 As moonlight from eclipse. 
 
 Such strength through all his accents ran 
 
 She felt she could not faint. 
 And him she burned for once, as man, 
 
 She worshipped now as saint. 
 
 Then, at a touch, his passion broke 
 
 As madly as before, 
 And scorning every word he spoke 
 
 She loved him all the more. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 APRIL 1893. 
 
 Sit down awhile, Friend, on this garden-seat 
 Within the tiny shrubbery which I planned 
 Ten years ago, whose crescent horns expand 
 
 To catch the springing sun's first beam of heat.
 
 54 
 
 April to-day ! No, no, 'tis midsummer. 
 The summer's blue is in the haze afar ; 
 The green of summer tips the Deodar 
 
 And gems the blackness of the stark Scotch Fir. 
 
 This Almond with no flush of winter shines, 
 
 This coaxing Larch one frown of frost would chill. 
 No sun with half-learned magic could distil 
 
 Such breath of resin from those youngling Pines. 
 
 Not Roses ? Why, what lights yon diamond bed 
 
 But Prima Rosa's fair face virginal ? 
 
 Not hues enough ? When Scilla paints, withal, 
 With blue of bluest heaven the earth you tread. 
 
 Nay, cavil not : the summer is the Sun, 
 As now he lords it in the flaming west : 
 April or August, Life vouchsafes its best 
 
 To crown too few days, and to-day is one. 
 
 XXVI L 
 
 ZWEI HERZEN UND EIN SCHLAG. 
 
 They say that to impassioned hearts 
 
 When, ev'n as life seems loveliest, 
 Death comes betimes and swiftly parts 
 
 Each from the other, it is best : 
 
 ' For years awaken, and the twain, 
 
 Whose prosperous wooing made one flesh, 
 
 Will one day looselier feel the strain 
 That held them in love's silken mesh : 
 
 ' " He loves, but how he loved me then," 
 
 And his sighs echo her lament, 
 And ne'er shall either know again 
 
 First ecstasy's transfigurement'
 
 55 
 
 They say, and rave : or never knew 
 The love of loves, full-orbed and whole. 
 
 Which strikes from passion notes more true 
 Of music mingling soul with soul. 
 
 The healing touch on fevered brow — 
 
 The clasping of a gentle hand — 
 The eye to eye responsive, now 
 
 Not needing words to understand, — 
 
 The joint night-watches by the bed, 
 
 Where pants the breath which both have 
 given — 
 Their firstborn won back from the dead. 
 
 And earth for each transformed to heaven, — 
 
 The anchored faith, the welded trust — 
 The peace which nothing selfish mars — 
 
 For such love all a lifetime must 
 Be short, for it outlasts the stars. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 lONA. 
 
 The tombs of Maclean and Macleod, 
 
 Of Macleod and Maclean, 
 
 They lie in the mist and the rain 
 And the gloom of the grey sea-shroud. 
 
 Hard by the torn sea- shore. 
 Where the summer silence awakes 
 To the babble the fool-mob makes, 
 
 And the insolent engine's roar ; 
 But what care Macleod and Maclean 
 
 For the rain and the cloud, 
 
 The cloud and the rain ?
 
 56 
 
 lona has gathered their dust to her breast, 
 They were weary, they sleep, were wayworn, and 
 rest. 
 
 The tombs of the forty Kings — 
 
 Kings of the Kyles, 
 
 Lords of the Isles, 
 By sea-waves white as a sea-gull's wings 
 Which broke in fury and raved, or ceased 
 At the outstretched hand of the praying priest, 
 While the sea-snakes settled in noiseless rings 
 
 To the depths of the green sea-lane, — 
 As a show they are to an idle crowd 
 
 With the tombs of Macleod and Maclean ; 
 
 But what care Maclean and Macleod ? 
 lona has gathered their dust to her breast, 
 They were weary, they sleep, were wayworn, and 
 rest. 
 
 XXIX. 
 A SOUTH SEA ISLAND. 
 
 Reefs of coral, seaward roar. 
 Surf that whitens leagues of shore, 
 Inner airs of softer tune 
 Sung low to the still lagoon. 
 Basking lizards, apes at play, 
 Dark girls lithe and blithe as they 
 In the cool banana-groves 
 Where the amorous seaman roves, 
 Boughs festooned with trailing green. 
 Burnished birds aflame between 
 Flowers of yet more lustrous hue — 
 That's the Island of Lanfantu.
 
 57 
 
 Tuft of plumy cocoa-palm, 
 Clustered spice-buds breathing balm, 
 Food you gather at your ease, 
 Just when hungry, from the trees, 
 Quivering flats of fervid sand. 
 Torrent-streams liana-spanned. 
 Morns of freshness, fireflies bright 
 To illuminate the night. 
 Night which would not know their loss, 
 Sparkles so the Southern Cross, 
 Lazy grace of poised canoe — 
 That's the Island of Lanfantu. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 FLEBILE LUDIBRIUM. 
 
 A LOWERING look, a taunting word- 
 To him they meant no more 
 
 Than stones by which still waters stirred 
 Anon sleep as before. 
 
 For her the frown has quenched a sun, 
 The glance was death's own dart. 
 
 The whisper stunned as tempests stun, 
 The mockery broke a heart. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 STAGNATION. 
 
 To lose all count of time, to lag 
 Inglorious through deserted days, 
 
 To feel the slow months crawl and drag, 
 Nor hear one word of blame or praise. 
 
 To wake at dawning loth that sleep 
 So soon should leave the listless eyes,
 
 58 
 
 To watch the twilight shadows creep 
 Unwelcome o'er the fading skies. 
 
 To long for love, nor ever know 
 
 Love's whispered troth or woman's kiss, 
 
 To dream of dreams of long-ago, 
 To wake to life whose all is this. 
 
 XXXII. 
 time's revenge. 
 
 Two things have topped your pyramid — 
 (So teaches Monsieur D'Alembert) 
 
 One, trailing slime, has upwards slid, 
 And one swooped down from loftier air ; 
 
 And each, awhile on equal height. 
 Astounds the multitude, but Time, 
 
 Still wondering at the Eagle's flight. 
 Annuls the reptile and the slime. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 TEARS. 
 
 Tears, — childhood's tears, of passage fleet 
 As summer shower in summer heat, 
 The tricksy lure to coax awhile 
 A mother's smile. 
 
 Tears, — manhood's tears, ' Would God,' he 
 
 weeps, 
 ' I slept the sleep my darling sleeps,' 
 Nor dreams another's head will rest, 
 Soon, on his breast.
 
 59 
 
 Tears, — tears unshed that burn the brain, 
 Still rising, still forced back again, 
 Tears bitt'rest, woefulest of all, 
 Which never fall ! 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 A CHRISTMAS SONG. 
 
 Gone are all the gauzy tribes of Summer 
 
 — Gorgeous ' Emperors ' and ' Painted Ladies '- 
 Not a flower to lure each busy hummer 
 
 Lingers where the sunshine or the shade is : 
 From the muffled down is gone 
 All its insect unison. 
 
 Summer, we disdain thy fickle graces. 
 
 Winter's rugged face we reckon dearer, — 
 Keen from weathered wind and frost that braces, 
 Honester and truer though austerer : 
 June's for roving feet to roam, 
 Christmas for the rest of home. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 'age, I DO ABHOR THEE.' 
 
 What's left of man 
 When youth is gone, 
 And chill hearts scan 
 Old age ahead, 
 And lips are wan 
 That once were red. 
 And eyes seem lead 
 That stars outshone ? 
 
 What's left of man 
 When youth is gone
 
 6o 
 
 From life's brief span, 
 And hope has fled, 
 And love lies on 
 A churchyard-bed. 
 And friends are dead 
 We leaned upon ? 
 
 When all is said 
 The wisest can. 
 When youth is gone 
 Nought's left of man. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 'age, I DO DEFY THEE.' 
 
 Old, old we grow. 
 But Where's the snow 
 That will not melt 
 When sunshine's felt ? 
 ' Life's gray,' you say : 
 Not so, not so, 
 But glad to-day 
 As years ago. 
 
 'As day declines. 
 In lengthening lines 
 The shadow's flung. 
 The song's unsung. 
 The lute is mute.' 
 Not so, not so, 
 The years bear fruit 
 As years ago.
 
 6i 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 AN agnostic's apology. 
 Is there a God? the Christian answers 'Yes, 
 I trust, I feel, I know, and do not guess.' 
 And to that ' know ' the Atheist echoes ' No, 
 Thou only reapest what thyself dost sow.' 
 Is Science arbiter? — One reads ' Divine' 
 In earth and sea and every starry sign, 
 And one in every cosmical event 
 Sequence on sequence of development. 
 O helpless Science ! Who, of all your laws 
 Is lawgiver, and Cause of your first cause? 
 Empty your inkstands proving that the cell 
 Is life's first storehouse and last citadel. 
 But own you end by groping in one mist 
 As clear for Christian as for Atheist. 
 In vain to-day as in the race's prime 
 You strive to gauge eternity and time. 
 And all your lore will yield no spark of light 
 To meet the finite or the infinite. 
 You scorn the lowly souls which shun despair 
 By lives of faith, and feel and see through prayer, 
 Yet ignorant as they you profit less. 
 Drinking salt springs while they taste happiness. 
 The wizard's mirror, spells, and horoscope 
 You deem no idler than the Christian's hope : 
 ' Hope of a heaven, all psalms, but never dull, 
 Hope of a God severe but pitiful, 
 Hope that our sires in childish error fell 
 For all poor sinners prophesying hell, 
 Hope that in some predestined spot of space 
 Those death has severed once more shall embrace.'
 
 62 AN AGNOSTIC'S APOLOGY 
 
 Well, hope is something, be it but a chance ; 
 
 Still let us hail her shining countenance, 
 
 And still hope on. What though it prove a dream 
 
 As rainbow-cup or vision of the stream ? 
 
 Yet dreams are half life's happiness, and where 
 
 The gain of desperate clinging to despair ? 
 
 Though God be but a guess, yet he who guessed 
 
 That symbol made a universe more blessed, 
 
 And in the earth's primeval quag and bog 
 
 Praised be the man who found a decalogue. 
 
 For what though past life's limits all be dark 
 
 Save for the faint gleam of one flickering spark ? 
 
 Enough for us the world within our ken ; 
 
 Face we the present, fearlessly, like men. 
 
 Still, though we know not what we name the soul, 
 
 Owning it guides us to our noblest goal. 
 
 So led, we shall not fret that life is brief, 
 
 Nor seek in sensual lawlessness relief : 
 
 What ! eat and drink, and wait death's summons ? No, 
 
 Let four-foot beasts expend life's largesse so : 
 
 'Tis not the riotous throb of passion's sense 
 
 That thrills through man his raptures most intense ; 
 
 Brighter than all the lightning-fire of lust 
 
 Is love in kindred hearts and mutual trust, 
 
 — Hearts that in shade and sunshine knit as one 
 
 Breathe the same breath and pulse in unison, — 
 
 Once known, we know no more ecstatic bliss. 
 
 By mortal sense conceivable, than this, 
 
 And with the Christian we may throne above 
 
 All other faiths this one — that ' God ' is love. 
 
 Cleave we to such love, should such love be ours, 
 
 With praise and rapture all life's radiant hours, 
 
 And should that best boon fail, still, through life's stress.
 
 63 
 
 Strain on alone to some stern happiness 
 
 With love, no less, for lodestar — love that long 
 
 Must suffer, till by suffering it is strong. 
 
 He who the future, selfless, scorns to scan. 
 
 In manhood's lists content to play the man, 
 
 His long day over, and his labour done, 
 
 Shall catch some splendour from the setting sun : 
 
 Cheerless the road at first, but wait awhile, 
 
 At eventide his patient lips shall smile, 
 
 His weary ears shall sounds of blessing greet 
 
 Sweeter than song of singing-bird is sweet. 
 
 And all the wild shall blossom as the rose 
 
 Ere night comes, and unfaltering he goes 
 
 Holding out hands to death. 
 
 Be that lot mine. 
 To know save in the human no divine, 
 To hope, but not to pilot life by hope, 
 And, all man's future counting past man's scope. 
 As this world's liege to do to-day's work well, 
 Unlured by heaven, undriven by dread of hell. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 TEMPORA MUTANTUR. 
 
 But yesterday, it seems, we had 
 
 Youth, spring, and morning — You and I ; 
 The birds in every bush were glad. 
 
 The clouds were high. 
 And higher soared our hearts than they 
 In that rose-radiant yesterday. 
 
 But yesterday to-day it seems 
 
 When Rover romped upon the lawn,
 
 64 TEMPORA MUTANTUR 
 
 As we lay dreaming boyhood's dreams 
 
 For hours, withdrawn 
 Beneath the leafage of the nook 
 Which slopes down to the babbling brook. 
 
 How full of fire and hope we were, 
 
 How eager for the strife of men, 
 How confident of conquest, where, 
 
 With sword or pen. 
 In some heroic cause we meant 
 To lord it in life's tournament. 
 
 When twice and thrice we sadly stood 
 Beside some lost young playmate's grave. 
 
 The preacher's moralising mood 
 No warning gave : 
 
 So sure we felt, we knew not why, 
 
 Of strength in us too strong to die. 
 
 Scant pity then we had for those 
 
 Whose fervour Time's bleak touch had chilled ; 
 We watched them as their life-blood froze, 
 
 Selfish, self-willed. 
 And lo, the doom on us has come. 
 Our veins are cold, our hearts are numb. 
 
 We envied this man for his wealth ; 
 
 Behold, his land, his gold, is ours : 
 For baits of pride we bartered health 
 
 And manhood's powers, 
 Only as wearied worn-out men, 
 To long that we were boys again. 
 
 We saw, a year since, you and I, 
 
 Our childhood's memory-haunted scene ;
 
 TEMPORA MUTANTUR 65 
 
 The tiny brook still sparkled by 
 
 The village green ; 
 The rooks rose cawing, as of yore, 
 Above the elm and sycamore. 
 
 The vines our father loved to prune 
 Still climbed along the high red wall, 
 
 And on that August afternoon 
 A funeral 
 
 Drew near where he was wont to wait 
 
 The mourners at the churchyard-gate. 
 
 As idlers once, so, reverent, then. 
 We stood beside the dark pit's brim. 
 
 And heard the sorrowful Amen, 
 The wailing hymn. 
 
 From loving lips which scarce could trust 
 
 Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. 
 
 Awhile we gazed and strove to trace 
 Some voice or look that we had known, 
 
 In vain, — in all the throng no face 
 Familiar grown 
 
 Restored to us with shadowed truth 
 
 A vision of the hours of youth. 
 
 We turned and saw the sunbeams streak 
 A branching blackness that we knew ; 
 
 For many a game of hide-and-seek 
 In that vast yew 
 
 Had mocked with ringing laughter's sound 
 
 The silence of the sacred ground. 
 
 We wist not then the hour was nigh 
 
 When neath yon block of square-hewn stone 
 
 5
 
 66 
 
 The little group we loved should lie, 
 
 And we, alone. 
 With faltering feet should one day come 
 To trace the letters of their tomb. 
 
 But, courage ! though the night grow black 
 And blacker, we will not repine : 
 
 Who knows beyond life's vanished wrack 
 What lights may shine ? 
 
 And Dawn on other shores may bring 
 
 Immortal youth, perpetual spring. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 A WOMAN'S LAST WORD. 
 
 Dead ? Yes, I see him stark there on the bed, 
 
 Thank God, stone-dead. 
 Nor can I, as you preach to me I ought, 
 
 Think one kind thought. 
 Or say one soft word to his memory, 
 
 Howe'er I try. 
 ' De Mortuis^ — it is a fool who writes 
 
 For hypocrites ; 
 Better without false tear or feigned ruth 
 
 The whole, black truth. 
 God ! how I always hated him, and how 
 
 I hate him now ! 
 By him, I tell you, even from the first. 
 
 My life was cursed : 
 He made me traitress to divinest trust, 
 
 And his hands thrust 
 Away whatever nobleness I had 
 
 And made it bad ;
 
 A WOMAN'S LAST WORD 67 
 
 Whatever sweetness took my fancy thrall, 
 
 He turned to gall ; 
 Whatever woke in me of steadfast will 
 
 He stifled still ; 
 Whatever spark was struck of generous flame 
 
 He quenched in shame : 
 Had he but made my body loth to live 
 
 I could forgive, 
 But not the mocking thief who stained and stole 
 
 My very soul. 
 He grieved not for the past, he grudged it gone 
 
 With sins not done. 
 And most had scorned such grace as still belonged 
 
 To those he wronged. 
 In core and grain the man was foul and mean, 
 
 Abject, obscene : 
 Not criminal, for cowards shrink betimes 
 
 From brave men's crimes, 
 But leprous-hearted, with a cozening smile 
 
 You hailed awhile. 
 Then knew meant treason, did you chance to hear 
 
 The sequent sneer. 
 Or mark how all things honest fain would fly 
 
 His serpent's eye. 
 His words, which were a subtle spur to sense. 
 
 Soiled innocence ; 
 He was for countless lives of vilest course 
 
 The poisoned source, 
 Misused them and abused them for his ends, 
 
 But had no friends. 
 And died, — the harvest reaped that he had sown — 
 
 Unloved, alone. 
 ' A slighted Wanton's railing,' think you ? No, 
 
 It is not so ;
 
 68 
 
 Wanton, perchance, yet Woman, who above 
 
 All else prized love, 
 And found none in him, nor one faint impress 
 
 Of selflessness. 
 Praise God, the base clay's tenantless at last 
 
 And passed the Past. 
 
 XL. 
 THE PLOUGHBOY'S SONG. 
 When winter winds have ceased to blow, 
 
 And larks are on the wing. 
 Behind our straining team I sow 
 
 The seed with measured swing : 
 I'm far afield as morning breaks 
 
 And birds awake to woo, 
 I spy the lurking meadow-crakes, 
 I hear the first cuckoo. 
 
 Smock-frock, billy-cock. 
 Harvest field and hay, 
 A whistle clear for all the year. 
 And heart as fresh as May. 
 
 When round the corner of the barn 
 
 Up sails the jolly sun. 
 Sir Rooster struts about to warn 
 
 'Tis time that work's begun ; 
 And through the swishing grass I go 
 
 Astride with swaying scythe, 
 And mowers, singing as they mow. 
 Take up my ditty blithe : 
 Smock-frock, billy-cock, 
 Harvest-field and hay, 
 A whistle clear for all the year. 
 And heart as fresh as May.
 
 69 
 
 When fields are red with rustling wheat, 
 
 And sickles sweep and shine, 
 From sheaf to sheaf with tireless feet 
 
 I lead the reapers' line ; 
 And when the children challenge me. 
 
 And stand in wonder mute, 
 Down from the topmost orchard-tree 
 I toss the golden fruit. 
 
 Smock-frock, billy-cock. 
 Harvest-field and hay, 
 A whistle clear for all the year. 
 And heart as fresh as May. 
 
 When in the hollow blue of night 
 Cold shines the maiden moon, 
 And white frost makes December bright 
 
 As morrice-queens in June, 
 I haste across the sparkling wold 
 
 To save the flock from harm. 
 While Gyp keeps watch on byre and fold. 
 And safely sleeps the farm. 
 Smock-frock, billy-cock, 
 Harvest-field and hay, 
 A whistle clear for all the year. 
 And heart as fresh as May. 
 
 XLl. 
 
 THE NIHILISTS' SUICIDE." 
 
 Not in the natural hour of death. 
 Nor by man's righteous doom. 
 
 With none to soothe our parting breath, 
 Or raise the reverent tomb ;
 
 70 THE NIHILISTS' SUICIDE 
 
 Not slain by sword or pestilence, 
 
 Not smitten blind or dumb, 
 Not seared of soul or cloyed in sense. 
 
 We come, O God, we come. 
 
 Love still leaps in us at the name 
 
 Of sweethearts, sisters, wives ; 
 To save them one short hour of shame 
 
 We ev'n had brooked our lives ; 
 But who would live to know their lot, 
 
 — Some outraged, tortured some, — 
 And know he could avenge them not ? 
 
 Therefore, O God, we come. 
 
 We come to Thy tribunal. Lord, 
 
 Thy justice to arraign. 
 Because so long Thy lingering sword 
 
 Within its sheath has lain, 
 Because Thine eyes have ceased to see, 
 
 Because Thy hands are numb, 
 Because Thou hearkenest not, to Thee 
 
 We come, O God, we come. 
 
 Each torment of victorious wrong 
 
 'Neath which our loved ones pine, 
 — The dungeon-den, the jailer's thong, 
 
 The chain, the stifling mine, — 
 Each agony of all our ill 
 
 And all its untold sum 
 Thou knowest, and Thou sufferest still : 
 
 Therefore, O God, we come. 
 Thy thunders o'er the Tyrant broke 
 
 Aforetime by the Nile, 
 Thy ten plagues snapped the Pharaoh's yoke. 
 
 And freemen blessed Thy smile ;
 
 71 
 
 But now as slaves, forlorn, alone, 
 
 From life's long martyrdom 
 Through death's gate, desperate, to Thy throne 
 
 We come, O God, we come. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 DILEXIT.12 
 
 Within a minster-graveyard lies 
 
 An ancient, lichened stone, 
 No date thereon, no name,— your eyes 
 
 Behold this word alone, 
 
 Dilexit. And, O marble urns 
 
 Which crowd the minster-wall, 
 Methinks this one brief word outyearns 
 
 The grief graved on you all. 
 
 Christ wept, and ' How he loved him,' said 
 His followers, and here 
 Divine love seems to bless the dead. 
 And shed a sacred tear. 
 
 Whose word is it, and writ of whom? 
 
 What sorrows expiate 
 What wrongs ? Who moulders in the tomb. 
 
 And doomed by what stern fate ? 
 
 Some child soon claimed of heaven again, 
 
 Whose sinless-seeming ways 
 A mother's heart would not profane 
 
 With common words of praise ? 
 
 Or woman, all too fair of face, 
 
 Who stained a stainless name. 
 Still loved for love's last lingering grace 
 
 That shone through clouds of shame ?
 
 72 
 
 Or think you some poor prodigal, 
 From all but one door driven, 
 
 Thus reared a mute memorial, 
 Remorseful, though forgiven ? 
 
 In vain our errant fancies guess 
 Why love half hid its woe ; 
 
 Two hearts knew their own bitterness, 
 As none but they shall know. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 THE OLD SCHOOL GATE. 
 
 What are these voices clear 
 Ringing aloud in my ear, 
 As I lie in the tropical heat 
 Of an Indian midsummer day. 
 Listlessly dreaming away, 
 With a weary, feverish brain, 
 The hours that with fiery feet 
 Burn their pitiless way 
 Over the life of the plain ? 
 Hark ! 1 hear them again. 
 
 And lo, in a moment 
 The landscape is changed, 
 And I am no longer 
 Alone and estranged ; 
 Cooled is the torturing 
 Glare of the sun ; 
 Green is the Compound 
 So dusty and dun : 
 Fair the dark faces, 
 The fawning eyes free, 
 The arid air radiant
 
 THE OLD SCHOOL GATE 73 
 
 With blossom and tree : 
 Green fields out-glisten 
 The cactuses, where 
 The manslaying tiger 
 Has chosen his lair ; 
 Gambolling meadow-rills, 
 Bright as young brides, 
 Sweeten the waters 
 The Tank's hollow hides : 
 And India is England, 
 And lassitude joy. 
 And once more in fancy 
 The man is a boy. 
 
 And I stand at the gate 
 
 Of the homely red wall. 
 
 And gaze down the court 
 
 At the School-room and Hall, 
 
 At the sober grey Chapel, 
 
 The houses, the limes. 
 
 And straightway fall dreaming 
 
 Of happy old times : 
 
 Of soft summer mornings 
 
 When wakeful I lay, 
 
 And heard from the Terrace 
 
 Birds heralding day. 
 
 As linnets and thrushes 
 
 Sang heaven was all blue, 
 
 And the pigeons crooned back to 
 
 Each mellow cuckoo : 
 
 Of hurrying footsteps 
 
 Beneath the tall trees : 
 
 Of leaps in the lakelet
 
 74 THE OLD SCHOOL GATE 
 
 Scarce fanned by the breeze : 
 
 Of holiday roamings 
 
 For verdurous miles : 
 
 Of shy deer quick-glancing 
 
 Through dim forest-aisles : 
 
 Of the white-dotted fields 
 
 In the long afternoon, 
 
 Of the glow and the rapture 
 
 Of youth and of June : 
 
 Of Winter's brave pastime, 
 
 When bold spirits feel 
 
 The fire of the warrior, 
 
 The patriot's zeal : 
 
 Of the caps and the vestures 
 
 Of infinite hue, 
 
 That gleam in the strife 
 
 Of the Red and the Blue : 
 
 Of the chat in the fire-light 
 
 Recalling the fray, 
 
 Of the innocent banquet 
 
 That ended the day : 
 
 Of the friendships we formed, 
 
 Of the dreams that we dreamed. 
 
 Of the visions enchanted 
 
 That were what they seemed. 
 
 And while I stand musing 
 
 Alone at the gate. 
 
 The clock's finger points to 
 
 The moment of fate. 
 
 And School-rooms are emptied, 
 
 And out, with a roar 
 
 Of the rushing of waters, 
 
 The merry boys pour.
 
 75 
 
 And as they troop onward 
 Through sunshine or rain, 
 Their clear voices echo 
 Around me again. 
 
 They cease, and I wake to the pain 
 
 Of the fever that burns in my brain, 
 
 But I bless as a blissful chance 
 
 The dream that has come of my youth, 
 
 And the scene of a boy's romance : 
 
 And I swear that while life's strands hold, 
 
 And for ever while truth is truth, 
 
 And whatever fortune may come, 
 
 I will cherish the dear old name, 
 
 And my ears shall be dull and cold. 
 
 Ere they welcome a flaw on her fame ; 
 
 I will cherish the dear old name, 
 
 And whatever of harm may be told. 
 
 My lips shall be cold and dumb. 
 
 Ere they utter a word to her shame. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 AN AUTUMN SCENE. 
 
 The Summer's sickly. 
 The flowers are moping ; 
 Fellow by fellow. 
 Scarlet and yellow, 
 Wholly past hoping, 
 The leaves fall thickly. 
 Silently ruing 
 Their life's undoing. 
 Morning by morning
 
 76 AN AUTUMN SCENE 
 
 The mists brood lower, 
 The pale sun scorning : 
 The grass's colour 
 That heeds no mower 
 Grows dull and duller. 
 O'er eaves and ledges 
 Are thick tears creeping, 
 The web-strung hedges 
 Are mutely weeping : 
 The lanes are lonely, 
 There's no step moving 
 Of lovers I'oving, 
 There's no sound stirring 
 But drowsy whirring 
 Of engines only 
 With swart breath smoking, 
 And ceaseless droning 
 From rickyards coming, 
 Drear as the sighing 
 Breath of the dying : 
 The rooks sail croaking 
 At eve, from roaming, 
 But no cock's crowing, 
 But no song gushes 
 From morning thrushes : 
 Let fall those berries, 
 Thou foolish bramble, 
 Why show false flushes 
 Like June's bright cherries ? 
 Thou hast no meetness ; 
 To filch such sweetness 
 What child would scramble ? 
 Thy flaunting treason
 
 n 
 
 Misseems the season. 
 The year's grown older, 
 Its breath is colder, 
 And sad and sober 
 Is sere October. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 SLEEP ON NOW. 
 
 Let her sleep ! 
 It is best. 
 It is rest 
 that she seeks, 
 from the pain 
 of long weeks. 
 Would you wake 
 her again 
 to the ache 
 and the pain ? 
 She was tired, 
 and desired 
 only sleep, 
 sound and deep, 
 sweet and still. 
 See how fresh 
 the fair flesh ! 
 Not a line, 
 not a sign 
 of life's ill ! 
 What imparts 
 the old grace 
 as of yore 
 to her face ? 
 It is sleep.
 
 78 
 
 Do not weep 
 
 any more, 
 
 — though your hearts 
 
 should be wrung — 
 
 or complain 
 
 for her lot, 
 
 that again 
 
 she is young, 
 
 she is fair, 
 
 without stain, 
 
 without spot. 
 
 Leave a flower 
 
 as your dower 
 
 in her hair, 
 
 — one white flower — 
 
 and one blue 
 
 you may set 
 
 in her hand 
 
 if you will. 
 
 Its command 
 
 sooner you 
 
 will forget 
 
 to fulfil. 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 A DEATH-BED. 
 
 ' Stay with us.' 
 
 He cannot stay : 
 Seek no delay, 
 A month, a day, 
 Or one short hour 
 Till morning break : 
 
 Nay,
 
 79 
 
 He will not wake 
 
 To watch the sun, 
 
 His hours are done, 
 
 He cannot stay, 
 
 He must away, 
 
 His feet grow numb, 
 
 His fingers stray. 
 
 His breath is faint, 
 
 His eyelids close 
 
 Like folding flower 
 
 When night has come ; 
 
 No more he knows 
 
 That ye stand by : 
 
 Oh, hush your plaint, 
 
 And kneel and pray 
 
 The end be nigh : 
 
 He cannot stay. 
 
 He must away, 
 He yields perforce, he has no power, 
 Death's dark hand beckons and he must obey. 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 A CHANGE IN THE WEATHER. 
 
 The Vane has veered ! 
 Hurrah for the Vane ! 
 The Vane has veered, and off has sheered 
 —Vanished with the veering Vane — 
 To some limbo haze and rain : 
 Rain and haze. 
 Haze and rain. 
 How we cursed the sullen maze 
 Of those dolorous three days !
 
 8o A CHANGE IN THE WEATHER 
 
 Hail and snow, 
 And sleet ensuing, 
 
 Rain and fog 
 
 Above, below 
 
 Mud and bog 
 Your footsteps gluing, 
 Storm-blasts of the fiend's own brewing 
 Rending back the ghastly curtain 
 
 From the grey sea buried deep 
 
 In a cataleptic sleep, 
 Till you caught a gleam uncertain. 
 
 Just a moment, from the cloud. 
 
 Like some glimmer, from a shroud. 
 
 Of a dead man's half-shut eye 
 
 Staring at you stealthily. 
 Where the birds were, who may know ? 
 They were silent as the snow. 
 Save that, when the clock's slow flight 
 Emphasised the incumbent night, 
 Sounded some sepulchral croak 
 Which the dismal stillness broke, 
 And you guessed what ebon thing 
 Through the upper mirk took wing. 
 
 Ah, but now the Vane has veered, 
 East and West the air is cleared. 
 And, as some great Emperor, 
 In the glory he has won 
 Over rebel legions slain, 
 Comes exulting from the war. 
 So, resplendent, the strong sun, 
 Victor, with the veering Vane, 
 Comes to hold his own again.
 
 i 
 
 A CHANGE IN THE WEATHER 8i 
 
 All the earth's fresh incense springs, 
 
 All the waves are white with wings, 
 
 Fast the tattered cloudlets fly. 
 
 Blue and bluer grows the sky ; 
 
 To the hill-tops frisk the kine 
 
 Snuffing up the stinging brine ; 
 
 On the shingle fishers set 
 
 Tawny lengths of steaming net ; 
 
 Rioting out from every door, 
 
 Mobs of little children pour, 
 
 And their elders hasten after 
 
 Shouts of silvery-ringing laughter ; 
 For out in the offing there's flopping and flapping 
 — Out where the spray sparkles shinier, brinier, — 
 Acrobat tumbling, and splashing, and slapping 
 
 As of a hundred of sea-lashing flails. 
 And a wise little mite you hear say to a tinier, 
 
 ' Whales ! no, not whales, 
 'Tis the topsy-turvying porpoises' tails.' 
 
 That is the way when the Vane has veered, 
 And the black heaven breaks. 
 And the wind has shifted, 
 And the fog has lifted, 
 And the heart of man and of beast is cheered, 
 And the world awakes 
 
 To life again, 
 With the veering Vane.
 
 82 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 AMPHIBIOUS. 
 I AM a farmer-fisher lad, 
 
 The Cornish coast's my home, 
 One harvest from the heather's had, 
 
 And one is from the foam ; 
 I'll drive a furrow straight and true 
 
 With any lad ashore, 
 I'll steer a boat the breakers through 
 From Austell Bay to Tor. 
 ' Come buy ' 's my cry, 
 
 ' Come buy 
 Honey from the hive-o. 
 Herrings all alive-o — 
 Come buy, come buy.' 
 
 I would not live on Midland leas 
 
 For twenty pounds a week, 
 I'm fain to feel the briny breeze 
 
 A-rippling on my cheek ; 
 I've hands can handle oar or plough, 
 
 Scythe, sickle, sail, or seine, 
 From swaying mast or swinging bough 
 I laugh at storm and rain. 
 ' Come buy' 's my cry, 
 
 ' Come buy 
 Honey from the hive-o. 
 Herrings all alive-o — 
 Come buy, come buy.' 
 
 When March has edged his sharpest air. 
 
 My coulter cuts the ground. 
 With gulls to track the shining share 
 
 A-sailing round and round ;
 
 I 
 
 83 
 
 As sunrise peeps I haul the net, 
 
 I ted the hay at noon, 
 And I've a lass to meet and pet 
 Each night of pleasant June. 
 ' Come buy ' 's my cry, 
 
 ' Come buy 
 Honey from the hive-o, 
 Herrings all alive-o — 
 Come buy, come buy.' 
 When lowering frowns the sullen North, 
 
 And seas are livid lead, 
 From dusk to dawn I'm faring forth 
 
 To feed the folks abed. 
 And hand in purse each housewife dips 
 
 To buy my shining spoil, 
 While Gaffer slowly licks his lips 
 And snuffs the herrings' broil. 
 ' Come buy ' 's my cry, 
 
 ' Come buy 
 Honey from the hive-o, 
 Herrings all alive-o — 
 Come buy, come buy.' 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 A WHALING SONG. 
 The Skipper's given the word, my boys, 
 The word, my boys, the word, my boys, 
 A better word I never heard, 
 Have you, my boys ? have you, my boys ? 
 
 Hurrah ! hurrah I 
 For homeward bound, 
 We're homeward bound ; 
 Whirl the capstan round and round.
 
 84 A WHALING SONG 
 
 We've sailed in queerish seas, my boys. 
 They're not a bit like these, my boys ; 
 The water 's frozen all to floes 
 That crack and creak and wheeze, my boys. 
 
 D'ye mind 'twas half a gale, my boys. 
 We'd reefed most all our sail, my boys, 
 When on our lee we first did see 
 A blowing, blubbery whale, my boys. 
 
 That was a lucky day, my boys. 
 The fish were all at play, my boys ; 
 A score or more, the skipper swore. 
 Were spouting in the bay, my boys. 
 
 'Twas hard work to get nigh, my boys. 
 The ice was drifting by, my boys ; 
 But sink or float we'd man the boat. 
 To reach them wet or dry, my boys. 
 
 You mind our Specksioneer, my boys. 
 No smarter far or near, my boys, 
 No hand more sure or foot secure ; 
 For why ? he knows no fear, my boys. 
 
 He stood with his harpoon, my boys, 
 He raised it sharp, and soon, my boys, 
 A lightning lunge, a sousing plunge — 
 The line it twanged a tune, my boys ! 
 
 Up on the main-top-mast, my boys. 
 We heard 'em sing out ' Fast,' my boys, 
 Then heard no more, as on we tore, 
 Nigh swamped, as we flew past, my boys. 
 
 One stowed, another'd come, my boys. 
 
 Oh weren't we cramped and numb, my boys ?
 
 85 
 
 So daft the dance we'd scarce the chance 
 To toss a tot of rum, my boys. 
 
 But now we've got the spoil, my boys, 
 Our casks are full of oil, my boys, 
 Our wage is won, our turn of fun 
 We'll take instead of toil, my boys. 
 
 Goodbye to pack and floe, my boys, 
 
 We'll soon be in the voe, my boys, 
 
 Where waves are blue a twelvemonth through 
 
 And warm the west winds blow, my boys. 
 
 For the Skipper's given the word, my boys, 
 
 The word, my boys, the word, my boys, 
 
 A better word 1 never heard, 
 
 Have you, my boys ? have you, my boys ? 
 Hurrah 1 hurrah 1 
 
 For homeward bound, 
 
 We're homeward bound ; 
 Whirl the capstan round and round. 
 
 L. 
 
 A DAY BY THE SEA. 
 
 Down by the sea and afar on the sands 
 Hark to the clapping of happy hands I 
 Those are the little ones brought from the town, 
 Brought from the town, and its dull streets' frown, 
 To the shore and the sea for a whole glad day, 
 To the sands and the sea and a whole day's play : 
 And lighter and lighter the dim eyes glow. 
 And faster and faster the small feet go. 
 And rosier and rosier the pale cheeks grow 
 From the first faint pink of the shell on the shore.
 
 86 A DAY BY THE SEA 
 
 And their shrill cries blend with the sea's hoarse roar 
 
 And they chase the waves and the waves chase them 
 
 As they stretch for the pebble that seems a gem, 
 
 And tiny fingers the sea-pods crack 
 
 With luck for Jenny and joy for Jack, 
 
 And they trench and delve till a wall is made, 
 
 Made without hammer, or saw, or spade, 
 
 And a moat all round it, and in the moat 
 
 Water to float a tiny boat, 
 
 The sail a feather, the boat a cork. 
 
 Smallest of shipwrights' handiwork. 
 
 And the water is salt as salt can be. 
 
 Cunningly carried across from the sea. 
 
 Carried in shell and carried in hand, 
 
 Carried in leaves they have brought from the land ; 
 
 And they dig so deep that with wondering eyes 
 
 They see a sea of their own arise, 
 
 And around in triumph they clasp and cling 
 
 Hand in hand in a laughing ring. 
 
 And they dance as never they danced before. 
 
 Dance till they're faint and can dance no more, 
 
 Till all too early the sun descends. 
 
 And the night draws nigh and the long day ends, 
 
 Ends in a wonderful fire in the west, 
 
 — Splendour undreamt of, glory unguessed — 
 
 Fire on the sea-crest, fire on the down, 
 
 And the stars shine out, and it's hey for the town — 
 
 The town transfigured, the town with a train 
 
 Linking it ever to rapture again. 
 
 You that are rich, with your bounty be free. 
 Grudge not the children their glimpse of the sea.
 
 87 
 
 LI. 
 
 AD POPULUM PHALERAS. 
 
 War's pride swells Alexander's heart, 
 
 Piled skulls please Tamerlane, 
 And lives by myriads Bonaparte 
 Deems cheaply spent to gain 
 A tinsel crown, 
 A base renown. 
 
 The hemlock-cup for Socrates, 
 
 For Joan the torturing flame, 
 And— Comfort ye, content, with these, 
 To count as glory, shame. 
 As guerdon, loss, — 
 For Christ the cross. 
 
 The Idol clay, the scorned adored,— 
 
 Time's lesson, but unlearned 
 By fools who cursing Conquest's sword 
 Themselves to wield it yearned. 
 While wisdom lay 
 A castaway. 
 
 Ay, hardly now from dreams distraught 
 
 Half-waked the world descries 
 And hails him, who for truth has wrought 
 A life's self-sacrifice. 
 The only King 
 Worth worshipping.
 
 8S 
 LII. 
 
 ENNUYEE. 
 
 ' Life worth living? ' do you ask? 
 
 Does the midge grudge its task 
 As it glitters in the sun 
 Silver-spun ? 
 
 Life worth living ? and, forsooth, 
 
 Every pulse of your youth 
 Beating quicker than bird's wing 
 In the spring ! 
 
 What a birthright, what a blaze, 
 
 What a splendour of days. 
 Without trouble, without fears, 
 Without tears ! 
 
 You the Empress of it all ! 
 
 Every heart in your thrall ! 
 To be trampled by your feet 
 Reckoned sweet ! 
 
 Fashion waiting for your voice — 
 
 Friends and lovers at choice — 
 And so hard to while away 
 Just a day? 
 
 ' Life worth living ? ' Well, maybe 
 
 Not by you, I agree, 
 If the best of it you pawn 
 For a yawn.
 
 89 
 LIII. 
 
 A MATERIALIST'S GLOSS. 
 
 Who was it spake in the tongue that was Roman 
 
 Words that announce so un- Roman a message, 
 Absolute, sure, as the sun-dial's gnomon, 
 
 Compassing all a world's fate in their presage ? 
 
 Grim as a voice from the grave in my ear is 
 
 ' Ibis, redibis, non morieris.' 
 
 Man, like a moth at the flame as thou burnest, 
 Little thou reckest what lot may befall men. 
 
 Thou art but dust, and to dust thou returnest — 
 ' 'Tis but the destiny meted to all men.' 
 Not for the first of this warning thy fear is, 
 ' IBIS, redibis, non morieris.' 
 
 But to return — to return and to die not. 
 Ay, and live on with the worm that's undying, 
 
 That were a doom which a man would defy not ; 
 Chill were his heart did he hear the voice crying 
 ' Dream of no paradise peopled with Peris, 
 Ibis, REDIBIS, non morieris.' 
 
 Nay, but take courage, who knows where the prophet 
 Destined his comma to take up its station? 
 
 Move it a whit, and the blessedness of it ! 
 Death becomes death, without dread of damnation : 
 Pledge the words thus in the good wine of Xeres, 
 ' Ibis, redibis non, MORIERIS.'
 
 9° 
 LIV. 
 
 GOOD FRIDAY, 1 889. 
 Sad the Lenten news, John Bright : 
 Lost at last your one lost fight ! 
 And to me by your death-bed 
 Half of fifty years seem dead. 
 Half of fifty years ago. 
 Life was lustrous morning-glow, 
 When to bear the battle's brunt 
 First you formed our phalanx-front. 
 What wild terror scared our foes 
 As your clarion war-cry rose ! 
 As they closed, the felon pack, 
 How your strong strokes beat them back ! 
 As they skulked from lie to lie 
 How you smote them hip and thigh ! 
 And through all that strenuous day 
 Staunch we cheered you in the fray. 
 Then the change came, you misprized 
 What your own right hand devised. 
 Fired the beacon o'er our night. 
 Then shrank dazzled by its light : 
 Nay, we know it was not you, 
 Truth's self, you were always true. 
 Only, on life's western slope. 
 You lost what you left us, hope, 
 Reading, for our dayspring nigh, 
 Conflagration in the sky. 
 Thanks, then, for your glorious past 
 On your glorious grave we cast, 
 Loyal, as when side by side 
 Foes now fawning we defied. 
 Stout old champion, friend of right, 
 Still we love your name, John Bright !
 
 91 
 
 LV. 
 
 AN ACADEMY PICTURE. 
 
 This queen that I bow down before is 
 Our midsummer blossom, Dolores. 
 Her hair is blue-black as the sloe is, 
 Her feet are as fleet as the roe is. 
 Her eyes are deep mountain-tarn glories, 
 A queen to adore is Dolores. 
 
 That other — so radiant her mien is — 
 
 We hail her our sun-goddess, Inez, 
 
 — Gold hair and blue eyes — and her voice is 
 
 As blithe as the bird that rejoices. 
 
 And gay as a tropic bird's sheen is 
 
 Youth's fresh frolic freeness in Inez. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 RECOGNITA. 
 
 ' Men are at some time masters of their fates.' 
 But fate is oftener master of the man, 
 
 And Sense weighs Spirit down with leaden weights, 
 Will all he may, and struggle all he can. 
 
 ' Macbeth doth murder sleep.' — The weird words roll 
 A dreadful knell to many a haunted soul 
 Which owns the indictment true, and like Macbeth 
 Shall sleep no more this side the sleep of death. 
 
 Though shining days my portion be. 
 
 Some hand, some hour, must write, ' Sic finis'
 
 92 
 
 Mortis timor conturbat me' — 
 Alack ! how terrible that line is ! 
 
 'Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.' — To some 
 As tidings of great joy the sad words come 
 What future can some martyrdoms redress 
 Better to cease to be, and nothingness. 
 
 'Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.' In vain. 
 
 To some ' beyond ' the worst-bruised soul will strain, 
 
 Still hoping against hope to see unfold 
 
 A new life with oblivion of the old. 
 
 LVII. 
 
 DIES IRAE.'^ 
 
 Day of anger, dreadful day ! 
 Earth in flame shall shrivel away, 
 Seer and Psalmist, boding, say. 
 
 'Mid what agony of fear 
 Shall the Judge of all appear, 
 Strictly each account to hear ! 
 
 Hark, the trumpet-blast appalling. 
 Through the grave's far kingdoms falling. 
 To the throne all spirits calling ! 
 
 Death shall quail and Nature quake, 
 When Earth's generations wake. 
 Answer to the Judge to make. 
 Open shall be spread the scroll 
 In the which is writ the whole 
 Record sentencing each soul.
 
 DIES IRAE 93 
 
 Once the Judge is on his throne, 
 
 Every secret shall be known, 
 
 Every sinner shall atone. 
 
 Ah, what shall I plead, that day, 
 
 Unto what protector pray, 
 
 When the saints scarce find a stay ? 
 
 King of dreadful majesty. 
 Saviour, with salvation free, 
 Fount of pity, save thou me ! 
 Pitying Jesu, thy lost sheep. 
 Sought so far with anguish deep, 
 Safe, that day, remembering, keep. 
 
 Fainting sore thou soughtest me, 
 With thy cross thou boughtest me, 
 Vain let not that labour be. 
 
 Judge most just in punishing, 
 Bounteous be in pardoning, 
 Ere the day of reckoning. 
 
 Bitter sighs my guilt proclaim. 
 Red my brow is with my shame. 
 Spare me by thy sacred name. 
 
 Thou, by whom was Mary shriven, 
 Thou, by whom the thief forgiven, 
 Grantest me, too, hope of heaven. 
 
 Prayer of mine might save me never. 
 Yet, good Lord, do thou deliver. 
 Lest I burn in fire for ever. 
 
 'Mid thy sheep my place provide, 
 From the goats my lot divide. 
 On thy right hand, by thy side.
 
 94 DIES IRAE 
 
 When upon the cursed all 
 Hell-fire and confusion fall, 
 Me amid the blessed call. 
 
 Bruised to dust, in prayer I bend ; 
 Lord, my contrite heart attend, 
 At the last abide my friend. 
 
 Dreadful day of tears and cries, 
 When from ashes man must rise. 
 Summoned to the great assize. 
 
 Spare us, therefore, God adored ! 
 Spare us, pitying Jesu, Lord, 
 Heavenly rest to all accord.
 
 I 
 
 FROM 
 
 ' DANTON 
 
 AND OTHER VERSE'
 
 I. 
 
 SONG OK LUCILE DESMOULINS. 
 (From 'Danton.') 
 
 LiSETTE, 
 
 My sweet, 
 Do you forget 
 How many an eve with flying feet 
 We stayed not, hurrying, till we met 
 Beside the trailed espalier-screen 
 In lengthening hours of later Spring, 
 When oak-buds all were yellowing, 
 
 And chestnut-fans were green ? 
 Do you remember or forget, 
 Lisette, Lisette? 
 
 Lisette, 
 
 My sweet. 
 Do you forget 
 The night-dews after days of heat. 
 The leaves with flickering lights afret, 
 The airs that blew the leaves between, 
 The stars that seemed to smile and bless 
 A heaven of love and loveliness, 
 
 And you its radiant queen ? 
 Do you remember or forget, 
 Lisette, Lisette ? 
 
 7
 
 98 
 
 Lisette, 
 
 My sweet, 
 Your eyes are wet, 
 Your softening looks my whispers meet, 
 
 My sighs an answering sigh beget 
 For shining noons and nights serene, 
 For hearts of youth and hours of love, 
 For April grace of grass and grove, 
 
 When clouds were all unseen. 
 Ah, fool, to think you could forget, 
 Lisette, Lisette I 
 
 IL 
 
 ANDRjfi'S RIDE. 
 When Andre rode to Pont-du-lac 
 With all his raiders at his back, 
 Mon Dieu, the tumult in the town ! 
 Scarce clanged the great portcullis down 
 Ere in the sunshine gleamed his spears 
 And up marched all his musketeers, 
 And far and fast in haste's array 
 Sped men to fight and priests to pray ; 
 In every street a barricade 
 Of aught that came to hand was made. 
 From every house a man was told, 
 Nor quittance given to young or old ; 
 Should youth be spared, or age be slack. 
 When Andre rode to Pont-de-lac ? 
 
 When Andre rode to Pont-du-lac, 
 With all his ravening reiver-pack, 
 The mid lake was a frozen road 
 Unbending to the cannon's load ;
 
 ANDR]£'S RIDE 99 
 
 No warmth the sun had as it shone, 
 The kine were stalled, the birds were gone ; 
 Like wild things seemed the shapes of fur 
 With which was every street astir, 
 And over all the huddling crowd 
 The thick breath hung a solid cloud ; 
 Roof, road, and river — all were white, 
 Men moved benumbed by day, — by night 
 The boldest durst not bivouac, 
 When Andre rode to Pont-du-lac. 
 
 When Andre rode to Pont-du-lac 
 We scarce could stem his swift attack ; 
 A halt, a cheer, a bugle-call, — 
 Like wild cats they were up the wall ; 
 But still as each man won the town 
 We tossed him from the ramparts down, 
 And when at last the stormers quailed 
 And back th' assailants shrank assailed, 
 Like wounded wasps, that still could sting, 
 Or tigers, that had missed their spring. 
 They would not fly, but turned at bay. 
 And fought out all the dying day. 
 Sweet saints ! it was a crimson track 
 That Andre left by Pont-du-lac. 
 
 When Andre rode to Pont-du-lac, 
 Said he, ' A troop of girls could sack 
 This huckster town that hugs its hoard 
 But fears to face a warriors sword.' 
 It makes my blood warm now to know 
 How soon Sir Cockerel ceased to crow, 
 And how 'twas my sure dagger-point 
 In Andre's harness found a joint.
 
 lOO 
 
 For I who now am old was young, 
 And strong the thews were, now unstrung, 
 And, deadly though our danger then, 
 I would those days were back again ; 
 Ay, would to God the days were back 
 When Andre rode to Pont-du-lac. 
 
 III. 
 
 HAY-TIME. 
 Hey, lads ; ho, lads ; 
 Why are you so slow, lads ? 
 Darkly the shadows creep over the day ; 
 The oxen all bellow, 
 The sunset's all yellow, 
 Rain is a-coming to ruin the hay. 
 You mischievous lasses, 
 That scatter the grasses. 
 Let the lads bustle, have done with your play ; 
 You pitchers and rakers. 
 You merry haymakers. 
 Load up the waggon and home with the hay ! 
 
 Nay, Joe ; stay, Joe ; 
 Never slip away, Joe ; 
 Must you be tied like a sow by the leg ? 
 While you are a-drinking 
 The sun'll be sinking. 
 Work must be done before tapping the keg. 
 You mischievous lasses, 
 That scatter the grasses. 
 Let the lads bustle, have done with your play ; 
 You tossers and takers. 
 You merry haymakers, 
 Clear the Four-Acres, and home with the hay !
 
 HAY-TIME loi 
 
 Soa, ' Dobbin ' ; woa, ' Dobbin ' ; 
 'Tisn't time to go, Dobbin, 
 Wait till the waggon's heaped higher than now ; 
 At home, in a minute 
 You'll have your nose in it, 
 Grudging a morsel to Grizzle, the cow. 
 You mischievous lasses. 
 That scatter the grasses, 
 Let the lads bustle, have done with your play ; 
 You pitchers and rakers. 
 You merry haymakers, 
 Load up the waggon and home with the hay 
 
 I 
 
 Fie, Molly ; why, Molly, 
 Clamour so, and cry, Molly, 
 ' Pudding a spoiling and pies getting cold' ? 
 
 You ninny, to grumble 
 
 When thunderstorms rumble ; 
 There's the first drop as you dawdle and scold. 
 
 You mischievous lasses, 
 
 That scatter the grasses. 
 Let the lads bustle, have done with your play ; 
 
 You tossers and takers, 
 
 You merry haymakers. 
 Clear the Four-Acres, and home with the hay ! 
 
 Rough, Johnny ? Stuff, Johnny ! 
 Never mind a cuff, Johnny, 
 She'll come a-coaxing you soon by the barn ; 
 You catch her and kiss her. 
 There'll none of us miss her, 
 Dick'U be singing or Jock at his yarn. 
 You mischievous lasses, 
 That scatter the grasses.
 
 I02 HAY-TIME 
 
 Let the lads bustle, have done with your play ; 
 
 You pitchers and rakers, 
 
 You merry haymakers, 
 Load up the waggon and home with the hay ! 
 
 Oh, Gaffer ; go. Gaffer ; 
 Don't worry so, Gaffer ; 
 Off to the Missis, you hinder us here ; 
 Just hurry and tell her 
 To fetch from the cellar 
 Prime of the cider and best of the beer. 
 You mischievous lasses. 
 That scatter the grasses, 
 Let the lads bustle, have done with your play ; 
 You tossers and takers. 
 You merry haymakers, 
 Clear the Four-Acres and home with the hay ! 
 
 Quick, lads ; thick, lads. 
 Pile it on the rick, lads. 
 Neatly and nattily comb it away ; 
 And show me to beat it, 
 When we can complete it. 
 Neater or sweeter or wholesomer hay. 
 You mettlesome lasses, 
 That clatter of glasses 
 Calls you to supper, go make yourselves gay ; 
 You shakers and rakers. 
 You jolly haymakers, 
 Lustily strike up the song of the hay !
 
 I03 
 
 IV. 
 
 TIT FOR TAT. 
 
 Chaffinch and Linnet and Sparrow, 
 You that have chosen my field for your nests 
 Over its jung-le of foxtail and yarrow, 
 
 Hear what I promise my guests. 
 
 Safe shall you be from all furry 
 Quadrupeds hungrily roaming for prey, 
 Safe from the urchins who harry or hurry 
 Hens getting ready to lay. 
 All the day long at your leisure 
 Lying-in beds shall you fashion at ease ; 
 Mosses and thatches I yield to your pleasure. 
 Buds you may pluck from my trees. 
 Flower of my garden and fruitage — 
 Worm that is luscious and succulent slug — 
 Seeds never grudged though I watch their up- 
 rootage — 
 Nestage in box-bushes snug — 
 
 Crumbs set apart from my table, 
 Largesses warranted never to fail — 
 Wealth of the kitchen and warmth of the stable — 
 Water in saucer and pail — 
 
 Thickets at will for your quarters — 
 Meadowland-forage and granary-spilth — 
 Grace of my sons and the smile of my daughters — 
 Tithe unabridged of my tilth — 
 
 All of such bounty I proffer. 
 Board, bed, and lodging, and all of it free, 
 If with reciprocal trust to my offer. 
 Dear little birds, you agree.
 
 I04 
 
 First, though the eyes of a stranger 
 Come not a-nigh you to vex and affright, 
 My daily visit you'll deem not a danger. 
 Chirruping only delight 
 
 When, with a gentle removal 
 Pushing the branches asunder, I peep 
 Into your soft little beds at the oval 
 
 Shells where your embryos sleep ; 
 
 Ay, or when feathered they linger 
 Now but a day after nurture of weeks, 
 Should I essay to allure with a finger 
 Gaping of wide yellow beaks. 
 
 Next, — and a strict stipulation : 
 This you shall keep on the faith of a bird, — 
 Morning and evening in joint jubilation 
 All of your songs shall be heard. 
 
 Morning and evening in chorus 
 Ringing in rapture around and above. 
 Singing to earth and the heaven that is o'er us, 
 Love in requital of love. 
 
 V. 
 BULL POINT. 
 
 Free, free at last from bleak duresse, 
 
 And Winter's weary listlessness. 
 
 The meadows decked in merrier dress 
 
 Away their sables fling ; 
 To-day the world's all wonderment. 
 And bird-throats half with rapture rent 
 Acclaim the first, fresh, innocent, 
 
 Surprise and smile of Spring.
 
 BULL POINT los 
 
 But not to-day the fields for me 
 Whose buds still shiver on the tree ; 
 This basking rock that cleaves the sea 
 
 Stores more of April's sun. 
 Here all a noontide hour I lie, 
 Content to scan the cloudless sky 
 Or watch the shining ships go by 
 
 And count them one by one. 
 
 One constant course the steersmen take 
 
 Alternate in the leaders wake, 
 
 Dumb glides the barque, its followers break 
 
 Through louder lanes of foam, 
 And, as their labouring engines pant, 
 Off skims the startled cormorant, 
 And gulls with ivory wings aslant 
 
 Inlay the heaven's blue dome. 
 
 O laggard barque 1 O slugabed ! 
 For all your bellying canvas spread, 
 No longer in the line you led 
 
 You boast the pride of place ; 
 Fast, faster, as you drift forlorn, 
 With iron nostrils snorting scorn 
 In turn is every rival borne 
 
 Far past you in the race. 
 
 Now all are gone ; a hush profound 
 Ensues as of enchanted ground. 
 Save only one continuous sound 
 
 Which no man's tongue may tell, 
 Which none but twain can weave for us 
 In measures multitudinous, 
 To music of Elysium thus, — 
 
 The Sea and the Sea-shell.
 
 io6 BULL POINT 
 
 The quivering brine's a silken sheet 
 
 A-glitter as with August heat, 
 
 The sands its winking wavelets meet 
 
 Like polished silver glow, 
 And sunken in pellucid green 
 Of cool clear pools the rocks between 
 Are lengths of lazy seaweed seen 
 
 Soft-swaying to and fro. 
 
 Beneath me, huge and bare the ledge 
 That rakes the air with ragged edge, 
 Then plunges, like a giant's wedge, 
 
 From glory into gloom : 
 Above, in haunts of winter rain, 
 Which ivy drapes or lichens stain, 
 With shyly smiling buds again 
 
 The sea-pink stars the combe. 
 
 glorious headland of the West, 
 Of all her headlands lordliest, 
 Illimitable from thy crest 
 
 The broadening Channel seems, 
 The Bull's horns fiercely toss the spray, 
 The Death-rock frowns beyond the bay. 
 And mistier Hartland far away 
 
 Conceals a coast of dreams. 
 
 1 gaze and gaze — the swallows sweep 
 Close by me, close the conies creep. 
 They take my trance for death or sleep, 
 
 So carelessly they roam ; 
 Fain would I linger on, but lo ! 
 The sun dips, chill the sea-airs blow, 
 'Tis time to rise and saunter slow 
 
 By inland paths for home.
 
 I07 
 VI. 
 
 A WILTSHIRE SCENE. 
 
 Old Friend, while twenty years and more 
 Have, fleeting, left our temples hoar, 
 How many a morning holiday, 
 When all adust the township lay, 
 Our feet have trod the airier way 
 To Rockley Wood ! 
 
 In Rockley Wood a pasture lies, 
 Lawn, opening only to the skies. 
 So close its columned warders cling ; 
 A fearless song the finches sing 
 To careless squirrels listening. 
 In Rockley Wood. 
 
 But climb the down and lo ! displayed 
 The hoarded glory of the glade. 
 Those miser pines such store untold 
 Of budding buttercups enfold. 
 The young year's gallant gift of gold 
 To Rockley Wood. 
 
 There, when October suns expire. 
 The fading foliage turns to fire, 
 As, rivalling the dying rays, 
 Light thrills to light, blaze answers blaze, 
 With hues that blind you as you gaze 
 On Rockley Wood. 
 
 Light thrills to light and dies away. 
 But out the conies frisk for play,
 
 io8 A WILTSHIRE SCENE 
 
 Or sit, upreared, in voiceless talk 
 Till alien sounds the conclave balk, 
 And back they scurry to the chalk 
 Of Rockley Wood. 
 
 Too brief, poor things, your happiness ; 
 Too soon the eager foe will press 
 To make those glancing scuts their mark ; 
 O day of death and terror ! Hark ! 
 The sudden gun, the short, sharp bark 
 In Rockley Wood. 
 
 But hence, ill-omened thought of death ! 
 'Tis life to breathe the down's rich breath, 
 And all an idle morning lie 
 On couch of silk-soft euphrasy, 
 Or milkwort mirroring the sky 
 Of Rockley Wood. 
 
 The down— that ere the summer's gone 
 Will yet another livery don, 
 Blue scabious, bluer harebell, blent 
 With myriad tress of tasselled bent 
 And rockrose, all the parched ascent 
 From Rockley Wood. 
 
 The down — while yet you dream — a-thrill, 
 As yonder racers round the hill : 
 Bright beauties slim and debonair. 
 They snuff the breeze, they tread on air, 
 Mad for a long, strong gallop there 
 By Rockley Wood. 
 
 And as their lissome pasterns pass 
 Up starts the plover from the grass, 
 
 I
 
 log 
 
 The hare's afoot, the hawk's astir, 
 And pairing partridges defer 
 Their converse sweet and downwards whir 
 To Rockley Wood. 
 
 Shall we with them, or lingering stay 
 Till vesper shadows darken day 
 And shepherds rise and plodding slow 
 With bustling Prince and Keeper go 
 To fold the full-fed flock below, 
 Nigh Rockley Wood ? 
 
 Yon cottage-fires for them anew 
 Raise not to heaven those spires of blue ; 
 This hut's their home, that camp of straw 
 Will shield the sheep though sharp and raw 
 The winds of evening westward draw 
 To Rockley Wood. 
 
 They go, and dumb grow down and dell, 
 And hushed the day-long-tinkling bell ; 
 The moon is up ; clear-scarped and white, 
 The chalk-track glistens in her light ; 
 'Neath moon and star we bid good night 
 To Rockley Wood. 
 
 VII. 
 
 FORTEM POSCE ANIMUM MORTIS 
 
 TERRORE CARENTEM. 
 
 As down Time's deepening current we descend, 
 
 And nigher know its end. 
 Though slow the moments, faster speed the years,'* 
 
 And, deafer though our ears. 
 They hear beyond the verge of life's last tract 
 
 The roaring cataract
 
 no FORTEM POSCE ANIMUM ^ 
 
 Louder and ever louder, and our gaze , 
 
 Can pierce the distant haze l| 
 
 To one point where the vessels we have known 
 
 And cherished as our own, 
 Though trim to view and staunch as heretofore, 
 
 Vanish and are no more. 
 That wonder of the waters, glorious. 
 
 What lights its lamps for us ! 
 And answering what gay music from its deck 
 
 We dreamed not aught could wreck 
 Our pilot so securely moving on, 
 
 When suddenly 'tis gone ! 
 Then in a moment all the world seems changed, 
 
 Ahen, aloof, estranged ; 
 The comfort and the splendour of the sun 
 
 Fast fade, and one by one 
 The clouds loom dull and leaden, and the breeze 
 
 Is choked amid the trees ; 
 If in their branches any note is heard, 
 
 'Tis but the mocking-bird, 
 And in the thick mute mist we lose all heart 
 
 To steer by any chart, 
 So close the unknown ocean and so poor 
 
 Our vision once so sure. 
 ' For all men 'tis appointed once to die' : 
 
 The sentence seemed to lie 
 On others, not on us, till this man died ; 
 
 Now shattered is our pride, 
 And nowhere know we safety, as our bark 
 
 Drifts down into the dark. 
 ' Nay, if to-morrow comes imperious Death,' 
 
 The rebel in us saith, 
 ' To eat and drink were better while we may ; 
 
 The children of a day
 
 MORTIS TERRORE CARENTEM iii 
 
 Should eke the daylight out with song and feasts, 
 
 Nor heed the fabling priest's 
 Assurance of some after counterpoise 
 
 To earth's relinquished joys ; 
 For life and death are blind lots drawn by chance, 
 
 The bars of circumstance 
 A cage, wherein with self-inflicted pain 
 
 We bruise ourselves in vain ; 
 Better be first to clutch the richest bone 
 
 The keeper's hand has thrown, 
 Or on our fellow-captives better still 
 
 To work our wild-beast will : 
 Though virtue spangle the romancer's page. 
 
 Vice is our heritage, 
 And powers unseen with irony malign 
 
 To each his share assign ; 
 The headlong venture on a hope forlorn 
 
 Of vanity is born ; 
 The reddest murder stains not midnight-time 
 
 With more essential crime 
 Than hate, inert, 'neath interposing ice 
 
 Of saving cowardice : 
 The wisest he who revels out his span 
 
 With cup and courtesan, 
 By prudence, only, fettered, not by awe 
 
 Of superstition's law : 
 Truth is not, faith is folly, love is lust, 
 
 Man's doom is "dust to dust" ; 
 Better to pluck life's roses, while remains 
 
 Warm blood within our veins.' 
 Hush, voice ignoble ! worse were lawless sense 
 
 Than chill indifference : 
 What though the ancient mystery of Will 
 
 And Fate elude us still,
 
 112 FORTEM POSCE ANIMUM 
 
 And they that on their voyage farthest go 
 
 Know best that least they know ? 
 What though, like any fool foredoomed to err, 
 
 The sage philosopher 
 Be impotent to mete the more or less 
 
 Of sin and sinlessness, 
 Of shame and laurelled glory, or, 'mid all 
 
 Temptation great and small, 
 To track each antecedent of the blood 
 
 Which stirs to bad or good 
 Coward or hero, crafty Belial, 
 Or sweet Sir Perceval ? 
 Nay, what though, with a vision past our dreams. 
 
 Some vaster knowledge deems 
 The best man only better than the worst, 
 
 The last behind the first 
 A handbreadth only, smiling where we frown 
 
 And spurning those we crown ? 
 Shall man, — because a God's is not his ken 
 
 To judge his fellow-men. 
 Omniscient, comprehending germ and whole, — 
 
 Shall man dethrone his soul ? 
 Enough for us the common wisdom taught 
 
 By humbler homelier thought : 
 To love, to labour, to be just and true 
 
 In all we think and do, 
 To make, if meet, the present's pain at last 
 
 Redeem a bankrupt past, 
 And, for the future, if beyond our scope 
 
 Be faith, to welcome hope. 
 He who abhors the gauds ambition yields 
 
 On blood -red battlefields, 
 But at his country's call or Right's alarms 
 Alert will stand to arms ;
 
 MORTIS TERRORE CARENTEM 113 
 
 Who braving, rather than his own soul's blame, 
 
 The lions and the flame, 
 Bows not to Baal, nor would worship, did 
 
 Nebuchadnezzar bid ; 
 Who, if the crowd be tyrant, with a proud 
 
 Disdain defies the crowd ; 
 Who robs not Naboth, nor at lucre's lure 
 
 Unpitying grinds the poor ; 
 Who clothes the naked, and the hungry feeds. 
 
 And binds the wound that bleeds ; 
 Who loves his kind, and tortures not the weak 
 
 Creature that cannot speak ; 
 This man — who doth to others what he would 
 
 To him that others should, 
 And worships more than any King or Queen 
 
 A conscience clear and clean — 
 Whether a hero's be his shining lot 
 
 Or peasant's in his cot. 
 Has known the athlete's joy whose weakness long 
 
 Self-conquest has made strong ; 
 Has learnt life's purpose better than by rules 
 
 Of all the creeds and schools. 
 Wherefore, when out of darkness beckoneth 
 
 Inexorable Death, 
 Even with the roaring torrent in his ears. 
 
 His soul shall know no fears. 
 Nor overmuch be sad, though at the end 
 
 Bereft of every friend. 
 But, bold for any future, and still fast 
 
 Its bright flag at the mast, 
 Will meet the call, and dauntless though alone 
 
 Embark on the Unknown. 
 
 8
 
 ADDITIONAL POEMS
 
 I. 
 
 THE nationalist's APPEAL. 
 February 7, 1893. 
 Statesmen of England, at your gate 
 A nation kneels to know her fate ; 
 Bemocked of old, and oft betrayed, 
 She pleads for justice long delayed ; 
 Statesmen of England, hearken to her plea : 
 Make Ireland free 1 
 
 Your sires stood first in Freedom's van ; 
 For that they faced the Corsican, 
 For that was noble Nelson slain, 
 For that they smote presumptuous Spain ; 
 Let Freedom's name once more your watchword be 
 Make Ireland free ! 
 
 Your voice acclaimed the patriot Pole, 
 And him that made Italia whole ; 
 You could not choose — 'twas in your breed. 
 Sons of the men of Runnymede ! 
 So now, salute your sister of the sea : 
 Make Ireland free ! 
 
 Oh, sharpen not the stranger's taunt 
 That you but feign the love you vaunt ; 
 The war-cloud lowers, — ere it descend, 
 Make your own home-born foe your friend ; 
 A truce to wrangling strife ; strike hands ! agree ! 
 Make Ireland free ! 
 117
 
 ii8 THE NATIONALIST'S APPEAL 
 
 Harden no heart, nor stop your ears ; 
 Her cry has stirred two hemispheres ; 
 You cannot hold her as your thrall 
 For ever ; pride foreruns a fall ; 
 Unlock her chains in time ; you have the key : 
 Make Ireland free ! 
 
 Heed not the sordid-selfish few 
 Who hug their fetters and eschew 
 A Nation's birthright ; let them still 
 For pottage sell it if they will : 
 Ten stand like men for one who bends the knee 
 Make Ireland free ! 
 
 Regard not faction's yell, or jibe 
 Of witling and vainglorious scribe ; 
 Each noble cause has felt the stings 
 And venom of such abject things ; 
 Steer 7<? by star their bleared eyes cannot see : 
 Make Ireland free ! 
 
 Long centuries have brought " To-day " ; 
 List not, as lips pragmatic say, 
 " Stand fast and all will yet be well.'' 
 She will not crouch, you cannot quell ; 
 Leave her alone to shape her destiny : 
 Make Ireland free ! 
 
 And deal no niggard largesse ; so 
 You would but swell the debt you owe ; 
 Prune not too close your wilding shoot, 
 Nor grudge it time for taking root ; 
 So shall it, one day, tower the statelier tree : 
 Make Ireland free !
 
 119 
 
 Free, she will not unworthy prove, 
 Though all unused to gifts of love ; 
 Trust her. It is her soul she craves, 
 And nations soar, when no more slaves. 
 Blot out old wrongs by one sublime decree : 
 Make Ireland free ! 
 
 II. 
 
 EXIT BANDY.^^ 
 
 November 22, 1897. 
 
 A TRUCE to all your games to-day, 
 Put football, racket-ball, away, 
 Not now the hour for sport and play 
 
 But sorrow sore instead. 
 A friend has vanished from our view 
 Whom all of our six hundred knew : 
 O sad Six Hundred when to you 
 
 The news came, " Bandy's dead ! " 
 
 Muffle your drums, O Volunteers ; 
 Your shrill notes soften to our ears, 
 O Fifers ; half a score of years 
 
 He never missed a drill. 
 But ever, as your captain spoke 
 " Fall in," a bark the court-yard woke 
 To tell to laggard human folk 
 
 Their dog was punctual still. 
 
 He loved us all — would favour none — 
 The world his playmate ; in the sun 
 Or in the rain to romp and run 
 His sole, his whole delight ;
 
 I20 EXIT BANDY 
 
 Beneath his doleful brow was pent 
 Indomitable merriment ; 
 To play with boy or man he meant 
 All day with all his might. 
 
 Was ever cricketer more keen 
 On our field, or on any, seen ? 
 Though summer's labour made him lean, 
 
 To him 'twas labour sweet ; 
 You hit the ball, he watched its course, 
 And, fast as any Manton horse, 
 Outpaced it ere it spent its force 
 
 And laid it at your feet. 
 
 His voice would echo sharp and short 
 From top tier of the Racket Court, 
 As if he criticised the sort 
 
 Of stroke you made or missed ; 
 So well he seemed to understand 
 The tricks of every round he scanned, 
 You vowed him fit to take a hand 
 (Or little paw) at whist. 
 
 In Hockey, Football, less he found 
 Of dog's delight, though on the ground 
 He oft would watch with gaze profound 
 
 The fortunes of the game, 
 And, may be, mused, " My legs for kicks 
 Were not devised or holding sticks ; 
 Else in the fray what fun to mix ; 
 
 This looking on is tame." 
 
 Self-constituted sentinel, 
 
 Our school domain he guarded well, 
 
 And woe to cur on whom he fell, 
 
 Though twice his weight and size ;
 
 121 
 
 Or, if too strong and big the brute, 
 For timely aid of stone or boot 
 He begged us with petition mute, 
 As due from sworn allies. 
 
 Well, every dog must have his day ; 
 Even you, whose gaiety made gay 
 Two generations, passed away 
 
 Ere ours, whom Marlborough bred : 
 And when was dog so mourned as you ? 
 Half sighs, half smiles, the wide world through 
 Will blend in thousand-fold adieu 
 
 When news comes " Bandy's dead ! " 
 
 III. 
 
 SPRINGTIME. 
 
 Spring once more, or the eye deceives ! 
 Such a splendour of crescent leaves. 
 Such a flashing ot bright-hued things, 
 Burgeoning buds and burnished wings, 
 Such a glitter of rain-washed grass, 
 Such a blue, as the soft clouds pass. 
 Such a marriage of green and gold 
 Everywhere out of the opening mould : 
 
 Yes, 'tis Spring, Spring's own self, healing 
 
 All the ill of winter's dealing. 
 
 Spring once more, or the ear's a cheat ! 
 Such a chorus of fluting sweet, 
 Such a lilt in the west wind's song. 
 Bees in the crocuses, such a throng, 
 High in the elms such croaks and caws. 
 Architect rooks, artificer daws.
 
 122 
 
 Such lambs' bleating, and from their pens 
 
 Such cluck-clucking of matron hens : 
 Yes, 'tis Spring, and at Spring's warning 
 Songs for silence, mirth for mourning. 
 
 Spring once more, or the heart's untrue ! 
 
 Such an ecstasy thrills it through, 
 
 Such a magical leap of the blood. 
 
 Sap in the vein as sap of the bud, 
 
 Such a rapture of hope re-born. 
 
 Laughing frown of the frost to scorn, 
 
 Such transfigurement, such emprise, 
 
 Such shy challenge of love-lit eyes : 
 
 Yes, 'tis Spring, 'tis young Spring meeting 
 Each charmed sense with heavenliest greeting. 
 
 IV. 
 
 THE MAYPOLE. 
 
 A Maypole, you lasses, let none of you shirk, 
 
 Get ready your feet for a fling ; 
 The Master has let off his men from their work, 
 
 The Missis herselfs in the ring. 
 
 Come Nanny, come Fanny, come Jenny, and Joan, 
 From dairy and kitchen come quick ; 
 
 Shame on you to keep the lads waiting alone. 
 Run down through the gate by the rick. 
 
 Here's Parson on Dobbin a-jogging our way. 
 
 And holding his babe by the bib ; 
 Here's purple-cheeked Butcher, and Miller so gray. 
 
 And Jockey Jones lean o' the rib. 
 
 Here's Alice, all blushes, the sly little minx, 
 With mischievous mirth in her eyes ;
 
 123 
 
 A palace for Alice not fine enough thinks 
 Our Dick, as she laughs at his sighs. 
 
 Quick, strike up the music of fiddle and horn. 
 
 And rattle the tight tambourine ; 
 Hurrah for our Maypole, hurrah for the Morn, 
 
 And hip hip hurrah for its Queen ! 
 
 V. 
 
 WINDERMERE. 
 I. MORNING. 
 
 Wake, sleeping Windermere, 
 For ardent dawn is near ; 
 Like shaken satin, shake 
 Thy lazy length of lake ; 
 Awake, and cast away 
 Thy coverlet of gray ; 
 Lo ! down the Rothay sweep 
 Her swans, to stir thy sleep. 
 And seagulls from the sea 
 Come, fain to play with thee ; 
 Lo ! every shining isle 
 Would smile back to thy smile ; 
 Wake, make thy beauty one 
 With limpid sky and sun. 
 
 II. NOON. 
 
 Laugh, noon-lit Windermere, 
 With laughing lads that steer 
 For yonder lichened ledge. 
 And, eager, from its edge, 
 Down, down, deliciously 
 Their fervour cool in thee,
 
 124 WINDERMERE 
 
 To lie, anon, and float 
 Beside their mirrored boat. 
 None watch but wondering sheep, 
 Or steers that stand knee-deep, 
 With jaws awhile compressed 
 And restless tails at rest, 
 Or blackbirds that have met 
 To try a canzonet. 
 
 HI. EVENING. 
 
 Rest, weary Windermere, 
 The sun sets, night is near, 
 And thou art overtired 
 With sport thy dreams desired 
 Ere morning had begun. 
 The passion of the sun, — 
 The sallies of the breeze 
 That still would fret and tease, — 
 The mountain-mimicked songs 
 Of merry-making throngs, — 
 The rush of frequent keel,— 
 The inland-rolling wheel : 
 All, all thy echoes cease, 
 And thou may'st rest in peace. 
 
 IV. NIGHT. 
 
 Sleep, blissful Windermere, 
 Sleep sound, and know no fear ; 
 Yon sleepless sentinels. 
 Thy kindred hills and fells. 
 Shall shield thee safe and warm 
 From every forceful storm.
 
 125 
 
 Behold, how beautiful 
 Their mists like new-washed wool 
 That softly wrap thee round ! 
 Yet watch they, by the sound 
 Of never-ceasing streams 
 That woo thee back to dreams : 
 " Sleep, sister, know no fear ; 
 We guard thee, Windermere." 
 
 VI. 
 
 MAY 1 90 1. 
 
 Chestnuts scatter 
 
 Their white and red. 
 
 May its blossom 
 
 Has almost shed, 
 
 Burnt and brown is 
 
 The cowslip's head. 
 
 Lilac is over, 
 
 Laburnum dead. 
 
 O cruel Spring ! 
 
 So tardy to beget them. 
 
 Why wouldst thou not let them 
 
 Yet for a while abide our welcoming ? 
 
 Round us ever. 
 As we grow old, 
 Sorrow fastens 
 A serpent fold ; 
 Friends are fewer 
 And fewer told ; 
 Courage is crippled 
 And Hope is cold.
 
 126 
 
 O cruel Time ! 
 
 Bereft by thy bereaving, 
 
 What's left is not worth leaving, 
 
 Far fainer were we stricken in our prime. 
 
 VII. 
 
 AUGUST 1902. 
 
 Fifty years ago I loved a flower 
 
 In a lonely hollow growing. 
 
 Of a red unlike all other redness, 
 
 Of a fragrance like no other sweetness, 
 
 Fifty years — and then there chanced an hour 
 
 For the old haunts, and for knowing 
 
 If still my Beauty crowned their dear completeness, 
 
 Or were but vanished deadness ; 
 
 And long I sought and saw it not. 
 
 Then, lo ! the old familiar spot, 
 
 And there the Glory glowing ! 
 
 And oh, my flower, the old heart in your keeping 
 
 So thrilled, I almost fell to childish weeping. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 QUATRAIN. 
 
 Some, doubting, fear, and, fearing, pray, 
 And some have faith — thrice happy they — 
 And some, beyond life's blinding snow. 
 With Hope for light, see roses blow.
 
 127 
 
 IX. 
 
 IN MEMORIAM : 
 
 JOHN SHEARME THOMAS.'^ 
 
 Still loftier than the world suspects, living and dying. 
 
 O FATAL First of August when I heard 
 
 The sadly whispered word 
 Fall from the kind physician's lips, and I 
 
 Knew that my friend must die ; 
 Must die— though all the strength of Midsummer 
 
 Still seemed in him astir ; 
 Must die— though she that nursed him at her breast 
 
 But last year found her rest ; 
 Must die— though playing at its mother's knee 
 
 His babe still lisps its glee. 
 O fatal day, how all thy prime seemed old, 
 
 Thy conquering splendour cold ! 
 How, as I hearkened, at his garden-gate, 
 
 The vacant present straight 
 Seemed lapsed into the past ! 
 
 His fond delight 
 
 In slope and hollow dight 
 With wilding flower and leaf— his outstretched hand 
 
 To point where he had planned 
 Some fresher grace — the sunshine of his smile — 
 
 His wise words void of wile : 
 All far-off seemed, and, ev'n while living, he 
 
 A most dear memory. 
 Others have loved our commonwealth, but none 
 
 With his love, no, not one ; 
 For it have others toiled— a toil like play 
 
 By his long tedious day.
 
 128 IN MEMORIAM 
 
 The fame might fall to others, he content 
 
 To win it, drudging, went, 
 And with constraining conscience for his guide 
 
 Drudged on and on, and died. 
 In hour of storm set ever in the front. 
 
 He bore the battle's brunt 
 Unselfish, uncomplaining, undismayed ; 
 
 And, asking no man's aid. 
 With guileless soul and fearless, war's one mode 
 
 He chose, — by honour's road ; 
 Nor ev'n when struck by some ignoble dart 
 
 Bore hatred in his heart. 
 That right might reign, that angry strife might cease, 
 
 He prayed, but craving peace 
 Yet willed the watchword of his life should be 
 
 The poet's " Prospice." 
 O spirit patient, simple, generous, 
 
 manliest, best of us, 
 
 O brother, if with one so pure and good 
 
 1 dare claim brotherhood, 
 
 Who, free to choose, when nearing Death's dark gate, 
 
 Some sole confederate, 
 Could find in all our host a steadfaster 
 
 Companion, comforter, 
 With whom to face the Terror ? 
 
 Oh, he fell. 
 
 Our rock, our citadel, 
 Our King Oak of the Forest by whom all 
 
 The other trees seemed small, 
 Our Greatheart who by great example taught. 
 
 Whose counsel all men sought, 
 Whose very foibles — sunspots of the soul — 
 
 Showed more the shining whole.
 
 JOHN SHEARME THOMAS 129 
 
 EVn those that could not guess his greatness yet 
 
 Will mourn him, nor forget 
 The man who in boys' eager life had joy 
 
 Unknown to any boy ; 
 Who cheered with lavish praise and loving eyes 
 
 All honest enterprise, 
 But would not swerve to right or left, not he, 
 
 For popularity ; 
 Who gave our Court its flowers, our Field its dress 
 
 Of leafy loveliness : 
 Whose foresight made his comrades' lot secure ; 
 
 Who, mindful of the poor. 
 To those that hoped not wide our portals threw ; 
 
 Who built our walls anew ; 
 Who still, though folly mocked or pride withstood, 
 
 Strove for the general good 
 With passion pure as any altar-fire ; 
 
 And age but fanned it higher. 
 . 
 
 The old glad air will stir the dreaming down 
 
 Above the old quaint town, 
 The forest-aisles again will gleam and ring 
 
 With bud and bird of Spring, 
 And game and work as heretofore will rule 
 
 In playing-field and school. 
 But nevermore to many more than me 
 
 Will Marlborough Marlborough be ; 
 His presence on it half the radiance shed, 
 
 We loved him, he is dead.
 
 I30 
 X. 
 
 IN MEMORIAM : 
 THEODORE LLEWELYN DAVIES." 
 
 Gay laughter, gentle speech ; a brain 
 To reason's lordship true ; 
 
 A soul that flashed back light again 
 Like sunshine-smitten dew : 
 
 Ah ! sorrow's self forgets its pain 
 In so remembering you. 
 
 XI. 
 
 A SUSSEX CHURCHYARD.!* 
 
 I. 
 
 Beautiful home of the dead, 
 Lit by a sunset of May, 
 Even thy sepulchres gay ! 
 Spring-blossom laughing above 
 Dead men sleeping below, 
 Redthorn exultingly red. 
 Whitethorn enrobed in its snow, 
 Lilac as lovely as love, 
 Irises blue in their bed, 
 Blue as the sea in the bay, 
 Blue as the sky overhead, — 
 Life out of dust of the dead ! 
 
 2, 
 
 Dead ! Is there anywhere death ? 
 Earth given back to the earth 
 Nurses the blossom to birth. 
 Spicing the air with its breath.
 
 A SUSSEX CHURCHYARD 131 
 
 Yea, though abased to the worm, 
 Out of the innermost germ 
 Aiding to fashion again 
 New generations of men. 
 
 J- 
 Twain are we ? — body and soul — 
 Or but a multiform, one, 
 Interdiffusible Whole, 
 Ending not, neither begun, 
 Now but an atom, and now, 
 After the sleep of the tomb. 
 Moving, a babe of the womb, 
 Waking, we know not when, 
 Living, we know not how. 
 Woven by Time's vast loom 
 Into the pattern of men ? 
 
 4- 
 Beautiful home of the dead ! 
 Fitly from such a prison 
 (Shrouded at first and dark, 
 Then, as the centuries passed, 
 Warmed to an animate spark) 
 Life has been built at last, 
 Fancy and intellect fed, 
 Love of the lovely arisen. 
 Very perception of thee 
 Out of thyself being born. 
 Soul from the bloom of the thorn, 
 Sense from the sap of the tree. 
 So, from the coffin awoke. 
 Thrilled through the air and the flower. 
 Moulded by might of the oak,
 
 132 A SUSSEX CHURCHYARD 
 
 Blent with the blood of the rose, 
 Fused into passion and power, 
 Lord of his life for an hour, 
 Man to man's heritage grows. 
 
 5- 
 Scorned is the thought for a dream ? 
 Were it then wiser to deem 
 Souls re-embodied shall rise 
 Swift, when the trumpet shalfcall. 
 Souls re-invested in all 
 Olden humanity's guise, 
 Human, for human assize ? 
 
 6. 
 
 We but believe, as we see 
 Infinite sequences ranged 
 Kin to the dust and the dew. 
 Mortal, immortally new ; 
 Not altogether man dies, 
 Not in a moment is changed ; 
 Slowly and out of a deep 
 Peace of impalpable sleep 
 His resurrection shall be. 
 So saith the churchyard to me.
 
 NOTES 
 
 1 Cf. Pepys' Diary. 
 
 2 Cf. Life of Ditmas (Davidson's translation), and for similar 
 feats of the same Dumas, Me^noirs of General Thiibault, vol. i. 
 p. 283, which came out in English in 1896. 
 
 3 Cf. The Times, April 19, 1892. Some of the speeches of 
 the actors are imaginary. 
 
 ^ ' The cry of the bird is taken as an evidence that an escaped 
 convict can once more live in the forests : and to run away, in 
 convict slang, is to "go to General Kukiishka for orders.'" — 
 Kennan's Siberia. 
 
 5 For the ' Begging Song,' cf. Kennan's Siberia. 
 
 * Cf. Lt.-Col. 'S>-^z}idXn^i, Life of Suvdroff. 
 
 ~ ' You will take Ismail at any cost. ' Potemkin's message to 
 Suvoroff. 
 
 8 ' Suvdroff, in a transport of joy, embraced Plot6ff, saying : 
 " To-day for prayer, to-morrow for drill, the next day victory or 
 a glorious death." ' 
 
 9 Cf. Lady Burton's Life of Sir R. Burton. 
 
 10 Cf. Miss Wordsworth's Diary, April 15th, 1802: 'When 
 we were in the woods below Gowbarrow Park we saw a few 
 daffodils close to the waterside. As we went along there were 
 more and yet more, and at last, under the boughs of trees, we 
 saw there was a long belt of them along the shore. I never 
 saw daffodils so beautiful. They grew among the mossy stones 
 above them : some rested their heads on the stones as on 
 a pillow, the rest tossed, and reeled, and danced, and seemed as 
 if they verily danced with the wind, they looked so gay and 
 glancing.' 
 
 11 ' A few days later Dr Gurvich was summoned by Masiiikoft' 
 'o the men's political prison to treat twenty more convicts who 
 
 133
 
 134 NOTES 
 
 had poisoned themselves. All were saved except Ivan Kaluznhei 
 (brother of the young girl who committed suicide on the loth) 
 and Sergei Bob6khof, both of whom died on the morning of 
 November i6th.' — Kennan's Siberia. 
 
 J2 Written before I had come across Lucile Desmoulins' line 
 in her scrap-book, ' Ecris sur ma tombe : Elle aima.' 
 
 13 I have somewhere read that there are about seventy extant 
 translations of the Dies Irae ! I have seen only Sir W. Scott's 
 few lines, Dean Stanley's paraphrase, and a version used at 
 a Musical Festival, the inadequacy of which prompted this 
 attempt at a more literal rendering. [This translation was 
 revised and considerably altered by Mr Beesly subsequently 
 to its original publication. It was inserted, in its final form, 
 in the Marlborough College Hymn Book, from which it is now 
 reprinted.] 
 
 14 ' The Days are tedious, but the Years are short " : Crabbe's 
 Tales of the Hall, book x., quoted in E. FitzGerald's Letters 
 {More Letters, p. 230), and first seen by me there. July 19, 1906. 
 
 15 From the Marlbiirian. Bandy was a dog belonging to 
 Henry Richardson, Esq., of Marlborough. 
 
 18 The Rev. J. S. Thomas was Bursar of Marlborough College 
 from i860 to 1897. This poem was published in the Marlburian 
 of 4th November 1897, with the following notes : 
 
 (i) The day before he took to his bed he said to a friend, 
 'I will go on working till I drop.' 
 
 (2) Many years ago he told the writer that Browning's 
 ' Prospice ' was his favourite poem. 
 
 (3) The changes alluded to, if not all originated by him, were 
 all executed under his zealous personal supervision. 
 
 " Reprinted from the Marlburian of nth October 1905. 
 Theodore Llewelyn Davies was drowned while bathing, 25th 
 July 1905. 
 
 18 This poem, written by Mr Beesly shortly before his death, 
 appeared in the Natio?i of 24th July 1909. The churchyard 
 described is that of Bexhill-on-Sea. 
 
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