3/4 
 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2007 with funding from 
 
 Microsoft Corporation 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/arcadianewOOrobirich 
 
THE NEW ARCADIA 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
THE NEW ARCADIA 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS- 
 
 BY 
 
 A. MARY F. ROBINSON. 
 
 ' Their lives, a general mist of error.' — Webster. 
 
 LONDON : 
 ELLIS & WHITE, 29 NEW BOND STREET 
 
LONDON: 
 Print«d by Strakokways * Sons, Tower Street, Upper St. Martin's Lane. 
 
^6" 3 
 
 
 TO 
 
 VERNON LEE. 
 
 029 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 THE NEW ARCADIA. 
 
 PROLOGUE 
 I. THE HAND-BELL RINGERS 
 n. MAN AND WIFE 
 
 III. THE SCAPE-GOAT 
 
 IV. JANET FISHER 
 V. THE ROTHERS 
 
 VI. COTTAR'S GIRL 
 VII. THE WISE WOMAN 
 Vin. MEN AND MONKEYS 
 IX. CHURCH-GOING TIM 
 X. THE SCHOOL CHILDREN 
 
 EPILOGUE TO THE NEW ARCADIA 
 
 i'A(;e 
 
 3 
 II 
 
 15 
 23 
 27 
 
 41 
 57 
 67 
 77 
 83 
 89 
 97 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 I. LOSS 
 
 
 
 11. TUSCAN OLIVES 
 
 
 
 III. STORNELLI AND STRAMBOTIT 
 
 
 
 IV. LOVE AMONG THE SAINTS 
 
 
 
 V. jiJTZE SCHULTHEISS 
 
 
 
 VI. LAUS DEO: A.D. I200 
 
 
 
 VII. APPREHENSION 
 
 
 
 VIII. LOVE AND VISION . 
 
 
 
 IX. THE CONQUEST OF FAIRYLAND 
 
 
 • 
 
 SONG 
 
 
 
 99 
 109 
 117 
 123 
 129 
 
 143 
 149 
 
 155 
 161 
 
 175 
 
PROLOGUE 
 
 THE NEW ARCADIA. 
 
 * < 
 
PROLOGUE. 
 
 Not only in great cities dwells great crime ; 
 
 Not where they clash ashore^ and break and moan, 
 
 Are waters deadliest ; and not in rhy?ne, 
 
 Nor ever i?i words^ the deepest heart is shown. 
 
 But^ lost in silence^ fearful things are knotun 
 
 To lonely souls, dumb passions, shoreless seas, 
 
 And he who fights with Death may shrink from these. 
 
 Alas I not all the greenness of the leaves, 
 
 Not all their delicate tremble in the air, 
 
 Can pluck one stab from a fierce heart that grieves. 
 
 The harvest-moon slants on as sordid care 
 
 As wears its heart out under attic eaves. 
 
 And though all round those folded mountains sleep. 
 
 Think you that sin and heart-break are less deep ? 
 
 You see the shepherd and his flocks a-field, 
 Hunger and passion are present there, no less. 
 Fearful ! when suddenly starts forth revealed 
 
PROLOGUE. 
 
 MarCs soul, unneighboured in its hideousness, 
 MarCs darker soul, a mefnory to possess 
 Henceforth, by which all nature pales and dies, 
 As a city suddenly wan under sunset skies. 
 
 And I have heard long since, and I have seen, 
 
 Wrong that has sunk like iron into my soul. 
 
 That has eaten into my heart, has burned me and been 
 
 A pang and pity past my own control. 
 
 And I have wept to think what such things mean, 
 
 And 1 have said I will not weep alone. 
 
 Others shall sorrow and know as I have known. 
 
 Others shall learn and shudder, and sorrow, and knotv 
 
 What shame is in the world they will not see. 
 
 They cover it up with leaves, they make a show 
 
 Of Maypole garlands over, but there shall be 
 
 A wind to scatter their gauds, and a wind to blow 
 
 And purify the hidden dreaded thing 
 
 Festering underneath ; attd so I sing. 
 
 If God had given a sword into my hand 
 
 I would go forth and fight the battles of God ; 
 
 If God had given me wisdom, I would stand 
 
PROLOGUE. 
 
 And summon up truth with my dhmiing rod : 
 But I have o?ily a song at my command^ 
 The froth of the world a song^ as water weak : 
 Yet since it is my weapon^ let me speak. 
 
 And listen you that are more mighty than /, 
 Who can go forth and do what I but dream — 
 Bear with me if I atn vaift, bear patiently. 
 I have lived so long ivith shadows, who only seem^ 
 That now these real men murdered make me cry, 
 As there ivere none on earth but I and they, 
 A?id all else echoes, phanto7Jis, witches^ play. 
 
 But this is real, that meii are wild, and hard. 
 And villainous ; while other men look on 
 And say, it is not so : a smell of iiard 
 And not of blood is here ; not woebegone 
 These faces, but contejit. Ah, what reward 
 For all our strife had we their quiet ho?nes 
 And quiet hearts and wish that 7iever roams I 
 
 So say ye ; for to think in all the world 
 There is so still and sweet a resting-place, 
 Wliere never the angry seas of passion are huriea 
 
PROLOGUE. 
 
 Against necessity^ where none is base 
 
 And none is starved. There is a so?'t of grace 
 
 To keep so sweet a vision in your eyes., 
 
 And as you sniile the true thing starves and dies. 
 
 Oh^ help ! help ! it is Murder that I cry, 
 
 And not a song to sell. Now if you smile 
 
 And hear me you are mad ; you are mad, or I. 
 
 For I do 7tot sing to enchant you or beguile ; 
 
 I sing to make you think enchantment vile, 
 
 I sing to wring your hearts and make you know 
 
 What shame there is in the world, what wrongs, what woe 
 
 Because your deaf ears, only, are to bla7ne, 
 
 Not your deaf hearts. Look now, and if you see 
 
 Men as they are, contented in their shame, 
 
 L know that you will help, you will let them be 
 
 Foreseeing, noble, wise, and even as ye ; — 
 
 Only your eyes I ask, only your ears, 
 
 The rest I leave to him who sees and hears. 
 
 Then let me sing, and listen to my song, 
 
 Though it is rough with sobs, and harsh and wild. 
 
 And often wanders, and is often long 
 
PROLOGUE. 7 
 
 As mothers tell the death-bed of their child. 
 My child was gentle visions^ and all were wrongs 
 And false, and cruel ; and I bury it here : 
 Lend me your spades, — / do not ask a tear. 
 
 Lend me your souls, and do not stand aloof. 
 Saying ivhat happy lives these peasants 7vin, 
 Praising the plushy lichens on the roof. 
 L^ave off your praising, brothers, and come in. 
 See, round the hearth, squat Ignorance, Fever, Sin. 
 See on the straw the starving baby cries ; 
 The Jtwther thanks her God another dies. 
 
 Ah, look within ! Without, the world is fair. 
 And you are all in love with solitude; 
 Yet look within : Evil and Pain are there. 
 Look, ye ivho say Life best is understood 
 Where greenish light falls dappling the mossfloored 7UOod, 
 Look at the dumb brute souls who suffer and strive ; — 
 Leave the dead world, and make their souls alive ! 
 
THE NEW ARCADIA. 
 
 I. 
 THE HAND-BELL RINGERS. 
 
THE NEW ARCADIA. 
 
 THE HAND-BELL RINGERS. 
 
 Last night the ringers came over the moor 
 
 To ring us in Christmas-tide ; 
 They entered in at our garden door : 
 We sat and watched the yule logs roar, 
 
 They stood on the grass outside. 
 
 We sat within in the warmth and light, 
 
 The fire leapt red and blue ; 
 Each frosted lamp was a moon of white 
 The growing plants half hid from sight, 
 
 Letting the radiance through. 
 
 And the white and the red lights filled the room, 
 
 And flickered on bracket and ledge, 
 On the pale sweet pinks and the cactus bloom, 
 With its crimson flush, and the leafy gloom 
 Of the sill's geranium-hedge. 
 
 We sat, making merry, shut in from the rain 
 And the Christmas cold outside. 
 
THE NEW ARCADIA. 
 
 But hark ! the carol goes peaUng again ; 
 
 The ringers are out in the cold, 'tis plain, 
 
 Ringing in Christmas-tide. 
 
 II. 
 I left the fire with its flicker and roar, 
 
 And drew the curtains back. 
 On the edge of the grass stood the ringers four, 
 With the dim white railing behind, and the moor 
 
 A waste of endless black, 
 
 With, somewhere burning, aloof, afar, 
 
 A single lonely light ; 
 But never a glimmer of moon or star 
 To show where the unseen heavens are 
 
 Through the whole dark width of the night. 
 
 In front of the rail, in a shadowy row. 
 
 Stood the ringers, dim and brown ; 
 
 Their faces burned with a faded glow. 
 
 And spots of light now high, now low. 
 
 With the bells leapt up and down. 
 
 At first, a faint red blur in the night 
 Is a face — no more than that; 
 
THE NEW ARCADIA. 13 
 
 And merely a shifting disc of light 
 Each great bright bell, to the dazzled sight 
 Worth scarce the looking at. 
 
 Till slowly the figure, barely guessed, 
 
 Grows human ; the face grows clear : 
 
 The tall, red prophet who leads the rest, 
 
 The sallow lad with the hollow chest, 
 You see them all appear. 
 
 You catch the way they look and stand, 
 The listening clench of the eyes ; 
 
 The great round hand-bells, golden and grand, 
 
 Grasped a couple in either hand. 
 
 And the arms that fall and rise. 
 
 III. 
 So much I behold, and would never complain. 
 
 As much and no more could I see. 
 As clear as air is the window pane 
 'Twixt me in the light and them in the rain, 
 
 Yet strange they look to me ! 
 
 Grim, solemn figures, all in a row. 
 
 Intent on the carol they ring \ 
 
14 THE NEW ARCADIA. 
 
 But I see no less in the pane the glow 
 Of the cactus-crimson, and to and fro 
 The flames their flicker fling. 
 
 My ribbon breast-knot dances across 
 
 The leader's solemn brow, 
 The moon-globed lamps burn low in the moss, 
 And my own pale face, as it seems, they toss, 
 
 With the ringing hand-bells now. 
 
 So dark is the night, so dark, alas ! 
 
 I look on the world, no doubt ; 
 Yet I see no less in the window-glass, 
 The room within, than the trees and grass, 
 
 And men I would study without. 
 
THE NEW ARCADIA. 
 
 11- 
 
 MAN AND WIFE. 
 
THE NEW ARCADIA. 17 
 
 MAN AND WIFE. 
 
 The bracken withers day by day, 
 
 The furze is out of bloom. 
 Over the common the heather is gray, 
 
 And there's no gold left on the broom ; 
 And the least wind flutters a golden fleck 
 From the three tall aspens that grow in the beck. 
 
 Yet, oh, I shall miss it to-morrow night, 
 
 The wild, rough sea of furze ; 
 And the cows coming down, looking large and white, 
 
 And the tink of each bell as it stirs, 
 The aspens brushing the tender sky. 
 And the whirr of the geese as they homeward fly. 
 
 'Tis the first grief ever I owned to mind 
 
 Until to-night, good neighbour ; 
 For I could work when John went blind, 
 
 And I never dreaded labour ; 
 And Willie grew so good a son, 
 We never fretted, I and John. 
 
 c 
 
1 8 THE NEW ARCADIA, 
 
 Ah, me ! We've waited here at the gate 
 
 Many and many an even, 
 When Willie lingered a little late, 
 
 And I've thought it seemed like Heaven, 
 To stand, the work all done, and look 
 At the yellow and pink of the sky in the brook. 
 
 And John, I know, though he's blind as a stone, 
 
 And bent with a life of pain. 
 He'll miss it sore when he sits alone, 
 
 And wish he could see it again — 
 As though it were Heaven itself. Ah, me ! 
 There's only clouds that the blind can see. 
 
 No doubt there was trouble enough in the past, 
 
 But trouble we bore together ; 
 And trouble shared is no worse to last 
 
 Than the bite of wind or weather : 
 But now we're old to begin anew — 
 To suffer apart — oh, it's hard to do ! 
 
 It's not the shame that I dread, you see. 
 
 Though it's sharp; nor the workhouse fare ; 
 Oh, any place is the same to me. 
 
THE NEW ARCADIA. 19 
 
 Could we stay together there : 
 But John's stone-blind — my John, my man — 
 I'd like to serve him while I can. 
 
 But he'll be apart in one long room, 
 
 And I as strange in another ; 
 At the end of the day I'll sit .down in the gloom, 
 
 And be no man's wife or mother ; 
 And I'll miss his voice and the tap of his stick 
 Till my throat grows choked and my sight grows thick. 
 
 I'll not be dull ? There are people enough 
 In the House ? Is that what you say ? 
 
 Yes, every one there that I do not love, 
 And only my man away : 
 
 Voices and steps coming in and out, 
 
 But never the one that I care about. 
 
 I'd rather starve in the snow with John! 
 
 But that would be wicked, I know ; 
 Indeed, we might live with our only son, 
 
 And never stir out in the snow. 
 But burden his back with our useless lives, 
 And palsy the arm that struggles and strives. 
 
20 THE NEW ARCADIA. 
 
 Nay, Will has another to think of — my Will, 
 
 'Tis time the lad was wed ; 
 He's waited long, and he would wait still, 
 
 Till John and I were dead : 
 But better the Poorhouse, better far. 
 Than only to live as a fret and a bar. 
 
 Ah, we remember, I and John, 
 The waiting till youth is spoiled ; 
 
 I'd never owe my bread to a son. 
 And sit while he toiled and moiled. 
 
 And see the lass he hoped to wive 
 
 Grow old unmarried, since I was alive. 
 
 That was the way in our time, though, 
 
 But I never liked the way ! 
 It kept us single till forty, I know. 
 
 And married us old and gray ; 
 And set me only one child on my knee; 
 Who shall not suffer as much from me. 
 
 And so to-morrow we leave the place 
 
 To go to the House up yon. 
 Yes, as you say, 'tis a sad disgrace ; 
 
THE NEW ARCADIA. 
 
 Yet we've worked hard — I and John — 
 We've worked until we can work no more, 
 And all our labour has left us poor. 
 
 Oh, never I thought it would come to this 
 When we loved each other first ; 
 
 And yet, had I seen with the first, first kiss, 
 I know I'd have faced the worst: 
 
 I'd live the same life over again — 
 
 Hardship and all — so I'll not complain. 
 
 Neighbour, I'm not unthankful ; indeed, 
 I know they are good to the poor 
 
 Who take us away from our cold and need, 
 When we're grown too old to endure : 
 
 Only I think they can have no heart. 
 
 For all their kindness, to house us apart. 
 
THE NEW ARCADIA. 
 
 III. 
 THE SCAPE-GOAT, 
 
THE NEW ARCADIA. 25 
 
 THE SCAPE-GOAT. 
 
 She lived in the hovel alone, the beautiful child. 
 
 Alas, that it should have been so ! 
 But her father died of the drink, and the sons went wild 
 
 And where was the girl to go ? 
 
 Her brothers left her alone in the lonely hut. 
 
 Ah, it was dreary at night 
 When the wind whistled right through the door that 
 never would shut, 
 
 And sent her sobbing with fright 
 
 She never had slept alone ; for the stifling room 
 
 Held her, brothers, father — all. 
 Ah, better their violence, better their threats, than the 
 gloom 
 
 That now hung close as a pall ! 
 
 When the hard day's washing was done, it was sweeter to 
 stand 
 
26 THE NE W ARCADIA, 
 
 Hearkening praises and vows, 
 To feel her cold fingers kept warm in a sheltering hand, 
 Than crouch in the desolate house. 
 
 Ah, me ! she was only a child ; and yet so aware 
 
 Of the shame which follows on sin. 
 A poor, lost, terrified child ! she stept in the snare, 
 
 Knowing the toils she was in. 
 
 Yet, now, when I watch her pass with a heavy reel, 
 
 Shouting her villainous song. 
 Is it only pity or shame, do you think, that I feel 
 
 For the infinite sorrow and wrong ? 
 
 With a sick, strange wonder I ask, Who shall answer 
 the sin, 
 
 Thou, lover, brothers of thine ? 
 Or he who left standing thy hovel to perish in ? 
 
 Or I, who gave no sign ? 
 
THE NEW ARCADIA. 
 
 IV. 
 JANET FISHER. 
 
THE NE W ARCADIA. 29 
 
 JANET FISHER. 
 Part I. 
 
 Where Janet Fisher lived and died, 
 The Eastland marshes reach away 
 
 For miles on miles of either side, 
 
 A river desolately wide 
 
 That is itself as drear as they. 
 
 With tufts of purple marish flowers 
 
 The rough gray grass is islanded ; 
 The travelling thunder broods for hours 
 In gathered purple, where there lowers 
 The frequent tempest overhead. 
 
 Immense the eternal arch of sky ; 
 
 Immense — utterly barren, too — 
 The plain in which no mountains lie 
 To mar that vastness, bounded by 
 
 The far horizon's shadowy blue. 
 
30 THE NE W ARCADIA. 
 
 Only the river's gradual bend 
 
 Shows stunted willows set in rows, 
 Rank pasture, kine the children tend, 
 Blown curls of smoke that swerve and ascend 
 From leaning hovels clustered close. 
 
 For on this barren, aguish swamp, 
 Even here is life, even here are men 
 
 To shake with palsy, stiffen with cramp, 
 
 To die ere fifty of the damp 
 And fetid vapours of the fen. 
 
 Though hov/ a village came to grow 
 
 In such a vile and deathly air 
 None knows ; it may be long ago 
 The outcasts of some crime or woe. 
 Fleeing for refuge, sheltered there ; 
 
 And through the habit of their race, 
 
 Or fearing yet the wrath of men. 
 Their children settled in the place, 
 And reaped scant harvest, in the face 
 Of death, upon the poisonous fen. 
 
THE NEW ARCADIA. 31 
 
 And since the end was always near, 
 And life so hard ; and since they knew, 
 
 Save sloth and lust, no joys \ each year 
 
 They served their senses less in fear, 
 And more like beasts and viler grew. 
 
 Few friends were there, tho' all were kin : 
 There was much strife, and many raids ; 
 The hovels that they huddled in 
 Housed men whose brutal love was sin. 
 Nameless children, and shameless maids. 
 
 Even among this soulless herd 
 
 Lived Janet Fisher ; but she went 
 Along their streets, and no man stirred 
 Her quiet heart with look or word 
 
 To harm the village Innocent. 
 
 They meant she was an idiot born, 
 This one fair sight in foulest place ; 
 
 This girl as fresh as early morn ; 
 
 So fair — and yet too sad to scorn j 
 Too sunk for any hind to embrace. 
 
32 THE NEW ARCADIA. 
 
 Their one fair thing, their one thing good, 
 
 And she bereft of sense or will. 
 So mere a mask of womanhood — 
 Sad ; — but there was no heart to brood 
 Upon the irremediable ill. 
 
 Yet crazy Janet found them kind — 
 
 They took her when her mother died 
 To live in turn with each ; to wind 
 Their well-ropes, bind their sheaves, and mind 
 Their cattle grazing far and wide. 
 
 But often by the river-brim 
 
 She strayed, scattering seeds and flowers, 
 To wade in clear green shallows, and swim 
 Against the stream \ or, through the dim 
 
 And quiet twilight, row for hours. 
 
 Day long, night long, her spirit slept. 
 
 And nothing shook the sullen drowse ; 
 Yet oft a shadowy pleasure crept 
 All through her, where the boats v/ere kept, 
 Beneath the dangling willow boughs. 
 
THE NEW ARCADIA. 33 
 
 She was so strong, she liked to feel 
 
 Her rapid stroke lend wings to the boat ; 
 
 The water dashing against the keel ; 
 
 The wind in her face and hair ; the teal 
 And plovers crying, the weeds afloat. 
 
 Then only she — who was so far 
 
 Behind the merest child of all — 
 Was prouder, stronger, than others are ; 
 And she could row to the harbour bar 
 
 And back, ten miles, ere night-dews fall. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 But all the harvest long, forlorn. 
 
 Unloosed, the boat rocked to and fro, 
 While Janet slept from eve till morn. 
 Dead-tired with gathering in the corn 
 From daybreak till the light was low. 
 
 D 
 
34 THE NE W ARCADIA. 
 
 How glad she was when autumn whirled 
 
 The slender yellowing willow leaves, 
 When all the plants looked shrivelled and curled, 
 And no more corn or fruit in the world 
 Was left to gather under eaves. 
 
 For then one evening, when the plain 
 
 Was strangely bright i' the sun, and black 
 With thunder and unfallen rain 
 The sky, she sought her boat again. 
 And bent the yielding branches back — 
 
 The thinning willow boughs — and found 
 A man, half-stripped, beside the boat, 
 
 Burying hurriedly underground 
 
 And heaping yellow leaves around 
 A stained and faded soldier's coat. 
 
 She stood behind him, nothing loth 
 To watch his work unseen a span, 
 
 For she was neither scared nor wroth ; 
 
 The splendour of the scarlet cloth 
 Engrossed her, not the haggard man. 
 
THE NEW ARCADIA. 35 
 
 * Give me it ! ' eager Janet said 
 
 At last ; the man who heard her shook 
 Alarmed, and turned his startled head. 
 He was as wan and gray as the dead, 
 
 And even Janet feared his look. 
 
 * All's up,' he moaned. ' Ay, call them out ! 
 
 I'm spent, you're strong,' he moaned; — 'hit hard, 
 I'm down. Don't stare so, woman ; shout ! 
 Why, don't you know what you're about ? 
 
 I'm a deserter — there's reward. 
 
 * I'm spent.' But towards the scarlet coat 
 
 He saw unheeding Janet go ; 
 They turned, and turning, saw the boat. 
 ' Oh, God ! ' he cried, with straining throat, 
 
 * Girl, will you help me ? ' 'I can row.' 
 
 Poor Janet ! — all those prayers were vain 
 
 To reach the incommunicable 
 Dim soul in her ; and yet 'twas plain 
 He wished her, prayed her, to remain — 
 
 And one thing only she could do well. 
 
36 THE NEW ARCADIA. 
 
 She smiled. Her masters on the fen 
 Bade her : Do this, bear such a load, 
 
 Go there — for they were brutish men. 
 
 But this man spake her fair ; and then 
 
 She longed to show him how well she rowed ! 
 
 Within the boat she took her stand ; 
 
 He followed her unquestioningly. 
 Got in, sat down, at her command ; 
 She pushed the boat off from the land, 
 
 And, with the current, sought the sea. 
 
 Fierce yellow sunlight, beetling clouds 
 Heaped up in blackness overhead ; 
 Still air, in which the beasts were cowed. 
 And all the sounds were over-loud — 
 Yet Janet felt no thrill of dread. 
 
 Inland the sea-mews fled, that know 
 
 The earliest tempest-mutterings ; 
 The swallows, skimming very low. 
 Dipped, and a livid western glow 
 Glanced off their sheeny underwings. 
 
THE NEW ARCADIA. yj 
 
 On through the ominous dusk the bark 
 That knew no fear, that had no soul, 
 
 Made for the sea. How should it hark 
 
 The wind, or see the air grow dark, 
 Or feel the widening waters roll ? 
 
 And soulless as itself, and rash, 
 
 Janet rowed on, elate and proud ; 
 And thankful to escape the lash, 
 Her fellow heard no waters dash, 
 
 And did not see the gathering cloud. 
 
 Speechless he drowsed for many a mile, 
 
 Sunk to inert fatigue, half dead ; 
 At last : ' It takes a long, long while,' 
 He muttered. Janet turned — her smile 
 
 Filled all his veins with sudden dread. 
 
 He started, shook the torpid drowse 
 
 Off him like water ; all around 
 The river heaved in waves ; and soughs 
 And moans of wind began to arouse 
 
 The storm ; he could not see the ground. 
 
THE NEW ARCADIA. 
 
 Black walls of stormy air shut in 
 
 The boat ; above, a gloomy vault 
 Shattered by lightning ; roar and din 
 Where sea and hurtling stream begin 
 
 Their desperate, endless rebuff and assault. 
 
 ' Woman ! ' he shouted ; ' mad-woman, speak ! — 
 
 Why did you let me sleep so long ? 
 Is it the sea, the sea, you seek ? ' 
 The tears fell into the spray on her cheek : 
 
 'Help me,' she wailed; Tm spent, you're strong.' 
 
 His words ! his prayer ! No safety, then, 
 If she were mad ; no means to avert 
 
 The end. Far backwards lay the fen, 
 
 And here, instead of a world of men, 
 A danger no man shall desert. 
 
 Had she gone mad, perhaps, from fright, 
 This woman ? * Oh, my God !' he cried ; 
 
 ' To be alone at sea, by night ; 
 
 Lost in a storm — no hope, no light ; 
 A maniac for my only guide ! ' 
 
THE NEW ARCADIA 39 
 
 She crouched upon the lowest plank 
 
 And cried, and dashed her hands in the wave 
 That drenched her dress, and made so lank 
 And straight her hair — that slowly sank 
 Them down towards the engulfing grave. 
 
 The man stooped down and looked at her. 
 Half-blind with swirling spray of the sea. 
 Horror, impotent wrath, despair 
 At heart. What did she say ? A prayer ? 
 ' Poor crazy Janet ; pity me ! ' 
 
 Then was he lost in very truth — 
 
 How wild his hope ! how vain his trust ! 
 This woman — this, his angel of ruth — 
 Had lured him to his death ; in sooth, 
 To kill her would be merely just 
 
 Should he kill her ? Sea and sky, 
 
 In answering storms, heaved up, hung down ; 
 They seemed to touch, they met so nigh. 
 One moment more all else must die : 
 
 Why should he kill her ? Let her drown ! 
 
40 THE NE W ARCADIA. 
 
 ' Help me ! ' she shrieked. But who could swim 
 
 In such a sea, — a toppling bank 
 Of waves. She sprang, and clung to him ; 
 Then noise, hate, storm, death, all grew dim ; 
 
 He caught her — tried to save her — sank. 
 
 But when the storm was stilled at last. 
 The fishers found him on the strand, 
 One arm stretched out, still battling past 
 The waves, it seemed, and clasping fast 
 A woman's corpse with one stiff hand. 
 
 They knew him not, but her they knew ; 
 
 Poor Janet, missed a day and night. 
 Then, wind-uncovered, stained with dew, 
 They found the coat ; the wonder grew, 
 
 And the sad story came to light. 
 
THE NEW ARCADIA. 
 
 V. 
 
 THE ROTHERS. 
 
THE NE W ARCADIA. 43 
 
 THE ROTHERS. 
 
 As far as you can see, the moor 
 
 Spreads on and on for many a mile, 
 
 And hill and dale are covered o'er 
 With many a fragrant splash and isle 
 
 Of vivid heather, purple still. 
 
 Though the bracken is yellow on dingle and hill. 
 
 The heather bells are stiff and dry, 
 Yet honey is sweet in the inmost cell ; 
 
 The bracken's withered that stands so high, 
 But sleeping cattle love it well. 
 
 Thorny fern and honeyless heather, 
 
 A friend who chills with the blighting weather. 
 
 A mile towards the western sun 
 
 The Rothers have their wooded park ; 
 
 Never another so fair an one 
 
 Sees from his poise the singing lark. 
 
 When Rother of Rother first began 
 
 Recks not the memory of man. 
 
44 THE NE W ARCADIA. 
 
 It stands there still, a red old house, 
 Rother, set round with branchy pines ; 
 
 The heather is red beneath the boughs, 
 
 And red are the trunks where the slant sun shines, 
 
 And the earth is ruddy on hollow and height : 
 
 But the blood of a Rother's heart is white. 
 
 Right royal faces, none the less. 
 
 And gracious ways when the world is kind ; 
 
 But trust a Rother in your distress, — 
 A hollow hemlock stem you find, 
 
 Where you looked for a sapling to cling to and save 
 
 You yet from the chasm below like a grave. 
 
 And now they are ended — the faithless race ; 
 
 Sir Thomas was never a Rother born. 
 He took the name when he took the place. 
 
 With the childless wife whom he laughs to scorn : 
 And his life is a cruel and evil life — 
 But let none pity his craven wife. 
 
 She — oh marvel of wonder and awe — 
 O angered patience of God ! — I say 
 God sees our ^ins ; for a sign I saw 
 
THE NEW ARCADIA. 45 
 
 Set in the western skies one day — 
 White, over Rother, white and pale 
 For many a mile over hill and dale. 
 
 Now let me make the marvel clear. 
 
 When Edward, last of the Rothers, died 
 He left two orphan daughters here : 
 
 Little children who scarce could ride, 
 Clutching the mane with baby hands. 
 O'er half an acre of their lands. 
 
 I think I see the sorrel mare, 
 
 Staid, old ; and, tumbled on her neck, 
 
 Flushed faces, dimpled arms, and hair 
 Of crimpy flax with a golden fleck ; 
 
 As by the side, with timid graces, 
 
 Well to the fore, the prim nurse paces. 
 
 A pretty cavalcade ! Ah well, 
 
 The Rothers ever loved a horse 1 
 And so one day Sir Edward fell. 
 
 Out hunting; dragged along the gorse 
 For yards, one foot in the stirrup still, 
 The hunters found him upon the hill. 
 
46 THE NE W ARCADIA. 
 
 They brought him home as cold as stone, 
 Into his house they bore him in ; 
 
 Nor at his burial any one 
 
 Was there to mourn him, of his kin, 
 
 Save those two babies, grave and grand 
 
 In black, who could not understand. 
 
 Poor wondering children, clad in crape, 
 Who knew not what they had to mourn, 
 
 Careful their sash should keep its shape 
 That papa, when he should return, 
 
 Might praise each little stiff new gown — 
 
 All day they never would sit down. 
 
 Poor, childish mutes, they stood all day 
 With outspread skirts and outspread hair, 
 
 And baby lips, less pink than grey 
 
 (So pale they were), and solemn stare ; 
 
 They watched our mourning, pained and dumb. 
 
 Wondering when papa would come. 
 
 And give them each a ride on his horse, 
 And toss them both in the air, and say 
 ' A Rother is sure in the saddle, of course. 
 
THE NEW ARCADIA. 47 
 
 But never a Rother rode better than they,' 
 And send them up to bed at last 
 To sleep till morning, sound and fast. 
 
 At last each whitish-flaxen head 
 
 Drooped heavily, each baby-cheek 
 Its pallid shadow-roses shed — 
 
 The straight black legs grew soft and weak- 
 Father and frocks alike forgot 
 They fell asleep, and sorrowed not. 
 
 Yet pitiable they were, alone 
 
 They were, twin heiresses of five, 
 With lands and houses of their own. 
 
 And never a friend in the world alive 
 Save one old great-aunt, over in France, 
 Who knew them not, nor cared, perchance. 
 
 We little fancied she would come — 
 Quit palms, and sun, and table d'hote 
 
 For two unknown little girls at home ; 
 But soon there came a scented note 
 
 With half the phrases underscored, 
 
 And French at every second word. 
 
48 THE NE W ARCADIA. 
 
 And soon she followed, — she would sigh, 
 And clasp her hands, and swear ' by God ;' 
 
 Her black wig ever slipped awry, 
 
 And quavered with a trembling nod ; 
 
 Her face was powdered very white. 
 
 Her black eyes danced under brows of night. 
 
 Such paint ! Yet were I ever to feel 
 
 Utterly lost, no saint I'd pray, 
 But, crooked of ringlets and high of heel, 
 
 I'd call to the rescue old Miss May ; 
 No haloed angel sweet and slender. 
 Were half so kind, so staunch, so tender. 
 
 She loved the children well, but most 
 The girl who least was like herself — 
 
 Maudie, at worst a plaintive ghost, 
 Maudie, at best a laughing elf. 
 
 With eyes deep flowering under dew, 
 
 Such tender looks of lazy blue. 
 
 Florence was stronger, commonplace 
 
 Perhaps, but good, sincere, and kind, 
 There was no Rother in her face, 
 
THE NEW ARCADIA. 49 
 
 There was no Rother I could find 
 In her heart either ; but who knows ? 
 My son shall not marry a daughter of Flo.'s. 
 
 You see I hate the Rothers, I ! 
 
 Unjust, perhaps, all are not vile 
 It may be — but I cannot try, 
 
 When I think of a Rother now, to smile. 
 You hate the Irish, perhaps ? the Turks ? 
 In every heart some hatred lurks. 
 
 But these two girls I never hated, 
 
 I thought them better than their race ; 
 
 Who would not think a curse out- dated 
 When from so fresh and young a face 
 
 The Rother eyes looked frankly out, 
 
 The Rother smile flashed no Rother's doubt ? 
 
 Well, they were young, and wealthy, and fair ; 
 
 It seemed not long since they were born, 
 When Florence married Lawrence Dare, 
 
 Then Maud, alas ! Sir Thomas Thorn— 
 A bitter, dark, bad, cruel man — 
 Sir Thomas, now, of the Rother clan. 
 
 E 
 
50 THE NE W ARCADIA. 
 
 For now we come to the very root 
 
 Of the passionate rancour I keep at heart 
 
 Flowering in words, but the bitter fruit 
 Is still unripe for its sterner part. 
 
 Well, Maud, too, married, Miss May was free 
 
 To go wherever she wished to be. 
 
 Homeless, after so many years 
 
 Of sacrifice ! Where could she go ? 
 
 But she, she smiled, choked back her tears, 
 * Of course,' she said, ' it must be so, — 
 
 So kind, her girls, to let her come 
 
 Three months to each in her married home ! ' 
 
 And first at Rother with the Thorns 
 In her old home she stayed a guest \ 
 
 ^ Hr Hr % % 
 
 But must I think of all the scorns 
 
 That made your age a bitter jest, — 
 Whose memory like a star appears 
 Thro' the violent dark of that House of tears ? 
 
 Your Maud was changed ; — a craven slave 
 
 To her unloving husband now ; 
 The bitter words she could not brave. 
 
THE NE W ARCADIA. 5 1 
 
 The silent hatred of eyes and brow 
 Estranged her not ; and oh, 'tis true ! 
 To gain his favour she slighted you. 
 
 And yet you stayed ! And yet you stayed — 
 
 Hoping to win your dear one back — 
 Thinking through pain, not sin, she strayed 
 
 From the old, good, well-known heavenly track. 
 Alas, your lamb had gone too far — 
 Farther from you than the farthest star. 
 
 * * * "k * 
 
 At last the three months ended ; then 
 
 I heard Miss May was very ill ; 
 It was the first of autumn when 
 
 Our roads are bad, so I chose the hill 
 And the brow of the moor, as I rode away 
 To Rother, where my good friend lay. 
 
 And now for my sunset. Is 't not strange 
 That heaven, which sees a million woes 
 
 Unmoved, should pale, and faint, and change 
 At one more murder that it knows ? 
 
 And yet I think I could declare 
 
 A horror in that sunset's glare. 
 
52 THE NEW ARCADIA. 
 
 As I was riding over the moor 
 
 My back was turned to the blazing white 
 
 Of the western sun, but all around 
 
 The country caught the strange bright light ; 
 
 The tufts of trees were yellow, not green ; 
 
 Grey shadows hung like nets between. 
 
 Such yellow colours on bush and tree ! 
 
 Such sharp-cut shade and light I saw ! 
 The white gates white as a star may be : 
 
 But every scarlet hip and haw, 
 Border of poppies, roof of red. 
 Had lost its colour, wan and dead ! 
 
 So strange the east, that soon I turned 
 To watch the shining west appear. 
 
 Under a billow of smoke there burned 
 A belt of blinding silver, sheer 
 
 White length of light wherefrom there shone 
 
 A round, white, dazzling, rayless sun. 
 
 There mirror-like it hung and blazed, 
 And all the earth below was strange, 
 And all the scene whereon I gazed 
 
THE NEW ARCADIA. 53 
 
 Even to the view-line's uttermost range 
 Hill, steeple, moor, all near and far 
 Was flat as shifting side-scenes are. 
 
 Lifeless, a country in the moon 
 
 It seemed, that white and vague expanse, 
 
 So substanceless and thin, that soon 
 I fell to wonder, by some chance 
 
 Of a sketcher's fancy — how would fare 
 
 The tones of flesh in that strange v/hite glare ? 
 
 A freak of the painter's cautious eye 
 
 Which notes all possible effect — 
 I scarcely daub, but I love to try — 
 
 So, full of the whim, I recollect, 
 I stretched my own right arm and gazed 
 At the hand, quite black where the full light blazed. 
 
 That was too near, I smiled and turned, 
 
 And shook the reins and rode away, 
 And looked where the eastern forest burned 
 
 With its golden oaks. But who were they 
 In the dog-cart, there, just under the trees ? 
 They should prove my fancy ! A grip of the knees,^ 
 
54 THE NE W ARCADIA. 
 
 And I reached them ; why, the Thorns they were, 
 The Thorns Hvid, and clear, and plain 
 
 In the ugly light, nor could I dare 
 
 To ask if my friend were at ease or in pain ; 
 
 So bitter-sour looked Maudie's mouth — 
 
 The whole face dried like grass in a drouth. 
 
 But what was that, see, pent like a calf 
 
 That the butcher drives to the slaughter-house, 
 
 Tied in the back of his cart, and half 
 Already slain with the jolt of his brows 
 
 On the planks of the side — oh, what was that 
 
 Laid there, like death, laid prone and flat ? 
 
 What was that burden prone and weak— 
 What was it, lying there behind 
 
 Formless, helpless? I could not speak. 
 Nor in their eyes an answer find ; — 
 
 I stopped them, looked again, and saw- 
 
 Oh, is there, then, on earth no law, — 
 
 No thunder in heaven ? On the floor 
 
 It was, indeed, an old grey head 
 That jerked from side to side ; no more, 
 
THE NEW ARCADIA. 55 
 
 Only an old, grey woman dead 
 Behind there, in the jolting cart, 
 And a woman in front with a devil's heart. 
 
 True, that indeed they did not know 
 Miss May was dead, I grant ; enough, 
 
 They thought her merely dying, and though 
 The air was cold, the road was rough, 
 
 Could say ' Her three months' stay is o'er, 
 
 She is our promised guest no more. 
 
 * Now let her go to Florence Dare, 
 
 No need for us to nurse her, now. 
 The drive will do her good, the air 
 
 Strike freshly on her fevered brow, 
 And in the cart warm shawls are spread ' — 
 Where, as you know, I found her dead, 
 
 Because they cast her away, my friend, 
 Because her nursling murdered her. 
 
 There, my long story has an end 
 At last. I leave you to infer 
 
 The moral old enough to be true : 
 
 * Do good, and it is done to you.' 
 
56 THE NEW ARCADIA. 
 
 But bid me not forgive and forget ; 
 
 Forget my friend, forget a crime, 
 Because the county neighbours fret 
 
 That I'll not meet at dinner-time 
 Ingratitude and murder ? Nay, 
 Touch pitch and be defiled, I say. 
 
THE NEW ARCADIA. 
 
 VI. 
 COTTAR'S GIRL. 
 
THE NEW ARCADIA. 59 
 
 COTTAR'S GIRL. 
 
 The lilac boughs at Cottar's farm 
 Were sprouting into spikes of red, 
 
 The April sun was scarcely warm 
 When first of all I heard it said 
 That Cottar's girl was ill or dead. 
 
 There was no other doctor near 
 For many miles, so I set out, 
 
 Wondering I was left to hear ; 
 
 They had not sent ; sudden, no doubt. 
 Poor child, to die when lilacs sprout. 
 
 Sixteen years old, poor Cecily ! 
 
 I never thought her very strong. 
 And yet the very soul of glee. 
 
 Always ready with laugh and song ; 
 
 Such vivid natures last not long. 
 
6o THE NEW ARCADIA. 
 
 Over merry, the least surprise, 
 
 Would turn her pale and like to faint ; 
 
 Slender, with such thin hands, and eyes 
 Too bright ; the sort of girl to paint, 
 But not to marry ; a hectic saint. 
 
 Hysteric to the last degree ; 
 
 But yet there was no cause for death, 
 
 No cause in that, poor Cecily. 
 She was her parent's very breath, 
 Their only child, love, hope, and faith. 
 
 She was so different from them. 
 The stern, decorous, formal pair ; 
 
 To see her stitching at her hem, 
 Or spelling out the Sunday prayer. 
 Was youth and laughter in the air. 
 
 They chided her and said her name 
 Was one that sober yeomen bore ; 
 
 She laughed ; they loved her all the same. 
 Perhaps they loved her all the more ; 
 No Cottar was so gay before. 
 
THE NE W ARCADIA. 6i 
 
 Ah, well, they'll miss her ! There the house, 
 Severely white, stood fronting me. 
 
 I passed beneath the lilac boughs. 
 The palest buds were gone. Ah me, 
 I thought, they're plucked for Cecily. 
 
 Perhaps it was the heavy day, 
 Perhaps because she was sixteen ; 
 
 But, for some cause I cannot say, 
 I missed the girl, who had not been 
 My friend, among the tender green. 
 
 I now recall how long I knocked 
 Before the mother raised the latch. 
 
 The mother, with her smile that mocked 
 The sinuous brows that did not match, 
 And eyes that always seemed to watch. 
 
 Not then, she smiled ; 'She's gone,' she said. 
 
 * My Cecily's gone ; she died last night. 
 She went to sleep and she was dead. 
 
 No pain.' She stared like one at bay ; 
 
 And then she asked me would I say 
 
62 THE NEW ARCADIA. 
 
 The cause of death ; and I was glad 
 In all that gloom to be of aid. 
 
 I stepped within the chamber sad, 
 
 Where, stiff beneath the white, was laid 
 The shrouded body of the maid. 
 
 And by his little daughter's bier 
 The farmer, huddled in his coat. 
 
 Looked heavier for his grief and fear, 
 As I have seen a stranded boat 
 Look larger than it did afloat. 
 
 A little while we did not speak, 
 I stood beside the hallowed bed. 
 
 And looked at Cecily ; her cheek 
 Was rounded still, was scarcely dead. 
 'What did she die of?' then I said. 
 
 None spoke. I saw the mother glance 
 Sharp at the hulking, silent man, 
 
 Who did not speak and looked askance. 
 And as I waited for a span 
 The dead girl grew more drawn and wan. 
 
THE NEW ARCADIA. 63 
 
 At last I raised my voice again, 
 
 And then * she choked,' the mother said, 
 
 ' But yet I think she felt no pain.' 
 'Twas then I saw above the bed 
 A jug half filled with shotted lead. 
 
 At first I merely saw ; I swear 
 
 It was the mother's eyes, not mine, 
 That made me as I looked at her 
 
 Perceive, or rather half divine, 
 
 Why that jar was an evil sign. 
 
 And, swift as sight, the whole grew plain. 
 I knew that I had heard or read 
 
 A village nostrum, cruel, vain, 
 
 That dosed poor choking girls with lead. 
 To sink the ball i' the throat, it said. 
 
 A vile, fantastic remedy ; 
 
 Ignorant poison. Oh, I thought 
 
 I could have fairly raged to see 
 
 The farmer grown quite old, distraught, 
 And Cecily dead — and all for naught. 
 
64 THE NEW ARCADIA. 
 
 I took the jar, * But how,' I cried, 
 * Could such a deed be done by you !' 
 
 The woman looked at me and sighed : 
 ' I was her mother, sir ; I knew 
 There was no other thing to do.' 
 
 Old Cottar gave nor sign nor word. 
 And when I made him understand 
 
 He shifted not his head nor stirred, 
 But muttered feebly in his hand : 
 ' She minds the house, and I the land.' 
 
 There was no getting at the truth, 
 Besides, I think he did not know ; 
 
 They would not kill their child forsooth ! 
 It seemed a hopeless tangle, so 
 I rose at length and meant to go. 
 
 But, as I turned, the mother came. 
 Asked me to write a pack of lies. 
 
 To sign the death with some forged name ; 
 And something in that woman's eyes 
 Filled me with horrible surmise. 
 
THE NE W ARCADIA, 65 
 
 I stooped above their daughter dear, 
 Not yet disgraceful, only dead. 
 
 Beneath the lilacs on the bier, 
 
 Crushed in the corpse, an unborn dread 
 Weighed heavier than their murderous lead. 
 
THE NEW ARCADIA. 
 
 VII. 
 THE WISE-WOMAN. 
 
THE NEW ARCADIA. 69 
 
 THE WISE-WOMAN. 
 
 In the last low cottage in Blackthorn Lane 
 
 The Wise-woman lives alone ; 
 The broken thatch lets in the rain, 
 And the glass is shattered in every pane 
 
 With stones the boys have thrown. 
 
 For who would not throw stones at a witch, 
 
 Take any safe revenge 
 For the father's lameness, the mother's stitch, 
 The sheep that died on its back in a ditch, 
 
 And the mildewed corn in the grange ? 
 
 Only be sure to be out of sight 
 
 Of the witch's baleful eye ! 
 So the stones, for the most, are thrown at night, 
 Then a scuffle of feet, a hurry of fright — 
 
 How fast those urchins fly ! 
 
70 THE NEW ARCADIA. 
 
 And a shattered glass is gaping sore 
 
 In the ragged window frame, 
 Or a horseshoe nailed against the door, 
 Whereunder the witch should pass no more, 
 
 WJ^ere sayings and doings the same. 
 
 The witch's garden is run to weeds, 
 
 Never a phlox or a rose, 
 But infamous groAvths her brewing needs, 
 Or slimy mosses the rank soil breeds. 
 
 Or tares such as no man sows. 
 
 This is the house. Lift up the latch — 
 
 Faugh, the smoke and the smell ! 
 A broken bench, some rags that catch 
 The drip of the rain from the broken thatch- 
 Are these the wages of Hell ? 
 
 Is it for this she earns the fear 
 
 And the shuddering hate of her kind ? 
 To moulder and ache in the hovel here, 
 With the horror of death ever brooding near. 
 And the terror of what is behind ? 
 
THE NEW ARCADIA. 71 
 
 The witch — who wonders ? — is bent with cramp. 
 
 Satan himself cannot cure her, 
 For the beaten floor is oozing damp, 
 And the moon, through the roof, might serve for a lamp. 
 
 Only a rushlight 's surer. 
 
 And here some night she will die alone. 
 
 When the cramp clutches tight at her heart. 
 Let her cry in her anguish, and sob, and moan. 
 The tenderest woman the village has known 
 Would shudder — but keep apart. 
 
 Should she die in her bed ! A likelier chance 
 Were the dog's death, drowned in the pond. 
 The witch when she passes it looks askance : 
 They ducked her once, when the horse bit Nance ; 
 She remembers, and looks beyond. 
 
 For then she had perished in very truth, 
 
 But the Squire's son, home from college. 
 Rushed to the rescue, himself forsooth 
 Plunged after the witch. — Yes, I like tlie youth 
 For all his new-fangled knowledge. 
 
THE NEW ARCADIA. 
 
 How he stormed at the cowards ! What a rage 
 
 Heroic flashed in his eyes ! 
 But many a struggle and many an age 
 Must pass ere the same broad heritage 
 
 Be given the fools and the wise. 
 
 ' Cowards ! ' he cried. He was lord of the land, 
 
 He was mighty to them, and rich. 
 They let him rant ; but on either hand 
 They shrank from the devil's unseen brand 
 
 On the sallow face of the witch. 
 
 They let him rant ; but deep in each heart 
 Each thought of some thing of his own 
 
 Wounded or hurt by the Wise-woman's art ; 
 
 Some friend estranged, or some lover apart. 
 Each heart grew cold as stone. 
 
 And the Heir spoke on, in his eager youth, 
 
 His blue eyes full of tlame ; 
 And he held the witch, as he spoke of the Truth \ 
 And the dead, cold Past; and of Love and of Ruth 
 
 But their hearts were still the same. 
 
THE NEW ARCADIA. -j}, 
 
 Till at last — ' For the sake of Christ who died, 
 
 Mother, forgive them/ he said. 
 * Come, let us kneel, let us pray ! ' he cried. 
 But horror-stricken, aghast, from his side 
 
 The witch broke loose and fled ! 
 
 Fled right fast from the brave amends 
 
 He would make her then and there. 
 From the chance that Heaven so seldom sends 
 To turn our bitterest foes to friends, — 
 
 Fled at the name of a prayer. 
 
 Poor lad, he stared so ; amazed and grieved. 
 
 He had argued nearly an hour ; 
 And yet the beldam herself believed, 
 No less than the villagers she deceived, 
 
 In her own unholy power ! 
 
 Though surely a witch should know very well 
 
 'Tis the lie for which she will burn. 
 She surely has learned that the deepest spell 
 Her art includes could never compel 
 
 A quart of cream to turn. 
 
74 THE NEW ARCADIA. 
 
 And why, knowing this, should one sell one's soul 
 
 To gain such a life as hers — 
 The life of the bat and the burrowing mole — 
 To gain no vision and no control, 
 
 Not even the power to curse ? 
 
 'Tis strange, and a riddle still in my mind 
 
 To-day as well as then. 
 There's never an answer I could find 
 Unless — O folly of humankind ! 
 
 O vanity born with men ! 
 
 Rather it may be than merely remain 
 
 A -woman poor and old, 
 No longer like to be courted again 
 For the sallow face deep lined with pain, 
 
 Or the heart grown sad and cold. 
 
 Such bitter souls may there be, I think, 
 
 So craving the power that slips, 
 Rather than lose it, they would drink 
 The waters of Hell, and lie at the brink 
 
 Of the grave, with eager lips. 
 
THE NEW ARCADIA. 75 
 
 Who sooner would, than slip from sight, 
 
 Meet every eye askance ; 
 Whom threatened murder can scarce affright ; 
 Who sooner would live as a curse and a blight 
 
 Than just be forgotten ; perchance. 
 
THE NEW ARCADIA. 
 
 VIII. 
 MEN AND MONKEYS. 
 
THE NE W ARCADIA . 79 
 
 MEN AND MONKEYS. 
 
 The hawthorn lane was full of flower; 
 On the white hedge the apple-trees 
 Sent down with every gust of breeze 
 
 A light, loose-petalled blossom-shower. 
 
 The wide green edges of the lane 
 
 Were filmed with faint valerian ; white 
 Archangels tall, the bees' delight. 
 
 Sprang lustier for the morning's rain. 
 
 The scent of May was heavy-sweet ; 
 The noon poured down upon the land, 
 The nightingales on either hand 
 
 Called, and were silent in the heat. 
 
 For even in the distant deep 
 
 Green-lighted forest glades, the noon 
 Grown heavy with excess of boon, 
 
 Weighed all the sultry earth to sleep. 
 
8o THE NEW ARCADIA. 
 
 The herds, the flowers, the nightingales 
 All drowsed ; and I upon the edge 
 Of grass beneath the flowering hedge 
 
 Lay dreaming of its shoots and trails. 
 
 When, starting at the soutid of feet, 
 I saw the Italian vagrants pass ; 
 The monkey, man, and peasant lass. 
 
 Who figure on our village street — 
 
 At race-time in the spring; nor song. 
 Caper, nor hurdy-gurdy tune 
 Seemed left m them this blazing noon 
 
 As wearily they trudged along. 
 
 Their sallow faces drawn, their eyes 
 Fixed on the miles of dust that went 
 Before them, their round shoulders bent 
 
 Beneath a load of vanities. 
 
 The man tramped first, upon his back 
 The hurdy-gurdy, with an ape, 
 Who strained his lean and eager shape 
 
 Towards the woman's gayer pack 
 
THE NE W ARCADIA. 8i 
 
 Of rags and ribbons. What a sight 
 Among the blossoms and the green ! 
 
 I think there never can have been 
 A stranger shadow in the light. 
 
 They did not pause to look upon 
 The apple-blossom and the may ; 
 They only saw the dust that they 
 
 Raised in their dismal trudging on. 
 
 They did not even stop to hear 
 
 The rare sweet call of the nightingale ; 
 The hurdy-gurdy's squeak and yell 
 
 Was too accustomed in their ear. 
 
 I watched them plod their stolid way 
 Still on ; but suddenly I heard 
 The monkey mimic the singing, bird, 
 
 And snatch a trail of the flowering may. 
 
 And down the road I saw him still 
 
 Catching and clutching the blossom white, 
 And waving his long, black arms in delight, 
 
 Until they passed over the brow of the hill. 
 
 G 
 
THE NEW ARCADIA. 
 
 IX. 
 CHURCH-GOING TIM. 
 
THE NEW ARCADIA. 85 
 
 CHURCH-GOING TIM, 
 
 TiiM Black is bedridden, you say ? 
 
 Well now, I'm sorry. Poor old Tim ! 
 There's not in all the place to-day 
 
 A soul as will not pity him. 
 
 These twenty years, come hail, come snow. 
 Come winter cold, or summer heat. 
 
 Week after week to church he'ld go 
 On them two hobbling sticks for feet. 
 
 These years he's gone on crutches. Yet 
 One never heard the least complaint. 
 
 And see how other men will fret 
 At nothing ; Tim was quite a saint. 
 
 And now there's service every day, 
 I say they keep it up for him ; 
 
 We busier ones, we keep away — 
 
 There's mostly no one there but Tim. 
 
86 THE NEW ARCADIA. 
 
 Yes, quite a saint he was. Although 
 
 He never was a likely man 
 At his own trade ; indeed, I know 
 
 Many's the day I've pitied Nan. 
 
 She had a time of it, his wife, 
 
 With all those children and no wage. 
 
 As like as not, from Tim. The life 
 
 She led ! She looked three times her age. 
 
 The half he had he'ld give to tramps 
 If they were hungry, or it was cold — 
 
 Pampering up them idle scamps, 
 
 While Nan grew lean and pinched and old. 
 
 He'ld let her grumble. Not a word 
 Or blow from him she ever had — 
 
 And yet I've heard her sigh, and heard 
 Her say she wished as he was bad. 
 
 Atop of all the fever came ; 
 
 And Tim went hobbling past on sticks. 
 Still one felt happier, all the same. 
 
 When he'ld gone by to church at six. 
 
THE NEW ARCADIA. %-] 
 
 Not that I wished to go. Not I ! 
 
 With Joe so wild, and all those boys — 
 It takes my day to clean, and try 
 
 To settle down the dust and noise. 
 
 But still — out of it all, to glance 
 
 And see Tim hobbling by so calm, 
 As though he heard the angels' chants 
 
 And saw their branching crowns of palm. 
 
 And when he smiled, he had a look, 
 One's burden seemed to loose and roll 
 
 Like Christian's in the picture-book : 
 It was a comfort, on the whole. 
 
 It made one easier-like, somehow — 
 It made one, somehow, feel so sure. 
 
 That far above the dust and row 
 The glory of God does still endure. 
 
 You say he's well, though he can't stir : 
 I'm sure you mean it kind — But, see, 
 
 It's not for him I'm crying, sir. 
 It's not for Tim, sir ; it's for me. 
 
THE NEW ARCADIA. 
 
 X. 
 
 THE SCHOOL CHILDREN. 
 
THE NEW ARCADIA. 91 
 
 THE SCHOOL CHILDREN. 
 
 These at least are clean and fresh, 
 
 All I wished to see ! 
 Hair a flaxen flossy mesh, 
 
 Waving loose and free 
 Round their ruddy English flesh. 
 
 Now at last they're out of school, 
 
 Happy, happy time ! 
 Now a truce to book and rule, 
 
 Task in prose or rhyme, 
 Thought of prize or dunce's stool. 
 
 How they laugh and run about ! 
 
 What if now and then 
 Somewhat overloud a shout 
 
 Reach you busier men ; 
 Could the children play without ? 
 
92 THE NEW ARCADIA, 
 
 What, you call them rude and rough, 
 
 Overprone to strife ? 
 Still I find them good enough 
 
 For such eager life ; 
 What should they be thinking of? 
 
 Though they know a mint of things. 
 
 So their mothers say. 
 Read and write, and rattle strings 
 
 And strings of dates away, 
 Bible judges, English kings, 
 
 I, for one, should never dare 
 
 Such a gage to fate. 
 As to stand with any there 
 
 Pouring name and date. 
 Faster, faster . . . . O despair ! 
 
 That one passed in Euclid, look ! 
 
 This can draw and sing ! 
 And the girls, I think, can cook 
 
 Any mortal thing : 
 So they quote their cookery-book. 
 
THE NEW ARCADIA. 93 
 
 Ah — you cry — too much they know 
 
 For their lowlier rank ; 
 Teach them but to plant and hoe, 
 
 But to beg and thank, 
 For the clown needs keeping low. 
 
 Nay, but listen, neighbour, pray — 
 
 Once a Flemish seer, 
 David Joris, so they say. 
 
 Saw in trance appear 
 Kings and knights in great array, 
 
 Through his twilit painting-room 
 
 Stalk the sombre host, 
 Priests and prelates grandly loom — 
 
 Every one a ghost, 
 Silent as the silent gloom. 
 
 Very sad and over-worn, 
 
 Pale and very old, 
 Look the solemn brows that mourn 
 
 Under crowns of gold, 
 Grown too heavy to be borne. 
 
94 THE NEW ARCADIA. 
 
 Kings and priests, and all so gray, 
 
 All so faint and wan, 
 Drifting past in still array, 
 
 Ever drifting on, 
 Till at length he saw them stay. 
 
 Saw a second vision rise 
 
 Through the twilit air, 
 Heard what laughter and lisping cries, 
 
 Saw what tumbled hair, 
 Rosy limbs and rounded eyes ! 
 
 Playing children — much the same 
 
 As we see them here. 
 Laughing in a merry game — 
 
 Rose before him clear ; 
 But they clove the dusk like flame. 
 
 Heeding not the ghostly throng, 
 David heard them sing \ 
 
 At the echo of their song 
 Saw each ghostly king 
 
 Lift his eyes, look hard and long. 
 
THE NEW ARCADIA. 95 
 
 Till at length, as when a breeze 
 
 Bends the rushes well, 
 Captains, kings, great sovereignties. 
 
 Bent, and bowed, and fell. 
 Kneeling all upon their knees. 
 
 Laying at the children's feet 
 
 Each his kingly crown. 
 Each, the conquering power to greet, 
 
 Laying humbly down 
 Sword and sceptre, as is meet. 
 
 Then, unkinged and dispossessed, 
 
 Rose the weary host, 
 Glad at last to cease and rest ; 
 
 Since to every ghost 
 Comes the time when peace is best. 
 
 Since our crowns must fall to them, 
 
 When beyond our reach 
 Falls our dearest diadem. 
 
 Neighbour, let us teach 
 Every child to prize the gem. 
 
96 THE NEW ARCADIA. 
 
 For, be sure, the new things grow 
 As the old things fade. 
 
 As we train the children, so 
 Is the future made 
 
 That shall reign when we are low. 
 
 All the work we would have wrought 
 Must by them be done ; 
 
 We shall pass \ but not our thought, 
 While in every one 
 
 Lives the lesson that we taught. 
 
( 97 ) 
 
 EPILOGUE TO THE NEW ARCADIA. 
 
 The stunted lives from hunger never free ^ 
 
 The crowded towns, the moors where 7iever hoe 
 Stirs in the fallow soil, where live and grow 
 
 TJie grouse and pheasa?it where the man should be. 
 
 The shiftless, hopeless, long, brute misery 
 That gathers like a cloud, racked to and fro 
 With lightning discontent — / cannot show, 
 
 I cannot say the dreadful things I see. 
 
 And worse I see, 7nore spectral, deathlierjar ; 
 Class set from class, each in its separate groove : 
 Straight on to death I watch them stiffly move, 
 
 None sees the end, but each his separate star; 
 
 Too wrapt, should any fall, to reach a hand ; 
 
 Nor, sJiould one cry, would any understand. 
 
POEMS. 
 
 LOSS. 
 
lOI 
 
 LOSS. 
 
 Dead here in Florence ! Yes, she died. 
 The prophesying doctors lied 
 Who swore the South should save her life. 
 But no, she died, my little wife. 
 
 I brought her South ; the whole, long way, 
 She was as curious and as gay 
 As a young bird that tries its wing, 
 And halts to look at everything. 
 
 O sudden-turning little head. 
 Dear eyes — dear, changing, wistful eyes — 
 Your love, your eager life, now lies 
 Under this earth of Florence, dead. 
 
 All of her dead except the Past — 
 The finished Past, that cannot grow — 
 But that, at least, will always last, 
 Mocking, consoling, Life-in-show. 
 
ro2 LOSS. 
 
 Will that fade too ? Seven days ago 
 She was alive and by my side, 
 And yet I cannot now dividp, 
 The pallid, gasping girl who died 
 From her I used to love and know. 
 
 Only in moments lives the Past ; 
 One like a sunlit peak stands out 
 Above the blurring mist and doubt, 
 Into which all is fading fast. 
 
 All night the train has rushed through France, 
 
 I watch the shaken lamp-light dance 
 
 Over my darling's sleeping face. 
 
 And now the engine slackens pace 
 
 And staggers up the mountain side; 
 
 And now the depths of night divide 
 
 And let a lighter darkness through, 
 
 A tangible, dim smoke of blue 
 
 That lights the world, and is not Light 
 
 Before the dawn, beyond the night. 
 
 The vapour clings about the grass 
 And makes its greenness very green, 
 Through it the tallest pine-tops pass 
 
LOSS. 103 
 
 Into the night, and are not seen. 
 
 A little wind begins to stir, 
 
 The haze grows colourless and bright, 
 
 Thicker and darker springs the fir, 
 
 The train swings slowly up the height, 
 
 Each mile more slowly swings the train, 
 
 Before the mountains, past the plain. 
 
 And through the light that is not day 
 I feel her now as there she lay 
 Close in my arms, and still asleep ; 
 Close in my arms, so dear, so dear ; 
 I hold her close, and warm, and near, 
 Who sleeps where it is cold and deep. 
 
 That is my boasted memory ; 
 That, — the impression of a mood, 
 Effects of light on grass and wood, 
 Such things as I shall often see. 
 
 But Her ! God, I may try in vain, 
 I shall not ever see her again — 
 She will never say one new word. 
 Scarce echo one I often heard. 
 Even in dreams she is not quite here — 
 
I04 LOSS. 
 
 Flitting, escaping still. I fear 
 
 Her voice will go, her face be blurred 
 
 Wholly, as long year follows year. 
 
 Often enough I think I have got 
 
 The turn of her head and neck, but not 
 
 The face — never the face that speaks. 
 
 My mind goes seeking, and seeks and seeks. 
 
 Sometimes, indeed, I feel her at hand. 
 Sometimes feel sure she will understand. 
 If only I do not look or think .... 
 Out of an empty cup I drink ! 
 
 ■X- -^ # -x- 
 
 Down Lung' Arno again to-day 
 I went alone the self-same way 
 I walked with her, and heard her tell 
 What she would do when she was well. 
 
 All else the same. Upon the hill 
 White Samminiato watching still 
 Among its pointing cypresses. 
 And that long, farthest Apennine 
 Still lifts a dusky, reddish line 
 
LOSS. 105 
 
 Against the blue. How warm it is ! 
 
 And every tower and every bridge 
 
 Stands crisp and sharp in the brilliant air ; 
 
 Only along the mountain ridge 
 
 And on the hill-spurs everywhere 
 
 The olives are a smoke of blue, 
 
 Until upon the topmost height 
 
 They pale into a livid white 
 
 Against the intense, clear, salient hue 
 
 Of that mid-heaven's azure light. 
 
 This, for one day, my darling knew. 
 
 We meant to rest here, passing through. 
 How pleased she was with everything ! 
 But most that winter was away 
 So soon, and birds began to sing ; 
 For all the streets were full of flowers, 
 The sky so blue above the towers — 
 Just such a day as it is to-day, 
 When in the sun it feels like May. 
 
 So here I pace where the sun is warm, 
 With no light weight dragging my arm, 
 
io6 LOSS. 
 
 Here in the sun we hoped would save — 
 
 O sunny portal of the grave 
 
 Florence, how well I know your trick ! 
 
 Lay all the walls with sunshine thick 
 
 As paint ; put colours in the air, 
 
 Strange southern trees upon your slopes, 
 
 And make your streets at Christmas fair 
 
 With flourish of roses, fill with hopes 
 
 And wonder all who gaze on you, 
 
 Loveliest town earth ever knew ! 
 
 Then, presto ! take them unaware 
 
 With a blast from an open grave behind — 
 
 The icy blast of the wind — a knife 
 
 Thrust in one's back to take one's life. 
 
 Oh, 'tis an excellent, cunning snare, 
 
 For the flowers grow on, and do not mind 
 
 (Who sees, if the petals be thickened and pocked ?) 
 
 And the olive, and cypress, and ilex grow on. 
 
 It is only the confident heart that is mocked, 
 
 It is only the delicate life that is gone ! 
 
 How I hate it, all this mask ! 
 Those beggars really seem to bask 
 In this mock sunshine ; even I am 
 
LOSS. 107 
 
 Faint in it ; but it is all a sham, 
 It is all a pretence — it is all a lie — 
 Have I not seen my darling die ? 
 
 Those mocking, leering, thin-faced apes, 
 Who twang their sharp guitars all night. 
 They are quite thin, unreal shapes, 
 The figures of a mirage-show. 
 They do not really live, I know ; 
 But once I heard them swear and fight, 
 ' God, the Stab-in-the-dark ! ' they cried. 
 The mask fell off then. Yes, she died. 
 
POEMS. 
 
 II. 
 
 TUSCAN OLIVES. 
 
Ill 
 
 TUSCAN OLIVES. 
 (rispetti.) 
 
 I. 
 
 The colour of the olives who shall say ? 
 
 In winter on the yellow earth they're blue, 
 A wind can change the green to white or gray, 
 
 But they are olives still in every hue ; 
 But they are olives always, green or white, 
 As love is love in torment or delight ; 
 But they are olives, ruffled or at rest, 
 As love is always love in tears or jest. 
 
TUSCAN OLIVES. 
 
 III. 
 
 J 
 
 We walked along the terraced olive-yard, 
 And talked together till we lost the way ; 
 
 We met a peasant, bent with age, and hard, 
 Bruising the grape-skins in a vase of clay ; 
 
 Bruising the grape-skins for the second wine. 
 
 We did not drink, and left him, Love of mine ; 
 
 Bruising the grapes already bruised enough : 
 
 He had his meagre wine, and we our love. 
 
TUSCAN OLIVES. 113 
 
 III. 
 
 We climbed one morning to the sunny height, 
 Where chestnuts grow no more, and olives grow ; 
 
 Far-off the circling mountains cinder-white, 
 The yellow river and the gorge below. 
 
 ' Turn round,' you said, O flower of Paradise ; 
 
 I did not turn, I looked upon your eyes. 
 
 ' Turn round,' you said, ' turn round, look at the view ! 
 
 I did not turn, my Love, I looked at you. 
 
114 TUSCAN OLIVES. 
 
 IV. 
 
 How hot it was ! Across the white-hot wall 
 
 Pale olives stretch towards the blazing street 
 You broke a branch, you never spoke at all, 
 
 But gave it me to fan with in the heat ; 
 You gave it me without a sign or word,. 
 And yet, my love, I think you knew I heard. 
 You gave it me without a word or sign : 
 Under the olives first I called you mine. 
 
TUSCAN OLIVES. 
 
 At Lucca, for the autumn festival, 
 
 The streets are tuUp-gay ; but you and I 
 Forgot them, seeing over church and wall 
 
 Guinigi's tower soar i' the black-blue sky, 
 A stem of delicate rose against the blue. 
 And on the top two lonely olives grew. 
 Crowning the tower, far from the hills, alone, 
 As on our risen love our lives are grown. 
 
ii6 TUSCAN OLIVES. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Who would have thought we should stand again together, 
 
 Here, with the convent a frown of towers above us ; 
 Here, mid the sere-wooded hills and wintry weather ; 
 
 Here, w^here the olives bend down and seem to love us; 
 Here, where the fruit-laden olives half remember 
 All that began in their shadow last November ; 
 xiere, where we knew we must part, must part and sever: 
 Here where we know we shall love for aye and ever. 
 
TUSCAN OLIVES. 117 
 
 VII. 
 
 Rkach up and pluck a branch, and give it me, 
 
 That I may hang it in my Northern room, 
 That I may find it there, and wake, and see 
 
 — Not you ! not you ! — dead leaves and wintry gloom, 
 O senseless olives, wherefore should I take 
 Your leaves to balm a heart that can but ache ? 
 Why should I take you hence, that can but show 
 How much is left behind ? I do not know. 
 
POEMS 
 
 III. 
 STORNELLI AND STRAMBOTTI 
 
121 
 
 STORNELLI AND STRAMBOTTI. 
 
 Flower of the Vine ! 
 
 I scarcely knew or saw how Love began ; 
 So mean a flower brings forth the sweetest wine 
 ***** 
 
 I said : ' My love is like a basil-flower, 
 
 And none will see it, pallid and minute. 
 For, look, the roses hang from every bower, 
 
 The pomegranates bow down with scarlet fruit.' 
 * Upon the ledge,' you said, 'for every hour 
 
 We choose not these, we choose the basil-root. 
 The sweet of roses is too near a sour 
 
 With every change of every mood to suit.' 
 ***** 
 
 Flowers in the hay ! 
 
 My heart and all the fields are full of flowers ; 
 So tall they grow before the mowing-day. 
 
122 STORNELLI AND STRAMBQTTL 
 
 ' As beats the sea against the rocks ! ' you cried, 
 * Against your stubborn will my soul is hurl'd. ' 
 You meant the seeming-daunted broken tide, 
 
 With scattered spray and shattered crests uncurl'd. 
 That, from the shore, we pity or deride ; 
 
 And yet these dying waters, spent and swirrd, 
 Their stony limits do themselves decide, 
 
 And fashion to their will the unconscious world. 
 * * * * * 
 
 Rose in the rain ! 
 
 We part ; I dare not look upon your tears ; 
 
 So frail, so white ; they shatter, bruise, and stain. 
 
POEMS. 
 
 IV. 
 LOVE AMONG THE SAINTS. 
 
125 
 
 LOVE AMONG THE SAINTS. 
 
 At Assisi in the Church 
 
 Well I know the frescoed wall, 
 
 Colours dim, Martyrs slim, 
 Saints you scarcely see at all, 
 
 Till the slanting sunbeams search 
 
 Through the church, 
 
 Waking life where'er they fall. 
 
 Every evening wall and vault, 
 Saint and city, starts and wakes, 
 
 One by one, as the sun 
 
 Broadens through the dusk, and makes 
 
 Greys and reds and deep blue smalt 
 
 Of the vault 
 
 Teem with Saints, and towers, and lakes. 
 
 High among them, clear to see. 
 
 Is one stately fresco set ; 
 There they stand, hand in hand. 
 
 Bride and bridegroom gravely met, 
 Francis and Saint Poverty. 
 
LOVE AMONG THE SAINTS. 
 
 Well I see 
 
 All the Saints attending, yet. 
 
 Close their ranks by groom and bride ; 
 
 Straight their faces, clear and pure ; 
 Pale in stain, pale and plain, 
 
 Fall their ample robes demure, 
 (jrave, these goodly friends beside, 
 Stands the bride, 
 
 Shorn of every earthly lure. 
 
 But, when I was there to look, 
 Not Saint Agnes nor Saint Clare 
 
 (Tall and faint, like a saint) 
 But a naked captive there 
 
 Fast my wandering fancy took ; 
 Still I look. 
 
 Vainly, for that face and hair. 
 
 P'or, amid the saintly light, 
 From the faded fresco starts, 
 
 Fair and pale, thin and frail, 
 
 Round his neck a chain of hearts. 
 
 Love himself in mazed affright. 
 
LOVE AMONG THE SAINTS. 127 
 
 Out of sight 
 
 Of his altar and his darts. 
 
 Starved and naked, wan and thin, 
 
 Beautiful in his distress. 
 Crouches Love, whom above 
 
 All the saints in glory bless. 
 Here he may not enter in, 
 Cold and thin, 
 
 Naked, with no wedding-dress. 
 
 From the altar and the shrine 
 
 One turns round in frowning grace, 
 
 Bids the wild, naked child. 
 Swiftly leave the holy place. 
 
 Not for thee the bread and wine 
 
 On the shrine. 
 
 Starving god of alien race ! 
 
 Yet, O Warder, was it wise 
 
 . Thus to spurn him ? Was it well ? 
 
 Love is strong, lasting long, 
 
 Him thou canst not bind in Hell ; 
 Scourge him, burn, he never dies, 
 
128 LOVE AMONG THE SAINTS. 
 
 Phoenix-wise 
 
 Riseth he unconquerable. 
 
 Only martyred Love returns 
 With an altered face and air ; 
 
 Not a child, sweet and mild, 
 Fit for daily kiss and care, 
 
 But a spirit which aches and burns, 
 
 Swift he turns 
 
 All your visions to despair. 
 
 Love you cannot reach or find, 
 Love that aches within the soul, 
 
 Vague and faint, till the Saint 
 Cries, beyond his own control, 
 
 For some answer that his blind 
 
 Soul can find 
 
 But in its own vain diastole. 
 
 Ah, beware ! That phantom Love 
 Drives to madness, and destroys. 
 
 Yet, to all Love must call. 
 
 Only we may choose the voice. 
 
 And whate'er we are or prove, 
 
 Loathe or love, 
 
 Hangs upon that instant's choice. 
 
POEMS. 
 
 V. 
 JUTZI SCHULTHEISS. 
 
131 
 
 JUTZI SCHULTHEISS. 
 
 TOSS, 1300. 
 
 Qiitzi Schultheiss, a medieval Mystic, loses her gifts of trance and 
 vision, because in a moment of anger she refuses to pray for some 
 turbulent knights.] 
 
 The gift of God was mine ; I lost 
 For aye the gift of Pentecost. 
 
 I never knew why God bestowed 
 
 On me the vision and the load ; 
 
 But what He wills I have no will 
 
 To question, blindly following still 
 
 The hand that even from my birth 
 
 Hath shown me Heaven, forbidding Earth. 
 
 I was a child when first I drew 
 
 In sight of God ; a subtle, new, 
 
 Faint happiness had drawn about 
 
 My soul, and shut the whole earth out. 
 
 Y< t I was sick. I lay in bed 
 
 So weak I could not lift my head — 
 
 So weak, and yet so quite at rest, 
 
 Pillowed upon my Saviour's breast 
 
1 32 JUTZI SCHUL THEISS. 
 
 It seemed. Then suddenly I felt 
 Great wings encompass me and dwelt 
 Silent awhile in awe and fear, 
 While swiftly nearer and more near 
 Descended God. A stream of white 
 Shining, intolerable light. 
 Blinded my eyes and all grew dim. 
 Then stilled in trance I dwelt with Him ; 
 A little while in perfect peace ; 
 till, fold by fold, the dark withdrew, 
 I felt the heavenly blessing cease. 
 And angels swiftly bear me through 
 The dizzy air in lightning flight 
 Till here I woke, and it was night. 
 
 My mother wept beside my bed, 
 My brothers prayed; for I was dead. 
 Then, when my soul was given back, 
 I cried, as wretches on the rack 
 Cry in the last quick wrench of pain, 
 And breathed, and looked, and lived again. 
 Ah me, what tears of joy there fell ! 
 How they all cried, ' A miracle ! ' 
 And kissed me given back to earth. 
 
JUTZI SCHULTHEISS, 133 
 
 The dearer for that second birth 
 
 To her who bore me first. Ah me, 
 
 How glad we were ! Then Anthony, 
 
 My brother, spoke : * What God has given,' 
 
 He said, ' let us restore to Heaven.' 
 
 And as he spoke beneath the rod 
 
 I bowed, and gave myself to God. 
 
 Not suddenly the gift returned. 
 Alas ! methinks too much I yearned 
 For the old earthly joys, the home 
 That I had left for evermore ; 
 The garden with its herbs, and store 
 Of hives filled full of honeycomb ; 
 The lambs and calves that chiefly were, 
 Of all we had, my special care \ 
 My brothers, too, all left behind. 
 All, for some other girl to find ; 
 And she who loves me everywhere, 
 My mother, whom I often kissed 
 In absence with vain lips that missed 
 My mother more than God above. 
 Much bound was I with earthly love. 
 So slight my strength, I never could 
 
134 JUTZI SCHULTHEISS, 
 
 Have freed myself from servitude. 
 
 But He who loves us saw my pain, 
 
 And with one blow struck free my chain. 
 
 Weeping I knelt within the gloom 
 
 One evening in my convent room, 
 
 Trying with all my heart to pray, 
 
 And weeping that my thoughts would stray ; 
 
 When suddenly again I felt 
 
 The unearthly light and rest ; I dwelt 
 
 Rapt in mid-heaven the whole night through, 
 
 And through my cell the angels flew, 
 
 The angels sang, the angels shone. 
 
 The Saints in glory, one by one, 
 
 Floated to God ; and under Him 
 
 Circled the shining Seraphim. 
 
 Now from that day my heart was free. 
 And I was God's ; then gradually 
 The convent learned the solemn truth, 
 And they were glad because my youth 
 Was pleasing in the sight of Him 
 Who filled my spirit to the brim. 
 They wrote my visions down and made 
 A treasure of the words I said. 
 
jiJTZI SCHUL THEISS. 135 
 
 And far and wide the news was spread 
 That I by God was visited. 
 Then many sought our convent's door, 
 And lands and dower began to pour 
 With blessings on our house ; for thus 
 Men praised the Lord who favoured us. 
 
 For seven long years the gift was mine, 
 I often saw the angels shine 
 Suddenly down the cloister's dark 
 Deserted length at night ; and oft 
 At the high mass I seemed to mark 
 A stranger music, high and soft, 
 That swam about the heavenly Cup, 
 And caught our ruder voices up ; 
 And often, nay, indeed at will, 
 I would lie back and let the still 
 Cold trance creep over me — and see 
 Mary and all the Saints flash by, 
 Till only God was left and I. 
 
 The gift of God was mine ; I lost 
 For aye the gift of Pentecost. 
 
I ^ JUTZI SCHUL THEISS. 
 
 Now sometimes in the summer time 
 
 I stood beneath the orchard trees, 
 
 And in their boughs I heard the breeze 
 
 Keep on a low continuing rhyme, 
 
 And nothing else was heard beside 
 
 The little birds that sang and cried 
 
 Their Latin to the praise of God. 
 
 And under foot new grass I trod, 
 
 And overhead the light was green. 
 
 And all the boughs were starred and gay 
 
 With apple-blossoms in between 
 
 The fresh young leaves as sweet as they. 
 
 And as I looked upon the sun, 
 
 Who made these fair things every one 
 
 To sprout and sing and wax so strong. 
 
 My whole heart turned into a song. 
 
 ' For, God,' I thought, ' this sun art Thou, 
 
 And Thou art in the orchard bough. 
 
 And in the grass whereon I tread. 
 
 And in the bird-song overhead. 
 
 And in my soul and limbs and voice. 
 
 And in my heart which must rejoice — 
 
 God ! ' And my song stopped weak and dazed 
 
 I seemed upon the very verge 
 
JUTZI SCHUL THEISS. i yj 
 
 Of some great brink, wherefrom amazed 
 My soul shrank back, lest should emerge 
 Thence — Nay, what then ? What should I fear ? 
 I to whom God was known and dear ? 
 
 Once so possessed with God, I stood 
 In prayer within the orchard wood, 
 When some one softly called my name. 
 And shattered all my happy mood. 
 Towards me an ancient Sister came, 
 * Quick, Jiitzi, to the hall ! ' she cried ; 
 And swiftly after her I hied. 
 And swiftly reached the convent hall. 
 Now full of struggle and loud with brawl. 
 
 Close to the door aghast I stayed. 
 Too much indignant and afraid 
 To ask who wrought this blasphemy. 
 Then the old nun crept nearer me. 
 And whispered how some knights to-day, 
 Riding to Ziirich's tourney-fray, 
 Had craved our shelter and repast. 
 And how we made the postern fast, 
 Because they were so rough a crew. 
 
138 JUTZI SCHULTHEISS. 
 
 Yet gave them food and rest enew 
 In the great barn outside the gate ; 
 And how they feasted long and late 
 Till, drunk, they stormed the postern door, 
 And sacked the buttery for more. 
 Nor this the end ; for, having done, 
 One shouted ' Nassau ; ' straightway one 
 * Hapsburg.' The battle was begun. 
 
 She looked at me afraid and faint, 
 With eyes that mutely begged for aid ; 
 For I was safe and I a saint. 
 She thought, who was a frightened maid ; 
 And through the clamour and the din 
 I heard her say, ' They can but sin. 
 Having not God within their heart ; 
 But we, who have the better part, 
 Must pray for them to Christ above, 
 That in the greatness of His love 
 He pardon them their sins to-day.' 
 And then she turned her eyes away. 
 But I looked straight before me where 
 The unseemly blows and clamours were, 
 And cold my heart grew, stiff and cold, 
 
JUTZI SCHUL THEISS. 1 39 
 
 For I had prayed so much of old, 
 
 So vainly for these knights-at-arms, 
 
 Who filled the country with alarms — 
 
 Too often had I prayed in vain, 
 
 Too often put myself in pain 
 
 For these irreverent, brawling, rough. 
 
 And godless knights — I had prayed enough ! 
 
 * Let God,' I cried, ' do all He please ; 
 I pray no more for such as these.' 
 
 Then swift I turned and fled, as though 
 I fled from sin, and strife, and woe. 
 Who fled from God, and from His grace. 
 Nor stayed I till I reached the place 
 Where I had prayed an hour ago. 
 
 I stood again beneath the shade 
 
 The flowering apple-orchard made ; 
 
 The grass was still as tall and green, 
 
 And fresh as ever it had been. 
 
 I heard the little rabbits rush 
 
 As swiftly through the wood ; the thrush 
 
 Was singing still the self-same song, 
 
40 jtfTZI SCHUL THE IS S. 
 
 Yet something there was changed and wrong. 
 Or through the grass or through my heart 
 Some deadly thing had passed athwart, 
 And left behind a blighting track ; 
 For the old peace comes never back. 
 
 God knows how I am humbled, how 
 There is in all the convent now 
 No novice half so weak and poor 
 In all esteem as I ; the door 
 I keep, and wait on passers-by, 
 And lead the cattle out to browse, 
 And wash the beggars' feet ; even I, 
 Who was the glory of our house. 
 
 Yet dares my soul rejoice because. 
 
 Though I have failed, though I have sinned, 
 
 Not less eternal are the laws 
 
 Of God, no less the sun and wind 
 
 Declare His glory than before. 
 
 Though I am fallen, and faint, and poor. 
 
 Nay, should I fall to very Hell, 
 
 Yet am I not so miserable 
 
 As heathen are, who know not Him, 
 
JUTZI SCHUL THEISS. 1 4 1 
 
 Who makes all other glories dim. 
 O God, believed in still though lost, 
 Yet fill me with Thy Holy Ghost- 
 Let but the vision fill mine eye 
 An instant ere the tear be dry ; 
 Or, if Thou wilt, keep hid and far, 
 Yet art Thou still the secret star 
 To which my soul sets all her tides. 
 My soul that recks of nought besides. 
 Have not I found Thee in the fire 
 Of sunset's purple after-glow ? 
 Have not I found Thee in the throe 
 Of anguished hearts that bleed and tire ? 
 God, once so plain to see and hear. 
 Now never answering any tear. 
 O God, a guest within my house 
 Thou wert, my love thou wert, my spouse ; 
 Yet never known so well as now 
 When the ash whitens on my brow ; 
 And cinders on my head are tossed, 
 Because the gift I had I lost. 
 
POEMS. 
 
 vi. 
 LAUS DEO: a.d. 1200. 
 
145 ) 
 
 LAUS DEO: A.D. I200. 
 
 God is the common soul of all. 
 
 The Christ Himself Who saveth me, 
 
 Nearer to God I dare not call 
 
 Than is the ruining wind at sea 
 
 Or the lost corpse whom no one weeps. 
 
 Not this nor that is God ; but He 
 
 All things pervades, in all things sleeps, 
 
 And by His nature, not His will, 
 
 The round world from destruction keeps. 
 
 Not this nor that is God ; and still 
 
 I know, I know He may be found 
 
 More closely than in cloud or rill : 
 
 For, lost within my soul's profound 
 
 And inner depth, a being moves 
 
 That is not me, that is not bound 
 
 By earthly limits, earthly loves. 
 
 That is not stirred by what I feel. 
 
 And which condemns not, nor approves. 
 
 L 
 
F46 LA US DEO: A.D. 1200. 
 
 Beside that inner depth I reel, 
 Looking therein, therefrom I shrink ; 
 So far the empty dark doth wheel, 
 So far, so wide below the brink. 
 And yet I know the chasm is His ; 
 Nor till I fall and dare not think, 
 But simply through the dark abyss 
 Keep falling down, and still to fall, 
 Shall I behold God as He is. 
 
 ***** 
 O vast abysm of God, O lone 
 And awful chaos unexplored, 
 Where buds the latest flower unknown, 
 Where all our undreamed deeds are stored 
 Unborn and still, O mighty womb. 
 In which the unconscious, voiceless Word 
 Dwells without life alive ! O tomb, 
 Which buries all the past no less 
 Than us in Thine eternal room ! 
 O God, too far, too strange to bless 
 Me that would drag myself to Thee, 
 Take fiom my soul its separateness, 
 And let myself no more be me ! 
 Take from me memory, thought and soul, 
 
LAUS DEO : A.D. I200. \\-j 
 
 Drowned and confounded let me be, 
 In Thy surrounding night to roll, 
 An atom past my own control, 
 In the unconscious sum of Thee. 
 
POEMS. 
 
 VII. 
 APPREHENSION. 
 
( 151 ) 
 
 APPREHENSION. 
 
 I. 
 
 The hills come down on every side, 
 
 The marsh lies green below, 
 The green, green valley is long and wide, 
 Where the grass grows thick with the rush beside. 
 
 And the white sheep come and go. 
 
 Down in the marsh it is green and still ; 
 
 You may linger all the day. 
 Till a shadow slants from the western hill, 
 And the colour goes out of the flowers in the rill. 
 
 And the sheep look ghostly gray. 
 
 And never a change in the great green flat 
 
 Till the change of night, my friend. 
 Oh wide green valley where we two sat. 
 How I longed that our lives were as peaceful as that, 
 
 And seen from end to end ! 
 
152 APPREHENSION. 
 
 II. 
 
 foolish dream, to hope that such as I 
 Who answer only to thine easiest moods, 
 Should fill thy heart, as o'er my heart there broods 
 
 The perfect fullness of thy memory ! 
 
 1 flit across thy soul as white birds fly 
 Across the untrodden desert solitudes : 
 
 A moment's flash of wings ; fair interludes 
 That leave unchanged the eternal sand and sky. 
 
 Even such to thee am I ; but thou to me 
 As the embracing shore to the sobbing sea, 
 
 Even as the sea itself to the stone-tossed rill. 
 But who, but who shall give such rest to thee ? 
 The deep mid-ocean waters perpetually 
 
 Call to the land, and call unanswered still. 
 
 III. 
 As dreams the fasting nun of Paradise, 
 And finds her gnawing hunger pass away 
 In thinking of the happy bridal day 
 That soon shall dawn upon her watching eyes, 
 So, dreaming of your love, do I despise 
 
APPREHENSION. 153 
 
 Harshness or death of friends, doubt, slow decay, 
 Madness, — all dreads that fill me with dismay, 
 
 And creep about me oft with fell surmise. 
 
 For you are true ; and all I hoped you are ; 
 O perfect answer to my calling heart ! 
 And very sweet my life is, having thee. 
 
 Yet must I dread the dim end shrouded far ; 
 
 Yet must I dream : should once the good planks start, 
 How bottomless yawns beneath the boiling sea ! 
 
POEMS. 
 
 VIII. 
 LOVE AND VISION 
 
57 ) 
 
 LOVE AND VISION. 
 
 My love is more than life to me, 
 And you look on and wonder 
 
 In what can that enchantment be 
 You think I labour under. 
 
 Yet you, too, have you never gone 
 
 Some wet and yellow even 
 Where russet moors reach on and on 
 
 Beneath a windy heaven ? — 
 
 Brown moors which at the western edge 
 
 A watery sunset brushes 
 With misty rays yon sullen ledge 
 
 Of cloud casts down on the rushes. 
 
 You see no more ; but shade your eyes, 
 Forget the showery weather. 
 
 Forget the wet, tempestuous skies, 
 And look upon the heather. 
 
158 LOVE AND VISION. 
 
 Oh, fairyland, fairyland ! 
 
 It sparkles, lives, and dances, 
 By every gust swayed down and fanned, 
 
 And every rain-drop glances. 
 
 Never in jewel or wine the light 
 Burned like the purple heather ; 
 
 And some is the palest pink, some white, 
 Swaying and dancing together. 
 
 Every stem is sharp and clear, 
 
 Every bell is ringing. 
 No doubt, some tune we do not hear 
 
 For the thrushes' sleepy singing. 
 
 Over all, like the bloom on a grape, 
 
 The lilac seeding-grasses 
 Have made a haze, vague, without shape, 
 
 For the wind to change as it passes. 
 
 Under all is the budding ling, 
 Gray-green with scarlet notches. 
 
 Bossed with many a mossy thing, 
 And gold with lichen-blotches. 
 
LOVE AND VISION. 159 
 
 Here and there slim rushes stand 
 
 Aslant as carried lances. 
 I saw it and called it fairyland ; 
 
 You never saw it, the chance is ? 
 
 Brown moors and stormy skies that kiss 
 
 At eve in rainy weather 
 You saw — but what the heather is 
 
 Saw I, who love the heather. 
 
POEMS. 
 
 IX. 
 THE CONQUEST OF FAIRYLAND. 
 
( i63 ) 
 
 THE CONQUEST OF FAIRYLAND. 
 
 There reigned a king in the land of Persia, mighty and 
 
 great was he grown, 
 On the necks of the kings of the conquered earth he 
 
 builded up his throne. 
 
 There sate a king on the throne of Persia ; and he was 
 
 grown so proud 
 That all the life of the world was less, to him, than a 
 
 passing cloud. 
 
 He reigned in glory : joy and sorrow lying between his 
 
 hands. 
 If he sighed a nation shook, his smile ripened the harvest 
 
 of lands. 
 
 He was the saddest man beneath the everlasting sky, 
 For all his glories had left him old, and the proudest 
 king must die. 
 
i64 THE CONQUEST OF FAIRYLAND. 
 
 He who was even as God to all the nations of men, 
 Must die as the merest peasant dies, and turn into earth 
 again. 
 
 And his Ufe with the fear of death was bitter and sick 
 
 and accursed, 
 As brackish water to drink of which is to be forever athirst. 
 
 The hateful years rolled on and on, but once it chanced 
 
 at noon 
 The drowsy court was thrilled to gladness, it echoed so 
 
 sweet a tune. 
 
 Low as the lapping of the sea, as the song of the lark is 
 
 clear. 
 Wild as the moaning of pine branches ; the king was fain 
 
 to hear 
 
 ' What is the song, and who is the singer ? ' he said ; 
 
 ' before the throne 
 Let him come, for the songs of the world are mine, and 
 
 all but this are known.' 
 
 Seven mighty kings went out the minstrel man to find : 
 And all they found was a dead cypress soughing in the 
 wind. 
 
THE CONQUEST OF FAIRYLAND. 165 
 
 And slower still, and sadder still the heavy winters rolled, 
 And the burning summers waned away, and the king 
 grew very old ; 
 
 Dull, worn, feeble, bent ; and once he thought, * to die 
 Were rest, at least.' And, as he thought, the music 
 wandered by. 
 
 Into the presence of the king, singing, the singer came. 
 And his face was like the spring in flower, his eyes were 
 clear as flame. 
 
 ' What is the song you play, and what the theme your 
 
 praises sing? 
 It is sweet ; I knew not I owned a thing so sweet,' said 
 
 the weary king. 
 
 * I sing my country,' said the singer, ' a land that is 
 
 sweeter than song.' 
 
 * Which of my kingdoms is your country ? Thither would 
 
 I along.' 
 
 ' Great, O king, is thy power, and the earth a footstool 
 
 for thy feet ; 
 But my country is free, and my own country, and oh, my 
 
 country is sweet ! ' 
 
i66 THE CONQUEST OF FAIRYLAND. 
 
 The eyes of the king, as he heard, grew young and alive 
 with fire : 
 
 * Lo, is there left on the earth a thing to strive for, a 
 
 thing to desire ? 
 
 * Where is thy country ? tell me, O singer ! speak thine 
 
 innermost heart ! 
 Leave thy music ! speak plainly ! Speak — forget thine 
 artr 
 
 The eyes of the singer shone as he sang, and his voice 
 
 rang wild and free 
 As the elemental wind or the uncontrollable sobs of the 
 
 sea. 
 
 ' O for my distant home ! ' he sighed ; ' Oh, alas ! away 
 
 and afar 
 I watch thee now as a lost sailor watches a shining 
 
 star. 
 
 * Oh, that a wind would take me there ! that a bird would 
 
 set me down 
 Where the golden streets shine red at sunset in my 
 
 father's town ! 
 
THE CONQUEST OF FAIRYLAND. 167 
 
 *For only in dreams I see the faces of the women 
 
 there, 
 And fain would I hear them singing once, braiding their 
 
 ropes of hair. 
 
 ' Oh, I am thirsty, and long to drink of the river of Life, 
 
 and I 
 Am fain to find my own country, where no man shall 
 
 die/ 
 
 Out of the light of the throne, the king looked down : as 
 
 in the spring 
 The green leaves burst from their dusky buds, so was 
 
 hope in the eyes of the king. 
 
 ' Lo,' he said, ' I will make thee great ; I will make thee 
 
 mighty in sway 
 Even as I ; but the name of thy country speak, and the 
 
 place and the way.' 
 
 ' Oh, the way to my country is ever north till you pass 
 
 the mouth of hell. 
 Past the limbo of dreams and the desolate land where 
 
 shadows dwell. 
 
i68 THE CONQUEST OF FAIRYLAND. 
 
 ' And when you have reached the fount of wonder, you 
 
 ford the waters wan 
 To the land of elves and the land of fairies, enchanted 
 
 Masinderan.' 
 
 The singer ceased ; and the lyre in his hand snapped, as 
 
 a cord, in twain ; 
 And neither lyre nor singer was seen in the kingdom of 
 
 Persia again. 
 
 And all the nobles gazed astounded; no man spoke a 
 
 word 
 Till the old king said : ' Call out my armies ; bring me 
 
 hither a sword ! ' 
 
 As a little torrent swollen by snows is turned to a terrible 
 
 stream, 
 So the gathering voices of all his countries cried to the 
 
 king in his dream. 
 
 Crying, ' For thee, O our king, for thee, we had freely and 
 
 willingly died, 
 Warriors, martyrs, what thou wilt; not that our lives 
 
 betide 
 
THE CONQUEST OF FAIRYLAND. 169 
 
 ' The worth of a thought to the king, but rather, O ruler, 
 
 because thy rod 
 Is over our heads as over thine is the changeless will of 
 
 God. 
 
 ' Rather for this we beseech thee, O master, for thine own 
 
 sake refrain 
 From the blasphemous madness of pride, from the fever 
 
 of impious gain.' 
 
 ' You seek my death,' the king thundered ; ' you cry, 
 
 forbear to save 
 The life of a king too old to frolic ; let him drowse in the 
 
 grave. 
 
 * But I will live for all your treason ; and, by my own 
 right hand ! 
 
 I will set out this day with you to conquer Fairy- 
 land/ 
 
 Then all the nations paled aghast, for the battle to 
 
 begin 
 Was a war with God, and a war with death, and they 
 
 knew the thing was sin. 
 
I70 THE CONQUEST OF FAIRYLAND. 
 
 Sick at heart they gathered together, but none denounced 
 
 the wrong, 
 For the will of God was unseen, unsaid, and the will of 
 
 the king was strong. 
 
 So the air grew bright with spears, and the earth shook 
 
 under the tread 
 Of the mighty horses harnessed for battle ; the standards 
 
 flaunted red. 
 
 And the wind was loud with the blare of trumpets, and 
 
 every house was void 
 Of the strength and stay of the house, and the peace of 
 
 the land destroyed. 
 
 And the growing corn was trodden under the weight of 
 
 armed feet. 
 And every woman in Persia cursed the sound of a song 
 
 too sweet, 
 
 Cursed the insensate longing for life in the heart of a sick 
 
 old man ; 
 But the king of Persia with all his armies marched on 
 
 Masinderan. 
 
THE CONQ UES T OF FAIR YLAND. 1 7 1 
 
 Many a day they marched in the sun till their silver 
 
 armour was lead 
 To sink their bodies into the grave, and many a man fell 
 
 dead. 
 
 And they passed the mouth of hell, and the shadowy 
 
 country gray, 
 Where the air is mist and the people mist and the rain 
 
 more real than they. 
 
 And they came to the fount of wonder, and forded the 
 
 waters wan, 
 And the king of Persia and all his armies marched on 
 
 Masinderan. 
 
 And they turned the rivers to blood, and the fields to a 
 
 ravaged camp, 
 Till they neared the golden faery town, that burned in 
 
 the dusk as a lamp. 
 
 And they stood and shouted for joy, to see it stand so 
 
 nigh, 
 Given into their hands for spoil; and their hearts beat 
 
 proud and high. 
 
172 THE CONQUEST OF FAIRYLAND. 
 
 The armies longed for the morrow, to conquer the 
 
 shining town, 
 For there was no death in the land, neither any to strike 
 
 them down. 
 
 And the hosts were many in numbers, mighty, and skilled 
 
 in the strife, 
 And they lusted for gold and conquest as the old king 
 
 lusted for life. 
 
 Till, gazing on the golden place, night took them 
 
 unaware, 
 And black and windy grew the skies, and black the 
 
 eddying air — 
 
 So long the night and black the night that fell upon their 
 
 eyes, 
 They quaked with fear, those mighty hosts; the sun 
 
 would never rise. 
 
 Darkness and deafening sounds confused the black, 
 
 tempestuous air, 
 And no man saw his neighbour's face, nor heard his 
 
 neighbour's prayer. 
 
THE CONQUEST OF FAIRYLAND. 173 
 
 And wild with terror the mad battalions fell on each other 
 
 in fight, 
 The ground was strewn with wounded men, mad in the 
 
 horrible night — 
 
 Mad with eternal pain, with darkness and stabbing blows 
 Rained on all sides from invisible hands till the ground 
 was red as a rose. 
 
 And, though he were longing for rest, none ventured to 
 
 pause from the strife. 
 Lest haply another wound be his to poison his hateful 
 
 Ufe. 
 
 And the king entreated death ; and for peace the armies 
 
 prayed ; 
 Lut the gifts of God are everlasting, His word is not 
 
 gainsay ed. 
 
 Gold and battle are given the hosts, their boon is turned 
 
 to a ban, 
 And tlie curse of the king is to live forever in conquered 
 
 Masinderan. 
 
( 175 ) 
 
 SONG. 
 
 I HAVE lost my singing-voice ; 
 
 My heyday's over. 
 No more I lilt my cares and joys, 
 
 But keep them under cover. 
 
 My heyday 's gone : 
 
 I sit and look on 
 While Life rushes past with a sob and a moan. 
 
 Wherefore should I stop to tell 
 
 The pang that rends me ? 
 If it leave me all is well ; 
 
 And if it last it ends me. 
 
 Should one tear rise 
 
 To my entranced eyes 
 It falls for a world full of hunger and sighs. 
 
LONDON: 
 
 Printed by Strangeways & Sons, 
 Tower Street, Upper St. Martin's Lane, W.C 
 
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