THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 THE LAST POEMS 
 
 OF 
 
 RICHARD WATSON DIXON 
 
 D.D. 
 
 LATE HON. CANON OF CARLISLE AND 
 VICAR OF WARKWORTH 
 
 SELECTED AND EDITED 
 
 BV 
 
 ROBERT BRIDGES 
 
 WITH A PREFACE BY 
 M. E. COLERIDGE 
 
 AUTHOR OF 'the KING WITH TWO FACES,' ETC. 
 
 HENRY FROWDE 
 
 LONDON, EDINBURGH, GLASGOW 
 
 NEW YORK AND TORONTO 
 
 190.5
 
 OXFOKD : HORACE HART 
 PRINTER TO THE UNIVERSITY
 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 HUNDREDS of years hence, if but one song 
 were left out of the many songs of every 
 poet who has made our age musical, which of them 
 all would be thought the sweetest ? How would they 
 compare with the songs of an earlier generation ? 
 
 It would be hard to find among the lyrics of our 
 own time — or indeed of Shelley's — one more exquisite 
 than this : 
 
 ' The feathers of the willow 
 Are half of them grown yellow 
 Above the swelling stream ; 
 And ragged are the bushes. 
 And rusty now the rushes, 
 
 And wild the clouded gleam. 
 
 *The thistle now is older. 
 His stalk begins to moulder. 
 
 His head is white as snow ; 
 The branches all are barer, 
 The linnet's song is rarer, 
 The robin pipeth now/ 
 
 Among the many woods and forests of Victorians — 
 nay, among those of the great forest-lover, Words- 
 worth himself — where shall we find a statelier forest 
 than we find here? 
 
 860339
 
 iv PREFACE 
 
 ' Rise in their place the woods : the trees have cast, 
 Like earth to earth, their children : now they stand, 
 Above the graves where lie their very last : 
 Each pointing with her empty hand 
 And mourning o'er the russet floor. 
 Naked and dispossessed ; 
 The queenly sycamore, 
 The linden, and the aspen, and the rest.' 
 
 Among the frequent similes that gem the work of 
 contemporary writers we look in vain for one like 
 this — a simile that might have haunted Keats : 
 
 'the diamond drip 
 Of a white wing upon a lake struck dead 
 With shadows.' 
 
 No lover of poetry could question the beauty of 
 these fragments ; not one but would desire to read 
 more. The appearance of this little volume there- 
 fore needs no defence. 
 
 But let us deprecate quick judgement ! There is 
 a kind of genius that only shows itself to become 
 famous ; there is another kind that remains long 
 hidden. Elia said once that every poet asked a 
 different mood in the reader. The high, still mood 
 demanded by these poems is an unearthly, an ethereal 
 temper of mind, free from all base distraction, all 
 trivial, fond excitement. It is a mood that will not 
 come at call unless in the hush of noontide among 
 the mountains, or when the stars are shining at 
 midnight. They are quiet ; they make no stir ;
 
 PREFACE V 
 
 they are full of secret beauty that will not unfold 
 itself excepting to the touch of love and reverence. 
 It would be safe to say that the first feeling of nine 
 readers out of ten will be disappointment ; the second 
 will be surprise^ the third ecstasy. Thus men have 
 often felt — and this has been the order of their 
 feeling— about a picture or a statue of great renown. 
 Defeated first of all by the stupidity of the beholder, 
 the picture or the statue wins in the end. That 
 which a few saw at once, the many come to see, 
 given that they are not blinded by haste or pride. 
 Those who could see at first, the brother poets of 
 this poet, did not fail to understand. Swinburne, 
 Rossetti, Morris, Robert Bridges, men whose praise 
 is not lightly given, praised him. There was one 
 who gave more than praise. A young Oxford student 
 of brilliantly original power loved the poems of 
 Richard Watson Dixon with such devotion that, 
 when he entered the ranks of the Jesuits and was 
 forbidden to take any books with him, he copied 
 out almost all those in his possession. Such minds 
 as these do not labour in vain ; others trust in them, 
 follow their lead. 
 
 The book appeals, or should appeal, to many ; 
 but the closer interest of it will be, of course, for 
 people to whom the author's earlier work is dear. 
 Few traces of the strong pre-Raphaelitism that 
 marked ' Christ's Company ' remain. The mystic, 
 passionate religion of the deeper heart is no longer 
 visible in signs and symbols, be they as beautiful as
 
 vi PREFACE 
 
 those of ' Mary Magdalene 'or of ' St. John ' — it is 
 audible, it cries aloud in the Hymn beginning 
 ' O Lord my God,' in the sustained, solemn, hier- 
 archical chant of 'Priest of the only Sacrifice.'' 
 ' O Lord my God ' could never have been written 
 except by one to Avhom the experiences of the spirit 
 were fact and not conjecture; it has the strangeness, 
 the familiarity, of every word that comes straight 
 from the truth. It is not memory that strikes like 
 a flail ; the worst is not the wrong that was, but 
 rather the righteousness that might have been ; the 
 suppliant entreats that the future may in its turn 
 become another past, the past that dares assure the 
 future beyond. The poem fitly chosen for the last 
 is not finished, but broken oft' upon a sacred word 
 that leaves us on our knees. It could not have 
 been finished upon earth. The end is out of sight 
 — beyond. No formal ending could have held the 
 pathos of this. We have overheard a saint in the 
 sanctuary ; and we dare hear no more. 
 
 We have spoken first of the Hymns, because, to 
 this poet, religion was the life of life. The touch 
 of humanity, which is absent in his dealings with 
 fancied men and women, is never absent from his 
 religious poems; and the men and women of the 
 Bible are almost the only living men and women to 
 be found in his pages. We say almost ; for who that 
 has read it could forget the singular and awful 
 idyll of the dull innkeeper and his wife, who did not 
 know the churchyard was so near !
 
 PREFACE vii 
 
 ' I rode my horse to the hostel gate, 
 
 And the landlord fed it with corn and hay : 
 His eyes were blear, he limped in his gait. 
 His lip hung down, his hair was gray. 
 
 ' I entered in the wayside inn. 
 
 And the landlady met me without a smile ; 
 Her dreary dress was old and thin. 
 Her face was full of piteous guile. 
 
 'There they had been for threescore years, 
 
 There was none to tell them they were great. 
 Not one to tell of our hopes and fears ; 
 And not far off was the churchyard gate.' 
 
 Nothing can beat this for sheer reality ; not Crabbe 
 nor Burns. It shows that no general rule can be 
 formulated about a true poet. During his lifetime 
 he was full of sympathy for every man and w^oman 
 whom he met ; and perhaps the very sensitiveness of 
 his response to each fellow mortal rendered him cold 
 to men and women whom he had not seen — whom he 
 only imagined. Certain it is that he never adorned 
 his landscapes with them, nor let them walk upon 
 the beach when he was writing, as he could write, 
 magnificently, about the sea — that he kept them out 
 of those high-strung Odes in which he sang the 
 conflicts of the soul, the mysteries of nature. There 
 is a fine example before us in the ' Ode on the Death 
 of Dickens."" The ' white precipitate clouds ' are 
 there, the bird with sun-smitten wing, the pink sea- 
 thrift, the heather on the sandhill ; but where is 
 Dickens ? Dickens he had not seen, Dickens was
 
 viii PREFACE 
 
 merely a creature of the imagination. Nobody 
 wants him in the least ; he would only spoil the wild, 
 serene loneliness of the Northumbrian coast. 
 
 Even where, as in 'Too Much Friendship,'' men 
 have the whole canvas to themselves, the poet is 
 interested in them chiefly because they are students, 
 and not in any other sense. The story runs as 
 follows. There are two friends living in Athens — 
 Alcander, a philosopher, and Septimius, a rhetorician 
 come from Rome, 
 
 ' In life's wide lists desirous to be proved.' 
 
 'The god of arts from their arts different' loved 
 them — it is not very clear why. 
 
 'And still would he that noble calm dispense 
 Which 'tis the due of youth from life to gain 
 Before dark Care begin her iron reign 
 And break, the prime.' 
 
 The prime did not remain unbroken long. Alcander 
 fell in love with the lady Hypatia. 
 
 ' Still great Apollo smiled.' 
 
 In fact he Avas kindness itself, and 
 
 ' But for the working of malific powers. 
 Still had he smiled to watch Avith godlike heart 
 The flight of yet another human dart 
 Shot upward toward the seat of entity 
 Which all best souls desire ; though destiny 
 Refuse that any reach the traceless shrine. 
 High gain it is to travel heights divine: 
 To seek for ever is the joy of thought.'
 
 PREFACE ix 
 
 Alas, as soon as ever Septimius set eyes on the lady 
 Hypatia — or rather she set eyes on him — he knew 
 that he was madly in love with her ! At this point 
 the srave Alcander becomes inhuman in the correct- 
 ness of his attitude. That magnanimity should 
 forbid anger, may be right, though we should have 
 chosen a warmer word — his 'large firm eyes filled 
 with concern and pity,' are well enough — but the 
 philosophic turn of mind which makes him instantly 
 recall every work that he had ever read on Friend- 
 ship, the arithmetical nicety with which he balances 
 his emotional account without a thought of the lady, 
 is altogether too Gibbonian. He does not even 
 'sigh as a lover' Avhile he 'obeys' as a friend. This 
 is not 'Too Much Friendship,' it is 'Too Much 
 Philosophy.' No doubt the problem, for any one 
 Avho cares about friendship, is harder than it looks 
 at first sight. Shakespeare himself came to grief 
 over it in The Two Gentlemeii of Verona ; but 
 Valentine's impetuous offer of Sylvia to Proteus, 
 though loyalty cries out against it, rings true beside 
 this calculated and selfish self-denial. Hypatia, very 
 naturally, seems to have been glad of the exchange ; 
 but Hypatia's kinsmen took a different view, and 
 they made the life of Alcander a burden to him. 
 
 'The words the words pursued.' 
 
 His own words were not of the least avail, and at 
 last he was sold for a slave; but still Apollo went 
 smiling on, and Alcander communed with books and
 
 X PREFACE 
 
 wrote on frizzled skins and kept himself alive with 
 Hope. 
 
 ' Hope who still drops her anchor in life's sand, 
 And to firm hold the atoms loose would band, 
 That life's tossed ship outride the tempest's rage ; 
 Hope, that to ease turns pain, to youth turns age : 
 Hope, that in mortal nature so is fixed, 
 That no damned wretch in misery's mortar mixed, 
 No sodden villain brought to extreme shame. 
 Would change to other, and not be the same : 
 Albeit both high and low would willingly 
 Add to themselves another's share of good, 
 Desiring this man's fame, and that man's Avealth, 
 Yonder man's beauty, and that other's health; 
 So they these goods upon their own might pile. 
 But never cease to be themselves the while : 
 Hope bade him live.' 
 
 Whether a desperate criminal is in truth so fond 
 of his own identity, we may not pause to consider. 
 Alcander, at any rate, thought he had no need to be 
 ashamed of his ; he escaped, carrying his precious 
 books along with him, and fled to Rome. 
 
 - But on the wanderer of that mighty town 
 Nonesmiled : none spake him erethesun wentdown . . . 
 Hungry and spent he leant against the walls. 
 And felt how cold the warmth of alien halls. 
 How hard Rome's pavement to a foot unshod ; 
 Mailed should they be on those proud streets who trod.' 
 
 He went to sleep in a tomb outside the city, his head 
 on an inverted urn ; but he slept very well indeed. 
 Nothing could make that man uncomfortable, so
 
 PREFACE xi 
 
 long as he had his books. At dawn the people, 
 finding a dead body without the entrance, somewhat 
 rashly concluded that he was a murderer, and dragged 
 him before Septimius, who was now the head of 
 the Roman bar. It is to be conjectured that he 
 had to leave all the books behind him, for now at 
 last he is quite overcome, and says not a word in his 
 own defence. The voice of his friend is pronouncing 
 sentence when the real murderer is brought in. The 
 judge at the same moment recognizes his ancient 
 comrade (why did he not know him before ? it makes 
 one suspect his acuteness as a detective), and 
 
 'joy was the charioteer 
 When, in the sight of mighty shouting Rome, 
 Septimius led Alcander to his home.'' 
 
 Once more Apollo smiled — he smiles as often as 
 Hamlefs uncle — and we look to hear that they all 
 lived happy ever after. No such thing ! Love, who 
 was much annoyed, gave Fortune a good scolding, 
 and 
 
 'Sought his kinsman Death, of aspect wild. 
 Who seemed as fair as he — as fair a child 
 As ever at a wedding feast Hung flowers. 
 Or danced about the circle of the Hours.' 
 
 Of course, just when Love fell upon him, Alcander 
 was extremely happy. He had possessed himself of 
 his beloved books again. Could there be a sweeter 
 description of the tranquil life of the student ?
 
 xii PREFACE 
 
 'Twas such a day when our Athenian 
 Most blessed his lot ; when he had power to scan 
 The ways of being with arfs happiest might, 
 Luxuriously severe; though subtle, bright. 
 Caverned he sat, Alcander, with his books 
 Amid the rocks where flow the Tiber's brooks, 
 Inrunning with short course into their stream 
 Far from the town ; for he in blissful dream 
 Had wandered from the gatherings of mankind. 
 Following the airy beacons of the mind/ 
 
 Love shot him ; and he went mad — went mad too 
 with an odd touch of pre-Raphaelitism. 
 
 ' His mighty limbs, Avith muscles hung, were seen 
 Strange-coloured midst the dark rock-mosses green.' 
 
 The cold-hearted behaviour of Septimius and Hypatia 
 at his death makes one hope that they did not live 
 happy ever after ; but there is little doubt that they 
 did, they were so perfectly philosophical. The high- 
 hearted passages contained in it save the life of the 
 poem ; but the men are nought, the women less than 
 nought. And there are no others anywhere else in 
 the book. It has been dwelt on at some length 
 chiefly because those which follow defy analysis. The 
 sublime stanzas called ' To the Earth Planet ' have 
 caught the music of the rolling spheres themselves ; 
 they move with a majestic force that challenges the 
 power of language. 
 
 'Time is their lord — their prison Space.' 
 
 Thus Dante may have felt ; thus Milton, when
 
 PREFACE xiii 
 
 lie was lost, not in the sight but in the thought of 
 stars. The other side of this transcendent rapture 
 is mirrored in ' The Silent Heavens ' — the horror of 
 the aimless, voiceless, never-ceasing motion of these 
 great ' slaves of light ' that once were fixed about the 
 World of Man, and friendly. There is no doubt 
 that, to a few hearts even now, the restoration of 
 the Ptolemaic system would come as a relief; they 
 would be glad to see the Universe with the Earth in 
 the centre, the central story of the Earth the story 
 of all things, as Dante saw, as Milton never could 
 feel quite sure that he did not see it. 
 
 'Dust and Wind' contains a Hamlet-like meditation 
 on the mystery of the human form and its dissolution. 
 The poet watched the Dust and the Wind as they 
 gave shape to each other ; he describes it in a simile 
 that comes home with startling force to any one who 
 has watched a sandstorm. 
 
 *A rushing archer seems this dust that doth arise. 
 His bow in the whirl is bent, his arrows seek 
 the eyes.' 
 
 The shape is lost, the atom remains. The subtle 
 speculations that follow are hard to understand, 
 but they are haunting ; they compel the reader 
 to return again, again, and yet again ; the awful 
 burden of the faithfulness of the Dust to man, of 
 the unfaithfulness of the Wind, possesses the mind 
 like some weird incantation. The final flight of the 
 Wind, when
 
 xiv PREFACE 
 
 ' He upseals the evening sky with the chilly roses of 
 eve, 
 Pressed far on the infinite blue' 
 
 comes with the restfulness, the freshness of a strong 
 sunset-breeze by the sea. 'The Unknown King' 
 has the fantastic reality and unreality of nightmare — 
 the end appears to be conceived in a different mood 
 from the beginning. We turn from it for comfort 
 to the lovely Sonnets ' Hope ' and ' Peace '—to the 
 sweet murmur of 'Low River,' where every chosen 
 word satisfies eye and ear alike, until we hardly 
 know whether the picture be the fairer, or the 
 song. 
 
 A life-like article by Canon Beeching in The 
 Dictionary of National Biography will give some 
 idea of the character of the poet to those who were 
 not acquainted with him. They may learn yet more 
 from his own contributions to the Lives of two of 
 his intimate friends, Burne- Jones and William Morris. 
 In a Prize Poem of earlier date, 'St. John in Patmos,' 
 written when he was Master of Carlisle Grammar 
 School, occur these lines : 
 
 'For they are ever honoured most who lean 
 To human wants from out that cloud serene 
 Of solenni thought, in which they fain would dwell, 
 But that the world hath need of them to quell 
 Its anarchies: they who with burning heart 
 Came down their own strong essence to impart, 
 And labour noblest things to keep alive : 
 True men of action, though contemplative.'
 
 PREFACE XV 
 
 We cannot read the passage without a vivid 
 recollection of him who wrote it — of his devoted 
 ministry by the gleaming waters, under the shadow 
 of the ancient church at Warkworth. Deep in the 
 heart of one who saw him he left the impression of 
 that rare humility which is the highest worth of 
 man. Humility, in him, was not a hard- won grace, 
 a virtue won and worn after defeat upon defeat in 
 life's battle — it was a thing innate and perfect.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 Too Much Friendship . 
 
 Low River .... 
 
 Dust and Wind . 
 
 To THE Earth Planet 
 
 The Silent Heavens . 
 
 Ode on the Death of Dickens 
 
 The Unknovv^n King . 
 
 To Hope .... 
 
 To Peace .... 
 
 Hymns. .... 
 
 page 
 
 1 
 
 22 
 23 
 28 
 30 
 32 
 33 
 35 
 36 
 37
 
 TOO MUCH FRIENDSHIP 
 
 THE STORY 
 
 OJf 
 
 SEPTIMIUS AND ALCANDER 
 
 WHEN Athens, fallen beneath the Roman sway, 
 Kept still the relics of her bygone day, 
 The youth who most adorned her sacred hill 
 Was named Alcander: by Apollo's will 
 Votive to those high arts the god has given 
 To penetrate the ways of earth and heaven : 
 To whom no less the blind wheel-goddess spared 
 Her largess lavish ; so that few compared 
 In happiness with him, and one alone 
 His rival in men"'s expectation shone, 10 
 
 This was Septimius, who, of Roman name. 
 To Athens o''er the Tyrrhene waters came, 
 And held in rhetoric renown as high 
 As the other equalled in philosophy. 
 Nor lacked there kindliness between the two 
 From first, which into closest friendship grew. 
 The god of arts from their arts different 
 Inspired them peace, and benediction sent : 
 
 B
 
 2 TOO MUCH FRIENDSHIP 
 
 And in his sphere, the intellectual sky 
 
 Bade his satellites move in harmony. 20 
 
 Long lingered they in youth's fair indolence, 
 And still would he that noble calm dispense 
 Which "'tis the due of youth from life to gain 
 Before dark Care begin her iron reign, 
 And break the prime : but ah ! there came at length 
 The breaking time : when youth his fiery strength 
 To match against the awaiting world is moved. 
 In life's wide lists desirous to be proved. 
 And first Alcander found it : he in thought 29 
 Transfixed would stand, into grave ardour wrought 
 And musings many : oft would bow his head 
 Severely pressed, as with a weight of lead. 
 Pondering what road to take, what thing to do 
 To tune his studies old to action new. 
 And be a man amid the world of men. 
 Often he muttered low, oft seized his pen. 
 Traced and then tore the workings of his brain, 
 While newborn joy sank into doubt again. 
 Apollo smiled watching the noble strife. 
 Thinking to hold his votary through life, 40 
 
 Deeming occasion would but interpose 
 To crown his favourite son, what'er he chose. 
 
 But who can scape desire ? who can be free 
 Of Nature's bonds, how great soe'er he be ? 
 Amid his mind's unrest Alcander saw 
 Hypatia, and he bowed to Nature's law : 
 Hypatia, fairest of the lovely train 
 That wandered round Lucina's golden fane,
 
 TOO MUCH FRIENDSHIP 3 
 
 Drawn by the queen of marriage still more near 
 
 Her shrine itself with each new budding year. 50 
 
 Into his heart, transported through his eyes 
 
 Her lovely image fluttered, there to rise, 
 
 The flower of love in wisdom's ordered seat. 
 
 For she to him refused not answer meet, 
 
 And all sped well, and hindrance was there none ; 
 
 Ere in short space, the previous rites o'ergone 
 
 Of hymeneal, came the day ordained 
 
 AATiose evening should bring home the bride 
 
 unstained. 
 Yet, since fair fortune in the marriage joys 
 Upbuilds the mind's dominion, not destroys, 60 
 Still great Apollo smiled, nor deemed that he 
 Should lose the subject of his sovereignty : 
 
 Nor would he, in respect of those mild hours, 
 But for the working of malific powers. 
 Still had he smiled to watch with godlike heart . 
 The flight of yet another human dart 
 Shot upward toward the seat of entity, 
 Which all best souls desire ; though destiny 
 Refuse that any reach the traceless shrine. 
 High gain it is to travel heights divine : 70 
 
 To seek for ever is the joy of thought, 
 The joy of gods for ever to be sought. 
 But other thino; befell : that shall be told. 
 
 Septimius, in the easy weeks that roll'd 
 From roused Alcander to his marriage day. 
 Kept unconcerned at first his usual way. 
 Practising his mimic pleadings with renown 
 
 B 2
 
 4 TOO MUCH FRIENDSHIP 
 
 That lightened through the sophist-loving town : 
 Waitins; till sails should come to waft him home 
 To the wide law-courts of Imperial Rome. 80 
 
 Not needing, like his friend, to arbitrate 
 'Twixt past and present at a troublous date, 
 Since his less lofty science set no bar 
 Betwixt his mind and the dark human war. 
 Yet Fate to him brought woe, and by the same 
 Event that to his friend unhindering came 
 Of purpose high. 
 
 To him Alcander brought 
 His own betrothed in proud and happy thought 
 That he might share his joy, he whom he deemed 
 His only fellow, and o'er all esteemed. 90 
 
 Septimius saw ; and, lo, from liquid eyes 
 Bright beyond praise, shot through his arteries. 
 All in a flash, one glance that woke in him 
 Strange trouble, and his senses made to swim, 
 As if some poison thinned to fire his blood. 
 Then hurkd it through him in a raging flood : 
 In that one look he read, though 'twas but one 
 Of any from such eyes that must be thrown. 
 Piteous appeal, disdain, command, whatever 
 Makes man's emotion thrall to beauty's snare. 100 
 
 An unseen power it was that wrought this ill 
 Blindly enacting destiny's wide will : 
 For Cupid, who is oft good Hymen's foe. 
 Hung in the clouds that hour with new-strung bow : 
 'Twas spring time, when his shafts he best may wield 
 Airainst the creatures of the air and field.
 
 TOO MUCH FRIENDSHIP 5 
 
 He laughed to see the finch his mate pursue 
 "Wing-stroke for wing-stroke o"'er the bushes new : 
 The wild cat in the thicket crying loud 
 Under the sting : the bull, so royal proud, 110 
 Tearino; the furrow in his savage need : 
 The horse that sprang, then tried again to feed, 
 Then raced his pasture's length against the wind. 
 So dealt he forth his plague on every kind. 
 'Twas he who noting that one look unmeant 
 In the same flash his own sharp arrow sent. 
 
 Cureless was such a wound ; but not the less 
 Septimius strove his torment to repress. 
 ' What caitiff I,' so to himself he said, 
 'My own best brother's bride that shall be led, 120 
 In maddest thoughts to hold ! ' Then gan he try 
 Studies and fasts to heal his malady 
 And struggled sore : sometimes he leaped upright 
 Crying, ' I love her not ! in love's despite 
 I love her not ! no plague have I to shun ' : 
 Like to maimed men, who think that they can run. 
 Minding their former lightness, while they deem 
 Their real misery some unhappy dream. 
 But soon again Love with descending frown 
 Into his pit of horror struck him down, 130 
 
 And all his fancied sanity o'erthrew. 
 The thirling dart again he inly knew, 
 Again he felt the beat of love and pain, 
 And shame went through him, and remorse again. 
 So that at last both strength and heart gan fail : 
 A fever came to him : his visage pale
 
 6 TOO MUCH FRIENDSHIP 
 
 And shaking limbs did all his friends aghast. 
 And thence so swiftly did his body waste, 
 That on the morn, whose evening would bring bride 
 To bridegroom's bed, they looked he should have 
 died. 140 
 
 Meantime Alcander, in love's ecstasy. 
 Observed him little : for with feigned glee 
 The sick man greeted him whene'er they met. 
 But on the morn, that was for marriage set. 
 Speeding to him the first, he found him dressed 
 In the rich raiment of a wedding guest. 
 So dressed indeed for welcoming of the day. 
 But the rich garment served so to display 
 His ghastliness of feature and of hue. 
 That the amazed Alcander at the view 150 
 
 Felt sudden awe, and to demand began 
 Whence 'twas his friend appeared a dying man. 
 He with evasions wild and stammeriiig strove 
 To escape confession of unwilling love ; 
 And with a dreary smile to cross the floor 
 Urged his weak limbs, to win the open door, 
 And bade him follow to the marriage fest, 
 Nor be behind his day. But the poor jest 
 Failed as he spoke it ; Love so terribly 
 Shook him, that it no more might hidden be : 160 
 And turning with a deadly look he said, 
 ' Alcander, in my soul's despite and dread 
 Thy lady so I love, that night nor day 
 Her image from my thoughts may pass away : 
 Yea truly in the phantasies of sleep
 
 TOO MUCH FRIENDSHIP 1 
 
 She doth pursue me : her by day I keep 
 
 Still in my ken : the pain that me doth kill 
 
 Is sprung of this : I have no other ill. 
 
 I cannot name her, lest from me should burst 
 
 Wild callings on her name. I am accursed 170 
 
 Of heaven to be a traitor to my friend. 
 
 Now slay me here, and of this woe make end.' 
 
 The grave Athenian youth this agony 
 Heard all unmoved : for magnanimity 
 Anger forbad : concern and pity filled 
 His large firm eyes, masterly virtue's guild. 
 In consultation with himself he stood, 
 And argued with his mind against his blood, 
 Recalling many tractates, ancient codes 
 Of noble friendship, panegyric odes 180 
 
 By poets made of constancy sublime 
 Which friend to friend had shown in ancient time : 
 How one had given his life to save his friend, 
 How some had shared their fortunes to the end : 
 How friendship was more precious to the wise 
 Than Indian gold or eastern merchandise : 
 How one had written that a mistress fair 
 Should with a friend be held of no compare, 
 For that a mistress any day is won 
 But to repair a friend remaineth none. 190 
 
 These and much more regathering in his mind. 
 At length he spake : ' Septimius, thou art kind 
 Giving me warrant to confer a boon, 
 A wedding day is hasting to the noon 
 But not the bridegroom I, though she the bride,
 
 8 TOO MUCH FRIENDSHIP 
 
 For whom the flowers fall thick from side to side. 
 
 Hypatia name 1 thine : receive from me 
 
 A gift that answers well my thoughts of thee.' 
 
 Who that is set in strait 'twixt death and love 
 But must refuse the bat and take the dove ? 200 
 Septimius, gazing on that lofty face 
 Where greatness occupied in passion's place, 
 Bowed to the boon, though tear arose on tear, 
 And 'twas remorse to feel his iov so dear. 
 Some gifts there are, that he who offers makes 
 Refusal wrong, he honours best who takes. 
 So to make short the story of that day. 
 When to the nuptial feast they took their way. 
 He held the bridegroom's room : nor she denied 
 To yield into his arms a willing bride. 210 
 
 Therewith Apollo smiled upon his son, 
 Deeming his doubtful victory twice won. 
 And love removed better than love retrieved. 
 For the great ends which he in him conceived. 
 He smiled : but as his smile shot through the cloud 
 Discovered Cupid fled, sobbing aloud. 
 Where secretly all-armed above the earth 
 He flew, and saw the spoiling of his mirth, 
 And the calm bosom of the Athenian. 
 Handling his vengeful bolts he flew and ran, 220 
 And woe betide Apollo's votary, 
 If him unfenced in wisdom's panoply 
 He ever mark : such spiteful rage he fed 
 Finding his former arrow idly sped, 
 Alcander having plucked it from his breast.
 
 TOO MUCH FRIENDSHIP 9 
 
 And e'en Septimius' grief too soon redressed. 
 
 Great Master of the Muses, hast not thou 
 
 Felt in thy heart that torturing barb ? then how 
 
 Safety to mortal man canst thou ensure 
 
 And bid life's game be without forfeiture ? 230 
 
 Who now so lightsome as Septimius, 
 When his mad sorrows were concluded thus ? 
 For Rome he sailed, departing with his bride, 
 Blessing Alcander, who with smiles replied, 
 And with unruffled brow beheld the prore 
 Rise to the sea beneath the quickened oar. 
 Anon in the great city of the hills 
 Septimius' praised name all hearing fills : 
 No orator like him the forum swayed. 
 To him the gathered gowns with awe obeyed ; 240 
 The offices of state to him stand wide. 
 The open gates for Fortune's flowing tide: 
 Lovely Hypatia, who his honour shares. 
 By her fine wit more high the structure rears; 
 High suitors throng his ivory chair around, 
 And all the city to his will he found. 
 
 Meanwhile revengeful Love, to exact his due. 
 With Fortune joined, Alcander to pursue. 
 When Athensward from the bleak shore he hies. 
 E'en there the fickle goddess through the skies 250 
 Rattled her keys ('twas she indeed who thus, 
 Combined with Love, upraised Septimius), 
 And the same hour her favourite downwards thrust 
 Upon that wheel that turns 'twixt cloud and dust. 
 A sleety shower blew up, with bitter wind :
 
 10 TOO MUCH FRIENDSHIP 
 
 Low thunders growled in the clear blue behind. 
 But ansrier were the faces that he met. 
 
 '» 
 
 ^Vhen in the town's fair street his feet he set. 
 
 The kinsmen of Hypatia, a dark band, 
 
 Frowningly met him : nor aside would stand, 260 
 
 Nor scarce give way when he looked pleasantly. 
 
 And after him sent shouts of 'Villany,' 
 
 And ' Go thou villain of a filthy trade,' 
 
 And 'There goes he who hath his bride betrayed 
 
 And from a lover rich acquired base gain." 
 
 He pondering the moment in disdain 
 
 Of ill construction, soon resumed his road, 
 
 Wrapped in high musings, toward his own abode. 
 
 But in a little while he found not vain 
 The menaces of that incensed train. 270 
 
 A suit at law was brought, the vile pretence 
 That he had sold his bride for recompense 
 Of money given : doing despite and scorn 
 To all her kin : such crime was laid and sworn, 
 And in indictment vast was spread the feud 
 At legal length : the words the words pursued. 
 In vain he pled : no eloquence had power 
 Against the frown of all, and in an hour 
 He was cast down from fortune and from fame 
 In such a mulct, that the extremest shame 280 
 Alone awaited him, exposed to stand 
 A slave for purchase at the bidder's hand. 
 A Thracian merchant bought him, and he went 
 O'er wintry seas from shame to banishment. 
 Unhappy man ! like the inclement shore
 
 TOO MUCH FRIENDSHIP 11 
 
 That took him, Avas the rigorous doom he bore. 
 
 O'er the cold hills it was his part to lead 
 
 At break of day his master's flock, and feed : 
 
 To follow in the snow along the waste 
 
 Afoot his horse's heels, while on he paced : 290 
 
 And every season both in frost and heat, 
 
 Extremest both the most, his toils repeat : 
 
 And for himself to trap the deer and bear, 
 
 Or in the frozen river leave his snare 
 
 Ere to his tasks he went : that with such pain 
 
 Precariously his life he might sustain. 
 
 Over his own unfriended head the roof 
 
 He reared, which kept the winds of night aloof. 
 
 But still Apollo smiled : ' Now shall be known,' 
 
 Mused he, ' the greatness of my favourite son : 300 
 
 Penury, slavery, shall only prove 
 
 How fixed in heart the virtue which I move.'' 
 
 And so indeed it seemed : cramped and constrained, 
 
 Steadfast to science still the man remained : 
 
 Some loftier moments snatching, he by stealth 
 
 Communed with books, the remnants of his wealth, 
 
 In secret haunts: and on rough tablets wrought. 
 
 Or frizzled skins, the minutes of his thought : 
 
 And this contented him ; one moment's scope 
 
 For days of toil, held him alive through hope. 310 
 
 Hope who still drops her anchor in life's sand, 
 
 And to firm hold the atoms loose would band, 
 
 That life's tossed ship outride the tempest's rage : 
 
 Hope, that to ease turns pain, to youth turns age : 
 
 Hope, that in mortal nature so is fixed,
 
 12 TOO MUCH FRIENDSHIP 
 
 That no damned wretch in misery's mortar mixed, 
 No sodden villain brought to extreme shame, 
 Would change to other and not be the same: 
 Albeit both high and low willingly would 
 Add to themselves another's share of good, 320 
 Desiring this man's fame, and that man's wealth, 
 Yonder man's beauty, and that other's health; 
 So they these goods upon their own might pile, 
 But never cease to be themselves the while : 
 Hope bade him live; and Hope at length bequeathed 
 As dying givers do, her promise breathed. 
 Dying to give what could not be outlived, 
 But, unlike givei-s, in her death revived : 
 She died in certainty: but, knowing then 
 Her gift unlike all other gifts, that men 330 
 
 Die if she live not, dying rose once more 
 Living, to bid him live, as heretofore. 
 For, on a day when most he felt his chain. 
 He found it loose ! the everlasting strain 
 Suddenly ceased ; and he was free to fly. 
 The watchdog slaves, who still beset him nigh, 
 Were with their master fierce withdrawn away. 
 Forgetting him some hours that happy day : 
 He snatched his books and fled: and many a length 
 Of wild and waste he went, the hilly strength 340 
 Of Rhodope and Haemus, where the blast 
 Blows clearest, or with sudden change o'ercast, 
 The sky hurls darksome white : where ice and snow 
 Make alternation, as the wild winds blow. 
 Long was his flight : he day by day lay hid
 
 TOO MUCH FRIENDSHIP 13 
 
 In trees and caves ; and walked when Hesper bid 
 With westward course, to reach the Ausonian 
 
 plains : 
 And now, descending, the last goal he gains. 
 And stands in Rome itself, amazed and blind 
 Amid the mighty concourse of mankind. 350 
 
 Beside the Virgin's Fount he sets him down, 
 Viewing the dwellers of the high-built town : 
 The innumerous youth who in the Martial space 
 Hurl dart, toss disk, contend in breathless race ; 
 The civic crowd which in the forum meet. 
 The slave-borne litters tossing through the street ; 
 The flute-led worshippers who slowly march 
 To disappear beneath some temple's arch ; 
 The sculptured walls, the bastions gathered high 
 From side to side across the purple sky. 360 
 
 But on the wanderer of that mighty town 
 None smiled: none spake him ere the sun went down. 
 Though hope had sent him there perchance to find 
 His friend, and her whom he to him resigned. 
 Hungry and spent he leaned against the walls, 
 And felt how cold the warmth of alien halls. 
 How hard Rome"'s pavement to a foot unshod ; 
 Mailed should they be on those proud streets who 
 
 trod. 
 Then in the growing darkness he was fain 
 To seek that haunt of misery and pain, 370 
 
 Which oft, ere death, the sleep of death would give 
 By night to wretches who with morning live, 
 And to the outside tombs his steps to turn,
 
 14- TOO MUCH FRIENDSHIP 
 
 AVhere with his head on an inverted urn 
 
 More sweetly slept he than down-pillowed guilt 
 
 Sleeps in the palace which itself hath built. 
 
 But innocence the show of guilt may wear 
 If guilt like innocence too oft appear, 
 For, as it happed, unto that very stead 
 Wherein Alcander lay, two robbers fled, 380 
 
 There to divide the spoil which they had pilled ; 
 Who quarrelling, the one the other killed. 
 And left him there : the morning came and lit 
 With light the corpse, as he had slaughtered it 
 In the tomb's entrance : they who saw went in 
 And found Alcander wrapped in sleep within : 
 So deeming that the nmrderer they had found. 
 They dragged him forth, with chains his hands they 
 
 bound. 
 And he in silence standing, and dark mood. 
 As it had been another there who stood, 390 
 
 Both let them bind the chains about his hands 
 And drag him through the streets : anon he stands 
 In the wide law-court mid the clamouring throng, 
 Mute, making no defence, careless of wrong, 
 Scorning denial, for misfortune's blow 
 Had turned to stone his heart his rags below. 
 
 He heard the charge preferred, the proof made 
 plain. 
 Nor aught of vindication would he deign. 
 Nor break his bitter silence ; so that all 
 Hungered for some sharp doom on him to fall, 400 
 And such malicious silence overcome :
 
 TOO MUCH FRIENDSHIP 15 
 
 On racks the lame man leaps, and sings the dumb. 
 
 The judge began his sentence to declare : 
 And when that voice first rose upon the air, 
 He started at the sound, nor could forbear 
 One moment's eyeflash toward the ivory chair. 
 Septimius was the judge ! The haggard man 
 Thought to proclaim himself an instant span, 
 But then : ' No, no : heaven has in me designed 
 The perfect pattern wretch of all mankind, 410 
 I will not baulk it : well, 'tis well, that he 
 Should cast me forth to death and infamy 
 To whom I gave my best, through whom I fell 
 P'rom wealth to wretchedness : yes, this is well ; 
 And better, in that if I called his name. 
 That word would ransom me from perilous shame. 
 I make no sign."" — Clear, calm, and regular 
 The voice rolled on that ruled the Roman bar. 
 
 But ere it ended, lo, a new surprise 419 
 
 Broke the high accents, and drew all men's eyes. 
 Shouts rose without, and tumult spread around. 
 And in was brought another prisoner bound. 
 The real slayer of his robber fere ; 
 Who, selling in the town their plundered gear, 
 Being caught confessed the crime : the crime 
 
 confessed, 
 Alcander's innocence left manifest. 
 And all men marvelled, that, when death had played 
 So close with him, he nor defence had made 
 Nor aught abated his fixed countenance. 
 So wronging innocence in his own chance. 430
 
 16 TOO MUCH FRIENDSHIP 
 
 But greater marvel was the judge to see 
 Rise sudden from his place of majesty, 
 And to the prisoner making way full fast, 
 In strict embrace his arms about him cast : 
 Septimius hailed Alcander ; and with tears 
 Recalled the benefit of former years ; 
 And with consent of all the concourse there 
 Took off his chains : joy was the charioteer 
 When, in the sight of mighty shouting Rome, 
 Septimius led Alcander to his home. 440 
 
 And now Apollo smiled indeed, at last 
 Deeming his son secure through peril past, 
 And straitlier trained his favourite votary. 
 Safe were the books of his philosophy, 
 The precious load to which he still had clung, 
 When in adventurous shift his life had hung. 
 Now should the glorious schedule be complete 
 AVhich should uplift him to the heavenly seat 
 Of everlasting fame, mid those allowed 
 (How few !) to issue from the mortal crowd. 450 
 
 For he, in philosophic garment dressed, 
 Steps through the Roman halls, an honoured guest, 
 To mildness all restored and dignity. 
 And high in state as is Septimius high : 
 In look more noble than the Academe 
 Beheld him once, and old Ilissus"" stream. 
 When him to greet the fair Hypatia came, 
 Whom he had yielded then in friendship's name, 
 IVIore beautiful for marriage, in such stole 
 As Portia wore, great Cato's other soul, 460
 
 TOO MUCH FRIENDSHIP 17 
 
 Or sad Volumnia hid her sweetness in. 
 He met her with a smile, nor felt within 
 Trouble of soul, regret, remorse, or care : 
 Nor, having in fall sight her beauty rare. 
 Doubted that, if such choice returned again, 
 His part should be that which it had been then : 
 And the great power, all jealous of his own, 
 Who had slain Marsyas, gloried in his son. 
 
 But now came up the doom long gathering 
 Against the mortal who had dared to fling 470 
 The boon of Love away, with purpose high. 
 Beyond man's scope, preferring friendship's tie. 
 Virtue, that was the blazon of his deed. 
 Incensed the powers still more — them who succeed 
 To every vacant place of empiry 
 In man, advancing their ascendancy 
 With watchful gaze. The injured god of love 
 With his ally blind Fortune chode and strove : 
 To whom he said, 'Returning on thy wheel 
 Thou bringest back this man from woe to weal 480 
 Contrary to our pact : but still remains 
 My due of penance and exacted pains : 
 I seek an aid beyond thy transient power.' 
 Light-winged he flew, leaving her cloudy bower, 
 And sought his kinsman Death, of aspect mild. 
 Who seemed as fair as he — as fair a child 
 As ever at a wedding fest flung flowers, 
 Or danced about the circle of the Hours. 
 With him he long conferred : and thence he sped 
 To the pale Graiae in their weaving shed, 490 
 
 c
 
 18 TOO MUCH FRIENDSHIP 
 
 Who sighing gave consent to that he bade. 
 The Acidalian mountain next he made, 
 Where his own mother lay in sweets dissolved. 
 Whose humid eyes in flames as quick revolved : 
 With her he lastly planned a pageantry 
 By which his grief surely avenged might be. 
 
 'Twas such a day when our Athenian 
 Most blessed his lot : when he had power to scan 
 The ways of being with art's happiest might. 
 Luxuriously severe ; though subtle, bright. 500 
 Caverned he sat, Alcander, with his books, 
 Amid the rocks where flow the Tiber's brooks, 
 Inrunning with short course into their stream 
 Far from the town : for he in blissful dream 
 Had wandered from the gatherings of mankind, 
 Following the airy beacons of the mind. 
 There as he sat alone, the Destinies 
 Besan to work Love's ruinous ministries. 
 Which were prepared : they sighed while their 
 
 thin hands. 
 Distant but strong, undid the filmy bands 510 
 Which hid the ready doom. From off the sky 
 The spacious clouds that summer hung on high 
 Rolled largely oft': and in the space between 
 Fair Venus and her dove-drawn car were seen. 
 Her rolling eyes were sweet, her hair was spread 
 In pearls and gold around her glorious head : 
 ^Vide flowed her crimson mantle ; round her waist 
 The cestus, fatal zone, with care was placed : 
 Which whoso saw straightway in frenzy fell
 
 TOO MUCH FRIENDSHIP 19 
 
 For beauty's sake (so powerful was the spell), 520 
 And, if of mortal mould, grew sane no more. 
 Slack in her hands the crimson tape she bore 
 With which her loving pair the chariot drew, 
 AVhose dainty wings flashed in the heavenly blue. 
 Above her flew all-armed her cruel son, 
 Poising a gift that he from Death had won, 
 A bolt of serpent power, which unespied, 
 Painless, unfelt, would through the vitals glide. 
 
 Soon as Alcander saw this fleeting show 
 He left the place where he reclined below 530 
 Gazing the Paphian queen with ravished eyes. 
 The while she flitted through the opened skies 
 And entered the receiving cloud again. 
 Then flinging up his arms in rapturous pain 
 He at the instant took the arrow keen 
 AVhile madness seized him : through his breast 
 
 unseen 
 The streak went reckless : leaping with a shout 
 All frantic from the cave he issued out. 
 And on the shore in furious wise be<>:an 
 Laughing aloud : among the rocks he ran 540 
 
 Laughing aloud, louder, with fury more 
 His precious books, Apollo's due, he tore 
 Piecemeal, and sent them fluttering down the wind. 
 And cried with roaring voice, 'Thus I unbind. 
 Thus, thus, the cursed load which I have borne. 
 These sophistries, that are free Nature's scorn 
 By cheating demons forged : hence, hence away, 
 Away I give you to the winds that play, 
 
 C 2
 
 20 TOO MUCH FRIENDSHIP 
 
 As from the hawker's hand the tame prey-bird 549 
 Is tossed to the air : but, tongueless hence, unheard ; 
 Yet prey no more, though air- tossed : off! nor add 
 Your woes, your rigours to man's heart made mad 
 By griefs enough themselves : I who have stored 
 Your villanies, scatter the rotten hoard, 
 Lies, sophistries, shackles for poor man's use, 
 Hence, hence, hence ! Waking from the mind's abase, 
 Jocund, content, and frolic, lo, I sing 
 Songs of high comfort : O, the heavens shall ring 
 Hypatia, sweet Hypatia ! ' Thus he cried 
 Among the dun rocks by the riverside : 560 
 
 And rending off his garments now began 
 To dance all naked where the river ran. 
 His mighty limbs, with muscles hung, were seen 
 Strange-coloured midst the dark rock-mosses green. 
 And soon were torn by stones and trailing brier : 
 But still he danced and cried : nor might respire 
 From that strange rapture, till an answering shout 
 Rose from the uplands near : anon a rout 
 Came hurrying into sight, the shepherd folk 569 
 Chased him and hemmed him, and their cudgels broke 
 On his defenceless limbs : he lay at last 
 Wounded to death : the fit was overpassed ; 
 Love's vengeance was complete : and now the sum, 
 Except the very end itself, was come. 
 Love smiled to accomplish this : Love gave him 
 
 breath. 
 And handed him to reason ere his death : 
 He knew before his fixing eyes grew dim,
 
 TOO MUCH FRIENDSHIP 21 
 
 Septimius and Hypatia knelt by him. 
 
 They reasoned too, as on his death they gazed : 
 Love sent one thought that both their bosoms 
 raised, 580 
 
 And out of being smote the only good 
 Tliat he in all had gained, their gratitude. 
 * So is it best for us,' Septimius said. 
 Hypatia looked, and nodded o'er the dead.
 
 22 
 
 LOW RIVER 
 
 SO high the river wont to rise 
 When wintry rains his wells increase, 
 Now lowly in his channel lies 
 
 That summer bids his torrent cease. 
 
 And now all day his stony bed 
 
 Glares to the sun in ruin wide : 
 There pebble-heaps and wastes are spread, 
 
 Which once were shallows in the tide. 
 
 Great boulders standing gaunt and bare 
 
 Seem to expect their watery screen, 10 
 
 And cast their strong sharp shadows where 
 Their dancing image late was seen. 
 
 But thread-like still comes on, glints low, 
 
 And breaks not continuity, 
 The thin, persistent, glistening flow 
 
 That makes the river river be ; 
 
 And to the strewage says, ' Not long 
 Shall wait my organ of fine tones, 
 
 Ere I return in volume strong 
 
 To wake your music, wistful stones." 20
 
 23 
 
 DUST AND WIND 
 
 THE dust takes form of the wind, that bloweth 
 where it lists ; 
 The wind takes form of the dust, that maniacally 
 
 resists : 
 The wind takes form of the dust, as the soul takes 
 
 form of the clay ; 
 A spectral form it is, and quickly it fades away. 
 
 A rushing archer seems this dust that doth arise ; 
 His bow in the whirl is bent, his arrows seek the eyes : 
 A myriad myriad atoms compose his transient form. 
 Gathered between the flower of the grass and the 
 root-gnawing worm. 
 
 Then he falls at once, and lies scattered on the plain : 
 A myriad made his form : I take a single grain : 1 
 'Tis greater than the whole ; an atom infinite : 
 Will it yield up that Avhich dwells within it, as I 
 write ? 
 
 Yes, there blooms within it invisible a flower. 
 Rooted in the atomy clod, which bloomed in its own 
 
 hour : 
 And in the unending dance of days shall bloom again 
 In that wild resurrection which ever is joy with pain.
 
 24 DUST AND WIND 
 
 'Twas once compacted well in a form of bone and 
 
 brain ; 
 It went therefrom in its season, but the form did 
 
 still remain : 
 The form itself was dissolved, and gathered to the 
 
 grave ; 
 And this atom of it, perchance, clung round the 
 
 charnel cave. 20 
 
 'Tis still the law of things that the atom reseek the 
 
 whole 
 In the atom-built world of death : but what of the 
 
 life, of the soul ? 
 AVliither retires the force, that gradual leaves the 
 
 limb? 
 Whither returns the fire, when the eye begins to dim ? 
 
 This is the secret thing that still to the dust adheres; 
 It is force, the thing that not fails when the atom 
 
 disappears : 
 Which when it departs at length, departs by a secret 
 
 course : 
 It is the wonder of power and the miracle of force. 
 
 The limb begins to fail, but retains its bulk and size : 
 The sight grows dim, but still stand bright and full 
 
 the eyes. 30 
 
 AMien the limb begins to fail, whither doth force 
 
 retire ? 
 And when the eye grows dim, whither returns its 
 
 fire ?
 
 DUST AND WIND 25 
 
 In a spirit-atom world do they reseek the whole ? 
 And, as they thither depart, posts after them the 
 
 soul ? 
 Kejoin they the soul again, Avhich they have fled 
 
 before. 
 Mysterious light and might, to quit it never more ? 
 
 Ah who can measure spirit, or compass force and 
 
 power ? 
 Is that the secret of dust, is that the invisible flower, 
 AVhich methought I saw unfurled in the atom lifeless 
 
 and cold. 
 Because anciently some soul in form did that atom 
 
 hold ? 40 
 
 Canst thou, oh atom, tell ; oh, wilt thou hear thy 
 
 name, 
 Why after losing thee the form remained the same ? 
 AVhy, after losing others that took thy place and 
 
 part, 
 The force fell from the limbs, the form died round 
 
 its heart ? 
 
 Oh, thou wilt answer not, thou keepest thy secret 
 
 still ; 
 Get thee back to the phantcnn crowd, that the w ind 
 
 whirls at his will : 
 Thy flower is unopened yet, or else invisibly blooms, 
 As the voice of the bat that at evening wails weakly 
 
 by the tombs.
 
 26 DUST AND WIND 
 
 Oh, dust, thou art faithful still to man, to the tribes 
 
 of earth : 
 Thy dark and dreadful silence forbiddeth not other 
 
 birth ; 50 
 
 And that future birth shall be, for the former things 
 
 remain. 
 Ever that resurrection, which is unto joy with pain. 
 
 But now, oh what of the wind, that uplifteth thy 
 
 multitudes ? 
 Is he too, faithful to earth, and to earth's unhappy 
 
 broods ? 
 Is the wind content to breathe, like the voiceless 
 
 voice of the dust. 
 The story of joy with pain, and of justice made 
 
 unjust ? 
 
 Nav, gone he is full far, since he dropped thee on 
 the plain : 
 
 And he taketh his other forms, of the sea, of the 
 cloud, of the rain. 
 
 Of the beams of the sun and moon, of the high- 
 tossed forest trees 
 
 Whose boughs sweep the earth like billows, whose 
 voice is the voice of seas. 60 
 
 He upseals the evening sky with the chilly roses of 
 
 eve, 
 Pressed far on the infinite blue, and thus would he 
 
 deceive :
 
 DUST AND AVIND 27 
 
 As if he would image to man another world of light. 
 Amidst his watery show — down rushes the curtain of 
 night. 
 
 Oh dust, thou art faithful to man, thou promisest 
 
 man no more 
 Than has been in the ancient age, in the years that 
 
 are gone before : 
 Thy coming is but for a moment, thy form is stern 
 
 and rude. 
 Thy essence an atom is, thy abiding is solitude. 
 
 Oh wind, thou art faithless to man, thou comest 
 
 and goest on earth. 
 Thou shakest these rude atoms into a transient 
 
 birth : 70 
 
 Thou bearest a double meaning : thy whisper drieth 
 
 the tear. 
 Thy voice brings tempest ; but what thou sayest, 
 
 who can hear .''
 
 TO THE EARTH PLANET 
 
 rpHOU fliest far, thou fliest far 
 -L Companion of each circling star, 
 
 But yet thou dost but fill thy year: 
 Thy orbit inayst thou not forsake. 
 The path in space which thou must make, 
 Till death shall touch thy charmed sphere. 
 
 Half turning to the weary blaze 
 Which measures out thy countless days, 
 
 Half bathing in the depths of night, 
 Thou urgest thy unfaltering speed, 10 
 
 As if thou wouldst of force be freed : 
 
 But still thou art the slave of lig-ht. 
 
 'O' 
 
 Or moved or fixed in vacancy 
 Thy pitying sisters gaze on thee. 
 
 Where'er be sped thy wondrous race : 
 Nigher to thee they may not come ; 
 Their eyes weep light, their lips are dumb ; 
 
 Time is their lord, their prison space. 
 
 Thy lord is Time ; to imitate 
 
 Eternity, yet bring thy date : 20 
 
 Space holds thee ; but seems infinite. 
 But what of them ? Thy mystery, 
 Or shared or not by them with thee. 
 
 Lies in thy breast — thy parasite.
 
 TO THE EARTH PLANET 29 
 
 Art thou alone the planet, Earth, 
 That gives to being that new birth 
 
 Of which the womb is care and pain ? 
 Lives man alone in that thick space 
 AVhich through thin space doth hugely race, 
 
 A clot that swims the immeasured main ? 30 
 
 Who answers ? Not the instruments, 
 To pierce all space which he invents, 
 
 And to untwist each ray that beats 
 From the fire-fountain of these things, 
 And those remoter sparks, whose wings 
 
 Win flame from nature's other seats.
 
 30 
 
 THE SILENT HEAVENS 
 
 HERE I wander about, and here I mournfully 
 ponder : 
 Weary to me is the sun, weary the coming of 
 night : 
 Here is captivity still, there would be captivity 
 yonder : 
 Like to myself are the rest, smitten is all with 
 a blight. 
 
 Much I complain of my state to my own heart 
 heavily beating: 
 Much to the stars I complain : much to the 
 universe cold ; 
 The stars that of old were fixed, in spheres their 
 courses repeating; 
 Solidly once were they fixed, and with them their 
 spheres were rolled. 
 
 Then through the space of the spheres to the stead- 
 fast empyrean 
 Echo on echo to Earth answered her manifold 
 cries: 10 
 
 Earth was the centre of things, and the threne of 
 all, or the paean. 
 Bearing hell in her heart, on her bosom all life 
 that dies.
 
 THE SILENT HEAVENS 31 
 
 If they were fixed, as of old, in their firmament 
 solid and vaulted, 
 Then might the echo of woe or of laughter 
 reverberate thence : 
 Nor my voice alone, but to them all voices exalted. 
 Should with due answer be met, murmuring 
 sweet to the sense. 
 
 But they roll on their way through the void, the 
 
 inane unretentive : 
 
 Past them all voices stream into the echoless space. 
 
 Where is the pitying grace, that once was prayer s 
 
 incentive. 
 
 Where is the ear that heard, and the face that 
 
 once answered to face ? 20
 
 32 
 
 ODE ON THE DEATH OF 
 DICKENS 
 
 OENEATH the invisible scoume 
 Of the south to foam upleaps the wave: 
 
 The tides hasten : the blasts urge 
 From the depth of their grey mysterious cave, 
 The white precipitate clouds, that seem made 
 More slowly to wander the sky, like a herd 
 
 Of deep-uddered cows hotly bayed 
 By a fierce dog beyond their own pace : but the bird 
 Turns seaward a sun-smitten win"; ; 
 
 For the storm and the calm are there, 10 
 That the blast and the sunbeam fling. 
 That contend in the gleam-shifting air. 
 
 Spirit, the thought of thee 
 
 Shall lend to us thine eyes, 
 Thy season ; see, oh, see 
 
 From the howling summer skies 
 How wintry the sounds that come ! 
 
 They shake the pink sea-thrift, 
 They shake the heathery bloom 
 
 That afar the sandhills lift, 20 
 
 Saidst thou not how near 
 Sorrow and joy, and peace and strife. 
 
 Darkness and light, the smile, the tear, 
 Death and life ?
 
 33 
 
 THE UNKNOWN KING 
 
 AN unknown king was holding court ; 
 -^^ Wide was his sceptre, high his throne : 
 Sorrow and pleasure made him sport, 
 And yet he was a king unknown. 
 
 But one who went his earthly way 
 
 Suddenly saw the form of him : 
 Suddenly saw the wide array, 
 
 Suddenly saw the splendour dim. 
 
 And as that wanderer gazed, the king 
 
 Turned round, and cast an eye serene; 10 
 
 And stretched his sceptre, beckoning : — 
 That man on earth no more was seen. 
 
 He entered in a wondrous hall, 
 
 Whose shape was lost in utter size : 
 
 He neared not the receding wall. 
 
 And phantoms mocked his seeking eyes. 
 
 He felt at once both youth and age. 
 
 The curious joy, the grey despair : 
 Beginning thus a pilgrimage, 
 
 Which seemed the forms of earth to wear. 20 
 
 I)
 
 ;i4 THE I'NKNOWN KING 
 
 He talked with phantoms of a sense 
 
 That seemed like phantoms of the brain, 
 
 And knew that in the void immense 
 They too like him had secret pain. 
 
 That he to them a phantom seemed 
 As they to him, 
 
 And so he turned to seek the king 
 Who first had beckoned him to come : 
 
 He saw him not and shuddering 
 
 A moment felt the sense of doom, 30 
 
 And is it death, to see for once 
 
 The awful monarch face to face, 
 To give his summons one resj)onse, 
 
 Then wander in a vacant place ? 
 
 And do we crv in ho[)c and fear 
 
 'Then shall we know as we are known'? 
 
 How are we known then ? Who knows here 
 Each thought, each w ord, each pain, each groan ? 
 
 And who shall say the future life 
 
 Shall end such things for evermore ? 40 
 
 Is not the ghost-world filled with strife? 
 
 Shall not all be as heretofore ?
 
 35 
 
 TO HOPE 
 
 Sonnet 
 
 FAIR Hope, that once, fair Hope, my prisoned 
 heart 
 Delightedst with thy lustre, piercing night 
 AVith eyelet twinkle, now thy former part 
 
 Renew, ^vith thy one beam my heart delight ; 
 Starlike, not sunlike, not scattering the dark. 
 Spreading in prisons, thee I ask to shine; 
 Only to pierce, not scatter, with thy spark 
 
 As stars the night, such night wherein I pine. 
 
 Then move some space in heaven : but let thy beam 
 Solace me still : and I shall know and feel 
 
 Thy cluster near, the sisters of thy team, 
 
 Which in the night above our day do wheel : 
 
 Faith, love are there, where Hope on high doth glide, 
 Though further, fainter, in heaven's depth thevride.
 
 36 
 
 rO PEACE 
 
 Sonnet 
 
 O PEACE, O Dove, O shape of the Holy Ghost, 
 I would not vex thee with too subtle thought, 
 Put thee in fear by hopes, send thee to coast 
 Regions unknown for Avhat I dearest sought. 
 To rough delights I would not open course. 
 Nor thy composure fray with vague desire. 
 Nor aspiration hold that did thee force, 
 Nor move a step that I could not retire. 
 
 Nay, nay, I pray thee, close thy startled eye. 
 Compose again thy self-stirred plumes, nor aim 
 
 At other station, in timidity 
 
 Of fancied plots, which here I all disclaim. 
 
 Well, fly then ! for perchance from heavenward flight 
 Gentler on me thou mayst again alight.
 
 B7 
 
 HYMNS 
 
 OLORD my God, when sore bested 
 My evil life I do bewail, 
 What times the life I might have led 
 Arising smites me like a flail : 
 
 When I regard the past of sin, 
 
 Till sorrow drown me like despair ; 
 
 The saint in me that might have been 
 With that I am when I compare : 
 
 Then grant the life that might have been 
 To be in fact through penitence ; 
 
 All my past years discharged of sin, 
 And spent in grace and innocence : 
 
 And grant that I, when I forecast, 
 And shrink in fear of coming things. 
 
 May take this comfort of the past. 
 And lay it on my imaginings. 
 
 Amen. 
 
 II 
 
 [unfinished] 
 
 PRIEST of the only Sacrifice, 
 And Victim of the unmeasured price ! 
 What priest, what sacrifice appeared 
 When Thou wast crucified and slain ?
 
 38 HYMNS 
 
 The cross for malefactors reared 
 Dispensed a malefactor's pain : 
 Accusers watched, and nothing saw 
 But the execution of the law. 
 
 Priest of the only Sacrifice, 
 
 And Victim of the availing price ! 
 
 To meet thy steps no altar stood, 
 
 No priest in sadder garb drew nigh ; 
 No knife released thy pouring blood, 
 
 No temple echoed with thy cry : 
 No fire the one sin-offering great 
 Consumed, from use to separate. 
 
 Priest of the only Sacrifice, 
 
 And Victim of the unaltered price ! 
 
 No rite of ancient ordinance, 
 
 Wool, hyssop, water running clean, 
 Thy hidden offering sought to enhance. 
 
 Nor sign of sacrifice was seen ; 
 Not aught in which the human mind 
 Might know the offering for mankind. 
 
 Priest of the only Sacrifice, 
 
 And Victim of the exactest price ! 
 
 A little while, and faithful hearts 
 
 Discerned the mystery hidden there 
 Where Thou .' . .
 
 BY THE SAME AUTHOR 
 
 Christ's Compa?ii/ and other Poems. Smith, Elder. I86l. 
 
 Historical Odes and other Poems. Smith, Elder. 1864. 
 
 Life of James Dixon, D.D., Wesleyan Minister. Wes- 
 leyan Conference Office. 187t. 
 
 An Essay on the Maintenance of the Church of England. 
 1874. 
 
 The Histori/ of the Church of England from the Abolition 
 of the Roman Jurisdiction, b' vols. Smith,Elder. 1 900. 
 
 The Monastic Compcrta, so far as they regard the Re- 
 ligious Houses of Cumberland and Westmoi'eland. 
 Kendal. 1879. 
 
 Mano. A l*oetical History, of the Time of the Close 
 of the Tenth Century, c^oncernine; the Adventures of 
 a Xorman Knight, which fell part in Normandy, 
 part ill Itah". In I'our Books. A nari'ative poem in 
 terza rima. Routledge. 1 883. 
 
 * Odes and Eclogues. The Daniel Press. 1884. 
 
 * Lyrical Poems. i'he Daniel Press. 1887. 
 
 '^Thc Stoiy of Eudocia and her Brothers. The Daniel 
 Press. 1888. 
 
 Seven Seruu)us j)reached in the Cathedral Church of 
 
 Newcastle-on-Tyne, edited Avith a preface, 1888. 
 Songs and Odes. Elkin Mathews. I 89(i. 
 
 ./ Sermon preached on the occasion of the Diamond 
 Jubilee. .Vlnwick. 1897. 
 
 Those marked arc out oC print.
 
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