K58ftrv I A ^=^== '-r 'V fir v U === =33 3 =- 7 P 8 ; 3D : > ! 3D ; -< ! ™n i > O ^S £sE3per oval. & THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES F. WitYi. I 2. Hv /K *'-«-CM- \/W POEMS OF LOVE AND LIFE PAGE THE SAD LOVER, 3 LOVE AND LIFE, 5 ELSA} ■••••! 7 love's tragedies, 9 TO HER INDIFFERENT LOVER, . ii LOSS IN SPRING, 13 THE KINGDOM OF THE CHILD, . 15 TRANSFORMATION, . i7 FORGIVEN SIN, .... 20 SPRING, IN FIELDS NEAR LONDON, . 22 A MINOR POET AND LIFE, . 24 BALLADS THE BALLAD OF THE CRYSTAL BALL, THE DEATH OF THE KNIGHT, . 31 39 VI Contents PAGE THE MAKING OF THE POET, 45 THE OLD KNIGHT, 49 SONNETS ' WHEN FATE, BLINDFOLD AND MOVED WE SEE NOT WHENCE,' 55 OUTSIDE, 56 'the pity of it! that these foolish feet,' . 57 a young poet, 58 'to strive for good and somewhat to attain,' . 59 OUT OF DOORS MORNING, . IN A GARDEN, EARLY, YOUNG TREE IN SPRING, BEFORE THE STORM, . A BREATH OF SPRING, STATICE, A SHADOW PICTURE, . A SUMMER NIGHT IN A DREAM, ON THE DOWNS, 63 64 67 69 70 71 76 78 80 Contents VARIA A DREAM, . /\L/\o > ■ • • THE KING MEETS DEATH, FATE AND THE DESPOT, THE VEILED MAGICIAN, ART TO THE WORLD, VEGETARIANISM, Vll PAGE 85 88 90 93 94 98 101 FROM OTHER LANDS THE SHEPHERD'S PRAYER, NIOBE, ON THE PLATEAU, ON THE MOSEL 109 I IO 112 114 ERRATA Page 3, last line, for smile, read smile.' 25, line 10, for town read turn 51, last line, for 'Twas read ' 'Twas in, line 2 . /or frailed rc;a^ trailed ,, 113, line 8,>rask. read ask, POEMS OF LOVE AND LIFE THE SAD LOVER (to his long absent mistress) Where stays my dear, and from what favoured bowers Makes wanton trial Of one in joy and pain still faithful found ? O goodlier than gold, More fresh than flowers, Come, for I grow so old, And thou 'rt the only sun that backward round My dear life's dial Can shift the shadow of my spended hours ! If pitying Fate my sadness to beguile Would send to me My dove, my dear, I 'd pray her ' Make a song Unto thy soothing lute A little while, And falling sometimes mute In soft sweet pauses that to love belong, O bend to me, And with kind kissing teach my lips to smile. 3 The Sad Lover Come, my bright peace, and in thy bosom take And quite appease This passion-haunted life, with summer breath Unseal my pent-up soul ! Lest my heart ache Too long, and lose control, And heart's desire in dreams, and dreams in death Seek desperate ease Ere thy too tardy kindness come awake ! LOVE AND LIFE With the first roses of the summer time Came Love and prayed for housing in my heart. But I would none of him, and bade him part. Because the glamour of that golden prime Haloed the hill of life I needs must climb, And made me think, ' I need no company Save the ideal, that to a noble end Spurs my faint life : I seek nor love nor friend,' It seemed so simple 'neath a summer sky, Therefore to Love, 'I need thee not,' said I. Now Winter shrouds the earth where Summer shone ; The old ideal is still mine own, — as high And chill as those bright stars it bideth nigh, And as I follow mutely, knoweth none How my wild heart cries out, ' Alone ! Alone ! ' 5 Love and Life How my sad heart hath sought itself to fill With love and service of all souls — in vain ! Still is there room to house a deathless pain That sighs and murmurs, ' Come, O come, Love!' still, ' Once I opposed thee, take my broken will ! Kind Love, who treadest first the desert place, That the red blood-drops of thy tireless feet May bloom, for those who come, in roses sweet, Whose tears bedew the dust of life with grace Of healing springs in a parched wilderness ; Who riseth on a life, and straight behold ! The heart, resistless, wings towards thy light As the sweet lark, that hath been mute all night, Soars singing, when the gates of Day unfold, Filled with new life of mystery untold, — I want, I want thee, Love ! ' On adamant Of dead indifferent silence breaks my cry, And then I listen : ? twixt the earth and sky Cometh no answer save the ghostly taunt Of the weird echo, ' Love ! I want ! I want ! ' ELS A A soul in heaven looked down to earth, And sighed, ' So long have I waited here ! Hast forgot me, Els a, amid the mirth And the joy and strife Of thy daily life ? There is no heaven without thee, dear, Elsa, Elsa ! ' The mother looked from the cottage door, And gazed with fear down the long dark lane; ' Art lingering, daughter, upon the shore ? My fond heart fears For no star peers Through the night that 's raving in wind and rain. Elsa! Elsa!' 7 Elsa The sad old eyes will gaze in vain For many an hour of night and day, Till they dim with a weight of age and pain. For the old heart aches, But the young heart breaks, And is fain to go home on that other way Elsa! Elsa! 8 LOVE'S TRAGEDIES O heart of mine, and canst confess Unblushing, what hath raised thy fears ? Shame on thy loving foolishness ! One word less fond, one kiss the less, And must there even follow tears ? Love in that silly heart doth reign In tender tyranny o'er wit, In little disappointment fain To see a tragedy, and strain The possibilities of it ! Love is so sensitive of mood, He answereth to every breath, He greets his mate in loverhood And deems that all the earth is good, He bids farewell and dreams of death. 9 Loves Tragedies Ofttime the heart that 's dear to him Hath kept him waiting ere it came, Then all too soon his eyes will swim, And all his joy in life grow dim, Before a fear he dare not name. E'en in his rapture doth he cling The faster for his sudden fears, Lest what he loves should spread its wing, And all his sweetest smiles to spring From near about the fount of tears. Prithee, good heart, I prithee school That hot inhabitant of thine To cast out fear that would befool Love's highest reason from its rule, And mar what else were nigh divine ! TO TO HER INDIFFERENT LOVER There was a time, a time of yore, Death got me in his closing grip, And drew me to a lonely shore To set me sailing in his ship ; When thro' that misty soundless place A cry, a cry rang in my ears, And into mine there gazed a face, Too full of love's last dread for tears. You would not then have cared to see The brightest eyes in all the earth, For Death had claimed my poverty And turned it to an awful worth. I felt love's hold upon the life, That drifted with the awful tide, As in a dream I felt the strife Of love and death on either side. ii To Her Indifferent Lover A sudden flame of glad belief Leapt up, my fainting soul within ; If Death could wake so great a grief, What love, what love my life could win ! And so I turned and got a hold On health by just that slender thread. And now the risen life is old, And common as our daily bread. I could be brave to bear the pain, The deathlike drowse, the flash of fear, Might I but fill your heart again, As then I filled it, dear, my dear. 12 LOSS IN SPRING I had a hope this Spring would bring for me A gladness greater than the joy of Spring ; Of all the Springs I hold in memory, Were none more lovely in their wakening, More flushed with flowers, more mad in min- strelsies ; The birds all garrulous with golden wine Thicken the happy tumult of the trees, Beneath whose slender shade the celandine Mingles his sunshine with the daisies' snow In bladey grass, where greater blades betray That hereabout when merry March winds blow, The daffodils are wont to have their day ; The starry frolic of that golden crew Has vanished in a month of milder mood, And pools and rills of wild-flowers shimmer through The gentle glory of the primrose wood ; *3 Loss in Spring The common grass that glorifies the land, Thrilling with insect life, in joy receives The soundless flood of light, the laurels stand Breaking its glory on a thousand leaves ; A breath from hidden violets wanders past, A sweet soul strayed from some forgotten tomb, And like a happy dream come true at last The grey old fruit-tree stands in snowy bloom. All, all is here, and lovely as of yore In resurrection beauty rich and rife. Yet am I but an alien thing before The intolerably happy heart of life ; There lacks one tiny flower that once I thought Would crown all dreams, and hopes, and suffer- ing. For all her fulness Spring has only brought A sadness deeper than the joy of Spring. 14 THE KINGDOM OF THE CHILD This glad, unthankful little one, Too young to know what wealth is his, Doth a most mighty kingdom own, And mother-love that kingdom is : A realm set round with high watch-towers, That joy may play, while love looks out, A lawny garden full of flowers With sweet-briar hedges hemmed about ! His home is warm and lined with love And lavish mother ministries Of heart and hand, beyond, above All seeming need, are ever his. Across his childhood's golden day There steals no little cloudish mood, But it is quickly sunned away By the kind eyes of motherhood. *5 The Kingdom of the Child But one I know, a little child, And 'tis in truth a piteous thing, For though so dear and undefiled The babe is but a banished king. By all their names he strives to call The kindly faces daily seen, But one name says he not at all, Nor can he guess what it may mean. For from a mother's love so deep A piteous exile he, alas ! Her hands are folded in a sleep Beneath the daisies in the grass. 16 TRANSFORMATION AFTER SEEING A CHRISTMAS FAIRY-PLAY PERFORMED BY THE YOUNGER AND INFANT CLASSES OF A LONDON BOARD SCHOOL Are these in truth the children of our city, These happy creatures dancing hand in hand ? Would that our love might keep them, love and pity, A little longer in this Fairyland ! How slow the school-hours seemed, how long the daytime To children's hearts with glad impatience rilled, And what a happy hubbub filled the play-time Of baby tongues in London street life shrilled ! Then, with the fog and lamp-shine, came a treading Of little feet down many a dismal stair, And little companies went quickly threading The winding way with more than childish care. 17 B Transformation From noisome street, dull court, and unlit alley, With radiant faces came the chattering band, For all they cared they trod the Happy Valley, For this one night were bound for Fairyland. The School House reached, came rapid transformation To fairyhood from threadbare shabbiness, And mutual wonder, wide-eyed admiration, Of each for other in the wondrous dress ! Some play as gentle-folk, and light and airy Shrill through the lordly roles with Cockney tongue, And there a very wan red-handed fairy Plays far too anxiously for one so young, And ' infants ' prove pathetically winning In elfin guise, half shy and wholly proud, — And can this be the glad and good beginning That life distorts to form a London crowd ? O baby faces, dear, bright baby faces, Can we not keep you lovely as to-day, Must work and want make havoc of your graces, And drink, their shadow, steal your souls away ? 18 Transformation O flowers, young flowers, and is there any pardon For social systems whose blind selfish stress Thrusts out so many from life's happy garden To run to weed in a rank wilderness ? My thought has passed beyond your play and laughter, Dear boys and girls, to wonder, half afraid, Shall we be proud and glad of you hereafter As in the happy citizens we made ? Or shall we shame to meet you where we drove you In soulless toil, and ignorant appetite, And shall we have to know again and love you In reckless women trailing through the night ? In this dear crowd, these little lives and tender, I see the England that will one day be — Ah me, her likely shame, her possible splendour Entangled with their unknown destiny ! i9 FORGIVEN SIN There was a righteous man who sinned one sin, And humbled him 'fore God and wore him thin With prayer and fast to cleanse the single blot ; Then softly spake unto his soul within, 1 Be comforted, sad soul, man knows it not ; God hath forgiven, yea, He hath forgot.' Then rose, made merry, seeing God forgave, Amongst his sons and daughters bright and brave, And died in honour ; nor did ever see The spirits round that sin's forgotten grave, Nor how beneath their tears that fell so free That little seed was raised into a tree. They shaped a cradle from its deadly wood To hold his first-born's child \ unseen they stood Watching the little life that knew no blame Sap the dread poison in his healthy blood, That in his manhood brake in fiercest flame, And drove him for its fuel through shame to shame. 20 Forgiven Sin He left a man-child in his place, and still The spirits followed : naught for good or ill Was he, — mere ashes of his father's fire ! Moved by the mystery of an awful will They haunted like a fate that could not tire, And built his coffin from its branches dire. Alone of all that race, one little child Played in the meadows, glad and undefiled, Fresh as their flowers. They said ' the tale is told,' And stirred the hearts of men, and made them wild For his young blood : ' His sires/ they said, ' of old Planted this tree now grown an hundred-fold ; It shades our land, it shuts out heaven's light, We weary of the race and of the blight, Therefore he dies !' They found him in his glee, And wreaked on him long ages of despite Who least deserved it, all too brutally, And crucified his body on the tree. 21 SPRING, IN FIELDS NEAR LONDON Between the shining grass and cloudless sky I wandered dreaming, and about my ears The innocent sounds of Spring fell pleasantly ; I had no room for doubting or for fears, For Nature charmed me to her own mild mood To fall in love with life and think it good. Beyond the meadows, far away, there lay The great wide city, all its ugliness And sin and sorrow on that lovely day Mistily shining in a bride-like dress ; And as I looked, the spirit of the Spring Stirred in my heart and made me wild to sing. And then there passed me by a jaded man And tiny child, half-blinded in the heat, Who scarce could walk where other children ran, But dragged with pain his little weary feet : What hope was theirs, or to what aim they fared, One did not know, the other scarcely cared. 22 Spring, in Fields near London Ah, how the sunlight died away for me, How all my happy dreaming and my songs Were smitten with a frost ! One misery Out of all London's multitude of wrongs Had put my pretty gift to bitter shame With the stern justice of its silent claim. It cried, ' O Poets, filled with festal mirth Of Spring, remember in these golden hours That winter still hath somewhere hold on earth, Withholding life, and love, and hope — fair flowers, Fairer to God to whom they all belong Than these that move you easily to song. Bring your lyres level with the patient woe Of these your slaves and bread-winners, and plead With those who do not suffer, do not know: Then may be yours, one day to sing indeed A Spring song worthy of a poet's breath, When love and life and hope have risen from death ! ' 2 3 A MINOR POET AND LIFE He sings of Summer with her freight Of glories in the common grass, While in the street and by his gate The wicked and the wretched pass. At night he hears the far-off roar Of a great city's deep carouse, Then must he rise and close his door, And enter deeper in his house. Not his the power to feel and wrest A hope from out that unreined riot, His heart might break within his breast, His songs would wait for happy quiet. But though his walls shut out the din, He cannot find his peace apart, For with him Life has entered in And draws him to her awful heart. 24 A Minor Poet and Life He shrinks, and weeps, ' In vain, in vain, You haunt me early, haunt me late, It is not mine to heal your pain, Nor make your need articulate ! Long time I wrestled with my art, To voice your passion : weak and wild My words fell back upon my heart, The sobbings of a fretful child ! ' What though the thoughts come free and thick, That town life 's dust to faery gold ? So many human souls are sick, And human bodies starved and cold ; What though his deep desire create A vision of the future good ? While all unloved and desolate, So many children cry for food ? He lays his scrip and feather by, And goes his way with hasty tread : 1 The pretty useless gift may die If but these piteous babes be fed.' 25 A Minor Poet and Life He labours with ideal desire Among the stricken multitude, And warms his heart before the fire Of humble human gratitude ; He thinks the way once hard to find Lies here, in strife with want and sin. A hint of Spring upon the wind Has touched his trembling heart within, And stirs the sleeping mystery That is a joy, that is a pain : ' O song-bird, bidest thou yet with me, And art thou wild to out again ? Life's hold is heavy on the wing, Her moan has hushed thy happy trill ; Through all the banquet of the Spring Her skeleton will haunt us still ! Accursed is he will not fulfil His every chance of righting wrong, Yet who can say a perfect will Would quench the smallest bird of song ? ' 26 A Minor Poet and Life So, yielding to the double right, He works in shade, and sings in sun To leave behind at fall of night A poem spoiled, a work half done. BALLADS THE BALLAD OF THE CRYSTAL BALL What brings, what brings ye, Lady May, To seek a hermit's lair ? The briar has torn your golden gown And ruffled your golden hair. I care not for my golden gown Nor all the briars that be, But for the power, ye wise old man, If ye would ye could give to me. O I would give my lands, she said, To learn some cunning spell Should shelter my love by day and night From sorrow and danger fell. O I would give my life, she said, If ever this might be, By water, by land, in life, or death There 's nothing too hard for me ! 3i The Ballad of the Crystal Ball The hermit raised his bright old eyes, There needs no magic spell To guard a knight of the holy host That 's fighting the Infidel. The lady brake a sweet briar-rose, And blushed a rosy red, He 's no whit further from merry England Than this little flow'r, she said. I told him never gentle knight Let ladies plead in vain, My heart will be broke in two, I said, Ere ever ye come again. He would not stay for all my wrath, Nor yet for all my fears, No words could stay him, but when I wept He stayed for my bright, bright tears. No rite nor magic spell have I For Christian wife or maid, This little crystal pure and bright Will lend ye a holier aid, 32 The Ballad of the Crystal Ball And every night these three next nights God grant you a bright moon, For there in vision lie perils three, And it 's you must save him soon. Once with speed of man and beast, And once with this world's pride, And once by the power of prayer and fast And mighty great love beside. And as ye hope for grace at last Ye shall not shrink nor fail, Though it cost ye tears, and tears of blood To succour him from his bale. Christ save thee, maid, the mother said, Where got so glad a look ? I 've been away to the wood, mother, And sat me down by the brook ; I pulled the flowers that grew, mother, And heard a sweet bird sing — I shall be a happy bride, mother, Before the swallows take wing ! 33 c The Ballad of the Crystal Ball She watched the long day slowly die Within her maiden bower, O quiet it was as any cell And pleasant as any flower. She opes her lattice, bars the door, And trembles nigh to swoon ; Now, saints be praised, the lady said, That send me so bright a moon ! In the cool crystal depth she sees A ruined chapel stand Where the roads cross, and five men lurk,- A wolfish and outlawed band. She sees her knight, all light of heart, Along the lone road ride, With never a thought of lurking death And never a squire beside. Now up and wake, my brother dear, And make no noise nor stay, I '11 give ye a chain of fine red gold An ye reach my love ere day; 34 The Ballad of the Crystal Ball Then ride and ride, my brother dear, As ne'er ye rode before, And say there 's death by the old cross-road, And death by the chapel door ! The second night she looked in I wis she wept for rage, She saw her knight go by on foot Like a churl that sweats for wage ; She saw his brother, false Sir Hugh, Sit in his brother's seat With the red wine in his brother's cup And his great hound at his feet. Now, by my faith, the lady said, This thing shall ne'er befall ; Though I sell my land, and my milkwhite steed, I '11 pay that false knight all. Now wake, now wake, my pretty boy, And seek Sir Hugh of the Hill, And bear this casket and little key And bid him to take his fill. 35 The Ballad of the Crystal Ball And say I 've gold and gold to spare, And more of gold I '11 pay Than ever my true knight had of him Ere ever the year's away. Rise, little brother, and Christ me curse If ever I stint your wage ! I '11 give ye my flow'ring red rose-tree And my bird in its golden cage ; I '11 give the pretty toy of gold So long ye 've craved and sore, If only ye plead with false Sir Hugh As never ye pled before ! She took and kissed her crystal ball, O, dear above all price, Ye 've rescued my love from death and shame And will ye now save him thrice ? The third night came, nor moon nor star Looked through the heavy cloud : Be silent, be still, ye silly heart, Why beat ye so quick and loud ? 36 The Ballad of the Crystal Ball Then slowly, slowly climbed the moon Behind the heavy skies : I '11 twist my hair with a silver pin Ere ever it veil mine eyes. Then out and stepped the lady moon Shined in the crystal ball ; Be steady, be still, ye shaking hands, Or surely ye '11 let it fall. The first time that she looked therein She saw nor sign nor trace, The second time she looked therein There gathered a mist apace, The third time that she looked therein She looked on her own fair face. The Lady looked and looked again, And stood there stony still ; But when the moon went in the cloud She laughed out sudden and shrill. It frighted me, the lady said, A moment it shook me well ! — 'Tis only a false, false magic, she said, That begins and ends in Hell ! 37 The Ballad of the Crystal Ball She dug a grave 'neath the red rose-tree And buried the crystal ball, And never a look nor word gave she Of the harm that was worst of all. But the roses died and the rose-tree drooped And withered before the fall. 38 THE DEATH OF THE KNIGHT The priest prayed loud by the bed-side Though the sick man heeded him not, And the doctor smoothed the pillow And cooled the head that was hot, And serfs in the sweat of the tillage, And the household knaves, stood a-stare At the man who had been their terror, Now lying impotent there. He lay and laughed in their faces, Nor would own to the ghastly pain, And he cried wild words, for the fever Was high in the sick man's brain. 1 Now leave me alone, Sir doctor, I '11 have neither your sweet nor sour, For not with a wizard's physic Will I lengthen my life one hour ! 39 The Death of the Knight How you plague me, priest, with your Latin ; And as for the folk on high, I could swear that they understand it No better than you or I ! For neither by prayer nor physic Can I ever again be whole, For wine and women and warfare Have ruined me, body and soul ! O Saints ! for a field and a skirmish And an axe swung deadly and well In the hands of an honest foeman, And a headlong plunge into Hell ! To die in my bed like a burgher ! How the Devil will grin and stare ! But in spite of you, priests and doctors, I '11 die like a man, I swear. Ho ! gapers, go get me my armour And learn how a knight can die, Tho' the breath be the last of my using I ; 11 shout my old battle-cry.' 40 The Death of the Knight They decked him out in his armour, And he lay in that grim mock state, Though the weak old hands in the gauntlets Were helpless to lift their weight. He lay and rambled and muttered Of the deeds he had wrought of old, And of love and feasting and fighting And rapine and ill-got gold. And ever anon delirious He would moan in his mortal pain, And he cried wild words, for the fever Ran high in the sick man's brain. 1 Thou mother of God, show pity !' Cried the pale and sorrowful priest ; ' Is there ought that to do would save him Or soften his heart at least ? He cannot last for much longer, But he must not die in this state, Or St. Peter and all the angels Will thrust him back from the Gate ! 4i The Death of the Knight As he spoke, the door was opened, And the sun broke in on the gloom, And along with air and sunshine A child came into the room : Though born of a knave and scullion. There was never a rose more fair Than the face with its eyes of wonder And haloed with sun-lit hair. He saw the bright little maiden, And he stared and struggled to rise, And the spirit was changed within him And glared through his haggard eyes ; The lips that had mocked their pity With a blasphemy deep and wild, Breathed low, with twitching of trouble, 1 My God ! I forgot the child ! I must then have long been dreaming, For I thought ten winters ago That they laid her beside her mother In a grave that was hid in snow. 42 The Death of the Knight Yes, I thought that a long mound lay By a mound that was very small, And that there I buried my heart — And was it a dream after all?' For his thought went back in his madness To the one true love of his life, And the two-fold grief he had stifled In a fury of sin and strife. ' Come hither,' the priest bade softly, And he lifted her up to him, And she kissed the lips that were dying Till his eyes with tears grew dim. And he said : ' God bless the maiden In her womanhood by and by.' And he groaned : ' God save the maiden From such in the world as I ! If I might but live and protect her ! — Come, doctor, quick ! bring me your stuff; If you save my life I promise You plenty of gold, enough 43 The Death of the Knight To build a palace, — quick ! saintling, Prithee, pray me the best of prayers, To St. Hugo's Chapel I promise Two ' — startled, the little child stares To see the grey head fall forward, And they lift her down from the bed, And they draw the curtain about him, Whose grim old spirit has fled. 44 THE MAKING OF THE POET 'Sing to me,' said God Apollo, God of Song, ' and be my priest.' And the youth was fain to follow Such commands, and to the east Turned and hymned his heart's first rlrer And his golden-voiced inspirer. 'So ! enough of hymns and praises,' Cried Apollo God of Song, ' And enough of stars, and daisies, Any bird my choir among Sings the same ! to give me pleasure Thou must change thy tune and measure ! ' Then he thought upon his Lady Till he thrilled in soul and sense, And from out the leaf-land shadv Sang of her sweet excellence. So that all the roses, yearning With the rapture, stood a-burning. 45 The Making of the Poet Then the God Apollo rising Wrathful from his golden chair, Cried, ' A little sound chastising Shall he have, that pipeth there Songs for Shepherd-scenes the meeter, Any swain sings thus, or sweeter ! ' Earthward hast'ning then, he drove him From that happy summer ground, Till the sky was dark above him And the wilderness around ; And because he could not make it Pleasing, took his lyre and brake it. Still he hunted him and haunted Over ways of stone and thorn, Smote and bruised his heart, and taunted. Then, to make him most forlorn, Sent, like frost upon a flower, Death into his Lady's bower. Cried Apollo, heavenward springing, ' I have made him dumb as death ! 46 The Making of the Poet No more with his childish singing Will he waste his foolish breath. Nor with songs of love-endearing Will he vex my sated hearing.' Now when all the Gods in heaven And the earth below lay still, Low ! the midnight hush was riven With a sudden sound and shrill ; As from out of dreams that gladden, One had waked to truths that madden. And the sound brake into singing Like a passioned nightingale, Up against the stars a-ringing, Till the wakened earth grew pale At the sad and lovely fashion That the singer told his passion. Then Apollo woke, and hearing, Raised his godlike golden head, Looked between the clouds, and peering, ' Who doth sing so sweet ? ' he said, And, because he thought he slew him, Marvelled when he saw and knew him. 47 The Making of the Poet There he stood, his hair's young golden Dragged with thorns and dank with dew, Wan and wild his face and olden, Then the God Apollo knew, Though the music had arisen That the dart that oped its prison, Pierced his heart, and lay there letting Throbbing life-blood fall with song ; And its hidden fiery fretting Made the music sad, and strong ; Till in tears of rapture glistening Gods and men alike were listening. 48 THE OLD KNIGHT There was a lady fair, and young, and wise : A minstrel loved her, singing all his best To wake a lovelight in her gentle eyes ; A poet made his passion manifest In dainty scrip and sighs and sweet unrest ; And one could neither sing nor write, not he, (For all so kind a smile her thanks expressed, Which in his hungry heart he groaned to see,) That grey old knight who loved her deep and silently. Once in wild hope that sprang of his despair He took the lute with eager hands ashake And stole apart that none might see him there And sighed, ' Ah, God ! that these great hands might make Some music for my dear, my lady's sake ! ' And thereupon the strings did sudden smite : O foolish fingers, that can only break The prisoned music with such heavy might ! He cast the pieces down and laughed in wretched spite. 49 d The Old Knight And yet hope rose again, bidding him try In such sweet sort to write, that her pure heart Should take no harm of love breathed sad and shy In courtly verse. In truth that was a part God had not shaped him for, so little art Had he to please a lady's dainty ears, And win the highroad to her heart thereby ! Long time he strove to write his hopes, his fears, Then left a blank page dabbled with his useless tears. Twelve hopeless moons died out, then through the land There ran a rumour soiling her fair name. The bard was rhyming at a King's command, The minstrel trod the road of waxing fame, And gave no heed ; but one grew hot with shame. 1 1 am not young enough to make delight In song or verse for e'en the dearest dame,' Said softly to himself that grey old knight, ' But not too old am I, I wis, to love and fight.' 5° The Old Knight He went alone, and no soul knew he went, And found the liar, and smote the mouth that lied, And headlong into hell his soul he sent : Yet as he slew, Death, still unsatisfied, Reached out and gripped the victor in his pride, Bursting the heart that beat so fierce and true. And one that saw them fled to her and cried, ' Lady, a stranger fought and overthrew Thy lying foe, and fell beside the man he slew. 5 And when they turned the cloth from off his face, It shone as if it kept some sacred tryst ; They told their silent tale with knightly grace. Those lips, nor she but only Death had kissed. And, womanlike, the piteous truth she wist, . And in a sudden yearning bent her head In hope of some faint pulse of heart or wrist ; And when they whispered, ' Nay, the man is dead ! ' 'Twas such an one as this I might have loved,' she said. 5i SONNETS When Fate, blindfold and moved we see not whence, Smites greatest men, ofttimes they, disendowed Of common life's completeness, wander bowed Through gates of loss to some large recompense ; As when, with passion and insight thrice intense, Blake's holy madness wrapped him from the crowd To show him heavens in hells, and there allowed Sight of life's central fires : or, reft of sense To outer noise, Beethoven clothed in sound All love, all loss, all life's supremest dower : Or Milton in his house of lasting night With God and his great heart, there within found Large liberty and comfort, and the power Of prophet vision undistraught of sight. 55 II OUTSIDE Am I without the Church, O Lord of those Thy faithful souls, united in endeavour To keep Thy Spirit in their midst for ever, And win away Thy kingdom from Thy foes ? To-night I strove to join the prayers that rose In sweet springs running in one Godward river, But some blind power still bade our spirits sever, And held me coldly listening to the close. I saw Thy people waiting faithfully, And a strange radiance dawning in each face, A deeper union with Thyself confessing, And, mutely wondering what it all could be, So left them, — just the one in all that place That needing most, had somehow missed, a blessing. 56 Ill The pity of it ! that these foolish feet That erstwhile kept the path should turn aside, That this sweet soul by genius dignified Should forfeit late the crown of conquest, meet For such white hair ; that, bowed and incomplete, Should end this life, this life of patient pride, That seemed so strong, but could no longer bide The stress of want and Fame's withholden sweet ! Better were death than this, unless e'en yet There be a hope we see not, a return In some lone prayer, or tears, Oi far-off call May yet reach Love, that Love, who from his gate Seeks 'mid his nearing pilgrims to discern The feeble steps of his old prodigal. 57 IV A YOUNG POET Long since, in youthful insolence, I deemed The untried vigour of Spring in heart and brain The pledge of great fulfilment : glad and vain I gazed where far-off mountain glory gleamed Above a valley mist, and gazing, dreamed I too one day could join the laurelled train Upon the heights, whose thought and breath sustain The soul of the world. O strange that it so seemed ! They dwell with stars and thunder ; at their feet I pluck the valley flowers, as is meet For one that housed such hopes and was so young, For one, for all his love, could play no part In their large life ! — Yet cease not, poet-heart, Till such slight songs as lie in thee be sung. 5« To strive for good and somewhat to attain, To feel the daily footway tending higher, Till out the Past some long-thought dead desire Renders by one all former footsteps vain, — To worship noblest souls, and find a stain Suddenly slur the worship, to inspire Their kind belief, and bear the pitiless fire Of undeserved love, — to strive regain The level of their steadfast pilgrimage, And know the unlessening space betwixt us, vast With forfeit opportunities of strife, — These be our earnings, this Sin's bitter wage, The self-wrought fetter from the prison-past Marring the movement of repentant life. 59 OUT OF DOORS MORNING Then see, my rose, I open unto thee, That all impatient tappeth on the pane To call me forth, who dreaming long have lain, To see how sweet a morning waits for me, Where in the sun-smile, on the lawn there be A myriad morning stars full tenderly Held in the tear-drops of a midnight rain. 63 IN A GARDEN, EARLY If all the world had a pleasure-garden, And went there ever in early sun, There were more to praise, there were less to pardon When the day is over and done. There 's an airy wisdom, a solemn lightness, A passion of power in brain and blood, Belong to the dew and the still cool brightness When day is a flower in bud ; When half unconscious the heart is drinking At unseen fountains of life and faith, And joy is wiser than deepest thinking In range of a rose's breath. One lily I have, though late, still lifting Her cup with night-dew and fragrance fraught, And pansies, ardent and dark, and drifting From dreamland to dreamy thought ; 6 4 In a Garden, Early The creeping fire of nasturtiums claiming Paling on paling of grey oak fence, And reinless riot of marigolds flaming In merry magnificence ! My eager, innocent jasmine gazes Through a dainty tangle of leaf and gloom, And the building hollyhock near by, raises Her spire with bloom over bloom, And queens it over the thing beside her, The miss-grown sunflower, that droops and grieves For her wizened face, and is fain to hide her In rank magnificent leaves. I have phloxes silver and phloxes rosy, So sweet in service and glad to please, With mines of wealth in their every posy For jolly bacchanal bees. My poppies slenderly stemmed and petalled Hold cups of light to the young day's lips ; Save one, where a gossiping bumble settled, That bows and swings as he sips. 65 e In a Garden, Early On a lush lawn with its blinking daisies And gleaming quiet, a soul may think Of the wealth of life, till its unsung praises Will fill the heart to its brink ! And aspiration grows nigh believing, And life's best chapter is just begun, And there's ne'er high aim that's beyond achieving In sight of the early sun ; And prayer soars up like a bird above me At thought of a garden, that still extends With the number of human hearts that love me, And love that I feel for friends ; And I and the world grow young together, And feel good whether we laugh or pray : And now, come sunny or cloudy weather, I 've had the best of the day ! 66 YOUNG TREE IN SPRING sky, you know me ? I am come again Out of a bare black sleep ! Sun-summons, wash of wind and thrill of rain Beat on the doors fast closed, but all in vain, For life that lies too deep For any frost, will rise a bidden guest At Spring's glad festival ! Without a dream my soul lay lost in rest. Till, at that touch and call, 1 grew aware of life, an inner fire Of memory and belief Ran upwards, outwards, in a great desire, And lo ! then leaf by leaf, Remembering my other springs, I rose ; And earth around remembers too, and grows Into her ancient grace, With ' Here were my daisies — there before it froze A tiny rill did race.' The wild young wind that ever caught me so Still takes me at his will, — The dark sweet violet, still hiding low, And over the hedge in golden dance and glow The jocund daffodil, — 67 Young Tree in Spring The bird that in my budding branches sings, The happy, happy bird, A creature careless, being blessed with wings, How far a-field his mid-air foothold swings By random breezes stirred, Voice of that passion of life that moves in me To a mute growth of glory, — the first bee Crooning in early shine Round risen buds, dear in his memory As a deep honey-mine, All the quaint gladness Spring did ever yield To frolic lambs in daffodilly field, — The woodlands living peace Of hourly growth, and gentle lives unsealed In revels of release, — All, all are here, and Spring fulfils her troth, And here the happy pain, and gladness both That bring me a bud's birth, And thy warm hold on my wild tiptoe growth O Earth, dear Earth, dear Earth ! The wind, the wind in my hair, the passing wing, The beat of sunwarmed rain, The joy of life, the hope of another Spring, Are mine, they are mine again ! 68 BEFORE THE STORM One moment since and every living thing Seemed as if held beneath a charm of death, The trees, then moveless, now wake shuddering, Putting up leaves all pale and sick with pain, As if in prayer for the dear freshening rain, With trembling hope before the creeping breath. In silence that foretells the coming sound, Above, the grey clouds grope through the grey space, Slowly, but on one mighty purpose bound, Like blindfold giants, each one feeling forth For the blind foe, to test the awful worth Of might and might, in one immense embrace. Now is the languid air perforce astir Before the winged storm that hastens on, And one late bird, poor startled voyager, Hastes to the leafage where his housed mate Warns shrill and sudden him she doth await In the glad tree now fiercely bent and blown ! 69 A BREATH OF SPRING O blessed time of all things gay and green ! Adown a sunray slips a showeret clear, And twigs and stalks and barest things are seen, To bud beneath the young sun of the year. And on the hill a light wind is at play, Brushing the young-eyed daisies with his wings, And far above the dear earth in her May, A soaring laverock sings, and sings, and sings. 70 STATICS There is a garden far away, Where Joy and I have walked together, My heart is with it all the day, My heart is there this dear June weather, Is in a flower that 's fraught for me With magic in its every petal, While others pass, or smile to see That e'er a bee should care to settle ; Of all its hundred eyes no eye Will open to a cloudy heaven, Nay, you would pass my Statice To see how some near rose had thriven ! But if a morning should arise Upon the earth in broad bright splendour, And all the land be full of eyes And sounds of waking bright and tender, 7i Staticd And the white dews that glorify Mount all too soon the golden ladder, And lark on high and mavis nigh Strive each to make a glad world gladder. And like a fitful sigh the breeze Scarce stir the golden robe of morning, And all things in their own degrees Be bent upon their own adorning, — Then out and speaks my Statice, ' The day is worthy of my beauty, And many a butterfly and bee Are here to love and do me duty, A thousand little things there be That long to sip and store my sweetness, A broad bright sun to shine on me And call me forth in all completeness.' She opens all her guest-rooms wide For many and fast the folk are coming, And soon the bush on every side Is loud with happy creatures humming. 72 Staticd Statice, how proud you are ! You give without or stint or measure : Of all your stars no honey-star Is closed upon your golden treasure, A myriad bees may bear it far To give a far-off people pleasure ! So as I see you in the blaze With heat and humming all a-quiver, The rapture of the best of days Is what you mean to me for ever. Last night I dreamt the world went wrong, The heart I treasured 'scaped my keeping 1 thought my life had sung its song, And chill and mute I wandered weeping ; While as I roamed I heard the sound Of bees at work ; with threefold power Beat my fond heart, for looking round I spied my Statice in flower, With every star wide-spread and loud, With noises of a winged miner, 1 Ah, see ! ' I cried through tears, ' the cloud Is surely past, the day is finer ' : 73 Statice I thought my heart would break in two With the wild hope the flower gave me, ' O heart ! ' I wept, ' he must be true, And God has sent the flower to save me ! ' For Statice will bear no part Save in the best of happy weather ! ' For in my dream it seemed my heart And Statice were bound together. I never saw the flower save there In the dear garden far-off yonder, And once within that dreamland where I never any more may wander. But, O if thou wouldst grow, delight, Within my little city garden, I 'd water thee with tears as bright As angels weep in love and pardon : I would uphold thy stem that none Of summer's winds would break or flout thee, And pray to God to send the sun And bring the happy bees about thee. 74 Staticd O Statice, my Statice ! The year is in its June-tide beauty, And butterfly and bee and I Are here to do you loving duty ; Dear Statice ! some hearts can break Though June's own sun of suns is beaming ; O come and give me while awake The happy hope you gave me dreaming ! 75 A SHADOW PICTURE Across my blind when I awoke at day A lovely shadow lay, A few belated leaves upon a trail Of creeper, fine and frail, Whose every tiny tendril gave delight In my sun-picture bright ; Then by the coming of a shadow-bird The shadow-trail was stirred, That for a moment's rest alighted there Midway in golden air, And in the breeze that swung the trail aside, It plumed its wings out wide, 76 A Shadow Pichtre And had no fear, for all its hold was frail, To swing with the shadow trail. Heart and bird and trail danced, all aware That life was glad and fair, Yet but a while, — I saw the tiny breast Swell with a glad unrest, And then a happy flutter, and a flight, — A shadow lost in light. 77 A SUMMER NIGHT IN A DREAM I pass in a rapture of wonder Through gardens grown vasty and strange ; All about and above me and under Is touched with a terror of change. I know I am dreaming, that never On earth lay such shadow and gleam, And I fear lest a whisper should sever The barely closed doors of my dream. The gardens lie dreamy and stilly 'Neath night at her languorous noon, And many a tremulous lily, Is breathing her scent to the moon. And poppy, the silver-leaved sleeper, Is silently thrilling with bliss, And I feel that her crimson grows deeper For the dew and its delicate kiss. 73 A Summer Night in a Dream On the deep-breathing breast of the river The lilies all languidly lie, And ever they dreamily shiver, As the ghost of a breeze wanders by. 'Mid the scent of its own heavy blossom The tree doth deliciously dream, Soft shedding its bloom on the bosom Of the leisurely, lily-leaved stream. The rose drooping low in her beauty Is white as the mantle of death, And the breeze to her charms doeth duty And draws in his worshipping breath. The stars a sweet music are making, But their voices are veiled in the height And only a heart-throb is breaking The passionate hush of the night. 79 ON THE DOWNS We climb and climb this sunny day Until ' the height is near ! ' we say, And gaining that, we find the summit Still leans in leisurely slope away. Too oft life's repetition kills A treasured dream, — this day fulfils The prophecy of my rich remembrance Of childish pleasure on these dear hills. Blue butterflies, my old delight, Still seem for me, in flickering flight About the hare-bells, hare-bells winged,- The hill-snail tiny and brown and white Still finds the pasture to his mind, And trembling spear-grass throws a kind Of bloomy pallor o'er the greensward, And ever a little random wind 80 On the Downs Wakes whispers in the tufted ling, And bids the browsing bumble cling The closer for his scabious nodding, And sets the thistledown scampering. The coombe is climbed, and from the crown I see the sheltered red-roofed town, My brain is clear as air and sunlight, My heart is light as the thistledown. O peace and soft simplicity Of grassy hills ! with ne'er a tree, Save one old thorn long wrought and writhen By shoreward winds from a fierce salt sea, And here, high up in hills and bare, A happy valley, nothing there Save thymy scent and sloping sheep-track And grass and silence and golden air ! And ever if the wind be still A single sheep-bell comes to fill The sunwarmed lull, — at happy leisure The sheep and shepherd come up the hill. 81 F On the Downs The sheep draw near, I hear their feet, I hear them tug the turf they eat ; No head is lifted, save in passing, All grave and greedy, from sweet to sweet. And now again the day's broad bloom Grows graver in the gentle gloom Of clouds that pass, whose shifting shadows Sweep slow and softly from crown to coombe. To that large flight my eyes respond And turn my charmed thought vagabond Beyond the town, the valley homesteads, The hills around them, the hills beyond, To seek the crown of all for me, Where, in that silver mystery Between the farthest hill and heaven My eager fancy would find the sea. 82 VARI A A DREAM I saw a field whose grass was full of flowers, Red roses, daffodils, and lilies, all The wealth of all the seasons come at call Of some weird spirit strong in stolen powers. And there amid that flowery festival, And 'neath the rainless blue, stood one whose face Excelled all flowers. But when she moved, from out That forest of fair growths, a swinish rout Ran grunting after, leaving brutal trace In broken stems and petals strewn about. ii I saw her once again, grown old, accurst, Heard her, while weaving at her noiseless loom The webs that tangle souls in silken doom, Croon in her cool dim hall the song that erst Guided her creatures to that palace tomb. 85 A Dream And at her feet her wretched captives lay, Shadowy, sick of thrall, yet without might To rid them of it j 'twas a piteous sight To see a man's soul in a beast's eye pray For manhood withered by her hellish rite. But Circe had grown blind, she could not see The silent revelation in those eyes That told, her ancient power and witcheries Could bind, but please no longer ; and that she, Once fairest, had grown foulest in her guise. The witch of all the world was blind, and yet Their trouble dawned on her: perchance a sigh Stole to her ear, wherein she might descry The pain of creatures who can ne'er forget The forfeit life God meant to be so high. For the blind fingers trembled, and a wave Of proud half-pity crossed the ruined face ; She stayed her weaving, and a little space It seemed to me her thought was in the grave Of her far past, seeking some sign or trace 86 A Dream Of what might yet reverse their doom, — in vain ! The foolish fingers trembling o'er the thread Had lost their way ; it broke, and overhead A face flashed out, and into dark again For evermore ; Mnemosyne had fled. No love to hold, no power to bid them rise From hated thrall ! Slowly she rose, nor spoke While God's whole meaning on her spirit broke, Then sudden with frenzied hands beat her blind eyes And shrieked ! And in that horror I awoke, 87 ALAS ! A little thought of doubtful kin Came housed himself my heart within, And spied about, and furled his wings, And tried my heart's long silent strings, And to the sound he wakened there, I sang a song upon the air ; A song, and songs, and ever more, I never sang so sweet before : Until a whisper came and stayed The sweetest songs I ever made, And told me, 'twas a very sin Had made himself so snug within ! 88 Alas ! And so I took that busy sprite, That was my helper and delight, And drove him far before my fears, And cleansed his dwelling with my tears. But since I turned him out of door, I sing my happy songs no more. 89 THE KING MEETS DEATH ' About this time the King fell ill of a grievous sickness, so that the physician could give him no hope of his life beyond the space of a twelvemonth. From that day onwards, as his sufferings waxed greater, there grew along with them a patience and a sort of gracious gladness, and such store of wise counsels as made men think God had brought him into affliction to show him truths not else to be attained, for the cheer of his own soul and the bettering of his people.' — The Chronicle of a Little Kingdom. A hand hath led me to life's very edge ; Into two worlds I look, two kingdoms see, And linger 'neath the tragic privilege Of moving men by that high mastery That only death-in-life could give to me. A wisdom not mine own informs my brain A greater Love hath made my heart his shrine, A greater Spirit chose me in my pain To be his oracle ; and makes it mine In human words to clothe a thought divine. 90 The King meets Death Might I but keep my Kingship under God Long years of pain were sweeter than all ease ! This may not be, my feet have long been shod For the last road ; yet ere the great release I would reveal the Angel of my peace. There is a power that nerves all noblest strife, And yet men strive to thrust it out of door ; A hope as old as death, as wide as life, That I, too, held too good for truth of yore : Death proves my soul to me, I doubt no more. Into the dark I went, into the dark, With world-wise heart and ever-failing frame, But in my soul I bore that tiny spark Which Death's wide wings fanned to so bright a flame, Whither I went I knew and whence I came. Now can I bear all burdens, grown so wise, — Even this load of pain, whose growing weight Drags me away from arms that agonise To hold me, and the thousand ties of state Entangled with my one poor human fate, — 9i The King meets Death With steadfast joy, till passes into dust The painful shell that gave me housing here, And I, beyond all touch of worm or rust, Bid ' Farewell Death, thou couldst not spoil my cheer, — Thy work is with the dust : how should I fear ? ' 92 FATE AND THE DESPOT ' Not this, not this, but these ! ' I cried In my power and pride ; ' Do you dream, that whether for good or ill, 'Twill pass the barriers of my will ? Sooner, I '11 yield my throne and treasure Than this small thing that I love 'yond measure ! (So I cried as the shade came creeping.) 1 Not these, not these, but this ! ' cried Fate, And she passed my gate, And she left my treasure, the courtier- crowd That loathed in secret and praised aloud, My heavy crown, and my mighty throne, And my myriad slaves, — but she left me alone, For she swept me by and becked on death With his blasting breath, And sought and found the poor pale thing I loved, I loved ! then with wide-spread wing She left me, the great king, weeping. 93 THE VEILED MAGICIAN A DREAM Have you heard, O have you heard Of a music bright and sad, That has made a wise world mad With its sorrow and its mirth, Coming from no singing bird But a spirit void of grace, Whose strange song and veiled face Have a deathless power on earth ? If you listen, if you look, You will see the curious thing, You will hear the creature sing As he treads by night and day Through the forest, by the brook, Up the mountain — anywhere, — If a living thing be there He will surely pass that way. 94 The Veiled Magician s You will see the strangest sight ; Here a maid in summer grace Breaking from the love-embrace, Fascinated by the thing That has robbed her of delight, Or a little lamb behold Fleeing from the shelt'ring fold Just to die in following ; Here a King who in the height Of a revel glad and sweet, Heard the strange mysterious feet Treading by his palace-gate, Heard, and went out into night, Hid his glory in the throng Following the creature's song, Never more to separate. So they follow one who goes With an ever hidden face, Each one dropping in his place, While he doth not heed or save From the day's dawn to its close ; Child and lamb and wise man fall, And the ending of them all Is the silence of the grave. 95 The Veiled Magician & What a crazy crew it is ! One and all have turned aside From a flow'r-set path and wide, Just because an unknown voice Calls them to the wilderness, Where they strive with foes in fight That had never met their sight But for this their foolish choice ! What the motive of their strife ? They have earned no word of grace, Nor have ever seen the face That a wise world holds accurst ; They have lavished all their life On a foolishness of faith, And are going down to death No whit wiser than at first ! Will the Spirit ever tread Even till the very birth Of the last day of the Earth ? Will he turn him then and say Which of all the quick and dead Faithfullest have followed him ; Even while their eyes were dim With the sorrows of his way ? 96 The Veiled Magician Will he sing his song again, And the dead who held it dear Rise again in joy to hear From their chill and silent place ? Will the veil be lifted then And the brave who would not borrow Help of hope to bear the sorrow Learn his name and see his face ? 97 ART TO THE WORLD Hither, O weary and dusty feet, Steal softly away from the city street Where strife is endless tho' life be fleet, And failure findeth nor pity nor pardon ; Come, wander away to my great green garden Where flowers are eternal and ways are sweet. Like dead leaves swept by a winged wind They rush to their work at the wheels that grind, And forge them links of the chains that bind, The blood and the sweat and the tears are falling, And I in their midst am calling, calling, To the crowd that passes me deafly, blind. Their blood is hot for the gaudy gold, The spirit within is quiet and cold As a seed asleep in the winter mould ; They wrestle and run for the highest places, The sweat and the tears run down their faces, They lose or gain, and the tale is told. 9 8 Art to the World Hither ! for you, O heedless throng, I have kept the blossoms the year along And gathered all summers to serve my song ; I have holy tears for the eyes that weep not, And slumber songs for the eyes that sleep not, And the sword of God for the ruling wrong. I would open your heart to subtle grace In things uncomely and counted base By the coarse crowd in its common race ; I would touch your dreaming with starry beauty, And flower the path of your waking duty, I would soften and strengthen and bend and brace. I know the truth through its varying dress, And soar where Science must stoop to guess,- And the day that 's coming will once confess Mine were no visions of idle dreaming, But songs of a sunrise of brighter beaming, And then it will know me and love and bless,- The blossoms of life she is fain to mar, As petal by petal she drives afar 99 Art to the World The truth and the beauty that in them are, Whiles I, I leap to the great stars shining And grasp them, close to my broad brow twining The song and the secret of star and star ; Then leave their beautiful noise behind The higher silence to seek and find, Where bird ne'er sang nor a star hath shined, Till ever the pathless way ascending I gasp in an ocean of space unending That deafens and drenches and strikes me blind. Blind, but with heart athirst for the true, With passionate pinions I beat the blue And bruise till eternity's self breaks through ; My heart throbs in through the sky-roof riven, A heart hath answered me out of heaven, And gives me the secret of life for you ! Oh slaves and seekers, the time is fleet, Hither with weary and dusty feet Steal softly away from the loveless street That holds nor pity nor peace nor pardon, Oh wander away to my great green garden Where flowers are eternal and ways are sweet ! ioo VEGETARIANISM (dedicated to a very gentle friend) When I tell how sad a thing Wears my heart out year by year, Sight of creatures suffering, Martyrdoms of service here, Seldom paying wrong for wrong, Dumb before a human rage, Toiling hard and toiling long To be slain in useless age, Never sacred from abuse, While a breath of helpless life Holds them fit for slavish use, Or for science with her knife, You will never ask again Why I made my vow, and chose Ne'er to add by death or pain To a cup that overflows. IOI Vegetarianism See the little god of self, Custom waiting on his greed ; Craves he feast of flesh or pelf, All is sanctioned by his need. Ceaseless toil of men and beasts Is his worship's heavy price ; And the cities teem with priests Slaying hourly sacrifice. No such load of death and toil Can my single life redress, But at least I need not spoil Any live thing's happiness. They that round about me live, Watchful love and housing earn, And the creatures ever give Kindly service in return : Things that with their shy sweet life Make the woodland breathe and thrill, Know there 's ne'er a shade of strife 'Twixt their pleasure and my will. 102 Vegetarianism So, because I prize the worth Of all life and liberty, One small corner of the earth Shall be glad because of me. You with other faith than mine Ask me how I break my fast, How I sup and how I dine ? Come and share my sweet repast. There 's a nest among the straw In the barn-end out of sight, There this morn I peeped and saw, Where the eggs lay warm and white. Since the homely creatures thrive After sharing sweets with me, Take we these, and from the hive Harvest of the honey bee : Milk from cows serenely grave With a weight of meadow lore, Who at evening lowing crave Riddance of their creamy store. 103 Vegetarianism <5 Or unearth a sweet hard root, If thy hunger make thee fain ; Cull the clustering bramble fruit, Sweet with sun and swelled with rain. Bring me lettuce, crispy, cool, Crystal salt and sweetest bread, Then a rosy apple pull From the mossed bough overhead ; In the nutwood bend and search Boughs the sun comes glinting through, Tell the squirrel on his perch, There be nuts enough for two ! Oak and elm boughs interlaced Yonder shade my sobbing spring Stoop and cup your palm and taste Liquid song and icy sting ; 'Tis a draught that never turns Foolish brains, or lights within Feeble hearts a fire that burns For a sacrifice of sin. 104 Vegetarianism Leave we now the quivering heat, Spread our feast and there carouse, Where the grass is cool and sweet 'Neath the apple-burden'd boughs. Laverock, keep thy fiery bliss, Soaring song and liberty ; God shall never mourn nor miss One of all His choir for me. Thou, who deem'st thy life as good, Though God made thee not to sing, Farmyard mother, with thy brood Warm and cheeping 'neath thy wing 05 Rabbit, with thy merry rout, In the warren near the farm, — Thou wouldst make a zealot doubt, With thy rapine and thy harm ! — Who, whene'er I softly near Shew'st me, as thou see'st me stand, Flash of tail, and flick of ear, And a round hole in the sand, 105 Vegetarianism Deep-voiced mother in the field, Where thy lambkin plays and thrives, God hath set no other shield Than our love around your lives : Come about us, feel no fear, While we eat and take our rest ; Ne'er a creature suffered here In my banquet of the best. 106 FROM OTHER LANDS THE SHEPHERD'S PRAYER (arena chapel, padua) Dear Lord, who of Thy love hast lent to me This power of art, — whereof, I pray Thee, hold The springs for evermore, nor let it be Mine own, lest gratitude to Thee grow cold, And so I put it to mere human use, Which in Thine eyes could only be abuse, — Be with me now and guide this faithful hand In Thine own lines ; O use me as a glass, To mirror forth the way that Thou hast planned For men's salvation, even if it pass Above my ken : make fair mine art to shew The King in all His beauty, till men know, To be His servants as their sires have been, Is best. O Shepherd, I have drunken deep Of Thy still waters, in Thy pastures green, And yearn in love for these, Thy other sheep, To lead them thither from the World-wolfs den ! To that end, guide my heart and hand. Amen. 109 NIOBE (FLORENCE) They were so gloriously fair, I found no beauty anywhere So grand as that which glorified My Motherhood ! — I cast my pride Against the very Gods ; alas, The poor proud mother that I was ! The Gods in silent anger burned, And over night my fate they turned, And came and smote with blasting breath My loves, my darlings unto death. And on through all the lonely years I see their laughter through my tears. * * * * * no Niobe In Athens, while her Golden Day In sunset splendour frailed away, — Whose beauty, waxing soft and free, Cast off its stern divinity, Whose porches rang with foolish breath, Her godsent teachers dumb in death, Whose cultured revels set a prize Before barbaric envious eyes, The while she dreamed her little state Could face the world confederate, And made her boast, tho' all the air Grew thick with doom, — in deep despair. One wrought all these and fashioned me, And gave the name of Niobe, Though, while his heart in secret bled, 1 This is my stricken land,' he said, 'These are her glories dying, dead.' in ON THE PLATEAU The blue-bloused peasant gathers grain That floods the valley-depth with gold. But on this high up-lifted plain, The lingering cold » Withholds what scanty summer grace The earth untended strives to bear ; One kindly human-hearted trace We welcome there; A tiny hut and all alone, No sign of housed life in sight, And won from wastes of weed and stone A garden bright. In chilly silence seldom stirred The land around lies flat and bare, With ne'er a tree for weary bird To shelter there ; 112 On the Plateau But in the precious garden space A grain-decked box upon a pole Betrays our hermit's heart of grace And gentle soul. Whoe'er the solitary be Helps God about His gracious task, And feeds the feathered family That may not ask. He gains three gifts will sure amend Some lack in that lone life above, A little song, a little friend, A heart of love. 113 h ON THE MOSEL Between high hills the river windeth on, Here, laving their sheer pedestals of rock ; There, 'twixt the mountains and its rapid run, A little chapel shepherding a flock Of humble homes, o'erlooks the dust-white road, Where with loud whip the blue-bloused peasant drives His mild strong oxen ; bearing a like load Both man and beast wear out their lowly lives. And round the homes sweet lawny levels lie, Shady with fruit-trees, green with mountain rills, And there beyond, stands dark against the sky, The pathos of the labour-mantled hills, Whose every ledge and crag is clad in vines From out the rock with brave toil hardly won, That now await amid their tiny shrines In earnest patience for the ripening sun. 114 On the Mosel See, the clouds break ! one moving gleam of light Passes in blessing, on from hill to hill, Beyond the lonely peak where day and night Our Lady of the Vineyard watches still. Life hardly earned, tired peace, and little play, Then the long rest when God will give the dream ! And through it all the river runs away To a far city and a larger stream. ^ "5 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY Los Angeles This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. UNIVE THE LTOKARY ix>s ai;ci • Form L9-32wi-8,'58(5876s4)444 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY AA 000 370 558 9