373 
 
LATER VERSES 
 
BY THE SAME AUTHOR 
 
 COLLECTED VERSES 
 
 WITH A FRONTISPIECE BY 
 H. J. FORD 
 
 Fcap. Zvo. $s. net 
 
 LONGMANS, GREEN AND CO. 
 
 LONDON, NEW YORK, BOMBAY, CALCUTTA, AND MADRAS 
 
LATER VERSES 
 
 BY 
 
 ALFRED COCHRANE 
 
 AUTHOR OF 'COLLECTED VERSES' 
 
 WITH A FRONTISPIECE BY 
 H. J. FORD 
 
 LONGMANS, GREEN AND CO. 
 
 39 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON 
 
 FOURTH AVENUE & 3OTH STREET, NEW YORK 
 
 BOMBAY, CALCUTTA, AND MADRAS 
 
 I9l8 
 
PREFACE 
 
 SOME of the verses in this collection were published 
 about twelve years ago in a small volume called 
 ' The Sweeper of the Leaves.' For permission to 
 reproduce others I owe my grateful thanks to the 
 editors of the Cornhill Magazine, Country Life, 
 Punch, and the Spectator. 
 
 The majority of them were written before the 
 war, and the only excuse for republishing them hi 
 these altered days is that, for me at least, they 
 revive happy memories. 
 
 A. C. 
 
 81076 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE SWEEPER OF THE LEAVES * 
 
 THE MILK CART 4 
 
 CHRISTMAS CAROL 6 
 
 THE FAIRIES 8 
 
 SLEEPING KASPAR 10 
 
 To THE FOUNDER u 
 
 A CHILD'S EPITAPH 13 
 
 BALLAD OF THE ST. GOTHARD TUNNEL 15 
 
 THE DESERTER i? 
 
 JOACHIM 19 
 
 LAZARUS 20 
 
 LIFE'S FAVOURITE 23 
 
 SIR JOHN'S TOMB 25 
 
 THE LAST GROUSE 27 
 
 Dis AUTER 29 
 
 I PUBLISH THE BANNS 3<> 
 
 AFTER THE HOLIDAYS 32 
 
 To ELINOR 34 
 
 THE PIONEER 36 
 
 AT QUEEN'S CLUB 37 
 
 FROM Aix TO ARGYLL 40 
 
 To A ROUNDHEAD 42 
 
 BALLADE OF BIRDS'-NESTING 44 
 
 THE DEAD CHIEF 46 
 
 THE OLD GAMEKEEPER 47 
 
 A BALLAD OF LABELS 51 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE GUIDE BOOK 53 
 
 To MARJORIE 55 
 
 THE SWALLOWS 57 
 
 THE BLESSING OF ESAU 59 
 
 A LAODICEAN 62 
 
 QUEEN ANNE 66 
 
 THE LITTLE HORSES 68 
 
 DIANA OF THE EPHESIANS 7o 
 
 PILOT 72 
 
 THE COVERTS, 1914 74 
 
 MURUM AEDIFICANT 76 
 
 THE FOURTH RIDDLE 78 
 
 HAMBLEDON 80 
 
 THE YOUNG IDEA 83 
 
 VERBA NON FACTA . 85 
 
 THE LAST POSTBOY 88 
 
 LAMPADEPHORIA 90 
 
 OXONIENSIS OXONIENSI 92 
 
 EASTER PSALMS 94 
 
 NEW YEAR'S EVE 95 
 
 EPHEMERIS 97 
 
 THE MERMAID 99 
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF ORIANA 101 
 
 THE MASTER'S MATCH. 1889-1914 103 
 
 HOLIDAY IN WARTIME 105 
 
 THE Two LAST COLLECTS 106 
 
 WEDDING HYMN 7 108 
 
 THE HAPPY YEARS . . .no 
 
THE SWEEPER OF THE LEAVES 
 
 WHEN Autumn's misty trail is drawn 
 In cobwebs on the sodden lawn, 
 When strewn about the garden ways 
 Lies the lost pomp of summer days, 
 The gardener sedulously sweeps 
 The withered leaves in yellow heaps, 
 And $lies his broom on bed and border, 
 To bring untidiness to order. 
 
 Yet, while he sweeps, the restless breeze, 
 That whispers mischief to the trees, 
 Filling the drear October sky 
 With clouds of dead leaves hurrying by, 
 Strews them afresh upon the soil 
 As if in mockery of his toil. 
 
 Thinking it foolishness to mask 
 The obvious failure of his task, 
 To him as one who warred with fate 
 I deemed it well to demonstrate 
 How when his broom and he were gone 
 The russet leaf-storm still went on. 
 
 He heard me as he swept the walk, 
 Then leaned upon his broom to talk : 
 A 
 
THE SWKETER OF THE LEAVES 
 
 Whiie, with aj uncomplaining glance, 
 
 He watched the dead leaves whirl and dance, 
 
 And answered ere he bent once more 
 
 To sweeping, ' It were wuss afore ! ' 
 
 He paused again. ' Beside/ said he, 
 
 ' I'm one as canna let things be. 
 
 It ain't much use this time o' year, 
 
 Still, you can tell a broom's bin 'ere.' 
 
 He gave his head a thoughtful jerk, 
 
 And placidly resumed his work. 
 
 Marking his ineffectual zest, 
 I tried his moral to digest. 
 The world is full, it seems to me, 
 Of those who cannot let things be, 
 And human effort still achieves 
 Tasks like the sweeping of the leaves. 
 In every corner of the land 
 Gather the sweepers, broom in hand, 
 And still disorder mars the scene 
 Where they and their Reforms have been ; 
 And life, the while they travail sore, 
 Looks as untidy as before. 
 
 So be it : but although the staff 
 Of critics who do nothing laugh, 
 Yet has the littered landscape room 
 Ev'n for the sweeper and his broom ; 
 And it may be, one autumn day, 
 When effort falters by the way, 
 
THE SWEEPER OF THE LEAVES 
 
 In hours when all applause is dumb, 
 That the reward of toil shall come. 
 
 For to the garden shall draw nigh 
 A more observant passer-by, 
 Who, even if the sight prevents 
 A prouder flow of compliments, 
 Will yet acknowledge, never fear, 
 That Some one with a broom was here. 
 

 THE MILK CART 
 
 THE MILK CART 
 
 (IN THE MIDLANDS) 
 
 up ! Ate you right there ? Aye : 
 whoa ! 
 
 For 'appen the kitchen clock be slow, 
 And it's all three mile as we've got to go 
 Along the lane from Burnaston. 
 
 Behind the yard gate swings and shuts, 
 As the old mare, stumbling across the ruts, 
 Pulls out, with the yellow lamps alight, 
 Into the raw December night ; 
 And 'twixt the hedges, and round the turns, 
 Jogs on with her load of banging churns. 
 
 For this is the tale and the task of the shire, 
 The tale that starts with the cows in the byre, 
 And ends down a hundred winding lanes, 
 With the carts that rattle to catch the trains, 
 And to leave in the wayside platform's gloom 
 Their tally of churns that bang and boom 
 Gallons and gallons, pouring south, 
 Into the great town's thirsty mouth. 
 
THE MILK CART 
 
 Come up I or we'll miss the seven-five, 
 And it's us as keeps the place alive, 
 Us and the clatterin' cart we drive 
 Along the lane from Burnaston. 
 
 Surely this earth, where one lives and learns, 
 It spins to the sound of the banging churns, 
 And all mankind to that clang and boom 
 Must tread a measure from cot to tomb. 
 
 There is the town with the crowds that wait 
 Our cart that jolts through the stack-yard gate, 
 The town with its millions who strive and stir 
 For their dole of the kind earth's provender, 
 From my lady, gorgeous hi lace and silk, 
 With her morning maid and her morning milk, 
 To the hungry children for whom our load 
 Means life or death in the Mile End Road ; 
 And here, at the other end of the chain, 
 Is Pegg's old mare in Burnaston lane. 
 
 Come up ! they be cleverer far nor we, 
 The folk i' the town, but where 'ud they be, 
 Where 'ud they be, wi'out you an' me, 
 Bumpin' along from Burnaston ? 
 
CHRISTMAS CAROL 
 
 CHRISTMAS CAROL 
 
 STAR iii the East, of beauty rare, 
 That went before and stayed 
 Above the lowly threshold, where 
 The new-born Christ was laid ; 
 Star that rejoiced the wise men's eyes 
 
 On that first Christmas night, 
 You shine along the centuries 
 And touch the earth with light. 
 
 Hymn of goodwill and sins forgiven, 
 
 That from the midnight sky 
 Stole from the white-robed choir of heaven 
 
 In mystic harmony ; 
 You thrilled the listening shepherds' ears, 
 
 And still, with living power, 
 Proclaim across two thousand years 
 
 Peace in the anxious hour. 
 
CHRISTMAS CAROL 
 
 Ay, God be thanked, for many a heart, 
 
 By sorrow overborne, 
 May find its aching pass in part 
 
 Upon this Christmas morn, 
 May, though the way to truth be far, 
 
 And though the path be dim, 
 Still catch some glimmer of that star, 
 
 Some echo of that hymn. 
 
 
THE FAIRIES 
 
 THE FAIRIES 
 
 ATE ! they may see, who still believe, 
 The Fairies on Midsummer eve, 
 And catch the sparkle of their shoon, 
 Footing it in hay-scented meadows 
 Under the yellow moon. 
 
 Come, where the hedgerow warblers wake 
 Their serenades for summer's sake, 
 And, hidden in the leafy screen, 
 Amid the hemlock and dog-roses, 
 Watch the enchanted green. 
 
 Look at them as they form in line, 
 
 And mark their glow-worm lamps that shine, 
 
 The little folk of the woods and dells, 
 Tripping away to a lively measure, 
 Rung upon cowslip bells. 
 
 Can you not see them tread the ring, 
 Gossamer, Greensleeves, Silverwing, 
 Sober brownie and grinning elf, 
 All of them out of the tattered volume 
 Now on the schoolroom shelf ? 
 
THE FAIRIES 
 
 What, is there nothing there revealed, 
 Except a mown five-acre field, 
 A dewy fence, a rick of hay, 
 And somewhere, calling in the distance, 
 A corn-crake, far away ? 
 
 Alas ! alas ! these fancies find 
 The eyes of all but dreamers blind, 
 
 For only they who still believe 
 May see the Fairies hi the moonlight 
 Dance on Midsummer eve. 
 
SLEEPING KASPAR 
 
 SLEEPING KASPAR 
 
 I SEE you lying, warm and snug, 
 Stretched in the firelight on the rug, 
 And wrapped in that half-conscious doze, 
 Which much of its own sweetness knows. 
 
 Here in your dreams you try to catch 
 The rabbits in the bracken patch ; 
 You follow scents which are bewitching, 
 And set your paws insanely twitching. 
 
 Anon with sleepy yelps and howls 
 Are mingled fierce and threatening growls, 
 Meant, I suppose, to fill with fear 
 Such phantom dogs as venture near. 
 
 And yet in actual life I find 
 You something peaceably inclined, 
 And apt, it must be owned, to beat 
 In peril's hour a prompt retreat. 
 
 Well, some of us, resembling you, 
 Imagine deeds we dare not do, 
 Cravens, for whose ambition gleams 
 The torch of valour in our dreams. 
 
TO THE FOUNDER 
 
 TO THE FOUNDER 
 
 SCHOOL SONG, TO THE MEMORY OF SIR JOHN PORT 
 WHO BY HIS WILL FOUNDED REPTON IN 1557] 
 
 SIR JOHN, he was a faithful knight, 
 Who lived when might was counted right, 
 When every man aspired to fight 
 
 A foe if he could find him : 
 But old Sir John abjured the fray, 
 And chose a less aggressive way 
 To leave a name behind him. 
 
 He looked and saw a village green, 
 
 A place where prior and monk had been, 
 
 And so therein a fitting scene 
 
 For his design discerning, 
 What time his quiet days were spent, 
 He left beside the river Trent 
 
 A seat of sober learning. 
 
TO THE FOUNDER 
 
 He said, These hallowed shades shall see 
 My Repton boys, remembering me, 
 Go forth in summer terms to be, 
 
 The sons of my foundation : 
 To enter in the lists of life, 
 And serve in days of peace or strife 
 
 Their God, and king, and nation. 
 
 So be it ours our Founder's will 
 With loyal purpose to fulfil, 
 Resolved, while yonder standard still 
 
 Swings in the breeze before us, 
 To stand in all we say or do 
 To him and his tradition true, 
 
 And sing our thanks in chorus. 
 
 Old Sir John, gallant Sir John ! 
 
 Jolly Sir John, you are dead and gone : 
 Yet in your name, telling your fame, 
 
 The School of your founding still goes on, 
 Steadfast in aim, playing the game, 
 And guarding the Gate that is free from blame. 
 
A CHILD'S EPITAPH 13 
 
 A CHILD'S EPITAPH 
 
 NEAR THIS PLACE LIETH THE BODY OF MARY THORP, 
 WHO DIED JUNE I3TH, 1782, AGED II YEARS" 
 
 YOU feel, a hundred years away, 
 The sorrow of that summer day, 
 And see the quiet village street 
 That slumbered in the noonday heat. 
 
 Men went about their ceaseless toil 
 To tend the kine and till the soil, 
 While death, who came, perhaps, as friend, 
 Brought this brief stewardship to an end. 
 
 There stood the house of grief behind 
 The shuttered door and close-drawn blind, 
 And, where the churchyard grasses wave, 
 The mourners gathered round the grave. 
 
 They put her small belongings by, 
 The needle she was proud to ply, 
 The ciphering book that bore her name, 
 The halfworked sampler in its frame. 
 
A CHILD'S EPITAPH 
 
 Then the blank outlook : days that came 
 Of life the same yet not the same ; 
 Day after day that seemed to wait, 
 Empty of joys and desolate. 
 
 Nay, surely through our distant dream 
 Diviner hopes of comfort gleam, 
 And memories of the Master's word 
 Still in the empty nursery heard ; 
 
 When tears were dried, perhaps, for some 
 By Him who bade the children come, 
 And hearts found healing in the touch 
 Of Him whose Kingdom is of such. 
 
BALLAD OF THE ST. GOTHARD TUNNEL 
 
 BALLAD OF THE ST. GOTHARD TUNNEL 
 
 TO leave the sombre scene behind, 
 The driving mists that blur the view, 
 And issuing, from the darkness, find 
 Skies of a clear and cloudless hue, 
 Steeped in the sunlight of the South, 
 
 Which our grim North may never know, 
 From grey to white, from shade to light, 
 From Goschenen to Airolo. 
 
 From city crowds, from London modes, 
 
 To Capri cliff or Naples bay, 
 To oxen sauntering with their loads 
 
 Of brushwood down the Appian way ; 
 From dingy office, noisy court, 
 
 To linger where the olives grow, 
 From those to these, from toil to ease, 
 
 From Goschenen to Airolo. 
 
BALLAD OF THE ST. GOTHARD TUNNEL 
 
 And soon too soon for jealous Time 
 
 Abates no tittle of his powers, 
 For cloudy land, or sunny clime, 
 
 For working days, or leisure hours, 
 Too soon his measure running out 
 
 Will plunge us through the Alps again, 
 From these to those, from verse to prose, 
 
 From Airolo to Goschenen. 
 
 This black mysterious place of gloom, 
 
 Whose either end is light and shade, 
 What is it but some shaft of doom 
 
 Where human destinies are laid ? 
 For some the shadow, some the sun, 
 
 All travellers passing, maids and men, 
 From Goschenen to Airolo, 
 
 Or Airolo to Goschenen. 
 
THE DESERTER 17 
 
 THE DESERTER 
 
 (WHO REFUSES FOR THE I2TH) 
 
 HOW now, you faithless absentee, 
 Now that the magic Hour draws near, 
 You urge an unexpected plea 
 Of duller claims that interfere ! 
 
 I thought no mortal since the Fall 
 Gifted with strength of will to raise 
 
 Ramparts of conscience at the call . 
 Of grouse and grilse and holidays. 
 
 Review it all the rush from town, 
 The station platform stretching far, 
 
 The crowds, the hurrying up and down 
 In quest of the Fort William car ; 
 
 And that first moment of delight 
 When the long 8.15 swings forth, 
 
 To thunder through the August night, 
 And meet the daybreak in the North. 
 B 
 
i8 THE DESERTER 
 
 Until how great the prospect seems ! 
 The faithful George beside your bed 
 
 Shall mingle in your restless dreams 
 With early tea at Garelochhead. 
 
 Ten minutes more of tea and train, 
 
 And hasty donning of attire, 
 And then and then your feet attain 
 
 The wayside goal of your desire. 
 
 What next ? much baggage vanned and racked 
 Now quickly bundled out in tons, 
 
 And then the waiting motor packed 
 With rods and cartridges and guns. 
 
 I picture you the morning grey, 
 
 With glint of sunshine now and then, 
 
 And wonderful with scents that stray 
 From the wet larchwoods in the glen. 
 
 High on the pass the breeze is cool, 
 
 And local memories return 
 Of salmon in the Clachan pool, 
 
 And grouse above the Laraig burn. 
 
 So be it ; stoutly you resist, 
 
 But wait until the Hour arrives, 
 The Hour of mountain, moor and mist, 
 
 And see if your resolve survives. 
 
JOACHIM 
 
 JOACHIM 
 
 "\7EAR after year he came with spring, 
 JL With lengthening light and crocus flower, 
 But now no April days may bring 
 His matchless music back an hour. 
 
 Masters there are whose work will live 
 
 Upon the canvas or the page, 
 Though they themselves be gone, to give 
 
 Enjoyment to a later age. 
 
 But here and now the world must grieve 
 
 For one majestic master-mind, 
 Whose art will die with him and leave 
 
 Nothing but memories behind. 
 
 Well, these at least are ours, and when 
 Years shall the great tradition dim, 
 
 We may before less favoured men 
 Rejoice to have rejoiced in him. 
 
LAZARUS 
 
 LAZARUS 
 
 [" REMEMBER THAT THOU IN THY LIFETIME RE- 
 CEIVEDST GOOD THINGS, AND LIKEWISE LAZARUS 
 EVIL THINGS "] 
 
 STILL he lingers, where wealth and fashion 
 Meet together to dine or play, 
 Lingers a matter of vague compassion 
 
 Out in the darkness, across the way ; 
 Out beyond the light and the glitter, 
 
 And the warmth where luxury's laughter rings, 
 Lazarus waits where the wind is bitter 
 Receiving his evil things. 
 
 Still you find him, when blazing, burning, 
 Summer flames upon square and street, 
 And the fortunate ones of the earth are turning 
 
 Their thoughts to meadows and meadow-sweet ; 
 For far away from the wide green valley, 
 
 And the bramble-patch where the whitethroat 
 
 sings, 
 Lazarus sweats in his crowded alley, 
 
 Receiving his evil things. 
 
LAZARUS 
 
 And all the while from a thousand rostrums 
 Wise men talk about him and his woes, 
 
 Each with his bundle of noisy nostrums, 
 Torn to tatters 'twixt Ayes and Noes ; 
 
 Sage and Socialist, gush and glamour, 
 And it's little relief their wisdom brings, 
 
 For there's nothing for him out of all the clamour, 
 Nothing but evil things. 
 
 Royal Commissions, creeds, convictions, 
 Learnedly argue and write and speak, 
 
 But the happy issue of his afflictions 
 Lazarus waits for it week by week ; 
 
 Still he seeks it to-day, to-morrow, 
 With purposeless pavement wanderings, 
 
 Or dreams it, a huddled heap of sorrow, 
 Receiving his evil things. 
 
 And some will tell you of Evolution, 
 With Social Science thereto and some 
 
 Look forth to the parable's retribution, 
 
 When the lot is changed in the life to come ; 
 
 To the trumpet sound, and the great awaking, 
 And to One, with healing upon his wings, 
 
 In the House of the many mansions making 
 An end of the evil things. 
 
LAZARUS 
 
 In the name of Knowledge the world grows healthier, 
 In the name of Freedom the world grows great, 
 
 And men are wiser, and men are wealthier, 
 But Lazarus lies at the rich man's gate ; 
 
 Lies as he lay through human history, 
 
 Through fame of heroes and pomp of kings, 
 
 At the rich man's gate an abiding mystery, 
 Receiving his evil things. 
 
LIFE'S FAVOURITE 23 
 
 LIFE'S FAVOURITE 
 
 T IFE she loved him, she seemed the slave, 
 -I* Slave of his lightest and least desire, 
 And so to his glorious youth she gave 
 Glory that youths admire. 
 
 Gifts she gave him of strength and skill, 
 Gave him lordship of teams and crews, 
 
 With the Love of the Game, and, better still, 
 Of playing it, win or lose. 
 
 An Eton spell and an Oxford spell, 
 Lore of tradition and pride of shop, 
 
 Worship of friends that spake him well, 
 With the run of the Club and Pop. 
 
 All good pleasures would come his way, 
 All good men give him nod for nod ; 
 
 His laugh and his greeting haunt to-day 
 Staircase E in the quad. 
 
24 LIFE'S FAVOURITE 
 
 Then why did her favours end so soon, 
 
 Did she forsake, betray, forget, 
 When she sent him with his platoon 
 
 Over the parapet ? 
 
 Was it because he shewed her praise 
 
 In his glowing self that the thought would strike 
 Of vanished charms in the pleasureless days, 
 
 And it tortured her, lover-like ? 
 
 Or was she moved by a greater thought, 
 And dealt with him yet as friend by friend, 
 
 In bringing the wonderful work she had wrought 
 To its only possible end ? 
 
SIR JOHN'S TOMB 25 
 
 SIR JOHN'S TOMB 
 (IN THE SOUTH TRANSEPT) 
 
 HPHROUGH the Good Shepherd on the panes 
 JL The level sunlight streams and stains 
 With splashes of bright colour thrown 
 Old Sir John Poynings carved in stone. 
 
 It blazons gorgeously the shield 
 Which once he bore on Bosworth field, 
 Two Falcons fettered to proclaim 
 Across the years his fighting fame. 
 
 To tell how boldly he withstood 
 
 The king's advance from Sutton wood, 
 
 And with what zeal at close of day 
 
 He chased the remnant Loughborough way. 
 
 On vizor and on vambrace glints 
 A network of amazing tints, 
 Barring with gold and crimson bands 
 The gauntlets on his praying hands. 
 
26 SIR JOHN'S TOMB 
 
 His hands, no longer raised, as when 
 He urged his ranks of fighting men, 
 No longer clenched to grip and ply 
 Yon doughty hilt against his thigh. 
 
 Gallant Sir John you strove and fought, 
 You lived and loved, and rode and wrought, 
 And now your fights and labours done, 
 You lie there praying in the sun. 
 
 Praying for what ? for whom ? who knows ? 
 God's mercy on your friends or foes, 
 God's mercy on yourself may be 
 Your never-ending litany. 
 
THE LAST GROUSE 
 
 THE LAST GROUSE 
 
 S the last grouse of autumn, 
 
 Disturbed on the hill, 
 And the shouts of the beaters 
 
 Are piercing and shrill : 
 In my butt I await him, 
 
 Yet nothing espy 
 Except the dark moorland, 
 Except the dark sky. 
 
 Oh ! the prospect is dreary, 
 
 With snow on the ridge, 
 And weather more suited 
 
 For firelight and bridge : 
 On the wings of a blizzard. 
 
 With black clouds behind, 
 The last grouse of autumn 
 
 Comes whirring down wind. 
 
28 THE LAST GROUSE 
 
 Time was when in August 
 
 He rose from my boot, 
 And gave me an instant, 
 
 Though I missed him, to shoot 
 But now, a tough veteran, 
 
 All whipcord and wire, 
 He's a speck far to leeward 
 
 Before I can fire. 
 
 Ill not hit thee, thou last one, 
 
 So swift and so tough, 
 Even granting I see thee, 
 
 Which is doubtful enough : 
 Thus vainly I scatter 
 
 My pellets like hail 
 At what I conclude is 
 
 Thy vanishing tail. 
 
D1S A LITER 29 
 
 DIS ALITER 
 
 (ON A LEADER WHO DIED A FEW DAYS BEFORE THE 
 GENERAL ELECTION OF 
 
 TN crisis of revolt and raid 
 
 How were the Border hosts dismayed, 
 When from the field the word was told 
 That Harry Percy's spur was cold. 
 
 As once rebellion bowed her head 
 At tidings of her Champion dead, 
 So now, five centuries after, Fate 
 Sends a like sorrow to the State. 
 
 Mysteries of death that no man knows, 
 The broken hope the sudden close 
 Decreed for intellect and powers 
 By Him whose ways are not as ours. 
 
 Our milder age beholds the lists 
 Crowded with keen antagonists, 
 And hears the sound of battle rolled, 
 But Harry Percy's spur is cold. 
 
30 I PUBLISH THE BANNS 
 
 I PUBLISH THE BANNS 
 
 ABOVE the rector's desk appears 
 The rusty little book of banns, 
 From which he has, these forty years, 
 Announced our matrimonial plans. 
 
 " Ye must declare it." Even so. 
 
 There follows an inviting pause, 
 While we are pondering if we know 
 
 A just impediment or cause, 
 
 " Why these two persons " should not face 
 The hidden future hand in hand ; 
 
 Why they should not together trace 
 That path which none may understand. 
 
 Yet, if with us the burden rest 
 
 Of pledging these unknown events, 
 
 Prophetic prudence might suggest 
 A thousand just impediments. 
 
/ PUBLISH THE BANNS 31 
 
 How shall our ignorance aspire 
 
 To guarantee the fervent vows, 
 The whispers heard in lane or byre, 
 
 By the dog-roses or the cows ? 
 
 Can we conjecture, you and I, 
 
 How he and she will play their parts ? 
 
 Our mute assent may ratify 
 Some tragedy of broken hearts. 
 
 Young man and maid ! I wake at last 
 
 From fancies profitless and dim, 
 To find our simple ritual passed 
 
 From chant to prayer, from prayer to hymn . 
 
 What do they sing ? I scan in vain 
 The work, whereas for him and her 
 
 He may have made the meaning plain, 
 Who is His own interpreter. 
 
AFTER THE HOLIDAYS 
 
 AFTER THE HOLIDAYS 
 
 MINDFUL of pleasure past that makes 
 His durance harder far, 
 Your votary of commerce takes 
 
 His way past Temple Bar ; 
 And in his dingy chair he sits 
 
 Beneath a leaden sky, 
 Prepared to match his wandering wits 
 With them that sell and buy. 
 
 The office boys come peering in, 
 
 The clerks pass to and fro, 
 And a great money-making din 
 
 Roars in the street below ; 
 Yet let him toss aside his quill, 
 
 And all this noise is mute, 
 And he himself an idler still 
 
 Beside the Kyles of Bute. 
 
AFTER THE HOLIDAYS 33 
 
 For a clear west wind pipes and blows 
 
 With, magic from the moors, 
 Scattering these uninviting rows 
 
 Of chimneys, flats, and floors, 
 Scattering, like leaves upon the lea, 
 
 Dull invoice, bill, and bond, 
 And bringing back a silver sea 
 
 With purple hills beyond. 
 
 Yonder's the summit of Goatfell, 
 
 And here distinct and clear 
 The Edith tossing in the swell 
 
 Off Auchenlochan Pier : 
 Then, while you watch, away she swings, 
 
 And round the point she ploughs 
 Against a lively breeze that flings 
 
 The spray across her bows. 
 
 But the sun sets : the wind's asleep, 
 
 And Donald twists the bait, 
 For which full twenty fathom deep 
 
 The greedy whiting wait ; 
 Or, last excitement of the night, 
 
 You hear a distant sound, 
 And watch the evening steamer's light 
 
 Pass onward, Arran-bound. 
 
34 TO ELINOR 
 
 TO ELINOR 
 (TYING HER SHOE) 
 
 A SERIOUS thing it well may be 
 ** When shoestrings fall untimely free : 
 At five years old much effort goes 
 To readjust them into bows ; 
 I note the mental concentration 
 Demanded by the operation, 
 And understand it we are found, 
 Uncle and niece, on common ground. 
 
 Take comfort ; Time, for all his power, 
 Permits an intermediate hour, 
 An hour of careless hearts and blithe, 
 An hour of lissom limbs and lithe, 
 When fuller youth at last awakes 
 To that activity, which makes 
 Feats like the tying of a lace 
 Comparatively commonplace. 
 
TO ELINOR 3S 
 
 Across that interval which lies 
 Between us, let me sympathise ; 
 I too, regard with deep respect 
 The process, while I recollect 
 My apoplectic zeal that bends 
 Breathless to those disordered ends. 
 Small nieces and stout uncles too 
 Know what it means to tie a shoe. 
 
36 THE PIONEER 
 
 THE PIONEER 
 (GEORGE GREY, FEBRUARY 3, 1911) 
 
 HE heard the call of the wider spaces, 
 The voice of the lonely land, 
 And his work was done in untrodden places, 
 Where he held his life in his hand. 
 
 In savage regions of blood and slavery, 
 
 In haunts of horror and fear, 
 He carried the flag with a stedfast bravery, 
 
 A resolute pioneer. 
 
 With the wild, and the peril that lies behind it, 
 
 He gripped in a lifelong feud, 
 To find it at last as all men find it 
 
 Beaten but unsubdued. 
 
 So died as he lived when the desert vastness, 
 
 That waited the destined day, 
 Sent forth its vengeance out of the fastness, 
 
 Vengeance to strike and slay. 
 
AT QUEEN'S CLUB 37 
 
 AT QUEEN'S CLUB 
 (DECEMBER ISTH, 1902) 
 
 " Some ... who remember every Rugby match since 
 eighty something.'* 
 
 Oxford Magazine. 
 
 TT hints at a failing mind's obliquity, 
 * An effervescence of senile blood. 
 
 Eighty something \ a dim antiquity, 
 Was it before or since the flood ? 
 
 Surely the Ark was but just put by, 
 
 And the base of Ararat hardly dry. 
 
 Yet some of us, laeti nostra sorte, 
 
 Till the appalling truth was told, 
 Some on the hither side of forty 
 
 Hadn't considered ourselves so old ; 
 A fond delusion, which only proves 
 That the prime of life, as you reach it, moves. 
 
3* AT QUEEN'S CLUB 
 
 Dates don't lie : it was sentiment blinded us 
 To the number of years that had slipped away, 
 
 Made us fancy (till you reminded us) 
 Eighty something was yesterday : 
 
 Kept in our memory, clear and plain, 
 
 Rugby fights of the Vassall reign. 
 
 When we worshipped the azure image, 
 Filled the air with our jubilant hoots, 
 
 Or rolled in the path of the rushing scrimmage, 
 And picked the ball from the trampling boots ; 
 
 Venturing deeds which, we quite allow, 
 
 We certainly should not venture now. 
 
 Now, as we lingered, like Tithonus, 
 Musing over our shipwrecked hopes, 
 
 In the arena that once had known us, 
 There was young Oxford round the ropes ; 
 
 And it seemed to ourselves that we were there, 
 
 Not as we are, but as we were. 
 
 There were the heroes of club and college, 
 
 Ruddy faces and lips agape, 
 Keen eyes searching the Tree of Knowledge, 
 
 The thistle for fig, and the thorn for grape : 
 Marvellous boys, for the part arrayed, 
 Cast for the drama that once we played. 
 
AT QUEEN'S CLUB 39 
 
 In the pageant of Youth that never varies, 
 
 Winding its way along the High, 
 Under the shadow of old St. Mary's 
 
 Freshmen and fourth-year men go by ; 
 Sinner and Saint, a mingled throng, 
 Bounder and Blue they pass along. 
 
 Scanty the solace, but indisputable, 
 
 Puppets that dance at the footlights we ; 
 
 The players change, but the play's immutable, 
 And what are the odds who the players be ? 
 
 Eighty something I a year or two ; 
 
 What does it matter we or you ? 
 
FROM AIX TO ARGYLL 
 
 FROM AIX TO ARGYLL 
 
 FOR me the wanderer to enjoy 
 The silver sunlight of Savoy ; 
 For you to watch the rain that nils 
 The burns on your Argyllshire hills. 
 
 For me the landscape's dazzling hue 
 Beneath a sky of turquoise blue ; 
 For you grey mists that shroud the plain. 
 And hide Ben Vorlich or Ben Vane. 
 
 For me the idle crowd that shews 
 Parisian frills and furbelows ; 
 For you, to serve the moorland's need, 
 The hob-nailed shoe, the skirt of tweed. 
 
 For me the band that bleats and blares 
 Its medley of enticing airs ; 
 For you the wailing pipes that bring 
 Old memories of an exiled king. 
 
FROM AIX TO ARGYLL 41 
 
 For me to lose my humble franc, 
 
 Or more, at the casino bank ; 
 
 For you to land and not to lose 
 
 Grilse or sea-trout, as Luck may choose. 
 
 Quot homines the poet explains ; 
 Here pleasure at her gayest reigns, 
 And yet what would I give to stand 
 And play your gillie, gaif in hand ? 
 
TO A ROUNDHEAD 
 
 TO A ROUNDHEAD 
 
 (UPON THE 29TH OF MAY) 
 
 LIKE one who fought in Rupert's van, 
 A merry cavalier, I flout you, 
 Who come, you blue-eyed puritan, 
 
 Without a sprig of oak about you. 
 What ! you are all for Oliver, 
 
 And still remember disappointed 
 Those leaves that in the wind astir 
 
 So timely screened the Lord's Anointed. 
 
 Perhaps my monarch to your mind 
 
 Seems over-reckless and convivial ; 
 Perhaps your wisdom fails to find 
 
 Leisure for memories half so trivial : 
 Your sex that wearies for the moon 
 
 Awakes to such a sober playtime, 
 And busied with a serious June 
 
 Forgets a legendary Maytime. 
 
TO A ROUNDHEAD 43 
 
 Or else the earliest flush of dawn 
 
 This famous morning would have found you 
 Afoot upon the dewy lawn 
 
 With thrushes in the laurels round you, 
 Whose notes you rivalled bold and free 
 
 With songs of Carolean flavour, 
 The while you sought a proper tree 
 
 And plucked yourself a kingly favour. 
 
44 BALLADE OF BIRDS'-NESTING 
 
 BALLADE OF BIRDS'-NESTING 
 (TO G. N.) 
 
 you on sunny morns of May, 
 To you, with zeal and skill combined, 
 Are given, where'er our footsteps stray, 
 Discoveries of the choicer kind : 
 While I, in knowledge far behind, 
 As I confess with conscious blushes, 
 To modest exploits am resigned 
 Blackbirds and chaffinches and thrushes. 
 
 For you the pipit in the brae, 
 
 To cheat all eyes but yours designed ; 
 The long-tailed tit upon the spray, 
 
 The creeper in the pollard's rind ; 
 
 The water-ouzel, moss-entwined, 
 Where down the rocks the streamlet gushes, 
 
 For me, as through the woods we wind, 
 Blackbirds and chaffinches and thrushes. 
 
BALLADE OF BIRDS'-NESTING 
 
 Yet spots I light on by the way 
 
 Well suited to the nesting mind, 
 Whose fitness might be, one would say, 
 
 By some observant bird divined ; 
 
 Secluded hollows, bracken-lined, 
 Inviting alcoves in the rushes ; 
 
 But in the end I only find 
 Blackbirds and chaffinches and thrushes. 
 
 ENVOY 
 
 The gifts of Fate are well defined, 
 
 To those that have, the luck that crushes, 
 
 To others, inexpert and blind, 
 
 Blackbirds and chaffinches and thrushes. 
 
THE DEAD CHIEF 
 
 
 THE DEAD CHIEF 
 
 (A. N., OCTOBER 22ND, IQI5) 
 
 /""^HIEF of the House, our tragic day 
 ^-^ Of death in youth and broken powers 
 Sees your long life of service pay 
 Its debt to the consuming hours. 
 
 The Old Order changes ; at the last 
 It seemed to us an epoch died, 
 
 As that slow solemn pageant passed 
 Along the autumn riverside. 
 
THE OLD GAMEKEEPER 47- 
 
 THE OLD GAMEKEEPER 
 
 IN actual years I understand 
 That he is turned of sixty-seven, 
 His rugged brows are seamed and tanned 
 With all the winds and suns of heaven ; 
 Yet, though about his beard and hair 
 
 Old Time has scattered snow in plenty, 
 He fronts you with a stalwart air, 
 As upright as a lad of twenty. 
 
 A patriarch this of gun and rod, 
 
 Of gaff and fly, of fur and feather, 
 Who upon fifty Twelfths has trod 
 
 With Don and Rambler through the heather : 
 Who as a round-eyed urchin stared 
 
 At older squires in strange apparel, 
 And can recall the present laird 
 
 A novice with a single barrel. 
 
4$ THE OLD GAMEKEEPER 
 
 Year in, year out, his lot is cast 
 
 In none but outdoor occupation ; 
 Before his patient eyes goes past 
 
 The changeless pageant of creation ; 
 Year out, year in, the garnered sheaf, 
 
 The frost-bound earth, the April shower, 
 The mystery of the bursting leaf, 
 
 The nesting thrush, the budding flower. 
 
 On many a fragrant night of May, 
 
 All silver-white in moonlit beauty, 
 He waits and watches till the day, 
 
 A patient devotee of duty ; 
 While past the pines the brown owl swoops, 
 
 With silent wings and ghostly sailings, 
 He stands to guard the pheasant coops, 
 
 His back against the spinney railings. 
 
 A more romantic sentry might, 
 
 On some delightful revel chancing, 
 Have seen in the soft summer night 
 
 Great Pan amid his Dryads dancing ; 
 But his calm wits would not expect 
 
 So false and pagan an imago, 
 While he is wondering what effect 
 
 The dew will have on his lumbago. 
 
THE OLD GAMEKEEPER 
 
 In days when courtesy is dim, 
 
 And speech grown less polite and plainer, 
 You never fail to find in him, 
 
 The deference of the old retainer ; 
 He speaks about the crops and birds, 
 
 About the weather and the stubbles, 
 With some apologetic words 
 
 Of stiffness and rheumatic troubles. 
 
 With here and there a humorous touch, 
 
 Of which you catch a distant inkling, 
 And guess that it is meant as such 
 
 Because his honest eyes are twinkling ; 
 Then back to more professional ground, 
 
 To beats and spaniels, guns and setters, 
 As if herein alone he found 
 
 Fit conversation for his betters. 
 
 Yet among more familiar friends, 
 
 With nothing to suggest disparity, 
 Rumour reports that he unbends 
 
 To prodigies of jocularity ; 
 Nay, when the reels and jigs begin, 
 
 At Hallowe'en or Twelfth Night party, 
 Upon an ancient violin 
 
 He scrapes, a self-taught Sarasate. 
 
So THE OLD GAMEKEEPER 
 
 Exciting stories, too, he tells, 
 
 Great feats of memory or invention, 
 And round the dying fire compels 
 
 The listening harness-room's attention ; 
 With moving anecdotes of sport, 
 
 Of midnight raid and poaching battle, 
 Or else, the more exciting sort, 
 
 Of ghosts that walk and chains that rattle. 
 
 I wonder if we joined the crowd 
 
 If he would pardon our intrusion, 
 Would he continue and be proud, 
 
 Or would we fill him with confusion ? 
 I dare not risk it : I must be 
 
 His comrade through the heather plodding, 
 To whom it is not given to see 
 
 This Homer of the gun-room nodding. 
 
A BALLAD OF LABELS 51 
 
 A BALLAD OF LABELS 
 (FROM LONDON) 
 
 DAME FASHION, when she calls the tune, 
 Must surely crave my pardon 
 For prisoning me in leafy June 
 Far from my Alpine garden ; 
 
 So that in crowded square or street 
 
 My Fancy's playful mockery 
 Plants all the pavement at my feet 
 
 With treasures from the rockery ; 
 
 And so that, heedless to the claims 
 
 Of passing conversation, 
 I murmur to myself their names 
 
 By way of consolation. 
 
 The thread of compliment may run 
 Through many ball-room Babels, 
 
 I have one language, only one, 
 The language of the Labels. 
 
A BALLAD OF LABELS 
 
 In Kedar's tents are festive hours, 
 
 The nodes and the coenae, 
 My heart is where | RED ADMIRAL | flowers, 
 
 And crimson-starred | SILENE. [ 
 
 In box or stall on opera nights 
 
 Between each thrilling scene I 
 Recall the miniature delights 
 
 Of MENTHA REQUIENI. 1 
 
 Admirers find me deaf and dumb 
 To all their honeyed wheedlings ; 
 
 I muse on | LONGIFQLIUM, | 
 On sedums and on seedlings. 
 
 And when they come to hint their loves 
 Through all the usual stages, 
 
 I wish I were in gardening gloves 
 Among my saxifrages. 
 
THE GUIDE BOOK S3 
 
 THE GUIDE BOOK 
 
 COME forth, and brave our Northern sky, 
 Old comrade of the travelled ways, 
 For 'twixt your battered covers lie, 
 On pages scored with note and phrase, 
 The memories of enchanted days. 
 
 Your legend, while our grey fogs drift, 
 And while our angry sunsets frown, 
 
 Can, like Aladdin's carpet, lift 
 
 The dreamer up, and set him down 
 In Lombard plain or Tuscan town. 
 
 Where shall we wander ? Where abide ? 
 
 Somewhere with olive and with vine, 
 By Tiber or by Arno side, 
 
 By Mark's or Miniato's shrine, 
 
 On Pincian or on Palatine ? 
 
 Lead us through churches, those and these, 
 The Fountains, where the silence falls 
 
 Among the eucalyptus trees ; 
 Show us St. Peter's or St. Paul's, 
 In Fetters or Without the Walls. 
 
THE GUIDE BOOK 
 
 Come where Benozzo Gozzoli 
 Makes the Riccardi chapel glow 
 
 With ranks of gorgeous Medici, 
 
 Or where the convent cloisters show 
 Visions of Fra Angelico. 
 
 Or where the Adriatic wave, 
 
 The tideway of the Sea-queen's power, 
 
 Still murmurs round her earliest grave, 
 And chants her requiem hour by hour 
 Beneath Torcello's lonely tower. 
 
 With you in hand we turn to trace 
 Once more the Doge's gloomy state, 
 
 We feed the pigeons in the Place, 
 And board the gondolas that wait, 
 Black shadows at the palace gate. 
 
 Back to your shelf : on many a night 
 You bring for him who sits at home 
 
 Your Odyssey of sound and sight 
 Bargello, Forum, arch and dome 
 From Milan, Venice, Florence, Rome. 
 
TO MARJOR1E 
 
 TO MARJORIE 
 (AT CHRISTMAS, WITH THE Lays of Ancient Rome) 
 
 r ~P*O you, a poetess yourself, 
 J- A proper claim belongs 
 To treasure on your schoolroom shelf 
 This book of classic songs. 
 
 For had you lived in days of old 
 You would have joined the fray, 
 
 And on the bridge have helped to hold 
 Lars Porsena at bay. 
 
 Indeed I seem to see in you, 
 
 Child of our modern time, 
 Sparks of the fire that glitter through 
 
 These glories told in rhyme. 
 
 Oh, may no coming Christmas dull 
 
 The flame that in you glows ! 
 Fancies are for the fanciful, 
 
 When all the rest is prose. 
 
TO MARJORIE 
 
 And when the iron facts of lif e 
 
 Are hard to understand, 
 May you find solace after strife 
 
 In some enchanted land ! 
 
 For recollect that only they 
 
 May see the Fairies dance, 
 Who swing to light them on their way 
 
 The lanthorn of Romance. 
 
THE SWALLOWS 57 
 
 THE SWALLOWS 
 (EARLY AVIATION DAYS, 1910) 
 
 OUR burnished pinions flash like steel, 
 As round your chimney stacks we wheel, 
 
 Home-comers on the wing again ; 
 We who have heard on Libyan sands, 
 Across the seas, across the lands, 
 
 The summons of the spring again. 
 
 So league by league, and day by day, 
 We praised upon our homeward way. 
 
 The Master who created us, 
 Till at the last beyond the miles 
 We found the welcome ridge of tiles, 
 
 Or mossy thatch that waited us. 
 
 Yet as our flying myriads drew 
 Towards the journey's end we knew 
 
 That something had excited you, 
 And, circling over square and street, 
 We wondered what surprising feat 
 
 Had startled and delighted you 
 
THE SWALLOWS 
 
 Think of it ! All the joyful cries, 
 That seem to shake the April skies, 
 
 And make the budding branches stir, 
 Are tributes to a man's renown, 
 Who flew who flew from London town 
 
 As far as far as Manchester. 
 
THE BLESSING OF ESAU 
 
 THE BLESSING OF ESAU 
 
 '~pHE Triumph is his for evermore, who knew that 
 -A. mine eyes were dim, 
 So came in his brother's place and bore the Blessing 
 
 away with him ; 
 While you, you must forth to the desert plain, to live 
 
 by the share or the sword, 
 And to reckon the man with the scheming brain for 
 
 ever as king and lord. 
 
 I gave him the Town the Town for his prize, the 
 shop and street for his dream, 
 
 The pavement stones for his Paradise, and a con- 
 quering self-esteem, 
 
 In the mart, I said, he shall fill his purse, he shall 
 sit where the mighty sit, 
 
 To dominate you and the Universe with his words 
 and his wealth and his wit. 
 
60 THE BLESSING OF ESAU 
 
 I gave him for ever the loot, the luck, the verdict 
 
 at each appeal, 
 The vantage in every bargain struck, the aces in 
 
 every deal ; 
 For you may be strong, and he may be weak, and 
 
 fiercely your wrath may burn, 
 But he'll keep his cunning tongue in his cheek and 
 
 best you at every turn. 
 
 With this for the riddle of all your toil that spite 
 
 of the lies he said. 
 For him you shall delve the kindly soil in the quest 
 
 of his daily bread ; 
 Seed-time and harvest you shall see, and garner the 
 
 gifts they give, 
 For you must labour that you and he, the fool and 
 
 the knave, may live. 
 
 And now, of your Blessing and Birthright reft 
 
 through all the uncounted years, 
 Is there never a place of repentance left, though 
 
 carefully sought with tears ? 
 Yea, I pledge you this, as the days go by, I will 
 
 torture his crafty heart 
 With a lingering doubt that shall never die, whether 
 
 his be the better part. 
 
THE BLESSING OF ESAU 61 
 
 In his pomp and pride he shall feel the touch, the 
 
 touch of the magic earth, 
 And shall tremble to ask himself how much his prize 
 
 and his plots be worth ; 
 On some spring evening of cloud and shine, with 
 
 catkins grey on the bough, 
 With homing rooks on the sunset line, and plovers' 
 
 nests in the plough. 
 
 He shall envy you who far from the street can watch 
 
 the seasons pass, 
 Can watch the whiteness come to the wheat, the 
 
 greenness come to the grass, 
 The summer here and the winter gone, fulfilling the 
 
 steadfast plan, 
 Foretold by the bow in the clouds, whereon is 
 
 builded the Life of Man. 
 
 Aye, then let him sit and twirl his thumbs, and 
 
 think, if but for the time, 
 Of the Town he built, with her reeking slums, and 
 
 her squalor of tears and crime, 
 Let him catch the breath of the April night, and I 
 
 wager that he shall wish 
 In his inmost heart he had not been quite so prompt 
 
 with the venison dish. 
 
62 A LAODICEAN 
 
 A LAODICEAN 
 
 (THE DEBATE ON THE MOTION ' THAT THIS HOUSE 
 APPROVES . . .') 
 
 ' ' I ^HIS House approves . . .' from start 
 *- to close 
 
 The motion struggles on ; 
 Tossed like a ball from friends to foes 
 
 With violent pro and con, 
 Amid the clash of arguments, 
 
 Which, based on fact or fiction, 
 Appear to show at all events 
 A wealth of stern conviction. 
 
 Surely, I said, the promise lies 
 
 Here of that happy man, 
 Who, when divided counsels rise, 
 
 Blooms forth a partisan ; 
 Who bends the weak ones to his yoke, 
 
 And tramps the King's Dominions, 
 To pass the word to feeble folk 
 
 Who halt between opinions. 
 
A LAODICEAN 6? 
 
 Yet is it so ? Time was when I 
 
 Would join in the debate, 
 Prepared a nostrum to supply 
 
 For all that ailed the State. 
 Existence could no problem show 
 
 Too tough for my digestion ; 
 I brought a stalwart Yes or No 
 
 To bear on every question. 
 
 I marvel now to think I earned 
 
 My schoolfellows' applause 
 By floods of fervent rhetoric turned 
 
 Upon the Irish cause ; 
 To think I rose, inflamed, incensed, 
 
 And made a fierce oration 
 For or it may have been against 
 
 Directness of taxation. 
 
 With dogmas builded on a rock, 
 
 The most convinced of seers, 
 I strove, a second Fawkes, to knock 
 
 To bits the House of Peers ; 
 In fact, whenever questions shook 
 
 The public, right or wrongly, 
 In less than half an hour I took 
 
 A side and took it strongly. 
 
A LAODICEAN 
 
 According to my youthful lights 
 
 I launched a vigorous creed, 
 And rose to more egregious heights 
 
 When others disagreed ; 
 Prone to asseverate and assert, 
 
 Convinced and contumacious, 
 I did my utmost to convert 
 
 The world, like Athanasius. 
 
 Ah, there was then an open road 
 
 To follow or forsake, 
 Before the wider landscape showed 
 
 So many paths to take ; 
 Before the mind of middle life, 
 
 More supine or more supple, 
 Saw twenty aspects of the strife, 
 
 Where there were once a couple. 
 
 Now with a conscientious care 
 
 I grope towards the light, 
 And various verdicts I compare, 
 
 Which cannot all be right, 
 Until, when just about to take 
 
 My choice amid confusion, 
 I find new arguments which make 
 
 For quite a new conclusion. 
 
A LAODICEAN 63 
 
 What then ? If everywhere I see 
 
 Facts which refuse to budge, 
 I care not : nobody made me 
 
 A ruler or a judge. 
 These conflicts of the worst and best 
 
 May leave mankind divided, 
 While I may scan their struggling quest 
 
 Unmoved and undecided. 
 
66 QUEEN ANNE 
 
 QUEEN ANNE 
 
 (A CONTEMPORARY LAMENT) 
 
 QUEEN ANNE is dead. The final page 
 Is writ of our Augustan age ; 
 An age of great things dreamed and done, 
 Of victories by great captains won, 
 With milder triumphs counted dear 
 By partisan and pamphleteer ; 
 An age adorned with hoop and patch 
 With pink brocade and silks to match ; 
 When beauty babbled half the day 
 About the teacups and the tray ; 
 Or in the Mall the linkmen ran 
 Before her ladyship's sedan ! 
 Put out the lights the word is said 
 Put up the cards Queen Anne is dead. 
 
 We yield our age to Time in trust 
 To guard when we ourselves be dust ; 
 Our gleaming tankards shall be set 
 In some collector's cabinet ; 
 
QUEEN ANNE 67 
 
 Our ruddy brickwork, sunset-fired, 
 
 Shall be of every man admired ; 
 
 Our tall sash windows greet the dawn 
 
 On formal plot and misty lawn. 
 
 While this our closing phrase shall be 
 
 An oft-told tale's epitome, 
 
 Attesting as the years advance 
 
 Its own far-of significance, 
 
 When first the fateful message sped 
 
 That meant so much Queen Anne is dead. 
 
 
68 THE LITTLE HORSES 
 
 THE LITTLE HORSES 
 (AT THE CASINO) 
 
 JltfARQUEZ votre jeu, the croupiers shout 
 
 With one seductive voice ; 
 They turn the metal steeds about, 
 
 And bid you take your choice. 
 Which shall it be ? le neuf ? le sept ? 
 
 Behold them in a row, 
 And name the horse on which to bet 
 
 Your franc at p'tits chevaux. 
 
 Le jeu est fait they start the race, 
 
 And round the coursers spin ; 
 They circle at a rousing pace, 
 
 These thoroughbreds of tin ; 
 While round them a prophetic hum 
 
 Sways softly to and fro, 
 Some think le deux will win, and some 
 
 Le quatre at p'tits chevaux. 
 
THE LITTLE HORSES 69 
 
 Rien ne va plus ' tis almost done, 
 
 But two or three survive ; 
 Le cinq est passe, murmurs one, 
 
 Of too-ambitious five : 
 And, while some travel far too fast, 
 
 Some tarry much too slow, 
 One stops precisely right at last, 
 
 And wins at p'tits chevaux. 
 
 Come, the conventional moral read 
 
 Upon your own account ; 
 Not too much or too little speed, 
 
 But just the right amount : 
 The knowledge that experience brings 
 
 Of just how far to go, 
 Will spell success at other things . 
 
 As well as p'tits chevaux. 
 
70 DIANA OF THE EPHESIANS 
 
 DIANA OF THE EPHESIANS 
 
 HOUR after hour, when the tidings came, 
 They called on the great Diana's name ; 
 A loud and a long defence they made 
 Of a threatened creed, and a threatened trade, 
 Of the faith that their fathers knew and taught, 
 And the craft that was like to be brought to naught ; 
 New faiths, new crafts, new creeds may be, 
 But Great is Diana Great is she. 
 
 So is it yet, when the old things pass, 
 
 As the sands run down, run down in the glass ; 
 
 Still in the forefront, still with us, 
 
 Are the noisy zealots from Ephesus, 
 
 The men who would check Advancement's pace 
 
 By a series of shouts in the market-place, 
 
 The men who stand in the ancient ways. 
 
 Loudly singing Diana's praise. 
 
DIANA OF THE EPHESIANS 7/ 
 
 Your iron steeds through the cutting scream, 
 But where is the Highflyer's famous team ? 
 In an idle column the hansoms stand, 
 While your taxi whizzes you down the Strand ; 
 And everywhere, always, beside the way 
 Lies the worn-out wisdom of yesterday, 
 The craftsmen who laboured and lived in state, 
 In days when Diana was reckoned great. 
 
 O Catos, fighting at hopeless odds 
 Against the causes that please the Gods, 
 In vain, hi vain through the streets you cry 
 Your images nobody wants to buy ; 
 In vain you chant to the heedless earth 
 Of Diana's power and Diana's worth, 
 For the movement follows the usual lines, 
 And there's no more money in silver shrines. 
 
72 PILOT 
 
 PILOT 
 
 GREY-MUZZLED comrade of so many shoots, 
 You nose your placid way among the roots, 
 And lay the gathered quarry at my boots. 
 
 To think that years ago they called you wild, 
 A wayward thing, by foolishness beguiled, 
 To discipline but little reconciled. 
 
 The rabbit's savour lured you to the chase ; 
 You bounded joyously about the place, 
 To slink back afterwards in sore disgrace. 
 
 Age and experience modified your zeal, 
 And brought you, as dependable as steel, 
 Best of retrievers, soberly to heel. 
 
 Since then I recollect it with a sigh, 
 
 How often under an October sky, 
 
 We've tramped the stretching stubbles, you and I ! 
 
PILOT 73 . 
 
 Or, curbing our impatience as we could, 
 How often on December noons have stood, 
 Beneath the corner of the leafless wood ! 
 
 Alas ! there comes, as I recite your praise, 
 Some whisper of the parting of the ways, 
 And dim forebodings of deserted days. 
 
 Labuntur anni when I feel afraid, 
 
 I turn to watch you, philosophic, staid, 
 
 Plying with stolid industry your trade. 
 
 And see in you a heart of stouter cast, 
 That wastes no vain regrets upon the past. 
 But goes about his duty to the last. 
 
THE COVERTS, 1914 
 
 THE COVERTS, 1914 
 
 (TO AN ABSENT ONE) 
 
 WE shot them early, shot them blind, 
 For guns were difficult to find, 
 But still the old, the stiff, the thin, 
 We raked them out, we raked them in ; 
 The halt, the breathless, and the stout, 
 We raked them in, we raked them out, 
 Until at last we stood arrayed 
 A famous Out-of-date brigade. 
 
 Less fun than usual seemed to mark 
 Our first advance across the Park, 
 And no-one felt inclined to tell 
 Those anecdotes we know so well. 
 
 Then, opening at the Long plantation, 
 Your correspondent took his station 
 Behind the oaktrees by the mere 
 Where you were next to me last year, 
 Last autumn last November no ; 
 That was a thousand years ago. 
 
THE COVERTS, 1914 
 
 In the North wood I occupied 
 That narrow and perplexing ride, 
 A place which, if I recollect 
 Aright, you specially affect, 
 Where come as something of a shock 
 Brief glimpses of the floating cock, 
 And where I plaster far and nigh 
 A strip of unoffending sky. 
 
 So on and so forth ; here and there 
 We stood, our anxious thoughts elsewhere, 
 And wandered on from stand to stand, 
 The mid-day paper in our hand, 
 Conversing as we went our way 
 About last night's communique. 
 
76 MURUM AEDIFICANT 
 
 MURUM AEDIFICANT 
 (AMATEUR ROCK-GARDENERS) 
 
 HERE where the quarry shale is soft, 
 Where frequent land-slides fall, 
 Enormous rocks are borne aloft, 
 And Balbus builds a wall. 
 
 Assistant gardeners work their best 
 
 To excavate the loam, 
 And pile the boulders with the zest 
 
 Of him who founded Rome. 
 
 Some down the slope the rubbish fling, 
 
 While some with ardour pull 
 The ivy-roots, and others bring 
 
 Leaf-mould by barrowsful. 
 
 What though, with wastes of trodden clay, 
 
 With shreds of bramble torn, 
 Our new creation looks to-day 
 
 Disordered and forlorn ? 
 
MURUM AEDIFICANT 77 
 
 What though, regarding as their prize 
 
 Each seedling that aspires, 
 The rabbits peer with hungry eyes 
 
 From underneath the briars ? 
 
 No matter ; still with faith sublime 
 
 Hope runs her usual rig, 
 And promises a tidier time 
 
 To those who plant and dig : 
 
 A time when phlox and iberis 
 
 Shall grace the coping's brink, 
 When saxifrage and arabis 
 
 Shall tenant every chink 
 
 A patch of green, a cloud of white, 
 
 A splash of purple spilt, 
 In other Aprils making bright 
 
 The wall that Balbus built. 
 
78 THE FOURTH RIDDLE, igi8 
 
 THE FOURTH RIDDLE, 1918 
 (PROVERBS xxx. 18, 19) 
 
 T IFE shewed the Wise King riddles three, 
 
 Eagle and snake and ship at sea, 
 Yea, and a Fourth the text goes on 
 A Fourth thing staggered Solomon. 
 
 Within the workshop's busy walls, 
 Draped in your war-time overalls, 
 In farm and garden, field and byre, 
 
 (Great heart !) 
 You labour with a patriot's fire. 
 
 Now you behold your triumph won, 
 For here, as meed for service done, 
 Is freedom of our wordy fight, 
 
 (Wise heart !) 
 That strives to set Creation right. 
 
 What sober aims and ends are these ! 
 Yet she who rose from whirling seas 
 Still tarries with us, fact or myth, 
 
 (Dear heart !) 
 A goddess to be reckoned with. 
 
THE FOURTH RIDDLE, 1918 
 
 She whispers through the clash of blades 
 Her same old rede of men and maids, 
 And of that power, though khaki-clad, 
 
 (Sweet heart !) 
 That drove and drives Creation mad. 
 
 So we may mock his mysteries three, 
 Who climb the cloud and plumb the sea, 
 But, proof against our earthquake test, 
 The King's Fourth Riddle stays unguessed. 
 
HAMBLEDON 
 
 HAMBLEDON 
 
 (AND WHENEVER A HAMBLEDON MAN MADE A GOOD 
 HIT . . . YOU WOULD HEAR THE DEEP MOUTHS 
 OF THE WHOLE MULTITUDE BAYING AWAY IN 
 
 PURE HAMPSHIRE, " GO HARD ! GO HARD ! Tich 
 
 AND TURN ! Tick AND TURN ! ") Nyren. 
 
 YOU, batsmen of our later days, 
 Who stand erect and proud, 
 What time your frequent f ourers raise 
 
 The plaudits of the crowd, 
 Here is the kindled zeal aflame 
 
 That first began to burn, 
 When those old Hampshire yokels came 
 And shouted " Tich and turn ! " 
 
 You, critics with the captious eyes, 
 
 Your vigilant review 
 From the pavilion balconies 
 
 Is nothing strange or new ; 
 Your prototypes were met in strength 
 
 With sapient nod and smile, 
 To pass the word on Barber's length, 
 
 Or Harry Walker's style. 
 
 
HAMBLEDON 81 
 
 You, patrons of the cheaper seats, 
 
 The fervour and the thirst, 
 With which you celebrate the feats 
 
 Of Hayward and of Hirst, 
 Recall the rustic partisan 
 
 Who drank to the renown 
 Of Small or Scott, or Noah Mann, 
 
 Long since, on Windmill Down. 
 
 When to acclaim the master-stroke 
 
 Our modern cries resound, 
 Applause that cleaves the Sheffield smoke, 
 
 Or thunders from the Mound ; 
 What is it but the village voice 
 
 That made the welkin ring, 
 To hail the champion of its choice, 
 
 When Farmer George was King ? 
 
 To rank and wealth in all their pride 
 Upon the coach displayed, 
 
 To impecunious youth astride 
 The playground's palisade, 
 
 To ardent patriots on the tram, 
 Who follow by degrees, 
 
 From cablegram to cablegram, 
 
 The Test match overseas, 
 F 
 
82 HAMBLEDON 
 
 The fever spreads : while far away, 
 
 Across the vanished years, 
 Ring forth on afternoons of May 
 
 Those Hambledonian cheers : 
 That strange enchantment, after all 
 
 They were the first to learn, 
 Who watched the strife of bat and ball 
 
 With shouts of " Tick and turn ! " 
 
THE YOUNG IDEA 83 
 
 THE YOUNG IDEA 
 
 (AT WALK) 
 
 YOU wander about my gravel walks, 
 (Barmaid, Barmaid, in with you, Barmaid /) 
 You tumble among the carnation stalks, 
 And the children laugh, and the gardener talks. 
 (Barmaid, forrard away !) 
 
 Our sober pug at your folly scowls, 
 
 (Barmaid, Barmaid, in with you, Barmaid /) 
 But you roll him over, despite his growls, 
 And playfully bite his ear till he howls. 
 (Barmaid, forrard away I) 
 
 Wild oats, young lady. The flowers of June, 
 (Barmaid, Barmaid, in with you, Barmaid /) 
 And the fun of life will be over soon : 
 Then, what of the grey November noon ? 
 (Barmaid, forrard away /) 
 
84 THE YOUNG IDEA 
 
 What of the serious work ahead, 
 
 (Barmaid, Barmaid, in with you, Barmaid /) 
 When the horn has gone, and the rogue in red 
 Is slinking away from the osier bed ? 
 (Barmaid, forrard away !) 
 
VERB A NON FACT A 
 
 VERBA NON FACTA 
 
 "\ T 7 HEN once again he hears the voice 
 
 * V Of umpires calling " Play," 
 Needs must the veteran's heart rejoice 
 
 The challenge to obey. 
 He sees the line of boundary flags, 
 
 The tent, the scoring-board, 
 And cannot credit that he lags 
 
 Superfluous on the sward. 
 
 Cheerful he comes, although he feels 
 
 That this, the greatest game, 
 In every batting-list reveals 
 
 A certain loss of fame, 
 When he, the old protagonist, 
 
 Observes with some surprise 
 The name that used to head the list 
 
 Placed next before the byes. 
 
86 VERB A NON FACT A 
 
 What then ? He takes the thing to mean 
 
 That more experienced nerve 
 Will form should panic supervene 
 
 A capable reserve ; 
 And that, when youngsters fear and quake, 
 
 His destiny's command 
 Dictates a glorious chance to make 
 
 A long last-wicket stand. 
 
 As with the bat so with the ball, 
 
 And byegone hours come back, 
 When he was honoured with the call 
 
 To open the attack : 
 Alas ! this compliment is gone, 
 
 Captains and creeds are strange, 
 And all too rarely he goes on 
 
 Till sixth or seventh change. 
 
 Well, he can still be happy while 
 
 He waits his turn to bowl, 
 And lay with a contented smile 
 
 This unction to his soul ; 
 That when the score is mounting high, 
 
 And batsmen work their will, 
 These are the straits that really try 
 
 And test a bowler's skill. 
 
VERB A NON FACT A 
 
 Thus, although laid to all intent 
 
 And purpose on the shelf, 
 Will he extract from the event 
 
 Some solace for himself ; 
 And though brief sojourns at the crease 
 
 His hopes of triumph baulk, 
 They give long intervals of peace 
 
 When he may rest and talk. 
 
 Sheltered beneath a broad-brimmed hat, 
 
 His spell of fielding done, 
 He sits, as once old Kaspar sat, 
 
 And gossips in the sun, 
 Of many a noble innings played, 
 
 That won applause and praise, 
 Of runs that great Achilles made 
 
 In ante-test-match days. 
 
 And ever, as his present deeds 
 
 Advance a milder claim, 
 In those far-off Elysian meads 
 
 He plays a finer game ; 
 And ever, as his youth retreats, 
 
 From memory's kindly stores 
 He gleans more splendid bowling feats, 
 
 And more amazing scores. 
 
THE LAST POSTBOY 
 
 
 THE LAST POSTBOY 
 
 LAST of his kind, let him a claim to elegy 
 advance, 
 In honour of the part he played in Life and Life's 
 
 romance, 
 Who with the post-chaise used to wait, his old roan 
 
 nag astride, 
 
 Against the sign-post in the lane for bridegroom and 
 for bride. 
 
 He knew, he guessed at nothing he was deaf and 
 
 dumb and blind, 
 But he sprang his weary horses at the sound of 
 
 wheels behind ; 
 Then ducked his cap discreetly when the atmosphere 
 
 grew hot, 
 And he heard the shouting voices, angry oath and 
 
 pistol shot. 
 
THE LAST POSTBOY 
 
 To us, a prosier people, he is gallant if grotesque, 
 A pantomime conspirator, preposterous, picturesque, 
 Yet with a flavour of the days when men would do 
 
 and dare, 
 Before the blacksmith's anvil was exchanged for 
 
 Eaton Square. 
 
 So think upon him gently, for to many a wavering 
 
 will 
 
 He sat, a symbol of the die cast down for good or ill, 
 And many men, and many maids, whose ardour 
 
 burned like Etna, 
 He piloted one likes to hope to happiness and 
 
 Gretna. 
 
go LAMPADEPHORIA 
 
 LAMPADEPHORIA 
 (SCHOOL TORCHLIGHT PROCESSION) 
 
 T) UGLES and drums and measured paces, 
 -U Torches that flicker in the air, 
 Serried squadrons of eager faces 
 
 Lit by the dusky flare ; 
 In the June twilight see him stand 
 Youth with fire in his hand. 
 
 Here where the brothers of Saint Augustine 
 
 Once in the far-off summertide, 
 Serving the God that they put their trust in 
 
 Pondered and dreamed and died, 
 On the quiet journey that wound along 
 From Matins to Evensong, 
 
 Waits, where the white-haired dreamers waited, 
 Waited the call of the silent night, 
 
 Youth invincible, youth elated, 
 Youth all-armed for the fight ; 
 
 Comes where the worn-out brothers came 
 
 Youth with his torch aflame. 
 
LAMPADEPHORIA 
 
 Peril and pain shall daunt him never ; 
 
 Nay ! he shall overrun the earth. 
 What shall he not of bold endeavour, 
 
 He with his pride and worth ? 
 Hurrying onward, climbing higher, 
 Always carrying the fire. 
 
02 OXONIENSIS OXONIENSI 
 
 OXONIENSIS OXONIENSI 
 
 (CECIL RHODES DIED MARCH 26TH, IQO2) 
 
 OUR mistress of the Golden Gate, 
 She hath her tale of noble sons, 
 Whose names in annals of the State 
 
 Are writ for him to read who runs ; 
 Glorious and great protagonists, 
 Each in his own allotted span, 
 Who triumphed in the crowded lists 
 And bore her colours in the van. 
 
 She knows her champions of the past, 
 
 Whose deeds of righteousness and truth 
 Have dignified the Queen that cast 
 
 Her spell about their hour of youth ; 
 But, though she scan her records well, 
 
 And search her golden roll of fame, 
 She finds therein no parallel 
 
 To set with this amazing name. 
 
OXONIENS1S OXONIENSI 93 
 
 No son who fought and thought as he, 
 
 Nor one who bore so far afield 
 Through such strange shifts of destiny 
 
 The aegis of her azure shield : 
 Not one like this adventurous heart, 
 
 Who rose to greatness, blame, and praise 
 In lines that fell so far apart 
 
 From her sequestered garden ways. 
 
 Dead worthies in her graves are laid, 
 
 For each his carven stone survives, 
 Half-hidden in some cloistered shade, 
 
 As grey and quiet as their lives ; 
 He sleeps beneath another sky, 
 
 Sleeps in the trackless waste that seems, 
 Lonely and vast, to testify 
 
 To his illimitable dreams. 
 
94 EASTER PSALMS 
 
 
 EASTER PSALMS 
 (1918) 
 
 TV" INGS of the earth stand up and thunder, 
 AV (Can you not hear the battle strains ?) 
 Come let us break their bonds asunder, 
 Come let us cast away their chains. 
 
 Then music more subdued in sound 
 
 (Oh, anxious hearts !) the prophet sings, 
 
 Of mercy, and of refuge found 
 
 Beneath the shadow of Thy wings. 
 
 Yet ends in triumph at the last, 
 
 Of wondrous work (Oh, splendid youth !) 
 
 And of commandments standing fast, 
 That are done in equity and truth. 
 
NEW YEAR'S EVE 
 
 NEW YEAR'S EVE 
 
 STAND round the piano, old and young, 
 The bells the bells of Saint Nicholas ! 
 And ere the New Year's chime be rung, 
 Let the Old Year's farewell be sung, 
 
 As we wait for the bells of Saint Nicholas. 
 
 Old Year, good night ! He must not stay. 
 
 The bells the bells of Saint Nicholas ! 
 Draws to its close his latest day ; 
 For good or evil he's away, 
 
 To the sound of the bells of Saint Nicholas, 
 
 Now forth into the winter night ; 
 
 The bells the bells of Saint Nicholas ! 
 Come where the frosty lawn is white ; 
 Come out ; the calendar's alight, 
 
 And wait for the bells of Saint Nicholas. 
 
NEW YEAR'S EVE 
 
 
 Hark ! the clock tells the Old Year's doom ; 
 
 The bells- the bells of Saint Nicholas I 
 Far off the guns begin to boom, 
 And the chime crashes through the gloom, 
 
 The chime of the bells of Saint Nicholas. 
 
 New Year, New Year ! May we be bold 
 
 The bells the bells of Saint Nicholas ! 
 To face the secrets yet untold 
 Which your mysterious hours may hold. 
 Listen to the bells of Saint Nicholas. 
 
 Surely to comfort our alarms, 
 
 The bells the bells of Saint Nicholas I 
 They show beyond all hurts and harms 
 Stretched forth the Everlasting Arms. 
 Listen to the bells of Saint Nicholas. 
 
EPHEMERIS 97 
 
 EPHEMERIS 
 (THE MAY-FLY) 
 
 YOU fluttered forth above the sedge, 
 Fulfilled with joy of living, 
 You danced along the water's edge 
 
 Without the least misgiving ; 
 Yet, fluttering, dancing, nearer drew, 
 
 By some strange impulse bidden, 
 To that bright surface where, I knew, 
 Your certain doom lay hidden. 
 
 Then, underneath the alder boughs, 
 
 You lighted on an eddy, 
 As if your sunlit hour's carouse 
 
 Had wearied you already ; 
 And, while you preened your gauzy wings, 
 
 A cheerful and a gay fly, 
 I saw the spread of circling rings, 
 
 Where there had been a May-fly. 
 G 
 
98 EPHEMBRIS 
 
 Such was your life to death from birth, 
 
 And, dazzling in its brevity, 
 It seems to set a curious worth, 
 
 By contrast, on longevity ; 
 So that, if measuring our careers, 
 
 My longer limit flatters, 
 I ask myself if, hours or years, 
 
 The difference really matters. 
 
 Thus do I spin your elegy, 
 
 Yet, knowing what shall follow, 
 I feel my sentiments to be 
 
 Not only trite but hollow ; 
 One waiting for the trout to rise - 
 
 Admits the thought as treasonable, 
 Yet cannot reckon your demise, 
 
 Though tragic, as unseasonable. 
 
 The spot where, resolute or rash, 
 
 You chose to float and flounder, 
 Concealed, to judge him by his splash, 
 
 A good three-quarter-pounder ; 
 Above whose greedy nose shall sail, 
 
 Just where he rose to strike you, 
 A fly with something in his tail, 
 
 Like you yet not quite like you. 
 
THE MERMAID 
 
 THE MERMAID 
 
 (OF THE FOUNTAIN. SHE STANDS IN THE HIGHLAND 
 GARDEN, WITH A SPOUTING DOLPHIN IN HER 
 ARMS, AND LOOKS ACROSS THE LOCH) 
 
 S^lUEEN 0/S0W0 dim, sea-murmuring, cave, 
 z I look across the gleaming wave 
 From Kinglas Point to Dunderave. 
 
 Admire me, sometimes grave and sad, 
 Sometimes inscrutable and glad, 
 Like one that wonders if my years 
 Of vigil bring me mirth or tears. 
 
 About me now are joyous tones, 
 And pattering feet upon the stones, 
 Voices that call on lawn or beach, 
 With children answering, each to each. 
 
 An exile here ah me ! ah me ! 
 I envy those who gain the sea, 
 Sportive and splashing and alive, 
 Mermaids themselves, who swim and dive. 
 
THE MERMAID 
 
 And if some envy me, who wish 
 That they, like I, had got a fish, 
 No matter all is blithe and gay, 
 Laughter and Life and Holiday. 
 
 What's Life to me, to spend or save, 
 Who look across the Eternal wave 
 From Kinglas Point to Dunderave ? 
 
 To-day, To-morrow even so ; 
 The golden Augusts come and go, 
 Until on this deserted hall 
 The shadows and the silence fall. 
 
 The laughing voices ring no more, 
 The redshank whistles down the shore, 
 The great stag roars on Cruach-side, 
 The great sea murmurs, tide by tide. 
 
 My garden kingdom holds but me, 
 My dolphin spouts with none to see, 
 While here, the lonely whiter through 
 I wait and watch and wait for you. 
 
 So, year by year, half-glad, half-grave, 
 I look across the sunset wave 
 From Kinglas Point to Dunderave. 
 
THE TRIUMPH 
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF ORIANA 
 (QUEEN ELIZABETH DIED, MARCH 24TH, 1603) 
 
 T ONG live fair Oriana ! So 
 We celebrate her praise, 
 With these quaint compliments that go 
 Back to her spacious days. 
 
 What though the years have wrought their will, 
 
 What though the Queen be old, 
 Though night be fallen on Latmos Hill, 
 
 And all the tale be told ; 
 
 She still shall triumph, never fear, 
 
 So long as history's page 
 Brings back for us the atmosphere 
 
 Of her amazing age. 
 
 Her sailors, poets, men of state, 
 
 Her courtiers on their knees, 
 The storms that blew to dissipate 
 
 Her foeman's argosies, 
 
j -T&UMPH OF ORIANA 
 
 She moves among them, grim and grave, 
 And, while her memory stands 
 
 For that proud enterprise that drave 
 Far over seas and lands 
 
 Her kingdom's glory, ever shall 
 
 The centuries acclaim, 
 As in our loyal madrigal, 
 
 Fair Oriana's name. 
 
THE MASTER'S MATCH. 1889-1914 103 
 
 THE MASTER'S MATCH. 1889-1914 
 
 (EPILOGUE TO A BOOK OF THE SCORES OF A VILLAGE 
 CRICKET MATCH, PLAYED EVERY SEASON FOR 
 FIVE AND TWENTY YEARS, AT ETWALL, IN 
 DERBYSHIRE) 
 
 r T"*HOUGH critics visit with disdain 
 -L This book, and canvass it in vain 
 For stirring deeds and striking thoughts, 
 Amid a tale of ones and noughts ;. 
 
 What matter ? for the faithful few, 
 Who turn these pages in review 
 For them this homely record lies 
 Instinct with happy memories. 
 
 Memories of matches lost and won, 
 Of summer afternoons and sun, 
 Of many a doughty innings played, 
 Of catches missed and catches made. 
 
104 THE MASTER'S MATCH. 1889-1914 
 
 Again upon the village ground 
 Comment and colloquy go round, 
 In the slow friendly Midland tongue, 
 Echoing from years when we were young. 
 
 Again the light and shadow pass 
 Across green slopes of Meynell grass ; 
 The incense of the fallen hay 
 Comes from dim meadows Trusley way. 
 
 Dull figures ? Nay, an Epic told 
 By warriors obsolete and old, 
 And piped to an enchanting tune 
 By all the radiant gods of June. 
 
HOLIDAY IN WARTIME 105 
 
 HOLIDAY IN WARTIME 
 
 (TO M. F. N.) 
 
 HPHERE aye no noisy London streets, 
 -- No Huns, no guns across the sea, 
 
 Only the summer sun that beats 
 Down upon lawn and lilac tree, 
 Lilacs and lawns in Arcadie. 
 
 No orgie of appalling sound, 
 
 Only the song of soaring lark, 
 And, when the twilight hour comes round, 
 
 Late-calling cuckoos in the park, 
 
 And night- jars thrumming through the dark. 
 
 While in the wood the pipes of Pan 
 Hold forth at least for you and me 
 
 Promise of some diviner plan, 
 When in the peaceful days to be 
 Shepherds return to Arcadie. 
 
THE TWO LAST COLLECTS 
 
 
 THE TWO LAST COLLECTS 
 
 YOU shall read your portion of Book and Psalter, 
 With the First of the Day appointed there, 
 And the two last Collects shall never alter, 
 But daily be said at Morning Prayer. 
 
 Is it all lip-service, and grown habitual, 
 Since that shall be that hath ever been ? 
 
 Nay : something shall one day light your ritual, 
 To show what the two last Collects mean. 
 
 You shall pray the Author of Peace to friend you, 
 For all your frailties and all your faults, 
 
 You shall pray that His strength may still defend 
 
 you, 
 His humble servants, in all assaults. 
 
 Then, safely brought to the day's beginning 
 By the power of the everlasting might, 
 
 You shall promise yourselves, the weak, the sinning, 
 To do that is righteous in His sight. 
 
THE TWO LAST COLLECTS 107 
 
 And courage may fail, and hearts may falter, 
 
 But His protection shall never cease, 
 Like the two last Collects that never alter 
 
 You shall always pray for Grace and Peace. 
 
io8 
 
 WEDDING HYMN 
 
 : ".* 
 
 WEDDING HYMN 
 
 TO Thee our prayers, O Saviour, rise 
 That from Thy throne above 
 Thou wilt behold with gracious eyes 
 Thy servants' act of love. 
 
 For Thou hast bought us with a price, 
 
 Thyself the first to teach 
 To what great heights of sacrifice 
 
 Redeeming love can reach. 
 
 So bless Thy children here, we pray, 
 
 Who, joining life to life, 
 Before Thine altar kneel to-day 
 
 To leave it man and wife. 
 
 Grant that through all their earthly care, 
 
 With Thee their only guide, 
 They may till death Thy promise share 
 
 Together side by side. 
 
WEDDING HYMN log 
 
 And in that land which doth not see 
 
 Or sun or moon by night, 
 Whose gates are praise, where God shall be 
 
 Their everlasting light ; 
 
 When all the shadows are withdrawn, 
 
 Before Thee they may stand, 
 To welcome the eternal dawn. 
 
 Together hand in hand. 
 
THE HAPPY YEARS 
 
 
 THE HAPPY YEARS 
 (PROLOGUE TO A REPRINT) 
 
 THE Happy Years the years that went before, 
 The years whose epitaph is writ in gold, 
 You that were happy in them, turn once more, 
 
 Turn and review their tale already told, 
 And, as a fitting Prologue, open out 
 The Book of Recollection and behold 
 
 What pictures lie therein blue carpets drawn 
 Of harebells in Calf Close at every turn, 
 
 The blaze of rhododendrons on the lawn, 
 Scarlet tropaeolum and grey stone urn, 
 
 Walks in the Yaxes and the Serpentine, 
 With Joe and Caspar hunting in the fern. 
 
 Peach-blossom pink against the greenhouse pane, 
 And tits like sapphires dancing on the tree ; 
 
 The white spring evening in the West again, 
 Green dragon cups and new-laid eggs for tea ; 
 
 Violets and freesias in the dining-room, 
 Freesias and violets that such things could be ! 
 
THE HAPPY YEARS 
 
 The bustling humours of the midnight jaunt, 
 That bore us Northward to enchanted ground, 
 
 To wade brown rapids that the salmon haunt, 
 To climb steep corries where the grouse are found ; 
 
 What expectation as the day drew near, 
 
 What festive gatherings when the Twelfth came 
 round ! 
 
 The many Happy Christmases that brought 
 Children and crackers, revelry and fun, 
 
 Wizards that mutter, Indian braves that fought, 
 Carols and presents, and the Currant Bun ; 
 
 With hallowed rites that greeted the New Years, 
 As the Old Years departed one by one. 
 
 Good Bye, old Happy Years ! We look across 
 To your calm spaces from our stormy day, 
 
 To treasures of Remembrance which no loss, 
 No tears of afterward, can take away, 
 
 To a glad heritage for grateful hearts, 
 
 Who on your grave their withered tribute lay. 
 
 PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY ROBERT MACLEHOSE AND CO. LTD. 
 AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, GLASGOW. 
 


481076 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
 YC160560