POEMS AT HOME AND &BMM) LIBRARY UWVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA ittVERSJDE iii iai; iiliiiDlllj^i 'j' ' -^11-:: ISAAC FOOT POEMS AT HOME AND ABROAD PUBLISHED BV JAMES MACLEHOSE AND SONS, GLASGOW, Sttblislurs to the SntbersitB. MACMILLAN AND CO., LTD., LONDON. New York, Toronto, - London, • Cambridge, Edinburgh, Sydney, - The Macmillan Co. The Macmillan Co. of Canada. Simpkin, Hamilton and Co. Bowes and Bowes. Douglas and Foulis. Angus and Robertson. MCM1X. Poems at Home and Abroad f r By the Rev d H. D. Rawnsley Canon of Carlisle Author of Sonnets at the English Lakes," 'Sonnets in Switzerland and Italy' ' Valete,' ' A Sonnet Chronicle,' etc. Glasgow James MacLehose and Sons Publishers to the University 1909 o GLASGOW : PRINTED AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS BY ROBERT MACI.EHOSE AND CO. LTD. TO BERYL BRAMLY IN MEMORY OF HAPPY DAYS AT CASTEL DI POGGIO CONTENTS POEMS OF ITALY AND ABROAD PAGE May-time on Monte Subasio, i On the Way to Rivo Torto, 7 St. Francis, 10 Sabbath Dawn at Castel di Poggio, . . . 11 Sunrise at Castel di Poggio, 13 The Vindemia at Degli' Angeli, .... 14 On leaving Florence by Starlight, . . . 15 From Orta to Varallo, 16 At the Chapel of the Madonna del Belmone above Taponacchio, Fobello, .... 20 ponte gula, 21 BlLAL THE MUEDZZIN, 23 POEMS OF THE MONTHS The Seasons, 33 A February Song, 36 vii Vlll CONTENTS A Spring Song at the Lakes, March— Summer, . April Showers, A Rainless April, The First Swallow, . Foxgloves at Brandelhow, June Twilight at Eversley, July at the Lakes, Heather on Lonscale, September at the Lakes, . The Tropaeolum Speciosum, Skating on Derwentwater, Christmas, .... The Keswick Old Folks' Dinner, A Crosthwaite Belfry Song, . 38 39 42 43 44 45 46 48 51 53 54 55 56 57 58 POEMS OF THE BIRDS The Chaffinch's Nest, 'Twixt Sunrise and the Moon, A Thrush in Spring, . The Blackbird Dead, . Sadness in Song, . The Chorus of the Dawn, The Waking of the Birds, The Chiff-Chaff, . 61 63 64 65 66 67 69 70 CONTENTS IX The Birthday of the Singers, 'Ubi Aves ibi Angeli,'. Fieldfares, 72 73 74 MEMORIAL SONNETS The Village Naturalist, A Lake Country Guide, John Ruskin, . At Ruskin's Grave, In Memoriam, Senator Hoar, John Milton,. The Gift of the Leigh Woods to Bristol, Algernon Charles Swinburne, 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS We Meet at Morn, my Dog and I The Sorrow of the May, . The Fiddler's Funeral, A Westmoreland Song, The Westmoreland Emigrant, Home from Italy, At Dunnabeck, .... 91 93 95 98 100 102 103 CONTENTS Dawn in Greece and Cumberland— A Contrast, The Stag Impaled, Jupiter and Venus, A Shadow on Scafell, At Buck Castle, . In the Wray Garden, The Streamlet at the Wray, The Bewcastle Cross, The Sycamore at High Close, A Memory, .... PAGE I05 IO6 I07 108 I09 III 112 114 Il8 119 POEMS OF ITALY AND ABROAD May-time on Monte Subasio This is the Mount of God ; These heights St. Francis trod In days as fresh as is the springtide grass. Yea, and he left behind The footprints of his mind Whereby who follow peace and joy may pass. Wherefore when May is come Men leave their city home And all their work and all their cares below, And seek the upper air To find St. Francis there, The haunting spirit of Subasio. Eight days the snows have fled From off the mountain's head ; Not yet the herds upon the uplands rove ; Unharmed by goat and sheep The blessed flowers may peep To give us happy welcome as we move. A 2 MAY-TIME ON MONTE SUBASIO Passed is the city gate Where Rome once held its state ; Farewell brown roofs, old Castle wall and towers ; Up through the sunburnt rocks Cool for the fresh-leaved box, We seek St. Francis' world of thought and flowers. How fragrant is the May That blooms beside the way, How gold the broom, how green each hazel bush ; There is no wing that stirs The thorn and junipers, And over all there broods a solemn hush ; There on their ruddy steep The dead men lie asleep, They cannot hear what Tescio sings to-day ; No lark is in the air As up the silent stair We climb, unhelped by song, our mountain way. But where with tufts of flowers A grassy lawn is ours, And hazels cease, and cease the junipers, Sudden sweet song is given, Larks fill with joy the heaven, And at our feet the happy cricket chirrs. MAY-TIME ON MONTE SUBASIO 3 Tired with the stony ways, How must our feet not praise, Subasio, these long miles of grass outspread ! How could the heart not own God gave no nobler down, Flower-sprinkled thus, for weary feet to tread ! For here without its peers The towering orchis rears, The fritillaria hangs a mottled bell, Shines the narcissus eye, With turquoise jewelry The fair forget-me-not has worked her spell. With thoughts of home most sweet, About the traveller's feet The golden cowslip glitters far and near. But better still than all St. Francis seems to call 1 Ye gave me joy, give these poor strangers cheer.' Cool as the air of dawn Across the fragrant lawn Comes a soft wind from distant worlds of snow. Here Thrasymene shines, And there the Sibilines, And there Abruzzi's hills in splendour glow. 4 MAY-TIME ON MONTE SUBASIO From distance, lo ! we hark The wolf of Gubbio bark, And, where Bagnara 'neath Pennino lies, I see the soldiers move, Bearing the man they love Home to his death, in pain, with blinded eyes. Or there across the plain, Purple and patched with grain, Where grey Bevagna rests beneath the hills, I hear the good man reach Bird-hearts, with loving speech, By which men touch the heart of wild birds still. Then back my soul takes flight To this untroubled height The ' little poor man ' loved long years ago, When for his great heart's rest He climbed the grassy crest That looks on Carceri folded far below. With what enchantment strange The mountains, range on range, Move through the hours in multi-coloured pride ; Now grey with russet hue Now silver-white and blue, They boldly show or swift their beauty hide. MAY-TIME ON MONTE SUBASIO Now far away they gleam, Then, near to touching seem, While over all in bluest depths of air White cloudlets fleck the dome Like choirs of angels come With pure desire to look on scenes so fair. Here, on this hill of rest With song and wild flower blest One presence haunts the ever-changing day, Changeless in heart and mind, The lover of his kind, Still Francis comes to greet us on our way. He points us to the town Wherein to him was shown Vision of palace, arms, and beauteous bride ; Then tells us of the fight Won by a nobler knight Than rode to old Spoleto in his pride. He lets us gaze our fill, Then leads us from the hill To where the Carceri gave him sure retreat, Shows where in ilex wood The angels brought him food And bids us be partaker of his meat. 6 MAY-TIME ON MONTE SUBASIO ' Come ye, yourselves apart/ He whispers to each heart, ' And learn how little needs our earthly life, Then forth like strong men go From your Subasio Of loftiest thought — peace-makers in all strife.' On the Way to Rivo Torto When on that April day the prophet turned His back on all that he had loved so well — Mother and home, and through the forest glade, Sought, by the road the Roman soldiers made, That coiling stream beside the leper's cell, For him no young corn grew — no poppies burned. Yet had he found life's surest anodyne, The love of all earth's common brotherhood, And in his hand he bore most precious seed To be the bread whereon true souls may feed — Sense of a spirit in earth and air and wood — And in man's heart the power to be divine. And we who wander through Mojano's gate, Or at the cross-way talk with brother Giles, Then forward go beneath the shadowy elms, Feel the dark shame that well nigh overwhelms, To think, though still St. Francis on us smiles, We will not taste the heavenly food he ate. 7 8 ON THE WAY TO RIVO TORTO Ah ! would to God that through the rustling corn Some leper from Saint Madelena's home Would cry for pity, so that we might prove At least there lives on earth St. Francis' love, At least his great compassion still may come To succour outcast sorrowing ones forlorn. Now have we reached the stable by the well, Have knelt a moment in the neighbouring shrine, But no one asks our cloak, we are full fed No need to seek for bits of broken bread, And when the stars to-night above us shine, We shall not share with beasts a leper's cell. So, wrapt in thought, to home we turn our face Cool towards the sunset over rippling corn, Through silver olives, vine-clad mulberries, Comes the soft air of eve, and as it flies I hear a voice, ' Behold ! ye must be born, Born once again, to find St. Francis' grace.' Then through the elms I hear a little bell, Not that great thunderer — St. Francesco's pride, Nor the deep bell beneath the purple dome That masks and mocks the ' Little Portion's ' home, A bell that speaks as if an angel cried, The bell that rings where Clara used to dwell. ON THE WAY TO RIVO TORTO 9 And as it rings, beside a rose in flower, The sweet wild rose that touches ever)- heart, I see a grey monk kneeling in the way ; He prays, and knows St. Clara too will pray Then rises blest, and never more apart, Walks with her soul towards heaven in peace and power. The dream has vanished, but in all the plain Henceforth there is no path so dedicate To love as this, where moving up and down To beg for alms in old Assisi's town Called by the bell above St. Damien's gate, St. Francis quite forgot his life-long pain. And still each time with blessing in the air For those who pass down Rivo Torto's way The tinkling bell of Damien's church may sound, There on his knees St. Francis will be found As happy as a lover, sworn to pray And work with one God gave him, Sister Clare. St. Francis The Inauguration of the International Society for Franciscan Studies, fune ist, 1902. To his seraphic city on the hill, Not ever hid since Francis passed away, From all the world we pilgrims come to-day Because his heart on earth is beating still, Because we feel the indomitable will That fought its fight beneath the cloak of grey, That bade men know they rule who best obey And in pure love Christ's golden law fulfil. True, knightly-hearted, simple and sincere, We know thee now ; come forth with shepherd's rod And song of praise to feed us and to guide ! For poor men call, and still we seek thy bride ; Star-flowers on earth, and stars in heaven shine clear To lead us thro' obedience up to God. 10 Sabbath Dawn at Castel di Poggio TlRED of the Pisan railway thunder, Flash of the day and flicker of night, Happy the man who sees the wonder Of silent dawn from this castle-height. Vallombrosa all lilac and tender, Lilac tender on olives pale, And the cypress towers in sunlit splendour High o'er the Arno's sunless vale. Not a sound in the tree-tops going, Not a cicala to greet the morn ; Only the voice of a shrill cock crowing, Only the note of a goat-herd's horn. Yet as I lean and drink the beauty Sudden I hear the clang of bells, ' God is the Lord and praise is duty,' — So the throb of their melody tells. ii 12 SABBATH DAWN Praise, yea praise for His mercy, giving Strength to the toiler, fruit to the plain, Another day for joy to the living, Another day for the end of pain. Praise from the city just waked from dreaming, Praise from Arnolfo's wondrous dome, Praise from the farms like white stars gleaming Each with a gift of love and home. Ring on bells, though the sheep are scattered, And a thousand hills have a thousand ways, Night shall tell that it little mattered, For all were one in their need of praise. Sunrise at Castel di Poggio HIGH o'er the castle tower, and round and round With leathern wings those fugitives from day, The whispering bats, rejoiced in tremulous play, And from the sleepy forest came no sound. Soft was the air, but all Val d'Arno's bound Was filled with sudden winter ; far away White Arctic icefloe held unwonted sway With minished hills of purple beauty crowned. Red-gold and saffron, wondrous, bar on bar, Brightened above the hills of Casentine, And slowly rose the sun, so slow, the fawn Felt not its shadow on the dewy lawn ; And still as dark as midnight stood the pine, And still o'er Vallombrosa hung one star. '3 The Vindemia at Degli' Angeli The ox was stalled, the last dark cluster pressed, The last grape torrent to the vat was poured, The knives laid by, the empty baskets stored, The vineyard men and maidens all at rest ; But in the courtyard were the tables dressed With flowers of flame, and round the cheerful board — Not without thanks unto the Harvest's Lord — The cup went round and merry was each guest. Old toasts were given, and then beneath the blue Of Fiesole's star-spangled Heaven we spoke Our heart's content, and banished all our care. Ah, never wine was poured, nor bread was broke By gladder hands, while host and hostess true Were entertaining angels unaware. 14 On leaving Florence by Starlight J When the first saffron flushed the silver sky Above the hill where Francis met his friend, And thro' the homes of sleep — too soon to end — The Arno like a tranquil dream went by, — I passed from Florence. One bright star on high Upon the Vecchio's tower stood still to send Hope that the power of Heaven with grace would tend The fortune of that ancient signory — There thro' the hushed piazza as I moved From a bronze tablet on the ground was borne A voice of exultation, and it cried ' Savonarola not in vain has died, Still over Florence burns the star of morn, The star of Faith and Freedom that he loved." i5 From Orta to Varallo Over the Colma. Come ! climb to Colma's western height When Orta's mist at morn ascends, When vines are filled with golden light And chestnut shade befriends, And hear a sound, that ever falls With joy on ears of Cumbrian men, Pellino's voice of might that calls From out his woody glen. Knitting with busy hands the while The women lead their black-woolled sheep ; Men bearing gourds upon us smile To cheer us up the steep. The children bring with liberal hands Dark grapes warm-hearted from the sun, Or where the threshers ply their wands, With chestnut fruitage run. 16 FROM ORTA TO VARALLO 17 We leave tall Arola's tower behind, Its vintage toil, its wayside stream, By level paths the box has lined, By golden gourds that gleam. By ample barns, straw-thatched and warm, Still up we climb the mountain stair ; Pellino cools us with his charm, And cowbells fill the air. The height is reached, the ways incline, Here angels surely love to dwell ; The peasant pauses at the shrine As if he felt the spell. A moment stayed for sheer surprise, Down to another world we leap ; Sad women with their grey-blue eyes Pass, panniered, up the steep. Such tinkling music fills the air, On the green slopes such walnuts stand, Such chalets peep, as on we fare, We dream of Switzerland. Now Civiasco's street we hail, With leafage rosy in the sun, And gaze on that grey gleaming vale Where Sesia's waters run. B 1 8 FROM ORTA TO VARALLO Deep in the woody gorge below The infant Padus springs to birth ; Though far to Adria's gulf he go He leaves a sound of mirth. And heavy is the peasant's load, And dark as night the wanderer's care, Who, listening, cannot leave his load Upon the mountain stair. And if the voice can bring no rest He need but look with backward eyes To where in gracious woodland drest Those triple peaks arise. Down, down by loop and gyre we went Along the milk-white rock-hewn way, With hearts brimful of life's content, Upon that Autumn day. Magnificently, range on range, The mountains of chameleon hue, Rose grey against the green, to change To grey against the blue. Strange towery cliffs of rock and wood Stood up, like giant castles planned To stem all fierce invaders' flood And rule a peaceful land. FROM ORTA TO VARALLO 19 The chestnut forest climbed the height, And in the depth acacia groves Flashed emerald green, where lost to sight The double torrent moves. Then sudden, like a diadem, White towers above the woodland gleamed, We saw the new Jerusalem Old Bernardino dreamed. Ah ! who that knows of Life and Death And hopes for Life from Death restored, Would, at such sight not hold his breath And pray to Christ the Lord ! At the Chapel of the Madonna del Belmone above Taponacchio, Fobello THEY must have eagle's wings, the men who dwell On this far slope beneath La Tourba's height, But they have souls that dare a nobler flight, For yonder shines their faith's high citadel Where prayers are said, where rosaries they tell ; First seen at morn and latest seen at night The snow-white chapel seems a beacon-light, A sign that Mary loves and guards them well. Even as I gazed, with looks resigned and calm, A shepherd went strong-hearted from the shrine, And up impracticable slopes were driven The goats, while to the chanting of a psalm I heard young girls come singing home the kine, And knew that labour here was blest of Heaven. 20 Ponte Gula Who, from Varallo, seek Fobello's height May hear the Mastallone all the way Making rich music, happy in its might, And, like a giant, happy in its play. But, when it nears to Gula's fearsome cleft The torrent seems to lose its playful mood, And solemn moves, of all its joy bereft, As if it felt some deep inquietude. Black are the crags, and even the autumn's gold No sense of gladness to its way can lend, While lamentation as for sorrows old Fills the tall murmuring cliffs from end to end. *& But, where beneath that ancient bridge it goes To change from green to silver and to sun, Its moody waters quite forget their woes And on with laughter towards Varallo run. 21 22 PONTE GULA How many a life in this strange world of ours Has its dark gorge of loneliness and grief So deep we cannot reach with human powers And sympathetic touch to bring relief! But Nature still abides, her hand can bring Help to the heart in darkness doomed to move, And sudden, makes a sun-lit opening To give us back new happiness and love. Bilal the Muedzzin Written on reading a passage in Sir William Muir's ' Life of Mahomet! God's Mohammed is dead ! He of the Prophet's choice, He of the beautiful voice. Bilal now sits in the gate, Bowed and disconsolate, Cannot lift up his head ; And for his heart's great pain He never will climb again The twisted minaret stair, Never will thrill the night With the call of the Prophet to prayer, Crying aloud in his might, Over camp over castle and keep, That ' prayer is better than sleep ' : Bilal is heart-broken, forlorn. The years have flown and the hair That falls on his bosom is white, 23 24 BILAL THE MUEDZZIN But still with unquenchable fire Bilal the Muedzzin must share The shame or the glory of fight, The fury of Mussulman war ; Still must follow the host That follows the crescent and star, Still, whatever it cost, Must mix with the conquering host That, led by the Caliph Omar, Will preach the New Faith by the sword. And now from the blue sea's hem And the shore's long carpet of grain, Over the ridges of grey That roll from Jerusalem South to the Beersheba plain, North to great Hermon, and height Of Lebanon white with its snow, The flame of the Paynim fight Has flashed on its terrible way Right through the heart of its foe, Searing the land with its bale : Yea, and the City that lies By Pharpha, set like a gem, Green in the golden sand, Portal of Paradise, Damas has opened its gates, BILAL THE MUEDZZIN 25 Has cast the crown from her hand, Has bowed to the crescent and star And owned the Caliph Omar. So to the sea by the coast Has passed the victorious host, Down by the way where of old Sennacherib's car was rolled, Down by the rocks that tell The power of Nimrod and Bel ; And gathered there by the shore Of burning Barytus they cry, ' Caliph command once more Thy warriors all draw nigh And hear once again from the wall A blessing from heaven fall, Hear as in days gone by Bilal the Muedzzin cry.' Then did the Caliph Omar Command ; and his men of war Stood by the shore of the sea, Silently man by man, To listen the loud ' Adhan." And Bilal clomb up as of yore The minaret there by the shore, 26 BILAL THE MUEDZZIN Climbed, but in panting and pain, Rested his breath to gain ; Then with his face to the east Waited till light be increased And the rose should bloom in mid air, And the Paradise gates unclose, And the star should stoop through the rose To hearken the call to prayer. He cried, and the listening sea That before in its thunder was rolled, Heedless of man and free, Sank in purple and gold To silence there on the beach, And the wild fowl out in the bay Clamorous ceased from speech, And the dolphin stopped in his play. For words by Bilal were cried That, echoing far and wide, Seawards and up to the land Fell like a charm and were heard By wandering dolphin and bird, Heard by the wind-deafened tide, Heard by the sea-deafened sand. And there 'twixt the rose and the star There by the solemn flood, MLAL THE MUEDZZIN 27 Spellbound, silent, there stood The army of Caliph Omar ; Faces fierce from the scar, Hearts made hungry by blood, Hands made cruel by war. For the quavering, wavering voice Of the Man of Mohammed's choice With ever-increasing power To silver reverberance grew, And the swarthy Mussulman crew Felt on their heads a shower Of sound, on their hearts a spell Of a human resonant bell, Waking old echoes that rang From the past as Bilal outsang. Thrice over rampart and gate, On the warriors hushed and still, Fell with a magical thrill The words ' Our God he is great ' : Twice with unearthly tone, ' Beside our God there is none.' And lo ! at the last came the cry, Cry of an angel's voice, 1 Brothers I testify Mohammed was our God's choice, 28 BILAL THE MUEDZZIN Mohammed his prophet alone.' And answered the trembling air, Over the land and the deep, ' Prayer is better than sleep, Worshippers come to prayer ! ' And at the Muedzzin's call, There by the sea and the shore, Clear on the minaret wall Sudden to sight there starts He their leader of yore, He of the godlike form, Lord of their joy and of pain, King of their calm and their storm ; There by Bilal once again, He the delight of their eyes, He the fire of their hearts, Giver of Paradise, Mohammed beloved evermore ! Still the Muedzzin's call Rang from the minaret stair, Still from the city wall Echoed the call to prayer ; And at the sound there came, Warm and bright as a flame, Memory clear of the days BILAL THE MUEDZZIN 29 When they lived for the Prophet's praise, And would die for the Prophet's word. And each unbuckled his sword, And each man leaned on his spear As 'twere but a staff of wood — Men made fearless by fear, Men made careless by blood. And sudden between their eyes And the crescent beside the star A strange mist seemed to rise, And the tear was felt on the cheek, And the strong were a moment weak ; For the fierce wild men of war Remembered the prophet's love And all he would have them to be ; And through them man to man A sound like a night wind ran, Sound of a sighing deep, As a forest that wakes from sleep, And sobbed with the sob of a sea The army of Caliph Omar. POEMS OF THE MONTHS The Seasons A Song from the Grasmere Play. COME, sweet April, whom all men praise, Bring your daffodils up to the Raise, Bid the delicate warbler trill, Come with the cuckoo over the hill ; Sprinkle the birch with sprays of green, Purple the copses all between, Bend the rainbow and swell the brooks, Fill the air with the sound of rooks, Rubies lend for the larch to wear, The lambs are bleating, and May is near. August is here, and the speckled thrush Sings no more in the lilac bush, Lambs in the meadow cease to bleat, The hills are dim with the noontide heat, From all her hedges the rose is fled, And only the harebell lifts her head, C 33 34 THE SEASONS But green are the new-mown vales with^grass As if the Spring were again to pass, The children bring from the far-off fell The rose-red heather the bee loves well. Comes October with breath more cold, She breathes and the bracken turns to gold, The cherry blushes as red as blood, The rowan flames in the painted wood, The larch-tree tresses are amber bright, The birch is yellowing up on the height, And over the valley and over the hill A deep hush broods and the sheep are still, But rainbow gossamers fill the air, The old earth rests and the world is fair. Now are the mountains winter-white, Helvellyn shines in the clear moonlight ; The carollers sing and the Christmas bells Send sweet messages up the fells ; The old folk meet for their Christmas cheer, The young folk skate on the frozen mere ; But Spring is coming, the shy buds peep And the snowdrop moves in her long, long sleep, There is lemon light on the leafless larch, And the wood grows purple to welcome March. THE SEASONS 35 Fair, how fair, are the changing days That keep us happy beneath the Raise ! We who in honour of Oswald, king, Our ' bearings ' still to the old Church bring. We who here in the silent time Act our part and carol our rhyme ; Seasons change and our hair grows grey, But merrily goes the Grasmere play, And two things stay with us all the year, Love of our valley — and heart of cheer ! A February Song Now with tender pencilled cup, And with triple wings of white, Snowdrop-maidens flutter up, Wakened from the winter's night. Celandines are full of sun, Daffodils in gardens shine, And the sap begins to run Thro' the tufted eglantine. Now the birch with ruddier rind Hears the tit call to his fellow ; February's gentle mind Turns the happy larches yellow. Alders hang their purple flowers, Hazels golden-tasselled gleam, And the willow feels new power Silver-studded by the stream. 36 A FEBRUARY SONG 37 Now the lilac trees gainsay Every hint of doubt and sorrow, Hung with tears of rain to-day They shall laugh in leaf to-morrow. A Spring Song at the Lakes From o'er the winter-rusted fell, From out the valleys purple-blue, There comes the Queen we love so well To her appointment true. Not yet the music of her march Has filled the garden-grove with song, But rosy birch and yellow larch Have felt her pass along. She comes in mossy kirtle drest, The first faint daisies in her hand, The snowdrop glitters at her breast, She bears an osier wand. But neither moss nor flowerets fair Avail to give us heart of grace, The sun shines golden in her hair, And triumphs in her face. 38 March — Summer There is no day in all the year To weary mortals given, When God's sweet mercy seems so near And earth so sure of Heaven, As when, in middle March, we wake To find Spring's promise true, And summer falls, on lawn and lake, Full-made from out the blue. But yester-eve Helvellyn lay Beneath a shroud of snow ; Helvellyn, dappled white to-day, His tawny skin doth show. No wreath of winter now is seen On Grisedale's lilac ledge, The Derwent-vale regains its green And purple grows the hedge. 39 4 o MARCH— SUMMER The trout are leaping in the pool, The rooks are calling loud, The little lad scarce gets to school So thick the daisies crowd. The daffodil re-makes his spear, And laughs the celandine, While, floating far, and glinting near The spider shoots his line. Now starry-wide the crocuses Are flaming in the grass, And, gathering gold, the happy bees Make music as we pass. Lambs bleat, and either side the lane New voices fill the air, The cuckoo soon will come again, The thrush sings everywhere. The fleecy charges of the dale Look, yearning to the heights, Forth from the crag the ravens sail, His love the buzzard plights. The frolic wind, from out the south, Sets hazel flowers asway, Kisses the yew with merry mouth, And blows its dust away. MARCH— SUMMER 41 All amber-tinted, lo ! the larch Is gleaming to the sun, The birches, at the call of March, Have felt the red blood run. And now the golden-hearted west Scores Wanthwaite Brow with shade, And, lingering high on Latrigg's breast, The day is loth to fade. But ere the blackbird cease from song And robin ends his hymn, The leaders of the starry throng From out the sunset swim. Jove's planet burns in crystal air, The dog-star twinkles bright, The summer day of March was fair, But fairer still the night. April Showers CAME April, and beneath her feet the cloud Broke into song upon our silent hills ; The primrose woke, and thirsty daffodils Tossed up their golden cups, a merry crowd : Then visibly beneath his cold grey shroud Helvellyn moved to hear the cuckoo-thrills Make echo down the valley ; danced the rills, The Greta sounded glad, Lodore was loud. The white lambs gambolled thro' the sunlit grass, With jewels of the sloe the hedge was pearled, And golden shone the coltsfoot in the lane ; No foot, no heart, but did the lightlier pass, For April tears had wrought another world Wherein was life and laughter after pain. 42 A Rainless April COME, April, come with gift of smile and tears, Not with thine eyes unable thus to weep, — Hast thou no store of sorrow from the deep To loose and laugh through, as in former years ? Come, let Lodore make music for our ears, And rouse Helvellyn from his winter sleep, Hang rainbow glories from the sunny steep, And shroud at night with dew the glittering spheres. For now the mountain faces, faint and pale For lack of thy revivyfying hand, Swoon on, beyond their time, expressionless. And now the flocks are milkless in the dale, The cuckoo calls not, and the larches stand Without a heart to don their jewelled dress. 43 The First Swallow I HEARD the wheat-ear singing in the dale, I saw the ouzel curtsey to the sun, And cried, ' The days of winter sure are done, The spring upon the mountains doth prevail, Soon shall the cuckoo come to tell her tale.' E'en as I spake where Calder's ripples run To seek the shining Solway, there came one Songless but sweeter than the nightingale. From silent wastes and those dumb Memphian hills Where dead men slumber in Sakkarah's dunes, He came, he could not speak our English tongue, But as he flashed above the daffodils On bluest April air he wrote in runes That Love was near, and Life again was young. 44 Foxgloves at Brandelhow Now lingers long the gold within the west, Now twilit daisies shimmer silver-clear Pale as the moon upon the dewy mere Where lilies sleep ; the fern-clad mountain breast Green to the sky, by white flocks is possess't, And elders bloom, and roses far and near Dance in the hedgerows, whilst, at dawn, I hear The thrush sing loud about her second nest. But neither daisied fields nor milk-white sheep, Nor rose, nor song of bird, nor elder flower, Nor hint of heather on the mountain's brow Can wield o'er wondering hearts such magic power As those tall foxglove spires, whose sceptres keep Imperial sway for June in Brandelhow. 45 June Twilight at Eversley Here all day long I sit and gaze Where lupins grow and poppies blaze, The Rhododendrons wall me round With colour ; rooks make lazy sound, Scented with May the soft airs pass To stir the shadows on the grass, While from her golden yew-tree's dome A thrush sings loud of love and home. How sweet from this embowered lawn To see the distant tide withdrawn, To watch beyond the meadow lands Shimmer of sun on lilac sands ; But sweeter is the scene to me When back at sunset comes the sea, When dark in western light the Scar Stands up to wait the first white star, And all dawn's mystery is made To mix with evening long-delayed. 46 JUNE TWILIGHT AT EVERSLEY 47 For then while cuckoo still awake Calls, I can hear the incessant crake — A conjuror, a ventriloquist — Answer his own voice in the mist, And watch the ranks of hedge and tree Go marching to the twilit sea Beneath their banners plumy-bright Wove from the vapoury dews of night, While Whitbarrow in purple stands Above the Kent's grey level lands, And still out north the Langdales lie Clear against lucent silver sky, For here in June when stars are seen Not ever wholly fades the green, Still do the lupins whitely show And still the scarlet poppies glow, Till Eversley's high lifted lawn Is glad again with song and dawn. July at the Lakes Now has come the month of roses, Children fill their hands with posies ; All the garden plots are fair, Honeysuckle scents the air ; Meadow-sweet beside the way Mingles with the breath of hay, Rosy loosestrife decks the sedges, Purple vetch is in the hedges ; Now the butter-wort gives place To the sundew's jewelled grace ; Now we gather on the fell Cotton-grass and asphodel ; Bees make music in the limes, Harebells ring their dainty chimes, Chimes that only can be heard When July has hushed the bird. Underneath the sycamore Shepherds count their fleecy store, 48 JULY AT THE LAKES 49 Neighbours come from far and near, Neighbour-like the flock to shear. Here the urchin fresh from school Helps to load the clipping-stool, Holds the tie for legs that kick, Hands the tarry ■ smitting '-stick. Very grave the grey-beards seem Tho' the bright shears click and gleam, And the girls with laughter soft Toss the fleeces to the loft, While the little children run To and fro in ceaseless fun. Bark of dogs is in our ears, And beneath the magic shears Lo ! the creature dumb from fright Turns from tawny into white. Then, at last set free, the sheep From the clipping stool will leap, While the lambs with plaintive cries Greet their mother's new surprise, And the dogs as wise as men Push their charge from pen to pen. Not alone the fellside farm Feels the busy July's charm ; Lo ! the mowers' fragrant yield Floods with grey-green waves the field ; 50 JULY AT THE LAKES Lasses with sun-bonnets gay Laughing toss with hands the hay, Where the crake at evenfall From a minished world will call ; Strong of arm as they are blythe Giants swing the giant scythe, While the cart built up with skill Leaves the dale and climbs the hill, And the wildrose in the lane Takes large toll from loaded wain. Fair July ! a second Spring Seems its emerald gift to bring ; Green as April, bright as May, Shine the meads just now so grey ; And while still upon the height All the rosy ling is bright, Dalesmen happy in possessing Haytide's spoil and fleecy blessing, Thank the month whose genial grace Ere it pass gives breathing-space. Heather on Lonscale Aug. \%th. God, for the gift of the thunder and fire I fear Thee, — Gift of the thunder and fire that gave us our fells ; But for the gift of this wonder my love comes anear Thee, Gift of the wonder of these multitudinous bells. Oh ! the sweet scent and the dust of the honey around me — Oh ! the sweet sound of the brindled and golden- thighed bees, Oh ! the content which on Lonscale's round shoulder has found me. Rest that has found me where body and soul are at ease. 5i 52 HEATHER ON LONSCALE Blue is the sky, a pavilion with clouds all afeather, Green is the plain where the aftermath shimmers and shines, But purple the million on million of blooms where the heather Sweeps rose-ingrain from the blue to the belt of the pines. Here then on Lonscale I lie, and its garment in splendour Grows as the sun sinks, and bees their soft music prolong, Weariless workers : and I, how can I, any gratitude render, Save but by rising from rest with new heart for such labour and song. September at the Lakes In the Vale of St John. GREEN are the meads, as fresh from April showers, The scarlet creeper by the cottage door Gives now its ebon fruit, and on the moor The bee can tell how fast the honey hours Fail with their purple glory : still the flowers, Harebell and knapweed, braver to endure The frosty dew beside the silver Bure, Bloom on, and shine the rowan's crimson bowers. Now smiles the plain, alternate green and gold, The oats are housed, the farmer's hind may rest, While as September's haze comes up the vale, And gossamers float down and gleam and sail, He feels grey Skiddaw's unlaborious breast, And dreamy Derwent's arm his life enfold. 53 The Tropaeolum Speciosum WHEN golden-poppy seeds begin to fall, And lilies in their whiteness stand arrayed, A flash of deep vermilion gleams to braid For mid-July her fairest coronal. First like a fly scarce scaped from out of thrall, Its wings with dusky wrapping overlaid, The shy buds cluster, then by sun's sweet aid The fly becomes a trumpet on the wall To blow forth summer's glory ; poets hear And dream of genii homes and magic flowers To wreath the walls of some enchanter's hold, While from a thousand horns of red and gold From morn to noon and night is sounding clear The music and the march of honeyed hours. 54 Skating on Derwentwater In fairyland we revelled all the day, Clear glass of gold lay Derwentwater's flood, Far Glaramara mailed in silver stood. And Skiddaw bright for ivory inlay Shone purple clad with royalest array To see our kingly sport. How leapt the blood ! As on from sunny bay to shadowy wood We flashed above the mirrors steely grey. But when the sun o'er Newlands sank to rest Enchantment in the valley seemed to grow, There, while the snows were flushed on fell and moor Loud rang the skates upon a lilac floor, And burning upward thro' the lake's dark breast Fire gleamed with unimaginable glow. 55 Christmas There was no room when first the Christ-child came There is no room to-day in halls of state Where, in the wrangling clamour of debate, Professing love, men slay love in Love's name ; No room where commerce plies the gambler's game, Nor where the gilded comfort of the great Mocks its own sadness, nor where sophists prate And the new learning puts the Cross to shame. But in the simple hearts of labouring men, Untouched by pride, by this world unbeguiled, Who, knowing little, do that little well, Still is there room, as once on Bethlehem's fell The watch who kept the wolf-pack from the pen Gave wondering welcome to the Christmas Child. 56 The Keswick Old Folks' Dinner Once more, from hall and cottage home, we meet About the well-spread hospitable board ; Our foreheads are a little deeper scored, A little slowlier move our aged feet ; But still our hearts are young enough to beat With Christmas cheer, and on our heads is poured The peace and loving-kindness of the Lord, Who bade us think of Him the whiles we eat. Oh, Thou great Saviour, who of old wert known In breaking of the bread, be here to-day, And if from out the grave some cannot come To claim our greetings and to give their own, Let their loved forms and faces with us stay Till all are welcomed to their heavenly home. 57 A Crosthwaite Belfry Song January 1st, 1906. CHEERY Crosthwaite ringers, climb your belfry stair, Set your carol-singers carolling in air ; Loud mouth and soft mouth, Low mouth, aloft mouth, Let the eight bell voices Say the vale rejoices That another year has gone — has gone with all its care. Set your ropes a-dancing at your captain's call, Let the shadows glancing follow up the wall. 1 Single ! ' cry, ' Bob ! ' shout, In and out dodge about, Till the vale rejoices That the eight bell voices Tell a happy glad New Year has come for one and all. 58 POEMS OF THE BIRDS The Chaffinch's Nest At Dunnabeck. There is a little cup of fate Beside my trellised garden-gate, A tiny cup most deftly made With moss and lichen overlaid, Wherein through all its strands is wove The golden innocence of love — A little loving-cup of life And joy for feathered man and wife. And therein, while the chaffinch sings, A silent mother folds her wings, Content to watch long hours apart And press her jewels to her heart — Jewels one day to find a voice And bid the Junetide earth rejoice. She knows her treasure-house shall be Filled with new life, new song, new glee, And roofs with her brown back the home Against all rain and winds that come. 61 62 THE CHAFFINCH'S NEST Bravely she sits though men pass by, Meets questioning gaze with fearless eye ; Unblenching though we giants stare, Holds to her heaven-appointed care, And shames us with a faith sublime In life to be that keeps its time. Far mightier powers than she has guessed Bend like great angels o'er her nest : The sun that rolls in royal state Is with her watch confederate ; The punctual morn, the sequent eve, Their spell about her casket weave, Till sudden with a heart aglow A mother's triumph she shall know, And life will fill the cup of fate Beside my trellised garden-gate. Ah ! would to God with such a heart Our English mothers bore their part, With such self-sacrificing zest Would guard the home and keep the nest ! 'Twixt Sunrise and the Moon Now rosily and cosily The farmstead window shines, Two stars are watching still in heaven, The moon is o'er the pines. Now cheerily, unwearily Mike shuts the barn-house door, And with his hay-sheet on his back Goes bravely to the moor. With clamouring and hammering The village stithy wakes, And smith and shepherd only know How dawn the daylight makes ; For flittering and twittering The robin breaks to tune. He sings the magic of the world 'Twixt sunrise and the moon. 63 A Thrush in Spring Awake and weary at the dawn of day I heard thy music ringing thro' the hush ; It made a hundred morning memories rush To give me back mine old life past away — A little boy at prime in garden play I paused to wonder listening by the bush, A youth, at early school, I heard the thrush, And dropped my task, enchanted by her lay. But most I well remember how that voice Throbbed in mine ears upon my wedding morn, Bidding me rise my well-beloved to greet ; And now in thy sweet tones as sad as sweet I feel such sympathy for souls forlorn That thro' my tears I hearken, and rejoice. 64 The Blackbird Dead Dead on the grass, and dead in spring, With a nest half-built, what pitiful loss ! Look at his dress with its bridal gloss, The soft grey satin of underwing ; The purple eye with its rim of gold, The glow and gleam of his amber beak ; He sang of his wedding all through the week — Now one is unwedded, the other lies cold. Ah ! wild north wind from over the foam, You have stolen the life from our April air, You have hushed our morn and our evening prayer, Robbed us of melody, saddened our home. But at least you have left us one thing dear — The brown little widow so sad in the shade ; And the bond of sorrow between us made Has brought man's heart and the bird's heart near. 65 Sadness in Song With swiftly broken sentences of song, Ere yet the stars had faded to the grey, The thrush began ; he fluted all the day, And when the sun set did his tune prolong In passionate iteration ; thro' the throng Of inexpressible thoughts from far away Came a clear voice, a solemn liquid lay, A silver undercurrent sad and strong. That was the blackbird. He who, though his bill Be gold and gay, has never changed his weeds ; For ever, though the crocus flame and die, And buttercup to daffodil succeeds, He feels that love is linked with sorrow still, He knows how soon the little ones will fly. 66 The Chorus of the Dawn How merrily with ceaseless tune The chaffinch greets this first of June ; The warbler lifts a quavering voice To bid the brotherhood rejoice ; The cushat coos, the cuckoo cries Across the valley-paradise ; With soft insistence from afar A lamb is bleating on Nab Scar ; Far off the kine their trumpets blow, The cocks at dreamy distance crow ; The moor-hens in the reed-bed hear, And sailing forth on Rydal mere, Leave silver light in arrowy track Upon its mirror ebon-black. Filled with innumerable wings The sycamore beside me sings, Wherefrom a thrush perched high above Sends down such ecstasy of love, 67 68 THE CHORUS OF THE DAWN That even the beck that seeks the mere With eddying pause must stay to hear. I too, though voiceless, still may tune My heart to greet the first of June, And join on this high upland lawn The choral greeting of the dawn. The Waking of the Birds FIRST through the fragrant silence on mine ear The blackbird's song came bravely, then the bush Of dim white-flowering laurel, where the thrush Warmed her young nestlings, throbbed with music clear ; Next roused the merry robin with his cheer, The chiff-chaff answered, and in solemn hush, Solemn, but with her monitory crush And mellow mourning, hark ! the ring-dove near. So broke the birds upon my night-time's sorrow, For May was come, and tulips were awake, And lake and vale lay brightening to the sun. With happy cries the rooks cawed out 'good morrow !' While the quaint landrail with his magic crake For very joyance from his voice did run. 6 9 The Chiff-Chaff LlTHE of body, dusk of hue, Little courier of the sun, We have waited long for you. Flower-time, shower-time has begun. Larch is greening everywhere, Birch-tree fragrance fills the air. Poet, welcome to the west, Ranging from your Asian grove To the ' Islands of the blest,' To the land of food and love, Tell us prithee how you found Your remembered mating ground. By the ilex and the pine Did you see our budding thorn ? Thro' the olives and the vine Were our verdurous pastures borne ? Did pale lakes and mountains grey Haunt you hither all the way ? 70 THE CHIFF-CHAFF 71 Or where palms and cactus crest All sweet privacy forbid, Had you vision of a nest In some English dingle hid ? Tell us wanderer over seas Was your lodestar one of these ? Nay, but singing, ringing clear Speed the message down the wind That the guerdon of last year Led you, joy of soul to find That one sweetheart, tried and true, Thro' a whole world followed you. Sing and ring, thro' trackless air She, you love, is following now, Soon your ecstasy will share, Soon will warble from the bough, And to listening ears shall prove How adventuresome is Love. The Birthday of the Singers Dunnabeck, 21st May, 1908. THE cuckoo cried across the Rydal mere, The little warbler made the birch-tree thrill With passionate words of greeting and goodwill ; Afar from ruddy Loughrigg lambs called clear, On the near knoll the comfortable steer Lowed, and the shepherd whistled up the hill ; Then thought I, Lord, what joy these sounds instil, What sense of fullest peace and rest is here ! But sudden in the pauses of the stream That all night long its lullaby had made, I heard such notes of wild triumphant mirth Above a nest wherein five eggs were laid, As made all other joy but sadness seem — It was the song of life new-born to earth. 72 6 Ubi Aves ibi Angeli ' Untired of will, with tireless tongue From morn to latest eve has sung, The thrush who, all through May and June, Has kept my garden-close in tune. There is no separate tree or flower But owns her harmonizing power, And feels to-day in every part As if it had a brother's heart. The crake is silent in the vale, The cuckoos cease their wandering tale ; But, still, as if it felt each morn Some newer call for thanks was born, This angel in the lilac-bush, Impatient of a moment's hush, Gives unto whom no voice is given The note of praise that sounds in Heaven. 73 Fieldfares How blue above our head the sky ! How brown below the path we tread, By silent carpet overspread From sombre larches standing by ! The berries in the hedge are red, On which the birds should sure have fed, Alas ! they long ago have fled Who feel the frost and die. But hark ! a foreign note I hear, Along the fell, behind the wall, A language I must needs recall, Old talk made new with every year ! O'er northern seas, thro' sleet and squall, These birds have come for festival, And on the coral berries fall To keep their Christmas cheer. With ' tsik-tsak ' high and ' tsik-tsak ' low — While perched far off their pickets stand- 74 FIELDFARES 75 These wandering birds possess the land Our Norseman fathers used to know. In voice, half quarrel, half command, They wrangle on, the robber band — Swift-winged Vikings from the strand Of ice and winter snow. I clap my hands, away they speed ! What matters where they rest to-night, Beyond this vale are berries bright And food where'er they wish to feed ! They know no law of tenant-right, They only know they love the light ; One law alone can guide their flight — The law of Nature's need. Ye red-backed rangers over sea, Ye grey-winged rovers of the field, Who, from what English roses yield, Find life from lea to lea ! Those hearts must sure be hard and steeled Who have no founts of faith unsealed By your wild carelessness revealed, This winter morn to me. MEMORIAL SONNETS The Village Naturalist In Memory of William Greenip, 2?id Novemder, 1890. GOD often fills a poor man's patient heart With His own reverent love and constant care For all the things He hath created fair, — Birds, flowers, the wings that fly, the fins that dart, — And therewithal by nature's winsome art, — Leads him to heights of philosophic air Where clamour dies, Heaven's ether is so rare, And bids him walk with gentleness apart. Friend ! such wert thou : the Newlands valley dew, The star o'er Grisedale's purple head that shone, Were not more silent, but each stream and glade, Each bird that flashed, all dusky moths that flew, All flowers held commune with thee. Thou art gone : And nature mourns the tender heart she made. 79 A Lake Country Guide H. I. /, 1891. On moor and fell, in silent mountain places, We meet him still to ask him of the way. By pathless crag, where streams perplexing stray, Each shepherd's track familiarly he traces ; Or, where the Greta by the grey town races And brims its pools, now solemn and now gay, He mingles with the old men at their play Or gazes on the children's happy faces. But whether through green park or purple mountain, Free on the sunny height, by shore or wood, That never-resting spirit haunts us still ! His heart of hope springs upward like a fountain, Who blessed the far-off future, and whose will Was ever set to serve the public good. 80 John Ruskin At Rest, Brantwood, Sunday, ixst January, 1900. The rose of morning fades, and ghostly pale The mountains seem to move into the rain ; The leafless hedges sigh, the water-plain Sobs, and a sound of tears is in the vale ; For he whose voice for right shall never fail, Whose spirit-sword shall ne'er be drawn in vain — God's Knight, at rest beyond the touch of pain, Lies clad in Death's impenetrable mail. And all the men whose helmets ever wore The wild red rose St. George for sign has given Stand round, and bow the head and feel their swords, And swear by him who taught them deeds not words ; To fight for Love, till, as in days of yore Labour have joy, and earth be filled with Heaven. 81 F At Ruskin's Grave On His Birthday, 8//1 February, 1900. To greet his natal day the heavens had lent Unto his rest their fitting garniture, The snow had fallen innocently pure O'er him whose life was pure and innocent. One way, it seemed, the footmarks all were bent, As if the mounded earth had magic lure, From out the grave to cheer and reassure, A spirit voice continually was sent. The silver mountains called from bluest air, But he had entered to his prophet's cell, New thought in deeper quietude to take ; While from an unassailable citadel In holy ground, beside the tranquil lake, Came forth his mind to make the world more fair. 82 In Memoriam /. 7\. A., 20th Marc/i, 1907. You, who in Balliol days at work were seen With him we called ' the Master ' — him who bade Us toil at Hinksey with the pick and spade To give poor men a pleasant village-green — Who, later, here in Crosthwaite's vale serene Lived out your student-life, and plied your trade Of seeking Thought, Art, History, Faith to aid The quest for Truth that grew with quest more keen — Is it for nothing that your heart has given Such strenuous work for wisdom, not for fame ? Nay, other worlds shall gain your store's increase, The seed you garnered yet shall fruit in heaven, And here your memory be a man of Peace, Who, loving light, toiled on till morning came. 83 Senator Hoar 1906. You of the spirit fresh with Mayflower dew, A Pilgrim Father faithful to the end, Stout-hearted foe and truest-friend, Who never trimmed your sails to winds that blew With breath of popular favour, but foreknew Storm followed sun, and, knowing, did depend On One behind all storm high aid to lend, And from Heaven's fount alone your wisdom drew. Farewell ! In these illiterate later days We ill can spare the good grey head that wore The honours of a nation. Fare you well ! When Love and Justice climb the starry ways, And Freedom wins the height where angels dwell, They there shall find your presence gone before. 84 John Milton / 1 608- 1 908. IN soft Autumnal sunshine to and fro I saw a blind man faltering on his way ; His face was delicate pale, his cloak was grey ; He lived, men said, hard by at Bunhill Row. I gazed and passed, how little could I know That Milton's verses three hundred years away With rhythmic thunder-roll would still hold sway, And his sonorous prose like trumpets blow. But this was he whose pen was as a sword To shake the world and vex the heart of kings, The man who saw the fading of his dream, Yet held to the end his high imaginings For freedom, felt Heaven's light thro' darkness beam And uncomplaining followed Truth the Lord. 85 The Gift of the Leigh Woods to Bristol In honour of G. IV., yith March. Flow happier Avon downward to the sea, And merchants happier spread your roving sails ; These woods when back you bring your Autumn bales Will still be here to give you golden fee ; For now the lawns and leafy groves of Leigh Proclaim the patriot's spirit still prevails, And fearless in this vale of nightingales The birds may nest, the children wander free. City that knew Sebastian Cabot's face, Where Cannynge worked and Colston grew to fame, Fling out your flags and from the topmost tower Let the loud trumpet tell this deed of grace, For never nobler benefaction came To give to toil, calm nature's healing power. 86 Algernon Charles Swinburne \oth April, 1909. Fold up the scroll ! He goes back whence he came Silent to silence, but on earth his song Sounds and shall sound while any tyrant-wrong Or foul hypocrisy needs be put to shame. Bind purple amaranth in his hair whose flame Could never burn to ash, and let the throng Be hushed, and bear the poet's bier along To where salt wind and sea shall bless his name. As long as Death, the intolerable thing, Hurts men, as long as mortals are not free, The spirit that gave his body to the dead Shall sure return — not yet the dawn is red, And lo ! to greet him all fair fountains spring, All foam-flowers of the inviolable sea. 87 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS We meet at Morn, my Dog and I Still half in dream, upon the stair I hear A patter coming nearer and more near, And then upon my chamber door A gentle tapping ; And next a scuffle on the passage floor, And after that a cry, half sneeze, half yapping ; And then I know that ' Oscar ' lies to watch Until the noiseless maid will lift the latch. And like a spring That gains its power by being tightly stayed The impatient thing Into the room Its whole glad heart doth fling ; And ere the gloom Melts into light and window-blinds are rolled, I hear a leap upon the bed, I feel a creeping towards me — a soft head, And on my face By way of an embrace 9i 92 WE MEET AT MORN, MY DOG AND I A tender nose and cold — And on my hand like sun-warmed rose-leaves flung, The least faint flicker of the gentlest tongue, And so my dog and I have met and sworn Fresh love and fealty for another morn. The Sorrow of the May WHEN the pearl breaks into star, and the star breaks into rose, And the hawthorn scent is heavy on the fragrant June-tide air, My eyes forget their seeing, and my heart renews its woes For I think of that old thorn-time when first I met my fair. How simply was she dressed in her petticoat of blue And her rosy pink sun-bonnet ! She was Grasmere's sweetest lass, And the face of her was open and the eyes of her were true, And her milk-pail swung beside her, as she moved to let me pass. I was fain to bear the milk-pail, the flush was in her face As I took it bravely from her, and I touched her tender hand, 93 94 THE SORROW OF THE MAY And I broke a white May-blossom, and she wore it with such grace That she seemed no village maiden but a lady of the land. We were wed within the year, and when now a second time The pearls had broke to starlight and the rose was on the thorn, So proud to be a mother, she was dying in her prime, Only lived to kiss her darling when our little May was born. Now each year beneath Stone-Arthur when the May- blossom is white And the hawthorn scent is heavy on the meadows in the dale, I forget the sheep I counted, and my eyes forget their sight, For I see the lass who loved me, with her shining milking-pail. The Fiddler's Funeral LET the deep bell Not dolefully tell That a dead man is coming to rest by the steeple ; Bear him along And sing him a song, For he gave so many a song to the people. Not a farm round But knew of the sound Of the wavering voice and the quavering riddle ; Not a man or maid But had danced, as he played, ' Set to the corners ' and then ' down the middle.' Never a school But knew of his rule, The ' three reel,' ' the jig,' and the ' square cornered eight ' ; Never a guest At a wedding, but blessed The flash of his bow and the nod of his pate. 95 96 THE FIDDLER'S FUNERAL And not a child Of the village but smiled To see the kind face and to hark to his humming ; Never a lass Of the fellside could pass, But must turn just to ask when the Fiddler was coming. Oh ! he was so cheering At hiring and shearing, None like old Dick o' the Dale ever sings ; And he was so steady Of time, and so ready Of tune. — He was ready when Death snapt the strings. Old Dick o' the Dale Is not dead, he is hale In the hearts of the humble, whose joy was his pleasure ; Where he sleeps, from the ground There will rise the sweet sound — That air, ' Jack-my-laddie,' his favourite measure. This day it is sad For the lass and the lad Who will never more dance to his tune down the middle ; THE FIDDLER'S FUNERAL 97 But I hear ' Home sweet Home,' As he played it ; so come, Let us all follow on to the call of his fiddle. So toll not the bell With a funeral knell For the dead man they carry to rest by the steeple ; Bear him along And sing him a song Who played so, and sang so, to hearten the people. A Westmoreland Song RUST-RED are the mountains And white fall the fountains When over Helvellyn fly winterly gales ; But green when the comer, Who brings us the summer, The cuckoo calls clear o'er the Westmoreland dales. When bracken was springing The live air was ringing, The lambs with loud chorus filled valleys below ; Now bracken is umber, How deep is the slumber Of mountains that wait for the silence of snow. But oh ! for the weather That brought us the heather, When high Pike o' Stickle and Easdale were bright ; And oh ! the long gloamings Of May, for the roamings O'er hills that were never quite darkened with night. 98 A WESTMORELAND SONG 99 Ye Westmoreland mountains, Ye Westmoreland fountains, The clouds are your children, the streams are your birth ; When tear-drops fall quickly, And clouds gather thickly, Your calm and your hope bring new comfort to Earth. The Westmoreland Emigrant From Death to Life the silent plain Is changed by magic powers, And merrily the bullock-wain Moves axle-deep in flowers. But I would be where sound is heard, Where Sour-milk ghyll is falling, And thro' the blue-bell copse the bird Is ' cuckoo ! cuckoo ! ' calling. From fenceless fields in freedom rolled A wider air we breathe it, I'd choose the intack and the fold, The narrow vale beneath it. Let others for a kingdom take The treeless prairie ranches, Give me a glimpse of Rydal Lake, Seen bright among the branches. ioo THE WESTMORELAND EMIGRANT 101 Oh ! hills and lakes divinely blue, Oh ! mountains black with thunder, Oh ! mists that let the sunshine thro* Or wrap the valleys under. Ye bleating brothers of the fern In lonely mountain places, How oft with crook and dog I yearn To see your dappled faces. Oh ! happy times, when on the heights We sought the sheep for shearing, Oh ! jolly Christmas merry-nights With song and dance so cheering. Grey walls that climb the mountain side Or sink to valleys tender, Loud streams that shine, and ghylls that hide, What homage can I render, Save this, that whereso'er I go, Till fortune may restore me, The hills of Westmoreland I know, Shall always rise before me ? Home from Italy There are no snow-white oxen in the dales To drag with rolling gait the narrow wain ; No cypress plumes the hill, and in the plain I scent no vines, I hear no nightingales ; But the same rose, whose beauty there prevails, Shuts her pink petals from the gentle rain ; The same swifts cry above the topmost vane, And high in air the self-same buzzard sails. Thro' silent sunburnt flats no Tiber streams, No Amiata shines divinely blue, No purple city dreams about its dome ; But Skiddaw lifts his bulk of changeful hue, Thro' lush green meads the Greta sounds and gleams, And one fair garden calls the wanderer home. 1 02 At Dunnabeck With just such wings the buzzard flew, So cuckoo called to cheer The wild unmeditative crew Who held their rampart here. So gleamed the mere, so rose the Scar Magnificently grey, So from its fountain-head afar The streamlet poured away. A few rough walls the shepherds make To curb their flocks that range, A white road glimmering by the lake, — There is no other change. Nor change in these transcendent powers Of rock and lake and hill, They spake in prehistoric hours And they are speaking still. 103 104 AT DUNNABECK But since the Rydal bard was sent To show us Nature's plan, The bar is broke, the veil is rent 'Twixt God and Godlike man. Now whoso from this lawn would look On hill, or lake, or grove, May read the Spiritual book Of universal love. Oh ! British holders of your ' Dun,' To think ye passed away Beyond the sunset ere the sun Had brought this blessed day ! Ye could have given a simpler heart And ears less deaf than mine, To feel what Nature could impart Of mystery divine. Come back, come back from out your dust, And let this scene declare, Its revelation held in trust For every age to share. Note. — It is believed that the early Britons held a fort upon the ridge above White-Moss, and that Dunnabeck — the beck or water of the Dun — preserves the name of the place of their encampment. Dawn in Greece and Cumberland — A Contrast COME from a silent land where few birds sing, And men unhelped fare forth to meet the day, Beneath an English dawn fresh-waked I lay, And heard thro' dewy air the garden ring With joy and hope exultant for the Spring — The blackbird piped his welcome to the May, And the clear-fluting thrush upon the spray Told of her love and life's sweet triumphing. I could not wonder how, by Grecian seas, The men who plant the vine and tend the herds Go gladly to their toil and home return, Thrice weary, seeing no music of the birds Sounds when with morn the heights of Parnes burn, Or sunset gilds Athena's olive trees. 105 The Stag Impaled With head drawn back, and heaving flank distressed It hears the hounds — the hunter's bugle ring, What hand shall save the tame unantlered thing, What covert give the harmless creature rest ? Down the long vale, and o'er the woodland crest, Across the flood, with piteous fear for wing It speeds, then leaps, and with a desperate spring Hangs mute, impaled, the fence-spear in its breast. When shall the heart of gentler England prove Its pure compassion for all needless pain ; When shall we learn the bond of brotherhood 'Twixt man and these wild creatures of the wood, And nobler days of sport bring nobler gain, For manhood sworn to pity and to love ? io6 Jupiter and Venus HIGH in the twilight silver of the west, When still the zenith trembled into green, Two gleaming planetary lamps were seen Hung white above Helvellyn's ebon crest ; The wide-eyed Hunter stayed him on his quest, Belted Orion on his sword did lean Wond'ring, while she of all men's hearts the queen Went down the slopes of evening to her rest. Then did I note how great seven-mooned Jove — The God of power — was captive to her chain ; How all the host of Heaven in starry drove Moved with her to the mountains and the main ; I cried, ' Wheel nearer Earth, thou world of Love ! And take our darkened planet in thy train ! ' 107 A Shadow on Scafell In Memoriam Prof. A. Milne Marshall, of Owens College, Manchester, who died by a fall from the crags above Lord's Rake on Scafell, 31st December, 1893. Clear shines the heaven above our New Year's Day, The sunlight gleams by Wastdale's desolate shore And streams o'er grassy Gavel, and the floor Of Derwentwater glitters gold and gay. But one great shadow lingering seems to stay Dark on Scafell, beneath its summit hoar — Shadow more deep than gloomy Mickledore, Shadow no New Year's sun can charm away. For he who climbed so many crags of fear, Sounded such deeps, such heights of knowledge won, But never over-passed our heights of love, Has vanished in a moment — gone to prove Those peaks beyond our seeing — and we hear Far up the cleft a brave voice : ' Follow on.' 108 At Buck Castle The Prehistoric Fort of Refuge at the head of Shoulthwaite Ghyll. Here, in old days of war and lust and loss, There stood, in fear, the prehistoric men Who tracked the elk to yonder Shoulthwaite Moss, And scared the wolf of Armboth to his den. But though for them a horror as of blood Lay on the purple heather at their feet, At least they felt the August sun was good, And heard the waterfall and called it sweet. They had no thirst for conquest over sea, Nor knew the hunger of Imperial Rome ; Enough to wander on this upland lea, The stream, the fell, the fort, were all their home. But none the less when on Helvellyn's height The watchmen told of foray from afar, Heroes till death they ranged themselves in fight And lit their altar to the God of War. 109 no AT BUCK CASTLE For every goat upon the Armboth fell, And every crag above the shining mere, And every shepherd path they knew so well In this small world, to them as life was dear. But we like weary Titans grasp and groan, From heights of empire wider is our view, Yet have we lost what he with axe of stone And triple-rampired fort as patriot knew. In the Wray Garden The fells are bronzed, the becks are grey and dry, The winds are laid and all the woods are still, But to our garden ground a generous will Sends down sweet song, nor heeds a fierce July ; And our cool sycamore incessantly Whispers and with a merry dancer's skill Moves in its leaves, as if it felt the thrill Of airy elfin music passing by. Here then, with melodies that never fail Blest are we though the birds have ceased to sing, Blest are we though the becks have lost their voice ; And if the winds have vanished from the vale, And July sun its heat and drouth may bring, In this sequestered garden we rejoice. J in The Streamlet at the Wray 1 Here where the stream from ancient Solva's hill Draws the sweet life and music of the years, Who wakes at dawn or rests at evening hears A voice that to his soul doth strength instil. Sound of the perfect work — the perfect will That knowing but obedience to the sphere Moves without present pain or future fear, To bless all life, all duty to fulfil. And I who listen in your garden ground Feel like a guilty thing rebuked and blamed, For I have done so little yet to bless With gift of life the weary wilderness. Yet do I rise, tho' humbled now and shamed, And go forth stronger to the daily round. a Thou wert the darling of our childish hours, We loved thee for thy wanton restlessness, We felt thy nature ours in its excess 112 THE STREAMLET AT THE WRAY 113 Of life and song and laughter and sweet flowers : Grown up to manhood's prime and strenuous powers We watched thee labouring without weariness, And knew thy cheer ; as old men we could bless Thy quiet pools in meditative bowers. Now sad or glad, alternate hopes and fears Not knowing whence they came or whither going, All lovers owned affinity with thee ; But sweetest was thy voice to dying ears That heard through change and chance thy waters flowing, Heaven-sent, Heaven-bound, to Life's un- fathomed sea. H The Bewcastle Cross Hwaetred, Wothgar and Olwfwolthu ! Still does the cross ye set stand true — The slender beacon-sign to tell Where Alcfrith son of Oswy fell, The beacon-sign that bids us pray His soul's high sin be cast away. Here where the plaintive curlews cry, Where the sound of the beck comes up like a sigh, Here where the Roman dead are laid, Here where the Church's prayers are said, The great Cross speaks of Oswy's son Who fell, but knew the fight was won. No more their watch the Britons keep, The Roman soldiers lie asleep, Earl Bueth's castle fades, and fall The stones he took from the Roman wall, But fearless of the passing years The carven pillar's grace uprears, 114 THE BEWCASTLE CROSS 115 The beacon-sign so tall and thin That tells the tale of King Alcfrith's sin. Long since the cross-head suffered loss, But firm in socket stands the Cross, And speechless now with shadow-mouth The dial gnomonless fronts the south ; While o'er and under an endless cord Tells of the life of a endless Lord, And ever still, with Christ for root, The grape-vine flourishes, leaf and fruit ; For they who set this victory sign Had faith in the life of God's true vine. Clear to the north the carving stands — Made by the skill of English hands — Billet and twisted knot and scroll, To bid men pray for King Alcfrith's soul. Lo ! eastward grown, from earth to sky, The Tree of God that cannot die ; Not yet irreverential man Had put dumb creatures under ban ; There sits the peacock, broods the dove, The squirrel feeds in peace above. Fair Tree of Life ! who face to face In wonder sees your peerless grace, u6 THE BEWCASTLE CROSS Harmonious leaf and fruit, the swerve And balance of each living curve, Must feel, tho' beaten from his wall, The Lombard mind was Lord of all, And that from Rome the Anglian caught The skill with which the sculptor wrought. High on the west the Baptist stands, The Lamb of God is in his hands ; Beneath, most solemn and most sweet, Christ spurns the Dragon under feet, And lifts His tender hand to bless All dwellers in this wilderness. Beneath the Christ deep runes we ken — First writing by the graver's pen In England left to Englishmen ; Runes that still keep memorial true Of Hwaetred, Wothgar and Olwfwolthu, Saying that here they set the sign To Alcfrith, King of Oswy's line. — The beacon-sign of victory thin. — To bid us pray for Alcfrith's sin, That sin for which we still must pray Tho' centuries twelve have passed away. Yea, tho' in battle that he won He fell for Christ, King Oswy's son, THE BEWCASTLE CROSS 117 Twelve centuries' prayer have not sufficed For him who turned his back on Christ, Who sinned against the Holy Ghost, And joined dark Penda's pagan host, Who tho' of Church and faith he came, Wrought on the Christian, deeds of shame. And we who gaze beneath may see The king for whom we urge the plea — The king who fought against the Christ — A hooded hawk is on his wrist, The hawk that never stooped in vain On Cumbrian moor, Bernician plain — The hawk, fit symbol of the word, Which marked him quarry for the Lord — The word whose wings of conscience fleet Brought him smit thro' to Christ's fair feet. Hwaetred, Wothgar and Olwfwolthu ! Still does the cross ye set stand true ; Still does it tell of Oswy's son, Who falling knew the victory won, And bids us at Bewcastle pray, Lest Alcfrith's soul be cast away. The Sycamore at High Close 17 th August, 1908. THOUGH no more now the shepherds sit to shear Beneath thy murmuring shade, thy massy dome, Thou standest still a beacon-sign of home To all who climb the mountains far and near. Rest still to men thou profferest, food and cheer To valley birds and moorland bees that come, Still conjurest from hard rock and fellside loam This miracle of beauty year by year. Oh ! would to God thou monitory tree, Unto our hearts thy power and will were given To seek the sunlight, for the wanderer's sake Beacon to stand and scatter largesse free, From out the nearest things around to make Comfort for earth, and joy and song for Heaven. 118 A Memory Hard is the road that Duty takes ! I in London — you at the Lakes. I in London's riot and roar — You by the peaceful Rydal shore. I in London's smother and smell — You in a fragrant Loughrigg dell. I where no birds flutter and sing — You where the delicate flycatcher's wing Poises and dips, while the nestlings call For mother and food from the garden wall, Till the sun goes down, and the lilac shale Of Nab Scar darkens above the dale. But still I can dream of a cottage blest With Earth's best happiness — home and rest ; Can see in the fern the moving fleece Of the Herdwick mother, who feeds in peace ; And well can remember how white at morn Against blue distances shone the thorn ; 119 120 A MEMORY Can hear the patter of horses' feet Below us, that made our silence sweet : And so, though the city is thronged and loud, I can still each day be alone in the crowd ; Can still go the road that Duty takes, Though I am in London, you at the Lakes. GLASGOW : PRINTER AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS 1iY ROBERT MACLEHOSE AND CO. LTD. DATE DUE GAYLORD PRINTED IN U S.A. >. AA 000 59 i "ii 33