i ': \ ; ' i, ■ 1' V4>51»^ i-"^'-' " ' ,fo A^ 'v^^' THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES AFTERTHOUGHTS AFTERTHOUGHTS BY JOSEPH TRUMAN From Fall and from Springtide of many a year, Gathered together, green leaves and sere. ILontion MACMILLAN AND CO. AND NEW YORK 1889 The pieces following are all of mine which I care that friendly eyes should see, or indulgent minds remember. Some have appeared in Macmz/Zan's Magazine ; others are here for the first time printed ; and one is taken from a volume of early indiscretion long ago re- pented of This, entitled " Elleray," is revived with pleasure (before the 15 th of the April of last year, I should have said with pleasure unqualified), because it was chosen for praise by Mr. Matthew Arnold. " I have not often," he wrote once, " read anything more true and more happily expressed, and I wish all who knew Wilson could see it. It is a pity you did not send the lines to Blackwood." And at another time, " Your * Elleray ' is still in my memory, and will always remain there." And 84,87 GG [vi] while recalling with a feeling of elation, which will, I hope, be pardoned, these favourable words, I cannot let slip the opportunity for acknowledging my boundless inward obliga- tions to this most stately, most touching of modern poets, from whose negations and melan- choly even there floats to my ear the note of a saner hope than can be gathered from the confused hypothetical discourse of all the clashing theologies. J. T. 1889. CONTENTS PAGE Dreams i Chamouni and Rydal 3 The Sentis lo What the Robin said in December . . .13 Edith's Picture 16 Thorpe Underwood 18 Two Years After 22 God in the Mountains 25 Elleray 27 At a Grave in the South 29 The Village Sermon 32 The Broadest Church 37 A Serenade 39 A Love Song 41 Footprints 42 His Star in the East 45 A Parting 47 vili CONTENTS PAGE A King of Men and Italy 49 KiLLARNEY $1 The Bird of Dawning S3 The Way of the World 55 In Memoriam 58 Many Ways Home 60 The Streamlet 63 Laleham 65 DREAMS Nay ! let them dream their dream of perfect love ; It is the sweetest feeling, the most fair, This flower-like joy that blooms in the soft air Of youth's bright heart, with faith's blue heaven above. Breathe naught of disenchantment ; do not bring Misgiving to the bliss of blended souls, The while life's brimming river golden rolls Through primrose-lighted uplands of the Spring. The blossoms of Eternity lie furled In the dim kindling buds of dreams that keep A fluttering pulse within Time's broken sleep ; Dreams are not idle ; dreams have saved the world. B DREAMS Therefore to heaven-touching heights afar Our lowland eyes that yearn and dream we lift, And to the isle-like mists that round them drift, And to the moon, and to the morning star. CHAMOUNI AND RYDAL I STOOD one shining morning where The last pines stand on Montanvert, Gazing on giant spires that grow From the great frozen gulfs below. How sheer they soared, how piercing rose Above the mists, beyond the snows ; No thinnest veil of vapour hid Each sharp and airy pyramid. No breeze 'plained there, nor cooing bird. Deep down the torrent raved, unheard, Only the cow-bells' clang, subdued, Shook in the fields below the wood. CHAMOUNI AND RYDAL The vision vast, the lone large sky, The kingly charm of mountains high. The boundless silence, woke in me Abstraction, reverence, reverie. Days dawned that felt as wide away As the far peaks of silvery gray ; Life's lost ideal, love's last pain, In those full moments throbbed again. And a much-differing scene was born In my mind's eye on that blue morn ; No splintered snowy summits there Shot arrowy heights in crystal air : But a calm sunset slanted still O'er hoary crag and heath-flushed hill, And at their foot, by birchen brake, Dimpled and smiled an English lake. CHAMOUNI AND RYDAL I roamed where I had roamed before, With heart elate in years of yore, Through the green glens by Rotha side, Which Arnold loved, where Wordsworth died. That flower of heaven, eve's tender star, Trembled with light above Nab Scar ; And from his towering throne aloft Fairfield poured purple shadows soft. The tapers twinkled through the trees From Rydal's bower-bound cottages, And gentle was the river's flow, Like love's own quivering whisper low. One held my arm will walk no more On Loughrigg steeps by Rydal shore ; And a sweet voice was speaking clear, Earth had no other sound so dear. CHAMOUNI AND RYDAL Her words were, as we passed along, Of noble sons of truth and song — Of Arnold brave, and Wordsworth pure, And how their influences endure. "They have not left us — are not dead" (The earnest voice beside me said), " For teacher strong and poet sage Are deeply working in the age. " For aught we know, they now may brood O'er this enchanted solitude, With thought and feeling more intense, Than we, in the blind life of sense. '« On us and others (who shall tell ?) Maybe is falling here a spell From Arnold's knightly spirit free. And Wordsworth's sober ecstasy." CHAMOUNI AND RYDAL Hillward we stepped o'er turf and stone, The clear voice-current warbling on, I little answering, loth to stay That stream of silver on its way. Sometimes I checked her, with a smile. For the quick heart to breathe awhile ; Sometimes she stopped to stoop and pull Some ambushed blossom beautiful. Those tones are hushed, that light is cold, And we (but not the world) grow old ; The joy, "the bloom of young desire," The zest, the force, the strenuous fire, Enthusiasms bright, sublime. That heaven-like made that early time ; — These all are gone : must faith go too ? Is truth too lovely to be true ? CHAMOUNI AND RYDAL In nature dwells no kindling soul ? Moves no vast life throughout the whole ? Are not thought, knowledge, love's sweet might, Shadows of substance infinite ? Shall rippling river, bow of rain, Blue mountains, and the bluer main. Red dawn, gold sundown, pearly star, Be fair, nor something fairer far ? That awful hope, so deep that swells At the keen clash of Easter bells. Is it a waning moon, that dies As the dry lights of science rise ? By all that pines in art and song. By dreams august that make men strong. By memory's penance, by the glow Of lifted mood poetic, — No ! CHAMOUNI AND RYDAL No ! by the soaring thoughts that speak And beckon from each snowy peak : No ! by the stars that, pure and pale, Look down each night on Rydal vale. THE SENTIS Left were the busy quays, the street, The alleys where the lindens meet, The lilies on the convent pond, The convent vanes that soared beyond. High up the towering hill we stand, Round us the hush of fairyland ; Sheer down beneath our feet outlay The town, the cape, the crescent bay ; The sombre haze of Baden's wood. The brimming lake's broad gleaming flood, Bavaria's long low purple line, The gentle inflow of the Rhine ; THE SENTIS , n And bosky Austrian headlands steep That pushed into the rippling deep ; While eastward far swelled high o'er all The Vorarlberg's gashed, hoary wall. Then on we panted, keen to gain The goal that crowns the climber's pain ; An opening in the pines, and lo ! The Sentis, with its cone of snow ! Across deep leagues of limpid air. How close it looked ! how ghostly fair ' A silent vision to bring tears Of rapture through the ebbing years. The rose-flush fades as back we go, And cold winds from the glaciers blow ; We parted ; I passed on in haste, 'Neath roaring fall and frozen waste, 12 THE SENTIS Through valleys bleached with apple-bloom, By Thusis, and the gorge of gloom, Swept sledge-borne o'er the Splugen wild To lake-sides where the myrtle smiled ; Breathed at the last the breeze of balm Where by the blue wave dreams the palm, And sighted, sixty miles away, Peter's white peak in Corsica. Yet ever with me, snow-besprent. The phantom of the mountain went, Lofty and sad, a giant lone. Spell-bound upon his stony throne. I see it (as I saw it then), Here by the burn in Sannox glen ; Scarce sharper showed it that clear morn, 'Mid the weird realm of alp and horn. WHAT THE ROBIN SAID IN DECEMBER Gray, like age, the world has grown, Wrecked is Autumn's golden throne, Silence through the air is sent. Vapours hide the woods of Kent ; Seems but now these ways undone. Waved with leaves and flashed with sun. Lifted glance enchanted went To the wooded ridge of Kent, And this hillside all day long Bubbled o'er with life of song ; Cuckoos called from far and nigh. Larks were jubilant on high, Throstles' ringing warble loud Pealed through all the quiring crowd, Blackbirds piped as day was born (Minstrels liquid like the morn), 14 WHAT THE ROBIN SAID IN DECEMBER Latest, 'neath night's dusky veil, Torrent of the nightingale. Rushing, rich, tumultuous, bright, Shook the dark glade with delight. Now, as voice of birds is dumb, Pained hush on the heart has come ; Some have vanished whom we knew. Souls of knighthood, fast and true, Eyes of light, and helping hand. Brows of power that " nobly planned," Touch that heartened — faded all — Tones of love electrical Stilled are, as we soon shall be, Quenched in sad eternity. Ah ! What note is that I hear. Soft, inquisitive, and clear ? Wistful music trembling shed, Poet, from thy breast of red — Robin fair, by Shirley Church, Marble headstone for a perch ! WHAT THE ROBIN SAID IN DECEMBER 15 " Man of dolour, wait awhile — See the morns of April smile, Mist shall pass, and skies be blue, May shall roof these trees anew. Pave them with unfolding fern, June's long sunsets through them burn, And this leafy realm be stirred With the joy of every bird. Mounts the ether, haunts the glen. Making glad the hearts of men. Time is but prefiguring sign — Buried seed, of worlds divine. Can aught here seem wondrous fair. And no answer echo there ? Shall Spring brighten earthen sod And no life be — nearer God ? " This, and more, the Robin said, As he sang where rest the dead In the stillness round the church. Marble headstone for a perch. EDITH'S PICTURE I SEE her sitting there beneath the heights, Within the balcony that swept the bay, Watching the restless and the fairy lights Across the amethystine waters play. It brings all back (the picture), — plunging tide, The sea saint's chapel on the harbour hill. The sunset flame that shot the foreland side. The planet pale above the haunted mill ; White sails, slow-floated, lilies of the deep. That made the wilderness of ocean smile. The glow of heather on foam-fretted steep. And, lifted in the west, the cloud-like isle. EDITH'S PICTURE 17 Shall the faint peaks, the wave, the lofty air, In beauty of the moon and sun shine on. And yet the lovely soul that felt them fair Be like a melted mist of morning gone ? THORPE UNDERWOOD November 27, 1878 " Let me go, for the day breaketh." The mystic wrestler's talismanic words Spoke i' the orient twilight centuries back, True in a thousand differing senses since ! " For the day breaketh " — in what blessed ways, Unspeakable, unthought, may break that day, That dawn of God upon the night of time. That boundless liberation and new birth To compensating immortality. To her it broke with what surprising light, In what clear ecstasy of perfect life. To what large vision of infinite love ! As when some, drifting in disabled bark. THORPE UNDERWOOD 19 Through stormy midnight, wanting stars and moon, 'Mid yells of wind and clangour of the waves, Blown pitilessly on they know not whither. Toward what engulphing sands or deadly reef — See, slowly climb the gray delivering light That shows them coasting a familiar shore. And home emergent from the melting fog — So broke that day for Aer—the muffling cloud — It lifted, and she knew the marge of heaven. A cold still day, a day of silent mist, A mist on the near hills that dimmed the trees, A mist along the vale that hid the stream, A blinding mist of weeping in our eyes, A choking mist of mourning in our hearts : And from the grave side looking up I saw, In vertic height of air, a crowd of rooks. Wheeling disturbedly, and clamouring harsh. As crying dolorous, " Now s/ie is gone. And nevermore shall we behold her watch In the fair evenings from her lawns our flight O'er Loatland to the elms at Arthingworth." 20 THORPE UNDERWOOD Oh who that knew them ever can forget The courteous welcome and the kindling smile, The stately, eager gesture, the blue eyes, Misty with feeling, gay with humorous thought, Or bright with intellectual delight ; The tones caressing in their tenderness, Or ringing clear through the still morning lanes ? To us, henceforward, all our days to come, Her glossy laurels sleek will rustle soft With dreams of her, her ambushed violets breathe The stainless sweetness of her memory ; The moon she loved and looked for eagerly. Crescent in ether pure, or brooding large, Globe of red gold, in the rich August nights, Above her tall plantations, will bring back Echoes of cheery chatter, as we paced Around the pleasant house what time our earth's Fair satellite achieved her throne in heaven, " And sailed upon the bosom of the air." The churchyard on the hill-top where she lies, With its lone church tower and its fence of firs. The battle pillar touched by eastern light, THORPE UNDERWOOD 21 The steeple peeping through the westward copse, The red lodge nestling underneath the wood, The spire that rises from the northern slope. The oak-tree walk, the sheep-walk with its pond. And lordly vestiges of leafy aisles. The old gray lodge ycleped " The Hospital," The far-seen seven sacramental elms. The brook that wanders through the timbered farms — Her gracious presence these may know no more ; But still for us they wear, a last bequest. The light of memory and the light of hope, A light pathetic as of setting suns, A light inspiring as of Easter dawn. Just so, some tuneful tenant of the woods. That from its prison perch for months has poured The sylvan melody beloved of man, Perceives one day its dungeon door ajar. Twitters a low farewell, and straightway soars Into the wide air of its native heaven. TWO YEARS AFTER ■ If we love still those we lose, can we altogether lose those we love?" — W. M. Thackeray. This winter morning (as I write In the grim city's gloomy light Midst fogs that blur street, river, church. And the fast-falling flakes besmirch), How pure o'er that far country-side Must gleam the snow-waste drifted wide ! In my mind's eye I see it rolled O'er stream-gashed glen and brambly wold ; O'er wheat-sown slope and climbing lane, And ridge that bounds the battle plain, And orchard-lawn and garden-sward — That same white raiment of the Lord ! TWO YEARS AFTER 23 The church stands on the woodland hill, The pine-trees fence the churchyard still ; Eastward it looks, that home of hers, The robin warbles in her firs. All seems the same ; but where is she Whose name is breathed from brake and tree ? Where lives and soars that noblest one It raised our life to look upon ? Shall spring-tide wake the world again, And summer light the eyes of men ? Shall throstles thrill her oaken glade, The primrose star her hazel shade ? This icy mist, these clouds of gray, Will they not all be wept away ? And western airs blow kindly through Large lucid skies of tender blue ? 24 TWO YEARS AFTER And shall no vernal dawn await The hopes by death left desolate ? No shining angel brood above The sepulchre of human love ? That brain of strength, that heart of fire, That liquid voice, a living lyre — Do these not vibrate, throb, and burn Where the lost lights of time return ? The aspiration, passion, power, That crowd with fate a mortal hour. Are these crude seeds no bloom may bless- Beginnings bright of emptiness ? Love's shattered dream — shall it not rise, Re-builded for immortal eyes ? Life's broken song end where round Him Still quire " the young-eyed cherubim " ? GOD IN THE MOUNTAINS A SCENE of circling mountains. Ridge on ridge Of rough, serrated summits rising round ; Some dark with plumy pines, some streaked with streams That plunged and foamed unheard in lonely power, Some treeless, flowerless, lifeless, wild, and waste, With storm-seamed sides and thunder-branded brow, Black penal precipices, homes of doom ; Then, far beyond, a few white heights soared sheer, Those purest and most piercing silvery spires That crowned this great cathedral of the hills ; And over all, in weltering fulness flowed The vast illumination of the west. Filling the piny glades with emerald flame. Tinging the snowy rills, and each pale peak Touching with rosy fire ineffable. 26 GOD IN THE MOUNTAINS Upon the pebbly marge of a blue lake, That nestled 'mid those giants of the land, Stood a fair child, with one that loved her well, And watched the splendour of the sunset burn Like a Shekinah on the solemn fells ; And as she looked, with wide, considering eyes, Upon the mystery and loveliness Of darkening gorge and shining pinnacle, She said, " Does God live in these mountains ?" moved To heavenly feeling by the unseen powers, Mighty and gracious, that pervade the world. ELLERAY Along the upward winding paths I went, In the wood shadows at sweet Elleray, And in my mind a noble image lay, The image of a man magnificent, A theme for human love and wonderment, Grand in his sadness and his merriment. And as I walked and pondered, one did say, " Here have I seen him in his palmier day, The long gold locks loose floating in the wind, And the sublime, wild, earnest eyes of him. Drawn to the amber melting on the rim Of westward mountains ; or maybe inclined Lovingly on the lovely lake's repose ; Or haply with deep human feeling dim." Better for us, had that potential mind 28 ELLERAY Been somewhat more to deathless feats addrest ; Alas for mental splendours unexprest ! A few pale poems and some worthier prose Make up the meagre sum which the world knows Of what was working in that brain and breast ; The vague, eternal kingdoms have the rest. AT A GRAVE IN THE SOUTH The sunset's fire was burning on the downs, Across the deep its radiant shadow lay, And heaving waters, with their foamy crowns. And noise, and plunging splendours, filled the bay. And strangers sat, or sauntered, on the strand, And pleasant voices thrilled the evening air ; A smile of beauty broke o'er sea and land. Nature and sense rejoiced in concert fair. Then gradual died away the stir, the hum, The call of children, and the boatman's shout ; The little terraced town grew dusk and dumb. And here and there the household lights beamed out. 30 AT A GRAVE IN THE SOUTH The moon rose o'er the towering steep's black rim, It Ut the clash of waves with quivering sheen, And still wailed forth the weird, unworded hymn, Sung by the minstrels of the sea unseen. All was the same ; yet not to me the same ; Something of music, peace, delight, was gone. Wistful, I dreamed of tones that never came, Though the melodious world went sweetly on. Among those far-remembered graves so lone, In the moonlighted silentness I stept, I read the letters on the plain gray stone. And in the friendly dark with anguish wept. The place is fair ; she loved it passing well ; Over that mounded turf, beneath those leaves, Oft have we wandered as the twilight fell. Star-pierced and purple, on soft summer eves. AT A GRAVE IN THE SOUTH 31 What days were ours, when from the northern chills That wrought her wasting hurt and mischief dire, We sought the port of those unwintry hills. And hailed the enchanted main of her desire ; What joy to note the sea-born winds that blew, To her, swift health and vital fervour, bare, — To watch her brighten, like the flowers that grew And blossomed in their frostless freedom there ! Amidst the disillusions and the change, The fears that fall on all as we grow old. The outward haps that threaten, rude and strange. The lonely sorrows we must hide untold : 'Midst the defiling fellowships of earth, The strife, the hardness of the mart and street,— The greed, the lust, the spleen, the empty mirth — What would I not, those gracious eyes to greet ! THE VILLAGE SERMON It was a shining Sunday morn, After a night of thunder born, And soothing bells their summons pealed For country folk, o'er farm and field. I sought the church that on the hill Towered in the sunlight warm and still, And sat upon a grave-slab gray, To taste the balm of that bright day, I watched the people gathering slow. From the wide parish spread below. From gabled grange, from ancient hall, From many a cottage rude and small. THE VILLAGE SERMON 35 They came in choicer Sunday guise, With Sabbath peace in patient eyes, As those who doubtless looked to find Some holy boon for Ufe and mind. They came, the poor, the rich, the old. The young, the lambs of Christ's own fold ; To pray to Him who saves from sin, With awe, with hope, they entered in. I had not thought to leave the stone Whereon I sat and mused alone, But something in me seemed to say That theirs might be the better way. I rose and joined the church-bound train, My voice blent with their chanted strain, And my dry heart drank freshening ease From strains of pleading litanies. D 34 THE VILLAGE SERMON And one spake words not ill in tune With beauty of that summer noon ; " How all of brightest, best, we see. Must shadows of the heavenly be ; " How the blue dawn, and morning's glow. And the vast sunset's fiery show. Soft pearly moon, and stars of night. Are shadows of the heavenly light ; " How all the sweetest sounds of earth. Music of winds, birds,' infants' mirth. Anthems that float church aisles along, Are shadows of the heavenly song ; " How mothers' fondness rich and fair. Large trust of child, and fathers' care. The selfless loves that deepest move, Are shadows of the heavenly love ; THE VILLAGE SERMON 35 " How blessed moods of quiet deep, How placid dream, and death-like sleep, How sleep-like death in snow-shroud drest, Are shadows of the heavenly rest." 'Tis long ago, but I hear plain The good man's optimistic strain. See the three roads and Cromwell's bridge, The lonely copse upon the ridge ; The brown stone house that glows and shines In its dark frame of Austrian pines ; The hostess tender, stately, bland, I press to grasp her greeting hand. Ah me ! quenched is the nameless charm That golden fell o'er field and farm. Gone with the cheating years of change, Past with the Lady of the grange ! 36 THE VILLAGE SERMON O distant voice, which plain I hear, Art clarion of authentic cheer ? Or but the muffled knell that tolls Dead faiths of disillusioned souls ? The hopes that haunt the human race, Love, poiver — we cry — art, wisdom, grace. Ephemera these to plague and seem ? Stands no strong God behind the dream ? THE BROADEST CHURCH A WEATHER-BEATEN minstcr old, 'Mid seaward-looking hills deep set Where prayers were said, and death-bells tolled, In times of Kings Plantagenet. Gruff was dame Church in those grim days. Pinching the fast, if gross the feast. List here ! a well-bred hum obeys The smooth cue of the dainty priest. I ask for faith, stale forms I find, Submission pliant and weak-kneed, Blind following of leaders blind, A jargon of plethoric creed. 38 THE BROADEST CHURCH I love no better this dead rite, Than science, which no more adores. Let me seek Christ's way infinite. Where reverence into freedom soars A SERENADE Grand lights are gleaming in the west, The birds, their sweetest and their best. Are pouring forth a last bequest. For thee and me, Love, For thee and me. The stars are coming, soft and slow. To look upon the world below. And sprinkle far their golden glow. For thee and me, Love, For thee and me. Winds that ambrosial odours bear, Are moving in the purple air, And make enchanted music there, For thee and me, Love, For thee and me. 40 A SERENADE From the dim aisles of forest halls, From gray lakes and white waterfalls. The Spirit of the twilight calls For thee and me, Love, For thee and me. A LOVE SONG I WAS lonely, darling, For the eyes were gone, That made sunshine round me. Dark my life went on ; Dreary looked the future. Mournful was the past. And my heart misgave me. But you came at last ! Radiant like the morning. Gracious like the dew. Soothing like the cloudlets. O'er the blinding blue. Witching like the dream-tone, Born of ocean vast In the weird white moonlight, Love, you came at last. FOOTPRINTS Scene — A sandy beach at evening : a little boy speaks, ' ' I tread in your steps, papa, and they bring me to you." A GLORIOUS coast, where mountains meet the sea (The marriage of our earth's divinest things, The power of mountains with the life-Uke voice, The grandeur, and the pathos of the sea) ; A small stone town, built nowise orderly, And partly perched in niches natural Of rifted crags, whence every day at dusk Each household light gleams like a lofty star ; A level waste of broad wave-bordering sand And a long snowy line of breaking surf ; Above, the verdure of far-rolling slopes, Where skylarks warble, sheep-bells tinkle soft, And heather flames, a purple deep as dawn ; FOOTPRINTS 43 And higher still, the giants of the hills, That raise their mighty shoulders through the clouds, And sun themselves in ecstasy of light ; The homes these are of the wild choral winds, The haunts of the fair ghosts of silvery mists, The birth-beds rude of strong and stormy streams That down the piny gorges swoop amain In the long thunder of their power and joy ; Within whose granite arms sleep glens of green. Lighted by one bright tarn of lonely blue. Places of peace so still and far away. So lifted from the murmurs of the world. So kindred with the quiet of the sky, That one might look to see immortal shapes Descending, and to hear the harps of heaven. O'er three proud kingly peaks that northward tower, And through their sundering gullies, silent poured Rich floods of sunset, and ran reddening far Along the sandy flats, and, Christwise, changed Old Ocean's ashen waters into wine, As once we wandered towards the church of eld 44 FOOTPRINTS That on the brink of the bluff headland stood (God's house of light to shine o'er life), and shook Its bells of peace above the rumbling surge, And spoke unto us of those thoughts and ways That higher than the soaring mountains are, And deeper than the mystery of the sea. It may be we shall roam that marge no more, Or list the voice of that far-booming main, Or watch the sunset swathe those regal hills With vast investiture of billowy gold ', But unforgetting hearts with these will hoard (With mountain vision and the wail of waves) Some wistful memories that soften life, The peace, the lifted feeling, the grave charm, The tender shadows and the fading day, The little pilgrim on the sun-flushed sands, The love, the truth, the trust in those young eyes. The tone that touched like tears, the words, " I tread In your steps, father, and they lead to you." HIS STAR IN THE EAST Looking forth on eve of frost, Ere day's ruddy lights be lost, High in the blue East I see Planet of Epiphany. Stood the Star, authentic sign, In the nights of Palestine ? Or is it but legend fair Born in memory's teeming air. And by loyal hearts of old Dowered with magic manifold ? Very God, or highest man, Brother cosmopolitan — Naught it boots to such as find Touch of his inspiring mind. 46 HIS STAR IN THE EAST The main matter is that we Catch that Hfe's subhmity, And in sacramental mood, Eat the flesh and drink the blood Of his moral lonelihood. A PARTING The air is darkening fast above, The stars are burning through, Again, farewell, I leave thee, love. Beside the lake of blue. I leave thee, darling, and I go To England's acrid clime, Leave thee beneath the domes of snow. Amid the hills sublime. Pure morn from Orient Alps of rest. Shall early touch thine eyes, Along the vastness of the West The rosy host will rise : 48 A PARTING And I can dream thee, standing where That vision us befell, Or searching for the Edel fair, White slopes of Appenzell. Be one, dear heart, with the May land That round thee blooms and shines. With waters warbling to the strand, With sea-like sound of pines ; With silver valley mists that press To the pearl peaks away. And hang in the high silentness. More heavenly soft than they. A KING OF MEN AND ITALY " At Pordenone they rejoice — at Naples they die — I go to Naples." — King Humbert's Telegram. There rang the note of knighthood's high desire, A voice heroic from old ages blent With our late century's refining fire Of gracious feeling. And, straightway, he went ; And hope and exultation, pride and joy. Through the dense sunny city of death and pest, Beat in a myriad bosoms as drew near Their monarch, without stain and without fear, Italy's Bayard — Humbert of Savoy : And frenzied women and heart-broken men Forgot their misery for a moment then, And little children, hugely wondering, Lifted their piping vivas with the rest, E 50 A KING OF MEN AND ITALY And smiled up to the sad eyes of the King, The same dark, kindly eyes that by the bed Of dying Lanza wept, and last words won Of loyal greeting, the same voice that said, " Not know me, Lanza, Victor Emmanuel's son ? " KILLARNEY "The eternal softness and mild light of the west." Matthew Arnold. O THE far-seen silver of Killarney, O the visions of the mountain-side ; Ghostly stream, hushed gorge, and moving shadows, Crags that brood above the winding tide. Once upon a time here Shelley wandered By the wooded waters of the vale, Round arbutus isles and homes of echoes Like the silent figure of a tale : Flashed and hasted through this realm ethereal, " Pard-like spirit beautiful and swift," Left an afterglow, a gloom behind him. Splendour, sadness, each a poet's gift. 52 KILLARNEY Not the cold gray lakes of sombre Scotland, Not sweet Rydal with its lawny shore, And not Grasmere with the green fells girded. Bright in Wordsworth's light for evermore ; Not sublime Lucerne, divine Lugano (Opal waves in bloomy bays that break). With the snows of Monte Rosa lifted Like a dream of heaven above the lake ; No, nor Byron's love, Geneva's sapphire, Melting in the purple of the Rhone — None can shake the wild power of Killarney, Where she sits in her poetic throne. THE BIRD OF DAWNING These morns of March, In the still dark before the break of day, A Blackbird comes to pipe his deep-toned lay. Safe in the citadel of lime or larch. That lonely note ! It murmured in the river of my dream, Like the faint undersong within the stream, A call familiar from a realm remote. Waking I heard, Mellow and loud, the minstrel of the tree Scattering the gold of liberal melody — The kingly exultation of the Bird. 54 THE BIRD OF DAWNING When all is o'er, From life's blind slumber shall I wake to hear, The loved, the silenced voices, close and clear, Tormented with desire and doubt no more ? THE WAY OF THE WORLD Abroad the first white butterflies wavering flew, And the cloud -chased lights swept swift o'er the rippled pool, And the kingcups bright and the pallid wind-flowers blew In the meadow marge and the mossy hollows cool ; The wheeling swallows were busy below the thatch, The mellow throstle piped from the greening fir. And often one eagerly lifted the cottage latch. And walked in the happy evening light with her ; Tenderly, playfully, he would gather a bud, To set like a star in the dark of her wavy hair. And on they went through the lanes and the lawny wood. In the sheen of the early moonrise faint and fair. 56 THE WAY OF THE WORLD Deepened the bloom of the flowers and the foliage dyes, Which in the showers of spring were delicate born, Deepened the blue of the noon in the brooding skies, And the circling sickle shrieked through the dead-ripe corn ; The horned sheep fed free on the airy hill. The dreamy oxen dozed in the lush green mead, Flashed the flail, whizzed the winnow, and flew the mill, Serving the provident knowledge of future need ; And all things shared in the gladness of the time, And the autumn land looked goodly and man was gay. And still through the blazoned alleys of beech and lime, In the streams of the western glory wandered they. But then there drew on a season of panic and fear, When the light of the spirit sank with the shortening sun. For it seemed as the swallows sailed with the darkened year, THE WAY OF THE WORLD 57 So the life-like current of love to its end had run ; Deep were the drifts in the lane — their lime-lined lane — No throstle piped from the snowy-feathered fir, But the plaintive robin pecked at the frosted pane, And the winterly chill of death fell dark round her ; " God rest thee for ever, poor child," a few did say, As beneath the sod and beneath the shroud-like snow, They laid from the fickle fondness of earth away. The calm dead heart on the dreamless pillow low. IN MEMORIAM T. W. M. Farewell, O saintly, tender, cultured, true ; A deep sweet strain is to thy memory due ; I lift my voice to let my heart have way, I lift my voice to do the best I may. A life of many thoughts and busy days, A life of prayer, love, sacrifice, and praise. That patient sweetness kept when friends were few. And to his hurt the shafts of slander flew; Vivacity and pathos, learning, skill Of Art, a woman's softness and man's will, A brave and radiant speech, keen sense to know The highest voice, and a stout heart to go Where'er the trumpet of stern duty blow ; IN MEMORIAM 59 In meekness all, as though his richest hoard — Best service were unworthy of the Lord ; And so the mellowing years went stealthy on, Nor found his light, grace, wisdom, pureness gone ; What wanting, but the peaceful end that came To crown the story of a gentle name ? What wanting, but the grand embrace of death. To fill the fainting breast with loftier breath ? What wanting, but the opening of the door, That the tried steward might have further store, And reap the fields of Life for evermore ? 1 O almost blameless life where love was law, O noble kindling face all loved who saw, O rare and gracious man of many parts. Now the bright memory of a few sad hearts For whom thy living made fair Earth more fair — Thy death a Star sets in the Heavenly air. MANY WAYS HOME " Are we going home, mamma ?" — "Yes, darling." — " I didn't know this was the way home, there are so many ways home, mamma, aren't there ? " A SHINING day, a moorland country fair, Breathings of spring in the soft-blowing air ; Two figures on a common wide and high, Bordered by woods of pine that hide the sky ; A pause upon the homeward track, a turn, A straggling bypath through the furze and fern, A puzzled look, a question, answer clear, A few sweet words of childly faith and cheer. Naught is so beautiful as morning light ; No sound so pure, so tender as the bright Fresh words of children when they chatter free MANY WAYS HOME 6i In their grave mystical simplicity, Words homely and yet lofty, like the star That looks familiar and yet shines so far ; Soft broken echoes, flickering glimpses given Of what their angels do behold in heaven. So many ways, so many on them roam, Nor wist they journey to the same large home ; So many ways, so many far apart, Many soon severing that in concert start, And e'en in lives that travel side by side Deep gulfs of feeling each from each divide ; Who scales the mountain, or who sails the main, Flouts pilgrim of the unromantic plain. Who lists soft harmonies in woodlands dim. Must lose the city's thunder grand and grim ; Yet splendour, baldness, wildness, mildness, mirth, Make up the picture of one perfect earth, And all the differing winds that range the sky Go somewhere in the same great air to die. Ah ! dear to hope, to feel, where'er we wend Many our mortal ways, but one the end ; 62 MANY WAYS HOME That those who blundering grope, or vaguely fear, Or meekly trust, or clasp with vision clear, Or prayerful doubt, or passionately yearn. Shall still one day the same great secret learn ; That for base wills, "hurt minds," tired hearts, blind eyes. Redemption, healing, rest, and light may rise ; That unto all the same sufficing boon Be brought of Life Eternal, late or soon : Yes ! fair to fancy, good and glad to know, The sundered streams to the same ocean flow. The widely-strayed but all-returning feet In the vast House of Christ at last may meet. THE STREAMLET Far up the stony pass I stood A mountain streamlet by, Thus musing, as in idle mood I watched the water fly : " Thou should'st be blithe, thou tiny tide, I may well envy thee, Thou roUest to the river wide, The river to the sea, " What time at first thy bubbling burn Flashed sudden in the sun. Thou did'st for the ocean yearn. Nor restest till 'tis won. 64 THE STREAMLET " By mead and mill and windy bluff, Live quay and castle strong, Through dreaming woods and gorges rough, Thou farest fleet along ; " By village green and market cross. The bloom of gardens nigh. In loneness where the waste blue moss Blends with the boundless sky ; " By moonhght lanes where lovers stray Free of life's pending fears. And churchyards where their grandsires gray Sleep thro' the silent years ; " In light and peace, in cloud and strife, Thou makest for the main. Thine is the conquering force of life For which we ask in vain." LALEHAM April 15, 1889. There were mild lights in the dim softened air, Blue lakes in rifted skies, I stood betwixt the yew and holly, there Where the lost Master lies. The lark's exuberant tremble of bright cheer Soared the still graves above, And a green linnet from the holly near Breathed his coy lay of love. A year ago the " mighty Shadow " hushed A clear, a lofty note, More tender, wistful, pure than ever gushed From lark's or linnet's throat : F 66 LALEHAM A year ago was quenched a nobler light, A more pathetic ray, Than falls from the cleft ether's silvery height On this gray stream to-day. Through all the Easters of the " far to-come," Birds will in music yearn. The pleading river wander by, and hum Its litany eterne : And primroses in countless Aprils throng This tranquil " shy Thames shore," — The stately Poet with his limpid song Shall ne'er break silence more. 'Tis well, at least, so much of lifted thought. That placid voice sublime In rich and moving cadences has brought To the tired ears of time. Printed by R. & R. Clark, Edinburgh MACMILLAN AND CO.'S PUBLICATIONS. WORKS BY LORD TENNYSON, POET LAUREATE. Collected Works. Library Edition. In 8 vols. Globe 8vo. 5s. each. Each Volume may be had separately. Poems. 2 Vols. Idylls of the King. The Princess : and Maud. 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