THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES THE COLLECTED POEMS OF EDMUND G0S8E OTHER WORKS BY MR. EDMUXD GOSSE Northern Studies. 1879. Life of Gray. 1882. Seventeenth-Century Studies. 1883. Life of Conj-reve. 1888. A History of Eighteenth-Century Literature. 1889. Life of Philip Henry Gosse. F.R.S . 1890. Go ssip in a Library. 1891. The Secret of Narcisse : n Romance. 1892. Questions at I.^^ue. 1893. Critical Kit-Kats. 1896. A Sh ort History of Modern English Literature. 1897. Life and Letters of John Donne. 1899. Hypolympia. 1901 French Profiles. 1904. Life of Jeremy Taylor. 1904. Life of Sir Thomas Browne. 1905. Fa the r and Son . 1 907. Ibsen. 1908. ff//////f^l t--^g^Aoaleeeevnes of poets sleeping I 4G ON VIOL AND FLUTE THE MANDRAKES A STUDY IN GROTESQUE Proved:. Aud whither must these liies be sent '/ Oiei'on. To everlasting bauishmeut. The woods are yew-trees, bent and broke By whirlwinds ; here and there an oak. Half cleft with thunder. To this grove We banish them. Culprits. Some mercy, Jove ! Oheroti. You should have cried so in your youth, When Chronos and his daughter Truth Sojourned among you : when you spent Whole years in riotous merriment. Day's Parliament of Bees, 1G07. Whether in meditation or in dream, Or whether in the circle of known lands I walked, I cannot tell ; the crested stream Of the great waters breaking on the sands, The far brown moors, the gulls in white-winged bands. Seem too clear-coloured on my memory To be the ghosts of any phantasy. Along the sweep of an untrodden bay, Towards a great headland that before me rose, Full merrily I held my sunny way ; And in that atmosphere of gold, and snows. And pure blue fire of air and sea, the woes Of m.ortals and their pitiful despair Seemed vague to my glad spirit void ot care. The long bluff rose against the sea, and thrust Its storm-proof bosom far into the deep. And many a breaker, many a roaring gust . 47 ON VIOL AND FLUTE Disturbed the calm of its primeval sleep, Through the gray winter twilight; there did creep In swarthy trefoil, or salt-blighted grass, A token where the uncurb'd sea-wind did pass. So even in the bright and pure June air The place seemed vestured in unholy guise; The loneliness was like a pain to bear, I sought about, with strangely troubled eyes, For bird or Hower to glad me in some-wise, In vain ; then at the utmost verge I stayed Where far beneath the refluent thunders swayed. Then as I stood upon the precipice, Drinking the sunlight and sharp air like wine, I heard, or thought I heard, a murmur twice, — First, like a far-off shrieking, clear and fine. Then like an anxious shouting for a sign To careless boatmen steering o'er the rim Of rocks, — but both behind me and both dim. But even while, not turning, in my mind I thought how very lonely the place was, — The rushing of the steadfast wings of wind Being empty of all common sounds that pass, The song of birds, or sighing in the grass, — Then suddenly a howl to rend the skies From the bare land behind me seemed to rise. And while my skin was wrinkled with affright, I noticed far and far away, an isle. With faintest waves of jagged pale blue light, Skirt the horizon, land not seen erewhile ; — This in a flash of thought ; such sights beguile Our hearts in wildest moments, and we know Not clearly after how it could.be so. 48 ON VIOL AND FLUTE But in a second, ere the long shriek died, I turned to see whence came this note of woe. And marked on the down's topmost hollow wide One lonely scrawling gnarled tree that did grow, Coiling its leafless bi'anches stunt and low, Midmost the promontory ; thither I Drawn by some hate-spell felt my way did lie. It was a shameful tree, the twisted pain Of its sad boughs and sterile hollow stem Took fearful forms of things that are man's bane. And circling drops of oozings did begem Its twigs with a dull poisonous anadem ; It had no bright young leaves to tell of Spring, Nor clustering moss that hallowed eld doth bring. And at its foot were forms that had no shape, Unmoving creatures twisted like the tree. With horrid wooden faces set agape And bodies buried in the earth ; to see Such human features moulded terribly Sent all the life-blood surging to my heart, And mine own breath was ready to depart ; When one most awful visage bent the I'oots That were its jaws, and moaning, slowly spake : " O mortal, what assemblage of soft lutes Rings now across the silvery waves that break Along the city, where the shadows make In tremulous calm lines of sunset fire A magic image of each dome and spire ? " He questioned thus in strained voluptuous tones ; His hideous feet deep in the ground were set ; His body fashioned without skin or bones 49 i> ON VIOL AND FLUTE Was like the mystic figure of smooth jet Egyptian priests wore in an amulet^ What time they mourned Osiris ; Hke a shriek His pained voice ended sharply, forced and weak. Then when I answered nothing, once again He spoke — *'In what elysium of the blest. Lapped in sweet airs, forgetful of all pain, Fulfilling an eternity of rest. Lies Titian, of all painters loved the best ? Oh ! say, in any land where you have been. Heard you of him and not of Aretine ? " O matchless painter of the noble heart ! Dear friend I loved long centuries ago ! Lean from that golden chamber where thou art. Above the sun and moon, and lighten so The utter, endless agony of woe That fills m}' wretched being, doomed for aye Rooted in this foul living grave to stay. " Ah, mortal, listen ! I was once a child Into whose brain God poured the mystic wine. Full of pure odours, fragrance undefiled, — Keen drink to make a poet all divine. I took the gift; men called me Aretine : All that was pure and poet-like I spurned, And to hell-fire for inspiration turned. " God suffered long with me, and let the fire Of passionate youth burn to the ash of age, Saying to the angels, 'Surely when desire Is dead within him, his true heritage Will seem more precious to him, and the page Of the great book shall in the end record Some prayer, some love, some tender-spoken word.' 60' ON VIOL AND FLUTE " Yet I, still impious, burned before my God The rancid oil of hypocritic prayer. And with unsanctified, rash footsteps trod Those shadowy precincts, where the misty air Is heavy with the sound of hymns, and rare High spirit-breathings fill the solemn place Where God meets man, in silence, face to face." I stood beneath the tree now ; all the ground Was full of these grim shadows of mankind. And all in some way shamefully were bound Into the earth, but no two could I find In which the same quaint shapes were intertwined But each was human, yet each had the feature Of some misshapen thing or hideous creature. Oh, how the calm around us, and the light Of pure cerulean aether, full of sun. Made awful contrast with the shameful blight Of these foul natures ! Him I looked upon Was like an old man, utterly undone. With white thin locks, that blew about his eyes. Like grasses round a stump when summer dies. Fear held my tongue ; I trembled like the leaves That quiver when the gradual autumn falls On shadowy Vallombrosa, and bereaves The forest, full of flowery funerals, — And all the windy places have their palls Of yellow leafage, till the noiseless snow Muffles the rustling of this gusty woe. At last I murmured, " Cannot rest or death Forever visit this pale place of tombs } " And ceased ; for, like the sound of a sharp breath 51 ON VIOL AND FLUTE That from the drawn throat of one dying comes, Whose heart the Master of all breath benumbs, An answering voice arose, whose calm, intense, Sad music won my ear with sharp suspense : " Not vervain, gathered when tlie dog-star rose, Not agrimony, euphrasy, or rue. Not any herb can bring our pain repose, Nor any poison make our summers few ; Forever our own agonies renew Our wasted bodies still to suffer pain, To suffer, pine, renew, and pine again. " Ah, turn away ! behold me not ! those eyes Burn me like lightning with a searing shame ; Gaze not upon these ghastly infamies, That must deform me worse than maimed or lame, The ribald children scoff at for their game ; Ah ! in what jocund wise I danced and sung Through the warm Tuscan nights, when life was young ! " These gray and shrunken fingers once were lithe. And meet for all most dainty handiwork ; Whether a painted coffer for a blithe Fair bride, or for the Caliph or Grand Turk A golden chalice, where red wine might lurk Coiled unforbidden ; or for monks' dim eyes, — Worked in distemper, — hell and paradise. "Ay me I what lovely fancies I have wrought In cloisters, or along a church's wall, Where in a high-fenced garden angels taught Our Lady at her baby's feet to fall ; There, with his keys, went Peter ; there stood Pau With long brown beard, and leant upon his sword ; And all the virgins, singing, praised the Lord. 52 ON VIOL AND FLUTE " But, best of all, I loved to stand and paint His face who doubted when the Lord arose, — Andrew, my ever-blessed patron saint. Bearing his mighty cross, and worn with woes. And pining sore from self-inflicted blows, — His passionate, jealous, loving, hating heart Seemed every-way my very counterpart. " He is in glory now, and walks and sings With saints who take his rough brown hand in theirs. And sees the angels' silver-spotted wings ! But I convulse the noonday with my prayers. And in the night-time blast the icy airs With my shrill pains ; hearken for what offence My soul was doomed to anguish so intense ! " If one man's art can be another's bane, — If half the swiftest runners miss the goal, — If thinkers weave out holy thoughts in vain, Which bless the world and ruin their own soul, — If bitterness and languor be our dole, — Why do we seek, so greedily, at all Laurel, to poison our own brows withal ? " All this is only vanity ; but, lo ! For weary years I slowly fought my way High up the hill of fame, and should I go Right sadly down again at fall of day, Because this Domenic, this popinjay. Could trick a wall out with a newer brush, And after him all men began to rush ? '&' " When I grew poor, and no man came to me, One night I lay awake, and by my bed Heard a low, subtle voice, and seemed to see 53 ON VIOL AND FLUTE A little demonj with a fiery head, That whispered, ' If now Domenic were dead, And his new way dead with him, ha ! ha ! ha ! Luck would come back again to Andrea ! ' " So one bright night when singing he M-^ent by I watched him ; round his neck a chain of gold Glittered and lured me like a serpent's eye; It was the price of some new picture sold : My nerves grew steel, my veins of fire throbbed cold, My dagger smote him through the neck, charm-bound, And like a snake, the chain slid to the ground. " Ay me ! ay me I what cruel, cruel pang Draws forth this tale of mine own infamy ; Ah, youth ! by all the angel choirs that sang Round holy Christ at His nativity, I pray thee mock me not, in charity, Who for one hour of passion and fell spite Must suffer endless torture infinite." Then at my side a voice cried, " Look on me I Stamp on me, crush me, grind me with your heel ! I, even I, this shapeless thing am he That slandered Sappho ! Set on me the seal Of your undying hatred, let me feel, Even though I burn with anguish, that men know Her holy life was ever pure as snow." Then flattened out, I saw upon the ground What seemed the hide of some misshapen beast, With a pinned cord to bind it twisted round ; But lo ! its heart in beating never ceased. And now the flutter of its breath increased. Barring its body of unheal thy, hue With lurid waves of mingling green and blue. 54 ON VIOL AND FLUTE " Of old," a stifled voice proclaimed, " I dwelt Deep in the cedar-shades of that high hill, Whose brow looks down on Lesbos, and the belt Of sunlit sea, where rippling laughters fill The spaces down to Chios ; thither still. As gold above the Lydian mountains shone, Sappho would climb to dream and muse alone. " How oft her wind-swept hair and kindling eyes I watched, unseen within my own rose-bowers, Her cheek that glowed at her heai-t's phantasies, Bright as the refluent flush of fields of flowers Stirred by the light feet of the flying hours, When, about sunrise, on a morn of May, Westward they troop, and herald the young day I '' So fair was she in my conceit ; but soon Her songs were sung from Lesbian town to town, And other islands claimed the lyric boon, And Andros praised, and Paros sent a crown, And reverend men, in philosophic gown. From Greece, from sage Ionia, came to lay At Sappho's feet the homage of a day. " Then in my heart the love I bore her grew To foulest envy, like the bitter core That lies in the sweet berry of the yew ; For I, too, fashioned for the lute, and bore Such ivy-wreaths as would-be poets wore ; But never ode of mine did men repeat, Singing for glee along the broad white street. " It happed that through the islands I must go To gather tribute, and where'er I came The youths and girls would gather round to know 55 ON VIOL AND FLUTE What news of Sappho, till my heart became Shrivelled and parched with spite as with a flame, And evermore I set my subtle tongue To hint and whisper nameless tales of wrong. " And soon all lands rang out with that ill-fame. For little souls delight to think the worst Of sovereign sj)irits who have won great name For virtue or for wit, so all men nursed And spread the rumour of thebC tales accursed, Which smouldered, far from Lesbos, till she died. Then burst in lurid flames unsanctified, "So to this limbo my unholy spirit Was dragged by demons when my pulses sank, And here forever shall my flesh inherit More pain than e\ er human body drank ; See this bruised head, this haggard arm and shank, The slow contracting pain of centuries Has drawn the bones into this hideous guise." Then silence came, save far away the sound Of waves that rang like timbrels in the air, Dashing and dying on the shore, steel-bound ; 1 stood above tliose lurid shapes in prayer, Desiring that, if any hope there were, (Juickly their souls and bodies might decay. And to the sovereign waters fade away. For to my thought the moaning, sighing sea Seemed yearning to receive them to its breast, And fain would let its huge embraces be Their haven of forgetfulness and rest : — " O let them die ! " I muniiured ; " It is best ! Have they not fed on anguish all their years ? And drenched the morsel in the wine of tears ? 56 ON VIOL AND FLUTE " Their pains are greater than the Titan's were, Hung, a god-man, a sign to man and God, For his immortal spirit was aware Of its own immortaHty, and trod With head erect beneath the oppressor's rod ; But these are bitten through with their own shame, And scorcht with infamy as with a flame. " Wherefore, if Heaven forbid not, let them die ! " The echo of my accents broke in moans From all the grim and stark fraternity, That lay in heaps about my feet like stones ; Down to the caverns of my heart their groans Sank, as a meteor, breeding death and woe. Slants down the skies on weeping lands below. Ihen all the silence grew a mighty sound. Gathering in voice along the nether sea. As when, in some Norwegian gulf profound. Sailors, becalmed along the monstrous lee Of desolate Torghatten, hear the glee Of many a riotous and rebel wind. Deep in the mountain's riven heart confined. With murmuring of immortal wings it came. Blown by no wind, and moaned along the deep ; Then hung at last above that place of shame On plumes of sound, like some great bird asleep, — Though o'er the blue no cloud nor stain did creep, — And slowly gave in words articulate All the vast utterance of the unseen fate. O thou grave mystic, who, by inner light, Didst watch the ruddy, throbbing life in flowers. And shaken by no pitiful affright, 57 ON VIOL AND FLUTE Held'st converse with the eternal starry powers ; By all the bliss in full ecstatic hours, From spirit-tongues, to thee, a spirit, given, IJow down and aid me from thy lucent heaven ! Blake, loveliest of the sons of shadowy light, Throned, with dawn-mist for purple, sun for gold, — Regent above us in all true men's sight, Among thy kindred angel-ranks enrolled, — Think not thy latest lover overbold. If in sore need he for a while prolong Prayer for thy aid in his most arduous song ! For he must murmur what a spirit sang, Lisp the weird words no mortal can pronounce ; For all about my head the air now rang With the dread clarion Voice, that did denounce The writhing things, and bade my heart rojioiince Pity and grief, and drown in obloquy All hope for these, still dying and to die. " No temple, and no tripod, and no shrine Is half so sacred as the soul of man. Lit with a flame more subtle, more divine, Than that which round the glinnnering altar ran, With mutterings and with thunders, when the clan Of Baal-prophets howled, and sank down dead On the cold parapet their life-blood fed. " Man is himself the lamp for hallowed use, The oil that feeds it and the hand that lights, Each to his brother is the plenteous cruse, And in the universal gift unites ; So all combine, with sacrificial rites, Throughout the gleaming world, from bound to bound, To spread the wealth that old Prometheus found. 5S ON VIOL AND FLUTE " And so should all things slowly climb up higher Into the perfectness of utter rest^ And no least breath of passion stir the fire That fell from God and burnetii in man's breast ; By his own purity should man be blest, The soul being priest, and worshipper, and shrine, Bearing God's presence for an outward sign. " But ah ! what punishment would not be meet To scourge that ribald priest, that should defile The lintel of his own God's mercy-seat ; Or who, with nimble fingers and smooth wile, Should from the prostrate worshippers beguile The sacred gifts of balsam or of myrrh, To burn in sport where harlot-loves confer ? " Would the vexed God be pitiful and meek. Nor smite the impious with a thunderbolt. Clothing the lingering life and hollow cheek With pain as with a garment ? Let the dolt Go Mhine and whimper over heath and holt, — Shall any Lovers of the God be found Whose heart shall melt with pity at the sound ? " Wherefore, if all things sacred, all things pure, All that makes life worth living for to men, White chastity, and faith, and honour sure Have in your heart their answering echoes, then Cease to be Avise above a mortal ken. And judge that we, whose robes are virtues, know Where justice rules, and mercy may not go." As from the heart's-core of a trumpet-blast May rise the melody of whispering flutes, A softer music on my ear was cast, 59 ON VIOL AND FLUTE Even as I lay among those living roots, And heard their direful sentence, and the fruits Of their insane rebellion ; sweet and far, As orchard-singing under a pale star, That tender fluting rose, hut, gathering strength, Thrilled like a hundred instruments in tune. Here soft citoles, and here in liquid length The sobbing of tense harp-strings, and all soon Rounded with murmurs of the full bassoon. And all words faded, and I rose, and lo I A lady standing on the hill of woe. "o Adown her shoulders, over the broad breast, A saffron robe fell lightly to her feet, Edged quaintly with meander; for the rest. Her changeful eyes were wonderfully sweet. Sea-coloured, and her braided hair made meet Under a fillet of starred myrtle-flowers, More large and pure than any bloom of ours. Her face was even as apple-blossom is. When first the winds awaken it ; her mouth Seemed like the incarnation of a kiss; A })hiltre for all sorrow ; in heart-drouth A fountain breathing of the fragrant south ; A cage for songs ; — a violin — who knows ? Perchance the rose-tree of the world's great rose I Kalliope, the eternal Muse, she hight. Whose lips woke music in Mceonides, Through all the alternatives of day and night. Silence and song, that this poor wan world sees, She walks unchanged, while old divinities Wither and die, and new creeds spring and fall. And new flowers hear the new-born cuckoos call. 60 ON VIOL AND FLUTE There in her loveliness she stood and spread Her arms out to me in most smiling wise, Saying, " Oh, my servant, in such drearihed, Why floats thy spirit in a wind of sighs ? What ruth and passion gather to thine eyes ? What part hast thou with these ? Ah ! wayward child. Should I be clement to them ? " And she smiled. O ! what a smile I But when she ceased, once more I cast my eyes upon the twisted features ; And all the pity that my heart once bore To watch the writhing of the loathsome creatures Fled from me, for their foul degenerate natures Scowled under those pure eyes of hers, as hell Must blacken, seen from heaven's white pinnacle. She vanished. Then they howled and howled until The cave of air, devoid of other sound. Was full of moaning echoes round the hill ; Then with my hands my aching ears I bound. And rushing from that cruel cursed ground, From cleft to cleft leapt downwards to the sea. Where faint wave-music was as balm to me. 1871. 61 ON VIOL AND FLUTE EUTHANASIA Whin a^c comes by and lays his frosty hands So lightly on mine eyes, tliat, scarce aware Of what an endless weight of gloom they bear, I pause, unstirred, and wait for his comroands ; When time has bound these limbs of mine with bands, And hushed mine ears, and silvered all my hair, May s(»rrow come not, nor a vain despair Trouble my soul that meekly girded stands. As silent rivers into silent lakes. Through hush of reeds that not a murmur breaks, NN'ind. mindful i»f the j)oppics whence they came. So may my life, and calmly burn away, As ceases in a lamp at break of day Ihe fragrant remnant of memorial flame. 02 I ON VIOL AND FLUTE THE PRAISE OF DIONYSUS CHANT ROYAL To A. D. Behold, above the mountains there is Hght^ A streak of gold^ a line of gathering fire, And the dim East hath suddenly grown bright With pale aerial Hame, that drives up higher The lurid mists tliat of the night aware Breasted the dark ravines and coverts bare; Behold, behold I the granite gates unclose, And down the vales a lyric people flows ; Dancing to music, in their dance they fling Their frantic robes to every wind that blows. And deathless praises to the vine-god sing. Nearer they press, and nearer still in sight, Still dancing blithely in a seemly choir; Tossing on high the symbol of their rite. The cone-tipped thyrsus of a god's desire ; Nearer they come, tall damsels flushed and fair, With ivy circling their abundant hair ; Onward, ^\ ith even pace, in stately rows, With eye that flashes, and with cheek that glows, And all the while their tribute-songs they bring, And newer glories of the past disclose^ And deathless praises to the vine-god sing. The pure luxuriance of their limbs is white. And flashes clearer as they draw the nigher, Bathed in an air of infinite delight, Smooth without wound of thorn or fleck of mire, Borne up by song as by a trumpet's blare. Leading the van to conquest, on they fare ; 68 ON VIOL AND FLUTE Fearless and bold, whoever comes or goes, These shininfj cohorts of Bacchantes close. Shouting and shouting till the mountains ring, And forests grim forget their ancient woes, And deathless praises to the vine-god sing. And youths are there, for whom full many a night Brought dreams of bliss, vague dreams that haunl and tire, Who rose in their own ecstasy bcdight, And wandered forth through maTiy a scourging briar And waited shivering in the icy air. And wrajijied the leopard-skin about them there, Knowing, for all the bitter air that froze. The time must come, that every poet knows, \\'hen he shall rise and feel himself a king. And follow, follow where the ivy grows, And deathless praises to the vine-god sing. But oh ! within the heart of this great flight, \N hose ivory arms hold up the golden lyre ? NN'hat form is this of more than mortal height.' What matchless beauty, what inspired ire ! The brindled panthers know the prize they bear, And harmonise their steps with stately care; Bent to the morning, like a living rose, The immortal splendour of his face he shows, And where he glances, leaf and flower and wing Tremble with rapture, stirred in their repose. And deathless praises to the vine-god sing. ENVOI Prince of the flute and ivy, all thy foes Record the bounty that thy grace bestows, But wc, thy servants, to thy glory cling, And with no frigid lips our songs compose, And deathless praises to the vine-god sing. 64 ON VIOL AND FLUTE THE LOSS OF THE "EURYDICE" March 24, 1878 Tired with the toils that know no end. On wintry seas long doomed to roam, They smiled to think that March could lend Such radiant winds to waft them home ; Long perils overpast, They stood for port at last. Close by the fair familiar waterway, And on their sunlit lee All hearts were glad to see The crags of Culver through the shining day ; While every white-winged bird. Whose joyous ci'y they heard. Seemed wild to shout the welcome that it bore Of love from friends on shore. Ah ! brief their joy, as days are brief In March, that loves not joy nor sun ; O bitter to the heart of grief The port that never shall be won ! Fair ship, with all sail set. Didst thou perchance forget The changing times and treacherous winds of Spring? And could those headlands gray Rehearse no tale to-day Of wrecks they have seen, and many a grievous thing ? Thy towering cliff, Dunnose, Full many a secret knows, — Cry out in warning voice ! too much they dare ; Death gathers in the air ! 65 E ON VIOL AND FLUTE A wind blew sharp out of the north, And o'er the island ridges rose A sound of tempest going forth, And murmur of apj)roafliing snows ; Then through the sunlit air Streamed dark the lifted hair Of storm-cloud, gathering for the light's eclipse. And lierccly rose and fell The shriek of waves, the knell Of seamen, and the doom of wandering ships ; As with an eagle's cry 'I'he mighty storm rushed by, 7>ailing its robe of snow across the wave, And gulfed tliem like a grave. It passed ; it fell ; and all was still ; But, homebound wanderers, where were they ? The wind went down behind the hill, The sunset gilded half the bay; Ah 1 loud bewildered sea. Vain, vain our trust in thee To bring our kinsfolk home, through storm and tide! So sharp and swift the blow. Thyself dust hardly knuw Where now they rest whom thou didst bear and guide I Our human hearts may break, Cold Ocean, for thy sake, — Thou not the less canst paint in colours fair The eve of our despair. Not hard for heroes is the death That greets them from the cannon's lips. When heaven is red with flaming breath. And shakes with roar of sundering ships : GG ON VIOL AND FLUTE When through the thundei'-cloud Sounds to them^ clear and loud^ The voice of England callmg them by name ; And as their eyes grow dim They hear their nation's hymn. And know the prelude of immortal fame ; But sad indeed is this. The meed of war to miss, To die for England, yet in dying know They leave no name but woe. They cannot rest through coming years. In any ground that England owns, And billows Salter than our tears Wash over their unhonoured bones ; Yet in our hearts they rest Not less revered and blest Than those, their brothers, who in fighting fell ; Nor shall our children hear Their name pronounced less dear. When England's roll of gallant dead we tell; For ever shall our ships, There, at the Solent's lips. Pass out to glory over their still bed. And praise the silent dead. 67 ON VIOL AND FLUTE SERENADE The lemon-petals gently fall Within the windless Indian ni 72 ON VIOL AND FLUTE THE FARM To Hamo Thornycroft Far in the soft warm west There lies an orchard-nest. Where every spring the black-caps come And build themselves a downy home. The apple-boughs entwine. And make a network fine Through which the morning vapours pass That rise from off the dewy grass. And when the spring-warmth shoots Along the apple roots. The gnarled old boughs grow full of buds That gleam and leaf in multitudes. And then, first cold and white, Soon flushing with delight. The blossom-heads come out and blow And mimic sunset-tinted snow. Just where my farmhouse ends A single gable bends. And one small window, ivy-bound, Looks into this enchanted ground. I sit there while I write, And dream in the dim light That floods the misty orchard through, A pale-green vapour tinged with blue 73 ON VIOL AND FLUTE And watch the growing year, The flowers tliat spring and peer, The apple-bloom that melts awav. The colours of the changing day. The falling blossom fills The cups of daffodils, That loll their perfume-haunted heads Along the feathery parsley-beds. And then the young girls come To take the gold flowers home ; They stand there, laughing, lilac-white, Within the orchard's green twilight. The rough old walls decay, And moulder day i)y day, The fern-roots tear them, stone by stone, The ivy drags them, overgrown ; But still they serve to keej) This little shrine of sleep Intact for singing birds and bees And lovers no less shy than these. Soft perfumes blown my way Remind me day by day How spring and summer flowers arrange Their aromatic interchange. For, in the still warm night, I taste the faint delight Of dim white violets that lie Far down in depths of greenery. 74 ON VIOL AND FLUTE And from the wild white rose That in my window blows. At dawn an odour pure and fine Comes drifting like the scent of wine. I live in flower and tree ; My own life seems to me A fading trifle scarcely worth The notice of the jocund earth. Nor seems it strange indeed To hold the happy creed That all fair things that bloom and die Have conscious life as well as I. That not in vain arise The speedwell's azure eyes. Pure stars upon the river's brink. That shine unseen of us, and sink. That not for Man is made All colour, light and shade. All beauty ripened out of sight. But, — to fulfil its own delight. The black-caps croon and swing Deep in the night, and sing No songs in which man's life is blent. But to embody their content. Then let me joy to be Alive with bird and tree. And have no haughtier aim than this— To be a partner in their bliss. 75 ON VIOL AND FLUTE So shall my soul at peace From anxious carping cease, Fed slowly like a wholesome bud With sap of healthy thoughts and good. That when at last I die, No praise may earth deny. But with her living forms combine To chant a threnody divine. 76 ON VIOL AND FLUTE • THE PIPE-PLAYER Cool, and palm-shaded from the torrid heat, Tlie young brown tenor puts his singing by. And sets the twin pipe to his lips to try Some air of bulrush glooms where lovers meet ; O swart musician, time and fame are fleet, Brief all delight, and youth's feet fain to fly ! Pipe on in peace ! To-morrow must we die ? What matter, if our life to-day be sweet ! Soon, soon, the silver paper- reeds that sigh Along the Sacred River will repeat The echo of the dark-stoled bearers' feet, Who carry you, with wailing, where must lie Your swathed and withered body, by-and-by. In perfumed darkness with the grains of wheat. 77 ON VIOL AND FLUTE IN THE BAY Far out to east one streak of golden light Shows where the lines of sea and heaven unite, — White heaven shot through with film of flvinsr cloud, Gray sea the wind just flutters and makes bright. And wakes to music neither low nor loud. Two horns jut out, and join, and rim the bay, Save where a snow-white strip of shingle may Break through the bar, where, black as black can be, Their stcej) and hollow rocks resound all day The jarred susurrus of the tumbling sea. Here on a sunny shelf, while hot the air Flooded our limbs and faces, brown and bare, We lounged and shouted, plashing with slow feet The warm and tidal pools that wasted there, And down below us saw the sea-foam beat. Then, leaping down together with a cry, I watched them dash into the waves, and fly Around the shallows as a sea-bird bends. Tossing the froth and streaming, and then I Plunged like Arion to my dol{)hin-fricnds. The cool impassive water clung and pressed Around our buoyant bodies, head and breast ; Downward I sank through green and liquid gloom, By all the streams of shoreward seas caressed. Dark vitreous depths by faii^t cross-lights illumed. 78 ON VIOL AND FLUTE And rising once again to sunlit air We flung the salt-drip back from beard and hair, And shouted to the sun, and knew no more The trodden earth, with all its pain and cai'e, But set our ffices seaward from the shore. Then, lo ! the narrow streak of eastern light Along the dark sea's line, began to smite Its radiance high up heaven ; the flying mist Sped from the sky, and left it gold and white. And made tlie tossing sea like amethyst. Midway between the rocks that girt the bay. An islet rose, of rock as black as they ; Sombre it stood against the glowing sky. And two of us swam out to it straightway. And cleft the waves with strenuous arm and thigh ; And as I strove and wrestled in the race, I turned and saw my comrade's merry face ; The sunlight fell upon his hair, and through The film of water showed the sinewy grace Of white limbs, bright against the sea's green-blue. So, laughingly, we won the rock, and then Climbed up and waited for our fellow-men ; Sat on the eastward brink of it, and let The cold foam cling upon our feet again. And plash our limbs with tangle crushed and wet. There, holding back the wet hair from my eyes. The moment seized me with its strange surprise ; Straightway I lost all sense of present things And, in the spirit, as an eagle flies, I floated to the sunrise on wide wings. 79 ON VIOL AND FLUTE Some antique frenzy sliding through uiy brain Made natural thought a moon upon the wane, Fast fading in a vague and silvery sky ; — I know not if such moments be not gain ; They teach us, surely, what it is to die. But suddenly my comrade spoke ; the sound Recalled my soul again to common ground ; And now, like sea-gods on a holiday. My friends were tumbling in the foam around, And made the waters hoary with their play. With that, I spread my naked arms, and drew My hands together o'er my head, and knew That all was changing into cool rejjose, And while into the pulsing deep I Hew, My glad heart sang its greeting ; ah I who knows What power the sea may have to understand, Since all night long it whispers to the land. And moans along the shallows, and cries out Where skerries in the lonely channels stand, And sounds in drowning ears a mighty shout ? "Sea that I love, with arms extended wide, I clasp you as the bridegroom clasps the bride ; Strong sea, receive me throbbing ; close me round With tender firm embracings I Not denied, I plunge and revel in thy cool profound ' " There are who fear thee ; what have I to fear ? Lover, whose frowns and very wrath are dear ! Shake out the odours of the windy waves, Sound thy dim music that my ears may hear ; I shall not tremble, though" thy channels rave ! 80 ON VIOL AND FLUTE " Have I not known thee ? Lo ! thy breath was mild About my body when I was a child ; My hair was blanched with sea-winds full of brine ; No voice beguiled me as thy voice beguiled ; The loveliest face my childhood knew was thine ! " Then on the shore in shadow ; but to-day I plunge far out into the sunlit spray ; A child's heart gave thee all a child's heart can, But now I love thee in a bolder way, And take the fiercer pastime of a man. " Nor I alone enjoy thee ! Here a score, Comrades of mine and still a million more Might leap to thee ; thou wouldst rejoice again. Like her of old whose mystic body bore As many breasts as there are mouths of men " Clinging, thy cool spray makes us tln'ne alone ; We have no human passion of our own ; Here all is thine, prone body and dumb soul ; Thine for thy waves to dash, thy foam to crown. Thy circling eddies to caress and roll ! " With that I shot along the glittering sea, Parting the foam, and plunging full of glee, Tossed back my tangled hair, and struck far out Where orient sunrise paved a path for me, And whispering waves returned my lyric shout. Behind me and around me, lithe and fair. Like Triton-kings at sport my comrades were, — Some tossing conchs that they had dived to find, Some spreading ruddy limbs and sunshot hair To woo tlie soft cool kisses of the wind. 81 F ON VIOL AND FLUTE It seemed the sea had heard my hymn of praise, And laughed beneath tlie torrid sky ablaze ; The pure green water lapped us, warm and red ; Tiie sweet life throbbed in us in wondrous ways; We let the sunlight stream on hands and head. Ah ! for the sky put off its robe of gold ; A sharp wind blew out of a cloudy fold ; The bitter sea but mocked us ! 'J'o the core The keen breeze jiierced us with a cutting cold, And sad and numb we huddled to the shore. So pass life's ecstasies, and yet, ah me ! What sorrow if no change should ever be, Since, out of grieving at a present blight, Come sweeter wafts of garnered memory. And sweeter yearning for a new delight. And but for that chill end in rain and wind, I know not if my changing brain would find On its palimpsest memories of that day, When full of life and youth and careless mind We dashed and shouted in the sunlit bay. 82 ON VIOL AND FLUTE THE BALLADE OF DEAD CITIES To A. L. Where are the cities of the plain ? And where the shrines of rapt Bethel ? And Calah built of Tubal-Cain ? And Shinar whence King Amraphel Came out in arms and fought, and fell. Decoyed into the pits of slime By Siddini, and sent sheer to hell ; Where are the cities of old time ? Where now is Karnak, that great fane. With granite built, a miracle ? And Luxor smooth without a stain, Whose graven scripture still we spell ? The jackal and the owl may tell ; Dark snakes around their ruins climb, They fade like echo in a shell ; Where are the cities of old time ? And where is white Shushan, again. Where Vashti's beauty bore the bell. And all the Jewish oil and grain Were brought to Mithridath to sell. Where Nehemiah would not dwell, Because another town sublime Decoyed him with her oracle ? Where are the cities of old time? 83 ON VIOL AND FLUTE ENVOI Prince, with a dolorous, ceaseless knell, Above their wasted toil and crime The waters of oblivion swell : Where are the cities of old time f 84 ON VIOL AND FLUTE THE BATH With rosy palms against her bosom pressed To stay the shudder that she dreads of old, Lysidice glides down, till silvei'-cold The water girdles half her glowing breast ; A yellow butterfly on flowery quest Rifles the roses that her tresses hold : A breeze comes wandering through the fold on fold Of draperies curtaining her shrine of rest. Soft beauty, like her kindred petals strewed Along the crystal coolness, there she lies. What vision gratifies those gentle eyes ? She dreams she stands where yesterday she stood. Where, while the whole arena shrieks for blood. Hot in the sand a gladiator dies. 85 ON VIOL AND FLUTE THE NEW ENDYMION Behind the ghostly poplar-trees The moon rose high when Celia died ; To win the flickering midnight breeze I'd thrown the curtains both aside, And this was how I came to see, In my most tearless agony, Tlie red moon in the poplar-tree. The scent of lilies, sickly sweet, Just Hoated through the shining air, And the hot perfume of the wheat Hung like a vapour everywhere ; The anguish of the summer night, Close, breathless, sultry, still and bright. Seemed witiiout hope and infmite. But most the round orb of the moon, That one bv one the branches kissed. Drawn out of her flushed waking swoon. And changed to gold above the mist, Seemed like a rancorous enemy. Who climbed by stairs into the sky Better to see my darling die. And I remembered, hushed at heart. Without a tear, though she was dead, — As if my future had no part In that cold jKist upon the bed, — I thought how much the moon had seen Of happy days that lay between The sweet may -be and sad has-been. 86 ON VIOL AND FLUTE Quivering to feel how, every time I forged another link of love. The mystic moon had seemed to climb, And watcii my lips, and hang above ; I shuddered, and my thoughts I cast, While all my veins were beating fastj Across my memories of the past, I thought of one clear tropic night. When, like a bird, through Indian seas. Our ship unfolded wings of light. And lost the land by soft degrees : She paced the deck ; I heard the stir Of robes, her beauty's minister, And at the last I spoke to her. But while our budding fortunes crossed. Amid her courteous Hights of speech. My careless vision slowly lost The range of palm-trees on the beach, Whereat another lijjht beaan Behind the isles of Andaman, And up the golden moonlight ran. I turned and saw her gentle face, Those violet moon-shot eyes I saw. And in that very hour and place Bent like a vassal to her law ; But yet I dared not speak, and soon She rose and suddenly had gone. And left me to the florid moon. I thought me ot a winter street. And how the first time, on my arm, I felt her gentle pulses beat As in a virgin vague alarm ; S7 ON VIOL AND FLUTE We let the rest |kiss on before, And talking lin^^ertd, more and more Hid in the city's kindly roar. Tiie great crowd caught us in its net, And pressed us closer to each other ; We spoke of all since last we met. And lau'dud like sister and like brother ; I all the while, with fixed intent. Towards some more serious silence bent To sjiy a certain thing I meant. In vain, — till out of the blue niglit, Behind I he vast cathedral spire. There swam into our sudden sight A globe of honey-coloured fire, And in tlie wonder of the view .'^he hushed her talking, and I knew How kind her heart was and how true. I thought, too, of the magic hour When in one sacred chamber bcumd, She loosed her wreath of orange-Hower, And droppeil her wealth of hair uncrowned, And I, with tcnderest fingers laced About the slinniessof her waist. Her cool and crcam-winte throat embraced. And through this window-pane we glanced And sjiw the silver)' soft May-moon, — Like some young ma-nad that hath danced Till her bright head is in a swoon, — Lean up against the poplar-tree, And in the wild wind we could see The leaves fold round her -amorously. 8S ON VIOL AND FLUTE They folded round as sisters might Around a maiden sick to deaths Whom some perfidious churl and light Had cheated with delusive breath : The moon's white face that golden hour Had something of the tints that lour About the aconite in flower. Yet that last night when Celia died The moon's face had a stranger air, A mien of victory, like a bride, Enchanted, resolute and fair : Through all my sorrow, all my pain, 1 gazed upon the orb again. Till my pent anguish gushed in ram ; And then upon her face I fell, My sweet, lost Celia' s, and my arms Clasped round once more the miracle Of her divine and tender charms ; The room grew dark, I know not why,— I gazed and saw that, suddenly, The moon was ashen in the sky. Then I arose and left the dead. And wandered up into our wood. Till briar and honeysuckle shed A subtle odour Avhere I stood : And there, beneath the boughs that lie Thin-leaved against the stars on high. The moon swam down the liquid sky. And since that night of pain and love I have not felt as others feel. An alien in their courts I move, And from their noisy world I steal ; 89 ON VIOL AND FLUTE The common ways of life I shun, And quit my comrades every one, And live sequestered from the sun. But when the crescent moon begins To fill her slender bow with tire, A dream ujion my fancy wins, I languish with a fond desire ; I stride along the mountain-tops, But when behind their range she drops, My heart within me leaps and stops. But every month one night 1 lie Upon the wild back of the hills, And watch the hollow of the sky Until the crystal dew distils ; And when the perfect moon appears A golden paragon of spheres, I rise a god among my peers. Twelve times within the weary year That marvellous hour of joy returns. And till its rapture reappear My pulse is like a flame that bums ; I have no wonder, now, nor care For any woman's hands or hair, For any face, however fair. Ah ! what am I that she should bend Her glorious godship down to me ? My mortal weakness cannot lend Fresh light to her vast deity 1 I know not I only this I know — She loves me, she has willed it so, And blindly in her light 1 go. UO ON VIOL AND FLUTE Sweet, make me as a mountain pool With thy soft radiance mirrored o'er, Or like the moon-fern^ gray and cool. That hides thy virtue in its core ; I must grow old and pass away ; Thou art immortal ; love, I pray, Bend o'er me on my fatal day ! 91 ON VIOL AND FLUTE WIND OF PROVENXE O WIND of Provence, subtle wind that blows Through coverts of the impenetrable rose, () musical soft wind, come near to me, Come down into these hollows by the sea, O wind of Provence, heavy with the rose ' How once along the blue sea's battlements Thy amorous rose-trees poured their spicy scents I The heavy perfume streamed down granite walls, ^Vhere now the prickly cactus gibes and crawls Down towards cold waves from grim rock-battlements. Of all the attar, sharp and resinous, The spines and stalks alone are left for us. And so much sickly essence as may cleave About the hands of maidens when they weave Wild roses into wreaths of bloom for us. Where are the old days vanished, ah ! who knows ? When all the wide world blossomed with the rose. When all the world was full of frank desire, \\'hen love was passion and when Howers were fire. Where are the old days vanished, ah ! who knows ? Come down, O wind of Provence, sing again In my lulled ears, for quenchhig of all pain. The litany of endless amorous hours. The song of songs that blossomed with the flowers. And brightened when the flowers decayed again. 9'J ON VIOL AND FLUTE When Ermengarde, the lady of Narbonne^ Star-like above the silken tourney shone. With powdered gold upon her ruddy hair ; There was no woman anywhere so fair As Ermengarde, the glory of Narbonne ! Love's ladies paced the sward beneath all towers, Their grass-green satins stirred the daisy -flowers; No knight or dame was pale with spent desire. For pleasure served them as an altar-fire ; Their mortal spirits faded like soft flowers. Some wreaths and robes, a lute with moulded strings, One clear perennial song on deathless wings, Still tell us later men of those delights That filled their happy days and passionate nights, While Life smote gaily on his tense harp-strings. Now cold earth covers all of them with death ; The gray world travels on with failing breath, Long having passed her prime, and twilight comes, And some men wait for dream-millenniums. But most are gathering up their robes for death. The old air hangs about us cold and strange ; We stand like blind men, wistful for a change, But only darkness lies on either hand, And in a sinister, unlovely land. We cling together, waiting for the change. But in this little interval of rest May one not press the rose-flower to his breast. The sanguine rose whose passionate delight In amorous days of old was infinite. And now, like some narcotic, sings of rest ? 93 ON VIOL AND FLUTE So be it ! I, the child of this last age. To whoxTti the shadow of death is heritage, Will set my face to dream against the i:)ast ; This time of tears and trouble cannot last. The dawn must some time herald a new age. Till then, O wind of Provence, thrill my brain With musk and terebinth and dewy rain Fi'om over-luscious roses, and declare That wine is delicate and woman fair ; O wind of Provence, shall I call in vain ? 94 ON VIOL AND FLUTE RONDEAU If Love should faint, and half declme Below the fit meridian sign, And shorn of all his golden dress. His royal state and loveliness. Be no more worth a heart like thine. Let not thy nobler passion pine. But, with a charity divine, Let Memory ply her soft address If Love should faint ; And oh ! this laggard heart of mine, Like some halt pilgrim stirred with wine. Shall ache in pity's dear distress. Until the balmr, of thy cai'ess To work the finished cure combine. If Love should faint. 95 ON VIOL AND FLUTE MOORLAND Now the buttercups of May Twinkle fainter day by day, And tlie stalks of flowering clover Make the June fields red all over, — Now the cuckoo, like a bell, Modulates a sad farewell. And the nightingale, perceiving Love's warm tokens, ends her grieving,- Let us twain arise and go Where the freshening breezes blow. Where the granite giant moulders In his circling cairn of boulders I •» Just a year ago to-day. Friend, we climbed the selt-same way, Through the village-green, and higher Past the smithy's thundering fire ; Up and up and where the hill Wound us by the cider-still ; Where the scythers from the meadow Sat along the hedge for shadow ; Where the little wayside inn Signals that the moors begin. Ah ! remember all our laughter, Loitering at the bar, — and after ! 96 ON VIOL AND FLUTE All must be the same to-day, All must look the same old way, Only that the sweet child-maiden We admired so well, fruit-laden. Now, like an expanded bud. Must be blown to womanhood. And the fuller lips and bosom Must proclaim the perfect blossom. One step more ! Before us, lo ! Sheer the great ravine below. Empty, save where one brown plover Wheels across the ferny cover ! Here, where all the valley lies Like a scroll before our eyes, Let us spend our golden leisure In a world of lazy pleasure. Comrade, let your heart forget All the thoughts that fray and fret ; Till the sundown flares out yonder. Stretch here in the fern, and ponder. See, below us, where the stream Winds with broken silver gleam. How the nervous quivering sallows Bend and dare not touch the shallows ! In that willow-shaded pool, When last June the airs were cool. How we made the hot noon shiver With our plunge into the river I 97 G ON VIOL AND FLUTE In tlie sweet sun, side by side, You and I and none beside ! Head and hands, thrown backward, slacken, Sunk into the soft warm bracken. Up in heaven a milky sky Floats across us leisurely ; When we close our eyes, the duller Half-light seems a faint red colour. In this weary life of ours Pass too many leaden hours ; In our chronicles of passion Too much apes the world's dull fashion. If our spirits strive to be Pure and high in their degree, Let us learn the soaring pa'an Under God's own empyrean. Leisure in the sun and air Makes the spirit strong and fair ; P'laccid veins and pallid features Are not fit for sky-born creatures. Come then, for the hours of May Wane and falter, day by day, And the thrushes' first June chorus Will have waked the woods before us . 98 ON VIOL AND FLUTE SUNSHINE BEFORE SUNRISE The ice-white mountains clustered all around us. But arctic summer blossomed at our feet ; The perfume of the creeping sallows found us. The cranberry-flowers were sweet. The reindeer champed the ghostly moss, and over The sparkling peak that crowned the dim ravine The sky was violet-blue ; and loved by lover We clung, and lay half-seen. Below us through the valley crept a river. Cleft round an island where the Lap-men lay ; Its sluggish water dragged with slow endeavour The mountain-snows away. One thin blue curl of wood-smoke rose up single, — The only sign of life the valley gave ; But where the fern-roots and the streamlets mingle Our hearts were warm and brave. My arm was round her small head sweetly fashioned. Her bright head shapely as a hyacinth-bell ; So silent were we that our hearts' impassioned Twin throb was audible. Alas ! for neither knew the language spoken Amongst the people whence the other came ; A few brief words were all we had for token. And just each other's name. 99 ON VIOL AND FLUTE ^' My love is pure ax this blue heaven above you," I said^ — but saw she let the meaninff slip ; " Jeg elsker Dem," I felt must be, ^' I love you !" And answered, lip to lip. Oh ! how the tender throbbing of her bosom Beat, bird-like, crushed to mine in that embrace, While blushes, like the light through some red blossom. Dyed all her dewy face. There is no night-time in the northern summer. But golden shinuner fills the hours of sleep, And sunset fades not, till the bright new-comer, Red sunrise, smites the deep. But when the blue snow-shadows grew intenser Across the peaks against the golden sky, And on the hills the knots of deer grew denser, And raised their tender cry. And wandered downward to the Lap-men's dwelling. We knew our long sweet day was nearly spent, And slowly, with our hearts within us swelling, Our homeward steps we bent. Down rugged paths and torrents mad with foaming. With clinging hands, we loitered, blind with joy, I thouglit a long life spent like this in roaming Would never tire or cloy. And yery late we saw before us, dreaming. The red-roofed town where all her days had been, And far beyond, half shaded and half gleaming, The blue sea, flecked with green. 100 ON VIOL AND FLUTE Ah ! sweet is life and sweet is youth's young passion, And sweet the first kiss on a girl's warm cheek ; Since then we both have learnt in broken fashion Each other's tongues to speak ; And many days and nights of love and pleasure Have laid their fragrant chaplets on our hair, And many hours of eloquent wise leisure Have made our lives seem fair ; But Memory knows not where so white a place is In all her shining catalogue of hours. As that one day of silent warm embraces Among the cranberry-flowers. 101 ON VIOL AND FLUTE SONG There's a sleek thrush sits in the a|)ple-tree When it blooms all over with rosy snow, And hark ! how he opens his heart to me, Till its inmost hopes and desires I know ! Blow, wind, blow. For the thrush will tty when the bloom must go. O a friend I had, and I loved him well. And his heart was open and sang to mine. And it pains me worse than I choose to tell. That he cares no more if I laugh or pine : Friend of mine, Can the music fade out of love like thine I 10? ON VIOL AND FLUTE SESTINA Fra tutti il primo Arnaldo Daniello Gran maestro d'ainor. — Petrarch. In fair Provence^ the land of lute and rose, Arnaut, great master of the lore of love, First wrought sestines to win his lady's heart, Since she was deaf Avhen simpler staves he sang. And for her sake he broke the bonds of rhyme. And in this subtler measure hid his woe. "Harsh be my lines," cried Arnaut, "harsh the woe My lady, that enthorn'd and cruel i-ose. Inflicts on him that made her live in rhyme ! " But through the metre spake the voice of Love, And like a wild-wood nightingale he sang Who thought in crabbed lays to ease his heart. It is not told if her untoward heart Was melted by her poet's lyric woe. Or if in vain so amorously he sang ; Perchance through cloud of dark conceits he rose To nobler heights of philosophic love. And crowned his later years with sterner rhyme. This thing alone we know : the triple rhyme Of him who bared his vast and passionate heart To all the crossing flames of hate and love. Wears in the midst of all its storm of woe, — As some loud morn of March may bear a rose, — The impress of a song that Arnaut sang. 103 ON VIOL AND FLUTE "Smith of his mother-tongue," the Frenchman sang Of Lancelot and of Galahad, the rhyme That beat so bloodlike at its core of rose, It stirred the sweet Francesca's gentle heart To take that kiss that brought her so much woe And sealed in fire her martyrdom of love. And Dante, full of her immortal love, Stayed his drear song, and softly, fondly sang As though his voice broke with that weight of woe ; And to this day we think of Arnaut's rhyme Whenever pity at tlie labouring heart On fair Francesca's memory drops the rose. Ah ! sovereign Love, forgive this weaker rhyme ! The men of old who sang were great at heart, Yet have we too known woe, and worn thy rose. 104 ON VIOL AND FLUTE ON A LUTE FOUND IN A SARCOPHAGUS To L. A. T. What curled and scented sun-girls, almond-eyed, With lotos-blossoms in their hands and hair, Have made their swarthy lovers call them fair, With these spent strings, when brutes were deified. And Memnon in the sunrise sprang and cried. And love-winds smote Bubastis, and the bare Black breasts of carven Pasht received the prayer Of suppliants bearing gifts from far and wide ! This lute has out-sung Egypt ; all the lives Of violent passion, and the vast calm art That lasts in granite only, all lie dead ; This little bird of song alone survives, As fresh as when its fluting smote the heart Last time the brown slave wore it garlanded. 105 ON VIOL AND FLUTE SONGS FROM "KING ERIK" (1876) I Autumn closes Round the roses, Shatters, strips tliem, head by head ; Winter passes O'er the grasses, Turns them yellow, brown and red ; Can a lover E'er recover When his summer love is dead ? Yet the swallow Turns to follow In the northward wake of spring, Jo refashion Wasted passion With a sweep of his dark wing, As returning Love riies burning To these stricken lips that sing. II I BRING a garland for your head, Of blossoms fresh and fair. My own hands wound their white and red To ring about your hair : Here is a lily, here a rose, A warm narcissus that scarce blows, And fairer blossoms no man knows. 106 ON VIOL AND FLUTE So crowned and chapleted with flowers, I pray you be not proud ; For after brief and summer hours Comes autumn with a shroud ; — Though fragrant as a flower you He, You and your garland, by-and-by, Will fade aiul wither up and die. 107 ON VIOL AND FLUTE SONGS FROM "THE UNKNOWN LOVER" (1878) I Soft she seems as flowers and dew, Mild as skies in summer, But let old love change for new, She'll wake with the new-comer ; All and each She will teach In a frowartl fashion ! Leoj)ards wild Fear this child Roused to fire and passion ! Cease to chide a maid's desire, Vain your hest endeavour ; You'll but waste your threats and ire, She will heed you never ; You may bind Storm and wind, You may curb the ocean, But in vain Strive to chain Woman's mad devotion. II Chloe is false, but the fire in her eyes Rouses her lovers with thousand sweet delusions ; Ceelia is true, and, too true to' be wise, Breaks, like a dream, all their amorous illusions. 108 ON VIOL AND FLUTE Lovers are weak, and they ask not to know All that lies under the rose-leaves and the laughter ; Wisdom may call, but to pleasure they go, Caelia they honour, but Chloe they run after. 109 ON VIOL AND FLUTE WITH A BIRTHDAY GIFT OF WKBSTER'S PLAYS Poet and Friend ! Pause while the bells of Time Rin^ out this ^reat division of your days, And let the cadence of these sombre plays Re the grave echo of their silver chime ; And as you slowly up to glory climb, Nigh fainting in the lower thornv wavs. Take solace from the eternal wreath of bays That crowns at last this weary brow sublime ; His was a soul whose calm intensity Glared, shadeless, at the passion-sun that blinds, Unblinded, till the storm of song arose ; — Even as the patient and Promethean sea Tosses in sleep, until the vulture winds Swoop down and tear the breast of its repose. 1869. 110 ON VIOL AND FLUTE EROS Within a forest, as I strayed Far down a sombre autumn glade, I found the god of love ; His bow and arrows cast aside. His lovely arms extended wide, A depth of leaves above. Beneath o'erarching boughs he made A place for sleep in russet shade. His lips, more red than any rose. Were like a flower that overflows With honey pure and sweet ; And clustering round that holy mouth, The golden bees in eager drouth Plied busy wings and feet ; They knew, what every lover knows, There's no such honey-bloom that blows. Ill ON VIOL AND FLUTE TO DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTl Master, whose very names have godlike power Of song and light divine, being his who went Unscathed through blearing fire omnipotent, Singing for men ; and his who hour by hour Stands in the imminent and splendid shower Of God's effulgence ; and being lastly blent With the warm light and odour effluent Of your own rhymes, our latest, loveliest dower, Not in our own land could my weakness mock Your strength with homage of mv poor May-day, — The applause of circling pot- ts scared my song, But here where twenty thousand thunders shock The violent air for leagues of dim sea way. Surely my heart may speak, nor do you wrong ! Outside Bergen Harbour, Aug. 1871. 112 ON VIOL AND FLUTE TO MY DAUGHTER TERESA Thou hast the colours of the Springs The gold of kingcups triumphing. The blue of wood-bells Avild ; But winter-thoughts thy spirit fill. And thou art wandering from us still. Too young to be our child. Yet have thy fleeting smiles confessed, Thou dear and much-desired guest, That home is near at last ; Long lost in high mysterious lands. Close by our door thy spirit stands. Its journey well-nigh past. Oh sweet bewildered soul, I watch The fountains of thine eyes, to catch New fancies bubbling there. To feel our common light, and lose The flush of strange ethereal hues Too dim for us to share ! Fade, cold immortal lights, and make This creature human for my sake. Since I am nought but clay ; An angel is too fine a thing To sit behind my chair and sing. And cheer my passing day. 113 H ON VIOL AND FLUTE I smile, who could not smile, unless The air of rapt unconsciousness Passed, with the fading hours ; I joy in every childish sign That proves the stranger less divine And much more meekly ours. I smile, as one by night who sees. Through mist of newly-budded trees. The clear Orion set. And knows that soon the dawn will fly In fire across the riven sky. And gild the woodlands wet. 114 ON VIOL AND FLUTE ALCYONE SONNET PHCEBUS What voice is this that wails above the deep ? ALCYONE A wife'S; that mourns her fate and loveless days. PHffiBUS What love lies buried in these waterways ? ALCYONE A husband's^ hurried to eternal sleep. PHCEBUS Cease, O beloved, cease to wail and weep . ALCYONE Wherefore ? PHCEBUS The waters in a fiery blaze Proclaim the godhead of my healing rays, ALCYONE No god can sow where fate hath stood to reap. PHCEBUS Hold, wringing hands ! cease, piteous tears, to fall I 115 ON VIOL AND FLUTE ALCYONE But grief must raiu and glut the passionate sea. PHOiBUS Thou shalt forget this ocean and thy wrong, And I will bless the dead, though past recall. ALCYONE What canst thou give to me or him in me ? PHCEUUS A name in story and a light in song. 116 ON VIOL AND FLUTE VILLANELLE Little mistress mine, good-bye ! I have been your sparrow true ; Dig my grave, for I must die. Waste no tear and heave no sigh ; Life should still be blithe for you. Little mistress mine, good-bye I In your garden let me lie. Underneath the pointed yew Dig my grave, for I must die. We have loved the quiet sky With its tender arch of blue ; Little mistress mine, good-bye ! That I still may feel you nigh. In your virgin bosom, too. Dig my grave, for I must die. Let our garden friends that fly Be the mourners, fit and few. Little mistress mine, good-bye ! Dig my grave, for I must die. 117 ON VIOL AND FLUTE 1870-71 The year that Henri Regnault died, — The sad red blossoming year of war, — All nations cast the lyre aside, And gazed through curved fingers far At horror, waste, and wide. Not one new song from overseas Came to us ; who had ears to hear? The kings of Europe's minstrelsies Walked, bowed, behind the harrowing year, Veiled, silent, ill at ease. For us the very name of man Grew hateful in that mist of blood ; We talked of how new life began To exiles by the eastern flood. Flower-girdled in Japan. We dreamed of new deliglit begun In palm-encircled Indian shoals, Whei"e men are coloured by the sun, And wear out contemplative souls, And vanish one by one. We found no pleasure any more In all the whirl of Western thought ; The dreams that soothed our souls before Were burst like bubbles, atid we sought New hopes on a new shore. 118 ON VIOL AND FLUTE The men who sang that pain was sweet Shuddered to see the mask of death Storm by with myriad thundering feet ; The sudden truth caught up our breathy Our throats Uke pulses beat. The songs of pale emaciate hours. The fungus-growth of years of peace, Withered before us like mown flowers ; We found no pleasure more in these, When bullets fell in showers. For men whose robes are dashed with blood, What joy to dream of gorgeous stairs, Stained with the torturing interlude That soothed a Sultan's midday prayers, In old days harsh and rude .'* For men whose lips are blanched and white. With aching wounds and torturing thirst. What charm in canvas shot with light. And pale with faces cleft and curst, Past life and life's delight .'' And when the war had passed, and song Broke out amongst us once again. As birds sing fresher notes among The sunshot woodlands after rain. And happier tones prolong, — So seemed it with the lyric heart Of human singers ; fresher aims Sprang in the wilderness of art, Serener pathos, nobler claims On man for his best part. 119 ON VIOL AND FLUTE The times are changed ; not Schumann now. But Wagner is our music-man, Whose flutes and trumpets throb and glow With life, as when the world began Its genial ebb and flow. The great god Pan redeified Comes, his old kingship to reclaim ; New hopes are spreading far and wide ; The lands were purged as with a flame, The year that Regnault died. 120 ON VIOL AND FLUTE DESIDERIUM Sit there for ever^ dear, and lean In marble as in fleeting flesh. Above the tall gray reeds that screen The river when the breeze is fresh ; For ever let the morning light Stream down that forehead broad and white. And round that cheek for my delight. Already that flushed moment grows So dark, so distant ; through the ranks Of scented reed the river flows Still murmuring to its willowy banks But we can never hope to share Again that rapture fond and rare, Unless you turn immortal there. There is no other way to hold These webs of mingled joy and pain ; Like gossamer their threads enfold The journeying heart without a strain, — Then break, and pass in cloud or dew, And while the ecstatic soul goes through Are withered in the parching blue. Hold, Time, a little while thy glass, And, Youth, fold up those peacock wings More rapture fills the years that pass Than any hope the future brings ; Some for to-morrow rashly pray, And some desire to hold to-day. But I am sick for yesterday. 121 ON VIOL AND FLUTE Since yesterday the hills were blue That shall be gray for evermore, And the fair sunset was shot through With colour never seen before I Tyrannic Love smiled yesterday, And lost the terrors of his sway, But is a god again to-day. Ah ! who will give us back the past ? Ah I woe, that youth should love to be Like this swift 'I'hames that speeds so fast. And is so fain to find the sea, — That leaves this maze of shadow and sleep, These creeks down which blown blossoms ci'eep, For breakers of the homeless deep. Tlien sit for ever, dear, in stone. As when you turned with half a smile, And I will haunt this islet lone. And with a dream my tears beguile ; And in my reverie forget That stars and suns were made to set, That love grows old, or eyes are wet. 122 ON VIOL AND FLUTE THE SUPPLIANT Beneath the poplars o'er the sacred pool The halcyons dart like rays of azure light, — Fair presage ! by the columns white and cool, I'll watch till fall of night. Perchance the goddess at the twilight's breath Will come with silver feet and braidless hair. And all too startled to decree my death. Will hearken to my prayer. So when at moon rise by the farm I go, The lovely girl who near the fig-tree stands, May turn no more on scornful feet and slow. But hold out both her hands. 123 ON VIOL AND FLUTE EPILOGUE If thou disdain the sacred muse, Beware lest Nature, past recall, Indignant at that crime, refuse Thee entrance to her audience-hall, Beivare lest sea, and sky, and all That bears reflectio7i of her face Be blotted frith a hueless pall Of unillumined commonplace. The movi7ig heavens, in rhythmic time. Roll, if thou tvatch them or refrain ; The waves upon the shore in rhyme Beat, heedless of thy loss or gain ; Not they, but thou, hast lived in vain, If thou art deaf and blind and dumb. Parched in the heat of morning rain, And on the flaming altar numb. Ah ! desolate hour when that shall he. When dew and sunlight, rain and wind. Shall seem but tnvial things to thee, Unloved, unheeded, undivined ; Nay, rather let that morning find Thy molten soul exhaled and gone. Than in a livins death resigned So darkly still to labour on. 124 FIRDAUSI IN EXILE TO AUSTIN DOBSON Neighbour of the near domain, Stay awhile your passing ivain ! Though to give is more your ivay, Take a gift from me to-day ! From my homely store I hrijig Signs of my 'poor husbanding ; — Here a spike of jnn-ple phlox, Here a spicy bunch of stocks, Mushrooms from my jnoister fields, Apples that my orchard yields, — Notht?ig, — for the show they 7nake, Something,— for the doJiors sake ; Since for ten years we have been Best of neighbours ever seen ; We have fronted evil weather^ Nip of critic s frost, together ; We have shared laborious days. Shared the pleasantness of praise ; Brother not more close to brother, We have cheered and helped each other : Till so far the fields of each Into the other's stretch and reach. That perchance when both are gone Neither may be named alone. June 1885. FIRDAUSI IN EXILE FIRDAUSI IN EXILE I Now God who flames the buckler of the sun, And lights that lamp of heaven, the glorious moon, In the proud breast of Mahmoud had begun To stir remorse, and, like the loud typhoon, Shame blew his thoughts in gusts about his soul, Remembei'ing that old man whose sandy shoon Pressed the low shores where distant waters roll. And all his wrongs, and unrequited boon. II Since, greatest poet whom the world contains, Firdausi, on whose tongue the sweet Farsi Sounded like whispering leafage when it rains, Who loved the ancient kings, and learned to see Their buried shapes in vision one by one. And wove their deeds in lovely minstrelsy. For all the glory that his name had won To Persia, was in exile by the sea. Ill In vain through sixty thousand verses clear He sang of feuds and battles, friend and foe. Of the frail heart of Kaous, spent with fear. And Kai Khosrau who vanished in the snow. And white-haired Zal who won the secret love Of Rudabeh where water-lilies blow. And lordliest Rustem, armed by gods above With every power and virtue mortals know. 129 FIRDAUSI IN EXILE IV In vain tlicse stories of the godlike kings, Whose bodies were as brass, their hearts as fire, This verse that centuries with wasting wings Will never harm, though men with gods conspire — In vain the good lirdausi. iull of years. Inscribed this treasure to his Shah's desire; For Mahmoud, heedless of the poet's tears. Forgot his oath, nor gave the promised hire. V For each sonorous verse one piece of gold : Such was the promise that the Shall had made, But when the glorious perfect tale was told. The file of laden elephants delayed ; For Hasan, that black demon, held the car Of Mahmoud, and spoke tenderly, and said, " The end of this old man, my lord, is near ; For gold let silver in the sacks be weighed." VI Thereat Firdausi, when it came, was wroth, And being within the bath, where all might see. Called the two serving-men, and bid them both Divide the silver for their service-fee. And told Ayaz, the false Shah's chamberlain, " Returning to thy master, say from me, 'Twas not for silver that I toiled amain And wove my verse for thirty years and three." VII Then round him came his friends and bade liim fly From Mahmoud's vengeance, and the murderous sword ; But he, being placable of heart, would try For peace, since enmity his soul abhorred ; 130 FIRDAUSI IN EXILE So in the garden where the Shah was used To breathe the spice that many a rose outpoured^ Firdausi met his master as he mused, And bowed down at his feet without a word. VIII Yet grudging was the pardon, faint the smile, And when that evening in the mosque he lay, A veiled dervish, muttering all the while. Crept near Firdausi, while he seemed to pray. And whispered, "Fly from Ghaznin, fly to-night. The bowstring waits for thee at break of day ; Thou shalt not 'scape because thy beard is white — Begone ! " and like a snake he slipped away. IX Then, when of woi'ship there was made an end, Firdausi rolled his prayer-mat up, and turned To that bright niche where all believers bend. And by the light of lamps that round him burned Wrote on a blue tile with a diamond point Two couplets that may yet be well discerned. Though all the mosque be crumbling joint from joint. By long decay and mouldering age inurned : X "The happy court of Mahmoud is a sea, A sea of endless waves without a coast ; In my unlucky star the fault must be If I who plunged for pearls in it am lost." Then to his house he went, weary and sad, And called around him those who loved him most, And gave them all the treasure that he had. Soft silken raiment that a king might boast. 131 FIRDAUSI IN EXILE XI But in a saintly gabardine set out And crossed the moonlit streets, and left the town, Nor stopped to hear the lonely owlet shout His dreamy menace from the turret's crown, But where the cypresses and myrtles hoar Hid the white house of Ayaz, stooping down, He thrust a letter underneath the iloor. And faded in the shadow broad and brown. XII That letter bade the chamberlain beloved Before the dawn to seek his master's face, And plead until his blandishments had moved The Shah to grant him twenty days of grace ; In twenty days a paper folded fair Should Ayaz in his master's fingers place, Which to the gracious Sultan would declare Firdausi's secret wish, and plead his case. XIII The Sultan vowed : but for those twenty days The Sultan yawned upon his peacock-throne ; The rebeck and the Turkish minstrel's lays With their sweet treble jarred him to the bone. All night he tossed in fever, all day long Far from his blithe hareem he paced alone. Or scowled to hear the trampling and the song Where down the cool bazaar the lanterns shone. XIV At last, at last the twentieth morning broke. And Mahmoud, flushed with- pleasure, rose and cried For fair Ayaz, who from his slumber woke. And brought the sealed letter, white and wide. 132 FIRDAUSI IN EXILE In Allah's name the Sultan broke the seal ; His long-pent wishes satisfied, he sighed, But reading on, he stared, and seemed to reel. And crushed the leaf, and gazed out stony- eyed. XV It was that scathing satire, writ in fire. And music such as the red tiger makes Over a man, the food of her desire, When she lies down among the ci'ested brakes — That satire which the world still shudders at, Whose cadence in the hearer's sense still aches. At bare recital of whose singing hate The conscience of forgetful kings awakes. XVI " O Mahmoud, of the whole world conqueror, You fear not me ? — fear God ! " The Sultan fell With outstretched arms before the chamber door. Ashen with rage, and bis breast's heave and swell Was like an earthquake ; no word passed his lips. But curses from the foulest pit of hell, Till evening brought his soul through that eclipse. And he rose up, and drank, and feasted well. XVII But old Firdausi, bearing eastward still, Through many a Tartar camp, his woven mat. At last, one evening, climbed a scarped hill From whence he saw the white roofs of Herat : Downward he passed, and in a garden, sweet With roses and narcissus, down he sat. And wondered if his mountain-weary feet Might dare to rest where earth was smooth and flat. 133 FIRDAUSI IN EXILE XVIII Then suddenly his tired eyes lauprhed at last, For he remembered, by the gift of fate, Where once he lod<^ed in merry days long past At Herat, in the arch above the gate. There Abou'lmaani sold his ancient books, A man discreet and old, without a mate. And there Firdausi oft, in dusty nooks, f lad chanted verses till the night was late. XIX To Abou'lmaani in the dusk he went, And found him still more wrinkled than of yore, An owlish figure, angular and bent, But hearty still and honest to the core. So there among the rolls of parchment sere Once more he drank the mystic Dikhan lore, But never sought the daylight streets, for fear Of treachery, and the hatred Mahmoud bore. XX And little rest he had, and brief delight, For rumours from the court at Ghaznin ran. And with a short farewell he fled by night Across the mountains to the Caspian ; A gentle Sultan ruled from Astrabad The jasmine-gardens of Mazinderan, And to his little court, humble and sad. One morning came a white-haired minstrel-man. XXI Fike parrots, one and all, with shrieking tongues The poets knew their lord, and screamed his name. Bitter with hate ; but his sweet learned songs Had touched the Sultan with their sacred flame ; FIRDAUSI IN EXILE He bade the jealous poets all make way. And did Firdausi honour to their shame. And asked by what fair accident that day From stately Ghaznin such a stranger came. XXII But when he knew, and heard of Mahmoud's rage. He trembled, and his fingers stroked his beard ; For scarcely could his pastoral province wage Safe war with one whom all the nations feared ; So blushing much, as one who loathes his task. He bade his guest, whom meat and wine had cheered. To grant the boon that he could scarcely ask Of one so deeply loved, so long revered. XXIII Firdausi I'ose and sighed, and went his way. But ere he reached the gate of Astrabad, The Sultan sent three men in rich array Laden with gifts, the lordliest that he had. And camels, that the bard might ride at ease. And lutes, and a Circassian serving-lad ; So after many days he passed with these Far down the lordly Tigris to Baghdad. XXIV Here underneath the palm-trees, full of shade. The poet tasted peace, and lingered long ; The Master of the Faithful he obeyed, And searched the Koran for a theme for songf. The vizier lodged him in his own fair house. Where Avise men gathered in a learned throng. And when the Khalif heard his pious vows, He gave him gifts and shielded him from wrong. 135 FIRDAUSI IN EXILE XXV There in a white-walled garden full of trees, Through which there ran a deep cold water brook Fringed with white tulips and anemones, Among the tender grass he wrote the book Of Yousouf and Zuleika ; not one word Was there of all the windy war that shook Iran of old, nor was the ear once stirred With any name the Faithful might rebuke. XXVI Nine thousand Persian verses told the tale, And when the perfect poem was set down, He rose, and left the plaintive nightingale That long had tuned her throat to his sweet moan ; Before the Khalif on a broad divan. To sound of rebecks, in a silken gown. He sat in state, and when the dance began Declaimed aloud that song of high renown. XXVII Its music sank on well-attempered ears; The Khalif lounged upon his throne, and cried, " Lo ! I this day am as a man who hears The angel Gabriel murmur at his side — And dies not." At the viewless hareem-door The screen was swayed by bending forms that sighed, And scheikhs and soldiers, young and old, for more Still pressed and wished, and scarce would be denied. 136 . FIRDAUSI IN EXILE XXVIII Ah, palmy days were those for singer's craft ! Now every worldling Hings his cap in rhyme. And from an easy bow lets fly a shaft At verse much honoured in his grandsire's time ; Now many a ghazel, soft with spices, trips Along the alien mouth with frivolous chime. And lightly rises from unhonoured lips The ancient rhythm sonorous and sublime. XXIX But great Firdausi met with honour then, Garments and jewels, and much store of gold ; Till one, the basest and the worst of men, Rode out by stealth that Hasan might be told. Who, when he heard in Ghaznin that his foe Sat, robed and glorious, as he sat of old. Stirred up with whispers to a fiery glow The rage of Mahmoud, which was well-nigh cold. XXX So Mahmoud sent to Baghdad embassies Demanding speedily Firdausi's head. Or else the town among her ancient trees Must look for instant war, the missive said ; The stately Khalif rose in wrath and pride. And swore that till each faithful heart was dead. His hospitable sword should leave his side. And rolling Tigris blush in Persian red. XXXI But ere the messengers with garments rent Fled back to Ghaznin at the trumpet's blare, Firdausi to the warlike Khalif sent His little servant with the flowing hair, 137 FIRDAUSI IN EXILE Who scarcely knowing what he said, by rote Repeated, " Master, have no thouglit or care Of old Firdausi ; he can dive and float A fish in water and a bird in air. XXXII "The quail upon the mountain needs no host To guard her covert in the waving grass ; And though Mahmoud and all his ships be tost On lake or sea, the little trout will pass. Stain not thy sword for such a guest as I, For God, before whose sight man's heart is glass, Will see the stain that on my soul will lie If life-blood gush from helmet or cuirass. XXXIII " I go my way into the lion's mouth, And as I journey, God will hold my hand ; Whether I wander north or wander south. There is no rest for me in any land ; The serpent's fang will find me though I fly To Frankistan, or Ind, or Samarkand ; I will go home again, for tii'ed am I, And all too old to wrestle and withstand. XXXIV " So send the Persian envoys back in peace, For, whilst these words are spoken, I am gone ; Though thou shouldst scour the lands and drain the seas. Thou shalt not find me, since I wend alone ; For all the days that I have loved thee well My heart is myrrh, that kindles at thy throne, And I am sadder than my tongue can tell. That I must leave thee with the end unknown." 138' FIRDAUSI IN EXILE XXXV So with a single camel, clad to sight Like some poor merchant of the common sort, Firdausi left the town at morning light, And passed the gate, and passed the sullen fort, Unnoted ; and his face was to the east. Towards Hasan and the hateful Persian court, As if contempt of life were in his breast, And loathing of his days, so sad and short. XXXVI But sure some angel had forewarned him well. And murmured in his ear the name of " home " ; For through this perilous journey there befell No evil wheresoever he might come ; And Mahmoud guessed not that the foe he sought Had turned upon his track and ceased to roam, But sent out scouts, and bade his head be brought From Bahrein by the vexed Arabian foam. XXXVII At last one night, as lone Firdausi rode, The dawn broke gray across the starry sky, And far ahead behind the mountains flowed A sudden gush of molten gold on high ; The glory spread from snowy horn to horn. Tinged by the rushing dawn with sanguine dye, And Tous, the little town where he was born, Flashed at his feet, with white roofs clustered nigh. XXXVIII His aged sister fell upon his neck ; His girl, his only child, with happy tears. Clung to his knees, and sobbing, with no check Poured out the story of her hopes and fears. 139 FIRDAUSI IN EXILE Gravely his servants gave him welcome meet, And when his coming reached the town-folk's ears They ran to cluster round him in tlie street, Arid gave him lionour for his wealth of years. XXXIX And there in peace he waited for the end ; But in all distant lands where Malnnoud sent. Each Prince and Sultan was Firdausi's friend. And murmured, like a high-stringed instrument Swept by liarsh fingers, at a quest so rude. And chid the zeal, austere and violent, That drove so sweet a voice to solitude. And bade the Shah consider and relent. XL And once from Delhi, that o'erhangs the tide Of reedy Ganges like a gorgeous cloud. The Hindu king, with Persia close allied, Sent letters larger than the faith he vowed, Smelling of sandalwood and ambergris. And cited from Firdausi lines that showed Friendship should be eternal, and the bliss Of love a gift to make a master proud. XLI So while these words were fresii in Mahmoud's brain He went one night into the mosque to pray, And by the swinging lamp deciphered plain The verse Firdausi, ere he fled away, Wrote on the wall ; and one by one there rose Sad thoughts and sweet of many a vanished day, When his soul hovered on the measured close And wave-beat of the rich heroic lay. 140 • FIRDAUSI IN EXILE XLII Mourning the verse^ he mourned the poet too ; And he who oftentimes had Iain awake Long nights in wide-eyed vision to pursue His victim, yearning in revengeful ache, Forgot all dreams of a luxurious death By trampling elephant or strangling snake, And thought on his old friend with tightened breath, And flushed, remorseful for his anger's sake. XLIII Back to his court he went, molten at heart. And all his rage on faithless Hasan turned ; For when he thought him of that tongue's black art. His wrath was in him like a coal that burned ; He bade his several ministers appear Before his throne, and by inquiry learned The cunning treason of the false vizier. And all his soul's deformity discerned. XLIV Hasan was slain that night ; and of the gold His monkey-hands had thieved from rich and poor, The Sultan bade the money should be told Long due as payment at Firdausi's door ; But when the sacks of red dinars were full, Mahmoud bethought him long, and pondered sore. Since vainly any king is bountiful Not knowing where to seek his creditor, XLV But while he fretted at this ignorance, A dervish came to Ghaznin, who had seen. In passing through the streets of Tous, by chance Firdausi in his garden cool and green ; 141 FIRDAUSI IN EXILE At this Mahmoud rejoiced, and, with glad eyes Swimming in tears, quivering willi liquid sheen. Wrote words of pardon, and in welcoming wise Prayed all might be again as all had been. XLVI But while Firdausi brooded on his wrong. One day he heard a child's clear voice repeat The bitter jibe of his own scathing song ; Whereat he started, and his full heart beat Its la^t deep Ihrob of agony and rage ; And blinded in sharp pain, with tottering feet, Being very feeble in extrcmest age, He fell, and died there in the crowded street. XLVII The light of three-and-fourscore summers' suns Had blanched the silken locks round that vast brow ; If Mahmoud might have looked upon him once, He would have bowed before him meek and low ; The majesty of death was in his face. And those wide waxen temples seemed to glow With morning glory from some holy place Where angels met him in a burning row. XLVIII His work was done ; the palaces of kings Fade in long rains, and in loud earthquakes fall ; The poem that a godlike poet sings Shines o'er his memory like a brazen wall ; No suns may blast it, and no tempest wreck, Its periods ring above the trumpet's call. Wars and the tumult of the sword may shake, And may eclipse it — it survives them all. U2 FIRDAUSI IN EXILE XLIX Now all this while along the mountain road The mighty line of camels wound in state ; Shuddering they moved beneath their massy load. And swinging slowly with the balanced weight Burden of gold, and garments red as flame, They bore, not dreaming of the stroke of fate, And so at last one day to Tous they came And entered blithely at the eastern gate. L But in the thronged and noiseless streets they found All mute, and marvelled at the tears men shed, And no one asked them whither they were bound, And when, for veiy shame discomfited, They cried, " Now tell us where Firdausi lies ! " A young man like a cypress rose and said — The anger burning in his large dark eyes — " Too late Mahmoud remembers ! He is dead ! LI " Speed ! haste away ! hie to the western port ; Perchance the convoy has not passed it yet ! But hasten, hasten, for the hour is short, And your short-memoried master may forget ! Behold, they bear Firdausi to the tomb, Pour in his open grave your golden debt ! Speed ! haste ! and with the treasures of the loom Dry the sad cheeks where filial tears are wet I LII " Lead your bright harnessed camels one by one. The dead man journeys, and he fain would ride ; Pour out your unctuous perfumes in the sun, The rose has spilt her petals at his side ; 143 FIRDAUSI IN EXILE Your citherns and your carven rebecks hold Here when the nightingale untimely died, And ye have -waited well till he is cold, Now wrap his body in your tigers' hide." LIII And so the young man ceased ; but one arose Of graver aspect, not less sad than he. "Nay, let," he cried, "the sunshine and the snows His glittering gold and silk-soft raiment be ; Approach not with unhallowed steps profane The low white wall, the shadowy lotus-tree ; Nor let a music louder than the rain Disturb him dreaming through eternity. LIV " For him no more the dawn will break in blood. No more the silver moon bring fear by night; He starts no longer at a tyrant's mood, Serene for ever in the Prophet's sight ; The soul of Yaman breathed on him from heaven. And he is victor in the unequal fight ; To Mahmoud rage and deep remorse are given, To old Firdausi rest and long delight." 144- THE CRUISE OF THE " ROVER " THE CRUISE OF THE "ROVER" A.D. 1575 I They sailed away one morning when sowing-time was over, In long red fields above the sea they left the sleeping wheat; Twice twenty men of Devonshire who manned their ship the Rove?; Below the little busy town where all the schooners meet. 11 Their sweethearts came and waved to them, and filled with noise of laughter The echoing port below the cliff where thirty craft can ride. Each lad cried out, " Farewell to thee ! " the captain shouted after, " By God's help we'll be back again before the harvest-tide." Ill They turned the Start and slipped along with speedy wind and weather ; Passed white Terceira's battlements, and, close upon the line. Ran down a little carrack full of cloth and silk and leather, And golden Popish images and good Madeira wine. 145 K THE CRUISE OF THE " ROVER " IV The crew with tears and curses went tacking back to Floras ; The English forty cut the seas where none before had been, And spent the sultry purple nights in English songs, and stories Of England, and her soldiers, and her Spaniard- hating queen. V At last the trade-wind caught them, the pale sharks reeled before them, The little Iwver shot ahead across the western seas ; All night the larger compass of a tropic sky passed o'er them, Till they won the Mcxique waters through a strait of banyan-trees. VI And there good luck befell them, for divers times they sighted The sails of Spanish merchantmen bound homeward with their wares ; And twice they failed to follow them, and once they stopped benighted ; But thrice the flag of truce flew out, and the scented prize was theirs. VII But midsummer was on them, w ith close-reef gales and thunder. Their heavy vessel wallowed beneath her weight of gold ; 146 THE CRUISE OF THE " ROVER " A long highway of ocean kept thenci and home asunder, So back they turned towards England with a richly- laden hold. VIII But just outside Tampico a man-of-war was riding. And all the mad young English blood in forty brains awoke, The Rover chased the monster, and swiftly shorewards gliding. Dipped down beneath the cannonade that o'er her bulwarks broke. IX Three several days they fought her, and pressed her till she grounded On the sandy isle of Carmen, where milky palm- trees grow ; Whereat she Avaved an ensign, a peaceful trumpet sounded. And all the Spaniards cried for truce, surrendering in a row. X Alas the wiles and Jesuitries of scoundrel-hearted Spaniards, The scarlet woman dyes their hands in deeper red than hers, For every scrap of white that decked their tackling and their lanyards Just proved them sly like devils and cowardly like curs. 147 THE CRUISE OF THE " ROVER " XI I'or out from countless coverts, from low palm-shaded islands. That Hedged in seeming innocence the smooth and shining main, The pinnaces came gliding and hemmed them round in silence, All manned with Indian bravos and whiskered dogs of Spain. xir Our captain darted forwards, his fair hair streamed behind him, He shouted in his cheery voice, " For home and for the Queen ! " Three times he waved his gallant sword, but the flashes seemed to blijid him, And a hard look came across his mouth where late a smile had been. XIII We levelled with our muskets, and the foremost boat went under, The ship's boy seized a trumpet and blew a merry blast ; The Spanish rats held off awhile, and gazed at us in wonder, But the hindmost pushed the foremost on, and boarded us at last. XIV They climbed the larboard quarter with their hatchets and their sabres ; , The Devon lads shot fast and hard, and sank their second boat, 14S THE CRUISE OF THE " ROVER " But the Popish hordes were legion, and Hercules his labours Are light beside the task to keep a riddled barque afloat. XV And twenty men had fallen^ and the Rover's deck was reeling. And the brave young captain died in shouting loud "Elizabeth!" The Spaniards dragged the rest away just while the ship was heeling, Lest she should sink and rob them of her sailors' tortured breath. XVI For they destined them to perish in a slow and cruel slaughter, A feast for monks and Jesuits too exquisite to lose ; So they caught the English sailors as they leaped into the water, And a troop of horse as convoy brought them north to Vera Cruz, XVII They led them up a si)arkling beach of burning sand and coral, They dragged the brave young Englishmen like hounds within a leash ; They passed beneath an open wood of leaves that smelt of laurel. Bound close together, each to each, with cords that cut the flesh. U9 THE CRUISE OF THE " ROVER " XVIII And miles and miles along the coast they tramped beneath no cover, Till in their mouths each rattling tongue was like a hard dry seed, And ere they came to Vera Cruz when that long day was over. The coral cut their shoes to rags, and made them wince and bleed, XIX Then as they clambered up the town, the jeering crowd grew thicker, And laughed to see their swollen feet and figures marred and bent, And women with their hair unloosed stood underneath the flicker Of torch and swinging lantern, and cursed them as they went. XX And three men died of weariness before they reached the prison, And one fell shrieking with the pain of a poniard in the back, And when dawn broke in the morning three other souls had risen To bear the dear Lord witness of the hellish Spaniard pack. XXI But the monks girt up their garments, the friars bound their sandals. They hurried to the market-place with faggots of dry wood, 150' THE CRUISE OF THE " ROVER " And the acolytes came singings with their incense and their candles, To offer to their images a sacrifice of blood. XXII But they sent the leech to tend them^ with his pouch and his long phial^ And the Jesuits came smiling, with honied words at first, For they dared not burn the heretics without some show of trial, And the English lads were dying of poisoned air and thirst. XXIII So they gave them draughts of water from a great cold earthen firkin, And brought them to the courtyard where the tall hidalgo sat. And he looked a gallant fellow in his boots and his rough jerkin. With the jewels on his fingers, and the feather in his hat. XXIV And he spoke out like a soldier, for he said, " Ye caught them fighting. They met you Avith the musket, by the musket they shall fall. They are Christians in some fashion, and the pile you're bent on lighting Shall blaze with none but Indians, or it shall not blaze at all." 151 THE CRUISE OF THE " ROVER " XXV So tliey leil them to a clearing in the wood outside the city, Struck off the ffyves that bound them, and freed each crippled hand. And dark-eyed women clustered round and murmured in their jiity, But won no glance nor answer from the steadfast English band. XXVI For their lives rose up before them in crystalline completeness, And they lost the flashing soldiery, the sable horde of Rome, And the great magnolias round them, with wave on wave of sweetness, Seemed just the fresh profusion and hawthorn lanes of home. XXVII They tliought about the harvests, and wondered who would reap them ; They thought about the little port where thirty craft can ride ; They thought about their sweethearts, and prayed the Lord to keep them ; Then kissed each other silently, and hand in hand they died. 152 A BALLAD OF THE UPPER THAMES A BALLAD OF THE UPPER THAMES I Ah ! what a storm of wind and hail ! Another quart of Witney ale, We'll test the cellar's mettle, And Emma, of her work deprived, — Our Hebe at the " Rose Revived," — Shall serve us in the settle. n The mowers from the field shall stray. The fisher from the lonely bay Shall leave his pool forlorner. The snooded, shy dock-gatherers too Shall lift their skirts of dusky blue. And line the chimney-corner. ni And through the gusts of whirling rain The cuckoo's voice may call in vain From boughs and steaming thickets ; We'll listen to the jerking crock. The ticking of the eight-day clock, The chirping of the crickets. IV Until some topic, lightly sprung, Unloose the timid rustic tongue To news of crops or weather. And men and women, touched to speech, Respond and babble, each to each. Till all discourse together. 153 A BALLAD OF THE UPPER THAMES V Until the wonted ale-house chat With knotty points of this and that, And he.'it of Whi}; and lory, Resolve into the single stream Of one old man's disjointed theme, An ancient country story. VI I sit and watch from out the pane The silvery Windrush throujxh the rain Haste down to join the Isis, Half listening to the simple tale That winds along, thro' draughts of ale. On to its measured crisis. VII Or watch the head of him who tells These long-drawn rural miracles, — His worn old cheek that flushes, His eye that darts above his pipe Keen as the Hashing of a snijic Through beds of windless rushes. Mil He tells, — for this was long ago. The winter of the heavy snow, And none but he remembers, — What fate in love to George befell. The keeper up at Stanlake Well, — Then stirs the fragrant embers, 15i. A BALLAD OF THE UPPER THAMES IX Then starts anew : — " When I was young More champion Berkshire men were flung By George iu wrestHng matches, Than sacks of wheat could stand a-row Inside yon shed, or martens go To build within these thatches. X His back was like a three-year ash, His eye had got the steady flash That's death to hare or pheasant ; And when he walked the woods at night The tramps would take to sudden flight, — To meet him was not pleasant. XI But still he held himself aloof From every friendly neighbour's roof. Nor chatted in the village ; The famers called him proud, for he Could little in their children see Bu*- imps brought up to pillage. XII At harvest-home and country dance He gave the beauties just a glance. The calmest of beholders ; The lasses failed his pulse to move ; Then suddenly he fell in love Right over head and shoulders. XIII He went to buy a dog one day At Inglesham, and on the way A sudden snowstorm caught him ; 155 A BALLAD OF THE UPPER THAMES Mis path he lost; at lenrjth a lane Down which the north wind swept amain Straight into Lcchlade broughl him. Within the parlour of the inn, Snug from the ilriving frost and din, III' sij>jH-d his gin-and-water, Wjien like a wcll-tuncd instrument, Close by him, singing, Mary went. The lanillunrs rosy daughter. XV llcr voii-e, hifore lie caught her fiec, Bewitcheil him with its joyous grace, But when he saw her features. Like any running hare shot dead His heart Icajit suddenly, and his head Was like a swooning creature's. XVI He rose and stood, or tried to stand, lie clutched the table with his hand. Until she went out, singing; Ihrn, sitting down, and calm again, lie fell a kind of cpiict pain Tliro' all his j)ulses ringing. XVII At first he scarcely knew that this Strange ache made up of grief and bliss Was love, his fancy thronging ; For Mary's image night ami day From his tired eyelids would not stray. But wore him out with longing. 156 A BALLAD OF THE UPPER THAMES XVIII And all that winter and that spring The very least excuse would bring His steps to Mary's presence ; He'd sit for hours and try to smile, Yet look as grim and dark the while As any judge at sessions. XIX But Mary with her cheerful eyes, Like hearts-ease where a dewdrop lies. And lips like warm carnations, Laughed, bridling up her sunny head, When jokes and sly remarks were made By neighbours and relations. XX So things went on till limes in June Droj)ped honey-dust, and all in tune The elm-trees rang with thrushes ; 'Tis sweet, when, fed by shoAvers of May, Through lily-leaves and flowers that sway. The brimming river flushes. XXI The town one evening seemed to keep A quiet sort of twilight sleep. Hushed, scented, calm and airy ; And George, who rode across from far. Found no one sitting in the bar But smiling Mistress Mary. XXII Long time he sat and nothing said. But listened to the chatting maid. Who loved this evening leisure ; 157 A BALLAD OF THE UPPER THAMES It was so dreamy there and sweet, And she so bright from head to feet, He could have wept for [pleasure. XXIII His beating heart, tliat leaped apace, Took comfort from her smiling face That pertly seemed to brave you : — 'If you don't mind a keeper's life, I wish you'd come and be my wife. For no man else shall have you.' XXIV She started, turned first white, then red, And for a minute nothing said, Then seemed to search and find him ; ' Good-night,' she answered, short and straight, ' I had no notion 'twas so late,' And shut the door behind him. XXV The threshold pebbles seemed to scorch His feet ; he leaned against the porch, And tore the honeysuckle ; Up to the window-pots he sighed, — Then from one casement, opened wide. He heard a kind of chuckle. XXVI So, mad with love and sick with rage. He swore his passion to assuage. And by his death abash her ; He ran three miles from Lechlade town, Then threw his hat and cudgel down. And plunged in Kelmscott lasher. 158' A BALLAD OF THE UPPER THAMES XXVII The moon on Eaton Hastings Wood Turned white, as any full moon should. To see a drowning keeper, And twice he sank, and twice came out. But as the eddies whirled about. Each time he sank the deeper. XXVIII Now Mary's brother kept the weir, — A merry lad, a judge of beer. And stout for twenty-seven ; — It chanced that night he smoked at ease Among his stocks and picotees Beneath the summer heaven. XXIX He dashed across the seething din. Thrust all the piles and rimers in, And stopped the weir's mad riot ; Then rushing to the reedy strand Swam out, and safely dragged to land. Poor George, now white and quiet. XXX Long time before the doors of death The little fluttering of his breath Seemed taking leave for ever ; His pulse was gone, his cheek was blue, — But by degrees they brought him to, And bore him from the river. XXXI Now when next day the news went down The streets and lanes of Lechlade town, It brought much consternation ; 159 A BALLAD OF THE UPPER THAMES And as the tale the gossips sliared They duly one and all declared The death a dispensation. XXXII How fortunate he showed in time His selfish aptitude for crime, His passions thus revealing! Much ill of the deceased was said ; But when they knew he was not dead, A change came o'er the feeling. XXXIII Then Mary, who had sobbed and cried, Grew conruleiit and laughing-eyed. While all the town grew graver; She warbled like a happy bird, Nor ever made as though she heard The names the neighbours gave her. XXXIV For now they all agreed that she Was much more criminal than he. Was pert, and stony-hearted, That on her head his blood would lie, Since he was almost sure to die. From this cold hussy parted. XXXV But still she warbled ; till one day When every neighbour had her say And each spoke somewhat louder, She stood right up behind the bar, For all to hear her near or far. Nor could a queen look prouder. 160' A BALLAD OF THE UPPER THAMES XXXVI ' If any one that's here to-day Is going over Stanlake-way^ I'd have him know for certain, It's not the way to win a wife, To hang around, and plague her life, And peep behind the curtain. XXXVII 'Nor after loafing half-a-year. And blushing when he calls for beer. To shout the question at her, When mother's lying ill in bed. Awake, and listening overhead. And wondering what's the matter. XXXVIII * Men stalk a girl as with a gun. And if she turns and tries to run, — Their patience all abated, — They rush and drown themselves for spite, To punish people whom they might Have won, had they but waited. XXXIX * My brother should have left him there, Since plainly all his load of care Is more than he can carry ; In future he may wooing go To Witney or — to Jericho, — But me he'll never marry.' XL The neighbours all were sadly shocked ; The maiden at their sci'uples mocked. As through her work she hurried ; 161 L A BALLAD OF THE UPPER THAMES She sang aloud ; and yet 'tis said, That afternoon her eyes were red, Her temper crossed and flurried. XLI But out, alas ! for maidens' oaths ! When Love puts on his Sunday-clothes In vain their hearts are chary ; Before three months had gone about The Lechlade bells were pealing out. And George was marrying Mary. XLI I They bought the ' Starling and the Thrush' Just out of Bampton-in-the-Bush, And long they lived together; For many a cheerful day they throve Contented in each other's love. Through sun and stomiy weather. XLIII In Bampton Churchyard now they lie, Their grave is open to the sky, No tombstone weighs above them. But pinks and pansies in a row, And mignonette, and mjn-tle show That still their children love them." XLIV The old man, sipping at his ale, Wound up the ending of his tale. As dryly as he started. Shook out the ashes from his pipe. Then gave his old thin lips a wipe. And rose, and slow departed. 162 A BALLAD OF THE UPPER THAMES XLV For, lightened of their load of rain, The great loose clouds, grown white again, Down in the west were blending ; While high o'erhead the sun rode through A radiant plain of sparkling blue. His noonday throne ascending. XLVI The Windrush beamed, like polished steel ; The lark, in mounting, seemed to reel With airs too sweet to utter ; The roses shook their laden leaves. The martins underneath the eaves Began to peep and flutter. XLVII And so, dissolving in the sun. Our rustic synod, one by one. Stole out to workday labour ; The fisher found his lines and bait. Nor would the brown haymakers wait To pledge the chattiest neighbour. XLVIII The women rose, among the fields To reap what the rank margin yields. Tall seeded docks that shiver ; We, loth to leave the " Rose Revived," Went last, although we first arrived, Down to the brimming river. 163 THE CHARCOAL-BURNER THE CHARCOAL-BURNER He lives within the hollow wood, From one clear dell he seldom ranges ; His daily toil in solitude Revolves, but never changes. A still old man, with grizzled beard. Gray eye, bent shape, and smoke-tanned features. His quiet footstep is not feared By shyest woodland creatures. I love to watch the pale blue spire His scented labour builds above it; I track the woodland by his fire, And, seen afar, I love it. It seems among the serious trees The emblem of a living pleasure, It animates the silences As with a tuneful measure. And dream not that such humdrum ways Fold naught of Nature's charm around him ; The mystery of soundless days Hath sought for him and found him. He hides within his simple brain An instinct innocent and holy. The music of a wood-bird's strain, — Not blithe, nor melancholy, 164 THE CHARCOAL-BURNER But hung upon the calm content Of wholesome leaf and bough and blossom- An unecstatic ravishment Born in a rustic bosom. He knows the moods of forest things. He holds, in his own speechless fashion, For helpless forms of fur and wings A mild paternal passion. Within his horny hand he holds The warm brood of the ruddy squirrel ; Their bushy mother storms and scolds, But knows no sense of peril. The dormouse shares his crumb of cheese. His homeward trudge the rabbits follow; He finds, in angles of the trees. The cup-nest of the swallow. And through this sympathy, perchance. The beating heart of life he reaches Far more than we who idly dance An hour beneath the beeches. Our science and our empty pride. Our busy dream of introspection. To God seem vain and poor beside This dumb, sincere reflection. Yet he will die unsought, unknown, A nameless headstone stand above him. And the vast woodland, vague and lone. Be all that's left to love him. 165 THE DEATH OF ARNKEL THE DEATH OF ARNKEL Across the roaring board in Helgafell, Above the clash of ringing liorns of ale^ The guests of Snorri, reddened with the frost. Weighed all their comrades through a winter night, Disputing which was first in thew and brain And courteous acts of manhood ; some averred Their host, the shifty Snorri, first of men, While some were bent to Arnkel, some to Styrr. Then Thorleif Kimbi shouted down the hall, " Folly and windy talk ! the stalwart limbs Of Styrr, and that sharp goodly face of thine, All-cunning Snorri, make one man, not twain, — One man in friendship and in rede, not twain, — Nor that man worthy to be named for skill. Or strength, or beauty, or for popular arts, W'ith Arnkel, son of Thorolf the grim ghost. Wit has he, though not lacking therewithal In sinew ; see to it, comrades, lest he crush The savage leaders of our oligarchy. Vast, indolent, mere iron masks of men. Unfit for civic uses ; his the hand To gather all our forces like the reins Of patient steeds, and drive us at his will. Unless we stir betimes, and are his bane." So from his turbulent mouth the shaft struck home, Venomed with envy and the jealous pride Of birth ; and ere they roared themselves to rest, The chieftains vowed that Arnkel must be slain, Nor waited many days ; for one' clear night Freystein, the spy, as near his sheep he watched. Saw Arnkel fetching hay from Orlygstad, 166' THE DEATH OF ARNKEL With three young thralls of his own household folk. And left the fold, and crept across the fell, And wakened from their first sweet midnight sleep The sons of Thorbrand, and went on, and roused Snorri, who dreamed of blood and dear revenge. Then through the frosty moonlit night they sped, Warmed to the heart with hopes of murderous play, Nine men from Snorri's house ; and by the sea At Alptafjord they met the six men armed With Thorleif ; scarcely greeted they, but skimmed Along the black shore of the flashing fjord, Lit by the large moon in a cloudless sky ; Over the swelling, waving ice they flew. Grinding the tufts of grass beneath their sleighs. So silent, that the twigs of juniper Snapped under them, sharp, like a cracking whip. Echoing, and so to Orlygstad they came. But Arnkel saw them through the cold bright air. And turned, and bade the three young thralls haste home. To bring back others of their kith to fight ; So, maddened by base fear, they rushed, and one Or ever he neared the homestead, as he fled, Slipped on the forehead of a mountain-force. And volleying down from icy plane to plane, Woke all the echoes of that waterfall. And died, while numb with fright the others ran. But Arnkel bowed, and loosened from his sleigh The iron runner with its shining point. And leaped upon the fence, and set his back Against the haystack ; through the frosty night Its warm deep odour passed into his brain. But Snorri and his fellows with no word Sprang from their sleighs, and met below the fence, 167 THE DEATH OF ARNKEL And reacliiiiff upwards with their brawny arms. Smote hard at Arnkel. With the runner he, Cleaving witli botli hands, parried blow on blow. Till, shaft by shall, their spears splintered and snapt ; Nor would they yet have reached him, but that he, Gathering a mighty stroke at Thorleit's head. Dashed down his ruimer on the icy fence And shivered it, while backwards Thorleif fell, Bending the slimness of his supple loins, Unwounded. So a moment's sjiace they stood Silent. Then from the haystack at his back His glittering sword and buckler Arnkel seized. And like a wild-cat dumb the stack, and stood Thigh-deep astride upon the quivering hay, Raining down thrusts and blinding all his foes \N'ith moony lightnings from the flashing steel. IJut I'horleif clambered uj) behind his back; And Snorri, with his shield before his face. Harried him through the wavering veil of hay ; And Styrr, like some great monster of the fells. Swayed his huge broadsword in his knotted fists. And swept it, singing, through the helm and brain, And deep sank Arnkel on the bloody stack. They wrapped his corse in hay, and left him there ; To whom within the silence of the night Came that dark ghost, his f;ither, whose black face Affrights the maidens in the milkiug-stead ; And till afar along the frozen road The tinkling of the sleighs he heard, and knew That, all too late, the thralls of Arnkel came, He hung above the body of his son, Casting no shadow in the dazzling moon, 168 • THE DEATH OF ARNKEL Cursing the gods with inarticulate voice, And cursing that too-envious mood of men That brooks no towering excellence, nor heeds Virtue, nor welfare of th' unsceptred state. 169 AN EPISTLE AN EPISTLE TO DR. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES On his Seventy-fifth Birthday^ August 29, 1884 Sir, As Age by Age, thro' fell Enchantment bound, The Heroe of some antient Myth is found, Wild Rocks about him, at the fierce Sea's Brim, And all his World an Old-Wives* Tale but him, His Garments, cast upon th' inclement Slioar, Such as long since our Grandsires' Grandsires wore, Wiiile all his Gestures and his Speech proclaim Him great Revealer of forgotten Fame, — Such, Oh I Musician, dost thou seem to be To us who con th' Augustan Age by thee. Who hearken to thy Verse, to learn thro' it How Drvden to illustrious Ormond writ, Or in thy fil'd and polisht Numbers hope To catch the Secret of the Art of Pope; Ah ! subtil Skill ! Ah ! Bard of dying Fires, Let us but lose thee, and a Race expires ; So long as thou dost keep this Treasure thine Great Anna's Galaxy has Leave to shine. Thou who do'st link us with that elder Day When either Queensberry made Court to Gay, Thro' all the Thunders of roraantick Times, Thro' Reefs of monstrous Quips and Shoals of Rhimes, We've steer'd at last, and, like Ships long at Sea, Our Latest-Born sail home to Grace and thee ; Home-ward they sail, and find the World they left Of all but thee, yet not of thee bereft ; Still in thy pointed Wit their Souls explore Familiar Fields where Conoreve rul'd before ; 170 . AN EPISTLE Still in thy human Tenderness they feel The honest Voice and beating Heart of Steele. Long be it so ; may Sheaf be laid on Sheaf Ere thy live Garland puts forth its Last Leaf ; As in old Prints, long may we see, in Air, Thy Guardian Angel hover o'er thy Hair ; Still may the Table, where our Fathers sat To eat of Manna, hold its Autocrat ; Since surely none of all the Blest can be Home-sick in Heav'n, as we on Eai-th, for thee. And Oh ! whil'st o'er th' embattl'd Crags afar Thy practis'd Eyes gaze down the Gorge of War, Where thro' the blinding Dust and Heat we fight Against the Brazen- Helm'd Amalekite, At Height of Noon, Oh ! lift up both those Hands To urge new Virtue thro' our fainting Bands, And when we feel our Sinews nerv'd to strike Envy and Errour, Shame and Sloth, alike, We'll say 'tis well that, while we battle thus, Our MosES stands on high 'twixt Heav'n and us. Sir, Your Most Humble, Most Obedient Servant, Edmund Gosse. 171 LYRICS APRIL ONCE MORE The sorrel lifts her snow-white bloom From green leaves soft and sour. The wryneck bids tiie cuckoo come, The wych-elm's all in flower ; That tweet ! tweet ! tweet ! that dusty dew, That white star at my feet, They speak of Aprils past — and you, My sweet ! Our wood still curves ajjainst the sky, And still, all stark and dim, Our hornbeam's Hutcd branches lie Alon«T the shinin