15205 iimil4AI7g 9 1 906 1 A 3 7 iLLECTION OF POEMS >x ERNEST RADFORD MDCCGCVI THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES POEMS A COLLECTION OF POEMS BY ERNEST RADFORD, AUTHOR OF 'CHAMBERS TWAIN' AND OTHER VOLUMES OF VERSE PUBLISHED BY GIBBINGS & COMPANY BURY STREET, LONDON, W.C. MDCCCCVI ?R NOTE A book of verses consisting partly of poems re- printed ivithont alteration from volumes which have become scarce ; of others either a great deal altered, or slightly ; and many e7itirely nezv pieces. E. R. S3ES53 PART I. FROM SOURCE TO SEA. Introduction Page I Dedication . 3 The Sea-Spell 4 In the British Museum 5 Demeter 6 The Ideal . • •. 7 William Morris 8 Plymouth 9 Rondelet lO The Dial Stand . . II The Protest of Spring . . 12 Shadows 13 Voces Populi 14 Translation 15 Translation • • • • • 16 Song in the Labour Movement . . 17 Prayer for the Race ■ • • ■ 18 PART II. CHAMBERS TWAIN. Introduction Chambers Twain — a translation... Plymouth MlUSL'M.MER Edelweiss A Dream Twilight Day and Night Eventide A London Idyll Idyll of the British Museum Her Portrait. Her Letters H. E. T Great Expectations Lines for a Painting Leslie Translation Gifts Friends th.\t Were Disillusion When The Poet's Legacy Rondelet With Flowers ... Lost The Undersong Me.moriks Translation Page 19 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 4' 43 44 45 46 47 48 PART III. COMEDY AND OTHER POEMS. Page Introduction ... 49 Comedy 51 Dignity and Impudence 52 The Whisper and the Kiss 53 Playing with Fire 54 The Author's Library 55 After Heine .. 56 Incident of the Office 57 A Pen Sketch 59 Our Suburb 60 The Society of Friends 61 Ho.me from Home 62 Love and Death ■• 63 Two Voices .. 65 Our Premisses .. 67 Our Ideals 68 William Blake .. 69 ERRATA. Page 37, verse i, line i— "songs" should be " song. Page 48, verse 2, line i— '«all this" shotdd be "this all." PART I. Tired hrain^ there is a place of rest On the broad boso?7t of the land Where quiet •will reward the quest. The dinning of the iron hand Will be unheard: ah, there shall 7ve Have with the noise of tumbling rills. And with the music of the sea, The quiet that my dream fulfils Of Quiet, aching tho'' it be. DEDICATION. The world grows older while I tend The light before thy shrine, But still the peaceful river runs Its course through realms of mine, And still the curtain falls at night, And still the stars do shine, And still the mountain streamlet sings To one for ever thine. THE SEA-SPELL. What says the placid ocean When the streamlet greets the sea? " Room here, room here, my daughter. For as much as reaches me." However far from home, Love, In whatsoever grave, There cannot fail me ministers Of the music that I crave ; The rattle of the moorland stream. The murmur of the wave. The all-sufficient emblems Of Life and Love to me, My course is with the rivulet That speeds towards the sea. Is there a deeper love, Love, Than this that greeteth thee ? IN THE BRITISH MUSEUM. Dead sage, dead priest, unheard ye call Up from the valleys where ye sleep ; Love's clarion soundeth over all, His fires glow from steep to steep. Professor, I have little store Of learning you may fitly seek ; I covet no Department's lore ; Egyptian, Syriac, or Greek ; But oft while musing here alone, I mark where, treasured with the rest. There lies a stone, no common stone. The " Fragment of a woman's breast." Profess, professor, all you know ! I ask while through these halls we creep- Has Time a lovelier thing to show? Have we a holier thing to keep ? DEMETER. The emblem of her station, Upon her forehead bound ; The noblest woman-figure That Art has ever crowned : — Oh ! Mother, Mother, Mother, Of the children crowding round, Does the love-song of thy lover In the dome o'erhead resound? The Song of Songs, no other, Ten Thousand voices found. THE IDEAL. I LOOKED out over the ocean, And saw a maiden stand Where billow and cloud commingled In a vanishing golden land. I passed out over the ocean, And held the sun-maiden's hand, And lost for ever the treasure Of love in my Fatherland. 8 WILLIAM MORRIS. Sweet Thames, flow softly as my tears flow. To Kelmscott Manor, this October morn, To rest beside thee is my master borne. And I of those who loved him, may not g'o. Because he sorrows best at home, they say, Who grieves in silence, leaving all unsaid, Because perhaps, since London gives him bread, He may not leave her, even for a day. They would have died to save him who have borne The brunt of this long battle with the foe ; And they are with him : — naught of empty show At Kelmscott Manor, this October morn. Oct. 6, 189C. PLYMOUTH. Dearest sister, sorrow dwells In the home like sound in shells That whisper evermore Along the silent shore, Evermore and mournfully, The gathered sadness of the sea. lO RON DE LET. She chose to die. Grave here beneath our helpless flowers, She chose to die. Alas ! the Sun forsook her sky The while he gladdened other bowers ; She tasted life — a few sad hours — And chose to die. II THE DIAL STAND. Mark how with loving hand he wrought Here on the dial that counts the hours Thy sad great figure, winged Time, Set heavy-hearted 'mid the flowers. Ah ! even while he wrought did he Close a great bargain with the years The sooner with the flowers to be That have for nourishment thy tears. 12 THE PROTEST OF SPRING. O Spring ! Say not that she is dead ; Green month of bursting- flower and leaf, Say not that she is dead. For joy of life thy tears are shed ; Naug-ht, naught, to thee are these of grief: April ! Fling wide thy disbelief! Say not that she is dead. 13 SHADOWS. Bend we together, Husband and wife, O'er a child sleeping", Dearer than life. Say we together. Husband and wife, "The painting will never Be true to the life." Heavy the footfall, Bated the breath, Quit we the chamber Held by Death. " Seek ye in marble," The comforter saith, "The semblance of living The silence of Death." H VOCES POPULI. Lay by him, since 'tis broken The staff he leanbd on, And this, the lover's token That Hps have dwelt upon. 'Tis not the dead, the living. That this, ah this, must bear ; Too late to be forgiving. Too soon to join him there. " More sinned against than sinning" : — " No fault of his the pain " : — "The poet's guerdon winning" : — While tears fall like rain. Verses 2 and 3 : v. infra, " The Poet's Legacy," p. 41. 15 TRANSLATION. On the high mountain range There is rest. Of wind Not a breath On its crest. In the forest — Hush, hush, It is late — No call of the bird To his mate. Lulled to slumber. Folded to breast, " Soon," saith our Mother, *' Thou too shalt rest." i6 TRANSLATION. Where shall one all travel-weary Courting rest at last recline? In the South beneath the palm tree ? Under lindens by the Rhine? Shall it be upon the desert Covered by a stranger's hand, Or on billows undulating Far from any Christian land? Onwards ever — Heaven hanging Shrouds above me, there and here ; While for torches, stars at midnight Overhead are burning clear. 17 SONG IN THE LABOUR MOVEMENT. The voice of Labour soundeth shrill, Mere clamour of a tuneless throng-, To you who barter at your will The very life that maketh songf. Oh ! you whose sluggard hours are spent The rule of Mammon to prolong, What know ye of the stern intent Of hosted labour marching strong? When we have righted what is wrong, Great singing shall your ears entreat ; Meanwhile in movement there is song. And music in the pulse of feet. i8 PRAYER FOR THE RACE. Mother of mothers, God grant to thee Strength that strength may be. One who unchangingly Loves and reveres, Penneth these words to thee, Blindly through tears. Tears that betoken not Weakness in strife, But fond irrepressible Tributes to life. Mother of mothers, God grant to thee Strength that strength may be. PART II. Think, Love, of me, Far from thy side to-night. Think, Love, of me. So shall I absent see Picticred upon the night In thy face Heaven's light. Tliink, Love, of me. 21 CHAMBERS TWAIN. The heart hath chambers twain, Wherein Dwell Joy and Pain. Joy in his chamber stirs, While Pain Sleeps on in hers. Oh ! Joy, refrain, refrain, Speak low, speak low. Lest we awaken Pain. 22 PLYMOUTH. Composed at dawn in the Bay of Naples. Oh ! what know they of harbours Who toss not on the sea? They tell of fairer havens, But none so fair there be As Plymouth town outstretching Her quiet arms to me, Her breast's broad welcome spreading From Mewstone to Penlee. And with this home-thought, darling. Come crowding thoughts of thee ; Oh ! what know they of harbours Who toss not on the sea? 23 MIDSUMMER. Ah ! Love, I lack thy kisses In the warm sweet breath of June ; I am lonely amid lovers — Love, come soon. A blue sea stretches waveless 'Neath a blue, blue sky this June ; I am panting for thy love. Love, Love, come soon. 24 EDELWEISS. Above the line Of thawless snows, On yonder heig^ht One flower grows. And in my bosom Winterbound, Lives one such flower, Which thou hast found. 25 A DREAM. Night brought a dream of love, A fond, sweet dream of thee, Thy heart beat warm upon my heart, Thy dear arms circled me. Alas ! but Dawn now shows A cheerless couch to me ; 'Twas sleep beguiled the heart that aches Day in, day out, for thee. 26 TWILIGHT. In the low pathway of the sun, Far shadowed on the golden fern, And robed in purple twilight, one Stood and awaited his return. She shone upon him unforeseen As he with heavy step drew near ; Has greeting sweeter ever been Than this that made our future clear ? 27 DAY AND NIGHT. I HELD her hand To-day, And whispered a word, And she heard ; And I did not work. And she did not play To-day. I touched her Hps To-night, And none knew, but we two. The delight ; And I shall not sleep. And she will not sleep To-night. 28 EVENTIDE. The mazy path that I would tread, At nightfall by the pixies led, It leadeth to the no-man's land Where plig-hted, linked, lovers stand. Lips sealing lips, in silence they Give ear to what the heavens say: — The Evening- Star to setting Sun : " The day has half his course to run. 29 A LONDON IDYLL. A TOILER here in London, Her brave face nothing shows ; The head at work, the hand at work, The heartache comes and goes. The day's work done, the respite won, The word for all is Rest ; Oh, where so safe the token Of love as on her breast ? Let rest until the Morrow Its keeper, quit of care ; The face that has its setting In coils of silken hair ; The bosom rising, falling — Its secret hidden there. 30 IDYLL OF THE BRITISH MUSEUM. She moved, admiring- students said, Amid the marbles like their Queen, Whilst he — Adonis in his stead A failure would have been ! 'Tis afternoon. The long slant rays Make hot the dim Egyptian room, Our queen her little luncheon lays On a low sculptured tomb. And now the lad — his dark curls float As if from hers the gold to win — Draws from a tattered velvet coat A paint-smeared sandwich tin. Love spreads the feast. Their lips have met ; So grace is said, and lingered o'er, Grey Gods yc smiled, nor look ye yet All grimly serious as before. 31 I. HER PORTRAIT. How shines the gfold amid the brown Of heavy tresses tumbling down In Art's despite. What choice of roses red and white ! Ah ! happy painter, it is thine That sweet disorder to confine ; If thou should'st order it aright, Ah ! what delight ! II. HER LETTERS. Too sweet, too sweet, they bridge the vast 'Twixt town and country, friend and friend. Too sweet, too sweet, for overcast By thought that thinking cannot mend. 32 II. E. T. Fair flowers, the hand I fain would kiss That o'er the sweetest lightly moved, To gather this, and this, and this. The while ye nodded and approved. By culling leaves so rare of scent To speak for her, she surely meant To grace a friendship old as ours With fragrance passing that of flowers. GREAT EXPECTATIONS. Athwart the shadowed path Of life wherein we tread, How often Beauty hath A ray of sunlight shed ! If on that shadowed path Her light is thrown to-day, I forth shall go with heart aglow, Rejoicing on my way. 34 LINES FOR A PAINTING. Oh, Autumn leaves ! Oh, what for wealth of auburn hair But Autumn leaves ! See hope fulfilled in ranged sheaves, See in dead nature love's despair, And truant Joy, and russet Care In Autumn leaves. 35 LESLIE. Seeing me enter Crosses the floor : — Leslie is lovely^ Sister and viore. Putteth her face up Once to be kissed ; What shall the word be? Love-in-a-mist ! Now must she leave me, Crossing- the floor : — Leslie is lovely, Sister and more. Fain to be with her, Loth to depart ; Present or absent, Filling my heart. What should the word be, Here by the door? Leslie is lovely, Sister and more. 36 TRANSLATION. I HIDE from mankind only What I have borne from thee, And toss it to the fishes, Love, While speeding- o'er the sea. Upon the mainland only Has Gossip spared thy name. What do the waves but spread, Love, The story of thy shame ? 37 GIFTS. Take back the songs you sang, Love, Take back the gift you brought, Take back the word you gave. Love, Let me only keep the thought — That you knew not what you said, Love ; You deemed a song was naught, And brought a gift to me, Love, And knew not what you brought. 38 FRIENDS THAT WERE. Hands clasped a moment on the strand ; The one must stay, the other go ; Scarce is there any siijfn to show The pain of parting-, hand from hand. Returns the trav'ler ; wins the land ; The welcome spoken, speech is slow ; Scarce is there any sign to show Friend dead to friend, as hand strikes hand. 39 DISILLUSION. The spirit ever hath desire To pierce through show of friendship higher, And somewhere gain its promised part Of true communion, heart with heart. Ah ! friend of youth, thy fresh-cut grave Is warmer than the hand you gave ; Else were not, strangers many years, Lost friend, lost friend, these tears, these tears. 40 WHEN. When laughing Joy robs Sorrow Of all her load of thought, The harp and voice may borrow A sweetness yet untaught, To be merry til! the morrow Dawns with its mem'ries fraught, And the tired thief Brings back to Grief Her heavy load of thought. 41 THE POET'S LEGACY. "Through busiest street and loneliest glen Are felt the flashes of his pen ; Deep in the general heart of men His power survives." (Wordsworth on Burns.) Beloved and loving- stood we two, Remote, unseen, unheard ; The seal that lovers use was set On the unspoken word ; And in the silence Time maintained While two hearts beat as one Was proof sufficient, failing speech, That he was loved or none. ** To-morrow then — to-morrow then — Meet we again," said he. The path I trod that evening Seemed, oh, so strange to me ! My heart was beating, beating. Of I know not what afraid. Beneath the silent stars I fell Upon my knees, and prayed : — *' Oh ! thou thrice blessed, bride of God, To whom the Christ was born ; Thou who throughout the ages past The woman's crown hast worn — 42 The peaceful inward sense that has Its dwelling- in thy frame ; If that be love, what bodeth this? Oh, what should be its name ? " Then spake in pity she who has The niche beside the road : — " If love of equal worth has been, My child, on thee bestowed. Thou too art blessed ; she who speaks Has lived, and loved, and prayed." Then lips with kisses burning were On feet of marble laid. Oh, that was life ! The image now That he is dead and gone, Would have me read the riddle Of the river speeding on. 'Tis not the dead, the living, That this, ah ! this, must bear ; Too late to be forgiving, Too soon to join him there. *' More sinned against than sinning" — " No fault of his the pain " — **The poet's guerdon winning" — While tears fall like rain. 43 RONDELET. These five years. Ah ! They have shown us one thing plain, These five years. Joy has a deeper spring than tears ; Love knows a harbour shut to pain ; Dearest, we have not spent in vain These five years. 44 WITH FLOWERS. I KNOW not how in any wise, Dearest, my achino; love to show, If flowers have voices, these will speak. The flowers I gave thee Longf ago. And they will whisper — day and night — He sheddeth tears of joy to know He has not lost, not lost, not lost, The love you gave him Long ago. 45 LOST. Something has gone. Oh Life, great giver as thou art, Something has gone. Not Love, for Love as years roll on Plays evermore a fuller part. But from the treasure of my heart, Something has gone. 46 THE UNDERSONG. To-day shall be no song, Love, Here quiet now with thee ; No soHi,^ holds all my love, Love, So sing-ing shall not be. Let my hands frame thy face. Love, Take this kiss for thy brow, And these for thy tired lids, Love, Ah ! tears, not singing now. Lay thy cheek to my check, Love, Rest thy dear hand in mine ; Let thy heart ask my heart, Love, If it indeed be thine. And let there be no song. Love, Save only this that tells How deep, beneath all singing. Song in the heart upwells. 47 MEMORIES. Our kisses ere the day was done Were gathered slowly into one ; There rose a star where sank the sun. The whole in keeping, love confessed, The silence of the crimsoned West, The roving spirit seeking rest. 4S TRANSLATION. My heart Is troubled, and I think With long-ing of the olden time When under sunnier skies we dwelt, And life ran pleasantly as rhyme. But now Is all this over-set, And all is strain and stress instead ; No longer have we God above, Down under lies the Devil dead, And all is rotten, mean and vain, Sad, sullen, and of joy bereft ; There were no halting- place for Pain But that a little Love is left. 49 PART III. If ever in the books of verse thai claim The prize that poets covet thou dost find But one pure song deserving of the nanie^ Then with jtnsiinted sudden kisses hind The writer to thee, daring him to say, While seeking ev'ry moment to prolo7ig ; While thy hands with the htidding laurel play : — '* We learn in suffering what we teach in Song^ With apologies to P. B. Shelley. 51 COMEDY. Maiden, there is pent in thee Wealth of mirth and melody That full oft amazes me. Th' flavour of the rarest wine Hath the tiniest geste of thine ; Maiden, maiden, there are Nine Muses in thee tightly packed, Each with her own part to act ; As we marvel at the fact. So we love thee, maiden mine. 52 DIGNITY AND IMPUDENCE. After Heine, Gracious lady, wilt' allow Apollo's love-sick son to rest, So sweet is sleep, a poet's brow Upon thy swan-white breast ? Now that's too bad ! Are poets mad? What next, I wonder, would they do? Sir! this to me? In public, too! 53 THE WHISPER AND THE KISS. After Heine. Ah, Love, the seagulls yonder, In circles drawing near. Are seeking to discover When thy lips touch my ear, What the low voice has murmured, And whence the thrill of bliss. And which has meant the most, Love, The whisper or the kiss ? Best keep them circling round, Love, The centre that they miss. Where lost, as if for ever. Is the whisper in the kiss. Here the translation ends. " Not one without the other," As if from some abyss. Say we, reposing sweetly Where Heaven, dearest, is. Oh, what if Gossip knew, Love, That custom sanctions this ! 54 PLAYING WITH FIRE. Fair friend of mine, the lips that taught The trick of blowing- rings, Will have to answer for the thought Of kissing that it brings. 'Twas said and done ; Love's last recruit, Lest hope should be deferred. Proceeding then and there to suit The action to the word. 55 THE AUTHOR'S LIBRARY. A Sonnet derailed. My comrades, tho' ye figure not In Lowndes,^ Thy costlier brethren long have lost their home, Shall ye be ravished from me, tome by tome, For fewer shillings than ye cost me pounds ? Oh ! when our breezy language knew no bounds, And when the mildest oath in use was — Zounds ! The custom was for poets forced to roam To clear the mouth back-handed of its foam. Consign the dun to London's Ditch of Hounds, And then with certain red-hot playthings make The humbled Hebrew think it best to take, " Please God and Holy Moses," pence for pounds. Shades of unthrifty authors who are dead ! Once, snugly harboured, dallying by turns With new and old, in such pure peace I read As he who, lacking nothing, idly learns. But now of poets all too widely spread. The chief are the song-masters : after Heine, Burns. ^ Manual of Bibliography. 56 AFTER HEINE. Friend, conciliate the Devil, Brief is here the course we run, And the Hell that we are promised, Is no fable pulpit-spun. Friend, discharge the debt thou owest ; 'Tis a weary course we run, And you'll often have to borrow, As so often you have done. 57 INCIDENT OF THE OFFICE. The little office that I had, (It lends itself to rhyme), Was none too busy, and I spent In yawning half the time. The uninvited few who came Did not the gloom dispel, Save one of startling aspect who Has been remembered well ; For once while thinking I might call My sinecure a bore, There came a rush of petticoats. With a flutter to the door, And a maiden entered flying, A sight to make you grin, (There were steps she had not noticed. As we do from within). She bumped against the stove-pipe, While spinning through the air. And panted, and I asked her Had she not observed the stair? And spoke some words of comfort, And handed her a chair, 58 And asked if she had business That could be quickly done ; Then had she, blushing- sweetly, To own that there was none. And speaking- very rapidly, Continued — "No, indeed, I have, I fear, no business. But I love, you know, to read The verses in the papers That the great poets write, And hearing your name mentioned, I did think that I might—" She got no further. Silence reigned. It seemed while there she sat, .As if her parasol had picked A quarrel with my mat. Oh, then might Pity's kinsman Love Have smitten and prevailed ; Yet said I — " Duty, Madam, please." At that hard word she quailed ; She had no parting glance for me As through the door she sailed. And still I sit a-wondering What offices are for. And sigh for lady visitors. But they come not any more. 59 A PEN SKETCH. A LITTLE wife, a little wine, A little villa, spick and span, And looming- large in the design, A cradle, and a little man. The emblem of the civic state He cast aside for lighter wear. And when replenished and elate, Caressed his little partner there. He had, when he had done with sleep, To scamp his little prayer, and shave. He might, who has such hours to keep, As well be trotting to his grave. His " Firm" had all his little brains. His Chief was raised from Mammon's clay, He hoped, by never sparing pains. To have that promised Rise one day. And when he died of catching trains ; Twas cutting it too close," said they. (( > 6o OUR SUBURB. He leaned upon the narrow wall That set tlie limit to his ground, And marvelled, thinking- of it all, That he such happiness had found. He had no word for it but bliss ; He smoked his pipe ; he thanked his stars ; And, what more wonderful than this? He blessed the groaning, stinking cars That made it doubly sweet to win The respite of the hours apart From all the broil and sin and din Of London's damned money-mart. Verse 2, line 4 : Underground ; Old Style. 6i To H. E. T. I. "THE SOCIETY OF FRIENDS." Time cannot grudge to me The few glad hours I spend, Glad hours of rare companionship, In converse with my friend. My friend thus counsels me : — "Be it with Time agreed That thou dost in my company Seek rest when thou hast need." Sweet words (if words could soften The pain of parting), " May I come indeed as often As there is need ? " 1 say. Time cannot grudge to me The sure release from pain That oft where friendship is professed Is sought, and sought in vain. 62 11. HOME FROM HOME. Where one finds silence understood, Where speech is golden grain, Where Faith and Hope and Charity, The maidens of thy train, Assembled at thy bidding have To smooth the bed of pain. The room and its appointments tell Of thy presiding care, The flowers that call thee mistress lend Their sweetness to the air. The heralds of the dawn who have Their white feet on the stair ; The sign of silence they do make, The sleeper has their prayer. So dreameth he the poet's dream, A medley rich and rare. Of being lifted up and laid On beds of clover there. My friend, another winged thought The verse will hardly bear, Tho' denizens of Heaven have Their clouds of maiden-hair ! Let others note the glint of gold In the white robes they wear. And show them yielding sapling-wise To every breath of air ; For what but idle dreams are mine Of joys I cannot share? Nor peace nor rest in London is — My soul is with thee there. 63 LOVE AND DEATH. From ^sop's Fables. Came Love, one summer day, Dead tired, so they say, Unto a grotto fair, And courted slumber there, And flung his darts away. Pitch dark, the Fable saith. And named the Cave of Death, But this Love did not know. As though he'd sped a shaft With more than common craft. Once in his sleep he laughed ; At Dawn he rose to go. And a cry he did emit Of gladness to be quit Of the darkness, and the odour of the Cave. Departing he was fain To have his darts again : — " Oh ! Love, blind Love, beware ! The shafts of Death are there, The shafts of Death are there," Said the echo to the echo in the Cave. 64 But Love cared not a stiver, Intent on human hearts, He gathered to his quiver His own with Death's black darts, And glorious as the morning He winged his golden way ; Fair maidens had forewarning That Love was on the way. The strong man, labour scorning, Did nothing all that day, For dallying with a maiden Is neither work nor play. To Earth, to Earth again ! Intending ill to none ; He wotted not of pain, Blind creature of the Sun ; Scarce knowing what he did, In haste to have it done. Both young and old he rushed amid And shot his arrows every one. Then some cried out: — "Tis Death he deals !" And surely Death did come ; While others cried :— " 'Tis Love, 'tis Love ! " And Love there was for some. 65 TWO VOICES. Sweet, on thy lips a smile there played ; A surface ripple that betrayed A thrill of feeling" moving" me To ask of what thy dreams may be ? Tlie lamp 'withiii thy heart is lit, The angels they have charge of it, What would the sleeper knoia ? Through ' mail and vizor glimmering,' The wrath of one like Ivanhoe, Comes he of whom the poets sing, * Red-hot, undying love ' to show. As silent as the gravestones are. And black from top to toe, Is he now ' daring Death ' for me ; * Prevailing o'er the Foe ' ? Sleep, sleep, my child, the hours beguile With wand^ ring thought and wistful smile. Let visions come and go. As brave as any knight of old. With braver stories to be told ; Is he now ' speeding o'er the sea ' By day-dawn at my side to be ? Sleep, sleep, 7ny child, the hours beguile With wand' ring thought and wistfid smiley Let visions come and go. 66 When his ' great hands are holding mine,' I quote the poets whom I skim ; Will there be ' rivulets of wine ' In all my veins? Will * silence take The place of speech,' and gladness make Me crazy when I welcome him? Sleep, sleep, viy child, the hours beguile IVith wancVring thought and wistful smile. Let visions come and s^o. ty ' When I have looked him up and down, Provoked his smile, and smoothed his frown, Oh, shall I dare to throw Myself into his arms — and kiss Like this, like this, like this, like this, Because — I — love — him — so — The one whose life and strength will be His 'great resplendent gift' to me : — I want — I want — to know ? Sleep, sleep, my child, the hours beguile With wandering thought and ivistful smile. Let visions com.e and go. Hand seeketh hand ; there lies a vast, The sage has said, between The seeker and the sought, and this Is what has ever been. 67 OUR PREMISSES. That was a baffling dream I had Of ladders in the sky, With nothing- to support them there, Set up for me to try. 68 OUR IDEALS. ' To Mercy, Pity, Peace and Love All pray in their distress — ' Their souls have healing words for me ; Embodied as they are, In floating forms that levitate Above the evening star. Ideals, elusive, distant, all Are worshipped where they stand, But there are earthly ties, alas ! And thou hast one in hand. Invited am I, seeking rest, A stranger to my brain, To put thy kindness to the test. Beneath thy roof again ? My friend, there travels through this night Of Winter, starved and poor. One unsupported by my hope Of welcome at thy door. A brother, called to mind again, Or sister, babe at breast : — My friend, have Pity, Peace, and Love, Our Idols, done their best? 69 WILLIAM BLAKE. What thoug-h no second sight have we Like Blake, whose solemn eyes Saw Socrates at Turnham Green, And God on Kensal Rise. What thouofh in certain books we seem To fare from bad to worse, Oh ! in what other poet's work Have we the pearls of verse, That with the ' quaintest human bosh ' ^ That mortal ever conned, Are bedded in the reams he wrote To friends who did respond To names that pull the reader up, Like Hayley, Butts, and Bond ? He said that Milton dined with him, He said that we should see, If only we stayed long- enough, Isaiah making tea. While we by this surprising talk Were not a little awed, With thrill of happiness in him He scattered smiles abroad. 1 D. G. Rossetti, on Hayley's Poems. 70 He talked as long as he did live ; To what end no one knows ; So little is the help we have From his exponents' prose. "And think yoii visions strange as his Were easy to explain ? " Oh ! ag^d infant ! hast thou not Twin shutters to thy brain ? We close our eyes to bring the light Within the soul's domain, And many, wisely silent, see, As he did in the skies, Above the setting sun at eve The hosts of Heaven rise. Ideals we have, pursued alas, By less than very few, And he who writes of England's Art Can name but one or two. The latest gave us eyes that see ^ The great in little things ; He painted her who folds at night About the earth her wings. ' G. F. Watts. And what did Blake ? Conceptions vast, Too great for any stage. Transcending all the bounds of thought, We have on pictured page. From great to little, yonder book,^ The rarest of the rare, The casket of the spirit is That had its dwelling there. The little living things he drew, At the appointed time Did into places given them By means of feelers climb. The little living things he drew, Did caps and pinions don ; The rhythm of the poet's line, The artist carried on : — Oh ! when will singer strike again So pure a note in song? With harp at rest, the Minstrel asks : — " Oh ! Lord of Love, how long? " ^ Songs of Innocence. UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY Los Angeles This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. R APk I, sK 1 G 1984 nil L9-32m-8,'57(.C86e084)444 15™"58 00929 4017 UC SnUTMERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY ■■■ nil r ir Ill III nil mill III nil II nil III AA 000 367 770 5