ENGLISH :.I ;/;, cccxcn. oo o^ CM "d- O >- REESE LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA. APR 12 1894 , 189 . Accessions 7 J . Class No. LIVING ENGLISH POETS LIVING ENGLISH POETS MDCCCXCIII LONDON KEG AN PAUL, TRENCH, TRUBNER &> CO., LTD. MDCCCXCIll PREFACE TO THE ORIGINAL EDITION. Editors of the present selection believe them- selves justified in claiming for the principle which has directed them a certain novelty ', at least as far as regards living writers. They Jiave prepared an antJiology which aims at being no casual or desultory assemblage of beautiful poems, but one which presents in chronological order examples of tlte higliest attain- ment, and none but tJie highest, of tJte principal Poets of our own age. So great is the wealth of English poetry in this century, so varied its field, so versatile its execution, that tJie difficulty has been to know liow to repress and omit. In making such a selection it has been felt that it was of the highest importance to avoid anything like narrowness of aim, and above all to secure exemption from tJte prejudices and the vi PREFACE TO ORIGINAL EDITION partialities of any one school. TJte Editors believe that tJiey have been scrupulously catholic in their views ; they have not undertaken the work in haste, and they are anxious to record tliat, as far as they are able to learn, there is no living writer of verse, ivhose works have enjoyed any reputation eitJier in a wide or narrow circle, to wJiom they have not given their unbiassed consideration, and that, if any names are found to be omitted Jiere, tJie Editors must take upon themselves tJie responsibility of having felt obliged to omit them deliberately. There are but two exceptions to tJie names tJiey have wished to include. An eminent writer whose verse deserves to be no less widely read than is his prose, has declined "to be bound with others in a selection;" and while this is in one sense a great regret to the Editors, it is not wJwlly without its compensations, since all readers who are aware of tJie omission of any favourite Poet will of course consider that he, their own Apollo, is the fastidious One who has refused to allow his flowers to be twined in the general garland. The other has succeeded in PREFACE TO ORIGINAL EDITION vii forgetting tJie flight of time, and, being tJierefore unwilling that otJiers sJwuld take note of that swift passage of years which blanches even poetic locks, is unwilling- to comply with the chronological system which is an essential part of tJie Editors' plan. The Editors, ttien, having desired to include, to tJie best of ttieir judgment, representative pieces from all tlie verse-writers who may really be called in any high and lasting sense Poets, have been gratified to find that tfie names have for the most part arranged tJiemselves by a quantitative test in an order which approximately is that in which the public voice has classed tJie names selected. Not, Jiowever, that the test is infallible, or without its exceptions. Moreover, it lias not been thought fitting to select from Dramas, since detacJied passages suffer by division from tJieir context, and Jience SIR HENRY TAYLOR is here repre- sented by lyrics alone, of which he has written far too few. TJie present age has been particularly rich in facetious and fantastic verse, but the Editors of the present selection have only ventured to avail them- viii PREFACE TO ORIGINAL EDITION selves of it sparingly, and where an underlying seriousness of purpose and a close attention to form seemed to give it more than an epJiemeral value. Throughout it may be said that a conviction of the enduring qualities of poems and of Poets has been allowed to outweigh a mere sense of brightness or cleverness in workmanship. The Editors have been particularly struck, in reading a very large number of volumes of verse for the purpose in hand, with t}ie excellent manner in which much is now-a-days said, which in its essence is scarcely worth the saying, and they have not considered that such pieces, tJiough in tlumselves at times exquisite, are likely to be of permanent value. It would have swelled the book beyond all reasonable limits to Jiave included in it the masterpieces of con- temporary American poetry. Literature on the other side of the Atlantic has now extended so considerably in all directions that the Americans may safely be left to prepare their own anthology. It remains only to thank cordially all who have given permission to include their poems, and to PREFACE TO ORIGINAL EDITION ix apologise for tJie unavoidable prominence given to tJiese few words of preface, tJte mere string which has served to tie up our sweet posy. March, 1882. Since these words were written, English literature is the poorer by tJte loss of a Poet to whom a large space had by right been assigned in the ensuing selec- tion. DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI will write no more, and although his name and fame die not, Jie is un- happily no longer to be classed among living Poets. It is with a sad satisfaction t}iat the Editors mention tJie graceful courtesy with which he not merely acceded to tJteir request to include several of his poems, but interested Jiimself in their work. June, 1882. PREFACE TO NEW EDITION. LE VEN years have elapsed, and to tJie same hands has been entrusted tlie task of revising tJie work originally presented to tlie public in the words which have just been read. TJie labour has been a melancholy one ', for tJie first part of it was to remove those shining names which one after anotJier Jiave passed, since 1882, from the roll of tJie living. Fourteen poets, wlwse work was included then, can be quoted from here no more. TJie first to leave us, in 1884, was tJte vener- able " ORION " HORNE. LORD HOUGHTON followed in 1885. so now in 1893, our selection is not quite so complete as we sJwuld wish to make it. One young poet of very high promise has been prevented by Jiealth from according or refusing that permission which we are certain he would have generously given. Anotlier writer, as did an elder confrere in 1882, declines to be bound with others in a collection. But though we deplore tJiese two omissions, we still Jiope tJiat the book, in its revised form, may be found to be no less characteristic of the poetry of tJie present day than its predecessor was acknowledged to be of that of eleven years ago. September, 1893. CONTENTS PAGE FREDERICK TENNYSON THE BLACKBIRD I WOMEN AND CHILDREN 6 THOMAS GORDON HAKE THE SNAKE-CHARMER 9 AUBREY DE VERE SONG 15 FROM " ODE ON THE ASCENT OF THE ALPS" 16 LYCIUS 19 THE CAMPO SANTO AT PISA / ... 22 // . . . 23 PHILIP JAMES BAILEY FROM "FESTtJS" 24 xvi CONTENTS PAGE FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON THE UNREALIZED IDEAL 26 AT HER WINDOW 27 LOULOU AND HER CAT 28 CO VENTR Y PA TMORE FROM " THE ANGEL IN THE HOUSE" i LOVE'S PERVERSITY 3! ,, ,, ,, ,, // THE REVELATION . 33 THE TOYS 34 DEPARTURE 35 THE AZALEA 37 WILLIAM ALEXANDER A VISION OF OXFORD 39 CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI AMOR MUNDI 44 UP-HILL 46 SONG 47 BIRD RAPTURES 48 NOBLE SISTERS 48 A7 HOME 51 DREAM LAND 52 CONTENTS xvii PAGE CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI continued AFTER DEATH . 54 FROM " TIME FLIES" I 55 // 55 /// 57 ir 57 SIR EDWIN ARNOLD FROM " THE LIGHT OF ASIA " .... 59 TO A PAIR OF EGYPTIAN SLIPPERS 61 LEWIS MORRIS AT LAST 66 THE HOME ALTAR 69 FROM " GWEN" 71 THE BEGINNINGS OF FAITH .... 74 THE ODE OF DECLINE 75 ON A THRUSH SINGING IN AUTUMN 80 RICHARD WATSON DIXON SONG 83 FROM "CHRIST'S COMPANY" THE HOLY MOTHER AT THE CROSS 84 b xviii CONTENTS PAGE WILLIAM MORRIS THE CHAPEL IN LYONESS 87 THE HAYSTACK IN THE FLOODS ... 92 FROM " THE LIFE AND DEATH OF JASON" I 99 // 102 FROM " THE EARTHLY PARADISE" ... 103 FROM " LOVE IS ENOUGH" THE MUSIC . . 105 THE MESSAGE OF THE MARCH WIND . . 107 ALFRED AUSTIN IN THE HEART OF THE FOREST . . .112 A MARCH MINSTREL 118 PRIMROSES I 120 // 121 m 123 TO ENGLAND 124 SIR ALFRED LYALL A RAJPOOT CHIEF OF THE OLD SCHOOL MOR1BUNDUS LOQITUR 126 JOHN LEICESTER WARREN, LORD DE TAB LEY CIRCE 132 TWO OLD KINGS 135 CONTENTS xix PAGE WALTER THEODORE WATTS NATURA MALIGNA 136 JOHN THE PILGRIM (THE MIRAGE IN EGYPT) . 137 THE FIRST KISS 138 ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE FROM " ATALANTA IN CALYDON" CHORUS . 139 IN MEMORY OF WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR . 141 FROM "THE GARDEN OF PROSERPINE" ,-~ . 144 THE SUNDEW 146 FROM PRELUDE TO " SONGS BEFORE SUNRISE" 148 FROM "MATER TRIUMPHALIS" . . . .152 FROM "HERTHA" 155 A FORSAKEN GARDEN . . . . . .158 WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT TO MANON COMPARING HER TO A FALCON . .162 A FOREST IN BOSNIA 163 LILAC AND GOLD AND GREEN .... 163 FROM " IN VINCULIS" 165 AUSTIN DOBSON A DEAD LETTER I 167 " 169 /// 170 A GENTLEMAN OF THE OLD SCHOOL . .173 xx CONTENTS PAGE AUSTIN DOBSON continued A SONG OF THE THE FOUR SEASONS . .178 TO AN INTRUSIVE BUTTERFLY. . . .179 THE POET AND THE CRITICS . . . .181 A FANCY FROM FONTENELLE .... 184 BEFORE SEDAN 185 THE LADIES OF ST. JAMES'S . . . .186 "GOOD NIGHT, BABETTE!" 189 THE BALLAD OF THE ARMADA . . .192 IN AFTER DAYS 194 AUGUSTA WEBSTER IF i95 HARRIET E. HAMILTON KING FROM " THE DISCIPLES" 198 FROM " AC ESI LAO MIL A NO" 200 ROBERT WILLIAMS BUCHANAN FROM " WHITE ROSE AND RED" DROWSIETOWN 203 WILLIAM JOHN COURTHOPE FROM " THE PARADISE OF BIRDS" CHORUS OF HUMAN SOULS 210 CHORUS OF BIRDS 213 CONTENTS xxi PAGE FREDERIC W. H. MYERS FROM "ST. PAUL" 216 TENERIFFE . 217 SIMMENTHAL 220 ROBERT BRIDGES ELEGY ON A LADY, WHOM GRIEF FOR THE DEATH OF HER BETROTHED KILLED 222 MY SONG 225 ANDREW LANG BALLADE OF SLEEP 227 BALLADE OF HIS CHOICE OF A SEPULCHRE 229 NATURAL THEOLOGY 230 EDMUND GOSSE LYING IN THE GRASS 231 THE RETURN OF THE SWALLOWS . . .234 THE CHARCOAL-BURNER 237 TWO POINTS OF VIEW 239 WALTER HERRIES POLLOCK A CONQUEST 241 xxii CONTENTS PAGE ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON THE HOUSE BEAUTIFUL 242 THE CELESTIAL SURGEON 243 THE WIND 244 " SAY NOT OF ME" 245 "SING CLEARLIER, MUSE" 246 THEOPHILE MARZIALS SONG 247 A PASTORAL 248 SONG 249 MARGARET L. WOODS TO THE FORGOTTEN DEAD 250 MAR Y DARMESTETER TO A DRAGON-FLY 251 LE ROI EST MORT 252 RETROSPECT 253 TWILIGHT 255 ROBERT, LORD HOUGHTON A WET SUNSET IN SOUTH AFRICA . . .257 A QUESTION 259 CONTENTS xxiii PAGB NORMAN GALE A BIRD IN THE HAND 260 KATHARINE TYNAN GOLDEN LILIES 262 A TIRED HEART 263 HERBERT P. HORNE AMICO SUO 266 ARTHUR SYMONS RAIN ON THE DOWN 267 EMMY 267 RUDYARD KIPLING MANDALA Y 269 L 'ENVOI 272 RICHARD LE GALLIENNE THE WONDER-CHILD 277 AUTUMN 27 8 ALL SUNG 279 LIVING ENGLISH POETS FREDERICK TENNYSON Born 1807 THE BLACKBIRD i How sweet the harmonies of Afternoon ! The Blackbird sings along the sunny breeze His ancient song of leaves, and Summer boon ; Rich breath of hayfields streams thro' whispering trees ; And birds of morning trim their bustling wings, And listen fondly while the Blackbird sings. 77 How soft the lovelight of the West reposes On this green valley's cheery solitude, B 2 LIVING ENGLISH POETS On the trim cottage with its screen of roses, On the gray belfry with its ivy hood, And murmuring mill-race, and the wheel that flings Its bubbling freshness while the Blackbird sings. The very dial on the village church Seems as 'twere dreaming in a dozy rest ; The scribbled benches underneath the porch Bask in the kindly welcome of the West ; But the broad casements of the old Three Kings Blaze like a furnace while the Blackbird sings. IV And there beneath the immemorial elm Three rosy revellers round a table sit, And thro' gray clouds give laws unto the realm, Curse good and great, but worship their own wit, And roar of fights, and fairs, and junketings, Corn, colts, and curs the while the Blackbird sings. v Before her home, in her accustom'd seat, The tidy Grandam spins beneath the shade Of the old honeysuckle, at her feet The dreaming pug, and purring tabby laid ; To her low chair a little maiden clings, And spells in silence while the Blackbird sings. FREDERICK TENNYSON VI Sometimes the shadow of a lazy cloud Breathes o'er the hamlet with its gardens green, While the far fields with sunlight overflow'd Like golden shores of Fairyland are seen ; Again, the sunshine on the shadow springs, And fires the thicket where the Blackbird sings. VII The woods, the lawn, the peaked Manor-house, With its peach-cover'd walls, and rookery loud, The trim, quaint garden alleys screen'd with boughs, The lion-headed gates, so grim and proud, The mossy fountain with its murmurings, Lie in warm sunshine while the Blackbird sings. VIII The ring of silver voices, and the sheen Of festal garments and my Lady streams With her gay court across the garden green ; Some laugh, and dance, some whisper their love- dreams ; And one calls for a little page ; he strings Her lute beside her while the Blackbird sings. IX A little while and lo ! the charm is heard, A youth, whose life has been all Summer, steals 4 LIVING ENGLISH POETS Forth from the noisy guests around the board, Creeps by her softly ; at her footstool kneels ; And, when she pauses, murmurs tender things Into her fond ear while the Blackbird sings. x The smoke-wreaths from the chimneys curl up higher, And dizzy things of Eve begin to float Upon the light ; the breeze begins to tire ; Half way to Sunset with a drowsy note The ancient clock from out the valley swings ; The Grandam nods and still the Blackbird sings. XI Far shouts and laughter from the farmstead peal, Where the great stack is piling in the sun ; Thro' narrow gates o'erladen waggons reel, And barking curs into the tumult run ; While the inconstant wind bears off, and brings The merry tempest and the Blackbird sings. xn On the high wold the last look of the sun Burns, like a beacon, over dale and stream ; The shouts have ceased, the laughter and the fun ; The Grandam sleeps, and peaceful be her dream ; Only a hammer on an anvil rings ; The day is dying still the Blackbird sings. FREDERICK TENNYSON XIII Now the good Vicar passes from his gate Serene, with long white hair ; and in his eye Burns the clear spirit that hath conquer'd fate, And felt the wings of immortality ; His heart is throng'd with great imaginings, And tender mercies while the Blackbird sings. XIV Down by the brook he bends his steps and thro' A lowly wicket ; and at last he stands Awful beside the bed of one who grew From boyhood with him who with lifted hands, And eyes, seems listening to far welcomings, And sweeter music than the Blackbird sings. xv Two golden stars, like tokens from the Blest, Strike on his dim orbs from the setting sun ; His sinking hands seem pointing to the West ; He smiles as though he said " Thy will be done " His eyes, they see not those illuminings ; His ears, they hear not what the Blackbird sings. WOMEN AND CHILDREN God said, " Bring little children unto me " ; And Man is likest God, when from his heart Truth flows in its divine simplicity, And love dwells in him working without art : Children are Earth's fair flowers the Crown of Life A noble Woman and he is refill'd With hope who turns with love unto his Wife, With love who turns with hope unto his Child. ii Oh ! if no faces were beheld on earth, But toiling Manhood, and repining Age, No welcome eyes of Innocence and Mirth To look upon us kindly, who would wage The gloomy battle for himself alone ? Or thro' the dark of the o'erhanging cloud Look wistfully for light ? who would not groan Beneath his daily task, and weep aloud ? /// But little children take us by the hand, And gaze with trustful cheer into our eyes FREDERICK TENNYSON Patience and Fortitude beside us stand In Woman's shape, and waft to Heav'n our sighs ; The Guiltless child holds back the arm of Guilt Upraised to strike, and woman may atone With sinless tears for sins of man, and melt The damning seal when evil deeds are done. IV When thirsty Suffering hath drunk up our tears, And left the heart sere as an Autumn leaf, From her fond eyes they fall for us ; she cheers With songs, and lights with hope the cloud of Grief ; When our sweet Youth for ever buried lies, And we well nigh forget the thing we were, Once more we meet him in the young blue eyes, And laugh to see his resurrection there. v When to the car of Vengeance and of Hate We yoke ill thoughts, and memories hot from Hell, 'Tis She that stays us, like relenting Fate, 'Tis her weak arm that locks the crazing wheel ; Above the dust of conflict, and the jar, She lifts a little child ; her voice is heard Piercing above the thunder of the War, " Spare thou, that thine hereafter may be spared ! " 8 LIVING ENGLISH POETS VI And should they go before us on that way That all must tread, and leave us faint with sorrow ; Should the great light of Love forsake our day, Memory's bright moon bespeaks a sunbright morrow ; Behold, the skies unfold ! broad beams descend ; Beneath the Gods upon the golden stair, Amid the upward glories without end, At Heavengate they stand, and bid us there. THOMAS GORDON HAKE Born 1809 THE SNAKE-CHARMER The forest rears on lifted arms A world of leaves, whence verdurous light Shakes through the shady depths and warms Proud tree and stealthy parasite, There where those cruel coils enclasp The trunks they strangle in their grasp. An old man creeps from out the woods, Breaking the vine's entangling spell ; He thrids the jungle's solitudes, O'er bamboos rotting where they fell ; Slow down the tiger's path he wends Where at the pool the jungle ends. No moss-greened alley tells the trace Of his lone step, no sound is stirred, Even when his tawny hands displace The boughs, that backward sweep unheard io LIVING ENGLISH POETS His way as noiseless as the trail Of the swift snake and pilgrim snail. The old snake-charmer, once he played Soft music for the serpent's ear, But now his cunning hand is stayed ; He knows the hour of death is near. And all that live in brake and bough, All know the brand is on his brow. Yet where his soul is he must go : He crawls along from tree to tree. The old snake-charmer, doth he know If snake or beast of prey he be ? Bewildered at the pool he lies And sees as through a serpent's eyes. Weeds wove with white-flowered lily crops Drink of the pool, and serpents hie To the thin brink as noonday drops, And in the froth-daubed rushes lie. There rests he now with fastened breath 'Neath a kind sun to bask in death. The pool is bright with glossy dyes And cast-up bubbles of decay : A green death-leaven overlies Its mottled scum, where shadows play THOMAS GORDON HAKE \\ As the snake's hollow coil, fresh shed, Rolls in the wind across its bed. No more the wily note is heard From his full flute the riving air That tames the snake, decoys the bird, Worries the she-wolf from her lair. Fain would he bid its parting breath Drown in his ears the voice of death. Still doth his soul's vague longing skim The pool beloved : he hears the hiss That siffles at the sedgy rim, Recalling days of former bliss, And the death-drops, that fall in showers, Seem honied dews from shady flowers. There is a rustle of the breeze And twitter of the singing bird ; He snatches at the melodies And his faint lips again are stirred : The olden sounds are in his ears ; But still the snake its crest uprears. His eyes are swimming in the mist That films the earth like serpent's breath : And now, as if a serpent hissed, The husky whisperings of Death 12 LIVING ENGLISH POETS Fill ear and brain he looks around Serpents seem matted o'er the ground. Soon visions of past joys bewitch His crafty soul ; his hands would set Death's snare, while now his fingers twitch The tasselled reed as 'twere his net. But his thin lips no longer fill The woods with song ; his flute is still. Those lips still quaver to the flute, But fast the life-tide ebbs away ; Those lips now quaver and are mute, But nature throbs in breathless play : Birds are in open song, the snakes Are watching in the silent brakes. In sudden fear of snares unseen The birds like crimson sunset swarm, All gold and purple, red and green, And seek each other for the charm. Lizards dart up the feathery trees Like shadows of a rainbow breeze. The wildered birds again have rushed Into the charm, it is the hour When the shrill forest-note is hushed, And they obey the serpent's power, THOMAS GORDON HAKE 13 Drawn to its gaze with troubled whirr, As by the thread of falconer. As 'twere to feed, on slanting wings They drop within the serpent's glare : Eyes flashing fire in burning rings Which spread into the dazzled air ; They flutter in the glittering coils ; The charmer dreads the serpent's toils. While Music swims away in death Man's spell is passing to his slaves : The snake feeds on the charmer's breath, The vulture screams, the parrot raves, The lone hyena laughs and howls, The tiger from the jungle growls. Then mounts the eagle flame-flecked folds Belt its proud plumes ; a feather falls : He hears the death-cry, he beholds The king-bird in the serpent's thralls, He looks with terror on the feud, And the sun shines through dripping blood. The deadly spell a moment gone Birds, from a distant Paradise, Strike the winged signal and have flown, Trailing rich hues through azure skies : LIVING ENGLISH POETS The serpent falls ; like demon wings The far-out-branching cedar swings. The wood swims round ; the pool and skies Have met ; the death-drops down that cheek Fall faster ; for the serpent's eyes Grow human, and the charmer's seek. A gaze like man's directs the dart Which now is buried at his heart The monarch of the world is cold : The charm he bore has passed away : The serpent gathers up its fold To wind about its human prey. The red mouth darts a dizzy sting, And clenches the eternal ring. AUBREY DE VERE Born 1814 SONG When I was young, I said to Sorrow, " Come, and I will play with thee " : He is near me now all day ; And at night returns to say, " I will come again to-morrow, I will come and stay with thee." Through the woods we walk together ; His soft footsteps rustle nigh me ; To shield an unregarded head, He hath built a winter shed ; And all night in rainy weather, I hear his gentle breathings by me. 16 Ul'IXG EXGLJSH POETS FSOM "ODE ON THE ASCENT OF THE ALPS All night as in my dreams I lay The shout of torrents without number Was in my ears * Away, away. No time have we for slumber ! The star-beams in our eddies play The moon is set : away, away ! " And round the hills in tumult borne Through echoing caves and gorges rocking. The voices of the night and morn Are crying louder in their scorn, My tedious languor mocking. Alas ! in vain man's wearied limbs would rise To join in elemental ecstasies ! " But thou, O Muse, our heavenly mate, Unclogged art thou by fleshly weight ! Ascend ; upbearing my desire Among the mountains higher and higher. Leap from the glen upon the forest Leap from the forest on the snow : And while from snow to cloud thou soarest Look back on me below : Where from the glacier bursts the river With iron clang, pursue it ever ; .-: : J.--T: i-. I spakeBehold her o'er the broad tike iyng Like a great Angel HUBS* r:. (Or whitened only by the ouficquail shoal) Till two duL hflls, witla darker yd behfod, Oowaid! the swan's ffi^it with tbe eagles On, winged Muse ; stfll fat aid and asrrn (Broad lights below and changeftil Chneravale Not noontide sons alone, bat sans of even, Warming die gray fields in their soft decline, The green streams flushing with the hnes of heaven. C i8 LIVING ENGLISH POETS In vain those Shepherds call ; they cannot wake The echoes on this wide and cultured plain, Where spreads the river now into a lake, Now curves through walnut meads its golden chain, In-isling here and there some spot With orchard, hive, and one fair cot : Or children dragging from their boat Into the flood some reverend goat O happy valley ! cradle soft and deep For blissful life, calm sleep, And leisure, and affections free and wide, Give me yon plough, that I with thee may bide ! Or climb those stages, cot-bestrown, Vast steps of Summer's mountain-throne, Terrace o'er terrace rising, line o'er line, Swathed in the light wreaths of the elaborate vine. On yonder loftiest steep, the last From whose green base the gray rocks rise, In random circle idly cast A happy household lies. There rests the grandsire : round his feet The children some old tale entreat, And while he speaks supply each word Forgotten, altered, or ill heard. In yonder brake reclines a maid, Her locks a lover's fingers braid AUBREY DE VERE 19 Fair, fearless maiden ! cause for fear Is none, though he alone were near : Indulge at will thy sweet security ! He doth but that bold front incline And all those wind-tossed curls on thine To catch from thy fresh lips their mountain purity ! LYCIUS Lycius ! the female race is all the same ! All variable, as the Poets tell us ; Mad through caprice half way 'twixt men and children ! Acasta, mildest late of all our maids, Colder and calmer than a sacred well, Is now more changed than Spring has changed these woods ; Hers is the fault, not mine. Yourself shall judge From "Epidaurus, where for three long days With Nicias I had stayed, honouring the God, If strength might thus mine aged sire renerve, Last evening we returned. The way was dull 20 LIVING ENGLISH POETS And vexed with mountains : tired ere long was I From warding off the oleander boughs Which, as my comrade o'er the stream's dry bed Pushed on, closed backward on my mule and me. The flies maintained a melody unblest, While Nicias, of his wreath Nemean proud, Sang of the Satyrs and the Nymphs all day Like one by Esculapius fever-smitten. Arrived at eve, we bathed ; and drank, and ate Of figs and olives till our souls exulted : Lastly we slept like Gods. While morning shone, So filled was I with weariness and sleep That as a log till noon I lay, then rose, And in the bath-room sat While there I languished Reading that old, divine and holy tale Of sad Ismen& and Antigone, Two warm, soft hands around me sudden flung Closed both my eyes ; and a clear, shrill, sweet laughter Told me that she it was, Acasta's self, That brake upon my dreams. " What would you, child?" " Child, child ! " Acasta cried, " I am no child You do me wrong in calling me a child ! Come with me to the willowy river's brim : There read, if you must read." Her eyes not less AUBREY DE VERE 21 Than hands uplifted me, and forth we strayed. O'er all the Argolic plain Apollo's shafts So fiercely fell, methought the least had slain A second Python. From that theatre Hewn in the rock the Argive tumult rolled : Before the fane of Juno seven vast oxen Lowed loud, denouncing Heaven ere yet they fell : While from the hill-girt meadows rose a scent So rich, the salt sea odours vainly strove To pierce those fumes it curled about .my brain, And sting the nimbler spirits. Nodding I watched The pale herbs from the parched bank that trailed Bathing delighted in voluptuous cold, And scarcely swayed by that slow winding stream : I heard a sigh I asked not whence it came. At last a breeze went by, to glossy waves Rippling the steely flood : I noted then The reflex of the poplar stem thereon Curled into spiral wreaths, and toward me darting Like a long, shining water-snake : I laughed To see its restlessness. Acasta cried, " Read if you will not speak or look at me ! " Unconsciously I glanced upon the page, Bent o'er it, and begun to chaunt that song, " Favoured by Love are they that love not deeply," When, leaping from my side, she snatched the book, Into the river dashed it, bounded by, 22 LIVING ENGLISH POETS And, no word spoken, left me there alone. Lycius ! I see you smile ; but know you not Nothing is trifling which the Muse records, And lovers love to muse on ? Let the Gods Act as to them seems fitting. Hermes loved Phoebus loved also but the hearts of Gods Are everlasting like the sun and stars, Their loves as transient as the clouds. For me A peaceful life is all I seek, and far Removed from cares and all the female kind ! THE CAMPO SANTO AT PISA I There needs not choral song, nor organs pealing : This mighty cloister of itself inspires Thoughts breathed like hymns from spiritual choirs ; While shades and lights, in soft succession stealing, Along it creep, now veiling, now revealing Strange forms, here traced by Painting's earliest sires, Angels with palms ; and purgatorial fires ; And Saints caught up, and demons round them reeling Love, long remembering those she could not save, AUBREY DE VERE 23 Here hung the cradle of Italian Art : Faith rocked it ; hence, like hermit child, went forth That heaven-born Power which beautified the earth : She perished when the world had lured her heart From her true friends, Religion and the grave. II Lament not thou : the cold winds, as they pass Through the ribbed fret- work with low sigh or moan, Lament enough ; let them lament alone, Counting the sere leaves of the innumerous grass With thin, soft sound like one prolonged " alas ! " Spread thou thy hands on sun-touched vase, or stone That yet retains the warmth of sunshine gone, And drink warm solace from the ponderous mass. Gaze not around thee. Monumental marbles, Time-clouded frescoes, mouldering year by year, Dim cells in which all day the night-bird warbles, These things are sorrowful elsewhere, not here : A mightier Power than Art's hath here her shrine : Stranger ! thou tread'st the soil of Palestine ! PHILIP JAMES BAILEY Born 1816 FROM "FESTUS" Oh for the young heart like a fountain playing, Flinging its bright fresh feelings up to the skies It loves and strives to reach ; strives, loves in vain. It is of earth, and never meant for heaven ; Let us love both and die. The sphinx-like heart Loathes life the moment that life's riddle is read. The knot of our existence solved, all things Loose-ended lie, and useless. Life is had, And lo ! we sigh, and say, can this be all ? It is not what we thought ; it is very well, But we want something more. There is but death. And when we have said and seen, done, had, enjoyed And suffered, maybe, all we have wished, or feared, From fame to ruin, and from love to loathing, There can come but one more change try it death. Oh it is great to feel that nought of earth, Hope, love, nor dread, nor care for what's to come, Can check the royal lavishment of life ; PHILIP JAMES BAILEY 25 But, like a streamer strown upon the wind, We fling our souls to fate and to the future. For to die young is youth's divinest gift ; To pass from one world fresh into another, Ere change hath lost the charm of soft regret ; And feel the immortal impulse from within Which makes the coming, life, cry alway, on ! And follow it while strong, is heaven's last mercy. There is a fire-fly in the south, but shines W T hen on the wing. So is't with mind. When once We rest, we darken. On ! saith God to the soul, As unto the earth for ever. On it goes, A rejoicing native of the infinite, As is a bird, of air ; an orb, of heaven. FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON Born 1821 THE UNREALIZED IDEAL My only Love is always near, In country or in town I see her twinkling feet, I hear The whisper of her gown. She foots it ever fair and young, Her locks are tied in haste, And one is o'er her shoulder flung And hangs below her waist. She ran before me in the meads ; And down this world-worn track She leads me on ; but while she leads She never gazes back. And yet her voice is in my dreams, To witch me more and more ; That wooing voice ! Ah me, it seems Less near me than of yore. FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON 27 Lightly I sped when hope was high, And youth beguiled the chase ; > I follow follow still ; but I Shall never see her Face. AT HER WINDOW Ah, Minstrel, how strange is The carol you sing ! Let Psyche, who ranges The garden of Spring, Remember the changes December will bring. Beating Heart ! we come again Where my Love reposes : This is Mabel's window-pane ; These are Mabel's roses. Is she nested ? Does she kneel In the twilight stilly, Lily clad from throat to heel, She, my Virgin Lily ? Soon the wan, the wistful stars, Fading, will forsake her ; Elves of light, on beamy bars, Whisper then, and wake her. 28 LIVING ENGLISH POETS Let this friendly pebble plead At her flowery grating ; If she hear me will she heed ? Mabel, I am waiting, Mabel will be deck'd anon, Zoned in bride's apparel ; Happy zone ! Oh hark to yon Passion-shaken carol ! Sing thy song, thou tranced Thrush, Pipe thy best, thy clearest ; Hush, her lattice moves, O hush Dearest Mabel ! dearest . LOULOU AND HER CAT You shake your saucy curls, and vow I build no airy castles now ; You smile, and you are thinking too, He's nothing else on earth to do. Good pastry is vended In Cite Fadette ; Maison Pons can make splendid Brioche and galette. FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON 29 M*sieu Pans is so fat that He's laid on the shelf; Madame had a Cat that Was fat as herself. Long hair, soft as satin, A musical purr, 'Gainst the window she'd flatten Her delicate fur. I drove Lou to see what Our neighbours were at, In rapture, cried she, " What An exquisite Cat ! " What whiskers ! She's purring All over. Regale Our eyes, Puss, by stirring Your feathery tail ! " M*sieu Pons, will you sell her ? " " Mafemme est sortie, Your offer I'll tell her; But will she ? " says he. Yet Pons was persuaded To part with the prize : 3 o LIVING ENGLISH POETS (Our bargain was aided, My Lou, by your eyes !) From his l/gitime save him, My spouse I prefer, For I warrant his gave him Un mauvais quart dJuure. I am giving a pleasant Grimalkin to Lou, Ah, Puss, what a present I'm giving to you ! COVENTRY PAT MO RE Born 1823 FROM " THE ANGEL IN THE HOUSE :) I LOVE'S PERVERSITY How strange a thing a lover seems To animals that do not love ! Lo, where he walks and talks in dreams, And flouts us with his Lady's glove ; How foreign is the garb he wears ; And how his great devotion mocks Our poor propriety, and scares The undevout with paradox ! His soul, through scorn of worldly care, And great extremes of sweet and gall, And musing much on all that's fair, Grows witty and fantastical ; He sobs his joy and sings his grief, And evermore finds such delight In simply picturing his relief, That 'plaining seems to cure his plight ; 32 LIVING ENGLISH POETS He makes his sorrow, when there's none ; His fancy blows both cold and hot ; Next to the wish that she'll be won, His first hope is that she may not ; He sues, yet deprecates consent ; Would she be captured she must fly ; She looks too happy and content, For whose least pleasure he would die ; Oh, cruelty, she cannot care For one to whom she's always kind ! He says he's nought, but, oh, despair, If he's not Jove to her fond mind ! He's jealous if she pets a dove, She must be his with all her soul ; Yet 'tis a postulate in love That part is greater than the whole ; And all his apprehension's stress, When he's with her, regards her hair, Her hand, a ribbon of her dress, As if his life were only there ; Because she's constant, he will change And kindest glances coldly meet, And, all the time he seems so strange, His soul is fawning at her feet ; Of smiles and simple heaven grown tired, He wickedly provokes her tears, And when she weeps, as he desired, CO VENTR Y PA TMORE 33 Falls slain with ecstacies of fears ; He blames her, though she has no fault, Except the folly to be his ; He worships her, the more to exalt The profanation of a kiss ; Health's his disease ; he's never well But when his paleness shames her rose ; His faith's a rock-built citadel, Its sign a flag that each way blows ; His o'erfed fancy frets and fumes ; And Love, in him, is fierce, like Hate, And ruffles his ambrosial plumes Against the bars of time and fate. 77 THE REVELATION An idle poet, here and there, Looks round him ; but, for all the rest, The world, unfathomably fair, Is duller than a witling's jest. Love wakes men, once a lifetime each ; They lift their heavy lids, and look ; And, lo, what one sweet page can teach, They read with joy, then shut the book. D 34 LIVING ENGLISH POETS And some give thanks, and some blaspheme, And most forget ; but, either way, That and the Child's unheeded dream Is all the light of all their day. THE TOYS My little Son, who look'd from thoughtful eyes, And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise, Having my law the seventh time disobey'd, I struck him, and dismiss'd With hard words and unkiss'd, His Mother, who was patient, being dead. Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep, I visited his bed, But found him slumbering deep, With darken'd eyelids, and their lashes yet From his late sobbing wet. And I, with moan, Kissing away his tears, left others of my own ; For, on a table drawn beside his head, He had put, within his reach, A box of counters and a red-veined stone, A piece of glass abraded by the beach COVENTRY PATMORE 35 And six or seven shells, A bottle with bluebells And two French copper coins, ranged there with careful art, To comfort his sad heart. So when that night I pray'd To God, I wept, and said : Ah, when at last we lie with tranced breath, Not vexing Thee in death, And Thou rememberest of what toys We made our joys, How weakly understood, Thy great commanded good, Then, fatherly not less Than I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay, Thou'lt leave Thy wrath, and say, " 1 will be sorry for their childishness." DEPARTURE It was not like your great and gracious ways ! Do you, that have nought other to lament, Never, my Love, repent Of how, that July afternoon, 36 LIVING ENGLISH POETS You went, With sudden, unintelligible phrase, And frighten'd eye, Upon your journey of so many days, Without a single kiss, or a good-bye ? I knew, indeed, that you were parting soon ; And so we sate, within the low sun's rays, You whispering to me, for your voice was weak, Your harrowing praise. Well, it was well, To hear you such things speak, And I could tell What made your eyes a growing gloom of love, As a warm South-wind sombres a March grove. And it was like your great and gracious ways To turn your talk on daily things, my Dear, Lifting the luminous, pathetic lash To let the laughter flash, Whilst I drew near, Because you spoke so low that I could scarcely hear. But all at once to leave me at the last, More at the wonder than the loss aghast, With huddled, unintelligible phrase, And frightened eye, And go your journey of all days With not one kiss, or a good-bye, COVENTRY PATMORE 37 And the only loveless look the look with which you pass'd ; 'Twas all unlike your great and gracious ways. THE AZALEA There, where the sun shines first Against our room, She train'd the gold Azalea, whose perfume She, Spring-like, from her breathing grace dispersed. Last night the delicate crests of saffron bloom, For that their dainty likeness watch'd and nurst, Were just at point to burst. At dawn I dream'd, O God, that she was dead, And groan'd aloud upon my wretched bed, And waked, ah, God, and did not waken her, But lay, with eyes still closed, Perfectly bless'd in the delicious sphere By which I knew so well that she was near, My heart to speechless thankfulness composed. Till 'gan to stir A dizzy somewhat in my troubled head It was the azalea's breath, and she was dead ! The warm night had the lingering buds disclosed, 38 LIVING ENGLISH POETS And I had fall'n asleep with to my breast A chance-found letter press'd In which she said, " So, till to-morrow eve, my Own, adieu ! Parting's well-paid with soon again to meet, Soon in your arms to feel so small and sweet, Sweet to myself that am so sweet to you ! " WILLIAM ALEXANDER Born 1824 A VISION OF OXFORD Methought I met a Lady yestereven ; A passionless grief, that had nor tear nor wail, Sat on her pure proud face, that gleam'd to Heaven, White as a moon-lit sail. She spake : " On this pale brow are looks of youth, Yet angels listening on the argent floor Know that these lips have been proclaiming truth, Nine hundred years and more : " And I sis knows what time-grey towers rear'd up, Gardens and groves and cloister'd halls are mine, Where quaff my sons from many a myrrhine cup Draughts of ambrosial wine. " He knows how night by night my lamps are lit, How day by day my bells are ringing clear, 40 LIVING ENGLISH POETS Mother of ancient lore, and Attic wit, And discipline severe. " It may be long ago my dizzied brain Enchanted swam beneath Rome's master spell, Till like light tinctured by the painted pane Thought in her colours fell. " Yet when the great old tongue with strong effect Woke from the sepulchre across the sea, The subtler spell of Grecian intellect Work'd mightily in me. " Time pass'd my groves were full of warlike stirs ; The student's heart was with the merry spears, Or keeping measure to the clanking spurs Of Rupert's Cavaliers. 1 All those long ages, like a holy mother I rear'd my children to a lore sublime, Picking up fairer shells than any other Along the shores of Time. " And must I speak at last of sensual sleep, The dull forgetfulness of aimless years ? O ! let me turn away my head and weep Than Rachel's bitterer tears. WILLIAM ALEXANDER 41 " Tears for the passionate hearts I might have won, Tears for the age with which I might have striven, Tears for a hundred years of work undone, Crying like blood to Heaven. " I have repented, and my glorious name Stands scutcheon'd round with blazonry more bright The wither'd rod, the emblem of my shame, Bloom'd blossoms in a night. " And I have led my children on steep mountains By fine attraction of my spirit brought Up to the dark inexplicable fountains That are the springs of thought : " Led them where on the old poetic shore The flowers that change not with the changing moon Breathe round young hearts, as breathes the sycamore About the bees in June. " And I will bear them as on eagle's wings, To leave them bow'd before the sapphire Throne, High o'er the haunts where dying pleasure sings With sweet and swanlike tone. 42 LIVING ENGLISH POETS " And I will lead the age's great expansions, Progressive circles toward thought's Sabbath rest, And point beyond them to the ' many mansions ' Where Christ is with the blest. " Am I not pledged, who gave my bridal ring To that old man, heroic, strong, and true, Whose grey-hair'd virtue was a nobler thing Than even Waterloo ? " Surely that spousal morn my chosen ones Felt their hearts moving to mysterious calls, And the old pictures of my sainted sons Look'd brighter from the walls. " He sleeps at last no wind's tempestuous breath Play'd a Dead March upon the moaning billow, What time God's Angel visited with death The old Field-Marshal's pillow. " There was no omen of a great disaster Where castled Walmer stands beside the shore ; The evening clouds, like pillar'd alabaster, Hung huge and silent o'er. WILLIAM ALEXANDER 43 " The moon in brightness walk'd the * fleecy rack,' Walk'd up and down among the starry fires, Heaven's great cathedral was not hung with black Up to its topmost spires ! " But mine own Isis kept a solemn chiming, A silver Requiescat all night long, And mine old trees, with all their leaves, were timing The sorrow of the song. " And through mine angel-haunted aisles of beauty From grand old organs gush'd a music dim, Lauds for a champion who had done his duty. I knew they were for him ! " CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI Born 1830 AMOR MUNDI " O where are you going with your love-locks flowing, On the west wind blowing along this valley track ? " " The down-hill path is easy, come with me an it please ye, We shall escape the up-hill by never turning back." So they two went together in glowing August weather, The honey-breathing heather lay to their left and right ; And dear she was to doat on, her swift feet seemed to float on The air like soft twin pigeons too sportive to alight. 4< Oh, what is that in heaven where grey cloud-flakes are seven, Where blackest clouds hang riven just at the rainy skirt ? " CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI 45 " Oh, that's a meteor sent us, a message dumb, por- tentous, An undeciphered solemn signal of help or hurt" " Oh, what is that glides quickly where velvet flowers grow thickly, Their scent comes rich and sickly ? " "A scaled and hooded worm." " Oh, what's that in the hollow, so pale I quake to follow?" " Oh, that's a thin dead body which waits the eternal term." " Turn again, O my sweetest, turn again, false and fleetest : This beaten way thou beatest, I fear is hell's own track." " Nay, too steep for hill mounting ; nay, too late for cost counting : This down-hill path is easy, but there's no turning back." 46 LIVING ENGLISH POETS UP-HILL Does the road wind up-hill all the way ? Yes, to the very end. Will the day's journey take the whole long day ? From morn to night, my friend. But is there for the night a resting-place ? A roof for when the slow dark hours begin. May not the darkness hide it from my face ? You cannot miss that inn. Shall I meet other wayfarers at night ? Those who have gone before. Then must I knock, or call when just in sight ? They will not keep you standing at the door. Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak ? Of labour you shall find the sum. Will there be beds for me and all who seek ? Yea, beds for all who come. CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI 47 SONG When I am dead, my dearest, Sing no sad songs for me ; Plant thou no roses at my head, No shady cypress tree : Be the green grass above me With showers and dewdrops wet; And if thou wilt, remember, And if thou wilt, forget. I shall not see the shadows, I shall not feel the rain ; I shall not hear the nightingale Sing on, as if in pain : And dreaming through the twilight That doth not rise nor set, Haply I may remember, And haply may forget. LIVING ENGLISH POETS BIRD RAPTURES The sunrise wakes the lark to sing, The moonrise wakes the nightingale. Come darkness, moonrise, everything That is so silent, sweet, and pale, Come, so ye wake the nightingale. Make haste to mount, thou wistful moon, Make haste to wake the nightingale : Let silence set the world in tune To hearken to that wordless tale Which warbles from the nightingale. O herald skylark, stay thy flight One moment, for a nightingale Floods us with sorrow and delight. To-morrow thou shalt hoist the sail ; Leave us to-night the nightingale. NOBLE SISTERS " Now did you mark a falcon, Sister dear, sister dear, Flying toward my window In the morning cool and clear ? CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI 49 With jingling bells about her neck, But what beneath her wing ? It may have been a ribbon, Or it may have been a ring." " I marked a falcon swooping At the break of day : And for your love, my sister-dove, I 'frayed the thief away." " Or did you spy a ruddy hound, Sister fair and tall, Went snuffing round my garden bound, Or crouched by my bower wall ? With a silken leash about his neck ; But in his mouth may be A chain of gold and silver links, Or a letter writ to me." " I heard a hound, high-born sister, Stood baying at the moon : I rose and drove him from your wall Lest you should wake too soon." " Or did you meet a pretty page Sat swinging on the gate ; Sat whistling whistling like a bird, Or may be slept too late : With eaglets broidered on his cap, And eaglets on his glove ? E 50 LIVING ENGLISH POETS If you had turned his pockets out, You had found some pledge of love." " I met him at this daybreak, Scarce the east was red : Lest the creaking gate should anger you, I packed him home to bed." " Oh patience, sister. Did you see A young man tall and strong, Swift-footed to uphold the right And to uproot the wrong, Come home across the desolate sea To woo me for his wife ? And in his heart my heart is locked, And in his life my life." " I met a nameless man, sister, Who loitered round our door : I said : Her husband loves her much. And yet she loves him more." " Fie, sister, fie ! a wicked lie, A lie, a wicked lie, I have none other love but him, Nor will have till I die. And you have turned him from our door, And stabbed him with a lie : I will go seek him thro' the world In sorrow till I die." CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI " Go seek in sorrow, sister, And find in sorrow too : If thus you shame our father's name My curse go forth with you" AT HOME When I was dead, my spirit turned To seek the much-frequented house : I passed the door, and saw my friends Feasting beneath green orange-boughs ; From hand to hand they pushed the wine, They sucked the pulp of plum and peach ; They sang, they jested,, and they laughed, For each was loved of each. I listened to their honest chat : Said one : " To-morrow we shall be Plod plod along the featureless sands, And coasting miles and miles of sea," Said one : " Before the turn of tide We will achieve the eyrie-seat." Said one : " To-morrow shall be like To-day, but much more sweet." 52 LIVING ENGLISH POETS " To-morrow," said they, strong with hope, And dwelt upon the pleasant way : " To-morrow," cried they one and all, While no one spoke of yesterday. Their life stood full at blessed noon ; I, only I, had passed away : " To-morrow and to-day," they cried : I was of yesterday. 1 shivered comfortless, but cast No chill across the tablecloth ; I all-forgotten shivered, sad To stay and yet to part how loth : I passed from the familiar room, I who from love had passed away, Like the remembrance of a guest That tarrieth but a day. DREAM LAND Where sunless rivers weep Their waves into the deep, She sleeps a charmed sleep : Awake her not. CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI 53 Led by a single star, She came from very far To seek where shadows are Her pleasant lot. She left the rosy morn, She left the fields of corn, For twilight cold and lorn And water springs. Through sleep, as through a veil, She sees the sky look pale, And hears the nightingale That sadly sings. Rest, rest, a perfect rest Shed over brow and breast ; Her face is toward the west, The purple land. She cannot see the grain Ripening on hill and plain ; She cannot feel the rain Upon her hand. Rest, rest, for evermore Upon a mossy shore ; Rest, rest at the heart's core Till time shall cease : 54 LIVING ENGLISH POETS Sleep that no pain shall wake ; Night that no morn shall break Till joy shall overtake Her perfect peace. AFTER DEATH SONNET The curtains were half drawn, the floor was swept And strewn with rushes, rosemary and may Lay thick upon the bed on which I lay, Where through the lattice ivy-shadows crept. He leaned above me, thinking that I slept And could not hear him ; but I heard him say : " Poor child, poor child : " and as he turned away Came a deep silence, and I knew he wept. He did not touch the shroud, or raise the fold That hid my face, or take my hand in his, Or ruffle the smooth pillows for my head : He did not love me living ; but once dead He pitied me ; and very sweet it is To know he still is warm though I am cold. CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI 55 FROM "TIME FLIES" I My love whose heart is tender said to me, " A moon lacks light except her sun befriend her. Let us keep tryst in heaven, dear Friend," said she, My love whose heart is tender. From such a loftiness no words could bend her ; Vet still she spoke of " us," and spoke as " we," Her hope substantial while my hope grew slender. Xow keeps she tryst beyond earth's utmost sea, \Yholly at rest tho' storms should toss and rend her, And still she keeps my heart and keeps its key, My love whose heart is tender. II \Yhere shall I find a white rose blowing ? Out in the garden where all sweets be. But out in my garden the snow was snowing And never a white rose opened for me. LIVING ENGLISH POETS Nought but snow and a wind were blowing And snowing. Where shall I find a blush rose blushing ? On the garden wall or the garden bed. But out in my garden the rain was rushing And never a blush rose raised its head. Nothing glowing, flushing or blushing ; Rain rushing. Where shall I find a red rose budding ? Out in the garden where all things grow.- But out in my garden a flood was flooding And never a red rose began to blow. Out in a flooding what should be budding ? All flooding ! Now is winter and now is sorrow, No roses but only thorns to-day : Thorns will put on roses to-morrow, Winter and sorrow scudding away. No more winter and no more sorrow To-morrow. CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI 57 If love is not worth loving, then life is not worth living, Nor aught is worth remembering but well forgot, For store is not worth storing and gifts are not worth giving, If love is not ; And idly cold is death-cold, and life-heat idly hot, And vain is any offering and vainer our receiving, And vanity of vanities is all our lot. Better than life's heaving heart is death's heart un- heaving, Better than the opening leaves are the leaves that rot, For there is nothing left worth achieving or retrieving, If love is not. IV Of all the downfalls in the world, The flutter of an Autumn leaf Grows grievous by suggesting grief: 58 LIVING ENGLISH POETS Who thought, when Spring was first unfurled, Of this ? The wide world lay empearled ; Who thought of frost that nips the world ? Sigh on, my ditty. There lurk a hundred subtle stings To prick us in our daily walk : An apple cankered on its stalk, A robin snared for all his wings, A voice that sang but never sings ; Yea, sight or sound or silence stings. Kind Lord, show mercy. S7/e EDWIN ARNOLD Born iSj2 FROM " THE LIGHT OF ASIA " But on another day the King said, " Come, Sweet son ! and see the pleasaunce of the spring, And how the fruitful earth is wooed to yield Its riches to the reaper ; how my realm Which shall be thine when the pile flames for me Feeds all its mouths and keeps the King's chest filled. Fair is the season with new leaves, bright blooms, Green grass, and cries of plough-time." So they rode Into a land of wells and gardens, where, All up and down the rich red loam, the steers Strained their strong shoulders in the creaking yoke Dragging the ploughs ; the fat soil rose and rolled In smooth long waves back from the plough ; who drove Planted both feet upon the leaping share To make the furrow deep ; among the palms The tinkle of the rippling water rang, And where it ran the glad earth 'broidered it 60 LIVING ENGLISH POETS With balsams and the spears of lemon-grass. Elsewhere were sowers who went forth to sow ; And all the jungle laughed with nesting-songs, And all the thickets rustled with small life Of lizard, bee, beetle, and creeping things Pleased at the spring-time. In the mango-sprays The sun-birds flashed ; alone at his green forge Toiled the loud coppersmith ; bee-eaters hawked, Chasing the purple butterflies ; beneath, Striped squirrels raced, the mynas perked and picked, The seven brown sisters chattered in the thorn, The pied fish-tiger hung above the pool, The egrets stalked among the buffaloes, The kites sailed circles in the golden air ; About the painted temple peacocks flew, The blue doves cooed from every well, far off The village drums beat for some marriage-feast ; All things spoke peace and plenty, and the Prince Saw and rejoiced. But, looking deep, he saw The thorns which grew upon this rose of life : How the swart peasant sweated for his wage, Toiling for leave to live ; and how he urged The great-eyed oxen through the flaming hours, Goading their velvet flanks : then marked he, too, How lizard fed on ant, and snake on him, And kite on both ; and how the fish-hawk robbed The fish-tiger of that which it had seized ; SIX EDWIN ARNOLD 61 The shrike chasing the bulbul, which did hunt The jewelled butterflies ; till everywhere Each slew a slayer and in turn was slain, Life living upon death. So the fair show Veiled one vast, savage, grim conspiracy Of mutual murder, from the worm to man, Who himself kills his fellow ; seeing which The hungry ploughman and his labouring kine, Their dewlaps blistered with the bitter yoke, The rage to live which makes all living strife The Prince Siddartha sighed. " Is this," he said, " That happy earth they brought me forth to see ? How salt with sweat the peasant's bread ! how hard The oxen's service ! in the brake how fierce The war of weak and strong ! i' th' air what plots ! No refuge e'en in water. Go aside A space, and let me muse on what ye show." TO A PAIR OF EGYPTIAN SLIPPERS Tiny slippers of gold and green, Tied with a mouldering golden cord ! What pretty feet they must have been When Csesar Augustus was Egypt's lord ! 62 LIVING ENGLISH POETS Somebody graceful and fair you were ! Not many girls could dance in these ! When did your shoemaker make you, dear, Such a nice pair of Egyptian " threes "? Where were you measured ? In SaYs, or On, Memphis, or Thebes, or Pelusium ? Fitting them neatly your brown toes upon, Lacing them deftly with finger and thumb, I seem to see you ! so long ago, Twenty-one centuries, less or more ! And here are your sandals : yet none of us know What name, or fortune, or face you bore. Your lips would have laughed, with a rosy scorn, If the merchant, or slave-girl, had mockingly said, " The feet will pass, but the shoes they have worn Two thousand years onward Time's road shall tread, And still be footgear as good as new ! " To think that calf-skin, gilded and stitched, Should Rome and the Pharaohs outlive and you Be gone, like a dream, from the world you bewitched ! Not that we mourn you ! Twere too absurd ! You have been such a very long while away ! Your dry spiced dust would not value one word Of the soft regrets that my verse could say. EDWIN ARNOLD 63 Sorrow and Pleasure, and Love and Hate, If you ever felt them, have vaporised hence To this odour so subtle and delicate Of myrrh, and cassia, and frankincense. Of course they embalmed you ! Yet not so sweet Were aloes and nard, as the youthful glow Which Amenti stole when the small dark feet Wearied of treading our world below. Look ! it was flood-time in valley of Nile, Or a very wet day in the Delta, dear ! When your slippers tripped lightly their latest mile The mud on the soles renders that fact clear. You knew Cleopatra, no doubt ! You saw Antony's galleys from Actium come. But there ! if questions could answers draw From lips so many a long age dumb, I would not teaze you with history, Nor vex your heart for the men that were ; The one point to learn that would fascinate me Is, where and what are you to-day, my dear ! You died, believing in Horus and Pasht, I sis, Osiris, and priestly lore ; And found, of course, such theories smashed By actual fact on the heavenly shore. 64 LIVING ENGLISH POETS What next did you do ? Did you transmigrate ? Have we seen you since, all modern and fresh ? Your charming soul so I calculate Mislaid its mummy, and sought new flesh. Were you she whom I met at dinner last week, With eyes and hair of the Ptolemy black, Who still of this find in the Fayoum would speak, And to Pharaohs and scarabs still carry us back ? A scent of lotus about her hung, And she had such a far-away wistful air As of somebody born when the Earth was young ; And she wore of gilt slippers a lovely pair. Perchance you were married ? These might have been Part of your trousseau the wedding shoes ; And you laid them aside with the garments green, And painted clay Gods which a bride would use ; And, may be, to-day, by Nile's bright waters Damsels of Egypt in gowns of blue Great-great-great very-great grand-daughters Owe their shapely insteps to you ! But vainly I beat at the bars of the Past, Little green slippers with golden strings ! For all you can tell is that leather will last When loves, and delightings, and beautiful things S7K EDWIN ARNOLD 65 Have vanished, forgotten No ! not quite that ! I catch some gleam of the grace you wore When you finished with Life's daily pit-a-pat, And left your shoes at Death's bedroom door. You were born in the Egypt which did not doubt ; You were never sad with our new-fashioned sorrows : You were sure, when your play-days on Earth ran out, Of play-times to come, as we of our morrows ! Oh, wise little Maid of the Delta ! I lay Your shoes in your mummy-chest back again, And wish that one game we might merrily play At " Hunt the Slipper "to see it all plain. LEWIS MORRIS Born 1833 AT LAST Let me at last be laid On that hillside I know which scans the vale, Beneath the thick yews' shade, For shelter when the rains and winds prevail. It cannot be the eye Is blinded when we die, So that we know no more at all The dawns increase, the evenings fall ; Shut up within a mouldering chest of wood Asleep, and careless of our children's good. Shall I not feel the spring, The yearly resurrection of the earth, Stir thro' each sleeping thing With the fair throbbings and alarms of birth, Calling at its own hour On folded leaf and flower, Calling the lamb, the lark, the bee, Calling the crocus and anemone, LEWIS MORRIS 67 Calling new lustre to the maiden's eye, And to the youth love and ambition high ? Shall I no more admire The winding river kiss the daisied plain ? Nor see the dawn's cold fire Steal downward from the rosy hills again ? Nor watch the frowning cloud, Sublime with mutterings loud, Burst on the vale, nor eves of gold, Nor crescent moons, nor starlights cold, Nor the red casements glimmer on the hill At Yule-tides, when the frozen leas are still ? Or should my children's tread Through Sabbath twilights, when the hymns are done, Come softly overhead, Shall no sweet quickening through my bosom run, Till all my soul exhale Into the primrose pale, And every flower which springs above Breathes a new perfume from my love ; And I shall throb, and stir, and thrill beneath With a pure passion stronger far than death ? Sweet thought ! fair, gracious dream, Too fair and fleeting for our clearer view ! 68 LIVING ENGLISH POETS How should our reason deem That those dear souls, who sleep beneath the blue In ray less caverns dim, 'Mid ocean monsters grim, Or whitening on the trackless sand, Or with strange corpses on each hand In battle-trench or city graveyard lie, Break not their prison-bonds till time shall die ? Nay, 'tis not so indeed. With the last fluttering of the failing breath The clay-cold form doth breed A viewless essence, far too fine for death ; And ere one voice can mourn, On upward pinions borne, They are hidden, they are hidden, in some thin air, Far from corruption, far from care, Where through a veil they view their former scene, Only a little touched by what has been. Touched but a little ; and yet, Conscious of every change that doth befal, By constant change beset, The creatures of this tiny whirling ball, Filled with a higher being, Dowered with a clearer seeing, Risen to a vaster scheme of life, LEWIS MORRIS 69 To wider joys and nobler strife, Viewing our little human hopes and fears As we our children's fleeting smiles and tears. Then, whether with fire they burn This dwelling-house of mine when I am fled, And in a marble urn My ashes rest by my beloved dead, Or in the sweet cold earth I pass from death to birth, And pay kind Nature's life-long debt In heart's-ease and in violet In charnel-yard or hidden ocean wave, Where'er I lie, I shall not scorn my grave. THE HOME ALTAR Why should we seek at all to gain By vigils, and in pain, By lonely life and empty heart, To set a soul apart Within a cloistered cell, For whom the precious, homely hearth would serve as well? 70 LIVING ENGLISH POETS There, with the early breaking morn, Ere quite the day is born, The lustra 1 waters flow serene, And each again grows clean ; From sleep, as from a tomb, Born to another dawn of joy, and hope, and doom. There through the sweet and toilsome day, To labour is to pray ; There love with kindly beaming eyes Prepares the sacrifice ; And voice and innocent smile Of childhood do our cheerful liturgies beguile. There, at his chaste and frugal feast, Love sitteth as a Priest ; And with mild eyes and mien sedate, His deacons stand and wait ; And round the holy table Paten and chalice range in order serviceable. And when ere night, the vespers said, Low lies each weary head, What giveth He who gives them sleep, But a brief death less deep ? Or what the fair dreams given But ours who, daily dying, dream a happier heaven ? LEWIS MORRIS. Then not within a cloistered wall Will we expend our days ; But dawns that break and eves that fall Shall bring their dues of praise. This best befits a Ruler always near, This duteous worship mild, and reasonable fear. FROM "GWEN" EPILOGUE The silent Forces of the World, Time, Change, and Fate, deride us still ; Nor ever from the hidden summit, furled, Where sits the Eternal Will, The clouds of Pain and Error rise Before our straining eyes. It is to-day as 'twas before, From the far days when Man began to speak, Ere Moses preached or Homer sung, Ere Buddha's musing thought or Plato's silvery tongue. We pace our destined path with failing footsteps weak ; A little more we see, a little more 72 LIVING ENGLISH POETS Of that great orb which shineth day and night Through the high heaven, now hidden, now too bright, The Sun to which the earth on which we are, Life's labouring world, is as the feeblest star. Nor this firm globe we know Which lies beneath our feet ; Nor by what grades we have grown and yet shall grow, Through chains of miracle, more and more complete ; By what decrees the watery earth Compacted grew the womb of countless birth ; Nor, when the failing breath Is taken by the frozen lips of Death, Whither the Spoiler, fleeing with his prey, The fluttering, wandering Wonder bears away. The powers of Pain and Wrong, Immeasurably strong, Assail our souls, and chill with common doubt Clear brain and heart devout : War, Pestilence, and Famine, as of old, The lust of the flesh, the baser lust of gold, Vex us and harm us still ; Fire comes, and crash and wreck, and lives are shed As if the Eternal Will itself were dead ; LEWIS MORRIS 73 And sometimes Wrong and Right, the thing we fear, The thing we cherish, draw confusedly near ; We know not which to choose, we cannot separate Our longing and our hate. But Love the Conqueror, Love, Immortal Love, Through the high heaven doth move, Spurning the brute earth with his purple wings, And from the great Sun brings Some radiant beam to light the House of Life, Sweetens our grosser thought, and makes us pure ; And to a Higher Being doth mature Our lower lives, and calms the ignoble strife, And raises the dead life with his sweet breath, And from the arms of Death Soars with it to the eternal shore, Where sight or thought of evil comes no more. Love sitteth now above, Enthroned in glory, And yet hath deigned to move Through life's sad story. Fair Name, we are only thine ! Thou only art divine ! Be with us to the end, for there is none But thou to bind together God and Man in one. LIVING ENGLISH POETS THE BEGINNINGS OF FAITH All travail of high thought, All secrets vainly sought, All struggles for right, heroic, perpetually fought. Faint gleams of purer fire, Conquests of gross desire, Whereby the fettered soul ascends continually higher. Sweet cares for love or friend Which ever heavenward tend, Too deep and true and tender to have on earth their end. Vile hearts malign and fell, Lives which no tongue may tell, So dark and dread and shameful that they breathe a present hell. White mountain, deep-set lake, Sea wastes which surge and break, Fierce storms which, roaring from the north, the midnight forests shake. LEWIS MORRIS 75 Fair morns of summer days, Rich harvest eves that raise The soul and heart o'erburdened to an ecstasy of praise. Low whispers, vague and strange, Which through our being range, Breathing perpetual presage of some mighty coming change. These in the soul do breed Thoughts which, at last, shall lead To some clear, firm assurance of a satisfying creed. THE ODE OF DECLINE With forces well-nigh spent, Uneasy or in pain, Or brought to childish weakness once again, With bodies shrunk and bent, We come, if Fate so will, to cold decrepit age. The book of Life lies open at its latest page. Only four score of summers, and four score Of winters, nothing more, 76 LIVING ENGLISH POETS And then 'tis done. We have spent our fruitful days beneath the sun ; We come to a cold season and a bare, Where little is sweet or fair. We, who a few brief years ago, Would passionately go Across the fields of Life to meet the morn, We are content, content, and not forlorn, To lie upon our beds, and watch the Day Which kissed the Eastern peaks, grow gradually grey. Great Heaven, that Thou hast made our lives so brief And swiftly spent ! We toil our little day and are content, Though Time, the thief, Stands at our side, and smiles his mystic smile. We joy a little, we grieve a little while ; We gain some little glimpse of Thy great laws, Rolling in thunder through the voids of space ; We gain to look a moment on Thy face, Eternal Source and Cause ! And then, the night descending as a cloud, We walk with aspect bowed, And turn to earth and see our Life grow dark. Was it for this the fiery spark Of Thy Eternal Self, sown on the vast And infinite abysses of the Past, LEWIS MORRIS 77 Revealed itself and made Creation rise Before Thy Eternal Mind : This little span of life, with purblind eyes That grow completely blind ; This little force of brain, Holding dim thoughts sublime, Too weak to withstand the treacheries of Time ; This body bent and bowed in twain, Soon racked by growing pain, Which briefer far than is the life of the tree, Springs as a flower and fades, and then must rot And perish and be not, Passing from mystery to mystery ? It is a pain To move through the old fields, even though they lie Before our eyes, we know that never again, Where once our daily fejst were used to pass Amid the crested grass, We any more shall wander till we die ; Nor to the old grey church, with the tall spire, Whose vane the sunsets fire, Where once a little child, by kind hands led, Would spell the scant memorials of the dead, Never again, or once alone, When pain and Time are done. 78 LIVING ENGLISH POETS The soaring thoughts of youth Are dead and cold, the victories of Thought Are no more prized or sought By eyes which draw too near the face of Truth. Whatever fruit or gain Fate held in store, To tempt the growing soul or brain, Allures no more. It is as the late Autumn, when the fields Are bare of flower or fruit ; Nor charm nor profit the swept surface yields, Sullen and mute ; So that a doubting mind might come to hold The very soul and life were dead and cold. But who can peer Into another soul, or tell at all What hidden energies befall The aged lingering here ? When all the weary brain Seems dull, the immeasurable fields of life Lie open to the memory, and again They know the youthful joys, the hurry and the strife, And feel, but gentlier now, the ancient pain. In the uneasy vigils of the night, Before the tardy light ; Or, lonely days, when no young lives are by, LEWIS MORRIS 79 There come such long processions of the dead, The buried lives and hopes of far-off years, Spent joys and dried-up tears, That round them stands a blessed company, Holding high converse, though no word be said, Till only what is past and gone doth seem To live, and all the Present is a dream. So may the wintry earth, Holding her precious seeds within the ground, Pause for the coming birth, When like a clarion-note the Spring shall sound ; So may the roots which, buried deep And safe within her sleep, Whisper as 'twere, within, tales of the sun, Whisper of leaf and flower, of bee and bird, Till by a sudden glory stirred, A mystic influence bids them rise, Bursting the narrow sheath And cerement of death, And bloom as lilies again beneath the recovered skies. 8o LIVING ENGLISH POETS ON A THRUSH SINGING IN AUTUMN Sweet singer of the Spring, when the new world Was filled with song and bloom, and the fresh year Tripped, like a lamb playful and void of fear, Through daisied grass and young leaves scarce un- furled, Where is thy liquid voice That all day would rejoice ? Where now thy clear and homely call, Which from gray dawn to evening's chilling fall Would echo from thin copse and tasselled brake, For homely duty tuned and love's dear sake ? The spring-tide passed, high summer soon should come. The woods grew thick, the meads a deeper hue ; The pipy summer growths swelled, lush and tall ; The sharp scythes swept at daybreak through the dew. Thou didst not heed at all, Thy prodigal voice grew dumb ; No more with song mightst thou beguile, She sitting on her speckled eggs the while, Thy mate's long vigil as the slow days went, Solacing her with lays of measureless content LEWIS MORRIS 81 Nay, nay, thy voice was Duty's, nor would dare Sing were Love fled, though still the world were fair ; The summer waxed and waned, the nights grew cold, The sheep were thick within the wattled fold, The woods began to moan, Dumb wert thou and alone ; Yet now, when leaves are sere, thy ancient note Comes low and halting from thy doubtful throat. Oh, lonely loveless voice, what dost thou here In the deep silence of the fading year ? Thus do I read the answer of thy song : " I sang when winds blew chilly all day long ; I sang because hope came and joy was near, I sang a little while, I made good cheer ; In summer's cloudless day My music died away ; But now the hope and glory of the year Are dead and gone, a little while I sing Songs of regret for days no longer here, And touched with presage of the far-off Spring." Is this the meaning of thy note, fair bird ? Or do we read into thy simple brain Echoes of thoughts which human hearts have stirred, High-soaring joy and melancholy pain ? G 82 LIVING ENGLISH POETS Nay, nay, that lingering note Belated from thy throat " Regret," is what it sings, " regret, regret ! The dear days pass, but are not wholly gone. In praise of those I let my song go on ; Tis sweeter to remember than forget." RICHARD WATSON DIXON Bom 1833 SONG The feathers of the willow Are half of them grown yellow Above the swelling stream ; And ragged are the bushes, And rusty now the rushes, And wild the clouded gleam. The thistle now is older, His stalks begin to moulder, His head is white as snow ; The branches all are barer, The linnet's song is rarer, The robin pipeth now. 84 LIVING ENGLISH POETS FROM CHRIST S COMPANY" THE HOLY MOTHER AT THE CROSS Of Mary's pains may now learn whoso will, When she stood underneath the groaning tree Round which the true Vine clung : three hours the mill Of hours rolled round ; she saw in visions three The shadows walking underneath the sun, And these seemed all so very faint to be, That she could scarcely tell how each begun, And went its way, minuting each degree That it existed on the dial stone : For drop by drop of wine unfalteringly, Not stroke by stroke in blood, the three hours gone She seemed to see. Three hours she stood beneath the cross ; it seemed To be a wondrous dial stone, for while Upon the two long arms the sunbeams teemed, So was the head-piece like a centre stile ; Like to the dial where the judges sat Upon the grades, and the king crowned the pile, In Zion town, that most miraculous plat On which the shadow backward did defile ; And now towards the third hour the sun enorme Dressed up all shadow to a bickering smile RICHARD WATSON DIXON 85 I' the heat, and in its midst the form of form Lay like an isle. Because that time so heavily beat and slow That fancy in each beat was come and gone ; Because that light went singing to and fro, A blissful song in every beam that shone ; Because that on the flesh a little tongue Instantly played, and spake in lurid tone ; Because that saintly shapes with harp and gong Told the three hours, whose telling made them one ; Half hid, involved in alternating beams, Half mute, they held the plectrum to the zone, Therefore, as God her senses shield, it seems A dial stone. Three hours she stood beside the cross ; it seemed A splendid flower ; for red dews on the edge Stood dropping ; petals doubly four she deemed Shot out like steel knives from the central wedge, Which quadranted their perfect circle so As if four anthers should a vast flower hedge Into four parts, and in its bosom, lo, The form lay, as the seed-heart holding pledge Of future flowers ; yea, in the midst was borne The head low drooped upon the swollen ledge Of the torn breast ; there was the ring of thorn This flower was fledge. 86 LIVING ENGLISH POETS Because her woe stood all about her now, No longer like a stream as ran the hour ; Because her cleft heart parted into two, No more a mill-wheel spinning to time's power ; Because all motion seemed to be suspense ; Because one ray did other rays devour ; Because the sum of things rose o'er her sense, She standing 'neath its dome as in a bower ; Because from one thing all things seemed to spume, As from one mouth the fountain's hollow shower ; Therefore it seemed His and her own heart's bloom, A splendid flower. Now it was finished ; shrivelled were the leaves Of that pain-flower, and wasted all its bloom, She felt what she had felt then ; as receives, When heaven is capable, the cloudy stroom The edge of the white garment of the moon ; So felt she that she had received that doom ; And as an outer circle spins in tune, Born of the inner on the sky's wide room, Thinner and wider, that doom's memories, Broken and thin and wild, began to come As soon as this : St. John unwrapt his eyes, And led her home. WILLIAM MORRIS Born 1834 THE CHAPEL IN LYONESS SIR OZANA LE CURE HARDY. SIR GALAHAD. SIR BORS DE GANYS SIR OZANA All day long and every day, From Christmas-Eve to Whit-Sunday, Within that Chapel-aisle I lay, And no man came a-near. Naked to the waist was I, And deep within my breast did lie, Though no man any blood could spy, The truncheon of a spear. No meat did ever pass my lips. Those days (Alas ! the sunlight slips From off the gilded parclose, dips, And night comes on apace.) 88 LIVING ENGLISH POETS My arms lay back behind my head ; Over my raised-up knees was spread A samite cloth of white and red ; A rose lay on my face. Many a time I tried to shout ; But as in dream of battle-rout, My frozen speech would not well out ; I could not even weep. With inward sigh I see the sun Fade off the pillars one by one, My heart faints when the day is done, Because I cannot sleep. Sometimes strange thoughts pass through my head ; Not like a tomb is this my bed, Yet oft I think that I am dead ; That round my tomb is writ, " Ozana of the hardy heart, Knight of the Table Round, Pray for his soul, lords, of your part ; A true knight he was found." Ah ! me, I cannot fathom it He sleeps. WILLIAM MORRIS SIR GALAHAD All day long and every day, Till his madness pass'd away, I watch'd Ozana as he lay Within the gilded screen. All my singing moved him not ; As I sung my heart grew hot, With the thought of Launcelot Far away, I ween. So I went a little space From out the chapel, bathed my face In the stream that runs apace By the churchyard wall. There I pluck'd a faint wild rose, Hard by where the linden grows, Sighing over silver rows Of the lilies tall. I laid the flower across his mouth ; The sparkling drops seem'd good for drouth ; He smiled, turn'd round towards the south, Held up a golden tress. 90 LIVING ENGLISH POETS The light smote on it from the west : He drew the covering from his breast, Against his heart that hair he prest ; Death him soon will bless. SIR BORS I enter'd by the western door ; I saw a knight's helm lying there : I raised my eyes from off the floor, And caught the gleaming of his hair. I stept full softly up to him ; I laid my chin upon his head ; I felt him smile ; my eyes did swim, I was so glad he was not dead. I heard Ozana murmur low, " There comes no sleep nor any love." But Galahad stoop'd and kiss'd his brow : He shiver'd ; I saw his pale lips move. SIR OZANA There comes no sleep nor any love ; Ah me ! I shiver with delight. WILLIAM MORRIS 91 I am so weak I cannot move ; God move me to thee, dear, to-night ! Christ help ! I have but little wit : My life went wrong ; I see it writ, " Ozana of the hardy heart, Knight of the Table Round, Pray for his soul, lords, on your part, A good knight he was found." Now I begin to fathom it He dies. SIR BORS Galahad sits dreamily ; What strange things may his eyes see, Great blue eyes fix'd full on me ? On his soul, Lord, have mercy. SIR GALAHAD Ozana, shall I pray for thee ? Her cheek is laid to thine ; No long time hence, also I see Thy wasted ringers twine Within the tresses of her hair That shineth gloriously, Thinly outspread in the clear air Against the jasper sea. 92 LIVING ENGLISH POETS THE HAYSTACK IN THE FLOODS Had she come all the way for this, To part at last without a kiss ? Yea, had she borne the dirt and rain That her own eyes might see him slain Beside the haystack in the floods ? Along the dripping leafless woods, The stirrup touching either shoe, She rode astride as troopers do ; With kirtle kilted to her knee, To which the mud splash'd wretchedly ; And the wet dripp'd from every tree Upon her head and heavy hair, And on her eyelids broad and fair ; The tears and rain ran down her face. By fits and starts they rode apace, And very often was his place Far off from her ; he had to ride Ahead, to see what might betide When the roads cross'd ; and sometimes, when There rose a murmuring from his men, Had to turn back with promises ; Ah me ! she had but little ease ; WILLIAM MORRIS 93 And often for pure doubt and dread She sobb'd, made giddy in the head By the swift riding ; while, for cold, Her slender fingers scarce could hold The wet reins ; yea, and scarcely, too, She felt the foot within her shoe Against the stirrup ; all for this, To part at last without a kiss Beside the haystack in the floods. For when they near'd that old soak'd hay, They saw across the only way That Judas, Godmar, and the three Red running lions dismally Grinn'd from his pennon, under which, In one straight line along the ditch, They counted thirty heads. So then, While Robert turn'd round to his men, She saw at once the wretched end, And, stooping down, tried hard to rend Her coif the wrong way from her head, And hid her eyes ; while Robert said : " Nay, love, 'tis scarcely two to one, At Poictiers where we made them run So fast why, sweet my love, good cheer, 94 LIVING ENGLISH POETS The Gascon frontier is so near, Nought after this." But, " O," she said, " My God ! My God ! I have to tread The long way back without you ; then The court at Paris ; those six men ; The gratings of the Chatelet ; The swift Seine on some rainy day Like this, and people standing by, And laughing, while my weak hands try To recollect how strong men swim. All this, or else a life with him, For which I should be damned at last, Would God that this next hour were past ! " He answer'd not, but cried his cry, " St. George for Marny ! " cheerily ; And laid his hand upon her rein. Alas ! no man of all his train Gave back that cheery cry again ; And, while for rage his thumb beat fast Upon his sword-hilts, some one cast About his neck a kerchief long, And bound him. Then they went along WILLIAM MORRIS 95 To Godmar ; who said : " Now, Jehane, Your lover's life is on the wane So fast, that, if this very hour You yield not as my paramour, He will not see the rain leave off Nay, keep your tongue from gibe and scoff, Sir Robert, or I slay you now." She laid her hand upon her brow, Then gazed upon the palm, as though She thought her forehead bled, and " No." . She said, and turn'd her head away, As there were nothing else to say, And everything were settled : red Grew God mar's face from chin to head : " Jehane, on yonder hill there stands My castle, guarding well my lands : What hinders me from taking you, And doing that I list to do To your fair wilful body, while Your knight lies dead ? " A wicked smile Wrinkled her face, her lips grew thin, A long way out she thrust her chin : " You know that I should strangle you While you were sleeping ; or bite through LIVING ENGLISH POETS Your throat, by God's help ah ! " she said, " Lord Jesus, pity your poor maid ! For in such wise they hem me in, I cannot choose but sin and sin, Whatever happens : yet I think They could not make me eat or drink, And so should I just reach my rest." " Nay, if you do not my behest, O Jehane ! though I love you well," Said Godmar, "would I fail to tell All that I know." " Foul lies," she said. " Eh ? lies my Jehane ? By God's head, At Paris folks would deem them true ! Do you know, Jehane, they cry for you, ' Jehane the brown ! Jehane the brown ! Give us Jehane to burn or drown ! ' Eh gag me, Robert ! sweet my friend, This were indeed a piteous end For those long fingers, and long feet, And long neck, and smooth shoulders sweet ; An end that few men would forget That saw it So, an hour yet : Consider, Jehane, which to take Of life or death!" So, scarce awake, Dismounting, did she leave that place, WILLIAM MORRIS 97 And totter some yards : with her face Turn'd upward to the sky she lay, Her head on a wet heap of hay, And fell asleep ; and while she slept, And did not dream, the minutes crept Round to the twelve again ; but she, Being waked at last, sigh'd quietly, And strangely childlike came, and said : " I will not" Straightway God mar's head, As though it hung on strong wires, turn'd Most sharply round, and his face burn'd. For Robert both his eyes were dry, He could not weep, but gloomily He seem'd to watch the rain ; yea, too, His lips were firm ; he tried once more To touch her lips ; she reach'd out, sore And vain desire so tortured them, The poor grey lips, and now the hem Of his sleeve brush'd them. With a start Up Godmar rose, thrust them apart ; From Robert's throat he loosed the bands Of silk and mail ; with empty hands Held out, she stood and gazed, and saw, The long bright blade without a flaw H LIVING ENGLISH POETS. Glide out from Godmar's sheath, his hand In Robert's hair ; she saw him bend Uick Robert's head ; she saw him send The thin steel down ; the blow told well, Right backward the knight Robert foil, And moan'd as dogs do, being half dead, Unwitting, as I deem : so then Godmar turn'd grinning to his men, \Yho ran, some five or six, and boat His head to pieces at their feet. Then Godmar turn'd again and said : " So, Jehane, the first fitte is read ! Take note, my lady, that your way Lies backward to the Chatelet ! " She shook her head and gazed awhile At her cold hands with a rueful smile, As though this thing had made her mad. This was the parting that they had Beside the haystack in the floods. WILLIAM MORRIS /*OMTffJS LffB AND DEATH OF JASON' Now Neptune, joyful of the sacrifice Beside the sea, and all tV f price That Jason gave him, sent them wind at \\ And swiftly Argo climbed each changing hill, ran through rippling valleys of the sea ; Nor toiled the heroes unmelodior. For by the mast sat great CEager's son, ,1 through the harp-strings let his fingers run Nigh soundless, and with closed lips for a while ; But soon across his face there came a smile, And his glad voice brake into such a song That swift Her sped the eager ship away. * O bitter sea, tumultuous sea, 1 many an ill is wrought by thee 1 to the wasters of the land Thou holdest out thy wrinkled hand ; And when they leave the conquered town, Whose black smoke makes thy surges brown, Driven betwixt thee and the sun, As the lon