(P 

 
 MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITEU 
 
 LONDON BOMBAY CALCUTTA 
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 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 NEW YORK BOSTON CHICAGO 
 ATLANTA SAN FRANCISCO 
 
 THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD. 
 
 TORONTO 

 
 WESSEX POEMS AND 
 
 OTHER VERSES 
 
 POEMS OF THE PAST 
 
 AND THE PRESENT 
 
 BY 
 
 !v,-,^.H^.v. 
 
 MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED 
 ST. MARTIN'S STREET, LONDON 
 
 i 90 8
 
 QUA 8M3CH X3883W 
 
 stav 
 
 3HT fiO 8M3O4 
 
 3HT CIMA 
 
 Wessex Poems" : First Edition, Crown &vo, 1898. ^VifZf Edition 1903. 
 .F/V.^ /'oc/t^ Edition June 1907. Reprinted January 1908 
 
 " Poems, Past and Present " : First Edition 1901 (dated 1902) 
 
 Second Edition 1903. ^iVrf /'oc^vif Edition June 1907 
 
 Reprinted January 1908 
 
 ; 
 
 M .T3
 
 - 
 v aapdnow&J jrii 
 
 PREFACE TO WESSEX POEMS 
 
 OF the miscellaneous collection of verse 
 that follows, only four pieces have 
 been published, though many were written 
 long ago, and others partly written. In some 
 few cases the verses were turned into prose 
 and printed as such, it having been unantici- 
 pated at that time that they might see the 
 light. 
 
 Whenever an ancient and legitimate word 
 of the district, for which there was no equi- 
 valent in received English, suggested itself as 
 the most natural, nearest, and often only 
 expression of a thought, it has been made 
 use of, on what seemed good grounds. 
 
 The pieces are in a large degree dramatic v 
 or personative in conception ; and this even 
 where they are not obviously so.
 
 VI PREFACE 
 
 The dates attached to some of the poems 
 do not apply to the rough sketches given in 
 illustration, which have been recently made, 
 and, as may be surmised, are inserted for. 
 personal and local reasons rather than for 
 
 their intrinsic qualities. 
 
 T. H. 
 
 September 1898. 
 
 -}f\1 T /^~"\. 
 
 PREFACE TO POEMS OF THE 
 PAST AND THE PRESENT 
 
 HEREWITH I tender my thanks to the 
 editors and proprietors of the Times, 
 the Morning Post, the Daily Chronicle, the 
 Westminster Gazette, Literature, the GrapJtic, 
 Cornhill, Sphere, and other papers, for per- 
 mission to reprint from their pages such of 
 the following pieces of verse as have already 
 been published. 
 
 Of the subject-matter of this volume which 
 is in other than narrative form, much is 
 dramatic or impersonative even where not 
 explicitly so. Moreover, that portion which
 
 PREFACE Vll 
 
 may be regarded as individual comprises a 
 series of feelings and fancies written down 
 in widely differing moods and circumstances, 
 and at various dates. It will probably be 
 found, therefore, to possess little cohesion of 
 thought or harmony of colouring. I do not 
 greatly regret this. Unadjusted impressions 
 have their value, and the road to a true 
 philosophy of life seems to lie in humbly 
 recording diverse readings of its phenomena 
 as they are forced upon us by chance and 
 
 change. 
 
 T. H. 
 
 August 1901.
 
 

 
 CONTENTS 
 
 WESSEX POEMS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE TEMPORARY THE ALL . rATo/:rcI I 
 
 AMABEL ''''.'"' : ; ^'Hosn-S'j ..- _ -sfTnV'-vv! 4 
 
 HAP ; ';i r:: '_; ^ 1;M - M I5vT2a r wTWoiiiraa 7 
 
 " IN VISION I ROAMED " 9 
 
 C. C . tjr 
 
 AT A BRIDAL '.'' ~ '-.' ' -fiKoyai aiivi rl 
 
 POSTPONEMENT . r(1 '. ' . . : A ^ j (3 - rj ( 13 
 
 A CONFESSION TO A FRIEND IN TROUBLE . 15 
 
 NEUTRAL TONES . < v g w ., r i? UHTV 3 - - 1 /. . 3J< 1 7 
 
 SHE ..':. oW ! 9 
 
 HER INITIALS ^, v , v , . . V^L-I 2I 
 
 HER DILEMMA , .,- viii yt'-) -u/ tin^o-y 2 3 
 
 REVULSION . . p . , -,, v , . .yiM ( <i T . ,,.> -twa- 2 7 
 
 SHE, TO HIM, I. . .. .. - Kw&wttu v*n\ 3 1 
 
 II. - 33 
 
 HI- 35 
 
 IV. . 37 
 
 DITTY ., . ..,....:,,*..., .-rv/- ^( 3 linsn v-^n r rt'^ 39 
 
 THE SERGEANT'S SONG . . y ^ % . ^^, 43 
 
 VALENCIENNES - r o * , . . r)I .y/'i*'- 45 
 
 SAN SEBASTIAN . .,,,, . i ,. .. ,, c , 51 
 
 THE STRANGER'S SONG ^ x ,' -. m*., ^.A^ 59
 
 X CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE BURGHERS . . . . . . 61 
 
 LEIPZIG ....... 67 
 
 THE PEASANT'S CONFESSION. ... 79 
 
 THE ALARM ..... .91 
 
 HER DEATH AND AFTER . .103 
 
 THE DANCE AT THE PHCF.NIX . . . 115 
 
 THE CASTERBRIDGE CAPTAINS . . . 125 
 
 A SIGN-SEEKER . . . . . .129 
 
 MY CICELY . . . . . . 133 
 
 HER IMMORTALITY . J A 3 . . ! 143 
 THE IVY-WIFE . . ... 147 
 
 A MEETING WITH DESPAIR . . . .149 
 
 UNKNOWING. . . . . . - 153 
 
 FRIENDS BEYOND . 1 . 1 5 5 
 
 To OUTER NATURE . -. . . -159 
 
 THOUGHTS OF PHENA . . . 163 
 
 MIDDLE-AGE ENTHUSIASMS '. .167 
 
 IN A WOOD . . '. v 169 
 
 To A LADY . . . . '. ' 173 
 
 To AN ORPHAN CHILD '. . .175 
 
 NATURE'S QUESTIONING '. '. .177 
 
 THE IMPERCIPIENT . 181 
 
 AT AN INN ... 187 
 
 THE SLOW NATURE . '. ,. 191 
 
 IN A EWELEAZE NEAR WEATHERBURY . . 195 
 
 THE FIRE AT TRANTER SWEATLEY'S . . 201 
 
 HEIRESS AND ARCHITECT . 211 
 
 THE Two MEN . 217 
 
 LINES . . . 223 
 
 "I LOOK INTO MY GLASS" . .227
 
 CONTENTS XI 
 
 POEMS OF THE PAST AND THE PRESENT 
 
 PAGE 
 
 V.R. 1819-1901 . . . . . 231 
 
 WAR POEMS 
 
 EMBARCATION . ". " . ' 235 
 
 _ 33X32 OMI.X3AJ 
 
 DEPARTURE ...... 237 
 
 oT 
 THE COLONEL'S SOLILOQUY . . ' . 239 
 
 ^ _, uCI 
 
 THE GOING OF THE BATTERY . . 242 
 
 ^ 
 
 AT THE WAR OFFICE . 245 
 
 A CHRISTMAS GHOST-STORY . . . 247 
 THE DEAD DRUMMER . . . . . 249 
 
 . , _ 83H3VIHJJ0a 
 
 A WIFE IN LONDON . ,. . .251 
 
 ^ 
 
 THE SOULS OF THE SLAIN . 253 
 
 SONG OF THE SOLDIERS' WIVES . ' . 260 
 THE SICK GOD . . ' * . . ' . 263 
 
 3HT Yfl 
 
 POEMS OF PILGRIMAGE- 
 
 GENOA AND THE MEDITERRANEAN AMOT 269 
 
 SHELLEY'S SKYLARK , MCWI'-I .-8rfivxr 2 7 2 
 
 IN THE OLD THEATRE, FIESOLE . ^ u( 274 
 
 ROME : ON THE PALATINE . r ai>ixiJ oT 2 ?6 
 BUILDING A NEW STREET IN THE 
 
 ANCIENT QUARTER . . 278 
 
 THE VATICAN : SALA DELLE MUSE 280 
 
 AT THE PYRAMID OF CESTIUS . 283 
 
 LAUSANNE : IN GIBBON'S OLD GARDEN . 286 
 
 ZERMATT : To THE MATTERHORN . m;fl 288 
 
 THE BRIDGE OF LODI . i TA^HS vroH 1 290 
 
 ON AN INVITATION TO THE UNITED 
 
 STATES .&$Tt-t* IWA .jiixajooJ 295
 
 Xll CONTENTS 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE MOTHER MOURNS .... 299 
 
 "I SAID TO LOVE" .... 305 
 
 A COMMONPLACE DAY . . , 307 
 
 AT A LUNAR ECLIPSE . . . . 310 
 
 THE LACKING SENSE . 312 
 
 . ; J 
 
 To LIFE . 316 
 
 DOOM AND SHE . . . .318 
 
 THE PROBLEM . . . 1 .321 
 
 THE SUBALTERNS . -323 
 
 ~ 
 
 THE SLEEP- WORKER 325 
 
 THE BULLFINCHES y . 327 
 
 GOD-FORGOTTEN . . . . ~ 329 
 
 ' 
 
 THE BEDRIDDEN PEASANT TO AN UN- 
 KNOWING GOD . ,_ . 333 
 : 
 BY THE EARTH'S CORPSE . . 336 
 
 MUTE OPINION ... . 339 
 
 To AN UNBORN PAUPER CHILD . . 341 
 
 To FLOWERS FROM ITALY IN WINTER . 344 
 
 ON A FINE MORNING . T.a* . . 345 
 
 To LIZBIE BROWNE iA . l{ aH .T <Q : . 348 
 
 SONG OF HOPE . t A- sitfJi . 353 
 
 THE WELL-BELOVED . 3"<A .. . 354 
 
 HER REPROACH . . '^Y 3 . , 358 
 
 THE INCONSISTENT . . *A- . 360 
 
 A BROKEN APPOINTMENT . . . 362 
 
 "BETWEEN US NOW" .... 364 
 
 "HOW GREAT MY GRIEF" 1O.3. . . 366 
 
 " I NEED NOT GO " . . . . 367 
 
 THE COQUETTE, AND AFTER . . 369
 
 CONTENTS Xlll 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A SPOT . ...... 371 
 
 LONG PLIGHTED . cuO nA : - 373 
 THE WIDOW . .. GVSAH -375 
 AT A HASTY WEDDING . . .--ua^ a'i 378 
 THE DREAM-FOLLOWER. gww ir*ofl i at 379 
 His IMMORTALITY. ,11 . . rr 380 
 
 THE TO-BE-FORGOTTEN . , ( . . . ( 382 
 
 WIVES IN THE SERE uiu-H-413 JUHO arT 3 8 5 
 THE SUPERSEDED . [ /, xvl TapJ aT 387 
 AN AUGUST MIDNIGHT . TWSHAJ r'aaa'J 389 
 THE CAGED THRUSH FREED AND HOME 
 
 AGAIN ...... 391 
 
 BIRDS AT WINTER NIGHTFALL [ ?^ OI ? / 393 
 THE PUZZLED GAME-BIRDS . tiq/B 394 
 
 WINTER IN DURNOVER FIELD :2u.iJOTA,j 39 - 
 THE LAST CHRYSANTHEMUM . [O ^ *& T *- 397 
 THE DARKLING THRUSH * , MCa ^. : *>Mo3 ^99 
 THE COMET AT YALBURY OR YELL'HAM 402 
 MAD JUDY- ^9 ^ qA J M ' ?^l IM ?^ JAMIMAO 403 
 A WASTED ILLNESS . ^ ^ (1 ,405 
 
 A MAN . 408 
 
 ,"aaAH8 HTIV/ aaviJ CIVAH I" 
 THE DAME OF ATHELHALL . . .,412 
 
 THE SEASONS OF HER YEAR. . 416 
 
 iftTZX'JA' 
 THE MILKMAID . . . .418 
 
 THE LEVELLED CHURCHYARD . . 420 
 
 THE RUINED MAID .... 422 
 THE RESPECTABLE BURGHER ON "THE 
 
 HIGHER CRITICISM" . . . 425 
 
 ARCHITECTURAL MASKS .... 428 
 
 THE TENANT-FOR-LIFE . 430
 
 XIV CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE KING'S EXPERIMENT . . . 432 
 
 THE TREE: AN OLD MAN'S STORY . 435 
 
 HER LATE HUSBAND .... 439 
 
 THE SELF-UNSEEING . . .441 
 
 DE PROFUNDIS I. . . 443 
 
 II. . 445 
 
 III. 448 
 
 THE CHURCH-BUILDER . . . .451 
 
 THE LOST PYX: A MEDIEVAL LEGEND 457 
 
 TESS'S LAMENT 462 
 
 THE SUPPLANTER : A TALE . .465 
 
 IMITATIONS, ETC. 
 
 SAPPHIC FRAGMENT . . . -473 
 
 CATULLUS: xxxi^ . . . ri ,. . 474 
 
 AFTER SCHILLER, , riH . . . 476 
 
 SONG: FROM HEINE .^ HT OKl , . 477 
 
 FROM VICTOR HUGO . IMO Q . 479 
 
 CARDINAL BEMBO'S EPITAPH ON RAPHAEL 480 
 
 RETROSPECT 
 
 "I HAVE LIVED WITH SHADES" . k *. ^ 483 
 
 MEMORY AND I . . _.,- 486 
 
 . ' 489
 
 WESSEX POEMS

 
 
 
 //'.'- 
 
 THE TEMPORARY THE ALL 
 /m dvl .norlT" 
 
 CHANGE and chancefulness in my 
 flowering youthtime, 
 
 Set me sun by sun near to one unchosen ; 
 Wrought us fellow-like, and despite divergence, 
 
 Friends interlinked us. 
 
 A
 
 2 THE TEMPORARY THE ALL 
 
 "Cherish him can I while the true one forth- 
 come 
 
 Come the rich fulfiller of my prevision ; 
 Life is roomy yet, and the odds unbounded." 
 So self-communed I. 
 
 Thwart my wistful way did a damsel saunter, 
 Fair, the while unformed to be all-eclipsing ; 
 " Maiden meet," held I, " till arise my forefelt 
 Wonder of women." 
 
 Long a visioned hermitage deep desiring, 
 Tenements uncouth I was fain to house in ; 
 " Let such lodging be for a breath-while," 
 thought I, 
 
 " Soon a more seemly. 
 
 i YHAHOIMHT HUT 
 "Then, high handiwork will I make my life- 
 deed, 
 Truth and Light outshow ; but the ripe time 
 
 pending, 
 
 Intermissive aim at the thing ' sufficeth/fyuoi 
 Thus I . . But lo, me !
 
 THE TEMPORARY THE ALL 3 
 
 Mistress, friend, place, aims to be bettered 
 straightway, 
 
 Bettered not has Fate or my hand's achieving ; 
 
 Sole the showance those of my onward earth- 
 track- 
 
 Never transcended ! 
 
 IHHAM 
 
 iut hb 
 
 ,gy/3v 
 
 
 
 1O
 
 I 
 
 
 
 AMABEL 
 
 I MARKED her ruined hues, 
 Her custom-straitened views, 
 And asked, " Can there indwell 
 My Amabel?" 
 
 I looked upon her gown, 
 Once rose, now earthen brown ; 
 The Change was like the knell 
 Of Amabel.
 
 AMABEL 
 
 Her step's mechanic ways>! ittc 
 Had lost the life of May's ; bnA 
 Her laugh, once sweet in swell, 
 Spoilt Amabel. A Q 
 
 I mused : " Who sings the strain 
 I sang ere warmth did wane ? 
 Who thinks its numbers spell 
 His Amabel ?" 
 
 Knowing that, though Love cease, 
 Love's race shows undecrease ; 
 All find in dorp or dell 
 An Amabel. 
 
 I felt that I could creep 
 To some housetop, and weep, 
 That Time the tyrant fell 
 Ruled Amabel ! 
 
 I said (the while I sighed 
 That love like ours had died), 
 " Fond things I'll no more tell 
 To Amabel,
 
 AMABEL 
 
 " But leave her to her fate,'te lal 
 And fling across the gate, 
 'Till the Last Trump, farewell, 
 
 O Amabel ! ' " 
 
 1865. 
 
 / bib r 
 
 . 
 
 
 7/
 
 *j nv/oe 13V9 sc|Ofl *3d arlt Hfrioolrlm; '{rlw bn/. 
 ,ni-i bnn nnaadJ atomiecfo 
 
 brrt < 
 
 ifiq af, 3gKmhgliq yrn 
 
 
 HAP 
 
 IF but some vengeful god would call to me 
 From up the sky, and laugh : "Thou suf- 
 fering thing, 
 
 Know that thy sorrow is my ecstasy, 
 That thy love's loss is my hate's profiting ! " 
 
 Then would I bear, and clench myself, and 
 
 die, 
 
 Steeled by the sense of ire unmerited ; 
 Half-eased in that a Powerfuller than I 
 Had willed and meted me the tears I shed.
 
 8 
 
 HAP 
 
 But not so. How arrives it joy lies slain, 
 And why unblooms the best hope ever sown ? 
 Crass Casualty obstructs the sun and rain, 
 And dicing Time for gladness casts a moan. . . . 
 These purblind Doomsters had as readily 
 
 strown 
 Blisses about my pilgrimage as pain. 
 
 1866. 
 
 
 !v r?T 
 
 :ffiH
 
 brtA 
 
 <iB3n slaw LTO-{ IB rit aeonJuMnj.: ./siO 
 
 :o ornoa no )38 ,rmd avsri irl^ini oriW 
 
 yl Jniit Hi; grihfionu ,sifiWnfJ bavil I 
 bri rnntbjj) 
 
 "IN VISION I ROAMED" 
 
 IN vision I roamed the flashing Firmament, 
 So fierce in blazon that the Night waxed wan, 
 As though with an awed sense of such ostent ; 
 And as I thought my spirit ranged on and on 
 
 In footless traverse through ghast heights of sky, 
 To the last chambers of the monstrous Dome, 
 Where stars the brightest here to darkness die : 
 Then, any spot on our own Earth seemed 
 Home !
 
 IO "IN VISION I ROAMED 
 
 And the sick grief that you were far away 
 Grew pleasant thankfulness that you were near, 
 Who might have been, set on some outstep 
 
 sphere, 
 
 Less than a Want to me, as day by day 
 I lived unware, uncaring all that lay 
 Locked in that Universe taciturn and drear. 
 
 1866. 
 
 
 fit ti;rll 
 
 bay/ ru; rffriv/ tyi.i<:>:- 
 nil Jrhmorf} I >-; bnA, 
 
 tej;I '3f!l oT 
 .ihd srli e*inte '/t'iflW
 
 ,wor) noiJjernEOfii aariariw 3fiiG tetnO arlt oT 
 nalblirto barioqiuq-rlp.irt 3orll vrlY/ 
 t>rlt: hifiT S 
 
 iloun fh; ^DJST atli )I 
 
 AT A BRIDAL 
 
 TO - 
 
 WHEN you paced forth, to wait mater- 
 nity, 
 
 A dream of other offspring held my mind, 
 Compounded of us twain as Love designed ; 
 Rare forms, that corporate now will never be ! 
 
 Should I, too, wed as slave to Mode's decree, 
 And each thus found apart, of false desire, 
 A stolid line, whom no high aims will fire 
 As had fired ours could ever have mingled we ;
 
 12 AT A BRIDAL 
 
 And, grieved that lives so matched should mis- 
 compose, 
 Each mourn the double waste ; and question 
 
 dare 
 
 To the Great Dame whence incarnation flows, 
 Why those high-purposed children never were : 
 What will she answer ? That she does not 
 
 care 
 If the race all such sovereign types unknows. 
 
 1866. 
 
 
 Miim vin b 
 
 :$f> 9VO
 
 'l-\b'9llft-ic^l >> 
 
 I foi;d 
 nc ol' 
 bri byj bcrf - 
 
 POSTPONEMENT 
 
 SNOW-BOUND in woodland, a mournful 
 word, 
 Dropt now and then from the bill of a 
 
 bird, 
 
 Reached me on wind-wafts ; and thus I heard, 
 Wearily waiting : 
 
 " I planned her a nest in a leafless tree, 
 But the passers eyed and twitted me, 
 And said : ' How reckless a bird is he, 
 
 Cheerily mating ! ' 
 
 13
 
 14 POSTPONEMENT 
 
 " Fear-filled, I stayed me till summer-tide, 
 In lewth of leaves to throne her bride ; 
 But alas ! her love for me waned and died, 
 Wearily waiting. 
 
 " Ah, had I been like some I see, 
 Born to an evergreen nesting-tree, 
 None had eyed and twitted me, 
 Cheerily mating ! " 
 
 1866. 
 
 8 
 
 y.7 in u/l JOB.- /JO'/. 
 ,Lnow 
 mo-rt md* hrir, v/on 
 
 writ brt < BJk7/-5ni 
 
 K tit teon K ii>d foannrJq I 
 ,t>rrr ba. 1 ' fyjyo eiaagEq ^rfi iu 
 
 ' 
 ....
 
 vir 
 
 rifiooi/d 10 biid Aiuin e>/lil ,bo Jl 
 
 ,rm;in tjr no 
 jyfttuo y^jtifn ut ^ 
 
 jrl inarn^bot b^ri toi) JoniJani '(ImssHnu aHT 
 ^TjJJid nj;-> ,blo sbjjimoo ,taY 
 rj^ ,b;>nni;d rf^no/H ,)ci{J 
 ! 9iH ni 
 
 A CONFESSION TO A FRIEND 
 IN TROUBLE 
 
 YOUR troubles shrink not, though I feel 
 them less 
 
 Here, far away, than when I tarried near ; 
 I even smile old smiles with listlessness 
 Yet smiles they are, not ghastly mockeries mere. 
 
 A thought too strange to house within my brain 
 Haunting its outer precincts I discern : 
 That I will not show zeal again to learn 
 
 Yottr griefs, and, sharing them, renew my pain. . . . 
 s
 
 l6 CONFESSION TO A FRIEND IN TROUBLE 
 
 It goes, like murky bird or buccaneer 
 That shapes its lawless figure on the main, 
 And each new impulse tends to make outflee 
 The unseemly instinct that had lodgment here; 
 Yet, comrade old, can bitterer knowledge be 
 Than that, though banned, such instinct was 
 in me ! 
 
 1866. 
 
 A OT MOI383TOOD A 
 latJOHT VII 
 
 .'jorfi ,*on jtni-nte Kafduo-ri HUO\JT 
 
 msrfi 
 
 a*'-: I rfliv/ 9lfm bfo stints nova I 
 
 ltefci - i: vytf) ?.3li 
 
 Yfif nifiti r f o> a^ninta oot tflgnoriJ A 
 
 [ lijJno ?ii gnttnofiH 
 
 ^t\i V> \\Vis \ ^a^T
 
 8i 
 
 
 - 
 
 orrr ot boqcrl* ovBfl ,p/ioT/y fliiw fi^nnv/ bnA 
 ; bm: , 
 
 ^ Htiv/ bagba bnoq j; bnA 
 NEUTRAL TONES 
 
 WE stood by a pond that winter day, 
 And the sun was white, as though 
 
 chidden of God, 
 And a few leaves lay on the starving sod, 
 
 They had fallen from an ash, and 
 were gray. 
 
 Your eyes on me were as eyes that rove 
 Over tedious riddles solved years ago ; 
 And some words played between us to and 
 fro- 
 
 On which lost the more by our love.
 
 l8 NEUTRAL TONES 
 
 The smile on your mouth was the deadest 
 
 thing 
 
 Alive enough to have strength to die ; 
 And a grin of bitterness swept thereby 
 
 Like an ominous bird a-wing. . . . 
 
 Since then, keen lessons that love deceives, 
 And wrings with wrong, have shaped to me 
 Your face, and the God-curst sun, and a tree, 
 
 And a pond edged with grayish leaves. 
 [AHTUaVI 
 
 1867. 
 
 [ K -^d boote 
 HUB 9r(t bn/ 
 
 . >frib 
 
 > Vi 9V9l Yi 
 
 bj;/f '{orfT 

 
 SHE 
 
 AT HIS FUNERAL 
 
 THEY bear him to his resting-place- 
 In slow procession sweeping by ; 
 I follow at a stranger's space ; 
 His kindred they, his sweetheart I. 
 Unchanged my gown of garish dye, 
 Though sable-sad is their attire ; 
 But they stand round with griefiess eye, 
 Whilst my regret consumes like fire ! 
 
 187-.
 
 3H8 
 
 ; KI 
 
 .teal -Aid ol rnirf insd YaHTTF 1 
 / noi28330iq wola al JL 
 

 
 HER INITIALS 
 
 UPON a poet's page I wrote 
 Of old two letters of her name ; 
 Part seemed she of the effulgent thought 
 Whence that high singer's rapture came. 
 When now I turn the leaf the same 
 Immortal light illumes the lay, 
 But from the letters of her name 
 The radiance has died away ! 
 
 1869.
 
 
 
 'U 
 
 
 )o site bourse i 
 
 arnr. .iri Jfirfi 
 
 amen ; I won 
 
 t Y^I 9(i hornml 
 
 iarf lo 8it)i)I silt moi^ JuH 
 
 I 9ftT
 
 
 
 HER DILEMMA 
 
 (IN CHURCH) 
 
 THE two were silent in a sunless church, 
 Whose mildewed walls, uneven paving- 
 stones, 
 
 And wasted carvings passed antique research ; 
 And nothing broke the clock's dull mono- 
 tones. 
 
 Leaning against a wormy poppy-head, 
 So wan and worn that he could scarcely 
 stand,
 
 24 HER DILEMMA 
 
 For he was soon to die, he softly said, 
 " Tell me you love me ! " holding hard her 
 hand. 
 
 She would have given a world to breathe 
 
 " yes " truly, 
 So much his life seemed hanging on her 
 
 mind, 
 And hence she lied, her heart persuaded 
 
 throughly 
 
 'Twas worth her soul to be a moment kind. 
 
 . 
 
 But the sad need thereof, his Hearing death, 
 
 So mocked humanity that she shamed to prize 
 
 
 
 A world conditioned thus, or care for breath 
 
 Where Nature such dilemmas could devise. 
 
 , 
 
 ' n 
 
 1866. 
 
 ' bnA 
 
 
 
 !Ot 
 
 rrtOV/ I, ,-;3 J 
 
 blUQO : flKV/- o% 
 
 ,bni
 
 

 
 )b 
 
 iOfl 
 
 K Jj; 
 
 REVULSION 
 
 THOUGH I waste watches framing words 
 to fetter 
 
 Some spirit to mine own in clasp and kiss, 
 Out of the night there looms a sense 'twere 
 
 better 
 To fail obtaining whom one fails to miss. 
 
 For winning love we win the risk of losing, 
 And losing love is as one's life were riven ; 
 It cuts like contumely and keen ill-using 
 
 To cede what was superfluously given. 
 
 27
 
 28 REVULSION 
 
 Let me then feel no more the fateful thrilling 
 
 That devastates the love-worn wooer's frame, 
 
 The hot ado of fevered hopes, the chilling 
 
 That agonizes disappointed aim ! 
 
 So may I live no junctive law fulfilling, 
 
 And my heart's table bear no woman's name. 
 
 1866. 
 
 
 
 T 
 
 : 
 
 iuO 
 
 . 
 
 grtrfcoi baA 
 
 ;)noo' a>fil tuo tl 
 
 \k ear// Jurfw aboo oT
 
 ' 
 
 Iuo ym ni sin niwon>I 
 .<\< oi ^ib blupw.orfw 
 >; I>[o oi Jrunvj ion no^ 
 ridijbnsii) lo IHIUI!' 
 
 SHE, TO HIM 
 
 WHEN you shall see me in the toils of 
 Time, 
 
 My lauded beauties carried off from me, 
 My eyes no longer stars as in their prime, 
 My name forgot of Maiden Fair and Free ; 
 
 When in your being heart concedes to mind, 
 And judgment, though you scarce its process 
 
 know, 
 Recalls the excellencies I once enshrined, 
 
 And you are irked that they have withered so : 
 
 31
 
 32 SHE, TO HIM 
 
 Remembering that with me lies not the blame, 
 That Sportsman Time but rears his brood to 
 
 kill, 
 
 Knowing me in my soul the very same 
 One who would die to spare you touch of ill ! 
 Will you not grant to old affection's claim 
 The hand of friendship down Life's sunless 
 
 hill ? 
 
 1866. 
 
 
 
 . 3'tc ijoy
 
 il 
 
 if Jlcma ov/i ni ,irlnofft nirl) 
 
 orri ot Jrfgrjorlt-mohiEflq ^niteaft rfoua on 
 iuv/ iiuq vrn nb-iorlw D^iJ olorl'// arfi 
 
 ^rrt fr/Dfl ^li hi/rw; no*( briA 
 ,ad o) Hi3i9r! Jr/d 'iuo'( ni I ac hf^notlT A 
 
 .dd8 1 
 
 SHE, TO HIM 
 
 II 
 
 PERHAPS, long hence, when I have 
 passed away, 
 
 Some other's feature, accent, thought like mine, 
 Will carry you back to what I used to say, 
 And bring some memory of your love's decline. 
 
 ; -' ''- } riiiht eve 1 ' >n;;j<r that -i>>t (ioor 
 Then you may pause awhile and think, " Poor 
 
 jade ! " 
 
 And yield a sigh to me as ample due, 
 Not as the tittle of a debt unpaid 
 To one who could resign her all to you
 
 34 SHE T HIM 
 
 And thus reflecting, you will never see 
 
 That your thin thought, in two small words 
 
 conveyed, 
 
 Was no such fleeting phantom-thought to me, 
 But the Whole Life wherein my part was 
 
 played ; 
 
 And you amid its fitful masquerade 
 A Thought as I in yours but seem to be. 
 
 1866. 
 
 
 >0 T /i 
 
 '
 
 jntoq >>ti j! c'-> terli fjftfiv e ec drriul/I 
 
 m bsagbl tcrfJ hniv/ srli oJ oriiT 
 
 refl.) bfnow otiv; v/oK to ^Iuo ^I b'JHiffe'jQ 
 
 fio 
 
 rno-i) bnirn 
 
 i>tiup surf lo KbitiTjtxob f)lo yM 
 .rioqu vlool ot ovoJ 'io"t Jlai gnidtori bnA 
 
 SHE, TO HIM 
 
 III 
 
 I WILL be faithful to thee ; aye, I will ! 
 And Death shall choose me with a won- 
 
 dering eye 
 
 That he did not discern and domicile 
 One his by right ever since that last Good-bye ! 
 
 I have no care for friends, or kin, or prime 
 Of manhood who deal gently with me here ; 
 Amid the happy people of my time 
 Who work their love's fulfilment, I appear 
 
 35
 
 36 SHE, TO HIM 
 
 Numb as a vane that cankers on its point, 
 
 True to the wind that kissed ere canker came; 
 
 Despised by souls of Now, who would dis- 
 joint 
 
 The mind from memory, and make Life all 
 aim, 
 
 My old dexterities of hue quite gone, 
 And nothing left for Love to look upon. 
 
 1866. 
 
 Mill OT ,>Hia 
 
 I 
 
 Ill 
 
 . )f[J oi tuMlifil 9ff wLIIV/ 
 -nov/ flteaCI bnA 
 
 d^i* tjnmb 
 
 -jlir,. !ooib ion f> 
 
 I o^I-boaG iacl terfi ^OniH TJVJ trljjh ^d airf'ynQ 
 
 o/nriq 10 ,ni>l !'.> ^bno'ni 'iol a'lno on ovr.rf I 
 i fitiv/ v lyoodnfifit )O 
 
 urf. ';fi sdt bi 
 
 /oi liyfit jliow or!
 
 we n t 
 
 isrf )o ,i!3butiIqniB ydJ qgfii^ I 
 dytiodt , 
 
 ns gu am t>ififl nod) nodi 
 oshq vf-iKyb Oc; I Ji:dw ba^yyinu 39 
 
 i svowl ,ynO tr-.oJ ,9/11 
 8 ni fiKoni ii auila ir 
 
 SHE, TO HIM 
 
 IV 
 
 THIS love puts all humanity from me ; 
 I can but maledict her, pray her dead, 
 For giving love and getting love of thee 
 Feeding a heart that else mine own had fed ! 
 
 How much I love I know not, life not known, 
 Save as some unit I would add love by ; 
 But this I know, my being is but thine 
 
 own 
 Fused from its separateness by ecstasy. 
 
 37
 
 38 SHE, TO HIM 
 
 And thus I grasp thy amplitudes, of her 
 Ungrasped, though helped by nigh-regarding 
 
 eyes ; 
 
 Canst thou then hate me as an envier 
 Who see unrecked what I so dearly prize ? 
 Believe me, Lost One, Love is lovelier 
 The more it shapes its moan in selfish-wise. 
 
 1866. 
 
 -ml UK atuq avol 81 H 
 
 i Joibylfiftl JUfJ HQ I 
 
 bfiR 
 
 trrft i-tK-c 
 
 T 
 
 . .Mil
 
 
 ri&m n>' 'jy3 
 
 finji : ifc>ri3r 
 uodfil bnu Jol ni strfgi 
 
 -iu ; eamit o!ii J . y;3 beab 
 
 biorrl rloue oK 
 
 DITTY 
 
 oanRDod. Jj;d -xl ioa HBD 
 
 (E. L.. Cr.J 
 
 BENEATH a kqap where flown 
 Nestlings play, 
 Within walls of weathered stone, 
 
 Far away 
 
 From the files of formal houses, 
 By the bough the firstling browses, 
 Lives a Sweet : no merchants meet, 
 No man barters, no man sells 
 Where she dwells.
 
 4O DITTY 
 
 Upon that fabric fair 
 
 " Here is she ! " 
 Seems written everywhere 
 
 Unto me. 
 
 But to friends and nodding neighbours, 
 Fellow-wights in lot and labours, 
 Who descry the times as I, 
 No such lucid legend tells 
 
 Where she dwells. 
 
 Should I lapse to what I was 
 
 Ere we met ; 
 (Such can not be, but because 
 
 Some forget 
 
 Let me feign it) none would notice 
 That where she I know by rote is 
 Spread a strange and withering change, 
 Like a drying of the wells 
 
 Where she dwells, 
 ^aeuorf I^rmoi lo aofft artt root^ 
 
 To feel I might have kissed-rrwf yitt -{H 
 
 Loved as true 
 Otherwhere, nor Mine have missed O T /I 
 
 My life through,
 
 DITTY 4! 
 
 Had I never wandered near her, 
 Is a smart severe severer 
 In the thought that she is nought, 
 Even as I, beyond the dells 
 Where she dwells. 
 
 And Devotion droops her glance 
 
 To recall 
 What bond-servants of Chance 
 
 We are all. 
 
 I but found her in that, going 
 On my errant path unknowing, 
 I did not out-skirt the spot 
 That no spot on earth excels, 
 
 Where she dwells ! 
 
 1870.
 
 . 
 
 U nl 
 
 . - : , . 
 
 H&n oT 
 
 fanod icdW 
 
 : ifu/ol iud I 
 
 ;jnma T ( f11 n< ^ 
 
 . id Jon bib I
 
 
 f- -?-,. 
 
 / .?-- 
 
 S&: 
 
 J 
 
 THE SERGEANTS SONG 
 
 ; vl^lxmi ftto'ii Ivr// i nbv/ abiiil/t bnA 
 
 nwob ' 
 
 WHEN Lawyers strive to heal a breach, 
 And Parsons practise what they 
 !ol-Iol .muioi-rnuDmoH 
 preach ; 
 
 Then Little Boney he'll pounce down, 
 And march his men on London town ! 
 Rollicum-rorum, tol-lol-lorum, 
 Rollicimi-rorum, tol-lol-lay ! 
 
 When Justices hold equal scales, 
 And Rogues are only found in jails ;
 
 44 THE SERGEANT'S SONG 
 
 Then Little Boney he'll pounce down, 
 And march his men on London town ! 
 Rollicum-rorum, &c. 
 
 When Rich Men find their wealth a curse, 
 And fill therewith the Poor Man's purse ; 
 Then Little Boney he'll pounce down, 
 And march his men on London town ! 
 Rollicum-rorum, &c. 
 
 When Husbands with their Wives agree, 
 And Maids won't wed from modesty ; 
 Then Little Boney he'll pounce down, 
 
 And march his men on London town ! 
 
 vj;J /IHTi 
 Rollicum-rorum, tol-tol-lorum, 
 
 l nriA 
 Rollicum-rorum, tol-lol-lay ! 
 
 ..nwob aorr yjnofl uliJLI norfT 
 
 1878. 
 
 ! iiwot nobrtoJ no noirt *ifi rfoif.ni bnA 
 Published in " The Trumpet- Major," 1880. 
 
 folort
 
 
 ' 
 
 l : theJiomb 
 nt tein arlj 
 
 
 . 
 
 diers-, 
 // *m F 
 
 i 
 
 t adJ ilcn ofaow lAl woH irmsaib' v/ 
 VALENCIENNES oa 
 
 (1793) 
 
 BY CORP'L TULLIDGE : see " The Trumpet-Major " 
 
 . 
 
 IN MEMORY OF S. C. (PENSIONER). DIED 184- 
 
 W 
 
 E trenched, we trumpeted and 
 
 drummed, 
 And from our mortars tons of iron 
 
 hummed 
 
 Ath'art the ditch, the month we bombed 
 The Town o' Valencieen. 
 
 45
 
 46" VALENCIENNES 
 
 'Twas in the June o' Ninety-dree 
 (The Duke o' Yark our then Commander 
 
 been) 
 
 The German Legion, Guards, and we 
 Laid siege to Valencieen. 
 
 This was the first time in the war 
 That French and English spilled each other's 
 
 gore; 
 
 Few dreamt how far would roll the roar 
 Begun at Valencieen ! 
 
 'Twas said that we'd no business there 
 A-topperen the French for disagreen ; 
 However, that's not my affair 
 
 We were at Valencieen. 
 bjtaqmint 3W ^bdflorrji) 
 
 Such snocks and slats, since war began 
 Never knew raw recruit or veteran : 
 
 Stone-deaf therence went many a man 
 Who served at Valencieen.
 
 VALENCIENNES 47 
 
 Into the streets, ath'art the sky, 
 A hundred thousand balls and bombs were 
 
 fleen ; 
 
 And harmless townsfolk fell to die 
 Each hour at Valencieen ! 
 
 grmrrf larnrnuN 
 And, sweaten wi' the bombardiers, 
 A shell was slent to shards anighst my ears : 
 'Twas nigh the end of hopes and fears 
 For me at Valencieen ! 
 
 They bore my wownded frame to camp, 
 And shut my gapen skull, and washed en 
 
 clean, 
 
 And jined en wi' a zilver clamp 
 Thik night at Valencieen. 
 
 " We've fetched en back to quick from 
 
 dead ; ; Horl) 
 
 But never more on earth while rose is red 
 Will drum rouse Corpel ! " Doctor said 
 O' me at Valencieen.
 
 48 VALENCIENNES 
 
 'Twer true. No voice o' friend or foe 
 Can reach me now, or any liven been ; 
 And little have I power to know 
 Since then at Valencieen ! 
 
 I never hear the zummer hums 
 O' bees ; and don' know when the cuckoo 
 
 comes ; 
 
 But night and day I hear the bombs 
 We threw at Valencieen. . . . 
 
 As for the Duke o' Yark in war,jfiT 
 There, be some volk whose judgment o' en is 
 
 mean ; 
 
 But this I say 'a was not far; bn/* 
 From great at Valencieen. 
 
 O' wild wet nights, when all seems sad, 
 My wownds come back, as though new wownds 
 
 I'd had'jiif 
 
 But yet at times I'm sort o' glad 
 I fout at Valencieen.
 
 VALENCIENNES 49 
 
 Well : Heaven wi' its jasper halls 
 Is now the on'y Town I care to be in. 
 
 Good Lord, if Nick should bomb the walls 
 As we did Valencieen ! 
 
 1878-1897. 
 
 D

 
 bi !m >>{ 
 
 ,nx- ../ ,,:, r fV/ 
 
 :; aO 
 
 SAN SEBASTIAN 
 
 (August 1813) 
 WITH THOUGHTS OF SERGEANT M - (PENSIONER), 
 
 WHO DIED 185- 
 
 'YVTHY, Sergeant, stray on the Ivel 
 
 W Way, 
 
 As though at home there were spectres 
 
 rife? 
 
 From first to last 'twas a proud career ! 
 And your sunny years with a gracious wife 
 Have brought you a daughter dear.
 
 52 SAN SEBASTIAN 
 
 " I watched her to-day ; a more comely maid, 
 As she danced in her muslin bowed with blue, 
 Round a Hintock maypole never gayed." 
 " Aye, aye ; I watched her this day, too, 
 As it happens," the Sergeant said. 
 
 " My daughter is now," he again began, 
 " Of just such an age as one I knew 
 When we of the Line and Forlorn-hope van, 
 On an August morning a chosen few 
 Stormed San Sebastian. 
 
 " She's a score less three ; so about was she 
 The maiden I wronged in Peninsular days. . . . 
 You may prate of your prowess in lusty times, 
 But as years gnaw inward you blink your bays, 
 And see too well your crimes ! 
 
 " We'd stormed it at night, by the vlanker-light 
 Of burning towers, and the mortar's boom : 
 We'd topped the breach ; but had failed to stay, 
 For our files were misled by the baffling gloom; 
 And we said we'd storm by day.
 
 SAN SEBASTIAN $$ 
 
 " So, out of the trenches, with features set, 
 On that hot, still morning, in measured pace, 
 Our column climbed ; climbed higher yet, 
 Past the fauss'bray, scarp, up the curtain-face, 
 And along the parapet. 
 
 " From the batteried hornwork the cannoneers 
 Hove crashing balls of iron fire ; 
 On the shaking gap mount the volunteers 
 In files, and as they mount expire 
 
 Amid curses, groans, and cheers. 
 
 jnnj\K briB Hctylqlorl i^rf^nivsrf bnA 
 " Five hours did we storm, five hours re-form, 
 
 As Death cooled those hot blood pricked on ; 
 Till our cause was helped by a woe within : 
 
 They swayed from the summit we'd leapt 
 
 Jrr.H ^il Tr/iriq to fm>w t>rli b'iBO/1 I bnA 
 upon, 
 
 Vljif >''** " Ji .'^pniifu:! tlor> rtwo lufi nl 
 
 And madly we entered in. 
 
 Jnofmkirtfjq vrn lolt govo 920 rfl boiqoo I 
 
 "On end for plunder, 'mid rain and thunder 
 That burst with the lull of our cannonade, 
 We vamped the streets in the stifling air 
 Our hunger unsoothed, our thirst unstayed 
 And ransacked the buildings there.
 
 56 SAN SEBASTIAN 
 
 " Down the stony steps of the house-fronts 
 
 white 
 
 We. rolled rich puncheons of Spanish grape, 
 Till at length, with the fire of the wine alight, 
 I saw at a doorway a fair fresh shape 
 A woman, a sylph, or sprite. 
 
 " Afeard she fled, and with heated head 
 
 I pursued to the chamber she called her 
 
 ; nl 
 own ; 
 
 When might is fight no qualms deter, 
 And having her helpless and alone 
 
 I wreaked my will on her. 
 ; no * A 
 
 : n; Ih'T 
 
 " She raised her beseeching eyes to me, 
 
 And I heard the words of prayer she sent 
 In her own soft language. . . . Seemingly 
 I copied those eyes for my punishment 
 In begetting the girl you see ! 
 
 .ul tiiHT 
 
 " So, to-day I stand with a God-set brand 
 Like Cain's, when he wandered from kindred's 
 ken. . . .
 
 SAN SEBASTIAN 57 
 
 I served- through the war that made Europe 
 
 free ; 
 
 I wived me in peace-year. But, hid from men, 
 I bear that mark on me. 
 
 " And I nightly stray on the Ivel Way 
 As though at home there were spectres rife ; 
 I delight me not in my proud career ; 
 And 'tis coals of fire that a gracious wife 
 
 Should have brought me a daughter 
 dear ! "
 
 
 
 lirfgtteb I
 
 
 THE STRANGER'S SONG 
 
 (y^j sung by MR. CHARLES CHARRINGTON in the play of 
 7* Three Wayfarers ") 
 
 OMY trade it is the rarest one, 
 Simple shepherds all 
 My trade is a sight to see ; 
 For my customers I tie, and take 'em up on 
 
 high, 
 And waft 'em to a far countree ! 
 
 My tools are but common ones, 
 
 Simple shepherds all 
 
 59
 
 60 THE STRANGER'S SONG 
 
 My tools are no sight to see : 
 A little hempen string, and a post whereon to 
 
 swing, 
 Are implements enough for me ! 
 
 To-morrow is my working day, 
 
 Simple shepherds all 
 To-morrow is a working day for me : 
 For the farmer's sheep is slain, and the lad 
 
 who did it ta'en, 
 And on his soul may God ha' mer-cy! 
 
 Printed in " The Three Strangers," 1883. 
 
 . 
 
 [feirf 
 
 >ot
 
 
 
 ' 
 
 
 lip \ 
 llgjl 
 
 it HU T. [*" ' .. 
 
 ; r 
 
 THE BURGHERS 
 
 ( 1 7 ) 
 
 THE sun had wheeled from Grey's to 
 Dammer's Crest, 
 
 And still I mused on that Thing imminent : 
 At length I sought the High-street to the 
 West.
 
 62 THE BURGHERS 
 
 The level flare raked pane and pediment 
 And my wrecked face, and shaped my near- 
 ing friend 
 Like one of those the Furnace held unshent. 
 
 " I've news concerning her," he said. "Attend. 
 They fly to-night at the late moon's first 
 
 gleam : 
 Watch with thy steel : two righteous thrusts 
 
 will end 
 
 Her shameless visions and his passioned dream. 
 I'll watch with thee, to testify thy wrong 
 To aid, maybe. Law consecrates the scheme." 
 
 I started, and we paced the flags along 
 Till I replied : " Since it has come to this 
 I'll do it ! But alone. I can be strong." 
 
 Three hours past Curfew, when the Froom's 
 mild hiss 
 
 Reigned sole, undulled by whirr of merchan- 
 dize, 
 
 From Pummery-Tout to where the Gibbet is,
 
 63 
 
 I crossed my pleasaunce hard by Glyd'path 
 
 Rise, 
 And stood beneath the wall. Eleven strokes 
 
 went, 
 And to the door they came, contrariwise, vil^ 
 
 And met in clasp so close I had but bent 
 My lifted blade upon them to have let 
 
 'i'lAfl vr 
 
 Their two souls loose upon the firmament. 
 
 : { babriod *iffi ot jinny} baermil JuH 
 
 But something held my arm. " A moment 
 
 yet 
 
 As pray-time ere you wantons die ! " I said ; 
 And then they saw me. Swift her gaze was 
 
 : 
 With eye and cry of love illimited 
 
 Upon her Heart-king. Never upon me 
 Had she thrown look of love so thorough- 
 sped ! 
 
 At once she flung her faint form shieldingly 
 On his, against the vengeance of my vows ; 
 The which o'erruling, her shape shielded he.
 
 64 THE BURGHERS 
 
 Blanked by such love, I stood as in a 
 
 drowse, 
 And the slow moon edged from the upland 
 
 nigh, 
 My sad thoughts moving thuswise : " I may 
 
 house 
 
 ft noqo /M 
 
 And I may husband her, yet what am I 
 
 But licensed tyrant to this bonded pair ? 
 Says Charity, Do as ye would be done by." . . , 
 
 Hurling my iron to the bushes there, 
 I bade them stay. And, as if brain and 
 breast 
 
 Were passive, they walked with me to the 
 
 stair. 
 
 ' '' ' ' ';. >{| noqlJ 
 
 Inside the house none watched ; and on we 
 
 prest 
 
 Before a mirror, in whose gleam I read 
 Her beauty, his, and mine own mien un* 
 
 blest ;
 
 THE BURGHERS 65 
 
 Till at her room. I turned. " Madam," I 
 
 said, 
 " Have you the wherewithal for this ? Pray 
 
 speak. 
 Love fills no cupboard. You'll need daily 
 
 bread." 
 s?ncpf.ra. ni ,v/ol fet/iu^fl jifnoom irsriT 
 
 " We've nothing, sire," said she ; " and nothing 
 seek. 
 
 IWCl . til 'ii : s .;i t : 'il .V 'JfnOiJ lOO H[ * vv 
 
 'Twere base in me to rob my lord unware ; 
 Our hands will earn a pittance week by 
 
 week." 
 Jfit : j,.' c ari:oijloj-il.jI JwjH " 
 
 And next I saw she'd piled her raiment rare 
 Within the "garde-robes, and her household 
 
 purse, 
 Her jewels, and least lace of personal wear ;' > 
 
 ' ; (H! 1 ) ii nKJ ** t)fl f)i.Tf" "SFf mm tr ^ l * 
 
 And stood in homespun. Now grown wholly 
 
 hers, 
 I handed her the gold, her jewels all, 
 
 And him the choicest of her robes diverse. 
 
 E
 
 66 THE BURGHERS 
 
 " I'll take you to the doorway in the wall, 
 And then adieu," I to them. " Friends, with- 
 draw." 
 They did so ; and she went beyond recall. 
 
 And as I paused beneath the arch I saw 
 Their moonlit figures slow, as in surprise 
 
 Descend the slope, and vanish on the haw. 
 
 ' 
 
 
 " ' Fool,' some will say," I thought. " But 
 
 who is wise, 
 
 vd fiq . rnca ffiv/ ?brn;-l 
 
 Save God alone, to weigh my reasons why ? " 
 
 " Hast thou struck home ? " came with the 
 
 boughs' night-sighs. 
 
 It was my friend. " I have struck well. 
 
 They fly, 
 But carry wounds that none can cicatrize." 
 
 "Not mortal?" said he. "Lingering 
 
 worse," said I. 
 
 nA
 
 
 'jfl'JteV'-.S-JJfl hot 3*7,1, 
 
 LEIPZIG 
 
 . The Master-tradesmen's Parlour at the Old 
 Ship Inn, Casterbridge. Evening. 
 
 LD Norbert with the flat blue cap 
 
 A German said to be 
 Why let your pipe die on your lap, 
 Your eyes blink absently ? " 
 
 " Ah ! . . . Well, I had thought till my cheek 
 was wet 
 
 Of my mother her voice and mien 
 When she used to sing and pirouette, 
 
 And touse the tambourine
 
 05 LEIPZIG 
 
 " To the march that yon street-fiddler plies : 
 
 She told me 'twas the same 
 She'd heard from the trumpets, when the 
 Allies 
 
 Her city overcame. 
 
 " My father was one of the German Hussars, 
 
 My mother of Leipzig ; but he, 
 Long quartered here, fetched her at close of 
 the wars, 
 
 And a Wessex lad reared me. 
 
 " And as I grew up, again and again 
 
 She'd tell, after trilling that air, 
 Of her youth, and the battles on Leipzig 
 plain 
 
 And of all that was suffered there ! . . -. 
 
 " 'Twas a time of alarms. Three Chiefs- 
 at-arms 
 
 Combined them to crush One, 
 And by numbers' might, for in equal fight 
 
 He stood the matched of none.
 
 LEIPZIG 69 
 
 " Carl Schwarzenberg was of the plot, 
 And Bliicher, prompt and prow, 
 
 And Jean the Crown-Prince Bernadotte : 
 Buonaparte was the foe. 
 
 "City and plain had felt his reign.;.. 
 
 From the North to the Middle Sea, 
 And he'd now sat down in the noble town : 
 
 Of the King of Saxony. 
 
 "October's deep dew its wet gossamer threw 
 
 Upon Leipzig's lawns, leaf-strewn,, 
 Where lately each fair avenue 
 
 Wrought shade for summer noon. 
 
 JrJgin 
 " To westward two dull rivers crept 
 
 Through miles of marsh and slougfyili ! 
 Whereover a streak of whiteness swept 
 
 The Bridge of Lindenau. 
 
 " Hard by, in the City, the One, care-tossed, 
 Gloomed over his shrunken power^n 
 
 And without the walls the hemming host 
 Waxed denser every hour. oJ
 
 yo LEIPZIG 
 
 " He had speech that night on the morrow's 
 
 designs 
 
 With his chiefs by the bivouac fire, 
 While the belt of flames from the enemy's 
 
 lines 
 Flared nigher him yet and nigher. 
 
 " Three sky-lights then from the girdling 
 trine 
 
 Told, ' Ready ! ' As they rose 
 Their flashes seemed his Judgment-Sign 
 
 For bleeding Europe's woes. 
 
 " 'Twas seen how the French watch-fires that 
 
 night 
 
 Glowed still and steadily ; 
 And the Three rejoiced, for they read in the 
 
 sight 
 That the One disdained to 
 
 " Five hundred guns began the affray 
 
 On next day morn at nine ; 
 Such mad and mangling cannon-play 
 
 Had never torn human line.
 
 LEIPZIG 71 
 
 "Around the town three battles beat, 
 
 Contracting like a gin ; 
 As nearer marched the million feet 
 
 Of columns closing in. 
 
 " The first battle nighed on the low Southern 
 
 side ; 
 
 The second by the Western way ; 
 The nearing of the third on the North was 
 
 heard : 
 
 .rt ,i>mnr> x v/oriom -jnt nnA 
 
 The French held all at bay. 
 
 "Against the first band did the Emperor stand; 
 
 Against the second stood Ney ; 
 Marmont against the third gave the order- 
 word : 
 
 Thus raged it throughout the day. 
 
 .yorriq }o fooov/ K nicni fcA 
 "Fifty thousand sturdy souls on those trampled 
 
 plains and knolls, 
 Who met the dawn hopefully, 
 And were lotted their shares in a quarrel not 
 
 theirs, 
 Dropt then in their agony.
 
 72 LEIPZIG 
 
 " ' O/ the old folks said, ' ye Preachers 
 stern I 
 
 O so-called Christian time ! 
 When will men's swords to ploughshares turn ? 
 
 When come the promised prime ? ' . . . 
 
 " The clash of horse and man which that 
 
 day began, 
 
 S.XUL. , , > bjirlF arft lo 
 Closed not as evening wore ; 
 
 And the morrow's armies, rear and van, 
 
 \" 
 Still mustered more and more. 
 
 ;bnteioT9<}fn3 artt bib hnsd Jttift orf) JgniugA" 
 
 " From the City towers the Confederate 
 
 Powers 
 
 Were eyed in glittering lines, 
 And up from the vast a murmuring passed 
 
 As from a wood of pines. 
 bylq. r.auorli *{}}M*' 
 
 " ' 'Tis well to cover a feeble skill 
 
 By numbers ! ' scoffed He ; 
 ' But give me a third of their strength, I'd fill 
 
 Half Hell with their soldiery ! '
 
 LEIPZIG 75 
 
 "All that day raged the war they waged, 
 And again dumb night held reign, 
 
 Save that ever upspread from the dark death- 
 
 bed 
 A miles-wide pant of pain. 
 
 . ? r;i) dJ 
 " Hard had striven brave Ney, the true 
 
 Bertrand, 
 
 Victor, and Augereau, 
 Bold Poniatowski, and Lauriston, 
 To stay their overthrow ; 
 
 " But, as in the dream of one sick to death 
 There comes a narrowing room 
 
 That pens him, body and limbs and breath, 
 To wait a hideous doom, 
 
 " So to Napoleon, in the hush 
 
 That held the town and towers 
 Through these dire nights, a creeping 
 crush 
 
 Seemed inborne with the hours.
 
 76 LEIPZIG 
 
 " One road to the rearward, and but one, 
 
 Did fitful Chance allow ; 
 Twas where the Pleiss' and Elster run 
 
 The Bridge of Lindenau. 
 
 "The nineteenth dawned. Down street and 
 Platz 
 
 The wasted French sank back, 
 Stretching long lines across the Flats 
 
 And on the bridge-way track ; 
 
 "When there surged on the sky an earthen 
 wave, 
 
 And stones, and men, as though 
 Some rebel churchyard crew updrave 
 
 Their sepulchres from below. 
 
 " To Heaven is blown Bridge Lindenau ; 
 
 Wrecked regiments reel therefrom ; 
 And rank and file in masses plough 
 
 The sullen Elster-Strom.
 
 LEIPZIG 77 
 
 " A gulf was Lindenau ; and dead 
 
 Were fifties, hundreds, tens ; 
 And every current rippled red 
 
 With Marshal's blood and men's. 
 
 ! onnoodrn/it ^>HJ Ho r >^rjot isrf briA 
 
 "The smart Macdonald swam therein, 
 
 And barely won the verge ; 
 Bold Poniatowski plunged him in 
 
 Never to re-emerge. 
 
 "Then stayed the strife. The remnants 
 wound 
 
 Their Rhineward way pell-mell ; 
 And thus did Leipzig City sound 
 
 An Empire's passing bell ; 
 
 "While in cavalcade, with band and blade, 
 Came Marshals, Princes, Kings ; 
 
 And the town was theirs. . . . Ay, as 
 
 simple maid, 
 My mother saw these things !
 
 yo LEIPZIG 
 
 " And whenever those notes in the street 
 begin, 
 
 I recall her, and that far scene, 
 And her acting of how the Allies marched in, 
 
 And her touse of the tambourine ! " 
 

 
 
 THE PEASANT'S CONFESSION 
 
 "Si le marechal Grouchy avait ete rejoint par 1'officier que 
 Napoleon lui avait expedie la veille a. dix heures du soir, toute 
 question cut disparu. Mais cet officier n'etait point parvenu a 
 sa destination, airisi que le marechal n'a cesse de 1'affirmer toute 
 sa vie, et il faut 1'en croire, car autrement il n'aurait eu aucune 
 raison pour hesiter. Cet officier avait-il ete pris ? avait-il passe 
 a 1'ennemi ? C'est ce qu'on a toujours ignore." 
 
 THIERS: Histoirc de I' Empire. "Waterloo." 
 
 GOOD Father ! -.> V'^^'Twas an eve in 
 middle June, 
 
 And war was waged anew 
 By great Napoleon, who for years had strewn 
 Men's bones all Europe through. 
 
 79
 
 8o THE PEASANT'S CONFESSION 
 
 Three nights ere this, with columned corps 
 he'd crossed 
 
 The Sambre at Charleroi, 
 To move on Brussels, where the English host 
 
 Dallied in Pare and Bois. 
 
 The yestertide we'd heard the gloomy gun 
 Growl through the long-sunned day 
 
 From Quatre-Bras and Ligny ; till the dun 
 Twilight suppressed the fray ; 
 
 Albeit therein as lated tongues bespoke 
 Brunswick's high heart was drained, 
 
 And Prussia's Line and Landwehr, though 
 
 unbroke, 
 Stood cornered and constrained. 
 
 And at next noon-time Grouchy slowly passed 
 
 With thirty thousand men : 
 We hoped thenceforth no army, small or 
 vast, 
 
 Would trouble us again.
 
 THE PEASANTS CONFESSION 51 
 
 My hut lay deeply in a vale recessed, 
 And never a soul seemed nigh 
 
 When, reassured at length, we went to rest . 
 My children, wife, and I. 
 
 But what was this that broke our humble 
 ease ? 
 
 What noise, above the rain, 
 Above the dripping of the poplar trees 
 
 That smote along the pane ? 
 
 A call of mastery, bidding me arise, 
 
 Compelled me to the door, 
 At which a horseman stood in martial 
 guise 
 
 Splashed sweating from every pore. 
 
 Had I seen Grouchy ? Yes ? Which track 
 took he ? 
 
 Could I lead thither on ? 
 Fulfilment would ensure gold pieces three, 
 
 Perchance more gifts anon.
 
 82 THE PEASANT'S CONFESSION 
 
 " I bear the Emperor's mandate," then he 
 said, 
 
 " Charging the Marshal straight 
 To strike between the double host ahead 
 
 Ere they co-operate, 
 
 >rl -mo ojknd lerfi airfJ KBW isrfv/ h.rH 
 " Engaging Bliicher till the Emperor put 
 
 Lord Wellington to flight, 
 And next the Prussians. This to set afoot 
 
 Is my emprise to-night." 
 
 I joined him in the mist ; but, pausing, sought 
 
 To estimate his say. 
 
 Grouchy had made for Wavre ; and yet, on 
 thought, 
 
 I did not lead that way. 
 
 I mused : " If Grouchy thus instructed be, 
 The clash comes sheer hereon ; 
 
 My farm is stript. While, as for pieces 
 
 three, 
 Money the French have none.
 
 THE PEASANT'S CONFESSION 83 
 
 "Grouchy unwarned, moreo'er, the English 
 win, 
 
 And mine is left to me- 
 They buy, not borrow." Hence did I begin 
 
 To lead him treacherously. 
 
 By Joidoigne, near to east, as we ondrew, 
 Dawn pierced the humid air ; 
 
 And eastward faced I with him, though I knew 
 Never marched Grouchy there. 
 
 Near Ottignies we passed, across the Dyle 
 
 (Lim'lette left far aside), 
 And thence direct toward Pervez and Noville 
 
 Through green grain, till he cried : 
 
 " I doubt thy conduct, man ! no track is 
 
 here 
 
 I doubt thy gaged word ! " 
 Thereat he scowled on me, and pranced me 
 
 near, 
 And pricked me with his sword.
 
 84 THE PEASANT'S CONFESSION 
 
 " Nay, Captain, hold ! We skirt, not trace 
 the course 
 
 Of Grouchy," said I then : 
 "As we go, yonder went he, with his force 
 
 Of thirty thousand men." 
 
 At length noon nighed ; when west, from 
 
 Saint-John's- Mound, 
 A hoarse artillery boomed, 
 And from Saint-Lambert's upland, chapel- 
 crowned, 
 The Prussian squadrons loomed. 
 
 nni i ' - 11 
 
 Then to the wayless wet gray ground he 
 
 , 
 leapt ; 
 
 ..,'.. , .. , , . , 
 " My mission fails ! he cried ; 
 
 " Too late for Grouchy now to intercept, 
 For, peasant, you have lied ! " 
 
 He turned to pistol me. I sprang, and drew 
 
 The sabre from his flank, 
 And 'twixt his nape and shoulder, ere he knew, 
 
 I struck, and dead he sank.
 
 THE PEASANT'S CONFESSION 87 
 
 I hid him deep in nodding rye and oat 
 His shroud green stalks and loam ; 
 
 His requiem the corn-blade's husky note 
 And then I hastened home. 
 
 Two armies writhe in coils of red and 
 
 blue, 
 
 ,gfjoij*;.-nut brtoiM <aomte 10 niBlg ,00-73 -^3. 
 And brass and iron clang 
 
 ; n nlofl 
 From Goumont, past the front of Waterloo, 
 
 To Pap'lotte and Smohain. 
 ' 
 
 The Guard Imperial wavered on the height ; 
 
 The Emperor's face grew glum ; 
 " I sent," he said, "to Grouchy yesternight, 
 
 And yet he does not come!" 
 
 A'--:- v (y thousand :r;.t ..;.3O^ orlt 
 
 Twas then, Good Father, that the French 
 
 espied, 
 
 Streaking the summer land, 
 The men of Bliicher. But the Emperor 
 
 cried, 
 " Grouchy is now at hand ! "
 
 00 THE PEASANT S CONFESSION 
 
 And meanwhile Vand'leur, Vivian, Maitland, 
 
 Kempt, 
 
 Met d'Erlon, Friant, Ney ; 
 But Grouchy mis-sent, blamed, yet blame- 
 exempt 
 
 Grouchy was far away. 
 
 
 
 By even, slain or struck, Michel the strong, 
 
 Bold Travers, Dnop, Delord, 
 Smart Guyot, Reil-le, 1'Heriter, Friant, 
 
 Scattered that champaign o'er. 
 
 Fallen likewise wronged Duhesme, and skilled 
 
 Lobau 
 
 Did that red sunset see ; 
 Colbert, Legros, Blancard ! . . . . And of 
 
 the foe 
 Picton and Ponsonby ; 
 
 With Gordon, Canning, Blackman, Ompteda, 
 L'Estrange, Delancey, Packe, 
 
 Grose, D'Oyly, Stables, Morice, Howard, Hay, 
 Von Schwerin, Watzdorf, Boek,
 
 89 
 
 Smith, Phelips, Fuller, Lind, and Bat- 
 tersby, 
 
 And hosts of ranksmen round 
 
 Memorials linger yet to speak to thee 
 Of those that bit the ground ! 
 
 . ; . 
 The Guards' last column yielded ; dykes of 
 
 dead 
 
 Lay between vale and ridge, 
 As, thinned yet closing, faint yet fierce, they 
 
 sped 
 In packs to Genappe Bridge. 
 
 Safe was my stock ; my capple cow unslain ; 
 
 Intact each cock and hen ; 
 But Grouchy far at Wavre all day had lain, 
 
 And thirty thousand men. 
 
 O Saints, had I but lost my earing corn 
 And saved the cause once prized ! 
 
 O Saints, why such false witness had I 
 
 borne 
 When late I'd sympathized ! . . .
 
 9<3 THE PEASANT'S CONFESSION 
 
 So now, being old, my children eye askance 
 
 My slowly dwindling store, 
 And crave my mite ; till, worn with tarriance, 
 
 I care for life no more. 
 
 O 
 
 To Almighty God henceforth I stand con- 
 fessed, 
 
 And Virgin-Saint Marie ; 
 O Michael, John, and Holy Ones in rest, 
 
 Entreat the Lord for me ! >$flinrli ,fcA 
 
 nl 
 
 ; :l 
 
 < 
 
 ; 
 j - 
 
 ;;?, . 
 
 , ,etai3 O 

 
 ' 
 
 rii ' - 
 
 THE ALARM 
 
 (1803) 
 
 i 
 
 ''" 
 
 IN MEMORY, or ONE OF THE WRITER'S FAMILY WHO WAS A 
 VOLUNTEER DURING THE WAR WITH NAPOLEON 
 
 I 
 
 ' N a ferny byway 
 
 Near, the great South -- Wessex 
 f> Highway, i( . ..; 
 
 A homestead raised its breakfast-smoke aloft; 
 The dew-damps still lay steamless, for the sun 
 had made no sky-way, . , ;l3 j 
 And twilight cloaked the croft. 
 
 9*
 
 92 THE ALARM 
 
 'Twas hard to realize on 
 This snug side the mute horizon 
 That beyond it hostile armaments might 
 
 steer, 
 
 Save from seeing in the porchway a fail- 
 woman weep with eyes on 
 A harnessed Volunteer. 
 
 In haste he'd flown there 
 To his comely wife alone there, 
 While marching south hard by, to still her 
 
 fears, 
 
 For she soon would be a mother, and few 
 messengers were known there 
 
 In these campaigning years. 
 
 . i uu xasri'.uaoV 
 
 'Twas time to be Good-bying, 
 
 Since the assembly-hour was nighing 
 
 In royal George's town at six that 
 
 veWi i^iKi bfistsomotl A 
 
 morn ; 
 
 And betwixt its wharves and this retreat were 
 ten good miles of hieing 
 
 Ere ring of bugle-horn.
 
 THE ALARM 93 
 
 " I've laid in food, Dear, 
 
 And broached the spiced and brewed, 
 
 Dear; 
 
 And if our July hope should antedate, 
 Let the char-wench mount and gallop by the 
 halterpath and wood, Dear, 
 
 And fetch assistance straight. 
 
 " As for Buonaparte, forget him ; 
 He's not like to land ! But let him, 
 Those strike with aim who strike for wives 
 
 and sons ! 
 
 And the war-boats built to float him ; 'twere 
 but wanted to upset him 
 
 A slat from Nelson's guns ! 
 
 " But, to assure thee, 
 And of creeping fears to cure thee, 
 If he should be rumoured anchoring in the 
 
 Road, 
 
 Drive with the nurse to Kingsbere ; and let 
 nothing thence allure thee 
 
 Till we've him safe-bestowed.
 
 94 THE ALARM 
 
 " Now, to turn to marching matters : 
 I've my knapsack, firelock, spatters, 
 Crossbelts, priming-horn, stock, bay'net, 
 
 blackball, clay, 
 
 Pouch, magazine, flints, flint-box that at every 
 quick-step clatters ; 
 
 . . . My heart, Dear ; that must 
 stay ! " 
 
 ___. , , , . , , ' " 
 With breathings broken 
 
 Farewell was kissed unspoken, 
 
 And they parted there as morning stroked 
 
 ! an os on & 
 the panes ; 
 
 And the Volunteer went on, and turned, and 
 
 y/ tifd 
 twirled his glove for token, 
 
 And took the coastward lanes. 
 
 When above He'th Hills he found him, 
 He saw, on gazing round him, 
 The Barrow - Beacon burning burning 
 
 low, 
 
 As if, perhaps, uplighted ever since he'd home- 
 ward bound him ; 
 
 And it meant: Expect the Foe!
 
 . 
 
 ": 

 
 THE ALARM 97 
 
 Leaving the byway, 
 And following swift the highway, 
 Car and chariot met he, faring fast 
 
 inland ; 
 
 "He's anchored, Soldier!" shouted some: "God 
 save thee, marching thy way, 
 
 Th'lt front him on the strand ! " 
 
 He slowed ; he stopped ; he paltered 
 Awhile with self, and faltered, 
 "Why courting misadventure shoreward 
 
 roam ? 
 
 To Molly, surely ! Seek the woods with her 
 till times have altered ; 
 
 Charity favours home. 
 
 Else, my denying 
 
 He would come she'll read as lying 
 Think the Barrow- Beacon must have met 
 
 my eyes 
 
 That my words were not unwareness, but 
 
 deceit of her, while try log k; oH run 
 
 My life to jeopardize. aA
 
 98 THE ALARM 
 
 " At home is stocked provision, 
 And to-night, without suspicion, 
 We might bear it with us to a covert 
 
 near ; 
 
 Such sin, to save a childing wife, would earn 
 it Christ's remission, 
 
 Though none forgive it here ! " 
 
 While thus he, thinking, 
 A little bird, quick drinking 
 Among the crowfoot tufts the river 
 
 bore, 
 
 Was tangled in their stringy arms, and 
 fluttered, well-nigh sinking, 
 
 Near him, upon the moor. 
 
 He stepped in, reached, and seized it, 
 And, preening, had released it 
 But that a thought of Holy Writ oc- 
 curred, 
 
 And Signs Divine ere battle, till it seemed 
 him Heaven had pleased it 
 
 As guide to send the bird.
 
 99 
 
 "O Lord, direct me ! J^mteil/i 
 Doth Duty now expect me 
 To march a-coast, or guard my weak ones 
 
 near ? 
 
 Give this bird a flight according, that I thence 
 know to elect me 
 KoiIThe southward or the rear." 
 
 He loosed his clasp ; when, rising, 
 The bird as if surmising 
 
 Bore due to southward, crossing by the 
 ,brbiM ^y/ltefi-'usodffyi'jii "to ; em/I? inoW 
 Froom, 
 
 rtiim 
 
 And Durnover Great-Field and Fort, the 
 jnKri;Lminnn' ) , rjjffrrjfi.O ,rrj);ffgmI ,w*>-jlA 
 soldier clear advising 
 
 hjnnjorm boi/fj oilt yd JJO^.'KJ'I 
 Prompted he wist by Whom. 
 .rlml bnfi BnI -ibrtt no qoov/2 
 
 Then on he panted 
 By grim Mai-Don, and slanted 
 Up the steep Ridge-way, hearkening be- 
 
 twixt whiles ; fqirrpo ,ir.rorf ten! orft JA 
 Till, nearing coast and harbour, he beheld the 
 shore-line planted 
 
 With Foot and Horse for miles.
 
 THE ALARM 
 
 Mistrusting not the omen, 
 He gained the beach, where Yeo- 
 men, 
 
 Militia, Fencibles, and Pikemen bold, 
 With Regulars in thousands, were enmassed 
 to meet the Foemen, 
 
 Whose fleet had not yet shoaled. 
 
 no I <)H 
 Captain and Colonel, 
 
 * 
 Sere Generals, Ensigns vernal, 
 
 ' 
 
 Were there ; of neighbour-natives, Michel, 
 
 ,mo 
 Smith, 
 
 Meggs, Bingham, Gambier, Cunningham, 
 
 doe 
 roused by the hued nocturnal 
 
 J 
 Swoop on their land and kith. 
 
 But Buonaparte still tarried-,$H 
 His project had miscarried ; 
 At the last hour, equipped for victory, 
 The fleet had paused ; his subtle combinations 
 had been parried 
 
 By British strategy.
 
 THE ALARM IOI 
 
 Homeward returning 
 Anon, no beacons burning, 
 No alarms, the Volunteer, in modest bliss, 
 Te Deum sang with wife and friends : " We 
 praise Thee, Lord, discerning 
 
 That Thou hast helped in this ! "
 
 ^H 
 
 >f;k ( 
 ifWwi'gwsa 1 . frttipG 
 
 '
 
 . 
 
 lfi\ bflK 3<" :)l' i l 
 
 ^hfi oi 'i 
 
 q ( 3ff} gv. 
 
 t'.-. 
 HER DEATH AND AFTER 
 
 TWAS a death-bed summons, and forth 
 I went 
 
 By the way of the Western Wall, so drear 
 On that winter night, and sought a gate 
 
 The home, by Fate, 
 Of one I had long held dear. 
 
 And there, as I paused by her tenement, 
 And the trees shed on me their rime and hoar, 
 I thought of the man who had left her lone 
 
 Him who made her his own 
 When I loved her, long before.
 
 IO4 HER DEATH AND AFTER 
 
 The rooms within had the piteous shine 
 
 That home -things wear when there's aught 
 
 amiss ; 
 From the stairway floated the rise and fall 
 
 Of an infant's call, 
 Whose birth had brought her to this. 
 
 Her life was the price she would pay for that 
 
 whine 
 
 For a child by the man she did not love. 
 "But let that rest for ever," I said, 
 
 And bent my tread 
 To the chamber up above. 
 
 She took my hand in her thin white own, 
 And smiled her thanks though nigh too 
 
 weak 
 
 And made them a sign to leave us there 
 Then faltered, ere 
 
 She could bring herself to speak. 
 
 bnA 
 
 "Twas to see you before I go he'll condone' 
 Such a natural thing now my time's not 
 much
 
 HER DEATH AND AFTER IC>5 
 
 When Death is so near it hustles hence 
 
 All passioned sense 
 Between woman and man as such ! 
 
 "My husband is absent. As heretofore 
 The City detains him. But, in truth, 
 He has not been kind. ... I will speak no 
 blame, 
 
 But the child is lame ; 
 O, I pray she may reach his ruth 1 
 
 " Forgive past days I can say no more 
 Maybe if we'd wedded you'd now repine ! . . . 
 But I treated you ill. I was punished. Fare- 
 well ! 
 
 Truth shall I tell ? 
 Would the child were yours and mine ! 
 
 " As a wife I was true. But, such my 
 
 unease 
 
 That, could I insert a deed back in Time, 
 I'd make her yours, to secure your care ; 
 
 And the scandal bear, 
 And the penalty for the crime ! "
 
 IO6 HER DEATH AND AFTER 
 
 When I had left, and the swinging trees 
 Rang above me, as lauding her candid say, 
 Another was I. Her words were enough : 
 
 Came smooth, came rough, 
 I felt I could live my day. 
 
 3fIT 
 
 Next night she died ; and her obsequies 
 In the Field of Tombs, by the Via renowned, 
 Had her husband's heed. His tendance 
 spent, 
 
 I often went 
 
 o'3 " 
 And pondered by her mound. 
 
 : 
 
 v 
 All that year and the next year whiled, 
 
 And I still went thitherward in the gloam ; 
 But the Town forgot her and her nook, 
 
 And her husband took 
 Another Love to his home. 
 
 And the rumour flew that the lame lone 
 
 child 
 Whom she wished for its safety child of 
 
 mine,
 
 HER DEATH AND AFTER 109 
 
 Was treated ill when offspring came 
 
 Of the new-made dame, 
 And marked a more vigorous line. 
 -Merl ;^r|jweid .; bd&etftote ifi&&rj isrf n^rfV/ 
 A smarter grief within me wrought 
 Than even at loss of her so dear ; 
 Dead the being whose soul my soul suffused, 
 
 Her child ill-used, 
 I helpless to interfere ! 
 
 .dnioJ 
 
 One eve as I stood at my spot of thought 
 In the white-stoned Garth, brooding thus her 
 
 wrong, 
 Her husband neared ; and to shun his view 
 
 :. ,t By her hallowed mew 
 I 'I went from the tombs among 
 
 Vv'l 'y/ioasT 1 ! 
 
 To the Cirque of the Gladiators which 
 
 faced 
 
 That haggard mark of Imperial Rome, 
 Whose Pagan echoes mock the chime 
 
 Of our Christian time : 
 It was void, and I inward clomb.
 
 IIO HER DEATH AND AFTER 
 
 Scarce night the sun's gold touch displaced 
 From the vast Rotund and the neighbouring 
 
 dead 
 
 When her husband followed ; bowed ; half- 
 passed, 
 
 With lip upcast . 
 Then, halting, sullenly said : ; ^rfj 
 
 " It is noised that you visit my first wife's 
 
 tomb. 
 
 Now, I gave her an honoured name to bear 
 While living, when dead. So I've claim to ask 
 
 By what right you task 
 My patience, by vigiling there ? : \:* m { -^H 
 
 , 
 
 " There's decency even in death, I assume ; 
 Preserve it, sir, and keep away ; 
 For the mother of my first-born you , Jf jj 
 
 Show mind undue ! 
 Sir, I've nothing more to say.". cri Jcf j T 
 
 38OfI77 
 
 A desperate stroke discerned I then 
 God pardon or pardon not the lie, j jl
 
 HER, DEATH AND AFTER III 
 
 She had sighed that she wished (lest the child 
 should pine 
 
 Of slights) 'twere mine, 
 So I said : " But the father I. 
 
 " That you thought it yours is the way of 
 
 men ; 
 
 But I won her troth long ere your day : 
 You learnt how, in dying, she summoned me? 
 
 'Twas in fealty. 
 Sir, I've nothing more to say, 
 
 OKV/ bliii ../ }, \-/.-yA 
 
 " Save that, if you'll hand me my little maid, 
 I'll take her, and rear her, and spare you toil. 
 Think it more than a friendly act none can ; 
 
 I'm a lonely man, 
 While you've a large pot to boil. 
 
 KU bagnuitfc-j fofis t 3in bsvol h\ bnA 
 
 " If not, and you'll put it to ball or blade 
 To-night, to-morrow night, any when- . JuiJ 
 I'll meet you here. . . . But think of it, 
 
 And in season fit 
 Let me hear from you again."
 
 112 HER DEATH AND AFTER 
 
 Well, I went away, hoping ; but nought I 
 
 heard 
 Of my stroke for the child, till there greeted 
 
 me 
 
 A little voice that one day came 
 To my window-frame 
 And babbled innocently : 
 
 v/ I tuH 
 " My father who's not my own, sends 
 
 word 
 
 I'm to stay here, sir, where I belong ! " 
 Next a writing came : " Since the child was 
 the fruit 
 
 Of your lawless suit, 
 Pray take her, to right a wrong." 
 
 And I did. And I gave the child my love, 
 And the child loved me, and estranged us 
 
 none. 
 
 But compunctions loomed ; for I'd harmed 
 the dead 
 
 By what I'd said 
 For the good of the living one.
 
 HER DEATH AND AFTER 113 
 
 Yet though, God wot, I am sinner enough, 
 And unworthy the woman who drew me so, 
 Perhaps this wrong for her darling's good 
 
 She forgives, or would, 
 If only she could know 1 
 
 H
 
 
 I 

 
 
 
 
 "~ l 
 
 . b^,3< 
 
 jb) -iorf 8iH 
 
 THE DANCE AT THE PHGENIX 
 
 'O Jenny came a gentle youth 
 
 From inland leases lone, 
 His love was fresh as apple-blooth 
 
 By Parrett, Yeo, or Tone. 
 And duly he entreated her 
 To be his tender minister, 
 
 And call him aye her own. 
 
 Fair Jenny's life had hardly been 
 
 A life of modesty ; 
 At Casterbridge experience keen 
 
 Of many loves had she 
 
 "5
 
 Il6 THE DANCE AT THE PHCENIX 
 
 From scarcely sixteen years above ; 
 Among them sundry troopers of 
 The King's-Own Cavalry. 
 
 But each with charger, sword, and gun, 
 Had bluffed the Biscay wave ; 
 
 And Jenny prized her gentle one 
 For all the love he gave. 
 
 She vowed to be, if they were wed, 
 
 His honest wife in heart and head 
 From bride-ale hour to grave. 
 
 Wedded they were. Her husband's trust 
 
 In Jenny knew no bound, 
 And Jenny kept her pure and just, 
 
 Till even malice found 
 No sin or sign of ill to be 
 In one who walked so decently 
 
 The duteous helpmate's round. 
 
 Two sons were born, and bloomed to men, 
 And roamed, and were as not : 
 
 Alone was Jenny left again 
 
 As ere her mind had sought
 
 THE DANCE AT THE PHCENIX Iiy 
 
 A solace in domestic joys, 
 And ere the vanished pair of boys 
 Were sent to sun her cot. 
 
 She numbered near on sixty years, 
 
 And passed as elderly, 
 When, in the street, with flush of fears,. 
 
 One day discovered she, 
 From shine of swords and thump of drum, 
 Her early loves from war had come, 
 
 The King's-Own Cavalry. 
 
 She turned a^ide, and bowed her head 
 
 Anigh Saint Peter's door ; 
 "Alas for chastened thoughts !." she said ; 
 
 " I'm faded now, and hoar, 
 And yet those notes they thrill me through, 
 And those gay forms move me anew 
 
 As in the years of yore If ' ' >oota bfiA 
 
 'Twas Christmas, and the Phoenix Inn 
 
 Was lit with tapers tall, 
 For thirty of the trooper men urrni 
 Had vowed to give a ball
 
 Il8 THE DANCE AT THE PHCENIX 
 
 As " Theirs " had done ('twas handed down) 
 When lying in the selfsame town 
 Ere Buonaparte's fall. 
 
 That night the throbbing " Soldier's Joy," 
 The measured tread and sway bnA 
 
 Of "Fancy-Lad" and "Maiden Coy," 
 Reached Jenny as she lay 
 
 Beside her spouse ; till springtide blood rno 
 
 Seemed scouring through her like a flood 
 That whisked the years away. 
 
 She rose, and rayed, and decked her head 
 Where the bleached hairs ran thin ; 
 
 Upon her cap two bows of red 
 She fixed with hasty pin ; 
 
 Unheard descending to the street, 
 
 She trod the flags with tune-led feet, :orfi I 
 And stood before the Inn. 
 
 Save for the dancers', not a sound 
 
 Disturbed the icy air ; 
 No watchman on his midnight round 
 
 Or traveller was there ;
 
 THE DANCE AT THE PHCENIX 119 
 
 But over All-Saints', high and bright, 
 Pulsed to the music Sirius white, 
 
 The Wain by Bullstake Square., 3 | b'oriS) 
 
 I rno-Ti 
 She knocked, but found her further stride 
 
 Checked by a sergeant tall : 
 
 9lfl '< J & 
 
 " Gay Granny, whence come you ? " he cried ; 
 
 "This is a private ball." 
 " No one has more right here than me ! 
 
 Ere you were born, man," answered she. 
 
 /Ob 
 
 " I knew the regiment all ! " 
 
 
 M 3O(I(* ' '" pfaTtnY 'i 
 
 "take not the lady's visit ill!" 
 
 m< TT 1 *1 At 
 
 Upspoke the steward free ; 
 " We lack sufficient partners still, 
 
 C 'it, 1 4. U U 1 " ^ Of ^' 
 
 So, prithee let her be ! 
 
 They seized and whirled her 'mid the maze, 
 And Jenny felt as in the days 
 
 Of her immodesty. 
 \V'}x.L-c. "jwn. >nHa(3f*-iofeGl j^nn;,; 
 
 Hour chased each hour, and night advanced ; 
 
 She sped as shod with wings ; 
 Each time and every time she danced 
 
 Reels, jigs, poussettes, and flings :
 
 I2O THE DANCE AT THE PHOiNIX 
 
 They cheered her as she soared and 
 
 swooped, 
 (She'd learnt ere art in dancing drooped 
 
 From hops to slothful swings). 
 
 ' 
 
 The favourite Quick - step " Speed the 
 
 ni u 
 
 Plough 
 
 (' *> 
 (Cross hands, cast off, and wheel) 
 
 "The Triumph," "Sylph," "The Row- 
 
 , i '-' 3i3 
 
 dow-dow, 
 
 r- j AT *T 11 - r> i i { " 
 
 Famed " Major Malley s Reel, 
 " The Duke of York's," " The Fairy Dance," 
 
 " The Bridge of Lodi " (brought from 
 
 }) 
 
 France) ' 
 
 She beat out. toe and heel. 
 
 ' 
 
 btiE basioa yarfT 
 The " Fall of Paris " clanged its close, 
 
 And Peter's chime told four, 
 When Jenny, bosom-beating, rose 
 
 To seek her silent door. 
 They tiptoed in escorting her, 
 Lest stroke of heel or clink of spur fosS 
 
 Should break her goodman's snore.
 
 THE DANCE AT THE PHCENIX til 
 
 The fire that late had burnt fell slack 
 When lone at last stood she ; 
 
 Her nine-and-fifty years came back; 
 She sank upon her knee 
 
 Beside the durn, and like a dart 
 
 A something arrowed through her heart 
 In shoots of agony. 
 
 Their footsteps: died as she leant there, 
 
 Lit by the morning star 
 Hanging above the moorland, where 
 
 The aged elm-rows are ; 
 And, as o'ernight, from Pummery Ridge 
 To Maembury Ring and Standfast Bridge 
 
 No life stirred, near or far. 
 
 Though inner mischief worked amain, 
 She reached her husband's side ; 
 
 Where, toil- weary, as he had lain 
 Beneath the patchwork pied 
 
 When yestereve she'd forthward crept, 
 
 And as unwitting, still he slept 
 Who did in her confide.
 
 122 THE DANCE AT THE PHCENIX 
 
 A tear sprang as she turned and viewed 
 His features free from guile ; 
 
 She kissed him long, as when, just wooed, 
 She chose his domicile. 
 
 She felt she could have given her life 
 
 To be the single-hearted wife 
 
 That she had been erstwhile. 
 
 Time wore to six. Her husband roseHT, - 
 And struck the steel and stone ; 
 
 He glanced at Jenny, whose repose ucH 
 Seemed deeper than his own. 
 
 With dumb dismay, on closer sight, 
 
 He gathered sense that in the night, 
 Or morn, her soul had flown. 
 
 When told that some too mighty strain 
 
 For one so many-yeared 
 Had burst her bosom's master-vein, : . 
 
 His doubts remained unstirred. 
 His Jenny had not left his side 
 Betwixt the eve and morning-tide : 
 
 The King's said not a word.
 
 THE DANCE AT THE PHCENIX 
 
 123 
 
 Well ! times are not as times were then, 
 Nor fair ones half so free ; 
 
 And truly they were martial men, 
 The King's-Own Cavalry. 
 
 And when they went from Casterbridge 
 
 And vanished over Mellstock Ridge, 
 'Twas saddest morn to see. 
 
 ./;
 
 
 '
 
 
 
 >i\ ot Ji c;j;v/ sriiK 
 
 ,h ago! 
 
 THE CASTERBRIDGE CAPTAINS 
 
 (KHYBER PASS, 1842) 
 A TRADITION OF J. B. L - , T. G. B - , AND J. L _ 
 
 THREE captains went to Indian wars, 
 And only one returned : 
 Their mate of yore, he singly wore , ; 
 The laurels all had earned.
 
 126 THE CASTERBR1DGE CAPTAINS 
 
 At home he sought the ancient aisle 
 Wherein, untrumped of fame, 
 
 The three had sat in pupilage, 
 
 And each had carved his name. 
 
 The names, rough-hewn, of equal size, 
 Stood on the panel still ; 
 
 Unequal since. " 'Twas theirs to aim, 
 Mine was it to fulfil ! " 
 
 " Who saves his life shall lose it, 
 
 friends ! " 
 
 Outspake the preacher then, 
 Unweeting he his listener, who > < | 
 
 Looked at the names again. 
 
 . 
 
 J .a .1 10 MorrittAsT A 
 
 That he had come and they'd been 
 stayed, 
 
 'Twas but the chance of war : 
 Another chance, and they'd sat here, 
 
 And he had lain afar.
 
 THE CASTERBRIDGE CAPTAINS 127 
 
 Yet saw he something in the lives 
 Of those who'd ceased to live 
 
 That sphered them with a majesty 
 Which living failed to give. 
 
 Transcendent triumph in return 
 
 No longer lit his brain ; 
 Transcendence rayed the distant urn 
 
 Where slept the fallen twain.
 
 . 
 
 
 
 - 
 
 : 
 
 :.GlT
 
 
 ill' I 
 
 'UJJO 
 
 A SIGN-SEEKER 
 
 I 
 
 MARK the months in liveries dank and dry, 
 The noontides many-shaped and hued ; 
 
 
 ' 
 
 I see the nightfall shades subtrude, 
 
 o / 
 
 And hear the monotonous hours clang negli- 
 gently by. 
 
 I view the evening bonfires of the 
 
 On hills where morning rains have hissed ; 
 
 The eyeless countenance of the mist.orf'1 
 Pallidly rising when the summer droughts 
 are done. 
 
 129
 
 A SIGN-SEEKER 
 
 re. seen the lightning-blade, the leaping 
 
 star, 
 
 The cauldrons of the sea in storm, 
 Have felt the earthquake's lifting arm, 
 And trodden where abysmal fires and snow- 
 cones are. 
 
 I learn to prophesy the hid eclipse, 
 
 The coming of eccentric orbs ; 
 
 To mete the dust the sky absorbs, 
 To weigh the sun, and fix the hour each 
 
 i *,,- 
 planet dips. 
 
 I witness fellow earth-men surge and strive ; 
 
 Assemblies meet, and throb, and part ; 
 
 ''i ^fll t)'jk I 
 Death's soothing finger, sorrow's smart ; 
 
 All the vast various moils that mean a 
 world alive. 
 
 But that I fain would wot of shuns my sense 
 Those sights of which old prophets tell, 
 Those signs the general word so well, 
 
 Vouchsafed to their unheed, denied my 
 long suspense.
 
 A SIGN-SEEKBR 13! 
 
 In graveyard green, behind his monument 
 To glimpse a phantom parent, friend, 
 Wearing his smile, and " Not the end ! " 
 
 Outbreathing softly : that were blest enlighten- 
 ment ; 
 
 Or, if a dead Love's lips, whom dreams reveal 
 When midnight imps of King Decay 
 Delve sly to solve me back to clay, 
 
 Should leave some print to prove her spirit- 
 
 IriQQPQ T"PQ 1 * 
 
 lusbcb i cd.i , . , rQ n0 q Q i 
 
 ncrrr K n-jriV/ : R-jHmn 7btwm - aonaioaaH bnA 
 Or, when Earth's Frail lie bleeding of her 
 
 Strong, 
 
 If some Recorder, as in Writ, 
 Near to the weary scene should flit 
 And drop one plume as pledge that Heaven 
 
 inscrolls the wrong. 
 
 There are who, rapt to heights of tranced 
 
 trust, 
 
 These tokens claim to feel and see, 
 Read radiant hints of times to be 
 Of heart to heart returning after dust to dust.
 
 132 A. SIGN-SEEKER 
 
 Such scope is granted not to lives like 
 
 mine . . . 
 I have lain in dead men's beds, have 
 
 walked 
 The tombs of those with whom I'd talked, 
 
 Called many a gone and goodly one to shape 
 ~ c'ifjn i e'ovoJ bjsab B ii /iO 
 
 ** ^ife 11 ; 
 
 Jeqkii irftptfbim nadW 
 
 And panted for response. But none replies ; 
 No warnings loom, nor whisperings 
 To open out my limitings, 
 
 And Nescience mutely muses : When a man 
 
 , . ;. i fe'rfhjsS nsHv/ ,iO 
 
 falls he lies. 
 
 ll 
 
 fVi 
 l q 
 xv i. 1 // niij >I 
 
 ,6 
 
 i
 
 k ^ ^r"""^ f ^ 
 
 ^ *-**,*> -..*.** <>". ^^^ 
 
 r{} bfiri 9oriKfla HIT 
 a ni T {lnifi7 bbvol I 3110 Jfiril 
 
 MY CICELY 
 
 A L 
 
 LIVE ? " And I leapt in my wonder, 
 
 Was faint of my joyance. 
 And grasses and grove shone in garments 
 Of glory to me. 
 ^/KV/f atibns ydt 10! sbfi/n bnA 
 
 " She lives, in a plenteous well-being, 
 
 To-day as aforehand ; 
 
 The dead bore the name though a rare 
 one 
 
 The name that bore she.WiiJ 
 
 >33
 
 134 MY CICELY 
 
 She lived ... I, afar in the city 
 
 Of frenzy-led factions, 
 Had squandered green years and maturer 
 
 In bowing the knee 
 
 To Baals illusive and specious, 
 Till chance had there voiced me 
 
 That one I loved vainly in nonage 
 Had ceased her to be. 
 
 The passion the planets had scowled on, 
 And change had let dwindle, 
 
 Her death-rumour smartly relifted 
 To full apogee. 
 
 A 
 
 I mounted a steed in the dawning 
 
 With acheful remembrance, 
 And made for the ancient West Highway 
 
 To far Exonb'ry. 
 
 Passing heaths, and the House of Long 
 
 Sieging, 
 I neared the thin steeple
 
 MY CICELY 135 
 
 That tops the fair fane of Poore's olden 
 Episcopal see ; 
 
 di^ ortt k> 
 
 And, changing anew my onbearer, 
 
 I traversed the downland 
 Whereon the bleak hill-graves of Chieftains 
 
 Bulge barren of tree ; 
 
 'he, [';;. ,tKS*3 to- xife'i'jfcieri-IIiri artt rifion bn 
 
 i 
 
 ^ftHfrtrrtfi^T | vtPtfri;> hrrA 
 
 And still sadly onward I followed 
 
 That Highway the Icen, 
 Which trails its pale riband down Wessex 
 O'er lynchet and lea. 
 
 ( Ofit 8tri3D8 0X3 919fi77 
 
 Along through the Stour-bordered Forum, 
 
 Where Legions had wayfared, 
 And where the slow river upglasses 
 
 Its green canopy, 
 f)'Hfjf;r?Ji rj :mmJ lOilioM rnoriv/ o 
 
 And by Weatherbury Castle, and thencefrom 
 
 Through Casterbridge held I 
 Still on, to entomb her my vision 
 
 Saw stretched pallidly.
 
 136 MY CICELY 
 
 No highwayman's trot blew the night-wind 
 
 To me so life-weary, 
 But only the creak of the gibbets 
 
 Or waggoners' jee. 
 
 b^avs-iM 
 
 Triple-ramparted Maidon gloomed grayly 
 Above me from southward, 
 
 ci 
 
 And north the hill-fortress of Eggar, 
 
 i 
 And square- Pummerie. 
 
 I b'iswno ftea llita bnA 
 
 The Nine-Pillared Cromlech, the Bride-streams, 
 
 The Axe, and the Otter 
 I passed, to the gate of the city 
 
 Where Exe scents the sea ; 
 
 arit flguoirlJ griolA 
 
 Till, spent, in the graveacre pausing, 
 
 I learnt 'twas not my Love 
 To whom Mother Church had just murmured 
 
 A last lullaby. 
 
 vd bnA 
 
 -"Then, where dwells the Canon's kins- 
 
 woman, 
 My friend of aforetime ? "
 
 MY CICELY 137 
 
 (Twas hard to repress my heart-heavings 
 And new ecstasy.) 
 
 J.U;'. sh'/jef 
 
 " She wedded."-" Ah ! " " Wedded beneath 
 her 
 
 ou i AU t, A i ^oQ O " 
 
 She keeps the stage-hostel 
 
 L?III vrrt ui fifti'ii T 
 
 Ten miles hence, beside the great Highway 
 
 The famed Lions-Three. 
 
 inrtr,.v.-jA*9ri* Ji Jnfiam -nirlT terfT 
 
 " Her spouse was her lackey no option 
 'Twixt wedlock and worse things ; 
 
 A lapse over-sad for a lady 
 Of her pedigree ! " 
 
 * ' 
 
 I shuddered, said nothing, and wandered 
 
 To shades of green laurel : 
 Too ghastly had grown those first tidings 
 
 So brightsome of blee 1 , 
 
 For, on my ride hither, I'd halted 
 
 Awhile ati the Lions, 
 And her her whose name had once opened 
 
 My heart as a key
 
 138 
 
 I'd looked on, unknowing, and witnessed. y/T': 
 
 Her jests with the tapsters, 
 Her liquor-fired face, her thick accents 
 
 In naming her fee. 
 
 " O God, why this seeming derision ! " 
 
 I cried in my anguish : 
 
 J & -.-.id eafini no I 
 
 " O once Loved, O fair Unforgotten 
 That Thing meant it thee ! 
 
 " Inurned and at peace, lost but sainted, 
 
 Were grief I could compass ; 
 Depraved 'tis for Christ's poor dependent 
 
 A cruel decree ! " 
 
 I backed on the Highway ; but passed not 
 
 The hostel. Within there 
 Too mocking to Love's re-expression 
 
 Was Time's repartee ! 
 
 Uptracking where Legions had wayfared, 
 
 By cromlechs unstoried, i 
 
 And lynchets, and sepultured Chieftains, 
 
 In self-colloquy,
 
 MY CICELY 139 
 
 A feeling stirred in me and strengthened 
 
 That she was not my Love, 
 But she of the garth, who lay rapt in 
 
 Her long reverie, .^w e 
 
 And thence till to-day I persuade me 
 
 That this was the true one ; 
 That Death stole intact her young dearness 
 
 And innocency. 
 
 Frail-witted, illuded they call me ; 
 
 I may be. 'Tis better 
 To dream than to own the debasement 
 
 Of sweet Cicely. 
 
 Moreover I rate it unseemly 
 
 To hold that kind Heaven 
 Could work such device to her ruin 
 
 And my misery. 
 
 So, lest I disturb my choice vision, 
 
 I shun the West Highway, 
 Even now, when the knaps ring with rhythms 
 
 From blackbird and bee ;
 
 140 
 
 MY CICELY 
 
 And feel that with slumber half-conscious 
 
 She rests in the church-hay, 
 Her spirit unsoiled as in youth-time 
 
 When lovers were we. 
 
 i bnA 
 :dJ JKffT 
 dJfaQ JiirfT 
 . oormi bnA 
 
 ,08 

 
 , . ,v.,.-
 
 
 
 s3 aiod Jl 
 
 HER IMMORTALITY 
 
 ; uilo bnfidaurf r (M 
 
 , d'/ol R't vM 
 
 UPON a noon I pilgrimed through 
 A pasture, mile by mile, 
 Unto the place where I last saw 
 My dead Love's living smile. 
 
 jtjgftq I fliT, 
 
 And sorrowing I lay me down 
 
 Upon the heated sod : 
 It seemed as if my body pressed 
 
 The very ground she trod. 
 
 '43
 
 144 HER IMMORTALITY 
 
 I lay, and thought ; and in a trance 
 She came and stood me by 
 
 The same, even to the marvellous ray 
 That used to light her eye. 
 
 " You draw me, and I come to you, 
 My faithful one," she said, 
 
 In voice that had the moving tone 
 It bore ere breath had fled. 
 
 She said : " Tis seven years since I died 
 
 Few now remember me ; 
 My husband clasps another bride ; 
 
 My children's love has she. 
 
 " My brethren, sisters, and my friends 
 Care not to meet my sprite : 
 
 Who prized me most I did not know 
 Till I passed down from sight." 
 
 I said : " My days are lonely here ; 
 
 I need thy smile alway : 
 I'll use this night my ball or blade, 
 
 And join thee ere the day."
 
 HER IMMORTALITY 145 
 
 A tremor stirred her tender lips, 
 
 Which parted to dissuade : 
 " That cannot be, O friend," she cried ; 
 
 " Think, I am but a Shade ! 
 
 "A Shade but in its mindful ones 
 
 Has immortality ; 
 By living, me you keep alive, 
 
 By dying you slay me. 
 
 " In you resides my single power 
 Of sweet continuance here ; 
 
 On your fidelity I count 
 
 Through many a coming year." 
 
 I started through me at her plight, 
 
 So suddenly confessed : 
 Dismissing late distaste for life, 
 
 I craved its bleak unrest. 
 
 " I will not die, my One of all ! 
 
 To lengthen out thy days 
 I'll guard me from minutest harms 
 
 That may invest my ways ! "
 
 146 HER IMMORTALITY 
 
 She smiled and went. Since then she comes 
 Oft when her birth-moon climbs, 
 
 Or at the seasons' ingresses 
 Or anniversary times ; 
 
 But grows my grief. When I surcease, 
 Through whom alone lives she, 
 
 Ceases my Love, her words, her ways, 
 Never again to be !
 
 qnte ^d qhte ; ;d art : tjndq A 
 
 ; 3$d ot rlguod isqqu mo'fHI 
 
 ipl ; rlJiwaisrfJ oni bnA 
 Jon bluo'j 
 
 /an noitoafifi won nl 
 ,v/ua I rtefi ns IIoo oT 
 ; avol ^m b3vi'JD'ji Jauii ni ad bnA 
 wfclo naaig tloa '{ni iltiv/ II iT 
 . . . DVOV/ I ^f; ffiirf bnuod bnc boqnitno 1 
 
 THE IVY-WIFE 
 
 I 
 
 LONGED to love a full-bouglred 
 beech 
 
 And be as high as he : 
 I stretched ah arm within his reach, 
 
 And signalled unity. 
 But with his drip he forced a breach, 
 
 And tried to poison me. 
 
 I gave the grasp of partnership 
 To one of other race
 
 148 THE IVY-WIFE 
 
 A plane : he barked him strip by strip 
 From upper bough to base ; 
 
 And me therewith ; for gone my grip, 
 My arms could not enlace. 
 
 In new affection next I strove 
 
 To coll an ash I saw, 
 And he in trust received my love ; 
 
 Till with my soft green claw 
 I cramped and bound him as I wove . . . 
 
 Such was my love : ha-ha ! 
 
 By this I gained his strength and height 
 
 Without his rivalry. 
 But in my triumph I lost sight 
 
 Of afterhaps. Soon he, 
 Being bark-bound, flagged, snapped, fell 
 
 . / jiriii jjfM4jir^ic unn. 
 
 outright, :lfqhfal 
 And in his fall felled me ! 
 
 > oT
 
 aril 39?. oT 
 
 ,ir%rmrtt 
 
 DOOJ'"' 1 f-K 83flOXO"K|tJ'I~l!';)H "IDIJIQ fI3fl 1 
 
 yjtonolia am Jlnsb I 
 booO jgniJriOciinqaiyirfi 3i9vi3q ano eA 
 
 A MEETING WITH DESPAIR 
 
 A "I evening shaped I found me on a moor 
 Which sight could scarce sustain : 
 The black lean land, of featureless contour, 
 Was like a tract in pain. 
 
 " This scene, like my own life," I said, " is 
 
 one 
 
 Where many glooms abide ; 
 Toned by its fortune to a deadly dun 
 
 Lightless on every side. 
 
 149
 
 I5O A MEETING WITH DESPAIR 
 
 I glanced aloft and halted, pleasure-caught 
 
 To see the contrast there : 
 The ray-lit clouds gleamed glory ; and I 
 
 thought, 
 " There's solace everywhere ! " 
 
 Then bitter self-reproaches as I stood 
 
 I dealt me silently 
 As one perverse misrepresenting Good 
 
 In graceless mutiny. 
 
 MI, ;nw OMITH3M A 
 
 Against the horizon's dim-discerned wheel 
 
 A 
 
 A form rose, strange of mould : /7 
 
 noin // jj \ 
 
 That he was hideous, hopeless, I could feel 
 
 Rather than could . 
 
 1: 
 
 11 'Tis a dead spot, where even the light lies 
 spent 
 
 To darkness !" croaked the Thing. 
 " Not if you look aloft ! " said I, intent 
 
 On my new reasoning.
 
 A MEETING WITH DESPAIR 15! 
 
 " Yea but await awhile ! " he cried. " Ho- 
 
 ho! 
 
 Look now aloft and see ! " 
 I looked. There, too, sat night : Heaven's 
 
 radiant show 
 Had gone. Then chuckled he.
 
 !orf 
 
 oa 
 ,00) ,3i9riT 
 
 JSSi bin 
 .snog bi;H
 
 
 riy/o 
 
 on tefIT 
 
 bam^e eavil irrO 
 ! wonjl ion bib aW 
 
 ,3giiq8Jfn q:33b y 
 
 nl 
 UNKNOWING 
 
 WHEN, soul in soul reflected, 
 We breathed an aethered air, 
 When we neglected 
 All things elsewhere, 
 And left the friendly friendless 
 To keep our love aglow, 
 
 We deemed it endless . . . 
 We did not know ! 
 
 When, by mad passion goaded, 
 We planned to hie away,
 
 154 UNKNOWING 
 
 But, unforeboded, 
 The storm-shafts gray 
 So heavily down-pattered 
 That none could forthward go, 
 Our lives seemed shattered . 
 We did not know ! 
 
 When I found you, helpless lying, 
 And you waived my deep misprise, 
 
 And swore me, dying, 
 
 In phantom-guise 
 To wing to me when grieving, 
 And touch away my woe, 
 
 We kissed, believing . . *. ' 
 We did not know ! 
 
 
 But though, your powers outreckoning, 
 You hold you dead and dumb, 
 
 Or scorn my beckoning, 
 
 And will not come ; 
 And I say, " 'Twere mood ungainly 
 To store her memory so : " 
 
 I say it vainly 
 
 I feel and know !
 
 ^i 
 l 
 
 
 FRIENDS BEYOND 
 
 W 
 
 ILLIAM DEWY, Tranter Reuben, 
 
 Farmer Ledlow late at plough, 
 Robert's kin, and John's, and Ned's, 
 And the Squire, and Lady Susan, lie in Mell- 
 stock churchyard now ! 
 
 " Gone," I call them, gone for good, that 
 group of local hearts and heads ; 
 Yet at mothy curfew-tide, 
 
 And at midnight when the noon-heat breathes 
 it back from walls and leads,
 
 156 FRIENDS BEYOND 
 
 They've a way of whispering to me - 
 
 fellow-wight who yet abide 
 In the muted, measured note 
 
 Of a ripple under archways, or a lone 
 cave's stillicide : 
 
 " We have triumphed : this achievement 
 
 turns the bane to antidote, 
 Unsuccesses to success, 
 
 Many thought-worn eves and morrows 
 to a morrow free of thought. 
 
 " No more need we corn and clothing, 
 
 feel of old terrestrial stress ; 
 Chill detraction stirs no sigh ; 
 
 Fear of death has even bygorie us : death 
 gave all that we possess." 
 
 IV. D. " Ye mid burn the wold bass-viol that 
 
 I set such vallie by." 
 
 Squire. " You may hold the manse in fee, 
 You may wed my spouse, my children's 
 
 memory of me may decry."
 
 FRIENDS BEYOND 157 
 
 Lady. " You may have my rich brocades, my 
 laces ; take each household key ; 
 Ransack coffer, desk, bureau ; 
 
 H * Quiz the few poor treasures hid there, 
 con the letters kept by me." 
 
 Far. " Ye mid zell my favourite heifer, ye 
 
 mid let the charlock grow, 
 Foul the grinterns, give up thrift." 
 
 Wife. " If ye break my best blue china, chil- 
 dren, I shan't care or ho." 
 
 All. " We've no wish to hear the tidings, 
 how the people's fortunes shift ; 
 What your daily doings are ; 
 Who are wedded, born, divided ; if your 
 lives beat slow or swift. 
 
 " Curious not the least are we if our 
 
 intents you make or mar, 
 If you quire to our old tune, 
 
 If the City stage still passes, if the weirs 
 still roar afar."
 
 158 FRIENDS BEYOND 
 
 Thus, with very gods' composure, freed 
 
 those crosses late and soon 
 Which, in life, the Trine allow 
 
 (Why, none witteth), and ignoring all 
 that haps beneath the moon, 
 
 William Dewy, Tranter Reuben, Farmer 
 
 Ledlow late at plough, 
 Robert's kin, and John's, and Ned's, 
 And the Squire, and Lady Susan, mur- 
 mur mildly to me now. 

 
 
 gnimo'jri rfJiw bi<hol arnil 
 egrti/iJ e>3 am -zojteM 
 fcgnirii od ot y^coO 
 
 TO OUTER NATURE 
 
 s 
 
 HOW thee as I thought thee 
 
 When I early sought thee, 
 Omen-scouting, 
 All undoubting onjji 
 Love alone had wrought thee 
 
 '59
 
 l6o TO OUTER NATURE 
 
 Wrought thee for my pleasure, 
 Planned thee as a measure 
 
 For expounding 
 
 And resounding 
 Glad things that men treasure, 
 
 O for but a moment 
 Of that old endowment- 
 Light to gaily 
 See thy daily 
 Irised embowment ! 
 
 But such re-adorning 
 
 Time forbids with scorning 
 
 Makes me see things 
 
 Cease to be things 
 They were in my morning. 
 
 Fad'st thou, glow-forsaken, 
 Darkness-overtaken ! 
 Thy first sweetness, 
 Radiance, meetness, 
 None shall re-awaken.
 
 TO OUTER NATURE l6l 
 
 Why not sempiternal 
 Thou and I ? Our vernal 
 
 Brightness keeping, 
 
 Time outleaping ; 
 Passed the hodiernal !
 

 
 
 X TOT a line of her writing have I, 
 1 1 Not a thread of her hair, 
 No mark of her late time as dame in her 
 dwelling, whereby 
 
 I may picture her there ; 
 And in vain do I urge my unsight 
 
 To conceive my lost prize 
 At her close, whom I knew when her dreams 
 were upbrimming with light, 
 And with laughter her eyes. 
 
 16 3
 
 164 THOUGHTS OF PHENA 
 
 What scenes spread around her last days, 
 
 Sad, shining, or dim ? 
 
 Did her gifts and compassions enray and 
 enarch her sweet ways 
 
 With an aureate nimb ? 
 Or did life-light decline from her years, 
 
 And mischances control 
 
 Her full day-star ; unease, or regret, or fore- 
 bodings, or fears 
 
 Disennoble her soul ? 
 
 H.T 
 Thus I do but the phantom retain 
 
 Of the maiden of yore 
 
 As my relic ; yet haply the best of her fined 
 in my brain 
 
 It may be the more 
 That no line of her writing have I, 
 
 Nor a thread of her hair, 
 No mark of her late time as dame in her 
 dwelling, whereby 
 
 I may picture her there. 
 
 March 1890.
 
 . 
 
 ; boom luo j ym ; 
 
 1 : baho s 
 
 om Qmo w j II'oW 
 smoo biuorls 9v/ baMuob sV/ 
 
 SSK oi bayoj ^W 
 
 ni agvii^f iniuup rnoil qcaJ ' > 
 lo irfgil laioaa A 
 
 " ! aesrit SB aiios daijg J9c; H'aW " : bisa 
 9SK3D blnov/ fteiV/ orfj fngm n^iv/ v/on/l a 
 
 MIDDLE-AGE ENTHUSIASMS 
 
 To M. H. 
 
 WE passed where flag and flower 
 Signalled a jocund throng ; 
 We said : " Go to, the hour 
 Is apt ! " and joined the song ; 
 And, kindling, laughed at life and care, 
 Although we knew no laugh lay there. 
 
 We walked where shy birds stood 
 Watching us, wonder-dumb ;
 
 l68 MIDDLE-AGE ENTHUSIASMS 
 
 Their friendship met our mood ; 
 
 We cried : " We'll often come : 
 We'll come morn, noon, eve, everywhen ! " 
 We doubted we should come again. 
 
 We joyed to see strange sheens 
 Leap from quaint leaves in shade ; 
 A secret light of greens 
 They'd for their pleasure made. 
 We said : " We'll set such sorts as these ! " 
 
 We knew with night the wish would cease. 
 
 IdlM 
 
 " So sweet the place," we said, 
 
 " Its tacit tales so dear, 
 
 T "\ T ~W 
 Our thoughts, when breath has sped, 
 
 Will meet and mingle here ! " . . . 
 
 " Words ! " mused we. " Passed the mortal 
 
 . , 
 door, 
 
 Our thoughts will reach this nook no more." 
 
 .iliJA 
 
 dfimb-'i
 
 
 "> 
 
 Ilcma briB adiv/oig J^siO 
 jg-j j^rf^ii^r. nani ot raarll v/ori8 
 IN A WOOD 
 
 S<-,rTHE WOODLANDERS" 
 pdo't ^nilqfiB mil;* srlt ortifl 
 
 PALE beech and pine-tree blue, 
 Set in one clay, 
 Bough to bough cannot you 
 
 Bide out your day ?' 
 When the rains skim and skip, 
 Why mar sweet comradeship, 
 Blighting with poison-drip 
 Neighbourly spray ? 
 
 f ,tif, a'lfivn vIII 
 Heart-halt and spirit-lame, [i K "j 
 City-opprest,
 
 IN A WOOD 
 
 Unto this wood I came 
 
 As to a nest ; 
 Dreaming that sylvan peace 
 
 Offered the harrowed ease 
 
 Nature a soft release 
 
 From men's unrest. 
 
 But, having entered in, 
 
 Great growths and small 
 Show them to men akin 
 
 Combatants all ! #1, 
 Sycamore shoulders oak, 
 Bines the slim sapling yoke, 
 Ivy-spun halters choke 
 Elms stout and tall. 
 
 Touches from ash, O wych, 
 Sting you like scorn ! 
 
 You, too, brave hollies, twitch 
 Sidelong from thorn. 
 
 Even the rank poplars bear 
 
 Illy a rival's air, 4 
 
 Cankering in black despair 
 If overborne.
 
 IN A WOOD 
 
 Since, then, no grace I find 
 
 Taught me of trees, 
 Turn I back to my kind, 
 
 Worthy as these. 
 There at least smiles abound, 
 There discourse trills around, 
 There, now and then, are found 
 Life-loyalties. 
 
 1887: 1896. 
 
 Never to [ ri.^s ihy cosy casino i 
 Or \v:ke Uts re;<ih Was as hen
 
 1 
 
 .nig 
 jrf^ufiT 
 
 .rruT 
 
 > : 
 
 ' ! 
 
 :)di faru? v/on , 
 
 vths and s
 
 ^r.i 
 
 t) ..( I Ji t>d 08 
 
 t \(b yd -{fib ffainirmb tmirn bri 3rn "iO 
 e k> artifte 't>t ^aua liyiii biui bnA 
 
 lutJrt ni )ud aadt oJ aqiidfi I IliT 
 alda^l bru; IK! rri narft bnA 
 t>d iliv/ rlhnT .aa^yon^ nadj bnA 
 
 TO A LADY 
 
 OFFENDED BY A BOOK OF THE WRITER'S 
 
 NOW that my page upcloses, doomed, 
 maybe, 
 
 Never to press thy cosy cushions more, 
 Or wake thy ready Yeas as heretofore, 
 Or stir thy gentle vows of faith in me : 
 
 Knowing thy natural receptivity, 
 
 I figure that, as flambeaux banish eve, 
 
 My sombre image, warped by insidious heave 
 
 Of those less forthright, must lose place in thee.
 
 174 T0 A LADY 
 
 So be it. I have borne such. Let thy dreams 
 
 Of me and mine diminish day by day, 
 
 And yield their space to shine of smugger 
 
 things ; 
 
 Till I shape to thee but in fitful gleams, 
 And then in far and feeble visitings, 
 And then surcease. Truth will be truth 
 
 alway. 
 
 YCIAJ 
 
 wo 
 
 ' 
 , 
 
 iO ; 
 
 t7 
 .arjgri I 
 
 .
 
 ; 
 
 I 
 
 
 
 T {ititT cjtrn; 
 ,nwon/irw UK 9'i ;- 
 ud tebluoo uoH) ted) rteiw I 
 
 sH 
 
 A -I, child, thou art but half thy darling 
 mother's ; 
 
 Hers couldst thou wholly be, 
 My light in thee would outglow all in 
 
 others ; 
 
 She would relive to me. 
 But niggard Nature's trick of birth 
 
 Bars, lest she overjoy, 
 Renewal of the loved on earth 
 Save with alloy. 
 
 '75
 
 176 TO AN ORPHAN CHILD 
 
 The Dame has no regard, alas, my maiden, 
 For love and loss like mine 
 
 No sympathy with mind-sight memory-laden ; 
 Only with fickle eyne. 
 
 To her mechanic artistry 
 
 My dreams are all unknown, 
 
 And why I wish that thou couldst be 
 But One's alone ! 
 

 
 
 LSTIONING 
 
 ,br- 
 
 NATURE'S 
 
 WHEN I look forth at dawning, 
 pool, 
 
 Field, flock, and lonely tree, 
 All seem to gaze at me 
 
 Like chastened children sitting silent in a 
 school ; 
 
 Their faces dulled, constrained, and worn, 
 As though the master's ways 
 Through the long teaching days 
 Their first terrestrial zest had chilled and 
 overborne. 
 
 177 M
 
 178 NATURE'S QUESTIONING 
 
 And on them stirs, in lippings mere 
 (As if once clear in call, 
 But now scarce breathed at all) 
 " We wonder, ever wonder, why we find us 
 here ! 
 
 " Has some Vast Imbecility, 
 
 Mighty to build and blend, 
 But impotent to tend, 
 Framed us in jest, and left us now to hazardry ? 
 
 " Or come we of an Automaton 
 
 Unconscious of our pains ? . . . 
 Or are we live remains 
 Of Godhead dying downwards, brain and eye 
 
 now gone ? 
 
 J to 
 
 " Or is it that some high Plan betides, 
 As yet not understood, 
 Of Evil stormed by Good, 
 We the Forlorn Hope over which Achieve- 
 ment strides ? "
 
 NATURES QUESTIONING 179 
 
 Thus things around. No answerer I. ... 
 Meanwhile the winds, and rains, 
 And Earth's old glooms and pains 
 Are still the same, and gladdest Life Death 
 neighbours nigh.
 
 
 I
 
 bruin 
 
 THE IMPERCIPIENT 
 
 (AT A CATHEDRAL SERVICE) 
 
 THAT from this bright believing band 
 An outcast I should be, 
 That faiths by which my comrades stand 
 
 Seem fantasies to me, 
 And mirage-mists their Shining Land, 
 Is a drear destiny. 
 
 Why thus my soul should be consigned 
 To infelicity; ius */>,
 
 l82 THE IMPERCIPIENT 
 
 Why always I must feel as blind 
 To sights my brethren see, 
 
 Why joys they've found I cannot find, 
 Abides a mystery. 
 
 Since heart of mine knows not that ease 
 Which they know ; since it be 
 
 That He who breathes All's Well to these 
 Breathes no All's- Well to me, 
 
 My lack might move their sympathies 
 
 And Christian charity ! 
 
 J 
 
 I am like a gazer who should mark 
 An inland company 
 
 Standing upfingered, with, " Hark ! hark ! 
 
 i 
 The glorious distant sea ! " 
 
 And feel, " Alas, 'tis but yon dark 
 
 i 
 And wind-swept pine to me ! " 
 
 . 
 
 Yet I would bear my shortcomings 
 
 With meet tranquillity, 
 But for the charge that blessed things 
 
 I'd liefer have unbe.

 
 THE IMPERCIPIENT 185 
 
 O, doth a bird deprived of wings 
 Go earth-bound wilfully ! 
 
 * t o 
 
 Enough. As yet disquiet clings 
 About us. Rest shall we.
 
 
 
 
 

 
 Ak aiijv^flbiijp; froirlW 
 :>*htf#>!3rl 
 And no^tetriirt* '*jjtf ' 
 
 .r 
 bluoV/ 
 
 W bnA 
 nwo g'ovovl eA 
 
 ono/te irigil-avol 3flt -iDvon isY 
 
 i,-.->NN 
 
 .tioori'ibttfi ^O 
 
 WHEN \ve j^s strangers sought 
 Their catering care, 
 Veiled smiles bespoke their thought 
 
 Of what we were. 
 They warmed as they opined 
 
 Us more than friends^ 1 3 
 That we had all resigned 
 For love ? sf dear ends. 
 
 O Ion K: 
 
 And that swift sympathy 
 With living love
 
 l88 AT AN INN 
 
 Which quicks the world maybe 
 
 The spheres above, 
 Made them our ministers, 
 
 Moved them to say, 
 "Ah, God, that bliss like theirs 
 
 Would flush our day ! " 
 
 And we were left alone 
 
 As Love's own pair ; 
 Yet never the love-light shone 
 
 Between us there ! 
 But that which chilled the breath 
 
 Of afternoon, 
 And palsied unto death 
 
 The pane-fly's tune. 
 
 '> ibri) ajloqead riolima bsIiaV 
 The kiss their zeal foretold,/ )Q 
 
 And now deemed come, 
 Came not : within his hold 
 
 Love lingered numb. 
 Why cast he on our port io r> I 
 
 A bloom not ours ? 
 Why shaped us for his sportuft 1 
 
 In after-hours ?
 
 AT AN INN 
 
 As we seemed we were not 
 
 That day afar, 
 And now we seem not what 
 
 We aching are. 
 O severing sea and land, 
 
 O laws of men, 
 Ere death, once let us stand 
 
 As we stood then !
 
 bnA 
 
 . 
 
 38, O 
 
 
 
 oiCi
 
 3 " 
 
 bltjoo risrU DHB ; B^SEg wie tmijg Difcj JtriT 
 THE SLOW NATURE 
 
 (AN INCIDENT OF FROOM VALLEY) 
 
 " r I ^HY husband poor, poor Heart !^is 
 
 __ dead - 
 
 }riov/*sh.>;, , , J'^P'i V'OV, b/Ji; I bootei bnA 
 
 Dead, out by Moreford Rise ; 
 A bull escaped the barton-shed, 
 
 Gored him, and there he lies!" 
 
 " Ha, ha go away ! Tis a tale, methink, 
 Thou joker Kit !" laughed she. 
 
 " I've ^tnown thee many a year, Kit Twink, 
 And ever hast thou fooled me ! "
 
 192 THE SLOW NATURE 
 
 " But, Mistress Damon I can swear 
 
 Thy goodman John is dead ! 
 And soon th'lt hear their feet who bear 
 His body to his bed." 
 
 So unwontedly sad was the merry man's 
 
 face 
 
 That face which had long deceived 
 That she gazed and gazed ; and then could 
 
 trace 
 The truth there ; and she believed. 
 
 She laid a hand on the dresser-ledge, 
 
 And scanned far Egdon-side ; 
 And stood ; and you heard the wind-swept 
 
 sedge 
 
 fe 'i t>ilt btxjfioau Ilr/d A 
 
 And the rippling Froom ; till she cried : 
 
 o 
 
 " O my chamber's untidied, unmade my bed, 
 Though the day has begun to wear ! 
 
 ' What a slovenly hussif ! ' it will be said, 
 When they all go up my stair ! "
 
 THE SLOW NATURE 193 
 
 She disappeared ; and the joker stood 
 
 Depressed by his neighbour's doom, 
 
 And amazed that a wife struck to widowhood 
 Thought first of her unkempt room. 
 
 But a fortnight thence she could take no food, 
 And she pined in a slow decay ; 
 
 While Kit soon lost his mournful mood 
 And laughed in his ancient way. 
 
 1894.
 
 
 4 
 .Mr terf-Y 
 
 )0,3rlfe oonarlt Jdsinho'i c 
 
 , 
 
 iri v mai 
 srfe 
 
 : c=rfUso{ nooe JiH, sli 
 
 bari^oi;! bnA 
 
 ' '}:: , '
 
 fl3HTA3W A3M- SSA3 J3V/H A XI d(>I 
 
 lasxhg bri fc;Kr{ 
 
 /jfiiviL- nuf{^ hlnov/'I 
 IN A EWELEAZE NEAR 
 
 ,100 WEATHERBURY " 
 
 THE years have gathered grayly 
 Since I danced upon this leaze 
 
 
 With one who kindled gaily 
 
 Love's fitful ecstasies ! 
 But despite the term as teacher, 
 
 I remain what I was then 
 In each essential feature 
 
 Of the fantasies of men. 
 
 Yet I note the little chisel 
 
 Of never-napping Time, 
 195
 
 196 IN A EWELEAZE NEAR WEATHERBURY 
 
 Defacing ghast and grizzel 
 
 The blazon of my prime. 
 When at night he thinks me sleeping, 
 
 I feel him boring sly 
 Within my bones, and heaping 
 
 Quaintest pains for by-and-by. 
 
 Still, I'd go the world with Beauty, 
 I would laugh with her and sing, 
 
 I would shun divinest duty 
 To resume her worshipping. 
 
 But she'd scorn my brave endeavour, 
 She would not balm the breeze 
 
 By murmuring " Thine for ever ! " 
 
 ! 'jynici 
 As she did upon this leaze. 
 
 1890. 
 
 8K nnoJ aril sirqeab juQ. 
 
 nsrf) 3&W I tBflw nifimai I 
 
 91Ijt9} IjSfJn3883 rfoKS til 
 
 m lo eaieulnfil arft 1O 
 
 n 
 
 f.-tvsn }
 
 ADDITIONS
 
 IT T a a A
 
 . 
 
 I 
 
 ussri srf bltrow 
 The 
 
 ne prior 
 
 rt) iorgdinBn tnlt iiq'uq isvo woirlt oT 
 
 THE FIRE AT TRANTER 
 
 SWEATLEY'S 
 
 ; abiidii^iiA.m^igsbrid fooote sfquoD sriT 
 
 THEY had long met o' Zundays her 
 true love and she 
 
 And at junketings, maypoles, and flings ; 
 But she bode wi' a thirtover uncle, and he 
 Swore by noon and by night that her good- 
 
 man should be 
 Naibour Sweatley a gaffer oft weak at the 
 
 knee 
 From taking o' sommat more cheerful than 
 
 ^n&QfntSstsifr' faa-rfjfc : 
 
 Who tranted, and moved people's things.
 
 2O2 THE FIRE AT TRANTER SWEATLEY S 
 
 She cried, " O pray pity me ! " Nought 
 
 would he hear ; 
 
 Then with wild rainy eyes she obeyed. 
 She chid when her Love was for clinking off 
 
 wi' her. 
 
 The pa'son was told, as the season drew near 
 To throw over pu'pit the names of the peair 
 As fitting one flesh to be made. 
 
 The wedding-day dawned and the morning 
 
 drew on ; 
 
 The couple stood bridegroom and bride ; 
 The evening was passed, and when midnight 
 
 had gone j'/pl 
 
 The folks horned out, " God save, the King," 
 
 and anon 
 
 The two home-along gloomily hied. 
 od bluorie njsrn 
 
 The lover Tim Tankens mourned heart-sick 
 
 and drear 
 
 To be thus of his darling deprived : 
 He roamed in the dark ath'art field, mound, 
 
 and mere,
 
 THE FIRE AT TRANTER SWEATLEY S 2O3 
 
 And, a'most without knowing it, found himself 
 
 near 
 
 The house of the tranter, and now of his Dear, 
 Where the lantern-light showed 'em arrived. 
 
 tnfdgH&fcirtre- 
 
 The bride sought her cham'er so calm and 
 
 so pale 
 
 That a Northern had thought her resigned; 
 But to eyes that had seen her in tide-times of 
 
 weal 
 Like the white cloud o' smoke, the red battle- 
 
 field's vail, 
 That look spak' of havoc behind. 
 
 The bridegroom yet laitered a beaker to 
 
 drain, 
 
 Then reeled to the linhay for more, 
 When the candle-snoff kindled some chaff 
 
 from his grain " 
 Flames spread, and red vlankers, wi' might 
 
 and wi' main, $fi^ 
 
 And round beams, thatch, and chimley-tun 
 roar.
 
 2O4 THE FIRE AT TRANTER SWEATLEY's 
 
 Young Tim away yond, rafted up by the 
 
 light, 
 
 Through brimble and underwood tears, rfT 
 Till he comes to the orchet, when crooping 
 
 thereright 
 In the lewth of a codlin-tree, bivering wi' 
 
 fright, 
 Wi' on'y her night-rail to screen her from 
 
 sight, 
 His lonesome young Barbree appears. 
 
 Her cwold little figure half-naked he views 
 
 Played about by the frolicsome breeze, 
 Her light-tripping totties, her ten little tooes, 
 All bare and besprinkled wi' Fall's chilly 
 
 dews, 
 While her great gallied eyes, through her 
 
 hair hanging Ioose,.. 3lfan 
 Sheened as stars through a tardle o' trees. 
 
 She eyed en ; and, as when a weir-hatch is 
 
 drawn, 
 Her tears, penned by terror afore,
 
 With a rushing of sobs in a shower were 
 
 strawn, 
 Till her power to pour 'em seemed wasted 
 
 and gone 
 From the heft o' misfortune she bore. 
 
 "0 Tim, my own Tim I must call 'ee-I 
 
 will ! 
 
 All the world ha' turned round on me so ! 
 Can you help her who loved 'ee, though acting 
 
 so ill ? 
 
 Can you pity her misery feel for her still ? 
 When worse than her body so quivering and 
 
 chill 
 
 Is her heart in its winter o' woe ! 
 no ffj-js'/fVio ^.rjorl K'miT faorbfiai rwsb )A 
 
 " I think I mid almost ha' borne it," she said, 
 "Had my griefs one by one come to 
 
 hand 
 
 But O, to be slave to thik husbird for bread, 
 And then, upon top o' that, driven to wed, 
 And then, upon top o' that, burnt out o' bed, 
 Is more than my nater can stand ! "
 
 2O6 THE FIRE AT TRANTER SWEATLEY's 
 
 Tim's soul like a lion 'ithin en outsprung 
 (Tim had a great soul when his feelings were 
 
 wrung) 
 
 " Feel for 'ee, dear Barbree ? " he cried ; 
 And his warm working-jacket about her he 
 
 flung, 
 Made a back, horsed her up, till behind him 
 
 she clung 
 Like a chiel on a gipsy, her figure uphung 
 
 By the sleeves that around her he tied. 
 * 
 
 9 H| Q 
 
 Over piggeries, and mixens, and apples, and 
 
 hay, 
 
 They lumpered straight into the night ; 
 And finding bylong where a halter-path lay, 
 At dawn reached Tim's house, on'y seen on 
 
 their way 
 
 By a naibour or two who were up wi' the day ; 
 But they gathered no clue to the sight. 
 
 Then tender Tim Tankens he searched here 
 
 and there 
 For some garment to clothe her fair skin ;
 
 THE FIRE AT TRANTER SWEATLEY S 2OJ 
 
 But though he had breeches and waistcoats 
 
 to spare, 
 He had nothing quite seemly for Barbree to 
 
 wear, >w : 
 
 Who, half shrammed to death, stood and cried 
 ^ vf j f l on a chair 
 At the caddie she found herself jji. . 
 
 .-jnolfife id-rna his?. " 1 isinmt fjflt aViariW " 
 There was one thing to do, and that one thing 
 
 he did, 
 
 He lent her some clouts of his own, 
 And she took 'em perforce ; and while in 'em 
 
 she slid, 
 
 Tim turned to the winder, as modesty bid, 
 Thinking, " O that the picter my duty keeps 
 
 hid 
 To the sight 9' my eyes mid be shown IV^ 
 
 OOtl &KW 
 
 In the tallet he stowed her; there huddled: 
 
 she lay, 
 Shortening sleeves, legs, and tails to her 
 
 limbs ; 
 But most o' the time in a mortal bad way,
 
 2O8 THE FIRE AT TRANTER SWEATLEY'S 
 
 Well knowing that there'd be the divel to pay 
 If 'twere found that, instead o' the elements' 
 
 prey, 
 She was living in lodgings at Tim's. 
 
 1 jarfififiuaite;. 3fc dirjo r IW 
 
 " Where's the tranter ? " said men and boys ; 
 
 " where can er be?" 
 
 " Where's the tranter ? " said Barbree alone. 
 " Where on e'th is the tranter ? " said every- 
 
 bod-y : 
 
 They sifted the dust of his perished roof-tree, 
 And all they could find was a bone. 
 
 Then the uncle cried, " Lord, pray have 
 
 mercy on me!" 
 And in terror began to repent. 
 But before 'twas complete, and till sure she 
 
 was free, 
 Barbree drew up her loft-ladder, tight turned 
 
 her key 
 Tim bringing up breakfast and dinner and 
 
 tea 
 Till the news of her hiding got vent.
 
 THE FIRE AT TRANTER SWEATLEY S 209 
 
 Then followed the custom-kept Tout, shout, 
 and flare 
 
 Of a skimmington-ride through the naibour- 
 
 hood, ere 
 Folk had proof o' wold Sweatley's decay. 
 
 Whereupon decent people all stood in a stare, 
 
 Saying Tim and his lodger should risk it, and 
 pair : 
 
 So he took her to church. An' some laugh- 
 ing lads there 
 
 Cried to Tim, " After Sweatley ! " She said, 
 
 " I declare 
 I stand as a maiden to-day ! " 
 
 Written 1 866; printed 1875.
 
 3flT 
 
 nil abh-notgnirniniik t; iO 
 
 j'jh fc'vjHiy/3 hlovA 'o iooiq bfift jtlo 1 
 'i^j^o^l, IJ^.3Jq()^c|. inaosb 
 ! ifl bnc i 
 
 :s"! v Ki$J?i> v,? m f r J > l,.^ i
 
 I 
 )JKe .t;.fk '' 
 
 V-IL'V 
 
 in 
 
 HEIRESS AND ARCHITECT 
 
 FOR A. W. B. 
 
 SHE sought the Studios, beckoning to her 
 side 
 An arch-designer, for she planned to build. 
 
 He was of wise contrivance, deeply skilled 
 
 . r J on // 
 
 In every intervolve of high and wide- 
 
 J no J " 
 
 Well fit to be her guide. 
 
 ,'fj; ' 
 
 " Whatever it be," 
 Responded he, 
 With cold, clear voice, and cold, clear view,
 
 212 HEIRESS AND ARCHITECT . 
 
 " In true accord with prudent fashionings 
 For such vicissitudes as living brings, 
 And thwarting not the law of stable things, 
 That will I do." 
 
 " Shape me," she said, " high halls with 
 
 tracery 
 
 And open ogive-work, that scent and hue 
 Of buds, and travelling bees, may come in 
 
 through, 
 
 The note of birds, and singings of the sea, 
 For these are much to me." 
 
 o* gninoslosd ,eoibut2 arft irfguoa 3H O 
 
 " An idle whim ! " 
 Broke forth from him 
 
 Whom nought could warm to gallantries^ 
 " Cede all these buds and birds, the zephyr's 
 
 call, 
 
 And scents, and hues, and things that falter all, 
 And choose as best the close and surly 
 wall, 
 
 For winters freeze." ""^i
 

 
 HEIRESS AND ARCHITECT 215 
 
 " Then frame," she cried, " wide fronts of 
 
 crystal glass, 
 
 That I may show my laughter and my light 
 Light like the sun's by day, the stars' by 
 
 night- 
 
 Till rival heart-queens, envying, wail, 'Alas, 
 Her glory ! ' as they pass." 
 
 Hiw uov to'* 
 
 " O maid misled ! " 
 He sternly said, 
 
 Whose facile foresight pierced her dire ; 
 " Where shall abide the soul when, sick of glee, 
 It shrinks, and hides, and prays no eye may 
 
 see ? 
 Those house them best who house for secrecy, 
 
 For you will tire." 
 
 : '6n 1 
 
 ; 3V9 gnnuasam \o m;m 9iiJ ,_oil blr,3 
 " A little chamber, then, with swan and dove 
 Ranged thickly, and engrailed with rare device 
 Of reds and purples, for a Paradise 
 Wherein my Love may greet me, I my Love, 
 When he shall know thereof ? "
 
 2l6 HEIRESS AND ARCHITECT 
 
 "This, too, is ill," 
 
 He answered still, 
 
 The man who swayed her like a shade. 
 " An hour will come when sight of such 
 
 sweet nook 
 
 Would bring a bitterness too sharp to brook, 
 When brighter eyes have won away his look ; 
 
 For you will fade." 
 
 Then said she faintly : " O, contrive some 
 
 way- 
 Some narrow winding turret, quite mine own, 
 To reach a loft where I may grieve alone ! 
 It is a slight thing ; hence do not, I pray, 
 This last dear fancy slay ! " 
 
 " Such winding ways 
 
 Fit not your days," 
 Said he, the man of measuring eye ; 
 " I must even fashion as my rule declares, 
 To wit : Give space (since life ends unawares) 
 To hale a coffined corpse adown the stairs ; 
 
 For you will die." 
 
 1867.
 
 ;'. 
 
 ' 
 
 ! h^iki^bwal *(KIJK/ li ffldtf rfsjnonH 
 iijtfi<saiiofi bnA 
 m&di ni 
 
 THE TWO MEN 
 
 THERE were two youths of equal age, 
 Wit, station, strength, and parentage; 
 They studied at the selfsame schools, 
 And shaped their thoughts by common 
 
 rules 
 And r -pbediinirf, ^k^ioitdaiwiiijo) IB\ ooT 
 
 One pondered on the life of man, 
 His hopes, his ending, and began 
 To rate the Market's sordid war 
 
 As something scarce worth living for. 
 
 217
 
 21 8 THE TWO MEN 
 
 " I'll brace to higher aims," said he, 
 " I'll further Truth and Purity ; 
 Thereby to mend the mortal lot 
 And sweeten sorrow. Thrive I not, 
 
 " Winning their hearts, my kind will give 
 Enough that I may lowly live, 
 And house my Love in some dim dell, 
 For pleasing them and theirs so well." 
 
 Idly attired, with features wan, 
 
 In secret swift he laboured on : 
 
 Such press of power had brought much gold 
 
 Applied to things of meaner mould. 
 
 \'A ,ii // 
 Sometimes he wished his aims had been 
 
 ' )yiDI/J3 "(31! I 
 
 To gather gains like other men ; 
 
 Then thanked his God he'd traced his track 
 
 Too far for wish to drag him back. 
 
 He looked from his loft one day 
 To where his slighted garden lay ; 
 Nettles and hemlock hid each lawn, 
 And every flower was starved and gone.
 
 THE TWO MEN 219 
 
 He fainted in his heart, whereon 
 He rose, and sought his plighted one, 
 Resolved to loose her bond withal> 
 Lest she should perish in his fall. 
 
 He met her with a careless air, 
 As though he'd ceased to find her fair, 
 And said : " True love is dust to me ; 
 I cannot kiss : I tire of thee ! " 
 
 (That she might scorn him was he fain, 
 To put her sooner out of pain ; 
 For incensed love breathes quick and dies, 
 When famished love a-lingering lies.) 
 
 Once done, his soul was so betossed, 
 It found no more the force it lost': 
 Hope was his only drink and food, 
 And hope extinct, decay ensued. 
 
 And, living long so closely penned, 
 He had not kept a single friend ; 
 He dwindled thin as phantoms be, 
 And drooped to death in poverty. rjjo/(l
 
 22O THE TWO MEN 
 
 Meantime his schoolmate had gone out 
 To join the fortune-finding rout ; 
 He liked the winnings of the mart, 
 But wearied of the working part. 
 
 He turned to seek a privy lair, 
 Neglecting note of garb and hair, 
 And day by day reclined and thought 
 How he might live by doing nought. 
 
 "I plan a valued scheme," he said 
 To some. " But lend me of your bread, 
 And when the vast result looms nigh, 
 In profit you shall stand as I." 
 
 Yet they took counsel to restrain 
 Their kindness till they saw the gain ; 
 And, since his substance now had run, 
 He rose to do what might be done. 
 
 He went unto his Love by night, 
 And said : " My Love, I faint in fight : 
 Deserving as thou dost a crown, 
 My cares shall never drag thee down."
 
 THE TWO MEN 221 
 
 (He had descried a maid whose line 
 Would hand her on much corn and wine, 
 And held her far in worth above 
 One who could only pray and love.) 
 
 But this Fair read him ; whence he failed 
 To do the deed so blithely hailed ; 
 He saw his projects wholly marred, 
 And gloom and want oppressed him hard ; 
 
 Till, living to so mean an end, 
 Whereby he'd lost his every friend, 
 He perished in a pauper sty, 
 His mate the dying pauper nigh. 
 
 And moralists, reflecting, said, 
 As " dust to dust " in burial read 
 Was echoed from each coffin-lid, 
 "These men were like in all they did." 
 
 1866.
 
 .d 
 
 t'lcl 
 
 i.3rfJ ob oT 
 
 :3ft$? &$${ 
 
 i*Jwfe- r "> fljfljrihfefi 
 
 ,i(9$ ^-..iii -wfit^ipiWffM
 
 
 
 ' 
 
 oqijjq , 
 )ia .8i3i3woH fiBmurf I 
 
 on: \vi>o si , 
 
 bnuJqii to iraqa horls amos gnirrniw nl 
 Life h^ng qn Choosing.--^ Yea ,K 
 rii no " 
 
 t -(ti..i LINES f> a 
 
 Spoken by Miss ADA REHAN / /^^ Lyceum Theatre, 
 July 23, 1890, at a performance on behalf of Lady 
 Jeune's Holiday Fund for City Children 
 
 ssalu q ^ibqgns-rt Jo oim j brfl ' c ai^rw Bnajf^ 
 EFORE we part to alien thoughts and 
 
 B 
 
 aims 
 
 
 Permit the one brief word the occasion clamJ : 
 
 When mumming and graVe projects are 
 
 11- jit "nrwiurni eJirrft yd lit rta^'iow brrA 
 allied, 
 
 TL -n -i LUJ -Q' i-r: j 
 
 Perhaps an Epilogue is justified. 
 
 pnpbpoo boabni ob IfirnaqwK JrlgiM tenT 
 
 Our under-purpose has, in truth, to-day 
 Commanded most our musings; least the play :
 
 224 LINES 
 
 A purpose futile but for your good-will 
 
 Swiftly responsive to the cry of ill : 
 
 A purpose all too limited ! to aid 
 
 Frail human flowerets, sicklied by the 
 
 shade, 
 
 In winning some short spell of upland breeze, 
 Or strengthening sunlight on the level leas. 
 
 Who has not marked, where the full cheek 
 
 should be, 
 
 Incipient lines of lank flaccidity, 
 Lymphatic pallor where the pink should 
 
 glow 
 And where the throb of transport, pulses 
 
 bas Iow ? ~~Ti- nails oJ lisq s / 3flO^3 (~\ 
 Most tragical of shapes from Pole to Line, 
 
 O wondering child, unwitting Time's design, 
 Why should Art add to Nature's quandary, 
 And worsen ill by thus immuring thee ? 
 -That races do despite unto their own, 
 That Might supernal do indeed condone 
 Wrongs individual for the general ease, 
 Instance the proof in victims such as these.
 
 LINES 225 
 
 Launched into thoroughfares too thronged 
 before, 
 
 Mothered by those whose protest is " No 
 more ! " 
 
 Vitalized without option : who shall say 
 
 That did Life hang on choosing Yea or 
 Nay 
 
 They had not scorned it with such pen- 
 alty, 
 
 And nothingness implored of Destiny ? 
 
 And yet behind the horizon smile serene 
 The down, the cornland, and the stretching 
 
 green 
 Space the child's heaven : scenes which at 
 
 least ensure 
 Some palliative for ill they cannot cure. 
 
 Dear friends now moved by this poor show 
 
 of ours 
 To make your own long joy in buds and 
 
 bowers 
 
 P
 
 226 LINES 
 
 For one brief while the joy of infant eyes, 
 Changing their urban murk to paradise 
 You have our thanks ! may your reward in- 
 
 clude 
 More than .our thanks, far more : their grati- 
 
 tude. 
 
 ur! 
 
 n^nirnon bo 
 
 Jay. 
 
 oT
 
 an; 'j;iifii oi t j> 
 fisq ataf t elfi9jg 
 
 eiiii aa^Kfla bnA 
 lo agniddoirfi rfiiW 
 
 "I LOOK INTO MY GLASS" 
 
 I LOOK into my glass, 
 And view my wasting skin, 
 And say, "Would God it came to 
 
 pass 
 My heart had shrunk as thin ! " 
 
 For then, I, undistrest 
 
 By hearts grown cold to me, 
 
 Could lonely wait my endless rest 
 
 With equanimity. 
 
 227
 
 228 "l LOOK INTO MY GLASS " 
 
 But Time, to make me grieve, 
 Part steals, lets part abide ; 
 And shakes this fragile frame at eve 
 With throbbings of noontide. 
 
 88AJO YM OTOI 2OOJ I" 
 
 END OF WESSEX POEMS 
 
 nitc/rjy vfii woiv bnA 
 
 
 
 ti boO foluoV/ n .vBa : 
 
 nidt 
 
 rtit&d yfl 
 riol bluoD,
 
 POEMS OF THE PAST AND 
 THE PRESENT
 
 A TgAT 3HT HO 8M 
 TH38HJH 3HT
 
 -Juo 
 
 ; 03it ,3u ;?. ,3f IDC 
 
 ebssb fUiv/ bsnioold anor'xaa ^nixB"// is 
 
 ,3 nob ibw 
 
 . . , no*// KBW Jifiad g'bhov/ sdt bnA 
 '3Y3 "i tdghd jsom eisri io boab 
 
 sd oi 
 IdguorfJ a'^nO-IIA adt ni ar, yiuo mo'ii bid 9u 
 
 nan sviff giB^y gmn^qii HrT 
 V.R. 1819-1901 
 
 A REVERIE 
 
 MOMENTS the mightiest pass uncalen- 
 dared, 
 
 And when the Absolute 
 In backward Time outgave the deedful 
 
 word 
 
 Whereby all life is stirred : 
 " Let one be born and throned whose mould 
 
 shall constitute 
 The norm of every royal-reckoned attribute," 
 
 No mortal knew or heard. 
 931
 
 232 A REVERIE 
 
 But in due days the purposed Life out- 
 
 shone 
 
 Serene, sagacious, free ; 
 Her waxing seasons bloomed with deeds 
 
 well done, 
 
 And the world's heart was won . . . 
 Yet may the deed of hers most bright in eyes 
 
 to be 
 Lie hid from ours as in the All-One's thought 
 
 lay she 
 Till ripening years have run. 
 
 SUNDAY NIGHT, 
 
 27 th January 1901. 
 
 sri) 8TO3M 
 
 frwsy/jbsd nl 
 biov/ 
 
 bsno'iri) bnu mod ad ario Ja^I
 
 WAR POEMS
 
 8MEO4 flAW
 
 ; gnhqa 8 avilr, ^aav^a! nniuJirje ac v/olb 
 98 arij noqu Juo awfnb jsori ffofis ?R bn 
 oigsiJ ^dl eail rfoiflw bno^a 
 anon .aeu^o adi 1o euoidub 3fio"/ 
 
 sdt qi.ay/ ,x;t>ii| 
 
 EMBARCATION 
 
 (Southampton Docks: October, 1899) 
 
 HERE, where Vespasian's legions struck 
 the sands, 
 
 And Cerdic with his Saxons entered in, 
 And Henry's army leapt afloat to win 
 Convincing triumphs over neighbour lands, 
 
 Vaster battalions press for further strands, 
 To argue in the self-same bloody mode 
 Which this late age of thought, and pact, and 
 
 code, 
 Still fails to mend. Now deckward tramp the 
 
 bands, 
 
 *35
 
 236 EMBARCATION 
 
 Yellow as autumn leaves, alive as spring ; 
 And as each host draws out upon the sea 
 Beyond which lies the tragical To-be, 
 None dubious of the cause, none murmuring, 
 
 Wives, sisters, parents, wave white hands and 
 
 smile, 
 As if they knew not that they weep the while. 
 
 UOITAOJJAaMS 
 
 ,abna srft 
 
 ,ni boiaint) enoxnS sir! rfiiw aibiaO bnA 
 niw o^ Ji>oRj> iqfial ^rrni; e'^insH bnA 
 n/odrlisn isvo grtinuhl 
 
 bom yboold tfa8-i]32 orfJ ni 3ogi oT 
 bn ,)ciLrori* io 0*: 3)^1 eirb rioirlW 
 
 orfJ mfiiJ biKw^Ddb woM .bnam ot alicl HitS
 
 m f?en| 
 
 r! arit Ilerfs 
 biroiq fb9 ni ^fq svurf t mK9if3 aw 
 
 ot mooe ,:j;HIboO nwoig ,ifigijoiitq bn 
 
 DEPARTURE 
 
 T: .'' : )5 .(.'NLl-'j.'S SOLILOQUY 
 
 (Southampton Docks: October, 1899) 
 
 WHILE the far farewell music thins and 
 fails, 
 And the broad bottoms rip the bearing 
 
 brine 
 
 All smalling slowly to the gray sea line 
 And each significant red smoke-shaft pales, 
 
 Keen sense of severance everywhere prevails, 
 Which shapes the late long tramp of mounting 
 
 men 
 
 To seeming words that ask and ask again : 
 "How long, O striving Teutons, Slavs, and 
 
 Gaels 
 
 217
 
 238 DEPARTURE 
 
 Must your wroth reasonings trade on lives like 
 
 these, 
 
 That are as puppets in a playing hand ? 
 When shall the saner softer polities 
 Whereof we dream, have play in each proud 
 
 land, 
 And patriotism, grown Godlike, scorn to 
 
 stand 
 Bondslave to realms, but circle earth and 
 
 seas ? " 
 
 bns anirli oieum Itewaifil i&\ odj SJIHT 77 
 
 ;->d 9ftt qh aniottod b/ioid sriJ bnA 
 
 aniid 
 
 IIA 
 bnA 
 
 . uom k> qminj gnol 9tjsl arii egqurle rbiriV/ 
 
 it; ilac bn >tefi Jfirft ebiow gnimsgg oT 
 nivh)e O t nol woH n
 
 J2^,J.i: i^ Q 
 
 ^PM Q ^ w.^ $?8Wftf3f?9fc ^ q 
 
 ni arn bacjqn enislliv e^oiff a'lanw 'bnA Vl 
 
 ifaJifl 
 
 .omiJ yhifj '^m m iioii " : bfo liarti rifi^/ 
 THE COLONEL'S SOLILOQUY 
 
 (Southampton Docks : October, 1899) 
 
 T 
 
 * 
 
 HE quay recedes. Hurrah ! Ahead we 
 
 * 8 ,, 11; clalolt 
 
 It's true I've been accustomed now to home, 
 And joints get rusty, and one's limbs may 
 
 grow 
 
 More fit to rest than roam. 
 ',-jm bnir-j:l jib! yv'i hrO arlT ' febnuos /woK " 
 " But I can stand as yet fair stress and strain ; 
 There's not a little steel beneath the rust ; 
 My years mount somewhat, but here's to't 
 
 again ! 
 
 And if I fall, I must.
 
 24O THE COLONEL S SOLILOQUY 
 
 " God knows that for myself I've scanty care ; 
 Past scrimmages have proved as much to all ; 
 In Eastern lands and South I've had my 
 share 
 
 Both of the blade and ball. 
 
 " And where those villains ripped me in the 
 
 flitch 
 
 With their old iron in my early time, 
 I'm apt at change of wind to feel a twitch, 
 Or at a change of clime. 
 
 " And what my mirror shows me in the 
 
 morning 
 Has more of blotch and wrinkle than of 
 
 bloom ; 
 
 My eyes, too, heretofore all glasses scorning, 
 Have just a touch of rheum. 1 .7* 
 
 "Now sounds 'The Girl I've left behind me,' 
 
 Ah, 
 
 The years, the ardours, wakened by that tune ! 
 Time was when, with the crowd's farewell 
 
 1 Hurrah ! ' 
 
 Twould lift me to the moon,
 
 THE COLONEL S SOLILOQUY 24! 
 
 " But now it's late to leave behind me one 
 Who if, poor soul, her man goes underground, 
 Will not recover as she might have done 
 In days when hopes abound. 
 
 " She's waving from the wharf side, palely 
 
 grieving, 
 As down we draw. ... Her tears make little 
 
 show, 
 
 Yet now she suffers more than at my leaving 
 Some twenty years ago. 
 
 " I pray those left at home will care for her ! 
 
 I shall come back ; I have before ; though 
 when 
 
 The Girl you leave behind you is a grand- 
 mother. 
 
 Things may not be as then."
 
 3W nwob 8 A 
 
 THE GOING OF THE BATTERY 
 
 WIVES' LAMENT 
 
 iwdw 
 
 (November 2, 1899) 
 
 OIT was sad enough, weak enough, 
 mad enough 
 
 Light in their loving as soldiers can be 
 First to risk choosing them, leave alone losing 
 them 
 
 Now, in far battle, beyond the South Sea ! . . . 
 242
 
 THE GOING OF THE BATTERY 243 
 II 
 
 Rain came down drenchingly ; but we un- 
 
 blenchingly 
 Trudged on beside them through mirk and 
 
 through mire, 
 
 They stepping steadily only too readily ! 
 Scarce as if stepping brought parting-time 
 
 nigher. 
 
 in 
 
 Great guns were gleaming there, living things 
 i i. . ..A //on y-jfu '.nA 
 
 seeming there, 
 
 ui* bifiri sd vfirn ftanorlT 
 Cloaked in their tar-cloths, upmouthed to the 
 
 night ; 
 
 ,-iru , 4. j I'iffi-VL . , , ,, 
 
 Wheels wet and yellow from axle to felloe, 
 Throats blank of sound, but prophetic to sight. 
 
 -tnuKl i^ij gmtm/fib ,au ghlfflticfl gaDittv t JSY 
 IV t eu m 
 
 , l,t liftfiC 
 
 Gas-glimmers drearily, blearily, eerily 
 
 Lit our pale faces outstretched for one kiss, 
 
 While we stood prest to them, with a last 
 
 quest to them 
 Not to court perils that honour could miss.
 
 244 THE GOING OF THE BATTERY 
 
 Sharp were those sighs of ours, blinded these 
 
 eyes of ours, 
 
 When at last moved away under the arch 
 All we loved. Aid for them each woman 
 
 prayed for them, 
 Treading back slowly the track of their march. 
 
 VI 
 
 Someone said : " Nevermore will they come : 
 evermore 
 
 , /r ; .,... ; fHffjf;;)P> 91!jW 8fJJJ2 J*->'txJ 
 
 Are they now lost to us." O it was. wrong ! 
 Though may be hard their ways, some Hand 
 will guard their ways, 
 
 Bear them through safely, in, brief time or long. 
 & " i riKlbw el:: >im 
 
 VII 
 
 Yet, voices haunting us, daunting us, taunt- 
 ing us, 
 
 Hint in the night-time when life beats are low 
 
 Other and graver things . . . Hold we to 
 braver things, 
 
 Wait we, in trust, what Time's fulness shall 
 show.
 
 8KW tiC9rf<on -Kni) bs-menaa terlt IB 
 10 , 
 
 i3irlgijle ba^ii io atesrfa bsnusald ^huori 
 
 bsiiuw rf 
 
 Jfif>bioo oi bnl 
 
 AT THE WAR OFFICE, LONDON 
 
 (Affixing the Lists of Killed and Wounded; 
 December, 1899) 
 
 LAST year I called this world of gain- 
 givings 
 The darkest thinkable, and questioned 
 
 sadly 
 If my own land could heave its pulse less 
 
 gladly, 
 
 So charged it seemed with circumstance 
 whence springs 
 
 The tragedy of things. 
 245
 
 246 AT THE WAR OFFICE, LONDON 
 II 
 
 Yet at that censured time no heart was rent 
 Or feature blanched of parent, wife, or 
 
 daughter 
 
 By hourly blazoned sheets of listed slaughter ; 
 Death waited Nature's wont ; Peace smiled 
 
 unshent 
 
 From Ind to Occident, 
 
 t ! BO '1 'lB3^ T8A' 
 
 J 
 
 and rjrav.T thin** . . . 
 
 f/ bsrnaaa ti baifirf'j 08 

 
 atEsqqfi itfmt lo 10 aigol lo terfw boA 
 ^ 8if>DY arft of tntmoQ onnA k gni^o^t nl 
 
 ".be>ib aH rioirfw io\ szusD ^rit tay aainut iuS 
 
 A CHRISTMAS GHOST-STORY 
 
 SOUTH of the Line, inland from far 
 Durban, 
 
 A mouldering soldier lies your countryman. 
 Awry and doubled up are his gray bones, 
 And on the breeze his puzzled phantom 
 
 moans 
 
 Nightly to clear Canopus : " I would know 
 By whom and when the All-Earth-gladdening 
 
 Law 
 Of Peace, brought in by that Man Crucified, 
 
 Was ruled to be inept, and set aside ? 
 
 247
 
 248 A CHRISTMAS GHOST-STORY 
 
 And what of logic or of truth appears 
 In tacking ' Anno Domini ' to the years ? 
 Near twenty-hundred liveried thus have hied, 
 But tarries yet the Cause for which He died." 
 
 Christmas-eve, 1899. 
 
 YHOT8-T2OHO 8AMTaiHHD A 
 
 > 1JJOY oa gnhsbf uorn A 
 
 ,g9nod ^jsi eld 3iK qu bolduob brus x;iv/A 
 
 ;jrfq bahsnq eifi sssend ,ad) no briA 
 
 nd bluow P* : uqonf,0 isalo ot vJJrf* 
 g-rllifia-IIA ailj nsdw bns mori 1 // 
 
 ;3 nuM Ijjrli yd ni higrjoid ,00*9*1 
 ^d of b^lin i j .i
 
 
 i9vsn TamrntnQ srij 3boH gnuoY 
 smori x982i>W siri in oil desi^ 
 
 X bfioid sdJ lo ninfisrn adT 
 
 jy yUrigiri o) ssoiqu yd'// bnA 
 adi bi 
 
 T*? T L 
 
 ; ad -T9V9 10) ogboH HiW 
 nir>id bus *8jsoid rn^ihoK vkmnd aiH 
 
 THE DEAD DRUMMER 
 
 ngi^'i enoi^ilaignoD bays-agnfiiJa bnA 
 
 r,lltn - 
 
 THEY throw in Drummer Hodge, to 
 rest 
 
 Uncoffined just as found : 
 His landmark is a kopje-crest 
 
 That breaks the veldt around ; 
 And foreign constellations west 
 
 Each night above his mound. 
 249
 
 250 THE DEAD DRUMMER 
 
 II 
 
 Young Hodge the Drummer never knew- 
 Fresh from his Wessex home 
 
 The meaning of the broad Karoo, 
 The Bush, the dusty loam, 
 
 And why uprose to nightly view 
 Strange stars amid the gloam. 
 
 ni 
 
 Yet portion of that unknown plain 
 
 Will Hodge for ever be ; 
 His homely Northern breast and brain 
 
 Grow up a Southern tree, 
 And strange-eyed constellations reign 
 
 His stars eternally. 
 
 : brmo) ZK izu[ banfftoonll 
 
 iasio-ojqoi 
 brmoijs Jbisv ?t 
 
 ngioiot bnA 
 ods tilgin rfoc3
 
 e 02 baqsile rfgupiiT 
 
 Y'/OHI 5iHT 
 
 ,i93loiffl ggncrl gol aril ; v/OTiorn srit giT' 
 : 3o bni' giBsn nfiiuteoq srfT 
 
 A WIFE IN LONDON 
 
 (December, 1 800) 
 
 naoif^/a 
 
 >rtljj'fn 
 THE TRAGEDY 
 
 ,-TU.tai hocjofl ?h\ ^o.Ifui-3^ ni 
 
 SHE sits in the tawny vapour 
 That the City lanes have uprolled, 
 Behind whose webby fold on fold 
 Like a waning taper- 
 
 The street-lamp glimmers cold. 
 
 A messenger's knock cracks smartly, 
 Flashed news is in her hand 
 
 Of meaning it dazes to understand 
 
 251
 
 252 A WIFE IN LONDON 
 
 Though shaped so shortly : 
 
 He has fallen in the far South 
 Land. . 
 
 II 
 THE IRONY 
 
 'Tis the morrow ; the fog hangs thicker, 
 The postman nears and goes : 
 A letter is brought whose lines dis- 
 
 close 
 By the firelight flicker 
 
 His hand, whom the worm now knows : 
 
 Fresh firm penned in highest feather 
 Page-full of his hoped return, 
 And of home-planned jaunts by brake 
 and burn 
 
 In the summer weather, 
 
 And of new love that they would learn. 
 i3irimil rriiiI-J99i}8 oriT 
 
 [ to /an
 
 
 ie \noJnontoiq 
 
 fli vd 
 
 srf J lo aqole b-jb 
 / ' itlftiK Jg^- 
 
 <b;urcty0a& adi 'ioi toer ftlQ^l en ao 
 
 THE SOULS OF THE SLAIN 
 
 j ^rfj 
 
 i^v/ dij9ft/I|ooniH bns cig^njioa ni bnA 
 
 THE thick lids of Night closed upon me 
 "h< Alone at the Bill 
 
 Of the Isle by the Race * 
 Many-caverned, bald, wrinkled of face 
 And with darkness and silence the spirit was 
 
 on me 
 To brood and be still. 
 
 * The " Race " is the turbulent sea-area off the Bill of Port- 
 land, where contrary tides meet.
 
 254 TH E SOULS OF THE SLAIN 
 
 II 
 
 No wind fanned the flats of the ocean, 
 Or promontory sides, 
 Or the ooze by the strand, 
 
 Or the bent-bearded slope of the land, 
 Whose base took its rest amid everlong motion 
 Of criss-crossing tides. 
 
 in 
 
 Soon from out of the Southward seemed 
 
 nearing 
 
 A whirr, as of wings 
 Waved by mighty-vanned flies, 
 
 Or by night-moths of measureless size, 
 
 And in softness and smoothness well-nigh 
 
 sm m. ' , ... 
 
 beyond hearing 
 
 .'bftc.IA ' 
 Of corporal things. 
 
 & IsiiJlO 
 
 IV 
 
 And they bore to the bluff, and alighted 
 
 A dim-discerned train ' 
 
 Of sprites without mould, 
 Frameless souls none might touch or 
 might hold
 
 THE SOULS OF THE SLAIN 255 
 
 On the ledge by the turreted lantern, far- 
 
 sighted 
 
 f)trf* 3)' yV*l 
 
 By men of the main. 
 
 : iisv/ tni; ?blorb?uon 
 
 V 
 eaal lagnif ni^ ir/ov iuH 
 
 And I heard them say " Home ! " and I 
 
 Knew them 
 
 For souls of the felled 
 On the earth's nether bord 
 Under Capricorn, whither they'd warred, 
 And I neared in my awe, and gave heedfulness 
 
 to them 
 With breathings inheld. 
 
 i <-JjO( 
 
 br>rf djisi iuo^ &niyb 313 J&M lCiq smoS 
 Then, it seemed, there approached from 
 
 the northward 
 A senior soul-flame 
 Of the like filmy hue : 
 And he met them and spake : " Is it you, 
 O my men ? " Said they, " Aye ! We bear 
 
 homeward and hearthward 
 To list to our fame ! "
 
 256 THE SOULS OF THE SLAIN 
 
 orfi nO 
 
 vn 
 
 bslrfgig 
 *' I've flown there before you," he said 
 
 then : 
 "Your households are well ; 
 
 But your kin linger less 
 On your glory and war-mightiness 
 Than on dearer things." " Dearer ? " cried 
 
 these from the dead then, 
 " Of what do they tell ? " 
 
 - bnA 
 
 "Some mothers muse sadly, and murmur 
 Your doings as boys 
 Recall the quaint ways 
 Of your babyhood's innocent days. 
 Some pray that, ere dying, your faith had 
 
 grown firmer, 
 And higher your joys. 
 
 IX 
 
 " A father broods : ' Would I had set him 
 To some humble trade, 
 And so slacked his high fire, 
 And his passionate martial desire ;
 
 THE SOULS OF THE SLAIN 257 
 
 Had told him no stories to woo him and whet 
 
 him 
 To this dire crusade ! " 
 
 3 
 
 &DR\ aafilqnpmmoo o^-^nol,t>rli bnA 
 "And, General, how hold out our sweet- 
 hearts, 
 
 Sworn loyal as doves ? " 
 " Many mourn ; many think 
 It is not unattractive to prink 
 Them in sables for heroes. Some fickle and 
 
 fleet hearts 
 TOOD-amoj yfu t>ei/n ol 
 
 Have found them new loves." 
 
 " And our wives ? " quoth another re- 
 signedly, 
 
 " Dwell they on our deeds ?" 
 " Deeds of home ; that live yet 
 Fresh as new deeds of fondness or fret ; 
 Ancient words that were kindly expressed or 
 unkindly, 
 
 These, these have their heeds." 
 
 R
 
 258 THE SOULS OF THE SLAIN 
 
 I 
 XII 
 
 " Alas ! then it seems that our glory 
 
 Weighs less in their thought 
 
 Than our old homely acts, 
 
 And the long-ago commonplace facts 
 
 Of our lives held by us as scarce part of our 
 
 story, 
 And rated as nought ! " 
 
 XIII 
 
 Then bitterly some : " Was it wise now 
 To raise the tomb-door 
 For such knowledge ? Away ! " 
 But the rest : " Fame we prized till to-day ; 
 Yet that hearts keep us green for old kindness 
 
 we prize now 
 A thousand times more ! " 
 
 t<< i absab "mo no vsrll lbv/Q '* 
 . , ; ei <X1Vr to gbaaCI ' 
 
 Thus speaking, the trooped apparitions 
 Began to disband 
 And resolve them in two : 
 
 Those whose record was lovelv and true
 
 THE SOULS OF THE SLAIN 259 
 
 Bore to northward for home : those of bitter 
 
 traditions 
 Again left the land, 
 
 xv 
 
 And, towering to seaward in legions, 
 They paused at a spot 
 Overbending the Race 
 That engulphing, ghast, sinister place 
 Whither headlong they plunged, to the fathom- 
 
 less regions 
 Of myriads forgot. 
 
 XVI 
 
 And the spirits of those who were homing 
 Passed on, rushingly, 
 Like the Pentecost Wind ; 
 And the whirr of their wayfaring thinned 
 And surceased on the sky, and but left in the 
 
 gloaming 
 Sea-mutterings and me. 
 
 December 1899. 
 
 in o) )i nssloiu!
 
 
 ' 
 
 . 
 
 (I 
 srii ot t b3gnulq arfi gnotbKsrf larfiirtW 
 
 SONG OF THE SOLDIERS' WIVES 
 
 A last ! In sight of home again, 
 Of home again ^ o n ^ 
 No more to range and roam again 
 
 As at that bygone time ? 
 No more to go away from us 
 
 And stay from us ? 
 Dawn, hold not long the day from us, 
 
 But quicken it to prime ! 
 
 260
 
 SONG OF THE SOLDIERS* WIVES 26 1 
 
 II 
 
 Now all the town shall ring to them, 
 
 Shall ring to them, 
 And we who love them cling to them 
 
 And clasp them joyfully ; 
 And cry, " O much we'll do for you 
 
 Anew for you, 
 
 Dear Loves I-^-aye, draw and hew for yon, 
 Come back from oversea." 
 
 in 
 
 Some told us we should meet no more, 
 
 Should meet no more ; 
 Should wait, and wish, but greet no more 
 
 Your faces round our fires ; 
 That, in a while, uncharily 
 
 And drearily 
 
 Men gave their lives even wearily, 
 Like those whom living tires.
 
 262 SONG OF THE SOLDIERS' WIVES 
 
 IV 
 
 And now you are nearing home agai% o ;/r 
 
 Dears, home again ; 
 No more, may be, to roam again 
 
 As at that bygone, time v j 8 [ c 
 Which took you far away from usy- n 
 
 To stay from us ; ^ (l ^ 
 Dawn, hold not long the day from us,, :3 (j 
 
 But quicken it to prime ! 
 
 n laarn bluoria 9W su bloJ orno8 
 
 ,3tv7 js n 
 3-tb bnA 
 avil liad) 

 
 .9ft L>1 N ' . - 
 
 ' ' ( r 
 
 bilu} sirf gnufi Dft ,Jiod brn: abcfd nO 
 aaolfid arH 
 <tc}v bnA 
 
 THE SICK GOD 
 
 I 
 
 T N days when men had joy of war, 
 
 A God of Battles sped each mortal 
 
 jar; 
 
 The peoples pledged him heart and hand, 
 bio; Frorn Israel's land to isles afar. 
 
 11 
 
 His crimson form, with clang and chime, 
 Plashed on each murk and murderous meet- 
 
 ing-time, 
 
 263
 
 264 THE SICK GOD 
 
 And kings invoked, for rape and raid, 
 His fearsome aid in rune and rhyme. 
 
 in 
 
 On bruise and blood -hole, scar and 
 
 seam, 
 
 On blade and bolt, he flung his fulgid beam : 
 His haloes rayed the very gore, 
 And corpses wore his glory-gleam. 
 
 IV 
 
 Often an early King or Queen, 
 And storied hero onward, knew his sheen ; 
 'Twas glimpsed by Wolfe, by Key anon, 
 Nelson on his blue demesne. 
 
 briK i'lEOfi. nitrf fa^gbglq rfalqoaq ariT 
 But new light spread. That god's gold 
 
 nimb 
 And blazon have waned dimmer and more 
 
 dim ; 
 
 Even his flushed form begins to fade, 
 Till but a shade is left of him.
 
 THE SICK. GOD 265 
 
 mi orft iliiqn nii/i vyrb bluow bnA 
 
 VI 
 
 T! Ion won/I vsfl) rrno} Jnifit iBri) 1O 
 That modern meditation broke 
 
 His spell, that penmen's pleadings dealt a 
 stroke, 
 
 Say some ; and some that crimes too dire 
 tngioas , ni Q-iawt' <?, .ejplirfv/ JK ,oioi3"rjflV/ 
 Did much to mire his crimson cloak. 
 
 VII 
 
 Yea, seeds of crescive sympathy 
 Were sown by those more excellent than he, 
 Long known, though long contemned till 
 then 
 
 The gods of men in amity. 
 
 ; bon i3fi8 lo ^np ot ?dmuyou3 
 
 VIII 
 
 Souls have grown seers, and thought out- 
 brings 
 
 The mournful many-sidedness of things 
 With foes as friends, enfeebling ires 
 And fury-fires by gaingivings I 
 
 IX 
 
 He scarce impassions champions now ; 
 They do and dare, but tensely pale of brow ;
 
 266 THE SICK GOD 
 
 And would they fain uplift the arm 
 
 Of that faint form they know not how. 
 r ri rmborri terfT 
 
 - niiiunaq : 
 
 Yet wars arise, though zest grows cold ; 
 
 Wherefore, at whiles, as 'twere in ancient 
 
 . nni ot doijrn bid 
 mould 
 
 He looms, bepatched with paint and lath ; 
 But never hath he seemed the old ! 
 
 XI 
 
 Let men rejoice, let men deplore, 
 The lurid Deity of heretofore 
 
 Succumbs to one of saner nod ; 
 The Battle-god is god no more. 
 
 81 
 
 bnA 
 
 ;rd,sir.b bnis ob
 
 POEMS OF PILGRIMAGE
 
 
 TO
 
 . 
 
 tud "JufiSS'SrifrgB ton bfila aariJ bfcrfod 
 
 vrfi T /V/ bsvlab-oaah B rnoi} JuO 
 
 nO 
 
 v/oi brifi V/OT Ix'rwf biv/9iorf?. 
 Ji Hguoidt snid oi 
 
 GENDA AND THE M " 
 
 (March, 1887) 
 O ,3'jrll \o ?mK3ib Y m J to * nsrlv/ aonii 
 
 O EPIC-FAMED, god-haunted Central 
 Sea, 
 .'/luoiiHeave careless of the deep wrong done 
 
 to thee 
 
 When from Torino's track I saw thy face first 
 flash on me. 
 
 ofj-i
 
 GENOA AND THE MEDITERRANEAN 
 
 And multimarbled Geneva the Proud, 
 Gleam all unconscious how, wide-lipped, 
 
 up-browed, 
 
 I first beheld thee clad not as the Beauty but 
 the Dowd. 
 
 Out from a deep-delved way my vision 
 
 lit 
 On housebacks pink, green, ochreous 
 
 where a slit 
 
 Shoreward 'twixt row and row revealed the 
 classic blue through it. 
 
 And thereacross waved fishwives' high- 
 hung smocks, 
 Chrome kerchiefs, scarlet hose, darned 
 
 underfrocks ; 
 
 Since when too oft my dreams of thee, O 
 Queen, that frippery mocks : 
 
 Whereat I grieve, Superba ! . . . Afterhours 
 Within Palazzo Doria's orange bowers 
 Went far to mend these marrings of thy soul- 
 subliming powers.
 
 GENOA AND THE MEDITERRANEAN 2J 1 
 
 But, Queen, such squalid undress none 
 
 should see, 
 Those dream-endangering eyewounds no 
 
 more be 
 
 Where lovers first behold thy form in pilgrim- 
 age to thee. 
 
 aHwawo 
 
 -'p 
 -nn i( 
 
 bifisif Y9ll9rf8 )f,Hi JiiJ'l 9* ^o Jaub arfT 
 ot earnit riguoirft f^iommi 9bi;m bnA 
 ,bii<f i9il)onfi a^il bavil iflno Ji rlguoilT 
 .viilciiornrai 8)i ion wan:!
 
 :-l 
 
 vrlt blorbd Jeti'l eiavol 
 
 SHELLEY'S SKYLARK 
 
 (The neighbourhood of Leghorn : March, 1887) 
 
 S 
 
 OMEWHERE afield here something lies 
 In Earth's oblivious eyeless trust 
 That moved a poet to prophecies 
 A pinch of unseen, unguarded dust : 
 
 The dust of the lark that Shelley heard, 
 And made immortal through times to be ;- 
 Though it only lived like another bird, 
 
 And knew not its immortality. 
 
 272
 
 SHELLEY S SKYLARK 273 
 
 Lived its meek life ; then, one day, fell 
 A little ball of feather and bone ; 
 And how it perished, when piped farewell, 
 And where it wastes, are alike unknown. 
 
 Maybe it rests in the loam I view, 
 
 Maybe it throbs in a myrtle's green, 
 
 Maybe it sleeps in the coming hue 
 
 Of a grape on the slopes of yon inland scene. 
 
 Go find it, faeries, go and find 
 
 That tiny pinch of priceless dust, 
 
 itl \C~} r *TT-T*T' I/TT 
 
 And bring a casket silver-lined, 
 
 And framed of gold that gems encrust ; 
 
 And we will lay it safe therein, 
 And consecrate it to endless time ; 
 For it inspired a bard to win 
 Ecstatic heights in thought and rhyme. 
 
 imiqo 9Dfio arfe bib ion ; bsaauq - 
 
 b&d aria ,fcj(ood \\R rifiri) -ratted . 
 
 am 10) 
 
 s
 
 viJ 
 
 Hi A 
 riA 
 
 ; I TOGO! srft ni steal It 
 
 'alliym it ni ecfoiriJ ti ad^cl/i 
 
 if gnirnoo orlJ ni equate }i ^dy^M 
 
 no' \o gaole arit no ai> )i tO 
 
 ffoniq 
 IN THE OLD THEATRE, FIESOLE 
 
 (April, 1887) 
 
 1 TRACED the Circus whose gray stones 
 incline 
 
 Where Rome and dim Etruria interjoin, 
 Till came a child who showed an ancient coin 
 That bore the image of a Constantine. 
 
 She lightly passed ; nor did she once opine 
 How, better than all books, she had raised 
 for me
 
 IN THE OLD THEATRE, FIESOLE 275 
 
 In swift perspective Europe's history 
 Through the vast years of Caesar's sceptred 
 line. 
 
 For in my distant plot of English loam 
 'Twas but to delve, and straightway there to 
 
 find 
 
 Coins of like impress. As with one half blind 
 Whom common simples cure, her act flashed 
 
 home 
 
 In that mute moment to my opened mind 
 The power, the pride, the reach of perished 
 
 Rome. 
 
 HHITAJA*! 3HT VIO : 3MOM 
 
 \\ff 
 
 ,7/orfa Iirrum.bai don e'fiivU ot bttw bnA 
 ,oait-ioqoJqhO bn aviso 
 gnivioaaib 
 
 oliugad ot babnst nirn 
 KB )bJi sq^rfg bnc
 
 W8 111 
 
 uinT 
 
 a Jolq Jrusteib -%m ni lo'i 
 .[gifiite bri ,t>vbb ibi *ud sswT 
 
 bnft 
 
 ^icrf ^no iftiw aA .aes'iqrni SiliI iasnioO 
 Hdlqrata nornmoo morfW 
 
 amod 
 
 i bsnaqo yni ol JriDrnorn sinrn )firii ni 
 isq lo 
 
 ROME: ON THE PALATINE 
 
 (April, 1887) 
 
 WE walked where Victor Jove was 
 shrined awhile, 
 
 And passed to Livia's rich red mural show, 
 Whence, thridding cave and Criptoportico, 
 We gained Caligula's dissolving pile. 
 
 And each ranked ruin tended to beguile 
 
 The outer sense, and shape itself as though 
 276
 
 ROME : ON THE PALATINE 277 
 
 It wore its marble hues, its pristine glow 
 Of scenic frieze and pompous peristyle. 
 
 When lo, swift hands, on strings nigh over- 
 head, 
 
 Began to melodize a waltz by Strauss : 
 It stirred me as I stood, in Caesar's house, 
 Raised the old routs Imperial lyres had led, 
 
 And blended pulsing life with lives long done, 
 Till Time seemed fiction, Past and Present 
 one. 
 
 3HT 'A\ T33SIT3 V/MX A OTfKIiIIUfl 
 
 io ahfing bn* gfiib baiadmn 383H"-r"* 
 
 in 
 
 ornob bnr> ,9ii/teIdi;Jn9 ,rtot>; 
 
 .YrnotKriB Jnur.g ejj HJS ni 3-jd gaL 
 
 orriot naqo HK
 
 iO 
 
 n ggnhte no ,8bnfcri Yliv/a ,ol nsdW 
 
 :*- ; i stlEv/ axirbobra ot 
 
 nt ,op8 E srrr 
 i 'il n 
 
 > gnol 83vil riliv/ 3.111 ^nialuq bobnald bnA 
 
 ': ,noi)arl barn^ss gmiT HIT 
 ROME 
 
 BUILDING A NEW STREET IN THE 
 ANCIENT QUARTER 
 
 (April, 1887) 
 
 THESE umbered cliffs and gnarls of 
 masonry 
 
 Outskeleton Time's central city, Rome ; 
 Whereof each arch, entablature, and dome 
 Lies bare in all its gaunt anatomy. 
 
 And cracking frieze and rotten metope 
 
 Express, as though they were an open tome 
 
 278
 
 ROME 279 
 
 Top-lined with caustic monitory gnome ; 
 " Dunces, Learn here to spell Humanity I " 
 
 And yet within these ruins' very shade 
 
 The singing workmen shape and set and join 
 
 Their frail new mansion's stuccoed cove and 
 
 quoin 
 
 With no apparent sense that years abrade, 
 Though each rent wall their feeble works 
 
 invade 
 Once shamed all such in power of pier and 
 
 groin. 
 
 3 M O H 
 
 alas'! -:o 
 
 ,y 
 bstmaee Ju 
 
 i; ni s>ni^jp3t D* ^el^ffifci.bsifaetrld' el/It 
 
 ,nua Jo
 
 <; ot 3i9fi rnfigJ 
 
 'entin aaarh nirfliw 
 i tea bnfi sqiirie namdiow gnignjg 
 
 i'nOl3f)III V/Ofl IlCTl li'JilX 
 
 nioj/p 
 
 J e>gri98 JnoiJsqqE on rliiW 
 HBW Jnoi rioB3 rlg 
 
 gfasvni 
 
 ROME 
 
 THE VATICAN SALA DELLE MUSE 
 (1887) 
 
 I SAT in the Muses' Hall at the mid of the 
 day, 
 And it seemed to grow still, and the people to 
 
 pass away, 
 And the chiselled shapes to combine in a haze 
 
 of sun, 
 
 Till beside a Carrara column there gleamed 
 forth One.
 
 ROME 28l 
 
 She was nor this nor that of those beings 
 divine, 
 
 But each and the whole an essence of all the 
 Nine ; 
 
 With tentative foot she neared to my halting- 
 place, 
 
 A pensive smile on her sweet, small, marvellous 
 face. 
 
 " Regarded so long, we render thee sad ? " said 
 she. 
 
 " Not you," sighed I, " but my own incon- 
 stancy ! 
 
 1 worship each and each ; in the morning one, 
 
 And then, alas ! another at sink of sun. 
 
 tenjso nod! 'iii&[dr bnft [ 1fi*ft tt<S&P&i4d'M ooW 
 
 "To-day my soul clasps Form ; but where is 
 
 my troth 
 Of yesternight with Tune : can one cleave to 
 
 both?" 
 "Be not perturbed," said she. "Though 
 
 apart in fame, 
 As I and my sisters are one, those, too, are the 
 
 same.
 
 282 ROME 
 
 " But my loves go further to Story, and 
 
 Dance, and Hymn, 
 The lover of all in a sun-sweep is fool to 
 
 whim 
 Is swayed like a river-weed as the ripples 
 
 run ! " 
 
 " Nay, wight, thou sway'st not. These are 
 
 but phases of one ; 
 
 "And that one is I ; and I am projected from 
 
 thee, 
 One that out of thy brain and heart thou 
 
 causest to be 
 Extern to thee nothing. Grieve not, nor thy- 
 
 self becall, 
 Woo where thou wilt ; and rejoice thou canst 
 
 love at all!" 
 
 " S rftod 
 
 lid-HlJlSrj *Ofr < StQ M- 
 
 ipmfi} n't 
 
 rfaw^f
 
 ' Krrr'inf ^i <3-/63l oT 
 
 )i rfiiw Jo/1 
 fonuo} )i tjbiearl 3fi'iiT fii nwolb i/;l 
 
 lo nanrtnijoo owT 
 
 AT THE PYRAMID OF CESTIUS 
 NEAR THE GRAVES OF SHELLEY AND KEATS 
 
 (1887) 
 
 HO, then, was Cestius, 
 
 And what is he to me 1 
 Amid thick thoughts and memories multitu- 
 dinous 
 
 W 
 
 One thought alone brings he. 
 
 283
 
 284 ROME 
 
 I can recall no word 
 Of anything he did ; 
 
 For me he is a man who died and was in- 
 terred 
 
 To leave a pyramid 
 
 Whose purpose was exprest 
 Not with its first design, 
 
 Nor till, far down in Time, beside it found their 
 rest 
 
 Two countrymen of mine. 
 
 Cestius in life, maybe, 
 Slew, breathed out threatening; 
 I know not. This I know : in death all 
 silently 
 
 He does a kindlier thing, 
 
 In beckoning pilgrim feet 
 With marble finger high 
 
 To where, by shadowy wall and history-haunted 
 street, 
 
 Those matchless singers lie.-.). .
 
 ROME 285 
 
 Say, then, he lived and died 
 That stones which bear his name 
 Should mark, through Time, where two im- 
 mortal Shades abide ; 
 It is an ample fame. 
 
 srther h< 
 
 QJO sn 
 
 gc; minds on. earth 
 
 ,, 
 
 la Jt 
 pU jT^\ 
 
 {ji bni; juote amulov fi eaJ^iqrnatnoo aH 
 irlj 3ffj ilijoiiU fnirf jbafl ernKl il bnA
 
 
 'T 4w :l 
 
 g Ii;hom 
 
 ;nc IIJG si I 
 
 LAUSANNE 
 
 IN GIBBON'S OLD GARDEN: 11-12 P.M. 
 
 June 27, 1897 
 
 (The 1 1 oik anniversary of the completion of the " Decline 
 and Fall" at the same hour and place} 
 
 A SPIRIT seems to pass, 
 Formal in pose, but grave and grand 
 
 withal : 
 
 He contemplates a volume stout and tall, 
 And far lamps fleck him through the thin 
 
 acacias. 
 
 286
 
 LAUSANNE 287 
 
 Anon the book is closed, 
 With " It is finished ! " And at the alley's 
 
 end 
 He turns, and soon on me his glances 
 
 bend ; 
 
 And, as from earth, comes speech small, 
 muted, yet composed. 
 
 " How fares the Truth now ? Ill ? 
 Do pens but slily further her advance ? 
 May one not speed her but in phrase 
 askance ? 
 
 Do scribes aver the Comic to be Reverend 
 
 ...., rA 
 still ? 
 
 " Still rule those minds on earth 
 At whom sage Milton's wormwood words 
 
 were hurled : 
 
 ' Truth like a bastard comes into the world 
 Never without ill-fame to him who gives her 
 birth ' ? " 
 
 ftdgidd 
 br.fi n3V38 ad! Jfidy/ 10} bmq asvif TOO! bnA
 
 1 
 
 " rliiW 
 
 n no nooe bn ,gmut sH 
 ffcmqe asnioo .rlhso moil as ( bnA 
 
 H 
 
 aqg Jon ono 
 
 f 1-137J 
 
 ZERMATT 
 
 TO THE MATTERHORN 
 {June- July, 1897) 
 
 iVmorfW JA 
 
 THIRTY-TWO years since, up against 
 the sun, 
 
 Seven shapes, thin atomies to lower sight, 
 Labouringly leapt and gained thy gabled 
 
 height, 
 
 And four lives paid for what the seven had 
 won.
 
 ZERMATT 289 
 
 They were the first by whom the deed was 
 
 done, 
 And when I look at thee, my mind takes 
 
 flight 
 
 To that day's tragic feat of manly might, 
 As though, till then, of history thou hadst 
 
 none. 
 
 Yet ages ere men topped thee, late and 
 
 soon 
 Thou watch'dst each night the planets lift 
 
 and lower ; 
 Thou gleam'dst to Joshua's pausing sun and 
 
 moon, 
 And brav'dst the tokening sky when Caesar's 
 
 power 
 Approached its bloody end : yea, saw'st that 
 
 Noon 
 When darkness filled the earth till the ninth 
 
 hour.
 
 uorft e A 
 
 THE BRIDGE OF LODI * 
 
 (Spring, 1887) 
 
 WHEN of tender mind and body 
 I was moved by minstrelsy, 
 And that strain " The Bridge of Lodi " 
 Brought a strange delight to me. 
 
 * Pronounce " Loddy." 
 ago
 
 THE BRIDGE OF LODI 29! 
 
 II 
 
 In the battle-breathing jingle 
 Of its forward-footing tune 
 
 I could see the armies mingle, 
 
 And the columns cleft and hewn 
 
 HI 
 On that far-famed spot by Lodi 
 
 Where Napoleon clove his way 
 To his fame, when like a god he 
 
 Bent the nations to his sway. 
 
 Hence the tune came capering to me 
 While I traced the Rhone and Po ; 
 
 Nor could Milan's Marvel woo me 
 From the spot englamoured so. 
 
 v 
 
 And to-day, sunlit and smiling, 
 Here I stand upon the scene, 
 
 With its saffron walls, dun tiling, 
 And its meads of maiden green,
 
 292 THE BRIDGE OF LODI 
 
 VI 
 
 Even as when the trackway thundered 
 With the charge of grenadiers, 
 
 And the blood of forty hundred 
 
 Splashed its parapets and piers. . 
 
 VII 
 
 Any ancient crone I'd toady 
 
 Like a lass in young-eyed prime, 
 
 Could she tell some tale of Lodi 
 At that moving mighty time. 
 
 VIII 
 
 So, I ask the wives of Lodi 
 
 For traditions of that day ; 
 
 But alas ! not anybody 
 
 Seems to know of such a fray. 
 
 IX 
 
 And they heed but transitory 
 
 Marketings in cheese and meat, 
 
 Till I judge that Lodi's story 
 Is extinct in Lodi's street.
 
 THE BRIDGE OF LODI 293 
 
 X 
 
 Yet while here and there they thrid them 
 In their zest to sell and buy, 
 
 Let me sit me down amid them 
 
 And behold those thousands die. . . . 
 
 XI 
 
 Not a creature cares in Lodi 
 
 How Napoleon swept each arch, 
 
 Or where up and downward trod he, 
 Or for his memorial March ! 
 
 XII 
 
 So that wherefore should I be here, 
 
 Watching Adda lip the lea, 
 When the whole romance to see here 
 
 Is the dream I bring with me ? 
 
 XIII 
 
 And why sing "The Bridge of Lodi" 
 
 As I sit thereon and swing, 
 When none shows by smile or nod he 
 
 Guesses why or what I sing ? . . .
 
 294 THE BRIDGE OF LODI 
 
 XIV 
 
 Since all Lodi, low and head ones, 
 
 Seem to pass that story by, 
 It may be the Lodi-bred ones 
 
 Rate it truly, and not I. 
 j> 
 
 XV 
 
 Once engrossing Bridge of Lodi, 
 Is thy claim to glory gone ? 
 
 Must I pipe a palinody, 
 
 Or be silent thereupon ? 
 
 XVI 
 
 And if here, from strand to steeple, 
 Be no stone to fame the fight, 
 
 Must I say the Lodi people 
 
 Are but viewing crime aright ? . 
 
 XVII 
 
 Nay ; I'll sing "The Bridge of Lodi"- 
 That long-loved, romantic thing, 
 
 Though none show by smile or nod he 
 Guesses why and what I sing !
 
 ,rnoob "io asteb riirv-/ byiDinoido j 
 on i3d gnisS nv/o '{ra dgui 
 
 rapokf 
 
 MY ardours for emprize nigh lost 
 Since Life has bared its bones 
 
 to me, 
 
 I shrink to seek a modern coast 
 Whose riper times have yet to be ; 
 Where the new regions claim them free 
 From that long drip of human tears 
 Which peoples old in tragedy 
 
 Have left upon the centuried years. 
 
 295
 
 296 INVITATION TO THE UNITED STATES 
 II 
 
 For, worming in these ancient lands, 
 
 Enchased and lettered as a tomb, 
 
 And scored with prints of perished 
 
 hands, 
 
 And chronicled with dates of doom, 
 Though my own Being bear no 
 
 bloom 
 I trace the lives such scenes enshrine, 
 
 Give past exemplars present room, 
 
 /. '> MO 
 And their experience count as mine. 
 
 oJ xti'.ine i 
 jn oaoriW 

 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS

 
 THE MOTHER MOURNS 
 
 WHEN mid-autumn's moan shook the 
 night-time, 
 
 And sedges were horny, 
 And summer's green wonderwork faltered 
 On leaze and in lane, 
 
 I fared Yell'ham-Firs way, where dimly 
 
 Came wheeling around me 
 Those phantoms obscure and insistent 
 
 That shadows unchain. 
 
 299
 
 3OO THE MOTHER MOURNS 
 
 Till airs from the needle-thicks brought me 
 
 A low lamentation, 
 As 'twere of a tree-god disheartened, 
 
 Perplexed, or in pain. 
 
 And, heeding, it awed me to gather 
 
 That Nature herself there 
 Was breathing in aerie accents, 
 
 With dirgeful refrain, 
 
 Weary plaint that Mankind, in these late days, 
 
 Had grieved her by holding 
 Her ancient high fame of perfection 
 
 In doubt and disdain. . . . 
 
 " I had not proposed me a Creature 
 
 (She soughed) so excelling 
 All else of my kingdom in compass 
 
 And brightness of brain 
 
 " As to read my defects with a god-glance, 
 
 Uncover each vestige 
 Of old inadvertence, annunciate 
 
 Each flaw and each stain !
 
 THE MOTHER MOURNS 3OI 
 
 " My purpose werit not to develop 
 
 Such insight in Earthland ; 
 Such potent appraisements affront me, 
 
 And sadden my reign ! 
 
 " Why loosened I olden control here 
 
 To mechanize skywards, 
 Undeeming great scope could outshape in 
 
 A globe of such grain ? 
 
 " Man's mountings of mind-sight I checked not, 
 Till range of his vision 
 
 Has topped my intent, and found blemish 
 afouT..' seoiu fiEfu fi9oa siorri emotr/nD moii 
 Throughout my domain. 
 
 " He holds as inept his own soul-shell 
 
 My deftest achievement 
 Contemns me for fitful inventions 
 
 Ill-timed and inane : 
 
 " No more sees my sun as a Sanct-shape, 
 
 My moon as the Night-queen, 
 My stars as august and sublime ones 
 
 That influences rain :
 
 302 THE MOTHER MOURNS 
 
 " Reckons gross and ignoble my teaching, 
 
 Immoral my story, 
 My love-lights a lure, that my species 
 
 May gather and gain. 
 
 " ' Give me/ he has said, 'but the matter 
 And means the gods lot her, 
 
 My brain could evolve a creation 
 More seemly, more sane.' 
 
 " If ever a naughtiness seized me 
 
 To woo adulation 
 
 . /fa h-->qqot gcH 
 From creatures more keen than those crude 
 
 ones 
 
 That first formed my train 
 
 " If inly a moment I murmured, 
 ' The simple praise sweetly, 
 
 But sweetlier the sage ' and did rashly 
 Man's vision unrein, 
 
 " I rue it ! ... His guileless forerunners, 
 Whose brains I could blandish,
 
 THE MOTHER MOURNS 303 
 
 To measure the deeps of my mysteries 
 Applied them in vain. 
 
 mrro vjn to bins! euoiJfivhfo bnA 
 
 " From them my waste aimings and futile 
 
 I subtly could cover ; 
 
 ' Every best thing/ said they, ' to best purpose 
 . Her powers preordain.' 
 
 " No more such ! . . . My species are dwindling, 
 
 My forests grow barren, 
 My popinjays fail from their tappings, 
 
 My larks from their strain. 
 
 " My leopardine beauties are rarer, 
 
 My tusky ones vanish, 
 My children have aped mine own slaughters 
 
 To quicken my wane. 
 
 " Let me grow, then, but mildews and mand- 
 rakes, 
 
 And slimy distortions, 
 Let nevermore things good and lovely 
 
 To me appertain ;
 
 304 THE MOTHER MOURNS 
 
 " For Reason is rank in my temples, 
 
 And Vision unruly, 
 And chivalrous laud of my cunning 
 
 Is heard not again ! " 
 
 
 ^it9d dnibiKqoal vM " 
 
 >.y '/jir'.nt ^^ 
 n bscui svijil na'jblirio vM
 
 tud 
 
 k> 8i9gj7 
 .9 vex I ot bijca I 
 
 14 1 SAID TO LOVE 
 
 teob t 
 
 I 
 
 SAID to Love, 
 
 " It is not now as in old days 
 When men adored thee and thy ways 
 
 All else above ; 
 
 Named thee the Boy, the Bright, the One 
 Who spread a heaven beneath the sun," 
 I said to Love. 
 
 3>5
 
 306 <k I SAID TO LOVE " 
 
 I said to him, 
 
 " We now know more of thee than then ; 
 We were but weak in judgment when, 
 
 With hearts abrim, 
 
 We clamoured thee that thou would'st please 
 Inflict on us thine agonies," 
 
 I said to him. 
 
 I said to Love, 
 
 "Thou art not young, thou art not fair, 
 No faery darts, no cherub air, 
 
 Nor swan, nor dove 
 Are thine ; but features pitiless, 
 And iron daggers of distress," 
 
 I said to Love. 
 
 " Depart then, Love ! . . . 
 Man's race shall end, dost threaten thou ? 
 The age to come the man of now 
 
 Know nothing of ? 
 We fear not such a threat from thee ; 
 We are too old in apathy ! 
 Mankind shall cease. -So let it be," 
 
 I said to Love.
 
 
 
 
 la -ID airraid u 
 
 A COMMONPLACE DAY 
 
 T 
 
 I HE day is turning ghost, 
 
 And scuttles from the kal- 
 endar in fits and furtively, 
 
 To join the anonymous host 
 Of those that throng oblivion ; ceding his 
 place, maybe, 
 
 To one of like degree. 
 
 307
 
 308 A COMMONPLACE DAY 
 
 I part the fire-gnawed logs, 
 Rake forth the embers, spoil the busy flames, 
 and lay the ends 
 
 Upon the shining dogs ; 
 
 Further and further from the nooks the twi- 
 light's stride extends, 
 
 And beamless black impends. 
 
 Nothing of tiniest worth 
 
 Have I wrought, pondered, planned ; no one 
 thing asking blame or praise, 
 
 Since the pale corpse-like birth 
 Of this diurnal unit, bearing blanks in all its 
 rays 
 
 Dullest of dull-hued Days ! 
 
 P. A 
 
 Wanly upon the panes 
 
 The rain slides as have slid since morn my 
 colourless thoughts ; and yet 
 
 Here, while Day's presence wanes, 
 And over him the sepulchre - lid is slowly 
 lowered and set, 
 
 He wakens my regret.
 
 A COMMONPLACE DAY 309 
 
 Regret though nothing dear 
 That I wot of, was toward in the wide world 
 at his prime, 
 
 Or bloomed elsewhere than here, 
 To die with his decease, and leave a memory 
 sweet, sublime, 
 
 Or mark him out in Time. . . . 
 
 Yet, maybe, in some soul, 
 In some spot undiscerned on sea or land, some 
 impulse rose, 
 
 Or some intent upstole 
 
 Of that enkindling ardency from whose 
 maturer glows 
 
 The world's amendment flows ; 
 -rrjD oJ 'jiG c i OJOTI ,rmfi3 .v/obime /fir 
 
 But which, benumbed at birth 
 By momentary chance or wile, has missed its 
 hope to be 
 
 Embodied on the earth ; 
 
 And undervoicings of this loss to man's 
 futurity 
 
 May wake regret in me.
 
 AT A LUNAR ECLIPSE 
 
 L^y/' . 'u; f>)I"u>v/ ^!JT 
 
 THY shadow, Earth, from Pole to Cen- 
 tral Sea, 
 Now steals along upon the Moon's meek 
 
 shine 
 
 In even monochrome and curving line 
 Of imperturbable serenity. 
 
 How shall I link such sun-cast symmetry 
 With the torn troubled form I know as thine,
 
 AT A LUNAR ECLIPSE 3! I 
 
 That profile, placid as a brow divine, 
 With continents of moil and misery ? 
 
 And can immense Mortality but throw 
 
 So small a shade, and Heaven's high human 
 
 scheme 
 Be hemmed within the coasts yon arc implies ? 
 
 Is such the stellar gauge of earthly show, 
 Nation at war with nation, brains that teem, 
 Heroes, and women fairer than the skies ? 
 
 ad:
 
 
 .3 io agLfng imitate sdt dona al 
 ?ni,end ,noilKn dJiw TBW te uohuM 
 THE LACKING SENSE 
 
 SCENE. ^ sad-coloured landscape, W addon Vale 
 
 OTIME, whence comes the Mother's 
 moody look amid her labours, 
 As of one who all unwittingly has wounded 
 
 where she loves ? 
 Why weaves she not her world - webs to 
 
 according lutes and tabors, 
 With nevermore this too remorseful air upon 
 her face, 
 
 As of angel fallen from grace ? " 
 
 312
 
 THE LACKING SENSE 313 
 
 II 
 
 " Her look is but her story : construe not 
 
 its symbols keenly : 
 In her wonderworks yea surely has she 
 
 wounded where she loves. 
 The sense of ills misdealt for blisses blanks 
 
 the mien most queenly, 
 Self-smitings kill self-joys; and everywhere 
 beneath the sun 
 
 Such deeds her hands have done." 
 
 in 
 
 "And how explains thy Ancient Mind her 
 
 crimes upon her creatures, 
 These fallings from her fair beginnings, 
 
 woundings where she loves, 
 Into her would-be perfect motions, modes, 
 
 effects, and features 
 
 Admitting cramps, black humours, wan 
 decay, and baleful blights, 
 Distress into delights ? "
 
 314 THE LACKING SENSE 
 
 " Ah ! know'st thou not her secret yet, her 
 
 vainly veiled deficience, 
 Whence it comes that all unwittingly she 
 
 wounds the lives she loves ? 
 Tfyat sightless are those orbs of hers ? which 
 
 bar to her omniscience 
 
 Brings those fearful unfulfilments, that red 
 ravage through her zones 
 Whereat all creation groans. 
 
 "She whispers it in each pathetic strenuous 
 
 slow endeavour, 
 When in mothering she unwittingly sets 
 
 wounds on what she loves ; 
 Yet her primal doom pursues her, faultful, fatal 
 
 is she ever ; 
 
 Though so deft and nigh to vision is her 
 facile finger-touch 
 
 That the seers marvel much.
 
 THE LACKING SENSE 315 
 
 VI 
 
 "Deal, then, her groping skill no scorn, no 
 
 note of malediction ; 
 Not long on thee will press the hand that 
 
 hurts the lives it loves ; 
 And while she dares dead-reckoning on, in 
 
 darkness of affliction, 
 
 Assist her where thy creaturely dependence 
 can or may, 
 
 For thou art of her clay." 
 
 3 ; HIJ OT 
 
 ,3'Jl b3t98 bfiH 9f!J ffttW il^U S~*\ 
 
 /jsdt gnia'j?, k> ^issw I \^S 
 ,3oeq gailddod ^ri^ bns ,jlob balg^fiib ydt bn/ 
 
 Ht)i ia'blijow uorft J 
 
 ynilgaQ <-jrniT ,j( 
 
 How ,oot ,v/on>I bra; ,noi 
 
 .yUl Tu} ift'jri1 lie
 
 r IxnA 
 
 TO LIFE 
 
 OLIFE with the sad seared face, 
 I weary of seeing thee, 
 
 And thy draggled cloak, and thy hobbling pace, 
 And thy too-forced pleasantry ! 
 
 I know what thou would'st tell 
 Of Death, Time, Destiny 
 I have known it long, and know, too, well 
 
 What it all means for me. 
 
 3 ,6
 
 TO LIFE 317 
 
 But canst them not array 
 
 Thyself in rare disguise, 
 And feign like truth, for one mad day, 
 That Earth is Paradise ? 
 
 I'll tune me to the mood, 
 
 And mumm with thee till eve ; 
 And maybe what as interlude 
 
 I feign, I shall believe 1 
 
 MOOQ 

 
 ll 3f)J O_' 9fn 9f!IJ 
 
 iv/ mmnrn bnA 
 
 DOOM AND SHE 
 
 THERE dwells a mighty pair- 
 Slow, statuesque, intense 
 Amid the vague Immense : 
 None can their chronicle declare, 
 
 Nor why they be, nor whence. 
 
 318
 
 DOOM AND SHE 319 
 
 II 
 
 Mother of all things made, 
 Matchless in artistry, 
 Unlit with sight is she. 
 And though her ever well-obeyed 
 Vacant of feeling he. 
 
 in 
 
 [-!< Ifr flf'il I 
 
 The Matron mildly aslks 
 A throb in every word 
 " Our clay-made creatures, lord, 
 How fare they in their mortal tasks 
 Upon Earth's bounded bord ? 
 
 IV 
 TU t 4. r *u T ,-r/JOW tarlW 
 
 " The fate of those I bear, 
 Dear lord, pray turn and view, 
 And notify me true ; 
 Shapings that eyelessly I dare 
 Maybe I would undo. 
 
 v 
 
 " Sometimes from lairs of life 
 Methinks I catch a groan, 
 Or multitudinous moan,
 
 32O DOOM AND SHE 
 
 As though I had schemed a world of strife, 
 Working by touch alone." 
 
 VT 
 
 " World- weaver ! " he replies, 
 " I scan all thy domain ; 
 But since nor joy nor pain 
 Doth my clear substance recognize, 
 I read thy realms in vain. 
 
 VII 
 
 " World- weaver ! what is Grief ? 
 And what are Right, and Wrong, 
 And Feeling, that belong 
 To creatures all who owe thee fief ? 
 
 What worse is Weak than Strong ? " . . . 
 
 VIII 
 
 Unlightened, curious, meek, 
 She broods in sad surmise. . ?i fn< 
 Some say they have heard her sighs 
 On Alpine height or Polar peak 
 When the night tempests rise.
 
 on blorf terft 
 
 arv bfo orft t narfJ ,tel aw 
 
 S nifib?Jb ifflw ^iio^raoD ei aidrfJ 9oni3 
 nkq arit Jjsdt alidw sri) Jnaingiq dt- ^on sJo/1 
 nisq bns ^o| a'^^ntmuil esninrr 
 
 THE PROBLEM 
 
 SHALL we conceal the Case, or tell it 
 We who believe the evidence ? 
 Here and there the watch-towers knell it 
 
 With a sullen significance, 
 Heard of the few who hearken intently and 
 carry an eagerly upstrained sense. 
 
 3" X
 
 322 THE PROBLEM 
 
 Hearts that are happiest hold not by it ; 
 
 Better we let, then, the old view reign ; 
 Since there is peace in it, why decry it ? 
 
 Since there is comfort, why disdain ? 
 Note not the pigment the while that the painting 
 determines humanity's joy and pain ! 
 
 rttiW 
 to
 
 
 >bhte Vm jbste oJ t tli9id ^m nrusw oT 
 ".uodi balm CUB I irjfl 
 
 I teY u .?.aonjfoi2 bigg 
 3 on d'rjj aliJil ^ft* is 
 yrfj "I9)fi3 bid mK lufl 
 
 71 
 
 '\no8 , 
 
 THE SUBALTERNS ^ 
 
 i 
 
 " |~"^OOR wanderer," said the leaden sky, 
 " I fain would lighten thee, 
 
 But there be laws in force on high 
 
 Iw Diy yiow Ji ii/o.jnoolidi j/idl 
 
 Which say it must not be." 
 
 II 
 
 " I would not freeze thee, shorn one," cried 
 
 The North, " knew I but how 
 323
 
 324 THE SUBALTERNS 
 
 To warm my breath, to slack my stride ; 
 But I am ruled as thou." 
 
 in 
 
 " To-morrow I attack thee, wight," 
 Said Sickness. " Yet I swear 
 
 I bear thy little ark no spite, 
 But am bid enter there." 
 
 IV 
 
 " Come hither, Son," I heard Death say ; 
 
 " I did not will a grave 
 Should end thy pilgrimage to-day, 
 
 But I, too, am a slave ! " 
 
 v 
 
 We smiled upon each other then, 
 
 And life to me wore less 
 That fell contour it wore ere when 
 
 They owned their passiveness. 
 
 o morle: ,09fii M99ii ion biuow I "- 
 v/orf iud I wsrnP' ,rijioM arlT
 
 riaqo ^fit worte bras 3moo mom Jcrfl bfuoriS 
 
 trodl Jltw v/oH 
 
 V 9mfi3 lo jfoorlg bliw ano ni xoilttb uotti i iiV7 
 iKinsrrusnnft gnivfi^rl riiri alodw '{rfT 
 ,bn9m ,)eu[bfi ylinshfiq nO 
 
 THE SLEEP-WORKER 
 
 WHEN wilt thou wake, O Mother, wake 
 and see 
 
 As one who, held in trance, has laboured long 
 By vacant rote and prepossession strong 
 The coils that thou hast wrought unwittingly ; 
 
 Wherein have place, unrealized by thee, 
 
 Fair growths, foul cankers, right enmeshed 
 
 with wrong, 
 Strange orchestras of victim-shriek and song, 
 
 And curious blends of ache and ecstasy ? 
 
 325
 
 326 THE SLEEP-WORKER 
 
 Should that morn come, and show thy opened 
 
 eyes 
 
 All that Life's palpitating tissues feel, 
 How wilt thou bear thyself in thy surprise ? 
 
 Wilt thou destroy, in one wild shock of shame, 
 Thy whole high heaving firmamental frame, 
 Or patiently adjust, amend, and heal ? 
 
 
 fMiw 
 
 ooe bri 
 ni blorf ,ori 
 bm^jtfoi IHBDBV vH 
 uorfnBrit elioo artT 
 
 Iiio ^ 
 
 o au 
 
 hnK *rlor ^n ^hn^Id ?nnhin hn/
 
 
 buw s^nm.TA' moil toa 
 .blirb i9rf altao aria te.x^d 
 
 oauori >mobnrel igrf 
 jG glisi 3(Ia < 
 3ifo no 
 niqat 'i 
 ri isrf nt aovKff 3/Si;n:i ebtif>i r> i 
 
 THE BULLFINCHES 
 
 BROTHER Bulleys, let us sing 
 From the dawn till evening ! 
 For we know not that we go not 
 When the day's pale pinions fold 
 Unto those who sang of old. 
 
 When I flew to Blackmoor Vale, 
 Whence the green-gowned faeries hail, 
 Roosting near them I could hear them 
 Speak of queenly Nature's ways, 
 Means, and moods, well known to fays.
 
 328 THE BULLFINCHES 
 
 All we creatures, nigh and far 
 (Said they there), the Mother's are ; 
 Yet she never shows endeavour 
 To protect from warrings wild 
 Bird or beast she calls her child. 
 
 Busy in her handsome house 
 Known as Space, she falls a-drowse ; 
 Yet, in seeming, works on dreaming, 
 While beneath her groping hands 
 Fiends make havoc in her bands. 
 
 >TI^IJJUa 3HT 
 
 How her hussif'ry succeeds 
 
 She unknows or she unheeds, 
 All things making for Death's taking ! 
 So the green-gowned faeries say 
 Living over Blackmoor way. 
 
 oil// Srfodi oiu.U 
 
 Come then, brethren, let us sing> 
 From the dawn till evening ! 
 For we know not that we go not 
 When the day's pale pinions fold 
 Unto those who sang of old.
 
 i 
 
 noi 3liud I 
 
 '"HK- il '.'' . . iJ'3%B^ 
 
 GOD-FORGOTTEN 
 
 I TOWERED far, and lo ! I stood within 
 The presence of the Lord Most High, 
 Sent thither by the sons of earth, to win 
 Some answer to their cry. 
 i9it won I oh 8i-dd ii id%u \O 
 " The Earth, say'st thou ? The Human 
 
 race? [o 9 - 
 
 By Me created ? Sad its lot'? 
 Nay : I have no remembrance of such place : 
 Such world I fashioned not." 
 
 339
 
 33O GOD-FORGOTTEN 
 
 " O Lord, forgive me when I say 
 Thou spak'st the word, and mad'st it 
 
 all." 
 
 " The Earth of men let me bethink me. . . . 
 Yea! 
 
 I dimly do recall 
 
 " Some tiny sphere I built long back 
 (Mid millions of such shapes of mine) 
 So named ... It perished, surely not a 
 wrack 
 
 Remaining, or a sign ? 
 
 " It lost my interest from the first, 
 My aims therefor succeeding ill ; 
 Haply it died of doing as it durst ?"- 
 " Lord, it existeth still." 
 
 vd "iorf)jilj 
 
 " Dark, then, its life ! For not a cry 
 Of aught it bears do I now hear ; 
 Of its own act the threads were snapt whereby 
 Its plaints had reached mine ear. 
 -.- : S ; i&ir&^k y& 
 
 " It used to ask for gifts of good, 
 Till came its severance self-entailed,
 
 GOD-FORGOTTEN 33 1 
 
 When sudden silence on that side ensued, 
 And has till now prevailed. 
 
 eamoo Ji tfo teY . . . ! trlguodJ rfeiblirla ,riO 
 " All other orbs have kept in touch ; 
 
 Their voicings reach me speedily : 
 Thy people took upon them overmuch 
 In sundering them from me ! 
 
 " And it is strange though sad enough 
 Earth's race should think that one whose 
 
 call 
 
 Frames, daily, shining spheres of flawless stuff 
 Must heed their tainted ball ! . . . 
 
 " But say'st thou 'tis by pangs distraught, 
 And strife, and silent suffering ? 
 Deep grieved am I that injury should be 
 wrought 
 
 Even on so poor a thing ! 
 
 "Thou should'st have learnt that Not to 
 
 Mend 
 
 For Me could mean but Not to Know : 
 Hence, Messengers ! and straightway put an end 
 To what men undergo." . . .
 
 332 GOD-FORGOTTEN 
 
 Homing at dawn, I thought to see 
 One of the Messengers standing by. 
 Oh, childish thought ! . . . Yet oft it comes 
 to me 
 
 When trouble hovers nigh. 
 
 q^rft floap jfoot alqooq 
 
 ! 301 moil marl* gonsbrma nl 
 
 v ,iooq;O8i n
 
 ffnod -^ 
 
 ',e MieloBfJ lo a'iarm oir tfflktt ft'IV 5 
 
 snfonof'. vrt 1 Jitjlo T.'-t^Kgib omos iff) I 
 ,)7B^jB obiw gy 3'iot bnA 
 
 >;oia ni>3 ^ir> on'ti;ri) 08 
 o blis 
 
 nr 31; Jijf{g brn; Dqxide ton te'bluow bnA 
 THE BEDRIDDEN PEASANT 
 
 TO AN UNKNOWING GOD 
 
 MUCH wonder I here long low-laid 
 That this dead wall should be 
 Betwixt the Maker and the made, 
 Between Thyself and me ! 
 
 For, say one puts a child to nurse, 
 
 __I;r;Jie eyes it now and then 
 To know if better 'tis, or worse, 
 
 And if it mourn, and when. 
 
 333
 
 334 THE BEDRIDDEN PEASANT 
 
 But Thou, Lord, giv'st us men our day 
 
 In helpless bondage thus 
 To Time and Chance, and seem'st straightway 
 
 To think no more of us ! 
 
 That some disaster cleft Thy scheme 
 
 And tore us wide apart, 
 So that no cry can cross, I deem ; 
 
 For Thou art mild of heart, 
 
 And would'st not shape and shut us in 
 Where voice can not be heard : 
 
 'Tis plain Thou meant'st that we should win 
 Thy succour by a word. 
 
 r/i 
 
 Might but Thy sense flash down the skies 
 Like man's from clime to clime, 
 
 Thou would'st not let me agonize 
 
 Through my remaining time ; 
 
 But, seeing how much Thy creatures bear 
 Lame, starved, or maimed, or blind 
 
 Thou'dst heal the ills with quickest care 
 Of me and all my kind.
 
 THE BEDRIDDEN PEASANT 335 
 
 Then, since Thou mak'st not these things be, 
 But these things dost not know, 
 
 I'll praise Thee as were shown to me 
 
 The mercies Thou would'st show 1 
 
 YH 
 
 doi cai 
 
 ^d<s.i>ciJ5 bfiKl'SiKhpl aA 
 t iwo} brifi ,bnr>ini;fniifl bnA 
 snog aiA 
 ai$g. aril gi |[A
 
 igait 
 
 i; ;-aidw . diiiaatlT &HJTKJ 11 ' j 
 tuoM^uorlT gobsacn oriT 
 
 BY THE EARTH'S CORPSE 
 i 
 
 LORD, why grievest Thou ?- 
 Since Life has ceased to be 
 Upon this globe, now cold 
 As lunar land and sea, 
 And humankind, and fowl, and fur 
 
 Are gone eternally, 
 All is the same to Thee as ere 
 
 They knew mortality." 
 
 336
 
 BY THE EARTH S CORPSE 337 
 
 >ft fl^tiv/ >8 
 
 II 
 
 " O Time," replied the Lord, 
 
 " Thou read'st me ill, I ween ; 
 Were all the same, I should not grieve 
 
 At that late earthly scene, 
 Now blestly past though planned by me 
 
 With interest close and keen ! 
 Nay, nay : things now are not the same 
 
 As they have earlier been. 
 
 ill 
 
 "Written indelibly 
 
 On my eternal mind 
 
 Are all the wrongs endured 
 
 By Earth's poor patient kind, 
 
 Which my too oft unconscious hand 
 Let enter undesigned. 
 
 No god can cancel deeds foredone, 
 Or thy old coils unwind ! 
 
 IV 
 
 " As when, in Noe's days, 
 
 I whelmed the plains with sea,
 
 338 BY THE EARTH'S CORPSE 
 
 So at this last, when flesh 
 And herb but fossils be, 
 And, all extinct, their piteous dust 
 
 Revolves obliviously, 
 That I made Earth, and life, and man, 
 
 It still repenteth me ! " 
 am ^d bannctq dgoodi tesq ylteald woM 
 
 ] naa^ bne aaob tesisrfni riiiW 
 
 3insa arfJ Vaw sis won egnirfJ : v 
 .naad i3ilifi3 avari yarit eA 
 
 baiobno egnoiv/ srft Ik 9iA 
 tooq 
 
 o K 
 
 8 A
 
 >n 
 t sboiJ tumtefal ni bcwl 
 
 gnibfolmj &ti "\i rneaf oT 
 ,sboo baiuornclo 8ii 
 ,n9jloidnu chw 
 
 buol rfJ SK tol/I 
 
 MUTE OPINION 
 
 I TRAVERSED a dominion 
 Whose spokesmen spake out strong 
 Their purpose and opinion 
 Through pulpit, press, and song. 
 I scarce had means to note there 
 A large-eyed few, and dumb, 
 Who thought not as those thought there 
 That stirred the heat and hum. 
 
 339
 
 34-O MUTE OPINION 
 
 II 
 
 When, grown a Shade, beholding 
 That land in lifetime trode, 
 To learn if its unfolding 
 Fulfilled its clamoured code, 
 I saw, in web unbroken, 
 Its history outwrought 
 Not as the loud had spoken, 
 But as the mute had'thought. 
 
 M 
 
 AHT T 
 
 JUG a^lsqe asms rJoqa aeorfW 
 jcioiniqo bfl 
 
 3i3 son o an3in 
 
 ,dcnub bra; ,v/3l b9Y9-9gifiI A 
 ^rjodt 9?.orfc ai; Jon jffguodJ orlV/
 
 a^iite 
 
 Jaob ; n&dk jj: BghirfiKi^ii faoam; ton 
 
 nr 
 
 bnA 
 
 TO AN UNBORN PAUPER CHILD 
 
 'jY/,; 33,5^0}. gj[.}u<i bnA 
 I 
 
 BREATHE not, hid Heart : cease silently, 
 And though thy birth-hour beckons 
 thee, 
 
 Sleep the long sleep : 
 The Doomsters heap 
 Travails and teens around us here, 
 And Time-wraiths turn our songsingings to 
 fear.
 
 342 TO AN UNBORN PAUPER CHILD 
 II 
 
 Hark, how the peoples surge and sigh, 
 And laughters fail, and greetings die : 
 
 Hopes dwindle ; yea, 
 
 Faiths waste away, 
 Affections and enthusiasms numb ; 
 Thou canst not mend these things if thou dost 
 
 come. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Had I the ear of wombed souls 
 Ere their terrestrial chart unrolls, 
 And thou wert free 
 To cease, or be, 
 
 Then would I tell thee all I know, 
 And put it to thee : Wilt thou take Life so ? 
 
 IV 
 
 Vain vow ! No hint of mine may hence 
 To theeward fly : to thy locked sense 
 Explain none can 
 Life's pending plan : 
 Thou wilt thy ignorant entry make 
 Though skies spout fire and blood and nations 
 quake.
 
 TO AN UNBORN PAUPER CHILD 343 
 V 
 
 Fain would I, dear, find some shut plot 
 Of earth's wide wold for thee, where not 
 
 One tear, one qualm, 
 
 Should break the calm. 
 But I am weak as thou and bare ; 
 No man can change the common lot to rare. 
 
 VI 
 
 Must come and bide. And such are we 
 Unreasoning, sanguine, visionary 
 That I can hope 
 Health, love, friends, scope 
 In full for thee ; can dream thou'lt find 
 Joys seldom yet attained by humankind !. 
 
 egnirlt oiriio lie il \_j 
 ,YK<i rrjrn amoe as ^-isnoW ,)n3iJf|33 99 
 ? egnnahnoq trjo^ QIK terfW 
 
 ion 
 
 ,rnor!t lo Joqa 
 aiirlw nosoii fone , 
 ? aiohoi
 
 
 
 . 
 
 SUNNED in the South, and here to-day; 
 If all organic things 
 Be sentient, Flowers, as some men say, 
 What are your ponderings ? 
 
 How can you stay, nor vanish quite 
 
 From this bleak spot of thorn, 
 And birch, and fir, and frozen white 
 
 Expanse of the forlorn ? 
 
 344
 
 TO FLOWERS FROM ITALY IN WINTER 345 
 
 Frail luckless exiles hither brought ! 
 
 Your dust will not regain 
 Old sunny haunts of Classic thought 
 
 When you shall waste and wane ; 
 
 But mix with alien earth, be lit 
 
 With frigid Boreal flame, 
 And not a sign remain in it 
 
 To tell men whence you came. 
 
 OMIMflOM 3WR A MO 
 
 JoM 
 
 moil 
 K ,niob 
 
 ,8fioiiibfiOD e'attJ gniton 'm< 
 ; enoiJifioffi a'smiT gnibaari moil ioM 
 arit oJ gnhrsalo ni tnH 
 ni bnA 
 
 d nablog ggnidt ys-ig 
 
 >W
 
 . 
 
 isl itsvi 
 n Iliw teub "woY 
 
 ftujsri Ynnt/8 blO 
 nw bri aiasw llfirie uo narfW 
 
 ,3rnuft kaioH higiili rfiiW 
 )i ni nifimai ngia Jon bnA 
 uov aonarfw nam HsJ oT 
 
 ON A FINE MORNING 
 
 WHENCE comes Solace ? Not 
 from seeing 
 
 What is doing, suffering, being, 
 Not from noting Life's conditions, 
 Nor from heeding Time's monitions ; 
 But in cleaving to the Dream, 
 And in gazing at the gleam 
 
 Whereby gray things golden seem. 
 346
 
 ON A FINE MORNING 347 
 
 II 
 
 Thus do I this heyday, holding 
 Shadows but as lights unfolding, 
 As no specious show this moment 
 With its irised embowment ; 
 But as nothing other than 
 Part of a benignant plan ; 
 Proof that earth was made for man. 
 
 February 1899. 
 
 OT 
 
 
 T //oii tfos ''-lytef 
 
 '-' eiii 3 '"tHtft I'.
 
 udT 
 
 ;ii a)d 
 
 srnorn aidi v/orfs auoiaaqs on eA 
 inarnwodrna b^eiif aii rfjiW 
 
 
 TO LIZBIE BROWNE 
 
 DEAR Lizbie Browne, 
 Where are you now ? 
 In sun, in rain ? 
 Or is your brow 
 Past joy, past pain, 
 
 Dear Lizbie Browne ? 
 
 348
 
 TO LIZBIE BROWNE 
 II 
 
 Sweet Lizbie Browne 
 How you could smile, 
 How you could sing ! 
 How archly wile 
 In glance-giving, 
 Sweet Lizbie Browne ! 
 
 ill 
 
 And, Lizbie Browne, 
 Who else had hair 
 Bay-red as yours, 
 Or flesh so fair 
 Bred out of doors, 
 Sweet Lizbie Browne ? 
 
 When, Lizbie Browne, 
 You had just begun 
 To be endeared 
 By stealth to one, 
 You disappeared 
 My Lizbie Browne 1 
 
 349
 
 35 TO LIZBIE BROWNE 
 
 V 
 
 Ay, Lizbie Browne, 
 So swift your life, 
 And mine so slow, 
 You were a wife 
 Ere I could show 
 Love, Lizbie Browne. 
 
 VI 
 
 Still, Lizbie Browne, 
 You won, they said, 
 The best of men 
 When you were wed. . . 
 Where went you then, 
 
 Lizbie Browne ? 
 
 VII 
 
 Dear Lizbie Browne, 
 
 1 should have thought, 
 " Girls ripen fast," 
 And coaxed and caught 
 You ere you passed, 
 Dear Lizbie Browne I
 
 TO LIZBIE BROWNE 351 
 
 VIII 
 
 But, Lizbie Browne, 
 I let you slip ; 
 Shaped not a sign ; 
 Touched never your lip 
 With lip of mine, 
 Lost Lizbie Browne ! 
 
 IX 
 
 So, Lizbie Browne, 
 When on a day 
 Men speak of me 
 As not, you'll say, 
 " And who was he ? " 
 Yes, Lizbie Browne 1 
 
 .wonoe.to sfcnae airf,T 
 wonod du tel ntJiIT 
 -ol ,aqoH 
 txi iiiw nooS 
 on yd bttminiQ
 
 
 
 vonxtfe? ost tprlW 
 qg naM 
 
 SONG OF HOPE 
 
 I asSflyQiIvjr. feoA * ' 
 
 O SWEET To-morrow ! 
 After to-day 
 There will away 
 This sense of sorrow. 
 Then let us borrow 
 Hope, for a gleaming 
 Soon will be streaming, 
 
 Dimmed by no gray- 
 No gray !
 
 SONG OF HOPE 353 
 
 While the winds wing us 
 
 Sighs from The Gone, 
 Nearer to dawn 
 
 Minute-beats bring us ; 
 
 When there will sing us 
 
 Larks of a glory 
 
 Waiting our story 
 
 Further anon 
 Anon ! 
 
 Doff the black token, 
 
 Don the red shoon, 
 Right and retune 
 
 Viol-strings broken ; 
 
 Null the words spoken 
 
 In speeches of rueing, 
 
 The night cloud is hueing, 
 
 To-morrow shines soon 
 Shines soon !
 
 
 nA 
 
 THE WELL-BELOVED 
 
 I WAVED by star and planet shine 
 Towards the dear one's home 
 At Kingsbere, there to make her mine 
 When the next sun upclomb. 
 
 I edged the ancient hill and wood 
 
 Beside the Ikling Way, 
 Nigh where the Pagan temple stood 
 
 In the world's earlier day. 
 
 354
 
 THE WELL-BELOVED 
 
 And as I quick and quicker walked 
 
 On gravel and on green, 
 I sang to sky, and tree, or talked 
 
 Of her I called my queen. 
 
 " O faultless is her dainty form, 
 
 And luminous her mind ; 
 She is the God-created norm 
 
 Of perfect womankind ! " 
 
 A shape whereon one star-blink gleamed 
 
 Glode softly by my side, 
 A woman's ; and her motion seemed 
 
 The motion of my bride. 
 
 And yet methought she'd drawn erstwhile 
 
 Adown the ancient leaze, 
 Where once were pile and peristyle 
 
 For men's idolatries. 
 
 " O maiden lithe and lone, what may 
 
 Thy name and lineage be, 
 Who so resemblest by this ray 
 
 My darling ? Art thou she ?"
 
 35^ THE WELL-BELOVED 
 
 The Shape : " Thy bride remains within 
 Her father's grange and grove." 
 
 " Thou speakest rightly," I broke in, 
 Thou art not she I love." 
 
 " Nay : though thy bride remains inside 
 Her father's walls," said she, 
 
 " The one most dear is with thee here, 
 For thou dost love but me." 
 
 Then I : " But she, my only choice, 
 Is now at Kingsbere Grove ?" 
 
 Again her soft mysterious voice : 
 " I am thy only Love." 
 
 Thus still she vouched, and still I said, 
 " O sprite, that cannot be ! "... 
 
 It was as if my bosom bled, 
 So much she troubled me. 
 
 The sprite resumed : " Thou hast transferred 
 
 To her dull form awhile 
 My beauty, fame, and deed, and word, 
 
 My gestures and my smile.
 
 THE WELL-BELOVED 357 
 
 " O fatuous man, this truth infer, 
 Brides are not what they seem ; 
 
 Thou lovest what thou dreamest her ; 
 I am thy very dream ! " 
 
 " O then," I answered miserably, 
 
 Speaking as scarce I knew, 
 " My loved one, I must wed with thee 
 
 If what thou say'st be true !" 
 
 She, proudly, thinning in the gloom : 
 " Though, since troth-plight began, 
 
 I've ever stood as bride to groom, 
 I wed no mortal man ! " 
 
 Thereat she vanished by the Cross 
 
 That, entering Kingsbere town, 
 The two long lanes form, near the fosse 
 
 Below the faneless Down. 
 10) ;b/n) vdi oeija IIiv/ abiow a "mobaiw bloO 
 When I arrived and met my bride, 
 
 Her look was pinched and thin, 
 As if her soul had shrunk and died, 
 
 And left a waste within.
 
 
 
 HER REPROACH 
 
 . ,f iy JfifiT 
 
 CON the dead page as 'twere live love : 
 press on ! 
 Cold wisdom's words will ease thy track for 
 
 thee ; 
 
 Aye, go ; cast off sweet ways, and leave me 
 wan 
 
 To biting blasts that are intent on me. 
 
 358
 
 HER REPROACH 
 
 But if thy object Fame's far summits be, 
 Whose inclines many a skeleton o'erlies 
 That missed both dream and substance, stop 
 
 and see 
 How absence wears these cheeks and dims 
 
 these eyes ! 
 
 It surely is far sweeter and more wise 
 To water love, than toil to leave anon 
 A name whose glory-gleam will but advise 
 Invidious minds to quench it with their own, 
 
 And over which the kindliest will but stay 
 A moment, musing, " He, too, had his day ! " 
 
 WESTBOURNE PARK VILLAS, 
 
 1867. 
 ,-irfil boog ZR esv/ aria 
 
 ; bnuorn isrf -{d nibneJe n: 
 
 
 cI bnr> m
 
 
 THE INCONSISTENT 
 
 1SAY, " She was as good as fair," 
 When standing by her mound ; 
 " Such passing sweetness," I declare, 
 
 " No longer treads the ground." 
 I say, " What living Love can catch 
 
 Her bloom and bonhomie, 
 And what in newer maidens match 
 Her olden warmth to me !"
 
 THE INCONSISTENT 361 
 
 There stands within yon vestry-nook 
 
 Where bonded lovers sign, 
 Her name upon a faded book 
 
 With one that is not mine. 
 To him she breathed the tender vow 
 
 She once had breathed to me, 
 But yet I say, " O love, even now 
 
 Would I had died for thee ! " 
 
 TVJHMTMIOTJA 
 
 .anioa Ion bib UO\JT 
 waib arniT gniricnsin bnA 
 
 / ,1 bsv:
 
 :E;nrJ ode mill oT 
 i bful aono od8 
 /ol O " ,^8 I i^Y luH 
 baib bsH I biuoW 
 
 A BROKEN APPOINTMENT 
 
 Y 
 
 'OU did not come, 
 
 And marching Time drew 
 on, and wore me numb. 
 Yet less for loss of your dear presence there 
 Than that I thus found lacking in your make 
 That high compassion which can overbear 
 Reluctance for pure lovingkindness' sake 
 Grieved I, when, as the hope-hour stroked its 
 sum, 
 
 You did not come. 
 
 362
 
 A BROKEN APPOINTMENT 363 
 
 You love not me, 
 
 And love alone can lend you loyalty ; 
 I know and knew it. But, unto the store 
 Of human deeds divine in all but name, 
 Was it not worth a little hour or more 
 To add yet this : Once, you, a woman, came 
 To soothe a time-torn man ; even though 
 it be 
 
 You love not me ? 
 
 I// \^ 
 v/ 
 
 3i c . 
 
 ,1 gitimffltD a; 
 lrff.1 jr> dhnJ
 
 
 ' 
 
 ij ariJoo? oT 
 
 " BETWEEN US NOW " 
 
 BETWEEN us now and here- 
 Two thrown together 
 Who are not wont to wear 
 
 Life's flushest feather 
 Who see the scenes slide past, 
 The daytimes dimming fast, 
 Let there be truth at last, 
 
 Even if despair. 
 364
 
 "BETWEEN us NOW" 365 
 
 So thoroughly and long 
 
 Have you now known me, 
 
 So real in faith and strong 
 Have I now shown me, 
 
 That nothing needs disguise 
 
 Further in any wise, 
 
 Or asks or justifies 
 
 A guarded tongue. 
 
 Face unto face, then, say, 
 
 Eyes mine own meeting, 
 Is your heart far away, 
 
 Or with mine beating ? 
 t w 'ii. TJiij.j ^iii 
 
 When false things are brought low, 
 And swift things have grown slow, 
 Feigning like froth shall go,, f{) 3 
 Faith be for aye. 
 
 woriVot b
 
 . 
 
 / 
 
 A 
 
 "HOW GREAT MY GRIEF" 
 
 illf 29V& 
 
 ^TRIOLET) 
 
 H 
 
 OW great my grief, my joys how few, 
 
 Since first it was my fate to know 
 thee ! 
 
 Have the slow years not brought to view 
 How great my grief, my joys how few, 
 Nor memory shaped old times anew, 
 
 Nor loving-kindness helped to show thee 
 How great my grief, my joys how few, 
 
 Since first it was my fate to know thee ?
 
 .nn:j; ouioo 
 
 i 
 fi e^ha onon 
 
 a oT 
 "I NEED NOT GO'* 
 
 1NEED not go 
 Through sleet and snow 
 To where I know 
 She waits for me ; 
 She will wait me there 
 Till I find it fair, 
 And have time to spare 
 From company. 
 
 When I've overgot 
 The world somewhat, 
 When things cost not 
 
 Such stress and strain, 
 367
 
 368 " I NEED NOT GO " 
 
 Is soon enough 
 By cypress sough 
 To tell my Love 
 I am come again. 
 
 And if some day, 
 When none cries nay, 
 I still delay 
 To seek her side, 
 (Though ample measure 
 Of fitting leisure 
 Await my pleasure) 
 She will not chide. 
 
 What not upbraid me 
 That I delayed me, 
 Nor ask what stayed me 
 So long ? Ah, no ! 
 New cares may claim me. 
 New loves inflame me, 
 She will not blame me, 
 But suffer it so.
 
 
 
 srfJ avjsq ano ten! iA 
 ob 8^wk namov/ nsmov/ arfT 
 <bnol I t aoi) yU 
 stit zs anO ! tefil )A 
 
 eiannis tO . . . ;3m^ri8 eni^ai ,370! 
 
 -rpvilcnaq arit eyfiq ^W 
 I ob 8wl nDraow n^mo 
 
 THE COQUETTE, AND AFTER 
 
 (TRIOLETS) 
 
 FOR long the cruel wish I knew 
 That your free heart should ache for me 
 While mine should bear no ache for you ; 
 For, long the cruel wish ! I knew 
 How men can feel, and craved to view 
 My triumph fated not to be 
 For long ! . . . The cruel wish I knew 
 That your free heart should ache for me 1 
 
 3 6 9 2 A
 
 37O THE COQUETTE, AND AFTER 
 II 
 
 At last one pays the penalty 
 
 The woman women always do. 
 
 My farce, I found, was tragedy 
 
 At last ! One pays the penalty 
 
 With interest when one, fancy-free, 
 
 Learns love, learns shame. ... Of sinners 
 
 two 
 
 At last one pays the penalty-' - 
 The woman women always do ! 
 
 >CO HHT 
 
 rol >IU 
 ;dT 
 
 riW 
 
 rfqmun) ^M 
 . ! gaol io"'I
 
 
 . 
 
 UT 
 
 nOfiKtiS 
 lifilt brie evjsb luo' 5 ! 
 
 nA 
 
 383ilj bioif. i 
 
 fIJ 
 
 A SPOT 
 
 IN years defaced and lost, 
 Two sat here, transport-tossed, 
 Lit by a living love 
 The wilted world knew nothing of : 
 Scared momently 
 By gaingivings, 
 Then hoping things 
 That could not be.
 
 37 2 A SPOT 
 
 Of love and us no trace 
 Abides upon the place ; - 
 The sun and shadows wheel, 
 Season and season sereward steal ; 
 
 Foul days and fair 
 
 Here, too, prevail, 
 
 And gust and gale 
 
 As everywhere. 
 
 But lonely shepherd souls 
 Who bask amid these knolls 
 May catch a faery sound 
 On sleepy noontides from the ground 
 " O not again 
 Till Earth outwears 
 
 Shall love like theirs 
 
 '. I 
 
 Suffuse this glen ! " 
 
 : t bhow baJiiw 
 
 om btno8 
 riijsg V.H 
 '[
 
 i 
 
 :' I 
 
 artt SB ad noo?, Iliw 
 
 es salirna bnA 
 
 nodw , 
 
 ; VBig ei nwo*id ^9 "ino ,mov/ 9 - ir, s^aarla iuQ 
 ,'{sn 10 say sy^ 8 3non ,sw HBQ TO Jsoni i 
 S eaifio 10 ,gb33rl lO 
 
 soma t i3b ,3fiflw rlhow Ji al 
 
 LONG PLIGHTED 
 
 gbnuom 
 
 IS it worth while, dear, now, 
 To call for bells, and sally fortli arrayed 
 For marriage-rites discussed, decried, de- 
 layed 
 
 So many years ? 
 fl^irl hns v/of %nrrlt Hw k> rtejno tasl 3tft IliT 
 
 Is it worth while, dear, now, 
 To stir desire for old fond purposings, 
 By feints that Time still serves for dallyings, 
 Though quittance nears ? 
 
 373
 
 374 LONG PLIGHTED 
 
 Is it worth while, dear, when 
 The day being so far spent, so low the sun, 
 The undone thing will soon be as the done, 
 And smiles as tears ? 
 
 Is it worth while, dear, when 
 Our cheeks are worn, our early brown is gray ; 
 When, meet or part we, none says yea or nay, 
 Or heeds, or cares ? 
 
 Is it worth while, dear, since 
 We still can climb old YeH'ham's wooded 
 mounds 
 
 Together, as each season steals its rounds 
 
 & 8 
 
 And disappears ? 
 
 *^ j lot lh;o oT 
 
 'j D . ! i f n "t o''I 
 
 Is it worth while, dear, since 
 
 As mates in Mellstock churchyard we can lie, 
 Till the last crash of all things low and high 
 Shall end the spheres ? 
 
 'o ~io\ 9'iitab tite oT 
 ctiiT terttijjnbl vH
 
 : nA 
 
 $fchfe3tia*;w qerts lonrn nA 
 BW I bnA 
 
 r 
 
 n tarn 9rI8 
 '' 
 
 THE WIDOW 
 
 BY Mellstock Lodge and Avenue 
 Towards her door I went, 
 And sunset on her window-panes 
 Reflected our intent. 
 
 The creeper on the gable nigh 
 Was fired to more than red 
 And when I came to halt thereby 
 "Bright as my joy ! " I said. 
 
 375
 
 THE WIDOW 
 
 Of late days it had been her aim 
 
 To meet me in the hall ; 
 Now at my footsteps no one came, 
 
 And no one to my call. 
 
 Again I knocked, and tardily 
 
 An inner step was heard, 
 And I was shown her presence then 
 
 With scarce an answering word. 
 
 She met me, and but barely took 
 
 My proffered warm embrace ; 
 Preoccupation weighed her look, 
 
 And hardened her sweet face. 
 
 "To-morrow could you would you call ? 
 
 Make brief your present stay ? 
 My child is ill my one, my all ! 
 
 And can't be left to-day." 
 
 And then she turns, and gives commands 
 
 As I were out of sound, 
 Or were no more to her and hers 
 
 Than any neighbour round. . . .
 
 THE WIDOW 377 
 
 As maid I wooed her ; but one came 
 
 And coaxed her heart away, 
 And when in time he wedded her 
 
 I deemed her gone for aye. 
 
 He won, I lost her ; and my loss 
 
 I bore I know not how ; 
 But I do think I suffered then 
 
 Less wretchedness than now. 
 
 For Time, in taking him, had oped 
 
 An unexpected door 
 Of bliss for me, which grew to seem 
 
 Far surer than before. . . . 
 
 j; Jr- 3f[J ^J^YvoUjJtWrtl:^ T 
 
 'I'll 44 i / >-l4 1 IT 
 
 Her word is steadfast, and I know 
 
 *bnorj ' 
 That plighted firm are we : 
 
 , 
 But she has caught new love-calls since 
 
 ll 
 She smiled as maid on me ! 
 
 silt eifiav gd aiuorl
 
 -:A 
 O'j bnA 
 
 rnifcwi fiarlw bnA 
 i3ff 
 
 teoi I ,no// a 
 titon v/onsl I aiod 1 
 aaftim.i Jwirft ob 1 t 
 
 AT A HASTY WEDDING 
 
 I 
 
 (TRIOLET) 
 v jflifio 
 
 I nei 
 e years the tw 
 
 For now they solace swift desire 
 
 
 I neiij 13-iije' IK^I 
 F hours be years the twain are blest, 
 
 By bonds of every bond the best, 
 
 If hours be years. The twain are blest 
 
 Do eastern stars slope never west, 
 
 (8 
 Nor pallid ashes follow fire : 
 
 If hours be years the twain are blest, 
 For now they solace swift desire. 
 
 378
 
 THE DREAM-FOLLOWER 
 
 A DREAM of mine flew over the mead 
 To the halls where my old Love 
 
 reigns ; 
 And it drew me on to follow its lead : 
 
 And I stood at her window-panes ; 
 3d tenm zirfT" : I bifig narlT .Ibisd azorlJ 1O 
 And I saw but a thing of flesh and bone 
 Speeding on to its cleft in the clay ; 
 And my dream was scared, and expired on a 
 
 moan, 
 And I whitely hastened away. 
 
 be>Ib3X3 sftiii^ aJi eaal JnH .eirsrfl nt 'Aii aJl 
 .blsriod tift 1 mrly/ nfifiT 
 
 379
 
 HIS IMMORTALITY 
 
 A 
 
 1SAW a dead man's finer part 
 Shining within each faithful heart 
 Of those bereft. Then said I : " This must be 
 His immortality." 
 
 11 
 
 I looked there as the seasons wore, 
 And still his soul continuously upbore 
 Its life in theirs. But less its shine excelled 
 Than when I first beheld.
 
 HIS IMMORTALITY 381 
 
 III 
 
 His fellow-yearsmen passed, and then 
 In later hearts I looked for him again ; 
 And found him shrunk, alas ! into a thin 
 And spectral mannikin. 
 
 IV 
 
 Lastly I ask now old and chill 
 If aught of him remain unperished still ; 
 And find, in me alone, a feeble spark, 
 Dying amid the dark. 
 
 February 1899. 
 
 ( bnuoa bsz Il/jrna K 
 birne -jlinV/s booig 
 
 37 .
 
 Ill 
 
 i H 
 
 iirl -u/i bt>/J<of 3 - ic*j 
 
 ; ,?fnu-fffa mid bntfo) bn 
 jrmj;m Ijntoaqfe bnA 
 
 VI 
 
 j; bio v/on rfae I vlj>;j[ 
 
 i !'' ' '">"! rnid lo iii^wn 
 
 1 bn 
 ; linivG 
 
 THE TO-BE-FORGOTTEN 
 
 I 
 
 i 
 
 HEARD a small sad sound, 
 
 And stood awhile amid the 
 
 tombs around : 
 
 '' Wherefore, old friends," said I, " are ye 
 distrest, 
 
 Now, screened from life's unrest ? " 
 
 382
 
 THE TO-BE-FORGOTTEN 383 
 
 II 
 
 " O not at being here ; 
 But that our future second death is drear ; 
 When, with the living, memory of us numbs, 
 
 And blank oblivion comes ! 
 
 Ill 
 
 " Those who our grandsires be 
 Lie here embraced by deeper death than we ; 
 Nor shape nor thought of theirs canst thou 
 descry 
 
 With keenest backward eye. 
 
 WIVES IN THE SF.ivK 
 ; Xiorja a^dni/JiOT Yud aiav/ aV/ u 
 
 " They bide as quite forgot ; 
 They are as men who have existed not ; 
 Theirs is a loss past loss of fitful breath ; 
 
 It is the second death. 
 
 irri ow li gnia3i> bnA 
 v * 
 
 " We here, as yet, each day 
 Are blest with dear recall ; as yet, alway 
 In some soul hold a loved continuance 
 
 Of shape and voice and glance.
 
 384 THE TO-BE-FORGOTTEN 
 
 VI 
 
 " But what has been will be 
 First memory, then oblivion's turbid sea ; 
 Like men foregone, shall we merge into those 
 
 Whose story no one knows. 
 
 VII 
 
 " For which of us could hope 
 To show in life that world-awakening scope 
 Granted the few whose memory none lets die, 
 
 But all men magnify ? 
 
 .373 lEV/jbfid te3H99j{ 
 VIII 
 
 " We were but Fortune's sport ; 
 Things true, things lovely, things of good 
 
 report 
 
 We neither shunned nor sought . . . We 
 see our bourne, 
 
 And seeing it we mourn." 
 
 // 

 
 
 
 WIVES IN THE SERE 
 
 NEVER a careworn wife but shows, 
 If a joy suffuse her, 
 Something beautiful to those 
 
 Patient to peruse her, 
 Some one charm the world unknows 
 
 Precious to a muser, 
 Haply what, ere years were foes, 
 
 Moved her mate to choose her. 
 385 2 B
 
 WIVES IN THE SERE 
 II 
 
 But, be it a hint of rose 
 
 That an instant hues her, 
 Or some early light or pose 
 
 Wherewith thought renews her- 
 Seen by him at full, ere woes 
 
 Practised to abuse her 
 Sparely comes it, swiftly goes, 
 
 Time again subdues her. 
 
 I 
 
 a 
 
 .irfrii; bhow orfj rmurfo 
 
 o} 
 
 / 975 ,terfy/- v 
 s^fl bf)vo
 
 ; bruited og oT 
 sluoz ar/oimDits ( rfon 
 t b9nibab aairi tiariT 
 t s-3iO anon wojJ 
 .bnirfad o ortV/ 
 
 III 
 
 )on 
 ; bniffad qoib 3iiT 
 
 THE SUPERSEDED 
 
 A~ newer comers crowd the fore, 
 We drop behind. 
 We who have laboured long and sore 
 
 Times out of mind, 
 And keen are yet, must not regret 
 
 To drop behind. 
 387
 
 THE SUPERSEDED 
 
 II 
 
 Yet there are of us some who grieve 
 
 To go behind ; 
 Staunch, strenuous souls who scarce believe 
 
 Their fires declined, 
 And know none cares, remembers, spares 
 
 Who go behind. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Tis not that we have unforetold 
 
 The drop behind ; 
 We feel the new must oust the old 
 
 In every kind ; 
 But yet we think, must we, must we, 
 
 Too, drop behind ? 
 
 ^^..w A 
 
 in: gnol bd'wodcf avfirf orfw
 
 
 ,33filq flite feirit ni ,3vR aw iaam 
 
 ni Jnioq airfJ JB ,3mit to inioq eiiit tA 
 
 b^nn^-v/an ^m absiEq aJeaug yM 
 
 .1 Jon v/ofsil Ifiril eisi 
 
 AN AUGUST MIDNIGHT 
 
 A SHADED lamp and a waving blind, 
 And the beat of a clock from a distant 
 
 floor : 
 On this scene enter winged, horned, and 
 
 spined 
 
 A longlegs, a moth, and a dumbledore ; 
 While 'mid my page there idly stands 
 
 A sleepy fly, that rubs its hands . . . 
 389
 
 39O AN AUGUST MIDNIGHT 
 
 II 
 
 Thus meet we five, in this still place, 
 At this point of time, at this point in space. 
 My guests parade my new-penned ink, 
 Or bang at the lamp-glass, whirl, and sink. 
 " God's humblest, they ! " I muse. Yet why ? 
 They know Earth-secrets that know not I. 
 
 MAX GATE, 1899. 
 
 
 ... ,* qra .l C13CIAH8 * 
 
 b K moi\ jfoob K k juarJ arfo bnA /-\ 
 
 bnc ,fa9mod ,b9niv/ isJna ondDe airft nO 
 
 .tiioru e ,H^ylgnol A 
 9cj Yfn burC aliriV/ 
 . cifan. ,'/fl vcisala A
 
 : . 
 
 alg oi b'jqod I ,ni iiiod nl 
 
 ,9d ot ab^rri STB 
 
 J'3iJ^ ot Dsn'UJJ jjnn.7/ nc jnc 
 
 riairii yidgim liariJ stiqaab ,8 
 ! ow rifiitt 9'iorn alilil it/d won^l 
 
 Dsib a'teoi"*! arit anurfo ionrusa 
 
 d o) b^cnijE geb ^ft v/oH 
 
 THE CAGED THRUSH FREED AND 
 
 HOME AGAIN 
 
 An ind ".ad^J-istujfira-H; avch vtjr^Jrfl-iw 
 (VILLANELLE) 
 
 " A yf ^^ know but little more than we, 
 1 V 1 Who count us least of things terrene, 
 How happy days are made to be ! 
 
 " Of such strange tidings what think ye, 
 O birds in brown that peck and preen ? 
 
 Men know but little more than we ! . 
 
 391
 
 39 2 THE CAGED THRUSH FREED 
 
 " When I was borne from yonder tree 
 In bonds to them, I hoped to glean 
 How happy days are made to be, 
 
 " And want and wailing turned to glee ; 
 Alas, despite their mighty mien 
 Men know but little more than we ! 
 
 "They cannot change the Frost's decree, 
 They cannot keep the skies serene ; 
 How happy days are made to be 
 
 " Eludes great Man's sagacity 
 No less than ours, O tribes in treen ! 
 Men know but little more than we 
 How happy days are made to be." 
 
 ,aw nsrii atom slttii ; 
 
 leuJnuooo; 
 
 it 3'ifi eKb Krt v/ 
 
 : ni a 
 
 . 

 
 BIRDS AT WINTER NIGHTFALL 
 
 (TRIOLET) 
 
 A"OUND the house the flakes fly faster, 
 And all the berries now are gone 
 From holly and cotoneaster 
 Around the house. The flakes fly ! faster 
 Shutting indoors that crumb-outcaster 
 We used to see upon the lawn 
 Around the house. The flakes fly faster, 
 And all the berries now are gone ! 
 
 MAX GATE. 

 
 t 
 
 THE PUZZLED GAME-BIRDS 
 (TRIOLET) 
 
 TTi-w Al 'wuoilarf! CltfUQttA 
 
 HEY are not those who used to feed 
 
 us 
 
 When we were young they cannot 
 
 , *! tod i'.ioi'i 
 
 be 
 
 These shapes that now bereave and bleed us ? 
 They are not those who used to feed us, 
 For would they not fair terms concede us ? 
 If hearts can house such treachery 
 They are not those who used to feed us 
 When we were young they cannot be ! 
 
 394
 
 bnj;I rnol yri)asool ggniwftrii kirrsg iO 
 
 .fabiJ arit tu 
 : nung on brirt I 
 
 WINTER IN DURNOVER FIELD 
 
 SCENE. A wide stretch of fallow ground recently 
 sown with wheat, and frozen to iron hardness. Three 
 large birds walking about thereon, and wistfully eyeing 
 the surface. Wind keen from north-east: sky a dull 
 grey. 
 
 (TRIOLET) 
 
 Rook. Throughout the field I find no grain; 
 
 The cruel frost encrusts the cornland ! 
 Starling. Aye : patient pecking now is vain 
 Throughout the field, I find . . . 
 Rook. No grain ! 
 
 395
 
 WINTER IN DURNOVER FIELD 
 
 Pigeon. Nor will be, comrade, till it rain, 
 
 Or genial thawings loose the lorn land 
 Throughout the field. 
 
 Rook. I find no grain : 
 
 The cruel frost encrusts the cornland ! 
 
 HHVOMflUd VII H3TWW 
 
 
 
 1 Ji/or
 
 
 ,bd3ri on jlooJ Jt rtguoriJiA 
 ,Hfil aaaqioo sjlil gavs^I nsrfv/ ,woa iod 
 
 ooT 
 ria a'tioaeae sdT 
 
 THE LAST CHRYSANTHEMUM 
 
 WHY should this flower delay so long 
 To show its tremulous plumes ? 
 Now is the time of plaintive robin-song, 
 
 When flowers are in their tombs. 
 
 Through the slow summer, when the sun 
 
 Called to each frond and whorl 
 That all he could for flowers was being done, 
 Why did it not uncurl ? 
 
 397
 
 398 THE LAST CHRYSANTHEMUM 
 
 It must have felt that fervid call 
 
 Although it took no heed, 
 Waking but now, when leaves like corpses fall, 
 And saps all retrocede. 
 
 Too late its beauty, lonely thing, 
 The season's shine is spent, 
 Nothing remains for it but shivering 
 In tempests turbulent. 
 
 
 Had it a reason for delay, 
 
 Dreaming in witlessness 
 That for a bloom so delicately gay 
 
 Winter would stay its stress ? 
 
 I talk as if the thing were born , TTI 
 
 With sense to work its mind : 
 
 . 
 
 Yet it is but one mask of many worn 
 By the Great Face behind. 
 
 )fa ari 
 
 > o) bslffiQ 
 
 ' oi 
 
 ^ 1 1 )i bib vriY/
 
 
 
 .'. 
 
 if f bniw srfT 
 rltiid bnfi rrnag to -jaluq tnsionK arfT 
 
 jlninda ; 
 
 noqu Jiiiqs yiaw 
 .1 t! aaalujoviaJ bar 
 
 aoov K ODHO 
 sgiv/j jluald oil! 
 
 hsofl-lluVj; nl 
 { b^tirrtilit ^O( iO 
 
 THE DARKLING THRUSH 
 
 ,-jrnulq b'jfBmad-ie^Id nl 
 
 1 LEANT upon a coppice gate 
 When Frost was spectre-gray, 
 And Winter's dregs made desolate 
 
 The weakening eye of day. 
 The tangled bine-stems scored the sky 
 Like strings from broken lyres, ; \O 
 And all mankind that haunted nigh 
 Had sought their household fires. 
 
 399
 
 4OO THE DARKLING THRUSH 
 
 The land's sharp features seemed to be 
 
 The Century's corpse outleant, 
 His crypt the cloudy canopy, 
 
 The wind his death-lament. 
 The ancient pulse of germ and birth 
 
 Was shrunken hard and dry, 
 And every spirit upon earth 
 
 Seemed fervourless as I. 
 
 At once a voice outburst among 
 
 The bleak twigs overhead 
 In a full-hearted evensong 
 
 Of joy illimited ; 
 An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small, 
 
 In blast-beruffled plume, 
 Had chosen thus to fling his soul 
 
 Upon the growing gloom. 
 
 ^fe^fe?Mrffi? 7 MMlfW bnA 
 
 .^fib lo 9^3 gninaitedvy srlT 
 So little cause for carollings 
 
 Of such ecstatic sound 
 Was written on terrestrial things 
 
 Afar or nigh around,
 
 THE DARKLING THRUSH 401 
 
 That I could think there trembled through 
 
 His happy good-night air 
 Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew 
 
 And I was unaware. 
 
 December 1900. 
 
 >IO YHU8JAY TA T3MOD 3HT 
 MAHUJ3Y 
 
 ,nifil c l meii'lbY ;tavo IK! gbnad T 
 Y mo'i^ <9v/ bnA 
 eti bicg-ji bi 
 niv/8 oi nooe 08 
 
 
 
 2 C
 
 j I 
 fi 
 
 Jd 
 
 OQI 
 
 IT bends far over Yell'ham Plain, 
 And we, from Yell'ham Height, 
 Stand and regard its fiery train, 
 So soon to swim from sight. 
 
 II 
 
 It will return long years hence, when 
 As now its strange swift shine 
 
 Will fall on Yell'ham ; but not then 
 On that sweet form of thine.
 
 o3 arfJ bnfi i-. 
 
 ,b37/ of nidrfJ 
 33no ^nrbnaini-a^il av/ hfiA 
 ,bsi Rjiw nwfib Hit baonnQ 
 oM " ,'F9Jtum- bru; jipoi bluow 
 11 ! aiorla ^note airf) ot 
 
 bil riJi>9Q nsmebiisH bio 
 
 ,nijRv/t 10 adjscf nO 
 iarl yd fans .jgfisli bltJOW 3ri3 
 , egnoa isii ni2 
 
 vbul 
 
 MAD JUDY 
 
 WHEN the hamlet hailed a birth 
 Judy used to cry : 
 When she heard our christening mirth 
 
 She would kneel and sigh. 
 She was crazed, we knew, and we 
 
 Humoured her infirmity. 
 403
 
 404 MAD JUDY 
 
 When the daughters and the sons 
 
 Gathered them to wed, 
 And we like-intending ones 
 
 Danced till dawn was red, 
 She would rock and mutter, " More 
 Comers to this stony shore ! " 
 
 When old Headsman Death laid hands 
 
 On a babe or twain, 
 She would feast, and by her brands 
 
 Sing her songs again. 
 What she liked we let her do, 
 Judy was insane, we knew. 
 
 YCIIifl. GAM 
 
 b\,i itot Then 
 H/oinBSii aria narfW 
 
 rfi bank Jbluow 
 
 aw 
 iftni
 
 rfliw batizK I " 1 yew Inoi airf) oT 
 .fi).B3id 
 
 fI3)x3 1OOb Wfi8 I bfiOftfi IIO313f{T 
 
 ! loob H3Vif9i ; f^ r -.b3na I " J JaI JA 
 339! waig tt t worl Jon vrorul. I ,fi3f!i bnA 
 
 A WASTED ILLNESS 
 
 THROUGH vaults of pain, 
 Enribbed and wrought with 
 
 groins of ghastliness, 
 I passed, and garish spectres moved my brain 
 
 To dire distress. 
 iial hohnoo to e>/3b sift bj^rt ^m no bnA 
 
 And hammerings, 
 And quakes, and shoots, and stifling hotness, 
 
 With webby waxing things and waning things 
 As on I went. 
 
 >tnc
 
 406 A WASTED ILLNESS 
 
 " Where lies the end 
 To this foul way ? " I asked with weakening 
 
 breath. 
 Thereon ahead I saw a door extend 
 
 The door to death. 
 
 It loomed more clear : 
 
 " At last ! " I cried. " The all-delivering door ! " 
 And then, I knew not how, it grew less near 
 
 Than theretofore. 
 
 And back slid I 
 
 Along the galleries by which I came, 
 And tediously the day returned, and sky, 
 
 And life the same. 
 ,88^nilJarig to enioig 
 
 And all was well : 
 
 Old circumstance resumed its former show, 
 And on my head the dews of comfort fell 
 
 As ere my woe. 
 
 ^niflita hfiB ,etoofte bne ^df.tip bnA 
 
 I roam anew, 
 
 Scarce conscious of my late distress. . . . And 
 yet
 
 A WASTED ILLNESS 407 
 
 Those backward steps through pain I cannot 
 view 
 
 Without regret. 
 
 For that dire train 
 
 Of waxing shapes and waning, passed before, 
 And those grim aisles, must be traversed again 
 
 To reach that door. 
 
 [Q.MMM VLl) 
 
 ,oliq oldon & booia 
 
 >b 
 an 10^ (jv/ob Jaaiia ^nol ail) b
 
 
 
 ,-:->i 
 
 :w bri 
 
 ;;jnn aeofti bnA 
 
 '^J, door'" 
 
 A MAN 
 
 (IN MEMORY OF H. OF M.) 
 
 IN Casterbridge there stood a noble pile, 
 Wrought with pilaster, bay, and balus- 
 trade 
 In tactful times when shrewd Eliza swayed. 
 
 On burgher, squire, and clown 
 It smiled the long street down for near a mile
 
 A MAN 409 
 
 ionrifio 
 
 s n 
 
 But evil days beset that domicile ; 
 The stately beauties of its roof and wall 
 Passed into sordid hands. Condemned to 
 fall 
 
 Were cornice, quoin, and cove, 
 
 And all that art had wove in antique style. 
 boni338 li io\ i aaaljliow baisbnfiw bnA 
 
 gno rliiv/ t>eob oT 
 
 Among the hired dismantlers entered there 
 One till the moment of his task untold. 
 When charged therewith he gazed, and 
 answered bold : 
 
 " Be needy I or no, 
 I will not help lay low a house so fair ! 
 
 n ZR w 
 .bisg SEW ii bnA 
 
 IV 
 
 eirl 'iR^d oi bori^is 3. u .9nog 21 taTiio bnA 
 
 " Hunger is hard. But since the terms be 
 
 such nurb 
 No wage, or labour stained with the dis- 
 
 grace
 
 A MAN 
 
 Of wrecking what our age cannot replace 
 
 To save its tasteless soul 
 I'll do without your dole. Life is not much 1" 
 
 'Oi eii \o ssijxjfiad $3 Jute arlT 
 .sbnfl 
 
 Dismissed with sneers he backed his tools and 
 
 > ) D 13 // 
 
 \VGnt 
 
 1 v br>d iijj Jf rfJ Ik bnA 
 
 And wandered workless ; for it seemed 
 
 unwise 
 To close with one who dared to criticize 
 
 And carp on points of taste :-, 
 To work where they (Were placed rude men 
 
 were meant. 
 
 Years whiled. He aged, sank, sickened, and 
 was not : 
 
 And it was said, " A man intractable 
 
 I VI 
 And curst is gone." None sighed to hear his 
 
 knell, 
 
 None sought his churchyard-place ; 
 His name, his rugged face, : were soon 
 forgot.
 
 A MAN 411 
 
 VII 
 
 The stones of that fair hall lie far and wide, 
 And but a few recall its ancient mould ; 
 Yet when I pass the spot I long to hold 
 
 As truth what fancy saith : 
 " His protest lives where deathless things 
 abide ! " 
 
 A TO Q 3HT 
 
 ,bin8 arle "/JOK^ ydt 992 I IterlB ! J 
 t i iino f||^ 
 
 bod Pafyiavol moll aodt rfiiv/ y; 
 iowt>d i<Jfl^w-(^iv^e ot^noti Bo-in't c oT 
 ,k niffl orj bnA 
 
 otidv/ a'bhow,
 
 
 
 srii ezq I nariw 
 "V 
 : rift sn&t teflv/ rftmJ eA 
 
 rftfr k 
 
 - " ! abide 
 
 THE DAME OF ATHELHALL 
 
 iQUL ! Shall I see thy face," she said, 
 
 " In one brief hour ? 
 And away with thee from a loveless bed 
 To a far-off sun, to a vine-wrapt bower, 
 And be thine own unseparated, 
 
 And challenge the world's white 
 
 glower ? " 
 
 412
 
 THE DAME OF ATHELHALL 413 
 
 II 
 
 She quickened her feet, and met him where 
 
 They had predesigned : 
 And they clasped, and mounted, and cleft the 
 
 air 
 
 Upon whirling wheels ; till the will to bind 
 Her life with his made the moments there 
 Efface the years behind. . 
 
 c^tefcteq^HHoS 
 
 Miles slid, and the sight of the port upgrew 
 
 As they sped on ; 
 
 When slipping its bond the bracelet flew 
 From her fondled arm. Replaced anon, 
 Its cameo of the abjured one drew 
 
 Her musings thereupon. 
 
 IV 
 
 The gaud with his image once had been 
 
 A gift from him : 
 
 And so it was that its carving keen 
 Refurbished memories wearing dim, 
 Which set in her soul a throe of teen, 
 
 And a tear on her lashes' brim.
 
 414 THE DAME OF ATHELHALL 
 
 V 
 
 " I may not go ! " she at length upspake, 
 " Thoughts call me back 
 
 I would still lose all for your dear, dear sake ; 
 
 My heart is thine,, friend ! But my track 
 
 I home to Athelhall must tak&/ gni! 
 
 To hinder household wrack ! " 
 . .bnirlad gis-j^ sdJ aojsftS 
 
 VI 
 
 He appealed. But they parted, weak and wan; 
 
 And he left the shore ; 
 His ship diminished, was low, was gone ; 
 And she heard in the waves as the daytide 
 
 wore. 
 
 And read in the leer of the sun that shone, 
 That they parted for evermore. 
 
 VII 
 
 She homed as she came, at the dip of eve gd'f 
 
 On Athel Coomb 
 
 Regaining the Hall she had sworn to leave [>r>A 
 The house was soundless as a tomb^jgjd-jufe 
 And she entered her chamber, there to grieve 
 
 Lone, kneeling, in the gloom.
 
 THE DAME OF ATHELHALL 4!$ 
 
 VIII 
 
 From the lawn without rose her husband'svoice 
 
 To one his friend : 
 
 " Another her Love, another my choice, 
 Her going is good. Our conditions mend ; 
 In a change of mates we shall both rejoice ; 
 
 I hoped that it thus might end ! 
 
 IX 
 
 " A quick divorce ; she will make him hers, 
 
 And I wed mine. 
 
 So Time rights all things in long, long years 
 Or rather she, by her bold design ! 
 I admire a woman no balk deters : 
 
 She has blessed my life, in fine. 
 HAHY H3H HO 8VTO8A3 3HT 
 x 
 
 " I shall build new rooms for my new true 
 bride, ;. lf jj n 
 
 Let the bygone be : >nA 
 By now, no doubt, she has crossed the tide 
 With the man to her mind. Far happier she 
 In some warm vineland by his side 
 
 Than ever she was with me."
 
 toi'*] 
 
 kism lo 9fi 
 
 rl* tn^ft^irl >? ' 
 
 fdrt 
 
 leu tlanun.:bs i f/ I bnA 
 
 ilud on n^rriov/ u 
 . llMrm baeesfef a^iiitiS)ne, 
 THE SEASONS OF HER YEAR 
 
 WINTER is white on turf and tree, 
 And birds are fled ; 
 But summer songsters pipe to me, 
 
 And petals spread, 
 For what I dreamt of secretly 
 His lips have said I
 
 THE SEASONS OF HER YEAR 417 
 
 O 'tis a fine May morn, they say, 
 And blooms have blown ; 
 
 But wild and wintry is my day, 
 My birds make moan ; 
 
 For he who vowed leaves me to pay 
 Alone alone ! 
 
 $ T T 
 (^ J 
 
 ,vyQO 
 
 Itcq ad) ni annq sllim t)dt j eftol bns 
 
 asooclo bloow tud amhIiq v/t>'4 
 
 o A 
 
 2 D
 
 
 
 
 ' 
 
 /iJniw bn 
 i ajifirn efoiid vM 
 > JWOY oriw erf 
 ! anolc anoIA 
 
 THE MILKMAID 
 
 UNDER a daisied bank 
 There stands a rich red rumina- 
 ting cow, 
 
 . And hard against her flank 
 A cotton-hooded milkmaid bends her brow. 
 
 The flowery river-ooze 
 Upheaves and falls ; the milk purrs in the pail ; 
 
 Few pilgrims but would choose 
 The peace of such a life in such a vale.
 
 THE MILKMAID 419 
 
 The maid breathes words to vent, 
 It seems, her sense of Nature's scenery, 
 
 Of whose life, sentiment, 
 And essence, very part itself is she. 
 
 She bends a glance of pain, 
 And, at a moment, lets escape a tear ; 
 
 Is it that passing train, 
 Whose alien whirr offends her country ear ? 
 
 Nay ! Phyllis does not dwell 
 On visual and familiar things like these ; 
 
 What moves her is the spell 
 Of inner themes and inner poetries : 
 GHAYH3flUH3 (MJJ3V3J 3HT 
 
 Could but by Sunday morn 
 
 Her gay new gown come, meads might dry to 
 dun, 
 
 Trains shriek till ears were torn, 
 If Fred would not prefer that Other One. 
 
 nft{ nurm/rl oi iyjxim 
 : ?ii afninlox'j rhes ot [foj;-3 bnA 
 rnt I /foiflw Jon woniJ 1 *
 
 Q I A : 
 
 : m snT 
 > agnse isrrf t ani338 t! 
 
 rfw 1O 
 
 bn A 
 
 aonfilg B ebnad 
 
 isri abnafto iiiflv/ nailr, aaorlW 
 Ibwb ton 
 
 riB fu<;iv nO 
 ei isri ^svoin JfifiW 
 
 fT<* ivi n v * '* t $ i'r\ 
 
 : g- -:'>rf!3rii isnni 1O 
 
 THE LEVELLED CHURCHYARD 
 
 " x^w PASSENGER, pray Jist and catch 
 I/ Our sighs and piteous groans, 
 Half stifled in this jumbled patch 
 
 Of wrenched memorial stones ! 
 
 " We late-lamented, resting here, 
 
 Are mixed to human jam, 
 And each to each exclaims in fear, 
 
 ' I know not which I am ! '
 
 THE LEVELLED CHURCHYARD 421 
 
 "The wicked people have annexed 
 
 The verses on the good ; 
 A roaring drunkard sports the text 
 
 Teetotal Tommy should ! 
 
 " Where we are huddled none can trace, 
 
 And if our names remain, 
 They pave some path or p ing place 
 
 Where we have never lain ! 
 
 " There's not a modest maiden elf 
 
 But dreads the final Trumpet, 
 
 Lest half of her should rise herself, 
 
 And half some local strumpet ! 
 
 " From restorations of Thy fane, 
 
 From smoothings of Thy sward, 
 
 From zealous Churchmen's pick and plane 
 Deliver us O Lord ! Amen I " 
 
 1882. 
 : rf$MJ 
 
 or(W 
 ^ nv/oT ni
 
 
 // ariT u 
 
 > 832197 
 
 Ixa) a; biBvininb gnnjsoi A 
 
 ! bluofte 
 
 anon balbburf 9i 9w arwriW" 
 .,nifirri9i esntfin iuo li bnA 
 [q gni q 10 rlteq atnoe svsq vari'l 
 ! nkl -i979n avcri av/ oiariV/ 
 
 tJaqrnuiT fsnri -jril eibc^Tb JnH 
 
 ,ll9819li 3h blfJOfiiJ 13fl "to llfirf J2D 
 
 ! taqcauiJii Isool 9ioa llrri bnA 
 
 YARD 
 THE RUINED MAID 
 
 rjg mOt'Jtv.f; 
 'MELIA, my dear, this does every- 
 
 thing crown ! 
 Who could have supposed I should meet you 
 
 in Town ? 
 And whence such fair garments, such pros- 
 
 peri-ty ? " 
 " O didn't you know I'd been ruined ? " said 
 
 she.
 
 THE RUINED MAID 423 
 
 "You left us in tatters, without shoes or 
 
 socks, 
 Tired of digging potatoes, and spudding up 
 
 docks ; 
 And now you've gay bracelets and bright 
 
 feathers three ! " 
 " Yes : that's how we dress when we're ruined," 
 
 said she. 
 
 ,nv/o jjfiiqaawe onii B .aisriJjssi bfifl I rieiv/ I "- 
 " At home in the barton you said ' thee ' 
 
 and ' thou,' 
 And ' thik oon,' and ' theas oon,' and ' t'other ' ; 
 
 but now 
 Your talking quite fits 'ee for high com- 
 
 pa-ny ! " 
 " Some polish is gained with one's ruin," said 
 
 she. 
 
 "Your hands were like paws then, your 
 
 face blue and bleak, 
 
 But now I'm bewitched by your delicate cheek, 
 And your little gloves fit as on any la-dy ! " 
 "We never do work when we're ruined," said 
 
 she.
 
 424 THE RUINED MAID 
 
 "You used to call home -life a hag-ridden 
 
 dream, 
 And you'd sigh, and you'd sock ; but at 
 
 present you seem 
 
 To know not of megrims or melancho-ly !" 
 "True. There's an advantage in ruin," said 
 
 she. 
 
 " I wish I had feathers, a fine sweeping gown, 
 And a delicate face, and could strut about 
 
 Town ! " 
 " My dear a raw country girl, such as you 
 
 be, 
 Isn't equal to that. You ain't ruined," said she. 
 
 WESTBOURNE PARK VILLAS, 1866. 
 
 >7ol abJil tuov bnA
 
 tfiteftimsia 
 
 .-b 
 
 ^j 
 
 ^ vidaoii ii/ihgnBB raoni61oS djsriT 
 Jdguorfl on doiudO arlj av bnA 
 ritiv/ laritaa JfidT 
 noa art) ,t03bioM bnA 
 asb. a'do[ v eriqrnuhJ a'Bijrfgof bnA 
 isJlid e'aefi e'racKlnH bnA 
 
 ,ii^'ft^ nab arfl bnc i3iriQ bnA 
 
 ,oi-i bnfi doii saiiola isrilo bnA 
 THE RESPECTABLE BURGHER 
 
 ON "THE HIGHER CRITICISM" 
 .liad '{ino g'v/obiw nifiK arit JcriT 
 
 SINCE Reverend Doctors now declare 
 That clerks and people must prepare 
 To doubt if Adam ever were ; 
 To hold the flood a local scare ; 
 To argue, though the stolid stare, 
 That everything had happened ere 
 The prophets to its happening sware ; 
 That David was no giant-slayer, 
 Nor one to call a God-obeyer
 
 In certain details we could spare, 
 
 But rather was a debonair 
 
 Shrewd bandit, skilled as banjo-player : 
 
 That Solomon sang the fleshly Fair, 
 
 And gave the Church no thought whate'er ; 
 
 That Esther with her royal wear, 
 
 And Mordecai, the son of Jair, 
 
 And Joshua's triumphs, Job's despair, 
 
 And Balaam's ass's bitter blare ; 
 
 Nebuchadnezzar's furnace-flare, 
 
 And Daniel and the den affair, 
 
 And other stories rich and rare, 
 
 Were writ to make old doctrine wear 
 
 Something of a romantic air : 
 
 That the Nain widow's only heir, 
 
 And Lazarus with cadaverous glare 
 
 (As done in oils by Piombo's care) 
 
 Did not return from Sheol's lair : 
 
 That Jael set a fiendish snare, 
 
 That Pontius Pilate acted square, 
 
 That never a sword cut Malchus' ear 
 
 And (but for shame I must forbear) 
 
 That did not reappear ! . /H' I
 
 THE RESPECTABLE BURGHER 427 
 
 Since thus they hint, nor turn a hair, 
 All churchgoing will I forswear, 
 And sit on Sundays in my chair, 
 And read that moderate man Voltaire. 
 
 J AH U T33TIHDH A 
 
 i 
 
 t gllj;w baivi rfJiw aeuoH ai vi 
 bri mov/ ewobniv/ btHioifiuni bnA 
 
 ,blo 
 
 ellud a^orit ni eialbwb gnol aril 
 bilno? Jti< 
 
 T
 
 
 ; nurfo II A 
 
 
 
 ARCHITECTURAL MASKS 
 
 THERE is a house with ivied walls, 
 And mullioned windows worn and 
 
 old, 
 
 And the long dwellers in those halls 
 Have souls that know but sordid calls, 
 
 And daily dote on gold. 
 
 428
 
 ARCHITECTURAL MASKS 429 
 
 II 
 
 In blazing brick and plated show 
 Not far away a " villa " gleams, 
 And here a family few may know, 
 With book and pencil, viol and bow, 
 Lead inner lives of dreams. 
 
 in 
 
 The philosophic passers say, 
 " See that old mansion mossed and fair, 
 Poetic souls therein are they : 
 And O that gaudy box ! Away, 
 You vulgar people there." 
 
 nua 
 
 T 
 
 rioiJoq ' I gtnuiqrfohtiie^wofi 
 
 abad bns 8jlm>d 
 ,ain) oe arsil ni bsnn^iq 
 )gnj;ria Iliw c: 
 ot )8fi b
 
 ;oH 
 
 rn wel ^liou;} aisrf hnA 
 : / ,iiDfi3q bnfi ^ood rfiiW 
 lo eavi! ignni bc^J 
 
 aioe^iiq airlqoeolinq yii 
 noi;nrn bio 
 
 O bnA 
 THE TENANT-FOR-LIFE 
 
 THE sun said, watching my watering-pot : 
 " Some morn you'll pass away ; 
 These flowers and plants I parch up hot 
 Who'll water them that day ? 
 
 " Those banks and beds whose shape your eye 
 
 Has planned in line so true, 
 New hands will change, unreasoning why 
 
 Such shape seemed best to you. 
 430
 
 THE TENANT-FOR-LIFE 43 1 
 
 " Within your house will strangers sit, 
 And wonder how first it came ; 
 
 They'll talk of their schemes for improving it, 
 And will not mention your name. 
 
 " They'll care not how, or when, or at what 
 You sighed, laughed, suffered here, 
 
 Though you feel more in an hour of the spot 
 Than they will feel in a year 
 
 " As I look on at you here, now, 
 Shall I look on at these ; 
 
 TIT-FT* 
 
 But as to our old times, avow 
 
 No knowledge hold my peace ! . 
 
 V, 3^129$. IfLQoQ ^pJ k X bqA 
 
 " O friend, it matters not, I say ; 
 
 Bethink ye, I have shined 
 On nobler ones than you, and they 
 Are dead men out of mind ! " 
 lie,} o IB f^IJla teift an aalffiKW yrfW " 
 
 fc'* ,b9na srte ",Jrfils adnioco bnA 
 
 ni ; ort b:)t>fikf 
 
 i ffi IK'* no v/olg iQ
 
 
 od 
 
 :i 
 
 terfw h; 10 .nailv/ io ,wod Ion aiso H' 
 
 ,31-j ,!Jl t b3fli8 1JOY 
 
 ! 3flJ to itroft nc ni otoni bal 00^ rfguorfT 
 1^3 ni {99} Uiw offi nuriT 
 
 jj no Jioo s 
 
 jseatno joo 
 THE KING'S EXPERIMENT 
 
 IT was a wet wan hour in spring, 
 And Nature met King Doom beside a 
 
 lane, 
 Wherein Hodge trudged, all blithely ballading 
 
 The Mother's smiling reign. 
 
 brnm;i< ,r?b^jfa aiA 
 
 " Why warbles he that skies are fair 
 And coombs alight," she cried, "and fallows 
 
 When I have placed no sunshine in the air 
 Or glow on earth to-day ?" 
 
 43"
 
 THE KINGS EXPERIMENT 433 
 
 "'Tis in the comedy of things 
 That such should be," returned the one of 
 
 Doom ; 
 
 " Charge now the scene with brightest blazon- 
 ings, 
 
 And he shall call them gloom." 
 avodfi 883nivK3d art* atiqeab ,rthfi3 bnA 
 
 She gave the word : the sun outbroke, 
 All Froomside shone, the hedgebirds raised 
 
 a song ; 
 
 And later Hodge, upon the midday stroke, 
 Returned the lane along, 
 
 Low murmuring : " O this bitter scene, 
 And thrice accurst horizon hung with 
 
 gloom ! 
 
 How deadly like this sky, these fields, these 
 treen, 
 
 To trappings of the tomb ! " 
 
 The Beldame then : "The fool and blind ! 
 Such mad perverseness who may appre- 
 hend ? " 
 
 2 E
 
 434 THE KI NG S EXPERIMENT 
 
 " Nay ; there's no madness in it ; thou shalt 
 find 
 Thy law there," said her friend. 
 
 "When Hodge went forth 'twas to his Love, 
 To make her, ere this eve, his wedded prize, 
 And Earth, despite the heaviness above, 
 Was bright as Paradise. 
 
 aril t 3nofte sbiauiooi'*! II A 
 " But I sent on my messenger, 
 
 With cunning arrows poisonous and keen, 
 To take forthwith her laughing life from her, 
 And dull her little een, 
 
 "And white her cheek, and still her breath, 
 Ere her too buoyant Hodge had reached her 
 
 side ; 
 So, when he came, he clasped her but in death, 
 
 33lt 
 
 And never as his bride. 
 
 "And there's the humour, as I said ; 
 Thy dreary dawn he saw as gleaming gold, 
 And in thy glistening green and radiant red 
 Funereal gloom and cold."
 
 
 fio 
 
 ;d bnA 
 ^'.'jfiT 
 
 ' ya^ ^HJ fil siariV 
 AN OLD MAN'S STORY 
 
 
 ITS roots are bristling in the air 
 Like some mad Earth-god's spiny hair ; 
 The loud south-wester's swell and yell 
 
 ; jfl.i.')Jw 
 Smote it at midnight, and it fell. 
 
 Thus ends the tree 
 
 Where Some One sat with me.
 
 436 THE TREE 
 
 TI 
 
 Its boughs, which none but darers trod, 
 A child may step on from the sod, 
 And twigs that earliest met the dawn 
 Are lit the last upon the lawn. 
 
 Cart off the tree 
 
 Beneath whose trunk sat we ! 
 
 in 
 
 Yes, there we sat : she cooed content, 
 And bats ringed round, and daylight went : 
 The gnarl, our seat, is wrenched and sunk, 
 Prone that queer pocket in the .trunk 
 
 Where lay the key 
 
 To her pale mystery. 
 
 IV 
 
 " Years back, within this pocket-hole 
 
 
 
 I found, my Love, a hurried scrawl 
 Meant not for me," at length said I ; 
 " I glanced thereat, and let it lie : 
 
 The words were three 
 
 ' Beloved, I agree?
 
 THE TREE 437 
 
 "Who placed it here ; to what request 
 It gave assent, I never guessed. 
 Some prayer of some hot heart, no doubt, 
 To some coy maiden hereabout, 
 
 Just as, maybe, 
 
 With you, Sweet Heart, and me." 
 
 VI 
 
 She waited, till with quickened breath 
 She spoke, as one who banisheth 
 Reserves that lovecraft heeds so well, 
 To ease some mighty wish to tell : 
 " 'Twas I," said she, 
 " Who wrote thus clinchingly. 
 
 VII 
 
 " My lover's wife aye, wife ! knew nought 
 Of what we felt, and bore, and thought. . . . 
 He'd said : ' / wed with thee or die : 
 She stands between, 'tis true. But why ? 
 
 Do thou agree. 
 
 And -she shall cease to be?
 
 438 THE TREE 
 
 VIII 
 
 " How I held back, how love supreme 
 Involved me madly in his scheme 
 Why should I say ? . . . I wrote assent 
 (You found it hid) to his intent. . . . 
 She died. . . . But he 
 Came not to wed with me. 
 
 IX 
 
 "O shrink not, Love ! Had these eyes seen 
 But once thine own, such had not been ! 
 But we were strangers. . . . Thus the plot 
 Cleared passion's path. Why came he not 
 To wed with me ? . <Jfiy' 
 He wived the gibbet-tree." 
 
 x 
 
 Under that oak of heretofore 
 Sat Sweetheart mine with me no more : 
 By many a Fiord, and Strom, and Fleuve 
 Have I since wandered. . . . Soon, for love, 
 Distraught went she 
 'Twas said for love of me.
 
 i // 
 
 il Jdgi/orfJ r{$uorIT 
 9i ;T .77 rnifi vuf fo'uoY 
 
 ,9rJ Iliw <oot <3Vi -mo^ bnA 
 t Mgh 6) uo^ j'ti rltfirf "rnotewo 2 A 
 
 ".orf brifirf )lal 9rft nc? bnA 
 HER LATE HUSBAND 
 
 (KING'S-HINTOCK, 182-.) 
 
 N 
 
 O not where I shall make my 
 
 /fiw JnaJDiiP, jjsrlj av/srfaaS 
 own ; 
 
 But dig his grave just by 
 
 The woman's with the initialed stone- 
 As near as he can lie 
 u;{ Q ' " 
 
 After whose death he seemed to ail, 
 
 Though none considered why. 
 
 yt'jH 
 
 " And when I also claim a nook, 
 And your feet tread me in, 
 
 Bestow me, under my old name, 
 Among my kith and kin, 
 
 439
 
 44-O HER LATE HUSBAND 
 
 That strangers gazing may not dream 
 I did a husband win." 
 
 " Widow, your wish shall be obeyed ; 
 
 Though, thought I, certainly 
 You'd lay him where your folk are laid, 
 
 And your grave, too, will be, 
 As custom hath it ; you to right, 
 
 And on the left hand he." 
 
 ,_i ^)>HH 
 
 " Aye, sexton ; such the Hintock rule, 
 
 And none has said it nay ; 
 But now it haps a native here 
 
 Eschews that ancient way . . . 
 And it may be, some Christmas night, 
 
 When angels walk, they'll say : 
 
 " ' O strange interment ! Civilized lands 
 Afford few types thereof ; 
 
 Here is a man who takes his rest 
 Beside his very Love, 
 
 Beside the one who was his wife 
 In our sight up above ! ' "
 
 Yf.WK 
 
 THE SELF-UNSEEING 
 
 HERE is the ancient floor, 
 Footworn and hollowed and 
 thin, 
 
 Here was the former door 
 Where the dead feet walked in.
 
 44 2 THE SELF-UNSEEING 
 
 She sat here in her chair, 
 Smiling into the fire ; 
 He who played stood there, 
 Bowing it higher and higher. 
 
 Childlike, I danced in a dream ; 
 Blessings emblazoned that day ; 
 Everything glowed with a gleam ; 
 Yet we were looking away ! 
 
 rj 
 
 n 3-19 riV7
 
 .31! 
 
 i/->f rflrtrtft-.+P 
 
 DE PROFUNDIS 
 
 > adfim Ion nsa wo( tw8 
 
 " Percussus sum sicut foenum, et aruit cor meum." 
 
 PJ. ci. 
 
 TX/TINTERTIME nighs ; 
 yy But my bereavement- 
 pain 
 It cannot bring again : 
 
 Twice no one dies. 
 
 443
 
 444 DE PROFUNDIS 
 
 Flower-petals flee ; 
 But, since it once hath been, 
 No more that severing scene 
 
 Can harrow me. 
 
 Birds faint in dread : 
 I shall not lose old strength 
 In the lone frost's black length : 
 
 Strength long since fled i 
 
 Leaves freeze to dun ; 
 But friends can not turn cold 
 This season as of old 
 
 For him with none. 
 
 Tempests may scath ; 
 But love can not make smart 
 Again this year his heart 
 
 Who no heart hath. 
 
 Black is night's cope ; 
 But death will not appal 
 One who, past doubtings all, 
 
 Waits in unhope.
 
 Hew ^' 
 
 '.1:STi rt.J; b<J Ot 
 
 nco <Jlo 02 ^2 J 
 
 8iJD ii3fu ; arrioo ^lisasid ,'{3fu u^ 
 
 , itM>iKO lisrft bnfJO'Ui ftyjJorns 
 
 DE PROFUNDIS 
 
 ,t>i9i { ^nil [/>} on 8ff orlw 
 
 II 
 
 Considerabam ad dexteram, et videbam ; et non erat 
 qui cognosceret me. . . . Non est qui requirat 
 animam meam." Ps. cxli. 
 
 sd) ,83rniJ baaadlcl aie 8'3fotJ ii/O 
 
 WHEN the clouds' swoln bosoms echo 
 back the shouts of the many and 
 strong 
 
 That things are all as they best may be, save a 
 few to be right ere long, 
 
 445
 
 446 DE PROFUNDIS 
 
 And my eyes have not the vision in them to 
 discern what to these is so clear, 
 
 The blot seems straightway in me alone ; one 
 better he were not here. 
 
 The stout upstanders say, All's well with us : 
 
 ruers have nought to rue ! 
 And what the potent say so oft, can it fail to 
 
 be somewhat true ? 
 Breezily go they, breezily come ; their dust 
 
 smokes around their career, 
 Till I think 1 am one born out of due time, 
 
 who has no calling here. 
 
 . 
 Their dawns bring lusty joys, it seems ; their 
 
 eves exultance sweet ; 
 Our times are blessed times, they cry : Life 
 
 shapes it as is most meet, 
 And nothing is much the matter ; there are 
 
 many smiles to a tear ; 
 Then what is the matter is I, I say. Why 
 
 should such an one be here ? .
 
 DE PROFUNDIS 447 
 
 Let him to whose ears the low-voiced Best 
 
 seems stilled by the clash of the First, 
 Who holds that if way to the Better there be, it 
 
 exacts a full look at the Worst, 
 Who feels that delight is a delicate growth 
 
 cramped by crookedness, custom, and fear, 
 Get him up and be gone as one shaped awry; 
 
 he disturbs the order here. 
 
 1895-96. 
 
 HI. 
 
 I ! iza emesnoioiq su^m r.yjelonni siup r Liun
 
 
 '.[U\ 8tofiX3 
 
 JfifU ?It)t)^ 
 .'.filO 
 
 ' 
 
 DE PROFUNDIS 
 III 
 
 " Heu mihi, quia incolatus meus prolongatus est ! Habitavi 
 cum habitantibus Cedar ; multum incola fuit anima 
 mea." Ps. cxix. 
 
 THERE have been times when I well 
 might have passed and the ending 
 have come 
 Points in my path when the dark might have 
 
 stolen on me, artless, unrueing 
 
 448
 
 DE PROFUNDIS 449 
 
 Ere I had learnt that the world was a welter 
 
 of futile doing : 
 Such had been times when I well might have 
 
 passed, and the ending have come ! 
 
 o inet.tq>;d ym cnoti jtaaW 
 
 Say, on the noon when the half-sunny hours 
 
 told that April was nigh, 
 And I upgathered and cast forth the snow 
 
 from the crocus-border, 
 Fashioned and furbished the soil into a 
 
 summer-seeming order, 
 Glowing in gladsome faith that I quickened 
 
 the year thereby. 
 
 vurf nijstioo baeiBi vibhd 
 Or on that loneliest of eves when afar and be- 
 
 nighted we stood, 
 She who upheld me and I, in the midmost 
 
 of Egdon together, 
 Confident I in her watching and ward through 
 
 the blackening heather, 
 Deeming her matchless in might and with 
 
 measureless scope endued. 
 
 2 F
 
 45 DE PROFUNDIS 
 
 Or on that winter-wild night when, reclined by 
 
 the chimney-nook quoin, 
 Slowly a drowse overgat me, the smallest and 
 
 feeblest of folk there, 
 Weak from my baptism of pain ; when at 
 
 times and anon I awoke there 
 Heard of a world wheeling on, with no listing 
 
 or longing to join. 
 
 i<A tejso bna bawritegqu I briA 
 
 Even then ! while unweeting that vision could 
 
 vex or that knowledge could numb, 
 That sweets to the mouth in the belly are 
 
 bitter, and tart, and untoward, 
 Then, on some dim-coloured scene should my 
 
 briefly raised curtain have lowered, 
 Then might the Voice that is law have said 
 
 " Cease ! " and the ending have come. 
 
 1896. 
 
 'rf 
 
 >>t>fI
 
 totfcrioftfcbiutot b&Qrid fIJ 
 ; ymom baifiirf 
 nrrlt bn sfoirtt anoHh/m babluorn I 
 islfrt bs 
 botelcnio I 
 
 loeurna.^'io j ynzm m 
 
 t 2ai banoxjsfdms xfl oT 
 airloIijqaS bns 80iD 9'rugfl oT 
 THE CHURCH-BUILDER 
 ,trt3q?. UK blog yM 
 
 THE church flings forth a battled shade 
 Over the moon-blanched sward ; 
 The church ; my gift ; whereto I paid 
 My all in hand and hoard : 
 Lavished my gains 
 With stintless pains 
 To glorify the Lord. 
 
 45'
 
 45 2 THE CHURCH-BUILDER 
 
 II 
 
 I squared the broad foundations in 
 
 Of ashlared masonry ; 
 I moulded mullions thick and thin, 
 Hewed fillet and ogee : 
 I circleted 
 
 Each sculptured head 
 With nimb and canopy. 
 
 ill 
 
 I called in many a craftsmaster 
 
 To fix emblazoned glass, 
 To figure Cross and Sepulchre 
 On dossal, boss, and brass. 
 My gold all spent, 
 My jewels went 
 To gem the cups of Mass. 
 
 
 btsq I of dtddw i$i yen ; rbimfa 
 I borrowed deep to carve the screen 
 
 And raise the ivoried Rood ; 
 I parted with my small demesne 
 
 To make my owings good.
 
 THE CHURCH-BUILDER 453 
 
 Heir-looms unpriced 
 I sacrificed, 
 Until debt-free I stood. 
 
 b;U ; birii-I itirtef gnimi/d oVI 
 \%iifSK 'brie 'W30S -EisjJriirfJ isq^ob 3tiT 
 i v 
 
 jiiitv/ bri> ijOn nio'i''! 
 So closed the task. " Deathless the Creed 
 
 Here substanced ! " said my soul : 
 " I heard me bidden to this deed, 
 And straight obeyed the call. 
 
 Illume this fane, 
 
 That not in vain 
 
 I build it, Lord of all 1" 
 
 ( 3iiffy/'<t:> -t\ irovorn bhow 91T 
 
 trigii ald^yi no now liihawoq briA 
 .i)i^- neblo ni 
 
 ,nv/ob ernod rfJifil vM 
 But, as it chanced me, then and there 
 
 Did dire misfortunes burst ; 
 My home went waste for lack of care, 
 My sons rebelled and curst ; 
 Till I confessed 
 That aims the best 
 Were looking like the worst.
 
 454 THE CHURCH-BUILDER 
 
 baonqni 
 
 VII 
 
 Enkindled by my votive work 
 
 No burning faith I find ; 
 The deeper thinkers sneer and smirk, 
 
 And give my toil no mind ; 
 
 From nod and wink 
 
 3c!J basolo 08 
 I read they think 
 
 : i . -.-: 3-iaH 
 
 That I am fool and blind. 
 
 ,D33D ami of nsbbid soi bifisrf I " 
 
 .UJBO arfJ ba^do JrfgijEnte bnA 
 
 VIII 
 
 My gift to God seems futile, quite ; 
 The world moves as erstwhile ; 
 And powerful wrong on feeble right 
 Tramples in olden style. 
 My faith burns down, 
 I see no crown ; 
 
 But Cares, and Griefs, and Guile. 
 3iso to }bfil lOrHts&w Jnav/ amori ^M 
 
 IX 
 
 So now, the remedy ? Yea, this : 
 I gently swing the door
 
 THE CHURCH-BUILDER 455 
 
 Here, of my fane no soul to wis 
 And cross the patterned floor 
 To the rood-screen 
 That stands between 
 The nave and inner chore. 
 
 . . . ! ^laasl^gu bri ytbruid 
 
 .vug H'varf* "Jfteim aH " 
 x 
 
 The rich red windows dim the moon, 
 
 But little light need I ; 
 I mount the prie-dieu, lately hewn 
 From woods of rarest dye ; 
 Then from below 
 My garment, so, 
 I draw this cord, and tie 
 
 XI 
 
 One end thereof around the beam 
 
 Midway 'twixt Cross and truss : 
 I noose the nethermost extreme, 
 And in ten seconds thus 
 I journey hence 
 To that land whence 
 No rumour reaches us.
 
 456 THE CHURCH-BUILDER 
 
 XII 
 
 ago'io bnA 
 Well : Here at morn they'll light on one 
 
 Dangling in mockery 
 Of what he spent his substance on 
 Blindly and uselessly ! . . . 
 " He might," they'll say, 
 " Have built, some way, 
 A cheaper gallows-tree ! "
 
 > ^tfif nl 
 
 ni 
 
 ,312,6V/ 
 
 . ' '..si 
 
 THE LOST PYX 
 
 ; wojd a^nin)-99"ii oif) .elwpri irf^n sjiT Vi 
 
 A MEDIAEVAL LEGEND 1 
 
 s 
 
 OME say the spot is banned ; that the 
 
 pillar Cross-and-Hand 
 Attests to a deed of hell ; 
 But of else than of bale is the mystic tale 
 
 That ancient Vale-folk tell. 
 
 .rniri te navsaH rnoi^ nv/oi} oT 
 
 1 On a lonely table-land above the Vale of Blackmore, between 
 High-Stoy and Bubb-Down hills, and commanding in clear 
 weather views that extend from the English to the Bristol 
 Channel, stands a pillar, apparently mediaeval, called Cross-and- 
 Hand or Christ-in-Hand. Among other stories of its origin a 
 local tradition preserves the one here given.
 
 458 THE LOST PYX 
 
 Ere Cernel's Abbey ceased hereabout there 
 
 dwelt a priest, 
 (In later life sub-prior 
 Of the brotherhood there, whose bones are 
 
 now bare 
 In the field that was Cernel choir). 
 
 One night in his cell at the foot of yon dell 
 The priest heard a frequent cry : 
 
 " Go, father, in haste to the cot on the waste, 
 And shrive a man waiting to die." 
 
 Said the priest in a shout to the caller without, 
 " The night howls, the tree-trunks bow ; 
 
 One may barely by day track so rugged a way, 
 And can I then do so now ? " 
 
 bncH-bfiB-esoiO 'nslliq 
 No further word from the dark was heard, 
 
 And the priest moved never a limb ; 
 And he slept and dreamed ; till a Visage seemed 
 To frown from Heaven at him. 
 
 lornjbjsia lo alfiV sdJ svoda biuf-aldfi) \fofK>\ nO ' 
 >j)TTtmoD btix .alliri nwotf-dduH bn& vptS-HjjiH 
 
 In a sweat he arose ; and the storm shrieked 
 shrill 
 
 ' A. .fjoBH-ni-JahifD 10 ftneH 
 
 And smote as in savage joy ;
 
 THE LOST PYX 459 
 
 While High-Stoy trees twanged to Bubb-Down 
 
 Hill, 
 And Bubb-Down to High-Stoy. 
 
 There seemed not a holy thing in hail, 
 
 Nor shape of light or love, 
 From the Abbey north of Blackmore Vale 
 
 To the Abbey south thereof. 
 
 Yet he plodded thence through the dark 
 
 immense, 
 
 Ana '-.' . nt -vita ! is nru;v : ss freight, 
 
 And with many a stumbling stride 
 
 Through copse and briar climbed nigh and 
 
 . , 
 nigher 
 
 To the cot and the sick man's side. 
 
 When he would have unslung the Vessels 
 uphung 
 
 To his arm in the steep ascent, 
 He made loud moan : the Pyx was gone 
 
 Of the Blessed Sacrament. 
 
 Then in dolorous dread he beat his head : 
 
 " No earthly prize or pelf 
 Is the thing I've lost in tempest tossed, 
 
 But the Body of Christ Himself ! "
 
 460 THE LOST PYX 
 
 He thought of the Visage his dream revealed, 
 
 And turned towards whence he came, 
 Hands groping the ground along foot-track 
 and field, 
 
 And head in a heat of shame. 
 
 aqfiffg loVi 
 
 ~L moVR 
 
 Till here on the hill, betwixt vill and vill, 
 
 He noted a clear straight ray 
 Stretching down from the sky to a spot hard by, 
 
 Which shone with the light of day. 
 
 And gathered around the illumined ground 
 Were common beasts and rare, 
 
 All kneeling at gaze, and in pause profound 
 Attent on an object there. 
 
 Twas the Pyx, unharmed 'mid the circling rows 
 
 Of Blackmore's hairy throng, 
 Whereof were oxen, sheep, and does, 
 
 And hares from the brakes among ; 
 
 And badgers grey, and conies keen, 
 
 And squirrels of the tree, 
 And many a member seldom seen 
 
 Of Nature's family.
 
 THE LOST PYX 461 
 
 The ireful winds that scoured and swept 
 Through coppice, clump, and dell, 
 
 Within that holy circle slept 
 Calm as in hermit's cell. 
 
 Then the priest bent likewise to the sod 
 And thanked the Lord of Love, 
 
 And Blessed Mary, Mother of God, 
 And all the saints above. 
 
 And turning straight with his priceless freight, 
 
 He reached the dying one, 
 Whose passing sprite had been stayed for the 
 rite 
 
 Without which bliss hath none. 
 
 And when by grace the priest won place, 
 
 And served the Abbey well, 
 He reared this stone to mark where shone 
 
 That midnight miracle. 
 
 .nua arii 338 tnorn on bnA 
 
 Jtowdtsl VEB ol yrrtit ariaw Ji bluoW 
 
 ' ; -^hiiA.^tn fc^niQ^^oon '{m niisla oT 
 
 Ibi bng bnnte atll^rti^rl^i 
 
 rn lO
 
 i3rf ni 2 mleO 
 insd Jeanq ariJ nsriT 
 
 bnA 
 
 : r gtrf riJiv/ JrltBita niriiui bnA 
 
 TESS'S LAMENT 
 
 I 
 
 . 
 WOULD that folk forgot me quite, 
 
 Forgot me quite ! 
 I would that I could shrink from sight, 
 
 And no more see the sun. 
 Would it were time to say farewell, 
 To claim my nook, to need my knell, 
 Time for them all to stand and tell 
 
 Of my day's work as done. 
 462
 
 TESS'S LAMENT 463 
 
 in, ,^f.q barleinft ei ii ,lteW 
 Ah ! dairy where I lived so long, 
 
 I lived so long ; 
 Where I would rise up stanch and strong, 
 
 And lie down hopefully. 
 'Twas there within the chimney-seat 
 He watched me to the clock's slow beat 
 Loved me, and learnt to call me sweet, 
 And whispered words to me. 
 .rnub oftt y;cf gnibncte A 
 in 
 
 And now he's gone ; and now he's gone ; . . . 
 
 And now he's gone ! 
 The flowers we potted p'rhaps are thrown 
 
 To rot upon the farm. 
 And where we had our supper-fire 
 May now grow nettle, dock, and briar, 
 And all the place be mould and mire 
 
 So cozy once and warm. 
 
 IV 
 
 And it was I who did it all, 
 
 Who did it all ; 
 'Twas I who made the blow to fall
 
 464 TESS'S LAMENT 
 
 On him who thought no guile. 
 Well, it is finished past, and he 
 Has left me to my misery, 
 And I must take my Cross on me 
 
 For wronging him awhile, 
 ail bnA 
 
 il) n 
 How gay we looked that day we wed, 
 
 That day we wed ! 
 " May joy be with ye ! " all o'm said 
 
 A standing by the durn. 
 I wonder what they say o's now, 
 And if they know my lot ; and how 
 She feels who milks my favourite cow, 
 
 And takes my place at churn ! 
 . .rniKi an** noqu )oi oT 
 
 VI 
 
 It wears me out to think of it, 
 
 To think of it ; 
 I cannot bear my fate as writ, 
 
 I'd have my life unbe ; 
 Would turn my memory to a blot, 
 Make every relic of me rot, '*"*$ 
 My doings be as they were not, 
 
 And what they've brought to me !
 
 brttv Vi.il ,Hfrn 
 
 -V >;*um oT 
 
 THE SUPPLANTER 
 
 A TALE 
 
 HE bends his travel-tarnished feet 
 To where she wastes in clay : 
 From day-dawn until eve he fares 
 
 Along the wintry way ; 
 From day-dawn until eve repairs 
 Unto her mound to pray. 
 
 465 2G
 
 THE SUPPLANTER 
 
 II 
 
 " Are these the gravestone shapes that meet 
 My forward-straining view ? 
 
 Or forms that cross a window-blind 
 In circle, knot, and queue : 
 
 Gay forms, that cross and whirl and wind 
 To music throbbing through ? " 
 
 ni 
 
 "The Keeper of the Field of Tombs 
 Dwells by its gateway-pier ; 
 
 He celebrates with feast and dance 
 
 His daughter's twentieth year : 
 
 He celebrates with wine of France 
 The birthday of his dear." 
 
 IV 
 
 " The gates are shut when evening glooms : 
 Lay down your wreath, sad wight ; 
 
 To-morrow is a time more fit 
 
 For placing flowers aright : 
 
 The morning is the time for it ; 
 
 Come, wake with us to-night ! "
 
 THE SUPPLANTER 467 
 
 t , . n^iio'itU rgo!i!M?q.n slus 
 He grounds his wreath, and enters in, 
 
 And sits, and shares their cheer. 
 " I fain would foot with you, young man, 
 
 T-> 11 AU U 
 
 Before all others here ; 
 
 r .jf' 
 
 I fain would foot it for a span 
 With such a cavalier ! " 
 
 XI 
 
 VI 
 
 toon 9fii noqu aiswofl atirfw 392 I 
 She coaxes, clasps, nor fails to win 
 
 His first-unwilling hand : 
 The merry music strikes its staves, 
 
 The dancers quickly band ; 
 And with the damsel of the graves 
 
 He duly takes his stand. 
 
 VII 
 
 " You dance divinely, stranger swain, 
 Such grace I've never known. 
 
 O longer stay ! Breathe not adieu 
 And leave me here alone ! 
 
 O longer stay : to her be true 
 
 Whose heart is all your own ! "
 
 468 THE SUPPLANTER 
 
 VIII 
 
 " I mark a phantom through the pane, 
 
 That beckons in despair, 
 * ' 
 
 Its mouth all drawn with heavy moan 
 Her to whom once I sware ! " 
 
 " Nay ; 'tis the lately carven stone 
 
 J J ifit I 
 
 Of some strange girl laid there ! " 
 
 IX 
 
 " I see white flowers upon the floor 
 
 Retrodden to a clot ; 
 My wreath were they ? " " Nay ; love me much, 
 
 Swear you'll forget me not ! 
 'Twas but a wreath ! Full many such 
 
 Are brought here and forgot." 
 % 
 
 X 
 
 The watches of the night grow hoar, 
 
 He rises ere the sun : ; 9 ot;r^ 
 " Now could I kill thee here ! " he says, nol C 
 
 " For winning me from one 
 Who ever in her living days t;: v_ 
 
 Was pure as cloistered nun ! "
 
 THE SUPFLANTER 469 
 
 XI 
 
 She cowers, and he takes his track 
 
 Afar for many a mile, 
 For evermore to be apart 
 
 From her who could beguile 
 His senses by her burning heart, 
 
 And win his love awhile. 
 
 XII 
 
 A year : and he is travelling back 
 To her who wastes in clay ; 
 
 From day-dawn until eve he fares 
 Along the wintry way, 
 
 From day-dawn until eve repairs 
 Unto her mound to pray. 
 
 XIII 
 
 And there he sets him to fulfil 
 
 His frustrate first intent : 
 And lay upon her bed, at last, 
 
 The offering earlier meant : 
 When, on his stooping figure, ghast 
 
 And haggard eyes are bent.
 
 47O THE SUPPLANTER 
 
 XIV 
 
 " O surely for a little while 
 
 You can be kind to me ! 
 For do you love her, do you hate, 
 
 She knows not cares not she : 
 Only the living feel the weight ^ n96 
 
 Of loveless misery ! 
 
 XV 
 
 " I own my sin ; I've paid its cost, 
 
 Being outcast, shamed, and bare : 
 
 I give you daily my whole heart, 
 Your babe my tender care, 
 
 I pour you prayers ; and aye to part Iflo1 
 Is more than I can bear ! " 
 
 XVI 
 
 He turns unpitying, passion-tossed ; 
 
 " I know you not ! " he cries, 
 " Nor know your child. I knew this maid, 
 
 But she's in Paradise ! " 
 And swiftly in the winter shade 
 
 He breaks from her and flies.
 
 IMITATIONS, ETC.
 
 SAPPHIC FRAGMENT 
 
 ' Thou shah be Nothing." OMAR KHAYYAM. 
 
 " Tombless, with no remembrance." W. SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 DEAD shall thou lie ; and nought 
 Be told of thee or thought, 
 For thou hast plucked not of the Muses' tree : 
 And even in Hades' halls 
 Amidst thy fellow-thralls 
 No friendly shade thy shade shall company ! 
 
 473
 
 CATULLUS: XXXI 
 
 (After passing Sirmione, April 1887.) 
 
 SIRMIO, thou dearest dear of strands 
 That Neptune strokes in lake and sea, 
 With what high joy from stranger lands 
 Doth thy old friend set foot on thee ! 
 Yea, barely seems it true to me 
 That no Bithynia holds me now, 
 But calmly and assuringly 
 Around me stretchest homely Thou. 
 
 474
 
 CATULLUS : XXXI 475 
 
 Is there a scene more sweet than when 
 Our clinging cares are undercast, 
 And, worn by alien moils and men, 
 The long untrodden sill repassed, 
 We press the pined for couch at last, 
 And find a full repayment there ? 
 Then hail, sweet Sirmio ; thou that wast, 
 And art, mine own unrivalled Fair ! 
 
 H3JJIH38 H3T3A 
 uil ,THOiVl "\T 
 
 ~i iiRnrf ^irfT 
 
 Jf 1 
 
 ol T^rl)b on am >teA 
 s oil 'cw Jx.rfT 
 
 srnoo 33f V73r.- Jstrm
 
 
 KO gnignilo 
 ,ns iorn naik ^d mow <bnA 
 
 r Ilia nsbbo'iJrw gnol arfT 
 JB rfauoo itol bsni 3fft aasi gW 
 
 firit noril ; oirmiS tesws ,Iif;r{ nari 
 jjj' 11 ! ballvtinu nwo anirn ,ii I'n 
 
 AFTER SCHILLER 
 
 KNIGHT, a true sister-love 
 This heart retains ; 
 Ask me no other love, 
 That way lie pains ! 
 
 Calm must I view thee come, 
 
 Calm see thee go ; 
 Tale-telling tears of thine 
 
 I must not know !
 
 fQ2 
 
 \ P1V* tlC^ TiH 
 
 cq<? w^iO 
 
 JonnEO I av^ilad t O brtA 
 om o> taof SIB uoffi ifidT 
 
 SONG FROM HEINE 
 
 I SCAN NED her picture dreaming, 
 Till each dear line and hue 
 Was imaged, to my seeming, 
 As if it lived anew. 
 
 Her lips began to borrow 
 
 Their former wondrous smile ;
 
 SONG FROM HEINE 
 
 Her fair eyes, faint with sorrow, 
 Grew sparkling as erstwhile. 
 
 Such tears as often ran not 
 
 Ran then, my love, for thee ; 
 
 And O, believe I cannot 
 
 That thou are lost to me ! 
 
 gqri
 
 FROM VICTOR HUGO 
 
 CHILD, were I king, I'd yield my royal 
 rule, 
 
 My chariot, sceptre, vassal-service due, 
 My crown, my porphyry-basined waters cool, 
 My fleets, whereto the sea is but a pool, 
 For a glance from you ! 
 
 Love, were I God, the earth and its heaving 
 
 airs, 
 
 Angels, the demons abject under me, 
 Vast chaos with its teeming womby lairs, 
 Time, space, all would I give aye, upper 
 
 spheres, 
 For a kiss from thee ! 
 
 479
 
 OOUH flOTDIV 
 
 '{m t nv/oio y 
 Drij oisiarfw ,2*935 y 
 moil 
 
 CARDINAL BEMBO'S EPITAPH 
 
 ON RAPHAEL 
 
 'lonnb ^rft ,d!a<jr/A 
 
 HERE'S one in whom Nature feared- 
 faint at such vying 
 
 Eclipse while he lived, and decease at his 
 dying.
 
 RETROSPECT 
 
 2 H
 
 :>nA 
 
 aril rnoiVworte bnA 
 Jeub bslbniv/b tulT 
 
 "I HAVE LIVED WITH SHADES" 
 
 
 1HAVE lived with shades so long, 
 And talked to them so oft, 
 Since forth from cot and croft 
 I went mankind among, 
 
 That sometimes they 
 In their dim style 
 Will pause awhile 
 
 To hear my say ; 
 
 483
 
 484 " I HAVE LIVED WITH SHADES " 
 II 
 
 And take me by the hand, 
 And lead me through their rooms 
 In the To-be, where Dooms 
 Half- wove and shapeless stand : 
 And show from there 
 The dwindled dust 
 And rot and rust 
 Of things that were. 
 
 in 
 
 " Now turn," spake they to me ; 
 One day : " Look whence we came, 
 And signify his name 
 
 Who gazes thence at thee." 
 ,^n< /AH f 
 
 " Nor name nor race 
 Kl bnA 
 Know I, or can," 
 
 I said, " Of man 
 
 ; iri 
 So commonplace. 
 
 nl 
 
 IV 
 
 ! .q IliW 
 
 " He moves me not at all ; 
 
 I note no ray or jot
 
 * l I HAVE LIVED WITH SHADES " 485 
 
 Of rareness in his lot, 
 Or star exceptional. 
 
 Into the dim 
 
 Dead throngs around 
 
 He'll sink, nor sound 
 
 Be left of him." 
 
 " Yet," said they, " his frail speech, 
 Hath accents pitched like thine 
 Thy mould and his define 
 A likeness each to each 
 
 But go ! Deep pain 
 
 Alas, would be 
 
 His name to thee, 
 
 And told in vain 1 " 
 
 . 2, 1899. 
 
 i rnirl 
 
 won/I ylno ?A
 
 onirtJ I 
 
 anflsb airi bns bluom vrIT 
 
 
 O 
 
 MEMORY AND I 
 
 MEMORY, where is now my youth, 
 Who used to say that life was truth ? ' 
 
 " I saw him in a crumbled cot 
 Beneath a tottering tree ; 
 
 That he as phantom lingers there 
 Is only known to me."
 
 MEMORY AND I 487 
 
 "O Memory, where is now my joy, 
 Who lived with me in sweet employ ? ' 
 
 " I saw him in gaunt gardens lone, 
 
 Where laughter used to be ; 
 That he as phantom wanders there 
 
 Is known to none but me." 
 
 " O Memory, where is now my hope, 
 Who charged with deeds my skill and 
 scope ? " 
 
 " I saw her in a tomb of tomes, 
 Where dreams are wont to be ; 
 
 That she as spectre haunteth there 
 Is only known to me." 
 
 " O Memory, where is now my faith, 
 One time a champion, now a wraith ? " 
 
 " I saw her in a ravaged aisle, 
 
 Bowed down on bended knee ; 
 That her poor ghost outflickers there 
 
 Is known to none but me."
 
 488 MEMORY AND I 
 
 " O Memory, where is now my love, 
 That rayed me as a god above ? " 
 
 " I saw him by an ageing shape 
 Where beauty used to be ; 
 
 That his fond phantom lingers there 
 Is only known to me," 
 
 la yat 
 
 10 drn 
 
 ,: 
 
 ) nwob 
 'iHiUo Jgt>fi$>iooq 
 
 in oJ rrwon^ a
 
 
 
 t- 
 
 i> 
 
 ,ffgin bm; ixi , 
 
 ,gnol -io j-rora 10 
 gnmw bamaogib sd v 
 
 OEOi. 
 
 LONG have I framed weak phantasies of 
 Thee, 
 
 O Wilier masked and dumb ! 
 Who makest Life become, 
 As though by labouring ail-unknowingly, 
 
 Like one whom reveries numb. 
 
 489
 
 49 'ArNflSTQi 6Efl t . 
 
 How much of consciousness informs Thy wil 
 Thy biddings, as if blind, 
 Of death-inducing kind, 
 
 Nought shows to us ephemeral ones who fill 
 But moments in Thy mind. 
 
 Perhaps Thy ancient rote-restricted ways 
 Thy ripening rule transcends ; 
 That listless effort tends 
 
 To grow percipient with advance of days, 
 And with percipience mends. 
 
 For, in unwonted purlieus, far and nigh, 
 At whiles or short or long, 
 May be discerned a wrong 
 
 Dying as of self-slaughter ; whereat I 
 Would raise my voice in song. 
 
 tifiq ileaw bamu-rt 1 avsri OMO T 
 
 THE END 
 
 ! dmub bri bdvlaum islIiW O 
 
 orf// 
 iuocljsl yd ri^uofij a 
 
 Printed by R. & R. CI.ARK, LiMiTEp, Edinburgh.
 
 lll"""' yl J f\A O A