m^^T'-^-'-r 
 
 f^ 'm V, TROUBADOUR S 
 
 it AND OTHER POEMS ^^ 
 
 ]Tt-)RA^lGLRSON SHORTER le^
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 AT LOS ANGELES
 
 THE TROUBADOUR 
 AND OTHER POEMS
 
 BV THE SAME AUTHOR 
 
 COLLECTED POEMS 
 
 With an Introduction by 
 George Meredith. 
 
 ' Comes with that thrill of surprise which is one of the rarest and most 
 delicious pleasures of poetry . . . there is freshness and life about all her 
 work.' — The Times. 
 
 '"The Deer Stone" and "Kathleen's Charity" are models of what a 
 ballad should be — naive, direct, and picturesque.' — The Athenceum. 
 
 ' " Kathleen's Charity" is the very perfection of what a ballad ought to 
 be. It reminds one of the charm and beauty of Goldsmith.' — Irish Times. 
 
 'The book is welcome; for such songs, so written, are rare in these days 
 of stern reality.' — yanity Fair. 
 
 ' The ballads are toned to that chastened mood that answers to one's idea 
 of the Celtic melancholy ; their tender human appeal is irresistible, and none 
 of them is lacking in that spontaneity, that glow and colour of imagination, 
 that are getting to be the rarest things in modern poetry.' — Daily Mail. 
 
 ' The volume is unquestionably one to be acquired and treasured by the 
 lover of poetry, who by this time must surely rank Mrs. Shorter high in 
 the hierarchy of our living female poets.' — Globe. 
 
 ' Poems and ballads that have both delicacy and charm.' — Manchester 
 Guardian. 
 
 ' " The Child " is admirably imagined, and her treatment of the subject 
 may very well stand beside Stevenson's fine lines in Under^MOods.' — The 
 Sketch. 
 
 ' In this volume her ballads seem often to touch a deeper and more 
 poignant feeling . . . the unconsciousness of the child, contrasted with 
 the sorrow of its earthly lot — this is a familiar theme, yet Mrs. Shorter 
 handles it with unfamiliar freshness and power. . . . This volume extends 
 our idea of her power.' — Mr. Francis Thompson in The Academy. 
 
 'She had already won a high and distinctive place among Anglo-Irish 
 poets. Indeed, it does not overpass the mark to say that of all women now 
 writing English verse she exhibits the surest and most unmistakable touch.' 
 — Freeman's Journal. 
 
 ' As regards Dora Sigerson, if we were in the mood to prophesy we 
 should be inclined to say that our sons will forget her, but that our 
 grandsons will rediscover her with surprise and delight.' — The Nation. 
 
 THE COUNTRY HOUSE PARTY 
 
 THE FATHER CONFESSOR. Out of print 
 
 THE STORY AND SONG OF BLACK RODERICK 
 
 Out of Print 
 THROUGH WINTRY TERRORS
 
 THE TROUBADOUR 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 DORA SIGERSON SHORTER 
 
 
 t 9 
 
 
 HODDER AND STOUGHTON 
 LONDON MCMX
 
 c • « • ■ a
 
 
 U 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 So . 
 
 PAGE 
 >* THE TROUBADOUR ...... I 
 
 > 
 
 ^ THE LITTLE WHITE RABBIT . . . • -30 
 
 THE TWO NESTS ....... 32 
 
 ''^ THE THREE TREES . . . . . .34 
 
 IN THE CARLYLE HOUSE, CHELSEA . . . -3^ 
 
 THE ROBIN ....... 39 
 
 V UNREST IN AUTUMN . . . . . .41 
 
 TO A SLEEPING MAID . . . . . .42 
 
 THE AWAKENING . . . . . .43 
 
 THE gypsies' ROAD . . . . . "45 
 
 V 
 
 185l;si 
 
 JJ'"; 
 
 )
 
 vi CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 THE CALLING MOTHERLAND . . . . -47 
 
 THE ROAD TO CABINTEELY . . . . -SO 
 
 THE GOLDEN APPLE . . . . . -52 
 
 TO A WOUNDED BIRD . . . . . -54 
 
 AN EPITAPH ....... 56 
 
 SPRING COMES ....... S8 
 
 THE PIPER ON THE HILLS . . . . -59 
 
 THE CARELESS LAD . . . . . . 61 
 
 THE WIND ....... 65 
 
 BY THE SEA . . . . . . .68 
 
 THE BREAKAGE ....... 69 
 
 THE OLD PROFESSOR . . . . . .71 
 
 THE BARD OF BREFFNKY . . . . -73 
 
 THE HERETIC IN THE TEMPLE . . . . . 80
 
 CONTENTS vii 
 
 I'AGE 
 
 THE FREEBORN . . . • . • '83 
 
 THE PAUPER ....... 87 
 
 THE TWO PRAYERS . . . . . -91 
 
 FAITH ........ 93
 
 THE TROUBADOUR 
 
 It was the Christmas of the year ; 
 The wind blew chill, the night was drear ; 
 And round the strong walls of the keep 
 The silent snow fell white and deep. 
 But well the Baron's board was spread, 
 Of winter ways he had no dread. 
 Good meat, good wine, good company — 
 What more could heart desire ? Yet he 
 Sat frowning by the yule-log's flame. 
 That lit the cheek of squire and dame. 
 And too, his lady, pouting, pressed 
 Against the window, facing west, 
 As though in vain she sought to see 
 Some guest belated on the lee. 
 
 ' And have we never tale nor song 
 
 To break the hours lest they prove long ? ' 
 
 The Baron cried. ' Come, Harper, rise, 
 
 Lest heavy grow these ladies' eyes. 
 
 And if they close, 'twere night indeed 
 
 Bereft of stars. Throw thou with speed 
 
 From thy sweet harp its magic noose 
 
 To thrall them with. Some song they choose.' 
 
 A
 
 THE TROUBADOUR 
 
 Then did each lady bid him sing 
 Of nought save love's sweet happening. 
 But loud each knight did smiling chide, 
 ' Let him but tell of war,' they cried. 
 
 The Baron laughed. ' Lest this dispute 
 Should keep the precious music mute, 
 Come sing the passion of the soul, 
 And thus content each rantipole. 
 For here is love and war, I wot. 
 Good Harper, take thou for thy plot 
 A jealous heart. And one that fain 
 Would ease its most impious pain.' 
 He looked to where his lady sighed 
 Against the western window wide. 
 ' Tell thou some tale so full of fear 
 The foolish heart shall quake to hear. 
 Shall stay on its uncertain path 
 Before thy song of tears and wrath. 
 And turn before it be too late. 
 To its aggrieved and jealous mate.' 
 Thus did the Baron say and pause 
 Before the murmur of applause. 
 
 The minstrel to his knee did take 
 His harp in hand, some tune to wake. 
 And held it to his bosom pressed. 
 As though a gentle head did rest 
 Beside his heart. Into whose ear 
 He sung this song of wrath and fear,
 
 THE TROUBADOUR 
 
 Till each sweet chord responsive spoke 
 The love and passion he awoke. 
 And silence held them one and all 
 At Christmas in the Baron's hall. 
 
 The Harper's Story 
 
 My pretty ladies, mid this Christmas cheer, 
 
 Loth though I am to wake a single tear 
 
 From thy soft bosoms, yet I claim a sigh 
 
 For hapless love and frenzied jealousy. 
 
 And if, beneath the favour of thy smile, 
 
 I dare reprove some restless love, whose guile 
 
 Had bid him enter to this garden close 
 
 Of speedwell eyes, and every cheek a rose. 
 
 To snatch from some sweet bloom a wanton hour. 
 
 Ah, chide me not, but hide, O hapless flower. 
 
 Thy honied head, and listen to my lay 
 
 Of Margarida, who on luckless day 
 
 Had found such love, and ill-advised desire 
 
 That all her beauteous self did soon expire, — 
 
 As some poor rose, chilled by too rough a wind. 
 
 Leaves but a scattered memory behind. 
 
 So, though we grieve the perfect bloom decays, 
 
 We can admire no more, nor sing the praise 
 
 Of her fair being. — So Margarida cast 
 
 Her prudence to the teeth of passion's blast. 
 
 And scattered were her virtues by its breath. 
 
 She died dishonoured of a sinful death.
 
 THE TROUBADOUR 
 
 If there be one who holds, within this hall, 
 
 For Margarida scorn, and her downfall, 
 
 Let him but list to all this tangled tale 
 
 Of misplaced love. So let his cheek grow pale. 
 
 If in his heart he plays the troubadour, 
 
 As Guillem de Cabestaing, in days of yore. 
 
 Who loved unwisely Count Rossillon's bride. 
 
 And for this wanton love most sorely died. 
 
 And i'f my grievous tale doth hold some ear. 
 
 And strike some heart that hath a jealous fear 
 
 That restless love had sought his garden close. 
 
 To steal the treasure of his sweetest rose. 
 
 Let him but pause. For know where love doth be, 
 
 That evil snake, his jaundiced jealousy, 
 
 Doth linger too. So bitter is its sting, 
 
 That to love's self it can destruction bring. 
 
 So did it coil about Rossillon's heart. 
 
 Till pity in despair did swift depart, 
 
 And his cold breast sweet mercy did forsake. 
 
 Then two were slain to feed the horrid snake. 
 
 Nor did love's tears or weeping aught avail. 
 
 As you shall hear who listen to my tale. 
 
 I 
 
 The Pitiful Tragedy of Margarida and the Troubadour 
 
 Sweet Margarida, dreaming in her bower 
 Through lonely days, lamented each long hour 
 That thrust her forth from her dream paradise 
 Of youthful years, that knew but summer skies.
 
 THE TROUBADOUR 5 
 
 * Alack ! ' quoth she, ' is love then but a theme 
 For maiden lips, and constancy a dream ? 
 Here lone I sit who once Rossillon wooed. 
 Me, like some speeding doe, he fierce pursued. 
 And as swift hawks his winged words so came 
 That all my young reluctance soon was slain 
 And we were wed. No longer cheek to cheek, 
 Or heart to heart, he strives to make me speak 
 Those words of love that once so precious were. 
 He dreams me his, and so he hath no care. 
 
 Now goes he to the chase with hawk and hound, 
 To slay some beast that had not such a wound 
 As I have here.' On Margarida's breast 
 Her slender palm with outspread fingers pressed. 
 
 Then rapped her shoe upon the mossy ground. 
 The shoe that once with its silk latchets bound. 
 Full oft some heart so seeking thus to die, 
 Upon her pretty path was glad to lie. 
 
 She raised her hand, — oft had some knight in state 
 Rode for its pleasure to her father's gate — 
 There neath her tears hung loose her marriage ring. 
 She felt, once more, her lord's rough fingers cling 
 In their fierce joy to press the bauble there 
 That pledged her his. And sudden came aware 
 Of watching eyes. She checked the soothing tear 
 And bade th' intruding stranger draw him near.
 
 THE TROUBADOUR 
 
 Sharp on her tongue scorn's bitter arrows pressed 
 To pierce this rude intruder's curious breast. 
 
 But when she saw no laughter in that eye, 
 And his breast heave with many a piteous sigh 
 For her sad phght, her tears broke forth anew, 
 For here was one who guessed her sorrow too. 
 And since for her a cheek so pale he bore, 
 She felt her wrongs more bitter than before. 
 So wept she for herself, and he for her, 
 Till in that bower of rose and lavender, 
 A little storm did grow in sudden way, 
 With gentle moans, ' Ah me,' and ' Well-a-day.' 
 Their windy grief blew forth in gusty sighs, 
 And bitter tears rained from their downcast eyes. 
 
 Now, hear, ye gallants, who this love deride, 
 And find a moral ere you pause to chide. 
 Or if no lesson from this tale you seek. 
 Let Margarida's tragic story speak 
 Of one who left his treasure house unbarred, 
 And its most precious gem without a guard. 
 
 Oh, hearken then, to have is not to hold, 
 As ye will learn who hear my tale unfold. 
 
 Now, their strong sighing woke from his repose 
 A sleeping cupid cradled in a rose.
 
 THE TROUBADOUR 
 
 The wicked boy, attracted by their sighs, 
 
 Stole from his covert to attain his prize. 
 
 And while Rossillon hunted on the hill, 
 
 Within his home Dan Cupid worked his will. 
 
 That tender home a woman's faithful heart. 
 
 Whose chained portals here were burst apart. 
 
 Its sacred chambers he did penetrate, 
 
 Where once he went before in holy state. 
 
 ' Alack,' quoth he, ' thieves entered me before, 
 
 A husband's love were lock upon this door. 
 
 But since 'tis wide, and hath no guardian here. 
 
 Grief comes unchidden, and the constant tear, 
 
 I do not love this sorrow in my place, 
 
 And with my bow I shall the shade efface. 
 
 Sweet mother, speed my arrow on its quest. 
 
 To pierce this chaste and most neglected breast ; 
 
 So Margarida's heart doth not pursue 
 
 Her careless lord, while others stay to woo. ' 
 
 Swift to its mark the reckless arrow sped ; 
 
 More wild the tears the wounded mortals shed. 
 
 But Margarida, as a woman will, 
 
 Though tempest tossed, did hold possession still 
 
 Of all her senses, so that while she seemed 
 
 Blind in her grief, she also sat and dreamed 
 
 Of this strange youth, his modesty, his grace, 
 
 The tender beauty of his gentle face. 
 
 In truth she loved, and loving 'gan to find 
 
 This youth's shy looks more pleasing to her mind 
 
 Than were Rossillon's bold and savage ways.
 
 8 THE TROUBADOUR 
 
 And with her lord's downfall there came the praise 
 
 Of this sad boy, who was so passing fair. 
 
 So will the absent lover ill compare 
 
 With him, who by his lady's side will bide 
 
 To swear no joy could tempt him from her side. 
 
 While Margarida wept with sore heart-break, 
 The pitying stranger stood afraid to speak. 
 Till Cupid grew impatient at the sight. 
 And set their foolish tremors all to flight. 
 Amid the leaves he fluted like some bird 
 Who seeks his mate and sings, all passion stirred. 
 Then did the youth its tender message know, 
 And from his heart let its sweet rapture flow. 
 All that he dare not say he told in song. 
 Nor did his lady find the tale too long. 
 And when he ceased, she bade him draw anear, 
 Boldly to speak, and put aside his fear. 
 
 ' Say what thou wilt, O voice of golden thrill, 
 To her whose tears are handmaid to thy will.' 
 
 * O gracious one,' the kneeling youth replied — 
 Then spoke his heart, nor would it be denied — 
 ' Sweet eyes, sweet lips, sweet lady all so sweet, 
 Behold thy slave in torment at thy feet. 
 He must not love, yet loves thee all too well. 
 Here let him die who dares this tale to tell. 
 Oh, bring those tears, sweet tears that bade him 
 spake,
 
 THE TROUBADOUR 9 
 
 To his lone grave some recompense to make 
 
 For all he lost in losing thy fair face. 
 
 Nor could high Heav'n this happiness replace.' 
 
 Thus having said, the youth in silence knelt, 
 
 His brow on hand, awaiting banishment. 
 
 Then came her voice sweet as an altar bell, 
 
 ' I, too, could love '■ — a moment's stillness fell — 
 
 ' So sweet a song. Hast thou then tuned this tale 
 
 From some bright lark or some sweet nightingale ? ' 
 
 ' Nay, lady,' said the youth, ' my master dear 
 Is love himself, who tuned to please thine ear 
 My very heart, so that its chords will break 
 Should my bold words thy righteous anger wake.' 
 
 Then down he fell, low at her feet again, 
 As might her spaniel meriting disdain. 
 But her soft voice spoke comfort, saying slow, 
 ' Thy words, like little bees that singing go 
 From some fair flower safe to the distant hive. 
 Bear honey to my heart, and sweet arrive 
 To fill the empty place, by hope forgot. 
 Rise, then, dear youth, and fear remember not. 
 Sing, golden voice that doth my heart content. 
 And change this world of tears to merriment.' 
 
 ' Here at thy feet,' the kneeling youth replied, 
 ' I consecrate my song, so far and wide. 
 
 B
 
 10 THE TROUBADOUR 
 
 It sings thy praise, O peerless one and dear, 
 
 That all for love of thee must pause and hear. 
 
 Heart of my song must be thy secret name. 
 
 I shall be great, who here so lowly came, 
 
 The humble servant at Rossillon's call : 
 
 Once did I stand to tend him in the hall, 
 
 To bear his weapons, and to hold his steed. 
 
 Robe him for state. Oh, slave were I indeed. 
 
 Thou raiseth me, so I supreme attained 
 
 Love's very throne, where once Rossillon reigned.' 
 
 Thus did they twitter, till from their day doze 
 
 The shadow children of the night arose, 
 
 Swift to elude her call they silent played, 
 
 And through the garden arbours peeping strayed. 
 
 Here 'mongst the leaves of dainty columbine 
 
 A little shadow crept to close entwine 
 
 With the long cypress shade. There on the grass, 
 
 From some rose-wreathed chain, her sisters pass. 
 
 Hand linked in hand, all tremulous to dance. 
 
 Till the nocturnal hours, in swift advance. 
 
 Rebuke their playing and their aid invite 
 
 To spread the spangled canopy of night. 
 
 While in the bower the lovers whispered still, 
 A bugle sounded from some distant hill. 
 And Margarida, with a sudden cry. 
 Sprang to her feet, ' Oh, hush, my lord is nigh.
 
 THE TROUBADOUR ii 
 
 Quick, get thee gone.' Her cheek grew cold and 
 
 pale, 
 That had been happy rose with love's sweet tale. 
 
 ' Must we then part ? ' Fear came on Guillem's 
 
 brow. 
 ' O Margarida, hast thou heard enough 
 Of my heart's story ? 'Tis first love and young, 
 Has it then spoken with a faltering tongue ? ' 
 Then Margarida raised and softly pressed 
 His chnging hand upon her panting breast, 
 With ' Come again, sweet love, for I have heard 
 But half thy tale. So be the joy deferred 
 Of hearing all, in some not distant hour 
 Again to meet in this most lovely bower.' 
 So did she go in haste to meet her lord. 
 But Guillem stayed to kiss the velvet sward, 
 Where her small feet had passed in their swift flight. 
 
 And when, within the banquet-hall that night, 
 He stood behind Rossillon's chair, to fill 
 His cup with wine, he felt his pulses thrill 
 With tender joy, as though he were betroth 
 In secret now, so that his master's wrath, 
 Ta'en from the hunting-field of teasing spear. 
 Of lagging steed, and swift out-racing deer. 
 Thrust for his hurt on love's safe shield in vain ; 
 Save Margarida, none could cause him pain.
 
 12 THE TROUBADOUR 
 
 And Margarida, never did there seem 
 
 So sweet a thing to make a poet's dream. 
 
 Her shining hair, her rich embroidered dress, 
 
 Made him a picture of fair lovehness. 
 
 ' What Hkened she,' besought the love-sick boy, 
 
 ' A golden vessel overful of joy, 
 
 A caged bird that now had learned to sing, 
 
 A drooping flower uplifted by the spring ? 
 
 Ah, no, too sweet, and all beyond compare, 
 
 She Margarida was, and had no share 
 
 In earthly beauty, but a thing apart. 
 
 The dream-ideal of a poet's heart.' 
 
 Now, had Rossillon's thoughts but travelled home, 
 Which yet about the distant deer did roam. 
 To find excuse that still the beast had breath. 
 Which Count Rossillon's spear had pledged to death. 
 He else had seen his lady's eyes too bright 
 For his home-coming, and their secret light 
 Flash by him till it found a resting-place. 
 And fell abashed from Guillem's glowing face. 
 Her cheek too red, beneath his careless kiss. 
 Her laugh too quick, and all her wifely bliss 
 Too new, too sudden, from their wedded years. 
 That else were spent in pettiness and tears. 
 And he had seen the tender face, so young, 
 Pale from its bloom ; and heard the rippling tongue 
 To faltering silence go, soon, when he bade 
 The youth retire. Had his fierce gaze once strayed
 
 THE TROUBADOUR 13 
 
 To Margarida's eyes, he sure had seen 
 
 How quenched the glow where once the flame had 
 
 been, 
 As though young Guillem, in his passing, stole 
 The lamp that lit the windows of her soul. 
 But Count Rossillon, weary from the day, 
 Beside his hearth half slumbering soon lay, 
 And from his chair, with idle hand caressed 
 The slender hound, now with his fancy blessed ; 
 And Margarida moved her robe aside. 
 That stayed the beast from favour her denied. 
 
 And thus thrust forth she lingered all forlorn 
 
 Till in the night, through open casement borne, 
 
 A lovely song came sighing on the air. 
 
 Pale Margarida trembled in her chair. 
 
 She thought, ' Love wakes within his cradling rose, 
 
 And with his breath a tender message blows 
 
 To one held dear.' Rossillon's heavy eyes 
 
 Lit for a moment to a pleased surprise. 
 
 ' Who sings so sweet ? ' and Margarida said, 
 
 ' 'Tis but young Guillem.' Then she drooped her 
 
 head, 
 Lest he should see the flame upon her cheek. 
 But Count Rossillon did but slumber seek. 
 And ere she answered slept within his place. 
 Lone Margarida watched his sleeping face. 
 ' O eyes,' she said, ' that find in me no joy. 
 Chill lips that speak my dreams to e'er destroy.
 
 14 THE TROUBADOUR 
 
 Cold heart wherein I wake no passion beat, 
 Deaf ears that find my coming never sweet, 
 Strong hands that hold my pulsing body bound 
 To share their chance caresses with the hound, 
 Sleep on, sleep on,' and then she softly wept, 
 Till to her ears the gentle singing crept. 
 
 ' O Margarida, sweet beyond compare. 
 
 My eyes close not because they found thee fair, 
 
 My ears attuned but for thy step alone. 
 
 My poor heart slain, that calls thee not its own. 
 
 Come, Margarida,' then the whisper left 
 
 A sigh of one whose hope was all bereft. 
 
 Alack ! who would not two such loves contrast, 
 
 Quick Margarida through the window passed. 
 
 While Count Rossillon in his sleep caressed 
 
 The hound's sleek head that on his knee did rest. 
 
 II 
 
 The Cruel End of the Lovers' Tale 
 
 How quick breeds scandal. In some danksome 
 
 place 
 She builds her nest of shame and sore disgrace. 
 There rears her brood, swift flying far and wide 
 For all her loathsome nestling to provide. 
 And whispered words from off some careless 
 
 tongue 
 She plucks to bear to her unfeathered young.
 
 THE TROUBADOUR 15 
 
 Where spite and envy fly their poisoned seed, 
 Deep from the dust she snatches in her greed. 
 Soon from their home, hate, jealousy, despair. 
 Fly forth, within their turn to nest, and bear 
 Their evil brood of torture, crime, and death, 
 To blight the heart that meets their noisome 
 breath. 
 
 What heard Rossillon, riding through the wood, 
 Of this dark bird that fed her horrid brood 
 Close on his path ; that made him turn and stay 
 His restless steed upon young Guillem's way. 
 ' How now, fond youth, my Guillem, all so pale. 
 Lone dost thou sigh as doth the nightingale ; 
 Who, while all gentle birds have stayed their 
 
 flight, 
 Still cries his passion to the silent night. 
 'Tis sure love's way that makes a man to go 
 A wanderer when nocturnal breezes blow. 
 Nor in lone branches builds the bird of fame. 
 He seeks the crowd, who wooes immortal name. 
 Not on the road where valour boldly rides. 
 Nor on the hill where glory safe abides, 
 Do thy feet press, but on the silent path 
 Within the secret wood, that nature hath 
 Made for her children her green veihng through. 
 For those who fly, and those who would pursue. 
 Here, in this place where only those abide 
 Who creep in fear, or in their terror hide,
 
 i6 THE TROUBADOUR 
 
 Or pass soft-footed to some wanton play. 
 Or mid the leaves do wage a gory fray, 
 What doth thou, then, in this remote recess, 
 Who should be captor of sweet loveliness ? 
 Why let thy sighs all unrequited go, 
 Since gentle ears were vanquished by their woe ? 
 Where hides thy love, this most elusive she ? 
 Come, speak, poor bondsman to love's cruelty.' 
 
 Then Guillem spoke, and in his sore distress 
 Forgot all save his heart's lone barrenness. 
 ' As doth each bird, wise with the mating spring, 
 I well do love, and therefore must I sing. 
 As sighs the nightingale, with breast to thorn, 
 In the lone night for joys for e'er unborn. 
 Lest guilt should claim a hideous motherhood. 
 So I despair, since none can bring me good.' 
 
 Still Count Rossillon with his captive plays, 
 Fixed on his face a fierce suspicious gaze. 
 ' How now, pale scholar at love's school,' he cries. 
 ' But name thy fair, for thee I '11 win the prize.' 
 Half from its sheath his dagger sharp he drew. 
 When white and wan the cheek of Guillem grew. 
 ' Oh, list, my lord,' the youth all falt'ring said, 
 ' To my despair, and then in pity shed 
 My poor heart's blood, lest it in grief expire 
 For ill-advised love and fond desire. 
 Look kindly, then, O gentle lord, on one
 
 THE TROUBADOUR 17 
 
 Who hath grown bhnd in worshipping the sun. 
 And in his darkness, groping on his way. 
 Lost his sure path, and for a while did stray.' 
 
 Then Guillem paused, for in Rossillon's eyes 
 • He saw the crimson flame of murder rise. 
 And was afraid, in sooth, to tell his tale. 
 No true repentance here would aught avail. 
 But bitter jealousy with poisoned dart 
 Would pierce his own and Margarida's heart. 
 Therefore he stayed the valour of his tongue, 
 And from his lips in honied accents sung 
 A tale of love that was but half his own. 
 Of some sweet lady who had made him moan. 
 
 * When God created Eden, He inclined 
 To wish some fairer thought for Heav'n designed. 
 Than beast, or bird, or flower, or branching tree, 
 To hold the soul that He desired to be. 
 So God made man, and with him not content. 
 To mould some fairer image o'er him bent. 
 He took the red of rose, the lily's white, 
 The beech-nut's brown, and the soft blue of night. 
 And all the perfumed breath of paradise, 
 To make a creature fair to meet His eyes. 
 And so came woman, who, for her disgrace 
 Fell from the glory of that sacred place. 
 Yet oft, though forth this woman went accurst, 
 A mould is made as lovely as the first 
 
 c
 
 i8 THE TROUBADOUR 
 
 That in God's garden to perfection came. 
 And one sweet shape hath Margarida's name, 
 And Agnes one, her sister passing fair ; 
 Her do I love, and, with a lover's fear. 
 Fly from her side, when fain I would be near.' 
 
 ' If this be true,' the fierce Rossillon said, 
 ' That this shy maid doth shun the marriage-bed, 
 I '11 speak her fair ; for to thee be the blame, 
 'Tis the bold hunter spears the swiftest game. 
 Out on thee, fool, who, pleading for a kiss, 
 Would urge the modest maid request the bliss, 
 And thus offend her for her virtue's sake — 
 Less than she longed to give he feared to take. 
 Then, Guillem, rise, and lift thy pallid cheek 
 From dew-wet grass some sweeter rest to seek 
 On thy love's breast. Come, lest in fond desire 
 She die at home, as thou wouldst here expire.' 
 
 Loud in the woods Rossillon's laughter rung, 
 And echoed long the purple shades among. 
 But Guillem went beside him, wan with fear 
 And hopes, all fugitive as he drew near 
 The castle where sweet Agnes now did dwell. 
 Loud at their feet the clanging drawbridge fell 
 As they passed through, and up the winding stair. 
 Lone in her chamber found young Agnes there, 
 With two white doves she played, and bid them fly 
 From her soft shoulder as came Guillem nigh,
 
 THE TROUBADOUR 19 
 
 And fierce Rossillon laughing in his beard. 
 Then drew she back of this strange pair afeard. 
 
 ' And hast thou brought some evil tidings here, 
 O Count Rossillon, of my sister dear ? 
 Red is thy cheek, as Guillem's is too white. 
 Speak, else my heart must perish of its fright.' 
 ' Nay,' laughed Rossillon, ' 'tis not grief who flies 
 To greet thee now, but love himself who cries 
 " Sweet, give me peace and respite after pain, 
 Say dost thou love, or must I pine in vain ? " 
 This hapless lover did I find astray ; 
 In the lone woods he sang his roundelay. 
 Then the dark earth embraced, and left his tear 
 On the brown leaves and grasses long and sear. 
 Him did I lead from out that shady place. 
 And bade him seek the sunshine of thy face. 
 So am I red and somewhat scant of breath, 
 Lest this poor youth should die a hapless death. 
 See thou his palhd cheek, his sunken eyes. 
 Say that thou lovest not, and say he dies.' 
 
 Then looked fair Agnes proudly and all pale 
 
 In dire offence to hear this tatler's tale. 
 
 And saw poor Guillem's bent and humbled head, 
 
 His piteous eyes, and there his story read ; 
 
 And for her sister's sake, and for his pain. 
 
 Vowed that she loved — if he did love again. 
 
 She laid her slender fingers, soft and white. 
 
 On Guillem's hands, still clenched in their affright.
 
 20 THE TROUBADOUR 
 
 And he, poor youth, did hold them to his heart, 
 And kiss them oft with all a lover's art. 
 So Count Rossillon, watching from his place, 
 Saw but love's message writ on each young face. 
 Soon with content he sprang upon his steed, 
 And home did hie, from his suspicions freed. 
 
 When fair that night the banquet-hall was spread 
 
 For many an honoured guest, Rossillon said, 
 
 ' Now when the wine doth make our hearts on fire, 
 
 I '11 tell a tale of love and young desire.' 
 
 He, nothing loth, responded to their cries, 
 
 All in a piteous voice with lovers' sighs 
 
 Told how lamenting lone young Guillem stood 
 
 And cried his sorrows to the list'ning wood. 
 
 ' In faith,' quoth he, ' I thought that some foul 
 
 snare 
 Tore at the vitals of a tortured hare. 
 Or that some bird, sore wounded, found its death, 
 And shrieked its anguish with half-human breath. 
 Quick did I urge my charger to his speed. 
 And saw poor Guillem weeping in his need. 
 " And is," said I, " thy love so far from here, 
 That such loud sorrow must assail her ear ? 
 Come, Guillem, leave the birds to their sweet rest, 
 And sooth this sorrow on thy lady's breast. " ' 
 
 Rossillon paused, and Margarida grew 
 
 White as the rose that peeped the window through.
 
 THE TROUBADOUR 21 
 
 Beneath the board she let her slim hands fall, 
 Lest their pale fear be visible to all, 
 And her quick fingers plucked in their distress 
 The gold embroidery of her silken dress. 
 But when Rossillon, merry with his tale, 
 Laughed, ' Soon I with young Guillem did prevail 
 To bring his woe to his dear lady's feet, 
 Where soon he knelt her pity to entreat. 
 His famished kisses did her small hand glove, 
 When I did go, and leave them to their love.' 
 More loud than all young Margarida laughed, 
 And to this love right willingly she quaffed, 
 But on her cheek scorn's passion-flower was born, 
 Flushed as the cloud that ushers in the morn. 
 And from each eye a crystal drop out-flows. 
 Clear as the dew that sparkles on the rose. 
 Was Guillem false, then were no lovers true. 
 And Cupid's favours but the bitter rue 
 That she would wear no longer in her heart. 
 Soon from the board she went and walked apart 
 To where young Guillem stood alone, forgot 
 By all save she, and wept, ' Thou lovest not.' 
 And Guillem cried, ' Why dost thou doubt this love 
 That holds thee dearer than the saints above. 
 Who for the sorrows of thy piteous youth 
 Had slain for thee his honour and his truth ? ' 
 Then Margarida, fearful of his frown, 
 Hid jealous eyes beneath long lashes brown, 
 And leaned towards him, in a little voice
 
 22 THE TROUBADOUR 
 
 Spoke soft to make his chidden heart rejoice. 
 * Then thou, my Guillem, thou shalt sing for me 
 What thou didst chant beneath the greenwood tree. 
 If that dear song were tuned for me alone, 
 Oh, let me make the melody my own. 
 Or, must I seek within that green recess, 
 Where all alone thou didst thy love confess. 
 From bud to blossom, and from leaf to bower. 
 Shake the wild bell of every forest flower, 
 To loose the captive echo of thy song ? 
 Since it is mine, it must to me belong.' 
 And then, half tearful and half full of glee, 
 Went Margarida, her last guests to see 
 Safe to their saddles, and to say God-speed, 
 As each gay gallant leaped upon his steed. 
 
 And as her guests went riding through the night, 
 They did discuss, with shameful appetite. 
 Young Margarida's eyes, her neck, her hair. 
 Vowed her too slender, or too lily fair. 
 One called her cold, and one with laughter said, 
 ' But rumour talks,' and then his jesting fled. 
 He muttered in his beard, and, scowling went. 
 Because the banquet did not him content. 
 And one, who, riding, followed hindermost. 
 Spoke words that smote the honour of his host. 
 Because the wine his taste did all displease. 
 Thus did they go, nor did their laughter cease, 
 When 'gan a nightingale in heart's delight
 
 THE TROUBADOUR 23 
 
 To praise the splendour of the summer night, 
 Nor when the moon unwound her golden horn 
 To hang above the cradle of the morn. 
 
 Fair Margarida soon her guests forgot, 
 
 In happy dreams she all remembered not 
 
 Save her heart's love, and, as she smihng slept, 
 
 Beside her bed two phantom visions crept, 
 
 Grey Time and Death, to count her faiUng hours. 
 
 But Margarida walked amidst the flowers 
 
 Of all her joys in sleep's enchanted land, 
 
 Nor knew that night would drive her from that 
 
 strand. 
 Where she would come no more, and yet she smiled, 
 Safe in her slumber as a little child. 
 
 Then from the wood, as nightingale ne'er sung, 
 
 A hymn of love upon the silence rung 
 
 Its silver circle of outspreading sound, 
 
 Till Margarida's dreaming ear it found. 
 
 'Twas Guillem, who, beneath some spreading tree. 
 
 Let all the rapture of his passion free. 
 
 To bid his lady's doubting heart rejoice. 
 
 He called the choir of his dulcet voice. 
 
 And let each note on its fond mission fly. 
 
 The tender treble, in a joyful cry 
 
 Beside her ear, did timidly repeat 
 
 He held his serfdom at his lady's feet.
 
 24 THE TROUBADOUR 
 
 But chiming bass did hold himself the king, 
 And bade her to his throne her favours bring. 
 While thus he sung, all in his youthful power. 
 Death told the moments of his passing hour. 
 
 Within the hall Rossillon idle cast 
 
 His belt aside, still smiling at the last 
 
 Guest's parting quip, and from the leather fell 
 
 A jewelled knife, that chimed like some sweet bell. 
 
 ' What wouldst thou speak ? then whisper unafraid ' — 
 
 And in his hand he raised the shining blade ; 
 
 ' And wouldst thou warn me of some secret foe. 
 
 Some runagate, whom thou wouldst fain lay low ? ' 
 
 Rossillon laughed, and ere his laughter died. 
 
 He heard young Guillem's song that soared and 
 
 sighed, 
 A song of love upon the balmy night. 
 And on Rossillon's cheek the red grew white, 
 And then he spoke no more, but up the stair 
 Crept soft, and Margarida, unaware 
 Of his fierce eyes, beside the casement bent 
 Her slender body in its good content. 
 Oft would she raise her little hands on high. 
 As though to hold the music passing by ; 
 Oft sighed to dream each note that soared so fair 
 Should blend, dissolve into the upper air. 
 
 So Margarida, wrapped in fond desire. 
 Saw not Rossillon's frown and eyes of fire.
 
 THE TROUBADOUR 25 
 
 Knew not that by her side stood Time and Death, 
 And Murder, panting with his poisoned breath. 
 And as Rossillon soft crept down the stair, 
 These three most awful shapes pursued him there, 
 Held to his hands, and whispered by his ear, 
 Till to young Guillem's side he drew anear. 
 And ere the startled youth could stay his song. 
 Plunged in his side his dagger keen and long. 
 Nor did he stay on this sad sight to gaze. 
 As one might look in pity and amaze. 
 Who had his jealous anger chidden dumb 
 To see so much young loveliness succumb. 
 
 Long on her bed did Margarida toss, 
 
 Bereft of joy, for that sweet song, whose loss 
 
 Did come so swift, and in some sudden way 
 
 She wot not of. Full oft she leaned to pray. 
 
 And oft to weep. And when at dawn she went 
 
 To walk beside the tower's high battlements 
 
 She heard a step upon the winding stair. 
 
 And ' Guillem ' cried, and then Rossillon came, 
 
 And on her brow he saw the flush of shame. 
 
 ' O sweet,' he said, ' thou art so pale and white. 
 
 Didst thou not rest through all the weary night ? 
 
 It was in truth made noisy by some bard, 
 
 Who for his lady fair had such regard 
 
 That he could nought but trill, and troll, and sigh. 
 
 Till dawn crept all reluctant to the sky.' 
 
 Then Margarida raised her shame-bowed head, 
 
 D
 
 26 THE TROUBADOUR 
 
 ' I heard a little song,' she trembling said ; 
 
 ' But oh, it did not stay me from my sleep.' 
 
 — She turned aside lest he should see her weep. 
 
 ' My Margarida doth pretend but ill. 
 
 Who would deceive, must he with right good-will. 
 
 Thy paling cheek, thy dim and distant gaze. 
 
 Doth fill my heart with pity and amaze. 
 
 So I have vowed that here shall rest thee, sweet, 
 
 With all the world, as should be, at thy feet. 
 
 And here I, too, all kindly for thy sake, 
 
 Have made a dish of which thou must partake.' 
 
 He struck his hands, and from a secret door 
 
 A page came forth, and in his arms he bore 
 
 A covered dish, that Count Rossillon set 
 
 By Margarida on the parapet. 
 
 ' What meat is this ? ' Soft Margarida laid 
 
 Her hand upon the boy, for, all afraid, 
 
 She feared to stay so lone on that high place 
 
 With fierce Rossillon. Then the youth's white 
 
 face 
 And shaking hands did make her cry aloud 
 In her swift terror. Low the pale youth bowed 
 And ran to hiding in some secret spot. 
 And Margarida knew he 'd aid her not. 
 And then she stood to meet Rossillon 's eyes, 
 Fierce in their hate beneath their feigned surprise 
 At her strange fears, since he but bade her eat. 
 * What dost thou ail, my Margarida sweet ?
 
 THE TROUBADOUR 27 
 
 Come, try this dish I did myself prepare 
 For thy dear fancy. Pray you, think it fair.' 
 
 Thrice Margarida's hand did hover white, 
 Like some shy moth all fearing to alight, 
 Above the dish, and then drew back afraid. 
 Thrice did she sigh her Guillem to upbraid. 
 Who left her so in fear and lone disgrace 
 To brave the frenzy on Rossillon's face. 
 ' Wilt thou forgive ? ' she did repentant cry, 
 ' Since from this poisoned dish I sure must die.' 
 ' Nay, Margarida, thou dost all mistake,' 
 Rossillon said. ' If this thou dost partake, 
 Thou sure wilt find it of all dishes sweet. 
 Come, lest I weary, let me see thee eat.' 
 And from the dish the clanging cover flew 
 Beneath his hand. What horror came to view ! 
 The leaf-brown hair that hung in ringlets long. 
 Those paling lips still parted for their song, 
 Those eyes, so dim, that seemed on her to gaze. 
 Loud Margarida shrieked in her amaze. 
 
 ' Thou dost not like the dish. Why dost thou fear ? 
 I could have sworn no other thing so dear 
 As this to thee, which I did all prepare.' 
 Then Margarida, in her mad despair 
 Snatched to her breast her sin's most awful fee. 
 ' So well I love what thou hast tended me,
 
 28 THE TROUBADOUR 
 
 That I shall ask no more,' and then she sprung 
 From the rude battlement, and screaming flung 
 Her soul unshriven to its certain death. 
 And her young body, that with dying breath 
 Called still on him, whose sad immortal shade 
 She must not meet to comfort or to aid. 
 Since both did die without repentance sore. 
 So ends my tale of the fierce days of yore. 
 
 Then did the aged minstrel cease to play 
 On his bright harp, but let his fingers stray 
 Soft on the strings that murmured 'neath his hand 
 In some low whisper he did understand. 
 
 At Christmas in the Baron's hall. 
 
 The guests no longer held in thrall 
 
 By the old harper's tragic lay. 
 
 Laughed, ' Love is young, and he must stray ; 
 
 Let him not lead, but thou command 
 
 And take the truant by the hand.' 
 
 Then did each gallant bold advance 
 
 To lead his lady to the dance, 
 
 And soon in stately minuet 
 
 They did the piteous tale forget. 
 
 But lone the Baron sat and sighed, 
 Still by the hearth, all deep and wide. 
 Watched where his lady weeping pressed 
 Against the window facing west.
 
 THE TROUBADOUR 29 
 
 And then upon his hand he laid 
 His bent grey head, as though afraid 
 Again to see her wistful eyes, 
 And her fair youth, and hear her sighs. 
 
 And as he sat there sudden came 
 A whispered voice that called his name. 
 All slow there crept beside his chair, 
 His weeping lad}^ kneeling there.
 
 THE LITTLE WHITE RABBIT 
 
 * May I go to the field,' said the httle white rabbit, 
 * Where the corn grows sweet and high ? ' 
 
 ' Is there aught on the stile,' said the old, old mother, 
 ' Or what do I there espy ? ' 
 
 ' 'Tis a shepherd's lad, but he dreams in his place. 
 
 And he will not rise to slay.' 
 ' Oh, do not trust to an idle hand, 
 
 So stay, my little one, stay.' 
 
 ' There comes one now,' said the little white rabbit, 
 ' Through the corn so sweet and high.' 
 
 ' And so there are two,' laughed the old, old mother, 
 ' And you dare not pass them by.' 
 
 ' 'Tis a farmer's lass, and she sings as she comes, 
 
 And she smiles upon her way.' 
 ' Is she young, is she fair, as she lilts her song ? 
 
 Now say, my pretty one, say.' 
 
 ' She is gold as the field,' said the little white rabbit, 
 
 ' Where the sun all day doth lie ; 
 She is fair as the snow is, my old, old mother. 
 
 And grey as the mist her eye.' 
 
 30
 
 THE LITTLE WHITE RABBIT 31 
 
 ' If the lass be fair, as you say that she be, 
 With her hair like the setting sun — 
 
 Oh, he never will wait to look on you, 
 So run, my little one, run.'
 
 THE TWO NESTS 
 
 The wise thrush, the wise thrush, she choseth well her 
 
 tree. 
 Made her nest in the laurel's leafy shade. 
 But the foolish young girl, all laughing in her glee. 
 She built on a reed that all winds swayed. 
 She built on a reed that swung and swayed. 
 
 The wise thrush, the wise thrush, she crouched on her 
 
 nest, 
 When the hawk in the clouds hunted nigh. 
 But the foolish young maid did sing in soft request 
 He pass not unpraised her nestlings by. 
 Her gentle hopes and pretty dreaming by. 
 
 The wise thrush, the wise thrush, she Hngered and she 
 
 spied 
 A safe flight her fledgelings to gain, 
 But the foolish young girl, all careless in her pride, 
 Found her pretty ones were scattered and were slain, 
 In her ravished heart her pretty ones were slain. 
 
 32
 
 THE TWO NESTS 33 
 
 The wise thrush, the wise thrush, she drowsed at her 
 
 ease 
 
 While her nesthngs did pipe on the tree. 
 
 But the foohsh young maid could not her grief appease, 
 
 For her dying hopes were pitiful to see, 
 
 Oh, pitiful her perished dreams to see. 
 
 E
 
 THE THREE TREES 
 
 The oak is a brave tree that groweth in the wood — 
 The oak, and the pine, and the aspen tree — 
 Strong his mighty timbers, that have the years with- 
 stood. 
 Safe he carries the sailor on the sea. 
 Through the storm and through the stress of the sea. 
 
 The pine in his armour groweth straight and tall, 
 As he fights in the grapple of the gale. 
 In his strength all gentle he bends, but will not fall, 
 High he lifts for the ship her flowing sail, 
 Strong he holds the fierce plunging of the sail. 
 
 But the aspen, the aspen that groweth in the wood. 
 He quivers and he trembles in the shade. 
 For mem'ry of a voice that saith the holy rood 
 From the thick of his bough was formed and made. 
 From his timber the cruel cross was made. 
 
 Oh, I would I were the oak that groweth in his pride — 
 
 The oak, and the pine, and the aspen tree, 
 
 Shading merry children beneath his branches wide ; 
 
 Here the outcast is comforted and free, 
 
 The weary sleep from all their bondage free. 
 
 34
 
 THE THREE TREES 35 
 
 Oh, I would I were the pine that groweth straight and 
 
 tall, 
 He is strong in the grapple of the gale. 
 Gentle in his strength, he will not bend nor fall. 
 As he holds to the wind the flowing sail. 
 How glad the eyes that watch the coming sail ! 
 
 But I am as the aspen that groweth in the wood, 
 And shivers and trembles in the shade. 
 For mem'ry of a voice that saith the holy rood 
 By such as you was fashioned and was made. 
 By such as ye the cruel cross was made.
 
 IN THE CARLYLE HOUSE, CHELSEA 
 
 Up the steep stair they clatter to each room, 
 In whispered merriment they pierce the gloom 
 Of Time's sweet mercy, who with his grey sheet 
 Did seek in vain to stay their restless feet. 
 Their peeping eyes and prying fingers' thrust 
 Disturb Death's shroud and wanton in the dust. 
 
 Here, swift as hawks that scenting from on high 
 Some quiv'ring morsel leave the smiling sky. 
 They pounce on these old letters 'neath the glass, 
 Swooping to look, they linger loth to pass ; 
 From this sad reading rise to arbitrate 
 The secret of domestic love or hate • 
 And with some heat discuss when they surprise 
 Some tender message meant for other eyes. 
 
 Grey beard, young cheek, they linger long to look. 
 His pipe ! his bed ! his pencil ! or his book ! 
 Her picture ! purse ! with laughter some one sees 
 The Uttle basket for her household keys. 
 Those keys, which should that mistress hand arise 
 Would shut this sanctum from these prjdng eyes. 
 And double-lock the secret of this hearth 
 From hyperbohc cant and noxious mirth. 
 
 36
 
 IN THE CARLYLE HOUSE, CHELSEA 37 
 
 And I, who passed in pleased experiment 
 To leave no nook unsought, but eager went 
 In this ghost-haunted house without a fear. 
 Pricked every shadow lest it hide a tear. 
 Laughed in that room built by a builder's skill 
 To circle silence. Let my pulses thrill 
 To know ' here did he stand where my foot falls 
 And spoke to that great world shut from these walls.' 
 
 And I, who went all eager as the rest, 
 Joined in their curious prying or their jest, 
 Grew soon aweary — or perhaps ashamed — 
 Leaned to the window — found a picture framed 
 So sweet, so sudden ! that my pulses knew 
 How sad the haunted place I had come through. 
 
 So quick they leaped to meet this gentle sight, 
 A httle maid with tresses plaited bright 
 Within a neighbour's garden planting seeds : 
 Intent, demure, she pulled the unsightly weeds, 
 With fond maternal air a place she found 
 And laid her precious bulbs within the ground. 
 And this the picture that within my heart 
 I do encourage most to hold a part 
 In all that 's treasured of remembered ways 
 Which memory brings in solitary days. 
 
 Nor shall I dream of this old house, nor go 
 In through its silent shadows to and fro 
 
 jf^ 1 2r)
 
 38 IN THE CARLYLE HOUSE, CHELSEA 
 
 To praise the genius that once sheltered here. 
 Or for love's disillusion drop a tear. 
 Nor ponder by the letters 'neath the glass, 
 But to the open casement quick shall pass. 
 
 There from the house of what has been to gaze 
 On Spring, on love, on youth, on hope, who plays 
 Within the neighbour's garden sowing seeds. 
 Intent, demure, she pulled the unsightly weeds. 
 And with a quaint maternal air she found 
 Place for her golden bulbs within the ground.
 
 THE ROBIN 
 
 All day and every day. 
 Upon a hawthorn spray, 
 
 Early and late, 
 A redbreast robin sings, 
 And flirts his nut-brown wings, 
 
 Beside my gate. 
 
 A hawk hangs in the sky, 
 A weasel low doth spy 
 
 From out the grass, 
 This bird that had no care 
 Pipes sweet his happy prayer 
 
 To all who pass. 
 
 All night and every night, 
 He, hidden from our sight. 
 
 Awaits the morn ; 
 The seeking owl swoops low. 
 The evil rat doth go 
 
 Beneath the thorn. 
 
 But redbreast robin sings. 
 Flirting his nut-brown wings, 
 When dawn is here. 
 
 39
 
 40 
 
 THE ROBIN 
 
 Upon a hawthorn spray 
 He sings of hoHday, 
 And hath no fear. 
 
 All day and every day 
 I seek his prayer to say 
 
 And understand, 
 Because the hawk that flies, 
 The stoat who hides and spies. 
 
 Leave me unmanned. 
 
 And in the dark of night 
 The owl in silent flight 
 
 Will swoop and dart, 
 The evil rat doth creep 
 When comes reluctant sleep, 
 
 To tear my heart. 
 
 But redbreast robin sings, 
 And shakes his dew-wet wings, 
 
 Nor sighs, ' Alas.' 
 This bird that had no care 
 Pipes forth his happy prayer 
 
 To all who pass.
 
 UNREST IN AUTUMN 
 
 Beside my window sighs the last lone rose, 
 
 Saying, ' Alas ! farewell ! Youth 's all but dead.' 
 
 Like some sweet spirit waiting for the close, 
 Her perfume hovers round her drooping head. 
 
 There sings a bird the yellow leaves among, 
 Saying, ' Good-bye ! The world is fair to roam. 
 
 Here Winter comes ; the last glad song is sung. 
 Art thou content to linger still at home ? ' 
 
 Beside my chair one came in hot unrest. 
 
 Crying, ' Farewell ! The waters call for me, 
 
 Out on the waves— thou knowest no life so blest,' 
 — And I was born beside a troubled sea. 
 
 One came to sigh, and whisper of the heights. 
 Saying ' Good-bye ! For in my heart there trills 
 
 A hunter's joys, to thee unknown delights,' 
 — And I did play upon the purple hills. 
 
 Blown to my window see the white rose break, 
 And falling cry, ' Too late, my hours are told.' 
 
 Still trills the bird, ' How wide the world to seek.' 
 Ah, God ! Ah, God ! And I am growing old.
 
 TO A SLEEPING MAID 
 
 Oh ! do not rudely wake her, nor reproach 
 Those pulsing limbs for this hostility 
 To timid life, that cast in death-hke way 
 What he had moulded for his ecstasy. 
 
 Nay ! rather pity one so keen to leave 
 
 For swift oblivion that alluring world, 
 
 Whose morning sun doth seek with gentle breath 
 
 To lift the lashes on her soft cheek curled. 
 
 Sleep ! enemy of life, and jealous foe 
 
 Of this earth's joys, now holds her to his kiss. 
 
 Then let her lie ; hers is a goodly choice 
 
 That finds in dreams a world more fair than this. 
 
 42
 
 THE AWAKENING 
 
 Once she woke to fairyland, 
 Now she wakes to grief. 
 
 All the golden days are gone. 
 Lost by time — the thief. 
 
 Once she sprang to meet the dawn, 
 
 Now so loth to rise ; 
 She to greet the coming day 
 
 Opens heavy eyes. 
 
 Singing bird and budding trees. 
 Bloom of rose unfurled. 
 
 All her hopes are far from these. 
 In the under-world. 
 
 What for her the upper-earth ? 
 
 Lone she wanders here. 
 Silent in the underground 
 
 They who held her dear ; 
 
 In the happy night they rise. 
 
 Each beloved face ; 
 Phantoms circling by her couch 
 
 Hold her in embrace. 
 
 43
 
 44 THE AWAKENING 
 
 See ! she springs to meet the day, 
 Up with eager breath, 
 
 Then remembering, prays for sleep, 
 Sleep so like to death.
 
 THE GYPSIES' ROAD 
 
 I SHALL go on the gypsies' road, 
 
 The road that has no ending ; 
 For the sedge is brown on the lone lake side, 
 
 The wild geese eastward tending. 
 
 I shall go as the unfettered wave, 
 From shore to shore, forgetting 
 
 The grief that lies 'neath a roof-tree's shade. 
 The years that bring regretting. 
 
 No law shall dare my wandering stay. 
 
 No man my acres measure ; 
 The world was made for the gypsies' feet, 
 
 The winding road for pleasure. 
 
 And I shall drift as the pale leaf strayed. 
 
 Whither the wild wind listed, 
 I shall sleep in the dark of the hedge, 
 
 'Neath rose and thorn entwisted. 
 
 This was a call in the heart of the night, 
 A whispering dream's dear treasure. 
 
 ' The world was made for the nomads' feet. 
 The winding road for pleasure.' 
 
 45
 
 46 THE GYPSIES' ROAD 
 
 I stole at dawn from my roof-tree's shade. 
 And the cares that it did cover ; 
 
 I flew to the heart of the fierce north wind, 
 As a maid will greet her lover. 
 
 But a thousand hands did draw me back 
 And bid me to their tending ; 
 
 I may not go on the gypsies' road — 
 The road that has no ending.
 
 THE CALLING MOTHERLAND 
 
 On the lone height of some untrodden hill 
 
 The shadowy mother goes. 
 Calling, calling ; 
 Grief hath her eyes, her cheek is wan and chill 
 
 As winter snows 
 On the far height of some untrodden hill. 
 
 The four strong winds take up her voice and fly 
 
 The circling world around, 
 Calling, calling ; 
 The northern gale goes forth with sudden cry — 
 
 Tempestuous sound ; 
 The four strong winds take up her voice and fly. 
 
 Where the wan wave leaps lone beneath the moon 
 
 The west wet winds will roam. 
 Calling, calling ; 
 Where southern breezes stir some far lagoon 
 
 The ships sail home. 
 Where the wan wave leaps lone beneath the moon. 
 
 Through the grey clouding of the silent night 
 Her wandering children rise. 
 Calling, calling ; 
 
 47
 
 48 THE CALLING MOTHERLAND 
 
 Homeward they turn like birds of weary flight, 
 
 With longing eyes. 
 Through the grey clouding of the silent night. 
 
 I see them come on slow and wounded wing. 
 
 Where snows unmelting lie. 
 Calling, calling ; 
 From the far south, where lives no ending spring. 
 
 Nor summers die, 
 I see them come on slow and wounded wing. 
 
 From the far heights upon the gypsies' road 
 
 They hear her distant voice. 
 Calling, caUing ; 
 Where the grey camel groans beneath his load 
 
 They hear, rejoice, 
 From the far heights upon the gypsies' road. 
 
 Once they went forth all full of hope and joy, 
 
 They would not heed her cry, 
 Calling, calling. 
 Their glad young hearts Time met to soon destroy ■ 
 
 They come to die ; 
 Once they went forth all full of hope and joy. 
 
 She draws them home, and holds them to her heart, 
 
 Like children put to sleep ; 
 Calling, calling, 
 On those far others who are still apart. 
 
 Who wandering weep ; 
 She draws them home, and holds them to her heart.
 
 THE CALLING MOTHERLAND 49 
 
 She lays them down in their deep beds to rest, 
 
 With coverlet of green, 
 Calling, calhng. 
 Do they not join in her enduring quest, 
 
 Her piteous keen, 
 Who lie so still in their cold graves to rest ? 
 
 Across the world her voice comes crying still. 
 
 One exile's heart to break. 
 Calling, calling. 
 Ah ! calling, too, from out their graves so chill. 
 
 The lone dead speak. 
 Across the world dear voices calling still.
 
 THE ROAD TO CABINTEELY 
 
 Oh, the lonely road, the road to Cabinteely ! 
 
 'Tis there I see a little ghost, and gaily singeth she. 
 She plucks the swaying cowslip, nor stays for all my 
 calling, 
 But flies at my pursuing, who once did run to me. 
 She once did run to me. 
 
 I follow, ever eager, the dancing shade elusive. 
 
 The phantom feet that leave me so lone and far 
 behind. 
 Then comes her merry laughter, hke elfin music chiming, 
 She cares not for my sorrow, she once to grief so 
 kind. 
 
 She was to tears so kind. 
 
 Her kiss falls swift and tender on breaking bud and 
 blossom, 
 Her flitting fingers touch them, fair as white butter- 
 flies, 
 Her slender arm enfolds them with soft and sweet em- 
 braces. 
 Remembered shy caresses she now to me denies. 
 She all to me denies. 
 50
 
 THE ROAD TO CABINTEELY 51 
 
 On the haunted road, the road to Cabinteely, 
 
 'Tis there a little dancing ghost her merry way doth 
 take. 
 She sings no song of sorrow, nor knows no pain of 
 weeping. 
 I would not wish her home again, though my lone 
 heart should break, 
 
 Though my poor heart should break.
 
 THE GOLDEN APPLE 
 
 She saw on the far bank a golden apple. 
 
 A glowing apple, poor little Eve, 
 Between ran the river so darkly dapple, 
 
 By sunshine land she was loth to leave. 
 
 She looked, and she longed, till the fruit forbidden 
 Became the quest of her heart's desire, 
 
 So she sought at last for the knowledge hidden 
 Within the red of its secret fire. 
 
 Then he came, her love, to the bank forsaken. 
 Called her thrice, by the river of fear, 
 
 ' Since you for my v^ash from the branch have taken 
 The fruit forbidden, I hold you dear.' 
 
 And he cried, ' Come back from the fatal water. 
 
 I '11 give you a robe of silver sheen.' 
 But she smiled full wan as he vain besought her. 
 
 The twisting river ran cold between. 
 
 ' I will give you a ring for your hand so slender, 
 So tears no longer your shame shall be.' 
 
 Now her weak voice came to him low and tender, 
 ' Be kind to all maids for thought of me.' 
 
 52
 
 THE GOLDEN APPLE 53 
 
 All quick to his feet came a dark wave throwing 
 
 The apple red with its secret fire, 
 That held deep hid in its gold heart glowing 
 
 The fruit of evil and good desire. 
 
 Then he held it safe from the chill tide's pleasure, 
 And he drew it close in his arm full fair. 
 
 A smiling babe was his lost love's treasure, 
 With gloss of gold on his ruddy hair.
 
 TO A WOUNDED BIRD 
 
 Thou shalt feel no more the wind on thy wing, 
 Nor float on the breath of the breeze ; 
 Thou shalt drowse no more on the blossoming branch 
 'Neath the lullaby song of the trees. 
 
 Thou shalt seek no more in the green of the year 
 Thy love and thy heart's desire ; 
 Thou shalt mate no more in the scent of the thorn, 
 Nor nest in the dark of the brier. 
 
 Thou hast fought thy last in the joy of the storm, 
 The clouds shall not hide thee again. 
 What is left thee now but to creep in the grass 
 Thy maimed wings uplifting in vain. 
 
 Thou art done with love, and from hope out-throN\Ti, 
 Yet I succour thy Ufe's brief hour. 
 For it may be that He Who has marked thy fall 
 Shall deal with me so in His power. 
 
 For I, too, have fought in the joy of the storm 
 With a strong and a passionate wing, 
 I have flown star high in the clear of the night 
 And loved in the green of the spring. 
 
 54
 
 TO A WOUNDED BIRD 55 
 
 I shall rise no more from the cold of the ground, 
 Where I creep with a wounded breast, 
 Yet it may be that He Who has marked thy fall 
 Shall hold me as dear as the rest.
 
 AN EPITAPH 
 
 Here a gentle poet lies, 
 
 Hurt to death by stinging flies. 
 
 Hush thy laughter, whisper low. 
 
 He hath more joy in the swift flight 
 Of some shy star that flew the night, 
 Than all thy laughter e'er could know. 
 
 If thou hadst tears to welcome grief, 
 The sharpest arrows in her sheaf 
 Found in his pitying breast their home. 
 
 He knew the swift bee's wandering way. 
 The music of its roundelay. 
 Its city sweet of honeycomb. 
 
 The httle leaves' soft melody, 
 That whisper on the secret tree, 
 Gave to his song its mystic tune. 
 
 His path was on the gypsies' road. 
 On the high hills he held abode. 
 His lamp the shimmering moon. 
 S6
 
 AN EPITAPH 57 
 
 Down to the valley did he spring, 
 To share the treasures he did bring 
 Within the casket of his heart. 
 
 A glimpse was here of heaven's blue. 
 Tears for thy grief and laughter too. 
 To all he fain would give a part. 
 
 So when they saw a bird or flower, 
 They too would know the poet's hour. 
 And from their lips his song would flow. 
 
 But in the vale the stinging flies 
 Hurt him to death. Now cold he Ues ! 
 Hush thy laughter, whisper low.
 
 SPRING COMES ! 
 
 The little birds, they do not heed nor care. 
 The ungracious wind, the branches sear and bare, 
 The sleety burden of the jaundiced skies 
 Bring them no mourning, for the birds are wise. 
 
 Though from their beak the stolen feather falls. 
 Snatched where a rude and wintry blast appals, 
 Outside my window, near the frosted pane, 
 The sparrow builds his scattered nest again. 
 
 The blackbird tunes storm-swung, on leafless tree 
 The thrush chants forth his matchless melody, 
 And from the ground, where famished grasses lie, 
 The lark springs singing to the threat'ning sky. 
 
 What faith is this that bade them understand 
 The winter slain in winter-stricken land ! 
 What hope is here that carols forth in praise 
 The coming beauty of the summer days ! 
 
 And thou, within the storm, and most forlorn. 
 Whipped by the winds and by the tempest torn. 
 Hast thou no promise from the list'ning skies ? 
 The birds have heard it — and the birds are wise. 
 
 58
 
 THE PIPER ON THE HILLS 
 A child's song 
 
 There sits a piper on the hill 
 
 Who pipes the livelong day, 
 And when he pipes both loud and shrill, 
 
 The frightened people say : 
 ' The wind, the wind is blowing up, 
 
 'Tis rising to a gale.' 
 The women hurry to the shore 
 
 To watch some distant sail. 
 The wind, the wind, the ivind, the wind, 
 
 Is blowing to a gale. 
 
 But when he pipes all sweet and low. 
 
 The piper on the hill, 
 I hear the merry women go 
 
 With laughter, loud and shrill : 
 ' The wind, the wind is coming south, 
 
 'Twill blow a gentle day.' 
 They gather on the meadow-land. 
 
 To toss the yeUow hay. 
 The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind, 
 
 Is blowing south to-day. 
 
 59
 
 6o THE PIPER ON THE HILLS 
 
 And in the morn, when winter comes, 
 
 To keep the piper warm, 
 The Httle Angels shake their wings 
 
 To make a feather storm : 
 ' The snow, the snow has come at last ! ' 
 
 The happy children call, 
 And ' ring around ' they dance in glee, 
 
 And watch the snowflakes fall. 
 The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind. 
 
 Has spread a snowy pall. 
 
 But when at night the piper plays, 
 
 I have not any fear, 
 Because God's windows open wide 
 
 The pretty tune to hear ; 
 And when each crowding spirit looks, 
 
 From its star window-pane, 
 A watching mother may behold 
 
 Her httle child again. 
 The wind, the wind, the wind, the witid. 
 May blow her home again.
 
 THE CARELESS LAD 
 
 The careless lad went through the wood, 
 
 Leaped the retarding gate, 
 And whistled thrice unto his dog, 
 
 Who strayed behind so late. 
 
 And then he turned him to the north. 
 
 To find the trodden way. 
 And there he saw a pretty child 
 
 Who on his path did play. 
 
 ' Come hither now, my little maid, 
 
 Come hither now to me, 
 And tell me of a fair young girl 
 
 Called Mary Margarie.' 
 
 ' Oh, would you seek poor Margarie,' 
 
 The Uttle maid repUed. 
 She took him by the strong right hand. 
 
 And hurried by his side. 
 
 The careless lad he turned him east. 
 And then he turned him west. 
 
 Until he passed a withered crone. 
 Who beat upon her breast. 
 
 6i
 
 62 THE CARELESS LAD 
 
 ' Why do you weep, you ancient one. 
 Why do you weep and sigh ? ' 
 
 ' 'Tis for poor maiden Margarie, 
 Who now is like to die.' 
 
 The careless lad sang up the hill, 
 And then he whistled down. 
 
 And there he passed a laden man 
 Who hurried from the town. 
 
 ' Where do you take so great a load. 
 That makes you groan in pain ? ' 
 
 ' A gift for poor maid Margarie, 
 To make her smile again.' 
 
 The careless lad went through the mead 
 With laughter loud and sweet. 
 
 And there he saw a shining stream 
 That trickled by his feet. 
 
 ' Now tell to me, my pretty child, 
 
 That at my side doth run, 
 What makes this little stream to go 
 
 Where never there was one ? ' 
 
 ' Maid Margarie doth lie all day. 
 She neither laughs nor cries. 
 
 Here flow her mother's tears,' she said, 
 ' That fall from her sad eyes.'
 
 THE CARELESS LAD 63 
 
 The careless lad he leaped the stream. 
 
 And danced across the mead, 
 And lone he left the pretty child, 
 
 Who could not dare his speed, 
 
 And when he reached the lonely cot, 
 
 Where Margarie did dwell, 
 He boldly pulled upon the latch. 
 
 And struck the white lintel. 
 
 And thrice his careless shoulder pushed 
 
 Upon the oaken door. 
 ' Now, what is this that holds so strong, 
 
 That never held before ? ' 
 
 ' Pale Mary Margarie doth lie 
 
 Beneath some fairy charm. 
 It is her father's heart that holds 
 
 To keep her safe from harm.' 
 
 The careless lad he laughed full long. 
 
 Full loud and long laughed he. 
 ' What pother is all this,' he said, 
 
 ' Where need no pother be.' 
 
 And then he turned him to the south. 
 
 And then he turned him east. 
 And thrice he whistled to his dog. 
 
 To chide the lagging beast.
 
 64 THE CARELESS LAD 
 
 And thrice he whistled to his dog, 
 
 And once to Margarie ; 
 Swift rose she from her snow-white bed, 
 
 Where all alone lay she. 
 
 She sprang from off her narrow couch, 
 
 All laughing in her glee, 
 And pushed upon the oaken door, 
 
 That swung to set her free. 
 
 The careless lad went through the wood. 
 And leaped the moss-grown gate. 
 
 And thrice he whistled to the thrush 
 Who sung beside his mate. 
 
 And thrice he whistled to his dog, 
 
 A laggard beast was he. 
 And once he whistled low and sweet 
 
 To Mary Margarie. 
 
 She stepped across the little stream 
 That through the mead did wind. 
 
 And followed close the careless lad. 
 Who never looked behind.
 
 THE WIND 
 
 Is it some shade from Paradise, 
 Shut down beneath the clouding skies, 
 This wandering voice that ever cries 
 In its pathetic sweetness ? 
 
 Some loving soul that, leaning far 
 To earth, where its lost treasures are, 
 Fell from the casement of its star 
 In meteoric fleetness. 
 
 Lost Heaven, perchance to kiss a curl 
 Tossed by some weeping boy or girl, 
 Whose hapless tears its heart did twirl, 
 'Mid Empyrean praying. 
 
 The rugged fir in Alpine blast 
 Holds, too, the magic music fast. 
 And mystic shadows round me cast 
 In its majestic swaying. 
 
 Is it some sylvan sprite who strays 
 And seeks for lost Arcadian days, 
 Who, 'midst the moving branches plays 
 His pipe's dolorous measure ? 
 I
 
 66 THE WIND 
 
 Or some lone Ariel, still unbound, 
 Who fills the tossing woods with sound. 
 Forgotten on the Upper Ground, 
 For necromantic pleasure ? 
 
 I hear the whispering music played 
 Within the laurels' glossy shade ; 
 Is it some Daphne, still afraid, 
 In arborescent hiding ? 
 
 And, too, the sea's continued roar 
 FHngs soft the magic sound ashore, 
 Where breaks the wave in passion sore. 
 And serpentinial gliding. 
 
 Is it some Siren who hath pressed 
 A beating heart to her cold breast. 
 Who calls that lover, long at rest 
 In this tempestuous sighing ? 
 
 The seas that shake the yellow sand. 
 The waving trees, the sylvan land, 
 This vagrant voice well understand. 
 And whisper to its crying. 
 
 Oh ! wandering voice that brings unrest. 
 My human soul had half oppressed. 
 The pagan spirit in my breast. 
 
 That answered to thy fashion '
 
 THE WIND 67 
 
 What is thy message, could I seek 
 From thrall of this sad soul to break ? 
 And if this pagan heart could speak. 
 What answer to thy passion ?
 
 BY THE SEA 
 
 Last night a hand on my wdndow tapped, 
 
 A voice came out of the sea, 
 ' Awake, awake, thou dreamer, wake, 
 
 And open thy door to me ! ' 
 
 What music this that so long was still, 
 What hand that I thought was cold ? 
 
 ' Come in, sweet ghost, from thy lonely bed. 
 For my longing arms to hold.' 
 
 I freed my door from the bolt and bar. 
 And the slow tears came to me. 
 
 For I heard no sound, save the tapping rain 
 And the moan of the rising sea. 
 
 68
 
 THE BREAKAGE 
 
 In the grey and dusty morn. 
 
 Dreaming Jane arose, 
 And from silent room to room 
 
 With her duster goes. 
 
 SHpping 'neath her sleepy hand 
 
 Falls a china cup, 
 Once a queen in ancient days 
 
 From its brim did sup. 
 
 Long it stood upon the shelf. 
 
 Rare and lovely thing, 
 What a little push did all 
 
 This destruction bring. 
 
 Tears nor sore repentance now 
 
 Can its charm replace, 
 Jane hides weeping by the door. 
 
 Lone in her disgrace. 
 
 To her feet a letter flies 
 From the broken cup. 
 
 Stained with many easy tears. 
 Swift she picks it up. 
 69
 
 70 THE BREAKAGE 
 
 ' Gone, forever, gone, forgive.' 
 Reads she, without care 
 
 For the wreckage that was here 
 With the china ware. 
 
 Sudden from the silent house 
 Comes a child's loud cry, 
 
 Fear and anger at his heart 
 Find no fond reply. 
 
 Now upon the creaking stair 
 A heavy foot doth fall, 
 
 And the waiting echoes lift 
 A hoarse and bitter call. 
 
 Wide-eyed Jane did take her broom 
 To brush the jneces up. 
 
 ' Now she '11 never know,' she said, 
 ' I broke the china cuj).'
 
 THE OLD PROFESSOR 
 
 See, there he goes, a-pulUng his long beard ; 
 With frowning brow, and far and absent gaze, 
 On his bowed head the dust of time's grey years, 
 And on his parchment cheek hfe's score of days. 
 
 He doth not hear the lark in worship swing 
 Up God's blue stairs the incense of his song ; 
 Nor sees the daffodil that hke a bell 
 On some tall spire sways in a faint ding-dong. 
 
 Who hath his heart enchanted ? Who his soul ? 
 Since by his side his mate forgotten goes. 
 She once so fair now chilled by autumn's breath. 
 And on her cheek the last pale summer rose. 
 
 Oh ! see, that wistful lamp within her eyes. 
 That beacon flame that once so bright did burn. 
 Now frail, now dim, yet faithful still it shines, 
 In hope some day the traveller shall return. 
 
 Beside him walks the one child of his home. 
 Half leaning to the world that calls her fair. 
 Half yielding to his arm. Her young shy eyes 
 Ask what hath love to offer for her share ? 
 
 71
 
 72 THE OLD PROFESSOR 
 
 He hath not seen this tender bud unfold 
 From baby beauty to this perfect bloom, 
 But ever went through all her lovely years 
 With absent eyes and brow of frowning gloom. 
 
 He had not paused through all her childish days 
 To fold that laughing spirit to his heart. 
 Who charmed him thus ? what witch or wizard held 
 Those living hours from all his world apart ? 
 
 See, there he goes a-pulling his long beard. 
 Poor, stricken thing, cursed by some fairy spell, 
 To shrink from love and laughter, bird and flower. 
 Within the shadowy past to brood and dwell 
 
 There like some moth to feed upon the shroud 
 Of fair Egyptian queen, or from the scroll 
 Of ancient writ to creep like some poor woi m. 
 He hath forgot he hath a human soul. 
 
 See, there he stays by yonder ruined church, 
 The sunshine of the spring on his grey head ; 
 How keen his gaze, how quick his eager smile ; 
 He finds his pleasures mid forgotten dead. 
 
 And there his mate, all patient by the wall, 
 Sees his rare joy, and smiling is content. 
 And there his child, with eyes in wonder raised. 
 Seeks the high lark in God's clear element.
 
 THE BARD OF BREFFNEY 
 
 Withered with years and broken by Time's play 
 I still do live, who only seek to lay 
 My harp aside and my white head to rest 
 On the safe shelter of the earth's soft breast. 
 There o'er me spread her coverlet of green, 
 And let me bide as though I ne'er had been. 
 I am the bard of Breffney, and I keep 
 A vigil still while all 1 loved doth sleep : 
 And sorrow cometh with the passing years. 
 Mifch have I sung of laughter, much of tears. 
 Hate have I seen, and anger, love, despair, 
 Now am I captive in the net of care. 
 
 Proud of my race, of Erin have I sung 
 
 With my sweet harp while yet my heart was young. 
 
 Oh, isle of Kings, how lowly did she come. 
 
 My song triumphant shook and trembled dumb. 
 
 Bride of the waters, she who knew no chain. 
 
 From her fair shores she drove the nomad Dane, 
 
 And Norsemen fierce who dared her power offend, 
 
 Then she, betrayed by one who was her friend. 
 
 Quaked 'neath the Norman foot, that down the years 
 
 Shall tread its way through useless blood and tears. 
 
 K
 
 74 THE BARD OF BREFFNEY 
 
 And when at last, of all her glories shorn. 
 She lies in chains a captive all forlorn, 
 She shall arise, and crying in her shame. 
 Curse that false son who bore MacMurrogh's name 
 As I do now who go toward the grave. 
 And have ray sad immortal soul to save. 
 Yea ! do I pray destruction swift and sure 
 On Dermot's race. He did with guile secure 
 The Saxon foe to come upon her shore ; 
 Whose iron grasp shall loose her never more. 
 And I shall curse a woman's wayward heart. 
 Who in some wanton hour did all depart 
 From virtue's way, and with MacMurrogh sped. 
 So in the winds her husband's honour shed. 
 As thou Dearbhorgil, who in thy disgrace 
 Hath shamed the glories of an ancient race. 
 
 O cursed da}' within the pregnant year, 
 
 When first this tale did so distress my ear. 
 
 And Red O'Ruark hath from his fasting come 
 
 From some far shrine. I stood to meet him, dumb 
 
 Within his hall, when crying on her name, 
 
 He held her not, and understood her shame. 
 
 White did he grow who still was faint with prayer. 
 
 And turned aside to hide his chill despair. 
 
 And when he went into the banquet spread 
 
 For his gay friends, slow was his heavy tread 
 
 As one who bears a burden to his place, 
 
 Yet to his guests he held a smiling face. 
 
 And when they saw Dcarbhorgil's empty chair,
 
 THE BARD OF BREFFNEY 75 
 
 Calling their eyes to note the absence there 
 Of her who should upon the feast have smiled, 
 With easy jest their humour they beguiled, 
 In guessing where she hid and why she stayed. 
 With their gay \nt they did O'Ruark upbraid, 
 ' She loves thee not to leave thee thus alone,' 
 Or ' To what cage has this sweet birdling flown ? ' 
 And I did glance, in pity at his need. 
 On his white face whose stillness so did plead 
 For their forbearance, but they, gay with wine. 
 Strove each in jest the other to outshine. 
 Then did O'Ruark find chorus for their tune 
 With oft a smile, but sorrow held him soon, 
 So he spoke not in her defence again. 
 But sat as one whose very heart were slain. 
 And through his teeth drew in the sighing 
 
 breath. 
 As some proud bull sore stricken to his death 
 Pants in the ring to fall and fight no more. 
 Yet still doth face the knife his vitals tore. 
 He sighed and leant his chin upon his breast 
 In silence 'neath the daggers of their jest. 
 Then down his cheek a great tear surely fell. 
 Wrung from despair, their merriment to quell, 
 CalUng to us have pity, and for shame. 
 This noble sorrow gave the greater blame. 
 And as he sat in silence each light laugh 
 Dropped into peace, and each wit-pointed shaft 
 Fell aimless, as an arrow slanting flies 
 To pierce some wretched beast that lifeless lies.
 
 76 THE BARD OF BREFFXEY 
 
 And so each hunter of immortal jest, 
 
 Stayed by this stillness, all shamed in his quest. 
 
 Fell half to anger for his humour chilled. 
 
 Till one arose, with all his laughter killed, 
 
 To gaze into the eyes of his sad chief, 
 
 And read that face so pale with wordless grief. 
 
 And his low cry drew all upon their feet 
 
 To learn the tragic tale he did repeat. 
 
 Dearbhorgil gone ! the jest was then too true. 
 
 Throughout the hall the horrid scandal flew. 
 
 And from the door sent forth her fateful cry, 
 
 So all did hear who passed the threshold by. 
 
 The maids, who ran swift-footed through the place, 
 
 In hurried uhispers spread the dark disgrace. 
 
 The aged cook, who slept beside the fire, 
 
 And woke to grumble at his work in ire. 
 
 Then fell to sleep again, till he did hear 
 
 This noisy tale that did awake his ear. 
 
 Then quick he rose to pass the story on 
 
 To wondering youths who hung his words upon. 
 
 And one, who fed the hounds, away did creep 
 
 To some far stable to lament and weep 
 
 Dearbhorgil gone. For he did love her well, 
 
 And feared for her who wove the wanton spell. 
 
 Did not O'Ruark guess at her faithless heart. 
 
 When to that shrine he praying did depart. 
 
 Or was it for her love he there did plead ? 
 
 For some still say that rumour long had freed 
 
 Her evil net to noose him in its snare
 
 THE BARD OF BREFFNEY ^^ 
 
 Of fierce suspicion and of jealous care. 
 
 If so it be, in silence he did shed 
 
 His bitter tears, for lone his brave heart bled. 
 
 As some great ox fly-driven meek doth go, 
 
 All powerless to assault his tiny foe, 
 
 Where hath a greater fallen 'neath his rage. 
 
 But when O'Ruark, upHfted from amaze, 
 
 Knew for his foe no woman's fickleness 
 
 But found a king, his state he did confess 
 
 And swore to vengeance, as did every man 
 
 Who faced him there. So swift the story ran 
 
 To Conor's Court, the king of all the land. 
 
 To join O'Ruark and have MacMurrogh banned. 
 
 And the red torch of war, that each man lit 
 
 From Red O'Ruark's hot vengeance, soon did flit 
 
 About the restless Isle, made prostitute 
 
 By Murrogh's shame. He flew at our pursuit 
 
 To call on Saxon aid, and did return 
 
 To light dissension's flame, that still doth burn. 
 
 Nor shall it die in ages still to come, 
 
 When my sad singing is for ever dumb. 
 
 Dumb as the traitor lips of Murrogh are. 
 
 And brave O'Ruark's who perished in red war. 
 
 And I, who fought beside him as he fell. 
 
 Raised my young arm the deathblow to repel. 
 
 Now in my chair sit angry with the years 
 
 That bring to my dim eyes the shame of tears. 
 
 That bind me helpless with the bonds of time. 
 
 Freeze my hot blood with winter's frosty rime.
 
 78 THE BARD OF BREFFNEY 
 
 And mem'ry, like a stone cast in a lake, 
 
 Doth by its wound a thousand circles wake 
 
 Of griefs all hope forgotten, and of days 
 
 I '11 live no more. For I in dim amaze 
 
 Find myself captive to Time's powerful net. 
 
 A prisoner I, who never vanquished yet 
 
 By nobler foe, else I myself had slain, 
 
 Here he a captive to a victor's chain. 
 
 This feeble arm, once ready in the fray, 
 
 I scarce can raise to brush the gnats away. 
 
 These feet so quick to reach the flying foe, 
 
 From couch to fire now hesitate to go. 
 
 And went my heart, unshaken through the tears 
 
 Of those my enemies enslaved by fears. 
 
 As clove my ship through stress of storm and rain. 
 
 This heart, that ne'er shall beat with youth again, 
 
 Calls out in weeping, ' Pity, I implore. 
 
 Let Time destroy as he cannot restore. ' 
 
 There at the gate the steeds champ for the race. 
 The great hounds yawn in waiting for the chase. 
 And my son's son, impatient to be free, 
 Walks by the creeping feet of age with me, 
 And twists his restless body 'neath my hand, 
 Eager to flee his grandsire's weak command. 
 And comes my son to say, ' Canst thou not rest ? 
 Thou art but feeble to endure this quest, 
 To see us speed in passing through the gate. 
 Lie in thy chair, my son on thee shall wait.'
 
 THE BARD OF BREFFNEY 79 
 
 And as he goes the easy tears of age 
 
 Flow down my cheek and end my useless rage. 
 
 For my soul, angry with the years, drops now 
 
 Her last poor weapon, and her neck doth bow 
 
 Beneath the heavy foot of Time ; and falls 
 
 A prey to this great victor who enthrals 
 
 Her cries to silence, so she doth but creep 
 
 To nod beside the fire content to sleep. 
 
 For I have been sore wasted in the fray. 
 
 And, fallen to dishonour and dismay, 
 
 Have given up the battle to my shame. 
 
 Old, I am old, nigh done with life's brief flame. 
 
 Son of my son, do thou my last request 
 
 So I may sleep untroubled in my rest. 
 
 Let free the captive hawks, the wolf release 
 
 From his caged comfort, that shall bring no peace 
 
 To his wild heart. 'Tis good to see them go 
 
 Through the sweet air, so they may never know 
 
 The grief of age, but die in some fierce fight 
 
 That makes e'en death a glory and dehght. 
 
 And run thee, child, fleet as thy foot can go, 
 
 Far from this feeble age that mocks thee so. 
 
 Crying, ' so shalt thou be who now art young, 
 
 Such was he once who sits the shades among.' 
 
 Here let me sleep the restless sleep of age. 
 
 Who would have slept more sound, where battle's rage 
 
 Sung in my dying ears its lullaby 
 
 Upon the field where brave O'Ruark did die.
 
 THE HERETIC IN THE TEMPLE 
 
 Lone did I go within the ancient place. 
 
 With hushed voice, and slow and reverent tread ; 
 
 While on the walls my wondering eyes in awe 
 Did learn the glories of the mighty dead. 
 
 The sculptured stones here pictured well the pride 
 Of their great king, his wars, his victories ; 
 
 There, with his club he smites a thousand foes, 
 Here, kneels to Ammon 'neath the sacred trees. 
 
 There in procession walks, and here doth ride 
 With poised spear in fury to the chase ; 
 
 Here, counts the severed hands of Libians dead, 
 There, storms the fortress of a Hittite race. 
 
 ' Dost sleep, Rameses, in the underworld. 
 Forgot, unhonoured, 'mid the countless dead, 
 
 Or bowest still in kingly consequence. 
 
 To ghostly subjects, thy unconquered head ? 
 
 ' These noble walls, white pages of thy past, 
 
 Where once thy living eyes so often gazed 
 
 As mine to-day ; if Isis so inclines 
 
 Canst thou still see — rejoicing in their praise ? 
 
 80
 
 THE HERETIC IN THE TEMPLE 8i 
 
 * How counts it for thee in the underworld 
 If thou but sleepest, to this glory blind ? 
 
 If thou dost walk amid the shadowy dead, 
 How boldest all that thou hast left behind ? ' 
 
 And while I spoke there came a little voice 
 From where the crown of Rameses did rest 
 
 Upon the carven brow, and ' Cheep ! ' it cried, 
 And as I stared a sparrow stood confessed. 
 
 No eagle here of Jove's Celestial Brood, 
 To comment on the tragedy of thrones. 
 
 Nor dove of Venus, loosed from her fair breast, 
 To croon its pity by the crumbling stones. 
 
 Nor from the desert did some lone wolf prowl. 
 
 To keen upon the mystery of time. 
 Untamed, unchanging, from the shpping sands. 
 
 He, with his ancient Uneage, still sublime. 
 
 A house-top sparrow this, that dared to speak. 
 With pert indifference on the fate of power, 
 
 From pale decay of old magnificence. 
 
 And ' Cheep ! ' he cried from out his nesting bower. 
 
 ' Thou hand's-hold of brown feathers, thou dost speak 
 Most wisely now, for in this ancient place 
 
 Who reads not here man's pomp and pride and fall, 
 The swift oblivion of a splendid race ? ' 
 
 L
 
 82 THE HERETIC IN THE TEMPLE 
 
 ' Rameses, King ! dead as thy gods are dead, 
 See, here I kneel, unshadowed by thy might, 
 
 Nor fear thy guardians of the underworld, 
 A Higher Host has put their shades to flight. 
 
 ' For me, the promises of earth and sky, 
 The golden heavens, shimmering afar. 
 
 Death, resurrection, and the angels hold 
 The Gates of Paradise for me ajar.' 
 
 Then, by the crown of Rameses, the king. 
 
 The sparrow fed its mate, then came to peep, 
 
 ' How dost thou hold the Christian promise, then. 
 Thou soulless one ? ' and ' Cheep ! ' it answered, 
 ' Cheep ! ' 
 
 Then sudden fell the dusk in that swift way 
 It hath in Eastern skies, and shone the stars, 
 
 And slow the dead moon swung across the skies. 
 And crimson flamed the dying planet Mars. 
 
 I struck the moaning camel to its pace. 
 Once did he trip upon some mummied thing 
 
 That from the ground did seem to force its way. 
 Out from the past and Time's enfolding wing. 
 
 Sharp to my face a grey blown handful came 
 Of the enduring sand that east and west 
 
 Creeps ever on, so slow, but yet so sure. 
 Across the world, in its death-seeking quest.
 
 THE FREEBORN * 
 
 God made the man and bid him multiply, 
 Replenish the green earth, nor break the die 
 Made by His hand ; Man hearing understood. 
 He loved His work and held His labour good. 
 
 And wherefore then does this poor mortal stand, 
 And hold his starving children hand in hand, 
 Beside his mate ? the tree where his fruit hung 
 So torn, so blighted, yet its years are young. 
 
 Him one might see with horror and amaze 
 
 To find man's eyes should hold such famished gaze ! 
 
 Has Heaven not more anguish at the sight, 
 
 His brothers pass sans pity at his plight ? 
 
 That withered hand, did it not grasp a sword 
 To keep ungrateful Empire's hope restored ? 
 And if not this, at least it helped to raise 
 Stone upon stone within her cities' maze. 
 
 * ' The Prisoners were charged with begging, and using their two 
 children to induce ahiis-giving. . . . The case was a pitiable one, 
 both defendants being destitute and famished. . . . The man, who 
 mentioned that he had served in the South African war, said that it 
 was either begging or stealing for them. . . . Nothing was known 
 against the couple, who, however, were sentenced by the magistrate 
 to a month's hard labour each. . . .' — Daily Paper. 
 
 83
 
 84 THE FREEBORN 
 
 He does but ask to toil within tlie span 
 Of that brief time allotted here to man. 
 He is no drone to fatten in the hive, 
 He asks but work to keep himself alive. 
 
 What shall he do, oh ! wretched, hapless \N'ight, 
 Or whither turn to face the coming night ? 
 Unwanted, workless, half with hunger slain. 
 He through each child doth feel another pain. 
 
 Those eyes he meets as hopeless as his own, 
 Save love whose every beauty is out-thrown. 
 His cheerless mate who shivers by his side. 
 Was she not fair when she became his bride ? 
 
 In their sweet wooing did those lips not smile, 
 Those dull eyes hght, that bosom pant the while, 
 And is that long- forgotten joy all spent. 
 Has hunger stormed love's very battlement ? 
 
 Go forth replenish — fruit and multiply. 
 
 As God hath said, where does the failure lie ? 
 
 This little circle of a home outcast, 
 
 Man, wife, and babes to face want's evil blast. 
 
 The very beast beside its starving brood 
 Will limb from limb his brother tear for food. 
 But this poor wretch lifts no ungentle hand 
 Against the powers that hold his soul unmanned.
 
 THE FREEBORN 85 
 
 See how they go along the ghtt'ring street, 
 A piteous band, with slow and dragging feet, 
 Mud spattered by each swift and splendid coach. 
 That hardly deigns to warn of its approach. 
 
 Held up at last by Law's compelling arm. 
 
 See how the children weep in their alarm ; 
 
 As well they may, for, trembling 'neath the shock, 
 
 The wretched crew are hurried to the dock. 
 
 Has that poor mother, then, in her despair 
 Stole for her crying babes a little share 
 Of those fine things the shining windows show ? 
 Or has the man, made savage by their woe. 
 
 Leaped forth to snatch, with fingers hunger-cold. 
 From some white throat its circling chain of gold ? 
 Or plucked a jewel from some pretty ear 
 That all his children's crying would not hear ? 
 
 What is the crime ? What brings them, then, to 
 
 this. 
 The huddled cry, the sobbing farewell kiss. 
 The prison cell, one month of labour hard, 
 For these two souls who were from labour barred ? 
 
 Who did but plead to live life's little span ? 
 The shiv'ring woman and the famished man. 
 What was the crime that tore each hand apart ? 
 The cr3ang children from their mother's heart.
 
 86 THE FREEBORN 
 
 What crime but this, else would his poor babes die, 
 He begged for bread, his brothers passing by. 
 Nor did he then demand his right to live. 
 But only prayed for Christ's sweet sake to give. 
 
 Death's friendly hand, how timid, he dechned, 
 They would not die, since hearts he held were kind. 
 But he forgot the Law had no heart-beat. 
 When he did beg his life upon the street. 
 
 He must not steal, his blood he dare not shed. 
 He has no work, he may not beg his bread. 
 Trapped by the law, oh, Justice, answer true ! 
 When this free man comes forth, what must he do ?
 
 THE PAUPER 
 
 It dawned a morn to make a heart despair, 
 East was the wind and chill the April air. 
 No beast was out save one poor starveling hound, 
 Who for his supper nosed the muddy ground. 
 
 Beside the river, where its sluggish length 
 Did darkly coil and twist in wat'ry strength 
 Beneath the Minster Bridge, then smoothly ran 
 In unobstructed course, there slept a man. 
 
 Forlorn and ragged, destitute and old. 
 Where gentle sleep had hushed him in her hold ; 
 From his desire for the Thames' chill breast. 
 She drew him down and lulled him into rest. 
 
 The starveling hound, in misery extreme. 
 Crept up to share the shadow of his dream. 
 And gave the cheek, low resting on a stone. 
 The only kiss that cheek had ever known. 
 
 Nor did sweet sleep forget for one brief span 
 To bless the hound as she had blessed the man, 
 For on each face there dwelt supreme content ; 
 Perchance, to some Elysian fields they went. 
 
 87
 
 88 THE PAUPER 
 
 The starveling hound did he with twitching feet, 
 And tail slow wagging on the muddy street ; 
 The outcast man flung forth a circling arm, 
 To hold the brute, or some sweet dream, from harm. 
 
 And so they lay, forgot by all save sleep. 
 Beside the river passing dumb and deep ; 
 There by the bridge beneath the Minster towers 
 That held the mighty city's numbered hours. 
 
 Through fair Elysian fields they joyous ran, 
 The starveling hound beside the outcast man ; 
 But came the Law, with rough, unkindly hand, 
 To thrust them forth from their dream fairyland. 
 
 It bid the man go forth in the chill night. 
 But kept the dog in pity for its plight. 
 Moved on once more, he went his weary round, 
 And in his soul desired to be the hound. 
 
 In endless tramp he did the day endure, 
 And came at eve before the workhouse door. 
 And there, in doubt and hesitation, stayed, 
 Like one who from his doom creeps back afraid, 
 
 From each broad window looked an aged face, 
 With longing eyes that held in dim embrace 
 The busy street from which they were apart, 
 Old men who looked and longed with aching heart.
 
 THE PAUPER 89 
 
 Builders of cities these, well might they look, 
 As doth a writer who hath writ his book 
 And looks with love upon the printed page ! 
 But these poor workers never shared the wage. 
 
 Those shaking hands, now raised their brow to shade, 
 A thousand lives oft leant to them for aid ; 
 They set the city's pulse to throb and flow. 
 The ships upon the waters forth to go. 
 
 The wheels to turn, the churches' bells to sound. 
 They drew ripe corn from the reluctant ground. 
 Poor crippled hands, now raised their eyes to shade. 
 Those weary eyes that watched the man afraid. 
 
 Who stood reluctant by the workhouse gate. 
 Poor eyes, poor hands, they seem to him to wait — 
 For what save death : and then the pauper's grave. 
 More swift, more kind, the flow of Thames' dark 
 wave. 
 
 Once more he stood by grey Westminster towers, 
 And heard the chime toll forth man's passing hours. 
 And here again he courted death, and went 
 With joyous speed to that chill element. 
 
 His weary head, ah ! never did it rest 
 Upon so soft or so belov'd a breast ; 
 From it he drew a measure, long and deep, 
 The welcome draught to bring him rest and sleep, 
 
 M
 
 90 THE PAUPER 
 
 He almost had forgot age, grief, and cold, 
 The numbing hunger that did him enfold. 
 When came the Law, with rough unkindly hand, 
 And bore the wretched body back to land. 
 
 And chid him sore for daring to aspire 
 To end a life that no one did desire, 
 So let him go ; it thought him well content 
 To be indulged with short imprisonment. 
 
 Left him reluctant by the workhouse gate. 
 It opens, clangs. He is within to wait, 
 For what, save death : and then the pauper's grave. 
 More swift, more kind, the flow of Thames' dark 
 wave.
 
 THE TWO PRAYERS 
 
 Lord ! when they came and stood upon my way 
 
 With ' One is dead,' I paused awhile to pray 
 
 In brief thanksgiving that I still did live 
 
 On the good earth that had so much to give. 
 
 Through my sweet garden softly did I go 
 
 To lift some lily's head that hung too low, 
 
 Or bind a rebel rose that sought to stray 
 
 Across my path. More dear were they to-day 
 
 When I did live who might as lief be dead. 
 
 ' Was ever World so fair ? ' I whisp'ring said. 
 
 ' Thank God ! for eyes, for ears, for strength, for 
 
 breath, 
 All that he hath not who hath tasted death.' 
 
 But when they went in silence, to my heart 
 Their pity pierced, then came the poisoned dart, 
 With ' He is dead.' I flung me low to pray. 
 ' Lord, I have watched through the uncertain day 
 When he was far, and ev'ry throbbing hour. 
 Half lost in fear the joy of bird or flower. 
 And new alarm I found, did some sharp cry 
 Come from the street, or did a foot pass by 
 
 91
 
 92 THE TWO PRAYERS 
 
 Swift in its going, all did threaten him. 
 Hear me, O Lord ! who sips at sorrow's brim. 
 Take thou these eyes, these ears, this strength, this 
 
 breath. 
 All that he hath not who hath tasted death.'
 
 FAITH 
 
 I HEAR the thrush and blackbird sing, 
 
 And blackbird sing. 
 Their honied voices wake the sleeping spring, 
 
 The slothful spring, 
 And as each lovely note sighs forth and soars. 
 Green to the bough doth come and bloom restores 
 The earth from mourning for the year at rest. 
 She holds the golden babe upon her breast. 
 
 The new-born spring, the waking spring. 
 
 Their glorious tune I dare not hear, 
 
 I dare not hear. 
 Nor April's flower behold without a tear, 
 
 Without a tear. 
 And friends soon come to beat upon my door, 
 With ' Open wide thy casement, for before 
 Was never spring so fair nor song so sweet.' 
 I push the bolt, and to my heart repeat, 
 
 ' I dare not hear, I dare not hear.' 
 
 And comes a child to call upon my name, 
 
 Taps on the pane, 
 ' Oh, look thou forth and listen, ne'er again. 
 
 Oh, ne'er again 
 
 93
 
 94 FAITH 
 
 Shall thrush and blackbird sing as now they tune 
 Their voice in chorus for the birth of June.' 
 Swift from my window wide I lean and cry — 
 What to his curious elders I deny — 
 
 And speak my pain, and speak my pain. 
 
 ' The blackbird's song, how can I hear, 
 
 How can I hear. 
 When he who held their singing ever dear, 
 
 Who held it dear, 
 Sleeps sound though all the golden thrushes sing.' 
 Thus to the child still idly loitering 
 I weeping said, and he did make reply — 
 ' How can he hear, when thou dost sob and cry ; 
 
 How can he hear ; how can he hear ? ' 
 
 Oh, little child, who would not me deceive, 
 
 Thou dost believe 
 That his dear spirit still to earth doth cleave, 
 
 Doth cling and cleave. 
 And in the glory of the earthly air 
 Finds gladness yet, and stiH can take a share. 
 Nor lies he soulless in eternal sleep. 
 I fling my casement wide, no more to weep, 
 
 I must believe, I will believe. 
 
 PrinteJ by T. and .\. Constahi.k, Printers to Hi^ Majesty 
 at the Edinburgh University Press
 
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