THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 THE SMALL PAPER EDITION OF THIS BOOK, CON- 
 SISTING OF THREE HUNDRED AND FIFTY COPIES, IVAS 
 PRINTED BY R. &» R. CLARK OF EDINBURGH IN MARCH 
 
 i8go.
 
 CORN AND POPPIES
 
 \
 
 CORN AND POPPIES 
 
 BY 
 
 COSMO MONKHOUSE 
 
 LONDON 
 
 ELKIN MATHEWS 
 VIGO STREET 
 
 I 890
 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 pAGte 
 
 Dedication, to W. B. S. . 
 
 
 
 xi 
 
 Any Soul to any Body 
 
 
 
 
 
 I 
 
 Her Face . 
 
 
 
 
 
 4 
 
 To THE Sea 
 
 
 
 
 
 II 
 
 The Spectrum 
 
 
 
 
 
 12 
 
 A Dead March 
 
 
 
 
 
 13 
 
 In Arcady . 
 
 
 
 
 
 17 
 
 Love : a Sonata . 
 
 
 
 
 
 19 
 
 To A New-born Child 
 
 
 
 
 
 36 
 
 Aes Triplex 
 
 
 
 
 
 40 
 
 Life and Death . 
 
 
 
 
 
 41 
 
 A Drawn Bet 
 
 
 
 
 
 42 
 
 On One not Beautiful 
 
 
 
 
 
 52 
 
 Elisha . 
 
 
 
 
 
 53 
 
 Under the Oak . 
 
 
 
 
 
 54 
 
 860G74
 
 Vlll 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 " O Scorn Me not " 
 Ten Thousand Pounds . 
 
 MONTANUS AND CaMPESTRIS 
 
 Violet 
 
 Punch 
 
 The True Lover 
 
 ViRELAI Ancien 
 
 Ad Poetas . 
 
 De Libris . 
 
 A Bristol Figure 
 
 On a Portrait of Faraday 
 
 A Difference 
 
 The Secret. 
 
 Decay 
 
 The First of May 
 
 Dead 
 
 Whither 
 
 A Disappointment 
 
 A Popular Error . 
 
 With a Drawing by Boucher 
 
 Hermione's Husband 
 
 Mysteries . 
 
 The Deafness of Death
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 A Song of the Seasons^ 
 The Rebel .... 
 
 AVANT QU'AmOUR . . ■• 
 
 Recollections of Alfred Tennyson 
 A Drawing-Room Idyll . 
 
 IX 
 
 PAGE 
 146 
 
 148 
 154
 
 My thanks are due to the editors of periodicals and 
 books who have published verses of mine, and not 
 least to Mr, William Blackwood, who lately printed 
 Under the Oak and The True Lover in "Maga," 
 although they were soon to reappear in this volume. 
 
 C. M. 
 \Wi March 1890.
 
 To W. B. S. 
 
 A man need not be very bold 
 Who sends an honest book to you ; 
 Albeit faults be manifold 
 And virtues only faint and few. 
 
 It will not meet with scorti undue, 
 It need not fear a tvelcome cold. 
 A man need not be very bold 
 Who sends an honest book to you. 
 
 Ay, lover of the weird and old. 
 And lover of the clear and neiv, 
 
 Whose charity keeps open fold 
 For any soul which is but true, 
 A man need not be very bold 
 
 Who sends an honest book to you.
 
 ANY SOUL TO ANY BODY 
 
 So we must part, my body, you and I 
 
 Who've spent so many pleasant years together. 
 'Tis sorry work to lose your company 
 
 Who clove to me so close, whate'er the weather, 
 From winter unto winter, wet or dry ; 
 
 But you have reached the limit of your tether. 
 And I must journey on my way alone. 
 And leave you quietly beneath a stone. 
 
 They say that you are altogether bad 
 
 (Forgive me, 'tis not my experience), 
 
 And think me very wicked to be sad 
 
 At leaving you, a clod, a prison, whence 
 
 B 
 

 
 ANY SOUL TO ANY BODY 
 
 To get quite free I should be very glad. 
 
 Perhaps I may be so, some few days hence, 
 But now, methinks, 'twere graceless not to spend 
 A tear or two on my departing friend. 
 
 Now our long partnership is near completed. 
 
 And I look back upon its history ; 
 I greatly fear I have not always treated 
 
 You with the honesty you showed to me. 
 And I must own that you have oft defeated 
 
 Unworthy schemes by your sincerity. 
 And by a blush or stammering tongue have tried 
 To make me think again before I lied. 
 
 'Tis true you're not so handsome as you were. 
 
 But that's not your fault and is partly mine. 
 
 You might have lasted longer with more care, 
 
 And still looked something like your first design :
 
 ANY SOUL TO ANY BODY 3 
 
 And even now, with all your wear and tear, 
 
 'Tis pitiful to think I must resign 
 You to the friendless grave, the patient prey 
 Of all the hungry legions of Decay. 
 
 But you must stay, dear body, and I go. 
 
 And I was once so very proud of you ; 
 You made my mother's eyes to overflow 
 
 When first she saw you, wonderful and new. 
 And now, with all your faults, 'twere hard to find 
 
 A slave more willing or a friend more true. 
 Ay — even they who say the worst about you 
 Can scarcely tell what I shall do without you. 
 
 w
 
 HER FACE 
 
 Had I a painter's skill, 
 
 There are no changeless lines 
 
 That could its grace imprison, 
 
 But as I laboured still 
 
 To trace its sweet confines, 
 
 Ever some quick spontaneous light, 
 
 As of a star, 
 
 Or sun new-risen, 
 
 Would change the cold to warm, the dull to bright, 
 
 And all my labour mar. 
 
 /
 
 HER FACE 
 
 II 
 
 Ever some secret missed, 
 
 Some swift-escaping glow, 
 
 Some one look in the eyes, 
 
 Some strange smile never kissed, 
 
 Would melt as melting snow ; 
 
 That even were my pencil quicker 
 
 Than wind or wing, ~" 
 
 Or could it rise 
 
 And fall as shadows to the leaves' least flicker, 
 
 It were a useless thing. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Only but yesterday 
 
 She was as cold as ice, 
 
 As any marble still, 
 
 Her eyes were pale and gray
 
 HER FACE 
 As though for sacrifice ; 
 I little ever thought to see her so ; 
 But as I came, 
 Her loving will 
 
 Filled her sweet features, as an afterglow 
 Fills the gray skies with flame. 
 
 IV 
 
 'Tis ever strange to me, 
 
 When she is sad at heart, 
 
 Where her deep dimples go, 
 
 And a like mystery 
 
 When back again they start. 
 
 How can my hand move quicker than my eyes, 
 
 Which are too slow 
 
 To disentwine 
 
 The least of all the sweet intricacies 
 
 Of her face which is mine ?
 
 HER FACE 
 
 And yet I sometimes think 
 
 'Tis just because I love her 
 
 I cannot draw her face, 
 
 Because upon the brink 
 
 I hang till all is over, 
 
 The fingers waiting for the soul's release. 
 
 If for the space 
 
 1 see my love 
 
 My mouth is voiceless till the vision cease, 
 
 How shall my fingers move ? 
 
 VI 
 
 But if I sing of her 
 When she is far removed 
 May I not limn her too ? 
 Ah, if much worth ye were
 
 HER FACE 
 
 My songs, if my beloved 
 
 Would quicken ye with music of her face. 
 
 Each day anew 
 
 Some song I sing, 
 
 Yet of her loveliness not one small grace 
 
 Makes it a precious thing. 
 
 VII 
 
 Natheless I know her well — 
 
 Though she change e'en as much 
 
 As light within a flower, 
 
 And aye her face can tell, 
 
 Because there is none such 
 
 In any land beyond the farthest sea, 
 
 And hour by hour 
 
 I wonder why 
 
 She ever thought to give it all to me — 
 
 To me so utterly.
 
 HER FACE 
 
 VIII 
 
 Yet many a portrait fair 
 
 Of other lovely ones 
 
 Have I seen like to her. 
 
 I seem to hear the air 
 
 Sweet with her very tones. 
 
 Yet what to me were such things to possess ! 
 
 Ay, though they stir 
 
 With life and speak ! 
 
 Wanting that little one unruly tress 
 
 That strays upon her cheek. 
 
 IX 
 
 She is beyond all art 
 Of any sweetest word, 
 Of brush however fine ; 
 And yet I wrong my heart
 
 10 HER FACE 
 
 Who hath a chamber stored 
 
 With many a face of her and perfect all. 
 
 Ah, joy divine, 
 
 When quite alone. 
 
 To steal and turn them slowly from the wall, 
 
 Tenderly, one by one.
 
 TO THE SEA 
 
 O SENSELESS Sea, how long shall men proclaim 
 Thy freedom and thy power ! Slave of the Moon, 
 Thy wrath is borrowed of the wind, the Noon 
 Supplies thy smiles, thy life is but a name 
 That poets use. To thee nor praise nor blame 
 Belongs. And yet shall man, alas, not soon 
 Forget to fear thee, and thy dim halls strewn 
 With bones of bravest man and fairest dame. 
 The careless fish within thee sport and breed. 
 The bird above thee spreads her scornful wing : 
 Yet thou, more lifeless than thy weakest weed, 
 Canst shake the very soul of Priest and King. 
 And aye to man thy breathless breast appears 
 A waste of sighs, a wilderness of tears.
 
 THE SPECTRUM 
 
 How many colours here do we see set, 
 
 Like rings upon God's finger ? Some say three, 
 Some four, some six, some seven. All agree 
 
 To left of red, to right of violet. 
 
 Waits darkness deep as night and black as jet. 
 And so we know what Noah saw we see 
 Nor less nor more — of God's emblazonry 
 
 A shred — a sign of glory known not yet. 
 
 If red can glide to yellow, green to blue, 
 What joys may yet await our wider eyes 
 When we rewake upon a wider shore ! 
 
 What deep pulsations exquisite and new : 
 What keener, swifter, raptures may surprise 
 Men born to see the rainbow and no more !
 
 A DEAD MARCH 
 
 Play me a march lowtoned and slow — a march for a 
 
 silent tread, 
 Fit for the wandering feet of one who dreams of the 
 
 silent dead, 
 Lonely, between the bones below and the souls that are 
 
 overhead. 
 
 Here for awhile they smiled and sang, alive in the inter- 
 space. 
 
 Here with the grass beneath the foot, and the stars 
 above the face, 
 
 Now are their feet beneath the grass, and whither has 
 flown their grace ?
 
 14 ^ DEAD MARCH 
 
 Who shall assure us whence they come or tell us the way 
 
 they go ? 
 Verily, life with them was joy, and now they have left 
 
 us, woe, 
 Once they were not, and now they are not, and this is 
 
 the sum we know. 
 
 Orderly range the seasons due, and orderly roll the stars. 
 How shall we deem the soldier brave who frets of his 
 
 wounds and scars ? 
 Are we as senseless brutes that we should dash at the 
 
 well-seen bars ? ^ 
 
 No, we are here, with feet unfixed, but ever as if with 
 
 lead 
 Drawn from the orbs which shine above to the orb on 
 
 which we tread, 
 Down to the dust from which we came and with which 
 
 we shall mingle dead.
 
 A DEAD MARCH 15 
 
 No, we are here to wait, and work, and strain our 
 
 banished eyes, 
 Weary and sick of soil and toil, and hungry and fain for 
 
 skies 
 Far from the reach of wingless men and not to be scaled 
 
 with cries. 
 
 No, we are here to bend our necks to the yoke of tyrant 
 
 Time. 
 Welcoming all the gifts he gives us — glories of youth and 
 
 prime, 
 Patiently watching them all depart as our heads grow 
 
 white as rime. 
 
 Why do we mourn the days that go — for the same sun 
 
 shines each day, 
 
 Ever a spring her primrose hath, and ever a May her 
 
 may —
 
 l6 A DEAD MARCH 
 
 Sweet as the rose that died last year, is the rose that is 
 born to-day. 
 
 Do we not too return, we men, as ever the round earth 
 
 whirls ? 
 Never a head is dimmed with gray but another is sunned 
 
 with curls, 
 She was a girl and he was a boy, but yet there are boys 
 
 and girls. 
 
 Ah, but alas for the smile of smiles that never but one 
 
 face wore. 
 Ah for the voice that has flown away like a bird to an 
 
 unseen shore. 
 Ah for the face — the flower of flowers — that blossoms on 
 
 earth no more.
 
 IN ARCADY 
 
 In yon hollow Damon lies, 
 Lost in slumber deep. 
 
 (Hush, hush, ye shepherd girls 
 Break not his sleep.) 
 
 Phyllis passes tiptoe by ; 
 
 Whither is she hieing ? 
 (Peep, peep, ye shepherd girls 
 
 He for her is dying.) 
 
 Now she pauses, now she bends, 
 Ah, she kissed him purely. 
 
 (Look away, ye shepherd girls 
 Frown, frown demurely.)
 
 i8 IN AR CA LY 
 
 See he clips her in his arms, 
 
 She who was the proudest. 
 (Laugh, laugh, ye shepherd girls, 
 Laugh, laugh your loudest.)
 
 LOVE 
 A SONATA 
 
 I 
 
 Love's Sweetness 
 
 Adagio 
 Love thou art sweet. 
 
 Sweet — only perfect sweet of all ; 
 
 For there is nothing sweet that hath not friend in 
 
 thee 
 That hath not root, and flower, and fruit, and end in 
 
 thee, 
 O Love — 
 
 How gracious are thy feet. 
 For all things as they fall
 
 20 LOVE 
 
 Grow up and bud and blossom, and smile away all 
 
 sorrow ; 
 Thy pathway is a festival, 
 And all before thee goes a light, that shines a bright 
 
 to-morrow 
 Of joy undreamt to barren lands, 
 And desolate blank rocks. 
 And sea-deserted sands. 
 The prey of wind and wave and time and thunder-shocks. 
 
 Sweet thou art, O love, 
 
 Who makest all things move 
 
 With undulating grace of joyousness ; 
 
 For rippling from thy face 
 
 Go forth the waves of grace 
 
 That, like a smile, spread over all the earth, 
 
 And spreading bless. 
 
 And sink beneath,
 
 LOVE 21 
 
 And circle round each dark and cheerless thing 
 
 With low vibration musical, 
 
 With rings of mirth ; 
 
 Till one and all 
 
 Arise and free 
 
 Themselves from death, 
 
 And no so tender germ, 
 
 Or naked worm, 
 
 Feels any more abandoned or alone ; 
 
 But every one, 
 
 Stirred as a silence cloven by a wing, 
 
 Doth start, 
 
 Awakened to the heart 
 
 With tender shocks of new felicity. 
 
 Ay, thou art sweet. 
 
 For to thee ever fleet 
 
 All beings young or fresh or beautiful
 
 22 LOVE 
 
 (Thy creatures dutiful,) 
 
 Who love to greet 
 
 Thee with their gratitude of echoed sweetness, 
 
 For ever yearning after thy completeness, 
 
 Until by longing likeness grows, 
 
 And they become a chorus worthy thee, 
 
 (As buds are worthy of the rose, 
 
 Or birds, of godlike minstrelsy,) 
 
 And dowered with thy full benignity 
 
 The land wherein thy footsteps dwell 
 
 Doth bloom and sing and breathe with sight and sound 
 
 and smell. 
 Till all the airs of all the days 
 Carry burdens sweet of praise. 
 And all the hours 
 
 Are but as opening of many flowers, 
 And like a silver chime 
 There beats a heart of joy within the breast of Time.
 
 II 
 
 Love's Courage 
 
 Allegro 
 
 Love thou art sweet and fair, 
 
 But thou dost dare, 
 
 Dost dare the raging storm, 
 
 Nor thunder's roar 
 
 Nor Hghtning's spite, nor mist of snow, 
 
 Nor darkness, can affright thee. 
 
 No, 
 Nor Fear's commanding form ! 
 But aye on sea. 
 On sea or shore,
 
 24 LOVE 
 
 Thy heart's own song 
 
 Doth make thee strong 
 
 And thine own Ught doth hght thee. 
 
 Thou wert not yet afraid 
 
 Although thy foes be many. 
 
 (Ah brave, ah sweet.) 
 
 Thou hast no trenchant blade 
 
 To smite as hatred hath. 
 
 (Ah strength complete,) 
 
 No iron heel to crush 
 
 The snakes about thy path. 
 
 (Ah sweet, ah brave.) 
 
 Thy unprotected arm 
 
 Is only strong to save, 
 
 Nor wageth war with any. 
 
 Thy weapon is thy charm, 
 
 From which all foul things rush
 
 LOVE 25 
 
 As from some vision frightful. 
 They shrink from sight 
 Before thy Hght 
 Before thy face delightful.
 
 Ill 
 
 Love's Mirth 
 
 Scherzo 
 With a laugh and a spring and a shout, 
 Hark to the joyful rout, 
 As the merry little ones run out. 
 And about, 
 When school, dull school is over. 
 
 See they run 
 
 With a laugh and a spring and a shout, 
 
 A host of merry faces 
 
 Rosy in the sun, 
 
 As gay as a iield of clover.
 
 LOVE 27 
 
 The young are glad to be, 
 The old are glad to see, 
 And the chatter in the street, 
 And the patter of the feet, 
 Make every face grow kinder, 
 Till even Duty lifts his brows, and Prudence looks 
 behind her. 
 
 So sally forth the young. 
 
 As though a mine of love were sprung 
 
 With a laugh and a spring and a shout.
 
 IV 
 
 Love's Holiness 
 
 Andante 
 
 O Faith 
 And Hope 
 On Earth 
 Had birth, 
 But Love 
 From above 
 Came down. 
 
 A sword 
 Hath Faith 
 To wield 
 At foes,
 
 LOVE 
 A shield 
 Hath Hope 
 To ward 
 Their blows, 
 But a crown 
 From above 
 Hath Love. 
 
 O Faith 
 Hath fear 
 With Hope 
 Not near, 
 At sight 
 Of a wraith 
 She flies. 
 And Hope's 
 Brave heart 
 From Faith 
 
 29
 
 30 
 
 LOVE 
 Apart, 
 In a fright 
 Soon mopes 
 And dies. 
 
 O Love 
 No skill 
 Can move 
 Thy will. 
 No sight 
 Can cow, 
 No might 
 Can bow. 
 A friend 
 To the end 
 Art Thou. 
 
 Faith flieth 
 Hope dieth,
 
 LOVE 31 
 
 Faith changeth 
 
 Hope rangeth ; 
 
 But Love can make them strong. 
 
 Hope pineth, 
 
 Declineth, 
 
 Faith waneth 
 
 Complaineth ; 
 
 With Love they suffer long. 
 
 Hope desireth, 
 
 Faith requireth, 
 
 Love alone contented lives. 
 
 Hope she spendeth, 
 
 Faith she lendeth, 
 
 Love alone for ever gives. 
 
 Thee the guider 
 
 Hope is holy, 
 
 Thee beside her
 
 32 LOVE 
 
 Faith divine, 
 
 But to be holy, 
 
 Solely, 
 
 Wholly, 
 
 Holy love is thine.
 
 Love's Laughter 
 
 Rondo 
 Love smiles but laughs not ever, 
 Say'st thou so? 
 Tell me hast thou never, 
 Never, never, heard 
 The trill of a rill 
 Escaped like a bird 
 From the womb of the hill ; 
 Or the first spring note 
 Of a thrush, 
 
 With a willing warble-gush 
 From his throat, 
 
 D
 
 34 LOVE 
 
 And flow, 
 And float, 
 With a thrill 
 Like the trill of a rill ? 
 
 Hast thou been in the heart of a man 
 And listened, 
 
 When the eyes that he watched first glistened, 
 And the hope of his life began ? 
 
 Hast thou been at the bed of the aged, 
 
 When the soul so long encaged 
 
 Beholds his freedom near. 
 
 When the mists of the world 
 
 Are all uncurled. 
 
 And care and pain 
 
 Dissolve in rain, 
 
 And the sight of the soul is clear ?
 
 LOVE 
 
 Though round his knees 
 They kneel with tears, 
 Love's form he sees 
 Love's laugh he hears, 
 O the joy in his eyes 
 Ere he dies ! 
 
 35
 
 TO A NEW-BORN CHILD 
 
 (To L. M., 1873) 
 
 Small traveller from an unknown shore, 
 By mortal eye ne'er seen before, 
 
 To you, good morrow. 
 You are as fair a little dame 
 As ever from a glad world came 
 
 To one of sorrow. 
 
 We smile above you, but you fret, 
 We call you gentle names, and yet 
 
 Your cries redouble. 
 'Tis hard for little babes to prize 
 The tender love that underlies 
 
 A life of trouble.
 
 rO A NEW-BORN CHILD 37 
 
 And have you come from Heaven to Earth ? 
 That were a road of little mirth, 
 
 A doleful travel. 
 " Why did I come ? " you seem to cry, 
 But that's a riddle you and I 
 
 Can scarce unravel. 
 
 Perhaps you really wished to come, 
 But now you are so far from home 
 
 Repent the trial. 
 What ! did you leave celestial bliss 
 To bless us with a daughter's kiss ? 
 
 What self-denial ! 
 
 Have patience for a little space, 
 You might have come to a worse place. 
 Fair Angel-rover.
 
 38 TO A NEW-BORN CHILD 
 
 No wonder now you would have stayed, 
 But hush your cries, my Httle maid, 
 The journey's over. 
 
 For, utter stranger as you are, 
 There yet are many hearts ajar 
 
 For your arriving. 
 And trusty friends and lovers true 
 Are waiting, ready-made for you, 
 
 Without your striving. 
 
 The Earth is full of lovely things, 
 And if at first you miss your wings, 
 
 You'll soon forget them ; 
 And others, of a rarer kind. 
 Will grow upon your tender mind — 
 
 If you will let them —
 
 TO A NEW-BORN CHILD 39 
 
 Until you find that your exchange 
 
 Of Heaven for earth expands your range 
 
 E'en as a flier, 
 And that your mother, you and I, 
 If we do what we should may fly 
 
 Than Angels higher.
 
 AES TRIPLEX 
 
 A MAN superb, enriched with wealth and praise, 
 On men's misfortunes looked down from a height : 
 He held the order of the world was right, 
 And men might thank themselves for evil days. 
 But fortune, tired of his complacent ways, 
 Sent all his ships to bottom in one night : 
 And he awoke the morn in evil plight — 
 Bankrupt, and mark of much sinister gaze. 
 On which one came to him and said : " My friend. 
 Behold thy troubles thick upon thee come, 
 Who scarcely pity had for lame or halt ! 
 Dost thou not see the scales of Justice bend, 
 And that the world is ruled by rule of thumb ? " 
 To which he answered " No, 'twas my own fault ! "
 
 LIFE AND DEATH 
 
 From morn to eve they wrestled — Life and Death. 
 At first it seemed to me that they in mirth 
 Contended, or as foes of equal worth, 
 So firm their feet, so undisturbed their breath ; 
 But when the sharp red sun cut through its sheath 
 Of western clouds, I saw the brown arms' girth 
 Tighten, and bear that radiant form to earth ; 
 And suddenly both fell upon the heath. 
 And then the marvel came — for when I fled 
 To where those great antagonists down fell, 
 I could not find the body that I sought. 
 And when and where it went I could not tell ; 
 One only form was left of those who fought, 
 The long dark form of Death, and it was dead.
 
 A DRAWN BET 
 
 (To A. D.) 
 
 At Bath, when great Beau Nash was King, 
 There happened once a curious Thing. 
 A Beauty, Betty Clare by name. 
 Set all the Dandies' hearts aflame. 
 Nay, Elders, as they sipped the Waters, 
 Preferred her to their grown-up Daughters ; 
 And what is even stranger stillj 
 Her Rivals showed her no Ill-will ; — 
 In short, so potent was her Charm 
 That not a Woman wished her Harm. 
 The oddest thing is still to tell — 
 'Twas at Sir Humphry's it befell.
 
 A DRAWN BET 43 
 
 One day Sir Humphry gave a Turtle 
 
 To Astley Coates and the MacWhirtle, 
 
 And half a dozen Bucks beside, 
 
 Whose Names need scarce be specified ; 
 
 Suffice to say no smarter Beaux 
 
 E'er staked a Guinea at E. O. ; 
 
 And all agreed to praise the Air, 
 
 The Dress, the Wit, of Betty Clare. 
 
 Only Sir Humphry was in doubt ; 
 
 But then. Sir Humphry had the Gout. 
 He said, as from his damson Cuft" 
 
 He flicked some Particles of Snuff, 
 
 " I quite allow her Face is Fair, 
 
 I like the Colour of her Hair, 
 
 And much applaud her Disregard 
 
 Of Powder, Patches, Rouge, and Lard. 
 
 She has a Style, is finely bred, 
 
 And like a Deer she holds her Head ;
 
 44 A DRAWN BET 
 
 Her voice is soft, and sweet, and clear, 
 Her Wit like — What-d'ye-call-em's Spear, 
 A Touch, and all Disguise is down ; 
 Beneath the Spark appears the Clown. 
 And yet — and yet — ' (He tapped his Box 
 And wisely shook his powdered Locks) — 
 " She has one Fault with all her Grace, 
 She never looks you in the Face." 
 
 " What ! what ! " cried half a dozen Tongues. 
 " A Shame ! a shame ! " " Pray save your lungs," 
 Sir Humphry said. "Just think a minute. 
 And then you'll own there's Something in it. 
 You praised her. Scarce a thing that's hers 
 Escaped her gallant Worshippers. 
 Her Nose, her Chin, her Hand, her Waist, 
 With some sweet Epithet was graced. 
 You even praised her Negligee, 
 And how she sipped her Dish of Tea.
 
 A DRAWN BET 45 
 
 Egad ! I think that she was sent 
 To make you Dandies eloquent. 
 But yet, I marked with some Surprise, 
 That no one spoke about her Eyes. 
 Come, tell their Colour, if you can. 
 And /shall be a wiser Man." 
 
 He spoke, but there were no replies. 
 " What was the Colour of those Eyes ? " 
 Which surely had not idle been ; 
 Although, perchance, not fully seen. 
 They all recalled the Looks of Love 
 They'd wasted in the Orange-Grove ; 
 How they had tracked the pretty Maid 
 From Barton Fields to South Parade ; 
 How firmly, when they passed, they found 
 Her Eyelids settled on the Ground, 
 How, when they grew a little bolder. 
 And turned, they saw — the neatest — Shoulder.
 
 46 A DRAWN BET 
 
 And some remembered sudden Flashes 
 
 Shot bright between long silken Lashes ; 
 
 A Glance diverted from a Book, 
 
 A smile made sweeter by a Look. 
 
 What Eyes ! Sure Hebe's own were duller ! 
 
 But still — what was — what was the Colour ? 
 
 "They're Black" at last MacWhirtle cried. 
 And Astley would have said he lied ; 
 But stopped and stammered, " I should say 
 That they were either Blue or Gray, 
 But Light they are." Then with a Frown 
 Another swore that they were Brown. 
 " You might as well have called them Red. 
 They're Violet" another said. 
 Then Words grew high, and Tempers short. 
 
 Sir Humphry chuckled at the Sport, 
 Till fearing it might end in Blows 
 He thought it right to interpose.
 
 A BRA WN BET 47 
 
 " My Friends," he said, " I plainly see. 
 To-day, at least, you'll not agree ; 
 To-morrow you may find it clear, 
 And I propose that we meet here. 
 Who'll back his colour ? " " I, for one," 
 MacWhirtle said. The Knight said, " Done.' 
 " I too," said Coates, and nothing loth, 
 Sir Humphry smiled and booked them both 
 For Fifty Pound. Then all the rest 
 Cried out, " I too," as if possest. 
 But calm Sir Humphry, with a grin. 
 Gently declined to take them in. 
 
 They parted, and they met again. 
 MacWhirtle's face showed signs of Pain, 
 And Coates', of Joy. Full soon they burst 
 Out with their Tales, MacWhirtle first : 
 
 " In sooth, Fve little, Sir, to say. 
 I went to work a foolish Way.
 
 A DRAWN BET 
 
 Two Steps from here I met a Coach, 
 And in it who but Andrew Roach. 
 To him I plainly told my Need. 
 He said, ' I'll prove a Friend indeed. 
 I know her Brother passing well, 
 Both he and I at Trowbridge dwell. 
 Jump in. To-night he comes to sup ; 
 And in a Trice we'll clear it up.' 
 We went, and found our Bird had flown 
 To Melksham, so we supped alone. 
 We followed after Breakfast. Then 
 We found he'd left for Bath at Ten. 
 And here, at last, we closed the Chase ; 
 Just now we met him Face to Face, 
 But strange to say, this precious Brother 
 Can't tell one Colour from another. 
 I'm sure they're Black, but still must say, 
 I know no more than yesterday."
 
 A DRAWN BET 49 
 
 Then Coates : " I called and found her out ; 
 I caught her at the Hardwicks' Rout. 
 I found her so surrounded then, 
 I scarce could see her for the Men ; 
 But knowing that she left to-day, 
 I thought it time to make my Hay. 
 Two mortal Hours I had to wait, 
 Before I got a Tite-a-tete ; 
 But then, O what a Talk we had, ' 
 Gay, playful, sentimental, sad. 
 Our Subjects would a Volume fill — 
 We talked of Basset and Qiiadrille. 
 We talked of Minuets and Buns, 
 Of Cou?itry Dances, Sally-Lunns ; 
 And then we took a bookish Turn, 
 And spoke of Young's ' Complaint,^ and Sterne, 
 And then of Folly and the Fashions, 
 Of all the Arts and all the Passions, 
 
 E
 
 50 A DRA WN BET 
 
 Of Taste, of Cupid and his Wings ; 
 
 I fear I said some foolish Things ; 
 
 But straight as I the Theme forsook, 
 
 She quickly brought me back to Book. 
 
 And now and then her Eyes she raised, 
 
 And in my Face quite frankly gazed, 
 
 As if to read if what I said 
 
 Came from the Heart or from the Head, 
 
 And once, surprised with sudden Feeling, 
 
 She turned them sweetly to the Ceiling. 
 
 In short — 'twas Modesty, I found. 
 
 That makes her Eyes so love the ground. 
 
 In short, Sir Knight, that Fault you named 
 
 Is one for which she can't be blamed. 
 
 In short " 
 
 " 'Tis long, Sir !— You forget," 
 Sir Humphry cried, " about the Bet ! 
 Her Eyes — their Colour." As he spoke
 
 A DRAWN BET 51 
 
 Young Astley jumped as if awoke. 
 " Her Eyes — of course, I ought to know ; 
 I saw them straight before me — so. 
 Their Colour — well, upon my word, 
 The Fact is — really quite absurd. 
 They were so bright and kind and true, 
 I never thought about their Hue."
 
 ON ONE NOT BEAUTIFUL 
 
 Dear Soul, how different were you from those 
 Who, clothed in more than mortal loveliness. 
 Have but to speak or move or smile t' express 
 The virtue rare their eloquent forms enclose. 
 More different still from them whose beauty throws 
 A glamour round their real unsightliness, 
 With hearts less tender than their least caress, 
 And minds less graceful than their idlest pose. 
 O Soul most beautiful, to whom was given 
 A form that hid you as a cloud a star, 
 Bearing no semblance to the light disguised. 
 When you within the crystal streams of Heaven 
 Shall see yourself as lovely as you are, 
 How happy you will be, and how surprised.
 
 ELISHAi 
 
 "Thy staff is on his face," Gehazi said, 
 "And yet he wakes not." Silent, fierce, alone, 
 Elisha strode into the room, and prone 
 He flung himself upon the floor and prayed. 
 " O God of mine, are we forgot — betrayed ? 
 What is this hidden thing that thou hast done, 
 And why thy loving mercy turned to stone ; 
 Thy children left in darkness, and dismayed ? " 
 Nor only prayed — but with his body whole, 
 With eye to eye, and large to little hand, 
 And mouth to mouth he called, and answer came. 
 Body rephed to body, soul to soul, 
 And the eyes, smitten with a strange command, 
 Opened — and saw the Prophet's — and took flame. 
 ^ Suggested by a picture by Sir Frederick Leighton, P.R.A.
 
 UNDER THE OAK 
 (To W. E. H.) 
 
 Soft the windblow and sunshine 
 In this garden which is mine, 
 Scarce a hundred yards in girth, 
 Yet a part of all the earth ! 
 World for carpet, roof of skies, 
 Walls of Nature's tapestries, 
 Nought between the sun and me 
 Save the curtain of a tree. 
 
 Here as 'neath the oak I sit, 
 Whisperings come out of it ; 
 Summer-fancies, half desires,
 
 UNDER THE OAK ^^ 
 
 Breaths that fan forgotten fires, 
 Trembling little waifs of song 
 Seeking words to make them strong, 
 Life that dies without a sorrow. 
 Butterflies of no to-morrow. 
 Odours of a bygone day, 
 All the sweets that will not stay. 
 All the sweets that never cloy, 
 Unembodied souls of joy. 
 Sing and flutter, flash and go, 
 With a ceaseless interflow ; 
 Till at last some happier seed, 
 Finds the rest its brothers need, 
 Strikes a root and grows and climbs. 
 Buds in words and flowers in rhymes. 
 
 Who shall tell me how it came ! 
 Was it in the winnowed flame
 
 56 ^ UNDER THE OAK 
 
 Golden-dripping through the leaves 
 Like the grain of heavenly sheaves ? 
 From the voice of throstle clear 
 Was it filtered through the ear ? 
 Came it thus, or did it come 
 Borne upon the wild bees' hum, 
 That a moment buzzed around 
 With a circle charmed of sound ? 
 Or did zephyr in a dell, 
 Steal it with a scent as w^ell 
 From some hidden flower bell, 
 To instil its life in me 
 With a subtle chemistry ? 
 
 Little knew I, but a sense, 
 Solemn, delicate, intense. 
 Filled my spirit with a bliss, 
 Sweeter, holier, than a kiss.
 
 UNDER THE OAK 57 
 
 Liquid, radiant, unthought, 
 That at once all being brought 
 Into rarer harmony, 
 Beast and bird and sun and tree. 
 Air and perfume, God and me. 
 
 Just as one whose birthright lost, 
 Wander-struck and passion-tost, 
 After many a loveless day 
 Sails at length into a bay 
 Where he thinks his bones to lay ; 
 Finds indeed an end to strife. 
 Not in dying, but in life. 
 Friends and kindred, birthright, all. 
 With dear love for coronal. 
 
 So at length I seemed at home. 
 Underneath that distant dome, 
 Where the spirit holds at ease
 
 58 UNDER THE OAK 
 
 Frank communion with the trees ; 
 Comrade of the boundless wind, 
 Linked in universal mind 
 With all things which live or are, 
 From the daisy to the star, 
 Part for once of nature's plan 
 Not the lonely exile — Man.
 
 "O SCORN ME NOT" 
 
 Rondeau 
 
 SCORN me not, although my worth be slight, 
 Although the stars alone can match thy light, 
 Although the wind alone can mock thy grace, 
 And thy glass only show so fair a face ; 
 
 Yet — let me find some favour in thy sight. 
 The proud stars will not bend from their chill height. 
 Nor will the wind thy faithfulness requite. 
 Thy mirror gives thee but a cold embrace. , 
 O scorn me not. 
 
 My lamp is feeble, but by day or night 
 It shall not wane ; and, but for thy delight, 
 My footsteps shall not for a little space 
 Forego the echo of thy gentle pace, — 
 
 1 would so serve and guard thee if I might. 
 
 O scorn me not.
 
 TEN THOUSAND POUNDS 
 
 Rondeau 
 Ten thousand pounds (a year), no more 
 Nor less will suit. A man is poor 
 Without his horses and his cows, 
 His city and his country house, 
 His salmon river and his moor. 
 And other things unmissed before 
 Would be desired and swell the score. 
 But 'tis enough when fate allows 
 
 Ten thousand pounds. 
 
 But O my babies on the floor, 
 My wife's blithe welcome at the door, 
 My bread well earned with sweat of brows. 
 My garden, flowerful, green with boughs. 
 Friends, books — I would not change ye for 
 Ten thousand pounds !
 
 MONTANUS AND CAMPESTRIS 
 
 MONTANUS 
 
 My path is on the mountain height, 
 Beneath my feet the vapours creep, 
 My eyes for ever seek the Ught. 
 
 Campestris 
 I wander where slow waters sweep, 
 Their full-brimmed margin, scarcely higher 
 Than is thy bosom, boundless deep. 
 
 MONTANUS 
 
 And ever as I mount, a fire 
 Within me, keener, stronger burns. 
 And lifts me nearer my desire.
 
 62 MONTANUS AND CAMPESTRIS 
 
 Campestris 
 There in the marsh the stilted herns 
 Stand as they stood long years ago 
 Where the rank grass to rushes turns. 
 
 MONTANUS 
 
 Around me the white fields of snow, 
 And far beneath the haunts of men, 
 Who plough and dig and reap and sow. 
 
 Campestris 
 The mist-wreaths gather o'er the fen. 
 And all the things I know grow pale, 
 And vanish slowly from my ken. 
 
 MONTANUS 
 
 Nor do my eager senses fail 
 
 To catch the sound of village bells 
 
 Which struggles upwards from the vale. 
 
 '
 
 MONTANUS AND CAMPESTRIS 63 
 
 Campestris 
 The silence to the darkness tells 
 Its secrets none may overhear, 
 In whispers weird as witches' spells. 
 
 MONTANUS 
 
 O simple Love and foolish Fear ! 
 Ye sweet companions of my youth, 
 Ye have no heart to travel here ! 
 
 Campestris 
 And every form and sound uncouth 
 Startles the blood with icy thrills, 
 Like Doubt's cold fingers laid on Truth. 
 
 Montanus 
 
 life of puny storms and stills, 
 
 1 stand above you, girt around 
 With wars of unembodied wills,
 
 64 MONTANUS AND CAMPESTRIS 
 
 Campestris 
 
 And I were coward, but for sound 
 
 Familiar, as the bittern's boom. 
 
 Or kine, deep breathing near the ground. 
 
 MONTANUS 
 
 Beneath the inimitable dome, 
 Now sheeted in the lightning flare, 
 Now shrouded in the after-gloom. 
 
 Campestris 
 
 Not rare the mists, but ah ! not rare 
 
 The splendid Sun that strikes them through, 
 
 And shows us that the world is fair, 
 
 The trees, the grasses, and the dew, 
 The flowing silver of the stream, 
 The deep sky infinite and blue.
 
 MONTANUS AND CAMPESTRIS 65 
 
 MONTANUS 
 
 While now and then a savage gleam 
 Stabs to the distant plains below 
 Which flash and vanish like a dream. 
 
 Those plains which scarce I seem to know, 
 So far am I above the curse 
 Which mingles every weal with woe, 
 
 Craving no more, nor fearing worse 
 Than thus to stand upon the brink 
 Of things and feel the Universe. 
 
 ' Campestris 
 
 And then how pleasant 'tis to think 
 Of one strong ever-loving Hand 
 Stretched out to save us when we sink. 
 
 How easy 'tis to understand 
 
 That there is constant warmth above 
 
 This low and ague-breeding land, 
 
 F
 
 66 MONTANUS AND CAMPESTRIS 
 
 That ills are mortal, but that Love 
 Hath evermore her seat on high, 
 Above the power of men to move. 
 
 MONTANUS 
 
 On board the world I seem to fly 
 From season unto season, bound, 
 With all the great ships of the sky, 
 
 To no known port, but without sound 
 Cleaving the shoreless seas of space 
 For ever, in a ceaseless round. 
 
 Campestris 
 Ay, in this transitory place 
 Where we are born to live and die. 
 How much the mortal hath of grace ! 
 
 In no ill-furnished hostelry, 
 
 But one well kept and garnished too, 
 
 With things well-pleasing to the eye,
 
 MONTANUS AND CAMPESTRIS 67 
 
 Our sojourn is, and little rue 
 A man shall have, though poor he be 
 As I am, and his daily view 
 
 These marshes spreading to the sea ; 
 To whom the hills are distant things 
 And mountains dreams of mystery. 
 
 MONTANUS 
 
 And winters new succeed new springs, 
 And evermore we circle through 
 The void unoared of any wings. 
 
 Continual change and nothing new, 
 But endless shiftings of the veil 
 
 That hides the sameness from our view, 
 
 1 
 A veil of mists and shadows pale, 
 
 A veil of storm-cloud and sunlight, 
 
 A veil of rainbow, wind, and hail,
 
 68 MONTANUS AND CAMPESTRIS 
 
 A veil through which we seem to fight, 
 But which is part of us and bound 
 About our brows, athwart our sight. 
 
 Our feet are tethered to the ground, 
 The Earth is anchored to the Sun, 
 And all our progress but a round. 
 
 Ah ! freedom is a thing that none 
 However far he seek may find ; 
 We are in servitude begun, 
 
 And ended, even the wild wind 
 
 That holds the whole world in its mesh 
 
 Is bound, though freer than the mind 
 
 Which from the fastness of the flesh. 
 With her sad comrades Hope and Will, 
 Views it with envy ever fresh.
 
 MONTANUS AND CAMPESTRIS 69 
 
 Campestris 
 And sweet it is at evening still, 
 When Peace and Leisure crown the day, 
 To pass with Fancy o'er the hill 
 
 And o'er the mountains far away, 
 Where there is nothing but is strange, 
 New trees, new flowers, new beings, aye. 
 
 New men and women, change on change, 
 And endless things we cannot see ; 
 For without limit is the range 
 
 Of fancy, giving us to be 
 One moment on the precipice. 
 Another on the level lea. 
 
 At will to glide o'er fields of ice, 
 
 Or toil knee-deep in burning sand. 
 
 Or roam through fragrant groves of spice.
 
 70 MONTANUS AND CAMPESTRIS 
 
 What riches given to our hand, 
 More than we e'er can hope to use, 
 Without a step from this our land 
 
 Where comfort is, and no quick news 
 
 Of earthquake or volcanic ire 
 
 Can plunge into our midst and fuse 
 
 All settled order like a fire ; ■ 
 For dear we hold what we possess, 
 The fruits of toil and long desire, 
 
 And stranger joys we value less 
 Than blossoming of patient Hope 
 And tender growths of tenderness. 
 
 ff 
 
 MONTANUS 
 
 But in our prison house is scope 
 For any energy we have. 
 With Ignorance alone to cope
 
 MONT ANUS AND CAMPESTRIS 71 
 
 Will make us busy till the grave ; 
 And ever as I mount I feel 
 That I am somewhat less a slave, 
 
 Less stirred by fears that are not real, 
 Less charmed by hopes that have no root, 
 And more regardless of my weal. 
 
 'Tis something to have lifted foot 
 Above the region of deceit 
 Where owls of Superstition hoot. 
 
 And Prophets false with voices sweet 
 Stand on the great high road of Truth 
 And turn aside the weary feet ; 
 
 Above the war of claw and tooth, 
 (The legacy of brute to man,) 
 The greed of age, the lust of youth,
 
 72 MONTANUS AND CAMPESTRIS 
 
 To rise, and from the height to scan 
 What has been, and what is, and face 
 The blankness of the future plan. 
 
 For here at least is nothing base, 
 
 No selfish rage, no sordid care ; 
 
 For though the rough winds round me race 
 
 In chaos wilder than despair, 
 
 Not passionate is their work, but done 
 
 In order with exceeding care, 
 
 Passing man's patience ; ages run 
 And still they strenuously engage 
 In tasks which yet are scarce begun. 
 
 And the Sun too from age to age, 
 Though bursting with excess of heat. 
 Shines grandly patient, without rage,
 
 MONTANUS AND CAMPESTRIS 73 
 
 His vast employment to complete ; 
 Nor wheresoe'er I turn my eyes 
 Look they on Lust, or Envy meet. 
 
 Campestris 
 And though the Sun more seldom rise 
 In splendour on our misty plain, 
 The rarelier seen, the more we prize. 
 
 We laugh at pleasure after pain, 
 Nor hold him wisest in this Hfe 
 Who closely reckons loss and gain, 
 
 But he, who in the Night of strife 
 
 Still keeps his courage as a star 
 
 To cheer his neighbours and his wife. 
 
 And make them patient where they are, 
 Unrestless in the midst of change, 
 At peace until the end of War
 
 74 MONTANUS AND CAMPESTRIS 
 
 And Life, nor covets wider range 
 
 Than that these mist-bound fields afford, 
 
 Knowing there lies a mist more strange 
 
 Over that melancholy ford 
 
 To which he soon must come, perforce, 
 
 Whatever bourne he turn toward. 
 
 And o'er that dismal watercourse 
 
 Lives Love's innumerable band 
 
 With Truth and Beauty at the Source. 
 
 And every form of Sweet or Grand, 
 All Knowledge and all Happiness, 
 Within that clear resplendent land 
 
 Not only seem, but are no less. 
 No man, however trouble-tost. 
 Shall then remember his distress,
 
 MONTANUS AND CAMPESTRIS 75 
 
 Nor pleasure missed, nor purpose crost, 
 Nor hope forgone, nor sight unseen, 
 Shall haunt him, as a something lost. 
 
 MONTANUS 
 
 And Hope for ever peers between 
 The narrow bars and scans the sky 
 For any signal he may glean. 
 
 Nor without promise utterly ; 
 For ever changeful is the change 
 Which seems so like monotony, 
 
 And nought but tends to something strange 
 However tightly curbed it be 
 By law's unalterable range ; 
 
 And all things work unconsciously 
 To some result, we know not what, 
 And all things tend to rest ; so we.
 
 76 MONTANUS AND CAMPESTRIS 
 
 And aye the Hope that dieth not 
 Still dreams of some superior kind, 
 And of a wider, wiser, lot 
 
 For that which may be left behind, 
 
 A something indestructible. 
 
 When Time which bound us shall unbind ; 
 
 Nor any doubt shall ring the knell 
 Of this last Hope which bids me wait 
 Dumb, unimpatient, till I dwell 
 
 No more in this confined estate 
 Watching with thoughtful Idleness 
 The crisis of an unknown fate. 
 
 But with untrammelled eagerness 
 And conscious of my goal I move 
 To harm no thing, if not to bless.
 
 MONTANUS AND CAMPESTRIS 77 
 
 Campestris 
 Ah ! brethren on the heights above, 
 I envy not your more of Light 
 That bringeth you no more of Love. 
 
 I envy not your wider sight, 
 
 I envy not your rarer air. 
 
 You cannot cherish hopes more bright 
 
 Nor higher Uft the clouds of care ; 
 Nor, might I Uve where'er I would. 
 Would I select a spot more fair 
 
 Than these low marshes prone to flood. 
 For here are simple folk who hold 
 The simple faith that God is good. 
 
 Ah ! brethren, first to see unfold, 
 And last to see flash back again. 
 The Day's resplendent Gates of Gold,
 
 78 MONTANUS AND CAMPESTRIS 
 
 I yet will cleave to this low plain, 
 And keep the path my fathers trod, 
 Repeat their pleasure and their pain, 
 
 A little nearer to the sod, 
 A little farther from the Sun, 
 And just as near, I trow, to God, 
 
 Almighty, Everlasting, One.
 
 VIOLET 
 
 Rondeau 
 Violet, delicate, sweet, 
 
 Down in the deep of the .wood, 
 Hid in thy still retreat, 
 Far from the sound of the street, 
 
 Man and his merciless mood : — 
 Safe from the storm and the heat. 
 
 Breathing of beauty and good 
 
 Fragrantly under thy hood, 
 Violet. 
 
 Beautiful maid, discreet. 
 Where is the mate that is meet. 
 
 Meet for thee — strive as he could 
 Yet will I kneel at thy feet, 
 
 Fearing another one should, 
 Violet !
 
 TO PUNCH 
 
 Rondeau 
 
 Punch them all round, make them bellow, 
 
 You are the lad to my mind, 
 
 Though you are rather unkind 
 
 To Judy and Punchinello. 
 
 You are a humorous fellow, 
 
 Dressed all in red and in yellow, 
 
 A hump before and behind. 
 
 Come let me pledge thee in mellow 
 
 Punch. 
 Rebel as Massaniello, 
 Without any reason assigned, 
 Murderer worse than Othello, 
 Without an lago to blind, 
 Why do we love thee so well, O 
 
 Punch !
 
 THE TRUE LOVER 
 
 To him whose love flows on — beyond the shore 
 Of Ufe, whose days are full of lonelinesses, 
 But who within the heart's remote recesses 
 
 Hears the bright laughter of the living world, — 
 
 To him Delight is as a ringlet curled 
 Around his finger for a little space 
 That, slipping, leaves him thinking of a face 
 
 \\'hich laughed and wept, but now shall weep no 
 more. 
 
 To him there is no treason in new love 
 
 That wrongs not any old, no faith in giving 
 
 To wantless dead the crumbs that feed the living. 
 
 Devotion none in watching wakeless sleep. 
 
 X
 
 82 THE TRUE LOVER 
 
 For him his friends descend not to the deep 
 Of sunless graves, but with no clouded face 
 Remain to cheer the remnant of his race 
 
 Between the green earth and the stars above. 
 
 To him indeed the world is as "a stage " 
 
 From which there is no exit for the players ; 
 The scene is crowned with the dear delayers 
 
 Whose part is over, but they do not go. 
 
 But still he Hves his part of joy or woe 
 Unlearn'd, unacted, as the Master-will 
 Dictates, whose many-plotted dramas fill 
 
 The theatre of life from age to age. 
 
 To him each year a benefactor seems 
 
 That leaves him stores of happiness and sorrow 
 He neither hugs to-day nor fears to-morrow ; 
 
 He welcomes winter as he welcomes spring ;
 
 THE TRUE LOVER 83 
 
 For he has shaken hands with suffering 
 
 And seen the wings of joy, nor does he scorn 
 The gift of any day however born, 
 
 In mist of tears or in the hght of dreams. 
 
 To him the new is dearer for the old. 
 
 To him the old for each new day is dearer, 
 His unforgotten youth seems ever nearer, 
 
 As though the ends of life were made to meet. 
 
 To him the mingled cup of bitter-sweet 
 Is grown familiar as his daily bread, 
 And in the awful dark he rests his head 
 
 With a hushed confidence that is not bold. 
 
 To him Death seems less terrible than sleep, 
 For he has seen the happiness of dying, 
 And no bad dreams disturb the tranquil lying 
 
 Of those who bear green grass above the breast ;
 
 84 ■ THE TRUE LOVER 
 
 And if there be a waking after rest 
 
 He shall not wake alone, but he shall be 
 With all he loves and all he longs to see, 
 
 And if he shall not wake — he shall not weep.
 
 VIRELAI ANCIEN 
 
 But yester-day, my Queen, — 
 We thought that this had been 
 
 Of ours 
 The crown. The grass was green, 
 And gold the Hght between 
 
 The flowers. 
 Ah, who could have foreseen 
 The tempest cruel, keen, 
 
 That lours ! 
 
 II 
 
 Now Hope has left his towers 
 And Joy has fled her bowers;
 
 86 VIRELAI ANCIEN 
 
 Decay 
 With silent tooth devours 
 The fruits of golden hours, 
 
 Her prey. 
 The sweets that follow sours, 
 The sun that drives the showers, 
 
 Delay. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Ay me, to think this day 
 Should dawn as cold and gray 
 
 As stone. 
 No bird on any spray 
 Can find aught sweet to say. 
 
 My own, 
 To thee so far away 
 I weave this little lay 
 
 Alone.
 
 AD POETAS 
 
 Although no more is heard 
 
 The sweet shrill fluting of the shepherd's fife 
 
 Turning to Song the wonder of the morn, 
 
 And joys of life and hopes of joys unborn 
 
 With doubt and toil and strife are overcast, 
 
 Is all the music buried with the past ? 
 
 Are we left so forlorn 
 
 That there is none to sing us songs of life ? 
 
 Awake all ye that hear ! 
 
 Ye of the undimmed ear, 
 
 Pure as a child's who wonders at a shell,
 
 88 AD POETAS 
 
 Awake and tell ! 
 
 Rejoice and teach men to rejoice 
 
 In their dear Mother's voice ! 
 
 For little can they hear 
 
 Above the shouts that rise around the tlirone 
 
 Of Mammon, through the roar 
 
 Of wars ignoble, and the overpour 
 
 Of wordy torrents, and the cries of Fear 
 
 From poor weak souls bewildered with the strife 
 
 Of all the rival guides of heaven and hell. 
 
 Awake ye then and swell 
 
 The tuneful air with songs of Love and Life ! 
 
 Sing to the crowd ye few, 
 
 To those for whom no chant 
 
 Pierces the purple silence round the stars, 
 
 To whom the spring's fair green, 
 
 The flowerets fresh,
 
 AD POETAS 89 
 
 The heaven's bright blue, 
 
 Tell nothing new, 
 
 To whom, on breezes borne 
 
 No music from the world unseen 
 
 Makes palpitate the god within the flesh. 
 
 Smite the dull souls forlorn 
 
 And make them resonant, 
 
 Pierce through their prison-bars 
 
 Through which the Sun in Heaven itself 
 
 Shines — but a lamp upon a shelf. 
 
 Sing then all ye that hear. 
 
 Nor only hear but feel — 
 
 Through whose sonorous being pass as fire 
 
 The fierce vibrations of the sun-god's lyre, 
 
 To whom the fairest words 
 
 Come blended with the chords. 
 
 To whom breaks never a day
 
 90 AD POETAS 
 
 When no sweet whispers steal 
 From bird and cloud and spray 
 To your most fortunate ear. 
 Sing though all other ears be dull, 
 Sing though all other hearts be hard, 
 And your songs beautiful 
 Your one reward. 
 
 Be ye content with this, 
 Your poet's dower. 
 That though the fates be stern, 
 Denying health, and ease, and fame, and power, 
 They cannot check the soul that dares aspire. 
 Or teach your hearts heroic not to burn, 
 Or throb contented with a tame desire ; 
 And this shall be your bliss, — 
 That, though your feet may bleed and hearts be 
 wrung,
 
 AD POETAS 91 
 
 And though around your honoured heads be hung 
 No well-deserved bays, 
 Not you with unmelodious souls unstrung 
 Shall live unechoing days.
 
 DE LIBRIS 
 
 True there are books and books. There's Gray, 
 For instance, and there's Bacon ; 
 
 There's Longfellow, and Monstrelet, 
 And also Colton's " Lacon," 
 
 With " Laws of Whist " and those of Libel, 
 
 And Euclid, and the Mormon Bible. 
 
 And some are dear as friends, and some 
 We keep because we need them ; 
 
 And some we ward from worm and thumb, 
 And love too well to read them. 
 
 My own are poor, and mostly new. 
 
 But I've an Elzevir or two.
 
 DE LIBRIS 93 
 
 That as a gift is prized, the next 
 
 For trouble in the finding, 
 This Aldine for its early text, 
 
 That Plantin for the binding ; 
 This sorry Herrick hides a flower, 
 The record of one perfect hour. 
 
 But whether it be worth or looks 
 
 We gently love or strongly, 
 Such virtue doth reside in books 
 
 We scarce can love them wrongly ; 
 To sages an eternal school, 
 A hobby harmless to the fool. 
 
 Nor altogether fool is he 
 
 Who orders, free from doubt. 
 Those books which " no good Hbrary 
 
 Should ever be without,"
 
 94 DE LIBRIS 
 
 And blandly locks the well-glazed door 
 On tomes that issue never more. 
 
 Less may we scorn his cases grand, 
 Where safely, surely, linger 
 
 Fair virgin fields of type, unscanned 
 And innocent of finger. 
 
 There rest, preserved from dust accurst, 
 
 The first editions — and the worst. 
 
 And least of all should we that write 
 With easy jest deride them, 
 
 Who hope to leave when " lost to sight " 
 The best of us inside them. 
 
 Dear shrines ! where many a scribbler's name 
 
 Has lasted — longer than his fame.
 
 A BRISTOL FIGURE 
 
 Raised on a little carven corner-shelf, 
 
 Half-shaded by a curtain, stood a figure. 
 Too small to have been left there by itself. 
 But that it seemed to claim a right to space — 
 This baby-gentleman with shirt of lace 
 
 And small fore-finger curving round a trigger. 
 
 A trigger only — for the dainty hand 
 
 Had lost the rest of what was once a pistol ; 
 But still remained the spirit of command — 
 The dandy grace heroic of the boy — 
 That made me think of Dresden and of Troy, 
 Although I recognised the paste as " Bristol."
 
 96 A BRISTOL FIGURE 
 
 So — more from habit than desire to know — 
 
 Down from its lonely stage I softly whisk it, 
 And turn it up — and, sure enough, below — 
 A triangle enclosing two crossed swords. 
 Impressed, the mark which clearest proof affords 
 
 The piece is nothing else than Bristol biscuit. 
 
 And then I hear a stricken cry of " O 
 
 Don't touch — " but ere the sentence is com- 
 pleted, 
 A slender lady with a face of woe 
 Has gently urged the figure from my hand. 
 Replaced it carefully upon the stand, 
 And bid me in a chilly voice be seated. 
 
 "Your business. Sir," she says, and I begin 
 To tell this victim of the china-fashion 
 That I have come in search of next-of-kin
 
 A BRISTOL FIGURE 97 
 
 To some one who has died without a will ; 
 And soon the lace upon her breast is still, 
 
 And gone all symptoms of her recent passion. 
 
 I scarce could fancy that a moment since, 
 
 Her manner and her face had been alarming ; 
 
 Thoughtful enough a sceptic to convince 
 
 A woman may be wise as well as fair, 
 
 There yet was such a frankness in her air, — 
 
 She might be passionate, but she was charming. 
 
 And as I rose I said " I thank you much 
 For all your courtesy to me a stranger. 
 
 And grieve that I was rude enough to touch 
 
 Your Bristol boy. I have a piece or two 
 
 Worthy of such a connoisseur as you. 
 
 And know the shock of seeing them in danger. 
 
 " Though injured, it is singularly fine. 
 And if you'll trust in one who has offended, 
 
 H
 
 98 A BRISTOL FIGURE 
 
 \ 
 I know a man, a genius in his line, 
 
 Whom I and just a very few employ ; 
 
 He will restore for you your little boy 
 
 So that you'll scarcely tell he has been 
 
 mended." 
 
 " Ah, no, forgive me — but for me its charm 
 (Her face grew strangely solemn as she spoke 
 
 it) 
 Is only in the httle broken arm. 
 Restore my boy ! — you knew not what you said— 
 I had a little son once who is dead, 
 
 And I was angry with him when he broke it."
 
 ON A PORTRAIT OF FARADAY 
 
 Was ever man so simple and so sage, 
 
 So crowned, and yet so careless of a prize ! 
 
 Great Faraday, who made the world so wise 
 
 And loved the labour better than the wage ! 
 
 And this you say was as he looked in age 
 
 With that strong brow and those great humble eyes 
 
 That seem to look with reverent surprise 
 
 On all outside himself. Turn o'er the page, 
 
 Recording Angel, it is white as snow. 
 
 Ah, God, a fitting messenger was he 
 
 To show thy mysteries to us below. 
 
 Child as he came has he returned to thee. 
 
 Would he could come but once again to show 
 
 The wonder deep of his simplicity.
 
 A DIFFERENCE 
 
 O Socrates the wise and just 
 
 Whose Spirit's everlasting hght 
 Still beams above the Ages' dust 
 
 As though 'twere lit but yesternight. 
 Ah, could I talk but once with you 
 
 And see you as you once were seen, 
 What should we say, what should we do ? 
 
 O the gulf that lies between ! 
 
 O Phidias, Evangelist 
 
 Of godlike beauty hid within 
 The common forms that fought and kissed 
 
 Before the world was sad for sin.
 
 A DIFFERENCE loi 
 
 Like your Apollo, could you too 
 
 Stride o'er the years which intervene, 
 
 What could we say, what could we do ? 
 O the gulf that lies between ! 
 
 O Shakespeare — English born and bred, 
 
 To whom all men were but one clan, 
 Who knew the living, drew the dead, 
 
 And rent the veil 'twixt man and man. 
 Ah ! could some touch your life renew 
 
 As when you strolled on Stratford green, 
 We should be strangers yet — we two, 
 
 O the gulf that lies between ! 
 
 O Christ, though Time and Space estrange. 
 Though customs pass and creeds decay, 
 
 To you alone there comes no change. 
 The same to-day as yesterday.
 
 I02 A DIFFERENCE 
 
 I well might fear to meet with you, 
 But yet — no want of what has been, 
 
 No empty void 'twixt old and new. 
 Like a gulf would lie between.
 
 THE SECRET 
 (To L. E. M.) 
 
 She passes in her beauty bright 
 
 Amongst the mean, amongst the gay, 
 
 And all are brighter for the sight, 
 And bless her as she goes her way. 
 
 And now a beam of pity pours. 
 And now a spark of spirit flies, 
 
 Uncounted, from the unlocked stores 
 Of her rich lips and precious eyes. 
 
 And all men look, and all men smile. 
 But no man looks on her as I : 
 
 They mark her for a little while, 
 But I will watch her till I die.
 
 I04 THE SECRET 
 
 And if I wonder now and then 
 
 Why this so strange a thing should be- 
 That she be seen by wiser men 
 
 And only duly loved by me ; 
 
 I only wait a little longer, 
 
 And watch her radiance in the room ; 
 Here making light a little stronger, 
 
 And there obliterating gloom, 
 
 (Like one who in a tangled way 
 
 Watches the broken sun fall through, 
 
 Turning to gold the faded spray 
 And making diamonds of dew. ) 
 
 Until at last, as my heart burns. 
 She gathers all her scattered light, 
 
 And undivided radiance turns 
 Upon me like a sea of light.
 
 THE SECRET 105 
 
 And then I know they see in part 
 
 That which God lets me worship v. hole : 
 He gives them glances of her heart, 
 
 But me, the sunshine of her soul.
 
 DECAY 
 
 Like the dawn of a day 
 Is the dawn of a man ; 
 Full of life it began, 
 
 Without thought of decay. 
 
 But as surely began 
 
 Both the man and the day, 
 Surely cometh decay 
 
 To the day and the man. 
 
 Can we say of decay 
 It was then it began ? 
 With the prime of the man, 
 
 With the noon of the day ? 
 
 No, the death of a man 
 Is the end of decay 
 That with dawn of the day 
 
 Of his being began. 
 
 The first day of a man 
 There began his decay.
 
 THE FIRST OF MAY 
 
 Dear, it is the first of May, 
 
 Come with me, and let's away 
 
 Far from town and everyday. 
 1 * * * 
 
 Half an hour before the train ! 
 
 Well then, here we must remain. 
 
 Ton my word, I think your bonnet 
 
 Charming with the roses on it. 
 
 Who would think it was so old ? 
 
 Look, there is a marigold 
 
 Blooming on that rubbish-heap, 
 
 Happy in the little peep
 
 io8 THE FIRST OF MAY 
 
 Of sun it gets between the walls. 
 
 See, she answers when he calls. 
 The girl, I mean, the other side. 
 Never mind the station wide, 
 Love can bridge it with a smile. 
 You have made them for a while 
 Happy maid and happy man, 
 Station, Metropolitan. 
 Organ boy, you want a copper. 
 No, don't beg, for that's improper. 
 What a grin and what \^ hite teeth. 
 Like a dagger from a sheath ! 
 Why is all the rest so dirty. 
 What will you be when you're thirty ? 
 I suppose that England's cold. 
 Home and wash before you're old. 
 Don't know English, what, not any ? 
 Well, your smile was worth the penny.
 
 THE FIRST OF MAY 109 
 
 How the sun makes all things new ! 
 Bricks are gold and slates are blue. 
 Were the station but more airy 
 'Twere a cage for a canary, 
 And the bridge and houses hideous 
 Almost please a taste fastidious. 
 
 Nobody seems poor to-day. 
 What's the use of fine array ! 
 Vanity superfluous 
 Seems that lady's silken fuss ; 
 
 She's so fair without a touch 
 
 All the rest seems overmuch, 
 
 And her big brooch and the jewel 
 
 In her ear seem almost cruel. 
 
 What a laugh ! 'twas like a thrush 
 
 From the green heart of a bush. 
 
 Such as we shall soon be seeing, 
 
 There's another one agreeing —
 
 no THE FIRST OF MAY 
 
 Happy girls in sorry dresses 
 With the sun upon your tresses, 
 Careless what the world may say, 
 Laugh the loudest that you may. 
 Mrs. Grundy does not know you ; 
 She's above you (or below you). 
 Even London birds will sing 
 When they feel the sun of spring. 
 
 Look at that brave soldier there. 
 What a glory in his air ! 
 " Not quite sober ! " did you say ? 
 Well, let's look another way. 
 
 Look at the advertisements, 
 Houses, horses, monuments. 
 Tea and sugar, seeds for sowing, 
 Babies' food — machines for mowing, 
 Walking-boots, and daily papers. 
 Lovers' lamps and bottled capers.
 
 THE FIRST OF MAY 1 1 1 
 
 How our fellow-creatures pant 
 To relieve another's want ! 
 How can man want anything 
 On this bright sweet day of spring ! 
 See the men on scaffold poles 
 Building shells for human souls, 
 Bricks and mortar, and macadam, 
 « Needed by the sons of Adam. 
 What a pity for our sins 
 Nature ends where man begins. 
 Yet the thought another sends 
 Man begins where nature ends, 
 And a heart despising pelf 
 Bears all nature in itself. 
 
 Now at last the warning bell. 
 Here's the engine terrible, 
 Here's our carriage, let's away 
 From the town and everyday.
 
 DEAD 
 
 My son, my darling, all my joy — my shame — is dead, 
 The race is run, the end has come, and I am glad- 
 Did I say glad ? God help me. How the old words shift 
 Their meaning. Ay, sir,— glad indeed, as some poor 
 
 wretch. 
 Who, after years of madness, wakes to conscious life 
 Again, but reft of health, and hope, and sadly says 
 " I live " — but lives not any more the life he knew. 
 
 Come, look on what is left of him. The face is fair, 
 But it was far more lovely just before he died, 
 For then his eyes were open, those large lustrous eyes 
 His mother had, in whose pure depths, as into Heaven
 
 DEAD 113 
 
 We used to look with awful pride, and say, " The child 
 Is ours, at least he will not lie." And once — but once — 
 The smile returned — the bright young smile — alight with 
 
 love 
 Caught from his mother's kisses. This was at the last 
 And suddenly — as though the fiend relaxed his clutch, 
 And, bounding back with swift recoil, th' enfranchised 
 
 soul 
 Blessing my eyes one moment, laughed at death and 
 
 fled. 
 I would that I were younger, rude, untutored, rash. 
 By instinct ruled or impulse ; in each rush of blood 
 To hear God's trump for action, see in all things strange 
 His clear handwriting, omens deem as true as death, 
 Then might I endless comfort take from that rare smile 
 And deem my boy were safely housed in arms of God. 
 Could you have wished a child of yours to look more 
 
 fair?
 
 114 DEAD 
 
 Sweet face with that bright beam of Hght athwart the 
 
 hair, 
 The raven hair that flashes yet, white in the Hght — 
 The solemn purple curves of shade on either brow, 
 The quiet mouth, the downy cheek, the long-lashed lids, 
 'Tis hard for me at times to doubt that all is well. 
 
 Vex not yourself to seek for phrases to console, 
 I have not lived so little while in this small world, 
 Nor have I read so little of its little lore, 
 That I can be consoled — there is no whiff of hope 
 I have not drawn within my soul, and breathed again 
 Out, void of virtue all, as is the confined air 
 Of a poor man's sick chamber. Yet " 'tis best " you say 
 And "Time will heal.'" Ay, thei'e is comfort's length and 
 
 breadth ! 
 Can it be best for me that my one child be damned ? 
 Can Time renew an old man's hopes, or health, or heart.'' — 
 No best, no Time, for me. " But Resignation re.sts " —
 
 DEAD 115 
 
 O virtue of small price in one who has no strength 
 To fight ! Resigned am I — as a thrown knight sore smit, 
 Heavy with armour, crushed, with foot upon the thi'oat. 
 O shudder not, I know, my friend, the foot is (iod's — 
 Foot of no foe, although he came with vizor down, 
 And lance in rest, to cast me senseless to the ground. 
 But what comes next, I ask ? There's no swift stroke 
 
 for me, 
 To cut the knot of life, no little silent thrust 
 To end me in the instant, shut the gates of Time 
 And open up the land where fuller knowledge dwells. 
 What next? Shall we not seek because no man has 
 
 found ? 
 Shall ignorance suffice because the truth is hid ? 
 Not so — God's riddle asked an answer must be sought, 
 And we must wander through the echoing woods and 
 
 seek, 
 And search in hidden chambers, for the quest is great.
 
 ii6 DEAD 
 
 And glorifies defeat — Nay, 'tis not all defeat. 
 Flashes of light, as of the veil one moment raised. 
 Keep up the heart from fainting, sometimes whispers 
 
 come 
 Like answers, thoughts arise like angels' faces sweet, 
 And pass away, but leave a track of light behind. 
 
 That silent face with its fair seeming — full of peace — 
 Not seldom will content me. Then I seem to see 
 The Father raise him from his knees and say, " My son 
 Fear not, for all must stumble in that puzzling world, 
 Without my light to guide them." This is not for long, 
 Reason awakes and shakes her head from out the net. 
 He knew the right from wrong as well as you or I, 
 And chose the wrong — and yet — weak but not wholly 
 
 base 
 Followed the fiend with hated steps and aching heart, 
 Yielding his body only with averted soul, 
 And died. Shall this be counted sin, his death I mean ?
 
 DEAD 117 
 
 How wild was I, ay wild as he, but I have lived, 
 
 Shall living save my soul and his be lost for death ? 
 
 Perchance when his account is struck, some balance left 
 
 Of grace withheld, of born defect, of overstrain, 
 
 Shall make his Angel smile. O restless, deathless, hope 
 
 That beats its bleeding pinions evermore in vain 
 
 Against this narrow cruel cage of ignorance. 
 
 While far above our heads the great sun visible 
 
 Shines ever in its glory and the heavenly air 
 
 Blows through the gilded wires. Ah ! would that I could 
 
 rest 
 And lull my soul to sleep in some not base content ; 
 Ah God ! that this should be— that what we know 
 
 should spoil 
 The taste of what we trust, but in thy hands are we. 
 And Trust is priceless yet, be Knowledge what it may.
 
 WHITHER 
 
 Life before us, 
 Song-birds chorus, 
 
 Sunny weather, 
 Wherefore know 
 ^^'■here we go 
 
 If together ? 
 What should mine eyes 
 Seek but thine eyes 
 
 Dearest ever ? 
 Other goal 
 Than thy soul 
 
 Never, never.
 
 WHITHER 119 
 
 'Tis the Spring-time 
 Queen-time, King-time, 
 
 Love cries " Hither." 
 Let us go. 
 Love will show 
 
 Whither, whither.
 
 A DISAPPOINTMENT 
 
 It happened thus. The other day 
 When I came late from town, 
 
 I took a peep at little May 
 All warmly nestled down. 
 
 And as I peeped at her she smiled 
 A smile so bright and rare, 
 
 I thought I never saw a child 
 So pretty anywhere. 
 
 I bent and kissed, as still she slept, 
 Her lips so sweetly parted, 
 
 But she awoke, and stared, and wept, 
 As she were broken-hearted.
 
 .■i DISAPPOINTMENT 121 
 
 With gentle speech and soft caress 
 
 The tears were quickly dried, 
 And as the sobs grew less and less 
 
 I asked her why she cried. 
 
 " Because — " she murmured tearfully, 
 
 " Because it wasn't true — 
 I thought that God was kissing me 
 
 And it was only you."
 
 A POPULAR ERROR 
 
 I DECLARE that it's nothing but ignorant stuft', 
 To say that the course of true love is so rough. 
 I have fallen in love and got married since Spring, 
 And I'm sure that I found it the easiest thing. 
 
 Her hair is pure gold, her gloves six and a quarter, 
 Her feet — you would scarcely suppose they'd support 
 
 her. 
 She dotes upon Verdi, she dresses with taste, 
 And / never saw such a round little waist. 
 
 I'm awfully lucky, perhaps, you will say. 
 And perhaps so I am in a sort of a way,
 
 A POPULAR ERROR 123 
 
 But I know lots of fellows who've made better matches, 
 And weren't after all such remarkable catches. 
 
 I really had no thought of marriage at all, 
 When I met her one night at the Hamiltons' ball. 
 The moment I saw her I thought she was nice, 
 And I liked her so much that I danced with her 
 twice. 
 
 But I only first thought I was in for it when 
 I was smoking next night with a party of men. 
 And some one remarked that I didn't seem right. 
 And chaffed me about her, and love at first sight. 
 
 A similar thing had once happened before, 
 And I didn't find it a bit of a bore. 
 I'm not such a fool as to mind being chaffed, 
 But this time I felt very queer when they laughed.
 
 124 ^ POPULAR ERROR 
 
 I know I remembered the sound of their laughter, 
 And didn't feel well for a day or two after ; 
 But then came the Derby, you know, when, of course, 
 One only can think of one's favourite horse. 
 
 'Twas just after that my poor grandfather died, 
 And left me some houses and money beside, 
 A small place in Surrey, and pictures no end. 
 And I felt 1 had more than I knew how to spend. 
 
 It was thus I arrived at that crisis in life 
 
 When one's driven to think about taking a wife ; 
 
 And men who have nothing can scarcely believe 
 
 How you long for an heir when you've something to leave. 
 
 I thought of a hundred, but still couldn't find 
 One girl that would answer, for love is so blind. 
 But one day I saw her come out of a shop, 
 And, by Jove, but I felt almost ready to drop.
 
 A POPULAR ERROR 125 
 
 I don't know what Love is, if that wasn't Love. 
 Perfection itself from her boot to her glove ; 
 And when as she passed me she gave me a smile, 
 I knew I had loved her a deuce of a while. 
 
 I didn't stop idle, but setting to work 
 I looked up her father, and found him in '"Burke," 
 Then made some inquiries, and learnt in a trice 
 There was nothing about them that wasn't quite nice. 
 
 You can scarcely imagine the trouble I spent 
 To get invitations wherever they went, 
 But I kept my intentions as close as a mouse, 
 Until they had asked me three times to the house. 
 
 Then I went to the father and said what I'd got, 
 And asked if his daughter were promised or not, 
 And he, after settling some minor affairs, 
 Said, "I make no objection, my daughter's upstairs."
 
 126 A POPULAR ERROR 
 
 Of course just at first I was flurried a bit, 
 
 When she held out her hand and she asked me to sit 
 
 I felt that I ought to go down on my knees, 
 
 But the charm of her manner soon set me at ease. 
 
 I noticed she wore a most exquisite ring, ' 
 
 And I told her I loved her, and that sort of thing : 
 And she said, as she looked in the tenderest way, 
 " It's perfectly marvellous all that you say." 
 
 She said nothing else, but she gave me her hand 
 In a way that no fellow could misunderstand. 
 It's funny how few are the words that are needed 
 By people who love one another as we did. 
 
 Her father and mother are two in a crowd, 
 
 Kind of parents of whom any man might be proud : 
 
 They wanted delay, but agreed with a sigh 
 
 That we should be married the end of July.
 
 A POPULAR ERROR 127 
 
 So I say that it's nothing but ignorant stuff, 
 To say that the course of true love is so rough : 
 Sir Harry consented to be my best friend, 
 And there wasn't a hitch from beginning to end.
 
 WITH A DRAWING BY BOUCHER 
 
 (To N. G.) 
 
 See what a little thing 
 
 This that I offer you, 
 
 Just a few grains of dust 
 
 Staining a faded leaf 
 
 ^Vill you not welcome it 
 
 Yet — and be kind to it, 
 
 Smile on it once, and think 
 
 " Boucher saw, Boucher drew " ? 
 
 Just a mere wanderer, 
 Footsore and weary-souled 
 All on a summer's day,
 
 WITH A DRA WING B Y BOUCHER 129 
 
 Called from a dusty road. 
 " Rest ye," said rosy lips, 
 " Rest ye and pipe to us, 
 Light are our hearts and feet." 
 
 Ah ! They are grains of dust, 
 Piper and lady fair, 
 Formless, unhumanised, 
 Painter and company. 
 This is their messenger. 
 Is it not mightier .? 
 Keeping what grace it had. 
 Bearing in spite of death, 
 Man and the thought of man, 
 Safe through the centuries ? 
 
 Yet — 'tis a little thing, 
 Scarcely a glance's worth. 
 
 K
 
 I30 WITH A DRAWING BY BOUCHER 
 
 Chiefly I value its 
 
 Rare opportunity. 
 
 One thought to send to you, 
 
 Not of unkindliness.
 
 HERMIONE'S HUSBAND 
 
 (See Hermione, by Robert Buchanan. The Argosy, vol. i. p. 47.) 
 
 Clever they call me. Not dull perhaps, 
 And given to fill up life's idle gaps 
 With thought, and reading, and writing, till men 
 Have dubbed me (a woman) a knight of the pen. 
 
 Clever at books — but the girls at school. 
 In spite of my prizes, half thought me fool. 
 Stupid at music — at games much worse. 
 Accounts ! my money slipped out of my purse 
 Like a truant, and left me alone, unaware ; 
 It never was missed till discovered not there. 
 Clever at books — when I rose from my stool, 
 All cleverness ended, commenced the fool.
 
 132 HERMIONE'S HUSBAND 
 
 Clever ! There's one thing I never shall know, 
 Though I ponder about it wherever I go. 
 I may ponder, the answer will never come so — 
 And that is what Alfred could find in me, 
 The silent slow-mannered Hermione, 
 To choose me and pick me from out of the rest 
 As the flower of flowers to wear on his breast ; 
 For I have no graces that most men love — 
 
 No easy manner, no bright finesse ; 
 Though somewhat dainty of boot and glove, 
 
 I spend no trouble about my dress. 
 Why he who had pick of the whole parterre — ■ 
 Bright and blushing, and sweet, and fair, 
 Gladding the eyes and filling the air 
 With scent and colour — should leave them there. 
 
 Pink, anemone, violet, rose, 
 And go to the kitchen garden by. 
 
 And pull him a humble bunch of rue
 
 HERMIONES HUSBAND i J3 
 
 Good for nothing except for tea 
 
 (Or if that seem too modest for you, 
 A simple sprig of rosemary), 
 
 Is more at least than Hermione knows. 
 
 So fast and firm has the habit grown 
 Of reading, and thinking, and writing alone, 
 I have scarce a word to welcome him home, 
 
 Hardly hearing his knock at the door, 
 Often surprised to find him come 
 
 When he's been at home ten minutes or more. 
 And yet he laughs at my absent gaze. 
 
 And sits so quiet until I've done. 
 
 And then is so ready with talk and fun, 
 Never cross at my dull, abstracted ways, 
 
 So patient of every slight and whim, 
 One would think, to judge from his happy looks, 
 He was glad I thought so much of my books, 
 
 And paid so little regard to him.
 
 134 HERMIONES HUSBAND 
 
 He thinks I am more wise than he, 
 But not so thinks Hermione. 
 For all my learning is of books — 
 Pilfered scraps from many a mind. 
 Packed like rags in the top of my head, 
 But his is won from ways and looks 
 And daily conflict with his kind. 
 Built up with wisdom firm he stands, 
 His every member deeply read, 
 You hear his knowledge in his tread, 
 You feel it in his massive hands. 
 And yet he is happy, I think, with me. 
 For his laugh is merrier every day 
 When he bends from out the world to play 
 With baby and Hermione. 
 
 And I am happy, happiest when 
 He tells his merry tales of men,
 
 HERMIONE'S HUSBAND 135 
 
 And I listen, looking very wise, 
 
 To fall of consols and rise of stocks ; 
 And though he laughs, with mouth and eyes 
 
 Brimful of fun, he never mocks 
 Whene'er I let my ignorance out 
 Of that great world I write about. 
 
 I feel a careless girl of ten 
 ^^'ith our baby boy betwixt us placed, 
 And Alfred's arm about my waist. 
 
 Learning seems but a sorry thing 
 
 To all the pleasures that love can bring, 
 And the world is nothing to all of us then. 
 
 With many a kiss we laugh and play 
 And send all care and thought to the right-about 
 
 And wonder, as time slips gaily away, 
 ^Vhat we are all so foolish and bright about, 
 
 And which is the silliest of the three,
 
 136 HERMIONE'S HUSBAND 
 
 Alfred, baby, or Hermione. 
 O puzzle of puzzles, the puzzle of life, 
 
 Whatever Alfred could find in me, 
 To choose and pick me for his wife. 
 But I thank my God both night and morn 
 
 That He has given to Hermione 
 The tenderest husband that ever was born.
 
 MYSTERIES 
 
 Well, I'm not much of a thinker, 
 My brain weren't made that way ; 
 
 Not a bit Hke Tim the tinker. 
 Who puzzles his head all day 
 
 With the how and the why and the wherefore. 
 
 He don't get answers much, 
 But's always a puzzlin' — Therefore 
 
 I don't see the use of such. 
 
 I know that I'm created 
 
 And have got to earn my bread, 
 
 That I've worked and loved and mated, 
 And some day shall be dead.
 
 138 MYSTERIES 
 
 What else — not much — but I've wondered 
 At many things in my time, 
 
 And found when most I blundered 
 Words jingled into rhyme, 
 
 As now — when the kettle's singing 
 And thinking does no hurt, 
 
 And the wife's at the washtub wringing 
 The suds from my Sunday shirt. 
 
 But soon I'm up to the middle 
 
 In some familiar slough— 
 O the world, as they say, is a riddle — 
 
 I gave it up long ere now. 
 
 God's work's alive, and increases ; 
 
 It's that which puzzles my wits ; 
 If you take it all to pieces 
 
 You can't make much of the bits.
 
 MYSTERIES I39 
 
 He works behind a curtain 
 
 And only let's see what's done — 
 I can't learn nothin' for certain 
 
 If I don't see it begun. 
 
 So things in the Earth and the Heavens 
 
 The wise may bother about ; 
 They're all at sixes and sevens, 
 
 And how should a dunce find out ? 
 
 Ay — there be mysteries many, 
 
 One can neither hear nor see, 
 In that next world (if any, 
 
 As I believe there be), 
 
 Besides all peace and pleasure, 
 
 And harps of gold and wings, 
 Mayhap we'll have some leisure 
 
 To learn about these things.
 
 I40 MYSTERIES 
 
 Yet though I seldom worry 
 At things I can't discern, 
 
 And ain't in a violent hurry 
 
 For there to be nothin' to learn, 
 
 There's just one fact mysterious, 
 One never-ending doubt. 
 
 One secret, sad and serious, 
 I'd like to know right out. 
 
 I'd bear the burden gladly 
 
 If I could only know ; 
 But the wife she fcets so sadly 
 
 As she goes to and fro. 
 
 Whether she's hemming a border, 
 Or putting a shine on a chair. 
 
 She thinks " This is out of order, 
 There must be a fault somewhere."
 
 MYSTERIES 141 
 
 It's not like a common sorrow, 
 
 That bides a bit and is past ; 
 It's here for to-day and to-morrow, 
 
 As long as our lives shall last. 
 
 I know that it must be designed, 
 
 Or else it would never be so, 
 But why poor baby was born stoneblind, 
 
 Is the thing that I want to know.
 
 THE DEAFNESS OF DEATH 
 
 My faith is with that bard of old who sings 
 
 " A drachm of sweet is worth a pound of sour ! " 
 
 And in this world of change is scarce an hour 
 
 But with its burden of care some sweet hope brings ; 
 
 Yet some there be who drop from their black wings 
 
 A shade that clings as blight clings to a flower. 
 
 Such foes hath Joy, that no man has the power 
 
 To shield him from their shafts or soothe their stings. 
 
 And one of these is Death, and one is Shame ; 
 
 Of Shame, thank God, I know not but the name, 
 
 But Death I know, for he from me did take 
 
 My own dear Love, and O, so fast he flew, 
 
 1 could not see his face, nor even make 
 
 Him hear my prayer to take me with him too
 
 A SONG OF THE SEASONS 
 
 Sing a song of Spring-time, 
 
 The world is going round, 
 Blown by the south wind : 
 
 Listen to its sound. 
 " Gurgle " goes the mill-wheel, 
 
 " Cluck " clucks the hen ; 
 And it's O for a pretty girl 
 
 To kiss in the glen. 
 
 Sing a song of Summer, 
 The world is nearly still. 
 
 The mill-pool has gone to sleep. 
 And so has the mill.
 
 144 A SONG OF THE SEASONS 
 
 Shall we go a-sailing 
 
 Or shall we take a ride, 
 Or dream the afternoon away 
 - Here, side by side ? 
 
 Sing a song of Autumn, 
 
 The world is going back ; 
 They glean in the corn-field 
 
 And stamp on the stack. 
 Our boy, Charlie, 
 
 Tall, strong, and light : 
 He shoots all the day 
 
 And dances all night. 
 
 Sing a song of Winter, 
 The world stops dead ; 
 
 Under snowy coverlid 
 Flowers lie a-bed.
 
 A SONG OF THE SEASONS I45 
 
 There's hunting for the young ones 
 
 And wine for the old, 
 And a sexton in the churchyard 
 Digging in the cold.
 
 THE REBEL 
 (From the French of Baudelaire) 
 
 An angel swoops like eagle on his prey, 
 Grips by the hair the unbelieving wight, 
 And furious cries, " O scorner of the right, 
 'Tis I, thine Angel good, who speak. Obey ! 
 
 Know, thou shalt love without the least distaste 
 The poor, the base, the crooked, and the dull ; 
 So shall the pageant of thy Lord be graced 
 With banners by thy love made beautiful. _ 
 
 This is God's love— see that thy soul be lired 
 With its pure flame or e'er the heart grow tired, 
 And thou shalt know the bliss that lasts for aye." 
 
 Ah'! with what ruthless love that Angel grand 
 Tortures and racks the wretch with giant hand ! 
 —But still he answers, " Never, till I die."
 
 AVANT QU'AMOUR 
 (From the French of Ronsard) 
 
 Before that Love of drowsy Chaos rent 
 
 The breast, and freed the Ught therein concealed, 
 With land unshaped, and waters unrevealed, 
 The very heaven was in confusion blent ; 
 
 Even so my mind, of all things indolent, 
 In the gross substance of my body sealed 
 Lay all unformed, unwhole, till through my shield 
 Love from thine eyes his piercing arrows sent. 
 
 My nature now by Love made perfect is. 
 My heart is freed from all impurities. 
 And Life to them and Power is given by Love. 
 
 Through my cold blood his subtle spirit stole. 
 And rapt aloft by him, with him I move 
 For ever joined in body, mind, and soul.
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF ALFRED TENNYSON 
 
 A DAY DREAM (1869) 
 
 I HAD a holiday down by the sea, 
 
 And I said to the Present "Away with thee," 
 
 And suffered the tide of Memory 
 
 To wash me away from Place and Time. 
 And many a morn, as I lay afloat, 
 I smoked and dreamed in my little boat, 
 Of fields of barley and of rye 
 That either side the river lie 
 
 That ever flows to Camelot. 
 
 For I was full of the golden rhyme 
 Of Tennyson, the Laureate.
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF ALFRED TENNYSON 149 
 
 And oft, as I lay at my length, afloat. 
 
 Faces I never had seen before 
 
 (But I knew them well though they knew not me), 
 
 Sweet faces came and peeped over the boat, 
 
 Madeline, Adeline, Eleanore, 
 
 And often at eve, when the light was wan, 
 
 Afar I heard the gathering glee 
 
 Of the jubilant voice of the Dying Swan ; 
 
 For little had I to do with time, 
 
 And my soul was steeped in the golden rhyme 
 Of Tennyson, the Laureate. 
 
 And once my slow keel gently grazed 
 A loamy marge, and I arose 
 And passed into a little close 
 Where on a blooming bank there lay 
 The fainting form of Fatima, 
 Stung to the soul with sharp desire.
 
 ISO RECOLLECTIONS OF ALFRED TENNYSON 
 And when her face I gently raised 
 Her breath was on my cheek as fire, — 
 {Beside me lay, uncut, the Twies, 
 For I chewed the cud of the golden rhymes 
 Of Tennyson, the Laureate). 
 
 Not long, for suddenly the breath 
 Failed, and she slid from my lax clasp, 
 And quick night came and quenched the day 
 In her bright orbs. I wondered, while 
 She gave her life up with a smile 
 And cry of " Antony " ; and death. 
 Clothed in the semblance of an asp. 
 Writhed from her robe and slunk away. 
 Ay me, it was a pleasant time 
 When I was borne upon the rhyme 
 Of Tennyson, the Laureate.
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF ALFRED TENNYSON 151 
 
 Behind, a sweet voice whispered, " Look ! " 
 
 I turning soon beheld a maid, 
 
 Her hair in many a chestnut braid. 
 
 And at her feet a noisy Brook. 
 
 " You will be welcome, sir," she said, 
 
 And led the way to a near Mill, 
 
 With mignonette upon the sill 
 
 Of a neat window o'er my head. 
 Alas, that it should end, this time. 
 When I breathed the breath of the golden 
 rhyme 
 Of Tennyson, the Laureate. 
 
 We entered in. The room was foul — 
 A vinous fume hung in the air ; 
 Knee by knee, and cheek by jowl, 
 Two topers old were bibbing there. 
 I knew the place, T knew the men,
 
 152 RECOLLECTIONS OF ALFRED TENNYSON 
 
 I knew it was the House of Sin ; — 
 But cried " Where hast thou brought me then ?" 
 She answered with a toothless grin. 
 Obhvious of the feet of Time, 
 I flowed on with the golden rhyme 
 Of Tennyson, the Laureate. 
 
 When suddenly there rose a din, 
 And in there strode a Red-Cross Knight, 
 With armour bright, and visage s*d. 
 Who, with a clean sweep of his sword. 
 Swept flask and flagon from the board, 
 ■ And cried " My name is Galahad " ; 
 And out into the darkness dim, 
 And through the world I followed him. 
 
 For I was free from the trammels of Time, 
 And lived in the spacious world of rhyme 
 Of Tennyson, the Laureate.
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF ALFRED TENNYSON 153 
 
 And after many a day we came 
 Where, on a tall cliff firmly set, 
 A Palace rose up like a flame. 
 As fairylike and delicate, 
 Built of a stone that hath no name. 
 " I surely know, or I forget," 
 
 « 
 
 I said, " Sir Knight, but truly this 
 
 Of Art, I think, the Palace is." 
 I sang this to the silver chime 
 That rings for ever through the rhyme 
 Of Tennyson, the Laureate. 
 
 " Not Art, but Arthur," cried the Knight, 
 And soon in a great hall we found 
 The blameless King, and Table Round, 
 Engirt with knights, — a goodly sight. 
 Then cried the King, and smote the oak, 
 " Love, Truth, and Beauty, one, but three,
 
 154 RECOLLECTIONS OF ALFRED TENNYSON 
 
 This is the Artist's Trinity ! " 
 And lo, 'twas T^nyson who spoke. 
 For this shall be through endless time 
 The burden of the golden rhyme 
 Of Tennyson, our Laureate.
 
 A DRAWING-ROOM IDYLL 
 (A Study in Quantitative Hexameters) 
 
 Leonora 
 
 m 
 
 Emily, how petulant Caroline was early this evening, 
 Now with lips in a pout she seemed to verge on an out- 
 break. 
 Nearly beyond control, now, happily deep in a novel 
 Sat elegant at her ease. Come, Emily, tell me the 
 reason. 
 
 Emily 
 O Leonora, futile I hold all dreams of a mother — 
 All her life one long anxiety doomed to be barren. 
 Ah, how often alone her sweet face happily sleeping
 
 156 A DRAWING-ROOM IDYLL 
 
 Sleepless I, on an elbow raised, have watched in a 
 
 « 
 
 tremble 
 
 Fearful of ills. Now she when alone but dreams of a 
 
 lover. 
 
 Leonora 
 
 Well. Caroline is a child and one very much like 
 
 another 
 Whom we remember both as a girl. Ay, Emily, you 
 
 too, 
 Wrapt in an infant's slumber, a sweet face watched as an 
 
 angel 
 Purely, divinely patient, ever anxious, not to be wearied, 
 Mother of us, but alas, not here to be blessed in a 
 
 vision 
 Of sweet dreams fulfilled, of sons, true sons of a father 
 Grave, eloquent, high souled, of daughters worthily 
 
 mated. 
 It was at her request perhaps you married an artist.
 
 A DRAWING-ROOM IDYLL 157 
 
 Emily 
 
 O this is hard t' endure from you, Leonora, my sister, 
 Often upon these knees you know how deeply repent- 
 ing 
 Hours upon hours I've knelt. 
 
 Leonora 
 
 And thanked your stars for a husband. 
 Yes — I know well enough, although he's rather a poor 
 one. 
 
 Emily 
 
 Poor indeed ? as if I ever asked for wealth or adorn- 
 ments. 
 
 Mere vanities corrupt, of a world more vain than a 
 phantom. 
 
 No, Leonora, were Albert Grange as poor as a church- 
 mouse —
 
 158 A DRAWING-ROOM IDYLL 
 
 Leonora 
 O, is it Albert Grange Caroline loves? Emily — non- 
 sense ! — 
 Why, he's rich as a lord, and you to pretend to be sorry ! 
 Nay. I'm sorry myself, 'tis far too good to be likely 
 Albert Grange would choose Caroline. Poor girl, pitifullest 
 Surely of all sad things is a girl unhappily love-struck. 
 
 Emily 
 More pitiful methinks to behold such sympathy wasted. 
 Ah ! how gladly her aunt will learn that kindly relenting 
 Fate has brought proud Albert Grange to my daughter 
 
 adoring — 
 Here is a letter to prove. 
 
 Leonora 
 " He loves her — makes her an offer," 
 O what a catch ! They say, indeed, he's not very strait- 
 laced,
 
 A DRAWING-ROOM IDYLL IS9 
 
 Rather a screw, drinks hard, is fond of company 
 doubtful. 
 
 Yet what a catch ! how well Caroline will shine in a 
 station 
 
 Brightly refined, exalted above all sordid emotions. 
 
 Queen of a sunlit summit, a star with a thousand around * 
 her, 
 
 Far from her old poor friends, and all her needy rela- 
 tions ! 
 
 Emily 
 
 Ah, how kind to be sure, there's scarce one aunt in a 
 
 hundred 
 Knows t' express such deep contempt in manner as artless. 
 How you wrong Caroline, dear beauty, to think for a 
 
 moment 
 She was a girl to neglect old friends. Not carriages, 
 
 horses.
 
 i6o A DRAWING-ROOM IDYLL 
 
 Not diamonds, nor lace, nor gold than flattery stronger. 
 Though their forces unite, could make her cease to 
 
 remember 
 Her sweet home, or mother, or even an aunt, Leonora. 
 
 Leonora 
 
 Well then, if all that's true, what means this tearful 
 abundance ? 
 
 How from a sky quite blue comes all this terrible down- 
 pour? 
 
 Emily 
 How ? why, bless me, the cause is enough, she means to 
 
 refuse him, 
 All for a fancy she took last year to a painter in Egypt. 
 
 Leonora 
 History loves to repeat itself, it's easily seen now 
 Why you deeply repent your wilful choice of an artist.
 
 A DRAWING-ROOM IDYLL i6i 
 
 Emily 
 Well, there's one thing sure, this year we'll winter in 
 England. 
 
 Leonora 
 Still more certain it is one man won't winter in Egypt. 
 
 M
 
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