THE VALE^ARDEN AND OTHER POEMS 8Y ALFRED HAYES ffl LONDON JOHN LANE AT THE SIGN OF THE QSJBODLEY HEADS^ THE VALE OF ARDEN The t-welve poems immediately folio-wing the Dedi- cation originally appeared in a privately issued volume, entitled "yf Fellowship in Song," -written in collabora- tion "with Mr Norman Gale and Mr Richard Le Gallienne. For permission to reprint ttvo poems the Author's thanks are due to the Editors of " The Spectator " and " The Tellow Book." THE VALE OF ARDEN AND OTHER POEMS BY ALFRED HAYES LONDON JOHN LANE AT THES1GN OF THE BOD LEY HEAD 1895 tn Of tMt Edition 550 copies hone been printed. CONTENTS PAGE DEDICATION : TO MY WIFE .... 7 TO NORMAN GALE . . . . . 13 THE VALE OF ARDEN . . . . . 1 6 NOVEMBER ...... 29 CONSERVATION . . . . . . 33 ILLUSION . . . . . . . 3 J HAYESWATER 36 HER FAITH ...... 37 LIGHT AND LOVE ..... 38 OUR SHAKESPEARE ..... 39 PRO TEMPORE ...... 40 THE SILENT HARP . . . . . 4! THE IDEAL ...... 42 MERRY AUTUMN ..... 43 6 CONTENTS PAGE THE SEA ....... 45 IN THE HOUSE OF DEATH .... 46 THE DAWN OF SPRING 49 ON THE MOUNTAIN . . . . 56 FELLOW-CAPTIVES . . . . . 58 A STORM SONG ...... 62 THE TRYST ...... 63 TO THE COWSLIP ..... 66 A NOVEMBER PARABLE 69 RUSSIA . 71 REQUIESCAT 72 POESY 74 TO THE REDBREAST 75 ESTRANGEMENT . . . . . . 79 THE LARK IN AUTUMN . . . . 8 1 MY STUDY 83 TO THE NEGLECTED MUSE . . . . 87 Defcicatfon TO MY WIFE BELOVED wife, For ever mine, not by the rash Consuming kiss Whose fierce flame turns to early ash, But by the love that is The sunshine of the tree of life ; Thy love, that lent Its morning breath to song, hath hushed My manlier lute ; As birds that pipe when dawn is flushed, Or eve is wan, are mute At noontide of their full content. 7 TO MY WIFE When love had birth, My heart became a secret shell Where many an air Moaned of the sea of love Ah ! well, Those songs, my sweet, will share Our slumber in the sacred earth ; And now that day Is darkened by the hand of death, In warning raised, And the dread angel threateneth, While love recoils amazed, The hour wherein the soul grows gray ; Again my heart Is shaken into song ; for so I need thy love As blossoms need the light, and know This paradise will prove A wilderness if thou depart. TO MY WIFE Therefore I crave With all my selfish strength that them May'st close mine eyes, Not I, beloved, thine ; death's brow Frowns not on him that dies, But him that kneels beside the grave. Nor could my loss So harm thee, as thy loss would blight My lonelier soul ; But ah ! thy tears ! 'tis well that night Obscures the shore, where roll The waters each must singly cross. Is love afraid Of love's best friend ? Is it to see His picture wear Its highest holiest light, that He Who painted love so fair Hath edged it with so deep a shade ? 10 TO MY WIFE Thy beauty glows The brighter for this cloud, fair flower Suffused with light Of love's own sun, whose gracious power Evil and good unite To praise, as all men praise the rose. Still would I woo To win thee, though I have by rote Thy sure consent ; For thou art mistress of each note Of love's sweet instrument, And art as free as thou art true. I ask no life Beyond this homely earth, so God The boon bestow Of autumn calm, and, ere the sod Receive us, days of snow For closer nestling, faithful wife. TO MY WIFE II But whether long Or brief our transient honeymoon, We'll share at last One dwelling, where in love's high noon Our dearest days were passed, Not far from Avon's slumber-song. TO NORMAN GALE 13 TO NORMAN GALE (With that portion of " A Fellowship in Song" entitled " from Midland Meadoios") FRIEND, whom I met in fruitful days Rambling amid sequestered ways Of rustic song, These flowers, in midland meadows grown While yet I walked and mused alone, Pleased to be laid beside thine own, To thee belong. We both have worshipped the pure rest Of Arden's gently sloping breast, With faith sincere ; 14 TO NORMAN GALE The simple breadth of view, that fills Our famished souls, the voice that stills, The comfort of the lowly hills, To both are dear. Oft have we blest each woodland throat, Have held our breath for some rare note In secret brake ; Together watched the moon sail through Mysterious seas of hoary blue, Or stars mid billowy clouds pursue Her amber wake ; Then, flushed with winter's honest kiss, Have heard the yule-log snap and hiss, While songs, unsung By souls that glowed apart before, Leapt from our spirits' molten ore, As from the fire's refulgent core Tongue leapt to tongue. TO NORMAN GALE 15 Age will abate the lyric flame, The grave's dull tooth consume our name ; But hap what may, Friend, we have captured fugitive Fine joys, whose music will outlive All the discordant world can give Or take away. 1 6 THE VALE OF ARDEN THE VALE OF ARDEN HERE, in this maze of stifling streets, Where heaven's own eye looks sick and spent, Where day to day care's curse repeats, And nature's priceless poesy Is bartered for a glittering discontent, I would not choose to die. But when with weary feet I turn, Baffled, from truth's continual quest, And hope's rich bow hath ceased to burn, And, heard afar, the curfew-bell Calleth my heart home to the quiet breast Of her I love so well THE VALE OF ARDEN ^.^ Dear mother Earth I fain would watch The wisdom of thy gradual ways From underneath some ancient thatch, Where all that toucheth eye or ear Keepeth the simple tone of those good days When childhood's fount ran clear ; There to abide, and hold awhile Communion with thy soul, and mark Thy reverend visage frown and smile, And woo the secret of the breeze, While dawn grows noon and noon declines to dark By unperceived degrees ; So, made at one with thee, to taste Contentment's temperate cup, nor spill One precious drop in needless haste, But, with youth's fever-dream subdued, Let Nature's sovereign alchemy distil The balm of quietude ; 1 8 THE VALE OF ARDEN And feel her healing influence fall, As when upon a sufferer's head A hand is laid, medicinal To put the lean and clamorous brood Of pain-begotten cares to flight, and spread A slumber through the blood. Embosomed shall my cottage be In woodlands, whence the village spire Peeps, and the overflowing glee Of lips that cannot long be sad Makes with the songbirds' sweet untutored quire Music divinely glad ; Not where the cloud-encumbered brows Of mountains brood o'er barren dales, And many a fretful torrent flows ; Nor where, with slow-returning sigh, The sleepless surge eternally bewails Life's lonely mystery ; THE VALE OF ARDEN 19 But where, by moss-grown watermills And willowy meadows fringed with reed, Old Avon creeps beside the hills That shelter, not seclude, the plain, And peaceful kine o'er sunny pastures feed Refreshed with genial rain. There, in the softly sloping lap Of England's peace, where hedges trim Chequer the lea, and mists enwrap Each hidden hamlet, waits my home A drowsy region, friendly unto him That asks no more to roam ; There Shakespeare's self was moulded ; there He wooed his love, he wove his verse ; There his full soul grew ripe ; and ere His song was stilled, on that kind breast Contented well to sleep, he laid a curse On who should break his rest. 2O THE VALE OF ARDEN A land where venerable trees Whisper to many a storied grange, Where orchards slumber, and the breeze Comes laden with the breath of flowers, And all things bask, and nothing swift or strange Disturbs the loitering hours. No sea-blast warps the stateliness Of those great elms ; but wafted mild From the warm hills the large airs bless The mellow midland vale ; and all That liveth where its generous sun hath smiled Doth goodly grow and tall. Not desolate is he that dwells In that still country ; all around Breathes a familiar voice, that tells The soul's desire is satisfied, And man with every earth-born thing is bound In kindred close and wide. THE VALE OF ARDEN 21 The murmur of the haunted woods, The sombre music of the storm, The spell that o'er the distance broods, In one broad harmony unite Of peace, as blend the rainbow's tones to form The perfect chord of light ; And as of yore rich incense rose, When on their knees the people fell 'Neath some vast dome, so all that grows Beneath heaven's roof pays to the sun Due worship of earth's sweet and wholesome smell, Mingling all life in one ; The fragrance of the fresh-turned loam, Of hawthorn bloom and breathing hay, The slumbrous air of harvest-home, Find each in man their counterpart, And make the echoes of old memories play About his listening heart ; 22 THE VALE OF ARDEN Whether through greenwood shades he steals, Or museth where the landscape sweeps Into the realm of dream, he feels A sense of great companionship, Of one that knoweth all but ever keeps A finger on the lip ; He hears when not a blade is stirred, And, muffled in dense foliage, Only the call of some shy bird Deepens the silence of the whole He hears a voice whose comfort can assuage The fever of his soul. Gently the seasons twine their arms, Lingering amid those tranquil glades, Relieving each the other's charms, Waking and lulling pure desires A restful loveliness that never fades, A change that never tires. THE VALE OF ARDEN 23 Spring trills her blithest carol there, When cowslips fleck the glistening green, When swallows cleave the gladsome air With rapturous cries, and bursting buds Breathe, after showers, a soft mysterious sheen Along the sunlit woods. There, when the hidden dove all day Purrs in the coppice dim with heat, Reclined beneath a wild-rose spray June sleepeth in the still noontide, While over fragrant fields of bean and wheat The slow cloud-shadows glide. But chiefly autumn loves to shed Her placid sunshine o'er the vale, When wide across the mead is spread Warm river-mist, and the mild year Dreameth, and orchards rich with fruit exhale A lustrous atmosphere ; 24 THE VALE OF ARDEN Then sweet it is, with meek-eyed dawn, While yet the shadows of the sheaves Stretch far and faint, to pace the lawn Dew-silvered ; or to stray with her By ragged hedgerows while the reddening leaves Are gray with gossamer ; To watch, when golden afternoon Floodeth the garden's sanctuary, Bees harvesting the blossom's boon, Where mid the stately hollyhocks Teems the rich hive, and flits the butterfly O'er flower-beds edged with box. When winter's loud-lunged herald wears His motley suit, 'tis good to mark Storm-pennons, which the south wind tears To tatters, stream across the sky, And sun-gleams chequer hamlet, holt and park With wild emblazonry, THE VALE OF ARDEN Chasing the shadows as they sweep O'er stubble fields and withered sedge, Gilding awhile the ricks that peep, Fresh-thatched, where brooding yews protect Some low-browed homestead on the river's edge, Time-stained and ivy-decked. Dear too are winter's sober skies To him who pants for quiet ; all The lavish autumn splendour lies Asleep beneath its coverlet Of fallen foliage ; and a purple pall Clings, when the sun hath set, To naked woods as soft as clouds ; While with cold arm the saintly moon Hallows the silent mist that shrouds The darkening furrows, and a calm Unfelt in springtime's morn or summer's noon Sinks on the soul, like balm 26 THE VALE OF ARDEN On a parched wound. And as the glow Of sunlight's pride must perish ere The stars can tremble, even so Is many a modest beauty bid To grace the staid night-season of the year, Whom his bright day had hid ; No longer overgrown with green, But gemmed with rain and berry-crowned, From each bare hedge the eye may glean Soul-sustenance ; enough to trace One spray of white-veined ivy clinging round An oak-tree's lichened base ; Or roaming the chill fields among, Where heavily the plough-team moves, To hear the robin's slender song, When fuller throats have ceased to strain, Repeat to flowerless glades and mournful groves Its simple sweet refrain ; THE VALE OF ARDEN 2 7 And nearing home, through leafless trees To see the thin blue smoke ascend, Where amid vine-clad cottages Life slowly smoulders to its rest, Each kindly-hearted swain a natural friend, Each roof a human nest. So would 1 praise the bounteous year, And quickened by earth's close caress, Would hold the lowliest weed more dear Than all the laboured pomp of art ; Eased of the city's crowded loneliness Which chokes, yet starves, the heart } But strengthened from the living wells, And nurtured on the wholesome fare Of country sights and sounds and smells, Would find beneath the greenwood bough All that I loved in childhood unaware, And love with worship now. 28 THE VALE OF ARDEN And let me at the last repose Not where along unlovely ways The roaring tide of trouble flows, But where is heard the bleat of sheep, And homely elms, that breathe of by-gone days, Watch o'er the churchyard's sleep ; There by the sweet birds shall be said My requiem, and death's garden wear A look so kind, that unafraid Children shall come to weave a wreath Of daisies gathered from my grave, nor care Who lieth underneath. NOVEMBER 29 NOVEMBER MOURNER, who wanderest gray and mute O'er mouldering leaves and fallen fruit, Weep, unreproved ! Thou art not for thy sombre suit The less beloved. Welcome as April's bridal tears, Or the ripe smile September wears, Are thy grave eyes, Made wistful with the aged year's Dim memories. 30 NOVEMBER Thine are the dawns of solemn sheen, Through interwoven branches seen, As when doth smite Through some cathedral's carven screen The altar's light. Thou lendest darkness to the yew, To distant hills a deeper blue ; Thy footsteps wake Mosses to flower, when flowers are few In leafless brake. Fair as her liveliest summer dress The beech's silver nakedness, When red and gold, That robed her for the storm's caress, Her feet enfold. Through steel-blue clouds a gleaming wedge Strikes on the berry-jewelled hedge And dusky wood, On osiers smooth and tawny sedge And streams in flood. NOVEMBER 31 And as a child's light laugh beguiles Sorrow to lose herself in smiles, The redbreast's lay Maketh the woodland's silent aisles Seem almost gay. 'Tis good to watch the loose clouds driven, When the broad south their web hath riven, Or pace again Beneath a calm snow-burdened heaven The darkening lane, Strewn with the maple's moth-like seeds, And catch the scent of smouldering weeds O'er brown waves borne Of fresh-ploughed loam and silent meads And cornfields shorn ; 'Tis good to feel thy teardrops fall Upon the dead fern's quiet pall Of purple mist, When frost for their snow-burial The wolds hath kissed ; 32 NOVEMBER But best to watch when death-like eve The pensive landscape doth bereave Of short-lived day Thy great pathetic sunsets grieve Their hearts away. CONSERVATION 33 CONSERVATION THOU, who from many a spray forlorn Its ruddy jewellery hast torn, Beloved thrush ! From mountain-ash no need to fly, At sight of me, to sanctuary Of laurel-bush. Plunder thy fill ! my garden yet Is sweet with stock and mignonette, With asters gay, And of its plenty well can spare, O prince of song, the frugal fare It doth purvey. 34 CONSERVATION Soon will the dahlia's pride lie dead, The sunflower droop his kingly head, And pinched with cold The lordly hollyhock repine For still September's mild sunshine And moon of gold. Then winter with her wailful rains Will weep o'er autumn's gaunt remains, Or watch them lie Stark in the snow's sepulchral dress, Entombed within a featureless Gray vault of sky. But when I sigh, dear mottled thief, For crocus-flower and lilac-leaf Delaying long, The vanished splendour of the tree Will glow again, conserved by thee, In glorious song. ILLUSION 35 ILLUSION (Composed on observing that the rainbotv, -when steadily gazed at, disappears.} WHEN in despite of care's dead weight, And tarnished faith, and hope's decay, A gladness stirs thee, delicate As the first tremor of the spring Or thrill of love's awakening, Ask it not Whence or it will shrink away. So when the rainbow's transient smile Cheereth heaven's gray and tearful face, Look lightly on that tender wile ; For if too hard, in joy's excess, Thou gaze, the specious loveliness Will fade as doth a dream, and leave no trace. 36 HAYES WATER HAYESWATER ENFOLDED in the mountain's naked arms, Where noonday wears a drearier look than night, And echo, like a shrinking anchorite, Wanders unseen, and shadowy strange alarms Visit the soul ; there sunshine rarely warms The crags, but only random shafts of light Flit, while the black squalls shrilling from the height Shudder along the lake in scattering swarms. Cradle of tempests, whence the whirlwind leaps To scourge the billows, till they writhe and rear Columns of hissing spray ; the wrinkled steeps Scowl at the sullen moaning of the mere ; And luminous against the dale-side drear, Ghostlike, the rainstorm's scanty vesture sweeps. HER FAITH 37 HER FAITH How quietly the cold hands keep, Pressed to the gracious heart that loved their grace, Poppies, unconscious of their resting-place, Emblems of dreamless sleep. Around her the star-systems roll Through wastes of silence. Yet the enfolding Power, That fashioned with such care a senseless flower, Will not forsake a soul. 38 LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE FRONT not the sun ; or dazzled by his whiteness Earth's face will seem expressionless and dim, Features confused and beauty drowned in brightness ; But turn from him, And thou wilt find familiar scenes and homely Transfigured with a tender atmosphere ; Scan not the source of all that makes earth comely ; Enough that light is here. Question not love ; or pondering love's essence The wonder of his glory will confound Those fair effects that issue from his presence ; But look around, And thou wilt find the narrowest prospect spacious, And dark perplexities serenely clear ; Scan not the source of all that makes life gracious ; Enough that love is here. OUR SHAKESPEARE 39 OUR SHAKESPEARE TO-NIGHT, where'er men boast thy native tongue, They crown thy brows anew with solemn bays, The cup in silence to thy memory raise, Imperial master of the feast of song In seemly silence for what voice so strong, So sweet, as duly to declare thy praise ? But we, who dwell where Arden yet arrays The oaks thou knew'st in green, where glides along Gray Avon's peace, by many a gentle bend, Through homely pastures, and the bees still sip The flowers that heard thy footsteps we may blend Our homage with a sense of fellowship, May mark a kindlier smile illume thy lip, And feel thee less our sovereign than our friend. 40 PRO TEMPORE PRO TEMPORE SICK of the tumult, weary of the wail, That grateth where the city's breath is sour With greed's unclean disease, where children cower In noisome dens, and women gaunt and pale Pollute their souls for bread, our hearts would fail But for the faith that in some wiser hour Men will possess in peace the world's rich bower ; Envy depart and righteousness prevail. And yet, though other eyes than ours will see The far fulfilment of our larger hope, Justice ordains and pity pleads that we Should cull one garland from the sunny slope Where ease reclines, to gladden those who grope In shades of want and sloughs of misery. THE SILENT HARP 41 THE SILENT HARP POOR harp, how desolate! The loving hand, That wind-like wandered o'er thy tremulous strings, Culling sweet sheaves of sound or whisperings jEolian, at the Master's mute command Drops lifeless. In that unresponsive land What music He from earthly sufferings Evoketh and the stress of mortal things, Wistful we seek but may not understand. Yonder may dwell continual peace, but here All peace begetteth and is born of strife, And every smile is sister to a tear ; Death only can the missing note supply That shall resolve the discord of this life ; Silence alone is perfect harmony. 42 THE IDEAL THE IDEAL SORROW for him who evermore hath striven To shape the perfect vision of his soul ; For gazing up into the face of heaven The falling snow seems foul. MERRY AUTUMN 43 MERRY AUTUMN GOLDEN woodland, sea-blue sky, Crests of cloud-waves tossed on high ; Bouncing breezes, lustrous showers, Leaves and berries gay as flowers ; Purple storms in rainbow belt, Morning frosts that flash and melt ; Dawns arrayed in gorgeous light, Dazzled earth in motley dight. Robins flute a cheerful tune, Orchards glow with apples strewn ; 44 MERRY AUTUMN Sunbeams bless the gathered sheaves, Children chase the skipping leaves ; Buds grow plump in glossy sheath ; Who dare call this rapture death ? Autumn 's neither sick nor sad ; Spring 's begotten ; God is glad. THE SEA 45 THE SEA ELDEST of singers, never-silent sea, Whether in robe of gray or changeful green Thou chantest, or in mail of moonlight sheen, No ear hath learnt thine open mystery. Companion of the world's wide grief, by thee We enter gazing on thy tranquil mien, Or hearkening to the tempest's hollow threne The echoing portals of eternity. Whether on solemn shores advancing quires Of surpliced waves raise the resounding psalm, Or prostrate murmur prayer, thy voice avails The pulse of man's disquietude to calm ; Mourner, whose long complaining never tires, Soother, whose consolation never fails. 46 IN THE HOUSE OF DEATH IN THE HOUSE OF DEATH i. WITH tears they bring her babe to smile The last farewell ; by childhood's grace, In death's dark presence-hall awhile There shines a cloudless face. Too young to know the awful bar That keeps him from those lips so white, He wafts a baby kiss sweet star Unconscious of the night And stretches dimpled hands to grasp The lilies on her breast, nor knows How cold the hands their stems that clasp, How deep the breast's repose. IN THE HOUSE OF DEATH 47 Poor helpless author of our dole, Who ne'er shall lisp a mother's name, God keep him, till he meet her soul From whom he dearly came. II. Beside her fretful infant's cot The father bows his stricken head ; One lieth near, whose sleep will not Be more disquieted. The daylight faileth ; colourless Are all things in the darkening room ; Such nightfall doth his soul possess, Such dumb and hueless gloom. With trembling hands the child he takes ; He moans a verse the happy wife Would croon ; then heaves a sob that shakes The very roots of life. 48 IN THE HOUSE OF DEATH O little arms around him curled, Cling closer to what love is left ; Thou dost not know of what a world Of love thou art bereft. THE DAWN OF SPRING 49 THE DAWN OF SPRING IN the dead of winter's gloom, When Earth in her shroud lay stark, She dreamt that one day the lark Would pierce with his sunny song Her snow-built tomb, And wake into bloom The blossom that slept too long. He is up ! and heaven's deep blue Grew deeper for that last strain Ere he dived to the warm-bosomed plain ; And with what glad bound his voice Pealed forth anew, When again he flew To the realms where the clouds rejoice ! 5O THE DAWN OF SPRING He sang, as he stooped to his mate, Of the glory of sun and sky ; But now the wild poesy, That welcomes the first rainbow And storms heaven's gate, Is of joys that wait On the breathing earth below. The passionate hopes that swell The great soul in his little breast Not even his song hath expressed ; Nor the Muse, who has dipped a wing In the living well Of truth, can tell The rapture of the spring ; It leaps in the gladsome air, Like wine that hath long lain still In the womb of earth, until THE DAWN OF SPRING 51 At a sunbeam's kiss it breaks Into frolic fair, And fragrance rare From its dancing heart awakes ; For April hath moved grim March To smiles, and to tears the snow That lurked by the black hedgerow ; The brooks prattle loud of the showers ; And to breezes, that parch No more, the larch Hath opened her crimson flowers. Through the wayside herbage sere A new-born green upheaves ; The hornbeam's shrivelled leaves Shudder for shame of their age ; For spring wastes no tear On the buried year, But enjoyeth his heritage. 52 THE DAWN OF SPRING The coltsfoot, that never cringed To the tyrannous east, doth make Gay mock of his flight ; the brake With the haze from its young buds shed Is dimly tinged, And the alder hath fringed Its branches with tassels red. Now gleam in the sun and dance The gnats, frail brood of the calm ; The bee, on the bee-like palm, With his sultry summer sound And slow dalliance Doth disentrance The butterfly underground. The shining team doth crawl Over the upland bare ; Billows of loam, as the share THE DAWN OF SPRING 53 Upturneth the good brown land, Glistening fall, To be crumbled small For the seed by the wind's broad hand. The south her white-winged fleet To the dappled hills hath driven ; The great warm heart of heaven, Where love doth dwell, once more Is seen to beat, And its genial heat Hath opened earth's every pore. In the depths of the budding grove Sweet fountains of feeling start ; They well in the old man's heart As he lifteth his cottage latch, Where the courtly dove Makes murmuring love To his lady on lichened thatch. 54 THE DAWN OF SPRING The rush of life, which thrills The trees into tender sheen, The sallow grass into green, Is welcome as when the breath Of daffodils Fresh hope instils In one who is watched by death. O bliss ! once more to feel The native smell of earth, Where the wheat has lowly birth Or the violet's lip is curled, Through the sick soul steal, With power to heal Like the hope of a better world ; To feel the soft caress Of a breeze, foretelling May, O'er the burdened bosom play THE DAWN OF SPRING 55 And fondle the troubled brow, While the sun doth dress In new loveliness Each smooth sap-swollen bough ! His first hot kiss doth inspire Earth's breast with a passion of joy ; No more is she hard or coy ; Her blood, benumbed so long, Is all afire With spring's desire, And flames into flower and song. Rejoice ! for care away With the black east-wind has flown ; Young mirth has mounted his throne ; And love, no more heartsick At spring's delay, Resumes her sway ; And the dead has become the quick. 56 ON THE MOUNTAIN ON THE MOUNTAIN I SCALE the fortress where the winds keep ward O'er health's unrifled hoard ; Each footstep is an ecstasy ; my blood Leaps with the sparkling flood Of sunshine from God's crystal chalice poured. Ascending I behold Earth's ancient scroll unfold ; The mountain's naked shoulder screens from view The valley of last night's expectant rest, Whose hamlet, as the prospect grew, Shrank to a wood-wren's nest. Panting with joyful toil at last I stand Where taintless breezes range, An infant holding Nature by the hand, A new-born creature, to myself most strange ; ON THE MOUNTAIN 57 Exalted to this sovereign height I taste awhile an eagle's lone delight ; Then, as I scan The Maker's outspread plan, My humbled spirit kneels And uncomplaining feels The insignificance of man. Around me slumber giant limbs ; below The vapours crawl that curtain me from care ; A stream unseen is heard to flow ; The breast of peace lies bare ; Reposing there, I gaze along the avenues of air To that which seems a sea beyond the sea, The dim horizon of eternity. 58 FELLOW-CAPTIVES FELLOW-CAPTIVES How blest on earth's green lap to lie, Escaped from town's captivity, But that its smoke on evening gale Far borne this Eden's serpent-trail Sullies the placid sky ; Which else were stainless as the hue Of those moss-cradled eggs, whose view In quaint-cut hedge of town parterre Drove me to seek the taintless air And unpolluted blue. Not here, alas ! Full three leagues fled From yon grim city, overhead Hangs gloom, and silence doth appal As in some stricken house where all The little ones lie dead. FELLOW-CAPTIVES 59 What evil spell has power to hush The rapture of the impassioned thrush ? What keeps his sable-suited peer Dumb, and each dainty sonneteer Of copse and lisping rush, That follows summer o'er the foam ? Or why is heaven's eternal dome Vacant of its high chorister ? Nature, her music reft from her, Is drearier than the home Whose sadness slowly I regain Through ever-deepening shades of pain, As ever more the air grows sick Where the dull miles of dismal brick Spread like a loathsome blain ; My prison, and God help you ! yours, Poor little poets. Man endures The woe his own unwisdom yields, Who lost the freedom of the fields, Misled by his own lures ; 60 FELLOW-CAPTIVES But you, whose ditty's simple meed Was still to pluck the thistle seed, You, bolder finch of sanguine breast, And you, small sir, with rosy crest Cursed be the ruffian's greed That mocked thy love-call, limed the spray Where thou didst light to pipe thy lay, Tore thee from all thou heldest dear, To join thy captive song-mates here A pitiful array Of joy's own angels doomed to dwell Pent in the city's weary hell ; For whisperings of the wind-swept wheat, The clangour of the jostling street ; For clover-breath, the smell Of factory-fumes ; for heaven's great ring, Scarce space to prune an aching wing ! No more, ensconced in hawthorn flower, To weave the wonder of their bower, Or feel the fluttering FELLOW-CAPTIVES 6 1 Of those faint pulses soon to burst Each fragile casket ! but accurst With man's regard, exiled from nest, Woodland and sky and all God's best, To languish mid man's worst. Is't not enough that lean and pale His children pine, but he must hale The happiest of created things, Made free by God's great gift of wings, To share his crowded jail ? 62 A STORM SONG A STORM SONG CHASTEN the land, O wind ; Hurl autumn from his throne ; Be pitiless, be blind, And let the forest groan ; The forest's quickened life Will bless thee yet ; for thou Art God's keen pruning-knife That lops each withered bough. Chasten the land, O war ; Consume the false and frail With fire of thy red star, And let the nation wail ; Redeemed by sore distress From rottenness of soul, 'Twill live some day to bless The storm that made it whole. THE TRYST 63 THE TRYST THE stars are faint and few, The zenith yet is blue ; By daylight still is seen The orchard's tender green, Whose snowy bloom doth rest As clouds on heaven's breast ; But clear and full and high The moon enchants the sky. When day and moonlight meet My heart doth strangely beat ; 64 THE TRYST For when their lips have kissed, I keep my silent tryst With One, to whom alone My inmost heart is known. Her footsteps then are heard When sleeping leaves are stirred ; Her eyes more tender are Than twilight's only star ; She breathes as when the plane Is fragrant after rain ; Her voice is that deep speech Which music yearns to reach. To her pure lips I clung When boyhood's leaf was young ; THE TRYST 65 Her soul possessed the maid When love was first afraid ; But now that love is bold, The gray consumes the gold. Sweet is the sultry noon Of lusty full-blown June, And sweet the golden fruit Of love's accomplished suit ; But sweeter twilight's hour And love's unfolding flower. 66 TO THE COWSLIP TO THE COWSLIP OF all spring joys, the dearest is To drink thy breath again, Freshest of flowers ; The bluebell lights the copse, The primrose paves the glen, But thy frank beauty overtops In open fields The new-born grass, to meet the kiss Of sun and wind and showers, And yields Spring's essence from those five red drops That dyed the breast of Imogen. TO THE COWSLIP 67 Sun-freckled art thou, as the child Who kneeleth down to snap Thy sturdy stem, And fill with thy pure gold Her snowy-aproned lap, White treasury of wealth untold ; Deftly she makes, In bountiful profusion piled, A regal ball of them, And takes For sceptre one that high doth hold His head in pride of April sap. My earliest love of flowers, how good To lay my sunburnt face In grass so lush It shames the name of green, And fold in one embrace The clustered heads of all I glean, 68 TO THE COWSLIP And kiss the pure Warm lips of that fair sisterhood, Or 'mid their golden flush Immure The splendour of some cowslip queen Who reigned apart in loftier grace. Then home to sleep by Avon stream, Cheered by the honest wine Of cowslip flowers ; So pure a draught alone Gives slumber so divine ; All night I breathe the sweet air blown O'er fields thick starred With cowslip constellations, dream Of gold-embrasured towers That guard Some fay for whom the bees make moan, While cowslips by my cheek recline. A NOVEMBER PARABLE 69 A NOVEMBER PARABLE AH ! piteous sight ! While yet the weird moonlight Wove o'er the land her numbing spell, Not a leaf fell To break the crystal silence of the night. But since the frost-subduing sun His azure seigniory From the horizon-mist hath won, Whence his white troops in massive splendour loom, The stricken leaves unceasingly Down flutter to their tomb. 70 A NOVEMBER PARABLE So one who long hath borne Grief's bitter cold, Till faith has failed and hope herself grown old, Endureth till the last chill hour is fled, But at the flash of joy's forgotten mom Drops dead. RUSSIA 71 RUSSIA (December, 1891) As one, who finds the foe he sought to slay Prostrate within the shadow of the tomb, Forgets his wrath, so, grieving for thy doom, Huge wrestler with starvation, we would lay Our ancient grudge aside. The heavens are gray With pitiless calm, and walls of winter loom Around thy blighted plains ; while he, to whom Thou liftest ignorant hands, sits far away, Unenvied prisoner to a fatal throne, Spellbound, with nerveless arm and eye askance. So vast thy misery, one hope alone Rests that, all else too weak, it may betide Hunger's grim hand by dreadful paths will guide Thy laggard feet to thy deliverance. 72 REQUIESCAT REQUIESCAT (October 6th, 1892) PEACE ! for no feebler voice avails to sing The loss of him who best hath sung of loss. Nature herself with folded wing Stood mute ; the great night held its breath ; Solemn the moonlight watched across The mournful calm of summer's grave, When reverently the hand of death Earth's transitory chaplet took, and gave An everlasting wreath. Peace ! let no sacrilegious strain Discordantly profane REQUIESCAT 73 The sanctuary of silence where he lies, Heedless of human worship, with the glow Of God's white lamp upon the closed eyes And cold imperial brow. Nor let a hasty hand presume To lift the hallowed laurel from his tomb. 74 POESY POESY HE hears the music of his heart, But knows not whence the breath is blown ; It conies from regions far apart, With power beyond his own. A presence at his side alights, A whisper at his ear is heard ; Amazed he takes the pen, and writes The inevitable word. TO THE REDBREAST 75 TO THE REDBREAST SWEET minstrel of the homes of men, Waylayer of my early walk, Stay till this dahlia stalk Is tied, and then We'll talk. There, pretty gossip ! now, come near, With jaunty tail, and head awry ; Thou least, of things that fly, Hast need to fear Man's eye. A gracious legend guardeth thee, My robin, with a hallowed name ; And trustfulness so tame Puts cruelty To shame. 76 TO THE REDBREAST No prison waits for thee, dear ; who, Of all the joy-deserted throng Who buy a captive song, Would dare to do Thee wrong ? Yes, I remember well the nest, Six little bosoms brown-bespecked O tender architect And then each breast Fire-flecked. Yes ; summer's gone ; but what of that ? Now that her timid devotees Are fled across the seas, We two can chat At ease. We love to hear the bold wind blow, To see his random might deflower The rocking elms, that shower Their golden snow Where cower TO THE REDBREAST 77 The sheep behind a shivering hedge ; We love the huddling clouds that rove O'er the blue plain above The horizon's edge ; We love The tones, by moisture richly dyed, Of winter's warm-hued nakedness, When south winds blow, not less Than autumn's pride Of dress. Then every voice but thine doth cease, While He, Who teacheth all to sing, Is darkly pondering His masterpiece, The spring. As faintly through the gloom and damp That fills some melancholy shrine, When evening's brows decline, A single lamp Doth shine ; 78 TO THE REDBREAST So, when the mournful sunbeams slant Where summer lieth sepulchred, A throb of hope, bright bird, In thy spare chant Is heard. ESTRANGEMENT 79 ESTRANGEMENT No comfort in the world remains When love is fled ; 'Tis but a coffin that contains The dead, the dead. The unregarding wind sweeps by, Blank stares the heaven ; Indifferent along the sky The mist is driven. Nursing their sorrow to and fro The sad boughs toss ; Winter bewaileth her own woe, And not our loss. 80 ESTRANGEMENT O Nature, who dost give relief To joy's full heart, Thou, when the soul is spent with grief, An alien art. THE LARK IN AUTUMN 8 1 THE LARK IN AUTUMN THE day's long splendour dies A lingering death. How still The sea of country lies Around this island hill. The nestling sunbeams creep Beneath the boughs ; the gold Fades into gray, and sleep Descends on vale and wold. God gave His wine all day, Eve brings His healing balm ; Care perished far away In yonder purple calm. 82 THE LARK IN AUTUMN Joy's river, that hath run So swiftly, now doth flow Toward the setting sun With gathered fulness slow. But what bright spirit there Leaps into music ? Hark ! The poet of the air, The sky's own soul, the lark ! His song the dayspring seems, His pinions, as they soar, Are lustrous with the beams That light the land no more. So often, at life's close, A thrill of youth's delight Invades its gray repose, And greets the dawn of night. MY STUDY 83 MY STUDY LET others strive for wealth or praise Who care to win ; I count myself full blest, if He, Who made my study fair to see, Grant me but length of quiet days To muse therein. Its walls, with peach and cherry clad, From yonder wold Unbosomed, seem as if thereon September sunbeams ever shone ; They make the air look warm and glad When winds are cold. 84 MY STUDY Around its door a clematis Her arms doth tie ; Through leafy lattices I view Its endless corridors of blue Curtained with clouds ; its ceiling is The marbled sky. A verdant carpet smoothly laid Doth oft invite My silent steps ; thereon the sun With silver thread of dew hath spun Devices rare the warp of shade, The weft of light. Here dwell my chosen books, whose leaves With healing breath The ache of discontent assuage, And speak from each illumined page The patience that my soul reprieves From inward death ; MY STUDY 85 Some perish with a season's wind, And some endure ; One robes itself in snow, and one In raiment of the rising sun Bordered with gold ; in all I find God's signature. As on my grassy couch I lie, From hedge and tree Musicians pipe ; or if the heat Subdue the birds, one crooneth sweet Whose labour is a lullaby, The slumbrous bee. The sun my work doth overlook With searching light ; The serious moon, the flickering star, My midnight lamp and candle are ; A soul unhardened is the book Wherein I write. 86 MY STUDY There labouring, my heart is eased Of every care ; Yet often wonderstruck I stand, With earnest gaze but idle hand, Abashed for God Himself is pleased To labour there. Ashamed my faultful task to spell, I watch how grows The Master's perfect colour-scheme Of sunset, or His simpler dream Of moonlight, or that miracle We name a rose. There, in the lap of pure content, I still would keep The sabbath of a soul at rest ; Nor could I wish a close more blest Than there, when life's bright day is spent, To fall asleep. TO THE NEGLECTED MUSE 87 TO THE NEGLECTED MUSE HIGH priestess of the temple where my soul Would daily kneel ! When happier singers make appeal For grace, and I Neglect thy service, chide not, but condole With thy poor votary. Forget thee ? ah ! this morning, when soft flights Of sea-born cloud Sailed o'er the unregarding crowd In that dense mart Where I am bound, remembrance of thy rites Was torment to my heart ; 88 TO THE NEGLECTED MUSE And now returning through the city's roar, With toil opprest, And marking how the liquid west From cloud is free, Save one smooth bank that seems the printless shore Of some untraversed sea, I groan to think how twilight slowly fills The spacious vale Where I would watch with thee, how pale Thy star-lamp shines, While sunset dies beyond the solemn hills And nightfall stirs the pines. Still would I seek thee by the stream which flows Through that sweet shire, Where he who lightliest touched the lyre Is laid asleep, Till with its sister flood it found repose In slumber of the deep. TO THE NEGLECTED MUSE 89 There would I follow thee, would shut my ears To pleasure's call ; But duty holdeth me in thrall, My days rush by, And rarely through the driving rack appears A space of quiet sky. How should I sing when all my heart is kept In bondage, vexed With strife, and all my brain perplexed With many a thread Of tangled thought ; I have no song ; accept, O Muse, my sighs instead. Forget thee ? if my fingers could unclasp The lyre, and seize Life's cup, and drain it to the lees, Then might I set My heart no more on joy beyond my grasp, Ah ! then I might forget. QO TO THE NEGLECTED MUSE Once I had thought in that fair company To find a place, Who daily tend before thy face The sacred fire ; But love and care with one another vie To thrust me from the quire. Yet sometimes 'mid the city's glare and grime, Far from thy sight, I stand thy silent acolyte ; Enough for me ; I ask not thy regard, but only time, Dear saint, to worship thee. 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