5779 A Christmas Card w^^ Gathered.^ IN THE Gloaming T. WESTY^OOD ./ V. Y J \'> r.50^ Ac r r /', Swift, through the windy tumult, whirls the stork. Spring. O PRING leaped up in the hollows. What a race ^^ I ran with him o'er meadow and green height ! But when I paused, exulting in my pace. Spring laughed from windy woodlands out of sight. Illusions. T COUNT the dead loves of my fickle youth, -'- But, constant grown, lift unremorseful eyes : Nay, not so many loves . . but three, in sooth — " Four," moans the living love, and moaning . . dies. 14 MINIATURE ODES. Flowers. T^LOWERS of the Spring, how lavishly has God Scattered your beauty over bank and sod ! Twin flowers are mine, that blossom on God's sward, In God's own garden, but . . . the gate is barred. On the Verge. TVTAY, not so far, great Angel, not so far ! ■'■ ^ Faint and more faint grows earth's receding star. Here, on Heaven's verge, in sight of either home, Great Angel, let me tarry . . till they come. Philomel. ONCE, his sweet strain the Eden noontides filled. Now, under midnight skies his notes are trilled. Poor bird ! perchance he takes each twinkling star For light of Eden lattice, left ajar. I The Nile— Esne. PAUSED at Esne — weird the syrens' tune. My Nile-crew slept the pillared palms among. On, on ! " the River muttered 'neath the moon ;- Nay, tarry, tarry yet ! "—the Almehs sung. I MINIATURE ODES. Sea-Anguish. LISTEN to the moaning of the Sea- A moan upon each wave that shoreward rolls, As 'twere the murmur of all griefs that be, The confluent anguish of all stricken souls. June Wisdom. TT NOUGH of solemn lore ! my mood rebels^ ■*— ' I toss the tome aside — here's merry June, The time of roses — life and love in tune — To-day, the wisdom that wears cap and bells ! Apples. 'T^O sage, 'neath orchard branches, it may hap -■- To gather wisdom from an apple's fall. Child, which is wisest, he, or I withal. That pile the golden apples in thy lap ? i6 O Springlets. I. VER the winter eaves The bare boughs clamber and swing- Through a rustle of withered leaves •*& I hear the voice of the Spring. Year after year departs On pitiless, whirling wing, But yet, in my heart of hearts, I feel the touch of the Spring. Who knows ? when in graveyard drear, I lie, and the throstles sing, I may still awake with the year, Still hear the voice of the Spring. SPRINGLETS. 17 II. LOW, horses, slow, As through the wood we go- We would count the stars in heaven. Hear the grasses grow. S' Watch the cloudlets few Dappling the deep blue, In our open palms outspread, Catch the blessed dew. Slow, horses, slow, As through the wood we go- We would see fair Dian rise. With her huntress bow. We would hear the breeze Ruffling the dim trees — Hear its sweet love-ditty set To endless harmonies. Slow, horses, slow, As through the wood we go- All the beauty of the night, We would learn and know. B 1 8 SPRINGLETS. III. T N Spring I make my moan — -*- O solemn Sycamore, Wail, wail, my love is flown — Thou'lt see my love no more ! O Sycamore above. Hast never a thrush to sing A little dirge for my love, For my love that died in the Spring ? White May-bush, toss me down — Toss me a shroud of snow, Toss me a wreath and crown. For the grave where she lies low. Toll, pine-tree on the height. With thy grim, black branches toll- Toll, toll, through day and night, For the peace of her sweet soul ! SPRINGLETS. 19 IV. " QAID the Sun to the heart of the Earth— *^ " Open ! the year's at its turn ! " Said the Earth — " I am ready for birth — I waken, I quicken, I yearn." Said the Sun — " I give kiss upon kiss — Count me the kisses that fall." Said the Earth — " For each kiss, this and this- Crocus and cowslip and all." Said the Sun — " There's an ending of sleep — Up, minions, wanton and play ! " Said the Earth — " Yes, yes, if you'll keep The cloud and the cold away," '^^ 20 SPRINGLETS. V. T COUNT on my fingers — -*■ It's long, very long, For fifty sweet singers Are setting me wrong. I count on my fingers The joys of the Spring, But fifty new singers Are waiting to sing. Fifty new splendours, Fifty new pleasures — I have done with my fingers For counting my treasures, In the green of the earth, And the blue of the sky. Where the first beetle crosses The first butterfly. 21 "There shall be no more Sea." 'T^HERE shall be no more Sea ! — Oh, Land of Heaven, "*- How shall we front thy glories ? We, that come From such grey skies, that hear for evermore, The beating of the wind and of the rain On bitter moorlands — Merciful high God ! Can we be happy by Thy great white throne, Amongst thy singing angels ? Can we tune Our tremulous, broken voices to those rapt, Grand AUelujahs ? — Father, shall we tread, Joyful, the causeways of Thy city of gold. Between the walls of jasper, where no wind Ruffles the Sabbath calm, nor any moan Of anguish enters in — we are so used To anguish in this world that Thou hast made ! There shall be no more tears — Thy hand shall wipe Tears from all eyes. We hear the word . . and weep. There shall be no more Sea — Oh ! Land of Heaven, Through all thy shimmering palms — through all thy glow And glory of Godhead, shall we not repine ? Shall we not strain our vision, from high peaks And crj^stal gorges, yearning to behold The desolate seas of home — yearning to hear The great wave-voices thunder once again ? 22 Falling. AZES, we lived and loved together, •*■ In God's celestial places — In His pure, unsinning places : With the love-light on our faces, In the blue and balmy weather, We lived and loved together. -"o^ Who was it that betrayed us ? Did the Bird of Paradise, That sat so mute above us — That watched us and surveyed us, With his sharp, unsleeping eyes. As if he'd fain reprove us ? Love, was it he betrayed us ? Or did the crystal river, That flashed like barb from quiver. And with angry gleam dismayed us, When it found us sitting ever, So close, so close together, In God's celestial weather — Who was it, love, betrayed us ? FALLING. 23 Who was it told the warden Of our enchanted garden, That we lived and loved together, In its sweet celestial weather ? Who spoke of unrepentance, And ah ! what judge passed sentence ? For now, we're falling, falling, Thrust out from holy places, And the levin-light appalling Blasts th^ve -light from our faces : And hoot and howl and hiss Scoff at us from the abyss, While God's angels of the glory Tell, with shame, our sinning story ; — Yes, we're falling, falling ever, Through the fierce and fiery weather— Yes, we're falling. Falling, Falling, But we're falling, love Together. 24 A Last Page. THE Voice saith " Write." The Voice saith " Write and die." I write and die. Faint, fainter on the page, Line follows line, with dreary gasp and pause Of agony. . . This book hath had the prime And splendour of my being : it shall have Its outflow and its ending. Make it good, Heaven and the angels ! Christ, confirm it good ! Soft hands pluck at me — eyes, like tender stars, Glimmer through deeps of dark. A sighing wind Sweeps through my house of life and flutters wide Its portals. . . Lo, I come ! O Arms of God, Ye everlasting Arms, uphold me here On the dread verge ! The Voice saith " Die." . . I die. 25 To M. P. (" In excelsior^'') " I have a sonnet that will serve the turn To give the onset to my good advice." TAe Two Gentlemen of Verona. I. \/OUNG singer of the spring-time and the morn — -*- May, with that pure, pale blossom of a name — I see thy face set to the hill of Fame, Thy foot in act to climb. Ah, drear, forlorn, The perilous path, with peak and precipice And giddy ledge, and toppling fields of ice, But over all . . the glory. Climb, for now A far, faint radiance, from the eternal steeps Descending, like a voiceless welcome leaps, And touching thee, transfigures lip and brow. Climb, singer of the Morning and the May ! Climb, strong of heart, and win thy Promised Land ; And when the prime and splendour of the day Are thine at length . . God keep thee in His hand ! 26 II. A RT weary, climber ? Seems the summit far -^ *■ As Heaven, or Death ? Art still among the snows ? Hark ! from yon cloud beneath thee grows and grows A music sweet, where sweetest musics are — The lark's — he sings for love, delicious sprite ! For love he follows thee, with circling flight, And fain would follow still, from star to star, To catch the spheric tune ; but now he sings His songs of home — of farm and croft and corn — The homestead, all the dear, familiar things He winnows up to thee, with beat of wings, So hoping he may leave thee less forlorn. Ah ! now he falters — now his lay is done — Art rested, climber ? Courage ! up and on ! 1^ 27 Seven, inscribed to miss beatrice crawhall. O HE was a child of earth — *^ (Twin throstles hymned her birth), A little maid of seven. 'Twas in the winter cold, Death's foot was on the wold ; Death opened wide the door, With visage fierce and frore, Where the dying lay unshriven. ***** The little maid, in fright, Fled out into the night — Fled fleet across the snow. Ah ! which way should she go ? What refuge could she find ? She hurried down the dell, She crossed the croft as well, She was met there by the Wind. And the Wind set up a shout ; WhirUng round and round about. Till he caught the tiny waif — Caught, and hugged, and held her safe ; 28 SEVEN. Then bore her swift on high, Eagle-winged, from earth to sky, Where friend nor foe could find them, And Death was left behind them. •f* tS^ -i-. ^ ^ They traversed the golden bars Of the comets and trailing stars ; Higher they rose, and higher Through a tangle of blossom and fire, Till they came to a castle fine, All agate and almondine, With silver lamps on the walls. And shimmering waterfalls, That made a musical din. And there he set her down — 'Twas the gate of God's own town, And the little maid crept in. And so, in the court of the King, And down His golden street. Is heard the patter and ring Of little human feet. And when the saints rejoice, And the great archangels sing, A little human voice Joins in their musicking. SEVEN. 29 God counts them in their going, The eternal years of heaven ; But for the child, no growing — She is still a maid of seven. She looks down from the wall, And sees Death prowling round ; But his shadow cannot fall On the bright, celestial ground. She scours the lilied lea, At sound of windy weather, And the old mad Wind and she Are happy and glad together. He takes up his tiny waif, He ruffles her ruddy hair ; He hugs her and holds her safe, But, parting, leaves her there. God counts them in their going — The eternal years of heaven ; But for the child, no growing, By a grace of His bestowing. She is still a maid of seven. 3° Under the Olives. l'aubade. From the French of Jean Aicard. " 1\T ^^ ^^'^^ ^"^^ listen, Norine, -'- ^ I sing this song for thee ; With pipe and tambourine, Now lithe and listen, ma mie .' " " Too well I know thy song, Too trite that song for me ; Cease, cease, or else ere long Thou'lt drive me into the sea." " A foohsh threat, Norine ! Thy flight would soon be o'er ; I'd follow fast, I ween, And bring thee safe to shore." " Ah, yes ; methinks I feel Already thy rude grip ; But I'm a wriggling eel, And through thy fingers slip." UNDER THE OLIVES. 31 " An eel ! well have thy wish ! An eel is slippery and sly ; But the fisher catches the fish, And I am the fisher, I ! " " Then I'll be a streamlet clear. Deep hid in a dewy dell." — " And I'll be its bank, my dear, And I'll be its bed as well." " Or a rose, a rose am I, O'er a garden wall that creeps." — " And I, the honey bee. That in the heart of it sleeps." " See, see, I'm a star so fair." — "And I, a cloud in the skies ; I shadow thy shining hair — I veil thy beautiful eyes." " But while thou'rt aloft in the sky, I'll tap at the convent door ; A sorrowful nun am I, A nun for evermore." " Go in at the convent door. But when thou'rt called to confess, Thou'lt find I am there before, The priest to shrive and bless." 32 UNDER THE OLIVES. " What matters, priest or churl ? For, see, my cheek grows pale ; See, I'm the poor dead girl The sisters weep and bewail." " If dead, be this thy doom. If dead, I hold thee fast. I'm the earth, and in thy tomb Thou'lt be mine at last— at last ! " "Ah, now I'm touched, in sooth — I yield — our strife is over. There ! Kiss me on the mouth — Kiss me and be my lover ! " 33 Cecilis. {An (esthetic mtensity^ " My Lady's pets and perts and pretties — And losing them were worst of pities." Marzial's Gallery of Pigeotis. r^ECILIS was the chief ang^ ^^ Of Lilith's house in heaven, In each hand she held a sweet weazel ; They were a brood of seven. One was yellow, and two were red. And one was cramoisie, And twain were beryl from tail to head, And the last was vermilly. In the Eden meadows the hay was down, And the bells were ringing in Eden town. Cecilis takes her walks abroad — Of Lilith's house she is chief angel, In each hand she holds a sweet weazel, Tethered with crystal cord. c 34 CECILIS. And five little cherubs, dainty-fair, With each in his hand a sweet weazel, To the plumy thickets with her repair, And frisk and frolic in glade and dell. For in Eden meadows the hay is down, And the bells are ringing in Eden town. " Cecilis, Cecilis, Cecilis ! Cecilis, Cecilis, what is this ? " — From Lilith's house the cry doth come — " What hast thou done with my sweet weazels ? I see them leaping a-down the dells — I see them scampering over the fells — Cecilis, Cecilis, bring them home ! Bring them home from the dusky dells, My pretty cherubs, my sweet weazels ! " For in Eden meadows the hay is down. And the bells are ringing in Eden town. Cecilis calls from morn till night, For her pets and pretties no more in sight — For the sweet weazels 'mid the rocks and fells — " Cecilis, Cecilis, Cecilis ! Cecilis, Cecilis, what is this?" CECILIS. 35 From Lilith's house the cry doth come, — ■' Cecilis, Cecilis, bring them home — Bring them home from the deeps and dells, My pretty cherubs, my sweet weazels ! " For in Eden meadows the hay is down, And the bells are tolHng in Eden town. " Cecilis, Cecilis, Cecilis ! Cecilis, Cecilis, what is this ? " Of Lilith's house she is chief angel ; — Weeping, lamenting she wanders home. And Lilith shudders to see her come. To see, in her hand, no sweet weazel. And so that brood — that brood of seven Weazels, Queen Lilith's stock and store. And her cherubs five, from the house of heaven. Fled and were found again no more. While in Eden meadows the hay was down, And the bells were tolling in Eden town. 36 H A Witch-Agony. A ! weird the night — Not a star in sight, And over the wastes of the sky, Rapid and black, Like a ravening pack Of wolves, the clouds race by. For the winds are out, With a whoop and a shout, And the waters whirl on their way, Flickering and flashing, Surging and dashing, Roaring and rending their prey. Ha ! weird the night, and my soul is glad, For the winds are all mad and the waters mad. And I am as mad as they ! Ho ! Hurricane, set the rocks a-roll, And topple the pine-woods low ! Ho ! Thunder of heaven, grumble and growl ! Ho ! Avalanche, shake the snow ! A WITCH-AGONY. 37 I follow your path Of wreck and of wrath, I laugh, I revel, I fly — I rive the air With a shriek of despair, When the lightning leaps from the sky ! Oh, horror and ruin, Oh, fierce undoing. Downfall and doom and dismay ! — Oh, weird the night, and my soul is glad. For the Hurricane's mad, and the Avalanche mad, And I am as mad as they ! See the world's on fire, on fire — On fire, above and below ! My brain's in a blaze— I rave, I craze, I scatter sparks as I go. I'm aflame, I'm aflame ! — like a levin bolt, I blast and wither on hill and holt — I shrivel heather and fern — My lips are kist by a crimson mist — I burn, I burn, I bum ! Like a comet I thread the gorge alone, With a glare and a heat of hell — Hark, how the mountains mutter and moan, How the wind tolls loud like a knell ! 38 A WITCH-AGONY. How it tolls, how it tolls, As for passing souls, — How it tolls like a deep death-bell ! My brain's in a blaze. . . . Ha ! the blaze grows dim- The fire flickers low, flickers low — An agony wrenches spirit and limb, A death-damp drips from my brow. Ho ! Queen, Ho ! Hecate, vouchsafe me aid — I tremble, I faint, I am sore afraid — Ho Ashtaroth, where art thou? 'P -i* -1- I* I am smitten and buffeted dragged and driven — Accursed of earth and accursed of heaven — Hissed, hooted, harried — ah God ! unshriven, I drop in a bloody dew,— And Hell-gate, horrible, opens wide — Opens, with horrible shapes inside — Opens, and .... draws me through. CHISWICK press: — C. WHITTINGHAM AND CO. TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE. F/ UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY Los Angeles This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. JWd S£P29iai3i I PLEA^ DO NOT REMOVE THIS BOOK CARD 5 ^ilRARY6k UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY AA 000 368 951 -Ji~; University Research Library ^:: ;;^«3j|jj:^^^