//. ^ - THE LAST POEMS OF SUSAN K. PHILLIPS THE LAST POEMS OF SUSAN K. PHILLIPS _^MB AUTHOR OF 'ON THE SEABOARD' 'TOLD IN A COBBLE' ETC. LONDON GRANT RICHARDS 9 HENRIETTA STREET 1898 Edinburgh : T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to Her Majesty CONTENTS PAGE NIGHTINGALES AT GRANADA .... I UNDERSTOOD . . . 3 GONE . .-. . . 4 WHY? . ; . . 6 MEMORY .....- 7 OUTSIDE .... GOOD-BYE .... 9 AFTER THE RAIN .... .II BY THE FIRE ...... 13 MUSIC ...... 15 REST ....... I? BELONGS . . . . . .19 ' LORD, KEEP MY MEMORY GREEN ' . .20 AT TOR BAY ...... 24 DREAMING ... .25 SHIPWRECK WOOD ..... 26 THE CURATE ...... 27 THE FISHERMAN IN THE COUNTRY ... 29 V CONTENTS PAGB THE CROSS 33 RUDDERLESS 34 BABY 36 RHYME . MAY MORN AT GIBRALTAR ON THE ROCK . WATCHING HE AND SHE . * 'BE OF GOOD CHEER' . 43 NOT ALONE 45 EXPERIENCE . ... 47 THE CHRISTMAS ROSE . 48 LIFE'S AUTUMN . 49 THE OLD ROOM . . 5 APART ... 5 1 REMEMBRANCE . 5 2 TOLERANCE . 53 HUSH ! 54 AT BRIMHAM CRAGS 55 AT BAYONNE . . 5^ ALL SAINTS' DAY . 57 THE HALL ... 58 IN OCTOBER ... 59 THE PLEA ...... 6O ASLEEP ....... <5l vi CONTENTS FACE TRIUMPHANT ...... 62 HIS PLACE .... .63 TANGLE-TOPS ..... 64 AT ST. SEBASTIAN .... 68 THE LAST WHALER .... 7O SIR WILLIAM DOUGLAS ..... 73 THE THREE ANGELS .... 76 A CHRISTMAS LETTER ..... 77 MORAY AND HIS THIRTY . -79 'g. A IRA' ... ... 83 LENT LILIES ...... 85 JUNE 2IST, 1879 ...... 89 THE END ..... .91 COME BACK .... 93 A REST ...... 94 CANCELLING .... 95 THE DAY'S WORK . . . 96 JULY I2TH, 1896 ..... 98 'LOVE THE GIFT, IS LOVE THE DEBT 1 . . 99 THE LAST WISH . ... 101 HEARTSEASE ...... IO2 BY THE YEW-HEDGE . . . IO3 ' A LA JOUR, LA JOURNEE ' . .105 WHERE? ... . . IO7 HAPPINESS ... . IO8 vii CONTENTS PAGE GUESTS ....... IO9 REQUIESCAT . . . . ANEMONES ... . JUDGED ...... A THOUGHT . . . ONLY A DREAM ...... THE DEATH OF LOVE . . . . . THE ROSARY ...... FRIENDS ....... DOOMED ! . A TANGLED WEB ...... AUTUMN LEAVES ...... THE OLD PHRASE ..... COST-COUNTING ...... ' WHEN WE WERE YOUNG ' THE LAST ROSE ...... AJAR ....... THE DAISY ...... LOVE ....... GOOD NIGHT Vlll NIGHTINGALES AT GRANADA Do you forget the starry light, The glory of the southern night ; The wooing of the scented breeze, That rustled all the shadowy trees ; The tinkling of the falling streams, That mingled with our waking dreams ; And, echoing from the wooded vales, The nightingales, the nightingales ? Do you forget how passing fair The Moorish palace nestled there, With arch and roof and coign and niche, In carven beauty rare and rich ; With court and hall and corridor, Where we two lingered, o'er and o'er, While blent with old romantic tales The music of the nightingales ? Do you forget the glowing noon When, by the fountain's rhythmic tune, We talked of all that once had been, And peopled the calm, lonely scene With stately forms of elder times, Of history's lore and poet's rhymes, And feats o'er which our fancy pales ; And thrilled through all, the nightingales ? A I NIGHTINGALES AT GRANADA Do you forget those evening hours Laden with breaths of orange-flowers, When we, from ruddy ramparts gazing, Saw the snow-peaks in sunset blazing ; While Darro sang his ceaseless song, Sweeping his aloe banks along ; And, leaning on the gallery rails, We listened to the nightingales ? And in the flush of dying day, Down, far below, Granada lay ; While chiming from her hundred towers, Her bells pealed out the vesper hours ; And in the soft, warm-scented hush, The Vega smiled through roseate blush, And, ringing through her flowery dales, Rose up the song of nightingales. Do you forget ? The awakening year Is grey and cold and dreary here ; Needs but to close our tired eyes And see the fairy pageant rise Of fairy halls and rose-crowned hills, And sweeping elms and dancing rills ; And, ere the sunny vision pales, Once more to hear the nightingales. UNDERSTOOD So courtly, my darling, The kiss on the hand ! And I smiled as you gave it, For I understand. The words were so graceful, The smile was so bland ; See, I meet your eyes brightly, For I understand. Too long have we mimicked The old happy band, Whose strength lies in fragments, Since we understand. What warmth is in ashes By memory fanned ? The flame is quite out, dear, And I understand. So I give the calm fingers, Stoop, kiss the cold hand, If the pulse leaps, who knows it ? For I understand. GONE NEVER to see the light of love In the keen brown eyes again, The eyes that brightened for my joy And saddened for my pain. Never to hear the cheery laugh Or the tender, time-worn jest ; Never to feel the hearty clasp Of the hand he loved the best ! O brave old heart so sudden hushed, O noble, selfless life, steadfast spirit, scarcely dimmed By fourscore years of strife ! Not because Heaven is soon for thee 1 weep so sore to-day, But for the friend of half my life, Snatched from that life away ; For love blind, proud, confiding love, Such as I shall not win Through all the time God yet may grant My steps to wander in. 4 GONE The sense of loss is in my heart, A loss that knows to blend Past, present, future, in the cry, ' Gone, O my dear old friend ! ' WHY? To grow old, to grow old, lose the gloss from the hair, The rose from the cheek, and the flash from the eye ; To lose all things dainty, and comely, and fair ; Hard enough ! but it is not for that that we care, My heart and I. To grow old, to grow old, to lose courage and grace, Lose the ring from the voice that gave weakness the lie ; To feel the soft charm leave the hand and the face, Hard enough ! but that gives not our trouble its base, My heart and I. To grow old, to grow old, to feel faith, love, and truth, Glowing warm as of yore under April's blue sky, Yet to know the light pity or mockery of youth, Doubts all 'tis for that that we sorrow, in sooth, My heart and I. To grow old, to grow old, while as onward we wend, Life's lingering joys like its pale shadows fly ; Ah, closer, clasp closer, true fingers, old Friend ! So clasping we heed not how near is the end, My heart and I. MEMORY THE lords of art, before us one by one They rise, each royal in their separate realms ; There smiles for Claude his calm eternal sun, Here Raffaelle leads us to his pure-cut gems, There Titian glows in gorgeous hues, and here Velasquez shows his stately cavalier. Idle to strive to number name by name The monarchs of all time, and tide, and race ; Idle to shrine in careless rhymes their fame, To choose 'twixt Holbein's charm or Vandyck's grace : Yet life has one great artist greater still Than all of these, adore them as we will. One whose bright colours never fail nor fade, One whose soft magic cannot pass away ; Whose canvas nothing blurs, whose tranquil shade Is always calm, whose light is always gay ; Whose picture for us each is rare and rich, As when we shrined it in our favourite niche. Sad eyes may dazzle o'er the wondrous limning That makes the storied galleries so fair ; Sad ears may tire of the world's loud hymning The glory of the treasures hoarded there ! But never yet was head, or heart, or eye, That wearied of thy portraits, Memory ! OUTSIDE THE children played at loving, The boy, with the down on his lip, And the girl, with the rose-flush on her face, Her cooing voice, and her virgin grace ; And they hovered about Love's mysteries As a bird by a fountain flits and flies, And dares not 'light to sip. And two who watched the pastime, The man with his toil-worn frame, And the woman with her silvered hair, And eyes that told a story of care Turned to each other, with sigh and smile, As the thought of a dream of ' a little while ' Across their fancy came. In the smile a touch of pity, As of envy in the sigh ; It all was so pretty, and pure, and sweet, It all was so shallow, and light, and fleet ; Yet a blessing-prayer for the pair was blent With the bitter-sweet that the moment lent To the pang of a memory. GOOD-BYE AND so, good-bye. The brief, bright summer hours are gone, The brief, bright summer days are flown ; The holiday we snatched from life, From toil and moil, from care and strife, The golden moments by the sea, And all they held for you and me : Gone like soft winds and sunny sky ! And so, good-bye ! The land-locked air is close and dumb, I hear the sea-voice calling ' Come ' ; The heavy boughs o'erhang the grass, Where neither shade nor shine can pass ; And silent as the land and lea The tones that set life's master-key. Ah, happy dreams, so soon they fly ! My love, good-bye ! For ere we two again may stand On breezy cliff or sunny sand, All may be changed, or lost, or dead, We had our hour and it is fled : Winter will bring his bitter frost, And Spring renew the glories lost, In fresh-dyed flowers and fresh-hued sky ; But we good-bye ! 9 GOOD-BYE No other year can bring to us The rapture swift and luminous, The richest, fairest, and the first That on the sombre noontide burst. We two may meet in calm content, But the full cup this summer blent Brims once for our humanity, And so, good-bye! 10 AFTER THE RAIN ALL day the wild nor'-easter had swept across the plain, All day against the lattice had plashed the driving rain; And every budding flower, and every blade of grass, Had owned the wild March weather, and bowed to let it pass. Dull morn and joyless noontide had worn themselves away, The sun sank sullen to the west behind a shroud of gray. Sudden the great clouds parted, like a yawning cavern's mouth, Soft and tender gleamed the light, the wind blew from the south ; And every drooping blossom raised her fair rain- washed head, The primrose glimmered 'mid her leaves, the violet in her bed. II AFTER THE RAIN Catching the golden radiance, out blazed the daffodil, And from the greening hedgerows the sparrows twittered shrill ; And where a woman waited, her eyes flashed back the light, And with a happy smile she said, ' My love will come to-night.' 12 BY THE FIRE SHE sat and mused by the driftwood fire, As the leaping flames flashed high and higher, And the phantoms of youth, as fair and bright, Grew for her gaze in the ruddy light ; The blossoms she gathered in life's young days Wreathed and waved in the flickering blaze, And she laughed through a sunny mist of tears That rose at the dream of her April years ; And ever and aye the sudden rain Plashed on the glittering window-pane. Sobered and saddened the pictures that showed, As the driftwood logs to a red core glowed, And the fancied figures of older time Passed with the steadied step of their prime ; The daisies and snowdrops bloomed and died, Red roses and lilies stood side by side, While richer and fuller and deeper grew The lines of the pictures August drew ; And ever and aye the falling rain Streamed thick and fast on the window-pane. The driftwood died down into feathery ash, Where faintly and fitfully shone the flash, Slowly and sadly her pulses beat, And soft was the fall as of vanishing feet ; 13 BY THE FIRE And lush and green as from guarded grave She saw the grass of the valley wave, And like echoes in ruins seemed to sigh The ' wet west wind ' that went wandering by, And caught the sweep of the sullen rain And dashed it against the window-pane. MUSIC THE music, the music, the music of the sea. Breathing, thrilling everywhere, Laughing in the sunny air ; Sobbing when the rushing rain Draws a mist across the main ; Raging when the snowy spray Dashes through the mighty bay ; And the wild nor'-westers sweep O'er the bosom of the deep ; Always keeping sympathy with my heart and me, The music, the music, the music of the sea. The music, the music, the music of the sea. Lying 'neath the southern skies, Glorious in a thousand dyes, Blue and gold and emerald green, Flashing back the rainbow's sheen ; Sending gleams of snowy white Over bay and over bight ; Crashing in long rolling waves Far beneath the granite caves ; Always keeping sympathy with my heart and me, The music, the music, the music of the sea. The music, the music, the music of the sea. Sighing in its ceaseless song, All the sandy dunes along ; 15 MUSIC Murmuring to the great white stars, Thundering 'gainst the rocky bars ; Swaying to the crescent moon, Rising softly o'er La Rhune ; Calling to the sudden blast, < 'Tis the last day ! 'Tis the last ! ' Always keeping sympathy with my heart and me, The music, the music, the music of the sea. 16 REST WHERE the grasses shiver And the curlews call, Quiet lies my darling Up above it all. All about his slumber The summer breezes sweep ; Softly rises to it The music of the deep. When the tempests thunder And the great waves toss, Steadfast o'er my darling Stands the tall white cross. Far away beyond it Spreads the purple down ; Far away below it Lies the red-roofed town. Sounds of human trouble, Wail of human care, Restless hum of human woes Rising thickly there. 17 REST Shouts of busy voices, Clamour of the crowd, Clash of merry music, Rush of sheet and shroud. In a mingling tumult Evermore they rise, He does not heed nor hear them By the cross he lies. From the grey old tower, When the church-bells chime, Sometimes kindly strangers tread Through the fragrant thyme. On the tended flowers They look and turn away ; 1 See how some one loves him yet,' Wondering, they say. And when twilight closes Over sea and land, 'Mid those tended flowers Moves a quiet hand. And the lips of her who loves him Press on the cold grey stone, She says, ' Good night, my darling,' And passes on alone. 18 BELONGS ' Do you know her as belongs to him ? ' the grey-haired fisherman said, Standing beside the tended flowers, by the Cross, on the rocky Head. ' I can't call her name to mind, though I knows her well enough ; I 've seen her pass under summer suns, seen her when gales are rough ; She scarcelins lets a day go by but she climbs the steps up here : If you look aside to the Colonel's Cross, you '11 mostlins see her near.' 1 Her as belongs to him ! ' And far away from the great white Cross, Passing along her household ways, with the aching sense of loss Weighing ever the heavier upon weary head and heart, Because from all he left on earth, fate forced her life apart ; The simple phrase from the honest lips, sent by a loving hand, Brought comfort, they who have loved and lost alone could understand. 'LORD, KEEP MY MEMORY GREEN' 'LORD, keep my memory green.' Ay, them's grand words ! I got our Bill to write 'em plainly down, See thee, upon yon sheet ; an' they were said By some great chap, up there i' Lunnon town : I reckon as he knowed above a bit What Natur' is, to give them words to it. I Ve had my ups and downs like other folk, Though now I 'se laid up safe an' snug i' port ; There 's not a warmer fireside 'long the shore, An' not a bonnier window in the court. Press to the pane, bairn ; now just bend thysen, Thou 'It get a glint o' blue waves tossing then. Yet as I sits an' hes my pipe, an' stirs The driftlog on the hearth, it 's not to think How the wind sets, nor yet to guess what Sal Has got for supper-time, for bit or drink ; I 'se mostlins far away, an' dreaming like Of how the sun would rise on Rhosdale Pike ; An' the old farmhouse, nestled in its shade, Ablaze with golden lichens on the thatch ; An' how I used to hide among the fern After the milking-horn wer' blown, to catch A word an' mebby a kiss, too frev her Who gave me them two sprays o' lavender. 20 'LORD, KEEP MY MEMORY GREEN' Poor, bonnie Annie ! She wer' over good For me, her father said, a common lad _ Striving to get a living down the Staithes, A crazy coble all the wealth I had ; An' he 'd an acre of his own, an' cows, An' routh of plenishing about the house. An' so they parted us ; but for all that, We met one July gloaming on the moor, Behind the rowans on the cairn, an' she Swore she would keep her troth-plight fast and sure ; An' sore we sobbed an' close we clung together, We two young fools, out 'mid the budding heather. An' I gi'ed her a bit o' crimson weed I 'd fund among the rocks at Runswick Bay, An' she gi'ed me them sprays o' lavender The bush still grows beside the gate, I lay. Our Bill 's a handy chap ; he framed 'em see, An' wrote them words beneath 'em fair for me. That very night they pressed me ; war-time then Kept every man safe-barred within his door, But I wer' desperate, an' they pounced on me, Lounging, half-sullen, down upon the shore ; I gi'ed in, stupid-like I scarcelins cared, Parted from her, or how or where I fared. Then came a time o' work an' throng an' change, An' righting fierce, out upon stranger seas ; An' jolly nights o' singing with our mates Down by the galley-fire, when the breeze Wer' lound, an' times o' storm and tempest too Well, there wer' much to win, as well as rue. 21 ' LORD, KEEP MY MEMORY GREEN ' An' by an' by I got my rise, an' stood Bosun, no less, an' wi' my pay an' rank Knew I might gang and ask for Annie straight A sweetheart any lass might smile to thank For heart and hearth. Well, well, for all I 'se seen, Of those glad dreams, Lord, keep my memory green. For all I landed just a year too late, An' fund her happy in another's home, An' heard her laugh beside another's bairn, To bid her old companion frankly come To taste her cheer, an' sit aside on her, An' jest about them sprays o' lavender, I tell thee, bairn, I mind like yesterday How, when I 'd joked an' drunk my mug of ale, An' made as I 'd forgotten all we hoped, Boasting above a bit to tell the tale Of all I 'd done an' won, an' left her there, Set on a creepie by her master's chair, I sought our tryst beneath the rowan-trees, An' sate me on the moor, an' like a bairn Cried for the days when I had held her close In the soft gloaming by the rocky cairn. Well, well ! it 's past and gone ; it 's nobbut queer To think, what hurt one so, grows a'most dear. I wonder if she hes my bit o' weed, An' if it keeps its bonnie colour yet ? Hidden, as women use such things to hide, To look at, when they has a mind to fret? Mebby, for all that is an' might ha' been, She, too, may care to keep her memory green. 22 'LORD, KEEP MY MEMORY GREEN' Tho' pride an' love gi'ed me a cruel turn, I 'se lived to think it better as it is. Folk say our Annie 's summat of a shrew, An' peace is better than a storm or kiss ; Our Jack wer' drowned off Sheerness, an' his Bill Keeps my bit spot frev growing over still. ' Uncle 's ' as good a sound as ' feyther ' eh ? An' I 'se my awn way by my hearth an' all ; An' yet I keeps my sprays o' lavender, An' loves to see 'em hanging on the wall. Bitter an' blessed the times that I ha' seen, An' so they serve to keep my memory green. AT TOR BAY SUNLIGHT over the sea, The golden sunlight of May, Where the long blue rollers flash to white In beautiful Tor Bay. Sunlight over the hills Crowned by a hundred homes, That smile as the rosy sunset sinks Over the Devon combes. Sunlight over the woods, Clad in their first pure green, Where the chestnut shows his stately spikes, And the birches flash between. Sunlight over the flowers The thousand flowers that blow Where the ivies garb the dark red rocks, And the tinkling streamlets flow. And a cloud in the dreamy eyes That are gazing far away, Over tossing leagues of the sea that rolls In beautiful Tor Bay. 24 DREAMING I DREAMED as I slept last night. And because the wild wind blew, And because the plash of the angry rain, Fell heavily on the window-pane, I heard in my dream the sob of the main, On the seaboard that I knew. I dreamed as I slept last night. And because the oaks outside Swayed and groaned to the rushing blast, I heard the crash of the stricken mast, And the wailing shriek as the gale swept past ; And cordage and sail replied. I dreamed as I slept last night. And because my heart was there, I saw where the stars shone large and bright, And the heather budded upon the height, With the Cross above it standing white ; My dream was very fair. I dreamed as I slept last night. And because of its charm for me, The inland voices had power to tell Of the sights and sounds I love so well, And they rapt my fancy in the spell Wove only by the sea. 25 SHIPWRECK WOOD SEE how the firelight flashes on the pane ! Look how it flickers to the raftered roof ! That almost gives its brightness back again, So far the darkling shadows hold aloof. See how it dances, and the warmth is good ; But all my fire is made of shipwreck wood. Jem brought these furs from his first voyage back ; Will found these beads, one day at Elsinore ; And the gold band that clasps my ruffles, Jack Bought me with half his pay, at Singapore. Each speaks of love and strength and hardihood ; But all my fire is made of shipwreck wood. The sea is roaring over ' wandering graves,' Where all my best and bravest lie at peace; I hear a requiem in the moaning waves, That only with my parting breath will cease. The sea has given me work and warmth and food ; But all my fire is made of shipwreck wood. 26 THE CURATE WHAT did he know about it the boy who stood up there, In the quaint old oak 'three-decker' in the ancient house of prayer ? No sign of modern culture had touched the building old, Whose strong square tower had crowned the Head for centuries untold. The brown, worm-eaten benches were ranged in order due, And high amid the galleries, proud reigned ' the squire's pew.' And names for long forgotten spoke dumbly from the wall, While through the latticed windows came the billows' rise and fall. What did he know about it the boy with earnest face, Standing above the worshippers, in the solemn, time- worn place ? There were hoary heads below him, and faces lined by need, They had stol'n from empty board and hearth, to ask the Lord to heed. 27 THE CURATE To the worn and weary pilgrims on life's hard down- ward way, What, from his fearless starting-point, had the young lips to say? What could he know about it? Had those bright, eager eyes Seen once below the surface of our mortal miseries ? The sin, the doubt, the sorrow, the emptiness of life, The bitter, strong temptation the failing, fainting strife ? The girding-on the armour to fight the battle on, With victory's hope and guerdon alike for ever gone ? The broken dream, the shaken trust, the loss, the wrong, the fall, Ah ! boyhood in its happy spring, what could it know of all? The sea roared on below us, the winds above us swept, The voice went flowing onward, the old folk stared or slept, And with a rueful sigh and smile, one glanced from them to him, While the sunset touched the Cross to gold, but left the chancel dim. 28 THE FISHERMAN IN THE COUNTRY THE land-locked air is warm and sweet, The land-locked breeze is soft to meet ; The land-locked path lies smooth and green, Where golden sunlights fleck between The foliage of the elm and ash ; And bright the land-locked waters flash Past ferny bank and mossy grot, All blue with the forget-me-not. But I, amid the daisied leas, And the cool shade of spreading trees, While in sweet chorus finch and thrush Make music in the scented bush, I want the wild wind, fresh and free, That sweeps across the northern sea The keen, strong wind that blows to give The room to breathe, the strength to live. My foot falls soundless on the turf, I want the thunder of the surf; The inland tones are low and soft, I want the voice that rings aloft, When the fierce squall through sheet and shroud Calls for the seaman's strength aloud, And hand and heart are strong to brave The terrors of the wind and wave. 29 THE FISHERMAN IN THE COUNTRY We on the seaboard learn to face, Each standing steadfast in his place, Death, in his aspects manifold Of hunger, shipwreck, want, and cold ; Life, stern and earnest, learns to love The strife below, the storm above. Fair is your world of flowers and trees I hear the calling of the seas. THE CROSS WHERE the wild white breakers surge and play, On the blue of beautiful Biarritz Bay ; Where the mighty clouds of snowy spray Toss to the skies of the southern day, On the jagged rock, a bow-shot from land, The sacred symbol is raised to stand, With its dumb, sad record of storm and loss, For men know, as they look at the low white cross, That there, close to safety and love and home, Strong lives were spent in the hell of foam That swept all help aside. Lingering out on the ' Virgin's Rock,' Hearing the ceaseless thundering shock, Seeing the rollers meet and lock, One feels how the sea at the men may mock ! Skill, and science, and strength may meet, But the might of the waves is hard to beat ; By the bit of timber left swaying yet, Over the restless heave and fret, We know where, beneath the furious gale, Shivered were bulwarks and rent the sail As the deadly strife was tried. And the nameless mariners lost that night, When Biarritz watched 'neath the pert stars' light, 31 THE CROSS And her fishermen strove, with baffled might, To snatch their prey from the waves' wild white ; Quiet they lie where the little cross Stands steadfast above the crash and toss, Where wondering strangers come to gaze, And the long waves break through the sunny days ; Where the stern cliffs over their tumult frown, And the Virgin looks serenely down Through the ebb and flow of tide. RUDDERLESS WELL for the boat, when the pilot Stands steady, his hand on the helm ; Well, for no cross-current takes it, No swift, sudden squall can o'erwhelra True as the compass she carries, With her sail set, whatever the blast, As the light of the long day slopes westward, She glides to her haven at last. But the bark tossed from flowing to ebbing, While the wild wind is shifting about, Dazed by the glitter of pleasure, Swept by the tempest of doubt ; Caught in the cruel back-water, Wooed by the treacherous gleam, Till shore, sky, and ocean together, Show vague as the things of a dream ; 111 for such vessel, yet heaven Built her, fitted her, sent her afloat ; God's harbours are many and open, He may pilot the rudderless boat. 33 BABY ANOTHER day of life and laughter Its course has run ; Another night comes stealing after, Son of my son. Little feet are tired of running, Little ringers of their quest, Little head with curls o'er-running, Droops for its rest. When the rosy dawning hours Say night is done, Wake with birds, and bees, and flowers, Son of my son. Wake the happy laughter trilling From the sweet lips dewy red ; Merry baby fancies filling Dainty gold head. Stretch the fair round arms in meeting, Love lightly won, Crow and coo your pretty greeting, Son of my son. Oh, the soft curls tossed and tumbling, Eyes like violets dark with dew ; Eager feet that strive in stumbling, Keen will to do ! 34 BABY Every moment brings a pleasure, Seized and done, Every toy a transient treasure, Son of my son. Time, a fearless, fresh possessing, Life, a thing all mirth and joy ; Fenced by love and crowned with blessing, God keep our boy ! 35 RHYME PLAYING with words the pretty toys ! Whose charm nor time nor tide destroys. Age, subtly creeping, steals away The step's light spring, the glances gay, The joyous echo from the tone, The laugh that youth can match alone ; But this defies the touch of time, The gladness of the ringing rhyme. The mellow metre sounds as clear As ever to the April ear ; The trumpet-call of martial song Can bid the sober pulses throng As gallantly as when, of old, They thrilled to hear the summons told ; And tired fingers yet can chime A melody for ringing rhyme. f I send a gay defiance back, As, treading on my downward track, 'Mid moaning winds and fading flowers, And thickening graves, and darkened hours, I wake the sweet old magic still, I feel my hand obey my will ; Take up the glove that 's flung by Time, And challenge him in ringing rhyme. MAY MORN AT GIBRALTAR THE sweet May morn in English lanes : Through lush green grasses creak the wains, The violets from their mosses peep, The primroses in sunshine sleep, Fresh from the wash of April rains. Here, where the tideless sea complains, The sun its blaze of noontide gains, O'er mountain shadows, purple deep, This sweet May morn. Over the Rock the west winds sweep, Harvest of perfumed airs to reap ; Yet dazzled northern eyesight strains For pale blue skies and daisied plains, Where dewy England laughs to keep This sweet May morn. 37 ON THE ROCK HERE the snowdrifts shudder To the north wind's shock : Do the sunbeams glance and play Out on the Rock ? Here the bitter frost is lord Over glen and lea. : Do your south winds whisper to The tideless sea? Here the hoar-fringed ivies droop From the cottage eaves : Do the dewdrops diamond all Your roses' leaves ? Here we gather round the hearth, Stir the leaping flames : Do you trace the haunts that bear Old storied names ? Here we watched with yearning thoughts, Through long nights and days, As the great ship thundered on Vague ocean ways ; Did you, as the white stars throbbed, Hot suns rose and set, Think of those you left behind, Those, wistful yet ? 38 ON THE ROCK Here the void is aching, For we weep to miss All the strong protective love, Hand, and eye, and kiss. Is love so strong, that absence It can soothe or mock : Do you keep our places still, Out on the Rock ? 39 WATCHING WATCHING, where the sunset dies In the grey of rain-charged skies, Wearily, so wearily ; While the low winds sweeping past Shake the leaves that lingering last, Clothe the branches drearily. Watching, where the garden shows Sodden grass and drooping rose, Last of all its greenery ; While the chill mist, like a veil, Spreads its empire, cold and pale, O'er the distant scenery. Turning where the ruddy blaze Round the high-piled oak-logs plays, Through the dim hall glimmering ; The fair girl by the hearthstone stood, The spirit of its solitude, The red light round her shimmering. Pushing back her falling hair, With parted lips and eager air, Rapt in trance of listening, While in her eyes, so soft and blue, The slowly gathering drops of dew Were in the firelight glistening. 40 WATCHING The silence round her grew intense, The falling ash had eloquence, The sobbing wind wailed meaningly ; And to the half-unconscious gaze, One form seemed fashioned in the blaze, As if it neared her, dreamingly. The dog crept slowly to her knee, And looked up at her wistfully ; The charring logs burnt cheerily ; But lower drooped the golden head ; ' He will not come to me,' she said, Wearily, so wearily. HE AND SHE SHE where the deer were couching, In the broad oak's shadow dark, And the merry beck was dancing down The green glades of the park ; Where the skylark's song was trilling, Away in the world of blue, And the busy bees were seeking The hill where the heather grew. He on the deck of the steamer, As its ocean way it ploughed, While the wild west wind was making Music in sheet and shroud ; Where the seagulls screamed and swooped above The long white track of foam, And over the great Atlantic The ' clipper ' thundered home. From the heart of each was rising, From the green glade and the sea, ' God bless and keep my darling, For love, and life, and me ! ' And the angel who guards true lovers, As he hovered the twain above, Bore the prayers, blent both together, To the feet of the God of Love. 42 'BE OF GOOD CHEER' I HAVE my cruse of oil, I have my cake of meal ; I am worn with life's long toil, The threads are few on the reel. One by one from the ranks fall out The mates who joined them with cheer and shout, When the merry march in the morn begun, Under the laugh of the rising sun ; One by one they drop to the grave, Where the pale stars gleam and the grasses wave ; On the surcoat is rent and soil, The dents are deep on the steel, Yet I have my cruse of oil, I have my cake of meal. Low sinks the cruse of oil, Spare grows the cake of meal, Yet the lees no bitters spoil, No thieves my grain can steal ; And though my step be faint and slow, Still cheerily on my path I go, And prize the joy that is left to me, In the rush of wind and the roar of sea. 43 'BE OF GOOD CHEER' And welcome the blossoms blooming still, Where the valley lies at foot of the hill ; For, tangled although the coil I gather from Fortune's wheel, It is Memory pours my oil, It is Love who grinds my meal. 44 NOT ALONE Is it not very lonely, As you sit by the lighted hearth, Whence change and death have banished The voices of youth and mirth ? Is it not very lonely, When the winter firelight plays On the empty chairs in the silent room, So full in the bygone days ? Is it not very lonely, When the summer gloaming falls, And the only eyes that answer yours Gleam out from the darkening walls ? ' No, I am never lonely,' The quiet woman said ; ' I people the world I live in, With the figures of my dead. ' They look on me from their pictures, They speak in the sound of seas, In the bird that chirps at the window, In the whispering of the trees. 45 NOT ALONE ' They sit in the chair beside me, With the books that they made my own ; And so I am never lonely, Although so much alone.' 46 EXPERIENCE AND still, and pale, and cold Experience sat ; She heard where Hope awoke his golden measure ; She saw where Love gave Life his wealth to treasure. While with triumphant smile defying Fate, To spoil what he, he only, could create, He built, in a sweet hour of laughing leisure, A palace, fit for Passion and for Pleasure, To furl their glittering wings and dwell thereat. And still Experience waited ; on each hand, With subtle mockery kindling in their eyes, Time and Satiety took up their stand, And watched with her the fairy fabric rise ; Then, with her long, lean hand she touched the wall, And lo ! it fell, and utter was its fall. 47 THE CHRISTMAS ROSE ' WHY must I only bloom 'mid frost and snows, Under these grey skies ? ' said the Christmas rose ; ' Why must I know no joy of April showers, Smile to no sunshine, hail no golden hours Of warmth and loveliness ? As pure my leaves As the white lily, queen of summer eves ; As fair my foliage clusters for the breeze As the sweet violets 'neath the willow-trees. I claim my right, the seasons I defy, And ope my petals to the August sky.' The red rose saw, and blushed in angry pride ; The lily saw, and shivered from her side ; The gorgeous darlings of the trim parterre Gazed on the pale intruder standing there, And with the scornful wonder in their eyes, Scorched her, as scorched the bright indignant skies That shone down on her, in a withering glow ; And the light wind laughed, mockingly and low ; To the hard earth she bowed her humbled head, ' Time and the world are very hard,' she said. 48 LIFE'S AUTUMN THE snowdrop and the violet are dead, The rich red rose has shed her petals rare ; Look, where the lily raised her queenly head, But withered stalk and crumbling leaves are there ; And soft and sad the wind of autumn sighs Over dank uplands, under low grey skies. Yet every wood-walk gleams beneath the rays Of the pale sunlight, in a splendour dressed Of gold and crimson, such as April days Can scarcely show, when pranked in all her best The dying leaves, like the sun's afterglow, In death the fulness of their glory show. Take home the lesson, Life, in flush of youth, And golden noontide of maturity ; Gather the precious flowers of love and truth, Of patience, kindliness, and sympathy. The unfading leaves of every angel bloom Will light and smooth the pathway to the tomb. D 49 THE OLD ROOM THE room the same ; the same old curtains draped About the deep bay window ; by the hearth The same old chair, deep carven, quaintly shaped, That served us once as theme for careless mirth; Tears gather through the smile I force to-night, To see it in the leaping firelight. There is the sofa, where I stooped to smooth The thick curls from his forehead, on yon shelf We kept our books, the treasures of our youth, The shrines of hope and dream, and second self: How thick the dust upon their pages lies The lore that does not suit to modern eyes ! And he is sleeping where the tall white cross Watches the long heave of the Northern Sea ; And I, with the deep marks of wrong and loss, Deeper than time had traced them, changing me, Stand, all alone, 'mid the dumb witness borne Of the old room, the same in life's sweet morn. APART I CLOSE my eyes, because the mocking light Will shine upon your empty chair, my own ; I shut my ears, because the low wind's tone Will mimic my sad wail for you to-night. I clasp my fingers in a passionate prayer That God will guard you, guide you, watch, and bless ; For they will tremble for the soft caress That but an hour ago you planted there. I take the volume that we love, my heart, Striving to force my fancy 'neath its spell. In vain, in vain ! Life throbs, ' Farewell, farewell.' We love, we trust ; but oh, we are apart ! REMEMBRANCE Do you forget it, love, the sweet old phrase? Do you forget the clasp of hand in hand, The gesture we two only understand ? The magic lying in the dear old ways ? The glow of passion in its morning days Has softened to the evening, where we stand Watching the wavelets break upon the sand, In the soft reflex of the sunset rays. Dear, the sweet roses that we gathered then Are faded quite, and the pale twilight sees Night-blowing lilies glimmer, each a gem, Beneath the low boughs of the yellowing trees ; But oh ! their scent is rich and subtle yet ; I prize the fragrance, dear. Do you forget ? TOLERANCE THE question held its empire of an hour, The hearts of men grew heavy, stern, and hot ; Till Courtesy shrank back, and calm forgot Its lulling spell ; and Truth's seraphic power Paled, as at lightning flash a fragile flower ; Till even Love shared in the common lot Amid the babel, that remembered not The grace and sweetness that was once its dower. And solemn names were tossed like idle toys Into the whirlwind of unlovely doom ; Sudden a hush fell on the angry noise, As passed amid the stifling, lurid gloom An angel, with grave smile and pitying glance ; And men, repentant, called her Tolerance. 53 HUSH! ' HUSH ! ' said the brook, down dancing from the moor, ' He cometh, brushing through the purple bloom ' ; 1 Hush ! ' said the water-lily : ' he will come And choose, amid my blossoms white and pure, A love-gift.' ' Hush ! ' the low wind laughed ; ' for sure As the lark wavers earthward to her home, He seeks the tryst where Love completes the sum, That gives to life the joy that can endure.' And the girl, blushing, heard the happy speech That murmured round her, while white fingers played Amid the ripples, 'neath the willow's shade, And learnt the lore that Nature mocked to teach. But over flower and stream the twilight crept, And the lone watcher bowed her head and wept. 54 AT BRIMHAM CRAGS DOWN from the moorland swept the August breeze, Across the wilderness of rock and heather, Bowing rich bloom and clustering fern together, While from the gleam of crimson bilberries Boomed the low humming of the busy bees ; And the eternal Crags, that stand for ever, From April's laugh to frown of wintry weather, Tossed to its call that crown of rowan-trees. The glorious sun sloped slowly to the west, That blushed a roseate welcome to her lord ; And springing sudden from her lowly nest, To the rich air the lark her triumph poured ; And as the carol thrilled and rang o'erhead, ' God keep my darling safe for me,' she said. 55 AT BAYONNE WHERE the twin spires gleam against the sky, Where southern sunshine dazzles from the blue, Where the great rivers meet in rolling through The old historic city, days gone by Unfold themselves for English heart and eye, Recalling all our fathers dared to do ; When the proud eagles, beaten backwards, flew, And here, at Bayonne, lit, to live or die. Ah, still St. Etienne, where the peasants meet, And laugh and chatter through the holiday, How the fierce battle hurtled through thy street, Where, round thy altar, England stood at bay ! Peace broods above the two fair realms at last, And here we dream of all the furious past. ALL SAINTS' DAY AT ST. MARTIN'S, SCARBOROUGH THROUGH storied panes the winter sunshine crept, The thunder music rolled along the nave, And, far and faint, the answer of the wave, As the low wind around the grey tower swept, With the long notes recurrent measure kept ; And some, thanksgiving for their darlings gave, And some, fresh mourners from the new-made grave, Bowed stricken heads upon their hands, and wept. The preacher's voice arose, serene and calm, Telling of saints' pure joys in Paradise ; And, rising ever with the chant and psalm To the eternal temple of the skies, ' Trust Him who died to save,' the sea voice said ; ' Trust Him with all the living and the dead.' 57 THE HALL THE dear old house, steadfast and calm it stands, Four-square and strong to all the winds that blow ; The stately centre of the subject-lands, Just as men built it, centuries ago. The water-lilies waver on the lake, The pigeons wheel and circle round the cote, And from the shade the great yew-hedges make, Swells the soft music of the thrush's note ; And fair in sweeping change of light and dark, The woods crown all the summits of the hills, Where rich in hollowed uplands lies the park, Where, glittering plainward, dance a hundred rills ; And looking on the home I love, I say, God bless its owners ever, as to-day ! 58 IN OCTOBER THE chill October rain is falling, Wearily falling the whole day long ; Like the sound of an ancient tale of wrong, The wild west wind through the woods is calling ; Like a spell the fair sad earth enthralling, The wailing forms to a funeral song. The chill October rain is falling, Wearily falling the whole day long, Its notes the lingering flowers appalling ; The last red rose-leaves drifting throng From the ivy clusters green and strong, The breath of our sweet lost June recalling : While the chill October rain is falling. 59 THE PLEA ' IT was so sweet and lovely in its youth.' So Memory pleaded, while her tender hand Strove round the drooping leaves to draw a band, As helpful as the broken strands of truth. ' The past's lost glory dims the present more,' He answered, with his clear eyes bright with scorn. ' Yet,' whispered Memory, ' when it first was born, So many weakling leaves you saw, and bore.' ' Ay, for I thought that ever at its root Were Love and Faith,' replied the sweet, proud voice. ' And can no penitence, no second choice, No pledge renewed, restore its blighted life ? ' ' My utter trust met treachery,' he said ; And Memory heard, and left the pale bloom dead. 60 ASLEEP HOPE in the heart his watch is keeping, Waiting, waiting, till love shall wake ; Waiting the happy hush to break, Joy to his side is softly creeping. Who dare rouse him from his sleeping? Time may be bringing pang and ache ; Waiting, waiting till love shall wake. Hope in the heart his watch is keeping, Fancy a thousand flowers is heaping, Faith shows her golden corn for reaping ; But ah ! who dares the glass to take, Or the precious golden sand to shake ? Hope in the heart his watch is keeping, But the love that sleeps may but wake for weeping. TRIUMPHANT UNDER the chestnut-tree the weeds they burned ; Their fragrance floated on the brooding air, That scarcely stirred the branches growing bare, As for the dying autumn's smile they yearned. The smoke rose slowly upward, and unrolled Its lazy, lingering banner 'neath the sky ; And through the pale blue haze shone gorgeously The chestnuts' broadening fans of living gold. The low wind freshened, blowing from the north, And swept the smoke-mist from the scene away, And in the splendour of the closing day The great leaves flashed unclouded glory forth. So feeble speech a noble faith obscures, But the words perish, and the creed endures. 62 HIS PLACE To the soft stillness of the shadowed room, Where the red embers crumble in their heat, And the low gleam falls on your favourite seat, And rosy lamp-light makes a pleasant gloom, With tired step and tired thought I come. I want the flashing of your smile to meet, I want the clasping of your hand to greet, I want your presence, the deep heart of home. Dear, in the battle of the busy life, Where the great pulse of England's being chimes Amid the lulls and rallies of the strife, Does the faint whisper of the sweet old times Creep through the turmoil, breathing, ' Fall or win, Your place is kept, none else may venture in ' ? TANGLE-TOPS AY ! we 've queer names among us. There 's Scaddie, an' Cud, an' Flick, An' yon big chap, laughing yonder, they calls him Sugar Dick. Nay, I forgets their crisun-names they scarcelins know theirsels, Afloat or ashore alike, you see, they never gets aught else. An' if a chap once gets a name, it 's rare it iver drops, I '11 tell thee how one cam' to be him we calls Tangle- tops. T' rock 's none safe for strangers, till t' tide has ebbed a bit; Come, yon auld boat 's a shelter, we '11 talk when pipes are lit. What ! summat 's moving on t' Scar ? It 's him we 're talking on ; He 's safe enow : he 's allis there, an' knows it stone by stone, 64 TANGLE-TOPS An' reads 'em as thou might'st a book, an' spells both wind an' wave I reckon t' great grey sea to him is like a crowded grave. Poor chap ! I lay he 's reason. He 's wrinkled now an' brown, Just like t' strands o' tangle t' bairns drag up t' town. An' nobbut fourteen year ago, he wer' a stalwart lad, WT bright keen eyes, an' springing foot, an' a laugh that made one glad. Poor Jack ! he 'd got no by-name then he came down here wi' Nance, She saw t' sunshine strike t' Nab, and t' wild white horses prance, An' she wer' for a sail, thou seest, i' t' boat he 'd scratted to get : She lay by t' Staithes all taut an' trim, her paint wer' a'most wet. We told her as t' wind wer' shy, an' t' clouds wer' driving fast : She just looked up at him an' laughed, an' got her way at last. He hove t' sail, she took t' helm : we shouted from t' pier, But they shot her ower t' harbour bar, wi' neither wit nor fear. E 65 TANGLE-TOPS An' by they'd gone an hour or so, t' clouds packed black i' t' west, T' wind swept down, t' breakers rose, an' thou canst guess t' rest. Needed a stronger hand than hers to keep t' helum straight, When t' sheet wer 5 gyving in t' storm he hadn't ta'en his mate. There 's none as knows t' right on it, but when t' squall was spent, Along t' beach and ower t' Scar, fearful an' sad we went ; An' just below t' Black Nab's reef we fund t' shattered boat, An' tossing out on t' angry sea, wer' summat pink afloat. She 'd a kerchief round her bonnie neck a pink 'un, t' lasses said ; An' 'mid t' brash at Saltwick lay Jack we thought him dead. We 'd wark to loosen frev his arm a mass o' weed he 'd got; T' Scar 's nigh clear, we '11 gang just now, I '11 take thee tu t' spot. I lay he thought 'twas Nance he held, for when he opes his eyes, ' Keep still, my lass I '11 save thee yet ! ' wer' t' first words he cries. 66 TANGLE-TOPS Poor chap ! he just went dateless, and frev that day to this, In shine or shade, in foul or fair, thou 'It never find him miss His weary ram'lins to an' fro, about an' round t' rock ; He'll get a crab or fossil whiles, but he 's main dazed wi' t' shock. He doan't know what he 's seeking, but when t' squall sweeps down, An' t' breakers rise an' t' fret comes up, and hides t' red-roofed town, He '11 moan an' grope where t' tangle grows thick as a woodland copse, An' nurse it like a bairn, an' so they calls him Tangle- tops. He 's but a-dowly puttin' on, he fends as best he can It 's no use heaving watter over a drownded man. There 's many a bitter story told between t' wind an' t' sea, Although there 's not a spot on earth like Whitby Bay to me. Give him a bit o' baccy, that cheers him up a bit, But as for argeying with him no sort o' use in it. An' if a stranger hails him, like one half-dazed he stops ; If they ask him what they calls him, he'll tell 'em, Tangle-tops. 67 AT ST. SEBASTIAN FAR, and near, and wide they sleep, Who die for England's sake ; Where never love can its vigil keep, Where never the hearts that ache Can come to tend the happy flowers That spring, as to mock our tears, In the bloom that returns with summer hours, Through all the varying years. Very far and wide they sleep Who die for England's sake ; Yet never, I think, could the charnel gloom So fair an aspect take, As where the southern sunshine lights The long Biscayan waves, And the fort on St. Sebastian's heights Stands over the English graves. O'er their graves who died in the fierce assault, Those guarded walls to win ; Do the restless rollers remember yet How their eternal din Was lost in the cheer and the battle-cry, Borne on the startled blast, As St. George's banner, borne on high, Crowned the great fort at last ? 68 AT ST. SEBASTIAN Very quietly do they lie, Our heroes, laid asleep, Where round St. Clara's fairy isle The breakers surge and sweep ; Where the gorse and the broom flash living gold To the blaze of the noonday sun, And high above stands the mighty hold, By English valour won. The old familiar names stand out To the wistful English eyes : The old familiar tales of fame Wake 'neath the stranger skies ; The foreign tones and accents sound Like voices in a dream, So homelike do the names around To the English wanderers seem. Very quietly they lie, Till the last parade shall come, And the long roll of England's dead Hear Heaven's own muster-drum. Ah, stately height 'neath the Spanish sky, Take the trust our fathers gave, When, after their dear-bought victory, They left 'neath your turf the brave. 69 THE LAST WHALER AN' so they can't spare space for her to rot ! I 'd had a thow't they would ha' let her be, For sake of the old days they Ve all forgot, An' we might pass together, her an' me Me, to my sleep up 'mid them crowding graves, An' her, to better rest, aneath the waves. But there, the river 's nigh ckoked up wi' all Them ugly steamboats, as ha' made sike deed, Wi' their red sides, like a great iron wall, An' their black funnels, promising o' speed; There 's many a chap has put his hard-earned brass I' them, and hungered for his pains, alas ! An' times are hard ; and they will do to sell The timbers that ha' braved the Arctic seas, When she went dancing o'er the ocean swell Wi' all her canvas given to the breeze ; There 's none so many left frev these old days, To tell her story while she feeds the blaze. I wer' a proud chap when, as specksioneer, I trod her deck, the gallant Northern Star, As she went gliding past the crowded pier, An' clove the breakers surging on the bar ; I mind how Nancy looked, so fresh and fair, Wi' my blue ribbon in her golden hair. 70 THE LAST WHALER Waving her little hand while tears ran over, Yet couldn't wash the dimpling smile away ; You see, she didn't care to send her lover Without a cheer upon the parting day ; An' we had pledged our words as we 'd be wed, The Sabbath after she should make the Head. When we came home our banns were out, you see, But her auld mother wouldn't ha' her left Neither a wife nor widow like an' she, Knowing t' auld dame wer' half o' sense bereft Sin' her poor man wer' drownded made her give Consent 'she'd none so much time left to live.' ' None so much time ' we thow't so ! I won home, Both proud an' happy. Many a full-fed fish Had fallen to my harpoon, an' I 'd the sum O' gain and glory given to my wish. Who met us on the pier as we cam' back ? Why, her auld mother, clad i' rusty black ! My Nancy loved the bonnie primrose flowers, My mate had sought the roots an' set 'em thick About her grave, hard by the Abbey Towers : An' when I could I lay a gey bit sick I climbed the steps, an' knelt them blooms beside, An' when the soft leaves touched me, why, I cried Cried like a bairn ; they say it saved my wits : It may ha' been so like a bitter dream Of wrong, an' loss, an' hope, that came by fits, As 'gainst a thunder-crash the lightning gleam : Sin' first I looked into her mother's face, All that dark time has left a strange, blurred trace. 71 THE LAST WHALER She 'd caught some fever, doing angel's work Among the childer, down i' Hagalythe ; I like sometimes set musing i' the mirk To think my winsome lassie gave her life Helping the helpless. Well, the time flies .past, The Northern Star has gone I '11 follow fast. The best life left to me wer' spent wi' her 'Mid the strange splendours i' them regions seen, The great ice-plains wi' neither sound nor stir, The mighty bergs, all blue, an' white, an' green, The plunging sea the blowing of the whale The flitting composants on shroud an' sail. I 've fancied, when in banners broad unfurled The crimson lights were glowing overhead, As I could a'most see the other world, Where Nance wer' waiting for me, parson said. Ay, many a year she 's borne us fast an' far, An' now she 's sold for firewood poor auld Star \ If I 'd the brass, I 'd buy the brave old boat, An 5 tak' her out, right out o' sight o' land, An' scuttle her, as she lay there afloat I Ve strength enow left in this shaking hand ; An' so we 'd sink together, her an' me, To slumber to the hushing o' the sea. But that 's another idle dream I Ve got Enow to bury me by Nancy's side, Up on the shelf there, i' the chiny pot, She bade her mother gie me 'ere she died. I '11 try to beg a bit on t' Star, to make My coffin for the last old whaler's sake. 72 SIR WILLIAM DOUGLAS ' SIR WILLIAM DOUGLAS ' ; nothing more, carved on the old grey stone, Deep in the lush green boskage, by lichens over- grown. 'Sir William Douglas.' Quietly the good knight lies asleep, Where the great oaks, like sentinels, their watch around him keep. There, in the flush of spring-time, the primrose stars the grass, And the wild birds on the hawthorn light, as to their nests they pass. There in the golden summer eves the lingering lovers come, And tell the sweet old story, as they rest beside his tomb. There fall the leaves of autumn, all russet, gold, and red, And, like a monarch's jewelled robe, bedeck his lonely bed. 73 SIR WILLIAM DOUGLAS And when the wind of winter the wood around him rocks, And deepens to an angry roar the babble of the Brox, Wide sweeping from their mountain-home, the whirl- winds of the north Lash into leaping, tossing foam the glittering waves of Forth, That crash upon the fair green Links, and thunder faint and far, Where from its height the massive Hold looks down upon Dunbar. Yet undisturbed the soldier lies, while the seasons come and go, While the roses laugh at Broxmouth, or the Lomonds couch in snow. And no man knows his story if he fell in fray forgot, Where, in the wild hill-passes, Elliot met Kerr or Scott ; Or in the furious battle, where Dunse looks grimly down, Where on the storied plain below the Stuart staked his crown ; When, urged by fool and fanatic, brave Leslie left his stand, And Cromwell sternly smiled to see his foemen ' in his hand.' 74 SIR WILLIAM DOUGLAS Dying for king and country, as die a Douglas should ? None know, for very silently he lies in Broxmouth wood. And only strangers tracking the ferny paths alone Pause, to muse a wondering moment on a name, and on a stone. 75 THE THREE ANGELS THE three great Angels by the Throne of Life Honour, Unselfishness, and Sympathy ; Call on them, mortals, baffled in the strife, Turn in thine anguish to the glorious Three ; Pure, true, and tender, clear as crystal is, They will bring comfort in the place of bliss. Sweeter are youth's fair spirits, Hope and Love ; But oh ! they falter, change, and even die : The Three alone, stern Time himself can prove, Like steadfast stars they light the darkening sky, Succour the failing hand, sustain the head, Stand calm and strong beside the dying bed. Honour will point the straight, unwavering way, Unselfishness will quiet care and fret, And Sympathy in low hushed accents say, ' The wound is deep, but balms await it yet.' Fast falls the snow, keen blows the bitter blast ; The three great Angels lead us home at last. A CHRISTMAS LETTER How is it with you ? The hot sunbeams shine On you, amid the dazzling glow of flowers The luscious shadows of the trailing vine, The nature wealth that mocks this isle of ours, Until the Christmas sunset redly stains The long grey sweep of Australasian plains. How is it with me ? The thick snow-showers fall Outside my cottage by the northern sea, The breakers thunder on the huge cliff wall, The east wind rushes o'er them fierce and free ; And misery's wail blends sadly with the roar Of darkening billows crashing to the shore. How many lonely Christmas days have gone Since we two parted, vowing, 'mid our tears, To keep each other's troth till all was won, For which we parted ' a few short years ' You, to go far to conquer time and fate, I, to turn back beside the hearth and wait ? ' A few short years ! ' I hardly care to glance At the poor face that now my mirror shows ; I shrink aside at the gay Christmas dance, I follow not where youth's light footstep goes. And you are older, too ; but then, one can Forget grey hairs much better in a man, 77 A CHRISTMAS LETTER And, looking now upon the yellowing heap Of letters, kept and read each Christmas over, Somehow I fancy that the shadows creep Across the fervour of my brave young lover, The greetings that I write, as those you send, Lack something of the first fresh warmth, my friend. yes, we keep, with somewhat over-care, Each sweet 'pet name,' each little 'customed phrase, The golden coinage of the days that were, The April garland of the April days ; Only, they ring a little forced, I think Forgive the woman's testing of the link ! And in the sacred name of Christmas, dear, By all the Past, by all the Future too, Tell me the truth with neither shame nor fear, With steady hand the chain that galls undo ; 1 shall be quite content, alone to pray For him who gave my life its perfect day. And if, so far away, the feverish strife For fame and gold was quite too much to bear, Without one near and dear to bless your life, And you have found a 'Heartsease' blooming there ; Give her to wear, for sake of our sweet folly, On Christmas Day, this spray of English holly. MORAY AND HIS THIRTY MARCH 1313 LONG as the fair old city stands, the glory of the North, Long as ' King Arthur's Seat ' o'erlooks the flashing of the Forth ; Long as o'er lovely Edinbro' queens high her castled hold, Of Moray and his Thirty shall the gallant tale be told. St. Andrew's Cross was gleaming from many a taken wall, As Highland isle and Lowland glen rose to the Bruce's call; But from Stirling and from Edinbro', in firm defiance still, The English Lion flaunted free and told her Sovereign's will. Cold in his noble Abbey lay he whose sun had set In clouds of stormy presage, the great Planta- genet ; 'Mid favourites and fooleries, the weakly sapling lost All that the mighty oak had won won at such bitter cost. 79 MORAY AND HIS THIRTY But still King Edward's standard from the Castle floated gay, And still the rock impregnable held Bruce's best at bay, To loyal threat and loyal strength laughed frank defiance down, Where Moray's baffled legions camped about the subject town. A soldier sought the warrior Earl, whose ready ear and wit Caught every rumour as it flew, and took the heart from it ; 'I have scaled the rock full oft,' he said, 'in boyish fear's despite : Who is there, that for Bruce's sake, will try my path to-night ? 'O ay, the road is perilous, craves wary grasp and tread, And once a sentinel look down, by Mary, we were sped ! But the moon is at her birth, I wot, the clouds heap in the west, To dare and die to dare and win for Scotland, which were best ? ' ' Right art thou,' fiery Moray said, and to his soldiers spoke, And, as they heard, an eager cry from every squadron broke ; Full many a stalwart- trooper felt crossed hope was hard to bear, As Randolph chose his Thirty from the host of heroes there. 80 MORAY AND HIS THIRTY The moon hung dim and haloed above the tossing Firth, The wind swept with a muffled moan across the frost- bound earth ; And from the driving wrack of clouds the light gleamed faint and far, As, in black robes, the Thirty met round Moray's silver star. High up in Edinbro' Castle, secure the English slept, Their dreary rounds the sentinels in careful order stept ; And creeping, struggling upwards, nerves, sinews, all astrain, Clomb Randolph and his Thirty, their glorious prize to gain. ' Below there, ho ! I see you,' a soldier cried in jest; I trow the throbbing pulses froze in every warrior breast ; Yet nor stir nor cry betokened their deadly peril when The loosened crag came bounding down, 'mid Moray and his men. Then rose the cry of wild surprise, of desperate dark- ling fight, As, like ghosts, the bold invaders sprung upon that guarded height. Brief was the furious struggle, as, startled from their rest, Unarmed, amazed, the English met each fierce un- bidden guest. F 81 MORAY AND HIS THIRTY And when the lingering morning broke upon the Castle Rock, The ruddy Lion ramped no more, the Scottish breeze to mock ; And when King Robert to his feast bid the captains of his host, ' To Moray and his Thirty,' he pledged the crowning toast. 82 IRA' 1810 BEATEN backward in the press Reeled the old Fourteenth ; And in triumph shrill arose The yell of the triumphant foes, As, where the British Lion flew, Flaunted ( white, and red, and blue,' For well the fiery Frenchmen knew The fame of the Fourteenth. Beaten backward in the press Reeled the old Fourteenth ; Cheerily their Colonel spoke, As the red line round him broke ; Laughing, waving with his hand To the leader of the band, As again they took their stand, The men of the Fourteenth. ' Play the Frenchman's march,' he said, The Chief of the Fourteenth ; ' Strike it up strike loud and clear ; As I stand before you here, We will prove our mettle soon ; Ere yon pale sun rides at noon, We '11 beat them to their own brave tune, We men of the Fourteenth.' 83