AND ROSES 
 
 ISU^HIiiii'L 
 
 •x 
 
 iiii
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 yib
 
 WINE AND ROSES
 
 /Zc'^^/- ^<Za^/^
 
 WINE AND EOSES 
 
 BY 
 
 VICTOR J. DALEY 
 
 AUTHOR OF "at dawn and DUSK ' 
 
 Edited, with a Memoir, 
 hy Bert mm Stevens 
 
 SYDNEY 
 ANGUS AND ROBERTSON Ltd. 
 
 89 CASTLEEEAGH STREET 
 1911
 
 Printed by W. C Penfold & Co., Sydney 
 
 for 
 
 ANGUS & ROBERTSON LIMITED 
 
 Publishers to the University. 
 
 LONDON: THE AUSTRALIAN BOOK COMPANY 
 
 21 Warwick Lane. E.G.
 
 PR 
 
 nil 
 
 The verses in this volume have been selected 
 from those written by Victor Daley after the 
 publication of At Daim and Duslc. 
 
 " The Woods of Dandenoug " first appeared in The 
 Boohfellow (1899) ; " The Quest of Brahma " in 
 Brooks's Annual ; " Players " in The Australian 
 Stage Annual ; "Anna" in The Freeman'' s Journal ; 
 and all the others in The Bulletin or The Lone Hand.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 Memoir. 
 
 1 
 
 
 
 Zl. 
 
 EOMANCH 
 
 • • 
 
 
 1 
 
 Anaceeon 
 
 
 
 
 6 
 
 The Woods of Dandenong . 
 
 
 
 
 7 
 
 The Soldan's Daughter 
 
 
 
 
 9 
 
 Thk Quest of Brahma 
 
 
 
 
 12 
 
 Desire . . . . 
 
 
 
 
 18 
 
 Sheelah. 
 
 
 
 
 22 
 
 The Eoad of Eoses . 
 
 
 
 
 24 
 
 Avatar . . . . 
 
 
 
 
 26 
 
 Impression 
 
 
 
 
 27 
 
 Paudheen's Fairy 
 
 
 
 
 28 
 
 Spring Song 
 
 
 
 
 31 
 
 The Land of Laissez Faire 
 
 
 
 
 33 
 
 Platers . 
 
 
 
 
 39 
 
 Blanchelys 
 
 
 
 
 41 
 
 Over the Wine 
 
 
 
 
 46 
 
 Bacchanalian . 
 
 
 
 
 49 
 
 The Old Bohemian 
 
 
 
 
 52 
 
 The Poet and the Muse 
 
 
 
 
 55 
 
 Adieu, Bohemia! 
 
 
 
 
 58 
 
 The Eequiter . 
 
 
 
 
 62 
 
 TiTANIA . 
 
 
 
 
 64 
 
 The Tryst 
 
 
 
 
 65
 
 Yin. 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 The Slain 
 
 Message . 
 
 Woman . 
 
 Elizabeth 
 
 The Woman at the Washtub 
 
 Atlas 
 
 Freedom and Fate 
 
 Isis 
 
 The South Wind 
 
 The Little House 
 
 Earth and Sea 
 
 Tamarama Beach 
 
 The Muses of Australia 
 
 When London Calls 
 
 After Sunset . 
 
 Mavourneen 
 
 Anna 
 
 The Green Harper 
 
 An Old Tune . 
 
 Pictures 
 
 The Lost Muse 
 
 The Forest 
 
 In a Far Country 
 
 In Arcadt 
 
 The Call of the City 
 
 "Aux Pauvrbs Diables!" 
 
 Dies Faust us . 
 
 Disillusion
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 
 
 ix. 
 
 Tkk Othee Side ..... 144 
 
 Keepsakes 
 
 
 
 
 147 
 
 SoEBOw Go Down with the 
 
 Sun! 
 
 
 
 . 149 
 
 Remonsteance . 
 
 
 
 
 150 
 
 Visions of the Rain . 
 
 
 
 
 162 
 
 The End of the Woelu 
 
 
 
 
 . 154 
 
 Faith 
 
 
 
 
 . 156 
 
 Philosophy 
 
 
 
 
 . 166 
 
 Saint Feancis II 
 
 
 
 
 . 156 
 
 I.H.S. . 
 
 
 
 
 157 
 
 A Vision of Calvaey. 
 
 
 
 
 159 
 
 Gelimee. 
 
 
 
 
 162 
 
 Foety Yeae 
 
 
 
 
 164 
 
 A New Regime 
 
 
 
 
 168 
 
 Hygeia . 
 
 
 
 
 171 
 
 The Old Men Sit by Me 
 
 
 
 
 173 
 
 III .... 
 
 
 
 
 176 
 
 The Geey Houe 
 
 
 
 
 178 
 
 To My Soul . 
 
 
 
 
 179 
 
 Finis .... 
 
 
 
 
 182
 
 MEMOIR 
 
 Over thirty years ago Victor Daley, then a happy, 
 wondering Iiish lad, drifted out to Australia. His head 
 was full of old tunes and fragments of poetry; his 
 pocket was nearly empty. The sunshine and freedom 
 of Australia delighted him, and, in careless, vagabond 
 fashion he enjoyed the fleeting pleasures of the day 
 with little thought of the morrow. A good com- 
 panion, " a fellow of infinite jest," life to him was a 
 gallant spectacle, which he loved to look at and did 
 not take seriously. Worldly success never tempted 
 him, for he was a Bohemian by birth ; but he was also 
 descendant of a bardic sept, and he wanted to be a 
 poet. So he wrote verses charged with the melan- 
 choly regret of the Celt for vanished glories and the 
 beauty of remote things, dainty opalescent lyrics 
 with hints of fairy music, witty and ironic verse on 
 passing events, and, occasionally, prose sketches. 
 When the pressure of hard realities brought sorrow 
 into his life he wrote more gaily and vigorously than 
 ever. For twenty years or more he charmed a large 
 number of readers. In .this thinly-peopled continent 
 
 3d.
 
 xii. MEMOIR 
 
 the makers of verse are numerous, and though Daley 
 never appealed to so large an audience as the ballad 
 writers, he was the writer best beloved of the 
 writing clan. 
 
 Daley travelled through life with few impedimenta, 
 and left behind no papers from which biographical 
 data could be drawn. The story of his life which 
 follows here may, therefore, be inaccurate in some 
 particulars. He believed that he was born at Navan 
 in the county of Meath, Ireland, on the 5th 
 September, 1858, and that he was christened Victor 
 James William Patrick. The last two names were 
 dropped early in life. His father, a soldier, went to 
 India with his regiment when Victor was an infant. 
 Falling ill there, he sent for his wife and child; and 
 a few weeks after their arrival the three left for home. 
 The father died on the voyage. 
 
 For some years afterwards Victor lived with his 
 grandparents, in a district associated with one of the 
 great periods in Ireland's history, and amongst 
 people who were intensely patriotic and learned in 
 fairy lore and legend. Memories of the stories he 
 then heard were vividly retained until the end of his 
 life. Some of them were embodied in articles written 
 for the Sydney Freeman's Journal, from which I 
 have taken these passages: —
 
 MEMOIE xiii. 
 
 " In the front garden of my grandmother's house 
 there was a great Fairy thorn. They tokl mo, Defore 
 I began to know much about history, that Queen 
 Meeva had planted it there with her own white nands. 
 And, indeed, anything was possible in that country. 
 Green Emania— which is now called the Navan King — 
 was within aiTow-flight of us, and a little more than 
 a mile away was a lonely little tarn in the middle 
 of a field. They called it the King's Stables. The 
 bottom of it was paved with blocks of stone, and 
 many relics of the days of old had been found there 
 by adventurous divers. It was really the site of the 
 Great Rath of the Red Branch Knights. The town- 
 ship is to this day called Creeve Roe (Red Branch). 
 Not far from it, and under the shadow of 
 McCormack's brae, is Lough na Shade (Clear 
 Water) into whose depths no man has ever ventured, 
 because of the Great Snake that is below guarding 
 the crock of gold, which was the treasure of Cormae 
 MacNessa." 
 
 " . . . . When I was a boy staying out at 
 night, for the love of the thing and the romance 
 of living in a little hazel house of my own on the 
 side of the Rath, I saw the Sidhe — or I thought I 
 saw them, which was the same thing — coming out of 
 the long-choked gates of the Castle of Conchobar,
 
 xiv. MEMOIE 
 
 dressed in green and gold and riding on little white 
 horses on their way to Lough na Shade. Some 
 distance away— five hundred yards or so—from the 
 Rath is a little mound, smooth as the breast of a 
 giantess, that had been ploughed over and sown with 
 corn in the early spring and grown in the last 
 sjDring, and yellow in the summer, and thick with 
 whisjDering tongues and listening ears in the autumn. 
 This was once the Speckled House. A Scotchman 
 by the name of Leeman owns the place now, or rather 
 he owned it when I was a boy. My grandfather 
 used to say that, if we had our rights and Cromwell 
 and James the First had never been born, the great 
 house would have been ours, and the Leemans would 
 have been calling at our back door begging some 
 seed potatoes and the loan of a furrow or two from 
 our fine black-soil field in which to plant theui. 
 ' Princes in the land we were in the old time,' my 
 grandfather would observe, ' and let neither of yon 
 boys ever forget the fact.' I was about eight years 
 old then, and his son— my uncle— was over thirty. 
 . . . . My uncle was a sub-centre of Fenians, 
 and I myself was probably the most violent rebel in 
 the whole county of Armagh." 
 
 Daley's mother, who was of Scottish descent, 
 married again and removed to Devonport, England
 
 MEMOIR XV. 
 
 Victor, about 14 at the time, was sent to the Christian 
 Brothers' school in that town What he valued most 
 afterwards was the privilege to browse at large in 
 the school library, and he then became fired with an 
 enthusiasm for literature. At 16 he passed a Civil 
 Service examination, and entered the Great Western 
 Railway Company's office in Plymouth 
 
 After three years, he tired of the work and grew 
 restless. His stei^father had relatives in Adelaide 
 who were childless, and he suggested that it might 
 be a good thing for Victor to join them. Australia 
 appeai'ed to the boy's mind as something like a 
 modern Hy-Brasil, and he gladly agreed to go. 
 
 Early in 1S78 he reached Sydney; there he left 
 the ship, as he liked the look of the place and thought 
 Adelaide was within easy reach. His slender stock 
 of money dwindled away and he took a job as 
 gardener to a clergyman, although he knew nothing of 
 gardening— as the clergyman soon discovered. Before 
 long he got to Adelaide, where he found employment 
 as a correspondence clerk. 
 
 In Adelaide, Daley experimented a good deal in 
 verse and some of his rhymes were printed in a local 
 paper. By chance a love-lyric of his was sent to 
 an office client instead of a letter; remonstrances 
 followed, and Daley left for Melbourne. He had a
 
 XVI. 
 
 MEMOIR 
 
 vague idea of going on to Noumea, but at a race 
 meeting in Melbourne he lost all his money, and had 
 to turn to free-lance journalism for a living. For 
 a time he was on the staff— in fact, he was all the 
 staff— of a suburban paper. Then some of his verses 
 were printed in Melbourne papers; two striking 
 sonnets appeared in The Victorian Review, and 
 Daley became acquainted with the principal writers 
 of the city. 
 
 " I met Marcus Clarke once," he said later on in a 
 Bulletin article. " Somebody whose name I have 
 forgotten introduced me, and said with pompous 
 sarcasm that I was a young aspirant to literature, 
 and that Marcus had better look after his laurels. T 
 felt furiously ashamed and distressed, but Clarke 
 nodded kindly, shook my hand, and told me that he 
 would say something to me about literature later 
 on. I inferred from the tone of his voice that the 
 information he had to give me would not be pleasant. 
 He never gave it. George Walstab was there, and 
 Garnet Walch and Grosvenor Bunster, and, I think, 
 Bob Whitworth and others. The conversation flowed 
 on. I was in Paradise— a Paradise that smelt of 
 whisky and cigar-smoke, and echoed with light- 
 hearted laughter. I had previously read La Vie de 
 Boheme, and I said to myself, ' This is Bohemia,
 
 MEMOIR xvii. 
 
 indeed.' And it was. All good fellows. All good 
 writers. Then, in a pause of the conversation, while 
 they were ordering drinks, or lighting their pipes or 
 something, Marcus Clarke turned to me and asked me 
 what I was doing— meaning I suppose, in that galley. 
 I replied that I was by trade a correspondence clerk, 
 but I was then writing for a suburban paper, and 
 never wanted to be a corresiDondence clerk again. 
 Some member of the company, who was passing out 
 of the room, tapped me on the shoulder and said, 
 * Don't give away your silk purse for a sow's ear.' 
 I didn't catch his meaning at the moment, but all 
 the others laughed. Now I know why they laughed.'' 
 
 One happy-go-lucky acquaintance of this time, 
 Larry Spruhan— the " half Galahad, half Don Juan " 
 of a, poem in At Down and Z>msA;— lured Daley away 
 from writing suburban leaders on European politics 
 —"which must have made the iron knees of Bismarck 
 knock with terror." Spruhan was off to prospect 
 for gold, and promised to send for Daley as soon as 
 he had good news. For a week or two, I believe, 
 Daley sold Japanese pottery at the Melbourne 
 Exhibition of 1880. The profit was magnificent, but 
 the tenure of office all too brief. Soon news came 
 from Spruhan at Queanbeyan, N.S.W.— " Struck it 
 rich, come at once." Daley, with a friend named
 
 XVlll. 
 
 MEMOIR 
 
 Caddy, took the train as far north as their funds 
 would allow, and then tramped. They had a number 
 of adventures before they arrived at Queanbeyan and 
 found that Spruhan had disappeared, Daley got a 
 billet on a local paper, and stayed about six months. 
 
 Moving on to Sydney,' he worked for the expiring 
 Sydney Punch and the newly established Bulletin. 
 He met Kendall, whose poems he greatly admired, 
 and mixed with the little group of artists and 
 writers who were as an oasis in the desert of money- 
 making people. Writing of them twenty-five years 
 afteiTvards, he remembered them all as jolly fellows. 
 
 " Everybody about town seemed to know every- 
 body else ia those days. There were, of course, some 
 of them who did not like each other; but I think 
 that, on the whole, there was more geniality on the 
 streets than there is now. ... I believe also 
 that there was more real camaraderie amongst 
 musicians, artists, pressmen and even actors than 
 there is at the present day. Possibly this was because 
 they were all young— in spirit, if not in years— 
 and doing fairly well without making slaves of 
 themselves." 
 
 Somewhere about 1S85 Daley went back to 
 Melbourne, and wrote with varying fortune for most 
 of the papers there, as well as for The Bulletin.
 
 MEMOIR 
 
 XIX. 
 
 In 1898 it was arranged to publish a selection of his 
 verses, and in that year he returned to Sydney in 
 connection with the book. At Dcam and Dnsh was 
 moderately successful. Australian reviewers, almost 
 without exception, praised it highly, and many pre- 
 dicted that it would be warmly received in Britain; 
 but it made no impression there. While Daley's work 
 had a unique place in the regard of Australians, it 
 was, not unnaturally, slighted by British reviewers 
 because of the absence of local colour. 
 
 By that time Daley had ceased to care for fame. 
 He had no illusions about the place of his verses 
 in the pageant of poetry. He was satisfied if his 
 writings would earn him enough to live upon, and 
 glad that they had introduced him to the society he 
 liked. Many times in earlier years he had meditated 
 a big work in verse which would express all he had 
 thought about Things-in-General. He began one 
 when staying on the Hawkesbury River in 1884, and 
 the result was printed as " Fragments of a frustrate 
 poem." 
 
 " I yet shall sing my splendid song ; 
 The world is young, the world is strong " 
 
 he cried, and tried again, but found that ho was 
 incapable of sustained effort.
 
 XX. 
 
 MEMOIR 
 
 Only for brief periods had he tried to do any 
 regular work, apart from literature. After At Dawn 
 and Dusk was published, a place was obtained for 
 him in a Government Office in Sydney; but the 
 adding of perpendicular columns of figures and 
 making them agree with horizontal columns was an 
 agony not to be borne. " That way madness lies," 
 he said, and walked out. 
 
 From the conventional standpoint his life was a 
 failure. Yet he had practical wisdom and a respect 
 for conventions; if he had tried he might have 
 succeeded, as many lesser men have done. He never 
 cared to try. Life seemed too precious to waste in 
 striving for money or position, and his temperament 
 demanded freedom from routine. He came to know 
 that a bitter price had to be paid for freedom, and 
 he paid it without grumbling. Daley was as 
 unhapiDy as Charles Lamb if long away from the 
 city, and a vagabond life in town is without the 
 purifying influences which the fresh hand of Nature 
 can bestow. Li a city there are many taverns, and at 
 times Daley touched the mire. Yet he remained un- 
 soiled ; for he was clean at heart, and, apart from the 
 irregularities of Bohemia, he had no vices. Many 
 stories, grotesque and humorous, have been told about 
 him; and in time to come the Daley of legend may
 
 MEMOIE xxi. 
 
 be a figure resembling the Beloved Vagabond of 
 Locke's romance. 
 
 There was nothing riotous in Daley's nature. He 
 confessed that he had never had a grand passion and 
 seldom experienced profound emotion. His colour 
 sense was not opulent j but he thrilled te the beauty 
 of delicate shades, and preferred the faint green 
 dawn to the sunrise, the dusk to the sunset. HUs 
 talk was excellent. He touched any subject of 
 conversation with a gleaming fancy, and would risk 
 much for a jest. Of his desultory reading he 
 remembered the anecdotes, the picturesque images, 
 the magic phrases, and unconsciously echoed some 
 of them in his own lines. He was a true votary of 
 old world Romance, and some of its glamor he cast 
 over the continuous stream of bright shining verse 
 which flowed from his pen— finely pure, but thin 
 when it was seen running side by side with that 
 broader and more turbulent current which was 
 coloured by Australian soil. 
 
 Daley's health failed in 1902, and friends 
 enabled him to take a voyage to the South Sea 
 Islands in the following year. In 1905 it was 
 found that he had consumption. He went to 
 Orange on the New South Wales table-land; he 
 was lonely there, got no better, and returned to
 
 xxii. MEMOIR 
 
 Sydney in the Spring. For months he saw the end 
 coming; his buoyant spirit rode like a cork on a sea 
 of troubles, and he jested in the face of death. He 
 died at Waitara, near Sydney, on the 29th December, 
 1905, and was buried at Waverley, not far from the 
 dust of those other Celtic spirits which have enriched 
 Australia— Kendall, Dalley and Deniehy. 
 
 Light-hearted, brave, generous, but weak of will — 
 the man was finer than his work, and his work is 
 good.
 
 V/INE AND ROSES
 
 ROMANCE 
 
 They say that fain Romance is dead, and in her cold 
 
 grave lying low, 
 Tlie green grass waving o'er her head, the mould 
 
 ui^on her breasts of snow; 
 Her voice, they say, is dumb for aye, that once was 
 
 clarion-clear and high— 
 But in their hearts, their frozen hearts, they know 
 
 that bitterly they lie. 
 
 Her brow of white, that was with bright rose- 
 garland in the old days crowned, 
 
 Is now, they say, all shorn of light, and with a 
 fatal fillet bound. 
 
 Her eyes divine no more sliall shine to lead the 
 hardy knight and good 
 
 Unto the Castle Perilous, beyond the dark Enchanted 
 Wood.
 
 2 ROMANCE 
 
 And do they deem, these fools supreme, whose iron 
 
 wheels unceasing whirr, 
 That, in this rushing- Age of Steam, there is no 
 
 longer room for HER?— 
 That, as they hold the Key of Gold that shuts or 
 
 opens Mammon's Den, 
 Romance has vanished from the earth and left the 
 
 homes and hearts of men? 
 
 Yea, some there be who fain would see this 
 consumjnation sad and drear. 
 
 And set their god Machinery Avith iron rod to rule 
 the year. 
 
 They go their way, day after day, with forward- 
 staring, famished eyes. 
 
 Whose level glances never stray— fixed fast upon a 
 sordid prize! 
 
 The sun may rise in god-like guise, the stars like 
 
 burning seraj^hs shine. 
 But, ah, for those sad souls unwise, nor Earth nor 
 
 Heaven bears a sign. 
 All visions fair, in earth and air, they gaze upon 
 
 AVith sullen scorn. 
 God knows His own great business best; He only 
 
 knows why they were born.
 
 ROMANCE 3 
 
 They never saAv, with sacred awe, the Vision of the 
 
 Starry Stream 
 That is the source of Love and Law; they never 
 
 dreamt the Wondrous Dream; 
 They never heard the Magic Bird, whose strains 
 
 the poet's soul entrance; 
 Their souls are in their money-bags — what should 
 
 they know of fair Romance"? 
 
 She still is here, the fair and dear, and walks the 
 
 Earth with noiseless feet; 
 Her eyes are deep, and dark, and clear, her scarlet 
 
 mouth is honey-sweet; 
 A chaplel^ fair of roses rare and lordly laurel crowns 
 
 her head; 
 Her path is over land and sea. She is not dead; 
 
 she is not dead. 
 
 On roads of clay, 'neath skies of grey, though Fate 
 
 compel us to advance, 
 Beyond the turning of the way there sits and waits 
 
 for us Romance. 
 Around yon cape, of lion-shape, that meets the wave 
 
 with lion-brow, 
 A ship sails in from lands unknown ; Romance stands 
 
 shining on her prow.
 
 4 ROMANCE 
 
 At dead of night, a fiery light, from out the heart 
 
 of darkness glares; 
 The engine, rocking in its flight, once more into 
 
 the darkness flares; 
 The train flies fast, the bridge is past; white faces 
 
 for a moment gleam— 
 And at the window sits Romance and gazes doAvn 
 
 into the stream. 
 
 When first the child, with wonder wild, looks on 
 
 the world with shining eyes, 
 Romance becomes his guardian mild, and tells to him 
 
 her stories wise. 
 And, when the light fades into night, and ended is 
 
 this life's short span. 
 To other wonder-worlds she leads the spirit of the 
 
 Dying Man. 
 
 Right grim gods be Reality, and iron-handed 
 
 Circumstance. 
 Cast off their fetters, friend! Break free!— and 
 
 seek the shrine of fair Romance. 
 And, when dark days with cares would craze your 
 
 brain, then she will take your hand. 
 And lead you on bj' greenwood ways unto a green and 
 
 pleasant land.
 
 ROMANCE 5 
 
 There you will see brave company all making gay 
 
 and gallant cheer— 
 Blanaid the Fair, and Deirdri rare, and Gold 
 
 Gudrun and Guinevere; 
 And Merlin wise, with dreaming eyes, and Tristram 
 
 of the Harp and Bow; 
 While from the Wood of Broceliande the horns of 
 
 Elfland bravely blow.
 
 ANACREON 
 
 We bought a volume of Anaereon, 
 
 Defaced, mishandled, little to admire. 
 
 And yet its rusty clasps kept guard upon 
 The sweetest songs, the songs of young desire 
 
 Like that great song once sung by Solomon. 
 
 My sweetheart's cheeks were peonies on fire : 
 We saw by the bright message of his eyes 
 That Eros served us in bookseller's guise. 
 
 I kesp the volume still, but She has gone . . 
 Ah, for the poetry in Paradise! 
 
 There's Honey still and Roses on the earth, 
 
 And lips to kiss, and jugs to drain with mirth; 
 
 And lovers walk in pairs : but She has gone . . 
 Anaereon ! Anaereon !
 
 THE WOODS OF DANDENONG 
 
 High, clear and high, the soaring skylark sings 
 Love! Love! Love! the joy of life and woe: 
 
 Throbs, throbs his heart, as upward on thrilling wings 
 Far, far he soars from this dim world below. 
 
 Was it a skylark's voice or a soul's triumphant song 
 
 We heard in the days gone by in the woods of 
 Dandenongl 
 
 Rose, lovely rose— a fairer rose was she- 
 Rose, white rose, I kiss your tender leaves! 
 
 Speak, speak, speak, Soul-white rose for me. 
 Say, say to her my heart in silence grieves. 
 
 Lonely and sad it grieves amidst the careless throng. . . 
 
 Ah, green are the waving trees in the woods of 
 Dandenong ! 
 
 Star, crystal star, shining where angels be. 
 Bright, bright star— yet brighter were her eyes—
 
 8 THE WOODS OF DANDENONG 
 
 Ai! Ai! Ai! Star of my life was she! 
 
 Shine, gently shine where tow her bright head lies. 
 And ah^ but the world is cold and the way is dark 
 
 and long; 
 And oh, that we were once more in the woods of 
 
 Dandenong,
 
 THE SOLDAN'S DAUGHTER 
 
 It is the Soldan's Daughter: 
 
 She standeth silently 
 Upon her high stone tower 
 
 And looks across the sea. 
 
 Her eyes are black as midnight, 
 Yet in their depths doth dwell 
 
 A light like starlight shining 
 Within a holy well. 
 
 Her lips are like pomegranates 
 That in the summer glow 
 
 Outside the latticed windows 
 Of the seraglio. 
 
 Her breasts are golden goblets, 
 So pure, and chaste, and fine; 
 
 Two cups like moons of splendor, 
 And full of royal wine.
 
 10 THE SOLDAN'S DAUGHTER 
 
 Her brow is like a banner 
 That leads a royal line ; 
 
 Her hair is like the darkness 
 In branches of the pine. 
 
 Her slender limbs are lilies^ 
 Slow-swaying in the sti'eam; 
 
 Her feet in scarlet slippers 
 Like pearls in rose-leaves gleam. 
 
 Kings from afar have sought her, 
 Rajahs, and Grand Viziers, 
 
 Khans of the Golden Horde, and 
 Lords of ten thousand spears. 
 
 Kings from afar have sought her, 
 With crowns and veils of pride - 
 
 But ever the Soldan's Daughter 
 She turned her head aside. 
 
 They came with turbans jewelled. 
 Black beards, and eye^ of jet; 
 
 And each wore on his bosom 
 A red love-amulet. 
 
 They sacked her royal city; 
 
 Her sire, the Soldan, slew— 
 These proud, imperious lovers 
 
 Who came with swords to woo.
 
 THE SOLDAN'S DAUGHTER 11 
 
 They wooed her with red slaughter 
 
 And banners battle-torn, 
 But ever the Soldan's Daughter 
 
 She turned aside in scorn. 
 
 She dwells in her high tower 
 
 Beside the wan, waste sea; 
 She weaves a spell of magic 
 
 Subtly and silently. 
 
 She makes an incantation, 
 With flame and strange perfume, 
 
 And solemn, star-eyed flowers 
 That in the midnight bloom. 
 
 ^to"- 
 
 She calls across the ages. 
 Across the wan, waste sea; 
 
 She calls from her high tower, 
 She calls and calls to me, 
 
 I hear that voice of magic 
 
 Over Oblivion's flood, 
 Over the seas of Silence, 
 
 Over the years of blood. 
 
 I stand beside the seashore. 
 And in the midnight dumb; 
 
 0, golden Soldan's Daughter. 
 Full soon, full soon, I come.
 
 THE QUEST OF BRAHIMA 
 
 Once upon a hushed red morning 
 In the wondrous years of old, 
 
 When the sun rose like a Eajah 
 Clad in robes of gleaming gold, 
 
 And upon his land of India 
 Poured the largess of his heart, 
 
 By the Ganges stood a Brahmin, 
 Far from all his kind, apart. 
 
 Darkly on that royal dawning 
 
 Gazed the Brahmin, sore distraught, 
 
 And his body lean was shaken 
 With the passion of his thought. 
 
 " Many years with hands uplifted 
 Till they withered in the air, 
 
 I have prayed," he cried, "to Brahma, 
 But He heedeth not my prayer. 
 
 12
 
 THE QUEST OF BRAHMA 13 
 
 " I have prayed and I have fasted, 
 
 Waiting ever for a sign, 
 While the world went reeling past me, 
 
 With its women and its wine. 
 
 " Burning suns by day have scorched me. 
 
 Freezing stars with icy spears. 
 They have pierced my brain at midnight, 
 
 Through the long and lonely years. 
 
 "I would lose my soul in Brahma, 
 Who is soul, and life, and breath;' 
 
 Nought to me are human shadows 
 Flitting by to empty death. 
 
 "I have done with prayer and fasting: 
 
 Lest the years in vain go by, 
 I will search the world for Brahma, 
 
 I will seek him till I die." 
 
 Thus the Brahmin spake, then swiftly 
 Journeyed up the Ganges stream: 
 
 All around him reeled the riot 
 Of a strange phantasmal dream. 
 
 Rajahs proud he saw returning 
 
 From the wars in regal guise. 
 In their turbans blood-red rubies 
 
 Gleaming over gleaming eyes;
 
 14 THE QUEST OF BRAHMA 
 
 Koyal elephants that slowly 
 
 Marched, with trunks in pride uncurled; 
 And the spearmen and^ the banners, 
 
 And the glory of the world: 
 
 And, amidst the great processions. 
 Captive kings in fetters borne; 
 
 "While the cymbals clashed with triumph. 
 And the trumpets blared with scorn. 
 
 These he passed with eyes unheeding 
 
 All their glorious array; 
 For he knew they were but shadows 
 
 That grim death would sweep away. 
 
 Never sight of human sorrow, 
 Never show of human pride, 
 
 Edge of sword or smile of woman, 
 Turned him from his path aside. 
 
 Yet he stayed by still, dim waters, 
 On whose breast the lotus blooms— 
 
 FloAver of secrecy and silence. 
 
 Gleaming, midst the temple glooms. 
 
 All in vain he searched the temples 
 Where, in many a form and guise. 
 
 In the dim vast halls the idols 
 Stared with soulless, jewelled eyes.
 
 THE QUEST OF BRAHMA 16 
 
 "I will seek," he cried ''for Brahma 
 
 Midst the everlasting snows; 
 Where the holy Ganges River 
 
 From his awful forehead flows." 
 
 To the far-off peaks he turned him, 
 
 Leaving homes of men behind; 
 Driven onward by his yearning 
 
 As a flame before! the wind. 
 
 Hunger gnawed, and fear pursued him, 
 As he climbed with sobbing breath ; 
 
 And above his head, unsleeping, 
 Hovered dai'k the vulture Death. 
 
 Ever downward plunged the torrents 
 
 In a fierce and foaming flood, 
 Roaring through the gloomy gorges, 
 
 Like a people mad for blood. 
 
 Rose the white moon like a spectre— 
 
 All with ghostly light aglow. 
 Shining on a lonely Shadow 
 
 Midst the Himalayan snow. 
 
 Rose the sun in ojDal glory- 
 Still the Shadow lingered there, 
 
 On a ledge above the eagles 
 In the vast blue void of air. 
 
 r
 
 16 THE QUEST OF BRAHMA 
 
 Long the Brahmin stood and gazed on 
 
 India lying far below, 
 Like a Maharanee dreaming 
 
 Evil dreams of war and woe. 
 
 And he felt his bosom thrilling 
 
 With a fearful pity then. 
 For the fierce unhappy nations, 
 
 For the wretched sons of men. 
 
 ''All this woe of old passed by me 
 
 As a cry upon the wind : 
 Brahma is no God of Mercy 
 
 Unto hapless humankind. 
 
 "Or, perchance, the Fate that rules us 
 Rules Him too, through endless years, 
 
 And the Ganges flowing seaward 
 Is the flowing of his tears." 
 
 So he spake: then upward struggling 
 
 Came at last unto a plain. 
 Cold and silent, white and awful. 
 
 Far above the hurricane. 
 
 And amidst it gleamed the fountain 
 Whence the Holy Eiver floAvs, 
 
 And boside the mystic fountain. 
 Bloomed a red and lonely Rose.
 
 THE QUEST OF BRAHMA 17 
 
 Never wind its leaves did ruffle, 
 
 Never breeze dispersed its balm, 
 As it bloomed there— a still-glowing 
 
 Blossom of Eternal Calm. 
 
 All the plain was white and silent. 
 
 Blue and silent was the sky; 
 And the Brahmin, in his anguish. 
 
 By the Rose lay down to die. 
 
 "New the end has come," he murmured, 
 
 " Lone I die amidst the snows, 
 I have sought in vain for Brahma." 
 
 "I am Brahma," breathed the Rose.
 
 DESIRE 
 
 Soul of the leaping flame, 
 Heart of the scarlet fire, 
 
 Spirit that hath for name 
 Only the name— Desire ! 
 
 Subtle art thou and strong; 
 
 Glowing in sunlit skies; 
 Sparkling in wine and song; 
 
 Shining in woman's eyes; 
 
 Gleaming on shores of Sleep— 
 Moon of the wild dream-clan— 
 
 Burning within the deep 
 Passionate heart of Man. 
 
 Spirit we can but name. 
 Essence of Forms that seem, 
 
 Odour of violet flame, 
 Weaver of Thought and Dream, 
 
 18
 
 DESIRE 19 
 
 Laugh of the World's great Heart, 
 
 Who shall thy rune recite? 
 Child of the gods thou art, 
 
 Offspring of Day and Night. 
 
 Lord of the Rainbow Realm, 
 
 Many a shape hast thou— 
 Glory with laurelled helm; 
 
 Love with the myrtled brow; 
 
 Sanctity, robed in white; 
 
 Liberty, proud and calm, 
 Ringed with auroral light, 
 
 Bearing the sword and palm. 
 
 Maidens with dreamful eyes, 
 
 Eyes of a dreaming dove, 
 See thee in noble guise 
 
 Coming and call thee— Love! 
 
 '& 
 
 Youtii with his blood aflame. 
 Running in crystal-red. 
 
 Sees, on the Mount of Fame, 
 Thee with thy hand outspread. 
 
 Leader of Hope Forlorn, 
 When he beholds thine eyes 
 
 Shining in splendid scorn- 
 Storming the rampart, dies.
 
 20 DESIRE 
 
 Many have by good hap 
 Seen thee in arms arrayed, 
 
 Wearing a Phrygian cap, 
 High on a barricade; 
 
 Aye, and by dome and arch 
 Leading, with eyes ablaze. 
 
 Onward the Patriots' March, 
 Singing the Marseillaise. 
 
 Lo, where with trembling lyre, 
 Held in his long white hands. 
 
 Thrilled by the glance of fire, 
 Rapt the Musician stands; 
 
 Feeling thee all around 
 
 Glow in the quiv'ring air- 
 Luminous Soul of Sound! 
 Music of all things fair! 
 
 Anchorite, pale and worn. 
 
 Sees thee, and earth disowns— 
 
 Lifted on prayer, and borne 
 Up to the Shining Thrones. 
 
 Yea, as the seraph-star 
 Chanting in ecstasy, 
 
 Singing in fire afar. 
 So he beholdeth thee.
 
 DESIRE 21 
 
 And, as in darksome mines, 
 
 Far down a corridor. 
 Starlike a small lamp shines. 
 
 Raying along the floor- 
 So, ere his race is run, 
 
 Parted his last faint breath, 
 Thou, for the dying one, 
 
 Lightest the ways of Death ; 
 
 And, while his kindred mourn 
 Over his shell of clay, 
 
 Shinest beyond the bourne, 
 Dawn of his first new day. 
 
 Thus through the lives to be 
 We shall fare, each alone, 
 
 Evermore lured by thee 
 Unto an End unknown.
 
 SHEELAH 
 
 When Sheelah in the morning 
 
 Comes down the way, 
 It needs no more adorning 
 
 To make it gay; 
 The stones upon the street, 
 Sure they kiss her feet. 
 
 She dresses all in green. 
 
 And that's no sin; 
 And she wears like any Queen 
 
 What she stands in. 
 If she had not a shawl- 
 Sure Sheelah's under all. 
 
 She looks at me so shyly 
 
 With dark-grey eyes; 
 She looks at me so slyly 
 
 In sweet surprise;
 
 SHEELAH 23 
 
 And, when she passes on, 
 My heart she treads upon. 
 
 The world is full of girls, 
 
 Men say to me; 
 The sea is full of pearls. 
 
 My pearl is she; 
 Though other pearls there be, 
 She is the pearl for me. 
 
 When Sheelah, some fine morning. 
 
 Walks down the way, 
 She'll vanish without warning, 
 
 And what will I say? 
 I'll say : " Saints, be true ! 
 Sheelah, is it you?" 
 
 Sheelah, Sheelah, 
 
 Sheelah, Gramaehree ! 
 In all the world of girls 
 
 She's the one girl for me.
 
 THE ROAD OF ROSES 
 
 The Sun of Childhood tender 
 Illumes the long white way 
 
 With touches of rosy splendor, 
 All in the dawn of day. 
 
 And ever as he passes, 
 
 And through the forest runs. 
 He lights on leaves and grasses 
 
 A thousand little suns. 
 
 And, like a gleaming river 
 That to the sea descends, 
 
 The long white road runs ever 
 To where the Rainbow ends. 
 
 The bee his small wings closes, 
 And makes his sweet abode 
 
 Within the hearts of roses 
 That bloom beside the road. 
 
 u
 
 THE ROAD OF ROSES 25 
 
 And Spring's wise little lady, 
 
 The Primrose, opes her eyne, 
 And keeps in places shady 
 
 Her golden lamps ashine. 
 
 The birds, with sunlight sheening 
 
 Their throats, sing all a-row, 
 A song whose mystic meaning 
 
 Only the children know. 
 
 It tells of strange lands under 
 The Suns3t, strange and fair, 
 
 And of the World of Wonder 
 Above the Rainbow Stair. 
 
 It tells of how To-morrow 
 
 Will bring a shining sheaf 
 Of joys without a sorrow, 
 
 Of hours without a grief. 
 
 So, with clear voices ringing, 
 
 And posies in their hands, 
 The children journey singing 
 
 Unto the Wonder Lands.
 
 AVATAR 
 
 Mine is the beauty of all bygone years; 
 I hold within triumi^hant arms to-day 
 The loveliness of ages passed away, 
 
 Brynhild's, Ysolt's, Gndrun's, and Guinevere's 
 
 And hers for whom avenging Argive spears 
 Smote Trojan heroes in that ancient fray, 
 And fierce Achilles did great Hector slay, 
 
 While sad Andromache wept widow's tears. 
 
 Nature ig not so r?ch that she can waste 
 The wonders of her working wantonly ; 
 
 Blanaid the Fair, and Rosalie the Chaste, 
 And burning Sappho, Queen' of Melody, 
 
 Are born again, and all their charms embraced 
 In one fair woman who was born for me ! 
 
 26
 
 IMPRESSION 
 
 The Sea is a Sultana 
 
 Imperious and fair; 
 A Queen of the Zenana 
 
 With heaving bosom bare. 
 
 The Sun, her Lord and Lover, 
 From his imperial height. 
 
 His golden thi'one above her, 
 Sends kisses of keen light. 
 
 What high dream is she dreaming, 
 
 The fair Sultana sea? 
 So bright she is in seeming; 
 
 Can she know tragedy? 
 
 She is the Queen of Magic, 
 Of changing smiles and sighs; 
 
 Yet in her heart-deeps tragic 
 The lost Atlantis lies. 
 
 27
 
 PAUDHEEN'S FAIRY 
 
 Paudheen took leave of 
 
 His comrades gay, 
 Upon the eve of 
 
 The first of May; 
 Witli heart undaunted 
 
 He trod the path 
 Unto the haunted 
 
 Green Fairy Rath. 
 
 Sore wept his mother 
 
 "Avie! Machree! 
 Where was another 
 
 Son dear as he"? 
 He's gone for ever — 
 
 Too well I know 
 The fairies never 
 
 Will let him go." 
 
 28
 
 PAUDHEEN'S FAIRY 29 
 
 The wind went soughin' 
 
 Across the land; 
 A branch of rowan 
 
 Was in her hand; 
 Witch-hazels bended 
 
 Their shadows! lean, 
 Her cry ascended— 
 
 " Paudheen ! Paudheen ! " 
 
 It was the night, and 
 
 The charmed hour, 
 When elf and sprite and 
 
 Queen Maeve have power. 
 Was it, perchance, heard. 
 
 That cry so keen? 
 The lone hill answered, 
 
 " Paudheen ! Paudheen ! " 
 
 But Paudheen, lying 
 
 On Magic ground, 
 Of that sore crying 
 
 Heard not a sound— 
 For, through the springing 
 
 Green grass, rose clear 
 A sound of singing 
 
 Most sweet to hear.
 
 30 PAUDHEEN'S FAIRY 
 
 No wild, marsh-firish, 
 Witch-chant he heard, 
 
 But kindly Irish 
 Was every word. 
 
 The strain rose reeling- 
 He heard, the rogue, 
 
 The song, heart-stealing. 
 Of Tir-nan-oge. 
 
 The corn was springing 
 
 Where once was loam— 
 When, softly singing, 
 
 Paudheen came home. 
 His step was airy, 
 
 His lips apart— 
 The Singing Fairy 
 
 Was in his heart.
 
 SPRING SONCt 
 
 I AM the Vision and the Dream 
 
 Of trembling Age, and yearning Youth ; 
 I am the Sorceress Supreme. 
 
 I am Illusion; I am Truth. 
 
 I am the Queen to whom belongs 
 The royal right great gifts to give; 
 
 I am the Singer of the Songs 
 That lure men on to live and live. 
 
 There is no music like to mine; 
 
 I sing in green, and gold and red; 
 I pour from secret casks the wine 
 
 That cheers the cold hearts of the dead. 
 
 My harp it has a thousand tones, 
 And makes the world with joy a-flood; 
 
 The old men feel it in their bones, 
 
 And life leaps laughing in their blood. 
 
 31
 
 32 SPRING SONG 
 
 The sourest mortal all in vain 
 Shall try from me to keep apart; 
 
 I have no commerce with his brain— 
 I storm the fortress of his heart. 
 
 I am the Soul of things to come; 
 
 I make a lover from a log; 
 I make a poet of the dumb ; 
 
 I make a seraph of a frog. 
 
 The lover with a wrecked romance, 
 The gambler by misfortune struck, 
 
 I bring to them another chance— 
 
 New life, new times, new love, new luck. 
 
 My names are all the names impearled 
 In' all the songs my singers sing; 
 
 I am the sweetheart of the world— 
 I am Carissima— the Spring!
 
 TPIE LAND OF LAISSEZ FAIRE 
 
 Far bej'oiul the city's bounds, 
 And its tidal swells and sounds- 
 Voices of the Street and Mart, 
 Throbbings of its mighty heart- 
 Far from sordid noise and glare 
 Lies the Land of Laissez Faire. 
 
 There the daj's in joy are born, 
 Fairest eve brings fairest morn; 
 And, like the shadows o'er the grass, 
 Silently the sweet hours pass: 
 Rose-and-poppy wreaths they wear 
 In the Land of Laissez Faire. 
 
 Through the deep blue summer sky 
 Snow-white clouds go sailing by, 
 
 33
 
 34 THE LAND OF LAISSEZ FAIRE 
 
 Like to Ships of Dreams in quest 
 Of the Country of the Blest— 
 Ah! it lies below them there, 
 In the Land of Laissez Faire. 
 
 Years ago, in that bright land, 
 Lovers twain walked hand in hand 
 Under that blue summer sky — 
 Surely they were you and II 
 Surely We were that fond pair 
 In the Land of Laissez Faire? 
 
 Yea! . . . Your eyes were blue, I wis, 
 
 As the sea at dawning is 
 
 In the zones of Pearl and Palm, 
 
 And you sang a pagan psalm 
 
 To a sweet' old pagan air, 
 
 In the Land of Laissez Faire. 
 
 And your brow was smooth and white 
 
 As a lily's leaves of light; 
 
 And your mouth was red— ah me! 
 
 As a red anemone. 
 
 And a vine-wreath bound your hair, 
 
 In the Land of Laissez Faire. 
 
 All around our fair domain— 
 Like a grim, grey mountain-chain
 
 THE LAND OF LAISSEZ FAIRE 35 
 
 That doth some green vale in-wall— 
 Ran a rampart magical, 
 Shutting out the World's Despair 
 From the Land of Laissez Faire. 
 
 From that sad world, all around, 
 Never tidings came, nor sound 
 Of the anguish and the strife 
 On the battle-field of Life: 
 For the winds were debonair 
 In the Land of Laissez Faire. 
 
 Builded by a dreaming Celt 
 Was the House wherein we dwelt: 
 East and West and South and North 
 On a pageant it looked forth— 
 Ah, we had a mansion rare 
 In the Land of Laissez Faire! 
 
 What could make our hearts forlorn 
 In the crimson-bannered morn? 
 What could come our hearts to grieve 
 In the purple-pennoned eve? 
 What at night our souls could scare 
 In the Land of Laissez Faii-e? 
 
 Ah, there came a night at last 
 When an army, marching fast,
 
 36 THE LAND OF LAISSEZ FAIRE 
 
 With its battle-flags all torn, 
 By our ramparts swept in scorn— 
 While the lightnings stabbed the air, 
 In the Land of Laissez Faire. 
 
 And the leader of the Horde 
 
 Smote our gate with ringing sword, 
 
 Crying with a scornful cry— 
 
 " Here they live — who dare not die." 
 
 And I cowered in my chair 
 
 In the Land of Laissez Faire. 
 
 Then against the black of night 
 Kose a form, with visage white, 
 Clad in steel, and crowned with flame, 
 " Duty " was her awful name— 
 What the Devil brought her there, 
 In the Land of Laissez Faire? 
 
 Swiftly then against the Fates 
 
 Firm and sure we barred our gates, 
 
 Lit the lamp in bow'r and hall, 
 
 And with music bacchanal 
 
 Drowned the brazen trumpet's blare — 
 
 In the Land of Laissez Faire. 
 
 Night went by, and in the morn 
 Twin white roses without thorn
 
 THE LAND OF LAISSEZ FAIRE 37 
 
 Breasts as white I placed between 
 Saying'—'* If he saw this scene 
 God Himself would surely spare 
 Our sweet Land of Laissez Faire." 
 
 In the sunlight— o'er the wall- 
 Crashing came a horseman tall, 
 Riding on a steed of black, 
 Trampling all our world to wrack. 
 And he said his name was " Care " — 
 In the Land of Laissez Faire. 
 
 Sweetheart! All too well we know 
 
 That was years and years ago. 
 
 And amidst the world of men 
 
 We have fought our fight since then. 
 
 And you often ask me, " Where 
 
 Is the Land of Laissez Faire"?" 
 
 Listen low! Beyond the tall 
 Ruin of the western wall, 
 There remains a little spot 
 Covered with Forget-me-not, 
 And a little house is there- 
 in the Land of Laissez Faire.
 
 38 THE LAND OF LAISSEZ FAIRE 
 
 Dearest, neither you nor I 
 Now can turn the earth and sky 
 Into gardens; into seas; 
 Into frames for fantasies— 
 Yet shall we find room, to spare 
 In the Land of Laissez Faire.
 
 PLAYERS 
 
 And after all— and after all 
 
 Our passionate prayers, and sighs and tears, 
 Is Life a reckless carnival? 
 
 And are they lost, our golden years? 
 
 Ah, no; ah, no; for, long ago. 
 
 Ere Time could sear, or care could fret. 
 There was a youth called Romeo, 
 
 There was a maid named Juliet. 
 
 The Players of the past are gone; 
 
 The Races rise; the Races pass; 
 And softly over all is drawn 
 
 The quiet Curtain of the Grass. 
 
 But when the World went wild with Spring, 
 What days we had! Do you forget? 
 
 When I of all the world was King, 
 And you were my Queen Juliet? 
 
 39
 
 40 PLAYERS 
 
 The things that are; the things that seem— 
 Who shall distinguish Shape from Show? 
 
 The great processional, splendid dream 
 Of life is all I wish to know. 
 
 The Gods their faces turn away 
 From nations and their little wars; 
 
 But we our Golden Drama play, 
 Before the Footlights of the Stars. 
 
 There lives— though Time should cease to flow, 
 And stars their courses should forget— 
 
 There lives a grey-haii'ed Romeo, 
 Who loves a golden Juliet.
 
 BLANCHELYS 
 
 With little hands all filled with bloom, 
 The rose-tree wakeS; from her long trance ; 
 
 And from my heart, as from a tomb, 
 Steals forth the ghost of dead Romance. 
 
 I know not whether wave or clay, 
 Or living' lips your sweet lips kiss; 
 
 But you are mine alone to-day. 
 As in the old days, Blanehelys! 
 
 Yea, you are mine to clasp and hold, 
 In your young loveliness aglow. 
 
 As in the time of rose-and-gold 
 That faded, long and long ago. 
 
 Upon the moonlit balcony 
 
 We stand once more in silvered shade; 
 The perfume of the red rose-tree 
 
 Floats upward like a serenade : 
 
 41
 
 42 BLANCHELYS 
 
 A faery music, faint and fine, 
 
 A scented song, a tender tune; 
 It is the melody divine 
 
 That lovers hear beneath the moon. 
 
 The air is full of incense spilled 
 
 From censers of the seraphim, 
 The Chalice of the Night is filled 
 
 With Wine of ]\Iagic to the brim. 
 
 Your heart is trembling, like a dove 
 
 New-caught within your breast— as though, 
 
 With struggling pinions, rosy Love 
 Were i^risoned in a drift of snow. 
 
 Beyond us lies the purple sea; 
 
 Your red geranium-mouth I kiss . . . 
 Alas, alas, that ever we 
 
 Beheld the morning, Blanchelys! 
 
 That night of nights I held— and thrilled 
 With rapture that wasi close to pain— 
 
 The Cup of Love that once is filled, 
 And nevermore is filled again. 
 
 •o' 
 
 Whoso the Wine of Passion sips. 
 At him the gods have ever laughed : 
 
 The Cup of Love was at my lips- 
 Would I had drained it at a draught !
 
 BLANCHELYS 43 
 
 There is a Death more sad than Death 
 
 That comes to every mortal born, 
 And takes away the panting breath— 
 
 The Death that leaves the heart forlorn. 
 
 The banner of my hope is furled; 
 
 For fame or name I care no more; 
 The woi'ld is still a goodly world, 
 
 But not the world I knew of yore. 
 
 Then Beauty trembled in the air, 
 And burned and sparkled in the sea. 
 
 And common things seemed rich and rare. 
 And Love turned Life to Ecstasy. 
 
 The Fates have neither ruth nor gi-ace 
 For weak or strong, for low or high; 
 
 The dust of dead worlds blows through space— 
 And dust, and less than dust, am I. 
 
 The dead men sleeping on the hill 
 
 That overlooks the ocean grey. 
 They lived their lives, and now are still: 
 
 Would I could sleep as sound a3 they. 
 
 I walked with fair Philosophy, 
 Whose eyes are like two holy wells. 
 
 In gardens whei-e the Attic bee 
 Makes honey from the asphodels.
 
 44 BLANCHELYS 
 
 Her speech was slow and silver-clear, 
 
 A river flowing full and deep, 
 She said that Love, divine and dear, 
 
 Was but a dream of fevered sleep. 
 
 But Memory, with tender sighs. 
 
 Breathed softly in the myrtle blooms; 
 
 And Passion with her glowing eyes 
 
 Stared at me from the pine-tree glooms. 
 
 All ballads of true lovers sung, 
 
 All stories of true lovers told. 
 Bring back the days when I was young— 
 
 The vanished days of rose-and-gold. 
 
 And, in the falling of the year. 
 Dead leaves beneath the poplar tree 
 
 Like old love-letters, worn and sere, 
 Their mournful stories tell to me. 
 
 I sat me down on many a night 
 
 When gilded lamps like moons did shine. 
 
 And cheeks were flushed and eyes were bright, 
 To drown my thoughts in crimson wine. 
 
 In vain : there never grew the grape, 
 
 On Greek or Lusitanian shore, 
 Whose juice can help us to escape 
 
 The thought of days that are no more.
 
 BLANCHELYS 45 
 
 In \'isions of the night I take 
 Your heart to my heart, lover-wise; 
 
 And, in the morning, I awake 
 
 With empty hands and burning eyes. 
 
 Life yet within me pulses strong, 
 And in my veins the blood runs red. 
 
 But 0, dear God! the daj's are long, 
 And all the world to me is dead. 
 
 I had a di'eam of wringing hands, 
 And tear-wet eyes, and faces wan. 
 
 And heard a ciy from all the lands— 
 "0 where have our Beloved gone?" 
 
 Of all that once to me you were 
 
 In years of yore, I hold but this— 
 A silken tress of tawny hair: 
 
 Come back, come back, Blanchelys!
 
 OVER THE WINE 
 
 Very often, when I'm drinking, 
 
 Of the old days I am thinking, 
 Of the good old days when living was a Joy, 
 
 And each morning brought new Pleasure, 
 
 And each night brought Dreams of Treasure, 
 And I thank the Lord that I was once a Boy. 
 
 When I hear the old hands spinning 
 Yarns of gold there was for winning 
 
 In the Roaring Days, that now so silent are, 
 And my brain is whirling, reeling 
 With their legends, comes the feeling 
 
 That the Rainbow Gold I knew was finer far; 
 
 For not all the trains in motion. 
 All the ships that sail the ocean, 
 
 46
 
 OVER THE WINE 47 
 
 With their cargoes; all the money in the mart- 
 Could purchase fori an hour 
 Such a treasure as the Flower, 
 
 As the Flower of Hope that blossomed in my hearr. 
 
 Now 1 sit, and smile, and listen 
 
 To my friends whose eyes still glisten, 
 Though their beards are showing threads of silver-grey, 
 
 As they talk of Fame and Glory— 
 
 The old, old pathetic story- 
 While they drink " Good luck " to luck that keeps 
 away. 
 
 When I hear a politician 
 
 Speak of honors and position, 
 And the time to come when he will sit on high, 
 
 Then I feel a sovran pity 
 
 For this species of banditti. 
 Raising ti-ouble while the golden time goes by. 
 
 Long ago I did discover 
 
 It was fine to be a lover, 
 But the heartache and the worry si^oil the game: 
 
 Now I think, like an old vandal. 
 
 That the game's not worth the candle— 
 And I know some other vandals think the same. 
 
 And I hate the cant of striving. 
 Slaving, planning, and contriving,
 
 48 OVER THE WINE 
 
 Struggling oiiwavd for a paltry little prize. 
 
 0, it tills my heart with sorrow 
 
 This mad grasping for To-morrow, 
 While To-day from gold to purple dusk-i and dies. 
 
 Very often, when I'm drinking, 
 
 Of the old days I am thinking. 
 Of the good old days when living was a Joy. 
 
 When I see folk marching dreary 
 
 To the tune of Miserere- 
 Then I thank the Lord that I am still a Boy.
 
 BACCHANALIAN 
 
 I PITY bim who has not swung 
 
 The Thyrsus in the air, 
 And followed Bacchus, blithe and young, 
 
 With vine-leaves in his hair; 
 And heard the Maenads sing. 
 And the mad cymbals ring. 
 
 I pity those who have to walk 
 
 In sober ways and sad, 
 And keep a guard upon their talk 
 
 Lest men should think them mad. 
 Or careless speech should show 
 The felon thought below. 
 
 When in my goblet, blithe and gay, 
 The bearded bubbles wink, 
 
 D 49
 
 50 BACCHANALIAN 
 
 For all poor souls like this I pray 
 
 That they may learn to drink, 
 And like a rose in rain 
 Open shut heart and brain. 
 
 Who does not drink he does not know, 
 
 And he will never find, 
 What meiry fellows live below 
 
 The surface of his mind: 
 These other men to me 
 Are right good company. 
 
 If beings of Mythology 
 
 Could live at my commands 
 Briareus I'd choose to be, 
 
 Who had a hundred hands: 
 And every hand of mine 
 Would hold a pint of wine. 
 
 And of those beakers ninety-nine 
 With white wine and with red 
 
 Should brim for dear old friends of mine. 
 The living and the dead. 
 
 By Pluto there would be 
 
 A noble revelry!
 
 BACCHANALIAN 51 
 
 Then let us unto Bacchus sing 
 Evoe! up and down— 
 
 For Bacchus is the wisest king 
 Who ever wore a crown: 
 
 His vine leaves hide from view 
 
 More wit than Plato knew.
 
 THE OLD BOHEMIAN 
 
 The world was in my debt, 
 I Avas the Friend of Man, 
 
 When, years ago, I met 
 The Old Bohemian. 
 
 His hat was shocking bad, 
 
 He wore a faded tie, 
 And yet, withal, he had 
 
 A moist and shining eye. 
 
 And though his purse was lean, 
 And though his coat was dyed. 
 
 He had a lordly mien 
 And air of ancient pride. 
 
 We sat in a hotel. 
 
 And drank the amber ale; 
 And as I touched the bell 
 
 I listened to his tale, 
 
 52
 
 THE OLD BOHEMIAN 53 
 
 He told me that some day 
 In his place I would be; 
 
 Bui all the world was gay- 
 No use in warning me. 
 
 He spoke of high Desire 
 
 And aspirations true; 
 And flamed again the fire 
 
 In eyes of faded blue. 
 
 " By God !" the old man said, 
 
 " The days of old were grand ; 
 I painted cities red, 
 
 I owned the blessed land. 
 
 " I loved, when I was young, 
 
 The girls in all the bars; 
 And, coming home, I hung 
 
 My hat upon the stars. 
 
 " And 0, the times were glad ! 
 
 Such times you never knew; 
 And 0, the nights we had ! 
 
 And 0, the jolly crew! 
 
 " Where are the songs — the talk— 
 
 The friends that used to be; 
 I with my shadow walk 
 
 At last for company.
 
 54 THE OLD BOHEMIAN 
 
 And though we missed the bays, 
 
 That Poets we would be; 
 And tliough we missed the bays 
 
 We lived our Poetiy! 
 
 " We talked and talked and talked, 
 
 And slowly, one by one, 
 My old companions walked 
 
 Into the setting sun." 
 
 The old Bohemian said, 
 
 " The world owes nought to me, 
 I lie upon the bed 
 
 Which I made— carefully. 
 
 There is one way to play 
 
 The mad Bohemian game, 
 I found and took the way— 
 
 And you will do the same." 
 
 Ah, that was years ago. 
 
 When skies were bright and blue. 
 And now, alas, I know 
 
 His prophecy was true. 
 
 Yet fill the glass once more, 
 
 Bohemians, and sing— 
 Upon another shore 
 
 There waits another Spring!
 
 THE POET AND THE MUSE 
 
 The Poet. 
 
 The Darling of the Yeai* with sifted gold 
 
 Of sunshine makes the old earth young again; 
 Spring's dancing music lilts in pulse and vein, 
 
 And all the Avorld is merry as of old : 
 But shadows only dwell within my brain; 
 
 My heart is like a hearth with ashes cold. 
 
 Muse, if I have loved thee late and long. 
 If I have worshipi^ed thee, and made a shrine 
 To hold thine image in this heart of mine. 
 
 And served thee with the service of my song, 
 And poured my years out at thy feet divine— 
 
 Where art thou now when ghosts around me throng? 
 
 Where is the pride, above the pride of kings, 
 That once I felt when in the glowing air 
 I saw the shining wonder of thy hair, 
 
 55
 
 50 THE POET AND THE MUSE 
 
 And heard the rustle of thy radiant wings 
 
 Alas, and have I come by ways so fair 
 To dust and ashes and the end of things? 
 
 My soul is compassed round by phantoms vast, 
 Whose black wings shut from me the sweet blue sky 
 And blue broad sea I knew when thou wert nigh. 
 
 Muse, return to me ! . . . She comes at last I 
 And I can now, clear- voiced, like Agag, cry— 
 
 Surely the bitterness of Death is past! 
 
 The Muse. 
 
 Thou wert my servant in the time gone by^ 
 
 And through the world I led thee by the hand. 
 And showed thee all the beauty of the land, 
 
 And all the marvels of the Earth and Sky, 
 Thy nights and days I held at my command, 
 
 And unto thee I gave the Seeing Eye. 
 
 The sacred secret of the infinity 
 
 That burns beneath the beauty of the rose. 
 And in the hearts of youth and maiden glows. 
 
 And fills and thrills the woi-ld with life and light, 
 And is the soul of all that breathes and grows — 
 I made it visible unto thy sight.
 
 THE POET AND THE MUSE 57 
 
 But now another Muse holds thee in thrall. 
 Thou canst not serve us twain : that is the law. 
 
 The Poet. 
 
 " Goddess, ere thon dost from me withdraw, 
 Show me what other Muse I serve withal ! " 
 
 The Muse. 
 " Behold ! " 
 
 The Poet turned and saw 
 The shadow of a Wine-Jar on the ivall. '
 
 ADIEU, BOHEMIA ! 
 
 The "Wine and Ale are clone, 
 The frenzy and the fun, 
 
 The glorious Hurrah; 
 The World, says, " Take your task," 
 Quite empty isi I he cask. 
 
 Adieu, Bohemia! 
 
 The World is grey and grim; 
 The lights are burning dim; 
 
 The cheers ai'e faint and few— 
 And ghosts glide up the stairs 
 To fill the empty chairs. 
 
 Bohemia, adieu ! 
 
 We owned some fine chateaux 
 Whereon, at even-glow, 
 
 58
 
 ADIEU, BOHEMIA! 59 
 
 Red banners rose and fell 
 Upon the winds of Spain- 
 Would I were there again!— 
 
 Bohemia, farewell! 
 
 Then, ev'ry golden morn 
 
 We heard a sudden horn 
 Taran-taran-tara ! 
 
 It called to Fields of Fame 
 
 Where each would make a name- 
 Adieu, Bohemia! 
 
 What Pit has sucked them down, 
 
 Our dreams of fair renown. 
 And our ambitions high"? 
 
 They are as dead and gone 
 
 As ancient Babylon- 
 Bohemia, good-bye! 
 
 The man who was our Wit 
 
 Is mentally unfit 
 
 His business to pursue; 
 
 Our chief Philosopher 
 
 With the Philistines is square- 
 Bohemia, adieu!
 
 UO ADIEU, BOHEMIA! 
 
 Our Orator sublime, 
 
 Who could to Heaven climb, 
 
 And stars pluck from the sky 
 His speeches to adorn, 
 Is— auctioneering corn! 
 
 Bohemia, good-bye! 
 
 Our Poet who could be 
 A Voice of Eestaey 
 
 Has lost his gift of song; 
 His heavy-harnessed Muse 
 Is working for the Jews: 
 
 Bohemia, so-long ! 
 
 A pleasant land I wis 
 Where no To-morrow is, 
 
 And towers touch the sky. 
 Is our Bohemia land. 
 Though coins come slow to hand — 
 
 Bohemia, good-bye! 
 
 Closed is the tavern-door; 
 
 The kingdom is no more— 
 The kingdom that I knew 
 
 When I was mad for Art, 
 
 And birds sang in my heart- 
 Bohemia, adieu !
 
 ADIEU, BOHEMIA! 61 
 
 puiple-chaliced nights, 
 With all your deai' delights, 
 
 Take back your visions— Va! 
 The stars burn overhead, 
 Like candles round the dead, 
 
 Adieu, Bohemia!
 
 THE REQUITER 
 
 When all illusions fair are gone, 
 What keeps us still alive? 
 
 What mocking devil lures us on 
 To suffer and to strive? 
 
 Why should it fill us with despair 
 To watch the fading light? 
 
 Was ever any day so fair 
 
 That we should dread the night? 
 
 Sorrow and joy came in the past- 
 Joy was a fickle bride. 
 
 But Sorrow, faithful to the last, 
 Stays ever at my side. 
 
 The brightest of my days are spent, 
 
 And yet I wait to see 
 The Master of the Dark Event 
 
 Turn dusk to dawn for me. 
 
 62
 
 THE REQUITER 63 
 
 And still with foolish, eager eyes— 
 
 A true and bitter jest— 
 I watch to see the sun arise 
 
 Resplendent— in the west. 
 
 She lures us onward in the race, 
 Though we have knife and rope, 
 
 A devil with an angel's face— 
 The devil men call Hope.
 
 TITANIA 
 
 I THOUGHT that life was doue with me, 
 
 And had no sweet surprise in store, 
 
 Nor any fine adventure more, 
 Nor any tale of chivahy— 
 
 When in a crowded city lane 
 
 I met Titania again. 
 
 Her small face, delicate and pure, 
 
 Was like a small Greek lamp, whose light 
 
 Serenely and divinely bright, 
 Shines through a Gothic wood obscure, 
 
 As in that crowded city lane 
 
 I met Titania again. 
 
 Ten years had passed— my songs were sung; 
 
 My little vogue had had its day; 
 
 My hair was growing scant and grey- 
 Then in a moment I was young, 
 
 When in the crowded city lane 
 
 I met Titania again. 
 
 64
 
 THE TRYST 
 
 There is a region vague and dim, 
 Where ghostly shadows dwell — 
 
 Vast formless Things and Phantoms 
 The March of Heaven and Hell. 
 
 On one grey rim up-gushes, far 
 
 And fierce, a fiery flood, 
 Too deadly red to be a star— 
 
 It seems a Rose of Blood. 
 
 And on the other border gleams, 
 Right glorious to behold, 
 
 A splendour in the dusk that seems 
 To be a Rose of Gold. 
 
 But this dim Realm of Mysteries 
 
 Must lie aloof, alone. 
 Between the Two Eternities 
 
 Nor God nor Devil own. 
 
 65
 
 66 THE TRYST 
 
 The Seraph swift may dare the glooms 
 Of thousand worlds destroyed, 
 
 But never dares to sjjread his plumes 
 Within this awful Void. 
 
 The Demon who from star to star 
 
 Like lightning leaps, may tell 
 Of travels wide, but leaves afar 
 
 The March of Heaven and Hell. 
 
 There uncreated lawless Things, 
 From blind, black Chaos bred, 
 
 Move round and round with moveless wings— 
 Half-living and half-dead. 
 
 Yet here they, met. Her rosy plumes 
 
 Drooped wearily, her hair 
 Celestial bright was damp with fumes 
 
 Of that malefic air. 
 
 He hid her 'neath his night-black wings, 
 
 All lined with scarlet flame, 
 And glared defiance at the Things— 
 
 The Things without a name. 
 
 Then she began to lose her fear, 
 And whispered low— "Behold, 
 
 Beyond this place of darkness drear, 
 Yon shining Rose of Gold!
 
 THE TRYST 67 
 
 " That is God's City, and my Home, 
 
 Would it were also thine! 
 As lamps beneath its ciystal dome, 
 
 A million suns do shine. 
 
 " Its walls are gold without, within 
 
 It has a sea of glass, 
 And you can see the worlds therein 
 
 Like shoals of fishes pass. 
 
 " And once I caught, for simple mirth. 
 
 So quaint it looked and queer, 
 A little star-speck called the Earth 
 
 And hung it in my ear. 
 
 "Then I grew tired, and this was how 
 
 I threw it far away; 
 'Tis in a sick old system now. 
 
 The Star-Archangels say. 
 
 " Those proud Archangels, every one, 
 
 I've seen them o'er and o'er. 
 Each hold his head as if a sun 
 
 Upon his neck he bore. 
 
 " In scarlet robes, with boughs of palm. 
 
 The haughty martyrs go. 
 All chanting their Eternal psalm— 
 
 The only one they know.
 
 68 THE TRYST 
 
 " The Virgins, in their robes of white, 
 
 Walk singing loud and clear. 
 With sweet Cecilia playing light, 
 
 And Dorothea near. 
 
 " We sing to one sweet simple air 
 Which never changed may be; 
 
 Then leave the City of Despair, 
 Lovcj and come with me!" 
 
 The tender Demon heard her tale. 
 His smile was fond, but bleak. 
 
 He said, " Your revels, cold and pale. 
 Would kill me in a week." 
 
 Then, pointing to the verge of space. 
 Where gushed the lurid foam. 
 
 He said, " That is my Dwelling Place, 
 My own Beloved Home. 
 
 "We have no shining seas of glass 
 
 To please the Cherubim, 
 Wherethrough the swift white systems pass. 
 
 And stars like fishes swim. 
 
 "We do not care, in gilt bazaars. 
 
 At childish games to play, 
 For we can bathe in burning stars. 
 
 When comes their Judgment Day.
 
 THE TRYST 69 
 
 " you should see our shrieking street 
 
 All red with bloody foam, 
 Wheu Alexander Caesar meets 
 
 In triumph riding home. 
 
 "And, when across the burning plain 
 
 Great Scipio's name resounds, 
 Then Hannibal and Tamerlane 
 
 Let loose their battle-hounds. 
 
 " But Hell for me grows far too hot 
 
 When great Napoleon— 
 I like him best of all the lot— 
 
 Meets one named Wellingion. 
 
 " For all the captains of great wars. 
 
 In war-paint of renown— 
 Blood-red like Roman conquerors— 
 
 To us have all comei down. 
 
 " And all those mighty men of war 
 I've named— you'll smile to hear— 
 
 Come from the little spitfire star 
 That trembled in your ear. 
 
 " But other stars had other wars ; 
 
 We have their captains, too. 
 And now and then Earth's warriors 
 
 These captains beat to glue.
 
 70 THE TRYST 
 
 '' But you should see the mighty streets, 
 All arched with flaming stars, 
 
 When Helen Cleopatra meets- 
 Each throned on burning cars, 
 
 " There is no day of all the days 
 
 In red Eternity, 
 But brings a change to us. Our ways 
 
 Are not as yours, you see. 
 
 " Then leave your city with its thin 
 Pale, foolish joys, and learn 
 
 The joys of Fiery Life within 
 The Land of no Return." 
 
 Will any reader, grave or gay, 
 
 A simple answer make 
 (I can't myself) to this: Which way 
 
 Did those strange lovei-s take?
 
 THE SLAIN 
 
 I FOLLOWED in an awful dream, 
 With no desire, or hope, or plan, 
 
 Tlie winding of a silent stream 
 
 That through a shadowy woodland ran. 
 
 No voice of leaves above I heard, 
 No voice of gladness or distress, 
 
 There was no song from any bird 
 To stir that dreadful silentness. 
 
 And as that gloomy jDath I trod, 
 I found within a place remote 
 
 The body of a fair dead God 
 With mai'ks of fingers on his throat. 
 
 Who slew that Being all divine, 
 
 And from his eyes the life-light stole? 
 
 Ah, me the finger-marks were mine, 
 And mine the murder of my soul! 
 
 71
 
 MESSAGE 
 
 Long is the journey from worm to man, and full of 
 
 trouble and pain, 
 But short and swift is the journey from man to the 
 
 worm again. 
 We walk erect for a random year— make love, make 
 
 war, make woe. 
 And where is the God to hold our hands'? Then down 
 
 to the dust we go. 
 
 What does it matter, when all is said, the lot of our 
 
 living here? 
 Death will deliver us at the end, and what is there 
 
 left to fear? 
 What is tlipi'e lieie for man to fear who draws not 
 
 coward's breath. 
 For what can fright the heart of a man whose 
 
 dearest friend is Death? 
 
 72
 
 MESSAGE 73 
 
 Take ye no heed of the Future— let! Hell and Heaven 
 
 Be brave, be true, be tender, be just— and God will 
 
 know; 
 There is no possible happiness, there is no possible 
 
 bliss, 
 Nor wisdom known to the sons of men so sure and 
 
 true as this. ) 
 
 Live richly while your life-days last, and let your 
 
 heart keep young. 
 God will remember the generous hand before the 
 
 praying tongue. 
 This knowledge comes to the dying man who turns 
 
 him to the wall, 
 That genius counts for less than nothing, and 
 
 Goodness counts for all.
 
 WOMAN 
 
 I AM the SiDving that makes the blood 
 Burn red in veins of sons of earth : 
 
 I am the Warder of the flood 
 
 That beats against the Gates of Birth. 
 
 I am the Star that shines to lift 
 The hearts of men to Paradise. 
 
 I am the Giver and the Gift 
 I am the Struggle and the Prize. 
 
 I am the Lure the high Gods sent, 
 The Secret Sweet they did contrive 
 
 To make the sons of men content 
 To keep their hapless race alive. 
 
 Yea, I am everlasting Love. 
 
 In ages ere the stars took flame 
 There brooded on my breast the Jlove, 
 
 And from my womb the white worlds came. 
 
 74
 
 WOMAN 75 
 
 My Lover Man, the strong, the gay, 
 Will fade and pass like passing breath 
 
 But I shall keep my steadfast way— 
 For I am Life that laughs at Death, 
 
 I am romance with golden hair, 
 
 A banner on the dark unfurled; 
 I am the Thrall of Fate and bear 
 
 The burden of the weary world.
 
 ELIZABETH 
 
 " I WANT v;pon a plate of gold 
 "The roniul green Earth," I said, 
 
 " As dark Herodias of old 
 Had John the Baptist's head. 
 
 "And if to get that guerdon great 
 
 The lack of gold debars 
 I'll beat the sun into a plate 
 
 And set it round with stars. 
 
 " I take the blood of Life and write 
 Upon the mask of Death, 
 
 Across the day, across the night. 
 Thy name— Elizabeth." 
 
 76
 
 THE WOIVIAN AT THE WASHTUB 
 
 The Woman at the Washtub, 
 
 She works till fall of night ; 
 With soap, and suds and soda 
 
 Her hands ax'e wrinkled white. 
 Her diamonds are the sparkles 
 
 The copper-fire supplies; 
 Her opals are the bubbles 
 
 That from the suds arise. 
 
 The Woman at the Washtub 
 
 Has lost the charm of youth; 
 Her hair is rough and homely, 
 
 Her figure is uncouth; 
 Her temper is like thunder, 
 
 With no one she agrees — 
 The children of the alley 
 
 They cling around her knees. 
 
 77
 
 78 THE WOMAN AT THE WASHTUB 
 
 The Woman at the Washtub, 
 
 She too had her romauce ; 
 There was a time when lightly 
 
 Her feet flew in the dance. 
 Her feet were silver swallows, 
 
 Her lips were flowery of fire ; 
 Then she was Bright and Early, 
 
 The Blossom of Desire. 
 
 Woman at the Washtub, 
 
 And do you ever dream 
 Of all your days gone by in 
 
 Your aureole of steam'? 
 From birth till we are dying 
 
 You wash our sordid duds, 
 Woman of the Washtub ! 
 
 Sister of the Suds! 
 
 One night I saw a vision 
 
 That filled my soul with dread, 
 I saw a Woman washing 
 
 The grave-clothes of the dead; 
 The dead were all the living, 
 
 And dry were lakes and meres, 
 The Woman at the Washtub 
 
 She washed them with her tears.
 
 THE WOI^IAN AT THE WASHTUB 79 
 
 I saw a Hue with banners 
 
 Hung forth in i^roud array— 
 The banners of all battles 
 
 From Cain to Judgment Day. 
 And they were stiff with slaughter 
 
 And blood, from hem to hem, 
 And they were red with glory, 
 
 And she was washiug them. 
 
 " Wlio comes forth to the Judgment, 
 
 And who will doubt my plan?" 
 " I come forth to the Judgment 
 
 And for the Race of Man. 
 I rocked him in his cradle, 
 
 I washed him for his tomb, 
 I claim his soid and body, 
 
 And I will share his doom."
 
 ATLAS 
 
 Long since, out of high Olympus, 
 Through gleaming gulfs of air, 
 
 Like a wild, while star shot downward 
 Hermes, the Messenger. 
 
 As hd flew, the skies around him. 
 Like a flag of stars, w^ere furled— 
 
 Till he came to where strong Atlas 
 Upheld the heavy World. 
 
 The great broad-shouldered giant 
 
 Strode darkly on his road, 
 But ever to Zeus made outcry 
 
 To rid him of his load. 
 
 Quoth Hermes, laughing lightly; 
 
 " Thou soon sbalt take thine ease— 
 The Gods' Fool I have brought thee, 
 
 The strong Man Hercules! 
 
 80
 
 ATLAS 81 
 
 " And he shall bear thy burden, 
 
 And he thy yoke shall wear; 
 And that he throw off neither 
 
 Henceforth shall be thy care." 
 
 Then Hercules the Workei", 
 
 With lip of pride upcurled, 
 Took, smiling', on his shoulders 
 
 The burden of the world. 
 
 But Atlas sprang upon it, 
 
 And, with triumphant air, 
 Cried, "Fool of the Gods, 'tis written 
 
 That me too thou shalt bear ! " 
 
 From Pole to Pole his body 
 
 Lay stretched at godlike ease; 
 His arms clasped the Equator, 
 
 His feet were in the seas. 
 
 He laughed a laugh Titanic— 
 
 " Hermes, I have won 
 A sturdy Beast of Burden 
 
 To bear me round the sun! 
 
 " Hermes, I shall ride him 
 
 With iron bit and rein— 
 And lest he should prove restive 
 
 I will chain him with a chain."
 
 82 ATLAS 
 
 And Hercules the Worker 
 With groans the burden bore; 
 
 But the more he groaned and murmured 
 Proud Atlas laughed the more. 
 
 And, if he shook down Empires 
 
 In throes of angry pain, 
 With bolt and rivet Atlas 
 
 Straight fastened them again. 
 
 And round the sun for aeons, 
 The world, with all its zones, 
 
 Rolled to a dreadful music 
 Of laughter and of groans. 
 
 Then came a small sweet spirit, 
 
 To Hercules said she— ■ 
 " Take heart again, sad giant. 
 
 My name is Liberty." 
 
 And age by age she labored, 
 By days and nights she wrought 
 
 With rasp and file of Knowledge, 
 And acid keen of Thought. 
 
 " Thy chains are nearly severed, 
 The day draws nigh," said she, 
 
 "When, with one wrench convulsive. 
 Thou shalt once more be free."
 
 ATLAS 83 
 
 The day came— and the Gods' Fool 
 With eyes far-shming trod 
 
 Upon the earth— his burden 
 Of old— a demigod. 
 
 Ye say this is a Fable— 
 
 Too long the Hour doth wait. 
 
 Ye fools and blind— this moment 
 'Tis knocking at the gate.
 
 FREEDOM AND FATE 
 
 Freedom stood leaning on her sword, 
 
 And sadly sighed; 
 Her eyes were on the toiling horde 
 
 For whom Christ died. 
 
 "Was it in vain, that sacrifice 
 
 On Calvary? 
 Did God's Son pay that woeful price 
 
 For thisV said she. 
 
 "Before me lies the sea of blood; 
 
 The skies are wan; 
 Must I pass through this deadly flood f 
 
 Fate answered—" On !" 
 
 84
 
 ISIS 
 
 For one great hour have I forgot the quest of 
 
 The singer's bitter bread; 
 For one great hour my soul has been the guest of 
 
 The star-eyed, deathless dead. 
 
 The light of life that hour was like to twilight, 
 
 The dark of death to dawn, 
 And from mine eyes, made blind by their own eyelight. 
 
 The veil of flesh was drawn. 
 
 And I, methought, beheld the sight forbidden- 
 All in the moonlight pale— 
 
 The form of Isis, but the face was hidden 
 Behind the seven-fold veil. 
 
 And, one by one, the veils were lifted slowly, 
 
 Like mist at the sunrise, 
 The veils that hid that face august and holy 
 
 For ever from man's eyes. 
 
 85
 
 86 ISIS 
 
 One veil was green of hue as Earth's spring robe is 
 
 When all the world seems new; 
 One, as the sea that rolls around the globe is, 
 
 Was grey, and green and blue. 
 
 And one was shining like the noontide golden, 
 
 And one wa^ sownj with stars. 
 And one was dark as Doom' in legends olden 
 
 Of dim, forgotten wars. 
 
 And one was— though its light was somewhat duller- 
 Red as a world in flame, 
 
 And one was of the strange and mystic colour 
 For which men have no name. 
 
 This last veil rose, the Secret Old revealing. 
 
 The Ancient Mystery, 
 Aiid cynic laughter through my heart went pealing— 
 
 There was no face to see.
 
 THE SOUTH WIND 
 
 With head that lightens in the clouds, 
 And feet that flash along the flood, 
 
 The' South Wind comes and shakes the shrouds 
 Of shijDS, and dances in my blood. 
 
 He clove his way through unknown skies, 
 Not soon to come within our ken, 
 
 From that white, lonely land that lies 
 Beyond the world of living men. 
 
 His laughter rocks the spires; his hand 
 
 Seizes the pine-tree by the hair; 
 His voice goes roaring through the land, 
 
 And drives unto his den Despair. 
 
 The singers suave of soft delights, 
 At these my Great Musician mocks: 
 
 He strikes the forest-harp, and smites 
 The song of storm from hollow rocks. 
 
 87
 
 8S THE SOUTH WIND 
 
 And I who cursed my natal star, 
 And said of late that life was vain, 
 
 Am borne upon his wings afar 
 And thank the gods for life again.
 
 THE LITTLE HOUSE 
 
 There's a little house in Mosman that stands upon 
 the hill, 
 
 As it stood in the years long ago; 
 In the little garden so green, and grave and still, 
 
 Seven shadows walk to and fro. 
 
 Little knows the good wife who keeps the house to-day 
 
 That she lives in a shadow-throng; 
 She hears her brown-faced children laughing at their 
 play, 
 
 And she carols a careless song. 
 
 '&• 
 
 Little does she know that where red geraniums grow 
 
 On the brow of the grassy height, 
 Wliere the baby sits and plays with his protty cheeks 
 aglow, 
 
 There sat there, of old. Heart's Delight.
 
 90 THE LITTLE HOUSE 
 
 0, Heart's Delight was fair, and the blue euamored aii 
 
 Kissed her lips that like roses shone ; 
 And the heart of summer glowed in her golden- 
 flowing hair 
 
 When the summer days were gone. 
 
 And there is a little summer-house and round it grows 
 a \ine, 
 And the sunrays around it dance, 
 And I see two shadows sitting there, and drinking 
 of the wine 
 And a-talking of old Romance. 
 
 *& 
 
 Seven shadows walk there in sunlight and moonshine 
 
 Seven shadows walk to and fro, 
 And I would, and I would that the Little House 
 were mine 
 
 With the Ghosts of the Long Ago.
 
 EARTH AND SEA 
 
 Abou Ben Adam sitting on a day, 
 Forlorn and silent by Maroubra Bay, 
 And tasting scornfully the tame sea-spray, 
 
 Said: "Would to God, if any God there be. 
 
 That there would come some sudden chance on me 
 
 To change this life of dull tranquility! 
 
 "These multitudinous misspent mountain-waves, 
 These long, low rollers that re-fiil the eaves, 
 The sun that over them his banner waves— 
 
 "My God ! how does he wave it ! look, from east 
 To west the glory comes and is increased. 
 And all the world decks for a wedding feast— 
 
 91
 
 92 EARTH AND SEA 
 
 ''AU, these things weaiy me. The seas that roll 
 Unceasmg from the awful Silent Pole 
 They bring no message to my yearning soul. 
 
 "I watch them from the far horizon roam 
 Unto the reefs that lie below my home— 
 Prophets of nothing, with their lips of foam!" 
 
 Abou Ben Adam, fishing in the sea, 
 Brought up a fish that sparkled splendidly; 
 It was a woman fairer far than he. 
 
 Her eyes were blue as in the morning breeze, 
 
 Her breasts were whiter than the foaming seas, 
 
 Her lips were red as sea-anemones. 
 
 Abou Ben Adam, by Maroubra Bay, 
 
 Took her to shore, all shining with the spray . . . 
 
 They lived there in his cabin many a day. 
 
 They lived full many a day and saw the torn 
 
 White breakers seethe around their Land of Morn, 
 
 And unto them were many children born. 
 
 The red geraniums on their window-stand 
 Smiled always gay defiance from the land 
 Unto the sea that snarled along the strand.
 
 EARTH AND SEA 93 
 
 Splendid nasturtiums did their banners blow, 
 And red-voiced roses with their lips aglow, 
 Against this steadfast, silent, scornful snow. 
 
 Abou Ben Adam, in a silent poise, 
 
 Sat fishing with his five sea-salted boys. . . . 
 
 But in the house the woman heard the noise. 
 
 She heard the noise of all the gods of old. 
 Of all the nations dead; of all the gold 
 Resplendent burials in the ocean old. 
 
 Then spake she, fire-eyed, through her gleaming 
 
 hair, 
 To One that for Ben Adam waited there— 
 Not dark as she, but all so darkly fair; 
 
 " I stood and caught him in the splendid surge 
 Of shining days. He did my sea-ships urge, 
 Scald-song and sea-song, asagard or dirge. 
 
 " I, who have heard the masts at Byrsa hum. 
 Who laughed at Antony, at Aetium, 
 Shall I not say unto my lover — * Come?' 
 
 "The sea roared like a lion over-past 
 
 With many feasts; upon each shore were cast 
 
 Three worlds in white delirium from the Past;
 
 94 EARTH AND SEA 
 
 "And I stood splendidly above the foam 
 
 Of galleys and the fire of fane and dome, 
 
 And scorned the wreck of many-triremed Rome. 
 
 "For I was greater than all wrecks of these— 
 Venus and Dian over lands and seas, 
 Muse of all Lovers; Muse of Tragedies." 
 
 The Other spake no word, but sat content, 
 
 And into that green ocean imminent, 
 
 Her long, green arms, like slender spirals, went. 
 
 Nothing could touch him ; far from all was he. 
 And that red kiss that touched him tenderly 
 Was as the kiss of the forgetting sea. 
 
 They took and buried him where gi-asses be. 
 
 Far from the kiss of that forgetting sea; 
 
 The Dark One said—" He still shall lie with me."
 
 TAMARAMA BEACH 
 
 The waves are dancing in the sun, 
 
 A jewelled crown has each; 
 Their raiment is of silver spun— 
 
 On Tamarama Beach. 
 
 Upon a far-off summer day 
 
 We sat on this grey stone; 
 Now you are half the world away, 
 
 And I sit here alone. 
 
 What made the pebbles jewels rare? 
 
 What turned the sands to gold? 
 The Prince of Fantasy was there, 
 
 In those fine days of old. 
 
 The wild flowers bloomed in fashion brave, 
 The breeze made music sweet, 
 
 And Eros, on a crested wave, 
 Rode laughing to your feet. 
 
 95
 
 96 TA^IARAMA BEACH 
 
 Your hair was like a shining veil 
 Around your shoulders spread; 
 
 Your proud young face was rosy-pale, 
 And, oh, your lips were red. 
 
 A wreath of smoke rose from the hill; 
 
 A sail shone far at sea; 
 And, in that scene so calm and still, 
 
 There were but you and me. 
 
 The sun made on the ocean floor 
 
 A pathway broad and bright; 
 The Future shone our eyes before, 
 
 Like that long lane of light. 
 
 Methought I saw, as we stood there. 
 
 The noon of your renown, 
 When you, as Queen of Song, would wear 
 
 A rose-and-laurel crown. 
 
 For you strange flags would be unfurled 
 
 In cities old and new. 
 And you would sing for all the world 
 
 The songs I wrote for you. 
 
 And while I saw that vision rare, 
 
 That would be truth in time, 
 I wove for you a garland fair 
 
 Of many colored rhyme.
 
 TAAIARAMA BEACH 97 
 
 What glamor had come over mel 
 
 What strange spell magical? 
 It was the Prince of Fantasy 
 
 Who held me in his thrall. 
 
 I looked into your eyes of brown, 
 
 And I saw clearly there 
 That you, too', saw the Singer's Crown 
 
 Which, some day, you should wear. 
 
 My vision was a Prophecy, 
 
 And part of it came true. 
 Your name is known from sea to sea— 
 
 And I am dead to you. 
 
 Your voice turns Winter into Spring, 
 
 They say; so let it be. 
 I only know the songs you sing, 
 
 They were not made by me. 
 
 You are a Queen of Song sublime- 
 So I have often read— 
 
 While I am a poor Prince of Rhyme, 
 Long disinherited. 
 
 *o 
 
 Enough! who cares for song or rhyme ?- 
 
 Pve had my share of each: 
 I knew you in your sweetest time 
 
 On Tamarama Beach.
 
 THE MUSES OF AUSTRALIA- 
 
 She plays her harp by hidden rills, 
 The sweet shy Muse who dwells 
 
 In secret hollows of the hills, 
 And green untrodden dells. 
 
 Her voice is as the voice of streams 
 
 That under myrtles glide; 
 Our Kendall saw her face in dreams, 
 
 And loved her till he died. 
 
 At times, by some green-eyelashed pool, 
 
 She lies in slumber deep; 
 Her slender hands are white and cool 
 
 As are the hands of sleep. 
 
 And, when the sun of Suunuer flaunts 
 
 His hre the hills along. 
 She keeps her secret sunless haunts, 
 
 And sings a shadowy song. 
 
 98
 
 THE MUSES OF AUSTRALIA 99 
 
 She weaves a wild, sweet magic rune, 
 
 When o'er the tree-tops high 
 The silver sickle of the moon 
 
 Shines in a rose-grey sky. 
 
 But in the dawn, the soft red dawn, 
 
 When fade the stars above, 
 She walks uj^on a shining lawn, 
 
 And sings the song of Love. 
 
 • • • • 
 
 But, lo, the Muse with flashing eyes, 
 
 And backward-streaming hair! 
 She grips her steed with strong brown thighs, 
 
 Her panting breasts are bare. 
 
 In trances sweet, or tender dreams, 
 
 She has not any part— 
 Her blood runs like the blood that streams 
 
 Out of the mountain's heart. 
 
 Her lips are red; the pride of life 
 
 Her heart of passion thrills; 
 She is the Muse whose joy. is strife. 
 
 Whose home is on the hills. 
 
 Her voice is as a clarion clear, 
 And rings o'er the hill and dell; 
 
 She sings a song of gallant cheer- 
 Dead Gordon knew her well.
 
 100 THE MUSES OF AUSTRALIA 
 
 She checks her steed upon a rise — 
 The wind uplifts his mane— 
 
 And gazes far with flashing eyes 
 Across the rolling plain 
 
 Who comes in solemn majesty 
 Through haze of throbbing heat? 
 
 It is the Desert Muse, and she 
 Is veiled from head to feet. 
 
 Yet men the Mountain Muse will leave, 
 And leave the Muse of Streams, 
 
 To follow her from dawn to eve— 
 And perish with their dreams. 
 
 She passes far beyond their ken, 
 
 With slow and solemn pace. 
 Over the bleaching bones of men 
 
 Who died to see her face. 
 
 Her secrets were to some revealed 
 Who loved her passing well— 
 
 But death with burning fingers sealed 
 Their lips ere they could tell. 
 
 In silence dread she walks apart— 
 
 Yet I have heard men say 
 The song that slumbers in her heart 
 
 Will wake the world some day.
 
 THE MUSES OF AUSTRALIA 101 
 
 She is the Muse of Tragedy, 
 
 And walks on burning sands; 
 The greatest of the Muses Three 
 
 In our Australian lands.
 
 WHEN LONDON CALLS 
 
 They leave us— artists, singers, all — 
 
 When London calls aloud. 
 Commanding to her Festival 
 
 The gifted crowd. 
 
 She sits beside the ship-choked Thames, 
 
 Sad, weary, cruel, grand; 
 Her crown imperial gleams with gems 
 
 From many a land. 
 
 From overseas, and far away, 
 Come crowded ships and ships— 
 
 Grim-faced she gazes on them; yea, 
 With scornful lips. 
 
 The garden of the earth is wide; 
 
 Its rarest blooms she picks 
 
 To deck her board, this haggard-eyed 
 
 Imperatrix. 
 
 102
 
 WHEN LONDON CALLS 103 
 
 Sad, sad is she, and yearns for mirth; 
 
 With voice of golden guile 
 She lures men from the ends of earth 
 
 To make her smile. 
 
 The student of wild human ways 
 
 In wild new lands; the sage 
 With new great thoughts ; the bard whose lays 
 
 Bring youth to age; 
 
 The painter young whose pictures shine 
 
 With colours magical, 
 The singer with the voice divine— 
 
 She lures them all. 
 
 But all their new is old to her 
 
 Who bore the Anakim; 
 She gives them gold or Charon's fare 
 
 As suits her whim. 
 
 Crowned Ogress— old, and sad, and wise- 
 She sits with painted face 
 
 And hard, imperious, cruel eyes 
 In her high place. 
 
 To him who for her pleasure lives, 
 
 And makes her wish his goal, 
 A rich Tarpeian gift she gives— 
 
 That slays his soul.
 
 104 WHEN LONDON CALLS 
 
 Tlie story-teller from the Isles 
 
 Upon the Empire's rim, 
 With smiles she welcomes— and her smiles 
 
 Are death to him. 
 
 For Her, whose pleasure is her law, 
 In vain the shy heart bleeds— 
 
 The Genius with the Iron Jaw 
 Alone succeeds. 
 
 And when the Poet's lays grow bland, 
 
 And urbanised, and prim- 
 She stretches forth a jewelled hand 
 
 And strangles him. 
 
 She sits beside the ship-choked Thames 
 "With Sphinx-like lips apart— 
 
 Mistress of many diadems- 
 Death in her heart!
 
 AFTER SUNSET 
 
 Dusk-dark against grave red, 
 
 The little hills of the harbour stand : 
 
 A black pine lifts its head, 
 Like an old chief grim and gi-and, 
 The last to yield in a conquered land. 
 
 And darkly against the sky, 
 Stand rows of tall green trees, 
 
 Like warriors doomed to die. 
 Who ask no elegies, 
 
 But lean on their spears, and wait 
 
 The swift, sure steps of Fate. 
 
 Behold, where a soft light shows 
 
 Over a hill-top near. 
 
 Delicate, pure and clear 
 As the ghost of a golden rose— 
 
 105
 
 106 AFTER SUNSET 
 
 A gum-tree gently sways, 
 Sways in the breeze and swings; 
 And to itself it sings— 
 
 " This is not the last of days— 
 This is not the End of Things ! " 
 
 For the gum-tree brave was born 
 
 Beneath Australian skies, 
 In Australia's earliest morn, 
 And knows that its own bright Sun, 
 When the long dark hours are done, 
 Will again in the East arise. 
 
 And now 
 
 Each dark hilFsi breast and brow 
 
 Are flashing with jewels bright 
 That seem— so shining there- 
 Like diamonds in dark hair, 
 
 Or eyes that in the night 
 Gleam in a lion's den— 
 
 But each is a kindly light 
 From street-lamps shining fair. 
 And the kindly homes of men. 
 
 And from many a wharf and quay. 
 And many an anchored barque.
 
 AFTER SUNSET 107 
 
 The long reflections shine, 
 Quivering tremulously, 
 
 On the waters velvet-dark— 
 And those shining spirals seem to be 
 Tall golden columns Byzantine 
 Of palaces under the sea. 
 
 But, seen in another mood, 
 
 They seem unto mine eyes 
 The swords of the seraphs who stood 
 
 By the Gate of Paradise. 
 
 The ferries flash to and fro— 
 Marvellous mortal-carrying sprites. 
 Genii of the Arabian Nights— 
 
 For they are alive, and aglow 
 From stem to stern, and they make- 
 Each with its shining wake, 
 
 And its light and its life in the night— 
 
 A music of sound and sight, 
 
 A melody of delight. 
 
 The moon's cold virgin face 
 Looks down with a brighter grace. 
 
 As once she gazed upon 
 
 The young Endymion;
 
 108 AFTER SUNSET 
 
 For though, from her ear impearled, 
 She sees strange sights and rare, 
 And Beauty and Mystery- 
 She sees no sight more fair. 
 More fair in all the world, 
 Than Sydney by the Sea.
 
 MAVOURNEEN 
 
 On a morning bright of cheer, 
 
 Do you hear, 
 Do you hear, bird of dawning, do you heart 
 I was walking by the river 
 Where the tall reeds shine and shiver, 
 When I met my colleen dear. 
 
 Singing clear 
 As a lark in the Spring of the year. 
 
 She was dressed in Irish green 
 
 Like a queen 
 Of the woods, she was dressed in Irish green ; 
 And she smiled, and I grew bolder. 
 Touched the harp upon her shoulder. 
 And I said to her: " I ween, 
 
 By your mien 
 And your eyes, you are dark Rosaleen." 
 
 109
 
 110 MAVOURNEEN 
 
 0, she kissed me with a grand 
 
 Air and bland, 
 By the rowan-shadowed, haunted river-strand, 
 And to music did quiver 
 All the reeds upon the river 
 As she took me by the hand, 
 
 By the hand. 
 And said : " I am your own Ireland."
 
 ANNA 
 
 The pale discroAvned stacks of maize, 
 
 Like spectres in the sun, 
 Stand shivering nigh Avonaise, 
 
 Where all is dead and done. 
 
 The sere leaves make a music vain. 
 
 With melancholy chords; 
 Like cries from some old battle-plain, 
 
 Like clash of phantom swords. 
 
 But when the maize was lush and green 
 With musical green waves. 
 
 She went, its plumed ranks between, 
 Unto the hill of graves. 
 
 There you may see sweet flowers set 
 
 O'er damsels and o'er dames- 
 Rose, Ellen, Mary, Margaret- 
 The sweet old quiet names. 
 
 HI
 
 11-2 ANNA 
 
 The gravestones show, in long array, 
 Though Avhite, or green with moss, 
 
 How linked in Life and Death are they— 
 The Shamrock and the Cross. 
 
 The Gravestones face the Golden East, 
 
 And in the morn they take 
 The blessing of the Great High Priest, 
 
 Before thp living wake. 
 
 Who was she? Never ask her name; 
 
 Her beauty and her grace 
 Have passed, with her poor little shame, 
 
 Into the Silent Place. 
 
 In Avonaise, in Avonaise, 
 Where all is dead and done. 
 
 The folk who rest there all their days 
 Care not for moon or sun. 
 
 They care not, when the living pass. 
 Whether they sigh or smile; 
 
 They hear above their graves the grass 
 That sighs— "A little while!" 
 
 A Avhite stone marks her small green bed- 
 With "Anna" and "Adieu." 
 
 Madonna Mary, rest her head 
 On your dear lap of blue!
 
 THE GREEN HARPER 
 
 Once again the music sweet, 
 
 With its magical refrain, 
 Through the noises of the street, 
 
 Steals into uiy heart and brain: 
 I am like a moonlit tree 
 Thrilled with silver melody. 
 
 Some enchantment in the room 
 Fills it with a radiance rare, 
 
 And a marvellous sweet bloom; 
 There is glamour in the air. 
 
 And my soul is drawn from me 
 
 By the wondrous melody. 
 
 Long ago, as poets tell, 
 
 Dectora, the shining Queen, 
 
 Rose and followed Forgael, 
 Whom men called the Harper Green; 
 
 113
 
 114 THE GREEN HARPER 
 
 Followed him from Erin's strand 
 Far and far to Fairyland. 
 
 Is it Forgael I hear 
 Making music magical? 
 
 Green Harper, do not fear, 
 I will follow at thy call! 
 
 Over seas or mountains high 
 
 1 will follow till I die. 
 
 Deep and dim in Faii'yland, 
 Far beyond the Perilous Sea, 
 
 Lies the Wood of Broceliande 
 Where the haunted waters be— 
 
 Haunted lakes and singing streams, 
 
 And the high green Rath of Dreams, 
 
 There the knight whose sword was sharp, 
 Lancelot, in woodland dress, 
 
 Walks with Tristram of the Harp, 
 Lately come from Lyonesse — 
 
 Lyonesse that lies below 
 
 All the waves of long ago. 
 
 There with beard as white as wool. 
 Merlin on the future dreams. 
 
 And Blauaid the Beautiful 
 
 Walks beside the singing streams
 
 THE GREEN HARPER 115 
 
 With fair Queens whose white and red 
 Loveliness made many dead. 
 
 Far-off is that country fair, 
 
 But the road is green and gay; 
 Green Harper, lead me there, 
 
 Ere I take the darker way!
 
 AN OLD TUNE 
 
 When I hear the Old Tune sound, 
 So sweet, yet void of art, 
 
 As a grass-blade through the ground, 
 It pierces through my heart. 
 
 0, it pierces through my heart, 
 The tune without a name, 
 
 Like a magic elfin dart, 
 An arrow of green flame. 
 
 And once more, with spirit-glance, 
 I behold the boys so gay. 
 
 And the dark-eyed colleens, dance 
 Upon thei moonlit way. 
 
 And I hear the piper play 
 That sweet old Irish tune. 
 
 That can thrill my heart to-day, 
 Beneath the Irish moon. 
 
 116
 
 AN OLD TUNE 117 
 
 0, if I were young and free, 
 With wealth at my command, 
 
 I would give it all to be 
 Once more in Ireland.
 
 PICTURES 
 
 Rushes and heather around me, 
 A grim, grey rock behind. 
 
 And a tall, young gum tree tossing 
 Its red plumes in the wind, 
 
 Like a prince in dark green dressed, 
 
 With a waving crimson crest. 
 
 A small, clear pool below me. 
 
 Between two rocky isles, 
 With its sunlit face a-quiver 
 
 With flashing golden smiles- 
 Then with mimic rage and din, 
 A small, white wave comes laughing in. 
 
 Three bare-legged lads a-fishing. 
 With loud and earnest glee; 
 
 Like echoes from my boyhood 
 Their voices sound to me, 
 
 118
 
 PICTURES 119 
 
 Far across the wasted years, 
 
 And mine eyes are filled with tears. 
 
 White sails on the blue water, 
 
 White wings in the blue air, 
 And the sun for pleasure shining, 
 
 And beauty everywhere: 
 These are now the sights I see— 
 And the world goes well with me.
 
 THE LOST MUSE 
 
 I LEFT the crowded city: 
 
 I could no longer rest .... 
 Farewell to comrades witty! 
 
 Good-bye to song and jest! 
 I left the crowded city 
 
 Upon a silent quest. 
 
 There strong men wrought and wrangled 
 For room to breathe and be; 
 
 Hard men who could have strangled 
 The sweet nymph Poesy: 
 
 There strong men wrought and wi'angled; 
 But what were they to me? 
 
 The City they are barred in 
 
 So close that no man sees 
 God walking in His garden 
 
 Among His pleasant trees: 
 
 120
 
 THE LOST MUSE 121 
 
 The City they are barred in 
 By evil destinies. 
 
 The houses crouch together 
 
 Like dumb beasts terrified: 
 In vain the golden weather 
 
 Gilds all the world outside: 
 The houses crouch together 
 
 As if from God to hide. 
 
 I left the crowded City 
 
 With all its noise and glare, 
 Its Greed that knows no pity, 
 
 Its Joy and its Despair: 
 I left the crowded City 
 
 To breathe the freer air. 
 
 My heart was sore with yearning, 
 
 And visions thronged my brain 
 That like a wheel was turning 
 
 And spinning threads of pain : 
 My heart was sore with yearning 
 
 To find my Love again. 
 
 Good people, have ye seen her 
 
 Who is so fair to seel— 
 The grass she treads grows greener, 
 
 The leaves dance on the tree . . . 
 Good people, have ye seen her 
 
 Who is the world to me?
 
 122 THE LOST MUSE 
 
 She sings where'er she passes 
 The song of sweet Desire; 
 
 The eyes of lads and lasses 
 She fills with tender fire: 
 
 She sings where'er she passes 
 And plays upon a lyre. 
 
 I heard the wild swans calling 
 Wliere northern rivers flow; 
 
 I heard a voice enthralling , 
 That well I used to know: 
 
 I heard the wild swans calling 
 Along the sunset-glow. 
 
 Upon an island lonely, 
 Beneath a wild green vine, 
 
 For one swift moment only 
 I saw a vision shine— 
 
 Upon an island lonely 
 Of sighing reed and pine. 
 
 Was it my Lady playing 
 
 The tunes that charm the trees' 
 Or but a mist-wreath swaying 
 
 And bending in the breezes- 
 Was it my Lady playing 
 
 Old Orphic melodies'?
 
 THE LOST MUSE 123 
 
 The reeds with secrets quiver 
 
 Around the lonely isle 
 Set in the Northern river 
 
 Where Pan reigns yet awhile: 
 The reeds with secrets quiver— 
 
 And oh, I saw her smile! 
 
 " Hast thou some younger Lover, 
 
 fickle Muse," I cried, 
 " For whom thou dost uncover 
 
 Thy beauty, like a bride? — 
 Hast thou some younger Lover 
 
 Who will not. be denied "? 
 
 "And doth he hold thee dearer 
 
 And love thee more than I? 
 And dost thou draw him nearer 
 
 To thee when ghosts go by? 
 Aad doth he hold thee dearer 
 
 Than life? Muse, reply!" 
 
 I heard the pine-trees sighing 
 
 Like mourners stricken sore; 
 I heard the reeds replying 
 
 In whispers round the shore. . . . 
 I heard the pine-trees sighing— 
 
 And I heard nothing more.
 
 ? 
 
 THE FOREST 
 
 Ye who are dwellers in streets where pam of 
 
 existence is sorest, 
 Come with me, kinsmen of mine, and leave Care in 
 
 the City behind — 
 I am the Brother of Trees, made free of the life of 
 
 the Forest 
 Innocent, thrilled with the sun and alive with the 
 
 songs of the Wind. 
 
 Forth from the City I pass, and I laugh at the fetters 
 
 that bound me; 
 but the forest is green, and my blue-domed world 
 
 it is fair, 
 Delicate bird-life and bee-life piping and humming 
 
 around me. 
 Laughter of light in the leaves and gladness of life 
 
 in the air. 
 
 124
 
 THE FOREST 125 
 
 Stately they stand in their ranks, my kinsmen, the 
 
 high and the noble, 
 Princes and chieftains in plumes, and a peoi^le in 
 
 garments of gxeen; 
 They with their valour of heart, and their courage 
 
 that laughs at my troubles. 
 Knowing the Tree that I was and remembering what 
 
 I have been. 
 
 Beautiful Lady Acacia, with glimmering laugJiter 
 
 and gladness. 
 Shaking your head to a tune that is knoAvn but to 
 
 you and to me; 
 Dear immemorial music and dearest green days of 
 
 sweet madness. 
 Where you were the Lady Acacia and I was your 
 
 Lover the Tree. 
 
 Come with me, come \vith me, kinsmen! and pass 
 
 through the wonderful portals: 
 Deep in the heart of the Forest the mystical story 
 
 is told; 
 Luminous shadows of gods, they are there, and the 
 
 pine-crowned immortals, 
 All of the Heroes and Stories, and all of the legends 
 
 of old.
 
 IN A FAR COUNTRY. 
 
 Beyond the mountains blue, 
 
 Banished from the sea 
 I dream old dreams anew, 
 And think, old friends, of you. 
 In a Far Countree. 
 
 The wind that bends the trees 
 
 Bears no breath of brine; 
 It has the sough of seas, 
 But 'tis not the brave salt breeze 
 That I loved lang syne. 
 
 At times in the dark woods, 
 When the stars are dim, 
 
 Its sound is like the rude 
 
 March of a multitude 
 To a battle hymn. 
 
 126
 
 IN A FAR COUNTRY 127 
 
 Old friends, old comrades true, 
 
 Whom I long to see, 
 In milk for mountain dew 
 I drink Was Hael to you, 
 
 In a Far Countree.
 
 IN ARCADY. 
 
 The bro'.vn hills brood around me, crowned with 
 
 gums of sombre sheen; 
 They look like drowsy giants all in smoking-caps of 
 
 green. 
 There's not a voice familiar, or a face that's known 
 
 to me: 
 The Lord He knows, but I suppose that this is 
 
 Arcady. 
 
 I sit on the verandah at the closing of the day 
 And compare myself to Ovid in my modest little 
 
 way— 
 To Ovid in his exile, dreaming everaiore of Rome, 
 And in vain beseeching Caesar to forgive and take 
 
 him home. 
 
 128
 
 IN ARCADY 129 
 
 He dwelt amongst barbarians, and sang his mournful 
 
 song 
 Beside the frozen Ister and the Euxiue shore along; 
 But I, midst kindly Irish, dwell upon an upland 
 
 plain— 
 And still I long for Sydnej' and its narrow streets 
 
 again. 
 
 The wheat is cut and garnered, and the ploughing 
 
 has begun; 
 The ruddy soil lies naked to the kisses of the sun; 
 There's harrowing, and burning-oft", and other sights 
 
 to see, 
 And great potato-digging in the fields of Arcady. 
 
 The farmers use, to break the ground, a fine four- 
 furrow i)lough. 
 
 Their ancestors would smile if they could see the 
 Irish now— 
 
 For they wrought hard with wooden shares their 
 frugal croi^s to raise. 
 
 When Cecht, the Plough, they worshipped in the 
 old Dedanaau days. 
 
 In spite of new machines the! world is full of wonder 
 
 sweet ; 
 There's still as much of magic in the springing of 
 
 the wheat
 
 130 IN ARCADY 
 
 As when around the fields at night, the ancient 
 
 legends tell, 
 The Naked Maid in darkness walked and wove a 
 
 magic spell. 
 
 A homely-looking folk they are, these people of my 
 
 kin; 
 Their hands are hard as horse-shoes, but their hearts 
 
 come through the skin; 
 They are all right well-connected in this land of 
 
 Arcady ; 
 And if your name's not Hogan here it must be 
 
 Hegarty. 
 
 And Nature, God preserve her well, is kmdly Irish 
 too; 
 
 The winds croon Irish melodies the swaying gum- 
 trees through; 
 
 And ev'ry little hill about, with green cap cocked and 
 curled, 
 
 Saj's " Come upon the top of me and look around 
 the world !' 
 
 The stream goes singing on, its way, and well I know 
 
 the tune— 
 'Tis " Slantha " in the morning, and at night 
 
 " Eileen Aroon " ;
 
 IN ARCADY 131 
 
 The magpie warbling in the woods with rich, clear 
 
 purple note, 
 Pretends that he's a blackbird with a Cork brogue 
 
 in his throat. 
 
 They love the land they live in, all these folk that 
 
 I esteem- 
 But the land they left behind them is an everlasting 
 
 dream. 
 Old Michael Cleary said to me— his age is seventy 
 
 seven— 
 " There's no place like Austi'alia, barrin' Ireland and 
 
 Heaven." 
 
 There's rest and peace in plenty here, and eggs and 
 
 milk to spare; 
 The scenery is calm and sane, and wholesome is the 
 
 air; 
 The folk are kind, the cows behave like cousins unto 
 
 me. . . . 
 But, please the Lord, on Monday morn, I'm leaving 
 
 Arcady.
 
 THE CALL OF THE CITY 
 
 There is a saying of renown— 
 " God made the country, man the town." 
 Well, everybody to hig trade ! 
 But man likes best the thing he made. 
 The town has little spaeej to spare ; 
 The country has both space and air; 
 The town's confined, the country free- 
 Yet, spite of all, the town for me. 
 
 For when the hills are grey and night is falling, 
 
 And the ivinds sigh drearily, 
 I hear the city calling, calling, calling. 
 With a voice like the great sea. 
 
 I used to think I'd like to be 
 A hermit living lonesomelj'. 
 Apart from human care or ken, 
 Apart from all the haunts of men: 
 
 132
 
 THE CALL OP THE CITY 133 
 
 Then I would read in Nature's book, 
 And drink clear water from the brook, 
 And live a life of sweet content, 
 In hollow tree, or cave, or tent. 
 
 This was a dream of callow Youth 
 Which always overleaps the truth. 
 And thinks, fond fool, it is the sum 
 Of things that are and things to come. 
 But now, when youth has gone from me, 
 I crave for genial company. 
 For Nature wild I still have zest, 
 But human nature I love best, 
 
 I know that hayseed in the hair 
 Than grit and grime is healthier, 
 And that the scent of gums is far 
 More sweet than reek of paveraent-tar. 
 I know, too, that the breath of kine 
 Is safer than the smell of wine; 
 I know that here my days are free- 
 But, ah ! the city calls to me. 
 
 Let Zimmerman and all his brood 
 Proclaim the charms of Solitude, 
 I'd rather walk down Hunter-street 
 And meet a man I like to meet,
 
 134 THE CALL OF THE CITY 
 
 And talk with bim about old times, 
 And how the market is for rhymes, 
 Between two drinks, than hold commune 
 Upon a mountain with the moon. 
 
 A soft wind in the gnlly deep 
 Is singing all the trees to sleep; 
 And in the sweet air there isi balm, 
 And Peace is here, and here is Calm. 
 God knows how these I yearned to find ! 
 Yet I must leave them all behind. 
 And rise and go — come sun, come rain— 
 Back to the Sorceress again. 
 
 For at the dawn or when the night is falling, 
 
 Or at noon when shadows flee, 
 I hear the city calling, calling, calling, 
 Through the long lone hours to me.
 
 ''AUX PAin^RES BIABLESr' 
 
 If ever you happen to pay a 
 
 Short visit when down in the Isles, 
 To the polychrome town of Noumea 
 
 Where Beauty— bright, black and brown— smiles, 
 And you feel a desire for some brandy, 
 
 Or absinthe, or whisky, or gin — 
 In a street, to the market close handy, 
 
 You will notice the Poor Devils' Inn. 
 
 It is not a structure as stately 
 
 As some that in Sydney you know, 
 And if about style you are greatly 
 
 Concerned, it is not comme il faut; 
 Its doors are dirt-brown ; its faqade is 
 
 Of liver-red stucco, and tin; 
 Yet the liquor you get not so bad is, 
 
 In the same little Poor Devils' Inn. 
 
 135
 
 136 "AC7Z PAUVREH DIABLES!" 
 
 The haughty imiDorted officials, 
 
 The gendarme with pointed moustache, 
 Have not on its slate their initials 
 
 (Its motto is French for " Spot Cash"). 
 But ever the humble and lowly 
 
 May fill themselves up to the chin 
 Very cheaply, and find themselves wholly 
 
 At their ease in the Poor Devils' Inn. 
 
 The place had for me a strange glamor; 
 
 Its windows did wickedly wink; 
 And, though I was weak in French grammar, 
 
 I knew how to ask for a drink. 
 'Twas vain to put airs on or graces ; 
 
 Its genial experienced grin 
 Said, plainer than words— "Here your place is, 
 
 Bon gars, in the Poor Devils' Inn. 
 
 Behold me, then, sitting, and drinking 
 
 Green absinthe and syrup of gum. 
 And feeling quite Gallic, yet thinking 
 
 I would have much rather had rum. 
 But, ventrehleu! one must in foreign 
 
 Lands drink their drinks, credit to win— 
 I spent very nearly a florin 
 
 Ere I quitted the Poor Devils' Inn.
 
 " AVX PAUVRE8 DIABLES!" 137 
 
 And I saw, though it seems like a fable, 
 
 A gentleman shabby, yet fine, 
 Who hammered his heels on the table 
 
 Demanding a bottle of wine. 
 His face had grown harder and thinner — 
 
 Who was he that raised such a din? 
 Francois Villon, as I am a sinner, 
 
 At home in the Poor Devils' Inn ! 
 
 What brought back this mad rogue from Hades, 
 
 Whence seldom a ghost comes at call? 
 
 He said he was tired of dead ladies— 
 
 Of La'is, and Tha'is, and all — 
 So being of that sort whose star is 
 
 A guide that leads surely to Sin, 
 He returned to pick purses in Paris, 
 
 And brought up at the Poor Devils' Inn. 
 
 He showed me a ballade he'd written 
 
 About a bright-eyed popinee, 
 By the charms of a gendarme death-smitten— 
 
 He's sold it to Monsieur Puget, 
 Who printed it in his smart paper, 
 
 And Fran9ois the coin made to spin, 
 And cut up the devil's own caper, 
 
 With his friends, in the Poor Devils' Inn.
 
 138 "AUX PAUVRES Dl ABLEST 
 
 I thoiigiit it was kindly and witty 
 
 To give to the cafe this name, 
 Suggestive of jovial pity, 
 
 And one more last chance at the game. 
 And I hope, when a country still stranger 
 
 I go to, new life to begin, 
 By the grace of the Gracious Arranger, 
 
 I shall find out a Poor Devils' Inn.
 
 DIES FAUSTUS 
 
 With Shoes of Silence shod 
 
 He comes, the Pallid God, 
 Thi'ough vales of Night and over hills of Morn; 
 
 In scornful silentness 
 
 He passes through the press 
 Of thronging hours, impatient to be bom. 
 
 At times upon a hill, 
 
 We see him standing still. 
 And in our hearts a sudden bell doth toll; 
 
 Then to the vale below 
 
 He passes, but we know 
 He comes, the pale Pursuivant of the Soul. 
 
 To-day the sky is fair. 
 Sweet is the morning air. 
 The sunlight flows around us like a sea, 
 
 139
 
 140 DIES FAV8TU8 
 
 Whereon the earth cloth float 
 Like an enchanted boat 
 "\Miose sails are filled with winds of melody. 
 
 Yet ere the sun goes down, 
 And lamps gleam in the town, 
 
 And Night with stars like jewels fills the sky. 
 The man who was our friend 
 Will come to his Life's end— 
 
 For, lo, this is the day when he must die. 
 
 The day when he with pride 
 
 Brought home his new-made bride, 
 The day made gracious by his man-child's birth, 
 
 They are as shadows— dim 
 
 And meaningless to him— 
 Beside this last of all his days on earth. 
 
 Our friendship brief is o'er, 
 
 He will not see us more, 
 We shall not meet on any coming day; 
 
 For myriad paths there be 
 
 Through cold infinity 
 Whereon men's souls are swept like leaves away.
 
 DIES FAU8TUS 141 
 
 Yet— ere his spirit goes— 
 
 Press to his lips a rose; 
 Mayhap its scent will bring unto his mind. 
 
 In some strange land afar, 
 
 The homely little star 
 Where roses bloomed and there were faces kind.
 
 DISILLUSION 
 
 For some forty years, and over, 
 Poets had with mq their way; 
 
 And they made me think that Sorrow 
 Owned the Night and owned the Day; 
 
 And the corpse beneath the clover 
 Had a hojDeful word to say. 
 
 And they made me think that Sorrow 
 Was the Shadow in the Sun ; 
 
 And they made me think To-morrow 
 Was a gift to everyone: 
 
 And the days I used to borrow, 
 Till my credit now is done. 
 
 And they told me softly, sweetlj^. 
 That, when Life had lost its glee, 
 I could be consoled completely 
 
 142
 
 DISILLUSION 143 
 
 By the Forest or the Sea; 
 And they wrote their rhymes so neatly 
 That they quite deluded me. 
 
 But when Sorrow is at sorest, 
 
 And the heart weeps silently, 
 Is there healing in the Forest? 
 
 Is there solace in the Sea? 
 And the God whom thou adorest 
 
 Has He any help for thee? 
 
 Does it sooth the spent man dying 
 That the stars are shining bright 
 
 O'er the field where he is lying? 
 And the moon, with all her light, 
 
 Does she help his bare soul flying 
 Through the vast and lonely Night? 
 
 Give toi me the gTasp of true man, ' 
 
 Though his state be high or low, 
 Give to me the kiss of woman— 
 
 Let your Seas and Forests go: 
 There is nothing but the human 
 
 Touch can heal the human woe.
 
 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 HerE;, on this green old earth 
 Which is my dwelling place, 
 
 I share the grief and mirth 
 And glory of my race. 
 
 For me the roses bloom, 
 For me, the sweet birds sing; 
 
 I am the Prince to whom 
 Their fruits the seasons bring. 
 
 I laugh with winds at play; 
 
 I wanton with the wave; 
 "This earth of mine," I say, 
 
 ''My cradle is, and grave." 
 
 And, in the silence vast 
 Of night, my spirit sees 
 
 Grey phantoms of the past, 
 And ancient tragedies. 
 
 144
 
 THE OTHER SIDE 145 
 
 I am of cave-men bred 
 
 Who looked upon the Flood : 
 The tbonghts of all the dead 
 
 Ave stirring in my blood. 
 
 I come of that high strain, 
 The men who thought and did, 
 
 Who raised the Gothic fane 
 And built the Pyramid. 
 
 dead men, long out-thrust 
 From light and life and song— 
 
 kinsmen in the dust, 
 
 Your grasp is stark and strong ! 
 
 It draws me evermore 
 
 To banks of dusky gi-een. 
 Whence Charon plies his oar 
 
 Unto a shore unseen. 
 
 And so when daylight dies 
 
 And stars begin to gleam. 
 My deeds and prayers and sighs 
 
 I send across the stream. 
 
 1 go no more on quests 
 Of profit, near or far, 
 
 My dearest interests 
 
 Across the Dark Stream are.
 
 146 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 For day by, day I feel, 
 Amidst this world of men, 
 
 A grander Commonweal 
 Claims me as citizen. 
 
 Is it but all a dream 
 
 That, when this life is done, 
 
 Across the Stygian stream 
 There shines a fairer sun"? 
 
 I know not, and maybe 
 The Only God is Chance: 
 
 Yet Charon looks at me 
 With strange significance.
 
 KEEPSAKES 
 
 This world of ours, all garmented in green, 
 The preachers say is but a passing scene. 
 
 The things we know and love are none of ours, 
 But lent us for a time alone. The flowers. 
 
 The waving woods, and many-laughing sea. 
 Are keepsakes for the Race that is to be. 
 
 And yet I know a meadow whence the Lark 
 Rises, and sings at dawn above the dark. 
 
 I know a tree that in the early Spring 
 
 Blooms into rose-winged birds that soar and sing 
 
 I know the still sea in the morning wan, 
 Like a bright steel sword soft breathed upon. 
 
 147
 
 14S KEEPSAIiES 
 
 I kuow the secret of the World's Desire 
 That hides within the red heart of the fire. 
 
 I have some friends— none better man could own— 
 And must I leave them, and go forth alone? 
 
 I saw a statue in the white moonshine— 
 
 The crowned white Mother and the Child divine; 
 
 The Mother and the Child, with calm command. 
 Benignly gazed upon the sleeping land. 
 
 The Preacher says this world so gay and green. 
 So full of glamor, is a passing scene. 
 
 I wish that, when Death closes my dim eyes. 
 These keepsakes I may take to Paradise.
 
 SORROW GO DOWN WITH THE SUN! 
 
 When a man is chivvied from east to west, 
 And heckled and harried the livelong day, 
 
 When the evening comes it should bring him rest— 
 Sorrow go down with the sun, I say! 
 
 In the street, in the mart, when high is the sun 
 We tight for our lives and we cheat and lie; 
 
 But let it be over when day is done— 
 Sorrow go down with the sun, say I! 
 
 Cease, singers, the Labour hymn. 
 
 For hard enough is our weary way; 
 Give us some peace when the light grows dim— 
 
 Sorrow go doivn with the sun, I say! 
 
 I have made my bed, and my way I keep, 
 
 As I shall keep it until I die; 
 When the Night comes with her chalice of sleep— 
 
 Sorrow go down with the sun, say I! 
 
 149
 
 REMONSTRANCE 
 
 When Night comes I am pierced with arrows keen: 
 My Conscience stands and shoots them at my heart— 
 " Think of thy sins !" I say, " I did my part- 
 Gods knows, He only, what they might have been." 
 
 I had no quarrel with the world of old, 
 No trouble with the glad green world had I, 
 I simply asked for leave to live and die. 
 And fish, and read old tales by poets told. 
 
 And now I stand with back against the wall, 
 A beetle pinned against the wall of Fate, 
 I think if God is, as I think Him, Great— 
 That he will wipe my score out once for all. 
 
 Is there no chance for him who sees no chance. 
 No hope for him who feels no sure-set hope. 
 Beyond the starry regions and the scope 
 Of Heaven and Earth, and Time and Circumstance? 
 
 150
 
 REMONSTRANCE 151 
 
 There is; for God is just, and can discern 
 That I had but a little interlude— 
 Some forty years or so— to learn the good, 
 Which He had all eternity to learn.
 
 VISIONS OF THE RAIN 
 
 Last night I lay awake and heard the rain- 
 In that dark hour before the break of day, 
 When life burns low— when phantom fingers play 
 A sad, soft tune upon the window-pane. 
 
 The moon was like that sweet drowned virgin face 
 That floated down the Tiber's current slow 
 When Nero reigned, long centuries ago, 
 All dim with grief, yet glorious with grace. 
 
 The wind went moaning through the trees below. 
 And like a lost child cried, then wildly laughed; 
 The grateful lily in the garden quaffed 
 The wine of Heaven from her cup of snow. 
 
 Yea, far away, beyond the Mountains Blue, 
 On many an ample field, on many a plain, 
 Made glad by the rich succour of the rain. 
 The harvest, like the gourd of Jonah, grew. 
 
 152
 
 VISIONS OF THE RAIN 153 
 
 But I was gazing on another sight; 
 
 I saw the gaslit silent streets that shone 
 
 Like Hell's sad streets by Heaven's tears rained upon, 
 
 When God was merciful on Calvary's night. 
 
 And, at lane-eorners where the gaslight gleamed, 
 I saw wan faces flushed with haggard mirth— 
 Alas, poor devils ! they had found on Earth 
 A Hell more terrible than monks have dreamed.
 
 THE END OF THE WORLD 
 
 In deeps of space alone, 
 Beyond the starry sea, 
 
 God sate upon His throne; 
 The Earth was on His knee. 
 
 Musingly He said, 
 
 Turning the small globe o'er, 
 " I tire of Men I made ; 
 
 They please me now no more. 
 
 " I gave them this green earth, 
 With all its streams and seas. 
 
 Whereon to dwell in mirth, 
 And pleasantness and ease. 
 
 " I made the sun arise 
 
 Each morning in the East; 
 
 I lit with stars the skies 
 At night, as for a feast. 
 
 154
 
 THE END or THE WORLD 155 
 
 "And, when to Heav'n above 
 For more gifts they did call, 
 
 I sent my Angel Love 
 With my best gift of all. 
 
 " They are consumed with greed, 
 
 And eaten up with pride; 
 Each little, paltry creed 
 
 Counts Me upon its side. 
 
 "And, when they go to fight, 
 
 Each party calls on ME 
 To aid the Right— its Right— 
 
 And give it victory." 
 
 Then God the Earth surveyed 
 Once more, and thus spake He : 
 
 "I tire of Man I made "- 
 And brushed it off his knee. 
 
 With all its glories ripe 
 The Earth passed, like a spark 
 
 Blown from a sailor's pipe 
 Into the hollow dark.
 
 FAITH 
 
 Faith shuts her eyes 
 Poor sal f- deceiver ! 
 
 The last god dies 
 With the last believer. 
 
 PHILOSOPHY 
 
 Life is a web Avith many broken ends — 
 Then, why, friend, be sad? 
 
 Good is not near so good as it pretends 
 Bad is not half so bad. 
 
 ST. FRANCIS II 
 
 I learnt the language of the birds, 
 A new St. Francis I would be; 
 
 But, when I understood their words- 
 The birds were preaching unto me. 
 
 156
 
 I.H.S. 
 
 The Ancient World was bard and wise, 
 
 Its fierce old gods laold still their sway- 
 Murder, and Greed, and Lust and Lies, 
 We call them in this latter day. 
 
 Hawk-beaked and hungry-hearted gods. 
 
 And unforgiving deities; 
 Their sceptres were revengeful rods; 
 
 They held the Future on their knees. 
 
 Pagan ancestors of mine, 
 
 This hand that writes shall soon be dust. 
 But we shall drink celestial Avine 
 
 Together yet— for God is just. 
 
 One night my heart was filled with gloom, 
 And then there came— I know not how— 
 
 A Shining Presence in the room 
 Who kissed me softly on the brow. 
 
 157
 
 158 I.H.S. 
 
 There is a steep and narrow street 
 That in my waking dreams I see, 
 
 And One walks there with bleeding feet 
 Upon his way to Calvary. 
 
 The Milky Way, whose star-worlds' gem 
 The night, is but a breath— a name- 
 To that small street, Jerusalem, 
 
 Which is your Glory and your Shame. 
 
 He was not by the nations, hailed 
 
 As Saviour of the World; not He, 
 
 But on His Symbol he was nailed — 
 An Everlasting guarantee. 
 
 And though they were so hard and wise 
 I see, the gulf of years across, 
 
 With wringing hands, and weeping eyes, 
 The old gods following the Cross. 
 
 Who fears dark Death and After-Death 
 He has not heard your message free, 
 
 Carpenter of Nazareth! 
 Beachcomber of Galilee!
 
 A VISION OF CALVARY 
 
 I HAD an evil dream : 
 
 The Great Sea moaned for breath ; 
 The Great Green Earth did seem 
 
 Grey in the grasp of Death. 
 
 The sky was dark with doom, 
 But, in the vault afar, 
 There glittered through the gloom, 
 A single smiling star. 
 
 Upon the Mount of Loss 
 
 I saw a vision dread— 
 Satan astride the Cross 
 
 In hose and doublet red. 
 
 With mockery and with mirth 
 
 His sombre visage shone; 
 The Kingdoms of the Earth 
 
 He seemed to gaze upon. 
 
 159
 
 160 A VISION OF CALVARY 
 
 He gave the royal sigu 
 
 And looked down with sad scorn 
 Upon the Head Divme 
 
 Crowned with its Crown of Thorn. 
 
 Then to that Figure Wan 
 Approached a tall full-fed 
 
 Roman Centurion— 
 A mitre on his head. 
 
 He shed no useless tear, 
 But, cold and solemn-eyed, 
 
 With a long crozier-spear 
 He pierced the Saviour's side. 
 
 And from that side there ran. 
 Most wondrous to behold, 
 
 Through all the lands of Man 
 A stream of ruddy gold. 
 
 Through long dim centuries 
 
 It ran, a river wide, 
 And men with chalices 
 
 Sat down its banks beside. 
 
 Men clad in mystic gear- 
 Mitre and shovel-hat— 
 
 For many and many a year 
 They quaffed it and grew fat.
 
 A VISION OF CALVAEY 161 
 
 Still on the Mount of Loss, 
 
 In evil dreams I see 
 Satan astride the Cross, 
 
 Smiling in mockery. 
 
 But in the vault afar, 
 
 Gleaming the Cross above, 
 I see the Smiling Star 
 
 That is the Star of Love.
 
 GELIMER 
 
 Gelimer, King of the Vandals, 
 
 In mountain-prison pent, 
 To Pharas, the Roman captain, 
 
 A message of sorrow sent. 
 
 He had been Lord of Carthage, 
 The splendid Daughter of Tyre, 
 
 And he wrote thus— "Send me, Pharas, 
 A loaf of bread and a lyre." 
 
 He would comfort his heart that stifled 
 Midst Moorish swine in a stye, 
 
 By singing of Genseric's glories, 
 And his own good days gone by. 
 
 Gelimer, King of the Vandals, 
 
 Died in the ancient years; 
 Yet his words so quaint and simple 
 
 Have filled mine eyes with tears. 
 
 162
 
 GELIMER 163 
 
 And I think I will send this message, 
 
 His ease being nearly mine— 
 " I have a lyre— but send me 
 
 A loaf and a jar of wine."
 
 FORTY-YEAR 
 
 Forty times over let Michaelmas pass — 
 Grizzling hair the hrain doth clear — 
 Then you know a hoy is an ass, 
 Then you know the worth of a lass, 
 Once you have come to Forty-year. 
 
 Dear God! it seems but yesterday 
 I read these rhymes of Thackeray, 
 
 Aud thought their view of life so fine 
 Thati in a book I wrote them down— 
 
 A very cherished book of mine 
 Now tattered, battered, old and brown— 
 
 Its fly-leaf dated— "Seventy-Nine." 
 
 That old book makes my saddest fun. 
 Its lists of great works— to be done: 
 Its boldly chaptered histories; 
 
 164
 
 FORTY- YE AH 165 
 
 Its poems that would nations bind; 
 
 Its epics and its tragedies 
 To thrill the cold heart of mankind — 
 
 It has monopoly of these. 
 
 Where now is all the courage fine, 
 The wealth of impulse and design, 
 
 That I had then at easy call? 
 Where is the resolution stern 
 
 I had that scorned to fail or fall? 
 The faith that evermore would burn?— 
 
 I think, indeed, it has them all. 
 
 I was a Poet, then, forsooth. 
 
 And mourned in verse my vanished youth, 
 
 And sang of Life upon the wane; 
 And with full many a grievous trope, 
 
 And rhyme that would not hold the rain. 
 Sat keening o'er the grave of Hope, 
 
 And years that could not come again. 
 
 What tears— of mourning ink— I shed 
 Because Leuconoe was dead! 
 
 For she was fair— as well might be
 
 166 FORTY-YEAR 
 
 A maiden out of moonshine made. 
 
 I never saw Leuconoe 
 In life— but loving was my trade, 
 
 And fairer than the moon was she. 
 
 Sweet Margaret, sweet Isabel 
 
 Were living maids whom I loved well. 
 
 Yet vaguely to my memory 
 They come, though neither one is dead, 
 
 But married— which means dead to me. 
 Yet I shall lose my heart and head 
 
 Ere I forget Leucouoe. 
 
 In those old days— I mean those young 
 Old days— I thought my harp was strung 
 
 To saddest melodies alone; 
 And darkling did I muse on Death, 
 
 And weep for youth I had not known- 
 While all around me was the breath 
 
 Of youth's own roses newly-blown. 
 
 And, looking back, so strange appears 
 The wake of ray swift-passing years, 
 I sometimes think that I bes"an
 
 FORTY-YEAR 167 
 
 "With Autumn, and have come to Spring, 
 
 As fabled rivers backward ran. 
 What did I know of anything, 
 
 Ere I was Forty— and a Man? 
 
 The mystic dawns, the sunset strange 
 That glorified sea-rim and range 
 
 In those past days— where have they fled? 
 The noons suiDreme of blue and gold, 
 
 The nights with starry secrets dread— 
 What realm doth now their glories hold? 
 
 I keep them in my heart and head. 
 
 Yea, I have gathered all my years 
 With all their laughter and their tears. 
 
 And all that was of me a part 
 In Christendom and Pagandom— 
 
 And, will ray goddess backward staii ? 
 Ah, let her take one red rose from 
 
 The red-rose garden of my heart! 
 
 She smiles: she will! My Thackeray 
 I love you as in olden day; 
 
 But still it does to me appear 
 A Boy who courts is not an ass— 
 
 And I prefer to wine or beer 
 The red lips of a laughing lass. 
 
 Though I have come to Forty-Year.
 
 A NEW REGIME 
 
 When I am young and strong again, 
 
 And ended is this sickness sore 
 That chills my heart and numbs my brain, 
 
 I will not wasted days deplore, 
 But set the days that are to be 
 
 Upon a higher, nobler plane, 
 And make my friends feel proud of me— 
 
 When I am young and strong again. 
 
 For straightway I will break the chain 
 
 Of evil habits, and be free 
 To live the life without a stain, 
 
 Approved by calm Philosophy. 
 I cannot what is spent restore. 
 
 And barren sorrow I disdain; 
 But I will play the fool no more 
 
 When I am young and strong again. 
 
 168
 
 A NEW REGIME 169 
 
 The chimes at midnight all in vain 
 
 Shall ring; for me their charm is o'er; 
 My nights shall sober be and sane, 
 
 Unlike the mad, glad nights of yore. 
 And I will keep good company ; 
 
 My only drink shall be champagne— 
 Which is the real eau de vie— 
 
 When I am young and strong again. 
 
 The castle that 1 built in Spain— 
 
 An edifice sublime to see — 
 Its roof, I hear, lets in the rain. 
 
 That rots the rich old tapestry. 
 It soon will be a ruin hoar, 
 
 With Madam Owl for chatelaine; 
 I shall not build on Spanish shore 
 
 When I am young and strong again. 
 
 I had a ship — La Belle Helene 
 
 Was, in my thoughts, the name she bore— 
 I fear she met the hurricane. 
 
 And lies upon the ocean-floor. 
 She was a gallant argosy. 
 
 Well filled with hopes— drowned in the main. 
 I shall not send my hopes to sea 
 
 When I am young and strong again.
 
 170 A NEW BE 01 ME 
 
 When I am young and strong again 
 
 How/ fresh and fair the world will be ! 
 The birds will sing in blither strain, 
 
 And roses bloom in rivalry; 
 And friends grow dearer than before ! 
 
 I would not change with Charlemagne 
 My lot, were he still Emperor, 
 
 When I «m young and strong again. 
 
 When I am young and strong again, 
 
 And ended is this sickness sore. 
 What if some wrinkles I retain, 
 
 They are the signs of trouble o'er. 
 Farewell ! the time has come for me 
 
 To sleep like Ogier the Dane, 
 Or Merlin, in his hollow tree. 
 
 Till I am young and strong again.
 
 HYGEIA 
 
 GODDESS; blithe and young and fair, 
 With the brow so broad and noble, 
 And the eyes undimmed by trouble, 
 
 And the lips that laugh at care, 
 And the brown limbs fleet and free— 
 Hast thou quite forgotten me"? 
 
 Maid divine, dost thou not mind 
 When we raced the streams together, 
 In the mad, glad winter-weather, 
 
 While thy hair streamed on the wind 
 Like a flying flame of gold'?— 
 Ah, the vanished days of old! 
 
 Lady, bright, dost thou forget 
 When we wandered, we two only, 
 By the side of waters lonely, 
 
 From sunrising to sunset, 
 
 m
 
 172 HYGEIA 
 
 And I made a rhyme for thee 
 Full of magic melody? 
 
 When the morn's flag was unfurled, 
 Thou wert with me, rapture bringing, 
 While my heart a song was singing 
 
 Of the Beauty of the World — 
 Does the morn no longer glow? 
 Was it all so long ago? 
 
 On the purple hills afar 
 
 Are thy swift feet gleaming, gliding? 
 
 Or art thou o'er grey plains riding 
 Underneath the Morning Star? ^ 
 
 Maid divine, my fear is sore 
 
 That I ne'er shall see thee more.
 
 THE OLD MEN SIT BY ME 
 
 The moon a silver vision is, the rising of the snja 
 Is still the golden miracle it was in years ago; 
 The lily is as lovely in her robes that are not spun, 
 The rose is still as radiant as the rose I used to know. 
 My eyes the beauty of the world can yet with rapture 
 
 see— 
 But, wheresoever I may go, 
 
 The Old Men sit by Me. 
 
 The young men pass me on the boat with pleasant 
 
 nod or jest, 
 And talk and laugh amongst themselves of sport, 
 
 or girls, or drink; 
 They seem to think such themes for me have lost all 
 
 interest. 
 I'd like to let them see that I am not the age they 
 
 think ; 
 
 173
 
 174 THE OLD MEN SIT BY ME 
 
 But what's the use of trying to look careless, young 
 
 and free, 
 When, talking on things dead and gone. 
 
 The Old Men sit by Me. 
 
 They somehow seem to think that I no longer should 
 
 be gay, 
 But take life very seriously and wear a solemn face; 
 Because my brow is wrinkled and my hair a trifle 
 
 grey, 
 I should (they seem to fancy) drop out gently from 
 
 the race. 
 But there is that within me which doth proudly 
 
 disagree 
 With such superannuation, though 
 
 The Old Men sit by Me. 
 
 'Tis true I am a little bald behind and grey before; 
 The lines about my eyes are somewhat deep, 
 
 perhaps— what then"? 
 Young men who are both bald and grey, I know 
 
 them by the score; 
 And wrinkles merely do not age a sprightly citizen— 
 I used to think that Trouble left me them as legacy. 
 But still the fact remains that now 
 
 The Old Men sit by Me.
 
 THE OLD MEN SIT BY ME 175 
 
 But, spite of Time, the Thief of Youth, till health 
 
 and hope be gone, 
 I shall see the beauty of the world as in the years 
 
 of yore. 
 I may grow as bald as Caesar and as grey as 
 
 Wellington, 
 Yet while my heart is light and young I care for 
 
 nothing more; 
 And, therefore, in the train, or on the boat upon 
 
 the sea, 
 I am not old, my masters, though 
 
 The Old Men sit by Me.
 
 ILL 
 
 Four walls and a door, 
 And a window small; 
 
 Yet now I see more 
 
 Than ever before 
 I could see at all. 
 
 The wall-paper fair, 
 With it's queer volutes, 
 
 A devil-may-care 
 
 Bohemian air 
 Plays with harps and flutes. 
 
 The flutes to the white 
 
 Of the ceiling play; 
 And merry and bright 
 As quivering light 
 
 Goes the march so gay. 
 
 176
 
 ILL 177 
 
 0, Harps of the green 
 
 With your strings of gold 
 And music so keen, 
 I know what ye mean, 
 
 For the tale is old- 
 Four walls but no door 
 
 And no window small; 
 Shall I then see more 
 Than ever before 
 
 I could see at all?
 
 THE GREY HOUR 
 
 The pallid Morn with face aghast 
 Walked on the meadows drear; 
 
 Her face was in the river glassed, 
 A cold, white face of fear. 
 
 The trees were still; there was no stir 
 Of grass blades on the lawn, 
 
 And the candles near the dying man 
 Burned yellow in the dawn. 
 
 The ghost set forth upon its way, 
 And heard no farewell sound 
 
 But the crowing of a distant cock 
 And the baying of a hound. 
 
 178
 
 TO MY SOUL 
 
 Be patient, my Soul : the prison bars 
 
 That check thy flight 
 Vi ill break beneath the sun, or silent stars, 
 
 Some day or night. 
 
 Be still and wait; the Body seems to reign 
 
 In pride serene; 
 But darkly in its pathway crouches Pain, 
 
 With poniard keen. 
 
 Grieve not when it is grieved, noi*, when it errs- 
 
 'Tis naught to thee; 
 Its sins and sorrows are but ministers 
 
 To set thee free. 
 
 Behold, it is the bondslave to the Earth 
 
 From which it springs; 
 Its laugh is loudest In the Masque of Mirth - 
 
 It loves all things 
 
 179
 
 180 TO MY SOUL 
 
 That make the world seem beautiful and gay, 
 
 But live not long— 
 The joy of Spring-time and the dawn of day, 
 
 Wine, Women, Song. 
 
 Red-tongued it rushes, like a hound unchained. 
 
 To hunt Desire; 
 But thou remainest still a proud, unstained 
 
 Spirit of fire. 
 
 It has no part in thee; thou hast no mate 
 
 To share thy throne. 
 Thou art invincible, inviolate, 
 
 White and alone. 
 
 Dost thou not feel in nipt imaginings. 
 
 In dreams sublime. 
 The sovran sweep of thy immortal wings 
 
 Through Space and Time? 
 
 The stars and suns whose magnitude appal 
 
 Shall seem to thee 
 Like twinkling lights of some small port of call, 
 
 Seen far at sea. 
 
 Be still and wait, caged Immortal Bird ! 
 
 Thou shalt be free ; 
 Not all in vain hast thou the voices heard 
 
 Of lives to be.
 
 TO MY SOUL 181 
 
 Be still and wait ! No Being that draws breath 
 
 Thy bounds can set; 
 Though God Himself forget thee, Faithful Death 
 Will not forget.
 
 FINIS 
 
 High-hearted was he as the lark, 
 Whose song of triumph spurns the dark. 
 
 The scarlet music in his veins 
 Ran glowing like seraphic strains. 
 
 The dawn appeared for him alone. 
 The day, the world, were all his own. 
 
 For him the, sun kissed lovingly 
 The silken-robed Sultana Sea. 
 
 The hours to him were golden sands: 
 He scattered them with both his hands. 
 
 The thrill of ecstasy that runs 
 
 Through song of lark, through light of suns, 
 
 182
 
 FINIS 183 
 
 Through grasp of hand in comradeship, 
 Through kiss of woman -heart on lip — 
 
 He knew and loved it passing well. 
 Then on his soul a shadow fell— 
 
 The Shadow of a Shape of Fear, 
 That made the golden daylight drear. 
 
 It^ hollow eyes were dim and dull ; 
 
 A fool's cap crowned its grinning skull. 
 
 It stood a moment by his side. 
 
 He looked, and laughed— and laughing, died.
 
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