MNETS BY 
 ,|^. H. CROSLAND
 
 SONNETS
 
 1
 
 SONNETS 
 
 BY 
 
 T. W. H. CROSLAND 
 
 LONDON 
 
 JOHN RICHMOND LIMITED 
 
 FOURTEEN CONDUIT STREET 
 
 I 9 I 2 
 
 D^
 
 TO 
 
 THOMAS KVEI-YN 
 
 SCOTT KI.MS 
 
 LORD HOWAKP DK WALDKN 
 
 AND 
 
 WILLIAM CHAULKS 
 
 DK mi: IRON 
 
 WENTWORTll KITZWILLIAM 
 
 EARL KITZWILLIAM 
 
 WHOSE 
 
 PURCHASE 
 
 OF 
 
 THE ACADEMY 
 
 HATH CONFERRED 
 
 SUCH LUSTRE 
 
 ON 
 
 LETTERS 
 
 AND 
 
 SUCH A DIGNITY 
 
 UPON 
 
 THE HIGH MUSES 
 
 THIS HOOK 
 
 IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED 
 
 BY THEIR lordships' OBEDIENT 
 
 AND OBLIGED SERVANT 
 
 THOMAS 
 
 WILLIAM 
 
 HODGSON 
 
 CROSLAND
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 FOB REMEMBRANCE . . • • 
 
 TO A. D 
 
 FOB ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE 
 'VOTES FOR women' . . • • 
 
 DEATH 
 
 LEDA 
 
 THE BABY IN THE WARD 
 
 FOR H. M. C 
 
 TITANIC 
 
 AFTER 
 
 THE 'student' 
 
 TO A CERTAIN KNIGHT . 
 
 ULSTER 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF EDWARD VII. 
 
 THE PROMISE . • • • 
 
 MB. ASQUITH WEPT 
 
 shepherd's BUSH 
 
 FREEDOM . • • • 
 
 FOR A RICH MAX WHO IS SAID TO ' BELIEVE IN 
 
 THE END . . •■ • 
 
 POETRY 
 
 PACK 
 9 
 
 10 
 
 U 
 
 12 
 
 13 
 
 14 
 
 15 
 
 16 
 
 17 
 
 18 
 
 19 
 
 20 
 
 21 
 
 22 
 
 23 
 
 24 
 
 25 
 
 26 
 
 27 
 
 28
 
 FOE EEMEMBRANCE 
 
 VIZHAT wife had he, what sweetlieart, what 
 
 ' ^ fair love ? 
 So will the gossips ask themselves when Fame 
 Shall set her impudent lips upon my name 
 And make an auction for your cast-off glove. 
 They know you not. You are a brooding dove, 
 Whose spirit, fearful of the world's sharp flame, 
 Nestles unto the goodness whence it came, 
 And hath nor wish to range nor will to rove. 
 
 Yet, that through dusty Time you may not pass 
 
 Unpictured, unenshrined, or unadored, 
 
 I build this turret of eternal brass, 
 
 Wherein, so long as word may chime with word, 
 
 You are to sit before your jewelled glass 
 
 Beautiful as the Garden of the Lord.
 
 TO A. D. 
 
 You took proud words and touched their 
 nicjiii^re blood, 
 You i,nivc them wine and oil and the full grain. 
 The rose of love, the sacraments of Pain 
 And Death and Joy, and Beauty where she stood 
 Ineffable, like a beatitude. 
 And washed in silver dawns and golden rain ; 
 You would not stoop for praises or for gain. 
 And you have wrought us nothing else but good. 
 
 They see your soul, on flaming vans of song, 
 Flash past the prisons, and they shake their bars 
 Witli rage and malice ; where there is no light 
 'I'hey sit contriving mockeries and WTong ; 
 They know you have possessions in the stars, 
 And they must spit at you their little spite. 
 
 10
 
 FOR ALGEKNON CHARLES 
 SWINBURNE 
 
 'TpHE cherry whitens in the April air, 
 ^ Yoinig Spring has spilt her niagie on the 
 wold, 
 The woodlands ring with rapture as of old, 
 And England lies new-washen, green and fair ; 
 Yet is she heavy with a secret care, 
 For Death the ever-sharp and over-hold 
 Hath taken our Tongue of Honey, our Throat 
 
 of Gold ; 
 And we have digged a pit, and left him there. 
 
 So must he sleep, though it he high hroad noon, 
 
 Or Venus glister in the darkling tirs : 
 
 The roses and the music are forgot ; 
 
 Even the great round marigold of a moon. 
 
 That is for lovers and for harvesters, 
 
 And all the sighing seas, may move him not. 
 
 11
 
 'VOTES FOE WOMEN' 
 
 MARK how their shining effigies are set 
 For ever on the firmament of Time, 
 Like lovely words caught in a lovely rhyme, 
 Or silver stars kept in a faery net. 
 Ivory and marble hold them for us yet, 
 And all our hlossomy memories of them chime 
 \\''itii all the honest graces of the prime — 
 Helen, and Ruth, Elaine, and Juliet. 
 
 And You, in this disconsolate London square. 
 Flaunting an ill-considered purple hat 
 And mud-stained, rumpled, bargain-counter coat, 
 You of the broken tooth and buttered hair. 
 And idiot eye and cheeks that bulge with fat. 
 Sprawl on the flagstones chalking for a vote ! 
 
 12
 
 DEATH 
 
 Tj^OR thou wert Master of their windy keeps, 
 -■- 111 Tyre, in Ihuni. and in Habylon, 
 Which smote the welkin many a year agone 
 With torches and with shouting. \\^hoso sleeps 
 On the large hills, or drowns in the old deeps. 
 His name shines in a book for thee to con ; 
 And thy chill pomps and aching triumphs are 
 
 won 
 Where the forlornest woman sits and weeps. 
 
 So that for thee we make embroideries, 
 And for thy foul pate twist a beamy crown. 
 Who art the lord of laughter and of lust, 
 Who readest all their lesson to the wise, 
 And to the fools, as they go up and down ; 
 And it is this : A cry, a rose, and — dust. 
 
 13
 
 LEDA 
 
 OUT of my silver turrets I look down 
 I'poii a (Tarden wherein sleeps a rose 
 \Vho hath a ruby heart ; beside her glows 
 Unblemished, in a drifted, vestal gown 
 Yon lily, and beyond them lies a town 
 Of tufted green and each sweet bloom that 
 
 blows ; 
 Midmost from whence a little fountain throws 
 His gentle sprays which seem but half his own. 
 
 And on the lake that skirts our dreary wood 
 
 There sails for ever a new-washen swan, 
 
 Who is as white as milk or angels are : 
 
 At dawn he glitters in the solitude, 
 
 .At dusk he goeth glimmering and wan 
 
 To where one waits him, white like a young star. 
 
 14
 
 THE BABY IN THE WARD 
 
 TI/E were all sore and broken and keen on 
 
 ' ^ sleep, 
 Tumours and hearts and dropsies, there we lay, 
 Weary of night and wearier of day, 
 AV^ith no more health in us than rotten sheep. 
 Then, tossed to us on some intangible deep, 
 Alicia came, and each man learnt to pray 
 That Providence would please find out a way 
 To still or abate the voice with which she would 
 weep. 
 
 God's infinite mercy, how that child did cry, 
 In spite of bottle, bauble, peppermint, nurse I 
 The Tumour said he'd ' tell the manager,' 
 The Dropsy mumbled forth his bitterest curse ; 
 But still she wailed and wailed. And when we 
 
 die 
 We shall be sainted for forgiving her. 
 
 15
 
 FOR H. M. C. 
 
 I WONDER which hath triumphed, you or 
 Death ? 
 For he hath torn you ultimately from your place, 
 And shattered all the woman in your face, 
 And put his last injunction on your breath, 
 And ferried you across to his dim staith 
 Where there is none who hath either hope or 
 
 grace, 
 But only the unimaginable race 
 Of broken souls his wing encompasseth. 
 
 O pitiful and pitiful ! And yet 
 
 Not all he asks is yielded up to him. 
 
 And we who fight have our shrewd joy therefor : 
 
 Upon your brow sitteth a shining, grim 
 
 Rapture of wars, and on your lips is set 
 
 To-night the still smile of the conqueror. 
 
 16
 
 TITANIC^ 
 
 UPOX tlie tinklino- splintery buttleincnts 
 Which swino- juui tumble south in ghostly 
 white. 
 Behemoth rushes blindly from the ni^ht. 
 Behemoth whom we h;ive praised on instruments 
 Dulcet and shrill and impudent with vents : 
 Behemoth whose huge body was our delight 
 And miracle, wallows where there is no light. 
 Shattered and crumpled and torn with pitiful 
 rents. 
 
 O towers of steel and masts that gored the moon 
 On you we blazoned our pomp and lust and pelf. 
 And we have died like excellent proud kings 
 Who take death nobly if it come late or soon : 
 For our high souls are mirrors of Himself. 
 Though our great wonders are His littlest things. 
 
 17
 
 AFTER 
 
 A XI) when I die, you should be grieved, and 
 
 Dumbly into the bitter fields alone, 
 
 For you have long sinee made your widow's 
 
 moan. 
 And carried in your heart the widow's ^voe. 
 Outrageous Death hath neither feint nor blow 
 To hurt you further. Thus without a groan 
 I shall go down, and be as cold as stone. 
 And you will kiss me and 1 shall not know. 
 
 Hut haply then some mercy may befall, 
 
 And to your breast, this death in life being past, 
 
 Quiet may come and peace without alloy : 
 
 Seeing you lone and lovely and downcast 
 
 They will possess you with a secret joy 
 
 And keep you with an angel at your call. 
 
 18
 
 A 
 
 THE 'STUDENT' 
 
 iNJINX of seventeen, with rather fine 
 Brown eyes and freckles and a cheerful 
 grin, 
 
 She saunters up the ward, and stricken sin 
 Nods and looks pleasant (why should one 
 
 repine ? ) 
 She takes ' her cases,' looks for every ' sign.' 
 Hammers and sounds the portly and the thin. 
 Plies them with questions till their cheap heads 
 
 spin 
 And keeps them busy saying ' ninety-nine.' 
 
 It's my turn now ! Oh, let me bare my chest 
 And spread a level sheet across my crib. 
 And be as wax for our meticulous Miss : 
 While she, poor dear, doing her anxious best, 
 Feels for the apex under the wrong rib 
 And w^onders fiercely where my liver is. 
 
 19
 
 TO A C'EKTAIN KNIGHT 
 
 THE^' perk you up in scarlet and horsehair, 
 iViul let you say your usher-tickling mots. 
 For joy of which the unhanged prisoner glows, 
 And counts his life a very small affair. 
 Then you write verse. Out comes the West 
 
 minster 
 (Why it conies out the Lord in Heaven knows), 
 Andin hlack type on pea-green paper show^s 
 Whose mantle it is that INIilton used to w^ear. 
 
 We who are Justice to a mightier than the King 
 Ha\'e * carefully perused ' your verse, Sir Charles. 
 And hereby we deliver judgment on it : 
 A more mechanic, less poetic thing 
 Was never penned even by Clough or Quarles — 
 And, Jupiter ! what a mess you make of the 
 sonnet ! 
 
 20
 
 ULSTER 
 
 npHE savage leopardess, and she-wolves and 
 
 ■*- bears 
 Cherish their oftsprin^ in tlie solitude, 
 And red-eyed tigresses whose trade is blood, 
 And female panthers, and jackals in tlicir lairs. 
 The lowliest, sullenest mother-creature wears 
 In her hot heart a jewel of motherhood. 
 And knoweth darkly that the only good 
 Is to defend and succour her rude heirs. 
 
 And thou whose flight is from tlie east unto the 
 
 west, 
 Whose Front is of chilled iron and fine gold. 
 Who yet in glory and lionour goest drest, 
 O great-thewed mother of us all, behold 
 How this thy sturdy child, Avho is foully sold. 
 Fights that he be not banished from thy brejtst ! 
 
 21
 
 ON TUK DEATH OF 
 EDWAIM) VII. 
 
 ALL our proud banners mourn along the 
 May, 
 One wlu) is plumed and powerful breaks us 
 
 down : 
 Marred are the orchards, shaken our strong 
 
 town. 
 And blackness covers up our bright array. 
 The Sceptre and the Orb are put away ; 
 The scarlet changed for the funereal gown ; 
 And easy lies the head that wore a Crown, 
 And Tills which was a King is simple clay. 
 
 O mighty Death, the migiitiest are thine. 
 Thou setst his Widow weeping in her place. 
 And while thou pluck'st her heart w^ith thy chill 
 
 hand. 
 And givest her to drink a common wine. 
 The wondering sentry goeth at his pace, 
 And England cries, and cannot understand.
 
 THE PEOMISE 
 
 'VT'OU know my pains, you see me in the hell 
 -*- Througli which I toil, hurt and un- 
 comforted. 
 You see on what base errands I am s])ed. 
 And what 1 reap where we sowed aspliodcl ; 
 And my songs are of sorrow, and 1 tell. 
 Knowing no other, tales of grief and dread : 
 Though I be Marm I am as good as dead. 
 And always we can hear my passing bell. 
 
 And yet, dear Spirit, you who liave kind eyes 
 That meet disaster with a child's amaze. 
 You who have got a wild rose lor your lips 
 And are all fashioned out of Paradise ; 
 You shall stand safe beside the sapphire bays, 
 And I will show you all our golden ships. 
 
 23
 
 MR. ASQUITH ^^ EPT 
 
 RAKE and refresliing fruit — Oh ruddy and 
 rare 
 And odorous ! Behold tlie Tree of Cant 
 And vain Imaginings which we did plant 
 That it niigiit spread bright branches on the air 
 And drop for each poor man a rich man's share, 
 And yield the lords of sentiment and rant 
 And every charlatan and recusant 
 The proud rewards such arborage should bear. 
 
 How it did prosper and blossom, our tree of trees, 
 JAke the old green bay -tree in the old script . . . 
 l^ut now by frosts of Doom it hath been nipped, 
 And to our frightened glances it appears 
 Blacker than the funereal cypresses, 
 And we must water it with Front Bench tears. 
 
 24 
 
 I
 
 SHEPHEKD'S BUSH 
 
 PREPOSTEROUS stucco, naughty ropes of 
 light, 
 The drunken drone of twenty-two brass bands, 
 A flip-flap, and some hokey-pokey stands ; 
 Smith on your left, and Lipton on your riglit. 
 And Lyons, I^yons, Lyons ; and that bright 
 Particular marvel, which, be sure, commands 
 Respect from fools of all and sundry brands — 
 The Press Lord Harmsworth prints from every 
 night. 
 
 Here, noble London, dost thou prowl and yell, 
 Or cause to disappear with horrid zest 
 The meat and drink provided by the Jew : 
 
 Here flickereth tiiy paltry, shadowful hell 
 
 And like a silver feather in the West, 
 And fair as fair, the moon that Dido knew ! 
 
 25
 
 u 
 
 FlIEEDOM 
 
 POX a liill they set her ; she looked down 
 To where the Enghsh orchards drink the 
 hght 
 And Enolund's hrawn Hings flame into the 
 
 night, 
 And slie had joy of weald and thorp and town, 
 And her joy was their joy. The dullest clown 
 Knew he was free ; and insolence and might 
 For all their pride were shaken before this right 
 Of liberty, which is the common crown. 
 
 Still are her state and glory the marvel of men. 
 Still for her state and glory and honour and 
 
 fame 
 Tlie old brave shadows greet us through the 
 
 mist ; 
 And we ha\e strength because of them. How 
 
 then 
 Shall we discern without a touch of shame 
 The W^elshman's shackle at her milk-white wrist ? 
 
 26
 
 FOR A IIIC'H MAN WHO 
 IS SAID TO 'BELIEVE IN 
 POETK Y ' 
 
 T ET US be filled with wild and fierce disdains, 
 '*--' Let us contemn, disparage, and cry down 
 These prancing stomachs who amass and own. 
 Inherit and squander, and have nets and chains 
 And panoplies of penalties and pains 
 Wherewith to extort the uttermost half-crown ; 
 For whom indeed the world's hard fields are 
 
 sown 
 And its scant harvests gathered on gorged wains. 
 
 AVithal, we must believe good things of them, 
 And show a kindly bosom while they stand 
 Grinning out of their proud and cunning eyes ; 
 Nay, even the chiefest shall not stir our phlegm, 
 For he hath still knowledge of Paradise, 
 And hides an angel's feather in his hand. 
 
 27
 
 I 
 
 THE END 
 
 KXOAV that our foir rose was slain last 
 
 night : 
 
 She is become a ruinous, delicate wraith, 
 And now she gives her perfumes up to Death ; 
 No longer may she shine in the sweet light. 
 Or drink the dewy darkness ; for the might 
 Tliat breaks tlie hearts of kings and staggereth 
 Hold men, hath borne her down. ' Take me,' 
 
 sJie saith, 
 ' Unto the old, dead roses, red and white.' 
 
 So, dearest, when the ultimate foul dun 
 And crawling knave into our hand shall thrust 
 His figure of accompt and greedy fine 
 For our poor gladness underneath the sun, 
 I sliall come laughing to your gentle dust, 
 Or you will come like balm to comfort mine. 
 
 28
 
 NOTE 
 
 Ten of the foregoing sonnets appeared in the 
 Academy in the good days of the Ethtorship of 
 Lord Alfred Douglas. Of the others, four — 
 namely, ' For H. M. C./ ' Titanic,' « Mr. Asquith 
 Wept,' and ' Ulster ' — are reprinted from the 
 Saturday Reviezc, and the remainder are now 
 published for the first time. To the reviewers, 
 shaven and unshaven, I offer the other cheek.
 
 LONDON : STRANGEWAYS, PRINTKUS.
 
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