THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES IN MEMORY OF MRS. VIRGINIA B. SPORER POEMS AND BALLADS BY HENRY DE VERB STACPOOLE NEW YORK DUFFIELD AND COMPANY 1910 CONTENTS SONGS OF ENGLAND A TRIBUTE THE BALLAD OF THE VICTORY CAVALIERS, O CAVALIERS.' . .. BALLAD OF THE TRUMPETER ... 23 THE OLD ENGLISH TOWN . . 25 THE VICTORY ...... 27 A VISION 28 SONGS OF CHILDHOOD TOY TOWN 33 THE MOTHER-LAND 35 THE LOST CHILDREN .... 36 SONGS OF SPRING MAY DAY ...... 39 203913' 4 CONTENTS PAGE THE COUNTRY OF SPRING . . . 43 THE WOOD OF HEMLOCK . . . 45 CREDO . 51 THE VANQUISHED 52 THE BUNCH OF COWSLIPS . 54 THE ALMOND TREE . . 56 THE SKYLARK 58 THE WILD HYACINTHS .... 59 THE NIGHTINGALES 60 APPLE BLOSSOMS 62 SEA PASTORAL 64 BELLONA'S SONG 67 THE BUTTERFLY 68 SONGS OF SUMMER THE RED, RED ROSE .... 73 IN THE GARDEN 75 THE OLD GERMAN FOREST . . -77 THE ROSE 79 A SONG OF AUTUMN THE SWALLOWS 83 CONTENTS 5 SONGS OF GREECE PAGE UPON THE HILLS THE SHEPHERDS FEED THEIR FLOCKS 87 TO A TANAGRA STATUETTE ... 89 HYMN TO SELENE . . . . 91 THE PIPES OF PAN 93 SONGS OF DREAMLAND A BALLAD OF DREAMLAND . 97 THE SKULL ' 99 THE GHOSTLY ORCHARD . . . . IOO BENEATH THE CYPRESS TREES . .103 BALLAD OF THE SLEEPING HOUND . . 1 04 GHOSTS ....... 106 THE ROAD TO NIKKO . . . . I 07 BALLAD OF THE ARRAS .... 109 HUNTING SONG . . . . .Ill SONGS OF FRANCE VERLAINE . . . . . -US PETER AND THE PIERROT . . 117 TARASCON 119 To the Editors of the London Daily Express, Country Life, and The Outlook^ I must express my thanks for the hospitality they have given to some of these verses in their columns, and for permission to reproduce them. H. DE V. S. SONGS OF ENGLAND A TRIBUTE [May 7, 1910] AMIDST these English meadow lands, A thousand years ago, The kingcups bloomed as now they bloom, And grew where now they grow, And rfien walked then the earth who keep The silences below. And messengers have ridden here With news of death of kings, But never with a tale in words Such as that far flag flings, Half-masted by the village spire, Beneath the dawn's grey wings. 9 2 io A TRIBUTE " England to-day has lost her king, And every man a friend Yea, every man in all the world, From west to bleak east end, From where tJie cJiampak casts lie* scent To where those willows bend" To where the willows bend beneath The sky of May, that lowers Above the country that he loved, This English land of ours ; These trees all green, new washed with rain, These rain-wet meadow flowers. Kingcups and cowslips, primroses, Simple and without stain, Take them, O King, from us, the poor, These flowers all wet with rain ; Love's tribute to the shade that stands By knightly Charlemagne. SAIL HO! UPBREAKS the morning through the skies And from the fore-top comes a hail. Far to the east the red dawn dyes A cloud of forty sail. II LINE OF BATTLE The great ship, with her fighting flags Seized to the ropes to sink with her, Drags slowly, as a python drags, Straight for the eastern blur. Brave Collingwood with thirteen ships A thunder-cloud to leeward lies, Captained by him whose flag ne'er dips But to the Lord of Destinies. 12 THE BALLAD OF THE VICTORY Lit by the light of morning wide, God ! what a sight it was to see A fleet like that triumphant ride The blue, triumphant sea ! No smoke to blur the vision fair, No subterfuge to hide the strong, Silent upon the pictured air, Yet eloquent as song. Ill ENGLAND EXPECTS Before him of the bended brow The yeoman of the signals stands, The halyards fly, the flags out-blow Their message to all times and lands. " England expects " the ringing cheers That, as the rainbow message climbs, Outburst from every ship that steers Shall echo through all lands and times, Shall echo from that day to prove How grand was life, how great was war, When hearts were true, and Villeneuve Was captain of the Bucentaure. THE BALLAD OF THE VICTORY 13 IV THE 'TWEEN DECKS OF THE VICTOR? Up on the main deck light is free ; Here in the 'tween decks light is dim, And song is not, but wind and sea Are heard joined in one battle-hymn. Backed by the gun crews stript and stout, Lit by the light that lives in caves, The long lines of the guns look out Upon the blue and flashing waves, As rolls the great ship to the whine Of cordage, block, and sheet that starts, Leading the long-drawn weather line, The blue sea flashing through her ports. v The captains of the guns are there, The belt tight drawn about each waist, Great-handed men with pigtailed hair Whom never flight disgraced. Brown with the bronze of winds and suns, With hearts tattooed above their hearts, True as the metal of their guns, They stand to play their god-like parts. 14 THE BALLAD OF THE VICTORY The cutlass and the boarding pike Speak of the wild work soon to be, For these men strike, not as we strike Across wide leagues of sea. Insult they not the God who gave Us arms to fight with, not to play With guns that send ships to their grave Three long sea leagues away. So stand they, as to roll, and whine Of stanchion, block, and sheet that starts, The Victory leads the weather line, The sea breeze piping through her ports. VI The ships of France, the ships of Spain, Are not less beautiful to see Than our white ships that spread the main, Led by the voiceless Victory. Viewed from the hills where History stands To watch the old world pass away, The sight seems seen from summer strands, The pageant of a summer's day, THE BALLAD OF THE VICTORY 15 Till from the fleet of Villeneuve A cloud of smoke, a flame-red star, Break with the sound that is to prove The roar of Trafalgar. VII CLEARED FOR ACTION Two giant tars stand at the wheel, And every sail draws to the wind, And from the trucks that skyward reel Unto the kelson blind, The ship runs voiceless, save the whine Of rudder chain and hempen strand, Steering to break the battle line Of Villeneuve's command. VIII The captains of the guns below, Amidst the linstock's red display, Hark as the cannon of the foe Break up the silence of the bay, Curse in their beards, and have to stand With idle hands, nor do, nor die, Then burst in cheers at the command That breaks their chains " Let fly ! " 16 THE BALLAD OF THE VICTORY She speaks with no uncertain tongue, With rips of light the broadsides roar, And flame, and smoke, and death are flung As if from Hell's outslamming door. " Port, hard a port ! " the wheel-spokes fly, The great ship swings, and terrible, With topsails backed, the Victory Attacks the great Redoutable. IX THE TWO FLEETS Whilst ship to ship, and gun to gun, Ships fight as heroes fought of yore, And battle clouds make dim the sun, And deaf the day the battle's roar, The clash of steel, the smash of spars, The shouts of giant ships that pour From deck to deck their fighting tars Wake echoes from the distant shore. The storm of guns, the storm of cheers With which the boarders greet commands, Outbursting from each ship that steers, Shall echo through all times and lands, THE BALLAD OF THE VICTORY 17 Shall echo from that day to prove How great was life, how grand was war, When steel was steel, and Villeneuve Was captain of the Bucentaure. x Four fleeting hours, the work is done, And lo ! an age has passed away ; Great silence falls on the last gun As sunset floods o'er Cadiz bay. The sea wind lifts the curtain white Of battle smoke the sea wind shows Unto the vague approaching night The British and their shattered foes : Tall masts whose trucks once swept the stars, Awash with wreckage in the waves ; Great men who drove the capstan bars And served the guns, flung to their graves ; Great ships, at dawn so fair to see, By sunset's light so pitiable ; And in their midst the Victory Fast seized to the Redoutable. 3 i8 THE BALLAD OF THE VICTORY XI As stricken gladiators cling Together in a fast embrace Whilst all the watching eyes that ring The circus seek the Emperor's face, These two great ships clung fast, alone, Silent and fierce, till far above, God gave the liabet from His Throne, And broke the power of Villeneuve. Now side by side they idly lie, The green sea washing in between ; The fishing sea-gulls wheel and cry, As rocks the sea-swell, vast, serene, The grand bulk of the Victory. The tragic mistress of the scene. XII The captain of the fight, no more, Beyond the sunset, who knows where? Has gone to meet on some far shore His officers who wait him there. And they have gone without their swords Who dominated once the seas, Who spoke with cannon-shots for words, Till God dictated Peace. THE BALLAD OF THE VICTORY 19 XIII Thus evening fell on that great fray ; And though long years have passed since then, The flag of Britain still, to-day, Calls to the hearts of Englishmen : " Prove to the world your greatness, prove Yourselves as then, when, grand in war, Great Nelson lived and Villeneuve Was captain of the Bucentaure" CAVALIERS, O CAVALIERS! MEN of Yorkshire, men of Kent, Cavaliers, O Cavaliers ! Ye who into battle went For your faith, and ye who spent For the King your blood and tears, Answer us who call you now, Speak across the vanished years From the fields where spring flowers grow, Battlefields of long ago, Cavaliers, O Cavaliers ! Voices call to you to-day : " Help us, set by craven fears ; Strike sedition, strike decay ; Step forth with us, laughing, gay, Ghosts of knightly Cavaliers ! " 20 CAVALIERS, O CAVALIERS! 21 Still the noble forelands stand, Still her green the oak-tree wears ; Yet the worm works in the land, Sapping England's spirit grand, Sullying the name she bears. Little men with little soul Lead our thought, and meet with jeers All men with a grander goal, Drums that round the round world roll, Cavaliers, O Cavaliers ! Ye had faults, but, God ! how fine Were ye in those troublous years ! Loved ye women, dice, and wine, But in battle how divine Stood ye forth, O Cavaliers ! We have men and we have swords, And a name the whole world fears Yet by futile men of words Driven are we like the herds, Twisted like the vane that veers. 22 CAVALIERS, O CAVALIERS! Wake in us, O Spirits grand, For our turning-point now nears ; By the strength of England's hand She shall fall or she shall stand Queenly in the unborn years. One for King and country, all, Heedless though the whole world hears, Sound the bugle, at the call Help us so we hold the wall ! Cavaliers, O Cavaliers ! BALLAD OF THE TRUMPETER NASEBY FIELD FILLED with the breath of me my bugle led the charge, Here where the golden corn is growing ; Over the death of me the battle blossomed large, Here where the cornflowers blue are blowing. Over the trumpeter who led the Cavaliers, Over the silence he is keeping, Over the golden corn the wind of summer veers, Over the crimson poppies sleeping. Yea, but the soul of me still fills the bugle gay, Still when the battle calls I hear it ; Here though my dust may be and far the fight away, Here lies my dust, but there my spirit. 23 24 BALLAD OF THE TRUMPETER Still as of old it lives, though here my body lies, Shrill through the clash of swords that sever, Still from the bugle's throat across the fight it cries, " ENGLAND FOR EVER AND FOR EVER ! " When, lit by light of sword and riding knee to knee, Bright through the battle into story, England's swift squadrons ride, their trumpeter is me, Yea, and their glory is my glory. THE OLD ENGLISH TOWN IT is June. 'Neath the bridge where the blue river strays The dragonflies pass on their way. It is June, and the Mendips hang blue in the haze ; It is June, and the roses are gay. From the town wrapped in slumber of noontide the breeze Scarce bringeth a sound to the ear, Save the voices of birds from the gardens and trees, Proclaiming the sweet of the year. So silent the market-place lieth, it seems, If market were ever held there, The merchants were surely the people of dreams, Sun-banished no man knoweth where. 25 4 26 THE OLD ENGLISH TOWN And Fore Street and Main Street so ancient are they, So silent, the spirit half hears The echoing tramp of the Ironsides grey And the drums of the lost Cavaliers. In many a mind lies the old English town, And many a heart feels its loss, Where the tropic wave breaks or the grass burneth brown On the Veldt 'neath the Southern Cross. Oh to stand on the bridge where the blue river strays, When the dragonflies pass on their way, In June, when the mountains hang blue like a haze In June, when the roses are gay! THE VICTORY SIGHTED OFF TARIFA WHERE Africa Tarifa hails Across the blue sea's flashing floor, Like cloud blown after cloud, there sails A phantom fleet for evermore. Through open ports their guns we view, As, piled with canvas white as snow, To where the pennons flog the blue, Like cloud blown after cloud, they go. That ship on which the great sun shines, She is the Victory. Just as there She sails, with sunlight on her lines And topsails trembling into air, So shall she sail before the eyes Of men, nor ever an anchor cast, Until the seas forget the skies, Until the world forgets its past. 27 A VISION FROM THE PICTURE BY MR. C. R. WYLIE HULLED right down to the water-line, Holed between wind and spray, Forging ahead with pumps a-whine, Wireless shot away, Boats and booms and nettings shed, How well she holds her own ; And never a dock from Flamborough Head To far-off Portsmouth town. The English land that gave her birth Broad on the starboard beam, The headlands and the good brown earth, The bays where seagulls scream ; Six hundred miles of coastline spread With tower and church and town, And never a dock from Flamborough Head To where the Tyne runs down ! 28 A VISION 29 O good brown earth that gave her birth, O men who gave her soul, Behold her now with battered prow Lipped by the long sea roll ; Stricken, jackalled, kite-pursued, And never an open door From Tynemouth lights and Flamborough heights To where the Goodwins roar! SONGS OF CHILDHOOD TOY TOWN ALL April-green 'neath April skies, Beyond the land of Spring it lies ; Beyond the hills and far away, A vanished country quaint and gay. Sometimes in Spring, when south winds blow, And o'er the blue the white clouds go, Nodding in dreams I hear from there Faint sounds as of a distant fair ; The tap of drums, toy trumpets blown, The hubbub of a fairy town, A town the strange metropolis Of folk whose curious faith was this : A firm belief in Noah's Ark By day, and goblins after dark. 33 5 34 TOY TOWN Writer or poet, they were just Like other mortals made of dust, But white mice had a glamour there For ever lost in denser air. Ah me ! the world went well, I ween, There where the world was mostly green, Where people's hair was mostly curled, And every garden was a world. Could I return and sojourn there, And find again that joyous fair Where drums were beaten, trumpets blown, And unto Gloom no quarter shown, I would return but that I trow No person there would know me now. THE MOTHER-LAND SINCE God, to folk of six or seven Gave strength with which no king may strive, Since half the sweetness under heaven He gave to people under five. We little knew what we were giving, Methinks, when we gave play for strife And for the land where we are living The country where we played at Life. O'er wooden trees and toy-church steeple Burns faintly each man's morning star, O Mother-land whose laughing people The dearest of all people are ! To Death some fragment of thy stories The beggar brings, and to thy song, Behind the dying Emperor's glories, His old tin soldiers tramp along. We turn from thee, new countries take us ; We change for gold our groats and pence, Our broken toys for toys that break us, For what) God knows, our innocence. 35 THE LOST CHILDREN I PIPE beneath the morning star, Across the fields of early frost My music leads from near and far The footsteps of the children lost. Beyond the lands by light forlorn I bring them to such fields Ah well ! For my beloved ye would not mourn If they could tell ! -If they could tell! " O piper, thou hast led them hence. What then ? The tale unwritten lies Of those sweet hearts of Innocence, Their wanderings under alien skies. Shines there the sun ? blows there the wind? The butterfly what share has he ? " Oh thou wouldst never more be blind If thou couldst see ! If thou couldst see! 36 SONGS OF SPRING MAY DAY FROM where I lie There stretches for me Infinite sky And the foam-flecked free Blue of the everlasting sea. White sails of ships Away and away, Where the ocean lips The rim of the day, Pass to the west on the winds of May. From the distant braes, Through the silence deep, From the flocks that graze Come the bells of sheep, Faint like a sound from the hills of sleep. 39 40 MAY DAY And now and again A great wave dying Breaks ; through the rain Of the salt spume flying I hear whole leagues of the white coast sighing. No other sound, From the light that trills The arc profound That the ocean fills To the highlands bound by the hazy hills, Save the wind that sings Of the hills of heather, Till the soul takes wings, And from earthly tether Freed, ascends through the azure weather ; Till the sea below And the land sea-bound Fade in the glow Of the light around, And the soul is lost in the blue pro- found. MAY DAY 41 O beauties of sky And the fields of the sea, Must ye die when I die, Though my passion for ye Is the love of the blue and the bright and the free? Will ye give to your lover No power to roam, Though his soul would discover No happier home Than the fields of the aether, the meadows of foam ? The fields of the aether Where waiteth for me, In halcyon weather, A white spirit, free From the form that shall never return from the sea. The red sun sinks, Through the twilight grey The gull's wing blinks On the homeward way, As over the sea comes the moon of May. 6 42 MAY DAY From the waves that mourn In the sea-cave's keep, From the waves cliff-torn Comes a sonorous, deep Sound like a requiem sung by Sleep For the day now gone For ever to be With the sunken sun, With the visions that flee And the ships that shall never come back from the sea. THE COUNTRY OF SPRING TELL me, O Life, where a man may be gay, Wishing life longer, and longer the day? Where are the dawns most seraphic of wing, Evenings least grey? In the country of Spring. Tell me, O Love, where a beggar may find Love ? and, O Love, where art thou the least blind ? Where are the songs that the lost shep- herds sing, Blown on the wind ? In the country of Spring. 43 44 THE COUNTRY OF SPRING Answer me, Age, where those green fields do lie Where man returns ere he turns him to die? Where lives the Mother to whom all men cling, For whom all sigh? In tlte country of Spring. Death ! in what land do the violets blow Over the women men loved long ago ? Where o'er their graves bloom the lilies, O King, Whiter than snow! In the country of Spring. THE WOOD OF HEMLOCK I OUT from the hemlock wood I came Into no country of the world; My steed a hoof of crescent flame Struck without sound on sward empearled With flowers, so still they seemed to be The flowers that bloomed beneath a sea. Up to a castle old and grey, With drawbridge chains half worn away By rust, the red moth of decay, I rode, and crossed a trembling bridge Into a courtyard that enclosed Nor echo, nor the sound of midge Abuzz, nor whine of hound that dozed. 45 46 THE WOOD OF HEMLOCK Amidst the brambles and the thorn, Upon the flags a gauntlet lay, Flung there upon some hunting morn, Gone now as is the winter's day That saw to tune of hound and horn That chase stream over bank and brae. II Gazing from out a casement old, A lady drew mine eyes to her. Her hair was like ripe corn for gold ; A little cloak of fox's fur Covered her shoulders, whilst her eyes Were fixed upon the far-off skies Whose wizard blue no wing might stir. Then, reining in, to her I cried : " O lady at the casement wide, What messenger from where doth ride, Bearing thee ' Luck ! ' or ' Woe betide ! ' ? And is it Love, or is it War, Burning before thee like a star? THE WOOD OF HEMLOCK 47 " And who has kept thee lingering so, Whilst here the wizard winds do blow On fading flowers, on fading snow? Whilst here below thee in the keep The violets fair have bloomed and died ? " Vanished the castle as she sighed, Leaving on air the whisper " Sleep." Ill I reined beside a woodland dell Where fiercely, like a red flower, blew A battle ; archers aiming well Sharpened their elbows as they drew The bowstrings, and the vanquished fell, Mixing their hearts' blood with the dew. Uprose the white swords one and all, And circling blushed red as the rose ; Columns to soundless trumpet-call Advanced, and broke 'neath soundless blows. 48 THE WOOD OF HEMLOCK I sat and watched. Betwixt us lay A great old hedge of English may, Robbed of its scent since that far day. 1 cried, " O men of arms, ye slay For what ? And what crown shall ye keep Of those ye win ? " "Sleep," answered they, Vanishing at the dark word " Sleep." IV And then I found a little town. It sat within a valley's lap ; Its battlements at me did frown ; Its houses each an iron cap Did seem to wear. An archer paced Before its gates with vizor closed, And right, and left, and right he faced, Whilst at the gates a wolf-hound dozed. I saw the merchants in the mart, Soundless, like figures in brocade ; Jews with a lean hand to the heart, And goldsmiths whose black hammers made THE WOOD OF HEMLOCK 49 No sound upon the ruddy gold ; Flax-headed children, women old ; And here a man who clasped a maid. I cried, "Who art thou, Archer, then, Guarding these locked by silence in ? Who placed thee here, and when, I pray ? " Then came the answer from within The vizor, like an echo thin, " Sleep," as the vision passed away. V I reined where in an orchard old, Beneath the apples red and gold, Fair children chased the butterflies Betwixt the trees, beneath the skies. And, as I watched them at their play, They, tiring, cast themselves and lay Where grew in shadow dim and deep The crimson poppies strewn by Sleep. VI Then said I : " Childhood, Life, and War All of this wizard vassals are. Is there in time no dream, no star That he may touch not, break, nor mar ? " 7 So THE WOOD OF HEMLOCK For answer came a man and maid ; Across the fields with spring flowers laid Grew amaranths where they had strayed, And said a voice : " Behold ! these stray Taking through all the lands of May, Taking through life the fairest way, To find that unknown field where dwells Sleep 'midst the ghostly asphodels." CREDO PALE Beauty's fire for ever burns, No dream of hers can die. The butterfly of Spring returns Whence came the butterfly. The garden rose lies stricken dead O dreamer, no man knows, When she from earth has turned her head, Into what world she blows. THE VANQUISHED SOFT speak the streams " Why lingerest thus, Held by what dreams, Harmodius ? Behold thy seat, The feast lies spread. Who stays thy feet, O Diomed?" Green are the hills, And where lay snow Spring's daffodils Are golden now, For all save they Who at their door Shall hear her gay Sweet songs no more. 52 THE VANQUISHED 53 Ah, who can say What vanished Springs Re-bloom when May Here beauty brings ? What fragrant tale Lost April tells Amidst the pale, Pale asphodels ? I love to dream That over there Spring's cloud and gleam The vanquished share ; That through the fleet Soft April rain They hear her sweet, Sweet songs again. THE BUNCH OF COWSLIPS A BUNCH of cowslips, dead perhaps to- morrow, Plucked yesterday, has brought me for my sorrow A picture from the land whose pictures borrow Their beauty from the souls of things well slain. Beneath a sky grey as the cygnet's feather, Before the wind pale cowslips press together Their heads in converse, whilst the wild spring weather Repaints the hedgerows with the brush of rain. 54 THE BUNCH OF COWSLIPS 55 Oh I would give those wives I have not married And all those plans of mine that have miscarried, Debts and disasters, blows I have not parried, And of my life the sweet remaining span, To find again those fields where Spring discloses The primrose, fairer than all future roses, And midst those rain-wet lands and wind- blown closes Touch life a moment just where life began. THE ALMOND TREE BESIDE the wandering river stands An almond tree in bloom ; New travelled from the far-off lands Beyond the Northern gloom, She casts her tale of loveliness Upon the winter's tomb Ere the swallows from the south come over sea. Just in the Spring's first hour on earth, Ere yet the door may close That here admits the violet, Yet still excludes the rose, Some whisper comes from lands un- known Where dwell the ghosts of those Sweet singers who have loved the earth and sea. 56 THE ALMOND TREE 57 For when the almond tree displays Her perfect beauty thus, Sappho, across a thousand Mays Thy music steals to us ! Some wind here wafts from far-off lands Thy songs, Theocritus ! As the south wind wafts the swallows over sea. THE SKYLARK (TO THE SHADE OF ERNEST DOWSON) I HEARD a song as the Morning Star Died in a dawn of June. I heard the leaves where the rose-trees are Dance to the magic tune. Deep, deep, from the blue and far Into my heart it fell, From those meadows of light that are Trodden by Israfel. Songs of lovers and songs of war, Earth in her pride may boast ; But the sweetest of all songs are Songs that the earth has lost. THE WILD HYACINTHS THE hill-path turned, and in a sunlit space Wild hyacinths were bending to the wind. The veil of time was rent before my face. I paused, to life, and age, and sorrow, blind ; Caught back to youth a moment free from care, Old lands lay round me ere I woke to find No trace of all that country but the fair Blue hyacinths all bending to the wind. Nof the dark magic of a woman's glance, Nor all the tongues of birds that sing in May, Can equal in the language of romance What to the heart a simple flower can say. 59 THE NIGHTINGALES (IN THE WOODS OF SICILY) A THOUSAND years their passion Has filled the nights of Spring, Setting in ghostly fashion The echoes answering. As now, it filled the closes, When moonlight fell like snow Upon the red, red roses, A thousand years ago. O strange poetic singers, Ye vague historians, Whose half-told story lingers Ghost-like and sweet o'er Man's Of eyes that once made jealous The blue Sicilian sea Remains alone to tell us Theocritus and ye. 60 THE NIGHTINGALES 61 Ask of the past its glory, Its joys, its griefs, its pain, Where shall ye find the story But in a poet's brain ? And for the tale of woman Lost to the world so long, Seek in no records human Save in the poet's song. Theocritus has vanished, But still we hear his strain ; Nations from earth are banished, But Lacon shall remain ; And nightingales still tell us Here, where the roses blow, How fair was Amaryllis A thousand years ago. APPLE BLOSSOMS (CAMBRIDGESHIRE) THE apple blossoms round me blow, Of them my heart makes question : ' Sweet apple blossoms, pure as snow And fragrant with suggestion, Ye came from where no man may know, Called by the wild Spring weather ; Mortal and beautiful ye go, Sweet apple blossoms, whither?" Beside me in the orchard close, An echo answers ever The wind that blows the wild dog-rose, The music of the river. Child of the Spring, she tells her tale, Nor hints to who comes hither Aught of the wind that blows the pale, Frail apple blossoms whither? 62 APPLE BLOSSOMS 63 The wind that hath all lovers known, Yet of their fate tells never ; The wind that, when the flower has blown, Shall take the flower for ever. SEA PASTORAL Blue sea far from land, sea Maids tending flocks of ocean. Above are passing butterflies and birds from the south. SEA MAIDS WHAT land, O happy birds, Calls you across our sight, Ye forms ye feathered words Born of the Spring's delight ? NIGHTINGALES O'er Ocean's flocks and herds Seek we the lands of night. SWALLOWS Star-guided, swift and far We pass. 64 SEA PASTORAL 65 SEA MAIDS O birds that sweep The skies, where burns thy star? SWALLOWS O'er the lands of Love and Sleep. SEA MAIDS Lo ! they have passed, and lo ! Butterflies white as snow, Butterflies blue as day. Butterflies, where away? Over our heads ye pass Whither? BUTTERFLIES A magic glass Shows us 'neath bluer skies Blossoms and butterflies, Meadows where maidens sing, Rivers whose music saith, " Lovers, come find the Spring In the country of Love and Death." 9 66 SEA PASTORAL SEA MAIDS Sweet forms, ye pass away, A mist on the blue of day, Far from the ocean spray Where the lone sea maids sing, Immortal, yet alway Far from the land of Spring. Past the blue veils of sea, Butterflies, would that we, Immortal, blind To Love, could find, The fair land that you see. Past seas and skies, O Dove that flies, Where may that country be? Whence speaks that voice so filled With the joy that we would prove ? DOVE From where, sweet maids, I build In the land of Death and Love. BELLONA'S SONG WAR! War! War! Face stretched to the heavens I cry, Through the ultimate depths of the sky. I am blind to the sun ; I have dreams but of one Whose eagles are straining to fly. Forth driven from hell, Through the darkness I yell Till the drums and the trumpets reply, Till the drums and the bugles that blare Re-echo in thunder afar, Rending the earth and the air, War! War! War! 67 THE BUTTERFLY As through the gardens fair Blue-winged he flies, Heedless of earthly care, Heedless of sighs, So be that roses blow, Heavens are blue ; Ten thousand years ago Just so he flew. Old are the pyramids, Older is he, Yet, called by she who bids Butterflies be, Over the lilac pale, Under blue skies, Once more through June's bright tale Boldly he flies. 68 THE BUTTERFLY 69 Long ere on Memnon's face Morning first shone, Earth knew his fragile grace, Now here now gone. Yet finds he Spring anew By field, by stream, Flitting, as once he flew Through Plato's dream. Crush him, if so you please, Shall the bruised wings Fly not when Winter's trees Once more are Spring's ? Faithful to earth, unvexed, Through death he'll pass, Flitting across the next Spring's magic glass. Backgrounded by the sea, Mountains, and stars, All Time's immensity, Stories, and wars 70 THE BUTTERFLY Flutters he from the Past O'er flower and bloom, Lighting, mayhap, at last On man's last tomb. SONGS OF SUMMER THE RED, RED ROSE FROM the sky the red sun sinketh ; At the doors of the west the Night From a chalice of azure drinketh The wine of his crimson light. And the nightingale sadly crieth Far in the woods apart, But the soul of his sadness lieth In the gloom of thy splendid heart. As through the warm June weather Dusk follows the curlews' call, On thy face the dewdrops gather, Drop after drop they fall. And leaving the lilies to languor, The fireflies make their light Attendant upon thy splendour, Queen of the garden's night. 73 10 74 THE RED, RED ROSE And the nightingale sadly crieth Far in the woods apart, But the soul of his sadness lieth In the gloom of thy splendid heart. IN THE GARDEN I SIT where guelder roses blow ; A bottle of red wine Before me casts its ruby glow On rose and eglantine. Upon my knees a book I hold. O tales of old romance, How well ye go with gardens old And the red wines of France ! Unto the true nobility Of things do ye belong ; Never with us ye disagree, Or work our feelings wrong. Old books, old gardens, ruby wine, Ye own one spirit half divine. 75 76 IN THE GARDEN Then grow you old in quest of gold, So be you leave me these, My library, a cellar cold, This garden where some breeze Bears faintly from the far-off years The trumpets of the Cavaliers. THE OLD GERMAN FOREST I LISTEN, no sound fills the air Of the pine forests perfumed and fair ; Long leagues of deep twilight lie round, Long leagues of sweet silence, no sound ; Till a jay wakes and calls, and the wind Re-awakens and leaves far behind, O'er the perfume and gloom of the trees, A sound like the sigh of the seas. The wind dies away and away, And the silence resumes its lost sway, Till over the forest again Comes the rush of the wind and the rain Of the cones, and most faint and forlorn The note of a far hunting-horn Makes ghostly the twilight so deep With the forms and the phantoms of sleep. 77 78 THE OLD GERMAN FOREST That is all that the pine forests say ; Though you listen at noontide for aye, You shall hear nothing more, save the fall Of the red fox's foot, or the call Of the horn that some ranger does wind, And on earth or in air you shall find No sounds that are better than these, Or filled with such sweetness and peace. THE ROSE WHAT says the rose whose life is but an hour? " I am the rose here sent from heaven to say, ' Love once, and you have plucked the only flower That dies not in this garden of decay.' " 79 A SONG OF AUTUMN ii THE SWALLOWS THOUGH nests hang empty 'neath the eaves, Sweetheart, the swallows still are here ; They came when vernal were the leaves That now are turning to the sere. Their joyousness my spirit grieves The swallows to thy heart were dear. By what strange star do swallows steer? What voice enchants the swallow's heart, And from the north in spring cries "Here!" And in the autumn days, " Depart " ? Mayhap, that voice led thee past Fear, Death, and the dim enchanted mere The swallows to thy heart were dear. 83 SONGS OF GREECE UPON THE HILLS THE SHEP- HERDS FEED THEIR FLOCKS (ATHENS) UPON the hills the shepherds feed their flocks. Afar the sea the violet-tinted sea Still floods in foam around the Pontic rocks, And with the golden sun holds revelry ; Lulling the hyacinths with drowsy rhyme, About Pentelicus still floats the bee ; All is as fair as in the olden time, All is as fair as then But where are ye? Sweet spoke the wild birds when ye sailed away Across the sea, the dark and sterile sea, And still they tell the self-same tales to-day To lovers whispering 'neath the ilex tree 87 88 ATHENS Men's hearts are young and Eros still doth wear His magic, and the voiceless poetry Of violets still fills the warm spring air. All still is fair as then But where are ye? Where art thou now, O Pindar? in what land, Demosthenes, what tongue now dost thou speak ? Far from the plane trees by the spring wind fanned, Far from Piraeus where the blue waves break. The plane trees bend them to the winds of spring, And echoes answer to the breaking sea ; Sweet from the olive groves the wild birds sing For ever of their love But where are ye? TO A TANAGRA STATUETTE THY gracefulness we gaze upon, Lent to our eyes by grace Of Time, who wrecked the Parthenon, Yet spared thy rosebud face. With happy lips that seem to spell The words the wild birds say, What is it, then, that thou wouldst tell, Thou little dream of May? A thousand years have passed and gone, Remains thy loveliness, A thing for men to gaze upon, A thing the world to bless. Watching, we wait the words to pass Those lips that tell for aye Some tale eternally, alas ! By silence kissed away. 89 12 90 TO A TANAGRA STATUETTE Time's boasted splendours leave us cold, Pathetic or sublime ; His citadels and temples old, They glorify but Time. Thou art the warmest thing that he Has touched, yet left complete Yea, thou, thou strange epitome Of all fair things and sweet. HYMN TO SELENE SHE hath watered her steeds at the mystic wells Where the spirit of sleep in the lotus dwells, Pallid and fair o'er the twilit tides, O'er the asphodels And the night she glides. Above her lieth the steep dark, free, Swept by the winds of infinity ; The spume of her steeds as a pale fire spills O'er the slumbrous seas, O'er the silent hills. Night behind on the dark sea's brink Watcheth her coursers pale and sink, Before her day like a dappled fawn Steals to drink At the pools of dawn. 91 9 a HYMN TO SELENE Hail ! O maiden who casteth thy light O'er the dark fields and the valleys of night, O'er the wan cities, the woodlands fair ; Earthly delight And the world's despair. THE PIPES OF PAN And a voice ran over land and sea, crying, lt Pan is dead, great Pan is dead." IT was not so, For the wild birds know One dawn in Thessaly long ago A sweeter song than the south winds blow Under the olives ran, And through the dreams of the Oread sighed, And to the ear of the Bassarid cried, Follow the pipes of Pan ! Then the Haemadryad rose and shook Her hair from the oak by sorrow strook, And the Oread cast a long, last look Where far Penaeus ran. 93 94 THE PIPES OF PAN And through the woods where the dark fawns leap, And mountain paths where the hill winds weep, Into the fair dim land of sleep They followed the pipes of Pan. Ah ! never a rose may rise to tell Of the fortunate fate that her befell Of the southern land where roses dwell Under the winter's ban. Yet the swallows have told, and the poet he knows, That over the time of the northern snows, The land of the myrtle hides the rose As the land of our dreams hides Pan. SONGS OF DREAMLAND A BALLAD OF DREAMLAND TO-NIGHT in Dreamland who can rest? We hear on the night wind falling, Over the hills in the dim, dark West. The horn of a huntsman calling. " Follow ! " the horn of the huntsman cries; On the wind over plain and hollow A voice from the tarn where Echo lies Dreamily answers, " Follow ! " We hear the far-off horn, we come, Into the forest sweepeth The wild white chase by waters dumb Where the fern and the hemlock sleepeth. Who knows the form of the thing that flies? Hath it feet ? Hath it wings like a swallow ? Who cares? The horn of the hunter cries To the shadowy huntsmen, ' Follow ! " 97 13 98 A BALLAD OF DREAMLAND The third cock crows, the dawn wind blows, The beams of morning quiver ; Down vale and glade the huntsmen fade Like mists upon the river. Whilst o'er the streams and hills of dreams Die horn and hunting halloa, Far, far away where night nor day, Nor hound nor horse, may follow. THE SKULL WARM arms to a breast Once my beauty did fold, Once truly at rest Did I lie. Though ye shudder who scan Me upturned from the mould, I was loved by a man Even I. 99 THE GHOSTLY ORCHARD WANDERING last night amidst the fields of sleep, I met a Spirit white as Death, yet white As dawn, who led me by the hand, oh, deep Into the past beyond the veils of night. There in a country old he showed to me An apple orchard painted fresh by Spring, Amidst whose trees the little birds did sing Of Life and Love, and of Eternity. Across the sky a few white clouds did go Softly, and white as lambs, or white as snow ; 100 THE GHOSTLY ORCHARD 101 And to mine ear the Spirit whispering said, "A thousand years ihave vanished since they strayed Across that sky, and all this wondrous show Of blossom died a thousand years ago Ah Gcd ! Ah God ! what havoc Death has made ! " In fields near by the young white lambs did leap, And daffodils lay in the golden light ; Now seemed the daffodils all lost in sleep, Now on the wind they danced as in delight. And then there came a man and maid, ah me ! Across that orchard painted fresh by Spring, Where in the trees the little birds did sing Of Love and Life, and of Eternity. They paused to hear the thrush, that love adept ; I watched her arm as round his neck it crept. loz THE GHOSTLY ORCHARD Then to mine ear the Spirit whispering said, " Far from the wild sweet Spring these forms have strayed, Far from this orchard where the brown thrush sings Songs that have echoed through a thou- sand springs." BENEATH THE CYPRESS TREES BENEATH the cypress trees Lai's her council keeps, Sappho, the dreamer of the seas, With Theodora sleeps. There lies the Phrygian slave, The Queen, the Emperor's joy, There Thais lies and she who gave The kiss that ruined Troy. Men and the gods above These held whom none regret, Who, couldst thou ask them, " What is Love ? " Would answer, " We forget." O face so fair to see, Eyes bluer than the seas, What shall all beauty profit ye Beneath the cypress trees? 103 BALLAD OF THE SLEEPING HOUND GREAT hound with head upon my knee, Deep eyes so faithful and so fair, Face stamped with that nobility The kings of earth no longer wear ; Hound royal, yet content to share A crust of mine and find thy bliss Beside a ruined hearth, if there Thy well-beloved master is. Before that hearth in slumber now, Thy limbs a-twitch, a white fang gleams It is some royal game I trow Upon whose spoor the wild chase teems ; Faint bells the horn o'er phantom streams, And though the kill with thee I miss, I know the huntsman of thy dreams Thy well-beloved master is. 104 BALLAD OF THE SLEEPING HOUND 105 Dream on, and fortune lend thee wings O'er lakes unruffled by the swan, Beneath that sky where no bird sings, Good luck to fang and foot. Dream on. Fate lend thy shade such speed upon The way when, waiting for thy kiss, In lands beyond the light of sun Thy well-beloved master is. ENVOI If there be heaven, its joys we'll share ; Full well I know if heaven I miss, Hell will not bar thee out if there Thy well-beloved master is. GHOSTS GONE is the rain, no flower the garden graces ; Over the world the skies of winter harden ; Pale at my pane the frost flowers press their faces, Ghosts that half veil the ruins of my garden. And as they press, so press those other faces, Pale at the pane half veiling Life's December Ghosts without stain Of loved ones I remember. 106 THE ROAD TO NIKKO (From THE CRIMSON AZALEAS) UPON the road to Nikko, The town where pilgrims pray, Along the road to Nikko, On either side the way, Thundering great camellia trees, Decked with blossoms gay, Adorn the road to Nikko, The mountain road to Nikko, In the month of May. Then take the road to Nikko, Where bright azaleas bloom, Where all is light and shadow And nothing is of gloom, Where shout the coloured blossoms, Where fan ferns whispering say, " There is no town like Nikko In all the world of May." 107 io8 THE ROAD TO NIKKO Tokio has her tea-house, Kioto has her girls, But look out there where bluely The great god Distance curls His arm around that vision So dim, so far away, So beautiful that's Nikko, Amidst the land of May. BALLAD OF THE ARRAS (From DEATH, THE KMGHT, AND THE LADY) Lo ! where are now these armoured hosts Mailed for the tourney cap-a-pie, These dames and damozelles whose ghosts Make of the past this pageantry ? O sanguine book of History ! Romance with perfume cloaks thy must, But he who shakes the page may see Dust. Stiff hangs the arras in the gloom ; I turn my head awhile to gaze : Here lordly stallions fret and fume, Here streams o'er briar and brake the chase ; Here sounds a horn, here turns a face How filled with fires of life and lust! Wind shakes the arras and betrays Dust. 109 no BALLAD OF THE ARRAS Ephemeral hand inditing this, Great hound that lolls against my knee, Heart that the fires of spring shall miss In years to come, the time shall be When one may search, but find not ye For that dim moth whose labours rust All forms in time or tapestry Dust HUNTING SONG (From THE DRUMS OF WAR) HOUND and horn, give voice and tongue, Fill the woods with echoes gay ; Let your music sweet be flung To the Brocken far away. Jagers with the horns ye wind, Hounds whose tongues the chase shall bay, Let your voice the echoes find Of the Brocken old and grey. Hark amidst the bracken green Bells the buck whose vigil keeps Danger from the hind unseen, Danger from the fawn that sleeps, in ii2 HUNTING SONG Hears he us, yet heeds us not, Dreams he that we are the wind Phantoms we of hounds forgot, Ghosts of huntsmen long since blind. Dreams we are the forest's breath Waking to the touch of day ; Recks not 'tis the horn of Death Dying in the distance grey. Hound and horn, give voice and tongue- SONGS OF FRANCE VERLAINE RIMBAUD stands at Charleville Done in stone a statue shameless, Paris poets daily fill Books that in a year are fameless ; Loti mourns and Rostand crows, Printers print what years scarce glance on, Like a stream for ever flows La Bonne CJianson. Demi-god turned inside out With the mortal lining showing, Face of satyr, form of lout, Breath the fumes of Pernod throwing ; Soul besmeared with any stains That an evil thought may chance on ; Be it so yet still remains La Bonne Chanson. "5 n6 VERLAINE Who was Verlaine, what was he That his name shall live for ever ? Ah ! could you tell that to me I would know what you'll know never ; I would know why stands the spring In dark courts men look askance on, Why God set Verlaine to sing La Bonne Clianson. Let the faultless cast their stone At this strange form far from faultless, Standing gloomy, lost, alone 'Neath the empyrean vaultless ; Falls the pebble that they fling, Rises aye o'er leaves that dance on The eternal winds of spring La Bonne Chanson. PETER AND THE PIERROT WHO knocks so hard On heaven's own gate ? Tis locked and barred ; The hour is late. Gone twelve, yet wait A moment's space ; What's this? Great Fate! A Pierrot's face ! ! ! Well, by my sleeve ! Nay, do not fret ; I called to leave A lost Pierrette These roses wet And white as frost, Lest she forget Her Pierrot lost. 117 n8 PETER AND THE PIERROT O scamp begone ! And yet and yet- That face so wan, Those roses wet. With tears each flower Weeps for a sin ; Though late the hour, Pierrot, come in TARASCON HERE it is raining, But it rains not there, No heart's complaining In the land through where Spring's now going Like a maiden bold, Her blue skirts blowing In the mistral cold. Oh the colour ! Oh the beauty ! Of that town so small, Where love's a duty, And the wild birds call Loud at the skylights When the dawn's on wing, Low in the twilights Of the blue, blue spring. 119 TARASCON I hear the laughter From the barber's shop, The song, and after Comes the shears' "crop, crop,' Girls' steps straying As the shadows steal, The brass band braying From the Tour de ville. Long am I banished From that southern town, Do they miss me vanished? Are they also flown- The barber so knowing, And those maids so bold, Their sweet skirts blowing In the mistral cold ? Pri*tt4by Haatli WttstH & Vituy, U-, Lando* ana Ayltibury. 000 101 706