1AMES A. MACKERETH THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES A SON OF CAIN A SON OF CAIN BY JAMES A. MACKERETH AUTHOR OF " IN GRASMERE VALE, AND OTHER POEMS,' " THE CRY ON THE MOUNTAIN," AND " WHEN WE DREAMERS WAKE " LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. 39 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON NEW YORK, BOMBAY AND CALCUTTA igio AMBLESIDE \ GEORGE MIDDLETON PRINTER CONTENTS THE LION ..... MAD MOLL ..... THE COMET ..... TO ALGERNON C. SWINBURNE ODE ON THE PASSING OF AUTUMN THE MOCKER MOCKED NOTTINGHAM FAIR .... PAN ALIVE ..... THE GODS THAT PASS AND DIE NOT THE NORTH-COUNTRY CARRIER THE RASPBERRY GATHERERS . DE PROFUNDIS .... THOUGHTS TOWARD THE INFINITE THE FLIGHT OF THE BOLD HUNTERS SAVONAROLA . THE HIGHEST SERVICE THE PAINTER'S DREAM TO A BEAUTIFUL DARK ROSE IN ABSENCE . THE GOLDEN STAIR DAWN SONG . JEHU IN THE CITY THE SANCTUARY THE MOUNTAIN BURN A SON OF CAIN THE PALACE-BUILDERS PAGE 9 12 18 21 26 39 49 53 59 63 7i 73 74 76 81 82 83 89 93 95 iog 113 117 119 122 140 917083 THE LION I MET a Lion in the way : Heigho ! his eyes were wild ! A bright magnificent beast of prey, A daemon's child. He scowled, and scowled, With bristling mane, And growled, and growled Like an angry pain. He stood aloof : I liked him well. Heigho ! his ivories ! His lips were curled, and his smile was fell ; His breath steamed hot as the hate of hell, Hot from the heart of hell. Ho, ho ! the Lion ! Such strength was his. He lashed his flanks with tawny tail, He beat the air as with a flail. How his fangs shone ! A ghoulish hunger twitched his lips ; His ears were angry at the tips ; He crouched upon his tapering hips The Lion ! His lithe mass, rhythmic as a wave, Sank rigid, to a passion wrought ; He seemed some splendid sin, a brave Embodiment of treacherous thought ; IO THE LION In threatening guise there, grand and grim, It was pure joy to look at him. I saw the fireballs of his eyes, Death in his glittering flame-green eyes, In menacing thews and thighs. I had nor lance, nor any spear, But a palm twig ; No doubt had I, nor any fear : I stepped the gorgeous creature near And plucked his wig : Ha, ha ! the Lion, Surprised, his thunderous brows unknit ; The snarl died on his dazzling jaw ; And, furtively, his beard he bit, And fidgeted his paw : He smoothed his cross and crumpled nose, And shuffled, shamed ; self-conscious thought ; Yapped ; yawned, and feigned to dose ; And, yielding to the spell I wrought, His shyness rose. I thrust my hand amongst his mane, He winced, breathed hard with sick surmise; I bound his will as with a chain ; He blinked his rheumy eyes. Heigho ! the huge and ponderous beast, He did not hate me in the least ; He purred, and purred, And pawed the ground ; You never heard A friendlier sound. THE LION* n His vaunting gone, My hand he licked with rusty tongue, And 'tween my knees his muzzle hunc : Ha-ha-ha-ha! the Lion — His jowl I wrung ! I tumbled the great tangled brute ; His smelling brightness spurned ; my foot I planted on his flabby mouth : Prone lay he like a beast in drouth. I left him fond and humbled there ; He whined — but I had far to fare. The morrow-morn a man in arms Fate that way drew ; His life was sick with his soul's harms, And him the Lion slew. MAD MOLL FAR and far to the wandering eye the spreading moorlands mounded lie ; and beyond the heathery waste you spy a gleam of the distant sea ; A woman is limned against the sky, hunched like a camel, lorn and high, over her gorgeous clouds go by, great lazy clouds trail idly by to Bythe and Benderby. With hair as coarse as a horse's tail, She dreamily leans on a lichened rail ; Thick at her feet the brambles trail, And the silent hours steal over her. She seems some dead god's prophetess : A sly gust plucks at a matted tress, An eye shows dark as a night moonless When the grim, low shadows crowd and press On the edges of pools in the wilderness ; And the wild shy things discover her, They have no fear of her wizened face That is dim with the dreams of a desert place. Her feet are bare to the morning dew ; A lark above sings drowned in blue ; Two sultry questers search the skies : She chuckles, and clapping her hands, she cries, " Little one, pretty one, tried and true, I had a lover when time was new, And I sang and sang for him just like you ! ' 12 MAD MOLL 13 Alack ! Moll's laughter sadder lies Upon the heart than sighs. And yet her errant life is jolly : When moors are wet and melancholy, Intent upon some harmless folly, She squats beside a sombre holly ; And when the dancing ditches Cry in the loud unpitying pour, And flame-lit woodlands roll and roar, Crooked Moll in spirit, old no more, Is whirling with the witches ! Ill-used by fate's unkindly weather, Strange lives and she have drawn together ; 'Tis hard to say, so close the links, If it be Moll or Nature thinks. The birds, with moist and magic throats, Tell her her own bewildered thoughts, She trips to catch their crystal notes — As though they fell like silver groats In streams of shining charity ! She lives like some enchanted child, By fancies fondled and beguiled, To all illusions reconciled, Unknowing life's disparity. Capricious sorrows past belief, She links with pleasures 'yond annoy, And Ah ! the poignance of the grief, The pathos of the joy. A light has flown from the broken brain, A heart feels back through the years in vain — x 4 MAD MOLL The thread is broken, snapped the chain ; The sunshine comes, and the wind, and the rain, But the light that is gone comes never again : But Moll in a hat of twisted ferns, By mild, wet meadows and moorland burns, Merrily follows an elfin band Through a misty and enchanted land Till the light returns ! She sways and sighs with the sighing breeze, Her words come thick with mysteries, And she croons with the crooning trees. And over her head the clouds roll by, great bulging clouds ride down the sky, like galleons fair sail on, so high, across the moors to Benderby. The hot noon fills a glimmering land ; The drowsy cattle blinking stand ; And the sibyl stretches a tawny hand And gathers a brook's green cresses ; She laughs at the sight of a face she knows ; A slow thought over her numb brain goes ; The tittering streamlet daleward flows And dabbles her tumbled tresses. Toward things forgotten and long since lain And locked in graves she feels in vain : Old woes slip past for which she grieved Like thoughts that vanish ere perceived. Over her darts the dragon-fly, And the winking bubbles dancing by Burst in light at her wave-cooled feet ; MAD MOLL 15 The mint-smell, strong in the languid heat, Is heavy as dreams when memories meet. She lifts her mouth to the golden day, But the words go back that she means to say. And deep indrawn in the breast of the sky, like dreams in the brain when the day goes high ; faint clouds steal on to Benderby. The splendour's gone : the high light dies. There's a star-point tipping the hamlet's spire. Now a weasel squeaks, and a mouse replies; Through lacy larches the moon doth rise With a face like a dead desire. And mad old Moll of Benderby Creeps from a blasted white-thorn tree And sends to the stars " Halloo ! " And laughs her sister the moon to see. The day is dead as a day can be, And darkling lives keep jubilee, So she shouts to the night, " Hee-hee ! hee-hee ! " Shouts her lover, the owl, " Hoo-hoo ! " In the gnarled grey boles of the pollard trees Moll spies but chubby jollities, At their feet in fern she sits at ease, As glad as a lonely child, And beats her hands to an old mad tune, Or seeks some whimpering fairy's shoon, Or talks to herself and the staring moon In words both wise and wild. The black bats tumble from place to place l6 MAD MOLL In search of the crooked old woman's face : She speaks to them fondly and scolds by fits — For she knows them well as her long lost wits. In the depths of the dark a baby-wind Calls to her heart, and it hears and grieves, For old loves live in her clouded mind, And every sound in the world deceives : She listens for feet she ne'er shall find Among the moonlit leaves. Now up she gets and forth she hies, The mad mirth glinting in her eyes, And tramps the highway mile by mile ; The wires twang over her all the while By down, and dene, and dingle ; And "Whisht!" she says, and "Whoop!" she cries; And cocks her finger at the skies ; Her laugh demoniac crackles shrill, And phantom hags in copse and hill Give back weird laughter with a will 'Twixt Pommerton and Bingle ! A raven croaks in Crowden Crags, A jackdaw shouts a Christian name — And mad Moll, plucking her fringe of rags, Bobs back with a sudden shame. All, all about the rocky ground Sad, eerie sounds go round and round, But Moll has heard a farther sound, And shrinks as if from blame. . She peers as toward a dim-lit face Unknown to days that are ; MAD MOLL 17 She hearkens in a cloudy place A voice from very far : 'Tis gone. She starts at a quickened pace, And whistles to a star ! A silken sigh moves over the corn ; O'er the dreams of poppies, a lover forlorn, A wind goes seeking the face of the morn, Goes drearily, so eerily, like sorrow, wandering wearily, and silence grieves among the leaves 'neath moonlit eaves in Benderby. And now at last, 'neath a beechen sheen, On a couch of a long dead summer's green Moll lies her down with never a care ; She needs nor friend, nor faith, nor prayer, Unmindful she as the sinless air, And the wheels of the world pass over her. There are not any remember now What love was hers, what loss, what vow, What grief o'ertook her, or when, or how ; The pearls of the midnight braid her brow, And the mists and the stars do cover her. And, mutely, deep in the moonlit sky the planets in lustrous pride go by in infinite space so clear and high o'er the midnight moors and Benderby. THE COMET (24th January, 1910) RESPLENDENT wanderer over silence, Star Awesome and lone, that o'er the sunken bloom Of our terrestrial day burnest to sight, From vasty deeps arisen, and riding far To realms beyond all knowledge and all thought. Strange errant child of nature, trailing wide Thy luminous vesture through the trackless void, An hour on man's mean vision sojourning, And passing hence 'yond large Orion's ken, Into the stellar wilderness, and on, Speeding by dateless wastes and dawnless stars, To gaze on dreadful nebulas that groan, Pregnant with worlds, and smoulder in th' abyss. Bright pilgrim, journeying through the infinite ! Brave courser of the deep and dangerous heavens, What quest is thine ? What large and eerie quest Amid the tangle of the punctual suns ? These have their tasks, and these their chiming courses Range and are glad ; but whither art thou bound, Amid the wheeling and laborious worlds, 18 THE COMET 19 Proud peril, flaunting far thy flame afield O'er the rich realm of Venus ? Swooping orb, Art thou some fiery rebel passionate, With horrors armed, portentous, terrible, Burst from the bonds of law and downward hurled Through hissing dark to sempiternal chaos, Before the staring planetary host, In wild combustion to some dreadful doom ? Audacious thought. Set in the timeless void, Thou art beyond all questions, nameless one, Ah ! 'yond the reach and vanity of dreams, Fleet migrant through these staid and steady heavens, Flouting disaster with a scorn of fire, Thou heedest not our wondering midget-cry. Swept in the eddy of untold desire, Thou art regardless of this flickering sphere Caught in a web of suns, where night and day Flutter like flies across eternity ; Where men, like insects in the summer woods, Hum happily, and die. Weird voyager, Firing the fluctuant gloom, careering on Through depths and heights where these our homely stars, Fanned by the gusty eons, never have roamed, Thou art to time a startling visitant : Some herald haply bearing tidings strange, Or flaming vengeance spurring violently For some far, woe-invested citadel, Some fastness on the frontiers of the world, Lit by a score of mighty moons, but lorn, Made waste by warring powers. With upward look 20 THE COMET We stand, and guess, and know not aught. Thou art A wonder to the desert nomad's gaze. Swart awe proclaims thee deep in Africa, And Asia holds thee in her Orient eyes. Poised o'er the silent margent of the night, Thou art most strange to lone and wandering men That ply their business on the wakeful deep. August and eminent, thou art acclaimed In spicy isles through the wide Occident ; And, spectre-like, with tenuous train art seen From ice-bound swamps in dreary Labrador. On thee yon quiet moon, with sterile stare, Turns all the argent brightness of her death ; The steadfast constellations watch thy setting, And beckon o'er the immemorial years ; But thou art mute for ever. Tremendous orb ! Dire-breathed, and trailing streams of threatening fire, Thou whirlest by into the infinite gulfs, Scourging, and scourged, imperious, burning still, Bright as some angry angel flung from God, Down driven before the wings of destiny. TO ALGERNON C. SWINBURNE (A BIRTHDAY GREETING, 1909) SINGER — whose songs, like yon undazzled bird's, Transcend the glittering amplitude of words — To you whose melodies move With their own notes in love, And charm with linked chime As do, in some hushed angel, eventime Bell-loving echoes 'mong cathedral towers That to the murmuring hours Repeat, with joy repeat, Fond sounds for death too sweet. To you, above all homage seated high, Now 'neath a vocal sky That toys with dubious shade and diffident shine, While rapturous ichors, meeting In spur and spine, Tingle, and urge to birth The beauty of the wise and jocund earth, I bring this April greeting. 21 22 TO ALGERNON C. SWINBURNE Exalted 'yond the tide of temporal days — Th' ignoble fuss and fretting, Swift fame, and quick forgetting, You have not need, you have not need of praise : Yet while earth lifts her lay on lyre and lute, And sap in rind and root Feels toward the coming glory, and the plains Brighten, and blithe buds burst in glinting lanes, And hearts grow slow to hearken To thoughts that darken, For you, whose spirit vernal Sings in time's spacious morn a song eternal, From my too-fleeting hour I pluck this temporal flower. Swimmer in seas of song with sovran daring, On rhythmic waves triumphant borne, and bearing, 'Twixt shadowy trough and sheen of simmering crest With threat, with thunder, With gusty exultations of wild wonder The thrill and threnody Of the enthralling sea, The rush, the zest Of the spume-tossing sea-storm's boisterous jest ! O master of most mighty melody, Hot from the heart of hate, the core of scorning, Gracious as heaven, hale as a windy morning ! Till force shall die, and beauty cease to be, Till man shrinks, cowed, from strife, You are a part of all things proud and free, Lusty as love and life. TO ALGERNON C. SWINBURNE 23 Seasons ride on : the sleeping comes, the waking, Man crowns his mission, and his days disband ; Serene in soul through parting and forsaking, Nerved from the sea, 'mid ebbing time you stand Brave as a cliff round which the billows breaking, Crash on the ribs of your Northumberland ! Lord of the wide and grandly-rushing line Flung from a zest divine, Tossed on the lyric lips of ecstasies Your songs, out-lasting fleet regalities, Shall laugh, shall leap, shall smite with tingling smart The bright blood of the brave and feeling heart While Britons breast the brine. While spring in England wakes in weald and fen, While rhythmic winds and mists scud English moors, While tender sea-tones hum in coomb and glen An English fame is yours. Your praise is loud to-day on ocean floors ; Tremendous lungs laugh for you, and acclaim With shattered thunders upon lone sea-shores, While April sets her daffodils aflame, Your proud sea-name. AN AFTER-WORD A sudden hush as at an ended story ; A sudden shadow where a brightness shone ; Sense of deep tears ; pale gleams of broken glory ; A gladness gone. 24 TO ALGERNON C. SWINBURNE False sounds the song denied the heart to sing it ; Grave is the dingle when its stream is dry ; Melody fainteth lacking joy to wing it Into the sky. Tuneless the lyre lies when the strings are broken ; Rifted the reed, the piper pipes in vain. Cold, at the heart these words, so warmly spoken, Enter again. I wrote a rhyme for him who ne'er shall read it ; His song is ended, and the Poet sped. No song's so sweet that sullen Death shall heed it. Tease not the dead. Silence is best. Amid so many choices I choose a thought that, like a lapsing wave, Lone 'mid the deep's innumerable voices Sinks to its grave. Others shall praise. Ah ! songs shall leap to hail him In years that travail upward far from here ; Leave him his laurels : fame shall never fail him. Bow to his bier. Onward he hies : and we, with numbed emotion, Strain toward the deep, struck chill with swift dismay. Now is the Sea-king to mingle with the ocean Drifting away. TO ALGERNON C. SWINBURNE 25 Notes on the winds come, dying echoes only, A fainting music like a sea-shell's sigh. Lonelier the earth is, and the sea more lonely Under the sky. ODE ON THE PASSING OF AUTUMN BLITHE is the morning, chill, and clear, Laid soft on peace the heart can hear Music surpassing sweetest sound Alive in the luminous air around, Alive in the clean clouds that pass, And in the good green grass. Enchantment opens wide her doors And floods the world with joy : There lies a shining gladness on the moors, And death can not destroy The splendour of the nobly-patient woods ; In pillaged solitudes The silence is not sad ; the rillet flows And makes its artless music faintly heard ; And if the boughs speak now no silken word To the feeling winds, though every wilding rose And thorn be bare, their's is but joy deferred, Their's darling recollections of a past Not overcast. 26 ODE ON THE PASSING OF AUTUMN 27 These woods have lovers leal that ne'er forget The mossy grave of the sweet violet : Here comes the moon, her silver radiance Trailing o'er seas afar ; Sunsets like perils old in rare romance ; And evening's earliest star ; Here dawn, with flushed feet wet with mountain dew, Loiters with all her rosy retinue Where, in wan misty light, in filmy shrouds The pensive ghosts of hyacinthine crowds By leafless glade and lawn and elfin dells Steal faintly shaking all their phantom bells, And shrink when prosy morn with glimmerings gray Creeps o'er cold woods and hill-tops far away Back to their dank death-cells. There is no loneliness on all the earth Save man's. We walk in blindness 'mong our friends With hearts devoted to ignoble ends Through dreary days. O, we have fall'n from worth ; We breathe in fear ; nor from blithe beauty borrow Sustaining hope of loveliness to-morrow. Within the tiny isles of our sole sorrow We dwell apart In sick pride from the universal heart, Yea are us aliens on the earth, forlorn, Peevish, by brooding worn, While the hoar tempest blows his echoing horn, And tosses the brave crests of rocking trees, And whoops round shouting shores of bounding seas, 28 ODE ON THE PASSING OF AUTUMN And plucks the breaker's plume, and whirls it high Against the wild lights of the riotous sky ; While roystering streams from whirring mountain steeps Rush rollicking rivers toward the bellowing deeps, And jocund echoes in the hollow lands Halloo, and the cracking welkin understands, We sit apart ; Nor have our souls rejoicings With these tremendous and triumphant voicings — These laughters, jestings gloriously hurled Against the walls and windows of the world. Deaf to the lusty Dionysian game, Powerless, impassive, without wisdom tame, Cold to the light that leads, the zest that saves, We dwell apart, Lonesome, and sad, and old, and blind of heart, Mere dead men without graves. O we have lost the secret of our youth, And are to gray thought vowed, and vague distress, And vain toil, and old lies ; from lusty truth We steal, like wraiths before the spangled day, Into dim forests and dark caves away ; Or, like sick men i' the blazing wilderness We hide our faces and are comfortless. Care is too often with us : let us leave This mortal canker of too-human life, And cast off shadow, and refrain from grieving, And lose in vaster being this vain strife, And walk in mildness, glad at morn and eve, Removed from sad deceiving. ODE ON THE PASSING OF AUTUMN 2g Joy, joy is at the healthy core of things. Care is that slow disease That follows follies and the lusts of kings ; But to him cometh ease Who walks this world like some strong, trustful son, Too high for mean complaining, Owning all things through love, his moments run To melody, and his sweet hopes attaining Their golden ends, though human powers be waning Hope hath his heart till his good days be done. Leap, lively heart, and spirit keen and blithe : Mildly the mighty mower whets his scythe, Wisely he works, and is at amity With that deep harmony Which is the brooklet's laugh in lonely woods, Which is the child's glad cry, The bird's song in the weary solitudes, The loud wind speeding through the pathless sky, Faint wavelets lisping where the day-star peers Through reeds on lilied meres, Yea and the chants of poets when they rise Above their kind's neglect to kindlier skies. There is a rapture on the lonely mountains Where foot comes not nor human voice is heard, Whose spirit flashes in the plunging fountains, Exults o'er peril with the screaming bird. 'Mid pensive ruins of time-mouldered towers Where large with reminiscence sits the moon 3° ODE ON THE PASSING OF AUTUMN Joy, in the soft and owlet-haunted hours, Doth croon. In graves forgotten of song and given to glooms Is glimpsed her radiant face ; And in dim paths autumnal among tombs She hath a hiding-place. And futile man, the prey of faithless fear, The sport of chance control, May lose his cloudy care awhile and hear The joy-bird in his soul. O let us find the heart a dwelling-place, And put off vanity, be free of guile, And leave the dusty whirl, the futile chase, And gather wisdom in the spacious smile Of moor and sky ; on mountains large and lone Gather great joy, and catch the undertone Of mighty being striving ceaselessly, Th' eternal movings round this transiency Of human life, and hear the great deeps roll That bore us hither, and bear hence at last When our swift days are past Our spirits to mingle with the boundless soul. This beauteous world doth still companion us With watching sympathy and buoyant being, Serves mutely in sweet ways felicitous Deeper that human seeing. We are not left forlorn Winter or summer, or at night or morn. ODE ON THE PASSING OF AUTUMN 31 How very near and intimate is noon, Pulsed with the lark's wild tune, And murmurous with the stock-dove's tender croon ; How softly insinuating shy twilight, Given to all timid things And swallow's wings ; And dawn how dear to the fresh waking sight", Dawn that like memory yields A consecration to familiar fields ; And then the friendliness of infinite night, Infinite stars in infinite heights that burn, That in the vast immeasurable yearn For ever star for star. O not forlorn Are worlds or mortals ; we are cinctured all With love, assured against all death's downcasting, We are made one with all things great and small, Bound to the Everlasting. Here far from vanities, From life's sad incompleteness, Swift prodigalities Flung from the primal sweetness Flush the inflowing thought, Till thought itself doth be A wave far inland brought From that Immensity Whose cleansing waters on time's shifting shore Break in eternal music evermore. 32 ODE ON THE PASSING OF AUTUMN Now comes the first forerunner of the wind Across the moorland spaces ; Keen sportive gusts pipe shrilly close behind ; A jostling throng of forces follows fast ; The tree tops tremble, and to buoyant mind The wide land wakes and lifts a myriad faces. Now all the blusterous blast Swoops with a merry fury, tosses and heaves ; Far whirl the dizzy leaves; And with a wild commotion The woods grow hoary as a bristling sea, And creak and cry like ships in jeopardy, And roll in distance like an angry ocean. Caught in some wild elation, In weird intoxication Bold earth and sky through all their flowing spaces Fling lissome limbs, and flout each others faces Like madcap things that reel in boisterous play, That rush together and laugh and speed away. Come strenuous agonist ! Impetuous lover and antagonist, Hail ! consummate thy nuptials with the earth Whereof the spring hath birth, Spring of the daffodillies And valley-lillies, Whose face a sweet surprise Of April eyes. Not squandered is the force by which we live, That shapes the cosmic story, ODE ON THE PASSING OF AUTUMN 33 That lends to lives that die the lights that give The deathless gleam and glory. Therefore while beauty on the open leas Flies rustling down the wind, While meadow-oaks grow bare by sure degrees, And the brave beeches drop their draperies, To nature's terms resigned, With no unseemly fretting Or grieving, or regretting For the gone prime, Let us take up the good of time's begetting, Nor for a sun that's setting Weep blindly at the beauteous dawn of time ; But toward the resurrection of the dust Look with more lively and unstinted trust, Stand with more harmony of holy trust, That man, no dazed repiner, May show 'gainst time diviner, May strike no discord in the psalm that runs Through this bright labyrinth of singing suns, Nor mar this holy ground, His home around, This spot, this star with luminous vapours crowned, And splendid with the praise Of nights and days, Fair with all living and most lovesome things, And bright with wings Of souls that soar Toward light and joy, victorious evermore. 34 ODE ON THE PASSING OF AUTUMN Blow, gallant gale ! shout, hollow ! and shrill, height ! Not vainly rings this summons to the land : Forces there are that live and move in might That hear and understand, Yea, answer with reverberating power Hour by sonorous hour. Impetuous amorist, speed By whizzing fell and mead ! The whistling woods fling thee their naked graces ; With revelling hair and swift and perilous faces, Like maenads wild careering over heaven, The jocund clouds are driven ; While tarns and meres in vales austere and gray Clutch at thy flight with hoyden hands of spray, Fly with thee, luminous one, adown the day Whirling away. Earth-treader, sky-born jester, streaming storm, Time-grappling form Tempestuous, speed ! Round walls of cities where old sorrows breed Beat, beat and cry ! bid forth the captive races Into the hale wide world of boundless spaces, Shout to them Freedom ! O in dim courts cry Where hearts beat low, and brave men feebly die, Cry to them ! cry Of rolling woodlands, and of tumbling sky, Of wild deeps booming on the bastioned shore, Of raptures on lone mountains, of days that lie In valleys deep, sweet-set in heaven's pure eye, Where beauty dwells and joy is from of yore. ODE ON THE PASSING OF AUTUMN 35 Ye ponderers on human transiency, Caught in the web of old perplexity, O ye who bow the knee With broken wills to bitter destiny, Unto this swelling paean of deathless powers Ringing reverberant through the topless towers Of heaven, come, hearken, awhile be free Of all the tangle and the mystery : In these sublimer hours Feel, feel the soul's dilation, The heart's emancipation ; Feel the deep purport and the vast intent Behind this stress of thunderous argument — Wide rolling through the world from coast to coast Like the on-speeding of a mighty host, A winged host, that crieth as in war Victory ! Victory ! echoing evermore. Within us, all about co-forces are That work and cease not ; yet but here and there Man feels his kinship with the clinging air, Rises exalted beyond bound and bar Knowing himself the brother of the star ; But while these gusty exultations move, And moor, and mead, and wood In rapture and exuberance of great love Tingle, the affluent blood Leaps prescient and responsive, and we flow On infinite tides, made infinite we go Into the larger life, and vastly feel and know. 3^ ODE ON THE PASSING OF AUTUMN O hither ye Pale baffled brooders mid mortality, And at this rousing tempest's ringing heel, Far from vain strife, from murmurings far, feel, feel The harmonious sense of something more sublime Than man e'er kneels to in the cloudy clime Of rude unjoyful cities. Hither come Ere sight be dim and senses wholly numb, While souls still hear and hearts still hunger come, and hearken and be dumb ; And, mingled with the intense life of things, Know the glad peace that sage quiescence brings, The luminous presagings And mighty meanings toward still thought upwelling But baffling words, too bright for human telling. And so pass hence to sadness unresigned, Refreshed in spirit at deep wells of laughter, While, like a youthful poet in the mind, Joy pipes to joys hereafter. Earth is awake. Shall not man also waken ? The great heart thrills as when through silence rang The primal mandate and th' abyss was shaken, And darkness fell, and dawn upleapt and sang. Spirit, awake ! Thy paths are through the deep, And in the heights thy glory. Joy is risen, Joy winged and beautiful, and shalt thou keep The shadow of the prison ? Spirit, fare forth ! thou art to vastness given As star to star through all the breadth of heaven ! Merge with the prophet-ardours of the wind ODE ON THE PASSING OF AUTUMN 37 Spurring from Alps or Andes fiercely free, Speeding tutnultuously o'er chasms blind, O'er champaigns sloping to the chainless sea ; Leap where with foam-lashed flanks the mighty being Roars at all hours around the living land ; Fly with the flashing spume exultant fleeing Like splintered sunlight from a blazing brand ; Rejoice, fleet mind, and be at one with these ; Hale heart, through wide creation rhythmic roam, Espousing ecstasies and agonies, Ever at home With man, with nature, and that fluctuant state That fashions human fate. So shalt thou ever be Of that serene and glorious company Who find in all things that do breathe and move Infinite revelations of deep love, Infinite hope for all the heart's desire, Infinite evidence of an infinite Power That holds the eon in the transient hour, That mid this starry choir Moves dominant upon the wheels of time From prime to pristine prime, Higher, my Soul, and higher. The world is given unto a happy clan. Clap thou thy hands, O Life, for thou hast heard The wizard music and the wonder- word Which at the dawn-time of creation ran 38 ODE ON THE PASSING OF AUTUMN Tipping the stars with fire, the flowers with flame. In high employ Laugh, Spirit, leap and sing ! uplift the name Of Joy ! Joy ! Joy ! THE MOCKER MOCKED : A TALE OF THE NORTHERN MOORS THROUGH mullioned windows open to the night The violin had wailed along the snow, And tingled in the nerves of frosty woods : Then stillness. 'Mong the ghostly candle-flames, And in the hearth-glow faces, set with thought, Peered into vacancy, and followed far A dying music through the wilds of pain ; Until a sound, like the first stir of dawn In ancient trees, moved in the room, and then A rustling ran, then soon a lyric voice Cheeped like the earliest bird, "Now, Grandfather, Your turn." And he, a fervid, nervous man, Rubbed rheumy eyes, and coughed a sheep-like cough, Looked round half testily, and with lean hand Smoothed out a faded script, and coughed again ; And through the hush upon expectant ears In the cold starshine beat a muffled bell Tolling the passing of the kindly year. 39 4° THE MOCKER MOCKED With mellow voice and deep, that seemed to steal Out of the caverns of forgotten time, He read with power this story while anon Broke in with poignant throb the solemn knell. By hushing copse and fields of inland peace, And where 'mong billowy bracken blazed the furze, And where the heather in one purple wave Rode darkly 'gainst the zenith luminous, He tumbled like a peevish wind that grieves, As vext in spirit as a tangled fly. And all his mind was troubled with a face. For She was lovely as some lisping wavelet That charms a silver secret from the stars, A thing all poising brightness, breathing joy, Waiting the mould of time ; but he perverse As any crinkled thorn upon the crag, Crude, angular, and rough with rigid will. And reason, harsh as a woman when she hates, With unconcern contemptous dubbed him "Fool." Half woman and half child, all winsomeness, The bird-like captor of his fixed desire Tripped towards him as a hill-stream toward the moon ; For he was like a parent — at the heart Loved well in deep and fond tranquility ; Big- voiced and grimly kind, whene'er he came He was welcomed part with pity. He had been A lonely man, respected, scarce beloved ; Of stainless honour, he was feebly prone THE MOCKER MOCKED 4I To beam most brightly in good fortune's face ; To him all failure was the spawn of folly, A sin of will not soon to be forgiven. Clear-purposed in this vague and blustering world He had fixed his heart with power upon a prize, Had plucked it proudly with a strong man's zest. Triumphant still, he mocked at them that failed. At length, of self and fortune lord and king, With powers at prime, and pleased with wide esteem, He rested from his labours — satisfied ; And served out maxims to aspiring youths, And cheap advice to aged unfortunates. But sadness hurries to a taskless life, With timid anger a long-subjected heart Wmispered of larger hopes and tenderer joys, Of the slow deaths of old felicities ; His days looked at him, and, surprised, he felt A sense of sad futility, a want Of that which tones and crowns a full man's life And makes his autumn fair. And in gray hours When in the haze of thought they lived alone His heart and he, lacking the central calm And anchorage, he found a void that ached. Like the aged conqueror of a little kingdom, His triumphs stale, and all his victories o'er, Who, crowned at the brow but brooding at the breast, O'erlooks his tiny realm and, tottering, feels The ambient forces of the universe, The rushing of the immeasurable mind, And all the breadth of being, and sits alone, 42 THE MOCKER MOCKED A dubious victor, waxing intimate With the long silence and the narrow house, — So sat this conqueror in his puny world. And the dumb future, gathering its cloud, Seemed cold without or wife or child to cheer His stern life wandering slowly toward the grave. Then would he ramble on to Rawden Hall, A mouldy mansion to the moss of time Given, and to guarding nature's green embrace And houghed seclusion, but of late, alas, Part from its dream torn, and fashioned to a farm, To pore there on the sweet face of a child — That kept his hardness gentle at the core. So through the years, most fondly through long years, And then at last in one swift moment dire The sinister forces round that single life Crowded and gripped, and left him not a man. The spring was come, and all the rookeries cawed ; The sun-flecked fields athwart the shining showers Shimmered, and all the happy vales were full Of hope that smiled ; along the morning moors Wind-laughters ran ; and in the world was love — Love the sweet singer and the light of life. The vernal year was toying with his heart ; The charming voices of his golden youth From sunny isles of memory called to him. So happy, happy was the mating-time. He leaned to kiss, as he had done before A thousand times, a thousand thoughtless times, The willing cheek, and something stirred within THE MOCKER MOCKED 43 Down in the live depths — deeper than he knew, A something grown to power, suspected not ; An unfamiliar tremor mastered him ; Before that tranquil face he felt afraid. He looked, with his grave soul he looked at her, And to his eyes her sudden beauty blazed, And poignantly, he saw she was a woman, There in the springtide in the happy land. And, with sharp, stumbling phrases on his tongue, And sick confusion in his dizzy heart, He turned to go, and turned again, and stood Trembling, grown angry for he knew not what. And from that hour he dared not kiss her more. Half that hard night he tossed beneath the moon, A shadow 'gainst the shadow of the moors, Perplexed beneath the cold, experienced stars. Th' accustomed path in a strange world was lost, And many crossways on his steps converging Led hither, thither to a land unknown ; And ways unwonted, therefore hated more, Enticed his cautious calculating feet ; A new life beckoned him who loved the old, And strange desires, impelling and repelled, Plucked at a wavering will ; and through the mists Of dim conflicting thoughts a woman's face Made his heart very hungry. Time went on : Love grew in him to something sweet and wild, Possessed his life, and sang a syren's song : He listened, yearning, sad and undeceived. In his weak hours he sought the quiet Hall, 44 THE MOCKER MOCKED Grudging his steps, and yet resistless drawn, A passive Samson to a burthen bound With all his might departed. Yet he strove With his fierce heart's antagonist, and seemed Harsher, remoter, colder than before, Cased in a steel reserve. And that blithe maid, With cruel kindness and beauty that was pain, Uncomprehending, drew him to his doom. Nigh wept he now for pity of himself, And now he laughed at his great love of her, A bitter laugh. His anger impotent, Fooled by a passion pitiless and vain, Strangled his peace, and he would rise and go Rudely, and leave the lone girl wondering. The summer waned : but love waned not, but grew A monstrous thing, a paralysing power, That left him maimed, a spirit without hope, Heavy as grief, and mute as heaven. There came A wistful autumn evening, one grave hour When the mute poignance of this fading world In beauty all unutterable showed, When earth herself seemed bitter-beautiful As love that suffers. Stillness palpable Pressed on the land, like memory on a heart That feels the tragic transiency of joy, Anticipating tears. The dank air Was rich with mellow smells, the voiceless corn Lay sheaved in numerous fields, and the full moon Swung bare. The lover, desolate at heart, Leaned brooding in a lane beside the farm : THE MOCKER MOCKED 45 There was a din of laughter, and a voice — Her's in the shadow ; and two forms approached Along an aisle of leaves moon-garlanded, And stood ; hers and a youth's ; and all his heart Quivered and cried, and like a tortured thing Grew cruel ; and a hate made keen his eyes, And very keen his ears ; and, standing there In dusk and silence, cold, and pitiless, He saw the rash lad kiss the lass on the mouth, Saw her impetuous fingers lift in light, And heard their protest on a wounded cheek, And grinned with grinding teeth, and saw, alack, The mellow pity following on the pain, The tell-tale sorrow in a sad maid's eyes. And in himself he moaned. But they went on Into the silent movings of the night ; Down the steep lane he heard their chiming feet Stepping together toward a velvet peace. And faintly in the distance, grievingly, Her words, made tender, wished a soft Good-night. But he was like a sick beast in the wilds That suffers dumbly, waiting but to die. All through the laggard night he played with flame, Scorching himself ; and all the next day writhed In impotence fierce until the glittering Bear Sprawled lazily along the sapphire heaven Over the lonely farm, then went, worn-eyed, A grave man fall'n from pride, with grizzled hair, To beg his boon or bane. To her he told His inmost heart, stood pleading for himself 4 6 THE MOCKER MOCKED Tersely, with the sad persuasion of great love, A strong man made by passion piteous. She listened pale, unspeaking. Plain he read His answer in the terror of her look, And laughed — as one who laughs whose heart is dead. And, with a sad jest on his ashen lips, Reeled 'neath the stars ; and on a chimney-stack A starling, trained to toy with merriment, Chuckled and laughed ; and in the folding wood An echo like a gossip laughed and fled ; And night, an argus, peered into his pain. So fell this master-will who longtime stood Bluffing events with gusty confidence, Taking the strong man's tribute from his kind ; Deeply he fell, and, from his own esteem Fall'n utterly, he never looked again The hale world i' the face. A morbid shame Captured his days and poisoned every truth ; He read sly insults upon smiling lips, And friendly greetings were as jests that burned ; The very birds were laughing enemies And tittered at his scars ; and bitterly, In solitary gloom of joy's eclipse, He fled the wide heavens arrogant with sun, The modest meadows vocal with the songs Of the too-happy streams, and darkly stole By ways untrodden like a leprous thing, Hating that shameful moving sore — his life. But all his rage with zeal fanatical Turned on itself and struck his heart alone. THE MOCKER MOCKED 47 For her he had loved too well no wrath had he. So through the months, forgiving not himself, His barren breast, remembering, echoed, Fool ! Thus stone he grew, and loved not any man, Nor God, nor time, nor nature, but despised Life and the gains of life, and built himself A lonely cottage on a desert moor Far from the habitations he had known, Beyond the human whispers of the wind ; And kept for friend a fanged Cerberus, A tattered hag for servant, evil-eyed, Degraded with a curse ; and courted gloom Roaming through savage places, wildly lorn, Loving the deluge, the mad winds that wailed And whistled through fern and whin round tumbled cairns, The ebon thunder, and the glittering scourge Lashing the darkness of the mumbling moors ; And shrank to less and less in a narrowing world, And lived like some lost spirit in the wild. And few men saw him move. At last he died Unseen save by the curlew in its flight ; And unremembered in the waste he lay Where rarely came the mist-wreathed shepherd's foot, Where peaty waters oozed and all was sad, Craving a burial of the hollow skies. And near his head a rough stone rudely carved Was found, and on it : " Hard by lies a Fool." But someone raised a mound above his bones, And planted there a tender ivy plant To hide the cruel words upon the stone. 4§ THE MOCKER MOCKED Now both are hidden. The heath's shrill voices pipe Over the spot ; the tempest moans and cries In winter time through all the matted waste ; Sunlight comes rarely, but the lashing rain Leaps, and the shadowy silences steal past The haunted hollow and forgotten grave. While a last slow, reverberating throb Came from the mournful bell the old man ceased, Put down his faded manuscript, nor spoke At all. And like a mantle o'er the dead Thick silence lay, and a sad past was king. Then cheeped that gentle dawn-voice : " Grandfather, Is it quite true ? " And chirped another, while Her hand felt fondly toward a hand not seen, " It happened, O, so very long ago." And suddenly deep in the midnight dale Across the snowy stillness, round on round, Merrily, merrily clanged and clashed the bells ! Crashed — cried wild welcome to the blithe New Year. NOTTINGHAM FAIR : A GOOSE-FLIGHT AT Shipley mist, at Apperley mist, at Kirkstall grey Showed the mouldering Abbey through a sulphur mist 'gainst a scene to quell A novice's heart for ever, for Holbeck lay All black as the deeps of Avernus, and foul and fell ; And we drew our breath in the land of the curse and hurried away While a sick sun wrestled in heaven with the fumes of hell. Hunslet, Royston, Rotherham, Sheffield smouldered in gloom, Grim, Tartarean, festering sores, and scarred and crammed With shapes from the bowels of chaos, and wearing the bloom Of hopeless Erebus, all like Erebus damned. Through a land half-starved and sick with the fear of doom We chased, till Chesterfield showed through a cleaner air 49 50 NOTTINGHAM FAIR A glimpse of a twisted spire ; and we paused nowhere Till we came with a scream to the bridge that strides the Trent, And slackened, and steamed to haven, with fury spent, At Nottingham town : and by hap it was Nottingham Fair. And Nottingham geese were all abroad, Ay, each fair goose with a gander ; And every Joe a jester strode, And every jade had a slander ; And all were as happy as happy could be Awaiting the rouse and the revelry. A hundred startled clocks stared forth To east and west, to south and north, All pointing, and dazed, and dumb ; Cheap-jack and showman and gay buffoon All waited the imminent stroke of noon — Each cocking a wistful thumb. A boom from the bosom of Peter's tower, Boom ! echoed from dome and steeple — A hundred trumpets blared with power, And straightway mad went the people ! Gorgeous roundabouts bellowed and banged, Brassy instruments clattered and clanged, Curvetting steeds swept dizzily by, And air-boats swung in the windy sky, And Nottingham town was all a-blow, And Nottingham Fair a-glowing, And Nottingham fun was all a-flow, NOTTINGHAM FAIR 51 And Nottingham cocks a-crowing, And lions roared in Nottingham Square, And apes made a raucous chatter, And gay cockatoos kept screaming there, " Lord ! What in the world is the matter ? " A gamin whooped, and a large ladee Flopt into a basket of roses, And a youngster pinked with a virulent pea The eminent nose of Moses, And sprites of merriment tripped on air, And shrilled from the flute and the fiddle ; And the tradesman clutched at the roots of his hair, And the banker swore as he counted with care, And a Bishop sighed as he muttered a prayer And finished it off in the middle ! On every side was riotous sound, Red, rollicking folk went round and round, The lish and the lame — 'twas a motley crew ! Grey grandams giggled like spinsters do, And took their trips to the blinking blue, And fluttered their skirts o'er the heads of the people, And madder and madder up they flew, All pointing their toes at a steeple ! And staid stolid constables, waiving the law, All wriggled with mirth at the matter, And laughed with an asinine " hee " and " haw ! " Each mad as a master hatter ! And the Mayor rode by with a wink in his eye, And his ribboned steeds were prancing ; On the Town Hall steps with petticoats high 52 NOTTINGHAM FAIR The Aldermen's wives were dancing ! Tight holding her sides at the fun of the scene On her pedestal laughed the marble Queen ! And old Mother Grundy poring upon it Kept prudery down, and, neglecting to don it, Grew merry and tilted her bonnet ! Ah, pity to tell it ! when we passed there The folk were all mad in Nottingham Square. North we speed with a roar through the night 'neath the fiery beard Of the straining titan ahead ; and we blink and drowse, And wake to the frenzied horrors that Dante feared, Where Sisyphus strives in vain and the fiends carouse, Where pain is parent of pain and the end is stern, Where sorrow sits facing sorrow and joy is far, Where unquenched fires at morn and at midnight burn, Where beauty's a dream forbidden whose home is a star; A tragic city illumed with spurting flame, And paved as with molten fire, and domed with doom, W T here frown grim terrible shapes without a name, Where dragon-mouths belch fire on wavering gloom ; 'Fore furnaces hissing and hot as the throat of hell Swart gnome-like forms flit ever like restless flies — " Is it woe's sad city ? " we gasp, and one says, " Well Not Tartarus quite but Sheffield, Tartarus lies A little more to the north." On ever we fly, And dream at last, and rouse at a fiendish glare ! — Is it Lucifer taking the tickets ? Dazed, under the sky We stand while midnight booms through a ghostly square. PAN ALIVE I TRAMPED with Pan along English highways, Pan, pipeless Pan, Wandering far from his ancient byways, Sylvan Pan. " Son of Mercury, whence art faring ? Friend of Bacchus, whither bound ? " Keen his face with a sudden caring ; Thought moved dimly in depth profound. Back from his mind, no summons bearing, Dropped the names like a solemn sound. His hoofs were hidden in English leather, Vagrant-wise he was out-at-heel ; Stuck in his cap was a falcon's feather ; His coat was dyed with the wild north weather, Tattered and torn by madcap weather In many a moorland reel ! His hair, as thick as a hay-rick's thatch, Shrouded and sheltered his pointed ears ; — Pan, the homeliest god of the batch That the spirit of man could keep or catch In the grand old human years ! 53 54 PAN ALIVE We trod upon English soil together He and I. How the moments ran ! Jowl by jowl in the magic weather We jostled along by whin and heather, By strange design, Through shadow and shine, We together As man with man. Never a word of the bland days olden, Never a word of the days to be ; Richer the present gay and golden Than all the ages of time beholden Since sun went down over Arcady. Over our heads the bees went homing Heavy with pillage from orchards ripe ; Great trees crooned ; in the azure — doming A mellowing world — a soaring snipe Called at the zenith lost in splendour To a mate i' the marsh ; with fiutings tender A bird whipped by with a bubbling throat And paused for praise in a sunbeam's reach ; Came the quavering bleat of a youngling goat, The plaint of a tide-thralled beach ; And a breeze stole in from the salty sea Searching the soul like memory. My mild companion stopped with a start, No live word did he say : The past like a cloud was over his heart, An ecstasy caught him and took him apart ; And the years were whirled away. PAN ALIVE 55 Again a god in his native dells He piped at dawn to the pensive woods, And pleased the power whose presence dwells In mighty solitudes; And called together the fleecy flocks, Rosy-white on the rosy rocks ; And saw the chase through open spaces Gleam, and the laughing satyr-faces ; Saw shapes wreathed with garlands snowy Threading the lucent brakes and rills, Heard " Evohe ! " wild " Evohe ! " Blown about the golden hills — The fantastic Dionysia loud and low, a storm of wills Mirth-mad, tangled with the sunlight, Tossing through the haunted hills ; At his feet in pomp unfurled All the wonder of all the world ; And breathed in rapture, beloved of man, — Pan — great Pan ! Yet I saw that he could not understand, He had travelled far ; but his face was grand. Afar from time, O far from me He scented his own Ionian sea ; Guarded the wattled folds again Under the quiet moon ; Piped to the shepherds out in the plain Singing at noon ; Yearned for a face as fair as even ; Heard a voice through the valleys stray Calling him, calling him, love-bereaven, 56 PAN ALIVE In Arcadia far away. Grapes in sun hung heavily, And a stealthy river purred, In the slim reeds, noiselessly, Syrinx stirred. Somewhere the faint divinity Moved, but he spake no godlike word. The gods forget as the ages fly All that their votaries knew them by. Yet he yearned in his soul for his pipe, I know, But his mind was blank to his own soul's need, For it was thousands of years ago Since he played on a shepherd's reed. His spirit stole into time again With a winged shadow of ancient pain — Pan's, Pan's ! The insects hummed a monotonous strain In the summer trees, and into his brain The present rushed with a noise like rain, And, slowly smiling, he spake again, But the words were man's — man's ! Till the white lamp swung in the azure portal We sat in converse, Pan and a mortal. And still 1 doubt if he quite believed, Though I vouched it truth that the sweet Muse told me, That he was a god of his gifts bereaved. His face's enchantment there did hold me, — The past did fold me, fold me ! Yea for a moment fell from me — PAN ALIVE 57 This mantle of mortality. A thing all spirit, I seemed to flow Into the spaces of long ago ; To sit at the knees of Dryope While the moon leaned low over Arcady ; I heard sweet Echo lift her tongue In solemn caves by cerulean seas, While forests, in nights' meridian hung, Rang with the rhapsodies Of a pipe that was lyrical prophesy Of the love of the land, of the laugh of the sea, Of the lips that should give to them melody In years far off. And it seemed to me I too 'neath the stars piped carelessly When Pan was young. Alack, it is ever life's long regret That mortals remember but gods forget. We stepped from the white highway together Pan and I. How the moments flew ! Into the world across the heather Under the falling dew. For he was bent on a stack of clover, And I was bound for a bed of down, He to sleep with the stars spread over, I to toss in the town. The gods sleep well 'mong the starry streamers ; We are the sleepless, we are the dreamers, We with the thorny crown. 58 PAN ALIVE Never a word of brave days olden, Never a word of days to be ; Richer the present grandly golden Than all the ages of time beholden. And the sun, in fiery splendour folden, Dropped over Arcady. We said farewell in the wondrous weather, And parted. Saffron and carmine grew. Poised o'er a league of darkling heather, Horned with the sunset, full in view, Pan plucked his cap with the falcon's feather And waved me a far adieu. And the light went out of the wild, wide west ; And a god and a mortal followed a quest That lives till the world shall roll to rest, The world that is old and new. THE GODS THAT PASS AND DIE NOT THE gods arrive, they reign, they reign, and go ; They hide their transient day, and have their will, And then, far-summoned, from grove to misty hill They steal, like phantoms at the first cock-crow ; And with a mute and cloudy retinue, Like visions splendid to some dreamer's eye Moist with an ecstasy, full fair to view They stand a moment 'gainst a purfled sky, Pinnacled high, 'Mid fleecy mists unrolled, Divinely aureoled, And toward the dim world turning whence they flee, They breathe a lingering Benedicite, And with a far, " Farewell," they wave adieu : Then, with outstretched hands on heights forlorn, Hailing th' adventurous morn, They pass to far employ Of beauty and of joy, Nor from His service swerve Whom gods and mortals serve. 59 60 THE GODS THAT PASS AND DIE NOT They pass — but not to die, For in the gorgeous ritual of the sky, When grandiose suns in tombs of glory lie, Their earth-reverting faces haunt awhile The wonder with a smile, With lingering looks and tender, Then fade into the splendour. And earth lies chill and grey, Lone with her buried day — Till 'neath the tender silvery-footed moon The winds in immemorial forests croon, Then on the argent mountain crests on high And in dim dewy places, In love with ancient forms and sacred faces, 'Mong shadows starred and tremulous, With trailing raiment luminous The olden gods go by : They pass beyond our faring To where the Prince of powers Stands 'mid His world-lamps flaring Among His palace towers, With all His hopes and fears Quick in a billion spheres. They pass and do not die, But have their portion with all things to be ; They are commingled with a vaster sky, Yea cloud-enthroned o'er some serener sea ; These still the journeying spirit may descry Beautiful on the mountains through eternity. They pass, but die not : these THE GODS THAT PASS AND DIE NOT 6l Unto the heights are given : For all his deities Man's heart hath bled and striven ; By agonies, By ecstasies, We scale the peaks by stern and slow degrees, And these our hearts employ With beauty and with joy When else the soul, appalled, would shrink unshriven, And fail of hope, and fail of love, and fail of Heaven. Ah, man's ascendant spirit, Led where his gods shall lead, Shall fail not to inherit Sufficient for his need ; Amid tempestuous seethings He shall have tranquil breathings ; Set fast in faith and sealed in constancy, He shall have glimpses of celestial mornings, And sacred tidings, and divine forewarnings ; Enrobed with truth, and wreathed with majesty, Have sight more subtle than all temporal seeing, Joys from the hidden holy founts of being Through time upwelling everlastingly. Still shall the gods arrive, and reign, and go ; Still, still shall time repeat the wondering " Why ? " And still from out the silence come the slow, The vague, incomprehensible reply. New suns shall write new portents in the sky ; And other Happy Isles shall burst to view THE GODS THAT PASS AND DIE NOT On wide horizons where no thought goes sailing ; And subtler questers probe the smiling blue, And clasp a gleam ; and other gods prevailing Shall fill the thrones of gods they never knew. The gods depart, but thou, O Earth, art young, And constant to the Source of Now and Then ; To That which was and is thy psalm is sung, Mother of men, And all thy days are patient, and thy power Abideth though the beauteous gods depart, Mother, who still dost cherish at thy heart Thy child the thinker and the thoughtless flower. Mankind fails not ; winds laugh, and woodlands blow Still ; hope immortal fans abiding mirth ; Only the beckoning gods, far-summoned, go, And pass with poignant splendour from the earth. THE NORTH-COUNTRY CARRIER HE was a genial presence ; his broad face, As rosy as a rich September moon That over woodlands rising lights the corn, Took on the hearty joy of things, and showed To the hale sun a brother optimist. The mirth a-twinkle in his azure eyes Leapt ere he smiled, and down his dimpled cheeks Tripped like a wind on water, while his lips, That played with laughter like two waves with light, Toyed with his wit ere, slyly, winsomely, It rippled into words. The inner man Showed in the outer candidly revealed ; His life was tuned to subtle harmonies, And day beholding straight proclaimed him true. No pallid prisoner under heaven was he, Windy with sighs and sickening for the stars ; Not vainly he on regal altitudes Had drawn the spacious air, and, lonely-poised, Had gazed on wide horizons ; wind and rain Clouds and the wholesome earth reproached not him ; 63 6 4 THE NORTH-COUNTRY CARRIER Close had he walked with Nature in the wilds, And on sun-drenched wolds had sung to her, And on lone heath-lands 'neath star-crowded skies They had been intimate, and she had set Her wizard charactery upon the man, And taught him sweetness, and mild majesty, And joy, and amplitude of simple good, So that he moved with blessing well approved. Him often shepherds on the heights had heard Far in the hazy valleys when the wind Swung favourably, and had proclaimed with joy His coming ; ay, and many a mountain maid, Aslant her rose-hung lattice peeping, heard His song that sweetened morning, and at night Leaned listening as he carolled 'neath the moon : Gip, Flossie, Trip, Glossie, Over the hills and away we go. Life is duty, Steadily, Beauty, Time a melody — Heigh-ho ! Over the highway clacketty -clatter, Now Peter, merrily, boy ! Into the night-time — what's the matter ? Moon at the midnight — that's for joy ! Up the dale, up the dale, rumble -a -rumble , Sending a song through the moonlit fells ; A pheasant's whirr, and a fir-cone's tumble, An oivl's Hoo-hoo, and a crash of bells ! THE NORTH-COUNTRY CARRIER 65 Gip, Glossie, Trip, Flossie, Into the wood and aivay ice go ! Life's a duty, Cheerily, Beauty ! Time a melody — Heigh-ho ! Till the song swooned upon the listener's ear, And seemed like water tumbling far away In azure haze high on the summer hills. But he sped on through many a climbing wood Of feathery larch, o'er rugged mountain roads, O'er gusty moors 'neath gorgeous evening clouds, And heard on uplands splashed with angry lights The heathcocks calling through the gathering storm, And dipped to peace at last in hollow vales Full of the moon, where stretched the reedy meres Sparkling with stars and holy to the night, And rattled up the staid and rambling street, Setting the birds aflutter 'neath the eaves, While all the hamlet cocked its ears : so came Beneath a bulging gloom of sycamores, Steaming, with clamour to the somnolent inn — Where, ere his weary beasts were cleanly stalled, With fumy lanthorns — dim as moons in mist, In soft, bat-haunted darkness wavering, Would limp old Grocer York, and Farmer Bates, And blind old Toby Green, all breathlessly, For soap, jam, cart-oil, cough-cure, herring barrels; Would come a score of clamourous entities With bass and treble to claim their goods, and take 66 THE NORTH-COUNTRY CARRIER Their scraps of news. And he, that wondrous man, Who 'mong the whistling mountains wandered wide, And talked familiarly of outmost dales Beyond the bounds of knowledge, beamed on all, Gave each his own, to joy an added zest, And unto grief some hint of good to be. And ere the meadow-daisy oped its eye, And dawn enriched the desert asphodel He had gone, like longed-for pleasure that is run, And lived in fancy something more than man, A being benign, a spirit, a mystery Mixed with sunrise and sunset, wandering 'Tween wide horizons filled with moor and cloud, By height and hollow lonely journeying, Appearing and departing evermore. And on the morrow in a distant vale At some white nest of homesteads bravely poised, Pine-shielded, on a mountain's iron hip, His tell-tale bells, borne down the echoing hills, Smote an attentive ear that by-and-bye Caught up the Carrier's song : — Now Beauty, Do your duty, Up, and over, and blithely too ; Brightly, Glossie ! Bravely, Flossie ! — That is just how a man should do ! Dozen, down, down with the blithe bells ringing ; Brother Peter, bright as a pin, After our labour, after oxir singing THE NORTH-COUNTRY CARRIER 67 Death, a good landlord, offers an inn. Down the dale, down-a-down elacketty -clatter, Ring-a-re-ring through the shining fells ; A hill-brook's Hail, and a pie's mock chatter, A stock-dove's coo, and a laugh of bells ! Gip, Glossie, Trip, Flossie, On winds we come, and on ivings tee go ; Life is duty, Peter and Beauty, Time a melody. — Heigh-ho ! But he, whose passing was as sweet as wind From cottage-plots of stocks or gillyflowers, Is vanished from the valleys that he knew. His bells no more in green reverberant woods Sound, and the uplands hear no silver cry. Where many an ancient silence leapt in song To mate his natural music with base toot The aggressive motor, tearing violently, Whirls desolating dust that lingers, trailing Like an unlovely memory through the mind. And now in spots where rang the shepherd's voice, The woodman's bill, where peeping squirrels frisked, Or silence listened to the moving clouds, From tunnelled darkness, thundering into day, Threading the valley streams the screeching train. For from that city which afar is seen From Brendon Beacon glowing through the night, Hive of sick lives that, 'mid a blighted land, Wan-visaged mutely moil and grimly die, 68 THE NORTH-COUNTRY CARRIER There came a mighty man into the dales, Graceless in pomp, and loud in ignorance, All guilt within, and jingling gold without, And bought some thousand acres here and there, And preached the great evangel — Wealth and Speed ! You know the rest — the gentle Judases And Jacobs of the world. . . . The Carrier's day Was doomed ; yet still, in village loyalty, Not few about the hillsides up and down, Touched with the gracious thought of elder time, Clung to old uses ; yet less and less came he, Though ever with brave face and carolling tongue, For best he loved to serve an honest need, Give worth for worth, pride-barred from charity. And so at length the blithely jingling bells Ceased ; and the Carrier, bravely grieving, looked On life, and saw his circle narrowing round, Found lean want stealing nearer day by day, And felt like one not needed in the world. And then at last on dreary Windle Moor, After a night of wildly-whirling snow And dizzy tempest, at his Beauty's feet They found him, his last joy — his favourite mare, Standing above him patient as a stone. Yet still he lives in many a humble heart Though changes chase each other through the dales. Where nature guards her own mute memories His face in genial places seems to gleam Sudden. And yonder where, through woods all frore, The train betrays its flight with wreathing breath, THE NORTH-COUNTRY CARRIER 69 While o'er the solemn mist-enchanted fields, Hushed in white frost, even's rosy cherubs ride, I seem to hear his chiming bells anew, His coming wheels. And when the night is down And the last engine's startling toot hath tossed About the rudely violated vale, And timid silence like a frightened maid In panting trouble hath fluttered through the fells — Then, when shy peace steals fondly home again, From the gray darkness of the dreaming wood Home to the heart, a memory winged with joy, Over the years, over the wandering years Comes the old Carrier's song : Gip, Glossie, Trip, Flossie, Over the hills, and away we go. Life's but duty, Bravely, Beauty ! Time a melody. — Heigh-ho ! Over the highway ^ clacketty -clatter, Now, Peter, cheerily, boy I Into the dark ? — why what's it matter ? Moon at the midnight — that's for joy ! Daleward, hearty ones, jingle-a-jingle, Ring-a-re-ring to the moonlit fells ; Into the wood with hearts a-tingle, — An owl's Hoo-hoo, and a laugh of bells ! Gip, Flossie, Trip, Glossie, 70 THE NORTH-COUNTRY CARRIER Out of the wood on the wind we go ; Life is duty, Peter and Beauty, Time a melody — Heigh-ho ! RASPBERRY GATHERERS CHUCK — chuck — chuck : with his eye on plunder The blackbird sulks in the fruit- bowed pear, While deep in the rasp groves, over and under, The swift hands dart at the crimson fare. Fingers are touching and eyes are merry, Sunshine over and shade below : Two red lips, and a crimson berry, And a brave, bronzed palm, and a face aglow ! Chuck — chuck — chuck, cries the cross old merle Catching the scent of the scarlet juice : And a bare-armed lad and a hooded girl Signal a moment's truce — A wary peep for a prying eye, And a whisk from a breeze as it flutters by, Now a glimpse of green, Now a glimpse of blue From the latticed screen Where the sun winks through, 71 7 2 RASPBERRY GATHERERS And four bright cheeks draw close together, Touch in the wonderful golden weather, Touch and press, where none should spy, Under a fruit-hung faery sky ! Touch and press, and part in a hurry — Sunshine over, and shade below, Two lips, traced in the juice of the berry On a cheek that's blushing plainly show ! " Ha ! ha ! ha ! " and " Ho ! ho ! ho ! " Hampers are filling, And young hearts thrilling, Merrily, merrily, merrily, O ! There's laughing and jesting, And kissing and resting, All in the golden glow. A monarch would treasure A tithe of the pleasure The raspberry gatherers know. DE PROFUNDIS OUT of the depths, the travail-depths, we come, Wondering, and wistful, and imperial born ; Grave lords of life, amid a light world's scorn, Sovran we climb from sad ways wearisome. Dazed from the darkness, mute awhile, and numb, Fronting the splendour of th' auspicious morn, Pale heirs we stand of sires whose hearts were torn And tested by the throes of martyrdom. Majestic we with time's imaginings, And mighty with the yearnings of the spheres ; Ten thousand ages whisper in our ears. Our season cometh : on ascendant wings We shall outsoar the tempests of blind years, And ride upon the tides of time like kings. 73 THOUGHTS TOWARD THE INFINITE THERE is no end, and no beginning, none. Wave with in wreathing wave th' eternal tide Flows on with interchange of gloom and gleam. We walk on worlds ; and in our fleeting breath Systems do perish, and no broken cry Disturbs earth's mighty titan as he moves. There is no end, and no beginning, none. Beings haply are there, robed with azure heavens, Whose steps are on the flaming discs of suns, Who peep at continents through microscopes, And play at ball with planets, lives whose pulses Beat at the passing of millenniums. That tower through time stupendous. Who can tell ? Soar, lowly life, thy breath is destiny, And in thy look the fate of dynasties ! Sing, dubious heart, thy sovran thoughts may soar And subject suns ! The course of worlds was set E'en by some pimple in a nebula ; And empires antedated were of old 74 THOUGHTS TOWARD THE INFINITE 75 On leaning lips and eyelids. All that is Is linked with all that was, and thoughts to-day Shall crystallize in kingdoms by-and-by. There is nor vast nor small but symbols all That gleam athwart our twilight evermore Shaping the ultimate glory. All is great, But unto man, high-privileged, is given Those bounteous moments when the soul, in transport, A-tiptoe on the peak of vision stands, In joy unutterable, aflame with God ! Life is most noble in intentions ever ; And Truth is ever grander than we dream ; And Time, fair daughter of Eternity, In trailing raiment broidered deep with stars, Dispenses knowledge as men need it. All The ringing worlds do ride with rhapsodies Each in its orbit round its throned god. And all the gods with loyal lingers point Unto the central throne ; and all things speed With shining wheels on wide and devious ways Till one light flash to all the several orbs, Till to all borders strikes the central psalm, And heights and depths in perfect harmony Poising together, gyre on glorious gyre, Chime, and creation swings at rest — complete. THE FLIGHT OF THE BOLD HUNTERS IN His park elysian the great Hunt-Master Paced at the meet with his eyes on the pack, Cheered now a sick hound, a fiercer, a faster Checked with a thunder-crack. Up rode the Hunters with grand storm-faces, Out swept the Huntsman, great was he ; A blast of the horn, and the blue wide spaces Shook, and the hunt swung free. Hounds gave tongue, and the steeds sprang forward ; Harkaway ! harkaway ! scent came keen : Merrily loud they swerved from norward Down through the deep serene. A hunter ! a hunter ! — the swift Nor'-Easter ! The sea is in a racket and the sails go by the board, Vales scream, forests roar ; terror is a feaster : Hark ! 'tis the bugle of the Lord ! 76 THE FLIGHT OF THE BOLD HUNTERS 77 See how the clouds come chasing from seaward, Lusty as for hunting in the great white morn ; Eager voices whistle past hurrying to leeward Following the hunting-horn. A hunting ! a hunting ! the great depths waken ; Laughing the heavens leap ; heights shrill o'er ; With a rapture of speed is the swift heart taken, And hears in the swift wind's roar : Speed ! speed ! Truth was ever jester ; Follow ! follow ! deathless is joy. Man — he was meant to be a sportsman and quester : Folloiv ! seize and destroy ! Wind, wind, buoyantly careering, Nimrod of ether with the streaming hair, Wanton and wayward, fleet and unfearing, Wise one, I'll follow thee — where ? What recks the soul ! it hears a loud hallooing, Cheers as of thousands in the heights unseen ; Far flies the proud game, winds and men pursuing : God, may the hunt be keen ! Huntsman, Huntsman, where bounds the quarry ? On what dizzy plateaux is the brave game found — Fleeter than levin, than a swift thought's glory Baffling the heart's best hound ? 78 THE FLIGHT OF THE BOLD HUNTERS Harkaway ! the hunt's up, the shrill years flying ; Loud the lyric mountains and the plains reply ; Tally ho ! tally ho ! we have done with dying, Coursers are neighing in the sky ! Mount we and speed, for the Soul was e'er a quester. Loudly the horn wind, Huntsman of the Lord ; Man was ever meant to be a sportsman and a jester, Pursuer of the wild adored. Wind, wind, buoyant and careering, I can see a wonder fleeter than the light — Gleaming it flies — is vanished — reappearing It leaps like a joy to sight ! Finely, divinely, the heights chant o'er us ; Flashing 'mong the pinnacles the bright prey springs; Faint from the deep comes the far hunt's chorus : On, in a hurricane of wings ! Speed ! speed, the flier and the chasers ! Kingdoms behind us flutter with a hum ; Distance torn with the fury of the racers, Beats at the brain like a drum. On, fierce Huntsman, racing a-racing ! Space with a whistle flies — waves farewell ; Flash — and a glimpse as of forms grimacing On the ruinous roofs in hell. THE FLIGHT OF THE BOLD HUNTERS 79 Swooping merrily the game stars meet us, Buzz at our ears, and dizzily they go ; Grand is the breed of the steed that shall beat us ; Huntsman, on. Tally ho ! Bounding, resounding, the deeps dive under ; Monstrous nebulae, fold in fold, Baying in the gulfs with a noise like thunder, Plunge on a quest untold. Sturdily, stormily, faster, faster ! Straining while the soul pants chafing at the pace : Somewhere — somewhere, the great jolly Master Waits with a smile upon His face. Speed, speed on our white immortal horses, Whooping at the suns as we whizz upon the way ; Deep bay the brave hounds ; perilous the course is ; Onward for ever and a day ! Ever up the wide way riding, a-riding, Ever, for ever galloping along ! Scaring the quarry in his far-off hiding With this for a hunting-song : Speed, Soul, speed ! the Truth was ever jester. If the game be captured, slay it with the sword ! Man was ever meant to be a sportsman and a quester, Swift as the wind of the Lord. 8o THE FLIGHT OF THE BOLD HUNTERS ■ The hunt grew fainter, for few could follow. Down the fields of the infinite came no sound. A bugle's blast in a far-off hollow Died on the night's dim bound . . . A hush, tense, dumb as a swift disaster : A game thing leapt from a pang of pain : And high in His heaven the great Hunt-master Welcomed His hunters home again. SAVONAROLA LUST, laughter, splendour, torture, tyranny ; Virility extinct, and Virtue dead, And God forgot, and proud Guilt trumpeted, And Truth dethroned, and man no longer free, And harlots in the inmost sanctuary, And pandering prelates, fat with Borgian bread, And Princes by dishonour wooed and wed : These were thy woes, Renascent Italy. And one alone who ate not of thy feast, By luxury and revel unenticed : One only 'gainst the Tyrant and the Beast, — One fervent heart, above all purchase priced ! Princes and Pontiff 'gainst one simple Priest ! All men for Dionysos : He for Christ ! 81 THE HIGHEST SERVICE TO share the fate of Christ and Socrates ; To weep with Dante, and with Bruno die; To meet no mercy under heaven ; to lie In night's ungentle bosom without ease ; To be the prey of mighty miseries, And, mocked of men, to lift a lonely cry That mingles with the weary winds that sigh, And with the moanings of the midnight seas — This is to serve the Highest ! — 'Tis to bring Hope to the desert ; to face friendship's frown ; 'Tis to be hated ; 'tis with tears to drown Felicity ; it is with faith to cling To the soul's dream, to clasp that cruel thing — The cross of Conscience — yea the martyr's Crown. 82 THE PAINTER'S DREAM (Italian Renascance) I STOOD 'mid desolation ; ruin hoar Lay round — the sloughs and skeletons of time. Stillness, that clung like terror to the heart, Clutched at my breath. In that dread loneliness An ominous Presence mutely walked with me With eyes that probed the depths, and burned like flames. Through grievous twilight toward that face I peered, And my pale spirit with a ghostly cry Shrank from his recognition. All the caves And caverns of my being looked at me, — Leapt to that light from everlasting eyes. There were no shadows in me any more : Ashamed, I sought and found no hiding-place. The sounding plaudits of unthinking men Sought long, and long experienced, were to me As jests upon the ears of them that die. As one who through untold eternity In flight precipitate, for ever vain, 83 84 THE PAINTER'S DREAM From his soul's anger speeds and dares not rest, I would have fled, fled — fled the woe within ! Yet stood in terror rooted, while with pain The past came on me like a passion sweet And fair, O fair and sweet to agony ! And innocence was there and all my joy. And unavailing grief was mine alone. In that large desolation, far from hope, I heard familiar voices in the winds Calling my childish feet across the years. Again deep in the mute and perfumed night From turrets muffled close in clambering vines And waiting for the stars, the dreamy bells Charmed evening fields, and o'er the billowy sleep Of undulating woodlands, trailing sheen, The hushed moon came, a comely visitant, And all the olives whitened on the hills. Loved faces, long forgotten, rose and smiled, Rushing to kiss remembrance ; and the sight Wrung me to tears ; and revealed I stood A horror to my deathless self, and all My deeds smelt hateful to me, so that I cried In bitter barrenness in that dim place, " O hide me from the living and the dead, From all that was, and is, and is to be ; To merciful annihilation give This horror, that is I ! " Then, tremblingly, Blanched, neath unuttered doom and desperate dole, I sought that stern, still face that shamed my own, With lips that shook I whispered, " Who art thou THE PAINTER'S DREAM 85 Whose eyes are judgments, on whose face lie writ Sad records and a bane? " Thus answered he, " Thy deeds are past. I am the great Undone, The memory of the abiding god, The mutilation of the Might-have-been, The Light, that lent a glory to the bone, That, from the domination of the blood Driven, wore, undimmed, undying majesty ; The Self that at thy hearthstone sat and sighed — Yea, stood aloof, an uninvited guest, Beside thy banquets hungering ; that Self, To thee more faithful than thy perjured will, That warned thee weeping. Though man may flee from good From that dread thing Himself no man shall fly. Sorrowing and unestranged thou and I Shall haunt, unblessed, these blasted, dismal shores, Curst from past time, and doomed to chase for ever The unsubstantial glory and the dream, Called by the virgin voices evermore Where life is loss, and voices all are vain. Come." And he led me to a looming tower Whereby we entered an accursed place, A city piled on gloom and zoned with woe. And all my limbs as grass before the wind Bent to that will and followed whipped of fear. And loud behind us clanged th' eternal doors. Thin shapes with withered faces fluttered by And burthened the sick light with looks that moaned ; And bodiless spirits, gnawed with memories, 86 the painter's dream Passed like blown smoke, and with their shameful sins Fled into hollow glooms, and were not hidden. And sensual shapes, all passion and all pain, The scarred memorials of distempered men, Craving their dizzy transports, ceasing not, Pursued with questing hands, horrid and mute, Their mocking lusts, and clasped their empty hells. On drifting waves of darkness as we went Brake glories from my all-remembering soul, And faces, tender with beatitude, Against a blandishment of aureate dreams Smiled, as of old they smiled — these hungrily, With unattaining feet I followed, followed — Followed, by stern compulsion dizzily drawn, Through Hell's portentous hush, adown the vast Unfathomable void I followed, followed ! They vanished from me. There was none to heed. Then awful thought, weightier than mountains, pressed My quelled soul, labouring in the live inane, Helpless, condemned, immortal, far from hope. Then moisture oozed from out my melting bones, And terror from me, surging into sound, Broke, and the shadows of that deathly place Shook with my wail of pain tdl wondering ghosts, Immured of old, and long since grown attuned To agony, turned from their fruitless quests With doomful eyes, and damned me. Then I saw Throned on the floating gloom inviolate, In wandering glory, dolorous, eminent, The Crucified, the undying dream, the Christ ; THE PAINTER'S DREAM 87 And toward the glimmering whiteness where He wept There came a mist of faces drifting up The hollow dark, a choking multitude, Thousands on thousands, and, like a mournful wind In leafless wintry places mountainous Where nothing comes, passed, and that bitter peace Sighed ; and they vanished to a doom unknown ; And all the gulfs were even as mouths that moaned. Then crept some dire eclipse, and God was not, But grief alone. Yet while that vision faded From out the homeless limits of the deep, On faces weird that yearned, on parted lips, Whereon the sighs hung dead, there stole a breath Fresh as dream-joys to souls engulfed in sorrow, And stirred the shadowy hair of them that mourned : And hope, a memory, moved through hopeless hell. Then the dark waters of unmatched despair Rolled over me, and even th' immortal swooned A little while — till from that dreadful ooze Upborne, I woke, and found the dawn — in Rome .... Before me locked in vinous slumbers lay The palpitant playthings of lascivious hours Couched on the wine-stained floor: the dainty Tita, With tumbled hair and tangled drapery, Drooped, like a soiled flower, 'gainst the listless leaves That trailed down jocund Bacchus' mounded thigh, Her lips' vermillion, dabbled on cheek and throat, Dyeing the pearls I gave her. Gloria too ; Her bosom with its twin unclouded moons Enshrined the peaceful breath ; her sinuous arms SS THE PAINTER'S DREAM Coiled languidly, and every leaning limb's Persuasive line and curve showing perfectly. Then stood I forth alone — defiled, defiled ! And bowed my head, and all the angel rose Within me, and I cried, O with my soul I cried to that which hears, " Beauty is fair, And art is fair, and life and love both fair, But I am foul, and bathe a servile spirit In perfumed baths of sensuality. I will fulfil my manhood ; I will rise, I will o'ercome the past, the wronged years Shall wrong not me ; I will o'ertake my dream And mount on wings to Raphael and the rest, And hear the feet of them that pass in light, Yea with pure vision see the innermost Where beauty kisses God ! " Then, dazed with tears, I stepped upon the balcony, and saw Against the vague campagna weird and wide, A soft flush fuse the bronze of Hadrian, And petalled glories stealing on column and wall, A blush on Tiber, and the dawn a flower Blown on the dome of Michaelangelo. TO A BEAUTIFUL DARK ROSE BLOOM that in an English garden sets the thought aflame, Symbol meet lor love's fair glamour, for the gleam That allures man's life for ever toward a bourne he can- not name In his dream. I who wander bee-like 'mong the beauties of the world, Wooed and wooer, with a pomp of dreams for dower, Find within thy folded fragrance wealth of faery incurled, Solemn flower. Bloom that in the vales of Shiraz Persian Saadi knew When leaned with heavy sweets the gorgeous hours In closes hushed where dreams, all drenched with rose- scents, rhythmic grew, Sweet as flowers. 89 go TO A BEAUTIFUL DARK ROSE Shadow-forms fantastic, misty hair and moonlit eyes Float about thee, languorous odours that recall Mild remembrances of sorrows spent and sounds of tired sighs Virginal. Dim from worlds enchanted courtly knights and queenly dames Hover round thee, ghostly presences that once Passed in amorous beauty dallying while the roses heard their names In Provence. One with poignant loveliness and sorrow's majesty Lends thee, rose, to lips of him she may not kiss, Links thy name to pain for ever — unto Dante, Italy, Beatrice. Thou might'st deck the tomb of rich romance, a love's whose flame Burned, strange to peace, in bitter nunneries — Hers whose dust of old time bore that frail undying name Heloise. Lovely flower, thou speak'st to me of griefs august and dead That gloomed the brows of queens in beauty's prime, Of the poignance and the splendour that wreathed many a regal head Bowed by time. TO A BEAUTIFUL DARK ROSE gi Peerless Helen, throned on woes, with wars incarnadined, Had worn thee on the sterile towers of Troy Gazing lone toward Lacedaemon, yearning down the homing wind, F'ar from joy. She whose pomp of beauty dimmed the moon's in Babylon Might have spared thee at her sultry bosom place, O flame in velvet darkness, when the triumph burning shone On her face. Yea and she who blazed against the gloom of Africa Flame-like, splendid, — zoned in her all graces were — When Rome grew wax before her face, and dazzled India Salaamed to her. Passionate epitome of mute and patient earth, Pride ebullient from the world's unwearied core, Ruby soul of odorous silence, mystery is thy perfect birth Evermore. Raptures from dead sunsets and from dawns that break not here, Wealth from noons that spilt long since their amber wine, Draughts of moonlight, and of starlight, and of darkness full of fear, Rose, are thine. 92 TO A BEAUTIFUL DARK ROSE Blushing evanescence of frail loveliness whose breath Is sweet as love's last kiss on lips and brow, Thy tender petals shrink as from the stealing touch of death Even now. Beauty moulders, mingles with the pathos of the past ; Love's and life's impassioned petals pale and pine, Crumble surely, and are scattered 'mid the dust of world's at last Ev'n as thine. IN ABSENCE 1HAVE not seen thy face this weary while — This while so drear, so very drear and long : Yet hath my heart been nourished on thy smile, And on thy face my song Hath pored, and gathered there most pleasing thoughts And sweet love-notes. I have not felt the kindness of thy hand, Nor in thy spirit's hush of gentleness Drawn blessing of the peace that maketh bland Shrill life's too-rude caress, And poureth balm on all the bosom bears Of common cares. The days are lone, and very lone the nights, And very lone the heart when absence breeds Gray thoughts and dreary dreams of dead delights ; Abiding love man needs, Abiding light of love to bless and buoy His life with joy. 93 94 IN ABSENCE I have not heard thy voice this lonesome while : 1 borrow sadness from the falling leaf : Like mist-wreathed Autumn, weary for a smile, I stand and gaze on Grief, And hear the feet of Sorrow as she hies Toward death's surprise. tj THE GOLDEN STAIR Part I. BLITHE wind, what laughter brings thee from afar ? What fragrance sweet in dingle or in dale Makes swift thy wings, so light thy flying feet Tolling the hyacinth bells ? Aerial joy, I do not envy thee ! Wild water, hurrying from the mountain clefts Where the clean clouds kiss and the dawn first comes, What sweetness summons thee, thou wandering song, To rush-fringed pools where hour by glassed hour The patient heron pores ? to where by caves In loud-applauding coombs the regal sea Eternal thunder makes ? Sing, wave, and speed : I do not envy thee ! — For I have drunk of wonder rich as wine ; Love the supreme apocalypse is come — My Love is come ! and these familiar fields Are sanctified and fair for evermore. To live is wonderful ! O this rich world ! 95 9 6 THE GOLDEN STAIR Part II. An angry sunset, that through rifted clouds Splintered on headlands hoar its shafts of fire, Hath called the carmine from a sullen sky And ta'en a fierce farewell, and all is gray. The sea is sunk in shadow, and the shore Is thronged with muffled motions murmurous. There is a menace in the sombre pines, A loneliness is sighing in the land ; Mist-wraiths creep chilly, and in the garden ways Thin phantom voices pipe to phantom ears ; And, proudly shrill, toward some on-coming storm The bird of elemental battle sings. Y\ ill he not come ? The night holds all the east, And gathers to her bosom the dead west ; A low rack swims, and the windy Pleiades Have veiled their social fires in central gloom : There is not one pale star for company. Only a lost wind, wandering from the moors, Mutters its grievance to the leafless boughs And dies uncomforted. My husband, mine. I grow to hate this big tyrannic world That strikes a steely hand 'twixt soul and soul, That claims on some pale pretext for itself The treasures of the heart of woman. O ! Must women ever beat the void in vain And strive with ghosts ? . . . This world hath cares enow, My husband, and they steal into the face, And dwell in shadow underneath the smile : THE GOLDEN STAIR 97 A niggard confidence doth widows make More oft than death, ah, far more oft than death. O, take all pleasant accidents away, All soft and kindly seemings put them by, I would not dream for ever ; life is large, And I who lived for beauty yearn for truth. Beyond these little hours felicitous Bid me to share th' adventurous years with thee ; With love to suffer is at worst to live Darkling at glimmering doors : to doubt is death. Men give us gold, ease, flatteries, kisses, we Women cry out for cares, for pangs to bear ! Cry 'for our birthright in a climbing world And gain but smiles and pity ! So the abyss, Whose dreadful silence words can never bridge, Broadens between us and our dearest. O ! We ne'er were meant in impotence to mourn, To long in vain, 'mid slow obsequious days, For proud wounds proudly won in ringing wars, Striving beside our loves. So frail we seem, So frail men deem us — we so strong to bear Those pains Promethean that renew the world ! Tush ! — 'twas his footfall . . . Nay, the time is full Of ghosts — ghosts from dead summers, springtimes gone, Ghosts that do wear the faces of old vows, Of little tendernesses now forgot But once familiar, gentle ghosts that come From tenderer days, that, gazing poignantly, Disturb the calm dull flow of use and wont : Ghosts all. Press home the bolt : He will not come. 98 THE GOLDEN STAIR Heart, put thy hope away ; the hour is late, And there are voices in the wind to-night I dare not hear. So drop our dreams away, These little dreams built of a woman's love. Once more the strong world wins. He will not come. Part III. Down, down into the dust, my dream, my king! The tower 'gainst which I chose to build my life, Thinking it stronger than the winds of the world, Wrecked — but a mouldering ruin, whereto I cling, Like ivy to a crumbling wall, and dwell Alone with thoughts — with thoughts — that come and build Like birds do build in fallen palaces — Ravens and owls — my thoughts — that croak of grief And cry at midnight to the wintry moon. To know is pain : to think is agony, For all the past comes rich about my heart And proud with all of promise. Time was sweet Once ; and the years like friends stood beckoning, — Ah, here doth lie the theme that poisons life: This living woe, that dead felicity — That stands for ever with its angel face And smiles and smiles. Oh, mother Memory, Thou torturest with kindness, all thy children Are beautiful and bitter to my soul, Mocking my days. I gave him all with joy, And stood beside him with a radiant trust, THE GOLDEN STAIR 99 Calling him " Husband" in the hush of Heaven. God, help thy frailties when their angels fall ! What sacred gifts in him found sanctuary, What might was his to wrestle with the times — - To wring concessions from the grudging years, And bear yet higher the banner of mankind ! But he hath trodden the path that traitors tread, And lives in friendship with his own dishonour. Oh ! had he fallen, having nobly striven, I would have pressed sweet comfort to his wounds, Waxed in my pride of love continually — Have joyed to stand beside him 'gainst the world ! But he hath turned his back upon the stars, And old delights he loves not any more. My face hath no more beauty for his eyes ; These lips make smiles toward lips that smile no more ; My kisses are as dead flowers to the wind. Oh, I am hungry for a life to love ! For some pure face to kiss, for some frail hand To touch with soft and fingering tenderness This cold and empty breast before I die ; But mine are the ghostly children of fair dreams, That down the hours with sad, bereaved eyes, Steal mutely : unto loss my heart is given, My home is 'neath the cypress among tombs, And all my steps are upon quiet graves. IOO THE GOLDEN STAIR Part IV. Too dear may grow my sorrow ; I fondle it Too tenderly against a desolate breast ; In lonely hours it clings unto my heart, And sucks its fill, and draws my nature dry, And I grow warped, and wither ere my time. I seem as one long sick and pent in gloom Who hears a hand athwart the curtains move, And turns with aching eyes, and, wonderingly, Beholds through the open casement, dim with mist, Glimmer the first flush of the storied morn. My dream is dreamed : and, this deep stupor past, To murmuring life I waken dizzily : The day shows unfamiliar to my eyes, And common things seem strange and far away, And more remote and alien shine the stars. I am a woman still : and many weep In this wide world, and are forsaken of love, And lift imploring hands into the void ; And many dream fond dreams and wake too soon To life's harsh usages. I will go forth And lay a balm on brows that ache, and raise The cup of comfort to some sister's lips, Nor shrink from tainted touch, nor dire disease, Nor leave the sinner desolate : I have loved. I too in dreary vicinage of despair Have felt the vanity of lingering hope, And, through the initiation of sad loss, Have been made one of that gray company THIi GOLDEN STAIR IOI That mutely question time, and through the gloom Peer toward a laggard dawn with eyes that mourn If he wrong life should I not serve life more And make my service plead before the Highest ? He loved me once : and if his needs were sins — Such crimson rages hath the intemperate blood — She had great Nature's virtue — she was fair. I touched him at his highest : sins toO were mine, Mine too no doubt — some feminine defect, Some unfelt want that left love incomplete, Some gesture that disturbed the equipoise Of heart and heart and like a discord clashed, Some native manner, maybe, unrebuked, A tone that lived a liar to the thought,— Faults, such as suckled in a private mind Grow monstrous, and do violence to love And poison peace. We are but riddles all. Ah this strange world — I loved it long ago ! Still blow the merry winds about the moors, And in the woods are heard the prattling burns, And on the hills the shining mists sail by Leaving a shimmering silence where they pass. Life is not all a lie, nor all the past False, though a selfish grief affirmed it so. I will rise now, I will go forth alone And search for duties as some seek for gems, And make my sorrow servant to my soul And to the world. And for the rest, who knows, When I am proved in fortitude and grown old In good works and in wisdom, haply joy 102 THE GOLDEN STAIR Far off, somewhere, may touch me into smiles, And health return, and life be sweet again — I am so young — this sorrow slanders me : The hours go by, and night to morn gives place, Winter to summer, it may be grief to joy, For all delights touch time on sudden wings; This patient earth, that waits no spring in vain, Turns toward the summer with a flush of flowers Though hearts be sad and tears eclipse the morn. Ah, beauty grows not weary under heaven, Xor ebbs the gladsome glory of the world : Young lovers wander still by field and shore, And kiss at sunset where the corn is grown ; And the birds build and sing, and rear their young, And are not sad. Somewhere, sometime, who knows, This love for one may grow to love for all, And joy, reborn from strange vicissitudes, Closing calm eyes may dream again her dream Where twilight's tender voices whisper, Peace. I will go forth, I will go now and serve. Part Y. Pit-shaft and furnace and a piled sturm Of ponderous vapour threatening half the world Sullenly rolling toward a hopeless west. Behold thy world, my heart ! take up thy work, THE GOLDEN STAIR I03 Lose thou thy darkness in this larger gloom, Lose thou thy loss within this larger need, Lose thou thyself and grow complete through all. The day declines ; this sad and smouldering city, Set in a blasted waste, gathers the night About her orgies red, her tragic night, Ere, harlot-like, she flaunts her shame to heaven And adds to darkness terror. Here 'mid these ruins of a realm once fair I'll root my life, and feed a healthier hope, And turn once more my soul's face to the stars, And live by deeds not dreams — that drift us down The cloudy slope to sad futility. A drizzling rain falls in the sordid streets : Like some slow foul miasma the dank mist Creeps from the scummy river : here and there Shrill whistling steam pants hoar. The wavering light Fails, and a weird horizon, blotched with flame, Burns into sight, till the unsteady dark Riots in lurid anger where on high Some monstrous furnace, mid a ghastly glare Of hissing gas-jets, spurts its dragon-breath. All night the steaming engines shunt and scream, And speed flame-bearded on into the gloom ; And men delve deep in pits, or to and fro, Like tortured imps, leap 'mid the laughing fires, Flouting the fingering death ; and women pray, Or curse, or cheat with sleep the haggard hours : At dawn the caverned depths give up their dead Or living, and the day begins again. 104 THE GOLDEN STAIR There is no pampering here, no idle griefs That mildly melt in slow luxurious tears, Bui stolid woes that bite the lip and laugh, And ask not pity having known not love. Here sullen fate doth hold with iron hand The lives of men — yea, like yon thing of steel, Stupendous shape, that in blind passiveness Swings its wide arm about the doomful hours, Even so — cold, heedless, with blind purpose, here God seems. O, life, here lies thy work ! O, heart, Dispel the lie of circumstance, and seek The numb, sick hearts of men and soften woe ! Here are crushed souls, and sorrows long grown sere, And hearts growing deader daily, strange to joy ; Here little children far from Nature's dream, And beauty, and the tenderness of love — Of love ! O God ! give me some sister's pain ! Help me to walk these chosen ways with hope, Help me to service quickly ere I die, Lest I pass hence and wrong the world and Thee ! Cold is the rain, and keen the winter wind Blows inland from the barren-breasted sea. Lead, Spirit, my random feet to them that weep, To them that have no solace under heaven Lead, Spirit, and spend me wholly, till at last I see Thy sunlight through the clouds of self, And reach through service to the life of all. THE GOLDEN STAIR I05 Part VI. A little rest, and then a longer rest Ere other labours set in other worlds. I grow familiar with felicity : There are strange powers at work within the world That men wot not of shaping all men's weal. I have seen the ways of old, and they are fair And gracious as when erst they felt the feet Of them I loved. How rich with memories This mild autumnal land ! There is no lie With Nature, at her breast she nourishes Our tenderest dreams, and when the heavy years Have tempered us, and sorrows made us kind, And service clean, to her embracing arms She takes once more her children, and returns With balm its fragrant treasures to the heart. . . . Open the casement ; let the moorland wind Flow round me. How ripe and peaceful is the land ; No wave is on the wheat ; the languid corn Waits for the reapers ; far the yellowing woods Dip to the sea, where down a lane of fire The setting sun hies west. The spreading plain, Rich with a hundred breathing homesteads, takes The tender touch of evening. Not a sound — Save when the plaintive peewit toppling dives Into the purple silence. Inward borne How sweet the fragrance of the resting earth, That with a trustful beauty wistfully Waits the soft coming of the tender night, 106 THE GOLDEN STAIR The old sweet night and the remembering stars. So once I waited — it seems so long ago! — Waited in amber sunsets for my love, And saw the sheen of evening aureole The pleading beauty of his leaning face — His who went from me with the beauteous years. I yearned for him in the large and lonely noons, And mid the sobs of cities walled with grief I called the ancient kindness to his face, Yea in the gentle twilight of my dreams His feet made silence music. Dust to dust. For her his body burned itself away ; Those fires are cold, the ashes wide are whirled By clean rough-handed winds through alien lands : His pain hath become a voice in the lonely sea, A sadness on some moonless shore ; and now His passion, with the tempest mingled, put To holier uses, serves this complex world In wisdom ; but thou — Spirit — art upgathered Into the thought of God where, from these shadows, That on the hillsides slowly lengthen now, My soul shall follow soon Ah, there are many sorrows under heaven That serve for royal uses and that lead By divers ways our faint and timorous souls To sovereignty. We are life's pupils still Laughing or weeping. Joy is exquisite, And to the souls of mortals pain may be A privilege or curse e'en as we will, For we are mightier than our woes can be, THE GOLDEN STAIR I07 And must make Sorrow servant to the Heights, Nor lose one good for some far dream of good, Nor waste on phantoms what was meant for man, Clasping our dead illusions ; we are great Through what we strive for, and are noble proved By what we overcome. Ere passing hence, Havened from conflict and the storm of time Here in this tranquil valley, I can read My little page of life with thankfulness ; For I am come through pain to peace, am come To joy through service, and to fearless hope Bv mingling with the hearts of humankind. Here in the twilight while the homing rooks Caw in the elm wood, ere the pageant sky Forgets its passionate parting with the sun, I stand, and all I see is full of love, Full of strong love and prophecies of good. As one whu on a mountain looking back Seeks not his path, nor thinks of all his toil, But gazes wide in wonder and in awe, So do I gaze upon this phase of time, While Death, the guide, points up to where on high Serener summits glimmer See, the night Thickens ; and me the wooing voices call Over the pine-tops yonder comes the moon, The harvest moon, and gladdens all the corn. Welcome the shadow, and the little sleep, The loftier plateau, and the larger morn, Labour, and love, and pain, and joy, and all That in the thronging and the untrodden years Waits life's renascent spirit — welcome all ! Io8 THE GOLDEN STAIR Till that great Light dawns on these twilight deeds, Till love through time strikes one clear note, and world To amorous world makes signal, " All is well." DAWN SONG HARK ! the dawn-song in the valley. O the race, the rest, the rally ! Peeping eyes in every alley, Piping tongues in every tree ! Come along, along, along ! Join the wood's enraptured throng In the rush of melody. Things of night are caveward creeping ; In and out the elves are peeping ; Timid lives come leaping, leaping, O'er the lichen, through the dew ; Come along, along, along ! Foot it with a twinkling throng ; Bats hie bedward, owlets too. Sober thoughts are setting gleeward ; Cottage smoke ascends to leeward ; And the wind is drifting seaward Down the broom bank, saffron-brave. 109 110 DAWN SONG Dance along, along, along ! While, a proud and solemn throng, Pines salaam the brightening wave. Daybreak in the lonely valley. O the sweets in glade and alley ! O the shy peep and the sally When the flags of dawn unfurled, Over marsh and moorland flying, Flush the hamlets valeward lying Where the barn-cock, shrilly crying, Scares the silence of the world ! On the wold's rim blandly staring Stands the sun ; and, blithe and daring, Puss through dewy meads is faring Chased by little mists of spray. Pheasants down the woodland riding, All the solemn shadows chiding, Take the gleam, and sail to hiding Where on crimson creeps the gray. Through the valley, through the valley, Where the shy rills rest and rally, Where the mounting day doth dally With the snow-white scented thorn, Skip along, along, along ! With a light and lively throng Welcoming the merry morn. DAWN SONG III Kingcups, drowsy-eyed and lazy, Whisper to the waking daisy ; And the beetle, mailed and crazy, Stumbles 'mong the hyacinth bells. Come along, along, along ! Now the big bee's booming song Murmuring dies in elfin dells. Ah, the tiny forms in motion Round each dewdrop's gleaming ocean, — Fleeting lives, with every notion Bounded by a floret's bell ! Here are feasts that Ariel knows not, Realms where foot of fancy goes not, Histories that knowledge shows not, And the tales that none may tell. Baa of ewe, and lambkin's bleating, Blithe delight of streams at meeting, And the cuckoo's mellow greeting Move like mystery through the mind. Come along, along, along ! Up the shining stairs of song Soaring larks leave earth behind. Clouds across the moors are flying, Gulls about the cliffs are crying, And the tide is shoreward hieing With a laughter in its roll ; 112 DAWN SONG In many a dene and dingle now The soft sea-murmurs mingle now, And love and life, a-tingle now, Are kissing in the soul. JEHU IN THE CITY THE cars clank past 'neath whizzing wires, With muddled murmurs throbs the air, Time's watchword shakes a crowd of spires That soar round Clarence Square. There, when the chestnut's piled with bloom In middle June, and when, all frore, The traffic probes the clinging gloom With numb, fog-muffled roar, Old Jehu toddles to and fro, Alert to fares and deaf to noise, In touch with themes of long ago When grandfathers were boys. He seems some sprite of mischief fled From staid convention's livery, Some rosy son of silence fed On laughter secretly. "3 114 JEHU IN THE CITY His heart is his companion boon ; He's sleek and knowing — like his mare, And cautious as the temperate moon That visits Clarence Square. With sly and philosophic mien Life's aim he scans, nor scorns the end ; He gazes on the curious scene A critic, and a friend. With shrug and shoulder-pointing thumb, Chin couched on chest, he cons awhile, And fast the witty fancies come And twinkle in his smile. The civic magnate, stern and prim, With ponderous paunch, and seal, and chain ; The nightly beauty, lithe and trim, All smiles and painted pain ; The dapper clerk, with dubious rings And pride-starved gizzard, past him go ; And he beneath the skin of things Peeps at the life below — And tracks it with the thoughtful tread Of sage experience in the mind Mutely, then wags a tilted head, And whistles i' the wind. JEHU IN THE CITY II5 Life startles him with no surprise ; His heart hath pored on human fate, And semblance melts before the eyes Of one too wise to hate. Dawnflush and noon-flame, eves that fling Splendour through many a squalid place, Waylay his madcap moods, and bring A mildness to his face. Time's jangled moments roister by Beneath the sun ; and, tired at last, Round Jehu 'neath a midnight sky The purring hours go past. Years touch with gravely genial change This buttoned wit in mottled brown ; Still his adventurous eye can range The pavement up and down Where the bedraggled lilacs lie Soot-grimed, or where, in grim despair, The red geraniums slowly die In gloomy Clarence Square. And still beside him, mutely wise, His ancient nag, contented, peers On time with mild, observant eyes And humour-twitched ears. Il6 JEHU IN THE CITY Ah, Jehu's versed in mundane ways ; A deep old couple, Jess and he, — They seem to shape their common days To one philosophy : In summer's shine, in winter's sleet Beneath a chestnut stand the pair Close to the kerb in Clarence Street That enters Clarence Square. THE SANCTUARY A BLACKBIRD clinked a crystal note, Its tinkle from the copsewood came ; And, like a beatific thought, The sunset's mellow flame Lay on the happy fields, and brought A rapture without name. The light that flushed the sombre moor, Stole to the pine-gloomed mountain-wall ; Like face of one whose faith is sure Earth smiled ; and fell on all A benediction 'mid that pure, Hushed ceremonial. I heard the dreamy zephyrs' croon, And lispings low in drowsy grass ; I faintly felt on shining shoon Feet as of angels pass, Soft as the footsteps of the moon On meres as smooth as glass. 117 Il8 THE SANCTUARY Some miracle made rich the air ; The breath in worship rose from me Like incense stirred by some saint's prayer In a still sanctuary ; Some sacrament was offered there With high solemnity. All, all about me glory trailed, The gleaming forms of things divine, 'Twas ecstasy that hardly failed Of Heaven ; and there, supine, In fearful bliss my spirit quailed, — - I felt God's face seek mine. Time touched me with a touch half pain. Pricking the twilight, poised afar Over the city in the plain One scintillating star Watched ; and I heard the tidal main Moan on the sullen bar. The blackbird clinked ; with noisy throat He shook the dusk in hurtling flight ; The west along the sea remote Bled, and the wound was bright ; Lone o'er the darkling moor did float One gleam of chrysolite. THE MOUNTAIN BURN s MOOTHLY, softly over the stones Slides the burn Here in the wilds, where the thunder moans In August noons, where on pinnacled thrones The demons shriek in tempest-tones In the winter nights, and whirl their hands, And wail in these desolate mountain-lands. 'Neath a gloom of pines, where the crags frown stern, Lorn, amid wastes of rushes and fern Glides the lyrical burn. Now in a well Like a tinkling bell It slips ; Now in a dim and a mossy dell Shy and fair as a naiad's cell It dips ; And now in a pool That is clear and cool It gleams and glistens ; 119 120 THE MOUNTAIN BURN And the skies show fair As it lingers there And lies and listens, Like a mind that lies upon vacancy And mirrors the shapes of phantasy. The lingering notes that loiter near Are notes that only the heart can hear ; And dallying Like an amorous thing In love with the world is the mountain-spring. Over it deep in the dazzling sky The buzzard wheels with a plaintive scream ; And the blue-zoned, glancing dragon-fly Darts through its lucent dream. Hither, from valleys misty and dim, Steal ghosts of sounds through the haunted fells ; Round listening pinnacles grand and grim Murmur the hamlet bells. Loud in the peace is the pulse's beat ; From the brooding rock-brows darkly stern Comes a desolate voice, a quavering bleat, That dies 'mong the upland fern ; And solitude turns in her ancient seat And sighs to the desert burn. Now the hill-breeze breaks on its silver breast As it speeds to sport with a stately cloud Trailing its pride down the leisured west, And it wakes and warbles its thoughts aloud To the lone, grey mountain crest : THE MOUNTAIN BURN 121 " O, wide is the world, and fair is the quest, And wonder is wise, and delight is blest, And to wander is sweetest though sweet is rest." Now out and down to the open brae With a laugh 't doth leap, For voices are calling far away, " Burn, to thy deep ! "— Chanting on some far resonant shore, — 'Tis the ocean choir At morn and at midnight heard evermore Calling the rivers through all the world. Water to water, fire to fire, Like unto like through the cosmos swirled, Lower to lower, higher to higher, Nothing can stay, For ever away ! Yet away ! And it bounds and exults with the world's desire The burn but born to-day. A SON OF CAIN ; OR THE INITIATION OF JOHN EDEN. JOHN EDEN I, by God's good will A man to mould and dree The common lot, to weep with ill, To laugh with jollity. Mine is a tale — mute down and dale Remember it. Let truth prevail. My tale I'll tell to thee. The morn was brave, the merry May Was up and all abroad ; On foot, on wing, at poise, at play All light young lives that loved the day Their artless gladness showed. On such a morn the youthful mind Unto itself doth be A blithe companion — overkind, A love, an ecstasy Attuned to pleasures blest, but blind To earth's humanity. 122 A SON OF CAIN 123 On such a morn I scoured alone The land in such a mood ; My happy heart was all my own, And down the honeyed blood Sent music, and delight was blown : O life was very good ! For I had wealth, and buoyant health, And lightsome days and free, Coy fantasies that came by stealth, And mystic revelry, And raptures that could scarce express Themselves in thought, yet claimed no less A single sovranty. In yonder glade in yon green wood The white-thorns stand in flower. Thus in my thoughtless years they stood When very breath was power. In yon shy glade in yon green wood In youth's swift, prideful hour I met one with a dismal face Who seemed to grope his way ; He brought a dolour to the place, A darkness to the day ; About his feet the primrose pale Saddened in Darton Vale. 124 A SON OF CAIN I oft had passed the man before ; He seemed a soul at strife, That sought not any human door, A life alone in life, A homeless wanderer evermore, Alone, alone in life. I had seen him on the gloaming moors, And in the tangled wild, In grieving spots where earth allures Her lone and grieving child, Where time in stoic calm endures, To life unreconciled. I had seen him on the shaggy height Against the sunset-bloom A moment poise, then dip from sight Into the moorland gloom, Melt far into the mantling night On rolling breadths of broom. I had pitied him. May God forgive The pity lightly given — That mocks the suffering brave that live, Insults the saints in heaven. May God forgive, may God forgive The life no pang hath riven ! A SON OF CAIN How swiftly to the selfish heart Comes wrath when pleasure flees ! This gray soul wandering apart Ruffled my splendid ease : I spoke like one with callous heart Who neither feels nor sees. Said I, " It is a merry morn ; 'Tis more than sin," I said, " To move where so much joy is born As though all joy were dead. You do annoy the face of joy, And soil the day ! " I said. He turned to me his old sad eyes ; He spoke no human word ; He looked at me with sad, sad eyes ; They spake, though nought was heard. I shrank like one too late grown wise Who waits the torture-word. He stretched to me his withered hand, It on my shoulder laid ; It scathed me like a burning brand ; I flinched. Yet there it stayed. He held me with a ghostly hand There in that oaken glade. 125 126 A SON OF CAIN There stole a shadow on the sun And all the shine went out ; The pollards in that eerie spot Stood like dead men that dared not rot — That stared and stared and could not rot With that live hush about. The air was like a thing of mind, Oppressive as a knell ; The air was like a thing of mind, By mute intentions fell Stirred inwardly, a power not blind Weaving a deathly spell. No sound through all the tragic wood ; No leaf moved in its tree. With swift intelligence the blood Played through me eerily, And all my being understood That woe was come to me. " Speak, Greybeard, speak ! thy dark deep eyes They make my soul grow sore." He looked at me like one that dies, Like one that loves and, dying, flies From love for evermore. A SON OF CAIN I27 He loosed from me his haunting hand ; He sate me on a stone. His face was neither grim nor bland, It seemed a face in bone ; Indifferent as death it seemed. We twain sat there alone. " O speak, thou hoary man," I said ; He started, gripped his beard ; His eyes stood staring in his head As though he saw his weird ; Stone-like he stood as though his blood Congealed before his weird. "Youth," said he, " well I know thy name." . . . (His eyes were like slow fires.) " Tush," said he, " I will spare thee blame, Yet thy light soul requires That thou should'st house with shame. Too high that human heart aspires That soars 'yond sorrow's flame. " Youth, I was once the fool of joy. My heart was put to school ; And I was forced to pain's employ, Was whipped in folly's rule, And plucked from all delights that buoy The senses of the fool. 128 A SON OF CAIN " I sought from very far this place To gaze a little while In secret on a careless face, To watch a casual smile. . . . Earth had for me no biding place, And life no kindly smile." . . . Methought, so still the sunless scene, I heard the may-snow fall. All pensive drooped the woodland green As for some funeral. " Speak, ghostly voice of ghostly years, Whose very tones are tears ! " He gazed about and overhead, He looked far off and near. " I knew a man," he slowly said, (My loud heart quaked to hear.) " I loved him well : but he is dead : He lived by Windal mere." Death-silent all the tragic wood. No leaf stirred in its tree. Dread like a frost was in the blood, Some direful augury. Too well my being understood That woe was come to me. A SON OF CAIN 120. " Speak, old and dreadful man ; be just ; Hast thou some wrong to rue ? Is there some dark deed ? broken trust ? And doth a dead man sue ? 'Twas told me once my father died By Windal water's weary side." Beyond the reach of mortal sound, In realms untrodden of men, His spirit ranged some cloudy bound. The strong spell snapped. He stirred, and found This human world again. — " I loved a woman long ago ; She had a perfect face, A peerless form ; there seemed to flow Great wonder from her grace ; Living she lent on earth below A charm to every place. " As wise was she as sin is wise. Rich love makes radiant weather ! She was a splendour, a surprise, — O, she and I together Out-laughed the laughing skies ! I30 A SON OF CAIN " 1 loved her long and long ago. Another loved her too ; And I was swift, and he was slow ; And both began to woo ; And he was heat, and I was fire ; And both alike did woo. " And he was rich, and I was poor, — Two sons of one sweet mother ; We had played about our father's door As brother plays with brother. And one was rich, and one was poor, But each one loved the other. " And heat was he, but I was fire. O, she was grand to see ! A wonder, swaying bound desire In toils of witchery ! Methought such faces in heaven's choir Shone through eternity. " Blind passion takes with sultry sighs What light love never misses. Remorse, with ever-sleepless eyes, May wait on poisoned kisses. God, curse the hand that holds the cup For folly to drink up ! A SON OF CAIN 131 " Wise, wise was she as sin is wise. She poised our equal trust : To wealth she gave elusive lies, So held the balance just. The rich man won her, flesh and eyes. 'Tis long since she was dust. " They vanished. From beyond the sea Came word they twain were wed. One took the couch of misery, And one the marriage-bed. We had been brothers, I and he. I wished him ten times dead." . . . Fear's icy fingers plucked my hair, My limbs were as dried straw ; I shook as though my bones were bare, And at my breast did gnaw White terror that would ne'er be gone. That fateful voice went on. " They came again. Her face was fair, It tortured with its pride. To me her hideous core lay bare ; More leman she than bride — A lovely temptress hell could spare To turn men's souls aside. I32 A SON OF CAIN " She offered me her splendid mouth. Dead ashes my desire. She sued me with her smiling mouth Like a thing that sues for hire. Within my heart was desert-drouth ; Within my hate was fire ! " . . . " Hush ! cruel man," aloud I cried, " 1 cannot bear to hear ; I had a mother pure ; she died ; I've felt her angel near : When I was but a babe she died, Yet O ! I hold her dear." . . . " I cursed her for her trickery wrought In hell and devil-crowned ; I tracked her foulsome, plotting thought From bound to bitter bound And cursed. He entered, and we fought- We fought with little sound. . . . " O'er Windal moor the day was sped. A fell- sheep 'gan to bleat. I saw that all the west was red ; Grey-still the village street. There was a tumult in my head ; A silence at my feet. A SON OF CAIN I33 " I heard a fly beat on the pane. I saw a wreath of smoke Curl blue 'gainst evening cliffs, and gain The sky : no passion broke The calm of nature, that in pain Stared, stared and never spoke. " O God, it was so very still. The very thought was heard Moving about the brain ; the will Bent numbed ; the cold blood stirred Like memory after death : so still. Loud in that vivid void of ill A playful kitten purred." . . . Gloom closed about the lonely day. That pain-strung face forlorn Seemed gazing far and far away Where hope is never born : It seemed when that dread hush he broke 'Twas his dead body spoke. " The stars were bright in Windal mere, They winked at one another. O God ! the footsteps crowded near — ' My mother ! O, my mother ! ' She knelt before me. It was clear That I had killed my brother." . . . 134 A SON °F CAIN " Hush, horror ! let thy tongue have peace - Nay, speak in whispers rather, — O, give my reeling brain release ! Was that slain man my father ? " He looked : two strange griefs were his eyes. " My father ! O, my Father ! " " Not he ! not he ! " his arms were wide, He leapt unto my side. I shrank. He staggered to his stone Like one struck, dazed, dismayed ; He moaned. There moved a muffled moan About the awsome glade : The oaks gave forth a hollow tone, And shivered in the shade. His fingers twitched in empty air ; He was a piteous sight. The sense of all his dull despair Unmans me like a fright. Dear God ! the pain Thy creatures bear At morn, and noon, and night ! His mouth moved, as when lips in sleep Stir and the voice is dumb — While thought in some chimeric deep Travails with suffering, numb. Then twilight through his brain did creep, And slow words 'gan to come. A SON OF CAIN I35 " They took me to a grated cell ; They brought me meat and drink. But I was in the depth of hell And doomed to think and think, To wait the deep, too-slow death-knell, And watch the midnight wink. " They led me out into the light. I saw the dreadful sun ; My heart 'gan bleeding in its sight. I saw men stare and run. There fell a haze. 'Twas crimson night ; I saw not anyone. " They plied me with a wordy stream : I spake as from a shroud. As through a mist, as in a dream I saw a visaged crowd : And, white and lone, — O dreadful dream ! — Our mother spoke aloud. " Alack ! not mine the murderer's pall. My deed they named it other. ' 'Tis murder ! Let the sentence fall ! ' I cried, ' Lo, are ye liars all ? See ! I have slain my mother ! ' I36 A SON OF CAIN " And scarce it was a week she died, My virgin love, my dear. They two lie stilly side by side By Windal's eerie mere. The sunsets trail on the wild hill-side But never come anear."' . . . He paused like one who ponders o'er The world of Nevermore. " But what beyond ? Thy face is wan : The woeful worst pursue : Regret is common in time's plan, And death is common too." I heard — like one who hears in gloom The stealthy step of doom : " I tied from Windal's haunted mere To hide on alien shores. I sought no friends, I lodged with fear, And knocked at strangers' doors. Night brought men rest : I bared my breast To count the bleeding sores. " Sometimes a cloudy dream went past And hid my scars from view ; But dawn came swift and forward cast The thoughts I vainly flew. No life hath travelled 'yond its past, No life shall ever do." A SON OF CAIN " But what of Her ? my heart is cold This hovering terror quell ! " " She had great beauty ; she gat gold ; She scattered grief; she grew not old. God may have ended hell." " But what of her ? " My heart was wild, And sickening for a sign. " She bore," he said, " a seven months' child Full big as he were nine." My heart was wild and mazed my brain. " The child she bore was mine." . . . Bleak Windal moor in winter-time, And dreary Windal mere ; But a bleaker and a drearier clime Was in my bosom here. " Speak, mocking man, and tell me all ! I walk forbidden to see, Like one to his own funeral : Tell me my misery." He breathed like one o'erweighed, o'erdone. " I have no gift to spare. I died long since, and so must shun The genial human air. But this is truth — you are my son, And I my brother's heir." . . . ^7 I38 A SON OF CAIN I saw his eyes peer deep in mine To search the heart he'd torn, — To thwart — too late — his love's design That left a soul so lorn. O, bitterer than the bitter brine To me was the May morn ! The world dropped from me, life and time ; I fell down in a swoon. Beneath the burthen of a crime I woke, with shame for boon. The earth I pressed showed at its prime More empty than the moon. Truth stood before me stripped of grace. Such cruel sights men see ! Life wore a flashless skull's grimace ; Time hurt like mockery. God's heaven, without my mother's face, Was barren all for me. My mentor vanished into air, — Wise parent of my pain ; Nor could I find him anywhere, On upland or in plain. Green woods and fields again grew fair : But ah ! a deeper world was there In sunshine and in rain. A SON OF CAIN j. q Gone the wild selfish moods of youth, Proud loves that warp and cloy ; For I had felt the biting tooth Of life, and pain's alloy, Had come through wisdom and deep truth To know a gentler joy. John Eden I, by God's good will, To whom some gifts are given To sweeten pleasure, lighten ill. Love mine to gently leaven Life, upon earth to softly spill Some mercy-drops of heaven. THE PALACE-BUILDERS BEFORE me stood the wonderful Palace of Life; And I heard the Builders at their work singing ; And the stars also sang in the bosom of God, And prophesied the advent of strange suns, And glories of worlds that are yet unborn ; So that I, wondering, in my lowly place Sang also, and was wholly unafraid. With wisdom and wounds for his wages, In tune with the cosmic desire, Upclimbing the crests of the ages, Impelled by his soul as by fire, Man, fashioned for love and for laughter, For dole, and forbidden to despair, Doth build for a grandeur hereafter A Palace that's fair. From a mystical gleam and a story Engendered in time's procreant breast It grows, from the gloom to the glory As man is his cosmical quest, 140 THE PALACE-BUILDERS I4.I From the dark to the light nobly faring, Strives upward, uncowed by his scars, With ardour invincible sharing The task of the stars. Erst hither crept dawn like disaster, Catastrophic, and pregnant with doom ; Day woke unto fear, and fled ; master Stood Chaos, and wailed in the gloom. Shrill Pillage and Arson flung flaring Wild hair with a shriek to the moon ; Mad Murder, with frenzy-gleam glaring, Laughed, boasting a boon ; Yet still 'mid the darkness and terror, Where the scream and the devil-laugh sprang, Clear-tongued 'mid Tartarian error The building blows rang On the Palace. Unseen, and apart stood The Power who had leavened the clay With a soul ; and on earth in his heart's good Man knelt him to pray In the dust to some jealous Negation — A deity stern in his cloud That wrung from his dim heart oblation, And scourged him with terrors, and bowed His will 'neath the force of his thunder — Till, spurning its bondage and ban, Rose regal in questioning wonder The Mind that was Man, And held not the dream in derision That splendidly came in his sleep, T 4 2 THE PALACE-BUILDERS But fixed on the brightness his vision That beckoned his soul from the deep, And followed, unfoiled. And the story Of the life that had soared from the sod Shone crowned when the cross held in glory The man that was God ! Then Truth rose and reigned in the ages, Her pain like a passion enticed ; And, rapt, with bare breast to time's rages Men died for their Christ ! And the world stood athirst for His story, And the peoples implored Him for grace, And churches aspired to his glory, And they fashioned in haloes His face ; The mists of their incense hung round Him, They veiled Him with prayer and with praise ; With the crowns of their kings did they crown Him, And put him apart from their days : They worshipped remote in their wonder ; They clouded His truth with their creeds ; They hailed Him with psalms and with thunder, And mocked Him with deeds ! They decked with their stained gold His altars, They darkened His doors with their guile : But the God that ne'er panders nor palters Had vanished the while : That the walls of His Palace might stay not He, Truth 'neath the truth that but seems, THE PALACE-BUILDERS I43 Had turned from the hearts that could pray not And knew not their dreams. The voice of the World-Soul is sounding, And time from a trance and a sleep Wakes ! Height unto height is resounding, Deep answers to deep : " Ye have left the pursuit for the plunder, And the sure for the shadows of things, And ye bow with the semblance of wonder To truths ye have shorn of their wings. The spirit hath fled from the token, And blown is the flower from the seed ; And the dreams ye have dreamed shall be broken For the dream rushes on to a deed Toward the height in a rapture of voices, Upborne by that windy Desire That fuses time's changes and choices And wings them with fire ! " From sloth and from canker we turn us, From truth grown too old to be true. Our faith in the future shall earn us A Truth that is lusty and new — A Truth 'fore which death is as laughter, A Conviction to bless and to buoy The soul as it seeks the hereafter On consummate joy ! Hark ! Spirit, the stars lift their voices : Yon vast is no void but a voice ! r 44 THE PALACE-BUILDERS The comos revolves and rejoices — Climb, build, and rejoice ! Oh, false is the soul that would falter, And feeble the man that would pine With brow to some storm-shattered altar, With lips to some time-shrivelled shrine. The law that is life cannot favour, The deed that is strength cannot fail ; And faiths they must wander and waver That Truth may prevail, Be called back like waves from the shingle To the wise deep, be fetterless, free — As streams that are summoned to mingle With cloud and with sea. A while in the gloom we may tarry, Yea, darkly at noon we may tread, — Through worlds that are shining we carry The shadows of worlds that are dead ; Through vastness we go and we veer not, From vastness we come, and we hie To the vastness afar, and we fear not The doom of the days that shall die ; We have gazed in the face of For-ever, And have sighted the infinite sea Where, on tides of eternal endeavour, Ebbs and flows the To-be ! The Divine have we touched in the Human, From the depths have we risen and are wise Again in the world walks the true Man With forehead flung proud to the skies ; THE PALACE-BUILDERS I45 He driveth the phantoms before him, And his soul from the spell of the past He hath wrung, and the star-worlds wheel o'er him With Aves at last ! Proud heir to mortality's sorrows, A magnet for forces that mar, He mouldeth the marvellous morrows, His goal is afar ! Rejoice in your work, O ye Builders ! Rejoice like the morn in its might ! Rejoice ! through the mist that bewilders Peals the Voice from the height That summons the brave to the glory, And the true to the infinite Truth, — From the feet of a Good that is hoary To the face of a God in His youth ! A Palace we build through the ages : 'Tis the dream of Time's soul, the desire That burned in the bosoms of sages, Nor paled at the fang and the fire. 'Twill soar till the planets swim under Its spires in the infinite height ; And the gates of it men shall call Wonder, And the walls of it time shall call Light. The while at its base we are building We dream of its mystical towers Where the pinnacles flash with the gilding Of hands that are holier than ours. UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY Los Angeles This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. Form L9-32m-8,'57(,C8680s4)444 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA PR 6025