UC-NRLF * t R K E 1 1 !Y\ LIBRARY CALIFORNIA J X^irM^ ffi PRIVATELY PRINTED, LE CAHIEE JAUNE O E M 8 BY ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON, Of Eton College. " Non \ntn-t, Oato tkeatrum nietim, aut si intr I can wait, still wait. tn, VER SCHOLASTICUM. Paul of the haggard face, bright eyes sore wearied of books ; Paul with the brow of a sage, but supple and strong as a boy ; Graceful and fresh of frame, and save for the desolate looks, Meet for the prize of a friend and meet for a maiden's joy. Paul on a morn in May, when woods are better than men, Walked in a garden-ground, sad, wistful, and heavy-eyed : Shuddered to think of the mute and monotonous walk of his pen, Hated the grim silent gape of the folios stacked at his side, Laurels around him glittered metallic ; to left and right Broad green fingers of chestnuts were spread and unfurled to the day ; Up through her gray-green smoothness the lilac pushed to the light Clubs and clusters of purple, and poured her scents in his way. Up through the deep meadow-grass had floated the gold of spring. Stirred and swayed on the surface in yellow and white and red, Hid in the depths of the copse he heard the linnet sing, And a thrush peered out with her beaded eyes and her timorous head. 37 Suddenly over his path an odour was wafted and blown, Striking the flash of a fancy that passed and left him sad : For he seemed as a child in wonder to stray demure and alone In the fields of the home that had borne him, in days when his heart was glad. And he looked on a garden border, and taught by the pleading spell, On a sunny wall, and beyond it an acre of golden grain, And the great blue lustrous flies, that never a footfall fell But they bustled and hummed for a moment, and straight were silent again. Gone and the strange sweet longing for days that are long since dead Flooded his heart in an instant, and stirred in the sunlit day; For love still reigns in the heart, though knowledge rules in the head, And it was not only sadness he knew as he turned away. CamhriJyc, 1885. (Cairibridge J'm DEMETRIUS. I think that you love me, dear : Cannot I love you too ? For a week, a month, a year ? Will that be enough for you ? Why yes, I could yield you this, I could whisper, gaze and pray, I could clasp your hand and kiss, And that is enough, you say. Your thirst is so deep, so deep, You pant for the cooling wave ; Yet the treacherous ripples creep And crawl in their moving grave. Better to stand on the brink, Better to faint for breath, Than slowly to dream and sink In the delicate hands of death. I have learned in a harder school, Have dallied with scorn and shame Where the wise man envies the fool, And the nameless dies for a name. 39 I am sad enough to be wise, I am strong enough to be hard, Let me look but once in your eyes, And see what I might have marred. Purity, hope and light Are stronger than you and I : So we will be wise to-night ; Remember, and say goodbye. Eton, 1892. MISERRIMUS. When I am dead, and laid in gloom, Oh, drop no tears above my tomb : There let the evening breathe, and there The wild rose trail her fragrant hair, And in the opening of the spring The throstle and the finch shall sing. The dews slow-dropping overhead Are gentler than the tears ye shed : And wailings of a wintry wind Are meeter far, if not so kind. There shall I lie so calm at last To hear the waters trickle past. Down through the mould from stone to stone The drops are slipping, one by one, Struggling to win from troubled shores The clear, deep, silent reservoirs. Some day it may be I shall feel A thin white fibre through me steal, A root that reaching through the stones Twines unaware about my bones, And draws me to the upper day, Till haply on a morn in May, In some pure flowerbell sweetly pent Or rose or myrtle innocent, I see the happy dawn again, The churchyard \valls, the gilded vane, The broad brown meadow-lands, with tree And homestead dotted cheerily, And in the tumult of delight Scatter my scents from left to right, So prodigal of all their grace To deck my odorous sleeping-place, That the dull villager who strays Unheeding through the church-yard ways May stoop to draw my breath, and tell His mates how sweet the myrtles smell. Ah, it is all too fair, too fair ! I may not win the plenteous air. Calm thoughts, and the caressing sense Of love, are made for innocence : And though sin wearies hearts, and shame Is hard to bear, yet ours the blame : Not every suffering can impart The rest it craves : ah ! mortal heart, Think'st thou that thou may'st sin, and rot As still as he that sinneth not ? I am not what you thought me, friends : How can my spirit make amends ? You saw me calm and deemed it meant This apathy a still content : And took a sullen acquiescence For gentle love's transforming presence. Oh ! better weep not o'er my grave Than claim the love I never gave. Now through the vast unshrinking years This careless heart will sit in tears, And through the darkness and the press Of pain, will start from dreaminess, To think real thoughts, and wholly prove The spirit and the strength of love : So weep not now : the dark shall teach To break from silence into speech, The love that grows in bitterness Some day this chilly soul shall bless. Yet blame me not too much, but keep The venomed tongue of ire asleep ; Deep was my fault, and faultier far The sloth for effort, peace for war. God knoweth why His mark is set On this and that, nor doth forget Why one is foul and base, and one Is lovely when his work is done ; Why over one his lights are shed, And one is sore dispirited. I know not, I : but he who gave Bounds to the thunders of the wave, And with a silent glory fills The purple spaces of the hills : He knoweth : and what He hath planned Is worthy of the master hand. 43 Farewell : why weepest ? If I be Worthy His purpose, thou shalt see How out of taint of earthly spot He works His wonders : and if not, He knoweth : leave me ; I have said,- Henceforth I sit among the dead. 1883. (Cambridge Review}* 44 THE GALE. When the storm on my window dashes the rain, When the gulls wheel landward and the larches strain, When through the bleared mists the sun stares pale, And the spray from the ripple whirls in the gale, When by the headland the teal huddle back, And the hern in the marshpool is sleek and black, When the hissing blast shakes the rain from the heath, And the squalls run dark o'er the creek beneath, \Vhen the deer in the corrie by the grey rock lie, And the hills grow higher and are lost in the sky, When the sheep grow languid in their sodden wool, And the fly from the moorland floats struggling in the pool, When tlu- wives of mariners on the Father call, And wonder if the tempest bring aught but bane to all, All, better silence ! pile the hearth high at home ; 'Twill be time to make thy prayer when the sunshine come. Sfcye, 1 45 THE BIRD-CHERRY. Three days ago, and yonder sullen tree, That shades the limit of my garden glade, Was dense with leaf, and cast so sad a shade There was no place for summer minstrelsy ; To-day it streams with lavish fragrance ; see, How close the milky spires of bloom are laid ; How short a space ! To-morrow sees it fade, And strips in snowy wreck its gallantry. How near and yet how far ! Not lingering, Not making haste, our whirling planet runs ; Not mistress of herself the wilful spring, But shares the punctual race of myriad suns. And those imperious hands sustain, control The faltering faith of this inconstant soul. Bton t 1892. 4 6 STORM AND TEMPEST. The gale thunders on the roof ; The raindrops splash the wall ; And the stars shine far aloof ; And God sees all. Through the rack of flying cloud The watery moon wades on, And the lime trees whisper loud ; The brief day is gone. Within the lamp is lit, And the fire burns red and warm, And I ponder as I sit, Glad and free from harm. Strange that the driving cloud Doth not stay my merriment ! When the wind pipes thin and loud, I am most content. Out on the plunging sea The frail boats dip and spin ; Whore the cliffs tower drearily O'er thr breakers' din. 47 Men hold their breath for fear Of the shrieking hissing foam, Wonder if day be near, And think of home. One on the reeling deck Gasps at the thundering wind ; Dreaming of death and wreck, And what lies behind. The boy by the gunwale stands Watching his father's face ; The wheel jerks in his hands, In the roaring race. They wish, but dare not pray, Weary and tempest-tost, The word they dare not say Would confess them lost. And I sit idly here Watching the embers fall, And they are sick with fear, And God sees all. Eton, 1891. HIDDEN LIFE. The turf is marble underfoot, The fountain drips with icy spears ; And round about the cedar's root The hungry blackbird pecks and peers. The mud that rose beside the wheel In liquid flake, stands stiff and hard ; Unbroken lies the dinted heel, With icy streaks the rut is barred. Behind the knotted black tree-tops The solemn sunset waning burns, The pheasant mutters in the copse And patters through the crackling ferns. Yet down below the frozen rind The silent waters creep and meet ; The roots press downwards unconfined, Where deeper burns the vital heat. As when the summer sky is clear, And heat is winking on the hill, The swimmer rests beside the weir To feel the fresh luxurious chill, So earth lies still beneath the night* And takes no thought of wintry woe, She shudders with a keen delight, And nestles in her robe of snow. One hour of rest from hope, from fear, She thrills in slumber through and through, And hardly heeds that spring is near, When slumbering joys will bloom anew* J.dditqton, 1891, VIATOR. Is this the February air That breathes in fragrance on my brow ? So soft, methinks, 'twould never dare To nip the bloom or whirl the snow ; And yet no hint of treachery Lurks in the clear enlivened sky. The speckled arum-spike begins His crumpled glistening cap to thrust : Blithe on the road the dry leaf spins, The yew is packed with yellow dust ; Beneath the elm small things are seen That star the dyke with lively green. Where smoothly dips the sheltered lea The merry crested plovers run, Or lost in dreamy reverie Hoist their long wings to feel the sun ; Or wheel with melancholy cry, And lessen in the western sky. The eyes that track them draw the soul To fly, to follow where they go ; They came from where the torrents roll Where those vext lands were dim with snow ; They little reck what ways they tread ; Or by what waters they are fed. Huge toppling clouds are piled in air ; A bluff in billowy vapour rolled, Faint summits perilously fair, With thunderous base of sullen gold. I thread in thought the cloudland through To win the upper purer blue ; The chestnuts by the timbered grange Are standing as they stood before, Yet somewhat delicate and strange Informs them : they are old no more ; A hundred times I passed this way : What spirit makes them new to-day ? The soul puts on her summer dress, And tired awhile of scheme and gain, Clothes with delight the wilderness, And dreams that she is pure again : Then idly wondering tries her wing, Only content to soar and sing. Out of the woods sweet spirits call Here be at rest, with all forgiven: Thy burden galls thee ; let it fall, And take the flowery road to heaven ; Thou lingerest in the stony way, Cwtom, not honour bids thee stay* y, nay, I answer, I have As in some half -remembered dream) A note that shamet the jocund lird y A inter voice than wind or stream Ye know not and ye may not know, Yet aid me, cheer me ere I go. The birds sail home : the mouldering tower With measured chime tolls out the day ; Close with the irrevocable hour ; Make thy brief thanks ; thy vespers pay : Tomorrow's seed waits to be sown, To-day God gave thee for thine own. FAon, 1892. 53 ON THE WESTERN CLIFFS. Out of the windy waste Of waters rolling gray, Homeward the red sails haste Across the bay. Over the downs I see The summits black and sheer, When evening on the lea Is pale and clear. There as the twilight falls, The seabirds float and cry ; (Only the mountain walls Make faint reply ;) Or with broad wing decline Down to their rocky home, Warm in the chilly brine, Nestled in foam. Over the oozy weed The flying feet haste on, Hither and thither speed Ere day be done. For them the fry that dive Poise in their liquid bed, They neither fear nor strive, Sleep and are fed. 54 Then comes the night, the end, What should their dying be ? Death steals, a silent friend, Out of the sea. Under the rocky edge They close their languid eye, While shrill from tuft and ledge Their brethren cry. Or where the stranded wrack, Rimmed on the stunted grass, Rattles so dry and black As the winds pass, The draggled feather flies, The frail denuded bones Bleach, and the sightless eyes On the gray stones. Under the weary hill The wandering footsteps cease ; He that must wander still Envies your peace. Wasted by harsh events, Sighs to be large and free, Mix with the elements And breathe and be. 1891. (Chronicle / S'.. George). 55 A JUNE EVENING. Over the red-tiled roofs and under the elm-trees high Making a sudden clatter the pigeons wheel in the air : The marigold stares in the pool and the blown sedge whistles dry, And the elder is starred with bloom and breathes her soul on the air. Out of the heart of the thicket the bird's song breaks like a star, Thrilling the soul with a passion as pure as the driven snow ; And the roses drink of the blood of life and glow from afar, But what they say to my spirit is more than the roses know. Cedar and oak and plane that shadow my garden glade, I know your greenness and gloom and love you each the best, You with your slender fans, and you with your knotted shade, And you with your lively grace and the scars of spring on your breast. Deep in the winding lane where the hazels screen the nest, The high-heaped waggons come with the music of tinkling teams, And the trailing sprays fly back, and catch at the load deep-prest, And laughter floats on the twilight as fair as. the laughter of dreams. Yet down in the hamlet below sick hearts are sorry to-night, And children moan in their beds at the sounds of the hateful strife, And dull eyes strain to the dawn and sigh at the chilly light, And pant for the bliss unknown and know the burden of life. Saint and martyr and sage, that die for the weal of your race, Penned in the din of the city or mured in the cloistered gloom, Say have you felt in your hearts the glory of earth, and the grace Of the spring, the flush of summer the roses that twine the tomb ? Oh joy that is knit with pain, oh shadows born of the grave, Oh ache of the weary brow and throb of the labouring breath ; Yet this is the world I want, and these are the joys I crave, And not the passionless gloom on the other shore of death. Eton, 57 AZALEA. A window into a dusty street : A weary head, and a task that brings Scanty profit nor aught of sweet To the hours that lag on their leaden wings. Someone dropt me a charm to-day, Dropt and vanished and bade me hope ; Yellow azalea, one tall spray, Caught from a flashing fairy slope. Bursting out like a starry shower, Petals curled like a hanging wave, Who that fashioned you, dainty flower, Dreamed of a spirit so sweet and brave ? See my brow to your charm is bent : Where you pour from your mystic springs, All in prodigal alchemy blent Scents that quicken and lend me wings. What stirs first in the dreaming brain ? Sweetness infinite, unaware, Aching pleasure and happy pain, Drowned in a glory of sunny air. Forest nooks in a summer world : Waters slipping from ledge to ledge ; Bowery woodlands heaped aad hurled Down to the stream from the mountain's edge, Boats that slide on a brimming stream Under the shelter of willowy isles ; Thoughts that wind in a mystic dream ; Idle laughter and loving smiles ; Yet there lurks in the honied wine Something bitter and fresh and strong ; Wholesome savour of breeze and brine, Wise and wild as the linnet's song. Sinks the fragrance perilous sweet, Suddenly open the dreaming eyes ; Drowsily hums the teeming street, Thunder broods in the lowering skies. Eton, 1892. THE DRAGONFLY. Restless dragonfly, darting, dancing, Over the ribbons of trailing weed, Cease awhile from thy myriad glancing, Poised on the curve of the swinging reed ; Where the lilyleaf smoothes her creases, Rest like a warrior carved in stone ; Then when the crisp edge starts, and the breezes Ruffle the water, arise, begone ! Mailed in terror, thy harness gleaming, Soldier of summer, a day's desire ! Lantern eyeballs lustrously dreaming, Mirroring woodland, hill, and spire, Wondering gaze at the depths that pent thee Crawling soft on the dim-lit floor ; Was it the fire in thy heart that sent thee Brave thro' the ripple, to shine and soar ? Then when the piled clouds big with thunder Smite thee down with a summer's tear, Floating, lost in a languid wonder, On to the deadly swirl of the weir, Dream of the days of thy sunny playing, Take no thought of the depths beneath, Till the eddies that smile in slaying Draw thee down to the deeps of death. 6o I too come in the summer weather, Dropping down when the winds are low, Float like birds of an alien feather, Weary of winter and Northern snow, Cool depths under us, blue above us, Carelessly drifting side by side, Is there a heart to guide us, love us ? Are we but made to be tossed aside ? Wherefore question of what befall thee Winds that blow from the sunless shore ? One hath made thee and One shall call thee ; Dream in the sunlight, and ask no more. Settle, 1891. KNAPWEED. By copse and hedgerow, \vaste and wall, He thrusts his cushions red ; O'er burdock rank, o'er thistles tall, He rears his hardy head : Within, without, the strong leaves press, He screens the mossy stone, Lord of a narrow wilderness, Self-centred and alone. He numbers no observant friends, He soothes no childish woes, Yet nature nurtures him, and tends As duly as the rose ; He drinks the blessed dew of heaven, The wind is in his ears, To guard his growth the planets seven Swing in their airy spheres. The spirits of the fields and woods Throb in his sturdy veins : He drinks the secret stealing floods, And swills the volleying rains : And when the birds' note showers and breaks The wood's green heart within, He stirs his plumy brow and wakes To draw the sunlight in. 62 Mute sheep that pull the grasses soft Crop close and pass him by, Until he stands alone, aloft, With added majesty. No fly so keen, no bee so bold, To pierce that knotted zone, He frowns as though he guarded gold, And yet he garners none. And so when Autumn winds blow late, And whirl the chilly wave, He bows before the common fate, And drops beside his grave. None ever owed him thanks or said A. gift of gracious heaven. Down in the mire he droops his head ; Forgotten, not forgiven. Smile on, brave weed ! let none enquire What made or bade thee rise : Toss thy tough fingers high and higher, To flout the drenching skies. Let others toil for others' good, And miss or mar their own ; Thou hast brave health and fortitude To live and die alone ! 189.1. NORTHWARDS. An orb of fire behind the grove The sun speeds on ; The sliding streams that seaward move Are chill and wan : The mire is ridged with icy crust, The tutted meads Are specked with hoary flakes, where thrust The frozen reeds. The mellow light begins to pale, The moon on high, Too dim, too cloudlike to prevail, Hangs in the sky. Through this bleak hour that brings the dark, Ere daylight fade, We fly on iron wheels, and mark The changing glade. Northwards the shuddering axles reel, With merry din ; Like moving spokes on some slow wheel The furrows spin. The copse, the farmstead shifts ; and both Fly like the wind. Swift runs the distant spire, as loth To lag behind. What means the transient glimpse, the sight Of waste and home ? What stirs the roving heart so light To choose and come ? They wave a welcome back, Oh stay Thy course severe, A truce to wandering ! Here, they say, Lies peace, and here. Rest, rest, they call, unquiet mind. Sure learn to dream, To love, and wander unconjined A* breeze or stream. Ah no, I answer, night is near ; Not mine to set The bourn I crave : what most I fear Runs with me yet. I hurry, hurry through tfie night, I hasten on To see what lands the Northern light Next shines upon, When I have learnt what longings art, What means regret, Something, beyond the furthest *tar Shall call me yet. 1892, IN THE SOUTH. In the sunny summer weather, in a garden by the sea, Where the breeze scarce stirs the drooping fans of many a tropic tree, Only all trie lazy morning to attend my listless dreams, Doth the languid eucalyptus breathe the sound of falling streams ; High above the huddling houses blinking white with shuttered eyes, You may see the city, roof by roof, and tower by tower arise, Dazzling walls embowered in greenness, spires that peep through palm and plane, Vines that droop o'er trellised terrace, runlets that forget the rain, Upwards ever upwards climbing, till the high-piled tops are won, Streaked with tracts of sombre woodland quivering in the steady sun. Or about the league-long crest the vaporous cloud is folded gray, When the sea is white with breakers and the beach is wet with spray, And the hills are flecked with coursing shadows, and the hasty wind Blusters through the garden that was late so indolent and kind. But to-night sweet peace enfolds me ; only from the lazy town Floats the hum of summer voices, and the mighty ships swing down, Blowing here a mellower horn to bid the wandering truant home, Or the solemn convent bells are rung in many a sounding dome, 66 Or the watch -dog bays belated, and with shrill effusive note Cocks are challenging the morning perched in homesteads far remote ; Idle sounds that mingle with the flying footsteps of the breeze, Hurrying to cool vales of sunrise o'er the crests of rippling seas. Man, unlike his fellow-brutes, that wounded creep apart to die, Flies from shelter, basks in light, and smiles in alien company. Mocked by life and hope that flies before him, drawing fiercer breath, Darkens light and poisons laughter with the undertone of death. Oh ! the world is strong and careless, soft the sky and still the sea ; What avails the myriad gladness, if it be not glad for me ? What for me the brooding sunlight and the creeper's scented breath, When a thousand trembling hands are beating at the doors of death ? What avails the fragrant passion of the clustering spires of bloom, If I chafe in hopeless longing, if I pine in lonely gloom ? Yet I think the load would lighten, could I think that endless pain Were the seed of love and laughter, when the world is born again. I could laugh at suffering, were it pledge of some imparted joy, Gave it but a momentary gladness to a thoughtless boy. Thus I wrote beneath the trailing vines, not knowing what might be, In an island ringed about by the interminable sea. , 1890. HOMEWARDS. Comrade, the sun is low ; Now doth the heavy West Burn for leagues like a smouldering coal with a smoky glow ; Oh, the day pants for rest ! Higher, the liquid sky Green as an ice-fed stream, Deepens to infinite blue, and softly inveigles the shy Stars from their day-long dream. Out of the wayside flower Ebbs the colour away : Crocuses delicate, pink, that lay like a starry shower, Dapple the dusk with grey. Blackness gathers apace Under the shrouded pines Over the tumbled stones that stream from the mountain's face Slowly the shade declines. Only the dying fires, Flashes of farewell light, Flush in the old stone crags, and flame in the rocky spires ; Suddenly falls the night. 68 Comrade, the dark is come; Drop to the welcoming vale, Steer to the winding lights and the city's generous hum ; Then when the dawn is pale, Quitting the kindly street, Leaving the fireside bright, Laugh with the parting guest and smile on the child we meet, Free as the fleeting light ; We too speed from the west, Speed with the rushing earth ; Still the unsatisfied heart and still the imperious quest Mock at our devious mirth. Hush, for the world must sleep : Passion and heat are done : Who would the pulsing fervours of clamorous noontide keep Till he fade in the sun ? Twilight, pitiful, sad, Night, so chilly and stern Breathe your vastness upon us, and make us brave and glad ; Better to brood than burn. Suns in the heart of the night Flame like a restless spark : Only the silence waits till the aching gaps unite Into the infinite dark. Coir*, 1891, 6 9 IDYLL. Damon the shepherd-singer, on a day When the old Earth was turning in her sleep To dream of summer and good things to come, Sate on a flowery hillock by the copse, And heard a throstle on a flying spray Chuckle and chirp and make so sweet a din That all the merry music of the time Stirred in his heart with envy of her song. So preluding awhile upon a reed Which he had fashioned in a maying-time But cast away when winter in despite Shrilled all untuneful thro' the shuddering trees His eyes indwelling wistful for a space Brake the sweet concert with a sweeter song. Spring in the air : and every wind that stirt Swaying the budding treetops to and fro, Is freighted with a freshness half divine. Spring in the forest ; tender green steals up, Shaming the tyrants of the winter woods. Grim yews, and spiky tassels of the pine. Spring in the fields : God's carpet underfoot t Starsown with daisies and red spires of seed, And golden glory of the celandine. 7 o Spring in the soul: and happy thought puts out The tender bud, where sweetness lies enshrined With promise of a golden garnering. So Damon sang, and all the woods were green. Cambridge, 1883. (Cambridge Review}. EARL HACON'S TOMB. He lieth under a pile of stones, On a high and heathery hill : The shy deer graze above his bones, And the plover whistles shrill. Eastward and westward fall the streams Thro' a broad and level land ; But mark how merry the sunlight gleams On the sea on either hand ! Oh ye may tread twelve counties round, But ye may never be, Whence ye may view from moorland ground The double glint of sea. All round about in the peat below There are twenty bodies set ; Their bones are white as the April snow, Their skulls with the streams are wet. Twenty rovers the old Earl kept To work his lawless will, They dreamed to serve him while they slept, And to-day they serve him still. Beside each man was a trusty helm, A sword and javelins twain ; Heavy and dark are the hafts of elm, But the sword is a red rust stain. The old Earl's brow had a gold circlet, His neck bore a chain of gold ; But so black a stain on the gold is set The metal may scarce be told. The tale of his house is a tale of shame, No sons of his blood hath he, And no man beareth the old Earl's name Save a beggar over the sea. A ring of stones is the frowning keep, Grey stones on a lonely moor : And the ship he sailed in is bedded deep In the sand on a leeward shore. Now slit the turf with a mattock strong, And scatter the stones away : The Earl that hath dwelt in the dark so long Shall look on the light of day. 73 One by one to the day they pass, The young Lord telleth them all ; The chain is set in an ark of glass, The circlet hangs in the hall. Go cast in the charnel-pit their bones ! Their grave shall hallowed be ; And none shall know why the pile of stones, O'erlooketh the double sea. Sligachan, 1892. 74 TOO LATE. Eastward the morning cometh in apace Over the gray hills and the falling streams, Yet may not break the silence of her dreams, Nor flash a waking glory on her face ; Call to her ; she is silent in her place, And may not answer ; how the sweet mouth seems To smile, as though she recked of kindlier gleams About her, and were dumb for very grace ! The lilies hearing bow themselves for fear, The red light, beating strong with crimson glow, Shudders to feel him pass, whom bolts and bars, Stay not nor hinder, neither threat nor tear ; Can ye put back by any prayers ye know The march of the invariable stars ? Lambeth, 1834. 75 AN ENGLISH HOME. Deep in a hazy hollow of the down, The brick-built Court in mellow squareness stood, Where feathery beeches fringed the hanging wood, And sighing cedars spread a carpet brown. Out of the elms the jetty treefolk sent A clamorous welcome : while the roses made Their vesper offering, and the creeper laid His flaming hands about the pediment. O happy souls, most fatherly denied The cares that fret, not quicken : drawn to know The healing hands that hang upon the Cross ; And through pure agonies of love and loss, Wrought into sorrow for a world of woe ; And from a prosperous baseness purified. ere Court, 1884. (Spectator} 7 6 ANGULUS TERRARUM. Within the grey encircling walls The sun leads on another day, Where quiet leisure hourly calls Her votary from the world away. Philosophy shall lap us round To dream of spheres where all is well, Not troubled by the uncertain sound Of those that prate of heaven and hell. Grave History shall ply her arts, To shew us, from the storied page, That Science cannot harden hearts, Nor stay the heavenward pilgrimage. No Muse shall be that shall not lend Her soaring impulse to the soul, Discern the lover in the friend, Or point the failing to the goal. Staid Clio, queen of human speech, Urania of the starlit eye, And the sweet maiden that shall teach The cheek to blush, the heart to sigh. Neither shall music be denied To wing the heart that pants to see The shrine of beauty, half descried, Half slighted by the things that be. 77 The sunlight falls on level lawns, And wooded knolls with kindlier gleam, And statelier palaces adorn The reaches of the brimming stream. The lazy water laps the wall, Skirting the terraced walks, that go By storied tower and cool dim hall, And gardens where the roses blow. High frown the gabled roofs, and higher The huddled elms aerial slope ; And peering over all, the spire That points a finger up in hope. These all about me : far below A solemn fountain hourly drips, Where bronze-wreathed dolphins sprawl and throw Sweet water from their green-fringed lips. And on the lawn with restless feet, And nodding necks of changing shine, Pigeons patrol, when suns are sweet, Westward or eastward, all in line. And in the dark elms half the day Or white-spired chestnuts light the doves, Too mild to work, too fond to play, And croning half-a-hundred loves. Heaven all about us ; could we lay Our hands upon it, it were well ; But oh ! how slight a failing may Turn paradise to dreary hell. The sordid spirit, and the brute Impulse, that most, when hearts beat high, Tugs at his chains, with throes that shoot And quiver, bidding the good thought die. And only when the soul is dull With terror of the looming years, And scorn of self, they deign to lull The stings that cost us toil and tears. All these : and sullen discontent That chides the smiling suns of May For burning, yet can find a vent For humours, when the skies are gray. These are our foes ; and we will live As though we may not wholly slay Thr cares that prick us on to strive, The fears that prompt us when to pray. Like men that watch for some great king, A barren frontier, where the sky Stoops to the distance, vanishing In dimness, and the land is dry. Sometimes the red sand-pillars stalk Across the desert, or the wastes, Wan like a level water, baulk The thirsty soul that thither hastes. Sometimes a thin voice seems to float Out of the stillness, crying faint ; Or the dull seacrow's dismal note Sounds, or the bittern's measured plaint. So long, they know not if they be Men, or mere phantoms of the night ; Like the pale lights that flicker and flee In marshlands, where the rush blows white. Only that northward, when the wind Draws from the land that once was theirs, Bells from the city echo, and bind Sweet music on the wandering airs. And once they saw a sight so sweet They scarce could trust their wondering eyes, The snowbound mountains, at whose feet, Their king's imperial palace lies. His word, they said, bade the high tower Rock to the music of the bells ; En eye, they whispered, hour by hour, Upon those happy mountains dwell*. Cambridge, 1884. (Cambridge Rcv\c\cJ. AMBERLEY CASTLE. The enormous hills run smoothly down In fold on fold of shaven green, And in the gap a little town Sleeps, and a river slips between. It bubbled from a heathery hill And channelled through the grey ribbed sand, And now slides seaward dark and still Thro' hazy leagues of level land. A stone's throw from its fringing sedge Grey mouldering walls to ruin slip, And from the turret's ragged edge, The brimming ivy seems to drip. Where once the guardian pool was deep, The moorhen flaps among the reeds, And broadbacked waterlilies sleep Anchored amid the shifting weeds. There where the green turf laps the walls, Slow oxen graze, shrill children play, And when the kindly summer falls, Swart sun-browned rustics toss the hay. A farmstead steams where hung the door Whence smiling gallants paced the hall Where roysterers drank and soldiers swore The merry cottage-children call. 8r Hrro where the old priest day by d;i\ . Saw sunrise thro' his blazoned panes, Between tall stacks of scented hay, A grumbling ciderpress complains. Look o'er the ill-swung gate and see The black swine rout the streaming soil, And piled or strewn neglectfully The sordid furniture of toil. The king that smiled so royally Around him, and the sweet sad queen, The restless children round her knee, Are all as they had never been. Dark in their oozy bed to-night They slumber : all about their bones The ivy casts his fingers white Whose fibres know the place of stones. Think of the aching hearts, the sighs This old house heard, which stands so still, And all the million memories That haunt the hollows of the hill. Think of the eyes that must have stared From those blank windows, on the same Grey misty flats through which we fared We twain, and doubted of their name. O'er grassy mound and marble rim Where one dead friend's poor vestment lies, The sudden tears unwitting brim Decorous lashes, downdropt eyes. Or one dear brother whom we miss We mount with reverent step above, This was his room, we say, and this The picture that he used to love. In these walls too young hope was high, And love was glorious then as now Shall we behold, and pass them by, Nor write one sorrow on our brow ? Shall we not spare one tear to-day And pray one prayer in order due ? Here is a human heart, we'll say, That beats as yours, and thinks of you. , 1883. (Cornhill Magazine). JANUS. Lo, as we muse, and strive with wondering eye To trace the semblance of the coming years, Flower-crowned, fruit-laden, one by one appears In gracious wise against a golden sky ; Yet when we turn to scan them as they fly, This creeps and shudders, sick with wasting fears, And that is blotted in a mist of tears, And meets our wistful look with sob and sigh. And therefore did that ancient serious folk Set high above the turmoil and the din Of traffic, and the grim laborious day, A carven God, twin-headed, blurred with smoke ; The outer, kindly, trivial ; but within The eyes that love, the lips that seem to pray. Cambridge, 1884. NEW YEAR'S EVE. This is the lesson of the world : to feel That day by day to wish is not to be, That aspiration is not victory, And that regret must hurt and may not heal ; No change : for ever thro' the myriad years The woods are grim in winter and green in spring, When grain is golden comes the harvesting, Man lives and struggles, loves and disappears. The year goes out in silence : through the night The solemn stars troop onward, pure, serene ; And the sad chimes in their remorseless flight Tell the stern record of what might have been ; Is there no hope then ? Nay, in heaven above And in the earth is silence, save for love. Addington, 1885. IN A COLLEGE GARDEN. Once in a time of sunshine and cloudless weather, By the brimming river moving to the sea, The wind and I and the morning laughed together, Merrily and loud laughed we. Mockingly I flung on the turf beside me, My withered volume with its homilies and saws, Preach on, I said, but whether weal or woe betide me, No word of yours hath been the cause. Preach^ I said, if ye will, to the old and ailing, In my hand are the visionary years, Leave their cloistral dismays to the faint and failing, I have no faithless fears. Let me scan as I lie the seasons thronging ; This brings glory and that brings warmth and love, Surely, I said, my vure and eager longing, Hath its counterpart above. Then I reigned so mightily for a season, Hope and faith and eternity were mine, I was lord in the royal right of reason Of a destiny divine. Time denied me my will, but ever smiling ; What of that ? I could wait the promised hour. Day by day with a certain hope beguiling Hurricane and cold and shower. -86 Am I awake at last ? and was it dreaming ? While I so wondered, indolently reclined, Busy brains have been labouring and scheming ; Am I left behind ? These my comrades who faced the stormy weather They sit throned in the ample hall to-day, Will they remember the years we lived together ? Will they envy my delay ? By the sweet ambitions, I cried, that moved us, By the birthpang of many a hallowed thought, Nay, they said, we remember that you loved us t Only the time is short. Who will plead, said I then, for a soul rejected ? Love sat silent and tears were on his cheek : Wistfully smiled like a stranger half expected, Only no word would speak. / am undone, I cried, / have wholly blundered, Hooked for peace and have found despair instead, Then love nestled towards me, and as I wondered, Then thou art mine, he said. Adding ton, 1891. HERO-WORSHIP. We work and we are weary ; we are spent And spend our hearts in cares that we despise, Yet if we dare but ply our failing eyes, Strong eager souls are still to cheer us sent, To whom the very failures we lament Are beautiful, and little deeds sublime ; Who see beyond the rolling mists of time, The eternal country whither they are bent. As that grim prophet, when the Syrian host Thundered at eve across the upland, there In Dothan, and about the huddling town, Spake naught, most heedless when they mocked him most, Seeing how God all night above the down Drave his red squadrons up the shuddering air. Eton, 1886. STAND ASIDE. Stand aside ! The battle is but beginning, And the field is wide ! No room for dreamers ! the fight is worth the winning ;- Wherefore stand aside ! Hark to the clash of steel, the murderous rattle, As the ranks divide ; Hast thou heart for the fury of the battle ? Stand aside ! Why ? I know not ; perchance thy leader saw thee ; He was here anon ; Tli >u wert wistfully gazing out before thee, As the flying spears swept on ; Thou didst stand, on thy sword a moment leaning, Was it languor, or fear, or pride ? Ask not, answer not Truth ! it needs no screening ; Only stand aside ! Rage in thy heart ? It comes too late for mending ; Rage was best before : Tears in thine eyes ? Good lack, he knows no bending ; Hark to the infinite roar ! Thou hast leisure to frame a million reasons ; Oh 1 but truth is wide : This be thy task, as seasons slip to seasons ; Only stand asidr ! Thou wilt hear, on the lonely hillside wending, When the fight is done, Down in the valley the sounds of music blending, And the shouts of victory won ; We fare rudely and rude will be our laughter ; Yours to think and pray ! You will fight, you say, in the long hereafter ; Stand aside to-day ! It may be we shall fight again together, You will do your part ; Give me rather the grave beneath the heather, Than the wounds which smart ! You will hover on heights of airy scheming, Heights that we ne'er have tried ; Ours the slumber without the need of dreaming ; Therefore stand aside ! Eton, 1SQ1. (0 ART. To range abroad at will, To pluck the flower and trace the woodland stream, Sleep when I will, and when I sleep to dream, Enfolding, gathering still ; To be at large and free, To hover high, not wallow with the low ; No impulse to reject, no fear to know, To learn humanity : All day, and then at eve To sort my prodigal spoil, and portion out This medicine for despair and that for doubt, Nought for myself to leave ; But give myself, the best That I could fashion, giving self the rein ; Royally, recklessly, my joy, my pain ; Then claim my sovereign rest. 2 FAITH. To sit at home and sigh, To check the tired eyes that are fain to soar, Beyond the blue hills and the winding shore In careless liberty : To curb each impulse wild, To drudge and minister and ask no fee, And should rewards shower on me, let them be To bless some wondering child. To portion out the light And sweetness, that may just suffice to give Due strength to keep the failing brain alive, And nerve the hand to fight ; As some rich tree that grows Cribbed and confined, its young luxuriance shorn, To bear the sweetness it would ne'er have borne, But for those biting throes. (3) TIIK COMPROMISE. Not mine to reconcile The seeming- paradox, not mine to choose Between the pure and high to reign ; or lose The kingdom for a while For that thin crown that hangs Above the starry silence, oh, meseems Too faint and delicate for aught but dreams ! Yet whence these envious pangs ? The sceptre or the rod ? This most I dread : to hear the pleading call And falter : grasp and hesitate : to fall Between myself and God. Lamleth, 1892. 93 NON OMXIS MORIAR. My spirit strove with me and said, Why sit'st thou here alone find vib f Mix with thy fellows : weep and smile. And let them hear thee, see thte ; then Thou shalt be throned midst mighty w ; Or pious /lands shalt crown thse dead, And thou shalt live a little while. Nay, said I, Nay, I would not be Read with a sneer and tossed away, To pine where dusty tomes dtcdy, Piled in some high unfriendly *///' With men as luckless as myself ; Full fifty more long-winded rogues To cumber tedious catalogues : That is not immortality ! Oh, let me live my life and die ! Would 'st not ? my spirit sternly said ; Then be a man, and love and wed. That lusty sons, long ages hence, May somewhat dimly reverence Thee, as their certain fountain-head, Though of no otJier consequence. Thou canst not quicken thought ? What then At least Mcyst lice in other men. 94 Nay, said I, Nay : is't not enough That I should creep and loiter late ? What ? should I so perpetuate This faltering, this inconstant stuff? Bind in this shrinking fearful mind More deep in generous humankind ? Oh no ! I may not play the part To compromise another heart, Its ampler fortunes to resign Indissolubhj mixt with mine. My spirit spake no more, and I In such sad triumph made reply. No claim upon my race I'll make, For this I cannot ratify : No human heat t Fll bid to ache, Bearing my burdens as its own ; Vile I may be, but not alone ; God seems with tender grace to send The equal love of comrade, friend, Of kith and kin : and after these The large air and the moving trees, The meadows and the secret springs ; Ah me ! I love a thousand things ! Quickly I'd die and quickly fade, This is the way that men are made ; This is enough, for me to scan My heart, and ou-n wywlf n man. Skye, 1892, OLD FOES. What, must I leave the banquet and the laughter, Oh thou pale visitant that criest low ? Wilt thou be ever thus ? Far hence, hereafter, Oh art thou other than the thing I know ? As one that listens from his window leaning, When night's slow curtain shuts the glen from view, Now with a thrill of sweetness overweening, Now with a shudder at what may be true, Hears many times, but ever doubts in hearing, Borne by the shifting breeze now loud, now low, Too faint for hope and too distinct for fearing, The distant measured footfall come and go. Fear, silent fear, I deemed that thou hadst left me ; Why dost thou dog my shrinking path again ? Lo of what manliness thou hast bereft me ! Where is the fortitude that comes of pain ? Why dost thou whisper, Love's a merry madness, Friendship's the easy brotherhood of youth f I would not wilfully abide in sadness, Save that I fear thou whisperest but the truth. , but I answer : if indeed thou callest, Grant me a respite while I plead with thee, Small was my joy : I thank thee for the smallest ! Come when thou wiliest and be one with me. Lo, I am free ! I choose t\e pain thou leand Thou art the messenger of One ivho waits ; Thou wilt reveal the hidden face thou wearest, }f1wn tuy feet falter at the Eternal Gate*. 97 HOC UNUM CUPIO. I only ask to know it is thy will, That thou hast planned the pain and probed the sore, That when I welter in dark waves of ill They were thy choice before : Not some blind beating of insensate might, That knows not whence or why, but hastens on, And recks not if its stroke be strong or light, Nor whom it falls upon. Saying, / know no recompense or stay, By no faint prayers my favour may be won : Sometimes I spare the sickening life, or slay The bud that drinks the sun. I ask not, answer not : I break or bless : Think not I come to ease or end thy woe : Think not thy youth so apt for happiness Moves me to let thee go. Father, that we chide thee, is it well ? I suffer, but I did not ask to be : And if thou hurry me from hell to hell, To shake my hold on thee, 1 am thy child, though wrecked in stormy seas, Sometime my tears shall thy compassion move ; I can endure thy bitterest decrees, If certain of thy love. Eton, 1891, INTEREA. When pain and stubborn sorrow first Entrapped me, as a prisoned bird, Moping, I deemed myself accurst, Or raging on the bars I burst, Yet nought but my own plumage stirred Alas ! poor bird ! Now, growing calmer, I'll be wise, And bravely fold the quivering wing ; But give the rein to eager eyes To range unchecked the further skies, And till my Winter melt in Spring, I'll sit and sing ! Eton, 1892. PROSPERO. O close the book and let the pages lie, Not flap and ruffle in the idle wind ; Prison the mocking sprites that unconfined Would wreck the world with easy jollity. O I have lived and loved my lordly art And lo I pass, yet this my art shall be, To weave new spells unknown, unguessed by me To break like morning in some later heart. The fabled Sibyl in her haunted cave Gave all her written leaves to the vague breeze ; So we, more secret still, will let the wave Steep them in thunder of the wandering seas : Matted and coiled in oozy water-weed No mortal eye shall scan them : they arc dead indeed. Rosehill, 1891. 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