THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES J2L t'- WINE AND ROSES WINE AND ROSES BT VICTOR J. DALEY AUTHOB or "at dawn and dusk' Edited, with a Memoir, by Bertrwm Stevens LO>J DON ANGUS AND ROBERTSON Ltd. 1913 / Printed by W. C. Penfold & Co., Sydney for ANGUS & ROBERTSON LIMITED Publishers to the University. LONDON: THE OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS Amen Corner, E.C. The verses in this volume have been selecfed from those \vi"itten by Victor Daley, after the publication of At Dawn and Bush. " The Woods of Dandenong " first appeared in The Boohfelloio (1899); "The Quest of Brahma" in Brooks's Annual ; " Players " in The Australian Stage Annual ; "Anna" in The Freeman's Journal ; and all the others in The Bulletin or The Lone Hand. CONTENTS Memoib. 1 « • XI. ROMANCB 1 Anacbeon 6 The Woods of Dandbnonq . 7 The Soldan's Daughter 9 The Quest of Brahma 12 Desire . 18 Sheelah. 22 The Eoad of Roses . 24 Avatar . 23 Impression 27 Paudttebn's Fairt 28 Spring Song 31 The Land of Laisskz Faire 33 Platers . 39 Blanchelys 41 Over the Wine 4G Bacchanalian . 49 The Old Bohemian . 52 The Poet and the Muse 55 Adieu, Bohemia! 58 The Ebquiter . ry2 TiTANIA . 01 Thii Tryst 65 ?iii. CONTENTS The Slain ...... 71 Message. . 72 Woman .... 74 ElilZABETH 76 The Woman at the Washtd B 77 Atlas .... 80 Prkbdom and Fate 84 Isis .... 85 The South Wind 87 The Little House 89 Earth and Sea 91 Tamarama Beach 95 The Muses of Australia 98 When London Calls . 102 After Sunset . 105 Mavourneen 109 Anna 111 The Green Harper . 113 An Old Tune . 116 Pictures 118 The Lost Muse 120 The Forest 124 In a Fab Country 123 In Aecadt 128 The Call of the City . 132 "Aux Pauvbes Biables!" . 135 Dibs Faust us . 139 Disillusion 142 CONTENTS ix. The Other Side ..... 144 Keepsakes . 147 Sorrow Go Down with the Sun! . 149 Remonstrance . . 150 Visions of the Rain . . 152 The End op the World . 154 Faith . 156 Philosophy , 15G Saint Francis II . 156 I.H.S . 157 A Vision of Calvary. 159 Gelimer. 162 Forty Yeajs 164 A New Regime 168 Hygeia . 171 The Old Men Sit by Me 173 III .... 176 The Grey Hour 178 To My Soul . » « 179 Finis .... 182 MEMOIR Over thirty years ago Victor Daley, then a happy, wondering Irish lad, drifted out to Australia. His head was full of old tunes and fragments of poetry; his pocket was nearly empty. The sunshine and freedom of xlustralia delighted him, and, in careless, vagabond fashion he enjoyed the fleeting pleasures of the day with little thought of the morrow. A good com- panion, " a fellow of infinite jest," life to him was a gallant spectacle, which he loved to look at and did not take seriously. Worldly success never tempted him, for he was a Bohemian by birth; but he was also descendant of a bardic sept, and he wanted to be a poet. So he wrote verses charged with the melan- choly regret of the Celt for vanished glories and the beauty of remote things, dainty opalescent lyrics with hints of fairy music, witty and ironic verse on passing events, and, occasionally, prose sketches. When the pressure of hard realities brought sorrow into his life he wrote more gaily and vigorously than ever. For twenty years or more he charmed a large number of readers. In this thinly-peopled continent zi. xii. MEMOIR the makers of verse are numerous, and though Daley never appealed to so large an audience as the ballad writers, he was the writer best beloved of the writing clan. Daley travelled through life with few impedimenta, and left behind no papers from which biographical data could be drawn. The story of his life which follows here may, therefore, be inaccurate in some particulars. He believed that he was born at Navau in the county of ]\Ieath, Ireland, on the oth September, 1858, and that he was christened Victor James William Patrick. The last two names were dropped early in life. His father, a soldier, went to India with his regiment when Victor was an infant. Falling ill there, he sent for his wife and child; and a few weeks after their arrival the three left for home. The father died on the voyage. For some years afterwards Victor lived with his grandparents, in a district associated with one of the great periods in Ireland's history, and amongst people who were intensely patriotic and learned in fairy lore and legend. Memories of the stories he then heard Avere vividly retained untU the end of his life. Some of them were embodied in articles written for the Sydney Freeman's Journal, from which I have taken these passages: — MEMOIE xui. " In the front garden of my grandmother's house there was a great Fairy thorn. They told nie, before I began to know much about history, that Queen Meeva had planted it there with her own white nands. And, indeed, anything wss possible in that country. Green Emania— which is now called the Navan King — was within arrow-flight of us, and a little more than a mile away was a lonely little tarn in the middle of a field. They called it the King's Stables. The bottom of it was paved with blocks of stone, and many relics of the days of old had been found there by adventurous divers. It was really the site of the Great Rath of the Red Branch Knights. The town- ship is to this day called Creeve Roe (Red Branch). Not far from it, and under the shadow of McCormack's brae, is Lough na Shade (Clear Water) into whose depths no man has ever ventured, because of the Great Snake that is below guarding the crock of gold, which was the treasui'e of Cormae MacNessa." " . , . . When I was a boy staying out at night, for the love of the thing and the romance of living in a little hazel house of my own on the side of the Rath, I saw the Sidhe — or I thought I saw them, which was the same thing— coming out of the long-choked gates of the Castle of Conchobar, xiv. MEMOIR dressed in green and gold and riding on little white horses on their way to Lough na Shade. Some distance away— five hundred j-ards or so— from the Rath is a little mound, smooth as the breast of a giantess, that had been ploughed over and sown with corn in the early spring and grown in the last spring, and yellow in the summer, and thick with whispering tongues and listening ears in the autumn. This was once the Speckled House. A Scotchman by the name of Leeman owns the place now, or rather he owned it Avhen I was a boy. My grandfather used to say that, if Ave had our rights and Cromwell and James the First had never been born, the great house would have been ours, and the Leemans would liave been calling at our back door begging some seed potatoes and the loan of a furrow or two from our fine black-soil field in which to plant them, ' Princes in the land we were in the old time,' my grandfather would observe, ' and let neither of yon boys ever forget the fact.' I was about eight years old then, and his son — my uncle— was over thirty. . . . . My uncle was a sub-centre of Fenians, and I myself was probably the most violent rebel in the whole county of Armagh." Daley's mother, who was of Scottish descent, married again and removed to Devonport, England MEMOm XV Victor, about 14 at the time, was sent to the Christian Brothers' school in that town What he valued most afterwards was the privilege to browse at large in the school library, and he then became fired with an enthusiasm for literature. At 16 he passed a Civil Service examination, and entered the Great Western liailway Company's office in Plymouth After three years, he tired of the work and grew restless. His stepfather had relatives in Adelaide who were childless, and he suggested that it might be a good thing for Victor to join them. Australia appeared to the boy's mind as something like a modern Hy-Brasil, and he gladly agreed to go. Early in 1S78 he reached Sydney; there he left the ship, as he liked the look of the place and thought Adelaide was within easy reach. His slender stock of money dwindled away and he took a job as gardener to a clergyman, although he knew nothing of gardening — as the clergyman soon discovered. Before long he got to Adelaide, where he found employment as a correspondence clerk. In Adelaide, Daley experimented a good deal in verse and some of his rhymes were printed in a local paper. ^ By chance a love-lyric of his was sent to an office client instead of a letter; remonstrances followed, and Daley left for Melbourne. He had a xvL MEMOIK vague idea of going on to Noumea, but at a race meeting in Melbourne he lost all his money, and had to turn to free-lance journalism for a living. For a time he was on the staff— in fact, he was all the staff— of a suburban paper. Then some of his verses were printed in Melbourne papers; two striking sonnets appeared in The Victorian Review, and Daley became acquainted with the principal writers of the city, " I met Marcus Clarke once," he said later on in a Bulletin article. " Somebody whose name I have forgotten introduced me, and said with pompous sarcasm that I was a young aspirant to literature, and that Marcus had better look after his laurels. T felt furiously ashamed and distressed, but Clarke nodded kindly, shook my hand, and told me that he would say something to me about literature later on. I inferred from the tone of his voice that the information he had to give me would not be pleasant. He never gave it. George Walstab was there, and Garnet AValch and Grosvenor Bunster, and, I think, Bob Whitworth and others. The conversation flowed on. I was in Paradise — a Paradise that smelt of whisky and cigar-smoke, and echoed with light- hearted laughter. I had previously read La Vie de BoJieme, and I said to myself, * This is Bohemia, MEMOIE xvii, indeed.' And it was. All good fellows. AH good writers. Tlien, in a pause of the conversation, while they were ordering drinks, or lighting their pipes or something, Marcus Clarke turned to me and asked me what I was doing— meaning I suppose, in that galley. I replied that I was by trade a correspondence clerk, but I was then writing for a suburban paper, and never wanted to be a correspondence clerk again. Some member of the company, who was passing out of the room, tapped me on the shoulder and said, ' Don't give away your silk purse for a sow's ear.' I didn't catch his meaning at the moment, but all the others laughed. Now I know why they laughed.'' One happy-go-luekj' acquaintance of this time, Larry Spruhan — the " half Galahad, half Don Juan " of a poem in At Dawn and Dusk — ku'ed Daley away from writing suburban leaders on European politics — " which must have made the iron knees of Bismarck knock with terror." Spruhan was off to prospect for gold, and promised to send for Daley as soon as he had good news. For a week or two, I believe, Daley sold Japanese pottei-y at the Melbourne E.xhibition of 1880. The profit was magnificent, but the tenure of office all too brief. Soon news came from Spruhan at Queanbeyan, N.S.W.— " Struck it rich, come at once." Daley, with a friend named xviii. MEMOIk Caddy, took the train as far north as their funds would allow, and then ti'amped. They had a number of adventures before they arrived at Queanbeyan and found that Spruhan had disappeared. Daley got a billet on a local paper, and stayed about six mouths. Moving on to Sydney,' he worked for the expiring Sydney Punch and the newly established BuUetin. He met Kendall, whose poems he greatly admired, and mixed with the little group of artists and writers who were as an oasis in the desert of money- making people. Writing of them twenty-five years afterwards, he remembered them all as jolly fellows. " Everybody about town seemed to know every- body else i.i those days. There were, of course, some of them who did not like each other; but I think that, on tiie whole, there was more geniality on the streets than there is now. ... I believe also that there was more real camaraderie amongst musicians, artists, pressmen and even actors than there is at the present day. Possibly this was beeauso they were all young— in spirit, if not in years — and doing fairly Avell without making slaves of themselves." Somewhere about 1885 Daley went back to Melbourne, and wrote with varying fortune for most of the papers there, as well as for The BuUetin. MEMOIR XIX. In 1898 it was arranged to publish a selection of his verses, and in that year he returned to Sydney in connection with the book. At Daicn and Dusk was moderately successful. Australian reviewers, almost without exception, praised it highly, and many pre- dicted that it would be warmly received in Britain; but it made no impression there. While Daley's work had a unique place in the regard of Australians, it was, not unnaturally, slighted by British reviewers because of the absence of local colour. By that time Daley had ceased to care for fame. He had no illusions about the place of his verses in the pageant of poetry. He was satisfied if his writings would earn him enough to live upon, and glad that they had introduced him to the society he liked. Many times in earlier years he had meditated a big work in verse which would express all he had thought about Things-in-General. He began one when staying on the Hawkesbury River in 1884, and the result was printed as " Fragments of a frustrate poem." "I yet shall sing my splendid song; The world is young, the world is strong " he cried, and tried again, but found that ho was incapable of sustained effort. XX. MEMOIR Only for brief periods had he tried to do any regular work, apart from literature. After At Dawn and Dusk was published, a place was obtained for him in a Government Office in Sydney; but the adding of perpendicular columns of figures and making them agree with horizontal columns was an agony noc to be borne. " That way madness lies," he said, and walked out. From the conventional standpoint his life was a failure. Yet he had practical wisdom and a respect for conventions; if he had tried he might have succeeded, as many lesser men have done. He never cared to try. Life seemed too precioi;s to waste in striving for money or position, and his temperament demanded freedom from routine. He came to know that a bitter price had to be paid for freedom, and he paid it wilhout grumbling. J3aley was as unhappy as Charles Lamb if long away from the city, and a vagabond life in town is without the purifying influences which the fresh hand of Nature can bestow. In a city there are many taverns, and at times Daley touched the mire. Yet he remained un- soiled; for he was clean at heart, and, apart from the irregularities of Bohemia, he had no vices. Many stories, grotesque and humorous, have been told about him ; and in time to come the Daley of legend may MEMOIR xxi. be a figure resembling the Beloved Vagabond of Locke's romance. There was nothing riotous in Daley's nature. He confessed that he had never had a grand passion and seldom experienced profound emotion. His colour sense was not opulent; but he thrilled to the beauty of delicate shades, and preferred the faint green dawn to the sunrise, the dusk to the sunset. Has talk was excellent. He touched any subject of conversation with a gleaming fancy, and would risk much for a jest. Of his desultory reading he remembered the anecdotes, the picturesque images, the magic phrases, and unconsciously echoed some of them in his own lines. He was a true votary of old world Romance, and some of its glamor he cast over the continuous stream of bright shining verse which flowed from his pen— finely pure, but thin when it was seen running side by side with that broader and more turbulent current which was coloured by Australian soil. Daley's health failed in 1902, and friends enabled him to take a voyage to the South Sea Islands in the following year. In 1905 it was found that he had consumption. He went to Orange on the New South Wales table-land; he was lonely there, got no better, and returned to xxii. MEMOIR Sydney in the Spring. For months he saw the end coming: his buoyant spirit rode like a cork on a sea of troubles, and he jested in the face of death. He died at AVaitara, near Sydney, on the 29th December, 1905, and was buried at Waverley, not far from the dust of those other Celtic si^irits which have enriched Australia— Kendall, Dalley and Deniehy. Light-hearted, brave, generous, but weak of will — the man was finer than his work, and his work is good. WINE AND ROSES ROMANCE They say that fail" Romance is dead, and in her cold grave lying low, The green grass waving o'er her head, the mould vipon her breasts of snow; Her voice, they say, is dumb for aye, that once was clarion-clear and high — But in their hearts, their frozen hearts, they know that bitterly they lie. Her brow of white, that was with bright rose- garland in the old days crowned. Is now, they say, all shorn of light, and with a fatal fillet bound. Her eyes divine no more shall shine to lead the hardy knight and good l/nto the Castle Perilous, beyond the dark Enchanted Wood. 2 ROMANCE And do they deem, these fools supreme, whose iron wheels unceasing whirr, That, in this rushing Age of Steam, there is no longer room for HER?— That, as they hold the Key of Gold that shuts or opens Mammon's Den, Romance has vanished from the earth and left the homes and hearts of men? Yea, some there be who fain would see this consummation sad and drear, And set their god Machinery with iron rod to rule the year. They go their way, day after day, with forward- staring, famished eyes. Whose level glances never stray— fixed fast upon a sordid prize ! The sun may rise in god-like gnise, the stars like burning seraphs shine, But, ah, for those sad souls unwise, nor Earth nor Heaven bears a sign. All visions fair, in earth and air, they gaze upon with sullen scorn. God knows His own great business best; He only knows why they were born. ROMANCE 3 They never saw, with sacred awe, the Vision of the Starry Stream That is the source of Love and Law; they never dreamt the Wondrous Dream ; They never heard the Magic Bird, whose strains the poet's soul entrance; Their souls are in their money-bags — wliat should they know of fair Romance? She still is here, the fair and dear, and walks the Earth with noiseless feet; Her eyes are deep, and dark, and clear, her scarlet mouth is honey-sweet; A chaplet fair of roses rare and lordly laurel crowns her head; Her path is over land and sea. She is not dead; she is not dead. On roads of clay, 'neath skies of grey, though Fate compel us to advance. Beyond the turning of the way there sits and waits for us Romance. Around yon cape, of lion-shape, that meets the wave with lion-brow, A ship sails in from lands unknown ; Romance stands shining on her prow. 4 ROMANCE At dead of night, a fiery liglit, from out the heart of darkness glares; The engine, rocking in its flight, once more into the darkness flares; The train flies fast, the bridge is past; white faces for a moment gleam— And at the window sits Romance and gazes down into the stream. "\Yhen first the child, with wonder wild, looks on the world with shining eyes, Romance becomes his guardian mild, and tells to him her stories wise. And, when the light fades into night, and ended is this life's short span. To other wonder-worlds she leads the spirit of the Dying ]\Ian. Right grim gods be Reality, and iron-handed Circumstance. Cast off their fetters, friend! Break free!— and seek the shrine of fair Romance. And, when dark days with cares would craze ■^ouj- brain, then she will take your hand. And lead you on by greenwood ways unto a green and pleasant land. ROMANCE 5 There you will see brave company all making gay and gallant cheer — Blanaid the Fair, and Deirdri rare, and Gold Gudrun and Guinevere; And Mei'lin wise, with dreaming eyes, and Tristram of the Harp and Bow; While from the Wood of Broceliando the horns of Elfland bravely blow. ANACREON • Wb bought a volume of Anacreon, Defaced, mishandled, little to admire. And yet its rusty clasps kept guard upon The sweetest songs, the songs of young desire Like that great song once sung by Solomon. My sweetheart's cheeks were peonies on fii-e : We saw by the bright message of his eyes That Eros served us in bookseller's guise. I keep the volume still, but She has gone . . Ah, for the poetry in Paradise ! There's Honey still and Roses on the earth, And lips to kiss, and jugs to drain with mirth ; And lovers walk in pairs: but She has gone . . Anacreon ! Anacreon ! THE WOODS OF DANDENONG High, clear and high, the soaring skylark sings Love! Love! Love! the joy of life and woe: Throbs, throbs his heart, as upward on thrilling wings Far, far he soars from this dim world below. Was it a skylark's voice or a soul's triumphant song We heard in the days gone by in the woods of Dandenong 1 Rose, lovely rose— a fairer rose was she— Rose, white rose, I kiss your tender leaves! Speak, speak, speak, Soul-white rose for me. Say, say to her my heart in silence grieves. Lonely and sad it grieves amidst the careless throng. . . Ah, green are the waving trees in the woods of Dandenong ! Star, crystal star, shining where angels be. Bright, bright star — yet brighter were her eyes — 8 THE WOODS OF DANDENONG Ai! Ai! Ai! Star of my life was she! Shine, gently shine where low her bright head lies. And ah, but the world is cold and the way is dark and long; And oh, that we were once more in the wcods of Dandenong. THE SOLDAN'S DAUGHTER It is the Soldan's Daughter: She standeth silently Upon her high stone tower And looks across the sea. Her eyes are black as midnight, Yet in their depths doth dwell A light like starlight shining Within a holy well. Her lips are like pomegranates That in the summer glow Outside the latticed windows Of the seraglio. Her breasts are golden goblets, So pure, and chaste, and fine; Two cups like moons of splendor, And full of royal wine. 10 THE SOLDAN'S DAUGHTER Her brow is like a bannei That leads a royal line ; Her hair is like the darkness In branches of the pine. Her slender limbs are liliesy Slow-swaying in the stream; Her feet in scarlet slippers Like pearls in rose-leaves gleam. Kings from afar have sought her, Rajahs, and Grand Viziers, Khans of the Golden Horde, and Lords of ten thousand spears. Kings from afar have sought her, With crowns and veils of pride- But ever the Soldan's Daughter She turned her head aside. They came with turbans jewelled. Black beards, and eyes of jet; And each wore on his bosom A red love-amulet. They sacked her royal city; Her sire, the Soldan, slew— These proud, imperious lovers Who came with swords to woo. THE SOLDAN'S DAUGHTER H iney wooed her with red slaughter And banners battle-torn, But ever the Soldan's Daughter She turned aside in scorn. She dAvells in her high tower Beside the wan, waste sea ; She weaves a spell of magic Subtly and silently. She makes an incantation, With flame and strange perfume, And solemn, star-eyed flowers That in the midnight bloom. She calls across the ages, Across the wan, waste sea; She calls from her high tower, She calls and calls to me. I hear that voice of magic Over Oblivion's flood, Over th-B seas of Silence, Over the years of blood. I stand beside the seashore. And in the midnight dumb; 0, golden Soldan's Daughter. Full soon, full soon, 1 come. THE QUEST OF BRAHI^IA Once upon a hnshecl red morning In the wondrous years of old, When Ihe sun rose like a II a j ah Clad in robes of gleaming gold, And upon his land of India Poured the largess of h.is heart, By the Ganges stood a Brahmin, Far from all his kind, apart. Darkly on that I'oyal dawning Gazed the Brahmin, sore distraught, And his body lean was shaken With the passion of his thought. *' Many years with hands uplifted Till they withered in the air, I have prayed," he cried, "to Brahma, But He heedeth not my prayer. THE QUEST OF BHAHAIA 13 "1 have prayed and I have fasted, Waiting ever for a sign, While the world went reeling past me, With its women and its wine. " Burning suns by day have scorched me. Freezing stars with icy spears, They have pierced my brain at midnight, Through the long and lonely years. *' I would lose my soul in Brahma, Who is soul, and life, and breath ; Nought to me are human shadows Flitting by to empty death. "I have done with prayer and fasting: Lest the years in vain go by, r will search the world for Brahma, I will seek him till I die." Thus the Brahmin spake, then swiftly Journeyed up the Ganges stream : All around him reeled the riot Of a strange phantasmal dream. Rajahs proud ha saw returning From the wars in regal guise. In their turbans blood-red rubies Gleaming over gleaming eyes; 14 THE QUEST OF BRAHMA Royal elephants that slowly Marched, with trunks in pride uncurled; And tho spearmen and the banners, And the glory of the world : And, amidst the great processions. Captive kings in fetters borne ; "While the cymbals clashed with triumph, And the trumpets blared with scorn. Th?se he passed with eyes unheeding All their glorious array; For he knew they were but shadowsi That grim death would sweep away. Never sight of human sorrow, Never show of human pride. Edge of sword or smile of woman, Turned him from his path aside. Yet he stayed by still, dim waters. On whose breast the lotus blooms — Flower of secrecy and silence. Gleaming, midst the temple glooms. All in vain he searched the temples Where, in many a form and guise, In the dim vast halls the idols Stared with soulless, jewelled eyes. THE QUEST OF BRAHMA 16 "I will seek," he cried "for Brahma Midst the everlasting snows; Where the holy Ganges River From his awful forehead flows." To the far-off peaks he turned him, Leaving homes of men behind; Driven onward by his yearning As a flame before the wind. Hunger gnawed, and fear pursued hiin, As he climbed with sobbing breath; And above his head, unsleeping, Hovered dark the vulture Death. Ever downward plunged the torrents In a fierce and foaming flood, Roaring through the gloomy gorges, Like a people mad for blood. Rose the white moon like a spectre — All with ghostly light aglow,; Shining on a lonely Shadow Midst the Himalayan snow. Rose the sun in opal glory — Still the Shadow lingered there. On a ledge above the eagles In the vast blue void of aii. 16 THE QUEST OF BRAHMA Long the Brahmin stood and gazed oa India lying far below, Like a Maharanee dreaming Evil dreams of war and v.'oe. And he felt his bosom thrilling With a fearful pity then, For the fierce unhappy nations, For the wretched sons of men. "All this woe of old passed by me As a cry upon the wind : Brahma is no God of Mercy Unto hapless humankind. "Or, perchance, the Fate that rules us Rules Him too, through endless years. And the Ganges flowing seaward Is the flowing of his tears." So he spake: then upward struggling Came at last unto a plain, Cold and silent, white and awful. Far above the hurricane. And amidst it gleamed the fountain Wlience the Holy River flows, And beside the mystic fountain. Bloomed a red and lonely Rose. THE QUEST OF BEAHMA 17 Never wind its leaves did ruffle, Never breeze dispersed its balm, As it bloomed there— a still-glowing Blossom of Eternal Calm. All the i3lain was white and silent. Blue and silent was the sky ; And the Brahmin, in his anguish, By the Rose lay down to die. "Now the end has come," he nmrmured, " Lone I die amidst the snows, I have sought in vain for Brahma." "I am Brahma,"' breathed the Rose. DESIRE Soul of the leaping flame, Heart of the scarlet fire, Spirit that hath for name Only the name— Desire! Subtle art thou and strong; Glowing in sunlit skies; Si^arkling in wine and song; Shining in woman's eyes; Gleaming on shores of Sleep- Moon of the wild dream-clan— Burning within the deep Passionate heart of Man. Spirit we can but name, Essence of Forms that seem, Odour of violet flame. Weaver of Thought and Dream, 18 DESIRE 19 Laugh of the World's great Heart, Who shall thy rune recite f Child of the gods thou art, Offspring of Day and Night. Lord of the Rainbow Realm, Many a shape hast thou— Glory with laurelled helm ; Love with the myrtled brow; Sanctity, robed in white; Liberty, proud and calm, Ringed with auroral light, Bearing the sword and palm. Maidens with dreamful eyes. Eyes of a dreaming dove, See thee in noble guise Coming and call thee— Love! Youtii with his blood aflame. Running in crystal-red, Sees, on the Mount of Fame, Thee with thy hand outspread. Leader of Hope Forlorn, When he beholds thine eyes Shilling in siilendid scorn- Storming the rampart, dies. 20 DESIRE Many have by good hap Seen thee in arms arrayed, Wearing a Phiygian cap, High on a barricade; Aye, and by dome and arch Leading, with eyes ablaze. Onward the Patriots' March, Singing the Marseillaise. Lo, where with trembling lyre Held in his long white hands, Thrilled by the glance of fire, Rapt the Musician stands; Feeling thee all around Glow in the quiv'ring air- Luminous Soul of Sound ! Music of all things fair! Anchorite, pale and worn. Sees thee, and earth disowns— Lifted on prayer, and borne Up to the Shining Thrones. Yea, as the seraph-star Chanting in ecstasy, Singing in fire afar, So he beholdeth thee DESIRE 21 And, as in darksome mines, Far down a corridor, Starlike a small lamp shines, Raying along the floor- So, ere his race is run, Parted his last faint breath, Thon, for the dying one, Lightest the ways of Death; And, while his kindred mourn Over his shell of clay, Shinest beyond the bourne, Dawn of his first new day. Thus through the lives to be We shall fare, each alone, Evermore lured by thee Unto an End unknown. SHEELAH When Sheelah in the morning Comes down the way, It needs no more adorning To make it gay; The stones upon the street, Sure they kiss her feet. She dresses all in green, And that's no sin; And she wears like any Queen What she stands in. If she had not a shawl— Sure S heel ah 's imder all. She looks at me so shyly With dark-grey eyes; She looks at me so slyly In sweet surprise; 22 SHEELAH And, when she passes on, My heart she treads upon. The world is full of girls, Men say to me; The sea is full of pearls. My pearl is she; Though other pearls there be. She is the pearl for me. When Sheelah, some fine morning, Walks down the way. She'll vanish without warning, And what will I say? I'll say : " Saints, be true ! Sheelah, is it you?" Sheelah, Sheelah, Sheelah, Gramachree ! In all the world of qirls She's the one girl for me. THE ROAD OF ROSES The Sun of Childhood tender Illumes the long white way With touches of rosy splendor, All in the dawn of day. And ever as he passes, And through the forest runs, He lights on leaves and grasses A thousand little suns. And, like a gleaming river That to the sea descends, The long white road runs ever To where the Rainbow ends. The bee his small wings closes, And makes his sweet abode Within the hearts of roses That bloom beside the road. «4 THE ROAD OF ROSES 25 And Spring's wise little lady, The Primrose, opes her eyne. And keeps in places shady Her golden lamps ashine. The birds, with sunlight sheening Their throats, sing all a-row, A song whose mystic meaning Only the children know. It tells of strange lands under The Sunset, strange and fair, And of the World of Wonder Above the Rainbow Stair. It tells of howl To-morrow Will bring a shining sheaf Of joys without a sorrow. Of hours without a grief. So, with clear voices ringing, And posies in their hands, The children journey singing Unto the Wonder Lands. AVATAR Mine is the beauty of all bygone years; I hold within triumphant arms to-day The loveliness of ages passed away, Brynhild's, Ysolt's, Gudrun's, and Guinevere's And hers for whom avenging Argive spears Smote Trojan heroes in that ancient fray. And fierce Achilles did great Hector slay, While sad Andromache wept widow's tears. Nature is not so rich that she can waste The wondei\s of her working wantonly; Blanaid the Fair, and Rosalie the Chaste, And burning Sappho, Queen of Melody, Are born again, and all their charms embraced In one fair woman who was born for me ! Sfi IMPRESSION The Sea is a Sultana Imperious and fair ; A Queen of the Zenana With heaving bosom bare. The Sun, her Lord and Lover, From his imperial height, His golden throne above her, Sends kisses of keen light. What high dream is she dreaming. The fair Sultana sea? So bi'ight she is in seeming; Can she know tragedy? She is the Queen of Magic, Of changing smiles and sighs; Yet in her heart-floeps tragic The lost Atlantis lies. 27 PAUDHEEN'S FAIRY Paudheen took leave of His comrades gay, Upon the eve of The first of May; With heart undavinted He trod the path Unto the haunted Green Fairy Rath. Sore wept his mother " Avic ! Machree ! Where was another Son dear as he? He's gone for ever — Too well I know The fairies never Will let him go." 28 PAUDHEEN'S FAIRY 29 The wind went soughin' Across the land; A branch of rowan Was in her hand; Witch-hazels bended Their shadows; lean, Her ci-y ascended - " Paudheen ! Paudheen ! " It was the night, and The charmed hour, When elf and sprite and Queen Maeve have power. Was it, perchance, heard. That cry so keen? The lone hill answered, " Paudheen ! Paudheen ! " But Paudheen, lying On Magic ground, Of that sore crying Heard not a sound— For, through the springing Green grass, rose clear A sound of singing Most sweet to hear. 30 PAUDHEEN'S FAIRY No wild, marsh-fii'ish, Witch-cbant he heard, But kindly Irish Was every word. The strain rose reeling- He heard, the rogue. The song, heart-stealing, Of Tir-nan-oge. The corn was springing Where once was loam — When, softly singing, Paudheen came home. His step was airy, His lips apart — The Singing Fairy W^as in his heart. SPRING SONG I AM the Vision and the Dream Of trembling Age, and yearning Youth; 1 am the Sorceress Supreme. I am Illusion; I am Truth. 1 am the Queen to whom belongs The royal right great gifts to give; I am the Singer of the Songs That lure men on to live and live. There is no music like to uiiue; I sing in green, and gold and red ; i pour from secret casks the wine That cheers the cold hearts of the dead. My harp il lias a thousand tones, And makes tlie world witli joy a-flood; The old men feel it in their bones. And life leaps laughing in their blood. 31 32 SPRING SONG The sourest mortal all iu vain Shall try from me to keep apart; I have no commerce with his brain — I storm the fortress of his lieart. I am the Soul of things to come; I make a lover from a log; I make a poet of the dumb; I make a seraph of a frog. The lover with a wrecked romance, The gambler by misfortune struck, I bring to them another chance — New life, new times, new love, new luck. My names are all the names impearled In all the songs my singers sing; I am the sweetheart of the world— I am Carissima— the Spring! THE LAND OF LAISSEZ FAIRE Far beyond the city's bounds, And its tidal swells and sounds— Voices of the Street and Mart, Throbbings of its mighty heart- Far from sordid noise and glare Lies the Land of Laissez Faire. There the days in joy are born, Fairest eve brings fairest morn; And, like the shadows o'er the grass, Silently the sweet hours pass: Rose-and-poppy wreaths they wear In the Land of Laissez Faire. Through the deep blue summer sky Snow-white clouds go sailing by, 33 34 THE LAND OF LAISSEZ FAIEE Like to Ships of Dreams in quest Of the Couiitiy of the Blest— Ah! it lies below them there, In the Land of Laissez Faire. Years ago, in that bright land, Lovers twain walked hand in hand Under that blue summer sky — Surely they were you and I? Surely We were that fond pair In the Land of Laissez Faire? Yea! . . . Your eyes were blue, I wis. As the sea at dawning is In the zones of Pearl and Palm, And you sang a pagan psalm To a sweet old pagan air. In the Land of Laissez Faire. And your brow was smooth and white As a lily's leaves of light; And your mouth was red— ah me! As a red anemone, And a vine-wreath bound your hair, In the Land of Laissez Faire. All around our fair domain— Like a grim, grey mountain-chain THE LAND OF LAISSEZ FAIRE 35 That doth some green vale in-wall— Ran a rampart magical, Shutting out the World's Despair From the Land of Laissez Faire. From that sad world, all around, Never tidings came, nor sound Of the anguish and the strife On the battle-field of Life: For the winds were debonair In the Land of Laissez Faire. Builded by a dreaming Celt Was the House wherein we dwelt : East and West and South and North On a pageant it looked forth— Ah, we had a mansion rare In the Land of Laissez Faire! What could make our hearts forlorn In the crimson-bannered morn? What could come our hearts to grieve In the purple-pennoned eve? What at night our souls could scare In the Land of Laissez Faire? Ah, there came a night at last When an army, marching fast. 36 THE LAND OF LAISSEZ FAIRE With its battle-flags all torn, By our ramj^arts swept in scorn- While the lightnings stabbed the air, In the Land of Laissez Faire. And the leader of the Horde Smote our gate with ringing sword, Crying with a scornful cry— " Here they live — who dare not die." And I cowered in my chair lu the Land of Laissez Faire. Then against the black of night Rose a form, with visage white, Clad in steel, and crowned with flame, " Duty " was her awful name— What the Devil brought her there. In the Land of Laissez Faire? Swiftly then against the Fates Firm and sure we barred our gates, Lit the lamp in bow'r and hall. And with music bacchanal Drowned the brazen trumpet's blare — In the Land of Laissez Faire. Night went by, and in the morn Twin white roses Avithout thorn THE LAND OF LAISSEZ FAIRE 37 Breasts as white I placed between, Saying—" If he saw this scene God Himself would surely spare Our sweet Land of Laissez Faire." In the sunlight— o'er the wall- Crashing came a horseman tall, Riding on a steed of black, Trampling all our world to wrack. And he said his name was " Care " — In the Land of Laissez Faire. Sweetheart ! All too well we know That was years and years ago, And amidst the world of men We have fought our fight since then. And you often ask me, " Where Is the Land of Laissez Faire?" Listen low! Beyond the tall Ruin of the western wall. There remains a little spot Covered with Forget-me-not, And a little house is there- in the Land of Laissez Faire. 38 THE LAND OF LAISSEZ FAIRE Dearest, neither you nor 1 Now can turn the earth and sky Into gardens; into seas; Into frames for fantasies- Yet shall we find room to spare In the Land of Laissez Faire. PLAYERS And after all— and after all Our passionate prayers, and sighs and tears, Is Life a reckless carnival? And are they lost, our golden years'? Ah, no; ah, no; for, long ago. Ere Time could sear, or care could fret, There was a youth called Romeo, Thei'e was a maid named Juliet. The Players of the past are gone; The Races rise; the Races pass; And softly over all is drawn The quiet Curtain of the Grass. But when the World went wild with Spring, What days we had! Do you forget? When I of all the world was King, And you were my Queen Juliet? 39 40 PLAYERS The things that are; the things that seem— Who shall distinguish Shape from Show? The great processional, splendid dream Of life is all I wish to know. The Gods their faces turn away From nations and their little wars; But we our Golden Drama play, Before the Footlights of the Stars. There lives— though Time should cease to flow. And stars their courses should forget — There lives a grey -haired Romeo, Who loves a golden Juliet. BLANCHELYS With little hands all filled with bloom, The rose-tree wakes from her long trance ; And from my heart, as from a tomb, Steals forth the ghost of dea