35-.
 
 ROSEMARY 
 AND PANSIES
 
 The salvage of vanished years, 
 The record of moods passed by, 
 
 Vain laughter and vainer tears, 
 A smile followed fast by a sigh. 
 
 Ah yes ! I own much contradiction's here, 
 And thought perchance not wholly sound or clear ; 
 But youth with manhood's inconsistent still, 
 And manhood mocks at age's cautious chill: 
 Enough if through the whole there runs the thread 
 Of a soul resolved where conscience leads to tread.
 
 ROSEMARY 
 
 AND PANSIES 
 
 BY 
 BERTRAM DOBELL 
 
 "There's rosemary for you, that's for 
 
 remembrance: pray, love, remember: 
 
 and there's pansies, that's for thoughts " 
 
 Hamlet, Act iv, Scene 4 
 
 LONDON 
 PUBLISHED BY THE AUTHOR 
 
 77 CHARING CROSS ROAD, W.C 
 MDCCCCIV
 
 TO 
 ARTHUR H. BULLEN 
 
 I thought, old friend, a better gift to bring 
 Than this poor garland, rather weeds than 
 
 flowers, 
 Not the rich product of calm leisured hours, 
 
 But such as I from toil and haste could wring ; 
 
 Yet take it, since 'tis something of mine own, 
 That bears at least the stamp of thought sincere, 
 Which from no consequence recoils in fear, 
 
 But seeks for truth unveiled and truth alone. 
 
 Like yours it is my greatest happiness 
 To delve within the ancient mines of gold 
 And disinter from dust, decay, and mould, 
 
 Long-buried treasures held in time's duresse: 
 But here, a modern of the modern time, 
 A spirit that questions all is in my rhyme.
 
 All Nature's mirrored in the poet's eye, 
 
 Wherein the pageant of the Universe 
 
 Reflects itself in all its wondrous beauty, 
 
 That he may set forth its sublimity, 
 
 The unity beneath its transmutations, 
 
 And shew his less imaginative fellows 
 
 Something of that great vision he beholds. 
 
 He gazes steadily at all things human, 
 
 Ever intent to find the harmony 
 
 Which underlies life's many seeming discords. 
 
 He is an alchemist whose art indeed 
 
 Transmutes base metal into shining gold, 
 
 And in his brain's laboratory turns 
 
 Thought's star-dust into worlds of light and splendour. 
 
 He works more transformations than the gods 
 
 Of Greece were feigned in fable to accomplish : 
 
 From common things he lifts the veil which hides 
 
 Their inner mystery from the eyes of men, 
 
 And everywhere reveals the infinite. 
 
 'Tis he alone through whom the immanent spirit 
 
 That all creation vivifies and sustains 
 
 Proclaims its oracles of deepest wisdom. 
 
 1901
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 TAGS 
 
 *The Pageant of the Hours i 
 
 *" Beauty and the Beast " 4 
 
 *The Spiritual Life 7 
 
 A Poet's Grievance u 
 
 *The Dream of Life 15 
 
 Unspoken Passion 21 
 
 Lost Identity 23 
 
 A Bookworm's Confession 27 
 
 *Hymn of the Pantheist 30 
 
 *The Dead Soul 31 
 
 Cradle Song 34 
 
 Omar-FitzGeraldics 35 
 
 Lines Written after Reading Pepys's Diary . 37 
 
 A Song of Yearning 40 
 
 Afterwards 42 
 
 *A Prayer for Light 44 
 
 *To a Friend 46 
 
 *The Pilgrim's Halt 48 
 
 *Rest 50 
 
 'On Receiving a Present of Roses ... 51 
 
 *The Poet's Heart 52 
 
 *The Lost Son 54 
 
 * Simplicity 56 
 
 On the Death of a Child 57 
 
 The Balladist Parson 59
 
 PAGB 
 
 To J. W. E 61 
 
 Threnody 62 
 
 A Jealous Lover 63 
 
 Haikais 65 
 
 Dirge 68 
 
 Farewell 70 
 
 Miriam's Lovers 72 
 
 Lady Clara Vere de Vere's Reply ... 74 
 
 Despondency 76 
 
 The Wine of Life 78 
 
 The Infant's Grave 81 
 
 A Rhymer's Complaint . . . . . -83 
 
 The Rhymer's Petition 87 
 
 Bernard Shaw 89 
 
 A Reply 91 
 
 Jones's Progress 93 
 
 Fragments 94 
 
 The Fall of the Leaves 95 
 
 The Return of the Golden Age . ... 97 
 
 Autumn Song 98 
 
 'Epigrams 99 
 
 *Epigrams from the French 101 
 
 SONNETS 
 
 The Artist .107 
 
 inspiration 108 
 
 The Poet's Apology 108 
 
 Depression 109 
 
 Exaltation 109 
 
 Twilight Life no 
 
 Resignation no 
 
 Afterwards in 
 
 Life- Weariness in 
 
 Sleep and Death 112 
 
 viii
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Great Northern Express .... 112 
 
 The Cry of Humanity 1x3 
 
 The Waste of Life 113 
 
 Desire and Possession 114 
 
 Man and Nature 114 
 
 Man's Greatness and Littleness . . . -115 
 
 Passion versus Reason 115 
 
 Knowledge not Wisdom 116 
 
 Truth's Guiding Star 116 
 
 Consolation? 117 
 
 To a Devotee 117 
 
 Man's Natural Rulers . . . . . . nS 
 
 Perversity 118 
 
 *A Poet's Optimism 119 
 
 *The Power of Will 119 
 
 Christmas Day, 1897 120 
 
 Theme for a Drama 120 
 
 Another 121 
 
 Love's Compensations 121 
 
 *Suggested by Shakespeare's Seventy-first 
 
 Sonnet 122 
 
 Shelley 122 
 
 James Thomson ("B.V.") 123 
 
 Written after Reading a Memoir of Clough . 123 
 
 *Matthew Arnold 124 
 
 The Poet of the Future 124 
 
 Music and Poetry 125 
 
 Mozart and Wagner 126 
 
 Gounod's " Faust " 126 
 
 Bach's Second Concerto 127 
 
 After a Concert 127 
 
 *Madame Calv6 128 
 
 *South Africa, 1899 "8 
 
 The Relief of Ladysmith 129 
 
 Homage to a Foe 129 
 
 ix
 
 PAGE 
 
 December 30, xgoo 130 
 
 *The Paradox-Monger 130 
 
 *The Demagogue 131 
 
 *To the Critic 131 
 
 [NOTE. Early in 1901 I printed, for private circulation, an 
 edition of seventy-five copies only of a volume of poems with the 
 same title as that of the present booh. Many of the poems which 
 were printed in that volume are included in this ; but a few which 
 appeared there have not been reprinted. On the other hand, the 
 present volume contains a good many pieces which were not included 
 in the issue of 1901. These new poems are distinguished in the 
 above list by having a * prefixed to them.'}
 
 THE PAGEANT OF THE HOURS 
 
 For ever do the Hours unfold 
 The tale in Fate's great book enrolled, 
 The tale for ever to be told, 
 For ever new, yet ever old : 
 They march for ever on their way 
 Nor prayer nor threat their course can stay ; 
 Impassive ministers of Fate, 
 Unmoved alike by Love or Hate : 
 Yet are they friends, not foes, to man, 
 Could he their course with calmness scan. 
 
 II 
 
 They bring us Life ill-omened gift ! 
 And set us in the world adrift 
 To struggle with it as we may, 
 To triumph or become its prey : 
 Indifferent on their path they go, 
 Regardless of our joy or woe, 
 Unenvious of our happiness, 
 And pitiless to our distress ; 
 They furnish forth for us the stage, 
 But care not how we rant or rage. 
 1
 
 Ill 
 
 They give us love, good-fortune, joy, 
 Yet as they give their gifts destroy ; 
 Enchant with visions of delight, 
 Then plunge us deep in starless night ; 
 Our hopes for ever dash with fears, 
 Our joys for ever drown in tears ; 
 Never unmingled bliss bestow, 
 Or give it but to overthrow ; 
 Man's soul a pipe whereon they play 
 What tunes they will, or grave or gay. 
 
 IV 
 
 Tireless upon their way they sweep, 
 Bearing their burdens to the deep 
 Eternal sea from whose dim shore 
 Return is barred for evermore ; 
 All that we prize and all we fear 
 They bear unto its waters drear, 
 Which, though they seem so dark and cold 
 Nepenthe for all sorrows hold ; 
 A gift of all good gifts the best- 
 Eternal and undreaming rest. 
 
 Unhindered on their way they keep, 
 Nor ever pause nor ever sleep, 
 Nor turn aside nor look behind, 
 But tread the path to them assigned 
 2
 
 When Nature, born a Twin with Time, 
 Assumed her attributes sublime, 
 And entered on her glorious dower 
 Of all-embracing rule and power : 
 So till her sovereignty is past 
 The Pageant of the Hours shall last. 
 
 igot
 
 " BEAUTY AND THE BEAST " 
 
 AN IMPRESSION 
 (Alhambra, January 20, 1898) 
 
 A feast of colour gay and bright, 
 A scene of unalloyed delight, 
 A glad escape from drabs and greys, 
 From racking thought and toilsome days ; 
 A vision of a fairy land 
 Where youth and beauty hand in hand 
 Dance through radiant summer hours 
 O'er verdant lawns bestrewn with flowers 
 Earth made a Paradise anew, 
 The Golden Age again in view ; 
 All thought of life's sad discords drowned 
 In wave on wave of pulsing sound ; 
 Beauty, enchantment, poetry, 
 Motion harmonious, rhythmic, free ; 
 Forms graceful, sinuous, and lithe, 
 With gladsome animation blithe ; 
 Houris for whose bewitching eyes 
 Angels would forfeit Paradise ; 
 All that the senses can delight, 
 All that can wing time's heavy flight ; 
 A show of loveliness supreme, 
 A realised poetic dream ; 
 4
 
 All here exhilarates and gladdens, 
 
 And not a thought intrudes that saddens ; 
 
 A wild delirium of joy 
 
 Without control, without alloy, 
 
 Intoxicating and entrancing 
 
 Till heart and brain and nerves are dancing - 
 
 ***** 
 Ah ! with a sudden shock of pain, 
 I'm thrown back on myself again 
 Descending on the final rally, 
 The curtain falls upon the Ballet ! 
 And leaves me once again to feel 
 The disillusion of the real ; 
 To pass into the gloomy night 
 With no deceptive splendours bright ; 
 To meditate how transitory 
 Are all man's pleasures, all his glory ; 
 How fast his happy moments fleet, 
 While misery moves with leaden feet. 
 
 ***** 
 What ! moralise in style so trite 
 That Mawworms might your verses cite I 
 Away with thoughts which, false or true, 
 Are profitless and far from new ; 
 'Tis much to gain an hour's delight, 
 And wing with joy time's weary flight : 
 To analyse our joys away 
 Is but mere folly to display ; 
 If all our joys are but illusions 
 Our sorrows also are delusions : 
 If nature cheats us into grief 
 Should we not thank her for relief ? 
 If life is a dissolving view 
 Then death no more than life is true : 
 5
 
 Real are our visions while they last, 
 Unreal as they seem when past : 
 With every pleasant hour that's spent 
 We cheat the fates malevolent, 
 Who may indeed with martyrdom 
 Afflict us in the time to come, 
 But cannot those blest hours recall, 
 When pleasure did our souls enthral.
 
 THE SPIRITUAL LIFE 
 
 There lived a man in days long past, 
 
 The happiest of his kind, 
 Who kept unstained from first to last 
 
 His pure and lucid mind. 
 
 Not of, though in the world he dwelt, 
 
 Eventless was his life ; 
 No greed, no lust, no hate he felt, 
 
 With no man had he strife. 
 
 Ambition, wealth, and beauty sought 
 To tempt him with their wares, 
 
 But on his equal temper wrought 
 In vain with all their snares. 
 
 They offered him a statesman's place, 
 
 He held it for a time, 
 But left it rather than abase 
 
 His soul with statecraft's slime. 
 
 Reason was valued not, he found, 
 
 By people or by prince, 
 Who on his wisest measures frowned 
 
 And at plain truth did wince. 
 7
 
 But when by sad disasters tried, 
 
 They sought his aid again, 
 And begged he would the kingdom guide, 
 
 And as their sovereign reign. 
 
 1 Ah ! could I only think," he said, 
 " Taught in affliction's school, 
 That you the righteous path would tread 
 Then would I o'er you rule. 
 
 1 But nations never yet for long 
 Have been by wisdom swayed, 
 
 Reason than passion's far less strong, 
 And truth's with treachery paid. 
 
 ' As king I must my own soul lose 
 
 To gain ingratitude, 
 Wherefore the path of peace I choose, 
 Where no false shows delude. 
 
 ' Ambition's but a will o' th' wisp, 
 
 Wealth's but a pedlar's pack, 
 Beauty is but a shining lure 
 The souls of men to wreck. 
 
 1 Mine are the stars, the sun, the moon, 
 
 Valleys and mountains mine ; 
 All things yield up some precious boon 
 To make my life divine. 
 
 ' When morning breaks I greet the sun 
 
 With ever-new delight, 
 And still, when he his course has run. 
 Welcome no less the night. 
 8
 
 " An everlasting spring I see 
 
 Of beauty and of love 
 In earth, sea, rock, stone, flower, and tree, 
 And in the heavens above. 
 
 " All natural things my soul sustain, 
 
 Supplying all its needs ; 
 From them that full content I gain 
 Men vainly seek in creeds. 
 
 " Glories where'er I gaze appear 
 
 Of colour, beauty, form ; 
 
 The music of one Voice I hear 
 
 Alike in calm and storm. 
 
 " All things transfigured in my sight 
 
 A greater radiance gain, 
 I see the very light of light, 
 The heaven of heavens attain. 
 
 " One impulse ruling all I feel 
 
 That in one chain doth bind 
 What some call real and some ideal, 
 Sense, substance, soul, and mind : 
 
 " The soul that unifieth all, 
 And all doth animate ; 
 That finds no grain of sand too small. 
 No universe too great. 
 
 " Divine ideas all unsought 
 My spirit apprehends : 
 Ever the greatness of my thought 
 My power of speech transcends. 
 9
 
 1 Words cannot tell the sweet content 
 
 That in my soul doth reign, 
 Whose wealth the faster it is spent 
 The richer doth remain. 
 
 ' Stars crown me with their aureole, 
 The sea flows through my veins, 
 The heavens clothe me, and my soul 
 Infinity contains.* 
 
 I look beyond Earth's petty span, 
 
 And worlds of light I see, 
 Where, cleansed from sin and suffering, man 
 
 Ascends to deity, 
 
 1 Until, at variance no more 
 
 With the eternal Will, 
 I see him, strife and effort o'er, 
 
 His destiny fulfil." 
 
 * "You never enjoy the world aright till the sea itself 
 floweth in your veins, till you are clothed with the heavens 
 and crowned with the stars." Thomas Traherne. 
 
 10
 
 A POET'S GRIEVANCE 
 
 Yes, sir ! my name is Milton Spenser Milton. 
 Am I descended from the famous John ? 
 I knew you'd ask that everybody puts 
 That question to me, making me sometimes 
 Fit to blaspheme the poet's memory, 
 By which I've all my life been handicapped. 
 " Paradise Lost " I've often wished had been 
 Lost literally and never more Regained. 
 John Milton was John Milton, I'm myself : 
 He had his special talent, / have mine : 
 'Tis true indeed a family tradition 
 (I care not for its authenticity) 
 Asserts we are descended from the poet : 
 But can you give me any reason why 
 One family should not produce two poets ? 
 I couldn't write a " Paradise " I'll own, 
 And if I could I -would not : but could John 
 With all his genius have composed that song, 
 So full of patriotic inspiration, 
 Of foreign foes so scornfully defiant, 
 So trumpet-like in its triumphant measure, 
 Which the great MacMungo sang with such success 
 At almost every Music Hall in England, 
 And which so roused the spirit of the nation, 
 11
 
 And I yes ! /, your humble servant, wrote ? 
 I trow he could not : wherefore I contend 
 'Tis most unjust my corn to measure by 
 John Milton's bushel. Do you think that he, 
 Were he to come to life again, would choose 
 To write another " Paradise " ? Not he ! 
 He was a man (considering the times 
 He lived in) of advanced opinions ; not 
 By any means a man to take unquestioned 
 His principles from masters and from pastors. 
 His Epic owes far more to his invention 
 Than to the Book which he professed to follow : 
 His Jesus and Jehovah were but Miltons 
 " Writ large," through whom the bard ventriloquised. 
 Did he live now and know the proved results 
 Of Biblical research in modern times, 
 He would be counted in the foremost ranks 
 Of those who have cast off the chains of dogma : 
 But that is scarcely what I meant to urge : 
 I dare say folks have no design to hurt 
 My feelings when they ask if I'm descended 
 From the great Milton. It's a natural question 
 That is it's natural inconsiderate folk 
 (Most folk are inconsiderate) should ask it : 
 But don't you see (and here's the sting of it,) 
 Most people ask as though within their minds 
 There lurked the thought " A long descent indeed." 
 Now this is aggravating you must own : 
 I don't by choice bear so renowned a name ; 
 Could I have chosen my own patronymic 
 I'd have preferred Smith, Brown, Jones, Robinson, 
 Or any other undistinguished surname, 
 Which I perchance by merits of my own, 
 O'ershadowed by no famous ancestor, 
 12
 
 Might then have made renowned and glorious. 
 Let me confide a secret to your ear : 
 Three tragedies I've written in a style 
 Never attempted by another poet, 
 Original in matter as in form, 
 And full of great sensational effects, 
 Which, were they once produced upon the stage, 
 Would rank me even with the Bard of Avon. 
 You smile, sir ! but I mean just what I say, 
 In fact I know not if I'm not too modest, 
 And should not claim a higher place than Shakespeare : 
 For what says Bernard Shaw ? " Excepting Homer, 
 There is no famous writer I despise 
 So much as I despise the vaunted Shakespeare, 
 When I compare my intellect with his : " 
 (And that is just what I should say of Shaw, 
 Were I but modesty restrains my speech.) 
 Buchanan too (I mean the famous Robert, 
 The author of hang it ! I've clean forgotten 
 Their names of countless poems, plays, and novels,) 
 He also thinks that Shakespeare's overrated, 
 See ! here's his "Open Letter," where he shows 
 That the absurd idolatry of Shakespeare 
 Is but a superstition of the mob, 
 Who worship him for his faults and not his merits ; 
 (Robert, you see, is candid and allows 
 That Shakespeare has some merits) : Listen now 
 41 Shakespeare, of course, writing in barbarous times, 
 Wrote like a savage : he could do naught else ! 
 But what is most amazing in his most 
 Amazing genius is the thorough-going 
 Consistency with which he ever seizes 
 The brutal and the barbarous side of things, 
 Be it the Trojan War or Jack Cade's rising, 
 13
 
 His horrid caricature of hunchbacked Richard, 
 
 Or his bestial libel on heroic Joan." 
 
 Now, sir, I don't endorse all Robert says, 
 
 (His pen, I fancy, masters him at times, 
 
 And writes down things which no one is astonished 
 
 More than their author is to see in print :) 
 
 But I do think that if you take away 
 
 His six or seven masterpieces, Shakespeare 
 
 Falls to a level which may well be reached, 
 
 Or overleaped even by your humble servant. 
 
 But let that pass ; comparisons are odious, 
 
 And I'm content posterity should judge 
 
 Between me and the Elizabethan bard: 
 
 That is, I should be well content could I 
 
 But get my plays produced upon the stage, 
 
 Or could I even find a publisher 
 
 With enterprise enough to make them known 
 
 To the great British public. Genius, sir, 
 
 Both manager and publisher are blind to, 
 
 And so my plays remain unknown, unacted, 
 
 And I make but a poor precarious living 
 
 By writing songs (at half a crown a time) 
 
 For music-hall professionals. Dame Fortune 
 
 Has never yet your humble servant favoured, 
 
 And at the present moment worse than usual 
 
 She's treating me. Behold ! my purse contains 
 
 Not even a copper coin. I know not 
 
 How to replenish it. I should be in luck 
 
 If some kind soul would lend me half a crown. 
 
 Thanks, friend ; my lucky star must rise some day. 
 
 I shan't be always penniless, unknown, 
 
 And down at heel ; depend on't I'll repay you. 
 
 1886-1899 
 
 14
 
 THE DREAM OF LIFE 
 
 " We are such stuff 
 
 As dreams are made of, and our little life* 
 Is rounded with a sleep." 
 
 Is all existence then a dream, 
 
 Where midwife Fancy reigns supreme ? 
 
 Are earth and ocean, sun and sky, 
 
 Creations of mere Phantasy ? 
 
 Are all the things that seem but vain 
 
 Phantoms within a phantom brain ? 
 
 Is Nature but a mirage bright 
 
 On ancient Chaos 1 mask of night ? 
 
 Are all we see and all we feel 
 
 Alike phantasmal and unreal ? 
 
 Ah yes ! existence is but dreaming, 
 However solid 'tis in seeming ; 
 Dreams are our loves and hopes and fears, 
 Ambitions, triumphs, smiles and tears ; 
 In waking dreams we pass the day, 
 And dreams the hours of darkness sway, 
 (Day-dreams or night-dreams who can guess 
 Whether their truth is more or less ?) 
 Perchance even Death is but a dream, 
 And fleshless skulls with visions teem. 
 The Gods we pray to and adore 
 15
 
 Are shadows of our dreams no more ; 
 Heaven is a dream of yearning born, 
 And hell the dream of the forlorn ; 
 Angels are born from sunny skies, 
 Devils from night and storm arise ; 
 A vast phantasmagoric birth 
 Is all our wondrous heaven and earth ; 
 Space, Time, the Universe, are naught 
 But shadows of that central Thought, 
 Which mortals ne'er may comprehend, 
 Whence issues all, where all doth end : 
 O'er all is phantasy supreme, 
 What most seems real is most a dream ! 
 
 The visions that we dream to-day 
 That seem such newness to display, 
 Were dreamed in dim and long-past ages 
 By patriarchs, poets, lovers, sages ; 
 All that we feel and all we know 
 Were felt and known long, long ago ; 
 We think no thought, no passions feel 
 Save such as nature did reveal 
 To our first father, when this earth 
 From fiery star-dust sprang to birth. 
 We dream of progress gained by stages 
 Successive through successive ages, 
 But like a squirrel in a cage 
 Never advance a single stage, 
 Or like a horse to mill-wheel bound 
 For ever travel round and round ; 
 Condemned to think thoughts thought before, 
 And wearily to travel o'er 
 The barren realm of make-believe, 
 And knowingly ourselves deceive 
 16
 
 With the old childish speculations 
 And unexplaining explanations : 
 Trusting in old worn-out traditions, 
 Or newly-minted superstitions, 
 Which prove to be, when tested, naught 
 But bastard spawn of ancient thought ; 
 Nothing we see in truth's pure light, 
 But all in falsehood's hues bedight ; 
 The cup from life's pure fount decline 
 To drug ourselves with poisoned wine ; 
 Curse fate which does but give us scope 
 To hang ourselves with our own rope ; 
 With all that we can use or need 
 Grasping at more with sateless greed ; 
 Ever, though mocked and mortified, 
 Parading with a peacock's pride ; 
 Matching brave words with coward deeds, 
 Fettering our souls with craven creeds ; 
 For ever forging chains to bind 
 In straiter bondage heart and mind. 
 
 Dreams within dreams and dreams within them 
 We spin and never cease to spin them, 
 The victims ever of illusions, 
 And mocking protean delusions : 
 The playthings of ironic fate, 
 Dreaming we live and love and hate ; 
 Striving though strife brings naught but pain, 
 Hoping though all our hopes are vain ; 
 Seeking for what we may not find, 
 Wayward and roving as the wind ; 
 Shadows for ever we pursue, 
 And still the bootless chase renew ; 
 
 17 n
 
 Prefer a Will o' the Wisp's false light 
 To Reason's lanthorn clear and bright 
 Heap follies upon follies till 
 They overmaster mind and will, 
 And, rendering us to reason blind, 
 Perversity controls the mind ; 
 For truth pretend to yearn, but when 
 She shows herself, avert our ken 
 In mortal fear her gaze so stern 
 Will all our weaknesses discern, 
 And all the errors that we cherish 
 'Neath her too-piercing eyesight perish. 
 
 Soaring, alas ! how soon we tire, 
 To sink yet deeper in the mire, 
 Yet from our deepest degradation, 
 Ascend to heights of exaltation, 
 For still there shines a spark within 
 That's never wholly quenched by sin. 
 
 Look through a microscope and see 
 The countless animalcule 
 That in a drop of water dwell : 
 Think you the creatures do not swell 
 With self-importance at the thought 
 That the whole universe was wrought 
 Solely to give them such a home, 
 With space so vast in which to roam ? 
 And who shall say they are not wise 
 At a high rate themselves to prize ? 
 Since in Dame Nature's wondrous scheme, 
 Where miracles on all sides teem, 
 18
 
 We know not what she may account 
 
 Of her creations paramount ; 
 
 Or rather say, her equal eye 
 
 Doth all impartially descry, 
 
 Nothing to her is great or small, 
 
 Alike her bosom fosters all, 
 
 Despises naught, loves none too well 
 
 Of all that in her kingdom dwell, 
 
 But gives to all whate'er they need 
 
 Favouring no more the flower than weed. 
 
 What but a dream is all that's past ? 
 The Future's but a dream forecast ; 
 If aught that's not a dream can be 
 'Tis what we in the present see, 
 But that dissolves before our eyes 
 Ere we its import realise ; 
 Strive as we may to hold it fast, 
 Naught that we see or feel may last ; 
 As in a swiftly-moving train 
 We motionless seem to remain, 
 While the receding landscape flies 
 So fast it mocks our straining eyes 
 So are we hurried on our way, 
 No time to think, no power to stay ; 
 With swifter and yet swifter pace, 
 Onward, we know not where, we race, 
 Until, amazed and out of breath, 
 We reach the final station Death. 
 
 So in a tangled maze of errors, 
 Of sins, perplexities and terrors, 
 19
 
 Of rushings hither, flyings thither, 
 And never knowing whence or whither, 
 Seeking to find his soul for ever, 
 But ever foiled in the endeavour ; 
 A shuttlecock predestinate 
 Created for the sport of fate ; 
 An actor in an aimless plot 
 Such is man's ever -hapless lot : 
 Consistent but in inconsistence, 
 Such is, was, must be, his existence. 
 
 1901-3 
 
 20
 
 UNSPOKEN PASSION 
 
 We never breathed of love a word, 
 
 Yet we were both aware 
 Of the deep passion newly stirred 
 
 Which neither might declare. 
 
 We talked of things indifferent, 
 
 And none our thoughts might guess, 
 
 Though love to every accent lent 
 A tone of tenderness. 
 
 Swift telegraphic messages 
 
 Flashed forth from eye to eye : 
 
 " I love, but must my love suppress " 
 " O cruel destiny." 
 
 " Ah ! had we only met before, 
 When we to love were free ! " 
 
 " Wretched we must be evermore, 
 None so forlorn as we ! " 
 
 " Our secret love our eyes alone, 
 
 And not our lips may tell." 
 " No need of words for what is known 
 
 To both of us so well." 
 21
 
 And still we talked of this and that, 
 Scarce knowing what we said ; 
 
 But through our disconnected chat 
 There ran a subtle thread 
 
 A subtle underlying thread 
 Of pleasure mixed with pain, 
 
 A mingled ecstasy and dread 
 
 That thrilled through heart and brain. 
 
 And left us with a yearning sense 
 
 Of sorrow and regret, 
 And of a mighty difference 
 
 Since we that night had met. 
 
 22
 
 LOST IDENTITY 
 
 I had a curious dream last night, 
 So odd it set me pondering : 
 
 Its lesson how to read aright 
 My thoughts afar went wandering. 
 
 Methought by evil planet crossed, 
 
 Or destiny unkind, 
 That I myself myself had lost, 
 
 And strove in vain to find. 
 
 I wandered here, I wandered there, 
 
 Poor weary-footed elf ! 
 But found no traces anywhere 
 
 Of my unlucky self. 
 
 I asked of every one I met 
 If they had seen me lately ; 
 
 A man, said I, well made and set, 
 Though not so very stately. 
 
 But none in country or in town 
 Could tell where I had wandered, 
 
 And so at last I sat me down, 
 And o'er the puzzle pondered. 
 23
 
 I've searched in every likely place 
 
 Where he most oft is seen, 
 Said I, but find of him no trace : 
 
 What may this portent mean ? 
 
 Every old bookshop hereabout 
 In search of him I've entered, 
 
 For that is where (without a doubt) 
 His thoughts are chiefly centred. 
 
 To concert hall and theatre 
 I've also gone but vainly 
 
 Although 'tis there, his friends aver, 
 He spends his leisure mainly. 
 
 Brown, Jones, and Robinson all say 
 That they nowhere have seen him, 
 
 Men of good faith and honour they, 
 Who wouldn't lie to screen him. 
 
 He'd no misfortunes to lament, 
 Nor ways nor means was tasked for : 
 
 If cash he'd wanted I'd have lent 
 Whatever sum he asked for. 
 
 And still the more for light I sought 
 The mystery seemed to thicken, 
 
 Till suddenly a brilliant thought 
 Did in my cranium quicken: 
 
 He by some magical device 
 
 As / was masquerading, 
 And by this shabby artifice 
 
 On my good name was trading. 
 24
 
 But here the tangle grew too great 
 
 To hope for its untying : 
 I woke and found both him and me 
 
 Upon the sofa lying. 
 
 (That " lying " comment doth invite, 
 
 And 'tis indeed suggestive, 
 But I'm not fibbing honour bright ! 
 
 Nor had I been too festive.) 
 
 Tis usual when a fable's told 
 
 With a moral to equip it ; 
 So I my moral will unfold 
 
 For you to read or skip it. 
 
 Most men, departing from the rdles 
 
 Nature for them intended, 
 Have wandered widely from their goals, 
 
 And to worse things descended. 
 
 So, in a sense, they lose themselves 
 (They may or may not know it) 
 
 And go about poor witless elves 
 Like your bewildered poet. 
 
 Few are the lucky folk whose lines 
 
 Are cast in places pleasant, 
 On whom benignant fortune shines 
 
 With lustre ever crescent. 
 
 Alas ! of these I am not one, 
 But spend my life in groping 
 
 After a path and finding none, 
 Yet always vainly hoping. 
 25
 
 On many paths I've sought to tread, 
 But still turned back defeated ; 
 
 "With countless projects in my head 
 Have never one completed. 
 
 And now a life I feel was meant 
 Some good deed to achieve, 
 
 Can scarce do aught (so far 'tis spent) 
 Its promise to retrieve. 
 
 Oh ! that myself I might but find 
 Ere fate rings down the curtain, 
 
 And no more wander, sick and blind, 
 Where naught is plain or certain ! 
 
 26
 
 A BOOKWORM'S CONFESSION 
 
 E'en in my youth I knew the bookworm's passion ; 
 
 I felt it ere I well had learned to read : 
 While cakes and sweets my comrades spent their cash on, 
 
 I to the bookshop with my pence would speed. 
 
 Ever the passion more and more controlled me, 
 Absorbing all my thoughts, my cash, my time ; 
 
 'Twas vain for parents or for friends to scold me, 
 My ears were shut to reason or to rhyme. 
 
 More than the fondest lover loves the maiden 
 Whose spell is on him ne'er to be o'erthrown, 
 
 I loved my books, which gratefully repaid in 
 A thousand ways the favour to them shown. 
 
 Old tomes I love most with their time-worn covers, 
 Quaint printing and dark paper stained with age ; 
 
 About them a peculiar magic hovers 
 Such as I find not in the modern page. 
 
 I love the odd, the quaint, and the fantastic ; 
 
 All that your men of " common sense " decline ; 
 Such treasures with a joy enthusiastic 
 
 I greet and prize as connoisseurs old wine. 
 27
 
 My crowded bookroom gives me greater pleasure 
 Than misers from their money-bags can gain ; 
 
 Upon its shelves rests many and many a treasure 
 Sought for long years before I could obtain. 
 
 Therein I'm king all elements contentious 
 Are there subdued and dwell in perfect peace ; 
 
 Mohammed there rests quietly by Mencius ; 
 There Pope and Protestant their warfare cease. 
 
 Old plays are there, old poems, old romances, 
 Things that the busy world has long forgot ; 
 
 Books full of strange and undigested fancies 
 By brains half-mad and half-inspired begot. 
 
 All kinds of useless knowledge in it slumber ; 
 
 Lamb's " books that are no books " there find no rest ; 
 Few of its tomes would be allowed to cumber 
 
 Their shelves who chatter of " the hundred best." 
 
 It holds a thousand volumes none would value, 
 
 Save such another " dryasdust " as I, 
 Though why I love them I could scarcely tell you 
 
 Lover ne'er loved who knew the reason why. 
 
 Treasures I see, wherever fall my glances, 
 
 If not unique of rarity extreme, 
 Each with a curious history which enhances 
 
 Its value past all price in my esteem. 
 
 I know wise worldlings look on me with wonder, 
 As one beneath a strange obsession's sway, 
 
 Though they perchance the influence are under 
 Of passions which to countless ills betray, 
 28
 
 The bookworm's passion brings no keen repentance, 
 And if he spends he still retains his wealth ; 
 
 Indulgence in it never yet did sentence 
 A man to vain regrets and ruined health. 
 
 Name a pursuit as pleasure-fraught and harmless, 
 Giving as many hours of calm delight, 
 
 And I'll at once abandon mine as charmless : 
 Till then I'll love it in the world's despite. 
 
 Let who will blame, my dear old books I'll cherish, 
 Since they for all my troubles make amends ; 
 
 'Twill be my greatest sorrow when I perish 
 That I no more can guard my silent friends. 
 
 29
 
 HYMN OF THE PANTHEIST 
 
 Wondrous essence, Being's stay, 
 Light that shineth night and day ; 
 Power that doth all uphold, 
 Spirit that doth all enfold ; 
 Heart of peace in maddest strife, 
 Joy of Joy and Life of Life ; 
 Soul of Nature ! let me rest 
 Childlike on thy loving breast, 
 Shadow me beneath thy wings 
 From Despair's envenomed stings. 
 
 Let me, when I wake at morn 
 Render thanks that I was born ; 
 Let me, ere I sink to rest, 
 Ever own how much I'm blest ; 
 Let me always grateful be 
 For the joy I have in Thee ! 
 Ever, ever thank the Power 
 Gave me such a splendid dower ; 
 All my thoughts thanksgivings be 
 Till I at last return to Thee ! 
 
 February 1903 
 
 30
 
 THE DEAD SOUL 
 
 [Thomas Cooper, in his Autobiography, gives an account ot 
 William Thorn, whose fate was a very sad one. Coming to 
 London, he fell into dissipated habits, and consequently into 
 distress. "Again and again," says Cooper, " I carried invita- 
 tions to him from Douglas Jerrold to contribute to the 
 'Shilling Magazine,' and from William Howitt to contribute 
 to his periodical, but it was in vain. ' Nay, nay,' he used to 
 say with an air of wretchedness, ' I can do nae such thing as 
 they ask, although they promise me siller for it. I threw off 
 my lilts o' the heart in auld times when I had a heart, but I 
 think I've none left noo.' " 
 
 The following poem was suggested by the above story ; but 
 it is intended to have a general application rather than to be 
 understood as relating to William Thorn.] 
 
 Oh ! where's the heart I once possessed, 
 
 With fire poetic filled, 
 With which my fervent youth was blessed, 
 
 Ere disillusion chilled : 
 Oh then what glorious visions came 
 
 My spirit to delight ! 
 How did Life's pure aspiring flame 
 
 Burn ever clear and bright ! 
 31
 
 How wondrous fair did all things seem, 
 
 My soul how great its scope ! 
 I wandered in a blessed dream, 
 
 Bathed in the light of hope ; 
 A Paradise I found where'er 
 
 Were seen blue sky, green earth, 
 An angel was each maiden fair ; 
 
 Fresh joys each hour had birth. 
 
 Rich in the alchemy of thought 
 
 Base metal turned to gold ; 
 Bright inspirations came unsought, 
 
 Earth all its secrets told : 
 I dwelt with saints and sages dead, 
 
 And made their raptures mine ; 
 A luxury was common bread, 
 
 And water was as wine. 
 
 Shakespeare my master was and friend, 
 
 Shelley upon me smiled ; 
 Burns did his fiery spirit lend 
 
 Keats ravished and beguiled : 
 I heard the minstrels of all time 
 
 One wondrous chorus singing, 
 Whose dominant recurrent rhyme 
 
 With love and joy was ringing, 
 
 Too glowing was the fire, or I 
 
 Unworthy of its flame ; 
 And now I shiver, faint and die, 
 
 Lost every noble aim : 
 The glorious palace of my soul 
 
 Is now a prison drear ; 
 Darkly I burrow like a mole, 
 
 Ghostlike I linger here. 
 32
 
 Oh ! might the fire burn up once more ! 
 
 But oh ! that hope how vain ! 
 The corse long dead to life restore, 
 
 Bid roses bloom again ! 
 When once the summer-time is o'er 
 
 Winter will have his reign, 
 But my lost summer never more 
 
 Shall I, like earth, regain. 
 
 The poet lives on love and hope, 
 
 And they his muse inspire ; 
 When they have fled his soul is dead, 
 
 And silent is his lyre ; 
 One burst of anguish and despair 
 
 May from his spirit come, 
 Then he his grievous cross must bear, 
 
 Heart-broken, soulless, dumb ! 
 
 1902 
 
 33
 
 CRADLE SONG 
 
 Little laughing, crowing sprite, 
 Mother's ever-new delight ! 
 How I love thee can I show 
 By word or action ? No, no, no ! 
 Smile, my darling, smile again ! 
 Far from thee be care and pain ! 
 All the joys of life be thine, 
 Boundless love and pride be mine ! 
 
 Gladdest of all living things, 
 Happier than queens or kings ! 
 In thy little cot upcurled, 
 Sweetest creature in the world ! 
 Wealth or glory for a night 
 Or a day may give delight, 
 Day and night and night and day 
 Lasts a mother's joy alway. 
 
 34
 
 OMAR-FITZ-GERALDICS 
 
 You laugh To-day, the Preacher said, but know 
 Salt tears To-morrow from your eyes shall flow : 
 
 Bah ! he's a fool who, fearing future ills, 
 Doth this day's mirth and happiness forego. 
 
 Let Fate inflict what future ills it may, 
 It cannot touch the joy enjoyed To-day : 
 
 The deed accomplished shuts the door on Fate : 
 The Past has passed for ever from its sway. 
 
 We know e'en while the Summer boasts its flowers 
 That 'twill be followed by bleak Winter hours, 
 
 Why then its beauties let us value more, 
 And sport more freely in its pleasant bowers. 
 
 Let Ravens croak as hoarsely as they will, 
 'Tis not for them Fate's mandates to fulfil ; 
 
 Perchance it treats more gently you and me 
 Than those weighed down by fear of future ill. 
 
 Since life at best provides small store of joy, 
 I hold 'tis base that little to destroy : 
 
 The Preacher with Damnation on his lips 
 Is in the Devil's, not in God's employ. 
 35
 
 He whose black robe denotes his gloomy soul, 
 Which burrows in dark subways like a mole, 
 
 Is but a stunted and abortive thing, 
 And not a man with nature sound and whole. 
 
 Let us endure and suffer when we must, 
 But never mirth and happiness mistrust : 
 
 Without them what a dreary path we tread ! 
 They are the oil of life, which else would rust. 
 
 1900 
 
 36
 
 LINES WRITTEN AFTER READING 
 PEPYS'S DIARY 
 
 Delightful, quaint old diarist, 
 Most ruthless self-anatomist ! 
 
 He guessed not how those pages 
 Wherein he bared his inmost soul, 
 So egotistic, naiive, and droll, 
 Would render up so rich a toll 
 
 Of spoil to after ages. 
 
 Unto his artless pen we owe 
 What ne'er another one doth show, 
 
 (Save as by farthing candle,) 
 A living picture of the ways, 
 (Vivid as 'neath electric rays,) 
 Of life in Charles the Second's days, 
 
 That time of riant scandal. 
 
 Clearly his world before us looms, 
 Though covered with the heavy glooms 
 
 Two centuries cast o'er it : 
 We see him at his work and play, 
 Dancing and singing, grave and gay, 
 Kissing his maids a fie-fie trait ! 
 
 We must, of course, deplore it. 
 37
 
 Kings, courtiers, " statesmen "save the name ! 
 Bold Duchesses, more void of shame 
 
 Than playhouse Moll or Nelly ; 
 Intriguing placemen all the crew 
 Of ladies frail, false lords, we view, 
 Gazing Pepys's magic-lantern through 
 
 From dust and ashes sally ! 
 
 Our diarist was not a saint, 
 
 He did not 'scape the age's taint, 
 
 In him was naught heroic : 
 A bribe he scrupled not to touch, 
 He loved fair women far too much, 
 His gormandising too was such 
 
 As would have shocked a stoic. 
 
 We know him as none else we know 
 Far better even than Rousseau, 
 
 Spite of his strange revealings ; 
 Not Byron's self we know so well, 
 From what he did and did not tell, 
 (His soul a mingled heaven and hell !) 
 
 Confessions and concealings. 
 
 Few have, like Pepys, the pluck to own 
 E'en to their very selves alone 
 
 Their little peccadilloes ; 
 Though quick our neighbours' faults to find, 
 We're to our own worse failings blind, 
 Nor to confess them are inclined 
 
 E'en to our friendly pillows. 
 
 We know he'd sins both great and small 
 To answer for, but, after all, 
 
 Pray tell me who's without them ? 
 38
 
 The man was human through and through, 
 His faults belong to me and you, 
 Tis well if we've his good points too, 
 And make no fuss about them. 
 
 Could we to life but call him back 
 He would not a warm welcome lack 
 
 If with us he'd foregather : 
 How should we hang upon his chat, 
 His anecdotes and stories pat 
 Of rakish Earls and Ladies that 
 
 Had slipped from virtue's tether ! 
 
 Yet were he here in person, he 
 Could scarcely help us more to see 
 
 His age's form and pressure 
 Than in his diary unique 
 (You'll vainly such another seek !), 
 He shows it with unvarnished cheek, 
 
 Than Lely's colours fresher ! 
 
 A sad and shameful time we own 
 Was his : yet could the truth be known 
 
 Is our age much more moral ? 
 A nineteenth-century Pepys may be 
 Is now at work to prove that we 
 Have very little warranty 
 
 With Charles's time to quarrel ! 
 
 39
 
 A SONG OF YEARNING 
 
 Our eyes are dim with watching for the dawning of the 
 
 day, 
 The yearned-for day that's coming when our griefs 
 
 shall melt away : 
 Oh ! shall we never, never, of that dawn perceive a 
 
 ray? 
 
 Must we ever wait in vain ? 
 
 Must clashing interests evermore humanity divide ? 
 Shall unjust might as in the past defenceless right o'er- 
 
 ride? 
 Have all in vain our heroes fought, in vain our martyrs 
 
 died ? 
 
 Is the better day a dream ? 
 
 Shall the world be ruled for ever by sophistries and 
 
 lies? 
 Shall idle wealth for ever filch lean industry's fair 
 
 prize? 
 
 Shall kings and priests for ever o'er the nations tyran- 
 nise ? 
 
 Shall wrong for ever reign ? 
 40
 
 Oh no ! a day is coming with blessings in its train, 
 When no man to his brother man shall act the part of 
 
 Cain, 
 And none from others' loss shall seek unhallowed 
 
 wealth to gain : 
 
 Oh haste, most blessed dawn ! 
 
 Then no man's interest apart from that of all shall be, 
 Nations no more in battle-shock shall meet on land or 
 
 sea, 
 
 And universal Love shall make mankind one Family 
 Come soon, oh blessed dawn ! 
 
 Might we but live to see the day when ancient wrong 
 
 departs, 
 And man no more contends with man save in the 
 
 peaceful arts ! 
 Oh what a thrill of love and joy would glad our wearied 
 
 hearts 
 
 On such a blessed dawn ! 
 
 It is a dawn we'll hope for still, ev'n though we hope 
 
 in vain ; 
 We will not think the world was made for naught but 
 
 care and pain ; 
 
 We'll still believe we shall at last a Golden Age attain* 
 And every dawn be blessed ! 
 
 1893 
 
 41
 
 AFTERWARDS 
 
 I 
 
 When I am dead do not weep, 
 
 For death is the least of all ills, 
 But say Let him tranquilly sleep 
 
 The sleep that all agony stills ; 
 He watched the strange pageant of life 
 
 Through many wonderful years ; 
 He has done now with passion and strife, 
 
 He has done now with hopes and with fears. 
 
 II 
 
 Rejoice that I lived if you will, 
 
 But oh ! for my death never grieve, 
 For then naught can touch me that's ill, 
 
 And no loss can my spirit bereave : 
 While we live joy is shadowed with fear, 
 
 And pleasure is purchased with pain ; 
 Whatever to us is most dear 
 
 Fate forbids us to reach or retain. 
 42
 
 Ill 
 
 When I am dead make no moan 
 
 O'er my unfulfilled hopes of renown, 
 Nor regret that the seeds I had sown 
 
 Never grew, or by storms were struck down ; 
 You may say that I kept to the last 
 
 My hate of oppression and wrong ; 
 That to faith in the truth I held fast, 
 
 And loved ever the wise, not the strong. 
 
 IV 
 
 Yet when I am dead you may weep 
 
 If you will, a few tears of relief, 
 Not too bitter, or burning, or deep 
 
 Just a sign of unmurmuring grief : 
 And then you shall say Let him rest ; 
 
 He strove though he did not attain ; 
 He suffered, yet was not unblest : 
 
 Unflinching he fought life's campaign. 
 
 July igoi 
 
 43
 
 A PRAYER FOR LIGHT 
 
 Father ! our eyes are blind ; we cannot see, 
 Though earnestly we seek, the path to Thee ! 
 
 Through the blank darkness vainly do we grope, 
 And see no kindly light, no ray of hope ! 
 
 Long, long the night has lasted : will the day 
 Never arise and chase the clouds away ? 
 
 Father ! our ears are deaf ; we cannot hear 
 Even though a voice of doom is sounding near : 
 
 Fain would we hear its message but in vain 
 We strive to catch the thunder-spoken strain : 
 
 Must we be deaf for ever ; never hear 
 Thy voice proclaiming that relief is near ? 
 
 Father ! our tongues are tied ; we cannot speak 
 Our heart-felt yearnings, howsoe'er we seek. 
 
 Our throats swell with the words we fain would say ; 
 In murmurs hoarse and thick they die away. 
 
 When will our dumb and dark despair be o'er, 
 And like a rushing stream our fervent pray'rs outpour ? 
 44
 
 We cannot though we would believe in Thee ; 
 How may Time's creatures know Eternity ? 
 
 So straitly bound in time and space, how raise 
 Our lowly thoughts to sing Thy fitting praise ? 
 
 Oh ! give us light life's mysteries to explain ; 
 Let our sad souls some certitude attain. 
 
 Doom us not ever thus to dwell in night ; 
 
 We are Thy children and art Thou not Light ? 
 
 But oh ! with no false dawn deceive our eyes ; 
 With no kind rhetoric the truth disguise. 
 
 Reveal the truth and we will bear it, though 
 It plunge us yet in deeper depths of woe ! 
 
 When will the season of deliverance come, 
 And we no longer be blind, deaf, and dumb ? 
 
 1875? 
 
 45
 
 TO A FRIEND 
 
 The tie of kinship oft we find 
 Doth not in love or friendship bind ; 
 Brothers and sisters, to their shame, 
 Are oft related but in name ; 
 Husband and wife how oft we see 
 In bitterest animosity ; 
 Mothers and children even, bound 
 By no firm ties of love are found. 
 
 But there are ties no kinship makes, 
 
 Nor force nor interest ever breaks, 
 
 That o'er the heart bear changeless sway, 
 
 And know not rupture nor decay ; 
 
 Time's best and purest gift to man, 
 
 Wherein no base alloy we scan, 
 
 The perfect spiritual union 
 
 That binds two souls in blest communion 
 
 Such, friend ! our union ; it began 
 Because in the eternal plan 
 It was decreed your soul and mine 
 Should in a league of love combine, 
 46
 
 So that such perfect unison 
 
 Exists we are not two but one ; 
 
 Or like two harps touch one, you make 
 
 The spirit of its fellow wake. 
 
 Love 'twixt the sexes scarce may be 
 
 From all attaint of passion free ; 
 
 But ours is love without desire, 
 
 A pure and unconsuming fire : 
 
 With no base element's alloy 
 
 No surfeit can its power destroy, 
 
 Which lasts, with full assurance crowned. 
 
 Like light and heat together bound. 
 
 1867 
 
 47
 
 THE PILGRIMS' HALT 
 
 Oh ! a weary way we've marched, 
 
 We are footsore, faint and parched, 
 And we've fallen into woeful disarray ; 
 
 Let us linger here awhile, 
 
 Where all around doth smile, 
 And drink to those who've fallen by the way ! 
 
 How numerous was our clan 
 When our pilgrimage began, 
 What a long unending column did our blithesome ranks 
 
 comprise ! 
 
 But it dwindled day by day 
 As the hardships of the way 
 
 Subdued our ardent spirits and no Pisgah blessed our 
 eyes. 
 
 Still on and on we strode, 
 Though more toilsome grew the road, 
 And our hearts grew faint within us and our sanguine 
 
 spirits fled ; 
 
 For we nowhere found a sign 
 That the land for which we pine 
 
 Shall at last make glad our vision and echo to our 
 tread. 
 
 48
 
 'Tis not hard to bear the brunt 
 Of the foe's assault in front, 
 
 1 Tis harder much our doubtings and our fears to sub- 
 jugate ; 
 
 But we never will despair, 
 We will dare and ever dare, 
 
 Till our constancy and courage win at last the smile of 
 fate! 
 
 Then a bumper let us drain 
 
 To our many comrades slain ; 
 Tis no shame if to our eyes the tear-drops start : 
 
 We'll keep silence for a space, 
 
 Tracing o'er each vanished face, 
 
 Then once more, refreshed and strengthened, on our 
 pilgrimage depart. 
 
 49
 
 REST 
 
 Rest ! Is there any word that may compare 
 
 With that most blessed sound ? 
 Can Love, Joy, Hope, or even Rapture share 
 
 Its blissf ulness profound ? 
 Love's fickle, Joy lasts not, and Hope deceives, 
 
 Redoubled sadness ever follows Rapture : 
 Tis Rest alone that perfect peace achieves, 
 
 And Eden doth recapture. 
 
 Time was I gloried in the thought of strife, 
 
 And with a dauntless breast 
 Opposed myself to all the storms of lif e 
 
 But now I ask but Rest ! 
 Best gift man may receive or fate bestow, 
 
 The only one that never can deceive ; 
 The anodyne that every pain and woe 
 
 Is fitted to relieve. 
 
 Rest ! yea, if only hi the grave is Rest, 
 
 Still would I seek it there, 
 To gain a boon beyond all blessings blest, 
 
 So far beyond compare : 
 For there alone no sorrow can molest, 
 
 No fearful dreams affright, 
 No cancer-passion prey upon the breast, 
 
 No evil fortune smite. 
 50
 
 ON RECEIVING A PRESENT OF ROSES 
 
 Roses to one so old and grey, 
 
 So worn with toil and thought and time ! 
 Surely the gift has gone astray, 
 
 For 'tis with youth that roses rhyme ; 
 I'm no Anacreon in sooth 
 
 That can time's ravages defy ; 
 Too well I know the time of youth, 
 
 Of mirth and roses has gone by ! 
 
 Yet no ! a gift like this brings back 
 
 Some portion of the olden fire, 
 And, heedless of the almanac, 
 
 Lost hopes again my soul inspire : 
 Time, do thy worst ! thou shalt not break 
 
 My spirit with thy heavy hand 
 Till gifts like these no more can make 
 
 My heart with gratitude expand. 
 
 1899 
 
 51
 
 THE POET'S HEART 
 
 Time was when I a poet's name 
 
 Ambitiously did seek ; 
 But ah ! no more I crave for fame, 
 
 My spirit's bent and weak : 
 Alas ! to will is not to do, 
 
 To strive not to attain ; 
 How many start to climb how few 
 Parnassus' summit gain ! 
 
 To feel poetic sympathies 
 
 Doth not a poet make, 
 But oh ! 'tis hard we can't reveal 
 
 Our rapture or heartache ; 
 Sad to be dumb when we would fain 
 
 Pour out our joy or woe 
 The rich reward, the priceless gain 
 
 That poets only know 
 
 Of hearing said in grateful words 
 
 By youth or maiden fair, 
 " Ah ! in that verse my heart that bled 
 
 In helpless dumb despair 
 Has found its voice at last, and pours 
 
 Out in a flood its grief ; 
 My woe that grovelled now outsoars 
 
 Itself, and gains relief ! " 
 52
 
 Or, in the verse the lover finds 
 
 His rapturous love portrayed 
 So wondrously, he cries " What minds 
 
 These poets have some aid 
 Supernal they must needs obtain, 
 
 Else how could they display 
 The thoughts that folded in my brain, 
 
 Hopeless of utterance, lay ? " 
 
 Ah ! had I but the poet's heart 
 
 All else would I forego, 
 And bear with patience every smart 
 
 Fate might on me bestow : 
 No other gift so rich and rare 
 
 Can mortal man obtain, 
 E'en though 'tis linked with carking care, 
 
 And with the world's disdain. 
 
 When vain is philosophic speech 
 
 And reason pleads in vain, 
 Even then the poet's words will reach 
 
 The heart and soothe its pain : 
 There's no dark corner of the soul 
 
 The poet may not scan 
 Philosophers see part the whole 
 
 Only the poet can. 
 
 1885 
 
 53
 
 THE LOST SON 
 
 Oh cruel waves, tyrant waves ! where is my son ? 
 "With my brave boy, my gallant boy, what have ye 
 
 done? 
 
 Long, long, have I watched for his coming in vain, 
 But surely, oh surely, he'll come back again. 
 
 Ah ! the waves they are moaning in grief-laden tones, 
 As though they re-echoed my sighs and my groans ; 
 Deep, deep he is buried beneath the salt spray, 
 And the winds and the waves chant his funeral lay. 
 
 He is lying at rest and no dreams vex his sleep, 
 Ah ! would I were sleeping as sound and as deep : 
 Gold, jewels, and treasures unnumbered are there, 
 But the sea holds no treasure with him can compare. 
 
 The clouds become blacker, more stormy the main, 
 And the wild wind is blowing a mad hurricane ; 
 They are seeking fresh victims, but cannot destroy 
 Another so fair and so brave as my boy. 
 54
 
 Cruel waves, ye have robbed me of all I held dear, 
 And there's nothing on earth I can love now or fear : 
 Ah ! would ye but bear me to where he lies low 
 I would bless ye, and ban ye no more as a foe ! 
 
 [I print the above, not because I am blind to its defects, but 
 because it was the first poem I wrote, and the first piece of 
 mine which was printed. It appeared in 1863 in a periodical 
 called The Key."] 
 
 55
 
 SIMPLICITY 
 
 My pretty little maid, said I, 
 May I your sweetheart be ? 
 
 Oh, that you may ! was her reply, 
 You're my infinity. 
 
 Affinity, you mean, I cried. 
 
 Fair maiden, is't not so ? 
 I mean, she artlessly replied, 
 
 I badly want a beau ! 
 
 i8 99 
 
 56
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD 
 
 Thou cam'st to us a precious gift 
 
 Which we with joy received, 
 And all our sorrows and our joys 
 
 With thine were interweaved. 
 
 Still with thy growth our love increased, 
 And still we watched with pride 
 
 Thy body and thy mind expand 
 Oh ! that thou shouldst have died ! 
 
 We knew we loved thee much, but yet 
 
 How much we could not tell, 
 Till brimming eyes and deep-drawn sighs 
 
 Informed us all too well. 
 
 Thy tender childish prattle still 
 
 Doth echo in our ears ; 
 Oh ! never more shall voice so sweet 
 
 Awake our smiles or tears. 
 
 " Mother, I want to sleep," thou saidst, 
 
 Ev'n with thy latest breath ; 
 Alas ! that sleep we could not give 
 
 Was given to thee by death ! 
 57
 
 Calmly them sleepest now, but we 
 Whose hearts to breaking swell, 
 
 Must ever weep at thought of thee- 
 Farewell ! dear lamb, farewell ! 
 
 October 4, 1877 
 
 58
 
 THE BALLADIST PARSON 
 
 I'll sing you a song of a Parson to-night, 
 
 Who in black-letter broadsides doth chiefly delight : 
 
 You'll not find another so learned as he 
 
 In all that relates to song, ballad and glee. 
 
 His head is a storehouse of curious lore 
 
 About old romances and ballads of yore ; 
 
 He delights in them hugely and carols them too, 
 
 And can write them besides when he's in the right cue. 
 
 Of course he is poor, for he never could stoop 
 
 In formality's bands his fine spirit to coop : 
 
 So by patrons and squires he's been left in the lurch 
 
 He's too much of a man to get on in the church ! 
 
 But that doesn't vex him he cares not for pelf, 
 And he thinks of all else ere he thinks of himself ; 
 With his ballads and books he's more happy, I ween, 
 Than if they had made him a Bishop or Dean. 
 
 There's one dogma he finds very hard to believe 
 He can't think that sin was created through Eve : 
 Like a knight of old times he'll her honour attest, 
 And Adam, he thinks, was a sneak at the best. 
 59
 
 For the lasses he's ever a greeting and smile, 
 And to see a sweet face he'll go many a mile : 
 Towards them he lets no distinction appear, 
 If it's dairymaid Nell or my Lady De Vere. 
 
 I grant you he's done some odd things in his time, 
 Which would sound very drolly if hitched into rhyme 
 Folks call him eccentric, but all will admit 
 His heart is quite sound though they question his wit. 
 
 Then here's to the Parson, and may he live long 
 To cheer us with mirthful discoursing and song ; 
 May his ridicule long gall the puritan gang, 
 And as for his enemies let them go hang ! 
 
 ENCORE VERSES 
 
 Since with kindly applause you this ditty receive, 
 I'll sing you a verse or two more, by your leave, 
 For such a good subject but seldom is found, 
 In whom wit, mirth and learning so greatly abound. 
 
 He's a right down good fellow, as I have made clear, 
 And I wish that we had him in company here, 
 For the night then would spin on with laughter and song, 
 And we unto morn should our revels prolong. 
 
 Then let's chorus " A jolly good fellow is he" 
 (A better you'll go a month's march ere you see ;) 
 And wind up with hip ! hip! hurrah! three times o'er 
 And now I'll leave off, or you'll think me a bore. 
 
 60
 
 TO J. W. E. 
 
 Ah yes ! you have suffered, for that is the measure, 
 Meted out to each luckless descendant of Eve, 
 
 But have you not also known exquisite pleasure 
 Such as no grubbing worldling could ever achieve ? 
 
 Believe me your life is not useless or wasted, 
 
 Seen in proper perspective you've nothing to rue ; 
 
 How few of life's nectar so deeply have tasted, 
 How few own a spirit so tender and true ! 
 
 In yourself you've a spring of delight ever-flowing ; 
 
 Ever youthful in heart and in mind you remain ; 
 In your spirit so fervent there burns ever-glowing 
 
 That love for the lovely which never can wane. 
 
 Leave 'success 1 to the sordid and 'slim' money-spinner, 
 His wealth is the price of the sale of his soul ; 
 
 If your gifts you weigh justly 'tis you are the winner, 
 And he is the loser with whom to condole. 
 
 61
 
 THRENODY 
 
 Hush ! tread softly in the gloom 
 Of the closely-curtained room : 
 Though our hearts with grief are torn 
 Silently alone we'll mourn : 
 Shallow grief alone is shrill, 
 Deep our grief shall be and still : 
 "We should wrong her did we make 
 Loud lamentings for her sake ; 
 Grief enough in life she had, 
 Now no more will she be sad, 
 Never more will suffer pain 
 Death to her is naught but gain. 
 
 Life brought strife and bitterness, 
 Death brings kind forgetfulness : 
 Life brought never-ending woes, 
 Death brings endless calm repose ; 
 Life was one long martyrdom, 
 Death all ills hath overcome ; 
 Life was but an evil dream, 
 Death has given her rest supreme ; 
 She has reached the eternal shore 
 By mortals christened Nevermore, 
 That Haven ever calm and blest 
 Which no dark dreams of ill molest. 
 62
 
 A JEALOUS LOVER 
 
 My dearest, do you really, truly love me, 
 Or do you but allow me to love you ? 
 
 And can you, since you shine so far above me, 
 Remain, when time reveals my failings, true ? 
 
 By jealousies and fears my soul's tormented, 
 
 I see a thousand rivals at your feet ; 
 Most sure assurance leaves me discontented, 
 
 Some gall I find in every cup of sweet. 
 
 Oh ! pardon me these doubts, misgivings, fancies, 
 Who would not fear to lose a Koh-i-noor ? 
 
 In you my heart, my soul, life's whole romance is, 
 Without you all my life's bare, bleak, and poor. 
 
 Yet if you love me not, ah ! still deceive me, 
 And feign the tenderness you do not feel : 
 
 Despise me, scorn me, but ah ! do not leave me ; 
 Indifferent, strive indifference to conceal. 
 
 But oh how vain to ask you to dissemble ! 
 
 Your white soul never could a falsehood stain ; 
 Spite of yourself the very truth would tremble 
 
 On those sweet lips, howe'er they sought to feign. 
 63
 
 Forgive me, dear ! my doubts and fears I'll banish, 
 And wholly in your love and truth confide ; 
 
 Here in your noble presence needs must vanish 
 All thoughts save those from evil purified. 
 
 64
 
 HAIKAIS* 
 
 You laughed while I wept, 
 Yet my tears and your laughter 
 Had only one source. 
 
 U 
 
 Yes ! I was startled, 
 
 For I saw there beside you 
 
 Love's apparition ! 
 
 Ill 
 
 Our lips spoke no word, 
 Yet we talked long together, 
 Eye answering eye. 
 
 IV 
 
 The music fills me 
 
 With passionate yearnings 
 
 Where art thou, loved one ? 
 
 "A Haikai is a Japanese form of verse, consisting of three 
 
 unrhymed lines of five, seven, and five syllables respectively, 
 
 or seventeen syllables in all. Hitherto they have not, we 
 
 believe, been written in English." The Academy < t April 8, 1899. 
 
 65 E
 
 Passion of laughter 
 
 Convulsed me, but then followed 
 
 Passion of weeping. 
 
 VI 
 
 'Twas winter weather 
 
 When you bloomed forth before me- 
 
 Then summer flourished ! 
 
 VII 
 
 Beauty's in all things ! 
 Morn is lovely, but also 
 Lovely the night is. 
 
 VIII 
 
 The snow fell and robed 
 London's great guilty city 
 In purity's garb. 
 
 IX 
 
 I heard my love sing : 
 
 She knew not that I heard her, 
 
 Nor saw how I trembled, 
 
 Sunshine or tempest, 
 Desperation or triumph, 
 Come at her summons ! 
 66
 
 XI 
 
 O my beloved one ! 
 
 My tears flow when I think that 
 
 Mortal our love is ! 
 
 XII 
 
 Ah ! what a fragment, 
 Though to fourscore extended, 
 The life of a man is ! 
 
 1899 
 
 67
 
 DIRGE 
 
 Hark ! from the organ's mighty throat 
 Issues a sad and wailing note, 
 Tender, appealing and intense, 
 Breathing a sorrow so immense, 
 Such hopeless woe, such wild regret 
 As none who hear it may forget : 
 With accents mournful, solemn, slow, 
 How doth it speak our utter woe ! 
 
 Joy visits us and hastes away, 
 Grief only by our side doth stay : 
 No joy that all may share is known, 
 We may unite in grief alone : 
 Through laughter's loudest outburst clear 
 The wail of anguish you may hear ; 
 Youth oft enough to sorrow bows, 
 To age no respite it allows. 
 
 We grieve for vanished joys of yore, 
 We grieve for friends that are no more, 
 We grieve for husbands, children, wives, 
 Whose loss leaves bare and bleak our lives 
 68
 
 We grieve for health and vigour lost, 
 We grieve for age's torpid frost ; 
 But most, when dead are minds and hearts, 
 We grieve that power to grieve departs. 
 
 1890 
 
 69
 
 FAREWELL 
 
 Farewell ! there's music in the sound, 
 It fits full well the poet's metre ; 
 
 It wakens thoughts the most profound ; 
 No other on fair lips sounds sweeter. 
 
 The sweetest and the saddest word ! 
 
 How much of meaning it compresses, 
 How the soul's depths are by it stirred, 
 
 What infinite pathos it possesses ! 
 
 Think what the simple word may 
 An end of passion and endeavour ; 
 
 A sudden shifting of the scene 
 
 From bright To-day to dark For-ever : 
 
 The loss of all we hold most dear, 
 The loss of love and warm caresses, 
 
 The end alike of hope and fear, 
 The end of all that soothes or blesses ! 
 
 Yet lightly oft the word we say, 
 And from it no forebodings borrow, 
 
 As though life were a summer's day, 
 Unvexed by care or pain or sorrow. 
 70
 
 Alas ! how many sad Farewells 
 Even in a happy lif e are taken ! 
 
 How often sound Death's tolling bells 
 Our sorrow and regret to waken ! 
 
 Yet who would choose to be unmoved 
 When death our dearest from us rendeth ? 
 
 Or not to love or be beloved 
 Since all our love in sorrow endeth ? 
 
 71
 
 MIRIAM'S LOVERS 
 
 " I love the maiden passing well," 
 Said Smith ; " her figure's neat ; 
 
 You may go far a prettier belle 
 Before you chance to meet." 
 
 " A devilish pretty girl," said Scott, 
 
 " She's just as sweet as honey, 
 But then two things she lacks : she's got 
 
 Neither good birth nor money." 
 
 " She's chic," said White, " and I in her 
 Each day new charms discover ; 
 
 Most truthfully I can aver 
 That, next myself, I love her." 
 
 " Somehow the girl my fancy takes, 
 
 Though why I cannot tell : 
 But there are plenty more," said Raikes, 
 
 11 1 like almost as well." 
 
 " Few maids there are," said Jones, " whom I 
 
 So fervently admire, 
 But I have noticed in her eye 
 
 A leopard's tameless fire." 
 72
 
 " I want a wife," said Brown, " and since 
 
 I've jilted been by Fanny, 
 To make the faithless creature wince 
 
 I'll Miriam wed or Annie." 
 
 Said Robinson, " No other maid 
 
 Such passion can inspire ; 
 A frenzy not to be gainsaid, 
 
 That fills my veins with fire." 
 
 Said Black, " The maiden I adore 
 
 As with a saint's devotion 
 The sacredest of shrines before, 
 
 A still and rapt emotion." 
 
 " She's full of wild caprice," said Green, 
 " And strange and fitful fancies, 
 
 But in her alone of all I've seen 
 A spirit of romance is." 
 
 " Ah me ! I love her much," sighed Page, 
 
 " But then a bird so gay 
 Would need a gorgeous golden cage, 
 
 And ever sing ' pay, pay.' " 
 
 " She's of her sex the perfect flower," 
 
 Said Harrison, " about her 
 There's such a strange magnetic power 
 
 Life's nothing worth without her." 
 
 Guess now, of all who bent the knee, 
 
 Who finally enchained her ? 
 Alas ! I can't but fear that he 
 
 Who least deserved her gained her. 
 73
 
 LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE'S 
 REPLY 
 
 Thomas Nehemiah Briggs, 
 
 You write as though most strangely vexed, 
 But I am at a loss to know 
 
 With what offences I am taxed : 
 " I smiled, but you were unbeguiled " 
 
 But where's the snare a smile discovers ? 
 Upon a man a maid may smile 
 
 Surely, although they are not lovers ? 
 
 Thomas Nehemiah Briggs, 
 
 Your own conceit led you astray, 
 You twisted civil words I said 
 
 To sweet ones such as lovers say : 
 What you would hide I soon espied, 
 
 Your snobbishness and self-conceit, 
 Your foolish vanity and pride 
 
 And treated you as it was meet. 
 
 Thomas Nehemiah Briggs, 
 
 A woman loves a man although 
 
 He may be but of humble birth, 
 But you tut, tut, too well I know 
 74
 
 You're but the shadow of a man, 
 With shallow brain and half a heart, 
 
 Too weak and vain for life's campaign, 
 A true King Arthur's counterpart : 
 
 Not Mallory's hero, stern and rough, 
 
 But that insufferable bore, 
 That preaching, plaster, bloodless saint, 
 
 Anaemic girls so much adore : 
 That simulacrum stuffed with bran, 
 
 Whom Tennyson (so much a bard 
 He was so much the less a man,) 
 
 Most sadly in the making marred. 
 
 Thomas Nehemiah Briggs, 
 
 Is't possible the grapes were sour, 
 Which reached, you'd quickly said Goodbye 
 
 To your sweet maiden in her flower ? 
 Why all this heat and fury if 
 
 Your self-love had not felt a wound ? 
 You seek to hide a blow to pride, 
 
 Or why so angry and untuned ? 
 
 Trust me, Nehemiah Briggs, 
 
 You know naught of a woman's soul, 
 Which, light and fickle though it seem, 
 
 A true man always can control : 
 She gives herself without reserve 
 
 When once her true lord she discovers, 
 But 'tis not such as you deserve 
 
 To be her favoured friends or lovers. 
 
 75
 
 DESPONDENCY 
 
 Racked by care and pain and anguish, 
 In what utter woe I languish ! 
 Fruitless all the seed I've sown, 
 Every project overthrown, 
 Sport of ever-adverse fate, 
 Helpless, hopeless, desolate ! 
 Wherefore do I linger here, 
 Naught to hope for, all to fear ? 
 Disarmed, defeated, comfort gone, 
 "Why await another dawn ? 
 
 Courage then and end thy woe. . 
 Cease, my soul, to murmur so : 
 Patience, fortitude, endurance, 
 In the end shall bring assurance 
 Of a blest surcease from pain, 
 Hope its empire shall regain : 
 Victorious over pain and strife 
 I shall joy again in life, 
 Or at worst time's tireless flight 
 Soon shall sink my noon in night. 
 76
 
 When my spirit faints again, 
 Let me think, amid my pain, 
 On the heroes of the past, 
 Whose firm spirits to the last, 
 Tried by fire, by rack, by halter, 
 Never once did faint or falter ! 
 Matched with theirs how light my grief, 
 My sufferings how mild and brief ! 
 Dare I ask to live at ease 
 Remembering the lot of these ? 
 
 1884? 
 
 77
 
 THE WINE OF LIFE 
 
 When Love offers 
 
 Thee his wine 
 Ne'er mistrust 
 
 Its purple shine ; 
 Quaff it boldly, 
 
 Drink it up, 
 Life's best nectar's 
 
 In the cup. 
 
 Doubts are traitors, 
 
 Fears are foes ; 
 They will bring thee 
 
 Naught but woes : 
 Love's of life 
 
 The very breath, 
 Want of Love 
 
 Is life-in-death. 
 
 Ever say 
 
 A thankful grace 
 When thou see'st 
 
 A lovely face ; 
 When she sings 
 
 A song divine 
 Adore as at 
 
 A holy shrine. 
 78
 
 Love of all things 
 
 Is the best, 
 Bid it welcome 
 
 As thy guest ; 
 Who would miss it, 
 
 Missing all 
 Happiness 
 
 That can befall ! 
 
 He who loves not 
 
 Loveliness 
 Forfeits wholly 
 
 Life's best bliss : 
 Grace and beauty, 
 
 Eyes of fire, 
 No true man 
 
 But must desire. 
 
 The richest gifts 
 
 From nature's loom 
 Are youth and beauty 
 
 In their bloom : 
 Priceless treasures ! 
 
 Seize and hold, 
 Better far 
 
 Than wine or gold ! 
 
 Say not beauty 
 
 Will decay, 
 Say not youth 
 
 Soon flies away : 
 Could but youth 
 
 And beauty stay, 
 Who would value 
 
 Them, I pray ? 
 79
 
 Boldly venture 
 
 Then your all, 
 Let not fear 
 
 Your heart appal : 
 Beauty is 
 
 The prize supreme, 
 Substance of 
 
 The poet's dream ! 
 
 80
 
 THE INFANT'S GRAVE* 
 
 Dark and gloomy is the night, 
 Not a star rays forth its light ; 
 But no light I need to show 
 Where my little one's laid low : 
 Blindfold I can thread my way 
 Tears may blind but do not stay : 
 Straight as arrow from a bow 
 To thy resting-place I go. 
 
 Little angel pure as light 
 From the farthest star of night ! 
 Only treasure of my heart, 
 Sole joy in which I claimed a part ! 
 Darling whose bright presence made 
 All my care and sorrow fade, 
 And in a web of gloom enwrought 
 Threads of bright and happy thought ! 
 
 Of all other comforts reft 
 Thou alone to me wert left ; 
 Joy was mine embracing thee, 
 Thou wert all in all to me ! 
 
 * This poem was suggested by a newspaper paragraph, 
 which told the story of the discovery of the dead body of a 
 mother upon the grave of her child. 
 
 81 F
 
 He whom once I loved so well 
 Lured away by evil spell 
 With naught else to f ill my heart 
 I lived in thee and dead thou art ! 
 
 Tyrant death ! couldst thou not spare 
 A flower so young, so sweet, so fair ? 
 If thou needs must take one, why 
 For her sake might I not die ? 
 Then some mercy hadst thou shewn, 
 Nor left me desolate, alone, 
 A childless mother, homeless wife, 
 To linger out a death-in-life. 
 
 Reft of all that gives delight, 
 Day's as wearisome as night ; 
 Earth's a barren desert drear, 
 "With no Mount of Promise near ; 
 Hope's by dull despair devoured, 
 All joy's slain, all sweetness soured ; 
 "Where'er I turn I see alone 
 A frowning sky, a face of stone. 
 
 Night so dark can have no dawn ; 
 I'll follow thee where thou art gone ; 
 I cannot linger in this drear, 
 Homeless, hopeless, evil sphere : 
 Calls my darling, Come away ! 
 Broken heart, your beating stay ! 
 Merciless you struck before, 
 Death ! in mercy strike once more ! 
 
 1890 
 
 82
 
 A RHYMER'S COMPLAINT 
 
 Surely no other language that is known 
 So handicaps poor rhymers as our own, 
 Or causes them so much to sweat and swear 
 When seeking for the rhyme that is not there : 
 By this at every turn the poet's baffled, 
 As I am now for how to bring in ' scaffold ' 
 Would puzzle even Swinburne so would ' raffled ' 
 And these are all the rhymes that you can use 
 A pretty choice to set before the muse ! 
 If you're in love you have to lug in ' dove,' 
 1 Her glove,' or else appeal to ' heaven above,' 
 There's no alternative, alas ! but ' shove,' 
 For ' move ' and ' prove ' are makeshifts at the best, 
 Though you must oft with them contented rest. 
 Suppose you write of something that doth gladden, 
 To find your choice is limited to ' sadden ' 
 Or ' madden ' makes you mad as any hatter, 
 And fit your head against the wall to batter : 
 Then too when you have said your love's a pattern,, 
 It's hard to find that you must drag in ' slattern ' ; 
 'Tis Hobson's choice ; as also 'tis with amorous, 
 To which the only rhyme, alas ! is ' clamorous.' 
 When you are praising Amaryllis' beauty 
 What can you do with ' sooty,' or with ' duty ' ? 
 83
 
 Or when you've said your love is quite obdurate, 
 How in the world are you to bring in ' curate ' ? 
 Sometimes a lovely line that ends in silver 
 I've written, but to find no word like ' dilver ' 
 Or ' quilver ' doth exist so must forego it, 
 A sacrifice to vex the mildest poet ! 
 Suppose you write about your mistress' window, 
 The only rhyme that you will find is ' Lindo,' 
 And though an actor of some little fame 
 Owns that cognomen Frank is his front name 
 To bring him in it would the cleverest tease, 
 Except in rhymes like Ingoldsby's or these. 
 As hard the case is when you talk of chimney, 
 For what's the use of such a rhyme as ' Rhymney 
 Or such a makeshift as a ' slim-or-trim-knee ' ? 
 
 Sometimes the rhymes, though numerous enough, 
 
 All your attempts to couple them rebuff, 
 
 For 'tis a fact all poets are aware of 
 
 In fifty rhymes you may not find a pair of 
 
 Them which will fitly chime with one another, 
 
 Choose which you will, one seems at odds with t'other. 
 
 As oft with man and wife, they take delight 
 
 In showing off their mutual scorn and spite. 
 
 But here I'll own that 'tis not always so 
 Sometimes your rhymes will come without a throe, 
 For they'll present themselves both apt and numerous, 
 Sorted together in a way quite humorous : 
 What could be better than such rhymes as 'drunk, 
 Sunk, bunk,' et cetera^ not forgetting ' monk,' 
 On all of which the changes you can ring 
 Just like just like oh, just like anything ! 
 84
 
 Then when you chance to end a line with ' fumble, 1 
 
 A splendid choice you have in ' mumble, tumble,' 
 
 And several others, not forgetting ' Bumble.' * 
 
 The very words have such a humorous pathos 
 
 (A contradiction is it ? well, say bathos) 
 
 That even a tyro in the rhyming art 
 
 Easily finds the first rhyme's counterpart, 
 
 And feels at once that he's a heaven-born poet, 
 
 And vows the ignorant world shall quickly know it, 
 
 Taking for inspiration what is due 
 
 To the rhymes alone but so perhaps would you. 
 
 " Well, sir ! now you've described the rhymer's woes, 
 
 What remedy for them do you propose ? 
 
 Would you our native tongue Italianate 
 
 Unskilful rhymers to accommodate ? 
 
 Rob it of all its rugged strength and power 
 
 To make it fitter for a lady's bower ? 
 
 Create new rhymes to ease the poet's task, 
 
 His laziness and emptiness to mask ? " 
 
 No, my good friend ! our language rough and strong 
 
 No equal owns for music and for song 
 
 When handled by a true son of Apollo ! 
 
 What matter though it soundeth harsh and hollow 
 
 When poetasters use it ! 'Twas my end 
 
 In seeming to decry it, to commend, 
 
 As lovers will sometimes each other rally 
 
 With many a bantering and witty sally, 
 
 * (But you must not forget the muse decrees 
 In serious verse you can't use words like these ; 
 There's something in their very sound to tickle us t 
 And render the most solemn verse ridiculous.) 
 85
 
 Their tender accents all the time revealing 
 
 The love that lurks beneath their words' concealing. 
 
 I want no better, more expressive tongue 
 
 Than that in which our master, Shakespeare, sung ; 
 
 Give me a spark of his immortal fire 
 
 And 'tis the only favour I'll desire ; 
 
 The fates whate'er they will may then deny, 
 
 And I their bounty still will magnify. 
 
 i8 99 
 
 86
 
 THE RHYMER'S PETITION TO THE CRITIC 
 
 Herewith my little book of rhymes I send, 
 For you to exercise your critic skill on't : 
 
 Do as you will with it or praise or rend 
 
 'Tis yours to work whate'er may be your will on't : 
 
 But one small favour I would fain entreat, 
 One little mercy prithee deign to show it 
 
 Don't style me (be your verdict sour or sweet), 
 A Minor Poet. 
 
 Ah, yes ! I know them all that brilliant band 
 Whose works are issued from the street of Vigo, 
 
 'Neath Messrs. Lane or Mathews' fostering hand, 
 Whose tomes when out of print so very high go : * 
 
 Yet since they're mostly branded with the brand 
 Of minor minstrelsy, I'd fain forego it 
 
 I mean the honour with those bards to stand, 
 A Minor Poet. 
 
 Poor Shakespeare Biggs ! I knew him in his prime, 
 When flushed with hope the midnight oil he wasted, 
 
 Until at last came forth his book of rhyme 
 And he to read the critics' verdicts hasted. 
 
 * These verses were written some years ago, when there 
 was a temporary " boom " in minor minstrelsy. Most of the 
 volumes which fetched such high prices then are to be had, I 
 fancy, cheaply enough now. 
 
 87
 
 Alas ! he from that hour ne'er smiled again, 
 
 But took to drink and evil ways such woe it 
 Caused him when branded with that mark of Cain 
 ' A Minor Poet.' 
 
 Call me a scribbler of the lowest class, 
 Say that in merest commonplace I revel, 
 
 Insinuate that I'm an utter ass, 
 Unable e'en to reach bard Tupper's level ; 
 
 But spare, oh ! spare me one last crowning jeer 
 Say I'm but fit to plough a field, or hoe it, 
 
 But, oh ! don't say that I'm ah word of fear ! 
 A Minor Poet. 
 
 1890? 
 
 88
 
 ON BERNARD SHAW 
 
 Shaw wrote a brilliant article, 
 
 And every one did smile, 
 Which made him tear his hair, for he 
 
 Was serious all the while. 
 
 He wrote again in jesting mood, 
 But laughter there was none of it, 
 
 His wit had such a serious mask 
 That none could see the fun of it. 
 
 ON "THE PERFECT WAGNERITE" 
 
 In ' The Ring ' folks believed that a secret profound 
 Was hid, which when known all the world would 
 
 astound ; 
 
 But, alas ! if the truth Bernard Shaw has revealed, 
 No more than a mare's-nest was in it concealed ! 
 
 SHAW VERSUS SHAKESPEARE 
 
 Shaw says that when he pits himself 
 
 Against our greatest poet 
 The bard proves but a feeble elf 
 
 I only wish he'd show it ! 
 89
 
 Only one little thing prevents 
 His triumph o'er our Will 
 
 Nature, that gave him wit and sense, 
 Denied the poet's skill ! 
 
 A FRAGMENT FROM AN UNFINISHED 
 SATIRE 
 
 Not his the poet's gift yet, to be fair, 
 
 Of talent no man has a larger share ; 
 
 His brain's a radium battery charged with wit, 
 
 Which it doth inexhaustibly emit, 
 
 And in it too both light and heat combine, 
 
 And with a lustre never-darkened shine. 
 
 The world's his football which he kicks about, 
 
 Devoid alike of reverence or doubt ; 
 
 Nothing's too serious to be made a jest of, 
 
 No cause so much advanced he's not abreast of ; 
 
 No paradox so great he'll not defend it, 
 
 Nothing so holy that he will not end it : 
 
 And though you at his strange gyrations blink, 
 
 He forces you, spite of yourself, to think, 
 
 And that's a service than which none is greater, 
 
 Though dull men hate so rough an educater. 
 
 I find in him, I own, full many a flaw, 
 
 Yet say most heartily Thank heaven for Shaw ! 
 
 90
 
 A REPLY 
 
 Thou tell'st me from the wrath to come to flee, 
 " 'Tis safest to believe" thy coward's plea : 
 
 What ! dost thou think my spirit's poor as thine ? 
 Such doctrines are for bond-slaves, not the free. 
 
 What's true is true, what's false is false, and I 
 Refuse for gain to palter with a lie : 
 
 The truth in scorn of consequence I seek, 
 And dare to ask of God or Devil Why ? 
 
 Such Truth as will to reach it may attain, 
 Such certitude as studious toil may gain, 
 
 This do I seek, and having found hold fast, 
 Though it bring bitter sorrow in its train. 
 
 The creeds are many, there is but one Truth : 
 Art sure thou hast discovered it in sooth ? 
 
 Thou that hast taken thy beliefs on trust, 
 And putt'st thy faith in Merry- Andrew Booth ! 
 
 Though Truth's clear face may not be manifest, 
 'Tis easy to bring Falsehood to the test ; 
 
 Easy its vain pretensions to expose 
 When in the scales of reason 'tis assessed. 
 91
 
 The Truth of Truths perchance man ne'er may know, 
 Yet he the search for it may not forego : 
 
 'Tis good to climb the mountain's craggy side, 
 Though we reach not its pinnacle of snow. 
 
 Falsehood's a harlot with seductive smile, 
 Practised in every loose and wanton wile ; 
 
 To every temper she doth suit herself 
 By flattery, cajolery, or guile : 
 
 But Truth all art or artifice disdains, 
 No painting uses, no false beauty feigns ; 
 
 Cares not though men regardless pass her by, 
 And all-sufficient to herself remains. 
 
 Though she may seem to wear a frowning face, 
 Shrink not, but dare approach her and embrace, 
 
 And then her veil falls off and you behold 
 Imperial beauty and celestial grace. 
 
 7899 
 
 92
 
 JONES'S PROGRESS 
 
 Jones was a Socialist when he'd naught to lose, 
 
 And passionately did the rich abuse : 
 
 When he became a well-paid overseer 
 
 By Radical lights he did his conduct steer : 
 
 In business for himself and well-to-do 
 
 The Liberal cause he did with favour view : 
 
 But as his wealth grew daily more and more, 
 
 He, as a Whig, his former faith forswore : 
 
 Then, having bought a title, could his story 
 
 End otherwise than by leaving him a Tory ? 
 
 Before you blame him, ask yourself if you 
 
 In his place would not the same course pursue ? 
 
 93
 
 FRAGMENTS 
 
 In many brilliant colours Falsehood's decked, 
 Its churches with vast multitudes are packed ; 
 But Truth's white light shines ever bright and clear 
 Though at its shrine few worshippers appear. 
 
 "What is life's saddest tragedy ? I think 
 
 It is the sinking of a noble spirit, 
 
 Full of high thoughts and generous aspirations, 
 
 To the low level of the life about him. 
 
 "We go from one illusion to another, 
 
 And wander in a maze of endless windings ; 
 
 This path, we say, leads to the goal at last, 
 
 The goal which we so long have sought in vain for 
 
 But 'tis but one more passage leading nowhere : 
 
 And when our Mecca comes at last in sight 
 
 "We fall exhausted by the journey's hardships. 
 
 The happiest fortune that a man can greet 
 But transient pleasure to his soul doth yield : 
 
 The worst of ills 'tis possible to meet 
 Calmly, and find in fortitude a shield. 
 94
 
 THE FALL OF THE LEAVES * 
 
 (From the French of Millevoye) 
 
 Autumn had strewn on field and vale 
 The dead leaves from the forest reft : 
 Naked the mournful groves were left, 
 And silent was the nightingale. 
 Oppressed with melancholy thought 
 An invalid, in years but young, 
 But by long suffering unstrung, 
 The wood beloved in boyhood sought. 
 Dear wood, he said, adieu ! adieu ! 
 Like me you mourn your hapless fate ; 
 Forlorn and all disconsolate, 
 In yours my own sad doom I view. 
 A messenger of final doom 
 Each leaf in falling seems to say, 
 Soon thou like us shalt pass away, 
 Thy fate like ours is steeped in gloom : 
 Around thee close the shades of death ; 
 Wanner than autumn's wannest leaf 
 Soon must thou yield thy latest breath, 
 No respite hope, however brief. 
 
 * " Millevoy's ' Chute des Feuilles ' has been called not un- 
 happily ' La Marseillaise des Melancholiques.' His other 
 poetical work is never likely to be generally read." George 
 Saintsbury. 
 
 95
 
 Yes ! I must die ! my spring has fled 
 
 Long ere its time, and winter's frost 
 
 Withers me with its icy breath, 
 
 And warns me that all hope is lost. 
 
 Laid low by unrelenting death, 
 
 Sweet flowers and herbs my corse shall deck, 
 
 But ah ! my sad and frustrate life 
 
 Fruitage of deeds must ever lack. 
 
 Descend, ye leaves ephemeral, 
 
 And cover me as I am dying, 
 
 Let not my mother's vision fall 
 
 "Where breathless, motionless, I'm lying : 
 
 But if my love comes hither, when 
 
 Fate can inflict no further sorrow, 
 
 To weep my hapless lot oh ! then 
 
 Some comfort shall my spirit borrow. 
 
 No more he said, but thence departed, 
 His wanderings there for ever o'er. 
 When from the tree the last leaf started 
 Destiny tortured him no more. 
 Beneath an oak his corse was laid ; 
 But she whom he had loved so dearly 
 Came not the silence to invade 
 Which reigned about his grave austerely ; 
 Save when the shepherd went his round 
 The solitude was void of sound. 
 
 96
 
 THE RETURN OF THE GOLDEN AGE 
 
 (From the French of Le President Renault) 
 
 Wherefore that Golden Age regret 
 
 When love alone was Lord of all ? 
 Let us love faithfully and yet 
 We may that Golden Age recall. 
 Let love resume his ancient reign, 
 The Golden Age returns again. 
 
 The flowers that in the fields are seen 
 Bloom brightly as they bloomed before, 
 
 The rose is still the garden's queen, 
 The birds sing as they sang of yore. 
 Let love resume, &c. 
 
 Still in the springtime Philomel 
 Renews her unforgotten strain ; 
 
 The streams in happy murmurs tell 
 Of love and love's delightful pain. 
 Let love resume, &c. 
 
 Zephyr, filled with the ancient fire, 
 
 As eagerly doth Flora court ; 
 The bee yet shews his old desire 
 With lilies in the morn to sport. 
 
 While love is present in the heart 
 The Golden Age can ne'er depart. 
 
 97 G
 
 AUTUMN SONG 
 
 (From the French of Paul Verlaine) 
 
 The autumn gale 
 Doth sob and wail 
 
 Like viols eerie ; 
 Its monotone, 
 So like a groan, 
 
 My soul doth weary. 
 
 And hark ! a bell 
 That's like a knell 
 
 For dead hope tolling ! 
 Then sorrows past 
 Arise and fast 
 
 The tears are rolling ! 
 
 Sad sport of grief, 
 Like a dead leaf 
 
 I shrink and wither ; 
 No refuge nigh 
 I vainly fly 
 
 Hither and thither. 
 
 98
 
 EPIGRAMS 
 
 THE RELIGION OF POETS 
 
 Poets, you say, are irreligious. No ! 
 
 Their creed is Love. Can you a better show ? 
 
 CLAUDIO THE RESPECTABLE 
 
 Claudio, you say, is without vices True ! 
 But then he's destitute of virtues too. 
 
 BACON VERSUS SHAKESPEARE 
 
 " The works of Shakespeare," said Miss Delia Bacon, 
 " Lord Bacon wrote, unless I'm much mistaken ; " 
 But Leslie Stephen has her theory shaken, 
 By proving that 'twas Shakespeare who wrote Bacon. 
 
 99
 
 EPIGRAMS TRANSLATED FROM THE 
 FRENCH 
 
 TO A BORE 
 
 You say that when you come to me 
 You quite forget your dull ennui ; 
 But tell me, Tomkins, is it fair 
 To leave me your ennui to bear ? 
 
 REASON AND LOVE INCOMPATIBLE 
 
 To excuse your folly, friend, you need not seek 
 "Wlio knows not Love is strong and Reason weak ? 
 
 A HUSBAND TO HIS WIFE 
 
 Virtuous and fair you are and by my life 
 I should adore you were you not my wife. 
 
 TO A SCANDAL-LOVING COQUETTE 
 
 I marvel, Maud, that you're so fond of scandal, 
 Since you yourself give to it such a handle. 
 
 TO A JEALOUS MAN 
 
 Seduce your wife ! Nay, friend, your fears are vain- 
 D'ye think my taste so bad ? she's far too plain. 
 100
 
 LOVE AND REASON 
 
 Love once in Heaven reigned and Reason reigned on 
 
 earth, 
 But Reason now has gone above since Love had here 
 
 her birth. 
 
 BEAUTY WITHOUT WIT 
 
 Phillis ! a deaf man you should wed, 
 Because your beauty he would see, 
 
 And, hearing not the things you said, 
 "Would never disenchanted be. 
 
 ON A VERY FAT LADY 
 
 They say I take no exercise, but that is idle talk, 
 Around Emilia, fair and fat, three times a day I walk. 
 
 TO THE BEAUTIFUL HORTENSE, ABSENT 
 
 Return, dear maid, my longing heart to bless ; 
 I'm dying of desire to die of happiness. 
 
 ON A CQQUETTE 
 
 Blanche says she loves me : that is true no doubt : 
 She loves all men and doesn't leave me out. 
 
 TO THE VICIOUS CLARICE 
 
 Nothing you love but evil tell us why 
 You show to virtue such antipathy ? 
 Why when you see it show so much alarm ? 
 Virtue has never done you any harm. 
 101
 
 THE DISINHERITED SON 
 
 Dad's dead and left me nothing in his will 
 I shouldn't care if he were living still. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF COUNT GRAMMONT 
 (Author of the famous Memoirs) 
 
 Another Conde we may see, 
 Turenne may come again, 
 
 But for another Grammont we 
 Must ever look in vain. 
 
 LOUISA AND I 
 
 Louisa says that I'm her beau, 
 So I suppose it must be so ; 
 But till she said so I must own 
 The fact to me was quite unknown. 
 
 ON A PHYSICIAN 
 
 " My patients never of my skill complain," 
 
 Said a physician, ignorant and vain : 
 
 " That I can understand," a jester said 
 
 " For no complaints are uttered by the dead." 
 
 EPITAPH ON AN ENGLISHMAN 
 
 Here lies John Smith a tear afford him 
 
 Who hung himself because life bored him. 
 
 102
 
 LIBERTY? 
 
 When most for liberty the people shout 
 There's usually the least of it about : 
 It means most oft that every one is free 
 With the misguided millions to agree. 
 
 WHEN TRUTH SHOULD BE TOLD 
 
 Should we the truth on all occasions tell ? 
 
 Say, should the sun each morn the darkness quell ? 
 
 LOVE LIKE THE MOON 
 
 Love's like the changing moon, whose figure 
 Grows smaller if it grows not bigger. 
 
 LOVE VERSUS REASON 
 
 What reason have I for my love, you ask ? 
 Alas ! to answer were too hard a task : 
 Affection from the reason does not flow, 
 The heart has reasons reason does not know. 
 
 THE ONLY HAPPINESS 
 
 At happiness in prospect do not jeer, 
 Since 'tis the only pleasure we have here. 
 
 LOVE NOT TO BE WILLED 
 
 To love or not to love we cannot will ; 
 A greater will our will o'erruleth still. 
 103
 
 DESIRE AND POSSESSION 
 
 He whom desire doth make a slave, 
 Possessed, as tyrant will behave. 
 
 ON FORLIS 
 
 What ! here alone, dear Forlis ! What's amiss ? 
 You do not oft shun company, I wis. 
 " I was engaged communing with myself." 
 Alas ! how bored you must have been, poor elf ! 
 
 ON MAUPOU 
 
 Titus counted as lost the day 
 
 Unsignalised by some good deed ; 
 
 But Maupou counts the other way, 
 And mourns the day from evil freed, 
 And yet he mourns but few indeed. 
 
 BENSERADE ON THE DEATH OF CARDINAL 
 RICHELIEU 
 
 Here lies the famous Cardinal Richelieu, 
 Whose grave with tears I constantly bedew : 
 If you should think my grief too great appears 
 Know with him died my pension : hence these tears. 
 
 ON THE PORTRAIT OF A GREAT TALKER 
 
 Since Bufo's picture never says a word 
 To call it a good likeness is absurd. 
 104
 
 A HUSBAND'S QRIEF 
 
 " Robbers and thieves ! how dare they cheat me so ? 
 Charge twenty crowns for burying my wife ! 
 The rascals mean to give me cause for woe 
 I almost wish her back, upon my life ! " 
 
 ON A COURTESAN 
 
 " A true chameleon, Chloris can assume 
 
 All the bright colours known in nature's loom." 
 
 " What, all the colours ? " " Well, the truth to speak, 
 
 I've never seen a blush upon her cheek ! " 
 
 EPITAPH ON A FRIEND 
 
 " He who lies here was faithful, good and kind, 
 Search where you will no better friend you'll find : 
 He clung to me when I was fortune's prey." 
 " A man of men ! " " Ah no ! 'twas my dog Tray." 
 
 MARRIAGE A LA MODE 
 
 Why don't you wed ? I like my present state. 
 I know a maiden Guard me from her, fate ! 
 Charming : I'm sure she'll please you. There you're 
 
 out. 
 
 Fifteen. Too young. Most witty. Pert, I doubt. 
 Discreet. Dissembler. Pretty. Oft a curse ! 
 Well born. Proud as a peacock. Loving. Worse ! 
 Much talent. Far too much, I fear, for me. 
 Wealthy. Enough : to marry I agree. 
 105
 
 EPITAPH ON REGNIER, 1613 
 
 Death, in stopping my breath 
 Was unfair, you'll agree, 
 
 Since I ne'er thought of Death 
 Why should he think of me ? 
 
 THE FEMALE SMOKER 
 
 I own I hardly like it, though 
 
 Such clouds of smoke you see me blow ; 
 
 In fact I should not care for it a bit, 
 
 But that my husband has forbidden it : 
 
 Therefore my smoking is incessant, 
 
 To aggravate him not because it's pleasant. 
 
 THE TRUE TEMPTERS 
 
 Women alone true tempters are to man, 
 The devil cannot tempt as women can. 
 
 A GOOD BARGAIN 
 
 You wish to make a good round fortune ? Well, 
 Here's a receipt will bring you in much pelf 
 
 Buy Gilbert at his proper value : sell 
 Him at the rate he estimates himself. 
 
 106
 
 SONNETS 
 
 THE ARTIST 
 
 Is't hope of fame induces you to write ? 
 
 Oh no ! long since I have renounced that hope. 
 Maybe 'tis gain that doth your pen incite ? 
 
 To think of that would end soon in a rope. 
 Why spend yourself then in a bootless toil ? 
 
 Is't to please man the nightingale doth sing, 
 Or shines the sun because it loves earth's soil ? 
 
 Beauty from things external doth not spring, 
 Nowhere doth it exist save in the soul. 
 
 Art is the artist's only aim and end, 
 Creation is his all-sufficient goal : 
 
 All boundaries his daring thoughts transcend : 
 Letjhim but chant his song and paint his dream 
 What cares your Blake though all the world blaspheme? 
 
 107
 
 INSPIRATION 
 
 Not often do I feel that glow of thought 
 That fuses in its fire words , sense and soul 
 Into a living and triumphant whole, 
 
 Such as mere craftsmanship hath never wrought : 
 
 Yet in propitious hours that glow I feel, 
 
 And thoughts and words come freely and unbidden, 
 Such as I dreamed not in my mind were hidden, 
 
 And to myself a self unknown reveal : 
 
 Then do I know I've laboured not in vain, 
 
 And that what's written thus must needs endure, 
 Though evil fate may for a time obscure, 
 
 Or shallow critics slight it or disdain. 
 
 Vanity ? No ! That doth its own commend : 
 I speak of that which doth myself transcend. 
 
 THE POET'S APOLOGY 
 
 " Why of yourself do you for ever write, 
 
 Tiring us with your dreams, your loves and woes ? 
 Your petty thoughts and passions are too slight 
 
 On which to raise a structure so verbose." 
 My friend, when I can wander in the sun 
 
 Divested of my shadow, then will I 
 Seek from myself and mine own thoughts to run, 
 
 And strive new worlds of fancy to descry. 
 The poet, though a Shakespeare, is a man, 
 
 And mirrors all men in his plastic mind, 
 And so, if but successfully he can 
 
 Express himself, expresses all mankind : 
 'Tis only when he's to himself untrue 
 That Nature and the Muse bid him adieu. 
 108
 
 DEPRESSION 
 
 How sad his fate who labours with the thought 
 
 That all his effort must successless prove ! 
 And such is mine, since never yet I wrought 
 
 Aught that my calmer judgment might approve. 
 To form great projects only to discover 
 
 How weak and all inadequate my powers : 
 To know the muse, though fervently I love her, 
 
 Condemns me to the toil of wasted hours 
 Is there a fate more full of woe than this, 
 
 Or tragedy that holds a deeper sadness ? 
 No hell he fears (so far removed from bliss) 
 
 "Who may not hope his gloom shall end in gladness 
 Yet will I choose, however ill I fare, 
 Effort in vain rather than blank despair, 
 
 EXALTATION 
 
 Lapped in a peace profound my spirit lies, 
 
 Its perfect calm no passions agitate ; 
 No ghosts from out the past or present rise 
 
 To threat me with the wrath of hostile fate : 
 The future ah ! I care not what it brings, 
 
 It cannot this great present bliss destroy ; 
 No jarring note doth fret my soul, which sings 
 
 A song of perfect and unmingled joy. 
 The world before has never seemed so fair, 
 
 No murmur of its miseries I hear : 
 Can I have reached a nobler region where 
 
 There is no sorrow, suffering, or fear ? 
 
 Yet were I blessed still more, if all were blessed, 
 And in such peaceful perfect calm could rest. 
 109
 
 TWILIGHT LIFE 
 
 I live a twilight life not dark, but yet 
 
 Enjoying but a dim uncertain light ; 
 Not glad nor sad, no victim of regret, 
 
 But ever not so near to day as night : 
 Pleasure's intoxication now no more 
 
 Can fill me with its rapture for I know 
 Earthward we fall at last though high we soar, 
 
 And time shall soon all gladness overthrow : 
 Yet now I feel not sorrow's bitterness 
 
 Crushing me down as once with leaden weight, 
 For that same fate that makes our pleasures less, 
 
 The pressure too of misery doth abate : 
 So now I rest content, whate'er befall, 
 To live or die " the readiness is all." 
 
 RESIGNATION 
 
 To form vast projects which a dozen lives 
 
 To carry out would be by far too short, 
 Though each were as a Cromwell's or a Clive's, 
 
 And fate disposed to favour, not to thwart : 
 To long for action yet feel impotent 
 
 To act were action offered to my hand ; 
 To mourn for ever over time misspent, 
 
 While runneth out my life's fast-falling sand : 
 Could fate a sadder destiny devise 
 
 When most disposed to humble human pride ? 
 And yet no longer now it mortifies, 
 
 And I in patient fortitude abide : 
 For yet I am myself and would not be 
 Another even for an empire's fee. 
 110
 
 AFTERWARDS 
 
 Some day the sun will rise, but I shall rise 
 
 No more its warmth and radiance to enjoy, 
 But lie, a cold unconscious sacrifice 
 
 To treacherous time's fierce passion to destroy : 
 And shall the world when I am gone proceed 
 
 All heedlessly on its accustomed way ? 
 Forlorn of me shall it not feel some need, 
 
 Some presage dim of failure and decay ? 
 
 Perish such mean and childish thoughts as these ! 
 
 The taper's use is o'er when sinks its light : 
 Gladly shall fall my worn-out energies 
 
 Into the bosom of the infinite : 
 Enough for me that for a time I've been 
 An actor on so vast and strange a scene ! 
 
 LIFE- WEARINESS 
 
 Last night, much tired with work and anxious thought, 
 
 When I at last upon my couch reclined, 
 Discouragement so evilly had wrought 
 
 On throbbing heart and overwearied mind, 
 'Twere well, I said, if I woke nevermore 
 
 From that deep slumber which will soon be mine, 
 For in life's combat, until all is o'er, 
 
 Aid comes not, either human or divine : 
 What solace or delight doth fate provide 
 
 For the expense of so much painful breath, 
 Since all must reach at last oblivion's tide, 
 
 And good and ill alike are paid with death ! 
 And then I slept and dreamt a happy dream 
 Of a sunny landscape and a murmuring stream. 
 Ill
 
 SLEEP AND DEATH 
 
 Slumber doth oft transfigure : I have seen 
 
 Plain faces grow quite beautiful in sleep : 
 Death too doth render comely and serene 
 
 Faces whereon dwelt frowns and wrinkles deep. 
 In sleep our better selves to us return, 
 
 Untroubled by the passionate desires, 
 The evil thoughts that in the daytime burn, 
 
 And eat our hearts out with their baleful fires. 
 O infinite pathos of man's hapless life, 
 
 That only when unconscious may he gain 
 A truce from that corroding cruel strife 
 
 That makes of life a synonym for pain ! 
 Then is not death of all good things the best ? 
 Sleep brings short solace, death unending rest. 
 
 THE GREAT NORTHERN EXPRESS 
 
 It rushes on, the embodiment of Force, 
 
 Devouring Distance and defeating Time, 
 Majestically carving out its course 
 
 With calm assurance, confidence sublime. 
 Water and Fire, most serviceable friends, 
 
 Though each may prove man's most malignant Foe, 
 Are yoked together here to serve his ends, 
 
 And to his will a proud obedience show. 
 'Tis thus that Suns and Planets rush through Space, 
 
 Their course marked out even to a hair's-breadth 
 
 line, 
 But at the bidding of what Power they race, 
 
 What energy Daemonic or Divine 
 Controls them, or if blind stern Law doth rule, 
 We may not learn in any earthly school. 
 112
 
 THE CRY OF HUMANITY 
 
 Oh what a weary pilgrimage I've paced 
 
 In learning only that I've nothing learned ! 
 What will o' th' wisps and shadows have I chased ! 
 
 For what unworthy objects have I yearned ! 
 How vainly searched for truth in falsehood's mines ! 
 
 What trust I've given only to be betrayed ! 
 What pagan altars ta'en for holy shrines ! 
 
 What vain fantastic prayers have I prayed ! 
 What mirage-like illusions have I cherished ! 
 
 In what blind alleys hoped a path to find ! 
 My faith, my love, my hope, how have they perished ! 
 
 For what imagined vices have I pined ! 
 And in all ways what skill I've shown (poor elf !) 
 In finding means to plague and curse myself ! 
 
 THE WASTE OF LIFE 
 
 How much doth run to waste of human life ! 
 
 What dreary controversies, profitless 
 And inessential, fruitful but of strife, 
 
 Engage our thoughts, fill us with bitterness ! 
 We fritter thus the precious hours away, 
 
 As though infinity of time were ours, 
 In serious trifling or in idle play, 
 
 Mistaking chaff for corn and weeds for flowers ; 
 Wisdom we scorn and follies we pursue, 
 
 And such fantastic actions perpetrate, 
 We lose the power to tell the false from true, 
 
 And all our nature grows sophisticate : 
 Such has been, is, and must I say ? shall be 
 The tragic lot of poor humanity. 
 
 113 H
 
 DESIRE AND POSSESSION 
 
 What strange necessity compels mankind 
 
 To yearn for objects not to be attained ? 
 To all their benefits and blessings blind 
 
 Nothing will please but what can ne'er be gained, 
 Or which when gained will give but little pleasure, 
 
 Like a child's toy, the plaything of an hour, 
 Then cast aside, no longer thought a treasure 
 
 Reach them or reach them not, the grapes are sour: 
 This all men prove, and yet by proof untaught, 
 
 For ever chase new objects of desire, 
 Whose unsubstantial value's but in thought, 
 
 And whose huge cost beggars the foolish buyer : 
 
 Yet are they not in seeming folly wise, 
 
 Since in the chase at least some pleasure lies ? 
 
 MAN AND NATURE 
 
 Here is the source of man's unhappiness : 
 
 That he regards himself as nature's crown, 
 To pleasure whom Fate should relax its stress, 
 
 And humbly to his needs or whims bow down. 
 How small his part upon the Eternal Stage, 
 
 What petty passions rage within his breast, 
 His microscopic vision cannot gauge, 
 
 But magnifies his actions worst and best 
 To huge proportions. Will he learn at last 
 
 He's but a bubble on the ocean wave, 
 A grain of sand upon the seashore vast ? 
 
 Learn this, all's learned ; for then he will not crave 
 What cannot be awarded ; but will bend 
 His reason to achieve its proper end. 
 114
 
 MAN'S GREATNESS AND LITTLENESS 
 
 His home a speck in a vast Universe, 
 
 He a mere atom on that tiny speck, 
 Victim of countless evils that coerce 
 
 And force him onward on a pathless track ; 
 And yet a being made to dominate 
 
 O'er all things else by mind's controlling power : 
 Spoiled favourite at once and sport of fate, 
 
 Football of fortune, time's consummate flower ! 
 To him alone did nature's self impart 
 
 A spark of her divinest energy, 
 With power to create the world of Art, 
 
 And intellect to solve all mystery : 
 So great and yet so little ! blessed and cursed, 
 Nature's most noble offspring yet her worst ! 
 
 PASSION VERSUS REASON 
 
 Wherefore is man to sensual thoughts a slave, 
 
 And beauty but a bait to tempt to lust ? 
 Tell me why reason such small power should have, 
 
 That can but say " You ought" to Passion's " must" ? 
 We strive to root the seeds of evil out, 
 
 And steer our course by virtue's steady light, 
 Make resolutions of resistance stout 
 
 To all the assailing powers of appetite : 
 Then, when we rest of victory most assured, 
 
 A gust of fierce desire assails the soul, 
 O'erturns the guards with which it seemed secured, 
 
 And gone is all our boasted self-control ! 
 Hard fate of man, thus wrecked on Passion's shelf, 
 That ne'er may be the master of himself. 
 115
 
 KNOWLEDGE NOT WISDOM 
 
 Along the path of science as we go 
 
 Each day some new discovery repays 
 Our eager quest, that searches high and low, 
 
 And ever grows more skilled in nature's ways 
 No star so distant it escapes our ken, 
 
 No atom which we cannot analyse, 
 No element we drag not from its den 
 
 To yield its secret to our prying eyes, 
 
 Yes, yes, all this is so, and, if you please, 
 'Tis proper we much jubilation show, 
 
 But yet with all ihis marvellous increase 
 Of knowledge do we better, wiser grow ? 
 
 Small is the measure of our boasted gain, 
 
 If knowledge bring not wisdom in its train. 
 
 TRUTH'S GUIDING STAR 
 
 In the dim twilight of our troubled life, 
 
 "Where none may see with vision wholly clear, 
 And most must tread a path with pitfalls rife, 
 
 Where scarce a star their gloomy path doth cheer ; 
 And those who loudliest do themselves proclaim 
 
 As sole custodians of the keys of truth, 
 Most oft are hollow windbags skilled to frame 
 
 Poor sophistries or specious falsehoods smooth, 
 I find no better guidance than is found 
 
 In the assurance that whate'er may chance 
 A soul resolved truth's heights and depths to sound 
 
 Fearless, nor viewing consequence askance, 
 Is armed against sick thoughts and narrow creeds, 
 And all the ills that morbid fancy breeds. 
 116
 
 CONSOLATION ? 
 
 What consolation doth a brave man need 
 
 Who has lived out a full and active life ? 
 In living it he has received his meed 
 
 Of happiness, and so may rest from strife 
 Content that consciousness is his no more. 
 
 Life is at best a gift of doubtful good ; 
 " Call no man happy till his life is o'er," 
 
 One said who deeply felt and understood : 
 But for the mass whose lives are but a scene 
 
 Of endless care, misfortune, and distress, 
 Death cometh like a lovely and serene 
 
 Sun-setting after storm to calm and bless : 
 The happy by their happiness are paid, 
 Th' unhappy at the least their ills evade. 
 
 TO A DEVOTEE 
 
 Rise from your knees, sick-thoughted sufferer ! 
 
 Prayer doth but serve to emasculate the soul, 
 To morbid thoughts holding it prisoner, 
 
 And sinking it in ever-deeper dole. 
 Mistrust of self is cowardice at best, 
 
 Prayer unavailing adds but to your pain : 
 'Tis active work, not passive prayer, makes blest, 
 
 Your sin's the figment of a brooding brain. 
 Stand up and be no more a suppliant slave : 
 
 Is God a Genghiz Khan or Tamerlane ? 
 All nature thunders forth one precept brave 
 
 Courage alone the prize of life shall gain. 
 Weakness above all else the fates despise, 
 The fearless-hearted only are the wise. 
 117
 
 MAN'S NATURAL RULERS 
 
 How few there are with natures whole and sound, 
 
 In harmony with themselves and fortune too, 
 Whose outlook no contracted limits bound, 
 
 And ever wisdom's forthright path pursue : 
 Such are the suns and stars of humankind, 
 
 The natural kings and rulers of the earth, 
 If men were not to truth and wisdom blind, 
 
 And could distinguish worthlessness from worth 
 For it is part of life's strange tragedy 
 
 That men (who must some bolder spirits follow) 
 So seldom know who their true leaders be, 
 
 And choose instead some idol false and hollow : 
 So is it nations into ruin run, 
 By want of noble counsellors undone. 
 
 PERVERSITY 
 
 Ah how malignant was the fate that ruled 
 
 O'er the creation of poor humankind ! 
 That sent him forth with passions fierce, unschooled, 
 
 Of warnings heedless and to danger blind. 
 Around him swarm a thousand enemies 
 
 Whom he with weapons all too weak must fight : 
 Once beaten down how seldom doth he rise ! 
 
 How few escape the world's corroding blight ! 
 Yet may he triumph over every foe 
 
 While yet he faithful to himself remains ; 
 But 'tis his greatest, most peculiar woe 
 
 That in himself a traitor lives and reigns, 
 A spirit of Perverseness that misleads, 
 And ever with its mischief taints his deeds. 
 118
 
 A POET'S OPTIMISM 
 
 He who derives much happiness from life, 
 
 Which here and there a favoured one may do, 
 Should he look coldly on the seething strife 
 
 Of the unfavoured mass who struggle through 
 An ever-anxious and care-laden lot, 
 
 And blandly thus address them, " Look at me 
 And take example ! Wherefore do you not 
 
 Cease to complain and life's full glory see : 
 I grant you seem most wretched ; but in truth 
 
 If you are so, why God and I can find 
 Excellent reasons for it : in good sooth 
 
 He who denies all's well is deaf and blind." 
 Fine preaching ! but methinks I've heard such lore 
 From many a fat-paunched alderman before. 
 
 THE POWER OF WILL 
 
 Why do we shrink from those appointed tasks 
 
 Which 'tis our urgent duty to fulfil, 
 Even when to do them no stern effort asks, 
 
 And all that's wanting is the firm-set will ? 
 Aye there it is, lacking the will we lack 
 
 The spring that all our powers in action sets, 
 Whence they in useless idleness lie slack 
 
 Till that stirred spring their potency begets. 
 Not those of deepest wisdom, keenest wit, 
 
 The highest prizes, greatest triumphs gain, 
 But those whose wills to lesser powers knit 
 
 Endure unto the end of the campaign. 
 Will's wit, but wit, alas ! is oft not will, 
 And thus is wit poor and unhappy still. 
 119
 
 CHRISTMAS DAY, 1897 
 
 A filthy fog, foul-smelling, pungent, cold, 
 
 Clammy and greasy, eye-offending, thick ; 
 A misery that must multiply tenfold 
 
 The sufferings of the homeless poor, the sick, 
 And all who. in life's battle buffeted 
 
 Most need the ministration of the sun, 
 His light and heat benevolently shed, 
 
 Lest they by cold and hunger be undone : 
 A day to make the stoutest -hearted sad, 
 
 To overcast the merriest face with gloom, 
 To make alone the undertaker glad, 
 
 And all to ponder on the final doom : 
 Satan ! henceforth your fuel spare in hell, 
 A London fog will serve your turn as well ! 
 
 THEME FOR A DRAMA 
 
 Oh how dost thou my simple words distort 
 
 To meanings which were never in my mind, 
 And make my deeds with such suspicions sort 
 
 As naught but mere perversity could find ! 
 How far apart are we that live together, 
 
 What worlds removed in spirit and in aim I 
 Shackled by bonds worn willingly by neither 
 
 How every casual spark breaks forth to flame ! 
 And yet we should not quarrel were love dead : 
 
 Some compensation in indifference lies, 
 For then we care not what is done or said, 
 
 And jealousy no trifle magnifies ; 
 This is the hell of our unhappy fate 
 That we at once each other love and hate. 
 120
 
 ANOTHER 
 
 Love not if you desire a quiet life ; 
 
 Love not if you would soundly sleep at night r 
 Love not if you would shun perpetual strife ; 
 
 Love not or take your leave of all delight ; 
 For Love is ever man's most cruel master, 
 
 The source of every trouble, every woe, 
 A fountain of perpetual disaster 
 
 From whence alone the deepest sorrows flow : 
 
 Thus do I rail on love, and yet I love, 
 And cannot from love's tyranny break free, 
 
 Prizing a faithless woman's smile above 
 All blessings else for I my weird must dree : 
 
 Man born of woman needs must her adore, 
 
 And as she doth command him sink or soar. 
 
 LOVE'S COMPENSATIONS 
 
 Love ! how unhappy in his fate is he 
 
 Who never hath thy wondrous power confessed. 
 Or never ventured on thy stormy sea, 
 
 Fearing too much to break his quiet rest : 
 Perchance he so escapes much bitter pain, 
 
 Yet had he loved with fearless heart and soul, 
 Surely in that there had been priceless gain, 
 
 Outweighing far whate'er might be of dole. 
 Expansive, not repressive, is true life, 
 
 Man passionless is scarcely man at all, 
 We win our way to peace through toil and strife, 
 
 Nectar he shall not taste who shuns life's gall : 
 They never truly live who love disown 
 A truth to poets and to lovers known. 
 121
 
 SUGGESTED BY SHAKESPEARE'S SEVENTY- 
 FIRST SONNET 
 
 Who mourned for the great poet when he died 
 
 And left the universe without his peer ? 
 Not England, heedless of her greatest pride, 
 
 Nor he whom most he loved and praised, I fear. 
 His fellows, his relations, and a friend, 
 
 Or two perchance, his coffin gathered round, 
 But no high-stationed patron saw the end, 
 
 Or sent a token of his grief profound. 
 
 He, destined to preserve his country's name 
 
 When all its other glories are forgot, 
 Here begs, in deep humility and shame, 
 
 To be, even by his friend, remembered not : 
 But while that friend compounded is with clay, 
 All Time is now our poet's endless day. 
 
 SHELLEY 
 
 Noblest and bravest of the sons of song ! 
 
 Most selfless and most single-hearted friend 
 Of the unfriended sufferers of wrong : 
 
 Too eager for his peace the world to mend : 
 Alas ! he knew not men, how hard of heart, 
 
 How dim of apprehension, slow to move, 
 How vain it was to think he could impart 
 
 To them his zeal for truth, his boundless love ! 
 His life was but a brief and fevered dream, 
 
 But such a dream as he alone could know : 
 And wisdom at the end began to stream 
 
 Upon him with a mild and steady glow : 
 Alas ! that death should then his victim claim, 
 Even in that hour when he himself became ! 
 122
 
 JAMES THOMSON ("B.V.") 
 
 Thou wert the poet-laureate of Despair, 
 
 And much I mourned o'er thy unhappy fate, 
 Which in its toils so cruelly did snare 
 
 Thy soul, by death and grief made desolate : 
 But now that more than twenty years have passed 
 
 No longer does the thought of thee bring pain, 
 For that same fate that so thy life did blast, 
 
 Is now thy friend and shall thy friend remain. 
 Time to a precious pearl hath turned thy woe, 
 
 Britain at length shall glory in thy name, 
 Thy fame shall ever with the ages grow, 
 
 And none shall censure thee but to their shame ; 
 Not Omar's or FitzGerald's name shall shine I 
 More brightly in the yearsTto come than thine ! 
 
 WRITTEN AFTER READING A 
 MEMOIR OF CLOUGH 
 
 Arthur Hugh Clough ! How pleasant sounds the name ! 
 
 What wholesome thoughts and memories it doth wake ! 
 How clear of every shadow is its fame, 
 
 (Not clearer thine, dear Artist-Poet Blake !) 
 'Tis such as he restore our faith in man, 
 
 When human baseness makes us most despair, 
 Lifting our thoughts how few are those who can ! 
 
 Into a purer and diviner air. 
 
 Sincerer soul on earth was never known ; 
 
 Content where knowledge might not be to stay 
 Without vain murmur, or unmanly moan 
 
 In the soul's twilight, clamouring not for day. 
 Whene'er with cheerless thought too much oppressed 
 His memory gives my troubled spirit rest. 
 123
 
 MATTHEW ARNOLD 
 
 He looked around upon a world of wrong 
 
 With sorrowing spirit, pity infinite ; 
 He saw the weak made victims of the strong, 
 
 And obscene darkness triumph over light : 
 He saw that men unmoved by argument, 
 
 Who turned away with scorn from wisdom's school, 
 Shrank from the lash of satire's chastisement, 
 
 And feared the laughing lips of ridicule : 
 He saw the falseness of the common creeds 
 
 And cared not to conceal his deep disdain, 
 Yet from himself could not root out the weeds 
 
 Convention had implanted in his brain ; 
 And so he failed to see 'twas a vain task 
 To pour new wine into an outworn cask. 
 
 THE POET OF THE FUTURE 
 
 Shall time to come another Shakespeare breed, 
 
 Gifted as he who doth our past illume, 
 Or who shall ev'n his wondrous powers exceed, 
 
 And so th' Arch-Poet's rank and fame assume ? 
 Yes ! her past exploits nature can repeat, 
 
 Though she loves best new miracles to prove, 
 And howsoe'er she seems our hopes to cheat 
 
 Doth ever forward to new victories move. 
 The Poet of the coming time shall own 
 
 A Shakespeare's wisdom, wit, sublimity, 
 With finer qualities before unknown 
 
 That might not hi an age half-barbarous be. 
 One bard the spirit of the Past expressed, 
 The next the Future shall make manifest. 
 124
 
 MUSIC AND POETRY 
 
 I 
 
 Two stars there are by which my course I steer 
 
 Two stars which fadeless ever must remain, 
 Which, while I follow, save me from all fear 
 
 Of foundering on life's tempestuous main. 
 To me they are the source of all delight, 
 
 They comfort me when all around is dark, 
 My soul inspiring with their influence bright, 
 
 As air and sun inspire the mounting lark : 
 
 Music and poetry ! brightest-shining pair 
 
 That shed their beams on thankless humankind, 
 
 For ever youthful, fresh, and debonnair, 
 Best solacers and healers of the mind : 
 
 Benignant powers, all other powers above, 
 
 Or only rivalled by divinest Love ! 
 
 II 
 
 Whene'er to words of kindness or of love 
 
 The tongue is tuned music is in our speech, 
 And then we rise our baser selves above, 
 
 And the blest Eden of our visions reach. 
 Perchance in planets happier than ours 
 
 All speech is music, and all music speech, 
 And there no discords vex the golden hours, 
 
 Nor curse nor shriek the destinies impeach : 
 Life there to blithest symphonies is set, 
 
 No evil passions there its concords stain, 
 No clashing elements are there to fret, 
 
 No force compels and no conventions chain : 
 No need of heaven is there, no fear of hell, 
 Such wondrous power in harmony doth dwell. 
 125
 
 MOZART AND WAGNER 
 
 Th' old master's music steals upon the sense 
 
 With all-pervading and persuading power : 
 We listen ever with delight intense, 
 
 And drink it in as drinks the dew the flower : 
 The hours go by and yet we sit entranced, 
 
 And rise at last unwearied and unsated, 
 Our joy in life rekindled or enhanced, 
 
 In spirit and in senses recreated. 
 
 But Wagner like a rushing whirlwind storms us, 
 And like a despot fealty doth demand, 
 
 Perchance to faithful subjects he transforms us 
 Yet some so rude a summons will withstand : 
 
 And though we own his genius is vast, 
 
 Yet he exhausts and wearies us at last. 
 
 GOUNOD'S "FAUST" 
 
 A magic greater than thou ownest none 
 
 Can boast when amorous passion is the theme, 
 And here thy genius reaches its supreme 
 
 Expression, scarce by Mozart's self outdone. 
 
 A tribute grand to Love's omnipotence, 
 Thy music floats so buoyantly along 
 It seems th' embodied heart and soul of jSong, 
 
 Pulsing with passion's fervid eloquence. 
 
 Unfailing and unfaltering, thy store 
 Of melody wells forth as from a spring 
 Exhaustless, whose bright waters soar and sing, 
 
 And all around their sparkling jewels pour. 
 Gounod ! immortal needs must be thy strains 
 While Love in men's and maidens' hearts remains. 
 126
 
 BACH'S SECOND CONCERTO* 
 
 What fresh and breezy joyousness is here, 
 
 What youthful spirit, what rapture of delight, 
 What scorn of baseness, what contempt of fear ! 
 
 How doth it put aU sombre thoughts to flight J 
 Once more the world is full of old romance, 
 
 Once more the jarring keys are all in tune, 
 Once more in woodland scenes the fairies dance, 
 
 And desolate winter turns to glorious June ! 
 Ah ! could man's life to such a tune be set, 
 
 Its dull beat changed for these exultant strains, 
 What room were there for sorrow or regret, 
 
 Or who could doubt that God exists and reigns ! . . .. 
 The music dies and I am sad again, 
 But with a tenderer grief, a milder pain. 
 
 AFTER A CONCERT 
 
 'Tis o'er and where has gone the melody 
 
 That filled my soul with such supreme delight ? 
 Have golden chords like these fled utterly 
 
 Into the still and unresponsive night ? 
 Will they no more my drooping thoughts upstay 
 
 In days to come when dark despondence reigns ? 
 Will they no more illumine life's dull grey, 
 
 No more bring solace for its many pains ? 
 Content thyself : two golden hours is much 
 
 To snatch from out the niggard hands of fate ; 
 Ask not for more lest it exact for such 
 
 Of dull discouragement a double rate : 
 Yet to you shall a melody be known 
 From memory drawn : a dulcet undertone. 
 
 * This Concerto belongs to a set written at Coethen in 
 127
 
 MADAME CALVE 
 
 Unmatched as actress, unsurpassed in song, 
 
 The heroines of the lyric stage in thee, 
 {Shadows most oft a world of shades among) 
 
 As creatures full of fiery life we see: 
 Thine own strong soul thou usest to inform 
 
 These scenic puppets with the breath of life, 
 So that we see them, passion-breathing, warm, 
 
 Through all the gamut of their nature's strife ; 
 Carmen thou art, and Carmen thou alone ; 
 
 All Marguerites but thine are shadows dim ; 
 Ophelia, Messaline, Santuzza, shewn 
 
 By thee no wreck of memory can dislimn : 
 Yet these we feel are but a little part 
 Of thy so splendid gifts of mind and heart. 
 
 SOUTH AFRICA, 1899 
 
 The brave must needs honour and love the brave, 
 
 Though they are ranked against themselves in fight, 
 And only cowards at those foemen rave 
 
 Who manfully do blow for blow requite : 
 Shame then on those who libel the brave men 
 
 Who fight for all that is to them most dear ; 
 Even though, to our ' patriot's ' enlightened ken, 
 
 They're worthy only of a Briton's sneer. 
 Theirs is to them a just and sacred cause, 
 
 Ours at the best is not so just or clear, 
 But that, however ably pleaded, flaws 
 
 Will in our strongest arguments appear : 
 Oh evil fate ! to make us thus contend 
 Against a State which should be most our friend ! 
 
 1721 for the Margraf of Brandenburgh, and known con- 
 sequently as " The Brandenburgh Concertos." 
 128
 
 THE RELIEF OF LADYSMITH 
 
 In deep suspense we waited, fear with hope 
 
 Contending and commingling in our souls, 
 Striving in vain to read fate's horoscope, 
 
 Or weigh the forces which the event controls : 
 More and more sombre grew our spirits, while 
 
 Defeat with grim persistence dogged our arms, 
 And we, so apt in danger's face to smile, 
 
 Were shaken by a thousand false alarms. 
 Could it be true ? Had fate at last relented, 
 
 And crowned once more our efforts with success ? 
 Thus warring passions in our minds fermented, 
 
 Till full assurance came to calm and bless. 
 Once more we breathe ! Our arm is mighty yet 
 Not now shall Britain's sun in darkness set ! 
 
 HOMAGE TO A FOE 
 
 De Wet ! we own thee for a doughty foe 
 
 In whose red blood no craven drop has place, 
 Whose courage in defeat doth greater grow, 
 
 Fearing no evil but submission base. 
 Adversity has tried thee as by fire, 
 
 And proved thy mettle to be sterling gold, 
 And we, the while we suffer, must admire 
 
 A spirit formed in such heroic mould. 
 Tis our misfortune that with men like thee 
 
 An evil fate has forced us to contend ; 
 Brothers in aims and arms we ought to be, 
 
 And then the world against us could not bend 
 Or break us, but should give us service meek 
 Ah why our valour on each other wreak ! 
 
 129 i
 
 DECEMBER 31, 1900 
 
 The century that began with blood and tears, 
 
 'Mid blood and tears and vague unrest goes out 
 Is it towards the rocks the good ship steers ? 
 
 Men ask each other with a troubled doubt. 
 Is Britain's star declining in the sky, 
 
 By younger rivals driven from her sphere ? 
 Are we among the nations doomed to die ? 
 
 Must we the fate of Rome and Venice fear ? 
 
 Let the new century answer ; and meanwhile 
 
 Let us resolve that, be it as it may, 
 Ere foemen can shout Victory ! o'er our isle, 
 
 They too shall fall death-stricken in the fray : 
 If Britain falls she falleth Samson-like, 
 And ere she fall a mortal blow shall strike. 
 
 THE PARADOX-MONGER 
 
 With gay assurance he will undertake 
 
 To prove all's right in heaven and on earth, 
 That no such thing as evil e'er had birth, 
 Or if it had 'twas born for goodness' sake : 
 He'll bring a godless nation back to God, 
 The devil too he'll rehabilitate, 
 And either at your choice will vindicate 
 With logic much like Gilbert's and as odd : 
 Questions of fate, necessity, free-will, 
 He settles easily as A B C ; 
 Of every mystery he holds the key ; 
 A nostrum he can find for every ill : 
 
 But while he thus deals out his meal of chaff 
 How welcome were a Rabelaisian laugh ! 
 130
 
 THE DEMAGOGUE 
 
 I listened to his smooth insidious tongue, 
 So artfully adapted to his crowd 
 Of uninstructed hearers, who with loud 
 Applause received the phrases deftly strung 
 To flatter them and to their greed appeal. 
 Their ignorance and prejudices he 
 (Taught by long practice) played on skilfully, 
 Yet to the wise did all the while reveal 
 His inmost nature, false and insincere ; 
 Spite of himself his vulgar soul he shows, 
 Which to no great ideal allegiance owes, 
 But ever doth by self's mean compass steer : 
 So self-convicted and condemned he stands, 
 Despite the multitude's loud-clapping hands. 
 
 TO THE CRITIC 
 
 What's written's written ; whether good or bad 
 I know not, and must leave you to assess : 
 'Tis done, and even if you condemn, no less 
 
 That it is done shall I henceforth be glad ; 
 
 For in it, not too thickly veiled or clad, 
 My verse doth much of what I am express, 
 Although to read it needs some wariness 
 
 Not to mistake its message gay or sad. 
 
 Whether the verse attract you or repel 
 In it you'll find no posing insincere ; 
 
 And if no powerful inspiration swell 
 Its music to a note divine and clear, 
 
 It may be something in its verse doth dwell 
 That will to some kind hearts the bard endear. 
 131
 
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 SIDELIGHTS ON CHARLES LAMB 
 
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 This volume contains much hitherto unknown matter 
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 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 
 THOMAS TRAHERNE 
 
 Now first published from the original Manuscripts 
 
 * # * The first edition of these Poems is now nearly 
 out of print. 
 
 "Let all lovers of good poetry rejoice with Mr. Dobell, for he 
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 "A. new poet is always wonderful, but a poet lost these two 
 hundred and fifty years, now re-discovered and found to have 
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 this is more wonderful still. Yet this is what has been given us to 
 behold in the stately and artfully antique-appearing volume in 
 which Mr. Bertram Dobell has set forth the poetical works of 
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 lyrists Vaughan, Herbert, Crashaw must now be added the name 
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 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 
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 be regarded as a sufficiently complete account of the marred and
 
 Books Written or Edited by Bertram Dobell 
 
 broken career of that unfortunate man of genius, and is characterised 
 alike by sympathy and candour. The greater portion of the stock 
 of Thomson's Works was, as is well known, destroyed by fire, so 
 that this collection of his writings in verse is timely and welcome. 
 Thomson's reputation (as his editor observes) is of the kind whose 
 steady, if slow, growth makes for permanent endurance. Here we 
 may find 'Vane's Story,' Weddah and Om-el-Bonain, 1 the famous 
 ' City of Dreadful Night,' and many another outcome of his powerful 
 but gloomy intellect. The translations from Heine take high rank 
 among the attempts, so seldom successfully made, to supply English 
 readers with a rendering of the quaint and delicate fancies of one 
 whose alternations of mood were akin to those of Thomson him- 
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 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL 
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 GLUCK AND THE OPERA: 
 
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 TANNHAUSER AND OTHER 
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 THOMAS TRAHERNE'S PROSE 
 WORKS 
 
 I hope to publish in the autumn of the present year 
 Traherne's "Centuries of Meditation," and shall be 
 glad if intending subscribers will let me have their names 
 as soon as possible. The subscription price will not 
 exceed 75. 6d. If adequate support is forthcoming, this 
 will be followed by the same author's " Christian Ethicks." 
 
 The extracts from Traherne's prose writings which I 
 have printed in my Introduction to his Poetical Works, 
 are quite sufficient to prove that he is no less excellent as 
 a prose writer than as a poet. Indeed it may well be 
 thought that his prose is superior to his verse, inasmuch 
 as it is quite unaffected by the errors of taste which were 
 common to his period, and which to some slight extent 
 mar the value of his poetry. When his "Centuries of 
 Meditation" is published, the fact will be put beyond 
 dispute that as a writer of beautiful and musical English 
 Traherne has very few superiors and not many equals.
 
 : SOOTHERN REGWNAl UBflAflY I 
 
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