A i ^— —^ -< 1 6 " NEW POEMS f Jas. Hebblethwaite * THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES \ s NEW POEMS OF JAMES HEBBLETHWAITE [ MFORM It ITU THIS I'OLl Ml THE POEMS OF JAMES HEBBLETHWAITE Cloth Gilt, 4s. 6d. "In Australia there is no truer poet; there is no man with deeper spirituality or more consoling human sweet- ness This dear volume." — The Triad. "A good book and a man to be thankful for." — The Bulletin. "His work is a scholar's poetry, wistful, regretful. Its characteristic content is a grave and lofty beauty of soul."— The Bookfelloiv. "No lover of good literature can afford to miss this book." — Sydney Sunday Times. "The book is obviously the product of a genuinely poetic nature and a highly cultured mind." — The Age, Melbourne. "Of all Australian verse writers he has, perhaps, the most genuine poetic sense and sensibility." — The Argus, Melbourne. "It is doubtful whether so many admirable poem> can be credited to any other Australian writer." — The Herald, Melbourne. "The quality of true poetry is present in the poems of James Hebblethwaite." — Daily Mail, Brisbane. OBTAINABLE OF ALL BOOKSELLERS New Poems of James Hebblethwaite Author of "A Rose of Regret," "Meadow and Bush," etc. SUPPLEMENTARY VOLUME TO "THE POEMS OF JAMES HEBBLETHWAITE" Edward A. Vidler The Olderfleet, Collins Street West Melbourne PR H3W3AH mi FIRST IMPRESSION, 1921 CONTENTS PAGE A Thought 129 Child and New Moon ----- 150 Our Little Boy 131 A Dream Child - - - - - 132 The Lake - - - - - - 134 The Sick Child - - 135 A Little Girl Asleep ------ 136 Once Upon a Time ------ 137 A Fairy Tale - - - 139 Conan 142 Romance - - - 144 Auccasin and Nicolette 146 Song 148 Ariel's Farewell 149 A Pagan Dream 152 The Young Achilles ------ 153 Neferteri - - - ' - - """ - - - 156 Old Rhineland Days - 158 The Fair Enemy - - . - - - - 159 Without Incumbrance - - - - 160 The Sundial - - - - : - 161 The Dawn of Love - - 162 Stella --- - - - 163 A Pillow Book - - - 164 Unsatisfied 165 The Embarcation for Cythera - - - - 166 Dreamland 168 Portrait of an Antiquary 169 Bonnard 171 Italy 173 1362052 Spring in Tasmania ----- - 176 The Princess of China - 177 Remembrance - - - - - 178 The Invitation - - 179 Mv Wife - - - 181 The Dream - - -182 - 183 Camping - Song 186 The Camp Fire - - - - 187 The Jo-Wickee - 188 The Sleeping Beaut v - - - - 189 The Clearing .... - - 190 Sanctuary .... . 193 Piper's Ford 195 Lament ... - - 196 Solitude - 198 Gleaning - - 199 Song of the Bush - - - 200 The Ancient Cry - - - 201 Farewell, Gallipoli; Gallipoli, Farewell! - - 20-1 To Those Who Would Forget - - 205 Tasmania - - 206 Sarras - 208 Alfroin : A Legend of Canterbury - - - 209 Glastonbury - - - 210 Richard de Bury - - - - - 211 Annunciation 213 Lawrence - - - - •- - -214 The Abbey - - - - 216 Jacob Ruysdael - - - - - 218 Eyam - - - - - 219 A Song for Isaac Walton - 221 Gilbert White : a Strayed Letter - - -224 William Wordsworth 227 John Henry Newman 229 Evil and Faith - - 231 Responsibility 232 The Pessimist 233 Tragedy 236 Music - - 237 Man 238 The Holy Land 240 Easter - - 242 Ascension ....--- 243 Holy Communion 244 The Vanished - - - - 245 In Retrospect 246 Death - 248 Immortality ------ 249 Morning Prayer 250 The Spell - - - 252 Finis - 253 A THOUGHT ASLEEP my little Child Lay pillowed at my side : his Angel face Of tender curves and blooms, called to my mind Da Vinci's pencillings of babes that haunt The stray leaves of his folios, and keep A sense of flowers, as though the wilding rose, The violet, that neighbour on the page, Had human grown. 129 CHILD AND NEW MOON T HE new moon rises in the sky I dream it is a Imttertlv. Sometimes it is so thin and white I think it is the flower of night. Sometimes it is a little boat In dark and cloudy foam afloat. And then a sickle keen it seems Reaping the harvest bf my dreams. 130 OUR LITTLE BOY WOULD you paint our little boy, Then your heart must brim with joy, And for colours you must use Nature's loveliest of hues : Blush of wilding briar rose When its petals just unclose, Brown of woodland stream or pool, White of hawthorn pure and cool, Quintessential morning gold, (Preciousness of wealth untold); With these mix immortal joy If you 'd paint our little boy. 131 A DREAM CHILD 1 I WALK with Lucy in a laud By golden spell compact of thih : The tender clasping- of her hand, The solemn sweetness of her kiss. A crimson rose the parted lip, Like dusk-fringed pools the eyes of blue, Where Angel-thoughts their white wings dip And meet like thoughts as dearly true. I feel she breathes another air, More high and delicate than ours, Such as one dreams in winter hare Floats from a hill of almond flowers. Ah, when the weary day is past And ruddy is the firelight glow, Her long white arms are round me cast And into Faery we go. My little daughter left my side, She is so pure and unafraid ; And through the world I wandered wide To find my dear and gentle maid. 132 A DREAM CHILD I found her in the Hymn of Praise (Boccati's) singing from a book, And as she sang her heavenly lays Upon the Child she fixed her look. She had no circlet of thin gold Around her head, but then her hair Is golden — as the music rolled She piped the harper's Angel air. 133 THE GATE WHAT is this Gate So hoary, crumbling, grey, Of immemorial date, S<> tremulous with May? Of Fairyland It is the portal. There Young magic buds expand To sunny shapes of air. All beauty, fire Of loves more virginal Than ours, with lute and lyre, Within, keep festival. 134 THE SICK CHILD OUR little boy is sick — ah, could we send For Him who from dark Death his prey did rend, That morsel of sweet earth, And to the parted soul gave its re-birth ; Or could we from our heart and breast take toll Of blood along those pallid veins to roll And fill and flush with rose the waxen cheek, How gladly would we mock the mother beak ; Or could we grapple with the grisly Foe How would we guard and to the great doom go ! But we can only watch and see him wane, Drawing his feeble breath, feeling his pain, Reading a dim reproach within his eyes When mute in wildering agony he lies ; Or lean upon the sill and view each star And wonder how his soul shall wing so far Alone, (Moan, moan), He whose endearing fingers would entwine Within his mother's hand and mine, When dark came on, and plead for rest Upon his mother's breast. 135 A LITTLE GIRL ASLEEP ROSE MARY lies asleep in bed, Her cheek is pillowed on her hand, Her golden hair is all dispread As by a wind from Fairyland, Her white arm on the coverlet Is shapely sweet, but maigre yet. A happy dream is with the child. A wooing vision round her, clad In orient colours undefiled, High kings and queens and lass and lad, All Faery bedecked with pearl Circles before the little girl. They reign and bloom with breathing grace, Rose Mary in enchanted sleep Smiles tenderly with loving face, And music trembles sad and deep; But O when with beseeching sigh The prince draws near, her heart beats high. O delicate and fragrant dream Of virgin purity and love Lit by a fleet celestial beam Slipt surely from the Court above — Rose Mary may it linger round And charm unto the utmost bound 1 isr, ONCE UPON A TIME ONCE upon a time In the long ago, Where beneath the lime Bees were murmuring low, Princess Goldenhair Stole with eyes a-gleam, For the sunshine bare Made the earth a dream. Dark the postern-gate 'Gainst the flood of light, Dark the toothed grate, Grey the castled height; But her blossomed gown, Where she tip-toe stood Shone a golden-brown In the green-leaved wood. From the deep lush grass Rose the shepherd boy — Then were lad and lass Tremulous with joy : Wonder-filled the two Sought each other's eyes, Love, O pure and true ! Flamed with breathless sighs. 137 ONCE UPON A TIME Swift a wandering wind Fluttered off his cap As the wildered hind Knelt on earth's green lap ; And the Prince revealed Met her wistful gaze, Beautei »us, envermeiled — Those were olden days. 138 A FAIRY TALE INTO the bush my little boy, Hugh, aged four, went with much joy, And loud his laughing cry rang out As by the wind light blown about He played with leaves and honeyed flowers And crannied stones, some crystal hours ; And then he drooped and climbed my nook, Upon my ledge, and hid my book, And clinging, cleaving, begged a tale Of fairies in a sunshine dale ; And I, insnared and shorn of strength By helpless laughter, took at length My tangled way to Fairyland, Beslaved by his august command. With faltering voice I thus began : "O once upon a time" — so ran All Hugh's loved stories — "there was war In Fairyland, where like a star Queen Lily ruled, the Ebon King Stole on her realm and made a ring Of fire and flame around her hill, And she of sorrow supped her fill, And crept away into the bush With her old nurse, and in the hush Thought of her People and her Knight Belated in that dreadful night; 139 A FAIRY TA1 For [sumbras, her lover Prince, Had rushed into the fight, and since 1 1 rid gone from sight with wounds forlorn, Beyond the reach of elfland horn. See under that green mossy root 1 launted and feared by mopoke hoot, Within that cavern, she lives there With her old nurse — O she is fair, But pale with sadness, slender, sweet, With golden hair down to her feet. She comes each morning to that cup, That gum-cup held by green blades up And brown and wrinkled but abrim With water clear, thinking of him And her forsaken plight. But, Hugh, Her wounded Knight lives in that blue Old gnarly gum, where he has stayed Since from the battle-ground he strayed, A spear-thrust in his crimsoned side ; But mark, 'tis in the eventide He wanders to the cup, and so They miss each other to their woe ; But see, he comes, that gallant Knight, Delaying in the lingering night, And finds her crown which she aside — While her sad gaze had wandered wide — 140 A FAIRY TALE Had dropt within the early morn To loosen her bright hair — new-born He stares around ... a trumpet-call Sounds through the vale with dying fall, And down the ferny shining lanes Ride elvans green as forest rains, Enchained with pearl-dewed gossamer, With spears and banners strained, astir Under the canopies and eaves Of bracken and the brake's low leaves : It is the Prince's foster-mate, Who with his sword has proved a fate To that dark-hearted Ebon King; And now with trumpet's flourished ring, Seeks for his foster-brother. See, She stands beside her Knight, and he Turns swiftly to her pale sweet face Bedewed with tears, and in yon place . My boy whom sleep had overcome, Cried, waking, "Daddy, take me home." 141 CON AN WEARY with battle raid Young I Milan rode- adown the evening vale, And as the moon arose above the trees, Wan till she stole the gold of honey-bees, Me saw within her brightening, dim and pale, A glimmering wonder-maid. White limbs, and hair like night, And face the beauty of an inner dream, The moon revealed to Conan. On the grass He leaped and strove the magic spell to pass, In vain ; but all his being flamed in stream Unto the visioned light. And Conan pined away Within his noble palace, and the King, His father, called to Merlin, and the mage Culled his enchantments to abate the rage Of passion in the Prince's breast — the sting Of love naught might allay. Red clover's scented dew, The crimson rose's angry heart of fire, The yearning of the air-borne apple-bloom, The sigh of lovers in a twilight room, Merlin distilled with silence of desire, \nd made a web so true! 142 CONAN This to the Prince he bore, And Conan underneath the potent spell Regained his strength and beauty ; but alas ! One clear and mellow eve he chanced to pass Her vale, and saw her eyes — with no farewell He came not evermore. 143 ROMANCE COME, ride into the purple p;ist, The years of old romance, Where in the dim proud streets are hung The sculptured shield and lance, And stony balconies are rich With banners pictured fair, And youth may battle for a face Upon the winding stair. Ah, these old rooms of tranquil shade And ancient craft of wood, And windows lit by storied arms, Are strange with ill or good; For thinnest pipings, fretted hints, Of human anguish press Upon the bosom troubling it With a vague tenderness. So ride we by the forest way Under the knotted oak — % Beware, a sudden flash of steel Betrays the greenwood folk ; Our lances glitter in the sun, The outlaws seek their lair, And O the blowing shade and shine, And the earth-scented air! 144 ROMANCE Deep-shadowed gates that ope upon High seas of golden light, Soar from a space of soft green glade And water calm and bright: Now ease the sword and couch the lance, There lies our fatal quest, The Princess waits the kiss supreme That breaks her magic rest. 145 AUCASSIN AND NICOLETTE AUCASSIN was young with light Grave and sweet, grave and sweet; And he rode to battle bright Through the greening wheat ; He was tall and debonair, Swift as falcon's wheel, Flowers were in his yellow hair, On his armour's steel. Nicolette, in Beaucaire sold By the Saracens, was fay, Beautiful with streaming gold, Eyes blue-green deepening to grey : Ah, her lips were very red, Ripe against the white of Ver. Daisies drooped each dainty head Shamed they were but dark to her. Aucassin passioned the brake, Nicolette, O Nicolette! Joy of battle, for her sake, Lost he after they had met ; And she loved him, delicate With love-rapture sweet and rare, Thereby gaining wrath and hate Of the old Count of Beaucaire. 146 AUCASSIN AND NICOLETTE From her mossed brown marble tower Through the silent town she stole In the moonlight to the bower Of Aucassin's burning soul : In the forest green and hoar Roamed those lovers with the May, Ah ! that kiss for evermore Flower-sweet in the idle day. 147 SONG II I E beneath the apple-bloom And Feste's song Rings sweetly from the silent tomb Ding dong. Sad as the overtone of bells The fields among, It echoes in my heart's dim cells: Ding dong. Clothed like a rose of tender hue He sings along; And -O the blossomed sky of blue ! Ding dong. His lay is of a lonely end — Love's suffered wrong; And sighing in the grass I bend : Ding dong. 148 ARIEL'S FAREWELL r-p "^HERE goes the royal vessel with its freight Of precious souls, adown the sunset-glow ; And the bright fires that burnt the masts' proud tops, The purple sails inscribed with golden flowers, The inner bellying crimson, all are fumed Into one grey ; and long the clarion's note Has faded into silence. I have gained My passioned freedom, but the joy is not ; And this my island-home is but a cage Now they have gone, all mute and bare, forlorn. Free ! I may wander where the foliage roofs Brown solitude ; or where the rivulet Runs through the long green oaken glade, and birds Flit on the sun-white stones, and melody Fills all the hollow, and upon the grass Blue shadows quiver; or with mounting larks In ecstasy sing in the eye of heaven ; Or watch the tide swill in its narrow rift Of splintered rock ; or view the twilight woods Loud with the rustle of the homing birds, Upon the lonely hills, while in the vales The streams that in the all-pervading hum Of summer are unheard, grow audible Beneath the stars — but still the joy is not. 149 ARIEL'S FAREWELL In the old time I was content to watch The sun upon the meads with chanting birds And want no other dreaming golden light, No other music ; then came Sycorax Willi webs abhorred, until great Trospero With higher spells rent wide the cloven pine And set me free. Out of my living tomb I sang my merry songs of yellow sands, Of batty flight before the moon's pale lamp, Of hiding with the bee, and that brave dirge Of sea-changed King. Ah, I was happier far When with great IYospero I made the vault Of heaven grow dark and spit the dreadful fire, The rattling thunder; or when in cleft flame I danced on mast and rigging ; or made fine Clear music in the air. How like a god Was Prospero when in sublimer words He read the general doom of all the world ! I think that living with that Master-soul Has given me of his spirit: there is that Within my throbbing eyes that were I more Of human would bedew my cheeks with tears. And thou, O lovely Innocence, admired Miranda! I with sorrow saw thy grief For those about to die — thine eyes were lights 150 ARIEL'S FAREWELL Of heaven's inner blue limpid with tears ; And heard thy words divinely virgin-pure, To Ferdinand the Prince: "Do you love me?" . There moves the now-remorseful Caliban Crawling about the moister, teeming earth And the quick freshes. Has he more than I ? Is there within that gross ignoble form Aught of eternity? In his disdain Of Stephano he seemed to grasp a truth — But not for me, a veiling of the air, A subtilty, a fine irradiance, Is that pure beauty : I must be resolved Into the element. Those other men — How will they lie gnawed by the worms of hell In old remembrance, unconsumed but lit By ever-burning flame ; will they not pray For ancient death and dull oblivion To blot their shame, unless with sins forgiven There comes the balm of sweet forgetfulness. Ah, now the ship sinks to the ocean rim, And after all their wild sea-sorrows, joy And uninvaded peace are theirs who dared Nobly to live. Night closes round my isle — Farewell, farewell, I am alone for aye. 151 A PAGAN DREAM IWANDKR in a sun of pagan scent, The joy of morns dim-centuried old is lent Unto my heart, uncertain fancies throng; I will not work but spend the hours in song. Lo, the great spaces of the level sea Are quick with horses hoary-maned, and free "With joyous roaming dolphins, and the car Of Neptune gleams above the ocean-bar. Ah, Heliodora. where the wavelets beat I saw thee stand, white rose and violet, Thy vesture like the foam about thy feet — And now with hopeless tears my eyes are wet. O treacherous Time! ah, all-deceiving Time! We burgeon fair, and then with silent hands You steal our strength and beauty — lo, my rhyme Flowers with her loveliness beyond thy sands! 152 THE YOUNG ACHILLES CHEIRON the Centaur to King Peleus gave Knowledge to capture Thetis for his bride, A goddess from the sea, and that being done, After much tribulation, saw them one Within his cave. When in due time she bore A boy to Peleus, she was fain to purge His dim mortality by daily balms Of pure ambrosia and by the flame, Fitting the child for immortality; But Peleus, looking on, cried at the fire In fear and anguish, so that Thetis left Her husband for the waves ; but ere she went She gave the child to Cheiron for his care Till she should come again. So far, remote In Thessaly, on wooded Pelion, The Centaur taught the boy heroic ways, Luting, and healing. O, when dawn's first beam Slanted along the green leaves round the mouth Of their great cave, the Centaur and the boy, The one with face benign and noble form, The other beautiful with straight lean limbs, Would sally forth upon a solemn ledge And greet the morning sun. Below them fell, Tumbling, a waste of precipice and gorge Untrodden, virgin, save for hunter rides, Unto a lovely land of pastoral ode 153 THE YOUNG ACHILLES And rustic eclogue. Of rude wells ;md founts, The heads of torrents that with fury foamed And thundered to the plain, that was a land, A hoary roughness ; but beneath their verge, Filled from the ooze and filter of the mount, A mirror of pure crystal held the sky In still blue trance. There they would quench their thirst After their deep repose ; and bend to hear The song and twitter of the new-fledged birds Upon the budding spray (for 'tis of spring, The glad springtime I sing) ; and then the boy Would mount the Centaur's back and gallop down The gnarly woods, unheeding thorns and spines After fierce ravening lions, tusky boars, And tameless bears, and whelm their fiery hate As though with streaming whirlwinds. On this flesh Then would they feast as all true warriors do, And after rest, would seek the forest glades Where white and tranquil columned temples rose With caves inSculptured, and entablatures Haunted by doves; or on the teeming plain Would rush like storm-clouds to a roomage vast For spear and arrow . . . Ah, when fell the night Then they would climb their aerie, by the way Drinking of cisterned pools from water films On stone — nature's amphorae. Then the fire 154 THE YOUNG ACHILLES Would light the cavernous deeps with ruddy flame, And to the well-tuned lute Cheiron would sing Old immemorial songs, the boy intent Upon his shield of bronze and plates of gold Embossed with images, and on the crest Of the great helm, and on the Pelion spear That later on the plains of burning Troy Wrought havoc. O, those old heroic days ! They have their being still beneath green boughs In the infinitudes of noble souls. 155 NEFERTERI ON the yellow Nile aflame Ahmes' galleys gleaming came From the desert war; And they left no sailing room Those great ships of warlike doom, Brightening in the sunset bloom Stretching leagues afar. Swift by pylons hugely dusk, Swift through evening's floating musk Kingly Ahmes drove ; For Neferteri lived there, Wife mos.t beautiful and rare — Ah, he trembled on the stair By the palm-tree grove ! Mingled with his trumpet's call Went a wail with dying fall, Rose a shrilling keen ; And he bea|; his breast and head, Cried in grief upon the dead, For he knew the Chant so dread — Mourning for a Queen. Ahmes bent above the face, Distant now in death's wan grace, Kissed the lips so pale ; 156 NEFERTERI And his ruthless eyes were wet For the things he might forget, As he lived to pay life's debt, Of love's perfect tale. Balmed they then the body bare, Ah, the flesh so white and fair Linen-swathed and hid ! By the Memphian gate they bore Her whom they should see no more, And within the bosom's core Built her pyramid. 157 OLD RHINELAND DAYS BLA( K is the tower upon the snowy rock; Black are the boughs that at the loop-holes knock. Swayed by the wintry blast; white is the plain "Where from the forest rolls the heavy wain ; All, all is bare and chill ; but in a room, Heart of the Castle's heart, there is no gloom, For firelight shines upon the green and brown Of the worn arras . . . there with lop-side crown The aged Queen warms at the hearth her toes, And on the withered crones her gossip goes ; And they are bound upon the wicked tale While for a moment, beautiful, proud, pale, A Girl of Honour pauses at the door, Thence to steal up the stairs by that dark lore Disturbed — perplexed with visions of old age. . . . 158 THE FAIR ENEMY MAN, philosophic, struggles to attain An inner joy, a mount of perfect peace, A realm of righteous rule and ordered gain, And after strife and pain He finds of care surcease. When lo ! the woman looks — And at the flame of eyes sweet blue or grey, (Or any other colour!) down go books Down citadels of peace, and all is May, The troubled perfume of a langourous day. 159 WITHOUT INCUMBRANCE " D^" 1 ' tll " u '" '" ,; " 1 tnee »" sait!l tlie sa - _£ "All that impedes, All that doth wrong and war doth wage With greater needs: Thus, stript of baggage, hare, thou wilt have breath To make thy journey to a welcomed death." Ah! But when the "baggage" looks with pleading eyes; Has long white arms that cling about one's neck ; A breast that heaves with tender burning sighs, Amurmur like the wind ; And is so true; I cannot leave it far behind — Can you? 100 THE SUNDIAL WITHIN the garden ground it stands, An altar of the sun, Obedient to his great commands Until the day is done. Its gnomon is an angel's wing, A floral scroll its plate, Its very legend seems to sing Of Eden's pastoral state. Above its lines the silent shade Steals round so soft and sweet : Its perfect wonder cannot fade While hearts unsullied beat. "Our days are as a shadow thin And there is none that bides." So from its dial we may win A hint of Time's fleet tides. It stands amid thick blooms of light — Golden, appealing, lone — For roses ruby, yellow, white, Surround the grey old stone. 161 THE DAWN OF LOVE HOW delicate the dawn of love — Ethereal the light That trembles from some height above And makes the day seem night. So infinite its tenderness, So old and deep its source, So bright with images that bless, So primal in its force ! I seek the shadow of the wood Undreamed-of bliss to find, A harmony of beauteous good, The sweep of a great wind. Forgotten Aprils live again, Immortal light and flower; I hunger for delicious pain In this bewildering hour. 162 STELLA MORE than a century has her body lain Beside the author of her grief and pain In this cathedral aisle ; and still we mourn Her beauty and her love fading forlorn. . . . Lo, in the stately house a summer nook, A quietude of panel and old book, With soft pure glories of the sunlit lawn Sleeping on ancient leather from the dawn ; And lo! a slender girl, unsullied, fresh As the first crocus breaking earth's rough mesh, With eyes the colour of the twilight grey Of the calm ending of a faultless day. And to that proud fierce student Stella seems A visitant from Faery's rarest dreams, Of sunshine limned, a very crystal throne For innocence — this morn with love alone. . . . The years of sorrow from a shrouded fate Before her faltered murmur: "Ah, too late!" 163 A PILLOW BOOK I KNOW a dreamful book Of pases few. Its songs are delicate With flowers and dew. A later spring is here, Autumnal sweet. Gentle, resigned and grave, For sorrow meet. And when the veils of eve Shadow the west, I read of Love divine And so find rest. 164 UNSATISFIED AYE, grieved am I for those who weep the night, The multitudes who pass without love's light, Who thirst unquenchably with tears and sighs Until the fountain of their weeping dies, And eyes that might have lit this dusky earth With opening light of passion's holy birth Are faded quite long ere their wistful date, Or desolate with anguish at their fate, Gazing into the void primeval night Beneath the peaked shadow of Death's height. Shut out from love they still make their appeal, Still unresigned they crave love's joy to feel, And look, as though across a gulf afar, At one shrined in the splendour of a star; And dream of breaking buds and tender leaves, Of meetings in the hush of twilight eves, And all the shuddering sweetness of the kiss On perfect lips — O visionary bliss! 165 THE EMBARCATION FOR CYTHERA (WATTEAU) COME, Ladies, Gallants, come, O come away! Sweet is this grassy mound for reverie And the enchantments of our minuet, And low beneath the nobly foliaged tree Cool lie the shadows, and with langour wed Venus upon her stela bends her head — Yet come away. I know this hollow of our dreaming realm Is tranquil and serene: that never rain Shall fall or flood, or bolted thunder whelm, And we in garments of elusive stain, Faint purple, rose, and white of blossomed may, Gold-touched — can safely wander through the day; Yet come away. A colour of old ivory links and threads Your silken lavender and mauve and blue, And faded green, and unimagined reds, To an autumnal harmony of hue, Exhaling a vague sadness mid your play, A happy melancholy almost gay, Yet come away. When to your lutanist in stately dance You move half-seriously, wreathed with pale flowers, 166 THE EMBARCATION FOR CYTHERA Do you not feel breaking upon your trance Desire for something more than these light hours That all is glamour, changing fragile grace, An amber shimmering on an empty place? Then come away. Freshness and springlike youth and beauty proud Will fade to pallor and the gathering night, These colonnades in ruin shall be bowed, Those fluted fountains shall no more spout light : Yes, this unreal noon shall pass away, And all shall fail in twilight and decay, Then come away. With roses red our Venus we have deckt, But still we long, so let us set our sail Of curved petals with deep sunshine fleckt: Cythera will we seek, her island vale, And Venus in her beauty pure and sweet, Shall draw her yearning pilgrims to her feet. O come away. But what if after farewell to our home, This perfumed quiet, transient though it be, And leagues of sailing over weary foam, Nor Venus nor Cythera shall we see? Ah, friends, this melancholy deepens more Into a heartache comfortless and sore ! 167 DREAMLAND YOU who have wept for Clio's tablets worn By rain of tears and old betrayal sore, And weary of the world have made a place Of inner peace, and fortified have dwelt With much sweet ancientry — O you I feel Will bear me company ! It is the hour When like a huge spilt ruby on the wave The sun declines, and all the air is sweet, Yea, sweeter far than spice from Celebes, Or ravished Trebizond, and multitudes Of ridged crests pour from the west and touch The old grey stony quay where rides our boat. So lodged in lovelier aftermath of peace Than earth affords, O see the angel coigns, The promontories, and the lifted spark Upon the far-down coast ! Now let us sail And bathe our spirits in these undeclared Old nectaries of light, wind-footed dreams Set in that lowly isle of azure shade And green, and its grey ossature on high. It is a land that Ilion-wise arose Enfolding sounds of ancient grief now made Divine by melancholy lapse of time In finite hearts; and here are amplitudes Of angel-wings beneath a sapphire vault Above her stoled form. 168 PORTRAIT OF AN ANTIQUARY A SOUL of pure and noble race, He haunts a dark rich panelled place, Where falls a green and golden light From mullioned lattice, in the height All ramified, with purple-blue Of hanging grapes lending a hue To the grey stone. This sanctuary, Severe and perfect harmony, Shrines in its brooding old-world air Forms subtle, delicate, the rare Fruit of the calm or passioned dreams Of ancient craftsmen ; and he deems They bring a sadness infinite, An autumn melancholy, bright And still, and hardly to be borne — A sense of exile from the morn Of life. He calls on those long gone Who laid them down when all was done, Still hungered for that unhoped fire That would have visioned their desire And made it real ; and across The ages hears their mourned-for loss, And touches ghostly hands. With care, O tenderly ! the webby lair Of spider lifts he from their names, Their faded sufferings and their fames 169 PORTRAIT OF AN ANTIQUARY Neglected, feeling that his act Consoles the dead and makes a pact With their thin shades. Full well he knows The pathos desolate that flows From wanings of the finite, when Set 'gainst the infinite, for men. 170 BONNARD BONNARD, thou art the friend of all who love The dusky shadows of the bookman's room : There they behold thee in the lamp-lit gloom, Benignant, wise, and gentle as a dove. And they have amity with Hamilcar, The furry tyrant guarding thy bright fire When not at revel with the house-top choir ; And sorrow for his wandering shade afar. We love thy window with its noble view : The Louvre of the Valois, and the Seine, The Arc de Triomphe with its memories vain, Opening its gate against the springtide blue — The Tuileries, and Notre Dame's old towers, The Sainte-Chapelle, are built of haunted stones That tell thee tales of ancient sighs and moans, And love's light fancies of enchanted hours. Turn we from these grey veiled or sun-steeped quays To thy dear bookroom with its folios So richly bound and fragrant as the rose, Hiving the honey of the golden bees. How thou dost love them in their gracious age. Their yellowing made beautiful by time, The pictured abbeys, and the knightly rhyme, The purged singing of the classic page ! 171 BONNARD The Golden Legend is a joy akin To aching pain, so fair the letters' lures, The vellum leaves, the early miniatures — The Virgin and the crowned Proserpine. And then the finding of the Writer's tomb Within the Virgin's Chapel low and dim, And the exultant cry, almost a hymn, Beneath the apsis in the shadowy gloom. But ah, the roaming quest through classic lands Ennobled by a melancholy grace Flowing from Ceres her majestic face, And from the droppings of her pure white hands. Svlvestre. when thy tender charity Gave freely of its warmth to that poor girl Lodged in the attic, thou didst touch a pearl, Though of her heart light folly held the key. Most royally her Christmas log that soul So lovely, paid thee for her churching fire By granting thee thy trembling heart's desire, In Parmese violets, of burned-for scroll. Their odour breathes the perfume of romance, And thou hast thine, the woman dead and gone To her eternal rest, for dreaming on In the grave silence of the passioned trance. Well didst thou succour her forlorn young child With purest feeling, and thy sudden crime I shall read of, I know, the hundredth time, Joying to live with spirits undefiled. 172 ITALY O ITALY, I love to lean in dream Above thy beauty as above a bride; And savour thy grey folds, the morning beam, Thy vault of sapphire in its gentle pride, Thy alcoved purples on the mountain-side And threading lilac hue, the classic grace Of tangled corn and vine, the flowery tide. An inundation in a flowing race, Thy rain of violets, with an enchanted face. And silently companions by the way, Dear evocations, bide our questionings : Shelley and Keats with a celestial lay Breathing of limpid dew and whitening spring, Throb with the larks that from the azure ring ; And from her balcony sweet Juliet Bends over Romeo with words that bring Joy to his bosom that with passion met Surges in swelling floods until his eyes are wet. With majesty and monumental state All sorrow-tinged, in reverie profound Comes Virgil dreaming on man's darkened fate ; And where Soracte lifts its wave snow-crowned, Smiles Horace ; and where Arno's flood embrowned Flows through the lily city Dante stands Gazing on Beatrice, or with a sound Of utter wailing sings the stern commands That doomed girl Pia's death among Maremma sands. 173 ITALY What is that figure leaning on his stave In this wide billowing sunk in forlorn Forgetfukiess, deep in a sweeping wave ( >f grass and blooms — rich scarlet poppies torn By the west wind, and white narcissus born Of very spring? It is a shepherd wight Tending his sheep, or playing to the morn Upon his pipe. And what that shade so bright? 'Tis Francis, brother dear, soothing his piteous plight. Sculpture and painting! Michael Angelo His Pieta austere, his marble Christ Where power and sweetness intermingled flow; And Raphael's. Madonna and child Christ; Bellini's Virgin mild and infant Christ; Carpaccio's dear Saint Ursula asleep ; And Tintoret with his great dying Christ, O beautiful! Da Vinci's Cena deep With human love and tears that endless worship keep ! Ah, Florence, city of my hungered sight, Would I could walk thy streets and bow before That shaft of colour dyed with morning light That Giotto built to stand for evermore Shrined in the lover's heart, its sacred core; Laud Brunelleschi's dome in airy blue. Ghiberti's Gates of paradisal lore; And with our English Milton wander through By Vallombrosa's brooks in their autumnal hue. 174 ITALY And what of Venice — city of the sea? I would that I might mount each watery stair Of her dim palaces ; might bend the knee Within the solemn light and closed air Of sceptred Mark's ; might view the horses there Over the portal, bronze, each tossing head So faultless in its moulding, clean and bare ; Might muse in silence tranquil, golden, red On ancientries and tombs of the once valiant dead. Ah, Rome, I tremble with supreme delight Before thy sacred places, brood on ghosts Of Roman splendour, moved unto the night Of the abyssmal heart ; and hear the hosts Of legionaries march for Britain's coasts ; And in St. Peter's learn that man has gone In reach and power beyond his utmost boasts, And shudder at the silver clarion's tone, And watch the amber light and dateless dream alone. 175 SPRING IN TASMANIA IF we could mint new symbols to denote Thy freshness ! Words for those clear lights that float In spring-time's newest dawning, hues that seem A glory of young Angels in a dream ; Words for the flush that deepens tree and brake ; Or for the wattle-bloom against a lake Of azured sky ; or for the chaliced flower Full to the brim in weeping sunbright hour, Spilling with each light wind ; or for the rough Salt foam of ocean that seems of the stuff Of passionate creation — words for these And all that surges in the springtide breeze, Would yet but hint of thy immortal flow Of life ineffable. 176 THE PRINCESS OF CHINA HOW can one follow on the subtle dream Of solving the enigma life presents, When flames the sun with golden wave and beam, And all the air is thick with woodland scents? Divine ideas are for sacred room, And calm, reserved and pure, of holy sage ; Not for the morn when shadowed leaf and bloom Tremble upon the whiteness of my page. So many tender forest souls press round, So green and fragrant, that I cannot give My mind with courtesy to thought profound, To the immortal yearning, how to live? Vision and legend charm my half-closed eyes : Of China the sweet princess offers love With gentleness and grace and deepest sighs And murmur soft as cooing as a dove. Vague lovely melancholy dews my soul With odours of the past, still and serene ; And breaking floods of poignant memories roll For her who did not breathe to be my queen. Thus is it with me in my dreaming mood, The beautiful with mourning aye is fraught Yet full of sweetness : while I sit and brood The incorporeal lives clothed with my thought. e 177 REMEMBRANCE DO you remember, Dear, that summer eve Of our most happy life — the sun that bathed With rose and violet the lovely hills Beyond the bay, the dim slow veils that hushed The dying light to sleep ; the foam that spent Itself with sighing murmurs on the sand ; The moon rising above the airy hills Faint, wanly red, then golden in its surge Up to the blue? Some fleecy cloudlets crept Over its edge, and in the ashen light Your face looked pale and fleeting, and I thought Of cool fresh primroses in woodland vales, And all seemed strange, so lonely, sad and sweet As from old memories ; and then the moon Shone with untroubled flow and laid a stream Of rippled silver to our very feet ; Ah, then I turned and drew you to my heart, And as your head sank on my shoulder, kissed Your dreaming lips, whispering deep words of love — Do you remember, Sweet? 178 THE INVITATION COME, Love, the dawn is pure and young, Aethereal dreams are floating down, Enchanted leaves above are flung Chequering our path with golden brown ; The souls of flower and grass peep out And flutter in the morning breeze, Their scents are scattered all about, The gums are ghosts of happier trees. The spirit of our courting days, A delicate sweet breath and shy, O indefinable ! shall raise The rapture of our hearts on high ; Something divine no words can show, Something from an unfathomed deep, Shall passion in our breasts and grow Vague, beautiful as magic sleep. O savour well that leaning bole Washed tenderly with ochre, veined With gold, and fretted like a scroll With mauve and azure blue ; and stained With crimson lake ; and look, O see That vaporous green filled by the sun With glints as from a golden bee — A balm until our days are done ! . . . 179 THE INVITATION And when the murmurs of the night Sigh in the quiet of the eve, Then in the darkening blue the light Of wistful moon and stars shall leave A peace beyond the gathering powers Of shadowing sorrow naught can still "While hearts are human, silent hours That memory with pure joy shall fill. 180 MY WIFE OF Imogen before her leafy cave, And Rosalind beneath the forest bough, Wondering Miranda by the whispering wave, And fated Leeza with her cloistral vow, I used to dream in youth's eternal blood When yearning after life's imagined good. But when I knew you, not of these I thought, But only of yourself — you, only you — Of joys and dreamings delicately wrought, Of chambers in the twilight softly blue, And winter's guarded fires — of these you've been The inner spirit, and my heart's true Queen. 181 THE DREAM OLOVE, I tremble with exceeding joy That you are warm and living by my side, For I have dreamed of woe without alloy, And in my dreaming thought that you had died. We walked a sullen shore in pale alarm At some unknown revolt that stole our breath, And phantoms strove with my encircling arm, And darkened shadowy mouthings whispered, Death. And wavering shapes uncouth tore us apart In spite of all my straining, murmuring might ; And waves of horror whelmed my breaking heart When you sank back into that charnel night. Then with a gesture you were bid to seek Some other mate ; on me their malice fell — sorrow surged until my heart grew bleak W T hen through the gloom there came a word from hell : That I might live if you would take my place, And see again the morning light of gold : 1 shrieked at the high purpose in your face — A demon touched your heart and it grew cold. You died for me — for me ! O wild abyss Of agony untold, I tremble yet ! Come to my breast and kiss me kiss for kiss — Eternity of love shall pay my debt. 182 SONG FOLLOW, follow to the bush, Grave and omened is the morn ; We are on the verge of joy, We may hear the elfland horn ; And may find the fairy gold, Wind and sing, Bathe unseen in bliss untold, Soar on wing. Gladsome break your prison-bars, Cast aside your toil and care ; See, the glorious sun streams forth, To his rays your bosom bare ; It may be — O it may be, We shall gain All our heart's desire ; and free, Banish pain. With the Infinite we '11 build In the soul a nest of peace ; You and I — ah, you and I, Happy in our sweet release, Hushed, consoled, may therein dwell, Warm, secure, Under this green woodland spell Limpid, pure. 183 CAMPING O SCENTS from dewy grass and tree; O fluting birds at morn, Loud, jubilant, or broken-sweet; O cloudlets fleecy, torn, Floating on fields of azure blue Far in the distance, low ! I think of these and raptured cry : Acamping we will go ! With every waft from greening earth Wet with a gentle shower ; With every moving in the trees ; With every dancing flower ; I hear a song within my breast. And feel the winds that blow Over wide spaces, and I sigh : Acamping we will go ! By murmuring streams and fountain falls ; By ferny hills and dales ; By shadowed cleft and hidden cave, And old forgotten trails ; By bending, perfumed lilied brake ; By waves in endless flow ; I '11 sing as on the grass I lie : Acamping we will go ! 184 CAMPING By flaming multitudes of stars, Unvalued of most men, Offering ephemerals purged might, Aeries for prison-den ; By crescent moons soaring above All beauty that I know — A lover to the bush I '11 fly : Acamping we will go ! 185 SONG WINDS of the morning bush, Cool as the lingering dew, Scattering night's sacred hush, Filling with song the blue Sweet firmament. Colour with summer hue My forest tent. Come with your fresh pure breath, Come, wave the branches wet, Tearful for night's winged death, And loose their leafy net Of golden green ! Here is no old regret — No anguish keen. Come 'neath the song and bloom, Your moving lightness brings Hours freed from memory's gloom, And joy that softly sings An idle lore — Ah, faultless time that kings Me evermore ! 186 THE CAMP FIRE RECLINING near his golden fire, Alone within the silent bush, He slowly smokes his evening briar, And listens to the hovering hush. The flames are points of faulchion-blades, Light-giving in their wheel and dance ; They gild the underleaf that fades Above into a glooming trance. The boles around rise to the night. Ashen and grey, in solemn-wise, Opening a heaven of starry light, Dark violet-blue of nameless dyes. Thoughts, "many as the leaves in woods Touched by the first autumnal cold, That fall and lie," in drifting floods Draw home with legendary gold. Fanned, from the fire a burning brand Lights the bronzed glade with vivid glow ; On earth he whispering lays his hand : "Mother, to thy calm rest I go." 187 THE JO-WICKEE OWHEN the jojo-wickec urgent calls, Full-throated, poised upon some shadowy bough, Its melody raptures the forest walls, Its quivering shakes the rain-drops on my brow, And I am half-divine, No more a mortal earthling, O no more ! But of the snooded Nine In seven-gated Thebes once heard of yore. Or I am riding regions vast and far Beneath the glory of the lofty gums, Light in the saddle, light with love's bright star Within my bosom, love that breathless sums The intervening miles Of greening silence, longing for her face, Her sweet and tender smiles, Her fluttering heart, the wonder of her grace. 188 THE SLEEPING BEAUTY {In the Huon, Tasmania, the mountain line is shaped like a woman's face and form.) LAST of all goddesses she lies along The purple mountain-crest, Dreaming of mystic, immemorial song, In her deep slumber-rest. Upon her rain the crystal lights of morn, Blue lauds of vaulted noon, Then floods the twilight sadness, vague, forlorn, The silence of the moon. He will not come from his far dateless bourne, Her Prince, with magic kiss ; And we, her mortal lovers, grieving, mourn Her unawaking bliss. 189 THE CLEARING LOITERING along the sealand bush I came Unto a brook that fell from ledge to ledge, Brimming in pools, of fairy pools adream, Then spilling into silver mid the sedge, Jet in the shadows, with a sunny beam Deep in the golden flame ; And turning loose my horse I sat me there And watched the runnels and the nebulous green Beyond the darker leaves in joy and teen Of earnest thought in that flower-scented air. And tender evocations of the past Arose obedient on my unvoiced call From the dim realm beneath the conscious mind, And in the murmur of the whispering fall I grew aware there was a spell to bind These Aprils of the past Into a sphere harmonious and one "With the vast universe, could I but know The potent word ; but, ah ! the trembling, low, Sweet breathing came anear and then was gone. The sound and echo of a woodland axe Fell on my ear, I rose out of my dream, And followed by my horse, I reached a slope, A leafy clearing watered by the stream, 190 THE CLEARING And saw a bushman passioning his hope With blade and wedge and jacks; And though I grieved to see the mighty gums Prone on the ground and the reproachful blue, I knew the vision in its builded hue, The settler's visioned home and all it sums. And over fragrant smoke, in sunshine hot, I saw through his tired eyes the homespun tent, White on the hill, yield place to weatherboard, The trees with blossom delicate, then bent With rosy fruit ; and from unfailing hoard Of ardours for his lot, And tenderness profound for all his care, And his worn sunburnt face, gave him my hope That he would have the strengthening to cope With his great labours, and the will to dare. And now the wife and children gathered round, Their pallor had been sun-kissed into brown, And as the little ones crept on my knee I told them of an eagle planing down, (In my long past) no sound For herald of its flight ; and of the lore Of flute-toned magpies, and the robin's breast Scarlet or flame or pink, the sea-blue vest Of wrens, and of the plovers of the shore. 191 THE CLEARING And of the clematis trailing along The bushland side, a very bridal robe, Most beautiful with white and starry blooms, The perfumed wattle with its yellow globe, And of the berries in the mountain glooms, And of the heath's ding-dong Of fairy bells in waxen white or red, And of the waratah, the coral pea, The graceful maidenhair, the ferny lea, The hyacinth deep in a purple bed. And now the time had come for me to go, And to the pathos of all partings this Was added in. my heart, the poignant sense Of solitude, and as I stooped to kiss The children's upturned faces, an immense Sad wave began to flow And swell my breast ; but then again I thought As to the sliprail they trooped down with me, Here is a world within the great world, free And one, while I ride on with burdens fraught. 192 SANCTUARY I RODE into the solemn bush One slowly burning summer eve, And in the uninvaded hush Began my yearning dreams to weave ; For mid these mighty gums I find A liberation calm and strong, A soothing of the restless mind, A sanctuary for thankful song. The shining ferns went up in stairs Through lanes of golden radiance, The young leaves of the brake were snares Of shadows in the eve adance, The interwoven violet Of forest-glades deepened to blue Of azure glooms where twilights met, The open sky was sapphire true. Into that border vague I sank, Beyond the mind, and heard the horns Of elfland echoing, and drank Of magic draughts, and saw the norns Of melancholy legends pass Beneath the trees, elusive, sweet, Tall slumbrous forms upon the grass, From Faery's bright inmost seat. 193 SANCTUARY And there were stately crowned Kings, And beauteous Queens with splendour clothed, And silvans wavering white wings, And evil satyrs, doubtful, loathed ; Thus lost in nameless reverie I brooded on their storied fates In that large realm where dreams are free, And no reflection passion bates. But leaving sunshine mist and wild For vital and ascetic thought, I touched the Essence pure and mild, Divine, with majesty still-fraught, And felt that mystic strength and joy, Where seen and unseen meet and blend In unity without alloy, God's harmony and ordered end. 194 PIPER'S FORD O PIPER'S but a slender stream Winding along the vale, All golden in the morning beam, In evening shadows pale ; And merrily the Piper sings Upon the pebbled ford — The rippling shallows swept by wings, Bright like a glinting sword. But when the rain is on the hills The Piper runs in flood, And with a hollow murmur fills The overhanging wood : Ah, then the ford is brimmed and swift, Wind-blown in purpling gloom, Save when there falls from widening rift A ghostly sunny bloom. O Piper 's but a gentle stream Murmuring o'er pebbled gold, With sliding rill and netted beam By soft green pastoral fold ; But Piper now, though skies are blue, Is lonely and forlorn For memory of those drowned two Who went one stormy morn. 195 LAMENT AS by the lonely sea I roam Within the breaking of the foam. I sing a wild lament of home When it was home for me. Once I could see my love all day, Could see her work, could see her play, Of winter she made blossomed may, Then it was home for me. And when the sheet was o'er us spread Upon my shoulder lay her head — Too dear to lie in earthy bed — Ah, it was home for me. I cannot think of anything, She was of all my life the spring, With her my joy has taken wing; There is no home for me. I stretch my arms, on her I cry. And listening dream I hear her sigh, And feel her very presence nigh, Then it is home for me. 196 LAMENT Grey rocks are echoing my dirge, Grey rocks washed by the ocean surge Swilling and pouring from the verge — This is no home for me. She sometimes to me whispering saith That when I yield my latest breath I shall lie in her arms in death, That will be home for me ! 197 SOLITUDE THERE is a solemn Presence, still, abrood, Yet full of passion 'mong these eucalypts That like a noble fabric rise- around In austere melancholy far removed From morning dew and sunshine. Saddened peace With mournful recollection is its theme, Inspiring in the cloistered soul profound And mystic thoughts of life and death — despair And mortal anguish for defeat, fatigue Of spirit in the silent fight; yet hope As that mild radiance steals and slants along The mighty boles, that this so-burdened life Touched by a Breath divine may after sleep Forget the sorrows unforgettable And wake in grace ethereal, sublime, And joy unfading. 198 GLEANING O, I shall never ride again that way, The bushland way, loose in the saddle, light, With a new earth and heaven, upon a day Astir and shining bright. . . . The circling mighty gums rose to the sky And pillared the deep vault of burning blue, The lofty drooping leaves forgot to sigh To the fresh morning true. Strength of these giants poured into my veins In harmony with springs within my breast: Their naked boles with purple, crimson stains Stilled me to perfect rest : And white bush-lilies freaked with violet, And lipped in golden-yellow delicate, Filled me with yearning and forlorn regret For some untimely fate. Deep called to deep : the silvan spirits cried And crept into my bosom reconciled, Mingled and fused, for ever to abide, And eyes world-weary smiled. Those days will never come again, But still I see a horseman ride the green, In the immensity, culling sweet gain For after-mornings lean. 199 SONG OF THE BUSH OHOUR of dawn ! an angel light appears Beyond my marge, and paints the western tiers With tender bloom, And all the world is like a vacant room Waiting a glorious guest Whose coming is confessed By movements, preparations everywhere Upon the pale clear air — O hour for which I long My organ-birds are ready with their song, And drifted scents of flower and leaf divine Flowing on dreams of winds rise for the shrine, Before the opening of thy flaming port, Before the glory of thy virgin court. Athwart the faint far blue infinities A golden spear lifts from the ruby seas, And with a little wind On purpling clouds the great sun unconfined Floats in the kindling light, and now O there ! My organ-choirs salute, stair over stair, With exultations And adorations, The miracle — with pure sweet claritude, With dissonance as of a trumpet rude; And all my fellowships wake from their sleep And nighted grave enchantment, still and deep. 200 THE ANCIENT CRY WE stood alone — his heart was bare, His eyes with tears were thick and dim, He said as sank the sun's gold rim : "I wish that I was lying there Instead of him." His spirit wandered to the bed Whereon his first-born dying lay, And linked him with another day, With one who cried above his dead Torn in the way. "O Absolom, my son, my son ! Would God that I had died for thee, That I in death might lying be For thee, my son, and all be done, O heart of me !" The air was filled with old-time woes — Though a great peace of clearest dye Lay on the hills, light's evening sigh — As in the darkening lane arose The ancient cry. 201 Farewell, Gallipoli ; Gallipoli, Farewell ! UNSUCCOURED, they were called upon to part From those few acres that with fiery heart They 'd held for weary months against the foe; And as they turned to go They gave words to the quiet sleeping dead Low in their earthy bed, And voiced their mateship in a strong appeal Well nigh intolerable to those who feel: "O piercing, lingering thought ! upon the morn We shall be like a wavering dream forlorn, Never again To come to you save when in memory's pain You bend above the fire, holding your head Upon your hands, before you go to bed, And moved by our remembered falling hear Our far unbodied bugles sweet and clear; And see the swinging columns, and the grey Forest of steel, and the enkindling way The horses in the sunshine dance and rear, Squadrons of plunging joyance, free from fear Gay as their men, and then gun after gun Rumbling and glancing in the blinding sun — O then your hearts will swell and choke your breath \" So murmured from the grave lips sealed in death To bosoms charged . . . Ah, tender ruggedness 202 Farewell, Gallipoli; Gallipoli, Farewell! That bent above their crosses ! Let sleep bless Our fallen folk, and may the bellowing roar, The trampling thunder trouble them no more — O never more ! and may that foreign earth Grow light and kind, a newer Anzac birth . . . Way from the coast our men paused on their oars With poignant look at those dim tragic shores. Non o m n is morior, O words that come from far Laden with comfort ! Holy is this place To sacred memories : here many a face Sank down to death after a sacrifice Supreme, beyond all price ! And Australasia shall for ever turn To its waste hills and chasms, and soaring burn At their essential presence ; and their gift For Liberty in their heroic lift. Well is it to remember in bronze gates And monumental arches, the great fates Of our eternal youth, Graving their radiant truth In noble beauty — mournful, perfect theme, Our epic dream ! Spoiling Death's triumph o'er their springtide dew, Their ancient valour and their glories new, Surmounting their proud victories with flames, 203 Farewell, Gallipoli; Gallipoli, Farewell! Of broad-winged Angels, shrining their loved names, And riching the abode of their repose; But nobler far that love which soothing goes To the surviving hearts, consoling deep, Weeping with those who weep. Blow morning from your trumpets, herald throngs, And dreaming prophecies, and golden songs — Immortal notes; and tempered be the strain With proud stern melancholy, pledge of pain, For in her heart's sweet cenotaph this land Australian, has trysted with her band Of Anzac sons ; and opening the door Of her new life, fames them for evermore! 204 TO THOSE WHO WOULD FORGET HOW could we live except our hearts could find Room for their longings, for their yearnings scope, How could we breathe if the immortal mind Shrined in our race could not expand in hope Of our own destiny! O boundless grief! If we, the unenslaved, the unenthralled, Fell from our high estate to be enchained, To wither in the leaf Of our young spring, to live and die uncalled Of light and joy, to pass to dust disdained. High in the air, and in the stricken place, Or on the haunted waters, our brave men Have topped the courage of a warlike race, And we — how shall we meet their eyes again, Those who return, if we unworthy prove Of their great sacrifice, if they and theirs Go down unfriended, helpless and in tears? O let us rise in love, To equal them in worth — sober in cares, Invincible, armed for the glorious years. 205 TASMANIA TASMANIA! O heart-shaped island home Of ranged mountains, hollow vales, and streams Broad and strong-flowing, rimmed with slumbrous foam, And arol^d with sunny blue . . . O Land of Dreams ! Happy are they who live within thy bounds And watch, unfearing ill, the sweet hours sbde. Hearing thy birds' rapt sounds, Asking naught lovelier than thy tender grace, Thy bushland solitudes wherein to ride Among thy gnarled gums with quiet face. Air, water, earth and grey-green spreading trees, Are threaded with a subtle haunting blue : Here burning sapphire cooled by wandering breeze, There untouched azure of a wondrous hue, « And far away in smouldering violet Untravelled regions float and fleet to rose, Empurpled in the shade; And evermore these odourous dyes are wet With garnered magic breathing of repose And amethystine dreams that cannot fade. 20C TASMANIA And winds blow gently here and whispering sigh As in that fabled Avalon of old, Blow yearningly and then in fainting die, And evermore from morning rays of gold Through shining noon to darkening eventide The human spirit may find solace rare In Beauty's very heart, ^ Communing with infinities that hide Behind the veil in tranquil sunny air, Ripening for the last signal to depart. All is not leisure in thy Lotus Land, For Liberty thy men have ever loved ; And when the world was threatened, steel in hand Their race and heritage they nobly proved ; And mingled with the famous peoples blood, Crowning with sacrifice thy lonely isle; And over all thy folds Rise monuments to that dear Brotherhood Who went from home to death with song and smile, And lie far from thy lap in foreign molds. 207 SARRAS O BEAUTEOUS fabric of immortal light, Obscured in time by fumes of earthly night, Yet still divined by faith, in glory dewed, Crowned, incorruptible, and Heavenly hued, Thou art our Holy Place wherein we may Meet the Beloved in a purer day, And quench the spirit's drouth, the hunger sore For God appease ; and rest for evermore — O Temple clear, let thy sweet influence flow Into my soul and teach me how to know The things more excellent. 203 ALFROIN A LEGEND OF CANTERBURY HOW sweet must seem To candid hearts this memory of a dream ! Alfroin the Sacrist on the festal night Of blessed Wilfred, on a lofty height Lay at his watch before the Altar Shrine Where rested Wilfred's relics. At the sign The dim Cathedral blossomed into light, And Angels sang the Service of the night ; And those who ministered first trod the stair Unto the Shrine and asked a blessing there, And then descended — O can you not see The brooding Church's large solemnity Illumined by the radiant holy beam, The place on high, the watcher in a dream, The Angel ministrants in order due Mounting the dusky winding stair to sue A blessing from the Saint, and their return Unto the Service? How the monk would burn With wonder at the beauteous Angel crowd In adoration at the Altar bowed, While all around the slender stony trees, Rooted in stone, branched into mystic seas Of pale grey night. 209 GLASTONBURY LU! here is Glastonbury. Ah, that Place, Grey birth-shrine beautiful of our Christ-race! We dream again the shallowing marshland waves Washing the island-hills, the wattled caves On the green rounded Tor so grave and still, The springing water from the Chalice Hill Where lies the Holy Grail — its golden source — Bedded with Joseph ; and where sword and horse Have left an absence, vision Guinevere With Arthur, pacified upon their bier, Waiting their call — we dream and mourn the arch Lofty and mystical, the turf, the larch In its spring loveliness; and envy those Who anchored there to cull the Christmas Rose. 210 RICHARD De BURY (BISHOP OF DURHAM, b. 1281; d. 1545) YOU who love quietness and ancient books, Who search, O wistfully ! in alleys, nooks, And tranquil dimness, for fond treasure-trove Haply escaped the purse of wealth, or rove In noble fragrant libraries, and cast Upon the rich dark harvest of the past Sad longing eyes, fingering some relic rare. Divining a sweet presence lingering there, A gracious perfume — come with me and seek, When fires are leaping red and skies are bleak, The soul of this fine lover of the book, And sit beneath his calm benignant look — See his engraven seal — and hear his voice, O fleeting eve ! bidding the heart rejoice Over empurpled parchments, charactered AVith gold of Ophir ; and, with breast upstirred, Thank God for every discontent sublime That hath used nobly the deep leaves of time. "To all the faithful in our Saviour Christ Greeting and welcome. Having sacrificed And called upon the sevenfold Spirit who Shall be our burning light, let us ensue Our nectared peace. O tabernacled light Bound in old vellums ! therein to the height The Cherubim spread forth their four-fold wings As peaks of knowledge for the student-kings 211 RICHARD De BURY To look to east and west, and north and south, With eager open eyes, and scented mouth Fleshed in the Fruit of Life in Paradise, Quenched from the living Wave. "Books are pure spice, Vines of Engadi, armour, burning lamps Set in their radiance in dark cellar damps Of ignorance, winged Seraphs of the cell — Nay, all ecstatic things ! " 'Twere long to tell How my far-laboured messengers have hoped In search of them ; old mystic aumbries groped With pale unwonted lights in desperate glooms, The loathed oblivion of dull worm-gnawed tombs, For the unleavened loaves of finest wheat Of heavenly Wisdom, now, alas ! the street Of mouse and moth. "We may not linger here . Prisoned with cedar shelves, with gopher sere, We must be gone — you that way, I by this, But pray we ere we go that in Heaven's bliss God will restore the spirit that was pure In Him, now marred by yielding to the lure Of this false world, unto the architype Primordial — though with remedial stripe." 212 ANNUNCIATION IN the Val d'Arno Fra Angelico Dreaming of purity amid the flow Of frail white blossoms in the olive wood That made for him a Heaven, threw back his hood, And gathering all his skill for that choice hour, His nature's poetry in very flower, Painted this grave Annunciation. See The beauteous Angel bending on low knee Before the virgin grace, the sweet girl-child, Who gave up all to God, and undented Conceived the Christ — bending beneath a roof Springing from slender pillars, all aloof From noise and murmur, all inclosed and green, Of order exquisite. 213 LAWRENCE GOOD brother Lawrence knelt within his room. And as he prayed he saw the panelled stone From ancient grey burn to a golden gloom, And trembling- felt that he was not alone, But that awaiting his uplifted eyes There was a Vision beauteous, calm, and wise. And it was so : a great Archangel stood Made from the ethereal substance of a dream Unmeditated ; and from beneath the hood Shone dreadful eyes, now lit by mildest beam ; And in his hands were gifts for those who weep, Oblivion — forgetfulness and sleep. And Lawrence whispered : "Who art thou, O Shade, Winged Majesty! who in my narrow cell Breath'st of infinity?" "Be not afraid," Replied the Angel, "Thou shalt know me well, For I am come to still thy troubled breath, And bear thee gently home, for I am Death. "And God hath heard the cry of thy desire For Him ; thy earthly pilgrimage is o'er, Thy feet are on His threshold ; no more mire Shall stain their beauty ; and for evermore Thy Father's kiss upon thy raptured mouth Shall comfort thee after thy life-long drouth." 214 LAWRENCE Then Lawrence cried with joy: "O come, Lord Death ; Come, take me home ; come, bend thy lips to mine, O lift me to thy breast" — but in a breath He heard the wailing groans of those who pine On earth the unredeemed, still unredeemed, And pity for their doom his bosom teemed. And this great soul, God mirroring, would not Go into bliss until each lost should be With God fulfilled ; and them he gave his lot In Heaven's mansions and the glory sea ; And now incarnate as the ages roll He aye leads souls and earth to their bright goal. 215 THE ABBEY TIS sweet to wander by the flowing stream And light upon the Abbey in its dream Of delicate decay. 'Tis sweet to lie In the green nave roofed by the tranquil sky And watch the sunlight on the hoary wall, The time-bleached golden fabric, and to fall To quiet brooding. Gone the lofty height, The holy Altar with its blaze of light, The forest pillars nobly ruled in sheaves, The fane that no regretful sighing leaves. . . . The earth in its slow-growing, stealing march Has nearly reached the spring of that grey arch, Mingling its grass and flowers with those above Carved from some ancient dreaming craftsman's love. The Abbey was an impulse of the meek Sweet pious souls who wrought in love to seek Rest and the soul's enlargement. At its prime It held the chosen spirits of its time, Men who made God's great house their tender care, And love and sorrow for His children bare, And filled with labour in the field their day, Save for their praise ; or in the cloister grey Soft meditated ; or sat down to pen Their lovely hours and psalters. Calling men To pause and pray their bells rang far and wide 216 THE ABBEY On the wild moorland and the mountain side, Telling the herd that Christ for him had died. . . This hoariness appealing from its fate, This poignant country, lie in azure state Of opening springtide — O those lofty elms Misty and dim with flowers, those starry realms Of wood anemones, the primrose gold, And the revealing perfume, faint, unbold, Of the March violet, the yearning fears Of nameless buried men, their sighs and tears, Their utter loneliness, are sung to me By that poised thrush upon the greening tree In low repeated cadence, crystal clear, — Full-throated laureate, embodied spirit dear ! 217 JACOB RUYSDAEL (I 630?-l 681) IN this great painter's gentle lonely soul Grave melancholy strove with lofty thought, Ennobling with austerity the whole Of his high dreams ; and with this truth he wrought. He was not one of those who strayed along To Italy, forgetting friends and home And fatherland, in art divine and song On that antique and many-memoried loam. He painted Holland's sea in peace and storm ; And all unknown to men he fixed for time The spirit of the country in a form Serene and lovely, breathing of the prime. The vast horizon of his native land, Its tranquil grey, was echoed in his breast By sadness infinite, as with calm hand, But throbbing heart, he pictured his mild rest. The River View, the homely crannied Mill, And Bentheim Castle in its amplitude Of sunlit air, and leafy wooded hill, Are faint with autumn gold, and rustic-rude. This poet felt in life neglect and woe ; He knew no way to win from men their praise ; He painted perfect beauty — this we know — And in pale shadow passed his lonely days. 218 EYAM IN Derbyshire the streams are clear and bright, And in their motion hurried, resolute, Limpid and crystalline, nay, full of light, And never mute. How could the spectral Death find refuge here In this pure mountain air, and work his will For months of horror, an incarnate fear Through vale and hill? Monpesson toiled among his dying folk, His wife, but young to pass, clung to his side — He felt of death the utmost bitter stroke When Catherine died. Where falls the morning sun, go bend alone Above the half-worn lettering and read "Mors mihi Lucrum" on the old mossed stone Of her high deed. Urged by their pastor these poor people chose The greater love, and stayed within their vale, By grey-green hearthstone and neglected rose, With anguish pale. Those low green graves sown in the meadow-land Of verdured Eyam, keep to memory clear The selfless who kept faith with heart and hand, Nameless but dear. 219 EYAM When by God's mercy we shall reach His rest, Monpesson and his dalesmen we shall meet; And Catherine, calmed upon the Virgin's breast, Assumption sweet. 220 A SONG FOR ISAAC WALTON SO pure the dawn, so clear the dawn, I feel my soul is made anew To sing upon the silent lawn And through the wood's far nestling blue ; Nay, she would throat it with the lark High soaring in the flowering May Above the dewy pasture spark, Calling along the meadow way. Upon that parchment folio What rainbow glory softly spreads? (Heigho! and nonny, nonny, no!) It is a lore of silken threads, All shadowed by a woman's hand That gladsome is for happy play When rippling sunshine gilds the strand And calls along the meadow way. The mail of drake, the dead-leaf silk, Or willowish, do me content ; And with a draught of morning milk We sally in the dawning scent, Leaving those world-forgetting stains On our rude pile of fretted bay And chimney-nook, from suns and rains, For call along the meadow way. 221 A SONG FOR ISAA C WALTON Here is a stream with morning white, A pebbled music for our dream ; And here are waiting still as light The shadowy grayling, trout and bream ; But 'neath this honeysuckle bower We '11 rest and hear the throstle lay, Dewed by the gently falling shower, Calling along the meadow way. So joy the world's grey trouble routs With milkmaid's song or idle catch, Troy Town or Phillida me flouts, And notes of nightingales we snatch ; For this must be our golden age, While Coridon shall purely play His oaten pipe from yellow page, Calling along the meadow way. . . . The shadows lengthen and the glow Dies from the gently moving waves, The veils of eve are darkening slow, And peace the heart now stills and laves ; So let us sing with sober note That mourns the funerals of day; And hail the curving moon afloat, Calling along the meadow way. 222 A SONG FOR ISAAC WALTON The Thatched House shall be our rest, For now the rain begins to fall And here within the wide hearth's nest We '11 sing the ballads on the wall ; And then to bed whose linen smells Of lavender and wild rose spray, With a last song of streamy dells Calling along the meadow way. . . . What if we must be brought agate — Ah, partings by the woodland stile, By weeping friends — we '11 meet our fate, Howe'er it come, with gladsome smile ; Though all our gold be autumn leaves, Our riches but a blossomed lay, We '11 close our eyes while sunset weaves A call along the meadow way. 223 GILBERT WHITE (1720-1793) A STRAYED LETTER T T J HY did I not accept, from care set free, V V One of those ample livings offered me By mine own College? Ah, from early youth I have with passion sought for natural truth In meditation on the wisdom hid In God's dear creatures. So, with farewell bid To golden days at Oxford, here I came To keep upon my father's hearth the flame Of old memorial usage ; and with what Of leisure from my parish dutied lot To study in this sweet familiar place The life of bird and beast. And God's dear Face Hath smiled upon me, and my days go by Through circling seasons with a tender sigh For all the sorrows and the homely mirth Of mine own village folk. The changing earth - Is our soft natural dial, and affords Talk for the winter fire while smile the boards Of the ripe golden ceil. My parish bounds Are full of hills and woods, and full of sounds Of leaves and birds. O with white April come The trooping blackbirds — I am stricken dumb, So full and loud and deep is their pure note, A sweetness wild poured from each piping throat, And I am minded of a woodland song 224 GILBERT WHITE Of tuning to the birds, green leaves among. The osier-beds are thick upon the aits, And there the swallows gather to their fates With gentle twitter, darkening like a cloud The fainter autumn sunlight : I am bowed In wonder at their impulse. In my walk I am reminded oft of rustic talk In Virgil's Georgics : near the nooning corn I see the peasants sleeping 'neath the thorn, Or resting in the sun ; and on the mere — In ancient times the haunt of fallow deer And wild shy forest things — the cattle stand Knee-deep in cooling stillness. Sedge and sand Yield a safe refuge for the child of air, So teal and duck and snipe find nestings there; But this aye pleases me that in its bed Coins have been found stamped with the imperial head Of Marcus the great Emperor, who dreamt Of things immortal in a world unkempt And strangely evil. O to stray along By beechen glades and hear the milkmaid's song, The tinkling sheepbells and to smell the park Of new-mown hay ; and with my Virgil mark The lengthening shadows of the hills, the smoke Arising from the hearths of village folk ! h 225 GILBERT WHITE When dark has fallen the nocturnal birds Wing from the Hanger, and the homing herds Count their short quickened notes ; and as these go Over the house into the meads below I feel that I can seek no other lot, No other home where these wild birds are not, Where I could never hear their signal call To keep together, o'er my humble hall. Within, the children at the spinet play, And we grave folk sit round the chimney-bay And tell old tales to pass the winter eve, And in the warmth and light forget to grieve For summer gone, glad of the leisured time Until the candles come to mark night's prime. 226 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH (1770-1850) HE was not called before God as a priest Of Altar-service in the sacred Feast And high Memorial. O not for him That holier way! but still through leadings dim A lower ministry of peace he found, A true religious, in the beauteous bound And robe of Nature. Thus a Mind august Has moral emanations, so his trust, In every natural object; and with man These make a concord, giving his brief span And tumult hot, a coolness and a joy, A sense of mountain peace without alloy, And lowly fellowships, if only he Will contemplate them in tranquility Still and impassioned. So his noble theme Is of the human elements of dream And love and grief and of our fleeting hour Placed in the being of eternal Power, Strange to our pausing. Thus behind all things — Such as the bluebell's shade, the beat of wings, The dew of noon retired, the daffodils Dancing in lightsome wind, the azure hills, Clouds resting on their bosoms, or the stream Of its own far-off murmur lost in dream — 227 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH He finds a natural soul : and this pure breath Has power of consolation over death And silent absence. Sad and delicate He notes the lonely place assigned by fate To passionate regrets : old Michael's fold Unfinished aye ; poor Margaret's hut acold ; And Yarrow's forest wave and pastoral woe For old unhappy things of long ago. Yet through his calm of mountain purity The still sad music of humanity Is unforgotten ; but he finds release In lifted thoughts, and as his moon of peace Rising behind a thick and lofty grove, And like an unconsuming fire of love Burning, can kindle the green leaves and change Their dusky veil into a glory strange, Bright as her own ; even so for him the mind Can hindrances, regrets, and all unkind Beholdings of the heart, turn into light, Aiding the soul with the waste powers of night. 228 JOHN HENRY NEWMAN (1801-1890) PURE beauty is undying, and its balm Can give to mortal man the victor's palm Over oblivion : thus Newman's name On Clio's tablet with a spiritual flame For aye will shine, for beauty's inmost spell Goldens his Oxford half-monastic cell, With it the Cause is pregnant, and his soul Steeps all his words in music's light and roll. O Oxford of the dream inviolate, So old and rich in storied splendour, great With silences of wisdom ! Let us walk In spirit underneath thine elms and talk Of phantoms of the past — sceptred or mailed, Mitred or cowled, and last of him who hailed A glad evangel, talk of Trinity, Its wall snapdragoned, and of Christ Church lea, Of the Succession Apostolical, And of the tumult and the festival Of unhoped meetings. Ah, beyond our reach, Our thought, lie the essential beech, Cypress and chestnut, squared green lawns, and hoar And twilight rooms, and "old St. Mary's pile, The sad, strange hour, and, stealing through the aisle, ' 229 JOHN HENRY NEWMAN That dim sweet shade, And the entrancing voice that music made, Religious, subtle, mournful — happy man Who in youth's tremulous, eager season can Listen to such awed voices !" . . . Still we go To him, and loiter in the Portico, Breathing the Attic air, savouring the vine, The shade so delicate, the colouring fine, The noble olive ; linger with the years So sweet in retrospect, almost to tears, Dreaming on lines, the birth of some chance morn At an Ionian festival, or born Among the Sabine hills, that still can charm With their sad earnestness — fearing no harm Upon the verge of time ; or stand in awe When he reveals the majesty of law, The purity of God, the tender love Of Jesus, and the peace with Him above. 230 EVIL AND FAITH EVIL is real : it is in the world But non-essential ; it is soul-ciefeat In making of the soul — waste to be hurled Into the outer darkness from Life's beat. I realize the truth that this our earth Has places of foul darkness and deep woe, Things unexplainable ; but there is birth, Yea, there is growth, and faith and hope I know. We read : God wills that all men shall be saved : Then let us highly think of what He's willed, And trust that as the whirling aeons roll All men with love of God shall be fulfilled. 231 RESPONSIBILITY HOW pitiful must God be, pitiful Beyond all mortal knowledge, infinite, When He considers mankind from His height Of purity and love ; how merciful With their enfolding night. He knows the tempting and the struggle sore, Sad heritage and foul environment, The little that o'ercame the courage spent, The swift or slow diverging evermore When once the twig was bent. All men are guilty : on the scaffold high They share the victim's crime; and in the dust They bow with the enslaved to earthly lust ; For we have not fulfilled since Christ drew nigh The beauty of His trust. 232 THE PESSIMIST THE pessimist adores the canker-worm And closes eye and soul upon the rose ; He sees no beauty in the forest glades, Nor grace and mystery, only dim war ; The mountain has no message ; and the sea Is voiceless; nay, the whole wide glorious robe Of Nature is a covering vile for threat And grievous hurt : and man goes through his life, So brief, beleagured by malignant chance, And accident and time ; all is a world Forlorn, forgotten by its God — and thus He poisons the sweet wholesome springs of life, Waging a warfare on Humanity; And should by his own logic make escape From such a curst and frightful realm. But no, He stays and thrives in his mortality With an ungrateful heart; and fills the earth With his complaints instead of noble thoughts. But any man who feels his manhood high, Even if God-forsaken would take shame Into his bosom to confess himself Insnared by circumstance or accident, Time or blind chance ; he would arise and shake Those nets envenomed loose, and shout his call, His battle-cry, insurgent, trumpet-tongued, Unconquerable, even as our soldiers did 233 THE PESSIMIST On Flanders plain. But well he knows that God, In his inquietude, in his laments, In his untreasured hours, is still within — Impassioned and all-loving — his tried soul, And breathes pure inspiration, reassures, And crowns him lord. . . . He lifts his heart and sings ! But 'tis the Race must answer, not the man ; And loud and clear the answer : from the cave Man has made progress — truth impregnable And prophecy ; and has within himself Response, God-given, to the innumerable Impacts from his environment, and power Heroic to transmute them into gold Of human sustenance. And well he knows His ills lie in his acquiescence, all Save that great sorrow for departing love, The unreturning pilgrim ; and his Will Collective, can remove them from his path — And shall. And O the beauty of his dreams, The true realities, deliverances, Redemptions, bodying forth from the Unseen, The Seen illumined by the Altar-fire Of his unsleeping God ! Nay, he can change The sore and anguished grief irreparable Into enlargement, making it a Shrine 234 THE PESSIMIST Of dearest memories. With ardent hope Unquenchable, he faces all the ill Existing in the earth ; and then the good, The true, the beautiful, and sees a Way To quintessential and immortal rest. 235 TRAGEDY AMONG the tragic figures of the world, The silent agonists of watching time, Are those who weighted with an heritage Of poverty and ignorance, yet feel The stirrings of an inward life divine, And struggling on from darkness into morn Find that their day is spent, and that the light Serves only to illume the wanderings, Errors and fallings of their upward way. Silent they stand before oblivion's wave And lift their eyes to heaven, their anguished hearts Wrung with the sheer injustice of their lot — No memories of childhood, youth, or age To comfort them ! Can any visioned land Banish that haunted dark of flesh and mind? 236 MUSIC MAN'S spirit passioned mightily breaks forth Beyond all barriers, and bodies form, Pure abstract form, in marble or in bronze Majestic, beautiful, sublime, reserved; Or in the high cathedral moulds his soul — Its glooms and emblems, and its rainbow light, Its soaring triumph, and its golden calm And consolation ; or on canvas throws Deep stains of holy colour, tenderly Conceiving evanescence, fresh as morn, And pastoral Aprils, and the spiritual hue Of inner loveliness that through the eyes Is eloquent of soul ; or in winged lines Dwells on the dignity of man, his power To rise above the agonies that doom His nature to heroic struggle, grief Remediless, and labour, and sad death With naught of life ; but O, of all these modes Of throned escape, rapt music is the way Of conquest over sorrow — hark ! it swells, Rising from deeper places of the soul To flights of ecstasy ineffable, Sounding a note of triumph over death And lamentation, and attuning chords That vibrate now to victory desolate, And now to tenderness deep as the grave. 237 MAN OMAN, moving upon this ancient earth, Questioning with awe the silence of thy birth And of thy death, and all that flows between Of gain from time, and of the might-have-been, And of thy cadence to a lowly grave, A low sad grave — what art thou, Man, so brave, So proud with swelling dream, so drowned in tears, So prisoned, yet unprisoned, in thy years? In thee Creation is no longer dumb For thou art of this glorious world the sum And voice ; and yet though here is thy dear land, Thy fatherland, thou art beneath command To live a pilgrim seeking aye for home Beyond the sessions of the graveyard loam. And pure divining eyes see 'neath the veil Creation still in being — though but pale And frail and faint the form that mortal flesh Hides from the world with its dim streaming mesh, The upward thrust and aim of human life, The Man that is to be : the Man that grows Within the race, and like a dreaming rose Opens beneath God's sun a sighing heart For more of beauty as our days depart. 238 MAN Rapt then in Life eternal, Man, thy fate, Revealed of God, is to be nobly great, Perfect in tender love, severely pure, Visioned, divinely fired, calmed to endure The human comedy, by hope made bold To banish hunger, nakedness, and cold, And of the seen to clothe the unseen dream, Bringing to earth the light of God's own beam, The strange foam-flower of the ethereal sea, The lingering touch of pure infinity. Christ leaves a narrow way with feet that bleed, But to ensue it! "Jesus bee our spede." 239 THE HOLY LAND AH, in our dream we see the Holy Land When spring arises, in a flowering band Of multitudes of slender blowing trees, White-flowered ; and in the red anemones And scarlet poppies, and the thinner shade So delicate that glooms the quivering blade A moment — O the calm and sweet rose flush Of Hermon ! and the evening's stilly hush, The moon's faint pallor flowing into gold Faint, frail upon the blue; and then the cold Wash of the tenderest grey ! Who would not go To Galilee to hear the trembling flow Of opal wavelets or deep violet-blue, Breaking among the reeds ; to muse anew Upon the scarlet of the pomegranate, The olive's silvery crown? O wondrous fate To be with Jesus and with Him find rest Upon the wellside, or the mountain breast, Or by the vales of broad and murmuring streams Of green Samaria — to lie in dreams Beside the wine-press and the ancient tower Under the fig-tree in a quiet hour Alone with Him ! All is so charged with dream And spiritual joy and sorrow, that we deem His life a sad sweet pageant. . . . Ah, but there 240 THE HOLY LAND Were the fierce Pharisees, the lepers bare And foul, the Roman stern, the fickle mob Foaming with cruel rage, the faltering sob, The Vale of Cedron and Gethsemane, Flame-red Judaea, and the bitter tree : O bosom opened with a spear and love Let me lodge in that heart here and above ! 241 EASTER OFROM the overshadowing of grief From the lone watch, the pain without relief, Lift up your heads, see through the dawning grey An Angel of pure beauty wings his way On lofty pinions. Ah, he comes to free Beatitude that breaking like a sea Shall beat down soaring temples, idols, thrones, Scattering afar the dust of their great stones, And flood the earth with glory. See, he spurns The sealed stone, and lo! The Lord returns From glimmering Hades, taking their bright day, But leaving peace, and gilding with his ray The thickets of the stars. Sing, quickened breath, The conquering Christ hath set His foot on Death; And in His surge omnipotent thou art A sharer, for He holds thee in His heart, And lifts thee to His mansions! O no more Go thou in fear, but in thy spirit soar ! 242 ASCENSION AS I have seen a thick dark cloud obscure The radiant sun as though it would immure The Heavenly fire, and dreamt of all the glow Plunged in the smoky folds of wreathed flow Upon the further side ; so must have stood The sad disciples, while the thither flood Was golden with the Angels in full flight Singing their Lord unto the holy height. 243 HOLY COMMUNION TI7 H ETHER in summer-time when dawn's pure Call the awakening birds to matin praise, Or in the freshness of the winter morn When the cold shadowy air is thinned and worn By golden haze of candles, it is sweet In calm of unused day the Christ to meet, A presence spiritual, intense, abrood Upon His holy Altar, Love's new Rood, In solemn hush. . . . O Soul, pattern thy voice Upon high Heavenly accents, and rejoice Forgetting earthly things, And lift white wings In solemn adoration, with the files Of God's just servants, serried in their aisles, Crying their ardours with a thundrous sound — Glory and blessing! till the crystal bound Of Heaven ring with their voices, and the tones Of Cherubim and Seraphim, and Thrones, Dominions, Principalities, and Powers, Virtues, Archangels great, mid Angel bowers. 244 THE VANISHED WHY call them from their sphere of perfect peace, Why prison them again after release From sin and sorrow, why draw in the gloom Those living in the light, beyond the tomb, Of contemplation ? In them must be change : And you, dear hearts, you also have grown strange ; For you have had new loves, new hates, new fears ; And Time has veiled the memory that endears Them to your bosom — should they come again There might be wounding unto bitter pain, For they might touch your liberty and prove Unwelcome in the temple of your love. Could they be as they were before they died ; And you, yourselves, they would be at your side ; But silence is appointed, we must wait, Though in our love we mourn our lonely fate, In the firm trust God in eternity Will blend us all in His felicity. 245 IN RETROSPECT LAST eve the desert places of the mind I roamed, and lighted on a portico, Vague, vast as death, ghostly and unconfined ; And needed not the whispering word of woe, Deep in my heart, to tell me this cave gloom Was the forgotten entrance of the tomb. The level rays of sunset forward cast My shadow on its filmy ebon door ; I knew of wild farewells this was the last, And turned me to the pleasant days of yore ; While like an oversong of all my dreams The wind sang in the yews in ceaseless stream. I lingered not on bronzing woodlands hoar, On yellowed leaves that had a dying smell, Nor thick-leaved summer glades that evermore Echoed the accents of love's passioned spell, But sought the tender dewy grass of spring Where threads of water lapsed with lightsome ring. I paused beside a well whose crannied brim Was green with crumpled ferns and saw the gleam Of its dark surface, still save where the dim Swift wing of swallow in its arrowy beam Had rippled it to silver, and deep sighs Of phantom winds wafted blue dragon-flies. 246 IN RETROSPECT Then down a stair of rude old stones I went, Stones white by ancient suns or dark with moss Mid springtime's overarching foam and tent Of azure magical, and dancing toss Of weed and flower, down to St. Mary's Well That sounded low like some sweet pastoral bell. Then to old Roget's Lodge within its wall Of mellow brick, empurpled in the shade To a wild garden plot where blossoms tall Strove with the sturdy docks — there down I laid Me in the green light of the stalk and wave Watching ggey dusty moths with crimson brave. Again I smoked a peaceful pipe beside Paulinus Cross in Whalley Churchyard old; And yet another underneath the wide Lime cliff of Malham with the brook's pure cold Laving my tired feet — O perfect hour Fresh from the fragrance of an angel bower. So with a long farewell to lonely walks, To undertones with smoking incense fumed, To fine-drawn glories and to friendly talks, To Beauty dying yet still unconsumed, I turned me to that Gate of elder Night And 16 ! the beetling port was bathed in light. 247 DEATH O VEILED Death, incomparable Majesty! Of late I sang thee with a cadency Of mourning beauty and resounding word And human lamentation — echoes heard From wide-winged victories and lofty tombs And their insculptures of proud, mighty dooms ; But as the end draws near, I see, O Death, That naught but stern simplicity of breath Is needed to express thee. Thou art peace, A close, of mortal slumber an increase, A temporal absence. But mankind has charged Thee with a thousand beating terrors, merged Thy calm and placid ocean with dim wrecks And peopled all thy mystery with becks And murmuring voices. Come, O golden time, When thou shalt take the kingdom of thy prime, And softly round contented harvest days With the declining brightness of thy rays, And soothe all aching sorrows, dry all tears, Fill us with hope, and pacify our fears, And waft us gently to that unknown shore, Where we shall live with lauds for evermore. 248 IMMORTALITY A MASTER broods upon his laureate strings And pours through them the melody that sings Within the soul, songs of old calvaries, Laments and exults and tumultuous seas Of unhoped tenderness. But let one rend The well-tuned instrument? He doth but end Expression, not the melody within The unconsuming soul. Disease or sin Or violence can hurt the lucid brain And make the soul appear a mortal, vain And sorry thing ; but still she shines behind Upon her inmost seat, pure as the wind — 'Tis the material fails. And ah, we feel That in the essence of our will we deal With flesh as those who rule, separate, supreme ; And that through all the body's changing stream We yet are one, and that this spiritual Breath Shall in the end outlive the final death, In spiritualities. There is within A cry for justice 'gainst the power of sin And the defeat of right, a visioned sphere Of judgment, truth, and love unknowing fear, And perfect beauty — surely we shall see Completion of our hopes in these, or we Are mocked and orphaned! And when all is said Love feels the life of the beloved dead. 249 MORNING PRAYER ENLIGHTEN Thou our hearts with holy flame And purest radiance, that we may move Through this dark world, and, following on Thy Name, Attain the Country of eternal love. Now comes the day with all its unless cares, Its hurtful things, its waste and deadly sin Snaring our dying life, its mortal airs Striving our immortality to win. Why should our labour careful be when Thou Hast promised to care for us? Lilies blow In Thee with careless beauty — let us bow Before Thy visitations : Joy or woe. Thou art our truest peace : give us Thy grace To say in front of all : "This is Thy will." Calling eternity before Thy Face To ease the burden of the present ill. But we are frail and faltering, and the dead Have power upon our life, and we are prone To yield unto sin's sweetness. . . . O Thou dread And holy One, have mercy from Thy. throne. 250 MORNING PRAYER So with our morning song of thanks and praise Grant us among this ceaseless flow to find, Even this moment as our hearts we raise, Our fixed star and centre in Thy mind. There shall our joy be, there our heart's desire, Our exultation and our glory song, Our meditation and our gladdest fire, Our shield and weapon 'gainst assaulting wrong. At eventide may we in sorrow weep All sins away, by pleading Christ's own Word, And enter in the balm of peaceful sleep, Or in death's gate, knowing that we are heard. 251 THE SPELL WHEN to my eyes the light grows vague and dim, And my relation to the happy day Suffers a subtle change — ah, then my hymn Shall be of raptured moments far away When as a child beneath the palings grey And green with moss, I crept about the hedge Or climbed with care a jutting stony ledge. On hands and knees among the sheaths and spears Of tall and waving grass I shrank in spring From toad-froth on the knops ; or with brief tears Rubbed in a dock leaf to take out the sting Of hairy nettle; and, a little king, Bent over treasure of small flower and weed, Each with its tiny cup of dew-drop bead. . . . Whence comes the spell of those enchanted days? They know not death nor shadow of the grave; And all is golden with eternal Mays Of shining flames on earth and sky and wave; And God has given to us our souls to save Like haunting beauty if on Him we trust, A noble freedom from the clinging dust. 252 FINIS FINIS ! I write the word with swelling heart, Reaching the end of all my dream of life, And now I go without proud peal apart Into the silence that precludes vain strife. Awake ! to find the beauty of my dream Ensphered is but a shadow void of light, Colour, and form, save when an airy beam From kindred soul falls on it hushed and bright. Yet I have sought pure Beauty all my days, That Something light, ethereal that blooms Beyond all earthly loveliness and lays A spell on troubled Man and mighty dooms. 2 O with the fleeting years the inner glow Grew to a glamour of wild eyes and hair Blown by immortal winds in haunted flow, Passioned and longed for when the moon was bare. And with the gleam came a Virgilian sense Of Death at play with marching tune ahead Of sad humanity, a pang intense For earth's oblivion and slumber bed. 253 FINIS Time gained a quality from its dark end, A homelessness forlornly calm yet sweet, Priceless the moments seemed no one could lend, As though farewell sounded with each heart- beat. Some seek escape by oneness with the life Of sun and sky and earth and flower and tree, Of winds and tempests in their roaring strife, Of birds in bluest ether glad and free. But love of Man is on a higher plane : Its loyalties and faiths and tender cares, Devotion and desire to banish pain, Courage for brotherhood that dying dares. Yet study of the garment of the earth And of her children gives a pure delight, And soul-expanding truth, an elvan birth, Burdened by no regret at veiling night. But O the breathless love for one sweet girl, So exquisite, bathed with the heart's deep blood, The brooding on the unimagined pearl, The swelling, beating tide ever at flood ! 254 FINiS The sudden weeping at the last farewell When she has followed from the breast a call Over the final mountains, and the knell, The separation of the funeral-pall. By outstretched arms towards the further shore, By wonder of her going there alone, By memory of the twain one evermore, This is the nobler song, though made with moan. And there is Someone overshadowing, Someone Divine Who laps and penetrates Our human life, under Whose pitying wing We are at peace though tossed by varying fates. The bondage of my fear is broken quite, I am at home for aye, and waves of peace Wash on my being, full of spiritual light — God grant the time when they shall never cease ! And now the shadows lengthen and the sun Dies on the hill : a thousand phantoms wait Upon my pen, sorrowing that all is done, As I write Finis — in this hour so late. 255 Printed at The Hassell Press Adelaide I MM KM IN <>l ( UIIOUMA MliK\K\ l on Ingelea l his iionk is in i on the last date stamped below. I Serii UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY AA 000 376 509 6