iiii i mm BALLADS AND SONNETS PPINTED BV SrOTTISWOODE AND CO., NF.VV-STREF.T SQUARE LONDON THE BIRD-BRIDE A VOLUME OF BALLADS AND SONNETS BY GRAHAM R. TOMSON LONDON LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. AND NEW YORK : 15 EAST le"" STREET 1889 All rights reser-jed To A. G. T. Dear, will you take my rhytnes ? albeit ?to 7vreath Such as the Syrian Meleager wove For Diodes is this — but wild growths plucked From briar and brake, and pale sea-thistles laid With autumn foliage gathered from the woods, And here and there a sprig of yellow broom — All in a straggling sheaf together bound. Ah, titkc my sheaf! though it be valueless Save to rejniftd you of some seasons past. And of the thoughts and dreams we shared therein. 8G9'1()9 V CONTENTS Ballad of the Bird- Bride I Fragment of the ' Pause Ballad of Pentyre Town Le Mauvais Larron 6 9 Brither' . The Blind Ghost . King Solomon's Dream . 22 • 24 . 26 Deid Folks' Ferry 13 The Fairies' Cobbler . 30 The Cruel Priest . 17 Mdrchen 33 SON^ lETS An Interlude 37 To-night • 47 Omar Khayyam . 38 Last Year's Leaves . 48 To Herodotus 39 At Evening . • 49 Boccaccio Boucher Death and Justice An Unhidden Guest Fulfilment . 40 • 41 . 42 • 43 • 44 Moonrise An Autumn Morning . Soir cTAulomne . Blitui Ufan^s Holiday . • 50 51 52 • Si Compensation 45 Time .... 54 To-day . 46 1 Hereafter • 55 V!1I CONTF.A'TS The Fairies' Valedictio» Birds of Passage ArsinoiPs Cats A Portrait . A Silhouette Spring Song Scythe Song Fleur-de-lys . Petite Chanson Picarde Les Brehis dii Ph-e Jacques VERSES I'ACiE 59 6i 62 64 67 71 72 74 75 77 PAGE Bygones 79 A Pastoral . 81 Evening 82 A Wayside Calvary 84 The Quick and the Dead 86 On the Road 88 Hymn of Labour . 90 The Smile of A 11 -Wisdom 93 ' Eli^ Eli, Lama Sabach thanir . 95 TRANSLA TLONS Old Books, Fresh Flowers . gg , A Ballad The Broidered Bodice . . 102 ' The Aubade . 104 105 NEW WORDS TO OLD TUNES 'Jhe Bourne . 109 Betty Barnes, the Book-bu7-ne> 125 Dead Poets , III My Aster Plate . 127 The Marsh of Acheron . 113 To Hesperus, after Bioit 128 Asphodel "5 Love, the Guest . 130 Fairy Gold . 117 Jean-Francois Millet . 132 The Flight of Nicokte . 119 Of Himself . 134 J fight be . 121 Blind Love . 135 'Jhe Optimist 123 Les Roses Mortes . 136 BALLAD OF THE BIRD-BRIDE {ESKIMO) They never come back, though I loved them well ; I watch the South in vain ; The snow-bound skies are blear and grey, Waste and wide is the wild gull's way, And she comes never again. Years agone, on the flat white strand, I won my sweet sea-girl : Wrapped in my coat of the snow-white fur, I watched the wild birds settle and stir. The grey gulls gather and whirl. One, the greatest of all the flock. Perched on an ice-floe bare, Called and cried as her heart were broke, And straight they were changed, that fleet bird- folk, To women young and fair. B Ballad of the Bird-Bride Swift I sprang from my hiding-place And held the fairest fast ; I held her fast, the sweet, strange thing : Her comrades skirled, but they all took wing, And smote me as they passed. I bore her safe to my warm snow house ; Full sweetly there she smiled ; And yet, whenever the shrill winds blew, She would beat her long white arms anew, And her eyes glanced quick and wild. But I took her to wife, and clothed her warm With skins of the gleaming seal ; Her wandering glances sank to rest When she held a babe to her fair, warm breast, And she loved me dear and leal. Together we tracked the fox and the seal, And at her behest I swore That bird and beast my bow might slay For meat and for raiment, day by day, But never a grey gull more. Ballad of the Bird-Bride A weariful watch I keep for aye 'Mid the snow and the changeless frost : Woe is me for my broken word ! Woe, woe's me for my bonny bird, My bird and the love-time lost ! Have ye forgotten the old keen life ? The hut with the skin-strewn floor ? O winged white wife, and children three, Is there no room left in your hearts for me. Or our home on the low sea-shore ? Once the quarry was scarce and shy, Sharp hunger gnawed us sore, My spoken oath was clean forgot, My bow twanged thrice with a swift, straight shot, And slew me sea-gulls four. The sun hung red on the sky's dull breast, The snow was wet and red ; Her voice shrilled out in a woful cry, She beat her long white arms on high, ' The hour is here,' she said. B 2 Ballad of the Bird-Bride She beat her arms, and she cried full fain As she swayed and wavered there. ' Fetch me the feathers, my children three, Feathers and plumes for you and me, Bonny grey wings to wear ! ' They ran to her side, our children three, With the plumage black and grey ; Then she bent her down and drew them near, She laid the plumes on our children dear, 'Mid the snow and the salt sea-spray. ' Babes of mine, of the wild wind's kin, Feather ye quick, nor stay. Oh, oho ! but the wild winds blow ! Babes of mine, it is time to go : Up, dear hearts, and away ! ' •And lo ! the grey plumes covered them all, Shoulder and breast and brow. I felt the wind of their whirling flight : Was it sea or sky ? was it day or night ? It is always night-time now. Ballad of the Bird-Bride Dear, will you never relent, come back ? I loved you long and true. O winged white wife, and our children three, Of the wild wind's kin though ye surely be, Are ye not of my kin too ? Ay, ye once were mine, and, till I forget, Ye are mine forever and aye, Mine, wherever your wild wings go, While shrill winds whistle across the snow And the skies are blear and grey. BALLAD OF PENTYRE TOWN {cornish) TO E. A. S. Foam flies white over rocks of black, Nights are dark when the boats go down ; Rut souls flit back in the wild wind's track, And grey gulls gather in Pentyre Town. Wild, grey gulls in the narrow street, Wheeling, wavering, to and fro, (Dear the echo of banished feet !) Flocking in as the sun sinks low. Pale she stands at her open door, (Dark little streets of a fishing town ;) Shrill, thin voices from sea and shore P^ill the air as the sun goes down. ' Out and alas for my woe ! ' saith she, (Sec how the grey gulls whirl and throng !) ' Love ! Come back from the weary sea ! ' (Sore is sorrow and hours are long.) Ballad of Pentyre Town 7 One comes sailing with outstretched beak, White throat hfted in waihng cry, Stoops his wing to a woman's cheek, Swift and Hght, as he wavers by. Foam flies white over rocks of black. Nights are dark when the boats go down ; But souls flit back in the wild wind's track, And grey gulls gather in Pentyre Town. Still she stands at her open door, (Flickering sun rays faint and far,) ' Woe is heavy and doubt is sore,' (Sobbing waves on the dull Doom Bar.) ' Sleep flees far from mine eyes,' saith she, (Skies are wild with the rough wind's breath,) ' All for my love's voice calling me,' (Robbed Love clings at the knees of Death.) Now she strays on the wind-swept strand, ' Fair our wandering days shall be ! ' Sets her foot on the wan wet sand, (Faint feet falter, but wings flash free.) 8 Ballad of Pentyre Town ' Love, I come to your call at last' (Black boats lean on the low seashore.) ' Fear and doubting are overpast,' (Set the tiller, and grasp the oar !) No boat stirs on the sea's dark breast, (Long clouds writhe on a pallid sky,) Storm-winds wail to the lurid West, Sad and shrill as a seabird's cry. Foam flies white over rocks of black, Daylight dies, and a boat goes down ; But souls flit back in the wild wind's track, And grey gulls gather in Pentyre Town. LE MAUVAIS LARRON {SUGGESTED BY WILLETTE'S PICTURE) The moorland waste lay hushed in the dusk of the second day, Till a shuddering wind and shrill moaned up through the twilight grey ; Like a wakening wraith it rose from the grave of the buried sun, And it whirled the sand by the tree — (there was never a tree but one — ) But the tall bare bole stood fast, unswayed with the mad wind's stress, And a strong man hung thereon in his pain and his nakedness. His feet were nailed to the wood, and his arms strained over his head ; 'Twas the dusk of the second day, and yet was the man not dead. lo Le Mauvais Larron The cold blast lifted his hair, but his limbs were set and stark, And under their heavy brows his eyes stared into the dark : He looked out over the waste, and his eyes were as coals of fire, Lit up with anguish and hate, and the flame of a strong desire. The dark blood sprang from his wounds, the cold sweat stood on his face. For over the darkening plain came a rider riding apace. Her rags flapped loose in the wind ; the last of the sunset glare Flung dusky gold on her brow and her bosom broad and bare. She was haggard with want and woe, on a jaded steed astride, And still, as it staggered and strove, she smote on its heaving side, Till she came to the limbless tree where the tortured man hung high — A motionless crooked mass on a yellow streak in the sky. Le Mauvais Larron ii ' 'Tis I — I am here, Antoine — I have found thee at last,' she said ; ' O the hours have been long, but long ! and the minutes as drops of lead. Have they trapped thee, the full-fed flock, thou wert wont to harry and spoil ? Do they laugh in their town secure o'er their measures of wine and oil ? Ah God ! that these hands might reach where they loll in their rich array ; Ah God, that they were but mine, all mine, to mangle and slay ! How they shuddered and shrank, erewhile, at the sound of thy very name, When we lived as the grey wolves live, whom torture nor want may tame : And thou but a man ! and still a scourge and a terror to men. Yet only my lover to me, my dear, in the rare days then. O years of revel and love ! ye arc gone as the wind goes by. He is snared and shorn of his strength, and the anguish of hell have I — 12 Le Mauvais Larron I am here, O love, at thy feet ; I have ridden far and fast To gaze in thine eyes again, and to kiss thy hps at the last.' She rose to her feet and stood upright on the gaunt mare's back, And she pressed her full red lips to his that were strained and black. ' Good-night, for the last time now — good-night, beloved, and good-bye — ' And his soul fled into the waste between a kiss and a sigh. 13 DEID FOLKS' FERRY 'Tis They, of a veritie — They are calHng thin an' shrill ; We maun rise an' put to sea, We maun gi'e the deid their will, We maun ferry them owre the faem, For they draw us as they list ; We maun bear the deid folk hame Through the mirk an' the saft sea-mist. ' But how can I gang the nicht, When I'm new come hame frae sea ? When my heart is sair for the sicht O' my lass that langs for me ? ' ' O your lassie lies asleep, An' sae do your bairnies twa ; The cliff-path's stey an' steep, An' the deid folk cry an' ca'.' 14 Dew Folks' Ferry O sae hooly steppit we, For the nicht was mirk an' lown, Wi' never a sign to see, But the voices all aroun'. We laid to the saut sea-shore, An' the boat dipped low i' th' tide, As she micht hae dipped wi' a score, An' our ain three sel's beside. O the boat she settled low, Till her gunwale kissed the faem. An' she didna loup nor row As she bare the deid folk hame ; But she aye gaed swift an' licht, An' we naething saw nor wist Wha sailed i' th' boat that nicht Through the mirk an' the saft sea-mist. There was never a sign to see, But a misty shore an' low ; Never a word spak' we, But the boat she lichtened slow. Deid Folks' Ferry 15 An' a cauld sigh stirred my hair, An' a cauld hand touched my wrist, An' my heart sank cauld an' sair r the mirk an' the saft sea-mist Then the wind raise up wi' a maen, ('Twas a waefu' wind, an' weet), Like a deid saul wud wi' pain. Like a bairnie wild wi' freit ; But the boat rade swift an' licht, Sae we wan the land fu' sune. An' the shore showed wan an' white By a glint o' the waning mune. We steppit oot owre the sand Where an unco' tide had been, An' Black Donald caught my hand An' coverit up his een : For there, in the wind an' weet, Or ever I saw nor wist. My Jean an' her weans lay cauld at my feet, In the mirk an' the saft sea-mist. 1 6 Deid Folks' Ferry An' it's O for my bonny Jean ! An' it's O for my bairn ies twa, It's O an' O for the watchet een An' the steps that are gane awa' — Awa' to the Silent Place, Or ever I saw nor wist, Though I wot we twa went face to face Through the mirk an' the saft sea-mist. 17 THE CRUEL PRIEST It was at the court o' the gudc Scots King That a waefu' thing befell : 'Tis of a lover and his lady ; Loved ilk the other well. There cam' a lord frae the South Countrie, And a gudely lord was he ; His sword-sheath was o' the beaten gowd, The haft o' the ivory. And aye he spak' o' his gowd and gear, And his lands in the South Countrie, But never he spak' o' his faith and troth, That were plight to a fair lady. Oh, then was our gude King right fain : ' In a gude time cam' he here ; Braid lands hath he in the South Countrie — He shall wed my daughter dear ! ' C 1 8 The Cruel Priest He's called to him his little foot-page ; ' Gae rin, gae rin,' quoth he, * And see that ye carry this braid letter To the lord frae the South Countrie ! ' Then up and spak' the Southland lord — And oh, but his cheek waxed red — ' Oh, I wadna wed the King's daughter Though a' but her were dead ! ' Gae back, gae back to your King,' he said, ' And this word gie frae me : My heart and my hand are no my ain, Nor yet for that fair lady.' Then back cam' he, that little foot-page, And knelt down on his knee : ' Oh, will ye wed wi' the King's daughter. Or will ye be hangit hie ? ' ' Oh, where, oh, where is my gude grey steed ? Oh, where are my merry men a' ? Oh, would I were far frae this ill countrie. At hame in my father's ha' ! The Cruel Priest 19 ' But gin I maun wed this outland maid An ill death may she die ! She may ware her love on him she will ; She's get nae love frae me.' Then bells were rung and mass was sung, And ready stude the priest, But deid in her bower lay the King's daughter, With a wide w^ound in her breist ! Then a wofu' man was our gude King, And the saut tear filled his ee : ' Now streak the corp, ye Four Maries,^ And busk her in cramoisie. * And you that wished my daughter dead Your bridal yet shall be. This very night ye's be wed,' he said, ' And the morn ye's be hangit hie ! ' ' Four Maries. This title for a lady's waiting-woman is by no means confined, in the ballads, to Mary Seton, Mary Beatton, Mary Carmichael, and Mary Hamilton, the ladies of Mary Stuart. c 2 20 The Cruel Priest Then by cam' the bride's company Wi' torches burning bright. ' Tak' up, tak' up your bonny bride A' in the mirk midnight ! ' Oh, wan, wan was the bridegroom's face And wan, wan was the bride. But clay-cauld was the young mess priest That stood them twa beside ! Says, ' Rax me out your hand. Sir Knight, And wed her wi' this ring ; ' And the deid bride's hand it was as cauld As ony earthly thing. The priest he touched that lady's hand, And never a word he said ; The priest he touched that lad>^'s hand, And his ain was wet and red. The priest he lifted his ain right hand. And the red blood dripped and fell. Says, ' I loved yc, lady, and ye loved me ; Sae I took your life mysel'.' The Cruel Priest 21 Oh ! red, red was the dawn o' day, And tall was the gallows-tree : The Southland lord to his ain has fled And the mess-priest's hangit hie ! 22 FRAGMENT OF THE 'FAUSE BRITHER O the win' blaws thro' my [ling long] hair, An' the rain draps owre my bree ; I've crossed the seas to my ain luve's bouir, An' she winna speak wi' me. Gin ye be her true luve Willie, As weel I wot ye be, Gae speir at the worms i' yon kirkyard [They'se aiblins crack wi' ye]. He's turn'd him frae his ain luve's bouir Wi' the saut tear in his ee, An' he's awa' to the cauld kirkyard As fast as he can [flee]. O what's come o' your bonny een. That were sae braw [and bright] ? An' what's come o' your sma' fingers, That were sae lang an' white ? Fragment of the 'Pause B either' 23 O my bonny een are gane, Willie, But and my fingers sma', An' the gowden ring ye gie'd to me Is tint [and wede awa']. haud your tongue o' your weeping, Willie, For ye've been ower lang owre sea ; 1 canna sleep [for the wound sae deep] My brither gie'd to me. 24 THE BLIND GHOST 'TiS a marshy land and low, This place where the dead folk be, And, aye, as they come and go. They shoulder and jostle me. I feel the birds flit by, On their soft wings flapping free, — But groping and slow go I, Who am blind and cannot see. And whenever the boat comes in, And her keel bites on the strand, With a wavering, whispering din The cold wraiths flock to land. Then I rise and I grope along To the soft dank landing-place, Where the voices thickest throng, And the blown spray wets my face. The Bund Ghost 25 The cold wraiths rustle anigh — ' Art thou come ? — I am waiting yet — I am here ! do not pass me by — I am here, May-Margaret ! ' Oh, 'tis hard, and so hard to hear ! For the many voices round, That wrangle, and weep, and jeer. While the full barge grates aground. Oh, I hold my breath to hear, While the sobs rise in my throat. And my heart throbs thick with fear Lest she lighten from the boat, — And I hear her not — but bide. When her steps are passed and gone. By the weary water-side. Aye hearkening — aye alone. Still they clamour and jostle me, Still the boat fares to and fro, And the face I may never see. Ah, God ! that my heart may know ! 26 KING SOLOMON'S DREAM Between the darkness and the dawn Three signs were seen of me : One, white as ivory new-sawn, And greener one than wet spring grass And one, more red than blood (alas ! No sadder sight may be) ; All these things verily Mine eyes did see. Three ladies in a twilight space Did sit and spin alway : The first, a damsel cold of grace, With snow-white spindle featly wove ; The second (singing low of love). With spindle green as bay, Smiled soft and looked on me — Yea — even she. King Solomon's Dream 27 But that third lady of the three, I might not see her face, Or whether fair or foul was she. For veils wound close about her head (Both veil and spindle were blood-red) ; And still she span apace, Singing right joylessly, Nor looked on me. The first I spake with of the three, The virgin pure and pale, Full fair and exquisite to see. More delicate than spring sunlight, Crowned with closed buds of lilies white And swathed in pearl-white veil. — Sweet lady, even she Did answer me ! ' When Eve, in woe and sorrow sore, Came forth from Paradise, The dear-bought bough her hand still bore : She had no carven coffer fair, Nor ivory chest, to lay it there : 28 King Solomon's Dream The tears from her sweet eyes Did fall to water it, As was most fit. ' She said, " Alas ! this goodly bough Hath cost me grievous woe ; Yet must I guard it even now ; Yea, surely will I plant it here." — Full fast the tree grew (bought so dear !) Right large, and white as snow ; A token stood the tree Of Eve's virginity.' The maiden ceased, and turned her head ; No word she spake again. The second, fair with white and red, And loose hair crowned with clustering vine, Did turn her lustrous eyes on mine. — ' But I of Love's great gain,' She said, ' of Love and Pain Sing, not in vain. ' Above, the snow-white branches spread ; Below, the dewy grass- In sooth a goodly bridal-bed — King Solomon's Dream 29 And then the tree waxed great and green With broad, fair leaves of glossy sheen ; And there it came to pass That Eve, in travail sore, Prince Abel bore.' The third dame cried, ' Ah, bitter woe ! ' — Full sore a little space She wrung her hands, then, moaning low, She said, ' Blood-red the tall tree grew Whenso Prince Cain his brother slew : Mild Abel, fair of face. Where first he drew soft breath Received the death.' She ceased, and fell to sorrowing ; Then I — ' Still sorrow ve ? ' Her speech broke forth again, ' O King, In your fair garden straightly set, That wondrous tree is growing yet' — ' And still shall these things be ? ' ' Even so,' she answered me, * Yea, verily.' 30 THE FAIRIES' COBBLER I SAT at work 'neath the lintel low, And the white- walled street was still, Save for the sound of my neighbour's loom, ' Plik-a-plek-plek', through the twilight gloom. And a curlew crying shrill. The curlew cried, and I raised my head, For I felt the good folk near ; Slim little shapes in the fading light, Dusk and dim, but their eyes gleamed bright, And they hailed me thin and clear. In they swept with a rustling sound, Like dead leaves blown together ; Bade me fashion their dainty shoon, * O the morrow's e'en is the Feast o' the Moon, And we dance on the rare white heather ! ' The Fairies' Cobbler 31 So I took their gay stuffs, woven well, As never a mortal weaves ; Fashioned daintily, fashioned fair, Little red shoon that the Pixies wear. Of the blood-red autumn leaves. They stood at my knee, they crowded near, And shrilled a piping tune, Their great eyes glowed, and they whispered ' Quick ! ' And my work went merrily, ' tic-tac-tic,' By the light of the yellow moon. ' Thanks and thanks for thy labour done, And aye when the summer's o'er, And reapers carry the last brown sheaf, We'll send our sign of a yellow leaf, A leaf blown in at the door. ' So shall ye know that the time hath come, And merry at heart shall rise. Rise and go where we flit and fleet. Follow the track of our twinkling feet And the glow of our golden eyes.' 32 The Fairies' Cobbler They reeled away through the starlight air And cried, ' On our crystal shore, Friend, you shall 'scape the winter's grief : Follow the sign of the yellow leaf. The leaf blown in at the door ! ' So shall I know when the time hath come. And merry at heart shall rise. Rise and go where they flit and fleet. The little red shoon on the twinkling feet And the glow of the golden eyes. Winter will come with snow-stilled skies, And the neighbours' hearths aglow ; But the owls will drowse on my cold hearth-stone, For I shall be gone where the birds are flown And the great moon-daisies blow. 1 sit at work 'neath the lintel low, And the white-walled street is still ; The twilight deepens dim and grey : To-morrow it may be — not to-day — And I wait the Pixies' will. 33 MARCHEN A FERLIE cam' ben to me yestreen, A lady jimp an' sma', Wi' a milk-white snood an' a kirtle green ; Yellow an' bricht were her bonny een, An' she said, ' Will ye come awa' ? ' Will ye gang wi' me to the Elfin knowe To milk our Queenie's coo ? ' * Na, na,' quo' I, ' I maun shear my sheep ; I've my barn to bigg an' my corn to reap, Sae I canna come the noo.' The ferlie skirled as she turned to gae, For an angry elf was she, ' O a wilfu' man maun hae his way. An' I mak' sma' doot but ye'se rue the day That ye wouldna gang wi' mc.' D 34 Marchen ' O once again will ye speir at me, An' I'll aiblins come awa' ? ' ' O I'll come again to your yetts,' quo' she, * When broom blaws bricht on yon rowan tree An' the laverock sings i' th' snaw.' SONNETS D 2 17 AN INTERLUDE Sighing she spoke, and leaning clasped her knees ;— ' Well hast thou sung of living men and dead, Of fair deeds done, and far lands visited. Sing now of things more marvellous than these ! Of fruits ungathered on unplanted trees. Of songs unsung, of gracious words unsaid, Of that dim shore where no man's foot mav tread. Of strangest skies, and unbcholdcn seas ! ' Full many a golden web our longings spin, And days are fair, and sleep is over-sweet ; But passing sweet those moments rare and fleet, When red spring sunlight, tremulous and thin. Makes quick the pulses with tumultuous beat For meadows never won, or wandered in.' 38 OMAR KHAYYAM TO A. L. Saver of sooth, and Searcher of dim skies ! Lover of Song, and Sun, and Summertide, For whom so many roses bloomed and died ; Tender Interpreter, most sadly wise, Of earth's dumb, inarticulated cries ! Time's self cannot estrange us, nor divide ; Thy hand still beckons from the garden-side, Through green vine-garlands, when the Winter dies. Thy calm lips smile on us, thine eyes are wet ; The nightingale's full song sobs all through thine, And thine in hers, — part human, part divine ! Among the deathless gods thy place is set, All-wise, but drowsy with Life's mingled Wine, Laughter and Learning, Passion and Regret, 39 TO HERODOTUS Far-travelled coaster of the midland seas, What marvels did those curious eyes behold !— Winged snakes, and carven labyrinths of old ; The emerald column raised to Heracles ; King Perseus' shrine upon the Chemmian leas ; Four-footed fishes, decked with gems and gold But thou didst leave some secrets yet untold. And veiled the dread Osirian mysteries. And now the golden asphodels among Thy footsteps fare, and to the lordly dead Thou tellest all the stories left unsaid Of secret rites and runes forgotten long. Of that dark folk who ate the Lotus-bread And sang the melancholy Linus-song. 40 BOCCACCIO Now let yon idle tales forgotten be (Forsaken follies of a fervid youth), And set on high my strivings after truth ; Lest women young and fair cry shame on me, Saying, ' for sure a graceless knave was he, Some lewd light jongleur of the drinking-booth.' In vain, Boccaccio ; these are dead, in sooth — And those, foredoomed to immortality. But we forgive thy ribaldries, for, hark ! Pure Lisa sighs the olive-groves among ; We see Simona smiling, venom-stung, Sylvestra's lover lying cold and stark ; — Death from thy viol noble songs hath wrung, As nightingales sing loudest in the dark. 41 BOUCHER ' Lead me this evening to my painter's chair ' (Dying, he said) ; ' lay here upon my knee The palette— now the pencils give to me, And set my Venus on the easel there, So that the sunlight gleams upon her hair And her white body, risen from the sea : Leave us — alone awhile we twain would be ; I who must die, and she for ever fair.' Above the flocking Loves, the sea's blue rim, A shadow followed as the sun-rays fled ; Grey, up the ivory breast, the golden head. It stole ; but, steadfast through the twilight dim. Still on his idol gazed the sightless dead, And still the rose-crowned goddess smiled on him. 42 DEATH AND JUSTICE Death doth not claim us with the passing breath ; Before our Lady Justice calm he stands, To hear her grave, immutable commands. ' Wait, I shall tell you presently,' she saith ; ' Wait but a moment's space, my brother, Death, While Time, our kinsman, shakes his silent sands.' She holds the balance true, with steady hands And strong, the little while it wavereth. Hatred and Envy must lie still and wait ; So, now, must Love and Sorrow stand aside In breathless silence, pale and eager-eyed, Till, through the lips of Justice, speaketh Fate, — ' Death, in thy keeping must the man abide ; Or, ' He shall live for aye — his work is great.' 43 AN UNBIDDEN GUEST I SAID, my dwelling-place is passing fair, My dusk, dim chamber where the daylight dies : No sun doth blind, no tears may vex mine eyes ; Cast out alike are Glory and Despair. My soul is banished — I wot not where. I thrust him forth, unheedful of his cries. Long years ago : full vain is thine emprise, O shrouded Stranger from the outer air ! He smiles, a bitter merriment is his ! His footsteps falter not, but still draw nigh ; He holds a crystal cresset-flame on high. ' So, friend, at last we meet again — is this The home forbidden me in years gone by ? Behold, how desolate and bare it is ! ' 44 FULFILMENT Fulfilment mocks at Hope's foreshadowing, On ruined fruits her sullen lips are fed ; Athwart the last-limned dream, the song last said. She sweeps the leaden shadow of her wing, A bitter burden of bare blight to bring. In sudden disenchantment, dull and dead. And so we waken — in our seraph's stead To find a gaping goblin-changeling. Sweet Hope is slain, come let us bury her ; The dream is done, the labour lost, we say ; But ofttimes, gazing on the lifeless clay. The old fire fills our veins, our longings stir ; And still, to strive anew, we turn away From yet another dead Hope's sepulchre. 45 COMPENSATION If Joy and Perfectness have crowned a day, Alas ! we say, This gracious day is done ; The gods will never send us such an one Again, however we may strive and pray. But if in woe that knoweth no allay Full slow the anguish-harrowed hours have run, Our hearts grow lighter with the setting sun, For then we feel that all hours pass away. Now some are bound to Life with golden bands, And Life to these is passing sweet and dear ; They fain would linger in each lovely year And shun the pilgrimage to unknown lands. But souls that sorrow know not any fear When Death draws nigh with healing in his hands. 46 TO-DAY TO A. G. T. I. Clasp close my hand ; this little space is ours, This safe green shore between two bitter seas, A narrow meadow-land of love and ease, Made musical with birds and fair with flowers. For all the fragrance of the rose-hung bowers, For all the shelter of the dusky trees, We thank thee, Fortune ! Yea, upon our knees. With tears we praise thee for these perfect hours. Look not where Yesterday's dull current laves The misty sea-board of our landing-place — Clasp close my hand, and turn to me thy face, Before we tempt To-morrow's tossing waves : Forget, in this dear moment's certain grace, That Time and Fate press on — and hold us slaves. 47 TO-NIGHT II. Alas ! my heart shrinks chill before To-night ; The birds keep silence now ; the air is grey And salt with leaping foam of Yesterday, Lashed into fury with the shrill wind's flight. To-day hath shrunk too narrow for delight : To-morrow's billows raven for their prey ; Through gathering dusk, low-gleaming on its way, The rolling tide advances, wild and white. Thy mournful face is fading from my sight, Though still thy hand clings steadfastly in mine ; The dawn draws near to bid us both resign Our storm-worn shallop to the tide-wave's might : Yet this, a little while, was mine and thine — One green vine-garland plucked in Fate's despite. 48 LAST YEAR'S LEAVES The clear-eyed Spring flits by in fitful wise With whistling winds, and sun-gifts scantly spread ; Yet new growths venture in the dead blooms' stead, And, sweetly shrill, brown bird to bird replies. Still wearing something of last summer's guise, Some few faint leaves the branches have not shed Drop, dimly green, while others burn blood-red Between the thin spring sunlight and mine eyes. Old pains, old pleasures, these have had their day, And strong new hopes and dreams are bourgeoning. _, What though, a little space, the old thoughts cling ? The young shoots blindly pu.sh their sturdy way When green sap quickens in the veins of spring ; Hut last year's leaves hang loose upon the spray. 49 AT EVENING How will it fare with us when we are old ? Shall we, through gathering greyness and dull rain, Grieve that the red leaves fall and blossoms wane ? Shall we, indeed, through mists of time behold Our youth's lost picture limned on gleaming gold ? Ah, no — well gone is all past joy and pain — No more, for April hours and fancies fain, Our souls shall crave dead dreams and tales untold. If we could choose what boon the years might bring, Should we not ask that age might proffer peace ? No more the doubt and deep unrest of Spring ; But woods unstirred by wind of wavering wing, The quietude of grey untroubled seas, And still green meadows hushed at evening. E 50 MOONRISE Adown the dim green glen beside the deep, Along the hollow hill-slopes wet with dew, Like phantoms flocking in the twilight blue, Home from their pastures troop the drowsy sheep ; Slow-dying sun-rays dream upon the steep. And, heralded by bird-notes faint and few. Peace, with night's dusky dawn, is born anew While sea-winds sing of solitude and sleep. The full moon rises round and rosy-red Behind the grass-grown shoulder of the hill ; Naught now remains to sigh for or fulfil — The sunset fades, and life lies perfected This little space, while, dreamy-slow and still, Sweet Evening stoops to crown Day's weary head. 51 AN AUTUMN MORNING A SUNNY autumn morning, calm and stilled, Smiles on the bare, burnt meadows ; down the lane The hedge-fruits ripen, fresh with last night's rain, Among broad leaves the sun begins to gild ; The crisp low-breathing air no frost has chilled, Sweet with pine-fragrance, stings the sense again, With joy so keen it meets the lips of pain With dim desires and fancies unfulfilled. Ah, swift and sudden as a swallow's flight These flitting golden glimpses come and go ; The Unseen clasps us through the veil, and, lo ! Our blood stirs strangely with a deep delight — Old dreams, vague visions, glimmer on our sight, All we have known, and all we may not know. E 2 :)-^ SOIR D'AUTOMNE {after cabanel) Here, where the fading sunset bathes my face, Hold thou my hand the while I lean on thee. The dying leaves hang loose upon the tree ; Soft broods the autumn evening's languid grace. With slow step stealing from our resting-place, Our Past, departing, waves his hand to me : With dim, veiled brow he goes : reluctantly He turns him from us at the low hill's base. So sweet, .so sad, so still, this silent hour ; My heart throbs slow in solemn ecstasy : The golden air is faint with memory, And gracious weariness is evening's dower. Fled is our summer ; but a little while Is left us yet the mellow sunset smile. 53 BLIND MAN'S HOLIDAY When vanished is the gold and violet, And all the pearl and opal turned to grey, We call the drowsy children from their play. ' Come, bonny birds, to roost ; the sun has set ! ' And still they cry, ' We are not sleepy 3^et ; Only a little longer may we stay — Only a little while ? ' half-sighing say ; ' We were so still, we hoped you might forget." We, too, delay, with childish stratagem, The while we break our playthings one by one, Sobbing our foolish hearts out over them ; Till comes the wise nurse Death, at set of sun, When, wearied out and piteous, we run Weeping to her and clasp her garments' hem. 54 TIME They err who picture Time outworn and old ; A youth for ever bhthe and fair he stands, Wasting our days with swift destructive hands, Freezing our lives with careless eyes and cold : Lost is all wealth whereon he taketh hold. And none gainsay or cancel his commands, So stern his lips ! though wreathed with ruddy strands Of rose and poppy gleam his locks of gold. He flings the drooping garlands from his hair, And others frail and fresh he gathereth ; Smiling, he mocks our love and our despair ; Heedless, he guides us to the Gates of Death, And ' Here the ways divide for aye,' he saith — ' Farewell,' he saith, and passeth unaware. 55 HEREAFTER Shall we not weary in the windless days Hereafter, for the murmur of the sea, The cool salt air across some grassy lea ? Shall we not go bewildered through a maze Of stately streets with glittering gems ablaze. Forlorn amid the pearl and ivory, Straining our eyes beyond the bourne to see Phantoms from out Life's dear, forsaken ways ? Give us again the crazy clay-built nest. Summer, and soft unseasonable spring. Our flowers to pluck, our broken songs to sing, Our fairy gold of evening in the West ; Still to the land we love our longings cling. The sweet, vain world of turmoil and unrest. VERSES 59 THE FAIRIES' VALEDICTION Hear them cry ' Good-night ! Good-bye ! ' Piping voices sweet and shrill Pierce the dusk from hill to hill. ' We are weary of you all, High and humble, great and small. Mortal anguish, mortal rage, We will never more assuage ; Mortal pleasures, mortal pain, Never will behold again. ' Once we loved your short-lived race, Once we found you fair of face : Smiled on golden lad and lass. Brought their happiness to pass. But your spring is all too brief, Wrinkled as an autumn leaf; Laidly as a goblin jest Wax your loveliest and best — 6o The Fairies' Valediction Withered lips and faded eyes, Lips unfit for lovers' sighs, Eyes that may no more behold Moonlight magic, elfin gold. * Then, like drowsy moles, you creep In the Earth-king's realm to sleep ; Leave the sun, that loved you well, With the dark Dwarf-folk to dwell. Those that hymned us worthily, Even them we may not free ! ' Hidden from your clouded eyes Still we ride the dragon-flies ; Tho' we sing, no earthly ear Now our twilight songs may hear ; Tho' we whirl the withered leaves. Skim above the harvest sheaves, Smooth greensward, or amber shore, You shall see us never more — Never more by sea or sky ! Good-night, Good-by ! ' 6i BIRDS OF PASSAGE {'A LOST CHANCE FLIES OWRE THE SEA') ' Turn, turn again ! ' we call, and all in vain, ' Birds light of wing, that waver over-sea. That lit erewhile, when blind, alas ! were we ; Now we behold your breasts of bronze and gold, Swift sapphire wings, and bills of ivory.' They waver by, they gleam 'tween sea and sky ; Turn, bonny birds — oh ! turn ye to the shore, And glorify our hovels mean and poor ; Make sweet of cheer our wattled houses here, Build 'neath the eaves, nor leave us ever more.' Afar they swing, on soft relentless wing ; They seek the Sunset Islands of the West, The mellow low-lit meadows of the Blest, Where poplars grey for ever sigh and sway, And all desires and dreams are laid to rest. 62 ARSINOE'S CATS Imitation of the manner of the later Greek foets, circ. A. D. 500. Cats were unkii07vn in historic Greece till about the Christian era. Arsinoe the fair, the amber-tressed, Is mine no more ; Cold as the unsunned snows are is her breast, And closed her door. No more her ivory feet and tresses braided Make glad mine eyes ; Snapt are my viol-strings, my flowers are faded — My love-lamp dies. Yet, once, for dewy myrtle-buds and roses. All summer long, We searched the twilight-haunted garden closes With jest and song. Ay, all is over now — my heart hath changM Its heaven for hell ; And that ill chance which all our love estranged In this wise fell : Arsino£'s Cats 63 A little lion, small and dainty sweet (For such there be !), With sea-grey eyes and softly-stepping feet, She prayed of me. For this, through lands Egyptian far away She bade me pass ; But in an evil hour, I said her nay — And now, alas ! Far-travelled Nicias hath wooed and won Arsinoe With gifts of furry creatures white and dun From over-sea. 64 A PORTRAIT There, my ingle-nook above, See the Lady of my Love, Standing there With her dainty, sandalled feet, Limp, high-waisted gown, and sweet Curling hair. Deep her eyes, and pale her check, (Oft I wonder — could she speak — Were it best ?) Faintly smiling, still she stands. Yellow roses in her hands — On her breast. And the glory of her prime Neither tears nor tyrant time May impair ; A Portrait 65 All the changing seasons through I can still believe her true, Think her fair. Mute for her are praise and blame, For my gracious Lady's name No one knows ; Nor, for treasure-bags untold, Would I hearken how the old Story goes. Though the fallen embers fill Half the hearth with ashes chill, Soft and grey. Never lonely or forlorn Will she leave me, nor in scorn Turn away. You will never leave my home, You will never change, nor roam, O my Dear ! And your roses fill the room With their freshness and perfume All the year. 66 A Portrait Dame and flowers were dead, I know- Just a century ago, To a day ! Yet, dear Lady, I maintain In my love you live again, Mine for aye. ^7 A SILHOUETTE There hangs her graceful silhouette (A cameo, as it were, of jet), Mine own familiar friend, and yet By chance I found her Half hidden in a dusty tray, 'Mid tawdry trinkets of to-day, While draggled stores of cast array Hung all around her. Touched here and there with tarnished gold Shines the small head, with tresses rolled High in a knot of classic mould : Almost pathetic The girlish profile seems to be — Instinct with faith and purity (Yet all surmise at most can be But theoretic). F 2 6S A Silhouette I fain would think that, good and wise, She viewed the world with steadfast eyes, Stepping through life in modest guise, Beloved and cherished ; But whether writ in gold or tears, Or filled with homely hopes and fears, Her story, with the withered years, Is past and perished. Her eyes' soft colour no one knows, Nor may this dusky slip disclose If reigned the lily or the rose In her complexion ; Yet sure unstinted praise should win The parted lips, nor full, nor thin ; The curved contours of throat and chin Are just — perfection. I see her in the distance dim, A white-gowned figure, straight and slim, Fulfilling, free from doubt or whim. Her simple duty : A Silhouette 6g Who watched her in the square oak pew ? Who praised her cakes and elder-brew ? Who sent her valentines — and who Decried her beauty ? Maybe in some old secretaire A faded ringlet of her hair, Or sampler stitched with patient care By her deft fingers, Or faint pot-pourri in a bowl Bedecked with gay festoon and scroll (Fit relic of so sweet a soul i) Forgotten lingers. No longer jingles her spinet To madrigal or minuet, But, dumb with mildew and regret. And all asthmatic, Forgetful now of tune and tone. With hoary cobwebs overgrown. And (save for nesting mice) alone, Stands in an attic. 70 A Silhouette Our world is full of broken toys ; Some baser leaven oft alloys The fame that claims with certain voice A sure remembrance ; But she — we see her at her best, A maiden wiser than the rest In leaving, as her sole bequest, So fair a semblance. 71 SPRING SONG So few and sweet, The pale spring days draw near with timid feet — Draw near and pass, alas ! in swift retreat, So few and sweet ! So few and sweet Do dark wet violets our senses greet. Where faint red sun-rays on the mosses meet, So few and sweet ! So sweet and few Those meadow-memories all dim with dew, The veil withdrawn at dawn, with glimpses through So sweet and few ! So sweet and few ! More sweet than all the roses June may strew ; Love, of Remembrance, weeping, born anew, Bewails those hours the after-season slew, So sweet and few ! 72 SCYTHE SONG (August 18S7. Longman^ s Magazine.) Stalwart mowers, brown and lithe, Over summer meads abloom, Wielding fast the whispering Scythe, Where is all the old perfume ? Breathes it yet in tender gloom. Soft through Hades' twilight air ? Where hath Summer-tide her tomb ? HiisJi ! the Scythe says, tvhere, ah ivhere ? Comes the long blade, gleaming cold. Where the garden-ground is spread — Rays of pearl on crowns of gold. Dainty daisies, white and red ! Dames that o'er them once would tread, Damsels blithe and debonair. Where is all your sweetness fled ? Htish ! the Scythe says, zvhere, ah where ? Scythe Song 73 Time ! who tak'st and giv'st again All things bitter, some things sweet, Must we follow, all in vain Follow still those phantom feet ? Is there not some grass-grown street, Some old, yew-begirt parterre. Where our Dreams and we may meet ? Hush ! the Scythe says, zvhere, ah where ? 74 FLEUR-DE-LYS By the path, on either hand, Rising from the garden-bed. Stately HHes once would stand, Once would tower above my head ; Hardly reached 'twixt joy and dread. Held by straining finger-tips, These their shower of gold would shed (Fairy gold !) upon my lips. Gay is yet the garden-plot. Rich in gold and ivory. Lilies fresh and fine, but not — Not the buds that used to be. These are white and fair to see. These to-day I bend above ; Those were Queens that stooped to me In their languor and their love. 75 PETITE CHANSON PICARDE Pale leaves waver and whisper low (Silvered leaves of the poplar tree), Waters wander and willows blow In Picardie. Misty green of the orchard grass, Grass-grown lanes by the sedge-fringed lea, Pleasant ways for the feet that pass Through Picardie. Here the youth on a blue May night Soft to his maiden's home steals he, Binds a bough to the lintel's height Of dark fir tree. Gaston sigheth for Bernadette ! (Sorrow to come — or joy to be ?) This she knows by the token set In secrecy. 'jd Petite Chanson Picarde Long lagoons where the lilies lie (Blossoms and buds of ivory), Sweet the meadows and fair the sky Of Picardie ! Where be the waters to drown regret ? Where be the leaves of Sleep's own tree ? Nowhere else in the world — nor yet In Picardie. 77 LES BREBIS DU PERE JACQUES On a rainy autumn day There is shelter under the eaves For brown birds slim and gay, And under the broad vine-leaves. They cling on the old white wall, And swing in the wet green vine, Twittering, one and all. Of play in the past sunshine. The house is so still to-day — Only the rustle and cheep Of small brown birds at play : For the owner lies asleep. He saw through his window-pane. As the autumn dawn uprose Grey through the dripping rain. Dim green of an orchard-close. 78 Les Brebis du P^re Jacques He said, ' But the fold is far, And the sun is hid to-day ; And I know not where they are — My sheep that have gone astray. ' Yet I hear their pattering feet, And I feel the dust-cloud rise ; They are following down the street, And the dust-cloud dims mine eyes.' Still the warm rain pattered on With its sound of flocks that sped. Till a misty sun-shaft shone On an old man lying dead. The little white house is still ; But the rain sings soft and clear, The small birds twitter shrill, And the dead man smiles to hear. 79 BYGONES The moon swings low on the twilight, A glory of tawny gold, And I would she might give me tidings Of my comrades known of old, When, kissed by the sun and the sea-winds. Here a garden once would be, A garden among the pine-trees, And a child that laughed with me. Gone are the pines and their plumage, Gone is the gold-haired child, And all that is left of the garden Is a red-rose tree run wild : Winged like the wavering sea-birds. Flitting from shore to shore, The pine-trees stray unresting ; The child is a child no more. 8o Bygones We know not either of other, Nor aught of the time between ; But the wind blowing up fronn the sand-dunes Hath heard, and the moon hath seen : They are mute, being loth to grieve us, Who watched when we both were gay ; I who am I no longer, They that no more are they. 8 1 A PASTORAL (/iV MONOTOXE) TO B. L. Long misty lines sweep downward to the bay, White sea-birds waver by, and dull sheep stray Pale on the low, brown bosom of the hill ; Wan twilight hangs her veil in skies of grey. On the field's slope, laid light against the sky, Thin, withered stems, their frail hands lifting high, Implore to look upon dead Summer's face, One tender moment, as they waste and die. Small, creeping waves wash whispering on the sand, Low writhen tamarisks, leaning from the strand. With branches spread beneath the wild wind's will, Sway, softly beckoning between sea and land. The winter evening breathes completest rest : (Intenser thrills of sunset leave the West Disconsolate, and thronged with memories.) When storm-winds sleep, low tones — grey skies — are best. G 82 EVENING TO A. G. L. The sound of a sea withotit wind is about them, and sunset is red. ' The wild gulls wheel and waver, They call and cry, In sad, shrill notes that quaver 'Tween earth and sky : The red sun sinks apace, While yet his gleaming face Looks out a moment's space Through mists that fly. The toiling team move slowly In rhythmic beat, With patient heads bent lowly, Their heavy feet Past fresh-cut furrows clear ; While low waves whisper near. And sweet earth-odours here The salt airs meet. E VENING Dim wings of twilight hover O'er field and sea, For day is past and over ; And silently, With weary sense and sight, Through veils of fading light, The ploughman welcomes night Where rest shall be. G 2 84 A WAYSIDE CALVARY The carven Christ hangs gaunt and grim Beneath his blue Picardian skies, And piteous, perchance, to him Seems every man that hves and dies. Here, hid from hate of alien eyes, Two hundred Prussians sleep, they say, Beneath the cross whose shadow lies Athwart the road to Catelet. 'Mid foes they slumber unafraid. Made whole by Death, the cunning leech, Anear the long white roadway laid By his cold arms, beyond all reach Of Heiniweh pangs or stranger's speech : Of curse or blessing naught reck they. Of snows that hide nor suns that bleach The dusty road to Catelet. A Wayside Calvary 85 Of garlands laid or blossoms spread The Prussians' sun-scorched mound lies bare ; But thin grass creeps above the dead, And pallid poppies flutter fair, And fling their drowsy treasures there Betieath the symbol, stark and grey, That hath the strangers in its care Beside the road to Catelet. 86 THE QUICK AND THE DEAD Under the grass and the graveyard clay Faint fall the voices from overhead. Rough is the road for the quick to tread. Breasting the tide and the tempest they — Mine is the haven of life's heyday. They are dying, but I ain dead I Oh, but the daisies and long grass under, I, with my myriad lives instead, Listening, laughing, I hear them wonder — TJiey are dying, but I am dead ! I, with my myriad lives again, Grass and roses, and leaves and rain. They with their struggle with doubt and pain, They with the strangling throes to come. They with the grip of the grave to dread. God ! how I laugh in my quiet home — They are dying, but I am dead ! The Quick and the Dead 87 Oh ! but the life of me ! gathering, growing, Emmet and butterfly, flower and thorn, Poppy and rose in the gold sun glowing, Over and over unmade, re-born. One with thp grey of the winter day. One with the glint of the sunset gold, One with the wind and the salt sea-spray, One with the dun of the furrowed mould. How shall I joy in the world unwitting ? How shall I lean to the dear warm sun ? Grub or nightingale — creeping or flitting — Nature and I in the end made one. Only the life of me one with thee : Body and soul of us joined and wed. Shall we not pity them, I and she, They the dying and we the dead ? 88 ON THE ROAD The snow is white, the way is stern and sore, Wide, blinding wastes behind us and before, And though we soon shall see a stiller shore. The road is long. The gaunt grey wolves are famished for their prey, ])Ut we are bound, and hungrier than they ; The fruit will fall when we ourselves are clay — The road is long. We leave strong hands to cleanse away the stain. Though we plod on along the shuddering plain To marching music of the creaking chain — The road is long. The sands of Tyranny arc slow to run. Alas ! that this and many a morrow's sun Must see the goal ungained, the work undone ! The road is long. On the Road 89 Our lives were ladder-rungs : the Cause moves on ; The light shines fair as ever it has shone ; 'Twill blaze full bright ere many years be gone — The road is long. We are but bubbles breaking in the sea, The strong slow tide that one day will be free ; We shall not know it — yea, but it will be : The road is long. 90 HYMN OF LABOUR ' Woe for the bale and the burden, the weary wasting of days ! Woe for the toil and the tangle, the dim desolation of ways ! Lost, in mist of the Past, are the early faiths and fears ; Dead, in the womb of the Future, the dream of the distant years. Shadows lengthen and shrink, and bleak day followeth day; Idle are all words spoken — What is there left to say? ' This — it is well, indeed, that the old faiths slumber and sleep; This — that the dream deemed dead may one day quicken and leap : Hymn of Labour 91 Winter is well forgotten, but Spring and Summer for toil- Go, turn thy feet to the fields for birth of the corn and oil ! Leave thy wreck of the Future — thy grave of a dead delight ; Lift hard hands to the plough, and gird strong loins for the fight. Strive for the strife's sake only, smite not foeman nor friend — Strive for the strife's sake only, set no shrine for an end ; Set no goal for the winning, no bright bourne for the scope ; Ask no guerdon of praise, and hope thou nothing from Hope. If, afar in the sunrise, white wings flash and are fled, Lift not thy hand from the toiling, turn not aside thine head. Corn-husks gladden the swine, and ashes are left of fire, Dead leaves shake on the trees — but what thing comes of Desire ? 92 Hymn of Labour » Dear is the Peace after Pain, and balm for the flint- worn feet ; Great peace cometh of Labour — out of the Strong the Sweet. So shalt thou come to thy reaping, so shalt thou say — it is well — With lips redeemed from the curse, and soul from the uttermost hell. So shalt thou look through the sunset, glad, and weary, and free. Saying, ' A little space only — a little while — but I see.' 93 THE SMILE OF ALL-WISDOM Seeking the Smile of All-Wisdom one wandered afar (He that first fashioned the Sphinx, in the dusk of the past) : Looked on the faces of sages, of heroes of war ; Looked on the lips of the lords of the uttermost star, Magi, and kings of the earth — nor had found it at last. Save for the word of a slave, hoary-headed and weak, Trembling, that clung to the hem of his garment, and said, * Master, the least of your servants has found what you seek : (Pardon, O Master, if all without wisdom I speak !) Sculpture the smile of your Sphinx from the lips of the Dead!' ♦g 7 94 The Smile of All-Wisdom Rising, he followed the slave to a hovel anear ; Lifted the mat from the doorway and looked on the bed. ' Nay, thou hast spoken aright, thou hast nothing to fear : That which I sought thou hast found, Friend ; for, lo, it is here ! — Surely the Smile of the Sphinx is the Smile of the Dead ! ' Aye, on the stone lips of old, on the clay of to-day. Tranquil, inscrutable, sweet with a quiet disdain. Lingers the Smile of All-Wisdom, still seeming to say, ' Fret not, O Friend, at the turmoil — it passeth away ; Waste not the Now in the search of a Then that is vain : * Hushed in the infinite dusk at the end shall }'e be. Feverish, questioning spirits that travail and yearn. Quenched in the fulness of knowledge and peaceful as we : Lo, we have lifted the veil — there was nothing to see ! Lo, we have looked on the scroll — there was nothing to learn ! ' 95 'ELI, ELI, LAMA SABACHTH ANI ? ' Straight, slender limbs strained stark upon the cross Dim, anguished eyes that search the empty sky, — All human loneliness, and pain, and loss. Brake forth in thine exceeding bitter cry, Thou King of Martyrs, lifted up on high For men to mock at in thine agony : Would that that last, worst cup had passed thee by ! Would that thy God had not forsaken Thee ! The cry of each man born that loves or prays — Yea, be his idol human or divine. Body or soul sinks dead in thorny ways Before the marsh-lit lantern of a shrine : I, Friend, have my God — ay, and thou hast thine ; Art, Fortune, Pleasure, Love ? or Christ, may be ? Shall the cry rise from thy lips first ? or mine ? ' Why hast thou, O my God, forsaken me ? ' g6 'El/, El/, Lama Sabachthan/?' A weak soul wailing in the body's slough ; A strong man bent beneath a leaden Fate ; Dead hopes, crushed toys, and shattered gods ! — O Thou Whom high desires and dreams left desolate, We cannot tread Thy narrow path and strait But all our pity and love go forth to Thee — Thine is the cry of each soul soon or late : ' Why hast thou, O my God, forsaken me ? ' Grief is, and was, and evermore must be, Even as long waves, gathering again, Moan to and fro between the shore and sea ; And, as the wind wails blindly through the rain, So all earth-voices echo — aye in vain — The ceaseless questioning and piteous, The old appeal against eternal pain : ' Why hast thou, O our God, forsaken us ? ' TRANSLATIONS H 99 OLD BOOKS, FRESH FLOWERS {^TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF JOSEPH BOULMIER) Alone, at home, I dwell, content and free : The soft May sun comes with his greeting fair ; And, like a lute, my heart thrills tremblingly, By the Spring's fingers touched to some sweet air. Blessed be Thou, my God, who from my face Tak'st the pale cast of thought that weary lowers ! My chamber walls — my narrow window-space Hold all most dear to me — old books, fresh flowers. Those trusty friends, that faithful company — My books — say, ' Long his slumbers, and we wait ! ' But my flowers murmur as they look on me, ' Nay, never chide him, for he watched so late ! ' Brethren and sisters, these of mine ! my room Shines fair as with the light of Eden's bowers ; The Louvre is not worth my walls abloom • ' With all most dear to me — old books, fresh flowers. H 2 loo Old Books, Fuesh Flowers Beside your shelves I know not weariness, My silent-speaking books ! so kind and wise ; And fairer seems your yellowed parchment dress Than gay morocco, to my loving eyes. Dear blossoms, of the humble hermit's choice, In sweetest communing what joys are ours ! To you I listen, and with you rejoice ; For all I love is here — old books, fresh flowers. Men are unlovely, but their works are fair — A)% men are evil, but their books are good : The clay hath perished, and the soul laid bare Shines from their books in heavenly solitude. Light on each slender stem pure blossoms rest. Like angel envoys of the Heavenly powers ; Of all earth's maidens these are first and best. And all I love is here — old books, fresh flowers. A double harvest crowns my granary : From all light loves and joys my soul takes flight ; My books are blossoms, and their bee am I, And God's own volumes are my blossoms bright. Old Books, Fresh Flowers ioi These and no other bosom-friends are mine ; With them I pass my best, my calmest hours ; These only lead me to the light Divine, And all I love is here : old books, fresh flowers. My books are tombs where wit and wisdom sleep, Stored full with treasure of the long ago ; My tender buds, that dews of springtide steep. Like shining mirrors of the future show. The present is so sad ! . . . . this dark to-day Like skies with thunder charged above us lowers : Ah ! of the past — the future — speak alway, Tell me of naught but these .... old books, fresh flowers. 102 THE BROIDERED BODICE {OLD FRRNCH) 1600 ' Dear my love, I must ride away, Fare ye well for a summer's day ; Loth am I to leave your side, Yet your lover to Nantes must ride, For the king commands and I obey.' * Now, in sooth, if to Nantes ye fare. Thence, I pray you, a bodice bear — Broidery-work on the breast and sleeves. Of roses white with silvery leaves. Silvery roses white and fair.' Now to Nantes hath her gallant gone. But never the bodice thought upon ; Filled his thoughts with the wine and play. Making merry the livelong day — All the day till the torches shone. The Broidered Bodice 103 ' But what shall I say to my ladye, Who a broidered bodice prayed of me ? ' ' Speak her soft and speak her smooth, Say, " Through Nantes I searched, in truth, And none such bodices there might be." ' ' Better a sea where no fish are. Better the night without a star, Hills with never a valley set. Spring with never a violet. Sweeter were all these things to me Than a lying speech to my ladye.' 104 A BALLAD {FROM THE ITALIAN) My steps have trod the fiery halls of Hell, Yea, even mine, and are retraced again. Mother of Grace ! how many there do dwell ! And there my love these many days hath lain. She sprang to greet me swiftly, joyfully : ' Dear heart,' she cried, ' dost thou remember not Those days when " Sweet my soul " thou calledst me ? Still do I crave thy kisses unforgot, Still weep the summers dead when I was thine. Let but thy lips assuage my lips that yearn ! So sweet thy mouth, of pity sweeten mine ! Lo, thou hast kissed me ! hope not to return.' 105 THE AUBADE {OLD FRENCH FOLK-SONG) It is the lads of Longpre, so light of heart and gay, And they are gone to Wanel, their sweet aubade to play: And from his house the marechal looks forth at break of day, Says, * Tell me for what lady's sake your sweet aubade you play ? Come tell me, lads of Longpre, for whom you sing ? ' saith he. ' Now, peace be with you, marechal, 'tis not for your ladye ; 'Tis all for your good neighbour's lass, who bideth you anear.' (Now well the maid might hearken, so brave they spoke and clear !) And up she rose, the neighbour's lass, did on her linen gown, She took the pitcher in her hand and to the stream went down. io6 The Aubade ' Now why go ye so heavily, now why so pale art seen ? Whence come ye, whither go ye, O maiden sad of mien ? ' ' Nay, well may I go heavily, and well be sad of mien. Since I, of all my lovers, have nought but woe and teen ; For one is hanged, and one is burned, another waits the death, Another, at the king's fair court, the torture suffereth ; Yes — one is hanged, and one is burned, the others fear the fire, — And one lives aye within my heart ; he is my heart's desire.' NEW WORDS TO OLD TUNES 109 THE BOURNE ' What goal remains for pilgrim feet, Now all our gods are banished ? ' Afar, where sea and sunrise meet. Tall portals bathed in gold and red, From either door a carven head Smiles down on men full drowsily 'Mid mystic forms of wings outspread Between the Gates of Ivorie. Now if beyond lie town or street I know not, nor hath any said, Though tongues wag fast and winds are fleet Some say that there men meet the dead. Or filmy phantoms in their stead, And some, ' It leads to Arcadie.' In sooth, I know not, yet would tread Between the Gates of Ivorie. no The Bourne For surely there sounds music sweet, With fair delights and perfumes shed, And all things broken made complete, And found again things forfeited ; All this for him who scorning dread Shall read the wreathen fantasie, And pass, where no base soul hath sped. Between the Gates of Ivorie, Ah, Princess ! grasp the golden thread. Rise up and follow fearlessly. By high desire and longing led Between the Gates of Ivorie. Ill DEAD POETS Where be they that once would sing, Poets passed from wood and dale ? Faintly, now, we touch the string, Faithless, now, we seek the Grail : Shakspeare, Spenser, nought avail, Herrick, England's Oberon, Sidney, smitten through his mail, Souls of Poets dead and gone ! Ronsard's Roses blossoming Long are faded, long are frail ; Gathered to the heart of Spring He that sang the breezy flail.^ Ah ! could prayer at all prevail. These should shine where once they shone. These should 'scape the shadowy pale — Souls of Poets dead and gone ! ' Joachim du Bellay. 112 Dead Poets What clear air knows Dante's wing ? What new seas doth Homer sail ? By what waters wandering Tells Theocritus his tale ? Still, when cries the Nightingale, Singing, sobbing, on and on, Her brown feathers seem to veil Souls of Poets dead and gone ! Charon, when my ghost doth hail O'er Cocytus' waters wan, Land me where no storms assail Souls of Poets dead and gone. II THE MARSH OF ACHERON Between the Midnight and the Morn, The under-world my soul espied ; I saw the shades of men outworn, The Heroes fallen in their pride ; I saw the marsh-lands drear and wide, And many a ghost that strayed thereon ; ' Still must I roam,' a maiden sighed, ' The sunless marsh of Acheron.' ' And is thy fate thus hope-forlorn ? ' ' Yea, even so,' the shade replied, ' For one I wronged in life hath sworn In hatred ever to abide : The lover seeketh not the bride, But aye, with me, his heart dreams on, Asleep in these cold mists that hide The sunless marsh of Acheron. I 114 The Marsh of Acheron "• And still for me will Lacon mourn, And still my pardon be denied : Ah, never shall I cross the bourne That Dead from Living doth divide. Yet I repent me not ! ' she cried, ' Nay — only that mine hour is gone ; One memory hath glorified The sunless marsh of Acheron.' Ah, Princess ! when thy ghost shall glide Where never star nor sunlight shone See thou she tarry not beside The sunless marsh of Acheron. 115 ASPHODEL Kar' aa