4105 chiefly against Pessimism m. % ^ THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES POEMS: CHIEFLY AGAINST PESSIMISM. OPINIONS OF THE PRESS Upon previous zvork by the same Author, now out of pHnt. " There are few persons who read the book who will not admit that it contains not only promise of the future, but much of positive merit. There is imagination in Mr. P'letcher's work, and a facility in composition which removes him far out of the ordinary level of youthful writers of verse." — Western Daily Press, 1882. "As first-fruits they indicate not a little promise. The author has evidently studied well the great masters, and has caught some- thing of their spirit. He succeeds in touching some true poetic chords, and his verse is sweet and musical."— Z//^r^7j World, 1882. " Mr. Fletcher writes with taste and feeling, and there is true poetic fervour as well as chaste expression in his verses ; . . . the closing poem is a fine piece of imaginative work." — Leeds Mereury, 1882. " There is something solid in his work which mnkes us hopeful of what he may do hereafter." — Spectator, 18S4. " It is long since we met with a poem which has so completely engrossed us. Mr. Fletcher's verse may for its melody bear com-^ parison with that of our best-known writers. \Vc shall lo(>k to meet this author again." — GrapJii-, 18S4. POEMS CHIEFLY qAGAINST PESSIMISM BV J. S. FLETCHER WARD AND DOWNEY 12 YORK STREET COVENT GARDEN PR ®0 MY WIFE. 9-^. 3 CONTENTS. [•AGE TO BEGIN WITH 9 TREASURE-TROVE II LOVE IN IDLENESS 12 COR AD COR LOQUITUR I4 THE LINNET 16 THE MERRY HEART 18 IN MEMORY OF ALFRED TENNYSON . . . . I9 THE STRAYED SUNBEAM 2,6 AU REVOIR ! 27 REQUIESCAT 28 FRA ILDEFONSO'S GUEST 30 HAUNTED 34 THE WAYSIDE INN 36 THE SECRET 4I THE SLAVE SHIP 43 A SONG FOR SPRING 48 A SONG FOR AUTUMN 49 A FLOWER SONG 50 THE LARGER HOPE ....... 52 EN AVANT ! 54 TO BEGIN WITH. THIS my creed remains, wherever I may be, whatever doing ; Life's a time for glad endeavour, Constant effort, all-pursuing Purposeful attempts to be With nature in true harmony. Little patience can I show him Who with pessimistic notion Looks on everything below him With a face as long as ocean. Life is neither sad nor bad If the heart be true and glad. Look around you at the springing Of the flowers in wood and meadow ; There's a sight that's worth the singing ; Hence, good friend, with sigh and shadow ! You to-day should be as gay As these first sweet buds of May. lo POEMS. Life, my friend, is what we make it ! If you're full of gloom and sadness, Anxious, maybe, to forsake it, 'Tis, I think, a sort of madness That could soon be put to flight By the springtime's faery light. Hence with foolish, hopeless notions As to life's being filled with crosses ! Joys as wide as widest oceans, Make up for our narrow losses. Shall I sit and weep to-day. For the rain that's passed away ? This my creed is, then, for ever. Spite of all the ills we're heir to ; Joy must crown the strong endeavour And the toils that lead us thereto. And this notion, wrong or right, Makes the world a place of light. POEMS. II TREASURE-TROVE. IN the days that long are dead, Sailors crossed the unknown main, By jade fortune lured or led In pursuit of gold and gain. Oft they prospered — what care I ? Gold for me can have no charms. Fame and gain may pass me by : — Phyllis lies within my arms ! That's a world they never found ! What's a silver mine to this ? Diamonds thick upon the ground Are not worth one flutt'ring kiss. All the gold that gilds the west Cannot tempt me o'er the sea : Phyllis lies upon my breast, Phyllis smiles and sighs for me ! 12 POEMS. LOVE IN IDLENESS. PLEDGE me, pledge me, Phyllis mine, In this cup of rosy wine ! Drink to Life, to Love, to Laughter, Drink to everything that's jolly, Hence with time and the hereafter, And with aught that's melancholy. Let's drive forth all care and sorrow To the never-born to-morrow. Kiss me, kiss me, Phyllis mine, While my eyes look into thine ! There I see two laughing fairies Full of love and mischief making, Whose emotion quickly varies. Now with roguish laughter shaking. Then with sudden seriousness Asking for a long caress. Pledge me, pledge me, Phyllis mine. While the liquor leaps divine ! Wreath the cups with showers of roses, White and red and ]Mnk and y<^'ll'^w. POEMS. Weave them into fragrant posies Round about the wine so mellow, That with flowers and song we may Lie and laugh the whole spring day. Pledge me, pledge me, Phyllis mine, While the April skies are fine ! Spring's the time for love and laughing, Tender glance and shy caresses. Wherefore let's the bowl be quaffing While the sun through these bright tresses Shoots his amorous beams, and tries To catch the gold that in them lies. 14 POEMS. COR AD COR LOQUITUR. I HAVE no love, no, not a whit For aught that does not answer it. My love goes flashing, flowing, flying, To where my Phyllis lies a-sighing. Rosy lips half-parted 'witch me, Sudden glances, coy and tender, Little tricks of love do teach me Now to clasp her waist so slender, Now to feast on such a kiss As concentrates a whole life's bliss, And now to soar and swim above The world in flights of daring love. Whether it be ill or got)d. This fierce tumult of the blood, Sure I care not — it's the proem To the world's eternal poem, Epic, ballad, lyric, sonnet. Which I read whene'er my will is. Casting eyes full glad ujion it, In the unveiled heart of I^hyllis. POEMS. 15 Match me that, ye hoary sages, Yea, in these or any ages ; Or show me aught that's half as fair As Phyllis, lying laughing there ! i6 POEMS. THE LINNET. PHYLLIS, while the sun is high 'Neath these branches let us lie : Nowhere in this lonely glade Shall we find a deeper shade, Nowhere does the sunlight play Half so coyly, high and low, As here where trailing brambles stray, And ancient hawthorns in a row Lift their glossy leaves to reach The lower boughs of elm and beech. Lying here, it seems to me That this is true philosophy : Let the world go on its way, Let men live their little day. Hoarding gold and seeking fame, Striving hard for riches, glory, Anxious all to carve a name On Time's temple's topmost story. Let it be so : what care we, Lost in springtide's witchery ? POEMS. 17 Yonder linnet, piping low, Is the wisest thing I know. He's content to build his nest. Love his mate, and leave the rest To the Wonderful who moves All about us, never seen, Ordering our lives and loves, With a providence serene ; Working, as I think, until The sunlight tops the eternal hill. That's the secret ! — men contrive To be too anxious while they live. Yonder linnet, wiser far. Keeps his soul like some lone star. Spring and summer pass away, Winter follows in its round, Still he pipes upon his spray, Careless of the snow-wrapped ground. What a lesson there for men Thinking aye of How and When ! Phyllis, I would rather be Yonder linnet, blithe and free. Than a monarch, mighty, great. Much concerned with things of state. He, poor man, can never know What real freedom means and is. He's a thing of stately woe, Ignorant of natural bliss ; While the linnet, lone, apart. Takes the world into his heart. i8 POEMS. THE MERRY HEART. I HAVE no patience with the man who goes Along hfe's highway constantly repining, Now grumbling at the winter's ice and snows, And now sore vexed because the sun is shining. Such make poor travellers ; give me, in their place, The man'who plods along with merry face. Said he not well, the poet of all time, That the sad heart soon tires, the merry never ? Hence with black care ; raise voice, and chant a rhyme ! What is -there that's denied to true endeavour? It mattersjnot to me how black's the day If only I go^^singing all the way. POEMS. 19 IN MEMORY OF ALFRED TENNYSON. I LOVE them not who with unseemly haste Do vent their sorrows in unripened song Ere yet the man they praise is well asleep. It is not good the open tomb to throng And in the public gaze to plain and weep. Let me prefer to waste My heart's true woe in these secluded groves Where autumn winds the half-stripped branches toss, What time the autumn twilight steals across The brown bare fields which most my spirit loves. For this, indeed, is time most meet for tears, Most fit for mourning, deep and yet serene. Within the cloistered gloom of that great pile Which keeps their dust whose memories still are green A long procession glides through nave and aisle. Now, full of perfect years, Burdened with glory caught from heaven's high star The last great Englishman is borne to rest, Last of the men who loved the true, the best, Last of the men who made us what we are ! 20 POEMS. There should be mourning in the land to-night ; There should be weeping by the lonely shore. And requiems chanted in the woods and cells. For this was he who showed us more and more The grandeur of our national citadels — Honour, that's ever white, And truth, and hate of scandal, scorn of lies, Who bade us know and cherish what is good. And banned with burning words the hellish brood Which finds its creed in opportunities. This timeworn oak which lifts above the land Its monarch branches, is his emblem meet Who in our restless times was never slow To point a pathway for uncertain feet, Or show us some straight road wherein to go. Here did he take our hand, There did he lift our eyes and bid us see The half-veiled light that shines, serene and calm, Beyond the clouds, beyond the vague alarm And tossing of life's sea of mystery. But he is dead, and him we shall not hear In newer numbers — let the old remain Our ever fresh delight, our legacy To unborn generations. Not in vain Has he made proof of his high ministry. Wherefore about his bier Strew such sweet things as poets love full well : Laurel, that long has crowned the victor's brow, POEMS. 21 With myrtle, ivy, and the full-leaved bough Of palm that heralds palms invisible. Ah, wherefore did he die when Autumn's gloom Wraps the wide woods in circling clouds of mist. And half the land is bare and half is brown, And the wide moors no longer shine sun-kist, Nor springtide's breezes sweep the lofty down ? Like to the voiceless tomb Are now our fields, no more the loaded wain Creaks o'er the new-cropped furrows, barren stand The shivering trees, and fallow lies the land Where lately rolled the long wide waves of grain. He should have died in springtime : then my feet Had wandered far afield ere yet the day Unclosed its eyes beyond the eastern hills, To where by night the magic people play. And spring's warm hand the earth's soft bosom fills With new-blown blossoms sweet : Roses that bloom upon the wayside hedge, And violets that hide 'neath mossy stone. With patient primrose, flowering alone. And iris, trembling 'midst the fresh green sedge. Then all the land is fair, the gardens show Their gay parterres of homely shrub and flower. And jasmine taps against the latticed pane ; The bright laburnum drops its golden shower Across the lawn ; with every April rain The pink-tipped daisies blow. T> POEMS. Then celandine and buttercup compete, And larkspur hides behind the ruined wall, Then hawthorn-blossoms from the high hedge fall, And all the world is fair and life is sweet. But now the mystic fens are bare and cold, And lonely stands the bittern by the mere, And all day long the white mists wrap the sky, The short November days are dark and drear. And day or night strange voices sob and sigh Above the lonely wold. Now the veiled sun shines wan through branches bare, The linnets sing no more, the lark is still, The hawk no more hangs poised above the hill Nor sweeps majestic through the startled air. Yet what to him the drear autumnal days, And what the promise of our English spring ? He has gone forth, and climbs th' eternal hill. And tranced hears the first faint echoing That circles round the high, superior Will In never-ending praise. No more he walks where English fields invite, No longer stays where English waters roll. And English skies are fair, but keeps his soul Serene and perfect, clothed in clearer light. There will he find the high accomplishment Of all that men most wish and life denies : The perfect joy, the long hope satisfied. The dream made real, the mind made truly wise ; POEMS. 23 There circling round him, high, and deep, and wide, A measureless content Will wrap his heart and keep him as a star Is kept in endless circles, half its light Turned towards the world where darkness reigns and night, And half towards heaven where light and glory are. And there, too, will he meet with those to whom Our English tongue owes half its strength and grace — Dan Chaucer, father of the art we love. And that blind Puritan, whose god-like face Lifted calm eyes and dared the heavens above, And pierced the awful gloom Of death and hell, and did not shrink or fail : And him who loved our English hills and lakes, And sleeps serene until the wide morn breaks Where Rotha winds through Grasmere's peaceful vale. There will he walk with those great souls who spent Such heyday summers in this lower sphere — Him whose bright spirit spent itself in fire, And flashed and died and rose again more clear : And him whose hands first struck the perfect lyre, And first made evident The fuller compass of the art divine. Who took all times and peoples for his own, And sang and passed, and sits upon his throne Monarch and prince of all the laurelled line. 24 -POEMS. And there, too, will he find his own once more : That Arthur whom men call the perfect knight, The pattern of all noble qualities ; And him whose soul turned ever to God's light, And sought the Holy Grail 'neath darkening skies, And on the mystic shore Saw that strange Vision with a sacred fear And was not all dismayed ; and him who stood, When the weird bark sailed forth across the flood, Lonely and thoughtful by the lonely mere. Yea, there will come to meet him as he hies Towards that high heaven a fair and goodly throng Of creatures imaged in his subtle brain. And made immortal in his earthly song. There will he greet and there clasp hands again With seer and prophet wise ; True knight that kept the faith in life and death ; And faithful maid that loved and hoped and prayed, These shall he meet within the heavenly glade. Clothed in white samite, crowned with victor's wreath. All these and more — for he that loves and sings The wide world's beauty meets it once again Where love and beauty are immortalised. Not of this earth is any perfect strain Which ever wondering men have loved and prized, Bui caught from heavenly strings By poet-hearts in moments sweet and rare. These (lie in)L with us — here they linger still. POEMS. 25 But we shall meet them on some heavenly hill And find in them a newer beauty there. For far beyond these echoing bounds of space The eternal hills lift limitless heights in air, And life and love are perfected for aye. No man hath seen or shall see what is there Until the breaking of some far-off day Unveils the unseen face Of the eternal One, and sweeps aside The ancient mists that cloud the inmost shrine, Where human life is mingled with divine, And hope and faith and love are satisfied. All this he sees — wherefore it is not well To mourn his death whose soul is made a link 'Twixt yonder heaven and this mysterious earth. We know not what we are — upon the brink Of life and death we linger — joy and mirth Within our bosoms swell Alternate with deep sorrow — half is night And half is day with us, but he no more Shares our emotions, but from that far shore Looks back serene and points us to the light. 26 POEMS. THE STRAYED SUNBEAM. WHO passes there with flying feet, And hair that's hke a shower of gold ? Now, as she leaves the busy street, And threads the archways grey and old, She's like a sunbeam that steals forth to play And dance amidst these shadows all the day. Or perhaps — a better simile — She's like the little child who brought A touch of heaven's own light to me, And made my heart a palace, wrought Of much fine gold and wonderful surprise Woven from the beams that slept within his eyes. But as yon sunbeam passed away So did he pass, and all was drear. The clouds rolled round me, grim and grey, Where once the morning light shone clear. For he had made such sunshine in my breast That when I lost him — well, you know the rest. POEMS. 27 AU REVOIR! WHERE'ER thou art whom once I loved And honoured, and have long since lost, Whether through worlds of wonder moved, Or in time's whirlpool twirled and tost ; If gone from this poor world to find Some fairer universe, or still A wanderer 'neath the raging wind, A lingerer on the quiet hill ; Where'er thou art, let this be strong To reach thee, and to bid thee wait Until I find thee in the throng That stands before the golden gate. 28 POEMS. REOUIESCAT. HERE let him sleep where all that he loved best Is near him, and when we have heaped the soil Into a mound above his quiet breast, Let us with loving care and patient toil Plant some few seeds thereon, that in the spring May come to perfect flower ; the mignonette, The snowdrop, and the crocus, blossoming In company with the shy violet. These shall spring from his dust and make the air Sweeter for knowledge that he's hidden there. For he, though the world knew him not, was one Of those rare souls that Nature sometimes rears And wraps about with kisses of the sun. And feeds with smiles, and laughter, and rare tears, Until they, fall a-singing, and the skies Seem more to them than to less gifted men, And in the lore of earth and heaven they're wise And write of each with somewhat eloquent pen, Prying, maybe, even into the hereafter With solemn thoughts that quick can change to laughter. POEMS. 29 Sleep, softly, poet, in this narrow cell ! Above thee birds shall sing and insects hum, And the fair trees and flowers that thou loved'st well Shall prison thee. Nor shall the loud voice come Of the smoke-hidden city, nor its rush And whirl of life, but thou at peace shalt lie. O envied and happy, thee the twilight hush Shall wrap for ever, and the mystic sky Shall keep eternal watch above thy bier. Giving thee now a smile and now a tear. 30 POEMS. FRA ILDEFONSO'S GUEST. F^RA ILDEFONSO one spring evening stood Without the convent gate, and felt it good To watch the shadows steal with subtle grace Across the pavement of the market-place. The great cathedral's shadow lay before The good man's eyes, and made upon the floor A silhouette of nave and roof and spire. Which, as the sun sank lower, mounted higher. Until there stole to Ildefonso's side The shadow of the cross. " And thus," he cried, "Thy cross, O Lord, o'ershadows everything, And the wide world is covered by Thy wing ! Praise to Thy name ! " And, while the light still burned Beyond the far-off hills, the good man turned Within the gates and in his lodge sat down, Hearing meanwhile the murmur of the town That, like the liutn of insects in the shade, Came from the streets where happy children played, And made fit concord with the silent prayer Which lUlefonso formed as he sat there. POEMS. 31 For 'twas the good man's habit every day Within his porter's lodge to wile away The evening hours in meditation deep Upon his Lord, that haply he might keep Less worthy thoughts from out his secret mind. Upon this night he thought : " One thing I find, And only one, in all I know of Him Whose Light fills all the world and ne'er grows dim, Which I should like to alter, and 'tis this : That I might have the great, ineffable bliss Of seeing Him ! Oh, that I had but been Some humble Jew or lowly Nazarene In those days when the Eastern land He trod 'Mongst those who in His Person saw not God ! Am I doing wrong in longing for a sight Of Him whose Face I see by Faith's great light ? Ah, Lord, I trust to see Thee in that day When earth and time shall both have passed away. And Thou Thyself shalt make Thy children blest Because Thy glory shall be manifest. And yet I long all day to see Thy Face, And think full oft how this poor, humble place Would be transformed into a court of Heaven If Thy dear Presence to it once were given ! Well, thanks to Thee, one comfort still is mine : I know Thee near in Sacrament Divine ! And if aught troubles me or brings me low, To seek Thy Feet I have not far to go ; 32 POEMS. And howe'er sad I am, my sadness flies When I behold Thy Presence with faith's eyes. I will go now, and at Thy altar pray, And speak with Thee." But as he turned away There came a ringing at the convent bell ; And Ildefonso said : *' I know full well That this is one who rings from want and need And seeks a night's repose ; because, indeed, 'Tis only beggars ring so modestly." Then, opening wide the door that he might see Who rang the bell, the good man found outside A beggar, gaunt, and starved, and hollow-eyed, Who looked as though the world had used him ill For many days, and tossed him at its will About its byways. Ildefonso said : *' Come in, good man ; for thee is board and bed. Thou seem'st as one whose need is great, and we, Who serve the Master, have a place for thee." Therewith he brought the weary man a chair. And made swift haste to place the convent fare Before him on the table, all the while Thinking unto himself with liappy smile How good a thing it is to serve God's poor, And how God's glory is increased the more By little acts of charity that flow From out the heart. POEMS. 33 And, while he pondered so, The stranger rose, and blessed and brake the bread ; And suddenly around his toil-worn head A halo came, and all the place grew bright With radiance that was not of earthly light ! Fra Ildefonso, falling on his knees, Heard a voice say : " In doing it unto these Ye do it unto Me. Thou wishest well To see Me on this earth : but when the bell Tells thee some stranger stands without the door, Know it is I, in person of My poor." Fra Ildefonso raised his reverent head. And lo ! the Lord had blessed him and was fled. 34 POEMS. HAUNTED. A SPOT there is within these woods where none Who know its story ever dare to stay ; The woodman, when the afternoon has gone, And dusky twilight veils the dying day, Rather than pass it on his homeward way Seeks some less lonely path ; the timid hare Within its bounds is free to sport and play, Unvexed by poacher's net, for none will dare When night has settled down, to look or enter there. It is in truth a weird and lonely place : A ruinous cottage in a clearing wide, Belted by trees whose branches interlace And half shut out the light on every side. A hunted beast or man might safely hide Within its shelter while long weeks pass by, Secure from harm ; yea, there, whate'er betide, Might slowly fade and undiscovered die, Since to that awsome place no foot will venture nigh. Strange tales they tell who know this silent spot : 'Tis said that there, when night is at its noon POEMS. 35 Some ghost or goblin by the world forgot, Holds fearful revel 'neath the glitt'ring moon, With witching spells and mystic rites that soon Would drive a man from out his senses quite, If he, in hope of gold or other boon. Should dare to venture there at dead of night And look with desp'rate eyes upon the unholy sight. 36 POEMS. THE WAYSIDE INN. O LANDLORD of the wayside inn, While others drink or dine, Bring hither from your choicest bin No flask of gen'rous wine ; But draw the bhnd, stir bright the fire, Shut close the parlour door : To-night no foot of hind or squire Shall cross its sanded floor. You watch me with a curious eye, O man of beef and beer ; You wonder, as you pass me by. What strange chance brought mc here. You're half-afraid for fork and spoon, And anxious for your bill. Rest — be content — ere morrow's noon My purse shall stock your till. He thinks mc mad — and well he may I 'Twas neither rail nor road Brought me across the world to-day To reach his quaint abode. POEMS. 37 Yet, drenched with rain and splashed with mire, Like country drover drest, I wait beside this flickering fire The coming of my guest. No eye but mine will see him come ! He'll neither ride nor walk. No ear will catch the gentle hum Of voices when we talk. Although the whole world's myriad eyes Should crowd within the room, They would not see the thing that lies Half-hidden in the gloom. Not until midnight's silent hour Will that weird guest draw nigh. Five weary hours the curse has power : In five long hours I die ! Ere cockcrow I shall know full well If I have been forgiven, And if my soul is doomed in Hell, Or counted meet for Heaven. The traveller who comes this way And careless opes the door, And sees the flick'ring firelight play Across the sanded floor, Hears not the voices that I hear. Sees not the sight I see. Else would he, soul-dismayed with fear, From sight and voices flee. 38 POEMS. I hear a whisper, hushed and stilled For twice two hundred years. I see the face of him I killed : I feel his children's tears. They fall like drops of molten lead And eat my heart away. Four hundred years the man is dead, And I am here to-day ! They teach but folly who believe That three-score years and ten A man may laugh and toil and grieve Among his fellow-men. Whom the gods love may die in youth, Relieved of life's long pain, But he that sins 'gainst light and truth, May sue for death in vain. I slew him in this very room Four hundred years ago. Without, the skies were filled with gloom, The air was thick with snow. Along the highway fast I fled, And fast behind me came The unspoken curses of the dead, The never-dying shame. And in the midnight dark and fierce A sentence reached my ears ; Through heart and brain it seemed to pierce, Surcharged with nameless fears. POEMS. 39 I knew my fate : I bowed my head Before its icy breath : Death was from me for ever fled, Yet I was seeking death ! '& And since that hour I do not know If I am I— I feel My spirit wrapped in voiceless woe, My heart encased in steel. The wrongs of others move not me : I know not night nor day : I only long incessantly For life to pass away. Cycle on cycle rolls along, And age to age succeeds, And oft I weep the ancient wrong. And oft my wrung heart bleeds. And now my heart is madly light, And now it weighs like stone — I plunged his life in endless night, But cannot take my own. Where'er I flee, by sea or land, A spectre at my side, With hollow eyes and grisly hand, Acts as my friend and guide. And as from pole to pole we go. It whispers while I weep. Whatever seed a man may sow That he shall surely reap ! 40 POEMS. My soul is weary of the doom That struck me when he died, At last my eyes shall pierce the gloom, My heart be satisfied. I will no longer watch the years Roll slowly o'er my head, No longer eat away with tears The tombstone of the dead. I summon from that mystic world Where all the dead men sleep. Him, whose unready soul I hurled Across death's mystic deep. By the high name that once he feared, I bid him break the spell That binds me here to dree my weird And keeps my soul from Hell. I have no fear for what may be In that fell world of shade ; No rising of the infernal sea Shall make my soul dismayed. Let endless torments' fiery tide Sweep high above my head — I wait, as bridegroom waits his bride, The coming of the dead ! POEMS. 41 THE SECRET MASTER CASPAR," said the drover, " as I pass along the way With my drove of sheep or cattle, late or early in the day, I perceive you're always merry ; tell the reason now, I pray ! " Cobbler Caspar raised his hammer, let it fall with clank and cling ; " Drover," said he, " look around you ; is it not already Spring ? See, the blossom's in the branches, and the swallow's on the wing. *' As I sit here in my window I can hear the birds and bees Singing gaily, humming gaily, there amongst my apple-trees. What a fool I should be, truly, if I were not gay as these ! 42 POEMS. " Spring's a merry season, neighbour ; season 'tis of life and love ; Every breathing thing's a-mating, whether it be man or dove. Laughter's in the fields around us, in the clear blue sky above. " But if it be spring or winter, still I'm always glad and gay ; Life's a ballad, life's a poem, whether it be gold or grey. Let us, then, be happy in it — we shall serve God best that way." Went the drover on the highroad, pondering o'er these words so wise. Cobbler Caspar watched him going, with a twinkle in his eyes ; Then he joined another carol to the chorus in the skies. POEMS. 43 THE SLAVE SHIP. CAPTAIN PHILIPS, PORTSMOUTH, 169-. BROWN-eyed, brown-haired, with sun- burned hands Close clasped across his breast, He stood upon the Portsmouth beach And watched the glowing west Where the red sun sank gloriously Beneath the ocean's crest. " From far or near, O mariner, Hast thou returned to-day ? And hast thou seen the rolling surf In some far Afric bay ? And any ventures hast thou had With wreck or castaway ? " Come, tell, I pray, what hast thou seen : Some news of thee I'd learn ! '' His furrowed face grew sorrowful. His look was sad and stern. And in his eyes the lurid light Of fearful thought did burn. 44 POEMS. ** No tale of wonder do I know, Nor have I much to tell Of what these three years I have seen : And yet I know full well That in my heart there burns a flame As fierce as that of Hell. " Is this indeed the Portsmouth strand ? Are those the ancient chimes Whose music oft these ears have heard In unfamiliar climes, Ringing across the wild, wild waste. As in my boyhood's times ? " Alas, but with their music comes A sound I knew not then ; Asleep, awake, on sea or land, Tis always there ; and when It fills my heart, I know myself An outcast amongst men. *' Hark ! what was that which rang close by ? Right well that sound I know ; 'Tis in my ears or night or day Wherever I may go, That fearful cry which peals to Heaven In tones of awful woe. *' 'Twas in the merry month of June We rode in Whydah Bay ; POEMS. 45 The orange groves along the coast In golden beauty lay, And just beyond the swelling hills The swamps of Dahomey. " Four hours each day we went on shore, And trafficked on the beach For fellow-men whose anxious ears Knew nothing of our speech, But whose sad eyes a language spake Which God alone can teach. " They came in droves from out the land, The old man and the child ; The mother with her new-born babe That all unconscious smiled, Not knowing that its lot was cast 'Mongst savage men and wild. " By two and two we pinioned them Beneath God's blessed light, And stored them 'bout the vessel's decks In any place we might. Our ship, so help me Heaven, did hold Eight hundred souls that night ! " (Eight hundred souls in room for one !) And so we sailed away With cargo of our fellow-men Whom men had made their prey ; And the sharks that watched us put from shore Came after us alway. 46 POEMS. " We drifted 'neath the blazing line Before a sluggish wind, And still the sun poured fiercely down Where none a shade could find ; And as we crept along, the sharks Came steadily behind. *' Ah, God, the fearful heat and thirst. The dry and sapless air, The longing for a cooling stream, For sight of meadows fair, When all we saw was rainless sky And ocean everywhere ! " And suddenly the east wind dropped, And still as death we stood Beneath the blazing sun, whose heat Did crack the very wood. And from our decks there burst a cry That froze the heart's hot blood. " Three weeks we lay upon the line With ne'er a breath of air, And ne'er a movement of the sea Save some scant ripple where We threw a festering body out To the sharks that waited there. " And O the sights atween our decks That made the quick flesh creep ! The maddened eyes that rolled and stared And never closed in sleep. POEMS. 47 And started from the burning head, And yet no tear could weep. *' And then across the silent sea A ghastly form drew nigh, With Famine written on its brow And Madness in its eye ; And yet some souls upon that ship Thought more to live than die. "I see them now between the ^ecks, Their faces fierce and pale. And some were there who gnawed their flesh That life might not yet fail, And every now and then to Heaven Uprose that awful wail. ^' It rings within my heart and brain Wherever I may be. And only God in Heaven can tell If there is hope for me Who saw eight hundred captives die Upon the burning sea.'' [The sun has dropped beyond the sea, The night comes slowly down, And from the solitary beach I see the hills that crown The Hampshire wolds, and, far beneath, The lights of Portsmouth town.] 48 POEMS. A SONG FOR SPRING. SPRING is coming o'er the hill ! Primrose pale and daffodil, Daisy white and rosy, Now are springing from the soil. Tread ye lightly, lest ye spoil My Lady's posy. Bring me, from some mossy stone, Violets that all alone Burst to perfect flower. These, with snowdrops pure and white Wet with morning's dew, shall light My Lady's bower ! POEMS, 49 A SONG FOR AUTUMN. WHEN apples hang on bended trees And cornfields change from green to yellow When new-mown barley scents the breeze And nectarines are ripe and mellow, Sing hey, sing ho ! A fig for care When Autumn days are fresh and fair ! Bring hither shocks of bearded corn. And build me quick a fairy dwelling ; Bring hither boughs and branches torn From hedge and coppice sweetly smelling. Sing hey, sing ho ! A fig for care When Autumn days are fresh and fair ! Strip luscious pear-trees, straight and tall. Bring apricot and crimson cherry ; Bring peaches from the sun-kissed wall. Bring soft-cheeked plum and nut-brown berry. Sing hey, sing ho ! A fig for care When Autumn days are fresh and fair. 50 POEMS. o A FLOWER SONG. LOVE, and where do you wander ? Wherever Springtide's coming, Wherever the bee is humming, Wherever the violet With pearly dew is wet. O love, and what are you seeking ? Snowdrop, and tall Lent lily, Primrose, and daflfy-down-dilly. And flowers that all alone Bloom by some mossy stone. O love, and what if you find them ? I will twine them in fragrant posies Together with May-day roses, And carry them far away Before the end of day. O love, and where will you take them ? These where the sick man lies 'Neath the smoke-laden skies ; POEMS. 51 This where there's need of pity In the unlovely city ; This to the heart that's sad ; This to the heart that's glad ; And these to the quiet breast That's hushed for aye to rest. 52 POEMS. THE LARGER HOPE. TAKE thou no heed when scorners say- That men are doomed by pitiless fate, One to remain hfe's castaway, And one to reach the golden gate. Is God a child, that He should sit And cast His creatures here and there, Unmindful how the centuries flit, And of man's step on time's long stair ? I hold it truth that God looks down On all that from His greatness springs, And walks within the crowded town, And where the wayside linnet sings. For rich and poor and high and low ».Are equal in His sight who sees The melting of the winter snow And rushing of the summer breeze. POEMS. 53 Lo yonder, on the orchard wall, The humble-coated bird I love ! He to the earth can never fall Unheeded of the eye above. Wherefore be patient, and be strong. What shall resist the Eternal will ? The Right must triumph o'er the Wrong, The Good prevail against the 111 ! 54 POEMS. EN AVANT! SAY not we are defeated : Wait till the fight's completed Yes, wait till morning. Yes, wait a hundred years, Yes, wait a thousand years. For victory's dawning. See, if I fall, another Stronger and stouter brother, Such as must love me. Seizes the falling flag, Raises the falling flag, Proudly above me. What though I lie there, dead. What though sad tears be shed Above me dying ? Look up — the morn is light ; Look up — untouched and bright My flag is flying. POEMS. 55 Advance ! and if you fail, Some other, fierce and pale. With mighty daring, Shall raise our flag on high, Shall lift it to the sky, No effort sparing. Yes, not for us the loud Plaudits of grateful crowd. Or smiles of beauty. We are to clear the way. We are to do, each day. Our hard, stern duty. But hark ! From far To-morrow Comes no sad sound of sorrow, But joyous laughter. Here let us strive like men, Here let us die like men. Our victory will be then — In the Hereafter ! THE END. UNWIN BROTHERS, CHILWORTH AND LONDON. WARD & DOWNEY'S NEW BOOKS. GOSSIP OF THE CENTURY: Personal and Traditional Memories. With more than lOO Portraits. By the Author of '* Flemish Interiors." 2 vols. Royal 8vo, 1050 pp. 42s. The A //wncpjoii sa.ys: " It is better conceived aiul better arranged than nine- tenths of its class. ... Its chapters are well arranged. It starts with a budget of Court Gossip,' chiefly about George IV. and William IV., and their surround- ings. To this follows half a volume about social, literary and political celebrities —and after that we have chapters on soldiers, lawyers, and doctors. The second volume is filled with reminiscences of musicians, singers, actors, and public enter- tainers in general — painters and sculptors being included in the category. . . . 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