G005 NEW POEMS STEPHEN COLERIDGE THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES NEW POEMS NEW POEMS BY STEPHEN COLERIDGE Author of Songs of Desideria, Gloria, The Sanctity of Confession THE TORCH PRESS CEDAR RAPIDS, IOWA 1911 v COPYRIGHT 1911 HY T1IK TORCH PRESS CEDAR RAPIDS. IOWA C TO ONE WHO SUFFERED MUCH AND NOW IS AT REST 868755 PREFACE I do not know whether any explanation is needed of the appearance of these few verses first in America. Those of us in England who have crossed and re- crossed that vast waste of water, and have come to count among our friends so many thus poignantly separated from us, feel strangely and intimately the essential community that lies below so much super- ficial difference. It may divert a youthful and irreverent press to play fantastic tricks before high heaven with the spelling of our august and glorious speech, but the consecrated phrases that well up from the beating heart of our race telling of freedom, honour, love, mercy, and peace appeal instantly to something com- mon to us all. When I was last in Pennsylvania it pleased Mr. Luther A. Brewer, the President of The Torch Press, to pay me the graceful compliment of printing in a lovely type, set in a perfect page, a lecture on poetry which I had the pleasure of delivering at Haverford College; the beauty of the handiwork of The Torch Press having thus suddenly to me been revealed, there can be no ground for surprise that when I received 7 an offer from Mr. Brewer to publish my forthcoming new volume of verse, I accepted it with proper appre- ciation. What I have written may be of no value, but I have been permitted by The Torch Press to present it to the world in faultless attire. STEPHEN COLERIDGE CONTENTS ULTIMA REQUIES 11 OUTWARD BOUND 12 HOMEWARD BOUND 13 LINES ON A FLY LEAF 14 AMOR TRIUMPHANS 15 A FAREWELL 16 SCHEHALLION 17 To GLORIA 18 THE MOON 19 LAUS AMORI 20 APRIL 21 THE SUNDIAL 22 SONG 23 To THOSE AT HOME 24 GOOD INTENTIONS 25 SONG 26 THE PICTURE 27 THE EMPTY HOUSE 28 MARY MORGAN 29 AFTER THE '45 . 33 ULTIMA REQUIES Just a few hopes, just a few sighs, Just a few visions of delight; Just a few dreams of Paradise, And kisses in the night. Just a few friends that come and go ; Brief, eager youth, and briefer age, The warp and woof of joy and woe, And then the closed page. Just a few comrades in the fight Shoulder to shoulder in the throng, Just a last struggle for the right In a mad world full of wrong. Lord, grant me with my latest breath, 'Mid failing faiths and death's alarms, The still small voice, and underneath The Everlasting Arms. 11 OUTWARD BOUND Down the Sound to the open sea, Fronting the southwest wind, With the great Atlantic rolling free And our hearts left far behind; Over the hills and far away, Down in a sunny dell, My little sweetheart sings all day In a garden I know well. Infinite space 'mid the stars above And below, the infinite deep, Alone on the bridge I pray my love Will true and loyal keep. Though wild wastes of waters roll Between my dear and me, My faith is surer than the pole, And deeper than the sea ! 12 HOMEWARD BOUND I I love to hear the music Of the gale among the shrouds, And the roaring of the billows Beneath the rugged clouds, And the racing of the engine As her bows go out of sight, And the wailing of the eight bells Upon the wild midnight! II And down across the tropics Where the sea's as smooth as glass I love to watch the shimmer On the flying fish that pass, And o'er the starlit waters I gaze astern at night At the wake all phosphorescent That stretches out of sight. Ill But when we're sailing homeward And Portland Bill is passed, And slipping up the Solent We make the good ship fast, Then all the boasted glories Of distant sea and shore Serve but to make me love thee, Dear England, more and more. 13 LINES ON A FLY LEAP PROM THE FRENCH OP RONSARD When in the far-off years You dream by the candle light In the old chair by the fire Through the lonely winter night, As you read my verse you will murmur "Love to youth belongs, And 'twas once for the love of me The poet sang his songs. ' ' 14 AMOR TRIUMPHANS Lord of my trembling heart, I yield to thee, The fight is over, I am spent and faint; In vain, in vain I prayed not to desire And shut the door against love's fierce complaint. No more can I forbid my King his throne Or save myself from sinking at his feet, Lift me in thy strong arms and hold me close My Conqueror! Is the surrender sweet? 15 A FAREWELL I'll ask no more, nay, for my manhood's sake That which thou dost not give I will not need ; The tribute of my pain thou shalt not take; Where love is gone, 'twere better to be freed. Then let us part; I will not crave a kiss From those dear lips where sweetest falsehoods dwell, Nor will I stay to see another's bliss, The world is wide enough for me ! Farewell ! 16 SCHEHALLION In the fragrant strath I found you Up your native mountain hollow Where the purple heather flowered by the loch. There your loveliness possessed me With a flood of deep desire While we climbed the hoar Schehallion through the dew. To the west the Glencoe Shepherds All around the dreaming mountains Lifted from the world together to the skies. Perished now, those passionate visions Never never more returning Lost with that forgotten summer long ago. Now the falling hours bring me Vain regrets so sweet and bitter Like the long roll of the wide sea on my soul. 17 TO GLORIA Oh ! heart of mine ! when will you cease from longing ? By that road peace can never come again ; Not to achieve the deep desire is anguish, And to achieve it equally is vain! Oh ! dark blue eyes ! that seem so true and tender, This is the fateful lesson that you teach : Lift not the hands to pluck the passion flowers, Heaven to be Heaven is ever out of reach. Oh ! heart of mine ! trust not the sweetest whispers, The fairest lips have used them for deceit ! Set up your altar beyond life's betrayals Where everlasting Love has built His seat. 18 THE MOON Riding the tempest heedless of the wail Of widowed woman on the sleet-swept shore, While the stark whirlwind bends the reeling mast And rends to ragged strips the sinking sail; Careering through the cloud wrack's deafening roar,- The rowel on the spur of the ice blast ! 19 LAUS AMORI Love wisely if you have the wit Nor suffer it beyond control, Love as the angels if you can Let passion sanctify the soul. Love while the blood throbs in the veins. Love while the rosy lips are pure, Love while the breath of life is strong While love's long ecstasies endure. Love in the morning's pageantry, In the fierce sun's creative light; Love in the evening's yielding hour, And in the sacramental night. Love while the earth lasts underneath And the great firmament above. Love to the deeps of time and space, For love is God, if God be love! 20 APRIL The life begins to stir The seed in the dark earth, The twigs along the hedge Awake into new birth. The sun-god climbs the sky, The wind is in the west, The robin pipes his love To sweetheart on her nest. Ah! happy little birds That mate and kiss and part, To you Spring never sings Songs to a heavy heart! 21 THE SUNDIAL Old Sentinel of Time Grown grey among the flowers, With patient steadfastness Counting the falling hours. The index creeps along Through sleepy afternoons, And a pale record keeps Beneath red harvest moons. Soft whispers it has heard Breathed in fair ladies ' ears, Its old face has been wet With lonely lovers' tears. While children's children come, Live, love, and pass away, The ancient dial stands Preaching eternity. Type of the great of heart While summers come and go, Still faithful to the sun Whether it shine or no. 22 SONG Ah! long beloved Desideria mine, Shew me some new sweet way to love thee more ; The passion-tossed delirium divine ! The ecstasy that throbs at the heart's core! Teach me the dream of Egypt's Antony That lost the world for the fair pagan's charms; Give me a draught from Venus' alchemy And the desired haven of thine arms. Make what can never die a new delight Immortal, rapturous for evermore; Unveil thy glory to my ravished sight, Of thine own Majesty serenely sure. 23 TO THOSE AT HOME Solitary, on the steep Of this distant shore I stand, And across the heaving deep I stretch out a loving hand. Trackless wastes may intervene ; Touch and see we cannot yet; Time and space offend between By the bonds of body set. But the mind no fetters knows, And the heart is free to roam, All around the world it goes To the door of its own home. 24 GOOD INTENTIONS An evil proverb says that Hell Is paved with good intentions, Such ancient lies can only be The Devil's own inventions. Though good intentions fail and fail Till seventy times seven, God takes the will for better things To pave the floor of Heaven. Those who still try to struggle on And fall, and stagger up, Who sink with bleeding feet, and drink Remorse's bitter cup, Who through their prison bars can see The road they never trod, Yet through their tears gaze up toward The distant hills of God; Oh! surely these, who to the end Have wished those heights to win, Will reach the feet of Him who still Forgives us all our sin. 25 SONG Quiet hours are the best; When the sun goes to his rest, Comforted are mourners' sighs Neath the deep star spangled skies. Dreaming there Lost to care Those that sleep need ne 'er despair. Girls and boys throughout the world, In their downy couches curled, Soon forget their little woes When the nurse tucks up their toes. Dreaming there Lost to care Those that sleep need ne 'er despair. Men and women growing old, Peace of mind to folly sold, Trouble takes them for her own Till at night they lay them down. Dreaming there Lost to care Those that sleep need ne 'er despair. 26 THE PICTURE Oh! that those eyes could see me, Oh! that those lips could speak, And give me again "What without pain I never more can seek. There let the dream of beauty Richly serenely still In a vision strange That cannot change Its loveliness fulfil. Now in the hallowed gloaming Fades the sweet face from sight. But I seem to hear A foot-fall near, 'Twixt twilight and the night. Oh! that those eyes could see me, Oh! that those lips could speak, And give me again What without pain I never more can seek. 27 THE EMPTY HOUSE Oh it's dreary work to start again upon the daily round When no one waits your footstep on the floor, And the house is dark and empty, when you reach your home at night, And not a word of welcome at the door. And it's lonely in the daytime, and it's lonelier at night, When sinking ashes on the fender fall, And while noises from the street below have slowly died away You sit for hours staring at the wall. As you touch the dear familiar things, and mark the vacant chair, And wander round the empty rooms alone, You recall each tender memory with hopeless vain regrets, And the sinking heart within you turns to stone. And you think of all the loving things you long so much to say, You'd give the world the past to recreate, But the door is shut upon you, and across it there is writ The saddest of all human words, "Too late!" 28 MARY MORGAN Among the sleepy hills of Radnorshire The pendulum of life for centuries Has swung with the same cadence dreamily ; The little town Presteigne lies nestled there, A type of peaceful continuity Where one day never differs from another Save by the seasons' sequence round and round, And the slow process of the Calendar. But in the dawn of the last century It was the scene of such a tragedy So pitiful, of such compelling woe, As cannot easily have been surpassed In all the annals of this cruel world. When Mary Morgan came to Radnorshire She was a lovely child of sweet sixteen; Within a year they hanged her by the neck At four cross roads outside the little town, And buried her beyond the old church tower In a place apart in ground unconsecrate ; This ignominy done, a tall black slate They set up at her feet as though to bar Her pitiful corpse from the East and all its hopes, And on the slate they wrote this epitaph : "To Mary Morgan's memory, who young And beautiful and gently born Became the victim both of sin and shame 29 And underwent an ignominious death For the murder of her bastard infant child The eleventh of April eighteen hundred five ; Roused to a sense of guilt and of remorse By the eloquent exertions of her Judge, She underwent the sentence of the law With true repentance and a fervent hope Of pardon through the merits of our Lord. This stone is set up to commemorate Not merely a departed penitent, But to remind the living of how weak And frail is human nature in this life "When unsupported by religious faith. ' ' Thus Mary Morgan dreamt her childish dream Of love she thought divine, and a foretaste Of the deep joys of Heaven, and awoke To find it the dark roadway to perdition And the gate of death! And where then was the man That brought this baby mother to the bar Of human condemnation and God's wrath? That for his pleasure thus betrayed a child, Abandoned her for his convenience, And prompted her to slay the evidence Of what she thought was love but found was insult? Did he stand near her at that awful trial To share, as far as was allowed by law, Her long drawn agony and punishment? 30 Or was he at his home prone on his knees Bowed down with self-abasement and remorse ? No, no, not there! but on the Grand Inquest That found the bill for murder 'gainst the girl The father, sat, of Mary Morgan's child! The jurymen were marvellous good men! Never a one would risk his precious soul To save poor little Mary Morgan's life, And so for conscience sake they turned their backs Upon the promptings of Christ's charity. But though his honest name has long been lost There was at least one gallant gentleman Whose manhood bade him instantly take horse To London to entreat for a reprieve. He got it, after precious hours lost; But thrice a hundred miles over the hills Is a wild ride, and though we may be sure, As through the night he galloped 'neath the stars, "What man and beast could do was nobly done : Alas ! for Mary Morgan ! love and death Were the same to her an hour ere he reached The awful gibbet at the four cross roads ! He could do nothing more for her in life But sure the little headstone at her grave Was placed by him there with no more than this : "To Mary Morgan's piteous memory Who suffered death when she was but sixteen, Let him among you that is without sin Cast the first stone at her. ' ' 31 The big black slate Set at her feet records religion's verdict; The little stone set at her head proclaims The judgment of the Christ! a hundred years Have passed away since the poor child was taken From prison to her judgment, and from thence To the gibbet at the four cross roads, and thence To the grave ; there underneath the grass she lies, Her broken heart long mingled with the dust, And if her soul be not washed white as snow There is no mercy dwells in the sweet Heavens ! 32 AFTER THE '45 In Italy stood Donald Cameron A wandering exile from his northern home, Poor in his pocket and forlorn at heart, And from the lonely shore of the lagoon Beheld upon the bosom of the deep The queen of cities, Venice, the sea's bride. There is a magic in those silent ways And beetling palaces and arches dim To pour an anodyne upon the sorest soul. In an old palace, now a hostelry, A room he found which held an harpsicord, And there forthwith determined to remain. From the few treasured volumes he had brought That night he read in More's Utopia That lively health should ever be esteemed The greatest of all blessings, when there came From near at hand the sound of painful coughing. The night was calm and still, the distant cries Of gondoliers made a far dreaming song, And the sharp note of a child's tearing cough Fell with insistent clearness on his ear. He read on of the foolishness of men "Who worship earthly jewels' borrowed light When all the while the stars are in the Heavens, And once again the painful coughing came Between him and the page, till he arose And paced the narrow room with angry strides Was this the peace and rest he thought to find? 33 His evil fortunes still had followed him And brought him where a child's insistent cough Would not allow him even to read at peace ; And up and down he strode impatiently Until the measure of his tread evoked The memory of the wild songs of war That echoed through his far off native hills; And opening the silent harpsicord He poured upon the startled summer night The strains of the wild northern battle cries. A gondolier who drifted far below And listened to that alien call to arms Murmured, "It is some barbarous foreigner Who knows not that in Venice music sings To Love alone!" and as he passed away The haunting music of that fallen cause Poured from the window on the still night air Until the tolling from a belfry near Proclaimed the passing of another day. Night after night the coughing came again And Donald played upon the harpsicord; Anger was in his heart, giving no space For sympathy nor for dear charity, Till in his bitterness he went his way To Chioggia where he could at ease forget The sounds that came from childish suffering. But Chioggia is not Venice, and in his haste He left behind the volume he most loved, 34 And very soon he missed the harpsicord, And ere a week had sped he called himself A fool to fly from Venice for a cough ! The sixth day found him sailing slowly back Along the Lido with a balmy air Watching the campanile grow and grow Above the waters through the sunny haze. The sun was setting as he reached his room, Filling the chamber with its rosy light. Upon the table lay a letter, writ Unto "the master of the harpsicord." The writing fair was in a woman's hand. He broke the wafer, and found this within "I think you will forgive this forwardness When you have learnt the cause: my mother's sire Was Douglas of Dalkeith, and a true man, And therefore I know well your country's speech, I learnt it at her knee before she died. Though you have many sorrows, you have brought Comfort to me, my little brother's life Is surely fading, fading from the world; His cough will kill him if it be not stayed, And I who love him more than life itself Must see him struggle through long hours for breath When every cough is breaking my own heart, But, Sir, I know not whether in him yet There lingers still the blood of your own land, But sure it is that he is calmed and soothed Whene'er he hears the plaintive harmonies Of that far country and its cause forlorn. 35 But now for six nights we have heard no sound In the long evenings when his cough is worst To bring him ease, and thankfulness to me And I had thought you may have learnt our grief, And that your kind heart may have said to you, That music might disturb your little neighbour; And therefore I have writ this letter thus To tell you that he loves to hear you play, And that he thanks you, Sir, a thousand times. All unawares you have been blessing us. Francesca the good nurse takes this to you, Dolores el Grimani." As he reached The end of these so gracious words he heard The coughing, coughing of the little boy And felt the anguish of his fight for breath. And straight there came a welling at his heart Of pity and remorse that drew a sob Deep from his being, and filled his eyes with tears. In a moment he was at the harpsicord Pouring his soul out in sweet melody. The golden light of evening passed away And o'er the city a grey twilight stole, And Donald played till he could see no more. He rose at last and listened! not a sound Came from the little boy, then on his knees He fell and prayed. "With the first morning light He took his pen and wrote : " Unto the fair Dolores el Grimani, had you known 36 How all unworthy yesterday was I To have so sweet a letter sent to me Never had it been written; but I am changed And hate my former self, for you have ta'en The scales from off my eyes ; may the dear God Restore your little brother ! for his sake I would I were a master of the art To bring to earth the magnificat of Saints." The letter with some flowers were hardly gone When old Francesca brought him this reply "Indeed, indeed, we thank you, Sir," no more! The nurse regarded him with favouring eye And said perhaps the noble gentleman Would like to know that early the next day The adorable Dolores and the boy Were going away to Naples, for the warmth Was greater for the coming winter there. The Count, their father, would arrive tonight To take them all away with him at dawn. And though the climate might be fair, she feared That Naples had no noble gentleman To give them music on the harpsicord; And should he wish for once, before too late, To look upon Dolores face to face, 'Twere well that he should watch about the steps Of the old palace at the break of dawn When the gondola would take them all away." A good reward he gave her for her pains, Although his heart sank at the news she brought. As Donald played the harpsicord that night 37 There chanced to pass below the gondolier Who had before called him barbarian, And as he paused again upon his dripping oar And listened to the lovely melodies Unto himself he said "I judged him wrong. He is a master of the songs of love ! ' ' The morning rose in splendour, Donald lay Moored in his gondola close to the steps "Where he could see the doorway and the stairs. The gondola of the Count was close in front; Long minutes passed in silence, then at last, There came the sounds of footsteps on the stairs ; Donald stepped out and waited motionless. First came the porter and the gondolier Bearing a litter with the little boy, His father walked beside him, with his cloak Shielding the boy's eyes from the sudden light. They laid him gently in the gondola; The Count beside him sat, his hand in his. Francesca followed : a light step within, And, through the portal dim, Dolores came She stood upon the threshold Donald's heart Was in his mouth, she turned her loveliness Towards him, and for one long breathless pause She looked upon him. Then Dolores smiled, And, taking a white rose from out her breast, She dropped it there upon the marble stairs ; Then she stepped down into the gondola. The gondolier pushed off while Donald knelt And with a beating heart took up the flower. 38 The distance grew between them silently. He saw Dolores leaning sweetly down To kiss her little brother, then at last, A bend in the canal, and they were gone ! There Donald stood, transfixed as in a dream, The white rose in his hand. At last he turned And with slow steps he reached his lonely room. He closed the harpsicord and locked it up, And going to the window dropped the key Into the silent water far below. 39 io book is DUE on the last date stamped below. MAY 2 -1957 10M-1 1-50<2555; 470 REMINGTON RAND INC. 20 - THE LIBRTOTir " UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNni IXJS ANGELES 6005 New Poems. MAYS -IQSt PR, 6005 G6778r. A 000 498 724 4