^. x-' 
 
 
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 r
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 
 Ai K' 
 
 y
 
 VARIOUS VERSES. 
 
 BY 
 
 W. F. HARVEY, M.A., 
 
 NELSON PROWER, M.A., 
 
 AND THE 
 
 REV. R. C. FILLINGHAM, B.A, 
 
 lEouiiort : 
 HAYMAN, CHRISTY AND LILLY, Ltd 
 
 20 AND 22, ST. BRIDE STREET, E.C 
 1893.
 
 HAYMAN, CHMISTV AND LIIXY, I/TD., 
 PKINTEUS, 
 HATPiv WORK*;, in. FAUUrNOlMiN ItOAD. 
 AND 20, 22, ST. BltlDE ST.. F.r,
 
 ill 3 
 
 ERRATA. 
 
 P. 21, line 5, for zfkior rt-dd lidor. 
 
 P. 40, line 3, for lingitit read linquit. 
 
 P. 55, line 405, for 'Tis read // is. 
 
 P. 72, 4th line from bottom, for card read Juard. 
 
 \\'. F. HARVEV, M.A. 
 
 98,?'^'^*^
 
 "7,^ 
 
 DELICIIS MEIS 
 
 \V. F. HARVF.V, M.A. 
 
 98J?4.'^-9
 
 HORACE I. 8. 
 
 Zydia, die per omnes. 
 
 Come, Lydia, tell me why, — 
 
 By all the mighty gods I thee entreat, — 
 
 Young Sybaris should fly 
 
 The sunny plain, once wont to dust and heat 
 Now hurried by thy love to ruin fleet? 
 
 Why no more is he fain 
 
 In knightly jousts for mastery to strive. 
 And by sharp bits restrain 
 
 The mouths of Gallic steeds with fire alive ; 
 
 But in the yellow Tiber fears to dive ? 
 
 But why should he now dread 
 
 The athlete's ointment more than serpent's 
 gore, 
 
 Whose white arms then were red 
 
 With dart or discus hurled across the floor, 
 Beyond the mark, as oft his fame of yore ? 
 
 Why lieth he now hid, 
 
 Like sea-born Thetis' son, in girlish guise. 
 
 Lest he forthwith be bid, 
 
 In manly weeds, against doomed Troy arise. 
 And smite the Lycian host with fell surprise 
 
 W. F. H. 
 
 FROM HEINE. 
 
 There was an aged monarch, 
 
 Slow was his pulse and grey his head 
 
 This poor deluded monarch 
 
 Took a fair young queen to his bed.
 
 There was a pretty page boy, 
 
 Golden his locks and blithe his mien ; 
 His duty was to carry 
 
 The long silken train of his queen. 
 
 Wist you the old, old story, 
 
 That rings so sad, that rings so true ? 
 They loved each other so madly 
 
 That e'en death brought to them no rue. 
 
 W. F. H. 
 
 MADONNA MIA. 
 
 My love is as the lily fair, 
 
 My love is as the violet sweet ; 
 
 The silken tresses of her hair 
 Enshadow beauties not unmeet 
 For kings to greet. 
 
 My heart is faint ; I may not dare 
 Lift up my gaze from her small feet, 
 
 That, half-exposed, their whiteness bare 
 Unslippered for the summer heat, 
 Beneath her seat. 
 
 I am her liegeman ; 'tis my care 
 
 To wait her coming down the street ; 
 
 And tend her when she takes the air 
 Amidst the waving fields of wheat, 
 For cool retreat. 
 
 I mark her footfall on the stair ; 
 
 With love's hot glow my pulses beat : 
 O would that I her handmaid were 
 Who tends her when she sits at meat, 
 Dainty and neat. 
 
 W. F. H.
 
 CATULLUS. 
 
 Lesbius est pulcher : quid ni? quern Lesbia 
 malit 
 Quam te cum tota gente, Catulle, tua 
 Sad tamen hie pulcher vendat cum gentc 
 CatuUum, 
 Si tria natorum savia reppererit. 
 
 Call Lesbius handsome ? Well, perhaps 
 He is, since Lesbia that confesses, 
 
 But sell me up with all my traps 
 If child of his likes his caresses. 
 
 W. F. H. 
 
 CATULLUS. 
 
 NuUi se dicit mulier mea nubere malle 
 Quam mihi, non si se Juppiter ipse petat 
 
 Dicit : sed mulier cupido quod dicit amanti. 
 In vento et rapida scribere oportet aqua. 
 
 My mistress vowed she'd never wed 
 Another, not if Jove e'en sought her ; 
 
 But women's oaths, 'tis ever said; 
 Are writ in wind and running water. 
 
 W. F. H. 
 
 HORACE II. 19. 
 
 Bacchum in remotis carmina rupibus 
 Vidi docentem (credite posteri !) 
 
 Amid lone crags I once saw Bacchus teaching 
 (Strange legend this to men in after years !) 
 His pupil nymphs ; goat-footed satyrs reaching 
 Sharp-pointed, list'ning ears.
 
 8 
 
 With new-born terror now my breast is quaking, 
 
 This wineenfrenzied brain forbear to smite 
 Great Bacchus, by thine awful thyrsus shaking 
 'Gainst me, a luckless wight. 
 
 I marked the Maenads tripping o'er the moun- 
 tain. 
 And rivulets that ran with milk galore ; 
 And hollow tree-trunks, near a wine-flushed 
 fountain. 
 
 Distilled their honied store. 
 
 Of Ariadne, now enskied in glory 
 
 Amidst the starry host, 'tis mine to sing ; 
 Of Pentheus' ruined palace, and the story 
 Of Thrace's ill-starred king. 
 
 The Indian ocean, like a stream thou windest ; 
 
 Now, sitting drunken by sequestered rocks. 
 With coronals of deadly snakes thou bindest 
 Thy Mgenads' scathless locks. 
 
 Once, when the giant horde with rage unholy 
 
 The fastness of thy father's realm would scale. 
 Thou hurledst Rhfetus by thy strong arm solely 
 With lion-jaw and nail. 
 
 They err who deem thee merely lord of pleasure. 
 
 For war unfitted, wed to jest and song : 
 Thou, leader m the dance's peaceful measure, 
 In war art no less strong. 
 
 The three-tongued Cerberus, at thy going 
 
 Bedecked with golden horn, forgot to rail ; 
 But fawned upon thy feet, affection showing, 
 And gently wagged his tail. 
 
 W. F. H.
 
 CATULLUS. 
 
 yivamus, inea Lesbia, atque aiiteiints 
 Rumoresque senuiu severiorunt 
 Oinn 's uiiiits oestiinemus assis. 
 
 Let's live, my Lesbia, and despise 
 Crabb'd grey-beards' babble, lover-wise, 
 
 Their frowns aren't worth a sou, 
 For suns may rise and suns may set 
 When this brief life is faded, yet 
 
 Death's sleep for me and you 
 
 A thousand kisses ; add five score 
 Another thousand kisses more ; 
 
 Then best forget them all, 
 Lest any wight with evil eye 
 Our too close counting might espy, 
 
 And dire mishap befall. 
 
 W. F. H. 
 
 FROM DE MUSSET. 
 
 MADRID. 
 
 Eyes of black and eyes of blue 
 Nightly wanton in our view, 
 Or amidst thy lanes lie hid. 
 Queen of cities, fair Madrid, 
 VVhere lithe-footed damsels walk, 
 Lovers serenade and talk. 
 
 Many white hands clap, I ween, 
 When thy bulls bound on the scene 
 Many scarves then flutter high 
 'Neath thy star-illumined sky, 
 Oft some veiled sefiora fares 
 Dovn thy azure-tinted stairs.
 
 lO 
 
 City, though I dare to jest 
 At thy matrons' waist-compressed, 
 Or their tightly buckled shoes, 
 Never shall my tongue refuse 
 Fullest meed of praise to one. 
 Loveliest woman 'neath thy sun. 
 
 A duenna guards my fair, 
 Combs and plaits her wealth of hair,. 
 Shuts the door 'gainst all save one. 
 Be he bishop or king's son. 
 If you would approach my lass 
 Whisper in her ear at Mass. 
 
 She's my Andalusian queen. 
 Brightest widow eyes have seen ; 
 Long the lashes on her cheek, 
 Is she angel, demon ? speak. 
 Orange hues her features mark ; 
 She's as lively as a lark. 
 
 See her droop her panting mouth, 
 Hot with kisses of the South ; 
 Watch her crushed in my embrace 
 Struggle with a supple grace ; 
 Mark her lissom body curl, 
 More a serpent than a girl. 
 
 But you question by what art 
 I made conquest of her heart. 
 First my glossy charger pranced, 
 Next I compliments advanced 
 On her mantle — after this 
 At Carnival I stole a kiss. 
 
 W. F. H.
 
 II 
 
 FROM HEINE. 
 
 Each morn I send you violets, 
 Found in the forest's ways ; 
 
 Each eve I bring you roses, 
 Culled in the twilight's haze. 
 
 Wist you what mystic meaning 
 These lovely flowers convey ? 
 At night they bid you love me 
 And guard your troth by day. 
 
 W. F. H. 
 
 BELE UOETTE. 
 
 AN ANONYMOUS FRENCH ROMANCE OF THE 
 TWELFTH CENTURY. 
 
 The fair Doette at her window sits 
 Conning a book, though her whole heart flits 
 To her spouse, Count Do, who hied away 
 To stranger lands for the tourney's fray. 
 Deep is my dole of it ! 
 
 A squire rides up to the castle stairs. 
 From his saddle-bag a letter bears ; 
 But the fair Doette no fears assail 
 As the messenger she hastes to hail. 
 Deep is my dole of it ! 
 
 In eager haste she asks of him straight, 
 " How fares the spouse I so long await ? " 
 But the squire for pity weeps full sore, 
 A-swoon falls fair Doette on the floor. 
 Deep is my dole of it \
 
 12 
 
 The fair Doette from her swoon restored, 
 Looks on the squire who comes from her lord ; 
 With wrath and teen her heart's full sore 
 For love of the spouse she'll see no more. 
 Deep is my dole of it ! 
 
 " Come tell me now, without fail or fear, 
 Where is my lord whom I hold so dear ? " 
 " In God's name, lady, to tell is pain ; 
 Dead is my lord, at the tourney slain." 
 Deep is my dole of it ! 
 
 The fair Doette is making her moan : 
 " Woe worth the day you left me alone ! 
 For the love of you no raiments rare 
 Shall be to me for my body's care. 
 But to St. Paul's as a nun Til fare." 
 Peep is my dole of it ! 
 
 " For you I will build an abbey fair ; 
 To its yearly feast shall none repair 
 But such as have kept their plighted troth 
 (To recreant lovers I am loath)." 
 " Now to St. Paul's as a nun Fll fare." 
 Deep is my dole of it ! 
 
 The fair Doette has an abbey raised 
 (There's none for beauty and size more 
 
 praised). 
 Thither the squires and dames resort, 
 Who sorrow and weep for love's disport. 
 
 Deep is my dole of it ! 
 " Now to St. Paul's as a nun I'll fare." 
 
 W. F. H.
 
 ^3 
 
 FROM SOPHOCLES. 
 
 LOVE THE CONQUEROR. 
 
 O Love that art stronger than legions, 
 
 Thou hiest where riches abound ; 
 The soft cheeks of maidens thy regions 
 At night-tide are found. 
 
 Thence winging thy way o'er the ocean 
 
 On roofs of some rustics to Hght ; 
 No men are secure from thy potion, 
 No gods from thy spite. 
 
 Thou fillest thy victims with madness, 
 
 To folly thou wrestest the just ; 
 E'en kinsmen escape not the sadness 
 Of hatred and lust. 
 
 A glance of requited affection 
 
 Makes mock of the law's stern behest : 
 And Venus still holds in subjection 
 The heart in each breast. 
 
 \V. F. H. 
 
 FROM A LATE GREEK POEM. 
 
 Dead thou art not : for thy dwelling 
 Is the Islands of the Blest ; 
 
 Far from evil, where sweet-smelling 
 Flowers unfading soothe thy rest.
 
 '4 
 
 Now amidst the fields, in gladness, 
 
 Of Elysium take thine ease. 
 Neither heat nor cold or sadness. 
 
 Thirst or hunger or disease 
 Wait upon thee, like us mortals ; 
 
 But a blameless life is thine 
 On Olympus, near its portals. 
 
 Basking in the light divine. 
 
 W. F. H. 
 
 HORACE C. I. II. 
 
 "' Til ne (juaesieris {scire nefas')^ quam mihi, quam tibi 
 Finern di dederint, Leuconoe, nee Babylonios." 
 
 Peer not into lore forbidden, 
 
 Nor Chaldean tables try ; 
 From your gaze and mine lies hidden 
 
 By what death we're doomed to die. 
 
 Better far for us endurance 
 Of the lot the Gods have cast : 
 
 Unto us comes no assurance 
 That this winter's not our last. 
 
 Which against yon rocky curtain 
 
 Breaks the fury of its seas ; 
 Since our span of life's uncertain. 
 
 Let us strain our wine from lees. 
 
 Cease from hope your strength to borrow, 
 Envious years our hopes gainsay ; 
 
 Never blindly trust the morrow ; 
 Snatch the pleasures of to-day. 
 
 W. F. H.
 
 15 
 
 HORACE C. IV. 7. 
 
 " Diffuge7-e nives : redeunt iain gramina campis." 
 
 Gone is the snow : once more we see abiding 
 
 Soft verdure on the plain, 
 Leaves on the trees, the winter's floods subsiding 
 
 Within their banks again. 
 
 The Nymphs and sister Graces garments 
 scorning 
 Lead forth the dancing throngs ; 
 To you, the hours that steal our days give 
 warning 
 No after-life belongs. 
 
 Warmth waits on cold, on springtide summer 
 quickly 
 To perish : in her train 
 Comes autumn : when her stores of fruit grow 
 sickly 
 Dull winter holds its reign. 
 
 Moon follows moon in rapid revolution, 
 
 But we some day must fade, 
 L'ke the old heroes, in our dissolution 
 
 To dust and ghostly shade. 
 
 What knowledge have we that the gods supernal 
 
 Will grant another day, 
 Or all you leave him in your love paternal 
 
 Your heir won't fling away ? 
 
 High-born and eloquent, of rev'rent bearing, 
 
 You pass into the tomb ; 
 What help are these, Torquatus, where you're 
 faring ? 
 
 Minos has fixed your doom.
 
 i6 
 
 Hippolytus, now deaf to Dian's weeping, 
 
 In nether darkness lies ; 
 Pirithous on Lethe's river sleeping 
 
 Wakes not for Theseus' cries. 
 
 W. F. H. 
 
 AFTER HEINE. 
 
 Ein edler Stolz in alien Ziigen, 
 A iif seiner Stirn Gedankenspur, 
 
 Er konnte jedes Hers besiegen, 
 
 Bertrand de Born, der Troubadour. 
 
 A NOBLE pride marked ev'ry feature, 
 Upon his brow thought's stamp he bore 
 
 He won the heart of ev'ry creature — 
 Bertrand de Born, the troubadour. 
 
 His dulcet strains had power to waken 
 
 The lioness Plantagenet ;* 
 Her daughter and two sons were taken, 
 
 His song lured all within his net. 
 
 The father, too, by his sweet pleading, 
 To tears was moved from angry scorn ; 
 
 His words had witchery exceeding. 
 The troubadour's, Bertrand de Born. 
 
 W. F. H. 
 
 HORACE IV. II 
 
 Est mihi nontim superantis annum 
 Pleniis Albani cadus. 
 
 Mv cask Stands brimming o'er with wine — 
 Choice Alban — pressed some autumns nine ; 
 
 And in my garden you may gather 
 Of parsley and ivy, wreaths to twine 
 
 * Eleanor, Consort of Henry II. of England
 
 '7 
 
 Around your brows, a goodly store ; 
 
 The home smiles bright with plate galore ; 
 
 The altar, decked with holy vervain, 
 Awaits with longing the slain lamb's gore. 
 
 No hand is idle : to and fro 
 My lads and lasses hurried go. 
 
 Whilst, whirling through the roof in eddies, 
 The flickering flames foul smoke-clouds throw 
 
 Mark well what pleasures on you wait 
 When April's Ides we celebrate, 
 
 That day reserved for sea-born Venus, 
 Which severs the month — a hallowed date. 
 
 A feast-day, too, of solemn rite. 
 Next mine own birthday in my sight ; 
 
 For from that morn my friend Mecaenas 
 Must count his years by their rapid flight. 
 
 Your high-born Telephus has strayed 
 From your embraces to a maid, 
 
 Who holds him bound with silken fetters, 
 In riches and wanton charms arrayed. 
 
 'Gainst aims too high what warning showed 
 Rash Phaethon, blasted on his road ; 
 In pride winged Pegasus disdaining 
 Bellerophon's weight, his mortal load. 
 
 Best follow what for you is meet ; 
 Beyond that goal lies fell deceit. 
 
 With like mates like, and this observing 
 Come, last of my loves, my life complete. 
 
 No more henceforth my heart shall stray 
 To stranger maidens. Learn to play 
 
 On skilful lute to your sweet singing. 
 Whereby black cares may be chased away. 
 
 W. F. H.
 
 i8 
 
 HORACE II. 8. 
 
 Ulla it juris tibi pejerati 
 
 Pasna, Bariiie, ttocuisset imqiiain. 
 
 I WOULD believe you had the gods you shghted 
 But punished you somewise for faith forsworn ; 
 One tooth less pearly or one nail e'en blighted 
 Should wreak your scorn. 
 
 Yet, bound by vows made only to be broken, 
 
 Your beauty with fresh lustre shines enhanced, 
 And on you in your walks, with love unspoken, 
 Youths gaze entranced. 
 
 Your mother's ashes, to your shame eternal. 
 Unscathed you dare invoke with perjured 
 breath ; 
 Heaven and its silent star-fields ; gods supernal, 
 Who taste not death. 
 
 Venus, methinks, laughs at it ; nymphs are 
 smiling — - 
 The simple nymphs with Cupid fierce of mien, 
 Who ever at his bloody whetstone's grinding 
 His arrows keen. 
 
 What's more, your court of youths still keeps 
 increasing ; 
 New slaves wait on you while the old ones stay, 
 Who threaten you, for scandals e'en unceasing 
 To run away. 
 
 By matrons blessed with striplings you are 
 dreaded. 
 By thrifty greybeards too, whose sons are dear. 
 And sad-eyed girl-wives that have lately wedded 
 For husbands fear. 
 
 W. F. H.
 
 '9 
 JEHAN FROISSART.' 
 
 BALLADE OF THE DAISY. 
 
 Above all flowers the rose reigns queen, 
 
 And next to her the violet ; 
 The corn-flag, peony, I ween, 
 
 And marjoram none fain forget, 
 Or marigolds that in their pride 
 The modest lilies' charms outvied — 
 
 Each flower has some to sing its praises— 
 Though all their virtues I've descried, 
 
 Above all flowers I love the daisies. 
 
 For, be the season fair or mean, 
 
 The weather chilly grown or wet. 
 This flower is ever graceful seen, 
 
 Sweet, pleasant, white and crimson set. 
 Its buds fast closed or opened wide 
 No hints of pallid death confide — 
 
 I've marked its many moods and phases- 
 All goodness is therein implied: 
 
 Above all flowers I love the daisies. 
 
 And now the gladsome summer's sheen 
 
 Makes gay this bonnie floweret, 
 Two hearts pierced by Love's arrow keen 
 
 Upon yon seat are throbbing yet. 
 May Cupid prove their helpful guide, 
 Pleasure and Courtesy abide : 
 
 Their tender glance my spirit raises. 
 So, culling this bouquet, I sighed : 
 
 " Above all flowers I love the daisies." 
 
 W. F. H.
 
 20 
 
 OVID. FASTI I. i. 63-82. 
 
 Lo, Germanicus, 'tis Janus sends you blithest 
 New Year's greeting, 
 He who holds the place of honour, in my 
 hallowed chant enshrined ; 
 Double-headed, the beginning of the year in 
 silence fleeting, 
 Who of all the gods supernal can alone cast 
 glance behind. 
 
 Bless, then, Janus, our brave captains, by whose 
 toil the lands are teeming. 
 And the seas, too, firm established truce from 
 troubles fain enjoy. 
 Bless thy Fathers and thy Romans, us devoutest 
 clients deeming. 
 So vouchsafe to ope thy splendid temples 
 white without alloy. 
 
 Hush, a blissful dawn is rising. By no word or 
 thought profane it : 
 None but words of holy omen should be 
 heard this holy day. 
 Banish straightway frantic quarrels ; by no 
 hateful strife dare stain it ; 
 O ye envious crowd, your labours lay aside in 
 rev'rence, pray ! 
 
 Seest thou how the sky is brightened with the 
 fragrant fires new-litten. 
 How the saffron-heads loud crackle in the 
 hearths ablaze below? 
 Now the flames with golden splendour have the 
 temple's ceiling smitten 
 And the building's topmost roofing with a 
 flick'ring sheen's aglow.
 
 21 
 
 To the Capitol in spotless vestments fares the 
 glad procession, 
 And the people march in white robes fitting 
 well a feast so fair ; 
 First the victors with new fasces ; purpled 
 praetors in succession ; 
 While an unaccustomed burden weighs upon 
 the curule chair. 
 
 W. F. H. 
 
 ROSETTE. 
 
 (^After B er anger ^ 
 
 What ! you speak to me of passion — 
 
 You who bask in spring's bright day— 
 When beneath some forty winters 
 
 I have watched my youth decay ? 
 Once my heart throbbed wildly, madly, 
 
 For a pretty, poor grisetie ; 
 Ah, why can I never love you 
 
 As of old I loved Rosette ? 
 
 Ev'ry day, in robes the richest. 
 
 Your landau your charms displays : 
 But Rosette in dainty neatness 
 
 Walked and laughed on holidays ; 
 And for mischief, just to tease me. 
 
 She would eye the lads we met. 
 Ah, why can I never love you 
 
 As of old I loved Rosette ? 
 
 In this silk boudoir a thousand 
 Mirrors ev'ry smile portray ; 
 
 She had but a single mirror — 
 'Twas the Graces' own, I'd say —
 
 22 
 
 And the dawn made glad our chamber, 
 Round our couch no curtains met. 
 
 ^Vh, why can I never love you 
 As of old I loved Rosette ? 
 
 You, whose polished wit might quicken 
 
 Sonneteers to lyric deed, 
 I am not ashamed to tell you. 
 
 She had hardly learnt to read ; 
 And in grammar, where she faltered. 
 
 Love contrived to pay the debt. 
 Ah, why can I never love you 
 
 As of old I loved Rosette ? 
 
 She was not your peer in beauty. 
 
 Nor so soft of heart was she, 
 And her eyes looked on her lover, , 
 
 Not as yours so tenderly. 
 But she had to charm my fancy 
 
 My lost youth that I regret. 
 Ah, why can I never love you 
 
 As of old I loved Rosette? 
 
 W. F. H.
 
 POEMS 
 
 BV 
 
 NELSON PROWER, M.A.
 
 PREFACE, 
 
 The poem " Gethsemane " was begun in 
 the Holy Land in 1889, and finished in 
 England in 1890 ; and it appeared by itself 
 anonymously in the following spring. Only 
 two or three lines have been altered. A 
 few of the sonnets also have appeared in 
 print, and the translation of " Lead, kindly 
 Light." The kind terms in which many of 
 the author's friends have spoken of " Geth- 
 semane " have emboldened him to publish 
 it under his own name.
 
 25 
 
 CHARLES THE SECOND. 
 " There's such Divinity doth hedge a king." 
 
 Young Prince, perchance, when hiding in the 
 tree, 
 
 Thou may'st have thought on Shakespeare's 
 words. Forsooth, 
 
 That mightiest of singers spoke the truth. 
 For a Divinity watched over thee ! 
 
 And should some carping critic say that God 
 Did not protect thy father, say that He 
 Meant that in death thy sire should hallowed be, 
 
 Meant that his blood should sanctify the sod. 
 
 Nor was the ground alone thus sanctified ; 
 
 For England's heart, revolting from the deed, 
 Was purified by terror ; and to thee 
 It turned repentant. Shakespeare never lied I 
 
 As children of thy father's murder read 
 They blush with shame, — then flush with loyalty. 
 
 N. P
 
 26 
 
 NON ANGLI SED ANGELI. 
 
 'Tis said that long ago the Pope of Rome, 
 Perceiving 'mid the dark Italian throng 
 Two fair-haired boys, from distant English 
 
 home 
 Torn to be sold, said, as he passed along, 
 " So fair are these young Angle lads, so white 
 Their skin, so bright their hair with curls of 
 
 gold. 
 That they would be as angels in my sight. 
 If our Lord Christ Avould take them to His 
 
 fold." 
 
 A thousand years are gone, the English boys 
 Are just as fair, their skins as milky white, 
 Their hair as golden, but the Pontiff's dream 
 Is realized ; to us are given the joys 
 Of Christian brotherhood, to fight the fight 
 Of Christ, and trust in Him in Death's dark 
 stream. 
 
 N. P.
 
 ON LANDIxMG AT JAFFA. 
 
 " The plMe whereon thou iiea'hit is holy groim I." 
 
 At last mine eyes behold it ; soon my feet 
 Will land on holy ground. Afar I see 
 
 From the ship's side those rolling hills so sweet, 
 That sky so blue above them. \\'here can be 
 
 The Holy City? Is it where the hills 
 
 Rise highest in the haze, as though the lion 
 Of Judah reared his crested mane ! Mount 
 Zion 
 
 Is surely there, 'mid Gihon's trickling rills ! 
 
 And now the boat has gained that rocky shore, 
 Where erst Andromeda, 'tis said, was bound. 
 
 How lovely fable mates with lovely truth ! 
 For here the Greater Perseus came and found 
 
 A race in bonds, and set them free. Nay, more ; 
 
 Eternal life is given by His ruth ! 
 
 N. P
 
 28 
 
 THE STOIC AND EPICUREAN 
 CONCEPTIONS OF DEATH. 
 
 " Come," cried the Stoic, as he stamped his foot, 
 " I care not for you ! " and he spoke the truth ; 
 Who but a fool would care ? for, without ruth, 
 
 Death comes to all. 'Tis common-place to put 
 
 In hero's language that which all should feel 
 Who claim the name of man. And why defy 
 A thing not worth defying ? When we die, 
 
 We die ; why trouble to gird on your steel ? 
 
 "Come," cried his rival in philosophy, 
 
 " At least, if you have nothing else to do ; 
 If you are busy. I'll have one more drink ; 
 Do as you like ! '" Best of the two, I think. 
 The latter cry, from pagan point of view. 
 
 1 speak not here of Christianity ! 
 
 N. P-
 
 29 
 
 ON SEEING THE OLD SHIPS IN 
 PORTSMOUTH HARBOUR. 
 
 The oracle of old advised the Greeks 
 
 Refuge to take within their " wooden walls": 
 And now the English lad who glorj' seeks, 
 
 Who fears no foreign foe, whom nought 
 appals, 
 Goes off to sea ; and coming to this place 
 
 To join his vessel, sees before him lie 
 Those "wooden walls" on which, by Heaven's 
 grace, 
 
 We freed the world of old from tyranny ! 
 
 Wooden no longer are the English walls ; 
 
 But, in the ships of steel, the hearts of men 
 Still beat, as long ago ; our history's beauty 
 Evokes our emulation. Russian thralls 
 
 ^Vith our old foes combine ; but now, as then. 
 We shall prevail ; each man will do his duty. 
 
 N. P.
 
 3° 
 
 TO THE ARCHBISHOP OF 
 CANTERBURY. 
 
 On the occasion of th; Lincoln judgment. 
 
 Oreat Father of our ancient Church, whose 
 word 
 Has breathed the breath of Peace throughout 
 our land ; 
 The Anghcans o'er all the world have heard 
 
 Thy noble judgment, which, with even hand, 
 Corrects the humours of our party strife. 
 
 " Pope of the other world " thou art indeed ; 
 AVell hast thou wrought throughout thy toilsome 
 life. 
 Well wilt thou merit thine Eternal meed. 
 
 But we, thy flock, must heartily accept 
 
 Thy words as they were said. Fairness 
 should meet 
 With corresponding fairness. Promise kept 
 Should meet with honour, and with sym- 
 pathy ; 
 And we as Christians should each other greet 
 With mutual trust and heartfelt amity. 
 
 N. P.
 
 31 
 
 ON THE STARTING OF DR. NANSEN. 
 
 Brave men are they who try, 'neath Afric's sun^ 
 
 To trace the sources of the mighty Nile, 
 Or plunge through trackless forests. Labour 
 done, 
 
 Adventures over, quickly Fame's sweet smile 
 Awaits them. Now, for twelve long weary years 
 
 The gallant Norse, a Viking, yet without 
 The ancient Viking's fury, casting fears 
 
 Aside, has started, wind and waves to flout. 
 
 Danger and death he and his comrades court. 
 Yet in that wondrous icy land they'll see 
 
 Marvels, which to have seen, will compensate ; 
 For there the world's Geometrician Great 
 
 Works out his crystal problems ; ice shall be 
 Their tutor, leading to the heavenly port. 
 
 N. P.
 
 32 
 
 TOULON AND SPEZIA. 
 
 Two gallant fleets are meeting at that port 
 
 Where once the Little Corporal chased away 
 The British ships. A meeting of strange sort, 
 
 Where Czar and Democrat embrace, and say, 
 'Mid flags, and shouts, and kisses, that they feel 
 
 A love and friendship that for aye shall last. 
 'Tis but for future conquest that their steel 
 
 Shall _ flash in war, when war's dread die is 
 cast. 
 
 At Spe/.ia two other gallant fleets 
 
 Have met. Few flags, few shouts, no kisses ! 
 Yet 
 Its meaning is as clear ; 'tis blessed peace. 
 
 They help old Europe to enjoy the sweets 
 Of honest comfort, and a longer lease 
 
 Of calm home life. May their sun never set ! 
 
 N. P.
 
 33 
 
 AD MATTHAEUxM ARNOLD. 
 
 As beats an eagle at its prison cage, 
 
 So beat the heart of Ajax, when he cried 
 
 In agony of darkness and of rage 
 
 That in the Hght he gladly would have 
 
 died ; 
 And we who labour in a mental gloom 
 Of apathy, and eyes that feel no sight, 
 Should pray for streaks of light, and the 
 
 perfume 
 Of sweetness : Aye, " destroy us in the 
 
 Light." 
 
 Thou, gentle singer, who hast nobly taught 
 Thy generation, let me offer thee 
 The tribute of my song, for thou indeed 
 Hast shown to us that he who truth has 
 
 sought 
 May of the vulgar million spurned be, 
 And yet shall find a holier, happier meed. 
 
 N. P.
 
 ON A FIRST VIEW OF THE ACROPOLIS. 
 
 Can marbles never die? It so would seem, 
 
 When first one gazes on the Parthenon ; 
 
 Yet, scarcely has the stranger climbed upon 
 The mountain's top, walking as in a dream, 
 When, at his right, the tiny fane upstands 
 
 Of Na»7 airrepoc, more perfect still ; 
 
 And fancy bids one think, that by God's will, 
 These temples were not made by human hands. 
 
 Stern science tell us they must one day fade ; 
 We know it, it must be so ; but the stones 
 Will still cry out ; their lessons will remain 
 Till time shall be no more ; and o'er the shade 
 Of ruined temples and of heroes' bones 
 Greece takes us captive ! Homage to the 
 slain ! 
 
 N. P.
 
 35 
 
 THE WHITE CHALK CLIFFS. 
 
 Back from the sunny South we come at last, 
 
 From vine-clad slopes and olive-covered hills, 
 And now we see ahead, all danger past, 
 
 The white chalk cliffs of England. Fancy 
 fills 
 Our hearts with many thoughts, as onward leaps 
 
 The swift and hurrying steamer, as though 
 glad 
 To seek again her England ! Never sleeps 
 
 That feeling, though our news at home be sad. 
 
 " A citizen of no mean city " ; so 
 
 St. Paul disdained not himself to call. 
 
 But at a great price purchased some that gift. 
 We were born free ; and, wandering to and fro 
 Carry that knowledge with us. Thus, to all 
 
 Us English, Freedom's lute can know no rift. 
 
 N. P.
 
 36 
 
 ON PASSING LORETTO IN THE 
 TRAIN. 
 
 What is that little town so quaintly placed 
 
 On yonder hill ? Loretto ! The word brings 
 High thoughts into the brain ; that town is 
 graced 
 With more than scenic beauty. Angels' wings 
 Have borne into its shelter His dear home 
 Where erst He dwelt in distant Galilee, 
 The " Casa Santa ! " Not in mighty Rome ^ 
 Is held such gem ; not there such sight to see. 
 
 The train rolls southward, on to Brindisi ; 
 Perchance I ne'er again shall see the town 
 
 That such a pearl contains. Yet in my mind 
 Remains the picture of the bright blue sea. 
 The hill, the little city. As a crown 
 
 Of beauty will that memory be enshrined ! 
 
 N. P.
 
 37 
 
 THE "VICTORIA." 
 
 "Times change and we change with them," said 
 the Poet, 
 But Enghsh sailors have not changed as yet , 
 Their duty hes before them, and they know it, 
 And watch unmoved the ocean's angry fret. 
 And though our wooden walls are passed and 
 gone. 
 The seamen, whose great deeds awoke the 
 pride 
 With which the English looked on those who 
 shone 
 In bygone days, may ask us, " Has it died ? " 
 
 No ! the pride lives, because its cause lives too; 
 
 The seamen are the same as in the days 
 Of Nelson, Howe, and Rodney ; and the waves 
 Re-echo still that we shall ne'er be slaves. 
 
 And so may Britain ever proudly raise 
 A monument to Freedom, grand and true ! 
 
 N. P.
 
 38 
 
 "IMPERIUM ET LIBERTAS." 
 
 (Ow the opening of the Imperial Institute.) 
 
 Come, all who own with pride Victoria's sway, 
 
 And join in ringing p?ean, as around 
 Her throne ye gather. Let this joyful day 
 
 Inspire your spirits, make your hearts to 
 bound ! 
 Australia, salute her happy reign, 
 
 Thou, Canada, her own Cordeha be, 
 Though Goneril and Regan try amain 
 
 To turn thee from thine ancient fealty ! 
 
 Let each the lesson learn his God to find 
 In English righteousness, for where our flag 
 
 Floats in the breeze, there Truth and Right are 
 found. 
 
 So may it ever be, till all around 
 
 This earth of ours no more shall tyrant's gag 
 
 Or mobs' behests play havoc with mankind ! 
 
 N. P.
 
 39 
 
 THE MUEZZIN. 
 
 Sweet is the tinkle of our English bells 
 
 Across the meadows on a summer's morn. 
 Sweet is the tinkle that in winter tells 
 
 Across the snow-clad fields that Christ is 
 born. 
 Yet sweet, and stirring too, peals forth the tone, 
 
 The ringing tone, of Islam's singer proud 
 As from the mosque he cries that God alone 
 
 Is God, and calls to prayer the busy crowd. 
 
 Something there is, perchance, vouchsafed 
 God 
 To human speech, that other sounds have 
 not : 
 Perchance that fighting race — that scourge and 
 rod 
 Of subject nations — feeling that its lot 
 Is cast, its star is sinking, loves the cry 
 Of man's rough voice. By that they'll fight 
 and die ! 
 
 N. P.
 
 ■\o 
 
 ABI13E WITH ME. 
 
 Resta Tu mecum, circa glomerantibus umbris, 
 
 Accrescunt tenebr^e, sis, Deus, usque comes ! 
 Commoda dum pereunt, et amicum linguit 
 amicus, 
 Spes miserorum hominum, sis, Deus, usque 
 comes ! 
 
 Vitse parva dies finem petit ; omnia terrse 
 Gaudia tabescunt, gloria nulla manet ; 
 
 Mutatur, moritur, quidquid nos orbe videmus ; 
 Tu, non mutatus, sis, Deus, usque comes ! 
 
 Hostes non timeo, mihi si benedixeris ; at me 
 Non lacrimae terrent, pondus abestque male ; 
 
 Mortis ubi telum ? tumuli victoria fracta est ! 
 Auspice Te vinco ; Te duce, victor ego ! 
 
 Te qu?ero semper, Te mane et vespere qusero, 
 Coram Te Ditis regna superba cadunt ; 
 
 Dux niihi quis nisi Tu ? nisi Tu quis rector ? 
 In umbra, 
 In solis radiis, sis, Deus, usque comes ! 
 
 Pone Crucem morienti oculo, Tua Gratia ut 
 omnes 
 
 Dissolvat tenebras; me quoque ad astra cape; 
 Splendet Lux coeli, moritur terrestris ut umbra 
 
 In Morte, in Vitft, sis, Deus, usque comes I 
 
 N. P.
 
 41 
 
 TRANSLATION FROM NEWMAN. 
 
 " Due me, Stella Dei, per caeca crepuscula due 
 me ; 
 Nox atra est ; nequeo, Stella, redire domum; 
 Tu, tu siste pedes : non fas mihi tota videre 
 Lumina ; sit modo fas, Stella, movere 
 pedem. 
 
 " Non sic usque fui, nee opem Stellae usque 
 poposci ; 
 Optavique diem : nunc, Dea, siste pedes. 
 Turn lucem petii claram, spretoque timore, 
 Jactabam : sceleris, Stella, eris usque 
 mem or ? 
 
 " Quae me juvisti per saeela, in saecla juvabis 
 Per mare per terram, Lux mihi donee erit, 
 Me quoque mane novo coelestes undique 
 vultus, 
 Quos dilexi dim, perdideramque, petent." 
 
 N. P.
 
 li 
 
 42 
 
 GETHSEMANE. 
 
 Beforp: mine eyes, from near the Golden Gate, 
 
 The rugged Valley of Jehoshaphat 
 
 Lies in its stony nakedness. Across 
 
 That gaunt defile the Mount of Olivet 
 
 Rises in simple beauty, clearly limned 5 
 
 Against the Eastern blue, which makes each 
 
 stone 
 Stand out as though a hand's breadth from the 
 
 eye; 
 So that, in truth, to pilgrims from a land 
 Where Heaven grants not so divine an air. 
 The scene appears to be a fairyland, 10 
 
 Or dream, that presently will fade away 
 
 And leave us all the poorer when we wake " — 
 Poorer in what we see, yet richer too 
 For what we have imagined. Painter's brush 
 May strive to teach us what the scene is like; 15 
 But, great as is the talent God has given 
 To noble-minded men who live for art. 
 They bring not home the great reality. 
 The painter shows us what he sees himself; 
 But this blest Land is different to each, 20 
 
 According to his needs, his life, his aims. 
 His troubles, his temptations, loves and hates ; 
 And thus each needs a special help. This Land 
 Gives help to all ; for all who hither come, 
 If but so be they come with humble hearts, 25 
 Will find the comfort that they most desire — 
 You yours, I mine, the painter his ; nor his 
 The same as yours or mine. Poor mortals we, 
 And many- sorrowing, andeach of us 
 Needs much — nay, all — of Christ, yet not the 
 
 same. 30
 
 43 
 
 For some need Hope, some Peace, and others 
 
 Fire 
 To warm them ; Peace, the weary, Hope, the sad, 
 And Hre, the timid. Come then here and pray, 
 And He with Whom a prayer availeth much 
 Will give to each that which he prayeth for. 35 
 Aye, those who come to Palestine with Fear 
 !\nd Love and Reverence and Faith, may trust 
 That He Whose feet have trod the selfsame 
 
 ground 
 Their feet are treading. He Whose mouth hath 
 
 breathed 
 The self-same air, will not forget them when 40 
 In love and reverence they seek His Land. 
 
 But see ! Upon the top of Olivet 
 Rises a Mosque, which the Osmanli call 
 " The Mosque of the Ascension ; " kind indeed, 
 And courteous withal, to call it so ; 45 
 
 Strange, too, that thus the proud Mahommedans 
 Should notice that Ascension, when to them, 
 In sooth, the greater place is where from earth 
 Their prophet rose to Heaven, just behind 
 Where now I sit, rose from the threshing-floor 50 
 Araunah gave to David ! Why, O Lord, 
 Are these men here? Why does the Crescent 
 
 shine 
 Where once Thy Temple in its Beauty stood, 
 Planted in Strength, by Wisdom made sublime ? 
 I cannot tell : if answer come from Thee 55 
 
 Before I sleep to-night, or if, indeed, 
 There should arise within me, as I rest 
 Upon this Sacred Hill, some monitor 
 Seeming to guide me, or some still small voice 
 Speaking within my heart, then let me. Lord, 60 
 Tell to the world what it shall tell to me !
 
 44 
 
 The Eastern sun is strong and bright and 
 
 clear, 
 And hghts the path that winds around the 
 
 Mount 
 To Bethany, which, hidden from the view, 
 Lies nesthng in a dell among the heights. 65 
 'Twas but this morning that I saw the house 
 That legend tells us was of old the home 
 Of Mary, she who " chose the better part," 
 And Martha, kindly, bustling, loving soul, 
 God bless her with her sister ! 'Twas from 
 
 there 70 
 
 That greateat of all pomps wended its way 
 Round the sharp corner of the Mount, to where 
 Our Saviour saw the City. As I think 
 Of this, there comes a little party round 
 That very path, and, halting at the spot 75 
 
 Where He Himself once stayed, gaze at the 
 
 City. 
 Of what can they be thinking, but of Him ? 
 What brings folks here from North, South, East 
 
 and West 
 Except to think of Him Who saved their souls 
 Eong, long ago ? But, when they homeward 
 
 turn, 80 
 
 And start again the business of their lives, 
 And see once more their offices, their homes, 
 Their friends, and all that makes their daily 
 
 lives, 
 Do they remember how on Olivet 
 They waited, looking at the Mount of Sion ? 85 
 
 The Eastern sun is sinking to its rest, 
 And still I feel I cannot leave this spot, 
 For on the morrow I must ride away 
 To Jaffa, whence my ship will bear me home.
 
 45 
 
 Let me then wait, until the night comes on, 90 
 
 Ere to the sacred City I return. 
 
 'Twill not be long : the twilights of the North, 
 
 That cast their silver sheen o'er English grass. 
 
 Belong not to a latitude where day 
 
 Is day and night is night. But the bright 
 
 stars 95 
 
 Shine with a lustre that we do not know 
 Who only see them gently peeping down 
 Erom English skies. Yes, the sun's disc is gone, 
 And from the minarets around I hear 
 The shrill muezzin's voice, calling aloud 100 
 " There are no Gods but God." If that were all, 
 We would re-echo back a loud Amen, 
 But Whom alone can we in truth acclaim 
 " His prophet"? Who alone is more than that — 
 His equal, nay Himself, made flesh for us ? 105 
 
 Can it be that the sun is standing still 
 As erst on Ajalon ? Or do mine eyes, 
 Weakened by too much glory, play some trick 
 With my excited brain ? It is indeed 
 An honour that might make the human eye no 
 Grow blind with awe, to see the Holy Land I 
 But things rise up before me ; whether 'tis 
 Mine eye that errs, or whether something more 
 Than human, more than natural, is here 
 Vouchsafed to seeking hearts, I cannot tell: 115 
 But true it is that there, across the vale. 
 The little band of pilgrims is transformed 
 And glorified until it seems to be 
 That pomp of pomps ; and hark, I hear the 
 
 cries 
 Of z'Vlleluia ! as the attendant throng 120 
 
 Crowd round the Man they worship. Yes, 'tis 
 
 He,
 
 46 
 
 Riding upon His ass, while "all the tribes 
 Hosanna cry." But in a mo nent all 
 fs gone, and, in its stead Mount Calvary 
 Swarms with a motley cowd, who cry in 
 
 rage 125 
 
 " Crucify Him." And yet these are the men 
 Who cried Hosanna ! There they stand, and 
 
 there 
 Are set three crosses. Wherefore three ? At 
 
 least, 
 Methinks, they might have let Him die alone I 
 Yet no, for thus our common nature showed 130 
 Nobly, for He Who took our nature on 
 Died with a man each side of Him, to show 
 That he was man as they ; living with men 
 He died with men ; so we, living for Him 
 Shall die for Him and in Him, and our flesh, 135 
 Being as His then was, shall rise again 
 And be with Him in Heaven. Aye this form 
 Of ours was fashioned in the very image 
 Of (iod Himself, and by that Purity 
 Which we may reach by prayer, we may 
 
 indeed 140 
 
 So cleanse ourselves, even as He is pure, 
 That, as His blessing saith, we " shall see God." 
 Let it be, then, our aim so to live through 
 Our mortal lives, as to come near to Him 
 Who lived that one and only perfect life ; 145 
 And what that life was we should ponder well. 
 For thirty-three short years He walked this earth, 
 Yet in those years enough example left 
 For us to walk by t'll the end of time 
 And feel our lives a void compared with it. 150 
 
 The cries I seemed to hear o'er Calvary 
 Are silent, and the stars are shining bright
 
 47 
 
 And beautiful, but cold, as though they looked 
 On earth with naught of sympathy. But see ! 
 Among those clear, cold stars, one seems to 
 
 move 155 
 
 As though some Unseen Monarch bade it stir 
 And do His will. The star is, sure, alive 
 With Spirit, not of this cold Universe, 
 But guided by a loving Hand. It moves 
 Towards Bethlehem ! Oh, do I sleep or 
 
 wake? 160 
 
 Methinks I see the shepherds follow it. 
 Until it halts above that sacred spot 
 Where He, the Holy Child, lies newly born. 
 Twelve years He lives in quiet obedience ; 
 And then a call within Him, higher still 165 
 
 Than that of earthly parents, calls Him forth 
 To where the Rabbis in the Temple sit 
 Teaching the Sacred Law. A striking scene 
 Is this, and one the Christian well may love 
 To contemplate. A boy of twelve years 
 
 old, 170 
 
 Fair-haired, if pictures err not, and with mien 
 Gentle and sad, among these Rabbis sits. 
 Asking them questions. Could those Rabbis 
 
 tell 
 Who 'twas that questioned them ? Maybe some 
 
 flash 
 I, it up their mind and showed them Whom they 
 
 saw ; 175 
 
 Maybe their eyes were darkened. Presently 
 His Mother comes. His Virgin Mother : she 
 (Perceiving not that One had called to Hini 
 A\'ho called of old to Samuel), surprised 
 To see Him there, called to him to come 
 
 home. 180 
 
 But He, Who knew that now He must begin
 
 48 
 
 That work that was to end upon the cross, 
 Stood still, and, looking at her with that love 
 A son- must bear his mother, said those words 
 Which told her that His mission had 
 
 begun : 1S5 
 
 And then she knew that He must be about 
 His Father's business. Then the scene again 
 Is changed, and where the stately fair-haired boy 
 Once stood, a man of thirty summers stands, 
 And I, who know, throughout my dream, how 
 
 He 190 
 
 Will be before me, even to His death. 
 Recognise Him, Who died for you, for me, 
 For all ; I see Him Perfect Man, Who yet 
 Is Perfect God ; and, seeing Him, I know 
 That all I have is His, and His alone. 195 
 
 Aye, all I have is His, as Perfect Man ; 
 Even if we, in our Theology, 
 Are using words while knowing not the sense, 
 In saying He is Perfect God ; yet I 
 Know Him to be that Perfect God. But 
 
 those 200 
 
 Whose minds are different to mine, can know 
 How I feel, if they think of how one loves 
 One's monarch whom one serves, whom one 
 
 asks not 
 Why this war is declared, and why not that. 
 But merely follows, as a child the sire 205 
 
 Whom he reveres. So those to whom Our Lord 
 Is Man alone (God help them in the hour 
 Of death and day of Judgment), yet can tell 
 How Loyalty can make me love Him. Yes, 
 What soldier does for king, I do for Him 210 
 As Man ; but, as He stands before me here, 
 I know, as Peter knew, that here I see 
 My Lord, my God.
 
 49 
 
 And now begins that holy ministry 
 Which for three years, throughout this Sacred 
 
 Land, 215 
 
 Made wide His name, Who cured the maniacs, 
 The paralytic, and the blind and deaf 
 Who sought Him, so that pen could never write 
 All that He did, if all were set straight down, 
 Wonders and miracles. Aye, God forbid 220 
 That I should so presume upon the light 
 This drej^m affords me as to try to tell 
 What He has let me fancy. Let it be 
 Enough to say tliat here, before mine eyes 
 (Those eyes which God has given to the 
 
 mind 225 
 
 Of those who love him), stands one thing at 
 
 least : — 
 His Life ; that all should follow, though all 
 
 know 
 They cannot reach it. First, then, at the feast 
 Of Cana, when the water in the; pots 
 Was turned to wine, we see Him as a Man 230 
 Who fled not, lil^e ^ hermit, from the scenes 
 Of human happiness and earthly joy ; 
 Nay, more. He did not only join as guest 
 In Cana's wedding-feast, but here He wrought 
 The miracle that we record as first 235 
 
 Of all Hi?. miracles, to make that feast 
 Complete and happy. Thus, if one shall say 
 Xhat wine, " which maketh glad the heart of 
 
 man," 
 Ts of the Devil, or should be accursed. 
 We point to Him, and to that water w'hich 240 
 " Blushed crimson as it saw its God." Again 
 The scene is changed, and now I see those cures 
 He wrought on lame and dumb and blind, and 
 
 those ' 
 
 3
 
 5° 
 
 Possessed by devils — cures so many that, 
 
 If all were written down, this world of ours 245 
 
 Would not contain the books that should be 
 
 writ. 
 Miracle after miracle is wrought, 
 But not by miracles shall He be Loved ; 
 The miracles show forth His mighty power, 
 Which, working for the Good is honoured, 250 
 But, if His miracles compel our Faith 
 That He was more than Man, 'tis not for them 
 We love Him, 'tis because His life was all 
 One long-continued deed of Mercy, done 
 For us for that great Love He bore us, so 255 
 That we, remembering what He has done 
 May do to one another, if we can, 
 And in our feeble, mortal way, the same. 
 
 For three long years — long and yet short 
 
 withal. 
 Long in events, yet short in time — He 
 
 walked 260 
 
 This earth, and did these things ; and some 
 
 believed. 
 But most believed not. They rather burned 
 With jealousy, seeing the things He did 
 And yet mistrusting Him ; for, seeing, they 
 Did not perceive ; nay, wondering, they 
 
 sought 265 
 
 Some cause of blame against Him, but found 
 
 none. 
 
 Why doubted they that Lord Who called to 
 them 
 So lovingly? Perchance His life was not 
 The life that they supposed to be foretold 
 By them of olden time; for that strait sect 270
 
 51 
 
 To whom 'twas given to explain the Books 
 
 Written by Moses and those holy men 
 
 Whose mouths the Lord had tilled with the Truth, 
 
 Had made the Word of God of no account 
 
 By their traditions; thus Isaiah's words 275 
 
 ;Had, by interpretation's aid, been turned 
 
 So as to darken rather than bring light. 
 
 Thus He^ Whom all the Prophets, had they 
 
 lived . , K/'l ..■■■ 
 To see Him, would have worshipped as their 
 
 King, ■: 
 Their long-looked-for Messiah — nay, their 
 
 God— 280 
 
 Was doubted, sneered at, hated, done to death 
 (Against the Roman ruler's wish), by those 
 Who should have been the first to welcome Him, 
 And see in Him the One of Whom they taught 
 The coming. Thus it is, when simple Truth 285 
 Is given over to the custody 
 Of any ^ichool of men, we find those men 
 Will turn it as they will, and order us 
 To hold it. as they turn it. Can we blame 
 The Jews, if they believed their learned 
 
 guides ,- 290 
 
 Rather than Christ ? Had we been living then, 
 Brought up by Pharisees, learning with care 
 Their subtle readings of the Prophets' words. 
 Should we at once have turned to follow Him, 
 Who, meek and poor, dwelt in our midst, and 
 
 did -f. . 29s 
 
 These works amongst us ? No, like thoser who 
 
 sought ■•. 
 To kill Him, so should we ourselves have done. 
 
 But all he did on earth is written down 
 By those whose, pens have felt the Holy hand
 
 52 
 
 Shaping the letters as they wrote them down. 300 
 I turn to those last days He spent on earth, 
 Those days which, after ihe triumphant song 
 " Hosanna in the highest " had been sung, 
 Passed over Him with slow and heavy hours. 
 Just at the foot of Olivet there lies 305 
 
 The Garden of Gethsemane, the place 
 Most dear to all who love our Saviour Christ 
 Of all the spots in Palestine, for here, 
 In this sweet Garden we can see Him Man, 
 Bearing with pain and grief His weight of 
 
 woe, 310 
 
 Praying to God that, if 'twere possible 
 The cup might pass from Him, yet willing too 
 To drink it dry, doing His Father's will 
 And not His own. And in that noble prayer 
 He summed up all religion in one breath — 315 
 For, while we pray for health and strength and 
 
 all 
 For which we live, we know that God above 
 Knows what we need better than we ourselves 
 Can tell Him, Even if, upon our knees 
 In all humility, we ask the life 320 
 
 Of some one dear to us, a wife, a son, 
 Or daughter, still we ought to say, with Christ, 
 " Not my will. Lord, but Thine be done," and 
 
 then 
 Bow with content to what He wills shall be. 
 He Who, at Cana's wedding-feast rejoiced 325 
 With those who joyed, now shows that He can 
 
 mourn 
 With those who mourn — a nearer, dearer tie. 
 
 To paint the scene within those garden walls 
 Is more, I fear, than mortal's pen should try ; 
 Vet, just as mortals painters have essayed 330
 
 53 
 
 To paint His face, so pen of man may hope 
 Not to offend, if, after patient thought, 
 It strive to tell what picture was retained 
 Upon my mind, as, sitting here, I saw, 
 As in a vision, what this Garden held 335 
 
 That evening. There, beneath that olive tree 
 (Which, legend tells us, is the same we see 
 To-day), our Saviour knelt, and there He prayed 
 That, if 'twere possible, the cup might pass 
 From Him, yet would not thwart His Father's 
 
 will. 340 
 
 And whom of His apostles do we see 
 With Him ? First Peter, he to whom our Lord 
 Revealed Himself as God, to whom was made 
 The glorious promise that upon that Rock 
 Should rest the Christian Church. 'Twas he 
 
 who first 345 
 
 Acclaimed his Master as his Lord and God, 
 'Twas he who first denied Him. Passing strange 
 These characters of ours, that sometimes rise 
 Almost to Heaven, and then sink again 
 Below the earth ; one moment communing 350 
 With thoughts inspired by God, and then, alas ! 
 Falling to earth, forgetting all that He 
 Has taught us ; so it was with Peter, here 
 He sleeps, but not alone, for, by his side 
 Two others lie, — oh, is it possible 355 
 
 That while He prays, they sleep ? Yes, there 
 
 they lie 
 Peter and James and John ; and th.ere he found 
 Them lying when He turned for sympathy 
 F>om human hearts, after the awful hours 
 Of agony. 'Twas cruelty enough 360 
 
 In all the three, but most of all in him 
 " Whom Jesus loved," and whom all Christian 
 
 men
 
 54 
 
 Love also; that St. John who afterwards 
 
 Left us his noble gospel, he who taught 
 
 All nations that the Word was God. How 
 
 then 365 
 
 Could he, within whose heart such seed had 
 
 ta'en 
 Deep root, whose very being was imbued 
 With that great inspiration that has made 
 His words so dear, have gone to sleep that eve? 
 
 In this, methinks we have our answer 
 
 He 370 
 
 Was man as I am ; and his love for Christ, 
 Though high and pure, higher than most of us 
 Perhaps can reach, yet did not fill his life 
 So as to drive away all other thoughts ; 
 Thus, boylike — for he was a boy — St. John 375 
 (As now we call him in the'Catholic 
 And Apostolic Church) forgot his Lord 
 In other thoughts and fancies, such as might 
 At any time have seized upon his brain. 
 And led his thoughts away as prisoners. 380 
 How could his youthful mind, his wayward 
 
 thoughts. 
 Take in the awfulness of that dread hour ? 
 He knew not that the servants of the Priest 
 Were seeking for the Master Whom he loved 
 To seize Him, and to lead Him to His 
 
 death. 385 
 
 Thus with St. Peter and St. James he slept, 
 Until the Master came, and gently said, 
 "Could ye not wait one -hour? "And then 
 
 there came 
 The servants of the Priest, to take our Lord, 
 Coming as though   against a thief, with 
 
 swords . 390
 
 55 
 
 And staves. When Peter saw them, in his 
 
 shame 
 At his forgetfuhiess, he once again 
 Forgot himself, and in impulsive mood 
 Scarce knowing what he did, seizing a sword 
 He smote a servant of the Jewish Priest, 395 
 Not killing him, but cutting off his ear. 
 Again our Lord rebuked him, telling him 
 That those who took the sword, should by the 
 
 sword 
 Perish. Thus twice within a brief half-hour 
 He upon whom the Church was to l)e built 400 
 Gave proof of mortal frailty ! Should not this 
 Make brave our hearts to sink not when we fail 
 From weakness or forgetfulness ; for we. 
 Failing, may feel the spirit willing, though 
 The flesh is weak ? Tis the greatest souls, 405 
 Sometimes, who fail the oftenest ; for those 
 Whose cautious steps are but the messengers 
 Of sluggish minds and feeble hearts, may tread 
 More carefully, and thus with fewer slips. 
 And with less pain and labour, wend their 
 
 way ; 410 
 
 But these mount not so high as those who climb 
 And fall, and climb again, and fall again 
 And climb once more. Indeed, each time they 
 
 fall 
 They learn how 'twas they fell, and thus, from 
 
 shame. 
 From pride, but most of all from love of Him 415 
 Who beckons to them still, forgiving them . 
 As Peter was forgiven, they rise at last 
 Higher than those who, on a lower path ' J 
 Do little harm and little good, and crawl 
 Where others walk, and walk where others 
 
 fly : 420
 
 56 
 
 Peter could climb and fall ; to-day he falls, 
 But afterwards ! — Ah, let the Christian world 
 Tell us how high he climbed ! how, but for him, 
 The Church of Christ could not have shone so 
 bright ! 
 
 But while St. Peter in his rage struck off 425 
 The Chief Priest's servant's ear, what did St. 
 
 John ? 
 Ah, could we penetrate that gentle breast 
 And see the wounds that tore that noble heart, 
 We might behold the fixed and deep resolve 
 To live and die for Christ and Him alone 430 
 Planting itself within him ; we might trace 
 The first true kindling of that flame of love 
 So soon to turn the boy into a saint. 
 The youth whom Jesus loved into the Knight 
 Who fought for Him ! But thoughts like those 
 
 which stirred 435 
 
 His soul that moment cannot be expressed 
 By those in whom the dross of this worlds 
 
 thoughts 
 Is not so purged away and purified 
 As to enable them to see the bright 
 But steady flame his heart contained that 
 
 day. 440 
 
 We turn to those sad scenes that happened next, 
 When He Who saved the world, was by the world 
 Mocked, evilly entreated, scourged and slain. 
 Could not the men who did these awful deeds 
 Have read their prophecies ? And did they 
 
 think 445 
 
 That some impostor rode around that Mount 
 Into the City through the Golden Gate, 
 Or did their consciences, throughout it all. 
 Prick them with some dim sense of what they did ?
 
 57 
 
 We have His words "They know not what they 
 do;" 450 
 
 Yet Pilate, he who sat above the crowd 
 Of shouting Jews, and wielded with his arms 
 The Majesty of Rome ; who only wished 
 To do his duty as a Roman should 
 Who rules a province ; he who should have 
 done 455 
 
 Justice alone, nor more, nor less, did naught, 
 But let the grim fanatics have their way. 
 It was the custom at the yearly feast 
 That one of those in prison for their crimes 
 Should be released: and Pilate, wishing still 460 
 To help the Christ he knew to be a man 
 Innocent of all wrong, asked of the Jews 
 Whom they would have; hoping that very shame 
 Would make them seize this "place of penitence" 
 Offered so freely. They, who knew not 
 
 shame, 465 
 
 Asked for a robber, one Barabbas, who. 
 Traitor, as well as robber, yet appeared 
 More honourable in their eyes than Christ ! 
 Then Pilate, who, though wishing to do right, 
 Yet "feared the people," let Barabbas go ; 470 
 And thus the might and majesty of Rome 
 Were prostituted to the Rabbis' rage. 
 Now in the watches of the silent night, 
 Before that awful morning, Pilate's wife 
 Had seen, as in a vision, many things 475 
 
 About this Christ ; and in this wondrous dream, 
 Or vision, she had " suffered." Ah, what things 
 She saw we cannot tell. Perchance some ray 
 Of prophecy, like those which erstwhile touched 
 Isaiah and Ezekiel, may have been 480 
 
 Vouchsafed to her ; she may have seen the days 
 To come, when He, Who then was to appear
 
 58 
 
 Before her husband's judgment-sea*, would be ' 
 Worshipped by mighty miUions as their Lord ! 
 If this were so, she may have seen before! "485 •' 
 Her slumbering eyes the march of centuries ; - 
 She may have seen how that Imperial Rom6, ^ 
 Whose eagles floated o'er her husband's chair, 
 Would in the days to come be tenanted 
 By one whose proudest title would be writ 490 
 " The servant of the servants of the Lord ! " 
 
 O let us think upon her dream that night, 
 While Pilate slumbered calmly, free from care. 
 To little children it is sometimes given 
 To vaguely dream of God — that God of 
 
 whom 495 
 
 They learn at mother's knee ; but children's 
 
 dream Sj 
 Though sweet as fairyland, have not that Light 
 Of truth, as well as truthfulness, which -God 
 Vouchsafed to her : nor even are the dreams 
 The merciful Almighty sometimes grants 500 
 To older people, whose world-weary minds ; 
 Cannot bring Him before them when awake, 
 But who may get a little glimpse in sleep 
 Of Him Who bears their sorrows, like to hers 
 To whom 'twas given to behold the truth 505 
 That wondrous night. What was it that she 
 
 saw ? 
 If to those eyes within, v;hich see the best 
 When those pink lids are shut, which guard in 
 
 rest 1 
 
 The eyes that look without, there came that 
 
 night 
 Such knowledge as no other can have 
 
 learnt ; 510 
 
 If to her mind, on waking, there remained
 
 59 
 
 That deep impression that we may suppose 
 
 Was printed there that night, she might have told 
 
 All to the end that on this world should be ; 
 
 And we, who struggle in a cloud of doubt, 515 
 
 Asking why after eighteen centuries 
 
 So many problems should encompass us. 
 
 May envy her ! Let us consider well 
 
 What, through the veil that covers us, she saw. 
 
 First, it may be, appeared the awful scene 520 
 On Calvary ; then, 'mid the cruel men 
 Who would have persecuted to the death 
 Those who remained His faithful followers. 
 There rose the figure of one named Saul, 
 A Roman citizen, and yet brought up 525 
 
 A Pharisee of Pharisees. St. Paul, 
 As now we call him, was the chief of those, 
 Who (blinded by that hate that sometimes fills 
 The best of minds, the very minds that soon 
 Will love those things they tried to hate), was 
 
 first 530 
 
 Of those who tried to kill the Christian Church. 
 But, just as minds that most reject and spurn 
 A new idea as dangerous or false, 
 May yet in time come round and see the wrong 
 That they have heedless wrought, so did that 
 
 mind 535 
 
 Receive in full what weaker men receive 
 More easily but less abundantly. 
 One night St. Peter lay on Jaffa's shore, 
 That rocky coast where still all ships nmst halt 
 A full half-mile from shore ; and as he lay 540 
 It seemed that from above there came a net 
 Filled full of divers animals, unclean 
 As well as clean. He, as a pious Jew, 
 Liked not to eat those beasts which Jewish law
 
 6o 
 
 Regarded as unclean, but from above , 545 
 
 There came a voice, saying, " What God hath 
 
 cleansed ' 
 
 That call thou not unclean ! " Then Peter rose 
 And eat. About this time, what we call chance. 
 But rather ought to call the hand of God, 
 Directed Saul, when he was journeying 550 
 
 Unto Damascus, there to persecute 
 The followers of Christ ; and, as he went 
 Struck him with sudden blindness. Then there 
 
 came 
 That great awakening, that greatest fact 
 Of history, except the Life of Christ ; 555 
 
 That which, except His life, most brought about 
 The life, and early growth, and lovely health 
 Of Early Christianity : that night 
 The Persecutor left his former life, 
 And changed his mind, his heart, his blood, 
 his all ! 560 
 
 Strange that the very man who, as' a Jew, 
 A Pharisee of Pharisees, imbued 
 With all the law taught by Gamaliel, ' ' 
 Spurned with disgust that very law's fulfilment, — 
 Yet, once convinced that Christ was God in- 
 deed, • 565 
 Turned to Him, and thereafter s.erved Him well ; 
 In prison oft, and oft in stripes ; indeed, 
 He died a prisoner, and thus prepared. 
 Together with St. Peter, the strait path 
 Of Christianity ; St. Paul might plant, 570 
 Or might Apollos water, yet 'tVvas God 
 Who gave the increase ! •''■''' 
 
 As years roll on, the Church, like ^ome young 
 child, 
 Grows taller day by day ; through perils dire
 
 6t 
 
 And persecutions cruel she struggled on, 575 
 Until, from being persecuted by 
 The other creeds, she then in turn became 
 A persecutor 1 Oh, my God, my Clod, . 
 Could it be this that Pilate's wife beheld 
 When she lay dreaming through that wondrous 
 
 night? 580 
 
 Can it be this from which she " suffered " ? 
 
 Aye, 
 If 'twas, we cannot wonder ! Mortal words 
 Are weak to tell the horror, the disgrace, 
 The awful infamy, the utter shame 
 That stained the noble creed of Jesus Christ ! 585 
 Up to this very day, what Englishman 
 Can speak the name of Spain without a thought 
 Of horrors so ineffable, so dire, 
 That on them rests that strong resentment which 
 Has made us what we are ? These deeds of 
 
 shame 590 
 
 Have now died out in Europe, but the thoughts 
 From which they sprang are living still ; and 
 
 men 
 Who bear the name of Christ, — upon whose 
 
 brows 
 His sign has been imprinted, — think they do 
 Their God a service when they persecute 595 
 Those who interpret Christianity 
 In methods other than their own ! But not 
 At first did this grim horror rear its head 
 Like some fell nightmare o'er her tortured brain. 
 For many ages first had passed ; the age 600 
 Of Cyril, of Augustine, Hippo's saint ; 
 And that Augustine, who, in later years, 
 Was sent to Albion, to plant therein 
 A Saxon Church. How beautiful the tale 
 We hear of how his mission came to pass ! 605
 
 62 
 
 The early British Church had been o'erthrown 
 By Teuton pagans from the forest lands 
 Of Germany and Denmark ; and it chanced 
 That two young boys from Pagan England's 
 
 shores 
 Were lying prisoners in mighty Rome. 6io 
 
 The Pontiff Gregory, in robes of white, 
 Chanced to be passing by, and at his side 
 There walked Augustine. When the Pontiff saw 
 The English boys, whose curly, flaxen hair 
 And light blue eyes betokened Northern birth, 
 
 615 
 He asked the dealer who had charge of them 
 
 From whence they came, and what the boys 
 
 were called. 
 
 ■" Atig/i," replied the man ; and, with a smile, 
 
 " Non Angli" cried the Pope, " sed Angeii" 
 
 And then more sadly added ^^forent si 620 
 
 Fuissent Christiani I " Then outspoke 
 
 Augustine, and that mission was begun 
 
 That brought the Saxons to the Fold of Christ. 
 
 But see ! What now appears upon the scene? 
 Marauding hosts from Eastern lands press 
 
 on, 625 
 
 And on the banners o'er their armies waves 
 A Golden Crescent ! Can it be that these 
 Will take and sack the City of our King ? 
 Aye, that indeed they will ; but, through the 
 
 length 
 .^.nd breadth of Europe runs a flame of fire, 630 
 And Kings and Princes with their gallant knights 
 Struggle in noble rivalry to free 
 The land of Christ from Paynim's bloody hand. 
 For in those days of Faith men did not count 
 The cost of what they did for Jesus Christ, 635
 
 63 
 
 But left their homes, their lands, their wives, 
 
 their all, •'';'"'■ ■; ,^^,, 
 
 To free His country from the Paynim ydke'. 
 And for a while — 'twas only eighty years— ^' 
 Jerusalem was held again by those 
 Whose sword-hilts bore the Cross^ and then the 
 
 wave 640 
 
 Of Moslem victory rushed on again ; 
 For countless hordes poured on and on, until 
 The little band that held the Sacred Mount 
 Was overwhelmed, and thus a second time 
 The Crescent floated o'er Jerusalem. 645 
 
 For many years the Christians tried in vain 
 To win it back, nor was it e'er regained : 
 But though the INIoslem arms swept back the 
 
 Knights 
 Who fought for Christ, and though the Crescent 
 
 stands 
 Over the Mosque of Omar to this day — 650 
 Yet those same qualities of heart and mind 
 That led the Knights of old to Palestine 
 Were not crushed out by Moslem nor by Fiend, 
 But grew and flourished and were handed down 
 From sire to son ; and many a valiant deed 655 
 Of true, unselfish heroism tells 
 That our Crusading spirit is not dead. 
 First of the qualities that then shone forth 
 Was loyalty : not, as of yore, to King 
 Or country only, but besides all this, 660 
 
 Besides thii5 ancient loyalty, 'twas now 
 Felt for a high ideal — such as was 
 The fight for Palestine. And from this age 
 Of Chivalry, as now we call it, sprung 
 Another noble virtue, reverence 665 
 
 For holy things, and pity for the weak, 
 And much beside ; though Palestine itself
 
 64 
 
 Was lost, perchance for ever, or perchance 
 Till the Lost Children shall be gathered in 
 By Christ, and then sent back to Canaan's 
 shore. 670 
 
 Ah ! those Lost Children ! Terrible it is 
 That still some Christian nations should be 
 
 found 
 To persecute with cruel penal laws, 
 And yet more cruel insults, that same race 
 Of which was born their Saviour ! Even 
 
 Spain 675 
 
 No longer does so, though there was a time 
 When she was worst among the worst ; but now 
 'Tis from the ice-bound North we hear the cry 
 Of Judah's suffering ; that North where reigns, 
 In sombre Majesty, the "Great White Czar.' 680 
 He, terrified if left an hour alone, 
 Afraid to walk the streets without a guard, 
 Trembling amid his crowd of courtiers 
 Lest one should be a traitor, yet presumes 
 To persecute the seed of Abraham, 685 
 
 Hounding them to the death ! And yet perhaps 
 It is not he himself who wishes this ; 
 But rather, terrified and half insane 
 From agonising fright, he has to loose 
 The dogs that otherwise might turn and 
 
 rend 690 
 
 Their master, so that they may turn their fangs 
 Against defenceless citizens. But why 
 Does Russia thus detest and persecute 
 The sons of Israel ? Do not the priests. 
 Who stir this hatred up, ponder the words 695 
 Of Balaam, when he looked upon the tents 
 Of Israel, commanded by the King 
 To curse ! Have they forgotten how the seer,
 
 65 
 
 *'The man whose eyes are opened," spoke that 
 
 day? 
 Let them think well of how he blessed the 
 
 race 700 
 
 Balak had brought him there to curse, and how 
 He spoke the wondrous words, "Blessed is he 
 Who blesseth thee," and eke " Cursed is he 
 Who curseth thee." Is Russia blest or cursed? 
 Let Russians answer ! If 'tis blest to, be 705 
 Corroded by corruption, they are blest ! 
 If it be blest to hold within themselves, 
 As marks that cannot change, the seeds of war 
 Against their fellows and against their King, 
 Wherein th' assassin's dagger meets the 
 
 sword 7 I c 
 
 Of stern authority, while dynamite 
 Destroys the Palaces that serfs have built 
 For tyrants —if all this be blessing, then 
 Is Russia blest who persecutes the Jews. 
 
 But there is one more vista, one more 
 scene 715 
 
 That may have been unfolded in the dream 
 Of Pilate's wife that wondrous night. The foes 
 Of Christianity no longer fight 
 With armour and with sword, but from within 
 Her fold there come some secret enemies, 720 
 Who, calling themselves by the Name of Christ 
 Yet care not for His doctrines. Worse again 
 Are those who, having been indeed brought up 
 [n faith, yet, losing it themselves, attack 
 The faith of others, and proclaim aloud 725 
 
 That which the fool said only in his heart, 
 "There is no God." For e'en the fool had 
 
 sense 
 To keep locked up within his foolish breast
 
 66 
 
 A sentiment' s8i worthy of "the beasts 
 
 That perish " ; but these men of modern 
 
 timdS'^^' ■-'''' 730 
 
 Proclaim as from the housetops their new creed, 
 That we are apes, that (lod is not, that, when 
 Our bodies die, no more is' left of us ! 
 And some there are who say they do not know 
 If God is or is not, and choose a new 735 
 
 Greek name, "Agnostic,"— sounding better far 
 Than Latin " ignoramus," though it means 
 The same — and then look down with calm 
 
 contempt 
 Upon the followers of Jesus Christ. 
 Our young are poisoned by the specious 
 
 .words 740 
 
 Of men like these ; but we are comforted 
 When we remember how the promise runs 
 Which tells us how the yawning gates of Hell 
 Shall not prevail against the Christian Church ! 
 Aye, when Our Lord returned to Heaven 
 
 above 745 
 
 He did not leave His children comfortless, 
 But sent to comfort us that Holy Ghost 
 Who watches o'er the Apostolic Church ; 
 And He, Who doth His sevenfold gifts impart. 
 Is always with the Church. A little child 750 
 Receives a drop of water on his brow. 
 And in that water is the grace bestowed 
 By God the Holy Spirit. Later on 
 The child is edified and grows in faith 
 Till from the Bishop's hands he takes again 755 
 The quickening grace, and then is free to seek 
 The Table of our Lord, thereat to taste 
 The gifts unspeakable that Christ provides 
 For those who truly love Him. Then to those 
 Who wish to take upon themselves the vows 760
 
 67 
 
 Of ordination as Christ's ministers 
 The Spirit gives yet higher things ; but all 
 May be confirmed, and seek the altar rails, 
 For though our Saviour is no more on earth 
 As Man, He still comes near us in our 
 prayers 765 
 
 And in our Sacraments ; near as He was 
 When erst as Man He trod yon holy Mount 
 Of Olives, and the shouting throng of Jews 
 Cried out Hosanna ! Nor until He comes 
 Again in clouds of glory, will the Church 770 
 Be left without these gifts, which make, indeed, 
 The essence of an Apostolic Church ; 
 For we below, who wait His coming, know 
 That He is near in Spirit, helping us 
 To worship God in Spirit and in Truth. 775 
 
 N. P.
 
 POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 R. C. FILLINGHAM, 
 
 VICAR OF HEXTON.
 
 REQUIEM. 
 
 Muffled bells that beat the air, 
 
 White-robed choir the church within, 
 
 Window-light and taper-glare, 
 Mass for unremembered sin : 
 
 Cross upraised with jewels fair, 
 Studded bright with many a gem : 
 
 Voices that one burden bear, 
 ''Requiem ! '^ 
 
 Could the dead man rise and see 
 All the pomp about him here. 
 
 Faces gazing listlessly, 
 
 Eyes undimmed of any tear ! 
 
 No man's voice sounds mournlully 
 Save the hireling voice of them 
 
 Chanting, " Dona, Doini?ie, 
 Requiem .' 
 
 Lo, the pall about him spread, 
 Lo, the lily-blooms that He : 
 
 Hark, the anthem of the dead ! 
 " From the deep, O Lord, I cry, 
 
 Put his life's frail sins away, 
 
 Nor his guilt-soiled soul condemn. 
 
 Grant him in Thy Judgment Day 
 Requiem^ 
 
 " Grant him, Lord, eternal rest." 
 Such the anthem-burden. Nay, 
 
 Sorry prayer from fruitless breast, 
 For a gift bestowed to pray !
 
 72 
 
 Is not life but toil at best ? 
 Is not death its diadem ? 
 Priests, ye sing in bitter jest, 
 '■'■Requiem" 
 
 Pray for rest in life's wan days, 
 
 Hush your chant when life is o'er : 
 
 Greet sweet Death with songs of praise ; 
 Rise from off the chancel floor : 
 
 Thank sweet; Death with holy lays, 
 Strive to kiss his garment's hem : 
 
 Death has given,, of^his.gQod grace, 
 Requiem. ,'..\\-y;.-\ 
 
 IN THE CORNFIELD. 
 
 Amid the corn, here and there,, 
 
 Red poppies stood,: 
 Soon from earth would summer fare. 
 
 Corn be reaped for food. 
 
 "What do, ye here, O. poppies red?" 
 
 Whispered low the corn. : 
 " We give our life that men, be fed. 
 
 New men be born,. ! (;:■■.■(.'■   
 We of life the symbol are. 
 
 Ye of death pnly, ;, 
 
 Why stay ye not, from us afar^ 
 
 Distant and lonely,?,'.' A 
 
 So on a breezy d.-^y I eard ti3 : > • , 
 Saw it in anger sway : , , 
 
 Then, as their petals drooped forlorn. 
 Thus I heard the poppies say : ,
 
 73 
 
 '' There is no light of Hfe, 
 
 But Death's behind it. 
 No joy, but pain and strife, 
 
 Soon, soon shall find it. 
 We, who tell of death and sleep, 
 
 Witness that this is truth : 
 That man nor joy nor life may keep, 
 
 Fate knows no ruth." 
 
 Then the corn bowed its golden head. 
 
 Bowed low, for token 
 That the sad words the poppies said 
 
 Were meetly spoken. 
 
 THE VINEYARD. 
 
 If to His vineyard God should come to-day. 
 
 To mark the travail of each labourer, 
 And note how each had fared upon his way. 
 
 To each reward of labour to confer. 
 How should He find us ? Us, who rise to play 
 
 Long ere the evening breeze begins to stir 
 Amid the trees, and where the sea is grey : 
 
 What should the soul say to Him ? He to 
 her? 
 
 " Ah, Lord, defer Thy coming ! So the soul 
 
 Must often cry, till she remembereth 
 That He who comes will come to make her 
 whole. 
 Her dying life to quicken with His breath. 
 And then, " Why tarrieth my Lord ? " she saith. 
 And saith, " His chariot wheels still nearer 
 roll." 
 
 4
 
 74 
 
 N.B. — TIic writer is not respo>isi/>le for the 
 opi)noiis of his f^uppcts. 
 
 THEOLOCiY. 
 
 Scene : The chamhers of Anglicmius in Graves Inn 
 
 Anoi.uanus : 
 
 You're looking chippy, dear old chap, 
 
 It wasn't last night's feeding. 
 You didn't patronise our tap, 
 
 Your mouth had ne'er a weed in ; 
 You left the room at nine, I think — 
 
 It wasn't later, surely ? 
 So it's not smoke, it can't be drink 
 
 That makes you sulk demurely. 
 
 DuBius : 
 
 Old chap, I'm puzzled what to think : 
 
 I own I'm feeling chippy ; 
 No, it's not smoke, it isn't drink 
 
 That makes me glum and hippy. 
 A ghost I laid ten years ago 
 
 From tomb again has risen ; 
 I've often said : " Man cannot know 
 
 If when the soul from prison 
 Is loosed, she'll live or ever sleep, 
 
 In slumber nought discerning." 
 But now from out its grave-place deep 
 
 The ancient ghost returning, 
 Says : " Here's the question after all, 
 
 The question most insistent : 
 Does not the voice of reason call, 
 
 With hue and cry persistent,
 
 75 
 
 The thinking being to desert 
 
 Each faith that is a new one, 
 And join, for earthly weal or hurt, 
 
 The Church of Rome, the true one ? " 
 The end of Hfe, the end of death, 
 
 Have seemed to me uncertain, 
 But what if Rome with surety saith 
 
 That she can raise the curtain ? 
 That she can tell me what's inside 
 
 The darkness pierced by no man, 
 And so I ought to take for guide 
 
 The only Church, the Roman ? 
 
 Incuriosus : 
 
 The question of what Church to join. 
 
 It IS a flimsy question. 
 Produced by pain in head or loin, 
 
 Produced by indigestion ; 
 A morbid, dull imagining 
 
 Of people who are whimsy, 
 A really despicable thing, 
 
 By Pattison called "flimsy." 
 
 DuBnjs : 
 
 Not if we've got immortal souls ; 
 
 We musn't have assumption ; 
 If life should.have immortal goals. 
 
 Then there are fair presumptions 
 To make us think, since man alone 
 
 Found not the goals nor knew them, 
 God sends a guide from His high throne 
 
 To lead us surely to them. 
 
 An(;licanus : 
 
 O, nonsense ! not the Church of Rome, 
 With all her new device:? !
 
 76 
 
 You'll never find in her a home, 
 
 Poor fly whom she entices ! 
 I can't conceive how any man 
 
 Who's in his sober senses, 
 And knows her history, ever can 
 
 Accept her false pretences ; 
 She's not the ancient Church, nor true : 
 
 You cannot think of going 
 To seek a Church that's ever new. 
 
 Whose creed is always growing ! 
 
 DuBius : 
 
 But growth's a sign of life, my friend ; 
 The tree that grows not's dying. 
 
 Anglicanus : 
 But when shall growth like this have end ? 
 
 DuBius : 
 
 If on the Word relying, 
 She's led from truth to sweeter truth, 
 
 A vessel of election. 
 The Spirit is her guide, in sooth. 
 
 The end shall be perfection. 
 
 Incuriosus : 
 
 You talk in an unwonted vein, 
 
 You put it well and neatly ; 
 But it's a fancy of the brain, 
 
 'Twill pass away completely. 
 You'll live the old life as before, 
 
 \'our ancient haunts will know you : 
 The club, bar-parlour, stage's door ; 
 
 And reason soon will show you
 
 77 
 
 It's wrong to fidget o'er the soul, 
 
 And worry with the question 
 Of how to reach some unknown goal — 
 
 It's mental indigestion. 
 
 Anglicanus : 
 
 For me, I like the " stage's door " 
 (As you, for rhyme's sake, term it; 
 
 The club, the pub, the sanded floor 
 I'd be no fasting hermit. 
 
 So I, in England's Church, have both, 
 My mutton, wine, and salmon. 
 
 My world, and my religious troth 
 
 Incuriosus : 
 Vou serve both God and mammon ? 
 
 DuRius : 
 
 And so did I ; but now awhile 
 
 The future comes before me, 
 Dead friendly faces seem to smile, 
 
 Dead wistful eyes implore me 
 To meet again beyond the grave. 
 
 Then o'er me comes the feeling 
 That there's one Church to guide and save. 
 
 The Face of God revealing, 
 God's tree, whereon His birds may perch 
 
 For shelter, consolation 
 
 Anglicanus ; 
 
 /INGLICANUS : 
 
 But why not in the English Church 
 Find, if you want, salvation ?
 
 7« 
 
 Oui'.ius: 
 
 The Church of England ? No, my friend, 
 
 If I must make selection 
 What road to choose, I will not wend 
 
 My way towards a section, 
 A fragment of the Church at best. 
 
 In hopeless isolation. 
 Not there the thinking mind finds rest, 
 
 The yearning heart salvation ; 
 J'he world-wide Church of Rome for me. 
 
 The Ancient Church, no other. 
 Whose arms stretch out from sea to sea — 
 
 Man's helper, mistress, mother ! 
 O how she comes before mine eyes. 
 
 Immortal and eternal. 
 Her feet on earth, within the skies 
 
 Her lovely face supernal ! 
 O how she conquering takes her way 
 
 From Rome's eternal city, 
 Until she makes the world obey. 
 
 Till monarchs seek her pity ! 
 She takes and gives the conqueror's crown. 
 
 Earth's rulers bow before her ; 
 The untamed lion-heart bows down 
 
 In reverence to adore her. 
 And yet, her gifts of grace in hand. 
 
 For future and for present, 
 By yonder pallet see her stand, 
 
 To soothe the dying peasant. 
 
 Church of high and Church of low ! 
 O mother of the ages ! 
 
 If e'er I move, to her I'll go. 
 
 With pooi- men, monarchs, sages ; 
 
 1 listen — almost hear her speak 
 
 To the worn heart salvation :
 
 79 
 
 Don't think, my friend, I mean to seek 
 The church of one small nation. 
 
 Incuriosus : 
 
 Well, here's an outburst ! Bless my heart 
 Old chap, you are a rare 'un ; 
 
 But the advice I would impart — 
 Old fellow, keep your hair on ! 
 
 Your stomach's out of sorts to-day ; 
 That, not your soul, wants healing. 
 
 DuBius : 
 
 There may be truth in what you say, 
 
 And this a passing feeling ; 
 At all events, I'll say no more : 
 
 Emotion does seem rotten 
 In this late age ; and I'm a bore. 
 
 Incuriosus : 
 That's right ! 'your hair you've got on ! 
 
 Angi,icanus : 
 Past six ! I dine at seven to-day. 
 
 Incuriosus : 
 
 Well, come, you two hard hitters ; 
 The " Yorkshire Grey's " across the away, 
 Let's have a gin and bitters.
 
 8o 
 
 poLirics. 
 
 Scene : Undtrmiter s rooms, looking on the Embankment. 
 
 Fadler : 
 
 The sunshine hath a softer hue : 
 
 Red in the copse is every spray, 
 Red leaves the sodden pathway strew : 
 
 Ah, hectic is the year's decay ! 
 The year lies on its dying bed, 
 
 A funeral dirge the wind is playing. 
 The autumn his last word hath said — 
 
 Then let's discuss the world's decaying. 
 
 Have you read the singular book 
 
 By the pessimistic Pearson, 
 Who says that black is the world's outlook, 
 
 Man's face hath looks of fears on ? 
 For I've read the book, and as far as I see 
 
 The argument 'gainst it's nil. 
 
 Underwater : 
 
 Then how can you be, O how can you be 
 A militant Liberal still ? 
 
 Fadler : 
 
 The question's extremely wide, 
 And it's hard, there's no denying. 
 
 But I'll state my case, define my side, 
 Then listen to you replying. 
 
 But first of all, your soda bring, 
 And we'll put the whisky in it : 
 
 A Scotch and soda's the proper thing 
 For a talk : and I'll begin it.
 
 8i 
 
 Underwater : 
 
 Right ! here's the soda, here's the Scotch, 
 And now for your position. 
 
 P'adler : 
 
 I've never pretended that hfe can be mended 
 
 By any pohtician : 
 I mean, so mended as quite to repair 
 
 for ever the crack tremendous 
 In Hfe's old, ill-made earthenware — 
 
 Nay, not to mend, but end us 
 Is what we ask of Fate : but the man 
 
 Who seeks our votes to gain 
 Should do a little, wherever he can 
 
 To lighten human pain. 
 That man of wisdom's the man for me. 
 
 I see no cure for our ill. 
 
 Underwater : 
 
 Then how can you be, O how can you be 
 A militant Liberal still ? 
 
 Fadler : 
 
 We may not every task decline 
 Since swiftly comes the night — 
 
 My creed and aim I'd thus define — 
 " Work whilst ye have the light." 
 
 Underwater : 
 
 But Pearson's creed is this, old chap, 
 
 You're only bringing faster 
 The day of our supreme mishap, 
 
 The earth's supreme disaster
 
 82 
 
 You Lib'rals sow : and we shall reap 
 Armed men to rise and slay us : 
 
 The democratic wave will sweep 
 The doomed world back to chaos. 
 
 Fadlek : 
 
 The doomed world — yes, you speak aright, 
 
 And no one can gainsay it : 
 If swift's the coming of the night, 
 
 Oh, who may seek to stay it ? 
 But this we'll do, while work we may, 
 
 Whom fate nor death can frighten. 
 Be long the night or short the day. 
 
 Men's lives we'll seek to brighten. 
 And if full soon the end must come. 
 
 And we should bring it nearer. 
 And all earth's voices all grow dumb. 
 
 Yet one great voice grows clearer, 
 The voice of law, eternal, fixed. 
 
 That l)ids us not forget 
 Our planet's life is intermixed 
 
 With new worlds, rising yet, 
 New worlds to come in future time. 
 
 In yet unnumbered days. 
 Worlds with some destiny sublime ; 
 
 And if our world decays 
 The universe goes travelling on 
 
 With unabated breath. 
 And when our little earth is gone, 
 
 Finds life from out its death : 
 Earth lives and suffers, then it dies, 
 
 And when earth's life is ended, 
 New worlds shall from its ashes rise,' 
 
 Unknown, sublime, and splendid :
 
 83 
 
 Eternal laws we all obey, 
 
 We may be retrogressing, 
 A part that lives its little day, 
 
 But the great whole's progressing. 
 
 Underwater : 
 
 A cheerful creed, your creed of death ! 
 Your law eternal's pleasant ! 
 
 Fadi.er : 
 
 Yea, cheerful : when we rest beneath 
 
 The ruins of the present, 
 Or men or worlds in future time 
 
 To unknown greatness growing, 
 Shall on our ruins upward climb, 
 
 In somewise reap our sowing. 
 
 A BALLAD OF LINDISFARNE. 
 
 On the Holy Isle the waters smile 
 
 As they kiss the sacred shore, 
 Where Aidan set his fruitful feet, 
 And Cuthbert made him a sure retreat 
 
 From the wan world's weary war ; 
 
 The weary war, and the strife of men, 
 That sounds like the Northern sea. 
 And ever beats on the lonely heart, 
 And sighs as the sea's own counterpart. 
 When the winds moan drearily. 
 
 Then Cuthbert lived some fair sweet days, 
 
 And when his days were sped, 
 They laid his bones by the holy house 
 That he reared, through the ages dolorous, 
 To live when his life was dead.
 
 84 
 
 And mass and matins and vesper song 
 
 Within its walls were heard ; 
 When nought they could hear without but the 
 
 sea, 
 Whose voice rang the doom of things to be, 
 
 And the plaint of the lost sea-bird. 
 
 But men's hearts change as the years go by, 
 And their minds are a weft undone ; 
 
 And new gods reign as the ages roll, 
 
 But in every age, to the loving soul, 
 The God of Love is one. 
 
 In the latter days, when the God of Love, 
 
 The clay in whose hands are we. 
 Was known to seek for the heart alone, 
 Nor care for the fashion of gold and stone. 
 
 And hues that are fair to see, 
 
 The Lord of the Marches, Walden, came 
 
 To claim the church for his own. 
 The brass and iron and stone and gold. 
 The arches and pillars manifold. 
 
 Where God had His altar throne. 
 
 'Twas his, he said, and with rude, rough men, 
 
 He came in a wide, black ship, 
 For his own behoof the holy place 
 Of all its fashion of hue and grace 
 
 With his ruthless hands to strip. 
 
 The day was done, and the Kyloe hills, 
 
 And the Cheviots far behind. 
 Had veiled their face with a shadow grey 
 Of night ; but the sun still left ray 
 
 Where the sea at rest reclined.
 
 85 
 
 The hills towered up, a dark background, 
 
 And the light was fain to flee 
 From the weary earth, and the wayfarer 
 Could see no trace of the form of her ; 
 
 But the light was on the sea. 
 
 For the wide, wan sea is a type of death, 
 
 And his fruitless waves are bare ; 
 But the earth is a type of life, and she 
 Is dark, when the day still loves the sea, 
 
 And the last light lingers there. 
 
 '' Now, land you, land you," Lord Walden said, 
 
 And they steered the ship to shore. 
 And marched to the church in the yellow light, 
 That half was day and half was night, 
 And cast on the dark earth's floor 
 
 Strange shapes and shadows as these men 
 passed ; 
 
 Till gazing your soul had said 
 'Twas another company with them went. 
 Whose days were over, and life was spent, 
 
 A host of the restless dead. 
 
 And as they came to the church's door. 
 
 The hinge creaked drearily. 
 And they set their feet on the holy floor. 
 And the echoes sighed, as in sorrow so'-e, 
 
 For evil things to be. 
 
 For God speaks oft to the ears of men. 
 
 To warn them of fate to come. 
 And oft He speaketh by living things. 
 And oft a voice in the silence brings 
 
 From lips of things that are dumb.
 
 86 
 
 And all men, ere they have sinned the sin 
 
 'J'liat no tears can e'er unmake, 
 Or see a shadow across I heir path, 
 Or hear the voice that the silence hath, 
 
 As their deathwards way they take. 
 
 But they stayed no whit from their ruthless deed; 
 
 And they wrought with a reckless hand, 
 And took the iron and lead of the roof, 
 And stones time-hallowed, for his behoof, 
 
 The lord of the border land. 
 
 And he laughed, and he said, " Lo, now the 
 bells, 
 
 Whereof the tower is crowned. 
 This day shall for ever have ceased to ring ; 
 Come, fetch them hither, for they shall bring 
 
 Us guerdon of many a pound." 
 
 And now, as they set their hands to the work. 
 The great bells moved and swayed. 
 
 And the men said, " See, they are swinging. 
 Lo, 
 
 We will have a tune before we go. 
 For the work is hard," they said. 
 
 " We will make them sing from their brazen 
 throats 
 
 No dull psalm tune to-day ; 
 They shall change their tone, and a merry song 
 Shall sound on the night, with a chorus long. 
 
 To cheer us on our way." 
 
 But lo, the bells, as the ropes they seized, 
 Chimed forth on the gathering night 
 
 A sound that the ringers had never meant 
 
 To summon, a dirge of dire portent, 
 And each man's face grew white.
 
 «7 
 
 For the bells rang out in unison 
 
 An anthem of dolorous things, 
 The psalm priests chant about men's bier, 
 As the heart sings dirges we would not hear, 
 
 When God's hand smites the strings. 
 
 As the sad heart moans when God's hand 
 smites, 
 
 The bells sang Rajiiiein ; 
 From the spoilers' brow great sweat drops fell, 
 And their lips were dry as the lips of hell. 
 
 And they knew it a dirge for them. 
 
 And still the bells sang Requiem^ 
 
 O dona, Doini/ie, 
 Et lux perpetiia luceat ; 
 And each man's fearful breast thereat 
 
 Grew stormier than the sea. 
 
 And Requiem, Requiem rang the bells, 
 
 Aeteniatn, Doini/ie, 
 Dona eis they wailed forth still, 
 In a voice more sad and a sigh more shrill 
 
 Than the wail of the weary sea. 
 
 But the Lord of the Marches laughed them to 
 scorn, 
 
 And " Why do ye fear ? " he said, 
 " For each man's hour of his death is sure, 
 And none can a respite of God procure 
 
 From the time when he must be dead." 
 
 And in silence they bore their prey to the shore ; 
 
 And now the sea was grey, 
 .'\nd the day was slain of the drear, long night, 
 And the lingering beam of the faint starlight 
 
 Hung over the water way.
 
 8S 
 
 And they put the bells in the wide, black ship, 
 
 And gave her sail to the wind. 
 And the sea gull shrieked a dolorous cry, 
 And a red star fell from the lowering sky, 
 
 As they left the shore behind. 
 
 And the ship had gone on the water-way, 
 
 Not one hour's ride from shore, 
 Ere the wild winds rose, and the foam was white, 
 And the waves were blacker than all the night. 
 
 And the billows 'gan to roar. 
 
 And when the first wave struck the ship, 
 
 She reared her head to the wave. 
 And she groaned aloud, and sank beneath 
 The sea, that v/as ever a type of death, 
 
 And found in the sea her grave. 
 
 And the destined crew the harsh sea slew. 
 And the wild waves swallowed them. 
 
 And the bells and the voices of men are still 
 
 For ever : but ever the sea is shrill. 
 And the sea sings Requiem.
 
 This book is DUE on the last 
 date stamped below. 
 
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 REMINGTON RAND - 20
 
 AA 000 297 502 7 
 
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