I LIBRARY i 
 
 UI^VFB^ITY OF 
 CALIFORNIA 
 
 I S&J DIEGO ! 
 
 \ 
 
 ? // '/''//' // 
 
 /: //Vv//v/ _ ' .. /f''s/f///s>/ 
 
 (
 
 FIRDAUSI IN EXILE 
 AND OTHER POEMS
 
 BY THE SAME AUTHOR. 
 
 IN VERSE. 
 
 On Viol and Flute : Lyrical Poems. 1873. 
 King Erik : a Tragedy. 1876. 
 New Poems. 1879. 
 The Masque of Painters. 1885. 
 
 IN PROSE. 
 
 Studies in. the Literature of Northern Europe, 1879. 
 
 Gray. English Men of Letters Series. 1882. 
 
 Seventeenth Century Studies ; a contribution to the History 
 of English Poetry. 1883. 
 
 front Shakespeare to Pope ; an Inquiry into the Causes 
 and Development of the Classical School of English 
 Poetry in the Seventeenth Century. 1885. 
 
 The Works of Thomas Gray. Edited, in four vols. 1884.
 
 just outside Tiiiii/tico a. n-nn-af-itiar was riiii'ii;.' 
 
 A 36-
 
 OTHER POEMS 
 
 EDMUND GOSSE 
 
 LONDON 
 
 KEG AN PAUL, TRENCH <5- 
 MDCCCLXXXV
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 To AUSTIN DOBSON ix 
 
 FIRDAUSI IN EXILE 3 
 
 THE CRUISE OF THE ROVER 31 
 
 THE ISLAND OF THE BLEST 47 
 
 A BALLAD OF THE UPPER THAMES 81 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 103 
 
 Timasitheos 105 
 
 The Charcoal-Burner no 
 
 The Death of Arnkel 114 
 
 The Monastery Garden 120 
 
 The Shepherd of the Thames 127 
 
 An Epistle to Oliver Wendell Holmes 131 
 
 /pril once more 134 
 
 The Church by the Sea 136 
 
 Gilead 140
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS -.continued. PAGE 
 
 To an Actor 143 
 
 De Rosis Hibernis 145 
 
 A Woman's Keepsake 147 
 
 Theocritus 150 
 
 Sunshine in March 152 
 
 The Sons of Cydippe 154 
 
 H. P 159 
 
 Inscription for a Fountain 160 
 
 With a Copy of Herrick . 161 
 
 A Wasted Afternoon in Sutherland 163 
 
 Obcrmann yet again 166 
 
 LIBER CORDIS 171 
 
 Palingenesis 173 
 
 The Cast 178 
 
 " Space to breathe, tho' short soever." 179 
 
 The Tide of Love 180 
 
 " I stand before you as a beggar stands " 182 
 
 Illusion 183 
 
 The Lapwing 184 
 
 Our Wood in Winter 185 
 
 Reserve 187 
 
 Anathoth 188 
 
 " We two have strayed far from the noise of earth "... 192 
 
 Sand 193 
 
 Two points of View 194 
 
 Cupido Crucifixus 196 
 
 Renunciation 197 
 
 Apologia 199
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 SONNETS AND QUATORZAINS 201 
 
 On certain Critics 203 
 
 August 204 
 
 A Woman's Ambition 205 
 
 Wrestling with the Angel 206 
 
 To Teresa 207 
 
 Unheard Music 208 
 
 Perigueux 209 
 
 The Voice of D. G. R 210 
 
 The Twofold Cord 211 
 
 The Twofold Voice 212 
 
 Bondservice of the Heart 213 
 
 The Fear of Death 214 
 
 " Dearest and most inseparable Friend " 215 
 
 Sleep 216 
 
 A Portrait 217 
 
 A Plea 218 
 
 NOTES 219
 
 DEDICATION 
 
 TO 
 AUSTIN DOB SON. 
 
 "\TEIGHBOUR of the near domain, 
 
 Stay awhile your passing wain ! 
 Though to give is more your way, 
 Take a gift from me to-day ! 
 From my homely store I bring 
 Signs of my poor husbanding ; 
 Here a spike of purple phlox, 
 Here a spicy bunch of stocks, 
 Mushrooms from my moister fields, 
 Apples that my orchard yields, 
 Nothing, for the show they make, 
 Something, for the donor's sake ; 
 Since for ten years we have been 
 Best of neighboiirs ever seen ;
 
 D ED 1C A TION. 
 
 We have fronted evil weather, 
 
 Nip of critic's frost, together ; 
 
 We have shared laborious days, 
 
 Shared the pleasantness of praise ; 
 
 Brother not more kind to brother, 
 
 We have cheered and helped each other } 
 
 Ti!! so far the fields of each 
 
 Into the other's stretch and reach, 
 
 That perchance -when both are gone 
 
 Neither may be named alone.
 
 FIRDAUSI IN EXILE. 1
 
 FIRDAUSI IN EXILE. 
 
 I. 
 
 NOW God who flames the buckler of the sun, 
 And lights that lamp of heaven, the glorious moon, 
 In the proud breast of Mahmoud had begun 
 
 To stir remorse, and, like the loud typhoon, 
 Shame blew his thoughts in gusts about his soul, 
 
 Remembering that old man whose sandy shoon 
 Pressed the low shores where distant waters roll, 
 And all his wrongs, and unrequited boon. 
 
 II. 
 
 Since, greatest poet whom the world contains, 
 Firdausi, on whose tongue the sweet Farsi 
 
 Sounded like whispering leafage when it rains, 
 Who loved the ancient kings, and learned to see
 
 FIRDA USI IN EXILE. 
 
 Their buried shapes in vision one by one, 
 And wove their deeds in lovely minstrelsy, 
 
 For all the glory that his name had won 
 To Persia, was in exile by the sea. 
 
 in. 
 
 In vain through sixty thousand verses clear 
 
 He sang of feuds and battles, friend and foe, 
 Of the frail heart of Kaous, spent with fear, 
 
 And Kai Khosrau who vanished in the snow, 
 And white-haired Zal who won the secret love 
 
 Of Rudabeh where water-lilies blow, 
 And lordliest Rustem, armed by gods above 
 
 With every power and virtue mortals know. 
 
 IV. 
 
 In vain these stories of the godlike kings, 
 Whose bodies were as brass, their hearts as fire, 
 
 This verse that centuries with wasting wings 
 
 Will never harm, though men with gods conspire-
 
 FIRDAUSI IN EXILE. 
 
 In vain the good Firdausi, full of years, 
 Inscribed this treasure to his Shah's desire ; 
 
 For Mahmoud, heedless of the poet's tears, 
 Forgot his oath, nor gave the promised hire. 
 
 v. 
 For each sonorous verse one piece of gold : 
 
 Such was the promise that the Shah had made, 
 But when the glorious perfect tale was told, 
 
 The file of laden elephants delayed ; 
 For Hasan, that black demon, held the ear 
 
 Of Mahmoud, and spoke tenderly, and said, 
 " The end of this old man, my lord, is near ; 
 
 For gold let silver in the sacks be weighed." 
 
 VI. 
 Thereat Firdausi, when it came, was wroth, 
 
 And being within the bath, where all might see, 
 Called the two serving-men, and bid them both 
 
 Divide the silver for their service-fee,
 
 6 FIRDA USI IN EXILE. 
 
 And told Ayaz, the false Shah's chamberlain, 
 " Returning to thy master, say from me, 
 
 'Tvvas not for silver that I toiled amain 
 And wove my verse for thirty years and three. 
 
 VII. 
 Then round him came his friends and bade him fly 
 
 From Mahmoud's vengeance, and the murderous sword ; 
 But he, being placable of heart, would try 
 
 For peace, since enmity his soul abhorred ; 
 So in the garden where the Shah was used 
 
 To breathe the spice that many a rose outpoured, 
 Firdausi met his master as he mused, 
 
 And bowed down at his feet without a word. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Yet grudging was the pardon, faint the smile, 
 And when that evening in the mosque he lay, 
 
 A veiled dervish, muttering all the while, 
 
 Crept near Firdausi, while he seemed to pray,
 
 PIRDA USI IN EXILE. 
 
 And whispered, '' Fly from Ghaznin, fly to-night, 
 The bowstring waits for thee at break of day ; 
 
 Thou shalt not 'scape because thy beard is white 
 Begone ! " and like a snake he slipped away. 
 
 IX. 
 Then, when of worship there was made an end, 
 
 Firdausi rolled his prayer-mat up, and turned 
 To that bright niche where all believers bend, 
 
 And by the light of lamps that round him burned 
 Wrote on a blue tile with a diamond point 
 
 Two couplets that may yet be well discerned, 
 Though all the mosque be crumbling joint from joint, 
 
 By long decay and mouldering age inurned : 
 
 x. 
 
 " The happy court of Mahmoud is a sea, 
 A sea of endless waves without a coast ; 
 
 In my unlucky star the fault must be 
 If I who plunged for pearls in it am lost."
 
 FIRDA USI IN EXILE. 
 
 Then to his house he went, weary and sad, 
 
 And called around him those who loved him most, 
 
 And gave them all the treasure that he had, 
 Soft silken raiment that a king might boast. 
 
 XI. 
 
 But in a saintly gaberdine set out 
 
 And crossed the moonlit streets, and left the town, 
 Nor stopped to hear the lonely owlet shout 
 
 His dreamy menace from the turret's crown, 
 But where the cypresses and myrtles hoar 
 
 Hid the white house of Ayaz, stooping down, 
 He thrust a letter underneath the door, 
 
 And faded in the shadow broad and brown. 
 
 XII. 
 That letter bade the chamberlain beloved 
 
 Before the dawn to seek his master's face, 
 And plead until his blandishments had moved 
 
 The Shah to grant him twenty days of grace ;
 
 FIR DA US I IN EXILE. 
 
 In twenty days a paper folded fair 
 
 Should Ayaz in his master's fingers place, 
 
 Which to the gracious Sultan would declare 
 Firdausi's secret wish, and plead his case. 
 
 XI II. 
 
 The Sultan vowed : but for those twenty-days 
 
 The Sultan yawned upon his peacock-throne ; 
 The rebeck and the Turkish minstrel's lays 
 
 With their sweet treble jarred him to the bone. 
 All night he tossed in fever, all day long 
 
 Far from his blithe hareem he paced alone, 
 Or scowled to hear the trampling and the song 
 
 Where down the cool bazaar the lanterns shone. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 At last, at last the twentieth morning broke, 
 And Mahmoud, flushed with pleasure, rose and cried 
 
 For fair Ayaz, who from his slumber woke, 
 And brought the sealed letter, white and wide.
 
 FIRDAUSI IN EXILE. 
 
 In Allah's name the Sultan broke the seal ; 
 
 His long-pent wishes satisfied, he sighed, 
 But reading on, he stared, and seemed to reel, 
 
 And crushed the leaf, and gazed out stony-eyed. 
 
 xv. 
 It was that scathing satire, writ in fire, 
 
 And music such as the red tiger makes 
 Over a man, the food of her desire, 
 
 When she lies down among the crested brakes 
 That satire which the world still shudders at, 
 
 Whose cadence in the hearer's sense still aches, 
 At bare recital of whose singing hate 
 
 The conscience of forgetful kings awakes. 
 
 XVI. 
 "O Mahmoud, of the whole world conqueror, 
 
 You fear not me? fear God ! " The Sultan fell 
 With outstretched arms before the chamber door, 
 
 Ashen with rage, and his breast's heave and swell
 
 FIRDAUSI IN EXILE. 
 
 Was like an earthquake ; no word passed his lips, 
 
 But curses from the foulest pit of hell, 
 Till evening brought his soul through that eclipse, 
 
 And he rose up, and drank, and feasted well. 
 
 XVII. 
 But old Firdausi, bearing eastward still, 
 
 Through many a Tartar camp, his woven mat, 
 At last, one evening, climbed a scarped hill 
 
 From whence he saw the white roofs of Herat : 
 Downward he passed, and in a garden, sweet 
 
 With roses and narcissus, down he sat, 
 And wondered if his mountain-weary feet 
 
 Might dare to rest where earth was smooth and flat. 
 
 XVIII. 
 Then suddenly his tired eyes laughed at last, 
 
 For he remembered, by the gift of fate, 
 Where once he lodged in merry days long past 
 
 At Herat, in the arch above the gate.
 
 FIRDA USI IN EXILE. 
 
 There Abou'lmaani sold his ancient books, 
 A man discreet and old, without a mate, 
 
 And there Firdausi oft, in dusty nooks, 
 Had chanted verses till the night was late. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 To Abou'lmaani in the dusk he went, 
 
 And found him still more wrinkled than of yore, 
 An owlish figure, angular and bent, 
 
 But hearty still and honest to the core. 
 So there among the rolls of parchment sere 
 
 Once more he drank the mystic Dikhan lore, 
 But never sought the daylight streets, for fear 
 
 Of treachery, and the hatred Mahmoud bore. 
 
 XX. 
 
 And little rest he had, and brief delight, 
 For rumours from the court at Ghaznin ran, 
 
 And with a short farewell he fled by night 
 Across the mountains to the Caspian ;
 
 F1RDA USI IN EXILE. 
 
 A gentle Sultan ruled from Astrabad 
 
 The jasmine-gardens of Mazinderan, 
 And to his little court, humble and sad, 
 
 One morning came a white-haired minstrel-man. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Like parrots, one and all, with shrieking tongues 
 
 The poets knew their lord, and screamed his name, 
 Bitter with hate ; but his sweet learned songs 
 
 Had touched the Sultan with their sacred flame ; 
 He bade the jealous poets all make way, 
 
 And did Firdausi honour to their shame, 
 And asked by what fair accident that day 
 
 From stately Ghaznin such a stranger came. 
 
 XXII. 
 But when he knew, and heard of Mahmoud's rage, 
 
 He trembled, and his fingers stroked his beard ; 
 For scarcely could his pastoral province wage 
 
 Safe war with one whom all the nations feared ;
 
 FIRDAUSI IN EXILE. 
 
 So blushing much, as one who loathes his task, 
 
 He bade his guest, whom meat and wine had cheered, 
 
 To grant the boon that he could scarcely ask 
 Of one so deeply loved, so long revered. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Firdausi rose and sighed, and went his way, 
 
 But ere he reached the gate of Astrabad, 
 The Sultan sent three men in rich array 
 
 Laden with gifts, the lordliest that he had, 
 And camels, that the bard might ride at ease, 
 
 And lutes, and a Circassian serving-lad ; 
 So after many days he passed with these 
 
 Far down the lordly Tigris to Baghdad. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Here underneath the palm-trees, full of shade, 
 The poet tasted peace, and lingered long ; 
 
 The Master of the Faithful he obeyed, 
 
 And searched the Koran for a theme for song.
 
 FIRDAUSI IN EXILE. 
 
 The vizier lodged him in his own fair house, 
 Where wise men gathered in a learned throng, 
 
 And when the Khalif heard his pious vows, 
 
 He gave him gifts and shielded him from wrong. 
 
 XXV. 
 There in a white- walled garden full of trees, 
 
 Through which there ran a deep cold water-brook 
 Fringed with white tulips and anemones, 
 
 Among the tender grass he wrote the book 
 Of Yousouf and Zuleika ; not one word 
 
 Was there of all the windy war that shook 
 Iran of old, nor was the ear once stirred 
 
 With any name the Faithful might rebuke. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Nine thousand Persian verses told the tale, 
 And when the perfect poem was set down, 
 
 He rose, and left the plaintive nightingale 
 
 That long had tuned her throat to his sweet moan ;
 
 FIR DA US I /,V EXILE. 
 
 Before the Khalif on a broad divan, 
 
 To sound of rebecks, in a silken gown, 
 He sat in state, and when the dance began 
 
 Declaimed aloud that song of high renown. 
 
 xxvn. 
 Its music sank on well-attempered ears ; 
 
 The Khalif lounged upon his throne, and cried, 
 " Lo ! I this day am as a man who hears 
 
 The angel Gabriel murmur at his side 
 And dies not." At the viewless hareem-door 
 
 The screen was swayed by bending forms that sighed, 
 And scheikhs and soldiers, young and old, for more 
 
 Still pressed and wished, and scarce would be denied. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Ah, palmy days were those for singer's craft ! 
 
 Now every worldling flings his cap in rhyme, 
 And from an easy bow lets fly a shaft 
 
 At verse much honoured in his grandsire's time ;
 
 FIRDAUSI IN EXILE. 
 
 Now many a ghazel, soft with spices, trips 
 Along the alien mouth with frivolous chime, 
 
 And lightly rises from unhonoured lips 
 The ancient rhythm sonorous and sublime. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 But great Firdausi met with honour then, 
 
 Garments and jewels, and much store of gold ; 
 Till one, the basest and the worst of men, 
 
 Rode out by stealth that Hasan might be told 
 Who, when he heard in Ghaznin that his foe 
 
 Sat, robed and glorious, as he sat of old, 
 Stirred up with whispers to a fiery glow 
 
 The rage of Mahmoud, which was wellnigh cold. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 So Mahmoud sent to Baghdad embassies 
 Demanding speedily Firdausi's head, 
 
 Or else the town among her ancient trees 
 Must look for instant war, the missive said ; 
 c
 
 FIRDAUSI IN EXILE. 
 
 The stately Khalif rose in wrath and pride, 
 And swore that till each faithful heart was dead, 
 
 His hospitable sword should leave his side, 
 And rolling Tigris blush in Persian red. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 But ere the messengers with garments rent 
 
 Fled back to Ghaznin at the trumpet's blare, 
 Firdausi to the warlike Khalif sent 
 
 His little servant with the flowing hair, 
 Who scarcely knowing what he said, by rote 
 
 Repeated, " Master, have no thought or care 
 Of old Firdausi ; he can dive and float 
 
 A fish in water and a bird in air. 
 
 XXXII. 
 " The quail upon the mountain needs no host 
 
 To guard her covert in the waving grass ; 
 And though Mahmoud and all his ships be tost 
 
 On lake or sea, the little trout will pass.
 
 FIR DA US I IN EXILE. 
 
 Stain not thy sword for such a guest as I, 
 
 For God, before whose sight man's heart is glass, 
 
 Will see the stain that on my soul will lie 
 If life-blood gush from helmet or cuirass. 
 
 xxxni. 
 " I go my way into the lion's mouth, 
 
 And as I journey, God will hold my hand ; 
 Whether I wander north or wander south, 
 
 There is no rest for me in any land ; 
 The serpent's fang will find me though I fly 
 
 To Frankistan, or Ind, or Samarkand ; 
 I will go home again, for tired am I, 
 
 And all too old to wrestle and withstand. 
 
 xxxiv. 
 
 " So send the Persian envoys back in peace, 
 For, whilst these words are spoken, I am gone ; 
 
 Though thou shouldst scour the lands and drain the seas, 
 Thou shall not find me, since I wend alone ;
 
 FIRDA USI IN EXILE. 
 
 For all the days that I have loved thee well 
 My heart is myrrh, that kindles at thy throne, 
 
 And I am sadder than my tongue can tell, 
 
 That I must leave thee with the end unknown." 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 So with a single camel, clad to sight 
 
 Like some poor merchant of the common sort, 
 Firdausi left the town at morning light, 
 
 And passed the gate, and passed the sullen fort, 
 Unnoted ; and his face was to the east, 
 
 Towards Hasan and the hateful Persian court, 
 As if contempt of life were in his breast, 
 
 And loathing of his days, so sad and short. 
 
 xxxvi. 
 But sure some angel had forewarned him well, 
 
 And murmured in his ear the name of " home ; " 
 For through this perilous journey there befell 
 
 No evil wheresoever he might come ;
 
 FIR DA US I IN EXILE. 
 
 And Mahmoud guessed not that the foe he sought 
 Had turned upon his track and ceased to roam, 
 
 But sent out scouts, and bade his head be brought 
 From Bahrein by the vexed Arabian foam. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 At last one night, as lone Firdausi rode, 
 
 The dawn broke grey across the starry sky, 
 And far ahead behind the mountains flowed 
 
 A sudden gush of molten gold on high ; 
 The glory spread from snowy horn to horn, 
 
 Tinged by the rushing dawn with sanguine dye, 
 And Tous, the little town where he was born, 
 
 Flashed at his feet, with white roofs clustered nigh. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 His aged sister fell upon his neck ; 
 
 His girl, his only child, with happy tears, 
 Clung to his knees, and sobbing, with no check 
 
 Poured out the story of her hopes and fears.
 
 FIRDA USI IN EXILE. 
 
 Gravely his servants gave him welcome meet, 
 And when his coming reached the townfolk's ears 
 
 They ran to cluster round him in the street, 
 And gave him honour for his wealth of years. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 And there in peace he waited for the end ; 
 
 But in all distant lands where Mahmoud sent, 
 Each Prince and Sultan was Firdausi's friend, 
 
 And murmured, like a high-stringed instrument 
 Swept by harsh fingers, at a quest so rude, 
 
 And chid the zeal, austere and violent, 
 That drove so sweet a voice to solitude, 
 
 And bade the Shah consider and relent. 
 
 XL. 
 And once from Delhi, that o'erhangs the tide 
 
 Of reedy Ganges like a gorgeous cloud, 
 The Hindu king, with Persia close allied, 
 
 Sent letters larger than the faith he vowed,
 
 FIRDAUSI IN EXILE. 
 
 Smelling of sandal wood and ambergris, 
 And cited from Firdausi lines that showed 
 
 Friendship should be eternal, and the bliss 
 Of love a gift to make a master proud. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 So while these words were fresh in Mahmoud's brain 
 
 He went one night into the mosque to pray, 
 And by the swinging lamp deciphered plain 
 
 The verse Firdausi, ere he fled away, 
 Wrote on the wall ; and one by one there rose 
 
 Sad thoughts and sweet of many a vanished day, 
 When his soul hovered on the measured close 
 
 And wave-beat of the rich heroic lay. 
 
 XLII. 
 Mourning the verse, he mourned the poet too ; 
 
 And he who oftentimes had lain awake 
 Long nights in wide-eyed vision to pursue 
 
 His victim, yearning in revengeful ache,
 
 FIRDA USI IN EXILE. 
 
 Forgot all dreams of a luxurious death 
 By trampling elephant or strangling snake, 
 
 And thought on his old friend with tightened breath, 
 And flushed, remorseful for his anger's sake. 
 
 XLIII. 
 Back to his court he went, molten at heart, 
 
 And all his rage on faithless Hasan turned ; 
 For when he thought him of that tongue's black art, 
 
 His wrath was in him like a coal that burned ; 
 He bade his several ministers appear 
 
 Before his throne, and by inquiry learned 
 The cunning treason of the false vizier, 
 
 And all his soul's deformity discerned. 
 
 XLIV. 
 Hasan was slain that night ; and of the gold 
 
 His monkey-hands had thieved from rich and poor, 
 The Sultan bade the money should be told 
 
 Long due as payment at Firdausi's door ;
 
 FIRDAUSI IN EXILE. 
 
 But when the sacks of red dinars were full, 
 
 Mahmoud bethought him long, and pondered sore, 
 
 Since vainly any king is bountiful 
 Not knowing where to seek his creditor. 
 
 XLV. 
 But while he fretted at this ignorance, 
 
 A dervish came to Ghaznin, who had seen, 
 In passing through the streets of Tous, by chance 
 
 Firdausi in his garden cool and green ; 
 At this Mahmoud rejoiced, and, with glad eyes 
 
 Swimming in tears, quivering with liquid sheen, 
 Wrote words of pardon, and in welcoming wise 
 
 Prayed all might be again as all had been. 
 
 XLVI. 
 But while Firdausi brooded on his wrong, 
 
 One day he heard a child's clear voice repeat 
 The bitter jibe of his own scathing song j 
 
 Whereat he started, and his full heart beat
 
 26 FIR DA USl 7.V. EXILE. 
 
 Its last deep throb of agony and rage ; 
 
 And blinded in sharp pain, with tottering feet, 
 Being very feeble in extremes! age, 
 
 He fell, and died there in the crowded street. 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 The light of three-and-fourscore summers' suns 
 
 Had blanched the silken locks round that vast brow ; 
 If Mahmoud might have looked upon him once, 
 
 He would have bowed before him meek and low ; 
 The majesty of death was in his face, 
 
 And those wide waxen temples seem to glow 
 With morning glory from some holy place 
 
 Where angels met him in a burning row. 
 
 XLVIII. 
 His work was done ; the palaces of kings 
 
 Fade in long rains, and in loud earthquakes fall ; 
 The poem that a godlike poet sings 
 
 Shines o'er his memory like a brazen wall ;
 
 FIRDAUSI IN EXILE. 27 
 
 No suns may blast it, and no tempest wreck, 
 Its periods ring above the trumpet's call, 
 
 Wars and the tumult of the sword may shake, 
 And may eclipse it it survives them all. 
 
 XLIX. 
 Now all this while along the mountain road 
 
 The mighty line of camels wound in state ; 
 Shuddering they moved beneath their massy load, 
 
 And swinging slowly with the balanced weight ; 
 Burden of gold, and garments red as flame, 
 
 They bore, not dreaming of the stroke of fate, 
 And so at last one day to Tous they came 
 
 And entered blithely at the eastern gate. 
 
 L. 
 
 But in the thronged and noiseless streets they found 
 All mute, and marvelled at the tears men shed, 
 
 And no one asked them whither they were bound, 
 And when, for very shame discomfited,
 
 28 FIR DA US I IN EXILE. 
 
 They cried, " Now tell us where Firdausi lies ! " 
 A young man like a cypress rose and said 
 
 The anger burning in his large dark eyes 
 ' ' Too late Mahmoud remembers ! He is dead ! 
 
 LI. 
 " Speed ! haste away ! hie to the western port ; 
 
 Perchance the convoy has not passed it yet ! 
 But hasten, hasten, for the hour is short, 
 
 And your short-memoried master may forget 1 
 Behold, they bear Firdausi to the tomb, 
 
 Pour in his open grave your golden debt ! 
 Speed ! haste ! and with the treasures of the loom 
 
 Dry the sad cheeks where filial tears are wet ! 
 
 LII. 
 "Lead your bright-harnessed camels one by one, 
 
 The dead man journeys, and he fain would ride ; 
 Pour out your unctuous perfumes in the sun, 
 
 The rose has spilt her petals at his side ;
 
 FIRDA USI AV EXILE. 29 
 
 Your citherns and your carven rebecks hold 
 Here when the nightingale untimely died, 
 
 And ye have waited well till he is cold, 
 Now wrap his body in your tigers' hide." 
 
 LIII. 
 
 And so the young man ceased ; but one arose 
 
 Of graver aspect, not less sad than he. 
 " Nay, let," he cried, " the sunshine and the snows 
 
 His glittering gold and silk-soft raiment be ; 
 Approach not with unhallowed steps profane 
 
 The low white wall, the shadowy lotus-tree ; 
 Nor let a music louder than the rain 
 
 Disturb him dreaming through eternity. 
 
 Liv. 
 1 ' For him no more the dawn will break in blood, 
 
 No more the silver moon bring fear by night ; 
 He starts no longer at a tyrant's mood, 
 
 Serene for ever in the Prophet's sight ;
 
 30 FIRDAUSI IN EXILE. 
 
 The soul of Yaman breathed on him from heaven, 
 And he is victor in the unequal fight ; 
 
 To Mahmoud rage and deep remorse are given, 
 To old Firdausi rest and long delight."
 
 THE CRUISE OF THE 
 "ROVER." 2
 
 THE CRUISE OF THE ROVER. 
 
 THEY sailed away one morning when sowing-time 
 was over, 
 In long red fields above the sea they left the sleeping 
 
 wheat ; 
 Twice twenty men of Devonshire who manned their ship 
 
 the Rover, 
 
 Below the little busy town where all the schooners 
 meet. 
 
 II. 
 Their sweethearts came and waved to them, and filled 
 
 with noise of laughter 
 
 The echoing port below the cliff where thirty craft can 
 ride ; 
 
 D
 
 34 THE CRUISE OF THE "ROVER." 
 
 Each lad cried out, ' ' Farewell to thee ! " the captain 
 
 shouted after, 
 
 " By God's help we'll be back again before the harvest- 
 tide." 
 
 ill. 
 They turned the Start and slipped along with speedy 
 
 wind and weather ; 
 Passed white Terceira's battlements, and, close upon 
 
 the line, 
 Ran down a little carrack full of cloth and silk and 
 
 leather, 
 And golden Popish images and good Madeira wine. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The crew with tears and curses went tacking back to 
 
 Flores ; 
 
 The English forty cut the seas where none before had 
 been,
 
 THE CRUISE OF THE "ROVER:' 
 
 And spent the sultry purple nights in English songs, and 
 
 stories 
 
 Of England, and her soldiers, and her Spaniard-hating 
 queen. 
 
 v. 
 At last the trade-wind caught them, the pale sharks reeled 
 
 before them, 
 
 The little Rover shot ahead across the western seas ; 
 All night the larger compass of a tropic sky passed o'er 
 
 them, 
 
 Till they won the Mexique waters through a strait of 
 banyan-trees. 
 
 VI. 
 
 And there good luck befel them, for divers times they 
 
 sighted 
 
 The sails of Spanish merchantmen bound homeward 
 with their wares ;
 
 36 THE CRUISE OF THE "ROVER." 
 
 And twice they failed to follow them, and once they 
 
 stopped benighted ; 
 
 But thrice the flag of truce flew out, and the scented 
 prize was theirs. 
 
 VII. 
 
 But midsummer was on them, with close-reef gales and 
 
 thunder, 
 Their heavy vessel wallowed beneath her weight of 
 
 gold; 
 A long highway of ocean kept them and home 
 
 asunder, 
 
 So back they turned towards England with a richly- 
 laden hold. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 But just outside Tampico a man-of-war was riding, 
 And all the mad young English blood in forty brains 
 awoke,
 
 THE CRUISE OF THE "ROVER." 37 
 
 The Rover chased the monster, and swiftly shorewards 
 
 gliding, 
 
 Dipped down beneath the cannonade that o'er her 
 bulwarks broke. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Three several days they fought her, and pressed her till 
 
 she grounded 
 On the sandy isle of Carmen, where milky palm-trees 
 
 grow; 
 Whereat she waved an ensign, a peaceful trumpet 
 
 sounded, 
 
 And all the Spaniards cried for truce, surrendering in a 
 row. 
 
 X. 
 
 Alas ! the wiles and Jesuitries of scoundrel-hearted 
 
 Spaniards, 
 
 The scarlet woman dyes their hands in deeper red than 
 hers,
 
 38 THE CRUISE OF THE "ROVER." 
 
 For every scrap of white that decked their tackling and 
 
 their lanyards 
 Just proved them sly like devils and cowardly like 
 
 XI. 
 
 For out from countless coverts, from low palm-shaded 
 
 islands, 
 That fledged in seeming innocence the smooth and 
 
 shining main, 
 The pinnaces came gliding and hemmed them round in 
 
 silence, 
 
 All manned with Indian bravos and whiskered dogs of 
 Spain. 
 
 XII. 
 The captain darted forwards, his fair hair streamed 
 
 behind him, 
 
 He shouted in his cheery voice, "For home and for 
 the Queen ! "
 
 THE CRUISE OF THE "ROVER." 39 
 
 Three times he waved his gallant sword, but the flashes 
 
 seemed to blind him, 
 
 And a hard look came across his mouth where late a 
 smile had been. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 We levelled with our muskets, and the foremost boat 
 
 went under, 
 The ship's boy seized a trumpet and blew a merry 
 
 blast ; 
 The Spanish rats held off a while, and gazed at us in 
 
 wonder, 
 
 But the hindmost pushed the foremost on, and boarded 
 us at last. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 They climbed the larboard quarter with their hatchets and 
 
 their sabres ; 
 
 The Devon lads shot fast and hard, and sank their 
 second boat,
 
 40 THE CRUISE OF THE "ROVER." 
 
 But the Popish hordes were legion, and Hercules his 
 
 labours 
 
 Are light beside the task to keep a riddled barque 
 afloat. 
 
 xv. 
 
 And twenty men had fallen, and the Rover's deck was 
 
 reeling, 
 And the brave young captain died in shouting loud 
 
 "Elizabeth!" 
 The Spaniards dragged the rest away just while the ship 
 
 was heeling, 
 
 Lest she should sink and rob them of her sailors' 
 tortured breath. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 For they destined them to perish in a slow and cruel 
 
 slaughter, 
 A feast for monks and Jesuits too exquisite to lose ;
 
 THE CRUISE OF THE "ROVER." 41 
 
 So they caught the English sailors as they leaped into the 
 
 water, 
 
 And a troop of horse as convoy brought them north to 
 Vera Cruz. 
 
 XVII. 
 They led them up a sparkling beach of burning sand and 
 
 coral, 
 They dragged the brave young Englishmen like hounds 
 
 within a leash ; 
 They passed beneath an open wood of leaves that smelt of 
 
 laurel, 
 
 Bound close together, each to each, with cords that cut 
 the flesh. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 And miles and miles along the coast they tramped beneath 
 
 no cover, 
 
 Till in their mouths each rattling tongue was like a 
 hard dry seed,
 
 42 THE CRUISE OF THE "ROVER" 
 
 And ere they came to Vera Cruz when that long day was 
 
 over, 
 
 The coral cut their shoes to rags, and made them wince 
 and bleed. 
 
 XIX. 
 Then as they clambered up the town, the jeering crowd 
 
 grew thicker, 
 And laughed to see their swollen feet and figures 
 
 marred and bent, 
 And women with their hair unloosed stood underneath 
 
 the flicker 
 
 Of torch and swinging lantern, and cursed them as they 
 went. 
 
 xx. 
 
 And three men died of weariness before they reached the 
 
 prison, 
 
 And one fell shrieking with the pain of a poniard in the 
 back,
 
 THE CRUISE OF THE "ROVER." 43 
 
 And when dawn broke in the morning three other souls 
 
 had risen 
 
 To bear the dear Lord witness of the hellish Spaniard 
 pack. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 But the monks girt up their garments, the friars bound 
 
 their sandals, 
 They hurried to the market-place with faggots of dry 
 
 wood, 
 And the acolytes came singing, with their incense and 
 
 their candles, 
 To offer to their images a sacrifice of blood. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 But they sent the leech to tend them, with his pouch and 
 
 his long phial, 
 
 And the Jesuits came smiling, with honied words at 
 first,
 
 44 THE CRUISE OF THE "ROVER." 
 
 For they dared not burn the heretics without some show 
 
 of trial, 
 
 And the English lads were dying of poisoned air and 
 thirst 
 
 XXIII. 
 So they gave them draughts of water from a great cold 
 
 earthen firkin, 
 And brought them to the courtyard where the tall 
 
 hidalgo sat, 
 And he looked a gallant fellow in his boots and his rough 
 
 jerkin, 
 
 With the jewels on his fingers, and the feather in his 
 hat. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 And he spoke out like a soldier, for he said, " Ye caught 
 
 them fighting, 
 
 They met you with the musket, by the musket they 
 shall fall,
 
 THE CRUISE OF THE " ROl'ER." 45 
 
 They are Christians in some fashion, and the pile you're 
 
 bent on lighting 
 
 Shall blaze with none but Indians, or it shall not blaze 
 at all." 
 
 XXV. 
 
 So they led them to a clearing in the wood outside the 
 
 city, 
 Struck off the gyves that bound them, and freed each 
 
 crippled hand, 
 And dark -eyed women clustered round and murmured in 
 
 their pity, 
 
 But won no glance nor answer from the steadfast 
 English band. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 For their lives rose up before them in crystalline com- 
 pleteness, 
 
 And they lost the flashing soldiery, the sable horde of 
 Rome,
 
 46 THE CRUISE OF THE "ROVER." 
 
 And the great magnolias round them, with wave on wave 
 
 of sweetness, 
 
 Seemed just the fresh profusion and hawthorn lanes of 
 home. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 They thought about the harvests, and wondered who 
 
 would reap them ; 
 They thought about the little port where thirty craft 
 
 can ride ; 
 They thought about their sweethearts, and prayed the 
 
 Lord to keep them ; 
 
 Then kissed each other silently, and hand in hand they 
 died.
 
 THE ISLAND OF THE 
 BLEST. 3
 
 THE ISLAND OF THE BLEST. 
 A variation on OM old theme. 
 
 I. 
 
 THREE days beneath that hurrying storm we flew, 
 With eyes that ached within the flashing gloom, 
 With ears that, muffled in our mantles, knew 
 The shriek and clangour of the whistling spume, 
 With hearts that ceased to quail at any doom ; 
 No respite had we for one moment's space, 
 
 But heard the winds pipe and the waters boom, 
 Nor through the darkness saw a kindly face, 
 Nor dared to let one hand a brother's hand enlace. 
 
 n. 
 
 Till, the fourth morn, when from a swoon we waked, 
 Around us lay a cool and quiet sea, 
 E
 
 5 o THE ISLAND OF THE BLEST. 
 
 Ringed by a dead grey sky enstarred and flaked 
 With cloudlets still as any cloud can be, 
 All pointing, like trim pennons, to our lee, 
 
 Where broke a light on the horizon dim, 
 So soft and luminous and deep that we, 
 
 Like men from shipwreck saved, pealed forth a hymn 
 To that first gracious Good that saved us, life and limb. 
 
 in. 
 Towards this fair light our helm we would have set, 
 
 But that the compass of our ship was crazed, 
 For that strange storm had taught it to forget, 
 
 And round from south to north it quivered, dazed ; 
 
 But brighter that great lamp of dawning blazed, 
 And of herself our bark turned round her head, 
 
 And onward every weary seaman gazed, 
 As o'er the opal glistening wave we fled, 
 And marked an island rise out of the ocean-bed.
 
 THE ISLAND OF THE BLEST. 
 
 IV. 
 A craggy isle it seemed, of wanton shape, 
 
 Rounded with woodland, scarped by peaks on high, 
 With many a curve of brave fantastic cape, 
 
 And bright bare ridge of rock against the sky ; 
 
 Straight towards it less we seemed to float than fly, 
 Like those swift barks that spread their ample sail 
 
 To catch the side-winds as they wander by 
 O'er Russian lakes when frosty moons prevail, 
 And skim the shining flats before an icy gale. 
 
 V. 
 But ever as we neared that land of light 
 
 An odour broke upon our ravished sense, 
 A mingled perfume deep and exquisite 
 
 More cool and soft than burned frankincense, 
 
 Like many a summer flower, but more intense, 
 The thrilling jonquil, the rich rose, were there, 
 
 The tender smell of a thick myrtle-fence, 
 Scents of young grapes, and budding leaves, and air 
 Through which from dawn to dusk the hurrying bees repair.
 
 52 THE ISLAND OF THE BLEST. 
 
 VI. 
 
 And breathing deeply of this atmosphere, 
 
 We smiled, and gazed each on his comrade's face, 
 
 And found the skin that was so parched and sere 
 Had straight recovered each accustomed grace, 
 As if our feet stood on some holy place ; 
 
 Though we had toiled so long upon the deep, 
 And all grown old and worn in piteous case, 
 
 That odour fine had cleared our eyes like sleep, 
 And smoothed our faded hair and taught our hearts to leap. 
 
 VII. 
 
 And now beneath the magic isle we came ; 
 
 Full of fair havens was it, blue and wide, 
 With iron promontories fit to tame 
 
 The wildest storm and make a calm inside, 
 
 Where gentlest birds might plume themselves and ride ; 
 White cities nestled under every hill, 
 
 Stretching their marble feet to touch the tide, 
 And shallops driven by more than mortal skill, 
 Meandered here and there, or cleft the wave at will.
 
 THE ISLAND OF THE BLEST. 
 
 VIII. 
 Down coverts thick with cedar and with pine 
 
 Sonorous waters dropt their silver shafts, 
 And through the woods we saw the temples shine, 
 
 Around whose portals many a priestess wafts 
 
 The incense of the island's handicrafts ; 
 The morning broke upon a people's prayer, 
 
 We drank the odorous wind in deeper draughts, 
 And seeing the land so pure and void of care, 
 Our very hearts were touched, and we grew gentle there. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Meanwhile our helmless vessel cleft the sea, 
 
 Following, we knew not how, the piercing sound 
 
 Of some high flute or pipe that seemed to be 
 Blown by a mouth beyond the utmost bound 
 Of this sweet island that our fate had found ; 
 
 At last we neared a headland grey and hoary, 
 And like a living thing our ship veered round, 
 
 Past the firm granite of that promontory 
 Into a bay profound that flashed with light and glory.
 
 THE ISLAND OF THE BLEST. 
 
 X. 
 
 Vv r e shot to right and left amid a fleet 
 
 Of ships of fairy trim and build antique ; 
 Until below a stately marble street 
 
 Our prow against the quay began to shriek ; 
 
 The forms that crowded round us all were Greek, 
 Yet by some marvel of the shifty brain 
 
 Their tongue seemed ours when they began to speak, 
 And ours seemed theirs when we replied again, 
 And words fell thick and fast in showers like summer rain. 
 
 XI. 
 For these grave strangers marvelled at our dress, 
 
 Our Northern faces and our wondrous ship, 
 And more and more around us all would press, 
 
 Nor let us from their curious questioning slip, 
 
 And weighed our answers, lest our tongues should trip ; 
 Nor could our smiles and honied speech assuage 
 
 The darkening eye and lip on hard-pressed lip, 
 They doubted lest our band had come to wage 
 Fell war with sylvan peace, their island-heritage.
 
 THE ISLAND OF THE BLEST. 55 
 
 XII. 
 So for a while they whispered in a ring, 
 
 Taking deep counsel in their urgent case, 
 Then seemed to judge that none beside their king 
 
 Could truly tell if we were brave or base, 
 
 Then, child-like, said so to our very face, 
 And then with many a threat of pains and blows, 
 
 In quaint procession led us from that place, 
 
 Bound three by three in chaplets of wild rose, 
 
 Since no severer chain that happy island knows. 
 
 XIII. 
 Far up the hot white streets of their great town, 
 
 Past cool arcades well-trellised round with vines, 
 Our genial captors, feigning many a frown, 
 Conducted us, and by their words and signs 
 Would fain have had us dread their deep designs ; 
 We smiled and nimbly followed, as seemed best, 
 
 Till soon, beneath some solitary pines, 
 We halted meekly at their chiefs behest, 
 And learned their land was named the ' ' Island of the 
 Blest."
 
 THE ISLAND OF THE BLEST. 
 
 XIV. 
 Then while we rested there, he taught us, too, 
 
 That Cretan Rhadamanthus was their king, 
 And that before his judgment-seat he drew 
 
 All that offended right in anything, 
 
 Or had a question of the law to bring ; 
 Then we and they arose again, and sought 
 
 The highway where the parched cicalas sing, 
 And while we went, our courteous leader taught 
 The order of that state to us with minds distraught. 
 
 xv. 
 But when at last before the King we stood 
 
 Deep in a temple built above the town, 
 After some brief delay we understood 
 
 Three cases must be tried before our own, 
 
 Whereat our captors, smiling, sat them down, 
 And we, in patience, watched that bright-eyed king 
 
 Stroke his white beard and shake his massy crown, 
 And saw the swift obsequious usher bring 
 The persons of each suit together in a ring.
 
 THE ISLAND OF THE BLEST. 
 
 XVI. 
 But first a soldier of heroic mould 
 
 Threw on each side the pressing populace ; 
 He wore a bright cuirass of beaten gold, 
 
 Fitting the captain of a kingly race, 
 
 But there was madness stamped upon his face ; 
 Up to the throne he darted and stood still, 
 
 A monument of shattered power and grace, 
 Shouting, " I am Telamonian Ajax ! Will, 
 O King, that I my place among my peers should fill ! " 
 
 XVII. 
 
 And Rhadamanthus bowed above his beard ; 
 
 And some came forth who of Cassandra spake, 
 And of his own mad death ; but all men feared 
 
 Those wandering eyes and lip-line like a snake ; 
 
 Nor loved an answer from his lips to take ; 
 So, after many words, the King decreed, 
 
 That he his thirst with hellebore should slake, 
 And after, in the bath awhile should bleed, 
 Till the great leech of Cos pronounced him sane indeed.
 
 58 THE ISLAND OF THE BLEST. 
 
 XVIII. 
 Then, loudly wrangling, in the court upsprung 
 
 Theseus and Menelaus ; by their side 
 Came Helen blushing; to her maids she clung, 
 
 But let her purple eyes roll far and wide, 
 
 And watched the monarch while her cause was tried : 
 Since each would have her for his wife, yet she 
 
 Her lovely hand to neither had denied, 
 Nor blushed she when the King's supreme decree 
 To Menelaus gave her loveliness in fee. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 And close to us their bright procession swept, 
 
 As Atreus' son led off his beauteous prize, 
 But Theseus glowered as one who would have wept, 
 
 Had not his pride sealed fast his iron eyes ; 
 
 Slowly he rose, burdened with many sighs, 
 While down the steps he watched her twinkling feet, 
 
 Then, like a warrior just before he dies, 
 Wrapped close his mantle round his heart's defeat, 
 And vanished like a ghost far down the glittering street.
 
 THE ISLAND OF THE BLEST. 59 
 
 XX. 
 
 Then Hannibal with Alexander strove 
 
 For precedence, and many a cunning saw 
 Each quoted to the King, who dreamed above 
 
 Like some old incarnation of the law ; 
 
 His judgment, like a lot, we saw him draw, 
 And he that conquered India proudly won ; 
 
 The other knew that judgment had no flaw, 
 And like a sulky lion sought the sun, 
 While Rhadamanthus turned and eyed us one by one. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 There in a group our crew together stood, 
 
 Whispering light whimsies or fantastic quips, 
 All fellows of the same quaint brotherhood, 
 
 Pale Vannus mourning still time's long eclipse ; 
 
 And bearded Paradox, with laughing lips, 
 Murmuring strange verses ; Bion, like a wind, 
 
 Thin, dark and keen, whose speech so nimbly trips 
 That, like the hart, it leaves pursuit behind ; 
 And gentlest Horace swayed by his uncertain mind.
 
 60 THE ISLAND OF THE BLEST. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 And many more were there ; to whom, struck dumb 
 
 By all his majesty, the judge began : 
 " Say who and from what unknown realm ye come, 
 
 To us who never yet saw living man? 
 
 Long years ago our feverish mortal span 
 Was ended, and this sacred land is given 
 
 To us, a little, but immortal clan, 
 From whom the bands of fleshly birth are riven, 
 Who know no life nor death, and taste nor hell nor heaven. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 " Ye men in whom the pulse of life yet runs 
 
 Have nought to do with us or we with you ; 
 We envy not your swift-revolving suns, 
 
 Your headstrong hopes and summers cold and few. 
 
 Frail, captious creatures are ye, who pursue 
 An aim we know to be too high for us ; 
 
 When all the world is yours to battle through, 
 Why come ye, strangers, uninvited thus, 
 Of our unsullied peace so coarsely amorous ? "
 
 THE ISLAND OF THE BLEST. 61 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Then of our voyage to the King we spake, 
 
 And all the horrors of that later time, 
 And how our hearts with fear were near to break 
 
 When we encountered this delicious clime, 
 
 And how that we were guilty of no crime ; 
 So Rhadamanthus having searched us through 
 
 A long while with those piercing eyes sublime, 
 At length, persuaded that our speech was true, 
 Relented of his wrath, and suavely gentle grew. 
 
 xxv. 
 
 And smiling, warned us that one man's offence 
 
 Against their innocent island-polity 
 Would be enough to make him drive us thence, 
 
 However pure and still the rest might be ; 
 
 Then, lifting up his voice, declared us free ; 
 Whereat the chains fell straightway from each limb, 
 
 And all the strange fair faces we could see 
 Were smiling through the shadows deep and dim, 
 And each of us was touched by one who greeted him.
 
 61 THE ISLAND OF THE BLEST. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 And as I stood abashed and flushed, one came 
 Who took my hand within his grasp and said, 
 
 " Wilt thou that I should call thee by thy name, 
 Stranger ? my name among the holy dead 
 Was Myron, and for home and Greece I bled. " 
 
 I answered him, and then with hand in hand 
 We downward went, I following where he led, 
 
 To view the splendours of that magian land, 
 By beauty so caressed and by such odours fanned. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 My tall companion was of aspect grave, 
 
 His features moulded in a form severe, 
 The locks that round his forehead loved to wave 
 
 Were like an autumn leafage, richly sere ; 
 
 Stern was he, but the trembling heart of fear 
 Took comfort at the light in his young eyes ; 
 
 Little he said, but spoke out firm and clear, 
 As one whose hands had taught him to be wise, 
 And from his robe I marked a dust of marble rise.
 
 THE ISLAND OF THE BLEST. 63 
 
 XXVIII. 
 So, each by his own guide, we all were brought 
 
 Into a palace where the heroes sate, 
 And airy ministrants more swift than thought 
 
 Took off the garments of our former fate, 
 
 And clothed us in thin purple robes of state ; 
 Then washed our feet in bowls that smelt of myrrh, 
 
 While to the couches where we lay and ate, 
 On printless feet that made no sound or stir 
 Came bearing food and wine each gentle minister. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 The banquet done, with Myron at my side, 
 
 I wandered out to see the town at ease ; 
 It hangs above a champaign green and wide 
 
 Close moulded by the tumbling a/ure seas ; 
 
 Across the fields of flowers a fresh'ning breeze 
 For ever lifts the glowing atmosphere ; 
 
 Within that city fruits and blossoming trees 
 Ripen and bud with leafage never sere, 
 And burn in tender green down many a courtway clear.
 
 THE ISLAND OF THE BLEST. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 At topmost of the town a stately hall 
 
 Lets through its portico the clear blue light ; 
 
 Hither at noon of day the townsmen all 
 In public gatherings take their chief delight, 
 And wrangle till the dewy fall of night ; 
 
 To Artemis the island -peoples pray, 
 
 Or dance in chorus when the moon is bright, 
 
 For where the Stoa lifts its pillars gray 
 Her statue crowned the street, a beacon far away. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 And Myron's work it was, in glowing bronze ; 
 
 Beneath the figure stood the sacred name ; 
 Serene she seemed as when her godship dons 
 
 The woodland dress that wrought Action shame 
 
 One hand she held her bow in, and the same 
 Pressed back her foolish hound ; the other passed 
 
 Behind her neck to lift one shaft of flame 
 Out of her quiver ; from her eyes she cast 
 A glance to outstrip in speed the quarry flying fast.
 
 THE ISLAND OF THE BLEST. 65 
 
 XXXII. 
 All this and more my grave companion showed ; 
 
 The fountains pulsing in each street and square, 
 The marble dyke through which the river flowed, 
 
 The temples of the immortal gods of air, 
 
 And their clear-carven images and fair ; 
 The bright Lyceum to Apollo vo\ved, 
 
 Where many an athlete strove, shining and bare, 
 Vast halls from which a noise of tambours loud 
 Came moduling the dance of footsteps in a crowd. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 No night there is within that island fair ; 
 
 But when the twilight threw its pearly veil 
 Across the azure of the blinding air, 
 And far away to sea each twinkling sail 
 Was lightly dyed with crimson faint and pale, 
 And all the world grew like an opal-stone, 
 
 Fit for the prelude of the nightingale, 
 Tall Myron turned and said " The day is done, 
 'Tis time that each of us to his own home was gone." 
 F
 
 66 THE ISLAND OF THE BLEST. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 With that we left the town and climbed the hill, 
 
 Along a path that led through orchard-slopes, 
 Fenced from the browsing creatures' wanton will 
 
 By thornless cactus, set to mar the hopes 
 
 Of idle goats and truant antelopes ; 
 From all the branches flowers of radiant hue 
 
 Hung down in long festoons and flying ropes ; 
 Through which with labouring flight a dusky crew 
 Of strange sweet songsters passed and warbled as they flew. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 At last we took a path high up the steep, 
 That brought us out before a house of stone ; 
 
 This dwelling looked out eastward o'er the deep 
 And heard the loud waves' rounded monotone, 
 Too sweet and far that, like a human moan, 
 
 Their sound should breed a conscious melancholy ; 
 Around it spread a garden green and lone, 
 
 Given up to insects fair and blossoms wholly, 
 With beds of sacred herbs, rue, balsam, vervain, moly.
 
 THE ISLAND OF THE BLEST. 67 
 
 XXXVI. 
 "This house is thine," said Myron, "all the while 
 
 That thou art with us. " At the open door 
 There sat a woman with a weary smile, 
 
 Spinning, and gazing down upon the shore, 
 
 Where skiff by skiff came landwards evermore, 
 As though she looked for one that never came. 
 
 About her arms and down along the floor 
 The masses of her hair in golden flame 
 Fell, shedding round a light no shadow of night could tame. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 I watched her in deep silence, for her eyes 
 
 Troubled my pulse with beauty ; but we stirred, 
 And as she turned, I saw the soul arise 
 
 Within her, and the bliss of hope deferred ; 
 
 Her noble arms she spread without a word, 
 A living colour glorified her face, 
 
 And, ere a sound from those fine lips I heard, 
 Most virgin-like and with a queenly grace, 
 She rose and locked my form in her divine embrace.
 
 68 THE ISLAND OF THE BLEST. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 Long time I hung in that ambrosial dream, 
 
 And when I waked, I found there none but she ; 
 Slowly our arms untwined, like some twin stream 
 That parts at last in hastening to the sea, 
 But knows that soon united it must be 
 For ever ; as I waited flushed and dumb, 
 
 Across the threshold-stone she passed from me, 
 Then turned with passion-laden eyes that swum, 
 And held the curtain back, and smiled, and whispered 
 "Come!" 
 
 xxxix. 
 In such beatitude our days passed by, 
 
 So that the wintry wave we quite forgot, 
 Nor ever recollected with a sigh 
 That boreal country where our sires begot 
 Children predestined to a weary lot ; 
 Beauteous and young we grew, and fit to tread 
 
 Beside the immortal shapes that faded not 
 In this old island of the lovely dead, 
 Our minds on glorious dreams and fair romances fed.
 
 THE ISLAND OF THE BLEST. 69 
 
 XL. 
 
 And Myron was my counsellor and guide, 
 Who taught me patiently all sacred lore ; 
 
 With him I loved to climb the mountain-side, 
 Or ride along the margin of the shore, 
 In his wise voice contented evermore ; 
 
 Swift through the waves our racing limbs we flung, 
 Chased the wild roe across the moorland hoar, 
 
 Or, braced for speed, above the footline hung, 
 In those Olympian games, by lyric Pindar sung, 
 
 XLI. 
 
 So I and so my former shipmates lived 
 
 Lighthearted as the summer birds that sing ; 
 
 If ever in our thoughtful hearts revived 
 The solemn warning of that ancient king, 
 We smiled, for we were pure in everything ; 
 
 Guiltless we moved under his easy yoke, 
 Safe in the shelter of his kindly wing, 
 
 Nor ever seemed we tempted to provoke 
 The wrath that on the heads of impious sinners broke.
 
 THE ISLAND OF THE BLEST. 
 
 XLII. 
 But one was there, the stripling of our crew, 
 
 Cynthius by name, a tall and nimble wight, 
 Most indiscreet he was, though kind and true ; 
 
 In strange adventures both by day and night 
 
 This restless being took his sole delight ; 
 And oft we quaked to mark his aspect sly, 
 
 As hand on hip, deep in the evening light, 
 He taught those townsfolk with an earnest eye 
 Of things that never were in earth or sea or sky. 
 
 XLIII. 
 Little he loved the quiet Dorian ways, 
 
 To plastic beauty he was somewhat blind ; 
 The luscious stillness of those blissful days 
 
 Hung like a cloud upon his cheerful mind, 
 
 Nor pleasure in processions could he find ; 
 Nor blew the flute, nor plucked the lyre-string tense, 
 
 No fillet round his temples would he bind, 
 But lashed the poets for their lack of sense, 
 And rated with his tongue the athlete's indolence.
 
 THE ISLAND OF THE BLEST. 
 
 XLIV. 
 Yet was he, for all this, the chief delight 
 
 Of racer, bard, artificer and sage, 
 Who clustered round their captious favourite, 
 
 And smiled to hear the youthful stoic wage 
 
 Fantastic war against a nobler age ; 
 But we, who knew him best, shuddered to see, 
 
 Like some fierce creature in a feeble cage, 
 His twinkling eye, grown restive, long to be 
 Alert on some new scheme of daring devilry, 
 
 XLV. 
 Deep in the boscage, high above the town, 
 
 Some ancient king has cleared a cirque of grass, 
 So large that many guests can sit them down, 
 
 And stretch their limbs and drain a joyous glass ; 
 
 From this fair banquet-hall of leaves there pass 
 Winding arcades amid the sparser trees, 
 
 And, after feasting, many a lad and lass 
 May tread these paths in noisy twos and threes, 
 Lost and regained to sight in verdurous slow degrees.
 
 7 a THE ISLAND OF THE BLEST. 
 
 XLVI. 
 And daily at the hour that brings the dew 
 
 We gathered there with guests of stately mould, 
 Once known to sight by such as wandered through 
 
 The Dorian valleys in the age of gold, 
 
 All young as gods, yet all divinely old ; 
 With these we lay on couches of cool moss, 
 
 While round us waves of wondrous converse rolled, 
 On which our mortal spirits seemed to toss 
 Like some frail shallop borne where ocean-currents cross. 
 
 XLVII. 
 But while they spake and wrangled of the wars, 
 
 I marked that Helen sat and only smiled, 
 Nor glanced aside to mark the flushing scars 
 
 Of heroes whom the grape made nobly wild ; 
 
 Like a ripe rounded peach, downy and mild, 
 Her cheek lay cool under her watchful eye, 
 
 And Menelaus by her calm beguiled, 
 Shouted the old Hellenic battle-cry, 
 And laughed and swung his cup to see the Trojans die.
 
 THE ISLAND OF THE BLEST. 73 
 
 XLVIII. 
 But soon I marked that Cynthius ceased to fret, 
 
 And lost the bright impatient glance he had, 
 So we, rejoiced to think he could forget 
 
 His mundane pleasures as a mortal lad, 
 
 In this new birth grew confident and glad ; 
 His slim and personable form was seen 
 
 Each evening at the feast, when we were bade, 
 Most gravely hastening o'er the shaven green, 
 To take the seat that brought him nearest to the Queen. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 And when the talk grew hottest of the fight, 
 
 And maids and boys had leave the feast to quit, 
 Helen and he would rise in all men's sight, 
 
 To wander in the forest glades, and flit 
 
 Around the circle in a pensive fit, 
 No harm being thought, where all could see them plain 
 
 Deep in the shadow, and through the heart of it, 
 As through the shafts of the straight summer rain 
 We see the bending woods and waves of shining grain.
 
 74 THE ISLAND OF THE BLEST. 
 
 L. 
 So now we seemed secure of endless joy, 
 
 And quite forgot the sword above our head, 
 Nor dreamed that sin of one man could destroy 
 
 The innocent quiet of the lives we led ; 
 
 One morn I rose up timely from my bed, 
 And, wandering through my garden o'er the sea, 
 
 Paused, full of marvel, as with all sail spread, 
 A fleet below me scudding on the lee 
 Seemed banded in pursuit of some swift enemy. 
 
 Li. 
 And far before them on the round sky's rim 
 
 I saw a pinnace ploughing through the main, 
 And though the foamy air around was dim, 
 
 I marked two figures that the plunging strain 
 
 Of the loud breaker struck and shook amain, 
 So that the sun-bright hair of one of these 
 
 Broke from the fillet where its coils had lain, 
 And blew around her in the salt-sea breeze 
 Or fluttered thread by thread across her quivering knees.
 
 THE ISLAND OF THE BLEST. 
 
 LIT. 
 
 But more and more their crazy bark began 
 To sway and toil within the labouring deep, 
 
 And faster ever the pursuers ran 
 Like wolves upon a lost and foolish sheep, 
 Made swifter still to see their quarry creep ; 
 
 The mainmast of the boat snapped in the wind, 
 I saw the master in his anguish leap, 
 
 And the loose canvas from its wreck unbind, 
 Then sink with hanging hands as one to fate resigned. 
 
 LIII. 
 
 And on they swept ; but I, oppressed at heart, 
 
 Turned to my own familiar door, and spake 
 To her who loved me ; and I saw her start, 
 
 Troubled, as one that dreams and would not wake ; 
 
 But soon my anxious voice had power to break 
 The tissue of light dreams, and she arose ; 
 
 Smiling she came, and for her slumber's sake 
 Craved sweet excuse, the rosy-tinted snows 
 Upon her cheeks still flushing from her pure repose.
 
 76 THE ISLAND OF THE BLEST. 
 
 LIV. 
 I tried to smile ; but prescience and despair 
 
 Weighed on me with a keener pain than death ; 
 Beneath the river of her rippling hair 
 
 I wound my arms, and fed on her sweet breath, 
 
 Teaching her lips the secret that he saith 
 Who could not pour his heart out otherwise ; 
 
 But waits that love may see he sorroweth, 
 And read the story at his brimming eyes, 
 And on his breaking heart grow pitiful and wise. 
 
 LV. 
 So she divined that all was done at last ; 
 
 The pleasant mornings that we sat together 
 Under the deep pomegranate-tree, and cast 
 
 Its unripe fruits far down our slope of heather ; 
 
 The starry nights of high untroubled weather 
 When through the trees we wandered hand in hand ; 
 
 Watching the ghostly birds of drooping feather 
 That made a singing glory through the land, 
 Or with our twining arms each other's bosom spanned.
 
 THE ISLAND OF THE BLEST. 
 
 LVI. 
 Then rose a clamour at the stricken gate, 
 
 And in there rushed on us an angry crowd ; 
 " Too late to fly ! " they said " too late ! too late ! " 
 
 And railed on me in accents vague and loud ; 
 
 Over her knees one moment's space she bowed, 
 Then stood upright and faced them at my side, 
 
 Until, like hounds a master's voice hath cowed, 
 That horde fell back, and when their shouts had died, 
 Their captain to my voice in quavering tones replied. 
 
 LVII. 
 The curse was brought by that most wanton hand 
 
 Of Cynthius ; he, with foolish love enflamed, 
 Had striven to steal in secret from the land 
 
 Bright Helen, of her sorceries unashamed ; 
 
 The careless shaft thus in the darkness aimed 
 Had stricken all strangers in the happy isle ; 
 
 Cynthius had pleased his own wild heart untamed, 
 And now to chasten his unholy guile 
 The King must drive us thence as men abhorred and vile.
 
 78 THE ISLAND OF THE BLEST. 
 
 LVIII. 
 They urged us on, and pushed us to the town ; 
 
 At every path fresh fugitives we met, 
 For to the sea-board all were hastening down, 
 
 Some laughing, some with faces hard and set, 
 
 Some on whose cheeks the starting tears were wet, 
 While as we passed the Stoa void and wide, 
 
 Myron, with eyes not fashioned to forget, 
 Darted between our captors to my side, 
 And silently we passed down to the water-side. 
 
 Lix. 
 There dead upon a scaffold Cynthius hung ; 
 
 Our own black ship was moored against the quay, 
 And underneath that body as it swung 
 
 They forced us with a swift discourtesy 
 
 To climb her sides, hoist sail, and put to sea. 
 But Myron and my lost beloved stood 
 
 Tall, pale and silent, watching us, till we 
 Passed far away upon the glimmering flood, 
 And round us broke a light of vengeance and of blood.
 
 THE ISLAND OF THE BLEST. 
 
 LX. 
 Then swiftly through that crimson atmosphere 
 
 We hastened, with no help from wind or oar, 
 While sorrow pierced us, and the pangs of fear 
 
 O'erpowered our mortal spirits more and more, 
 
 Despair behind us and the storm before ; 
 With that into the realm of gloom we fled ; 
 
 A tempest broke us like a sullen shore ; 
 And stunned with awe and hopeless as the dead, 
 Through the loud zone of night our elfin vessel sped.
 
 A BALLAD OF THE UPPER 
 THAMES.
 
 A BALLAD OF THE UPPER THAMES. 
 
 I. 
 
 A H ! what a storm of wind and hail ! 
 Another quart of Witney ale, 
 We'll test the cellar's mettle, 
 And Emma, of her work deprived, 
 Our Hebe at the " Rose Revived," 
 Shall serve us in the settle. 
 
 ii. 
 
 The mowers from the field shall stray, 
 The fisher from the lonely bay 
 
 Shall leave his pool forlorner, 
 The snooded, shy dock -gatherers too 
 Shall lift their skirts of dusky blue, 
 
 And line the chimney-corner.
 
 84 A BALLAD OF THE UPPER THAMES. 
 
 III. 
 
 And through the gusts of whirling rain 
 The cuckoo's voice may call in vain 
 
 From boughs and steaming thickets ; 
 We'll listen to the jerking crock, 
 The ticking of the eight-day clock, 
 
 The chirping of the crickets. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Until some topic, lightly sprung, 
 Unloose the timid rustic tongue 
 
 To news of crops or weather, 
 And men and women, touched to speech, 
 Respond and babble, each to each, 
 
 Till all discourse together. 
 
 V. 
 
 Until the wonted ale-house chat 
 With knotty points of this and that, 
 And heat of Whig and Tory,
 
 A BALLAD OF THE UPPER THAMES. 85 
 
 Resolve into the single stream 
 Of one old man's disjointed theme, 
 An ancient country story. 
 
 VI. 
 
 I sit and watch from out the pane 
 The silvery Windrush through the rain 
 
 Haste down to join the Isis, 
 Half listening to the simple tale 
 That winds along, thro' draughts of ale, 
 
 On to its measured crisis. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Or watch the head of him who tells 
 These long-drawn rural miracles, 
 
 His worn old cheek that flushes, 
 His eye that darts above his pipe 
 Keen as the flashing of a snipe 
 
 Through beds of windless rushes.
 
 A BALLAD OF THE UPPER THAMES. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 He tells, for this was long ago, 
 The winter of the heavy snow, 
 
 And none but he remembers, 
 What fate in love to George befell, 
 The keeper up at Stanlake Well, 
 
 Then stirs the fragrant embers, 
 
 IX. 
 
 Then starts anew : " When I was young 
 More champion Berkshire men were flung 
 
 By George in wrestling matches, 
 Than sacks of wheat could stand a-row 
 Inside yon shed, or martens go 
 
 To build within these thatches. 
 
 x. 
 
 His back was like a three-year ash, 
 His eye had got the steady flash 
 
 That's death to hare or pheasant ;
 
 A BALLAD OF THE UPPER THAMES. 87 
 
 And when he walked the woods at night 
 
 The tramps would take to sudden flight, 
 
 To meet him was not pleasant. 
 
 XI. 
 
 But still he held himself aloof 
 From every friendly neighbour's roof, 
 
 Nor chatted in the village ; 
 The farmers called him proud, for he 
 Could little in their children see 
 
 But imps brought up to pillage. 
 
 XII. 
 
 At harvest-home and country dance 
 He gave the beauties just a glance, 
 
 The calmest of beholders ; 
 The lasses failed his pulse to move, 
 Till suddenly he fell in love 
 
 Right over head and shoulders.
 
 88 A BALLAD OF THE UPPER THAMES. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 He went to buy a dog one day 
 At Inglesham, and on the way 
 
 A sudden snow-storm caught him ; 
 His path he lost ; at length a lane 
 Down which the north wind swept amain 
 
 Straight into Lechlade brought him. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Within the parlour of the inn, 
 Snug from the driving frost and din, 
 
 He sipped his gin-and-water, 
 When like a well-tuned instrument, 
 Close by him, singing, Mary went, 
 
 The landlord's rosy daughter. 
 
 xv. 
 
 Her voice, before he caught her face, 
 Bewitched him with its joyous grace, 
 But when he saw her features,
 
 A BALLAD OF THE UPPER THAMES. 
 
 Like any running hare shot dead 
 His heart leapt suddenly, and his head 
 Was like a swooning creature's. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 He rose and stood, or tried to stand, 
 He clutched the table with his hand, 
 
 Until she went out, singing ; 
 Then, sitting down, and calm again, 
 He felt a kind of quiet pain 
 
 Thro" all his pulses ringing. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 At first he scarcely knew that this 
 Strange ache made up of grief and bliss 
 
 Was love, his fancy thronging ; 
 For Mary's image night and day 
 From his tired eyelids would not stray, 
 
 But wore him out with longing.
 
 90 A BALLAD OF THE UPPER THAMES. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 And all that winter and that spring 
 The very least excuse would bring 
 
 His steps to Mary's presence ; 
 He'd sit for hours and try to smile, 
 Yet look as grim and dark the while 
 
 As any judge at sessions. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 But Mary with her cheerful eyes, 
 Like hearts-ease where a dewdrop lies, 
 
 And lips like warm carnations, 
 Laughed, bridling up her sunny head 
 When jokes and sly remarks were made 
 
 By neighbours and relations. 
 
 xx. 
 
 So things went on till limes in June 
 Dropped honey-dust, and all in tune 
 The elm-trees rang with thrushes ;
 
 A BALLAD OF THE UPPER THAMES. 91 
 
 'Tis sweet, when, fed by showers of May, 
 Through lily-leaves and flowers that sway, 
 The brimming river flushes. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 The town one evening seemed to keep 
 A quiet sort of twilight sleep, 
 
 Hushed, scented, calm and airy ; 
 And George, who rode across from far, 
 Found no one sitting in the bar 
 
 But smiling mistress Mary. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Long time he sat and nothing said, 
 But listened to the chatting maid 
 
 Who loved this evening leisure ; 
 It was so dreamy there and sweet, 
 And she so bright from head to feet 
 
 He could have wept for pleasure.
 
 A BALLAD OF THE UPPER THAMES. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 His beating heart, that leaped apace, 
 Took comfort from her smiling face 
 
 That pertly seemed to brave you : 
 " If you don't mind a keeper's life, 
 I wish you'd come and be my wife, 
 
 For no man else shall have you." 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 She started, turned first white, then red, 
 And for a minute nothing said, 
 
 Then seemed to search and find him ; 
 "Good night," she answered, short and straight, 
 "I had no notion 'twas so late," 
 
 And shut the door behind him. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 The threshold pebbles seemed to scorch 
 His feet ; he leaned against the porch, 
 And tore the honey-suckle ;
 
 A BALLAD OF THE UPPER THAMES. 93 
 
 Up to the window-pots he sighed, 
 Then from one casement, opened wide, 
 He heard a kind of chuckle. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 So, mad with love and sick with rage, 
 He swore his passion to assuage, 
 
 And by his death abash her ; 
 He ran three miles from Lechlade town, 
 Then threw his hat and cudgel down, 
 
 And plunged in Kelmscott lasher. 
 
 xxvn. 
 
 The moon on Eaton Hastings Wood 
 Turned white, as any full moon should, 
 
 To see a drowning keeper, 
 And twice he sank, and twice came out, 
 But as the eddies whirled about, 
 
 Each time he sank the deeper.
 
 A BALLAD OF THE UPPER THAMES. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Now Mary's brother kept the weir, 
 A merry lad, a judge of beer, 
 
 And stout for twenty-seven ; 
 It chanced that night he smoked at ease 
 Among his stocks and picotees 
 
 Beneath the summer heaven. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 He dashed across the seething din, 
 Thrust all the piles and rimers in, 
 
 And stopped the weir's mad riot ; 
 Then rushing to the reedy strand 
 Swam out, and safely dragged to land, 
 
 Poor George, now white and quiet. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Long time before the doors of death 
 The little fluttering of his breath 
 Seemed taking leave for ever j
 
 A BALLAD OF THE UPPER THAMES. 95 
 
 His pulse was gone, his cheek was blue, 
 But by degrees they brought him to, 
 And bore him from the river. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Now when next day the news went down 
 The streets and lanes of Lechlade town, 
 
 It brought much consternation ; 
 And as the tale the gossips shared 
 They duly one and all declared 
 
 The death a dispensation. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 How fortunate he showed in time 
 His selfish aptitude for crime, 
 
 His passions thus revealing ! 
 Much ill of the deceased was said ; 
 But when they knew he was not dead, 
 
 A change came o'er the feeling.
 
 96 A BALLAD OF THE UPPER THAMES. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Then Mary, who had sobbed and cried, 
 Grew confident and laughing-eyed, 
 
 While all the town grew graver ; 
 She warbled like a happy bird, 
 Nor ever made as though she heard 
 
 The names the neighbours gave her. 
 
 xxxiv. 
 
 For now they all agreed that she 
 Was much more criminal than he, 
 
 Was pert, and stony-hearted, 
 That on her head his blood would lie, 
 Since he was almost sure to die 
 
 From this cold hussey parted. 
 
 xxxv. 
 
 But still she warbled ; till one day 
 When every neighbour had her say 
 And each spoke somewhat louder,
 
 A BALLAD OF THE UPPER THAMES 
 
 She stood right up behind the bar, 
 For all to hear her near or far, 
 
 Nor could a queen look prouder. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 " If any one that's here to-day 
 Is going over Stanlake-way, 
 
 I'd have him know for certain, 
 It's not the way to win a wife, 
 To hang around, and plague her life, 
 
 And peep behind the curtain. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 " Nor after loafing half-a-year, 
 And blushing when he calls for beer, 
 
 To shout the question at her, 
 When mother's lying ill in bed, 
 Awake, and listening overhead, 
 
 And wondering what's the matter. 
 H
 
 98 A BALLAD OF THE UPPER THAMES. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 " Men stalk a girl as with a gun, 
 And if she turns and tries to run, 
 
 Their patience all abated, 
 They rush and drown themselves for spite, 
 To punish people whom they might 
 Have won, had they but waited. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 " My brother should have left him there, 
 Since plainly all his load of crxre 
 
 Is more than he can carry ; 
 In future he may wooing go 
 To Witney or to Jericho, 
 
 But me he'll never marry." 
 
 XL. 
 
 The neighbours all were sadly shocked ; 
 The maiden at their scruples mocked, 
 As through her work she hurried ;
 
 A BALLAD OF THE UPPER THAMES. 
 
 She sang aloud ; and yet 'tis said, 
 That afternoon her eyes were red, 
 Her temper crossed and flurried. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 But out, alas ! for maidens' oaths ! 
 When Love puts on his Sunday-clothes 
 
 In vain their hearts are chary ; 
 Before three months had gone about 
 The Lechlade bells were pealing out, 
 
 And George was marrying Mary. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 They bought the " Starling and the Thrush 
 Just out of Bampton-in-the-Bush, 
 
 And long they lived together ; 
 For many a cheerful day they throve 
 Contented in each other's love, 
 
 Through sun and stormy weather.
 
 too A BALLAD OF THE UPPER THAMES. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 In Bampton Churchyard now they lie, 
 Their grave is open to the sky, 
 
 No tombstone weighs above them, 
 But pinks and pansies in a row, 
 And mignonette, and myrtle show 
 
 That still their children love them." 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 The old man, sipping at his ale, 
 Wound up the ending of his tale, 
 
 As dryly as he started, 
 Shook out the ashes from his pipe, 
 Then gave his old thin lips a wipe, 
 
 And rose, and slow departed. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 For, lightened of their load of rain, 
 The great loose clouds, grown white again, 
 Down in the west were blending ;
 
 A BALLAD OF THE UPPER THAMES. 
 
 While high o'erhead the sun rode through 
 A radiant plain of sparkling blue, 
 His noon-day throne ascending. 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 The Windrush beamed, like polished steel ; 
 The lark, in mounting, seemed to reel 
 
 With airs too sweet to utter ; 
 The roses shook their laden leaves, 
 The martins underneath the eaves 
 
 Began to peep and flutter. 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 And so, dissolving in the sun, 
 Our rustic synod, one by one, 
 
 Stole out to work -day labour ; 
 The fisher found his lines and bait, 
 Nor would the brown haymakers wait 
 
 To pledge the chattiest neighbour.
 
 A BALLAD OF THE UPPER THAMES. 
 XLVIII. 
 
 The women rose, among the fields 
 To reap what the rank margin yields, 
 
 Tall seeded docks that shiver ; 
 We, loth to leave the " Rose Revived," 
 Went last, although we first arrived, 
 
 Down to the brimming river.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
 
 TIMASITHEOS. 
 
 OFOR the gift to rise in full degree, 
 Not like the showy fungus of a night, 
 But fed with soft delays, a branching tree ! 
 
 Where now Olympia struggles to the light 
 
 All ruin, a sacred city long profaned, 
 Pausanias found amid the shining flight 
 
 Of brilliant statues, all unspecked, unstained, 
 
 One hewed about the face, and marred with mire, 
 Still standing as by right, but deep disdained ; 
 
 And when the curious wanderer would inquire 
 
 Whose beauteous antique shape was soiled and shamed, 
 None there could tell save one white-bearded sire,
 
 io6 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Who answered : " This was one who, never tamed, 
 
 With his swift thews won race on flashing race, 
 Lightly : and Timasitheos was he named, 
 
 " The Delphian, and from Phoebus so much grace 
 
 He had, that all the Arcadian world extolled 
 His manhood and the glory of his face ; 
 
 " And from the lips of Phrynichus out-rolled 
 Madness of song, praising his brazen feet, 
 And tight curls closing like the marigold ; 
 
 ' ' And Argive Ageladas, as was meet, 
 
 Master of Pheidias, sculptured him, and set 
 His statue in the ranks of strong and fleet ; 
 
 "And three times at the Pythian games he met 
 
 The athletes in the sinewy lists, and won, 
 And through the dewy streets and meadows wet
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 " Went singing, crowned from the pancration, 
 
 To Delphi, in a long procession borne, 
 And met with songs, his city's dearest son ! " 
 
 " Then why," Pausanias cried, " this mien forlorn, 
 
 These injured garments, this dishonoured head, 
 Of all its light and carven beauty shorn ? " 
 
 To whom the old indifferent grey-beard said : 
 
 " 'Twas long ago, before my grandsires' days, 
 And he who knew our history best is dead. 
 
 " But see this dim and grey inscription says : 
 
 "That ' Timasitheos, traitor to the state, 
 Lift up with pride and fallen on godless ways, 
 
 ' ' ' By his fond physical strength intoxicate, 
 
 Plotted with Kylon, and so meanly fell, 
 Unstable and the prey of envious fate.' "
 
 io8 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Too soon, too much adored ! Ah ! much too well 
 
 He cleft the winds and left the world behind ! 
 Too fatal all the shapely miracle 
 
 Of his great limbs in faultless form combined ! 
 
 Better, ah ! better far to have been less swift, 
 More kindred to the earth, less to the wind ! 
 
 For the gods hate not excellence, but lift 
 
 The strong soul slowly on a great endeavour, 
 And grace their own beloved, gift by gift, 
 
 And with their sleepless eyes have wit to sever 
 
 Man's lawful joy in power from pride of power, 
 And hover round the loyal soul for ever ; 
 
 But the hot insolent head they hold one hour 
 
 High over the ranks of men, then dash it down, 
 And laugh to see it kiss the dust and cower.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 109 
 
 Let others leap straight to the forest-crown ! 
 
 Slow growth, cool saps and temperate airs for me, 
 And strength to stand when all the woods are brown.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 THE CHARCOAL-BURNER. 
 
 HE lives within the hollow wood, 
 From one clear dell he seldom ranges ; 
 His daily toil in solitude 
 Revolves, but never changes. 
 
 A still old man, with grizzled beard, 
 
 Grey eye, bent shape, and smoke-tanned features, 
 His quiet footstep is not feared 
 
 By shyest woodland creatures. 
 
 I love to watch the pale blue spire 
 
 His scented labour builds above it ; 
 I track the woodland by his fire, 
 
 And, seen afar, I love it. 
 
 It seems among the serious trees 
 The emblem of a living pleasure,
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 It animates the silences 
 As with a tuneful measure. 
 
 And dream not that such humdrum ways 
 Fold naught of nature's charm around him ; 
 
 The mystery of soundless days 
 
 Hath sought for him and found him. 
 
 He hides within his simple brain 
 
 An instinct innocent and holy, 
 The music of a wood-bird's strain, 
 
 Not blithe, nor melancholy, 
 
 But hung upon the calm content 
 
 Of wholesome leaf and bough and blossom- 
 An unecstatic ravishment 
 
 Born in a rustic bosom. 
 
 He knows the moods of forest things, 
 He holds, in his own speechless fashion,
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 For helpless forms of fur and wings 
 A mild paternal passion. 
 
 Within his horny hand he holds 
 
 The warm brood of the ruddy squirrel ; 
 
 Their bushy mother storms and scolds, 
 But knows no sense of peril. 
 
 The dormouse shares his crumb of cheese, 
 His homeward trudge the rabbits follow ; 
 
 He finds, in angles of the trees, 
 The cup-nest of the swallow. 
 
 And through this sympathy perchance, 
 The beating heart of life he reaches 
 
 Far more than we who idly dance 
 An hour beneath the beeches. 
 
 Our science and our empty pride, 
 Our busy dream of introspection,
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 To God seem vain and poor beside 
 This dumb, sincere reflection. 
 
 Yet he will die unsought, unknown, 
 
 A nameless head-stone stand above him, 
 
 And the vast woodland, vague and lone, 
 Be all that's left to love him.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 THE DEATH OF ARNKEL. 
 
 ACROSS the roaring board in Helgafell, 
 Above the clash of ringing horns of ale, 
 The guests of Snorri, reddened with the frost, 
 Weighed all their comrades through a winter night, 
 Disputing which was first in thew and brain 
 And courteous acts of manhood ; some averred 
 Their host, the shifty Snorri, first of men, 
 While some were bent to Arnkel, some to Styrr. 
 Then Thorleif Kimbi shouted down the hall, 
 " Folly and windy talk ! the stalwart limbs 
 Of Styrr, and that sharp goodly face of thine, 
 All-cunning Snorri, make one man, not twain, 
 One man in friendship and in rede, not twain, 
 Nor that man worthy to be named for skill, 
 Or strength, or beauty, or for popular arts, 
 With Arnkel, son of Thorolf the grim ghost.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PO-VS. 
 
 Wit has he, though not lacking therewithal 
 In sinew ; see to it, comrades, lest he crush 
 The savage leaders of our oligarchy, 
 Vast, indolent, mere iron masks of men, 
 Unfit for civic uses ; his the hand 
 To gather all our forces like the reins 
 Of patient steeds, and drive us at his will, 
 Unless we stir betimes, and are his bane." 
 
 So from his turbulent mouth the shaft struck home, 
 
 Venomed with envy and the jealous pride 
 
 Of birth ; and ere they roared themselves to rest, 
 
 The chieftains vowed that Arnkel must be slain, 
 
 Nor waited many days ; for one clear night 
 
 Freystein, the spy, as near his sheep he watched, 
 
 Saw Arnkel fetching hay from Orlygstad, 
 
 With three young thralls of his own household folk, 
 
 And left the fold, and crept across the fell, 
 
 And wakened from their first sweet midnight sleep 
 
 The sons of Thorbrand, and went on, and roused
 
 n6 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Snorri, who dreamed of blood and dear revenge. 
 
 Then through the frosty moonlit night they sped, 
 
 Warmed to the heart with hopes of murderous play, 
 
 Nine men from Snorri's house ; and by the sea 
 
 At Alptafjord they met the six men armed 
 
 With Thorlief ; scarcely greeted they, but skimmed 
 
 Along the black shore of the flashing fjord, 
 
 Lit by the large moon in a cloudless sky ; 
 
 Over the swelling, waving ice they flew, 
 
 Grinding the tufts of grass beneath their sleighs, 
 
 So silent, that the twigs of juniper 
 
 Snapped under them, sharp, like a cracking whip, 
 
 Echoing, and so to Orlygstad they came. 
 
 But Arnkel saw them through the cold bright air, 
 
 And turned, and bade the three young thralls haste home, 
 
 To bring back others of their kith to fight ; 
 
 So, maddened by base fear, they rushed, and one 
 
 Or ever he neared the homestead, as he fled, 
 
 Slipped on the forehead of a mountain-force, 
 
 And volleying down from icy plane to plane,
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Woke all the echoes of that waterfall, 
 
 And died, while numb with fright the others ran. 
 
 But Arnkel bowed, and loosened from his sleigh 
 The iron runner with its shining point, 
 And leaped upon the fence, and set his back 
 Against the hay-stack ; through the frosty night 
 Its warm deep odour passed into his brain. 
 But Snorri and his fellows with no word 
 Sprang from their sleighs, and met below the fence, 
 And reaching upwards with their brawny arms, 
 Smote hard at Arnkel. With the runner he, 
 Cleaving with both hands, parried blow on blow, 
 Till, shaft by shaft, their spears splintered and snapt 
 Nor would they yet have reached him, but that he, 
 Gathering a mighty stroke at Thorleifs head, 
 Dashed down his runner on the icy fence 
 And shivered it, while backwards Thorleif fell, 
 Bending the slimness of his supple loins, 
 Unwounded. Then a moment's space they stood
 
 ti8 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Silent. Then from the haystack at his back 
 His glittering sword and buckler Arnkel seized, 
 And like a wild-cat clomb the stack, and stood 
 Thigh-deep astride upon the quivering hay, 
 Raining down thrusts and blinding all his foes 
 With moony lightnings from the flashing steel. 
 But Thorleif clambered up behind his back ; 
 And Snorri, with his shield before his face, 
 Harried him through the wavering veil of hay ; 
 And Styrr, like some great monster of the falls, 
 Swayed his huge broadsword in his knotted fists, 
 And swept it, singing, through the helm and brain, 
 And deep sank Arnkel on the bloody stack. 
 
 They wrapped his corse in hay, and left him there ; 
 
 To whom within the silence of the night 
 
 Came that dark ghost, his father, whose black face 
 
 Affrights the maidens in the milking-stead ; 
 
 And till afar along the frozen road 
 
 The tinkling of the sleighs he heard, and knew
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 119 
 
 That, all too late, the thralls of Arnkel came, 
 He hung above the body of his son, 
 Casting no shadow in the dazzling moon, 
 Cursing the gods with inarticulate voice, 
 And cursing that too-envious mood of men 
 That brooks no towering excellence, nor heeds 
 Virtue, nor welfare of th' unsceptered state.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 
 
 THE MONASTERY GARDEN. 
 
 DEEP in the hollow of the cliffs it lay 
 Above, the mountain shouted to the sun, 
 A thousand riotous runlets streamed away, 
 And sped the merry mill-wheels one by one. 
 
 It slept witliin the silence and the shade ; 
 
 Above, from cleft to cleft, in glittering light, 
 The sun-burned millers and their children made 
 
 A jocund noise of labour and delight. 
 
 Its pensive terrace scarcely knew the sun, 
 But watched the gleam along the belfry-tower, 
 
 And scarcely sighing when the day was done, 
 Rejoiced as little at the morning-hour. ' 
 
 Thither I came at twilight ; all day long 
 
 My feet had tracked the river, a line of foam ;
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 The plaintive angelus rose like a song, 
 
 I hailed the great white house and named it 
 "home." 
 
 But all was bleak and melancholy there ; 
 
 Beneath the barren wall the vine-leaves lay ; 
 The stony pathway broadened chill and bare, 
 
 The moaning torrent thundered far away. 
 
 Beneath the thread-bare branches of the vine, 
 A shivering vine that yearned for summer lands,- 
 
 A marble virgin from her hollow shrine 
 Held out the solace of her wasted hands. 
 
 So mild she was, so cold, so woe-begone, 
 The tears all frozen in her carven eyes, 
 
 She seemed a monument of tender moan, 
 The statue of a grief that never dies.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 
 
 Behind her, on a sweep of lowlier ground, 
 Girt by a hedge of yew, the garden lay : 
 
 And she, as though by some magician bound, 
 Stood vainly yearning for the golden day. 
 
 I turned the creaking latch of the frail gate, 
 And stood within the pale monks' garden-plot ; 
 
 Harsh herbs were there, and shrubs disconsolate, 
 But daisies and the generous rose were not. 
 
 An autumn sadness on that garden fed ; 
 
 Prim box and cypress allies quenched the light ; 
 Gray tufts of rue to sprinkle o'er the dead, 
 
 And thrift was there, and hueless aconite. 
 
 Each monk had trimmed and fashioned one pale square, 
 But filled it always with the same sad herbs ; 
 
 No perfume floats within that sombre air, 
 
 Those ashen leaves no boisterous bee disturbs.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 123 
 
 And o'er that scentless garden all day long 
 The marble Virgin spreads her stainless hands ; 
 
 Untinged by rosy light at evensong, 
 
 And unillumed at matins, cold she stands. 
 
 Her consolation had no balm for me ; 
 
 To me she seemed like one poor faltering prayer 
 Breathed by a prisoned soul that sighs to see 
 
 Life pass her narrow cell and leave her there. 
 
 Our Lady of Consolation ! so they name 
 This icy maiden with her palms outspread ! 
 
 From busy haunts of happiness they came, 
 And knelt to her for solace, and are dead. 
 
 They ring the tuneless monastery bell ; 
 
 The dark-stoled monks pass by her one by one ; 
 They seek the garden that she guards so well, 
 
 And labour till the hour of toil be done.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 A little while, like phantoms of their kind, 
 
 They haunt these echoing paths and terraced ways ; 
 
 They know not that her shining eyes are blind, 
 And wonder that she heeds nor prayer nor praise. 
 
 They tend their barren plots and garden-close, 
 Still husbanding their faint and hectic breath ; 
 
 Meanwhile below the chill white wall there flows 
 The whirling, roaring torrent-stream of Death. 
 
 Away ! the cold air gathers like a blight ; 
 
 A madness falls within the falling dew ; 
 The Virgin glimmers in a ghostly light, 
 
 That thrills the darkening garden-allies through. 
 
 Away, away 1 high up the mountain-side, 
 By loud cascade and chattering stream I fly ; 
 
 A glow of sunset floods the valley wide, 
 And, as I mount, I catch the gleaming sky.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 The warm air moves : the red roofs of the mills 
 Burn on the velvet darkness of the pines ; 
 
 The odour of the breathing cattle fills 
 Light meadows where the crocus shoots and shines. 
 
 The giant miller claps his rosy hands, 
 And roars a jest above the roaring wheel ; 
 
 His daughter laughing at the doorway stands, 
 His wife is busy with their evening meal. 
 
 Life, life is here, but frost and death below ; 
 
 Hail, genial force of homely rustic ways ! 
 Warm my chilled pulse within thy happier glow, 
 
 And gild the wholesome remnant of my days ! 
 
 No marble virgin in a mossy shrine, 
 No garden clad with flowerless herb and tree, 
 
 But Nature in her ecstasy be mine, 
 
 And the wide roseate world of bloom for roe.
 
 126 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 So shall my youth prolong itself and yield 
 
 Sweet harvest, and the clustering fruits of love. 
 
 Deep-perfumed alway like a summer field, 
 And fed by shower and sunshine from above. 
 
 Nor rot in shade, nor drop its hueless buds, 
 But ever, as the happy moments run, 
 
 Prepare its sheaves to rise in multitudes, 
 All richly garnered when its year is done. 
 
 PIERRE-FONTAINE, Sept. l88o.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEUS. 
 
 THE SHEPHERD OF THE THAMES. 
 
 THOU hast gone back to Arcady once more, 
 False Shepherd, and hast left me here alone, 
 Here where the soul of London is one moan, 
 Here where life breaks upon a dusky shore ; 
 Ah ! was it wisely done to leave me thus, 
 
 For is it not mine the magic crook that makes 
 The iron cloud pearly and luminous ? 
 
 For have I not the charmed voice that wakes 
 The black-cap swinging in the osier-brakes, 
 That stirs her heart until it thrills and sings ? 
 
 Ah ! without me, light wanderer, canst thou find 
 The melting briar that breathes upon the wind, 
 Or where the shy white orchis waves her wings ?
 
 128 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 II. 
 Ah ! that dark wood above the sparkling Thames, 
 
 Where through the honeysuckle pale and sweet 
 
 We saw the silent river at our feet ; 
 And pushing downward through the springing stems, 
 Descended to the twilight cumfrey-beds ! 
 
 Dream not that thou canst find that wood again. 
 Ah ! what a glory streamed above our heads ! 
 Surely for thee no mellowing sunset sheds 
 
 Its radiance through the soft and flashing rain? 
 Thou shouldst have waited by the lock for me, 
 
 Or where the streaming roots of crows-foot shine, 
 
 Have shipped thine oars and laid thy boat by mine, 
 Nor thus have gone alone to Arcady. 
 
 III. 
 
 Yet if thou must, push on, and let me know 
 What foxgloves with imperial foreheads nod 
 Down the steep coppice, row by stately row ; 
 
 And where the mullein lifts her amber rod.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 129 
 
 What willow-herb now fringes the high bank, 
 
 Whence many a time we plunged above the weir, 
 
 Cleaving the limpid pool with sinewy flank, 
 
 Till the wrecked water-lily's chalice sank 
 
 Swamped by the eddying flood in deluge drear ? 
 
 Ah me, push on, and bathe there in the sun, 
 And listen to the clacking of the mill, 
 And dream that we are lithe young shepherds still, 
 
 Nor all our pastoral hour of pleasure done. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And surely in that cool and fresh arcade 
 
 By willows framed above the shelving bank, 
 Between the river and the hemlocks rank, 
 
 Thou'lt find the hard prints that our feet once made, 
 
 Our racing feet, along the dewy grass, 
 
 What time shy Oreads of the woodlands fled, 
 
 Yet paused to watch the white-limbed youngsters pass 
 
 Who never more shall skim the turf, alas ! 
 With pliant feet, and breathless faces red, 
 
 K
 
 i 3 o MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Nor wrestle in the dappling light of leaves, 
 
 Nor lie, deep slumbering, through the noontide heat, 
 Nor in a nightly ecstasy repeat 
 
 Their faltering songs beneath the moonlit eaves. 
 
 v. 
 
 We shall not taste our showery spring again, 
 Yet cheerful memory makes it doubly dear ; 
 The leaves that had no scent when plucked, are sere, 
 
 But smell like roses freshened with the rain. 
 
 Perchance if we went back once more, and sought 
 That secret hill, that visionary stream, 
 
 Which gleam so brightly in the glass of thought, 
 
 They might not bring us all the charm they brought, 
 They might undo the magic of the dream. 
 
 We have grown wise and cold with worldly lore, 
 Our weary eyes have learned to dread the sun, 
 Ah, tell me, tell me, was it sagely done 
 
 Thus to go back to Arcady once more ?
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 AN EPISTLE TO 
 
 DR. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES, 
 
 ON HIS SEVENTY-FIFTH BIRTHDAY, 
 
 August 29, 1884. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 AS Age by Age, thro' fell Enchantment bound, 
 The Heroe of some antient Myth is found, 
 Wild Rocks about him, at the fierce Sea's Brim, 
 And all his World an Old- Wives' Tale but him, 
 His Garments, cast upon th' inclement Shoar, 
 Such as long since our Grandsires' Grandsires wore, 
 While all his Gestures and his Speech proclaim 
 Him great Revealer of forgotten Fame, 
 
 Such, Oh ! Musician, dost thou seem to be 
 To us who con th' Augustan Age by thee, 
 Who hearken to thy Verse, to learn thro' it 
 How DRYDEN to illustrious ORMOND writ,
 
 132 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Or in thy fil'd and polisht Numbers hope 
 To catch the Secret of the Art of POPE ; 
 Ah ! subtil Skill ! Ah ! Bard of dying Fires, 
 Let us but lose thee, and a Race expires ; 
 So long as thou dost keep this Treasure thine 
 Great ANNA'S Galaxy has Leave to shine. 
 
 Thou who do'st link us with that elder Day 
 When either QUEENSBERRY made Court to GAY, 
 Thro' all the Thunders of romantick Times, 
 Thro' Reefs of monstrous Quips and Shoals of Rhimes, 
 We've steer'd at last, and, like Ships long at Sea, 
 Our Latest- Born sail home to Grace and thee ; 
 Home-ward they sail, and find the World they left 
 Of all but thee, yet not of thee bereft ; 
 Still in thy pointed Wit their Souls explore 
 Familiar Fields where CONGREVE rul'd before ; 
 Still in thy human Tenderness they feel 
 The honest Voice and beating Heart of STEELE. 
 
 Long be it so ; may Sheaf be laid on Sheaf 
 Ere thy live Garland puts forth its Last Leaf;
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 As in old Prints, long may we see, in Air, 
 Thy Guardian Angel hover o'er thy Hair ; 
 Still may the Table, where our Fathers sat 
 To eat of Manna, hold its Autocrat ; 
 Since surely none of all the Blest can be 
 Home-sick in Hearfn, as we on Earth, for thee. 
 And Oh ! whil'st o'er th' embattl'd Crags afar 
 Thy practis'd Eyes gaze down the Gorge of War, 
 Where thro' the blinding Dust and Heat we fight 
 Against the Brazen-Helm'd Amalekite, 
 At Height of Noon, Oh ! lift up both those Hands 
 To urge new Virtue thro' our fainting Bands, 
 And when we feel our Sinews nerv'd to strike 
 Envy and Errour, Shame and Sloth, a-like, 
 We'll say 'tis well that, while we battle thus, 
 Our MOSES stands on high 'twixt Heav'n and us. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 Your Most Humble, Most Obedient Servant, 
 EDMUND GOSSE.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 APRIL ONCE MORE. 
 
 THE sorrel lifts her snow-white bloom 
 From green leaves soft and sour, 
 The wry-neck bids the cuckoo come, 
 
 The wych-elm's all in flower ; 
 That tweet ! tweet ! tweet ! that dusty dew, 
 
 That white star at my feet, 
 They speak of Aprils past and you, 
 My sweet ! 
 
 Our wood still curves against the sky, 
 
 And still, all stark and dim, 
 Our hornbeam's fluted branches lie, 
 
 Along the shining rim ; 
 But ah ! within its base of moss 
 
 The rabbits leap and peer, 
 No footsteps fright them as they cross 
 This year.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 When winter shared my hapless plight, 
 
 I bound my heart in frost ; 
 There was no wealth to vex my sight 
 
 With treasure it had lost ; 
 But oh ! the buds, the scent, the song, 
 
 The agonising blue 
 They teach my hopeless heart to long 
 For you !
 
 136 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 THE CHURCH BY THE SEA. 
 
 I. 
 
 THAT spirit of wit, whose quenchless ray 
 To wakening England Holland lent, 
 In whose frail wasted body lay 
 The orient and the Occident, 
 
 n. 
 Still wandering in the night of time, 
 
 Nor yet conceiving dawn should be, 
 A pilgrim with a gift of rhyme, 
 
 Sought out Our Lady by the Sea. 
 
 in. 
 Along the desolate downs he rode, 
 
 And pondered on God's mystic name, 
 Till with his beads and votive ode, 
 
 To Walsingham Erasmus came.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POMS. 
 
 IV. 
 He found the famous chapel there, 
 
 Unswept, unlatticed, undivine, 
 And the bleak gusts of autumn air 
 
 Blew sand across the holy shrine. 
 
 v. 
 Two tapers in a spicy mist 
 
 Scarce lit the jewelled heaps of gold, 
 As pilgrim after pilgrim kissed 
 
 The relics that were bought and sold. 
 
 VI. 
 
 A greedy Canon still beguiled 
 The wealthy at his wicket-gate, 
 
 And o'er his shining tonsure smiled 
 A Virgin doubly desecrate. 
 
 VII. 
 
 The pattered prayers, the incense swung, 
 The embroidered throne, the golden stall,
 
 i 3 8 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 The precious gifts at random flung, 
 And North Sea sand across it all ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 He mocked, that spirit of matchless wit ; 
 
 He mourned the rite that warps and seres 
 And seeing no hope of health in it, 
 
 He laughed lest he should break in tears. 
 
 IX. 
 
 And we, if still our reverend fanes 
 Lie open to the salt-sea deep, 
 
 If flying sand our choir profanes, 
 
 Shall we not laugh, shall we not weep ? 
 
 x. 
 
 We toll the bell, we throng the aisle, 
 We pay a wealth in tithe and fee, 
 
 We wreathe the shrine, and all the while 
 Our Church lies open to the sea.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 139 
 
 XI. 
 The brackish wind that stirs the flame, 
 
 And fans the painted saints asleep, 
 From heaven above it never came, 
 
 But from the starless Eastern deep. 
 
 The storm is rising o'er the sea, 
 The long bleak windward line is grey, 
 
 And when it rises, how shall we 
 And our weak tapers fare that day ? 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Perchance amid the roar and crack 
 Of starting beams we yet shall stand ; 
 
 Perchance our idols shall not lack 
 Deep burial in the shifting sand.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 GILEAD. 
 
 "And I will bring them into the land of Gilead." 
 
 OH, who will take my hand and let mine eyes have 
 rest, 
 
 And lead me like a child into the quiet west, 
 Until beneath my feet I press the short wild grass, 
 And feel the wind come shorewards down the granite pass ; 
 So, fashioned darkly round the mirror of the mind, 
 The solemn forms I loved in infancy to find 
 Bent down to shut me in, in billowy solitude, 
 Harsh tor and quaking sedge and devil-haunted wood, 
 Behind the thin pink lids I should not dare to raise, 
 Would gather and console the turmoil of my days ? 
 
 A grain of balm has lain within my scentless breast 
 Through all these roaring years of tempest, and shall rest,
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 A single grain, how sweet ! but, ah ! what perfumes rise, 
 Where, bathed by sacred dews, the soul's full Gilead lies ! 
 
 There, with the sands around, and many a mirage faint 
 To tempt the faded sight of fakir and of saint, 
 Cool, with their clump of palms, by wells like crystal pure, 
 The myrrh-trees of the Lord, the dripping boughs endure. 
 
 Oh, lead me by the hand, and I with eyelids close 
 
 Will hear the wind that sighs, the bubbling stream that 
 
 flows, 
 
 The shrill Arabian sounds of blessed aged men, 
 And the low cries of weary souls at home again'; 
 
 Yet never raise my lids, lest all these Eastern things, 
 These forms of alien garb, these palm-surrounded springs, 
 Surprise my brain that grew in colder zones of light, 
 Betray with homeless home my impulse of delight. 
 
 But when I think I feel the west wind, not the east, 
 From drought and chilly blue by soft gray airs released,
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 I'll bend my hand and touch the country at my feet, 
 And find the sun-dew there, and moor-ferns coarse and 
 
 sweet, 
 
 And the rough bilberry-leaves, and feel the mountain-moss 
 Stretch warm along the rock, and cross it, and re-cross. 
 
 What we loved first and lost in Nature, yet retain 
 
 In memory, prized the most, worn to a single grain, 
 
 That scene, though wild and far, and acrid with the sea, 
 
 Pilgrim of life, is still Gilead to thee and me ; 
 
 And there where never yet to break the shadows come 
 
 Battalions of the world, with bedlam fife and drum, 
 
 There, in the ancient hush, the elfin spirit of sleep 
 
 Preserves for child-like hearts a pillow broad and deep, 
 
 And in a tender twilight, mystic and divine, 
 
 The homely scenes we loved take hues of Palestine.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 TO AN ACTOR. 
 
 Et jam purpureo suras include cothurno 
 
 . . . Sero sapiunt Phryges. Litrius Andronicus. 
 
 " r I ^HE red cothurnus slowly bind around those 
 
 -L shapely thighs, 
 
 Nor fear the giggling Phrygian race that hastes not to be 
 wise ! " 
 
 Thus darkly in a fragment sang, oracularly sage, 
 Old Andronicus, eldest bard that trod the Latin stage. 
 
 We know not rightly what he meant, but yet may soothly 
 
 guess 
 His Muse was no vain babbler, but a learned prophetess. 
 
 We think across the centuries she dreamed, great mime, 
 
 of thee, 
 And warned thee of the playwrights small, and mobs of 
 
 low degree.
 
 144 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 A London audience moved her scorn, a London farce 
 
 awoke 
 The anger that so dimly and in such dark music broke. 
 
 Then take it to thyself and bind the stately buskin on, 
 Walk in the large and purple light of ages dead and gone. 
 
 A holier presence guard thy steps, an antique air impart 
 The force of classic beauty to the movements of thine art. 
 
 Contrive no tricks to charm the pit, nor bend thy face to win 
 The raptures of a groundling and the suffrage of his grin. 
 
 Behind the scenes, as on the stage, forswear all trivial 
 
 things, 
 And move as one whose heart believes the noble lines he 
 
 sings. 
 
 Let gorgeous shapes of tragedy pass on at thy command, 
 And leave the Phrygian flutes to thrill the uplands of the 
 Strand.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 145 
 
 DE ROSIS HIBERNIS. 
 
 A MBITIOUS Nile, thy banks deplore 
 --LA. Their Flavian patron's deep decay ; 
 Thy Memphian pilot laughs no more 
 
 To see the flower-boat float away ; 
 Thy winter-roses once were twined 
 
 Across the gala-streets of Rome, 
 And thou, like Omphale, could'st bind 
 
 The vanquished victor in his home. 
 
 But if the barge that brought thy store 
 
 Had foundered in the Lybian deep, 
 It had not slain thy glory more, 
 
 Nor plunged thy rose in salter sleep ; 
 Nor gods nor Caesars wait thee now, 
 
 No jealous Psestum dreads thy spring, 
 Thy flower enfolds no augur's brow, 
 
 Nor gives thy poet strength to sing.
 
 146 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Yet, surely, when the winds are low, 
 
 And heaven is all alive with stars, 
 Thy conscious roses still must glow 
 
 Above thy dreaming nenuphars ; 
 They recollect their high estate, 
 
 The Roman honours they have known, 
 And while they ponder Caesar's fate 
 
 They cease to marvel at their own.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEUS. 
 
 A WOMAN'S KEEPSAKE. 
 
 THIS I show you, dearest, this is 
 More than just a yellow flower, 
 This was hallowed by your kisses, 
 Severed in a sacred hour, 
 Laid by your warm hand in mine, 
 And I hold it thus divine. 
 
 II. 
 
 Where the longest rushes shiver 
 
 With their flower-heads full in June, 
 Bending o'er the eddying river 
 As it modulates its tune, 
 In among the reeds alone 
 This fair iris-bloom was blown.
 
 148 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 III. 
 Could it be to-day, I wonder ? 
 
 For it seems so sweet and far, 
 Scarce a man's arm-length asunder, 
 Where the reeds and lilies are, 
 You and I were floating thus, 
 While the blackcap sang to us. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Suddenly you downward darted, 
 
 Drew the three-winged wonder up, 
 And I caught it though I started 
 In my lap as in a cup : 
 
 See ! its scentless leaves express 
 Our unspoken happiness. 
 
 V. 
 Blessed flower, whom Death pursuing 
 
 Cannot rob of life for me, 
 Thou, whose fluttering papery ruin 
 
 I shall watch with ecstacy,
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Fade, thy memory still .will keep 
 Fresh for me as dew or sleep ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 Thou art buried safe for ever 
 
 In the cassia of his kiss ! 
 Sister-blossoms in the river 
 
 None have such a tomb as this ; 
 In their void and hurrying stream 
 None can dream as thou shalt dream. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Over thee a girl shall hover 
 
 Raining tears of deep delight, 
 Till the image of her lover 
 Flash across her inward sight, 
 And thy faded leaves unfold 
 Their old visionary gold.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 THEOCRITUS. 
 For A. Lang's Translation. 
 
 * ^HE poplars and the ancient elms 
 
 A Make murmurous noises high in air ; 
 
 The noon-day sunlight overwhelms 
 
 The brown cicalas basking there ; 
 But here the shade is deep, and sweet 
 
 With new-mown grass and lentisk-shoots, 
 And far away the shepherds meet 
 
 With noisy fifes and flutes. 
 
 Their clamour dies upon the ear ; 
 
 So now bring forth the rolls of song, 
 Mouth the rich cadences, nor fear 
 
 Your voice may do the poet wrong ; 
 Lift up the chalice to our lips, 
 
 Yet see, before we venture thus,
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 A stream of red libation drips 
 To great Theocritus. 
 
 We are in Sicily to-day ; 
 
 And, as the honied metre flows, 
 Battos and Corydon, at play, 
 
 Will lose the syrinx, gain the rose ; 
 Soft Amaryllis, too, will bind 
 
 Dark violets round her shining hair, 
 And in the fountain laugh to find 
 
 Her sun-browned face so fair. 
 
 We are in Sicily to day ; 
 
 Ah ! foolish world, too sadly wise, 
 Why did'st thou e'er let fade away 
 
 Those ancient, innocent ecstasies ? 
 Along the glens, in chequered flight, 
 
 Hither to-day the nymphs shall flee, 
 And Pan forsake for our delight 
 The tomb of Helice.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 SUNSHINE IN MARCH. 
 
 WHERE are you, Sylvia, where ? 
 For our own bird, the woodpecker, is here, 
 Calling on you with cheerful tappings loud ! 
 The breathing heavens are full of liquid light ; 
 The dew is on the meadow like a cloud ; 
 The earth is moving in her green delight 
 Her spiritual crocuses shoot through, 
 And rathe hepaticas in rose and blue ; 
 But snow-drops that awaited you so long 
 Died at the thrush's song. 
 
 "Adieu, adieu !" they said. 
 
 " We saw the skirts of glory, and we fade ; 
 
 We were the hopeless lovers of the Spring, 
 
 Too young, as yet, for any love of ours ; 
 
 She is harsh, not having heard the white-throat sing ;
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 She is cold, not knowing the tender April showers ; 
 
 Yet have we felt her, as the buried grain 
 
 May feel the rustle of the unfallen rain ; 
 
 We have known her, as the star that sets too soon 
 
 Bows to the unseen moon."
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 THE SONS OF CYDIPPE. 
 
 BY sacred Argos Polycleitus carved, 
 In Indian ivory and Persian gold, 
 To Hera, mother of all, dreadful, benign, 
 A glorious statue in his darkened house. 
 
 Straight from her throat ran the pure folds, and fell 
 In seemly curves about her unseen feet : 
 The fillets of her lifted head were bound 
 With broidered stories of the Fates and Hours ; 
 Sceptre and ripe pomegranate, as was meet, 
 Her queenly hands sustained, and by her side 
 The rustling peacock spread his gorgeous train. 
 
 For ancient Chiysis, from her wrinkled hands 
 Letting the torch down fall in obscure sleep, 
 Careless, not breathed on by the serious gods,
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 155 
 
 Had touched the old Heraeum with white flame, 
 And like a dream the fabric, full of prayers, 
 Vows of forgotten athletes, maidens' gifts, 
 Robes of dead priests, echoes of hymns and odes, 
 Had glared against the noonday, and was not. 
 
 So, nigher to Canathus, on lower ground, 
 
 Nearer the bright sea, myriad -islanded, 
 
 Argos had built her outraged deity 
 
 A nobler fane among those holy trees 
 
 Platans and elms that drank her virgin spring ; 
 
 And all was done, and on this certain day, 
 
 From the dark house, shrouded and swathed in cloths, 
 
 The dread majestic goddess passed in state 
 
 To be unveiled within her own abode. 
 
 Then while the people, clustered in the sun, 
 Shouted and pressed, and babes were held aloft, 
 At one shrill summons of the sacred flute, 
 In all her gold-and-white magnificence,
 
 1 56 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 The austere god smiled on her worshippers, 
 Who suddenly fell silent in their awe. 
 Then came a shout, and from the woodland road, 
 Craving a passage through the whispering throng, 
 Two youths appeared, under a shameful yoke, 
 Flushed with the sun, and soiled with dust, and bowed, 
 Who dragged a chariot with laborious arms, 
 Bleeding and chafed ; and on the chariot sat 
 With a thin bay-leaf in her aged hair 
 A matron with uplifted eyes elate. 
 
 Then while all wondered, and the young men sank, 
 
 Breathless and glad, before the glorious god, 
 
 The high-priest lifted up his voice, and said : 
 
 " Blessed art thou, Cydippe, blessed be 
 
 Thy sons who shamed themselves to bring thee here ! 
 
 Oh, not in vain for Biton, not in vain 
 
 For Cleobis, the unfruitful toil, the sweat, 
 
 The groaning axles, and the grinding yoke ! 
 
 Unoiled their limbs, unnlleted their hair,
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Unbathed their feet, hateful to maids and harsh ; 
 But to the gods, sweeter than amber drops 
 That gush from fattest olives of the press, 
 Fairer than leaves of their own bay, more fresh 
 Than rosy coldness of young skin, their stains, 
 Since like a sacrifice of nard and myrrh 
 Their filial virtue sanctifies the winds." 
 
 Then slowly old Cydippe rose and cried : 
 " Hera, whose priestess I have been and am, 
 Virgin and matron, at whose angry eyes 
 Zeus trembles, and the windless plain of heaven 
 With hyperborean echoes rings and roars, 
 Remembering thy dread nuptials, a wise god, 
 Golden and white in thy new-carven shape, 
 Hear me ! and grant for these my pious sons, 
 Who saw my tears, and wound their tender arms 
 Around me, and kissed me calm, and since no steer 
 Stayed in the byre, dragged out the chariot old, 
 And wore themselves the galling yoke, and brought
 
 i S 8 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Their mother to the feast of her desire, 
 Grant them, O Hera, thy best gift of gifts !" 
 
 Whereat the statue from its jewelled eyes 
 
 Lightened, and thunder ran from cloud to cloud 
 
 In heaven, and the vast company was hushed. 
 
 But when they sought for Cleobis, behold 
 
 He lay there still, and by his brother's side 
 
 Lay Biton, smiling through ambrosial curls, 
 
 And when the people touched them they were dead.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 H. P. 
 
 THIS virgin soul looked shyly forth, and knew 
 The fiery face of Love, and then withdrew, 
 Just when the spices through its garden blew. 
 
 With this one glimpse so full a rapture came, 
 It shrank from earthly joy as pain and shame, 
 And passed to God on that first mystic flame. 
 
 Dissolved, assumed in ardours so intense, 
 It rose to heights untouched by mortal sense, 
 Like some pure cloud of molten frankincense. 
 
 And that pale lamp of verse, which God had given 
 To guide this soul, while o'er life's ocean driven, 
 Was quenched within the blazing glow of heaven.
 
 i(5o MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 INSCRIPTION FOR A FOUNTAIN. 
 
 DEEP in the heart of this dim wood 
 Our Naiad pours her slender urn, 
 Nor dreams that round its gathering flood 
 The fortunes of a world will turn.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 161 
 
 WITH A COPY OF HERRICK. 
 
 FRESH with all airs of woodland brooks 
 And scents of showers, 
 Take to your haunt of holy books 
 This saint of flowers. 
 
 When meadows burn with budding May, 
 
 And heaven is blue, 
 Before his shrine our prayers we say, 
 
 Saint Robin true. 
 
 Love crowned with thorns is on his staff, 
 
 Thorns of sweet briar ; 
 His benediction is a laugh, 
 
 Birds are his choir. 
 M
 
 i6a MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 His sacred robe of white and red 
 
 Unction distils ; 
 He hath a nimbus round his head 
 
 Of daffodils.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 163 
 
 A WASTED AFTERNOON IN SUTHERLAND. 
 
 AH ! what an azure day ! 
 Beneath the granite gray 
 The sulky ferox lay 
 
 And waved a fin ; 
 Above his surly head 
 The amber river sped, 
 Shrunk in its summer bed, 
 Limpid and thin. 
 
 We heard the eddies lisp ; 
 Deep in the heather crisp 
 We lay to watch Canisp 
 
 And Suilven blue ; 
 Between their crags, behold, 
 A sheet of polished gold, 
 Where Fewn drew fold by fold 
 
 Her waters through.
 
 164 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 " Hopeless the gray fly's wiles ! 
 
 Our dusky ferox smiles ; 
 
 We have trudged for miles and miles 
 
 In vain, in vain ; 
 Better the storm that fills 
 The thunder-coloured rills, 
 Better the shrouded hills 
 
 And drifts of rain ! " 
 
 But " No ! ah ! no ! " I cried ; 
 "This lovely mountain-side, 
 In faintest purple dyed 
 
 And golden gray, 
 Will live in vision still 
 When nerves forget to thrill, 
 When hands have lost the skill 
 
 To play and slay ! " 
 
 But still he watched the sky 
 With discontented eye,
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 165 
 
 For never a cloud was nigh, 
 
 Nor stormy flag ; 
 Noon fell to afternoon, 
 Till, like a change of tune, 
 The delicate virgin moon 
 
 Stepped from the crag. 
 
 So, through that sleepy weather, 
 Our rods and we together 
 Lay on the springing heather, 
 
 Assuaged at last, 
 
 And now, through memory's haze, 
 Best of our fishing days 
 Seems just that cloudless blaze, 
 
 With never a cast.
 
 166 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 OBERMANN YET AGAIN. 4 
 
 THE light falls pink on yonder granite horn ; 
 The pine-tree shadows, lengthening, downward 
 run; 
 I lie in grass as yellow-stalked as corn, 
 
 And by my side there glitters, scarce begun, 
 A flask of bright Yvorne, 
 Brisk amber in the sun. 
 
 With fall of day the vexing flies have fled ; 
 
 The grasshopper now whets his merry scythe ; 
 The magpie flirts and chuckles round my head ; 
 The lizards flash their shining backs, and writhe ; 
 The west is waxing red, 
 And I am calm and blithe. 
 
 Love, like a purple crocus in the grass, 
 
 Lifts its pale sheath, and flashes by my side ;
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 167 
 
 And friendship, like the sturdy sassafras, 
 
 Laughs, golden, round the field where I abide ; 
 And flowers, like duties, pass, 
 Gray, white, and blue, and pied. 
 
 All tender sounds proclaim the shut of day ; 
 
 My pulse is cool and scarcely seems to beat ; 
 Why should such blissful moments e'er decay ? 
 Why should the moon approach, the sun retreat, 
 When thought is clear and gay, 
 And life profoundly sweet ? 
 
 Most sad of mystics, see, I shut thy book, 
 
 And let mine eyes upon thy mountain rest ; 
 Upon those liquid-seeming crags I look 
 Where thou didst raise thy solitary breast, 
 And, chafing, scarce didst brook 
 The unconquerable crest. 
 
 Thy nearest solace, Obermann, was found 
 Where that white peak soars towards a virgin sky,
 
 1 68 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Unconscious ever of man's timid round 
 Of tiresome duties that about him lie, 
 And the only living sound, 
 The eagle's Alpine cry. 
 
 I cannot breathe that starry atmosphere, 
 
 Nor feign contempt for man's ephemeral days ; 
 The eagle's note brings music to my ear, 
 Only when lost high up in noon-tide blaze, 
 And human hope and fear 
 Guide all my human ways. 
 
 Yet, O sick soul, that eighty years ago 
 
 Trod these high paths in lonesome wretchedness, 
 Too dull for tears, and felt around thee grow 
 The spider-toils of thought, and less and less 
 Could'st e'er redeem the glow 
 Of youth's unconsciousness, 
 
 Deem not that all thy sorrows move not me, 
 Nor yet that veins which run with coarser blood
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 169 
 
 Forbid my dole of tribute sympathy ; 
 Only permit a mind, perchance more rude, 
 Too blithely strung to be 
 For such high lassitude. 
 
 Only permit that not for me thy moan 
 
 Remain the language of these hills and streams ; 
 That o'er the clouds which float above thy Rhone, 
 That round the peak made classic by thy dreams, 
 A happier homelier tone 
 Should live in memory's gleams. 
 
 I need small circuit for this heart of mine ; 
 
 And, God be thanked, all this enchanted land 
 Is not a glacier-desert crystalline ; 
 What waves of odour beat this little strand 
 Of crocus and of pine ! 
 Thy hand, dear friend, thy hand ! 
 
 Vil2ard-sur-Ollon. 
 Aug. 1883.
 
 LIBER CORDIS. 
 
 ' O let me love ray love unto myself alone. 1
 
 LIBER CORD IS. 173 
 
 PALINGENESIS. 
 
 I WAS fashioned long ago 
 In an element of snow, 
 And a white pair of cold wings 
 Bore me towards sublunar things ; 
 Over thought's immense dominions, 
 Floating on those chilly pinions, 
 Long I wandered, faint and thin 
 As a leaf the wind may spin, 
 And the tossing flashing sea 
 Moaned and whispered under me, 
 And the mountains of man's mind 
 Threw short shadows far behind, 
 And the rivers of the soul 
 That still thunder as they roll, 
 At my cold height streamed and fled 
 Silent as a glacier-bed.
 
 i74 LIBER CORDIS. 
 
 I was light and gay and bold, 
 Bathing in the sunset's gold, 
 Though my forehead's only flush 
 Came from the aurora's rush, 
 And my white wrists held on high 
 Showed no blue veins coursing by. 
 Through the world a dream I went, 
 Swathed in a frozen element, 
 Watching with a temperate breath 
 All the masque of birth and death, 
 Pleased to mark around, below, 
 The currents of emotion flow, 
 Pleased in my insane conceit 
 That I had no heart to beat. 
 
 But, one morning, as I flew 
 Higher in the vault of blue, 
 On a storm's eccentric curve 
 All my flight began to swerve. 
 Ah ! my crystal limbs expire
 
 LIBER CORDIS. 
 
 In this new domain of fire ! 
 
 Ah ! my daedal wings must scorch 
 
 In this vast aerial torch, 
 
 And my fairy garments made 
 
 Of the frost's breath, all will fade ! 
 
 Shrieking in a robe of pain, 
 Darkness fell upon my brain. 
 When I wakened, far away 
 In a still green dell I lay, 
 Shivering, naked ; warm within 
 What was this I heard begin 
 Throbbing, pulsing, like the sound 
 Of a hammer underground ? 
 Then I caught a voice, repeating, 
 "'Tis thy new-bom heart that's beating. 
 
 Since that day I have not flown 
 O'er the radiant world alone : 
 I am all content to follow
 
 1 75 LIBER CORD IS. 
 
 Love round this one mountain-hollow ; 
 Weak I am, and flushed with feeling 
 Tender hopes around me stealing ; 
 Tears between my eyelids creep, 
 And I waken still to weep : 
 Often as I walk along 
 I am agonised with song, 
 Thoughts of one beloved form 
 Lash me like a sudden storm, 
 And for days I travel wholly 
 Muffled up in melancholy. 
 
 Yet for all this weary pain 
 
 I would not be calm again, 
 
 Yield the warmth and flush and riot 
 
 For my earlier crystal quiet, 
 
 Or this burning flesh resign 
 
 For those wings and robes of mine ; 
 
 Having tasted Life and Breath 
 
 And the bitter Fear of Death,
 
 LIBER CORDIS. 
 
 Who could any more endure 
 That chill aether rare and pure ? 
 Having known the ache of loving, 
 And the warm veins' stir and moving, 
 And the yearning hopes that start, 
 Who would live without a heart ?
 
 i 7 8 LIBER CORDIS. 
 
 THE CAST. 
 
 IF I could read you like a book, 
 Or like a wizard's glass of old, 
 I might discover why you look 
 So cold. 
 
 My fate runs ringing through my brain, 
 
 I am a fool to love you so ; 
 Will all my rashness be in vain, 
 Or no? 
 
 Your voice, your presence at my side, 
 
 Are more than flesh and blood can bear ; 
 I risk your anger ; I decide 
 To dare.
 
 LIBER CORDIS. 179 
 
 "SPACE TO BREATHE, THOUGH SHORT 
 SOEVER." 
 
 DEAR Tyrant, for one moment set me free, 
 I faint, I weary of my constant ache, 
 Thy presence in thine absence seems to make 
 A harder bondage of my heart to thee ; 
 Let me forget thee for an hour, and see 
 Across the east a peaceful sunrise break, 
 Shot with no flames enkindled for thy sake, 
 Bearing no pleasant pains from thee to me. 
 Let me forget, that like the wave of light 
 
 That floods the watcher who hath dozed at dawn, 
 The memory of thy mouth and hands and eyes 
 May rush upon me with a new delight, 
 
 Clothing the dewy trees and sparkling lawn 
 With all the flush and sweetness of surprise.
 
 LIBER CORDIS. 
 
 THE TIDE OF LOVE. 
 
 LOVE, flooding all the creeks of my dry soul, 
 From which the warm tide ebbed when I was born, 
 Following the moon of destiny, doth roll 
 
 His slow rich wave along the shore forlorn, 
 To make the ocean God and me, one whole. 
 
 So, shuddering in its ecstasy, it lies, 
 And, freed from mire and tangle of the ebb, 
 
 Reflects the waxing and the waning skies, 
 And bears upon its panting breast the web 
 
 Of night and her innumerable eyes. 
 
 Nor can conceive at all that it was blind, 
 But trembling with the sharp approach of love, 
 
 That, strenuous, moves without one breath of wind, 
 Gasps, as the wakening maid, on whom the Dove 
 
 With folded wings of deity declined.
 
 LIBER CORDIS. 181 
 
 She in the virgin sweetness of her dream 
 Thought nothing strange to find her vision true ; 
 
 And I thus bathed in living rapture deem 
 No moveless drought my channel ever knew, 
 
 But rustled always with the murmuring stream.
 
 LIBER CORDIS. 
 
 I STAND before you as a beggar stands, 
 Who craves an alms and will not be denied ; 
 
 Nor shall I cease to wander at your side, 
 Until I gain this largess at your hands ; 
 Give me your weary thoughts, your hours of pain, 
 
 Your dull grey mornings, and your hopeless moods 
 
 If one sad moment mars your solitudes, 
 Give that to me, and be at ease again. 
 Behold, my heart is large enough to bear 
 
 Your burdens, and to rock your heart to sleep ; 
 Give me your griefs, I do not ask to share 
 
 The golden harvest of the joys you reap ; 
 Be glad alone ; but when your soul's opprest, 
 Come here and lay your head and be at rest.
 
 LIBER CORDIS. 183 
 
 ILLUSION. 
 
 COY in a covert of the glossy bracken 
 My love and I sat warm, enchanted, silent, 
 And watched one tree against the molten azure ; 
 
 Its leaves were fretted gold-work in the sunset, 
 And on a bough that glistered like vermilion, 
 A roseate bird of paradise sat preening. 
 
 Alas ! my love arose and went in anger : 
 
 The east wind blew, and all the sky grew leaden, 
 
 The bloom and gloss from off the bracken faded. 
 
 And, in the hueless larch I still kept watching, 
 
 On one brown branch, caught by the storms and broken, 
 
 Still sat and preened a common songless fieldfare.
 
 LIBER CORDIS. 
 
 THE LAPWING. 
 
 HOW like that pied and restless bird am I 
 Called Lapwing from her false and feigned 
 
 wound ! 
 I>ame on one side she painfully doth fly, 
 
 Drooping her crest, and circling near the ground ; 
 Such thought she takes but to conceal her brood, 
 
 Who crowd unseen within a helpless nest, 
 Nor can rough idlers, though their steps intrude, 
 
 Win that nice secret from her panting breast ; 
 So I in many songs most deftly hide 
 
 The tender casket of my heart's rich pain, 
 Lest one dear name my soul hath deified 
 
 Be trodden upon by wandering feet profane ; 
 I sing my songs for Love's true priests alone, 
 And Love must watch my nest when I am gone.
 
 LIBER CORDIS. 185 
 
 OUR WOOD IN WINTER. 
 
 THE circle of the wind-swept ground 
 Was paved with beechen leaves around, 
 Like Nero's golden house in Rome ; 
 While here and there in solemn lines 
 The dark pilasters of the pines 
 
 Bore up the high wood's sombre dome ; 
 Between their shafts, like tapestry flung, 
 A soft blue vapour fell and hung. 
 
 We paused with wonder-taken breath : 
 It seemed a spot where frost and death 
 
 Themselves were chained at nature's feet ; 
 And in the glow of youth and love, 
 The coloured floor, the lights above, 
 
 Our hearts, refreshed, with rapture beat ; 
 The beauty thrilled us through and through 
 And closer to your side I drew.
 
 i86 LIBER CORDIS. 
 
 Ah, tell me when we both are old, 
 On dismal evenings bleak and cold, 
 
 When not a spark is in the west, 
 When love, aweary grown and faint, 
 Scarce stirs the echo of complaint 
 
 Within the sad and labouring breast, 
 Ah ! tell me then, how once we stood 
 Transfigured in the gleaming wood. 
 
 And in a vision I shall turn 
 
 To see the fallen beech-leaves burn 
 
 Reflected in your lifted eyes, 
 And so for one brief moment gain 
 The power to cast aside my pain, 
 
 And taste once more what time denies ; 
 Nor linger till the dream has fled, 
 But on your shoulder sink my head.
 
 LIBER CORDIS. 187 
 
 RESERVE. 
 
 AS when there peal along the astonished air 
 Joy-bells of some exuberant town at play, 
 Laughing and shouting in its holiday, 
 And blind to apprehension, deaf to care, 
 One standing in the noisy market-square, 
 Pausing an instant, pondering if he may, 
 Will hear above the riot loud and gay 
 The vast cathedral-organ boom for prayer ; 
 So when I hold your beauty in my arms 
 Above the tumult of the pulse, there rings 
 A music welling from diviner things ; 
 Your soul reveals to me her nobler charms, 
 And in the light that dazzles and disarms, 
 My too vain-glorious spirit droops her wings.
 
 LIBER CORD IS. 
 
 ANATIIOTH. 
 
 I PRAISE the all-watchful sovereignty of Love, 
 That his imperial melodies have made 
 My soul a haunt of echoes, Anathoth. 
 
 For through the morning, when the briony-stars 
 From their green lush entanglement were roused, 
 Like homeward wishes in a wanderer's heart, 
 While the late blossom from the blushing crab 
 Fell, in a rosy storm, down the deep lane, 
 Fretting the truant kine, when every hedge 
 Was full of snow-white flowers, campion, wild pink, 
 Starwort, and dittany, and that fair herb, 
 Cumfrey, that dotes upon the sylvan Thames, 
 I walked alone, but with a beating heart 
 As one late touched by the dear hand he loves, 
 And still right wann with that companionship, 
 May walk and dream his sweetheart moves beside.
 
 LIBER CORDIS. 
 
 Yet while the assiduous hedges shut me in, 
 
 Like too-persistent guests, and while the turf 
 
 Was sparkling with those tender blooms of spring, 
 
 I had no heart for service ; but when soon 
 
 All sank and faded to the open moors, 
 
 And the garrulous cuckoo with his wearisome voice 
 
 Vexed me no more, then the large silence brought 
 
 Back the rich echo of the name I love. 
 
 And when, amid the stunted furze, I caught 
 
 Glimpse of those mountain wings, embossed with red, 
 
 The shy bright silent bird * we watched so long, 
 
 My heart breathed full of ecstasy and peace, 
 
 And I could worship ; there the rigid lines 
 
 Of moorland stretched, harmonious ; there the stream 
 
 Sprang, the Scamander of a soul besieged, 
 
 By Argive witcheries down to bondage drawn. 
 
 I trod the battle-field of my desire, 
 
 And here she smiled, I said, and here she sat, 
 
 And listened to the brooklet more than me, 
 
 And here the grasshopper with strident wings
 
 LIBER CORDIS. 
 
 Leaped at her, and her laughter-echoing shriek 
 
 Rang down the fluted valleys one by one ; 
 
 And here, beneath this little birchen clump, 
 
 A silver shadow on the enormous moor, 
 
 I kissed her rounded throat without reproach ; 
 
 And here upon the topmost table-land, 
 
 Between two dips in the bare crown, we sat, 
 
 With wreathed arms and rosy cheek to cheek, 
 
 And scanned the landscape by the unfolded chart, 
 
 I, furtive, mapping rather with fond eyes, 
 
 The warm carnations of that delicate neck 
 
 Where the curled gold creeps lowest. 
 
 And, for these 
 
 Pure memories of the perfect heart's desire, 
 I praise and thank the sovereignty of Love, 
 Since in a tender heart, native to bliss, 
 These vague reminders of sweet time gone by, 
 Thrills of the pulse, reanimated flush 
 From the light exquisite touch of a loved hand,
 
 LIBER CORDIS. 
 
 The shadow of the dream of such delight 
 
 As springs when eye meets eye in sudden flame, 
 
 The memory of a momentary sense 
 
 That this sad chasm of isolation, set 
 
 Between all souls for ever, has been bridged, 
 
 Once, by the unselfish courage of desire, 
 
 Are more than all the creeds and all the schools 
 
 By vague and visionary longing led 
 
 Have dared to dream or preach to us of heaven. 
 
 Ay ! more than Heaven indeed ; and what of Earth 
 Earth which is cold to Love, and blind to Heaven ? 
 This, that such memories are the mountain-airs 
 Which stir earth's acrid vapours, that their dream 
 Brings light at sunrise and at sunset peace, 
 That time without them would be mad and void, 
 And ache itself away, and, last of all, 
 That he who bears no echoes in his soul 
 From such melodious solitudes as these, 
 Dying, dies ghastlier than the dog he fed.
 
 LIBER CORDIS. 
 
 WE two have strayed far from the noise of earth, 
 By heath and peak, by foam-distracted beach, 
 By little ancient towns of foreign speech, 
 
 By woodlands where the swinging birds made mirth, 
 
 By dusky towns, eyes in the moorland-girth 
 Of hills, and in the solitude of each 
 Your lovelier soul has bent itself to teach 
 
 My soul the lore that follows the New Birth. 
 
 I think some fragment of our life must make 
 A green oasis in those mountain-snows, 
 A sanguine flush across the wild white rose, 
 
 A bar of opal where the streamlets break, 
 
 Or in some valley there may bloom, who knows, 
 
 One little flower created for our sake ?
 
 LIBER CORDIS. 193 
 
 SAND. 
 
 IF thou weil here I should not wander thus, 
 Scribbling in aimless mood on the wild sand 
 The letters of thy name, to teach the land 
 
 From Joyous Card to Castle Perilous 
 
 What love is ours, nor, lest men mock at us, 
 Return in haste, to find the breeze has fanned 
 The shore, and stirred the surface, like a hand, 
 
 With smoothing fingers, light and tremulous. 
 
 Alas ! by force of loving I become 
 Weak as an eddy in the sandy wind, 
 Faint as yon phantom-ruin scarce defined 
 
 Against the pale mysterious fields of foam ; 
 
 Again along the misty strand I roam, 
 Dull, chilly, silent, patient and resigned.
 
 I 94 LIBER CORDIS. 
 
 TWO POINTS OF VIEW. 
 
 IF I forget, 
 May joy pledge this weak heart to sorrow ! 
 
 If I forget, 
 
 May my soul's coloured summer borrow 
 The hueless tones of storm and rain, 
 Of ruth and terror, shame and pain, 
 If I forget ! 
 
 Though you forget, 
 There is no binding code for beauty ; 
 
 Though you forget, 
 Love was your charm, but not your duty ; 
 And life's worst breeze must never bring 
 A ruffle to your silken wing, 
 
 Though you forget.
 
 LIBER CORDIS. 195 
 
 If I forget, 
 The salt creek may forget the ocean ; 
 
 If I forget 
 
 The heart whence flows my heart's bright motion, 
 May I sink meanlier than the worst, 
 Abandoned, outcast, crushed, accurst, 
 
 If I forget ! 
 
 Though you forget, 
 No word of mine shall mar your pleasure ; 
 
 Though you forget, 
 You filled my barren life with treasure, 
 You may withdraw the gift you gave, 
 You still are lord, I still am slave, 
 
 Though you forget.
 
 LIBER CORDIS. 
 
 CUPIDO CRUCIFIXUS. 
 
 ONE Love there is all roseate-flushed and fair 
 This is the love that plucks the fruit of life ; 
 One Love there is with cypress round his hair, 
 
 The love that fought and fell in bitter strife : 
 Not that nor this the Shade that comes to-day 
 
 With tender hands to soothe my beating heart, 
 But the third Love that gains and gives away, 
 
 And in renouncing holds the better part ; 
 His eyes are very sweet, and bright with tears, 
 
 Like thine own eyes, my Dearest, wet with love ; 
 He knows that I am weak, and torn with fears, 
 
 Trembling to say too much or not enoUgh, 
 He knows that on the verge of hope I stand, 
 With Death and perilous Life on either hand.
 
 LIBER CORDIS. 197 
 
 RENUNCIATION. 
 
 LOVE feeds upon the fiery trial, 
 And hugs the arm that smites ; 
 I bless you for your stern denial, 
 And for my lonely nights. 
 
 If you had heaped my flame with fuel, 
 
 And been, as I was, blind, 
 Time might have proved your favour cruel, 
 
 Your tenderness unkind. 
 
 The longing flesh outwears the spirit, 
 
 The body tires the soul ; 
 By giving, we but half inherit, 
 
 By holding back, the whole. 
 
 The world may keep its brutal fashion, 
 
 And crush the rose to death ; 
 Our ecstasy of virgin passion 
 
 Will scent our latest breath.
 
 i<>8 LIBER CORD IS. 
 
 I lose you, but I gain, in losing, 
 
 Your very life and heart ; 
 Of all that makes time sweet, in choosing, 
 
 We chose the better part. 
 
 I lose you, but I gain for ever 
 
 More than mere lovers hold ; 
 I gain your ocean for their river, 
 
 And for their dross, your gold. 
 
 Then love me, my Desire, my Wonder, 
 Through change of world and weather ! 
 
 Our hearts may louder beat asunder 
 Than when they throbbed together.
 
 LIBER CORDIS. 199 
 
 APOLOGIA. 
 
 I HAVE not sinned against the God of love, 
 And so I think that when I come to die, 
 His face will reach to me, and hang above, 
 And comfort me, and hush me where I lie. 
 
 Weak am I, full of faults, and on the brink 
 Of Death perchance with awe my pulse shall move 
 
 I am not fit to die, and yet I think 
 I have not sinned against the god of Love. 
 
 I have desired fame, riches, the clear crown 
 Of influence, and pleasure's long-drawn zest, 
 
 Yet at all times I would have laid these down 
 To please the human heart that I love best ;
 
 LIBER CORDIS. 
 
 Wherefore I hope when I must go my way 
 
 Down that dark doubtful road that mortals prove, 
 
 Some one will cheer my shivering soul, and say 
 He has not sinned against the god of Love.
 
 SONNETS AND QUATORZAINS.
 
 ON CERTAIN CRITICS. 
 
 THERE are who bid us chant this modern age, 
 With all its shifting hopes and crowded cares, 
 School-boards and land-laws, votes and state-affairs, 
 And, one by one, the puny wars we wage ; 
 They charge us with our lyric flutes assuage 
 The hunger that the lean-ribbed peasant bears, 
 Or wreathe our laurel round the last grey hairs 
 Of the old pauper in his workhouse-cage, 
 Not wisely ; for the round world spins so fast, 
 
 Leaps in the air, staggers, and shoots, and halts, 
 
 We know not what is false or what is true ; 
 But in the firm perspectives of the past 
 We see the picture duly, and its faults 
 Are softly moulded by a filmy blue.
 
 SO.V.VETS AND QUATORZAINS. 
 
 AUGUST. 
 
 THE soul is like a song-bird, and must hold 
 Its silent August, or its heart would break ; 
 From the hot rushes of the unruffled lake 
 No warbler pipes, and where the elms enfold 
 Blackbird and thrush, no music is outrolled ; 
 They wait in solitude and voiceless ache, 
 Till, with serenest winds, September wake 
 The enchanted pipes and winged age of gold. 
 So with the heart ; and therefore blame thou not, 
 Brisk lover, that thy pensive maid is mute, 
 
 Wandering beside thee with a downcast air ; 
 She is not heedless, nor thy love forgot, 
 But passion dons her dreamy autumn suit 
 To wake renewed in beauty, freshly fair.
 
 AND QUATORZAINS. 
 
 A WOMAN'S AMBITION. 
 
 BEAUTY and Strength and Genius, all are thine, 
 And I have nothing but the love of these, 
 
 Born with no charming parts, no power to please, 
 No sovereign skill to make the future mine ; 
 Yet could I, but for thee, such gifts resign, 
 
 Without a sigh, and from a heart at ease, 
 
 But, dreaming, with my hands upon your knees, 
 For all these treasures, like a child, I pine. 
 I would be praised for beauty, that thine eyes 
 
 Might sparkle, knowing this face to be thine own, 
 And then accept its complete sacrifice ; 
 
 I would be strong, thy shield-bearer to be, 
 And famous, that the world's loud trumpet blown 
 
 Might prove me worthy to be loved by thee.
 
 206 SONNETS AND QUATORZA1NS. 
 
 WRESTLING WITH THE ANGEL. 
 
 IT was not when my enemy had made 
 Large progress, and his youth sustained him well, 
 But on the solemn morning that he fell 
 
 My soul withdrew apart and was afraid ; 
 
 And at the door of my bright hopes I stayed, 
 And wondered at the sudden miracle, 
 And shuddered inwardly, since who could tell 
 
 Why my foe's sinew and not mine decayed ; 
 
 So, in the peace around, and when men came 
 To press my hands and murmur words of praise, 
 I shrank abashed, and hid me from their gaze, 
 
 Longing to be like Jacob, tired and lame, 
 
 But wrestling still with One whose gracious name 
 When all the night was past should break in blaze.
 
 SONNETS AND QUATORZAINS. 207 
 
 TO TERESA. 
 
 DEAR child of mine, the wealth of whose warm hair 
 Hangs like ripe clusters of the apricot, 
 
 Thy blue eyes, gazing, comprehend me not, 
 But love me, and for love alone I care ; 
 Thou listenest with a shy and serious air, 
 
 Like some Sabrina from her weedy grot 
 
 Outpeeping coyly when the noon is hot 
 To watch some shepherd piping unaware. 
 'Twas not for thee I sang, dear child ; and yet 
 
 Would that my song could reach such ears as thine, 
 Pierce to young hearts unsullied by the fret 
 
 Of years in their white innocence divine ; 
 Crowned with a wreath of buds still dewy-wet, 
 
 O what a fragrant coronal were mine !
 
 2 o8 SOtfNTS AMD QUATORZAINS. 
 
 UNHEARD MUSIC. 
 
 MEN say that, far above our octaves, pierce 
 Clear sounds that soar and clamour at 
 
 heaven's high gate, 
 Heard only of bards in vision, and saints that wait 
 
 In instant prayer with godly-purged ears : 
 
 This is that fabled music of the spheres, 
 
 Undreamed of by the crowd that, early and late, 
 Lift up their voice in joy, grief, hope, or hate, 
 
 The diapason of their smiles and tears. 
 
 The heart's voice, too, may be so keen and high 
 That Love's own ears may watch for it in vain, 
 Nor part the harmonies of bliss and pain, 
 
 Nor hear the soul beneath a long kiss sigh, 
 
 Nor feel the caught breath's throbbing anthem die 
 When closely-twined arms relax again.
 
 SON'NSTS AND QUATORZAINS. 
 
 PERIGUEUX. 
 To H. T. 
 
 THE little southern city, full of light, 
 Full of warm light, and coloured like a peach ; 
 The river winnowing either chalky beach 
 With eddying streams from some vine-haunted height ; 
 Those pillar'd windows hung with kerchiefs bright, 
 That rosy bell-tower with its mellow speech 
 In liquid bells that murmured each to each, 
 Those fleecy, full acacias, robed in white ! 
 Ah ! most those warm acacias ! like a tune 
 Their odour fell and rose and died away 
 
 All through that noiseless dreamy afternoon j 
 Beside the quay you sat and sketched ; I lay 
 To watch the trembling breezes lift and sway 
 
 The boughs through which there climbed a shadowy 
 moon. 
 
 p
 
 SONNETS AND QUATORZAINS. 
 
 THE VOICE OF D. G. R. 
 
 FROM this carved chair wherein I sit to-night, 
 The dead man read in accents deep and strong, 
 
 Through lips that were like Chaucer's, his great song 
 About the Beryl and its virgin light ; 
 And still that music lives in death's despite, 
 
 And though my pilgrimage on earth be long, 
 
 Time cannot do my memory so much wrong 
 As e'er to make that gracious voice take flight. 
 I sit here with closed eyes ; the sound comes back, 
 With youth, and hope, and glory on its track, 
 
 A solemn organ-music of the mind ; 
 So, when the oracular moon brings back the tide, 
 After long drought, the sandy channel wide 
 
 Murmurs with waves, and sings beneath the wind.
 
 SONNETS AND QUATORZAINS. 
 
 THE TWOFOLD CORD. 
 
 SINGLY we fight against enormous odds, 
 Dulness, and Cowardice, and Fate, and Chance, 
 And the wild bowman, purblind Ignorance, 
 And Heaven with all its lazy brood of gods ; 
 How, then, above the congregated clods, 
 Can one man rise, and out of clay advance, 
 Alone, against the sleepless countenance 
 Of that huge Argus-host that never nods? 
 So must we fall upon the fields of life, 
 
 And bleed, and die ? Nay, rather let us twain, 
 
 Marching abreast, against that army move, 
 Each harnessing the other for the strife, 
 You with my will for helmet, and my brain 
 For sword, while I for buckler bear your love.
 
 SONXTS AND QUATORZAINS. 
 
 THE TWOFOLD VOICE. 
 
 A DOUBLE voice cries in the spirit of Man, 
 As though upon a mortal stage he saw 
 Apollo's murmuring daughter, crazed with awe, 
 
 Change parts, and shout as Clytemnestra can ; 
 
 For in the blaze of life he turns to scan 
 
 The dim ghost-haunted face of outraged law, 
 And feels the flames rise, and the serpents gnaw 
 
 Through the gilt tissue of his hope's bright plan ; 
 
 And thus the heavy animal part of him, 
 Never at rest to ponder or rejoice, 
 Sways, blindly shaken by that twofold voice ; 
 
 Beneath the axe of Pleasure, void and dim 
 
 The dull brain reels, and the vext senses swim, 
 Or Conscience thrills him with her piercing noise.
 
 SOtfNETS AND QUATORZAINS. 
 
 BONDSERVICE OF THE HEART. 
 
 WHEN by the fire we sit with hand in hand, 
 My spirit seems to watch beside your knee, 
 Alert and eager at your least command 
 
 To do your bidding over earth and sea ; 
 You sigh and of that dubious message fain, 
 
 I scour the world to bring you what you lack, 
 Till, from some island of the spicy main, 
 
 The pressure of your fingers calls me back : 
 You smile, and I, who love to be your slave, 
 
 Post round the orb at your fantastic will, 
 Though, while my fancy skims the laughing wave, 
 
 My hand lies happy in your hand, and still ; 
 Nor more from fortune or from life would crave 
 
 Than that dear silent service to fulfil.
 
 SONNETS AND QUATORZAINS. 
 
 THE FEAR OF DEATH. 
 
 LAST night I woke and found between us drawn, 
 Between us, where no mortal fear may creep, 
 
 The vision of Death dividing us in sleep ; 
 And suddenly I thought, Ere light shall dawn 
 Some day, the substance, not the shadow, of Death 
 
 Shall cleave us like a sword. The vision passed, 
 
 But all its new-born horror held me fast, 
 And till day broke I listened for your breath. 
 Some day to wake, and find that coloured skies, 
 
 And pipings in the woods, and petals wet, 
 
 Are things for aching memory to forget ; 
 And that your living hands and mouth and eyes 
 Are part of all the world's old histories ! 
 
 Dear God ! a little longer, ah not yet !
 
 SONNETS AND QUATORZAINS. 
 
 DEAREST and most inseparable Friend, 
 Why is it that the thought of thee is bound 
 With one small plot of honey-scented ground, 
 Through which a murmuring river without end 
 Flows, while its eddies with the grasses blend ? 
 Have I been there with thee ? Has that low sound 
 In thy wise voice a tenderer echo found ? 
 What valley is this towards which my dreams descend ? 
 Is it that comer of your leaguered brain, 
 Shut in by high ambitions, and the stress 
 Of battling hopes and godlike imagery, 
 Where you grow hushed and like a child again, 
 Shifting your armour for an easier dress, 
 To sit an hour and hold me company ?
 
 SOX.VETS AND QUATORZAINS. 
 
 SLEEP. 
 FROM THEOPHILE DE VIAU . 
 
 I'VE kissed thee, Sweetheart, in a dream at least, 
 And though the core of love is in me still, 
 
 This joy, that in my sense did softly thrill, 
 The ardour of my longing hath appeased, 
 And by this tender strife my spirit, eased, 
 
 Can laugh at that sweet theft against thy will, 
 
 And, half consoled, I soothe myself until 
 I find my heart from all its pain released. 
 My senses, hushed, begin to fall on sleep ; 
 Slumber, for which two weary nights I weep, 
 
 Takes thy dear place at last within mine eyes ; 
 And though so cold he is, as all men vow, 
 
 For me he breaks his natural icy guise 
 And shows himself more warm and fond than thou.
 
 SONNETS AND QUATORZAIXS. 
 
 A PORTRAIT. 
 
 SHE hath lived so silently and loved so much, 
 That she is deeply stirred by little things, 
 While pain's long ache and sorrow's sharper stings 
 
 Scarce move her spirit that eludes their clutch ; 
 
 But one half-tone of music, or the touch 
 Of some tame bird's eager vibrating wings, 
 Breaks up the sealed fountain's murmurings 
 
 To storm, or what in others might seem such ; 
 
 So, when she lifts her serious lids to turn 
 On ours her soft and magical dark eyes, 
 All womanhood seems on her, in disguise ; 
 
 As on the pale white peacock we discern 
 The pencilled shadows of the radiant dyes 
 
 And coloured moons that on her sisters burn.
 
 SONNETS AND QUATORZAINS. 
 
 A PLEA. 
 
 THE Preacher who hath fought a goodly fight 
 And toiled for his great Master all day long, 
 Grows faint and harassed after evensong, 
 
 And harshly chides the eager proselyte ; 
 
 The Sage who strode along the even height 
 Of narrow Justice severing wrong from wrong, 
 Stumbles, and sinks below the common throng, 
 
 In pits of prejudice forlorn of light. 
 
 But thou, within whose veins a cooler blood 
 Runs reasonably quiet, brand not thou 
 With name of hypocrite each sunken brow ; 
 
 To every son of man on earth who would 
 
 The Graces have not given it to be good, 
 
 And virtuous fruit may break the laden bough.
 
 NOTES.
 
 NOTES. 
 
 1 Page i. Firdaiisi in Exile. This poem was written as an 
 introduction to Miss Helen Zimmern's excellent prose paraphrase of 
 the Shah-Nameh, published in 1883, as The Epic of Kings. 
 
 2 Page 31. The Cruise of the Rover. When this ballad first 
 appeared, in the Magazine of Art, I was bewildered to find my 
 innocent piece of antiquarianism hotly assailed for its bigotry. The 
 publishers of the magazine were annoyed by letters from indignant 
 correspondents, and one gentleman, a resident of Dublin, wrote to 
 let me know that it would be more than my life was worth to me to 
 set foot in that city. As I have Catholic friends whom I love and 
 respect, and as it might chance to be convenient for me to visit 
 Dublin, I must explain that the sentiments expressed are not those 
 of to-day. I have tried to write in the spirit of an English Protes- 
 tant, a provincial Protestant, let us suppose, of the end of the six- 
 teenth century, many of my touches being in fact suggested to me 
 by the account of his truculent adventures and subsequent sufferings 
 printed by that excellent " Western Gentleman of Tavistock," Master 
 Richard Peeke. I owe something also to The unfortunate Voyage 
 of the Jesus to Tripoli, in 1584. Both of these extremely rare and
 
 222 NOTES. 
 
 curious tracts have been reprinted by Mr. Edward Arber. The 
 frontispiece to this volume, engraved by Mr. James D. Cooper from 
 part of a tapestry of 1588, now in the House of Lords, and never 
 before reproduced, gives an exact idea of the clumsy Spanish plate- 
 ships which such pious pirates as my "Rover" considered their 
 proper quarry. 
 
 3 Page 47. The Island of the Blest. This Lucianic study, now 
 printed for the first time, was written in 1879, and then seen by a 
 few friends. To this fact I owe the honour which Mr. Andrew Lang 
 has done me to inscribe with my initials his treatment of a part of the 
 same theme in The Fortunate Islands (Rhymes & la Mode, 1884). 
 The lines particularly addressed to me in this beautiful poem I take 
 the liberty of transcribing here, as a comment : 
 
 Each in the self-same field we glean 
 
 The field of the Samosatene, 
 
 Each something takes and something leaves 
 
 And this must choose, and that forego 
 In Lufiaris visionary sheaves, 
 
 To twine a modern posy so; 
 But all my gleanings, truth to tell, 
 Are mixed with mournful asphodel, 
 While yours are wreathed with poppies red, 
 
 With flowers that Helen's feet have kissed, 
 With leaves of vine that garlanded 
 
 The Syrian PantagrueKst, 
 The sage who laughed the world away, 
 
 Who mocked at Gods, and men, and care, 
 More sweet of voice than Rabelais, 
 
 And lighter-hearted than Voltaire.
 
 NOTES. 223 
 
 Moreover, in the interval between the writing and the printing of my 
 verses, a second Oxford poet, without any relation to Mr. Lang or 
 myself, has gone to the Vera Historia for his theme. I permit my- 
 self the indiscretion of saying that the delicate romance called " In 
 Scheria," which is to be found in the anonymous volume by three 
 friends, entitled Love in Idleness (Kegan Paul, Trench & Co. 1883), 
 is the work of Mr. J. W. Mackail. 
 
 * Page 166. Obennann yet again. Mr. Matthew Arnold does 
 not need my apology for this mild expression of protest, suggested 
 rather perhaps by temperament than by conviction, against a certain 
 aspect of Senancour's famous book on which Mr. Arnold has not 
 cared to lay stress, and which his blind admirers refuse to perceive. 
 Mr. Arnold's healthy imagination enables him to draw comfort from 
 a melancholy which, as we are apt to forget, has proved a direct 
 incentive to suicide in the case of certain morbid minds, such in 
 particular as Sautelet and Rabbe. 
 
 5 Page 189. The shy bright silent bird. The Mountain Bunting 
 (Emberiza nivalis). 
 
 6 Page 216. Sleep. The original appears thus in the squat little 
 duodecimo of Les Oeuvresde Thtephile published at Rouen, in 1632, 
 soon after the death of the unfortunate poet : 
 
 A u mains ay-ie songl que ie vous ay baisfe, 
 Et bien que tout f amour ne s'en soit pas allf, 
 Cefeu qui dans tries sens a doucement coulf. 
 
 Rend en qite Iquefafon ma flame r'apaiste. 
 
 Apres ce doux effort mon ame reposte, 
 Peut rire du plaisir qu'elle vous a vole, 
 Et d tant de refus a demy console, 
 
 Je troune desorntais ma guerison ahie.
 
 NOTES. 
 
 Mes sens desia remis commencent a dormir, 
 
 Le somrneil qui deux nuicts nianoit laissl geinir, 
 
 En fin dedds ntes yeux vousfait quitter la place : 
 Et qttoy quil soit sifroid an iugement de tous, 
 
 II a rompupour tnoy son natur el de glace, 
 El s'est inonstre" phts chaud et plus kumain que vows.
 
 CHISWICK PRESS I C. WH1TTINGHAM AND CO., TOOKS COUKT, 
 CHANCERY LANE.
 
 r<. 
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBH