THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES {F)y the same Jlulhor. Devices and Desires 5/~ net THIRD EDITION A few copies only The Times. — "He sings manfully, with genuine passion and a great variety of ideas." The Jtcademy Sr Literature.—" Excellently poetic description . . . imaginative strength . . . bold and beautiful imagery." The Glasgow Herald. — "A loftiness of ideal that never fails, and a gift of lyric verse that has a serious grace about it. . . . A tender human note runs through the volume." The Yorkshire Post. — "A volume of verse which has high and sustained quality, depth of feeling, and a brave and reasoned optimism amidst the perplexities of life which force themselves upon thoughtful men ... a stoical philosophy ex- pressed with beauty." The Birmingham Gazette. — "There is no lack of evi- dence that these songs are the natural offspring of one of those minds which, being attuned to finer ideals than those generally obtaining, have produced out of pain and sorrow some of our sweetest lines . . . thought and feeling never descending to the hackneyed plains, and frequently rising to noble heights." The Outlook. — "Intensely felt experience flowing un- cooled into real poetic mould ... a virile habit and a robust poetic faculty which is not afraid of wind and sun and rain. . . . If the last poem in this volume, a noble piece of blank verse, is earnest of what the next will give us, we shall welcome it with gratitude." The Biographer, May, 191 1. — " . . . Nature-love which gives great distinction to much of his poetry, and in certain directions, such as his intimate knowledge of bird-life and bird- music, is worthy to rank with the profound observation of Richard Jefferies himself. But Habberton Lulham's sympathies go far beyond this: they go out to his fellow-men no less warmly than to the spirit of Nature. Although the simple human relations of humble rustic life have touched him to some of his tenderest verses, yet the more complex lives and thoughts of city-dwellers, and themes of more universal import — the endless struggle between sense and soul; the sorrow, and, too rarely, the radiance of transcendant love; the highest aspirations of the soul towards its source, have all been grasped courageously by a mind that can invest them with fresh dignity and beauty." ,'T}y the same Jluthor. Songs from the Downs and Dunes 3/6 net SECOND EDITION 3/6 net The Times. — ". . . all these poems are the outcome of real thought and emotion, and strong imagination." The Morning Post. — "We remember his 'Devices and Desires,' and genuine and accomplished work it was. . . . His feeling for the open air is a deep and wide one, resting not only upon the desire of the eyes, but upon a spiritual apprehension of all forms of life. . . . His appeal is to the philosopher, the religious man, and the poet. . . . 'Love's Neophyte' is a daringly sensuous and impassioned picture, different from but fit to stand alongside of the bathing scene in Richard Jefferies's 'Dewy Morn,' and Mr Meredith's 'Love in a Valley."' The Spectator. — "He not only sees, but he can think. . . . ' On the Downs ' is the longest and finest poem in the book, and in it, besides many passages of noble blank verse, there are one or two exquisite lyrics. The man who can write such a fine re- flective poem as 'The Many Deaths,' and such a passionate cry as 'Belle Sauvage,' should have a future before him as a poet." The Glasgow Herald. — "Love is a theme that our author always sings with tenderness and beauty. ... It would be difficult to find in any living poet three poems more unlike than, yet so essentially true as, 'Belle Sauvage,' 'Wisdom,' and 'Through the Borderlands.' The last is delightful. Mr Lulham sounds a deeper note as truly, and his sonnets give one the pleasure that comes from noble thought fitly spoken. Through- out he is the poet of ideals, with heart responsive to the appeal of common things, and the eyes to see them transfigured." The JithencBum. — " . . . The Sussex Downs are his kingdom, which he here celebrates in a poem imaginative and musical, instinct with atmosphere, and full of haunting little pictures of the country it describes. Such lines bespeak a poetical instinct and power of suggestion, fresh and individual, that should go far. Mr Lulham's blank verse is uniformly good: there are no halting lines or strange portentous words, but the subject seems to govern the rhythm, and a grateful harmony is the result. . . . The three songs in 'On the Downs,' for daintiness and sureness of touch, could hardly be bettered; and the same may be said of 'Through the Borderlands,' with its flavour of seventeenth-century sweetness. He handles the Italian sonnet with taste and skill. ..." THE OTHER SIDE OF SILENCE THE OTHER SIDE OF SILENCE BY HABBERTON LULHAM Author of "Devices and Desires," " Songs from the Downs and Du?ies," etc. LONDON ERSKINE MACDONALD 17 SURREY STREET, LONDON, W.C. 19*3 L r 1 1 V l or To M. E. H. To you my wilding sheaves I bring, Though well I know their little worth, For your wise heart to which I sing — Minding they sprang from troubled earth- Will make no scornful winnowing. +_>:!.., THE thanks or the Author for permission to reprint poems are gratefully rendered to the Editors of the Daily Chronicle, the Evening Standard, the Glasgow Herald, the Lone Hand (Melbourne), the Pall Mall Gazette, Punch, the Spectator, the Thrush, T. P.' s Maga- zine, The Vineyard, and the Westminster Gazette. CONTENTS The Other Side of Silence PAGE i Muted Strings ..... 2 To the Smiling Picture of One Dead 6 "Daft Dick" 8 No. 4 ...... ii May-dawn ..... 13 You AND I ..... 17 Lamps of Life .... 19 The Voice ..... 21 A Meeting and a Memory 22 The Blockheart .... 24 To One Who Complained that Poetry was Unprized ...... 25 Dreams of the Dead . 27 In the Millrace . 28 The Young Heart's Gift . 30 In April ....... 3i Heartsight ..... 33 Soil and Seed .... 36 Bargaining ..... 37 A Testament ..... 39 Contents The Hearth At Sunset in an Eastward Bay Mistaken Tryst The Hidden Flame . Of Three Good Things May Matins Starling . The Swallows . The Pigeon of St Mark's Redpoll In Youth's Garden The Well-spring Florescence A Dog's Epitaph (To "Garry") To the Hills Mesalliance Tree-flowers Love and Time . One of Life's Matings A Birth . For Fear . The Door of Fate The Living Lie . One of Love's Ways . Everyman Joy . Edgar Allan Poe Contents xi PAGE Ghosts 74 The Bell of Love ■ 75 Gifts Unguessed ■ 76 The Old Poet . 78 Spirit-kin 79 Love's Crucible 80 Youth and Grief . 81 Launching 82 Witch-love 83 The Ring of the Roundel 85 The Humourist 86 To Thomas Hardy 87 Mismated . 88 Reward . 89 Into Your Hands 90 At Love's Coming 9i The Ghost of Grief 92 Beggar's Gold 93 A Plain Woman 94 To a Singer 95 A Venetian Night 96 A New Year's Eve . 100 II T 1> 102 The Little Grey Ghost 103 One Love that Lives 106 In Exile .... 107 In Memoriam — J. B. R. 108 THE OTHER SIDE OF SILENCE Though loud the chant of human fate From earth to heaven be flung, The other side of silence wait A myriad songs unsung: Of dying dreams and living dread, Of good that seems in vain, Of memory mourning for its dead, And love that veils its pain; With all those happier hidden things Of seventy years or seven, From childhood's voiceless visionings, To Age's hopes of heaven. Life, of thy gifts be this my choice: That, humbly drawing near, Waiting to catch the still small voice, I win the heart to hear. MUTED STRINGS silent forms that throng this ringing life, Brothers and sisters of my songful heart, Well do I know you — mates of my own mind- Love you, and claim you spirit-kith and kin ; 1 see you of that long procession part, Still passing since our clamourous life began, And still to pass so long as life endure, — The silent unguessed poets of the world. But, voiceless though ye be, I read you well : I watch the passioned pupils wax and wane In set, wide orbs deep-veiled in reverie, Seeking to pierce these surface semblances — Then the white face re-waking to the world. I see the sudden trouble line your brows ; The sombre droop of longing-laden eyes, Oft dim and misty with unf alien tears ; Mark the swift flush and paling of the cheek, The brave uplift of head, and body poise, The thrill of joy at something beautiful, And, at a hint from the great Mother-heart, The life-lust flame from ever smouldering fires: I read the tragic scriptures of your brows, Muted Strings The clench or slackening of the nervous hands, The vital modulation in your tones, And that slow seeking for the finer word, To tell, more truly than the common phrase, Those dumb desires that long to find a voice. I love that moonlight music of your mind, That still, before the clarion sun of song, Into melodious silence melts away. And I can feel the hard-pent throb of thought That never in this life shall know release ; With all the freight of fancy that ye bear, To be unladen in no earthly land; Can guess dumb terrors that ye face alone, The dreamy splendours that ye may not speak, And dim enchantments that ye yearn to share. Even though the lips may freely utter speech, The heart-strings often sound but muted notes, The soul but stammers all she longs to say ; Or she is stricken silent by her dread Lest a brute-world should mock, and rend her dream Or wild emotion shakes her words awry, A frenzy that but leaves her worn and cold ; Oft, like swift levin flashing through the night. The blinding thought leaps, and is lost again ; Or only formless phantoms of the dark Moan by, and wail, but will not speak her clear. Muted Strings What matter ? Some there be shall know you still, Shall seek you out and hold you by the hand, And ye shall feel their hearts beat true to yours. Where shall we find you ? Haunters still are ye — Ghostlike in sea-wrack or pale meadow-mists — Of borderlands and all that fleeting is, Of desert-margins and the wild sea-shores ; Or watchers on the silent hills by night Of those pale points of starlight that ye love; Missing no rise or set of sun and moon, Ye mark the flight and hue of every cloud ; Your lonely forms bend over unnamed brooks, Your eager eyes still find the wild flowers fair; Yet linger most amid such lowly griefs As moved that poet-soul in Galilee. How, then, O comrades, shall ye not be found ? And hearts there be to love you everywhere. Ah ! never grieve then at your silentness, Silence, at least, is greater than half -speech, Do I not know it well, with this low voice — 'Twixt your great silence and true song's great sound — This that alone the gods have granted me ? And think ye singers win no iron crowns, Or victories of ashen laurel leaves ? And know ye not how often noblest thoughts, Muted Strings Clear in the mind, in telling are but marred : Like those faint-tinted, delicate traceries Of swaying water- weeds that, once drawn forth From their clear stream, hang limp and dull of hue ? Speech is at best a patched robe for the soul ; Then wear your silence as a seamless vest Such as once hid a greater heart than ours. So listening, all that clouded by our speech We catch not, may come singing clear to you, From vespers of the wayside violet, To whispered orisons of weary men. Oh, never doubt love shall divine your dreams, A clasp of hand shall set your mute song free, And heal the ache of dumbness in your hearts ; Till then, wait on, God's silent witnesses ! TO THE SMILING PICTURE OF ONE DEAD No longer may thy living smile Bless all the soon-sped night, Nor ever more beam down on me, One with the morning light. The dawn-song of a waking bird, The wind's rush through the trees, A child's face, noble acts of men — Thou smiled'st on such as these. And that mute benediction still, Through these my lonely years, Has livelier strength to save my soul, Than, once, thy living tears : For, oh, I cannot, dare not, come, Mild monitress to thee, From any path thou bade'st me shun And shame thy purity To the Smiling Picture of One Dead 7 By cheating those dear helpless lips, That cannot choose but give Their smiling sanction to the deed Condemn'd did they but live. Nay, that loved welcome in thy face, Discharmed for me would die, Could I with callous, deadened heart, So mock thy memory. "DAFT DICK" Daily I met him toiling towards the Downs, A shambling, ageless man, with shining eyes, And strange face radiant with a secret hope, A daily hope that, though it daily died, Still rose again with every sunset hour To lead him flushed and eager to the hills. He was not, from his birth, as others are, Nor needed he his fellows' heartless jest Dimly to feel his lonely difference, His hopeless mockery of man's estate. But, robbed, it seemed, of rightful human joy, Deep in his heart there dwelt a secret hope : That one day at some radiant sunset hour, When, through its opened portals, all the west Showed like a gleaming path to Paradise, If then, upon the highest Down, alone, And kneeling, he could so uplift his heart, In such a prayer, with such an urgent cry, That God from the close heavens should pitying hear, Then might his homeless, outcast soul be borne "Daft Dick" Swiftly upon the golden air, and swept Safe through those shining gates to home at last. So, daily, did I see him hastening up, His face lit with the level sun, and hope; And there he knelt with arms wide to the west, His long hair lifted by the upland breeze, In mute beseeching that his soul might pass. The linnet hushed his evening lutany, The homing rook would glance and circle wide, A pondering shepherd pause a moment nigh, Far, mellow notes would float up from the fold, And hearth-smoke rise from happy, village homes ; Then, slowly, as the gold died in the west, The hope, once more, would falter in his heart ; And he would rise, and sigh, and move away, Yet turn and turn again ere, hope quite dead, He took his long-worn pathway down the slopes, And through the grey shades set his shadowed face Back to the jesting village, and the bare, Lone, eastward attic that he called his home. And there, bedridden and begrudged his life Through lifeless years, he lay released at last. But often, as I pass the still-worn spot, It seems the wild-thyme sure must spring more sweet, io "Daft Dick" The harebell bloom there with a heavenlier blue, For all the thousand sunset hours he knelt And agonized. Almost I envy him : For though he died, poor Dick, alone, forlorn, He lived at least as few may boast they live,— In constant commune with a heartening Thought, A great Hope, and a daily glimpse of Heaven. 1 1 No. 4 When the mad bull of nightmare-land Has chased me, bellowing, up the lane, And paralysed of foot and hand I've struggled to escape, in vain; Or when that nameless thing of dreams Glides grey and gibbering from its lair, And, grinning at my voiceless screams, Has almost had me by the hair; Then I have known, now, many a year, Just as disaster's at its height, And I am nearly dead with fear, A blessed haven come in sight : There, on a little village-green, Seven old thatched cottages I see, And No. 4 has always been My never-failing sanctuary ; i2 No. 4 For, down the path all set about With hollyhocks on either side, A dear old soul comes hurrying out And flings the small green wicket wide, And staggering to her arms I fall Breathless and spent, but safe; and then With gentle voice she quiets all My fears that seem a child's again. Long have I played a lonely part, Fated unresting still to roam, But there, for sure, is one true heart, And that's the place I count for home; And I shall come some day at last, In truth, I think, to No. 4, And, bulls and bogies safely past, To wide arms and an open door. *3 MAY-DAWN " Love! — love ! " throbs through the fervent heart of night, And answering comes the pulse of new-poured life, In countless freshets from the unfailing fount, Whose ripples reaching through the universe Unendingly, beat now through all my blood. " Love ! — love ! " breathes low The Mother's raptured breast, And " Life, loved life! " chimes back the Eternal Heart : The human-heavenly, ageless antiphone. Now through the woods May-moonlight filters down, And falls, as through some dim cathedral pane, To cast a misty, silver light upon A multitude of elfin worshippers, Where, as in night-long meditation bowed, With down-curled fronds the tender fern-folk stand ; Or floods, as through some rich-stained oriel, To float in purple on the forest-floor Where, deep in reverie, wood-hyacinths bend; And round them great, grey columns of the beech i4 May Dawn Rise nobly, from whose leafy capitals The silky, amber and rose-hued sheathings fall, That, when the Dawn flings wide the woodland doors, At first touch of the level sun, will lie All iridescent down those shining aisles. " Love ! — love ! " and what a joy of joys to live ! " Life! — life! " and what a night of nights to love! To live and love, — and now how nearly past, Ah, to be lover-hearted, but alone ! Nay, not alone: the world is in my heart, I clasp creation with a cosmic love That flames towards man before the breath of God. Now seems an hour for which my being sighed, Life after life, with longing, growing ever, To crown this universe — my breast — with love, My heart now grown a god's with love of All ! Ah, softly heart, hush thy mad rhapsody. And yet — and yet — surely, a moment past, Had I been mad a little moment more, The seer's swift, flame-like vision had been mine In splendid sanity — one moment more! But now the waiting hush that preludes dawn Broods in the darkness, sweet with blending breaths Of lilac, hawthorn, and those lusty growths, May Dawn 15 The tall white wildings that o'ertop the hedge, Or reach up from the wavy mowing-grass, To mix their odourous umbels with the blooms That flame along the drooping chestnut-boughs. Hark ! — into that rich-perfumed silence floats A mellow, fluting note, so strangely sweet It seems that some mild genie of the dawn Transmutes the mingled scents to melody. It is the golden-bill that wakes to joy Of light and love, for near him nests his mate ; Swift answers back another of his kin, Boasting a fuller bliss of calling brood ; And now into the swelling choristry The speckled-breast laughs out a liquid trill, Another and another wakes, to sing Till all the golden air's a-flood with song. O happy birds ! — in whose fresh, rested hearts Resurgent passion, in a reinless rush, Leaps to fulfilment at the spur of Spring, As sure of ecstasy as June of flowers ! Happy, that through the long untroubled months, Deep in your easy hearts love lay at peace ; Happy in comradeship that, with the Spring Alone, is kindled to the flaming fire That wastes when always burning in the breast ; Ah, happy even in your woodland death, 1 6 May Dawn 'Neath open skies, lapped round with leaves, not lead, And soon to float again in that free air The nightingale remoulds to melody. Let me go forth, my heart grows languorous With over-sweetness of your scented songs. Let me go listen where a greater love Sings evermore, and sings unsatisfied: The sea's, whose love is king of loves that ache, At whose wild lips the world's heart finds a voice, His endless longing shall absorb my own : Aye, there she steals — Selene — to the west, Pale with her passionate rapture in his pain : While yet another heart takes up the tale, Whose love-pain pulses through the eastern sky, For, flushed and troubled in a sweet unrest, Dawn lies and wearies for the laggart Day. O sea — dawn— birds ! — all hearts that sing or sigh, Are we not one, owning but one lord, Love ? Aye, let us sing ! A paean if we may; Or sadder songs ?■ — then sweeter for our pain. 17 YOU AND I When we were children, you and I, Between us grew a hedgerow high. But you and I our wild-flowers threw- Your flowers for me and mine for you- Over the hedge, and no one knew But me and you. And so content awhile we played, Then braver grew, until we made A hole in the hedge where we crept through- You came to me, or I to you — We hid it well, and no one knew Save me and you. Now, sadly walk we either side A wall the world builds high and wide, But though, we feign, contentedly, I call to you, and you to me, And none must know the misery To you and me. 1 8 You and I And so we live as all were well, And dully say our earthly hell Must be endured unendingly — I lie to you, and you to me ! God ! love, life passes shamefully, For you and me ! Were it not better, braver, say, To do as in our childhood's day, And, at whatever cost, break through ?- There lives no other love for you, For me no other mate is true, But me, but you. *9 LAMPS OF LIFE The fog fell dense and turned to night our day, And men went groping, lost, on every side, Nor I, nor any could the pathway find, Till one stept firmly past me on my way, And him I followed, wondering, till my guide Tapped in the darkness — then I knew him blind. Are there not many with us such as he ? Tap-tapping still their deprecating ways Down pavements in our city of the soul ? Who, through the sunshine of our happier days, Care chiefly that they bar the path of none, Contented with our thoughtless, passing dole, Their little part in air and shade and sun ; Walking the silent path all seers have trod, They live alone in soul-serenitude, And lowly ponder life, and man, and God. But let our skies loom wild and leaden-hued, And are we lost in lowering mists of mind, Have life's bright gauds misled our dazzled sight, Then — though remorse may cut us like a knife, Remembering past forgetfulness and slight — io Lamps of Life We turn to them, and ever surely find Their hands in our hands leading out to light ; Their spirits' calm upon our storms of sense, The sunshine of their fine sincerity, The clean air of their calm experience, Charming our heavens clear, our haven bright. Then let us tend these hidden lamps of life, These patient powers, still acting silently Like God's great primal forces of the world, Constant, unseen, but how unfailingly ! Blind are they that they will not seek, or strive To win the tinsel toys we vainly prize, Whose vanity so long ago they learnt ? Nay, to their finer vision are unfurled The secrets of the soul, their eyes are set On mystic pathways to man's paradise. Ah, love them now, lest in our breasts be burnt The lasting stigma of too-late regret ! 21 THE VOICE Long had the grey fears gathered round. Grimmer and bolder grown, As day by day my soul fought on More helpless and alone ; Till came a night when, weak, outworn, Waiting their coming hosts, My one last friend, Sleep, fled before The fierce and threatening ghosts. Then, giving up the hapless fight, Despairing of all good, I strove no more, but let them rage, And rack me as they would. But, as the horror wilder grew, Some clear voice cried and passed : " Why will you not believe that love Shall right all at the last ? " I never heard the voice before, But calm came swift and deep : " Why so I do believe," I said, And straightway fell asleep. 22 A MEETING AND A MEMORY And you are " mad," poor friend ? Aye, so we say, We who still live so coldly, sadly sane, We of that world whose crafty sanity Wrought all the woe that drove your great heart wild; That warm, true, dreaming heart whose trust in man Laughed at the prudence that had saved your store ; Whose dreams wrenched round from faith to bitter- ness, O'erwhelmed the mind we leave for mad to-day, Locked from the world it loved, in mad-house walls. You knew me not; but in your ruined gaze I saw again my early playmate's eyes : For as on some wild, storm-enshrouded sea Shows for a moment a lost drifting ship, So drave your wrecked soul through its mists of mind. But I remembered gleams of rapt delight Bent o'er the nest of blue hedge-sparrow's eggs We found together thirty Springs gone by ; A Meeting and a Memory 23 Or 'neath the apple-blossom you drew down To hold against an azure sky of May ; And still I minded the swift look of pain That leapt to see the falling of a child; Or lines of anger at some cruel word. Ah, friend, you dealt too deep in ecstasies Of joy and pain, I doubt, or my boy's mind Had never marked, and stored them these long years. And Life since then ?— poor, passionate poet-heart, How hast thou vainly beat and agonized, Cast amid dull impenetrable clods ? But now; oh, nevermore can I forget — Graved horribly, deep in my memory — The blaze of maddened rapture in your eyes, Believing the one child you loved lay dead : Twas as the desolate glare of sunset light Flashed from west windows of an empty house. And that wild line of pain, ploughed up your brow, At words of love that strove to find your soul, Was like the lying line of shade that falls Across a sun-dial's face beneath the moon, Whose ghost -light throws so seeming true a shade One shudders at the falsely written hour. Poor friend, farewell ! — still will I come to you, Still take your hand, and hope to reach your heart God grant your soul its sunlight back again ! 2 4 THE BLOGKHEART " I gave him up ten years ago, And now you want to bridge the gap, What use ? — the man's no good, you know, A glum, queer-tempered, cross-grained chap." " Last year, from bitter winds and blight, One of my rose-trees bore no flower: Now, sheltered, pruned, and trained aright, Its great blooms flush my garden-bower." " What do you mean — ' wind, blight, and bloom' ? Oh, lived his faults down, has he, eh ? I'd rather have the fellow's room— A failure once, always, I say." 25 TO ONE WHO COMPLAINED THAT POETRY WAS UNPRIZED So they'll not listen to your singing, lad ? Oh, never fret your soul, then, let them be, Or for their cold, deaf hearts alone be sad — For hearts it is that heed such minstrelsy. Once, through the night, a friend went hurrying in To where a few wise hearts should hear him charm The soul of music from his violin, And in a mean street where the air lay warm And reeking round a swinging tavern-door, A tattered wretch rasped on a scrannel string Unheeded. So my friend, to help his store, Played in his stead there, doubting not to bring A harvest for him ; but, befogged with gin, The drinkers gave not : one, to their gross ears, Were fiddles or the viols of Cherubin. So never fret, lad; in these sordid years The world's wits are befogged with gear and gold, With getting, spending, making boastful show; 26 The taste of flesh-pots, all it cares to know, And fellow-lives cheap bought and dearly sold. But take your songs out to the stars, the sun, The birds and flowers ; or, though the days be long. Wait trustingly till Life shall lead you one Whose love shall seal and crown your every song. Sing to her now, pour forth your utmost art, And from the world your love-freed soul uplift ; And sing to that good angel in your heart Who whispers you and gave you all your gift. 27 DREAMS OF THE DEAD Be comforted, bereaved heart, Thou still shalt see thy well-loved dead, For Sleep shall play her kindly part, And lead them to thy lonely bed. Yet, in the first dark year of pain, Her visions scarce may soothe thine ache : Too fresh, thy grief floods back again, And starts thee suddenly awake. But slowly grows a happier while, And 'neath the blessed spell of night Thou shalt embrace thy lost, and smile With brief incredulous delight. Till last — oh, faithful heart believe ! — The truth-like dream so long shall stay That thou may est well-nigh cease to grieve At dream-like sorrow of the day. 28 IN THE MILLRAGE The hurrying millrace drew me to its side, From whose wheel -rippled wave the mirror' d light Flew dancing up like golden butterflies To play about the drooping chestnut leaves That dipped their languid lingers in the stream, Or idly waved them 'mid those glancing wings. And there a little maid leaned, sunny-haired, Her lap was piled with fresh-plucked meadowsweet, And as I stood, she took one feathery bloom And flung it at a bubble sweeping by ; We watched them, bloom and bubble, float away, Cream-white and iris'd, till a reedy bend Hid them from sight; then she looked up, and laughed — A moment's freshet of life's melody. So passed I, pondering on our fleeting joys, How life's delight, in evanescence lies: The stream must flow on to be clear and clean, The fragile bubbles are but born to break In the Millrace 29 Ere dust or scum defile their purity, Yet not before we mark their fairy hues; The meadowsweet must swiftly droop and die, Yet gives us time to take its fragrant breath. Change is the changeless law of human fate ; Delight speeds towards us on her way to part ; And what were Spring to us if Spring could stay ? There is a pulse, deep at the heart of things, That may not pause, lest, like our own warm blood, The very stream of life should clot for aye. Then shrink not at the cold waft from Time's wing, Though sharp and ruthless as a winter blast, That bends and bruises on its winnowing way ; Nay, even bless the leaping panther Death That keeps this wild-deer Life so swift and keen. 3° THE YOUNG HEART'S GIFT How often, bright-eyed youth being past, I grieved young vivid joy must die, That, having learnt to live at last, Hearts should have lost their ecstasy. " Else, how a man might live his day ! " I said; but, youth-bereaven, Sadly I put the dream away Beside my hope of Heaven. But Love, and your young heart, knew how To raise to life what Time had slain, And, brow beside your golden brow, The virgin vision gleams again. God grant I know, when comes the Night Of leaving you, that T have striven Daily to garner life's delight To give it you, O love God-given. IN APRIL " Ubi aves, ibi angeli." St Thomas Aquinas Where bough with bough close interweaves, And sunbeams filter through their fold To lie amid the lower leaves Like gleaming buds and blooms of gold, Deep in the green heart of the wood, White-raimented I saw her stand. An April bud of maidenhood, When April's self made sweet the land; A beam of gold fell on her breast, As, parting with a tender care, The light boughs o'er a blackbird's nest, She leaned, intent, above it there; And, where one shaft of sunlight came, A gold lock, frayed out by a thorn, Hung like a little ghostly flame, Or hovering spirit of life unborn. 32 In April She looked with musing tender eyes Into the brave eyes of the bird, A woman for a moment, wise With sympathy, and neither stirred — A maid's heart touching motherhood — And, from her feet to that bright tress, Her beauty seemed to lean and brood Linked with the whole world's loveliness. And fresh-come from my world of strife, I felt, with new-born sense of rest, The mystic unity of life Made beautifully manifest. 33 HEARTSIGHT Is not that woman's arm most beautiful ? There — in the corner with red-shaded lamps : Elbow on table, hand drooped 'neath her chin, What swan-like curves melt line in lovely line : Below, the arm's full moulding for the breast, Fining and tapering delicately up Till rounded wrist and hand and ringers fall For neck and down-bent head ; and in that light My swan seems rosied by a setting sun. What ? Wrong, you say, to weave such fancies round The fleshly form, and feel each joy of it ? Would you that all its beauty only meant But so much bone, quick muscle and quivering nerve, Soft-padded over, sheathed in satin skin ? Yes ? — then you wrong it, and all loveliness, Aye, and all marred unlovely forms besides ! Where does the spirit, you so worship, dwell When it would fend the weak and fight the wrong ? Where, when a thousand gracious offices Await and cry on it ? Where but within These arms and hands you blame me that I prize ? 34 Heartsight Oh, I would think this body and its soul As interfused as seed with quickening soil, Their union, vital and mysterious, Bearing brave, tender acts; good grain and flowers. But you, who would abase the body so, Seem as the man who fain would separate The beams of sunshine from the burning sun, Or part the ocean from its own wild waves ! What is your joy in any clasp of hand, Your bliss to feel soft arms about your neck ? Does not your thinking make of love itself An inchoate unsatisfied desire, Unknowing the very spirit in its clasp, Still seeking that which lies upon its breast ? Far happier he who never knows this ache That cries out, even in the loved-one's arms, " Where is the inmost You my soul desires ? In breast, in brow, or deep down in those eyes, Where does it hide ? " — but who, at love's least touch, Tingles to feel the spirit's effluence; That lustral tide, for him, floods through all form, While for his happier eyes all beauty glows, No thing of surface sensual joy alone, But true revealing of the inmost self, The blissful bounds where fervent spirits meet To rind therein life's utmost ecstasy. Heartsight 35 His love must lose all taint of gross or mean, And soar beyond the loves of lesser men As theirs above the passions of the brute : He knoweth nought of body-love alone, He cannot worship at an unblest shrine ; But, seeking through the world for his true mate, Demands of life, within the beauteous breast The Spirit Beautiful. Think what that means ! — How ages of such hearts would uplift love, And purge our life of all unworthy souls That dwell within and sully forms divine. His is the only body-love I praise : Such as would dare in yonder swan-like arm To dream a gracious spirit shining through. Look at the lovely curvings once again, And dream with me — is it not beautiful ? 36 SOIL AND SEED He who gives to flesh his soul, Who of his life makes sense the whole, By these destroyed at last shall be ; And whoso lauds the spirit till He scorns the flesh that works its will, But darker makes life's mystery; But he who soul and sense doth wield As soil and seed, his days shall yield A flower of life and life-to-be. 37 BARGAINING He would not take my work unless I gave myself beside ; I loved him not, but ill and starved My mother slowly died. He decked and fed me as he did His senses to the least ; I could have screamed to see the gold Go for our needless feast. Oh, yes, my own blood played its part, Turning his wine and meat To blurrings of my better self, Vain dreams and body heat. Yet he but kissed to leave me cold Who bought me and the food, What cared he for my inmost self Or for my mother's good ? 38 Bargaining But once his mood was only kind, He named her pityingly, He gave me gold and asked for nought- But had my heart of me. For here were many things for her And no ill-price to pay, I knew it but his passing whim, But love woke from that day. And so my lips, for her poor sake, I take still to his mart, But cast, now, in his heedless scale An overweight of heart. But since what I have done, I swear With no man else shall be, And die she must, I pray she dies Before he's done with me. 39 A TESTAMENT As I go up and down this land of ours, Despite the dry hearts hustling after gold, The poor still doomed to marred and sunless lives, The swine-men with their careful gourmandry, And women with their scorn of motherhood, In face of all the crumbling of our creed And failing of the olden forms of faith, While nation tramples nation, red with blood, — Though these things be, and many an equal ill, Always I find one bravely-growing flower, One live bright stream with ever-broadening flow: It is the flower of Right-for-right's-great-sake, The stream it is of Man's-vast-love-for-man, Thousands this day still wait with constant ears The faintest whisper from the God within, And, through their own sad transitory lives, Seek still their duty to their brother-men. Little they care for crumbling of a creed, Nothing they reck of rotting forms of faith, For well they know the hearts within their breasts Inherit from no primal purity, But, through the mire of bestial centuries, 40 A Testament Have struggled upward to their human height — That moment's halting-place whereat their feet May rest them on their climb to heights beyond. Science and they go humbly hand in hand, Her toils and guesses spell them hints of Heaven; They see in man's low birth his highest hope, (For shame it were if Eden's tale were truth And men should still be but the men we know !) Their hearts are on a fairer future fixed, Their brave hands labour for the lives-to-be; They feel there floats a wondrous golden thread That draws men from old darkness to the sun, And held, they dare to dream, by God on high. 41 THE HEARTH Last night my longing steps were bent Back to a haunted ground, 'Neath crumbling walls where once I went By mother-love ringed round. The heedless years had dragged to shame Sunk roof and rotting lath, Only, of all things, stood the same The hearth-stone and the hearth. We've still these — you, old home, and I — That Time may not remove : Your heart where still the embers lie, Mine with its ancient love. 4 2 AT SUNSET IN AN EASTWARD BAY As softly flushing as a maiden's face That droops before her lover's ardent eyes, So, fain to follow her bright lord the Day, Doth tender Twilight in the orient rise. Come, watch with me, while o'er the little bay Her gentle spirits of eve imparadise The shore, the peaceful summer sea and sky : Above the soft horizon, look, they pile Mountains of roses, hued like those that die In latest autumn, pink but sweetly pale; And watch — between these in a little while Will lie clear lakelets of pure chrysoprase, And over all there broods a tender sky Of such faint azure as on sunny days Shows through the quivering, floating wings of frail Blue butterflies. Now all the watery plain Lies like a lucent sheet of mother-o'-pearl, With here a drift of rose-leaves, and again Flecks of the blue wings; now some faintest breeze Has lightly traced it with a flowing whorl Of milky white. Around the half-hid rocks That drip and gleam as heaves and falls the tide, At Sunset in an Eastward Bay 43 The shining, dipping seaweeds show like flocks Of idle birds that bathe and float at ease ; And each curled wavelet that runs creaming in Catches the last light full upon its face, And see, before it, how the grey gulls ride, Hovering a moment, with an airy grace, To let the little crest roll by. Once more Look seaward : how that shining wing afar So slowly homing o'er the pearly floor With every downbeat takes the level ray And glitters southward like a flying star. While 'neath the small sail creeping to the bay, Upon the wet bows as they gently rise Another star of mirror' d sunlight gleams. Now from the black ribs of the little pier, Reflected purple in the harbour-pool, The great barge slowly warping seaward seems To bear for sail, a flame of tawny gold, That, as the cliff-flowers wave before us here, Sways idly, for the land-breeze draws out cool And sweet from summer fields far in the west. But now the last, low rays are striking bright Along the cliffs, and from this curving crest A sickle of shadow steals out silentty And reaps the sea-fields of their golden light. Broadstairs. 44 MISTAKEN TRYST I brooded by the frosty fire, And heard the snow-wind moan, So sad the night I could not stay While she lay there alone. But when I reached the little mound Whose loneness called to me, It seemed a small voice in my heart Reproached me whisperingly : " Why bring me through the night ? I love Beside your fire to sit ; Why crouch here ? Let my body be, I was so tired of it." 45 THE HIDDEN FLAME Though luring doubts may lurk with mocking call, In some strong faithful moment still man sees His days like patient Caryatides Bowed 'neath his future's glorious lighted hall. Or, as below the storm-cloud's leaden pall, Far distant, where a sunbeam lingers still, Some fair white palace shines upon a hill, So on his goal Faith's far-flung gleams will fall. Such rays strike even through the chill and shade Of sad un-f aith ; nor may sin banish them : For, sinning, man must still his deed contemn, Still feel the fire within, no man hath made, The spark of Godhead that can never fade, And on his brows the immortal diadem. 4 6 OF THREE GOOD THINGS Of lovesome things I wot are three That life must bring to me Before my heart content may sing In tune with Spring : Above a brown hedge-sparrow's nest, Warm from her brooding breast, I must part leaves, and bend, and view Eggs azure blue. And then I must so lift and hold A child with curls of gold, That apple-blossom hangs close by, Against blue sky. And, last, some moonlit eve, my ear The nightingale must hear Sing to the tender bluebell folk, Beneath her oak. If these three things but garnered be For Winter memory, I feel my heart has got full store Of good once more. 47 MAY MATINS There is an hour before the morn, Now in these magic nights of May, When all the myriad wings new-born Abide the breaking of the day ; Safe folded 'neath each mother-breast, Deep in the perfumed dusk they brood, Each feathered father near his nest Waiting the light, to find them food. The cuckoo's clock all through the dark Has chimed, or dreamt, its fickle notes, And still for man 'tis night, when — hark ! — Out of the silvery gloom there floats A springing lark's first happy trill, Heaven may be clear or drenched with rain, He cares not, his dauntless will To praise life and his love again. Till speckle-breast and golden-bill, Blackcap and whitethroat, robin, wren, Linnets and finches, with a will Start up and fling him answer ; then, 4 8 May Matins Faint through the growing chorus, call The cocks — low-fallen their heralds' pride- As, in one swelling chanty, all The songbirds rouse the countryside : Pipes, piccolos, with trill and shake, Soft flageolet and mellow flute, Till last the rasping sparrows wake ; Only the nightingale is mute. Still wider floods the merry din, It seems great Pan himself must be Charming all life to song, within A world grown one vast aviary. 49 STARLING Waking } before I turned my head Windowwards — " Blue sky," I said, " The rain gone by " : For on the old barn's mossy slates A bird was whistling to his mates Right merrily. But, when I drew my curtain back, The world was drenching, and a black North-easter blew; The sky's face had no hint of joy — But what of that, brave starling boy ? 'Twas nought to you ! Full cheerfully you clapped your wings, As if to applaud the scheme of things Whate'er might chance; And made your beak a castanet, As though you bade the world forget Its woes, and dance. So Starling Oh, you're the one for rainy days, To sing us down the wintry ways When we are sad; So good luck to your feather-pate, Your chimney corner, and your mate, Starling, my lad ! 5* THE SWALLOWS Morning by morning from my bed I've seen and loved your flash of wing, Or watched your younglings overhead By hundreds on the long wires swing ; Seen 'neath my eaves small clinging feet, Bright heads turned charmingly aside, And heard nest-twitterings clear and sweet ; Or, suddenly, you've circled wide, As from the village lane below A lad flung up his cap at you, And off with small bright cries you'd go, Round elms and spire to wheel anew. But, wakening with this morning's sun, Slowly I missed a something, till, Heartsick, I knew the songs were done ; The little street was strangely still : Summer and you were gone, and I — A moment's mist before my pane — Wished you God-speed, and gratefully Prayed I might greet your wings again. 5 2 THE PIGEON OF ST. MARK'S On the Piazza stones, from east and west, A thousand threatening footfalls crossed and heat With heavy tramplings round the little feet ; Yet nought cared he, his one sole aim confest — To win her blue wings to his cornice-nest : Wooing, compelling through the long day's heat, Bowing before his love, or following fleet, With deep, un veering, undivided zest. So would I do might youth return again And know, in time, all that is learnt by men Too late, of l ; fe and love : no foolish fears Of trampling Destiny, no wandering flame Of small desires, should waste life's flying years, But love should follow one unfaltering aim. 53 REDPOLL (Re-printed by special permission of the Proprietors of " Punch") You least of linnets with your crimson crest And rosy flush across a little breast That holds — let one admirer now aver — The cheerful heart of a philosopher, Never a day beneath our changing sky But sees your small form lightly flitting by. Nor English common gay with gorse and broom But hears you calling from some golden bloom ; And never, alas ! a bird-shop in the land But sets you, for a penny, in one's hand, Although of window-starers, more's our shame, Not~one in fifty knows your jolly name. And yet, fresh-torn from liberty and mate, We find you cheerily settling to your fate ; Opening a seed-box in your prison cell, And drawing water from a mimic well. But I, for one, still pay the ransom " brown " To loose you, eager, to your breezy down, And hail you, there, or pent 'mid city stones, The bonniest little birdlet England owns. 54 IN YOUTH'S GARDEN The scented air comes pollen-laden, and boon From blossomed fields ; and, lighting on the sense, Impregnates virgin fancy's unfixt flowers That wait, wind-shaken and weak, but, at its touch, Quicken to fast-set fruit of sure desire. What longing stirs and wakens in my breast, And aches to find some fair embodying ? — As the inchoate world of chaos must have yearned, With prescience of the unborn streams and flowers That waited in her womb the touch of God. Swift impulses, a shimmering nebula, Seem at the point to fuse their radiant hearts Rushing to form one perfect Star of Love, For lode-star to my soul's wild firmament. Soft-bosomed Twilight brooding over me ! Surely by some sweet natural law of love — Some passioned transmutation — from thy breast A loving Presence trembles into birth. I can divine thee, woman that I wait ! — That is thy voice that murmurs 'mid the pines, That waving woodbine is thy soft-blown hair, Thine eyes gleam from this lustrous violet gloom, In Youth's Garden 55 I hear thy heart-throb in the distant waves ; Come ! and take all my heart hath stored for thee, In sun and shade, throughout my waiting years, Stored, and transformed to tenderness, for thee ! — I loved the pale pure child-year 'mid her snows ; My flower-decked, swiftly-flushing sweetheart Spring ; I shared June's passion with no after-pain; And Autumn mothered me a world of joys. Oh, all the earth has been my well-loved bride, And every heart she bore, my very child ! And all for thee, for thee, O spirit-wife ! Come then, twin-soul come now, and claim thine own! 56 THE WELL-SPRING The field-hand dreams of freedom on the sea, The ship-lad envies still his London mate, The beggar rages at the rich man's gate, While Dives finds scant ease in luxury. Youth blindly spurns his short immunity, And Age regards his years with fretful hate : So, carked by many a care of place and state And worn by life's external things go we. But hold thy heart in homage, unafraid, To some ideal of soul — the loftiest Thy dreamings dare to reach, and thou shalt rest Serene, the world of outward things above: For rooted in the heart of life is stayed The deathless joy that dwells with such a love. 57 FLORESCENCE Oh, that true love had given me eyes to see Truly thy maiden bud prefiguring The unfolded rose; but, for my sorrowing, Another proved the seer I might not be. His child it is that lies upon thy knee, And, as thou bendest o'er her curls to sing, Rich with ripe womanhood the full notes ring : Thy waiting life has flowered, but not for me. On girlhood's palimpsest the later writ Lies golden from a baby-touch; new birth Is thine, dear woman, at the tiny grip Of baby hands; but, blind to all of it, I gauged thy soul-deeps by my own soul's dearth, O hydromel Love once held to my lip ! 58 A DOG'S EPITAPH ( To "Garry") Whether, old friend, you slumber where Your true heart lies, To wake not, or from life to life Tis yours to rise; You still have left Earth's sum of things That do not die, Richer by one unfaltering Life-loyalty. 59 TO THE HILLS What do we ask of you, and, asking, find ? That which the glittering cities may not give, What in the fields of flowers can never live, Nor all the hurrying seasons leave behind : Unchanging shelter from the blast unkind, Unfailing founts whence flow the unfailing streams, A silent birthplace for ennobling dreams, Refuge and solace for the unquiet mind. A type are ye of that high human life, Round which its restless fellows fret and whine, Whence though they wander in their petty strife, They turn again to, find the same, and bless, Whose latency of goodness they divine Godlike in all its great unchangingness. 6o MESALLIANCE His social sin was very grave, For, slighting Custom's dull decree, And taking blessings nature gave, He dared forget " the Family; " To look beyond their gilded groove, Where Life held out a wild-rose bud, Bidding him with its sap improve That blue, but thin, ancestral blood; Nor on the wealthy wealth confer, Despite their matrimonial mart, But of his store to give to her Whose riches were but of the heart. He said (they always thought him " odd ") That gentle heart seemed like to hers Judged worthy once to mother God, Whose cottage was a carpenter's. 6i TREE-FLOWERS Far off, the passing storm-clouds loom, And, bright against them, gleam the elms Like great strange flowers of giants' realms, Each bough one rosy-purple bloom, With rich-hued veils about them hung; While soon, in hazel holts below, Florets of crimson-lake will show, Where late the grey-green catkins swung. The ash waves gold-brown in the wind; With ruby tints the poplar towers : Each stately tree stands flushed with flowers Like tender thoughts from some great mind. And, lovelier still, the oaks, ere long, Shall hang gold tassels, whence the note Of new-come nightingales will float In that first softly-faltering song. 62 LOVE AND TIME Last night a tender brooding moon, Still bright, but waning fast, Watched the young lilac-buds that soon Would wake — when she had passed. O flower of one still-sleeping heart, On you love's light is shed, But your young petals cannot part Before my youth be dead. 63 ONE OF LIFE'S MATINGS Were two men, fainting in a desert land, Given, by some cruel power, a cup accurst, Which one might clasp close to his lips athirst, Only to spill the bright wine on the sand ; While he, his comrade, never in his hand Might hold unbroken that crystal snare, and durst But drink some falling drops; which fate were worst ? Would not one equal woe their spirits band ? And, friend, even such as these are thou and I : Some treacherous fate betrays us both, and, hence, Mine our love's spirit, thine her body fair. Oh, 'twixt us, pity, but no hate, should lie : Thou know'st the ache of soul, and I of sense — And God knows which the bitterer be to bear ! 6 + A BIRTH Joy may come winging with so fierce a flight ! — A gale that takes the very breath it brings ; Or rain on thirsting flowers a storm-cloud flings, Half -killing while it drenches with delight. And even so love came to me one night : Love that, long ages since, 'midst happenings I cannot guess, beneath Fate's fostering wings, Our mating souls conceived and hid from sight. And age by age has Life wrought without rest To bring my joy to birth. But, ah ! with cries And birth-pangs, such as mothers' tongues might tell, He came : not till the morrow, to my breast Close pressing, did he beam from his sweet eyes Love's peace, God's peace, the unimaginable. 65 FOR FEAR Nay, come not through the churchyard, Sweet, Lest dust of sleeping men Be troubled by your love-led feet, To long for life again ; Lest woman-hearts, that peace have found, Should waken as you pass, And vainly thrill beneath the sound Of silk upon the grass. 66 THE DOOR OF FATE If, in this City of Life, thy feet Would pass some close-barred threshold o'er, Consider well thy course, then beat No faltering summons on the door. Thine Angel-guide may ope to thee, And, smiling, draw thee by the hand; Or he may let thee knock, to see The steadfastness of thy demand. But, battling for thy weal, perchance He strives to keep it bolted still, In pity of thine ignorance. That none else usher thee to ill. Then see thou clamourest not too long, If long-unanswered, knock no more, Lest thou pass through the porch of Wrong, Trapped by some demon janitor. 67 THE LIVING LIE I came to where they laid me last, And, graven at my head, I read with wrath the lying praise — Grim burden of the dead. I soiled my life, and knew it soiled, And loathed my sinning soul ; But what if one who saw my ill Should read and trust the scroll ? Should read, remembering all I wrought, And pass to win like praise, Lulling his soul ? Make haste, good moss, True rains, oh, hide ! erase ! 68 ONE OF LOVE'S WAYS Blame me not that I have ranged, That my growing heart has changed, Tis but Love hath changed in me : He hath swayed my spirit's dreaming, Led my heart to truth from seeming, Wrought my final ecstasy. He decreed my early way, Held me helpless in the sway Of alternate bliss and woe ; Burnt youth's virginal defences In the fierce fire of his senses; He it was would have it so. But, while yet the flames rose strong, Ere they wrought the spirit wrong, 'Neath a maiden's pure caress He revealed a new world waiting, And, its fiery beat abating, Taught my wild heart tenderness. One of Love's Ways 69 So were sense and heart made friends, Yet, to gain his utmost ends, Love ordained that more must be ; Gravely then he led one to me And a raptured awe struck through me, As he taught that, wondrously, She had power to hold in thrall Sense and heart and soul and all : That, where'er her light feet trod, Senses thrilled, to bring but blessing, Heart-flowers bloomed beyond all guessin; And the soul's voice sang of God. 7o EVERYMAN There lives a man who claims us all close kin, Who heavenward never climbed but back he fell, Who knows the long, white, upward way full well, Yet never to its visioned goal may win. He sees clear paths, and, longing, looks therein, Yet turns aside, wherefore he cannot tell, And, 'neath the murk of seeming self-made hell, Tramples his painful path through thorns of sin. For such the Gate of Good seems opened wide, Yet 'thwart it runs a bar we may not see, And long-dead hands drag back resistlessly. No blame of him can in our hearts abide So bitter as his own dark broodings hide — And in both Warnings equal wrong may be. 7 1 JOY " Joy's but a bubble," Frozeheart said, " Too fleeting to be worth the blowing When Farmer Death stalks here a-mowing Ere half men's fields are harvested." A bubble ? Good, so let it be : A thing that gets the self-same shaping That this our earth got at its making, In the Great Maker's ecstasy. And whence your bubble's form and wing ? — It holds the breath of life within it ; And, see, it bears, one brilliant minute, The rainbow of His covenanting. Then free that fragile sphere, so we Ma} 7 bless you, friend; and, joy bestowing, You sure shall find your bubble showing As God's earth in epitome. 72 EDGAR ALLAN POE (Born January igth, 1809) The night was wild and shaken with winter storm, And fierce witch-winds rode screaming down the sky, And ominous blown night-birds cried without The shaken lattice of thine earliest home, That hour thy mother bore thee. And these things Reached, through her fearful thoughts, thy waking mind. And, as thy soul was given thee, there rushed in With it, wild turbulent spirits of the storm, And homeless wistful things that haunt the night ; So, at the ashen dawn, thine own first cries Came mingled with the voices of all these, And they were still thy soul-mates to the end, Singing or raging through thy storms and songs. So I but dream ; yet better so than stain Thy memory as envious lips have done, As narrow brains and bitter hearts still do, Begrudging that thy clouded fame should rise Free'd from the follies that beset and doomed Thy hapless days, and brought thy soul's true song, Edgar Allan Poe 73 Marred and unended, to its earthly close. Hail ! brother-spirit of all lonely men Who brood at midnight o'er their dying fires, And nurse the memories of old loves and days, Daring to whisper their wild hopes, and wait Time's answer. Hear thy fellow-children call, And, from thy kingdom by an eternal sea, Listen and know our love, our thankfulness For that sweet lingering music of thy lyre. Whether thou singest yet, with loftier strain Out-singing Israfel, or thy pale lips Have quaffed a kind nepenthe — know our love ! 74 GHOSTS Poor ghosts that meet me day and night, That slip by softly on the stair, And haunt my borderlands of sight, Oh ! never think me unaware : I know them well for yours, these walls That for a while encompass me ; And, where the passion-flower falls, Yours, too, the moonlit balcony : They sheltered first your loves and hates, They saw you play your passioned part ; But know, dear shades, our sundered fates Have common ground within my heart; My heart that beats and harbours still The self-same dreams in which you move Then whisper me, if so you will, Your secret things, and trust my love. 75 THE BELL OF LOVE Hear, love, the turret-bell that rings on high: How, first, the sound-waves, at each separate blow The swinging hammer strikes upon the bow, Rise on the ocean of air only to die Each ere the next succeeds ; but presently, So full the tide of merging tones doth grow, Their vibrant voices in unbroken flow Surge on, sustained in rich sonority. So is it with the golden peal of love That once thou set'st a-chiming in mine ears : For, as each passing da}? the more endears My melodist, the separate notes thereof, Sprung from thy daily acts, are interwove To one great descant echoing down the years. 76 GIFTS UNGUESSED You will not have me sing your eyes, You stay me would I sound your worth, Saying your heart's so little wise, And lovelier faces throng our earth. Dear heart, that may or may not be, Dear face, Life's blooms are fair of hue, I only know Love guided me To find with joy the flower of You. And I would have you prize your power, Lest modest fear should wrongly bid You disesteem your maiden dower, Leave seed unsown and talent hid. For I have watched you long and well, Till Love the deeper vision brought, Therefore I face your frown and tell The things you cannot guess untaught : Though woman-charm rich in you lies, The wise Fates through your life-thread ran A sterner strand that satisfies The woman-side of full-souled man. Gifts Unguessed 77 And shall have power in days of stress To win and stay a sister-soul That needing love, demands no less The comfort of a strong control. Your dauntless glance, your tameless gait, They hint wild, lonely heights of life, Your voice might clarion noblest hate, Or cheer hearts to the heroic strife. By you the dusty mind seems led Past dull convention's soulless way, To Springtime meads as dawn breaks red, Through breezes balmed with thyme and may. You bring a sense of passion quelled, Of starting from a hint of stain, Of all bonds save the noblest held In purest maidenhood's disdain. Therefore you hold the sweet allure Of dim blue hills, for gentle souls ; The spurring call that bids endure The strivers to far perilous goals. Therefore it is you needs must trace A fateful path ; and, close behind, Leaves of our life must rise and chase The passing chariot of your mind. 78 Gifts Unguessed Then trust the power your young hands hold 'Mid our confused unworthy strife: Take as a seal that heart of gold And gravely print your sign on life. THE OLD POET " I feel," he said, " that still my verses show The fire you found there once, the unforced flow, That all their early spirit lives to-day — What, do your troubled eyes, friend, answer ' Nay ' ? " Well, truth it may be that the Vision dies And leaves a ghost that cheats our ageing eyes ; So to your clear young sight I trust me, then, To your true heart : I will not sing again. " But sometimes bring your Springtide songs to me, Bring me Youth's brave impassioned minstrelsy ; Who knows but, from my old heart's silent hoard, Some note may serve to fill a faltering chord ? " Ransack my mind's dim lumber-rooms, and choose Of faded phantasies I may not use, Of dusty dreams, and all my mouldering store — Take what you will, and make them live once more." 79 SPIRIT-KIN Grieve not because of kindred birth Thy spirit-mates are none, Fate grants but few such links on earth, Of blood and soul in one. Most often those ordained to share Our inmost joys and ills, From far and very far must fare Across Life's misty hills. We meet, and instant faith, full-grown, Proclaims the bond to be; Not of the flesh, such kindred own A nobler ancestry. 8o LOVE'S CRUCIBLE A master-mind — a world of small men blames — Once, in a passionate need of human love, Drew lightly to itself, as 'twere a glove Drawn on the hand, a tender heart whose aims Proved Love's alone. But that sweet force, which tames The simpler happier man, thereafter strove With his fierce solitude of soul, as dove Might strive with eagle, or a flower with flames. Oh, in Love's crucible are elements In nought akin save that the passion-heat Welds them awhile to unreal oneness; hence, These, cooled anew, can but disintegrate. Alas for him, and her poor heart's defeat ! But, pitying her, brand him not with thy hate. YOUTH AND GRIEF O Youth, what are they — half thy griefs and fears ? Does not self-pity almost love the pain ? So bright thyself, thou canst afford to feign The shadow that but more thy sun endears : Thy hope dies not, despite thy hopeless tears, For still thou see'st (though saying it lieth slain, And knowing not grief but comes to go again) That beckoning vista bright with chance-filled years. But oh, far other sorrow clouds the day Of waning life, when hope can no more lead To any future that may hold a meed For present pain ; and what of his sad way Who, life once done, dares dream no heavenly ray ? His near horizon loometh dark indeed. 82 LAUNCHING As a bold seaman down the sloping shore Launches with vigorous thrust his leaping keel, So should a lad launch forth on life, and feel For radiant Truths, the things we trust no more. Illusions ? Aye, yet these may be as oar And sail and favouring tide; let young faith steel His soul to brave endeavour, and conceal The coming storm-cloud and the breakers' roar. Illusions ? Yea, but let the task be ours 'Twixt these and life to break the needless bars : Launch forth, O Youth, upon thy longed-for blue, Let day be rich with visionary powers, And midnight bright for thee with beckoning stars, Or brave undying dreams that must come true ! 83 WITCH-LOVE Love her not, lovely though she be Watch warily : there lies A glint of ghoulish ancestry Deep in her green bright eyes. Half-closed, malign, and cold, they turn From blessed morning light, But like fierce chrysoberyls burn When lamps are lit at night. Her song's a lure, her laughter mocks, And those white arms can wave Like water-wraiths' above the rocks, That charm men to their grave. Her light feet lead brave dreams to nought, Her clinging hands destroy, She cannot think, or toys with thought But as a fay might toy. 84 Witch-love As a young witch in woodlands grey For sport might pose and move A dead maid's limbs, so doth she play With what she calleth love. Thy murdered heart in memory's lair She will devour again, Like as a wolfish hound might tear His master lying slain. That rose and cream-white beauty owns No white soul dwelling there, Those red lips' sensuous semitones Know nought of truth — beware ! THE RING OF THE ROUNDEL The Roundel's way is just a rippling flow Between two rhymes, a light-heart interplay: Rhythmic as summer wavelets, to and fro The Roundels sway. Or lilting on like nesting linnets gay, They sing repeating their pet notes, yet so That, seeming but mere echoings, one may, In the swift-changing course the phrases go, Catch the new thought the old syllables obey; And, like this rhymer, countless poets know The Roundel's sway. 86 THE HUMORIST Look at that man with chin propped on his hand, Gazing with fixed wide eyes that seem to see Into a hopeless Hades, or some land Darkened and doomed by human misery. He writes those brilliant lines you never miss Week after week, half gleaming wit, and half A hidden haunting wistfulness; and his This latest play that's made all London laugh. You wonder he can show so stern a face ? — But always 'tis the watcher in the gloom And wind, who feels most, from his outer place, The warmth and laughter of the fire-lit room. Come, speak with him, and you will meet to-night A soul whose priceless birthright is to know Gladness and grief as friends, and life's delight The guerdon gained by fellowship with woe. 87 TO THOMAS HARDY With thy strong lonely soul was born The Fighter, who hath lived at strife With aught but Truth, and held in scorn Dull Custom's laws that stifle life. And, maybe, some whose souls are weak Must shrink, or call thy creed a lie ; But what more may a true man speak Than Truth as Truth seems to his eye ? And millions yet shall read and mourn The tender tragedy of Tcss, Shall weep for loyal Winterbomne And love his Marty's faithfulness; Shall watch, with pity-stricken heart, In dying Jndes forsaken room; Or roam, led by thy happier art, Down fragrant vales of Var and Froome. To Thomas Hardy Master, it may be thou hast deemed Man's little life a tragic fate, Yet, through thee, many an eye has beamed More tenderly compassionate. Forget, then, how " crass casualty " Hath seemed to mock our fleeting days ; Think, only, thousands wish for thee Increasing store of love and praise. MISMATED " Ere I was wed," a sad one said, " I lived alone, but lonely never; You ask me how I pass life now— Never alone, but lonely ever." «9 REWARD For young hearts' sake a poet bared His own heart's quivering life to view, Nor, of his love, to serve them, spared The secret things by which it grew. " Ah ! See and trust the truths I tell : Here wrought the griefs that made it moan, Here, ray on ray, the great joys fell, Here, chill drops almost turned it stone. " Look, close, then, not to pity mine Nor envy, but therein to view Your own hearts, now the chance divine, Youth's boundless chance, is still with you." The young, by laughing pleasure led, Gave but a glance and hurried thence ; The elders frowned: he showed, they said, " A painful lack of reticence." 9 o INTO YOUR HANDS " Never tell him all your love, Let him fear to lose you yet " — So, the crafty hearts would prove, I might hold you in my net. Out on all the coward band ! Let them play their poor trick still, Here's my life, love, in your hand, Crown or crush it as you will. Be sure of me, as you are sure Earth must serve her sovereign sun, Know, while breath and brain endure, I am all yours, dearest one. 9* AT LOVE'S COMING Like some weed-tangled forest pool, Unsunned, forgotten, grey, So fared my shadowed fate before Yon came your shining way. Now, as a Dryad's mirrored face Alight flush those waters dim, Your coming floods my waiting life With beauty to the brim ; And I would shine the wonder back Till all sad eyes should know Your sunlight, and all dry lips drink Of my'joy's overflow. Q2 THE GHOST OF GRIEF Feeble phantom of the past, Drooping wistful at my door, Come thou in and shut it fast, Rest, and roam the night no more. Joy and I are newly wed, Stay and share our happy lot, Poor pale soul of sorrow dead, Thou hast been too much forgot. Comrade of my wanderings lone, Down a drear and homeless way, But for thee I'd never known Half my blessedness to-day. Come, then, let me make amends That I fled thine ashen face, Take us, Joy and I, for friends And our hearth for sheltering place. 93 BEGGAR'S GOLD Thank me not, friend, I cannot have it so, For know'st thou not, though all may seem denied To thee, yet, save for such as thee, had died My selfish soul ? Nay, then, how should'st thou know That in thy poverty thou can'st bestow Alms that may save men from soul-suicide — Scattering the power to pity, far and wide ? Ah, that thy gift should cost such price of woe. But 'tis the saviour-price : thou lingeringly Die'st on the streets as Christ died on the Tree ; And from the gutter I take Thy golden gift ; t'^ God grant, poor friend, thou sufferest not in vain, But that compassion may have power to lift My soul from self, through thee, to Him again. 94 A PLAIN WOMAN My face had never power to draw His beauty-seeking eyes, Yet, in our meeting hour, I saw His spirit's glad surprise; And knew it ceased awhile to roam, Feeling our chance divine, As my heart knew his heart lor home, His thought the mate of mine. Oh, could he see my soul of love, Or might it mould my face, I think no power 'neath heaven above Could lure him from his place. 95 TO A SINGER O song-bird with the golden crest, Sing ! Let the mellow notes well out That heart of gold within your breast And put our wailing cares to rout. Sing to our hearts till, beating home, Come back our lost imaginings, As to the fowler's call-bird come, Lured from the wild, her kindred wings : Call back the hopes that once we heard, The faltering faiths we counted dead, Call, till the rose-hued radiant bird — Love — hovers once again o'erhead. Sing Goldheart, 'mid your hey-day flowers, Till our world-blinded eyes shall see Your happy heavens, that once were ours, By magic of your melody. 9 6 A VENETIAN NIGHT Come, let us leave the great Piazza's glare, Out on the Riva, see, the night is fair With stars and tenderest moonbeams, and the wave Flows silvering from the far lagoon to lave The old grey steps beside the little shrine ; And look, — out in the dark canal there shine Clusters of rose and orange lights that swing With some soft-rocking keel ; and hark, they sing There, throbbing notes that, like these ripples bright, Seem pulsing from the happy heart of night. Let us glide to them up that shining way. " Gundoola, Signorina, gdndoola? " — Hear the soft syllables. Aye, let us go, And leave the old world, love, — for you must know These are the waterways of Fairyland, And this our fairy bark, — give me your hand, And lean back on your cushions ; listen now — The lapping of the wavelets 'neath our bow, The creak and soft slow plashing of the oar ; And turn a moment, — on the enchanted shore Fair dreamland palaces shine snowy white, A Venetian Night 97 Agleam with lamps, whose gold and silvery light A thousand quivering ripples catch below. But now look onward, — we are creeping slow Into a ring of gondolas, and see How like a sentient thing, how warily, Our prow goes feeling, edging in its way; And there, amid them all, the lantern-ray Falls on the minstrels' faces and dark hair. Look round us ere they sing again ; see where The wet oar wavering fin-like at our side To hold us steady 'gainst the breeze and tide, Out of the purple shadow seems to turn Bright pleats of liquid moonlight ; on each stern The tall lithe figure of a gondolier Shows dark against the Riva lights, or clear Upon the seaward sky ; one strikes a match Down his oar-handle, how the soft rays catch The rich warm tints of sunburnt cheek and brow, The broad sombrero, and his ear-rings ; how It brings the memory of fierce mid-day skies Into this tender moonlit paradise. Around us other lovers lean and lie, Rocked on the ripples, whispering happily; On each boat-side the brass sea-horses gleam Beneath our lamps, and how the high prows seem Raising their hatchet-faces like a throng 98 A Venetian Night Of strange wise sea-beasts waiting for the song; Sudden they plunge and leap, for close behind Our ring a great ship moves, her bulwarks lined With shadowy, watching forms ; she goes to find The wide sea and her work. But hush, they sing — " Santa Lucia ! " — the rich voices ring, Again with that same pulse, it seems to be, That makes the moonlit tide run ripplingly, And sets the stars a-quiver in the sky. Now let us go, but we will linger nigh And learn the whole sweet magic of the hour : Drooping above us Night's great purple flower Seems trembling with a thousand dew-drops bright, Unseen beneath the rosy lantern-light ; And one must leave that merry lilt to hear This deeper song of breeze and tide come clear; Must leave the little, laughing ring to be Nearer the great arc of humanity. The silent palaces and temples stand Dreaming the ancient glories of their land, With snowy marble stairways leading wide Down to their image in the whispering tide. But let us steal out to the dim lagoon, Past the Guidecca anchorage, — how the moon Shines strangely on that orange fisher-sail, A Venetian Night 99 Softening the glowing hues the gleam falls pale, Like silvery tissue o'er a shield of gold. Now, by moon-magic, fold on ghostly fold The brooding night is veiled in mystery; And now the faint breeze brings a scent of sea, The breath of freedom ; and the soul awakes, And stealing to her own domain, she shakes Her earthly bonds aside ; a little space She seemeth free, a little, blessed grace In hers, untroubled as this tender light, In the Nirvana of the dream-filled night. IOC A NEW YEARS EVE As I watched the old year die, By the fire, half-napping, From some night-work near I heard, Still, a tapping — tapping. And so, stealing out to see, Just at midnight's ringing, Found a coffin-maker stand At his sad work, singing : " Here I hammer in the hate My heart gave another; Here goes in the jealousy Felt of you, my brother; " With this screw I fix in fast Grumblings and complainings, With this last turn goes the year's Greedy love of gainings. A New Year's Eve 101 " Take, old elm — you love my trade- Twelve months' sins collected, Bury them, and nevermore Be they resurrected." Many evil things / longed Never more might find me, And, ere turning home, I, too, Left a load behind me. 102 I well may worldly gear disdain That gets me man's unearnt esteem; This body, too, that cowers in pain And loiters oft in slothful dream ; My mind so apt for foolish thought, Where envies and despairings throng ; My will so weak in working aught Of good things, and for bad so strong; Imagination, even, that still May let me love and truly see The noble mind, the dauntless will, Yet cannot make these live in me : All, even that last, I may despise; But " I," what means " I " ? Wondering, With awed and inward-peering eyes, I dare not scorn this unknown thing. io3 THE LITTLE GREY GHOST When from the world I turned my face, Once, to my silent dwelling-place, The little lonely dwelling-place I call my home, I knew that just within my door, Hastening along the shadowed floor, A shade would come. " Ha! home again ? " he'd cry, " well met ! Oh, you may count upon me yet, I fly before to greet you yet; Come now, confess — None other welcomes you to-night, Yet here am I, your own grey sprite Of loneliness." Then would he follow to my room, And sit and watch me from the gloom, Just in the circling realm of gloom That ringed my lamp ; Nor book, nor pipe his siege could shake, Nor kindly firelit Lares make The wretch decamp. io4 The Little Grey Ghost With glance askance I'd turn and see Him slowly creeping up to me, Or slyly making mock of me With mirthless grin ; And bedward tracking me at last, Before my chamber-door was fast He'd slip within. Until, at length, linked with him grew My hours of quiet thoughts of you, My nights of hopeful dreams of you, Dear, far-off friend; Self-commune with its inward calm, And all the wise book-spirits' balm ; So, in the end, Returning one wild night, I cried: " Tis good to see you there inside, Kind little sprite to come inside My lonely door ! Now for the restful hours again, With you, the rhymes that banish pain, The dreams once more." The Little Grey Ghost 105 But swift his shrill complainings came : " Oh, come," he cried, " you play the game ! Why aren't you shuddering? — What's your game? I'm he you dread! " He went. But, from the shadow nigh, Sometimes I hear what seems the sigh Of sorrow dead. io6 ONE LOVE THAT LIVES I loved a lass, and all my world, Fresh as an opening flower, unfurled. Love drooped and died, and left with me A first touch of mortality. I loved a woman, and, full grown, My life leapt up to claim its own, Only to learn ironic fate Had led and bid us love too late. And of the men I seemed to find Kin of my heart, mates of my mind, Some, Death to his dim land has led, And some, for me, seem worse than dead. But love I gave my homeland hills Lives yet, and broadens out, and fills My homeless heart, and doth endure As something, in a sad world, sure. 107 IN EXILE As I went by the shepherd's way That winds across old Ditchling Down, I saw her swinging on a spray Of briony, in a rose-leaf gown : A gold-haired Pixie. Green her eyes Like weeds seen wavering through a brook, A-shine with elfin witcheries, Yet something wistful in their look. " Oh, whence are you and whither bent, Lone wanderer that can see a fay ? " " Home go I, to my old brown tent, Where Rother winds his loitering way. " Nay, brother, that you could not do. Fared you till Rother stream ran dry. You know it, deep at heart, for true: What home have we here, you and I ? io8 In Exile Then flashing gold and rose, she passed, Crying, " lonely among men, The c/iangelings all come home at last, The Luck shall lead you back again.' " Full well I'd known the world for fair, And hopeful scanned the distance blue, But why my heart went homeless there I'd never known, but then I knew. 3n QflUmoriam J. B. R. (Died July 12th, 1910) Kind hands of yet how firm a grip, Bright brain that lit how many lives, Warm heart of perfect comradeship, White spirit that still upwards strives, Nought of your work with Death has gone- O knightly lover, noble friend ! — The Good you wrought streams widening on. Benign and deathless to the End. THE ARDEN PRESS LETCH WORTH UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY Los Angeles This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. Form L9-32m-8,'57(,C8680s4)444 -ER- L ulham — ■ 6023 Other side of L£701t< silence UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FAfll itv A 000 863 835 PR 6023 L9701