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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 ^ 
 
 MARRIAGE OF SHADOWS 
 
 &c.
 
 A 
 
 MARRIAGE OF SHADOWS 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 MARGARET VELEY 
 
 WITH BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE 
 
 BY 
 
 LESLIE STEPHEN 
 
 LONDON 
 SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 WATERLOO PLACE 
 
 1888 
 
 [All rights reserved^
 
 pf? 
 
 ^'^7 3 
 
 TO THE FRIENDS OF MY DEAR DAUGHTER, 
 MARGARET VELEY. 
 
 It is luitli pleasure and sincere gratitude I have accepted the kind 
 offer of Mr. Leslie Stephen to preface this little volume of Poems. 
 I have done the very best I could for it, and that ivhich I know 
 my daughter would like better than anything else. I must now 
 leave it to go into the world alone, hoping her Friends will appre- 
 ciate the work of one "who is gone. 
 
 .Sophia Veley. 
 
 45 Matheson Road, Kensington, 1888. 
 
 868820
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 The life of Margaret Veley, author of the following 
 poems, was quiet and uneventful. Her father, Augustus 
 Charles Veley, was the eldest son of a M. de Veley who 
 left Switzerland for England about the beginning of this 
 century. The son became a solicitor in Braintree, Essex, 
 where he was entrusted with much of the ecclesiastical 
 business of the district and was on friendly terms with 
 many of the clergy. On September 3, 1840, he married 
 Sophia, daughter of the Reverend Thomas Ludbey, for 
 over forty years (from 18 18 till his death in May 1859) 
 rector of Cranham. Mr. and Mrs. Veley had four 
 daughters, of whom Margaret, the second, was born 
 May 12, 1843. The sisters received an education of the 
 usual kind from governesses and masters ; and Margaret 
 passed one term at Queen's College, Tufnell Park. She 
 became a good French scholar. She and her elder 
 sister competed for prizes in composition offered by a
 
 viii PREFACE 
 
 French educational journal. Although she won no prizes, 
 she often obtained honourable mention. She became 
 so familiar with the language that her companions on a 
 foreign tour found it impossible to puzzle her by asking 
 her for the names of out-of-the-way objects. She rarely 
 ventured to talk French, but she was fond of the litera- 
 ture and very familiar with many of the best modern 
 writers, poets, novelists, and critics. She began to write 
 English verse at an early age. Some specimens are 
 preserved among her papers. A little religious poem is 
 dated just before her fourteenth birthday ; and others of 
 a similar character follow. At a rather later date she 
 ventures upon a mock-heroic legend of the ' Blue 
 Princess,' suggested by the contagious quahties of the 
 dye of a friend's dress. The Princess has begged the 
 gift of learning from a fairy godmother, who has an old- 
 fashioned antipathy to ' blue ' ladies ; and spitefully im- 
 parts the gift not only in an allegorical but in a literal 
 sense, with ingenious and disastrous consequences. 
 Miss Veley says in one of her letters that to publish a 
 book had been among her day-dreams even in her 
 nursery. She taught in a Sunday-school and had great 
 power of attracting the affections of her pupils. Some 
 of them continued to write to her about their plans and 
 prospects long after they had left the place. She gave 
 up teaching upon the advent of a new clergyman, whose
 
 PREFACE ix 
 
 views differed so much from her own that cordial co- 
 operation became impossible. Miss Veley had reached 
 conclusions very different from those which naturally 
 found favour with the home circle. She was a very 
 decided liberal both in political and religious matters. 
 Her singularly modest and retiring character prevented 
 her from ever putting forward her views in an aggressive 
 fashion. She remained upon the most affectionate terms 
 with persons from whose views she entirely dissented. 
 Her divergence from the conservative and high-church 
 principles of her closest connections showed the real 
 independence of thought which was generally concealed 
 by her extreme gentleness of manner. 
 
 Her first published poem, called ' Michaelmas Daisies,' 
 appeared in the 'Spectator' of April 1870. In the 
 September of the same year a short story called ' Milly's 
 First Love ' appeared in ' Blackwood's Magazine,' 
 which has so often given the first welcome to literary 
 talent. A considerable interval, however, elapsed before 
 the next publication. She always wrote slowly and with 
 most conscientious workmanship. Part of the time was 
 occupied in the composition of ' For Percival ' (begun 
 in March 1872) and of most of the poems collected in 
 this volume. I gather, too, that she had to undergo a 
 disappointment about a short story which failed to win 
 immediate favour from an editor. Her extreme diffidence
 
 X PREFACE 
 
 made her sensitive in such matters. She believed, as 
 she said, in failure more easily than success ; though she 
 was not so much discouraged by criticism as incited to 
 take more pains to avoid the alleged defects. Her poem 
 the ' Japanese Fan ' appeared in the ' Cornhill Magazine 
 for September 1876. I was then editor, and she sent 
 me the poem with a letter of introduction from her 
 friend, Mr. Meredith Townshend, for whose services in 
 the way of literary advice and encouragement she often 
 expressed her gratitude. This was followed by ' Lizzie's 
 Bargain,' which appeared in the ' Cornhill ' of May and 
 June 1877 ; and by her longer story ' For Percival,' which 
 appeared in the same magazine September 1877 to 
 December 1878. This novel appeared (and still appears) 
 to me to be marked by very rare qualities which are not 
 always to be found in more popular novels. It had true 
 literary distinction : a graceful, clear, and pointed style, 
 a strong sense of humour, and a keen perception of 
 character approached by few of her contemporaries. It 
 excited much interest, and I fancy would have been 
 still more successful if it had possessed some more 
 commonplace attractions. The end was painful, whereas 
 most readers — and I do not say that they are wrong — 
 like things to be made pleasant. A dismissal of the 
 characters to general happiness would have been out of 
 harmony with the m.elancholy tone of the whole story.
 
 PREFA CE xi 
 
 The book, however, was warmly welcomed by many 
 readers and brought to her some valuable friendships. 
 Mr. Luke lonides introduced himself by an appreciative 
 letter to the unknown author ; and she ever afterwards 
 reckoned Mr. and Mrs. lonides among her most at- 
 tached friends. 
 
 Many domestic troubles saddened some years of her 
 life. The sister next to her in age, Mrs. Holmes, was 
 sent to Penzance in 1876 for her health, and Miss Veley 
 nursed her through an illness which terminated fatally in 
 July 1877. Their father died on January 19, 1879. The 
 other sisters were married, and Miss Veley, with her 
 mother, decided to leave Braintree for London, where she 
 made her home for the rest of her life. The delicacy of 
 her youngest sister, Constance, who in 1878 had married 
 Mr. Alfred E. Warner, enforced journeys in search of 
 health. Mrs. and Miss Veley accompanied her to Switzer- 
 land and the Riviera ; but she became decidedly worse 
 in 1884, and afterwards remained in London, where she 
 was nursed by her sister until her death in May 1885. 
 
 The shadow of these sorrows may be traced in Miss 
 Veley'slater writings. ' Mrs. Austin appeared in the ' Corn- 
 hill ' of April and May 1880; * Damocles ' in the ' Cornhill ' 
 of February to December 1882; ' Mitchelhurst Place' 
 in ' Macmillan's Magazine ' of 1884; ' A Garden of Memo- 
 ries' in the 'English Illustrated Magazine 'of July, August,
 
 xii PREFACE 
 
 and September 1886; and 'Twice by the Sea' in the 
 ' Hourglass ' of July 1887. 
 
 During her Hfe in London, Miss Veley became known 
 to a much larger circle capable of sympathising with her 
 literary tastes than could be found in the country town 
 where she had passed the first thirty-five years of her hfe. 
 She was not quite in her element in general society. 
 She was constitutionally shy, even to a painful degree, 
 and the shyness was probably intensified by extreme 
 shortsightedness. She began, too, with a large share 
 of that awe for literary luminaries, even when not of the 
 first order of magnitude, which is natural before one has 
 been admitted behind the scenes. New acquaintance 
 had to begin by a process of breaking the ice, which 
 might possibly form again before another interview. But 
 with a few thoroughly sympathetic friends, this obstacle 
 disappeared from the first ; and, to all who met her, the 
 shyness was felt as an appeal for considerate treatment 
 and gave to intercourse with her the charm of the 
 gradual and timid revelation of a strong intellectual and 
 moral nature. In my own relations to her as editor of 
 some of her writings, I was afraid to offer advice, not lest 
 it should be rejected, but lest it should be too respect- 
 fully entertained. The only advice which I could really 
 offer — perhaps it is all the advice that can be judiciously 
 offered to any one — was that she should be herself. And,
 
 PREFACE xiii 
 
 indeed, though she was singularly amenable to criticism 
 and perhaps too easily depressed, she did not yield until 
 her judgment was convinced; and her aims were too 
 clearly defined to be easily diverted in essential matters. 
 I must add that she received well-meant suggestions with 
 more than good nature, with a gratitude which was only 
 too full a repayment of the intended service. She had 
 too much magnanimity and was too completely free from 
 vanity to be touchy, although she might be sensitive 
 under criticism ; and, as one of her feminine friends re- 
 marks to me, had the strong sense of justice in which her 
 sex is generally said to be deficient. She was incapable 
 of any petty resentment or of an exaggerated estimate of 
 her own claims. 
 
 I must mention one minor virtue in which she was 
 pre-eminent. I have seen many handwritings in the 
 course of my experience as an editor; but never one 
 equal to hers. It was firm, large, and as legible as print, 
 and yet full of character and delicacy. She used to send 
 verses to her friends upon their birthdays or similar 
 occasions, written upon Christmas cards in this exquisite 
 hand which made them real works of art. I give one or 
 two specimens of these little poems, which will prove, I 
 think, that the charm was not confined to the calligraphy. 
 
 Miss Veley was gaining a stronger hold upon the 
 affections of all her acquaintance ; and even her less
 
 xiv PREFACE 
 
 intimate friends were hoping that the reserve which still 
 remained was gradually thawing. The last occasion on 
 which I had the pleasure of seeing her was in the summer 
 of 1887, and I was then struck by the animation and 
 point with which she discussed some literary topics with 
 a young American admirer of her books. After recover- 
 ing from the depression produced by the long attendance 
 upon her sister's death-bed she had again settled to literary 
 work, and was writing a novel, which, as she promised her 
 friends, was to have a cheerful catastrophe. She had 
 shown symptoms of delicacy and had never been robust. 
 No alarm, however, had suggested itself to her friends, 
 who were shocked by the news of her death on December 
 7, 1887, after a very short illness, caused by a chill and 
 ending in an affection of the throat. She was buried on 
 December 10, in Braintree Cemetery by the side of her 
 father and her sister Alice. Her mother and her elder 
 sister, Mrs. Webb, survive. 
 
 The unfinished novel just mentioned was to be 
 another sketch of the country life which she knew so 
 well. She had made a careful outline of the whole story 
 with dates and genealogical relations clearly plotted out. 
 She had finished the first volume, and the fragment shows, 
 I think, that her powers were still ripening, although it is 
 too incomplete and too much in the nature of an intro- 
 duction to justify pubhcation. Her thorough workman-
 
 PREFACE xr 
 
 ship made rapid execution impossible ; and her perfect 
 handwriting suggests that she never hurried even in her 
 letters. She could not be slovenly. She was never 
 satisfied until she had gained all possible clearness of 
 definition in her thought as in her manual work. She 
 was in this respect in sympathy with the French writers 
 whose congenial qualities she appreciated so keenly. In 
 English, she especially admired George Eliot, Thackeray, 
 and Miss Austen, the last of whom she preferred to Scott. 
 An old friend, Mr. Lewis Day, has shown me acurious little 
 controversy which they conducted upon post-cards as to 
 the rival claims of ' realism ' and ' idealism.' It was an ex- 
 cellent plan apparently for securing a condensed state- 
 ment of the points at issue ; but condensation generally 
 involves a little obscurity. A phrase or two will indicate 
 her view sufficiently. ' I do think,' she says, ' that a man 
 should aim at simply reproducing the facts of nature, as 
 he sees them, in his work. Men see things so differently 
 that the most literal transcript is sure to be a revelation 
 to his fellow men. The more literal the transcript, the 
 greater the revelation.' Realism has, she thinks, the 
 charm ' of representing the apparently hap-hazard com- 
 plexity of life which seems to have forced itself upon the 
 modern mind. Some of us would rather have even 
 broken and confused reflections of the great real world, 
 than the prettiest little worlds the ideahsts can arrange 
 
 a
 
 xvi PREFACE 
 
 for US.' ' If the order and repose ' (of the idealist) ' are 
 more than are truly consistent with the weakness and 
 inevitable miseries of human life, it seems to me very 
 like consoling oneself for the earthiness of the globe by 
 blowing pretty soap bubbles. ... I want what gives me a 
 sense of reality.' To the objection that realism means 
 commonplace, she replies : ' I see no redemption from 
 commonplace, except by the teaching that the springs of 
 tears and laughter and deepest tenderness break forth in 
 the very midst of the vast commonplaces of life.' 
 
 Her novels were realistic in this sense, which 
 might have been adopted by her beloved Miss Austen. 
 They were meant to give an accurate portraiture of life 
 as she saw it. But her novels were not merely photo- 
 graphic reproductions of the first scenes that came to 
 hand. They are always embodiments of some genuine 
 idea. After discussing one of her stories she adds : 
 ' And then came the inevitable problem, without which 
 I have hitherto been unable to get on. Was such a 
 renunciation as Lizzie's right ? I don't solve my pro- 
 blems, unluckily — at least I only partially solve them.' 
 The reason, perhaps, generally seems to be that in this 
 ' haphazard ' world the only solution which she can see 
 involves the self sacrifice of some generous nature to the 
 happiness of more commonplace people. The sadness 
 which she had to experience is reflected in her fiction
 
 PREFACE xvii 
 
 where some unlucky combination of circumstances is 
 generally too much for noble aspirations. But her view 
 of life, if mournful, is anything but cynical. Her world 
 has got into awkward complications ; but she takes the 
 view of the kindly humorist who admits that there is 
 something perverse about the fates, but seeks for con- 
 solation not in a blind sentimentalism but in dwelling 
 uijon the fine qualities brought out by misery and 
 discord. 
 
 Miss Veley had carefully revised her poems, and 
 discussed them with very intelligent self-criticism. Al- 
 though some of them show the same qualities as her 
 prose, they also reveal a very different side of her nature. 
 She observes, in reference to the obvious remark that 
 there is 'too much sadness' in her poetry: 'I should 
 write more of the brighter poems, perhaps, if I did not 
 write any prose. It is not that I think the brighter 
 thoughts less fit for poetry, but rather that I think the 
 sadder ones less fit for prose. All my feelings of awe 
 and doubt and wonder, and all my longings to get down 
 to the heart of things seem to me to find far deeper and 
 truer expression in verse. Is it that they want to be 
 set to music in some way ? Besides, I can say in verse 
 what I could not say in prose.' Another passage may 
 serve as a comment on some poems, and as a proof 
 of the careful thinking-out of her expression. Her
 
 xviii PREFACE 
 
 correspondent had proposed to alter the following pas- 
 sage in ' A Shadow on the Dial : ' 
 
 I gain a glimpse of something more than joy 
 Higher than rapture, distant as a star, 
 A time beyond all time, a steadfast gaze 
 And ail abiding thought, when my weak heart. 
 Lifted above self-consciousness, shall beat 
 In unison with His. 
 
 It was proposed to substitute 'a thought that still 
 abides.' She explains : ' In my idea, the thought has 
 no connection with the act of hoping here ; it is what I 
 hope for hereafter. The steadfast gaze and abiding 
 thought make — as far as I can at present see — my dim 
 idea of the goal I hope to reach. One gets glimpses now 
 of beauty and perfection — of God — but one can't look 
 long — the poorest and meanest things have power to dis- 
 tract one, even apart from imperfection and dimness of 
 vision. So I long for "a steadfast gaze." And, though 
 there is no such happiness here as the feeling of light 
 dawning on one's mind, new ideas flowing in, new cer- 
 tainty that all is good, it needs an effort. One can 
 climb a mountain on whose summit one could not live ; 
 one reads slight and worthless things for rest ; but I 
 look for a time when I shall not be weary and dull, nor 
 incapable of grasping the ideas I need, nor painfully 
 limited. Only fancy — an abiding thought, an ever-widen-
 
 PREFACE xix 
 
 ing universe round one ! ' She then alters the phrase to 
 ' an ever-widening thought.' Speaking of another phrase 
 in the same poem, 
 
 There is no death — life only ; death is nought, 
 she says : ' Again, I meant the words literally, as " an 
 abstract assertion." Doubts of immortahty, ordinary ideas 
 as to what may follow our dying— absence of definite 
 knowledge as to what may follow on the other side of 
 the grave — make Death terrible. But I was fancying that 
 to this man, when he opened his eyes, the incident of 
 being transferred from one stage of existence to another 
 would fall into its place, merely as an incident in his//)^.' 
 I will not add any remarks of my own, which would, 
 I think, be impertinent to any sympathetic reader. 
 
 A good many letters have been sent to me by Miss 
 Veley's friends, and they show abundantly the tenderness, 
 the sympathy with sorrow, and the warm gratitude for 
 all friendly recognition, which gave her a peculiar place 
 in their affections. Her death seems to have affected 
 all who knew her with a special sense of loss. I do not 
 think, however, that any long quotations would be 
 desirable in this brief notice ; and I will only add a 
 passage or two to illustrate the rather grave and gentle 
 humour, which was very characteristic and came out 
 especially in her playful relations with children. This, 
 for example, is a history of certain cats in whom a young
 
 XX PREFACE 
 
 friend of hers was interested : — ' L. and I,' she says, 
 '■■ have been weighing them. That is to say, L. went 
 down in the dead of night among the beetles, and 
 single-handed he grappled with Zo(roaster), and weighed 
 him : 2 lbs. 9 oz. Then he wanted me to go down 
 with him and weigh Cy(rus). I went. We got out all 
 the weights in the house, and a flat iron ; but we needn't 
 have bothered about that : he just didn't weigh all the 
 weights — i.e. he was about 7 lbs. 15 ozs. when we added 
 them all up. Then we metaphoricaUy turned up our 
 sleeves, looked at each other, and went for Thomas 
 Claudius. He weighed : — 
 
 I violent scrimmage, 
 
 I scratch (/had that). 
 
 I scale kicked out of its place, and clattering in 
 
 the silence of the night. 
 I tempestuous departure through the doorway. 
 
 I haven't added these up ; so I can't exactly tell what 
 they amount to. 
 
 ' I wish Cy and T. C. D. wouldn't think my sunflowers 
 ought to be sat on like eggs ... As for Zo he is simply 
 and literally " the Desolator," as Byron has it . . . When 
 I was planting out seedUng asters the other evening, in a 
 hurry, because the light was failing, he said quite dis- 
 tinctly, " A Zoro-aster is better than a China-aster any
 
 PREFA CE xxi 
 
 day," and proceeded to plant himself in every hole in 
 turn. Being with difficulty uprooted, he climbed and 
 bounced about till the next hole was ready.' 
 
 In another note she gives an analysis of the same 
 garden. 'There are in loo parts : 
 
 Stones (say) . . . . . . -76 
 
 Potsherds, brickbats, bones, bits of glass, and 
 
 a rusty iron bar which L. dug up (say) . 14 ' 
 Worms, grubs, &c. . . . . .7 
 
 Bits of newspaper, and varied rubbish always 
 mysteriously arriving. Think they grow, 
 but about 2 
 
 And there you are, I don't go in for infinitesimal traces 
 of things. Fm only a beginner, you see ; but I call this 
 a good bold analysis in round numbers. If you add it up 
 you'll find it comes to just 100 — no, it doesn't, it comes 
 to 99. What little trifle have I forgotten? Well, it can't 
 much matter, can it ? . . . O, but I have it : 
 
 Earth i 
 
 That's it. Now it's all right.' 
 
 And this is a little specimen of an Alpine adventure. 
 Her companion's aunt wanted a particular kind of 
 gentian. ' We could have accommodated her with a cart- 
 load of almost anything else, but that we could not find, 
 and everything was dripping wet, everywhere. I have
 
 xxii PREFACE 
 
 seldom seen anything more pathetic than A. standing 
 in the middle of a flowery, grassy, boggy, Alpine slope, 
 very anxious to get back to dry ground, but restrained by 
 a noble sense of duty to his aunts and conscientiously 
 examining every bluebell or harebell, of which there were 
 at least 50,000 round him. Harebells here do grow 
 abominably blue when you are looking for gentians. I — 
 with the water running into my boots — admired him. 
 We never got our gentian after all ! He found one, 
 which I would not let him dig up, because it wasn't the 
 right sort ; afterwards it turned out that it was a much 
 rarer one and ought to have been secured at any cost ! 
 Then we encountered a Swiss w^ayfarer of ferocious 
 aspect, whose clothing was mainly constructed of holes, 
 with just stuff enough to keep them apart, and whose 
 portable property consisted solely of a large knife. As 
 he amiably wished us good morning, we hoped that he 
 was really pleasanter than he looked, and perhaps only 
 intended to cut wood— in which case of course he 
 couldn't help his knife, and it wasn't fair to judge him 
 by it. At that rate, I suppose, in a lonely woodland spot, 
 one might misunderstand Mr. Gladstone ! ' 
 
 Her letters are full of such humorous descriptions of 
 little adventures, mixed with remarks upon the scenery, 
 and upon cathedrals and pictures, in which she took a keen 
 and intelligent interest. I will only venture to add a
 
 PREFACE xxiii 
 
 quotation bearing upon one of her poems, the ' Level 
 Land.' She was uncomfortable at having used the poeti- 
 cally commonplace flowers, amaranth and asphodel, and 
 looked them out in a French dictionary, ' And they 
 said that amaranth was " Love lies bleeding ! " '' Prince's 
 feather " &c. Milton's angels crowned with that ! . . . I 
 attacked a book in thirty-six volumes on English botany 
 and hunted up a wild amaranth. And Milton's amaranth 
 grows '' hard by the tree of life/' if I remember right. The 
 description of my wild amaranth began : " This dunghill 
 plant grows chiefly in the neighbourhood of London ' ! ! 
 Coming down in the world, amaranth appears to have 
 acquired low tastes.' She is reminded of ' Moly ' of which 
 she used to read in Pope's 'Odyssey,' and looks it up 'for 
 old acquaintance sake. Horror ! These four authorities, 
 all I consulted, were unanimous. It is a wild garlic, with 
 yellow flowers ! After that ... I can but hope the Lotos- 
 eaters lay very still ; for the only wild garlic I know, if 
 crushed . . . Asphodel is better, though it was a shock 
 to me to learn that it has a nutritive and medicinal root, 
 shaped like a small turnip ! I don't know what that signi- 
 fies, and they call it " King's spear," which I don't dislike. 
 Strictly speaking, the correct asphodel is rather a stiff" 
 spear, with smaUish flowers, golden yellow, a little some- 
 thing of brownish gold in it, at intervals up it. ... I 
 came to the conclusion that I know no more of amaranths 
 
 *b
 
 xxiv PREFACE 
 
 and asphodel than I did before, since the poets' flowers — 
 Mr. Tennyson's for instance — are evidently not related to 
 their earthly namesakes.' 
 
 In all her letters I have not seen a single phrase of 
 unkind or even sarcastic tendency, although she has to 
 mention some experiences which might have justified irri- 
 tation. They show a most tender and affectionate nature, 
 bearing grief and disappointment bravely and tenderly, 
 welcoming all kindnesses with warm goodwill; and light- 
 ing up little annoyances with a play of gentle humour. 
 
 I must offer my thanks to Miss Veley's intimate 
 friends, especially Mrs. Luke lonides, Mrs. Macquoid, 
 and Mr. Lewis Day, who have given me every informa- 
 tion in their power. Mrs. Veley has entrusted me with 
 the duty of editing these poems, as a last memorial of 
 the remarkable talent of the daughter who was never 
 separated from her through life. 
 
 I have also to thank the proprietors of the ' Cen- 
 tury,' ' Harper's Magazine,' ' Macmillan's Magazine,' the 
 ' Spectator,' and the 'Bairns' Annual' for permission to 
 publish the poems which first appeared in their pages.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 -»♦♦- 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A Marriage of Shadows i 
 
 A Shadow on the Dial 3° 
 
 The Level Land "48 
 
 Out of the Darkness 54 
 
 A Japanese Fan 69 
 
 The Unknown Land 79 
 
 A LuTanist 86 
 
 A Game of Piquet . 89 
 
 First or Last? 94 
 
 A Dream of Life and Death 98 
 
 A Student 103 
 
 Private Theatricals .105 
 
 Of the Past "2 
 
 A Town Garden "5 
 
 Almond Blossom ^^7
 
 xxvi CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 October 119 
 
 Three Poems from ' Mitchelhurst Place:' 'At her 
 
 Piano,' 'Autumn Berries,' 'A Sonnet' . . . 120 
 
 A Wish 124 
 
 Mother and Child 125 
 
 Michaelmas Daisies 129 
 
 A Closed Book 131 
 
 A Birthday Wish 134 
 
 'Ere Yet, Old Year' 136 
 
 'Sweet Sister Mine, I Fain would have you Look' 137 
 
 ' It was the Heart of Summer when ' . . . . 138 
 
 ' I Buy my Card, and find thereon : ' A Christmas 
 
 Card 139 
 
 His Calendar 140 
 
 One of the Multitude 142
 
 A MARRIAGE OF SHADOWS. 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 Round the flickering fire of life, in the dusky border- 
 land, 
 
 Between the gloom and the glow, the wavering shadows 
 stand. 
 
 Silent for evermore they he in wait for our eyes, 
 And he who has looked on them once shall see them 
 until he dies. 
 
 The runner carries his torch, he is glad at heart to see 
 The triumph of golden light, whence the parting shadows 
 flee. 
 
 He runs with his face aglow, the flame flies out on the 
 wind. 
 
 And the scoffing shadow shapes exult as they leap be- 
 hind.
 
 2 A MARRIAGE OF SHADOWS 
 
 Short is the hfe of man ere he draws the evil lot, 
 Then must he die with the day, and the morrow behold 
 him not. 
 
 To the silent A^alley he comes, w^here, drifted under the 
 
 steeps, 
 Are the sands of lives run out, in dead, forgotten heaps. 
 
 There is none at hand to help ; the desert earth of his 
 
 bed 
 Is marked with the treading of feet, but they that have 
 
 trodden are dead. 
 
 He lies with his face to the East, while out of the 
 
 vanished years 
 Come the shadows of bygone days, the shadows of hopes 
 
 and fears. 
 
 The shadows of things unknown, that stir in the gulf of 
 
 the night, 
 That float on the waveless tide, and sink ere the morning 
 
 light. 
 
 The shadows of passing thoughts, the shadows of ill 
 
 deeds done, 
 That stand for a terrible sign between his soul and the sun.
 
 A MARRIAGE OF SHADOWS 3 
 
 And last, in their glory and grace, in a haze of splendour 
 
 seen, 
 Come the shadows, saddest of all, from the Land of 
 
 Might Have Been. 
 
 They fade in the far off sky, they never shall come 
 
 again. 
 And the beauty of hopeless dreams is bitterer far than 
 
 pain. 
 
 'I have done with shadows,' he cries, 'let them pass 
 
 from my weary heart, 
 In the West is the face of Death, I will see his face and 
 
 depart.' 
 
 What man has seen his face ? Over the drifts of the 
 
 sand 
 Lengthens the Shadow of Death, uplifting a shadowy 
 
 hand. 
 
 B 2
 
 A MARRIAGE OF SHADOWS 
 
 I. 
 
 SUNSET. 
 
 An arch of cloudless sky 
 Rises above a town of ancient name ; 
 
 Across its dome 
 
 The birds fly home, 
 And all the West is burning with slow flame, 
 
 For night is nigh. 
 Against the sunset fires, 
 
 In broken ranks, 
 Gables and slender spires 
 Stand black and crowded on the river's banks ; 
 And a great bridge is lifted up on high 
 
 Above the ripphng tide, 
 Where laden vessels spread their wings and sail 
 
 O'er waters wide. 
 Out of the Eastern region, pure and pale. 
 
 The silver flood 
 Comes, murmuring softly of a thousand rills 
 
 From shadowy hills, 
 But, like a chronicle of conquering pride. 
 Ends in imperial splendour red as blood.
 
 A MARRIAGE OF SHADOWS 5 
 
 High stands the bridge, while far below 
 The river, winding round the weedy piles, 
 Whispers, embracing them. Its onward flow 
 Breaks in unchanging curves, like carven smiles, 
 And strains with snake-like force, and seeks their 
 overthrow. 
 
 Across the sunlit height 
 Pass and repass the throng 
 Of men who go their way — the western light 
 Bright on their living faces — side by side 
 
 With shadows grey and long. 
 With slim fantastic shapes that slip and glide, 
 
 Follow and run, 
 That lurk, and waver in uncertain flight 
 And fear the sun. 
 
 But one man stands apart. 
 And facing all the glory of the skies, 
 Broods o'er an evil world that lies 
 
 Within his heart. 
 Shadows and men alike before him pass 
 As nought, as dim reflections in a glass, 
 As idle shifting figures in a dream. 
 Unheeded, as the sunlit ripples roll,
 
 A MARRIAGE OF SHADOWS 
 
 They come and go, 
 
 A living stream, 
 In long procession linked against the glow. 
 Empty and vain to him the boundless heavens seem, 
 Vain all the glory of the golden rays. 
 
 While with an inward gaze 
 Darkly intent he shapes a narrow scheme. 
 
 But lightly on his face 
 Does one fair shadow fall, 
 Lingers a moment on his mouth, close-lipped — 
 
 Glides all unheeded to his breast 
 As if she sought his heart for resting-place 
 
 And end of all — • 
 Then, as from mouth to heart she slipped. 
 Falls downward, mute and sweet 
 Even to his feet. 
 Touching the darkness of his shadow, pressed 
 Against the wall. 
 
 Thus do the shadows meet. 
 Yet she who passes him is worlds away 
 
 In her pure loveliness. 
 As though she were the queen of some pale star, 
 Alone, afar,
 
 A MARRIAGE OF SHADOWS 7 
 
 Set high for worship if too high to bless, 
 Golden amid the dusk of dying day. 
 
 As she goes by the hearts of men awake, 
 Leaving their selfish joy and selfish grief 
 
 For her fair sake. 
 Rising at sight of her to nobler thought, 
 
 Even as the sap 
 Flows at the touch of spring to flower and leaf — 
 But this one man sees nought. 
 
 Yet — does he move in sullen weariness ? 
 
 Or pricked by venomed sting 
 Of some remembered folly or mishap ? 
 Or in the windings of his sorry plot, 
 Perceive the goal, and stand prepared to spring ? 
 
 This I know not, 
 
 But none the less 
 When ghdes from him that slender shade of hers 
 
 His shadow stirs.
 
 A MARRIAGE OF SHADOWS 
 
 II. 
 
 THE LAND OF SHADOWS. 
 
 Night comes and lays her hand 
 Upon the brows and eyes of toiling men — 
 Why should they longer seek to understand ? 
 She folds the world in darkness — wherefore keep 
 A weary flame, a point of wakeful pain, 
 To fret her dewy stillness cool and deep ? 
 
 They yield their souls to sleep. 
 Nor know that then 
 Through universal dusk of hill and plain 
 Their shadows fly afar to Shadowland. 
 
 Dim is that unknown road and ashen-grey 
 
 And no man travels it. 
 Only from time to time a restless crowd 
 Of shadows flit 
 
 Along the level way, 
 Mocking, as one might mock who laughed aloud, 
 Though Death itself is not more mute than they. 
 
 Strange is that road, and desolate, 
 Narrow as Fate,
 
 A MARRIAGE OF SHADOWS 
 
 On either hand he ghmmering plains of cloud 
 
 Fading afar to night ; 
 Above, a starless heaven is bowed, 
 Whose desert height 
 
 Is pale with unknown light. 
 
 Strange is the pathway — strange the final shore — 
 A hollow earthen-coloured waste 
 (That might be a forgotten world 
 From hfe and splendour hurled), 
 Girt by a mountain range, lies low for evermore, 
 Shrunken and dead. 
 The zone of barren rock. 
 Fantastic, writhen, tortured as with fire, 
 Cloven by unimaginable shock, 
 
 Shoots up in pinnacle and spire 
 Against the pallid stillness overhead. 
 Within its stony maze 
 Are narrow valleys, and steep ways, 
 
 And gulfs that sink 
 Sheer from their crumbling brink. 
 And clefts that hold a darkness so intense, 
 
 One needs must think 
 It more than night itself, and look to see 
 Some blackest vision, stirring heavily 
 Uprise and issue thence.
 
 lo A MARRIAGE OF SHADOWS 
 
 Below the frowning heights 
 Barren, far-reaching, lies the level plain, 
 Alive with phantoms that in circles vain 
 Dance through the silence of the windless nights, 
 
 Even as in autumn-tide 
 The withered leaves, down drifted to the dust, 
 Dance to an eddying gust. 
 
 They wheel and mingle and divide 
 While far on high 
 Wild meteors flame across the glimmering sky 
 To perish when their hasty race is run. 
 In swift pursuit the shadows leap and fly 
 
 Maddened with liberty, 
 Mocking the memory of the noonday sun 
 That held them crouching 'neath his steadfast eye. 
 
 They dance for ever as they danced that night, 
 
 When the red sunset light 
 Had faded from the hills, the shore, the stream. 
 From the wide sky, and from the eyes of men. 
 
 And, mixing in their flight 
 
 The queenly shadow passed 
 That on the bridge at eventide was cast, 
 
 Fair now as then. 
 The light itself could scarcely sweeter seem.
 
 A MARRIAGE OF SHADOWS ii 
 
 And swift cloud-shadows could no softlier fall, 
 Than she who fled with every flying gleam, 
 
 Not looking back 
 Where, on the heedless windings of her track, 
 
 Unmarked by all, 
 
 Came fierce and fast 
 The shadow that had lurked beneath the wall. 
 
 But, ere he reached her side. 
 The crowding shapes that wavered to and fro 
 Parted to show 
 
 A band of figures placed 
 Alone amid the wide and level waste. 
 
 Calmly did they abide, 
 Like those who wait 
 
 The certain stroke of fate, 
 And the quick coming of an unknown thing. 
 These were the shadows of those hapless ones 
 Who saw that day their last of setting suns, 
 
 To whom, at eventide 
 
 Flew Death on low swift wing ; 
 
 And as on earth they died. 
 Their shadows felt the pitiless command. 
 
 Drooped 'neath the unseen spell, 
 
 And died in Shadowland.
 
 12 A MARRIAGE OF SHADOWS 
 
 Closely the swarming phantoms pressed, 
 
 And ever nearer drew 
 Unto those few, 
 
 A shifting silent ring, 
 As if the twilight, gathering darkly round, 
 Quickened to shapes of tremulous unrest. 
 Silent they were, 
 
 Silent the waiting band, 
 
 Only with waving hand 
 They bade farewell. 
 But in clear regions of the upper air, 
 
 Unto the utmost bound 
 And limit of the mountain wilderness. 
 Sang mournful Echo, shadow of a sound, 
 
 Alone and bodiless. 
 Echo of sadness, echo of despair. 
 
 ' O ye who die this night. 
 
 Your race is run. 
 Of changeful dusk and light 
 
 Your thread was spun. 
 And now your doom is written — you must go. 
 
 ' Behold, Death comes to break 
 
 All woven bands. 
 What though sad hearts shall ache ?
 
 A MARRIAGE OF SHADOWS 13 
 
 Loose, loose your hands, 
 No loving clasp can hold you — you must go. 
 
 ' There is no man can save —   
 
 Your life is past — 
 The dim mysterious wave 
 
 Is rising fast. 
 The unknown Shadow waits you — you must go. 
 
 ' Has that wide sea a shore ? 
 
 No man can know — 
 In darkness evermore 
 We hear it flow. 
 And the great deep has called you — you must go. 
 
 ' Cry not with dying breath, 
 
 All pleading fails — 
 The bitter wind of death 
 Has filled your sails — 
 Farewell — farewell — farewell ! for you must go.' 
 
 At the last note the shapes distinct and clear. 
 
 Sable upon the silver atmosphere, 
 
 Grew strange, like phantoms in a mystic glass ; 
 
 And knowing death was near, 
 Flung high their arms, as who should moan Alas !
 
 14 A MARRIAGE OF SHADOWS 
 
 For gladness that had been, 
 Had been, but should not be — 
 Then died into the tender dusk unseen, 
 And with the last a terror seemed to pass, 
 And all the watching shadows were set free. 
 
 Then the pursuer, starting from his place. 
 
 Turned swiftly to the chase. 
 Pressing so closely on the shadow maid 
 That, conscious of besetting force. 
 Of strength that followed and that could not tire. 
 She faltered, half-afraid 
 And, pausing in her course. 
 Against her will, she turned, and looked him in 
 the face. 
 
 Dusk shape of Love, with neither flesh nor fire, 
 
 Intent, impalpable and mute, 
 A subtle, haunting phantom of desire, 
 
 A shadow of pursuit, 
 
 To conquer or beguile 
 Aping in spectral form his master's way of wile — 
 
 He followed her — and she 
 
 O with how sweet a grace. 
 As of an angel stooping from above, 
 She looked upon him ! Unto what pure love
 
 A MARRIAGE OF SHADOWS 15 
 
 Had her fair lady, in a dream may be, 
 Thrilling, half-yielded, tenderly afraid ? 
 
 But even as she swayed. 
 As one who yields, and yet who fain. 
 Would flee and yield in vain- 
 High, where the jagg'd horizon cut the air. 
 There burst a wild and widening glare 
 Of unknown day upon those twain. 
 Rushing from dawn to night 
 A strange white sun 
 Flashed in a sudden splendour to the height, 
 And in its light 
 The flying shadow shapes were fused in one.
 
 i6 A MARRIAGE OF SHADOWS 
 
 III. 
 
 ON THE BRIDGE. 
 
 Day came again — 
 
 The host of Shadowland 
 Started in terror from their dusky mirth, 
 And looking backward as they fled to earth, 
 
 Saw the long bridge of ashen cloud that spanned 
 The glimmering plain. 
 Dissolving swiftly in the sunlit air. 
 The brooding vapours, heavy as despair, 
 
 Rolled from the lucid sky ; 
 The winds amid the leafy woodlands stirred, 
 
 And hastening by 
 Bore happy life, and freshness of the dew, 
 Odours of plants, and song of careless bird. 
 
 To bid men hope anew, 
 Buds burst in flower, and waters everywhere 
 Rippled with joy of morning, frank and fair. 
 
 The slender shadow shape 
 Fled homeward, seeking to escape 
 The light of day j
 
 A MARRIAGE OF SHADOWS 17 
 
 Homeward by hedges white with may 
 
 She made her way 
 
 Airy and fleet 
 
 Unto her lady's feet, 
 And found her resting still in slumber sweet. 
 
 There patiently she lay 
 Until her mistress, gazing with clear eyes, 
 Looked forth in glad surprise. 
 
 As if the earth, the sky, the flowers, 
 Were strangely fair to her awakened sight. 
 Though yet she mused upon the midnight hours 
 Which bore her, drifted on their drowsy streams. 
 Through regions of delight. 
 Where whitest dreams 
 Blossomed in all the dusky fields of night. 
 
 Meantime the bridegroom shadow in his place. 
 Crouched by his master's side, malign and dumb, 
 Waiting until the waking hour should come, 
 The hour that strips 
 The veil of darkness from Life's withered face — 
 Too soon it came, 
 
 He woke with eyes reluctant, and his lips 
 Were bitter with the dregs of half-remembered 
 shame.
 
 i8 A MARRIAGE OF SHADOWS 
 
 The summer day went by. The great sun burned 
 
 Upward to kingly noon ; 
 ' And through the day the wheeHng shadows turned ; 
 Till, when their lord sank down, 
 
 Thin vapours drifted o'er the crescent moon. 
 River, and shore, and hill 
 
 Lay black and small beneath the solemn height, 
 The grassy fields, the lonely ways were still, 
 Save for sweet singing of the night-bird brown, 
 But through the darkened mazes of the town 
 
 Ran busy lines of light. 
 
 Bridegroom and bride 
 From the far land of dreams 
 Banished at golden daybreak, met once more, 
 When daylight died, 
 Where the great bridge from shore to shore 
 Glittered across the darkness of the night. 
 The lamps set high 
 Against the windy sky, 
 Cast dim, half-sunken gleams 
 Upon the dusky rushing of the tide, 
 
 And evermore the hurrying crowds went by. 
 The man among them passed 
 Not now on sombre thought intent, 
 But with an aspect of defiant pride,
 
 A MARRIAGE OF SHADOWS 19 
 
 And glancing as he went, 
 Saw how a shadow lengthened out to meet 
 His shadow where it swaggered at his side, 
 Till twain were one beneath the passer's feet. 
 Then lifting careless eyes. 
 He felt within his soul a strange remembrance rise. 
 
 Was she a shadow who that shadow cast ? 
 A shadow out of long-forgotten days 
 
 Falling across the hfe she once made bright ? 
 Well might he stand and gaze — 
 
 Had the dull years turned backward in their flight 
 To give him once again 
 Rapture keen-edged with pain, 
 The hving vision of a dead delight ? 
 Was this his love, the lodestar of his youth ? 
 It could not be ! His love lay low. 
 Never again her weary head to raise — 
 Sad eyes were closed in sleep, 
 No more to weep, 
 Sad lips were sealed, and should no more complain, 
 Sad heart was still, no sorrow more to know — 
 And yet she seemed his love in very truth ! 
 So young, so fair, perforce he held his breath, 
 As if new life had blossomed out of death, 
 To bring him back that love of long ago. 
 
 c 2
 
 A MARRIAGE OF SHADOWS 
 
 Within his soul the Past arose once more — 
 The hour they parted, and the song she sung, 
 The eyes that followed, and the hands that clung. 
 Once more he stood where oft he stood before ; 
 The yellow sun was sinking in the west. 
 The tide, far off, was ebbing on the shore, 
 
 The orchard boughs 
 Were white with blossom, for the year w^as young. 
 Once more he saw, once more he saw and heard, 
 
 Once more he felt her pressed 
 Closely against his side ; 
 
 Strong in his whispered vows, 
 
 Scorning all fear of change 
 Singing her song of sun and leaf and tide, 
 
 Till, at a farewell word, 
 
 Her voice from its high range 
 Dropped in sharp anguish, like a wounded bird- 
 Dropped suddenly, and died 
 In spent and quivering sobs upon his breast. 
 
 Ah, who should sing the rest ? 
 Forgotten many a year those notes had been, 
 
 But now they woke again. 
 
 Pale Memory took up the broken strain. 
 And sang it through, with all the sobs between.
 
 A MARRIAGE OF SHADOWS 21 
 
 ' Go, Love, go — if needs it must be so — 
 Go, as the Sun goes down his western way 
 At dying of the day, 
 And all the earth is wrapped 
 In shadows chill and grey. 
 
 ' Go, Love, go — if needs it must be so — 
 Go from my longing as the Summer goes 
 From many a garden close. 
 And through the branches bare 
 The wind of autumn blows. 
 
 ' Go, Love, go — if needs it must be so — 
 
 Go as the Tide, that, sobbing, makes its moan 
 O'er sand and weedy stone. 
 And yet is drawn perforce 
 Unto the deep unknown. 
 
 ' Go, Love, go— if needs it must be so — • 
 Summer, and Sun, and Surges of the main, 
 Ye cannot heed my pain ! 
 
 Go, Love, go — if needs it must be so ; 
 
 But come. Love, come ! — O Love, come thus again ! 
 
 Come as they come. Love, going as they go ! ' 
 
 The momentary dream 
 Was past, the wedded shadows torn apart,
 
 ') 
 
 2 A MARRIAGE OF SHADOWS 
 
 The man once more alone, yet in his heart 
 The song was clear and loud, 
 Above the Babel of the crowd, 
 Above the ceaseless ripple of the stream, 
 And as he hastened on his way he stepped 
 To snatches of its music, sad as tears. 
 The haunting voice sang ever in his ears, 
 ' Come thus again ! O Love, come thus again ! ' 
 Mixing it with the notes of ' vain ' and ' pain. 
 And that refrain 
 At which of old she wept 
 Came back to him now all the tears were shed 
 Out of the regions of the dead. 
 
 An empty echo, ringing through the years. 
 
 He had not listened while she lived to pray 
 ' Come thus again — O Love, come thus again ! 
 But now that all the prayer was meaningless. 
 Now that he could not comfort her one day. 
 
 Nor with his presence bless. 
 
 Nor wipe away 
 The weary tears which were as fallen rain — 
 He turned as one who might no more delay, 
 As if she bade him follow to some place 
 Without the city, where in loneliness 
 
 He should stand face to face
 
 A MARRIAGE OF SHADOWS 23 
 
 With the dim heaven above, 
 And the eternal wrong he never could redress. 
 And she who seemed the shadow of his love, 
 
 Risen from the graveyard green, 
 Passed, yet turned backward ere she passed, 
 A lingering look to cast. 
 She too had seen 
 The wedlock of their shadows, she had raised 
 Her eyes to his, had met a glance amazed — 
 An awestruck glance, that saw her golden head 
 Beautiful with the beauty of the dead — 
 
 And in his startled eyes 
 Somewhat that startled her had leapt to light, 
 
 Somewhat of pride 
 Made an imperious claim that would not be denied^ 
 Somewhat of pain and wrong, unspoken, dim, 
 Looked forth, and drew her pity down to him. 
 A feeling that she scarce could recognise 
 Awoke within her, snatched a white disguise 
 Of prayer and thrilling with a strange affright, 
 Followed him through the shadows of the night.
 
 A MARRIAGE OF SHADOWS 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 These shadows of an unknown land and age 
 Passing afar upon their pilgrimage, 
 Fell for a little space across my page. 
 
 A shadow hand lay side by side with mine, 
 And ever as I wrote it penned a line 
 Whose purport I but dimly can divine. 
 
 Too faint, too subtle ; yet if any read 
 
 My dream, half spoiled in writing, I would plead 
 
 ' The shadow lines, between my verses, heed ! ' 
 
 There is so much that I have failed to say — 
 The dusky figures, gliding on their way. 
 Elude me, and the light of every day 
 
 Comes, slowly widening o'er the world again — 
 I look for all my midnight crowd in vain, 
 Gone ! and the written words alone remain. 
 
 Out of the shadows of an unknown night 
 The vision came. A momentary light 
 Revealed the crowding shapes in hurried flight.
 
 A MARRIAGE OF SHADOWS 25 
 
 Even as they fled they sorrowed and embraced, 
 Across the narrow gleam I saw them haste 
 Into the shadows where no path is traced. 
 
 I have no word to answer should you ask 
 Their further fortunes — not for me the task 
 To follow them and bid the End unmask. 
 
 When I can understand the scope and worth 
 Of but one deed of all deeds done on earth — 
 When I can trace it backward to its birth, 
 
 And onward, through whatever may befall. 
 Unto its end, then will I hear your call, 
 Question me then, and I will answer all. 
 
 Not now, for now with doubting steps I go 
 And in the peopled twilight dimly know 
 Strange marriage-bonds between things high and 
 low. 
 
 Faint whispers in the woodlands and the streams, 
 Half-lights, uncertain shadows, wandering gleams, 
 A clouded sky, a wilderness of dreams. 
 
 Longing for light a little way I creep, 
 
 And guard the thought that, when I fall asleep, 
 
 Others shall climb the never-conquered steep.
 
 26 A MARRIAGE OF SHADOWS 
 
 And see our pathways, trodden long before, 
 Lie far below them as a level floor ; 
 While vast horizons widen evermore, 
 
 — Yet evermore are girdled with a zone 
 
 Of dusky cloud, the land of things unknown, 
 
 Of days to come and days forespent and flown — 
 
 And man still climbing shall look up to meet 
 The light that draws him while his pulses beat. 
 Smiting all shadows downward to his feet. 
 
 But while the vision rises nobly fair, 
 
 A voice in every ripple of the air 
 
 Whispers of things that are not, though they were. 
 
 A voice of changing seasons, changing times, 
 From often trodden ways, and far-off climes. 
 With dying echoes woven into rhymes. 
 
 ' Idly you wander — whither leads your way ? 
 You watch the shadows — are you not as they ? 
 They pass and are forgotten — shall you stay ? 
 
 ' Have you not listened to the summer breeze, 
 And listening, dreamed, beneath the leafy trees. 
 Of sunsets, dying over unknown seas.
 
 A MAURI AGE OF SHADOWS 27 
 
 Of dawn, far off and fair on sovereign heights, 
 Or keenest splendour of unresting lights 
 In the great loneliness of northern nights— 
 
 ' Of white waves breaking on a desert beach. 
 Unseen, unknown, unuttered in your speech, 
 Unseen, unknown, as far beyond your reach 
 
 ' As fallen snow when come the summer rains. 
 As bygone sweetness of a wild bird's strains, 
 As jests and fancies, lost in dead men's brains ? 
 
 ' The lavish beauty dawns while no man heeds, 
 And, like the wind's quick whisper in the reeds, 
 It dies away, not measured by your needs, 
 
 ' Beyond you, lost for ever ! Will you say 
 That the great world rolls backward on its way 
 To bring again the grace of yesterday — 
 
 ' Backward, to battle for the shattered spoil 
 That Death has hidden 'neath the trampled soil, 
 Backward, to seek with melancholy toil, 
 
 The flower that bloomed and dropped, the flame 
 
 that died, 
 The song's last echo ? No, in fruitful pride 
 It hastens onward, casting all aside.
 
 28 A MARRIAGE OF SHADOWS 
 
 ' Fresh buds unclose where withered blossoms grew, 
 Fresh melodies ring out when skies are blue, 
 Nature is glad, and all the world is new. 
 
 ' Since first the years in changing seasons ran 
 All grace and beauty live their little span, 
 Why not the beauty and the joy of man ? 
 
 ' Nature has never reached a hand to save, 
 Has never paused beside an open grave 
 To give again the life that once she gave. 
 
 ' Shadows and men she sees them every one 
 Passing away, as pass when day is done 
 Black flights of birds across the western sun.' 
 
 '&' 
 
 So speaks the voice and pauses in its flow, 
 I answer. What am I that I should know? 
 Must all our life be quenched? It may be so. 
 
 It may be so. Yet can it change my cry ? 
 Let the last man be nobler far than I 
 Though I am dead, though he shall surely die. 
 
 It may be so. Yet who can tell the height, 
 The joy, the white perfection of the light 
 He may attain before the coming night ?
 
 A MARRIAGE OF SHADOWS 29 
 
 Who knows what clearer vision there may be 
 
 In the great days that I shall never see ? 
 
 — Shall not this hope be hope enough for me ? 
 
 Why must a mortal love be meaner, less, 
 
 Nor rather rise on high, through narrowing stress. 
 
 To passion of all-giving tenderness ? 
 
 With other hearts our hearts must beat and ache, 
 Life were not much to give for their dear sake, 
 Life were not much to give, nor death to take. 
 
 Nay we may dream each planet has its dower. 
 Of hidden hope, and at the destined hour 
 Opens in sweet and solitary flower — 
 
 Burns in a glory of consuming fire. 
 Sudden and strong as passionate desire, 
 Then dies in ashes like a funeral pyre — 
 
 Breaks forth in song that soars with winged strain 
 To silver heights, transforming all its pain 
 To music — then the silence comes again. 
 
 If like a shadow, or a passing sigh, 
 
 Love, thus made perfect from the world must die. 
 
 Scorn it who will, I will not scorn it — I ! 
 
 1878.
 
 30 A SUA DO IV ON THE DIAL 
 
 A SHADOW ON THE DIAL. 
 
 I am yet young. Yet am not I so young 
 But that along life's tense and fraying thread 
 Run sudden tremors — thoughts of age to come, 
 And of the final snapping, which is Death. 
 Each thrill a stab, and then a lingering ache ; 
 A note which startles — echoes, faints, and dies. 
 As if the quivering string made sad response 
 Unto a far-off hand ; upraised to warn 
 And smite, like that whereof the legend tells, 
 Which wrote in awful mercy on the wall. 
 
 Then do I dream of something which pursues. 
 With lengthened strides as years run shortened by. 
 A step 'mid blue-bells when they come again, 
 A step beneath June's canopy of green, 
 A sigh which wanders with the wandering wind, 
 A rustle mixed with autumn's rustling leaves, 
 A chill which falls with winter's falling snow.
 
 A SHADOW ON THE DIAL ■■^x 
 
 Only a sigh, a shadow and a chill. 
 Not altogether pain — a bitterness 
 Which adds a last intensity to joy. 
 He know's Love's agony of rapture best, 
 Who hears, amid his lady's loving talk, 
 An echo from the regions of the grave ; 
 Who crops the blossoms of his life in haste 
 And flings them down before her, lest they fail 
 To share the death he sees upon her face. 
 Her face, his flower, or no ! his star — Ah God ! 
 Too like a star, which, doomed in highest heaven. 
 Flames in unwonted splendour ere it dies ! 
 And evermore, as hurrying years go round, 
 " Is not June sweeter that December comes ? 
 And blossoms that they fade ? Yes, better so. 
 For who would cherish an unfading flower, 
 With which a thousand other hands had toyed, 
 Whose petals scores of unknown lips had brushed ? 
 Now, lost, it dies, or lingers faintly pure, 
 Crowned with the hazy halo of a dream ; 
 But if it Hved from June to June, the vile 
 Might wear your rose, or it might be the gift 
 Another lover gave another love. 
 Let the undying flowers we should profane 
 Bloom sacredly in sacred Paradise, 
 And leave the poorer garlands gathered here, 
 The sad, supreme, pathetic charm of death.
 
 32 A SHADOW ON THE DIAL 
 
 For Death is great, inscrutable, alone 
 
 Common to all, but never commonplace. 
 
 It overhangs our dull and hackneyed lives, 
 
 As the grey silence of an endless cliff, 
 
 Sheer to the flood, and towering to the sky, 
 
 Defies and dominates a waste of waves. 
 
 Death is a king, whose face we should behold 
 
 With awe, but not with loathing — Death is great. 
 
 Ah ! but Old Age, his herald ! See the bent 
 
 Decrepit messenger, who totters first 
 
 To lead us to his presence — clasps our hands 
 
 With shaking fingers, checks our fearless step. 
 
 Constraining it to his, — and leans on us, 
 
 Till, bowed and sickened with his hateful weight, 
 
 We crawl, half wiUingly, to meet our doom. 
 
 Idly I muse, and fashion pictures thus. 
 Yet age, meanwhile, to me is nothing, save 
 A chill, a shapeless shadow, and a sigh. 
 But in the coming days how shall it be ? 
 Then will the shadow take an awful shape ? 
 Then will the chill freeze all the springs of hope ? 
 Then will the sigh become a weary moan 
 Breathed from within, not wandering without ? 
 If so, fain would I look it in the face. 
 Who would not rather meet a spectral form
 
 A SHADOW ON THE DIAL 33 
 
 Fresh from the laughing circle of his friends, 
 Than in a vigil, where the meanest things 
 Loom through the shadows, strange and terrible ? 
 
 Come then. Old Age, and let me see your face. 
 
 Utter your spell, whereat the blood runs cold. 
 
 Bind mine, for sport, in brief and bitter frost, 
 
 — I smile, since it must flow unchecked again, — 
 
 Show me your pall, which, flung across the world, 
 
 Will settle slowly down in sable folds, 
 
 — My God will rend the gloomy veil for me. — 
 
 Are you so busy, darkening men's lives 
 
 In awful earnest, that there is no time 
 
 For jesting? Needs must T resign the hope, 
 
 And yet it haunts me. Would it might have been ! 
 
 What harm if I had stood a vision's space, 
 
 And gathered thoughts, then with a mute farewell, 
 
 Gone on my journey towards our common goal ? 
 
 It may not be. And I am left alone. 
 
 To grasp, and bring to light my lurking fear. 
 
 Dim eyes, dull ears, slow pulses, faiUng knees. 
 Hard, hard to bear, but these are not old age. 
 For say it pleased my God to strike me blind. 
 Make me a cripple, whose enfeebled life 
 Ebbs by the fireside, — am I therefore old ? 
 
 D
 
 34 SHADOW ON THE DIAL 
 
 No ! for my sightless eyes will surely serve 
 
 For bursts of youthful weeping — ' Blind ! and all 
 
 Is loveliness around me ! Paradise 
 
 Is the wide world, which I shall never see ! 
 
 Godlike the strife which I shall never share ! ' • 
 
 Not mine the hopeless burden of old age, 
 
 ' Ah ! once there was a world all golden-green, 
 
 Which since has withered to a dreary grey. 
 
 Great lives were lived, and strermous battles fought 
 
 Yes, those were men ! Now a degenerate mob 
 
 Hustle each other on a downward road ! ' 
 
 Thus may my grandsire muse, across the rug, 
 
 Stare at the kettle, watch the cinders fall, 
 
 He in his easy chair, while I in mine 
 
 Feel sharper anguish, — joy compared to his. 
 
 I know I cannot win the Koh-i-noor, 
 
 He thinks his eyes are opened, and 'tis glass, 
 
 I am the richer, by the Koh-i-noor ! 
 
 Youth — age — how does my fancy shape itself ! 
 I seem to see an airy, vacant room. 
 With open casements, where the azure shines 
 Through leaflessness of interlacing boughs ; 
 Not bare, as when November's latest leaf 
 Has shivered sadly downward to the mire, 
 But leaflessness of March, a ruddy haze 
 Flushing the twigs with promise of the spring.
 
 A SHADOW ON THE DIAL 
 
 35 
 
 Shadows of branches waver on the floor, 
 
 And 'mid the wavering shadows plays a child, 
 
 And, like the shadows, flickers to and fro. 
 
 Now, at the wide bright windows, golden hair 
 
 Glistens in golden sunlight, and blue eyes 
 
 Search the blue vault, while the spring-scented breeze 
 
 Breaks in soft billows on his lifted face. 
 
 And now with small feet pattering on the boards. 
 
 He wakes the silent room to share his mirth. 
 
 Then sitting on the floor, in childish thought. 
 
 He tosses here and there a heap of flowers, 
 
 And, because all his life is only spring, 
 
 The crocus-cups, that overflow with spring. 
 
 To him are nought but playthings. He is young, 
 
 And so it is he knows not he is young. 
 
 Nor any other old. Wanton he tears 
 
 The blossoms into little saffron shreds, 
 
 x\nd flings them down. Who will, may piece the 
 
 leaves. 
 And read their message innocently sweet. 
 
 Just a tiny blue-eyed maid. 
 Newly out of Eden strayed ; 
 Lips, a bud rose-tinted, rare, 
 And the sunlight in her hair — 
 Here is Spring ! 
 
 D 2
 
 36 A SHADOW ON THE DIAL 
 
 Leaves are few to make her bowers 
 Bunches bright of leafless flowers 
 Are by baby fingers placed 
 Side by side, in happy haste — • 
 Little Spring ! 
 
 Gardens dark with winter gloom, 
 All at once begin to bloom ; 
 Budding branches, lifted high, 
 Laugh and whisper in the sky, 
 
 ' Welcome, Spring ! ' 
 
 She will reach their stately height— 
 What to her are blossoms bright ? 
 Little Spring, in haste to pass, 
 Lets them fall among the grass — 
 Eager Spring ! 
 
 Tip-toe stands, with parted lips, 
 Cannot reach their swaying tips, 
 Brushes past in April grief- 
 See ! The underwood in leaf ! 
 Fairy Spring ! 
 
 She is growing tall and slim. 
 And her eyes are darkly dim,
 
 A SHADOW ON THE DIAL 37 
 
 Deepening with the deepening sky, 
 Darkening with the blue-bell's dye, 
 — Is it Spring ? — 
 
 They were wide and undismayed, 
 Timid now, and veiled in shade — 
 Comes a sound of hurrying feet, 
 She is flushed with roses sweet — 
 Happy Spring ! 
 
 Ah ! last moment here she stood. 
 Gone for ever ! Through the wood 
 Came young Summer, and in bliss 
 Died she 'neath his burning kiss — 
 Farewell, Spring ! 
 
 Throw wide the windows to a golden flood 
 
 Of sunlight, song, and perfume, — June is here ! 
 
 Now reigns the rose in pride of flower and leaf. 
 
 And drops the curtain of her tangled sprays, 
 
 Laden with blossom, o'er the grave of spring. 
 
 Now come strange thrills of impulse unto one 
 
 Who feels the early summer in his veins, 
 
 And finds all sweetness 'neath the arching blue. 
 
 Sweeter, because of one most sweet of all. 
 
 The earth is full of joy and melody. 
 
 Yet he looks upward, for the clouds unfold
 
 38 A SHADOW ON THE DIAL 
 
 The loveliness of visionary lands, 
 Bright in the airy silence of the sky. 
 He dreams of heights ascended — glorious toil, 
 And glorious recompense, — when kneeling crowds 
 Shall prove his worthiness to kneel to her, 
 And conquest show his right to serve mankind. 
 And other dreams he has that know no shape, 
 Since June has joys too delicate and vague 
 For human speech, joys that are subtly linked 
 To thoughts of her, beyond all utterance. 
 The summer world is fair, and she is fair, 
 She is his world, and all its beauty hers. 
 
 My Summer is a fair, triumphant queen, 
 Who on her joyous way, through glade and glen. 
 With song and dainty masque, in woodlands green, 
 Makes glad the hearts of men, 
 
 So that they love the sunlight and the rose. 
 Smile, and forget their bitter wrongs and pains, 
 Gaze at her pageant, and the Ufe-blood flows 
 Rejoicing, through their veins. 
 
 When she is gone, all gladness will depart, 
 Slow dying — can I be content with this ? 
 Not while my heart can seek the throbbing heart 
 That floods the world with bliss !
 
 A SHADOW ON THE DIAL 39 
 
 So from her fleeting loveliness I fly, 
 Choosing the endless summer for my goal, 
 And hasten — all my soul a longing cry — 
 To seek the summer's soul ! 
 
 Look now upon a wilderness of wealth. 
 
 Of barren glitter, and bright mockery ; 
 
 Where blazonry is more than sky and stars, 
 
 And woven splendours from an eastern loom. 
 
 With perfumed folds shut out the breath of heaven. 
 
 Yet though the master of this shining hoard 
 
 Be ever watchful — stretching greedy hands 
 
 Unto far islands, and remotest shores. 
 
 And though he pile up treasure year by year, 
 
 — Computing time by growth of glittering heaps — 
 
 Among his jewels you shall never find 
 
 Spring's crocus gold, nor diamond dew of June. 
 
 The shadows gather fast, the night comes on. 
 
 And what is there can give him back his youth ? 
 
 Ah my God ! I lingered, stooping, in a dim and 
 
 leafy place. 
 And my groping hand uncovered Autumn's wan 
 
 discoloured face ! 
 Then a sudden, sullen shiver ran and died among 
 
 the trees,
 
 40 A SHADOW ON THE DIAL 
 
 And I see that face in all things, and I fly with 
 
 trembhng knees. 
 Fly — but whither ? Days are shortened, and the leaves 
 
 are falling fast — 
 I have not found the summer's soul, and all my hope 
 
 is past ! 
 
 One last look. All the air is close and faint, 
 And in the dimness of his curtained bed 
 He lies, worn out, and w^eary of his life ; 
 While round him come and go the busy throngs 
 That his dim eyes would follow if they could. 
 
 He has grown grey. Perhaps. He scarcely knows. 
 
 He almost fancies that the world is grey. 
 
 The joy of life is gone — 'tis hardly pain. 
 
 But is there not a dull, unceasing ache 
 
 Throughout the universe ? There was a time, 
 
 Happy, but long departed, when he deemed 
 
 That life, and joy, and energy, were one 
 
 And his for evermore. But now, is not 
 
 All nature growing feeble, and all life 
 
 Low in the socket? Well, the joyous past 
 
 Is past, and comes no more. Nought but to wait 
 
 Till this be also past. How long ? How long ? 
 
 No longer. Suddenly the thread is snapped.
 
 A SHADOW ON THE DIAL 41 
 
 God looks upon him with His face of Death, 
 And lifts him up to learn that God is Life. 
 
 O the great breath he draws ! The startled gaze ! 
 God's sky is sapphire, then ! God's earth is green ! 
 Gone are the sullen clouds — Decay and Age, 
 Dim spectral tyrants, fled into the past. 
 Henceforth no death — life only — death is nought. 
 No darkness, but a shoreless sea of light — 
 Nor youth, nor age, but God is all in all. 
 
 Thus in my fancy runs the course of life. 
 And murmurs, as it flows through sun and shade, 
 * Never look back to yearn for what is past.' 
 Youth is not in the days when we were young, 
 Nor in the places which we loved when young ; 
 Given to our longing, we should find them old. 
 Empty, and meaningless. O foolish hearts ! 
 Never so young as when our straining eyes 
 Look for a future which shall crown us kings ; 
 Never so old as when we dream of youth, 
 And long for it — a thing apart and gone. 
 
 So a man lingers on a mountain range. 
 
 And, loath to go, looks downward from his height 
 
 Upon a sunset lake of lucid fire,
 
 42 A SHADOW ON THE DIAL 
 
 Which Ues amid its banks of ruddy cloud. 
 
 He stands and gazes, till his heart is stirred, 
 
 Drawn to the glory, yearning to possess 
 
 Light, and the glowing hues, and splendid calm. 
 
 Yet with a sudden sigh he turns away, 
 
 Fronts the cold blankness of the far-off East, 
 
 And passes slowly downward, to the sad 
 
 And shrouded wilderness of vales below. 
 
 Gone is the widespread beauty of the world, 
 
 For step by step the summits shut him in ; 
 
 Crags overhang his ever-narrowing path, 
 
 And beneath every crag and every tree 
 
 Lurks Night, to spring upon the shrinking Dusk, 
 
 Weary and chilled is he— the pathway rough, 
 
 He stumbles onward, but his thoughts go back 
 
 To the bright glory of the western sky, 
 
 The tranquil height, the warm and golden air, 
 
 The blue above, the sunny turf below — 
 
 His thoughts go back, but still he stumbles on. 
 
 Darkness, and cloud, and bitter driving rain — 
 What matter ? For his face is toward the east, 
 And his shall be the dawning of the day. 
 The greyness of old age is but a mist 
 From the dark valley where our graves are dug ; 
 A chilly vapour, which obscures the world
 
 A SHADOW ON THE DIAL 43 
 
 And hides from us the sun's bright certainty, 
 Till all is dim, and, could we so resist 
 God's onward impulse, we should struggle back 
 To search the western heaven for the dawn ! 
 Nay, urge us forward, Lord, and bid us win 
 Thy orient flower of white and perfect day ! 
 
 But if I thus believe, why fear old age ? 
 
 Why not pass boldly through the mocking mist. 
 
 In full assurance of eternal youth. 
 
 And of the final triumph of the sun? 
 
 Ah ! but my faith is like the sun itself — • 
 
 No little talisman to have and hold, 
 
 And grasp more tightly when the shadows come ; 
 
 But a mysterious majesty of light, 
 
 Across whose glory billows of black cloud 
 
 Drive, and the sudden darkness is astir 
 
 With wavering of fantastic shapes of doubt. 
 
 Unto the very verge of death we go 
 
 With those who die. We meet their failing eyes, 
 
 And we are sad — not seeing how that look 
 
 Of unbelief shall rise to breathless awe. 
 
 And, as the golden light succeeds the grey. 
 
 Shall brighten to an ecstasy of peace — 
 
 And so there is a shadow on the end. 
 
 Here^ plain enough, the sombre threads of life.
 
 44 A SHADOW ON THE DIAL 
 
 Twisted and tangled in a sullen maze ; 
 
 And overhead — O surely overhead 
 
 Shine through earth's clouds of dust the golden 
 
 strings 
 Of lives, which, set in heaven as in a harp, 
 Pour forth their flood of melody on high. 
 Surely we hear — Nay, who will make us sure ? 
 From the dim distance to this warring world, 
 The music comes so faint and fitfully, 
 — Clamour and moans on this side and on that — 
 We lean and listen^ drawing down our brows, 
 And sometimes lose, and sometimes half believe. 
 O if some sudden trumpet note might peal. 
 So that the world a moment held its breath 
 Amazed, and then, uphfting a great voice, 
 — The utterance of its countless multitudes — 
 Joined in the strain, and made the gathering notes 
 As thunder — then an overflowing stream — 
 A great flood irresistible — and last, 
 A steady, upward rush of wnngs to God ! 
 
 Too fair a dream for hope ! We must go on, 
 Must journey through the miry ways of earth. 
 And labour in its shadows, to the end. 
 Ever the changeless change of day and night 
 Continues, noon and twilight, gloom and glow
 
 A SHADOW ON THE DIAL 45 
 
 There comes no blaze of dazzling certainty 
 To flood the world, and drown each dim recess 
 In waves of living light. Too fair the dream ! 
 Too blinding bright, too terrible the boon ! 
 
 God give me strength to journey steadfastly 
 Unto the East, nor miss the wayside gift 
 Of leaf and song. O that my heart may beat 
 For coming life, and for the hurried clash 
 Of the world's march, yet never lose the tunes, 
 Tender and sweet, to which old days were set ! 
 Still, as years fleet, may every crocus cup 
 O'erflow for me with the new wine of spring; 
 Still let me love the morning's dewy calm, 
 The wind that whispers of the far-off waves. 
 The hum of bees, the daisies in the grass, 
 The music all the little brooks pour forth 
 To while away their weary course, until 
 They meet the boundless welcome of the sea; 
 Still may my soul be glad among the flowers, 
 Thrill to the sun's warm kisses on the dew, 
 And rise, renewed, in freshness after rain. 
 
 Yet not such joy alone — the pain too, Lord, 
 The special suffering of this special age, 
 Give me my portion of its bitter cup.
 
 46 A SHADOW ON THE DIAL 
 
 I shrink from it, yet, being what I am, 
 
 I were not greater than my fellow men. 
 
 But meaner, less, if while they bowed their backs 
 
 'Neath weary loads, or hewed an upward path, 
 
 T, steeped in idle happiness, should gaze 
 
 With half-closed eyes, that scarcely care to see. 
 
 I would not take the flowers, and leave to them • 
 
 The nobler share, the sweat-drops of their toil. 
 
 Give me youth's highest right — nay, very youth 
 
 Itself, the knowledge that my every pulse 
 
 Beats with the inmost pulses of the age ; 
 
 And that not only in its hours of hope; 
 
 Not only in its victories and joys — 
 
 Give labouring sobs, to match the labouring sob 
 
 Wrung from a toiling world — defiant cry 
 
 Of battle, in the lurid times of war — 
 
 Yearnings for guidance in the days of doubt; 
 
 For through such sympathy, in suffering. 
 
 In hope, in triumph, quickened into life, 
 
 I gain a ghmpse of something more than joy, 
 
 Higher than rapture, distant as a star — 
 
 A time beyond all time — a steadfast gaze — 
 
 An ever-widening thought — when my weak heart, 
 
 Lifted above self-consciousness, shall beat 
 
 In unison with His, unchangeable. 
 
 Who, through the rolling ages, says I AM.
 
 A SHADOW ON THE DIAL 47 
 
 Star of hope ! The beating wings of time 
 Droop, wearied, fail my longing, and thou art 
 Perfect as ever, and as ever, far. 
 
 Yet, wert thou quenched, the heavens were black 
 indeed ! 
 
 1 end as I began. Through gliding days 
 I watch the spinning of the thread of life. 
 Which lengthens, lengthens even as I write, 
 And thrills with meaning to its utmost length. 
 My path before me glimmers through the grey, 
 I rise, and follow it. Though shadows come. 
 And drifting vapours darken into night — 
 Though fear arise, and front me as despair — 
 Here stands the record of my happier faith. 
 
 It stands, but I go forward, will be brave 
 To bear, to toil — Ah God ! the icy doubt ! 
 How will it be when life is burning dim. 
 In evil days when hope and joy are dead ? 
 Lord, if Thy signals grow but faint and few, 
 Give me assurance that they are from Thee, 
 The Life of Life, flowing in perfect strength, 
 Not weakened — all the imperfection mine. 
 Then send Thy final message — a white flash 
 To snap the thread, and light me to Thy feet !
 
 48 
 
 THE LEVEL LAND} 
 
 Stirred by great aims, our eager souls leap high 
 As flame, or living tree, or slender tower; 
 But withered longings round such life must lie, 
 Fallen like flowers of spring foredoomed to die. 
 After a little space of sun and shower. 
 Our trodden world is touched with poets' fire; 
 Star-hke, unknown, there hangs a world above; 
 And we have hfe, can labour and aspire, 
 And seek for God; yet sometimes I desire — 
 Ah! how desire a level land I love! 
 
 A land of sunny turf and laughing rills, 
 A land of endless summer, sweet with dew. 
 Girt with a range of everlasting hills. 
 Asleep beneath a sky of white and blue. 
 There, with a silver flash, 'mid grove and lawn, 
 Like curving blades are thrust the narrow creeks, 
 And ocean breezes rush at dusk and dawn 
 With songs of freedom round the guardian peaks. 
 
 1 First published in Harper's Magazine for November 1880.
 
 THE LEVEL LAND 49 
 
 In sparkling air the poplars quiver high; 
 In every thicket sing the birds unseen; 
 O'er sculptured walls, beneath the glowing sky, 
 Fruits cluster, purple-ripe; and waters lie 
 Lucid in fountains rimmed with mossy green. 
 
 A clearer music whispers in the reeds 
 Than reeds have ever learned by brooks of ours, 
 And throughout all the year the level meads 
 Are golden-green, and sprinkled full of flowers. 
 As some dear child once more at home might stand, 
 Her very self, but taller and more fair — 
 Herself, yet changed in eyes and brow and hair- 
 So like, unlike, the flowers in that far land, 
 And violets grow very thickly there. 
 
 And there is many a wide and busy way 
 
 Which echoes with the singing of sweet words 
 
 And greetings ; for the wayfarers are gay, 
 
 Light, and unwearied as the darting birds. 
 
 Their eyes are glad for beauty that has been. 
 
 Glad for new beauty, where they feast afresh. 
 
 And every face is delicate and keen, 
 
 Clothed but not burdened with its garb of flesh. 
 
 Nor is among them stammering thought nor tongue, 
 
 But eyes and lips and hands have perfect speech. 
 
 E
 
 so THE LEVEL LAND 
 
 Outlines, or mingled hues, words said or sung, 
 Sweet wordless looks, and music finely strung 
 Belong to all, and answer each to each. 
 
 Maidens are there might bid a gazer deem 
 That the soft shadows of the eventide — 
 The balmy dusk when day has newly died — 
 Flowed in their veins, a swift and subtle stream, 
 So darkly sweet among the flowers they glide. 
 Their garments, as they flit between the trees. 
 Blend their rich dyes in one imperial glow, 
 Like a fair garden of anemones 
 When blossoms open and the south winds blow. 
 And others look upon that land's delight. 
 Grey-eyed and stately — women queenly souled— 
 Golden their hair, and in their raiment white 
 Have cunning fingers woven flowers of gold. 
 
 They have no laughter there of lofty scorn, 
 Nor of a gladness from the world apart, 
 No sidelong merriment, no satire born 
 Of hidden pain and weariness of heart. 
 - Joy of the world with joy of man unites — 
 Gladness of brooks that glitter in the sun, 
 Greetings of lovers, leafy shades and lights 
 Dancing in golden riot, all are one.
 
 THE LEVEL LAND 51 
 
 Sweet with the kiss of ripples on the sand, 
 With mirth of flower and bird, of maid and boy, 
 Goes up the laughter of the level land, 
 Its clearest note the note of human joy. 
 
 Like a midsummer madrigal which tells 
 Of golden love in notes Uke golden bells 
 Is that fair land for which I vainly long; 
 And even were I throned where gladness dwells, 
 Mine were a note of discord in the song. 
 For dim perplexities, and hopes that wane. 
 Doubt, and the ghastly riddles Sin and Pain, 
 Burden of Duty, and contending creeds. 
 Would still pursue, oppress my weary brain, 
 And mar the music of the river reeds. 
 
 O heavy Thought! Can Sleep no comfort yield, 
 Who conquers every pain with transient health — 
 Lost ere the sick heart knew that it was healed — 
 Fair Sleep, who mocks and blesses us by stealth, 
 Bids us be kings and rule the empty air. 
 Fly on swift pinions, or renew our youth — 
 Can Sleep no comfort yield in my despair ? 
 O for a sleep whose visions, faint and fair. 
 Should gather strength, should win a virtue rare, 
 Open Hke buds, and blossom into Truth ! 
 
 E 2
 
 52 THE LEVEL LAND 
 
 Is there such perfect slumber 'neath the sky ? 
 Nay, is there not ? It might be found, I think, 
 Could I attain that land. Could I but lie 
 Upon the level turf, and softly sigh, 
 'Mid the soft sighing of the water's brink, 
 Till I forgot the strife of Right and Wrong, 
 Forgot the gloom of overhanging Death, 
 And slept off all my care 'mid rippling song, 
 Might I not rise, and drawing fuller breath. 
 Wake to no torpid creeping of the blood, 
 But a quick rush of life — no languid flow 
 Of joy wrung out amid encircling woe, 
 But gladness pouring in a golden flood ? 
 Dream of a fool! The soul makes answer, No. 
 
 Not mine, nor shall be mine from first to last. 
 That level land. There rises from the sod — 
 
 glory inconceivable and vast! 
 Awful as fate, and silent as the past — 
 Dimly, an infinite ascent to God. 
 
 Not mine that land, in days afar or near. 
 How could I ever long its shores to win ? — 
 
 1 who strain upward toward an atmosphere 
 Of sovereign calm, so thin and crystal clear 
 All lower life must faint and die therein.
 
 THE LEVEL LAND 53 
 
 Yet is my path encompassed by the spell. 
 It lurks in written page and carven stone, 
 And blossoms from our laboured gardens tell 
 Of fair lands golden-crowned with asphodel, 
 Where joys and flowers spring up, alike unsown. 
 What marvel if at times I dream again, 
 When earth is warm, and heaven is blue above. 
 And yearning for that vision sweet and vain. 
 Shrink from the soul's high heritage of pain ? 
 O land — fair land! O level land I love!
 
 51 
 
 OUT OF THE DARKNESS. 
 NIGHT. 
 
 The tardy night is here. I welcome it, 
 Since darkness makes me, for a little while 
 Fair as my fellow-girls. These eyes alone, — 
 On which my form is branded as with fire — 
 Can see me, now the world is blind with night 
 And hushed in heavy sleep. I would there were 
 No morning hght to throw a covering shape, 
 Distorted past distortion, on the wall ! 
 
 I am alone. I think there is no girl 
 Who would not shudder, were she left alone 
 With such deformity, in doubtful night. 
 Who, flying from the horror, would not claim 
 Your pity. But my shuddering loneliness 
 Lasting so long outlasts all sympathy. 
 The golden cord, as strong as loving arms,
 
 OUT OF THE DARKNESS 5; 
 
 With which compassion girds us in our pain 
 And holds us up, is drawn through lengthened years 
 To gossamer, that on the summer air 
 Drifts uselessly, and all unheeded, breaks. 
 
 Now is the time when, kneeling by their beds, 
 
 Girls pray in whispers, gentle faces bowed 
 
 Upon their folded hands. And while their lips 
 
 Pause, ere a name be uttered, they may glide 
 
 Unwittingly, from prayer to reverie, 
 
 Then waken with a start, all rosy-red 
 
 With shame and tenderness, as if they stayed 
 
 To clasp fond hands upon the narrow way 
 
 And found their backs were turned on Paradise ! 
 
 If a stray thought of me should cross their minds 
 
 Would they not pity me ? Yet they would say 
 
 ' Surely her prayers are purer far than ours. 
 
 Untroubled by these sweetly wilful dreams. 
 
 No eager eyes meet hers, to draw aside 
 
 Her upward gaze, no softly lingering words 
 
 Will fill her ears with music, when at night 
 
 She listens, till the Spirit shall say. Come. 
 
 'Tis hard for us to put the joy aside ; 
 
 But she — now shall she not win heaven, who needs 
 
 Must scorn the world ? How shall she not embrace 
 
 God's love, to whom the love of man is nought ? '
 
 57 OUT OF THE DARKNESS 
 
 To whom the love of man is nought ! O fools ! 
 
 It is for that I moan in blackest night. 
 
 My soul is burning in a quenchless thirst 
 
 For love. My fancy roams through endless dreams, 
 
 Known all the time for sickening emptiness — 
 
 Dreams, still of love. O for a word, one word ! — 
 
 Yet every word is like a stinging lash, 
 
 Pity or insult, both are agony ! 
 
 For one fond touch — yet every touch is fire ! 
 
 Nothing but human eyes can give the love 
 
 I die for — eyes that brand me when they glance ! 
 
 Thus evermore I moan in blackest night. 
 
 Were I a poet I might acquiesce 
 
 In this accursed burden of the flesh, 
 
 Lie crushed and quiet, while my song uprose 
 
 And rang above the heads of stately men 
 
 And fairest women, bidding them look up 
 
 Unto my dreams, more fair and stately still. 
 
 I too might lift my eyes, and see myself, 
 
 As they would see me, soaring high as heaven. 
 
 Had I such wings I might afford to scorn 
 
 The ugliness that no one then would heed. 
 
 When, in the final hour of swaying fight. 
 
 The trumpet notes ring keen through ear and soul, 
 
 Who stops to cavil at the trumpet's form ?
 
 OUT OF THE DARKNESS 56 
 
 But here am I, misshapen, slow of speech. 
 
 Having within me, for my only gift, 
 
 The woman's power of answering love with love. 
 
 O mockery ! I read it in the eyes, 
 
 The searching, scorching eyes thai; madden me ! 
 
 Why was not I a creature born to fight ? 
 
 Born to give hate for loathing ? That were well. 
 
 But here lies, helplessly, a human heart 
 
 Which every careless passer-by may spurn, 
 
 A human heart that aches in blackest night. 
 
 * Morbid ! ' the world protests. ' This anguish looms 
 
 Large, through the mist of your distempered dreams. 
 
 Some mock at you no doubt, but mockery 
 
 Is mostly want of thought. And many a glance 
 
 Looks kindlier on you, for sweet pity's sake, 
 
 And lingers gently. Why will you repulse 
 
 Such glances ? ' 
 
 I am parched with thirst for love, 
 And do you bid me quench my thirst with this 
 The shattered spray of love's out-pouring tide, 
 Only a scanty dew, the niggard shower 
 Of pity, spared from love, and never missed ! 
 Shall I drink this ? I say it mocks my lips — 
 It is not pity that I need, but love !
 
 58 OUT OF THE DARKNESS 
 
 Vainly I make my moan in blackest night. 
 
 Again the world comes in ' Love God ! Love God ! 
 
 Why should I love Him, since He loves not me, 
 
 Nor ever cared to teach me how to love, 
 
 By perfect love of any soul on earth ? 
 
 He is Omnipotent — a cripple I. 
 
 It may be that hereafter He will show 
 
 Love in despite of this — but can He ask 
 
 That I should read His love in very wrong? 
 
 It may be. Yet I know not. This I know, 
 
 That I am daily learning how to hate. 
 
 With deadliest hatred, born of love repulsed ! — 
 
 But if thus warped in heart I were to find 
 
 Another woman, tortured like myself, 
 
 And felt within ray soul the smallest gift 
 
 Of help, I could not hold my hand, my hate 
 
 Could never reach such height of cruelty 
 
 As can this love of God — if it be love. 
 
 And not a cold, supreme, eternal scorn. 
 
 ' Nay, but the Christ ' you say ' Who leans from 
 
 heaven, 
 The Man of sorrows, stretching wounded hands, 
 To clasp and hold the hands of sorrowing men, 
 Christ who was scourged, and mocked and crucified, 
 Christ, like yourself, rejected and despised.
 
 OUT OF THE DARKNESS 59 
 
 Enthrone Him in your heart, your Lord and Love, 
 And you shall have no need of love of man. 
 
 Vainly you plead. I look, but answer No. 
 
 If I were fair enough for men to seek 
 
 It might be I could put their love aside 
 
 To choose the mystic Bridegroom, clasp that sweet 
 
 Eternal, yearning, melancholy Love, 
 
 And keep a white virginity for Him. 
 
 Not now. I will not give for sacrifice 
 
 That which all men deride ; nor offer dumb 
 
 Endurance, as submission to God's will ; 
 
 Nor loathed loneliness for chastity ! 
 
 Talk not of Christ — what is your Christ to me ? 
 Rejected, scorned— O easy scorn to bear ! 
 Let millions mock, if here and there a heart 
 Carries its love for you through all the years, 
 Nay if but one were faithful, that were all. 
 One heart may be a world. A world ! One heart 
 May hold the meaning of the universe 
 Revealed to loving eyes. But as for me. 
 What is your Christ to me ? Look on that face, — 
 Pressed hke a signet on the souls of men — 
 See where he stands, a dreamer, prophet, kint 
 Half feminine, but with a something else 
 
 ig>
 
 6o OUT OF THE DARKNESS 
 
 Which being hardly human, may be God. 
 See little children crowd around his knees, — 
 The children who would scream in fear and hate 
 At sight of me ! — Look on him where he sits 
 At his last supper, sought by ardent eyes 
 That swear devotion, while the man he loves 
 Leans on his bosom — Not till earth denied 
 Some hunted wretch a moment's resting place. 
 Would head be ever laid on heart of mine ! — 
 See him once more, with sunlight and blue air 
 Around him, and the lilies at his feet — 
 See the great multitude stand hushed, intent 
 To lose no syllable of pleading love — 
 See — He stands up and speaks— and crouching, I 
 Stammer defiant hatred in the dark ! 
 
 Go, preach your Christ, rejected and despised 
 'Mid those to whom the words are meaningless. 
 Preach your All-loving and Almighty God 
 To those He blesses. As for me, I pray 
 To one God only — black Forgetfulness !
 
 OUT OF THE DARKNESS 6i 
 
 MORNING 
 
 It was a dream ! The daylight, pitiless, 
 Comes like a murderer ! A dreary streak 
 Stabs through the parted curtains, and the night 
 Grows pale, and dies. O would to God that I 
 Could blind the hateful sun that glares on me 
 And blot him from the sky, for he has slain 
 The sweetest dream that soul has ever known. 
 
 God ! Give me death ! Or give me back my dream ! 
 
 The cruel sun has killed it, and I live 
 
 To mourn it endlessly beneath his eye, — 
 
 My dream that blossomed in the loving night ! 
 
 There is no shade in all the sultry world 
 
 And I shall never find my joy again. 
 
 Shut out the sunlight, let me press my face 
 
 Upon the pillow where I slept, and pray. — 
 
 For I believe there is a God who loves ! 
 
 Last night I flung myself upon my bed 
 Bitter, and sick at heart. Sleep kissed my eyes 
 And I was walking in an unknown land. 
 It was no garden, rich with fabled fruit.
 
 62 OUT OF THE DARKNESS 
 
 No wondrous, dragon-haunted paradise, 
 
 But a wide harvest plain of tawny gold, 
 
 A glad and fruitful cornland. Overhead 
 
 An arch of purple heaven, unclouded, still. 
 
 Bent to the far horizon ; in the west 
 
 It met a shadowy line of purple sea. 
 
 But, looking towards the dawn, no eye could part 
 
 The ripened yellow from the saffron hght. 
 
 Tranquil and deep there lay a chain of pools 
 Full to the brim, like wine-cups at a feast. 
 All darkly pure they slumbered, and their glass 
 Was thinly sown with white and starlike buds 
 Of sleeping lilies. Rushes' tufted spears 
 Stood round their margins, but no shadowing tree 
 Hung over them. Between them and the height 
 Was nought, and each one held the solemn sky. 
 
 It was an unknown hour, a world unknown. 
 Perhaps it was the hush before the dawn. 
 For all the air was calm, and dewy sweet. 
 It might be, yet the orient crocus flame 
 Changed not, not yielded to the glaring day, 
 But kept its tender charm — as if a slim 
 Boy-herald, golden-haired, and saffron- clad, 
 Stood on the eastern threshold, but forgot
 
 OUT OF THE DARKNESS 63 
 
 His errand, leaned to look with poet-eyes, 
 And feared to wake the land that was so still. 
 
 No reapers reaped in the upstanding corn. 
 No women gleaned, no little children sought 
 The poppies, flaunting 'mid the ripened ears. 
 No swift birds flew across the purple heaven, 
 No burnished flies skimmed o'er the dusky pools, 
 No light breeze stirred the myriad golden stalks. 
 Nor roused a ripple. There was nought that moved 
 In that fair country but my love and I. 
 
 My love ! Come back to me, my vanished love, 
 Out of the vanished night ! My widowed hands 
 Seek yours in vain, and all the world is blank 
 Because I cannot find — No ! not your eyes ! 
 Spare me that torture, Heaven ! — I seek you not ! 
 O God ! he could not love me 'neath the sun ! 
 
 Yet how we loved beneath that purple sky, 
 Slow moving through the silent plain of gold. 
 Passing the waveless waters. There we paused, — 
 A pause like that a skilled musician makes, 
 Which in itself is music and delight — 
 And gazed upon their depths. A tiioment they 
 Mirrored my love, fit form for such a heaven !
 
 64 OUT OF THE DARKNESS 
 
 I envied them their bliss, until our eyes 
 
 Met in a smile that filled my soul with peace. 
 
 I did not long to see my image there ; 
 
 There was no need, since he had smiled on me ; 
 
 And through his eyes I saw my loveliness, 
 
 Knew myself graceful as the ripened corn, 
 
 Pure as the dewy air, and fairer far 
 
 Than lilies on the dusky purple pools. 
 
 Ah, how we loved ! And yet we were not one, 
 
 For he was not myself, though not apart, 
 
 But as it were an mner soul of mine, 
 
 A new and nobler life within my own. 
 
 I scarcely think our voices broke the spell 
 Of that sweet silence. Much he spoke to me. 
 But uttered it in swifter, finer wise 
 Than through the clumsy help of groping words, 
 So that I rather heard with heart than ear, 
 How he, through lonely life, in love with Love, 
 Found none on whom to lavish all the love 
 That ached within him, till, beside the pools, 
 He looked into my eyes, and on his soul 
 There sank a perfect stillness of content. 
 
 Was there no music in that golden land ? 
 I think the music and the land were one.
 
 OUT OF THE DARKNESS 65 
 
 The pools which shadowed in their shadowy tide 
 The far and purple height, were yearning strains, 
 
 The arching heaven had solemn harmony. 
 
 The happy cornland sang of fruitful joy. 
 
 I looked upon my love — his perfect face 
 
 So darkly soft upon the saffron sky, 
 
 Was music of exceeding tenderness. 
 
 And as we wandered onward, side by side, 
 
 Our bodies, fair, and free and nobly poised, 
 
 Swayed in the sweetest rhythm, each to each, 
 
 An endless love song. Music there was none 
 
 That quivers in the strings of lute and harp, 
 
 Rings clearly out from silver trumpet throat 
 
 Or breathes in passion of a singer's voice — 
 
 No Httle gushing rills of melody, 
 
 Which flow awhile, then cease. But we had come 
 
 Unto the fount and well-spring of all music ; 
 
 Unfathomed, unprofaned, eternal, full. 
 
 And therefore still, but music's very soul : 
 
 How shall I tell the ending of my dream ? 
 
 A luckless wretch was pent, they say, for years 
 Within a dungeon. Unto him, unmanned, 
 Despairing, weak, a great deliverance came. 
 He knew not how he passed the watchful guards, 
 
 F
 
 66 OUT OF THE DARKNESS 
 
 And gained his freedom ; but he staggered forth 
 
 Into the happy world of trees and flowers. 
 
 He felt the grass beneath his feet, the air 
 
 Upon his face, the sky above his head, 
 
 God over all. He could not even think 
 
 That he was free— was free '.—but drunk with bliss, 
 
 Rushed onward in a rapture, just to meet 
 
 His gaoler, duly warned, and waiting him, 
 
 Not angry, not alarmed, but with a smile 
 
 Lurking about his mouth, and in his eyes, — 
 
 And all the dungeon in that quiet smile ! 
 
 How, think you, felt that thunderstricken dupe ? 
 
 Was it as I felt, when the mocking sun 
 
 Stared in my face, and all my dream was dead ? 
 
 My love is gone ! Gone my one glimpse of joy ! 
 My doom is still upon me ! I must wear 
 This hideous mask, and with misshapen limbs 
 Drag my dull burden— hide in darkest holes- 
 Hunted for ever by the laughing light 
 That looked upon my love and murdered him ! 
 
 But I am not the same. You see no change, 
 And yet I am new born since yesternight. 
 Born to new anguish, to a longing love. 
 To endless yearning at the core of life,
 
 OUT OF THE DARKNESS 67 
 
 To pain so exquisite, so keen, so dear. 
 
 Not for one moment would I let it go 
 
 Out of my heart. And, clasping it, I scorn 
 
 The coarser joys that pass for happiness 
 
 With those who never knew a dream like mine ! 
 
 Narrow and dull and hopeless is the world, 
 But in my soul I hide the crocus light 
 Of that unchanging dawn. And O my love ! 
 Slain by the sunlight, evermore you live 
 Within the mournful shadows of my life, 
 And all the dusk is dear for your dear sake. 
 O love of mine ! You taught me how to weep, 
 Teaching me how to love you, and my tears 
 Have more than sweetness in their bitter salt ! 
 
 Even my dungeon world is not the same, 
 For it may vanish, as it vanished then, 
 Perhaps for ever. And I have a thought — 
 Almost a hope — that when in God's good time 
 The world shall greet its latest dawn. He may 
 Remember me. His heaven — so say the priests — 
 Means multitudes, and victory, and joy, 
 One life of rapture in a myriad souls. 
 But — since on earth I lived so long apart. 
 That to my mind a crowd can mean but pain, 
 
 F 2
 
 ^8 OUT OF THE DARKNESS 
 
 Torture, and loneliness — I think, perhaps, 
 That when His countless saints triumphantly 
 Rejoice around Him, He may look aside, 
 And let the two, on whom He smiled last night, 
 Slip out of all the splendour and the song, 
 To walk together 'neath the purple sky, 
 Beside the lilied pools, and through the corn, 
 In the melodious silence of my dream. 
 
 But, if that may not be, O let me keep 
 Remembrance to the last ! Have mercy, God 
 Nor heal me of the pain that is my soul ! ' 
 
 February 1875.
 
 69 
 
 A JAPANESE FAN.^ 
 
 How time flies ! Have we been talking 
 
 For an hour? 
 Have we been so long imprisoned 
 
 By the shower 
 In this old oak-panelled parlour ? 
 
 Is it noon ? 
 Don't you think the rain is over 
 
 Rather soon ? 
 
 Since the heavy drops surprised us, 
 
 And we fled 
 Here for shelter, while it darkened 
 
 Overhead ; 
 Since we leaned against the window, 
 
 Saw the flash 
 Of the lightning, heard the rolling 
 
 Thunder crash ; 
 
 ^ First published in the Cornhill Magazine for September 1876.
 
 70 A JAPANESE FAN 
 
 You have looked at all the treasures 
 
 Gathered here, 
 Out of other days and countries 
 
 Far and near ; 
 At those glasses, thin as bubbles, 
 
 Opal bright — 
 At the carved and slender chessmen 
 
 Red and white — 
 At the long array of china 
 
 Cups and plates — 
 (Do you really understand them ? 
 
 Names and dates ?) 
 At the tapestry, where dingy 
 
 Shepherds stand, 
 Holding grim and faded damsels 
 
 By the hand, 
 All the while my thoughts were busy 
 
 With the fan 
 Lying here — bamboo and paper 
 
 From Japan. 
 It is nothing — very common — 
 
 Be it so ; 
 Do you wonder why I prize it ? 
 
 Care to know ? 
 Shall I teach you all the meaning. 
 
 The romance
 
 A JAPANESE FAN 71 
 
 Of the picture you are scorning 
 With a glance ? 
 
 From Japan ! I let my fancy 
 
 Swiftly fly ; 
 Now if we set sail to-morrow, 
 
 You and I, 
 If the waves were liquid silver, 
 
 Fair the breeze, 
 If we reached that wondrous island 
 
 O'er the seas, 
 Should we find that every woman 
 
 Was so white, 
 And had slender upward eyebrows 
 
 Black as night ? 
 Should we then perhaps discover 
 
 Why, out there, 
 People spread a mat to rest on 
 
 In mid air ? 
 
 Here's a lady, small of feature, 
 
 Narrow-eyed, 
 With her hair of ebon straightness 
 
 Queerly tied ; 
 In her hand are trailing flowers 
 
 Rosy sweet,
 
 72 A JAPANESE FAN 
 
 And her silken robe is muffled 
 
 Round her feet. 
 She looks backward with a conscious 
 
 Kind of grace, 
 As she steps from off the carpet 
 
 Into space ; 
 Though she plants her foot on nothing 
 
 Does not fall, 
 And in fact appears to heed it 
 
 Not at all. 
 See how calmly she confronts us 
 
 Standing there- 
 Will you say she is not lovely ? 
 
 Do you dare ? 
 / will not ! I honour beauty 
 
 Where I can, 
 Here's a woman one might die for ! 
 
 — In Japan. 
 
 Read the passion of her lover — 
 
 All his soul 
 Hotly poured in this fantastic 
 
 Little scroll. 
 See him swear his love, and vengeance 
 
 Read his fate —
 
 A JAPANESE FAN 73 
 
 You don't understand the language ? 
 I'll translate. 
 
 ' Long ago,' he says, ' when summer 
 
 Filled the earth 
 With its beauty, with the brightness 
 
 Of its mirth ; 
 When the leafy boughs were woven 
 
 Far above ; 
 In the noonday I beheld her, 
 
 Her — my love ! 
 Oftentimes I met her, often 
 
 Saw her pass. 
 With her dusky raiment trailing 
 
 On the grass. 
 I would follow, would approach her, 
 
 Dare to speak. 
 Till at last the sudden colour 
 
 Flushed her cheek. 
 Through the sultry heat we lingered 
 
 In the shade ; 
 And the fan of pictured paper 
 
 That she swayed 
 Seemed to mark the summer's pulses, 
 
 Soft and slow,
 
 74 A JAPANESE FAN 
 
 And to thrill me as it wavered 
 
 To and fro. 
 For I loved her, loved her, loved her, 
 
 And its beat 
 Set my passion to a music 
 
 Strangely sweet. 
 
 Sunset came, and after sunset 
 
 When the dusk 
 Filled the quiet house with shadows ; 
 
 And the musk 
 From the dim and dewy garden 
 
 Where it grows, 
 Mixed its perfume with the jasmine 
 
 And the rose; 
 When the western splendour faded, 
 
 And the breeze 
 Went its way, with good-night whispers 
 
 Through the trees, 
 Leaning out we watched the dying 
 
 Of the light. 
 Till the bats came forth with sudden 
 
 Ghostly flight. 
 They were shadows, wheeling, flitting 
 
 Round my joy.
 
 A JAPANESE FAN 75 
 
 While she spoke and while her slender 
 
 Hands would toy 
 With her fan, which as she swayed it 
 
 Might have been 
 Fairy wand, or fitting sceptre 
 
 For a queen. 
 When she smiled at me, half pausing 
 
 In her play, 
 All the gloom of gathering twilight 
 
 Turned to day ! 
 
 Though to talk too much of heaven 
 
 Is not well — 
 Though agreeable people never 
 
 Mention hell — 
 Yet the woman who betrayed me — 
 
 Whom I kissed — 
 In that bygone summer taught me 
 
 Both exist. 
 I was ardent, she was always 
 
 Wisely cool. 
 So my lady played the traitor, 
 
 I— the fool ' 
 
 Oh, your pardon ! But remember. 
 
 If you please,
 
 76 A JAPANESE FAN 
 
 I'm translating — this is only 
 Japanese. 
 
 ' Japanese?' you say, and eye me 
 
 Half in doubt ; 
 Let us have the lurking question 
 
 Spoken out. 
 Is all this about the lady 
 
 Really said 
 In that little square of writing 
 
 Near her head ? 
 I will answer, on my honour. 
 
 As I can. 
 Every syllable is written 
 
 On the fan. 
 Yes, and you could learn the language 
 
 Very soon — 
 Shall I teach you on some August 
 
 Afternoon ? 
 
 You are wearied. There is little 
 
 Left to say ; 
 For the disappointed hero 
 
 Goes his way, 
 And such pain and rapture never 
 
 More will know.
 
 A JAPANESE FAN 77 
 
 But he smiles — all this was over 
 
 Long ago. 
 I am not a blighted being— 
 
 Scarcely grieve — 
 I can laugh, make love, do most things 
 
 But believe ! 
 
 Yet the old days come back strangely 
 
 As I stand 
 With the fan she swayed so softly 
 
 In my hand. 
 I can almost see her, touch her. 
 
 Hear her voice, 
 Till, afraid of my own madness, 
 
 I rejoice 
 That beyond my help or harming 
 
 Is her fate — 
 Past the reach of passion — is it 
 
 Love — or hate ? 
 
 This is tragic ! Are you laughing ? 
 
 So am I ! 
 Let us go— the clouds have vanished 
 
 From the sky. 
 Yes, and you'll forget this folly ? 
 
 Time it ceased.
 
 78 A JAPANESE FAN 
 
 For you do not understand me 
 
 In the least. 
 You have smiled and sighed politely 
 
 Quite at ease, — • 
 And my story might as well be 
 
 Japanese !
 
 79 
 
 THE UNKNO WN LAND. 
 F. WALKER. Feb. 12, 1876. 
 
 The unknown land 
 Rises, in very truth, before their eyes — 
 
 A land which long has been 
 
 Desired, although unseen, 
 Unseen, unknown, and yet a strong desire ! 
 
 An unknown land. 
 Whereof dim visions floated through their sleep. 
 An unknown land, beyond an unknown deep — 
 
 Now within reach it lies. 
 And drawn, and over-mastered by their prize, 
 With eager faces, and with souls on fire, 
 
 They look on their desire. 
 
 It is so near 
 That, as the boat glides landward, they can hear
 
 8o THE UNKNOWN LAND 
 
 The sweet lip-greeting of the sea, 
 The whisper, softly strong, of waters on the shore ; 
 
 A music old 
 
 Of murmurs manifold 
 Yet holding somewhat never heard before. 
 Near — nearer yet — the land where they would be, 
 
 It is so near 
 
 That Hope is almost Fear. 
 
 It lies within their reach — 
 
 The joy they crave — 
 
 Their boat has touched the beach. 
 They wade in sudden coolness of the wave. 
 Which draws them in its tumult of retreat. 
 
 Sucking the tawny sand 
 
 From 'neath their feet. 
 There is a pause — the ocean pulses beat — 
 
 Then flows the tide above the knee, 
 And, quickened by the heart-throb of the sea. 
 Sweeps those who long, yet waver where they stand, 
 With one vast impulse towards the unknown land. 
 
 What shall be theirs in this triumphant hour ? — 
 The folded bud of longing, faint at heart, 
 
 Bursts into starry flower. 
 Crowning a day, from other days apart —
 
 THE UNKNOWN LAND 8i 
 
 What shall be theirs within their new domain ? 
 What valleys, cloven in the fertile earth — 
 
 What wondrous birth 
 Of blossom, garlanding the unknown ways — 
 What snow-fed torrents, leaping to the plain — 
 
 W^hat rocky hills that hold 
 
 Great veins of virgin gold, 
 As hearts hold memories of golden days 
 
 Gone by — 
 What unimagined glories in the sky —   
 
 What music of strange words — 
 
 What melody of birds 
 
 That pipe and sing, 
 A- quiver, 'mid the green leaves quivering — 
 
 What joy of liberty is there — 
 
 What wide and unpolluted air, 
 
 In this new land, where everything 
 Is full of hope, and wonderful, and fair ! 
 
 Yet, even while they lean, with hps apart, 
 
 And yearning eyes, 
 In stillness, 'neath the beating of each heart, 
 
 Lie hidden memories, 
 That make no sign, but, as a sleeper lies 
 Alive, through death-like slumber, so they rest 
 
 In every breast — 
 
 G
 
 82 THE UNKNOWN LAND 
 
 Thoughts of a far-off home, 'neath other skies, 
 Memories of a land of memories. 
 
 A land where plain and hill 
 
 Bear record still 
 Of triumph or defeat, in days gone by ; 
 A land that lies amid encircling waves. 
 Where multitudes of men are born and die ; 
 A land of many cities, great and proud, 
 
 A land of many graves. 
 
 The busy craftsmen crowd 
 Its trodden ways ; the plough, with yearly toil, 
 Makes furrows in the often-furrowed soil ; 
 
 And many an orchard close 
 
 Blossoms in white and rose. 
 
 When joyous May comes round 
 
 Again, and yet again, 
 And little children play upon the ground 
 
 Beneath a snowy rain 
 Of drifting petals, by the breezes strewn. 
 
 The summer sunlight falls 
 
 On red and massive walls, 
 
 Built long ago — 
 The happy birds take up the summer's tune, 
 And tottering folk, whose work in life is done. 
 
 Sit in the sun,
 
 THE UNKNOWN LAND 83 
 
 Where roses blow, 
 And watch the scythe, that, sweeping to and fro, 
 
 Lays low 
 The ripened grass of June. 
 
 Even the flowers in that historic land, 
 
 To dreaming fancy seem to stand 
 
 In order ranged ; 
 Waiting the seasons' call to take their part 
 In sweetest masking, year by year unchanged, 
 
 And known by heart. 
 
 Clad in their festival array. 
 
 These pretty players lift the head, 
 Utter the words of poets long since dead, 
 
 And pass away. 
 
 Birds, woods, and waters, known and loved, have each 
 
 Their human speech 
 Of softest cadence, and transfigured rise 
 In pictured grace, that we may recognise 
   The loveliness supreme 
 
 Revealed to painters' eyes. 
 
 And one who dwelt within this land, 
 And found new beauty in its blossoms white. 
 
 New joy in field and stream ; 
 And added by the labour of his hand 
 
 o 2
 
 84 THE UNKNOWN LAND 
 
 Unto its hoarded treasure of delight — 
 
 Passing beyond our sight, 
 Has left a sketch like this, to bid us muse and dream. 
 
 But even as we stand 
 Before his work, and with a lingering gaze 
 
 Give him our grief for praise. 
 We wonder — has he found the Unknown Land ? 
 And, dead to us, is he yet living there ? 
 
 Do all these memories to him 
 
 Seem shadows, colourless and dim ? 
 
 Does he look back, as one who knows 
 The joy of June, the reddening of the rose, 
 Looks back to March with all its bitter days — 
 
 As one who breathing summer air 
 Beneath the woven shade of leafy sprays 
 
 With crimson buds aglow, 
 Thinks for a moment of the sprinkled snow 
 Of blackthorn blossom on the branches bare ? 
 
 Does he think thus 
 Of all his work that is so fair to us ? 
 
 We cannot tell. The never-resting stream, 
 Drawn towards a fate unseen, 
 Glides onward like a dream 
 For evermore.
 
 THE UNKNOWN LAND 85 
 
 We know not what its rippling whispers mean, 
 
 Nor if its final wave 
 Breaks in soft triumph on a sunlit shore, 
 Or plunges in the darkness of the grave.
 
 86 
 
 A LUTANJST. 
 
 WELL-BELOVED lutC, 
 
 Whence sweetest sounds have bhth, 
 From thee I pluck the fruit 
 Of all my joy on earth. 
 
 1 wear my queen's device, 
 
 And her white hand have kissed — 
 I dwell in Paradise, 
 I am her lutanist. 
 
 What have I more to seek ? 
 Of old, erect and proud, 
 I went, with flushing cheek. 
 Through plaudits of the crowd. 
 I longed to soar on high. 
 Until one day I wist 
 That kings were less than I, 
 Who am her lutanist.
 
 A LUTANIST 87 
 
 High in her stately house 
 
 My southern window shines, 
 
 All grown about with boughs 
 
 Of leafy, tangled vines. 
 
 My sovereignty is there, 
 
 A world of sky and song. 
 
 And little do I care 
 
 To gaze upon the throng. 
 
 The busy world below 
 
 May hurry on apace, 
 
 But by my heart I know 
 
 When, homeward from the chase, 
 
 My lady passes by, 
 
 Her falcon on her wrist — 
 
 Then from his turret high 
 
 Looks forth her lutanist. 
 
 I turn from watchful eyes, 
 
 Yet though I dream apart. 
 
 The drowsy music lies 
 
 Asleep within my heart, 
 
 Until she gives command —   
 
 Then at her voice it stirs, 
 
 And pours through heart and hand, 
 
 Which, being mine, are hers. 
 
 And thoughts that thrill and yearn,
 
 88 A LU TAN I ST 
 
 And visions sought in vain, 
 Throng all around, and turn 
 To music in my brain. 
 A spell is in the air 
 That nothing may resist. 
 As I stand playing there 
 Who am her lutanist. 
 
 And stories have been told 
 Of me as half divine, 
 Till princes offer gold 
 To hear this skill of mine. 
 Yet I should linger mute 
 If my fair dame I missed — 
 For I am but the lute, 
 And she the lutanist !
 
 89 
 
 A GAME OF PIQUET. 
 
 See, as you turn a page 
 Of Holbein's Dance of Death, 
 Across the narrow stage. 
 Drawing a hurried breath, 
 The sons of men go by. 
 Like a bewildered dream, 
 Beneath a changeless sky 
 An ever-changing stream. 
 Swiftly as driven clouds 
 They pass in love and strife. 
 And all the shifting crowds 
 Are busy with their life, 
 Eager, intent, and much 
 
 Perplexed. 
 Then comes the deadly touch - 
 
 What next ?
 
 go A GAME OF PIQUET 
 
 We do not paint Death now, 
 
 As did those men of old, 
 
 (And, truly, I allow 
 
 They make my blood run cold,) 
 
 Yet the old fancy lives 
 
 In spite of growth and change, 
 
 And to our sorrow gives 
 
 Its humour grim and strange. 
 
 The bitter wine that when 
 
 We meet our mocking chance 
 
 Is stamped from souls of men 
 
 In Death's fantastic dance. 
 
 As when the cry of Love, 
 
 Or Hate, 
 Rings to the heaven above 
 
 Too late. 
 
 We need not paint the scene, 
 The skull, the grasping hand. 
 For that which once has been 
 Our hearts will understand. 
 A flower may be the sign 
 That calls your vision back, 
 Or just a pencil line 
 In some old almanac.
 
 GAME 01- PIQUET 9.1 
 
 A pack of cards for me, 
 Where smiling queen and knave 
 Can bid me turn and see 
 A shadow and a grave, 
 Nor to my dying day 
 
 Forget 
 How once I used to play 
 
 Piquet. 
 
 Once, in a quaint old place ! 
 My dreamy thoughts recall 
 Its somewhat faded grace 
 Of painting on the wall, 
 Pink roses ribbon-tied. 
 And pairs of snowy doves 
 Tall vases side by side, 
 And lightly flying Loves, 
 Such as our poets sing, 
 -Or sang, some time ago, 
 Dan Cupid on the wing 
 With quiver, shafts, and bow — 
 But Love had there no need 
 
 Of darts. 
 He simply gave the lead 
 
 In Hearts.
 
 92 A GAME OF PIQUET 
 
 Into the sunlit room 
 To break the half-played game, 
 With heavy stroke of doom, 
 The grief of parting came. 
 Strong in my happy love 
 I faced the bitter pain, 
 And swore by heaven above 
 We two would meet again. 
 Silent I saw her stand, 
 Pallid, in trouble sore. 
 While from her hanging hand 
 Slipped downward to the floor 
 Black cards, whose ominous 
 
 Array 
 Fate had not suffered us 
 
 To play. 
 
 I bade a brave farewell 
 
 Without a thought of fear, 
 
 Ah God ! I could not tell 
 
 That evil day was near. 
 
 When Life's glad music sank 
 
 To sobs, and died away, 
 
 When Earth's high mountains shrank 
 
 To one low heap of clay. 
 
 When I, aghast and sad.
 
 A GAME OF PIQUET 93 
 
 Stood silent and apart, 
 When all Creation had 
 A sepulchre for heart. 
 No love the unknown land 
 
 Invades, 
 And Death played out the hand 
 
 Of Spades,
 
 94 
 
 FmST OR LAST 2 
 A WIFE TO HER HUSBAND. 
 
 ' My life ebbs from me — I must die, 
 Must die — it has a ghostly sound, 
 A far-off thunder drawing nigh 
 An echo as from underground. 
 Yes, I must die who fain would live ; 
 You cannot give me life — alas ! 
 Dear Love of mine, you can but give 
 One latest kiss before I pass. 
 
 Dear, we have had our summer bliss. 
 Kisses on cheek, and lip, and brow, 
 But soul to soul, as now we kiss, 
 I think we never kissed till now. 
 Give both your hands, and let the earth 
 Roll onward — let what will befall. 
 This is an hour of wondrous birth, 
 And can it be the end of all ?
 
 FIRST OR LAST? 95 
 
 Ah, your sad face ! I know you think 
 (Clasp me, O love, your faith is mine, 
 Only my weakness made me shrink) 
 That I am standing on the brink 
 Of night where never dawn will shine, 
 Of slumber whence I shall not wake, 
 Of darkness where no life will grope — 
 I know your hopeless creed, and take 
 My part therein for your dear sake, — 
 We stand asunder if I hope. 
 
 And yet I dreamed of a fair land 
 Where you and I were met at last. 
 And face to face, and hand in hand, 
 Smiled at the sorrow overpast. 
 The eastern sky was touched with fire. 
 In the dim woodlands cooed the dove, 
 Earth waited, tense with strong desire. 
 For day — your coming, O my love ! 
 The breeze awoke to breathe your name, 
 And through the leafy maze I came. 
 With feet that could not turn aside. 
 With eyes that would not be denied--- 
 My lips, my heart a rosy flame. 
 Because you kissed me ere I died.
 
 96 FIE ST OR LAST? 
 
 Death could but part us for a while, 
 Beyond the boundary of years 
 We met again — O do not smile 
 That tender smile, more sad than tears ! 
 
 Forget my vision sweet and vain, 
 Your faith is mine — your faith is best, 
 Let others count the joys they gain, 
 I am a thousand times more blest. 
 They can but give a scanty dole 
 Out of a life made safe in heaven, 
 While I am sovereign o'er the whole, 
 I can give all — and all is given ! 
 Faith such as ours defies the grave, 
 Nor needs a dream of bliss above — 
 Shall not this moment make me brave ? 
 O aloe-flower of perfect love ! 
 What though the end of all be come. 
 The latest hour, the latest breath, 
 This is life's triumph, and its sum, 
 The aloe-flower of love and death ! 
 
 And yet your kisses wake a life 
 That throbs in anguish through my heart, 
 Leaps up to wage despairing strife. 
 And shudders, loathing to depart.
 
 FIRST OR LAST? 97 
 
 Can such desire be born in vain — 
 
 Crushed by inevitable doom ? 
 
 While you let live can Love be slain ? 
 
 Can Love lie dead within my tomb ? 
 
 And when you die — that hopeless day 
 
 When darkness comes and utmost need, 
 
 And I am dead and cold, you say. 
 
 Will Death have power to hold his prey ? 
 
 Shall I not know ? Shall I not heed ? 
 
 When your last sun, with waning light, 
 
 Below the sad horizon dips. 
 
 Shall I not rush from out the night 
 
 To die once more upon your hps ? 
 
 Ah, the black moment comes ! Draw nigh, 
 Stoop down, O Love, and hold me fast. 
 O empty earth ! O empty sky ! 
 There is no answer, though I die 
 Breathing my soul out in the cry, 
 Is it the first kiss — or the last ? ' 
 
 H
 
 98 
 
 A DREAM OF LIFE AND DEATH. 
 
 It was the golden time of ripened grain, 
 And in the drowsy sunhght slept a plain 
 Peaceful and fair. The idly sighing breeze 
 Wandered through groves of summer-mellowed trees, 
 But in the centre was a guarded course 
 For runners, and the lists for feats of force ; 
 And these were ringed with multitudes of eyes, 
 And all the air was thrilled with long-drawn sighs. 
 While high above the ardour of the race 
 Sat Death, enthroned o'er all with quiet face. 
 
 I thought I gazed on him, and men drew near 
 Prepared for battle, saying, ' Have no fear. 
 True that he sits for ever throned on high. 
 And rules o'er all things, yet you shall not die. 
 True that, however strong, however fleet. 
 No man escapes the death that he must meet, 
 Yet face him boldly in the final strife, 
 Death is an empty name, and he is Life.'
 
 A DREAM OF LIFE AND DEATH 
 
 99 
 
 And I believed. But, waiting for that hour, 
 
 My eyes were drawn by a constraining power, 
 
 And fastened on the never-wavering eyes 
 
 Of the strange masquer, throned in kingly guise. 
 
 Where was the faintest change that should proclaim 
 
 Death as not wholly death ? It never came. 
 
 His was a stillness earth has never known. 
 
 Not the white lifelessness of carven stone, 
 
 But perfect silence since the world began, 
 
 A pause, outlasting all the life of man. 
 
 God ! Did that haunting gaze see all, or nought ? 
 
 Were those eyes blank, or filled with awful thought ? 
 
 I gazed until the clamour of the place 
 Died utterly, and left me face to face 
 With Death, in strangest loneliness apart. 
 The pulses of my wildly throbbing heart 
 Beat time for all creation — I was life. 
 And he was Death — I waited for the strife. 
 When should it be ? My soul within me burned. 
 And I poured forth the lesson I had learned. 
 
 ' Hearken, O Death ! What cause have I for fear 
 Am not I armed to battle with thee here ? 
 Nameless am I, and thou of great renown. 
 Thou shalt o'erthrow me, thou shalt cast me down, 
 
 H 2
 
 A DREAM OF LIFE AND DEATH 
 
 Yet by thy very touch I shall arise, 
 And thou in smiting shalt release thy prize. 
 Thou canst not conquer me, thou canst not give 
 A death-wound to the soul, foredoomed to live ! ' 
 
 Rising to wild defiance of my fears 
 
 My voice rang out, and echoed in my ears. 
 
 Far off, in warring waves I heard it roll 
 
 And die beneath the brooding calm. My soul 
 
 With that intense and momentary strain, 
 
 Lifted the silence, but it sank again. 
 
 Slowly it sank upon the burdened air, 
 
 And flying Time — nought else was moving there — 
 
 Sped with hushed lips, nor spake of hours and days. 
 
 Beneath the great endurance of that gaze. 
 
 I waited, till a voice within me said, 
 
 ' What shall Death do for thee, if Death be dead ? ' 
 
 If Death be dead ! The sun, the arch of sky. 
 
 The air about me, seemed to reel and die. 
 
 Vain were the hopeful words of long ago. 
 
 And warhke armour was an empty show. 
 
 Hiding a traitor heart. In cold despair, 
 
 Having no spirit more to do and dare, 
 
 I loosed the bands, and threw it all aside. 
 
 Then through my veins there rushed a quickening tide
 
 A DREAM OF LIFE AND DEATH loi 
 
 Of life, delivered from an icy weight ; 
 And I once more could look upon my fate, 
 Once more I stood — I cried with hurrying breath, 
 
 ' See, I will take thee now for very Death, 
 
 The end of all things, utter and complete, 
 
 And I, like them, shall lie beneath thy feet, 
 
 As nothing, in thy gulf of nothingness. 
 
 Yet I stand up before thee, none the less. 
 
 Not hoping to escape, since thou art sure, 
 
 But saying, While my lifetime may endure. 
 
 In joy, and pain, and wonder ; it is mine — 
 
 Only the blankness and the end are thine ! 
 
 Is my life short ? I measure not its flight, 
 
 Let me maintain it on a level height. 
 
 That I may look thee boldly in the eyes, 
 
 Not gazing upward as a suppliant dies. 
 
 Let me live nobly, nobly yield thee all — 
 
 Thou shalt preserve me. Death, from future fall ! ' 
 
 I paused. The summer breezes, lingering, sighed ; 
 There was no other answer. Then I cried, 
 
 ' Nay, even if all mankind shall seem to me 
 Aimless, confused, an ever-weltering sea. 
 Breaking in ebb and flow against thy steep ; 
 And I myself a ripple on that deep.
 
 A DREAM OF LIFE AND DEATH 
 
 Yet will I scorn thee — scorn all craven fears^ 
 Flinging on high my handful of salt tears 
 To flash in lucid sunlight as I die — 
 And Death, if it be Death, will I defy ! ' 
 So spoke I while my heart-throbs came apace. 
 
 But still Death sits there, with the quiet face.
 
 103 
 
 A STUDENT. 
 
 For him the past has poured her drowsy wine ; 
 
 And, turning from all beauty 'neath the sun, 
 Ever he seeks the dim horizon hne, 
 
 Regions afar, where earth and sky are one. 
 Here, in this central moment of to-day, 
 High heaven seems so very far away. 
 
 Sadness there is, not sorrow, on his brow. 
 
 He shrinks alike from laughter and from tears, 
 
 When happier glances hail the budding bough. 
 He tracks the footsteps of departed years. 
 
 Where, faintly dim, their memories linger yet 
 
 All grown about with moss and violet. 
 
 His fellow men our student little heeds ; 
 
 His pathway lies 'mid visionary throngs — 
 Spring, though he meets her in the daisied meads. 
 
 Lives for him only in her ancient songs; 
 Nay, very Love himself he does but know 
 A boy, with bow and arrows, long ago.
 
 I04 A STUDENT 
 
 He cannot feel for human hopes and fears, 
 All hopes and fears are chronicled for him, 
 
 Unnoticed glides his little span of years. 
 His eyes are fixed on ages vast and dim. 
 
 He dreams of bygone days, with thoughtful brow. 
 
 Till Life stands still, and, startled, whispers ' Now! '
 
 10 5 
 
 PRIVATE THEATRICALS} 
 BEFORE THE CURTAIN RISES. 
 
 The guests assemble. Down the stairs I steal, 
 As if I'd dressed a century before, 
 
 And pause, a courtly beau from head to heel, 
 Close by the green-room door. 
 
 The fire-light glows within ; the leaping blaze 
 Shines on an eager face. What happy spell 
 
 Summoned that sweetest glimpse of olden days, 
 That arch and radiant belle ? 
 
 Ready to play her part in quaint disguise 
 Of powdered hair and old brocaded gown, 
 
 She warms a dainty foot, nor turns her eyes 
 Where, with an anxious frown, 
 
 1 First published in the Century for September 1884.
 
 io6 PRIVATE THEATRICALS 
 
 Conning his book, our crafty Villain sits ; 
 
 Tall, handsome, honest, he's a wealthy squire- 
 A trifle heavj' — in our telling bits 
 
 He rather misses fire. 
 
 I push the door, and meet a smile from each : 
 My lady's eyes are lifted from the flame ; 
 
 The Villain keeps his finger on a speech, 
 And greets me by my name. 
 
 I am the happy hero of the play. 
 
 With Love, and Luck, and Valour on my side ; 
 I am to conquer everything to-day, 
 
 I am to win my bride. 
 
 And I will win her ! Ah, they do not know — 
 Well may they praise me as I act my part ! 
 
 This courtship of a hundred years ago 
 Is living in my heart. 
 
 Yet I can plead my cause without the aid 
 Gf studied phrases — they are poor and weak ; 
 
 Wait only till our comedy is played — 
 This is no time to speak.
 
 PRIVATE THEATRICALS 107 
 
 The actors hurry in, and one and all 
 
 Appeal to me to listen or to look. 
 The footman's livery is a size too small, 
 
 The prompter wants his book. 
 
 My father comes to show his wrinkled face, 
 And loiters nervously behind the scenes ; 
 
 I praise his baldness and his feeble pace, — 
 He's only in his teens ! 
 
 There are so many duties to perform, 
 And at a moment's notice I must say 
 
 Who is to see about the thunder-storm. 
 And who takes in the tray. 
 
 Where is the fatal deed that must be signed ? 
 
 I give them all their answers, and by chance, 
 Lounging beside the window, lift the blind 
 
 And cast a careless glance. 
 
 Nothing to see — how heavily it rains ! — 
 Nothing but here and there a gliding spark, 
 
 Where carriages along the country lanes 
 Come rolling through the dark.
 
 io8 PRIVATE THEATRICALS 
 
 Beyond, there lies a world of gloom unknown ; 
 
 Our little space of glitter, warmth, and light 
 Is but a many-coloured bubble, blown 
 
 On a black sea of night. 
 
 Well, let the bubble break without a sigh, 
 And let to-morrow come, as come it will ; 
 
 I am the happy hero till I die. 
 If she is with me still ! 
 
 And when hereafter we recall this day 
 
 Of painted, powdered courtship from the past, 
 
 We'll laugh at stage and prompter, while I play 
 The lover to the last ! 
 
 AFTER THE CURTAIN FALLS. 
 
 All's over now. It was a great success. 
 
 Our honest Villain did the best he could ; 
 Took pains, and plodded through his wickedness, — 
 
 He's really very good ; 
 
 And when he drove the lady to despair 
 
 With darkly scowling threats and feigned alarms, 
 
 I rushed upon the stage, defied him there. 
 And clasped her in my arms !
 
 PRIVATE THEATRICALS 109 
 
 An explanation followed. I embraced 
 A few relations, quite unknown till then ; 
 
 Virtue was lucky, Villainy disgraced — 
 We all were better men. 
 
 Then came my wrinkled sire — 'Nay, I mistook — 
 You won't bear malice for a blunder — zounds ! 
 
 Take your old father's gift— a pocket-book,' — 
 'Twas twenty thousand pounds. 
 
 ' Bless you, my children ! She's a pearl, my boy I ' 
 The others gathered round for their farewell. 
 
 And stood in attitudes, and wished us joy. 
 And so the curtain fell. 
 
 They called us back. The laughing plaudits swelled 
 To welcome us. That moment was divine — 
 
 The token of my triumph ! As I held 
 My darling's hand in mine, 
 
 I seemed to feel her happy pulses beat, 
 
 As mine were beating in my joy and pride ; 
 
 I trod the whole world underneath my feet 
 Since she was by my side !
 
 PRIVA TE   THE A TRICALS 
 
 And then — why, as we passed, I overheard 
 A hurried whisper, caught a meaning smile 
 
 Enough — it was the Villain she preferred — 
 The Villain all the while ! 
 
 That was the end, and here I am alone. 
 Dismally laughing at my sorry plight ; 
 
 I listen to the wind's unceasing moan, 
 I gaze into the night, 
 
 Only to see my pale reflection cast 
 
 Upon the gloom. A bitter lash of rain 
 
 Falls, with a sudden fury of the blast. 
 On the black window-pane. 
 
 She loves him — loves him ! She will be his wife ! 
 
 And strangely I recall, as here I stand, 
 How in another world, another life, 
 
 I bowed, and dropped her hand. 
 
 What did I think of as I bent my head ? 
 
 The fire-light flashed upon my buckled shoes — 
 Poor hero ! Well, there's nothing to be said — 
 
 Was she not free to choose ?
 
 PRIVATE THEATRICALS iii 
 
 She did not know ! With my whole heart I played. 
 
 What then ? She thought I acted well, no doubt ; 
 If Love came stealing through the masquerade, 
 
 How should she find him out ? 
 
 She did not know ! God bless her in her choice ! 
 
 (Ay, and the Villain too!) No thought of blame 
 Shall ever lend its hardness to my voice, 
 
 When I would speak her name. 
 
 There will be other plays in coming years 
 When this is half forgotten ; there will be 
 
 New scenes, new dresses, and new hopes and fears — 
 But this old play for me ! 
 
 One can't be always learning things by heart ; 
 
 Variety is charming — yet it palls. 
 ' Zounds 1 '—(as the father said)— I'll play my part 
 
 Until the curtain falls !
 
 112 
 
 OF THE PAST} 
 
 White flowers lie upon her breast : 
 Her throbbing pulses are at rest ; 
 A circlet glimmers on her head ; 
 She is a queen, and she is dead. 
 
 Around her all is very still ; 
 Unchanged, behind a changeless hill, 
 The western sun for ever dips, 
 And dying splendours kiss her lips. 
 
 Her passive hand a sceptre holds ; 
 Her raiment falls in stately folds ; 
 Her lashes slumber on her cheek : 
 The world would listen did she speak. 
 
 1 First published in Harpers Magazine for February 1884.
 
 OF THE PAST 
 
 She will be still for evermore : 
 Though crowned king or emperor 
 Made bare his treasury for her, 
 The quiet lips will never stir. 
 
 She will be still ; but all around, 
 Voices, which speak without a sound, 
 Bid tender chords awake and thrill, 
 Telling of her, though she is still — 
 
 Telling how days had winged feet. 
 How childish nights had slumber sweet, 
 And little many- coloured dreams 
 Shone through the dark in fitful gleams 
 
 Then kindly Nature round us curled. 
 The skies bent down to clasp the world, 
 And every star, a beacon-light, 
 Was steadfast on its stately height. 
 
 Content, we fronted wonders new. 
 Rainbow and thunder, fire and dew, 
 And deemed the very highway sod 
 Untrodden till we came and trod.
 
 114 OF THE PAST 
 
 And golden were the days of youth, 
 When all was beauty, joy, and truth. 
 When sordid wealth was nothing worth. 
 For Love in splendour walked the earth. 
 
 O sweet untroubled vision, stay ! 
 Cease, thou importunate To-day, 
 Cease eager toil, and clamour shrill ! 
 We are with her — and she is still.
 
 IIS 
 
 A TOWN garden: 
 
 A PLOT of ground— the merest scrap — 
 
 Deep, like a dry, forgotten well, 
 A garden caught in a brick-built trap, 
 
 Where men make money, buy and sell ; 
 And struggling through the stagnant haze. 
 
 Dim flowers, with sapless leaf and stem, 
 Look up with something of the gaze 
 
 That homesick eyes have cast on them. 
 
 There is a rose against the wall, 
 
 With scanty, smoke-incrusted leaves ; 
 Fair showers on happier roses fall — 
 
 On this, foul droppings from the eaves. 
 It pines, but you need hardly note ; 
 
 It dies by inches in the gloom ; 
 Shoots in the spring-time, as if by rote ; 
 
 Long has forgotten to dream of bloom. 
 
 1 First published in Harpn-'s Magazine for August 1883. 
 
 I 2
 
 n6 A TOWN GARDEN 
 
 The poorest blossom, and it were classed 
 
 With colour and name — but never a flower ! 
 It blooms with the roses whose bloom is past, 
 
 Of every hue, and place, and hour. 
 They live before me as I look — 
 
 The damask buds that breathe and glow, 
 Pink wild roses, down by a brook. 
 
 Lavish clusters of airy snow. 
 
 Could one transplant you— (far on high 
 
 A murky sunset lights the tiles) — 
 And set you 'neath the arching sky. 
 
 In the green country, many miles, 
 Would you strike deep and suck up strength. 
 
 Washed with rain and hung with pearls. 
 Cling to the trellis, a leafy length. 
 
 Sweet with blossom for June and girls ? 
 
 Yet no ! Who needs you in those bowers ? 
 
 Who prizes gifts that all can give ? 
 Bestow your life instead of flowers, 
 
 And slowly die that dreams may live. 
 Prisoned and perishing, your dole 
 
 Of Hngering leaves shall not be vain — 
 Worthy to wreathe the hemlock bowl, 
 
 Or twine about the cross of pain !
 
 117 
 
 ALMOND BLOSSOM} 
 
 I.ovE, will you yet regret the flowers that lie 
 Scattered, and wet with tears from April's sky ? 
 They are not dead — the flowers can never die. 
 
 They are the gladness of a world unworn ; 
 They sleep and waken with it, night and morn, 
 And laugh our dreams of ancient days to scorn. 
 
 O'er the wide gulfs that part us from the past, 
 O'er ruins of great works designed to last, 
 The lightly woven chain of flowers is cast ; 
 
 And odours of old gardens, faintly blown 
 
 From legendary days and shores unknown, 
 
 Blend with the breath of those our hands have sown. 
 
 1 First published in Harper s Magazine for August 1881.
 
 ii8 ALMOND BLOSSOM 
 
 Of Milton's world how much was doomed to pass 
 
 And yet we hnger on the daisied grass, 
 
 And pluck the flowers he plucked for Lycidas, 
 
 And still the spring-time crowns a waiting land 
 With tender bloom. Nay, Love, 'tis you who stand 
 With almond clusters in your clasping hand, 
 
 And all the sunset heaven behind your head ; 
 'Tis you must pass, an unknown way to tread, 
 And leave the flowers. If I had long been dead, 
 
 Yet came from sleep of twilight centuries, 
 The almond blossom 'neath these vernal skies 
 Should welcome me again, but not your eyes. 
 
 The rosy petals, drifted on the breeze, 
 
 Might strew, as now, the turf beneath the trees. 
 
 As now ? No, not as now. Because to these 
 
 Pink sprays of almond, for a little space 
 Your musing smile, your blossom-perfect face, 
 Give a supreme and solitary grace.
 
 119 
 
 OCTOBER.' 
 
 Long looked for was the summer. Anxious eyes 
 Noted the budding bough, the crocus flame, 
 
 That told its coming. Now, 'neath autumn skies 
 The leaves fall slowly, slowly as they came. 
 
 There is no need to watch while winter weaves 
 Fair buds to crown another golden prime. 
 
 For something heavier than the autumn leaves 
 Has hidden eyes that looked for summer-time. 
 
 The trees shall wake from their forgetful sleep 
 Unto new blossom and a tender green — 
 
 The countless trees ! — but never one will keep 
 A little leaf or flower that she has seen ! 
 
 1 First published in Harper s Magazine for November 1880.
 
 120 
 
 FROM 'MITCHELHURST PLACE: 
 AT HER PIANO. 
 
 ' It chanced I loitered through a room, 
 Dusk with a shaded, sultry gloom, 
 And full of memories of old times — 
 I lingered, shaping into rhymes 
 My visions of those earlier days 
 'Mid their neglected waifs and strays ; 
 A yellowing keyboard caught my gaze. 
 And straight I fancied, as I stood 
 Resting my hand on polished wood, 
 Letting my eyes contented trace 
 The daintiness of inlaid grace, 
 That Music's ghost, outworn and spent. 
 Dreamed near her antique instrument. 
 
 ' But when I broke its silence, fain 
 To call an echo back again 
 Of some old-fashioned, tender strain.
 
 LROM ' MITCHELHUEST PLACE' 121 
 
 Played once by player long since dead — 
 
 I found my dream of music fled ! 
 
 The chords I wakened could but speak 
 
 In jangled utterance, thin and weak, 
 
 In shallow discords, as when age 
 
 Reaches its last decrepit stage, 
 
 In feeble notes that seemed to chide — 
 
 This was the end ! I stepped aside. 
 
 In my impatient weariness. 
 
 Into the window's draped recess ; 
 
 Without, was all the joy of June, 
 
 Within, a piano out of tune ! 
 
 ' But while, half-hidden, thus I stayed, 
 There came in one who lightly laid 
 White hands upon the yellow keys 
 To seek their lingering harmonies. 
 I think she sighed — I know she smiled — 
 And straightway Music was beguiled, 
 And all the faded by-gone years, 
 With all their by-gone hopes and fears. 
 Their long-forgotten smiles and tears. 
 Their empty dreams that meant so much, 
 Began to sing beneath her touch. 
 
 ' The notes that Time had taught to fret, 
 Racked with a querulous regret.
 
 FROM ' MITCHELHURST PLACE' 
 
 Forsook their burden of complaint 
 For melodies more sweetly faint 
 Than lovers ever dreamed in sleep — 
 Than rippling murmurs of the deep — 
 Than whispered hope of endless peace 
 Ah, let her play or let her cease, 
 For still that sound is in the air, 
 And still I see her seated there ! 
 
 ' Yet, even as her fingers ranged, 
 I knew those jangled notes unchanged ; 
 My soul had heard, in ear's despite. 
 And Love had made the music right.' 
 
 AUTUMN BERRIES. 
 
 ' Speech was forbidden me ; I could but stay, 
 Ambushed behind a leafless hawthorn screen. 
 And look upon her passing. She had been 
 To pluck red berries on that autumn day, 
 And Love, who from her side will never stray, 
 Stole some for pity, seeing me unseen. 
 And sighing, let them fall, that I might glean — 
 ' Poor gift,' quoth he, ' that Time shall take away ! '
 
 FROM ' MITCHELHURST PLACE' 123 
 
 Nay but I mock at Time ! It shall not be 
 That, fleet of foot, he robs me of my prize ; 
 Her smile has kindled all the sullen skies, 
 Blessed the dull furrows and the leafless tree. 
 And year by year the autumn, ere it dies. 
 Shall bring my rosy treasure back to me ! ' 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 ' Have not all songs been sung — all loves been told ? 
 What shall I say when nought is left unsaid ? 
 The world is full of memories of the dead — 
 Echoes and relics. Here's no virgin gold, 
 But all assayed, none left for me to mould 
 Into new coin, and at your feet to shed ; 
 Each piece is mint-marked with some poet's head, 
 Tested and rung in tributes manifold. 
 
 ' Oh for a single word should be mine own. 
 And not the homage of long-studied art. 
 Common to all, for you who stand apart ! 
 Oh weariness of measures tried and known ! 
 Yet in their rhythm, you — if you alone — 
 Should hear the passionate pulses of my heart ! '
 
 124 
 
 A WISH 
 
 If I could find the Little Year, 
 
 The Happy Year, the glad New Year — 
 
 If I could find him setting forth 
 
 To seek the ancient track — 
 
 I'd bring him here, the Little Year, 
 
 Like a pedlar with his pack. 
 
 And all of golden brightness, 
 
 And nothing dull or black, 
 
 And all that heart could fancy. 
 
 And all that heart could lack, 
 
 Should be your share of the pedlar's ware. 
 
 When he undid his pack. 
 
 The best from out his treasure 
 
 A smile of yours would coax, 
 
 And then we'd speed him on his way. 
 
 At midnight's failing strokes ; 
 
 And bid him hurry round the world, 
 
 And serve the other folks !
 
 125 
 
 MOTHER AND CHILD} 
 
 Bitter blasts and vapours dim — 
 What had they to do with him ? 
 Spring, though she was far away, 
 Took dominion for a day, 
 Filled the air with breathings soft. 
 Bade a skylark sing aloft. 
 When we laid him in his bed. 
 Cloudless blue above his head. 
 
 It was not for him to reach 
 
 Manly height, and thought, and speech, 
 
 Not to climb untrodden steeps, 
 
 Not to search out unknown deeps, 
 
 Not through warring joy and pain 
 
 Kingliness of soul to gain. 
 
 1 First published in the Century for April 1883.
 
 126 MOTHER AND CHILD 
 
 He had only baby words, 
 Litde music, like the birds, 
 Sweedy inarticulate, 
 Nothing wise, nor high, nor great. 
 Sunny smiles and kisses sweet — 
 White and softly childish feet — 
 Curls that floated on the breeze — 
 We remember him for these. 
 
 They are weary who are wise. 
 He looked up with happy eyes, 
 Little knowing, little seeing, 
 Only praising God by being. 
 
 Oh, the life we could not save I 
 Do not say, above his grave. 
 That the fair and darling face 
 W^as but lent a little space 
 Till the Father called him back. 
 By an unknown homeward track. 
 No, though Death came darkly chill- 
 Bade the beating heart be still, 
 Touching him with fingers cold — 
 What was given still we hold ; 
 Though he died, as die the flowers, 
 He for evermore is ours.
 
 MOTHER AND CHILD 127 
 
 Ours, though we must travel soon 
 Onward through Life's afternoon ; 
 Shadows, falling long and grey, 
 Gather round the western day, 
 And our twihght visions show 
 How the years shall come and go. 
 
 Little maids, with tangled curls, 
 Change to slender, dreamy girls ; 
 Chubby rogues grow tall, and then 
 Go their way as bearded men. 
 And the mother stands aside. 
 With an ache beneath her pride, 
 And a sorrow 'mid her joys, 
 For the vanished babes and boys ; 
 So the earlier gladness wanes — 
 But the little one remains. 
 
 For a house that once has known 
 Tiny feet on stair and stone — 
 Steps that never more shall sound, 
 Feet at rest beneath the ground — 
 Keeps remembrance of the dead. 
 And the music of their tread. 
 Not at noonday, busy, bright, 
 Only in the quiet night,
 
 128 MOTHER AND CHILD 
 
 With a thrill of sweetest pain, 
 Comes that music once again, 
 Heard in stillness and apart 
 Echoed from his mother's heart.
 
 129 
 
 MICHAELMAS DAISIES} 
 
 Daisies on the emerald lawn, 
 Daisies rosy-white for dawn, 
 
 Rosy-white for summer's dawn, 
 Michaelmas daisies grey and drear, 
 Dusk for the dusky close of the year, 
 
 Michaelmas daisies for close of the year. 
 
 The year is old, and the weary wind 
 
 Withers its glory, leaf by leaf, 
 Gone is the garland that April twined. 
 
 Gone, June roses, and August sheaf 
 The apples are gone from the orchard boughs. 
 
 Faded the creeper's tangled grace, 
 The bitter blast from its rest must rouse. 
 
 For winter comes on, apace, apace. 
 
 1 First published in the Spectator, April 1870. 
 
 K
 
 MICHAELMAS DAISIES 
 
 The old year dreams of its daisied dawn, 
 
 All golden-bright, and rosy-white, 
 Dreams of its daisies hke stars on the lawn, 
 
 And makes them again in the dusk of the night. 
 
 Daisies on the emerald lawn, 
 Daisies rosy-white for dawn, 
 
 Rosy-white for summer's dawn, 
 Michaelmas daisies grey and drear. 
 Dusk for the dusky close of the year, 
 
 Michaelmas daisies for close of the year.
 
 131 
 
 A CLOSED BOOK. 
 
 I READ it long ago, and as I read, 
 
 A world of wonder rose before my eyes 
 And widened into vastness, dimly spread 
 
 'Neath solemn skies. 
 
 Beyond the page my emulous desire 
 
 Divined the marvels of unwritten scenes, — 
 I was ambitious, by the school-room fire, 
 
 Just in my teens ! 
 
 Now, though the book has faded out of mind, 
 
 Though all that dreamy pageant I forget, 
 Its shadow lingers, vast and undefined. 
 
 And haunts me yet. 
 
 The far-oif glory dies in pallid gleams, — 
 
 Cannot a yearning sigh the flame restore ? 
 Cannot I. read again, and dream those dreams 
 
 Once more, — once more? 
 
 1 First published in the Spectator of January 13, 1877. 
 
 K 2
 
 132 A CLOSED BOOK 
 
 Never. The child has passed away, the book 
 
 Is closed, and 'mid my childish memories laid, 
 With all its magic in it. I would look, 
 
 But am afraid. 
 
 Men do not name it 'mid immortal works, 
 x\nd laggard Fame is slow to find it out. 
 Perhaps. And yet within my soul there lurks 
 
 Something of doubt. 
 
 How if the visions whose dim figures thickened 
 
 Round me, and thronged my yet unpeopled air, — 
 How if the fear, whereat my pulses quickened, 
 
 Should not be there ? 
 
 How if the shadow, awful in its gloom. 
 
 Were dwarfed and shrivelled when the daylight 
 dawned,— 
 How if I smiled above the empty tomb, — 
 
 How if I yawned ? 
 
 How if I marvelled to myself, and him 
 
 I honoured once ? Surely the Past might rise 
 In human shape, and look at me with dim 
 
 Reproachful eyes,
 
 A CLOSED BOOK 133 
 
 Because for his enchantment long ago 
 I had no thanks to give in later days, — 
 
 dreams that flickered in the firelight glow, 
 
 Be his your praise ! 
 
 He gave my fancy wings, and in it& flight. 
 
 No fault, no failure, could it stoop to note ; 
 Perhaps I read the book he meant to write. 
 
 Not that he wrote. 
 
 Why should the knowledge that in awe began 
 
 Be ended now in laughter barbed with pain ? 
 And why take back the faith that never can 
 
 Be given again ? 
 
 No, he shall keep it ! Do not draw the curtain, 
 Let my dim wonder be a wonder still, — 
 
 1 will not read it, — I am almost certain 
 
 I never will !
 
 134 
 
 A BIRTHDAY WIS II. 
 (L. A. I., March io, i88i.) 
 
 ' Time flies ' they say. Perhaps it's just as well 
 
 To watch him flying and not wish to stay him, — 
 Especially as I don't know the spell 
 
 That coidd delay him ! 
 
 And if he paused 'twould trouble folks who take 
 
 A yearly due of rent, and rate and tax, 
 And might confuse the thoughtful souls who make 
 
 Our almanacks. 
 
 No, let him fly ! But as he hurries on 
 
 Would he but hear my birthday wish ! He should 
 Take nought away of happiness bygone, 
 
 Bring nought but good.
 
 A BIRTHDAY WISH 135 
 
 He should not point to memories half effaced, 
 Nor dole the sands of life in scanty measure, 
 Time, like an eager messenger, should haste 
 
 To do your pleasure. 
 
 He should bring hope to gladden all the year, 
 
 Hope with no lingering shadow of regret. 
 And, passing, make the home that you hold dear 
 
 Still dearer yet. 
 
 He should not change the friends who round you stand. 
 
 But added names upon his record trace. 
 The circle should not know a loosened hand, 
 
 A missinar face. 
 
 't> 
 
 No thought of sadness should his passing leave, 
 
 No ! evermore so lightly should he fly 
 That only by his gifts could you perceive 
 
 Time had gone by. 
 
 Ah ! but enough of this ! I fear lest you 
 
 Should laugh at foolish thought and clumsy rhyme. 
 Foolish ? Perhaps. But that's what / would do 
 
 If I were Time !
 
 1^6 
 
 A CHRISTMAS CARD. 
 
 To J. P. S. 
 
 Ere yet, Old Year, sore wounded with my pain, 
 You go from out the Present to the Past, 
 I charge you with an errand for the last. 
 
 Tell her my Christmas thoughts are hers again, 
 Tell her, O year, I long that she may live 
 Glad in all gifts that all good years can give. 
 
 And if hereafter there must come an hour 
 Heavy with loss and lengthened out in sorrow, 
 Black with the night, and threatened by the morro.v. 
 
 Tell her I hope that even that may flower 
 
 With loving thought — may bloom for her no less 
 
 Than mine for me with her sweet tenderness !
 
 137 
 
 A CHRISTMAS CARD. 
 
 Sweet Sister mine, I fain would have you look 
 Backward on life, as 'twere a painted book, 
 And turn the written leaves until they show 
 Records of Christmas Gladness long ago. 
 Of Christmas holidays and Christmas toys — 
 The waits — the bells that woke us to our joys- 
 Then turn beyond those pictures bright and small 
 To the vague colours that precede them all. 
 Yet shall you never find the whole book through, 
 One Christmas earlier than my love for you.
 
 138 
 
 A CHRISTMAS CARD. 
 To E. I. 
 
 1879- 1885. 
 
 It was the heart of summer when 
 I knew your smile and greeting first, 
 
 And though the years have fled since then, 
 With seasons o'er and o'er rehearsed, 
 
 The sunlight of that day remains. 
 
 'Tis with me now, through fog and rime 
 And winter's hail, and autumn's rains 
 
 Hold something of that summer-time. 
 
 So let December scowl and weep ! 
 
 May you in charmed brightness live. 
 And ever, ever, may you keep 
 
 The sunny gladness that you give !
 
 139 
 
 A CHRISTMAS CARD. 
 To E. I. 
 
 'Fair thoughts and happy hours attend you.' — Shakespeare. 
 
 I BUY my card, and find thereon 
 
 Great Shakespeare's self good-will expressing ! 
 And that prolific scribe ' Anon.'' 
 
 The best of hopes to you addressing ; 
 
 I yield possession, scarcely loth. 
 
 Since I can slip a line between. 
 To tell you I defy them both 
 
 To say ought sweeter than I 7nean ! 
 
 ' May Christmas come laden with every blessing ! ' 
 Deceinher 1884.
 
 I40 
 
 HIS CALENDAR} 
 
 (STEENIE.) 
 
 Kindly Fates ! I pray you hear ! 
 
 May a small but happy star, 
 Shining through the joyous year, 
 
 Rule his little calendar ! 
 
 May his days be marked with white — 
 White of newly-fallen snow, 
 
 White of orchards, for delight 
 Of the coloured fruit shall grow. 
 
 May his days be rose and green, 
 With the blossom and the leaf — 
 
 Golden-bright with sunny sheen, 
 Never, never grey with grief. 
 
 May his days be brightly blue. 
 Where the ocean salt is wide, 
 
 Ever old and ever new. 
 
 Hurries in with crested tide. 
 
 First published in the ' Bairn's Annual,' 1S87.
 
 HIS CALENDAR 141 
 
 Sweet be they with song of birds, 
 Sweet with sound of falUng streams, 
 
 Sweet beyond all spoken words, 
 Beautiful with childish dreams. 
 
 Hence ! all shapes of angry strife. 
 
 Evil Fortune, stand afar ! 
 Never cloud his sunny life. 
 
 Never blot his calendar !
 
 142 
 
 ONE OF THE MULTITUDE. 
 
 When I am dead ! 
 
 When all my world of thought 
 Has crumbled into nought, 
 When my last word is said, 
 When I have laid me down upon my bed, 
 And shut my eyes on love and strife, 
 
 On woven joys and pains — 
 When the vast tide of onward-rushing life 
 Has ebbed for ever from my shrunken veins- 
 O God ! how will it be when I am dead ? 
 
 Above my head 
 The April grass will grow, 
 The starry daisies blow, 
 All things will come again, 
 Blossom, and ripened giain,
 
 ONE OF THE MULTITUDE 143 
 
 The sun will shine, the wayward wind will roam 
 And softly fall the rain 
 While I lie low 
 Beneath the far-off blue of the unchanging dome. 
 
 If those who hold me dear, 
 
 Who loved, and love me yet, 
 In tender memory, and mournful fear, 
 A stone above my burial-place shall set, 
 To tell my name in days when all forget, 
 Bright Nature shall draw near 
 And, smiling, spoil 
 The record, cut with melancholy toil. 
 
 Her softly busy fingers will efface 
 
 The token of their care. 
 
 With sun, and summer showers, 
 
 With growth of moss and flowers, 
 With lichen creeping stealthily apace, 
 
 Will she, through many a gliding day and week. 
 Unwearied — O most pitiless and fair ! — 
 
 Destroy the letters dim, the latest words I speak, 
 
 Till nought remains to tell 
 That ever I have lived, who loved her once so well !
 
 144 ONE OF THE MULTITUDE 
 
 When I am dead ! — am dead ! 
 And past all reach of hopes and fears, 
 Before some loving eyes 
 My face, perhaps, may rise 
 Seen dimly through a tender mist of tears. 
 My memory a little space will stand 
 Upon the borders of the living land ; 
 Encircled with a quiet light 
 Whose gentle rays 
 Are pale reflections from my sunlit days. 
 
 A little while shall I remain, 
 Calm, with a calmness nothing can destroy, 
 A shadow, 'mid the phantoms of my pain, 
 A shadow, 'mid the phantoms of my joy, 
 And then the light must wane. 
 
 O bitter fate —alas ! 
 
 Out of the lives I love my life must pass, 
 
 Must slowly fade away. 
 They shall be sad — but all my tears are shed ! 
 Shall triumph — all my words of praise are said- 
 Shall hope — I have no pressure of the hand — 
 Shall dream — I might not even understand 
 
 When I am dead, 
 And newer visions come in old hopes' stead.
 
 ONE OF THE MULTITUDE 
 
 And if, when I am gone, 
 
 Some words of mine live on. 
 They shall be only, in the world's great day. 
 Like a brief echo that from far away 
 
 Comes with familiar sound. 
 It wavers to and fro between the hills 
 Above, around. 
 
 The silent air it fills 
 With lonely speech that knows no change, 
 
 But wanders, clear and strange. 
 And has no help of living lips or eyes. 
 A little while the sound may go and come 
 
 Though he who uttered it be dumb, 
 A little while it lingers ere it dies. 
 
 Thus shall it chance to me 
 
 In ages yet to be. 
 There shall remain no trace on land or sea, 
 Nor in the memory of any friend. 
 But they and it shall surely have an end. 
 
 Better it should be so, 
 
 Better that all should go ; 
 I have been glad to breathe the summer air, 
 And I have lived, rejoicing in the sun. 
 But when my gladness in the world is done, 
 
 145 
 
 L
 
 146 ONE OF THE MULTITUDE 
 
 Shall I desire to leave my shadow there ? 
 Shall I repine that all my thought and care 
 
 Must needs be hid 
 Within the narrow grave where I have made my bed ? 
 Why do I fear oblivion ? God forbid 
 That Nature should be conscious of the dead ! 
 
 Then should the clouds o'erhead, 
 
 Weaving a sable pall, 
 
 Hang gloomily and low, 
 
 Burdened with hopeless woe. 
 
 Then mournfully should fall 
 
 The slowly dropping showers 
 
 Upon the silent earth — 
 An earth that had no heart to deck herself with 
 flowers. 
 
 The wildly flowing streams 
 
 Of song birds rippling mirth, 
 Should die in lamentations, or should grow 
 To sad complaining, as in restless dreams. 
 
 Across the misty height — 
 
 In brief and melancholy gleams 
 
 Where the dark veil was torn — 
 The ghastly sun should hurry, pale and shorn. 
 To hide his aching eyes within the gloom 
 
 And blackness of his tomb.
 
 ONE OF THE MULTITUDE 147 
 
 So should he yield his empire to the Night, 
 
 And stars should burn on high, 
 Sad funeral tapers in the hollow sky. 
 The weary wind should wander and complain. 
 
 Seeking the dead, in vain, 
 
 Yearning in helpless pain. 
 The withered reeds should whisper by the meres; 
 The dry leaves cling to every summer tree. 
 
 Recalling bygone years ; 
 And all the heavy waters of the sea 
 
 Should be most bitter tears. 
 
 Not so ! For Nature lives 
 Untroubled — with full hands her bounty gives, 
 Nor heeds the generations she has nursed. 
 
 But, while we come and go 
 
 Like tides that ebb and flow. 
 Wears, though her children die, the smile she wore at 
 first. 
 
 Our fellow- men forget us. Should we ask 
 
 In their remembrance to remain, 
 
 An aching sense of loss and pain, 
 An added burden in their daily task, 
 
 A yearning, sad as vain ? 
 O God forbid ! When the mysterious veil
 
 148 ONE OF THE MULTITUDE 
 
 Shall fall behind us, not to rise again, 
 Let memory grow pure, and sweet, and pale, 
 Then let it fail. 
 
 For even now too many tears are wept, 
 
 Too many sighs make sad the summer's breath, 
 
 Too many buds enfold a gnawing death, 
 
 Throughout this world of ours. 
 Too many nights pass, and we have not slept, 
 Too many days have heavy-footed hours ; 
 
 Therefore do I accept. 
 
 Well satisfied at heart, 
 Oblivion, which shall one day be my part. 
 
 But there are summers past, 
 
 Dim years of long ago. 
 Tost in the shadow that the ages cast 
 
 Of which we nothing know, 
 
 Since in the world of men 
 
 Live none, were living then. 
 And none have made a record of those days, 
 But silently they sped, with all their blame and praise. 
 
 Yet may we say, although 
 We nothing know, 
 That those dim summers, vanished long ago.
 
 ONE OF THE MULTITUDE 149 
 
 Had silver twilight hours — 
 All the broad splendour of the noonday glow — 
 
 The joy of flowers. 
 That they had hyacinth and eglantine, 
 June roses, with their perfect petals curled 
 Over a heart of sweetness, dewy pearled ; 
 And lilies tall and white, and purple-clustered vine. 
 
 O blossoms sweet and far, 
 Which were, and are not, yet for ever are ! 
 Leaves which no eyes of ours have seen, 
 
 Which long ago were shed. 
 
 Forgotten, withered, dead. 
 Yet live for ever in undying green ! 
 
 Is there no place for me ? 
 
 Would that my life might be. 
 In the great future that is drawing near, 
 Like a forgotten flower, in a forgotten year ! 
 
 PRINTED BV 
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