 | The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith |  |
STRAY LEAVES
NOTE
Riding one day from Cairnoch on the hill
Across the moor, Dick Ostler flicked the ear
Of the brown mare, then jerked his elbow and thumb
To bid me note a rounded hill that lay
Well to the setting sun, grotesquely planted
With various forest trees—oaks, elms, and pines.
Upon the lower slopes were hollow squares
Just touching each a corner of the other,
And in the bay between, a single tree
Or little group, but on the heights above
Were solid masses, interspersed with some
Carelessly strewn about.
Across the moor, Dick Ostler flicked the ear
Of the brown mare, then jerked his elbow and thumb
To bid me note a rounded hill that lay
Well to the setting sun, grotesquely planted
With various forest trees—oaks, elms, and pines.
Upon the lower slopes were hollow squares
Just touching each a corner of the other,
And in the bay between, a single tree
Or little group, but on the heights above
Were solid masses, interspersed with some
Carelessly strewn about.
“Queer woodcraft that,”
Dick Ostler said; “and yet I planted them.
You see, our last lord went a soldiering
In his hot youth, and brave enough he looked,
Though not much of a soldier—that needs headpiece;
And coming home he took to forestry
When I was in my teens. He said the Duke
Ordered the battle so at Waterloo,
And I must range them like his regiments,
Though all the country laughed at him. Ere long
He went to Parliament and made a speech,
Although he was no Senator—that too
Needs headpiece; and he wanted me to plant
The speakers and the members as they sat
To hear his oratory; but that I would not;
And that was how I took to horses, sir,—
Me who had lived in forests all my days,
And loved the trees, and knew their forms and times,
And every sound of every swinging branch
When the wind blew; and I must handle brutes!
Because my lord would have it he must serve
The nation fighting, though he was no soldier,
Or parliamenting, though he could not speak!
If he had just believed that God made some
To stay at home, and see the farming done,
And look to cottar's houses, and consort
With neighbours on the market-days! But he,
He was my lord, and must as other lords,
And would have writ his foolish life in trees
Sprawling about the estate for folk to laugh at.
That's how I took to horses.” Then he gave
The Brown another flick on the left ear,
And screwed his face into a look of strong
Disgust.
Dick Ostler said; “and yet I planted them.
You see, our last lord went a soldiering
In his hot youth, and brave enough he looked,
Though not much of a soldier—that needs headpiece;
And coming home he took to forestry
When I was in my teens. He said the Duke
Ordered the battle so at Waterloo,
And I must range them like his regiments,
Though all the country laughed at him. Ere long
He went to Parliament and made a speech,
Although he was no Senator—that too
Needs headpiece; and he wanted me to plant
The speakers and the members as they sat
To hear his oratory; but that I would not;
And that was how I took to horses, sir,—
Me who had lived in forests all my days,
And loved the trees, and knew their forms and times,
And every sound of every swinging branch
When the wind blew; and I must handle brutes!
Because my lord would have it he must serve
The nation fighting, though he was no soldier,
Or parliamenting, though he could not speak!
If he had just believed that God made some
To stay at home, and see the farming done,
And look to cottar's houses, and consort
With neighbours on the market-days! But he,
He was my lord, and must as other lords,
And would have writ his foolish life in trees
Sprawling about the estate for folk to laugh at.
That's how I took to horses.” Then he gave
The Brown another flick on the left ear,
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Disgust.
I laughed, and vowed I did not wonder
At his displeasure; but he set me musing:
Had not my old friend writ his life likewise,
Planting along its paths a little border
Of verses like so many daisy-flowers
In memory of his failures. He was not
A preacher, though he writ some sermons, nor
A politician, though he joined a party,
And did it service. Better sure for him
Had he believed God makes some men to write,
And brighten life with gleams of better life,
Or oil its wheels with humour. So it seemed
To me, when turning over articles,
Reviews and essays, and the odds and ends
Of verse, that lay among them all confused,
Whereof some samples follow, like the thrums
Remaining when the web has been wrought out.
At his displeasure; but he set me musing:
Had not my old friend writ his life likewise,
Planting along its paths a little border
Of verses like so many daisy-flowers
In memory of his failures. He was not
A preacher, though he writ some sermons, nor
A politician, though he joined a party,
And did it service. Better sure for him
Had he believed God makes some men to write,
And brighten life with gleams of better life,
Or oil its wheels with humour. So it seemed
To me, when turning over articles,
Reviews and essays, and the odds and ends
Of verse, that lay among them all confused,
Whereof some samples follow, like the thrums
Remaining when the web has been wrought out.
MISS PENELOPE LEITH
Last heiress she of many a rood,
Where Ugie winds through Buchan braes—
A treeless land, where beeves are good,
And men have quaint old-fashioned ways,
And every burn has ballad-lore,
And every hamlet has its song,
And on its surf-beat rocky shore
The eerie legend lingers long.
Old customs live there, unaware
That they are garments cast away,
And what of light is shining there
Is lingering light of yesterday.
Where Ugie winds through Buchan braes—
A treeless land, where beeves are good,
And men have quaint old-fashioned ways,
And every burn has ballad-lore,
And every hamlet has its song,
And on its surf-beat rocky shore
The eerie legend lingers long.
Old customs live there, unaware
That they are garments cast away,
And what of light is shining there
Is lingering light of yesterday.
Never to her the new day came,
Or if it came she would not see;
This world of change was still the same
To our old-world Penelope:
New fashions rose, old fashions went,
But still she wore the same brocade,
With lace of Valenciennes or Ghent
More dainty by her darning made;
A little patch upon her face,
A tinge of colour on her cheek,
A frost of powder, just to grace
The locks that time began to streak.
Or if it came she would not see;
This world of change was still the same
To our old-world Penelope:
New fashions rose, old fashions went,
But still she wore the same brocade,
With lace of Valenciennes or Ghent
More dainty by her darning made;
A little patch upon her face,
A tinge of colour on her cheek,
A frost of powder, just to grace
The locks that time began to streak.
A stately lady; to the poor
Her manner was with out reproach;
But from the causeway she was sure
To snub the Provost in his coach:
In pride of birth she did not seek
Her scorn of upstarts to conceal,
But of a Bailie's wife would speak
As if she bore the fisher's creel.
She said it kept them in their place,
Their fathers were of low degree;
She said the only saving grace
Of upstarts was humility.
Her manner was with out reproach;
But from the causeway she was sure
To snub the Provost in his coach:
In pride of birth she did not seek
Her scorn of upstarts to conceal,
But of a Bailie's wife would speak
As if she bore the fisher's creel.
She said it kept them in their place,
Their fathers were of low degree;
She said the only saving grace
Of upstarts was humility.
The quaint, old Doric still she used,
And it came kindly from her tongue;
And oft the “mim-folk” she abused,
Who mincing English said or sung:
She took her claret, nothing loath,
Her snuff that one small nostril curled;
She might rap out a good round oath,
But would not mince it for the world:
And yet the wild word sounded less
In that Scotch tongue of other days;
'Twas just like her old-fashioned dress,
And part of her old-fashioned ways.
And it came kindly from her tongue;
And oft the “mim-folk” she abused,
Who mincing English said or sung:
She took her claret, nothing loath,
Her snuff that one small nostril curled;
She might rap out a good round oath,
But would not mince it for the world:
And yet the wild word sounded less
In that Scotch tongue of other days;
'Twas just like her old-fashioned dress,
And part of her old-fashioned ways.
At every fair her face was known,
Well-skilled in kyloes and in queys:
And well she led the fiddler on
To “wale” the best of his strathspeys;
Lightly she held the man who rose
While the toast-hammer still could rap,
And brought her gossip to a close,
Or spoilt her after-dinner nap;
Tea was for women, wine for men,
And if they quarrelled o'er their cups,
They might go to the peat-moss then,
And fight it out like stags or tups.
Well-skilled in kyloes and in queys:
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To “wale” the best of his strathspeys;
Lightly she held the man who rose
While the toast-hammer still could rap,
And brought her gossip to a close,
Or spoilt her after-dinner nap;
Tea was for women, wine for men,
And if they quarrelled o'er their cups,
They might go to the peat-moss then,
And fight it out like stags or tups.
She loved a bishop or a dean,
A surplice or a rochet well,
At all the Church's feasts was seen,
And called the Kirk, Conventicle;
Was civil to the minister,
But stiff and frigid to his wife,
And looked askance, and sniffed at her,
As if she lived a dubious life.
But yet his sick her cellars knew,
Well stored from Portugal or France,
And many a savoury soup and stew
Her game-bags furnished to the Manse.
A surplice or a rochet well,
At all the Church's feasts was seen,
And called the Kirk, Conventicle;
Was civil to the minister,
But stiff and frigid to his wife,
And looked askance, and sniffed at her,
As if she lived a dubious life.
But yet his sick her cellars knew,
Well stored from Portugal or France,
And many a savoury soup and stew
Her game-bags furnished to the Manse.
But if there was a choicer boon
Above all else she would have missed,
It was on Sunday afternoon
To have her quiet game at whist
Close to the window, when the Whigs
Were gravely passing from the Kirk,
And some on foot, and some in gigs,
Would stare at her unhallowed work:
She gloried in her “devil's books”
That cut their sour hearts to the quick;
Rather than miss their wrathful looks
She would have almost lost the trick.
Above all else she would have missed,
It was on Sunday afternoon
To have her quiet game at whist
Close to the window, when the Whigs
Were gravely passing from the Kirk,
And some on foot, and some in gigs,
Would stare at her unhallowed work:
She gloried in her “devil's books”
That cut their sour hearts to the quick;
Rather than miss their wrathful looks
She would have almost lost the trick.
Her politics were of the age
Of Claverhouse or Bolingbroke;
Still at the Dutchman she would rage,
And still of gallant Grahame she spoke.
She swore 'twas right that Whigs should die
Psalm-snivelling in the wind and rain,
Though she would ne'er have harmed a fly
For buzzing on the window pane.
And she had many a plaintive rhyme
Of noble Charlie and his men:
For her there was no later time,
All history had ended then.
Of Claverhouse or Bolingbroke;
Still at the Dutchman she would rage,
And still of gallant Grahame she spoke.
She swore 'twas right that Whigs should die
Psalm-snivelling in the wind and rain,
Though she would ne'er have harmed a fly
For buzzing on the window pane.
And she had many a plaintive rhyme
Of noble Charlie and his men:
For her there was no later time,
All history had ended then.
The dear old sinner! yet she had
A kindly human heart, I wot,
And many a sorrow she made glad,
And many a tender mercy wrought:
And though her way was somewhat odd,
Yet in her way she feared the Lord,
And thought she best could worship God
By holding Pharisees abhorred,
By being honest, fearless, true,
And thorough both in word and deed,
And by despising what is new,
And clinging to her old-world creed.
A kindly human heart, I wot,
And many a sorrow she made glad,
And many a tender mercy wrought:
And though her way was somewhat odd,
Yet in her way she feared the Lord,
And thought she best could worship God
By holding Pharisees abhorred,
By being honest, fearless, true,
And thorough both in word and deed,
And by despising what is new,
And clinging to her old-world creed.
WAGSTAFF
With supple form, and radiant face,
And shock of swirling Auburn hair,
And brown plaid, worn with careless grace,
He sauntered, loitering every where;
For his swift-glancing eye must look
On all that met him by the way,
And every street was like a book
Which he could read the live-long day:
Nor sun nor moon nor star nor chime
Set punctual tide for him or time,
For all his habits were at strife
With orderly mechanic life;
And in the Mart when he was seen,
Where sharp wits drove their bargains keen,
His wayward thoughts were oft astray,
Brooding with Ruskin on St. Mark's,
Or dreaming on some broomy brae
Among the linnets and the larks.
And shock of swirling Auburn hair,
And brown plaid, worn with careless grace,
He sauntered, loitering every where;
For his swift-glancing eye must look
On all that met him by the way,
And every street was like a book
Which he could read the live-long day:
Nor sun nor moon nor star nor chime
Set punctual tide for him or time,
For all his habits were at strife
With orderly mechanic life;
And in the Mart when he was seen,
Where sharp wits drove their bargains keen,
His wayward thoughts were oft astray,
Brooding with Ruskin on St. Mark's,
Or dreaming on some broomy brae
Among the linnets and the larks.
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No flower that in the garden grows
But all its way of life he knew,
No wilding in the green hedgerows
But he could tell its story true;
And where birds nestled, how they sung,
And where to find the honey bees,
What varying notes were heard among
The beech-woods and the stiff pine trees,
All sights and sounds of Nature, well
Their nicest difference he could tell;
For where the careless footstep trod
He saw the glory and power of God.
All beauty thrilled him like the kiss
Of young love in its early bliss;
And so his life had great delight,
For beauty everywhere he met;
A moss would make his eye grow bright,
A cowslip or a violet.
But all its way of life he knew,
No wilding in the green hedgerows
But he could tell its story true;
And where birds nestled, how they sung,
And where to find the honey bees,
What varying notes were heard among
The beech-woods and the stiff pine trees,
All sights and sounds of Nature, well
Their nicest difference he could tell;
For where the careless footstep trod
He saw the glory and power of God.
All beauty thrilled him like the kiss
Of young love in its early bliss;
And so his life had great delight,
For beauty everywhere he met;
A moss would make his eye grow bright,
A cowslip or a violet.
The music of the ancient days,
The pictures of the age of faith,
When Song was still the voice of Praise,
And Worship had its vital breath
In forms of loveliness divine—
Virgin and babe of tender grace—
He would be drunken as with wine
On holy hymn or saintly face.
And oh to hear him (when he met,
With some new loan, an ancient debt)
Come back to Keats's picture-words
Like flowers and fruits and singing birds;
Or Wordsworth's touch of Truth, who saw
All nature wrapt in love and awe;
Or Shelley's strains, like lark unseen
In mystic sweetness rippling on;
Or the choice words, and vision keen,
And perfect art of Tennyson!
The pictures of the age of faith,
When Song was still the voice of Praise,
And Worship had its vital breath
In forms of loveliness divine—
Virgin and babe of tender grace—
He would be drunken as with wine
On holy hymn or saintly face.
And oh to hear him (when he met,
With some new loan, an ancient debt)
Come back to Keats's picture-words
Like flowers and fruits and singing birds;
Or Wordsworth's touch of Truth, who saw
All nature wrapt in love and awe;
Or Shelley's strains, like lark unseen
In mystic sweetness rippling on;
Or the choice words, and vision keen,
And perfect art of Tennyson!
He had large wealth of curious lore,
And freely would his wealth dispense,
And still his speech suggested more
Than lay in its familiar sense;
And we who gathered round him, young
And eager, inspiration caught
From broken fragments which he sung,
Or glimpses of far-reaching thought.
In letters some, and some in Art,
And some in Science took their part;
But all ascribed to him that they
Had found their true life and its way:
Meanwhile he struggled lonely, poor,
Indebted, slighted, and obscure,
And went through darkness into rest;
But yet his thoughts with us abide;
He lives in us, when we are best,
He is but changed and multiplied.
And freely would his wealth dispense,
And still his speech suggested more
Than lay in its familiar sense;
And we who gathered round him, young
And eager, inspiration caught
From broken fragments which he sung,
Or glimpses of far-reaching thought.
In letters some, and some in Art,
And some in Science took their part;
But all ascribed to him that they
Had found their true life and its way:
Meanwhile he struggled lonely, poor,
Indebted, slighted, and obscure,
And went through darkness into rest;
But yet his thoughts with us abide;
He lives in us, when we are best,
He is but changed and multiplied.
PEPPE
Ugly was not the word for Peppe:
His cheek was scarred with a crimson gash,
He had squinting eyes, and a limping step,
And a long lip furzed with a red moustache,
Sharp-pointed teeth, like a saw, and black
Finger-nails, like a vulture's claw,
And all the skin of him spotted and slack,
Like a mouldy old parchment deed of the law.
His cheek was scarred with a crimson gash,
He had squinting eyes, and a limping step,
And a long lip furzed with a red moustache,
Sharp-pointed teeth, like a saw, and black
Finger-nails, like a vulture's claw,
And all the skin of him spotted and slack,
Like a mouldy old parchment deed of the law.
Yet never a maiden had silkier curls
Scented and glossy and soft as a dove;
And never silkier voice among girls
Lisped, in soft accents, of beauty and love;
Oiliest curls, and the oiliest speech
Talking the wildest thoughts ever I heard—
Thoughts of a kind it were fitter to screech,
Dropt like the notes of a singing bird.
Scented and glossy and soft as a dove;
And never silkier voice among girls
Lisped, in soft accents, of beauty and love;
Oiliest curls, and the oiliest speech
Talking the wildest thoughts ever I heard—
Thoughts of a kind it were fitter to screech,
Dropt like the notes of a singing bird.
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Softly he spoke about fell Revolutions,
Of Rank, Rule, and Title and Capital gone,
Swift overthrow of our old institutions,
And blood from the Barricades splashing the throne,
Burning of churches, and burying gods,
Treating the priests like the rats in their holes,
Ruin of all our old life with its modes
Of building up order, and saving of souls.
Of Rank, Rule, and Title and Capital gone,
Swift overthrow of our old institutions,
And blood from the Barricades splashing the throne,
Burning of churches, and burying gods,
Treating the priests like the rats in their holes,
Ruin of all our old life with its modes
Of building up order, and saving of souls.
Sometimes he went off, when little expected,
But to come back, when as little desired,
Now looking haggard and lean and dejected,
Tricked now in garb that he plainly admired;
Leaving, he went where no seeking could find him,
Returning, no care could escape from his view,
And when he went, he left trouble behind him,
And coming back, he brought trouble anew.
But to come back, when as little desired,
Now looking haggard and lean and dejected,
Tricked now in garb that he plainly admired;
Leaving, he went where no seeking could find him,
Returning, no care could escape from his view,
And when he went, he left trouble behind him,
And coming back, he brought trouble anew.
For, be his luck what it might, we were sure
Storms would be brewing the moment he came,
Chills would be falling on friendships pure,
Doubts would be cast upon some honoured name:
Mischief followed wherever he went,
And some bright eyes would with tears be dim;
And yet he looked smiling and innocent,
And we never could bring the thing home to him.
Storms would be brewing the moment he came,
Chills would be falling on friendships pure,
Doubts would be cast upon some honoured name:
Mischief followed wherever he went,
And some bright eyes would with tears be dim;
And yet he looked smiling and innocent,
And we never could bring the thing home to him.
Last time we met was in seventy-two,
Just when the mad Commune had burst;
Jewelled and furred like a Rotterdam Jew,
Hardly I knew the fellow at first;
But he came up with a smile, and a look
Nothing could ever the least embarrass,
Saying, “Ah! here is your wished-for Book,
And I picked it up at the siege of Paris.”
Just when the mad Commune had burst;
Jewelled and furred like a Rotterdam Jew,
Hardly I knew the fellow at first;
But he came up with a smile, and a look
Nothing could ever the least embarrass,
Saying, “Ah! here is your wished-for Book,
And I picked it up at the siege of Paris.”
Eh? was I wrong to give him his price,
Instead of giving him straight in charge?
A book so scarce it was only twice
Offered for sale to the world at large!
Ah! I so longed for it! just at the sight,
I felt a knocking about my knee:—
And in the fury of that wild night,
Strange that the rogue should have thought about me!
Instead of giving him straight in charge?
A book so scarce it was only twice
Offered for sale to the world at large!
Ah! I so longed for it! just at the sight,
I felt a knocking about my knee:—
And in the fury of that wild night,
Strange that the rogue should have thought about me!
I knew that one in the Louvre lay:—
Oh what a hang-dog look he had!
And something within me tried to say,
“Now, if you buy it you're just as bad.”
Yet I must have it; there is a score
Will give him his money if I refuse—
To think of me, now, in that wild uproar!
And he saved it perhaps from the Petroleuse!
Oh what a hang-dog look he had!
And something within me tried to say,
“Now, if you buy it you're just as bad.”
Yet I must have it; there is a score
Will give him his money if I refuse—
To think of me, now, in that wild uproar!
And he saved it perhaps from the Petroleuse!
JOHN MEFF, M.A.
Alas! he had outlived respect,
And the sharp sting of cold neglect,
And cared not wisely to reflect
Upon his ways,
Or to look back, or to expect
More happy days.
And the sharp sting of cold neglect,
And cared not wisely to reflect
Upon his ways,
Or to look back, or to expect
More happy days.
Once a rare scholar, ripe and full,
Famed Latinist in Classic School,
Whose biting satire scourged a fool
With lash of scorn:
An Epigrammatist by rule,
And native-born;
Famed Latinist in Classic School,
Whose biting satire scourged a fool
With lash of scorn:
An Epigrammatist by rule,
And native-born;
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Well could he tilt, and featly hit
Opponents with quotation fit
Of Attic or Horatian wit
That made them wince,
Nor heeded if his weapon smit
Or Priest or Prince.
Opponents with quotation fit
Of Attic or Horatian wit
That made them wince,
Nor heeded if his weapon smit
Or Priest or Prince.
Well could he, too, with mocking lip,
Sneer at the sciolists who slip
On niceties of scholarship,
Nor would abate
The lash of that contemptuous whip
For love or hate.
Sneer at the sciolists who slip
On niceties of scholarship,
Nor would abate
The lash of that contemptuous whip
For love or hate.
So wrath had gathered round his life,
And love had fallen away, and strife
Had grown its crop of quarrels rife
Until he stood,
Having nor lover, friend, nor wife,
In solitude.
And love had fallen away, and strife
Had grown its crop of quarrels rife
Until he stood,
Having nor lover, friend, nor wife,
In solitude.
Then nights and suppers, deemed divine
Symposia of Falernian wine,
And Syren songs that turn to swine
Who list to hear,
To these he greatly did incline
Both heart and ear:
Symposia of Falernian wine,
And Syren songs that turn to swine
Who list to hear,
To these he greatly did incline
Both heart and ear:
At first with shame; but soon he fell
A willing captive to their spell,
And grew a taproom Oracle
To yokels fuddled,
Or mad with fiery drink, or well
With beer bemuddled.
A willing captive to their spell,
And grew a taproom Oracle
To yokels fuddled,
Or mad with fiery drink, or well
With beer bemuddled.
Now far from him Professor's chair,
And High School with its classic air,
And to the Kirk he may not dare
Lift up his hopes;
For he is bound to shame and care
By devil's ropes.
And High School with its classic air,
And to the Kirk he may not dare
Lift up his hopes;
For he is bound to shame and care
By devil's ropes.
Yet far away in moorland cot
Where first he tasted life's hard lot,
His early promise, ne'er forgot,
Has ne'er grown dim,
And there is still a bright green spot
On earth for him.
Where first he tasted life's hard lot,
His early promise, ne'er forgot,
Has ne'er grown dim,
And there is still a bright green spot
On earth for him.
All else forgetting—pride of fame,
A happy home, an honoured name,
And God and truth, and praise and blame,
He will not let
His frail old mother know the shame
Of want, or debt.
A happy home, an honoured name,
And God and truth, and praise and blame,
He will not let
His frail old mother know the shame
Of want, or debt.
She wots not how his days are spent,
But fails not of her yearly rent,
Nor homely fare, nor clothing sent
From him threadbare,
Nor weekly letter kindly meant
To ease her care.
But fails not of her yearly rent,
Nor homely fare, nor clothing sent
From him threadbare,
Nor weekly letter kindly meant
To ease her care.
And still she tells of him with pride,
How with the minister he vied
In learning, and had never lied
As boy or man,
Nor from his mother aught would hide
Since life began.
How with the minister he vied
In learning, and had never lied
As boy or man,
Nor from his mother aught would hide
Since life began.
A dutiful and loving son!
A scholar who great fame had won!
She other wish on earth had none
Except to reach
Some place, before her race was run,
To hear him preach!
A scholar who great fame had won!
She other wish on earth had none
Except to reach
Some place, before her race was run,
To hear him preach!
O mystic shuttles, how ye dart
Through life's dim web! O thou that art
Still clinging to a better part
'Mid all thy wrong!
And oh the pathos of the heart,
Believing long!
Through life's dim web! O thou that art
Still clinging to a better part
'Mid all thy wrong!
And oh the pathos of the heart,
Believing long!
LATTO
A deep grey eye, a meek grey face,
Grey sandy hair and garb worn grey,
A limp loose form, a hurried pace
That loitered never by the way,
And knew no leisure and no play;
A wistful look of painèd thought,
As if he must, yet feared to think,
For his too daring Reason wrought
Dread of itself, as on the brink
Of chasms from which he fain would shrink:
Much-pondering, his soul could see
But God in all the things that be,
In subtle matter, and changeful force,
In joy and anguish and remorse;
No dual empire could he find,
But all was matter, and all was mind.
So had he lost his early faiths,
And glory of his simple youth,
And this had been like many deaths,
Though dying into larger truth.
Grey sandy hair and garb worn grey,
A limp loose form, a hurried pace
That loitered never by the way,
And knew no leisure and no play;
A wistful look of painèd thought,
As if he must, yet feared to think,
277
Dread of itself, as on the brink
Of chasms from which he fain would shrink:
Much-pondering, his soul could see
But God in all the things that be,
In subtle matter, and changeful force,
In joy and anguish and remorse;
No dual empire could he find,
But all was matter, and all was mind.
So had he lost his early faiths,
And glory of his simple youth,
And this had been like many deaths,
Though dying into larger truth.
This world, he said, all things divine
Are but the great God's uttered thought:
His work is not like thine or mine
Which brains have planned, and tools have wrought;
It is, yet out of Him is not.
He makes the light, He makes the shade
That limits it with form; yet light
Is nothing but the ripple made
By rhythmic motion, giving sight
And wondrous vision of delight.
And shadow too is noting. Why,
My shadow surely is not I;
'Tis nothing; yet I make it; well
My form and features it shall tell,
And yet I use no art to make
This nothing, which for me you take.—
Thus dreamily the mystic spoke,
And ever as his thought was spent,
It rose again like wave that broke
In never-ending argument.
Are but the great God's uttered thought:
His work is not like thine or mine
Which brains have planned, and tools have wrought;
It is, yet out of Him is not.
He makes the light, He makes the shade
That limits it with form; yet light
Is nothing but the ripple made
By rhythmic motion, giving sight
And wondrous vision of delight.
And shadow too is noting. Why,
My shadow surely is not I;
'Tis nothing; yet I make it; well
My form and features it shall tell,
And yet I use no art to make
This nothing, which for me you take.—
Thus dreamily the mystic spoke,
And ever as his thought was spent,
It rose again like wave that broke
In never-ending argument.
For all his thoughts of soul and mind
Were shaped by hard material law;
And yet no matter could he find,
But mind created what it saw,
And of its shadows stood in awe:
And God was all. The solid earth,
The rivers and the shining seas,
And all to which the heavens gave birth,
And all the rocks and hills and trees,
And grass and flowers and birds and bees,
All were but pictured thoughts which shone
As sparks from rapid wheel are thrown,
And gleam out in the dark, and then
Pass into nothingness again.
Yet while the world he thus refined
Into fine forms of subtle mind,
The subtle mind he made again
Gross by material forms of thought,
And chemic forces in the brain
Our vices and our virtues wrought.
Were shaped by hard material law;
And yet no matter could he find,
But mind created what it saw,
And of its shadows stood in awe:
And God was all. The solid earth,
The rivers and the shining seas,
And all to which the heavens gave birth,
And all the rocks and hills and trees,
And grass and flowers and birds and bees,
All were but pictured thoughts which shone
As sparks from rapid wheel are thrown,
And gleam out in the dark, and then
Pass into nothingness again.
Yet while the world he thus refined
Into fine forms of subtle mind,
The subtle mind he made again
Gross by material forms of thought,
And chemic forces in the brain
Our vices and our virtues wrought.
Still gathering knowledge, day by day,
Unwearying in his search for light,
He gathered scruples by the way,
Till scarce one way of life seemed right,
And he was in a helpless plight.
He scrupled at the Church's creed,
Although he held her mission grand;
He scrupled at all paths which lead
To honour in an ancient land
Whose bridges have the ages spanned:
He scrupled at the tricks and lies,
Unscrupulous, of merchandise;
And while all science he pursued,
He held no art or practice good,
Till, as by threads of cob-web dim,
All paths of life seemed shut to him;
For still the scrupulous conscience stood
And barred the way when it should lead,
And made him helpless unto good,
That he from evil might be freed.
Unwearying in his search for light,
He gathered scruples by the way,
Till scarce one way of life seemed right,
And he was in a helpless plight.
He scrupled at the Church's creed,
Although he held her mission grand;
He scrupled at all paths which lead
To honour in an ancient land
Whose bridges have the ages spanned:
He scrupled at the tricks and lies,
Unscrupulous, of merchandise;
And while all science he pursued,
He held no art or practice good,
Till, as by threads of cob-web dim,
All paths of life seemed shut to him;
For still the scrupulous conscience stood
And barred the way when it should lead,
And made him helpless unto good,
That he from evil might be freed.
Fain would we laugh his scruples down,
But there his truth rebuked our mirth;
He sought not riches or renown
Nor any fatness of the earth,
Might he but keep his honest worth;
No envy had he of the great,
No drop of bitterness had he,
He was contented with the state
Of noble-minded poverty,
Well-pleased of no account to be.
To hammer great thoughts out of stones,
And fossil leaves, and scales and bones;
To give imagination wings,
And frame the universe of things
From chaos, or from nothing—that
Was all he cared to labour at.
And so he drifted still along,
Having no social roots or ties,
Self-fettered by his scruples strong,
Yet making many good and wise.
But there his truth rebuked our mirth;
He sought not riches or renown
Nor any fatness of the earth,
Might he but keep his honest worth;
278
No drop of bitterness had he,
He was contented with the state
Of noble-minded poverty,
Well-pleased of no account to be.
To hammer great thoughts out of stones,
And fossil leaves, and scales and bones;
To give imagination wings,
And frame the universe of things
From chaos, or from nothing—that
Was all he cared to labour at.
And so he drifted still along,
Having no social roots or ties,
Self-fettered by his scruples strong,
Yet making many good and wise.
MOTHER-IN-LAW
O my boy! O my heart, it will break!
And how like his father he sat!
So cruel and cold! and his voice did not shake,
When he shattered my life and my hope, for the sake
Of a creature like that!
And how like his father he sat!
So cruel and cold! and his voice did not shake,
When he shattered my life and my hope, for the sake
Of a creature like that!
Not that it matters how soon
My poor dregs of life may depart:
What are we mothers made for, but to croon
A soft cradle-song to a low cradle-tune,
With a slow-breaking heart?
My poor dregs of life may depart:
What are we mothers made for, but to croon
A soft cradle-song to a low cradle-tune,
With a slow-breaking heart?
O Woman! whose love is thy life,
Thy love-life is sorrow and pain;
As the girl's love dawns, so her troubles grow rife,
And they darken on down through the mother and wife,
Drip-dripping like rain,
Thy love-life is sorrow and pain;
As the girl's love dawns, so her troubles grow rife,
And they darken on down through the mother and wife,
Drip-dripping like rain,
O my boy! and I hoped, when they brought
My baby to lie on my breast,
Now, at length, I shall find all the love I have sought,
Now, at length, I shall bask in the bliss I have got,
And my heart shall have rest.
My baby to lie on my breast,
Now, at length, I shall find all the love I have sought,
Now, at length, I shall bask in the bliss I have got,
And my heart shall have rest.
From me thy life came, and by me
Shall its young powers be nourished, alone;
No wanton shall poison its pure springs to thee
With milk of coarse passion, but it shall all be
Sweet and clean as my own.
Shall its young powers be nourished, alone;
No wanton shall poison its pure springs to thee
With milk of coarse passion, but it shall all be
Sweet and clean as my own.
And so, with pained pleasure, he drew
His life, day by day, out of mine,
And mine was the one tender hand that he knew:
I suffered none else, for his kiss was like dew,
And his breath like sweet wine.
His life, day by day, out of mine,
And mine was the one tender hand that he knew:
I suffered none else, for his kiss was like dew,
And his breath like sweet wine.
O my beauty! my hero! What dreams
I dreamed, as he smiled in my face!
What hopes lit my life as with laughing sun-gleams,
When I kissed into silence his lustiest screams
With a mirthful embrace.
I dreamed, as he smiled in my face!
What hopes lit my life as with laughing sun-gleams,
When I kissed into silence his lustiest screams
With a mirthful embrace.
Now, I pictured him soldier of fame
Battling on in the thick of the fight;
Now, a statesman whose eloquence kindled a flame
That fired all the land, till they shouted his name
As the symbol of right.
Battling on in the thick of the fight;
Now, a statesman whose eloquence kindled a flame
That fired all the land, till they shouted his name
As the symbol of right.
Then I sighed, and said, Let him be good,
And I heed not what else is in store:
But ah! that was not what the mother's heart would,
And still it went back to its loftier mood,
And panted for more.
And I heed not what else is in store:
But ah! that was not what the mother's heart would,
And still it went back to its loftier mood,
And panted for more.
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And what, if God, wroth at my pride,
Has humbled me now for my sin?
For I knew in my heart, when I said it, I lied
And I knew it was dull moral prosing to hide
The proud thought within.
Has humbled me now for my sin?
For I knew in my heart, when I said it, I lied
And I knew it was dull moral prosing to hide
The proud thought within.
I gave up all, all for my boy—
All the world where, they said, I once shone;
And the girl-wife, tremulous, timid and coy,
Grew strong in the pride of a mother's great joy,
And for him lived alone.
All the world where, they said, I once shone;
And the girl-wife, tremulous, timid and coy,
Grew strong in the pride of a mother's great joy,
And for him lived alone.
I grudged every moment away,
I grudged every task not for him;
As he lay on my lap, I would croodle and play,
As he lay in soft sleep, I would watch him and pray
Till my wet eyes grew dim.
I grudged every task not for him;
As he lay on my lap, I would croodle and play,
As he lay in soft sleep, I would watch him and pray
Till my wet eyes grew dim.
I grudged even his father, when he
Would toss up my child in the air,
Or when he would ride the high-horse on his knee,
Or the little one laughed aloud in his glee,
As he tangled his hair.
Would toss up my child in the air,
Or when he would ride the high-horse on his knee,
Or the little one laughed aloud in his glee,
As he tangled his hair.
But sometimes, I thought, it were good
That another should come to divide
This so jealous love with its passionate mood;
Yet what other baby, like him, ever could
Be my joy and my pride?
That another should come to divide
This so jealous love with its passionate mood;
Yet what other baby, like him, ever could
Be my joy and my pride?
Then I'd clasp him close to my breast,
And kiss him, body and limb;
It was wicked to dream even, or say it in jest,
That another could ever be fondly caressed
With the love I gave him.
And kiss him, body and limb;
It was wicked to dream even, or say it in jest,
That another could ever be fondly caressed
With the love I gave him.
And then as he grew up apace,
I went back to schooling once more,
And took up old studies of number and case,
And the great tale of Troy, and of that haughty race
By the brown Tiber's shore.
I went back to schooling once more,
And took up old studies of number and case,
And the great tale of Troy, and of that haughty race
By the brown Tiber's shore.
For I trembled to think he might read
What from youth should be hidden with care,
And be smirched with some grossness of word or deed,
Or filled with false thoughts, that, like thistle-down seed,
Fly about in the air.
What from youth should be hidden with care,
And be smirched with some grossness of word or deed,
Or filled with false thoughts, that, like thistle-down seed,
Fly about in the air.
O my boy! Oh the bliss of those days,
When I pored o'er his Latin and Greek!
And I knew all his thoughts, and I saw all his plays,
And I noted him manly and bright in his ways,
And gentle and meek.
When I pored o'er his Latin and Greek!
And I knew all his thoughts, and I saw all his plays,
And I noted him manly and bright in his ways,
And gentle and meek.
And now comes this woman to steal
All the fruit of my life and its bliss,
All the joy and the hope that I ever shall feel,
And plants me a death-wound, nothing can heal,
With her Judas-like kiss.
All the fruit of my life and its bliss,
All the joy and the hope that I ever shall feel,
And plants me a death-wound, nothing can heal,
With her Judas-like kiss.
She is years and years older than he,
And has trapped him, I know, with her guile,
For there's nothing he'll hear now, and nothing will see
But goodness in her, and unfairness in me,
As he basks in her smile.
And has trapped him, I know, with her guile,
For there's nothing he'll hear now, and nothing will see
But goodness in her, and unfairness in me,
As he basks in her smile.
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Poor boy! if you knew! That wan smile
Has been tried upon scores before you;
'Tis a well-worn look, you might see by its style,
Has done duty for years, for her eyes, the meanwhile,
Are not smiling nor true.
Has been tried upon scores before you;
'Tis a well-worn look, you might see by its style,
Has done duty for years, for her eyes, the meanwhile,
Are not smiling nor true.
Charm! ay, such as practised ones wield;
With a hard, hungry look in her eye,
And a lithe, supple form, and a heart that is steeled,
Which no love can touch, and which no love will yield,
Till the day that she die.
With a hard, hungry look in her eye,
And a lithe, supple form, and a heart that is steeled,
Which no love can touch, and which no love will yield,
Till the day that she die.
Of course he must marry her now;
He has gone quite too far to draw back;
But oh, what a sorrow is hid in the vow
To love the unloving, and make his heart bow
To the yoke till it crack!
He has gone quite too far to draw back;
But oh, what a sorrow is hid in the vow
To love the unloving, and make his heart bow
To the yoke till it crack!
She has poisoned his mind against me,
And will poison it more if she can:
Oh that poor jealous heart of hers! Can he not see,
It is not like a mother's? But no one can be
Half so blind as a man.
And will poison it more if she can:
Oh that poor jealous heart of hers! Can he not see,
It is not like a mother's? But no one can be
Half so blind as a man.
No; their wedding I will not go near;
I never will darken her door,
Nor break bread of hers, nor partake of her cheer—
Far rather I'd follow my boy on his bier
To his rest evermore!
I never will darken her door,
Nor break bread of hers, nor partake of her cheer—
Far rather I'd follow my boy on his bier
To his rest evermore!
I have thought, if I only could see
A baby of his in my lap,
A baby of his smiling up from my knee,
Oh, to nurse both mother and baby would be
The blessedest hap!
A baby of his in my lap,
A baby of his smiling up from my knee,
Oh, to nurse both mother and baby would be
The blessedest hap!
But she! that woman! her child!
Do you wonder it makes me sad,
When I know that my boy has been so beguiled?
It is weeks and months since ever I've smiled,
And it's making me bad.
Do you wonder it makes me sad,
When I know that my boy has been so beguiled?
It is weeks and months since ever I've smiled,
And it's making me bad.
She is deep—Oh, she well knows her game!—
And is ever so gentle and meek;
She sees I don't like her; but loves all the same
Every one that he loves, every one of his name,
All the days of the week!
And is ever so gentle and meek;
She sees I don't like her; but loves all the same
Every one that he loves, every one of his name,
All the days of the week!
And that drives me mad, for I know
He believes every word that she says.
If only by word or by look she would show
The false, scheming heart that is hidden below
Her soft, silky ways!
He believes every word that she says.
If only by word or by look she would show
The false, scheming heart that is hidden below
Her soft, silky ways!
And her cunning is breeding hate,
And wickedest thoughts in me:
She might be another man's happy mate,
But to me and my house she is like a dark Fate
That I shudder to see.
And wickedest thoughts in me:
She might be another man's happy mate,
But to me and my house she is like a dark Fate
That I shudder to see.
God, keep me from sin and wrath:
Had I lived in the old Greek time
When hate killed the King of men in his bath,
I too might have sown the dread aftermath
Of a horrible crime!
Had I lived in the old Greek time
When hate killed the King of men in his bath,
I too might have sown the dread aftermath
Of a horrible crime!
Who knows what one might have been?
Who knows what the heart might do?
Oh the thoughts of guilt I have sometimes seen,
Trying the shape of their guilt to screen
From my doubtful view!
Who knows what the heart might do?
Oh the thoughts of guilt I have sometimes seen,
Trying the shape of their guilt to screen
From my doubtful view!
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And my husband goes, meanwhile,
Careless and easy of heart,
Daffing my cares with a mocking smile;
Ay, that was ever his hateful style
Of playing his part.
Careless and easy of heart,
Daffing my cares with a mocking smile;
Ay, that was ever his hateful style
Of playing his part.
And my boy grows like him in that,
Liker him every day;
And oh so cruel and cool as he sat!
And oh so light he jested at
What I tried to say.
Liker him every day;
And oh so cruel and cool as he sat!
And oh so light he jested at
What I tried to say.
Once how I hoped he would wed—
For I know that she loves him dear—
That saintly child of the sainted dead!
They were born for each other, I always said,
The self-same year.
For I know that she loves him dear—
That saintly child of the sainted dead!
They were born for each other, I always said,
The self-same year.
But my wishes are nothing to him:
I am blind, of course, as a bat,
For my eyes with the tears of love are dim;
And my cup of sorrow is filled to the brim—
For a creature like that.
I am blind, of course, as a bat,
For my eyes with the tears of love are dim;
And my cup of sorrow is filled to the brim—
For a creature like that.
O mothers! whose love is such bliss
While the baby lies soft on your knee,
With each fond word, and each rapturous kiss,
Ye are sowing the seeds of a grief like this
Which has come to me.
While the baby lies soft on your knee,
With each fond word, and each rapturous kiss,
Ye are sowing the seeds of a grief like this
Which has come to me.
FATHER-IN-LAW
Never mind what your mother may say:
She was always hard on the girls:
Your virtuous women have all a way
Of saying the bitterest things they may
About them and their curls.
She was always hard on the girls:
Your virtuous women have all a way
Of saying the bitterest things they may
About them and their curls.
It is different, now, with a man:
The better he is, I think,
He'll speak of young fellows the best that he can,
Though the rogues may be learning to curse and ban,
And play, too, and drink.
The better he is, I think,
He'll speak of young fellows the best that he can,
Though the rogues may be learning to curse and ban,
And play, too, and drink.
Well; that never struck me until
I said it, and yet it is true;
Good men could not do what your good women will,
And they call it a duty they have to fulfil
In pure love to you.
I said it, and yet it is true;
Good men could not do what your good women will,
And they call it a duty they have to fulfil
In pure love to you.
I am not good, myself, as you know,
And I never pretended to be;
And I've sometimes thought I was happier so
Than to purse up my mouth, and look glum as I go
At the things that I see.
And I never pretended to be;
And I've sometimes thought I was happier so
Than to purse up my mouth, and look glum as I go
At the things that I see.
But your mother is virtuous, lad;
Whatever she is, she is that;
A virtuous woman, for good or bad,
And she's fretting her soul, till it's really sad,
At this wooing you're at.
Whatever she is, she is that;
A virtuous woman, for good or bad,
And she's fretting her soul, till it's really sad,
At this wooing you're at.
She won't let me rest till I speak
My mind on't, and here's what I say:
Maybe her reasons are poor and weak,
And she's hot and hysteric, and not very meek;
But she'll have her own way.
My mind on't, and here's what I say:
Maybe her reasons are poor and weak,
And she's hot and hysteric, and not very meek;
But she'll have her own way.
Don't insist upon your way, at least,
It was always my plan to give in,
And to make as if I would do as she pleased,
Till she cooled down a bit; for her keenness ceased
As she thought she would win.
It was always my plan to give in,
And to make as if I would do as she pleased,
Till she cooled down a bit; for her keenness ceased
As she thought she would win.
Well; I know that she always meant
You, some day or other, should wed
That putty-faced doll of a baby-saint,
With her breath smelling ever so sickly and faint,
As if more than half-dead.
You, some day or other, should wed
That putty-faced doll of a baby-saint,
With her breath smelling ever so sickly and faint,
As if more than half-dead.
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I am glad you are out of that mess;
It would never have turned out well:
She has not the breeding, the mouth, or the pace,
And what your mother can see in her face
I never could tell.
It would never have turned out well:
She has not the breeding, the mouth, or the pace,
And what your mother can see in her face
I never could tell.
And it's right you should choose your own wife;
I did it, and every man should;
It is hard that another should tie you for life,
Maybe to bother, vexation, and strife:
Though she means it for good.
I did it, and every man should;
It is hard that another should tie you for life,
Maybe to bother, vexation, and strife:
Though she means it for good.
But you'd better give up your first “flame,”
Nearly every man does that I know;
Your mother is wild when I name but her name,
And it would not be nice for a girl, if she came
To be ill-treated so.
Nearly every man does that I know;
Your mother is wild when I name but her name,
And it would not be nice for a girl, if she came
To be ill-treated so.
I allow she is quiet and good,
And handsome and ladylike too,
She can ride too, and talk and dress as she should,
And she is not at all of hysterical mood,
And you say she loves you.
And handsome and ladylike too,
She can ride too, and talk and dress as she should,
And she is not at all of hysterical mood,
And you say she loves you.
But your mother can't bear her, you see;
That don't go for much, I admit;
Our mothers are fain we should always be
Still the small babies that sat on their knee,
Admiring their wit.
That don't go for much, I admit;
Our mothers are fain we should always be
Still the small babies that sat on their knee,
Admiring their wit.
But I'm told she is older than you;
Of course, that's a matter of taste,
And old or young, they will always do
Just what they like; yet it's also true
You should not be in haste.
Of course, that's a matter of taste,
And old or young, they will always do
Just what they like; yet it's also true
You should not be in haste.
If she had but a trifle of cash!
I don't mind the two or three years;
They're not here or there; but it's something rash
To dive into wedlock, you see, with a splash,
When, for aught that appears,
I don't mind the two or three years;
They're not here or there; but it's something rash
To dive into wedlock, you see, with a splash,
When, for aught that appears,
You have not between you, I think,
Enough to pay for your tour;
And how you're to live, and to eat and drink,
Is more than I know; but it's all rose-pink
To-day, to be sure.
Enough to pay for your tour;
And how you're to live, and to eat and drink,
Is more than I know; but it's all rose-pink
To-day, to be sure.
Now, I have not a shilling to spare,
Not a penny to play pitch-and-toss;
And you'd not like your mother to sit down with care
Before she is Dowager, and you are heir
Of the peat-hag and moss.
Not a penny to play pitch-and-toss;
And you'd not like your mother to sit down with care
Before she is Dowager, and you are heir
Of the peat-hag and moss.
You must not count on me:
I never could keep out of debt;
But I'll leave you a name, and a family tree
Long held in honour, and bills two or three
That are not honoured yet.
I never could keep out of debt;
But I'll leave you a name, and a family tree
Long held in honour, and bills two or three
That are not honoured yet.
There's the old coach I had to renew,
The horses not fit for the road,
And the cellar quite empty; and what could I do?
For the rents were all spent ere a guinea was due,
When I last went abroad.
The horses not fit for the road,
And the cellar quite empty; and what could I do?
For the rents were all spent ere a guinea was due,
When I last went abroad.
You'd not wish to see me drive out
With a chaise, and a pair of old screws,
And bring from the grocer's a bottle of stout;
No, there's things one must have, and yet cannot, without
The help of the Jews.
With a chaise, and a pair of old screws,
And bring from the grocer's a bottle of stout;
No, there's things one must have, and yet cannot, without
The help of the Jews.
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But one should be able to do
Without luxuries, now, like books,
And pictures and china and ormolu,
And a wife that will always want something new,
For her handsome looks.
Without luxuries, now, like books,
And pictures and china and ormolu,
And a wife that will always want something new,
For her handsome looks.
Have you thought at all how you're to live,
With taxes to pay, and your rent?
You may run into debt, and your tradesmen grieve;
With your name, you may borrow, although you must give
A heavy per cent.
With taxes to pay, and your rent?
You may run into debt, and your tradesmen grieve;
With your name, you may borrow, although you must give
A heavy per cent.
But it's ticklish work doing that long,
And you can't trust the cards or the dice,
And betting without ready money is wrong;
And what can you do that is worth an old song,
When you've tried it twice?
And you can't trust the cards or the dice,
And betting without ready money is wrong;
And what can you do that is worth an old song,
When you've tried it twice?
A Lawyer that has but one brief,
A Doctor one patient who tends,
May marry, in hope that in turning the leaf,
By healing a fool, or releasing a thief,
He may make what the spends.
A Doctor one patient who tends,
May marry, in hope that in turning the leaf,
By healing a fool, or releasing a thief,
He may make what the spends.
But there's no kind of work now for you,
And nothing to hope that I see,
Unless I should die for fond lovers and true,
Which is hard for a man in his sixties to do,
With but gout in his knee.
And nothing to hope that I see,
Unless I should die for fond lovers and true,
Which is hard for a man in his sixties to do,
With but gout in his knee.
You must think of it better; and mind,
Not a word to your mother that's rough:
She is hot and hysterical, maybe, and blind,
But then she's your mother, and ever was kind;
And that is enough.
Not a word to your mother that's rough:
She is hot and hysterical, maybe, and blind,
But then she's your mother, and ever was kind;
And that is enough.
DAUGHTER-IN-LAW
So, there; you have told me all;
And you want to know what we must do;
Your love is great, but your purse is small,
And you leave me free, if I like, to fall
From my word to you.
And you want to know what we must do;
Your love is great, but your purse is small,
And you leave me free, if I like, to fall
From my word to you.
But what, if I am not free
To take my freedom again?
What, if this foolish heart in me
Rather far would be bound than be
Without its chain?
To take my freedom again?
What, if this foolish heart in me
Rather far would be bound than be
Without its chain?
It is not the promise that binds,
But the love that changeth not;
And pledges taken of faithless minds
I hold them but as the idle winds,
Heard, and forgot.
But the love that changeth not;
And pledges taken of faithless minds
I hold them but as the idle winds,
Heard, and forgot.
I am bound, be your lot what it may,
Bound fast, for I would not be free,
Bound by the love that will have its own way,
And will hold me for ever, whatever you say,
And whatever you be.
Bound fast, for I would not be free,
Bound by the love that will have its own way,
And will hold me for ever, whatever you say,
And whatever you be.
Would you be richer without
The love I have given to you?
Would you be abler to go about,
Doing your work without fear or doubt,
Were I less true?
The love I have given to you?
Would you be abler to go about,
Doing your work without fear or doubt,
Were I less true?
Ah! well; it might break my heart,
But yet I could let it break,
If I thought you would play a nobler part,
While I pined away with this love-sick dart,
And its life-long ache.
But yet I could let it break,
If I thought you would play a nobler part,
While I pined away with this love-sick dart,
And its life-long ache.
284
You would not? Your life would be wrecked?
Nay, I dare not say that: yet I fear
It would not be good for your soul to reflect,
How the bloom and the glory of love had been checked
In the spring o' the year.
Nay, I dare not say that: yet I fear
It would not be good for your soul to reflect,
How the bloom and the glory of love had been checked
In the spring o' the year.
It is bad, having once known the right,
And the impulse of nobleness prized,
To accept the less worthy, and order the fight
For a cause that is meaner, and walk by a light
That you once had despised.
And the impulse of nobleness prized,
To accept the less worthy, and order the fight
For a cause that is meaner, and walk by a light
That you once had despised.
I am not afraid to be poor,
I am not afraid of toil,
With you I could labour, with you too endure;
But I fear to lose what keeps the flame of life pure
As with sacredest oil.
I am not afraid of toil,
With you I could labour, with you too endure;
But I fear to lose what keeps the flame of life pure
As with sacredest oil.
But we must not hurry or fret,
Or think of ourselves alone;
Love waits for love, though the sun be set,
And the stars come out, and the dews are wet,
And the night winds moan.
Or think of ourselves alone;
Love waits for love, though the sun be set,
And the stars come out, and the dews are wet,
And the night winds moan.
That which is thine must be mine—
Home and friends and affairs,
Father and mother—mine and thine;
I have thy love, but I long and pine
To have also theirs.
Home and friends and affairs,
Father and mother—mine and thine;
I have thy love, but I long and pine
To have also theirs.
Your mother dislikes me, I see;
Her face is hard and set
The moment she enters a room with me;
But if love will do it, I mean that she
Shall love me yet.
Her face is hard and set
The moment she enters a room with me;
But if love will do it, I mean that she
Shall love me yet.
Be still, and wait for the light;
It is hard for a mother to part
With the son who made her life full and bright,
And to think that another woman has right
To his whole true heart.
It is hard for a mother to part
With the son who made her life full and bright,
And to think that another woman has right
To his whole true heart.
I know what you must be to her,
For I know what you are now to me;
I can feel how her bosom must throb and stir,
As if some robber of love I were
With a master-key.
For I know what you are now to me;
I can feel how her bosom must throb and stir,
As if some robber of love I were
With a master-key.
But I will not part her and you:
I could not enter a home
To sever old ties so tender and true;
Yea, let me rather bring fresh and new
For the days to come.
I could not enter a home
To sever old ties so tender and true;
Yea, let me rather bring fresh and new
For the days to come.
Ah me! we are often unkind,
We who live for our love alone:
We think of ourselves, and are cold and blind
To the anxious heart, and the troubled mind
Half-turned to stone.
We who live for our love alone:
We think of ourselves, and are cold and blind
To the anxious heart, and the troubled mind
Half-turned to stone.
Like the dew in the heart of the flower
That bends with its burden of bliss,
Folding it close in the petalled bower,
You have lain in her heart from the first mother-hour
And the first mother-kiss.
That bends with its burden of bliss,
Folding it close in the petalled bower,
You have lain in her heart from the first mother-hour
And the first mother-kiss.
And now from that heart's warm core
Shall I drain off its fondly-clasped joy?
Nay, but you shall be only her gladness more
Than all that you ever have been before
As a man or a boy.
Shall I drain off its fondly-clasped joy?
Nay, but you shall be only her gladness more
Than all that you ever have been before
As a man or a boy.
Do you know that I like her the best?
Your father is nice and free,
With his pleasant talk and his light-some jest,
But he speaks and smiles unto all the rest
As he does to me:
Your father is nice and free,
With his pleasant talk and his light-some jest,
But he speaks and smiles unto all the rest
As he does to me:
285
While she has a freezing look
Whenever I come her way,
And the formal speech of a printed book—
Though I see, with a friend in a quiet nook
She is bright and gay.
Whenever I come her way,
And the formal speech of a printed book—
Though I see, with a friend in a quiet nook
She is bright and gay.
But I know 'tis her love of you
That makes her distrust me so;
And I like her for that, for I love you too,
And I think that her love of me will be as true
When she comes to know.
That makes her distrust me so;
And I like her for that, for I love you too,
And I think that her love of me will be as true
When she comes to know.
Daughter to her I will be,
Love me she shall in the end;
Thoughtful and dutiful, you shall see
My love will find out the way, and she
Shall call me a friend.
Love me she shall in the end;
Thoughtful and dutiful, you shall see
My love will find out the way, and she
Shall call me a friend.
Let her be cross for a while,
I will only be sweeter for that;
Let her frown if she will, I will meekly smile,
And let her scold, I will walk a mile
To be rated at.
I will only be sweeter for that;
Let her frown if she will, I will meekly smile,
And let her scold, I will walk a mile
To be rated at.
But love me she shall, if her heart
Is as true as I think it to be;
Be patient, and see how I play my part,
And oh, my love will have perfect art,
When I think of thee!
Is as true as I think it to be;
Be patient, and see how I play my part,
And oh, my love will have perfect art,
When I think of thee!
A MINISTER'S DILEMMA
“Does any one forbid the banns?”I asked; and something in me cried,
And cried: Yea, I forbid this man's
Unloving claim to loveless bride.
She is my friend's; he loved her well,
And they were plighted years ago,
And still their coming marriage bell
Rings hope into his heart, I know.
I cannot join this alien pair,
I cannot say the wedding prayer;
I cannot lie; nor God nor man
Could ever make them truly one:
Her face is pale, her hand is cold,
Not love has brought her here, but gold.—
I paused; and all was still as death;
I looked around, but where was he?
I watched the quick heave of her breath;
She dare not lift her eye to me.
'Twas all a lie—the solemn vow,
The orange-blossom and the veil,
And wedding-ring; the prayer, I trow,
Came from me sobbing, like a wail
For broken faith that breaketh hearts;
There was no blessing in its words,
There was no oneness in its parts,
It was a jar of broken chords.
THE RIVAL BROTHERS
There were two brothers loved a maid,
Well-a-day!
Side by side they had grown and played,
Yet were not liker than sun and shade:
And the woods are green in May.
Well-a-day!
Side by side they had grown and played,
Yet were not liker than sun and shade:
And the woods are green in May.
One was lord of the house and lands,
Well-a-day!
From the heather hill to the rippled sands,
But the other he had the brains and hands;
And the woods are green in May.
Well-a-day!
From the heather hill to the rippled sands,
But the other he had the brains and hands;
And the woods are green in May.
One was sullen and hard and proud,
Well-a-day!
The other he mixed with the common crowd,
Blythe as the lark that singeth loud,
When the woods are green in May.
Well-a-day!
The other he mixed with the common crowd,
Blythe as the lark that singeth loud,
When the woods are green in May.
286
Oh, a maiden's love must be wooed with care,
Well-a-day!
It flits like the pewit here and there,
Hard to follow, and swift to scare;
And the woods are green in May.
Well-a-day!
It flits like the pewit here and there,
Hard to follow, and swift to scare;
And the woods are green in May.
A maiden's love has its dainty wiles,
Well-a-day!
Its glances coy, and its mocking smiles,
And is fain to linger by lanes and stiles,
When the woods are green in May.
Well-a-day!
Its glances coy, and its mocking smiles,
And is fain to linger by lanes and stiles,
When the woods are green in May.
The laird he came with a high demand,
Well-a-day!
And mickle he spake of his house and land,
And the braes that sloped to the bonnie sand;
And the woods so green in May.
Well-a-day!
And mickle he spake of his house and land,
And the braes that sloped to the bonnie sand;
And the woods so green in May.
Lightly she laughed at the laird that morn,
Well-a-day!
When I sell my love, she said with scorn,
It shall be for more than cows and corn;
And the woods are green in May.
Well-a-day!
When I sell my love, she said with scorn,
It shall be for more than cows and corn;
And the woods are green in May.
When I sell my love the price I set,
Well-a-day!
It will be an earl's fair coronet,
But it is not going to market yet;
And the woods are green in May.
Well-a-day!
It will be an earl's fair coronet,
But it is not going to market yet;
And the woods are green in May.
Ah! Fate is subtle and deep and dark,
Well-a-day!
'Tis not on the ship that he sets his mark,
But on the tree that shall wreck the barque,
When the woods are green in May.
Well-a-day!
'Tis not on the ship that he sets his mark,
But on the tree that shall wreck the barque,
When the woods are green in May.
Oh, the rotten plank in her life was laid,
Well-a-day!
That day when the light heart gaily said
His cowsand corn might not buy a maid,
And the woods are green in May.
Well-a-day!
That day when the light heart gaily said
His cowsand corn might not buy a maid,
And the woods are green in May.
Merrily by the trysting tree,
Well-a-day!
She told the tale, and they laughed with glee
That night, the winsome brother and she,
When the woods were green in May.
Well-a-day!
She told the tale, and they laughed with glee
That night, the winsome brother and she,
When the woods were green in May.
They went to the Kirk in the summer tide,
Well-a-day!
A gallant lover and graceful bride,
Walking together side by side,
Oh, the woods are green in May.
Well-a-day!
A gallant lover and graceful bride,
Walking together side by side,
Oh, the woods are green in May.
They went to the Kirk and vowed the vow,
Well-a-day!
And none was there but the priest, I trow,
And the blackbird singing upon the bough,
And the woods are green in May.
Well-a-day!
And none was there but the priest, I trow,
And the blackbird singing upon the bough,
And the woods are green in May.
Oh, love is sweet with its trust complete,
Well-a-day!
And the rains may fall, and the sun may beat,
But it cares not either for cold or heat;
And the woods are green in May.
Well-a-day!
And the rains may fall, and the sun may beat,
But it cares not either for cold or heat;
And the woods are green in May.
He had the brains, and he had the hands,
Well-a-day!
But he was not lord of the house and lands,
And the bonnie green braes by the yellow sands,
And the woods are green in May.
Well-a-day!
But he was not lord of the house and lands,
And the bonnie green braes by the yellow sands,
And the woods are green in May.
To London town their steps were bent,
Well-a-day!
To the weary London streets they went,
And all but their wealth of love was spent
Ere the woods were green in May.
Well-a-day!
To the weary London streets they went,
And all but their wealth of love was spent
Ere the woods were green in May.
287
He would coin his thoughts into heaps of gold,
Well-a-day!
For his hope was high, and his heart was bold.—
How oft is the tragic story told!
And the woods are green in May.
Well-a-day!
For his hope was high, and his heart was bold.—
How oft is the tragic story told!
And the woods are green in May.
Years came and went, and youths were men,
Well-a-day!
They were ageing now who were stalwart then,
And the laird like an old bear kept his den,
Though the woods were green in May.
Well-a-day!
They were ageing now who were stalwart then,
And the laird like an old bear kept his den,
Though the woods were green in May.
Grim as a bear in his chimney nook,
Well-a-day!
With a curse on his lip, and a frown in his look,
And a pipe and a mug and a great clasped book;
And the woods are green in May.
Well-a-day!
With a curse on his lip, and a frown in his look,
And a pipe and a mug and a great clasped book;
And the woods are green in May.
A widow came with her sunny child,
Well-a-day!
And oh but her face it was meek and mild!
And white as the daisy undefiled
When the woods are green in May.
Well-a-day!
And oh but her face it was meek and mild!
And white as the daisy undefiled
When the woods are green in May.
With a woeful heart that was like to break,
Well-a-day!
She prayed him, when she died, to take
Her little boy, for his father's sake;
And the woods are green in May.
Well-a-day!
She prayed him, when she died, to take
Her little boy, for his father's sake;
And the woods are green in May.
Might she but keep him for a space,
Well-a-day!
Till heaven should take her, in its grace,
Again to look on her dear lord's face;
And the woods are green in May.
Well-a-day!
Till heaven should take her, in its grace,
Again to look on her dear lord's face;
And the woods are green in May.
Or if, alas! that might not be,
Well-a-day!
She would be content her boy to see
Now and then by the trysting tree,
Where the woods were green in May.
Well-a-day!
She would be content her boy to see
Now and then by the trysting tree,
Where the woods were green in May.
It's oh so wily he smiled, and grim,
Well-a-day!
The while she pleaded so meek with him,
And her eyes with the great salt tears grew dim
And the woods are green in May.
Well-a-day!
The while she pleaded so meek with him,
And her eyes with the great salt tears grew dim
And the woods are green in May.
Wily and hard, as he thought of that,
Well-a-day!
He had been cunningly plotting at:
“So that,” he said, “is your bastard brat”;
And the woods are green in May.
Well-a-day!
He had been cunningly plotting at:
“So that,” he said, “is your bastard brat”;
And the woods are green in May.
“'Twas an ill market, I'll be sworn,
Well-a-day!
When you sold your love for a wanton's scorn,
Which you would not sell for my cows and corn”;
And the woods are green in May.
Well-a-day!
When you sold your love for a wanton's scorn,
Which you would not sell for my cows and corn”;
And the woods are green in May.
Oh, pale as death was her lily-white cheek,
Well-a-day!
And then it flushed with a crimson streak,
And the flash of her eye was no longer meek;
And the woods are green in May.
Well-a-day!
And then it flushed with a crimson streak,
And the flash of her eye was no longer meek;
And the woods are green in May.
And the glance of her scorn he ill could brook,
Well-a-day!
Crouching there in the chimney nook
With his pipe and his mug and his great clasped book;
O the woods are green in May!
Well-a-day!
Crouching there in the chimney nook
With his pipe and his mug and his great clasped book;
O the woods are green in May!
288
She turned her right and round about,
Well-a-day!
She could not breathe for a fearful doubt,
Yet oh so stately as she went out,
And the woods are green in May.
Well-a-day!
She could not breathe for a fearful doubt,
Yet oh so stately as she went out,
And the woods are green in May.
Stately and grand she turned from him,
Well-a-day!
But her head was dizzy, her eyes were dim,
As she dragged her steps through the meadows trim;
O the woods are green in May!
Well-a-day!
But her head was dizzy, her eyes were dim,
As she dragged her steps through the meadows trim;
O the woods are green in May!
The steers were slumbering in the shade,
Well-a-day!
And she saw the deer in leafy glade
'Mong the tall green fern and the foxglove wade;
And the woods are green in May.
Well-a-day!
And she saw the deer in leafy glade
'Mong the tall green fern and the foxglove wade;
And the woods are green in May.
But straight to the ivied Kirk she went,
Well-a-day!
And her thin hand shook, and her heart grew faint
As over the great paged book she bent;
And the woods are green in May.
Well-a-day!
And her thin hand shook, and her heart grew faint
As over the great paged book she bent;
And the woods are green in May.
For wedding record there was none,
Well-a-day!
And the grey old priest was dead and gone,
And she was a widow and all alone:
And the woods are green in May.
Well-a-day!
And the grey old priest was dead and gone,
And she was a widow and all alone:
And the woods are green in May.
“O mother, your hand it is cold as stone,
Well-a-day!
O mother, your grip it will crush my bone,
But I would not heed if you would not moan”;
And the woods are green in May.
Well-a-day!
O mother, your grip it will crush my bone,
But I would not heed if you would not moan”;
And the woods are green in May.
“He did not mean it—he could not know,”
Well-a-day!
She groaned, and her voice was hollow and low,
And her face was set with a death-like woe:
O the woods are green in May.
Well-a-day!
She groaned, and her voice was hollow and low,
And her face was set with a death-like woe:
O the woods are green in May.
“My boy, your father loved us well,
Well-a-day!
You never must dream he had that to tell
Which might have sunk a soul to hell.”
O the woods are green in May.
Well-a-day!
You never must dream he had that to tell
Which might have sunk a soul to hell.”
O the woods are green in May.
She led him out by the low kirk-door,
Well-a-day!
She led him down to the yellow shore,
And they were not heard of evermore.
But the woods were green in May.
Well-a-day!
She led him down to the yellow shore,
And they were not heard of evermore.
But the woods were green in May.
| The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith | |