Michael Villiers, Idealist | ||
POEMS
AUTOGRAPHS
Proem
Goldenmouthed, so that we hearkened entranced to the sound;
Margaret, who saw him go hence, while with clash and with clang
Triumph rang high for the one we anointed and crowned;
She who was heart of his heart, who was soul of his soul;
She with the delicate hands and the eyes of a dove;
She whom the world should have guarded from trouble and dole;
Toiled twenty years ere the time of her rest might arrive;
Flinching not, steadily fought for her life to the end;
Strove through her weakness and pain as the resolute strive.
What could she do to keep body and spirit untwinned?
Brave was the woman, and fared as a coward had fared;
Good was the woman, and suffered as if she had sinned.
Facing of famine and cold, meagre-limbed, white of face;
Under the Three Golden Balls all her poor little gear;—
Then, on a morning in winter, one came to the place;
Gold in abundance instead of her loveletters signed with his name;
Loveletters yellowed a little and twenty years old;
Autograph notes of a poet ensphered in his fame.
Guineas, he told her, a score, yestermonth at a sale;
Nought to the sum he would give did she grant what he sought;
Would she give up her possession, so might he prevail.
Past through the door as he came, and half murmured, ‘Forgive!’
Went from her presence with something that bordered on pain;
Thought of the woman, and said, ‘Will she die? can she live?’
Fair in the land where shut eyelids are gates of desire,
Calm in its wrath, for the queen of her passion was she,
Haunted by day at his desk, and by night at his fire.
Went to the room that was fair from some radiancy shed
From a spirit close clasped to the bosom of love we call pain;—
Entered, and knelt on the floor by the side of the dead.
‘Among the autograph letters was a love=letter from Keats to Fanny Browne. . . . This was sold for 21l.’ Report of a sale in one of the literary papers, 1889.
Margaret
I
Was sold for twenty guineas, I have heard:
Ah, did the buyer gloat upon each word,
Pause lingeringly, as near a nest of sweets,
Aflame to catch the self-same rapturous beats
Of the dear heart of that brave singing-bird,
When, all his being breathed upon and stirred,
The very lady of his heart he greets?
Save by the pleasure of possessing what
So very few could get, and he had got;
A thing of market-value if he willed,
Some profit on a future day to yield?
Oh, let him be; it matters not one jot.
II
Came praying me to sell letters of his!
I know not what I answered him, ywis;
I knew I would die first; and one wild flame,
The asker, and he left me; me who miss
Living a little longer. What is this?
I think that God will hold me not to blame.
By famine done to death at forty-five!
One would suppose I might have kept alive
In Kensington a little longer; why,
I think I am over young like this to die.
I strove good strife; but what avails to strive?
III
It had not been so hard to keep from death!
Plenty the people here of gentle breath,
And gentle heart, who, had they only known
His love, their idol's love, so lean had grown,
As one the Shade of shades o'ershadoweth,
Had come with all the care which comforteth,
And prayed her, made her, for his sake live on.
Is dear to all to-day, and far and wide,
They tell of him who, crowned with glory, died
In youth which high maturity did know.
True songs of life from him did freely flow,
True English singer by the Thames's side.
IV
Even from the very highest and the best;
Too great to care if greatest or if least
They hailed him; great in life, in thought, in art,
He took the critics' ear, the people's heart,
And bore himself even as the lowliest;
Wept at men's woe, and smiled at their gay jest,
And lived true life in closet and in mart.
I was so near, my head received the boon,
And little drops of his Castalian tune
Upon the locks he loved awhile did hang;
And thus I sang of him, my love who sang
Sweetest of all the singers under moon.
The pleasure of God, more dreadful than his ire?
Than the high stars my God hath set me higher;
Have mercy, Lord, my handgrasp is but small,
Yet he thou honourest lays within it all
His heart of wonder, and his soul of fire;
And, of all women, I am the desire
Of that white soul thou hast made so great and tall.
In a pale limbo set, being unbaptized;
Painless and joyless, lacking bliss and dole;
By some adult magnificence surprised,
Plunged in love's sea of fire, and in the whole
Love-mystery for aye imparadised.
I kiss you on the eyes which truly see;
I kiss you on the lips of melody,
With tender, clinging kisses rapture-fraught;
I kiss you on the heart whose beats have caught
All the world's joy and all its agony;
And, till God shut the gates of memory,
This hour is mine, this perfect hour love-wrought.
Her lover-poet; never so there fell
On Beatrice's mouth such dew from his
Who knew the heights of heaven, the depths of hell.
Far happier I than she and she in this,
Who keep a memory ineffable.
Enfold me, body and soul; O perfect star,
Absolute in the radiance nought can mar,
Nor pain nor time; O sun of quenchless light,
Of winged joys, and breaker of winter's bar;
O peace, deep set upon all strife and war;
O love, O liege, how can I hymn thee aright?
And drink thy beauty in with ravished eyne;
I love thee, as I go from thee apart,
Thou near me still, in timeless joy divine;
I love thee, love thee, love thee, O love, who art
Soul of my soul, life of this life of mine.”
V
Would sell your letters for the sake of bread?
Nay, my soul's king, mine own beloved dead!
Women have died for body's chastity;
Is it so much a stranger thing to die
For the soul's chastity? shall it be said
Souls have no right to save their cleanlihead,
Their sacredness, in face of earth and sky?
I strike you, and anon your flame has leapt
On to his letters, my beloved's, kept
Your flamelet was so tiny; I have wept
My last; I sit dry-eyed and watch and watch.’
Blown lightly by the wind along the floor;
The woman has laid her down; the strife is o'er,
She waits the victor's coming; does she know
How sweet to find the end of toil and woe,
How blessed not to struggle any more?
Oh, long, long day! six hours of twenty-four
To sleep, and all the rest to suffer so!
Then lifts itself to mystic power and will:
Sweet dew has come to heal the fever-drouth;
One draws anear; there comes a rapturous thrill,
And the air quivers like a lover's mouth
To a lover's kiss. And all is very still.
BY LETHE AND EUNOE
Come fiume ch' acquista o perde lena;
Ma esce di fontana salda e certa,
Che tanto dal voler di Dio riprende,
Quant' ella versa da duo parti aperta.
Da questa parte con virtù discende,
Che toglie altrui memoria del peccato;
Dall' altra, d' ogni ben fatto la rende.
Quinci Letè, così dall' altro lato
Eunoè si chiama, e non adopra
Se quinci e quindi pria non è gustato.
Purgatorio, XXVIII
Lethe
Went hand in hand;
Where mystic waters flow
I saw them stand.
That cleanse and heal;
And past beyond the moan,
To quiet weal.
They still should go,
Where love fulfils desire,
Where faith shall know.
As well they wist,
Must pass the stream unfed
Of rain or mist.
In twofold flood;
Where souls forget their wrong,
Recall their good.
Of Lethe drowned;
Lost good on yonder side,
In Eunoe found.
I tell you of;
(Not yet awhile they knew
How great is love.)
Speak, each and each;
As tones of seraphim
Sweet was their speech.
And so arise;
The peace God's pardoned have
Within our eyes?
For all these years,
Where'er we two have talked
With smiles or tears.
With eyes that said,
‘Never on earth again
Shall I be laid.
From Eden dear;
Though ye should hate or love,
Still I am here.
It is but vain;
Ye may grow old and weak,
But I remain.
Ghost of your sin;
My body is dead and gone,
But ye cannot win
And, day by day,
It is vain to whisper peace,
For I must stay.”
Until we died
And past the waters clear
Of Tiber's tide;
To slay the wrong;
Waiting with great desire
The triumph-song.
To its great tone,
Before we go beyond
This quiet zone,
This river rolls;
Thereinto, without fear,
Plunge you, dear souls;
Sin's weary debt;
Its memory past from you,
Ye shall forget.”
Under the stream?
Shall memory pass, as though
After a dream?
Let it all pass
Under oblivion's pall?
Alas, alas,
The bitterness
Where sweet was drunken deep?
How else but yes?
To lose the pain?
Must we indeed destroy
Both boot and bane?
I dare to say,
To heights more fair than those
Of olden day.
Freedom it gave—
Oh, shall we then forget?
Let us be brave,
Through what we miss;
Keeping our bitterest bane,
Our sweetest bliss.
We must, we must.—
Well, love is strong as death,
And God is just.’
And took them in,
To leave beneath the wave
Memory of sin.
Eunoe
You, dear, and me:
Great bliss we two have found
In Eunoe.
We leave the stream.
Where is the old, old pain?
It did but seem.
Now we arise,
The joy God's pardoned have
Within our eyes.
O good, whereof
None knoweth till he see
How great is love.
We are quite sure
All wrong must pass away,
All right endure.
Good only sleeps;
For all eternity
To life it leaps.
On breast and brow;
Our love that casts out fear
Made perfect now.
With happy eyes
The light beyond we see,
Of Paradise.’
CUCKOO SONG
Come he will.’
‘Who doth roam?
Who will come?
Who? Who?’
‘Cuckoo!’
Is it only cuckoo? Why
Do you long so eagerly
For the coming of the cuckoo by-and-by?
‘In April
Come he will.’
He sings all day.’
‘Whose the song
All day long?
Whose? Whose?’
‘Cuckoo's!’
That is not for me to know!
Dearest music of all music loud or low.
‘In May
He sings all day.’
He changes his tune.’
‘Who doth sing,
Varying?
Who? Who?’
‘Cuckoo!’
Has the joyous cuckoo-strain
That was echoed in your brain,
Caught the trouble of the coming loss and pain?
‘In June
He changes his tune.’
Away he'll fly.’
(‘Ruth is it
Infinite!)
Who? Who?’
‘Cuckoo!’
And the cuckoo-time is past;
Every day you hear him now may be the last.
‘In July
Away he'll fly.’
Go he must.’
(‘What avail
Tears and wail?)
Who? Who?’
‘Cuckoo!’
Only cuckoo! and your face,
As you stand in your old place,
Wears the wonder of love's agony, love's grace.
‘In August
Go he must.’
A PRIMROSE
Abloom on a bank where the winter-time's loss
Had scarcely been known for the veiling of moss;
And the birds with new gladness, new life, were astir,
And the sweet air came full of their music to her,
Till she, too, fain, would sing;
And the song she outpoured on the rhythmical air
Was a perfume so tender, a beauty so fair,
The birds, in their turn,
Fain would learn
The secret of scent and the secret of hue
Which the spring-blossom knew.
And he sang of the spring-time, this poet true-voiced,
Till it seemed how the soul of the spring-time rejoiced
To hear him, who carolled so clear and so sweet;
The primrose gave out all her scent at his feet,
And the birds' melody
Sang on sweetest notes in the sweetest accords,
And the sky's happy blue
Fairer grew;
And the young leaves brake soft through their sheltering sheath,
At the wonderful breath.
But no more of the spring and the glory that broods
At the heart of the colours that come to the woods
With the stirrings of sap; or the joy at the breast
Of the mate-birds that sing; and the life in the nest,
And the love-rapture won:
He sang of the summer, he sang of the rose,
The passionate colour, the passionate glows:
Oh, the rose! oh, the rose!
How she knows
The terrible raptures, the depth and the height,
And the sun in his might!
That was born in the time of the singing of birds,
Gave ear to the poet, and hearkened his words,
For her soul it was mad with desire and with scorn;—
With desire for the power
Of the sun and his splendour; desire for the sight
Of the queen of the summer, the rose in her might;—
With scorn for her lot
Which knew not
The glory, the ardour, the sheen, and the heat,
So dreadful, so sweet!
These glories; to feed on the light of the sun;
To drink in the life of the beautiful one;
To be the great rose that can bear to be blest
With the strength of his kiss on the depth of her breast,
And unfold and unfold
All sweetness for him, her beloved, for him,
In the sheen of whose face all her being doth swim
As in seas of delight,
Warm and bright,
Till in death all the scent of the joy she has met
Doth cling to her yet!
For the blisses the poet had sung while she heard;
For the joyaunce that breathed through his beautiful word;
Whose birth was too near to the last of the snow:
And the fret and the pain,
They withered her delicate beauty and slew,
And she died ere the time of her dying was due:
And the rose of July,
By-and-by,
Lived and died in the glory and joy of the sun,
By the primrose unwon.
Didst thou shine in thy zenithal glory on high,
Down on us, even us, should we live, should we die?
Are we as the primrose of spring? would the sheer
White splendour of thee, coming near and more near,
Just slay us at once?
Dare we bid thee approach in thy light and thy heat,
Till, responsive, we breathe out all fragrancy meet,
All life, and be thine,
O Divine?
Then quicken, or slay us, whichever it be,
So we look upon thee!
A WEAK-MINDED WOMAN'S COMPARISONS
How to one (weak-minded!) woman you are just without a peer?
Nay, there is no need to tell me; for I know you deprecate,
Proving thus at least your greatness, anyone should call you great.
What, sir? 'tis the sheerest nonsense, well I know?
I'll not contradict your worship! Be it so!
Till I've told you things that, maybe, you will laugh at, frown at, sir.
You shall be compared with—whom then? no one in particular!
Just another—quite impersonal, you know—
For convenience, any other; be it so!
I would rather you should wound me than another bring me balm;
I would rather take your blame than praise from any other one;
Rather go in the dark with you than with another in the sun.
It's the very height of foolishness, I know;
But (consider I'm weak-minded!) it is so.
Let them do their rightest right, and I would rather have your wrong:
Wrong or right, my soul's beloved, yea, whatever you may do,
All my faith is clasped around you, and my whole soul loveth you.
All the same, and notwithstanding, it is so!
Is the jest, or is the earnest, tell me, dear my lord, the best?
Is it very gracious fooling, or the way of love to me,
Who am no enfranchised woman of the twentieth century,
But a poor weak-minded creature, and, you know,
'Tis no more, as some one says, no more but so.
HER DREAM
As against your heart my heart doth beat.
Of the dreadful dream I dreamt last night.
My own love, fair and strong and true.
Played in the light and tost the hay.
Is alive with youth and bright with the sun.
‘The prettiest queen of curds and cream.’
Kiss off the shadow of last night's pain.
That I was old and that you were dead.
And I well recalled the moan and woe.
You had gone to rest with untired feet;
To lay me down and slumber too.
And I was all alone, alone.
And kissed my face and wept with me;
And smiled grave smiles, and said, ‘Poor lass!’
And my grief-numbed heart would wildly beat;
But never a word of answer came.
To pity pain that was of the past;
And many come home by Weeping Cross.
Sorrow is gone now you are here.
And fled is the horror of yesternight.
My body was bent and my hair was grey.
Sweet tales in the sweet light of the spring,
To say, ‘He is dead and she is old.’
Long since my lover had been brought:
To a level no stranger would have found:
How could I miss it, know it not?
For I cannot shake off the dread and fear.
And kiss me, for, lo, above, beneath,
And the sunshine goes from my lips and eyes.
One of us old, and one of us dead!
HAREBELLS
Here's a little blue-gowned maid come to look at you;
Here's a little child would fain, at the vesper time,
Catch the music of your hearts, hear the harebells chime.
‘Little hares, little hares,’ softly prayeth she,
‘Come, come across the hills, and ring the bells for me.’
Is it when the sky is rosed with the coming day?
Is it in the strength of noon, all the earth aglow?
Is it when at eventide sweet dew falleth slow?
Any time the bells may ring, morn, or noon, or even;
Lovebells, joybells, earthbells heard in heaven.
Any time the happy hills may be lightly swept
By the ringers' little feet; any time, except
Weak and panting, little hares care to ring no more.
It must be upon the hills where the hunt comes ne'er,
Chimes of bells ring out to greet touch of little hare.
Harebells, blue bells, ring, ring again!
Set a-going, little hares, the joyaunce of the strain.
Could she make the harebells ring, if my darling tried?
Harebells, harebells, a little child blue-gowned
Stands and listens longingly; little hands embrowned
Touch you; rose mouth kisses you: ring out!
Is a little child a thing any flower should flout?
Child's hand on poet's heart makes it bloom in song:
Let her hear your fairy chimes, delicate ding-dong.
Let her hear what poet's voice never caught nor sung:
Let a child ring the bells little hares have rung!
Soft she whispers to the flowers, bending o'er them there,
‘Let me ring your bonny bells! I'm a little hare!
No, I'm only a little child, but I love you so!
Let me ring your little bells, just to say, you know.’
Harebells, blue bells, ring, ring again!
Set a-going, little child, the joyaunce of the strain.
Is it wind in fairy soughs? Is it far-off bird?
Does the child hear melody grown folk cannot hear?
Is the harebells' music now chiming on her ear?
Father, give this little child, as she goeth on,
Evermore to keep the gift by this music won;
Gift which makes this earth of ours very Paradise
For delight of opened ears, joy of opened eyes.
Harebells, joybells, lovebells, dear and blest,
Ring in the sacredness of her happy breast.
IN WHAT HIGH BLISS ABIDETH LOVE?
Lives he in golden sunshine fair,
Flooding the heart of broad blue air,
Green grass beneath his feet, above
His head the trees that ever bear
Blossom and fruit and leafage rare?
In such high bliss abideth Love?
Sits he in dreary darkness where
The meeting hands of grief and care
Draw curtains close that will not move;
'Mid bitter sighs and cryings there
Of all earth's passion and despair?
In such deep pain abideth Love?
Are dwelling-place, and he being there
Dark groweth bright, and fair thrice fair:
He brings the gifts that best behove;
He teacheth strength to do and bear,
And weakness how in grace to fare;
For everywhere abideth Love.
POLLY, A GOVERNESS
The children are out for the livelong day,
So Polly will have it all her own way.
She hasn't at all a cat-like mien;
The sweetest smile that ever was seen
And brown is the hair of her bonny head,
And light is the little lady's tread,
So gladly she'll learn, so gladly teach,
It is good to be within her reach.
She doesn't look proud at all nor grand;
But you rarely find a firmer hand.
Could not, or would not, learn to obey,
Do Polly's bidding day by day.
For strong as gentle, indeed, is she,
And they know she loves them heartily.
She knows, and she mends their broken toys,
And she likes to hear their merry noise.
She tells them of birds upon the wing,
And the brooding-time when sweet they sing.
She has climbed full many a sea-rock where
Was a chance to find wild maidenhair.
That faith when little Polly curbs
Their glee with ‘horrid irregular verbs.’
How from man's heart, in the long ago,
Words came for his need in their heat and glow?)
A rapture and wonder of dark and bright,
Of things past worth for the ear and sight.
The children are gone to London town;
They'll not come back till the sun goes down.
When they kissed her that morn and went away;
‘When the mice are away the cat will play.’
'Tis something very strange and new
To be all alone, for a long time too.
Where pretty stuffs and ribbons be,
And look them through, Miss Vanity,
Till a brand-new hat is ready to grace
Her pretty head and her sunny face.
This day's delicious loneliness
Into the service even of dress?
To the ones who love to hear from her,
And say she could not be happier,
When, once again a child at home,
No more from them she would ever roam:
Or tend to the pigeons' hunger or greed,
Then take her book for a lovely read,
Droop green and fair, in a shady hall,
Miss Polly will have a delicious sprawl.
But lie as thinkers and dreamers use,
Until the time of the evening dews.
And the little cat's play be over and past,
For the day will have slidden by so fast.
To be all alone for a little spell,
As many and many a one can tell:
To-morrow, because of this to-day,
When the mice were away and the cat could play.
A LAY OF LONDON TOWN
What the Heart of the Old Man Sayeth
With the springtide on my head, and a heart with spring aglow;
Glad of soul and blithe was I, who had oftentimes been told
How the streets of London Town they are surely paved with gold;
I should bask in Fortune's smile, I should never see her frown
In the heart of London Town.
And I thought of beauty's self, and the very truth of truth;
Yea, a goodly life were mine, and a mastery o'er pain;
I should do as strong ones do, and my brow should wear the crown
Of true work in London Town.
I should stand erect and strong as the stalwart ash and oak;
In the gold-paved city's heart I should pile up heaps of gold
For my well-beloved ones; they should have and they should hold;
Broadcloth brave should father don, mother wear a silken gown,
Gained for them in London Town.
And a many hopes are lost, and a many friends are dead.
Have I proved all vanity, as the world-sick preacher saith,
In the bitterness of loss, and the bitterness of death?
On thy heart, O London Town?
Gracious air about my head, gracious grass about my feet;
Voice of woodland, torrents' rush, mountain summits grand and proud,
Songs of birds that cannot sing 'mid the cry and throng and crowd,
For the busy traffic's roar, and the fogdom heavy and brown
Of thy streets, O London Town.
Any beautiful delight like the joy of long ago;
Never more the tranquil sweets of the country dear and fair,
Never any coolness like mountain breath upon my hair:
Oh, the glory is gone for aye, do ye say, life's end and crown
As I sit in London Town?
Little brooklets running soft, never mighty roar and flood?
What, ye think that none is blest save who lifteth happy eyes
To the green of woodland trees and the blue of country skies?
Nay, but your philosophy has not dreamt or guessed or known
That which bides in London Town.
How the streets of London Town they are surely paved with gold;
Of that paving, by God's grace, some small portion have I won,
Better than the share that fell to the lot of Whittington,
When the song o' the bells came true, bells that hailed him, country clown,
Thrice Lord Mayor of London Town!
Of the glorious feet that walked up and down so long ago;
By the stately eloquence of the city's sweep and reach;
Splendid strength and fairest grace, from whose shadow light drops down
On thy head, O London Town!
Ever on and onward yet, with a never-slackening pace!
And the rushing sound is like swirl of some mysterious seas,
And one glows to feel one's heart just a-beat with hearts like these.
Oh, delight of strenuous life, past all speech and all renown,
In thy heart, great London Town!
Do not sing a triumph-song; sit as one in darkness bowed;
How should any poet dare to be glad and proud who knows
Of the horror brooding thick, of the bitter deathly throes—
Body and soul in London Town!
Dost thou dare, O poet, turn eyes away, nor face their view?
Sin and horror sitting throned, over thousands holding sway,
Deadly foulness stifling close, blotting out the gracious day.
Will the Light that lighteth men ever pierce this fogdom brown
Brooding over London Town?’
Yet I lift my heart to praise, and I lift my voice to sing;
For I know however dark be the cloud, the sun is there,
And I know the hope of God, and I cast aside despair;
Yes, the deathly fog will lift, and the Light of lights pierce down
To the heart of London Town.’
I have lost old blind belief, but I cling to faith divine;
Spilt the cup of youth's bright wine, but my soul hath drunken deep
Of the awful river of life, stream whose waters never sleep.
Little vessels may brim o'er with the self-same floods which drown
In their greatness, London Town!
Till redressing seems to mean slaying those to quicken these;
English women pined and starved till despair has bid them meet,
Face to face and hand to hand, death, or life upon the street;
English men in manhood's prime, soul and body trampled down
In the depth of London Town.
With the flame that nigh consumes, and my heart on them doth yearn;
Great hearts, loving much the right, therefore hating much the wrong;
Going on for no reward, caring not to win renown
As they work in London Town.
Stretch their hands abroad to swim, these our gallant ones and good;
And I see the heavy surge of the great wan water rise,
Till it dash above their heads, till it hide them from my eyes.
Will they reach the sinking ones, whom the floods are fain to drown?
Yes, and save in London Town!
I have lived in London Town, as I stand and breathe today;
And I glow to look on those who would give the rights of men
To the men who suffer so, having lost them, once again;
And I think that God doth smile on their work, to bless and crown
This their work in London Town.
SAINT SWITHUN'S DAY
Three little rosy mouths are bemoaning the rain;
Saint Swithun is christening the apples with might and with main.
‘O Saint Swithun, Saint Swithun,’ the children say,
‘Surely you've christened the apples enough to-day.’
Never, never, we charge you, come back again!
We want to run in the garden, and down comes the rain!
O Saint Swithun, Saint Swithun,’ the children plead,
‘We want our run in the garden, we do indeed.
Dreadful sums, Saint Swithun, that would come wrong!
We wanted to dance a little, or sing a song,
And now we are free, Saint Swithun, we're kept indoors,
For, because you are christening the apples, it pours and pours.
Kind Saint Swithun, we're longing to take a run;
When you were young, Saint Swithun, you liked some fun.
O Saint Swithun, Saint Swithun,’ the children cry,
‘Why should you christen the apples in mid July?
Out of the orchard and garden the live-long day:
It's all very well in winter to play house-play,
But, oh, in the summer, with birdies and blossoms and bees,
Who could in the house be contented, Saint Swithun, please?
From the schoolroom, bare-headed, bare-footed, out into the wet,
And you might as well ask them to—cook us and eat us, you see,
For in some things grown-up folk and children can't ever agree.’
Out comes the sun in his glory—they make for the door—
Six little feet a-patter, a joyous uproar;
‘Hey! for Saint Swithun, Saint Swithun,’ the children shout;
‘Hats and boots—not a moment to lose till we're out.’
Rings out the laugh of the children, and quick are their feet.
Hey! for the sunshine of summer, its light and its heat.
Where are ye now, little children? Oh, far away,
Though Saint Swithun is christening the apples again to-day.
Hone mentions a saying current in some parts of the country when rain falls on S.t. Swithun's Day; ‘St. Swithun is christening the apples.’
‘AS A DREAM WHEN ONE AWAKETH’
Us lying prone, with slumber sealing our eyes?
And pierce like a sword the souls of women and men?
From the couch whereon we sleep, when the glorious thing,
The marrow and joints, not slaying, but making alive?
With the shadows of truths and lies at our feet and head;
We know for the ghost of our past and our future's wraith.
In the light of eternal Truth who maketh it day;
For all is Now in the day of eternity.
And weep that nothing shall come to cheat or illude?
And the glosses and dear deceits of our dream's pale day?
And cry for shadows to hide from the blaze of Things?
Be more than soul can endure or life can bear?
Let us dream that we eat and drink, that tomorrow we die;
Let us dream of wisdom and folly, of love and of lust;
Of heights and depths; and of things no tongue can tell.’
The countless aeons with him are but as a day.
And the sleepers hear the call of God, and awake.
UTOPIA
The good, the fair?
How shall we bask in its sunshine,
Breathe in its air?
Say, is that wonderful country,
Indeed, nowhere?
Is deep and strong;
Where the trust of men for their fellows
Is broad and long;
Where the voices of man and nature
Make one great song.
With hearts unashamed;
And the search for good and beauty
Is all unblamed;
And the name of falsehood never
So much as named.
Are free of the sod;
They know no fetters of slavedom,
No tyrant's nod;
They may not be dragged or driven,
Were it even to God.
They all are free;
They have room to breathe and grow in,
To hear and see;
And they never think of claiming
Equality.
Are all they claim;
For spirit differs from spirit
As frame from frame;
And fair degree is better
Than same and same.
And err likewise;
But the light of a loyal purpose
Is in their eyes;
And if they stumble in going,
Again they rise.
Nor new for new
They seek, but are eager-willing
God's will to do;
So shall they one day, surely,
Know what is true.
New ways to try,
There is none to hiss him and scorn him,
Or raise the cry,
‘Bring stones wherewith to stone him
For blasphemy!’
Hath many a guise
Of body for high revealing
To seeking eyes;
They love the spirit truly,
And so are wise.
Lay in its rest,
The dark and quickening glory
Of earth's dear breast.
From good there comes the better,
For better, the best.
To try and to prove;
Each follows a loyal impulse,
However it move,
And doeth whatever he pleaseth,
Because all love.
That lie soft curled
Round the heart of the mystic being
We call the world;
The home of life and quickening,
With light impearled.
Know every heave
And fall of her bosom's beauty,
And softly cleave
To her side, and laugh with her laughter,
And with her grieve.
In lucid rest;
They have seen her lovely body
By sleep caressed;
They know of the mole cinque-spotted
Upon her breast.
Their ears can hear
The blare of the great wind's trumpet,
Its flute-song clear;
The music of spirit voices,
Afar, anear.
To every touch;
Nor dull, nor morbid; for Nature
Bestows on such
Her healthy measure, which knows not
Too little, too much.
On oceans wild:
The needs of the sense and the spirit
Are reconciled:
The strength of the man has wedded
The heart of the child.
Ah, who may say?
Is the fire of pain still burning
There day by day?
—Well, tears and fire may be lustral,
May heal, not slay.
Crown wish and prayer?
Oh! shall we ever find it,
The dear, the fair?
Or is the land of Utopia,
Indeed, nowhere?
‘THANK YOU’
‘Non, je t'aime,
Voilà tout.’
Victor Hugo.
Say I am kind?
Sometimes, alas, I fear
You must be blind.
To the flowers that lift
Glad faces on hedgerow banks
In the light, his gift?
When it serves your need?
Do you ever bless your feet
Because of their speed?
Or your ears that hear?
Then why give thanks to me,
My dear, my dear?
Are light to mine eyes?
I love you, love you true,
How otherwise?
Do you not know?
You made me of life a part,
A while ago.
Or what I may give?
You know I would die for you,
As for you I live.
To your need respond,
Till we come to the gates of death,
And the strange beyond.
MOTHERING SUNDAY
Perfectness of strength and colour, from the touches of the sun;
In the hedges breath of violets, for the spring-time has begun.
Little hazel catkins—children call them lambs' tails—overhead;
Aspen blossom swaying, dancing, in a mirth of living red.
Breaks from march of grave iambus into bounding anapaest,
With the gladness of the blossom, mating bird and youngling beast.
Of the spirit till we pause not to remember heat or cold;
All forgetful of the pain and knowing not the growing old.
And the lovely hope and promise every heart was quickening,
'Prentice boys in merry England used to go a-mothering.
And in many a country hedgerow would those lads a-mothering meet
With the bloom of early violets, by the wayside, at their feet.
Bring my little song to greet you? Are you very far away?
Can you hear me in my singing? Can you hearken what I say?
And a greater, sweeter sunshine to the mourning heart is sent
That has kept Love's awful vigil and received its sacrament.
In the beauty and the quiet which you waited for so well—
Whitest sheen and warmth and comfort; God's own peace unspeakable.
Some sweet gift by Love made worthy, (Love makes worthy poorest thing)
My beloved, my beloved, when I go a-mothering?
COMRADES
Red their radiant lips with laughter of the young gods' holy glee;
Sweet their speech, exceeding sweeter than all singers' melody;
And their hair had dewy brightness of the morning of the world,
Like the delicate glow of spring woods all bemavised and bemerled.
In the glory of their manhood, in the splendour of their youth,
Deep they vowed a vow that nothing would they love before the truth;
They would grapple with the horror of the monsters of the fen;
They would fight for truth and set her throned upon the hearts of men.
They had bathed them, soul and body, in the ocean of God's day:
Sin and death could never touch them, time and chance could never mar,
Any more than marish-vapours quench or dim the morning star:
For these three, these lovely comrades, with God's cleanness in their glance,
Came to earth to work their fellows comfort and deliverance.
In your strength, and in your beauty, in your health of body and soul,
Go ye forward, light the darkness, heal the sick and bless the whole!
One was going as he goeth who is king o'er time and pain,
Strong in tested might and proven, after heavy stress and strain.
One was going as he goeth who is weak of heart and limb;
Wind and rain and sun had beaten sore upon the head of him.
Oft they thought, and spake but seldom, of the comrade who was gone:
Never could I hear his hap, but knew that somehow he had failed—
Failed his comrades and the world; perchance his soul had sometime quailed
For the power of dread illusion born of an imperfect faith,
Cowered and hid her face, and so was phantom-slain by phantom death.
Did he, could he fail because of lust for pleasure, fame, or pelf,
Or ignobly kiss the ground before the image of himself?
Howsoever were the failure, oh, the pity, the pity of it!
Was the lamp gone out for ever once the hand of God had lit?
Mountains climbed and rivers forded, there he standeth all alone,
And upon his forehead glows the splendour of the risen sun.
Glorious-browed and stalwart-shouldered, chested deep and mighty-thewed;
Yet the deep clear orbs are tender, and the firmness of the lip
Has the sweetness of the joyaunce and the ruth of comradeship.
Open wide, ye gates of glory, open wide to let him in,
To the Beatific Vision of the souls that fight and win!
Crown the forehead of the victor none nor nought could foil or worst!
First thou art, Ó glorious brother, and the first shall still be first.
Only one comes in triumphant? Only one the light shall see?
O my brothers, O my brothers, what is this for you and me?
O my brothers, O my brothers, leave the victor to his gain,
Kiss the foreheads of the vanquished in their numbness and their pain;
One who failed, and one who mourned him, and himself must now be mourned,
Did he stumble, being weary? were his footsteps backward turned?
We are glad for those that win, if those that lose we love the best.
What of them, and how, O singer? tell us somewhat of the twain;
Did they never rise from falling? did they nevermore attain?
Did they see the glorious vision? did they only dream the dream?
Did they gain the things that be, or rest in those that only seem?
In the horror of the furnace sevenfold heated were they tried,
And the dross consumed for ever, and the true gold purified?
Gloria Deo for the victor, but for these the vanquished ones,
Speak the word of hope and comfort, love forgives as death condones.
Is infinitude love's measure, and its span eternity?
There is one, you say, O singer; and I tell you, there are three.—
Tears are on your cheek, O singer; answer give you none, nor durst.—
Must the last be last for ever, as the first for ever first?
UNA AND DUESSA
And gold and gem;
She weareth upon her forehead
A diadem;
The kings of the earth are kissing
Her garment's hem.
Of stately white;
Her locks uncrowned are morning's
Own rays of light;
But the stole she wears around her
Is black as night.
As free of care;
Duessa within the bosom
That looks so fair,
The very form of foulness
Indeed doth bear.
Fair face, fair soul;
Not yet is the time for casting
Away her dole;
Not yet is the time for loosing
Her sable stole.
The hearts that err
Have looked on Duessa, unknowing
The lovelier;
Have taken Duessa for Una,
And worshipped her.
Stript the dame
Of all her royal apparel
And crown of fame;
And showed her bald and naked,
A thing of shame.
The snow-pure dress,
The body of Una shineth
In loveliness
The holy know,—and the striving
Perhaps may guess.
In bravery;
And yet will live and queen it,
O'er mean and high;
As long as the heart of Christdom
Loveth a lie.
Will bend the knee,
Until the eyes of Christdom,
Clean-purged to see,
Discern things only seeming
From things that be.
THE REFUSAL
I. HEDONIST
To him whose travail hath been sore and hard,
To him whose visage is so greatly marred;
Open to him, dear soul, he doth implore.
Lo, one may track him by the drops of gore
His wounded feet have shed on stone and sward;
Keep not thy door against him closely barred;
Open to him, once and for evermore.’
Are in my house, and all is beauty and light;
Why should I suffer anguish of the night
To enter in and spoil the fair, the sweet?
He would not dance to any pipings meet;—
Hence, pilgrim, hence, and trouble not my sight!’
II. ASCETIC
To him who wears a crown with jewels starred,
To him whose locks are bright with odorous nard;
Open to him, sweet soul, he doth implore.
His garments drop with all love's fragrant store,
His garments drop with all love's fragrant store,
His form is beauty's self; put key to ward,
Open to him, once and for evermore.’
The pride of lust and revelry to-night?
Hell's worm breeds at the heart of such delight,
Hell's fire the only end its raptures meet.
O bitterness, be thou alone my sweet!
Blind me, my God, that so I see aright!’
THE LAST COMBAT IN THE COLISEUM
I
Still kept the blood-lust of its heathendom,
Men slaying men to make fair mirth for Rome;
And one, aflame with anger and pity, spoke
His heart out in the eloquent speech that broke
Against the mob's hard will, and fell therefrom
Like a strong wave, whose heart beneath its foam
Beating in vain, sobs back from some hard rock.
Saying, ‘No longer shall this evil be.’
They smote him that he died upon the sand,
Having fulfilled love's whole supreme command.
But in his death love gained its victory,
For never again did Rome such combat see.
II
But men not yet to love's high law subdued;
The evil still is fain to blast the good;
Wrong wrestles still with right at all things' core;
And some, who guess the secret of love's lore,
Speak, very mighty in their voice and mood;
And some, who know that secret's plenitude,
Lay down their lives, as men lay down their store.
'Tis not enough thy substance to bestow;
And not enough to send thy heart along
Upon the rhythmic tide of passionate song;
Thyself, thy soul, thy body, all must go:—
Thou knowest not the rest, but God doth know.
DE PROFUNDIS
‘Out of the deeps I cry to-day?’
Are they not shallows, these deeps of mine;
Shallows wherein all unafraid,
A little ungrown soul might wade
Over to gain that rest of Thine?
I am whelmed in their horror verily,
And beaten upon by their wild salt foam;
Only sometimes, behind, behind,
And not in my face, is the master wind
Which blows me nearer the shore of home.
Will the wind set, and for evermore
Beat me back, till at last I fall
To rise not again, and the ebbing tide
Bear me away, who in vain have cried
To Thee, who seest and knowest all?
THE BABIES' MYSTERY PLAY
Their little hearts by laughing look or nod,
They being in right earnest, softly trod,
And listened, deeming they did aptly weave
Some great new game. ‘You shall be Adam and Eve,’
Said Charley, ‘You shall kneel, and I'll be God,
And frown on you, and lift my angry rod,
And tell you both my Eden bower to leave.’
‘No, you be Adam and Eve, and God I'll be!’
But Charley would not take the lesser rôle;
Each would be God,—and what a God! Ah me,
We grown-up folk fight too for high control,
And play at being God continually.
A DREAM OF SPINNING AND WEAVING
I set it down for thee and thee.
Of a distant city's murk and smoke;
(Such the king's daughter of old did wear),
Where the workers' hearts were broken and bruised,
In the factory's noise and dust and gloom.
‘Where labour and joy are not apart?
In true work done for true work's sake?’
Said, ‘Here will ye find the white linen,
Fed by our English sun and dew.’
Where the light of the happy English sun
On grandam, mother, or maiden dear.
By the hands of age or the hands of youth;
So the women were glad a-spinning it;
Of work that is happiness to do;
And the sweetest joys of all the earth,
Dear words which go to familiar tune:
To fling the shuttle to and fro,
‘God give you, neighbour of mine, good-day;’
Before the golden day had gone.
In sound of children's laugh and speech,
Where crisp breath of the wind should come;
And the sun shine down in his lovely might,
As wind, dew, sun, should work their will.
When my time on earth were over and past;
In the good days coming by-and-by.
Oh, where but in the north country,
And Wordsworth's spirit broodeth still?
That one was at work to make it true,
‘God bless you, Master Fleming, to-day!’
‘M.’ TO ‘N.’
As dewy turf to wayworn feet;
As cooling draught of water given
To lips athirst from morn to even;
As bread and wine at Sacrament
To soul of blessed penitent.
As swallow to the roadless blue
When spring hath wakened in his breast
Life's apture of the brooding west:
Or as the sea in his response
To that still call which is the moon's.
As to the earth her atmosphere;
As warp to woof when web is wove;
As strength to hope; as light to love;
As my own blood, my flesh, my breath;
As near as life, as near as death.
As glory of the morning-star
From Lucifer; as far as bliss
Of comradeship from Judas kiss;
As day from night: indeed more far
From me than heaven from hell you are.
IT IS WELL
Yet feel the grey days' pallor all unsweet;
I have had pain; I need some gladness now;
No more I see thee, O sun of flame and glow!
But I have thy heat.
But God hath chosen each one's lot—content!
Not sheen, but soul of things for me He chose;
No more I see the splendour of the rose,
But I have her scent.
The look I feel is on me. What of this?
It matters not; regret were blasphemy;
I see it not, thy look that loveth me,
But I have thy kiss.
Oh, too much light have I around, above,
For any darkness on my life to come!
Closed are mine eyes, but what of shadow or gloom,
When I have love?
FOR THEE
With dew and shower;
Season by season bright for some
Unfolded flower;
Where lilies in all abundance blow,
With honeysuckle and jasmine there;
I am fain to make it the pathway where
Thy foot shall go.
Where honour sways;
Where deep devotion knoweth not
Sour thoughts, hard ways;
If evermore this loyal breast
For some great cause beat strong and fair,
I am fain to make it the pillow where
Thy head shall rest.
Wi' the rose's breath,
A dream where the heart for every day
Sweet things findeth;
A dream God blesseth verily;
Where soul with soul doth union win;
I am fain to make it the nest wherein
Thy heart shall lie.
Nearly all the shorter poems in this volume have appeared in various magazines, within the last two years. In the case of such of them as I had not a pre-arranged right to reprint, I owne the privilege of doing so to the courtesy of the publishers. I acknowledge with thanks the permission of Messrs. Longman to republish A Lay of London Town, and Polly, a Governess, which appeared in Longman's Magazine; that of Messrs. Smith, Elder, & Co. to republish Her Dream from the Cornhill Magazine; and a similar courtesy on the part of the proprietors of Good Words, in which Utopia and Comrades have been published. E.H.H.
Michael Villiers, Idealist | ||