The Poems of Selwyn Image

O bare your throat, Lynnette,—said he—
O bare your bosom so soft, and white,
That my lips are longing to close on tight:
O bare them full for my eyes to see,
For there's never a sight
So fair elsewhere to ravish me!

Great God, thou madest her fair to desire,
As fair as a dream in the fairest sleep
That ever arose, and awoke to weep
The man that it tortured with flakes of fire
Of desire to steep
His soul for a whole hour there and—expire.

And you're here, Lynnette, and I hold you, dear!
Do I dream? Is it vision or truth? Do I kiss
Or dream that I'm kissing like this and this
And this, till the lips are tired with mere
Sheer passion and bliss
Of your beautiful body that's lying here?

Ah! what would they call us, I wonder,—they
Who are living so cold and pure and proud?
The word's too ugly to utter aloud,
So we'll leave it, Lynnette, for them to say.—
Let us crowd and crowd
Into one short hour the most we may.

And what does it matter? You're here, and I,
And Love, that's over us both on fire

With the pulse that is all in all of desire.
And what does it matter?—The hour will fly.
Ah! God, and expire!
But here, Lynnette, for the while you lie.

1882.

to A. H. M.

Ah! I know it, my darling,—but who can say nay to you?
Who can say nay to those eyes when they pray to you?
Who can say nay to those lips when they say to you—
“On a rose, on a glove, on a jewel I am thinking”?

Were we strong, were we wise, had but virtue the hold of us,
Were we cold to behold such a love's glance unblinking,
Were it aught but such stuff as it is, sweet, the mould of us—
Ah! then we might smile and beguile you with smiling,
Yea, then were we proof against all the beguiling,
Of even those eyes and that exquisite lip's curve.

Great God! what avails? where its honey love sips, nerve
Your soul to denial,—love will sip there again
And again till the end—as it has been it will be:—
Aye, stronger than strength of death's fear love will still be,
Cruel love that but plays with you fast in his chain.

July 26th, 1883.

to A. H. M.

Ah! that dainty love-mouth!
Kiss, kiss, kiss, till the lips are burnt to white
With the kissing lips of passion that clings tight,
Tight, tight, tight, till the blood's red fails for burning
Of love's cruel, sweetest drouth.

Eyes!
Deep, deep, deep, through the depth of them sinking
Into nothingness, just drowning in their darkness, unthinking,
Unremorseful, unexclaiming, past last hopes of all reclaiming,
To the dirgeful music of abandoned sighs.

But the hair!—the wonder!—
Shaken over brows and cheeks, whose softness gleams thereunder
From the shadowed pallor, where the heart is sighing
O to meet my darling's beauty just once at last replying
To my prayers and pains and passion,
Once at last in love's fashion,
Once at last with love's own passion!

O the lips, the eyes, the wonder
Of that hair that shadows all
With its glory and its dimness and its rippled fall!

August 2nd, 1883.

A CHRISTMAS CAROL

to A. H. M.

The winds blow, the winds blow,
Across the snow, across the snow;
O cruel winds that bring the snow!
Sed hodie laus Puero
Ex Virgine Mariâ.

The trees are bare of fruit and green;
No flower is seen or unseen
On earth its end to end I ween;
Sed hodie we'll chaunt between
Our chattering lips for Mary Queen,
Laus Puero Mariæ.

O where's the Child, the shepherds pray,
O where's the Child, that's born to-day?
We've come from miles and miles away
That hodie we may kneel and say,
Laus Puero Mariæ.

O where's the King, say wise men three,
Whose star we months ago did see?
And lo! we are here with bended knee
That we may sing forth hodie
Laus Puero Mariæ.

O Mary maid, we stand and cry,
O Mary Queen, at whose feet we lie,
Now show us 'ere we come to die,
The child you have borne to God most high,
That hodie He may hear our cry.
Laus Puero Mariæ.

December 24th, 1883.

LOVE'S CARELESSNESS

to A. H. M.

Lay lips on lips and limb to limb;
Love's here at last, my love. For him
We shut the whole world out this hour.

He holds us close in fired embrace:
His kisses rain from face to face,
Whose thirst drinks in the implored-for shower.

Our pulses faint and fail and rise:
My soul through thine, thine through mine eyes
Meet, and are one in heaven indeed.

In heaven or hell? Is it light of fire
Or light of the sun? desire on desire!
Be it hell's or heaven's love scorns to heed.

November 18th, 1884.

FOR THE PICTURE “MONNA VANNA” By D. G. ROSSETTI

to A. H. M.

Lady of the golden hair and splendid robe
Of perfectly wrought pattern gold and white—
Thou on whose large throat one large mystic globe

Lies, see, of crystal—didst thou ever receive
Flesh of our flesh to breathe here? did the light
Ever indeed break from those eyes and leave

Heaven lightless? or did those splendid, red, curled lips
Ever break silence? Mistress of passion and love,
Mistress of passion and life, ah! and of death that sips

From love's very lips our souls—see those red beads
Strung round to play with, see how they shift and move
With thy toying—even so—as the souls thy beauty leads

Helpless about thee—leaves at thy mere caprice,
Leaves for thy fan's turn just to winnow and sift.—
O God, O God, what hast thou done with peace

For one who hath gazed even once on her, felt her kiss,
Felt her bared, glorious bosom fall and lift
With its passion of kisses? Felt?—nay, or dreamed like this,

Dreamed that he's seen her, touched her, held her, clung
Till his body and soul were one with her, passed away
Out of mind, out of sense, through a passion of nerves unstrung

Out into her infinite glory?—O God, it is gone
The vision, the vision! I am here once more with the day,
Face to-day's pitiless face, with my life alone!—

1883.

FOR THE PICTURE “LA GHIRLANDATA” By D. G. ROSSETTI

to A. H. M.

What is the music of these flower-crowned strings?
Nay, what is the music of this love-crowned soul?
Unto which listening in rapture with their wings

Folded to silence angels, see, stay their flight,
While only one small bird's fluttering thrills through the whole
Harmonious wonder of scent and sound and sight.

What is this music? Of fate that thwarts and kills?
Of thought that forbodes? Of life that is weary? Of death
That must come i' the end? Of love whose passion fulfils

The unuttered unutterable moments of life, till thought,
Till fate, life, death are as nothing?—Answereth
Each one to himself as each one's spirit is wrought.

And for me on whose lonely and longing spirit there rests
This vision of youth's utter beauty through days and nights
That mock with their light and darkness the impotent guests

Of a dominant amorous madness—for me let her say,
This glorious lady, this mistress of all delights,—
“Gaze on me in vision, till I come even to thee one day.”

1883.

VANITAS

Through all the hours of all the days
I seek for Love through all the ways
His spirit drives my wandering feet,
One face, one form, one heart to meet
Unfound through any ways and days.

The million million waves that race
Over the whole world's ocean's face;
The million million leaves that quiver
Within the whole world's trees for ever,
Oh! leaves that quiver, oh! waves that race,

Your pulses beat for a spirit's kiss
That ye yearn and yearn for, ever miss;
For a spirit to touch you, embrace you, enter,
Steep you in rest to your heart's heart-centre,
Spread over you heaven, one endless kiss.

The waves die dashed on the rocks, the leaves
Die dry as dust that their fall receives.
In vain, in vain they have thrilled for pain
Of the dreams of a love, whose end is vain,
All vain for me and the waves and leaves.

1885.

A. H. M. DE DOMINA SUA LOQUITUR

A. H. M.

Fair of the fairest,
Rare of the rarest,
Queen of them all is Francesca, I swear!
Oh! for a sight of her!
Oh! for the right of her!
Oh! for delight of her
Fainteth my soul—but it's not with despair!

For, dear Aphrodité,
Exquisite, flighty,
Queen as thou art of the gods and us men,
Prostrate before thee,
Hear, I adore thee!
Restore I implore thee
This darlingest girl to my passionate ken!

Sure an' thou hearest!
Sure an' my dearest
Longs, as I long, to renew the embrace!
Sure as my vows are thine,
So her true heart is mine!—

APHRODITE
“Cease, fool, to weep and pine.
Dreams but of thine that unspeakable face.”

September 14th, 1885.

A HYMN TO SPRING

The Sun returns,
The young Sun burns
With his youth renewed and desire of his love the Earth:
And his gentle kisses rain on her lips till mirth
Breaks out on her pale sweet face in a laughter of flowers,
In a ripple of crystal waves, in a chorus of song,
Through the silver hours,
Through the silver hours that are gliding, gliding along,
That are gliding to gold with the growing love of the Sun,
As he holds embraced with trance upon trance his beautiful bride,
While silver hours into golden hours glide;
O beautiful Earth dear bride of the mighty Sun,
Whose life, whose love's begun!

Wake heart, wake heart!
Wake, wake, and do thy part!
Wake, wake from the winter's-death that has held thee dumb!
The voice of the Bridegroom rings and the answering Bride:
Wake, wake, for the Bride and the Bridegroom hither come!
Wake, wake, for the desolate night is passed into morning-tide:
Our lord the Sun is arisen and weds the awaiting Earth:
From birth to birth
Her beauty leaps into being
Of scent and sound and seeing,
Her beauty leaps into being;
And Heaven is one with Earth!

April 22nd, 1885.

HORT. AM. IV

to L. L.

O where shall I discover
My Lady's parallel?
What genius of what lover
This loveliness could tell?
Ah! no,
T'is ever so,
Unspeakable's the spell!

Not Dian's self enchanting
The greenwood with her chase
Speeds delicate and panting
With half so light a grace:
Ah! no,
Believe me so,
The deity yields place.

Saith Venus to her wanton
Boy Cupid as she spies,
“I dare not cast a taunt on
Such daintiness. Arise
Quick go
To earth below,
And win her to the skies.”

Sweet child, whose dear behaviour
Can make e'en such as I
Pluck hope to find a saviour,
Dream life is worth a sigh:
Heigho!
Indeed it's so—
And you're the reason why.

July 13th, 1886.

A CAROL

Deep, deep snow,
Wild, wild wind,
Dark, dark night, and lo!
Where shall we Shepherds go
God's Son to find?

See, Shepherds, see!
O'er Bethlem town,
What may this glory be?
Faint not, but hasten ye;
Thither go down.

Hark! what sound
O'er yonder shed?
Gloria! the Lord is found
In swaddling clothes all bound,
As Gabriel said.

Bend knees and fall;
Here's God's Son,
Here in an ox's stall:
Ave, say we great and small,
Death's day's done.

1886.

IN HOMINE DOMINI

Hark! like a clarion rings the voice, “Arise!”
Too long with wrangling talkers, mad for place,
Suffers our England, now brought face to face
With the despair of perishing thousands. Lies
This day within our choice the immortal prize
Of those who win salvation for their race:
Yea, Lord, Thyself with Thine avenging grace
Strike for Thy servants, while each minion flies!
Who shall refuse to arm serene and strong
For this lost conflict, though Self's myriads scowl?
The day of visitation is not long,
Ere the light passeth, when hurled cheek by jowl
The recreants hear above their pitiful throng
God's scorn in judgment, “Go to, weep and howl.”

1887.

to H. K.

Like a willow, like a reed
Is my Love's grace:
And her face

Like a soft, pale-petaled rose:
And my Love's breast
Like the rest

Of a snow-drift bright and white:
And to kiss there—
Ah! what compare

Can I find in rhyme for that!
Where is Love's own
Jewelled throne.

1888.

REFUGIUM

Only a girl just fouled with lust:
Whom God created as fair as day!
For man to follow, debauch, and thrust

Away from them, finished their lust. And so
She's here by right of her sin to stay,
In the quiet away from the foul town's flow.

Poor child! so worthy of praise and love!
And I praise you, love you, for all the sin:
As a blood-stained, mud-stained, pitiful dove

One praises, and pities, and takes to breast:
There are fairer feathers beneath, within,
There's a beating heart—and with God the rest!

1888.

CHRISTMAS EVE

'Mid lights, and colour, and music, and dance,
Her heart is bounding, her swift feet glance;
While a thousand eyes are strained to behold her,
A thousand hands to applaud.—'Tis done:
The curtain falls, and her triumph is won,
As their shouts, and their bouquets they fling, have told her.

Out from the theatre, into the street,
To where they are gathered at Mass to greet
The new-born Infant, she straightway turns.
The Host is offered, the chanting ends:
At the young Child's feet, as she lowly bends,
She lays her flowers, where the crib's light burns.

What were it fitter to lay before Him?
Wherewithal may she better adore Him?
Here for His birthday, on bended knees,
Fruit of the gifts that His grace bestows,
Sign that her triumph to Him she owes,—
O Child and Master, she gives you these!

December 25th, 1888.

to ERNEST RHYS

Is it eyes, or mouth, or hair,
Or the pearls about a throat,
No whit than themselves less fair,
That before my vision float,
And hold me pris'ner of despair?

Is it subtly moulded ear,
Tender as a rose-lit shell,
Or the rippling laugh I hear,
Whose resistless, untold, spell
Poiseth me 'twixt hope and fear?

Ah! I name nor lips, nor hair,
Ears, empearlèd throat, nor eyes:
Not in one beauty's curious snare
The secret of my bondage lies;
'Tis in the whole dear Self, I swear.

January 15th, 1889.

IN SILENCE

Ah! Lesbia, by that name at last
Love calls you, for Catullus' sake!
The million kisses of the past
Are pledge of millions yet, to slake
His thirst unquenchable, who lies
Beside the quenchless depth of those dear eyes.

Lie closer, Girl! how silent, dark,
Is this withdrawn abode of love!
Some far-off murmurings only mark,
Where restless human beings move
Along the gas-lit, midnight, street:
Oh! what delicious silence, darkness, Sweet!

Even our love, that scarce might find
One short, fierce, rapturous, hour ago,
Words wild enough to speak its mind;
Light clear enough our joys to show:
Even Love's self has sunk to rest,
As a tired child, twixt close-drawn breast and breast.

Over his head our lips may meet,
Yet soundless in the kiss they frame!
And, as our souls in union greet
His presence, still they breathe no name!
In the deep heart of heaven, where wells
God's central spring, 'tis Silence only dwells.

[_]

Published in the “Hobby Horse” Vol. V. p. 111

1890.

UNDER CHARING CROSS ARCH

Poor, worn-out Mortals! here you lie,
Stretched on your sandwich-boards, asleep!
Unconscious of the passers-by;
Unheedful of what miseries steep
Your waking hours, without, within!
To rouse you were a sin.

In yonder street the sun's ablaze;
I catch the river's glittering light
At end of it: their careless ways
The crowd goes on, in sin's despite,
In sorrow's neighbourhood content.—
You're lost in wonderment?

He made us all, Whose name is Good;
He counts each hair upon our head;
He marks the inmost spirit's mood;
On every soul His grace is shed.—
You think these beggars give the lie
To such theology?

Look! the dim coolness of this place,
How soothingly it's lulled to rest
Each unwashed, haggard, hungry face!
No child upon its mother's breast
Sleeps sounder! All life's troubles cease!
What deep oblivious peace!

1890.

A FAREWELL

Fare thee well, Nellie,
Only for just a Day!
Fare thee well, Nellie!
Ah! but it's hard to say,
Though only for just a Day:
Fare thee well, Nellie!
The Hour calls me away.

Keep a Thought, Nellie,
One warm Thought for me:
Keep a Thought, Nellie,
As my whole Thoughts turn to thee;
Keep but a Thought for me,
Keep one Thought, Nellie,
There, where the fond Thoughts be!

And, when I'm back, Nellie,
Let the dear rose Lips part
To a Moment's Smile, Nellie;
Cure of this Moment's Smart
To dream how the Lips shall part
In a Smile, when I'm back, Nellie,
Heart to my Darling's Heart!

1890.

THE INSCRIPTION

Had I but wealth, had I but fame,
What prize were either joy to me;
Save at the shrine of thy dear Name
They each should dedicated be?
So I might lay
The gold, the crown of bay,
To find acceptance there of thee.

Dearest, I have nor wealth, nor crown;
Nor aught, save my fond verse, to bring
For off'ring! Say, thou wilt not frown,
Disdainful of so poor a thing!
Oh! do not scorn
This, of thy sweetness born,
A heart thou hast inspired to sing!

THE PROTESTATION

Dear Eyes, set deep within the shade
Of Love's pale, alabaster, brow;
Of what strange substance are ye made,
That such enchantments on me now,
Resistless, by your grace are laid?

Ye are the stars, that do control
The tides of my obedient mind:
Ye are the founts, whereat my soul
In thirst may cool assuagement find:
The soothing balm to make me whole.

Ye are the deeps, in whose retreat
Refuge I find from hounding sin:
Ye are the paths, by which my feet
Move onward to God's peace within:
The abode, where all pure memories meet.

Dear Eyes, dear Eyes, my health ye bring
'Mid every circumstance of fate!
In what true numbers shall I sing
The glory and virtues of your state,
Whence for my soul all grace doth spring?

VAIN COMPARISONS

If I shall say thy brows are fair
As alabaster; and thine eyes
Do rival, in those hues they wear,
Morn's azure, pale complexioned, skies;
If, the warm tangles of thy hair, I vow,
Gleam, as a streamlet's depth the sun doth show:

If I shall call thee by the name
Of some chaste Nymph, or classic Dear,
Meaning, hereby, to make thy fame
Beyond all rivalship appear;
If I shall search for every curious word
Wherewith t' express thee, that the world has heard:

Yet there remains that, last, untold,
Eluding all our art to tell,
By whose sweet magic thou dost hold
Me, body and soul, within thy spell:
Th' ineffable Virtue, by whose grace thou art
Thyself, my Dearest; and Thyself apart!

A SUMMER'S DAY

Overhead a sapphire sky;
Blossom of the may-trees round:
On the warm, lush, meadow-ground,
Where the sorrel blooms, we lie.

Psyche-winged, in gold and white
Butterflies float past: the earth,
'Neath the charm of summer's birth,
Thrills with delicate delight.

Softly breathes a southern wind;
Sings for joy a lark above:
Oh! what paradise of love
Fairer may our spirits find!

Far away is London town,
As a world unknown, forgot:
Misery and sins are not!
Nothing now for tears or frown!

Lean, my Dearest, lean your head
Quietly against me. So!
Listen, while I whisper low
Words, that hardly may be said.

Nay, your spirit lifts the veil
From love, trembling to confess:
In this summer peacefulness
Silence better tells his tale.

Your free senses have discerned,
Ere his stamm'ring lips can part,

That, for which but heart to heart
Knows a language, yet unlearned.

Lean, my Dearest, lean your head
Quietly against me: lay
Little hand in mine, to say,
“Thus, indeed, the heart is sped.”

Ah! a cloud across the sun!
Ah! a chill within the breeze!
Ah! a shiver through the trees!
And the flower-land is dun!

Nothing! see the light return,
Clearer from the gray eclipse!
And the smile about your lips
Tells a spirit's unconcern.

Foolish, verily, was I,
Dreaming you should thus divine
Secrets of this heart of mine.
Love for you comes by-and-by.

Here, enough, to-day you feel
This bland summer hour's content;
Magic music, colour, scent,
Through your happy senses steal.

Only, Dearest, lean your head
Quietly against me. So!
Leave me, when these moments go,
Ah! what memories instead!

LOVE'S CONFESSIONAL.

Why art thou sad, dear Lady? whose sweet ways
Do cleanse and gladden all the paths thou treadest;
Making rebellious spirits calm, and praise
To spring before thee, wheresoe'er thou threadest
Thy gracious path, 'mid mortal sins and pain;
Till at thy presence hearts take hope again.

Why art thou sad to-night, withdrawn, apart?
Save from one only, whom thy love approveth:
Save from one only, in whose sentient heart
Vibrates each pain or joy, thy soul that moveth.
Draw near, sweet Penitent; confess thy fears:
'Twere surely sin to mar such grace with tears!

A PRAYER

Dear, let me dream of love,
Ah! though a dream it be!
I'll ask no boon, above
A word, a smile, from thee:
At most, in some still hour, one kindly thought of me.

Sweet, let me gaze awhile
Into those radiant eyes!
I'll scheme not to beguile
The heart, that deeper lies
Beneath them, than yon star in night's pellucid skies.

Love, let my spirit bow
In worship at thy shrine!
I'll swear, thou shalt not know
One word from lips of mine,
An instant's pain to send through that shy soul of thine.

A MAY MORNING

Amid the tender boughs of green
The young sun laughs for joy: between
Slim, silver, mottled, stems of birch
A throng of saffron butterflies,
New-born to greet the morning, search,
Where the pale bluebell's honey lies.

How still they settle, softly float,
To music of the blackbird's note!
To undertone of early bees,
That hum from flower to flower, and quaff
New nectar! Insects, blossoms, trees,
Alert, to greet the sun-god's laugh!

Awake, my soul, arise, rejoice!
Join universal nature's voice,
In glad Te Deum for the spring!
Forget the winter's miry ways!
Forget the least uncleanly thing,
That saddened, soiled, those vanished days!

URBANUS LOQUITUR

Let others sing the country's charm:
The whispering trees, the tangled lane,
The perfume-burdened air, the trills
Of lark and nightingale; the wain,
That homeward brings the scented hay,
When evening's peace absorbs the day.

Let others laud those primal cares,
Which fill the country hours with bliss:
The timely rest; clear eyes, that greet
Earth waking 'neath Aurora's kiss;
The easy, sauntering, walk; the toil,
That waits upon the bounteous soil.

Let others paint with fresh delight
The country maiden's cheek of rose;
Her lover's artless, amorous, gifts,
Which pure affection's heart enclose;
The children nestling round their sire
At night-fall, by the winter's fire.

For me, for me, another world's
Enchantments hold my heart in thrall:
These London pavements, low'ring sky,
Store secrets, on mine eyes that fall,
More curious far, than earth or air
By country paths can make appear.

The stern reformer scowls aghast,
'Mid the doomed city's trackless woe:
Apelles veils his shuddering gaze,
Its ugliness “offends him so”:

The dainty-eared musician dies
In torment, of its raucous cries.

Yet are there souls of coarser grain,
Or else more flexible, who find
Strange, infinite, allurements lurk,
Undreamed of by the simpler mind,
Along these streets, within the walls
Of cafes, shops, and music halls.

'Twixt jar of tongues, at endless strife
On art, religion, social needs,
How many a keen thought springs to birth
In him, this dubious book that reads!
For curious eyes no hours are spent,
That bring not interest, content.

I'll call not these the best, nor those;
The country fashions, or the town:
On each descend heaven's bounteous rains,
On each the impartial sun looks down.
Why should we gird and argue, friend;
Not follow, where our natures tend?

The secret's this: where'er our lot,
To read, mark, learn, digest them well,
The devious paths we mortals take,
To gain, at length, our heaven or hell:
Alike in some still, rural, scene,
Or Regent Street and Bethnal Green.

HER CONFIRMATION

When my Clorinda walks in white
Unto her Confirmation Rite,
What sinless dove can show to heaven
A purer sight?

Beneath a lawn, translucent, crown
Her lovely curls conceal their brown;
Her wanton eyes are fastened, even,
Demurely down.

And that delicious mouth of rose
No words, no smile, may discompose:
All of her feels the approaching awe,
And silent grows.

Come, then, Thou noiseless Spirit, and rest
Here, where she waits Thee for her Guest:
Pass not, but sweetly onward draw,
Till heaven's possessed!

PRAISES

Wouldst thou praise Her as a rose,
Honied and fair!
Beware!
Sweetest flower in garden-close
Just buds, and goes.

Wouldst thou praise Her as a star
In heaven's blue:
And sue
Morning and night? Too far
Such star-lights are.

AMANTIUM IRAE

White Chloe lay sleeping
Under a beechen shade;
Worn with bitter weeping
For Daphnis, who had strayed
To woo another maid.

White Chloe fell dreaming
Of hours, that once had been:
She felt the sunlight streaming
A cross the forest green,
The dappled leaves between.

She heard soft notes; and, playing,
The kids around her leapt;
While boys and girls a-maying
In dances nimbly stept:
Till Daphnis by her crept!

He kissed her on the shoulder,
He kissed her golden head;
His arms they would enfold her,
Her timid feet he led
Unto a flow'ry bed!

White Chloe, awaking,
Lifted her heavy eyes:
There at her at feet, forsaking
All newer loves' surprise,
Repentant Daphnis lies!

“Oh! Chloe dear, my Chloe!”
'Twas nothing else he cried:
But straight she flung her snowy,
Soft arms about him, sighed,
And—so, the trouble died!

A PARTING

I gave her all 'twas mine to give,
And fondly thought she smiled:
Nor can I even now believe,
Those lips my soul beguiled.
Surely, some answering spirit woke,
And with that dearest accent spoke!

Ah! but 'twas yesterday we met,
My trembling heart aflame:
So many a tedious month had set,
Since last she breathed my name!
Gone were the hours of aching sense!
Here, here, at length, my recompense!

God! she but passed me, passed me! Yea,
With eyes, that met mine eyes;
Unlit by one, faint, tremulous, ray,
One movement of surprise!
Stranger from stranger, thus we part:
She, reckless; I, with broken heart.

LA ROSE DU BAL

This poor flower of the rose;
All its pride, its fashion, spent;
Shrivelled up; bereft of scent;
Once such sweetness could unclose!

This sad blossom, that hath lain,
For an hour or so of grace,
'Twixt her bosom and her face!
Dare we treat it with disdain?

Dainty was its shell-like hue,
As her shell-like ears, I vow.
Dainty texture, tincture, now
Vainly for your grace we sue!

Think of all, that Nature wrought,
Studious of this pretty flower;
Prodigal of sun and shower;
Careless, though its end be naught:

Careful only it should grow
Into worthiness to deck,
Fair itself, a fairer neck;
Flourish there an hour, and go.

Dropped amid the dancing feet!
Saved to turn a verse like this!
Lay it gently, with a kiss,
'Mid the fire's absorbing heart:

Into elemental dust
Watch it purely burn away.
Julia, when we've had our day,
Chastely so we'll pass, I trust!

IN MEMORIAM A. B.

Draw wide the curtain, let the day be plain.
All, all is over! All the care, the pain,
The fearful watching, while one hope was left:
Death has accomplished quite his cruel theft.

How still, composed! In how profound a peace
He's wrapped at last! Bid every tear to cease
Now, in this awful silence. Life is gone!
Here's left but mem'ry, and the tomb's gray stone.

Farewell, dear Brother! On the worlds must roll,
Though fate ordain, that soul be torn from soul.
Our paths are sundered: who may dare foretell,
If they shall meet again? Farewell, Farewell!

A MEDITATION FOR CHRISTMAS

Consider, O my soul, what morn is this!
Whereon the eternal Lord of all things made,
For us, poor mortals, and our endless bliss,
Came down from heaven; and, in a manger laid,
The first, rich, offerings of our ransom paid:
Consider, O my soul, what morn is this!

Consider what estate of fearful woe
Had then been ours, had He refused this birth;
From sin to sin tossed vainly to and fro,
Hell's playthings, o'er a doomed and helpless earth!
Had He from us withheld His priceless worth,
Consider man's estate of fearful woe!

Consider to what joys He bids thee rise,
Who comes, Himself, life's bitter cup to drain!
Ah! look on this sweet Child, Whose innocent eyes,
Ere all be done, shall close in mortal pain,
That thou at last Love's Kingdom may'st attain:
Consider to what joys He bids thee rise!

Consider all this wonder, O my soul;
And in thine inmost shrine make music sweet!
Yea, let the world, from furthest pole to pole,
Join in thy praises this dread birth to greet;
Kneeling to kiss thy Saviour's infant feet!
Consider all this wonder, O my soul!

GABRIEL AND MARY

“Hail! Lady Mary!” said Gabriel:
Sing all the world, and all the world:
“God sends me now good news to tell.”
“And what is the news, O Gabriel?”

“Lady Mary, God gives you grace:”
Sing all the world, and all the world:
“For a Child you shall bear within a space,
“And look on God to His very face.”

“Nay, Gabriel, how may this thing be?”
Sing all the world, and all the world:
“Since there's never a man, that knoweth me.”
Said Gabriel, “Sooth, and you shall see.”

The Lady Mary, she bowed her head:
Sing all the world, and all the world:
Nor ever an answer more she said,
Till all things were accomplishèd.

For the Lady Mary, she bare her Son:
Sing all the world, and all the world:
When the day's full course at length was run,
God's Self was born for her Little One.

Then the Lady Mary, she wept and spake;
Sing all the world, and all the world:
“I have borne my Child for the world's sake,
“And the cruel world His life will take!”

But the Lady Mary, she laughed and said;
Sing all the world, and all the world:

“My Child shall rise again from the dead,
“Lord of all by His great Godhead!”

Now, Lady Mary, we pray you say,
Sing all the world, and all the world:
Some gracious thing to your Son that day,
When we, poor creatures, pass away.

Yea, Lady Mary, Mother of God,
Save us from sin's rod!
Lady Mary, Mother of Grace,
Bend on us your sweet face!
O Lady Mary, bring us at length
By strength of Jesus to Jesus' strength!

Amen.

NOEL

See, the lovely Babe asleep
On His Mother's milky breast:
Ah! how tenderly caressed!

Let us kneel, and vigil keep
At this quiet cradle-side:
Mother! may we here abide?

Verily, we've naught to bring
For an off'ring at His feet,
Neither gold, nor incense sweet:

Nor a voice, wherewith to sing
Lullaby to His repose,
'Mid the winter storm and snows.

Only let us kneel, and pray
Quietly, sweet Mother, here,
Till the darkness disappear:

Till the Blessed One at day
Waken; till He hear us cry,
Jesu, nobis subveni!

DE PROFUNDIS

Because the world is very stern;
Because the work is very long;
Because the foes are very strong,
Whatever side I turn:

Because my courage ebbs away;
Because my spirit's eyes are dim;
Because with failures to the brim
My cup fills day by day:

Because forbidden ways invite;
Because the smile of sin is sweet;
Because so readily run my feet
Towards paths, that close in night:

Because God's face I long to see;
Because God's Image stamps me yet:
Oh! by Thy Passion, Christ, forget
Me not, who fly to Thee!

THE PILGRIM

Vidimus stellam ejus in Oriente

Wild shrieks the wind, how rough's the way!
But, see, one star's alight!
Up! let us follow, where its ray
Strikes through the shuddering night
O'er yonder roof, serene and clear.
And hark! what music is't we hear.

My heart scarce beats, my steps are slow,
Almost I faint and die:
Sick, worn, benumbed amidst the snow,
Ah! what a pilgrim I!
Yet will I follow stagg'ring on,
Ere light and music both be gone.

For One waits there, the only one,
Who knows my heart and me;
All that I am, all I have done,
All I may chance to be:
Who will not spurn the piteous thing,
The sole, best, offering I can bring:

Who will not chide me, poor and late,
Nor scorn my sorry wit;
Who will not fling me to my fate—
O God, the thought of it!
Once that I look in those dear eyes,
What virtues shall my soul surprise!

Then up, my heart, gather thy strength
A little longer! see,

Almost our journeying ends; at length
Almost at home are we:
Sheltered, my heart, from storm and night
In that Friend's house of sure delight!

1898.

GIVE PEACE IN OUR TIME, O LORD

Father of all, wild, wild's the sky,
Sunk is the sun, the awful night
With brooding storm usurps the light:
Is it too late, we kneel and cry?

Father of all, without Whose will
No sparrow falls upon the ground,
Thou art our stay, when all around
Grows strangled in the grasp of ill.

Ah! how he strains, the Accursèd One,
Whose war-cry once rent heaven asunder,
To catch the first blast of battle's thunder,
As the thin sands reluctant run!

Ah! how he laughs this hideous hour
To watch men in Thine image made,
On whom Thy gracious spirit hath laid
Rare gifts of brain and tongue for dower,

Hounding Thy children on to blood—
Drunk with revenge's vain desire,
Or with mad greed of gold on fire,
Swept reckless down hate's gathering flood.

Father of all, immortal Love,
Here at Thy feet we fall and pray—
Thou, Thou, our sole last hope and stay—
Oh! from Thy radiant heaven above

In mercy look upon Thy land,
Our England, ere the die be cast:
Lord, in this fateful hour at last
Speak—and 'tis Light at Thy command.

“Daily Chronicle,” October 6th, 1899.

[_]

(Declaration of War being hourly expected, England v. Transvaal).

THE LAST CHRISTMAS OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY

The thin sands of the dwindling glass
Run swiftly. Ah! my soul, alas!
A single grain thou may'st not stay,
Nor one poor step retrace the way
Of unconsidered hours. For gain
Or loss the account stands fixed. In vain
Well bitter tears for things undone,
Or victories thou might'st have won,
Or falls that flung thee in the dust,
Or visions from thy pathway thrust
By meaner aims.

What might have been!
And lo! what is, now all is seen!

A withered branch for fruit and flower,
A heap of barren sand for dower
Of fair accomplishment, at best
A wraith of idle fancies, crest
On crest of unsubstantial foam!
What hast thou garnered in thy home?
Nor, piteous one, because the fight
Was stern, nor yet because the night
With storm fell oft upon thee, not
Because with mortal ills thy lot
Was circumstanced, thou hast to lay
Thy quivering face in dust to-day.
To-Day! Ah! listen on the air
Ring other notes than wan despair.
Let the dead bury their dead. But thou,
Though faintly throbs thy pulse, thy brow

With dust's defiled, lift up thine eyes:
The world's around thee yet, the sky's
Above thee! Not that thou should'st groan
Prostrate in helpless idle moan
The irrevocable Past breaks in,
Grim ghost of weariness and sin.
Look thou upon it, let it lie
The poor dead thing it is. “But I,”
Soul to thine inmost being say,
“Press onward where the new world's Day
“Holds work in store without complaint,
“And waits for sinner as for saint!”

1899.

A LONDONER'S SPRINGTIDE

Beneath the purple hedgerow gleams
The celandine's clear golden star;
The early bees renew their search
Where the first dewy violets are;
The poignant scent of springing grass
Distils its fragrance as we pass.

Into the lucent, tremulous blue
A lark soars on a wave of song;
'Twixt hawthorn boughs and hazelwood
The busy mating finches throng;
First pledge of radiant hours a-nigh,
Floats past a golden butterfly.

Ah! not for us, whom Fate condemns
To grimy, glum, congested streets,
Save in some idle verse to feel
The allurement of these natural sweets,
Their tender, deep, enraptured spell
From dawning hour to evening's knell.

To us the one dull hurrying round,
Whatever season's joys be in;
Straight office walls for leafy glade,
For song of thrush the pavement's din,
December chill or August heat,
Drag on the same our captive feet!

O souls of little faith awake!
Your heritage of vernal grace
Awaits you. Nature holds her way
O'er every circumstance of place:

In street or woodland, lo! she still
Shall her predestined work fulfil.

If seeing eye be mine, and heart
That feels, the pulses of the Spring
To London as to countryside
Her mystic admonitions bring;
Nor only where the beds and trees
Unclose beneath her magic breeze.

My heart's astir with new desire,
My brain's awake to fancies new;
I soar beyond the mists that chill,
Enchanted visions leap to view:
Oh! budding boughs of square and street,
In kindred joy your birth I greet:

I see my dear old London Town
As sleeper from a nightmare rise,
Escaped from some dull demon's thrall,
Alert with wonder in her eyes,
And Mistress of our gracious land
Once more in peerless beauty stand!

March 17th, 1900.

A WINTER'S CAROL

The bare strained branches weave a net
Across the leaden sky: the earth
Lies rigid: not one lonely flower
Dares on her nakedness to set
A trembling pledge of life's reviving hour.

In their dumb throats all songs are dead
Of all the joyous birds that sang:
And where the rose o'er eglantine
Ablush at dawn her kisses shed,
Dank, pallid vapours creep and intertwine.

Ah! Ghosts of all that once beat here
Of Life, of Loveliness! O Land,
Where Paradise seemed scarce a dreaming!
O Fate, that recks no mortal tear!
Most cruel, cruel Loss, beyond redeeming!

Thus by the ruined wintry ways
Cried Memory in rebellious mood,
With hurrying feet across the mire:
But, Hark! a note her footstep stays,
A fresh, clear note to stir the heart's desire:

A Redbreast carolling in despite
Of grim December! Thrilling voice,
That hath such magic for thy dower!
O Heart of little faith grow light!
The sun's in heaven again, the earth's a-flower!

1900.

CHRISTMAS MDCCCCII

to A. H. M.

Friend, one indeed can scarce believe
Twelve months are gone since Christmas Eve
Last brought my greeting to your door!
On swifter wings than once he bore
Surely old Time escapes us!

Well,
'Tis but an idle thing to dwell
In wailing voice of fond regret
On radiant blossoms hardly set
Ere from our gaze they're snatched away:
On what brief space the longest day
Vouchsafes for all our fancy schemes:
Or, when youth's lost her coloured dreams
Of life's immensity, how soon
The hastening hours lead on the noon,
And the first shadows fall: or how,
The less above, the more below,
Life's hour-glass faster drops its sand.

Again an Old Year ends!

Your hand,
Dear Friend, then! Well! I know it brings
Your heart along with it. The wings
Of Time fly swifter? Let them fly.
God's in His heaven: and you and I
Look upward undismayed, erect,
Building for That Great Architect
Some corner of His House of Grace,
Beyond the realms of time and space.

1902.

to THE TITS AND ALL OTHER “SMALE FOWLES” OF GREAT TOTHAM IN ESSEX

[_]

c/o MRS. A. H. M.

Dear little Friends, ah! would I had
A score of nice cig-boxes,
Wherewith to serve your tender loves—
You pretty hens and cockses!

But here alas! all I can find;
I pray you, don't reject 'em:
Perchance anon they'll serve a turn
Your fledglings to protect 'em.

So prosper, Sweets, your springtide loves
Secure from all life's dangers:
The Gods ordain you and your chicks
To every ill be strangers!

March 12th, 1906.

CHRISTMAS MDCCCCVI

A Little Child, the prophet said,
Shall lead them.

To the manger bed,
Where the old legend bids us go
To seek Thee, Little One, how slow
Our feet turn!

Ah! but dim to-day
And tangled for us is that way.
No angel voices from the sky
Carol Thy sweet nativity:
No star leads onward steadfast, bright,
For all our watching through the night.

Yet we are wondrous wise, they say.

Yea, near and far, we know to-day
Secrets the ages knew not: all
Earth's mysteries we unveil and call
To do our hest, till time and space
Stand chained in service to our race.

And yet, and yet, ascends the cry,
“See, lust, and greed, and cruelty,
“Here under some fair-sounding name,
“Here shamelessly, their victims claim!”
Nor still for all our wits and wealth
Gain we soul's wisdom, body's health.

Ah! look, Man, to thyself within:
Search there the secret that should win
A world disordered back to grace:
Yea, look on thine own self face to face:
Nor dream to give the world thy best,
Till beats a child's heart in thy breast.

FOR THE PRESENT OCCASION

September 9—13, 1908

Oh! The Pope o' Rome and the Pope o' Rome,
Ha! Ha! cried he, for Old England!
My faithful Legate, a word i' your ear—
Draw nigh, and I'll whisper, lest anyone hear;
Now, I want ye to go a few days from home
On a jaunt—and it's over The Water!

A good while since, and I ruled, you know,—
Ha! Ha! I ruled in Old England!
Fine times were they, when I had their Pence—
The amount flowing in was indeed immense—
For my will was law over high and low
In that charming Land, my Daughter.

But alas! and alas! things went quite wrong,
And my day was up in Old England.
Fancy! The insolent Islanders said,
“Enough of this Foreigner posing as head
“Of our souls and bodies—we've stood it too long!”—
And they kicked me over The Water!

But I've kept an eye on 'em ever since—
So dear to my heart was Old England.
And I think—I do really—the time is come,
That once again I might find a home
With a little diplomacy—Eh? my Prince—
I' the land that I love as a Daughter.

So don your smartest, and off you go
Prestissimo straight to Old England!
There sugar your tongue to its honiest, smile

In the unctuous, innocent Roman style—
I bear any malice? Indeed, Oh! No!—
And they'll hail me over The Water.

For I only crave, you must tell them plain,—
And a credulous Land is Old England—
To clasp them close in a fond embrace,
And bid them look on their Father's face
So mild and winning . . . Till once again
I've got tight grip of my Daughter!

Amen.

CHRISTMAS MDCCCCVIII

[_]

Learned Aurelians call a lovely little Moth, that appears in February, sitting on or flitting round the leafless oak-trees, by the beautiful name, Hybernia Leucophaearia: and simpler folk call it by the yet more beautiful name of The Spring Usher. It is amongst the first of all moths to appear, as the Winter begins yielding to Spring.

Leucophaea, Ashen-gray!
So the Learned, Pretty One,
Name you: sleeping in the sun
This short February day,

Nestled closely to your oak,
Hardly from itself discerned;
Gentle Flutterer, all but turned
In your dun-barred quaker cloak

To semblance of the aged tree,
That its hoary mottled side
Lends you, safely to abide
Till day dies, and dusk shall be:

Sweet Spring Usher, named aright
In our homely English phrase,
You, who brave these wintry days,
Harbinger of Spring's delight:

Comes the evening, and you flit
Gently round the barren boughs,
Seeking where to hear your vows
She, your destined Mate, may sit.

Just an Insect, nothing more!
Born to-day, to-morrow dead!

Is it all that may be said,
Watching how you pause or soar?

You and I, my Little One,
You and I alert with life:
Whence and whither? Nature rife
With energy, as seasons run,

Brings to birth or you or me,
Each a riddle none may read:
Hath She some mysterious need
You and I awhile should be?

Atoms both, what can we count
In her universal plan,
You a Moth, or I a Man,
As aeons upon aeons mount?

Ah! as you, if I could bring
Hope to some, that there shall rise
Days serener, bluer skies,
Promise of approaching Spring!

1908.

CHRISTMAS MDCCCCIX

to E. A. C.

Spirit of Light, That o'er the abyss immense,
Primordial chaos, moving hast sweetly wrought,
In that far age trackless to reeling thought,
Order and Beauty; and all mortal sense,
Purged through obedience of the least offence
In our first Parents, didst ordain for naught
Save in Thine own creative joy up-caught
To find its last energy and life intense:

Spirit of Light, here in these latter days,
Dimmed by self-will and deft rebellion's pride,
Oh! leave us not! Thou hast not left us! See,
In this young heart and teeming brain displays
Thy Graciousness its will: Thou yet dost bide
Brooding to turn our errant sight on Thee!

1909.

THE SAD PLAINT OF MICKIETWO

to A. B. HORNE, ESQ.

Oh! tell me, tell me, where is SHE,
That hath ta'en the heart clean out of me?
From base to attic, from attic to base
I prowl and prowl in fruitless chase;
Nor eat, nor sleep, nor sing, nor play
From ope unto the shut of day,
Since my Sweet-heart they've stole away!

Oh! pray, Kind Sir, but tell to me
If thou hast seen, or may chance to see,
My most incomparable SHE!

Her locks are white as the driven snow,
Her eyne are soft as the full-ripe sloe;
From out her teeth of orient pearl
A soft tongue peeps as a rose in curl—
Oh! Wendy, girl!
From thy nose to toes
Beauty's self in full gamut goes!
And where thou art, but Heaven knows!

And so I wander, and wail, and pine,
Though rain may tumble, or sun may shine—
Rain or sun
Ah! it's all but one
To a Body that's lost its very Soul,
As mine was lost, when away they stole—
Oh! cruel, cruel, cruel, cruel!
My one incomparable Jewel!

January 8th, 1911.

IN MEMORIAM J. W. T.

Dear Spring returns, ah! April's here,
The gay magician of the year;
With flickering smile and dewy kiss
Eager from out rough Winter's thrall
Expectant Nature to release.

The woods awaken to the notes
Commingling of mellifluous throats;
Where many a primrose blossom, wet
With quivering dew, salutes the morn,
Nestled by fragrant violet.

In orchards sheltered 'neath the down
The trees assume their snowy crown
Once more, once more the may-bush dons
A sunlit robe of tender green;
On the blue water sail the swans:

And in yon clearing of the wood,
Seeking their loves and honied food,
Between the birchen-stems there float
Soft, saffron, psyche-wingèd sprites
To music of the first bees' note.

Nature awakes, the old Earth stirs
To youth renewed: the golden furse
Laughs on the hill-side to repeat
The young sun's golden smile: alert
Up leaps the world on airy feet.

But One, but One, who loved so well
Nature's enchantments, and to tell

Her strange, mysterious beauty's tale,
From morn to dusk, from dusk to morn
Studious her secrets to unveil;

Alas! for him, our Friend, in vain
All things their loveliness regain;
But he no more shall feel nor see,
Eager with us as heretofore,
Our Spring-tides' rare felicity.

We laid him in the earth to sleep
Through the long night that dead men keep,
Silent and senseless: still we stood
That winter's morn, and bade Farewell!
There was no more that mortal could

But leave him, dust to dust ... Ah! no;
The Spring-tide's here! Can it be so?
The keen brain and the generous heart,
Passed into idle nothingness,
Of us or ours no more a part?

He reads awry this April morn
The message that from earth is borne,
If from her glad renewal there springs
No fair horizon into ken,
Beyond all doom of mortal things.

Dear Friend, gone hence! we sighed Farewell!
As tears about your grave-side fell.
'Tis passed: this April morn prevail
Faith's finer promptings, and we cry,
O Spirit, in radiant freedom, Hail!

March 4th-7th, 1911.

CHRISTMAS MDCCCCXI

To a Forest Lover

An Oak—a youngling as the great Oaks deem,
That from majestic boles not far off rear
Their vigorous branches stout almost as he—
Stands at the Forest's verge: a Page, may be,
To usher us from out the garish gleam

Of the bare upland, which the full sun rakes,
Within their sheltering greenness. Many a day
Distraught—ah! yes, and to the very core
Of the tired brain—by London's hustling roar
Of endless controversy, see, one takes

Thither his way: and as his eager sight
Catches first glimpse of yon sweet stripling tree
Swifter he steps. Laugh! but I've known him press
His lips against it in a brief caress,
Soon as his feet beside it should alight.

For, O dear Mother Nature, are not all
Thy children one creation? The shy birds,
The furry beasts, these flowering weeds, the trees,
The countless faery lives that take the breeze
With radiant wings and murmurings musical—

All, all do furnish this rare woodland home,
Ordained of thee to soothe with magic touch
Minds overwrought and fevered by the strain
Of the world's senseless strife, cleansing the stain
From off our toil-grimed spirits, as we roam

Consoled by such dear comradeship!

1911.

CHRISTMAS MDCCCCXII

He that will not, as he may,
Take the chances day by day
Fortune sendeth, good or ill,
Or great or trifling, at her will:

He that saith not to his soul,
These shall help me to my goal;
Be they foul or be they fair,
I will use them as a stair
Upward to the end I see:

He that curseth Fate's decree,
Or, as an unresisting straw,
Drifts any way life's eddies draw:

For him the Sun shines vainly bright,
And vain for him's the purple Night,
And vain dear Springtime's bursting song,
Or pensive Autumn's lingering throng,
Vain Summer's glow and Winter's snow,
Vain all the changing World!

And so
Hic jacet, when Death's stroke hath smitten,
A Fool!

God grant not thus be written
The simple line that tells, where lie
At last my tired bones and I!

1912.

CANTICUM MIGRATIONIS

I

Dear Spring returned!
Ah! hark to the Birds a-singing!
See, the Apple-Orchard's a-flower,
And the Honey-Bee's in the bower!
The Young Green laughs i' the Forest Glade
To greet swift Swallow that comes a-winging
His way from afar: and the Blue-Bells, ringing
Their Welcome, cluster beneath the shade
Of the Birchwood's silver, touched to gold
As the young Sun, lusty and waxen bold,
Speeds shaft on shaft from his amorous bow
To awaken Life!

Then Avaunt, Heigh-Ho!
We'll sing but Nonny, Nonny!
This April Morn
Sweet Spring's a-born!
Sing, Nonny, Nonny, Nonny!

II

Old Home of many a year,
For old sake's sake most dear,
Fate, whom no Mortal may
Beyond the appointed day
Thwart, hath ordained that we
At length go forth from Thee!
What Fate decrees must be!

Yet can we ne'er forget
Thee, Home, wherein we've met
This many a day in brave
Companionship. Still linger
Our hearts around thy walls,
Whose every nook recalls
Thoughts of what there hath been
Of grave or jocund scene,
That Time's relentless finger
Never shall quite efface.
Thou art a reverend Place
Evermore to each and all,
Who've won within thy Hall
Knowledge, and Hope, and Nerve,
And Friendship's Help, to serve
With yet more faithful Heart
Our Mistress—Art!

III

Farewell! By Fate's ordaining
The Parting Hour has come!
Yet, Brothers, uncomplaining
We pass to our New Home.
Some wistful tears it may be
Gather and dim the eye;
Yet it's Spring-Tide's here a-smiling,
As we bid the Last Goodbye!
Ah! it's Spring, and the Hope Spring bears us,
That speed us on our way,
As the Old drifts into the New Life
This burgeoning April Day!

So, it's Hey Nonny O, Nonny, Nonny,
As the rhymes of the old times go!
Fresh Life's i' the air
That awaits us there
Our Youth to renew!
Cry a Health to You!
With a Hey Nonny O!
Nonny, Nonny!

FRATER FRATRIBUS MENS. April MDCCCCXIV.

SCIENTIA CRESCIT: SAPIENTIA . . .?

How oft, Proud Science, in these latter days
Thy name hath grown of honest men abhorred!
Yet with unnumbered miracles hast thou stored
Our treasure-house, revealing easiest ways
Whereby each element in swift relays
Shall serve man's purpose. “Fool, and who else hath poured
“As I such benefactions? At a word
“Flooding earth's darkness with my piercing rays!”

Great Goddess, pardon! Silent is th' abuse.
Yet oh! might there come with thee locked hand-in-hand
Wisdom, thine elder sister, to restrain
Our senseless energies from wild misuse!
Then were we sworn of thy devoted band
But to ennoble life or soothe its pain.

1917.

SILENE QUINQUEVULNERA

to E. M.

A little flower there grows i' the field,
A white flower smirched with red:
And Christ's “Five Wounds” they call it for
The precious Blood He shed.

Its dainty bloom you may not find
Where'er you chance to go:
And when you find it, ah! you see
Its modest head lies low.

For 'tis no Wanton, flaunting fair,
To catch your eye with wonder;
Its beauty you shall scarce suspect,
E'er first you pause and ponder.

Kneel quietly down beside it, take
A blossom in your hand;
And as you gaze and gaze, may be
You'll come to understand

The pious thought that held the breath
Of him, the first to name it,
Nor deem it over-bold his thought,
And turn aside to blame it.

For He, whose grace such simple flower
Here bids us to recall,
Bade human pride consider well
The glory of them all:

The meanest as the fairest bloom
Transcending human art,
And with a message out of Heaven
For each receptive heart.

August 24th, 1913.

I BRING YOU TYDYNGS OF GLADNESSE, AS GABRYEL ME BERYTH WETNESSE

Tie up the scarlet holly with the green,
Triumphant laurel and pale mistletoe:
Bedeck the board with linen sweet and clean;
Heap high the crackling fire, shut out the snow:
Let willing hands the generous feast prepare,
Whilst many a brave song bars the door on care!

Ah! but forget not Him, That came this day,
And in a careless world scant welcome found:
The Kings of kings, round Whom no courtiers pay
Their eager homage, no majestic sound
Of royal music heralds His estate;
The God of gods, on Whom no glories wait!

Forget not Him: forget not that poor bed
Of rustling straw, the chill December air,
The lowing cattle huddled in their shed,
The flick'ring gleam on floor and rafter bare:
O God, O God, in how forlorn a plight
Our sins have set Thee this devoted night!

Forlorn? Devoted? nay, Thou hast not willed
Here in Thy weakness we should sore bewail Thee:
With dance, and song, and bounteous homestead filled,
This natal hour more fitly may we hail Thee!
That men should grieve, our griefs Thou hast not borne:
Awake, give thanks, shout, World, for joy this morn!

TO THE LESSER TITMOUSE

O come, when stiff Jack-Frost's aground,
And ne'er a peckit to be found
For all your hunting far and nigh:
O come, my pretty Mouse, and see
If I've forgot ye! On the tree—
I've not forgotten, no not I—
There hangs your dainty meal and free.

In summer days you're off away
For land of roses and of may
To creep around the forest boughs,
Your larder filled with food galore.
Well, what's the blame you think no more
Of my poor London garth and house,
Now Mother Nature spreads her store?

But summer goes and autumn goes,
Vanished the whitethorn and the rose,
The gray sky's turbulent with wind:
You peer and peer but all is bare,
And biting chill the morning air;
Ah! peer and peer, you cannot find
One dainty fly or bud to spare.

And then—who knows?—across your brain
A sudden thought may flit again,
The memory of a little plot
Of garden-ground shut in between
Long rows of streets, a space of green,
An ash-tree you had clean forgot—
So many a day since that you've seen!

Dear little Friend, the lawn, the tree
Are sorry shifts for wood and lea,
Yet such may serve when winter's here:
And welcome, welcome you shall meet
From him that longs once more to greet
Your impudent sweet presence there!
You know my number up the street!

November 23rd, 1917.

ST. GILES-IN-THE-FIELDS

Outside the church's wall once stood that stone
By Inigo in Chapman's honour set—
Chapman, to whom Keats' genius paid its debt
Of gratitude. One morn I passed alone,
And round it gently flew, as if to atone
For man's neglect, a blue-winged Butterfly.
In but a stone's-throw whirled the traffic by;
Yet still flew the lovely Fay, and the sun shone!

From such chance dainty let your poet weave
Whate'er his fancy prompts. To me that day
A sense but brought of quiet and reprieve
From the dull strain and tumult of one's way—
A moment of beauty granted to relieve
Life's meaner sights too urgent in their sway.

December 23rd, 1917.

TO ANY ARTIST

When in rapt wonder thou dost silent stand
Before some beauteous miracle of old days,
Till even the best that men may now command
Seems but coined counterfeit; Friend, do not gaze
In fretful longing that thy life had passed
Amid those earlier ages. Earth, heaven, sea—
Are they not thine as theirs? nor yet less vast
Broods over all One That bids worlds to be.

O thou of little faith, with manlier view
Lift up thine eyes in sentient mood to face
Whate'er surrounds thee, and those problems new
His will ordains in thy predestined place!
Ask, and thou yet shalt find with quivering heart
Fresh visions of Beauty waiting on thine art.

December 28th, 1917.

WORSHIP

I do not crave forgiveness that I stood
Before some work of wondrous perfect art
Enraptured: or in God's own shrine apart
Heard such a music rare it thrilled my blood
To sensuous passion: or beside a wood
One soft June eve I watched the swallows dart
Over a quiet pool: whilst yet my heart
Naught felt but joy its deep recesses flood.

O God, for all came of thee! Thy spirit wrought
The sense within me and receptive mood
That drank of their beauty. Sure enjoyment caught
Though of mere sound or sight is tribute clear
From man to his Creator's presence near
In sentient faith and heart-born gratitude.

November 19th, 1917.

THE AIR-RAIDS

[_]

In reply to a recent letter in the papers bidding us pluck up courage from—what? From the experience of a gaming-table!

Breathe not of Chance amid this roar of strife;
Nor bid men nerve their spirit by some thought
Of Monte Carlo's gambling. Nay, what's caught
From happenings there and calculations, rife
With ill excitement, in this hour of life
Or death to calm us, whilst the battle's fought
High in the moon-lit heaven? Vain solace brought
To steady self or server, child or wife!

One stay alone avails—'tis quiet prayer,
'Tis Duty's call to manhood in complete
Surrender to a Presence calm and near
O'er all hell's infamy and man's deceit,
Though hideous engines hurtle through the air,
Scattering foul death but up yon neighbouring street.

November 26th, 1917.

SHAKESPEARE

Hail, Master of boundless vision and heart profound!
Thou, to whose magic hand God gave the keys,
Wherewith to unlock for man life's mysteries
In its most dim recesses—yea, to sound
All passionate depths. Yet art thou, Master, crowned
Not with grave laurel only, but heart's-ease,
Kingcaps, rose, eglantine, when thou dost please
In tenderer mood to tread earth's homestead-ground.

Friend of our youth, our manhood, age—thrice hailed:
For each thou abidest with frank proferred hand
Gentlest in counsel, or for stern command,
Or to enliven with thy frolic wit:
What needest thou of sculptured form unveiled,
Whilst at thy voice nations entranced sit?

December 8th, 1917.

THE YEAR'S SEASONS

I

Not as the Winter hours,
When the broad landscape cowers
Beneath winds wildly driving over the barren fields;
Not as brief daylight yields
Suddenly to darkness,
Shrouding earth's starkness
In a long lonely night;
O not to such piteous end
Let faithless heart pretend
Draweth the year's full course in Beauty's fell despite!

II

Nay, dream not for this arose
From out the dark stubborn mould
The crocuses', the daffodils' pure gold,
The violet's shy fragrance; not for this the sloes
In virgin raiment white
Greeted the first green flush of leaves adorning
One April morning
Their purple stems; whilst hedges,
And streamlets' spikey sedges,
Stood drenched in silvery sheen of early dew
Under a tremulous heaven's pale canopy of blue!

Hark!
In burgeoning tree and bush
The blackbird and the thrush
Each morn and eve enchanting
Mingle their notes of love:
And, that there be not wanting
To mid-day's heart a-panting

For melody, the cuckoo monotonously sweet
Doth child-like his familiar note repeat
From the elusive depth of some far distant grove.

III

Or see now by wood and mead
In riper grace succeed
Rich Summer's month on month in jewelled pageant wending;
The oak-trees sturdy green,
The birch with tenderer mien,
To woodbine and to rose a gracious closure lending!
Here round their luscious flowers
Hover how joyously bright glistering fays,
Rifling the perfumed petals all the day's
Warm lingering hours:
Nor shall the last thief quit these gaily-haunted bowers
Till in the quiet heaven
O'er the now sunken sun glides down the cool-mantled even.

IV

And who are these that follow
The ruddy corn-ears nodding round their head,
As up the hill-side past yon steaming hollow
Leisurely are their loaded waggons led;
The scent of rich ripening fruit is all around them shed,
And their bronzed cheeks set glowing in the sun
With sheer contentment of strong labour done,
And prize now harvested?

How mellow rests the light on all around!
And mellow is the sound
Of the bland air amid the woody boughts,

'Neath which the tinkling cattle slowly browse;
And on the root-encircling mossy ground
The russet acorns quietly fall and fall.
Joyous, yet most serene, ah! most serene!
Peace in her benediction doth o'er-hallow all
The radiant Autumn scene.

V

Yet draweth apace pale Winter. Oh! be sure
The secret that he bears we ill divine,
If at his presence we do scarce endure
And cease not to repine:
As though he wrought but some dank heartless tomb,
Into which all these joys decaying fade
At last, and do become
Disentegrate, mere senseless atoms laid
Forgetting and forgot.
No, no, ne'er such a lot
Foredoomed the creative aim of Nature's bounteous mind!

O ours be there now the grace to find
In riper vision how thou art no tomb,
Winter, but verily the fruitful womb,
Wherein for a while conceived Beauty lies
In secret nourished for rare enterprise
Of dawning light and glory!

Ah! Yes!
Even thus, great Nature, shall we read the story
Thou in thy annual course to sentient ears art telling,
To stay with abiding light
Life's hours of changeful flight,
And from misgiving hearts their faithlessness dispelling!

January 2nd, 1918.

TO THE FIRST CROCUS

February 5th, 1918

Brave Outrider, I cry thee Hail!
All pranckt in gold attire
To herald Spring-tide coming in,
And bid heart's carolling begin
To greet her hastening quire:

Sure any morn that now awakes
My sense from dreamful slumbers
I'll look to hear from yonder tree,
To hear and welcome with what glee,
My blackbird's liquid numbers!

Thou miracle of Spring begun!
Though hideous war's around us
Thy loveliness be ne'er forgot,
As thou thine advent stayest not,
Whatever ills confound us!

Let the insensate wit of man
Earth, sea, and air disorder,
Lo! Nature onward calmly wends
Her thwartless way to gracious ends,
Heed we or naught accord her.

Yet must I linger not, sweet flower,
Here dreaming on thy fairness:
Thou wast not sent to daze my sight
With a rare glory's sheer delight
Amid the season's bareness—

To warp my thought from stern resolve,
God helping me, of duty,
Alert with no rebellious heart
To play my poor appointed part,
Whate'er the lure of Beauty—

My part this hour that claims the life
Of England's grim devotion,
Till, crushed our base enslaving foe,
The banners of Freedom proudly show
O'er land, and air, and ocean.

Hail! and if now awhile Farewell!
O harbinger of gladness:
What thoughts, what hope thy memory'll bring
'Mid the day's dark importuning
And overstrain of sadness!
And toll of human madness!

February 10th, 1918.

SHAKESPEARE AND VICTORY

Who whined that England's manhood was unstrung?
Aye, Shakespeare's England, sunk in sloth's decay,
That once had upborne the fight of Crispin's day
Reckless of odds? What insolent caitiff flung
Insult upon her, and contemptuous sung
The invincible vengeance of his armed array?
Fools, ye ne'er dreamed what awful power there lay
Deep in her yet, if but God's call outrung!

Ah! Shakespeare, this hour thy spirit enraptured smiles
In radiant pride for thy loved Country's fame:
And as through years of strain and craftiest wiles
Thou steeledst her children to endure and dare,
So keep her now in Freedom's glorious name
Earth's beaconing Light o'er land, and seas, and air!

November 21st, 1918.

TO MY ANIMALS

Are ye, dear Creatures, merely petted toys
Some idler moods a moment to amuse
With frolic sport? Go to! I rather choose
To call ye friends, whoe'er shall raise a voice
In scorn or laughter. Sure, it ne'er destroys
Our rare companionship to disabuse
My life of so sweet a union? I refuse,
Censor, to heed a jibe, that scarce annoys.

With vision profounder far outspoke God's saint
From the fair Umbrian highland to men's souls,
Who taught how one Spirit made and still controls
All nature's offspring in relation fond,
Warm, intimate—sore shattered by sin's taint,
Shattered yet not dissolved the encircling bond!

December 1st, 1918.

TU MIHI SOLA DOMUS, TU, CYNTHIA, SOLA PARENTES

What is so fair as the first rose-tree's blushes
All diamonded o'er with morning dew?
What is so fresh as the green streamlet's rushes,
'Mid which the silvery fish their sport pursue?
What is so patient as my dog's eye waiting
The tardy summons to be up for stroll?
What is so gracious as art's least creating
Of some rare vision that enchants the soul?
Yet are these virtues all in thee residing,
Yea each choice jewel of man's pure estate;
Freshness and beauty, patience, joy abiding—
In and around thy presence, see, they wait.
Vexed by life's cares how far soe'er I roam
My spirit but turns to thee, and lo!—'tis Home!.

December 2nd, 1918

TO THE NYMPH OF THE WOODLAND

O Maid, bedressed in simple gown
Of forest green and rustic brown,
With but a wild-rose at thy breast
Plucked from around the throstle's nest;
How long ago,
And long ago I gave to thee
All that was best of me!

O Maid of sunny hair and face,
Fresh as young April's morning grace,
Wreathed in gay smiles though still the dew
Of dawn's about those eyes of blue;
How long ago,
And long ago I gave to thee
All that was best of me!

O Maid, that came'st to greet me where
The butterflies sport high in air,
With grace as dainty, step as light
As theirs in that enraptured flight;
How long ago,
And long ago I gave to thee
All that was best of me!

Dear Maid, no more we meet: those days
Of blessed youth are gone for ever!
Yet naught shall my tired spirit's ways
From their rich memory dissever;
When long ago,
Ah! long ago I gave to thee
All that was best of me!

January 1st, 1919.

EVERYMAN

Others may far outstrip thee:
Some by right
And other some perchance by lucky hap;
Or through sheer craft of knowing how to play
A game they've held in sight
Up from youth's earliest day,
Intent the prize—no matter how't may be—
Should drop into their lap.

I give to thee no counsel,
Friend, and cry—
“Pass heedless of them vexing not thy mind
With scorn, or anger, or disdainful word,
Envying their seat on high:
Not once, not once be heard
That whispered sneer of—‘Fair enought the shell!
Blank emptiness behind!’”

Yet are they very brethren:
Let them go
Through the world onward—it is theirs as thine:
They too must pay their price. O be content
Thyself but this to know—
Whatever soul is spent
Straining towards Truth and Beauty among men
Drinks of God's rarest wine.

May 4th, 1920.

“INTO THE TEMPLE TO PRAY”

I

One came, knelt, made obeisance, gave heaven praise
For the rare gifts that ranged him far apart
From meaner lives, that throng
The market-haunts of earth.

Say, was it false self-witness? leaped a lie
From conscious heart by conscious lips expressed,
Thinking to cheat the gods
As mortals we may cheat?

A world too oft censorious held him high,
Praised his least effort with intent acclaim:
Say, who shall arraign that judge,
Keen-visioned, fearless, firm?

II

One came, paused, smote his breast in silence, felt
How vain heaven's will did all prove poor as he
In life's endeavour, deed:
He dare not dream it so.

Scarce audible a sigh then rent his soul—
“Be merciful! a sinner! O my God!”—
Then turned he, and went as erst
On to his daily toil:

“A man i' the street,” so runs the current phrase,
Unmarked, unmarkable, as thousands: yet
Not in the Master's eye
Worthless for His design.

May 6th, 1920.

TO R. D. AND HIS RECORDER

Rare Mystic Union of Melodious Wood
With Lips whose caressing woos it into Life!
Whence borne's such mellow sound on raptured ear,
That straightway dissolves all thought of hideous strife,
Annoyance, pain, yea every hurtful mood,
Now nought remaining but pure peace and sheer

Ecstasy of sense. Even so, I ween,
Fell in the golden prime those notes he filled
The expectant woodland with, the Great God Pan;
When all the submissive beasts were wholly stilled
In an amazed enchantment—yea, the green
Streams from their rippling stayed—such a throb there ran

Through Nature's being. O Sweet Wood, Dear Boy,
What answering tribute, now your music ceases
Yet still a-dreaming round we clustering stand,
Say shall we proffer thee? May all increases
Be yours of man's plaudits, and that rarer joy
Art doth alone vouchsafe her chosen band!

May 7th, 1920.

NATURE

Dreams of the night! But fairer far are those
By day vouchsafed to senses all awake;
When at each gate of hearing, sight, and smell
Nature awaits, besiegement there to make;
Endlessly for us weaving some choice spell
Of the fresh dawn, full noon, or evening's close.

Unveil she may not, when our spirits sink
Into oblivion 'neath blind slumber's pall,
Her delicate mysteries. No mechanic art
Hers on dull substance thus to work her thrall:
Alert, responsive, each she bids act his part
'Ere of her full refreshment man may drink.

Who prays attains, who watches open-eyed
Alone shall hail her visions; who will seek,
Alone doth unearth her treasures that lie hid
From arrogant idle hearts; alone the meek,
They her rich realm inherit, and amid
Exhaustless wonders hour upon hour abide.

O Mother, from out whose womb all mortals come
To glide i' the end back to thy long embrace;
For us betwixt dawn and night thou dost prepare
Scenes of such marvel, grant but this crowning grace—
Eyes to behold, heart, whilst abiding there,
Sentient of all that inspires our bounteous home!

May 11th, 1920.

A JUNE MORNING

I

Out from the Forest's
Flecked shade of the hornbeams,
From network of branches
Fantastically woven,
Out on to the roadway

Where broad spreads the sunlight:
By cottagers' gardens
Aglow with their roses,
Their virginal lilies,
Their bee-haunted woodbine,

I pass this June morning:
My heart-beat as buoyant
As lark in the blue sky,
As butterfly dancing
From blossom to blossom,

Gay thief of their dainties,
'Mid the soft breeze's wafting.
O World, and how well
Is it here to be breathing
This brave summer springtide!

II

Dear Heart, and beside me
Art thou my companion,
Thou and I once united
Of God 'neath His gracious
Serene benediction:

Hand in hand, heart in heart,
Going onward to share in
Inexhaustible wonders
He in store hath prepared
For His people's contentment;

For alert eyes' entrancement,
For thought to unravel,
Their spirits exulting
Through each sense receptive
Of infinite beauty!

III

Te Deum laudamus!
Ah! linger awhile, Sweet!
Let the day with its glory
Sink in and absorb us:
As a strong swimmer yields

To the water's embraces;
As seer in a rapture,
Lo! suddenly lifted
Hath unveiled him awhile clear
Celestial secrets;

As a lover that hath found
After vain bitter wandering
The one face that haunts him,
The one voice to welcome him
Home at the last!

May 23rd, 1920.

TO MY REV. AND DEAR FRIEND S. D. H. ON THE SONNETS OF MR. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

Let who will wander in the critics' maze
Striving to disentangle light from dark,
And 'mid its most seductive twilight-haze
Think to strike bravely some electric spark
Of high philosophy: let who will swear
He hath thy secret; and to make it known
Write his rare volume from our eyes to tear
The veil that hath hid thee from thy very own,
Thy Passionate Pilgrims, who around thy shrine
Kneel in a reverential worship of that voice
Senseful or senseless, so it be but thine,
That holds them in thraldom beyond hope of choice:
Till o'er thy face, my Shakespeare, steals the while
A half amused and half contemptuous smile.

June 23rd, 1920.

UNUM NECESSARIUM

Let them dispute, your wits and learned men,
What's truth, what beauty, what makes right and wrong:
Small is my skill by craft of mouth or pen
Gravely to argue; whilst these post along,
Each, how triumphant, towards the end he claims,
Now having 'stablished past all reason's doubt
What sets his name writ clear amid those names,
That gleam, and for ever, on fame's roundabout.
Yet know I well what makes for me to-day
The straitened call of duty, what can string
My nerves to an ecstasy 'neath beauty's sway,
And what a heaven this duty and beauty bring.
Then knowing this, what need to plague my wit
With itchful quest why heaven's so ordered it?

June 27th, 1920.

“REGNUM DEI INTRA VOS EST”

Stilled be the siren voice that bids man crave
For every essay of labouring hand and brain
Outward approval meted in praise or gain:
So, as a swimmer high breasting wave by wave
Triumphantly onward, he thereby may pave
Sure path for his genius, reckoning light the strain,
Up to a height beyond all storm or stain,
And on fame's roll his deathless name engrave.

Nay, look thou within: there springs life's secret well
Of joys that no world hath power to quench or soil.
Faithful to thine own self thence stay thy thirst,
Asking no more save here unharmed to dwell
Within thine own pasture quietly at toil,
Careless of who shall count for last or first.

July 14th, 1920.

TO W. R. L.

[_]

From his poor friend S. I. this meditation—after the latter's setting for certain young persons an Examination Paper on Art.

Short time remains wherein I yet shall stray
'Mid Art's wild pastures, or trim gardens rare,
Seeking now this, now that strange beauty there
To gather and bring home. Ah! me, the day
Draws swiftly to its close: almost away
The sunlight's vanished, silent night draws on.
And yet what nosegay have I plucked? what won
In usufruct of all that round me lay?
Poor prodigal, go to! idle are these regrets:
What's done or undone undone or done remains,
Nor shall I mend it here for all my pains—
As man hath sown so his strict due man gets.
The Gods are just: I pray they be pitiful too,
And in some world to come our chance renew!

July 28th, 1920.

JOHN KEATS

“Watch intently Nature's gentle doings.”

Moods there may be that deem thee not enough
Valiantly virile: that no treasures find
Of rare refreshment to their critic mind
In those rich fancies spun from Nature's stuff
Unadulterate: nay as some boor, unmannered, gruff,
Strikes at the hedgerow flowers, or tramples down
The odorous fair grasses, so with surly frown
These meet thy enchantment by a dull rebuff.

Yet when the coarse world jostles calm aside,
Or duties distasteful call to aching ears,
Or failure awaits on too assertive pride;
Then, then, dear Poet, most thy spirit lives!
How matchless then the allurement that one hears
In thy belov'd soft-voiced diminutives!

August 15th, 1920.

ALISON

What's in a Name?
Sure much indeed!
Take you this name of Alison:
The little flower's, almost a weed,
That springs, and thrives, and spreads upon
The garden's border at my need.

Dear Alison!
I know not why
The florist's craft hath called you so:
Only as I go strolling by
Thou lead'st my thoughts to long-ago—
Pleasantly, yet with half a sigh.

I feel arise
At sight of thee
A subtle memory that flower,
Far lovelier though it well may be,
Stirs not for all its rarer dower—
Mysterious spell thou hast for me.

A vision springs
Of other times,
Of Chaucer's or of Shakespeare's day;
Or later Herrick's, Wither's, rhymes
At Christmas-tide, or blossomed May,
Or Harvest-Home to ringing chimes.

A vision springs
Of an English girl—
Good stalwart word—A wench! and lo!
Her cheeks are rose, her teeth are pearl,
Straight, cleanly, brisk I see her go
In merry mood her lips a-curl.

100

Perchance nor she
Can write nor spell;
On trinket from the fair at most
For ornament her longings dwell,
Rich gift from Colin that she'll boast
Next junketing comes round.—Ah, well!

Poor Alison!
For nowadays
Amidst our girls sad show, I fear,
Youl'd make. They'ld scoff at your clumsy ways
Of talk and garb—or, perchance, my Dear,
Your blush as you stared at their displays.

Sweet Alison,
Goodbye, goodbye!
The world's a shifting stage—all's said.
You but a vision, here stand I
To do with the living not the dead.
We part, yet heigh-ho! with a sigh, a sigh.

August 4th, 1920.

101

A PRAYER

When comes my hour to die,
Lord, suffer me not slow lingering to lie
Feeble on bed of sickness, racked with pain.

O suffer me to gain
A speedier exit from this world I love:
Love, if it be too warmly, yet approve

My gratitude, that Thou
So dear hast made to me, I here avow,
The Beauty of Thy hand displayed therein;

Yea, count it for no sin
I paid Thee worship best through admiration
Of the fair marvels in Thy earth's creation.

August, 1920.

102

BEAUTY

Who asks of Beauty more than Beauty, asks
But as a dullard, and to Beauty blind:
Air, ocean, earth at their perpetual tasks
Of infinite creation are designed
For senses so insensate all in vain;
Strip off their Beauty, and to such base mind
What matters it, if yet there but remain
Some use immediate for man's wit to find?
Nor what though by Beauty Beauty hath ruined oft
The rarest promise of man's rarest kind,
Turning his pure to foul, his strong to soft,
As poisonous fruit shows fair but in the rind;
Natheless, when Beauty's once as Beauty heeded,
She's that man's soul for its best nurture needed.

August 22nd, 1920.

103

FORGIVENESS

As gluttonous fish betrayed by angler's lure
Leap on their doom to find, and find too late,
What fools to essay they were the tempting bait
That hid death in it; so there doth endure
But the brief space of grasping—be thou sure—
The frenzy of lust, of fame the hot-sought prize,
Yea of each sugared sin its clamorous lies:
And then—the Remorse, that knows not ease nor cure.

Thus were man ruined, had not a voice from heaven
Deeper than shameless depths of hell revealed
Deeps yet profounder. See the wrecked swineherd rise
And go unto his Father—naught concealed
Now of life's foulness-naught left unforgiven
For joy to regain him in the Father's eyes!

September 2nd, 1920.

104

THE MUMMER'S SONG

Ho, care away!
Fetch holly for our holiday,
And never a glimpse of ivy-spray;
Fie, fie
On its sullen purple and green!

Laugh and be jolly
Under the mistletoe, under the holly;
Prudence and gravity, sure they're but folly?
Bid them fly,
And never a tear or a pout be seen!

All's done,
Hark the bell's rung, the feast begun;
Forward mummers and start the fun!
Snow and storm,
What count ye by the yule-log's glow?

Carol and quip,
As the cup it passeth from lip to lip;
Bid God's blessing and take a sip;
Blithe and warm,
Share we all in the glad wine's flow!

Dance and sing,
To merry notes let the rafters ring;
Each lass a queen, each lad a king—
Who'll cry nay
This night of nights in the live-long year?

Old and young,
O it's aye for the right and avast the wrong,

105

As we hark the angels' birthday-song—
In brave array
They're out on the midnight's frosty air!

Ergo hodie
Dominum benedicite,
Down we've knelt our homage to pay!
Then up, up,
To sing, laugh, feast on old Christmas Day,
Te benedicentes, domine!
Amen.

September 7th, 1920.

106

SAINT VALENTINE'S DAY

Hence, hence away, thou murderous Winter: hence
Thy chilling breath, fierce lowered brows, and heart
Reckless of mercy! See, at how foul expense
Of earth's last loveliness in ruthless part
Thou suff'rest the odorous flower no more to bloom,
Nor dear bird sing, nor aught escape thy doom!

Yet art thou doomed thyself. This gracious morn,
This February morn's soft fitful sun and sky
Of tremulous blue, bid hope once more be born.
Hail, herald of a world's renaissance nigh—
Of daffodil, and swallow, and rich song
Of nesting loves green burgeoning buds among!

November 8th, 1920.

107

THE BLACKBIRD'S BATH

Of all that haunt my garden plot,
Blackbird, on thee my choice!
Thou Beauty slim, sleek, dainty-stepped,
And unapproached in voice:

Thy song it hails the break of dawn
Purer than sacring-bell;
And as day fades to evening-light
Thine the faint last farewell.

The sun full up I watch thee trip
Swiftly across the green,
To where a bath I've set for thee
The grass and flowers between:

No Naiad by a classic stream
Combing her locks at morn
More glistering or more deftly poised
Than thou, I will be sworn:

Ah! what a toilet! This way, that,
Arches thy supple neck
Broad outspread wings and breast to preen
Fair from last fault and fleck;

Or now, as a tremulous aspen, quivers
Thy whole harmonious form,
Luring the jocund sun-beams in,
Till once more thou art warm.

The dainty task complete at last!
Then one delicious trill,

108

Shy Songster of the sable coat
And of the golden bill,

And off thou art back home to lurk
Amid the tree-boughs hidden,
Secure from sight as anchorite
Within his cell forbidden.

I hear thee rustle through the leaves
To greet thy nesting mate;
Yet for full glimpse of thee again
Vainly I search and wait:

Beauty's true Child thou criest, “Enough,
“Fond mortal, that of grace
“Brief delicate moments of delight
“I grant thee or of sound or sight—
“But mine the hour and place!”

1921.

109

TO HIS BELOVED FRIEND S. D. H.

sendeth his poor friend S. I. these, after some temporary satiety of Elizabethan Sonnets and Lyrics.

Lovely they fall those rich enrapturing rhymes,
And fancies delicate,
Of great Elizabeth's proud time and state!
From imagery of what strange thought and climes
That “nest of singing birds”
Its inspiration copiously drew!
What witchery of mellifluous words
Unrivalled, inexhaustible their mastery knew!
Ah! with what envious heart we of this boastful age
Yearn longingly back to dream o'er that past heritage!

If one unmated overtops them all—
One genius manifold
Life's deepest tragedies in art supreme to mould,
Or striking its lightest note our sense enthrall—
Yet that proud voice rings out
From no land barren of companionship:
But as in Springtide 'tis, when joyous rout
Of feathered choristers innumerable doth grip
Our ravished ear, though over all there crownèd reigns
God's miracle of sound in matchless Philomela's strains.

So exquisitely wrought these measures are
They beggar questioning:
Yet will our latter day sure sometimes bring
In cruel train of wan-browed doubt and care
A longing infinite
For themes more human, less fantastical;

110

Wearied a little of this pageant bright
Upon our sated sense it 'gins to pall:
Glorious the sun, glorious the unflecked cerulean sky—
Yet cloudland and storm break in how welcome by-and-bye!

1921.

111

A RIGHT SEASONABLE DITTIE

penned admiringly by his affectionate poor friend, S. I., in honorem S.D.H. et in memoriam S. Mariae Aldermanburiensis, 21 April 1923

Who hath the wit to catch God's will,
And swear—“By God, I'll do it!
“Though men shall crown, or men shall frown,
“I'll steadily pursue it”:

Well, it may tarry many a year,
While fools do rule the roast-a,
Yet comes a day God's Self doth say,
“Behold the Friend I toast-a”!

1923.

112

THE VINE

God set the Vine in favoured lands to make
Man's heart rejoice—the Scripture so doth tell
Clearly. He bade the engendering sunlight's spell
Work in its blood, till on the fruitage take
Hues of warm gold, luscious, and ripe to awake
In mortals appetite for generous mirth,
Stirring the imagination quick to birth,
Or from spent hearts dispersing fretful ache.

And what if to-day in age emasculate
Folly aping Virtue would this gift decry,
And call it Temperance? Go to, then, fly
From Love, that so oft Lust, see, doth desecrate,
To whelm full many a soul in foul estate,
Vaunting thy vain affront for Chastity!

August 14th, 1923.

113

[My official name is Benjamin]

My official name is Benjamin,
Though they call me merely Ben
Familiar-like—no matter—
One day you'll surely see
I'll be
A Man amongst the Men.

Napoleon was small, they tell,
And so was Alexander:
Great spirits are not measured by
Your feet and inches—O dear no—
And so
Perchance I'm all the grander

For being in my stature—well,
Say on the briefer side:
Just bide a wee and you shall see
One day how gracious I'll appear,
No fear
In all my feline pride

Of mental grip and steady nerve,
And piercing gaze of eye
Beneath these snowy lashes set—
But yet as gentle as a dove
To those I love—
To Mother and Aunt Marjorie!

I apprehend the parties here referred to must be my wife and my sister. S. I. BENJAMIN. July 13th, 1926.

114

CHRISTMAS MDCCCCXXVII

Within a few paces from my window runs
A London high road, where from break of morn
Far into midnight in continuous stream
Most pitiless rout and noise are headlong borne.

Nor here an end; but battered sore the soil
And house-walls quiver as the traffic speeds
This way and that, one ponderous machine
On heels of another, close-packed, serving needs

Of business, or pleasure, or excitement's lust
Of a swift hurrying through from place to place.
“Marvellous Age, has earth e'er known thy peer?”
Shout we: “What need to falter? go the pace!”

Outside my window by the garden-rail
Stands a small Lime-tree, whose protecting green
Offers scant harbourage for shy bird, you'ld swear,
Choosing snug refuge for its nesting screen.

Yet see who have housed therein, and reared their young!
Through summer's earliest days how oft that note
Soothingly plaintive from some neighbouring roof
Their advent heralding began to float

In on our ears: and lo! one morn we knew
Here on our Lime they'd settled—Who are they?
Two Wood-Pigeons wild! sure, wanderers from afar,
And timorous no longer, as we once would say.

Nay, heedless enough of all our insolent clatter
They go and come upon their purpose set;

115

Daily we watch them as they quietly glide
Within their leafy homestead, and forget

The babble of turmoil hard beside it heaving.
Ah! Birds, your secret would 'twere our's to-day!
Strength of a spirit's calm, apart, unflustered,
Whate'er the frenzies round Man's path that play!

1927.

116

CHRISTMAS MDCCCCXXVIII

You never know! as the gossips say,
You never know!
Thus it fell on a day
In summer last I chanced to be
On a tram-car of the L.C.C.—
Stifling it was, and the folk therein
Good honest folk enough no doubt,
Yet hardly such as from eyes might win
Attention—just the mid-day rout
Of office girls and housewives stout
A-marketing—with a man or two
Listless and tired, as I, to view.
Suddenly,
The car stops, up the gangway strides
A stalwart young Father with Son on arm
To keep him safe from the traffic's harm—
Well, at a guess say a child of three—
And down they sit, the luck of it!
Down together afront of me.
Then a fig for the heat, and hustle, and noise
Through the rest of the way, as I gazed on the Boy's
Perfection amazing of colour and limb
And movement, that wholly befitted him,
As he lolled on his Father's lap at play,
Shall we say—
For the hand of the faultless Urbinate
A new Madonna and Child to create?
Ah! Raphael, heavens! had you been there
To capture the Boy with your silver-point,
And anon to set the world a-stare
And your name re-bless
For so fair a fresh vision of graciousness!

117

You never know! as the gossips say,
You never know!
An inn-stable, was it not? long ago
Sheltered The Eternal newly-born—
Shepherd and sage they found it so—
On the first Christmas Morn.
Yes,
You never know what common-place,
Sheer common-place,
Of Life's strange chances shall hap to reveal
The unexpected face
Of a Truth or a Beauty its mists conceal—
Suddenly!
Ah! you never know!

1928.

118

TO THE OLD BLACK CABINET

on its departure to the Victoria and Albert Museum.

Goodbye, Old Friend, 'tis fourscore years,
Or nigh, since first you won
My childish heart! What wonder tears
Well up now you are gone?

Together you and I no more
May watch how fares our home,
Its shifts and changes floor to floor
While fashions go and come.

But 'mid them ah! to you at least
All paid their courteous bow,
As time sped on your charm increased,
We felt it grow and grow.

Some shapely art shall stand, I trust,
Where you have stood so long,
No worthless piece its presence thrust
To do your memory wrong.

Farewell! and yet I say Farewell
With a heart not wholly sad,
The home, wherein you go to dwell,
Is nobler than you've had.

And there in reverence you'll be held
Safe from least chance of harm,
While to and fro by your beauty spelled
Stroll crowds, and laud your charm.

And so Goodbye, Old Friend, Goodbye!
To thoughtful care I leave you;
For though we part now, you and I,
Right loyal hearts receive you.

October 23rd, 1929.

119

CHRISTMAS 1929

Old Christmas with his magic spell
Is here again, good people all.
What? here again so soon? I' faith
He's caught our craze maniacal,
And hastening round at headlong speed
Knocks at the door, and cries us—Heed!

Well, let him in for just awhile,
And just awhile, if so may be,
From fierce excitements turn aside
That claim our thoughts insistently:
Old are his wares no doubt, and worn,
Still here he stands this winter's morn.

Hark! he but sings “Adeste,” or
“While shepherds watched their flocks by night,”
Or the picture shows of a Mother and Child—
Nor songs, nor show, are hardly quite
To date: and yet they touch somehow,
And set our vibrant nerves aglow.

And when the Old Man's visit's done,
And we're off once more i' the world's maze,
Perchance a thought springs now and again—
These new-fledged boastful triumphs and ways,
At their own count shall they be taken?
Past visions, dreams, beliefs forsaken?

Ah! that's for a Prophet's voice to say—
But come you in, Old Christmas Day,
The nonce, and Welcome!

120

WINTER'S APPROACH

The poor old Chestnut at my gate
Stands stark and bare—
These wild October rains and wind
No beauty spare—
Against the monotonous sky of threatening gray
How dolorous pathetic a form to-day!
Short, short seems the vanished while since when
Its green and rose
Bade tenderest welcome to the Spring—
Spent Winter's snows
And rigorous cruelty that held Earth pent
In straitened durance of glum discontent.

Yet, that May Morn sprang all to life
Around, within;
Gay flowers, birds, bees, and butterflies—
Ah! sure 'twere sin
'Mid such young frolickers not to share a part—
Who feels it not's unblest of eyes or heart.

Then up leaped our spirits as a boy's
Released from rule
Of galling work at factory,
Or shop, or school,
Light as the air himself now free to please
At whatso sports his vagrant fancy seize.

But swiftly they speed your hours away,
May-tide and June!
The heavy laden July heavens
Weigh down how soon
Your delicate fragrance, and soft daintiness
Of form and hue 'neath heat's oppressiveness.

121

And now even Autumn's golden charm
Bespeaks farewell;
Riches that one brief week ago
With magic spell
Shone through the mellow sunlight high in air
Lie strewn on earth, wealth's havoc everywhere.

He comes, he comes resistlessly,
The Dread One's near!
Be up, be up his threat to meet,
Show him no fear—
Gird, Man, thy spirit to face him, and confess,
What visions hath he too of rare loveliness.

October 13th, 1929.

122

FINIS

A little while, and all in silence ends
My best or worst! On each at last descends
The fatal curtain! Soul, thy part is played:
No voice thou heedest now of foes or friends!

In one strait space of clinging earth I lie,
Unmoved for storm or sunlight drifting by:
Yea, though one praise and love, or all forget,
That stark thing recks not, that but now was I.

Ah! so in dreams tired life affects content,
And wakes rebellious. “Not for this were sent,
My God,” she cries, “Thy beauty and Thy love,
That strave within me towards accomplishment.”

University of Virginia Library

IN LOVE'S SNARE

to A. H. M.

to A. H. M.

A CHRISTMAS CAROL

LOVE'S CARELESSNESS

FOR THE PICTURE “MONNA VANNA” By D. G. ROSSETTI

FOR THE PICTURE “LA GHIRLANDATA” By D. G. ROSSETTI

VANITAS

A. H. M. DE DOMINA SUA LOQUITUR

A HYMN TO SPRING

HORT. AM. IV

A CAROL

IN HOMINE DOMINI

to H. K.

REFUGIUM

CHRISTMAS EVE

to ERNEST RHYS

IN SILENCE

UNDER CHARING CROSS ARCH

A FAREWELL

THE INSCRIPTION

THE PROTESTATION

VAIN COMPARISONS

A SUMMER'S DAY

LOVE'S CONFESSIONAL.

A PRAYER

A MAY MORNING

URBANUS LOQUITUR

HER CONFIRMATION

PRAISES

AMANTIUM IRAE

A PARTING

LA ROSE DU BAL

IN MEMORIAM A. B.

A MEDITATION FOR CHRISTMAS

GABRIEL AND MARY

NOEL

DE PROFUNDIS

THE PILGRIM

GIVE PEACE IN OUR TIME, O LORD

THE LAST CHRISTMAS OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY

A LONDONER'S SPRINGTIDE

A WINTER'S CAROL

CHRISTMAS MDCCCCII

to THE TITS AND ALL OTHER “SMALE FOWLES” OF GREAT TOTHAM IN ESSEX

CHRISTMAS MDCCCCVI

FOR THE PRESENT OCCASION

CHRISTMAS MDCCCCVIII

CHRISTMAS MDCCCCIX

THE SAD PLAINT OF MICKIETWO

IN MEMORIAM J. W. T.

CHRISTMAS MDCCCCXI

CHRISTMAS MDCCCCXII

CANTICUM MIGRATIONIS

I

II

III

SCIENTIA CRESCIT: SAPIENTIA . . .?

SILENE QUINQUEVULNERA

I BRING YOU TYDYNGS OF GLADNESSE, AS GABRYEL ME BERYTH WETNESSE

TO THE LESSER TITMOUSE

ST. GILES-IN-THE-FIELDS

TO ANY ARTIST

WORSHIP

THE AIR-RAIDS

SHAKESPEARE

THE YEAR'S SEASONS

I

II

III

IV

V

TO THE FIRST CROCUS

SHAKESPEARE AND VICTORY

TO MY ANIMALS

TU MIHI SOLA DOMUS, TU, CYNTHIA, SOLA PARENTES

TO THE NYMPH OF THE WOODLAND

EVERYMAN

“INTO THE TEMPLE TO PRAY”