 | Collected verses |  |
‘The years pass on, the seasons go their round,
Hate is o'erpassed, Love plumes his fickle wings,
Whilst, safe within his plot of garden-ground.
Mourning the mutability of things,
The Poet sings’
Hate is o'erpassed, Love plumes his fickle wings,
Whilst, safe within his plot of garden-ground.
Mourning the mutability of things,
The Poet sings’
15
AN APRIL CLOUD.
Looking this morning in my glass,I see that I am heavy-eyed,
With lines and shadows traced and dyed
Beneath my lashes, and I say,
‘Why do I feel this weary ache?
How came this sorry change to pass?
Maybe my dreams were bad.’ . . . Alas
I know it now! To meet its woe
My poor heart leaps, but half awake,
Ah, bitter waking-up!—I know
We tried to quarrel yesterday;
We bandied words, and strove to break
The links that Time took years to make!
Ah!. . . kiss the memory away!
19
AT HER FEET.
As I lay at your feet the other day,I opened a book with a gilded rim,—
A silken ‘Keepsake,’ wherein pourtrayed
Simpering matron and star-eyed maid,
With flowing ringlets and bosoms of snow,
Peeped up from under the binding frayed,
With sweet shy glances, their forms arrayed
In the fanciful garments of long ago,—
And I toyed with its pages, and tried to skim
Some lordling's notion of poet's lay;
And I thought, ‘Fair ladies where are ye now,
Married, and buried, and hidden away,
Or grown, maybe, into grandams grim,—
Where is the poet who rises and wakes
His shuddering lyre for your faded sakes
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So presently perish all things fair!’ . . .
Then, looking up, I saw you there,
Under the shade of the chestnut bough,
Your sun-hat tilted over your brow,
Almost hiding your rippling hair;
And with fair young figure, lithe and slim,
Leaning back in your garden chair,
Whilst your slender fingers, busily bare,
Were knitting away at the second row
Of something for somebody else to wear.
And your spirit so far, so far from me,
Who lay all the while so near your feet
(Only an inch from your little shoe,
Under the shade of the self-same tree)!
Then I thought, ‘Was there ever a maid so sweet?’
And sweet will she be when her hair is gray,
And the years shall have deadened her dear eyes' blue!’
But your mind was a thousand miles away,
As, leaning back in your garden chair,
You counted your stitches and thought of him,
Whilst I could have sung out my soul for you!
38
‘WHAT I WOULD THAT HE SHOULD SAY.’
If I am cruel though you are kind,
If I taunt and tease you with passionate words,
If I feel no faith in the vows that bind,
And deem your love as the birds’,—
If I taunt and tease you with passionate words,
If I feel no faith in the vows that bind,
And deem your love as the birds’,—
Bear with me, and say, ‘Men are oft forsworn;
She may read by the light of some phantom-flame,
Showing mournful mothers and maids forlorn,
And “lover” the lightest name.
She may read by the light of some phantom-flame,
Showing mournful mothers and maids forlorn,
And “lover” the lightest name.
‘And for this, for this, doth she seem to err,
And dream for ever that men betray,
Since how should she know that my love for her
Was never the love of a day?’
And dream for ever that men betray,
Since how should she know that my love for her
Was never the love of a day?’
43
A RAINY SUMMER.
This year we had no time for commune sweet,With spires of snowy chestnut overhead;
I lying, with the bluebells, at your feet,
As from an old-world book, mayhap, I read
Some tale of knightly prowess for fair dame;
For scarcely had I smoothed the pages,—so,—
And looked for inspiration in your eyes,
And sighed, and sought your little hand, when, lo,
Wildly the winds of heaven began to blow,
And all alarmed and fluttering you fled,
With waving of white garments to and fro,
Whilst from the jealous unrelenting skies
Th' inevitable July downpour came,
Nor left me time to say what I had said.
59
‘KILLED AT ISANDULA.’
He wooed and won her in a week,
The roar of London at its height,
He seemed a very carpet-knight,
So blue of eye and smooth of cheek—
A stripling, scarcely learned in drill;
Nor loved they less in that they kissed
Their first shy kiss of wedded love
Far off from daffodil and dove,
From hoary oak and tinkling rill,
Or storied lovers' wonted tryst.
So bright a love, so gay, so light!
A love for Time to calm or kill?
A love for Care to wear or warm?
Fair-weather love to face a storm!
The roar of London at its height,
He seemed a very carpet-knight,
So blue of eye and smooth of cheek—
A stripling, scarcely learned in drill;
Nor loved they less in that they kissed
Their first shy kiss of wedded love
Far off from daffodil and dove,
From hoary oak and tinkling rill,
Or storied lovers' wonted tryst.
So bright a love, so gay, so light!
A love for Time to calm or kill?
A love for Care to wear or warm?
Fair-weather love to face a storm!
Ah, bright boy-husband and glad girl-wife!
What do you know of the ills to be,
Of the ups and downs and burdens of life?
And even now, as around your knee
The sunny-haired nestlings, one, two, three,
Clutch and clamber, in innocent strife,
Toying with sword-knot or clinging to gown
(Toying with knot of a sword so bright!
Clinging to gown so golden-gay!),
Comes there flicker of portent or whisper of word,
Or ever a guess at the evil day?
At the mourning dress and the head bowed down,
And the blood-stains rusting that glittering sword?
What do you know of the ills to be,
Of the ups and downs and burdens of life?
60
The sunny-haired nestlings, one, two, three,
Clutch and clamber, in innocent strife,
Toying with sword-knot or clinging to gown
(Toying with knot of a sword so bright!
Clinging to gown so golden-gay!),
Comes there flicker of portent or whisper of word,
Or ever a guess at the evil day?
At the mourning dress and the head bowed down,
And the blood-stains rusting that glittering sword?
‘I guessed it!’ in the after years
That wife may sigh between her tears.
‘I guessed it—if to grow more dear,
Day by day, and year by year
More linked together than in the past,
Forewarned the good time could not last.’
For the love of a maiden turned to a wife,
And the love of a wife grown into a mother,
(So he she loves seems husband, brother,
Truest lover, and warmest friend),
Goes broadening on towards the end,
Full to the flood-gates, wide and free,
Like a sea-bound river that nears to the sea,
And only fails her with failing life.
That wife may sigh between her tears.
‘I guessed it—if to grow more dear,
Day by day, and year by year
More linked together than in the past,
Forewarned the good time could not last.’
For the love of a maiden turned to a wife,
And the love of a wife grown into a mother,
(So he she loves seems husband, brother,
Truest lover, and warmest friend),
Goes broadening on towards the end,
Full to the flood-gates, wide and free,
61
And only fails her with failing life.
A call to arms! and the whole land rang
With martial ardour and ominous clang
And clank of battle, as from afar
(Recalled from straying, as flocks to fold)
Rifleman, ‘liner,’ and brave hussar,
Colours flying, and numbers told,
Made them ready to sail for the war;
Whilst here, at home, in the alehouse-bar,
Free in his speech, in his bearing bold,
With smiles on his lips, and stripes on his coat,
The serpent-tongued sergeant, with ribbons afloat
(Sly as reynard a-scent for game),
Lured on the innocent yokels, who sold
Their lives for a shilling, and dreamt of Fame.
With martial ardour and ominous clang
And clank of battle, as from afar
(Recalled from straying, as flocks to fold)
Rifleman, ‘liner,’ and brave hussar,
Colours flying, and numbers told,
Made them ready to sail for the war;
Whilst here, at home, in the alehouse-bar,
Free in his speech, in his bearing bold,
With smiles on his lips, and stripes on his coat,
The serpent-tongued sergeant, with ribbons afloat
(Sly as reynard a-scent for game),
Lured on the innocent yokels, who sold
Their lives for a shilling, and dreamt of Fame.
For it was whispered, half aloud,
That what at first had seemed a cloud
Even no bigger than the hand
(Such as the Prophet, in Holy Writ,
Obtained, through sacrifice and prayer,
In old Judæa, long ago),
Had grown and grown, in that far land—
Had grown, and grown, and grown—till, lo,
Like wid'ning circles in a pond,
Its outer circle reached beyond
The counted girth, and none there were,
Whose straining sight could compass it,
Or guess the end; and, as of old,
Lone widowed wives, and lily-maids,
Whose knights had sought the far Crusades,
Sat, desolate, in castled keep,
Embroidering banners grounded in gold,
With Paschal Lamb and Holy Cross—
So did our wives and maidens weep,
Wan with their lingering good-byes,
Herded, like fawns, with startled eyes,
Bewildered at so sudden loss.
That what at first had seemed a cloud
Even no bigger than the hand
(Such as the Prophet, in Holy Writ,
Obtained, through sacrifice and prayer,
In old Judæa, long ago),
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Had grown, and grown, and grown—till, lo,
Like wid'ning circles in a pond,
Its outer circle reached beyond
The counted girth, and none there were,
Whose straining sight could compass it,
Or guess the end; and, as of old,
Lone widowed wives, and lily-maids,
Whose knights had sought the far Crusades,
Sat, desolate, in castled keep,
Embroidering banners grounded in gold,
With Paschal Lamb and Holy Cross—
So did our wives and maidens weep,
Wan with their lingering good-byes,
Herded, like fawns, with startled eyes,
Bewildered at so sudden loss.
‘But he, my love, he need never have gone! . . .
It was cruel in one so kind!’ she thought.
‘Had order been issued, or lot been drawn,
He had gone with the rest; but to go alone,
To the risk of a terrible doom, self-sought,
Leaving us lonely, who love him best!’
So mourned the maiden turned to a wife,
So mourned the wife grown into a mother.
But, with the first news of the strife,
The stripling, too, had grown all other—
From boy to man, with blood aflame,
Strong of purpose, and hindered of naught,
The warrior-lion in his breast,
With flashing eyes and bristling crest,
Aroused for England's name and fame.
It was cruel in one so kind!’ she thought.
‘Had order been issued, or lot been drawn,
He had gone with the rest; but to go alone,
To the risk of a terrible doom, self-sought,
Leaving us lonely, who love him best!’
So mourned the maiden turned to a wife,
63
But, with the first news of the strife,
The stripling, too, had grown all other—
From boy to man, with blood aflame,
Strong of purpose, and hindered of naught,
The warrior-lion in his breast,
With flashing eyes and bristling crest,
Aroused for England's name and fame.
So, through the weary wintry days,
No flower in field, no leaf on tree,
She waited, waited, with her gaze
Fixed on the ever-changing sea;
Too stunned to weep, too sad to smile,
Lest on that changing sea, the while,
Her love should suffer storm or wreck;
Whilst, careless of all coming ill,
The noisy children gambolled still,
And laughed and clung about her neck,
Saw her eyes sad, and wondered why:
And thus the dreary days went by.
No flower in field, no leaf on tree,
She waited, waited, with her gaze
Fixed on the ever-changing sea;
Too stunned to weep, too sad to smile,
Lest on that changing sea, the while,
Her love should suffer storm or wreck;
Whilst, careless of all coming ill,
The noisy children gambolled still,
And laughed and clung about her neck,
Saw her eyes sad, and wondered why:
And thus the dreary days went by.
Then, when she knew him safe on shore,
For her new dangers, new alarms.
‘Safe?’ Ay, but only safe, maybe,
From the fathomless depths of the perilous sea.
‘Safe?’ Nay, rather encompassed the more
With new-fraught danger of death and pain!
Then letters and news. ‘What news of the war?’
‘A victory to British arms!’
‘News of fighting, and news of slain!’
‘Ah, God! . . . I pray it may not be!' . . .
With Being frozen to the core,
She seized the dreaded page and read
His name nor midst the maimed nor dead.
But as she bowed her head, and low
Breathed forth to Heaven her falt'ring thanks,
The wan ship, big with its tale of woe,
Steamed sadly over the harbour-bar:
‘News!’ ‘What news? . . what news of the war?’
‘News of blund'ring and defeat!
Slaughtered forms, and flying feet!
Captured colours and broken ranks!
News of numbers hacked and slain!
Of a nightmare scene, when a desperate band
Stood face to face and hand to hand
With a foe as dense as the desert sand,
Or the waves of the pitiless main!’
For her new dangers, new alarms.
64
From the fathomless depths of the perilous sea.
‘Safe?’ Nay, rather encompassed the more
With new-fraught danger of death and pain!
Then letters and news. ‘What news of the war?’
‘A victory to British arms!’
‘News of fighting, and news of slain!’
‘Ah, God! . . . I pray it may not be!' . . .
With Being frozen to the core,
She seized the dreaded page and read
His name nor midst the maimed nor dead.
But as she bowed her head, and low
Breathed forth to Heaven her falt'ring thanks,
The wan ship, big with its tale of woe,
Steamed sadly over the harbour-bar:
‘News!’ ‘What news? . . what news of the war?’
‘News of blund'ring and defeat!
Slaughtered forms, and flying feet!
Captured colours and broken ranks!
News of numbers hacked and slain!
Of a nightmare scene, when a desperate band
Stood face to face and hand to hand
With a foe as dense as the desert sand,
Or the waves of the pitiless main!’
65
O God! that ever this should be!
And is it thus we learn Thy law,
And know Thee wise and good, O Lord,
E'en through the smitings of Thy sword?
Or, for contempt of Thy decree,
Is it that now we feel Thy wrath?
Or do we seem too base and small
(Friend or foeman, black or white,
Doing battle for wrong or right)
For Thine High Majesty to ward?
Even of no account at all,
But as the wavering emmet-horde
Trickling over a garden-path,
Each with his self-sought burden of straw;—
Yea, to Thy dread all-seeing sight,
Our marshalled armies in their might
May seem as small a thing to Thee.
And is it thus we learn Thy law,
And know Thee wise and good, O Lord,
E'en through the smitings of Thy sword?
Or, for contempt of Thy decree,
Is it that now we feel Thy wrath?
Or do we seem too base and small
(Friend or foeman, black or white,
Doing battle for wrong or right)
For Thine High Majesty to ward?
Even of no account at all,
But as the wavering emmet-horde
Trickling over a garden-path,
Each with his self-sought burden of straw;—
Yea, to Thy dread all-seeing sight,
Our marshalled armies in their might
May seem as small a thing to Thee.
May, what in Thy vast universe
Poor joy or individual pain?
A little sun, a little rain,
A little love, a little hate,
A little chaff, a little grain,
If our prayers' echo or our curse
Reach e'en Thine outer palace-gate!
So small, so great a thing is man;—
In his intensity so great,
So small, in that so small a span
Divides his sunshine from the night,
The Finite from the Infinite!
Were it not better to have been
A senseless thing, a mere machine,
Dead to all loss, and dull to gain,
Than to be mortal, yet possess
This god-like gift of wretchedness?
Yet e'en this cry of our distress
May lift a veil, and strike a chord;
If it were but Thy will, O Lord,
To make Thy dread commandment plain—
Whether, in truth, we breathe again,
Or fall to dust with this poor verse.
Poor joy or individual pain?
A little sun, a little rain,
A little love, a little hate,
A little chaff, a little grain,
If our prayers' echo or our curse
66
So small, so great a thing is man;—
In his intensity so great,
So small, in that so small a span
Divides his sunshine from the night,
The Finite from the Infinite!
Were it not better to have been
A senseless thing, a mere machine,
Dead to all loss, and dull to gain,
Than to be mortal, yet possess
This god-like gift of wretchedness?
Yet e'en this cry of our distress
May lift a veil, and strike a chord;
If it were but Thy will, O Lord,
To make Thy dread commandment plain—
Whether, in truth, we breathe again,
Or fall to dust with this poor verse.
As one that is stunned by a sudden blow
She sits within sight of the quieting seas,
Under the boughs of the blossoming trees,
Whilst all the wakening woodlands ring
With the jubilant voices of mated birds,
Seeming to murmur, plain as words,
‘Buds on the bough, and warmth in the nest,
And nestlings under the mother's breast:
Good-bye to winter! Good-bye to snow!’
As the loit'ring feet of reluctant Spring
Come echoing up through bower and grove!
But still she sits and thinks of her love—
Of her lover, slain by the dusky foe.
What profit to her that skies are blue?
That frosts are finished, or seas subside?
She sighs to be gone where her husband died,
And her widowed heart had been broken for woe,
But for those hours of the desolate night
When, sinking into a troubled rest,
She may dream the terrible tale untrue;
And she longs for a word, for the mail is due—
He is deaf, he is dead, yet she hungers to write!
She sits within sight of the quieting seas,
Under the boughs of the blossoming trees,
Whilst all the wakening woodlands ring
With the jubilant voices of mated birds,
Seeming to murmur, plain as words,
67
And nestlings under the mother's breast:
Good-bye to winter! Good-bye to snow!’
As the loit'ring feet of reluctant Spring
Come echoing up through bower and grove!
But still she sits and thinks of her love—
Of her lover, slain by the dusky foe.
What profit to her that skies are blue?
That frosts are finished, or seas subside?
She sighs to be gone where her husband died,
And her widowed heart had been broken for woe,
But for those hours of the desolate night
When, sinking into a troubled rest,
She may dream the terrible tale untrue;
And she longs for a word, for the mail is due—
He is deaf, he is dead, yet she hungers to write!
‘Here I am sitting in the sun;
My pen is in my eager hand,
To tell him all my thoughts and deeds,
All I have dreamt about and done.
He is but in another land;
And as he thinks of me, and reads
“I love you still,” his heart may beat;
And all this scene his mem'ry knows,
Perhaps, will beam upon his sight.
“She sits upon the garden-seat,
Under the spreading chestnut-boughs;
Around her, blaze of spring-tide light,
The glitter of a sunlit sea.
The purple hills across the bay
Fling down their shadows at her feet.
All this, to her, who dreams of me
(She writes me this, though far away),
Seems sweetly sad, and sadly sweet.”
Yes, some such tender thought as this
May reach him with the words I write,
Since all my daylight dreams he knows;
And I will send, inside, a kiss,
Kissed into these, the blossoms white
I gather from this early rose!
My pen is in my eager hand,
To tell him all my thoughts and deeds,
All I have dreamt about and done.
He is but in another land;
And as he thinks of me, and reads
“I love you still,” his heart may beat;
68
Perhaps, will beam upon his sight.
“She sits upon the garden-seat,
Under the spreading chestnut-boughs;
Around her, blaze of spring-tide light,
The glitter of a sunlit sea.
The purple hills across the bay
Fling down their shadows at her feet.
All this, to her, who dreams of me
(She writes me this, though far away),
Seems sweetly sad, and sadly sweet.”
Yes, some such tender thought as this
May reach him with the words I write,
Since all my daylight dreams he knows;
And I will send, inside, a kiss,
Kissed into these, the blossoms white
I gather from this early rose!
‘Ah, I am mad! For he is dead!
Lying alone, in a savage land,
God-forsaken and man-forgot!
A great strange sun stares overhead,
And shines on him, and knows him not.
Or chilly rains, from friendless skies,
Beat down upon his blinded eyes,
And cold winds blow on him by night,
Whilst foul birds hover close at hand—
Noisome vulture and desert-kite;—
O God! and is Thy will the best?
He that has slept upon my breast—
My more than husband, my more than love,
No good thing seeming good enough
To win his favour, or gain his grace!
Could I have looked but once in his face,
And said to him all that I left unsaid,
And overwhelmed him with fond good-byes—
Then these dread days might have seemed less dread!
Lying alone, in a savage land,
God-forsaken and man-forgot!
A great strange sun stares overhead,
And shines on him, and knows him not.
69
Beat down upon his blinded eyes,
And cold winds blow on him by night,
Whilst foul birds hover close at hand—
Noisome vulture and desert-kite;—
O God! and is Thy will the best?
He that has slept upon my breast—
My more than husband, my more than love,
No good thing seeming good enough
To win his favour, or gain his grace!
Could I have looked but once in his face,
And said to him all that I left unsaid,
And overwhelmed him with fond good-byes—
Then these dread days might have seemed less dread!
‘O all lone maidens and widowed wives,
Come with me to the wilderness—
To the thorny plains of that great lone land,
Girt for vengeance, in martial dress,
Let us sally forth, like an Amazon band,
To hiss our hatred and hurl our ban
Right in the teeth of the fierce black man,
Who has murdered our lovers, and darkened our lives!
Oh, lead me away to that distant strand,
Come with me to the wilderness—
To the thorny plains of that great lone land,
Girt for vengeance, in martial dress,
Let us sally forth, like an Amazon band,
To hiss our hatred and hurl our ban
Right in the teeth of the fierce black man,
Who has murdered our lovers, and darkened our lives!
Oh, lead me away to that distant strand,
70
Let me linger there till my sight grows dim,
And the eyes of my spirit no longer strain
With the pitiful hope of a hopeless pain
To meet with some shadowy sign of him!’
And the eyes of my spirit no longer strain
With the pitiful hope of a hopeless pain
To meet with some shadowy sign of him!’
‘It was not right, but how could I know—
How could I know he would go so soon—
That his voice would be silenced? A year ago,
Late on that sorrowful afternoon,
How could I know he would go so soon—
That his voice would be silenced? A year ago,
Late on that sorrowful afternoon,
‘I said some words, and they gave him pain
(His voice is silent—it cannot chide),
And maybe I had uttered them over again—
Those bitter words—if he had not died!
(His voice is silent—it cannot chide),
And maybe I had uttered them over again—
Those bitter words—if he had not died!
‘Oh, for every word that my rash lips said,
For every word that he grieved to hear,
My heart has been turned into ashes and lead,
And my soul will be sorry for many a year!
For every word that he grieved to hear,
My heart has been turned into ashes and lead,
And my soul will be sorry for many a year!
‘But, heart of my heart! you knew—you knew!
And yet you are deaf to my lone lament;
Though the love has gone out of my life to you,
And my spirit has followed wherever yours went!’
And yet you are deaf to my lone lament;
Though the love has gone out of my life to you,
And my spirit has followed wherever yours went!’
71
I hold them blest, who, when a grief is near,
Can turn to Heaven, and say, ‘Thy will be done!’
Then sit serene beneath a saddened sun,
And face a clouded future without fear—
I hold them blest, but nowise good or great.
Can turn to Heaven, and say, ‘Thy will be done!’
Then sit serene beneath a saddened sun,
And face a clouded future without fear—
I hold them blest, but nowise good or great.
Well knowing this is no fine force of Will,
But some persistent bias in the clay—
Some nerve or fibre gaining greater sway—
Some frail brain-fabric fashioned well or ill:
Thus do they kiss the rod, or rage at Fate.
But some persistent bias in the clay—
Some nerve or fibre gaining greater sway—
Some frail brain-fabric fashioned well or ill:
Thus do they kiss the rod, or rage at Fate.
So I, too, musing under budding trees,
Am sorry for her sorrow, and could weep,
But that I steel my spirit, and would keep
My heart as careless as the summer breeze,
And strong for service worthier than tears;
Am sorry for her sorrow, and could weep,
But that I steel my spirit, and would keep
My heart as careless as the summer breeze,
And strong for service worthier than tears;
Seeing that smiles and tears, for so short time
Dim sparkling eyes, or dimple rosy cheek,
Whilst Hydra-headed horrors howl and shriek
In face of these sweet heavens, abhorring crime,
And lend fresh lamentations to new years.
Dim sparkling eyes, or dimple rosy cheek,
Whilst Hydra-headed horrors howl and shriek
In face of these sweet heavens, abhorring crime,
And lend fresh lamentations to new years.
72
War, Plague, and Famine, free from all control,
Flaunt in the eye of day their forms accurst;
And she, poor crouching victim of the first,
Seems but one floating atom on the whole
Vast sea of human misery and blood.
Flaunt in the eye of day their forms accurst;
And she, poor crouching victim of the first,
Seems but one floating atom on the whole
Vast sea of human misery and blood.
So grieve I for the ills that wrought her woe;
These (were it mine to combat) would I smite
With stout two-edgèd sword, and, nerved for fight,
Fear not if arm should ache, or blood should flow,
Or ebbing life fail for so great a good!
These (were it mine to combat) would I smite
With stout two-edgèd sword, and, nerved for fight,
Fear not if arm should ache, or blood should flow,
Or ebbing life fail for so great a good!
And unto her may dawn some calmer day,
In future years, when she may cease to blame
The thick-lipped Kaffre with his assegai,
Forced by a tyrant's will to swell his fame—
In future years, when she may cease to blame
The thick-lipped Kaffre with his assegai,
Forced by a tyrant's will to swell his fame—
When her full vision, taking freer scope,
May note the gleam of sunrise from afar,
The flush of wider wisdom, higher hope,
The hearts of nations warring against War!
May note the gleam of sunrise from afar,
The flush of wider wisdom, higher hope,
The hearts of nations warring against War!
A sunrise heralding that day of grace
When man may see the flag of Peace unfurled,
And when some new Evangel shall efface
A Cain-mark from the forehead of the world.
When man may see the flag of Peace unfurled,
And when some new Evangel shall efface
A Cain-mark from the forehead of the world.
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