The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown

A grassy field, the lambs, the nibbling sheep,
A blackbird and a thorn, the April smile
Of brooding peace, the gentle airs that wile
The Channel of its moodiness, a steep
That brinks the flood, a little gate to keep
The sacred ground—and then that old gray pile,
A simple church wherein there is no guile
Of ornament; and here the Hallams sleep.
Blest mourner, in whose soul the grief grew song,
Not now, methinks, awakes the slumbering pain,
While Joy, with busy fingers, weaves the woof
Of Spring. But when the Winter nights are long,
Thy spirit comes with sobbing of the rain,
And spreads itself, and moans upon the roof.

II
Dora

She knelt upon her brother's grave,
My little girl of six years old—
He used to be so good and brave,
The sweetest lamb of all our fold;
He used to shout, he used to sing,
Of all our tribe the little king—
And so unto the turf her ear she laid,
To hark if still in that dark place he played.

660

No sound! no sound!
Death's silence was profound;
And horror crept
Into her aching heart, and Dora wept.
If this is as it ought to be,
My God, I leave it unto Thee.

III
Secuturus

Each night when I behold my bed
So fair outspread,
And all so soft and sweet—
O, then above the folded sheet
His little coffin grows upon mine eye,
And I would gladly die.

IV
Cui Bono?

What comes
Of all my grief? The Arabian grove
Is cut that costly gums
May float into the nostrils of great Jove.
My heart resembles more a desert land:
Who cuts it cuts but rock, or digs the sapless sand.

661

VI
Per omnia Deus

What moves at Cardiff, how a man
At Newport ends the day as he began,
At Weston what adventure may befall,
What Bristol dreams, or if she dream at all,
Upon the pier, with step sedate,
I meditate—
Poor souls! whose God is Mammon—
Meanwhile, from Ocean's gate,
Keen for the foaming spate,
The true God rushes in the salmon.

VII
Norton Wood

(Dora's birthday)

In Norton wood the sun was bright,
In Norton wood the air was light,
And meek anemonies,
Kissed by the April breeze,
Were trembling left and right.
Ah, vigorous year!
Ah, primrose dear
With smile so arch!
Ah, budding larch!
Ah, hyacinth so blue,
We also must make free with you!
Where are those cowslips hiding?
But we should not be chiding—
The ground is covered every inch—
What sayest, master finch?
I see you on the swaying bough!
And very neat you are, I vow!
And Dora says it is “the happiest day!”
Her birthday, hers!
And there's a jay,
And from that clump of firs
Shoots a great pigeon, purple, blue, and gray.

662

And, coming home,
Well-laden, as we clomb
Sweet Walton hill,
A cuckoo shouted with a will—
“Cuckoo! cuckoo!” the first we've heard!
“Cuckoo! cuckoo!” God bless the bird!
Scarce time to take his breath,
And now “Cuckoo!” he saith—
Cuckoo! cuckoo! three cheers!
And let the welkin ring!
He has not folded wing
Since last he saw Algiers.

VIII
The Bristol Channel

I

The sulky old gray brute!
But when the sunset strokes him,
Or twilight shadows coax him,
He gets so silver-milky,
He turns so soft and silky,
He'd make a water-spaniel for King Knut.

II

This sea was Lazarus, all day
At Dives' gate he lay,
And lapped the crumbs.
Night comes;
The beggar dies—
Forthwith the Channel, coast to coast,
Is Abraham's bosom; and the beggar lies
A lovely ghost.

IX
The Voices of Nature

This cluck of water in the tangles—
What said it to the Angles?

663

What to the Jutes,
This wave sip-sopping round the salt sea-roots?
With what association did it hit on
The tympanum of a Damnonian Briton?
To tender Guinevere, to Britomart,
The stout of heart,
Along the guarded beach
Spoke it the same sad speech
It speaks to me—
This sopping of the sea?

Surely the plash
Of water upon stones,
Encountering in their ears the tones
Of dominant passions masterful,
Made but a bourdon for the chord
Of a great key, that rested lord
Of all the music, straining not the bones
Of Merlin's scull;
And in the ear of Vivian its frets
Were silver castanets,
That tinkled 'mong the vanities, and quickened
The free, full-blooded pulse,
Nor sickened
Her soul, nor stabbed her to the heart.
Strange! that to me this gurgling of the dulse
Allays no smart,
Consoles no nerve,
Rounds off no curve—
Alack!
Comes rather like a sigh,
A question that has no reply—
Opens a deep misgiving
What is this life I'm living—
Our fathers were not so—
Silence, thou moaning wrack!
And yet. . .I do not know.
And yet. . .I would go back.

664

LYNTON VERSES

I

[May Margery of Lynton]

May Margery of Lynton
Is brighter than the day;
Her eye is like the sun in heaven—
Was ne'er so sweet a May!

May Margery has learnt a tune
To which her soul is set—
The voices of all happy things
Are in its cadence met—
The voices of all happy things
In air, and earth, and sea,
Make music in the little breast
Of sweet May Margery.

And has May Margery a heart?
Nay, child, God give thee grace!
He made it for thee years ago,
And keeps it in a place—
The heart of gold that shall be thine—
But who shall have the key
That opens it—Ah, who? ah, who?
Ah, who, May Margery?

II

[At Malmsmead, by the river side]

At Malmsmead, by the river side
I met a little lady,
And, as she passed, she sang a song
That was not Tate or Brady,
Or any song by art contrived
Of minstrel or of poet,
For baron's hall, or chanter's desk;
And yet I seemed to know it.
Good sooth! I think the song was mine—
The all unthinking sadness—
She read it from my longing eyes,
And gave it back in gladness.

665

And yet it was a challenge too,
As plain as she could make it,
So petulant, so innocent,
And yet I could not take it.
A breath, a gleam, and she is gone—
Just half a minute only—
So die the breaths, so fade the gleams,
And we are left so lonely.

III

[Milk! milk! milk!]

Milk! milk! milk!
Straight as the Parson's bands,
Streaming like silk
Under and over her hands—
What is Mary scheming?
What is Mary dreaming?

Swish! swish! swish!
Pressing her sweet young brow,
Smooth as a dish,
To the side of the sober cow—
Can she tell no tale then?
Nought but milk and pail then?

Strip! strip! strip!
Far away over the sea
Comes there a ship,
The ship of all ships that be?
Ah, little fairy!
Ah, Mary, Mary!

IV
Lynton to Porlock

(Exmoor)

From Lynton when you drive to Porlock,
Just take old Tempus by the forelock—
In any case, don't hurry; time and tide—
Of course—I know. But, where the roads divide,

666

Upon the moor,
Be sure
To shun the via dextra,
And choose the marvellous ride
(One half-hour extra)
That zigzags to a gate
Nigh Porlock town—O, it is great,
That strip of Channel sea,
Backed with the prime of English Arcady!
It is not that the heather rushes
In mad tumultuous flushes
(Trickling's the word I'd use);
But O, the greens and blues
And browns whereon the crimson dwells;
The buds, the bells;
The drop from arch to arch
Of pine and larch;
The scented glooms where soft sun-fainting culvers
Elude the eye,
And fox-gloves, like innumerous-celled revolvers
Shoot honey-tongued quintessence of July!

V

[Sweet breeze that sett'st the summer buds a swaying]

Sweet breeze that sett'st the summer buds a swaying,
Dear lambs amid the primrose meadows playing,
Let me not think!
O floods, upon whose brink
The merry birds are maying,
Dream, softly dream! O blessed mother, lead me
Unsevered from thy girdle—lead me! feed me!
I have no will but thine;
I need not but the juice
Of elemental wine—
Perish remoter use
Of strength reserved for conflict yet to come!
Let me be dumb,
As long as I may feel thy hand—
This, this is all—do ye not understand
How the great Mother mixes all our bloods?
O breeze! O swaying buds!
O lambs, O primroses, O floods!

667

VI
(Symphony)

Adagio.

We saw her die, and she is dead—
Our little sister—
A March wind came and kissed her,
And sighed and fled—
Beyond the hill,
Far in the East we hear him sighing still.
But she is dead,
Our little sister's dead!
Ah, chill! chill! chill!
Ah, see the drooping head!
Our sister's dead—
We know that she is dead.

Andante con moto.

Talitha cumi! O Thou Christ,
Hast kept the tryst?
Laugh not, O maidens! this is He
Of Galilee,
Of Nazareth,
The Christ that conquers Death—
Dost catch a breath,
O Christ? O, Life!
Talitha cumi! See
The tumult as of some sweet strife
Strained tremulous up; up—
“Give her to drink!” He saith—
Yea, Lord, behold, a cup!

Scherzo.

O gentle airs of Spring,
Come to the hills and the valleys,
From the South, from the West,
As seems you best,
Rocked in your golden galleys!
Bring the bread, bring the wine,
Bring the smell that's fine,
Bring the scarf and the bright green wimple!

668

See, she dips! see, she sips! put your oozy lips
To the curve of each nascent dimple—
To her head, to her feet
So warm and sweet
Bring the rain and the sunshine after;
To the ordered limbs
Where the new life swims,
To the kneaded mesh
Of the soft pink flesh,
Bring baths of dew,
Bring skies of blue—
Bring love, and light, and laughter!

Trio.

Goldfinch underneath the bough
Clinging, swinging,
You are happy now.

Blackbird, as you flit along,
Staying, swaying,
Sing her but one song!

Dove, when twilight wakes unrest,
Yearning, burning,
Lean to her your breast!

Finale.

O God of Heaven!
These are Thy gifts, to all Thy creatures given—
Love, laughter, light—
Stablish the ancient right,
O God; and bend above them all Thy brooding arch—
Dove, blackbird, goldfinch, larch!

THE EMPTY CUP

Fly away, bark,
Over the sea!
Take thou my grief,
Take it with thee!

669

Bear it afar
Unto the shore
Where the old griefs are
For evermore!
O, it was hard!
Take it away—
Pressed on my heart
By night and by day.
I will not have it;
Let it go, let it go!
Shall I have nothing
But wailing and woe?

Let it be, let it be!
O, bring it again!
Bring my sorrow to me,
Bring weeping and pain!
Bring my sorrow to me—
After all, it is mine:
O God of my heart,
I will not repine.
For I feel such a lack,
And I am such a stone—
Bring it back, bring it back!
It is better to groan
With my old, old load
Than to search within,
And find nothing there
But folly and sin.
O, I cannot bear
This empty cup:
If it must be with gall,
Fill it up! fill it up!
Fill my soul, fill my soul!
And I will bless
The hand that filleth
Mine emptiness.

670

PAIN

The man that hath great griefs I pity not;
'Tis something to be great
In any wise, and hint the larger state,
Though but in shadow of a shade, God wot!

Moreover, while we wait the possible,
This man has touched the fact,
And probed till he has felt the core, where, packed
In pulpy folds, resides the ironic ill.

And while we others sip the obvious sweet—
Lip-licking after-taste
Of glutinous rind, lo! this man hath made haste,
And pressed the sting that holds the central seat.

For thus it is God stings us into life,
Provoking actual souls
From bodily systems, giving us the poles
That are His own, not merely balanced strife.

Nay, the great passions are His veriest thought,
Which whoso can absorb,
Nor, querulous halting, violate their orb,
In him the mind of God is fullest wrought.

Thrice happy such an one! Far other he
Who dallies on the edge
Of the great vortex, clinging to a sedge
Of patent good, a timorous Manichee;

Who takes the impact of a long-breathed force,
And fritters it away
In eddies of disgust, that else might stay
His nerveless heart, and fix it to the course.

For there is threefold oneness with the One;
And he is one, who keeps
The homely laws of life; who, if he sleeps,
Or wakes, in his true flesh God's will is done.

671

And he is one, who takes the deathless forms,
Who schools himself to think
With the All-thinking, holding fast the link,
God-riveted, that bridges casual storms.

But tenfold one is he, who feels all pains
Not partial, knowing them
As ripples parted from the gold-beaked stem,
Wherewith God's galley onward ever strains.

To him the sorrows are the tension-thrills
Of that serene endeavour,
Which yields to God for ever and for ever
The joy that is more ancient than the hills.

THE PITCHER

Often at a wayside fountain
You may see a pitcher stand,
Stooped beneath the mossy channel,
Purple slate on either hand.

And the streamlet, never heeding
If the pitcher's brimming o'er,
With an innocent persistence
Lavishes its silver store.

And the crystal-beaded bubbles
Burst upon its lazy lip;
But the well-contented pitcher
Does not even care to sip;

Does not even know that o'er him
There is flowing from the hill
What would fill a thousand pitchers,
And a thousand pitchers still.

Wasted on his gurgling fulness
All its fretting soft and faint,

672

Wasted all its pretty urging,
All the music of its plaint!

But the streamlet, ever patient,
Ceaseless laves his churlish sides;
For the streamlet has the patience
That in Nature's heart abides.

Even so at God's sweet fountain
Some one left me long ago;
Left my shallow soul expectant
Of the everlasting flow

And it came, and poured upon me,
Rose and mantled to the brim;
And I knew that God was filling
One more soul to carry Him.

So He filled me—then I lost Him,
Lost Him in His own excess;
For He could not but transcend me
In my very nothingness.

Wretched soul, that could'st not hold Him!
Soul incapable and base!
Hardly 'ware that He doth bathe thee
Steeped in largess of His grace!

Puny soul, that could'st not take Him!
Torpid soul—that feel'st no need!
Perish from before the Godhead,
Let a larger soul succeed!

“Not so!” saith the God of goodness;
“I have many souls to fill;
From this soul a while desisting,
I will tarry in the hill.

“Then, when it is dry and dusty,
I will seek the thirsty plain;
I will wet the mossy channel,
And the purple slate again.”

673

SONG

“Weary wind of the West
Over the billowy sea—
Come to my heart, and rest!
Ah, rest with me!
Come from the distance dim
Bearing the sun's last sigh;
I hear thee sobbing for him
Through all the sky.”

So the wind came,
Purpling the middle sea,
Crisping the ripples of flame—
Came unto me;
Came with a rush to the shore,
Came with a bound to the hill,
Fell, and died at my feet—
Then all was still.

VERIS ET FAVONI

Sing, Zephyr, sing,
Shed from your dusky wing
The violets.
Make music with your golden frets—
Sing, Zephyr, sing!

Sigh, Zephyr, sigh!
Give passion to the sky!
The tawny south
Has no such odorous mouth—
Sigh, Zephyr, sigh!

674

Sue, Zephyr, sue!
Bring earth the sunny blue,
The pearly mist
With new-born love-fire kissed—
Sue, Zephyr, sue!

Sip, Zephyr, sip!
The primrose lends her lip,
The crocus thrills,
Love hides among the daffodils—
Sip, Zephyr, sip!

Seek, Zephyr, seek!
The vermeil of my lady's cheek!
So seeking, sipping, suing, sighing, singing,
While old Time his flight is winging,
Tell her to be
Most kind to me.

IN GREMIO

“Come unto God!” I heard a preacher call:
Immediate God to me,
Who in His bosom lay—“Mind not at all
Such accidents as he—
Mechanical alarum, sightless seer,
Who bids thee come, and knows not thou art here.”

EXILE

In sorrow and in nakedness of soul
I look into the street,
If haply there mine eye may meet,
As up and down it ranges,

675

The servants of my Father bearing changes
Of raiment sweet—
Seven changes sweet with violet and moly,
Seven changes pure and holy.

But nowhere 'mid the thick entangled throng
Mark I their proud sad paces;
Nowhere the light upon their faces,
Serene with that great beauty
Wherein the singly meditated duty
Its empire traces:—
Only the fretful merchants stand and cry:—
“Come buy! come buy! come buy!”

And the big bales are drunk with all the purple
That wells in vats of Tyre,
And unrolled damasks stream with golden fire
And broideries of Ind,
And, piled on Polar furs, are braveries winned
From far Gadire.
And I am waiting, abject, cold, and numb,
Yet sure that they will come.

O naked soul, be patient in this stead!
Thrice blest are they that wait.
O Father of my soul, the gate
Will open soon, and they
Who minister to Thee and Thine alway
Will enter straight,
And speak to me, that I shall understand
The speech of Thy great land.

And I will rise, and wash, and they will dress me
As Thou wouldst have me dressed;
And I shall stand confest
Thy son; and men shall falter:—
“Behold the ephod of the unseen altar!
O God-possessed!
Thy raiment is not from the looms of earth,
But has a Heavenly birth.”

676

CLIMBING

When I would get me to the upper fields,
I look if anywhere
A man be found who craves what joyaunce yields
The keen thin air,
Who loves the rapture of the height,
And fain would snatch with me a perilous delight.

I wait, and linger on the village street,
And long for one to come,
And say:—“The morning's bright, it is not meet
That thou the hum
Of vulgar life shouldst leave, and seek the view
Alone from those great peaks; I surely will go too.”

But not to me comes ever any man;
Or, if he come, dull sleep
Still thickens in his eyes, so that to scan
The beckoning steep
He has no power; and of its scornful cone
Unconscious sits him down, and I go on alone.

Yet children are before me on the slope,
Their dew-bedabbled prints
Press the black fern-roots naked; sunny hope
Darts red, and glints
Upon their hair; but, devious, they remain
Among the bilberry beds, and I go on again.

And so there is no help for it, no mate
To share the arduous way:
Natheless I must ascend ere it grow late,
And, dim and gray,
The final cloud obstruct my soul's endeavour,
And I see nothing more for ever and for ever.

677

RISUS DEI

Methinks in Him there dwells alway
A sea of laughter very deep,
Where the leviathans leap,
And little children play,
Their white feet twinkling on its crisped edge;
But in the outer bay
The strong man drives the wedge
Of polished limbs,
And swims.
Yet there is one will say:—
“It is but shallow, neither is it broad”—
And so he frowns; but is he nearer God?

One saith that God is in the note of bird,
And piping wind, and brook,
And all the joyful things that speak no word:
Then if from sunny nook
Or shade a fair child's laugh
Is heard,
Is not God half?
And if a strong man gird
His loins for laughter, stirred
By trick of ape or calf—
Is he no better than a cawing rook?

Nay 'tis a Godlike function; laugh thy fill!
Mirth comes to thee unsought;
Mirth sweeps before it like a flood the mill
Of languaged logic; thought
Hath not its source so high;
The will
Must let it by:
For though the heavens are still,
God sits upon His hill,
And sees the shadows fly;
And if He laughs at fools, why should He not?

678

“Yet hath a fool a laugh”—Yea, of a sort;
God careth for the fools;
The chemic tools
Of laughter He hath given them, and some toys
Of sense, as 'twere a small retort
Wherein they may collect the joys
Of natural giggling, as becomes their state:
The fool is not inhuman, making sport
For such as would not gladly be without
That old familiar noise:
Since, though he laugh not, he can cachinnate—
This also is of God, we may not doubt.

“Is there an empty laugh?” Best called a shell
From which a laugh has flown,
A mask, a well
That hath no water of its own,
Part echo of a groan,
Which, if it hide a cheat,
Is a base counterfeit;
But if one borrow
A cloak to wrap a sorrow
That it may pass unknown,
Then can it not be empty. God doth dwell
Behind the feigned gladness,
Inhabiting a sacred core of sadness.

“Yet is there not an evil laugh?” Content—
What follows?
When Satan fills the hollows
Of his bolt-riven heart
With spasms of unrest,
And calls it laughter; if it give relief
To his great grief,
Grudge not the dreadful jest.
But if the laugh be aimed
At any good thing that it be ashamed,
And blush thereafter,
Then it is evil, and it is not laughter.

679

There are who laugh, but know not why:
Whether the force
Of simple health and vigour seek a course
Extravagant, as when a wave runs high,
And tips with crest of foam the incontinent curve,
Or if it be reserve
Of power collected for a goal, which had,
Behold! the man is fresh. So when strung nerve,
Stout heart, pent breath, have brought you to the source
Of a great river, on the topmost stie
Of cliff, then have you bad
All heaven to laugh with you; yet somewhere nigh
A shepherd lad
Has wondering looked, and deemed that you were mad.

DARTMOOR

Sunset at Chagford

HOMO LOQVITVR

Is it ironical, a fool enigma,
This sunset show?
The purple stigma,
Black mountain cut upon a saffron glow—
Is it a mammoth joke,
A riddle put for me to guess,
Which having duly honoured, I may smoke,
And go to bed,
And snore,
Having a soothing consciousness
Of something red?
Or is it more?
Ah, is it, is it more?

A dole, perhaps?
The scraps
Tossed from the table of the revelling gods?—
What odds!

680

I taste them—Lazarus
Was nourished thus!
But, all the same, it surely is a cheat—
Is this the stuff they eat?
A cheat! a cheat!
Then let the garbage be—
Some pig-wash! let it vanish down the sink
Of night! 'tis not for me.
I will not drink
Their draff,
While, throned on high, they quaff
The fragrant sconce—
Has Heaven no cloaca for the nonce?

Say 'tis an anodyne—
It never shall be mine.
I want no opiates—
The best of all their cates
Were gross to balk the meanest sense;
I want to be co-equal with their fates;
I will not be put off with temporal pretence:
I want to be awake, and know, not stand
And stare at waving of a conjuror's hand.

But is it speech
Wherewith they strive to reach
Our poor inadequate souls?
The round earth rolls;
I cannot hear it hum—
The stars are dumb—
The voices of the world are in my ear
A sensuous murmur. Nothing speaks
But man, my fellow—him I hear,
And understand; but beasts and birds
And winds and waves are destitute of words.
What is the alphabet
The gods have set?
What babbling! what delusion!
And in these sunset tints
What gay confusion!
Man prints

681

His meaning, has a letter
Determinate. I know that it is better
Than all this cumbrous hieroglyph—
The For, the If
Are growth of man's analysis:
The gods in bliss
Scrabble a baby jargon on the skies
For us to analyse!
Cumbrous? nay, idiotic—
A party-coloured symbolism,
The fragments of a shivered prism:
Man gives the swift demotic.

'Tis good to see
The economy
Of poor upstriving man!
Since time began,
He has been sifting
The elements; while God, on chaos drifting,
Sows broadcast all His stuff.
Lavish enough,
No doubt; but why this waste?
See! of these very sunset dies
The virgin chaste
Takes one, and in a harlot's eyes
Another rots. They go by billion billions:
Each blade of grass
Ignores them as they pass;
The spiders in their foul pavilions,
Behold this vulgar gear,
And sneer;
Dull frogs
In bogs
Catch rosy gleams through rushes,
And know that night is near;
Wrong-headed thrushes
Blow bugles to it;
And a wrong-headed poet
Will strut, and strain the cogs
Of the machine, he blushes
To call his Muse, and maunder;

682

And, marvellous to relate!
These pseudo-messengers of state
Will wander
Where there is no intelligence to meet them,
Nor even a sensorium to greet them.
The very finest of them
Go where there's nought to love them
Or notice them: to cairns, to rocks
Where ravens nurse their young,
To mica-splints from granite-boulders wrung
By channels of the marsh, to stocks
Of old dead willows in a pool as dead.
Can anything be said
To these? The leech
Looks from its muddy lair,
And sees a silly something in the air—
Call you this speech?
O God, if it be speech,
Speak plainer,
If Thou would'st teach
That I shall be a gainer!
The age of picture-alphabets is gone:
We are not now so weak;
We are too old to con
The horn-book of our youth. Time lags—
O, rip this obsolete blazon into rags!
And speak! O, speak!

But, if I be a spectacle
In Thy great theatre, then do Thy will:
Arrange Thy instruments with circumspection;
Summon Thine angels to the vivisection!
But quick! O, quick!
For I am sick,
And very sad.
Thy pupils will be glad.
“See,” Thou exclaim'st, “this ray!
How permanent upon the retina!
How odd that purple hue!
The pineal gland is blue.
I stick this probe

683

In the posterior lobe—
Behold the cerebellum
A smoky yellow, like old vellum!
Students will please observe
The structure of the optic nerve.
See! nothing could be finer—
That film of pink
Around the hippocampus minor.
Behold!
I touch it, and it turns bright gold.
Again!—as black as ink.
Another lancet—thanks!
That's Manx—
Yes, the delicate pale sea-green
Passing into ultra-marine—
A little blurred—in fact
This brain seems packed
With sunsets. Bring
That battery here; now put your
Negative pole beneath the suture—
That's just the thing.
Now then the other way—
I say! I say!
More chloroform!
(A little more will do no harm)
Now this is the most instructive of all
The phenomena, what in fact we may call
The most obvious justification
Of vivisection in general.
Observe (once! twice!
That's very nice)—
Observe, I say, the incipient relation
Of a quasi-moral activity
To this physical agitation!
Of course, you see. . . .”
Yes, yes, O God,
I feel the prod
Of that dissecting knife.
Instructive, say the pupil angels, very:
And some take notes, and some take sandwiches and sherry;

684

And some are prying
Into the very substance of my brain—
I feel their fingers!
(My life! my life!)
Yes, yes! it lingers!
The sun, the sun—
Go on! go on!
Blue, yellow, red!
But please remember that I am not dead,
Nor even dying.

RESPONDET ΔΗΜΙΟΥΡΓΟΣ

Yes, it is hard, but not for you alone.
You speak of cup and throne,
And all that separates Me from you.
It is not that you don't believe:
It is but that you misconceive
The work I have to do.

No throne, no cup,
Nor down, but likest up,
As from a deep black shaft, I look to see
The fabric of My own immensity.
You have the temporal activity, and rejoice
In sweet articulate voice—
Tunes, songs.
To Me no less
Belongs
The fixed, sad fashion of productiveness.
You think that I am wise,
Or cunning, clever as a man is clever.
You think all knowledge with Me lies,
From Me must flow.
I know not if I know—
But this I know, I will work on for ever.
You fret because you are not this and that,

685

And so you die;
But I,
Who have not sat
Since first into the void I swam,
Obeying Mine own laws,
Persist, because
I am but what I am.

I am old and blind;
I have no speech
“Wherewith to reach”
Your quick-selecting ears.
And yet I mark your tears;
And yet I would be kind.
And so I strain
To speak, as now;
And, in more cheerful vein,
You haply will allow
I make My meaning fairly plain.
Therefore it is I store
Such beauty in the clouds, and on the shore
Make foam-flakes glisten; therefore you have seen
This sunset; therefore 'tis the green
And lusty grass
Hath come to pass,
And flame
Lies sparkling in the dews—
And yet I cannot choose
But do the same!
I am no surgeon,
I have no lancet, but I mingle
Sap for the buds, that they may burgeon,
And tingle
With soft sweet throes
Of parturition vegetal.
And so to all
The surfaces
I outward press,
And hold the very brink
Of speech, that I would think
Speech must come next.

686

But I can do no more: wherefore I am not vexed;
But you are, being perplexed
With suppositions, scribbling o'er the text
Of natural life. And, seeing that this is so,
And that I cannot know
The innumerous ills,
Therefore I strew the hills
And vallies with delight,
That, day or night,
In sad or merry plight,
You may catch sight
Of some sweet joy that thrills
Your heart.
And what if I impart
The same to frog or newt,
What if I steep the root
Of some old stump in bright vermilion,
And if the spider in his quaint pavilion
Catches a sunbeam where he thought a fly,
Ah, why
Should I not care for such?
I, Who make all things, know it is not much.
And, by analogy I must suppose
They have their woes
Like you:
Therefore I still must strew
Joys that may wait for centuries,
And light at last on Socrates,
Or on the frog, whose eyes
You may have noticed full of bright surprise—
Or have you not? Ah, then
You only think of men!
But I would have no single creature miss
One possible bliss.
And this
Is certain: never be afraid!
I love what I have made.
I know this is not wit,
This is not to be clever,
Or anything whatever.
You see, I am a servant, that is it:

687

You've hit
The mark—a servant; for the other word—
Why, you are Lord, if any one is Lord.

THE PRAYERS

I was in Heaven one day when all the prayers
Came in, and angels bore them up the stairs
Unto a place where he
Who was ordained such ministry
Should sort them so that in that palace bright
The presence-chamber might be duly dight;
For they were like to flowers of various bloom;
And a divinest fragrance filled the room.

Then did I see how the great sorter chose
One flower that seemed to me a hedgeling rose,
And from the tangled press
Of that irregular loveliness
Set it apart—and—“This,” I heard him say,
“Is for the Master”: so upon his way
He would have passed; then I to him:—
“Whence is this rose? O thou of cherubim
The chiefest?”—“Know'st thou not?” he said and smiled,
“This is the first prayer of a little child.”

ΠΟΙΗΜΑΤΙΟΝ

For J. P.

It was in pleasant Derbyshire,
Upon a bright spring day,
From a valley to a valley
I sought to find a way;
And I met a little lad,
A lad both blithe and bold;

688

And his eyes were of the blue,
And his hair was of the gold.
“Ho! little lad, of yonder point
The name come quickly tell!”
Then, prompt as any echo,
Came the answer:—“Tap o' th' hill.”
“But has it any other name
That a man may say—as thus—
Kinderscout, or Fairbrook Naze?”
Then said the child, with constant gaze:—
“Tap o' th' hill it gets with us.”

“Yes, yes!” I said, “but has it not
Some other name as well?
Its own, you know?” “Aye, aye!” he said,
“Tap o' th' hill! tap o' th' hill!”
“But your father, now? how calls it he?”
Then clear as is a bell
Rang out the merry laugh:—“Of course,
He calls it Tap o' th' hill!”
So I saw it was no use;
But I said within myself:—
“He has a wholesome doctrine,
This cheerful little elf.”
And O, the weary knowledge!
And O, the hearts that swell!
And O, the blessed limit—
“Tap o' th' hill! tap o' th' hill!”

JUVENTA PERENNIS

If youth be thine,
Spare not to drink its wine;
If youth be fled,
Hold up
The golden cup—
God's grapes are always red.

689

VESPERS

O blackbird, what a boy you are!
How you do go it!
Blowing your bugle to that one sweet star—
How you do blow it!
And does she hear you, blackbird boy, so far?
Or is it wasted breath?
“Good Lord! she is so bright
To-night!”
The blackbird saith.

I BENDED UNTO ME

I bended unto me a bough of May,
That I might see and smell:
It bore it in a sort of way,
It bore it very well.
But, when I let it backward sway,
Then it were hard to tell
With what a toss, with what a swing,
The dainty thing
Resumed its proper level,
And sent me to the devil.
I know it did—you doubt it?
I turned, and saw them whispering about it.

IS IT AMAVI OR IS IT AMO?

Sit on the rocks and watch the tide
And which is ebb and which is flow,
And over to the other side:—
Is it amavi or is it amo?

690

Kneel at the altar of the years,
Take heart, and haply you shall know—
Look down into the fount of tears:
Is it amavi or is it amo?

A FRAGMENT

Yon bird is strong to fly—
How straight the balanced pinions scoop
Twin scimitars, that carve the cloudy group,
Or, rigid as a die,
Print their sad cypher on the polished sky!

TO W. E. HENLEY

Henley, what mark you in the sunset glare?
The year is dying: is that the crimson splash
Wherewith he seals his testament? the cash,
To some conveying of all things good and fair,
To others unutterable emptiness? the stare
Of folly at a bubble trimmed with trash,
Or at a flame, whose unsubstantial ash
Falls in a gaping darkness and despair?
Friend, scholar loved, look longer: how it glows,
Not glares! God opes a perspective to see
The chambers of the ivory palaces.
And who is that within its encircling rose?
Is it my Love that fondles some one? Yes!
Some one! O, yes! Your darling? Is it she?

691

WHEN LOVE MEETS LOVE

When love meets love, breast urged to breast,
God interposes,
An unacknowledged guest,
And leaves a little child among our roses.

O, gentle hap!
O, sacred lap!
O, brooding dove!
But when he grows
Himself to be a rose,
God takes him—where is then our love?
O, where is all our love?

BETWEEN OUR FOLDING LIPS

Between our folding lips
God slips
An embryon life, and goes;
And this becomes your rose.
We love, God makes: in our sweet mirth
God spies occasion for a birth.
Then is it His, or is it ours?
I know not—He is fond of flowers.

EX ORE INFANTIS

Her husband died before her babe was born
Two years ago. Converted? Doubt and grief,
Poor soul! she felt. Her Methodist creed forlorn
Gave but a lenten substance of relief.

692

To-day, beneath the piteous gaze of morn,
Her child is dying. On his little brow
Descends the veil, and all is over now—
Not yet! not yet! For suddenly he springs,
As who perceived the gleam of golden wings.
“Dada!” he cries, he knows his father's face
Ne'er seen before. O.God, Thou giv'st the grace!
O widowed heart! They live in Heaven's fair light,
Your husband with his boy. The child was right.

O GOD TO THEE I YIELD

O God to Thee I yield
The gift Thou givest most precious, most divine!
Yet to what field
I must resign
His little feet
That wont to be so fleet,
I muse. O, joy to think
On what soft brink
Of flood he plucks the daffodils,
On what empurpled hills
He stands, Thy kiss all fresh upon his brow,
And wonders, if his father sees him now!

TO G. TRUSTRUM

George Trustrum, ere the day be done,
I send a word to you.
Pale primrose masked the rising sun
The setting bids adieu
In roseate veil to all the fears
And all the hopes of bygone years.

693

And I look back to joys long fled—
The boat, the “yarn,” the height
Of Bradda's crown; but you, instead,
Look forward with delight.
God bless you! may each sun that goes
Give you the primrose and the rose!

AN AUTUMN TRINKET

Why does she burn
These colours on my soul—where'er I turn,
Splashes of flame and pyramids of fire
That fill me with insatiate desire,
Making me yearn
For that which, with its own intensity
Death-poisoned, hastens not to be?

Even so, even so
It is—the brightest and the dearest go:
The thrift of our great Mother calling back
Her forces, that the Spring may have no lack
Of customed show.
Not less to us the things that most we cherish
Fade from our eyes, and perish, perish, perish!

RECONCILIATION

There is a place where He hath split the hills;
No water fills
The gap—
A bow-shot wide
Side stands to side,
Indenture perfectly opposed,
The outlet closed
By seeming overlap—
So severed are our hearts, so rent our wills;
And yet the old correlatives remain—
Ah! brother, may we not be joined again?

694

SAD! SAD!

O, sad when grass is green,
O, sad when blue-bells blow,
Sad, sad 'mid lily sheen,
Laburnum's rippled glow,
And all the things that grow,
And are not sad—
Sad! sad!

O, sad when lambkins skip,
O, sad when children play,
Sad, sad, when to my lip
Is pressed the dewy may,
And all the bright things say:—
“Why art thou sad?”
Sad! sad!

Is it some tricksy Puck
That makes me causeless dole?
Or does some vampire suck
The blood from out my soul?
Or is it joy diviner,
Joy echoing in a minor,
Joy vibrant to its pole,
That seems but sad?—
Sad! sad!

Is it the ebbing ghost
Of God that leaves me dry
Upon a weary coast,
Beneath a burning sky?
Is it His voice afar
That booms upon the bar,
And makes me sigh,
And makes me sad?
Sad! sad!

695

Or does the old travail-pain
Resume the mother-geist?
In some far orb again
Is boundless ransom priced
For others than for us?
In Mars, or Uranus,
They crucify the Christ?
So am I sad—
Sad! sad!

One thing appears to me—
The work is not complete;
One world I know, and see
It is not at His feet—
Not, not! Is this the sum?
Not, not! the Heaven is dumb—
I bear His stigmata
Or not—ah, who shall say?
Only it is most meet
That I be sad—
Sad! sad!

IN A FAIR GARDEN

In a fair garden
I saw a mother playing with her child,
And, with that chance beguiled,
I could not choose but look
How she did seem to harden
His little soul to brook
Her absence—reconciled
With after boon of kisses,
And sweet irrational blisses.
For she would hide
With loveliest grace
Of seeming craft
Till he was ware of none beside

696

Himself upon the place;—
And then he laughed,
And then he stood a space
Disturbed, his face
Prepared for tears;
And half-acknowledged fears
Met would-be courage, balancing
His heart upon the spring
Of flight—till, waxing stout,
He gulped the doubt.
So up the pleached alley
Full swift he ran:
Whence she,
Not long delayed,
Rushed forth with joyous sally
Upon her little man.
Then was it good to see
How each to other made
A pretty rapture of discovery.

Blest child! blest mother! blest the truth ye taught—
God seeketh us, and yet He would be sought.

THE SCHOONER

Just mark that schooner westward far at sea—
'Tis but an hour ago
When she was lying hoggish at the quay,
And men ran to and fro,
And tugged, and stamped, and shoved, and pushed, and swore,
And ever and anon, with crapulous glee,
Grinned homage to viragoes on the shore.

So to the jetty gradual she was hauled:
Then one the tiller took,
And chewed, and spat upon his hand, and bawled;
And one the canvas shook

697

Forth like a mouldy bat; and one, with nods
And smiles, lay on the bowsprit-end, and called
And cursed the Harbour-master by his gods.

And, rotten from the gunwale to the keel,
Rat-riddled, bilge-bestank,
Slime-slobbered, horrible, I saw her reel,
And drag her oozy flank,
And sprawl among the deft young waves, that laughed,
And leapt, and turned in many a sportive wheel,
As she thumped onward with her lumbering draught.

And now, behold! a shadow of repose
Upon a line of gray,
She sleeps, that transverse cuts the evening rose—
She sleeps, and dreams away,
Soft-blended in a unity of rest
All jars, and strifes obscene, and turbulent throes
'Neath the broad benediction of the West—

Sleeps; and methinks she changes as she sleeps,
And dies, and is a spirit pure.
Lo! on her deck an angel pilot keeps
His lonely watch secure;
And at the entrance of Heaven's dockyard waits,
Till from Night's leash the fine-breath'd morning leaps,
And that strong hand within unbars the gates.

EUROCLYDON

Scarce loosed from Crete—
Then, borne on wings of flame
And sleet,
The Euroclydon came.

698

Strained yard, bent mast,
With fury of his mouth
The blast
Compels us to the South

Canst see, for spume
And mist, and writhen air,
A loom
Of Clauda anywhere?

Balked hopes, fooled wit!
Ah soul, to gain this loss,
Didst quit
The shelter of His cross?

Dear Lord, if Thou
Wouldst walk upon the sea,
My prow
Unblenched should turn to Thee.

Wind roars, wave yelps—
To Thy blest side I'd slip,
Use helps,
And undergird the ship.

DISGUISES

High stretched upon the swinging yard,
I gather in the sheet;
But it is hard
And stiff, and one cries haste.
Then He that is most dear in my regard
Of all the crew gives aidance meet;
But from His hands, and from His feet,
A glory spreads wherewith the night is starred:
Moreover of a cup most bitter-sweet
With fragrance as of nard,

699

And myrrh, and cassia spiced,
He proffers me to taste.
Then I to Him:—“Art Thou the Christ?”
He saith—“Thou say'st.”

Like to an ox
That staggers 'neath the mortal blow,
She grinds upon the rocks:—
Then straight and low
Leaps forth the levelled line, and in our quarter locks.
The cradle's rigged; with swerving of the blast
We go,
Our Captain last—
Demands
“Who fired that shot?” Each silent stands—
Ah, sweet perplexity!
This too was He.

I have an arbour wherein came a toad
Most hideous to see—
Immediate, seizing staff or goad,
I smote it cruelly.
Then all the place with subtle radiance glowed—
I looked, and it was He!

MY GARDEN

A garden is a lovesome thing, God wot!
Rose plot,
Fringed pool,
Ferned grot—
The veriest school
Of peace; and yet the fool
Contends that God is not—
Not God! in gardens! when the eve is cool?
Nay, but I have a sign;
'Tis very sure God walks in mine.

700

LAND, HO!

I know 'tis but a loom of land,
Yet is it land, and so I will rejoice,
I know I cannot hear His voice
Upon the shore, nor see Him stand;
Yet is it land, ho! land.

The land! the land! the lovely land!
“Far off” dost say? Far off—ah, blessed home!
Farewell! farewell! thou salt sea-foam!
Ah, keel upon the silver sa d---
Land, ho! land.

You cannot see the land, my land,
You cannot see, and yet the land is there—
My land, my land, through murky air—
I did not say 'twas close at hand—
But—land, ho! land.

Dost hear the bells of my sweet land,
Dost hear the kine, dost hear the merry birds?
No voice, 'tis true, no spoken words,
No tongue that thou may'st understand—
Yet is it land, ho! land.

It's clad in purple mist, my land,
In regal robe it is apparellèd,
A crown is set upon its head,
And on its breast a golden band—
Land, ho! land.

Dost wonder that I long for land?
My land is not a land as others are—
Upon its crest there beams a star,
And lilies grow upon the strand—
Land, ho! land.

701

Give me the helm! there is the land!
Ha! lusty mariners, she takes the breeze!
And what my spirit sees it sees—
Leap, bark, as leaps the thunderbrand—
Land, ho! land.

PRAESTO

Expecting Him, my door was open wide:
Then I looked round
If any lack of service might be found,
And saw Him at my side:
How entered, by what secret stair,
I know not, knowing only He was there.

EVENSONG

Eastward the valley of my soul was lit
This morning: now the West hath laid
Upon its fields the festal robe,
And East hath shade.
Full soon the night shall fit
Her star-besprinkled serge
On hill, and rock, and bay;
But even then behind the mounting globe
God makes a verge
Of dawn that shall be day.

702

ABER STATIONS

Statio Prima

Why do I make so much of Aber Fall?
Four years ago
My little boy was with me here—
That's all—
He died next year:
He died just seven years old,
A very gentle child, yet bold,
Having no fear.
You have seen such?
They are not much?
No . . . no.
And yet he was a very righteous child,
Stood up for what was right,
Intolerant of wrong—
Pure azure light
Was cisterned in his eyes;
We thought him wise
Beyond his years—so sweet and mild,
But strong
For justice, doing what he could—
Poor little soul—to make all children good.
I almost think—and yet I am to blame—
He was a different child from others;
He had three sisters and two brothers:
He seemed a little king
Among the children—ah! 'tis a common thing—
Parents are all the same—
You've seen those kings—yes, yes—
Of course . . . and yet . . . the righteousness . . .
The . . . Never mind! he came
With me to Aber Fall—
That's all, that's all.

703

Statio Secunda

Just listen to the blackbird—what a note
The creature has! God bless his happy throat!
He is so absolutely glad
I fear he will go mad.
Look here! this very grit
I crush beneath my boot
His little foot
Trod crisp that day—
That's it! that's it!
O, what is there to say?
The little foot so warm and pink!
O, what is there to think?
His mother kissed it every night
When she put out the light—
And where?
What is it now? a fascicle
Of crumbling bones
Jammed in with earth and stones.
You say that this is old,
A tale twice-told—
Say what you will:
Old, new, I swear
That it is horrible—
Horrible, blackbird, howsoe'er
The Spring rejoice you with its budding bloom—
Yes, horrible, most horrible!
Though you should carol to the crack of doom,
Poor blackbird! being so absolutely glad—
I hope he won't go mad.

Statio Tertia

The stream is very sweet
To-day . . . Just see the swallow dart!
How fleet!
It sent a shiver to my heart.
If he had lived, you say—
Well, well—if he had lived, what then?
Some men

704

Will always argue—yes, I know . . . of course . . .
The argument has force.
If he had lived, he might have changed—
From bad to worse?
Nay, my shrewd balance-setter,
Why not from good to better?
Why not to best? to joy
And splendour? O, my boy!
I did not want this argument in the least,
My soul had ceased
From doubt and questioning—
That swallow's wing!
What a transcendent rush!
Hush! hush!
Or, if you talk, talk low:
For . . . do you know . . .
Just as the swallow dipt,
I felt as if a soft hand slipt
Its fingers into mine . . . he's near . . .
He's with us . . . 'tis not right the child should hear
This jangling . . . low then, low!
Or this is better . . . go,
Go, darling; play upon the bank,
And prank
Your hair with daisy and with buttercup,
And we will meet you higher up.
Now then . . . If he had lived? if my sweet son
Had lived? . . . You stare . . .
There! there!
'Tis gone, 'tis gone—
It was the swallow's dart
That sent a shiver to my heart.

Statio Quarta

We have not seen the sun for many days,
But now through East-wind haze
He makes a shift
To send a luminous drift,
To which, as to his full unclouded splendour,
The meek, contented earth makes glad surrender.

705

God bless the simple earth
That gave me birth!
God bless her that she looks so pleased—
The soul that is diseased
With this world's sorrow—Well, sir? ought to look? . . .
Beyond, and yet beyond: not in this narrow nook
Of His creation
Will God make up His book.
The whole is one great scheme
Of compensation—
The net result
Is all . . . I too have had my dream,
As from my nonage dedicate a μυστης
Of that great cult.
I saw Lord Love upon his galley pass
Westward from Cyprus; smooth as glass
The sea was all before him. He, as κελευστης,
Stood at the stern, and piped
The rhythms; but, ever and anon,
As worked upon
By some familiar Fury, grasping a scourge
(An amethyst
Fastened it to his wrist . . . Love's wrist!),
He ran along the transtra, and did urge
The rowers, and striped
Their backs with blood; whereat they leapt
Like maddened hounds, and swept
The sea until it hissed.
Then I:—
“Lord Love, what means this cruelty?”
But he to me
Deigned no reply:
Only I saw his face was wet with tears,
And he did look “beyond, and yet beyond.”
But those men, fond
And fatuous, never turned
Their eyes from his, but yearned
With an insensate yearning, having confidence
That so it must be; but on what pretence
I know not—Ah, most cruel lord!
Ah, knotted cord!

706

Dull plash
Of livid tissues! flash
Of oars that smote the waters to a hum . . .
Come, come!
You've had enough of this—
But what I meant, and what you seemed to miss,
Was simply how the meek, contented earth,
That gave me birth,
Was pleased . . .
Then you of soul diseased,
And what not . . . excellent!
But that is what I meant.

Statio Quinta

The shepherd calls—
How these great mountain walls
Re-echo! See his dog
Come limping from the bog!
How far he holds him
With that thin clamour! Scolds him?
Or cheers him—which?
Say both—most like. The pitch
Is steep, poor fellow!
And still that bellow—
Ya, ya!
Whoop! tittiva!
And Echo from her niche
Shrieks challenged. Shout,
O shepherd! flout
The irritable Echo till she raves!
As man behaves,
So God apportions, doing what is best
For you, and for the rest.
As man behaves? You do not help me much,
Nay, sir, nor touch
The central point at all—
Retributive, mechanical—
I see it. But outside all this
I miss . . . I miss . . .
Sir, know you Death? Permit me introduce . . .

707

No? What's the use?
The use! . . . One thing I can collect,
You have but scant respect
For Death. Why, sir, he made a feint
That very minute at you—quaint!
The way he grins and skips—
Whips! whips!
Down! down! good dog! good Death!
To heel, you rogue!
Good Death! good dog!
You'd rather not behold him?
I've told him—
I' faith,
He'd frighten you, would Death.
Provoked me—yes, you did—
The shepherd chid
His lagging hound—
I had no other thought
But how mad Echo caught
The sound
Of that exasperant call,
And made it bound
Back from the mountain wall.

Statio Sexta

Ha! snow
Upon the crags!
How slow
The winter lags!
Ha, little lamb upon the crags,
How fearlessly you go!
Take care
Up there,
You little woolly atom! On and on
He goes . . . 'tis steep . . . Hillo!
My friend is gone,
Friend orthodoxo-logical—
He could not argue with a waterfall!
And here it is—my Aber . . . Stay!
I'll cross

708

This way:
The moss
Upon these stones is dripping with the spray—
And now one turn, left hand,
And I shall stand
Before the very rock: not yet . . . not yet!
O let me think! No, no! I don't forget
(Forget!)—but this is sacred . . . peace, then, peace!
Release
From all dead things, that serve not to present
At my soul's grate the lovely innocent.
He had heard some idle talk
Of how his father had great strength to walk
And climb;
And so he thought that he must lose no time,
But instantly addressed
His little breast
To that tall cliff,
Smooth, perpendicular, too stiff
For cragsman from the wildest Hebrides,—
But he did bend his knees,
And spread his little arms, and laid
His body to the work, and made
Such genuine effort of ascent
As though he meant
To reach the top, of course, and had no doubt
Of what he was about—
So serious—no passing whim—
O, no! 'Twas thus his father clomb
And he had come
To climb like him.
And is he here?
O Braddan, are you here?
O darling, have no fear!
Speak to me! breathe some fond thing in my ear!
But what should Braddan know
Of me, and what I am,
And what I want—the little lamb!
What should he know,
Who four brief years ago
Knew only what a little child should know!

709

Should some kind angel, who doth teach my child,
Some angel with the love-deep eyes,
Some angel charged to keep him undefiled,
Hear my sad cries,
And bring him unto me,
Is my whole heart a thing for him to see?
Am I prepared that his sweet honesty
Should search it through and through?
O, eyes of honest blue!
O, fearless eyes!
O, mild surprise!
O, is there one, one chamber of my heart
That's fit
For him to sit
Therein, till it is time to part?
Or could I come to him?
No matter where—
Swim,
Swim the dark river, and be there?
Could a deep acquiescence
Convey me to his presence?
And if it could,
What were it after all
But as a young prince stood
Upon the city wall,
And saw his foster-father at the gate,
And wondered at his mean estate,
And made no sign
Unto the warders? But my Braddan's mine!
Mine! mine! and none's beside!
O helpless men, has everything been tried?
Where does the secret bide?
Is it a simple thing perhaps?
Yea, after all, a very simple thing,
That through the lapse
Of all the ages any tide
Might bring,
Nay, every tide has brought
Up to the level of our thought?
Is the blest converse that I crave
The function of a faculty we have,

710

But know not how to use, being, by some dark mischance,
Time-prisoned in a rooted ignorance?
A faculty which, if no God forbad it,
An accident might bring to light,
And some one, somewhere, waking in the night,
Would know he had it.
But we are cumbered with our egotisms;
A thousand prisms,
Hung round our souls, refract the single ray,
That else would show us instantly the way.
So even now, when my sad heart aspires
To height of paramount desires,
These verses mock it
With their rhyme-jangles, frustrate as a rocket,
That mounts, and breaks, and falls in coloured fading fires.
A curse
Upon the impotent verse!
Yet, no!
Not so—
It may be that in these
The soul shall yet win something more than ease;
For song is of the essence, and who sings
Touches the central springs—
Ah, vain imaginings!
Let be! let be!
O Braddan, pity me!
Yes, yes!
I know there is another way—press, press,
And I will press, sweet Braddan.
Sink, thought! sink, sink!
To think
Is but to madden.
Stop, heart!
You have no part
In this—die, soul,
Die, die! it must be soon—
The barrier's but a film; one gasp, and I shall swoon
Into his arms—
Braddan! why, Braddan! see, I keep my tryst—
O God! O Christ!
That snow

711

Is very slow
To disappear: how winter lags!
I see the dam
Upon the crags;
But nowhere can I see the little lamb

Statio Septima

The heavens are very blue
Above the western hill;
The earth is very still—
I will draw near, and view
The spot
Where he is . . . not.
But O dear cliff, O big, good-natured giant,
I think some delicate dint must still remain
On your broad surface, from the strain
Of limbs so sweetly pliant.
Behold!
The lamb! the lamb! fallen from the very rock!
Cold! cold!
Dead! dead!
His little head
Rests on the very block
That Braddan trod—
Dear lambs! twin lambs of God!
Old cliff, such things
Might move some stubborn questionings—
But now I question not—
See, see! the waterfall
Is robed in rainbows—what!
Our lambs? My Braddan shall have charge
Of him, and lead him by the marge
Of some bright stream celestial.
Braddan shall be a happy shepherd boy;
No trouble shall annoy
That soft green pasture—Ah, Murillo, saint!
Kind friend! that for all sorrowing hearts didst paint
John Baptist and the Lamb—those arms thrown round
That neck! Forgive me, God, that I have found
Some comfort in this little parable—

712

It gives me strength to climb the hill,
And humbly so return—
God bless the merry burn!
I have no will
But thine, O God! I know that Thou art true—
Be blue, O heavens, be blue!
Be still, O earth, be still!

Llanfairfechan, April 17, 1879.

A MORNING WALK

“Lie there,” I said, “my Sorrow! lie thou there!
And I will drink the lissome air,
And see if yet the heavens have gained their blue.”
Then rose my Sorrow as an aged man,
And stared, as such a one will stare,
A querulous doubt through tears that freshly ran;
Wherefore I said:—“Content! thou shalt go too.”

So went we through the sunlit crocus-glade,
I and my Sorrow, casting shade
On all the innocent things that upward pree,
And coax for smiles: but, as I went, I bowed,
And whispered:—“Be no whit afraid!
He will pass sad and gentle as a cloud—
It is my Sorrow; leave him unto me.”

And every floweret in that happy place
Yearned up into the weary face
With pitying love, and held its golden breath,
Regardless seeming he, as though within
Was nothing apt for their sweet grace,
Nor any sense save such as is akin
To charnel glooms and emptiness of death.

Then sung a lusty bird, whose throat was clear
And strong with elemental cheer,

713

Till very heaven seemed lifted with the joy:
Jet after jet tumultuous music burst
Fount-like, and filled the expanding sphere;
Whereat my soul was fain to slake its thirst,
Intent, and ravished with that blest employ.

The songster ceased:—articulate as a bell,
The rippling echoes fell and fell
Upon the shore of silence. Then I turned
To call upon my Sorrow—he was not;
But O, what splendour filled the dell!
There! there! O, there! upon the very spot
Where he had been an awful glory burned.

It was as though the mouth of God had kissed
And purpled into amethyst
Wan lips, as though red-quickening ichor rills
Had flushed his heart: 'twas he no more, no more!
'Twas she, my soul's evangelist,
My rose, my love, and lovelier than before,
Dew-nurtured on the far Celestial hills.

“O love,” I cried, “I come, I come to thee!
Stay! stay!” But softly, silently,
As pales the moon before the assault of day,
So, spectral-white against the brighter blue,
Faded my darling. But with me
Walks never more that shadow. God is true,
And God was in that bird, believe it as ye may.

EPISTOLA AD DAKYNS

Dakyns, when I am dead,
Three places must by you be visited,
Three places excellent,
Where you may ponder what I meant,
And then pass on—
Three places you must visit when I'm gone.

714

Yes, meant, not did, old friend!
For neither you nor I shall see the end,
And do the thing we wanted:
Natheless three places will be haunted
By what of me
The earth and air
Shall spare,
And fire and sea
Let be—
Three places only,
Three places, Dakyns

I

The first is by the Avon's side,
Where tall rocks flank the winding tide.
There come when morning's virgin kiss
Awakes from dreams the clematis,
And every thorn and briar is set
As with a diamond coronet—
There come, and pause upon the edge,
And I will lean in every ledge,
And melt in grays, and flash in whites,
And linger in a thousand lights;
And yield in bays, and urge in capes,
And fill the old familiar shapes;
And yearn in curves, and strain to meet
The pensive pressure of your feet.
And you shall feel an inner sense,
A being kindred and intense;
And you shall feel a strict control,
A something drawing at your soul,
A going out, a life suspended,
A spirit with a spirit blended.
And you shall start as from a dream,
While I, withdrawing down the stream,
Drift vaporous to the ancient sea,
A wraith, a film, a memory—
Three places, Dakyns.

715

II

The next is where a hundred fells
Stand round the Lake like sentinels,
Where Derwent, like a sleeping beauty,
Girdled with that watchful duty,
At Skiddaw's foot securely lies,
And gives her bosom to the skies.
O, come! and I will bid the moon
All subtle harmonies attune
That live in shadows and in heights,
A mystic chorus of delights.
O, come where many an island bevels
Its strand to meet the golden levels!
O, lay your heart upon each line,
So diamond-cut and crystalline,
That seams the marble of the mere,
And smoothes all trouble, calms all fear,
With that sweet natural straightness, free
From effort or inconstancy.
O, draw your thought with all its passion
Along the melancholy fashion
Of forms accentuate with the beat
Of the great Master's rhythmic feet.
But when upon the finest verge
The sense no further flight can urge,
When the full orb of contemplation
Is stretched, a nameless tribulation
Shall sway the whole, a silent stress
Borne in upon that loveliness;
A burden as of human ills,
A human trouble in the hills;
A quickening pulse in earth and sky,
And you shall know that it is I—
Three places, Dakyns.

III

The next is where God keeps for me
A little island in the sea,
A body for my needs, that so

716

I may not all unclothed go,
A vital instrument whereby
I still may commune with the sky,
When death has loosed the plaited strands,
And left me feeling for the lands.
Even now between its simple poles
It has the soul of all my souls.
But then—whatever I have been,
Whatever felt, whatever seen,
Whatever guessed, or understood,
The tones of right, the tints of good,
The loves, the hates, the hopes, the fears,
The gathered strength of all my years—
All that my life has in me wrought
Of complex essence shall be brought
And wedded to those primal forms
That have their scope in calms and storms,
Attunèd to the swells and falls
Of Nature's holy intervals.
And, old coeval use surviving,
No need shall be for any striving,
No need from point to point to press,
And swell the growing consciousness,
But in a moment I shall sit
Sphered in the very heart of it.
And every hill from me shall shoot,
And spread as from a central root,
And every crag and every spur
To me its attitude refer;
And I shall be the living heart,
And I shall live in every part,
With elemental cares engrossed,
And all the passion of the coast.
Come then, true Dakyns, be the test
Most meet to make me manifest!
Come, and immediate recognise
To all your moods the dumb replies.
Or stretch across a kindly void
The golden life-chords unalloyed
With thought, and instant they shall wake
The music they were made to make.

717

Thus shall you grow into a sense
Of islandhood, not taking thence
Some pretty surfaces and angles,
Tricking your soul, as with fine spangles
A savage studs his wampum belt,
But patient till the whole is felt,
And you become incorporate
Into an undivided state.
Then shall your body be as dead;
And you shall take to you instead
The system of the natural powers,
The heath that blooms, the cloud that lowers,
The antithesis of things that bide,
The cliff, the beach, the rock, the tide—
The lordly things, whose generous feud
Is but a fixed vicissitude.
Wherefore, O Maughold, if he come,
If Dakyns come,
Let not a voice be dumb
In any cave;
Fling up the wave
In wreaths of giddy spray;
O'er all the bay
Flame out in gorse around the “kern,”
And let his heart within him burn,
Until he gains the slope
Where, in the “sure and certain hope,”
Sleep the long rows:
Then let him quench the fiery gleams
In Death's gray shadow of repose,
As one who dreams
He knows not what, and yet he knows
I have her there
That was a bud so rare.
But, Bradda, if he come to you,
I charge you to be true!
Sit not all sullen by the sea,
But show that you are conscious it is he.
It is no vulgar tread
That bends the heath:

718

Broad be the heavens spread
Above, the sea beneath
Blue with that blue!
And let the whispering airs
Move in the ferns. By those strong prayers
Which rent my heart that day as lightning rends a cloud,
And rips it till it glares
To open view: by all the vows I vowed,
I charge you, and I charge you by the tears
And by the passion that I took
From you, and flung them to the vale,
And had the ultimate vision, do not fail!
Three places only—
Three places, Dakyns.

Clifton, December 1869

Cairn.

NATURE AND ART

I

I once loved Nature so that man was nought,
And nought the works of man:
Whether the human force that inward wrought
My vital needs outran,
And, bidden by great Pan,
In its all-quickening arms the visible deadness caught;

Or was it accident of time and place?
For men were few to see
Where I was reared, and Nature's copious grace
Of form and colour free
Eclipsed the piety
Of childish social loves, and motions of the race;

I know not quite: but this to me is known,
That, with a soft unrest,
Soul unto soul in perfect aptness grown,
I drew her to my breast,
A personal creature pressed,
Full of a passionate will, and moods that were her own.

719

Her own, yet, modulate and tuned to mine,
She shaped her meek replies
So that I ne'er bethought me to divine
If in her wondrous eyes
A light congenial lies,
Or, sprung from alien blood, insensate glories shine.

If homogeneous with me or not,
The question never tried me,
Or when, or wherefore, or of whom begot:
She seemed to stand outside me,
To soothe me and to guide me,
Another, or myself reflex, who cared one jot?

Thrice blest if I might roam on fell or shore
In exquisite solitude,
And uncontrolled the ο'αριστυς pour
That with its interlude,
Far from all discord rude,
Comes once to fresh young hearts, and comes not evermore.

O, poet flush of all-compelling youth!
O, great interpreter!
O, artist prescient of the higher truth!
O, confident Lucifer!
O, nobly prone to err!
O, shadowless of doubt! O, innocent of ruth!

O, instinct vast! O, indiscriminate mind!
Not thus, but hesitant long,
That sculptor won the marble to be kind;
Thus rather, right or wrong
Untaught, Ixion strong
Held Nephele in arms a god might not unbind.

Then came the interact of will on will
The monad soul to frame;
And I was one of many, passion still,
And use, and praise, and blame,
The different, the same,
Shaping the definite self with change of good and ill.

720

A man with other men I had to dwell;
I had to love and hate,
To traffic with my heart, to buy and sell
Love's wares at current rate,
Mine enemies in the gate
With keen-edged sword of speech to harass and to quell.

Wherefore I come a being manifold,
Nature, to sue thy grace.
It is not that my heart is growing cold,
If, conscious of my race,
I look into thy face
With a less simple trust than that I felt of old.

It is because thou seem'st at our alarms
Unmoved: the ages fall
Helpless from out the rigour of thine arms,
Thou heeding not at all
If bridal veil or pall
Illustrate or obscure the glory of thy charms.

It is because, with all thy loveliness,
Thou hast no delicate flush
Of feeling instant in its brimmed excess,
And rippled at the brush
Of lightest thought: the hush
Is thine of ordered change, fixed and emotionless.

It is because thou canst not apprehend
Beyond our simplest needs;
Because, obedient to thy native end,
Thou knowest only deeds
Where link to link succeeds,
And no irrational gaps the golden sequence rend.

It is because the tracks of errant souls
Appear to thee so straight:
Unskilled to mark how latent force controls
The bias and the rate,
How inward grasping fate
Collects the various lines, and diverse sends the bowls.

721

Moreover, all the things that men have done,
The things that men have said,
Have made another light beneath the sun,
Another darkness shed,
Another soul-stream fed,
To cool in other wells, o'er other weirs to run.

I grant thou hast the very notes of prime,
But of the thousand tunes
Wherewith our summer loads the growing time,
The joyaunce of our Junes,
The full chromatic noons,
There is no scale to fit thy diapason chime.

Nor wilt thou, kindly monished, recognise
Of life the complex game:
We are not now as when, 'neath kindlier skies
Begot, to that great dame
Th' auroral offspring came;
We are no babes astride upon Eve's awful thighs.

So, haply, one has known a foster-sister,
And, when the years have gone,
Has felt, with all his hopes, as if he missed her,
And come, and looked upon
Her face, and proved anon
Her eyes were meaningless, and, sadly silent, kissed her.

II

O, Heaven! the mannikin! Is this gratitude?
“A foster-sister,” saidst thou?
“A complex game?” What fell Locusta stewed
That damnèd fucus? Spread'st thou
The stuff upon thee? wed'st thou
That specious harlotry from Hell's black bosom spewed?

Up, up! for shame! She is thy sister: love her,
Come to her yet again:
Think not thine own quintessenced self above her!
O, see how she is fain
Her shyness to explain!
O, understand the blush her virgin cheek doth cover!

722

Eve, Adam! Yes, and all that Eden sap—
Is it impossible?
'Twould do thee good to lie in her great lap,
To have thy utmost will,
To fill thy utmost fill,
Creamed from the copious duct of that primeval pap.

Thou talk'st of music, and of tunes accord
With specialties to flirt—
What wouldst thou have? a homily—good lord!
A logic malapert,
With pretty fence expert,
The play of thy caprice infallible to ward?

O fool! O fool! This is the very acme:
Far, far within the cells
Of winding thought, where man may never track me
She takes me, and she tells
The quaintest things, and spells
Ineffable spirit-tunes, and lulls the cares that rack me.

O, twilight bliss! O, happy even-song!
How well I know thy power!
O heather bells, that peal your faint ding-dong!
O bee, in sunny hour
Urging from flower to flower
The shrill-resounding brass of thy most patient gong!

O prelude of the windy-wailing morn!
O long-drawn moorland whistle!
O rustling of the multitudinous corn!
O sough of reed or thistle!
O holy, holy missal
Intoned by hooded clouds! O joy that I was born!

But thou'rt a being manifold—alack!
And tak'st the simple sense
Into thy crucible, and giv'st it back
Brain-filtered and intense,
And Nature is too dense,
Forsooth! to hit thy scope, and imitate the knack!

723

Nay, what is this thou of thyself hast made?
Is this development?
O Lord of all the souls! is this the trade
For which we here were sent?
Is't not an accident,
By-play of function-work, by casual contact swayed?

'Tis not essential, though the world is roomy,
That I should coexist
With any animal bipes implume:
It is the core and gist
Of life that I should list
To Nature's voice alone, and hearken if she woo me.

But, as it is, innumerous bipeds press
And crowd on one another,
Nor would I have one animal the less;
And I must know my brother,
Some odd misgivings smother,
And smile, and chat, and take my commons with the mess.

Of course, the absolutest slave that crawls
Is social: so am I:
I have a place, I live within four walls—
Even horse to horse will try
Some matter of reply,
And hear his neighbour munch, and whinny o'er the stalls.

But this is accident, casual relation,
Wholly subordinate
To the main purport of our earthly station,
Which is to permeate
One soul with fullest freight
Of constant natural forms, not factual complication.

Else were our life both frivolous and final,
A mere skiomachy,
Not succulent of growth, not officinal
To what shall after be,
But Fortune's devilry
Of Harlequin with smirk theatro-columbinal—

724

A changeling life, that to the world's great heart
Just leans its elfish lips,
And soon falls off, and dies an imp confest,
And seeks the void, and skips,
As the dull Fury whips
The ineffectual ghosts, and drives it with the rest.

And, if the man has 'scaped such inanition,
Then why, returning here,
Does he not speak the language of contrition,
And strip the base veneer
From his poor soul, and fear,
And seek the long-lost love that saved him from perdition?

What means this talk of “complex game,” and matters
That she “cannot divine”?
I tear this wretched sham of his to tatters:
O, blessed nature-wine!
O, sacred anodyne!
He is fact-poisoned, he! and knows not what he chatters.

Let him come humbly, let him make confession
It is no fault of hers
If he is all too dull to catch th' expression
Of her great thought, or blurs
Its mobile signatures
With mediate glare of self, and balks the true possession.

O sweet Titania, bedded in the lilies!—
I hate to think of it—
Pranking that ass's head with daffodillies,
That in his puzzled wit
Knows not thou art more fit
To hold in odorous arms the Peleïd Achilles!

And yet he says, his lip fastidious-curled:—
“She's unappreciative.”
Take him, good Puck! I prythee have him hurled
To where he is more native,
To chums communicative—
Snout, Snug, the parish club he fondly calls the world!

725

For me the happiness—my good I find
In Nature's energies,
And am not frustrate. Nature is not blind
In promptings such as these,
But holds the secret keys,
Wherewith the wards that fence our hope she can unwind.

Both wrong, both right. 'Tis God appoints our state—
Nature and Art are one—
True art, true nature, never separate
In things beneath the sun.
So is His pleasure done,
Who moulds the wills of men, and grasps the bars of fate

LIFE

O life of man, if life 'tis meet to call
This rolling with a rolling ball
Some seventy periods round the sun—
O life, that only art to have begun
A life, then straight art not a life at all.

O rigid curve mechanical,
If thou wert only absolute,
If all our energies were summed in thee,
If one great pathos thrilled the iron ring,
If, points upon the circle, fixed and mute
We felt the dominant spring
And strain of power, then were it blest to be!—

Not death would all be death, if, truly free,
We had the motion of the sphere,
If no quick atom jarred
Oblique, and crossed the act divine,
And vexed the loyal round with idiot cheer
Of self, and scrabbled all the line
With zigzags of the will, and kindly oneness marred.

726

ALMA MATER

O mother Earth, by the bright sky above thee,
I love thee, O, I love thee!
And yet they say that I must leave thee soon;
And if it must be so,
Then to what sun or moon
Or star I am to go,
Or planet, matters not for me to know.
O mother Earth, by the bright sky above thee,
I love thee, O I love thee!

O, whither will you send me?
O, wherefore will you rend me
From your warm bosom, mother mine?—
I can't fix my affections
On a state of conic sections,
And I don't care how old Daedalus
May try to coax and wheedle us
With wings he manufactures,
Sure to end in compound fractures,
Or in headers at right-angles to the brine—
O mother Earth, by the bright sky above thee,
I love thee, O, I love thee!

I cannot leave thee, mother:
I love thee, and not another;
And I can't say “man and brother”
To a shadowy abstraction,
To an uncomfortable fraction,
To the skeletons of quiddities,
And similar stupidities.
Have mercy, mother, mercy!
The unjustest of novercae
Sometimes leaves off her snarlings
At her predecessor's darlings;
And thou art all my mother,
I know not any other.

727

O mother Earth, by the bright sky above thee,
I love thee, O, I love thee!

So let me leave thee never,
But cling to thee for ever,
And hover round thy mountains,
And flutter round thy fountains,
And pry into thy roses fresh and red;
And blush in all thy blushes,
And flush in all thy flushes,
And watch when thou art sleeping,
And weep when thou art weeping,
And be carried with thy motion,
As the rivers and the ocean,
As the great rocks and the trees are,
And all the things one sees are—
O mother, this were glorious life,
This were not to be dead.
O mother Earth, by the bright sky above thee,
I love thee, O, I love thee!

TRITON ESURIENS

How cold and hungry is the sea to-day,
How clamorous against the thrifty shore,
That yields not of her store
Save sands, and weeds, and pebbles of the bay!
“Give more! give more!”
Methinks I hear him say;
“And drive the hunger of my heart away!

“Give me of sunny flowers, of golden grain,
Of meadows sopped with sippings of the dew;
Small loss it were to you,
To me great solace of my endless pain;
For few! ah, few!
And shadowy and vain
The joys that haunt my solitary reign!

728

“Take me for ever to your constant breast,
O land, O lovely, most unchanging land!
Can you not understand
How all my restlessness desires your rest?
What murderer's brand
Is stamped by God's behest
Upon this brow, that you should loathe my quest?

“O mute, insensate land! nor voiceless she,
For she can speak, and I have heard her speak,
When zephyrs kissed her cheek,
Love-whispering in the twilight on the lea;
Then, hushed, and meek,
I've heard her gentle glee,
And schooled my heart to think 'twas not for me.

“Sometimes at evening I have heard you pray,
And listened, looking up the misty glen,
And only said Amen,
Else silent, lest one sound uncaught should stray;
And then, O then!
‘Our Father,’ you did say;
But I have been a wanderer wild alway.

“O, I am hungry, hungry at my heart!
Give me, O, give me, even of thy worst!
Give, as to one accurst,
Drear moorlands, and all rushy fens, where start
Black streams, that, nurst
In barrenness, must part!
Give me but wastes and snippets of the chart!”

Thus speaks the sea, his hue all ashen gray
With paleness of inveterate desires;
Then on the ebb retires—
Full strange it seems that that cold heart should sway
With passionate fires!
But ah! my soul can say
How vain it is when she requires
The coast, so near, yet on whose absolute spires
Looms the sad frown of an eternal “Nay.”

729

ISRAEL AND HELLAS

I sometimes wonder of the Grecian men,
If all that was to them for life appears:
Simple, full-orbed, they float across our ken,
And to their modern feres
Present the gathered light of all their years.

But was it all—the utmost of their reach—
That unto us the sedulous scribe has passed?
To carve on marble-slabs of that great speech
Great thoughts, that so might last—
Was that the single aim their copious souls forecast?

On them, high-strung (for so it seems to us),
Did no kind god distil a wholesome ease?
Laughed no fair child for good Herodotus?
Looked there no maiden of the midland seas
Into thy clear gray eyes, Thucydides?

One life, one work—was this to them the all—
God's purpose marked, and followed fair and true?
Or were they slaves like us, whom doubts enthrall—
A hesitant, futile crew,
Who know not what our Lord would have us do?

Was mind supreme? Was animal craving nought?
Or that the essence? this the accident?
Did it suffice them to have nobly thought?
And, the whole impulse spent,
Did the vexed waters meet in smoothness of content?

They ate, they drank, they married in the prime,
And tied their souls with natural, homely needs,
They bowed before the beadles of the time,
And wore the common weeds,
And fed the priests, and ménagëd the creeds.

730

Or were they happier, breathing social free,
No smug respectability to pat
And soothe with pledges of equality,
Ironical, whereat
The goodman glows through all his realms of fat?

And was it possible for them to hold
A creed elastic in that lightsome air,
And let sweet fables droop in flexile fold
From off their shoulders bare,
Loose-fitting, jewel-clasped with fancies rare?

For not as yet intense across the sea
Came the swart Hebrew with a fiery haste;
In long brown arms entwined Euphrosyne,
And round her snowy waist
Fast bound the Nessus-robe, that may not be displaced.

Yes, this is true; but the whole truth is more:
This was not all the burning Orient gave;
Through purple partings of her golden door
Came gleams upon the wave,
Long shafts that search the souls of men who crave;

And probings of the heart, and spirit-balm,
And to deep questionings the deep replies
That echo in the everlasting calm—
All this from forth those skies,
Beside Gehenna fire and worm that never dies.

Yet, if the Greek went straighter to his aim,
If, knowing wholly what he meant to do,
He did it, given circumstance the same,
Or near the same, then must I hold it true
That from his different creed the vantage came,
Who, seizing one world where we balance two,
From its great secular heart the readier current drew.

731

DREAMS

It looks as if in dreams the soul was free,
No bodily limit checks its absolute play;
Then why doth it not use its liberty,
And clear a certain way
To further truth beyond the actual sea?

It is not so; for when, with loosened grip,
The warder sense unlocks the visible hold,
Then will my soul from forth its chamber slip,
An idiot blithe and bold,
And into vacancy of folly skip;

Or aimless wander on the poppied floor
Of gaudy fields, or, scarce upon the street,
Return unto the grim, familiar door,
And, coward, crave retreat,
As who had never been outside before.

What boots it that I hold the chartered space,
If I but fill it with th' accustomed forms,
And load its breathless essence with the trace
Of casual-risen storms,
And drag my chain along the lovely place?

O, but if God would make a deep suspense,
And draw me perfect from th' adhesive sheath;
If all the veils and swathings of pretence,
Dropt from me, sunk beneath,
Then would I get me very far from hence.

I'd come to Him with one swift arrow-dart,
Aimed at the zenith of th' o'erbrooding blue;
Straight to the centre of His awful heart
The flight long-winged and true
Should bear me rapt through all the spheres that part.

732

But as it is, it is a waste of rest.
God uses not the occasion: on the rock
Stands prone my soul, a diver lean undrest,
And looks, and fears the shock,
And turns and hides its shame with some poor sorry jest.

PREPARATION

Hast thou a cunning instrument of play,
'Tis well; but see thou keep it bright,
And tuned to primal chords, so that it may
Be ready day and night.
For when He comes thou know'st not, who shall say:—
“These virginals are apt”; and try a note,
And sit, and make sweet solace of delight,
That men shall stand to listen on the way,
And all the room with heavenly music float.

PLANTING

Who would be planted chooseth not the soil,
Or here or there,
Or loam or peat,
Wherein he best may grow,
And bring forth guerdon of the planter's toil—
The lily is most fair,
But says not:—“I will only blow
Upon a southern land”; the cedar makes no coil
What rock shall owe
The springs that wash his feet;
The crocus cannot arbitrate the foil
That for its purple radiance is most meet—
Lord, even so
I ask one prayer,
The which if it be granted,
It skills not where
Thou plantest me, only I would be planted.

733

OBVIAM

I needs must meet him, for he hath beset
All roads that men do travel, hill and plain;
Nor aught that breathes shall pass
Unchallenged of his debt.
But what and if, when I shall whet
My front to meet him, then, as in a glass,
Darkly, I shall behold that he is twain—
Earthward a mask of jet,
Heavenward a coronet
Sun-flushed with roseate gleams—In any case
It hardly can be called a mortal pain
To meet whom met I ne'er shall meet again.

SPECULA

When He appoints to meet thee, go thou forth—
It matters not
If south or north,
Bleak waste or sunny plot.
Nor think, if haply He thou seek'st be late,
He does thee wrong.
To stile or gate
Lean thou thy head, and long!
It may be that to spy thee He is mounting
Upon a tower,
Or in thy counting
Thou hast mista'en the hour.
But, if he come not, neither do thou go
Till Vesper chime.
Belike thou then shalt know
He hath been with thee all the time.

734

“SOCIAL SCIENCE”

O happy souls, that mingle with your kind,
That laugh with laughers, weep with weepers,
Whom use gregarious to your like can bind,
Who sow with sowers, reap with reapers!
To me it is not known,
The gentle art to moan
With moaners, wake with wakers, sleep with sleepers.

It must be good to think the common thought,
To learn with learners, teach with teachers;
To hold the adjusted soul till it is brought
To pray with prayers, preach with preachers.
But I can never catch
The dominant mode, nor match
The tone, and whine with whiners, screech with screechers.

Yet surely there is warmth, if we combine
And loaf with loafers, hunt with hunters;
It is a comfort as of nozzling swine
To row with rowers, punt with punters—
How is it then that I
Am alien to the stye,
Nor ever swill with swillers, grunt with grunters?

I cannot choose but think it is a blessing
To fool with fools, to scheme with schemers;
To feel another's arms your soul caressing,
To sigh with sighers, dream with dreamers—
But I can't hit the span,
The regulation man,
Ephemer decent with his co-ephemers.

Yet, after all, if frustrate of this pleasure,
To eat with eaters, drink with drinkers,
If I can't find the Greatest Common Measure,
And cheat with cheaters, wink with winkers,
At any rate the struggle
My truer self to juggle,

735

And force my mind to fit
The standard ell of wit,
Shall never dwarf nor cramp me,
Shall never stint nor scamp me
So that I bleat with bleaters, slink with slinkers.

Thus spake I once, with fierce self-gratulation,
Nor hoped with hopers, feared with fearers;
Yet, discontent, it seemed a mere privation
To doubt with doubters, sneer with sneerers:
It seemed more happiness
A brother's hand to press,
To talk with talkers, hear with hearers.

Wherefore, albeit I know it is not great,
Mobbing with mobs, believing with believers,
Yet for the most it is a snugger state
To gain with gainers, grieve with grievers,
Than, desolate on a peak,
To whet one's lonely beak,
And watch the beaver huddling with the beavers.

But though this boon denied, my soul, love thou
The lover, gibe not with the giber!
O ragged soul! I cannot piece thee now
That, thread to thread, and fibre unto fibre,
Thou with another soul
Shouldst make a sentient whole:
But I am proud thou dost retain
Some tinct of that imperial murex grain
No carrack ever bore to Thames or Tiber.

736

AT THE PLAY

As in a theatre the amusëd sense
Beholds the strange vicissitudes of things,
Young Damon's loves, the fates of clowns and kings,
And all the motley of the gay pretence—
Beholds, and on an acme of suspense
Stands vibrant till the curtain falls, door swings,
Lights gutter, and the weary murmurings
Of o'er-watched varlets intimate us thence:
Even so we gaze not on the things that are,
Nor aught behold but what is adumbrate.
The show is specious, and we laugh and weep
At what is only meant spectacular;
And when the curtain falls, we may not wait:
Death takes the lights, and we go home to sleep.

THE END

University of Virginia Library

III. LYRICAL

CLEVEDON VERSES

I Hallam's Church, Clevedon

II Dora

III Secuturus

IV Cui Bono?

V Star-steering

VI Per omnia Deus

VII Norton Wood