 | The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith |  |
PAUL GAUNT
In the still old townWhere the minster towers
Toll the passing hours
To the chiming College Crown,
Sat the sister and her brother
In their quiet room,
Amid the gathering gloom
Of murky storm-girt weather;
She restless fingers twitching,
And he absorbed in sketching.
With a long, low wail
Moaned the fateful sea,
Foretelling woeful tale
Of wreck and misery
By and by to be:
And the fisher-women,
Gathering in bands,
With the cry of human
Anguish wrung their hands,
Gazing seaward ever
With a yearning and a shiver,
As they searched the wave and spray
For the boats that sailed away
At the dawning of the day.
Deep wrapt up in scheming
Was his inventive brain,
While his sister, fondly dreaming,
Seemed to nurse an aching pain,
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Tears upon the sand like rain.
But mastered by the craving
Of inventive thought,
How the sea was raving
Then he heeded not,
Nor how hearts were braving,
Or trembling, at their lot.
On a forehead massive
Brooded thought serene;
Seemed his face impassive,
And features sharp and lean—
Features thin and pale and lean;
Fingers long and steady
Held pencil ever ready
For some new machine
Shaping in his brain, I ween.
And her restless fingers twitched
As he brooded on, and sketched,
And the fisher-women gazed
From the sand-dunes, numb and dazed;
But he neither felt nor wondered
At the anguish of their pain,
Only silent sat, and pondered!
Tracing o'er and o'er again
Novel figures from his brain.
So he often found relief
From the bitter thought of grief
Which his heart was keen to feel,
But his hand was weak to heal;
And the world was all forgot
In his novel forms of thought,
Though its passion and its pain
Gave the hint on which he wrought.
Then his sister, turning slowly,
With a wistful melancholy,
As of one with listening weary,
As of one with waiting dreary,
As of one who had a pain
Lying where a joy had lain,
Said, “The sky is wild and eerie,
And I fear there will be sorrow
On the sea, and on the land
A dread of the to-morrow,
And the forms upon the sand.
I am heavy as I think;
I am dull and scarce know why;
But I feel as on the brink
Of some unknown misery.
Shall I sing? You must be weary:
And that pencil-scratch is dreary
With its monotone. I'll hum
Something just as it will come,
Something just as it is sent—
Never mind the instrument.”
Milly Gaunt's Song
—Late, late.
Late, late in May the hawthorn burst in bloom,
Long searched by chill blasts from the nipping East;
Late, late the fire-balls flamed upon the broom,
And golden-barrèd bees began to feast.
Long searched by chill blasts from the nipping East;
Late, late the fire-balls flamed upon the broom,
And golden-barrèd bees began to feast.
Late, late the bluebells in the forest glade
Made skyey patches, starred with primrose sheen,
And lady-ferns, uncoiling in the shade,
Turned serpent-folds to plumes of waving green.
Made skyey patches, starred with primrose sheen,
And lady-ferns, uncoiling in the shade,
Turned serpent-folds to plumes of waving green.
Late, late the bright fringe tipped the branching spruce,
And golden fingers sprouted on the pine;
And June came in before the curls were loose
Of gay laburnum in the clear sunshine.
And golden fingers sprouted on the pine;
And June came in before the curls were loose
Of gay laburnum in the clear sunshine.
Late, late they came, but yet they came at last,
Lilac, laburnum, sweet Forget-me-not;
But waiting for my summer, summer passed
In flowerless hoping, and in fruitless thought.
Lilac, laburnum, sweet Forget-me-not;
But waiting for my summer, summer passed
In flowerless hoping, and in fruitless thought.
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Came sunshine to the blossoms and the flowers,
Came gladness to the earth and wandering bee,
Came balmy airs and dews and tender showers,
But my spring never came, for ne'er came he.
Paul.
Came gladness to the earth and wandering bee,
Came balmy airs and dews and tender showers,
But my spring never came, for ne'er came he.
—Why, Milly dear, what is the matter with you?
There's a crack in your voice, and a shake in your head,
As if out on the strike, and with nothing to do,
You had gone to the street with a baby or two,
And a ballad to sing for your bread.
Come try something else, and we'll see what is wrong,
And how that cracked quaver got into your song.
There's a crack in your voice, and a shake in your head,
As if out on the strike, and with nothing to do,
You had gone to the street with a baby or two,
And a ballad to sing for your bread.
Come try something else, and we'll see what is wrong,
And how that cracked quaver got into your song.
Milly sings again
—Row, Burnie, Row
Row, burnie, row
Through the bracken-glen;
Row, burnie, row
By the haunts of men;
Where the golden cowslips glint,
Through the wild thyme and the mint,
By the barley and the lint;
Row, burnie, row.
Through the bracken-glen;
Row, burnie, row
By the haunts of men;
Where the golden cowslips glint,
Through the wild thyme and the mint,
By the barley and the lint;
Row, burnie, row.
Row, burnie, row
Tinkling under heather bells;
Row, burnie, row
Down to where my true love dwells;
Singing songs down to the sea,
Singing of the hill countrie,
Singing to my love from me:
Row, burnie, row.
Tinkling under heather bells;
Row, burnie, row
Down to where my true love dwells;
Singing songs down to the sea,
Singing of the hill countrie,
Singing to my love from me:
Row, burnie, row.
Row, burnie, row
To him that's far awa,
Row, burnie, row,
And mind him o' us a'.
Say there's naething to regret,
Say I never can forget,
Say I lo'e him dearly yet:
Row, burnie, row.
To him that's far awa,
Row, burnie, row,
And mind him o' us a'.
Say there's naething to regret,
Say I never can forget,
Say I lo'e him dearly yet:
Row, burnie, row.
Row, burnie, row
Through the gowans white,
Row, burnie, row,
Gleaming in the light:
Let ilka ripple bear
Fond kisses to him there;
O my heart it's longing sair,
Row, burnie, row.
Paul.
Through the gowans white,
Row, burnie, row,
Gleaming in the light:
Let ilka ripple bear
Fond kisses to him there;
O my heart it's longing sair,
Row, burnie, row.
—There, that's how a girl should sing. I've been forgetting,
While puzzling out notions that nobody heeds,
Stupid owl that I am! not to see you were fretting,
While I sit here all day, neither gaining nor getting,
With the fancies an idle head breeds.
Yet there's something in this one, I think; but it's true,
I always think that while the fancy is new.
Milly.
—Yes, Paul, I'm sure there is,
There's always something in it:
Only leave it for a minute,
For it's worse than loneliness
When you sit beside me silent,
Like some shadowy mountain island
Washed by waves I cannot see,
Hid in canopy of clouds,
Peopled too by shining crowds
That speak to you, but not to me.
It's like waiting—don't you see?—
By some veilèd mystery.
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It will do you good to rest;
Thought will drift away to dreaming
In a brain too hardly pressed:
And this strike so long has been
That my little purse grows lean.
Paul.
—Ah! the strike!—yes, it's dreadful, I know: it is war
For the wealth of the rich, but the life of the poor:
Our new, modern warfare, and holier far
Than ever was bannered by Cross or star,
Or battled by hero pure:
It is Capital, gathered on credit, that stands
Against Capital, gathered in brains and hands.
For the wealth of the rich, but the life of the poor:
Our new, modern warfare, and holier far
Than ever was bannered by Cross or star,
Or battled by hero pure:
It is Capital, gathered on credit, that stands
Against Capital, gathered in brains and hands.
I'm a workman, dear, and I mean to be;
I like the sound of the hammer and saw,
And the feel of a file in my hands, and to see
Work neatly done, as it ought to be,
Turned out without fault or flaw,
Nut and rivet and nail and screw
All driven home, dear, right and true.
I like the sound of the hammer and saw,
And the feel of a file in my hands, and to see
Work neatly done, as it ought to be,
Turned out without fault or flaw,
Nut and rivet and nail and screw
All driven home, dear, right and true.
I hate a fellow that scamps his job,
False work never yet won the day;
I'd sooner footpad it, and steal and rob,
Or go pick-pocketing through a mob,
Than play that dirty play;
It's the pride of our land that the work is good
In its wool and cotton, and iron and wood.
Let us stand by our order, then, fighting it out:
True men they are, in the main, and right;
The quarrel is good, and our hearts are stout,
And every one knows what it's all about,
And our patience is our might:
A fairer wage, and a shorter day,
It is time we had time to think and pray.
False work never yet won the day;
I'd sooner footpad it, and steal and rob,
Or go pick-pocketing through a mob,
Than play that dirty play;
It's the pride of our land that the work is good
In its wool and cotton, and iron and wood.
Let us stand by our order, then, fighting it out:
True men they are, in the main, and right;
The quarrel is good, and our hearts are stout,
And every one knows what it's all about,
And our patience is our might:
A fairer wage, and a shorter day,
It is time we had time to think and pray.
Yes, the strike is right: it is war, of course,
And in war we must count upon rubs and blows;
And who may be better, and who may be worse,
Who may be stricken with grief and remorse,
Only the end shall disclose:
But true to each other, our life will be more
And fuller and richer than ever before.
And in war we must count upon rubs and blows;
And who may be better, and who may be worse,
Who may be stricken with grief and remorse,
Only the end shall disclose:
But true to each other, our life will be more
And fuller and richer than ever before.
Milly.
—Ah! well, I do not know;
I hope it may be so.
But I judge by what I see,
And my heart is failing me.
Have you heard young Darrel's song
Of the famine of the coal?
Some will have it he is wrong,
Though he sings with all his soul,
Till my blood is tingling hot,
Thinking of the poor man's lot.
Song—
The Coal Famine
Coal, nor wood, nor peat,
Nothing to put in the grate!
And the east wind hurtling along the street,
Dashing the windows with rain and sleet,
And sifting through roofing and slate.
Nothing to put in the grate!
And the east wind hurtling along the street,
Dashing the windows with rain and sleet,
And sifting through roofing and slate.
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What are the bairns to do,
With their duds so worn and thin,
For all the day long, all the night through,
Shaking the soot from the smokeless flue,
The gusts come roaring in?
With their duds so worn and thin,
For all the day long, all the night through,
Shaking the soot from the smokeless flue,
The gusts come roaring in?
Oh I miss their noisy din,
That once had made me scold,
For now they are sitting so pinched and thin,
With a shiver without, and a gnawing within,
Silent, and dreary and cold.
That once had made me scold,
For now they are sitting so pinched and thin,
With a shiver without, and a gnawing within,
Silent, and dreary and cold.
For there's little to boil or bake,
Little to roast or fry,
Little of daylight when we wake,
Little to do but shiver and shake
As the chill, dark hours go by.
Little to roast or fry,
Little of daylight when we wake,
Little to do but shiver and shake
As the chill, dark hours go by.
The great lord's iron heel,
The rich man's selfish pride
They were hard to bear; but it's worse to feel
The poor man turning a heart of steel
To the poor man at his side.
Milly.
The rich man's selfish pride
They were hard to bear; but it's worse to feel
The poor man turning a heart of steel
To the poor man at his side.
—So Darrel sings his song;
Some will have it he is wrong,
Who are also wise and good,
Yet the poet's eye sees more
Than is often understood
By the Reason we adore.
Listen to the cry bewildering
Of the women at the doors,
And the wail of the small children
Lying hungry on the floors,
While the lads draw in their breath
With their lips as white as death.
Great their patience to endure,
And if strikes will bring a cure
To their ills, why, fight it out:
But for aught that's come about
Hitherto, to me they seem
The lean kine in Pharaoh's dream,
Eating up the bigger wage
By their idleness and debt,
Hurrying down another stage
To a sorrow deeper yet.
Oh I do not understand—
We women never do—
But I somehow think the land
Was kindlier to the hand
Of the workman long ago,
When the furnace ne'er was quenched.
And the work was never flinched,
Nor the bellows ceased to blow
On the cinders all aglow.
Paul.
—Why, of course, it was, Milly: for master and man
Were brothers, and stood by each other then;
They ate at the same board, and drank the same can,
And the Master was master, and true artizan,
And knew all the craft of his men:
He was not a fellow that handled quills
With a head for nothing but “doing bills.”
Were brothers, and stood by each other then;
They ate at the same board, and drank the same can,
And the Master was master, and true artizan,
And knew all the craft of his men:
He was not a fellow that handled quills
With a head for nothing but “doing bills.”
And his men were men to him, not mere hands,
And their only quarrel was who should smite
The deftest blows where the anvil stands;
And they were not driven by rough commands
Off to the left and right.—
Ah! a little more human brotherhood
Would go far to sweeten the workman's mood.
And their only quarrel was who should smite
The deftest blows where the anvil stands;
And they were not driven by rough commands
Off to the left and right.—
Ah! a little more human brotherhood
Would go far to sweeten the workman's mood.
That's what is wrong, dear. The wealth of the land
Comes from the forge and the smithy and mine,
From hammer and chisel, and wheel and band,
And the thinking brain, and the skilful hand,
And yet we must toil and pine,
That one may be rich by driving quills,
And a floating credit of Banker's bills.
Comes from the forge and the smithy and mine,
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And the thinking brain, and the skilful hand,
And yet we must toil and pine,
That one may be rich by driving quills,
And a floating credit of Banker's bills.
They call that capital! it is a lie;
The capital force of the country still
Is the power of work, the nice-judging eye,
The brain to perfect machinery,
And the knack of well-trained skill;
These are the source of all our gains;
Much your credit will do without hands and brains.
The capital force of the country still
Is the power of work, the nice-judging eye,
The brain to perfect machinery,
And the knack of well-trained skill;
These are the source of all our gains;
Much your credit will do without hands and brains.
Just then on the creaking stair
A weary step was heard,
And she started from her chair
With an eager, wistful air,
And her heaving bosom stirred,
But she uttered not a word,
Only drew a long breath in
Till her parted lips grew thin,
Only flushed o'er all her face,
With a look of tender grace,
As a worn and haggard man
Dragged his form into the room,
Coming from the murky gloom
With a ghastly face and wan,
And great eyes all aflame.
Seemed the gaunt and lanky form
Like the spirit of the storm,
Haggard at the work he came
To perform.
Then Paul: “Why, Milly dear,
It is Lyell; what is wrong?
He is wet and ill, I fear;
But we'll give him hearty cheer:
Welcome, brother, come along:
Never welcomer to me
Face of one long lost at sea
Coming unexpectedly.”
Austen.
—What is wrong, Paul? Nothing that I know of; all is right.
In this best of possible worlds, how should anything be wrong?
All is ordered, man, by perfect love and wisdom Infinite,
To go smooth as your machinery, and blithe as Milly's song.
As for me, I have been going up and down, and to and fro,
Like a personage you've read of in that queer old Book of Job,
With a tinker, given to drinking, and his company was low,
But he taught me one or two things that are happening on our globe;
And my old professor says nothing's worthy more of praise
Than an ardent thirst for knowledge in our curious youthful days.
We camped in woodland corners 'mong the oak scrub and the broom,
With a clear stream tinkling near us, and the pine-scents in the air,
And our beds were white and fragrant with the hawthorn's falling bloom,
And our caldron daily smoking with the coney and the hare:
These fellows have an eye for the picturesque and pleasant,
And a gentlemanly taste, too, for partridge, grouse, and pheasant.
And he taught me no small wisdom, which is good for human souls,
About the call of night-birds, about weasels, about moles,
About salmon in their season, and to track the honey-bee,
About stalking of the red-deer, and all bird economy,
About tinkering of kettles, and cookery of game,
About doctoring of horses, and transmuting of the same,
About spaeing people's fortunes, and breeding in and in,
And also a philosophy that quite gets rid of sin.
Yet we had to part; and also I hope never more to meet him,
He was such an arrant scoundrel, vermin worse than any rat;
And though I'm not particular, I really had to beat him,
And there's no gospel surer than that I was right in that.
In this best of possible worlds, how should anything be wrong?
All is ordered, man, by perfect love and wisdom Infinite,
To go smooth as your machinery, and blithe as Milly's song.
As for me, I have been going up and down, and to and fro,
Like a personage you've read of in that queer old Book of Job,
With a tinker, given to drinking, and his company was low,
But he taught me one or two things that are happening on our globe;
And my old professor says nothing's worthy more of praise
Than an ardent thirst for knowledge in our curious youthful days.
We camped in woodland corners 'mong the oak scrub and the broom,
With a clear stream tinkling near us, and the pine-scents in the air,
And our beds were white and fragrant with the hawthorn's falling bloom,
And our caldron daily smoking with the coney and the hare:
These fellows have an eye for the picturesque and pleasant,
And a gentlemanly taste, too, for partridge, grouse, and pheasant.
And he taught me no small wisdom, which is good for human souls,
About the call of night-birds, about weasels, about moles,
About salmon in their season, and to track the honey-bee,
About stalking of the red-deer, and all bird economy,
About tinkering of kettles, and cookery of game,
About doctoring of horses, and transmuting of the same,
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And also a philosophy that quite gets rid of sin.
Yet we had to part; and also I hope never more to meet him,
He was such an arrant scoundrel, vermin worse than any rat;
And though I'm not particular, I really had to beat him,
And there's no gospel surer than that I was right in that.
Now, I want a job of work, Paul; I have thews and sinews strong,
And the arm that beat the gipsy might wheel a barrow 'long.
I cannot be a craftsman, I cannot ply a tool,
I cannot use the chisel and the hammer and the rule;
I know nothing of your art, lad; but I could bear a hod,
And handle pick and shovel, and carry earth and sod.
Will you find me work to do, then? I am tired of working brains,
Like a treadmill yielding nothing but my labour for my pains.
And the arm that beat the gipsy might wheel a barrow 'long.
I cannot be a craftsman, I cannot ply a tool,
I cannot use the chisel and the hammer and the rule;
I know nothing of your art, lad; but I could bear a hod,
And handle pick and shovel, and carry earth and sod.
Will you find me work to do, then? I am tired of working brains,
Like a treadmill yielding nothing but my labour for my pains.
A strike among the workmen! That's unlucky, I confess:
I don't much wonder at it, but I'm soory none the less:
Sorry for myself, perhaps; for it rather mars my scheme;
But like other hopes I've cherished, it was maybe all a dream:
And I think I feel their troubles even keener than my own—
I have had so many lately it is not worth while to moan
For another more or less; one is stunned upon the wheel
By the first sharp wrench of agony; the rest you hardly feel:
They are but the after-pains of an anguish that is past,
Natural throbbings of the sorrow which your life has overcast.—
Yes, of course, you have the right to work or idle, as ye will,
To quench the blazing forges, and to stop the humming mill,
And all the other rights by which you hope to right your wrongs,
And by and by to turn the people's sorrows into songs.
Yet there are noblest rights which the noble only use
In fearfulness and trembling for the passions they let loose.
Nations have the right of battle—none more sacred that I know
Than the right to take your weapon, and to hurl it at your foe,
The right to kill a creature made in likeness of his God,
To trample a grand being underneath the reeking sod.
Yet the wanton use of battle is the shame of history,
Turning back the tide of progress, and of man's prosperity.
This is now your day of power—and I am glad that it is yours;
But shall workmen just repeat the sin of kings and conquerors?
As the nations cease from battle, shall the classes rouse the fray,
And scatter wanton sorrow for a shilling more a day?
And what, now, if your fellows, lounging near the pot-house, idle,
Get to loaf about, and like it, get to hate both spur and bridle?
Lose the habit of hard labour, with its manliness; and then
Comes the wreck of all you hope for in the wreck of noble men?
When you organise a strike, it is war you organise;
But to organise our labour were the labour of the wise,
To bind it all together in the bundle of one life,
Manifold in gift and service, linked as husband unto wife,
With a common fund of skill and thrift. That partly was my thought
When I came to you: I dreamt that, if I shared their weary lot,
If I got a fustian jacket, and a hammer, and a file,
Or wheeled the hodman's barrow, if for nothing better fit,
And ate the bread of labour, maybe sweetened with a smile,
And faced an earnest Universe as earnestly as It,
Then some day they might trust me; for I know that they are jealous
Of the patronage outside them, but will hearken to their fellows
Who have laboured at the bench with them, and handled the same tools,
And who know the hearts of workmen, that they are not rogues nor fools.
Ah! well; no matter now; I daresay that was all a dream;
But my way of life is changed, Paul; my sunshine was a gleam
Through storm-clouds darkly gathering, now the sky is overcast,
Like the day there, out of doors, where the rain is pelting fast;
And I somehow cannot hang on to the skirts of the genteel,
I would make the change as thorough as the change in heart I feel;
The more obscure my life is the fitter now for me,
The more mechanical its toil the happier I shall be;
Though I look not for much happiness, yet that may also come;
At least I will not whine; if I have grief I can be dumb.
Can you help me, Paul? I must have work, and yet some leisure too;
Some day I'll tell you more, perhaps—yet wherefore burden you?
Enough; I must have leisure, for I have a task to do.
I don't much wonder at it, but I'm soory none the less:
Sorry for myself, perhaps; for it rather mars my scheme;
But like other hopes I've cherished, it was maybe all a dream:
And I think I feel their troubles even keener than my own—
I have had so many lately it is not worth while to moan
For another more or less; one is stunned upon the wheel
By the first sharp wrench of agony; the rest you hardly feel:
They are but the after-pains of an anguish that is past,
Natural throbbings of the sorrow which your life has overcast.—
Yes, of course, you have the right to work or idle, as ye will,
To quench the blazing forges, and to stop the humming mill,
And all the other rights by which you hope to right your wrongs,
And by and by to turn the people's sorrows into songs.
Yet there are noblest rights which the noble only use
In fearfulness and trembling for the passions they let loose.
Nations have the right of battle—none more sacred that I know
Than the right to take your weapon, and to hurl it at your foe,
The right to kill a creature made in likeness of his God,
To trample a grand being underneath the reeking sod.
Yet the wanton use of battle is the shame of history,
Turning back the tide of progress, and of man's prosperity.
This is now your day of power—and I am glad that it is yours;
But shall workmen just repeat the sin of kings and conquerors?
As the nations cease from battle, shall the classes rouse the fray,
And scatter wanton sorrow for a shilling more a day?
And what, now, if your fellows, lounging near the pot-house, idle,
Get to loaf about, and like it, get to hate both spur and bridle?
Lose the habit of hard labour, with its manliness; and then
Comes the wreck of all you hope for in the wreck of noble men?
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But to organise our labour were the labour of the wise,
To bind it all together in the bundle of one life,
Manifold in gift and service, linked as husband unto wife,
With a common fund of skill and thrift. That partly was my thought
When I came to you: I dreamt that, if I shared their weary lot,
If I got a fustian jacket, and a hammer, and a file,
Or wheeled the hodman's barrow, if for nothing better fit,
And ate the bread of labour, maybe sweetened with a smile,
And faced an earnest Universe as earnestly as It,
Then some day they might trust me; for I know that they are jealous
Of the patronage outside them, but will hearken to their fellows
Who have laboured at the bench with them, and handled the same tools,
And who know the hearts of workmen, that they are not rogues nor fools.
Ah! well; no matter now; I daresay that was all a dream;
But my way of life is changed, Paul; my sunshine was a gleam
Through storm-clouds darkly gathering, now the sky is overcast,
Like the day there, out of doors, where the rain is pelting fast;
And I somehow cannot hang on to the skirts of the genteel,
I would make the change as thorough as the change in heart I feel;
The more obscure my life is the fitter now for me,
The more mechanical its toil the happier I shall be;
Though I look not for much happiness, yet that may also come;
At least I will not whine; if I have grief I can be dumb.
Can you help me, Paul? I must have work, and yet some leisure too;
Some day I'll tell you more, perhaps—yet wherefore burden you?
Enough; I must have leisure, for I have a task to do.
Paul, with sorrow, caught the tone
Of the sorrow of his friend;
Yet he made as if its moan
Were a thing for mirth alone,
And it seemed that he would spend
All his shafts of homely wit
And of ridicule on it.
To think of Lyell with a file
Grinding slowly at a wheel!
Or with hod of lime or tile,
Tramping where the gangways reel!
Or smiting with a hammer,
'Mid the clangour and the clamour
Of the anvil and the bellows
And the smithy, and the fellows
Who can nothing more than play
Mighty hammers, day by day!
He, the scholar of his year,
Knowing Latin, knowing Greek,
Knowing all you'd care to hear,
Knowing all that sages speak
Of number and of form,
Of the laws that guide the storm,
Of fluids and their powers,
And of how they may be ours!—
Laughing light, and chuckling low
As he tossed it to and fro,
Paul kept playing with the thought,
Mocking at it, scorning it,
Jesting with the kind of wit
Which a loving heart will hit,
Though of humour knowing nought.
Then he said that one who knew him
Had lately spoken to him
Something about editing
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Was ridiculous, and worse—
But it was the very thing
For Austen with his free
Flowing pen, and fresh discourse.
Oh the pleasure it would be,
Reading leaders every night
Sparkling with a modern light,
Yet with wisdom from the ages
Mellowing all the thoughtful pages!
Would not Milly surely like
Austen's papers on the strike?
And perhaps himself might pen
Just a letter now and then.
In silence Austen heard,
Never uttering a word,
But the strong lip gave a quiver,
And his head bowed very low,
And there was a tremulous shiver,
Like the ripple on a river
When a passing wind doth blow,
And the tears began to flow—
Tears that sorrow failed to bring,
But the touch of love unsealed,
Like the coming of a spring
That awoke the heart it healed.
And the others did not speak,
For they knew that words are weak
As the drip of falling rain
'Mid the silence of our pain,
And in his grief they saw
Something touching them with awe,
Something more than natural grief,
Something more than met the eye,
Something mad for the relief
Of a helpful sympathy.
Now, because the strain was o'er,
He yielded to the throng
Of better thoughts that rushed along
Through every open door,
And every chamber of his mind,
Uncontrolled and unconfined.
Wild, without, the wind was roaring,
Wild, without, the rain was pouring,
Battering on the window pane;
And the sullen waves were crashing
Loud amid the angry dashing
Of the drifting sleet and rain.
Wild the anguish of his pain,
Yet they bade it not to cease,
For it was the way of peace.
Left alone, ere long, she went
Softly to her instrument,
Touched a chord or two, and then
Deftly warbled forth a strain,
Not without its shade of pain.
Milly (alone) sings—
So she went Drifting
So she went drifting, drifting
Over the sea,
Thinking that others were shifting;
Surely not she.
She no anchor had lifted,
Meant not to move;
Only she slowly drifted
Deep into love.
Over the sea,
Thinking that others were shifting;
Surely not she.
She no anchor had lifted,
Meant not to move;
Only she slowly drifted
Deep into love.
Oh she had held that a maiden
Should not be first
To sigh with a heart love-laden,
And long and thirst;
And mad at herself for her longing,
Hard things she said,
Then was mad at herself for wronging
The love she had.
Should not be first
To sigh with a heart love-laden,
And long and thirst;
And mad at herself for her longing,
Hard things she said,
Then was mad at herself for wronging
The love she had.
He knew not how she was yearning
Just for a word,
And went on his way discerning
Nothing he heard:
Only he sometimes wondered
What she could mean—
Oh had he only pondered
He might have seen.
Just for a word,
And went on his way discerning
Nothing he heard:
Only he sometimes wondered
What she could mean—
Oh had he only pondered
He might have seen.
So she went drifting, drifting
Day after day;
So he went shifting, shifting,
Farther away;
Oh but a word would have done it—
Word never spoken;
So she went drifting, drifting
With her heart broken.
Day after day;
So he went shifting, shifting,
Farther away;
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Word never spoken;
So she went drifting, drifting
With her heart broken.
| The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith | |