 | At the Gate of the Convent and Other Poems |  |
vii
PRELUDE.
I
I love to think that when I firstWailed in my mother's womb,
The eggs were hatched, the buds had burst,
And hawthorns were in bloom.
II
For thus it must have been I gainedThe vernal need to sing,
And, while a suckling, blindly drained
The instinct of the Spring.
III
The earliest sound that greeted me,Was the ousel's ringing tone;
The earliest sight, lambs frisking free
Round barked oaks newly thrown.
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IV
The gray-green elder whitened slowAs in my crib I slept;
And merles to wonder stilled my woe,
When I awoke and wept.
V
When held up to the window pane,What fixed my baby stare?
The glory of the glittering rain,
And newness everywhere.
VI
The yaffel played at hide and seek,Now blurting to the ken
Where he was lost, with scampish shriek,
Then hid and hushed again.
VII
Bold in the border far away,The guelder snowballs shone,
Mimicking Winter now that they
Felt certain he was gone.
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VIII
The doe was followed by her fawn;The swan built in the reeds:
A something whitened all the lawn,
And yellowed all the meads.
IX
The cuckoo taught me how to laugh,The nightingale to mourn:
The poet is half grief, and half
The soul of mirth and scorn.
X
My lullaby, the bees astirWherever sweetness dwells;
The dogwood and laburnum were
My coral and my bells.
XI
My virgin sense of sound was steepedIn the music of young streams;
And roses through the casement peeped,
And scented all my dreams.
x
XII
And so it is that still to-dayI cannot choose but sing,
Remain a foster-child of May,
And a suckling of the Spring:
XIII
That to Nurse-Nature's voice and touchI shape my babbling speech,
And still stretch feeble hands to clutch
Something beyond my reach:
XIV
That in my song you catch at timesNote sweeter far than mine,
And in the tangle of my rhymes
Can scent the eglantine;
XV
That though my verse but roam the airAnd murmur 'mong the trees,
You may discern a purpose there,
As in music of the bees.
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XVI
Hence too it is, from wintry tombWhen earth revives, and when
A quickening comes to Nature's womb,
That I am born again.
XVII
I feel no more the snow of years;Sap mounts, and pulses bound;
My eyes are filled with happy tears,
My ears with happy sound.
XVIII
Anew I listen to the lowFond cooing of the dove,
And smile unto myself to know
I still am loved and love.
XIX
My manhood keeps the dew of morn,And what I have I give;
Being right glad that I was born,
And thankful that I live.
May 30, 1884.
1
THE LAST NIGHT.
I
Sister, come to the chesnut toll,And sit with me on the dear old bole,
Where we oft have sate in the sun and the rain,
And perhaps I never shall sit again.
Longer and darker the shadows grow:
'Tis my last night, dear. With the dawn I go.
II
O the times, and times, we two have playedAlone, alone, in its nursing shade.
When once we the breadth of the park had crossed,
We fancied ourselves to be hid and lost
In a secret world that seemed to be
As vast as the forests I soon shall see.
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III
Do you remember the winter daysWhen we piled up the leaves and made them blaze,
While the blue smoke curled, in the frosty air,
Up the great wan trunks that rose gaunt and bare,
And we clapped our hands, and the rotten bough
Came crackling down to our feet, as now?
IV
But dearer than all was the April weather,When off we set to the woods together,
And piled up the lap of your clean white frock
With primrose, and bluebell, and ladysmock,
And notched the pith of the sycamore stem
Into whistles. Do you remember them?
V
And in summer you followed me fast and far—How cruel and selfish brothers are!—
With tottering legs and with cheeks aflame,
Till back to the chesnut toll we came,
And rested and watched the long tassels swing,
That seemed with their scent to prolong the Spring.
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VI
And in autumn 'twas still our favourite spot,When school was over and tasks forgot,
And we scampered away and searched till dusk
For the smooth bright nuts in the prickly husk,
And carried them home, by the shepherd's star,
Then roasted them on the nursery bar.
VII
O, Winnie, I do not want to goFrom the dear old home; I love it so.
Why should I follow the sad sea-mew
To a land where everything is new,
Where we never bird-nested, you and I,
Where I was not born, but perhaps shall die?
VIII
No, I did not mean that. Come, dry your tears.You may want them all in the coming years.
There's nothing to cry for, Win: be brave.
I will work like a horse, like a dog, like a slave,
And will come back long ere we both are old,
The clods of my clearing turned to gold.
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IX
But could I not stay and work at home,Clear English woods, turn up English loam?
I shall have to work with my hands out there,
Shear sheep, shoe horses, put edge on share,
Dress scab, drive bullocks, trim hedge, clean ditch,
Put in here a rivet and there a stitch.
X
It were sweeter to moil in the dear old land,And sooth why not? Have we grown so grand?
So grand! When the rear becomes the van,
Rich idleness makes the gentleman.
Gentleman! What is a gentleman now?
A swordless hand and a helmless brow.
XI
Would you blush for me, Win, if you saw me thereWith my sleeves turned up and my sinews bare,
And the axe on the log come ringing down
Like a battering-ram on a high-walled town,
And my temples beaded with diamond sweat,
As bright as a wealth-earned coronet?
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XII
And, pray, if not there, why here? Does crimeDepend upon distance, or shame on clime?
Will your sleek-skinned plutocrats cease to scoff
At a workman's hands, if he works far off?
And is theirs the conscience men born to sway
Must accept for their own in this latter day?
XIII
I could be Harry's woodreeve. Who should scornTo work for his House, and the eldest-born?
I know every trunk, and bough, and stick,
Much better than Glebe and as well as Dick.
Loving service seems banned in a monied age,
Or a brother's trust might be all my wage.
XIV
Or his keeper, Win? Do you think I'd mindBeing out in all weathers, wet, frost, or wind?
Because I have got a finer coat,
Do I shrink from a weasel or dread a stoat?
Have I not nailed them by tens and scores
To the pheasant-hutch and the granary doors?
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XV
Don't I know where the partridge love to hatch,And wouldn't the poachers meet their match?
A hearty word has a wondrous charm,
And, if not—well, there's always the stalwart arm.
Thank Heaven! spite pillows and counterpanes,
The blood of the savage still haunts my veins.
XVI
They may boast as they will of our moral days,Our mincing manners and softer ways,
And our money value for everything.
But he who will fight should alone be King;
And when gentlemen go, unless I'm wrong,
Men too will grow scarce before very long.
XVII
There, enough! let us back. I'm a fool, I know;But I must see Gladys before I go.
Good-bye, old toll. In my log-hut bleak,
I shall hear your leaves whisper, your branches creak,
Your wood-quests brood, your wood-peckers call,
And the shells of your ripened chesnuts fall.
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XVIII
Harry never must let the dear old placeTo a stranger's foot and a stranger's face.
He may live as our fathers lived before,
With a homely table and open door.
But out on the pomp the upstart hires,
And that drives a man from the roof of his sires!
XIX
I never can understand why theyWho founded thrones in a braver day,
Should cope with the heroes of 'change and mart
Whose splendour puts rulers and ruled apart,
Insults the lowly and saps the State,
Makes the servile cringe, and the manly hate.
XX
You will write to me often, dear, when I'm gone,And tell me how everything goes on;
If the trout spawn well, where the beagles meet,
Who is married or dies in the village street;
And mind you send me the likeliest pup
Of Fan's next litter. There, Win, cheer up!
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A LETTER FROM ITALY.
I.
Lately, when we wished good-byeUnderneath a gloomy sky,
“Bear,” you said, “my love in mind,
Leaving me not quite behind;
And across the mountains send
News and greeting to your friend.”
II.
Swiftly though we did advanceThrough the rich flat fields of France,
Still the eye grew tired to see
Patches of equality.
Nothing wanton, waste, or wild;
Women delving, lonely child
Tending cattle lank and lean;
Not a hedgerow to be seen,
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Or the vagrant unkempt bramble
Might its flowers upon you press,
Simple-sweet but profitless:
Jealous ditches, straight and square,
Sordid comfort everywhere.
Pollard poplars, stunted vine,
Nowhere happy-pasturing kine
Wandering in untended groups
'Mong the uncut buttercups.
All things pruned to pile the shelf;
Nothing left to be itself:
Neither horn, nor hound, nor stirrup,
Not a carol, not a chirrup;
Every idle sound repressed,
Like a Sabbath without rest.
III.
O the sense of freedom whenKingly mountains rose again!
Congregated, but alone,
Each upon his separate throne;
Like to mighty minds that dwell,
Lonely, inaccessible,
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Single and supreme in space:
Soaring higher, higher, higher,
Carrying with them our desire,
Irrepressible if fond,
To push on to worlds beyond!
Many a peak august I saw,
Crowned with mist and girt with awe,
Fertilising, as is fit,
Valleys that look up to it,
With the melted snows down-driven,
Which itself received from Heaven.
Then, to see the torrents flashing,
Leaping, twisting, foaming, crashing,
Like a youth who feels, at length,
Freedom ample as his strength,
Hurrying from the home that bore him,
With the whole of life before him!
IV.
As, when summer sunshine gleams,Glaciers soften into streams,
So to liquid, flowing vowels,
As we pierced the mountains' bowels,
135
When Italian warmth was felt.
Gloomy fir and pine austere,
Unto precipices sheer
Clinging, as one holds one's breath,
Half-way betwixt life and death,
Changed to gently-shelving slope,
Where man tills with faith and hope,
And the tenderest-tendrilled tree
Prospers in security.
Softer outlines, balmier air,
Belfries unto evening prayer
Calling, as the shadows fade,
Halting crone, and hurrying maid,
With her bare black tresses twined
Into massive coils behind,
And her snowy-pleated vest
Folded o'er mysterious breast,
Like the dove's wings chastely crossed
At the Feast of Pentecost.
Something, in scent, sight, and sound,
Elsewhere craved for, never found,
Underneath, around, above,
Moves to tenderness and love.
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V.
But three nights I halted whereStands the temple, vowed to prayer,
That surmounts the Lombard plain,
Green with strips of grape and grain.
There, Spiaggiascura's child,
By too hopeful love beguiled,
Yet resolved, save faith should flow
Through his parched heart, to forego
Earthly bliss for heavenly pain,
Prayed for Godfrid, prayed in vain.
VI.
How looked Florence? Fair as whenBeatrice was nearly ten:
Nowise altered, just the same
Marble city, mountain frame,
Turbid river, cloudless sky,
As in days when you and I
Roamed its sunny streets, apart,
Ignorant of each other's heart,
Little knowing that our feet
Slow were moving on to meet,
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Kinship in a common Past.
But a shadow falls athwart
All her beauty, all her art.
For alas! I vainly seek
Outstretched hand and kindling cheek,
Such as, in the bygone days,
Sweetened, sanctified, her ways.
When, as evening belfries chime,
I to Bellosguardo climb,
Vaguely thinking there to find
Faces that still haunt my mind,
Though the doors stand open wide,
No one waits for me inside;
Not a voice comes forth to greet,
As of old, my nearing feet.
So I stand without, and stare,
Wishing you were here to share
Void too vast alone to bear.
To Ricorboli I wend:
But where now the dear old friend,
Heart as open as his gate,
Song, and jest, and simple state?
138
Some are gone, and some are dead.
So, though young and lovely be
Florence still, it feels to me,
Thinking of the days that were,
Like a marble sepulchre.
VII.
Yet, thank Heaven! He liveth still,Now no more upon the hill
Where was perched his Tuscan home,
But in liberated Rome:
Hale as ever; still his stride
Keeps me panting at his side.
Would that you were here to stray
With me up the Appian Way,
Climb with me the Cœlian mount,
With me find Egeria's fount,
See the clear sun sink and set
From the Pincian parapet,
Or from Sant' Onofrio watch
Shaggy Monte Cavo catch
Gloomy glory on its face,
As the red dawn mounts apace.
139
Since I first with youthful tread
Wandered 'mong these wrecks of Fate,
Lonely but not desolate,
Proud to ponder and to brood,
Satisfied with solitude.
But as fruit that, hard in Spring,
Tender grows with mellowing,
So one's nature, year by year,
Softens as it ripens, dear,
And youth's selfish strain and stress
Sweeten into tenderness.
Therefore is it that I pine
For a gentle hand in mine,
For a voice to murmur clear
All I know but love to hear,
Crave to feel, think, hear, and see,
Through your lucid sympathy.
VIII.
Shortly, shortly, we shall meet.Southern skies awhile are sweet;
But in whatso land I roam,
Half my heart remains at home.
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Tidings of our English year.
Was the cuckoo soon or late?
Beg the primroses to wait,
That their homely smile may greet
Faithfully returning feet.
Have the apple blossoms burst?
Is the oak or ash the first?
Are there snowballs on the guelder?
Can you scent as yet the elder?
On the bankside that we know,
Is the golden gorse ablow,
Like love's evergreen delight
Never out of season quite,
But most prodigal in Spring,
When the whitethroats pair and sing?
Tell me, tell me, most of all,
When you hear the thrushes call,
When you see soft shadows fleeting
O'er the grass where lambs are bleating,
When the lyric lark, returning
From the mirage of its yearning,—
Like a fountain that in vain
Rises but to fall again,—
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Do you miss me from the Spring?
IX.
Quickly then I come. Adieu,Mouldering arch and ether blue!
For in you I sure shall find
All that here I leave behind:
Steadfastness of Roman rays
In the candour of your gaze;
In your friendship comfort more
Than in warmth of Oscan shore;
In the smiles that light your mouth,
All the sunshine of the South.
| At the Gate of the Convent and Other Poems | |