 | Michael Villiers, Idealist |  |
95
POEMS
97
AUTOGRAPHS
Proem
Margaret, the lady he cherished, our poet who sang
Goldenmouthed, so that we hearkened entranced to the sound;
Margaret, who saw him go hence, while with clash and with clang
Triumph rang high for the one we anointed and crowned;
Goldenmouthed, so that we hearkened entranced to the sound;
Margaret, who saw him go hence, while with clash and with clang
Triumph rang high for the one we anointed and crowned;
Margaret, his jewel of jewels, his lady and love,
She who was heart of his heart, who was soul of his soul;
She with the delicate hands and the eyes of a dove;
She whom the world should have guarded from trouble and dole;
She who was heart of his heart, who was soul of his soul;
She with the delicate hands and the eyes of a dove;
She whom the world should have guarded from trouble and dole;
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Reft of her love, and uncared for by kindred or friend,
Toiled twenty years ere the time of her rest might arrive;
Flinching not, steadily fought for her life to the end;
Strove through her weakness and pain as the resolute strive.
Toiled twenty years ere the time of her rest might arrive;
Flinching not, steadily fought for her life to the end;
Strove through her weakness and pain as the resolute strive.
Woman and lady, untrained for the strife, unprepared,
What could she do to keep body and spirit untwinned?
Brave was the woman, and fared as a coward had fared;
Good was the woman, and suffered as if she had sinned.
What could she do to keep body and spirit untwinned?
Brave was the woman, and fared as a coward had fared;
Good was the woman, and suffered as if she had sinned.
So after twenty years gone, she was left to the drear
Facing of famine and cold, meagre-limbed, white of face;
Under the Three Golden Balls all her poor little gear;—
Then, on a morning in winter, one came to the place;
Facing of famine and cold, meagre-limbed, white of face;
Under the Three Golden Balls all her poor little gear;—
Then, on a morning in winter, one came to the place;
Came to her mean little dwelling, and offered her gold,
Gold in abundance instead of her loveletters signed with his name;
Loveletters yellowed a little and twenty years old;
Autograph notes of a poet ensphered in his fame.
Gold in abundance instead of her loveletters signed with his name;
Loveletters yellowed a little and twenty years old;
Autograph notes of a poet ensphered in his fame.
99
One of the letters of Keats
to his lady had brought
Guineas, he told her, a score, yestermonth at a sale;
Nought to the sum he would give did she grant what he sought;
Would she give up her possession, so might he prevail.
Guineas, he told her, a score, yestermonth at a sale;
Nought to the sum he would give did she grant what he sought;
Would she give up her possession, so might he prevail.
Scarcely a word did she say, but he knew it was vain;
Past through the door as he came, and half murmured, ‘Forgive!’
Went from her presence with something that bordered on pain;
Thought of the woman, and said, ‘Will she die? can she live?’
Past through the door as he came, and half murmured, ‘Forgive!’
Went from her presence with something that bordered on pain;
Thought of the woman, and said, ‘Will she die? can she live?’
A face where there glowed such a soul as a dreamer may see
Fair in the land where shut eyelids are gates of desire,
Calm in its wrath, for the queen of her passion was she,
Haunted by day at his desk, and by night at his fire.
Fair in the land where shut eyelids are gates of desire,
Calm in its wrath, for the queen of her passion was she,
Haunted by day at his desk, and by night at his fire.
So when a se'nnight was over he could not refrain;
Went to the room that was fair from some radiancy shed
From a spirit close clasped to the bosom of love we call pain;—
Entered, and knelt on the floor by the side of the dead.
Went to the room that was fair from some radiancy shed
From a spirit close clasped to the bosom of love we call pain;—
Entered, and knelt on the floor by the side of the dead.
‘Among the autograph letters was a love=letter from Keats to Fanny Browne. . . . This was sold for 21l.’ Report of a sale in one of the literary papers, 1889.
100
Margaret
I
‘A loveletter, written by dead John Keats,
Was sold for twenty guineas, I have heard:
Ah, did the buyer gloat upon each word,
Pause lingeringly, as near a nest of sweets,
Aflame to catch the self-same rapturous beats
Of the dear heart of that brave singing-bird,
When, all his being breathed upon and stirred,
The very lady of his heart he greets?
Was sold for twenty guineas, I have heard:
Ah, did the buyer gloat upon each word,
Pause lingeringly, as near a nest of sweets,
Aflame to catch the self-same rapturous beats
Of the dear heart of that brave singing-bird,
When, all his being breathed upon and stirred,
The very lady of his heart he greets?
Or did he look upon it, all unthrilled
Save by the pleasure of possessing what
So very few could get, and he had got;
A thing of market-value if he willed,
Some profit on a future day to yield?
Oh, let him be; it matters not one jot.
Save by the pleasure of possessing what
So very few could get, and he had got;
A thing of market-value if he willed,
Some profit on a future day to yield?
Oh, let him be; it matters not one jot.
II
‘'Twas but a little week ago, one came,
Came praying me to sell letters of his!
I know not what I answered him, ywis;
I knew I would die first; and one wild flame,
Mine outraged womanhood leapt up to shame
The asker, and he left me; me who miss
Living a little longer. What is this?
I think that God will hold me not to blame.
Came praying me to sell letters of his!
I know not what I answered him, ywis;
I knew I would die first; and one wild flame,
101
The asker, and he left me; me who miss
Living a little longer. What is this?
I think that God will hold me not to blame.
I knew the end was drawing very nigh;—
By famine done to death at forty-five!
One would suppose I might have kept alive
In Kensington a little longer; why,
I think I am over young like this to die.
I strove good strife; but what avails to strive?
By famine done to death at forty-five!
One would suppose I might have kept alive
In Kensington a little longer; why,
I think I am over young like this to die.
I strove good strife; but what avails to strive?
III
‘Ay, one would think that, here in Kensington,
It had not been so hard to keep from death!
Plenty the people here of gentle breath,
And gentle heart, who, had they only known
His love, their idol's love, so lean had grown,
As one the Shade of shades o'ershadoweth,
Had come with all the care which comforteth,
And prayed her, made her, for his sake live on.
It had not been so hard to keep from death!
Plenty the people here of gentle breath,
And gentle heart, who, had they only known
His love, their idol's love, so lean had grown,
As one the Shade of shades o'ershadoweth,
Had come with all the care which comforteth,
And prayed her, made her, for his sake live on.
For he who loved me twenty years ago
Is dear to all to-day, and far and wide,
They tell of him who, crowned with glory, died
In youth which high maturity did know.
True songs of life from him did freely flow,
True English singer by the Thames's side.
Is dear to all to-day, and far and wide,
They tell of him who, crowned with glory, died
In youth which high maturity did know.
True songs of life from him did freely flow,
True English singer by the Thames's side.
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IV
‘He was a man with men, yet was apart
Even from the very highest and the best;
Too great to care if greatest or if least
They hailed him; great in life, in thought, in art,
He took the critics' ear, the people's heart,
And bore himself even as the lowliest;
Wept at men's woe, and smiled at their gay jest,
And lived true life in closet and in mart.
Even from the very highest and the best;
Too great to care if greatest or if least
They hailed him; great in life, in thought, in art,
He took the critics' ear, the people's heart,
And bore himself even as the lowliest;
Wept at men's woe, and smiled at their gay jest,
And lived true life in closet and in mart.
His fount of song in clearest beauty sprang;
I was so near, my head received the boon,
And little drops of his Castalian tune
Upon the locks he loved awhile did hang;
And thus I sang of him, my love who sang
Sweetest of all the singers under moon.
I was so near, my head received the boon,
And little drops of his Castalian tune
Upon the locks he loved awhile did hang;
And thus I sang of him, my love who sang
Sweetest of all the singers under moon.
‘“How shall I keep this wondrous festival,
The pleasure of God, more dreadful than his ire?
Than the high stars my God hath set me higher;
Have mercy, Lord, my handgrasp is but small,
Yet he thou honourest lays within it all
His heart of wonder, and his soul of fire;
And, of all women, I am the desire
Of that white soul thou hast made so great and tall.
The pleasure of God, more dreadful than his ire?
Than the high stars my God hath set me higher;
Have mercy, Lord, my handgrasp is but small,
Yet he thou honourest lays within it all
His heart of wonder, and his soul of fire;
And, of all women, I am the desire
Of that white soul thou hast made so great and tall.
103
Yesterday I was like an ungrown soul
In a pale limbo set, being unbaptized;
Painless and joyless, lacking bliss and dole;
By some adult magnificence surprised,
Plunged in love's sea of fire, and in the whole
Love-mystery for aye imparadised.
In a pale limbo set, being unbaptized;
Painless and joyless, lacking bliss and dole;
By some adult magnificence surprised,
Plunged in love's sea of fire, and in the whole
Love-mystery for aye imparadised.
“I kiss you on the brow of noble thought;
I kiss you on the eyes which truly see;
I kiss you on the lips of melody,
With tender, clinging kisses rapture-fraught;
I kiss you on the heart whose beats have caught
All the world's joy and all its agony;
And, till God shut the gates of memory,
This hour is mine, this perfect hour love-wrought.
I kiss you on the eyes which truly see;
I kiss you on the lips of melody,
With tender, clinging kisses rapture-fraught;
I kiss you on the heart whose beats have caught
All the world's joy and all its agony;
And, till God shut the gates of memory,
This hour is mine, this perfect hour love-wrought.
Petrarca's Laura never thus did kiss
Her lover-poet; never so there fell
On Beatrice's mouth such dew from his
Who knew the heights of heaven, the depths of hell.
Far happier I than she and she in this,
Who keep a memory ineffable.
Her lover-poet; never so there fell
On Beatrice's mouth such dew from his
Who knew the heights of heaven, the depths of hell.
Far happier I than she and she in this,
Who keep a memory ineffable.
“O flower of flowers, whose petals warm and white
Enfold me, body and soul; O perfect star,
Absolute in the radiance nought can mar,
Nor pain nor time; O sun of quenchless light,
And heat and glory, looser of the flight
Of winged joys, and breaker of winter's bar;
O peace, deep set upon all strife and war;
O love, O liege, how can I hymn thee aright?
Enfold me, body and soul; O perfect star,
Absolute in the radiance nought can mar,
Nor pain nor time; O sun of quenchless light,
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Of winged joys, and breaker of winter's bar;
O peace, deep set upon all strife and war;
O love, O liege, how can I hymn thee aright?
I love thee, as I lie upon thine heart,
And drink thy beauty in with ravished eyne;
I love thee, as I go from thee apart,
Thou near me still, in timeless joy divine;
I love thee, love thee, love thee, O love, who art
Soul of my soul, life of this life of mine.”
And drink thy beauty in with ravished eyne;
I love thee, as I go from thee apart,
Thou near me still, in timeless joy divine;
I love thee, love thee, love thee, O love, who art
Soul of my soul, life of this life of mine.”
V
‘O love, my love, how dared they think that I
Would sell your letters for the sake of bread?
Nay, my soul's king, mine own beloved dead!
Women have died for body's chastity;
Is it so much a stranger thing to die
For the soul's chastity? shall it be said
Souls have no right to save their cleanlihead,
Their sacredness, in face of earth and sky?
Would sell your letters for the sake of bread?
Nay, my soul's king, mine own beloved dead!
Women have died for body's chastity;
Is it so much a stranger thing to die
For the soul's chastity? shall it be said
Souls have no right to save their cleanlihead,
Their sacredness, in face of earth and sky?
I take you in my lean hand, little match;
I strike you, and anon your flame has leapt
On to his letters, my beloved's, kept
Not for the world; I feared they might not catch,
Your flamelet was so tiny; I have wept
My last; I sit dry-eyed and watch and watch.’
I strike you, and anon your flame has leapt
On to his letters, my beloved's, kept
105
Your flamelet was so tiny; I have wept
My last; I sit dry-eyed and watch and watch.’
The flame is out; small, thin, the ashes go,
Blown lightly by the wind along the floor;
The woman has laid her down; the strife is o'er,
She waits the victor's coming; does she know
How sweet to find the end of toil and woe,
How blessed not to struggle any more?
Oh, long, long day! six hours of twenty-four
To sleep, and all the rest to suffer so!
Blown lightly by the wind along the floor;
The woman has laid her down; the strife is o'er,
She waits the victor's coming; does she know
How sweet to find the end of toil and woe,
How blessed not to struggle any more?
Oh, long, long day! six hours of twenty-four
To sleep, and all the rest to suffer so!
Nay! for her soul to royal presence boweth,
Then lifts itself to mystic power and will:
Sweet dew has come to heal the fever-drouth;
One draws anear; there comes a rapturous thrill,
And the air quivers like a lover's mouth
To a lover's kiss. And all is very still.
Then lifts itself to mystic power and will:
Sweet dew has come to heal the fever-drouth;
One draws anear; there comes a rapturous thrill,
And the air quivers like a lover's mouth
To a lover's kiss. And all is very still.
106
BY LETHE AND EUNOE
L' acqua che vedi non surge di vena
Che ristori vapor che giel converta,
Come fiume ch' acquista o perde lena;
Ma esce di fontana salda e certa,
Che tanto dal voler di Dio riprende,
Quant' ella versa da duo parti aperta.
Da questa parte con virtù discende,
Che toglie altrui memoria del peccato;
Dall' altra, d' ogni ben fatto la rende.
Quinci Letè, così dall' altro lato
Eunoè si chiama, e non adopra
Se quinci e quindi pria non è gustato.
Purgatorio, XXVIII
Come fiume ch' acquista o perde lena;
Ma esce di fontana salda e certa,
Che tanto dal voler di Dio riprende,
Quant' ella versa da duo parti aperta.
Da questa parte con virtù discende,
Che toglie altrui memoria del peccato;
Dall' altra, d' ogni ben fatto la rende.
Quinci Letè, così dall' altro lato
Eunoè si chiama, e non adopra
Se quinci e quindi pria non è gustato.
Purgatorio, XXVIII
Lethe
Two, bound by joy and woe,
Went hand in hand;
Where mystic waters flow
I saw them stand.
Went hand in hand;
Where mystic waters flow
I saw them stand.
107
Fires they had gladly known
That cleanse and heal;
And past beyond the moan,
To quiet weal.
That cleanse and heal;
And past beyond the moan,
To quiet weal.
But higher yet and higher
They still should go,
Where love fulfils desire,
Where faith shall know.
They still should go,
Where love fulfils desire,
Where faith shall know.
And first above their head,
As well they wist,
Must pass the stream unfed
Of rain or mist.
As well they wist,
Must pass the stream unfed
Of rain or mist.
The stream which rolls along
In twofold flood;
Where souls forget their wrong,
Recall their good.
In twofold flood;
Where souls forget their wrong,
Recall their good.
Sin's memory in the tide
Of Lethe drowned;
Lost good on yonder side,
In Eunoe found.
Of Lethe drowned;
Lost good on yonder side,
In Eunoe found.
108
By Lethe stood the two
I tell you of;
(Not yet awhile they knew
How great is love.)
I tell you of;
(Not yet awhile they knew
How great is love.)
I heard them, her and him,
Speak, each and each;
As tones of seraphim
Sweet was their speech.
Speak, each and each;
As tones of seraphim
Sweet was their speech.
‘Shall we dip beneath the wave,
And so arise;
The peace God's pardoned have
Within our eyes?
And so arise;
The peace God's pardoned have
Within our eyes?
‘Our old sin's ghost hath walked
For all these years,
Where'er we two have talked
With smiles or tears.
For all these years,
Where'er we two have talked
With smiles or tears.
‘It looked upon us twain,
With eyes that said,
‘Never on earth again
Shall I be laid.
With eyes that said,
‘Never on earth again
Shall I be laid.
109
‘“I am the sin which drove
From Eden dear;
Though ye should hate or love,
Still I am here.
From Eden dear;
Though ye should hate or love,
Still I am here.
‘“Though to forget ye seek,
It is but vain;
Ye may grow old and weak,
But I remain.
It is but vain;
Ye may grow old and weak,
But I remain.
‘“I live for ever on,
Ghost of your sin;
My body is dead and gone,
But ye cannot win
Ghost of your sin;
My body is dead and gone,
But ye cannot win
‘“From the ghost at all release;
And, day by day,
It is vain to whisper peace,
For I must stay.”
And, day by day,
It is vain to whisper peace,
For I must stay.”
‘So did it stay, my dear,
Until we died
And past the waters clear
Of Tiber's tide;
Until we died
And past the waters clear
Of Tiber's tide;
110
‘Glad in the purging fire
To slay the wrong;
Waiting with great desire
The triumph-song.
To slay the wrong;
Waiting with great desire
The triumph-song.
‘Before our lips respond
To its great tone,
Before we go beyond
This quiet zone,
To its great tone,
Before we go beyond
This quiet zone,
‘God's angel saith “See where
This river rolls;
Thereinto, without fear,
Plunge you, dear souls;
This river rolls;
Thereinto, without fear,
Plunge you, dear souls;
‘“Plunge you, and cease to rue
Sin's weary debt;
Its memory past from you,
Ye shall forget.”
Sin's weary debt;
Its memory past from you,
Ye shall forget.”
‘Beloved, must we go
Under the stream?
Shall memory pass, as though
After a dream?
Under the stream?
Shall memory pass, as though
After a dream?
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‘Must we forget it all,
Let it all pass
Under oblivion's pall?
Alas, alas,
Let it all pass
Under oblivion's pall?
Alas, alas,
‘Would we not rather keep
The bitterness
Where sweet was drunken deep?
How else but yes?
The bitterness
Where sweet was drunken deep?
How else but yes?
‘Would we forgo the joy
To lose the pain?
Must we indeed destroy
Both boot and bane?
To lose the pain?
Must we indeed destroy
Both boot and bane?
‘Up through that sin we rose,
I dare to say,
To heights more fair than those
Of olden day.
I dare to say,
To heights more fair than those
Of olden day.
‘It held us bound, and yet
Freedom it gave—
Oh, shall we then forget?
Let us be brave,
Freedom it gave—
Oh, shall we then forget?
Let us be brave,
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‘Turn from the stream, and gain
Through what we miss;
Keeping our bitterest bane,
Our sweetest bliss.
Through what we miss;
Keeping our bitterest bane,
Our sweetest bliss.
‘Nay, for God's angel saith
We must, we must.—
Well, love is strong as death,
And God is just.’
We must, we must.—
Well, love is strong as death,
And God is just.’
Softly the waters clave,
And took them in,
To leave beneath the wave
Memory of sin.
And took them in,
To leave beneath the wave
Memory of sin.
Eunoe
‘The waters lap us round,
You, dear, and me:
Great bliss we two have found
In Eunoe.
You, dear, and me:
Great bliss we two have found
In Eunoe.
113
‘Never a doubt again!
We leave the stream.
Where is the old, old pain?
It did but seem.
We leave the stream.
Where is the old, old pain?
It did but seem.
‘Bathed in this healing wave,
Now we arise,
The joy God's pardoned have
Within our eyes.
Now we arise,
The joy God's pardoned have
Within our eyes.
‘O light! O radiancy!
O good, whereof
None knoweth till he see
How great is love.
O good, whereof
None knoweth till he see
How great is love.
‘Here, as we stand to-day,
We are quite sure
All wrong must pass away,
All right endure.
We are quite sure
All wrong must pass away,
All right endure.
‘Evil shall truly die;
Good only sleeps;
For all eternity
To life it leaps.
Good only sleeps;
For all eternity
To life it leaps.
114
‘We kiss each other here,
On breast and brow;
Our love that casts out fear
Made perfect now.
On breast and brow;
Our love that casts out fear
Made perfect now.
‘O Lethe! O Eunoe!
With happy eyes
The light beyond we see,
Of Paradise.’
With happy eyes
The light beyond we see,
Of Paradise.’
115
CUCKOO SONG
‘In April
Come he will.’
‘Who doth roam?
Who will come?
Who? Who?’
‘Cuckoo!’
Is it only cuckoo? Why
Do you long so eagerly
For the coming of the cuckoo by-and-by?
‘In April
Come he will.’
Come he will.’
‘Who doth roam?
Who will come?
Who? Who?’
‘Cuckoo!’
Is it only cuckoo? Why
Do you long so eagerly
For the coming of the cuckoo by-and-by?
‘In April
Come he will.’
‘In May
He sings all day.’
‘Whose the song
All day long?
Whose? Whose?’
‘Cuckoo's!’
Is it only cuckoo's? Oh,
That is not for me to know!
Dearest music of all music loud or low.
‘In May
He sings all day.’
He sings all day.’
‘Whose the song
All day long?
Whose? Whose?’
‘Cuckoo's!’
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That is not for me to know!
Dearest music of all music loud or low.
‘In May
He sings all day.’
‘In June
He changes his tune.’
‘Who doth sing,
Varying?
Who? Who?’
‘Cuckoo!’
Has the joyous cuckoo-strain
That was echoed in your brain,
Caught the trouble of the coming loss and pain?
‘In June
He changes his tune.’
He changes his tune.’
‘Who doth sing,
Varying?
Who? Who?’
‘Cuckoo!’
Has the joyous cuckoo-strain
That was echoed in your brain,
Caught the trouble of the coming loss and pain?
‘In June
He changes his tune.’
‘In July
Away he'll fly.’
(‘Ruth is it
Infinite!)
Who? Who?’
‘Cuckoo!’
Oh, the summer goeth fast,
And the cuckoo-time is past;
Every day you hear him now may be the last.
‘In July
Away he'll fly.’
Away he'll fly.’
(‘Ruth is it
Infinite!)
Who? Who?’
‘Cuckoo!’
117
And the cuckoo-time is past;
Every day you hear him now may be the last.
‘In July
Away he'll fly.’
‘In August
Go he must.’
(‘What avail
Tears and wail?)
Who? Who?’
‘Cuckoo!’
Only cuckoo! and your face,
As you stand in your old place,
Wears the wonder of love's agony, love's grace.
‘In August
Go he must.’
Go he must.’
(‘What avail
Tears and wail?)
Who? Who?’
‘Cuckoo!’
Only cuckoo! and your face,
As you stand in your old place,
Wears the wonder of love's agony, love's grace.
‘In August
Go he must.’
118
A PRIMROSE
'Twas a primrose of spring,
Abloom on a bank where the winter-time's loss
Had scarcely been known for the veiling of moss;
And the birds with new gladness, new life, were astir,
And the sweet air came full of their music to her,
Till she, too, fain, would sing;
And the song she outpoured on the rhythmical air
Was a perfume so tender, a beauty so fair,
The birds, in their turn,
Fain would learn
The secret of scent and the secret of hue
Which the spring-blossom knew.
Abloom on a bank where the winter-time's loss
Had scarcely been known for the veiling of moss;
And the birds with new gladness, new life, were astir,
And the sweet air came full of their music to her,
Till she, too, fain, would sing;
And the song she outpoured on the rhythmical air
Was a perfume so tender, a beauty so fair,
The birds, in their turn,
Fain would learn
The secret of scent and the secret of hue
Which the spring-blossom knew.
Then a poet came by,
And he sang of the spring-time, this poet true-voiced,
Till it seemed how the soul of the spring-time rejoiced
To hear him, who carolled so clear and so sweet;
The primrose gave out all her scent at his feet,
And the birds' melody
Chimed in with the poet's; and poet and birds
Sang on sweetest notes in the sweetest accords,
And the sky's happy blue
Fairer grew;
And the young leaves brake soft through their sheltering sheath,
At the wonderful breath.
And he sang of the spring-time, this poet true-voiced,
Till it seemed how the soul of the spring-time rejoiced
To hear him, who carolled so clear and so sweet;
The primrose gave out all her scent at his feet,
And the birds' melody
119
Sang on sweetest notes in the sweetest accords,
And the sky's happy blue
Fairer grew;
And the young leaves brake soft through their sheltering sheath,
At the wonderful breath.
And the poet sang on;
But no more of the spring and the glory that broods
At the heart of the colours that come to the woods
With the stirrings of sap; or the joy at the breast
Of the mate-birds that sing; and the life in the nest,
And the love-rapture won:
He sang of the summer, he sang of the rose,
The passionate colour, the passionate glows:
Oh, the rose! oh, the rose!
How she knows
The terrible raptures, the depth and the height,
And the sun in his might!
But no more of the spring and the glory that broods
At the heart of the colours that come to the woods
With the stirrings of sap; or the joy at the breast
Of the mate-birds that sing; and the life in the nest,
And the love-rapture won:
He sang of the summer, he sang of the rose,
The passionate colour, the passionate glows:
Oh, the rose! oh, the rose!
How she knows
The terrible raptures, the depth and the height,
And the sun in his might!
And the little spring flower,
That was born in the time of the singing of birds,
Gave ear to the poet, and hearkened his words,
Till the noontime drank up all her bliss of the morn,
For her soul it was mad with desire and with scorn;—
With desire for the power
Of the sun and his splendour; desire for the sight
Of the queen of the summer, the rose in her might;—
With scorn for her lot
Which knew not
The glory, the ardour, the sheen, and the heat,
So dreadful, so sweet!
That was born in the time of the singing of birds,
Gave ear to the poet, and hearkened his words,
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For her soul it was mad with desire and with scorn;—
With desire for the power
Of the sun and his splendour; desire for the sight
Of the queen of the summer, the rose in her might;—
With scorn for her lot
Which knew not
The glory, the ardour, the sheen, and the heat,
So dreadful, so sweet!
For, oh! to behold
These glories; to feed on the light of the sun;
To drink in the life of the beautiful one;
To be the great rose that can bear to be blest
With the strength of his kiss on the depth of her breast,
And unfold and unfold
All sweetness for him, her beloved, for him,
In the sheen of whose face all her being doth swim
As in seas of delight,
Warm and bright,
Till in death all the scent of the joy she has met
Doth cling to her yet!
These glories; to feed on the light of the sun;
To drink in the life of the beautiful one;
To be the great rose that can bear to be blest
With the strength of his kiss on the depth of her breast,
And unfold and unfold
All sweetness for him, her beloved, for him,
In the sheen of whose face all her being doth swim
As in seas of delight,
Warm and bright,
Till in death all the scent of the joy she has met
Doth cling to her yet!
So the primrose was fain
For the blisses the poet had sung while she heard;
For the joyaunce that breathed through his beautiful word;
For the heights and the depths that she never might know,
Whose birth was too near to the last of the snow:
And the fret and the pain,
They withered her delicate beauty and slew,
And she died ere the time of her dying was due:
And the rose of July,
By-and-by,
Lived and died in the glory and joy of the sun,
By the primrose unwon.
For the blisses the poet had sung while she heard;
For the joyaunce that breathed through his beautiful word;
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Whose birth was too near to the last of the snow:
And the fret and the pain,
They withered her delicate beauty and slew,
And she died ere the time of her dying was due:
And the rose of July,
By-and-by,
Lived and died in the glory and joy of the sun,
By the primrose unwon.
O Love, sun of suns!
Didst thou shine in thy zenithal glory on high,
Down on us, even us, should we live, should we die?
Are we as the primrose of spring? would the sheer
White splendour of thee, coming near and more near,
Just slay us at once?
Dare we bid thee approach in thy light and thy heat,
Till, responsive, we breathe out all fragrancy meet,
All life, and be thine,
O Divine?
Then quicken, or slay us, whichever it be,
So we look upon thee!
Didst thou shine in thy zenithal glory on high,
Down on us, even us, should we live, should we die?
Are we as the primrose of spring? would the sheer
White splendour of thee, coming near and more near,
Just slay us at once?
Dare we bid thee approach in thy light and thy heat,
Till, responsive, we breathe out all fragrancy meet,
All life, and be thine,
O Divine?
Then quicken, or slay us, whichever it be,
So we look upon thee!
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A WEAK-MINDED WOMAN'S COMPARISONS
Well, with whom shall I compare you, seeing, O my lief and dear,
How to one (weak-minded!) woman you are just without a peer?
Nay, there is no need to tell me; for I know you deprecate,
Proving thus at least your greatness, anyone should call you great.
What, sir? 'tis the sheerest nonsense, well I know?
I'll not contradict your worship! Be it so!
How to one (weak-minded!) woman you are just without a peer?
Nay, there is no need to tell me; for I know you deprecate,
Proving thus at least your greatness, anyone should call you great.
What, sir? 'tis the sheerest nonsense, well I know?
I'll not contradict your worship! Be it so!
Only I have caught you now, and do not mean to let you stir
Till I've told you things that, maybe, you will laugh at, frown at, sir.
Ay, comparisons are odious! so, in very sooth, they are!
You shall be compared with—whom then? no one in particular!
Just another—quite impersonal, you know—
For convenience, any other; be it so!
Till I've told you things that, maybe, you will laugh at, frown at, sir.
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You shall be compared with—whom then? no one in particular!
Just another—quite impersonal, you know—
For convenience, any other; be it so!
I would rather have your tempest than another's radiant calm;
I would rather you should wound me than another bring me balm;
I would rather take your blame than praise from any other one;
Rather go in the dark with you than with another in the sun.
It's the very height of foolishness, I know;
But (consider I'm weak-minded!) it is so.
I would rather you should wound me than another bring me balm;
I would rather take your blame than praise from any other one;
Rather go in the dark with you than with another in the sun.
It's the very height of foolishness, I know;
But (consider I'm weak-minded!) it is so.
I would rather have your weakness than their strength men call the strong:
Let them do their rightest right, and I would rather have your wrong:
Wrong or right, my soul's beloved, yea, whatever you may do,
All my faith is clasped around you, and my whole soul loveth you.
That's the height of immorality, I know;
All the same, and notwithstanding, it is so!
Let them do their rightest right, and I would rather have your wrong:
Wrong or right, my soul's beloved, yea, whatever you may do,
All my faith is clasped around you, and my whole soul loveth you.
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All the same, and notwithstanding, it is so!
But away with over-earnest; let us back to dainty jest!
Is the jest, or is the earnest, tell me, dear my lord, the best?
Is it very gracious fooling, or the way of love to me,
Who am no enfranchised woman of the twentieth century,
But a poor weak-minded creature, and, you know,
'Tis no more, as some one says, no more but so.
Is the jest, or is the earnest, tell me, dear my lord, the best?
Is it very gracious fooling, or the way of love to me,
Who am no enfranchised woman of the twentieth century,
But a poor weak-minded creature, and, you know,
'Tis no more, as some one says, no more but so.
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HER DREAM
Fold your arms around me, Sweet,
As against your heart my heart doth beat.
As against your heart my heart doth beat.
Kiss me, Love, till it fade, the fright
Of the dreadful dream I dreamt last night.
Of the dreadful dream I dreamt last night.
Oh, thank God, it is you, it is you,
My own love, fair and strong and true.
My own love, fair and strong and true.
We two are the same that, yesterday,
Played in the light and tost the hay.
Played in the light and tost the hay.
My hair you stroke, O dearest one,
Is alive with youth and bright with the sun.
Is alive with youth and bright with the sun.
Tell me again, Love, how I seem
‘The prettiest queen of curds and cream.’
‘The prettiest queen of curds and cream.’
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Fold me close and kiss me again;
Kiss off the shadow of last night's pain.
Kiss off the shadow of last night's pain.
I dreamt last night, as I lay in bed,
That I was old and that you were dead.
That I was old and that you were dead.
I knew you had died long time ago,
And I well recalled the moan and woe.
And I well recalled the moan and woe.
You had died in your beautiful youth, my sweet;
You had gone to rest with untired feet;
You had gone to rest with untired feet;
And I had prayed to come to you,
To lay me down and slumber too.
To lay me down and slumber too.
But it might not be, and the days went on,
And I was all alone, alone.
And I was all alone, alone.
The women came so neighbourly,
And kissed my face and wept with me;
And kissed my face and wept with me;
And the men stood still to see me pass,
And smiled grave smiles, and said, ‘Poor lass!’
And smiled grave smiles, and said, ‘Poor lass!’
Sometimes I seemed to hear your feet,
And my grief-numbed heart would wildly beat;
And my grief-numbed heart would wildly beat;
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And I stopt and named my darling's name—
But never a word of answer came.
But never a word of answer came.
The men and women ceased at last
To pity pain that was of the past;
To pity pain that was of the past;
For pain is common, and grief, and loss;
And many come home by Weeping Cross.
And many come home by Weeping Cross.
Why do I tell you this, my dear?
Sorrow is gone now you are here.
Sorrow is gone now you are here.
You and I we sit in the light,
And fled is the horror of yesternight.
And fled is the horror of yesternight.
The time went on, and I saw one day
My body was bent and my hair was grey.
My body was bent and my hair was grey.
But the boys and girls a-whispering
Sweet tales in the sweet light of the spring,
Sweet tales in the sweet light of the spring,
Never paused in the tales they told
To say, ‘He is dead and she is old.’
To say, ‘He is dead and she is old.’
There's a place in the churchyard where, I thought,
Long since my lover had been brought:
Long since my lover had been brought:
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It had sunk with years from a high green mound
To a level no stranger would have found:
To a level no stranger would have found:
But I, I always knew the spot;
How could I miss it, know it not?
How could I miss it, know it not?
Darling, darling, draw me near,
For I cannot shake off the dread and fear.
For I cannot shake off the dread and fear.
Fold me so close I scarce can breathe;
And kiss me, for, lo, above, beneath,
And kiss me, for, lo, above, beneath,
The blue sky fades, and the green grass dries,
And the sunshine goes from my lips and eyes.
And the sunshine goes from my lips and eyes.
O God—that dream—it has not fled—
One of us old, and one of us dead!
One of us old, and one of us dead!
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HAREBELLS
Blue bells, on blue hills, where the sky is blue,
Here's a little blue-gowned maid come to look at you;
Here's a little child would fain, at the vesper time,
Catch the music of your hearts, hear the harebells chime.
‘Little hares, little hares,’ softly prayeth she,
‘Come, come across the hills, and ring the bells for me.’
Here's a little blue-gowned maid come to look at you;
Here's a little child would fain, at the vesper time,
Catch the music of your hearts, hear the harebells chime.
‘Little hares, little hares,’ softly prayeth she,
‘Come, come across the hills, and ring the bells for me.’
When do hares ring the bells, does my lady say?
Is it when the sky is rosed with the coming day?
Is it in the strength of noon, all the earth aglow?
Is it when at eventide sweet dew falleth slow?
Any time the bells may ring, morn, or noon, or even;
Lovebells, joybells, earthbells heard in heaven.
Any time the happy hills may be lightly swept
By the ringers' little feet; any time, except
When, by horse and hound and man chased and frighted sore,
Weak and panting, little hares care to ring no more.
It must be upon the hills where the hunt comes ne'er,
Chimes of bells ring out to greet touch of little hare.
Harebells, blue bells, ring, ring again!
Set a-going, little hares, the joyaunce of the strain.
Is it when the sky is rosed with the coming day?
Is it in the strength of noon, all the earth aglow?
Is it when at eventide sweet dew falleth slow?
Any time the bells may ring, morn, or noon, or even;
Lovebells, joybells, earthbells heard in heaven.
Any time the happy hills may be lightly swept
By the ringers' little feet; any time, except
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Weak and panting, little hares care to ring no more.
It must be upon the hills where the hunt comes ne'er,
Chimes of bells ring out to greet touch of little hare.
Harebells, blue bells, ring, ring again!
Set a-going, little hares, the joyaunce of the strain.
Not a hare to ring the bells on the whole hillside?
Could she make the harebells ring, if my darling tried?
Harebells, harebells, a little child blue-gowned
Stands and listens longingly; little hands embrowned
Touch you; rose mouth kisses you: ring out!
Is a little child a thing any flower should flout?
Child's hand on poet's heart makes it bloom in song:
Let her hear your fairy chimes, delicate ding-dong.
Let her hear what poet's voice never caught nor sung:
Let a child ring the bells little hares have rung!
Soft she whispers to the flowers, bending o'er them there,
‘Let me ring your bonny bells! I'm a little hare!
No, I'm only a little child, but I love you so!
Let me ring your little bells, just to say, you know.’
Harebells, blue bells, ring, ring again!
Set a-going, little child, the joyaunce of the strain.
Could she make the harebells ring, if my darling tried?
Harebells, harebells, a little child blue-gowned
Stands and listens longingly; little hands embrowned
Touch you; rose mouth kisses you: ring out!
Is a little child a thing any flower should flout?
Child's hand on poet's heart makes it bloom in song:
Let her hear your fairy chimes, delicate ding-dong.
Let her hear what poet's voice never caught nor sung:
Let a child ring the bells little hares have rung!
Soft she whispers to the flowers, bending o'er them there,
‘Let me ring your bonny bells! I'm a little hare!
No, I'm only a little child, but I love you so!
Let me ring your little bells, just to say, you know.’
Harebells, blue bells, ring, ring again!
Set a-going, little child, the joyaunce of the strain.
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Oh, the look upon her face for the music heard!
Is it wind in fairy soughs? Is it far-off bird?
Does the child hear melody grown folk cannot hear?
Is the harebells' music now chiming on her ear?
Father, give this little child, as she goeth on,
Evermore to keep the gift by this music won;
Gift which makes this earth of ours very Paradise
For delight of opened ears, joy of opened eyes.
Harebells, joybells, lovebells, dear and blest,
Ring in the sacredness of her happy breast.
Is it wind in fairy soughs? Is it far-off bird?
Does the child hear melody grown folk cannot hear?
Is the harebells' music now chiming on her ear?
Father, give this little child, as she goeth on,
Evermore to keep the gift by this music won;
Gift which makes this earth of ours very Paradise
For delight of opened ears, joy of opened eyes.
Harebells, joybells, lovebells, dear and blest,
Ring in the sacredness of her happy breast.
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IN WHAT HIGH BLISS ABIDETH LOVE?
In what high bliss abideth Love?
Lives he in golden sunshine fair,
Flooding the heart of broad blue air,
Green grass beneath his feet, above
His head the trees that ever bear
Blossom and fruit and leafage rare?
In such high bliss abideth Love?
Lives he in golden sunshine fair,
Flooding the heart of broad blue air,
Green grass beneath his feet, above
His head the trees that ever bear
Blossom and fruit and leafage rare?
In such high bliss abideth Love?
In what deep pain abideth Love?
Sits he in dreary darkness where
The meeting hands of grief and care
Draw curtains close that will not move;
'Mid bitter sighs and cryings there
Of all earth's passion and despair?
In such deep pain abideth Love?
Sits he in dreary darkness where
The meeting hands of grief and care
Draw curtains close that will not move;
'Mid bitter sighs and cryings there
Of all earth's passion and despair?
In such deep pain abideth Love?
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High bliss, deep pain, alike, for Love
Are dwelling-place, and he being there
Dark groweth bright, and fair thrice fair:
He brings the gifts that best behove;
He teacheth strength to do and bear,
And weakness how in grace to fare;
For everywhere abideth Love.
Are dwelling-place, and he being there
Dark groweth bright, and fair thrice fair:
He brings the gifts that best behove;
He teacheth strength to do and bear,
And weakness how in grace to fare;
For everywhere abideth Love.
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POLLY, A GOVERNESS
The mice are away, and the cat will play;
The children are out for the livelong day,
So Polly will have it all her own way.
The children are out for the livelong day,
So Polly will have it all her own way.
Polly is barely turned nineteen;
She hasn't at all a cat-like mien;
The sweetest smile that ever was seen
She hasn't at all a cat-like mien;
The sweetest smile that ever was seen
Plays on her lips, that are dainty red;
And brown is the hair of her bonny head,
And light is the little lady's tread,
And brown is the hair of her bonny head,
And light is the little lady's tread,
And low is the little teacher's speech;
So gladly she'll learn, so gladly teach,
It is good to be within her reach.
So gladly she'll learn, so gladly teach,
It is good to be within her reach.
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There's plenty of fun at her command;
She doesn't look proud at all nor grand;
But you rarely find a firmer hand.
She doesn't look proud at all nor grand;
But you rarely find a firmer hand.
The children, that others used to say
Could not, or would not, learn to obey,
Do Polly's bidding day by day.
Could not, or would not, learn to obey,
Do Polly's bidding day by day.
Small wonder it is how this should be,
For strong as gentle, indeed, is she,
And they know she loves them heartily.
For strong as gentle, indeed, is she,
And they know she loves them heartily.
Their little griefs and little joys
She knows, and she mends their broken toys,
And she likes to hear their merry noise.
She knows, and she mends their broken toys,
And she likes to hear their merry noise.
Full many a dear delicious thing
She tells them of birds upon the wing,
And the brooding-time when sweet they sing.
She tells them of birds upon the wing,
And the brooding-time when sweet they sing.
She knows the haunts of wild flowers rare;
She has climbed full many a sea-rock where
Was a chance to find wild maidenhair.
She has climbed full many a sea-rock where
Was a chance to find wild maidenhair.
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They say she's ‘a brick,’ and it ne'er disturbs
That faith when little Polly curbs
Their glee with ‘horrid irregular verbs.’
That faith when little Polly curbs
Their glee with ‘horrid irregular verbs.’
(Does Polly feel, or does she know,
How from man's heart, in the long ago,
Words came for his need in their heat and glow?)
How from man's heart, in the long ago,
Words came for his need in their heat and glow?)
Oh, life, to her, is full of delight,
A rapture and wonder of dark and bright,
Of things past worth for the ear and sight.
A rapture and wonder of dark and bright,
Of things past worth for the ear and sight.
To-day they have left her all alone;
The children are gone to London town;
They'll not come back till the sun goes down.
The children are gone to London town;
They'll not come back till the sun goes down.
‘Good-bye, little cat!’ did the children say,
When they kissed her that morn and went away;
‘When the mice are away the cat will play.’
When they kissed her that morn and went away;
‘When the mice are away the cat will play.’
What will the little pussy do?
'Tis something very strange and new
To be all alone, for a long time too.
'Tis something very strange and new
To be all alone, for a long time too.
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Perhaps she will turn out drawers to see
Where pretty stuffs and ribbons be,
And look them through, Miss Vanity,
Where pretty stuffs and ribbons be,
And look them through, Miss Vanity,
And ply her needle and thread a space,
Till a brand-new hat is ready to grace
Her pretty head and her sunny face.
Till a brand-new hat is ready to grace
Her pretty head and her sunny face.
Or will she think it shame to press
This day's delicious loneliness
Into the service even of dress?
This day's delicious loneliness
Into the service even of dress?
Perhaps she will write a home-letter
To the ones who love to hear from her,
And say she could not be happier,
To the ones who love to hear from her,
And say she could not be happier,
Unless the good time were to come
When, once again a child at home,
No more from them she would ever roam:
When, once again a child at home,
No more from them she would ever roam:
Or gather the ready-ripened seed,
Or tend to the pigeons' hunger or greed,
Then take her book for a lovely read,
Or tend to the pigeons' hunger or greed,
Then take her book for a lovely read,
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And under the ash where long boughs all
Droop green and fair, in a shady hall,
Miss Polly will have a delicious sprawl.
Droop green and fair, in a shady hall,
Miss Polly will have a delicious sprawl.
She scarce will think and she scarce will muse,
But lie as thinkers and dreamers use,
Until the time of the evening dews.
But lie as thinkers and dreamers use,
Until the time of the evening dews.
But the carriage-wheels will be heard at last,
And the little cat's play be over and past,
For the day will have slidden by so fast.
And the little cat's play be over and past,
For the day will have slidden by so fast.
Oh, in the happiest life 'tis well
To be all alone for a little spell,
As many and many a one can tell:
To be all alone for a little spell,
As many and many a one can tell:
And Polly will work the better, we say,
To-morrow, because of this to-day,
When the mice were away and the cat could play.
To-morrow, because of this to-day,
When the mice were away and the cat could play.
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A LAY OF LONDON TOWN
What the Heart of the Old Man Sayeth
Oh, I came to London Town, in the days of long ago,
With the springtide on my head, and a heart with spring aglow;
Glad of soul and blithe was I, who had oftentimes been told
How the streets of London Town they are surely paved with gold;
I should bask in Fortune's smile, I should never see her frown
In the heart of London Town.
With the springtide on my head, and a heart with spring aglow;
Glad of soul and blithe was I, who had oftentimes been told
How the streets of London Town they are surely paved with gold;
I should bask in Fortune's smile, I should never see her frown
In the heart of London Town.
Then the life of youth was mine, and I dreamt the dreams of youth,
And I thought of beauty's self, and the very truth of truth;
I should fight and I should win, I should strive and I should gain;
Yea, a goodly life were mine, and a mastery o'er pain;
I should do as strong ones do, and my brow should wear the crown
Of true work in London Town.
And I thought of beauty's self, and the very truth of truth;
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Yea, a goodly life were mine, and a mastery o'er pain;
I should do as strong ones do, and my brow should wear the crown
Of true work in London Town.
I should keep my heart of love for the dear old country folk;
I should stand erect and strong as the stalwart ash and oak;
In the gold-paved city's heart I should pile up heaps of gold
For my well-beloved ones; they should have and they should hold;
Broadcloth brave should father don, mother wear a silken gown,
Gained for them in London Town.
I should stand erect and strong as the stalwart ash and oak;
In the gold-paved city's heart I should pile up heaps of gold
For my well-beloved ones; they should have and they should hold;
Broadcloth brave should father don, mother wear a silken gown,
Gained for them in London Town.
Now a many years are gone, and a many dreams are fled,
And a many hopes are lost, and a many friends are dead.
Have I proved all vanity, as the world-sick preacher saith,
In the bitterness of loss, and the bitterness of death?
Have all splendid hopes that grew in the field of youth died down
On thy heart, O London Town?
And a many hopes are lost, and a many friends are dead.
Have I proved all vanity, as the world-sick preacher saith,
In the bitterness of loss, and the bitterness of death?
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On thy heart, O London Town?
'Twas for London Town, long since, I gave up the country sweet,
Gracious air about my head, gracious grass about my feet;
Voice of woodland, torrents' rush, mountain summits grand and proud,
Songs of birds that cannot sing 'mid the cry and throng and crowd,
For the busy traffic's roar, and the fogdom heavy and brown
Of thy streets, O London Town.
Gracious air about my head, gracious grass about my feet;
Voice of woodland, torrents' rush, mountain summits grand and proud,
Songs of birds that cannot sing 'mid the cry and throng and crowd,
For the busy traffic's roar, and the fogdom heavy and brown
Of thy streets, O London Town.
Loss, and nought but loss, ye say, and ye say I ne'er shall know
Any beautiful delight like the joy of long ago;
Never more the tranquil sweets of the country dear and fair,
Never any coolness like mountain breath upon my hair:
Oh, the glory is gone for aye, do ye say, life's end and crown
As I sit in London Town?
Any beautiful delight like the joy of long ago;
Never more the tranquil sweets of the country dear and fair,
Never any coolness like mountain breath upon my hair:
Oh, the glory is gone for aye, do ye say, life's end and crown
As I sit in London Town?
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What, ye think the aim of all should be peace and quietude,
Little brooklets running soft, never mighty roar and flood?
What, ye think that none is blest save who lifteth happy eyes
To the green of woodland trees and the blue of country skies?
Nay, but your philosophy has not dreamt or guessed or known
That which bides in London Town.
Little brooklets running soft, never mighty roar and flood?
What, ye think that none is blest save who lifteth happy eyes
To the green of woodland trees and the blue of country skies?
Nay, but your philosophy has not dreamt or guessed or known
That which bides in London Town.
It was true what country folk long ago to me had told,
How the streets of London Town they are surely paved with gold;
Of that paving, by God's grace, some small portion have I won,
Better than the share that fell to the lot of Whittington,
When the song o' the bells came true, bells that hailed him, country clown,
Thrice Lord Mayor of London Town!
How the streets of London Town they are surely paved with gold;
Of that paving, by God's grace, some small portion have I won,
Better than the share that fell to the lot of Whittington,
When the song o' the bells came true, bells that hailed him, country clown,
Thrice Lord Mayor of London Town!
Oh, the streets of London Town are alive with all the glow
Of the glorious feet that walked up and down so long ago;
And we know of things that pass all the power of voice and speech,
By the stately eloquence of the city's sweep and reach;
Splendid strength and fairest grace, from whose shadow light drops down
On thy head, O London Town!
Of the glorious feet that walked up and down so long ago;
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By the stately eloquence of the city's sweep and reach;
Splendid strength and fairest grace, from whose shadow light drops down
On thy head, O London Town!
Oh, the beat of eager hearts! Oh, the glory of life's great race!
Ever on and onward yet, with a never-slackening pace!
And the rushing sound is like swirl of some mysterious seas,
And one glows to feel one's heart just a-beat with hearts like these.
Oh, delight of strenuous life, past all speech and all renown,
In thy heart, great London Town!
Ever on and onward yet, with a never-slackening pace!
And the rushing sound is like swirl of some mysterious seas,
And one glows to feel one's heart just a-beat with hearts like these.
Oh, delight of strenuous life, past all speech and all renown,
In thy heart, great London Town!
‘Nay, but hush!’ ye say, ‘or else lift thy voice and cry aloud,
Do not sing a triumph-song; sit as one in darkness bowed;
How should any poet dare to be glad and proud who knows
Of the horror brooding thick, of the bitter deathly throes—
Mad injustice, rampant sin, keeping state and grinding down
Body and soul in London Town!
Do not sing a triumph-song; sit as one in darkness bowed;
How should any poet dare to be glad and proud who knows
Of the horror brooding thick, of the bitter deathly throes—
144
Body and soul in London Town!
‘Splendid things hath London Town? Dreadful things she knoweth too;
Dost thou dare, O poet, turn eyes away, nor face their view?
Sin and horror sitting throned, over thousands holding sway,
Deadly foulness stifling close, blotting out the gracious day.
Will the Light that lighteth men ever pierce this fogdom brown
Brooding over London Town?’
Dost thou dare, O poet, turn eyes away, nor face their view?
Sin and horror sitting throned, over thousands holding sway,
Deadly foulness stifling close, blotting out the gracious day.
Will the Light that lighteth men ever pierce this fogdom brown
Brooding over London Town?’
And I answer, ‘Brothers, yea, in my heart I know this thing,
Yet I lift my heart to praise, and I lift my voice to sing;
For I know however dark be the cloud, the sun is there,
And I know the hope of God, and I cast aside despair;
Yes, the deathly fog will lift, and the Light of lights pierce down
To the heart of London Town.’
Yet I lift my heart to praise, and I lift my voice to sing;
For I know however dark be the cloud, the sun is there,
And I know the hope of God, and I cast aside despair;
Yes, the deathly fog will lift, and the Light of lights pierce down
To the heart of London Town.’
145
I have lost the hopes of youth, but a better hope is mine;
I have lost old blind belief, but I cling to faith divine;
Spilt the cup of youth's bright wine, but my soul hath drunken deep
Of the awful river of life, stream whose waters never sleep.
Little vessels may brim o'er with the self-same floods which drown
In their greatness, London Town!
I have lost old blind belief, but I cling to faith divine;
Spilt the cup of youth's bright wine, but my soul hath drunken deep
Of the awful river of life, stream whose waters never sleep.
Little vessels may brim o'er with the self-same floods which drown
In their greatness, London Town!
Yes, I see the wrong that's piled on the wrong of centuries,
Till redressing seems to mean slaying those to quicken these;
English women pined and starved till despair has bid them meet,
Face to face and hand to hand, death, or life upon the street;
English men in manhood's prime, soul and body trampled down
In the depth of London Town.
Till redressing seems to mean slaying those to quicken these;
English women pined and starved till despair has bid them meet,
Face to face and hand to hand, death, or life upon the street;
English men in manhood's prime, soul and body trampled down
In the depth of London Town.
This I see, and more I see; yea, I see the hearts that burn
With the flame that nigh consumes, and my heart on them doth yearn;
And I clasp their loyal hands, bless them as they go along,
Great hearts, loving much the right, therefore hating much the wrong;
Going on for no reward, caring not to win renown
As they work in London Town.
With the flame that nigh consumes, and my heart on them doth yearn;
146
Great hearts, loving much the right, therefore hating much the wrong;
Going on for no reward, caring not to win renown
As they work in London Town.
Oh, I see them dare the plunge; oh, I watch them breast the flood,
Stretch their hands abroad to swim, these our gallant ones and good;
And I see the heavy surge of the great wan water rise,
Till it dash above their heads, till it hide them from my eyes.
Will they reach the sinking ones, whom the floods are fain to drown?
Yes, and save in London Town!
Stretch their hands abroad to swim, these our gallant ones and good;
And I see the heavy surge of the great wan water rise,
Till it dash above their heads, till it hide them from my eyes.
Will they reach the sinking ones, whom the floods are fain to drown?
Yes, and save in London Town!
Ay, because of such as these, I am glad that I can say
I have lived in London Town, as I stand and breathe today;
And I glow to look on those who would give the rights of men
To the men who suffer so, having lost them, once again;
And I think that God doth smile on their work, to bless and crown
This their work in London Town.
I have lived in London Town, as I stand and breathe today;
And I glow to look on those who would give the rights of men
To the men who suffer so, having lost them, once again;
And I think that God doth smile on their work, to bless and crown
This their work in London Town.
147
SAINT SWITHUN'S DAY
Three little noses are flattened against the pane;
Three little rosy mouths are bemoaning the rain;
Saint Swithun is christening the apples with might and with main.
‘O Saint Swithun, Saint Swithun,’ the children say,
‘Surely you've christened the apples enough to-day.’
Three little rosy mouths are bemoaning the rain;
Saint Swithun is christening the apples with might and with main.
‘O Saint Swithun, Saint Swithun,’ the children say,
‘Surely you've christened the apples enough to-day.’
‘Rain, rain,’ say the children, ‘be off to Spain!
Never, never, we charge you, come back again!
We want to run in the garden, and down comes the rain!
O Saint Swithun, Saint Swithun,’ the children plead,
‘We want our run in the garden, we do indeed.
Never, never, we charge you, come back again!
We want to run in the garden, and down comes the rain!
O Saint Swithun, Saint Swithun,’ the children plead,
‘We want our run in the garden, we do indeed.
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‘Dear Saint Swithun, our lessons have been so long;
Dreadful sums, Saint Swithun, that would come wrong!
We wanted to dance a little, or sing a song,
And now we are free, Saint Swithun, we're kept indoors,
For, because you are christening the apples, it pours and pours.
Dreadful sums, Saint Swithun, that would come wrong!
We wanted to dance a little, or sing a song,
And now we are free, Saint Swithun, we're kept indoors,
For, because you are christening the apples, it pours and pours.
‘Good Saint Swithun, our lessons are over and done;
Kind Saint Swithun, we're longing to take a run;
When you were young, Saint Swithun, you liked some fun.
O Saint Swithun, Saint Swithun,’ the children cry,
‘Why should you christen the apples in mid July?
Kind Saint Swithun, we're longing to take a run;
When you were young, Saint Swithun, you liked some fun.
O Saint Swithun, Saint Swithun,’ the children cry,
‘Why should you christen the apples in mid July?
‘Leggies get cramped, Saint Swithun, indeed, if they stay
Out of the orchard and garden the live-long day:
It's all very well in winter to play house-play,
But, oh, in the summer, with birdies and blossoms and bees,
Who could in the house be contented, Saint Swithun, please?
Out of the orchard and garden the live-long day:
It's all very well in winter to play house-play,
But, oh, in the summer, with birdies and blossoms and bees,
Who could in the house be contented, Saint Swithun, please?
‘We don't mind the rain, not an atom: away we should get
From the schoolroom, bare-headed, bare-footed, out into the wet,
If only they'd let us—but that they have never done yet;
And you might as well ask them to—cook us and eat us, you see,
For in some things grown-up folk and children can't ever agree.’
From the schoolroom, bare-headed, bare-footed, out into the wet,
149
And you might as well ask them to—cook us and eat us, you see,
For in some things grown-up folk and children can't ever agree.’
Now hurrah for Saint Swithun! The rain is o'er;
Out comes the sun in his glory—they make for the door—
Six little feet a-patter, a joyous uproar;
‘Hey! for Saint Swithun, Saint Swithun,’ the children shout;
‘Hats and boots—not a moment to lose till we're out.’
Out comes the sun in his glory—they make for the door—
Six little feet a-patter, a joyous uproar;
‘Hey! for Saint Swithun, Saint Swithun,’ the children shout;
‘Hats and boots—not a moment to lose till we're out.’
Hark at the birds and the children! Oh, merry and sweet
Rings out the laugh of the children, and quick are their feet.
Hey! for the sunshine of summer, its light and its heat.
Where are ye now, little children? Oh, far away,
Though Saint Swithun is christening the apples again to-day.
Rings out the laugh of the children, and quick are their feet.
Hey! for the sunshine of summer, its light and its heat.
Where are ye now, little children? Oh, far away,
Though Saint Swithun is christening the apples again to-day.
Hone mentions a saying current in some parts of the country when rain falls on S.t. Swithun's Day; ‘St. Swithun is christening the apples.’
150
‘AS A DREAM WHEN ONE AWAKETH’
Is it all a dream? will the coming of day surprise
Us lying prone, with slumber sealing our eyes?
Us lying prone, with slumber sealing our eyes?
Will the great red dawn smite sharp on our eyeballs then,
And pierce like a sword the souls of women and men?
And pierce like a sword the souls of women and men?
Shall we utter a sudden cry, and bewildered spring
From the couch whereon we sleep, when the glorious thing,
From the couch whereon we sleep, when the glorious thing,
The sword of the daylight's flame, shall come to rive
The marrow and joints, not slaying, but making alive?
The marrow and joints, not slaying, but making alive?
Alive from the death of sleep in the coffin-bed,
With the shadows of truths and lies at our feet and head;
With the shadows of truths and lies at our feet and head;
151
And the thing with hopeless eyes and lips of unfaith,
We know for the ghost of our past and our future's wraith.
We know for the ghost of our past and our future's wraith.
The shadowy truths and lies will fade away
In the light of eternal Truth who maketh it day;
In the light of eternal Truth who maketh it day;
And Past and Future alike will cease to be;
For all is Now in the day of eternity.
For all is Now in the day of eternity.
Shall we mourn the things which in sleep we thought were good,
And weep that nothing shall come to cheat or illude?
And weep that nothing shall come to cheat or illude?
The pleasant shams God's eyes will have blasted for aye,
And the glosses and dear deceits of our dream's pale day?
And the glosses and dear deceits of our dream's pale day?
Shall we moan for the sweets of the night with their blisses and stings,
And cry for shadows to hide from the blaze of Things?
And cry for shadows to hide from the blaze of Things?
Will the light of the eyes of God, so terrible-fair,
Be more than soul can endure or life can bear?
Be more than soul can endure or life can bear?
152
‘Not yet, not yet, is the flush in the eastern sky;
Let us dream that we eat and drink, that tomorrow we die;
Let us dream that we eat and drink, that tomorrow we die;
‘Let us dream of the bitten gold with its core of dust;
Let us dream of wisdom and folly, of love and of lust;
Let us dream of wisdom and folly, of love and of lust;
‘Let us dream of beauty and foulness; of heaven and hell;
Of heights and depths; and of things no tongue can tell.’
Of heights and depths; and of things no tongue can tell.’
Nay; he that cometh will come, though he seem to delay;
The countless aeons with him are but as a day.
The countless aeons with him are but as a day.
At last, at last, the morn of his life will break,
And the sleepers hear the call of God, and awake.
And the sleepers hear the call of God, and awake.
153
UTOPIA
Where is the land of Utopia,
The good, the fair?
How shall we bask in its sunshine,
Breathe in its air?
Say, is that wonderful country,
Indeed, nowhere?
The good, the fair?
How shall we bask in its sunshine,
Breathe in its air?
Say, is that wonderful country,
Indeed, nowhere?
Where the love of men for their fellows
Is deep and strong;
Where the trust of men for their fellows
Is broad and long;
Where the voices of man and nature
Make one great song.
Is deep and strong;
Where the trust of men for their fellows
Is broad and long;
Where the voices of man and nature
Make one great song.
Where they ever seek the ideal
With hearts unashamed;
And the search for good and beauty
Is all unblamed;
And the name of falsehood never
So much as named.
With hearts unashamed;
And the search for good and beauty
Is all unblamed;
And the name of falsehood never
So much as named.
154
All of the folk in Utopia
Are free of the sod;
They know no fetters of slavedom,
No tyrant's nod;
They may not be dragged or driven,
Were it even to God.
Are free of the sod;
They know no fetters of slavedom,
No tyrant's nod;
They may not be dragged or driven,
Were it even to God.
Are all in Utopia equal?
They all are free;
They have room to breathe and grow in,
To hear and see;
And they never think of claiming
Equality.
They all are free;
They have room to breathe and grow in,
To hear and see;
And they never think of claiming
Equality.
Work and honour and pleasure
Are all they claim;
For spirit differs from spirit
As frame from frame;
And fair degree is better
Than same and same.
Are all they claim;
For spirit differs from spirit
As frame from frame;
And fair degree is better
Than same and same.
They sometimes go wrong in Utopia,
And err likewise;
But the light of a loyal purpose
Is in their eyes;
And if they stumble in going,
Again they rise.
And err likewise;
But the light of a loyal purpose
Is in their eyes;
And if they stumble in going,
Again they rise.
155
They cleave not to old for old's sake,
Nor new for new
They seek, but are eager-willing
God's will to do;
So shall they one day, surely,
Know what is true.
Nor new for new
They seek, but are eager-willing
God's will to do;
So shall they one day, surely,
Know what is true.
Whenever one steppeth forward
New ways to try,
There is none to hiss him and scorn him,
Or raise the cry,
‘Bring stones wherewith to stone him
For blasphemy!’
New ways to try,
There is none to hiss him and scorn him,
Or raise the cry,
‘Bring stones wherewith to stone him
For blasphemy!’
They know the eternal Spirit
Hath many a guise
Of body for high revealing
To seeking eyes;
They love the spirit truly,
And so are wise.
Hath many a guise
Of body for high revealing
To seeking eyes;
They love the spirit truly,
And so are wise.
The worn-out body they gently
Lay in its rest,
The dark and quickening glory
Of earth's dear breast.
From good there comes the better,
For better, the best.
Lay in its rest,
The dark and quickening glory
Of earth's dear breast.
From good there comes the better,
For better, the best.
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They are never afraid in Utopia
To try and to prove;
Each follows a loyal impulse,
However it move,
And doeth whatever he pleaseth,
Because all love.
To try and to prove;
Each follows a loyal impulse,
However it move,
And doeth whatever he pleaseth,
Because all love.
They know the wonderful secrets
That lie soft curled
Round the heart of the mystic being
We call the world;
The home of life and quickening,
With light impearled.
That lie soft curled
Round the heart of the mystic being
We call the world;
The home of life and quickening,
With light impearled.
They have watched her all the daytime,
Know every heave
And fall of her bosom's beauty,
And softly cleave
To her side, and laugh with her laughter,
And with her grieve.
Know every heave
And fall of her bosom's beauty,
And softly cleave
To her side, and laugh with her laughter,
And with her grieve.
They have gazed on her in the night-time,
In lucid rest;
They have seen her lovely body
By sleep caressed;
They know of the mole cinque-spotted
Upon her breast.
In lucid rest;
They have seen her lovely body
By sleep caressed;
They know of the mole cinque-spotted
Upon her breast.
157
Their eyes are open for seeing,
Their ears can hear
The blare of the great wind's trumpet,
Its flute-song clear;
The music of spirit voices,
Afar, anear.
Their ears can hear
The blare of the great wind's trumpet,
Its flute-song clear;
The music of spirit voices,
Afar, anear.
Alive they are, and responsive
To every touch;
Nor dull, nor morbid; for Nature
Bestows on such
Her healthy measure, which knows not
Too little, too much.
To every touch;
Nor dull, nor morbid; for Nature
Bestows on such
Her healthy measure, which knows not
Too little, too much.
They know not our anguish-billows
On oceans wild:
The needs of the sense and the spirit
Are reconciled:
The strength of the man has wedded
The heart of the child.
On oceans wild:
The needs of the sense and the spirit
Are reconciled:
The strength of the man has wedded
The heart of the child.
Are there ever tears in Utopia?
Ah, who may say?
Is the fire of pain still burning
There day by day?
—Well, tears and fire may be lustral,
May heal, not slay.
Ah, who may say?
Is the fire of pain still burning
There day by day?
—Well, tears and fire may be lustral,
May heal, not slay.
158
When shall the sight of that country
Crown wish and prayer?
Oh! shall we ever find it,
The dear, the fair?
Or is the land of Utopia,
Indeed, nowhere?
Crown wish and prayer?
Oh! shall we ever find it,
The dear, the fair?
Or is the land of Utopia,
Indeed, nowhere?
159
‘THANK YOU’
‘Comme vous êtes bon ....
‘Non, je t'aime,
Voilà tout.’
Victor Hugo.
‘Non, je t'aime,
Voilà tout.’
Victor Hugo.
Why do you thank me, dear,
Say I am kind?
Sometimes, alas, I fear
You must be blind.
Say I am kind?
Sometimes, alas, I fear
You must be blind.
Say, does the sun give thanks
To the flowers that lift
Glad faces on hedgerow banks
In the light, his gift?
To the flowers that lift
Glad faces on hedgerow banks
In the light, his gift?
Are thanks for your right hand meet
When it serves your need?
Do you ever bless your feet
Because of their speed?
When it serves your need?
Do you ever bless your feet
Because of their speed?
160
Do you thank your eyes that see
Or your ears that hear?
Then why give thanks to me,
My dear, my dear?
Or your ears that hear?
Then why give thanks to me,
My dear, my dear?
Do you know that you, yes, you,
Are light to mine eyes?
I love you, love you true,
How otherwise?
Are light to mine eyes?
I love you, love you true,
How otherwise?
You let me into your heart,
Do you not know?
You made me of life a part,
A while ago.
Do you not know?
You made me of life a part,
A while ago.
What matters what I may do,
Or what I may give?
You know I would die for you,
As for you I live.
Or what I may give?
You know I would die for you,
As for you I live.
Then let me breathe with your breath,
To your need respond,
Till we come to the gates of death,
And the strange beyond.
To your need respond,
Till we come to the gates of death,
And the strange beyond.
161
MOTHERING SUNDAY
On the trees the tender leafage thrills for glory to be won,
Perfectness of strength and colour, from the touches of the sun;
In the hedges breath of violets, for the spring-time has begun.
Perfectness of strength and colour, from the touches of the sun;
In the hedges breath of violets, for the spring-time has begun.
On the bosom of the willow sheen of golden down is spread;
Little hazel catkins—children call them lambs' tails—overhead;
Aspen blossom swaying, dancing, in a mirth of living red.
Little hazel catkins—children call them lambs' tails—overhead;
Aspen blossom swaying, dancing, in a mirth of living red.
All the country-side a-triumph, from the winter-bonds releast,
Breaks from march of grave iambus into bounding anapaest,
With the gladness of the blossom, mating bird and youngling beast.
Breaks from march of grave iambus into bounding anapaest,
With the gladness of the blossom, mating bird and youngling beast.
162
Mother Nature, all thy sweetness, all thy wonder, taketh hold
Of the spirit till we pause not to remember heat or cold;
All forgetful of the pain and knowing not the growing old.
Of the spirit till we pause not to remember heat or cold;
All forgetful of the pain and knowing not the growing old.
Long ago when earth was thrilling with the rapture of the spring,
And the lovely hope and promise every heart was quickening,
'Prentice boys in merry England used to go a-mothering.
And the lovely hope and promise every heart was quickening,
'Prentice boys in merry England used to go a-mothering.
They would bring their gladsome mothers dainty simnels rich and sweet,
And in many a country hedgerow would those lads a-mothering meet
With the bloom of early violets, by the wayside, at their feet.
And in many a country hedgerow would those lads a-mothering meet
With the bloom of early violets, by the wayside, at their feet.
O my mother, sweet my mother, may I come to you to-day?
Bring my little song to greet you? Are you very far away?
Can you hear me in my singing? Can you hearken what I say?
Bring my little song to greet you? Are you very far away?
Can you hear me in my singing? Can you hearken what I say?
163
It is Mothering Sunday, darling; sunshine beats through gloom of Lent;
And a greater, sweeter sunshine to the mourning heart is sent
That has kept Love's awful vigil and received its sacrament.
And a greater, sweeter sunshine to the mourning heart is sent
That has kept Love's awful vigil and received its sacrament.
Where you are I know not, mother, but am fain to think you dwell
In the beauty and the quiet which you waited for so well—
Whitest sheen and warmth and comfort; God's own peace unspeakable.
In the beauty and the quiet which you waited for so well—
Whitest sheen and warmth and comfort; God's own peace unspeakable.
In the by-and-by, O mother, will the Master let me bring
Some sweet gift by Love made worthy, (Love makes worthy poorest thing)
My beloved, my beloved, when I go a-mothering?
Some sweet gift by Love made worthy, (Love makes worthy poorest thing)
My beloved, my beloved, when I go a-mothering?
164
COMRADES
There were three:
Red their radiant lips with laughter of the young gods' holy glee;
Sweet their speech, exceeding sweeter than all singers' melody;
And their hair had dewy brightness of the morning of the world,
Like the delicate glow of spring woods all bemavised and bemerled.
In the glory of their manhood, in the splendour of their youth,
Deep they vowed a vow that nothing would they love before the truth;
They would grapple with the horror of the monsters of the fen;
They would fight for truth and set her throned upon the hearts of men.
You had said, to look upon them, oh, so fair and strong were they,
They had bathed them, soul and body, in the ocean of God's day:
Sin and death could never touch them, time and chance could never mar,
Any more than marish-vapours quench or dim the morning star:
For these three, these lovely comrades, with God's cleanness in their glance,
Came to earth to work their fellows comfort and deliverance.
In your strength, and in your beauty, in your health of body and soul,
Go ye forward, light the darkness, heal the sick and bless the whole!
Red their radiant lips with laughter of the young gods' holy glee;
Sweet their speech, exceeding sweeter than all singers' melody;
And their hair had dewy brightness of the morning of the world,
Like the delicate glow of spring woods all bemavised and bemerled.
In the glory of their manhood, in the splendour of their youth,
Deep they vowed a vow that nothing would they love before the truth;
They would grapple with the horror of the monsters of the fen;
They would fight for truth and set her throned upon the hearts of men.
165
They had bathed them, soul and body, in the ocean of God's day:
Sin and death could never touch them, time and chance could never mar,
Any more than marish-vapours quench or dim the morning star:
For these three, these lovely comrades, with God's cleanness in their glance,
Came to earth to work their fellows comfort and deliverance.
In your strength, and in your beauty, in your health of body and soul,
Go ye forward, light the darkness, heal the sick and bless the whole!
There were twain:
One was going as he goeth who is king o'er time and pain,
Strong in tested might and proven, after heavy stress and strain.
One was going as he goeth who is weak of heart and limb;
Wind and rain and sun had beaten sore upon the head of him.
Brave the cheer his comrade gave him, he whose arm he leant upon;
Oft they thought, and spake but seldom, of the comrade who was gone:
Never could I hear his hap, but knew that somehow he had failed—
Failed his comrades and the world; perchance his soul had sometime quailed
For the power of dread illusion born of an imperfect faith,
Cowered and hid her face, and so was phantom-slain by phantom death.
Did he, could he fail because of lust for pleasure, fame, or pelf,
Or ignobly kiss the ground before the image of himself?
Howsoever were the failure, oh, the pity, the pity of it!
Was the lamp gone out for ever once the hand of God had lit?
One was going as he goeth who is king o'er time and pain,
Strong in tested might and proven, after heavy stress and strain.
One was going as he goeth who is weak of heart and limb;
Wind and rain and sun had beaten sore upon the head of him.
166
Oft they thought, and spake but seldom, of the comrade who was gone:
Never could I hear his hap, but knew that somehow he had failed—
Failed his comrades and the world; perchance his soul had sometime quailed
For the power of dread illusion born of an imperfect faith,
Cowered and hid her face, and so was phantom-slain by phantom death.
Did he, could he fail because of lust for pleasure, fame, or pelf,
Or ignobly kiss the ground before the image of himself?
Howsoever were the failure, oh, the pity, the pity of it!
Was the lamp gone out for ever once the hand of God had lit?
There is one:
Mountains climbed and rivers forded, there he standeth all alone,
And upon his forehead glows the splendour of the risen sun.
Glorious-browed and stalwart-shouldered, chested deep and mighty-thewed;
Eyes untired as the king-eagle's in his pride of youth renewed.
Yet the deep clear orbs are tender, and the firmness of the lip
Has the sweetness of the joyaunce and the ruth of comradeship.
Open wide, ye gates of glory, open wide to let him in,
To the Beatific Vision of the souls that fight and win!
Crown the forehead of the victor none nor nought could foil or worst!
First thou art, Ó glorious brother, and the first shall still be first.
Mountains climbed and rivers forded, there he standeth all alone,
And upon his forehead glows the splendour of the risen sun.
Glorious-browed and stalwart-shouldered, chested deep and mighty-thewed;
167
Yet the deep clear orbs are tender, and the firmness of the lip
Has the sweetness of the joyaunce and the ruth of comradeship.
Open wide, ye gates of glory, open wide to let him in,
To the Beatific Vision of the souls that fight and win!
Crown the forehead of the victor none nor nought could foil or worst!
First thou art, Ó glorious brother, and the first shall still be first.
There were three:
Only one comes in triumphant? Only one the light shall see?
O my brothers, O my brothers, what is this for you and me?
O my brothers, O my brothers, leave the victor to his gain,
Kiss the foreheads of the vanquished in their numbness and their pain;
One who failed, and one who mourned him, and himself must now be mourned,
Did he stumble, being weary? were his footsteps backward turned?
Oh, the vanquished! oh, the erring! let the victor bear his crest—
We are glad for those that win, if those that lose we love the best.
What of them, and how, O singer? tell us somewhat of the twain;
Did they never rise from falling? did they nevermore attain?
Did they see the glorious vision? did they only dream the dream?
Did they gain the things that be, or rest in those that only seem?
In the horror of the furnace sevenfold heated were they tried,
And the dross consumed for ever, and the true gold purified?
Gloria Deo for the victor, but for these the vanquished ones,
Speak the word of hope and comfort, love forgives as death condones.
Is infinitude love's measure, and its span eternity?
There is one, you say, O singer; and I tell you, there are three.—
Tears are on your cheek, O singer; answer give you none, nor durst.—
Must the last be last for ever, as the first for ever first?
Only one comes in triumphant? Only one the light shall see?
O my brothers, O my brothers, what is this for you and me?
O my brothers, O my brothers, leave the victor to his gain,
Kiss the foreheads of the vanquished in their numbness and their pain;
One who failed, and one who mourned him, and himself must now be mourned,
Did he stumble, being weary? were his footsteps backward turned?
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We are glad for those that win, if those that lose we love the best.
What of them, and how, O singer? tell us somewhat of the twain;
Did they never rise from falling? did they nevermore attain?
Did they see the glorious vision? did they only dream the dream?
Did they gain the things that be, or rest in those that only seem?
In the horror of the furnace sevenfold heated were they tried,
And the dross consumed for ever, and the true gold purified?
Gloria Deo for the victor, but for these the vanquished ones,
Speak the word of hope and comfort, love forgives as death condones.
Is infinitude love's measure, and its span eternity?
There is one, you say, O singer; and I tell you, there are three.—
Tears are on your cheek, O singer; answer give you none, nor durst.—
Must the last be last for ever, as the first for ever first?
169
UNA AND DUESSA
Duessa hath scarlet raiment,
And gold and gem;
She weareth upon her forehead
A diadem;
The kings of the earth are kissing
Her garment's hem.
And gold and gem;
She weareth upon her forehead
A diadem;
The kings of the earth are kissing
Her garment's hem.
Una is clad in vesture
Of stately white;
Her locks uncrowned are morning's
Own rays of light;
But the stole she wears around her
Is black as night.
Of stately white;
Her locks uncrowned are morning's
Own rays of light;
But the stole she wears around her
Is black as night.
Duessa goes laughing lightly,
As free of care;
Duessa within the bosom
That looks so fair,
The very form of foulness
Indeed doth bear.
As free of care;
Duessa within the bosom
That looks so fair,
The very form of foulness
Indeed doth bear.
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Una goes mourning inly,
Fair face, fair soul;
Not yet is the time for casting
Away her dole;
Not yet is the time for loosing
Her sable stole.
Fair face, fair soul;
Not yet is the time for casting
Away her dole;
Not yet is the time for loosing
Her sable stole.
Full many a time and often,
The hearts that err
Have looked on Duessa, unknowing
The lovelier;
Have taken Duessa for Una,
And worshipped her.
The hearts that err
Have looked on Duessa, unknowing
The lovelier;
Have taken Duessa for Una,
And worshipped her.
Yet once a knight of Faery
Stript the dame
Of all her royal apparel
And crown of fame;
And showed her bald and naked,
A thing of shame.
Stript the dame
Of all her royal apparel
And crown of fame;
And showed her bald and naked,
A thing of shame.
And under the stole of sable,
The snow-pure dress,
The body of Una shineth
In loveliness
The holy know,—and the striving
Perhaps may guess.
The snow-pure dress,
The body of Una shineth
In loveliness
The holy know,—and the striving
Perhaps may guess.
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But yet Duessa goeth
In bravery;
And yet will live and queen it,
O'er mean and high;
As long as the heart of Christdom
Loveth a lie.
In bravery;
And yet will live and queen it,
O'er mean and high;
As long as the heart of Christdom
Loveth a lie.
And few to Una, the only,
Will bend the knee,
Until the eyes of Christdom,
Clean-purged to see,
Discern things only seeming
From things that be.
Will bend the knee,
Until the eyes of Christdom,
Clean-purged to see,
Discern things only seeming
From things that be.
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THE REFUSAL
I. HEDONIST
‘Open to him who standeth at thy door,
To him whose travail hath been sore and hard,
To him whose visage is so greatly marred;
Open to him, dear soul, he doth implore.
Lo, one may track him by the drops of gore
His wounded feet have shed on stone and sward;
Keep not thy door against him closely barred;
Open to him, once and for evermore.’
To him whose travail hath been sore and hard,
To him whose visage is so greatly marred;
Open to him, dear soul, he doth implore.
Lo, one may track him by the drops of gore
His wounded feet have shed on stone and sward;
Keep not thy door against him closely barred;
Open to him, once and for evermore.’
‘Nay, for blithe music and the dancers' feet
Are in my house, and all is beauty and light;
Why should I suffer anguish of the night
To enter in and spoil the fair, the sweet?
He would not dance to any pipings meet;—
Hence, pilgrim, hence, and trouble not my sight!’
Are in my house, and all is beauty and light;
Why should I suffer anguish of the night
To enter in and spoil the fair, the sweet?
He would not dance to any pipings meet;—
Hence, pilgrim, hence, and trouble not my sight!’
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II. ASCETIC
‘Open to him who standeth at thy door,
To him who wears a crown with jewels starred,
To him whose locks are bright with odorous nard;
Open to him, sweet soul, he doth implore.
His garments drop with all love's fragrant store,
His garments drop with all love's fragrant store,
His form is beauty's self; put key to ward,
Open to him, once and for evermore.’
To him who wears a crown with jewels starred,
To him whose locks are bright with odorous nard;
Open to him, sweet soul, he doth implore.
His garments drop with all love's fragrant store,
His garments drop with all love's fragrant store,
His form is beauty's self; put key to ward,
Open to him, once and for evermore.’
‘How should I dare undo my door to greet
The pride of lust and revelry to-night?
Hell's worm breeds at the heart of such delight,
Hell's fire the only end its raptures meet.
O bitterness, be thou alone my sweet!
Blind me, my God, that so I see aright!’
The pride of lust and revelry to-night?
Hell's worm breeds at the heart of such delight,
Hell's fire the only end its raptures meet.
O bitterness, be thou alone my sweet!
Blind me, my God, that so I see aright!’
176
THE LAST COMBAT IN THE COLISEUM
I
A folk that called itself a Christian folk
Still kept the blood-lust of its heathendom,
Men slaying men to make fair mirth for Rome;
And one, aflame with anger and pity, spoke
His heart out in the eloquent speech that broke
Against the mob's hard will, and fell therefrom
Like a strong wave, whose heart beneath its foam
Beating in vain, sobs back from some hard rock.
Still kept the blood-lust of its heathendom,
Men slaying men to make fair mirth for Rome;
And one, aflame with anger and pity, spoke
His heart out in the eloquent speech that broke
Against the mob's hard will, and fell therefrom
Like a strong wave, whose heart beneath its foam
Beating in vain, sobs back from some hard rock.
Another took his life within his hand,
Saying, ‘No longer shall this evil be.’
They smote him that he died upon the sand,
Having fulfilled love's whole supreme command.
But in his death love gained its victory,
For never again did Rome such combat see.
Saying, ‘No longer shall this evil be.’
They smote him that he died upon the sand,
Having fulfilled love's whole supreme command.
But in his death love gained its victory,
For never again did Rome such combat see.
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II
Now many a year since then is past and o'er,
But men not yet to love's high law subdued;
The evil still is fain to blast the good;
Wrong wrestles still with right at all things' core;
And some, who guess the secret of love's lore,
Speak, very mighty in their voice and mood;
And some, who know that secret's plenitude,
Lay down their lives, as men lay down their store.
But men not yet to love's high law subdued;
The evil still is fain to blast the good;
Wrong wrestles still with right at all things' core;
And some, who guess the secret of love's lore,
Speak, very mighty in their voice and mood;
And some, who know that secret's plenitude,
Lay down their lives, as men lay down their store.
Wilt thou, O man, deliver men from wrong,
'Tis not enough thy substance to bestow;
And not enough to send thy heart along
Upon the rhythmic tide of passionate song;
Thyself, thy soul, thy body, all must go:—
Thou knowest not the rest, but God doth know.
'Tis not enough thy substance to bestow;
And not enough to send thy heart along
Upon the rhythmic tide of passionate song;
Thyself, thy soul, thy body, all must go:—
Thou knowest not the rest, but God doth know.
178
DE PROFUNDIS
God my Father, and dare I say,
‘Out of the deeps I cry to-day?’
Are they not shallows, these deeps of mine;
Shallows wherein all unafraid,
A little ungrown soul might wade
Over to gain that rest of Thine?
‘Out of the deeps I cry to-day?’
Are they not shallows, these deeps of mine;
Shallows wherein all unafraid,
A little ungrown soul might wade
Over to gain that rest of Thine?
Shallows or deeps, whichever they be,
I am whelmed in their horror verily,
And beaten upon by their wild salt foam;
Only sometimes, behind, behind,
And not in my face, is the master wind
Which blows me nearer the shore of home.
I am whelmed in their horror verily,
And beaten upon by their wild salt foam;
Only sometimes, behind, behind,
And not in my face, is the master wind
Which blows me nearer the shore of home.
Oh, shall I ever gain that shore?
Will the wind set, and for evermore
Beat me back, till at last I fall
To rise not again, and the ebbing tide
Bear me away, who in vain have cried
To Thee, who seest and knowest all?
Will the wind set, and for evermore
Beat me back, till at last I fall
To rise not again, and the ebbing tide
Bear me away, who in vain have cried
To Thee, who seest and knowest all?
179
THE BABIES' MYSTERY PLAY
The children talked, and one who would not grieve
Their little hearts by laughing look or nod,
They being in right earnest, softly trod,
And listened, deeming they did aptly weave
Some great new game. ‘You shall be Adam and Eve,’
Said Charley, ‘You shall kneel, and I'll be God,
And frown on you, and lift my angry rod,
And tell you both my Eden bower to leave.’
Their little hearts by laughing look or nod,
They being in right earnest, softly trod,
And listened, deeming they did aptly weave
Some great new game. ‘You shall be Adam and Eve,’
Said Charley, ‘You shall kneel, and I'll be God,
And frown on you, and lift my angry rod,
And tell you both my Eden bower to leave.’
And Muriel answered, eager of voice and soul,
‘No, you be Adam and Eve, and God I'll be!’
But Charley would not take the lesser rôle;
Each would be God,—and what a God! Ah me,
We grown-up folk fight too for high control,
And play at being God continually.
‘No, you be Adam and Eve, and God I'll be!’
But Charley would not take the lesser rôle;
Each would be God,—and what a God! Ah me,
We grown-up folk fight too for high control,
And play at being God continually.
180
A DREAM OF SPINNING AND WEAVING
A beautiful dream came once to me;
I set it down for thee and thee.
I set it down for thee and thee.
I wandered away from mist which spoke
Of a distant city's murk and smoke;
Of a distant city's murk and smoke;
To seek for linen clean and fair
(Such the king's daughter of old did wear),
(Such the king's daughter of old did wear),
So fair that my soul the search refused
Where the workers' hearts were broken and bruised,
Where the workers' hearts were broken and bruised,
Or shut away from the light of home
In the factory's noise and dust and gloom.
In the factory's noise and dust and gloom.
‘Is there never a place,’ said my heart to my heart,
‘Where labour and joy are not apart?
‘Where labour and joy are not apart?
181
‘Where hand and brain delight can take
In true work done for true work's sake?’
In true work done for true work's sake?’
And I dreamt the good northcountry men
Said, ‘Here will ye find the white linen,
Said, ‘Here will ye find the white linen,
‘Made from the blue-flowered plant which grew
Fed by our English sun and dew.’
Fed by our English sun and dew.’
I would have my thread, I told them, spun
Where the light of the happy English sun
Where the light of the happy English sun
Through window or open door shines clear
On grandam, mother, or maiden dear.
On grandam, mother, or maiden dear.
I would have the thread spun strong and smooth
By the hands of age or the hands of youth;
By the hands of age or the hands of youth;
Which, it would matter not a whit,
So the women were glad a-spinning it;
So the women were glad a-spinning it;
So hand and foot the pleasure knew
Of work that is happiness to do;
Of work that is happiness to do;
That shuts not away from home and hearth,
And the sweetest joys of all the earth,
And the sweetest joys of all the earth,
182
The girls should sing and the grandams croon
Dear words which go to familiar tune:
Dear words which go to familiar tune:
And the web should be woven by hands that know
To fling the shuttle to and fro,
To fling the shuttle to and fro,
Nor fear to pause with a smile, and say,
‘God give you, neighbour of mine, good-day;’
‘God give you, neighbour of mine, good-day;’
Nor fear to leave the loom alone
Before the golden day had gone.
Before the golden day had gone.
I would have the linen laid to bleach,
In sound of children's laugh and speech,
In sound of children's laugh and speech,
In the dear green fields around the home,
Where crisp breath of the wind should come;
Where crisp breath of the wind should come;
And the dew should fall at morn, at night,
And the sun shine down in his lovely might,
And the sun shine down in his lovely might,
Till white it grew and whiter still
As wind, dew, sun, should work their will.
As wind, dew, sun, should work their will.
The good linen should wear and last
When my time on earth were over and past;
When my time on earth were over and past;
183
And win fair praises verily
In the good days coming by-and-by.
In the good days coming by-and-by.
And where should the spinning and weaving be?
Oh, where but in the north country,
Oh, where but in the north country,
Where Ruskin's feet tread wood and hill,
And Wordsworth's spirit broodeth still?
And Wordsworth's spirit broodeth still?
And, because in my dream it seemed I knew
That one was at work to make it true,
That one was at work to make it true,
Asleep or awake, my heart did say,
‘God bless you, Master Fleming, to-day!’
‘God bless you, Master Fleming, to-day!’
184
‘M.’ TO ‘N.’
How sweet are you to me? As sweet
As dewy turf to wayworn feet;
As cooling draught of water given
To lips athirst from morn to even;
As bread and wine at Sacrament
To soul of blessed penitent.
As dewy turf to wayworn feet;
As cooling draught of water given
To lips athirst from morn to even;
As bread and wine at Sacrament
To soul of blessed penitent.
How true are you to me? As true
As swallow to the roadless blue
When spring hath wakened in his breast
Life's apture of the brooding west:
Or as the sea in his response
To that still call which is the moon's.
As swallow to the roadless blue
When spring hath wakened in his breast
Life's apture of the brooding west:
Or as the sea in his response
To that still call which is the moon's.
How near are you to me? As near
As to the earth her atmosphere;
As warp to woof when web is wove;
As strength to hope; as light to love;
As my own blood, my flesh, my breath;
As near as life, as near as death.
As to the earth her atmosphere;
As warp to woof when web is wove;
As strength to hope; as light to love;
As my own blood, my flesh, my breath;
As near as life, as near as death.
185
How far are you from me? As far
As glory of the morning-star
From Lucifer; as far as bliss
Of comradeship from Judas kiss;
As day from night: indeed more far
From me than heaven from hell you are.
As glory of the morning-star
From Lucifer; as far as bliss
Of comradeship from Judas kiss;
As day from night: indeed more far
From me than heaven from hell you are.
186
IT IS WELL
No more I see thee, O sun of flame and glow!
Yet feel the grey days' pallor all unsweet;
I have had pain; I need some gladness now;
No more I see thee, O sun of flame and glow!
But I have thy heat.
Yet feel the grey days' pallor all unsweet;
I have had pain; I need some gladness now;
No more I see thee, O sun of flame and glow!
But I have thy heat.
No more I see the splendour of the rose,
But God hath chosen each one's lot—content!
Not sheen, but soul of things for me He chose;
No more I see the splendour of the rose,
But I have her scent.
But God hath chosen each one's lot—content!
Not sheen, but soul of things for me He chose;
No more I see the splendour of the rose,
But I have her scent.
I see it not, thy look that loveth me;
The look I feel is on me. What of this?
It matters not; regret were blasphemy;
I see it not, thy look that loveth me,
But I have thy kiss.
The look I feel is on me. What of this?
It matters not; regret were blasphemy;
I see it not, thy look that loveth me,
But I have thy kiss.
187
Closed are mine eyes, but what of shadow or gloom?
Oh, too much light have I around, above,
For any darkness on my life to come!
Closed are mine eyes, but what of shadow or gloom,
When I have love?
Oh, too much light have I around, above,
For any darkness on my life to come!
Closed are mine eyes, but what of shadow or gloom,
When I have love?
188
FOR THEE
If there be a turf sweet wet
With dew and shower;
Season by season bright for some
Unfolded flower;
Where lilies in all abundance blow,
With honeysuckle and jasmine there;
I am fain to make it the pathway where
Thy foot shall go.
With dew and shower;
Season by season bright for some
Unfolded flower;
Where lilies in all abundance blow,
With honeysuckle and jasmine there;
I am fain to make it the pathway where
Thy foot shall go.
If there be a breast of love
Where honour sways;
Where deep devotion knoweth not
Sour thoughts, hard ways;
If evermore this loyal breast
For some great cause beat strong and fair,
I am fain to make it the pillow where
Thy head shall rest.
Where honour sways;
Where deep devotion knoweth not
Sour thoughts, hard ways;
If evermore this loyal breast
For some great cause beat strong and fair,
I am fain to make it the pillow where
Thy head shall rest.
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If there be a love-dream quick
Wi' the rose's breath,
A dream where the heart for every day
Sweet things findeth;
A dream God blesseth verily;
Where soul with soul doth union win;
I am fain to make it the nest wherein
Thy heart shall lie.
Wi' the rose's breath,
A dream where the heart for every day
Sweet things findeth;
A dream God blesseth verily;
Where soul with soul doth union win;
I am fain to make it the nest wherein
Thy heart shall lie.
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[_]
Nearly all the shorter poems in this volume have appeared in various magazines, within the last two years. In the case of such of them as I had not a pre-arranged right to reprint, I owne the privilege of doing so to the courtesy of the publishers. I acknowledge with thanks the permission of Messrs. Longman to republish A Lay of London Town, and Polly, a Governess, which appeared in Longman's Magazine; that of Messrs. Smith, Elder, & Co. to republish Her Dream from the Cornhill Magazine; and a similar courtesy on the part of the proprietors of Good Words, in which Utopia and Comrades have been published. E.H.H.
| Michael Villiers, Idealist | |