Michael Villiers, Idealist And Other Poems. By E. H. Hickey |
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 | Michael Villiers, Idealist |  |
I
Sir William Villiers, of Villiers Keep, a man
Of somewhat narrow mind, for which his breadth
Of heart, and generous impulse half atoned,
Brought Michael up, his one dead brother's son,
And heir to all his money and his lands.
Of somewhat narrow mind, for which his breadth
Of heart, and generous impulse half atoned,
Brought Michael up, his one dead brother's son,
And heir to all his money and his lands.
Strong-built Sir William was, with mighty frame
Which heeded never stress of heat or cold.
A landowner and Justice of the Peace;
A kindly lord of the manor; a genial host;
His body healthy and his footstep firm;
His brain not over-fiercely exercised
Upon the Times, and Field, and County News.
His brother John, cast in a kindred mould,
If somewhat broader-souled and narrower-backed,
Was heir to lands and title; William said
He liked his freedom overmuch to wive.
I know not if the jest were meant or no
To hide some wound his life was hurt withal
When John was hardly more than schoolboy yet;
But William brought no wife to Villiers Keep,
So John was heir to all; and William said
That Jack would make the best of masters when
He, come before him by a score of years,
Slept with his fathers in the mother-earth.
Which heeded never stress of heat or cold.
A landowner and Justice of the Peace;
A kindly lord of the manor; a genial host;
His body healthy and his footstep firm;
His brain not over-fiercely exercised
Upon the Times, and Field, and County News.
His brother John, cast in a kindred mould,
If somewhat broader-souled and narrower-backed,
Was heir to lands and title; William said
6
I know not if the jest were meant or no
To hide some wound his life was hurt withal
When John was hardly more than schoolboy yet;
But William brought no wife to Villiers Keep,
So John was heir to all; and William said
That Jack would make the best of masters when
He, come before him by a score of years,
Slept with his fathers in the mother-earth.
One year John hunted on the Irish lands,
And met the orphan girl with violet eyes,
And sweet pathetic mouth, and silver voice
That lingered o'er familiar English words
With new strange music; and John Villiers, thus
Beholding, loved the maid, and won her love.
She was the one great passion of his life,
She the one poem he was fain to read;
And he was passion and poem both to her.
She came with him unto the English home,
Where he was master as his brother's self,
And made it very lovely with the light
Of her dear presence; but, as time wore on,
She waxed most lily-pale, and her small face
Seemed all a light of wonderful great eyes,
And gossips shook their heads; but Villiers thought
Within himself that when the day were come
Of mother-joy to her, and pride to him,
The bonny girl would be herself once more.
Then, as her time drew near, he read some wish
Unuttered, in the depth of her dear eyes,
And prayed her tell it; and she clasped his hands,
Saying, ‘I fain would bring our little one
Into the light of day on Irish ground.’
And John laughed out that cheery laugh of his,
And said, ‘Amen! our eldest son shall see
Your Irish day, and hear the Irish brogue,
And learn it too, if so his mother will.’
And met the orphan girl with violet eyes,
And sweet pathetic mouth, and silver voice
That lingered o'er familiar English words
With new strange music; and John Villiers, thus
Beholding, loved the maid, and won her love.
She was the one great passion of his life,
She the one poem he was fain to read;
And he was passion and poem both to her.
She came with him unto the English home,
Where he was master as his brother's self,
And made it very lovely with the light
Of her dear presence; but, as time wore on,
She waxed most lily-pale, and her small face
Seemed all a light of wonderful great eyes,
And gossips shook their heads; but Villiers thought
7
Of mother-joy to her, and pride to him,
The bonny girl would be herself once more.
Then, as her time drew near, he read some wish
Unuttered, in the depth of her dear eyes,
And prayed her tell it; and she clasped his hands,
Saying, ‘I fain would bring our little one
Into the light of day on Irish ground.’
And John laughed out that cheery laugh of his,
And said, ‘Amen! our eldest son shall see
Your Irish day, and hear the Irish brogue,
And learn it too, if so his mother will.’
And when the day was come for setting forth,
Sir William Villiers gript his brother's hand,
And said in tones that sounded strange and hoarse,
‘God bless you, Jack! bring home the wife and boy’—
They always talked about the boy to come,
As if there were no chance he proved a girl!
The man-child must be first at Villiers Keep,
The brothers said, the maid-child by-and-by—
‘We'll call the youngster Michael, after Dad,
Unless our little gold-haired lady have
A fancy otherwise.’ And John half laughed,
Saying, ‘He shall be Michael, verily,
For so his mother wills him to be called;
Our father's name; my Mary's heart was glad
To know it his, albeit she rather thinks
Of that great angel with the death-tipt spear,
His left foot planted on the dragon's head,
Whom Raphael painted. There's a mezzotint,
You know, upon the wall that fronts the couch
She lies on, tired. I take it over sea,
To pleasure her! If Raphael were alive,
Would we not pray of him audaciously
That he would paint a replica for her?’
Sir William Villiers gript his brother's hand,
And said in tones that sounded strange and hoarse,
‘God bless you, Jack! bring home the wife and boy’—
They always talked about the boy to come,
As if there were no chance he proved a girl!
The man-child must be first at Villiers Keep,
The brothers said, the maid-child by-and-by—
‘We'll call the youngster Michael, after Dad,
Unless our little gold-haired lady have
A fancy otherwise.’ And John half laughed,
Saying, ‘He shall be Michael, verily,
For so his mother wills him to be called;
8
To know it his, albeit she rather thinks
Of that great angel with the death-tipt spear,
His left foot planted on the dragon's head,
Whom Raphael painted. There's a mezzotint,
You know, upon the wall that fronts the couch
She lies on, tired. I take it over sea,
To pleasure her! If Raphael were alive,
Would we not pray of him audaciously
That he would paint a replica for her?’
Then soft-fold movement of a woman's dress
Was in the hall, and Mary Villiers stood
To say good-bye; her small face very pale,
The great eyes ringed about with violet rings,
The bright hair like Saint Mary's aureole.
And William Villiers kissed his brother's wife,
As close he drew her to his breast and held
In gentle-hearted ursine clasp; and said,
‘Jack, take good care of her! God bless you both!—
God bless you three!’ And parting-time was come.
Was in the hall, and Mary Villiers stood
To say good-bye; her small face very pale,
The great eyes ringed about with violet rings,
The bright hair like Saint Mary's aureole.
And William Villiers kissed his brother's wife,
As close he drew her to his breast and held
In gentle-hearted ursine clasp; and said,
‘Jack, take good care of her! God bless you both!—
God bless you three!’ And parting-time was come.
Sir William Villiers owned a great estate
In the fair country of the setting sun;
A house three centuries old, looking on lawns
Of that fine turf which takes a longer time
In making than a gentleman, they say;
And many great old trees and, miles beyond,
A mountain-range that caught the tempest's stress
And the fierce ardour of the unveiled sun
Upon a breast of ruggedness, unlike
The delicate rondure of the English downs
That rose in gentle swells by Villiers Keep;
And more than they in beauty and in might.
But William Villiers thought not how that house
Of his was based upon a nation's wrong,
Its walls cemented with a folk's despair,
Its fields manured with a people's blood.
And his were many homesteads in the land,
Full of the happy light which children make;
And Mary, born and bred upon the soil,
Knew all the women and men and little ones,
And loved them much, and much was loved by them.
In the fair country of the setting sun;
A house three centuries old, looking on lawns
Of that fine turf which takes a longer time
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And many great old trees and, miles beyond,
A mountain-range that caught the tempest's stress
And the fierce ardour of the unveiled sun
Upon a breast of ruggedness, unlike
The delicate rondure of the English downs
That rose in gentle swells by Villiers Keep;
And more than they in beauty and in might.
But William Villiers thought not how that house
Of his was based upon a nation's wrong,
Its walls cemented with a folk's despair,
Its fields manured with a people's blood.
And his were many homesteads in the land,
Full of the happy light which children make;
And Mary, born and bred upon the soil,
Knew all the women and men and little ones,
And loved them much, and much was loved by them.
Much gold Sir William drew from this estate,
And spent it all Saint George's other side,
Even as his sires before him always did;
And left the soil beneath the pitiless hand
Of one who ruled it with an iron rule.
And spent it all Saint George's other side,
Even as his sires before him always did;
And left the soil beneath the pitiless hand
Of one who ruled it with an iron rule.
Right glad they were at Lisnagh when they heard
Mary O'Neill would be among them soon,
John Villiers' wife, one day to bear the heir
Of Villiers Keep, and baronet to be.
So men and women drest them in their best,
And as the carriage past the Castle gates,
‘Cead mile failthe!’ rang from many a throat
Sonorous on the air; and she looked out,
The great-eyed lady, on the cheering crowd,
While her heart leapt within her, and she smiled
To right and left of her, and bowed her head.
Mary O'Neill would be among them soon,
10
Of Villiers Keep, and baronet to be.
So men and women drest them in their best,
And as the carriage past the Castle gates,
‘Cead mile failthe!’ rang from many a throat
Sonorous on the air; and she looked out,
The great-eyed lady, on the cheering crowd,
While her heart leapt within her, and she smiled
To right and left of her, and bowed her head.
But when at night upon her bed she lay,
That heart of hers was full of a strange light
Caught from the shining wings of motherhood
Which brooded warm and fair upon her life.
And happy thoughts went softly floating on,
Each with each blended, dear as undefined,
Breathing out scent, and light, and melody,
In one sweet fusion, till her heart was fain
To ease itself with tears. So the night wore,
With no unquiet counting of the hours;
And just before the dawn there came to her
A sudden dreadful poignancy of joy,
Piercing her soul like pain; and she cried out,
Her seemed, but John awaking, heard as though
She laughed a little joyous laugh; and rose
To look upon her lovely face that lay
Sweet in the rippling sunshine of a smile,
In the grey quiet of the faded night;
Then kissed her with his eyes, because his mouth
Might break the slumber that she needed much,
And laid him down again, saying, ‘She dreams!
Sleep on, beloved, and wake to sweeter things
Than sweetest dreams can bring you!’ And he slept,
Unwitting of the vision Mary saw.
That heart of hers was full of a strange light
Caught from the shining wings of motherhood
Which brooded warm and fair upon her life.
And happy thoughts went softly floating on,
Each with each blended, dear as undefined,
Breathing out scent, and light, and melody,
In one sweet fusion, till her heart was fain
To ease itself with tears. So the night wore,
With no unquiet counting of the hours;
And just before the dawn there came to her
A sudden dreadful poignancy of joy,
Piercing her soul like pain; and she cried out,
Her seemed, but John awaking, heard as though
She laughed a little joyous laugh; and rose
To look upon her lovely face that lay
11
In the grey quiet of the faded night;
Then kissed her with his eyes, because his mouth
Might break the slumber that she needed much,
And laid him down again, saying, ‘She dreams!
Sleep on, beloved, and wake to sweeter things
Than sweetest dreams can bring you!’ And he slept,
Unwitting of the vision Mary saw.
A woman standing by her, with deep eyes
Most beautiful with high resolve and joy,
And the calm lips of one who knows and sees.
And Mary asked her, ‘Who and whence art thou?’
Most beautiful with high resolve and joy,
And the calm lips of one who knows and sees.
And Mary asked her, ‘Who and whence art thou?’
Then the clear words came forth; ‘I am a voice
Of Love who crieth in the city's heart,
And in the lonely wilderness, alike;
Of Love who calleth, calleth, evermore.
And some of those I call are gross of ear,
And cannot hear the sound; and some of them
Catch as it were a distant music-strain,
And stay their footsteps for a little while,
Listening and not distinguishing; and some
Know me for one who singeth pleasantly,
Playing upon a lovely instrument;
And some, for one who sounds a trumpet-blare,
Of terrible summons to arise and fight.
Of Love who crieth in the city's heart,
And in the lonely wilderness, alike;
Of Love who calleth, calleth, evermore.
And some of those I call are gross of ear,
And cannot hear the sound; and some of them
Catch as it were a distant music-strain,
And stay their footsteps for a little while,
Listening and not distinguishing; and some
Know me for one who singeth pleasantly,
Playing upon a lovely instrument;
12
Of terrible summons to arise and fight.
‘Some of them turn upon their beds of down,
With slumber sealing close their heavy lids;
While some awake, and hearken for a space,
Then get them to their farms and merchandise.
But others hear a summons like a keen
Bright sword, which thrills, and pierces, and divides
Asunder joints and marrow; and, for these,
They shall not rest again for agony
Until they cannot rest again for bliss,
For bliss and agony shall grasp and hold,
And rouse them to the passion that must grow
To high resolve and to immortal deed.
Then in their glory and might they shall go forth.
With slumber sealing close their heavy lids;
While some awake, and hearken for a space,
Then get them to their farms and merchandise.
But others hear a summons like a keen
Bright sword, which thrills, and pierces, and divides
Asunder joints and marrow; and, for these,
They shall not rest again for agony
Until they cannot rest again for bliss,
For bliss and agony shall grasp and hold,
And rouse them to the passion that must grow
To high resolve and to immortal deed.
Then in their glory and might they shall go forth.
‘I am the giver of dreadful gifts and sweet;
The seer's eye, that so a man may see;
The prophet's tongue, that so he may declare;
The soldier's heart, that he may dare to die;
The lover's soul, that he may dare to live.
And all my gifts are branded with a cross;
My jewels dint and cut the brows they round;
My stars of glory burn the quivering flesh;
My purple raiment bites and eats into
The body it clothes, which would not cast it off,
No, not for all the ease of nakedness.
And seeming waste of many a royal gift
Bringeth great bitterness; strength, genius, love,
Fall even as thickly as the blossoms fall
The blasts forbid to fruit; and in despite,
And maugre pain and anguish, these my sons
Must know God never wastes, but only spends,
Howe'er it seemeth otherwise; and this,
Even this faith, shall break the gates of hell.’
The seer's eye, that so a man may see;
The prophet's tongue, that so he may declare;
The soldier's heart, that he may dare to die;
The lover's soul, that he may dare to live.
And all my gifts are branded with a cross;
My jewels dint and cut the brows they round;
My stars of glory burn the quivering flesh;
My purple raiment bites and eats into
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No, not for all the ease of nakedness.
And seeming waste of many a royal gift
Bringeth great bitterness; strength, genius, love,
Fall even as thickly as the blossoms fall
The blasts forbid to fruit; and in despite,
And maugre pain and anguish, these my sons
Must know God never wastes, but only spends,
Howe'er it seemeth otherwise; and this,
Even this faith, shall break the gates of hell.’
And Mary said, ‘Take thou mine unborn son,
To shape him as thou wilt.’ But those fair lips
Made answer, ‘Nay, thy son must give himself;
For none can give another's soul away;
Not even the mother, though she consecrate
All strength, all energy, and all desire,
To shape the way the unborn feet shall tread;
Yea, light the antenatal gloom for him
With all the splendour of hope and faith and love.
Would'st thou indeed thy son should hear my call?
Would'st thou thy son should suffer, being born
With infinite desire for all the fair
And good for flesh, and soul, and spirit; yea,
Be hurt and agonized and crucified,
Tormented with the perilous desire
To have the beautiful and know the true;
To show the beautiful, and tell the true?’
To shape him as thou wilt.’ But those fair lips
Made answer, ‘Nay, thy son must give himself;
For none can give another's soul away;
Not even the mother, though she consecrate
All strength, all energy, and all desire,
To shape the way the unborn feet shall tread;
Yea, light the antenatal gloom for him
With all the splendour of hope and faith and love.
Would'st thou indeed thy son should hear my call?
Would'st thou thy son should suffer, being born
With infinite desire for all the fair
And good for flesh, and soul, and spirit; yea,
Be hurt and agonized and crucified,
14
To have the beautiful and know the true;
To show the beautiful, and tell the true?’
‘Yea, yea, I would indeed, so he attain
The goal of all high hopes and clean desires;
So he be giver of the true and good,
Having the kingdom of the good and true.’
The goal of all high hopes and clean desires;
So he be giver of the true and good,
Having the kingdom of the good and true.’
‘Pray for thy son that he may be of those
Whom God is real to; and pray for him
That he get kings, if he himself be none.’
Whom God is real to; and pray for him
That he get kings, if he himself be none.’
| Michael Villiers, Idealist | |