In Cornwall and Across the Sea With Poems Written in Devonshire. By Douglas B. W. Sladen |
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 | I. |
| II. |
| III. | PART III.
POEMS WRITTEN IN LONDON. |
| IV. |
 | In Cornwall and Across the Sea |  |
182
III. PART III. POEMS WRITTEN IN LONDON.
185
THE EXILE'S RETURN.
Once more he stood in the home of his childhood;
Once more he walked 'mid the chestnuts and limes;
The trees were as green in the glory of springtide;
The house was the same, yet 'twas not like old times;
For he was but a guest where he had been a son,
And the home of his childhood for ever had gone.
Once more he walked 'mid the chestnuts and limes;
The trees were as green in the glory of springtide;
The house was the same, yet 'twas not like old times;
For he was but a guest where he had been a son,
And the home of his childhood for ever had gone.
His parents were there, and more tender than ever;
But the brothers and sisters, with whom he had played,
Had been fledged and had taken their mates and had flitted,
And the one who behind in the nest had still stayed
Was the child of his parents' old age, just the one
Who had not with him from his childhood upgrown.
But the brothers and sisters, with whom he had played,
Had been fledged and had taken their mates and had flitted,
And the one who behind in the nest had still stayed
Was the child of his parents' old age, just the one
Who had not with him from his childhood upgrown.
186
And he learned the sad truth that when once the fledged nestling
Has forsaken its place in the nest, it grows cold,
Though the parents be warm, and however he presses
It never will have the same glow as of old,
And the bird who has once made a nest of his own
Can never go back to the nest he has known.
Has forsaken its place in the nest, it grows cold,
Though the parents be warm, and however he presses
It never will have the same glow as of old,
And the bird who has once made a nest of his own
Can never go back to the nest he has known.
O nestling forsake not the nest of your parents!
O nestling be slow to be fledged and to fly!
'Tis so easy for brothers and sisters to scatter,
For parents and children to sever their tie;
And the nestful, once broken, can never be one
In the way which it was ere the breaking was done.
O nestling be slow to be fledged and to fly!
'Tis so easy for brothers and sisters to scatter,
For parents and children to sever their tie;
And the nestful, once broken, can never be one
In the way which it was ere the breaking was done.
The limes, while they live, will be green in the springtide;
The chestnuts will blossom in April and May;
But children, who once leave their homes, will return not,
Or, if they return, it will not be to play
And to nestle together; it is not their own,
But the home of their parents when once they have flown.
The chestnuts will blossom in April and May;
But children, who once leave their homes, will return not,
Or, if they return, it will not be to play
And to nestle together; it is not their own,
But the home of their parents when once they have flown.
187
THE POET.
The Poet, writing, feels nor heat nor cold
Nor thirst nor hunger as he doth unfold,
While his rich mind is open, from its hoard
The gorgeous pageantry, with which it's stored.
Winter or summer outside matters not;
'Mid winter snows he can enjoy a hot
And peerless day in palm groves of Ceylon,
And, 'mid the scorching desert, can dwell on
The breezy Kentish Cliffs, where he was born,
In all the glory of an April morn.
And, though not rich enough to keep a wife,
Omnipresent in day-dreams of his life
He can have some pure image heavenly bright,
Some woman, of a dazzling grace and light
Denied to kings, almost as much imbued
With life as if she were real flesh and blood.
He wants no worldly store of costly things,
For he can have for the imaginings,
In turn, the fancifulness of Japan,
The glow of Ind, old art Italian
Or English luxury. His home can be
By some wild fiord of the northern sea,
Or in the peerless lands neath southern skies
Peopled by English blood and enterprise.
His house can be some ancient Gothic keep
Or wide verandahed bungalow, where sleep
Reigns through the fiery middle of the day.
Alone, his converse can be grave or gay;
And he is in best company alone,
With none to interrupt the magic tone
Belled from within, a kind of mystic chime
Rung by the fancy to the ear of time.
Give him enough to clothe himself and feed
Without his care, and he is rich indeed,
Able to revel when they both so choose,
In undisturbed communion with his Muse.
Dependence is his foul fiend, and restraint,
To have to listen to one drear complaint,
To finish long and uncongenial tasks,
To leave his Muse, when some small tyrant asks.
Freedom is aye the burden of his song,
For he is left one of the common throng
If from constraint and care he is not free
To give himself up to his phantasy.
But it is hard for woman, who is real,
To wed one ever wooing the ideal,
To have the few brief minutes when, tired out,
He cannot follow the will-o'-the-wisp about,
To have him in his uncongenial moods,
When he is unfit for his solitudes,
To live on crumbs of comfort, which may fall
From the rich table, where he feasts with all
The grand guests of his fancy—go through life
More as his children's mother than his wife.
For if a woman is a poet's ideal
His Muse is ever worsted by the real,
And all the poetry, which would have gone
Into his written poems, is lavished on
His poem-life, known only to himself
And his soul's Queen; and when laid on the shelf
After his passionate life-time, lost for aye,
Unless some friend who knew him in his day,
Falls back on that life-poem for the plot
Of a romance, writing what he wrote not
But lived. We cannot in this world have both
To indulge in the bright intercourse of youth
And also haunt the shady cloisters where
There lurks an inspiration in the air.
The Muse's husband cannot have a wife,
Like other men, the essence of his life.
Nor thirst nor hunger as he doth unfold,
While his rich mind is open, from its hoard
The gorgeous pageantry, with which it's stored.
Winter or summer outside matters not;
'Mid winter snows he can enjoy a hot
And peerless day in palm groves of Ceylon,
And, 'mid the scorching desert, can dwell on
The breezy Kentish Cliffs, where he was born,
In all the glory of an April morn.
And, though not rich enough to keep a wife,
Omnipresent in day-dreams of his life
He can have some pure image heavenly bright,
Some woman, of a dazzling grace and light
Denied to kings, almost as much imbued
With life as if she were real flesh and blood.
188
For he can have for the imaginings,
In turn, the fancifulness of Japan,
The glow of Ind, old art Italian
Or English luxury. His home can be
By some wild fiord of the northern sea,
Or in the peerless lands neath southern skies
Peopled by English blood and enterprise.
His house can be some ancient Gothic keep
Or wide verandahed bungalow, where sleep
Reigns through the fiery middle of the day.
Alone, his converse can be grave or gay;
And he is in best company alone,
With none to interrupt the magic tone
Belled from within, a kind of mystic chime
Rung by the fancy to the ear of time.
Give him enough to clothe himself and feed
Without his care, and he is rich indeed,
Able to revel when they both so choose,
In undisturbed communion with his Muse.
189
To have to listen to one drear complaint,
To finish long and uncongenial tasks,
To leave his Muse, when some small tyrant asks.
Freedom is aye the burden of his song,
For he is left one of the common throng
If from constraint and care he is not free
To give himself up to his phantasy.
But it is hard for woman, who is real,
To wed one ever wooing the ideal,
To have the few brief minutes when, tired out,
He cannot follow the will-o'-the-wisp about,
To have him in his uncongenial moods,
When he is unfit for his solitudes,
To live on crumbs of comfort, which may fall
From the rich table, where he feasts with all
The grand guests of his fancy—go through life
More as his children's mother than his wife.
For if a woman is a poet's ideal
His Muse is ever worsted by the real,
190
Into his written poems, is lavished on
His poem-life, known only to himself
And his soul's Queen; and when laid on the shelf
After his passionate life-time, lost for aye,
Unless some friend who knew him in his day,
Falls back on that life-poem for the plot
Of a romance, writing what he wrote not
But lived. We cannot in this world have both
To indulge in the bright intercourse of youth
And also haunt the shady cloisters where
There lurks an inspiration in the air.
The Muse's husband cannot have a wife,
Like other men, the essence of his life.
191
“MAMMON AND POESY;”
or, “The Poet's Choice.”
[Dedicated to Robert Browning, Esq., D.C.L.]
[_]
“The elder Mr Browning had but two children— the poet, and a daughter, who still keeps house for her brother. When the son had arrived at that age, at which the bias or opportunity of parents usually dictates a profession to a youth, Mr Browning asked his son what he intended to be. It was known to the latter that his sister was provided for, and that there would always be enough to keep him also, and he had the singular courage to decline to be rich. He appealed to his Father whether it would not be better for him to see life in its best sense and cultivate the powers of his mind, than to shackle himself in the very outset of his career by a laborious training foreign to that aim. The wisdom or unwisdom of such a step is proved by the measure of its success. In the case of Mr Browning the determination has never been regretted, and so great was the confidence
192
Wealth came to him with outstretched hand,
And said, “Young dreamer come with me
And have the fatness of the land
And costliest gifts from o'er the sea.”
And said, “Young dreamer come with me
And have the fatness of the land
And costliest gifts from o'er the sea.”
He took him to the mountain-top
Of Mammon, shewed him all the Earth,
The good things for which all men hope,
Which the world holds of highest worth,
Of Mammon, shewed him all the Earth,
The good things for which all men hope,
Which the world holds of highest worth,
And said, “Bow down and worship me,
And all thou seest shall be thine;
The glories of the land and sea
And fulness of the Earth are mine.
And all thou seest shall be thine;
The glories of the land and sea
And fulness of the Earth are mine.
“But know I am a jealous God,
And he, who worships me, must tread
All day in crowded alleys trod
By hard coarse men—must leave his bed
And he, who worships me, must tread
All day in crowded alleys trod
By hard coarse men—must leave his bed
193
“Early and seek his pleasure late,
An altar of his desk must make
And missal of his ledger, wait
Until his sacrifice I take.
An altar of his desk must make
And missal of his ledger, wait
Until his sacrifice I take.
“Then he can trample on the lives
And souls of those who cross his path,
Can choose himself a wife of wives,
Can make lands tremble at his wrath,
And souls of those who cross his path,
Can choose himself a wife of wives,
Can make lands tremble at his wrath,
“Can eat and drink whate'er is best
In either sphere, can clothe his limbs
With whatsoe'er is costliest,
Live in a palace, list to hymns
In either sphere, can clothe his limbs
With whatsoe'er is costliest,
Live in a palace, list to hymns
“Extolling every little crumb
From his rich table let to fall—
Until his day of death may come,
A kind of monarch over all.”
From his rich table let to fall—
Until his day of death may come,
A kind of monarch over all.”
194
He finished but, the while he spoke
In tempting accents to the youth,
Over the distant hills there broke—
Over the distant hills of truth—
In tempting accents to the youth,
Over the distant hills there broke—
Over the distant hills of truth—
A gleam of sunshine glowing on
A far-off vision. She was fair
The maid on whom the sunshaft shone
And with a crown of glittering hair,
A far-off vision. She was fair
The maid on whom the sunshaft shone
And with a crown of glittering hair,
Which changed in colour, as the sight
Of him who saw was toned to view,
Now golden-bright, now dusk as night,
Now dull and now of sunny hue.
Of him who saw was toned to view,
Now golden-bright, now dusk as night,
Now dull and now of sunny hue.
But there was this about the maid
That he, who at her beauty's shrine
Had worship once or homage paid,
Could ne'er his fealty resign,
That he, who at her beauty's shrine
Had worship once or homage paid,
Could ne'er his fealty resign,
195
But through howe'er a chequered life,
Come good, come ill, in wealth or want,
Though great in state, though with a wife
Fair as a queen, must ever haunt
Come good, come ill, in wealth or want,
Though great in state, though with a wife
Fair as a queen, must ever haunt
Her altar with a sacrifice
Of longing, whether of regret
Or hope, and with some quaint device,
Such as the old Knight-lovers set
Of longing, whether of regret
Or hope, and with some quaint device,
Such as the old Knight-lovers set
Upon their casques when they essayed
Their prowess 'neath their lady's eyes—
Even in the distance was this maid
Wondrously fair to his surmise.
Their prowess 'neath their lady's eyes—
Even in the distance was this maid
Wondrously fair to his surmise.
She drew no nearer than to speak
In tones just loud enough to hear,
And yet 'twas not in accents weak
But rather in a whisper clear,
In tones just loud enough to hear,
And yet 'twas not in accents weak
But rather in a whisper clear,
196
And thus she spake, “Come thou with me,
I have no Kingdom on the Earth,
And yet is not by land and sea
What men esteem of equal worth
I have no Kingdom on the Earth,
And yet is not by land and sea
What men esteem of equal worth
“As my true speech, which many hear
But cannot write it down, and he
Who writes it is proclaimed a seer,
The one man of his century.
But cannot write it down, and he
Who writes it is proclaimed a seer,
The one man of his century.
“I have no kingdom: thou may'st roam
Through all the oases of the world,
From where the millions make their home
To where no flag was e'er unfurled,
Through all the oases of the world,
From where the millions make their home
To where no flag was e'er unfurled,
“From cosy cot by love illumed
In some new city's panting heart,
To old-world palaces exhumed
From neath Vesuvius' lava swart,
In some new city's panting heart,
To old-world palaces exhumed
From neath Vesuvius' lava swart,
197
“Now over an Australian plain
Of peaceful victories with sheep,
Now countries glorious with stain
Of battle and with shattered keep,
Of peaceful victories with sheep,
Now countries glorious with stain
Of battle and with shattered keep,
“And whether 'mid the pines thou sweepest
Of the free, valiant North, or 'mid
The glowing luscious East thou sleepest
Until the day in dusk is hid,
Of the free, valiant North, or 'mid
The glowing luscious East thou sleepest
Until the day in dusk is hid,
“And whether in a Lady's bower,
Or waging warfare thou shalt be,
Whate'er the place, whate'er the hour,
Come good, come ill, on land or sea,
Or waging warfare thou shalt be,
Whate'er the place, whate'er the hour,
Come good, come ill, on land or sea,
“The restless spark within thy torch
Shall die not, howso low it gleams;
Thou wilt not need a temple porch
To worship me as it beseems.
Shall die not, howso low it gleams;
Thou wilt not need a temple porch
To worship me as it beseems.
198
“Once more, if thou my words canst hear,
And write down truly what thou hearest,
Folks will bow down to thee as seer,
Of all men to the gods the nearest.
And write down truly what thou hearest,
Folks will bow down to thee as seer,
Of all men to the gods the nearest.
“I cannot give thee life or wealth,
Or rest, the crowning gift of Earth,
But if Heaven gives thee life and health,
And thou art seer,—there's nought of worth
Or rest, the crowning gift of Earth,
But if Heaven gives thee life and health,
And thou art seer,—there's nought of worth
“But men will haste to offer thee
As singer and interpreter
Of the lost voices, which there be
Lurking within the earth and air.”
As singer and interpreter
Of the lost voices, which there be
Lurking within the earth and air.”
The youth paused not,—though Mammon gave
His gifts for certain undelayed,—
For a few years to be a slave,
Then lord of all that he surveyed,
His gifts for certain undelayed,—
For a few years to be a slave,
Then lord of all that he surveyed,
199
Though Mammon took him by the hand,
And Poesy stood on the height,
And promised nought but only planned
His guerdon if he heard aright,—
And Poesy stood on the height,
And promised nought but only planned
His guerdon if he heard aright,—
But took the torch which she did proffer,
Content upon her altar stairs
One more bright, blasted life to offer,
If Heaven heeded not his prayers
Content upon her altar stairs
One more bright, blasted life to offer,
If Heaven heeded not his prayers
That he might be elect to write
In language whoso ran could read
Voices from old towns borne at night
And on still mornings from the mead,
In language whoso ran could read
Voices from old towns borne at night
And on still mornings from the mead,
Voices of Nature, Poesy,
Or inspiration—what you will—
Heard when afar from human eye,
Heard best when human sounds are still.
Or inspiration—what you will—
Heard when afar from human eye,
Heard best when human sounds are still.
200
And Heaven listened: now he stands
A singer and acknowledged seer
Loved in all English-speaking lands,
In his own walk without a peer.
A singer and acknowledged seer
Loved in all English-speaking lands,
In his own walk without a peer.
| In Cornwall and Across the Sea | |