 | The pink book |  |
5
TO CYNTHIA.
Listen, O meek-eyed nun, lady Diana,
Silvery dreamer in star pavéd courtways,—
Listen, thou pale, pearly queen of dusk evenings.
Hear, for another comes with his babble!
Wilt thou not? Thou hast heard songs more than many?
Nightingales, love-sick youths, maids in woe, poets,
Have they all sighed to thee till thou'rt grown weary?
I should be weary: yet bend thou and listen!
Silvery dreamer in star pavéd courtways,—
Listen, thou pale, pearly queen of dusk evenings.
Hear, for another comes with his babble!
Wilt thou not? Thou hast heard songs more than many?
Nightingales, love-sick youths, maids in woe, poets,
Have they all sighed to thee till thou'rt grown weary?
I should be weary: yet bend thou and listen!
Whither thou lookest through new-broken storm-clouds,
On clamorous torrents that flash in wild valleys
Whither thou hangest a shimmering sickle
Over a star on the purple of twilight,
Where thou dost thrid lonely lakes with thy glory,
Or steepest the slumbering woodlands in argent;
At thy still dawn, at thy mystical noontide,
At thy chill death on the hills of a morning;
At all times, and all where, they that behold thee,
Wonder, and love thee, patient, sad beauty!
On clamorous torrents that flash in wild valleys
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Over a star on the purple of twilight,
Where thou dost thrid lonely lakes with thy glory,
Or steepest the slumbering woodlands in argent;
At thy still dawn, at thy mystical noontide,
At thy chill death on the hills of a morning;
At all times, and all where, they that behold thee,
Wonder, and love thee, patient, sad beauty!
Lovely beyond all the fine of expression;
Ethereal, faint, thou dost traverse the heavens,
Rapt, like a soul new come from its trouble;
As one that hath sorrowed a sin into sweetness;
Calmed of past passion, chastened to sainthood
At peace; yet distraught with the dumb recollection
Of things that are passed and gone from thee for ever.
O fairest one! tell me, where dost thou wander?
Where art thou taken in thy white trances?
What do they show thee to fill thee with grieving?
Art thou gone back to the mists of thy birth-night,
When love broke his heart, and in floods of wild rapture
The nightingale first witched thine ear with confession?
Art thou again in the valley called Tempe
To hunt with thy nymphs till the morn shall affright ye?
Or dost thou keep watch on the lone brow of Latmos,
Waiting the brown-eyed Edymion's coming?
Ethereal, faint, thou dost traverse the heavens,
Rapt, like a soul new come from its trouble;
As one that hath sorrowed a sin into sweetness;
Calmed of past passion, chastened to sainthood
At peace; yet distraught with the dumb recollection
Of things that are passed and gone from thee for ever.
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Where art thou taken in thy white trances?
What do they show thee to fill thee with grieving?
Art thou gone back to the mists of thy birth-night,
When love broke his heart, and in floods of wild rapture
The nightingale first witched thine ear with confession?
Art thou again in the valley called Tempe
To hunt with thy nymphs till the morn shall affright ye?
Or dost thou keep watch on the lone brow of Latmos,
Waiting the brown-eyed Edymion's coming?
Can it be thou dost brood o'er the great templed Nile-land,
Rememb'ring the revel, the lights and the music,
And she that came out from the throng in the palace,
And ran all a-tremble across to the shadow
Of the tomb of the Kings; and he that came also?
Can it be that thou seest one float with her lover
Down the dim, glistening palace-lined reaches
Out of grey Venice unto bright Belmont?
Or dost thou remember that night in Verona,
That orchard, the silence, the roses, the maiden,—
Thy maiden that spake such sweet words and loved wholely,
And lives in the hearts, and is loved of all lovers!—
Dost thou remember? ah, dost thou remember?
Rememb'ring the revel, the lights and the music,
And she that came out from the throng in the palace,
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Of the tomb of the Kings; and he that came also?
Can it be that thou seest one float with her lover
Down the dim, glistening palace-lined reaches
Out of grey Venice unto bright Belmont?
Or dost thou remember that night in Verona,
That orchard, the silence, the roses, the maiden,—
Thy maiden that spake such sweet words and loved wholely,
And lives in the hearts, and is loved of all lovers!—
Dost thou remember? ah, dost thou remember?
All the old gods are dead, all the old glory gone!
Pan, or the shepherd, will never more greet thee!
Memphis is bowed down in black desolation,
Those lovers are dust, and the poet that sang them.
Sitting enthroned in the high realms of calmness,
Knowing that pain and great loves and fierce yearning
Have strained through the years that sweep round thy footstool,
Seeing the triumph, the passing of nations,
Seeing men die and seeing no further,
Who of us marvels that thou should'st be pensive?
Pan, or the shepherd, will never more greet thee!
Memphis is bowed down in black desolation,
Those lovers are dust, and the poet that sang them.
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Knowing that pain and great loves and fierce yearning
Have strained through the years that sweep round thy footstool,
Seeing the triumph, the passing of nations,
Seeing men die and seeing no further,
Who of us marvels that thou should'st be pensive?
O moon! O silver moon! here comes the tyrant dawn.
The stars are died out in thy hall. Thou shalt follow.
Even now thou'rt fading. Farewell! Let me leave thee,
Let me go down through the songs of the morning,
And wait in my chamber, thy holy returning,
Let me dream all thy dreams, and greet all thine advents,
Till I too am gathered out of the shadows,
And know all the ways of the vasty hereafter!
The stars are died out in thy hall. Thou shalt follow.
Even now thou'rt fading. Farewell! Let me leave thee,
Let me go down through the songs of the morning,
And wait in my chamber, thy holy returning,
Let me dream all thy dreams, and greet all thine advents,
Till I too am gathered out of the shadows,
And know all the ways of the vasty hereafter!
10
FACTS.
TO A.M.
Fair weather, gold and strength!
The first for the spirit's sake,
Gold for the virtue in gold,
Strength to live strongly; and so,
Touch the best that life can, and have part
With the lion, the serpent, the dove.
The first for the spirit's sake,
Gold for the virtue in gold,
Strength to live strongly; and so,
Touch the best that life can, and have part
With the lion, the serpent, the dove.
Fair weather, gold and strength;
That all men are free to take,
That no man is loth to hold,
For the bounteous years as they go
Bring nothing in gifts, say the wise,
To be counted or reckon'd above.
That all men are free to take,
That no man is loth to hold,
For the bounteous years as they go
Bring nothing in gifts, say the wise,
To be counted or reckon'd above.
Fair weather, gold and strength!
And, dear, when I dream or wake,
Safe in my spirits fold
These things have a place; for, you know,
My blue is your eyes, my gold is your hair,
And my strength is your love.
And, dear, when I dream or wake,
Safe in my spirits fold
These things have a place; for, you know,
My blue is your eyes, my gold is your hair,
And my strength is your love.
11
“CROSSING THE BAR.”
I may not live as he lived, grand and pure,
Nor die as he died, in the grey moonlight,
Laurell'd, and lov'd, and absolutely sure
Of calms more calm than compassed him that night.
Nor die as he died, in the grey moonlight,
Laurell'd, and lov'd, and absolutely sure
Of calms more calm than compassed him that night.
But at the end of travail I shall chance
To where those wan ships be,
And go aboard without much circumstance,
And so put out to sea.
To where those wan ships be,
And go aboard without much circumstance,
And so put out to sea.
The bar will moan, the bitter foam-flake fly
Blindly along the dark,
And no one pace the shore to say good-bye
When I embark.
Blindly along the dark,
And no one pace the shore to say good-bye
When I embark.
And for the Pilot, may His arm be strong
To bear my frail craft far
Beyond the shoal of being, and the long,
Sad moaning of the bar.
To bear my frail craft far
Beyond the shoal of being, and the long,
Sad moaning of the bar.
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PEACE.
Is there no rest, O soul? is there no rest?
No haven where the ship's sails may be furled;
No quiet isle of vallied calmness set
Beyond the care and fret
And all the mighty misery of the world?
In the young east, in all the crimson west,
Is there no rest?
No haven where the ship's sails may be furled;
No quiet isle of vallied calmness set
Beyond the care and fret
And all the mighty misery of the world?
In the young east, in all the crimson west,
Is there no rest?
Thou, like a bird, belated and distrest,
Fluttering at night over a stormful tide—
Wind-baffled, wing-weary, finding nevermore,
Its own or any shore—
Driftest as darkly over this life's void,
And vainly trying east or trying west,
Findest no rest.
Fluttering at night over a stormful tide—
Wind-baffled, wing-weary, finding nevermore,
Its own or any shore—
Driftest as darkly over this life's void,
And vainly trying east or trying west,
Findest no rest.
But there is rest, O soul! thou shalt find rest.
Be strong, fear not, strive onward through the night,
For somewhere 'mid thy travail, maybe when
All hope has fled thy ken,
Suddenly o'er the waste shall flash a light,
And in a god-like grasping of thy quest
Thou shalt have rest.
Be strong, fear not, strive onward through the night,
For somewhere 'mid thy travail, maybe when
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Suddenly o'er the waste shall flash a light,
And in a god-like grasping of thy quest
Thou shalt have rest.
COMPENSATION.
If Helen love me, she doth so
After the cautious modern fashion,
And usages like linkboys go,
To light the progress of her passion.
After the cautious modern fashion,
And usages like linkboys go,
To light the progress of her passion.
Say mine estate should dwindle; say
The breath of scandal fogged mine honour,
Helen would weep her love away,
And bid me think no more upon her.
The breath of scandal fogged mine honour,
Helen would weep her love away,
And bid me think no more upon her.
Say I fell ill, or lame, or blind,
The counsel of her friends would move her
Regretfully, to prove unkind,
And seek a less unfortunate lover.
The counsel of her friends would move her
Regretfully, to prove unkind,
And seek a less unfortunate lover.
But these things happen not, that is
Not in such sort as frightens Helen,
Whereas, her dear small prudencies
Make me a fenced demesne to dwell in.
Not in such sort as frightens Helen,
Whereas, her dear small prudencies
Make me a fenced demesne to dwell in.
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LOVE'S AWAKENING.
“I love the whole bright world,” she said,
And then she bent a halo'd head,
And both her cheeks dawn'd maiden-red.
And then she bent a halo'd head,
And both her cheeks dawn'd maiden-red.
The garden where grey lavender
And hollyhock and lily were
Had been sweet nothings unto her;
And hollyhock and lily were
Had been sweet nothings unto her;
And summer pagentries that pass
Betwixt the blue sky and the grass,
As vain things mirror'd in a glass.
Betwixt the blue sky and the grass,
As vain things mirror'd in a glass.
She dream'd and let the days go by,
Marked in the quiet of her eye
By touches of calamity,
Marked in the quiet of her eye
By touches of calamity,
Or hints of placid joy, that come
At birth of butterfly, or bloom,
Or young stars waking in the gloom.
At birth of butterfly, or bloom,
Or young stars waking in the gloom.
To-day he came, and ere he sped,
They plighted vows that they would wed,
“I love the whole bright world,” she said.
They plighted vows that they would wed,
“I love the whole bright world,” she said.
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THE OLD SEXTON.
A solitary 'mid the tombs,
By morning shine and evening glooms
He delveth, as he had the dooms
Of all men in his hands:
Grim worker among mould and stones—
Dealer in skulls and hollow bones—
Warden of shadowy lands!
By morning shine and evening glooms
He delveth, as he had the dooms
Of all men in his hands:
Grim worker among mould and stones—
Dealer in skulls and hollow bones—
Warden of shadowy lands!
Long years of toil have o'er him thrown
Their wearying load, and bent him down,
And he is wrinkled, lean, and brown,
And feebly draws his breath:
Yet here in this lonely cemet'ry,
He moils along contentedly,
The gardener of Death.
Their wearying load, and bent him down,
And he is wrinkled, lean, and brown,
And feebly draws his breath:
Yet here in this lonely cemet'ry,
He moils along contentedly,
The gardener of Death.
To-day he tolls a dismal knell—
The fleeting soul's sad passing bell;
To-morrow, to the vale doth tell
A wedding or a birth;
And now, upon its last chill bed,
He lays in peace the wanderer's head,
And drops the rattling earth.
The fleeting soul's sad passing bell;
To-morrow, to the vale doth tell
A wedding or a birth;
And now, upon its last chill bed,
He lays in peace the wanderer's head,
And drops the rattling earth.
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But deem not that his heart should be
Devoid of warm humanity,
In long familiarity
With sorrow waxing old;
Uncannily he earns his bread,
And lives near neighbour to the dead;
Yet he hath not grown cold.
Devoid of warm humanity,
In long familiarity
With sorrow waxing old;
Uncannily he earns his bread,
And lives near neighbour to the dead;
Yet he hath not grown cold.
There is a love-kept mound where blow
Bright daisies, and the lily's snow
Hinteth at purity. Below
Do his beloved sleep;
And often at the set of sun,
When all his ghostly work is done,
He goeth there to weep.
Bright daisies, and the lily's snow
Hinteth at purity. Below
Do his beloved sleep;
And often at the set of sun,
When all his ghostly work is done,
He goeth there to weep.
And on the grass before him—lo!
His children running to and fro,
Once more he looks on that dear brow,
Made fairer by Heaven's seal;
And as the happy dream grows dim,
He wishes that his master grim
Would come and make it real.
His children running to and fro,
Once more he looks on that dear brow,
Made fairer by Heaven's seal;
And as the happy dream grows dim,
He wishes that his master grim
Would come and make it real.
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It may not be. With Time, he goes
A shadow through that place of woes
World-worn, and fain to have repose
Yet murmuring not at fate,
It seems to him on life's dark edge
At once a joy and privilege
To trim that grave, and wait.
A shadow through that place of woes
World-worn, and fain to have repose
Yet murmuring not at fate,
It seems to him on life's dark edge
At once a joy and privilege
To trim that grave, and wait.
A VILLANELLE.
Many times it hath been said
By the melancholy wise,
“None are happy but the dead.”
By the melancholy wise,
“None are happy but the dead.”
Falsely ring such words, if read
Where the throstle calls and cries,
And the sun shines overhead.
Where the throstle calls and cries,
And the sun shines overhead.
Most might murmur, being led
Past the world's calamaties,
“None are happy but the dead.”
Past the world's calamaties,
“None are happy but the dead.”
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Yet, with pleasaunce newly wed,
Life laughs up into the skies,
When the sun shines overhead.
Life laughs up into the skies,
When the sun shines overhead.
Here in travail one doth tread
The rough ways, and faints and dies.
None are happy but the dead!
The rough ways, and faints and dies.
None are happy but the dead!
There is merry childhood sped,
Chasing meadow butterflies,
And the sun shines overhead.
Chasing meadow butterflies,
And the sun shines overhead.
And we moan by a death-bed,
“See the smile, the quiet eyes,
None are happy but the dead!”
“See the smile, the quiet eyes,
None are happy but the dead!”
O the singings that arise
When the sun shines overhead!
O the weariness that sighs,
“None are happy but the dead!”
When the sun shines overhead!
O the weariness that sighs,
“None are happy but the dead!”
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TO WALT WHITMAN.
Her prairies when the sun was low and red,
Her valleys of a morning, reedy shore
And moon-lit sea; her sobbing birds; the roar
And flash of the fights wherein in her brave sons bled;
Her dear, dear dying and heart-shrined dead;
Her cities, street and ferry, home and store,
Thrilled thy wild soul, O bard, with promptings sure,
And many mighty things of love thou hast said.
Her valleys of a morning, reedy shore
And moon-lit sea; her sobbing birds; the roar
And flash of the fights wherein in her brave sons bled;
Her dear, dear dying and heart-shrined dead;
Her cities, street and ferry, home and store,
Thrilled thy wild soul, O bard, with promptings sure,
And many mighty things of love thou hast said.
And most divine, most noble politics
Thine are, that would make loving comradeship
The rule of life for the world, as for two that rove.
Thy faith is sound and gracious—Naught can fix
The limit of affection. We may grip
And round and cover all things with this Love.
Thine are, that would make loving comradeship
The rule of life for the world, as for two that rove.
Thy faith is sound and gracious—Naught can fix
The limit of affection. We may grip
And round and cover all things with this Love.
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PYRAMUS AND THISBE.
They of old who prudently
Built a wall 'twixt youth and maiden,
In their wisdom, could not see
Faults that marred their masonry.
Built a wall 'twixt youth and maiden,
In their wisdom, could not see
Faults that marred their masonry.
Love hath triple sight, and so
It were scarce a theme for wonder,
That between the stones should go,
Vows and kisses to and fro.
It were scarce a theme for wonder,
That between the stones should go,
Vows and kisses to and fro.
Death has power to separate
Hearts that beat to one sweet measure,
On this side the cold wall wait
Many who are desolate.
Hearts that beat to one sweet measure,
On this side the cold wall wait
Many who are desolate.
Yet even as I write, maybe,
She that died, from fields Elysian,
Sends a fair soul-kiss to me
Through the chink of memory.
She that died, from fields Elysian,
Sends a fair soul-kiss to me
Through the chink of memory.
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THE WIND AND THE MAID.
At morning-tide the west wind went a-blowing,
And meeting a wee maid
Unto himself he said,
“I wonder where this little maid is going?”
And meeting a wee maid
Unto himself he said,
“I wonder where this little maid is going?”
“Surely, she must be yonder lily's sister,
Being so palely fair:”
And on her sun-dipp'd hair,
And on her eyes and mouth and cheeks he kissed her.
Being so palely fair:”
And on her sun-dipp'd hair,
And on her eyes and mouth and cheeks he kissed her.
And follow'd kissing, as she pluck'd a posy,
By hedge, and by brook side,
And home. Her grandam cried,
“Why little one, thy cheeks are growing rosy.”
By hedge, and by brook side,
And home. Her grandam cried,
“Why little one, thy cheeks are growing rosy.”
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A MEMORY.
Rose the sun and chased the shadow
From the garden lawn;
Came she out into the meadow
Like a second dawn.
From the garden lawn;
Came she out into the meadow
Like a second dawn.
Whilst a ruby-lidded daisy
Opened a wet eye,
Whilst a butterfly, yellow, lazy,
Wandered flittering by;
Opened a wet eye,
Whilst a butterfly, yellow, lazy,
Wandered flittering by;
Out of the fresh morning hastened
Fifty things of grace
Through her soul, and thus enchastened
Shone upon her face.
Fifty things of grace
Through her soul, and thus enchastened
Shone upon her face.
And her sweet look as she passed me
In the meadow-way,
Made a memory to last me
Many a sunless day.
In the meadow-way,
Made a memory to last me
Many a sunless day.
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FORM v. FEELING.
Chance cast him for a lover's part,
He took quaint words which were the fashion,
And set a window in his heart,
That all the world might mark his passion.
He took quaint words which were the fashion,
And set a window in his heart,
That all the world might mark his passion.
And curious folk peeped through and saw
Love's progress, pageants, triumphs, troubles;—
And some beheld the sights with awe,
And some said, “Tut, they be but bubbles!”
Love's progress, pageants, triumphs, troubles;—
And some beheld the sights with awe,
And some said, “Tut, they be but bubbles!”
He took no thought of praise nor blame,
Of this man's incense, that man's skewers;
In half a lustrum he became
The special pet of the reviewers.
Of this man's incense, that man's skewers;
In half a lustrum he became
The special pet of the reviewers.
Then on his eyes Meg flashed, the sum
Of beauty, and he could'nt close 'em:
With her first kiss she kissed him dumb,
And hid the window with her bosom.
Of beauty, and he could'nt close 'em:
With her first kiss she kissed him dumb,
And hid the window with her bosom.
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TO JOHN KEATS.
A harp of fifty silvern, murmurous strings,
A woodland full of wild-bird minstrelsy,
A sadness chaunted by a lonely sea,
A void through which at intervals there rings
The bell-voiced soul of all melodious things,
A hidden temple, vast and shadowy,
Where 'mid the dimness floating faerily,
The sweetest song wanders on tireless wings!
A woodland full of wild-bird minstrelsy,
A sadness chaunted by a lonely sea,
A void through which at intervals there rings
The bell-voiced soul of all melodious things,
A hidden temple, vast and shadowy,
Where 'mid the dimness floating faerily,
The sweetest song wanders on tireless wings!
Such was thy spirit, poet, and though thou'rt dead
And thy life's sun might never reach its height,
In thee, whilst still he kept the rosy east,
Beauty and panting love did kiss and wed,
And thou hast echoed with a rapt delight
The wondrous music of their marriage feast.
And thy life's sun might never reach its height,
In thee, whilst still he kept the rosy east,
Beauty and panting love did kiss and wed,
And thou hast echoed with a rapt delight
The wondrous music of their marriage feast.
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MAY.
The rosy-fronted morning blinks and peeps
Athwart the fields, and from the dewy ling
Climbs into heaven a lark, in heaven to sing,
Whilst o'er the waking world the sunshine creeps;
Down yon blue hill, with little trips and leaps
There comes, methinks, a maiden wandering,
White hawthorn flowers unto her hair do cling,
And in her hands wild hyacinths she keeps.
Athwart the fields, and from the dewy ling
Climbs into heaven a lark, in heaven to sing,
Whilst o'er the waking world the sunshine creeps;
Down yon blue hill, with little trips and leaps
There comes, methinks, a maiden wandering,
White hawthorn flowers unto her hair do cling,
And in her hands wild hyacinths she keeps.
May! running in the sunbeams o'er the ground!—
Youth laughs to see, and old age lifts his head
New-hearted, when he hears the sweet name's sound;
And gaily from their houses are they sped
Where on the busy green the dance goes round
One that is young, and fair, and garlanded.
Youth laughs to see, and old age lifts his head
New-hearted, when he hears the sweet name's sound;
And gaily from their houses are they sped
Where on the busy green the dance goes round
One that is young, and fair, and garlanded.
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THE POET AND THE COBBLER.
A weak-kneed member of the thin,
Grave guild of empty purses,
I watch the blue world reel and spin,
And soothe my soul with verses.
Grave guild of empty purses,
I watch the blue world reel and spin,
And soothe my soul with verses.
Not far from me lives Cobbler Paul,
Who, on wet days and sunny,
Sitteth for ever in his stall
Whistling and making money.
Who, on wet days and sunny,
Sitteth for ever in his stall
Whistling and making money.
Friend Paul is stout, with nose dyed red,
And little eyes that twinkle;
The three-score years gone o'er his head,
Have left him scarce a wrinkle.
And little eyes that twinkle;
The three-score years gone o'er his head,
Have left him scarce a wrinkle.
He keeps his mind of one still mood,
Half sour and half witty,
And battens on the platitude
Of this Philistian city.
Half sour and half witty,
And battens on the platitude
Of this Philistian city.
Nor having trouble, nor the least
Fine longing nor presentment,
His life is one slow jogging feast
Of spiced ale and contentment.
Fine longing nor presentment,
His life is one slow jogging feast
Of spiced ale and contentment.
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When rhymes are scarce and song runs low,
Uncovering commonplaces,
When the soul's vasty tempests blow
And wreck my gifts and graces,
Uncovering commonplaces,
When the soul's vasty tempests blow
And wreck my gifts and graces,
When editors are slow to print,
And publishers won't do it,
And conscience schooled by hint on hint,
Cries “Fool! thou art no poet.”—
And publishers won't do it,
And conscience schooled by hint on hint,
Cries “Fool! thou art no poet.”—
I meditate on Paul's content
And easy state, and being
Of a discerning temperament,
I do not fail of seeing,
And easy state, and being
Of a discerning temperament,
I do not fail of seeing,
That he, in spite of awl and knife
And everlasting capples,
Has taken from the tree of life
The sweetest of the apples;
And everlasting capples,
Has taken from the tree of life
The sweetest of the apples;
Whilst I, who would a poet be,
And strive in shine and shower,
Have plucked from that same apple tree,
A fruit that's somewhat sour.
And strive in shine and shower,
Have plucked from that same apple tree,
A fruit that's somewhat sour.
But then, philosophy flies wide,
And seeking satisfaction,
I fish me with the bait called pride,
The waters of abstraction.
And seeking satisfaction,
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The waters of abstraction.
I catch what proves conclusively,
That star-gleams never strike him,
And like a very Pharisee,
Thank God I am not like him.
That star-gleams never strike him,
And like a very Pharisee,
Thank God I am not like him.
“For who,” in merrier mood, I say,
“Can grant the higher status,
Saint Crispin or Urania?
The ‘last’ or an afflatus?”
“Can grant the higher status,
Saint Crispin or Urania?
The ‘last’ or an afflatus?”
And then I fall to conning o'er
Certain despised effusions,
Adding another to a score
Of previous perusions.
Certain despised effusions,
Adding another to a score
Of previous perusions.
Decripit diction, hackneyed rhyme,
And the wan shade of reason,
Groan where there's neither space nor time,
And common sense is treason.
And the wan shade of reason,
Groan where there's neither space nor time,
And common sense is treason.
Young Knowledge flops on unfledged wings,
Dull would-be Wisdom patters
Her vague, unmeaning jargonings
On vague, unmeaning matters.
Dull would-be Wisdom patters
Her vague, unmeaning jargonings
On vague, unmeaning matters.
36
All graces that to art belong,
In tinsel strut before us,
Whilst Passion howls a beldame song,
And Discord squalls a chorus.
In tinsel strut before us,
Whilst Passion howls a beldame song,
And Discord squalls a chorus.
Ay! well-a-day! plain truth to tell,
Old Paul outdoes me sadly,
He makes his wares so very well,
And I make mine so badly!
Old Paul outdoes me sadly,
He makes his wares so very well,
And I make mine so badly!
There is no better cordwainer
Than he, from here to Cairo,
For me, I am a bungler,
A sort of chronic tyro.—
Than he, from here to Cairo,
For me, I am a bungler,
A sort of chronic tyro.—
O ye who sit, as is most meet,
Above our work and weather,
Let that we sing be sound and sweet,
Or leave us altogether.
Above our work and weather,
Let that we sing be sound and sweet,
Or leave us altogether.
For if to mortal ye will come
In samite or alpacas,
He had as well be always dumb
As he-haw like a jackass.
In samite or alpacas,
He had as well be always dumb
As he-haw like a jackass.
37
THE WAKING OF SPRING.
It was out in the wood,
One squally March morning,
Now the spears of the glittering rain
Flew along, and now the swift sunshine;
The cowslips were peeping amongst the dead leaves,
I sat at the foot of an elm tree.
One squally March morning,
Now the spears of the glittering rain
Flew along, and now the swift sunshine;
The cowslips were peeping amongst the dead leaves,
I sat at the foot of an elm tree.
And suddenly when the rain had done,
And the sunbeams danced with the tapping branches,
All down the wood there came a laughing,
Such thin, clear, beautiful rippling laughter.
And somebody said, “She is awake!”
“Awake?” I questioned, “Who?”
“Nay! Nay!” one answered, “Look thou and see.”
And the sunbeams danced with the tapping branches,
All down the wood there came a laughing,
Such thin, clear, beautiful rippling laughter.
And somebody said, “She is awake!”
“Awake?” I questioned, “Who?”
“Nay! Nay!” one answered, “Look thou and see.”
And turning I looked,
And there she was—Spring!
Blue-eyed, red-lipped,
With the rain-drops glistening on her sunny hair,
And the fretted sunshine all about her;
Laughing that liquid laughter.
And there she was—Spring!
Blue-eyed, red-lipped,
38
And the fretted sunshine all about her;
Laughing that liquid laughter.
O, how it was blown through the woodland,
Down the wet, windy, sunbeam-haunted woodways,
Lilting, flying; mingling
With the fluting song of the wild thrush
And the cawings of the flustered rooks,
Hither and thither all day,
All through the varying day.
Down the wet, windy, sunbeam-haunted woodways,
Lilting, flying; mingling
With the fluting song of the wild thrush
And the cawings of the flustered rooks,
Hither and thither all day,
All through the varying day.
And the night was wild and troubled,
With rains and gusts and moanings,
But I said “She is come, the blue-eyed spring,
For has she not been all day in the wood?”
And then I slept, and at morning
Came the sun and the thrush and the windy weather.
“She is here again to-day,
O come thou out and see her.”
With rains and gusts and moanings,
But I said “She is come, the blue-eyed spring,
For has she not been all day in the wood?”
And then I slept, and at morning
Came the sun and the thrush and the windy weather.
“She is here again to-day,
O come thou out and see her.”
39
A FABLE.
It was a sleepy summer day,
Softly cooed the brooding dove,
On a bank of lilies lay
The rosy god of love.
Softly cooed the brooding dove,
On a bank of lilies lay
The rosy god of love.
He heard a sweet song overhead,
He heard the tinkling streamlet creep,
Drowsy by their music made,
At length he fell asleep.
He heard the tinkling streamlet creep,
Drowsy by their music made,
At length he fell asleep.
A butterfly with wings of flame
Found out his hiding dim,
All the woodland children came
To take a peep at him.
Found out his hiding dim,
All the woodland children came
To take a peep at him.
Soft songs they sang, soft rhymes they said,
And a crimson-hearted rose
On his eyes an essence shed,
To sweeten his repose.
And a crimson-hearted rose
On his eyes an essence shed,
To sweeten his repose.
Then there came two to walk the wood—
A knight and a faire ladie;
They saw this life that it was good,
And laughed out loud and free.
A knight and a faire ladie;
They saw this life that it was good,
And laughed out loud and free.
40
And mid their laughter chancing near
This lily-haunted nook,
Straight the wood-folk fled in fear,
Straight the god awoke;
This lily-haunted nook,
Straight the wood-folk fled in fear,
Straight the god awoke;
And at sight of that careless two
In anger seizing bow and darts
With a cunning skill and true
Shot pain into their hearts.
In anger seizing bow and darts
With a cunning skill and true
Shot pain into their hearts.
TWO MESSAGES.
Romeo to Cupid.
“Sweet coz, find out Juliet,
Say, ‘O Loveliness, behold,
How this jewel love would set,
In thy life's fair-rounded gold.’”
Say, ‘O Loveliness, behold,
How this jewel love would set,
In thy life's fair-rounded gold.’”
Cupid to Romeo.
“Sir, I caught her; flashed the stone;
Spake my shrewdest in its praise;
She only answered, ‘Little one,
I'll be his sister: go thy ways.’”
Spake my shrewdest in its praise;
She only answered, ‘Little one,
I'll be his sister: go thy ways.’”
41
AT FIRST.
Helen, the queen of us,Proffered her cheek first, thus—
Chin's dimpled round of white
Held out to meet the light,
Lips firmly pursed awry,
Half-closed averted eye,
One rosy, gold-pinked ear,
Shadowless neck, and dear
Glory of sun-dipped hair;
Coldest of faces fair,
Still as a statue's face
Her's was one minute's space.—
What did it mean? Why, just,
“Kiss then—if kiss you must!”
42
APHRILIS.
From the foam of the sea
Sprang she faerily
In the golden morning.
Rathely debonair,
Long she wandered, where
Vapours are most blue,
Sunshine is the rarest;
And they worshipped her,
For, of all they knew,
She was fairest.
Sprang she faerily
In the golden morning.
Rathely debonair,
Long she wandered, where
Vapours are most blue,
Sunshine is the rarest;
And they worshipped her,
For, of all they knew,
She was fairest.
Now i' the young sun
Is she just begun
To make merry,—
Aphrodite, here?
Aye! 'tis not quite clear
How she comes to hold
The ladyship of this season;
But 'twas given her, no doubt,
In the age of gold,
By a poet, who had been her
Votary, and, for his reason,
That's not past all finding out!
Leastways, one says so
Who hath seen her;
And,—he ought to know.
Is she just begun
To make merry,—
Aphrodite, here?
Aye! 'tis not quite clear
How she comes to hold
The ladyship of this season;
But 'twas given her, no doubt,
In the age of gold,
By a poet, who had been her
Votary, and, for his reason,
43
Leastways, one says so
Who hath seen her;
And,—he ought to know.
Hark, how the lark flings shrill
His song on the shining air!
Is it, O heart! a song he doth trill,
A song, or a worshipful prayer?
For violets are beginning to peer,
And the daises from the hill
Wink at the sun,
And the meads are putting on
Their gowns of apple green,
And all the woodlands thrill
In the presence of their queen,
With the brave, full life of this queen,—
This sweetest, this most dear,
First best-month of the year!
His song on the shining air!
Is it, O heart! a song he doth trill,
A song, or a worshipful prayer?
For violets are beginning to peer,
And the daises from the hill
Wink at the sun,
And the meads are putting on
Their gowns of apple green,
And all the woodlands thrill
In the presence of their queen,
With the brave, full life of this queen,—
This sweetest, this most dear,
First best-month of the year!
Sunshine,—flash of her smile,
Rain,—sweet rain of her tears,
Oh her shout, her sob,
Her bounteous wild heart-throb
As she runs swift-breathed through the budding wood!—
Breathless mirth, with her hair in the wind
And lightning in her eyes,
And her cheeks all flushed like wild roses!
Could she be fairer, Paphia,
On that far-off, holy day
When she came to the Cyprian strand?
All the world's love answers, “Nay!”
Rain,—sweet rain of her tears,
Oh her shout, her sob,
Her bounteous wild heart-throb
44
Breathless mirth, with her hair in the wind
And lightning in her eyes,
And her cheeks all flushed like wild roses!
Could she be fairer, Paphia,
On that far-off, holy day
When she came to the Cyprian strand?
All the world's love answers, “Nay!”
KING CHRISTMAS.
When stars gleam cold like points of steel,
And snows are drifting o'er the fells,
When idly sleeps the miller's wheel,
Hidden in drooping icicles;
When sing the waits and ring the bells,
He cometh forth from the dark north,
A white-haired king and ruddy.
And snows are drifting o'er the fells,
When idly sleeps the miller's wheel,
Hidden in drooping icicles;
When sing the waits and ring the bells,
He cometh forth from the dark north,
A white-haired king and ruddy.
46
When holly shines along the wall
And fiddlers make their merriest din,
Whilst round and round the glowing hall
The laughing dancers reel and spin;
When creaks the board and bursts the bin,
He stands thereby, right jovially,
The master of the revels.
And fiddlers make their merriest din,
Whilst round and round the glowing hall
The laughing dancers reel and spin;
When creaks the board and bursts the bin,
He stands thereby, right jovially,
The master of the revels.
When dowager and old-time beau
Do try a step to this, or this,
And when beneath the mistletoe
Two lovers chance to meet and kiss,
Or steal away to talk,—I wis
The rogue is there, all unaware,
Shaking with pent-up laughter.
Do try a step to this, or this,
And when beneath the mistletoe
Two lovers chance to meet and kiss,
Or steal away to talk,—I wis
The rogue is there, all unaware,
Shaking with pent-up laughter.
When lights burn low, and dance is done,
And fiddlers hie them o'er the moor,
When sleepy guests to bed are gone,
And tipsy Jack doth bolt the door,—
Ah me! that good king hale and hoar,
Rides home in haste, across the waste,
To sleep another twelvemonth.
And fiddlers hie them o'er the moor,
When sleepy guests to bed are gone,
And tipsy Jack doth bolt the door,—
Ah me! that good king hale and hoar,
Rides home in haste, across the waste,
To sleep another twelvemonth.
47
THE LARK SANG YESTERDAY.
Oh, yesterday I heard
What seemed the merriest bird
That ever sang—
Heard him as he did hang
A mote amid the blue
Making a song most true.
What seemed the merriest bird
That ever sang—
Heard him as he did hang
A mote amid the blue
Making a song most true.
When yet the fields are bare,
And March's golden hair
Is blown about i' the breath
Of him who lingereth,
Beaten, but loath to own
His kingdom overthrown,
'Tis fine to hear the first
Ecstatical outburst
That thrills and flies
Through the new-opened skies,
A herald of the birth
Of May-time on the earth!
And March's golden hair
Is blown about i' the breath
Of him who lingereth,
Beaten, but loath to own
His kingdom overthrown,
'Tis fine to hear the first
Ecstatical outburst
That thrills and flies
Through the new-opened skies,
A herald of the birth
Of May-time on the earth!
Be glad, thou eager one!
The revel is begun!
The lark sang yesterday!
Spring will be on her way,
Bringing her goodly train
To deck the world again!
The revel is begun!
48
Spring will be on her way,
Bringing her goodly train
To deck the world again!
TO AN OLD LUTE.
In thine own sun-loved southern land,
Dreaming in rose and lotus long ago,
Some dark-eyed princess, knowing naught of woe,
Made thee to ripple sweetness
'Neath her languid hand.
Dreaming in rose and lotus long ago,
Some dark-eyed princess, knowing naught of woe,
Made thee to ripple sweetness
'Neath her languid hand.
Tall was he, proud of face and limb,
Bronze-headed, with black hair; and beauty-won,
He went before her in the noontide sun:
Anon thy strings she toyed,
Yet ever thought of him.
Bronze-headed, with black hair; and beauty-won,
He went before her in the noontide sun:
Anon thy strings she toyed,
Yet ever thought of him.
And when the golden moon did hang
Upon the dusky blue of that dim night,
She wandered tearful in the misty light,
Told all her love on thee,
And to thy sobbing sang.
Upon the dusky blue of that dim night,
49
Told all her love on thee,
And to thy sobbing sang.
If I but touch thee lying here,
Thou sendest forth vague sounds that seem her sighs,
The sad souls of those ancient melodies
Hum through thee
And die murmuring in mine ear.
Thou sendest forth vague sounds that seem her sighs,
The sad souls of those ancient melodies
Hum through thee
And die murmuring in mine ear.
50
THE LOST SONG.
“O Shepherd, wherefore singest thou?”
The white mists crept down the valley,
The red dawn burned and brake into day,
As he carolled away in the mountains.
The white mists crept down the valley,
The red dawn burned and brake into day,
As he carolled away in the mountains.
“Ah! said the crone, “he is happy,
That singer there in the mists,
Hearken now to his music,—
Wild and sweet as the mirth of the tossing lark!
Dear heart! it might have been April,
Lilting some catch of gladness
Wherewith to quicken the world.
That singer there in the mists,
Hearken now to his music,—
Wild and sweet as the mirth of the tossing lark!
Dear heart! it might have been April,
Lilting some catch of gladness
Wherewith to quicken the world.
Long echoed the magical notes, long and clearly;
But they died away, ere the mists were done,
Into the summer silence;
And all the wide, blue valley
Slept in bloom and in noontide.
But they died away, ere the mists were done,
Into the summer silence;
51
Slept in bloom and in noontide.
“Hush!” she said, “he has finished,
He grows tired even of singing;
Ay, well! it is only mortal
To weary of things immortal:
Yet he cannot rest long—yonder singer;
He is young, and his life is pleasant;
Age hath no heart to make music;
No hope nor faith that should waken
Into sweet sounds. Age is songless;
Youth sings, and cannot help it.”
He grows tired even of singing;
Ay, well! it is only mortal
To weary of things immortal:
Yet he cannot rest long—yonder singer;
He is young, and his life is pleasant;
Age hath no heart to make music;
No hope nor faith that should waken
Into sweet sounds. Age is songless;
Youth sings, and cannot help it.”
She waited, and listened and waited:
Round the bloom, the wild bee murmured,
Three fluted notes came to her from the pine wood,
Across the summer silence;
But the wild singer of the mountains
Sang no more in her hearing,
And the wonder of his singing
Faded through long remembrance,
Till it died and was lost and forgotten.
Round the bloom, the wild bee murmured,
Three fluted notes came to her from the pine wood,
Across the summer silence;
But the wild singer of the mountains
Sang no more in her hearing,
And the wonder of his singing
Faded through long remembrance,
Till it died and was lost and forgotten.
52
There were dawns and golden lapses of day;
Wild wonderful sunsets, glorified nights,
Haunted of dreams and quiet, and the moon,
There were storms, long rains and lightnings,
Swift floods and starless mirk,
And the roar and white of the winter.
Wild wonderful sunsets, glorified nights,
Haunted of dreams and quiet, and the moon,
There were storms, long rains and lightnings,
Swift floods and starless mirk,
And the roar and white of the winter.
One night in the black December,
When the mad north wind howled in the pine woods,
And the valley was blind with snow;
She crouched by a dying fire,
Dreaming she looked down the mists of her years.
And anon she smiled and anon she wept,
At what she saw in her fancies:
And she wept more than she smiled.
When the mad north wind howled in the pine woods,
And the valley was blind with snow;
She crouched by a dying fire,
Dreaming she looked down the mists of her years.
And anon she smiled and anon she wept,
At what she saw in her fancies:
And she wept more than she smiled.
Howled and cried the wind in the pine wood,
The cold snow drifted in at the lintel,
And through the chinks and the crannies
Of her hut on the lonely hillside.
But above the roar of the wind,
Like a far-off sound from a sunnier world,
That song of the mists and the morning
Came suddenly on her ear;
And she went out into the night,
And stood in the storm and listened.
The cold snow drifted in at the lintel,
And through the chinks and the crannies
Of her hut on the lonely hillside.
53
Like a far-off sound from a sunnier world,
That song of the mists and the morning
Came suddenly on her ear;
And she went out into the night,
And stood in the storm and listened.
The dawn flashed over the mountain tops;
The lark shot up in the warm blue sky;
Bloom and summer slept in the valley.
She stepped forth into the dawning,
With a song on her lips and joy in her heart
And the lonely hut on the hill-side,
And the dark merciless winter
Knew her no more, for she travelled
Through the halls of the dawn, beyond them.
The lark shot up in the warm blue sky;
Bloom and summer slept in the valley.
She stepped forth into the dawning,
With a song on her lips and joy in her heart
And the lonely hut on the hill-side,
And the dark merciless winter
Knew her no more, for she travelled
Through the halls of the dawn, beyond them.
54
THE PIPER.
Where summer drowses all the day,
On a blue hill-top far away,
A shepherd lad, with lips red-ripe,
Lay piping on an oaten pipe;
And made his tunes most lazily,
So steeped in summer sloth was he.
On a blue hill-top far away,
A shepherd lad, with lips red-ripe,
Lay piping on an oaten pipe;
And made his tunes most lazily,
So steeped in summer sloth was he.
The golden sun clomb up the sky,
A wild bee went a-droning by,
A swallow past his hill did skim,
A butterfly flittered over him;
And all he played did sweetly run,
Because he learnt it in the sun.
A wild bee went a-droning by,
A swallow past his hill did skim,
A butterfly flittered over him;
And all he played did sweetly run,
Because he learnt it in the sun.
Through half-closed eyelids, hazily,
He saw the things that round him lay;
The daisy nodding at his side,
The world's ringed ocean, blue and wide,
The cloudlet ships all shining sail,
The misty hills across the vale.
He saw the things that round him lay;
The daisy nodding at his side,
The world's ringed ocean, blue and wide,
The cloudlet ships all shining sail,
The misty hills across the vale.
55
And past white vapours looking down,
He saw the spires of the the town,
From fifty towers glittering fair,
And straightway wished to travel there;
Yet went on piping lazily,
So steeped in summer sloth was he.
He saw the spires of the the town,
From fifty towers glittering fair,
And straightway wished to travel there;
Yet went on piping lazily,
So steeped in summer sloth was he.
But when the sun dipped to the west,
Leaving the hilltop and his rest,
Along the dusty dale he strayed,
And ever, as he went, he played
Such notes as seemed the ways to fill
With airs and sunshine from the hill.
Leaving the hilltop and his rest,
Along the dusty dale he strayed,
And ever, as he went, he played
Such notes as seemed the ways to fill
With airs and sunshine from the hill.
He met a maiden fair to see—
“O rosy lad come back with me.”
He met a pedlar sunburnt brown—
“O, shepherd go not to the town.”
And little children from their play
Followed him crying, “Piper, stay!”
“O rosy lad come back with me.”
He met a pedlar sunburnt brown—
“O, shepherd go not to the town.”
And little children from their play
Followed him crying, “Piper, stay!”
His tunes were given up to the wind,
The playful children left behind,
A star danced on the hill's dark ridge
As he went piping over the bridge,
And through the gate-way old and brown
Into the heated noise of the town.
The playful children left behind,
A star danced on the hill's dark ridge
56
And through the gate-way old and brown
Into the heated noise of the town.
The night winds scattered the echoes afar,
The hill lay in shadows under its star,
The moon looked forth from her pearly veil
And silence sighed in the dusky dale.
Ah me! There was none to pipe her a strain
For the lad never came to the valley again;
The threshold of the town was crost,
And he and all his tunes were lost.
The hill lay in shadows under its star,
The moon looked forth from her pearly veil
And silence sighed in the dusky dale.
Ah me! There was none to pipe her a strain
For the lad never came to the valley again;
The threshold of the town was crost,
And he and all his tunes were lost.
57
THE LARK'S SONG.
Love, I will go and wake the morn,
Lingering yonder, drowsily dreaming,
Sing O for the golden glory born,
When she sets the east a-gleaming!
Lingering yonder, drowsily dreaming,
Sing O for the golden glory born,
When she sets the east a-gleaming!
Love, I will go up out o' the world,
And cry, “O hear how one doth love me!”
Sing O for the great mists 'neath me curled,
And the sun in his hall above me!
And cry, “O hear how one doth love me!”
Sing O for the great mists 'neath me curled,
And the sun in his hall above me!
Sing O for these men that creep and crawl,
They shall catch some crumbs of my silver gladness,
Sing O for the world clings to them all,
And the world is weighted with sadness!
They shall catch some crumbs of my silver gladness,
Sing O for the world clings to them all,
And the world is weighted with sadness!
Life unto them is a bitter sweet,
I soar where a shadow may not reach me,
Sing O for the sinless spirits I meet,
Sing O for the songs they teach me!
I soar where a shadow may not reach me,
Sing O for the sinless spirits I meet,
Sing O for the songs they teach me!
58
When sunshine comes and fields are fair,
And men for all their bonds fall to dancing
Sing O for a freer, finer air,
Where the clearest light is glancing!
And men for all their bonds fall to dancing
Sing O for a freer, finer air,
Where the clearest light is glancing!
And when the sun is hidden in a shroud,
And wearily go all wingless mortals,
Sing O for that other side of the cloud,
And the sheen of the golden portals!
And wearily go all wingless mortals,
Sing O for that other side of the cloud,
And the sheen of the golden portals!
AN ECHO LEGEND.
The red man sings in the valley,
And the great rock Shasta hearing,
Calls to the rocks around him,
And they echo and answer him. Hark!
All down the valley, they speak.
And the great rock Shasta hearing,
Calls to the rocks around him,
And they echo and answer him. Hark!
All down the valley, they speak.
Once Shasta loved a maiden,
The Indian maid Unenainwee.
Fair was she as the young moon
On the lake that glistens, called Tahoe
Beautiful as a day-dawn,
Or a star-crownéd twilight,
And Shasta thought that she loved him.
She danced on his great bare bosom,
And her feet seemed as light as the snowflakes
That fall from a cloud when the wind sleeps,
And her heart was as light as her footsteps,
But 'twas not for love of Shasta.
The Indian maid Unenainwee.
Fair was she as the young moon
On the lake that glistens, called Tahoe
59
Or a star-crownéd twilight,
And Shasta thought that she loved him.
She danced on his great bare bosom,
And her feet seemed as light as the snowflakes
That fall from a cloud when the wind sleeps,
And her heart was as light as her footsteps,
But 'twas not for love of Shasta.
Ah, no! Her soul was with Uba
Uba, the brave, the strong-hearted,
The hunter of bears and of bisons;
And the great rock, when he heard it,
Burnt with wild hate, and his anger
Lay in his heart, for he spake not.
Uba, the brave, the strong-hearted,
The hunter of bears and of bisons;
And the great rock, when he heard it,
Burnt with wild hate, and his anger
Lay in his heart, for he spake not.
One day the great thirsty spirit,
The hot-hearted terrible whirlwind,
Came rushing over the prairies,
Madly seeking for water:
He caught up poor Unenainwee,
And ran with her into the mountains.
She cried and called upon Uba,
“Help me! Thy love Unenainwee!”
But Uba was far in the forest
Tracking the bear, and he heard not:
And the whirlwind was strong, and he bore her
As she had been a feather;
And Shasta heard, but he spake not.
The hot-hearted terrible whirlwind,
Came rushing over the prairies,
Madly seeking for water:
He caught up poor Unenainwee,
60
She cried and called upon Uba,
“Help me! Thy love Unenainwee!”
But Uba was far in the forest
Tracking the bear, and he heard not:
And the whirlwind was strong, and he bore her
As she had been a feather;
And Shasta heard, but he spake not.
With the stars to see Unenainwee
Uba came from the forest
Unto the place of their meeting.
He waited, and waited, and waited,
All through the night till the dawning,
He stayed, but she never came to him.
Down to the village of wigwams
Went he, and asked of her people,
Where was the maid Unenainwee?
But they answered him not, for they knew not,
She was gone, but they knew not whither;
And Uba went forth to seek her.
Uba came from the forest
Unto the place of their meeting.
He waited, and waited, and waited,
All through the night till the dawning,
He stayed, but she never came to him.
Down to the village of wigwams
Went he, and asked of her people,
Where was the maid Unenainwee?
But they answered him not, for they knew not,
She was gone, but they knew not whither;
And Uba went forth to seek her.
61
Patiently, sadly, he sought her,
All through the village of wigwams,
All through the plains and the forests,
In the land of the great mole spirit,
In the blue-grey land of the mountains;
Sought her, but never found her.
Far to the north did he wander,
Far to the south. Toward sunrise,
To where the sun falls in the water,
He travelled by daylight and star-shine,
Seeking the lost Unenainwee.
Day by day did his heart-break
Grow on him; till hopeless and weary
He came again to the valley,
And camped by the great rock Shasta.
All through the village of wigwams,
All through the plains and the forests,
In the land of the great mole spirit,
In the blue-grey land of the mountains;
Sought her, but never found her.
Far to the north did he wander,
Far to the south. Toward sunrise,
To where the sun falls in the water,
He travelled by daylight and star-shine,
Seeking the lost Unenainwee.
Day by day did his heart-break
Grow on him; till hopeless and weary
He came again to the valley,
And camped by the great rock Shasta.
Many suns dawned on the mountains,
Many snows fell and were melted,
Still Unenainwee came not.
And Uba, grown heart-sick with waiting,
Said to himself, “I will get me
Far away from this valley.
Why should I haunt it for ever?
Why should I linger? She comes not:
Shall I seek when I may not find her?
No! I will go to the eastward,
And live with the beasts in the forest,
That I may forget I am Uba,
That I may forget Unenainwee,
That I may forget I have lost her!
Yet ere I depart let me call her
Once more, for perchance she might hear me.”
Many snows fell and were melted,
Still Unenainwee came not.
And Uba, grown heart-sick with waiting,
Said to himself, “I will get me
Far away from this valley.
Why should I haunt it for ever?
62
Shall I seek when I may not find her?
No! I will go to the eastward,
And live with the beasts in the forest,
That I may forget I am Uba,
That I may forget Unenainwee,
That I may forget I have lost her!
Yet ere I depart let me call her
Once more, for perchance she might hear me.”
So he stood at the head of the valley,
Close to the great rock Shasta,
And cried, “O my loved Unenainwee,
I am going to the woods to forget thee.
I go, Unenainwee. Ah, hear me!
Call to me! Tell me, where art thou?
Tell me, that I may come to thee!”
But he listened in vain for an answer,
And his last hope slain by the silence,
The grief that had long lain within him
Burst all its bonds, and the warrior
Bowed down his head in his anguish,
Bowed and cried out like a woman,
Cried like a heart-broken woman,
In his despair, “Wahonowin!
She answers me not! Wahonowin!
She is dead! She is dead! Wahonowin!”
And nobody heard him but Shasta.
Close to the great rock Shasta,
And cried, “O my loved Unenainwee,
I am going to the woods to forget thee.
I go, Unenainwee. Ah, hear me!
Call to me! Tell me, where art thou?
Tell me, that I may come to thee!”
But he listened in vain for an answer,
And his last hope slain by the silence,
The grief that had long lain within him
Burst all its bonds, and the warrior
Bowed down his head in his anguish,
Bowed and cried out like a woman,
63
In his despair, “Wahonowin!
She answers me not! Wahonowin!
She is dead! She is dead! Wahonowin!”
And nobody heard him but Shasta.
And Shasta, seeing the warrior,
Uba, the chieftain, his rival,
Bent like a weak-hearted woman,
Robbed of his pride by his sorrow;
Chuckled in hatred and mocked him.
And cried in mock grief, “Wahonowin!
She is dead! She is dead! Wahonowin!”
And all the rocks round about him,
Laughed with him, and called “Wahonowin!”
Till the whole valley laughed “Wahonowin!”
And Uba, when he had heard them,
Went in sad shame from the valley,
Far o'er the plains to the eastward
And lived out his life in the forest.
Uba, the chieftain, his rival,
Bent like a weak-hearted woman,
Robbed of his pride by his sorrow;
Chuckled in hatred and mocked him.
And cried in mock grief, “Wahonowin!
She is dead! She is dead! Wahonowin!”
And all the rocks round about him,
Laughed with him, and called “Wahonowin!”
Till the whole valley laughed “Wahonowin!”
And Uba, when he had heard them,
Went in sad shame from the valley,
Far o'er the plains to the eastward
And lived out his life in the forest.
64
That chief has slept long with his fathers,
Long since he met Unenainwee
In the land of the shining shadows,
In the high plains of the blesséd.
But for ever and ever and ever,
If it be red-man or pale-face
That calls or sings in the valley,
The mountains will echo and mock him,
Thinking him Uba returnéd.
Long since he met Unenainwee
In the land of the shining shadows,
In the high plains of the blesséd.
But for ever and ever and ever,
If it be red-man or pale-face
That calls or sings in the valley,
The mountains will echo and mock him,
Thinking him Uba returnéd.
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