Poems by Violet Fane [i.e. M. M. Lamb] :: :: University of Virginia Library

“The years pass on, the seasons go their round,
Hate is o'erpass'd, Love plumes his fickle wings,
Whilst, safe within his plot of garden-ground
Mourning the mutability of things,
The Poet sings.”

113

A REVERIE.

By the side of a ruin'd terrace
I sat in the early Spring;
The leaves were so young that the speckled hen-thrush
Could be seen as she sat in the hawthorn bush,
Falt'ring and faint at the cuckoo's cry;
The cypress look'd black against the green
Of folded chestnut and budding beech,
And up from the slumbering vale beneath
Came now and again the ominous ring
Of a passing-bell for a village death.
Yet a spirit of hope went whispering by,
Through the wakening woods, o'er the daisied mead,
And up the stem of the straight Scotch fir
An insolent squirrel, in holiday brush,
Went scampering gaily, at utmost speed,
To gnaw at his fir-apples out of reach.

114

All seem'd so full of life and stir,
Of twitter and twinkle, and shimmer and sheen,
That I closed my book, for I could not read;
So I sat me down to muse instead,
By the side of the ruin'd terrace,
In the breath of the early Spring.

Alas that the sound of a passing-bell,
(Only proclaiming some villager's death,)
As it echoes up from the valley beneath,
Should summon up visions of trestle and shroud!
And pity it is that yon marble urn,
Fall'n and broken, should seem to tell
Of days that are done with, and may not return
Whatever the future shall chance to be!
Hollow and dead as the empty shell
Of last year's nut as it lies on the grass,
Or the frail laburnum's wither'd seed,
That hang like felons on gallows-tree!

115

This is a truth that half aloud
We may but murmur with bated breath:
How many sat as I sit to-day,
In the vanish'd hours of the olden time,
Watching the Spring in her early prime
Beam, and blossom, and go her way!
Squirrels that sport and doves that coo,
And leaves that twinkle against the blue,
And green woodpecker and screeching jay,
Ye are purposeless things that perish and pass,
Yet you wanton and squander your transient day,—
My soul is sicken'd at sight of you!
“I had rather be shrouded and coffin'd and dead”
(To my innermost soul I, sighing, said)
“Than know no pleasure save love and play!”
Then all seem'd so full of the odour of Death
(Though I smelt the gorse-blossom blown from the heath),
That I open'd my book and tried to read,

116

Since my soul was too sadden'd to muse instead,
By the side of the ruin'd terrace,
In the breath of the early Spring.

I wonder now if it could be right
For the Great First Cause to let such things be?
To plan this blending of black and white,—
(I know, for myself, I had made all bright!)
And to mould me, and make me, and set me here,
Without my leave and against my will,
With never so much as a word in mine ear
As to how I may pilot my bark through the night?
Was it well, I wonder, or was it ill,
That I should feel such a wish to be wise,
And dream of flying, and long for sight,
With faltering footsteps and bandaged eyes,
To be blamed the more that I may not see,
As I stagger about in the wilderness,
And know no more than the worms and the flies?
I feel at my heart that it is not right—

117

“Nothing is right and nothing is just;
We sow in ashes and reap the dust;
I think, on the whole, I would rather be
The wandering emmet, that loses its way
On the desert-plain of my muslin-dress,
Than be moulded as either a woman or man.”
(All this I said in my bitterness.)
“Yet who is to help me and who is to blame?”
But just at that moment a hurrying sound,
A sound as of hurrying, pattering feet,
In the dry leaves under the hawthorn bush,
Troubled the heart of the speckled hen-thrush,
Whilst the love-sick pigeon that call'd to her mate,
And the green woodpecker and screeching jay,
Outspread their wings and flew scared away;
And on a sudden, with leap and bound,
My neighbour's collie, mark'd black and tan,
Sprang panting into the garden seat,

118

His collar aglow with my neighbour's name!
So my neighbour himself cannot be far,
Ah, I care not now how wrong things are! . . .
I know I am ignorant, foolish, and small
As this wandering emmet that climbs my dress,
Yet I know that now I had answer'd “Yes”
(Were I ask'd my will by the Father of all);
“I desire to be, I am glad to be born!”
And all because on a soft May morn,
My neighbour's collie dog, black and tan,
Leapt over the privet-hedge, and ran
With a rush, and a cry, and a bound to my side,
And because I saw his master ride,
Laying spurs to his willing horse,
Over the flaming yellow gorse.
Awake, my heart! I may not wait!
Let me arise and open the gate,
To breathe the wild warm air of the heath,
And to let in Love, and to let out Hate,
And anger at living, and scorn of Fate,

119

To let in Life, and to let out Death,
(For mine ears are deaf to the passing-bell—
I think he is buried now out of the way;)
And I say to myself, “It is good, it is well;
Squirrels that sport and doves that coo,
And leaves that twinkle against the blue,
And green woodpecker and screeching jay,—
Good-morrow, all! I am one of you!”
Since now I need neither muse nor read,
I may listen, and loiter, and live instead,
And take my pleasure in love and play,
And share my pastime with all things gay,
By the side of the ruin'd terrace,
In the breath of the early Spring.

120

“GOING SOUTH.”

I came from lands of mist and rain,
And hurried, for one sleepless night,
Through landscapes clothed in wintry white,
And where the bare Burgundian vines,
Like antlers of a buried herd,
Pierced through their chilly counterpane.

Against the windows sleet and snow
Beat, as determin'd to the last
To bear me company: I pass'd
Bleak sandy tracks, where dwarfish pines
And stunted olives, tempest-stirr'd,
Swayed desolately to and fro.

“I journey on to warmth and light,”
I whisper'd to my falt'ring heart,
So lonely at the saddest part
Of this, my voyage to the sun,
Wrapp'd in the curtains of the night,

121

And fearing what the dawn might hold,
Whilst still unto my aching brain
The measured clatter of the train
Echoed, in mocking monotone,
“To warmth and light,” whilst all was cold.

But by-and-by, by slow degrees,
Chill Nature thaw'd to greet the dawn;
The clinging frost and snow were gone,
The sky beam'd blue behind the hills,
The birds were singing on the trees.

The sun rose gaily, all the earth
Seemed warm again with love and Spring,
The olive leaves sway'd glistening
With silv'ry lustre, and the rills
Leapt, frost-freed, to a brighter birth.

A thousand scented southern balms
The zephyr wafted to my brow,
The orange hung upon the bough,
The almond flower'd fair beneath
The tufted majesty of palms.

122

The wavelets of a tideless sea
Crept softly to the rosy shore,—
The overhanging mountains bore
Myrtle and mignonette and heath,
And fragrant tangled bryony.

The aloe raised its pointed spears,
The red geranium blossom'd wild,
Anemones and violets smiled,
The faint mimosa droop'd; above
The rocks were fringed with prickly pears.

'Twas then I felt my soul revive;
The winter chill'd my heart no more;
I look'd upon that sunny shore,
And said, “I come to life and love,—
I come to thee to love and live.”

123

TOO LATE!

In the summer time, ere the grass was mown,
Where the tall ox-daisies grew to her knee,
There wander'd a maiden all alone,
In silken kirtle and golden zone,
By the river that flows to the sea.

And often she look'd down its silvery way,
As she watch'd the wandering swallows skim
The leaves of the lilies, that quivering lay,
Seeming only a span from the glittering bay,
And her day-dreams were always of him.

Thus wander'd she wearily to and fro
Amongst the wavering meadow flowers,
And she watch'd the seasons come and go
Till the white with daisies was white with snow,
And the birds fell asleep in the bowers.

124

But her true love linger'd, and linger'd still,
Till again the earth was awake with spring;
And her heart grew sad, as a maiden's will
Who has waited and watch'd over dale and hill
For a love that is lingering.

But at last, as, shading her eyes with her hand,
She look'd down the river's silvery way,
She 'spied a pinnace that made for the land,
And that glided anon to the flowery strand
That seem'd but a span from the bay.

He has stept to the shore and found her fair,
Yet he was not the hope of her life's young dream;
Still he seem'd like the answer vouchsafed to a prayer,
Ere her own true lover had time to be there,
And he bore her away on the stream.

But her true love will come ere the hawthorn sheds
Its tremulous blossoms of virginal May,
And he'll find but a sprinkling of daisy-heads,
With a broken girdle in golden shreds,
By the river that flows to the bay.

125

A FOREBODING.

I do not dread an alter'd heart,
Or that long line of land or sea
Should separate my love from me,
I dread that drifting slow apart—
All unresisted, unrestrain'd—
Which comes to some when they have gain'd
The dear endeavour of their soul.

As two light skiffs that sail'd together,
Through days and nights of tranquil weather,
Adown some inland stream, might be
Drifted asunder, each from each;
When, floating with the tide, they reach
The hoped-for end, the promised goal,
The sudden glory of the sea.

126

TO A COUNTRY DAFFODIL.

With hanging head and fluted stalk,
A golden herald of the Spring,
Telling how thrushes build and sing
Amongst the laurels in the walk
Where we have also loved and sung,

Come, daffodil, and whisper true,
(Here amongst city fog and smoke,)
What tidings of our trysting oak,
Where squirrels sport and pigeons coo,
As though the world were ever young?

Tell me how all your brethren fare,
Upstanding in the garden beds;
And if the snowdrops' modest heads
Look earthwards yet, or high in air,
And if the crocuses are there?

127

And if the forest-glades are gay
With hyacinths, or silver-strewn
With wood-anemones, too soon
That bow their heads and pass away,
Dying the death of all things fair?

Tell me all this, and something more,
What I would wish you most to tell,—
Say, “He is true, and he is well,
And still he loves you as before;”
Then nestle near me, where you will.

Or, if it please you to be seen
And hold your head above them all
I'll wear you at a royal ball,
Where you may meet a future Queen—
High honour for a daffodil!

128

A MAY SONG.

A little while my love and I,
Before the mowing of the hay,
Twined daisy-chains and cowslip-balls,
And caroll'd glees and madrigals,
Before the hay, beneath the may,
My love (who loved me then) and I.

For long years now my love and I
Tread severed paths to varied ends;
We sometimes meet, and sometimes say
The trivial things of every day,
And meet as comrades, meet as friends,
My love (who loved me once) and I.

But never more my love and I
Will wander forth, as once, together,
Or sing the songs we used to sing
In spring-time, in the cloudless weather;
Some chord is mute that used to ring,
Some word forgot we used to say
Amongst the may, before the hay,
My love (who loves me not) and I!

129

A REGRET.

“Yours be the blame,” she said, and sigh'd;
“Yours be the blame for all I feel”—
She turn'd away upon her heel,
And saw him leave her wonder-eyed;
Then suddenly, with no “Good-bye,”
Before the morrow came he died.

Of what avail then sighs or tears
For spoken words that left a sting?
Will he remember anything
Of that which haunts her thro' the years,
Or hear the echo of her sigh,
Or share the burden that she bears?

“Mine was the blame!” she weeps and cries,
“Oh, love! my love! mine was the blame!”
He does not answer to his name,
Or soothe her now with soft replies,
His form is hid from human eye,
His mind is closed to memories.

130

THE KINGFISHER.

A BALLAD.

I.

Beside the leafy river-bed,
Waving with wealth of willow-weeds,
Poised in the pollard overhead,
We watch'd him from amongst the reeds.

Bright as a jewel to behold,
His bosom flashing tropic hues,—
Purple and amaranth and gold,
With emerald greens and peacock blues.

You held the brambles o'er my head,
And bade me neither speak nor stir;
“Stay still a little while,” you said,
“Or we shall scare the kingfisher.”

The cruel kingfisher stayéd on,
Peering o'er weed and watercress,
Until the lilies one by one,
Folded their leaves for weariness.

131

You held aside the briers and bine;
We did not speak, we did not stir;
But by-and-by your lips sought mine—
We kiss'd, and scared the kingfisher.

II.

Now once again I seek the stream
Waving with purple willow-weed;
A flutt'ring sound, a flashing gleam—
The kingfisher has flown to feed.

There still the water-lilies grow,
Here trail the sprays of brier and bine,
As on that day, so long ago,
When first your faithless lips met mine.

The cruel kingfisher stays on,
Peering o'er weed and watercress;
And now the lilies, one by one,
Fold up their leaves for weariness.

Recalling all I would forget,
I do not speak, I do not stir;
My heart is full, my eyes are wet—
I weep and scare the kingfisher.

132

A WEDDING.

He stands before the altar-rails
To plight his troth to her—a child,
Who had not heard the o'er true tales
Of his rash youth and manhood wild.
And overhead are smiling skies,
As though to augur all is well;
And village swains
Sing merry strains,
And gaily rings the village bell.

She little knows, that lily bride,
What those glad joy-bells said to one,
Who, sitting by her lone fireside,
Nursed tearfully her little son.
Yet overhead are smiling skies,
As though to augur all is well;
To drown the sighs
That may arise,
Sing, village swains! Ring, village bell!

133

“IN GREEN OLD GARDENS.”

In green old gardens, hidden away
From sight of revel and sound of strife,
Where the bird may sing out his soul ere he dies,
Nor fears for the night, so he lives his day;
Where the high red walls, which are growing gray
With their lichen and moss embroideries,
Seem sadly and sternly to shut out Life,
Because it is often as sad as they;

Where even the bee has time to glide
(Gathering gaily his honey'd store)
Right to the heart of the old-world flowers,—
China-asters and purple stocks,
Dahlias and tall red hollyhocks,
Laburnums raining their golden showers,
Columbines prim of the folded core,
And lupins, and larkspurs, and “London pride;”—

Where the heron is waiting amongst the reeds,
Grown tame in the silence that reigns around,
Broken only, now and then,

134

By shy woodpecker or noisy jay,
By the far-off watch-dog's muffled bay;
But where never the purposeless laughter of men,
Or the seething city's murmurous sound
Will float up under the river-weeds.

Here may I live what life I please,
Married and buried out of sight,—
Married to pleasure, and buried to pain,—
Hidden away amongst scenes like these,
Under the fans of the chestnut trees;
Living my child-life over again,
With the further hope of a fuller delight,
Blithe as the birds and wise as the bees.

In green old gardens hidden away
From sight of revel and sound of strife,—
Here have I leisure to breathe and move,
And to do my work in a nobler way;
To sing my songs, and to say my say;
To dream my dreams, and to love my love;
To hold my faith, and to live my life,
Making the most of its shadowy day.

135

“IF ONLY WE HAD TIME TO SPARE.”

If only we had time to spare
To taste the glories of the Spring,
How good to leave this noise and glare,
And breathe the blessèd country air,
And hear the songs the wild birds sing,
If only we had time to spare!

Then you should stretch you at my feet
And read aloud, and I should sew,
And now and then our eyes might meet,
And we might murmur phrases sweet,
And blissful hours would come and go,
If only we had time to spare!

But as you toil, and as I pray
For happier and idler hours,
Noon follows dawn, night follows day,
I look, and lo, your locks are gray,
And Winter withers up our flowers
Ere ever we have time to spare!

136

UNDER A LATTICE.

[_]

FROM THE SPANISH.

“Clung round with clematis the lattice stands
Still open, open'd by those vanish'd hands;
Within, a darker day, a lesser light,
Recalls the vision that has taken flight—
A vision of soft eyes and hanging hair,
And all that, until yesterday, was there,
And nestled near my heart, and seem'd mine own,
And loved me yesterday, and now—is flown!

“O empty open window, from above
Send down some dear memento of my love!
Some perfume, sweeter than the clematis,
Some truant echo of a lingering kiss!
Or were it even but one little hair
(Trapp'd in a tendril as she watch'd me there),
How would I treasure in my lonely breast
Such falling feather from our empty nest!”
So sigh'd I, lonely, when an agèd man,
Who, passing, saw my sorrow, thus began
With words of wisdom to reprove my gloom:

137

“My son,” said he, “once in yon very room
I, too, in days which live in fancy yet,
Tasted the happiness you now regret;
And when my happiness had pass'd away,
I, too, stood sighing where you stand to-day.

“But not all neatly shod and gaily dress'd,
My love departed from our nuptial nest
On tassell'd mule, or in a soft sedan,
Wafting an arch ‘Good-morrow!’ from her fan,
And almost surely to return again.—
Wan as a lily-bell, my love was lain
In that poor narrow bed we all must know,
Beside a lesser lily, white as snow
(Ah, sorry bridal bed for one so fair!).
And though my heart broke not with my despair,
Yet was it very weary with my pain,
And weary are these eyes that watch in vain,
And may not see what once they held so dear;
Wherefore, on this one day in ev'ry year,
I seek this hostelrie and here repine:
Know now, my son, my woes outmeasure thine.”

He ended, and in grateful mood I said,
“Thank God, though gone from me, she is not dead!”

138

WAITING.

Pleasant it is to watch and wait
By lone seashore or forest dell,
For some one that we love so well;
We half are glad he comes so late
(When we can count his coming sure).

Since then we taste our promised good
Ere ever he can wend his way
By the blue curve of shining bay,
Or thro' the tangle of the wood,
(For we can count his coming sure).

And earth, and sky, and forest tree,
Or far expanse of silv'ry sand,
Seem touch'd as with a magic wand,
And glorious with a joy to be
(Since we can count his coming sure).

139

'Tis even thus I wait him here,
And scan afar the forest glades,
And wander through the green arcades,
And strive to know his presence near,
(If I can count his coming sure).

But as I watch, and as I wait,
The ev'ning shadows grow apace,
The last rook seeks its roosting-place,
The latest swain goes through the gate,
Ah, can I count his coming sure?

140

THE SILENT PLAYER.

AT “HAMLET,” December 30, 1878.

I meant to write of Hamlet; how he mouth'd
Or did not mouth enough, or how he seem'd
More mad than should a prince in ecstasy,
Or strangely sane: of what was Shakespeare's mind
Concerning Hamlet: Whether 'twas his will
To make him mad, or merely seeming so,
Because he dared not set such lib'ral speech
Into a sane man's mouth in times like his.
And next I meant to cavil at the dress,
The feather'd bonnet, and the silken hose;
Then laud the earnest effort made, and ask
If this were genius, and then reply
I know not wholly what. . . .

Then had I praised,
And more than praised, nor nearly praised enough,
The fair Ophelia, form and voice and face
Seeming a sweet incarnate revelation
Of the great Master's mind. Or, like a saint
Frighten'd from off some high cathedral-pane

141

By sun or moonbeam, essence of a dream,
Too fair for flesh and blood, yet shedding tears,
Real briny tears, for love of mortal man!

Thus had I meant to write; but, looking round
From where I sat in cosy cushion'd chair,
I saw, above, below, in box and stall,
A serried line of critics, with their gaze
Intent and fix'd, all “eager for the fray;”
Dealers of thunderbolts, which, ready poised,
Would fall to-morrow. Then I felt abash'd,
And half-ashamed, and murmur'd to myself,
“Wilt thou, poor poet, lift thy pigmy pen
And pass thy raw opinion on the players,
When even these may fail to read them right,
And blunder with their bombshells?”

So I turn'd
From black-browed Hamlet with his waving plume,
From golden-hair'd Ophelia and her flowers,
From guilty King and “seeming-virtuous” Queen,
From old Polonius, staunch Horatio,
Rosencrantz, Guildenstern, well-favour'd Osric,
Gravediggers, courtiers, players; I left the lot,
Lacking the nerve to tackle e'en the Ghost,
And went, forthwith, and took the lowest place

142

As critic of the least amongst them all—
A silent actor—only a sad skull,
Upheaved not even from a natural grave.
“Alas, poor Yorick!” He that play'd the part
Of that poor pate of thine play'd passing well,
And spoke, in silence, plainer than the rest!
My heart went out to him, and wonder'd whether
His freed soul watch'd the actors, Hamlet-wise,
And if in anger, or in sympathy,
Gnawing the feathers from a phantom-fan,
Or clapping kindly with his spirit-hands?
And what had been that other part he play'd,
Play'd out (how long ago?) as king or clown,
Soldier or scholar, honest man or knave?
Whether from desecrated marble urn,
Or from the quicklime of a felon's grave,
These bones were gather'd that played here tonight?

There must be cruel choice of dead men's bones
Whilst rulers make new wars, and martyr'd saints',
Whilst men, misnamed of peace, arise, and fan
The smould'ring fires betwixt opposing creeds,
Thinking to do God service.

So, poor skull,

143

It may be that thou hast roll'd hitherward
(Bereft of aureole or warrior's helm)
From the sad cell of some sweet Magdalen,
Or from the furrows of a tented field
Whereon thou wert a victor! Who can say?
But, be thou that which little Peterkin
Found, “smooth and round,” “beside the rivulet,”
A waif from Blenheim, or some virgin's skull
Filch'd from the far-famed thousands at Cologne,
Thou'st play'd thy part right well, and told tonight
An old, old story!

Moralising thus,
I don my cloak, and clasp a careless arm,
Then drive to supper. . . .

144

DIVIDED.

They did not quarrel; but betwixt them came
Combining circumstances, urging on
Towards the final ending of their loves.
Could they have smote and stung with bitter words,
Then sued for pardon on a blotted page,
And met, and kiss'd, and dried their mutual tears,
This had not been. But every day the breach
Widen'd without their knowledge. Time went by,
And led their footsteps into devious paths,
Each one approving, nay, with waving hand
Praying God-speed the other, since both roads
Seem'd fair, and led away from sordid things,
And each one urged the other on to fame.
He was a very Cæsar for ambition;
And she, a simple singer in the woods,
Athirst for Nature—ever needing her
To crown a holiday, and sanctify
As with a mother's blessing, idle hours.
A bramble-blossom trailing in the way
Seem'd more to her than all his talk of Courts

145

And Kings and Constitutions; but his aims
Rose far above the soaring of the lark,
That leaves the peeping daisy out of sight.
The State required him, and he could not stay
Loit'ring and ling'ring in the “primrose path
Of dalliance;” and so it came to pass
These two, that once were one, are two again.
And she is lone in spirit, having known
A sweeter thing than pipe of nightingale
Or scent of hawthorn, and yet loving these
And clinging to them still, though desolate,
And, like the lady of the “Lord of Burleigh,”
Lacking the “Landscape-painter” in her life.
Thus, all her songs are sad—of wither'd leaves,
And blighted hopes, and echoes of the past,
And early death; and yet she cannot die,
But lives and sings, as he, too, lives and climbs,
Far from the sight of waving meadow-grass,
And so they walk divided.

Were it well
So soon to sever such a tender tie,
With never a reproach and none to blame,
And not one tear? With friendly greetings now
At careless meetings, cold and unforeseen,
As though no better days had ever dawn'd;

146

And all—for what? . . .

Nay, be it for the best!
Who knows, if we love well till we regret
And sigh, in sadness, for a good thing gone?
Thus, all may work to wisdom.

Wherefore, wake
With wind-strewn cuckoo-bloom and daffodil,
Fond foolish love of spring-tide and hot youth
And die when these have perish'd! . . .

147

ANOTHER SPRING.

They are here again, with their mocking notes,
Cuckoo, and linnet, and nightingale—
“Welcome to Spring!” from a thousand throats
That trill and quaver through wood and vale.
Yet there, on his bed, lies the dead man, pale,
And these blossoming limes, in their holiday coats,
Wave over a kingdom of husk and shell,
Of broken branch and of mouldering leaf.
But the young leaves live; so I say, “It is well,—
It is well with an old and a new belief;
There is Death beneath us, and Life above,
And betwixt the two, for a transient spell,
Ere the March-strewn seed shall be bound in the sheaf,
There is lent us a little time to love.”

148

THE PEAR-TREE.

A little garden once I knew
But just outside the city's brawl,
Wherein a twisted pear-tree grew
Above a grey old-fashion'd wall;

And in those days I used to wait
And hunger for a coming tread,
And fifty times would seek the gate
Before the length'ning shadows spread.

And then, against the evening sky,
That tufted pear-tree, in the gloom,
I liken'd to a Cherokee,
With tomahawk and waving plume.

And when his brow seem'd bland and kind,
I said, “I have not long to wait;”
Then once more drew aside the blind,
Or sought again the garden-gate.

149

But if his brow was blurr'd with storm,
And wildly waved his floating feather,
And all the outline of his form
Was rack'd and rent with angry weather,—

I took it for a luckless sign,
Fearing some evil might arise,
And watch'd the gath'ring planets shine
With aching heart and anxious eyes.

“He will be late,” I used to say,—
“Nay, will he even come at all?”
Seeing the Indian's figure sway
Above the old grey garden-wall.

Ah, foolish fancies, past and dead!
Ah, little garden, green and gay!
Who listens now for coming tread,
Or threads your narrow paths to-day?

Once have I pass'd your lichen'd wall
Whereon the tangled creepers climb,
And peep'd within the gate, but all
Seemed alter'd by the touch of Time.

150

And, looking up to where, of yore,
There waved the well-known wishing-tree,
My heart grew doubly sad—it bore
No likeness to a Cherokee!

151

“DOLCE FAR NIENTE.”

. . . So now, my love, what matter when we die,
And leave this world of sorrow-faring men,
Wielders of sword, and drivers of the pen,
Who fret, and fume, and strive, I know not why,
Since all my life is turn'd to holiday!

Here will I rest me, lying in the shade,
And smile to see men toiling in the sun,
The end achieved, the promised guerdon won,
Deep drinking of the draught for which I pray'd,
Whilst all the world seems turn'd to holiday.

Death would be pleasant so, should no sharp pain
Curdle the blood or agonise the mind,
So, hearts united, and so, arms entwined,
We two could fade out from this mortal train
Who find scant space for making holiday.

152

You say 'tis no man's mission to lie so,
Watching the sunlight sifting through green boughs;
You tell of men who breathed heroic vows,
Smote, or were smitten, and were glad to go,
And knew no time for love or holiday.

“Up and away!” you say, “from scenes like these,
Where languid nights succeed the listless days,
Seek out some poor man's good, some good man's praise;
Nor lie, like Samson, at Delilah's knees,
Making all life to seem like holiday.”

Ah! this from thee, Delilah, this from thee!
Who taught the shepherd to forsake his flocks?
Who stole his heart, and shear'd away his locks?
No good man now shall speak good word of me,
So let all life seem love and holiday!

153

AT MIDNIGHT.

A shadow stands outside my door,
Through all the noontide din;
But when the revels of day are o'er
I rise and let it in.

The voices are hush'd, and the lights are dead,
When I open the doorway wide,
And the curtains are drawn around the bed
Where you sleep by my side.

Then I talk to my guest in accents low,
And I live the old life anew
With the ghost of a man, dead long ago,
Whom I loved far better than you!

154

IN AN IRISH CHURCHYARD.

Amongst these graves where good men lie,
Mute, ozier-bound, in dreamless sleep,
Above whose heads the browsing sheep
And careless painted butterfly
Pasture and sport in summer grass,

Brown as the blasted Dead Sea fruit,
As bann'd to barrenness and dearth,
Behold yon patch of rusty earth,
Whereon no turf has taken root,
No summer shadows flit and pass;

Whilst here, a garden neat and trim,
All fuchsia-fringed and pansy-starr'd,
With gilded gateways lock'd and barr'd,
And double-daisies for a rim
Surrounds a tomb, with foot and head

155

Guarded by angel-forms that weep
In marble from Carrara's mines,
Whilst Fame a laurel chaplet twines,
And golden letters, graven deep,
Blazon the honours of the dead.

He died as clarions smote the air
To tell of vict'ry and renown;
They brought him to his native town,
Near which the lands and lordships were
That owed him fealty in the west.

She died in those despairing days,
Bow'd down by all the griefs she had,
And only that they deem'd her mad,
They buried her by no cross-ways,
And drove no stake into her breast.

She sleeps beneath yon rusty peat,
Withered as by avenging fires;
Amongst the noblest of his sires
He lies with angels at his feet,
And golden gates to keep secure.

156

And 'twixt the two, all ozier-bound,
Half melted into mother earth,
Scarce two feet long, by one in girth,
A little nameless baby-mound
Pleads for the sins of rich and poor.

157

THE POET.

The poet was not born to teach
A moral lesson to mankind;
He hath no solemn creed to preach,
But, fancy-free and unconfined,
By sunlit glade or grey sea-beach
His lyre wakes to the shifting wind.

And if he be a minstrel true,
Its ev'ry sound should charm your ears,
Of ev'ry cloud the changing hue
Should bear some fruit in smiles or tears,
And all his songs should waft to you
An echo of some voice he hears.

Thus, true to Nature and to Art,
He flings his music on the gale;
And even should its tones impart
But gall and bitterness, and fail
To ease his own o'erburden'd heart,
And prove to yours of no avail,

158

From love of song alone he sings,
And as his mood is foul or fair
His voice in tune or discord rings,
No matter, so the voice be there,
And should his lyre e'en snap its strings
He will not know, he will not care!

159

“TILL ALL THINGS FADE.”

A thousand lilies blossom, unaware,
Here, where the earth seems chill with buried love,
And in the flow'ry arbutus the dove
Still calls her truant mate, who lingers yet,
As though the world were always sweet and fair,
And you and I had nothing to regret
And hope for against hope, and think upon
Till all things fade!

And so your lips may often wear a smile,
And so my heart may leap to music still;
Your soul may fire, and all your being thrill,
And all your manhood lift itself on high
In din of battle, or in sacred aisle;
Yet under all must lurk one memory,
The grieving for a good time that is gone,
Till all things fade!

160

AT TWILIGHT.

The day is ended—this autumn day,
So like to the days that have ended before;
The knock of a friend, maybe at the door,
Who gives his greeting, and says his say,
And then goes his way.

The posts are all in, and the news all read—
There is fighting abroad, and carping here—
We have heaved a sigh, and smother'd a tear,
As we pored o'er the printed names of the dead
Ere the daylight fled.

The flocks are in fold, and the steeds in stall,
And the moon is as red as a rising sun;
Whilst in twos and threes, or one by one,
The ploughmen (thinking of nothing at all)
Pass under the wall.

161

I would I could think of as little as they,
As they whistle along in their holland smocks!
Bound for the home where the cradle rocks,
And the good-wife spreads them their suppertray
At close of the day.

But on us, who wonder and question and think,
Crowd weightier fancies, as daylight sets,
Hungers and thirstings and vain regrets
That may not be sated with meat and with drink,
Or with poet's ink.

Fancies that never may stalk in the light—
Hovering phantoms of profitless hours,
Lingering odours of withering flowers,
Wavings of wings that have taken their flight—
These come with the night.

Yet whilst I can look in a true friend's face,
And thrill to the touch of a loving hand,
I suffer no fear, but can take my stand
And hold myself ready to lie in my place
At the end of the race.

162

To the length of our days this day adds one
(One link the more as the chain grows long);
Let us warm it with kisses and wreath it with song,
And mingle together our sands, as they run
With the days that are done.