 | Relicta |  |
1
TO A FRIEND
The Bard who well deserves success,
Yet honestly obtains it,
Is apt to treat with tenderness
The merit that explains it:
Yet honestly obtains it,
Is apt to treat with tenderness
The merit that explains it:
He feels, on his exalted seat,
Like some smart hansom cabby,
Who flashes through a crowded street
'Mid crawlers old and shabby.
Like some smart hansom cabby,
Who flashes through a crowded street
'Mid crawlers old and shabby.
He has no time to stop and smile
On those who lag behind him,
Nor is it ever worth his while
To go where they might find him:
On those who lag behind him,
Nor is it ever worth his while
To go where they might find him:
His cab is never on the rank:
Through week days and through Sundays
'Tis always driving to the Bank,
Or else to Mrs. Grundy's.
Through week days and through Sundays
'Tis always driving to the Bank,
Or else to Mrs. Grundy's.
Small blame to him; for merit's rare,
And its success is rarer;
His is the hansom, his the fare;
So nothing could be fairer!
And its success is rarer;
His is the hansom, his the fare;
So nothing could be fairer!
Yet there are some successful bards
Who like to think in what way
They can divide their just rewards
With bards as poor as Otway.
Who like to think in what way
They can divide their just rewards
With bards as poor as Otway.
2
These don't refuse to be the guest
Of undistinguish'd poets,
Who have no hope within the breast
To stimulate their slow wits;
Of undistinguish'd poets,
Who have no hope within the breast
To stimulate their slow wits;
These give a drink of something nice
To every thirsty gaper,
Whose poems only fetch the price
Of just so much waste paper;
To every thirsty gaper,
Whose poems only fetch the price
Of just so much waste paper;
These speak their minds: “Why, bless your heart!
Old man, e'en do as we did,
And polish up your works of art
As if you had succeeded.
Old man, e'en do as we did,
And polish up your works of art
As if you had succeeded.
“Thus shall you keep your self-respect,
And not (which is a blessing)
Be too much weaken'd by neglect
To give your foes a dressing
And not (which is a blessing)
Be too much weaken'd by neglect
To give your foes a dressing
“Ah then,” says Bavius with a sigh
“Since you are pleased to say so
I'll sing, though sadly, till I die
Like poor Ovidius Naso
“Since you are pleased to say so
I'll sing, though sadly, till I die
Like poor Ovidius Naso
3
4
5
PASTRANA
'Twas a big black ape from over the sea,
And she sat on a branch of a walnut tree,
And grinn'd and sputter'd and gazed at me
As I stood on the grass below:
She sputter'd and grinn'd in a fearsome way,
And put out her tongue, which was long and grey,
And it hiss'd and curl'd and seem'd to say
“Why do you stare at me so?”
And she sat on a branch of a walnut tree,
And grinn'd and sputter'd and gazed at me
As I stood on the grass below:
She sputter'd and grinn'd in a fearsome way,
And put out her tongue, which was long and grey,
And it hiss'd and curl'd and seem'd to say
“Why do you stare at me so?”
Who could help staring? I, at least,
Had never set eyes on so strange a beast—
Such a monstrous birth of the teeming East,
Such an awkward ugly breed:
She had large red ears and a bright blue snout,
And her hairy limbs were firm and stout:
Yet still as I look'd I began to doubt
If she were an ape indeed.
Had never set eyes on so strange a beast—
Such a monstrous birth of the teeming East,
Such an awkward ugly breed:
She had large red ears and a bright blue snout,
And her hairy limbs were firm and stout:
Yet still as I look'd I began to doubt
If she were an ape indeed.
Her ears were pointed, her snout was long;
Her yellow fangs were sharp and strong;
Her eyes—but surely I must be wrong,
For I certainly thought I saw
A singular look in those fierce brown eyes:
The look of a creature in disguise;
A look that gave me a strange surmise
And a thrill of shuddering awe.
Her yellow fangs were sharp and strong;
Her eyes—but surely I must be wrong,
For I certainly thought I saw
A singular look in those fierce brown eyes:
The look of a creature in disguise;
A look that gave me a strange surmise
And a thrill of shuddering awe.
6
But the ape still sat on that walnut bough;
And she swung to and fro, I scarce knew how,
First up in the tree, and then down below,
In a languid leisurely dance;
And she pluck'd the green fruit with her finger'd paws
And crush'd it whole in her savage jaws,
And look'd at me, as if for applause,
With a keen enquiring glance;
And she swung to and fro, I scarce knew how,
First up in the tree, and then down below,
In a languid leisurely dance;
And she pluck'd the green fruit with her finger'd paws
And crush'd it whole in her savage jaws,
And look'd at me, as if for applause,
With a keen enquiring glance;
And she turn'd her head from side to side
With a satisfied air and a flutter of pride,
And gazed at herself, and fondly eyed
Her steel-bright collar and chain:
She seem'd as blithe as a bride full-drest,
While the strong cold steel, in its slight unrest,
Did jingle and gleam on her broad black breast
And under her shaggy mane.
With a satisfied air and a flutter of pride,
And gazed at herself, and fondly eyed
Her steel-bright collar and chain:
She seem'd as blithe as a bride full-drest,
While the strong cold steel, in its slight unrest,
Did jingle and gleam on her broad black breast
And under her shaggy mane.
But I must confess I was glad to see
That her chain was made fast to the walnut tree;
So she could not manage to get at me,
Were she ever so much inclined;
For I did not like, I scarce knew why,
That singular look in her bright brown eye;
It meant too much and it reach'd too high
To come of an apelike kind.
That her chain was made fast to the walnut tree;
So she could not manage to get at me,
Were she ever so much inclined;
For I did not like, I scarce knew why,
That singular look in her bright brown eye;
It meant too much and it reach'd too high
To come of an apelike kind.
Perhaps she guess'd my thoughts and fears;
For she suddenly prick'd her large red ears,
And grinn'd with the grin of one who sneers,
And lifted her long rough arm,
And flung it about with a whirr and a wheel,
And scratch'd herself from head to heel
With a strength and vigour that made me feel
What power she had to harm.
For she suddenly prick'd her large red ears,
And grinn'd with the grin of one who sneers,
And lifted her long rough arm,
And flung it about with a whirr and a wheel,
And scratch'd herself from head to heel
With a strength and vigour that made me feel
What power she had to harm.
7
There are very good reasons, we all know well,
Why an ape should claw its hairy fell;
But it seem'd to me I could surely tell,
By the grin on her hideous face,
That she did it to deepen my disgust,
And to make me think that she might and must
Be nothing higher nor more august
Than a brute of the simious race.
Why an ape should claw its hairy fell;
But it seem'd to me I could surely tell,
By the grin on her hideous face,
That she did it to deepen my disgust,
And to make me think that she might and must
Be nothing higher nor more august
Than a brute of the simious race.
And, lest that proof should happen to fail,
She gave a blow like the blow of a flail
With the switchlike length of her muscular tail
To the branch whereon she sat:
The tail curl'd round it and gripp'd it tight:
And she flung herself off with all her might
And hung head downward, swinging as light
As a human acrobat.
She gave a blow like the blow of a flail
With the switchlike length of her muscular tail
To the branch whereon she sat:
The tail curl'd round it and gripp'd it tight:
And she flung herself off with all her might
And hung head downward, swinging as light
As a human acrobat.
So easily sway'd she, so easily swung,
You could see she was healthy and lively and young;
And she toss'd up her head, and her long grey tongue
Shot out, as it did before;
And she caught the bough with her brisk forepaws,
And loosed her tail and tighten'd her claws,
And swung herself up, with her chain in her jaws,
And sat in her place once more.
You could see she was healthy and lively and young;
And she toss'd up her head, and her long grey tongue
Shot out, as it did before;
And she caught the bough with her brisk forepaws,
And loosed her tail and tighten'd her claws,
And swung herself up, with her chain in her jaws,
And sat in her place once more.
Oh then, what masterful airs she took!
She gnaw'd her chain with an elfish look,
Till the long links dripp'd and foam'd and shook,
Like the curb of a bridle-rein.
On either side of her rugged lips:
And I shudder'd and thrill'd to my finger tips,
When I saw she had bent and and flatten'd to strips
A piece of the massive chain.
She gnaw'd her chain with an elfish look,
Till the long links dripp'd and foam'd and shook,
Like the curb of a bridle-rein.
On either side of her rugged lips:
And I shudder'd and thrill'd to my finger tips,
When I saw she had bent and and flatten'd to strips
A piece of the massive chain.
8
Perhaps she would get at me, after all!
If the links should break, I might well feel small,
Young as I was, and strong and tall,
And blest with a human shape,
To see myself foil'd in that lonely place
By a desperate brute with a monstrous face,
And hugg'd to death in the foul embrace
Of a loathly angry ape.
If the links should break, I might well feel small,
Young as I was, and strong and tall,
And blest with a human shape,
To see myself foil'd in that lonely place
By a desperate brute with a monstrous face,
And hugg'd to death in the foul embrace
Of a loathly angry ape.
For the ape was nearly as tall as a man;
So it seem'd to me the safest plan
To leave her at once, ere her wrath began
To spread from her glowing eyes
To the long sharp nails of her powerful hands;
For the Lex Talionis and its commands
Are just what the creature understands
And just what her passions prize.
So it seem'd to me the safest plan
To leave her at once, ere her wrath began
To spread from her glowing eyes
To the long sharp nails of her powerful hands;
For the Lex Talionis and its commands
Are just what the creature understands
And just what her passions prize.
But what had I done to rouse her wrath?
I had simply stepp'd from the garden path
On to the soft sweet aftermath
Of the lawnlike woodland green,
And had stood, like a rustic clown, agape
To study and stare at the fearful shape
Of the most uncouth outlandish ape
That ever mine eyes had seen.
I had simply stepp'd from the garden path
On to the soft sweet aftermath
Of the lawnlike woodland green,
And had stood, like a rustic clown, agape
To study and stare at the fearful shape
Of the most uncouth outlandish ape
That ever mine eyes had seen.
Ah, perhaps that was the very thing!
She had never been used to communing
With man, who holds himself as king
Of the animals great and small:
She did not like my scrutiny;
And she meant to know the reason why
A human mortal such as I
Should trouble her state at all.
She had never been used to communing
With man, who holds himself as king
Of the animals great and small:
She did not like my scrutiny;
And she meant to know the reason why
A human mortal such as I
Should trouble her state at all.
9
That was the reason I gave to myself
For the conduct strange of this angry elf.
As I put my doubts and fears on the shelf
And walk'd to my sumptuous inn,
Where I went upstairs and read and wrote.
And then came down to the table d'hôte
With a fresh white rose on my spotless coat.
And an appetite within.
For the conduct strange of this angry elf.
As I put my doubts and fears on the shelf
And walk'd to my sumptuous inn,
Where I went upstairs and read and wrote.
And then came down to the table d'hôte
With a fresh white rose on my spotless coat.
And an appetite within.
Fifty people were seated there,
Taking their pleasure with solemn air;
Gentles and simples, ladies fair,
And some not fair though fine:
And all of them ate and drank with a will:
For each felt bound to take his fill.
As the long procession of dishes still
Invited them all to dine.
Taking their pleasure with solemn air;
Gentles and simples, ladies fair,
And some not fair though fine:
And all of them ate and drank with a will:
For each felt bound to take his fill.
As the long procession of dishes still
Invited them all to dine.
None of the fifty cared for me—
Nor for each other, that I could see:
Each of them felt exceeding free
To live for dinner alone;
And I too only look'd at my plate,
And thank'd my stars I was not too late
For that central portion of good white skate
Which I specially made my own.
Nor for each other, that I could see:
Each of them felt exceeding free
To live for dinner alone;
And I too only look'd at my plate,
And thank'd my stars I was not too late
For that central portion of good white skate
Which I specially made my own.
But at last, we were weary of knives and forks,
And cloy'd with the popping of Rhinewine corks;
And the Oberkellner and all his works
Were seen with a languid eye;
We raised our heads, and look'd around
To see what guests mere Chance had found
To people our happy feeding ground
With a various company,
And cloy'd with the popping of Rhinewine corks;
And the Oberkellner and all his works
Were seen with a languid eye;
We raised our heads, and look'd around
To see what guests mere Chance had found
To people our happy feeding ground
With a various company,
10
Ah, by the powers, a singular sight!
What is that lady opposite,
Sitting alone, with her back to the light,
Who has such wonderful hair?
She is comely and young? I do not know,
For her face shows dark in the evening glow;
But I wonder why she looks at me so,
And with such an elfish stare!
What is that lady opposite,
Sitting alone, with her back to the light,
Who has such wonderful hair?
She is comely and young? I do not know,
For her face shows dark in the evening glow;
But I wonder why she looks at me so,
And with such an elfish stare!
Sure, I remember those bright brown eyes?
And the self-same look that in them lies
I have seen already, with strange surprise,
This very afternoon;
Not in the face of a woman like this,
Who has human features, and lips to kiss.
But in one who can only splutter and hiss—
In the eyes of a grim baboon!
And the self-same look that in them lies
I have seen already, with strange surprise,
This very afternoon;
Not in the face of a woman like this,
Who has human features, and lips to kiss.
But in one who can only splutter and hiss—
In the eyes of a grim baboon!
And what is that white metallic thing
That shines on her throat, like the gleam of a ring
Now sparkling out now vanishing
As her shaggy tresses move?
I have had but a pint of Heidenseck—
Yet I think of the collar and chain that deck
The broad black bosom and hairy neck
Of that monster in the grove!
That shines on her throat, like the gleam of a ring
Now sparkling out now vanishing
As her shaggy tresses move?
I have had but a pint of Heidenseck—
Yet I think of the collar and chain that deck
The broad black bosom and hairy neck
Of that monster in the grove!
Aye, and they rattle, indeed they do!
I look'd hurriedly round—it was all too true
That the folk were gone, save only two,
That silent dame, and I:
But a third appear'd—was there anything wrong?
For the Oberkellner tall and strong
On the parqueted floor came gliding along
With an air of mystery.
I look'd hurriedly round—it was all too true
That the folk were gone, save only two,
That silent dame, and I:
But a third appear'd—was there anything wrong?
For the Oberkellner tall and strong
On the parqueted floor came gliding along
With an air of mystery.
11
His face was pale, as if from fear;
And he stepp'd so softly, it seem'd quite clear
That the lady was not to see or hear
Whatever he had in charge:
Perhaps he had some sad news to say?
Perhaps her mind had given way,
And it was not safe to leave her all day
Untended and at large?
And he stepp'd so softly, it seem'd quite clear
That the lady was not to see or hear
Whatever he had in charge:
Perhaps he had some sad news to say?
Perhaps her mind had given way,
And it was not safe to leave her all day
Untended and at large?
Whatever it were, with an anxious mind
He reach'd her seat, and stood behind;
While she, still gazing at me, seem'd blind
And deaf to all he did:
He raised his hands, and suddenly shed
Over her shoulders and over her head
A thick grey web, like a shroud for the dead;
And she sat there, closely hid.
He reach'd her seat, and stood behind;
While she, still gazing at me, seem'd blind
And deaf to all he did:
He raised his hands, and suddenly shed
Over her shoulders and over her head
A thick grey web, like a shroud for the dead;
And she sat there, closely hid.
She would have sprung to her feet in a trice—
She was no meek victim, bought with a price,
Ready and willing for sacrifice—
She would neither yield nor spare.
But the Oberkellner knew his part;
His grasp was firm, and he had no heart;
He pinion'd her arms, with accurate art,
To the back of her stout broad chair.
She was no meek victim, bought with a price,
Ready and willing for sacrifice—
She would neither yield nor spare.
But the Oberkellner knew his part;
His grasp was firm, and he had no heart;
He pinion'd her arms, with accurate art,
To the back of her stout broad chair.
What did she do, in that shrouding sheath?
She tried to tear the web with her teeth—
I could see them snatch it from underneath—
And she strove to free her arms;
Then she raised her voice—and I must confess
It was not a voice to soothe and bless,
Nor such an one as is more or less
The best of a woman's charms.
She tried to tear the web with her teeth—
I could see them snatch it from underneath—
And she strove to free her arms;
Then she raised her voice—and I must confess
It was not a voice to soothe and bless,
Nor such an one as is more or less
The best of a woman's charms.
12
No, 'twas a scream and a roar and a growl;
More like a cry of beasts that howl
Than the shriek of a startled human soul;
And it thrill'd me through and through;
For I thought, If she does contrive to get free,
She will fly at the Oberkellner and me;
And though I am nearly as strong as he,
She may prove a match for two!
More like a cry of beasts that howl
Than the shriek of a startled human soul;
And it thrill'd me through and through;
For I thought, If she does contrive to get free,
She will fly at the Oberkellner and me;
And though I am nearly as strong as he,
She may prove a match for two!
But Fritz the waiter had heard that sound;
And he straight rush'd in with a spring and a bound,
And lifted my lady off the ground
With the aid of his artful chief;
She might roar and howl or scream and scold,
But he and the Oberkellner bold
Stuck to her chair, and kept fast hold,
To my very great relief.
And he straight rush'd in with a spring and a bound,
And lifted my lady off the ground
With the aid of his artful chief;
She might roar and howl or scream and scold,
But he and the Oberkellner bold
Stuck to her chair, and kept fast hold,
To my very great relief.
As they carried her off, a cold damp sweat
Seized me all over; and yet, and yet,
I order'd my coffee and cigarette
As usual, in the hall;
And I did not even ask of Fritz
Whether the lady were subject to fits,
Or had gone quite mad and out of her wits:
I ask'd him nothing at all.
Seized me all over; and yet, and yet,
I order'd my coffee and cigarette
As usual, in the hall;
And I did not even ask of Fritz
Whether the lady were subject to fits,
Or had gone quite mad and out of her wits:
I ask'd him nothing at all.
For in fact I dreaded to hear her tale;
That very word made me turn quite pale,
When I call'd to mind her long wild wail
Of anger and despair;
And my thoughts went back to the walnut tree,
And the creature who sat there and look'd at me
So fiercely, strangely, eagerly,
From under her shaggy hair.
That very word made me turn quite pale,
When I call'd to mind her long wild wail
Of anger and despair;
And my thoughts went back to the walnut tree,
And the creature who sat there and look'd at me
So fiercely, strangely, eagerly,
From under her shaggy hair.
13
The very next morning, I went away;
And I heard the Oberkellner say
(He had taken his tip, and wish'd me Good-day,
And he thought I could not hear)
I heard him say to that stern old Klaus,
Who keeps the keys of the garden-house,
“Lassen Sie es nicht gehen hinaus—
Das schlechte schwarze Thier!”
And I heard the Oberkellner say
(He had taken his tip, and wish'd me Good-day,
And he thought I could not hear)
I heard him say to that stern old Klaus,
Who keeps the keys of the garden-house,
“Lassen Sie es nicht gehen hinaus—
Das schlechte schwarze Thier!”
14
15
ALITER VISUM
16
17
HAVELOCK
January 7, 1858
Now cursed be this day that has brought us the tidings,
And cursed be the Shadow that strides to our shore!
We have mourned and wept for our many backslidings.
But how can we bear to be stricken so sore?
And cursed be the Shadow that strides to our shore!
We have mourned and wept for our many backslidings.
But how can we bear to be stricken so sore?
None, none may illumine the night of our sorrow,
Nor say how the dream of our sufferings began—
We know not ourselves, till we wake on the morrow,
How much we have lost in the loss of a MAN.
Nor say how the dream of our sufferings began—
We know not ourselves, till we wake on the morrow,
How much we have lost in the loss of a MAN.
Already we grieved for a friend or a brother
Each month of the year that is ceasing to be:
Yet, ere we can hail the white dawn of another,
We still must be mourning—and mourning for thee!
Each month of the year that is ceasing to be:
Yet, ere we can hail the white dawn of another,
We still must be mourning—and mourning for thee!
For thee, whom we loved with such utter devotion
As only the hearts of the rescued may know:
Whose name, in a tumult of grateful emotion,
First brought us again from the deeps of our woe:
As only the hearts of the rescued may know:
Whose name, in a tumult of grateful emotion,
First brought us again from the deeps of our woe:
The months of whose warfare were rich with a glory
That warriors of old would have look'd for in vain:
The brief sunny glow of whose chivalrous story
No envy could darken, no malice could stain.
That warriors of old would have look'd for in vain:
The brief sunny glow of whose chivalrous story
No envy could darken, no malice could stain.
18
Ah! we should have died, if our dying could save thee,
Who linger unarm'd and untroubled at home;
That others at least might have gather'd to wave thee
Such welcome as speaks of the raptures to come.
Who linger unarm'd and untroubled at home;
That others at least might have gather'd to wave thee
Such welcome as speaks of the raptures to come.
Oh, hadst thou but lived for thy country to know thee—
For us to have seen thee, who yearn'd for thee so—
To have heard from our lips of the debt that we owe thee,
And tasted the blessing we long'd to bestow!
For us to have seen thee, who yearn'd for thee so—
To have heard from our lips of the debt that we owe thee,
And tasted the blessing we long'd to bestow!
But now, in our isle we may never behold thee—
The smiles of the tender, the shouts of the brave,
The garment of praise that we wove to enfold thee,
Are offer'd in vain to thy desolate grave!
The smiles of the tender, the shouts of the brave,
The garment of praise that we wove to enfold thee,
Are offer'd in vain to thy desolate grave!
For thou hast been call'd in the midst of thy duty,
And snatch'd from our arms in thy moment of fame:
Thy grey hairs have gone in their autumn of beauty,
And nothing is left but the might of thy name:
And snatch'd from our arms in thy moment of fame:
Thy grey hairs have gone in their autumn of beauty,
And nothing is left but the might of thy name:
While some, with their faith and their honour at zero,
Were wrangling, and dreading to hold thee too dear:
Till the life of a saint and the deeds of a hero
Are cheapen'd and clipp'd to one thousand a year:
Were wrangling, and dreading to hold thee too dear:
Till the life of a saint and the deeds of a hero
Are cheapen'd and clipp'd to one thousand a year:
What matter? the heart of the nation is on thee
The work thou hast left it is ours to fulfil;
The crown of our grief sits for ever upon thee,
And the land thou hast loved shall watch over thee still:
The work thou hast left it is ours to fulfil;
The crown of our grief sits for ever upon thee,
And the land thou hast loved shall watch over thee still:
Yea. whatever the clime where an Englishman ranges,
Where valour is loved and where virtue is known—
From the steppes of the North to thine own bloody Ganges,
The race of thy fathers shall boast thee her own.
Where valour is loved and where virtue is known—
From the steppes of the North to thine own bloody Ganges,
The race of thy fathers shall boast thee her own.
19
And though thou art gone where we cannot reward thee,
And spoil'd of the homage we thirsted to pay,
There are better than we, who shall guerdon and guard thee
Where sorrow and sighing have vanish'd away:
And spoil'd of the homage we thirsted to pay,
There are better than we, who shall guerdon and guard thee
Where sorrow and sighing have vanish'd away:
And the martyrs who went to that heaven before thee
Shall bring thee the garb thou art worthy to wear,
And the joy of the angels make melody o'er thee—
For the God thou hast honour'd shall honour thee there.
Shall bring thee the garb thou art worthy to wear,
And the joy of the angels make melody o'er thee—
For the God thou hast honour'd shall honour thee there.
20
SAN JACINTO
England in 1861
Land of the pilgrim fathers, far refuge of the free,
With what forgiving tenderness our hearts have beat for thee!
The ancient feuds were buried, and the battle-fields o'ergrown,
And thy heroes to our history were as precious as our own.
With what forgiving tenderness our hearts have beat for thee!
The ancient feuds were buried, and the battle-fields o'ergrown,
And thy heroes to our history were as precious as our own.
Thy sons and ours have walk'd abreast as kinsfolk and as friends,
As men who seek the same high goal, and choose the same pure ends:
Thy sons and ours, we thought, should teach the world to hold in awe
The cloudless face of liberty, the level gaze of law.
As men who seek the same high goal, and choose the same pure ends:
Thy sons and ours, we thought, should teach the world to hold in awe
The cloudless face of liberty, the level gaze of law.
And is the story ended, and is the hope obscured,
Ere yet a hundred years the work of freedom has endured?
Has all that should have gone to make, been fashion'd but to mar—
Our mother-speech to spend in wrath, our kindred blood in war?
Ere yet a hundred years the work of freedom has endured?
Has all that should have gone to make, been fashion'd but to mar—
Our mother-speech to spend in wrath, our kindred blood in war?
Where are thy poets, hapless land, thy statesmen and thy seers,
With whom we took sweet converse in other fairer years?
Their ways were ways of kindliness, their words were words of peace—
Have they no voice to guide thee now, and bid thy tempters cease?
With whom we took sweet converse in other fairer years?
Their ways were ways of kindliness, their words were words of peace—
Have they no voice to guide thee now, and bid thy tempters cease?
Alas! through all that seething mob the sense of right decays,
The modest, manly reverence that dares and yet obeys:
Their wisest may not govern, and their ablest may not rule,
But the crown is to the boaster and the garland to the fool.
The modest, manly reverence that dares and yet obeys:
Their wisest may not govern, and their ablest may not rule,
But the crown is to the boaster and the garland to the fool.
21
We who have walk'd with wisdom and have grown from less to more
In calm well-order'd progress, looking backward and before,
We held our hands in silence, and suffer'd all too long,
As men may do that have no fear, because their faith is strong:
In calm well-order'd progress, looking backward and before,
We held our hands in silence, and suffer'd all too long,
As men may do that have no fear, because their faith is strong:
But he who soils our country's flag and mocks our country's fame
Though he were twice a brother, should pay us for the shame:
The memory of our old renown cries loud o'er land and sea—
Heroic as our past has been, our present still shall be.
Though he were twice a brother, should pay us for the shame:
The memory of our old renown cries loud o'er land and sea—
Heroic as our past has been, our present still shall be.
Therefore, in sorrow, but in strength, among her quiet lands,
Slow risen from her stately ease, Old England sternly stands:
No heart but answers to her call, no arm but waves a sign,
From the serried ranks of London to the seamen of the Tyne.
Slow risen from her stately ease, Old England sternly stands:
No heart but answers to her call, no arm but waves a sign,
From the serried ranks of London to the seamen of the Tyne.
As one who smites a recreant son, or shuns a faithless wife,
Who holds by duty more than love, by honour more than life,
So leans she on her shining sword in mood resolved and grave,
And waits to clasp the peaceful hand, or grip the angry glaive.
Who holds by duty more than love, by honour more than life,
So leans she on her shining sword in mood resolved and grave,
And waits to clasp the peaceful hand, or grip the angry glaive.
God grant her stroke be short and sharp, if once that sword is shown—
A stroke to spare the guiltless and to cleave the scorner down!
And God defend that war should end the love that still must flow
From the mother to the children, from our England to her foe!
A stroke to spare the guiltless and to cleave the scorner down!
And God defend that war should end the love that still must flow
From the mother to the children, from our England to her foe!
22
SIC ITUR AD INFEROS
England in 1909
Quiet, and Rest, and Peace—Ah, where shall we go to attain them?
Not to this world of ours, curst with a spirit of change;
Reckless and rabid and rude, still struggling and hurrying onward;
Only intent to destroy all that is tranquil and pure.
Reverence, service, love; the virtue of modest obedience,
Winning its way by thrift, anxious and eager to work;
These, the beginnings of all that a free and capable nation
Claims as its own by right, fosters and fans into life—
These are already destroy'd; the Parliament men have destroy'd them,
Nor shall the cries of the poor ever revive them again.
For we are come to a time when fools make laws for the wise men,
Setting them foully at naught, stripping their wisdom of power;
Which can be easily done, for the fools are counted by millions,
While, if a wise man rule, that is a wonder indeed.
Not to this world of ours, curst with a spirit of change;
Reckless and rabid and rude, still struggling and hurrying onward;
Only intent to destroy all that is tranquil and pure.
Reverence, service, love; the virtue of modest obedience,
Winning its way by thrift, anxious and eager to work;
These, the beginnings of all that a free and capable nation
Claims as its own by right, fosters and fans into life—
These are already destroy'd; the Parliament men have destroy'd them,
Nor shall the cries of the poor ever revive them again.
For we are come to a time when fools make laws for the wise men,
Setting them foully at naught, stripping their wisdom of power;
Which can be easily done, for the fools are counted by millions,
While, if a wise man rule, that is a wonder indeed.
Who but a fool would exact that none shall be bred to their callings
Till they are grown too old either to hear or obey;
Till they have learnt to despise the simple toil of their parents,
Caring no more for them, occupied only with self?—
Now, when 'tis best for a lad to labour and live in the country,
Doing the duties he knows, helping to better the land,
Tending the cattle and crops, in the place of his birth and nurture—
Now, he is taught to desire all that is worst in a town;
Lured to the crowded ranks of its stunted and sallow dependents,
Kept from his own calm sphere, gone where he never should go.
Till they are grown too old either to hear or obey;
Till they have learnt to despise the simple toil of their parents,
Caring no more for them, occupied only with self?—
Now, when 'tis best for a lad to labour and live in the country,
Doing the duties he knows, helping to better the land,
Tending the cattle and crops, in the place of his birth and nurture—
Now, he is taught to desire all that is worst in a town;
Lured to the crowded ranks of its stunted and sallow dependents,
Kept from his own calm sphere, gone where he never should go.
23
Yes, and the village maids, who should serve in a farm or a mansion,
Learning their household trade under a woman's control,
Safe in an orderly home, too young to be sinful or tempted—
These too are left to themselves, licensed to revel and roam;
Changing from place to place, still hankering after a sweetheart,
Who in his impudent arms brings them to sorrow and shame.
Learning their household trade under a woman's control,
Safe in an orderly home, too young to be sinful or tempted—
These too are left to themselves, licensed to revel and roam;
Changing from place to place, still hankering after a sweetheart,
Who in his impudent arms brings them to sorrow and shame.
Such are the feats of law; the acts of impoverish'd England,
Poor in the midst of her wealth, insolent, foolish, and vain;
Scorning with bitter contempt the eloquent voice of experience,
Scorning the patriot's call, even with danger at hand;
Not to be roused from dreams by the nearness of foreign invasion,
Till, in the day of her doom, all that she had disappear.
Poor in the midst of her wealth, insolent, foolish, and vain;
Scorning with bitter contempt the eloquent voice of experience,
Scorning the patriot's call, even with danger at hand;
Not to be roused from dreams by the nearness of foreign invasion,
Till, in the day of her doom, all that she had disappear.
24
LONDON TOWN
Oh how I wish it were day! There is nothing so dull as the darknessWhen with the light of the sun everything pleasant has gone:
Everything—colour and form, and the pomp of clouds in the heavens,
And on the earth around, voices and movement and life.
Here, we are under a shroud, like that which envelopes a dead man,
Lying unconscious and cold, waiting to go to his grave;
Seeing no more of the world he has left, or the people within it,
Than through our darken'd panes we can behold of it now.
Yet I had rather be here, in the quiet and peace of the country,
Silent and sad as it is, than in the terrible town:
Terrible, not for its crimes, nor the selfish stress of its efforts,
Nor for its noisy crowds, hurrying ever along,
Each with a hard grim face, indifferent quite to the others,
Thinking of money alone, anxious and eager for gain—
Not for such spectres as these, for we know them of old, they are evils
Bred in the nature of towns, everywhere always at hand—
But for a new strange thing, a real and scandalous danger,
Which in these difficult days meets us wherever we go:
Danger, the latest gift that civilisation has brought us,
Danger to life and limb, threatening death to us all.
Hark! to the hideous roar of the ugly implacable monsters
Forging in frantic speed, each with the other at war;
Howling and growling and hoarse, in the riot of insolent triumph,
Deaf to authority's voice, reckless of order and law.
Here then at last is a force that none have the courage to cope with,
None have the wit to suppress, none even dare to control:
25
Making the fair broad streets seem like a vision of hell.
Aye, and we too are doom'd, though we live remote in the country
If but a road be near, still to encounter the foe;
Still to endure its stench, its cruel and culpable presence,
Killing all beauty and grace, crushing the charm out of life;
Making us bitterly feel that our impotent civilisation
Cannot contrive to be free, cannot be noble and calm.
26
INTEGER VITÆ
Left to himself, the laggard lingers long,
He soothes his life with somnolence or song
Or anything that helps him to forget:
He will not do the deed—not yet, not yet!
He soothes his life with somnolence or song
Or anything that helps him to forget:
He will not do the deed—not yet, not yet!
But, if an impulse come, a new wave sweep
Across the sordid shallows of his sleep,
Fulfilling him with desperate desire,
Then, he o'erflows: his ignominious ire
Foams into action, and with froth and fume
He hurries to the irrevocable doom
That shall make known his honour or his shame
And give him all he cares to have—a name.
Across the sordid shallows of his sleep,
Fulfilling him with desperate desire,
Then, he o'erflows: his ignominious ire
Foams into action, and with froth and fume
He hurries to the irrevocable doom
That shall make known his honour or his shame
And give him all he cares to have—a name.
Not so the man who labours in his lot
With strenuous endeavour, thinking not
Of name or fame or fortune, toward some goal
Meet for a manly and a resolute soul,
Because it is not selfish: Him, no fears
Of men's disdain or women's wily tears
Can sever from his seeking of the right,
Though it be far, though it be out of sight.
Found or not found he knows the goal is there—
Firm in its place, accessible and fair:
He may not reach it, but his faithful feet
At least have made a path for others to complete.
With strenuous endeavour, thinking not
Of name or fame or fortune, toward some goal
Meet for a manly and a resolute soul,
Because it is not selfish: Him, no fears
Of men's disdain or women's wily tears
Can sever from his seeking of the right,
Though it be far, though it be out of sight.
Found or not found he knows the goal is there—
Firm in its place, accessible and fair:
He may not reach it, but his faithful feet
At least have made a path for others to complete.
27
PLAYMATES
Catch me, little maiden, catch me if you can!
Shall I be your sweetheart? Shall I be the man
Who has leave to love you, who will some day move
That which in your woman's heart answers to his love?
Shall I be your sweetheart? Shall I be the man
Who has leave to love you, who will some day move
That which in your woman's heart answers to his love?
Come, and when you've caught me, sit upon my knee;
For I prize the fondness you have shown to me:
Let me have it while it lasts—that will not be long:
Let me kiss you while I may; soon, it will be wrong.
For I prize the fondness you have shown to me:
Let me have it while it lasts—that will not be long:
Let me kiss you while I may; soon, it will be wrong.
Soon, your love will cease, dear; shall I tell you why?
Some one else will have it all, far more tenderly;
Some one else may give you love lasting and divine;
But it will not cannot be such a love as mine.
Some one else will have it all, far more tenderly;
Some one else may give you love lasting and divine;
But it will not cannot be such a love as mine.
Mine is just a grave man's love for a loving child;
For an artless innocence, pure and undefiled:
Yet, if I could take you up straight into my life—
If I were but young enough—you should be my wife.
For an artless innocence, pure and undefiled:
Yet, if I could take you up straight into my life—
If I were but young enough—you should be my wife.
I would wait for you, my dear—wait till you are grown;
Till you know your heart as well as I know my own:
I would ask you, when I saw that the time had come,
If you still could share with me happiness, and home.
Till you know your heart as well as I know my own:
I would ask you, when I saw that the time had come,
If you still could share with me happiness, and home.
But, I go away, dear, and if I return,
I shall find you alter'd; I shall have to learn
That I may not kiss you then, may not think of you:
You will be another maid, not the one I knew.
I shall find you alter'd; I shall have to learn
That I may not kiss you then, may not think of you:
You will be another maid, not the one I knew.
28
Ah, if I do not return, that perhaps were best!
I should go on loving you then, and be at rest;
I should think you still the same; I should always see
Only this beloved child, sitting on my knee.
I should go on loving you then, and be at rest;
I should think you still the same; I should always see
Only this beloved child, sitting on my knee.
29
EXEGI MONUMENTUM
Yes, so you have: and that delightful theme,Ourselves, might haply in a distant dream
Have tempted us, had we too follow'd Fame,
And shaped our efforts toward some lordly aim,
Some high conceit, as you did. But indeed
We love a calmer life, a simpler breed
Of thoughts and aspirations and designs:
We live on level ground, where the sun shines
Fully and fairly for us all, and warms
The countryside, the cottages and farms,
With everyday employment and no more.
We keep our spirits free to wander o'er
The long strange history of these hills and vales:
Their lost religions, their ancestral tales
Of deeds grotesque, which yet were just as true
To the old time, as ours are to the new.
That is the measure of our rustic skill;
That is the field where some few lingerers still
Are well content to labour, and to find
In the small circle of a quiet mind
As much of peace as God or man can give
To those who have to suffer—and to live.
30
SUUM CUIQUE
What shall we do with thee, thou child of disgrace and disaster—Innocent heir of crime, victim of other men's sins?
Shall we abandon thee quite, and leave thee forlorn and neglected,
Bearing throughout thy days burdens of sorrow and shame?
He, thy detestable sire, is dead; we cannot recall him,
Cannot inflict on him that which he doubly deserved;
Doubly—for was he not foul, the wretch who dared to beget thee.
Being a devil himself, spawn of the nethermost hell?
Ah, but he was not all, nor half, the root of thy being:—
Thou hadst a mother too, feminine, human, and fair;
Gentle in all her ways, and pure as a sister of angels;
She has her part in thee—Nay, thou art utterly hers.
For the true soul of a man belongs of right to his mother;
Born, like his body, in her, usher'd by her into life:
Bred by her culture and care through the fruitfullest years of his boyhood
Left to the father at last, only to make him a man.
How could he make thee a man, himself a demon incarnate?
No, thou hast nothing of him; thou art thy mother's alone:
Thou art thy mother's son, the seed of a virtuous woman:
That is thy claim to respect; that is thy title to love.
Therefore, take courage; arise, and live to replenish thy manhood
Only with aims like hers, lofty and noble and wise:
So shalt thou never be soil'd by the trail of an infamous father:
So shall thy fame be thine own, worthy of her and of thee.
31
NON TALI AUXILIO
Ah, how these rival interests shrink away
And are at once forgotten, in that day
Which comes to all, when we can see our life
Of storm and stress, of passion and of strife,
In the large love-light of Eternity!
And are at once forgotten, in that day
Which comes to all, when we can see our life
Of storm and stress, of passion and of strife,
In the large love-light of Eternity!
That day, O friend, has come for you and me,
Who stand no longer in the common street
Among such crowds as clamour when they meet
For this or that—for changes far or near,
Hateful to some folk, but to some, most dear,
And all the dearer for the others' hate.
Who stand no longer in the common street
Among such crowds as clamour when they meet
For this or that—for changes far or near,
Hateful to some folk, but to some, most dear,
And all the dearer for the others' hate.
Not thus, Man rises to his best estate
Not thus, the immortal Future will reveal
Its sacred source to those who think and feel;
Nor shall the thing that righteous is and true
Be moved one jot, by all we say and do.
Not thus, the immortal Future will reveal
Its sacred source to those who think and feel;
Nor shall the thing that righteous is and true
Be moved one jot, by all we say and do.
32
UTRUM HORUM MAVIS
So sweet, so comely, and so pure!
And is it then for you
That I am call'd on to endure
Whate'er you please to do?
And is it then for you
That I am call'd on to endure
Whate'er you please to do?
You gave me access to your heart:
You led me to suppose
That I had some peculiar part
In all its pangs and throes:
You led me to suppose
That I had some peculiar part
In all its pangs and throes:
That I, and not the other men
Whose passion you had known,
When once I could come back again,
Might claim you as my own.
Whose passion you had known,
When once I could come back again,
Might claim you as my own.
And now, I have come back to find
How slight, how volatile,
Your preference was, and how unkind,
How treacherous, your smile!
How slight, how volatile,
Your preference was, and how unkind,
How treacherous, your smile!
Well, you will doubtless seek relief
In some one else's arms;
And I shall learn the worth of grief,
And of a woman's charms!
In some one else's arms;
And I shall learn the worth of grief,
And of a woman's charms!
33
HER HAND
Asoft smooth supple slight and slender thing:
Whose hardest toil were turning leaves of books,
Or culling flowers in such delicious nooks
As Lovers find for shelter in the Spring:
And he who thinks he loves her, languishing
In feverish adoration, scarcely brooks,
The dainty rapture which her very looks,
Much more the thrill of her light touch, can bring.
Whose hardest toil were turning leaves of books,
Or culling flowers in such delicious nooks
As Lovers find for shelter in the Spring:
And he who thinks he loves her, languishing
In feverish adoration, scarcely brooks,
The dainty rapture which her very looks,
Much more the thrill of her light touch, can bring.
Ah me, he faints, distraught with delicate joy.
For the slim maid to his persuasive art
Has slowly yielded up that precious toy
Her cool small hand, fit emblem of her heart.
Yes! four white fingers and a shapely thumb
At length are his—until the next man come.
For the slim maid to his persuasive art
Has slowly yielded up that precious toy
Her cool small hand, fit emblem of her heart.
Yes! four white fingers and a shapely thumb
At length are his—until the next man come.
34
WE TWO
Oh 'tis smoother than the gravel—
Oh 'tis firmer than the sand—
This fair road whereon we travel
Towards the heart of Holy Land!
Oh 'tis firmer than the sand—
This fair road whereon we travel
Towards the heart of Holy Land!
It is straighter than an arrow,
It is level as a lake;
It has never seem'd too narrow;
It is one without a break:
It is level as a lake;
It has never seem'd too narrow;
It is one without a break:
From its first divine beginning
To its nigh and nearing end,
We are wooing, we are winning,
Something better than a friend.
To its nigh and nearing end,
We are wooing, we are winning,
Something better than a friend.
So we neither faint nor falter,
As we walk along the way.
Nothing now can check or alter
What we feel and what we say.
As we walk along the way.
Nothing now can check or alter
What we feel and what we say.
What we feel is always utter'd;
What we say is always true;
Nought is hid and nought is mutter'd
In the talk between us two.
What we say is always true;
Nought is hid and nought is mutter'd
In the talk between us two.
For we speak with one another
In a world where none are near:
Not a sister, not a brother,
Ever comes between us, here.
In a world where none are near:
Not a sister, not a brother,
Ever comes between us, here.
35
We are all alone, and moving
Calmly westward, like the sun:
And we shall not cease from loving
When the long sweet day is done.
Calmly westward, like the sun:
And we shall not cease from loving
When the long sweet day is done.
36
DICHTER UND BAUERIN
My soul is full of love for her,
Whatever she may be:
And well I know, her pulses stir
Only with love for me.
Whatever she may be:
And well I know, her pulses stir
Only with love for me.
All, all are mine! And every beat
In that true heart of hers
Recalls our far-off days and sweet—
Young Love's interpreters.
In that true heart of hers
Recalls our far-off days and sweet—
Young Love's interpreters.
She, bred to labour with her hands,
And train'd by that alone:
Obeying other folks' commands
Although she was my own:
And train'd by that alone:
Obeying other folks' commands
Although she was my own:
While I in fields of larger growth
And wider culture stray'd,
Yet ne'er forgot my plighted troth
To that untutor'd maid.
And wider culture stray'd,
Yet ne'er forgot my plighted troth
To that untutor'd maid.
Ah me, those waiting years were long!
Yet they were fond and free;
She knew I would not do her wrong:
For love is purity.
Yet they were fond and free;
She knew I would not do her wrong:
For love is purity.
At last, at last, the wedding came,
And her few friends were there:
But, though she bore to take my name,
My place she would not share.
And her few friends were there:
But, though she bore to take my name,
My place she would not share.
37
Still she preferr'd her own degree;
For thus, throughout her life,
She could be all in all to me:
My servant, and my wife.
For thus, throughout her life,
She could be all in all to me:
My servant, and my wife.
Shall I then love her less, for this?
Or shall I feel ashamed
To stand beside her as she is—
Obscure, and never named
Or shall I feel ashamed
To stand beside her as she is—
Obscure, and never named
Save in those dwellings of the poor
Whereof her home is one—
A cottage with an open door,
Not closed till day is done?
Whereof her home is one—
A cottage with an open door,
Not closed till day is done?
No! For beside that cottage fire,
Where we together live,
A nobler spirit dwells and higher,
Than rank or wealth can give.
Where we together live,
A nobler spirit dwells and higher,
Than rank or wealth can give.
38
DISCRIMINA RERUM
Slowly glide the years of sorrow,But they have not far to glide:
Every night and every morrow
Brings their melancholy tide
Nearer to that trackless ocean
Where so many loved ones lie
Dead, although our fond devotion
Pleaded that they might not die.
Oh, that hapless useless pleading,
How intense its passion is!
How the man whose heart is bleeding
Clings to that which has been his,
Still reluctant so to sever
Child from mother, man from wife;
Longing still to keep for ever
All that once fulfill'd his life.
Is it well, this piteous longing
For the creatures of a day?
Is it right, or are we wronging
Him who took these things away?
Yes, 'tis well; it is but groping
Straight through twilight towards the truth:
Toward that sure immortal hoping
Of our childhood and our youth,
When we felt, without emotion
Save a sense of certainty,
39
There were shores we could not see:
Shores, where all those loved ones standing
Smile on us, and softly say
“We, who here await your landing,
Are not creatures of a day.”
40
HEIMWEH
Have you not heard of the land where Beauty and Love are eternal,Where from the fullness of life nothing is ever withdrawn,
Save that a clear pure stream, with imperceptible current,
Glides through the Lake of Peace into the Ocean of Joy?
Here, on this bloodstain'd Earth, that land has never existed:
Here is no lake of peace, here is no ocean of joy:
And if the rivers flow, they move to their own destruction,
Lured into stormy seas foul with the wrecks of the Past.
Not in a group like ours, one sun with his handful of planets,
Riding obscurely alone, lost in a corner of Space,
Nor in such nobler worlds as the gorgeous suns of Orion,
Nor in those uttermost orbs ne'er to be noted or known;
Not in all these is the land where Beauty and Love are eternal,
Where in a dream of delight spirits united abide.
For there is never an orb but is moulded of changeable matter,
Shaped by the lapse of time, bound to its own little curve,
Fused into form after form, one mode succeeding another,
But, whatsoever it be, dead as the heart of a stone.
These cannot yield us our quest, the limitless life that we long for;
These cannot offer a place meet for the souls of the just;
Nay, we may search with our eyes through the splendid expanse of the heavens
Roving from star to star, wistfully seeking a home;
But there is none to be found, nor can be, in such a Creation,
Made but of tangible stuff, drifting like us to its doom.
41
Safe from the thraldom of sense, not to be touch'd with decay;
There, only there, is the land where Beauty and Love are eternal;
There is our haven of rest, there is the home of the soul.
42
WAITING
Darkness, and wind, and rain!
How soon they all come back
And make us feel again
The perils of our track
How soon they all come back
And make us feel again
The perils of our track
Across the wintry wold,
And through the flooded vale,
When we are growing old,
And strength and courage fail!
And through the flooded vale,
When we are growing old,
And strength and courage fail!
Not courage? No, indeed!
For who would shrink and fear,
When love is by, to lead
Our steps from year to year:
For who would shrink and fear,
When love is by, to lead
Our steps from year to year:
When He who guides us on,
Who is our firmest friend,
Though other friends are gone,
Stays with us to the end.
Who is our firmest friend,
Though other friends are gone,
Stays with us to the end.
And when the end arrives,
And we are told to go
And leave our earthly lives,
Because 'tis better so,
And we are told to go
And leave our earthly lives,
Because 'tis better so,
43
He takes us by the hand
And bids us freely come
Into that Silent Land
Which is not far from Home.
And bids us freely come
Into that Silent Land
Which is not far from Home.
44
NOT NOW
Few are the days of Spring,
And short the April hours:
We have no time to sing
Or dance, between the showers:
And short the April hours:
We have no time to sing
Or dance, between the showers:
We have no time to stray
Along the woodland lanes
And plan our little day
Of honours and of gains:
Along the woodland lanes
And plan our little day
Of honours and of gains:
For, ere the sun be high,
Or ever noon has come,
So lurid grows the sky
That we must hasten home—
Or ever noon has come,
So lurid grows the sky
That we must hasten home—
To find our hearthstone void,
To see our bright estate
By one strong shaft destroy'd:
And we are desolate.
To see our bright estate
By one strong shaft destroy'd:
And we are desolate.
Ah yes! It is not here,
It is not thus nor now,
While we beside the bier
Lie stunn'd and spent and low,—
It is not thus nor now,
While we beside the bier
Lie stunn'd and spent and low,—
45
It is not thus, that we,
Or such as we, can tell
How true those words may be—
He doeth all things well.
Or such as we, can tell
How true those words may be—
He doeth all things well.
46
CHRIST'S COMING
He came to tell us what to do,
And what should not be done;
He came to give new life to you,
And me, and every one.
And what should not be done;
He came to give new life to you,
And me, and every one.
But if the things He had to bear,
The sorrow and the shame,
Have only left us as we were
Before He ever came.
The sorrow and the shame,
Have only left us as we were
Before He ever came.
If all He did and all He said,
His wisdom and His grace,
Have not redeem'd from doubt and dread,
The future of our race,
His wisdom and His grace,
Have not redeem'd from doubt and dread,
The future of our race,
If God's own Son, so good, so great,
Can only save a few,
And all the others meet their fate
As dogs or devils do,—
Can only save a few,
And all the others meet their fate
As dogs or devils do,—
Why then—but No, it cannot be!
His mission has not fail'd:
For He is with us still, and He
Has striven and prevail'd.
His mission has not fail'd:
For He is with us still, and He
Has striven and prevail'd.
47
ANGULUS ILLE
Stillness, and peace, and neat but homely fare,And work that does not ply the brain too much
Nor rob us wholly of the open air
Nor chill the warmth of soft affection's touch—
These are our blessings: and this Cottage dear
Contains them all. its little garden ground
Looks on the woods and waters far and near,
And knows the free birds' music, and the sound
Of silvery streams as rapid and as clear
As are the thoughts they bring us. Few indeed
And simple, are our neighbours; like ourselves,
They live at home, and take but little heed
Of things beyond their ken. The man who delves,
The mother with her bairns, the lads who lead
Our teams at plough, the maids that milk the kine—
These are our neighbours, and they suit us well;
For, though they know it not, their lives combine
More fitly than the deftest tongue could tell,
With Nature and her rural harmonies.
We have no guests, save one; and he remains
For ever in the household: he is wise,
And kind, and generous; and he entertains
With happy phrase or silent intercourse
The folk he dwells with, being quick to move
The souls of men and women, that perforce
They all must love him: for his name is Love.
48
ON HER BIRTHDAY
Not less but more I love her, as our day
Moves gently on and duly, to its goal,
While the fair limits of her ample soul
Lapse into mine, till two strong streams obey
One impulse, two impassion'd floods display
One calm clear current, one harmonious whole,
Where never jutting crag nor shelving shoal
Frets the still sequence of its seaward way.
Moves gently on and duly, to its goal,
While the fair limits of her ample soul
Lapse into mine, till two strong streams obey
One impulse, two impassion'd floods display
One calm clear current, one harmonious whole,
Where never jutting crag nor shelving shoal
Frets the still sequence of its seaward way.
Seaward—ah yes, all rivers seek the sea;
And this of ours is now so deep and wide,
So near the ocean of Eternity,
So fully fronted by the flowing tide,
That the loud life on either far-off shore
To us is but a murmur, and no more.
And this of ours is now so deep and wide,
So near the ocean of Eternity,
So fully fronted by the flowing tide,
That the loud life on either far-off shore
To us is but a murmur, and no more.
49
ARCADES AMBO
You see my wife: outside our Cottage there,
In the trim garden that she keeps so fair,
Herself an autumn flower, so she stands,
Expectant: and her strong and shapely hands
For once are empty, as she waits for me,
To give me kisses, and to give me tea.
Look at her lilac bonnet, lightly laid
Across her brows; a shelter and a shade
For those clear eyes, in which I always find
The same sweet solace, and the same pure mind:
Look—for that bonnet is a constant sign
That she is of a world that is not mine,
Though she is mine for ever. Labourers' wives,
None else, can use such bonnets all their lives,
As she does hers, in public and at home,
Unblamed, unnoticed; and they well become
The fairest face; for they are picturesque
In shape and colour. Women of the desk
Or of the counter, would disdain to wear
This simple rustic antiquated gear:
It would degrade them, and they like it not;
But she, who dearly loves her own poor lot—
Its work, its ways, its rural speech, its free
Unfetter'd leave to labour, and to be
Just what she will—she likes it all the more
Because it shows her as she was of yore;
A peasant woman, made to be for life
Her husband's servant, as a working wife.
In the trim garden that she keeps so fair,
Herself an autumn flower, so she stands,
Expectant: and her strong and shapely hands
For once are empty, as she waits for me,
To give me kisses, and to give me tea.
Look at her lilac bonnet, lightly laid
Across her brows; a shelter and a shade
For those clear eyes, in which I always find
The same sweet solace, and the same pure mind:
Look—for that bonnet is a constant sign
That she is of a world that is not mine,
Though she is mine for ever. Labourers' wives,
None else, can use such bonnets all their lives,
As she does hers, in public and at home,
Unblamed, unnoticed; and they well become
The fairest face; for they are picturesque
In shape and colour. Women of the desk
Or of the counter, would disdain to wear
This simple rustic antiquated gear:
It would degrade them, and they like it not;
But she, who dearly loves her own poor lot—
Its work, its ways, its rural speech, its free
Unfetter'd leave to labour, and to be
Just what she will—she likes it all the more
Because it shows her as she was of yore;
50
Her husband's servant, as a working wife.
That was her thought, her fix'd resolve long since,
Or e'er she saw the fated fairy prince
Who show'd his features to her in the fire:
She knew that he would come, and would inspire
Her heart with passion prompted from above.
And when he came, she knew that he would love.
Well, he did come; he felt the spacious charm
Of her fine presence, and he meant no harm:
He knew not that he was the very man
Whom she had seen, when first her love began,
Yet he straight loved her; and his love was pure—
As pure as hers, as certain to endure.
But, when at last she was his wife, and he
Ready to raise her to his own degree,
She utterly refused it. “No,” she said,
“I was not meant for that: I was not bred
To be your equal; and I still intend
To keep my place of service to the end;
For” (and her red lip quiver'd as it curl'd)
“I would not be a lady, for the world!”
Or e'er she saw the fated fairy prince
Who show'd his features to her in the fire:
She knew that he would come, and would inspire
Her heart with passion prompted from above.
And when he came, she knew that he would love.
Well, he did come; he felt the spacious charm
Of her fine presence, and he meant no harm:
He knew not that he was the very man
Whom she had seen, when first her love began,
Yet he straight loved her; and his love was pure—
As pure as hers, as certain to endure.
But, when at last she was his wife, and he
Ready to raise her to his own degree,
She utterly refused it. “No,” she said,
“I was not meant for that: I was not bred
To be your equal; and I still intend
To keep my place of service to the end;
For” (and her red lip quiver'd as it curl'd)
“I would not be a lady, for the world!”
Then, he insisted; and, to please his whim
Drest like a lady, she went forth with him
To see a life that she had never shared,
Had never seen, nor ever once had cared
To hear of at a distance; and her face,
Her calm untaught simplicity and grace,
Her quiet manner, born of character
And not of station, so ennobled her
That none suspected what she really was—
A country servant, and a village lass.
But all the while, her honest clear good sense
Hated the falsehood of a mere pretence
Which never could be real; for she knew
That to her own class she would still be true,
And not to his, although she loved him so.
“Dear heart!” she cried, “what foolery, to go
Traipsing like this, and see them servants still
Fussing about, to make a bigger bill:
Doing my work, as I was born to do,
Aye, and can do it better far, for you!
They winna let me even sew and hem—
And me a servant, just like one o' them!”
Drest like a lady, she went forth with him
To see a life that she had never shared,
Had never seen, nor ever once had cared
To hear of at a distance; and her face,
Her calm untaught simplicity and grace,
Her quiet manner, born of character
And not of station, so ennobled her
That none suspected what she really was—
A country servant, and a village lass.
51
Hated the falsehood of a mere pretence
Which never could be real; for she knew
That to her own class she would still be true,
And not to his, although she loved him so.
“Dear heart!” she cried, “what foolery, to go
Traipsing like this, and see them servants still
Fussing about, to make a bigger bill:
Doing my work, as I was born to do,
Aye, and can do it better far, for you!
They winna let me even sew and hem—
And me a servant, just like one o' them!”
But hold—she sees us; we must go to her.
Be not surprised; for she will call you Sir,
And curtsy, as she does to every one
Who comes with me, as you, my friend, have done,
To see her in the quiet of her home.
She wants no visitors; but if they come,
She honours them, knowing they will not mock
At the plain fashion of her cotton frock,
Her harden apron, or her bare red arms—
All these are native and familiar charms,
Dear to her husband: and full well she knows
That he is with her as she comes and goes
Thus in her working dress; he feels no shame
In having such a wife to bear his name:
Rather, he feels an honourable pride
With this devoted woman at his side
Who owns his heart and his companionship.
Love is the bond that binds them, lip to lip
And soul to soul, together and alone:
“For it's the difference that makes us one,”
She told him once, and he has found it so.
What need of more? Her humble neighbours know
She is his wife indeed; a labourer's wife,
And he no labourer, but content through life
To dwell with her, and be obscurely blest
In the seclusion of this lowly nest;
Where neither he nor she need know or care
Who else is faithful, or who else is fair.
Be not surprised; for she will call you Sir,
And curtsy, as she does to every one
Who comes with me, as you, my friend, have done,
To see her in the quiet of her home.
She wants no visitors; but if they come,
She honours them, knowing they will not mock
At the plain fashion of her cotton frock,
Her harden apron, or her bare red arms—
All these are native and familiar charms,
Dear to her husband: and full well she knows
That he is with her as she comes and goes
Thus in her working dress; he feels no shame
In having such a wife to bear his name:
Rather, he feels an honourable pride
With this devoted woman at his side
Who owns his heart and his companionship.
Love is the bond that binds them, lip to lip
And soul to soul, together and alone:
“For it's the difference that makes us one,”
52
What need of more? Her humble neighbours know
She is his wife indeed; a labourer's wife,
And he no labourer, but content through life
To dwell with her, and be obscurely blest
In the seclusion of this lowly nest;
Where neither he nor she need know or care
Who else is faithful, or who else is fair.
53
AMORIS INTEGRATIO
In the garden, every moment, wither'd leaves are trembling down,
And the sward looks dim and dreary, and the trees are bare or brown,
And the autumn flowers are dying, and the birds are sad and few;
And there's nothing left unchanged, except the love I have for you.
And the sward looks dim and dreary, and the trees are bare or brown,
And the autumn flowers are dying, and the birds are sad and few;
And there's nothing left unchanged, except the love I have for you.
All the sky is void of colour, all the earth is grey and wan;
Nature shudders at her own doom, for she shares the doom of Man;
And she recks not of the promise and the beauty of the spring,—
Neither she nor all her children ever think of such a thing!
Nature shudders at her own doom, for she shares the doom of Man;
And she recks not of the promise and the beauty of the spring,—
Neither she nor all her children ever think of such a thing!
Yet they will have that fair promise, it will come to one and all,
And the self-same trees will blossom, and the self-same birds will call;
They will call to one another, they will pipe and sing again,
To the hearts of other women, to the hopes of other men.
And the self-same trees will blossom, and the self-same birds will call;
They will call to one another, they will pipe and sing again,
To the hearts of other women, to the hopes of other men.
But they will not call their old mates, they have new ones every year;
For their loves are short and fleeting, and their only home is here;
They know nothing of a future where the souls that once were two
Now are wholly one for ever, you in me and I in you.
For their loves are short and fleeting, and their only home is here;
They know nothing of a future where the souls that once were two
Now are wholly one for ever, you in me and I in you.
54
SUI GENERIS
To me, she always seems a thing create
Of mind and matter subtly mingled so
That none, save he who loves her best, can know
What is the charm of fortune or of fate
That gives such beauty to her mean estate,
And makes a woman, born and bred below
The limits of convention, such a foe
To things not true, or not immaculate.
Of mind and matter subtly mingled so
That none, save he who loves her best, can know
What is the charm of fortune or of fate
That gives such beauty to her mean estate,
And makes a woman, born and bred below
The limits of convention, such a foe
To things not true, or not immaculate.
Well, she has had a peasant ancestry
Kept from the sins and follies of their time
By knowing nothing of them; and a sky
Radiant and pure, shone over all her prime.
She, like the lark, soars heaven ward at a bound,
Although her nest is only on the ground.
Kept from the sins and follies of their time
By knowing nothing of them; and a sky
Radiant and pure, shone over all her prime.
She, like the lark, soars heaven ward at a bound,
Although her nest is only on the ground.
55
AUTREFOIS
Ah yes, I see her as she was in youth.
A country maiden, beautiful and strong,
Used to the work of field and farm, and long
Inured to household service. She, in sooth
Better'd her calling; for that gentle ruth
Which fosters right, and shrinks from doing wrong
And loves the free fair things it dwells among,
Had fill'd her soul with purity and truth.
A country maiden, beautiful and strong,
Used to the work of field and farm, and long
Inured to household service. She, in sooth
Better'd her calling; for that gentle ruth
Which fosters right, and shrinks from doing wrong
And loves the free fair things it dwells among,
Had fill'd her soul with purity and truth.
And now, she is a woman, past her prime,
And past all hope of finding those trim ways
That Culture walks in; but her well-spent time,
And the long lesson of unselfish days,
Have taught her this—that nothing from above
Is more divine, than labour done for Love.
And past all hope of finding those trim ways
That Culture walks in; but her well-spent time,
And the long lesson of unselfish days,
Have taught her this—that nothing from above
Is more divine, than labour done for Love.
56
DAME UND DIENSTMÄDCHEN
You cannot know the woman that I love:
You see her in her cottage, or abroad
In yard and garden, working vigorously
At such rude service as a labourer's wife
Does for her husband and herself, and all
Who care to seek her in her humble home.
You see her rough of aspect, and in speech
A peasant like the rest: her daily garb
Is coarse and homely; picturesque indeed,
And suited to the toils of common life
But just as different from a lady's wear
As she is from its wearer. Look at her—
Her old hood-bonnet and her sunburnt face,
Her bare red arms, and the big sacking skirt
That clips her ample waist, and folds her round
In apt embrace, a drudge's drapery.
Look at her thus and you would never think
That she could be a lady. Yet indeed
She once attain'd to that fair eminence;
And stood there with such unaffected ease,
Such gentle dignity, such quiet grace,
Such beauty both of form and countenance,
That those who saw her, felt she had a right
To dwell there, where she surely had been born.
You see her in her cottage, or abroad
In yard and garden, working vigorously
At such rude service as a labourer's wife
Does for her husband and herself, and all
Who care to seek her in her humble home.
You see her rough of aspect, and in speech
A peasant like the rest: her daily garb
Is coarse and homely; picturesque indeed,
And suited to the toils of common life
But just as different from a lady's wear
As she is from its wearer. Look at her—
Her old hood-bonnet and her sunburnt face,
Her bare red arms, and the big sacking skirt
That clips her ample waist, and folds her round
In apt embrace, a drudge's drapery.
Look at her thus and you would never think
That she could be a lady. Yet indeed
She once attain'd to that fair eminence;
And stood there with such unaffected ease,
Such gentle dignity, such quiet grace,
Such beauty both of form and countenance,
That those who saw her, felt she had a right
To dwell there, where she surely had been born.
Ah, but she was not born there! He whose hand
Had help'd her up, who saw her fit herself
Without an effort and without a break
To the calm courtesies of ladyhood,
So strange to her experience, in his heart
Rejoiced, that nature thus had given to her
Instinctively, what others have to learn
By methods not their own. But suddenly
She from that summit leap'd into his arms,
Entreating him with passionate desire
To break for her the fetters of restraint,
And take her back, and let her have again
That lowly station which was really hers.
Had help'd her up, who saw her fit herself
57
To the calm courtesies of ladyhood,
So strange to her experience, in his heart
Rejoiced, that nature thus had given to her
Instinctively, what others have to learn
By methods not their own. But suddenly
She from that summit leap'd into his arms,
Entreating him with passionate desire
To break for her the fetters of restraint,
And take her back, and let her have again
That lowly station which was really hers.
She was too honest for duplicity:
She knew her outward graces could not hide
The difference of manners and degree
That lay between her and those shining ones,
Who did not know her story, and whose lot
She had not envied, had not wish'd to share;
And now, she hated it. For she had seen,
Seen for herself, how far it was removed
From all her interests, all her sympathies,
And all the work her willing hands had done
For him and others. Why, in this new life,
She could do nothing, for the man she loved!
She must not serve him, must not wait on him;
She must stand by, and see his wants supplied
By other women, servants like herself,
Who thought she was a lady, and behaved
With such distracting deference to her,
While they usurp'd her place, and did for hire
What she could do far better, and for Love.
She knew her outward graces could not hide
The difference of manners and degree
That lay between her and those shining ones,
Who did not know her story, and whose lot
She had not envied, had not wish'd to share;
And now, she hated it. For she had seen,
Seen for herself, how far it was removed
From all her interests, all her sympathies,
And all the work her willing hands had done
For him and others. Why, in this new life,
She could do nothing, for the man she loved!
She must not serve him, must not wait on him;
She must stand by, and see his wants supplied
By other women, servants like herself,
Who thought she was a lady, and behaved
With such distracting deference to her,
While they usurp'd her place, and did for hire
What she could do far better, and for Love.
That was the point at which her heart rebell'd;
Was she to live for ever in disguise,
And be a mere pretender, not allow'd
To do her duty, and to be herself?
No, truly! For the love that fill'd her heart
Had but one end, one object, one intent,
One settled purpose: She would live with him
In her own way, and be throughout her life
His servant always, though she was his wife.
Was she to live for ever in disguise,
And be a mere pretender, not allow'd
To do her duty, and to be herself?
58
Had but one end, one object, one intent,
One settled purpose: She would live with him
In her own way, and be throughout her life
His servant always, though she was his wife.
Well, she has had her wish: For twenty years,
She, the fair wife of him whose name she bears,
Who gave her, not himself alone, but all
That to the damsels of his own degree
Seems natural and needful—a refined
And graceful home, and leisure, and repose,
And maids to wait on her and keep her free
From the dull round of household drudgery—
She has refused all this: and has remain'd
By her own act, the woman that she was
In youth: A peasant, just as she was born.
She, the fair wife of him whose name she bears,
Who gave her, not himself alone, but all
That to the damsels of his own degree
Seems natural and needful—a refined
And graceful home, and leisure, and repose,
And maids to wait on her and keep her free
From the dull round of household drudgery—
She has refused all this: and has remain'd
By her own act, the woman that she was
In youth: A peasant, just as she was born.
That was the method of her rustic love,
Unselfish, and devoted, and sincere.
She gave him fully all she had to give—
Affection, comfort, care, companionship
With her meek self, and service of the best,
Unstinted and unpaid; but how could she,
Being what she was, suffice a man like him,
And be his mate, in wedlock such as hers?
How could she share his duties, prompt his aims,
Or understand his life, so largely shaped
By influences beyond her simple ken,
Beyond the hedgerows of her village world?
True: There were limits, and she knew them well,
To what a wife like her could be to him:
She could not talk with educated folk,
Adorn his house, or entertain his friends
With the light topics of society;
And therefore, she would never live with him
On his own level, nor consent to know
Or imitate his equals. But, for her,
Wedlock means nothing but the right to love;
To love for ever and to love but once.
What has her love, or his, to do with rank,
Or wealth, or knowledge, or the things of sense?
The man himself is everything she wants;
The woman, all that he wants. For indeed
Love has no limits: It has altitudes,
And it has depths: but both are fathomless;
Wide as the world, and free as Heaven itself,
Love takes no heed of anything at all,
Except possession of the thing it loves.
Unselfish, and devoted, and sincere.
She gave him fully all she had to give—
Affection, comfort, care, companionship
With her meek self, and service of the best,
Unstinted and unpaid; but how could she,
Being what she was, suffice a man like him,
And be his mate, in wedlock such as hers?
How could she share his duties, prompt his aims,
Or understand his life, so largely shaped
By influences beyond her simple ken,
Beyond the hedgerows of her village world?
True: There were limits, and she knew them well,
To what a wife like her could be to him:
She could not talk with educated folk,
Adorn his house, or entertain his friends
With the light topics of society;
And therefore, she would never live with him
59
Or imitate his equals. But, for her,
Wedlock means nothing but the right to love;
To love for ever and to love but once.
What has her love, or his, to do with rank,
Or wealth, or knowledge, or the things of sense?
The man himself is everything she wants;
The woman, all that he wants. For indeed
Love has no limits: It has altitudes,
And it has depths: but both are fathomless;
Wide as the world, and free as Heaven itself,
Love takes no heed of anything at all,
Except possession of the thing it loves.
Such was her creed: Not fetter'd into words,
Not learnt by rote, nor borrow'd from the lips
Of higher women, or of wiser men:
But born with her, and held unconsciously;
Part of her being, as her being's whole
Is part of him who loves her. In his youth
He dreamt of such a woman, such a creed—
A dim fantastic vision, as it seem'd,
Impalpable, unreal: but at length,
In finding her, he found the vision true.
Not learnt by rote, nor borrow'd from the lips
Of higher women, or of wiser men:
But born with her, and held unconsciously;
Part of her being, as her being's whole
Is part of him who loves her. In his youth
He dreamt of such a woman, such a creed—
A dim fantastic vision, as it seem'd,
Impalpable, unreal: but at length,
In finding her, he found the vision true.
60
THE MESSENGER
“I am his servant, and he sent me here”:Such was her answer, spoken prompt and clear,
To those who ask'd her whence and why she came.
And, as she thought of his beloved name,
She felt in every pulse and every limb
The lasting joy of being own'd by him,
And not by any other. “You can see,”
She softly added, “if you look at me,
That I am his; deny it if you dare!”
She raised her blushing countenance, and there
They saw the letters that she loved so well,
Imprinted, obvious and indelible.
“Now, will you not think well of me?” she said:
And redder than her blushes, grew the red
Of that strange legend, which she could not hide.
To her meek soul, it was a source of pride,
And not of shame, that she should thus be known
By all who scann'd her features, as his own:
His property, his chattel, and no more.
She thought herself ennobled, that she bore
Her Master's name upon her comely face;
An arrogant disfigurement—a base
Bold record of his ownership of her.
To her, it was the sole interpreter
Of what she felt; not hope, not happiness,
But something which she freely could express
61
Her Master, far above her and apart,
Knew nothing of her service; she was paid;
She work'd for hire, like any other maid;
And none of those who saw her every day
Knew why she was so eager to obey,
So steadfast in her duty. She alone
Knew that the name which she had made her own
By wearing it thus openly for life,
Had given her the feelings of a wife
For such an one to whom her low estate
Made her a servant only, not a mate.
62
AT IDSALL
We have not now the long, long days
When you and I were young
And walk'd together in such ways
As never poet sung;
When you and I were young
And walk'd together in such ways
As never poet sung;
Ways of distraction and distress,
And paths obscure and blind;
Which only Purity could bless,
And only Love could find.
And paths obscure and blind;
Which only Purity could bless,
And only Love could find.
No, for our days are short and few:
But then, our path is clear:
None dares to ask us what we do,
Nor why we linger here;
But then, our path is clear:
None dares to ask us what we do,
Nor why we linger here;
None can speak evil of your name,
Or make too free with mine;
For both were always clear from shame
And wedlock is divine.
Or make too free with mine;
For both were always clear from shame
And wedlock is divine.
So, Love has bless'd our cottage life
And your unselfish will:
For you and I are man and wife,
And yet are sweethearts still.
And your unselfish will:
For you and I are man and wife,
And yet are sweethearts still.
63
IN ETERNUM, DOMINE
This woman's soul and mine are one;
One spirit, one career;
Not only till the days are done
Of our communion here,
One spirit, one career;
Not only till the days are done
Of our communion here,
But after, though we singly brave
The passage perilous,
That small seclusion of the grave
Has room for both of us.
The passage perilous,
That small seclusion of the grave
Has room for both of us.
Both? We are as a single life—
And death itself shall spare
The dust of husband and of wife
That slowly mingles there.
And death itself shall spare
The dust of husband and of wife
That slowly mingles there.
One may go first, and one remain
To hail a second call;
But nothing now can make us twain,
Whatever may befall:
To hail a second call;
But nothing now can make us twain,
Whatever may befall:
For we have long since pass'd the bounds
Of Self, of Time, of Space,
And felt the freedom that surrounds
Love's final dwelling place.
Of Self, of Time, of Space,
And felt the freedom that surrounds
Love's final dwelling place.
64
HANNAH
“What pleases me is, your thinking as I'm the best of all your servants,
for that's what I wish to be till my life's end.”
I am blest with faithful servants—even now in these poor days
When they scorn the thought of service, and its simple homely ways.
Even now, true maids have help'd me with their labour and their life;
But the best of all my servants is my faithful servant-wife.
When they scorn the thought of service, and its simple homely ways.
Even now, true maids have help'd me with their labour and their life;
But the best of all my servants is my faithful servant-wife.
Fifty years—aye, more than fifty—has she done her best to please;
Happy in her humble calling, happy on her hand and knees:
For she loves the joys of scrubbing, blacking grates and cleaning stairs,
And she shows her love in that way, as the ladies do in theirs.
Happy in her humble calling, happy on her hand and knees:
For she loves the joys of scrubbing, blacking grates and cleaning stairs,
And she shows her love in that way, as the ladies do in theirs.
She was born for love and labour, and in her, the two are one:
Nothing checks her, nothing daunts her, till her daily work is done;
And she does it, not for wages, not for merit, but to prove
That no labour is too low to be the language of her love.
Nothing checks her, nothing daunts her, till her daily work is done;
And she does it, not for wages, not for merit, but to prove
That no labour is too low to be the language of her love.
Hers is but a servant's language—deeds that find no way to words;
Yet her husband understands it, and its mute unspoken chords
Touch his heart with greater fervour, greater pleasure, greater pride,
Than if she were like a lady, seated idly at his side.
Yet her husband understands it, and its mute unspoken chords
Touch his heart with greater fervour, greater pleasure, greater pride,
Than if she were like a lady, seated idly at his side.
And she does sit there of evenings, when her household toils are o'er,
When she's wash'd up all the dishes, when she's clean'd the kitchen floor;
In her servant's dress she sits there, neat and tidy, fresh and clean,
And he would not change her presence for the splendours of a queen.
When she's wash'd up all the dishes, when she's clean'd the kitchen floor;
In her servant's dress she sits there, neat and tidy, fresh and clean,
And he would not change her presence for the splendours of a queen.
65
She has neither rank nor splendour; she was but a village maid,
Whom no blackness could make lower, nor no drudgery degrade:
She has neither silks nor jewels—she has not a single thing
That becomes a lady's station, save her golden wedding ring.
Whom no blackness could make lower, nor no drudgery degrade:
She has neither silks nor jewels—she has not a single thing
That becomes a lady's station, save her golden wedding ring.
Ah, that ring! It is the token of her honour, of her fame:
For it shows that she my servant has the right to bear my name;
And our love was just as pure, since first our sweetheart days began,
As if she had been a lady, or myself a working man.
For it shows that she my servant has the right to bear my name;
And our love was just as pure, since first our sweetheart days began,
As if she had been a lady, or myself a working man.
66
ON AN INSCRIPTION IN A COPY OF CAREW'S POEMS, 1661.
A man unknown this volume gave,So long since, to his unknown friend:
Ages ago their lives had end,
And each in some obscurest grave
Lies mixt with earth; none now would care
To ask us who and what they were.
But, though themselves are underground,
Their book is here, all safe and sound;
And he who wrote it (yes, and more
Than a whole hundred years before)
He, the trim courtier, old Carew,
And all the loves he feign'd or knew
Have won from Aphrodite's eye
Some show of immortality.
'Tis ever thus; by Nature's will
The gift outlasts the giver still;
And Love itself lives not so long
As doth the lover's feeblest song.
But doubly hard is that man's case
For whom and for his earnest rhymes
Neither his own nor after times
67
Who through a hundred years shall find
No echoing voice, no answering mind;
And, when this tann'd and tawny page
Has one more century of age,
And others buy the book anew
Because they care for old Carew,
Not one who reads shall care or know
What name was his who owns it now;
But all he wrote and all he did
Shall be in such oblivion hid
As hides the blurr'd and broken stones
That cover his forgotten bones.
68
IN THE TWILIGHT
Oh the grave and gloomy quiet at the closing of the day!
When the sun has long gone down,
Not in splendours of his own,
But behind a veil of vapour vaguely vanishing away;
With a wraith of filmy cloud,
Creased and wrinkled, to enshroud
All the glow that he should give us at the closing of the day.
When the sun has long gone down,
Not in splendours of his own,
But behind a veil of vapour vaguely vanishing away;
With a wraith of filmy cloud,
Creased and wrinkled, to enshroud
All the glow that he should give us at the closing of the day.
Oh the stern and stolid quiet at the closing of the day!
When the purple furrows gleam
Cold and steely, and the team
Loiters homeward, and the hawthorn blooms, in blood-drops, not in May;
When the harvest months are done,
And the autumn rains begun,
And the black earth reeks with odours, at the closing of the day.
When the purple furrows gleam
Cold and steely, and the team
Loiters homeward, and the hawthorn blooms, in blood-drops, not in May;
When the harvest months are done,
And the autumn rains begun,
And the black earth reeks with odours, at the closing of the day.
Oh the dim and solemn quiet at the closing of the day!
When the leaves are dropping slow,
And the wet birds come and go
Through the hedges, and white winter is already on its way
When the smoke of smouldering tares,
Loosely borne on lagging airs,
Frets the nostrils with its savour, at the closing of the day.
When the leaves are dropping slow,
And the wet birds come and go
Through the hedges, and white winter is already on its way
When the smoke of smouldering tares,
Loosely borne on lagging airs,
Frets the nostrils with its savour, at the closing of the day.
69
Oh the grim and ghostly quiet at the closing of the day!
When the cattle cease to move,
And the trees stand close, above,
And the mounds about the churchyard lie unshadow'd in the grey;
When the soul that dwells alone
Finds a sadness like its own
In the heart of Mother Nature, at the closing of the day.
When the cattle cease to move,
And the trees stand close, above,
And the mounds about the churchyard lie unshadow'd in the grey;
When the soul that dwells alone
Finds a sadness like its own
In the heart of Mother Nature, at the closing of the day.
70
DEATH AND LIFE
This is the room in which my darling died:
A cottage bedroom with a sloping roof,
Simple, and old, and quiet; looking out
Over green gardens, on the woods and hills
Beyond that village where her life began
And where it ended. Nothing on the earth
Is nearer heaven than a home like this,
When two twin souls inhabit it, and live
In love and peace, together and alone.
A cottage bedroom with a sloping roof,
Simple, and old, and quiet; looking out
Over green gardens, on the woods and hills
Beyond that village where her life began
And where it ended. Nothing on the earth
Is nearer heaven than a home like this,
When two twin souls inhabit it, and live
In love and peace, together and alone.
And still we are together and alone:
Not in the lovely churchyard, where indeed
Her fair and lissome body and sweet face
Lie waiting for the husband of her youth;
Nor in that cottage home; nor here—so far
From all she loved and cared for, and so full
Of petty interests, that exasperate
The soul of sorrow; no indeed, not here!
But in a region only known to those
Whose lives have climb'd up towards it, and who now,
Now in their hour of need, have leave to meet
And commune there, unfetter'd by the bonds
Of flesh and blood, of distance, and of Time.
Not in the lovely churchyard, where indeed
Her fair and lissome body and sweet face
Lie waiting for the husband of her youth;
Nor in that cottage home; nor here—so far
From all she loved and cared for, and so full
Of petty interests, that exasperate
The soul of sorrow; no indeed, not here!
But in a region only known to those
Whose lives have climb'd up towards it, and who now,
Now in their hour of need, have leave to meet
And commune there, unfetter'd by the bonds
Of flesh and blood, of distance, and of Time.
THE END
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