Senilia :: :: University of Virginia Library

THE DONCASTER ST. LEGER OF 1827.

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[This poem is intended to illustrate the spirit of Yorkshire racing, now unhappily, or happily, as the case may be, on the decline. The perfect acquaintance of every peasant on the ground with the pedigrees, performances, and characters of the horses engaged—his genuine interest in the result—and the mixture of hatred and contempt which he used to feel for the Newmarket favourites, who came down to carry off his great national prize, must be well known to any one who forty years ago crossed the Trent in August or September:—altogether it constituted a peculiar modification of English feeling, which I thought deserved to be recorded; and in default of a more accomplished Pindar, I have here endeavoured to do so.]

The sun is bright, the sky is clear,
Above the crowded course,
As the mighty moment draweth near
Whose issue shows the horse.

The fairest of the land are here
To watch the struggle of the year,
The dew of beauty and of mirth
Lies on the living flowers of earth,
And blushing cheek and kindling eye
Lend brightness to the sun on high:
And every corner of the north
Has poured her hardy yeomen forth;

The dweller by the glistening rills
That sound among the Craven hills;
The stalwart husbandman who holds
His plough upon the eastern wolds;
The sallow shrivelled artisan,
Twisted below the height of man,
Whose limbs and life have mouldered down
Within some foul and clouded town,
Are gathered thickly on the lea
Or streaming from far homes to see
If Yorkshire keeps her old renown;
Or if the dreaded Derby horse
Can sweep in triumph o'er her course;
With the same look in every face,
The same keen feeling, they retrace
The legends of each ancient race:
Recalling Reveller in his pride,
Or Blacklock of the mighty stride,
Or listening to some gray-haired sage
Full of the dignity of age;
How Hambletonian beat of yore
Such rivals as are seen no more;
How his old father loved to tell
Of that long struggle—ended well,
When, strong of heart, the Wentworth Bay
From staggering Herod strode away:

How Yorkshire racers, swift as they,
Would leave this southern horse half way,
But that the creatures of to-day
Are cast in quite a different mould
From what he recollects of old.
Clear peals the bell; at that known sound,
Like bees, the people cluster round;
On either side upstarting then,
One close dark wall of breathless men,
Far down as eye can stretch, is seen
Along yon vivid strip of green,
Where keenly watched by countless eyes,
'Mid hopes, and fears, and prophecies,
Now fast, now slow, now here, now there,
With hearts of fire, and limbs of air,
Snorting and prancing—sidling by
With arching neck, and glancing eye,
In every shape of strength and grace,
The horses gather for the race;
Soothed for a moment all, they stand
Together, like a sculptured band,
Each quivering eyelid flutters thick,
Each face is flushed, each heart beats quick;
And all around low murmurs pass,
Like faint winds moaning through the grass.
Again—the thrilling signal sound—
And off at once, with one long bound,
Into the speed of thought they leap,
Like a proud ship rushing to the deep.

A start! a start! they're off, by heaven.
Like a single horse, though twenty-seven.
And 'mid the flash of silks we scan
A Yorkshire jacket in the van;
Hurrah! for the bold bay mare!

I'll pawn my soul her place is there
Unheaded to the last,
For a thousand pounds, she wins unpast—
Hurrah! for the matchless mare!

A hundred yards have glided by,
And they settle to the race,
More keen becomes each straining eye,
More terrible the pace.
Unbroken yet o'er the gravel road
Like maddening waves the troop has flowed,
But the speed begins to tell;
And Yorkshire sees, with eye of fear,
The Southron stealing from the rear.
Ay! mark his action well!
Behind he is, but what repose!
How steadily and clean he goes!
What latent speed his limbs disclose!
What power in every stride he shows!
They see, they feel, from man to man
The shivering thrill of terror ran,
And every soul instinctive knew
It lay between the mighty two.

The world without, the sky above,
Have glided from their straining eyes
Future and past, and hate and love,
The life that wanes, the friend that dies,
E'en grim remorse, who sits behind
Each thought and motion of the mind,
These now are nothing, Time and Space
Lie in the rushing of the race;
As with keen shouts of hope and fear
They watch it in its wild career.
Still far ahead of the glittering throng,
Dashes the eager mare along,
And round the turn, and past the hill,
Slides up the Derby winner still.
The twenty-five that lay between
Are blotted from the stirring scene,
And the wild cries which rang so loud
Sink by degrees, throughout the crowd,
To one deep humming, like the tremulous roar
Of seas remote along a northern shore.

In distance dwindling to the eye
Right opposite the stand they lie,
And scarcely seem to stir;
Though an Arab scheich his wives would give
For a single steed, that with them could live
Three hundred yards, without the spur.
But though so indistinct and small,
You hardly see them move at all,

There are not wanting signs, which show
Defeat is busy as they go.
Look how the mass, which rushed away
As full of spirit as the day,
So close compacted for a while,
Is lengthening into single file.
Now inch by inch it breaks, and wide
And spreading gaps the line divide.
As forward still and far away
Undulates on the tired array
Gay colours, momently less bright
Fade flickering on the gazer's sight,
Till keenest eyes can scarcely trace
The homeward ripple of the race.
Care sits on every lip and brow.
‘Who leads? who fails? how goes it now?’
One shooting spark of life intense,
One throb of refluent suspense,
And a far rainbow-coloured light
Trembles again upon the sight.
Look to yon turn! Already there
Gleams the pink and black of the fiery mare,
And through that, which was but now a gap,
Creeps on the terrible white cap.
Half-strangled in each throat, a shout
Wrung from their fevered spirits out,
Booms through the crowd like muffled drums,
‘His jockey moves on him. He comes!’
Then momently like gusts, you heard

‘He's sixth—he's fifth—he's fourth—he's third;’
And on, like some dancing meteor flame,
The stride of the Derby winner came.

And during all that anxious time,
(Sneer as it suits you at my rhyme)
The earnestness became sublime;
Common and trite as is the scene,
At once so thrilling, and so mean,
To him who strives his heart to scan,
And feels the brotherhood of man,
That needs must be a mighty minute,
When a crowd has but one soul within it.
As some bright ship, with every sail
Obedient to the urging gale,
Darts by vexed hulls, which side by side,
Dismasted on the raging tide,
Are struggling onward, wild and wide,
Thus, through the reeling field he flew,
And near, and yet more near he drew;
Each leap seems longer than the last,
Now—now—the second horse is past,
And the keen rider of the mare
With haggard looks of feverish care,
Hangs forward on the speechless air,
By steady stillness nursing in
The remnant of her speed to win.
One other bound—one more—'tis done;
Right up to her the horse has run,

And head to head, and stride for stride,
Newmarket's hope, and Yorkshire's pride,
Like horses harnessed side by side,
Are struggling to the goal.
Ride! gallant son of Ebor, ride!
For the dear honour of the north,
Stretch every bursting sinew forth,
Put out thy inmost soul,—
And with knee, and thigh, and tightened rein,
Lift in the mare by might and main;
The feelings of the people reach
What lies beyond the springs of speech,
So that there rises up no sound
From the wide human life around;
One spirit flashes from each eye,
One impulse lifts each heart throat-high,
One short and panting silence broods
O'er the wildly-working multitudes,
As on the struggling coursers press,
So deep the eager silentness,
That underneath their feet the turf
Seems shaken, like the eddying surf
When it tastes the rushing gale,
And the singing fall of the heavy whips,
Which tear the flesh away in strips,
As the tempest tears the sail,
On the throbbing heart and quivering ear,
Strike vividly distinct, and near.
But mark what an arrowy rush is there,

‘He's beat! he's beat!’—by heaven the mare!
Just on the post, her spirit rare,
When Hope herself might well despair;
When Time had not a breath to spare;
With bird-like dash shoots clean away,
And by half a length has gained the day.
Then how to life that silence wakes!
Ten thousand hats thrown up on high
Send darkness to the echoing sky,
And like the crash of hill-pent lakes,
Out-bursting from their deepest fountains,
Among the rent and reeling mountains,
At once, from thirty thousand throats
Rushes the Yorkshire roar,
And the name of their northern winner floats
A league from the course, and more.

Bay Malton. King Herod, the champion of Newmarket in the famous race alluded to above, broke a blood-vessel in the crisis of the contest.

THE ST. LEGER OF 1886.

DEDICATED TO MISS DOROTHY POPHAM, NIECE OF THE OWNER OF WILD DAYRELL.

PART I.

Amid the busy hum of men,
I stood some sixty years ago;
The old man now was young man then,
But Time in his relentless flow

Sweeps warmth and joy and hope away,
Till all within is dead or dying;
So, too, the Leger of to-day,
With only seven for it trying.

Yes, seven! There were twenty-seven
When in my youth I praised and sung them;
And what is now still worse, by Heaven!
There's not a Yorkshire horse among them.

And yet this morning to complete
A poem like my first I'm told;
To run, forsooth, a second heat,
Though sixty years between have rolled.

Eclipse himself might well demur
To undertake so grave a task;
If left untouched by whip and spur,
He'd say it was too much to ask.

But though Eclipse grown old would shrink
From such a hopeless, mad endeavour,
Unpitying damsels choose to think
My Pegasus can stay for ever.

Poor Pegasus! when fresh and young,
Some of his breed perchance were slower;
Though even then, the lot among,
You'd find full many a better goer.

But now, alas! rheumatic, lame,
Blind, spavined, broken-down, shin-sore,
How can his action be the same
As in those prancing days of yore?

Where is the spirit from without
That warmed his life up, like a sun?
And where, oh! where, that Yorkshire shout
That made him and the people one?

For Yorkshire now who cares a jot?
No—‘Ormonde! Ormonde!’ is the cry;
We shiver, as the ghost of Scott
Unseen, though near, comes floating by,

Still, though our Northern Star be set,
Our old horse-glory vanished quite.
Hints, glances, tones have power as yet,
And make me ass enough to write.

For Dolly whispers low: ‘Erewhile
You poured yourself in song to shine,
And win from other eyes a smile;
Pray, were those eyes more bright than mine?’

Sadly you moan—‘My past is dead,
My life lived out, my tale all told.’
‘When woman's looks are on him shed,
A poet never should feel old:

‘The vessels of your brain, you say,
Whence those spring-tides of rhyme were brought,
Leak, cracking ever, day by day,
Till they can scarcely hold a thought.

‘Pooh!—piece them well together now,
And quench my new poetic thirst;
A second chant I'll have, I vow,
To vie with her who earned your first.

‘No doubt you'll mutter, “Why, my dear,
To sing this needless pæan name us?
When you've the Bard well trained and near,
Who has already made him famous.”

‘Such shuffling is no use—you know
Were that Bard asked to frame the lay,
He hates his conqueror Ormonde so,
He could but answer—with a neigh.’

Vainly in patriot wrath I frown,
And grunt, half-heard, ‘Hanged if I can;’
Bright faces gently laugh me down,
And red lips murmur: ‘Hush! old man;

‘Do what you're told; rouse up and try,
And if you need an apt reminder,
Think of that Leger in Book PSI,
Sung by one old as you—and blinder.’

So be it—though now dry as dust,
If Dolly wants another cup,
Tap the Castalian spring I must,
To fill the broken teapot up.

And drop praise on that alien brute,
Who robs us of our Yorkshire stake;
With woman's will I can't dispute,
And about him there's no mistake.

He rushes past like a great steamer,
With sail-ships after toiling on;
So I once more must act the dreamer,
As poets from the first have done.

Poets, and essayists as well,
When there's no better work to do,
Construct a dream they hope to sell,
Then give it to the world as true.

They lie of course—but none the more
Than ladies, who, unblamed of all,
May shriek, when threatened by a bore,
‘No—not at home!’ into the hall.

So you my fable must receive,
Just as the disappointed caller
Pretends your footman to believe,
Then stalks off red, and rather taller.

Accept then in firm faith my vision
Of great steeds ‘in another place;’
Who, though fed now on oats Elysian,
Still watch the fortunes of their race.

But tell me first, and tell me true,
Lest I be charged with a misnomer,
What Turfite strong in Greek gave you
That hint about the race in Homer?

PART II. THE VISION.

In the middle of night there broke sharp on my snore
The clank of a hoof beating loud at my door,
A racehorse walked up in superlative trim,
With speed in each motion and strength in each limb.
He addressed me straightway in the Houyhynym tongue:
‘I'm High-flyer, sent to conduct you along.
Despatched over here with Eclipse's best love,
From the regions below—no—hang it, above.
We horses, good horses, find rest and delight
In aërial realms where no sorrow can blight;
True, those who can't pass, their earth duties who shirk,
After drinking of Lethe, come back here to work.
But we gallop and race, we gambol and roll,
And talk over the past, quite free from control:
We keep up our rank, too, in Clubs, like you men,
And however well-bred, we black-bean now and then.
The Clubs I shall name (for the meaner I skip)
Are the Childers, the Leger, the Derby, the Whip;
But the one of all others which holds but a few,
The Invincible Club, sends this greeting to you.
It is made up of heroes—you seldom now meet
Great racers who never have suffered defeat.
That I could stand for it was lucky for me,
The last time I ran I was lame as a tree;

And 'gainst Hambletonian a protest there came,
‘You bolt and are beat,’ said his foes—who's to blame?
But smoothing that over, we slid out of strife,
And made him not member, but Hon. Sec. for life.
Our club has been called to assemble this day,
And you are now summoned to hear what we say;
A committee we sent to the Doncaster course,
To bring back their report on that Westminster horse,
And we mean, if approved, as soon as it's read,
To enroll him among us—yes, ere he is dead.
Come, mount me at once—I am safe as a chair,
We are shod now with wings to glide light through the air.
So we rushed off apace, yes, rushed off so far,
That the earth shrivelled down to a poor-looking star;
Then we passed into realms far brighter than day,
Where the turf ever shines with an emerald ray,
Where from fountains of sapphire blue rivulets run,
Which flash into silver when touched by the sun;
Whilst Lotus and Asphodel leap from the ground,
And the wind breathes in music through sweet grasses round.
Beyond, far beyond, sands which sparkle with gold,
O'er hill and o'er dale, into deserts unfold;
But bright isles in thousands are over them spread,
Nursing myrtles and palms by pure waters fed;
Oleanders all round like sunset clouds gleam,
And scarlet anemones gladden each stream.
There joyous for ever beneath Heaven's smile,
Far as vision can trace them, through mile after mile,

Wild white Arabs flash—flash like stars to and fro,
With blue veins just tinting their sleek coats of snow.
‘Our sires,’ said my guide, ‘dating back to your fall;
We love them of course—though they can't race at all.
Indeed our first duty, when sent to this place,
Is to go and salute those great chiefs of our race.
The Darley presents us as come of his breed,
To the Lord of their tribes—proud Solomon's steed.
Not MacDavid, although his name be spread wider,
But a Sheik far more ancient, a much better rider;
MacDavid the wise knew all about trees,
Still he sat in his slippers, and read at his ease;
'Tis his elder namesake we honour up here,
Whose throne was a saddle, whose sceptre a spear;
Of hyssop and cedars the Jew might discourse,
'Twas the Arab who tamed that first thoroughbred horse.
Now let us go back, for the hour it draws near,
And see now in hundreds great horses appear,
Lo! friends of your own you'll be happy to see,
Velocipede, Touchstone, and dear Fleur de Lys;
The Dutchman and Voltigeur move side by side,
Advancing together with long even stride.
But Wild Dayrell declares you have treated him ill,
Like Miss Popham, he nurses a grudge at you still.
The older ones in such a torrent are poured
You scarce can remark any one of the horde.

Yes, there's giant Atlas, by Johnson adored,
And Dorimant stronger than Stockwell—so fast
That he pressed even me, though I beat him at last.
But come back at once, or we may be too late.’
We returned, and a meeting was held in full state,
Whilst Ormonde's great feats were the theme of debate.
Lath, Regulus, Gold-finder, Mirza, and others,
The whole circle addressed as horses and brothers.
Then Eclipse he summed up, having taken the chair,
(His chestnut skin glowed bright as Dorothy's hair)
The report was read out: each race he had won,
What rivals opposed him, and how it was run:
The document ended: ‘We think we can say
That Ormonde is not a mere horse of the day.
If he tries, we believe, we know he can stay.’
From the wide field around laughed out a loud neigh,
‘He can stay—do you hear—by George! he can stay.
And Eclipse thus went on: ‘By that cheering is meant
That you give to this motion a hearty consent.
I pronounce him at once among the unbeaten,
And promise to send on the message to Eaton,
As soon as two ladies have signed at the back,
Camarine the unconquered, and old Bonny Black.’
A forest of hoofs rose up straight from the ground,
And the voice of the Speaker in tumult was drowned.
Then, ere I could breathe, the whole vision dispersed,
And there I was—where I had been from the first.

Iliad, Book 23.

Lichfield, 1779.

York, August 1796.

Solomon, a prehistoric Sheik, much older, according to tradition, than his Hebrew namesake. He is the first man named, unless I am mistaken, in connection with the blood-horses of Arabia.

See visit of Dr. Johnson to Chatsworth.

Second Spring Meeting, Newmarket, 1779.

All unbeaten horses.

THE PRIVATE OF THE BUFFS.

Some Seiks, and a private of the Buffs, having remained behind with the grog-carts, fell into the hands of the Chinese. On the next morning they were brought before the authorities, and commanded to perform the kotou. The Seiks obeyed; but Moyse, the English soldier, declaring that he would not prostrate himself before any Chinaman alive, was immediately knocked upon the head, and his body thrown on a dunghill. —See China Correspondent of the “Times.”

Last night , among his fellow roughs,
He jested, quaffed, and swore;
A drunken private of the Buffs,
Who never looked before.
To-day, beneath the foeman's frown,
He stands in Elgin's place,
Ambassador from Britain's crown,
And type of all her race.

Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught,
Bewildered, and alone,
A heart with English instinct fraught
He yet can call his own.
Ay, tear his body limb from limb,
Bring cord, or axe, or flame:
He only knows, that not through him
Shall England come to shame.

Far Kentish hop-fields round him seem'd
Like dreams, to come and go;
Bright leagues of cherry-blossom gleam'd
One sheet of living snow;
The smoke, above his father's door,
In gray soft eddyings hung:
Must he then watch it rise no more,
Doom'd by himself, so young?

Yes, honour calls!—with strength like steel
He put the vision by.
Let dusky Indians whine and kneel;
An English lad must die.
And thus, with eyes that would not shrink,
With knee to man unbent,
Unfaltering on its dreadful brink,
To his red grave he went.

Vain, mightiest fleets of iron framed;
Vain, those all-shattering guns;
Unless proud England keep, untamed,
The strong heart of her sons.
So, let his name through Europe ring—
A man of mean estate,
Who died, as firm as Sparta's king,
Because his soul was great.

The Buffs, or East Kent Regiment.

THE STORY OF ALICE AYRES.

Ρημα δ' εργματων χρονιωτερον βιοτευει. —Pindar, Nemea, Od. iv. 10.

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[In an eloquent and interesting letter addressed to The Times of September 5th, 1887, Mr. G. F. Watts recalls to our minds the fine story of Alice Ayres, a maid of all work, who, in April 1885, sacrificed her own life in order to save the children of her master from being burnt to death. The details of this story, as gathered from the letter, I have endeavoured to reproduce below. Mr. Watts, in commenting upon this heroic action, remarks with great force and truth, ‘that the material prosperity of a nation is not an abiding possession, but its deeds are.’ ‘The character of a nation as a people of great deeds is one, it appears to me, that never should be lost sight of;’ and he wishes to dignify, as it were, the jubilee year ‘by erecting a monument, say here, in London, to the names of those likely-to-be-forgotten heroes.’ With this wish of his, natural to an eminent artist, I sympathise in some degree, but not entirely. As a writer of verses another point of view opens itself before me, and this point I have tried to show in the following lines.]

We see how wretched are the parts
Played by misleaders of the state,
And feel within our echoing hearts
The step of an advancing Fate.
Yes! England's sun may set, alas!
May set in gloom, nor rise agen,
Her proud name, like a shadow, pass
Out of the thoughts and words of men.

Still there is much not born to die:
Great deeds can never be undone:
Their splendour yet must fill our sky
Like stars, outlasting even the sun.
Ten thousand years may come and go,
But not to move them from their place:
Through them new lands will learn and know
Why God once shaped the English race.

Our children's children shall repeat
How, with a half unconscious thrill,
The noble pulse of duty beat
In simple hearts, and armed the will.
We who yet love dear England well,
Must rise and link our lot with theirs,
Perchance still living on to tell
Of those who died—like Alice Ayres.

Such deeds are England's soul, and we,
Tossing aside each idler rhyme,
Should pour forth song, to keep them free
From the concealing dust of Time.
No tricks of style will this require:
Such stories should be plainly told:
Gems never lose their strength or fire,
Though tinsel settings may grow old.

The heavens are clear and calm, when lo,
A sudden voice rings through the night:
Men gather, hurrying to and fro,
With quivering lips and faces white:
A small mean house bursts forth in flame:
Within crash down the burning stairs;
And, like a picture in her frame,
Stands at the window Alice Ayres.

‘Come down, come down,’ all cry aloud,
‘We have the means to break your fall.’
She does not seem to hear the crowd,
And gives no answer to their call.
Then, firm that evil hour to meet,
She forces, through the narrow pane,
Soft clothes and bedding on the street,
Retires, and straight returns again.

A sleeping babe is in her arms,
Whom, with a watchful hand and head,
Protecting from all risks and harms,
She drops in safety on the bed.
Slowly she steps back, in that gloom
Of strangling smoke to disappear,
Thence dragging from her instant doom
An older girl, who shrieks with fear.

‘Come down, come down,’ the shouts rise high,
‘Come down, or every hope is gone:
‘Save, save yourself at length,’ they cry,
‘Enough for others have you done.’

But no! there is a third one yet:
Death therefore must be faced once more:
The star of duty will not set
For her till the whole work is o'er.

All ended now—she might have time
Upon herself a look to cast;
But filled with that one thought sublime,—
God wills that it should be her last.
With feet astray and reeling brain,
Choked breath, dulled ears, and darkened eyes,
She staggers onwards, but in vain:
It is too late—she falls and dies!

‘And who was Alice Ayres?’ you ask.
A household drudge, who slaved all day,
Whose joyless years were one long task,
On stinted food and scanty pay;
But neither hunger, toil, nor care
Could e'er a selfish thought instil,
Or quench a spirit born to dare,
Or freeze that English heart and will.

As we are well told, it is true
That England's worth may thence be shown
That men and women, not a few,
Like Alice, should be better known.
‘Enrich,’ some say, ‘this golden year
(That no such legend we may lose)
‘By building up their statues here.’
So be it! if the people choose.

But, cold and dead in all men's sight,
A statue moulders and decays,
Whilst soulless hirelings often blight
Grand hero-names with formal praise.
No! Alice and her partners call
For that which chisels cannot give:
Self-sculptured on the minds of all,
Such memories should not waste, but live.

Not cabined in one narrow place,
A local boast, a mere street token;
But, like the air, diffused through space,
So long as English words are spoken:
To be drawn in, with each new breath,
Where red and warm the old blood runs,
And, o'er the wide world conquering death,
Shared thus for ever by our sons.

THE SEVEN CHILDREN OF GLODDARTH.

Founded on a Welsh Poem of the Fourteenth Century, and referring to the Black Death.

I

High towered that forest tree, beneath whose shade,
Secure from harm, the poor and humble stood,
Whose roots struck deep where feeding waters played,
Gruffydd ap Rhys the good!

II

The venison of the hills, within his hall,
Was eaten without stint by small and great;
The sparkling cups of mead were free to all
Who passed his palace gate.

III

Pride of the forest, thou art withering lonely,
Of thy fresh bloom and stateliest arms bereft;
Save one poor little shoot that liveth, only
The aged trunk is left.

IV

That little shoot may God make strong and cherish!
For all the land was troubled at its heart,
Lest the last leaf on Gloddarth's oak should perish,
And the old name depart.

V

There was weeping throughout Creddyn—bitter weeping;
Through her rich vales the cry of anguish rolled,
When seven fair heads beneath the earth lay sleeping,
Sprung from our heroes old.

VI

Dim now with grief the home once full of glee,
And, like the tall shaft of some knightly spear,
Stands in its lonely strength that parent tree,
Branchless and sapless, here.

VII

Whilst Gruffydd wanders on his hills alone,
Even Oswalt's sons, whose ancient hate we know,
When that sad image is before them shown,
Weep with their noble foe.

VIII

Yet, though by Heaven thou hast been sorely tried,
Though keen thy pangs, O venerable chief,
Still there is one who sobbeth at thy side,
Bowed down with double grief—

IX

Seined, thy chosen partner; she but now
Believed herself the mother of such men
As hunt the wolf on Gloddarth's mountain brow,
The deer in Gloddarth's glen.

X

The breasts they sucked, with clenched hands of despair
Madly she smites, and 'neath His chastening rod
That humble heart, of late so full of prayer,
Beats fierce against her God.

XI

The voice, once soft as dew, is shrieking wild,
‘Where are mine own, the dear ones whom I bore?
‘How proud I was, and now to me no child
‘Says “Mother!” any more.

XII

‘Still their sweet names I whisper o'er and o'er,
‘And teach them to the baby at my knee,
‘Who takes the place of darlings gone before,
‘And now is all to me.

XIII

‘Daffyd waned first, proud Gloddarth's promised heir;
‘Full was the festival that hailed his birth,
‘But heaven closed round, and, longing to be there,
‘He could not rest on earth.

XIV

‘Gwillim went next, in the same night he died.
‘Still are there others living, not less dear,
‘With thy poor mother, Rhys beloved, abide,
‘Or leave Llewellyn here

XV

‘To soothe thy sire, who mourneth for his sons;
‘The deaf hour may not hear, but, hurrying on,
‘Through that mute house with frenzied impulse runs,
‘Like fire, till all are gone.

XVI

‘Till hope's last beam, darkened and tempest tossed,
‘(Young Shone) sank down to icy night, and gloom;
‘Till all those five men-children vanished, lost
‘In one unsparing tomb.

XVII

‘Hide, hide, my Catrin, white as winter snow,
‘Yet brighter than the mid-day sun in June;
‘Our first-born—woe is me—she too must go,
‘Born first, but reft how soon!

XVIII

‘Nor, Annis, can thy beauty unsurpassed
‘Save thee alive from the plague's withering breath,
‘Annis, borne forth the loveliest, and the last,
‘In that grim march of death.’

XIX

One mother brought them forth, with trust in God,
One father blest them as they laughed and played,
One short week, in one grave beneath the sod,
Saw them together laid.

XX

One sky enfolds them in its arms divine,
Yes, from one stem burst forth these flowerets seven,
And now, though dead their bloom to earth, they shine
As many stars in heaven.

Oswestry.

PROLOGUE TO LADY GUENDOLEN RAMSDEN'S BIRTHDAY-BOOK.

(1883.)

I

The orbs that wait on man may seem
To shed but wayward glances chill,
To have no purpose in the gleam
Which pours down Birth and Death at will;

II

Yet though through yon mysterious arch,
To vulgar eyes, each Lord of Fate
Sweeps in a blind and headlong march,
And recks not of his awful freight;

III

The Wise, who catch far voices, tell
That Knowledge rules them as they roll,
That Living Thought directs them well,
And Law and Order guide the whole;

IV

So that no sparrow winter-frozen
Drops dead upon the sullen sod,
Without some tiny star-throb, chosen
To bear to earth that act of God.

V

Thus through the days, all lives once given,
Which plunge into this world of ours,
Bring threads of sympathy from Heaven
With stars, with poet-thought, with flowers.

VI

Child after child, by separate seals
Of space and time, is stamped as one;
The whole past moulds him, and he feels
A touch from spheres beyond the sun.

VII

And some there are whose eyes far-seeing,
And instincts delicately fine,
Thrill to each secret pulse of being,
And read those messages divine.

VIII

Beneath some strange power's soft control
Weird spirit music in them wakes,
As the wind-harp breathes out a soul,
Though not a leaf around her shakes.

IX

Have such powers shaped this book? Not yet
We judge, but know, by sketch or speech,
The pure bright mind within it set
Can never wholly fail to teach.

EPILOGUE TO LADY GUENDOLEN RAMSDEN'S BIRTHDAY BOOK.

[_]

[There were superstitions afloat at the time, particularly on the Continent, of terrible impending disasters—that a series of calamities was to be ended by fiery stars falling on the earth and destroying it.]

I

Half-heard in darkness, through the year now dead,
Like some stream underground, a murmur ran
That hostile spheres were mingling overhead
To breathe out bale on man;

II

And prophet speech, from the dim times of old,
Echoed each threat which glared along the sky,
So that the two with dread consent foretold,
The end was drawing nigh.

III

We learnt, when Death had chilled the shuddering days
With every form of sorrow and of pain,
Our world would melt away in the wide blaze
Of stars poured down like rain;

IV

In a grim crowd, like gathering birds of prey,
Portent and omen round sick hearts assembled,
Till, if the firm mind brushed each fear away,
Men's nerves believed and trembled.

V

But though, as months rolled by on gloomy wings,
Staining the sunlight Evil shapes flew past,
These wild and horrible imaginings
Sunk down to rest at last;

VI

To rest,—and yet we paused, nor could deny
That more things (things remote, of loftier birth)
‘Than are dreamt of in our philosophy,’
Make up the Heavens and Earth.

VII

Whilst the few breathing finer air than ours,
Who reach at life beyond this life of sense,
Felt through the soul a kindling of new powers,
Beneath strange influence.

VIII

Their eyes were filled with visionary light,
On their rapt ears a secret whisper fell,
And some force drove them, in their own despite
To see, and to foretell.

IX

Thus urged, they fathom the heart's depth and learn
How Space and Time adjust for each the year,
By instinct not by knowledge they discern,
And read the star-signs clear.

X

If then to some their sentence bitter seems,
If words strike harsh; let such remember still,
That our fair prophetess, compelled by dreams.
Strikes without thought or will;

XI

She is the harp, unthrilled by any stir,
Till angel-fingers lightly wake the strings,
Then, answering touches only felt by her,
The Song of Truth she sings.

Old Mother Nixon predicted the destruction of the world in 1883.

TO THE MEMORY OF GENERAL GORDON.

(January 27, 1885.)

In Eastern skies the Dawn grows red,
But yet yon Heaven itself must know
That those young morning beams are shed
Upon a poorer world below;
He who for England, helped by none,
So long his crushing burdens bore,
As grand and lonely as the sun,
Set yesterday—to rise no more.

We saw how, sinking into night,
Unmoved by storms, unchilled by gloom,
That calm and solitary Light
Grew larger on the edge of Doom;
Alas! grim floods of darkness roll
Over his quenched and shattered Place;
Death hides from us that Hero-soul:
The Sun drops rayless into space.

And so a mighty Life is marred
By Babblers, without heart or shame,
Who played it, as men play a card,
To win their worthless Party-game;
Let them repent; we may not pause
In this dread hour, to brand that crime,
But trust it to the Eternal Laws,
And to God's safe avenger—Time.

There is one thought that fills the land,
Leaving no room for aught beside,—
The fate of him who built on sand—
The sand of shifting souls—and died.
That sword of sorrow pierces all,
Yet must we wrestle with despair,
Lest England, lost like him, should fall,
As meteors fall through midnight air.

Pale England—sickening as she hears
Of blood, that like a river runs;
And watching, with wan face, through tears,
The useless slaughter of her sons;
There moan below her shaken feet
Strange earthquakes—throbbing underground,
And her eye seeks out—Men—to meet
Each tempest, ere it breaks around.

Oh, Mother England! faint not yet,
But teach us how to strive like him;
There burns a hope before us set,
A Beacon never waning dim.
If we, through Gordon's strength grow strong,
And nurse within us, living still,
That it may lead our steps along,
A Presence from his heart and will;

We shall press forward to our goal,
Sustained by echoes from the Past,
Sustained by Him—whose Death-notes toll
Sublime as any, though the last;
Yes! we must follow on his track,
Like those, who coming from afar,
To Bethlehem, never looking back,
Followed in faith that sudden star.

Then, if across the grave should steal
Some whisperings in an earthly voice,
What he yet holds of man will feel
His Death not barren, and rejoice;
And that he will hold much, we know,
Through endless ages rolling by;
Though kindled here on earth below,
The Light within him cannot die.

Yes, though above the stars he soar,
His heart its Gordon beat will keep,
And we, who our own loss deplore,
Must work—and earn the right to weep.
Then, without weakness or remorse,
Tears long pent up—may well be shed,
And sorrow take its natural course,
O'er Him and them—the Noble Dead.

A PRIMA DONNA'S CHARITY.

[_]

[The Prima Donna was Mrs. Jordan, whose musical gifts have been inherited, and that is saying very little, by one at least of her descendants. The influence under which the following verses were composed was that of Miss Dorothy Wemyss, Mrs. Jordan's great-granddaughter.]

Yes! the town is full of people, and men bustle to and fro,
Whilst the frost begins to harden, with a red sun sinking low;
But their hasty footsteps slacken, as a voice thrills clear and sweet,
Springing like a sudden fountain on the silence of the street.

From beneath a tattered bonnet, from within a greasy shawl,
That unebbing tide of music filled with life the souls of all;
And the touch as of a spirit to their fluttered pulses clung
With a strange enchanting rapture, as that ragged woman sung.

Then, whenever one lay ended, ere the next to soar began,
From the workmen homeward trudging pennies in a river ran;
Whilst each moment through the windows, opened wide to catch the strain,
Gold like summer-lightning glittered, and the silver falls as rain.

See that slattern deftly gather, laughing as she moves along,
The undreamt-of money-harvest that grew up beneath her song.
From the crowded haunts of fashion, with her mass of mingled gains,
On she glides through gloomy shadows into dim and lampless lanes.

But one passing near her muttered, ‘Why, her hands are clean and white,
And her step is firm and graceful, and her eyes are full of light.
No, she cannot be a beggar: there is something strange, I ween:
I must follow to discover what this foul disguise may mean.

So he followed, till he joined her at a weeping widow's side,
Whom her landlord, in his anger that no rent she could provide,
Turned into the cold to perish under famine and despair,
With her children shaking round her in that icy Christmas air.

Her the Prima Donna pitied, and, beneath an impulse sweet,
From her carriage lightly leaping, left it in the sullen street;
To find food for that pale hunger, to relieve that mother's pain,
Forth she rushed and won those earnings; then returned at once again.

Off she flung the greasy wrappers, masking well her velvets rare:
Off she tossed the tattered bonnet that had hid her golden hair:
In the widow's dingy clothing she had sung and charmed the crowd;
And now brightly broke upon her, like a star that leaves a cloud.

In her lap she poured the booty, which rolled on it like a flood,
Saying gently: ‘Keep your heart up, I am here to do you good:
This will feed your hungry children, this will buy them clothes and fire,
And to help you well to-morrow will be then my chief desire.

‘Here, my friend, I may not linger, I am now almost too late;
For the Public is my master, and he cannot bear to wait.’

Thus she left that staring woman, smoothed her curls and gown once more,
To delight impatient thousands with a voice unheard before—

Yes, unheard before; for till then she had never felt or known
Such a flush of sacred passion, such a seed within her sown:
She had sought to please men only, since her feet the stage had trod;
But that night in her emotion she was drawn from them to God.

Not in vain out of her bosom then that music-torrent leapt,
For, beyond her earth-born hearers, star-crowned Angels smiled—and wept;
And a solemn utterance floated from our Father's place of rest:
‘Lovers of their fellow-creatures, those are they whom I love best.

‘That voice perish! never, never! As a blessing and a dower
Passing to her children's children, it shall keep its quenchless power,
To grow richer as time ripens, like the living warmth of wine,
And so charm the coming ages with a breath of Joy Divine.’

CRUEL MAY!

TO THE LADY MABEL HOWARD.

Oh when will come that breath of Spring
Through which the dawn-beams play,
The breeze which gracious hours should bring
To the right sort of May?
We long for it, night after night,
Each morn in hope we rise,
Only to feel the bitter blight,
And watch the sullen skies.

The breeze I mean, now swift, now slow,
Dancing across the day,
Still flutters, whether loud or low,
Soft, buoyant, fresh and gay.
Each blossom over which she floats
Leaps forth in loving rush,
She fills with sparkling song the throats
Of linnet, lark, and thrush.

Ah, well, we need not frown or weep
Tho' sad the days appear,
If Fortune will but let us keep
The human sister near.
In that bright sister's spirit dwell,
Less changeful, and more true,
The Life and Youth of Spring—the spell
That makes the worn world new.

Hers is that smile, and hers that voice
Beneath whose flash and ring,
The hearts they fall upon, rejoice,
Like birds impelled to sing.
Through these harsh weeks, whilst she is kind,
Soft, buoyant, fresh, and gay;
To Mabel, we can turn, and find
The missing charms of May.

Lines suggested by the remarkably inclement weather during this month in 1887.

THE MOTHER AND DAUGHTER.

‘And she, being before instructed of her mother, said, Give me here John Baptist's head in a charger.’ —Matthew xiv. 8.

In yon proud chamber, cool and still
The maid and mother meet—
Whilst yet the dance's joyous thrill
Throbs in those fairy feet.
The damsel prattles, as a bird
In April sunshine sings;
But scarcely half her tale was heard,
When up that mother springs—

‘No, child, I was not there to see;
‘But is he thus well pleased?
‘And hath he bound himself to thee?
‘Why, then my soul is eased.
‘The emerald brooch, the opal ring,
‘Ask of some other hand;
‘To clench the promise of a king,
‘What kings can give, demand.

‘Let Time to come send gems and gold,—
‘On whispering love they wait;
‘This precious hour is mine, I hold
‘And claim it all, for hate.
‘A head which God, forsooth, hath sown
‘With seeds of power and light,
‘Is costlier, sure, than any stone,—
‘We'll have that head to-night.

‘What! faint and white? what, dost thou dare
‘To gasp a girlish “No”?
‘Is, then, thy spirit light as air,
‘Thy blood but coloured snow?
‘Off with that wan, imploring face,
‘Those arms which hang round me,
‘Like the false growth, whose mock embrace
‘But kills its nurturing tree.

‘The venom of the man I hate
‘Fell on us both alike;
‘Kind Heaven hath armed thy hand with fate,
‘And yet thou wilt not strike.
‘Why, then with idle words have done,
‘Keep idler tears aloof,
‘And waste not shows of love on one
‘Who seeks a single proof.

‘Lo! from its secret shrine I bring
‘This vessel rich and rare;

‘Kept sacred from each meaner thing,
‘A prophet's head to bear.
‘To yon crowned dastard speed like fire,
‘Who knows not what he swore;
‘Wring from that oath my soul's desire,
‘Or see my face no more.’

The maid had come, in maiden mirth,
To greet that mother mild;
Whose tenderness, e'en from her birth,
Had never failed the child.
Can this be she, with fevered breath
Which blood alone can slake
Whose triumph, in that glance of death,
Sits like the hooded snake?

Forth shot, from her electric eye,
Through each young vein a chill,
Palsying the heart, and freezing dry
The fountains of the will.
The very sense of self grew numb,
As by some spell destroyed,
Whilst alien thoughts unslackening come
To throng the dreamlike void.

Against their rushing floods of strength
The soul that seemed her own,
Like a spent swimmer, droops at length,
Engulfed and overthrown;

And still, to every sobbing prayer,
The savage face she met
Glared, in its gloomy rancour there,
More overmastering yet.

Then died of her despair the cry,
The wail of her remorse
Beat down unheard, and silenced by
The stormier passion's force.
So fitful gusts, whose shuddering moan
Before the tempest creeps,
Are crushed and quenched, whilst from his throne
The conquering thunder leaps.

The charger to her head rose slow,
Embossed with golden flowers;
And, with a step that seemed to go
Rolled on by outward powers,
She glided, ghost-like, from the hall
Into the twilight gray,
As noiseless as the stars that fall
Glide into gloom away.

The woman watched with haughty sneer,
Till, all at once, the roar
Of the long revel sounding near
Sunk down, and rose no more.
‘That silence speaks,’ she murmured then;
‘The toils are round thee now;

‘Too weak to have it said of men
‘That Herod breaks his vow.’

Then, pressing down her deep desire,
She strode across the room;
The shuttle, from her touch of fire,
Hissed through the shivering loom.
That steady hand, that eye of power,
Worked fiercely firm and true;
Leaf after leaf, each woven flower,
Beneath her fingers grew.

Tumult arose, with anger blent,
She did not seem to heed;
But toiled like one whose hours hard spent
Can just her children feed.
Faint steps at length were heard to beat,
Chilled arms around her clung;
And, reddening those remorseless feet,
The loaded charger rung.

The woman raised her ghastly prize,
Looked long, but looked in vain,
To find, within those placid eyes,
Some trace of fear or pain.
Warm, on the milk-white marble floor,
Broad drops of crimson fell;
She watched them curdle into gore,
And coldly said, ‘'Tis well!’

Men left their fields half tilled, next morn,
Half pruned their spreading vines;
To lift in prayer their hands forlorn,
And weary Heaven for signs.
It seemed as if the Lord of Hosts
No longer cared to reign;
Whilst Israel mourned, throughout her coasts,
That more than prophet slain.

RIZPAH, DAUGHTER OF AIAH.

[_]

(WRITTEN FOR MUSIC.)

I

Under the changing sky,
Under the clouded moon,
The earth gapes, white and dry,
But the rain cometh soon;
Yes! down from yon low skies
Rushes, at length, the rain;
Woman forlorn, arise!
Thou hast not crouched in vain,
Rizpah, daughter of Aiah.

II

Brave men have told the king
How, scared away by thee,
Each ravenous fowl takes wing,
And wolves and panthers flee:
How thou hast wrestled here,
Despising ease and sleep,
Without a thought of fear,
Because thy love is deep,
Rizpah, daughter of Aiah.

III

Therefore, in sight of all,
A proud tomb is begun,
To hold the bones of Saul,
And Jonathan, his son;
There too, in calm repose,
From insult safe, shall dwell
The stately forms of those
Whom thou hast watched so well,
Rizpah, daughter of Aiah.

IV

And whilst the ages roll
Through Time's unsounded deep,
Thy true and tender soul
A magic life shall keep;
Maidens shall muse alone,
And mothers' hearts be stirred,
Where'er thy deeds are known,
Where'er thy name is heard,
Rizpah, daughter of Aiah.

AT SEA.

1880.

‘There was silence in heaven about the space of half an hour.’ Rev. viii. 1.

Old Ocean rolls like Time, each billow passing
Into another melts, and is no more,
Whilst the indwelling spirit works on, massing
The great whole as before.

The separate waves are swift to come and go,
But the deep smiles, as they die one by one,
In lazy pleasure lifting from below
His foam-flecked purple to the sun.

Eve comes, the floods race past, we see their white
Thrilled through by weird sea-fires, a burning shiver
Which for one moment lives in eager light
And then—is quenched for ever.

Even so, alas, the bright chiefs of our race,
Lost under the interminable years,
Homer, or Shakspeare—each in his own place,
Just flashes forth, then disappears;

For what we call their Immortality
Is a brief spark, born but to be destroyed,
As the long ruin of all things that be
Moves down the Godless void.

Such is the creed our wise ones of the earth
Engrave now on the slowly-waning skies;
Ice, night, and death—death with no second birth—
Even now before their prescient eyes,

Pale in the lone abysses of existence,
World hangs on world, system on system, dead,
Whilst over all out-wearied life's resistance
Vast wings of blackness spread;

Till that proud voice, ‘Let there be light,’ whose breath
Came, as we deemed from Heaven old glooms to chase,
Hath passed unfelt through a dim waste of death,
To cease at length upon deaf space.

Darkness, eternal darkness, darkness bare
Of warmth, of life, of thought, with orbs that run,
Like sad ghosts of the shining years that were,
Each round its frozen sun.

Sages may scoff, ‘What matters this to you
‘Who will rest well whatever may befall?
‘Why care in what strange garb of horrors new
‘Is clothed the doom that waits us all?

‘What if some fresh unfailing age of gold
‘Should fill each radiant galaxy with bloom?
‘The man whose race is run, whose tale is told,
‘Owns nothing but his tomb.

‘Thus whether Nature still uphold her powers,
‘Or all things die at last, as men have died;
‘Stop not to ask if that sure grave of ours
‘Be coffin-narrow or world-wide.’

We answer thus—The cloud before us spread
Stains with its shadow all that nursed our prime;
Hope is the world's best blood, which, chilled or shed,
Palsies the heart of Time;

Your grim futurity we cannot bear,
It shakes us now, like earthquake tides inrolling,
Imagination has her own despair,
And hears your distant death-bell tolling;

She droops even now beneath those evil dreams,
That like hearse-plumes, wind-swept, around her nod,
And shrinks from that lost universe, which seems
To her the corpse of God.

Let her still therefore guard her lamp, and fling
Away the terror under which she cowers,
Trusting in trance to feel the touch of spring,
And the young struggle of the flowers,

Trusting that when the days are full, some thought,
Some presence, may dawn round us by-and-by,
So that, as prophets and as bards have taught,
We men may live, not die.

Then if that hope which science off has thrown,
Be but our nurse's lullaby and kiss,
If Nature round the edge her seeds have sown,
Only to hide the near abyss;

If all her visioned flowers and fruits, that smile
And fade not, where the living water gleams,
Be but as desert phantoms which beguile,
Mirrored on phantom streams;

Though none the promised amaranth may reap,
We yet accept the boon—believing still
That the great mother means us well—and sleep
In faith, according to her will.

SHORT ANALYSIS OF WHEWELL'S ‘PLURALITY OF WORLDS.’

Should man, through the stars, to far galaxies travel,
And of nebulous films the remotest unravel,
He still could but learn, having fathomed infinity,
That the great work of God was—The Master of Trinity.

EPITAPH ON A FAVOURITE DOG

Not hopeless, round this calm sepulchral spot,
A wreath, presaging life, we twine;
If God be love, what sleeps below was not
Without a spark divine.

PIP.

On his Little Granddaughter To-to making advances to ‘Puppy,’ aged 15.

Pup is blind, and so is Pip,
Pip is deaf, and so is Pup;
As our senses from us slip,
Life must soon be yielded up.

Then, my To-to, you must try,
Keeping well the twain apart,
Not to mix that U and I
In the memories of your heart.

PINDAR'S LAST HYMN.

[_]

This story is told in Pausanias. He tells us that Persephone refused Pindar admittance to his place in Elysium, because she only among the divine ones had never been honoured by a hymn of his, and accordingly she sent him back to recite a hymn to his kinswoman, who used to perform the odes under his direction at the festivals. If this post-sepulchral poem were not a great deal better than Shelley's verses from the other world, it could not have been worth much. I have, therefore, the less scruple in reproducing it here. I have, moreover, endeavoured to engraft upon it some hints and ideas suggested by a most remarkable book which interested me very much, entitled ‘The Perfect Way.’ This book consists of revelations vouchsafed in a state of sleep or trance to Mrs. Anna Kingsford, M.D. These revelations, whether one believes in them or not, are, I am quite sure, honestly believed in by the authors of the book. The great change which is to take place under their auspices is the substitution of intuition instead of reasoning, and the consequent elevation of woman as the priestess of intuition above man, whose strength lies in reasoning alone. My object has been to make use of the somewhat wild imaginations with which the volume is filled to improve my poetry.

INTRODUCTORY VERSES.

A herald leaving Argos through the night
Hurried along, to tell the men of Thebes
How, by a gentle message from great Zeus,
Pindar was summoned from their theatre
Into the rest of death. Through the world then

A sorrow, not in Doric hearts alone,
But over Hellas unto Egypt passing,
And Ammon's altars far beyond the Nile,
Was kindled, all men grieving for the dead.
Nor did this sorrow strike at man alone;
No, the undying Gods in Heaven itself
Mourned for their Poet-Priest; great Phoebus veiled
His shining rays, though he withdrew them not,
But through a soft grey cloud shed silently
A tender sadness on the plains below.
And Dirce, who had loved him as a child,
Who had stood smiling by to watch the bees
Drop lightly on his parted lips, and feed
His soul with honey by the Muses given,
Sent, as she past along despairingly,
A wailing thro' her waters, till it seemed
As if beneath the waves a woman wept.
Meanwhile, within the dim deserted house,
In brooding solitude uncomforted,
Sat Manto, Pindar's kinswoman beloved,
Queen of the harp, whose touch and voice divine
Kept answering like an echo, when he gave
His thoughts unto some proud old festival
In Hellas; for her soul was one with his.
She lived for Pindar, and the mighty flood
Of melody, which leaping through her breast

Rushed up like the spring tides, to him belonged
As to the moon belongs her vassal sea.
She, too, was dead, she felt. Yes, dead and gone
Like him, as if the inner spirit-stream,
With all its living cataracts of song,
Were choked with sudden frost. Just as on earth
The tossing of the ocean will congeal,
When God shall quench our over-wearied sun.
So she sat cold and pale and motionless,
Till the night came, but darkness did not last
For long. Lo, in the corner of the hall
A spark of fire, through strange vicissitudes
Of ebb and flow alternate, changed the gloom
To silver, spreading, strengthening, by degrees.
Then, in the middle of that phantom light,
Something took shape, and straight before her face
Stood Pindar, rising swiftly as a thought,
Stood as of old, save that within his eyes
Lay deep a yearning look, half love, half awe,
As if some God-born influence had poured
A strange new sense into his wondering soul,
Scarce understood, though not to be effaced.
His voice too, if it were a voice indeed,
And not a thrilling message from within
That glided on mute wings ineffable,
Was tremulous with tones unheard before;
And thus in accents, felt perchance, not heard,
The solemn aspect spake, or seemed to speak:
‘Manto, from regions wild and wonderful

Unwillingly I come, but my advance
The goddess queen, large-eyed Persephone,
Arrested at the adamantine gates
Of Hades, though the gates wide open seemed.
A viewless wall of air, at her command,
Rose, strong as steel, to bar my onward steps,
Then as I paused in blank astonishment
Under Hell's iron sky, the crash of wheels
And trampling hooves beat sharp upon mine ear,
And the great queen's far-shining chariot,
Drawn by her snow-white steeds, which evermore
Grew larger at each stride as on they came,
Flashed through the sullen darkness like a star;
She, on the other side of the impassable,
Serene in pensive beauty, with calm hand
Tightened her golden reins; a fragrant wreath
Of roses white and violets freshly blown
Lay intertangled in her golden hair,
And shed upon her unforgetting soul
A breath from Enna, filled with fled delights.
She paused, then spake, “Well hast thou said of yore,
O Pindar, that the word outlives the deed,
If that word flowers out of the poet's soul,
And the muse haply smiles upon its birth;
Not deeds alone that word outlives, but men,
Yea, and the gods themselves, alas, alas.
We too must wither, and sink down to death,
Under the touch of Time, unless the sons
Of song can keep us raised above the gulf

Of desolate oblivion and despair.
Now I alone among the heavenly ones
By thee am left unsung; this must not be.
Return to earth, and there let Manto's harp
Marry herself unto a noble hymn
In honour of thy queen Persephone;
Then shall the Elysian realms be thy abode,
So long as fate consenteth; thou shalt see
Great Thamyris and great Mæonides,
No longer blind, and live with them in love.
But there is something more for thee to learn
Ere thou returnest earthwards, Pindar. Know
There is a living spirit interfused
Over us, and around us, and below,
A boundless ocean of eternity,
Far more above proud Zeus than Zeus himself
Is greater than you children of an hour.
He is the soul of space, whose kingdom spreads
Beyond Olympus, and those ancient stars,
Orion, Vega, and that multitude
Of alien suns, of galaxies disrayed
By distance, and made one until they seem
Massed orbless, too remote for any name.
But though the world's great heart, the quickening pulse
That pours out life and hope, without a pause,
Through all his undivulged infinitudes
He rests or moves unknown. Zeus knows him not;
Only to me, I cannot tell you why,

He comes each night, in visions and in dreams,
And his breath whispers now that upon thee,
A poet, for whom all things that are seen
And felt become a part of his own soul,
I should impress the presence of his strength,
And place within thy hands, a trust for man,
The secret keys of Birth and Death and Time.
This vision, Pindar, is for thee alone,
For I am but his vassal instrument,
The faithful servant of his living love;
I know that he approaches, and I feel
His warmth, but do not see the light he brings.
Blindly I pass that on, for such his will,
To thee, that thou mayst teach the sons of men.
Perchance his burning radiance would alight
Too keenly upon human thought, unless
Some spirit, humbler far, but still a spirit,
Should temper it for mortals like thyself.
Only, remember that these hidden truths
Are not to be revealed except in song,
In sacred song, under the mystic touch
Of emanations felt to come from Heaven.
And now I know, though I know nothing more,
A veil is lifted from thine eyes; look round
And mark what fate prepares for the unborn.”
I looked and saw, and what I saw I tell,
In these last numbers. Now it is for thee
To listen, Manto, with heart, mind, and soul,
Then wed to sacred music, and reveal

The spirit of my last unearthly song,
For no light message to mankind it brings.’
He vanished, but the voice from him unseen
Flowed on, and filled the woman's heart with power.

Strophe I.

Not lightly hast thou summoned me,
And here I answer to thy solemn call,
Queen of these phantom realms, Persephone.
Shame-stricken I confess that as a God
Thou wert not by me sung, whilst earth I trod;
But what is God? Why, surely all in all,
As truly thou
Hast said but now,
The sum of things, the immeasurable sea
Of life, whom none can ever reach or know,
But only feel, within, without, below,
Around, above, as through the hours we go—
Unfathomable, formless, infinite,
Voiceless and nameless.—Ye whom we adore,
Proud rulers of Olympus, are no more
Than glimpses lent us of that hidden light;
And though your wills we now obey,
Ye soon must darken in your place,
Doomed, when He turns elsewhere His ray,
Like sunset clouds to fade away
And vanish over silent space.

Antistrophe I.

Yes, for the rapturous inward thrill
Of that immeasurable power unknown
That has moved on through thee, my heart to fill
With His own insight, arms me to behold
Worlds strange to Zeus himself, and Kronos old;
And coming times, until now never shown,
New even to thee,
Have dawned on me.
And gather, at His bidding, round me still,
Like some great Master's pictures, one by one,
With colours glowing from a spirit sun,
Before my soul uncounted eras run.
Faint and more faint through the Olympian hall
The splendours once reflected sink and wane,
At his chilled altar the priest kneels in vain,
Whilst from your nerveless hands the sceptres fall.
In the far East divinely bright
The Everlasting moves again,
Through a new orb sends down the light,
And pours on man, from His veiled height,
The wine of Heaven in golden rain.

Epode I.

The God of truth, the God of love,
The God of grace and joy and peace,

Half-heard, is murmuring from above,
‘Let sin and sorrow cease.’
Our world with sudden spring is filled,
With a swift rush of glorious dreams,
So that her sister stars are thrilled
With that which from her streams.
They whisper, as she passes on,
‘How can she fail a robe to wear
Of glory given as yet to none?
The Son of God is there.’
Alas, alas, pale shapes forlorn
Creep slowly round that deathless name,
The powers that watched when He was born
No longer seem the same.
The wars, that were to cease, return;
The thirst for blood, the lust of gold
Under that new Faith throb and burn
Scarce weaker than of old.
Much will be done, all ills to meet,
By Him who comes and dies for man,
But more is needed to complete
The task that He began.
Before mine eyes, made clear to see,
That new world is ascending,
And in it is a place for thee,
Revived, restored Persephone,
A triumph never-ending.
Oh that the blood within my life were young,
To sing thee as thou shouldest now be sung.

Beneath a virgin's sceptre thou art one
Of queenly powers whom God to rule ordains,
Whilst the pure Mother sits beside the Son,
And woman rising into glory reigns.

Strophe II.

The living star of womanhood divine,
More near to Him afar, will rise and spread
To blend itself with those clear truths which shine
Still round that Sacred Head.
The Olympians, in their weakness, melt and wane
Like shadows from the dawning of His face,
Perchance to die, perchance once more to reign,
New named, in some new place.
For though the blood they drink up from the earth
Stains each proud heart and poisons every will,
Yet not unholy was their primal birth,
Nor their first work done ill.
Therefore, it well may be that, cleansed and white,
All grossness gathered here they will forget,
And carry the first seeds of sacred light
To worlds unshaped as yet;
But still, whate'er may be their future fate,
It is a fate not to be shared by thee,
For thou must pass into a nobler state
Among the women queens, Persephone.

Antistrophe II.

Oh daughter of the skies, thy native heaven
The good it holds has set before thine eyes;
But those Sicilian flowers to thee have given
Sweet earthborn sympathies.
And when from Enna hurried to thy throne,
Half human, though divine, thou camest here,
The soul that breathes through darkness was made known,
And the gloom grew more clear.
Heaven's light, earth's love, unfathomable thought
Which only yonder rayless depths can give,
Each from its home unto thy spirit brought,
Therein together live.
Thou hast been therefore chosen to fulfil,
Whilst thy Olympian sisters disappear,
For man, the everlasting Father's will,
As His great hour draws near.
Beneath a Virgin's sceptre thou art one
Of queenly powers whom God to rule ordains,
When the pure Mother sits beside the Son,
And woman rising into glory reigns.

Epode II.

I see, I see—taught from within—
How, strengthened by that holier law,
Such golden years their course begin
As Kronos never saw.

Man's reason slowly weaving out
His ill-spun webs of thought to reach,
Through vague distracted coils of doubt,
Some self-deceiving speech,
Gives way to that instructive power
Which, on the woman's soul bestowed,
Starts into blossom like a flower
Beneath a breath from God.
Time soon shall feel her gentle hand
Shedding on earth eternal spring,
And thou art one of that bright band
Between her and your king.
The Virgin Mother stands alone,
Unveiled and strong, in her new place,
Near to the everlasting throne
Whose light falls on her face.
That light she makes as soft as dew,
Though still its splendours live and shine,
To pour, O vassal queens, through you
Its influence divine.
Restored, revived Persephone,
Those rays I feel descending,
They come through them, they come through you,
On woman to set nature free
From ill, earth's sorrow ending;
And all the stars, by sin no more controlled,
Shall sing together, as they sang of old.

Pindar composed a hymn to Ammon, not a Greek God, which seems rather as if Keble had written one in honour of Mahomet; I don't wonder that the neglected Persephone felt aggrieved.