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109

Miscellany Poems

111

THE WITCHES

I

At dead of night in Cranley street,
A silent crowd of yokels meet;
In marshalled line they form, and stand
With candles lighted in their hand;
Then up the lane they turn to go:
Down the calm mead no breezes blow,
The flame scarce wavers to and fro—
The flame to scare the witches.

II

And now, through smoke of flaring dips,
The stars are seen, like ghostly ships,
With all sails set in heaven's dark sea;
And ghostly white from the elder-tree
The clusters hang; but still there flows
No honey from the parched-up rose,
No breath from the honeysuckle blows—
All's blighted by the witches.
112

III

Through leaden air the young men pass,
Their shoes are dry in the long grass;
No living creature round them stirs,
No weasel squeaks, no fern-owl whirrs,
Through the dark night with might and main—
Each nerve and sinew on the strain—
They bear their candles up the lane
To daunt the midnight witches.

IV

But one by one their flames burn blue,
And all but three, then all but two,
By unseen lips at gateways blown,
Go out, till one is left alone;
One trembling flame that seems to shrink
Within its cage of fingers pink,
And now would rise and now would sink,
Sole help against the witches.

V

Still guarding this one light they rise,
Till, darker than the dark blue skies,
The windmill upon Coneyhurst,
A starless shape above them burst;
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And through the fern and furze they hear,
With aching nerve of the tingling ear,
A sound that curdles them with fear,—
The rustling of the witches.

VI

From north, from south, from east, from west,
As by one kindred aim possest,
Four singing shadows rush together
Towards the old gibbet in the heather;
One passes by the lads and blows
Their sole light vainly as she goes;
The blood within their bodies froze
At the meeting of the witches.

VII

Now round the gallows in a ring
They dance, and as they dance, they sing.
But look! for by the saints alive!
They were but four, they now are five;
And 'mid their shadowy garments grey
A taller, blacker form than they
Now crouches down, now leaps away!
The Devil's with the witches!
114

VIII

The candle-flame burns low and sick,
And wastes upon the slanted wick;
The lad who holds it 's like to die,
With beating heart and palsied eye;
One minute more, one minute more,
And the whole country-side's given o'er
To demons from the night's black shore
And malice-working witches!

IX

But still his English heart is stout,
And, seeing the flame is well-nigh out,
With purs'd lips, as one plays the flute,
He darts up to the gibbet's root;
And on the bed that no dew wets
Of moss and whortle-leaves, he sets
His candle-end, and straight forgets
His fear of ghastly witches.

X

In time! in time! with scream and start,
The black descends, the grey depart;
A sulphurous smell invades the brain,
115

But passes in a whiff of rain.
The morning straight begins to break;
The cocks in Canvil farmstead wake;
The numb world breathes, all for the sake
Of midnight-harrying witches.

XI

Now back to town the yokels pass;
Sweet dew falls fresh upon the grass;
From elms within the coppice-pale
Shouts nightingale to nightingale;
The web of stars fades out of sight,
In heavenly odour sinks the night,
The spell is gone, the air is light,
Set free from weight of witches.

XII

Nor will they come again this year,
To blast our harvest in the ear,
Or kill our cattle, or, passing by,
Breathe on our babes and make them die;
Men who can dare at night to bring
Clear candle-light to the shameful thing,
And set flame down in the ghastly ring,
Need fear no more from witches.
116

THE DEATH OF PROCRIS

To J. E. H.
Poor jealous Procris in the Cretan wood,
Slain by the very hand of love at last!
This way was best! the cordial bath of blood,
The long love-sickness past.
The brown fauns gather round with piteous cries;
They mourn her beauty, guess not at her woe;
They find no Eos graven on those eyes
Whence tears no longer flow.
Her griefs, her frailties from the flowery turf
Exhaled, are as the dews of yesterday;
The grim ship hurrying through the Phocian surf,
The exile on her way,
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The cruel goddess, and the two-fold test,
The breaking heart of hate, the poisoned hours,—
All these have faded into utter rest
Among the Cretan flowers.
Ah! wrap her body in its fluttering lawns!
'Tis Cephalus' own shaft that hath made cease
The passion of her breast; hush, foolish fauns,
Hush! for her end was peace.
118

THE GARDEN OF CHRIST'S

To W. R. S.
Beneath this turf lie roses whose pale blood
The very hand of Milton may have shed,
Or wreck of bays once pleated for the head
Of Quarles, whose early modesty withstood
No well-meant clamour of a student-brood;
Great poets here, and Platonists long dead,
By feathered Clio and Urania led,
Have waited for the moment and the mood.
Ah! who shall say these warm and russet walls,
This lustrous pool upon whose mirror falls
The shadow of so many an ancient tree,
Embrace not still the past, as perfumes hold
The spirits of flowers that may no more unfold
Their living buds by any lake or lea?
119

A SYRIAN INSCRIPTION

Beneath this arch, I, Tabnit, lie at rest,
I, Tabnit, Priest of Ashtoreth, and King
Of Sidon where the tideless waters swing.
O man, with hands and footsteps all unblest,
Who comest, an unseasonable guest,
Depart in haste, nor o'er my ashes fling
Thy furtive shadow. Go, nor dream I bring
Silver and gold for thy unhallowed quest.
Else,—if this screed thou connest, and dost yet
Presume upon my slumber,—be there shed
The curse of Ashtoreth on thy moon-struck head;
Thee may the living in thy life forget,
No seed in fields of childhood mayest thou set,
Nor couch at last among the peaceful dead.
120

THE PICTURE OF VIRTUE

Imitated from the Latin of Théodore de Beza

What form art thou in rags?
Child of the most pure skies.
Why is thy robe so vile?
Vain riches I despise.
And why this double face?
To note ill fate and good.
What doth this bridle teach?
That rage must be subdued.
This mattock in thy hand?
Labour is dear to me.
And wings to win the stars?
And higher, if higher may be.
These bands across thy breast?
That in the grave I lie.
These feet that tread down Death?
I, only, cannot die.
121

THE MARRIED BIBLIOPHIL

After the Swedish of C. D. af Wirsén

Still dumb thou sittest, with a downcast look,
The world forgetting o'er a brown old book;
While she who ever would embrace thee tries
In silence to caress thee with her eyes.
Say not so sharply, “Leave me here in peace!”
Nay! leave thy book, and from dull reading cease;
Since many a man who sits alone, perplexed,
Would yield all else so to be teased and vexed.
Give up thy book of life for love to paint
With golden pictures of a household saint,
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With miniatures whose blazon may provide
For days that shall grow dark, a light and guide;
So when thou turn'st the page where Love struck blind,
Thy bookish eyes, an angel thou shalt find.
123

TO A BIBLIOMANIAC

Paraphrased from an Epigram of Ausonius

Because your books are richly bound,
You feel a scholar through and through?
Then one Cremona, smooth and sound,
Would make a fiddler of you too!
Emptis quod libris tibi bibliotheca referta est,
Doctum et grammaticum te, Philomuse, putas?
Hoc genere et chordas, et plectra, et barbita conde;
Omnia mercatus, cras citharoedus eris!

Aus., Epig. xliv.

124

THE SICK GARDENER

Bring no valerian from the wall
That once I climbed in June,
Nor dropping pinks, nor larkspurs tall,
Nor pansies like the moon,—
Great nodding pansies, grave and pale
With listening to the night-wind's tale;
Nor whitest Canterbury bells,
Nor sturdy-hearted stocks,
Moth-like petunias, musk that smells
Like Love among the rocks,
Geraniums lilac, pink and red,
Nor thyme that's sweet when time is dead;
But in those garden-walks where I
Was young so long ago,
Howe'er the bees may chaffer, buy
One bunch of elder-snow;
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Its vapid white and sickly green
Remind me best of what has been.
Ambition foiled by lack of power,
Youth that burned out too soon,
A pulse that falters hour by hour,
Blithe chords struck out of tune,—
All this the Elder Blossom says
At sunset of my weary days.
126

RUIN

As I was walking in my lunar dream
Up those dim stairs that lead to break of day,
My soul's Chimera barred the starry way,
And broke the thread-like hope, the glimmering beam;
Methought my spirit pealed a stifled scream,—
So hideous-fair the monster, loud and gay,
So turbulent and blithe, in riotous play.
It called upon me, shouting, to blaspheme:
And my weak flesh, pledg'd to God's work and word,
Discreet and mild, subdued to yearn and learn,
Almost redeemed, a blanching miracle,—
Flushing deep red, with acrid juices stirred,
Before this vast brute, gross and taciturn,
Rolled, crashing, back into the heart of hell.
127

OPIUM HARVEST

High up in hollow valleys where dim lakes
In Karahissar find no water-shed,
By many a swarthy snow-gorged river-bed,
In long white fluttering waves the poppy shakes;
But spring-tide comes at last, and April wakes,
And tears the petals from the golden head,
Till, of its pink wings disinherited,
The opium-laden capsule bends and bakes.
Then, after sunset, the sleek farmers creep
To slash the poppy-globes, and leave them soon
Oozing green tears beneath the gibbous moon;
Tears, that in scallop-shells, when dawn shall peep,
Patient, they'll gather; then, dismiss the boon
Round the wide world in bales of solid sleep.
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