A Sonnet Chronicle :: :: University of Virginia Library

What is my Lady? she is all my care,
Where is my Lady? she is in my heart,
There would I keep her with all pain and smart,
Seeing her absence makes the world less fair,
The sky less blue, the noontide light less rare,
The flowers less swift from out the earth to start,
And where her presence is such sunbeams dart
As make midsummer of midwinter air.

So having all this care I yet have none,
And sing along as merry as a child,
For though she strive she cannot break her chains;
Love wove them,—Love in Heaven the mightiest one,
And if she frown, I know she once hath smiled,
And if she go, her spirit still remains.

The New Year, 1900

She comes with nigh an hundred years of fate
Cast o'er her shoulders, on her brow the star
Of Hope, but in her ears the sound of war,
And in her eyes deep sorrow for man's hate.
She comes to cast down all that was too great,
To lift up those that humble-hearted are;
For lo! she holds commission from afar,
And doth obey one only Potentate.

Weary of blood and battle-woe, she bears
Within her hand the olive bough of peace,
She points to One who brought the name from Heaven
Of Counsellor—and speaks to willing ears,
Saying, His Government must needs increase
Till back to hell the fiends of war are driven.

Ruskin at Rest

Brantwood, Sunday, January 21st, 1900.

The Rose of morning fades, and ghostly pale
The mountains seem to move into the rain,
The leafless hedges sigh, the water-plain
Sobs, and a sound of tears is in the Vale;
For he whose spirit-voice shall never fail,
Whose soul's arm ne'er shall lifted be in vain—
God's Knight, at rest beyond the touch of pain
Lies clad in Death's impenetrable mail.

And all the men whose helmets ever wore
The wild red-rose St. George for sign has given
Stand round, and bow the head and feel their swords,
And swear by him who taught them deeds not words
To fight for Love, till, as in days of yore
Labour have joy, and earth be filled with Heaven.

St. George's Day, April 23rd, 1900

This is the day when overlord and thane
Chose Alfred, great and goodliest, to be king;
This is the day when light gave welcoming
To him whom darkness ne'er shall hold again—
Shakespeare, world-crowned—a day of joy and pain,
Seeing this day Heaven caught him back to sing
Among the stars, whom God sent forth to bring
To mortal ears a more than mortal strain.

But here, by Grasmere lake and Rydal Scar,
We think of one who fifty years to-day
Gave to the hands of death a deathless lyre;
Who, truest knight that ever rode to war
Against the dragon-lusts of foul desire,
Saved and led home Life's purer simpler way.

Love's Spring-Tide

Dedicated to all friends of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children.

As when upon our winter-blighted lea
There comes the breath of the compassionate spring,
And hope is born for every tender thing,—
The snowdrop feels it, and the forest tree
Thrills, and the earth's blood pulses fast and free,
The air is filled with love upon the wing,
The ploughman whistles, and the woodlands ring
With promise of the summer yet to be;—

So, when, from forth His everlasting store,
The balmy breath of God's compassion blew
Upon this blight of darkness, cold, and pain,
Our hard hearts melted, there was born again
Hope for all tender human flowers that grew,
And happier England sang from shore to shore.

To Sir Alfred Milner

After a Parliamentary Debate, 1900.

Tho' men who love their party more than life
Rail at you, you whose honour was increased
By Isis, in the West and in the East,
I know your truth is keener than the knife
Of calumny—Tho' traitorous words are rife,
And veiled sedition works unseen as yeast,
I feel your justice done to great and least
Shall yet prevail to heal this bitter strife.

For I remember in our Balliol days,
Old for your time and serious for your years,
What manly soul you showed us in debate,
And I have faith that even the men who hate
Shall own the silent will that perseveres
Sought right in utter carelessness of praise.

In Honour of Abraham Esau

The brave blacksmith of Calvinia who died rather than betray our Empire's cause.

Prince-loyalist of all the black man's race,
Tho' someone blundered and the bloody deed
That sealed your murderer's shame must wait its meed
Before God's great White Throne; and though your case
Men left unnoted, Justice sure shall trace
Endictment on that scroll the angels read,
And we who reap your death's heroic seed
Shall one day meet and thank you face to face.

For you alone in dread Calvinia's day
Dared face the furious rebels' cruel lust,
Dared yield your body to the scourge and thong,
Rather than cast your Empire's cause away,
And with your spirit's hammer brave and strong
You welded black to white in bonds of trust.

The Choir Invisible

Christmas Day, 1900.

All down the valley Crosthwaite bells are ringing
And Skiddaw sends us back the joyous tone,
How can our hearts not think of those who gone
Return not home to join our Christmas singing?—
Brave boys whose blood so full of hope was springing,
Strong men, so sure when duty must be done,
In silent graves in alien earth alone
Their bodies lie, where bells no news are bringing.

But though no shepherds watch on yonder veldt,—
Void now of sheep and void of men who till,
To-day our hero sons aroused from sleep
Come singing to our side. Their souls have felt
What meant those angels over Bethlehem's steep,
Who sang “God's peace to men of Godlike will.”

To the dying Century, Farewell!

Born out of darkness, dying in the dark,
You with a hundred years upon your head,
Go take your youngest child who came with dread
And leaves us still in fearfulness: for, hark!
An hungred still, the hounds of battle bark.
Go from us, you have multiplied our dead;
Let others praise your wondrous forward tread—
Steam-plumed and glorious with the electric arc.

We praise you not; with all your knowledge and power—
Sea-lord—Earth-shaker, you have heaped the curse—
The lust of gold that breeds the lust of war;
A fairer century comes from Heaven—the nurse
Of nobler hope—lo! in her hand Love's dower
And on her head burns Brotherhood for a star.

A Rejoinder

Nay, blame me not, for wearily I go
Down the dark steep, who did from darkness rise;
Have I not seen the doom of tyrannies
Who laid the Tyrant tyrant-breaker low?
I bade the young new West to glory grow,
Quickened the merchant's marvellous emprise.
Even as I pass, I hear the groans and cries
Of that old East awakening in birth throe.

Has not my face been turned towards the poor?
I gave the fruits of labour to the hind,
I freed the slave, the helpless children bless
My hand, I opened wide fair learning's door,
Preached far the Christ, and though men called me blind,
I stood for Peace and Tenderer-heartedness.

The Passing of the Queen

Osborne, January 22, 1901.

Now is an end of sorrowful loneliness!
From her imperial purple, to the land
Where all true-hearted kings with welcome stand,
Goes our great Queen; pure golden is her dress
And in her hand the lily. Storm and stress
The wide world o'er is hushed beneath the hand
Of loss, and voices sound from strand to strand,
Crying, “We bless Victoria, and shall bless!”

For this was she who dwelt with God apart,
Yet 'mid her millions sympathetic moved;
This was the monarch—wise with gathered store
Of kingly counsel, learned in duty's lore—
The Queen whose more than sixty summers proved
Her throne inviolate was a Nation's heart.

To a Dumb Mourner

I do not wonder that our lonely kings,
Fawned on by courtiers whom their souls despise,
Caress the hound that at the footstool lies,
The dove that on the shoulder folds its wings;
For these sincere uncalculating things
Have hearts above such human flatteries,
Love is the lord of all their loyalties,
Of faith is born their fearless communings.

To you, dumb mourner, was it given to prove
How trust can bridge the worlds that intervene,
And kindness bind the whole creation one;
You felt the fond hands of the dying Queen
That told how near she held you to the throne,
And blessed in you all creatures of her love.

It is said that the last thing the dying Queen fondled was her favourite little Pomeranian dog.

Love in Death

Men say, when willingly she laid aside
All earthly power to win the heavenly place,
A sudden vision of immortal grace
Wrought marvellous enchantment, and she cried
“Albert!” and all her being was glorified,
The light of other worlds was on her face,
And as a lover goes to meet th'embrace
Of one long parted from, Victoria died.

So ere she took again her bridal dress
And passed for ever from her people's sight,
Our Queen and Empress with her latest breath
Set royal seal to love's sweet stedfastness,
To love in darkest darkness bringing light,
To love triumphant over time and death.

It is said that just before her death, a light came into the Queen's face, and that with the word “Albert!” on her lips she passed away.

The Sorrow of the Fleet

The Solent, February 1, 1901.

They bore her body down toward the shore,
Her Highland pipers led the mournful way,—
Did ever pipes with lamentation play
Such royal dirge, such solemn wail before.
Hark! from the Solent comes a sullen roar,
The battle-ships like wounded sea-hounds bay,
The air is filled with thunder and dismay
As guns to guns their deep-mouthed anguish pour.

So down the dark-hulled avenue afloat
Where Britain's strength lies grieving on the tide,
Unmoved, the Queen, beneath her snow-white pall
Comes silent. Every sailor feels his throat
Swell, his eyes dim, for her he would have died—
His Empress-Queen who fares to funeral.

Across the Flood

The Solent, February 1st, 1901.

She comes, before her every ensign dips,
Such majesty has death she still is Queen,
Pale shines the Solent as it sobs between
Her islands dark and dumb for the eclipse
Of sovereignty and love. Her warrior ships
Lie sorrowing on the waters, sailors lean
Sad on their arms reversed, and what they mean
The guns forth-tell from melancholy lips.

The very heavens do seem to feel our mood,
The great sun pales, the tide runs ghostly grey,
And the wind sighs as if by pain possessed,
So to the island of perpetual rest
She comes; Ah! well! for she has crossed the flood,
But we this side in lamentation stay.

The Harvest of Love

Men wondered at her courage and her will;
Weighed down with years and sorrow she would go
To thank the land that helped against the foe,
And bless the boys who, liege and loyal still
For all the long-drawn centuries of ill,
Held it no shame, wherever Shamrocks grow,
Her Rose should bloom with honour. She went to sow
Love, and Love's harvest doth her dream fulfil.

For lo! on Dublin's pavement, plain was laid
The darkest news that e'er to Ireland came;
Barefoot, in rags, a city arab read
“The Queen is dead! Great Britain's Queen is dead!”
Heart-full the lad his only penny paid,
And left his violets on Victoria's name.

On the day when the news of the death of the Queen reached Ireland, a little street arab in Dublin stopped and read the announcement of the Queen's death in the poster that was laid upon the pavement. He was seen to fumble in his pocket for a coin, to cross over to a flower-seller close by, and having spent his last penny on a bunch of violets he went and pinned it above the Queen's name on the poster, and so passed on, in sorrowful loyalty.

To the Kaiser

2nd February, 1901.

Kaiser! whose name on every lip is sweet,
In this dark hour of crownlessness and woe,
When on your charger white as driven snow,
Close by our Queen beneath her funeral sheet,
You rode so sadly up the purple street,
Did not we seem heart-smitten then, to know
Our judgments harsh?—Friend ever, never Foe—
Now were you clothed in sympathy complete;

And all the Teuton in our British blood,
And all the British in your Teuton heart,
Commingling, seemed to make the bond like steel
That bound us in perpetual brotherhood;—
The veil was torn that kept our souls apart
And common love made wondrous common weal.

The Way of Peace

London, February 2, 1901.

[_]

It is said that among the recorded sayings of the Queen upon her death-bed were the words, “Oh that peace might come.”

This is the Way of Peace! great London's roar
Sinks into silence, deep bells boom aloud!
And softly murmuring mourns the darkened crowd
As sounds full tide upon a windless shore.
This is the Way of Peace!—Peace known before
When o'er the well-beloved her head was bowed,—
Peace such as kings find only in their shroud,—
Peace won and welcomed—Peace for evermore.

This is the Way of Peace! her gentle feet
In other worlds of Peace are glad to-day,
Ever peace-lover,—hater of all war:
Ah, would to God no sound our peace could mar!
As down the solemn, hushed, heart-sobbing street
Our Queen of Peace goes peaceful on her way.

The Millenary of Alfred the King

March, 1901.

Thou “famous, warlike, and victorious king,”
Friend of the widow, orphan, and the poor,
Who shut out self and opened wide the door
To justice, temperance, peace, long-suffering:
By thee men heard the Saxon poets sing,
By thee, our England's comfort, even the boor
Learned that his life had other ills to cure
Than hardship's ache or pain that sorrows bring.

But most, thou son of Ethelwulf, to thee
On spear-side and on spindle-side, we owe
The debt for having made a king's estate
Royal by love and pure simplicity,
Strong by sure faith and wisdom without show,
Truth-teller, Alfred, Greatest of our Great.

To Mary Wakefield

On the presentation of a diamond spray, with the thanks of all lovers of Westmoreland song, April 18th, 1901.

Lady! to you who tuned the harp again
And bade the soul of Westmoreland each spring
Rejoice to hear its men and maidens sing;—
Who, when the birds were silent, sent the strain
From farm to farm, from lane to winter lane;—
Who, in the time of daffodil, touched a string
That made all music burgeon forth and bring
Ev'n to old hearts surcease of care and pain—
To you—Song-Queen of our north-country choirs,
Who sang last century's lullaby, and blest
The new-born century with melodious breath,—
To you we tender now this diamond wreath;
Take it, and wear it,—let its thousand fires
Flash forth the love and thanks our names attest.

The Mother of Her People

Unveiling the Bust of the Queen at Uppingham School.

Here in this citadel for Wisdom planned
The scholar youth shall learn her wondrous grace
That binds the far-off millions of the race,
And keeps them one in Love's imperial hand.
And when with Death and Duty they shall stand
Sworn servants, lo! from the familiar place,
Clear thro' the dark, this venerable face
Shall shine, and they shall hear their Queen command.

Perchance some little lad in years to come,
Homesick and motherless, within this hall,
Shall feel his orphanhood, and need a friend;
Then, o'er his head, in marble from the wall,
The “Mother of her people” here shall bend,
And he shall know how all the world is Home.

Love Triumphant

Buffalo, 6th September, 1901.

When in that Hall of Music music ceased,
Jarred into silence by the hellish sound
Of pistol shots that rang the whole world round,
And he, the welcoming friend of great and least,
Fell smitten by a man half man half beast.—
I saw above the piteous bleeding wound
One bending, sad, with thorns His head was crowned.
“Has brotherhood,” he sighed, “no more increased?”
And as He spake far over sea and land
Words borne on lightning wings came flashing fast,
The air was filled with one great sobbing cry—
God spare his life who gave a friendly hand
Even to the slayer! Nations stared aghast,
But Love, not Hate, had won the mastery.

Christmas Day, 1901

Ring out your Christmas music to the fells,
Though blood-drops hang on every holly tree,
Though loud as passionate wind and surging sea,
The air is full of hatred that foretells
The havoc of the nations. Hark! it swells
Fierce and more fierce—wolf-notes of jealousy
Mixed with the cry of Mammon's madding glee—
Wherefore, ring on, ye undisheartened bells!

For surely never would have come from Heaven
A helpless Babe to mend a world forlorn,
If Love were not designed for slow increase:
To us no full-grown Saviour Lord was born,
To us, as on this day, a Babe was given:
We crown with hope an Infant Prince of Peace.

New Year, 1902

From gates of gold above Helvellyn's crest
The New Year comes with wonder in her eyes,
And all our hearts in expectation rise
To give her greeting. Derwentwater's breast
Lies calm, and calm the valley; to their rest
Ghosts of the night in spectral companies,
Ghosts of the year with all its woes and cries,
Pass off in peace and melt into the west.

Two peoples greet her, softened each by war,
And saddened by twin sorrows felt as one;
Two sister nations sworn in this New Year
To set fair freedom on a loftier throne,
To take the purer heart for guiding star,
And bring Earth's weary feet to Heaven more near.

Cecil Rhodes

March 26, 1902.

Now falls the lion-head of grizzled grey,
Now fades contemptuous sneer, persuasive smile,
Fails the blunt speech and loosely ordered style
That hid the deep-set purpose far away;
Ten thousand graves are opened on this day,
And gaunt and grim before his coffin file
Men fall'n in fight, men caught in fever's wile,
“We died, but we were one in heart,” cry they—

For this man saw beyond the common ken,
Adventurer, not for self nor sordid lust,
He felt th' Imperial mission in his blood,
And sharer of siege-famine, drouth and dust,
Or bold within that Matabele den,
He ruled by right of Saxon hardihood.

A Dream of St. Francis

Written at Assisi on the eve of the founding of the International Society for the Study of Franciscan Literature. May, 1902.

When first from yonder solitary dome
Where angels sang, I heard the vesper bell
Possessing all the plain with solemn knell,
I thought not of the saint who woke old Rome
Back into life,—and bade God's creatures come
To brotherhood,—who, to his lonely cell,
Called a dark age in poverty to dwell
Where Poverty with Patience found a home.—

Rather I dreamed of that hot-blooded youth
Who went for war across the purple plain
And came back sworn Christ's warrior knight to be,
Who, for a whole year felt Perugia's chain,
And sick in prison-fetters learned God's truth—
That they alone who bind the flesh are free.

The Angel-Whisper, Peace

Now let the fierce volcanic fires of Hate
Fail, and the earth that felt the sulphurous rain
Of war's grim ash, grow verdure once again;
Let Love and Justice, clad in heavenly state,
Sit crowned sole arbiters of loud debate;
There in the council chamber bid the slain
Point to their wounds, and every heart of pain,
Each mother's heart, plead silent, pray, and wait.—

For now from farm to farm is glad increase,
Lambs play, colts run, birds carol round their homes,
Such bluebell Heavens are shed within the wood
That a new wonder fills the children's blood,
And out of blue-green distance, hark! there comes
A soft imperious Angel-whisper, Peace!

The Coronation Bonfires

June 30, 1902.

Dark fell the cloud: but King's own sentinel
Each kept his beacon-watches as before;
True-hearted servants, loyal to the core,
They waited for the whisper, “All is well!”
Then star to star they leapt in flame to tell
The goodly news from over land and shore,
And long-time dumb, but eloquent the more,
They flashed their joy from plain and moor and fell.

“God save the King!” “Nay, God has saved!” they cried,
“Our chosen King, whose rule shall bind in one
The seven great seas that roll beneath our ships.”
Ah never, sure, from more triumphant lips
Have beacons sped their golden message wide,
Or stars more glad begemmed our island throne!

The Skiddaw Bonfire

On the Evening of June 26th, 1902.

Here dumb I stand who had so much to say,
Whose heart would be so warm, here stand I cold;
The lingering sun beneath the verge has rolled,
And the long, mellow twilight melts away.
I, who was meant so well to end the day
Of national triumph, sorrowful I hold
Dark commune with dark Skiddaw—fold on fold,
With plains unlit by diamond-bright inlay.

But, tho' the great stars visit me in turn
To mock me in my grief, I have no shame,
I watch and wait for good that is to be;
The day will dawn whose night has need of me,
My heart shall yet with exultation burn,
And the King's crowning call from flame to flame.

To Kitchener of Khartoum

A Welcome Home. July 12th, 1902.

Come back to Britain, Britain's soldier-lord,
War-worn and desert-weary you shall hear
Wave after wave our plaudits cheer on cheer
The storm of acclamation bravely poured.
Victor by might of arms and right of word,
A double gift to grateful hearts you bear,—
The trust of men you fought with and revere—
And Peace—her olive twined about your sword.

Come home, our country never can forget
How well you bore the palm branch from the Nile
To plant with fadeless honour far away:
Come home, a Greater Britain owns the debt,
The Rose and Thistle thank their Sister Isle,
One voice the Empire welcomes you to-day.

Viscount Kitchener was born in Ireland.

The Crowning of the King

August 9th, 1902.

Come forth, already crowned with health, our King,
By hands of Heavenly mercy strong to save,—
You who have looked into the silent grave
And felt how sweet was life beneath the wing
Of that dread Angel, whose o'ershadowing
Darkened a nation's sunshine: come more brave,
More sworn to royal right: our prayers we gave,
A double crown of hope and love we bring.

Oh, truer for the truth by pain made clear,
Empowered with eyes made juster to behold
What passes—what eternally shall stay;
Lo, as we hail you King with loyal cheer,
We too, with clearer vision, see to-day
God's purpose set within your crown of gold.

The Coronation

(Before.)

When Saxon Edric at the “dreadful place,”
Saw Sebert's church fulfilled with light divine
And angels on a golden ladder shine,
Mellitus thanked St. Peter for his grace;
And when St. Peter, talking face to face
With old Wolsinus, gave him Jacob's sign,
St. Edward kept his vow, and Thorney's shrine
Became Heaven's gate and God's fair dwelling-place.

God grant, to-morrow, on the rock of Scone,
Where Jacob's pillowed head saw once in dream
Angels descend, and earth brought near to Heaven,
Our king may hear the fateful Syrian stone
Speak clear, and all the air with angels gleam,
And visions of the golden stair be given.

According to tradition the stone of Scone beneath the coronation chair was the stone Jacob used at Bethel for his pillow and when a true king is crowned thereon the stone gives forth a sound.

The Coronation

(After.)

With orb and ring, with rod and sceptre sate
Our King; his loyal people waited round
Like gorgeous flowers aslope from roof to ground,
Women white lilies,—men enroseate;
Then did one bear the sign of royal state
From off the altar, and the King was crowned,
Guns roared, bells clashed, the Abbey shook with sound,
Men shouted, and the live air throbbed with fate.

A sudden radiance filled the solemn gloom,
From crown to lifted crown leapt tongues of fire,
Flushed by that glow an Empire's night was ended;
High o'er the King upon his rock of doom
Hope built her stair, and lo, an angel choir
With songs of cheer ascended and descended.

As the crown was placed on the King's head the electric light in lantern and choir flashed into brightness, at the same time the prayer for courage was offered and the choir sang, “Be strong, and play the man.”

The Pilot's Home-Going

Lord Salisbury tendered his Resignation to the King on July 11, 1902.

As when the storm upon a treacherous coast
Blows fierce, and tides perplex, and night is near,
The captain bravely takes the helm to steer,
Most trusted he, because far-seeing most;
And though the shipmen from his side are lost,
While overhead one star is shining clear
He steers straight on, until the dawn appear
And seas are calm—then silent leaves his post;

So now our pilot, serving Queen and King
As that fore-elder served a lesser realm,
Safe with his Empire-laden ship has come;
And careless of what praise the world may bring
But crowned by Duty, lo! he leaves the helm,
And goes storm-bent in lofty silence home.

Unveiling of the Rose-Window

To the Memory of the late Duke of Westminster in Westminster Abbey, Friday, September 26, 1902.

More golden light henceforth for evermore
Shall fall on names whose memory helps the race,
And every poet in his sleeping-place
May feel warm sun upon the silent floor;
But they who entering through the Abbey door
Know the new thrill of unaccustomed grace,
In fancy see the Lord High Steward's face,
And sigh for one no blazoned panes restore.

Gleam on, thou rich rose-window, gleam and show
With angel petals how all good and great
Were glad forerunners of the Christ to be.
Still God's way needs a herald; such was he
Who kept a humble heart in proud estate,
Who helped the high, and lifted up the low.

Autumn at Brandelhow

Declared open by H.R.H. The Princess Louise, Oct. 16, 1902.

From such a hill might angels long to lean
And gaze once more upon their native place,
So calm the waters—Walla face to face
So calm—Blencathra, Skiddaw so serene—
You scarce might think earth's central fires had been
The makers of this gentle mountain race;
While wood and golden fells with loyal grace
Slope down to greet the daughter of a Queen.

And here may mortals, weary of the strife
Of inconsiderate cities, hope to come
And find the fair tranquillities of earth;
Here men may pray, and poet-thoughts have birth,
Here all shy forest creatures seek a home,
And wild-wood pleasaunce help the nation's life.

Zola Dead

September 29, 1902.

Greatly you dared, grim advocate of Truth,
Apostle you of stark reality,
Now in your simple shirt at rest you lie
And know the secret sought for, yea, forsooth
Already have forgotten pain and ruth,
The statesman's hiss, the fierce fanatic's cry,
Already feel how brave men when they die
Mount up like eagles and renew their youth.

Zola! when all the law courts broke to flame
You quailed not, still you breathed th' accuser's breath,
And Paris felt in that supremest hour
Deep beyond deep, Truth's transcendental power,
Now Paris, scarce, for sobbing, speaks your name,
But those stern lips accuse her still of Death.

Archbishop Temple

In Memoriam—Lambeth, December 23rd, 1902.

You crowned our King, upon your brow shall shine
To-day that fairer crown the angels bring,
For you have borne yourself on earth a king,
None braver in the long illustrious line
Since first Augustine saw St. Martin's shrine—
Have carried staff or worn the Primate's ring,
None juster, none more wise of heart to bring
For days of might the sense of right divine.

Rugged of phrase, but gentle at the core,
Firm to command, with saving common-sense
To yield and win, in you men's eyes could see
The Spartan armed with life's simplicity,
The man of God, high priest without pretence,
The true Arch-Shepherd, honoured evermore.

A Christmas Message, 1902

There is no work, the wolf is at the door—
The thousands in our cities cry forlorn
“Those bells but mock with tale of Christmas morn;
No Saviour comes from Heaven our want to cure!”
Nay, but His fan shall throughly purge His floor,
To-day He winnows chaff from honest corn,
The Bread of all the world again is born
And bids us dare for brotherhood be poor.

Ah! what avail our chanted hymns, and prayer,
Our green-wreathed churches and our altar rites,
If love of humankind no offering make?
Thro' heat of noon, thro' cold of starlit nights
The wise men came with gifts for Jesu's sake—
Give thou thy heart, thyself with all men share.

The New Year, 1903

As when an old friend dies, about his bed
Men stand, and each to each for cheer will bring
Remembrance of some honourable thing—
A word well spoke—a thought, a work well sped:
So, gathered now, about the old year dead,
While with forgetful joy the loud bells ring,
We say, “He gave us peace, he brought our King
From doom, he set the crown upon his head.”

Yea, even the children in the wakeful street
Wave hands and cry, “Farewell!” above the bier;
At least for these he strove, of these he thought;
And lo! the lamp of ordered learning, brought
Thro' Churches' clamour and thro' party heat,
With hope of far-off good, leads on the year.

The Delhi Durbar

January 1, 1903.

When in the milkwhite hall on Delhi's plain
The princes of the sixty millions stood,
And golden “Shan” and grim-faced Pathan brood,
And Rajpoot nobles joined in lofty strain
To bless with loyal voice their Emperor's reign,
I heard guns roar above the quietude
Of fifty years, and saw one write in blood,
“Remember those who for this day were slain!”

The writing vanished; o'er the Lion throne
Clear scrolled in light upon heaven's blue was seen,
“Edward, true son of India's Empress-Queen,
Swears to protect your liberties and rights!”
Ah! better than ten thousand bloody fights
Is love and law that binds an empire one.

The Cry of Macedonia

November, 1903.

Once to the East did Macedonia call,
And Christ's brave servant, resting by the shore
Of Troas, heard the piteous cry, “Come o'er
And help us!” rose and came: the isles and all
Dark Europe blessed th' obedience of Saint Paul,
Learning the Love within his gospel lore;
Now, westward turned, we hear her voice implore
The Christ to help her from her piteous thrall.

Britain! by all the debt of grace we owe
To that first bringer of all gospel good,
Shall we not rise to succour the opprest?
Not dare for Christ's poor flock to strike one blow?
Give back the gifts of Freedom, Peace and Rest,
And prove the might of Christian brotherhood?

America to England, Greeting

A message was received by the King from President Roosevelt by Marconi's wireless telegraphy, January 19, 1903.

When from Cape Cod to Cornish Poldhu came
The whisper of man's voice upon the air,
And Britain's king was suddenly made 'ware
That he whom all the States their leader name
Sent cordial greeting—with his electric flame
Troubling the viewless ether—on the stair
That Science builds to God, lo! angels fair
Sang down from heaven to earth their loud acclaim.

For now whatever winds may rage and blow,
With clear untroubled voice from out the west
The daughter with the mother shall have speech
And thro' calm air hold commune each with each,
Till heart to heart the Saxon peoples grow,
And all the world from fear of war have rest.

In Memory of Edna Lyall

Bournemouth, 8th February, 1903.

The love of peace, the hate of dreadful war,
Burned in her bosom. At her gentle side
It seemed all things that trembled could abide,
And in her heart found shelter from afar;
Too frail for this world's fierce tumultuous jar,
Above the mist and dark material tide
She held the image of the Crucified
With Faith upon her forehead for a star.

Henceforth, beside the pleasant southern wave
The pines shall sigh, the sea-birds call in vain,
For death has wiped her foot-prints from the sand.
Ah, write above her rest, she strove to save
The land she loved from all dishonour's stain,
Fearless—for Christ went with her hand in hand.

L'Entente Cordiale

July 8, 1903.

“The Marseillaise,” and then “God Save the King,”
“God Save the King,” and then, “The Marseillaise,”
And we who dwell beyond the Dunmail Raise
Heard the loud music with its double wing
Sweep thro' the land rich benison to bring.
To-day for Europe dawns the best of days,
To-day that angel Concord all men praise
Has turned our winter of mistrust to spring.

Perfidious Albion now no more shall be
Spat on by blue-bloused gamins; France our foe—
In fancy not in fact—henceforth is friend;
Peace builds her bridge across the sundering sea,
On British soil again love-lilies blow,
And back to France our English rose we send.

The Cry of the Women to our Church Councillors

Church Congress, 14th October, 1903.

Ah! not for this that in the woman's heart
Is nursed the deepest love of the Divine,
Not that for worship at the inner shrine
Our purest hope and faith may go apart,
Unvexed by wranglings of the busy mart,
And undistracted by the baits that shine
To lure men earthward, not that Mary's line,
Unbroken still, can feel the sword's fierce smart—

But, as partakers of His flesh and blood
Who deigned accept the love by women given,
We ask to speed the Saviour's golden day,
And by the works we work, the prayers we pray,
By maiden chastity and motherhood,
We claim the right to help His Church to Heaven.

Herbert Spencer

Obiit Dec. 7, 1903.

Now the great school-man goes, where shall be taught
Whate'er the child-mind in him still may learn;
Now the unsatisfiable eyes discern
The master truths for which the thinker sought;
Forth from his lone monastic cell of thought
The hermit fares—that cell so dark and stern,
And gazing back surveys with unconcern
The mind's laborious building he had wrought.

For now beneath the flux—the ebb and flow
Of those resistless forces that his plan
Coerced from ends he guessed to ends he saw—
He, the Victorian age's last wise man,
Sees God's good Will behind the reign of law,
And Love and Life from out of darkness grow.

The Vision that helped Sebastian Cabot

When brave Sebastian sailed from Brigha's town,
Forever following after he was ware
Of voices calling, and a vision fair
That bade him for his country win renown;
The grey green fields of Dundry like a crown
Cloud-plumed rose up to melt in tranquil air,
Here stood the river portal red and rare
There sloped the woods of Leigh in beauty down.

And ever still for that adventurous man
The dream of Bristol in its evening light
Went with him—city still to watch and wait—
The rose red city by the rose red gate—
And as to sunset and the storm he ran
Shone out the peace of Avon starry bright.

This sonnet was written at the time of the appeal to Bristol citizens to prevent the further demolition, by quarrying them, of the famous Avon Cliffs in the autumn of 1903.

A Christmas Thought, 1903

When disembodied spirits in far spheres
We turn our thought to that old home on earth,
Shall we forget the day that brought us mirth
In childhood, filled with hope our later years?
Will not the sound of carols haunt our ears,
The children's laughter round the blazing hearth,
The chime of bells that told the Saviour's birth—
Those mellow bells along the starlit meres?

Ah! yes, but once we shall remember came
Jarring our Christmas joy, a bitter cry—
“Come o'er and help!” The Macedonian stood
A spectre, naked, gaunt and marred with blood;
We saw and heard, but put the vision by
Though all the land was ringing with Christ's name!

The Tide of Love

New Year, 1904.

As when the flood-tide comes to full, and stands
A moment weary of its long unrest,
And all the heavens are mirrored and the west
Burns gold where late lay unillumined sands,
So now the year at full, in her old hands
Lifts up a mirror and we see the best—
Peace at our gates—old friendships repossest
And hope of good for Moslem-blighted lands.

But the tide turns, and all the light is lost,
The New Year sobs beyond the barren bar,
Sobs like a child that knows not of the way.
And hark! with trampling of a Russian host
The Far East shakes, the dark air breathes of war!
Flow, Tide of Love! and let the world's peace stay!

The Master of the Temple

February 8, 1904.

Never again from his high-lifted place,
Above the silent Templars where they lie,
Shall fall the voice whose echoes loth to die
Still linger on, whose words were words of grace.
Never again shall we behold that face
Snow-crowned and pale as though Death hovered by,
Nor watch the lightning flashes of the eye
That told how thought with merriment kept pace.

But where no temple is, in that far land,
Master of knights who sought the Holy Grail
With high endeavour, courtly reverence,
He greets to-day his friends with spirit hand,
The men whose wit was wed to innocence
The souls whose fount of honour cannot fail.

To G. F. Watts, R.A.

On his 87th Birthday—Feb. 23rd, 1904.

When the “white maids of February” spring,
When catkins hang and lime-buds flush and swell,
I found within his fir-girt citadel,
Upon his painter's throne, the painter king:
Time had no power to harm, he felt no sting
Of praise or blame, and still upon him fell
Voices from Heaven, and bade his canvas tell
Heart's love, high thought, and soul's imagining.

And in that presence-chamber I was ware
Of angel powers that had no mortal birth—
Hope with her ear down-bended to attend
The far-off cries of all our painful earth,
And Love that led Life up the mountain stair,
And mighty Death, man's most compassionate friend.

At Hengwrt: April 5, 1904

(In Memory of Frances Power Cobbe.)

More dark than night lifts up the cypress tower
That guards the home where Courage lies asleep,
The winds are loud on Cader Idris steep,
The tide comes sobbing up thro' sleet and shower,
And all the birds in Hengwrt's leafy bower
Have ceased their singing: hark! how sad the sheep
Cry from the marshes, while the curlews keep
With human wail memorial of this hour.

Great-hearted soul, that ever sought the light
And kept th' unbroken bond of sisterhood
With all that feels and all that suffers pain,
Lie in calm peace beyond the noise of fight
Beside your friend above the Mawddach flood,
For us who mourn Love's battle must remain.

St. George's Day, 1904

April 23.

[_]

The annual meeting of the Guild of St. George, which was founded by John Ruskin, was held at Sheffield on Saturday.

To-day our land remembers him who fought
The Dragon, hails the Cappadocian brave
Who from the loathly thing went forth to save
Pure Innocence, and her salvation wrought.
This is the day a nation's thanks are brought
By Avon's shore to God, who Shakspere gave;
To-day we lay Lent lilies on a grave
In Grasmere Vale and think what Wordsworth taught.

And, gathered here in Vulcan's town to-day,
Where the smoke dragons from their high-built towers
Plague the live air and cheat the poor of sun,
Do not our hearts in loyal memory run
To him who loved pure light and innocent flowers,
And sent us forth all dragon beasts to slay?

Bradford, Then and Now

The city wakes; ten thousand busy feet
Sound, and I hear the piping treble cries
Of boys who sell what news the day supplies;
Gongs clang, with iron hooves the horses beat
Time to the rhythmic thunder of the street,
While high o'erhead, calm-voiced and stately-wise,
The clocks tell forth how swift the Time-god flies
To spur dull labour to its fiercest heat.

To-day a wider empire Bradford wields,
Its barns are bursting with a fuller store,
Yet must I think if all its labour yields
Such joy of heart to quicken at the core,
As when Aire gleamed through those fair-sloping fields
My father's far forefathers tilled of yore.

Our ancestors tilled their fields at Manningham, near Bradford, in the year 1370.

Home Memories

To the Members of the Cumberland and Westmoreland Association of Tyneside at their Inaugural Meeting, 1904.

You men come far from Cumbria's quiet places,
You women born in peaceful Westmoreland,
Do ye not roam with fancy hand in hand
The grey moors loved by long-forgotten races,
Do ye not see how sunshine shadow chases
On Fairfield and Helvellyn, or with band
Of hunters range the hills, or dreaming stand
And feel the fellside sweetness on your faces?

But if where Vulcan's Tyneside stithies roar
By day and night your souls can know no rest,
At least as friends together ye can come,
Shut to the door, bid Memory be your guest,
Think of the folk in yonder mountain home,
And find for absence how you love them more.

The Home of Rest for Horses

Would God! some gift of Pentecostal powers
Could bid them speak our tongue and say their say,
Then from each rolling cab and thundering dray
A wail would rise and shake your London towers,
Crying, “We once ran fetlock-deep in flowers
Now, doomed in maze of barren bricks to stay;
Night brings no rest to help the weary day,
Life has no joy, Death's ease alone is ours.”

Spavined, with curb and splint, and sore of heel—
Tongues hanging pained o'er bits of froth and blood—
With dim dull eyes, heads drooping down, they come
The troop of silent sufferers; Like a flood
Man's pity pours to meet them,—hearts that feel
Have bid them welcome to the Horses' Home.

L'Entente Cordiale

April, 1904.

Not since the moving ice-pack's mighty plow
Drave furrow, and the Rhine's tumultuous hand
Scooped out the Downs and severed strand from strand,
Has nation yearned to nation more than now;
Each night from every headland's dusky brow
Stars flame congratulation, land to land
Draws near each dawn by some enchanter's wand,
And ocean tides in narrower channel flow.

England! when Crecy, Poictiers, Agincourt
Fade, and the roar of fateful Waterloo
Sounds but in dream, how glorious in the van,
Of kings who strove for Peace shall stand the man
Whose will did more than craft of state could do,
Who out of night's mistrust love's morning brought.

Death, The Angel Friend

In Memoriam—G. F. Watts, R.A., July 1. 1904.

From the clear heights where Love his life had brought,—
Love of his fellows, love of all the good
Whose fire revivifies a nation's blood,—
He saw the farther heights his spirit sought;
There fame and name were neither sold nor bought,
There pride and even Mammon's mighty brood
Might be transformed, through power of brotherhood,
To give, not get, and think as Christ had thought.

Tireless he toiled in hope, whose harp's last string
Unbroken, made sweet music to the end;
The “Utmost for the Highest” here below
Was truth enough for any man to know;
And, working, oft he heard an angel's wing,
Then rose at last and went with Death his friend.

The painter told me that often, as he worked at his easel, he heard the sound as of an angel's wing, and looked round, thinking that Death, his friend, had come to call him. —H.D.R.

The Church of the Free

To Members of the United Free Church of Scotland on hearing of the Judgment of the Court of Appeal in the matter of the Free Church Trust Funds.—August, 1904.

Blame not Just Law's injustice! shed no tear!
You chose, deliberate, Freedom's fairer way,
Tho' church-doors close against you, hearts can sway,
God is a Spirit, and He still can hear.
Sons of the Homeless One! without a fear
You heard High Thought and dared her call obey,
Strong for the vision of a nobler day
You went, and homeless now you persevere.

Rather rejoice! Your cheek to the smiter turn,
Give coat and cloke! Lo, Israel found of old—
Flying from bonds beyond th' avenging sea,
That Egypt's spoil but turned to gods of gold.
Go brave and bare! Let all the Churches learn
They having nought, have all, whose souls are free.

At the Baptism of the Czarevitch

August 24, 1904.

In the huge Kremlin's many-gated hold
Stands a small church with turbaned towers aflame,
And there to-day they gave a babe his name,
And prayed that name among the saints enrolled
Might shine at Doomsday; prayed that Christ should fold
Heart to His heart till going where he came
The Czar should enter Heaven with acclaim,
And feel upon his brow Life's crown of gold.

But through the organ notes of priest was borne
Another voice—the boom and burst of shell,
Above the incense rose another mist—
The sulphurous scent of weapons forged in Hell,
And thro' the cloud I saw the sad-faced Christ
Place on the baby's brow a crown of thorn.

The Battle of Liao-Yang

September 1st, 1904.

Grim dawned the day beneath a blood-red bar,
Grey comes the noon, and over fell and flood
A sense of desolation seems to brood
Sorrow and loss; with echoes from afar
The clouds upon Helvellyn smoke of war,
The moorland welters purple-dark with blood,
While all the world looks on in wistful mood
Where fierce Mikado shocks with mighty Tsar.

This is a day of battles! since Sedan
The thunder of this day has never died,
The crash of empire has not passed away;
Lord God of battles, when shall lust and pride
Cease, and beneath Love's universal sway
The Nations rest confederate man with man?

At Bishop Bardsley's Grave

Raughton Head, September 17, 1904.

Farewell! you drink a purer river now
Than ever flowed from Nilus' treacherous urn.
Back unto dust the body must return.
But that kind will in angel-power shall grow;
Here by the grave we think of debts we owe
To one who showed for poorest men concern,
Who dying taught the lesson all must learn
How selfless souls to God's high will can bow.

Farewell! true shepherd, mindful of your trust,
Whether in restless Mersey's city of pain,
On Mona's pleasant Isle, or Cumbrian Strand
You wrought and taught with generous heart and hand,
The rose of Faith shall blossom from your dust—
We part in Christ, in Christ we meet again.

The Bishop never really recovered from the illness contracted at Assuan by drinking some Nile water which was contaminated with sewage.

Unveiling of the Bede Memorial

At Roker Point, Sunderland, Oct. 11, 1904.

Here, underneath this glorious “beacon-sign,”
Shall all the sons of labour rest and read
Of one who felt that thought and word and deed
Run on to judgment. Pondering line on line
God's crown for noble work they shall divine,
Seeing they reap to-day the precious seed
Sown by the worker Venerable Bede,
And hold him honoured still by Wear and Tyne.

For this poor monk who lived laborious days,
Whose heart's delight was teaching all he knew,
Taught more than joy of labour to the end,
Saying, “Take truth for guide! and Christ for friend!
Seek Heavenly wealth, let earthly wants be few!
God is the worker, unto God be praise!”

The New Year, 1905

Come from the gates of morning, glad New Year,
With look of exultation in your eyes.
Bring in new hope, new dreams, new prophecies
Of far-off good to bid us persevere.
We are not recreant, reft of hope—we hear
The sound of happy streamlets, silent skies
Flush, and the mountains in calm grandeur rise,
And like a dreamless sleeper lies the mere.

Shall all this peace and beauty that awaits
Your advent have no message for the mind?
Shall we not tune our hearts to high intent,
Sing as the streams, go forth from silent gates
Of duty, flushed with joy, and bless mankind
By learning mountain-calm and mere's content?

Voices from the Dust

Port Arthur, January 1, 1905.

When in Big Eagle's Nest, near Erlungshan,
Those gallant generals meeting with stern grace
Spake words of mutual honour face to face,
I saw the sixty thousand from Japan
Whose blood like water on the fierce hills ran,
Rise grimly from each shallow resting-place
And curse the coming of the grey-eyed race
Whose fortress-throne had worked such bitter ban.

“The snows are white on Fusiyama's cone,
And soon the almond tree shall break to bloom,
The streets of home will shine with lamps to-night,
We cannot see them—we are robbed of sight—
And exiled here upon these hills of doom
We lie—dumb dust—blind carrion—bleaching bone!”

Red Sunday in St. Petersburg

22nd January, 1905.

By Neva gleamed St. Isaac's dome of gold,
All bright and sparkling, frost-begemmed and fair,
Shone spire and turbaned cupola, the air
A happy Sabbath stillness seemed to hold;
When suddenly a roar of thunder rolled—
Thunder of people's anger despair,
And round the barriers of the Palace Square
Rose a wild flood no barrier back shall hold.

For there the cries for justice met the sword,
Brute force broke there the bonds of brotherhood,
The moral bond 'twixt people and their Czar;
There one by one the dying sealed in blood,
Full faith that dying was the first last word
For Right, ere throne and order sank in war.

Four Portraits of the Painter

At the Watts' Exhibition, 1905.

I saw thee first a boy, the dark brown hair
Redundant on thy forehead flowing free,
With eyes of wonder, looks of purity;
And next a red-robed painter swart and spare,
Thy soul already of earth's sorrow 'ware,
Thy mouth firm set to solve life's mystery;
Then, carved in bronze, the man who took, as fee
For all his toil, new power of thought and care;

Last, on the master's easel, by the wife,
I saw thee white as winter and as calm
When all the winds of heaven are laid at rest,
Thy head bent low as if within thy breast
Thou heard'st the voice that brings eternal balm,
And thy soul answered—Come, thou Lord of Life!

Jupiter and Venus

March, 1905.

High in the twilight silver of the west,
When still the zenith trembled into green,
Two gleaming planetary lamps were seen
Hung white above Helvellyn's ebon crest;
The wide-eyed Hunter stayed him on his quest,
Belted Orion on his sword did lean
Wond'ring, while she of all men's hearts the queen
Went down the slopes of evening to her rest.

Then did I note how great seven-moonèd Jove—
The God of power—was captive to her chain;
How all the host of Heaven in starry drove
Moved with her to the mountains and the main;
I cried, “Wheel nearer Earth, thou world of Love!
And take our darkened planet in thy train!”

The Chiff-Chaff

When April stars the bank with celandine
And decks each orchard-garth with daffodil,
Hark! sudden on the topmost branch, a trill
Of passionate music—ecstacy divine!
Then, though not yet the blackthorn blossoms shine,
Nor yet the cuckoo stammers from the hill,
Nor yet with fragrant trees the larches fill
The bronze-grey copse, I know the spring is mine.

Mine, little avant-courier of the throng
Of light-winged hearts on love's adventure bent,
Mine by thy sweet insistence and the fire
Of utterance long time in thy bosom pent,
Mine by thy gift of praise that shall not tire
Till all the vales are glad with leaf and song.

To the River Greta

On Returning from Abroad.

Far-wandering had I passed the shoaly bars
Of Latin rivers—seen from Kronion's mound
How old Alpheus' flood possessed the ground
And hushed the jangling of Olympian cars,
There on that height above the hill of Mars
Had watched the grey Ilissus curving round
To Phalĕron, nor felt my heart so bound
As when I heard thee sing beneath the stars.

Child of the purple mountain and the moor,
From voiceless stream and fountain waterless
The gods have fled—thou still from Heaven dost come
With grace of dewy song the vale to bless,
And sounding on beneath the poet's door,
Thou givest to all who love thee welcome home.

Dawn in Greece and Cumberland

A Contrast.

Come from a silent land where few birds sing,
And men unhelped fare forth to meet the day,
Beneath an English dawn fresh-waked I lay,
And heard thro' dewy air the garden ring
With joy and hope exultant for the Spring—
The blackbird piped his welcome to the May
And the clear-fluting thrush upon the spray
Told of her love and life's sweet triumphing.

I could not wonder how, by Grecian seas,
The men who plant the vine and tend the herds
Go sadly to their toil and home return
Thrice weary, seeing no music of the birds
Sounds when with morn the heights of Parnes burn
Or sunset gilds Athena's olive trees.

To Admiral Togo

Tsu-shima, May, 27–28, 1905.

When the dark silence spoke, and all the world
Drew breath to feel Peace pleading from afar,
For now at length the duped duke-driven Tsar
Whose lips of scorn were once so proudly curled,
Whose ships and sea-borne thunder, fiercely hurled,
Were hurled in vain, has known that other star
Risen in the East, unquenchable in war,
And bade his battle-flag in truce be furled.

Then we, an island people, holding dear
Fair Freedom's inextinguishable flame,
Remembering well how Howard loosed our fear
When to his doom the Don Sidonia came,
Took laurels, fresher for their hundredth year,
And crowned thee with our Nelson's deathless fame.

Launch of the Japanese Battleship “Katori” by Princess Arisugawa

Barrow, July 4, 1905.

When from the crackling “ways” the smoke-cloud cleared,
When sunlight dazzled where was dark before,
And that huge warship, with tumultuous roar
Of thousands, took the water, how we cheered;
For in an English home the hull was reared
Of English iron compacted to the core,
A child of England to our English shore
Its heart would be allied where'er it steered.

But some there were who, when the dove-wings went
In silver circles up to bear afar
The tidings of the safety of its birth,
Prayed God's own Dove would come again to earth
And mightier than this minister of war
With world-wide peace would bless the Orient.

When the “Katori” was launched a cloud of carrier pigeons were liberated to bear far and wide the news of the success of the undertaking.

Prince Arisugawa, speaking at the luncheon afterwards, said: “Framed with the iron from the soil of our allied country, and riveted with the warmest sympathy of our ally, the “Katori”—another offspring of the same cradle from which the “Mikasa” came—cannot but prove to be an invaluable addition to the navy of my country.”

At the Unveiling of the Tennyson Statue, Lincoln.

July 16, 1905.

Here on the Lindum height that Caesar knew,
Where Conqueror William built his castle hold,
Where first Remigius shepherded his fold
And, round the vast cathedral towers, upgrew
A county's honour, stands to-day in view
The child who learned the Doric of the wold,
The man who roamed our shores of level gold,
And heard what music through the marshland blew.

Colossal on the green the poet stands
Lost in high thought, the hound is at his side,
Looks up for guidance to his master's face
While he looks down for guidance to the grace
Of some wild flower that in his reverent hands
Proclaims how Life by Love is unified.

Keranin, mother of Cossack, a wolf hound.

The last time I saw G. F. Watts, who out of love and reverence for his old friend the poet had modelled the statue, he took me to see the work which he had just completed in the clay, and talked of the idea which he had tried to embody in it, of how love and reverence could bind all creation into one. “The dog,” said he, “loves his master, and looks up for guidance to the secret of the larger life. The man loves the flower, and looks down for guidance to the secret of a power that is beyond him. It is,” he added, “the old story—the lesson of the flower in the crannied wall repeated, but it needs repetition.”

L'Entente Cordiale

On board the “Victory,” Portsmouth, 9th August, 1905.

The old ship woke with all her battle pride
To hear French guns make thunder on the shore,
And swift to rule his “Victory” once more
Rose up the Admiral who has never died;
But as he felt that wound he could not hide,
And paced the poop still purple-dark with gore,
The Marseillaise rang out; and floating o'er
The Jack and Tricolour flew side by side.

Then I beheld those large and lustrous eyes
That saw peace glorious through the mist of war,
And duty clear through dying, filled with tears
To think, tho' sundered by a hundred years,
Old foes were friends, and walked with glad surprise
The decks that wrought the doom of Trafalgar.

As the French ships came into harbour they saluted the “Victory.” The Tricolour and Union Jack flew at the mast-head, and the English band played the Marseillaise.

To the Mikado

Portsmouth, U.S.A., August 29, 1905.

Because you fenced not for your rights, but stood
For Peace—a solid thing—no hollow name;
Because more dear than gold or conqueror's fame
You held the ties of human brotherhood;
Because you would not wade through seas of blood
To one last move in battle's desperate game;
Therefore we hold you honoured, and acclaim
You kingliest leader of the wise and good.

For in degenerate days when every throne
Unreverenced quakes, and lust, not life, is free,
There in your sea-girt isle of Old Japan
You teach how virtue lives from man to man,
How self-restraint, self-sacrifice must be
The bonds that make and keep a nation one.

The Spider's Message

At a Gilchrist Lecture.

The loves of all the gods of old she wove—
A Lydian maiden now in spider's guise;
The mind of one Almighty and All-wise
She tells to-day, and that His mind is Love.
Whether o'er rushing streams, in ocean cove
She weaves her orb with its intricacies,
Or twangs her thread to beaded grace, or flies
Her kite, or guards her casket's treasure-trove.

Yet as I watch the marvellous engineer
Guess at wind-pressure, and on favouring wind
Send forth at will her silk from stores within,
One message for men's souls I seem to hear
“Let others live to eat, I eat to spin,
Joy's soul is work: God helps the worker's mind!”

The Garden City

No more in sunless cities, grim and grey,
Thro' brick-built conduits shall the nation pour
Her dwindling life in torment, and no more,
Where men can neither dream nor watch and pray,
Shall quiet Thought and Rest be scared away—
There, where like breakers on an angry shore
Ever we hear the multitudinous roar,
And day is night and night is turned to day.

For Love, in league with sunshine and sweet air
With comfortable grass and healing flowers,
Has sworn to bring back man his natural good,
Has planned a Garden City, fresh and fair,
Where Work and Rest and Joy may ply their powers
And Health go hand in hand with Brotherhood.

Gowbarrow

An Appeal to the People of Leeds.

When in the black-robed city of the King,
Who wore his iron-black armour with such pride,
I heard a voice that like a trumpet cried,
“Give to the far-off people Earth's best thing—
A mountain height that knows the eagle's wing,
Where the red-deer stand proudly side by side
Then vanish like a dream, and far and wide
Hill, lake, and moorland make the sad heart sing”;

I, turning, saw the weary merchants come
And lay their gold at the beseecher's feet,
Saying, “Oh! give us sun, sweet air, and light;
We pine and dwindle in this sulphurous night:
Keep us a land of rest, whose hope is sweet,
And let us dream, on earth, of Heaven our home.”

In Trafalgar Square

October 21, 1905.

Come from thy mighty column's wreathèd crest!
Thy one-time foes to-day with us combine
To weave a chaplet for those brows of thine;
Thou, whose brave heart the world's heart hath possessed,
Great battle-hammer of the East and West,
Keen hunter of the barren leagues of brine,
Resistless breaker of the battle-line,
Come down to-day to be the nation's guest!

Frail wert thou, being so human, but in war
Or peace one vision flames before thine eyes—
The vision of thy land at rest and free.
God walked the waters not disowning thee,
For on thy path burned Duty, like a star,
Thy soul was fired with full self-sacrifice.

Nelson's Last Prayer

October 21, 1805.

Still every wave about our island falls
In echoing cove, on silent sand, with tears,
And still above the roaring tide one hears
The sound of sobbing, as towards St. Paul's
Men bore the sea-king of their wooden walls;
Still every flag of Empire England bears
Remembers him who gave the nation ears
To heed the voice of Duty when she calls.

But not for power to blast with iron lips
The great leviathans of a tyrant foe,
Not for swift onset, do we think of thee;
Rather for this; thou died'st to make us free,
Dying did'st pray no vengeance should eclipse
The mercy victors to the vanquished owe.

The Queen's Appeal

13th November, 1905.

To all the men and women who can feel
How the fierce winter comes with dire dismay
To foodless homes, I, Alexandra, say,
“Give!” “Lo, your Queen as suppliant I appeal,
Help me to help the helpless and to heal
The sorrow of a dark and cloudy day,
Help me to keep the hunger-wolf at bay
And bless with work and bread the commonweal.”

Brave words! for how could Empress better prove
Her empire is an empire of the heart,
And that to serve is still a royal thing,
Than thus to call the starving poor apart,
And bid them underneath her pitiful wing
Find Britain's sceptre in her hands is Love.

Christmas, 1905

Red war in Russia, and the wandering race
That gave us Christ the Saviour, in Christ's name
Beat down to blood and mire! while towns in flame
Light the wild fury of the madman's face
Who, hating law, crowns anarchy in place,
And, loosing passions that he cannot tame,
Bids horror hide his conquered nation's shame,
And brings fierce rapine home to mend his case.

More need, more need Christ's message should be told!
From every belfry let each iron tongue
Speak loud, the Christian towers shall rock and reel:
Old is the lust for fire, for blood and steel,
The pride of power, the greed for wealth grows old,
But Peace is in the cradle—Love is young!