 | A collection of poems by Ernest Radford |  |
49
III. PART III.
[If ever in the books of verse that claim]
If ever in the books of verse that claim
The prize that poets covet thou dost find
But one pure song deserving of the name,
Then with unstinted sudden kisses bind
The prize that poets covet thou dost find
But one pure song deserving of the name,
Then with unstinted sudden kisses bind
The writer to thee, daring him to say,
While seeking ev'ry moment to prolong;
While thy hands with the budding laurel play:—
“We learn in suff'ring what we teach in Song.”
While seeking ev'ry moment to prolong;
While thy hands with the budding laurel play:—
“We learn in suff'ring what we teach in Song.”
51
COMEDY.
Maiden, there is pent in thee
Wealth of mirth and melody
That full oft amazes me.
Wealth of mirth and melody
That full oft amazes me.
Th'flavour of the rarest wine
Hath the tiniest geste of thine;
Maiden, maiden, there are Nine
Hath the tiniest geste of thine;
Maiden, maiden, there are Nine
Muses in thee tightly packed,
Each with her own part to act;
As we marvel at the fact,
So we love thee, maiden mine.
Each with her own part to act;
As we marvel at the fact,
So we love thee, maiden mine.
52
DIGNITY AND IMPUDENCE.
Gracious lady, wilt' allow
Apollo's love-sick son to rest,
So sweet is sleep, a poet's brow
Upon thy swan-white breast?
Apollo's love-sick son to rest,
So sweet is sleep, a poet's brow
Upon thy swan-white breast?
Now that's too bad! Are poets mad?
What next, I wonder, would they do?
Sir! this to me? In public, too!
What next, I wonder, would they do?
Sir! this to me? In public, too!
53
THE WHISPER AND THE KISS.
Ah, Love, the seagulls yonder,
In circles drawing near,
Are seeking to discover
When thy lips touch my ear,
In circles drawing near,
Are seeking to discover
When thy lips touch my ear,
What the low voice has murmured,
And whence the thrill of bliss,
And which has meant the most, Love,
The whisper or the kiss?
And whence the thrill of bliss,
And which has meant the most, Love,
The whisper or the kiss?
Best keep them circling round, Love,
The centre that they miss,
Where lost, as if for ever,
Is the whisper in the kiss.
The centre that they miss,
Where lost, as if for ever,
Is the whisper in the kiss.
“Not one without the other,”
As if from some abyss,
Say we, reposing sweetly
Where Heaven, dearest, is.
Oh, what if Gossip knew, Love,
That custom sanctions this!
As if from some abyss,
Say we, reposing sweetly
Where Heaven, dearest, is.
Oh, what if Gossip knew, Love,
That custom sanctions this!
55
THE AUTHOR'S LIBRARY.
A Sonnet derailed.
My comrades, tho' ye figure not in Lowndes,
Thy costlier brethren long have lost their home,
Shall ye be ravished from me, tome by tome,
For fewer shillings than ye cost me pounds?
Oh! when our breezy language knew no bounds,
And when the mildest oath in use was—Zounds!
The custom was for poets forced to roam
To clear the mouth back-handed of its foam,
Consign the dun to London's Ditch of Hounds,
And then with certain red-hot playthings make
The humbled Hebrew think it best to take,
“Please God and Holy Moses,” pence for pounds.
Thy costlier brethren long have lost their home,
Shall ye be ravished from me, tome by tome,
For fewer shillings than ye cost me pounds?
Oh! when our breezy language knew no bounds,
And when the mildest oath in use was—Zounds!
The custom was for poets forced to roam
To clear the mouth back-handed of its foam,
Consign the dun to London's Ditch of Hounds,
And then with certain red-hot playthings make
The humbled Hebrew think it best to take,
“Please God and Holy Moses,” pence for pounds.
Shades of unthrifty authors who are dead!
Once, snugly harboured, dallying by turns
With new and old, in such pure peace I read
As he who, lacking nothing, idly learns,
But now of poets all too widely spread,
The chief are the song-masters: after Heine, Burns.
Once, snugly harboured, dallying by turns
With new and old, in such pure peace I read
As he who, lacking nothing, idly learns,
But now of poets all too widely spread,
The chief are the song-masters: after Heine, Burns.
56
AFTER HEINE.
Friend, conciliate the Devil,
Brief is here the course we run,
And the Hell that we are promised,
Is no fable pulpit-spun.
Brief is here the course we run,
And the Hell that we are promised,
Is no fable pulpit-spun.
Friend, discharge the debt thou owest;
'Tis a weary course we run,
And you'll often have to borrow,
As so often you have done.
'Tis a weary course we run,
And you'll often have to borrow,
As so often you have done.
59
A PEN SKETCH.
A little wife, a little wine,
A little villa, spick and span,
And looming large in the design,
A cradle, and a little man.
A little villa, spick and span,
And looming large in the design,
A cradle, and a little man.
The emblem of the civic state
He cast aside for lighter wear,
And when replenished and elate,
Caressed his little partner there.
He cast aside for lighter wear,
And when replenished and elate,
Caressed his little partner there.
He had, when he had done with sleep,
To scamp his little prayer, and shave.
He might, who has such hours to keep,
As well be trotting to his grave.
To scamp his little prayer, and shave.
He might, who has such hours to keep,
As well be trotting to his grave.
His “Firm” had all his little brains,
His Chief was raised from Mammon's clay,
He hoped, by never sparing pains,
To have that promised Rise one day.
And when he died of catching trains;
“'Twas cutting it too close,” said they.
His Chief was raised from Mammon's clay,
He hoped, by never sparing pains,
To have that promised Rise one day.
And when he died of catching trains;
“'Twas cutting it too close,” said they.
61
To H. E. T.
62
II. HOME FROM HOME.
Where one finds silence understood,
Where speech is golden grain,
Where Faith and Hope and Charity,
The maidens of thy train,
Assembled at thy bidding have
To smooth the bed of pain.
Where speech is golden grain,
Where Faith and Hope and Charity,
The maidens of thy train,
Assembled at thy bidding have
To smooth the bed of pain.
The room and its appointments tell
Of thy presiding care,
The flowers that call thee mistress lend
Their sweetness to the air.
The heralds of the dawn who have
Their white feet on the stair;
The sign of silence they do make,
The sleeper has their prayer.
So dreameth he the poet's dream,
A medley rich and rare,
Of being lifted up and laid
On beds of clover there.
My friend, another wingèd thought
The verse will hardly bear,
Tho' denizens of Heaven have
Their clouds of maiden-hair!
Let others note the glint of gold
In the white robes they wear,
And show them yielding sapling-wise
To every breath of air;
For what but idle dreams are mine
Of joys I cannot share?
Nor peace nor rest in London is—
My soul is with thee there.
Of thy presiding care,
The flowers that call thee mistress lend
Their sweetness to the air.
The heralds of the dawn who have
Their white feet on the stair;
The sign of silence they do make,
The sleeper has their prayer.
So dreameth he the poet's dream,
A medley rich and rare,
Of being lifted up and laid
On beds of clover there.
My friend, another wingèd thought
The verse will hardly bear,
Tho' denizens of Heaven have
Their clouds of maiden-hair!
Let others note the glint of gold
In the white robes they wear,
And show them yielding sapling-wise
To every breath of air;
For what but idle dreams are mine
Of joys I cannot share?
Nor peace nor rest in London is—
My soul is with thee there.
63
LOVE AND DEATH.
Came Love, one summer day,Dead tired, so they say,
Unto a grotto fair,
And courted slumber there,
And flung his darts away.
Pitch dark, the Fable saith,
And named the Cave of Death,
But this Love did not know.
As though he'd sped a shaft
With more than common craft,
Once in his sleep he laughed;
At Dawn he rose to go,
And a cry he did emit
Of gladness to be quit
Of the darkness, and the odour of the Cave.
Departing he was fain
To have his darts again:—
“Oh! Love, blind Love, beware!
The shafts of Death are there,
The shafts of Death are there,”
Said the echo to the echo in the Cave.
64
Intent on human hearts,
He gathered to his quiver
His own with Death's black darts,
And glorious as the morning
He winged his golden way;
Fair maidens had forewarning
That Love was on the way.
The strong man, labour scorning,
Did nothing all that day,
For dallying with a maiden
Is neither work nor play.
To Earth, to Earth again!
Intending ill to none;
He wotted not of pain,
Blind creature of the Sun;
Scarce knowing what he did,
In haste to have it done,
Both young and old he rushed amid
And shot his arrows every one.
Then some cried out:—“'Tis Death he deals!”
And surely Death did come;
While others cried:—“'Tis Love, 'tis Love!”
And Love there was for some.
65
TWO VOICES.
Sweet, on thy lips a smile there played;
A surface ripple that betrayed
A thrill of feeling moving me
To ask of what thy dreams may be?
The lamp within thy heart is lit,
The angels they have charge of it,
What would the sleeper know?
A surface ripple that betrayed
A thrill of feeling moving me
To ask of what thy dreams may be?
The lamp within thy heart is lit,
The angels they have charge of it,
What would the sleeper know?
Through ‘mail and vizor glimmering,’
The wrath of one like Ivanhoe,
Comes he of whom the poets sing,
‘Red-hot, undying love’ to show.
As silent as the gravestones are,
And black from top to toe,
Is he now ‘daring Death’ for me;
‘Prevailing o'er the Foe’?
Sleep, sleep, my child, the hours beguile
With wand'ring thought and wistful smile,
Let visions come and go.
The wrath of one like Ivanhoe,
Comes he of whom the poets sing,
‘Red-hot, undying love’ to show.
As silent as the gravestones are,
And black from top to toe,
Is he now ‘daring Death’ for me;
‘Prevailing o'er the Foe’?
Sleep, sleep, my child, the hours beguile
With wand'ring thought and wistful smile,
Let visions come and go.
As brave as any knight of old,
With braver stories to be told;
Is he now ‘speeding o'er the sea’
By day-dawn at my side to be?
Sleep, sleep, my child, the hours beguile
With wand'ring thought and wistful smile,
Let visions come and go.
With braver stories to be told;
Is he now ‘speeding o'er the sea’
By day-dawn at my side to be?
Sleep, sleep, my child, the hours beguile
With wand'ring thought and wistful smile,
Let visions come and go.
66
When his ‘great hands are holding mine,’
I quote the poets whom I skim;
Will there be ‘rivulets of wine’
In all my veins? Will ‘silence take
The place of speech,’ and gladness make
Me crazy when I welcome him?
Sleep, sleep, my child, the hours beguile
With wand'ring thought and wistful smile,
Let visions come and go.
I quote the poets whom I skim;
Will there be ‘rivulets of wine’
In all my veins? Will ‘silence take
The place of speech,’ and gladness make
Me crazy when I welcome him?
Sleep, sleep, my child, the hours beguile
With wand'ring thought and wistful smile,
Let visions come and go.
When I have looked him up and down,
Provoked his smile, and smoothed his frown,
Oh, shall I dare to throw
Myself into his arms—and kiss
Like this, like this, like this, like this,
Because—I—love—him—so—
The one whose life and strength will be
His ‘great resplendent gift’ to me:—
I want—I want—to know?
Sleep, sleep, my child, the hours beguile
With wand'ring thought and wistful smile,
Let visions come and go.
Provoked his smile, and smoothed his frown,
Oh, shall I dare to throw
Myself into his arms—and kiss
Like this, like this, like this, like this,
Because—I—love—him—so—
The one whose life and strength will be
His ‘great resplendent gift’ to me:—
I want—I want—to know?
Sleep, sleep, my child, the hours beguile
With wand'ring thought and wistful smile,
Let visions come and go.
Hand seeketh hand; there lies a vast,
The sage has said, between
The seeker and the sought, and this
Is what has ever been.
The sage has said, between
The seeker and the sought, and this
Is what has ever been.
67
OUR PREMISSES.
That was a baffling dream I hadOf ladders in the sky,
With nothing to support them there,
Set up for me to try.
68
OUR IDEALS.
‘To Mercy, Pity, Peace and Love
All pray in their distress------’
All pray in their distress------’
Their souls have healing words for me;
Embodied as they are,
In floating forms that levitate
Above the evening star.
Embodied as they are,
In floating forms that levitate
Above the evening star.
Ideals, elusive, distant, all
Are worshipped where they stand,
But there are earthly ties, alas!
And thou hast one in hand.
Are worshipped where they stand,
But there are earthly ties, alas!
And thou hast one in hand.
Invited am I, seeking rest,
A stranger to my brain,
To put thy kindness to the test,
Beneath thy roof again?
A stranger to my brain,
To put thy kindness to the test,
Beneath thy roof again?
My friend, there travels through this night
Of Winter, starved and poor,
One unsupported by my hope
Of welcome at thy door.
Of Winter, starved and poor,
One unsupported by my hope
Of welcome at thy door.
A brother, called to mind again,
Or sister, babe at breast:—
My friend, have Pity, Peace, and Love,
Our Idols, done their best?
Or sister, babe at breast:—
My friend, have Pity, Peace, and Love,
Our Idols, done their best?
69
WILLIAM BLAKE.
What though no second sight have we
Like Blake, whose solemn eyes
Saw Socrates at Turnham Green,
And God on Kensal Rise.
Like Blake, whose solemn eyes
Saw Socrates at Turnham Green,
And God on Kensal Rise.
What though in certain books we seem
To fare from bad to worse,
Oh! in what other poet's work
Have we the pearls of verse,
To fare from bad to worse,
Oh! in what other poet's work
Have we the pearls of verse,
That with the ‘quaintest human bosh’
That mortal ever conned,
Are bedded in the reams he wrote
To friends who did respond
To names that pull the reader up,
Like Hayley, Butts, and Bond?
That mortal ever conned,
Are bedded in the reams he wrote
To friends who did respond
To names that pull the reader up,
Like Hayley, Butts, and Bond?
He said that Milton dined with him,
He said that we should see,
If only we stayed long enough,
Isaiah making tea.
He said that we should see,
If only we stayed long enough,
Isaiah making tea.
While we by this surprising talk
Were not a little awed,
With thrill of happiness in him
He scattered smiles abroad.
Were not a little awed,
With thrill of happiness in him
He scattered smiles abroad.
70
He talked as long as he did live;
To what end no one knows;
So little is the help we have
From his exponents' prose.
To what end no one knows;
So little is the help we have
From his exponents' prose.
“And think you visions strange as his
Were easy to explain?”
Oh! agèd infant! hast thou not
Twin shutters to thy brain?
We close our eyes to bring the light
Within the soul's domain,
Were easy to explain?”
Oh! agèd infant! hast thou not
Twin shutters to thy brain?
We close our eyes to bring the light
Within the soul's domain,
And many, wisely silent, see,
As he did in the skies,
Above the setting sun at eve
The hosts of Heaven rise.
As he did in the skies,
Above the setting sun at eve
The hosts of Heaven rise.
Ideals we have, pursued alas,
By less than very few,
And he who writes of England's Art
Can name but one or two.
By less than very few,
And he who writes of England's Art
Can name but one or two.
The latest gave us eyes that see
The great in little things;
He painted her who folds at night
About the earth her wings.
The great in little things;
He painted her who folds at night
About the earth her wings.
71
And what did Blake? Conceptions vast,
Too great for any stage,
Transcending all the bounds of thought,
We have on pictured page.
Too great for any stage,
Transcending all the bounds of thought,
We have on pictured page.
From great to little, yonder book,
The rarest of the rare,
The casket of the spirit is
That had its dwelling there.
The rarest of the rare,
The casket of the spirit is
That had its dwelling there.
The little living things he drew,
At the appointed time
Did into places given them
By means of feelers climb.
At the appointed time
Did into places given them
By means of feelers climb.
The little living things he drew,
Did caps and pinions don;
The rhythm of the poet's line,
The artist carried on:—
Did caps and pinions don;
The rhythm of the poet's line,
The artist carried on:—
Oh! when will singer strike again
So pure a note in song?
With harp at rest, the Minstrel asks:—
“Oh! Lord of Love, how long?”
So pure a note in song?
With harp at rest, the Minstrel asks:—
“Oh! Lord of Love, how long?”
| A collection of poems by Ernest Radford | |