 | Poems at Home and Abroad |  |
89
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS
91
We meet at Morn, my Dog and I
Still half in dream, upon the stair I hearA patter coming nearer and more near,
And then upon my chamber door
A gentle tapping;
And next a scuffle on the passage floor,
And after that a cry, half sneeze, half yapping;
And then I know that ‘Oscar’ lies to watch
Until the noiseless maid will lift the latch.
And like a spring
That gains its power by being tightly stayed
The impatient thing
Into the room
Its whole glad heart doth fling;
And ere the gloom
Melts into light and window-blinds are rolled,
I hear a leap upon the bed,
I feel a creeping towards me—a soft head,
And on my face
By way of an embrace
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And on my hand like sun-warmed rose-leaves flung,
The least faint flicker of the gentlest tongue,
And so my dog and I have met and sworn
Fresh love and fealty for another morn.
93
The Sorrow of the May
When the pearl breaks into star, and the star breaks into rose,
And the hawthorn scent is heavy on the fragrant June-tide air,
My eyes forget their seeing, and my heart renews its woes
For I think of that old thorn-time when first I met my fair.
And the hawthorn scent is heavy on the fragrant June-tide air,
My eyes forget their seeing, and my heart renews its woes
For I think of that old thorn-time when first I met my fair.
How simply was she dressed in her petticoat of blue
And her rosy pink sun-bonnet! She was Grasmere's sweetest lass,
And the face of her was open and the eyes of her were true,
And her milk-pail swung beside her, as she moved to let me pass.
And her rosy pink sun-bonnet! She was Grasmere's sweetest lass,
And the face of her was open and the eyes of her were true,
And her milk-pail swung beside her, as she moved to let me pass.
I was fain to bear the milk-pail, the flush was in her face
As I took it bravely from her, and I touched her tender hand,
And I broke a white May-blossom, and she wore it with such grace
That she seemed no village maiden but a lady of the land.
As I took it bravely from her, and I touched her tender hand,
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That she seemed no village maiden but a lady of the land.
We were wed within the year, and when now a second time
The pearls had broke to starlight and the rose was on the thorn,
So proud to be a mother, she was dying in her prime,
Only lived to kiss her darling when our little May was born.
The pearls had broke to starlight and the rose was on the thorn,
So proud to be a mother, she was dying in her prime,
Only lived to kiss her darling when our little May was born.
Now each year beneath Stone-Arthur when the May-blossom is white
And the hawthorn scent is heavy on the meadows in the dale,
I forget the sheep I counted, and my eyes forget their sight,
For I see the lass who loved me, with her shining milking-pail.
And the hawthorn scent is heavy on the meadows in the dale,
I forget the sheep I counted, and my eyes forget their sight,
For I see the lass who loved me, with her shining milking-pail.
95
The Fiddler's Funeral
Let the deep bell
Not dolefully tell
That a dead man is coming to rest by the steeple;
Bear him along
And sing him a song,
For he gave so many a song to the people.
Not dolefully tell
That a dead man is coming to rest by the steeple;
Bear him along
And sing him a song,
For he gave so many a song to the people.
Not a farm round
But knew of the sound
Of the wavering voice and the quavering fiddle;
Not a man or maid
But had danced, as he played,
‘Set to the corners’ and then ‘down the middle.’
But knew of the sound
Of the wavering voice and the quavering fiddle;
Not a man or maid
But had danced, as he played,
‘Set to the corners’ and then ‘down the middle.’
Never a school
But knew of his rule,
The ‘three reel,’ ‘the jig,’ and the ‘square cornered eight’;
Never a guest
At a wedding, but blessed
The flash of his bow and the nod of his pate.
But knew of his rule,
The ‘three reel,’ ‘the jig,’ and the ‘square cornered eight’;
Never a guest
At a wedding, but blessed
The flash of his bow and the nod of his pate.
96
And not a child
Of the village but smiled
To see the kind face and to hark to his humming;
Never a lass
Of the fellside could pass,
But must turn just to ask when the Fiddler was coming.
Of the village but smiled
To see the kind face and to hark to his humming;
Never a lass
Of the fellside could pass,
But must turn just to ask when the Fiddler was coming.
Oh! he was so cheering
At hiring and shearing,
None like old Dick o' the Dale ever sings;
And he was so steady
Of time, and so ready
Of tune.—He was ready when Death snapt the strings.
At hiring and shearing,
None like old Dick o' the Dale ever sings;
And he was so steady
Of time, and so ready
Of tune.—He was ready when Death snapt the strings.
Old Dick o' the Dale
Is not dead, he is hale
In the hearts of the humble, whose joy was his pleasure;
Where he sleeps, from the ground
There will rise the sweet sound
—That air, ‘Jack-my-laddie,’ his favourite measure.
Is not dead, he is hale
In the hearts of the humble, whose joy was his pleasure;
Where he sleeps, from the ground
There will rise the sweet sound
—That air, ‘Jack-my-laddie,’ his favourite measure.
This day it is sad
For the lass and the lad
Who will never more dance to his tune down the middle;
But I hear ‘Home sweet Home,’
As he played it; so come,
Let us all follow on to the call of his fiddle.
For the lass and the lad
Who will never more dance to his tune down the middle;
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As he played it; so come,
Let us all follow on to the call of his fiddle.
So toll not the bell
With a funeral knell
For the dead man they carry to rest by the steeple;
Bear him along
And sing him a song
Who played so, and sang so, to hearten the people.
With a funeral knell
For the dead man they carry to rest by the steeple;
Bear him along
And sing him a song
Who played so, and sang so, to hearten the people.
98
A Westmoreland Song
Rust-red are the mountains
And white fall the fountains
When over Helvellyn fly winterly gales;
But green when the comer,
Who brings us the summer,
The cuckoo calls clear o'er the Westmoreland dales.
And white fall the fountains
When over Helvellyn fly winterly gales;
But green when the comer,
Who brings us the summer,
The cuckoo calls clear o'er the Westmoreland dales.
When bracken was springing
The live air was ringing,
The lambs with loud chorus filled valleys below;
Now bracken is umber,
How deep is the slumber
Of mountains that wait for the silence of snow.
The live air was ringing,
The lambs with loud chorus filled valleys below;
Now bracken is umber,
How deep is the slumber
Of mountains that wait for the silence of snow.
But oh! for the weather
That brought us the heather,
When high Pike o'Stickle and Easdale were bright;
And oh! the long gloamings
Of May, for the roamings
O'er hills that were never quite darkened with night.
That brought us the heather,
When high Pike o'Stickle and Easdale were bright;
And oh! the long gloamings
Of May, for the roamings
O'er hills that were never quite darkened with night.
99
Ye Westmoreland mountains,
Ye Westmoreland fountains,
The clouds are your children, the streams are your birth;
When tear-drops fall quickly,
And clouds gather thickly,
Your calm and your hope bring new comfort to Earth.
Ye Westmoreland fountains,
The clouds are your children, the streams are your birth;
When tear-drops fall quickly,
And clouds gather thickly,
Your calm and your hope bring new comfort to Earth.
100
The Westmoreland Emigrant
From Death to Life the silent plain
Is changed by magic powers,
And merrily the bullock-wain
Moves axle-deep in flowers.
Is changed by magic powers,
And merrily the bullock-wain
Moves axle-deep in flowers.
But I would be where sound is heard,
Where Sour-milk ghyll is falling,
And thro' the blue-bell copse the bird
Is ‘cuckoo! cuckoo!’ calling.
Where Sour-milk ghyll is falling,
And thro' the blue-bell copse the bird
Is ‘cuckoo! cuckoo!’ calling.
From fenceless fields in freedom rolled
A wider air we breathe it,
I'd choose the intack and the fold,
The narrow vale beneath it.
A wider air we breathe it,
I'd choose the intack and the fold,
The narrow vale beneath it.
Let others for a kingdom take
The treeless prairie ranches,
Give me a glimpse of Rydal Lake,
Seen bright among the branches.
The treeless prairie ranches,
Give me a glimpse of Rydal Lake,
Seen bright among the branches.
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Oh! hills and lakes divinely blue,
Oh! mountains black with thunder,
Oh! mists that let the sunshine thro'
Or wrap the valleys under.
Oh! mountains black with thunder,
Oh! mists that let the sunshine thro'
Or wrap the valleys under.
Ye bleating brothers of the fern
In lonely mountain places,
How oft with crook and dog I yearn
To see your dappled faces.
In lonely mountain places,
How oft with crook and dog I yearn
To see your dappled faces.
Oh! happy times, when on the heights
We sought the sheep for shearing,
Oh! jolly Christmas merry-nights
With song and dance so cheering.
We sought the sheep for shearing,
Oh! jolly Christmas merry-nights
With song and dance so cheering.
Grey walls that climb the mountain side
Or sink to valleys tender,
Loud streams that shine, and ghylls that hide,
What homage can I render,
Or sink to valleys tender,
Loud streams that shine, and ghylls that hide,
What homage can I render,
Save this, that whereso'er I go,
Till fortune may restore me,
The hills of Westmoreland I know,
Shall always rise before me?
Till fortune may restore me,
The hills of Westmoreland I know,
Shall always rise before me?
102
Home from Italy
There are no snow-white oxen in the dales
To drag with rolling gait the narrow wain;
No cypress plumes the hill, and in the plain
I scent no vines, I hear no nightingales;
But the same rose, whose beauty there prevails,
Shuts her pink petals from the gentle rain;
The same swifts cry above the topmost vane,
And high in air the self-same buzzard sails.
To drag with rolling gait the narrow wain;
No cypress plumes the hill, and in the plain
I scent no vines, I hear no nightingales;
But the same rose, whose beauty there prevails,
Shuts her pink petals from the gentle rain;
The same swifts cry above the topmost vane,
And high in air the self-same buzzard sails.
Thro' silent sunburnt flats no Tiber streams,
No Amiata shines divinely blue,
No purple city dreams about its dome;
But Skiddaw lifts his bulk of changeful hue,
Thro' lush green meads the Greta sounds and gleams,
And one fair garden calls the wanderer home.
No Amiata shines divinely blue,
No purple city dreams about its dome;
But Skiddaw lifts his bulk of changeful hue,
Thro' lush green meads the Greta sounds and gleams,
And one fair garden calls the wanderer home.
103
At Dunnabeck
With just such wings the buzzard flew,
So cuckoo called to cheer
The wild unmeditative crew
Who held their rampart here.
So cuckoo called to cheer
The wild unmeditative crew
Who held their rampart here.
So gleamed the mere, so rose the Scar
Magnificently grey,
So from its fountain-head afar
The streamlet poured away.
Magnificently grey,
So from its fountain-head afar
The streamlet poured away.
A few rough walls the shepherds make
To curb their flocks that range,
A white road glimmering by the lake,—
There is no other change.
To curb their flocks that range,
A white road glimmering by the lake,—
There is no other change.
Nor change in these transcendent powers
Of rock and lake and hill,
They spake in prehistoric hours
And they are speaking still.
Of rock and lake and hill,
They spake in prehistoric hours
And they are speaking still.
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But since the Rydal bard was sent
To show us Nature's plan,
The bar is broke, the veil is rent
'Twixt God and Godlike man.
To show us Nature's plan,
The bar is broke, the veil is rent
'Twixt God and Godlike man.
Now whoso from this lawn would look
On hill, or lake, or grove,
May read the Spiritual book
Of universal love.
On hill, or lake, or grove,
May read the Spiritual book
Of universal love.
Oh! British holders of your ‘Dun,’
To think ye passed away
Beyond the sunset ere the sun
Had brought this blessed day!
To think ye passed away
Beyond the sunset ere the sun
Had brought this blessed day!
Ye could have given a simpler heart
And ears less deaf than mine,
To feel what Nature could impart
Of mystery divine.
And ears less deaf than mine,
To feel what Nature could impart
Of mystery divine.
Come back, come back from out your dust,
And let this scene declare,
Its revelation held in trust
For every age to share.
And let this scene declare,
Its revelation held in trust
For every age to share.
Note.—It is believed that the early Britons held a fort upon the ridge above White-Moss, and that Dunnabeck—the beck or water of the Dun—preserves the name of the place of their encampment.
105
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.
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 gladly 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.
The men who plant the vine and tend the herds
Go gladly 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.
106
The Stag Impaled
With head drawn back, and heaving flank distressed
It hears the hounds—the hunter's bugle ring,
What hand shall save the tame unantlered thing,
What covert give the harmless creature rest?
Down the long vale, and o'er the woodland crest,
Across the flood, with piteous fear for wing
It speeds, then leaps, and with a desperate spring
Hangs mute, impaled, the fence-spear in its breast.
It hears the hounds—the hunter's bugle ring,
What hand shall save the tame unantlered thing,
What covert give the harmless creature rest?
Down the long vale, and o'er the woodland crest,
Across the flood, with piteous fear for wing
It speeds, then leaps, and with a desperate spring
Hangs mute, impaled, the fence-spear in its breast.
When shall the heart of gentler England prove
Its pure compassion for all needless pain;
When shall we learn the bond of brotherhood
'Twixt man and these wild creatures of the wood,
And nobler days of sport bring nobler gain,
For manhood sworn to pity and to love?
Its pure compassion for all needless pain;
When shall we learn the bond of brotherhood
'Twixt man and these wild creatures of the wood,
And nobler days of sport bring nobler gain,
For manhood sworn to pity and to love?
107
Jupiter and Venus
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.
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 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!’
108
A Shadow on Scafell
[_]
In Memoriam Prof. A. Milne Marshall, of Owens College, Manchester, who died by a fall from the crags above Lord's Rake on Scafell, 31st December, 1893.
Clear shines the heaven above our New Year's Day,
The sunlight gleams by Wastdale's desolate shore
And streams o'er grassy Gavel, and the floor
Of Derwentwater glitters gold and gay.
But one great shadow lingering seems to stay
Dark on Scafell, beneath its summit hoar—
Shadow more deep than gloomy Mickledore,
Shadow no New Year's sun can charm away.
The sunlight gleams by Wastdale's desolate shore
And streams o'er grassy Gavel, and the floor
Of Derwentwater glitters gold and gay.
But one great shadow lingering seems to stay
Dark on Scafell, beneath its summit hoar—
Shadow more deep than gloomy Mickledore,
Shadow no New Year's sun can charm away.
For he who climbed so many crags of fear,
Sounded such deeps, such heights of knowledge won,
But never over-passed our heights of love,
Has vanished in a moment—gone to prove
Those peaks beyond our seeing—and we hear
Far up the cleft a brave voice: ‘Follow on.’
Sounded such deeps, such heights of knowledge won,
But never over-passed our heights of love,
Has vanished in a moment—gone to prove
Those peaks beyond our seeing—and we hear
Far up the cleft a brave voice: ‘Follow on.’
109
At Buck Castle
The Prehistoric Fort of Refuge at the head of Shoulthwaite Ghyll.
Here, in old days of war and lust and loss,
There stood, in fear, the prehistoric men
Who tracked the elk to yonder Shoulthwaite Moss,
And scared the wolf of Armboth to his den.
There stood, in fear, the prehistoric men
Who tracked the elk to yonder Shoulthwaite Moss,
And scared the wolf of Armboth to his den.
But though for them a horror as of blood
Lay on the purple heather at their feet,
At least they felt the August sun was good,
And heard the waterfall and called it sweet.
Lay on the purple heather at their feet,
At least they felt the August sun was good,
And heard the waterfall and called it sweet.
They had no thirst for conquest over sea,
Nor knew the hunger of Imperial Rome;
Enough to wander on this upland lea,
The stream, the fell, the fort, were all their home.
Nor knew the hunger of Imperial Rome;
Enough to wander on this upland lea,
The stream, the fell, the fort, were all their home.
But none the less when on Helvellyn's height
The watchmen told of foray from afar,
Heroes till death they ranged themselves in fight
And lit their altar to the God of War.
The watchmen told of foray from afar,
Heroes till death they ranged themselves in fight
And lit their altar to the God of War.
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For every goat upon the Armboth fell,
And every crag above the shining mere,
And every shepherd path they knew so well
In this small world, to them as life was dear.
And every crag above the shining mere,
And every shepherd path they knew so well
In this small world, to them as life was dear.
But we like weary Titans grasp and groan,
From heights of empire wider is our view,
Yet have we lost what he with axe of stone
And triple-rampired fort as patriot knew.
From heights of empire wider is our view,
Yet have we lost what he with axe of stone
And triple-rampired fort as patriot knew.
111
In the Wray Garden
The fells are bronzed, the becks are grey and dry,
The winds are laid and all the woods are still,
But to our garden ground a generous will
Sends down sweet song, nor heeds a fierce July;
And our cool sycamore incessantly
Whispers and with a merry dancer's skill
Moves in its leaves, as if it felt the thrill
Of airy elfin music passing by.
The winds are laid and all the woods are still,
But to our garden ground a generous will
Sends down sweet song, nor heeds a fierce July;
And our cool sycamore incessantly
Whispers and with a merry dancer's skill
Moves in its leaves, as if it felt the thrill
Of airy elfin music passing by.
Here then, with melodies that never fail
Blest are we though the birds have ceased to sing,
Blest are we though the becks have lost their voice;
And if the winds have vanished from the vale,
And July sun its heat and drouth may bring,
In this sequestered garden we rejoice.
Blest are we though the birds have ceased to sing,
Blest are we though the becks have lost their voice;
And if the winds have vanished from the vale,
And July sun its heat and drouth may bring,
In this sequestered garden we rejoice.
112
The Streamlet at the Wray
I.
Here where the stream from ancient Sölva's hill
Draws the sweet life and music of the years,
Who wakes at dawn or rests at evening hears
A voice that to his soul doth strength instil.
Sound of the perfect work—the perfect will
That knowing but obedience to the sphere
Moves without present pain or future fear,
To bless all life, all duty to fulfil.
Draws the sweet life and music of the years,
Who wakes at dawn or rests at evening hears
A voice that to his soul doth strength instil.
Sound of the perfect work—the perfect will
That knowing but obedience to the sphere
Moves without present pain or future fear,
To bless all life, all duty to fulfil.
And I who listen in your garden ground
Feel like a guilty thing rebuked and blamed,
For I have done so little yet to bless
With gift of life the weary wilderness.
Yet do I rise, tho' humbled now and shamed,
And go forth stronger to the daily round.
Feel like a guilty thing rebuked and blamed,
For I have done so little yet to bless
With gift of life the weary wilderness.
Yet do I rise, tho' humbled now and shamed,
And go forth stronger to the daily round.
II.
Thou wert the darling of our childish hours,
We loved thee for thy wanton restlessness,
We felt thy nature ours in its excess
Of life and song and laughter and sweet flowers:
Grown up to manhood's prime and strenuous powers
We watched thee labouring without weariness,
And knew thy cheer; as old men we could bless
Thy quiet pools in meditative bowers.
We loved thee for thy wanton restlessness,
We felt thy nature ours in its excess
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Grown up to manhood's prime and strenuous powers
We watched thee labouring without weariness,
And knew thy cheer; as old men we could bless
Thy quiet pools in meditative bowers.
Now sad or glad, alternate hopes and fears
Not knowing whence they came or whither going,
All lovers owned affinity with thee;
But sweetest was thy voice to dying ears
That heard through change and chance thy waters flowing,
Heaven-sent, Heaven-bound, to Life's unfathomed sea.
Not knowing whence they came or whither going,
All lovers owned affinity with thee;
But sweetest was thy voice to dying ears
That heard through change and chance thy waters flowing,
Heaven-sent, Heaven-bound, to Life's unfathomed sea.
114
The Bewcastle Cross
Hwaetred, Wothgar and Olwfwolthu!
Still does the cross ye set stand true
—The slender beacon-sign to tell
Where Alcfrith son of Oswy fell,
The beacon-sign that bids us pray
His soul's high sin be cast away.
Still does the cross ye set stand true
—The slender beacon-sign to tell
Where Alcfrith son of Oswy fell,
The beacon-sign that bids us pray
His soul's high sin be cast away.
Here where the plaintive curlews cry,
Where the sound of the beck comes up like a sigh,
Here where the Roman dead are laid,
Here where the Church's prayers are said,
The great Cross speaks of Oswy's son
Who fell, but knew the fight was won.
Where the sound of the beck comes up like a sigh,
Here where the Roman dead are laid,
Here where the Church's prayers are said,
The great Cross speaks of Oswy's son
Who fell, but knew the fight was won.
No more their watch the Britons keep,
The Roman soldiers lie asleep,
Earl Būeth's castle fades, and fall
The stones he took from the Roman wall,
But fearless of the passing years
The carven pillar's grace uprears,
The beacon-sign so tall and thin
That tells the tale of King Alcfrith's sin.
The Roman soldiers lie asleep,
Earl Būeth's castle fades, and fall
The stones he took from the Roman wall,
But fearless of the passing years
The carven pillar's grace uprears,
115
That tells the tale of King Alcfrith's sin.
Long since the cross-head suffered loss,
But firm in socket stands the Cross,
And speechless now with shadow-mouth
The dial gnomonless fronts the south;
While o'er and under an endless cord
Tells of the life of a endless Lord,
And ever still, with Christ for root,
The grape-vine flourishes, leaf and fruit;
For they who set this victory sign
Had faith in the life of God's true vine.
But firm in socket stands the Cross,
And speechless now with shadow-mouth
The dial gnomonless fronts the south;
While o'er and under an endless cord
Tells of the life of a endless Lord,
And ever still, with Christ for root,
The grape-vine flourishes, leaf and fruit;
For they who set this victory sign
Had faith in the life of God's true vine.
Clear to the north the carving stands—
Made by the skill of English hands—
Billet and twisted knot and scroll,
To bid men pray for King Alcfrith's soul.
Made by the skill of English hands—
Billet and twisted knot and scroll,
To bid men pray for King Alcfrith's soul.
Lo! eastward grown, from earth to sky,
The Tree of God that cannot die;
Not yet irreverential man
Had put dumb creatures under ban;
There sits the peacock, broods the dove,
The squirrel feeds in peace above.
The Tree of God that cannot die;
Not yet irreverential man
Had put dumb creatures under ban;
There sits the peacock, broods the dove,
The squirrel feeds in peace above.
Fair Tree of Life! who face to face
In wonder sees your peerless grace,
Harmonious leaf and fruit, the swerve
And balance of each living curve,
Must feel, tho' beaten from his wall,
The Lombard mind was Lord of all,
And that from Rome the Anglian caught
The skill with which the sculptor wrought.
In wonder sees your peerless grace,
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And balance of each living curve,
Must feel, tho' beaten from his wall,
The Lombard mind was Lord of all,
And that from Rome the Anglian caught
The skill with which the sculptor wrought.
High on the west the Baptist stands,
The Lamb of God is in his hands;
Beneath, most solemn and most sweet,
Christ spurns the Dragon under feet,
And lifts His tender hand to bless
All dwellers in this wilderness.
The Lamb of God is in his hands;
Beneath, most solemn and most sweet,
Christ spurns the Dragon under feet,
And lifts His tender hand to bless
All dwellers in this wilderness.
Beneath the Christ deep runes we ken—
First writing by the graver's pen
In England left to Englishmen;
Runes that still keep memorial true
Of Hwaetred, Wothgar and Olwfwolthu,
Saying that here they set the sign
To Alcfrith, King of Oswy's line.—
The beacon-sign of victory thin.—
To bid us pray for Alcfrith's sin,
That sin for which we still must pray
Tho' centuries twelve have passed away.
First writing by the graver's pen
In England left to Englishmen;
Runes that still keep memorial true
Of Hwaetred, Wothgar and Olwfwolthu,
Saying that here they set the sign
To Alcfrith, King of Oswy's line.—
The beacon-sign of victory thin.—
To bid us pray for Alcfrith's sin,
That sin for which we still must pray
Tho' centuries twelve have passed away.
Yea, tho' in battle that he won
He fell for Christ, King Oswy's son,
Twelve centuries' prayer have not sufficed
For him who turned his back on Christ,
Who sinned against the Holy Ghost,
And joined dark Penda's pagan host,
Who tho' of Church and faith he came,
Wrought on the Christian, deeds of shame.
He fell for Christ, King Oswy's son,
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For him who turned his back on Christ,
Who sinned against the Holy Ghost,
And joined dark Penda's pagan host,
Who tho' of Church and faith he came,
Wrought on the Christian, deeds of shame.
And we who gaze beneath may see
The king for whom we urge the plea—
The king who fought against the Christ—
A hooded hawk is on his wrist,
The hawk that never stooped in vain
On Cumbrian moor, Bernician plain—
The hawk, fit symbol of the word,
Which marked him quarry for the Lord—
The word whose wings of conscience fleet
Brought him smit thro' to Christ's fair feet.
The king for whom we urge the plea—
The king who fought against the Christ—
A hooded hawk is on his wrist,
The hawk that never stooped in vain
On Cumbrian moor, Bernician plain—
The hawk, fit symbol of the word,
Which marked him quarry for the Lord—
The word whose wings of conscience fleet
Brought him smit thro' to Christ's fair feet.
Hwaetred, Wothgar and Olwfwolthu!
Still does the cross ye set stand true;
Still does it tell of Oswy's son,
Who falling knew the victory won,
And bids us at Bewcastle pray,
Lest Alcfrith's soul be cast away.
Still does the cross ye set stand true;
Still does it tell of Oswy's son,
Who falling knew the victory won,
And bids us at Bewcastle pray,
Lest Alcfrith's soul be cast away.
118
The Sycamore at High Close
27th August, 1908.
Though no more now the shepherds sit to shear
Beneath thy murmuring shade, thy massy dome,
Thou standest still a beacon-sign of home
To all who climb the mountains far and near.
Rest still to men thou profferest, food and cheer
To valley birds and moorland bees that come,
Still conjurest from hard rock and fellside loam
This miracle of beauty year by year.
Beneath thy murmuring shade, thy massy dome,
Thou standest still a beacon-sign of home
To all who climb the mountains far and near.
Rest still to men thou profferest, food and cheer
To valley birds and moorland bees that come,
Still conjurest from hard rock and fellside loam
This miracle of beauty year by year.
Oh! would to God thou monitory tree,
Unto our hearts thy power and will were given
To seek the sunlight, for the wanderer's sake
Beacon to stand and scatter largesse free,
From out the nearest things around to make
Comfort for earth, and joy and song for Heaven.
Unto our hearts thy power and will were given
To seek the sunlight, for the wanderer's sake
Beacon to stand and scatter largesse free,
From out the nearest things around to make
Comfort for earth, and joy and song for Heaven.
119
A Memory
Hard is the road that Duty takes!I in London—you at the Lakes.
I in London's riot and roar—
You by the peaceful Rydal shore.
I in London's smother and smell—
You in a fragrant Loughrigg dell.
I where no birds flutter and sing—
You where the delicate flycatcher's wing
Poises and dips, while the nestlings call
For mother and food from the garden wall,
Till the sun goes down, and the lilac shale
Of Nab Scar darkens above the dale.
But still I can dream of a cottage blest
With Earth's best happiness—home and rest;
Can see in the fern the moving fleece
Of the Herdwick mother, who feeds in peace;
And well can remember how white at morn
Against blue distances shone the thorn;
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Below us, that made our silence sweet:
And so, though the city is thronged and loud,
I can still each day be alone in the crowd;
Can still go the road that Duty takes,
Though I am in London, you at the Lakes.
| Poems at Home and Abroad | |