The Poetical Works of George Barlow :: :: University of Virginia Library

Not for a single moment must we hold
That England's force is spent. Not till the sun
Pales in the heavens will England's work be done.
Nay the pure Sun-God, armoured all in gold,
Still guides and guards us as in days of old
And still the Sea's wild love-kiss may be won:
The kiss She gives with passionate mouth to none
Save those of knightly mark and kingly mould.

Through deep-sown dangers, countless round thy road,
Strive onward, England. Lift thy giant load.
Whom heaven exalts no foeman can abase.
God gave thee a sword omnipotent when he
Left in thine hand the white hand of the Sea,
And set thy soul and Freedom face to face.

1904.

TWO SONNETS

I
THE UNIVERSE-CENTRE

“The supreme end and purpose of this vast Universe was the production and development of the living soul in the perishable body of man.” —Alfred Russel Wallace, in the Fortnightly Review for March, 1903.

Strange, if in truth this world of ours, so small,
So grief-devoured, should the grand centre be
Of that huge starry Universe we see,—
The end, the chief result, the crown of all!
Here is the battle fought. Here stand or fall
Armies whose swords flash through eternity.
We are the combatants, aye even we
Whose pigmy frames the sunlit voids appal.

O thought tremendous! thought that must perturb,
If it be true, the tremulous soul of man!
To know that fragrance of an earthly rose
Through the vast flowerless scentless spaces goes
Lonely, divine,—to know that Love can curb
The winds, and aid or mar the cosmic plan.

II
“POWERS SUPREMER”

Most strange, if woman's wondrous form we know
So sweet on earth should be alone indeed
In its pure beauty,—shaped, designed, decreed,
O'er all the marvelling heavens her spell to throw.
Perchance on not one other globe could grow
The flowers whose fragrant force the star-hosts need.
Here, here alone, can fail or can succeed
Love's dream. Here passion's foam-white torrents flow.

Most strange, most grand! when earthly lips are one
They find within the walls of their embrace
Life that will last when planets' lives are done.
Two lovers standing silent, face to face,
When strength divine worships diviner grace
Wield powers supremer than of star or sun.

“EVER MINE”

SONNET

As flowers the sunlit air of heaven, as night
The rays that from the starland float through space,
So ever doth the poet seek the face
Of Beauty, his by the eternal right
Of endless and unspeakable delight
That makes his heart her shrine in every place;
His in her fragrance, in her girlish grace,
Her passionate charm, her marvel and her might.

The poet follows where pure Beauty leads
For she to him is as the force divine
That fills with life the flowers of all the meads.
O Beauty, summer's flower-sweet breath is thine!
I ask no frowning help of flowerless creeds
If thou art ever with me, ever mine.

THE CELTIC MOVEMENT

SONNET

O conquered Ireland, conquered by the sword,
By force, by sullen strength, by soulless deeds,
Strange if at last thine own soul intercedes
Even for thy conquerors! Pure and sweet reward,
Divine great vengeance, if thine heart is poured
Forth in wild singing o'er thine hills and meads,
If England hearkens, then the whole world heeds!
The Celtic harp may thrill the Saxon horde.

O magic beauty in the old legend-land,
O charm residing in the mystic rose,
O power of passionate love that overflows,
O fairies white of soul and brow and hand,
Ye may reveal lost marvels, and the grand
Vast silent secret of the stars disclose.

“The Secret Rose,” by W. B. Yeats.

“THE STERNEST HOUR”

SONNET

O frivolous hearts that waste your days in dreams
Most weak, most futile, if the truth were known
Might it not startle on her wave-washed throne
England, and streak her heaven with blood-red gleams?
Though all so calm, so safe, so tranquil seems,
What if on us man's race, on us alone,
The fate of all the Universe, sun-sown,
Depends? What if we shape the stellar schemes?

It may be that the sternest hour has come
In all the life of all the globes we see
Thronging the dark plains of eternity.
Of all past ages ours may be the sum.
One planet speaks amid the millions dumb,
Urging huge hosts towards unknown victory.

“WHEN LIFE WAS YOUNG”

When life was young and love was gracious
And splendid leaping waves shone spacious,
How did my lyre laugh forth in glee!
The pleasant world was all before me
And blue June skies stooped gently o'er me,
And thou wast waiting by the sea.

But now the days no more in splendour
Are robed, nor crimson flush is tender
'Mid branches of the spring-bright tree,
And thou art gone, O woman peerless,
No more youth's queen, so pure, so fearless,
No more the lady of the sea.

Springs shine again: but these lack wonder.
The waves upon the same shores thunder
And suns and stars solicit me.
But all is changed. No more I enter
Love's golden temple's flame-crowned centre:
No more I worship by the sea.

I sing,—but not the old song. Rather
Red autumn leaves and fruit I gather
From russet hill-side, sunburnt lea.
No more in all the morning's lightness
I mix my soul with shuddering whiteness
Of the soft-laughing green-haired sea.

Nor are sweet sounds the same for ever.
The music-rush transfigures never
Though once God's hand it used to be.
And though the waves are blue they glow not
As once they flamed divine, and show not
Thy figure, shapely by the sea.

If this it is to grow yet older,
That all the heart may freeze and colder
May frown the thickening days that flee,
I'd give all knowledge and late pleasure
For one sweet August evening's treasure
Of moonlight o'er the old love-tinged sea.

“THOU DOST ENDURE”

When we are tost amid life's whirling waters
Foam-crested, wild and deep,
And none can charm us of earth's sweetest daughters,
What refuge save in sleep?

When not one rose is left, nor violet nestling
In the sweet hollow way;
When the far skies with black-plumed clouds are wrestling
And all the seas are grey:

When death is at the door and, faint and lonely,
Our spirit stands apart
From man and woman, seeking comfort only;
When passion fails, and Art:

When the bright golden glittering love-land fadeth,
When woman's eyes grow dim,
Is there yet One who healeth nor upbraideth
And can we turn to him?

Is there a Force beyond the surging waters,
A Power beyond the skies,
Stronger than earth's sons, gentler than her daughters,
With more than woman's eyes?

With tenderer than her lips, and perfect pleasure
Of endless high embrace,
And selfless rescuing love that knows no measure
In his most awful face?

When we are weary, and nought but death can find us,
And dead are mortal dreams,
And suns are hidden, or blaze forth but to blind us,
And hushed are all the old streams:

When all the flowers are withered, and the glory
Of earth departs indeed,
And hearts grow sere, and aging heads grow hoary,
And world-pierced spirits bleed:

When never again the dew falls in the meadows
Quite as it fell of old,
And sweet enchantment quits the evening shadows,
Forsakes the sunset's gold:

When friends betray, and all the world is hollow,
And all the stars are pale,
Whom shall we seek, and whom for Leader follow,
And whom for Champion hail?

What refuge save in thee, thou God most tender
And infinite and high?
Fold us around with more than starlike splendour,
With more than sunset sky!

Fill us with all thy strength, and with thy passion
That, being strong, is pure.
Men change. Thou changest not in mortal fashion.
Hearts fail. Thou dost endure.

LOVE

Though all the blossoms perish, and the seas
Turn grey at anger of the evening breeze:
Though souls grow weary, and faint hearts turn pale:
Love hath avail, love hath avail!

Though men be mad with yearning unexpressed
And not the farthest hill-top yields us rest:
Though over endless heartless seas we sail:
Love hath avail, love hath avail!

Though dreams of youth with weary hearts and eyes
Melt beyond mists of morn and sunset skies:
Though every hope we cherished seems to fail:
Love hath avail, love hath avail!

Though all the deepening glory of vernal green
Shall soon be but a garment that has been,
Yet trees and blossoms cry, while wild winds wail,
“Love hath avail, love hath avail!”

The love that mixes with the heart divine
As the stars seek the waves wherein they shine:
Whose wings control the loud ship-shattering gale:
This hath avail, this hath avail!

The love that nought can dim nor turn aside,
High as the sun and as the sweet sea wide:
The love that deepens when time's swords assail:
This hath avail, this hath avail!

The love beyond all words, beyond all creeds,
Pierced till it faints and wounded till it bleeds:
With thorns on brow, through either hand a nail:
This hath avail, this hath avail!

O men that struggle towards the far dim light,
Love hath the seas' pent force, the mountains' might:
Feet shod with love the blue heavens' summits scale:
Love hath avail, love hath avail!

BEYOND

Beyond the travail of earth and all its sorrow
We twain may meet
And watch the roses gleam on God's to-morrow
Soft, fair, and sweet.

By some far sea where sunlit waves are breaking
One day we'll stand
And all our souls shall thrill with rapture waking,
Hand cleave to hand.

And all the skies shall be love's pure dominion
And pain shall flee
With weary down-bent vanquished coal-black pinion
Across the sea.

And we shall heave one sigh of sweetest wonder
And one of peace,
While far upon the horizon grief's last thunder
Rolls, soon to cease.

And we shall know that all the strife is over:
Ah! rest,—how sweet.
How tender-soft the supple yielding clover
To tired-out feet!

And we shall meet each other's eyes with yearning
While soft seas break
Before us, the melodious shingle spurning,
And lost dreams wake.

Nor shall we know till the strange morning finds us
That we are dead:
That love's hand is as death's hand when it binds us,
When grief is fled!

Then, crowned with our thorn-wreath, one soul immortal,
Two souls shall rise
Entering eternal life's majestic portal
Whose bars are skies.

And heaven shall seem like one love-night whose glory
Will ne'er grow cold
But flame for ever o'er time's summits hoary
With wings of gold.

The night when first thy whiteness with me blended,
Me bruised and worn:
When pain was slain, and sorrow's rule was ended,
And hope was born.

TWO SONNETS

“OUR LEADER”

I

“Oh, for one half-hour of Gladstone!”
—The Bishop of Worcester at St. James's Hall, Sept. 29, 1903.

Darkness no star can pierce, no sunny ray
Of hope or life, no light of loftier dreams:
Blood-torrents tinging Macedonian streams,
Shed by the ravening wild hordes who obey
Him who should shrink to meet the face of day.
No answering flash of sudden sword that gleams:
A nation puzzling over fiscal schemes
And led by blindest guides for leagues astray.
“Oh, for one half-hour” of the heart that spake
And Tyranny with form abashed down-cowered,
And lands dishonoured and white souls deflowered
Saw through dense clouds a glimmer of sunshine break,
Seeing England's wrath in Gladstone's gaze awake,
Hearing the passionate voice divinely dowered.

“OUR LEADER”

II

Yet is it so? May not the spirit grand
Who fought a battle no soul yet has fought
For England's nobler soul, who, set at nought,
Contemned, rejected, lifted yet the land
Towards heights we dimly now can understand,—
Who in man's heart a work unheard-of wrought,
Heedless of thrones, exalting Love and Thought,
Discrowning Evil with his strong right hand—
May not to-day that spirit superb look down
From some great realm the greater for his crown
Of deathless pity, and his human might?
May not that spirit with England's soul to-day
Commune, our Leader in the heroic way,
Our Guide through grief to joy, through gloom to light?

A LONDON NIGHT

SONNET

To-night above our City's roofs and towers
The clear moon hangs within a summer sky
Almost. What souls to-night with kiss and sigh
Will mix wild hearts and gather passion's flowers!
How through the night's dim moonlit lamplit hours
Bright angels and dark angels fleeting by
Will blend the joys that live, the joys that die!
At Woman's touch will gleam what magic bowers?

To-night, to-night, some pure soft virgin heart
With all its own for love's sweet sake will part,
Trusting some human spirit with love supreme.
To-night...in thirty years what will night's air
Behold? A face immeasurably fair?
Or features fouler than hell's foulest dream?

Sept. 30, 1903.

THE SOUL OF ENGLAND

If the strong soul from England goes,
The soul that loves the weak,—
The soul that in the past arose
Vengeance divine to wreak;

The soul that drew the loving gaze
Of those who strove and fought
On blood-red fields, in slippery ways,
For Freedom, Peace and Thought;

The soul that wept for Poland's fall,
That clasped Mazzini's hand,
That aye responded to a call
For help by sea or land;

The soul that through the voice superb
Of Swinburne hailed the young
Republic bursting chain and curb,
The strife that Hugo sung;

The soul that when the Southern slave
At last was saved and free
Sent o'er the blue Atlantic's wave
The greeting of the sea;

The soul that never, through wild years
Of struggle, quite forgot
The toils of others and their tears,
But shared the human lot;

The soul that through our women spake
In tenderness supreme,—
That where a heart could throb or break
Found Song's divinest theme;

School towering grandly on the green-leafed Hill
And Chapel whence so many prayers have flown
Heavenward, your calm, your hopes were once my own:
Once I was with you, safe from pain and ill,
Young, ardent, happy, pure in soul and will.
Now I steer onward, evermore alone,
See sweetest memories vanish with a moan
But feel your power, a holiest influence, still.

O Harrow, if my heart in those bright days
Had known life's meaning better than I knew,
What heights half-climbed a conqueror's steps had trod!
Still would the everlasting skies be blue,
The sinless nights divine with starry rays,
And all the living world aflame with God.

FOUR SONNETS ON MACEDONIA

I
ENGLAND'S MOMENT

Europe awaits a mandate! Strong and clear
If but the voice of nobler England sounds,
The wild beast, Death, will pause upon his rounds:
Mankind will hearken, starriest heaven will hear.
It is no hour for weak-lipped doubts or fear
For lo! the Sultan hunts with hell's black hounds.
While Emperors smile, blood drips from children's wounds
And horror heightens with the freshening year.

Stern hearts allied can stem the crimson stream.
Deep pity thrills the chivalry of France:
Mazzini's land is stirring and awake.
Others are moving. Shall we only dream?
Can no great passion lift us from our trance?
Immense the moment, and immense the stake.

II
A TRIPLE ALLIANCE

How grand a stroke for angels to record,—
That Milton's, Dante's, Hugo's warrior-lands
Joined ardent hearts and crime-subversive hands
And won for once Love's victory by the sword!
Beyond all dreams might be those Powers' reward.
From flower to flower a righteous deed expands:
Fresh fruits it bears, as year by year commands
And heavenlier sunlight round its path is poured.

France, England, Italy,—might not these attain
At last the ending of the blood-stained quest?
Might not the fleets that war with wave and breeze
Threaten the Turk, and in a twinkling gain
Through the near East a triumph for the West
Outtopping all old dull diplomacies?

III
TO THE POPE

Vicar of Christ, who holdest in thine hand
A sword far-reaching, keen to save or smite,
Rise up, be strong, shed forth thy Church's light.
The hosts of hell at thy supreme command
May scatter, and that blood-drenched Eastern land
May change its robes of red to robes of white.
Plead with divine authority. Invite
Kings to confer, make nations understand.

Thou art the leader of an army vast,
Vast on the earth, yet vaster in the skies.
On saints, not only upon the living, call.
Trumpet to trumpet echoing through the past
Will answer. Angel-legions will arise,
And Jericho's towers will totter, wall by wall.

IV
TO THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND

Queens of fair England, England of the rose,
The sunlit vale, the ocean-girdled shore,
The flower-sweet fields where no gaunt cannons roar,—
Queens of a land where love's heart may repose
Heedless of aught save the deep peace it knows,
The joys it brings, the heaven it can restore,—
Think of grim agony regnant, nor ignore
Measureless grief, most unexampled woes.

Vast is your power and vast your influence high.
Not yet your hearts have spoken as of old
When pity and love and your own souls were one.
Your prayers can summon, white-winged from the sky,
Spirits of force undreamed-of. Speak, be bold.
Banish this darkness, and relight the sun.

March, 1904.

“IF BUT THE DEAD WERE LIFTED QUITE”

If but the dead were lifted quite
To some glad land of heavenly air;
If they could vanish—all that once they were
At one swift stroke be riven from mortal sight;

Then...then we might revere
The hand that fashioned, and the hand that slew:
Then might we say, “The loving soul we knew
Lives on, loves on,—no trace of it is here.”

Alas! a trace remains.
Death doing so much, left still his task undone.
Death paused,—and left a mandate to the rains,
The frosts, the snows of years—the storms, the sun!

May 16, 1892.

“UNMOVED’

So many thoughts through my own brain have passed
Since these two died, so many a silent dream!
The crocus twice has dared the blast
And twice the sky grown blue within the stream.

Though rose may rival sister rose
And year by year the splendent dahlia vie
With the bright sunset-sky,
And lovelier lilies on the stream repose;

Though in our same old land
Yet fairer women year by year may rise
With unchanged charm in younger eyes,
Love's sceptre still in white imperial hand;

Though singers one by one
May chant, when chainless thought, supreme,
Prevails at last, no Church's dream,
But sovereign morning's tribute to the sun;

Though great deeds may abound
And still through many a maddening fight
Flame England's helm alight,—
Though clashing swords in our green lanes may sound;

Though this be so, these silent graves
Will hearken not, the dead within will lie
Unmoved by sunlight, clamour of the waves,
Beauty of woman, thunders of the sky.

JEAN RICHEPIN

Darkness, darkness everlasting, so it seemed that it must be,
Darkness over lake and mountain, over gulf and sunless sea,
Darkness when the Master left us—when no more at Hugo's glance
Morning lit with loveliest roseflush all the wakening fields of France.

Fields of France and meads of England, for the singer reigned supreme,
Filling all the world with sunlight, holding all hearts with his dream:
When the dream at last was over, when the giant's eyes grew dim,
Came the reign of death and silence; Song, it seemed, had died with him.

Nature, history, love and passion, all superbly had been sung;
Rude must seem all other accents, after his the sovereign tongue;

Loveless all the hearts of poets, harsh their hands upon the strings,
Dwarfish all the choirs of singers, pale their crowns beside the king's.

So we felt for one dark moment. Then with crowns of varied gleams
Flashed new stars upon the watchers, carrying on love's broken dreams.
Though the Master's harp was silent, yet the lyre of Richepin spoke,
And the waves and mountains listened, and the wood-nymphs smiled and woke.

Singer strong and true we hail him, yet he sings not of the light;
Round his brow broods stubborn darkness, and his keen gaze probes the night.
Through his music rings the music, through his eyes there flames the glance,
Not of Hugo but Lucretius, new to flower-bright sanguine France.

Yet at this our century's ending well it is that one should rise
Bold of heart to face the blackness, even the gloom of star-proof skies;
Quick of ear to catch and render in his anguish-maddened strain,
Not creation's hymn of triumph, but the gaunt world's groan of pain.

After hosts of soft-tongued singers chanting idly “All is well!”
Right it is that one should question “May not life be living hell?”
Are not all things base, deceptive? what of altar and of shrine?
Can a world so racked and tortured in its dark depths be divine?

After Hugo wreathed with roses, crowned with sorrow Richepin came,
In his heart the love that fails not, on his lips the words of flame:
After summer-cradled waters, after Hugo's sunlit form,
Comes the wild wail of the breakers, comes the thunder-crested storm.

1894.

THIS LIFE

This life is sad. The blossoms every spring,
The stars, the laughing waves upon the sea,
Cry, “Death is throned as your perpetual king,
But life is ours, to all eternity.

“Ye pass, we pass not. Every flower ye love
Is endless, for its race will never die.
Deathless are all the stars that smile above:
Immortal are the clouds that fleck the sky.

“Man only is mortal. Every soul we greet
Half with pure welcome, half with mocking scorn.
Man finds the beauteous earth so very sweet;
So fair he finds the pink cheek of the morn.

“And yet for but one moment he abides;
For but one night for him the stars are grand:
For but one little hour the purple tides
Watch lovers strolling on the golden sand.

“Yea, then the lovers pass, the tides flow on;
The stars steer on across an unchanged sky.
The sun to-day is that same sun which shone
Ere man began to live and love,—and die.

“Each flower ye love, each green fern of the dell,
Each star ye worship, greets you, but each cries
With the same voice that greets, ‘Farewell! Farewell’
‘Farewell!’ the great sun calls to you, from the skies.

“‘Farewell! To-morrow I shall sail in state
Through viewless leagues of soft subservient air,
While ye will struggle on, and war with Fate,
And love and weep, and triumph and despair.

“‘The next day, ye will die.’ So saith the sun,
And all created things feel sad at heart
To think Creation's lord, and kingliest one,
Must soonest of all living powers depart.

“Remember therefore, not one rose ye greet
But sighs a ‘Farewell!’ from its golden core.
While vanquished races from the earth retreat
Stars, oceans, flowers, abide for evermore.”

II

Rose by rose shines out for ever, their gay groups will vanish never
Filling garden after garden, scenting all the summer breeze:
From the fern-lined quiet valleys still the silver streamlet sallies
And the white foam flings its stainless wedding-garment o'er the seas.

III

Or by orb the stellar legions fill the far sky's viewless regions
And the pale moon sails resplendent through the purple seas of space.
Darkness still is full of fancies for the hearts that weave romances,
Finding all the heavens' pure starlight in one human worshipped face.

IV

Still within the forest covers mix the hearts and hands of lovers,
Still the lover seeks the eternal in the moment's endless bliss:
Still the silences are broken by the mystic old words spoken
And the rose becomes self-conscious and divine in woman's kiss.

V

But the souls that pass and leave us, as the swift fierce years bereave us
Of our pleasures, of our gladness, of our health and hopes and ease,

Where are they? What darkness holds them? What of awful light enfolds them?
What of Shelley when above him closed the mantle of the seas?

VI

He who sang the bright world's wonder, when he heard alone the thunder
And beheld alone the curving loveless white breasts of the waves,
Did he then, no more a dreamer, pass to life and love supremer
Than our noblest living passion in this earth of flowers and graves?

VII

Or did speechless terror grasp him, as the waves' hands sought to clasp him,
As the flower-sweet glad earth vanished from his thoughts and from his ken,—
As he turned towards one who waited, one for evermore unmated,
Or yearned back in that dread moment towards a lost love once again?

VIII

That is what to-day we wonder, striving madly now to sunder
Death's serene and sombre curtain, full of starlight or of gloom.
What of sins and wild offences when the human nerves and senses
Fail, or change their form and message at the gateway of the tomb?

IX

What of pain and expiation, what of undreamed tribulation,
What of horror, what of anguish, what of darkness closing round,
When the soul, a conscience only, pays for life's sins, joyless, lonely,
Naked, helpless, homeless, loveless, in a realm without a sound?

X

What of souls for ever dying? Though we hear no groans nor crying
Yet there may be round about us in the starshine, in the air,

Fieriest torment past our speaking, mad revenge that fiends are wreaking
On the souls we counted victors, on the faces we found fair.

XI

Passion changeless, love eternal! Yes: but this by hate infernal
May be dogged and dogged for ever. Life's dim secrets who shall tell?
Through unmeasured tribulations, on through endless incarnations
Still may toil the human spirit, changing fairest heaven for hell.

XII

What of noblest love that perished, unredeemed, uncrowned, uncherished,
In the far-off silent eras that no legend may restore?
If in one life pain is boundless, what of pain's grim footsteps soundless
Over years that know no limit, or on seas that know no shore?

XIII

Love eternal may for ever bring sweet joy that lessens never,
Growing upward, upward alway, gathering flowers in heavenly meads:
Love unchanging, stern and deathless, crowned with starless agony, breathless,
May for ever pant pursuing a pale ghost that still recedes.

XIV

Oh, we apprehend so little, we who deem love's bonds are brittle,
What of mystery, strange, unfathomed, lurks within the gentlest eyes!
With her soul the woman holds us, when her soft embrace enfolds us,
And the soul releases never, and the last kiss never dies.

XV

Are not lovers still abiding in some union death-deriding?
Are not all stars linked together? Is not changeless law supreme?

Love eternal, hate unfailing, endless struggle, hopeless wailing,
Now and then one mighty vision of God's face, one marvellous gleam!

XVI

Is it triumph, is it terror? Is it victory over error
That the human race is winning, or a larger power of pain?
Is the crown of love most tender, after all, a blood-stained splendour?
Is it joy or is it anguish? Is it loss or is it gain?

1904.

Absit omen!

SONNET

(“Slain by judgment thou shalt die.” Mr. Swinburne's Sonnet, called “Czar Louis XVI. Adsit omen!”)

Who shall the supreme Judge's task assume?
Not wholly mean the ill-starred Louis rose
Erect amid not wholly heroic foes:
Dethroned, not all unmanned, he strove with doom.
Wrath's lightnings bring not dawn from midnight's gloom.
Slowly man's sense of larger justice grows:
Hugo abides, when blood-grimed Marat goes:
Heaven's true Republic builds not on the tomb.

Most storm-tossed saddest spirit of all the race
Has been the darkling soul men call the Czar.
No flower-strewn path his wavering feet have trod.
Behold within the judgment-angel's face,
Than the sun's utmost flame more dreadful far,
The immense unswerving awful pity of God.

January 27, 1905.

A DEAD PROPHET

(“Je crois en Dieu.” Victor Hugo on his death-bed.)

I

Since the passing of the Master, death and sorrow and disaster,
Grief and battle and grim horror, all before our eyes have gleamed.
Since the impassioned marvellous singing through the listening world went ringing,
What has time accomplished? Little—of the deeds the poet dreamed.

II

Still the world he loved, predicting that our strifes and aims conflicting
Would be merged in peace made perfect in a nobler epoch born,
Struggles on, with anguish shaken. One by one life's hopes awaken:
One by one life's fair hopes perish, while the wild hours laugh in scorn.

III

Revolution's blood-bright glory still for Hugo closed the story
Of the people's timeless sorrow, brought unmeasured hopes to birth.
Then at last the strong sun's splendour forced all darkness to surrender,
So he deemed, proclaiming freedom to a saved exultant earth.

IV

Giant faith, supreme and splendid, ever widening, vast, extended
From our earth to farthest heaven,—reaching, fearless, down to hell!
How we miss the word that told us that Love's arms for ever hold us,
That with even the worst and saddest in the end it must be well.

V

To each woman, pale, heart-broken, some sweet word of new hope spoken
Should bring solace everlasting, joy that deepens evermore.
“Yes, at Judas' wild repentance, I would change, reverse, the sentence:
I would say to Judas, ‘Enter.’ I would open wide the door.”

VI

Since the poet's great soul left us, since at last Time's hand bereft us
Of the heart that sought grief's twilight, of the eyes that sought the sun,
Since that hour the world has darkened, men in vain have yearned and hearkened
For some voice of noble mandate, for some large song-victory won.

VII

Wars and pangs and desolation! For our sorrowing troubled nation
Ceased 'mid battle's peals of thunder the Victorian vast repose.
Through the forced down-beaten gateway surged in clamorous myriads straightway
All the spirits that foster discord, all love's strenuous dark-browed foes.

VIII

Strife in Africa raged chainless,—War's steeds, foaming, frantic, reinless,
Dragged their chariots over thousands and the children wailed and fell.
Who shall tell us, who shall measure, what was lost of love's pure treasure,
What was wasted of soul-brightness, what of heaven's heart entered hell?

IX

If, divine from heights above us, longing yet to serve, to love us,
On our earth the soul of Hugo, angel-great, majestic, gleamed,
How that pure soul must have shuddered as it watched the world unruddered
Drifting towards the white-mouthed breakers, knowing Love in vain had dreamed!

X

Then came Macedonia's terror—doubt, betrayal, darkness, error;
All the summer flowers as ever towards God's heaven their fragrance poured:
But amid the flowers were wailing sobs that sought heaven unavailing,
Forms that wrestled as with demons, forms that writhed upon the sword.

XI

Then in Eastern far-off regions mixed Japan's and Russia's legions;
Human blood-drops mingled ever with the white foam on the deep:
The bright moonbeams shone and sported on dead faces, weird, distorted,
Thousands hurled by man's inventions into sudden blood-stained sleep.

XII

Once the grand voice spake in thunder, and a world in silent wonder
Watched as Empire shook and tottered, as Napoleon reeled and fell.
Would not Hugo's great heart darken, if to-day he had to hearken
To the deepening wail of anguish of the world he loved so well?

XIII

Hugo's stern Republic fighting still with Rome, old feuds exciting
Ever newer hate and anger in the world he thought reborn!
Darkness still around us brooding, from the darkness still protruding
Clustered swords we never dreamed of, not a token as yet of morn!

XIV

Can he bend, divinely grieving, o'er us, he who died believing
That the God of love was near us? Can he reach us with a word?
If a deed was done inhuman, deadly wrong to man or woman,
Still his spirit, so he told us, in the thunder would be heard.

XV

Yes, we linger, hoping, praying that the stars their light conveying
To our earth may also bring us light of hope from souls afar:
That for man's redemption striving still works grandly, still surviving,
One whose heart with Christ's heart mingled, one whose soul is as a star.

1904.

THE BATTLE OF THE SEA OF JAPAN

May 27 and 28, 1905

SONNET

Great past all strength of watchers to appraise,
The deed by faith and patient valour done
When on Tsushima's waters sank the sun
And night's grim victory followed on the day's!
Before the Western nations' wondering gaze
The East stood forth, and fought for life, and won.
Ship by ship foundered, gun by giant gun,
And a new Empire met the morning's rays.

What that fierce anguish meant what tongue can tell?
Fate's full desire what mortal power can name
Or read the secret of the word that came
Fire-winged from heaven through battle's monstrous hell?
But this we know, that some vast idol fell
And Nelson's land is glad at Togo's fame.

TWO SONNETS

AN ACTOR'S BURIAL

I

[_]

Sir Henry Irving died at Bradford on October 13, 1905, and was buried in Westminster Abbey on October 20.

Crowned by a world whose heart his genius swayed,
Through dim October light a great man goes
From ceaseless labour to supreme repose:
The arduous part has been superbly played.
Death summoned,—and no dallying foot delayed:
The curtain falls that for the long toil rose.
To that strange stage no human eyesight knows
He passes, trusting, hopeful, undismayed.

Missing the actor changed into a friend,
His London for a moment feels alone.
Once more the Abbey's solemn arms extend
Welcome. No sound of ringing trumpets blown
Marshals this valiant spirit to his end,
But Memory's hands will rear his silent throne.

AN ACTOR'S BURIAL

II

He saw with genius' glance the future hour
When England's nobler drama, nobly done,
Shall on some grand ideal stage be one
With English acting, a most mighty power:
Heir of the age when, bursting into flower
At Marlowe's touch, its passionate life begun,
Beneath those heavens where Shakespeare was the sun
Our drama gave to time that priceless dower.

Shakespeare his debtor, Tennyson his friend,
While Becket's last great words became his own,
Immortal, here he met his mortal end,
Treading the lampless ghostly boards alone;
Destined through all the undying years to be
On England's stage a deathless memory.

THE ANGEL OF ENGLAND

I

While our puny tasks engross us, while the hearts of thousands dream,
While we dally with our pleasures or our grief,
Gladly, sadly, the world marches towards some destiny supreme
And it may be that the fatal hours are brief.

II

What of England? What of glory in the future shall there be
Left for England, if she loses in her turn
Lordship over many peoples with the lordship of the sea,—
If the fates that beckoned ever, change and spurn?

III

So a man may win a woman,—for an hour he guards and holds,
For an hour, one fleeting moment. What avails?
There are watchful foemen waiting. What his conqueror's arm enfolds
May elude him, if his strength or wisdom fails.

IV

Lo! he wakes and she has vanished, and the world is left in dim
Utter darkness, cold and starless evermore.
The queen-woman once made over, wholly trusted unto him,
Passes out, but pauses ghostlike at the door.

V

So a pause has come, a moment in our history, strange and stern,
For we have to choose the pathway we will take,
And we have not long to loiter, for the tide is on the turn,
And a Bride's heart is our own, to win or break.

VI

Yea, the Spirit superb and stainless whose soft breath was on the sea
And her sweetness in the roses of our land
Pauses yet with love and longing. Would we have her footstep flee?
Would we lose the passionate pressure of her hand?

VII

Not in fancy do we dream of watchful spirits who surround,
Some with love, but some with hatred in their gaze.
One has led us, one has loved us, one has guarded us and crowned,
One has guided us through dark and devious ways.

VIII

But the seers whose souls can travel through the shadows and the gloom
Tremble now—they see behind the figure white
Darker forms that wait and threaten, evil hosts that tower and loom,
And they see the sun's orb menaced by the night.

IX

All the world is moved to turmoil. In the northland Russia stirs:
The far Eastern peoples wake to life unknown.
India watches, dimly wondering what of changed doom may be hers:
Europe watches, from her still unshaken throne.

X

Revolution's undercurrent, soundless, ever tinged with red,
Flows beneath the lordly palaces of kings.
Peace the Czar desired. The moonlight on white faces of his dead
Glitters now, the answering vultures wave their wings.

XI

Poland, Finland, lightward struggle, and the Russian with the Jew
Wrestles, till at last the bomb does ruthless work.
O'er Armenia God looks down from ceaseless skies of sunlit blue,
But he sees the dripping weapons of the Turk.

XII

Such the world is in this vaunted twentieth century after Christ,
With the Churches chanting hymn and solemn psalm:
Satan ever with the crimson-handed Sultan keeping tryst;
Europe gazing, half amused and wholly calm.

XIII

Mighty poets dead, forgotten, mighty statesmen passed away,
While we dream of gold and luxury and gain!
No stern Leader whom the people with stern passion may obey:
Titans vanish,—but the clamorous dwarfs remain.

XIV

Women changing, not to angels, English women downward drawn,
English streets at night a wonder and a crime,
While above our city still as ever breaks the sinless dawn
Crimson, golden, not in Christ's day more sublime.

XV

Still the Angel's gaze upon our wanton sinful city set,
Still the love supreme in lingering heart and eye
Full of tender pity and yearning, one immense divine regret,
One immense divine redemptive agony!

XVI

Yet a moment have we, yet an hour to lift to heaven our gaze:
At the doorway pauses ever the white Form
Who would save us, who would guide us through the future's darkling ways,
Ever shining, a star-beacon, through the storm.

August 14, 1904.

VAE VICTIS!

I

Progress ever! Pure and holy shines the light of morning, slowly
Brightening all that seemed so evil, changing sad things into sweet!
Man the victor, man the giant, lord of all things, self-reliant,
Shall be crowned with golden sunshine, darkness trembling at his feet.

II

But the vanquished? What of roses that the summer morn discloses
Lying pale and bruised and sodden in the miry heedless way?
What of violets in the hollows that no sunshine guards and follows,
Lying loveless, doomed and helpless, trodden slowly into clay?

III

One succeeds—a thousand falter. One to marriage's white altar
Brings in triumph sweet and solemn the pure footstep of his bride.
With her wedding-robe around her, lo! what angel-hands have crowned her:
All the summer brings its lilies, all is joy and peace and pride.

IV

But another, even fairer, with a wealth of passion rarer,
Lovelier far, it may be, hidden in the soul's depths dark and lone,
Through the horror of the passion that the lewd streets mould and fashion
Will pass downward towards the blackness circling Satan's lurid throne.

V

Oh, the misery to perceive it, the compulsion to believe it,
That for every deed of virtue wrought beneath the approving sun

There is balance in some terror, some mad sin, some piteous error,
Some huge triumph of the darkness, some vast evil wildly done!

VI

Lo! in every generation the bright daughters of the nation
Bring to sweet life here in England all their purity, their power.
When the blossoms flame in splendour, then girl-blossoms far more tender
Bring their wealth of pure soul-fragrance, many a white or rose-flushed flower.

VII

Yet at that same moment, sinking deep and surely hellward, drinking
With their pale wan lips for ever of a shame no tongue can tell,
There are women man would die for, some that angels' souls must sigh for,
Plunging downward, ever downward, while strange laughter rings from hell.

VIII

To the vanquished woe eternal! Yes, the sentence base, infernal,
Seems in blood-red letters written on the universe's walls.
For the victor gratulation, joy and songs and acclamation!
Scorn and anguish never-dying for the soul that fails and falls!

IX

To the poet bring his laurel. Then for years dispute and quarrel
Over all he loved and fought for. Take his sins, his errant deeds:
Let the sun's full light embellish these, enlarge with instinct hellish;
Cast them down amid the garbage where the prowling critic feeds.

X

Let his brave deeds be forgotten,—let them perish, rankling, rotten,
Lost amid wild waves of rancour! Pour your uttermost disdain

On a sin that was a sorrow, wrought, repented of to-morrow:
Overlook, ignore for ever, all the love and all the pain.

XI

To the weak ones woe for ever! Let them rise to gladness never!
Christ discerned his Father's likeness in the pure face of a child.
Yet the children, how they perish! Some would succour, some would cherish:
Yet the children grow life-weary, long before they even have smiled.

XII

Oh, our valour scientific, what avails it when terrific,
Vast, unceasing, stern, tremendous, still the fight for life prevails?
Yea, the gentlest sooner falling, all in vain for help are calling,
All in vain, in vain for ever, for some blind god holds the scales.

XIII

Is the struggle of life extending to the stars,—do they too, blending
Life with starry life, it may be, ever fill the fields of space,
Where the thunders roar and rattle, with the din of deadliest battle,
Shifting ever rank and order, changing post and task and place?

XIV

Might we some day wake and murmur, “Heaven, we thought secure and firmer
Than the solid earth we tread on, with its ceaseless starry rays,
Heaven itself is safe no longer, Change and Time have proved the stronger:
Lo! uncounted starry wreckage chokes the dark sky's gulfs and bays.”

XV

To the weaker woe unbending! Dream of life, life never-ending:
Dream again, and shudder dreaming of what endless life may be!

Life with every hour a sorrow for the conquered, grief tomorrow,
Deeper grief on the day after, so throughout eternity.

XVI

Nation after nation bleeding in the huge strife, still succeeding
To another nation's riches, keeps the contest still alive.
Here again the weakest perish. Not the lands the pure gods cherish,
But the strongest, still the strongest, nations iron-wrought, survive.

XVII

Woe for ever to the weak ones, to the tenderest souls, the meek ones,
To the loving, to the gentle, to the hearts that sympathize!
Not on them the victory hinges, on the war-flag's blood-stained fringes
Rather, on the smoke of battle and the fire-gleam in the skies.

XVIII

Yet...a Figure rises slowly, laurelled not, no conqueror, lowly,
One too tender for the struggle, whom the world-gods slew with scorn.
Has he still, that vast heart broken, one more word of love unspoken?
Is his hand upon the rudder? Can his eyes foresee the morn?

1904.

“A ROSE OF GOD”

SONNET

As life's wild battle wavers, as we wait
Till over hill and valley falls the gleam
Of angel armour flashing through a dream,
And angel hosts through morning's golden gate
Pour forth, more masterful than death or fate,
Or fools found godlike in their own esteem,
Or tongues with Self for their eternal theme,
We cry: “Will Love's heart triumph over hate?”
Yet, though tracked hard by shadows born of hell,
Woman's divineness deepens. She shall be
Fairer than word of living man may tell.
Bright shall be fields and air, serene the sea,
When forth she stands at last, grief's dim paths trod,
Man's rose on earth, in heaven a rose of God.

October 19, 1906.

TWO SONNETS

THE NOBLER WOMAN

I

Through age on age the eyes of woman weep,
The heart of woman, infinite in power,
Sorrows with summer, with the dying flower,
With all bright things that fail, and fade, and sleep.
From her soul's height her aspirations leap
Into the void, dashed down as from a tower.
Her cry of pain from wind-swept bower to bower
Is as the sea's wail blown from deep to deep.
Once, once, she sinned, and this tempestuous orb
Whose wild lips hang upon her wondrous kiss
Even at her fall was hurled to the abyss
Wherein the balefires and the storms absorb
Pale Eden's light that gleams, as gleam afar
The amazing turrets of the morning star.

THE NOBLER WOMAN

II

Yet when she rises, sovereign, stedfast, sure,
Worshipped by angels, who seemed once alone,
Swaying the epochs from her boundless throne,
Supreme at last upon a planet pure,—
Strong, who could so unspeakably endure,—
Immortal, she whose task is to atone
For death through her made human, and the moan
Of multitudinous ages since the lure
Of Satan drew her from her seat sublime
Within the Paradise wherein man dreamed,
While in his eyes the light of godship gleamed
And all was love, and nought was shame or crime:
Then, shall she rule superb, her high task done,
And night and hell shall perish in the sun.

October 21, 1906.

FOUR SONNETS

TO THE MEMORY OF A GREAT QUEEN

I

When time sinks fainting, when pain's race is run,
When freedom's trumpet rings from pole to pole
And crime's stupendous storm-clouds cease to roll
In blood-red ridges, blotting out the sun:
When spirit at last with passionate sense is one
And through stern matter gleams the conquering soul:
When close upon us towers the ages' goal
And earth seems now a heavenly sphere begun:
Then shall we know why God, who gave to France
The matchless music of one song supreme,
And gave to Italy grim Dante's dream,
And bade the world bow down to Goethe's glance,
Made Shakespeare's England stronger, fairer far
Her face a warrior's, and her soul a star.

TO THE MEMORY OF A GREAT QUEEN

II

For, here, where Marlowe saw the morning break
As all the heaven of song grew golden-bright,
Not since has been, nor ever will be, night.
O'er England answering and for England's sake
New splendour flashes, as the wild years take
Their solemn farewell, or triumphal flight.
Not more the beacons when, proud-sailed, in sight,
The Armada watched the fiery hills awake.
But stronger are we, in that surelier here
The soul of Woman passes to a throne.
For God led terribly through paths unknown
England, that on the world superbly clear
Might shine the Vision given to her alone
Of Love that, knowing no ending, knows no fear.

TO THE MEMORY OF A GREAT QUEEN

III

Here, where the spirit of Kingsley loved the air
Of keen wild wintry England, where the rose
In soft delight of sun and shadow grows,
Veiled to the base, to loftiest angels bare,
A golden passion or a white-winged prayer,
The perfect love of woman proudly goes
Serene along the starry road she knows,
Past night's dim empires, kingdoms of despair.
We, we of all men, of all lands, have seen
What hope the high Victorian epoch gave,
What of strange greeting from beyond the grave,
What living mandate from a vanished Queen
Who, while our island paths she gently trod,
Looked on the face and held the hand of God.

TO THE MEMORY OF A GREAT QUEEN

IV

We, we who watched, and felt our hearts turn cold
When England mourned Victoria, seeing the skies
Darken, as when a solemn sunset dies:
We, who now list to selfishness grown bold
And hear a new world's clamorous shout for gold,
Triumphs material, gauds that trick the eyes,
While barriers thicken and sensual mists arise
Denser and denser, covering fold on fold
The lessening heavens wherein the great souls shine:
We, who have met the blood-stained thrusts of hell
And felt the healing of a hand divine,
Know that, though nation after nation fell,
If but she follow where her sure stars sign
With England and her sons it shall be well.

February 12, 1907.

ON THE MURDER OF THE KING AND CROWN PRINCE OF PORTUGAL

Saturday, February 1, 1908

SONNET

Before the first fair crocus veiled in white
Or proud with stainless tints of starry gold
Lifted its crest above the quickening mould,
Anarchy's blossom gleamed and flamed, blood-bright.
Crowned was the morning, kingless was the night.
From land to land the thunder-tidings rolled
Of large defiance flung with hate untold
At God, and Man, and Liberty, and Light.
Through the shocked world wherein alas! was done
An act by murderous devils of hell decreed,—
In Freedom's name, whose eyes are as the sun,
From hearts that follow and from hearts that lead,
From Kingdoms and Republics all at one,
One voice of condemnation doth proceed.

THE HIGHER ENGLAND

But behold! the dark is broken with a solemn sweet word spoken:
Through the night the shining ripple of a golden starlight flows.
If the struggle be tremendous, yet God's power is more stupendous
Than the force of even the mightiest of all unseen fiends and foes.

Though the blood-stained vivisecting priests of Science, love-rejecting,
Rave and rage, and fill our cities with the stench of hideous deeds;
Though they bluster, God-displacing, Satan's code and creed embracing,
More ignoble, more repellent than the snake amid the reeds;

Though they hurl at God defiance, proud, supreme in self-reliance,
Basest, foulest, falsest, filthiest, of the devil-spawned sons of time;
Though they prosper for a season, rotten-ripe with lies and treason,
Changing science into murder, making even research a crime;

Though Rome send from hellish regions her dark-browed evasive legions
With the unctuous old palaver to entice us and persuade;
Though they triumph with their gilding, and their prompt cathedral-building,
Striving to seduce the country they lack courage to invade;

Though the world-imperial Kaiser, black Morocco's white adviser,
Now his friend the Sultan shivers at the notion of extremes,
Watch our fleet with eyes most jealous, ever anxious, ever zealous,
Ever full of aspirations, he who lured the Boers with dreams;

Though the night of Russia darken, as her serfs and peasants hearken
To the teachings made emphatic by the deadly bomb they fling;
Though the grim Anarchic madness, with a burst of devilish gladness,
Slay for sport a prince or noble, or a statesman, or a king;

Though in every Christian city, without heed or help or pity
Girls whose beauty might be peerless, and whose soul might grow divine,
Sink and fade and perish yearly,—not the fate God marked out clearly
For his daughters, on whose foreheads he designed love's stars should shine;

Though our women seek in marriage diamonds, pearls, a park, a carriage,
Rank and wealth and high position,—though the lower lusts persuade;
Though we seem to be declining, though huge forces are combining
To cast God discrowned and swordless from the world that God's hand made;

Though a poet's words appealing seem but ghostly faint cries stealing
Over mist-clad fields at sunset, lost in darkening wastes of air;
Though the people vaguely wonder, when they hear Song's sudden thunder,
“What can ail him, what can move him, seeing that gold is always fair?”

Yet immense, divine, magnific, full of glory, beatific,
Shall Love's crimson awful sunrise on the planet flash and flame.
Was our small star counted friendless? Nay, the constellations endless
Are but sister-orbs attendant. To our planet Jesus came.

Here have martyrs died unending, their pure blood with His blood blending:
Round earth's shores the wild grey ocean in its chainless splendour flows.
Here have iron-willed statesmen taught us. Here have prophets' souls besought us.
Here hath woman won her kingdom from the kingdom of the rose.

Here hath England, led and lighted by her faith for ever plighted
To the fearless form of Freedom, lent to stars their crowns to wear.
Here hath wood and wave and fountain, forest deep and sunlit mountain,
Given our race the eternal mandate to look Godward and to dare.

When each soul in full completeness wins a woman's perfect sweetness
For his marriage-crown and glory, finds God's tenderness in hers,
Then the haunting dreams of error that now hold us with their terror
Shall melt into air and vanish o'er the distant mountain-spurs.

Woman love a vivisector! Not unless we quite reject her,
Wholly choose to part for ever from our helper and our bride,
Can we touch the red hand dripping from the knife whose edge went ripping,
Just to show its skill, the offspring from some living dog's torn side.

Woman love a priest whose passion is to recreate in fashion
Old and sad and dim and deadly all that England once found vile!
Nay: our women's truer mandate is “Win Liberty and hand it
To the waiting subject-races, widening worldward from our isle.”

God the Father—so the Churches, till faith's vessel rocks and lurches,
Have been preaching through the centuries, till at last there comes the close
Of a sexless creed unsuited to man's yearning deeplier rooted,
Grandlier soaring,—so encountering nobler friends and subtler foes.

God the Mother everlasting, God the spirit of bridehood casting
Round the world in tenderest passion arms that lift us from despair:
God whose womanhood revealing ever deeper joys is stealing
Through the stars its touch makes radiant, through the flowers its kiss makes fair:

Such the God the future preaches,—God whose love victorious reaches
To the depths of human anguish: not the God of hell and guile
But the God who shows his creatures woman's love through woman's features,
Not the Father's sword of judgment, but the Mother's sovereign smile.

1908.

POEMS

101

VICTORY

I

A moment I yield thee; 'tis but to shield thee
The better; 'tis but to be free to proclaim
To men that shall listen, soft eyes that shall glisten
As thine eyes glistened, thine own sweet name.

II

'Tis but to make greater our pleasure later,
When both our hearts and our minds have grown.
Some spirit has told me that I shall enfold thee
One day, my lost one—but still mine own.

III

I feel, through the weary days, dismal and dreary,
The far keen rapture of that embrace!
Its far keen glory—when life's dull story
Is quickened, by thine imperial face.

102

IV

I will be ready, my voice shall be steady,
And all the airs around shall be sweet;
To the dim soft bower of love's first hour
We two will hasten, we twain will retreat.

V

There we will linger; I, the singer,
Thou the singer's glory and crown;
And all life's labour, and life's red sabre,
In those far meadows I will lay down.

103

TO THE UNCHANGED GOD

I

Thou changest never
Though men change ever,
Yea, veer as waves of the shifting tides;
Our seasons pass,
We wither as grass
That lies burnt brown on the mountain's sides;
But thou remainest
And death disdainest,—
Thy firm foot over the centuries strides.

II

When Rome was young
Thy lips in it sung,
The Grecian hill-sides caught from thee
Their rose-red light
Of joy; in the night
Of unknown eras thou wast, and the sea
Has known thee, O Lord,
And its music has poured
Forth for thee since ever it came to be.

104

III

Thou art in the bowers
Of memory, the flowers
The long years gather and treasure and keep:
In first love's tender
And infinite splendour,
O infinite God, thine eyes too weep:
And thou dost delight
In the calm of the night
When lovers upon thy soft breast sleep.

IV

Not one white rose
Without thee blows,
Thou art in the meadows that smile in the morn;
The long grey hills
Thy presence fills,
And the roar of the breakers is thy strong scorn;
And summer divine
Is surely thine,
And all its scents at thy word are born.

105

V

To-day we sing to you,
Our swift songs cling to you,
O world of blossoms we soon shall leave.
But what of to-morrow?
Will it bring sorrow?
Will some for our passing sigh once and grieve?
A singer to-day
Like a bird on a spray
Clings to the world's branch; will it receive?

VI

Will it receive him,
Sadden or leave him,—
He for a day sings, only a day;
Others shall follow,
Never Apollo
Hath not a song-word potent to say;
But what world takes them
As this forsakes them,
The singers whom this world's gods betray?

106

VII

We pass through the flowers,
World, of your bowers,
And some we gather and some disdain;
We pluck in your valleys
The flower-wreath that tallies
Best with the song-flowers born in our strain;
And then we fold
Our plumelets of gold,
Or of grey, and quit you; our songs remain.

VIII

But oh whither we
Depart, to what sea
With strange dark waves, what garden, what bower,
Who knows or can say?
What summer-sweet day
Awaits us, or wintry companionless hour?
What guerdon to win?
What joys gathered in?
What rose of new passion, unspeakable flower?

107

IX

Are there women as white
In the bowers of the night
Of death as in rose-hung bowers of the day?
Are there faces as fair
In that desolate air
Where the wings of the hours hang sodden and grey?
Are there mouths that can kiss?
Is there infinite bliss
Of love, or doth all love vanish away?

X

No soul can reply:
From that mystical sky
Come but faint murmurs, no clear voice rings
Downward in answer,
And but a romancer
Seems each one who doubtful or arrogant brings
Word from that far land,
Weirder than star-land,
Whence throbs all music on monstrous wings.

108

XI

For music is death,
And God, and the breath
Of flowers who make fragrant the death they defy;
The lips of the Lord
Through its cadences poured
In it thunder and laugh and reward and reply;
In it seas of the speech
Of God on the beach
Of time plunge downward from fathomless sky.

XII

But all else changes
As time's foot ranges
Pitiless, ceaseless, over our plains;
His barren relentless
Blossomless scentless
Finger the date of our death retains;
And lo! as we sing
A sudden soft wing,
Death's, darkens the chamber and hushed are our strains.

1880.

109

THE WRESTLE FOR A SOUL

I

This I have won by my fight
With the spirits of sorrow and night:
To be followed, ever hereafter,
By a girl's glad sinless laughter.

II

Through my dream I heard
Her maidenly new-born word:
Her virginal fresh-wrought speech.
It had power my heart to reach.

III

And now I am well content
That the veil of life be rent.
For though I pass to the grave
This wonderful soul I save.

110

IV

Though I, dead, pass to the night,
This blossom henceforth is white.
Though I am forgotten, I give
To her leave to laugh and to live.

111

TO THE REV. STOPFORD A. BROOKE, ON HIS LEAVING THE CHURCH OF ENGLAND

Now, where the high hills are
And all the airs with mountain flowers are sweet,
Tread thou; the valleys yearn not for thy feet:
Their wreathed mists bar
The stars from thee, and thee from sight of star.

Now, where the clear streams run,
Seek thou with ever more familiar tread
The utmost summits where the sun burns red,
The strong free sun,
And where in air most fair God's crowns are won.

Beyond all earthly creeds
Thou passest now to the utmost peak, O friend,
Where in love's vision all our visions blend:
Our dreams and deeds
Fail us,—the undying love alone succeeds.

112

With deep sigh of relief
We watch at last the unimprisoned stars
Seen face to face and not through Church-forged bars:
Sweet even if brief
The hour when power doth shower from sun to sheaf.

The one gold autumn hour
Whose glory compensates for all the year
Of mingled pain and labour and swift fear;
When thought to flower
Springs, and the autumnal woodbine rings life's bower.

To pour our souls away
In passionate perfect love; this joy alone
Sets the divine sweet soul on God's pure throne:
This in our day
We yearn and burn to compass, as we may.

August 22, 1880.

113

THE ONLY REST

There is a land where roses fade not ever,
Where hearts once joined in one turn traitors never,
The land of death.
There all is silent: through that pure dominion
Flies never a bird with wandering wistful pinion
And wistful breath.

Our flowers betray us, fading with the summer,
Each sunset darkens for the night, sure-comer,
Pursues each hard:
Life robs us fast of sweet familiar faces,
Robs us of health, endows and then displaces
Each aging bard.

Beauty is sweet: tender the fair white shoulder;
But beauty groweth dim,—the lips wax colder
That once were warm:
The flower-scent quits the neck and leaves the bosom
That once was wordless wealth a bloomless blossom,
Quits mouth and arm.

114

The winter groweth apace: our loves escape us;
In mantle of chill gloom the dark days drape us;
The dark short days:—
The old summer thoughts and dreams are no more valid;
By autumn walls the autumn daisies pallid
Their dank heads raise.

Women we loved are weary or dead or faithless;
Blossoms we loved the bleak wind leaves not scatheless,
It dims their cheeks:
In front of us lies mist-winged drear December;
Behind, the months we care not to remember,
The flower-filled weeks.

So is it in life: God seems to have forgotten;
The very roots of hope and faith seem rotten
And rotten their leaves:
Death's kingdom seemeth to our spirit lonely
The one thing that abideth,—yea the only
Rest man achieves.

115

NO MORE

The sweet green flowerful laughing summers coming
Again shall shine;
Again the June wind's subtle fingers strumming
Shall shake the pine;
Again the yellow-banded bee go humming
O'er clover and vine.

Some say that passion dwindles with the years,
Grows old and loses radiance,—but I say
That noble love can never pass away,
Made strong by pain, made perfect through its tears.
Who dreads pale Time's attempts, who doubts and fears
Lest noon should mar morn's promise to the day,
Shall perish crownless, loveless, in the fray:
When weak hearts wail, nor Love nor woman hears.
Not all hell's poisonous spears or swords of flame
Shall harm the soul that loves, though love seem crime
In the eyes of those who love not, for his fame
Shall everlasting be, his joy sublime,
And Love shall write in gold his deathless name:
He who would conquer Love, must conquer Time.

121

“TO-MORROW'S ROSE”

One woman doth forsake?
Let not thy lone heart break.
Thy lips so full of pain
Fresh lips shall heal again.
To-morrow's rose is fair
As that which brought despair.

1881.

122

QUESTION AND ANSWER

She.
He thinks me just a common wayside flower,
Not fitted e'er to bloom on poet's bower:
Is that not so?

He.
And you,—you are a rose of dainty hues
Whose petals tints most exquisite suffuse:
Is that not so?

She.
Ah no! I spread but common weary wings.
But you,—you deal with grand eternal things:
Is that not so?

He.
The grandest most eternal thing in Art
Is the sweet rendering of woman's heart—

She.
Yes, that is so!

1881.

123

A DEDICATION TO LOUISA S. BEVINGTON

Thou art among the chief of those who lead
The way; thou bringest woman's soul to bear
Upon our new-world thought and mak'st it fair,
Adding flower-softness to the future's creed.
And thou hast taken part with those who bleed
Battling amid the turrets of despair,
And hast borne arrows of the high keen air,—
Shafts that around thought's iciest summits speed.
Therefore I singing in the early day,
While yet the dew upon the grass is sweet
And our hill-paths are printed by few feet,
Bring thee these poems of the cloudland grey,
Written on the ridge where night and morning meet,
Ere the old faiths' stars have wholly passed away.

124

THE HUMAN LITANY

Christians.—
Hear us, Father! since within the garden
Christ wept tears of blood, be kind and pardon
Numberless misdeeds:

Men and Women.—
Hear us, Mother! by the pangs of nations,
By unknown unmeasured tribulations,
By each soul that bleeds!

Chr.—
Hear us, Father! since thy Son sank slowly
Into awful death-embrace, the Holy
And the spotless King!

M. and W.—
Hear us, Mother! hear us by the crying
Of the waste sad world in darkness lying;
Help the hands that cling!

125

Chr.—
By Christ's bloody sweat and cross and passion,
Father, we beseech thee mould and fashion
Man to work thy will!

M. and W.—
Mother! though their Christ were god and prophet,
Yet our modern world, he knew not of it;
Knew not doubts that kill!

Chr.—
Father! by thy dear Son's awful anguish,
Help the weary sheep that faint and languish
Left on the earth alone!

M. and W.—
Mother! by the awful speechless burden
Many souls bear, grant for rest and guerdon
Lands where no hearts groan!

Chr.—
By the patience that he showed in dying,
We beseech thee, pardon sinners lying
Under thy just ban!

M. and W.—
Holy Mother-God! Christ's pains were single:
In the human cup all sorrows mingle:
On the cross of Man!

126

Chr.—
By the cross of Jesus, Father hear us!
Help us, guard us, sanctify and cheer us,—
By the nails that slew!

M. and W.—
By the cross of Man, O Mother save us!
In Man's own deep red blood-ocean lave us,
Till our souls are new!

Chr.—
Father! by the spears and mocking speeches,
Lift our heart, we pray,—till heaven it reaches,
Following in Christ's tread!

M. and W.—
By the cross of Woman, Mother, aid us:
When the eyes of soulless saints betrayed us,
Woman's gleamed instead!

Chr.—
By his slow heart-beats now nearly stopping
And the pale head on the shoulder dropping,
Hear us, O our Lord!

M. and W.—
By the strange weird glimmer of Her whiteness
Mingled on the Cross with that blood-brightness,—
Save from sorrow's sword!

127

Chr.—
By Christ's pain all human pains exceeding;
By his sacred body bruised and bleeding,
We beseech thee, hear!

M. and W.—
By the Cross where Woman through the ages
Hangs and dies, while round the rough crowd rages,
Soothe away our fear!

Chr.—
By Christ's goodness greater than of mortal,
We beseech thee, ope thou heaven's high portal;
Let us enter in!

M. and W.—
By the endless gentle heart of Woman
Christ-surpassing, and all valour human,
Wash away our sin!

Chr.—
By Christ's glory all things else excelling
And his love compassionate and compelling.
Make the far fields bright!

M. and W.—
Hear us, Mother-God! by Woman's glory,
We beseech thee; through the ages' story
See! she shines so white!

128

Chr.—
White is Christ: than man or woman whiter:
And his eyes than mortal eyes are brighter:
Hear us for his sake!

M. and W.—
Deeper eyes than Christ's we have among us:
Shafts of fiercer pain than his have stung us;
Do not our hearts break?

Chr.—
By the deep sweet eyes and by the splendour
Of Christ's heart and all his bounty tender,
Father, be our stay!

M. and W.—
By the heart of Man the Saviour riven,
And by Woman's heart which hath forgiven,
Help us on our way!

Chr.—
By the soul of Christ and all the treasure
Of his love-deep heart that knows no measure,
We beseech thee, save!

M. and W.—
By the grief that hallows all things human,
By the double cross of Man and Woman,—
Lift us from the grave!

129

FROM CHURCH TO THE SEA

I heard a preacher preach of hell
With tongue that raved right well:
I left the Church and sought the sea,—
Its hand laid hold of me.

The welcoming sea-waves bathed me round
With mystic soothing sound:
The stars shone forth from flameless sky;
I knew hell was a lie.

I knew the preacher was a liar,—
He and his lake of fire:
The cool sweet sea put out his lake;
My worn heart ceased to ache.

The living God was in the sea,—
His hand laid hold of me:
In all the waves that rose and fell
I saw no shadow of hell.

130

Far stretched the boundless hell-less blue;
No hell-flames glittered through:
Above me bent the clear night-sky;
I heard no prisoners' sigh.

The preacher died, and God arose
Sweet in his grand repose:
“Heed not these fools and liars,” he said,
“Whose souls are worse than dead.

“Meet Me by night beside the seas
Or in the wind-waved trees
And I will teach thee line by line
Secrets of love's and mine.”

So God spoke through the sky and sea
That strange great night to me:
And hell-fire ceased for evermore,—
All slavish fear was o'er.

131

THE SEA

Away from leaves and bowers
And love's soft summer hours,
Fragrance of girls and flowers,
To the sea
I pass: its great waves greet me;
Its salt pure strong winds meet me;
I am free.

Free from the town-oppression;
Its ceaseless dull progression
Of hot days in procession
That weigh down:
The glad blue waters cheer me;
No flower or leaf is near me,
Red or brown.

132

No flowers are here: the breathing
Wide mass of waters seething
Around my feet is wreathing
Flowers of foam:
All other bloom forsakes me
As the sweet sea's breath takes me
To its home.

No voice of love beseecheth:
No enemy impeacheth:
The grey wild water reacheth
To the sky:
Whatever time be bringing,
To hear no sea's chant ringing
Is to die.

133

SEA-POPPIES

I

From preachers preaching by the sea,
Good Lord, deliver me!
They preach of Christ and heaven and hell,
But the white sea-waves swell;
I turn from heaven—and sweet the drop is—
To the great gold sea-poppies!

II

They fill the air with fiery lies;
I watch the grey clear skies:
The wreaths of sea-weed sweeter smell
Than their foul fumes of hell!
From preachers lying by the sea,
Sea-God, deliver me!

134

III

Sky-spaces stretch forth calm and far
Waiting for crown of star;
These preachers belch their venom out
With ribald prayer and shout;
From preachers blustering by the sea,
Sky-God, deliver me!

IV

Fairer to me is one fair face
Than all their gold-harped place:
Blue bugloss and the pink rest-harrow
Laugh at their poisoned arrow!
The sun, the all-golden giant, copies
The golden-cheeked beach-poppies!

V

From vulgar narrowing thoughts of men,
Lord, lift us forth again!
Stretch out thy sunlike gracious hand
Over the sea and land:
Blend our unfettered souls with thy
Great chainless sea and sky!

135

VI

From foolish tongues belying thee,
Good Lord, deliver me!
Let the blue-leaved gold-faced sea-flowers
That kiss the sun for hours
And seek no crown and fear no hell
Proclaim that all is well!

136

A SEA-DAY

The laughing waves are green and white;
They surge with limitless delight;
To-day
What can one dream of but their might?
What flower-word can one say?

No thought of lady's bower of rose
To-day around the rapt heart goes;
To-day
Before us the wide water flows
Green, blue, and wild and grey.

O measureless majestic sea
Thou layest hand and breath on me
To-day:
I join the reckless plangent glee
Of thy far-reaching spray.

All thoughts of passion cease,—and flowers
Fade out beneath these salt strong showers
To-day:
And all the buds on woman's bowers
Fade swiftly quite away.

137

No woman now with supple white
Smooth inland body gives delight;
To-day
I join thy curling swirling might,
Sea, filling all this bay!

No woman now with massed black hair
And ripe red mouth is soft and fair:
To-day
Thy buoyant breath fills all the air,
Sea, and thy coursers play!

No inland bower receives me, deep,
And full of scents that lull to sleep,
To-day:
I stand upon the shingle steep
Where gold sea-poppies stray.

What is a woman to the sea
Whose loving hand lays hold of me,
Spray-wet:
Let no white arms around me be!
And yet—and yet—and yet—

138

ANTIPHONES

Christians.
In wondrous white attire we stand,
And round us gleams the heavenly land,
And faces by sweet airs are fanned—

Chorus of Greeks.
And we kiss Venus' snow-white hand!

Christians.
Saved from the flames of raging hell
With us and with our souls 'tis well;
Now for the lost world sounds its knell—

Chorus of Greeks.
How sweet these rain-washed roses smell!

139

Christians.
No flowers of earth,—no lily or rose
That in pale temporal garden blows,—
Are sweet or white or pure as those—

Chorus of Greeks.
That Venus' flower-sweet lips disclose!

Christians.
Not gardens girt with earthly walls,
But heavenly lustrous sun-crowned halls
We have for dwelling: Venus falls—

Chorus of Greeks.
Nay, siluer-voiced her sons she calls!

Christians.
Hear us, O God! Thy face is bright
And we shrink backward from its light;
But Christ gives courage, power, and might—

Chorus of Greeks.
Her breast as moonlit foam is white!

140

Christians.
Hear us, O tender Jesus! Red
Thy side is with the blood-drops shed
For us upon the hill-top dread—

Chorus of Greeks.
Praise Venus with the golden head!

141

AN ACTOR'S TRIUMPH

I

The lights, the music, and the crowd
Of eager hearts and eyes:—
I had failed before,—to-night I vowed
To hold both weak and wise
And silence all applauding loud
Conventionalities,
And make the house one temple deep
Where men should yearn and women weep.

II

To-night my spirit-force should seize
Their spirits,—hold them bound.
I swore it;—through the scenic trees
Whose green boughs waved around
I gazed,—She came:—upon my knees
I fell—my love was found;
My love who (in the drama) fled
For years, and who, I thought, was dead.

142

III

She came:—I lifted earnest gaze
And all my heart grew cold;
'Twas not the actress' well-known face,
But one I loved of old;
(How through the crowded heated place
The fiery music rolled!)
I saw her,—and I saw the sea
Shine, when her eyes fell swift on me.

IV

Ten years had passed since we had met:
But her grey changeless eyes
Flashed into mine and held me yet;
Through the gilt walls the skies
Gleamed, and a moonlit sea-shore wet
Before me seemed to rise—
(And still the orchestral music rolled
And wound about me, fold on fold!)

V

For months another had been there
And played that part with me:
To-night this woman with the old hair
And eyes,—how could it be?

143

(And then again that beach shone fair
And rolled that far-off sea
In unison with all the sound
Of music here that held me bound!)

VI

Then in a flash I saw that she
This single night had come,
Sent by the gods to act with me,—
And wonder held me dumb;
Her dark hair fluttered loose and free,
Full of a strange perfume,
About me,—and my heart became
A godlike winged thrice-potent flame.

VII

This single night—no more again—
(I saw it in a gleam)
I held her; she would vanish then,
And with her all my dream:
I felt the power, the joy of men
Who cross some fatal stream:
My nerves were iron, stretched and strung:
All heaven upon one moment hung.

144

VIII

To-night! to-night! then never more—
To-night the prize must fall
Unto my lot; once let me soar,
Or ever, worm-like, crawl!
(Gods! give me this—this, I implore—
This,—or nought else at all!)
Then all that crowded house to me
Grew silent,—like the silent sea.

IX

I never acted so of old,
And never shall again
Have force to seize and might to mould
The hearts of gazing men;—
My soul grew calm and great and bold,—
(Thundered the music then!)
I kissed her:—and through all the din
She knew I knew, and meant to win.

X

Her fiery lips clove fast to mine,
And my fire thrilled her deep—
(We saw the white waves' laughing line
And the soft blossoms' sleep,—

145

The blossoms that we used to twine)
My being with one leap
Sprang to a height where never yet
Actor's and lover's foot was set.

XI

“To-night,” I whispered, “fly with me”—
(How soulless seemed the Play!)
I knew her sweet eyes saw the sea,
She could not but obey,
Mine was she this night,—nor could he,
Her husband, further sway
The heart that, mine throughout the years,
Filled mine this night with fire and tears.

XII

And, when the Play was over, out
We sprang,—and all the night
Around me seemed to laugh and shout
With mad divine delight,
And the gold stars shone every doubt
And tremor out of sight:
We swore that next night we would be
By the old white-winged love-sweet sea.

146

XIII

And next night not on any Stage
We stood,—but by the deep:
And passion's billows ceased to rage,
And love's head fell asleep
Upon her breast,—and age on age
Seemed past our bower to sweep
Harmless and soundless, while we lay
Rapt in wild joy till dawn of day.

147

SONNETS

(1882)

149

SONNET I
MARY MAGDALENE

Of all high crowns and sweet the green earth gave,
Or the still height of Galilean air,
Or white Jerusalem that shone so fair,
Or blue Gennesaret with rippling wave,
Not one was sweet or high or winged to save
As hers who flooded with repentant hair
Christ's feet, and brought the ointment soft and rare
Of her own broken heart,—as “for his grave.”
So she first saw him when his spirit rose:—
And through all time, through scene on changing scene,
Who is there, knowing Christ, but also knows
The soiled heart made by soul-deep sorrow clean?
Aye! half his deathless halo Jesus owes
To the harlot: gold-haired Mary Magdalene.

150

SONNET II
TO IRELAND

O Ireland, Ireland,—yet we love thee well!—
Lo! thy green meadows are made foul with red
Blood-stains by thine own sons' mad folly shed;
The land was heavenlike: thou hast made it hell.
Thou hast set murder on the lonely fell,
And filled the night with shadows of the dead,
And made the moonlight shudder at the tread
Of monstrous deeds too horrible to tell.
And this is love of Ireland! Pause and think.
Would not your love on nobler pinions soar
If it were taught from cowardly crimes to shrink,—
Murder to hate, injustice to abhor?
Ye your own chains are forging link by link,
And barring on yourselves your prison-door.

151

SONNET III
A SON TO A MOTHER

Ah! mother, hadst thou died when I was young
I could not then have borne it. Then my eyes
Would have lost sight of thee within vague skies:
My youth would chiefliest of all shafts have stung.
I should have seen the far blue hill-tops rise
Peak above peak,—and to the lowest rung
Of the celestial stair I should have clung
Hopeless; or hoping but with wild surmise.
But, now that I am old, I feel so near
Thy dwelling. “Soon” I say with humble glee
“The day will come when I shall follow thee.
Thy country on my vision rises clear;
The whispers of its summer winds I hear;
Its populous streets I very soon shall see.”

152

SONNET IV
IN VENICE

What sound is this that soundeth through the night,
Like falling drops upon the marble floor,
In Venice?—“Doth some tender goddess pour
Dew from her finger-tips,—or sheds she bright
Rose-leaves in showers upon the marble white,—
Or is it but the plash of passing oar?”
The sleeping husband wondered. Evermore
The drops fell tinkling: many and soft and light.
He woke, and stretched out hand, and it was wet
When he withdrew it. Then upright he sprang!
Half-naked, white and stabbed, with hair like jet,
His true wife lay. A woman's footstep rang
Far-off.—Oh, horror! Stabbed in her young bloom?
Yes. And the worst thing was, he guessed by whom.

153

SONNET V
GOD AND WOMAN

God made a woman,—and he gazed aghast
For very wonder. There she stood quite white,—
Naked and perfect. In the golden light
Before him like a carven dream she passed.
Her black hair gleamed against her shoulder bright;
Backward, as ever, one quick look she cast:
God watched her slowly vanish, till at last
The pure superb shape glimmered out of sight.
“Now do I for the first time envy Man”
He said. “The woman never will be mine;”
Those dark thick tresses darker than the pine
And sweeter than the rose,—that body wan
And soft and scented like the dim woodbine,—
I cannot own for ever:—but he can.”

154

SONNET VI
FORSAKEN

Shall thy divineness wither, woman fair
Set in the midst of lonely desert days?
Dost thou lift up to heaven thy weary gaze
Yet see nought round thee but the void blue air?
Have no soft lips of lover kissed thine hair?
Hath thine hand never toyed with myrtle sprays?
Hast thou not wandered by the green-blue bays
In summer, full of dreams no heart could share?
Oh, it were sin to leave thee blossoming so—
Alone, unplucked, unloved:—as great a sin
As to pass by some lily set within
A jungle,—where with heavy gait and slow
The loveless monstrous beasts lurch to and fro,
Piercing the rush-beds with their gaze unclean.

155

SONNET VII
“GOD LOVES ALL THINGS”

God loves all things. Yes, even the spotted snake,—
The lion and tiger, and the bird of prey;
The spider's white web hanging o'er the way;
The pike who lurks within the weedy lake;
The leopard sidling through the tangled brake;
The shark who spots with blood the Southern bay;
The gnats who muster at the close of day;—
Can God who made, relinquish or forsake?
One day the tiger shall be pure and clean
From bloodshed,—and the human tiger too.
What hate degraded, sweet love shall renew.
Judas along with Jesus shall be seen:
The priest shall cease on Satan's arm to lean,
The pulpit cease to thunder to the pew.

156

PASSION AND LOVE

SONNET VIII
I
PASSION

The sense of wrong in passion is the power
That lights all passion: 'tis the subtle charm
That makes so sweet the softness of smooth arm
And adds a magic to each swift night-hour.
It is the moon that lights the mystic bower
Of passion,—and the stars between the trees,—
And the strange glamour of the blue-haired seas;
It is that weirdly perfumed lurking flower.
It is the joy within the joy,—the sense
Of curious ecstasy beyond control,—
The unholy holy strength within the soul;
It is the vial of marvellous wine from whence
The red soft lingering honied round drops roll
That fill the human veins with fires intense.

157

SONNET IX
II
LOVE

The sense of right in love is the one thing
Within it sweetest and of deathless might:
Its self-denial gives it larger light
Than light of summer, or than light of spring.
The sense of duty plumes love's eagle wing
For loftier trackless leagues of sunlit flight:
The sense of duty is the golden ring
Whereby love weds the morn, and baulks the night.
Ah! passion's eyes are dark: but love's are grey,—
Clear-grey, like greyness of the English seas.
One lives within the noon-tide and the day:
The other 'mid the darkling olive-trees.
Both are most sweet: yet each in her own way;—
And when one comes, the other sister flees.

158

SONNET X
THE LONELY SENTINEL

The sense of passion,—though the passion grew
Not on the licensed legal common tree,—
Made sudden Spring on every side of me
Flute with a music half divine and new.
It made the grey waves flash with sudden blue:
It filled the air with speechless ecstasy;
With golden gleams it lit the cloud-swept lea;
It tinged the world's white flowers with roseate hue.
And why?—I know not. Only God can tell
Why things that on one side seem pale and wrong
Are flushed and holy and sweet and full of song
Upon the other: why in depths of hell
Wherein black Satan's armoured hosts wax strong
Glitters one lonely seraph-sentinel.

159

SONNET XI
A LOVER TO HIS MISTRESS

Yes: every manner of creature you caress!
That yellow wanton evil-tongued canary,—
You hold the fluffy bird with laughter airy
Within your blue-silk amorous loosened dress.
You love your lover,—I could swear it,—less
Than that red squirrel! Wild coquettish fairy,
Of gifts to eager man so shy and chary,—
Yet all creation you would bend to bless.
With the dark tresses of that horse's mane
You mix your own: you kiss his shining neck:
You murmur pet names without end to him.
If I would kiss you, lo! you start and check
My passion with cold words: then turn again
To that canary on his saucer's rim.

160

SONNET XII
THE ANCIENT MOON

O moon, thou gazest on our London night!
Thou see'st the Thames' dark eddies roll along:
Thou hear'st coarse vulgar words, or snatch of song:
Jealous, thou battlest with the electric light.
Thou kissest thine old love, the obelisk white
Whom thou didst toy with in the unknown years.
Thou markest many a bridge with stately piers:
Thou followest steam-boats in their throbbing flight.
Yet how thou sneerest at us in thine heart,—
Thou, most aristocratic of all things!—
Thou who hast seen the Assyrian priestess stand
Where pillars pale abut on endless sand:
Thou who hast watched Gomorrha's black-haired kings,
And lent thy lustre to barbaric Art.

161

SONNET XIII
TWO NIGHTS

The same blue overhanging vault of sky
And the same stars, and the same breeze that leaps
Along the heavens,—and the same moon that sweeps,
Majestic, through the hedgeless fields on high,
Scanning creation with cold ageless eye.
But what a change in two nights—lo! the lone
And solemn desert, and a town half-shown
Under the moon,—and the warm night-wind's sigh;
White columns, and the brow-bound blue-black hair
Of the Assyrian harlot and her face
Hard and clear-cut within the market-place
(And that same changeless golden moon still there!):—
Another night: our Strand and all its glare,
And gay-gowned wantons of another race.

162

SONNET XIV
BETHLEHEM AND THE GREEN PARK

The barley-fields of Bethlehem,—the sky
Full of far depths of colour strange and sweet;
Boaz asleep,—and Ruth beside his feet
Dreaming—the feathery swift moths fleeting by.
Through his light sleep he hears a woman sigh
And wakes and finds her, and their spirits meet:—
Around them still that hush of Eastern heat,
And the broad yellow sunburnt plains and dry.
Another night:—the centuries have fled,
Fled fast: in London, underneath a tree
In the Green Park a soldier sits, and he
Circles his sweetheart with strong arm, till lo!
From the white barrack doth the bugle blow.
Love lives, though Ruth the Moabite is dead.

163

SONNET XV
“IF ONE COULD LIVE FOR EVER!”

If one could live for ever!—carrying on
The life of old Assyria till to-day!
See era after era pass away
Yet be oneself,—though all men else had gone.
The sun to-day is the same sun that shone
On Saul and David: why should man, I pray,
Be less long-lived than its fierce golden spray?
E'en the moon lives, though age has made her wan.
O God, to live for ever!—passing through
Each age, and knowing the ecstasy of each:
The same gaze that to-day, quite youthful, falls
On the dim dome and facade of St. Paul's
Having beheld the Pyramids quite new
And flashed response to Cleopatra's speech.

164

SONNET XVI
THIS CENTURY,—AND THE NEXT

This century knew Napoleon,—and it knew
Byron and Wordsworth, and its heart has heard
The vast French poet's century-equal word;
And it has seen the smoke of Waterloo.
It has seen France and Germany bestrew
The summer plains with dead. It marked the Third
Napoleon drop from empire. It has stirred
With iron keels the sea's untroubled blue.
Now, nearing its august and solemn close,
It has seen Maytime in the Phœnix Park
Shudder at a crime than which no crime more dark
Has ever stained May's hawthorn or May's rose.
It has seen Revolution's first red spark:
Will its child see the towering flame?—God knows.

Lord Frederick Cavendish and Mr. Burke were assassinated in the Phœnix Park, Dublin, on Saturday, May 6, 1882.

165

SONNET XVII
LOVE THAT ENDURES

Ye poets, think ye that the world will still
Cherish your memory when ye come to die?
Yes, for a little time,—with tear and sigh
Bending above you: for an hour she will.
Then will new song the woods and valleys fill
And new sunrises flush the fickle sky!
Again will passion's golden moments fly,
As shadows race along the wind-swept hill.
Will even the greatest live?—Yes, for awhile.
But ah! the world has endless youth in store
And unborn Shakespeares, Dantes, wait to pour
Song at her feet, and win her fairy smile.
Yet, Love that nought could conquer nor defile
Has its own godhead, safe for evermore.

166

ODE TO DEATH

When all the pleasant days of love are past;
When in life's autumn garden lo! the last
Red wind-swept rose doth blow;
When death stands in the austere gateway saying,—
While round him strains of music weird are playing,—
“Thou shalt no further go;”

Oh, what shall then the former days be worth,
And all the gladness of the green old earth,
And all her white may-trees?
Will all be new and strange in regions far
Beyond the fire-gleam of the faintest star
That rides the heavenly seas?

When in the city of solemn death we stand,
Lip touching pale lip, pale hand touching hand,
What shall be waiting there?—
Shall we meet poets true who went before,
Whom we saw landing on the fatal shore?
Shall conquering love shine fair?

167

Shall we find all the flowers that fill the land
Of sweet death waiting for our outstretched hand,—
Or find no flowers at all?
O spirits who have passed us, where are ye?
We left you on the margin of the sea,
Where blue waves rise and fall:

We left you there upon the golden sand,
And turned one moment, just to gaze inland
And smell the hayfields' bloom.
When we looked back from cliff-tops to the sea
The waves were there (but grey), and where were ye?
Gone, through the deepening gloom.

And then against the last gold sunset-bar
We marked a white sail outlined, faint and far,
Upon the horizon dim.
Slowly we turned,—and up the valley-glade
We walked alone, alone, through beeches' shade,
With tightened lips and grim.

And we have never heard one word as yet,
Though we have watched so many a gold sun set
Upon that ocean-marge:

168

O'er the wide channel comes the silvery laughter
Of winds and waters,—but no word flies after!
The distances are large.

1882.

169

“TOO SOON!”

One moment! then you passed away
And all the sapphire sky turned grey
In June.
Why wait not, when 'tis close of day
So soon?

I caught a glimpse of laughing eyes,
Bright-coloured like the laughing skies
Of June.
They passed. Why is it summer dies
So soon?

Farewell, clear eyes that flashed and gleamed
Then left me lonely, having dreamed
Too soon.
When you had passed, no more it seemed
Like June!

170

LOVE AND TIME

No true love passes.—Does the night
Steal all its glory from the day?
When once the sun is put to flight,
Are all the heavens for ever grey?
Nay! through the heights and depths of space
The fiery-prowed wild star-ships race,
The Armadas of immensity:
The waves gleamed blue beneath the sun,
But, now the golden day is done,
The silver moon may kiss the sea.

There is no end to time or space.
New suns beyond our sun will rise:
Life cannot alter true love's face,
Nor dim the glory in love's eyes.

171

Love is eternal, ever-new:
Just as the waves each morn are blue;
Just as the skies each morn are fair;
Just as each autumn's golden sheaves
Shine out afresh, and golden leaves
Glitter each autumn through the air.

But all else passes. Thrones must pass;
The lordliest shrines and temples fall:
Death's sickle gathers in the grass;
No loiterer can escape his call.
The gods whom man has made and crowned
Lie pale, dismembered, on the ground:
Man bade them reign; Time bids them flee;—
Where once were prisons, now is corn;
Where blossoms smiled, are wastes forlorn;
Where rivers rippled, roars the sea.

The Roman Caesars had their hour:
The Roman legions poured along,
Beheld the English woods a-flower,
And heard the English billows' song.
Where are they now? The waves that saw
Their legions land with little awe

172

Watch iron-armoured fleets to-day:
The waves reck little for they know
That nations, like the whirling snow,
Melt into nought, and pass away.

The Gallic Caesar's empire rose;
The whole world trembled at his tread:
He gave the thunder no repose;
At his sole word the streams ran red.
He changed his sceptre for a sword;
He longed to say, “I am the lord
Of every land beneath the sun.
There were two Rulers—God and I;
We threw with dice for sovereignty;
Jehovah lost: Napoleon won!”

Yet in the lonely sea-beat isle
The second Caesar passed away,
And once again the world might smile,
And once again keep holiday.
The corn was red at Waterloo,
But there to-day the sky is blue:
Two spectres pass. The flowers have heard
One whisper, “I am Wellington!”

173

And one, “I am Napoleon!”
Their soldiers rise not at their word.

Time watched pale Cleopatra's kiss
Thrill Antony with sweet despair:
Time heard the small smooth aspick hiss;
Time saw the towers of Ilium flare.
In pre-historic dateless hours
Among great white unnamed strange flowers
Time saw the kiss of bird and bird:
When dying Jesus raised his eyes
Fast-darkening to the lurid skies
Time caught his last heart-broken word.

Time saw the first fair woman's eyes
Glitter with love when life was young;
When young stars watched from cloudless skies,
And ruby-throated songsters sung.
Time saw the first kiss, and the last
Will see when passion's moods are past
And blind oblivion waits for man—
Time, who beheld the pencil seized
By God's swift hand when he well-pleased
Sketched out our planet's primal plan.

174

The fair white city on the Seine
That heard the chief of poets sing,—
That watched the triumph and the pain
Of Hugo, and that crowned him king,—
That, at the last wild century's close,
Watched Revolution as it rose
Sea-like with blood-besprinkled surge,—
That saw the untrembling guillotine
Cleave through the white neck of a queen.
And heard the tocsin's cruel dirge,—

This city too, shall change and pass;
Of all things earthly nought abides:
Be walls of iron or beaten brass
Yet Time surmounts them and derides.
One day the glory of the Czar
Was glory as of sun or star,
A splendour measureless, sublime:
The next day at his feet the shell
Burst madly, and the White Czar fell,
'Mid laughter from the lips of Time!

But love abides, though all things change,
Though nations plunge into the night;

175

Though all around wax dim and strange;
Though aging stars give little light.—
We float along our century's stream,
We sing and toil, and love and dream,
But lo! we near the ocean's marge:
Our river-century soon will end
And, swelling into waves, descend
Into the sea-waves fierce and large.

Then what shall last? What thing shall be?
What shall the twentieth century bear?
What ships shall sail upon its sea?
What new stars sparkle through its air?
We know not: only this we know,—
That love, though wild years come and go,
Will wander calm-eyed, gathering flowers;—
A thousand centuries are as one
Day to the never-dying sun
And unto love a few short hours.

176

A LOVING HEART

A heart that makes the best of things,
That findeth good in all:
A heart that through the summer sings,
And when the cold snows fall:
A heart that feels for others' pain
And makes the weary young again:

This is the heart that helps mankind,
That cheers us on our way,
And so itself shall surely find
More joy than words can say.
For what we give to lighten pain
In gladness we receive again.

The day is long and dark the night,
Stern foes around us stand,
And ripening years have dimmed the light
That gleamed from fairy land:
But never can that light depart
Which flashes from a loving heart.

November 2, 1887.

177

“YONDER A CLOUD!”

Yonder a cloud in the deep blue sky,
Ever so small a cloud!
'Twill gather to thunder by and bye
And the storm will speak aloud.
Ever so small a cloud—pure white
On the blue sky's spotless space:
'Twill thicken to lurid black by night
And darken the sky's whole face.

Yonder a cloud, between heart and heart,
Ever so small a cloud:
Yet gloom will gather, and light depart,
And souls will be bent and bowed.
Yonder a cloud! Be it ever so small,
Let the breeze of love awake
And hasten it forth, or hopes will fall
And sorrowful hearts will break.

178

Smile and be glad ere the great winds roar
And the great seas madden and rise,
Ere the fierce waves whiten the whole long shore
And the black clouds darken the skies.
Yonder a cloud! Be it ever so small,
Take warning—cease to be proud:
For world-wide grief, or an empire's fall,
Begins with “yonder a cloud!”

179

“IF I WERE AS OLD AS YOU!”

“If only I were as old as you,”
So said a child to me,
A child with eyes of fearless blue
Bright as the morning sea.
“If only I were as old as you,
With a great big beard and a hat”—
“Yes, my darling, what would you do?”
“I'd buy an owl and a cat!”

“I'd buy an owl and a cat,” he said,
“And a string of amber beads,
And a soldier's suit of splendid red,
And do tremendous deeds.
I'd buy a ship, and a new toy-gun,
If I were as old as you,
And a helmet flashing like the sun,
With a plume of lovely blue!”

180

Such simple things! In later days
Does anything bring the joy
That a ship and a gun, or a cracker's blaze,
Brings to an eager boy?
Whatever I buy, I hear that cry,
“If I were as old as you,
I'd soon have a helmet like the sun,
With a plume of lovely blue!”

181

CROSS-PURPOSES

“I would have given you love,” said I,
“Flowers of the earth and stars of the sky:
Thoughts like stars, and love like a flower,
Blossoms fit for a queen's own dower,
Gifts that a king might long to see”—
“Buy me this diamond brooch,” said she.

“Dreaming still of the earth?” said I.
“You—why I thought you came from the sky!
Thought you a fairy, deemed you a queen;
Earth for your footstep seemed too mean.
You to ask for a brooch from me—”
“Buy me that necklace then,” said she.

Star-dreams flash through the poet's head:
Woman looks at the shops instead.
The lover dreams in his lady's eyes;
But the lady does not dream—she buys.
“Brighter than stars are your eyes,” thinks he—
“Eighteen and threepence, dear,” says she.

182

POST-MORTEM SURPRISES

I

If there be any life beyond the tomb,
How full of strange surprises must it be
For those who, struggling upward from death's gloom,
Behold new sunlight gild new shores and sea!

Amidst the gladness will not sadness lurk?
We are so wedded here to our own view,
To our own dreams,—Jew, Christian, heathen, Turk—
It will be hard to find that nought we knew.

The Christian dying, and cursing as he dies
The poet who believed that love was fair—
It will be hard, beneath heaven's golden skies,
To see his Jesus kiss a woman's hair.

183

It will be very hard (our minds are small)
For those who worshipped at the Virgin's feet
To know she had a husband after all,
And found the joys of marriage pure and sweet.

And for the man of science strong and proud,
Who peered beneath the billows of the sea,
And pierced beyond the walls of mist and cloud,
And read the past, and read futurity:

The man before whose ardent gaze unveiled
Creation shone,—who named them one by one,
The stars that through the black night slowly sailed,—
Who faced the soulless Force that steers the sun:

The man who would permit mankind to sink,
Sad soul by soul, unpitied, to its doom,
And stand upon the abyss, close by the brink,
And gaze with steady eyes far through the gloom:

The man whose sombre wish it is to be
Alone for ever, with no God to speak;
Alone with darkness on the godless sea,
Alone with sunrise on the mountain-peak;

184

Alone with love's high rapture, which for him
Would be discounted if a God were there
(The sculptor's presence makes each stately limb
Of woman to the thinker seem less fair):

The man whose soul, though pride within it lies,
Hath something of the greatness none the less
Of the vast God whose being he denies,
Tempered by man's eternal littleness:

The man who, rather than bow down before
The paltry God the Churches' hands have made,
Finds God within the sunlight on the shore
Or in the silent forest's moonlit shade:

It will be somewhat hard for him to know
That this world was not all! His one despair
Will be to find that God is living, though
God left no track upon the starlit air.

It will be hard for Pharisees to own
That there is sweetness in a harlot's eyes:
It will be hard for kings to leave a throne,
And own that flatterers' words were mostly lies.

185

It will be strange to Christian eyes to see
Their Lord and Master in a lower place,
Perhaps, than thousands worshipped less than he;
To mark some weakness in his soul and face.

All will be wild surprise,—all must be new.
Yet shall we find, if heavenly life be given,
The most unselfish head was wisest too,—
The heart that loved the most knew most of heaven.

II

For by our deeds, and by our deeds alone,
God judges us,—if righteous God there be.
Creeds are as thistle-down wind-tost and blown,
But deeds abide throughout eternity.

It matters little, so that love be there,
Whether you think that legends have their day
Then pass, with all they held of foul or fair,
Or whether still, Church-pent, you praise and pray.

It matters little whether you discern
In Venus' limbs a sweetness past man's speech,—
Heaven in the rose, a glory in the fern,
A million jewels on the sunlit beach;

186

Or whether you elect to burn and pant
For heavenly splendours glittering past the tomb,
Heedless that God, withholding these, would grant
Your eyes a sight of leagues of furze in bloom.

Whether you hold that Christ revealed to man
The sweetness of the land beyond the grave,
Or that Keats felt as never mortal can
The sweetness of the earth he came to save:

Whether you deem that Musset felt the whole
Of young love's rapture as none else can feel,
Or that the wild bright ocean's very soul
Was Byron's, past all question or appeal:

Whether you worship Shakespeare as God's son
And Hugo as God's son, in very deed,
Or in the older manner worship one,
One God-man only, and nought else concede:

Whether you hold that Dante brought to light
For man pure love, as pure love is to be,
And pierced the darkness of hell's lampless night
Retaining still song's tongue, and eyes to see:

187

Whether you hold that Turner once revealed,
Revealed for ever, perfect landscape-art;
That through the song of Shelley music pealed,
Pure as from pure depths of God's very heart:

All matters little.—Worship God in Christ,
Or in the blossoms, or within the sun;
Be heathen, Christian—but be not enticed
By any creed to leave true work undone.

One man will love the pleasures of the earth,
Another long for pleasures in the sky;
One finds his music in a young girl's mirth,
And on her lips his immortality:

Another deems that human love is vain,
That only in Christ God's likeness must be sought;
Another toils through a long life to gain
A scholar's insight into ancient thought:

Nought matters save our deeds.—If right we do,
God is with us, Jehovah is our friend:
If self we worship, though our creed be true
We shall be found without God at the end.

188

GOD'S SERMON

I

“Art not thou contented, mortal?”
Sometimes so God seems to say:
“Must I bear thee through death's portal?
Wouldst thou live beyond thy day?
Why shouldst thou aspire to be
Sentient through eternity?

“Life and tender love I sent thee,
Sunny dawns and silent eves;
Stars and moon and sun I lent thee,
Ruby flowers and emerald leaves;
Splendour of the sapphire main:
Yet thou cravest to live again!

“Foolish art thou, foolish surely,
Clamouring for a joyless boon.
If the heaven that shines so purely
Now with golden stars and moon
Shone for ever thus the same,
Nought it would be but a name.

189

“Thou in time wouldst grow quite weary
Of the sights that seem so fair;
Even the sunlight would be dreary,
Sweet lips not what once they were;
Much have I the power to give,
Not the power to bid thee live.

“Thou art part of all that changes,
I myself am changeful too:
Through new spheres my being ranges;
Other work I have to do
Than to keep a moth like thee
Plumaged through eternity.

“Life I gave thee for a season,
Friendship's pleasure, passion's kiss;
Heart to love, and brain to reason,
Many a month of sunny bliss;
But my last gift is my best—
Peace from living, perfect rest.”

190

II

“Once thou see'st the sun, once only,—
Nothing twice is quite the same:
Life's supremest joys are lonely,
Like the God from whom they came.
Only once a kiss is sweet;
Once as one the wild hearts beat.

“If in heaven thou took'st thy pleasure
Through a course of endless hours,
Thinkest thou that thou wouldst treasure
As thou dost the wayside flowers?
No: its coming death bestows
All its lustre on the rose.

“Deepliest sinks the first impression:
Even the form thou lovest best
Passed into thy full possession
On the night it was possest.
Woman, blossom, sunset, sea,
Give their beauty once to thee.

191

“Craving heaven, thou cravest sadness.
I myself would sometimes give
All I know of heavenly gladness
For the simple right to live
On thine earth for fifty years,
Sharing human joys and tears.

“Woman's beauty I, her Maker,
Only in a measure see:
But thou art the full partaker,
Her whole self she gives to thee.
I, who first created this,
Half am envious of her kiss.

“Though his joy but for one minute
Lasteth, yet the mortal gains,
For there's more of rapture in it
Than eternity contains!
Take thy moment's bliss—then die
Happier after all than I.”

192

FATE'S EQUAL MEASURE

We need not envy fern and daisy,
Nor summer's wealth of bloom:
October's days come, dark and hazy,
And clothed about with gloom.

We need not envy summer's roses:
The bleak autumnal wind
Sweeps through the frightened shuddering closes
And leaves no flowers behind.

No lives we see are worth our longing:
Through every golden dream
The pallid morning thoughts come thronging
In one long ghostly stream.

Some seem to win one happy season:
But envy not their fate!
Sorrow and blank dismay and treason
Upon their threshold wait.

193

Are lovers happy? Not for ever
The clinging kiss shall last.
A thousand foemen wait to sever:
One rapture—then 'tis past!

The blue sea turns to storm and madness;
The still lake boils with foam:
Spent is the green-leafed summer's gladness;
Afar the red leaves roam!

So envy no man.—Happiest lovers
Have death beside their feet.
Lo! what a strange flower-raiment covers
The supple snake's retreat.

At least in this an equal measure
Fate's grim unbribed hand deals,
Bestowing pain, and stealing pleasure
From every heart that feels.

194

DESPAIR

I

Each flower hath fellow-flowers, and every leaf
May share its grief:
The golden great stars roll in ordered course
And blend their force:
But on his solitary piteous throne
Man sits alone.

2

The skies have not one tender word to say,
Black, red or grey:
The wavelets laugh; their laugh is not for him:
The forests grim
Wake in the morning by the fresh wind blown;
Man stands alone.

195

3

He hath no share in soulless Nature's glee,
Not in the sea,
Nor in the life of plant nor joy of morn
Nor breeze-bowed corn:
Not in the life of flowers when these resume
Their last year's bloom.

4

Man lives alone beneath heaven's burning cope,
Devoid of hope;
Meeting by night and day, and everywhere,
Gaunt-browed despair,
And knowing only that time must efface
Him and his race.

June 9, 1881.

196

PAST MANY YEARS

Past many years I gaze towards one sweet face
And towards a wind-swept sea-kissed upland place
Where love was bright:
And round me still the far-off wonder flows
As the red sunset o'er the water throws
Its magic light.

Ah! sweet, was all the long strange road too long
And couldst thou find no solace in my song
Nor sense of rest?
Were the wild blossoms that earth's pilgrims seek
Poor by the flowers that nestle in thy cheek
And in thy breast?

197

And had the lonely unattractive way
No splendour greater than of gold sun-ray
Or silver moon?
Are there not stars and moons and suns within
The souls who struggle God's high goals to win,
For crown and boon?

Ah! weary lovely far-off woman-face
How far thou art from love's supreme embrace,
How far from mine!
Thou lingerest in the green vales far inland
And the grey sea's waves win from thy white hand
No loving sign.

Between us lies a strange and bitter past.
Wilt thou traverse the rocky road at last
And win the beach?
Wilt thou discern that where the great seas roar
Delight unspoken dwells for evermore
And love's own speech?

198

Oh, in the future's stirring sacred name
Thy soul for parcel of her force we claim,—
We claim thy power.
Remember that the fairest roses shine
Where storm and sun and cloud and light combine
To brace each flower.

Death lies between us; and a weary way.
But, by the loving lips of this salt spray
And by this place
And by all memories, if thine eyes I met,
It would be just as if no parting yet
Had dimmed love's face!

June 10, 1881.

199

“THE SAME FLOWERS BUD, THE SAME FLOWERS BLOW”

O old-world singers, ye are dead,
But still the eternal rose is red:
The same flowers bud, the same flowers blow
That once ye loved, so long ago!

Where are ye, Greeks who sang at morn
Ere new-world sorrow of heart was born?
The same flowers bud, the same flowers blow
That once ye loved, so long ago!

Where are ye who in the early days
Being sweet made sweeter English ways?
The same flowers bud, the same flowers blow
That once ye loved, so long ago!

Oh, where are Iseult's ardent eyes
Coloured blue-grey like Irish skies?
The same flowers bud, the same flowers blow
That once they loved, so long ago!

200

Where is the mouth that sang to sleep
The blue clear charmed Italian deep?
The same shores laugh, the same waves glow
That Shelley loved so long ago!

Where is the heart that mountain-height
Uplifted, and the hill-streams white?
The same hills smile, the same streams flow
That Wordsworth loved so long ago!

Poets and lovers, all are gone,
But still the sad same world blooms on:
The same flowers bud, the same flowers blow
That all these loved so long ago!

Thou too hast vanished, lady fair:
Thy wreath is dust; thy crown is air:
But still the mocking lilies blow
That once we loved, so long ago!

July 1, 1881.

201

“WHEN ALL THE TOIL IS ENDED”

When all the toil is ended, I will leave
This dreary land for ever,—I will go
Beyond the regions where the wet winds grieve
To lands of golden morn and crimson eve,
Beyond the snow!

To regions where the summer roses blow
Safe from our darkling weather's changeful stain
And where with silvery voice the clear streams flow
And through the moonlit night the lilies grow,
Beyond all pain,

I'll pass; and through the sunlit days I'll gain
Health, and the happier sense of lovelier things
Than those that under the fog's dreary reign
Struggle: I'll rest where in some leafy lane
The throstle sings.

202

Paris shall close me round with sun-bright wings
And soothe me with soft laughter, and her eyes
Full of all glory woman's love-glance brings
Shall waken old lost joys of far-off springs
And far-off skies.

And Italy shall on my vision rise
And deathless Rome; yea, blue Italian seas
O'er which the Southern light-winged zephyr flies,
Waters o'er which the gondola swift hies,
Mountains and trees:

And then to Paris and her joyous breeze
I will return, for all my heart is there;
An exile from her streets and sunny leas
I pine in these thick streets and fields that freeze
For her sweet air.

Paris, O Paris, thou to me wast fair
When as a boy I wandered through thy ways!
Now that the grey is mixing with my hair
I would once more be calm and happy where
I knew bright days.

1882.

203

MAN AND THE DEMIURGUS

“Have I not hosts of stars beyond thy measure?”
God said:
“Are suns on suns not heaped like golden treasure
That I may plunge glad hands in at my pleasure
When thou art dead?

“Am I not, past the ages' dread and wonder,
Content?
Have I no lightning-steeds whose neighing is thunder,
By whose eye-flash the heights are cloven in sunder
And smitten and rent?

“Have I not love beyond thy computation,
Beyond
The fairest dreams of man or tribe or nation?
Can I through whose frame throbs the world-sensation,
Can I despond?

204

“Is not my power through world on world extending,
Where light-beams dart?
Art thou not fearful, frail worm, of offending?”
“One thing thou hast not,” Man replied unbending:
“My heart.”

1885.

205

“IT WERE BETTER FOR HIM—”

Better be fathoms underneath the deep
Where sea-weeds wash and strange sea-creatures creep,
Thy neck enringed with stone,
Than change the eyes and soft lips of one child
Into the hardened eyes and mouth defiled
That haunt the streets, alone.

1885.

206

A MODERN PREACHER

I

In church, a few,
A pale-eyed crew;
Around, the darkness of a starless sea,
And one who guides
Through blind deaf tides
That surge and leap to windward and to lee.

II

Just gathered here
In hope, in fear,
In doubt, in wonder, a strange wandering band,
In this ark-church
Whose tossed planks lurch
From side to side, these people kneel and stand.

207

III

“What hope,” they say,
“For us to-day?
The old God is dead. What new God canst thou bring
O preacher pale?
Lo! our ship's sail
Shrieks, as the wild wind-scourges lash and sting.

IV

“Preach. We will hear
With eager ear
And wrought-up passionate heart what thou canst tell.
Is there a God?
Why must man plod
Through miles of earth that might be miles of hell?

V

“The lights within
This church, where din
And turmoil just for one sweet moment cease,
Are glad and bright.
But what wild night
Outside! What hope for man of lasting peace!

208

VI

“Preach, preach. We love
Thy face, above
The old pulpit, full of noble thought and high.
But when we leave
The church this eve,
How wails the wind across black starless sky!

VII

“Steer the ship well,
Past shoals of hell,
Past white fierce waters, past the cliffs that ring
With clash of tides:
The wind derides
Our hearts and voices even while we sing.

VIII

“Yet preach thou, friend.
All hath an end:
Thy hope, our doubt, the wild world's storm-tossed way.
Steer straight thy church
In noble search
Through lampless midnight for the golden day.”

1885.

209

“A YEAR AGO”

A year ago we stood beneath these temple pillars white
And watched the star-ships slowly sail across the purple night.
He asked me “Did I love him?” Oh, the answer that I gave!
A woman loves but once on earth, but once beyond the grave.
A year ago! a year ago! He has forgotten quite:
But I remember every word of love we spoke that night.

A year ago! a year ago! A little while it seems;
And yet 'tis long enough to prove that woman's hopes are dreams.
I stand again to-night beside the blue Ægean wave:
Again the stars shine out—they seem to shine above my grave.
For oh, a woman loves but once! When once her soul is given
She cannot love again on earth, she cannot love in heaven.

210

To-night perhaps 'neath other stars, beside another sea,
He breathes into another's ear the words he spake to me.
The cold stars sail across the sky, the cold blue ripples break:
I loved the stars and wavelets once,—but only for his sake.
O love, my tenderest hopes were dreams, and now the dreams depart:
You gave me passion for an hour, but I gave you my heart.

1887.

211

THE TWO PROPHETS

I

Bold was the man who ventured to declare
“There is no death!”—when every day which fled
Murmured, “I carry with me hosts of dead
And pour their souls forth on the soulless air:”
When every sunrise whispered of despair,
Saying, “Ere to-night thou also mayest be led
Along the path thy parents had to tread,
Who heard no voice, nor saw the sunlight there.”

Bold was the man who ventured in the face
Of the clear certainty that all things die
To announce an endless life beyond death's gloom:
To cry, “There is a God of love and grace;
There is for each an immortality;
There is a power that can unseal the tomb.”

212

II

But bolder is the spirit who at this hour
After so many centuries would revive
Despair, to man proclaiming “Thou shalt live
For this life only, like the grass or flower.
Hope, young imagination's fairy dower,
Has passed away for ever! Toil and strive
And love. But one reward the fates can give:
Silence. The rest lies far beyond their power.”

Bold is the spirit who at this century's close
Proclaims: “The star that lighted mankind once
Now trembling towards the godless dark is driven!
Save in man's dreams your Master never rose;
The time has come for ever to renounce
All faith in God, and every hope of heaven.”

1888.

213

TWO SONNETS

I
MERCY AND JUSTICE

“Mercy, good Lord,” the sea-beach preachers pray:
“Mercy for sinful man; for he deserves
His doom, and thy great justice never swerves,—
Mercy for man in thy grim judgment-day!”
So they exclaim,—beside the sea-waves grey
O'er which that unconverted sea-gull curves.
And some with craven hearts and cowardly nerves
Bend to the lurid God their words portray.
But I—I stand secluded and apart,
And mix my spirit with the sea's great heart,
And with the voice, as it were, of all the sea
I cry: “Not mercy,—justice, we require;
Be thou true-souled, O God,—and be no liar;
Lo! that much sorrowing man demands from thee.”

September 6, 1882.

214

II
THE GREAT CHANGE

Of old the singers spake of loving ways
Of God towards man, of wondrous mercies shown:
God was the Giver of all things—man alone
Received, and homage of high love and praise
Was due to God,—altars mankind must raise;
With gladness shout or for transgressions moan.—
But now crime's torrent gushes from God's throne!
God seems to us the sinner in these days.
Of old, it seemed, the heavenly eye pursued
Sinners who fled from it beyond the light,
Cowered in the darkness, trembled at the sun.
Now man demands of God: “But art thou good?
Hast thou, Lord God, in every point done right?
Hast thou loved justice? Yea, what hast thou done?”

1888.

215

THE HOLIER SEPULCHRE

The Christian Church that stole the body of Christ
In ages past, when Christian years began;
That, shameless, robbed the human race, and priced
The priceless flesh and blood poured out for man;

The Christian Church that with huge priestly scorn
Closed up man's saviour in its vaults of night,
Stealing the struggling sunshine from the morn,
In God's name battling with the God of light;

The Christian Church that with base second stroke
Drove its proud spear-point through man's saviour's side,
Bade man adore no Jesus, but invoke
The Christ it robed in wealth and crowned with pride;

This Church to-day hears ringing in its ears
Time's stern strong judgment-sentence, “Thou hast sinned,
And lo! thy legend of unnumbered years
Shall pass, like dreams that leave no trace behind.”

216

Yea, now man's voice more mighty than the wave
Speaks, half with pity, half in deathless scorn:
Man lifts man's saviour from his second grave,
Lifts from his brow his second crown of thorn.

Nobler than structures raised by Christian Art
Is Jesus' resting-place, his timeless tomb:
Christ's newer sepulchre is mankind's heart—
No starless charnel-house of poisonous gloom.

217

“NOUGHT PERISHES”

Nought perishes. All love-dreams of the past
Transfigured, through all future years shall last.

June 1, 1886.

219

LYRICS

221

TOGETHER

They were young and glad together
In the dawn of life's first May,
When in bright and sunny weather
Sang the birds from every spray.
Clear the heaven shone out above them;
Blue and radiant were the skies:
All things living seemed to love them,
And the Spring gleamed in her eyes.

Through life's Summer still together,
Hand in hand and heart to heart,
They have borne the sultry weather
And have watched the days depart.
Still she is to him the maiden
Who stepped daintily of old
Through the grass, her apron laden
With bright buttercups of gold.

222

Still together, still together,
They will face life's autumn hours:
In the grim November weather
Love will strew their path with flowers.
For their love has ever brightened
Since the first long loving day,
And their happiness has heightened,
Though their hair is growing grey.

223

HEAVENLY WHISPERS

Hardly one sad soul is friendless;
Somewhere glows a kindred heart;
Yes, though dreary days seem endless,
Though sad springs on springs depart.
If the rich man in his garden
Breathes the incense of the rose,
For the poor man at his window
White and pure the snowdrop blows.

Aye, if every friend be taken,
If our silent hearth be lone,
Yet are we not all forsaken,
Dearer far the dead have grown.
Is there one sad soul who hears not
From the land beyond the grave
Loving voices, gentle whispers,
As of souls who yearn to save?

224

And if even these we hear not,
If the depth of heaven be gloom,
If the angel-voices cheer not,
Sound not from beyond the tomb,
Still no soul is friendless wholly;
Each one who the earth hath trod
Hath one Friend, one Friend undying,—
Every soul is dear to God.

225

THE HIGHER BEAUTY

Let the poet worship beauty,
Let him dream within the eyes
Of his loved one full of sunlight,
Sweeter than the sunniest skies:
Let him find in woman's glances
Theme for passion and for praise:
Let them fill with wild romances
All the dreams of all his days.

But a nobler thing than beauty
And a worthier gift by far
Is the love that crowns each duty
With the crown of sun or star.
Lovely even on earth is woman:
She's an angel from the skies
When she bends to help the helpless,
With God's pity in her eyes.

226

Poets, lovers, ye who worship
Beauty's every curve and line,
Worship even more devoutly
Woman's tenderness divine.
Sculptors, painters, ye who build her
Temples in the realm of Art,
Praise beyond a woman's beauty
Woman's ever-loving heart.

227

“MY QUEEN AND I”

We walked the woods, my queen and I;
The air was bright with spring:
Warm was the sun, and blue the sky,
And clear the lark did sing.
“O love, will you be ever true?”
“Aye, true till death!” she said;
“True, till the sun forsakes the sky,
Till every star is dead.”
She spoke, and looked up with a sigh:
And then we smiled, my queen and I!

To-day we walked through waving corn;
Our path lay through the gold:
It was a perfect August morn,
Sweet as that morn of old.

228

We strolled along, my wife and I:
“How short life seems,” she said;
“How sad to think that love must die,
As spring-flowers all are dead.”
I heard, and looked down with a sigh:
And then we smiled, my queen and I!

And one day through life's autumn woods,
With golden leaves around,
Beneath grey sky my love and I
Shall wander, calm and crowned:
Crowned, not with summer dreams that melt
When sets the summer sun,
But with a sweetness only felt
When wedded hearts grow one.
Our looks will meet without a sigh
When we grow old, my queen and I!

229

“THINE EYES SHALL SEE THE KING!”

Thine eyes shall see the King.
When earth's wild wastes are trod,
Thine eyes shall look on God:
Winter shall cease, and change to heavenly spring—
Thine eyes shall see the King in his beauty,
Thine eyes shall see the King!

Him shall thine eyes behold.
When sorrow's overpast
Him shalt thou see at last,
And tread with him the heavenly courts of gold—
Thine eyes shall see the King in his beauty,
Thine eyes shall see the King!

Thine eyes shall see the King.
The Vision surely waits
Beyond death's solemn gates,
Awful with light that only death can bring:
Thine eyes shall see the King in his beauty,
Thine eyes shall surely see the King.

230

LIGHT IN DARKNESS

Sufferer, though thy path be dark,
Though no starlight thou mayest mark,
Though the days bring deepening pain
And love's old sweet hopes seem vain,
Though thine eve belie thy morn,
Though thy brows be pierced with thorn,
Though thy path lie through the night,
Christ thy Lord shall be thy Light!

Youth, round whom the sunlight gleams,
Passing through the vale of dreams,
Faint the mountains seem and far,
Flowers in myriads round thee are.
Yet thou needest Christ to guard!
Soon thy pathway may be barred
By an host as yet concealed:
Then thou needest Christ for Shield!

231

Youth and age indeed are one:
Each needs Christ for star and sun;
Christ for shield, and crown, and sword;
Christ's sweet welcome for reward.
When the golden gateways shine,
Then may Christ with voice divine
Say to each, “Thou need'st not fear;
We were waiting for thee here!”

232

“LITTLE THINGS”

Art thou powerless, friend, for much?
Every heart can bless;
Every loving look and touch
Makes life's sorrow less.
Psalms are in the ocean's swell,
But the brooklet charms as well
With its laughter light.
Life and love pursue the sun,
Yet what starry work is done
In the purple night:
Stars complete his task begun
Through the purple night.

Every little helps along,
Cheers and lifts and speeds,—
Note of wren and robin's song,
Lisp of river-reeds.

233

Not so much the queenly rose
Gives the wearied heart repose
As the daisy trim.
Is the road the Master trod
Over-hard for less than God?
Thou canst gaze at him:
Where he triumphed, thou canst plod
Humbly after him.

234

A FAIRY GARDEN

Life was all a fairy garden
When we walked in childhood's ways,—
Starlit nights of happy dreaming,
Sunshine through the golden days.
But the moments passed, and left us
Somewhat weary, every one;
And each year of life bereft us
Of some further gleam of sun.

God had given us in our childhood
A pure angel from his skies
To watch over childish footsteps,—
And his love beamed from her eyes.
Ah! how many an angel-mother
Here has tarried for awhile,
Then has left us,—and no other
Has the sweetness of her smile!

235

But another angel finds us:
God will leave us not alone.
Somewhat of a mother's sweetness
Soundeth in a younger tone.
God, who knew our childhood's dangers,
Knew the weariness of life,
Sent the child the mother-angel,—
Sends the man the angel-wife.

236

LIFE'S PATH

Life's path winds ever upward;
'Tis no use looking back:
The flowers we love and long for
Are further on the track.
Not in the old green valleys
Our haven can be found,
But where the North wind sallies
Across rough mountain ground.
Then ho! for noble climbing.
Life's work is not yet done:
Our work will not be over
Till the last peak is won.

Yes, ho! for noble climbing,
And effort pure and high.
The green seductive valleys
Fade out from heart and eye.

237

The mountains, ho! the mountains—
Our path lies over these;
We quit the valley-fountains,
We quit the flowers and trees.
We struggle ever upward:
Upon the mountain's crest,
But never till we reach it,
Our weary souls may rest.

238

“HOME AT LAST!”

Long years of grief and sighing!
Wild seasons of unrest!
Hope blooming,—straightway dying
On Winter's frozen breast!
Through storm and strife God steers us,
Till storm and strife be past:
This one thought ever cheers us—
We shall win home at last!
Home at last!

God's dice are always loaded.
Not fruitless is the pain
Of one flower-bud corroded
By harsh November's rain.
God brings the singing season,
And tunes the thrush's lute,
In spite of Winter's treason
Who gazes blank and mute,
Blank and mute!

239

Through all the storms God leads us,
And leads the years that wane:
The Love eternal heeds us,
And changes grief to gain.
Time lines and grooves our features;
Pain wears our spirits fast:
But God will bring his creatures
All safely home at last,
Home at last!

240

FLOWERS

SONNET

Mixed with the savour of that central Rose
That fills the temple of my heart with bloom
Float other seemly odours; there is room
For a soft lily tender as the snows,
And by her side a red anemone blows,
And a staunch wall-flower. Each of these I love:
White, red, and yellow banners wave above
The plot of quiet ground where each one grows.
And over them there stands that crimson flower
That, like a picture in a hollow frame,
Thrills the recesses of my heart with flame,
A very torrent of voluptuous power:
Yet from those smaller blossoms in their hour
Scents delicate and floods of colour came.

December 1, 1871.

241

FOREBODING

SONNET

Oh hold me fast, my darling, hold me fast!
I hear the terrible approaching wings
Of Time, like black-plumed pestilential things,
Like dim black-throated swifts with bodies cast
On the loose circles of an eddying blast:
I hear the hoarse reproach his coming brings.
Yea, he shall loosen that pale mouth that clings
To mine,—our passion shall be floated past
But as a red leaf on the autumnal wind.
And, therefore, for the last time, hold me tight,
And shine upon me with thine own sweet light
Of eyes whose magic I was wont to find
Even as summer, delicate and kind;
Even as spring, immeasurably bright.

December 15, 1871.

242

CONFIDENCE

SONNET

I have written many sonnets of mistrust
But now I brush misgiving from me, dear:
My soul is confident, my brain is clear:
I tread my doubts and misery to dust.
I bid the east wind with a rapid gust
Sweep timid apprehension far from here:
I rest upon your faith without a fear:
I slay my weakness with a final thrust.
I know that thou art certainly as pure
As any snowdrop, and as soft and white:
That, even as the mountains do endure,
So doth the calm inviolable might
Of maidenhood and beauty, and that your
Sweet eyes are as the stars' unshaken light.

January 9, 1872.

243

VIOLET-EYES

SONNET

Your eyes were grey before, but now they gleam
Like violets set within an ivory frame:
So soft and so ethereal a flame
Doth play about them, that to me they seem
As subtle and as shifting as a dream.
Your lips are sweet as violets, and as red
As roses: round about your fair soft head
Hovers a silvery moon-forsaken beam.
What miracles hath Love within his power,
That these clear eyes, that were but sorry grey
A short while since, now bloom like any flower,
Unfolding a most lovely violet ray,
Increasing in its warmth from hour to hour,
And in its tenderness from day to day.

January 9, 1872.

244

“THE MOMENT CAME”

The moment came, and I never knew it,
The moment to die at the palace gate:
And for ever and ever my soul will rue it
That the message came, but came too late.

O angels who guarded my life's gold portal
Why did ye not speak one warning word
Clear, straight, from immortals to one sad mortal
Whose very soul would have leapt, had he heard?

Why did ye not speak, while life was painless,
My loved one safe in the sweet safe nest
Now stained with the blood of the dove most stainless
And robbed for ever of sleep and rest?

June 11, 1900.

245

NEVER MORE

New foaming seas,
New spring-tide breeze,
New shells upon the shore,
New leaves on trees,—
But never never more
Those blue waves, blue whatever winds might wail or roar.

New loves with gold
Locks like the old,
New rose-mouth to adore,
New hands to hold,—
But never never more
The woman's face which lighted all that laughing shore.

The shore where fell
Waves loved so well,
Where cliffs their gold flowers bore,
Whose tender tendrils swell
This year,—but never more
Shall crown the brown-haired head they crowned and bound of yore.

247

FIVE SONNETS

(1880)

249

SONNET I
THE FACES OF THE FUTURE

Will there be any loving song as clear,
As firm, as sure, as eager, as prolonged?
As loud a lover for as sweet an ear?
As many hymns of worship as have thronged
My harp, through many a sorrow-burthened year?
Would that my spirit but for one strange night
Might pierce the future with keen vision bright—
For but one hour the future's singing hear!
Would that I might for but one moment see
The faces of the future and the flowers
Set on those distant shores in place of thee:
Yea, plunge hot-handed 'mid the future's bowers,
And join its unawakened revelry,
And mark its streams, its towns, its golden towers!

250

SONNET II
SHOULD I NOT RETURN?

Then should I not return, O love, to thee,
Finding none other bride by no far stream;
No voice that burns the soul with ecstasy,
No living passion sweeter than a dream?
Should I not, swiftly turning, shortly seem
Upon our moonlit cliff-top to alight,
Spreading broad spirit-pinions weird and white,
That strangely in the moonrays, vaguely, gleam?
Should I not laugh to think that I had dared
To search the future, when that future, snared
And captured, sweet within thine hands doth lie?
Should I not smile, returning, at the thought
That, foolish, I through future lands had sought
To rid me of the inevitable sky?

251

SONNET III
THE CERTAIN SKY

For thou dost brood as certain as the sky
As sweet, as sure, above me; and thy glow
From sacred morn till eventide dost throw
About me, and within thine hands I lie
When the still breath of eventide doth sigh:
If through the future, winged and swift, I go,
Thou art within that future, sweet—and lo!
I fare no better, if death's door I try.
For thou art there within that solemn gateway
White, fair as ever, and the same—and straightway
I feel upon my brow the pulse of wings;
The rustle of the old same plumes sonorous,
The sweet wings' same soft pure air-winnowing chorus;
No change, but closer prison and glad, death brings.

252

SONNET IV
DEATH TRANSFORMED

Yea, all the face of death, death's bosom, changes;
I pass amid his broad imperious wings;
The warrior black who all the black night ranges
Is as a maid whose red mouth laughs and sings.
About me his resistless arms he flings,
But they are soft as woman's, and his face
As woman's, and his breath about me clings
As woman's—and the whole strange dimlit place
Seems like a lawn, a gladsome grassy space:
“So this is death,” I said, and as I spoke,
Death's arms were bent my body to embrace,
Round me they folded like a lissome cloak,
And in the eyes of death so sweet a thing
I saw revealed, it made my spirit sing.

253

SONNET V
DEATH'S TENDERNESS

Yea, when death touched me tender was his breast
As thy breast in the vision long ago;
Within the billow of sleep I sank to rest:
Tides crystal-clear above my head did flow.
Absolute peace for almost utter woe
Clothed all my spirit in harness like a flame:
My head sank back, and, sinking backward, lo!
The old immeasurable fragrance came,
The scent of blossoms with no mortal name,
And wrapt me in a regal incense-cloud,
And seemed my very inmost soul to claim,
Bearing it upward in a royal shroud
Through skies, past stars, past suns, past moons and seas,
Beyond the birthplace of the purest breeze.

254

GOLDEN SHEAVES

I

Through spring and summer we toil and slave,
We suffer and strive and dream;
Our ships fly over the sun-bright wave,
Far, far as the waters gleam.
We struggle and wrestle for wealth and gold:
Though many a hope deceives,
Yet some men triumph as life grows old
And gather their golden sheaves—
Sheaves of silver and sheaves of gold,
Glorious golden sheaves!

II

But what is the sheaf that ever abides,
That never can fade or pass?
That perishes not when Time derides
The blossoms and sundried grass?

255

Love is the beautiful golden sheaf
That grows with the autumn leaves:
Yes, all true lovers, when Time slays grief,
Shall gather their golden sheaves—
Beautiful golden sheaves of love,
Beautiful golden sheaves!

III

When sheaves of silver and sheaves of gold
Shall crumble and rust and die,
Love's beautiful sheaf shall ne'er grow old,—
It is garnered and stored on high.
Faith delivers the heart from fear,
And the righteous soul believes
That all who have toiled in the cornfields here
Shall gather their golden sheaves—
Shall gather their golden sheaves in heaven,
Infinite golden sheaves!

256

“THE ENDING OF THE DAY”

If at the ending of the day we meet
The very lips of love, and find them sweet:
When death draws near
If then we hear
The unknown song no mortal may repeat:

If after all the loves of earth are cold
Love tenderer then than poet ever told
Around us flow,
That we may know
Fruition of the dream we dreamed of old:

If at the setting of the mortal sun
Sunrise eternal for us has begun:
If we may reach
The joys past speech
Alone by agony past language won:

257

If even the kiss of God that no man knows
Descends, a fragrance stranger than the rose,
On lips that seem
Not in a dream
To win what love conceals till love bestows:

If this be so, then who shall dare to say
That even a single pang were best away?
If suffering lead
To this indeed
Then death is life and starless night is day.

258

“A SOUL'S PURE RADIANCE”

I

A soul's pure radiance thrills Death's starrier air
And shines around the path my loved one trod.
Suffering she bore which few have had to bear:
She rests to-night within the arms of God.

II

And I...God guide me through this torturing dream,
Arm me with iron strength and purpose clear:
That She may say, when comes my hour supreme,
“I never left you. Husband, I am here.”

259

“THE DEAD HAVE NOT DEPARTED”

The dead have not departed,
Their forms are very near:
Rise up, thou broken-hearted,
For there is nought to fear.
She whom thou lovest dearly
Is very close indeed.
She sees thy sad soul clearly:
Speak thou, for she will heed.

1886 and 1913.

260

“CAN I FORGET?”

Can I forget thee? Can the summer rose
Forget the green-leafed glade in which it blows?
Can it forget
The shade the tender thicket round it throws?
Can I forget
The bower wherein my flowerlike passion grows?

Can I forget thee? Can the morning dew
Forget the green rich grass it glistened through?
Can it forget
The warm soft morning mists of pearly blue?
Can I forget
The hour when morning light was one with you?

Can I forget thee now earth's story's told,
Now that my lips have pressed thy lips grown cold?
Can I forget

261

Thee whom death struck, but whom death shall not hold?
Can love forget
The hair that shamed the sun with countless gold?

Can I forget? Can heaven forget the sun?
Or can night's robes without a star be spun?
Can these forget
Through whom their jewels and golden wealth are won?
Can I forget
Thee, mine in life, in death—and death is done.

July 1, 1881 and January, 1913.

263

SONGS OF ENGLAND AWAKING

265

ENGLAND AWAKING

“Germany must have a Navy of such strength that even for the strongest Naval Power, a war with her would involve such risks as to imperil its own supremacy.” —Preamble to the German Navy Act.

“Grave responsibilities rest upon any one who misleads our countrymen by encouraging them to continue in their belief that an invasion of these shores is impossible....It is my absolute belief that, without a military organization more adequate to the certain perils of the future, our Empire will fall from us and our power will pass away.” —Lord Roberts, speaking in the House of Lords, on Monday, November 23, 1908.

When the disconcerted Concert, with their instruments out of tune
Broke and scattered and vanished, came William's concert soon.
He grasped the hand of the Sultan, and his own from the grasp grew red:
“Lend me your valorous army, when the right time comes,” he said.

266

“Lend me your strong-thewed army, for I follow my god Bismarck
And I send no Pomeranian to break his bones in the dark.
If ever to throttle England becomes my brotherly work,
I can throttle her best by the fingers of the woman-strangling Turk.

“I will build a fleet gigantic, I will wait till the moment due,
And when that hour approaches, friend, my hope is in you.”
So the Sultan Abdul Hamid and William the Crafty clinked
Red-stained glasses together, and each at the other winked.

Then came Turkey's youngsters, and they carried a great reform,
And they did it without bloodshed, but they roused in the West a storm.
For “What's to become of my Army, if the Young Turks change in a night?”
Wringing his hands, cried William: and he hated the dawning light.

Then the Emperor Francis Joseph, and a pitiful thing was this,

267

Joined in the new base Concert, the concert of snakes that hiss.
For Herzegovina lured him, and the moral strife was brief:
An Emperor lied with an Emperor, a thief hitched on to a thief.

White-haired Francis Joseph!—Nay, not his was the fall.
Give the trickster's honours to strategist Aerenthal.
Bismarck, Metternich, taught him, and he learned his lesson well:
And when they cabled, he knew not that they cabled straight from hell.

Up with the Sultan's army! Down with the men who strive
That a newer nobler Turkey may conquer and grow and thrive!
Such was the Teuton's message, cynical, devilish, dark:
Worthy of statesman Satan, worthy of fiend Bismarck.

They were strong from warring with women,—like steel their muscles grew
As the babes and the younglings whimpered, and the wives and mothers flew.

268

What an ally was the Sultan! What a host to be led
By Abdul in eagled helmet, or William in fez of red!

So this Dual Alliance prospered, till the Young Turks rose in the night
Loathing the blood-stained darkness, longing for dawn and light.
Their hearts yearned out towards England, the land no Hamid has trod:
But that was a stab for William, though he trusted in Bismarck's God.

Bismarck's God would be for him. He would bend and would hear
The Emperor apt at sermons, big with a godly fear.
So he prayed to God and Bismarck: and their Dual answer came,
Tongued like the flash of cannons, written in words of flame.

“Look to our Navy, William. That is the thing to do.
England is old and weary, and the world is sick of her too.
England was always a braggart: but she took three years to beat
A handful of Boers in their kopjes. William, strengthen the fleet.”

269

So he hearkened to Bismarck pleading, and he never thought it odd
That behind the cuirassed German stood a cloven-footed God.
He knew not the God of England, for Christ smiles full in His gaze
And He guides the sons of England, if England walks in His ways.

Then to the West turned William, and his naval instincts grew:
Wherever he turned that tattered old flag of Britain flew.
“Pile up our naval programmes! On with the ships!” said he.
“Soon we shall hustle England. Leave but the job to me.”

So the Navy Bills kept passing, and the big preamble said
“On the heels of earth's mightiest Navy we intend ere long to tread!”
“The prize is vast,” thought William—“the love of the soul of the sea:
The waves that fought for England may fight in the end for me.”

270

Then at last the English hearkened, they awoke at last from sleep:
They heard the taunts of the giant, and his gibes at last sank deep.
Men and women wakened, and the soul of the sea once more
Spake to the soul of the nation, and it listened as heretofore—

“Be the cost what it may be, be the toil what it will,
Let England rule the waters with a mastering Navy still.
Long enough has the German vaunted, let him build till his shipyards quake,
Let him strain till his sinews splinter—he will never overtake.”

All the nation united, as a nation at last was heard;
And our inner strifes were forgotten, and one was the loyal word.
Let the German sweat and struggle till his blood-shot eyes grow dim:
Not for him is the ocean, her passion is not for him.

Our women were all divided: strange tastes and luxuries grew:

271

But they heard the big preamble, and they understood and knew
It was not a question of voting. Nay, they voted all alike.
Every vote was a sword-stroke, though need was never to strike.

The women whom Shakespeare drew for us, hearts of love and of flame,
When the German big preamble and the German challenge came,
Ceased to contend for trifles. What was the suffrage worth
If nothing was left to vote for, with England wiped from the earth?

So in the year one thousand nine hundred and nine, men saw
With passion and deep emotion, with the old delight and awe,
The soul of the sea brought closer, for ever face to face
With the conquering Anglo-Saxon, the one sea-conquering race.

For the Power that sways the ocean, can sway the lands as well:
Can lift all earth to a heaven, or sink all earth to a hell.

272

If the moustached German giant sways mankind, which will it be?
Militant force on the mainland: flames of hell on the sea.

Be not a moment in error: misjudge, mistake not at all.
Britain rules for freedom—if the British Power should fall,
If the Power that pocketed Alsace gets our Colonies well in his grip,
Freedom means violation, a kiss with a fang in the lip.

If compulsory service follows on the trumpet-call to the race
Blown by our foremost soldiers, that is little indeed to face.
Better compulsory service for the sake of the well-loved land
Than a slave's compulsory service, and cuffs from a master's hand.

Think not our enemies loiter: their chiefest end is in view.
Englishmen, Englishwomen, the centuries waited for you.
Yours is the word of the ages: for you the choice that will make
England the arbiter ever, England alert and awake.

Choose, for the moment presses. Choose, for the hour draws nigh.

273

Keep the command of the ocean, live then—lose it, and die.
Life and death are in balance: heaven and hell draw swords.
But the casting-vote for ever will rest with the wild sea's lords.

When the proud-sailed old Armada steered straight for the Cornish coast
Our ships were manned by seamen, each strong man good as a host.
But the wide-winged storm fought for us, the soul of the sea was aflame,
And we know the word of destruction that forth on the storm-wind came.

Again and again for England the soul of the sea has fought
And far in advance for England lie triumphs beyond all thought:
Triumphs of Art and Science, wonders that no man knows;
Light in the streams of the sunshine, love in the heart of the rose.

But we need the strong straight sword-arm, or Science will speak in vain;
And love in the hearts of our women is nought but a grief or a pain

274

If the virile guns can speak not, when the masterful moment comes,
With the roar of unleashed lions, that chimes to the roll of the drums.

In Africa God was with us, and a thousand blunders He
Watched but to overrule them, for He loves the soul of the sea:
And the soul of the sea prayed for us, and the sea's great Maker heard
The sob in her passionate waters, the sea's strange glorious word.

The sea's soul interceded, for the sea loved Nelson well:
Time to learn was given us, and we passed through Africa's hell,
And we bent to our work in earnest, and we won the game at last.
But that was a mere school-lesson: Pretoria lies in the past.

If the German moustached giant and his iron-drilled legions came,
Think of the homes of England! Think of the leaping flame!
Remember the blaze of Bazeilles. “What a city to sack!”

275

Cried Blücher, of old-world London—but he had no ships at his back.

If ever the English meadows and the English hillsides felt
The foot of the German giant, and the giant's foul blow dealt,
Never would horror greater have changed the land to a grave,
For the soul of an English woman is not the soul of a slave.

Therefore be wise, be ready.—Countrymen, how would it be
If all our former battles, our wrestles by land and sea,
Waterloo, Trafalgar, Inkerman, all were mere
Lessons of infant schooling? How if the test is here?

How if the long strange story has come to a point at last
When the land must strike for Empire, or be but a kingdom past?
Rome and Greece sank downward, every dog has his day,—
Every country a splendour, a crown, a change, a decay.

Hear but the word of warning. Watch but the moments flee
With the stout hearts ready to landward, and the brave eyes keen by sea;

276

And by land and sea the petition from men and women alike,
“God strike home for England, if the moment comes to strike!”

November, 1908.

277

A PROTEST

I

Just because I claim for woman highest rank and queenliest place
In her glory, in her beauty, in her gentle perfect grace,
Do I grieve to see her stooping to a quest the devil ordains,
For the devil it is who blinds her, and the devil it is who gains.

II

Higher than the highest of angels, so is woman in her power:
Envied of the stars and sunlight, making jealous bird and flower.
When I wrote of Her triumphant, I was thinking of her eyes
With the force of love within them, and the scorn of liars and lies.

III

Just because on her for ever turns the future of the race
I would have her pure, imperial, flawless both in form and face:

278

With a body like the marble and a rose's mystic power,
Teaching outline to the sculptor, teaching sweetness to the flower.

IV

When I sang of Her victorious, I was dreaming not of those
Whose ignoble hateful handling would deflower the fairest rose.
I was singing of the victory of the passionate God who gleams
In the eyes of English girlhood, and sends angels to her dreams.

V

If my words have been distorted, strained and twisted, misconceived,
It is woman who has suffered, and the singer who has grieved.
Though a larger danger threatens than the keenest pang to one:
For the soul of woman altered, alters flower and star and sun.

279

LE FAUX BONHOMME

“You English are mad, mad, mad as March hares. What has come over you that you are so completely given over to suspicions quite unworthy of a great nation? What more can I do than I have done?...I bade one of my officers procure for me as exact an account as he could obtain of the number of combatants in South Africa on both sides, and of the actual position of the opposing forces. With the figures before me, I worked out what I considered to be the best plan of campaign under the circumstances, and submitted it to my General Staff for their criticism. Then I despatched it to England, and that document, likewise, is among the State papers at Windsor Castle, awaiting the severely impartial verdict of history.” —The Kaiser, in the Daily Telegraph of October 28, 1908.

“The Kaiser told Mr. Hale that King Edward had been hounding and humiliating him for two years, and he was exasperated; that Germany was the paramount power in Europe, and England was trying to neutralize her power; that he (the Emperor) held France in the hollow of his hand, and Russia was of no account since the Japanese War.

“That if a pan-European war were inevitable the sooner it came the better, because he was now ready, and was tired of the suspense; that Great Britain had been a decadent nation ever since her victory over the Transvaal and the Orange Free State, because her cause was unrighteous and ungodly, and Divine judgment was bound eventually to overtake the powerful nation that waged such a war; that the Anglo-Japanese alliance was an iniquitous alliance against all the white races. England was proving absolutely her faithlessness as a Christian nation.”

—New York World, November 22, 1908.

280

“Why will you never trust me? What do my actions say?
When your generals flagged and loitered, when your African wealth was at stake,
I sent for the facts and the figures—devoted the best of a day
To settling for Roberts and Buller the road that their troops should take.

“In the archives of Windsor Castle you will find my maps and my plans.
History will do me justice: the ages that come will show
That my heart was one with England's, one if ever a man's
Strong heart beat for England, in that dread ‘Black Week’ of her woe.

“Yes: I am getting indignant. Too long your papers have sneered
And I lose at last all patience. I bubble and boil and chafe.
When Russia and France were plotting, it was I who interfered:
And I wired to Windsor Castle, to tell them England was safe.

281

“My ships for the far Pacific with purest friendly intent
I am scheming and building and fitting. Who knows what Japan may say
With her guns to the old-world nations, the Powers of the Continent?
The thunder of German broadsides may change the fate of a fray.”

So he declared, the Kaiser. But then to the West he turned
And he spoke in the ear of the writer, the Yankee editor, Hale.
And these are the thoughts he uttered, a lesson for all concerned,
And once for all with a vengeance the Kaiser lifted the veil.

“Hounded, pestered and flouted by England's Monarch, I feel
That the moment is ripe for decision. If war in the end must be
I would rather suspense were over, I am ready to draw the steel:

282

I believe in the Zeppelin air-ship, though England trusts in the sea.

“If all the nations in fury arise and collide and ignite
All that I ask for reward of putting the match to the flame
Will be Egypt, poor little Egypt: this, and the mad delight
Of feeling myself a war-god, a giant force in the game.

“Bismarck humbled the Frenchmen. What if a greater thing
Looms and rises before me—to prison no Emperor now
But to darken the splendour of England, to hunt and humble a King?
To chase and harry the hunter, to steal from the topmost bough?

“What was the glory of Bismarck, compared to the glory of him
Who, seeing the Transvaal farmers by England oppressed, downtrod,
Shall arise as a Priest and a Prophet, majestic, immaculate, grim,
The sword, the revolver and rifle, the scourge and the dagger of God?”

283

So in the month of November, with double and petulant tongue,
On an Englishman, then on a Yankee, the Kaiser foisted his freaks.
And this was the nations' comment, the judgment of old and of young:
“Listen and learn from the Kaiser. Believe not a word that he speaks.”

December, 1908.

284

LORD ROBERTS' SPEECH IN THE HOUSE OF LORDS

Monday, November 23, 1908.

At a moment in our history when our foremost statesmen stood
Mute and foiled and cowed and futile, things of clay and shapes of wood,
Rose a soldier, and he pleaded with the wavering multitude.

Never yet for God and England, soldier spake a nobler word.
While the querulous lords around him mixed in conclave and conferred
England's heart made solemn answer, and the starriest heights were stirred.

Never yet austerer moment in the history of the race
Brought the halting nation grimly, yet superbly, face to face
With the God who guards our England by His sword-arm and His grace.

285

Never yet diviner instant in the days that were and are
Dawned in fire upon our planet, made man lordlier, kinglier far,
For the destiny of England shapes the future of our star.

All the constellations follow this our stately star's control
And the vast magnetic currents through the suns and systems roll
Hurled from planet unto planet, as on earth from soul to soul.

He who lost a son for England as he flashed along the fray,
Here in London, in the dimness of the English winter day,
Drew his sword again for England, and he flung the sheath away.

Clearly, calmly, very gently, yet with somewhat of high scorn,
Spake the Soldier to the lordlets, and his fervent words were borne
Far beyond the English borders, to the sunset and the morn.

East and West, to all the cities where the British flag still flies

286

Sped the word that slew deception and that foiled the god of lies,
Scoffed at ever by the weaklings, welcomed ever by the wise.

Later on, in days we know not, when beyond our fairest dreams
England forth upon the peoples with a stainless splendour gleams,
Men will grasp what that word scattered of a thousand hellish schemes.

Judas laughing, reincarnate, sat triumphant on a throne:
But he shuddered at the trumpet as the sudden blast was blown
And he knew his hour was over, and his boastings all outgrown.

England's unreturning moment and the doom of traitorous hordes
Came like lightning through the midnight when with words like strokes of swords
Roberts spoke for truth and England to the people, and the lords.

287

THE MODERN WOMAN

I

What an abyss for woman! Lo, what a depth to fall!
She who might be the helper, angel and guide of all,
Changed to a frenzied creature, abject, lunatic, wild,—
Something of hell in her madness, something in her of a child!

II

Curses on those who did it, the elder women who taught
English girls base lessons, poisoning soul and thought!
Cursed be these, the liars, who troubled the young girl's creed—
Told her that men were reptiles, reptiles they who mislead.

III

Cursed be these who, knowing nothing of love or of man,
First the pitiful story of wrong and deceit began!
What can set right or atone for it? Nothing, till hell's waves whirl
Round the throat of a woman who lies to the soul of a girl.

288

IV

Feminine tongues, snake-skilful, have brought us even to this.
Women who never have known the love in a strong man's kiss,
Never have known sweet passion that lights the land and the sea,
Never have known, nor will know it, while stars and the sun shall be,—

V

These, these most, these only, have changed the current of life
To a torrent of blood-red waters, and changed love's joy to a strife:
Mixing their base ambitions, their lust and anger and greed,
With the thoughts of flower-white girlhood, with our maidens' pure sweet creed.

VI

“Man is only a cipher”—so they, insolent, say.
“Ours is the sex victorious. Ours is the world of to-day.”
So they write foul lustful stories, and they poison England's life;
And they leave no English maiden fit for an English wife.

289

VII

In the old glad days our women were noblest of all upon earth:
Purest, happiest, sweetest; history's fairest birth.
But now they are changed and defiant. They have learned from the lips that lie
That man is a brute and a satyr, developed straight from the stye.

VIII

That is the teaching pestilent of the elder women whose lies
Have saddened the sun of England, and clouded the English skies.
Woman was once a flower, a sunlit beautiful rose.
Now she carries a dog-whip, and slashes at friends and foes.

IX

War between woman and woman, mad war, war to the knife,
War between woman and mankind, war between husband and wife,

290

This would result from the contest. Think you it turns upon votes?
The suffragettes' flag, Defiance, in a fiercer hurricane floats.

X

Contempt for the old traditions, scorn of love and of man,
Hate of the older England, the merciless creed of a clan.
A strange-eyed group hysterical, women in nought but the name,
This it will mean for England—and ours, our own, is the shame.

XI

Shame on the manhood of England, that has let this dark thing rise
To strength and to vehement boasting beneath unvigilant eyes!
Shame on the manhood of England, that has let this come to pass!
Shame on the men of putty, seduced by the women of brass!

XII

Man was the leader of woman: she looked to the man to lead.

291

She loved and obeyed and trusted. Love was her soul's one creed.
He has failed in his sacredest duty. The moment he flinched and fell
Woman became the leader, and is leading her sex to hell.

XIII

Certain the end is, certain. If a virile race should arise,
The sceptre will pass from our people, abject before our eyes.
Never a nation prospers, not even the nation of bees,
Where the feminine hosts are the leaders and the males are dwarfed and at ease.

XIV

“Read not the older authors. Let Charles Dickens alone.
His women are namby-pamby: abject slaves we disown.

292

Be not deceived by Shakespeare. Milton? What was he worth?
Rather study Lake Harris: a seer and a god upon earth.

XV

“Man is a lust organic, a tyrant lewd and supreme.
Woman no more shall be subject. Women, wake from your dream!
America's girls shall be leaders. The scorpion, man, shall be trod
Deep underfoot for ever, by woman the star-crowned God.

XVI

“Keep but the stripes for mankind—vitriol, whips and blows.
The stars are wanted for woman, who, scorning a slave's repose,
Arises, terrible, vengeful, a Mother with eyes of flame,
Driving her spouse before her, a man-form timid and tame.

XVII

“Woman must be the chooser, the arbiter. Hers is the word

293

That gives to her husband his mandate, bids passion speak and be heard.
If man should rebel when we treat him—much as a cat or a tyke—
The women who spit at policemen will never be slow to strike.

XVIII

“We have lost the sense of smelling. We leave it to man who knows
The scent of a rose from an onion, the scent of a shrimp from a rose.
In our progress onward and upward, the animal gifts we resign:
And garlic is even as violets, and drainage is like woodbine.

XIX

“Our lips are not eager for rapture of passion, for this we scorn.

294

Two embraces, two only, if two babes have to be borne!
We are passionless, vigilant, virgin, loud-tongued, sexless, austere.
Do you doubt us? Hand us a dog-whip. That argument makes all clear.”

XX

Such are the words of woman, literal, monstrous, fact,
To man and to woman her sister, the prelude to monstrous act.
Cursed be all such women! Blessed the first that goes
Along the street in the sunshine, sweet, a girl and a rose!

“Man is a tyrannous, organic lust.” —Thomas Lake Harris.

See Mrs. Swiney's book, The Awakening of Women. The authoress maintains that women have largely lost the sense of smell, and are consequently diviner and higher beings than man: smell being, in her opinion, the lowest and most animal of the senses, and therefore the first sense lost in an upward evolution.

Passion is only admissible, as a means for the procreation of children, according to the repulsive teaching of the neo-American female physiologists.

295

THE PATRIOT VOTER

“I am not interested in the nonsense Roberts talks.” —Letter of an Englishwoman of the year 1908.

I

“Wildest talk of an invasion! How can ever such thing be?
Give the suffrage to the women, give the vote to them and me.
Trust us—trust no ships or weapons—trust not bayonets or the sea.

II

“Roberts tells us—Roberts warns us—he is talking ‘nonsense’ quite.
I and God can put the Germans by our double vote to flight.
If I lift my star-ringed finger, they will vanish in a night.

296

III

“No: it does not ‘interest’ us, all this talk of swords and tars.
We are daughters of the future, we are sisters of the stars,
And our dreams are dreams pacific, not man's murderous cult of Mars.

IV

“We have never read a history, we know nought of gun or boat.
England does not ‘interest’ us. Let the throne and country float
Straight away to wreck stupendous, so we only get a vote!

V

“Little England is our England. Perish India, mount and plain!
Let some German, or some Russian, o'er the dark-skinned myriads reign!
Nought to us the thing can matter, if our petty ends we gain.

297

VI

“Are the Indian mobs seditious? Send a peaceful message there.
Is an Englishwoman murdered? Hold a meeting, and declare
That if several more are murdered, we shall think it most unfair.

VII

“That's the way to hold an Empire. It was sternly, keenly won.
But a swordless grasp may keep it, let no flash be seen of gun,
Not a word be heard of anger, till our mission's fully done.

VII

“This indeed is our proud mission—what was given us, to betray:
What was trusted to our keeping, with both hands to fling away:
What was won by battling centuries, to cast from us in a day.”

298

POWDER AND PATRIOTISM

“Dulce et decorum est pro patriâ mori.” —Horace.

“Is ultra-patriotism a good thing?” —British citizen of the twentieth century.

I

No doubt it is good and pleasant to find in the whole wide earth
Valour and strength and beauty, virtue and grace and worth:
It is right to be just to a Frenchman or German, an alien birth.

II

Victors in Art and in Science may Russian or Prussian be.
A German may study triumphant the nerves of a gnat or a flea.
Be large-souled, cosmopolitan. It matters nothing to me.

III

Never be insular, narrow. Teach your children at school
Never to fight or be furious—to follow the golden rule.
If a fool should strike at your left cheek, turn your right to the fool.

299

IV

This is excellent teaching: this is the fashion and mode.
Yet there are articles two, unchanged in my militant code—
That our bayonets refuse to bend and our powder consent to explode.

V

Russians, Germans, Italians, Austrians, Japs and Turks,
All are hearty good fellows, pleasing in ways and works:
Yet they have guns, torpedoes, swords, destroyers and dirks.

VI

Taking account of all things, thinking still in the road
That Nelson and Wellington followed, I cleave and cling to my code—
That British bayonets shall curve not, and British powder explode.

The British powder is said, on good authority, to be greatly inferior to the German. —December, 1908.

300

A WORD FOR THE ARMY

“Roberts is nothing but a soldier. He naturally sees as a soldier....

“The military spirit is the very child of the sex-devil—dividing into dualistic ranks class against class, and nation against nation, and sex against sex! ...

“I believe in a former letter I referred to a future life in which the Ego would no longer see, through sex bias, the ‘things that belong to God.’”

—English lady, and would-be voter.

“To Carlyle, nineteen centuries after Christ, as to Thucydides, four centuries before Christ, war is the supreme expression of the energy of a State as such, the supreme, the tragic hour, in the life-history of the city, the nation, as such....

“In the light of History, universal peace appears less as a dream than as a nightmare which shall be realized only when the ice has crept to the heart of the sun, and the stars, left black and trackless, start from their orbits....

“With us, let me repeat, the decision rests, with us and with this generation. Never since on Sinai God spoke in thunder has mandate more imperative been issued to any race, city, or nation than now to this nation and to this people.”

—“Reflections on the Origins and Destiny of Imperial Britain.” By J. A. Cramb, M.A., Professor of Modern History, Queen's College, London.

301

I

1

Hark to a patriot's warning, worthy to store and keep
In our minds as a boon for ever, a prophecy sage and deep!
—“‘Roberts sees as a soldier’: this and nought else is he.
I am a woman-voter. As I woman, I think and see.
‘Roberts is only a soldier.’ I am for love and peace:
So I war with the old sex-devil, the devil of Rome and Greece,
The devil that so divides us. When sex with sex is one
The unified human creature will arise and shine as the sun.

2

“We must be unisexual. One sex, one alone,
Stands erect in the heavens, and stares at God on his throne.
All will be well when woman, with power and victory shod,
Destroys the division of sexes and blends with the sexless God.
From this division of sexes evil and sin had birth.
If man had been woman, and woman had never been woman on earth,
All had been well with the peoples, clothed in beauty and grace:
Bearded and moustached woman will save and exalt the race.

302

3

“The old mere masculine error of worship of form must cease.
Our booted and tight-laced beauty eclipses the beauty of Greece.
We are the form triumphant: no forms that Phidias saw
Could stir the beholder to terror, shaped by a loftier law
Than the law of sex we abolish, the law of the man and the maid,
Fit for the animal two-sexed, the law whose lessons degrade,
The law of the flowers' obsceneness, the law of the birds' loose joy,
The law that our teachers have given us the mandate now to destroy.

4

“Why will you understand not that sex shall be overthrown
And the perfume of blossoms scattered, and the scent of a rose unknown?
For our sanctified nostrils smell not, and our glorified nerves are vexed
No longer by dreams of passion, that thrill not the forms unsexed.

303

Vast is the pure deliverance. Chain upon chain might fall;
But the chain of the old sex-devil was the firmest chain of all.
Following scent, the senses will drop from us one by one
Till we hear not music, and feel not the lewd male warmth in the sun.

5

“Men will be lifted and gladdened when intellect keen they find
In woman. The soul's embraces, the kisses of mind and mind,
Will wholly supplant the kisses from lip to lip that flew
When the young world laughed like a satyr, and its passionate young lusts grew.
From the graze of the tiniest pin-point to the thrust of the savagest sword
Every pain is by reason of man the reasonless lord.
Change but man to a woman, pare but his tiger claws:
Then Eve may re-enter her Eden, as man the devil withdraws.”

II

1

But the birds and the blossoms answered, and the universe of God,

304

Fair as when never a woman with womanless fool's feet trod
Its hills and its flower-sown valleys—“If sex were lonely and one
The stars and the moon would perish, and night would involve the sun.
Not a star could gaze at its Maker, nor could God's eyes gaze at a rose,
If the glory of sex were abolished, the splendour of love that goes
Flaming from planet to planet, flashing from height to height,
For the passion of woman for man is the passion of God for light.

2

“The passion of man for woman is the passion of God for the rose,
His love for the soul of its sweetness, the marvellous scent that grows
Pure and soft on the senses till we know that the rose is one
With the passion of woman the blossom, with the passion of man the sun.
If the sexless lie and murderous that the sexless women have told

305

Could be true, were it but for a moment, God's heart would be changed and old:
All things sweet must vanish, flowers no more could be:
And the radiance purple or sapphire would fade from the fields of the sea.”

3

Love and battle together: this is the law of the race.
Strength and the masculine sword-arm: feminine curves and grace.
So hath the Lord designed it: so are his strange thoughts hurled
From man to woman, from woman to man, and from world to world.
Conflict, war, for ever! Palestine, Rome and Greece!
Conquering Goths and the Vandals! Races never at peace!
One thing only is certain: that Mars was armoured and shod
With fire and his red sword sharpened by the hand of actual God.

4

Nobler the ends for ever of the desperate strifes may be:

306

Loftier England's message as her hand grows firm on the sea:
Clearer her voice and her mandate as Nelson and Wellington meet:
The one with his word to our army, the other guiding our fleet.
But never till all stars darken and a sunless sky grows cold,
Never while morning's mantle is broidered on boundless gold,
While lives and the honour of women turn on the stroke of a sword,
May we put the steel and the scabbard back in the hand of the Lord.

5

Never—as Ruskin told us—can we draw diviner breath
Than in that great game of battle “where the stakes are life and death.”
So hath the Lord ordained it: so must this great thing be:
While a sword can flame in the sunlight, or a ship's gun flash on the sea.
Deep in the heart of our nation is love of the true and right;
Sternest passion for justice, passionate search for light.
While in the world are falsehood, treachery, craft and crime,
Armies of unseen warriors call on the sons of time.

307

III

1

Hear not the voices of women, sent to cajole and mislead,
The elder deceiving the younger, spreading a sexless creed:
Wholly divorced from England, a danger and curse to the land,
For their craft would weaken our manhood, and wheedle the sword from the hand.
For the sake of the nobler woman, the woman whom Dickens drew,
Milton and Shelley and Shakespeare, the woman tender and true,
Pure and divine and gentle, the woman whom England breeds,
England, England only, hear not the false-tongued creeds.

2

For the sake of the women of England, silent, loving unheard,
Those who have not yet spoken the sweet imperative word;
For the sake of the trust reposed in us, never reposed in a land,

308

In an old-world race or nation, direct from destiny's hand;
While the golden chance is given us, before the hour has fled,
Vote, ordain, that an army, noble and nobly led,
Shall spring from the manhood of England, armoured in truth and light
Passionate only for justice, stern alone for the right.

3

Once to a race, once only, Time speaks the imperial word.
There are other races ripening: there are other clarions heard.
Still the chance is before us, and evil counsellors call,
Saying, “What do we want with an army? Our ships can answer for all!”
If we heed the smooth-tongued pleaders, whether men or women they be,
If we add not a nation's army to a nation's strength at sea,
Destruction huge, undreamed of, on a craven land may leap;
Our fathers won at the sword-point, and the sword alone can keep.

309

4

But surely the call will be answered. Surely from hand to hand.
The signal torch will hasten, till its bright flame fills the land.
Surely from woman to woman the clear strong word will fly:
“To part from the love of England is worse, far worse, than to die.”
To say that the old Field-Marshal, urgent for England's sake,
Was talking but as a soldier, to sneer when a world is at stake,
This—and a woman did it—is worse, ignobler far,
Than war, though war be a demon, and war's red crown be a scar.

5

How if God “sees as a soldier”? How if from height to height
The bugle of endless battle peals for the endless right?
How if thunders the thunder, lightens the lightning's flame
Ever in scorn of meanness, ever in Love's own name?
How if an army knightly, strong through love of the land,

310

Gains from God in the highest might to war and withstand?
How if an army defending fields no foeman has trod
Strikes with the force stupendous of the sword and the passion of God?

“Dark and true and tender is the North.” —Tennyson.

311

THE ELEVENTH HOUR

I

Still an hour is left to hearken: still an hour is left to wake:
Still an hour to stifle discord and join hands for England's sake.
England, generous, largely trusting, asks what course will Asquith steer?
Asks for his sake, not for her sake, for her brightening road is clear.

II

Yet a moment's space is left him. Once for all he must decide:
Flinch and cower and lapse and perish, crawl and whine and skulk and hide,
Or stand forth an English statesman, stronger when the sword-blades gleam
And the thunder-clash of conflict scares the hucksters from their dream.

312

III

But if craven be the answer, if we hear some timorous plea,
From stern city unto city and from furious sea to sea
Will the Empire's verdict echo, flashed along the wires of time,
Judgment endless, unexampled, on an unexampled crime:

IV

“Leave to Asquith and McKenna, and the anti-English crew
Who could twist and cant and shuffle, while the grim risk deadlier grew,
As they tumble from their benches and regain their jackals' den,
The contempt of English school-girls and the curse of English men.”

March 26, 1909.

313

RETRIBUTION

While our rivals, ardent, eager, toiling on from day to day,
Seek to win and grasp the Trident, rule the waves with sovereign sway,
Our bold striving, our whole effort, is to fling the gift away,
To procure a moment's respite, one more instant of delay.

“Cease to probe and carp and question. Nay, inquiry shall be none.
We are sapient trusty Sea-Lords, all we do is wisely done.
If we choose to work in darkness, why let in the dangerous sun?
All is ready: armour-plating, mast and halyard, shot and gun.

“Never dream you cannot trust us. Mark how confident and clear
Rings the German bright war-trumpet on pale Europe's listening ear!

314

Every resonant note is peaceful, promise ample and sincere.
We will blow a friendly bugle, for our bugling friends to hear.”

But the nation rose in anger: as one man the nation rose
And a stormier Trumpet sounded, for it thundered forth the close
Of an era of deception, lies and frauds and shifts and shows,
And a fiery retribution on our leaders, not our foes.

March, 1909.

“The Trident must be in our fist.” —German Emperor.

315

SONNETS OF EMPIRE

317

SONNET I
A PRIME MINISTER

With clank of hammer and with clink of steel
The German dockyards echo, day and night.
Unnumbered legions ripen for the fight
While English statesmen fawn and cringe and kneel.
In English dockyards men without a meal
Stand idle, sullen, in most piteous plight.
Asquith, found brazen in the whole world's sight,
Stamps truth to dust with a most shameless heel.
Our Navy chained, mishandled, and held back,
Pants feebly along the inexorable track,
While the grim German Navy swells apace.
Though this man knows and England knows he lies,
No thunder threatens from the silent skies
And no truth's Angel smites him in the face.

December 21, 1909.

318

SONNET II
A PRAYER

That these may pass from power, and men may rise
Born of the moment, equal to the time,
Keen-eyed to probe the black depths of a crime,
Most proudly fearless, mercilessly wise!
Armoured to win the incalculable prize
A nobler England flashes forth, sublime,
Whose fleets shall carry peace from clime to clime,
Or thunder war, till the last despot dies.
One moment of sharp struggle grim and grave,
Then with her heel upon the Arch-Serpent's head
May England stand, she who just now was dead
And no man deemed that God or man could save!
But now her feet are swift upon the wave
And golden morning lightens round her tread

December 21, 1909.

319

SONNET III
A CHANCELLOR OF THE EXCHEQUER

“Lord Savile, speaking at Eakring in support of Mr. Hume Williams, Unionist Candidate for the Bassetlaw division of Notts, said that 200 members of the House of Lords had been in the Army and Navy, and seventy served as volunteers in the South African War.

“What was Mr. Lloyd-George doing while these peers were gallantly fighting for their Queen and country, and England was mourning the loss of so many brave sons? He was sitting comfortably in the House of Commons. This was the man—this miserable Little Englander—this enemy of his King and country—who now sought to destroy the Lords, and who considered no device too mean or low to attain this end.”

—Daily Mail, December 23, 1909.

The straight good thrust!—and every English soul
That watched the blow felt that the stroke was meet.
When true men speak, base demagogues retreat
Or snarl and foam, furious beyond control.
Remember how this man, when horror stole
From home to home with red news to repeat,
Sat with the dogs who yelped at each defeat
And louder grew, while darker grew the goal.
If in some Dantesque fashion stern and great

320

Vengeance on hound-like act and miscreant's lie
Could fall, would not this man be hurled by Fate
Far from the stars, the sea-waves and the sky,
For ever doomed to twist and writhe among
The venomous refuse of his own foul tongue?

321

SONNET IV
PERFECT IGNOMINY

To tax the rich and make the poor man's lot
Harder; to watch the German fleet expand;
To leave our Navy weak and undermanned;
To hear truth told and alter not a jot;
To shuffle, quibble, drivel, palter, plot;
To skulk round corners, lest some woman's hand
Strike; to give aid to every alien land;
To leave our working folk to starve and rot;
To clip the Army and curtail the Fleet;
To cringe to every rowdy in the street;
To cadge for votes, half knave, half smug-faced fool;
Was this enough? Nay, he must add to this
A lecherous longing for the Irish kiss,
A shameless rank adultery with Home Rule.

December 31, 1909.

322

SONNET V
VICTORY

[_]

At the General Election of January, 1910, the Unionist Party, in the face of lying and misrepresentation unprecedented in English electoral history, secured a net gain of 105 seats.

The powers of darkness shudder, as the morn
Breaks, and a newer nobler day begun
Restores to England gladness and the sun.
'Mid lies and deeds too base for aught but scorn
Rulers 'mid lies and base devices born
Feel death upon them, see their brief reign done,
And watch the swift sands through the hour-glass run,
Crime-smeared, by foul dissensions racked and torn.
The traitors slowly pass into the night
With furtive wolf-like gaze and shackled hands,
While England in the golden sunlight stands,
Her eyes made glorious with imperial light,
And one wild trumpet-blast proclaims her free
From dawn to sunset and from sea to sea.

February 6, 1910.

323

SONNET VI
“ONCE AGAIN”

“What are these that howl and hiss across the strait of westward water?
What is he who floods our ears with speech in flood?
See the long tongue lick the dripping hand that smokes and reeks of slaughter!
See the man of words embrace the man of blood!”
Swinburne's poem, “The Commonweal, a Song for Unionists”: published in the Times on the eve of the Home Rule Election of 1886.

Another long tongue licks another hand,
And once again the battle must be fought
As though the former strange great fight were nought.
Wrath, doom and darkness, shadow all the land.
Left are a few—a staunch unbroken band
Who will not bow the knee. Unbribed, unbought,
They give their lives, their prayers, their toil, their thought,
Freely; and if they fall, their fall is grand.
Men who loved England, when her nobler heart
Tore Gladstone's webs and sophistries apart
And wrenched the clean truth from him without fear,
Stand firm: while all wise spirits and faithful pray
That scorn may sweep such Ministers away,
Lest blood should stain the Coronation Year.

December 11, 1910.

324

SONNET VII
A LIBERAL PROGRAMME

Though Gladstone erred, it was a Titan's sin.
But his successors—Liberals? What of these?
To keep in place by crawling on their knees
Through muddiest Labour bogs, or plunging in:
To make five hundred Peers, all on the grin,
'Mid scorn of proud Dominions over-seas:
Shameless, to drink shame's blackest filthiest lees:
To play with flames of War, so they but win:
This is their plan. To build their power on lies:
To toss each dog the sop that satisfies:
Then, once their project is in perfect swing,
To prostitute the Flag 'neath Redmond's feet,
Reduce our Navy to a fourth-class Fleet,
To sell the nation and coerce the King.

December 11, 1910.

325

SONNET VIII
“BRAVE WORDS!”

“I will suppose that owing to some cause the Liberal Party was called upon to deal with this great Constitutional question of the Government of Ireland in a position where it was only a minority dependent on the Irish vote for converting it into a majority.

“Now, gentlemen, I tell you seriously and solemnly that although I believe the Liberal Party itself to be honourable, patriotic, and trustworthy, in such a position as this it would not be safe for it to enter upon the consideration of the principle of a measure with respect to which at every step of its progress it would be in the power of a party coming from Ireland to say: ‘Unless you do this and unless you do that we will turn you out tomorrow...’

“Not only the Liberal Party, but the Empire, will be in danger, because questions of the gravest moment and of Imperial weight and of vast consequences may come forward, and there will be no party qualified to deal with them in that independence of position which alone can secure a satisfactory and an honourable issue.”

—Mr. Gladstone, speaking at Edinburgh on November 9, 1885.

Brave words!—But three months later he betrayed
England, himself, and Ireland. He forbore
To keep the “serious solemn” oath he swore.
All that his hands had built up, he unmade.
Men, foul with blood, he fondled and obeyed.

326

Traitors attacked. He opened wide the door;
Warned us what not to do, then did far more.
A trickster's shuffling meanest game he played.
First having spoken truth, he did the lie.
Invoking “Empire,” next he chose to stake
Empire upon the casting of a die.
He sealed his murdered honour in the tomb:
Then, with a people weeping for his sake,
Marched madly towards the inexorable doom.

December 12, 1910.

327

SONNET IX
OUR “MODERATES”

I marked the Hell that will be. There I found
With thinnest star-flame given them for a light
Our “Moderates,” and I counted in that night
Grey, Haldane, Morley, Birrell, hound by hound.
Alive and damned, by his own falsehoods bound,
Birrell felt Ireland's hate like poison bite:
Morley, with India saved in his despite,
Had India's curse to hold him underground.
I watched in dust and chains the docile Crewe
Who sneered at Roberts, yet no lightning slew:
Who, 'mid the laughter of the House of Lords
Feeblest and foolishest of all things born,
Too weak for wrath of man or woman's scorn,
Moved to send Germany our broken swords.

December 13, 1910.

328

SONNET X
THE CHARGE OF THE PEERS' BRIGADE

“Noble six hundred!” —Tennyson.

Asquith's five hundred Peers! Brave souls who stoop
When Redmond foams with slaughterous intent
To be his serving-men: bold warriors bent
Like reeds when Dillon's Irish curse and hoop.
Weighted with unctuous phrases till they droop,
Chaste flowers of choicest Nonconformist scent,
May not their robes be splashed, their ermine rent?
Hell's scorn may greet and blast the godly troop.
Think how tumultuous England will deride,
Think how our kindred o'er the seas will jeer,
As each proud noble marches to his place,
His belly puffed with hopes, his brain with pride,
His past anonymous, his future clear,
Gold in his hands, and Judas in his face!

December 13, 1910.

329

SONNET XI
FIELD-MARSHAL EARL ROBERTS

He told the truth to England.—Never yet
Has any told the straight truth without fear
But England's deepest soul has given an ear.
The Commons paltered, timorous statesmen met:
Not one would trust the nation. 'Mid regret,
Hate, anger, indecision, dawns the year
That should have brought the imperial moment here.
Lurid at sunrise, how will this year set?
One thing we know—that one man spoke the truth
And warned a palsied people. Once he drew,
And lit the darkness with a sudden sword.
He shamed our craven Church, our cowardly youth,
Our men debauched in brothel or in pew.
He wielded, once, the lightning of the Lord.

December 14, 1910.

330

SONNET XII
M. MÉLINE AND MR. ASQUITH

“I care no more for patriotism than for the dirt under my finger-nails.” —Speech by a Socialist.

Once, only once, a group of men held sway
As wholly false and despicable as those
Whose grovelling souls dishonour and depose
Freedom, inveterate serfs whom slaves obey.
Till the black Dreyfus night-mare passed away
From wakened France when truth and Zola rose,
Méline was Asquith.—At one victim's throes
Tempestuous France grew armed, to mock or slay.
But what of men as truthless and as coarse
Here, who, for some malign nefarious scheme,
Plunge on from crime to crime without remorse:
Who, with mad curse and gibe or vulture's scream,
Cry, till their cowardly senseless throats turn hoarse,
“Empire is but a bauble or a dream?”

December 20, 1910.

331

SONNET XIII
ENGLAND DECADENT

“This people was once a terror to the world.” —Chatham.

If we are doomed to watch the mighty land
That warriors' swords and singers' souls made great
Reel like a helmless vessel on her fate,
Saved by no mastering voice, no pilot's hand:
If leaders take to flight when fools withstand:
If, called to manhood's service for the State,
Men tremble and argue, plead and hesitate:
If we turn suppliants, who could once command:
If England's arm has lost its power to strike,
If England's heart has lost its power to feel,
If England's tongue has lost its power to speak
Truth to her statesmen like a thunder-peal,
War would be better; wherein strong and weak
May perish, undishonoured, all alike.

December 22, 1910.

332

SONNET XIV
CHRISTMAS, 1910

“Watcher, what of the night?”—The night is black
For the most part, but here and there a star
Shines forth,—how few and faint, how dim and far!
The thunder of guns upon the forward track
Is ceaseless. Limp and flabby, soft and slack,
From ball to concert, club to motor-car
Our “men” escort our “women.’ On a par
The sexes seem, for sex alike they lack.
Haunted by dreams of old Victorian days
Poets and thinkers contemplate, alone,
The ruins of an Empire half o'er-thrown:
Watch sparks predicting no bright Christmas blaze
But conflagrations kindled in wild ways,
Saddest and fiercest that this land has known.

December 23, 1910.

333

SONNET XV
THERE AND HERE

[_]

On December 21 and 22, 1910, two English officers, Captain Trench and Lieutenant Brandon, were tried at Leipzig, for espionage. They received a singularly fair and generous trial.

Here, ceaseless discord, clash of class and class,
Ministers kicked by Socialistic feet
Or hoofed by Redmond's lambs that roar and bleat,
Now with mild accents, now with lungs of brass.
There, as from this distracted land we pass,
Militant order, tranquil and complete:
A German Army and a German Fleet
Backed by Crown, nobles, peasants, people, en masse.
There, a fair judgment given by generous men
Who, safe and unassailable at home,
Conscious of strength, can hold an even way:
While, here, our furious anti-patriots foam
And gnash their teeth like vicious curs at bay,
Or plot with Lloyd-George in some miners' den.

December 23, 1910.

334

SONNET XVI
THE WRITING ON THE WALL

“All history is the history of States once powerful and then decaying. Is Great Britain to be numbered among the decaying States?” —Joseph Chamberlain.

To count the swallows flying o'er the pond
Or circling round the pump: to sit and doze
While nation after nation gains and grows:
To march thus far, but not a step beyond.
To win an Empire—hugely to despond,
To hurl it from us: the Election shows
That half the nation thus decides. Who knows
What spell has fallen from what enchanter's wand?
We who dictated are content to bend:
To watch our fleets rejected of the sea,—
India, South Africa, in alien hands:
To hear the savage laughter of the lands
Crying, “This was England once. Now this is She;
Proud at the outset, abject at the end.”

December 27, 1910.

The Election of December, 1910.

335

SONNET XVII
THE DECLARATION OF LONDON

Nations have risen and fallen, but none as yet
While every sane and patriot voice withstands
Has signed its own death-warrant, on demands
Most paltry most irrevocably set,
Though wrath and unappeasable regret
Thrill through the hearts and spirits of friendliest lands.
Like silliest fish lured on by subtlest hands
We plunge and leap and dart into the net.
Of all man's history's base and cowardly deeds
At which the historian sickens or despairs
No cowardlier baser deed was lightlier done
Than this that eloquent infamy prepares,
This,—that will darken if the plot succeeds
Our Empire's sunlit sea-way, and the sun.

May 2, 1911.

336

TWO SONNETS

SONNET XVIII
FOR CORONATION DAY, THURSDAY, JUNE 22, 1911.

I

At this stern moment when black treason prowls
From land to land, and base sedition plots,
While patriotism shrinks, and manhood rots,
And womanhood, degraded, shrieks and howls,
And decadent girls, half-dressed and eyed like ghouls,
Crowd mocking streets: while Irish, Welsh and Scots,
Would have the kingdom parcelled into lots:
While Little England snarls and spits and scowls:
At such an hour, when traitorous tongues go free
And every loyal heart commits a crime,
A keener sword is needed than of rhyme
That, Royal at home, Imperial o'er the sea,
Our English Monarch's opening reign may be
The turning-point of history and of time.

337

SONNET XIX
FOR CORONATION DAY, THURSDAY, JUNE 22, 1911.

II

No task uncertain, no half-dubious thing
Is set before us. England up or down
Must journey, and with England moves the Crown.
Not to an Emperor, not to any King
Did seasons strange, austere or joyous, bring
So vast a chance of an undreamed renown:
Whether the statesmen-chatterers praise or frown,
Or world-wide jealousy point its venomed sting.
Dark India summons with a soul of fire:
Far Canada's plains, each snow-lit mountain-gorge,
Australia's heart, and Africa's desire:
While all who still can fight and still can pray
Cry, on this stately Coronation Day,
“God guard our Empire, and God save King George!”

338

SONNET XX
THE GREAT BETRAYAL

[_]

The Parliament Bill was passed by the House of Lords on August 10, 1911.

Fear, treachery, folly, intrigue, all that's base
And foul in politics, heaped up pell-mell
Converged, as if through some magician's spell,
When Lansdowne and his fate stood face to face.
Was no high instinct left, no pride of race?
Prone at the feet of Ford the noblesse fell:
And for one night the House of Lords was hell,
“His Lordship” striving to outlie “His Grace.”
Then...forth the traitors surged, one rabble-rout,
Each blindly pressing first to scamper out,
Lords, Bishops, one great shameless wrestling sea,
While from the tongues of those who still stood fast
As the black herd of wolves and apes swept past
Rose with a cheer the name of Halsbury.

339

SONNET XXI
THE NAVAL PRIZE BILL

[_]

The Naval Prize Bill, which carries with it the Declaration of London, was thrown out by the House of Lords on Tuesday, December 12, 1911.

Crippled and fettered, shorn of half their power,
Yet once again, as often, England's Lords,
Stood between her and meanest foemen's swords
Nor were found wanting in the crucial hour.
The Code wherethrough as from a vantage tower
Fly all the poisoned darts of alien hordes,
Devised to maim and bind her as with cords,
Shrinks like a parchment which red flames devour.
This much is left—the horror to conceive
(For this we must) that Englishmen were found
Of mind so feeble or of soul so base
As to fling German filth in England's face:
Conscious, to sell their country and achieve
Damnation here and elsewhere beyond bound.

December 13, 1911.

340

SONNET XXII
WOMAN SUFFRAGE

With screech of parrot or with yelp of fox
The wild dishevelled sisters cry for votes:
While each who honours woman sadly notes
How in vast thoughtless heartless dangerous flocks
These sexless creatures surge against the rocks
Of duty, love, and wreck their fragile boats
Till only some stray spar or top-mast floats,
Sight pitiful 'mid the rough green waves' shocks.
So, beaten down, dismayed and out of heart,
Fed forcibly on their own turgid dreams,
Will these mad women swiftly plunge apart
From all the world of work and honest schemes,
From noble passion and from glorious Art,
While Pethick Lawrence rants and Pankhurst screams.

January 23, 1912

341

SONG FOR THE BOYS OF BRITAIN

I

A trumpet sounds that never sounded
In all the history of the race.
A danger threatens, grim, unbounded:
Strange peril stares us in the face.
But all our Empire's grand old story
Is yours, from which to learn the way
Through duty done to deathless glory:
He conquers who can best obey.
Be ready and steady
Of hand and heart and eye.
Work or fight for England!
For England live or die!

II

No time have English lads to trifle:
The day of faltering purpose ends.

342

Drill, scout, grow apt with sword and rifle;
Make England's hills and streams your friends.
From sea to sea, from Scottish borders
To Dover's cliffs of snowiest white,
Learn every road. Your sudden orders
May flash from guns some noon or night.
Our England is in danger:
Danger will vanish when
Her men are all as giants
And all her boys are men.

III

For all our fathers died to gain;
For all their sons must fight to keep;
For meadow, mountain, sunlit plain,
Tombs where our Titans' memories sleep;
For all that England most esteems;
For kindred lands beyond the foam;
For hopes that flash through far-off dreams;
For truth and right, for King and home;
For Freedom ripening slowly,
For all high aims, contend.
The country trusts you wholly:
Each may be England's friend.

343

IV

Behind you lie the deeds of daring
That built the Empire you behold;
High courage, honour, toil unsparing,
And swords of steel and hearts of gold.
A few short years! Then forth may thunder
The trumpet-peal that calls on you,
While weaklings palter, argue, blunder,
To close your ranks, to dare and do.
Be ready, be steady:
Be men in thought and deed.
Yours are the arms that England
In days to come will need.

344

THE HIGHER WOMAN

I

When the centuries' tasks are finished, and the light of judgment gleams
Crowning the lonely fighters, making an end of dreams,
Great will be our days' glory, that our century overthrew
The devil of vivisection, whose red hand laughed as it slew.

II

Now, when woman arises, beautiful, pure-souled, strong,
Eager to save the creatures whose moment of life we wrong,—
Now that the hope in her glances brings new hope to the race,
She, the divine crusader, in the war takes glorious place.

III

This is a quest for woman, for love is her soul's chief might,
Love of the God of the sunshine, scorn of the devil of night,
Hate of the hand that tortures, love of the skill that heals,
But not by a butcher's study of a nerve that quivers and feels.

345

IV

This is a woman's question, if ever a question grew
Large and pressing for woman, urgent, imminent, new.
For our young girl-students suffer. Is it wise, is it safe, is it well
To teach that the road to knowledge leads straight through the pit of hell?

V

How can woman be mother of love and of hope and of life
If her heart be inured to the torture, her hands be trained to the knife?
Harden the hearts of your maidens, and all the world turns grey:
The sun grows dim in the heavens, the stars' crowns vanish away.

VI

Tear from the heart of a woman the tender and pitiful dream
And you snatch from the skies their glory, you darken the moon's white gleam:
You ruffle the souls of the roses, you ravish their scent from these,

346

And you silence the voice of the summer that sounds in the song of the trees.

VII

To-day the word of the nations through the nobler womanhood speaks.
Away with the darkling horror that flushes with shame the cheeks
When we think that moment by moment, in London, day after day,
Keen knives are athirst for the helpless, and brute hands ready to slay!

VIII

The thing is obscene, un-English; hateful, cowardly, base.
The man who would visit his mother, or look his wife in the face,
His red hand smelling of slaughter, his fingers foul from the crime,
Is not the man whom a woman deems lord of the world and of time.

IX

Man is a god, deems woman—her sweet heart breaks when she knows

347

That the brother she loved and prayed for was counting a torn frog's throes
In some hellish hospital dungeon, watching it quiver and swerve,
Or carving a bound live rabbit, dissecting muscle and nerve.

X

That was the work of the student, medical, masculine, grand,
An honour to English science, the scalpel's gift to the land,
While the student's wiser sister, with a knowledge nobler far,
Found Christ's love in a flower, watched God's face in a star.

XI

But the thing must end for ever, the days of horror must close.
A vast pure current of pity through the dawning century flows.
Ever in woman's footsteps the angels of heaven have trod
For the anger of love in a woman is the sternest anger of God.

348

XII

Yes: the anger of woman at an innocent child's deep wrong
Or a coward's thrust at the creature that sought us with love or with song
Is the wrath of Christ and his Father, the flash of the sun's keen sword,
And the softest hand of woman deals the strongest stroke of the Lord.

XIII

All true souls in accordance here are firm and at one,
Stern to resolve and determine that a royal deed be done.
Here can nation and nation, man and woman, agree:
Rulers of plains or of mountains, princes of land or sea.

XIV

Long and strange is the battle, patience and prayer we need:
Faith in the hearts that follow, strength in the souls that lead.
Eager and brave girl-soldier, here is a sword for your hand:
And you use that sword for England, for love is the life of the land!

349

XV

Vast are the world's grim armies; millions trained to obey
Wait but some general's orders to unsheathe wild swords and slay.
But behind the men and women who follow love as a star
Are unseen armies vaster, and a Leader mightier far.

University of Virginia Library

XI. Vol. XI

VOX CLAMANTIS:

SONNETS AND POEMS

TO ENGLAND

SONNET

TWO SONNETS

I THE UNIVERSE-CENTRE

II “POWERS SUPREMER”

“EVER MINE”

SONNET

THE CELTIC MOVEMENT

SONNET

“THE STERNEST HOUR”

SONNET

“WHEN LIFE WAS YOUNG”

“THOU DOST ENDURE”

LOVE

BEYOND

TWO SONNETS

“OUR LEADER”

I

“OUR LEADER”

II

A LONDON NIGHT

SONNET

THE SOUL OF ENGLAND

A POET AND A STATESMAN

SONNET

ARMAGEDDON

SONNET

FOUNDER'S DAY AT HARROW

October 8, 1903

SONNET

FOUR SONNETS ON MACEDONIA

I ENGLAND'S MOMENT

II A TRIPLE ALLIANCE

III TO THE POPE

IV TO THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND

“IF BUT THE DEAD WERE LIFTED QUITE”

“UNMOVED’

JEAN RICHEPIN

THIS LIFE

GONE

CHINESE LABOUR IN SOUTH AFRICA

SONNET

WORDSWORTH'S FOREBODING

SONNET

THE UNPARDONABLE CRIME

SONNET

SONGLESS

SONNET

THE NEW DANGER

SONNET

THE VAIN SEARCH

SONNET

ON THE BISHOP OF HEREFORD'S SPEECH IN THE HOUSE OF LORDS, AGAINST CHINESE SLAVERY

SONNET

TO A SILENT SINGER

SONNET

TO THE AUTHOR OF “FOR ENGLAND”

SONNET

SONG'S GOAL

SONNET

LOVE ETERNAL

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

I
THE UNIVERSE-CENTRE

II
“POWERS SUPREMER”

I
ENGLAND'S MOMENT

II
A TRIPLE ALLIANCE

III
TO THE POPE

IV
TO THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND