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

“One day, one day, I'll climb that distant hill
And pick the blue-bells there!”
So dreamed the child who lived beside the rill
And breathed the lowland air.
“One day, one day, when I am old I'll go
And climb the mountain where the blue-bells blow!”

One day! One day! The child was now a maid,
A girl with laughing look;
She and her lover sought the valley-glade
Where sang the silver brook.
“One day,” she said, “love, you and I will go
And reach that far hill where the blue-bells blow!”

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Years passed. A woman now with wearier eyes
Gazed towards that sunlit hill.
Tall children clustered round her. How time flies!
The blue-bells blossomed still.
She'll never gather them! All dreams fade so.
We live and die, and still the blue-bells blow.

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II. THE TOURNAMENT

The trumpets' blare
Rings through the air:
The glittering lists are bright with sword and shield.
A hundred gallant knights,
Known in a thousand fights,
Mix and engage upon the mimic field.
But one towers o'er them all,
A noble knight and tall,
With giant form in armour black concealed.

In vain, in vain,
The thick blows rain,—
He dreams of her whose heart has wrought him wrong.
With little heed of all,
He lets the swift strokes fall:

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His war-horse steers a way with onset strong.
He gazes up above:
Where is his lady-love?
He marks her not amid the courtly throng.

And yet at last,
When hope was past,
Flashed on his eyes the wondrous eyes he sought.
She wore his colours too,
White, twined with tender blue—
“She loves!” His strength rushed on him at the thought.
Then knight on knight fell low:
Aye, always it is so!
By woman's hand a true knight's sword is wrought.

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III. CHRISTMAS FAIRIES

Ah! dear old Christmas-tides of long ago.
Around the creaking roof-tops roared the blast:
The streets and hills and fields were draped in snow;
Across the ice the glittering skates shot past.
Youth was not dead!
Bright green and red
The holly-leaves and holly-berries gleamed.
The merry church-bells rang;
Our young hearts laughed and sang;
Of joyous years to come our spirits dreamed.

But years to come bring trouble and despair.
If childhood brings its simple dream of joy
Youth brings love's holier dream, a dream more fair
Than dreams which haunt the bright heart of the boy.
But all dreams melt
As soon as felt,—

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They fade into the mist of things unseen.
Youth's dream of love, alas!
Must likewise pale and pass:
Sweet love must be as if it had not been.

And yet—the holly-berries still are bright;
The bells chime merrily across the snow:
A thousand Christmas-trees will give delight,
Green as the Christmas-trees of long ago.
Why are we sad?
The young are glad;
They dance around the fir-tree hand in hand.
Outside, white miles of snow:
Inside, the red fire's glow
And children's smiles and dreams of fairy-land.

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IV. TWO NIGHTS

Last night he kissed my hair, and kissed my face,
And laughed, and praised my figure's supple grace.
My soul was dazzled as with sudden flame:
Star behind star my sweet star-bridesmaids came:
To-night, to-night,
No soft starlight,
But gloom profound that veils the heaven and sea.

Last night the world was full of light and fire:
Star throbbed to star, and burned with sweet desire
There was no heaven—for earth was heaven instead!
No immortality,—for death was dead!
To-night, to-night,
Dead is delight,
And pain awakes and lives eternally.

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Last night I thought before God's throne I stood
And knew, knew once for all, that God was good.
To-night how vast a darkness clothes me round:
I madden for love's footfall. Not a sound!—
Last night, last night,
My love took flight:
Cloud sobs to cloud, and whispers, “Where is he?”

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V. LOVE'S ETERNITY

Love's early honey-moon is passing sweet.
The enraptured lovers wander hand in hand
Through the wild roses and the golden wheat,
And passion's glamour clothes the sea and land.
Her eyes outvie
The starlit sky:
Love is so full of light that nought else gleams.
Love would give light,
Were the world black as night!
Love would create its heaven of stars and dreams!

Then come maturer days. Glad children glance—
Upon the tree of life love's blossoms blow.
And yet some element of old romance
Has vanished, melted in the long ago!
The husband says,
“Think of the days

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When hand in hand we wandered, you and I;
The nights of June;
The marvel of the moon:
In later days must love's old glory die?”

But with the voice that charmed his heart of old
And made the whole of life one moonlit dream
The true wife answers, “Life's tale is not told:
In front of us new starlit skies will gleam.
When toil is o'er,
Love as before
Will find us, sweetheart, claim us for his own.
Love's autumn day,
Aye! though our hair be grey,
Shall match the sweetness of our summer flown.”

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VI. MIDNIGHT AT THE HELM

“What see'st thou, friend?
The frail masts bend,
Thy ship reels wildly on the tossing deep;
Thy fearless eyes
Regard the skies
And this broad waste wherethrough white chargers leap;
See'st thou the foam?”

Pilot.—

“I see my home,
And children on a white soft couch asleep.”

“What see'st thou, friend?
The tiller-end
Thou graspest safely in thy firm strong grip;
Thine eyes are strange,
They seem to range

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Beyond sea, sky, and cloud, and struggling ship,
Beyond the foam.”

Pilot.—

“I see my home,—
Brown cottage-eaves round which the swallows dip.”

“What see'st thou, friend?
Black leagues extend
On all sides round about thy bark and thee;
Not one star-speck
Above the deck
Abates the darkness of the midnight sea;
The waves' throats roar—”

Pilot.—

“I see the shore,
And eyes that plead with God for mine and me.”

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VII. THE GHOST AT THE WHEEL

Off Beachy Head the vessel wrestles hard:
In vain the captain's eyes would pierce the gloom.
The great grim cliffs, foam-belted, iron-barred,
Through the wild wreaths of scudding sea-fog loom.
No stars shine out.
Put helm about?
Nay! this one ship will hold her lonely way!
Though death be near,
Her captain's deaf to fear:
His voice out-thunders wind and hissing spray.

Yet at the rudder, see this lurid light!
A form takes shape amid the wind and spray:
A white face glitters through the jet-black night.
Why falls the captain on his knees to pray?
His brother's form
Shines through the storm,

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His brother drowned where these same mad waves flow
Round Beachy Head:
The strong man shakes in dread:
When dead men steer, where will the doomed ship go?

The dead man steered. The labouring ship veered round.
The awe-struck sailors watched without a word.
The waves and threatening thunder ceased to sound:
You might have caught the carol of a bird.
Then slowly grew
The sky pale-blue;
Morn showed that when the spectre took command,
Ten yards away
Were deadly reefs and spray:
Love outlasts death, and aids with living hand.

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VIII. THE SENTRY

Along his path the sentry paces slow;
Above the field of battle soars the moon:
The night is silent, save for wailing low
Of wounded men who will be silent soon.
The sentry stands
With ready hands
And eyes that peer far out into the gloom.
The hostile hosts,
Like groups of ghosts,
Upon the distant shadowy hill-tops loom.

But not on these the soldier's gaze is set;
His heart is gazing elsewhere than his eyes.
He sees a garden sweet with mignonette;
He hears a voice that to his own replies.
O'er leagues of sea
In thought flies he;

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He stands beside a window wreathed with rose.
Sweet eyes of blue,
Pure, soft, and true,
Gaze in his own, till his heart overflows.

Ha! guns flash out. The dream is over then.
The vision vanishes. It melts away.
Lo! plumes, and neighing steeds, and throngs of men,
And rattling rifles, in the morning grey.
No cottage door—
Mad guns that roar!
No tender glance from maiden's loving eyes.
Yet pity not
A soldier's lot:
He well has loved, who for his country dies.

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IX. THE ENGINE DRIVER

Through sleet and snow
The wild wheels go:
Across waste wolds with purple heather bright,
O'er many a bridge,
Through tunnelled ridge,
Flinging weird fires along the startled night,
The engine flies,—
And one man's steady eyes
And hands must guide the thundering force aright.

What trust we place
In that one face,
In those stern lips and dauntless hands that steer:
Bridegroom and bride
Sit side by side,

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And trust their lives to him without a fear.
Through sun and snow
The flashing wild wheels go:
He guides those flashing wheels from year to year.

Through storm and sun
The wild wheels run;
Blue skies o'erhead, or murky midnight gloom:
Through summer showers,
Past woodbine—bowers,
Past steep banks yellowed with soft primrose-bloom.
Yet one man's skill
Makes the end good or ill:
He holds the keys of pleasure—or the tomb!

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X. ON THE RAMPARTS

The gold sun sets above the solemn sands;
The strained sight aches across the yellow sea:
In front, around, the solitude expands,
Grim, terrible, devoid of flower or tree.
The waste seems dead;
No line of red
Upon the horizon brings the city cheer.
Fierce foes surround;
Their trumpets sound;
No answering English bugle-note rings clear.

Upon the ramparts lo! one paces slow;
From time to time he gazes o'er the sands:
If morning brings not help, all hope must go.
He lifts to silent heaven strong urgent hands.
Is help not nigh,
O starlit sky

270

And Eastern moon whose white orb glitters past?
Black looms the night.
No help in sight!
Must the beleaguered city fall at last?

Morning! The thin mist rises in the air:
Not yet the great sun flashes from the sky.
That grim and silent watcher still is there.
To-day must bring relief, or all must die.
Gaze once again
Across the plain:
One last wild look, for now the sun shines clear.
Ha! bayonets gleam;
It is no dream;
Our England's help can reach us even here!

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XI. THE EXPLORER

Through forests deep,
Where serpents creep,
The fearless strong explorer threads his way:
'Neath tropic moons,
Past dim lagoons,
Depths where the sun can never send a ray.
His life is in his hand:
He treads the burning sand:
His labour ceases not from day to day.

And yet at night
His soul takes flight:
He seeks another country in his dreams.
He wanders through
Lanes fresh with dew

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And cornfields where the scarlet poppy gleams.
He sees the spotted trout
From the dark bank flash out:
He sees green willows fringing English streams.

At morn he wakes:
His road he takes:—
Upon mud-banks vast crocodiles repose.
The trout's quick gleam
Was but a dream:
The poppy was a dream, a dream the rose!
Yet England's viewless might,
Stretching through day and night,
Follows wherever English valour goes.

273

XII. THE BURNING SHIP

The transport ship pursues its lonely way
Across the purple moonlit Indian deep.
Above, the stars shine out with tender ray:
The waveless far-spread ocean seems asleep.
All, all was well,
When evening fell,
And well at sunrise all shall surely be.
There's nought to fear!
Steer, keen-eyed helmsman, steer,—
Steer the great ship across the silent sea!

But ah! what piteous sudden cry rings out?
“Fire!”—“Fire!” again.—Oh, can this dread thing be?
Yes, once again the wild heart-rending shout
Troubles the bosom of the peaceful sea.
“Fire!”—Red flames rise
And stain the skies:

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The fire spreads o'er the sails, and licks the mast.
The ship's consumed!
The passengers are doomed:
Each agonizing moment seems their last.

But ah! the steady soldiers form in lines:
Athwart the fire the regiment's old flag floats.
The fire upon men's fearless faces shines:
The sailors pass the women to the boats.
The boats recede;
Wild eyes give heed—
Their death-watch on the deck the soldiers keep.
One strange last cheer,
Which England's heart shall hear—
And then the sun rose on a sail-less deep.

275

II.

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I. THE SONG OF ABOU KLEA

Our English manhood's still the same
As in the days of Waterloo;
The sons uphold their father's fame,
Beneath strange skies of burning blue.
The race is growing old, some say,
And half worn out and past its prime;
But English rifles volley “Nay,”
And English manhood conquers time.
Then fear not, and veer not
From duty's narrow way:
What men have done, can still be done,
And shall be done to-day!

The broad wild desert stretched away
For many and many a weary league;

278

Our soldiers suffered day by day,
Enduring hunger, thirst, fatigue.
But still, when their fierce foes they met,
They fought and conquered as of old:
The sun of England has not set;
Our nation's story is not told.
Then blench not, and quench not
High hope's glad golden ray:
What men have done, can still be done,
And shall be done to-day!

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II. ENGLAND HO! FOR ENGLAND

A FEDERATION SONG

Old England needs her children,
She needs them every one,
From India's morning-bugle
To the last sunset-gun:
North, East, and South, she needs them,
And in the furthest West,
And where the Channel waters
Storm round her rocky breast.

The day is surely coming
When all alike she'll need,
All far-off true descendants
Of the old island-breed.

280

The day is surely coming
When all may have to strike
For England, ho! for England—
So all must fare alike!

“For England, ho! for England”—
The great deep-throated cry
Rings far across the waters;
A million mouths reply,
“For England, ho! for England,
Till England's work be done,—
And England's work is timeless
And measured by the sun.”

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III. THE WORKMAN-KING

I'm only a working man, my boys,
I toil in the London smoke,
But when a holiday comes, my boys,
I cease to grind and choke.
The garden of England's mine, my boys,
Its valleys and woods and plains,
For the people rules the whole, my boys,
The people votes and reigns!

The democrat rules the whole, my boys,
The forests of larch and oak;
We never need cough and sniff, my boys,
In the great towns' soot and smoke.
The heather-bud swells on the moors and fells
And the sea is blue and wide;
Do you know how sweet the country smells?
You never can tell till you've tried!

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A noble heritage this, my boys,
To possess and rule and sway!
Now the people votes and reigns, my boys,
We speak, and our lords obey.
The garden of England's ours, my boys,
But to rule ourselves remains,
For the man who governs and rules himself
Is ever the man who reigns—
The man who can govern and rule himself
Is ever the king who reigns!

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IV. RETROSPECT

“O conquering poet, thou that hast
The whole world at thy feet,
What laurel-garlands crown thy past!
Is not the present sweet?

Poet.

“I'd fling away my crown of bay,
Lose it without one throe,
To feel beside my own to-day
The tender heart I flung away
Long, long ago!

“O statesman, thou that guidest things
With godlike strength of will,
Thou art more regal than earth's kings;
They hear thee, and are still.”

284

Statesman.

“I shape the world continually,
I lay its monarchs low,
And yet I'd give the world to see
The dead eyes smile that smiled at me
Long, long ago!”

“O warrior, thou that carriest high
Thy grey victorious head,
What pæans echo to the sky
At thy war-horse's tread!”

Warrior.
“I heed them not. I long to hear
The child's speech, soft and slow,
That used to sound upon mine ear,
So sweet, so pure, so silver-clear,
Many and many and many a year
Ago!”

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V. TWO NESTS

In the leafless sycamore
Lo! a winter nest.
Round it all the ceaseless roar
Of the storm's unrest.
Here love's palace once was seen
Swinging to the breeze,
Roofed and guarded by the green,
Full of melodies.
Here the sunset loved to rest,
Smiling on the thrush's nest.

In yon London attic room
Once a painter wrought;
All our dense November gloom
Darkened not his thought.

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Woman's love was here as well;
Woman's loving eyes
Met the painter's when they fell
From the pictured skies.
Love forsook his fiery quest,
Pausing at the painter's nest.

Both are changed alike to-day.
When the thrushes flew,
Sorrow turned the green leaves grey,
Robbed the heaven of blue.
Painter, sweetheart, both are dead,
But the room remains,
And an easel smeared with red,—
Dusty window panes.
Death destroys with equal zest
Painter's bower, or thrush's nest.

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VI. THE PATHWAY OF LIFE

In every heart a story;
In every heart a grief;
The sorrow of a lifetime;
A pain or rapture brief.
Old hearts and young together,
All hearts alike, are one;
All harden in black weather,
All soften at the sun.

All hearts have had their burden;
Romance has come to most,
Has entered life with trumpets
And vanished like a ghost.

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Each heart is like an album
With blossoms therein dried;
Sweet blossoms, pure love-blossoms,
That bloomed a day, then died.

Oh! brothers, Oh! strong brothers,
And sisters sad and sweet,
Wives, daughters, fathers, mothers,—
In suffering all can meet.
The path of pain in common
We all alike have trod,—
May that one pathway lead us,
Lead all alike to God!

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VII. THE PILOT'S WIFE

“The moon shines out with here and there a star,
But furious cloud-ranks storm both stars and moon:
The mad sea drums upon the harbour-bar;
Will the tide slacken soon?
O Sea that took'st my youngest, wilt thou spare?”
—And the Sea answered through the black night-air,
“I took thy youngest. Shall I spare to-night?”

“The thundering breakers sweep and slash the sands;
To westward lo! one line of cream-white foam:
I raise to darkling heaven my helpless hands;
I watch within the home.
O Sea that took'st my eldest, wilt thou save?”
—And the Sea answered as from out a grave,
“I slew thine eldest son for my delight.”

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“The giant waves plunge o'er the shingly beach;
The tawny-maned great lions of the sea
With pitiless roar howl down all human speech;
Is God far-off from me?
O Sea that slewest my sons, mine husband spare!”
—The Sea's wild laughter shook and rent the air:
Lo! on the beach a drowned face deadly white.

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VIII. THE DEAD CHILD

But yesterday she played with childish things,
With toys and painted fruit.
To-day she may be speeding on bright wings
Beyond the stars! We ask. The stars are mute.

But yesterday her doll was all in all;
She laughed and was content.
To-day she will not answer, if we call:
She dropped no toys to show the road she went.

But yesterday she smiled and ranged with art
Her playthings on the bed.
To-day and yesterday are leagues apart!
She will not smile to-day, for she is dead.

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IX. THE SHADOW AT THE DOOR

What adds a beauty to the rose?
The thought that, when the night-wind blows,
The petals white or petals pink
At his cold touch may fail and shrink.
This gives its beauty to the flower—
That it but blooms and lives one hour.
The sun gives charm. What gives it more?
The Shadow waiting at the door.

The sweetest hour may swiftly pass:
Brown are these blades, that once were grass.
Blue eyes, gold hair, they are but shows;
Death takes them, as it takes the rose.
Love draws such eager passionate breath
Because he's followed fast by death.
What makes us value Love's kiss more?
The deathlike Shadow at the door.

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O love, our bower of love is sweet;
The white rug nestles round your feet.
Your brown eyes watch the bright fire's glow;
I watch your eyes. I love them so!
The pictures watch us from the wall:
I'm king, and you the queen of all.
Does aught else watch? Aye, one thing more:
That ghostlike Shadow at the door!

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X. SADNESS AND GLADNESS

Our tired hearts gather sadness, as we grow
In care and thoughts and pain.
The sweet spring sunlight that once charmed us so
Will never gleam again.
The grey mists thicken as the sun declines:
A deepening shadow clothes the mountain pines.

But our tired heart sees not the whole of things.
Still over the brown stream
Flashes the kingfisher with rapid wings,
One sudden azure gleam.
Because our souls are weary or are sad,
We quite forget that half the world is glad!

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Some lover just has won his lady's smile,
As we won long ago:
The wild hedge-blossoms cluster by the stile,
Gold buttercups a-row:
The silvery minnow darts along the stream:
Life is not all a trouble or a dream.

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XI. NEAR AT HAND

The dead are with us through our nights and days;
They have not journeyed far,
Beyond the clouds, beyond the golden haze
That shrouds the furthest star.
Our earthly flowers
Are still to them most dear,
And still they hear
The songs of merry birds in hawthorn bowers.

Friends who have passed are never far away,
Beyond the warmth of June,
Beyond the sights and sounds and scents of May,
Beyond our waters' tune.
They linger still
To watch the white moon rise
Behind the hill,
And still take pleasure in the sunlit skies.

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They nearest are, just when we need them most.
They help with living hands;
No spectral shape, no fruitless pallid ghost,
Peers from the unseen lands.
They watch and heed;
Their legions fill the air;
They never speed
Beyond the cry of pain, or reach of prayer.

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XII. LOVE AND DEATH

An angel watched the world rejoicing:
The flowers sang in the morning light;
The blue sea sang its tender love-song
To golden-girdled stars at night.
All seemed so full of peace and gladness—
Till lo! a sudden ice-cold breath
Passed over hill and wave and meadow:
A stern voice whispered, “I am Death!”

Alas! in all that angel's dreaming
His loving heart had never dreamed
That only for one single moment
The fairy blossoms sang and gleamed.
He turned, and in despairing sadness
Would have resought the heavens above,
When, softly sounding through the shadows,
A sweet voice whispered, “I am Love!”

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And then the angel saw that fairer
Than heaven with all its strifeless calm
Is earth, for Love makes sorrow lovely,
And plucks from grief the victor's palm.
Aye, Love with its undying sweetness
Can soothe the weary, cheer the lone:
If Death's voice threatens through the darkness,
Love whispers, “Death is overthrown!”