THE MAGIC HOUSE
THE MAGIC HOUSE
A N D O T H E R P O E M S
BY
DUNCAN CAMPBELL SCOTT
METHUEN AND CO.
18 BURY STREET, W.C.
LONDON
1893
Edinburgh: T. and A. Constable, Printers to Her Majesty
TO
MY MOTHER
CONTENTS
| PAGE | |
| [A LITTLE SONG] | |
| The sunset in the rosy west, | [1] |
| [THE HILL PATH] | |
| Are the little breezes blind, | [2] |
| [THE VOICE AND THE DUSK] | |
| The slender moon and one pale star, | [5] |
| [FOR REMEMBRANCE] | |
| It would be sweet to think when we are old, | [7] |
| [THE MESSAGE] | |
| Wind of the gentle summer night, | [8] |
| [THE SILENCE OF LOVE] | |
| My heart would need the earth, | [10] |
| [AN IMPROMPTU] | |
| The stars are in the ebon sky, | [11] |
| [FROM THE FARM ON THE HILL] | |
| The night wind moves the gloom, | [13] |
| [AT SCARBORO’ BEACH] | |
| The wave is over the foaming reef, | [15] |
| [THE FIFTEENTH OF APRIL] | |
| Pallid saffron glows the broken stubble, | [17] |
| [IN AN OLD QUARRY] | |
| Above the lifeless pools the mist films swim, | [19] |
| [TO WINTER] | |
| Come, O thou conqueror of the flying year, | [20] |
| [TO WINTER] | |
| Come, O thou season of intense repose, | [21] |
| [THE IDEAL] | |
| Let your soul grow a thing apart, | [22] |
| [A SUMMER STORM] | |
| Last night a storm fell on the world, | [23] |
| [LIFE AND DEATH] | |
| I thought of death beside the lonely sea, | [25] |
| [IN THE COUNTRY CHURCHYARD] | |
| This is the acre of unfathomed rest, | [26] |
| [SONG] | |
| I have done, | [32] |
| [THE MAGIC HOUSE] | |
| In her chamber, wheresoe’er, | [33] |
| [IN THE HOUSE OF DREAMS] | |
| The lady Lillian knelt upon the sward, | [36] |
| [THE RIVER TOWN] | |
| There’s a town where shadows run, | [38] |
| [OFF THE ISLE AUX COUDRES] | |
| The moon, Capella, and the Pleiades, | [40] |
| [AT LES EBOULEMENTS] | |
| The bay is set with ashy sails, | [41] |
| [ABOVE ST. IRÉNÉE] | |
| I rested on the breezy height, | [42] |
| [WRITTEN IN A. LAMPMAN’S POEMS] | |
| When April moved in maiden guise, | [45] |
| [OFF RIVIÈRE DU LOUP] | |
| O ship incoming from the sea, | [48] |
| [AT THE CEDARS] | |
| You had two girls—Baptiste— | [50] |
| [THE END OF THE DAY] | |
| I hear the bells at eventide, | [54] |
| [THE REED-PLAYER] | |
| By a dim shore where water darkening, | [56] |
| [A FLOCK OF SHEEP] | |
| Over the field the bright air clings and tingles, | [58] |
| [A PORTRAIT] | |
| All her hair is softly set, | [60] |
| [AT THE LATTICE] | |
| Good-night, Marie, I kiss thine eyes, | [63] |
| [THE FIRST SNOW] | |
| The field pools gathered into frosted lace, | [64] |
| [IN NOVEMBER] | |
| The ruddy sunset lies, | [66] |
| [THE SLEEPER] | |
| Touched with some divine repose, | [68] |
| [A NIGHT IN JUNE] | |
| The world is heated seven times, | [70] |
| [MEMORY] | |
| I see a schooner in the bay, | [72] |
| [YOUTH AND TIME] | |
| Move not so lightly, Time, away, | [73] |
| [A MEMORY OF THE ‘INFERNO’] | |
| An hour before the dawn I dreamed of you, | [74] |
| [LA BELLE FERONIÈRE,] | |
| I never trod where Leonardo was, | [75] |
| [A NOVEMBER DAY] | |
| There are no clouds above the world, | [76] |
| [OTTAWA] | |
| City about whose brow the north winds blow, | [78] |
| [SONG] | |
| Here’s the last rose, | [79] |
| [NIGHT AND THE PINES] | |
| Here in the pine shade is the nest of night, | [80] |
| [A NIGHT IN MARCH] | |
| At eve the fiery sun went forth, | [82] |
| [SEPTEMBER] | |
| The morns are grey with haze and faintly cold, | [86] |
| [BY THE WILLOW SPRING] | |
| Come hither, Care, and look on this fair place, | [87] |
A LITTLE SONG
The sunset in the rosy west
Burned soft and high;
A shore-lark fell like a stone to his nest
In the waving rye.
A wind came over the garden beds
From the dreamy lawn,
The pansies nodded their purple heads,
The poppies began to yawn.
One pansy said: It is only sleep,
Only his gentle breath:
But a rose lay strewn in a snowy heap,
For the rose it was only death.
Heigho, we’ve only one life to live,
And only one death to die:
Good-morrow, new world, have you nothing to give?—
Good-bye, old world, good-bye.
THE HILL PATH
TO H.D.S.
Are the little breezes blind,
They that push me as they pass?
Do they search the tangled grass
For some path they want to find?
Take my fingers, little wind;
You are all alone, and I
Am alone too. I will guide,
You will follow; let us go
By a pathway that I know,
Leading down the steep hillside,
Past the little sharp-lipped pools,
Shrunken with the summer sun,
Where the sparrows come to drink;
And we’ll scare the little birds,
Coming on them unawares;
And the daisies every one
We will startle on the brink
Of a doze.
(Gently, gently, little wind),
Very soon a wood we’ll see,
There my lover waits for me.
(Go more gently, little wind,
You should follow soft, behind.)
You will hear my lover say
How he loves me night and day,
But his words you must not tell
To the other little winds,
For they all might come to hear,
And might rustle through the wood,
And disturb the solitude.
(Blow more softly, little wind,
You are tossing all my hair,
Go more gently, have a care;
If you lead you can’t be blind,
So,—good-bye:)
There he goes: I see his feet
On the grass;
Now the little pools are blurred
As they pass;
And he must be very fleet,
For I see the bushes stirred
Near the wood. I hope he’ll tell,
If he isn’t out of breath,
That he met me on the hill.
But I hope he will not say
That he kissed me for good-bye
Just before he flew away.
THE VOICE AND THE DUSK
The slender moon and one pale star,
A rose-leaf and a silver bee
From some god’s garden blown afar,
Go down the gold deep tranquilly.
Within the south there rolls and grows
A mighty town with tower and spire,
From a cloud bastion masked with rose
The lightning flashes diamond fire.
The purple-martin darts about
The purlieus of the iris fen;
The king-bird rushes up and out,
He screams and whirls and screams again.
A thrush is hidden in a maze
Of cedar buds and tamarac bloom,
He throws his rapid flexile phrase,
A flash of emeralds in the gloom.
A voice is singing from the hill
A happy love of long ago;
Ah! tender voice, be still, be still,
‘’Tis sometimes better not to know.’
The rapture from the amber height
Floats tremblingly along the plain,
Where in the reeds with fairy light
The lingering fireflies gleam again.
Buried in dingles more remote,
Or drifted from some ferny rise,
The swooning of the golden throat
Drops in the mellow dusk and dies.
A soft wind passes lightly drawn,
A wave leaps silverly and stirs
The rustling sedge, and then is gone
Down the black cavern in the firs.
FOR REMEMBRANCE
It would be sweet to think when we are old
Of all the pleasant days that came to pass,
That here we took the berries from the grass,
There charmed the bees with pans, and smoke unrolled,
And spread the melon nets when nights were cold,
Or pulled the blood-root in the underbrush,
And marked the ringing of the tawny thrush,
While all the west was broken burning gold.
And so I bind with rhymes these memories;
As girls press pansies in the poet’s leaves
And find them afterwards with sweet surprise;
Or treasure petals mingled with perfume,
Loosing them in the days when April grieves,—
A subtle summer in the rainy room.
THE MESSAGE
Wind of the gentle summer night,
Dwell in the lilac tree,
Sway the blossoms clustered light,
Then blow over to me.
Wind, you are sometimes strong and great,
You frighten the ships at sea,
Now come floating your delicate freight
Out of the lilac tree.
Wind, you must waver a gossamer sail
To ferry a scent so light,
Will you carry my love a message as frail
Through the hawk-haunted night?
For my heart is sometimes strange and wild,
Bitter and bold and free,
I scare the beautiful timid child,
As you frighten the ships at sea;
But now when the hawks are piercing the air,
With the golden stars above,
The only thing my heart can bear
Is a lilac message of love.
Gentle wind, will you carry this
Up to her window white;
Give her a gentle tender kiss,
Bid her good-night—good-night.
THE SILENCE OF LOVE
My heart would need the earth,
My voice would need the sea,
To only tell the one half
How dear you are to me.
And if I had the winds,
The stars and the planets as well,
I might tell the other half,
Or perhaps I would try to tell.
AN IMPROMPTU
The stars are in the ebon sky,
Burning, gold, alone;
The wind roars over the rolling earth,
Like water over a stone.
We are like things in a river-bed
The stream runs over,
They see the iris, and arrowhead,
Anemone, and clover.
But they cannot touch the shining things,
For all their strife,
For the strong river swirls and swings—
And that is much like life.
For life is a plunging and heavy stream,
And there’s something bright above;
But the ills of breathing only seem,
When we know the light is love.
The stars are in the ebon sky,
Burning, gold, alone;
The wind roars over the rolling earth,
Like water over a stone.
FROM THE FARM ON THE HILL
TO A.P.S.
The night wind moves the gloom
In the shadowy basswood;
Mysteriously the leaves sway and sing;
So slow, so tender is the wind,
The slender elm-tree
Is hardly stirred.
The sky is veiled with clouds,
With diaphanous tissue;
Through their dissolving films
The stars shine,
But how infinitely removed;
How inaccessible!
In the distant city
Under the obscure towers
The lights of watchers gleam;
From the dim fields
At intervals in the silence
A cuckoo utters
A distorted cry;
Through the low woods,
Haunted with vain melancholy,
A whip-poor-will wanders,
Forcing his monotonous song.
All the ancient desire
Of the human spirit
Has returned upon me in this hour,
All the wild longing
That cannot be satisfied.
Break, O anguish of nature,
Into some glorious sound!
Let me touch the next circle of being,
For I have compassed this life.
AT SCARBORO’ BEACH
The wave is over the foaming reef
Leaping alive in the sun,
Seaward the opal sails are blown
Vanishing one by one.
’Tis leagues around the blue sea curve
To the sunny coast of Spain,
And the ships that sail so deftly out
May never come home again.
A mist is wreathed round Richmond point,
There’s a shadow on the land,
But the sea is in the splendid sun,
Plunging so careless and grand.
The sandpipers trip on the glassy beach,
Ready to mount and fly;
Whenever a ripple reaches their feet
They rise with a timorous cry.
Take care, they pipe, take care, take care,
For this is the treacherous main,
And though you may sail so deftly out,
You may never come home again.
THE FIFTEENTH OF APRIL
TO A.L.
Pallid saffron glows the broken stubble,
Brimmed with silver lie the ruts,
Purple the ploughed hill;
Down a sluice with break and bubble
Hollow falls the rill;
Falls and spreads and searches,
Where, beyond the wood,
Starts a group of silver birches,
Bursting into bud.
Under Venus sings the vesper sparrow,
Down a path of rosy gold
Floats the slender moon;
Ringing from the rounded barrow
Rolls the robin’s tune;
Lighter than the robin; hark!
Quivering silver-strong
From the field a hidden shore-lark
Shakes his sparkling song.
Now the dewy sounds begin to dwindle,
Dimmer grow the burnished rills,
Breezes creep and halt,
Soon the guardian night shall kindle
In the violet vault,
All the twinkling tapers
Touched with steady gold,
Burning through the lawny vapours
Where they float and fold.
IN AN OLD QUARRY
NOVEMBER
Above the lifeless pools the mist films swim,
On the lowlands where sedges chaff and nod;
The withered fringes of the golden-rod
Hang frayed and formless at the quarry’s rim.
Filled with the wine of sunset to the brim,
These limestone pits are cups for the night god,
Set for his lips when he strays hither, shod
With shadows, all the stars following him.
And as gloom grows and deepens like a psalm,
This broken field which summer has passed by
Has caught the ultimate lethean calm,
The fabulous quiet of far Thessaly,
And though the land has lost the bloom and balm,
Nature is all content in liberty.
TO WINTER
Come, O thou conqueror of the flying year;
Come from thy fastness of the Arctic suns;
Mass on the purple waste and wide frontier
Thy wanish hosts and silver clarions.
Then heap this sombre shoulder of the world
With shifting bastions; let thy storm winds blare;
Drift wide thy pallid gonfalon unfurled;
And arm with daggers all the desperate air.
These are but raids in dreams, and friendly brawls;
Thou art a gentle giant that half sleeps,
And blusters grandly to his frozen thralls,
The more to charm them with the wealth he keeps:
We hardly hear thy bluff and hearty word,
When over the first flower sings the first bird.
TO WINTER
Come, O thou season of intense repose;
Come with thy lidded eyes and crystal breath;
Come gently with thy soft release of snows;
And bring thy few short months of tender death.
Build a huge tomb within the desert frore,
With green clear chambers in the icy rift,
Carve the sleep rune above the crystal door,
And trench a legend in the pallid drift.
Let the large stars about the horizon lie,
Watching the confines of the world’s great sleep;
Spread the vast province of the purple sky,
With thy wan curtains dropped from deep to deep.
Then hush the stir and bid the movement cease;
Pass gently, leave the tired world in peace.
THE IDEAL
Let your soul grow a thing apart,
Untroubled by the restless day,
Sublimed by some unconscious art,
Controlled by some divine delay.
For life is greater than they think,
Who fret along its shallow bars:
Swing out the boom to float or sink
And front the ocean and the stars.
A SUMMER STORM
Last night a storm fell on the world
From heights of drouth and heat,
The surly clouds for weeks were furled,
The air could only sway and beat,
The beetles clattered at the blind,
The hawks fell twanging from the sky,
The west unrolled a feathery wind,
And the night fell sullenly.
The storm leaped roaring from its lair,
Like the shadow of doom,
The poignard lightning searched the air,
The thunder ripped the shattered gloom,
The rain came down with a roar like fire,
Full-voiced and clamorous and deep,
The weary world had its heart’s desire,
And fell asleep.
And now in the morning early,
The clouds are sailing by
Clearly, oh! so clearly,
The distant mountains lie.
The wind is very mild and slow,
The clouds obey his will,
They part and part and onward go,
Travelling together still.
’Tis very sweet to be alive,
On a morning that’s so fair,
For nothing seems to stir or strive,
In the unconscious air.
A tawny thrush is in the wood,
Ringing so wild and free;
Only one bird has a blither mood,
The white-throat on the tree.
LIFE AND DEATH
I thought of death beside the lonely sea,
That went beyond the limit of my sight,
Seeming the image of his mastery,
The semblance of his huge and gloomy might.
But firm beneath the sea went the great earth,
With sober bulk and adamantine hold,
The water but a mantle for her girth,
That played about her splendour fold on fold.
And life seemed like this dear familiar shore,
That stretched from the wet sands’ last wavy crease,
Beneath the sea’s remote and sombre roar,
To inland stillness and the wilds of peace.
Death seems triumphant only here and there;
Life is the sovereign presence everywhere.
IN THE COUNTRY CHURCHYARD
TO THE MEMORY OF MY FATHER
This is the acre of unfathomed rest,
These stones, with weed and lichen bound, enclose
No active grief, no uncompleted woes,
But only finished work and harboured quest,
And balm for ills;
And the last gold that smote the ashen west
Lies garnered here between the harvest hills.
This spot has never known the heat of toil,
Save when the angel with the mighty spade
Has turned the sod and built the house of shade;
But here old chance is guardian of the soil;
Green leaf and grey,
The barrows blossom with the tangled spoil,
And God’s own weeds are fair in God’s own way.
Sweet flowers may gather in the ferny wood:
Hepaticas, the morning stars of spring;
The bloodroots with their milder ministering,
Like planets in the lonelier solitude;
And that white throng,
Which shakes the dingles with a starry brood,
And tells the robin his forgotten song.
These flowers may rise amid the dewy fern,
They may not root within this antique wall,
The dead have chosen for their coronal,
No buds that flaunt of life and flare and burn;
They have agreed,
To choose a beauty puritan and stern,
The universal grass, the homely weed.
This is the paradise of common things,
The scourged and trampled here find peace to grow,
The frost to furrow and the wind to sow,
The mighty sun to time their blossomings;
And now they keep
A crown reflowering on the tombs of kings,
Who earned their triumph and have claimed their sleep.
Yea, each is here a prince in his own right,
Who dwelt disguised amid the multitude,
And when his time was come, in haughty mood,
Shook off his motley and reclaimed his might;
His sombre throne
In the vast province of perpetual night,
He holds secure, inviolate, alone.
The poor forgets that ever he was poor,
The priest has lost his science of the truth,
The maid her beauty, and the youth his youth,
The statesman has forgot his subtle lure,
The old his age,
The sick his suffering, and the leech his cure,
The poet his perplexed and vacant page.
These swains that tilled the uplands in the sun
Have all forgot the field’s familiar face,
And lie content within this ancient place,
Whereto when hands were tired their thought would run
To dream of rest,
When the last furrow was turned down, and won
The last harsh harvest from the earth’s patient breast.
O dwellers in the valley vast and fair,
I would that calling from your tranquil clime,
You make a truce for me with cruel time;
For I am weary of this eager care
That never dies;
I would be born into your tranquil air,
Your deserts crowned and sovereign silences.
I would, but that the world is beautiful,
And I am more in love with the sliding years,
They have not brought me frantic joy or tears,
But only moderate state and temperate rule;
Not to forget
This quiet beauty, not to be Time’s fool,
I will be man a little longer yet.
For lo, what beauty crowns the harvest hills!—
The buckwheat acres gleam like silver shields;
The oats hang tarnished in the golden fields;
Between the elms the yellow wheat-land fills;
The apples drop
Within the orchard, where the red tree spills,
The fragrant fruitage over branch and prop.
The cows go lowing through the lovely vale;
The clarion peacock warns the world of rain,
Perched on the barn a gaudy weather-vane;
The farm lad holloes from the shifted rail,
Along the grove
He beats a measure on his ringing pail,
And sings the heart-song of his early love.
There is a honey scent along the air;
The hermit thrush has tuned his fleeting note.
Among the silver birches far remote
His spirit voice appeareth here and there,
To fail and fade,
A visionary cadence falling fair,
That lifts and lingers in the hollow shade.
And now a spirit in the east, unseen,
Raises the moon above her misty eyes,
And travels up the veiled and starless skies,
Viewing the quietude of her demesne;
Stainless and slow,
I watch the lustre of her planet’s sheen,
From burnished gold to liquid silver flow.
And now I leave the dead with you, O night;
You wear the semblance of their fathomless state,
For you we long when the day’s fire is great,
And when stern life is cruellest in his might,
Of death we dream:
A country of dim plain and shadowy height,
Crowned with strange stars and silences supreme:
Rest here, for day is hot to follow you,
Rest here until the morning star has come,
Until is risen aloft dawn’s rosy dome,
Based deep on buried crimson into blue,
And morn’s desire
Has made the fragile cobweb drenched with dew
A net of opals veiled with dreamy fire.
SONG
I have done,
Put by the lute;
Songs and singing soon are over,
Soon as airy shades that hover
Up above the purple clover—
I have done, put by the lute.
Once I sang as early thrushes
Sing about the dewy bushes,
Now I’m mute;
I am like a weary linnet,
For my throat has no song in it,
I have had my singing minute.
I have done,
Put by the lute.
THE MAGIC HOUSE
In her chamber, wheresoe’er
Time shall build the walls of it,
Melodies shall minister,
Mellow sounds shall flit
Through a dusk of musk and myrrh.
Lingering in the spaces vague,
Like the breath within a flute,
Winds shall move along the stair;
When she walketh mute
Music meet shall greet her there.
Time shall make a truce with Time,
All the languid dials tell
Irised hours of gossamer,
Eve perpetual
Shall the night or light defer.
From her casement she shall see
Down a valley wild and dim,
Swart with woods of pine and fir;
Shall the sunsets swim
Red with untold gold to her.
From her terrace she shall see
Lines of birds like dusky motes
Falling in the heated glare;
How an eagle floats
In the wan unconscious air.
From her turret she shall see
Vision of a cloudy place,
Like a group of opal flowers
On the verge of space,
Or a town, or crown of towers.
From her garden she shall hear
Fall the cones between the pines;
She shall seem to hear the sea,
Or behind the vines
Some small noise, a voice may be.
But no thing shall habit there,
There no human foot shall fall,
No sweet word the silence stir,
Naught her name shall call,
Nothing come to comfort her.
But about the middle night,
When the dusk is loathéd most,
Ancient thoughts and words long said,
Like an alien host,
There shall come unsummonéd.
With her forehead on her wrist
She shall lean against the wall
And see all the dream go by;
In the interval
Time shall turn Eternity.
But the agony shall pass—
Fainting with unuttered prayer,
She shall see the world’s outlines
And the weary glare
And the bare unvaried pines.