17
When Death to either shall come,—
I pray it be first to me,—
Be happy as ever at home,
If so, as I wish, it be.
Possess thy heart, my own;
And sing to the child on thy knee,
Or read to thyself alone
The songs that I made for thee.
18
WISHES
I wish’d to sing thy grace, but nought
Found upon earth that could compare:
Some day, maybe, in heaven, I thought,—
If I should win the welcome there,—
There might I make thee many a song:
But now it is enough to say
I ne’er have done our life the wrong
Of wishing for a happier day.
19
A LOVE LYRIC
Why art thou sad, my dearest?
What terror is it thou fearest,
Braver who art than I
The fiend to defy?
Why art thou sad, my dearest?
And why in tears appearest,
Closer than I that wert
At hiding thy hurt?
Why art thou sad, my dearest,
Since now my voice thou hearest?
Who with a kiss restore
Thy valour of yore.
20
ΕΡΟΣΕΡΟΣ
Why hast thou nothing in thy face?
Thou idol of the human race,
Thou tyrant of the human heart,
The flower of lovely youth that art;
Yea, and that standest in thy youth
An image of eternal Truth,
With thy exuberant flesh so fair,
That only Pheidias might compare,
Ere from his chaste marmoreal form
Time had decayed the colours warm;
Like to his gods in thy proud dress
Thy starry sheen of nakedness.
Surely thy body is thy mind,
For in thy face is nought to find,
Only thy soft unchristen’d smile,
That shadows neither love nor guile,
But shameless will and power immense,
In secret sensuous innocence.
O king of joy, what is thy thought?
I dream thou knowest it is nought,
And wouldst in darkness come, but thou
Makest the light where’er thou go.
Ah yet no victim of thy grace,
None who e’er long’d for thy embrace,
Hath cared to look upon thy face.
21
THE FAIR BRASS
An effigy of brass
Trodden by careless feet
Of worshippers that pass,
Beautiful and complete,
Lieth in the sombre aisle
Of this old church unwreckt,
And still from modern style
Shielded by kind neglect.
It shows a warrior arm’d:
Across his iron breast
His hands by death are charmed
To leave his sword at rest,
Wherewith he led his men
O’ersea, and smote to hell
The astonisht Saracen,
Nor doubted he did well.
Would wé could teach our sons
His trust in face of doom,
Or give our bravest ones
A comparable tomb:
Such as to look on shrives
The heart of half its care;
So in each line survives
The spirit that made it fair;
So fair the characters,
With which the dusty scroll,
That tells his title, stirs
A requiem for his soul.
Yet dearer far to me,
And brave as he are they,
Who fight by land and sea
For England at this day;
Whose vile memorials,
In mournful marbles gilt,
Deface the beauteous walls
By growing glory built:
Heirs of our antique shrines,
Sires of our future fame,
Whose starry honour shines
In many a noble name
Across the deathful days,
Link’d in the brotherhood
That loves our country’s praise,
And lives for heavenly good.
22
THE DUTEOUS HEART
Spirit of grace and beauty,
Whom men so much miscall;
Maidenly, modest duty,
I cry thee fair befal!
Pity for them that shun thee,
Sorrow for them that hate,
Glory, hath any won thee
To dwell in high estate!
But rather thou delightest
To walk in humble ways,
Keeping thy favour brightest
Uncrown’d by foolish praise;
In such retirement dwelling,
Where, hath the worldling been,
He straight returneth telling
Of sights that he hath seen,
Of simple men and truest
Faces of girl and boy;
The souls whom thou enduest
With gentle peace and joy.
Fair from my song befal thee,
Spirit of beauty and grace!
Men that so much miscall thee
Have never seen thy face.
23
THE IDLE FLOWERS
I have sown upon the fields
Eyebright and Pimpernel,
And Pansy and Poppy-seed
Ripen’d and scatter’d well,
And silver Lady-smock
The meads with light to fill,
Cowslip and Buttercup,
Daisy and Daffodil;
King-cup and Fleur-de-lys
Upon the marsh to meet
With Comfrey, Watermint,
Loose-strife and Meadowsweet;
And all along the stream
My care hath not forgot
Crowfoot’s white galaxy
And love’s Forget-me-not:
And where high grasses wave
Shall great Moon-daisies blink,
With Rattle and Sorrel sharp
And Robin’s ragged pink.
Thick on the woodland floor
Gay company shall be,
Primrose and Hyacinth
And frail Anemone,
Perennial Strawberry-bloom,
Woodsorrel’s pencilled veil,
Dishevel’d Willow-weed
And Orchis purple and pale,
Bugle, that blushes blue,
And Woodruff’s snowy gem,
Proud Foxglove’s finger-bells
And Spurge with milky stem.
High on the downs so bare,
Where thou dost love to climb,
Pink Thrift and Milkwort are,
Lotus and scented Thyme;
And in the shady lanes
Bold Arum’s hood of green,
Herb Robert, Violet,
Starwort and Celandine;
And by the dusty road
Bedstraw and Mullein tall,
With red Valerian
And Toadflax on the wall,
Yarrow and Chicory,
That hath for hue no like,
Silene and Mallow mild
And Agrimony’s spike,
Blue-eyed Veronicas
And grey-faced Scabious
And downy Silverweed
And striped Convolvulus:
Harebell shall haunt the banks,
And thro’ the hedgerow peer
Withwind and Snapdragon
And Nightshade’s flower of fear.
And where men never sow,
Have I my Thistles set,
Ragwort and stiff Wormwood
And straggling Mignonette,
Bugloss and Burdock rank
And prickly Teasel high,
With Umbels yellow and white,
That come to kexes dry.
Pale Chlora shalt thou find,
Sun-loving Centaury,
Cranesbill and Sinjunwort,
Cinquefoil and Betony:
Shock-headed Dandelion,
That drank the fire of the sun
Hawkweed and Marigold,
Cornflower and Campion.
Let Oak and Ash grow strong,
Let Beech her branches spread;
Let Grass and Barley throng
And waving Wheat for bread;
Be share and sickle bright
To labour at all hours;
For thee and thy delight
I have made the idle flowers.
But now ’tis Winter, child,
And bitter northwinds blow,
The ways are wet and wild,
The land is laid in snow.
24
DUNSTONE HILL
A cottage built of native stone
Stands on the mountain-moor alone,
High from man’s dwelling on the wide
And solitary mountain-side,
The purple mountain-side, where all
The dewy night the meteors fall,
And the pale stars musically set
To the watery bells of the rivulet,
And all day long, purple and dun,
The vast moors stretch beneath the sun,
The wide wind passeth fresh and hale,
And whirring grouse and blackcock sail.
Ah, heavenly Peace, where dost thou dwell?
Surely ’twas here thou hadst a cell,
Till flaming Love, wandering astray
With fury and blood, drove thee away.—
Far down across the valley deep
The town is hid in smoky sleep,
At moonless nightfall wakening slow
Upon the dark with lurid glow:
Beyond, afar the widening view
Merges into the soften’d blue,
Cornfield and forest, hill and stream,
Fair England in her pastoral dream.
To one who looketh from this hill
Life seems asleep, all is so still:
Nought passeth save the travelling shade
Of clouds on high that float and fade:
Nor since this landscape saw the sun
Might other motion o’er it run,
Till to man’s scheming heart it came
To make a steed of steel and flame.
Him may you mark in every vale
Moving beneath his fleecy trail,
And tell whene’er the motions die
Where every town and hamlet lie.
He gives the distance life to-day,
Rushing upon his level’d way
From man’s abode to man’s abode,
And mocks the Roman’s vaunted road,
Which o’er the moor purple and dun
Still wanders white beneath the sun,
Deserted now of men and lone
Save for this cot of native stone.
There ever by the whiten’d wall
Standeth a maiden fair and tall,
And all day long in vacant dream
Watcheth afar the flying steam.
25
SCREAMING TARN
The saddest place that e’er I saw
Is the deep tarn above the inn
That crowns the mountain-road, whereby
One southward bound his way must win.
Sunk on the table of the ridge
From its deep shores is nought to see:
The unresting wind lashes and chills
Its shivering ripples ceaselessly.
Three sides ’tis banked with stones aslant,
And down the fourth the rushes grow,
And yellow sedge fringing the edge
With lengthen’d image all arow.
’Tis square and black, and on its face
When noon is still, the mirror’d sky
Looks dark and further from the earth
Than when you gaze at it on high.
At mid of night, if one be there,
—So say the people of the hill—
A fearful shriek of death is heard,
One sudden scream both loud and shrill.
And some have seen on stilly nights,
And when the moon was clear and round,
Bubbles which to the surface swam
And burst as if they held the sound.—
’Twas in the days ere hapless Charles
Losing his crown had lost his head,
This tale is told of him who kept
The inn upon the watershed:
He was a lowbred ruin’d man
Whom lawless times set free from fear:
One evening to his house there rode
A young and gentle cavalier.
With curling hair and linen fair
And jewel-hilted sword he went;
The horse he rode he had ridden far,
And he was with his journey spent.
He asked a lodging for the night,
His valise from his steed unbound,
He let none bear it but himself
And set it by him on the ground.
’Here’s gold or jewels,’ thought the host,
’That’s carrying south to find the king.’
He chattered many a loyal word,
And scraps of royal airs gan sing.
His guest thereat grew more at ease
And o’er his wine he gave a toast,
But little ate, and to his room
Carried his sack behind the host.
’Now rest you well,’ the host he said,
But of his wish the word fell wide;
Nor did he now forget his son
Who fell in fight by Cromwell’s side.
Revenge and poverty have brought
Full gentler heart than his to crime;
And he was one by nature rude,
Born to foul deeds at any time.
With unshod feet at dead of night
In stealth he to the guest-room crept,
Lantern and dagger in his hand,
And stabbed his victim while he slept.
But as he struck a scream there came,
A fearful scream so loud and shrill:
He whelm’d the face with pillows o’er,
And lean’d till all had long been still.
Then to the face the flame he held
To see there should no life remain:—
When lo! his brutal heart was quell’d:
’Twas a fair woman he had slain.
The tan upon her face was paint,
The manly hair was torn away,
Soft was the breast that he had pierced;
Beautiful in her death she lay.
His was no heart to faint at crime,
Tho’ half he wished the deed undone.
He pulled the valise from the bed
To find what booty he had won.
He cut the straps, and pushed within
His murderous fingers to their theft.
A deathly sweat came o’er his brow,
He had no sense nor meaning left.
He touched not gold, it was not cold,
It was not hard, it felt like flesh.
He drew out by the curling hair
A young man’s head, and murder’d fresh;
A young man’s head, cut by the neck.
But what was dreader still to see,
Her whom he had slain he saw again,
The twain were like as like can be.
Brother and sister if they were,
Both in one shroud they now were wound,—
Across his back and down the stair,
Out of the house without a sound.
He made his way unto the tarn,
The night was dark and still and dank;
The ripple chuckling neath the boat
Laughed as he drew it to the bank.
Upon the bottom of the boat
He laid his burden flat and low,
And on them laid the square sandstones
That round about the margin go.
Stone upon stone he weigh’d them down,
Until the boat would hold no more;
The freeboard now was scarce an inch:
He stripp’d his clothes and push’d from shore.
All naked to the middle pool
He swam behind in the dark night;
And there he let the water in
And sank his terror out of sight.
He swam ashore, and donn’d his dress,
And scraped his bloody fingers clean;
Ran home and on his victim’s steed
Mounted, and never more was seen.
But to a comrade ere he died
He told his story guess’d of none:
So from his lips the crime returned
To haunt the spot where it was done.
26
THE ISLE OF ACHILLES
(FROM THE GREEK)
Τὸν φίλτατόν σοι παῖδ’ ἐμοί τ’, Ἀχιλλέα
ὄψει δόμους ναίοντα νησιωτικοὺς
Λευκὴν κατ’ ἀκτὴν ἐντὸς Εὐξείνου πόρου.Eur. And. 1250.
Voyaging northwards by the western strand
Of the Euxine sea we came to where the land
Sinks low in salt morass and wooded plain:
Here mighty Ister pushes to the main,
Forking his turbid flood in channels three
To plough the sands with which he chokes the sea.
Against his middle arm, not many a mile
In the offing of black water is the isle
Named of Achilles, or as Leukê known,
Which tender Thetis, counselling alone
With her wise sire beneath the ocean-wave,
Unto her child’s departed spirit gave,
Where he might still his love and fame enjoy,
Through the vain Danaan cause fordone at Troy.
Thither Achilles passed, and long fulfill’d
His earthly lot, as the high gods had will’d,
Far from the rivalries of men, from strife,
From arms, from woman’s love and toil of life.
Now of his lone abode I will unfold
What there I saw, or was by others told.
There is in truth a temple on the isle;
Therein a wooden statue of rude style
And workmanship antique with helm of lead:
Else all is desert, uninhabited;
Only a few goats browse the wind-swept rocks,
And oft the stragglers of their starving flocks
Are caught and sacrificed by whomsoe’er,
Whoever of chance or purpose hither fare:
About the fence lie strewn their bleaching bones.
But in the temple jewels and precious stones,
Upheapt with golden rings and vials lie,
Thankofferings to Achilles, and thereby,
Written or scratch’d upon the walls in view,
Inscriptions, with the givers’ names thereto,
Some in Romaic character, some Greek,
As each man in the tongue that he might speak
Wrote verse of praise, or prayer for good to come,
To Achilles most, but to Patroclus some;
For those who strongly would Achilles move
Approach him by the pathway of his love.
Thousands of birds frequent the sheltering shrine,
The dippers and the swimmers of the brine,
Sea-mew and gull and diving cormorant,
Fishers that on the high cliff make their haunt
Sheer inaccessible, and sun themselves
Huddled arow upon the narrow shelves:—
And surely no like wonder ere hath been
As that such birds should keep the temple clean;
But thus they do: at earliest dawn of day
They flock to sea and in the waters play,
And when they well have wet their plumage light,
Back to the sanctuary they take flight
Splashing the walls and columns with fresh brine,
Till all the stone doth fairly drip and shine,
When off again they skim asea for more
And soon returning sprinkle steps and floor,
And sweep all cleanly with their wide-spread wings.
From other men I have learnt further things.
If any of free purpose, thus they tell,
Sail’d hither to consult the oracle,—
For oracle there was,—they sacrificed
Such victims as they brought, if such sufficed,
And some they slew, some to the god set free:
But they who driven from their course at sea
Chanced on the isle, took of the goats thereon
And pray’d Achilles to accept his own.
Then made they a gift, and when they had offer’d once,
If to their question there was no response,
They added to the gift and asked again;
Yea twice and more, until the god should deign
Answer to give, their offering they renew’d;
Whereby great riches to the shrine ensued.
And when both sacrifice and gifts were made
They worship’d at the shrine, and as they pray’d
Sailors aver that often hath been seen
A man like to a god, of warrior mien,
A beauteous form of figure swift and strong;
Down on his shoulders his light hair hung long
And his full armour was enchast with gold:
While some, who with their eyes might nought behold,
Say that with music strange the air was stir’d;
And some there are, who have both seen and heard:
And if a man wish to be favour’d more,
He need but spend one night upon the shore;
To him in sleep Achilles will appear
And lead him to his tent, and with good cheer
Show him all friendliness that men desire;
Patroclus pours the wine, and he his lyre
Takes from the pole and plays the strains thereon
Which Cheiron taught him first on Pelion.
These things I tell as they were told to me,
Nor do I question but it well may be:
For sure I am that, if man ever was,
Achilles was a hero, both because
Of his high birth and beauty, his country’s call,
His valour of soul, his early death withal,
For Homer’s praise, the crown of human art;
And that above all praise he had at heart
A gentler passion in her sovran sway,
And when his love died threw his life away.
27
AN ANNIVERSARY
HE
Bright, my belovèd, be thy day,
This eve of Summer’s fall:
And Autumn mass his flowers gay
To crown thy festival!
SHE
I care not if the morn be bright,
Living in thy love-rays:
No flower I need for my delight,
Being crownèd with thy praise.
HE
O many years and joyfully
This sun to thee return;
Ever all men speak well of thee,
SHE
For length of life I would not pray,
If thy life were to seek;
Nor ask what men and angels say
But when of thee they speak.
HE
Arise! The sky hath heard my song,
The flowers o’erhear thy praise;
And little loves are waking long
To wish thee happy days.
28
REGINA CARA
JUBILEE-SONG, FOR MUSIC, 1897
Hark! The world is full of thy praise,
England’s Queen of many days;
Who, knowing how to rule the free,
Hast given a crown to monarchy.
Honour, Truth and growing Peace
Follow Britannia’s wide increase,
And Nature yield her strength unknown
To the wisdom born beneath thy throne!
In wisdom and love firm is thy fame:
Enemies bow to revere thy name:
The world shall never tire to tell
Praise of the queen that reignèd well.
O felix anima, Domina praeclara,
Amore semper coronabere
Regina cara.
