AUTOGRAPH EDITION
Printed for subscribers only
This Copy is
No. ___________

UNDERNEATH THE BOUGH

UNDERNEATH
THE BOUGH

A BOOK OF VERSES

By
GEORGE ALLAN ENGLAND

THE GRAFTON PRESS
NEW YORK

This little book is offered to
AGNES
its inspirer, in this the tenth year
of her reign.

I desire to express my sincere thanks to Dr. Titus Munson Coan, Mr. Justo Quintéro and Mr. A. B. Myrick for assistance rendered, and to acknowledge the kind permission to reprint certain of these verses given me by The Literary Digest, Harvard Illustrated Magazine, Vogue, Middletown Forum, Red Letter, Literary Review, Boston Transcript, Town Topics, Smart Set, The New York Herald and other periodicals.

G. A. E.

CONTENTS.

		PAGE.
I.	The Race of the Mighty	[1]
II.	Songs & Sonnets.
	Love Beatified	[9]
	Morning, Noon and Night	[10]
	Dante	[11]
	Love’s Blindness	[12]
	Hesperides	[13]
	My Garden	[18]
	Erinnerungen	[19]
	The Battle Royal	[20]
	España	[21]
	Love’s Fear	[22]
	Longings	[23]
	Horace, IV, 8	[24]
	Ricordatevi Di Me!	[26]
	The Tower	[28]
	Love’s Prayer	[30]
	Combien J’ai Douce Souvenance	[31]
	My Little Red Devil and I	[33]
	The College Pump	[37]
	I Disputanti	[38]
	Quand Vous Serez Bien Vieille	[39]
	One Summer Night	[40]
	A Une Fleurette	[42]
	Blest Be the Day	[43]
	Mignonne Allons Voir Si La Rose	[44]
	Religion	[45]
	The Great Woods Were Awakening	[46]
	I-N-R-I	[47]
	Fayre Robyn	[48]
	Coeur de Femme	[51]
III.	Ballades & Rondeaux
	Ballade of the Sick	[54]
	Three Rondeaux from Charles d’Orléans	[56]
	The Song of the Poor	[59]
	Kyrielle	[62]
	Rondeau	[64]
	When I First Saw Edmée	[65]
	My Old Coat	[66]
	A Pantoum	[68]
	When Doris Deigns	[70]
IV.	The Year
	Spring—May Evening	[72]
	Summer—August Rain	[73]
	Autumn—November in Cambridge	[74]
	Winter—Hampton Holidays	[75]
V.	Mors Omnium Victor
	Gunga Din in Hell	[78]
	Cui Bono?	[79]
	The Bride-Bed	[80]
	Dead Loves	[81]
	Death the Friend	[82]
	La Jeune Fille	[83]
	Lucie	[84]
	Luctus in Morte Passeris	[89]
	Death in December	[90]
	The Royal Council	[92]
	Carmen Mortis	[93]

THE RACE OF THE MIGHTY

The Race of the Mighty [A]

THE START

THE appointed time at length the dials show.

“Attention, both!... Now, are you ready?... Go!!”

The chauffeur grips his lever with a hand

Of steel.—A leap!—A flash of wheels! A grand

And supple beast-like spring!—A growl of gear!

As, sweeping through the multitudinous sea

Of men upraising full-voiced cheer on cheer,

He whirls away to promised victory!...

ON THE ROAD

The high road stretches straight and white

Away

To dreamy distance, on and on—

The day

Dawns sharp and foggy; nips the driver’s

Nose,

Despite his costly furs. Zounds! How

It blows!

The motor purrs!—Our mobile seems

To fly,

Nor touch the ground... (Pneumatic

Mystery!)

The motor purrs!—Farewell wood, field

And stream!

Once on the road, we’ve scanty time

To dream!

The motor purrs!—Look out! A sheer

Decline.

Temptation whispers: Faster here!

It’s fine!

Faster? It’s madness! Yes, I know!—

But on!

Full speed down hill! Another record

Gone!...

The driver plunges out of view...

See, there

He climbs the distant slope again.

I swear

He’d scale Olympus! Yet that course

Is clear

From many mishaps that beset

Us here!

We crush a curséd mongrel in

The dust!

Slow down to miss an English spinster,

Just

Graze by her on her clumsy, ancient

Wheel!—

Rout ducks and chickens, set the pigs

A-squeal!

It’s not our fault! We can’t be kept

All day

To clear the road!... Speed on!—Away!

Away!...

THE STRUGGLE

But hark!... Behind, a trumpet-blast winds clear!

Great God! Our dread competitor draws near;

We’d half a minute start, and now, like Fate,

He’s rushing onward to annihilate

Distance and time, whirled in a hurricane!

Inexorably we see him gain and gain....

“Now!—speed her up!” the boy cries out. “More speed!”

“The curséd motor’s gone to sleep!—Indeed,

“We’re hardly doing fifty miles an hour.

“But he won’t pass us yet awhile! More power!”...

The driver heeds; he moves—the furious pace

Grows frenzied! Oh, the glory of a race

Like this of modern days, with steady hand

To steer a whirlwind through a startled land!

THE WATCHERS

“The first is near!—Let no one cross!—Take care!

“See! There they are!—Look out! The horn! Beware!

“Stand back!—They’re two!... It’s Girardot! No, no;

“It’s Charron! No, it’s Levegh!—How they blow

“That horn!”... But who can hope to recognize

Or name the shrilling bullet in its flight?

And what are names when glory blinds the eyes?

The towns love sport, and cheer; but, half in fright

The laboring peasants stop their ploughs to see

This avalanche—this hurtling mystery!

THE FINISH

Untiring, on their mounts of fire and steel,

The shielded chauffeurs, watchful, hand on wheel,

Have flashed through many a league;—have breathed the dust

Of devious ways; have skirted wood and sea;

Have traversed towns, crossed rivers, hills and dales;—

Nor halted once! To learn geography

By such vast lessons, though it tire the flesh,

Exalts the soul and makes the spirit free.

But now must end this vast, Titanic race!

(It cannot last forever!)—See! The place

Lies there!... A broad, white banner bars the way,

Between two lofty poles with streamers gay.

The “FINISH” there we read. The end at last!

All rest and glory, once that goal is passed!

A final burst!—The driver grips the bar!

The “FINISH!” In the road he sees afar

A judge with solemn air attentive stand,

Waving a crimson kerchief in his hand...

“Stop!” Harshly grinds the brake—“What number’s this?”

“Your name?”

Recorded!

Apotheosis!!

SONGS & SONNETS

Love Beatified.

LOVE, slain by us and buried yesterday,

Rose up again, nor in his grave would stay.

On his earth-stainèd brow and sightless eyes

Still shone the splendours of our Paradise.

Hushed was each dissonance, every fault made clean,

And joys alone I saw, that might have been.

It never seemed our Love could shew so fair

As that dead Presence, shrined in glory there.

I would not have our Love to live again,

And blend each pleasure with his greater pain.—

Oh better far this blessèd death, and rest!

Dead Love I clasp, I cherish to my breast

And ever shall, for this I know is best!

Morning, Noon and Night.

I LOVE thee when the gates of eastern light

Are opened by the Morning-star, aflame;

I love thee when the rose-red heavens proclaim

The coming of their lord, to mortal sight,

And cloudless, when from his imperial height

He looks in glory down. I breathe thy name

With thoughts of love, when drowsy Noon the same

Poised, equal distance holds, twixt dawn and night.

I love thee when the West begins to glow,

And when the restless winds lie still in heaven;

I love thee when the deep’ning shadows fall,

As comes with Tyrian dye, soft, purple even;

But when, from out the waters, rises slow

The noiseless Night, I love thee best of all.

Dante.

THOU’RT but a pensive, dreaming Boy, when first

To thy sad eyne the sight of Love appears

With blessèd Beatrice. Nine circling years

Name thee the wounded Lover, whose sweet thirst

Is never sated, nor whose fever less.

At Campaldino thou’rt the mailèd Knight;

Savage to spur thy City on toward right

Thou’rt driven, its scape-goat, to the wilderness.

There, in the stranger’s house whose stairs are pain

To mount, whose bread is bitter to thy mouth,

Dawns thy Great Vision, mid thy soul’s last drouth;

And, past Hell’s flame and Purgatory’s round,

Greets thee thy love most gentle, once again,

Thou frowning Florentine with laurels crowned!

Love’s Blindness.

“O LOVE, my Love, thou canst not know how sweet,

How dear thou art!”—“Naught would I know, save this

That thou wilt ever yearn to share my kiss!

So being, I reck not whether years be fleet

Or endless!”—“But thou canst not see thy face

As others see thee! Thy deep eyes that greet

Their lucent-mirrored glimmerings, melt and meet

In glory there, to blind themselves a space!”

“Hush, O my heart! Thy vain hyperbole

Means naught; but take in both thy hands and turn

To thee this face of mine, and kiss my brow,

And after that mine eyes which cannot see

But only feel thy lips that thrill, and now

My mouth, and now—O God! thy kisses burn!”

Hesperides.

I

NOW once again the angry sun

Wheels up the heaven his tireless way;

Once more we strangling herds of men

Wake to our labours never-done,

Rise up to toil another day.

Down flares the heat on town and street,

Wide-warping pillar, span and plinth;

Once more my burning, wearied eyes

Within this monstrous labyrinth

Meet the mad heat that stifles me,

And O, my baffled spirit flies

In dreams to thy green wood and thee,

To thee!... To thee!...

II

My pavement-wearied feet again

Tread the rough streets whose ways are pain,

Hot with the sun’s last sullen beam,

And yet—I dream!

Dream when I wake, and at high, blinding Noon,

Or when the moon

Mocks the sad City in her sullen night

That burns too bright!

So sweet my visions seem

That from this sordid smoke and dust I turn,

Turn where the dim Wood-world calls out to me

And where the forest-virgins I half see

With green mysterious fingers beckoning!

Where vine-wreathed woodland altars sunlit burn,

Or Dryads weave their mystic rounds and sing,

Sing high, sing low, with magic cadences

That once the wild oaks of Dodona heard;

And every wood-note bids me burst asunder

The bonds that hold me from the leaf-hid bird!

I quaff thee, O Nepenthe! Ah, the wonder

Grows that there be who scorn not wealth and ease,

Who still will choose the street-life, rough and blurred,

Who will not quest you, O Hesperides!...

III

And now, and now... I feel the forest-moss!

O, on these moss-beds let me lie with Pan,

Twined with the ivy-vine in tendrilled curls!

And I will hold all gold that hampers man

But the base ashes of a barren dross!

On with the love-dance of the pagan girls!

The pagan girls with lips all rosy-red,

With breasts up-girt and foreheads garlanded!

With fair white foreheads nobly garlanded!

With sandalled feet that weave the magic ring

Now ... let them sing,

And I will pipe a song that all may hear,

To bid them mind the time of my wild rhyme!

Away! Away! Beware our mystic trees!

Who will not quest you, O Hesperides?...

IV

Great men of song, what sing ye? Woodland meadows?

Rocks, trees and rills where sunlight glints to gold?

Sing ye the hills adown whose sides blue shadows

Creep when the westering day is growing old?

Sing ye the brooks where in the purling shallows

The small fish dart and gleam?

Sing ye the pale green tresses of the willows

That stoop to kiss the stream?

Or sing ye burning streets and sweating toil

Where we spawned swarms of men, unendingly,

Above, below, in mart and workshop’s moil

Have quite forgot thee, O mine Arcady?...

My Garden.

With a copy of “Sonnets of this Century.”

THIS little book, a Garden where the bloom

And fragrance of an hundred years are pent,

To thee, dear girl, at Christmas-tide is sent

By one who breathes with love the sweet perfume

Of such frail flowers. Let aye the world consume

Itself with toil and labour—such are all

Without the bounds of this my garden-wall,

And I, in light, feel not nor heed their gloom.

Come thou into my Garden! Let me show

Thee all the treasures that do lend it grace,

These goodly Sonnets, standing in a row

To tell of joy, tears, love,—life’s madrigal;

And, mistress of the pure enchanted place,

Be thou the fairest Flower among them all!...

Erinnerungen.

SCHWER ist mein Herz, und heute kann ich nicht

Mehr lesen—kann nicht denken, leiden mehr.

Aus jeder Ecke kommt ein Schatten her,

Wie aus dem toten Himmel geht das Licht.

Ich sinn’ und sinn’—ich sehe ihn noch, wie er

Vor langen Jahren zartlich schaut’ mich an

Eh’ unsere reine Liebe erst begann

Langsam zu sterben, ich zu trauern sehr...

Schwer ist mein Herz. Aus seinen Ecken auch

Kriechen die Schatten, schnell und schneller. Jetzt

Vernimmt mein müdes Ohr den ersten Hauch

Der Winternacht ... Es glimmert Strom und Wald

In dunkler Ferne ... Dies vergeht zuletzt,

Und alles endlich finster ist und kalt...

The Battle Royal.

THOU Battle Royal! Kings and gentlemen

At arms, and lords have fought thee since the mists

Of time, back-rolling, show’d thy mimic lists

And pigmy warriors, mazed and harried then

As now in meshes of thy checkered strife—

Unshielded Pawns, trim Knights and frowning Rooks

Stolid yet quick, and Bishops smug, with looks

A-squint, and King with lame yet endless life.

Thou Battle Royal! Years unnumbered soil

Cards, draughts and dice with myriad grime-worn hands.

Thou, lov’d by dames and lords in all the lands

Of this broad world art still the world’s best play;

Where, as in life, whilst others struggle, toil,

And die, the imperious Queen controls the day!

España.

“Que era, decidme, la nación que un día

Reina del mundo proclamó el destino?...”

Quintana—Oda a España.

WHERE now that Nation proud which Destiny

Once did proclaim this world’s all conquering queen?

Where now that sceptre, that bright blazon seen

That mark’d her mistress over land and sea?

A lost emprise, a shattered galleon she,

Sails rent and hull agape that once have been

World-powerful; her rotting masts careen

With each dark surge of long-pent enmity.

On through sea’s salty wastes the tempests spurn,

The waves rebuff her; lights no more there gleam

Nor vergies wave on her high carven beam.

Stilled is the sailor’s jest, the skipper’s song;

In swirling fogs of night she drives along

With Helmsman Death stark-frozen at the stern!...

Love’s Fear.

VIRGIN art thou and pure, amid a throng

Of such sweet hallowed names as all men praise.

(Grown all too scant in these our latter days!)

To holy hours of old dost thou belong;

Saint Agnès then had heard thine even-song,

Nor left thee, darkling, in Earth’s devious ways.

Thou’rt one with that sweet sisterhood which raise

To “untouched Dian,” all clear streams along,

Their full-voiced anthem. Thou a Vestal art

At true-love’s altar. Atala, and the Maid,

And Mary all are sisters of thy blood!

Thy very name is virgin!... I, afraid,

How shall I press my kisses on thy heart,

Or loose the girdle of thy maidenhood?...

Longings.

“... Nessun maggior dolore

Che ricordarsi del tempo felice

Nella miseria...”

Inferno, V, 121.

FAR from the sea-girt City that I love,

My wandering ways by care attended lie;

Cold is the azure of this foreign sky,

And strange these clustered stars that burn above.

Out from this loveless land would I remove

To seek thy spring Pierian, never-dry,

Thou thrice-crowned City! Hear my fainting cry.

Let not my passionate longing fruitless prove!

Would I once more might see the dome of gold

Burning aloft, beneath my native sky!

The river, winding near my home of old,

And once again to breathe before I die,

The evening breeze, may it be granted me,

In that fair city by the distant sea!...

The Eighth Ode of the Fourth Book of Horace.

To C. Martius Censorinus.

“Donarem pateras grataque commodus...”

FREELY to my companions would I give

Beautiful bronzes, Censorinus, bowls

And tripods, once a guerdon to the souls

Of hardy Greeks; nor should’st thou bear away

The meanest of my gifts, could I but live

Possessed of arts like those Parrhasius plied,

Or Skopas, now depicting human clay

And now a god, in liquid colors one

In solid stone the other. But denied

To me are equal powers; need hast thou none

In mind or state for treasures like to these.

Thou dost delight in songs, and such are mine

To give, and fix a value to each song.

Not marbles carved with public elegies,

Whence to illustrious leaders still belong

In dreamless death their praises half divine,

Not the precipitate flights of Hannibal

Nor those retorted threats that wrought him shame,

Not impious Carthage and her flaming fall

More highly show, than the Calabrian Muse,

Glories of him who, having gained a name

From prostrate conquered Africa, returned.

Neither if writings should perchance refuse

To herald forth what thou so well hast earned

Wouldst thou have fitting praise. What were the son

Of Mars and Ilia, if in jealousy

Silence had drowned those lofty merits won

By Romulus? Through eloquence, through strength

And favor of all poets loved of fame,

Aeacus hallowed is, from Stygian floods,

To the fair Islands of the Blest at length.

The Muse forbids the worthy man to die;

She blesseth him with Heaven. Thus Hercules,

Untiring victor, finds a place on high

At Jove’s desired feasts. Tyndareus’ sons,

Clear-shining stars, thus from the deepest seas

Rescue the shattered ships. Thus Bacchus fair,

Twining his temples with fresh vine-leaves green,

To fruitful issue brings the votaries’ prayer.

Ricordatevi Di Me!

(Terza Rima.)

IF ever thou shouldst cease to think of me

With love, and turn thy soul’s sweet warmth to ice—

(Stop not my mouth with kisses! Change may be,

As all do know who take for their device

A bleeding heart!)—If any change should seal

To me the gates of uttermost Paradise,

And I should darkling fare, with no repeal,

In company of them, that, love forsaken,

Before cold shrines and at dead altars kneel,

Remember this—I bade thy heart awaken;

Here in this hand it lay a prisoner!

Thy first wild love-kiss from my lips was taken,

And with my breath thy first sighs mingled were!

Remember this—I loved thee well and long,

Thou haven to me, a time-worn wanderer!

Then, though my voice be drowned in that clear song

Of thy new love, and I forgotten be

Or all-despisèd, think thou in my wrong

Some good there was, some truth akin with thee,

Some light half-seen, since I could tune a soul

Virgin as thine to perfect harmony,

And crown thy brow with Love’s pure aureole!

The Tower.

I

THERE lies a City of Unnumbered Dead

Where paths entwine, where hills and valleys be,

And still, black pools; the cypress mystically

Shrouds those dark ways. There living souls may tread

With but slow steps and rare. With slow steps, led

By Love two lovers passed; they spake, and she

Cast down her mystic eyes lest he might see

In their vague depths the image of her dread.

A great round-tower of granite crowns that land.

Thither they came, and now her starry eyes

Were raised to his; that dread which wrought them ill

Behind them with the frozen dead lay chill.

Up the enchanted stairway hand in hand

They passed, and issued forth to see the skies.

II

And yet their sweetest moment did not seem

That dizzying issue into tenuous light,

Where the keen salt-sea wind that lashed their height

Drowned their love-quickened breath as in a stream

Of chill, on-rushing æther; not the gleam

Of multitudinous Ocean, nor the bright

Expanse of Earth could draw their dazzled sight

From the new glory of their passionate dream.

It was upon the tower’s midmost stair

At one dim diamond-window; both beguiled

Paused in the gloom; she trembled like a child;

His hot mouth found her mouth, her gold-twined hair,

And in her milk-white breast her heart beat wild

Beneath one burning kiss he printed there.

Love’s Prayer.

WHEN thy ripe lips in kisses mould to meet

Mine eager mouth—when thy full pulsing throat

Throbs with thy quickening life-breath—when the float

And tangle of thine ungirt hair, oh Sweet,

Entwines us, breast to breast, the perfumed heat

Of each wild sigh fans all my face aflame,

And beat to beat our passionate hearts the same

Responses cry, as we Love’s creed repeat.

When in each other’s arms, love-wearied, we

Both nested safe in silken cushions warm

At Winter-evenfall entrancèd lie,

Kissing but closer as we list the storm,

Then pray we, midst our sweet antiphony

But this—that love like ours may never die!...

“Combien J’ai Douce Souvenance...!”

(After Chateaubriand)

OH sweet, how sweet old memories be

Of one most lovely place, to me—

My birthplace! Sister, fair those days

And free!

Oh France, be thou my love, my praise

Always!

Our mother—hath thy memory flown?—

Beside our humble chimney-stone

Pressed us against her heart, whilst you,

Dear one,

And I her white hair kissed anew,

We two.

Sweet little sister, dost recall

The stream that bathed the castle-wall?

The old round-tower whence came alway

The call

Of bells to banish night away

At day?

Dost thou recall the lake—how still!—

Where swallows skimmed at their sweet will?

The reeds, swayed by the gentle air

Until

The sun set on the waters there,

So fair?

Oh, who will give me my Helène?

My mountains, my great oak again?

Their memory brings with all my days

Fresh pain;

My land shall be my love, my praise

Always!

My Little Red Devil and I.

“The Prince of Darkness is a gentleman.”
Twelfth Night.

MY little Red Devil upon my desk

With a smile sardonic stands.

He holds my pen with a patient air

In his crooked, outstretched hands;

The paint is worn from his hoof and horn

And scratched is his curving tail,

Yet he still holds on with a right good grace,

A knowing look on his crafty face,

And spirits that never fail.

So, what if his fingers are some of them gone,

And twisted the horns on his head?

His cheek still glows, and his aquiline nose

Is a genuine devilish red;

And his tail, beside, is a thing of pride,

For it swings in a glorious sweep,

With a graceful bend and a fork in the end

That would cause a sinner his ways to mend,

Or a saint, his vows to keep!

Though only a single eye has he

The world and the flesh to view,

(For the right is gone,) yet the other one

Has fire enough for two.

So his eyes ill-mated an air jocund

To his wrinkled features lend,

And to see his look you would almost think

That he was tipping a devilish wink

To his old, familiar friend.

Oh, he is a jolly good fellow, in truth,

With a wit that is ever new,

And a heart like which, in this world of ours,

There are only, I fear, too few.

And he doesn’t complain when I come in late

Or keep him awake o’ nights,

So I have respect for his comfort, too,

By giving the Devil his utmost due,

And the whole of his royal rights.

To everyone else but myself his smile

Is fixed as the solid stone;

He changes the curve of his parted lips

For me, and for me alone.

So when I’m in luck he wishes me joy

With his whole Satanic heart,

But when I’ve the blues, it seems he would say

“Brace up, for the luck will be better some day!”

And my cares like the wind depart.

So my Devil and I are the best of friends

In a sort of a cynical way,

For he watches me out of his only eye

As I work at my desk each day,

And the idle verses I write in hope,

He quietly smiles to see,

For he knows full well that at first or last,

Like Biblical bread on the waters cast,

They will surely come back to me...

And at night, as I sit by the ruddy hearth,

With my pipe and my book, alone,

Or lazily muse by the embers red

When the light of the fire is gone,

I think of him sometimes, and hope in my heart

I never shall see the day

That sets me adrift from my little friend

And puts to our sociable life an end,

By taking my Devil away!...

The College Pump.

IN Summertide, beneath high-vaulted shade,

In Winter, frosted all with glistering rime,

In chanting Spring, or Autumn’s sullen time

When sodden leaves their tawny beds have made—

Alike when spendthrift Sun his gold afar

Downthrows, or earth lies shrouded all in cold,

By evil men and good, by young, by old,

In every season blessed thy waters are.

Grandsires and children drink with solaced eyes.

Dazed revellers early come with thirsty shame

Beneath gray glimmering of the sober skies.

All day men pause; and some, at eventide,

Poets, have hallowed with their touch thy name,

And with their lips thy waters sanctified.

I Disputanti.

LA MIA RAGIONE sento disputare

Col Core sempre—“Dopo crudel Morte,”

L’una dice, “con la sua man si forte

Il lume della vita spegni, io andare

Nel Buio credo...” L’altro poi; “Amare

È non morir. Il mio alto Fattore

Non puo voler che questo dolce fiore

Del mio affetto muoia...” “Io parlare

Del ‘Credo’ tuo non so; ma non c’è vita

Futura non c’è Dio. La Cagione

È l’Caso, solamente...” “È l’Amore,

L’Amore, quella via giammai smarrita,

Perduta mai...” Sempre così col Core

Io sento disputar la mia Ragione...

“Quand Vous Serez Bien Vieille...”

Ronsard.

THOU (being sometime old), by candlelight

Close crouched by the fire, spinning and mumbling o’er

The past, shalt croon my verses, marvelling more

That Ronsard sang thy praise, what time thy bright

First beauty was. Then, hearing thee recite

Such thing, thy drowsy maid, though weary-sore

And nodding off to sleep, shall wake before

My name and thine, with blessings infinite.

I under earth shall be, a soul in vain

Seeking its rest where myrtle shadows play;

Thou by the hearthstone cringe, outworn and blear,

My love regretting and thy cold disdain.

Live! an thou hear’st me! Wait no other day!

Gather life’s roses ere thy night be near!

One Summer Night.

The Fens, June, 1897.

FAR in the west the crescent moon hung low,

A filmy haze about it faintly spread,

And one bright star, a point of silver light

Seem’d comrade to it. Whispering Zephyrus

Tender as love, stole through the list’ning leaves,

Making a pleasant murmur in the night,

And touched the glimmering waters with his breath.

The ripples came unnumbered to the shore,

Soft-murmuring through the sedge and fenny reeds

With that same whisp’ring voice that Pan once heard

What time he first made pipes to sound the praise

Of her whom he had lost. The water’s breast

Was banded with a path of shimmering light

Broken by the ever-restless waves, which made

A thousand points of liquid brilliancy.

And in the beauty of still, hallowed night

Beside the plashing sandy shore, we met

In happiness. Each whispering of the wind,

Each tremulous leaf, and even the sleeping flowers

Seem’d breathing “Love” in tender unison,

And the sphered star in Heaven sang that word.

Dost thou remember how from out the grass,

I plucked a gentle flow’ret by that shore,

—Anemone some call it, wind-flower some,

Sprung from the crimson of Adonis’ blood

Where he was slain,—and how I softly said,

“O thou belovèd, beauty is a rose

Growing in Life’s fair garden, by the spring

Of deathless Purity, and that clear dew

Which lies within its sweetness hid, is Love.”

Dost thou recall? And so it chance, I pray

Though we be parted, now and evermore,

Think sometimes of that night, and fancy still

We see the summer landscape, glimmering,

Lit by the steady-burning lights of heaven,

We scent the sweetness of the warm young night,

We hold the tender wind-flower, and still hear

The murmuring ripples on the sounding shore.

A Une Fleurette

FLEURETTE! Sur sa poitrine si blanche et belle

Combien sens-tu de joie! Quel insensé bon heur

Que de t’y prélasser doucement toute une heure!

Sur ses seins arrondis, là, serrée tout contre elle,

Tu respires son être. Une volupté telle

Que moi j’en sentirais, là, si près de son coeur,

Sur ces deux petits monts de neige, heureuse fleur

Tu ressens... Ta mort, même, ô fleurette, est un ciel!

Dieu! Que je suis las de tout ce monde de peine

Et de ses vanités et de ses maux! Toujours

Te veut mon âme inquiète. Donne-moi ô Reine

Du royaume désert de mon coeur, mes amours,

Comme à cette fleurette ta poitrine aimée

Pour y dormir toujours, à toute éternité!...

Blest Be the Day.

The XXXIXth Sonnet
of Petrarch
to his Lady Laura.

He blesseth all the divers causes and effects of his love toward her.

BLEST be the day, the season and the year

The hour and moment, and the countrie fair,

Ay, even that very spot and instant where

Those two sweet eyne did first to me appear

Which since have left me—yet that sorrow dear

Of Love still blessèd be, like as the bow

And shafts wherewith sweet Love did work me woe

With wounds most deep in this my bosom here.

Blest be the many voices wherewithal

I on my Lady’s well-belovèd name

Have called, and blest the sighs, the tears, the flame

Of my desire, and all my screeds designed

To praise her—yet most blest my thoughts I call,

So hers that none but she may entrance find...

“Mignonne Allons Voir Si La Rose....”

After Ronsard.

COME, sweet, away! Come see the rose,

Now that the day draws near its close,

See whether it be faded grown—

Whether at evening fall away

Those leaves that opened to the day,

Or dies their blush, so like thine own.

Thou seest, dear love, its beauties pass,

Its wasted petals fall, alas!,

In one short hour. It may not bide.

Unkind in truth is Mother Earth

Since dawn gives such a flower its birth

And Death draws nigh at eventide.

So, sweet my darling, hear my voice,

I bid thee, in thy youth, rejoice!

Before thy fragile petals close

Gather thy blossoms whilst thou may,

With time they fall and fade away

As droops at night the withered rose.

Religion.

FROM that crude savage who, on Libyan sands,

Graves his barbaric god, and kneels thereto;

From those mysterious, matriarchal bands,

Eating strange flesh their spirit to renew

With fabled ancestors; from Austral lands

To Hyperborean solitudes, each age

Hath sought to fend its head from God’s dull rage

And stay the cosmic circling with clasped hands.

Yea, we no less! Doth man dare look away

Bravely as fits a man? With fear-sealed eyes,

Filling the spheres with vast, vague mysteries,

Man still must hearken some great angel’s wing,

Still bow to man-made God, still seek to stay

With claspèd hands the cosmic circling...

The Great Woods Were Awakening.

“Les grands bois s’éveillaient; il faisait jour à peine...”
Pradel.

THE great woods were awakening. A new day

Was freshly born; enchanted birds among

The clear green foliage raised their matin song

To praise the morning-glow. Thought-sad I lay

Beneath a gnarlèd oak; despite that gay

Fresh springtide, all my soul was suffering.

I waited her, and lo! the rapid wing

Of fluttering footsteps brushed the dew away.

Drunken with pleasure in a long-locked kiss

Our breath enmingled. Tightening in my arms

That beautiful, supple form, her heart’s alarms

I stifled on my heart. The thicket drew

Close over us, the sun grew dark, I wis,

Earth faded, Heaven opened to our view...

I-N-R-I.

WITH bleeding brows beneath a thorn-meshed crown,

With swollen hands fast bound in leathern thong,

I saw One stand amid a surging throng

That spat on Him and strove to drag Him down.

On His bowed back the ridg’d welts scarlet lay

Traced long with bloody dew. His haggard face

Was streaked with sweat and blood, as in that place

He silent stood and silent gazed away.

Once more that One I saw, still garlanded

With mocking thorns. Through either bleeding hand

And through both patient feet a mangling nail

Was driven deep. Some cursed, some laughed, cried “Hail,

God crucified!...” And some crouched low in dread

And wept, and thunderous darkness filled the land...

Fayre Robyn.[B]

FAYRE ROBYN he rad owre the brae,

Hys steede he was a wighty browne;

The countrie a’ lay at hys back,

Hys eyen were to the toune.

Bauld Robyn owre the brae did ride,

Nor yet a Horde nor yerle was he,

But mae than ony nobleman

Hys fayreness was to see.

And Robyn rad adoun the brae,

And cam yth High Strete;

A gentil pace hys horse hadde

Whych was baith goode and meete.

The Shyreff’s dauter sate yth wane

And luikt out o’ the window round,

Therebye Robyn rad and sang,

A braw and pleasant sound.

She luikt upon hys goodely forme

He luikt a’ in hir deepe blue yee;

Robyn doft hys bonnet; a rose to hym

She dropit for replye.

Leeve may o meete me bye the yett,

And a’ taegither we will flie.

I’ll meete thee when the nyghte be com,

So ryde again soone bye.

She’s met hym when the nyghte was com,

And a’ taegither they hae fled,

Now gin the Shyreff com, most sure

They maun baith be dead.

The hae na gane a league, a league,

A league nor barely ane,

When Robyn saith now by my bloode

They’re reasin a’ the toon.

They hae na gane anither league,

A league nor barely twa,

When they do heare a not ffar off

Some bernes that them pursue.

The be com unto a great roke;

Ye faith it was baith deepe and wide.

The Shyreff’s bernes byn sonygh

The maun plunge them in the tyde.

They’ve plunged them in the cauld water,

The spait was ful swift bye;

Now byr Ladye, quoth the may,

Methinks we baith maun dee.

They’ve plunged them into the cauld roke;

The hors they rade sank doun.

A’ yth black water then

The baith were neere to droune.

He bare hir firme in hys left arme

And swam a’ wi’ his right:

When the cam to yearth againe

The bernes byn in sight.

The bernes rad the roke along

And saw Robyn’s bonnet on the tide.

Now be the baith to bottom gane,

Ther may the bide!

The Shyreff turned him home again,

Turned back and went awaie,

But Robyn and His Ladye ffayre

Were wed the nextin daye.

Coeur de Femme.

I CANNOT think that woman love as we

Love them, with soul and body, breath and blood,

And spent soul tortured in the strangling flood

Of passion’s tense oblivious agony;

I cannot think the kiss She gives to me

Thrills her white body as it pulses mine,

Or in Love’s chalice of ambrosial wine

She drowns all things which were or are to be.

We please them with our smile, for they are vain

And Love a flatterer is; they joy to fling

A rose-entwinèd leash about their slave;

Purple and gold they take, and winnowed grain

Of gems from Hesperus’ isle,—all men will bring;

But Love—lies bleeding by a woman’s grave!

BALLADES & RONDEAUX

Ballade of the Sick.

CAN these be men, that lie so still, so white?

Whose hopeless eyes yearn things they cannot say?

Who scarce can part the daytime from the night

Save that the night drags heavier than the day?

Have these a listening God, to whom they pray?

God hears not such, nor cares, right well know I,

For nameless things I learn through long delay,

On this strait bed where I perforce must lie.

I learn of life-in-death; I learn the blight

Of seeing my soul and body slow decay,

Hemmed in with white-walled nothingness. The flight

Of vagrant flies, the sunlight’s sluggish way

Of crawling on—yes, even the shadows gray

Help tease the laggard moments loathly by.

Since great are none, small things my pain allay

On this strait bed where I perforce must lie.

I learn to see, nor shrink from any sight.

That deathmask yonder—carrion mass of clay—

Hath but a bleeding scrap of lung, to fight

The ghastly death that knows nor truce nor stay.

The Polack, old through pains that tear and flay,

Will go next sennight—how these swart folk die!

Last week they found one, waxen-cold for aye,

On this strait bed where I perforce must lie.

ENVOY

“This too will pass!” my comfort be alway.

Hell is forgot of them that chant on high;

Yet have I seen such things no man should say,

On this strait bed where I perforce must lie...

Three Rondeaux from Charles d’Orléans.

I.
LE TEMPS A LAISSIÉ SON MANTEAU.

YE TIME hath lefte his mantle fall

Of biting windes and cold and rain,

And well hath dight himself again

In sunlight shining cleare on all;

Creatures be none, nor birds, but call

One to another their own refrain:

Ye time hath lefte his mantle fall

Of biting windes and cold and rain.

Fountaines and brooks moste musical

Their fayrest dress to wear be fain;

With silvern drops and golde, amain,

Each newlie decks hymself withall;

Ye time hath lefte his mantle fall.

II.
DIEU! QU’IL LA FAIT BON REGARDER!

Ye Gods! How good on her to gaze,

All-gracious, fayre and sweet of mien;

Such virtues be in her y-seen

All men stand ready with their praise.

Who then could weary of her ways?

Her beautie flowereth ever green;

Ye Gods! How good on her to gaze,

All-gracious, fayre and sweet of mien.

This side or yon of Ocean’s maze

Nor dame nor damozel, I ween

So wholly parfaict yet hath been—

A dream, to think on her always:

Ye Gods! How good on her to gaze!...

III.
LES FOURRIERS D’ESTE SONT VENUS.

Ye maides in waiting all be here

Of Summertide, to deck her hall,

To hang her arras, woven all

With golden flowers and verdure clear;

To stretch her carpet far and near

Of soft green moss o’er stone and wall;

Ye maides in waiting all be here

Of Summertide, to deck her hall.

Hearts that but late were cold and drear

Now (prais’d be God!), their joy recall;

Come, come away, with snow-wrapped pall!

Out on thee, Winter, old and blear!

Ye maides in waiting all be here...

The Song of the Poor.

“O Rois qui serez jugés à votre tour.”
Banville.

O KINGS, who must yourselves be judged one day,

Think of the wretched poor that ever stand

On Famine’s edge, and pity them! They pray

For you and love you; drudging till your land,

And, toiling, fill your coffers—they withstand

Your enemies; yet damned on earth they fare,

Woe infinite and endless pain they bear;

Not one there is but knows the keen distress

Of cold, of heat, and rain and ceaseless care,

For to the poor all things are bitterness.

Even as a beast of burden, scourged amain,

The wretched peasant lives his hopeless life.

Does he but pluck his grapes, or dare refrain

An hour from drudging toil, and choose a wife

To share the sorrow of his unequal strife,—

His lord, a savage bird of prey, draws nigh;

Relentless comes, and, saying “Here am I!”

Seizes what little he may chance possess.

Nothing avails the vassal’s pleading cry,

For to the poor all things are bitterness.

Pity the wretched jester in your halls!

Think on the fisher when the black waves curl

Their frothing tongues, and crackling lightning falls

On his frail boat! Pity the blue-eyed girl,

Lowly and dreaming, as her young hands whirl

The droning wheel! Think of a mother’s pain

And torment, as she weeps and seeks in vain,

Holding her fair dead child in blind distress,

To warm its cold heart back to life again.

O, to the poor all things are bitterness.

ENVOI.

Mercy for these thine own, oh Prince, I cry!

Peace to thy vassal ’neath his darkened sky,

Peace to the pale nun, praying passionless,

And to all such as lowly live and die—

For to the poor all things are bitterness.