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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/11064-h.zip b/11064-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..ead9c85 --- /dev/null +++ b/11064-h.zip diff --git a/11064-h/11064-h.htm b/11064-h/11064-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0dae3b7 --- /dev/null +++ b/11064-h/11064-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,3563 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" /> +<title>Andromeda and Other Poems</title> +</head> +<body> +<h2> +<a href="#startoftext">Andromeda and Other Poems, by Charles Kingsley</a> +</h2> +<pre> +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Andromeda and Other Poems, by Charles Kingsley + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Andromeda and Other Poems + +Author: Charles Kingsley + +Release Date: February 12, 2004 [eBook #11064] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: US-ASCII + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ANDROMEDA AND OTHER POEMS*** +</pre> +<p><a name="startoftext"></a></p> +<p>Transcribed by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div> +<h1>ANDROMEDA AND OTHER POEMS</h1> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div> +<p>Contents:</p> +<p> Andromeda<br /> Hypotheses Hypochondriacæ<br /> Trehill +Well<br /> In an Illuminated Missal<br /> The +Weird Lady<br /> Palinodia<br /> A +Hope<br /> The Poetry of a Root Crop<br /> Child +Ballad<br /> Airly Beacon<br /> Sappho<br /> The +Bad Squire<br /> Scotch Song<br /> The +Young Knight<br /> A New Forest Ballad<br /> The +Red King<br /> The Outlaw<br /> Sing +Heigh-ho!<br /> A March<br /> A Lament<br /> The +Night Bird<br /> The Dead Church<br /> A +Parable from Liebig<br /> The Starlings<br /> Old +and New<br /> The Watchman<br /> The +World’s Age<br /> The Sands of Dee<br /> The +Tide Rock<br /> Elegiacs<br /> Dartside<br /> My +Hunting Song<br /> Alton Locke’s Song<br /> The +Day of the Lord<br /> A Christmas Carol<br /> The +Oubit<br /> The Three Fishers<br /> Sonnet<br /> Margaret +to Dolcino<br /> Dolcino to Margaret<br /> The +Ugly Princess<br /> Sonnet<br /> The +Swan-neck<br /> A Thought from the Rhine<br /> The +Longbeards’ Saga. A.D. 400<br /> Saint +Maura. A.D. 304<br /> On the Death of a Certain +Journal<br /> Down to the Mothers<br /> To +Miss Mitford<br /> Ballad of Earl Haldan’s Daughter<br /> Frank +Leigh’s Song. A.D. 1586<br /> Ode to the +North-east Wind<br /> A Farewell<br /> To +G. A. G.<br /> The South Wind<br /> The +Invitation<br /> The Find<br /> Fishing +Song<br /> The Last Buccaneer<br /> The +Knight’s Return<br /> Pen-y-gwrydd<br /> Ode<br /> Songs +from ‘The Water-babies’<br /> The +Tide River<br /> Young and Old<br /> The +Summer Sea<br /> My Little Doll<br /> The +Knight’s Leap<br /> The Song of the Little Baltung. +A.D. 395<br /> On the Death of Leopold, King of the +Belgians<br /> Easter Week<br /> Drifting +Away<br /> Christmas Day<br /> September +21, 1870<br /> The Mango-tree<br /> The +Priest’s Heart<br /> ‘Qu’est Qu’il +Dit’<br /> The Legend of La Brea<br /> Hymn<br /> The +Delectable Day<br /> Juventus Mundi<br /> Valentine’s +Day<br /> Ballad<br /> Martin Lightfoot’s +Song</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>ANDROMEDA</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Over the sea, past Crete, on the Syrian shore to the southward,<br />Dwells +in the well-tilled lowland a dark-haired Æthiop people,<br />Skilful +with needle and loom, and the arts of the dyer and carver,<br />Skilful, +but feeble of heart; for they know not the lords of Olympus,<br />Lovers +of men; neither broad-browed Zeus, nor Pallas Athené,<br />Teacher +of wisdom to heroes, bestower of might in the battle;<br />Share not +the cunning of Hermes, nor list to the songs of Apollo.<br />Fearing +the stars of the sky, and the roll of the blue salt water,<br />Fearing +all things that have life in the womb of the seas and the livers,<br />Eating +no fish to this day, nor ploughing the main, like the Phœnics,<br />Manful +with black-beaked ships, they abide in a sorrowful region,<br />Vexed +with the earthquake, and flame, and the sea-floods, scourge of Poseidon.<br /> Whelming +the dwellings of men, and the toils of the slow-footed oxen,<br />Drowning +the barley and flax, and the hard-earned gold of the harvest,<br />Up +to the hillside vines, and the pastures skirting the woodland,<br />Inland +the floods came yearly; and after the waters a monster,<br />Bred of +the slime, like the worms which are bred from the slime of the Nile-bank,<br />Shapeless, +a terror to see; and by night it swam out to the seaward,<br />Daily +returning to feed with the dawn, and devoured of the fairest,<br />Cattle, +and children, and maids, till the terrified people fled inland.<br /> Fasting +in sackcloth and ashes they came, both the king and his people,<br />Came +to the mountain of oaks, to the house of the terrible sea-gods,<br />Hard +by the gulf in the rocks, where of old the world-wide deluge<br />Sank +to the inner abyss; and the lake where the fish of the goddess,<br />Holy, +undying, abide; whom the priests feed daily with dainties.<br />There +to the mystical fish, high-throned in her chamber of cedar,<br />Burnt +they the fat of the flock; till the flame shone far to the seaward.<br />Three +days fasting they prayed; but the fourth day the priests of the goddess,<br />Cunning +in spells, cast lots, to discover the crime of the people.<br />All +day long they cast, till the house of the monarch was taken,<br />Cepheus, +king of the land; and the faces of all gathered blackness.<br />Then +once more they cast; and Cassiopœia was taken,<br />Deep-bosomed +wife of the king, whom oft far-seeing Apollo<br />Watched well-pleased +from the welkin, the fairest of Æthiop women:<br />Fairest, save +only her daughter; for down to the ankle her tresses<br />Rolled, blue-black +as the night, ambrosial, joy to beholders.<br />Awful and fair she arose, +most like in her coming to Here,<br />Queen before whom the Immortals +arise, as she comes on Olympus,<br />Out of the chamber of gold, which +her son Hephæstos has wrought her.<br />Such in her stature and +eyes, and the broad white light of her forehead.<br />Stately she came +from her place, and she spoke in the midst of the people.<br /> ‘Pure +are my hands from blood: most pure this heart in my bosom.<br />Yet +one fault I remember this day; one word have I spoken;<br />Rashly I +spoke on the shore, and I dread lest the sea should have heard it.<br />Watching +my child at her bath, as she plunged in the joy of her girlhood,<br />Fairer +I called her in pride than Atergati, queen of the ocean.<br />Judge +ye if this be my sin, for I know none other.’ She ended;<br />Wrapping +her head in her mantle she stood, and the people were silent.<br /> Answered +the dark-browed priests, ‘No word, once spoken, returneth,<br />Even +if uttered unwitting. Shall gods excuse our rashness?<br />That +which is done, that abides; and the wrath of the sea is against us;<br />Hers, +and the wrath of her brother, the Sun-god, lord of the sheepfolds.<br />Fairer +than her hast thou boasted thy daughter? Ah folly! for hateful,<br />Hateful +are they to the gods, whoso, impious, liken a mortal,<br />Fair though +he be, to their glory; and hateful is that which is likened,<br />Grieving +the eyes of their pride, and abominate, doomed to their anger.<br />What +shall be likened to gods? The unknown, who deep in the darkness<br />Ever +abide, twyformed, many-handed, terrible, shapeless.<br />Woe to the +queen; for the land is defiled, and the people accursed.<br />Take thou +her therefore by night, thou ill-starred Cassiopœia,<br />Take +her with us in the night, when the moon sinks low to the westward;<br />Bind +her aloft for a victim, a prey for the gorge of the monster,<br />Far +on the sea-girt rock, which is washed by the surges for ever;<br />So +may the goddess accept her, and so may the land make atonement,<br />Purged +by her blood from its sin: so obey thou the doom of the rulers.’<br /> Bitter +in soul they went out, Cepheus and Cassiopœia,<br />Bitter in +soul; and their hearts whirled round, as the leaves in the eddy.<br />Weak +was the queen, and rebelled: but the king, like a shepherd of people,<br />Willed +not the land should waste; so he yielded the life of his daughter.<br /> Deep +in the wane of the night, as the moon sank low to the westward,<br />They +by the shade of the cliffs, with the horror of darkness around them,<br />Stole, +as ashamed, to a deed which became not the light of the sunshine,<br />Slowly, +the priests, and the queen, and the virgin bound in the galley,<br />Slowly +they rowed to the rocks: but Cepheus far in the palace<br />Sate in +the midst of the hall, on his throne, like a shepherd of people,<br />Choking +his woe, dry-eyed, while the slaves wailed loudly around him.<br />They +on the sea-girt rock, which is washed by the surges for ever,<br />Set +her in silence, the guiltless, aloft with her face to the eastward.<br />Under +a crag of the stone, where a ledge sloped down to the water;<br />There +they set Andromeden, most beautiful, shaped like a goddess,<br />Lifting +her long white arms wide-spread to the walls of the basalt,<br />Chaining +them, ruthless, with brass; and they called on the might of the Rulers.<br /> ‘Mystical +fish of the seas, dread Queen whom Æthiops honour,<br />Whelming +the land in thy wrath, unavoidable, sharp as the sting-ray,<br />Thou, +and thy brother the Sun, brain-smiting, lord of the sheepfold,<br />Scorching +the earth all day, and then resting at night in thy bosom,<br />Take +ye this one life for many, appeased by the blood of a maiden,<br />Fairest, +and born of the fairest, a queen, most priceless of victims.’<br /> Thrice +they spat as they went by the maid: but her mother delaying<br />Fondled +her child to the last, heart-crushed; and the warmth of her weeping<br />Fell +on the breast of the maid, as her woe broke forth into wailing.<br /> ‘Daughter! +my daughter! forgive me! Oh curse not the murderess! Curse +not!<br />How have I sinned, but in love? Do the gods grudge glory +to mothers?<br />Loving I bore thee in vain in the fate-cursed bride-bed +of Cepheus,<br />Loving I fed thee and tended, and loving rejoiced in +thy beauty,<br />Blessing thy limbs as I bathed them, and blessing thy +locks as I combed them;<br />Decking thee, ripening to woman, I blest +thee: yet blessing I slew thee!<br />How have I sinned, but in love? +Oh swear to me, swear to thy mother,<br />Never to haunt me with curse, +as I go to the grave in my sorrow,<br />Childless and lone: may the +gods never send me another, to slay it!<br />See, I embrace thy knees—soft +knees, where no babe will be fondled—<br />Swear to me never to +curse me, the hapless one, not in the death-pang.’<br /> Weeping +she clung to the knees of the maid; and the maid low answered—<br />‘Curse +thee! Not in the death-pang!’ The heart of the lady +was lightened.<br />Slowly she went by the ledge; and the maid was alone +in the darkness.<br /> Watching the pulse of the oars +die down, as her own died with them,<br />Tearless, dumb with amaze +she stood, as a storm-stunned nestling<br />Fallen from bough or from +eave lies dumb, which the home-going herdsman<br />Fancies a stone, +till he catches the light of its terrified eyeball.<br />So through +the long long hours the maid stood helpless and hopeless,<br />Wide-eyed, +downward gazing in vain at the black blank darkness.<br />Feebly at +last she began, while wild thoughts bubbled within her—<br />‘Guiltless +I am: why thus, then? Are gods more ruthless than mortals?<br />Have +they no mercy for youth? no love for the souls who have loved them?<br />Even +as I loved thee, dread sea, as I played by thy margin,<br />Blessing +thy wave as it cooled me, thy wind as it breathed on my forehead,<br />Bowing +my head to thy tempest, and opening my heart to thy children,<br />Silvery +fish, wreathed shell, and the strange lithe things of the water,<br />Tenderly +casting them back, as they gasped on the beach in the sunshine,<br />Home +to their mother—in vain! for mine sits childless in anguish!<br />O +false sea! false sea! I dreamed what I dreamed of thy goodness;<br />Dreamed +of a smile in thy gleam, of a laugh in the plash of thy ripple:<br />False +and devouring thou art, and the great world dark and despiteful.’<br /> Awed +by her own rash words she was still: and her eyes to the seaward<br />Looked +for an answer of wrath: far off, in the heart of the darkness,<br />Blight +white mists rose slowly; beneath them the wandering ocean<br />Glimmered +and glowed to the deepest abyss; and the knees of the maiden<br />Trembled +and sunk in her fear, as afar, like a dawn in the midnight,<br />Rose +from their seaweed chamber the choir of the mystical sea-maids.<br />Onward +toward her they came, and her heart beat loud at their coming,<br />Watching +the bliss of the gods, as they wakened the cliffs with their laughter.<br /> Onward +they came in their joy, and before them the roll of the surges<br />Sank, +as the breeze sank dead, into smooth green foam-flecked marble,<br />Awed; +and the crags of the cliff, and the pines of the mountain were silent.<br />Onward +they came in their joy, and around them the lamps of the sea-nymphs,<br />Myriad +fiery globes, swam panting and heaving; and rainbows<br />Crimson and +azure and emerald, were broken in star-showers, lighting<br />Far through +the wine-dark depths of the crystal, the gardens of Nereus,<br />Coral +and sea-fan and tangle, the blooms and the palms of the ocean.<br /> Onward +they came in their joy, more white than the foam which they scattered,<br />Laughing +and singing, and tossing and twining, while eager, the Tritons<br />Blinded +with kisses their eyes, unreproved, and above them in worship<br />Hovered +the terns, and the seagulls swept past them on silvery pinions<br />Echoing +softly their laughter; around them the wantoning dolphins<br />Sighed +as they plunged, full of love; and the great sea-horses which bore them<br />Curved +up their crests in their pride to the delicate arms of the maidens,<br />Pawing +the spray into gems, till a fiery rainfall, unharming,<br />Sparkled +and gleamed on the limbs of the nymphs, and the coils of the mermen.<br /> Onward +they went in their joy, bathed round with the fiery coolness,<br />Needing +nor sun nor moon, self-lighted, immortal: but others,<br />Pitiful, +floated in silence apart; in their bosoms the sea-boys,<br />Slain by +the wrath of the seas, swept down by the anger of Nereus;<br />Hapless, +whom never again on strand or on quay shall their mothers<br />Welcome +with garlands and vows to the temple, but wearily pining<br />Gaze over +island and bay for the sails of the sunken; they heedless<br />Sleep +in soft bosoms for ever, and dream of the surge and the sea-maids.<br /> Onward +they passed in their joy; on their brows neither sorrow nor anger;<br />Self-sufficing, +as gods, never heeding the woe of the maiden.<br />She would have shrieked +for their mercy: but shame made her dumb; and their eyeballs<br />Stared +on her careless and still, like the eyes in the house of the idols.<br />Seeing +they saw not, and passed, like a dream, on the murmuring ripple.<br /> Stunned +by the wonder she gazed, wide-eyed, as the glory departed.<br />‘O +fair shapes! far fairer than I! Too fair to be ruthless!<br />Gladden +mine eyes once more with your splendour, unlike to my fancies;<br />You, +then, smiled in the sea-gleam, and laughed in the plash of the ripple.<br />Awful +I deemed you and formless; inhuman, monstrous as idols;<br />Lo, when +ye came, ye were women, more loving and lovelier, only;<br />Like in +all else; and I blest you: why blest ye not me for my worship?<br />Had +you no mercy for me, thus guiltless? Ye pitied the sea-boys:<br />Why +not me, then, more hapless by far? Does your sight and your knowledge<br />End +with the marge of the waves? Is the world which ye dwell in not +our world?’</p> +<p> Over the mountain aloft ran a rush and a roll and +a roaring;<br />Downward the breeze came indignant, and leapt with a +howl to the water,<br />Roaring in cranny and crag, till the pillars +and clefts of the basalt<br />Rang like a god-swept lyre, and her brain +grew mad with the noises;<br />Crashing and lapping of waters, and sighing +and tossing of weed-beds,<br />Gurgle and whisper and hiss of the foam, +while thundering surges<br />Boomed in the wave-worn halls, as they +champed at the roots of the mountain.<br />Hour after hour in the darkness +the wind rushed fierce to the landward,<br />Drenching the maiden with +spray; she shivering, weary and drooping,<br />Stood with her heart +full of thoughts, till the foam-crests gleamed in the twilight,<br />Leaping +and laughing around, and the east grew red with the dawning.<br /> Then +on the ridge of the hills rose the broad bright sun in his glory,<br />Hurling +his arrows abroad on the glittering crests of the surges,<br />Gilding +the soft round bosoms of wood, and the downs of the coastland;<br />Gilding +the weeds at her feet, and the foam-laced teeth of the ledges,<br />Showing +the maiden her home through the veil of her locks, as they floated<br />Glistening, +damp with the spray, in a long black cloud to the landward.<br />High +in the far-off glens rose thin blue curls from the homesteads;<br />Softly +the low of the herds, and the pipe of the outgoing herdsman,<br />Slid +to her ear on the water, and melted her heart into weeping.<br />Shuddering, +she tried to forget them; and straining her eyes to the seaward,<br />Watched +for her doom, as she wailed, but in vain, to the terrible Sun-god.<br /> ‘Dost +thou not pity me, Sun, though thy wild dark sister be ruthless;<br />Dost +thou not pity me here, as thou seest me desolate, weary,<br />Sickened +with shame and despair, like a kid torn young from its mother?<br />What +if my beauty insult thee, then blight it: but me—Oh spare me!<br />Spare +me yet, ere he be here, fierce, tearing, unbearable! See me,<br />See +me, how tender and soft, and thus helpless! See how I shudder,<br />Fancying +only my doom. Wilt thou shine thus bright, when it takes me?<br />Are +there no deaths save this, great Sun? No fiery arrow,<br />Lightning, +or deep-mouthed wave? Why thus? What music in shrieking,<br />Pleasure +in warm live limbs torn slowly? And dar’st thou behold them!<br />Oh, +thou hast watched worse deeds! All sights are alike to thy brightness!<br />What +if thou waken the birds to their song, dost thou waken no sorrow;<br />Waken +no sick to their pain; no captive to wrench at his fetters?<br />Smile +on the garden and fold, and on maidens who sing at the milking;<br />Flash +into tapestried chambers, and peep in the eyelids of lovers,<br />Showing +the blissful their bliss—Dost love, then, the place where thou +smilest?<br />Lovest thou cities aflame, fierce blows, and the shrieks +of the widow?<br />Lovest thou corpse-strewn fields, as thou lightest +the path of the vulture?<br />Lovest thou these, that thou gazest so +gay on my tears, and my mother’s,<br />Laughing alike at the horror +of one, and the bliss of another?<br />What dost thou care, in thy sky, +for the joys and the sorrows of mortals?<br />Colder art thou than the +nymphs: in thy broad bright eye is no seeing.<br />Hadst thou a soul—as +much soul as the slaves in the house of my father,<br />Wouldst thou +not save? Poor thralls! they pitied me, clung to me weeping,<br />Kissing +my hands and my feet—What, are gods more ruthless than mortals?<br />Worse +than the souls which they rule? Let me die: they war not with +ashes!’<br /> Sudden she ceased, with a shriek: +in the spray, like a hovering foam-bow,<br />Hung, more fair than the +foam-bow, a boy in the bloom of his manhood,<br />Golden-haired, ivory-limbed, +ambrosial; over his shoulder<br />Hung for a veil of his beauty the +gold-fringed folds of the goat-skin,<br />Bearing the brass of his shield, +as the sun flashed clear on its clearness.<br />Curved on his thigh +lay a falchion, and under the gleam of his helmet<br />Eyes more blue +than the main shone awful; around him Athené<br />Shed in her +love such grace, such state, and terrible daring.<br />Hovering over +the water he came, upon glittering pinions,<br />Living, a wonder, outgrown +from the tight-laced gold of his sandals;<br />Bounding from billow +to billow, and sweeping the crests like a sea-gull;<br />Leaping the +gulfs of the surge, as he laughed in the joy of his leaping.<br />Fair +and majestic he sprang to the rock; and the maiden in wonder<br />Gazed +for a while, and then hid in the dark-rolling wave of her tresses,<br />Fearful, +the light of her eyes; while the boy (for her sorrow had awed him)<br />Blushed +at her blushes, and vanished, like mist on the cliffs at the sunrise.<br />Fearful +at length she looked forth: he was gone: she, wild with amazement,<br />Wailed +for her mother aloud: but the wail of the wind only answered.<br />Sudden +he flashed into sight, by her side; in his pity and anger<br />Moist +were his eyes; and his breath like a rose-bed, as bolder and bolder,<br />Hovering +under her brows, like a swallow that haunts by the house-eaves,<br />Delicate-handed, +he lifted the veil of her hair; while the maiden<br />Motionless, frozen +with fear, wept loud; till his lips unclosing<br />Poured from their +pearl-strung portal the musical wave of his wonder.<br /> ‘Ah, +well spoke she, the wise one, the gray-eyed Pallas Athené,—<br />Known +to Immortals alone are the prizes which lie for the heroes<br />Ready +prepared at their feet; for requiring a little, the rulers<br />Pay +back the loan tenfold to the man who, careless of pleasure,<br />Thirsting +for honour and toil, fares forth on a perilous errand<br />Led by the +guiding of gods, and strong in the strength of Immortals.<br />Thus +have they led me to thee: from afar, unknowing, I marked thee,<br />Shining, +a snow-white cross on the dark-green walls of the sea-cliff;<br />Carven +in marble I deemed thee, a perfect work of the craftsman.<br />Likeness +of Amphitrité, or far-famed Queen Cythereia.<br />Curious I came, +till I saw how thy tresses streamed in the sea-wind,<br />Glistening, +black as the night, and thy lips moved slow in thy wailing.<br />Speak +again now—Oh speak! For my soul is stirred to avenge thee;<br />Tell +me what barbarous horde, without law, unrighteous and heartless,<br />Hateful +to gods and to men, thus have bound thee, a shame to the sunlight,<br />Scorn +and prize to the sailor: but my prize now; for a coward,<br />Coward +and shameless were he, who so finding a glorious jewel<br />Cast on +the wayside by fools, would not win it and keep it and wear it,<br />Even +as I will thee; for I swear by the head of my father,<br />Bearing thee +over the sea-wave, to wed thee in Argos the fruitful,<br />Beautiful, +meed of my toil no less than this head which I carry,<br />Hidden here +fearful—Oh speak!’<br /> But the maid, +still dumb with amazement,<br />Watered her bosom with weeping, and +longed for her home and her mother.<br />Beautiful, eager, he wooed +her, and kissed off her tears as he hovered,<br />Roving at will, as +a bee, on the brows of a rock nymph-haunted,<br />Garlanded over with +vine, and acanthus, and clambering roses,<br />Cool in the fierce still +noon, where streams glance clear in the mossbeds,<br />Hums on from +blossom to blossom, and mingles the sweets as he tastes them.<br />Beautiful, +eager, he kissed her, and clasped her yet closer and closer,<br />Praying +her still to speak—<br /> ‘Not cruel nor +rough did my mother<br />Bear me to broad-browed Zeus in the depths +of the brass-covered dungeon;<br />Neither in vain, as I think, have +I talked with the cunning of Hermes,<br />Face unto face, as a friend; +or from gray-eyed Pallas Athené<br />Learnt what is fit, and +respecting myself, to respect in my dealings<br />Those whom the gods +should love; so fear not; to chaste espousals<br />Only I woo thee, +and swear, that a queen, and alone without rival<br />By me thou sittest +in Argos of Hellas, throne of my fathers,<br />Worshipped by fair-haired +kings: why callest thou still on thy mother?<br />Why did she leave +thee thus here? For no foeman has bound thee; no foeman<br />Winning +with strokes of the sword such a prize, would so leave it behind him.’<br /> Just +as at first some colt, wild-eyed, with quivering nostril,<br />Plunges +in fear of the curb, and the fluttering robes of the rider;<br />Soon, +grown bold by despair, submits to the will of his master,<br />Tamer +and tamer each hour, and at last, in the pride of obedience,<br />Answers +the heel with a curvet, and arches his neck to be fondled,<br />Cowed +by the need that maid grew tame; while the hero indignant<br />Tore +at the fetters which held her: the brass, too cunningly tempered,<br />Held +to the rock by the nails, deep wedged: till the boy, red with anger,<br />Drew +from his ivory thigh, keen flashing, a falchion of diamond—<br />‘Now +let the work of the smith try strength with the arms of Immortals!’<br />Dazzling +it fell; and the blade, as the vine-hook shears off the vine-bough,<br />Carved +through the strength of the brass, till her arms fell soft on his shoulder.<br />Once +she essayed to escape: but the ring of the water was round her,<br />Round +her the ring of his arms; and despairing she sank on his bosom.<br />Then, +like a fawn when startled, she looked with a shriek to the seaward.<br /> ‘Touch +me not, wretch that I am! For accursed, a shame and a hissing,<br />Guiltless, +accurst no less, I await the revenge of the sea-gods.<br />Yonder it +comes! Ah go! Let me perish unseen, if I perish!<br />Spare +me the shame of thine eyes, when merciless fangs must tear me<br />Piecemeal! +Enough to endure by myself in the light of the sunshine<br />Guiltless, +the death of a kid!’<br /> But the boy still +lingered around her,<br />Loth, like a boy, to forego her, and waken +the cliffs with his laughter.<br />‘Yon is the foe, then? +A beast of the sea? I had deemed him immortal.<br />Titan, or +Proteus’ self, or Nereus, foeman of sailors:<br />Yet would I +fight with them all, but Poseidon, shaker of mountains,<br />Uncle of +mine, whom I fear, as is fit; for he haunts on Olympus,<br />Holding +the third of the world; and the gods all rise at his coming.<br />Unto +none else will I yield, god-helped: how then to a monster,<br />Child +of the earth and of night, unreasoning, shapeless, accursed?’<br /> ‘Art +thou, too, then a god?’<br /> ‘No +god I,’ smiling he answered;<br />‘Mortal as thou, yet divine: +but mortal the herds of the ocean,<br />Equal to men in that only, and +less in all else; for they nourish<br />Blindly the life of the lips, +untaught by the gods, without wisdom:<br />Shame if I fled before such!’<br /> In +her heart new life was enkindled,<br />Worship and trust, fair parents +of love: but she answered him sighing.<br /> ‘Beautiful, +why wilt thou die? Is the light of the sun, then, so worthless,<br />Worthless +to sport with thy fellows in flowery glades of the forest,<br />Under +the broad green oaks, where never again shall I wander,<br />Tossing +the ball with my maidens, or wreathing the altar in garlands,<br />Careless, +with dances and songs, till the glens rang loud to our laughter.<br />Too +full of death the sad earth is already: the halls full of weepers,<br />Quarried +by tombs all cliffs, and the bones gleam white on the sea-floor,<br />Numberless, +gnawn by the herds who attend on the pitiless sea-gods,<br />Even as +mine will be soon: and yet noble it seems to me, dying,<br />Giving +my life for a people, to save to the arms of their lovers<br />Maidens +and youths for a while: thee, fairest of all, shall I slay thee?<br />Add +not thy bones to the many, thus angering idly the dread ones!<br />Either +the monster will crush, or the sea-queen’s self overwhelm thee,<br />Vengeful, +in tempest and foam, and the thundering walls of the surges.<br />Why +wilt thou follow me down? can we love in the black blank darkness?<br />Love +in the realms of the dead, in the land where all is forgotten?<br />Why +wilt thou follow me down? is it joy, on the desolate oozes,<br />Meagre +to flit, gray ghosts in the depths of the gray salt water?<br />Beautiful! +why wilt thou die, and defraud fair girls of thy manhood?<br />Surely +one waits for thee longing, afar in the isles of the ocean.<br />Go +thy way; I mine; for the gods grudge pleasure to mortals.’<br /> Sobbing +she ended her moan, as her neck, like a storm-bent lily,<br />Drooped +with the weight of her woe, and her limbs sank, weary with watching,<br />Soft +on the hard-ledged rock: but the boy, with his eye on the monster,<br />Clasped +her, and stood, like a god; and his lips curved proud as he answered—<br /> ‘Great +are the pitiless sea-gods: but greater the Lords of Olympus;<br />Greater +the Ægis-wielder, and greater is she who attends him.<br />Clear-eyed +Justice her name is, the counsellor, loved of Athené;<br />Helper +of heroes, who dare, in the god-given might of their manhood,<br />Greatly +to do and to suffer, and far in the fens’ and the forests<br />Smite +the devourers of men, Heaven-hated, brood of the giants,<br />Twyformed, +strange, without like, who obey not the golden-haired Rulers.<br />Vainly +rebelling they rage, till they die by the swords of the heroes,<br />Even +as this must die; for I burn with the wrath of my father,<br />Wandering, +led by Athené; and dare whatsoever betides me.<br />Led by Athené +I won from the gray-haired terrible sisters<br />Secrets hidden from +men, when I found them asleep on the sand-hills,<br />Keeping their +eye and their tooth, till they showed me the perilous pathway<br />Over +the waterless ocean, the valley that led to the Gorgon.<br />Her too +I slew in my craft, Medusa, the beautiful horror;<br />Taught by Athené +I slew her, and saw not herself, but her image,<br />Watching the mirror +of brass, in the shield which a goddess had lent me.<br />Cleaving her +brass-scaled throat, as she lay with her adders around her,<br />Fearless +I bore off her head, in the folds of the mystical goat-skin<br />Hide +of Amaltheié, fair nurse of the Ægis-wielder.<br />Hither +I bear it, a gift to the gods, and a death to my foe-men,<br />Freezing +the seer to stone; to hide thine eyes from the horror.<br />Kiss me +but once, and I go.’<br /> Then lifting her neck, +like a sea-bird<br />Peering up over the wave, from the foam-white swells +of her bosom,<br />Blushing she kissed him: afar, on the topmost Idalian +summit<br />Laughed in the joy of her heart, far-seeing, the queen Aphrodité.<br /> Loosing +his arms from her waist he flew upward, awaiting the sea-beast.<br />Onward +it came from the southward, as bulky and black as a galley,<br />Lazily +coasting along, as the fish fled leaping before it;<br />Lazily breasting +the ripple, and watching by sandbar and headland,<br />Listening for +laughter of maidens at bleaching, or song of the fisher,<br />Children +at play on the pebbles, or cattle that pawed on the sand-hills.<br />Rolling +and dripping it came, where bedded in glistening purple<br />Cold on +the cold sea-weeds lay the long white sides of the maiden,<br />Trembling, +her face in her hands, and her tresses afloat on the water.<br /> As +when an osprey aloft, dark-eyebrowed, royally crested,<br />Flags on +by creek and by cove, and in scorn of the anger of Nereus<br />Ranges, +the king of the shore; if he see on a glittering shallow,<br />Chasing +the bass and the mullet, the fin of a wallowing dolphin,<br />Halting, +he wheels round slowly, in doubt at the weight of his quarry,<br />Whether +to clutch it alive, or to fall on the wretch like a plummet,<br />Stunning +with terrible talon the life of the brain in the hindhead:<br />Then +rushes up with a scream, and stooping the wrath of his eyebrows<br />Falls +from the sky, like a star, while the wind rattles hoarse in his pinions.<br />Over +him closes the foam for a moment; and then from the sand-bed<br />Rolls +up the great fish, dead, and his side gleams white in the sunshine.<br />Thus +fell the boy on the beast, unveiling the face of the Gorgon;<br />Thus +fell the boy on the beast; thus rolled up the beast in his horror,<br />Once, +as the dead eyes glared into his; then his sides, death-sharpened,<br />Stiffened +and stood, brown rock, in the wash of the wandering water.<br /> Beautiful, +eager, triumphant, he leapt back again to his treasure;<br />Leapt back +again, full blest, toward arms spread wide to receive him.<br />Brimful +of honour he clasped her, and brimful of love she caressed him,<br />Answering +lip with lip; while above them the queen Aphrodité<br />Poured +on their foreheads and limbs, unseen, ambrosial odours,<br />Givers +of longing, and rapture, and chaste content in espousals.<br />Happy +whom ere they be wedded anoints she, the Queen Aphrodité!<br /> Laughing +she called to her sister, the chaste Tritonid Athené,<br />‘Seest +thou yonder thy pupil, thou maid of the Ægis-wielder?<br />How +he has turned himself wholly to love, and caresses a damsel,<br />Dreaming +no longer of honour, or danger, or Pallas Athené?<br />Sweeter, +it seems, to the young my gifts are; so yield me the stripling;<br />Yield +him me now, lest he die in his prime, like hapless Adonis.’<br /> Smiling +she answered in turn, that chaste Tritonid Athené:<br />‘Dear +unto me, no less than to thee, is the wedlock of heroes;<br />Dear, +who can worthily win him a wife not unworthy; and noble,<br />Pure with +the pure to beget brave children, the like of their father.<br />Happy, +who thus stands linked to the heroes who were, and who shall be;<br />Girdled +with holiest awe, not sparing of self; for his mother<br />Watches his +steps with the eyes of the gods; and his wife and his children<br />Move +him to plan and to do in the farm and the camp and the council.<br />Thence +comes weal to a nation: but woe upon woe, when the people<br />Mingle +in love at their will, like the brutes, not heeding the future.’<br /> Then +from her gold-strung loom, where she wrought in her chamber of cedar,<br />Awful +and fair she arose; and she went by the glens of Olympus;<br />Went +by the isles of the sea, and the wind never ruffled her mantle;<br />Went +by the water of Crete, and the black-beaked fleets of the Phœnics;<br />Came +to the sea-girt rock which is washed by the surges for ever,<br />Bearing +the wealth of the gods, for a gift to the bride of a hero.<br />There +she met Andromeden and Persea, shaped like Immortals;<br />Solemn and +sweet was her smile, while their hearts beat loud at her coming;<br />Solemn +and sweet was her smile, as she spoke to the pair in her wisdom.<br /> ‘Three +things hold we, the Rulers, who sit by the founts of Olympus,<br />Wisdom, +and prowess, and beauty; and freely we pour them on mortals;<br />Pleased +at our image in man, as a father at his in his children.<br />One thing +only we grudge to mankind: when a hero, unthankful,<br />Boasts of our +gifts as his own, stiffnecked, and dishonours the givers,<br />Turning +our weapons against us. Him Até follows avenging;<br />Slowly +she tracks him and sure, as a lyme-hound; sudden she grips him,<br />Crushing +him, blind in his pride, for a sign and a terror to folly.<br />This +we avenge, as is fit; in all else never weary of giving.<br />Come, +then, damsel, and know if the gods grudge pleasure to mortals.’<br /> Loving +and gentle she spoke: but the maid stood in awe, as the goddess<br />Plaited +with soft swift finger her tresses, and decked her in jewels,<br />Armlet +and anklet and earbell; and over her shoulders a necklace,<br />Heavy, +enamelled, the flower of the gold and the brass of the mountain.<br />Trembling +with joy she gazed, so well Hæphaistos had made it,<br />Deep +in the forges of Ætna, while Charis his lady beside him<br />Mingled +her grace in his craft, as he wrought for his sister Athené.<br />Then +on the brows of the maiden a veil bound Pallas Athené;<br />Ample +it fell to her feet, deep-fringed, a wonder of weaving.<br />Ages and +ages agone it was wrought on the heights of Olympus,<br />Wrought in +the gold-strung loom, by the finger of cunning Athené.<br />In +it she wove all creatures that teem in the womb of the ocean;<br />Nereid, +siren, and triton, and dolphin, and arrowy fishes<br />Glittering round, +many-hued, on the flame-red folds of the mantle.<br />In it she wove, +too, a town where gray-haired kings sat in judgment;<br />Sceptre in +hand in the market they sat, doing right by the people,<br />Wise: while +above watched Justice, and near, far-seeing Apollo.<br />Round it she +wove for a fringe all herbs of the earth and the water,<br />Violet, +asphodel, ivy, and vine-leaves, roses and lilies,<br />Coral and sea-fan +and tangle, the blooms and the palms of the ocean:<br />Now from Olympus +she bore it, a dower to the bride of a hero.<br />Over the limbs of +the damsel she wrapt it: the maid still trembled,<br />Shading her face +with her hands; for the eyes of the goddess were awful.<br /> Then, +as a pine upon Ida when southwest winds blow landward,<br />Stately +she bent to the damsel, and breathed on her: under her breathing<br />Taller +and fairer she grew; and the goddess spoke in her wisdom.<br /> ‘Courage +I give thee; the heart of a queen, and the mind of Immortals;<br />Godlike +to talk with the gods, and to look on their eyes unshrinking;<br />Fearing +the sun and the stars no more, and the blue salt water;<br />Fearing +us only, the lords of Olympus, friends of the heroes;<br />Chastely +and wisely to govern thyself and thy house and thy people,<br />Bearing +a godlike race to thy spouse, till dying I set thee<br />High for a +star in the heavens, a sign and a hope to the seamen,<br />Spreading +thy long white arms all night in the heights of the æther,<br />Hard +by thy sire and the hero thy spouse, while near thee thy mother<br />Sits +in her ivory chair, as she plaits ambrosial tresses.<br />All night +long thou wilt shine; all day thou wilt feast on Olympus,<br />Happy, +the guest of the gods, by thy husband, the god-begotten.’<br /> Blissful, +they turned them to go: but the fair-tressed Pallas Athené<br />Rose, +like a pillar of tall white cloud, toward silver Olympus;<br />Far above +ocean and shore, and the peaks of the isles and the mainland;<br />Where +no frost nor storm is, in clear blue windless abysses,<br />High in +the home of the summer, the seats of the happy Immortals,<br />Shrouded +in keen deep blaze, unapproachable; there ever youthful<br />Hebé, +Harmonié, and the daughter of Jove, Aphrodité,<br />Whirled +in the white-linked dance with the gold-crowned Hours and the Graces,<br />Hand +within hand, while clear piped Phœbe, queen of the woodlands.<br />All +day long they rejoiced: but Athené still in her chamber<br />Bent +herself over her loom, as the stars rang loud to her singing,<br />Chanting +of order and right, and of foresight, warden of nations;<br />Chanting +of labour and craft, and of wealth in the port and the garner;<br />Chanting +of valour and fame, and the man who can fall with the foremost,<br />Fighting +for children and wife, and the field which his father bequeathed him.<br />Sweetly +and solemnly sang she, and planned new lessons for mortals:<br />Happy, +who hearing obey her, the wise unsullied Athené.</p> +<p>Eversley, 1852,</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>HYPOTHESES HYPOCHONDRIACÆ <a name="citation211"></a><a href="#footnote211">{211}</a></h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>And should she die, her grave should be<br />Upon the bare top of +a sunny hill,<br />Among the moorlands of her own fair land,<br />Amid +a ring of old and moss-grown stones<br />In gorse and heather all embosomed.<br />There +should be no tall stone, no marble tomb<br />Above her gentle corse;—the +ponderous pile<br />Would press too rudely on those fairy limbs.<br />The +turf should lightly he, that marked her home.<br />A sacred spot it +would be—every bird<br />That came to watch her lone grave should +be holy.<br />The deer should browse around her undisturbed;<br />The +whin bird by, her lonely nest should build<br />All fearless; for in +life she loved to see<br />Happiness in all things—<br />And we +would come on summer days<br />When all around was bright, and set us +down<br />And think of all that lay beneath that turf<br />On which +the heedless moor-bird sits, and whistles<br />His long, shrill, painful +song, as though he plained<br />For her that loved him and his pleasant +hills;<br />And we would dream again of bygone days<br />Until our eyes +should swell with natural tears<br />For brilliant hopes—all faded +into air!<br />As, on the sands of Irak, near approach<br />Destroys +the traveller’s vision of still lakes,<br />And goodly streams +reed-clad, and meadows green;<br />And leaves behind the drear reality<br />Of +shadeless, same, yet ever-changing sand!<br />And when the sullen clouds +rose thick on high<br />Mountains on mountains rolling—and dark +mist<br />Wrapped itself round the hill-tops like a shroud,<br />When +on her grave swept by the moaning wind<br />Bending the heather-bells—then +would I come<br />And watch by her, in silent loneliness,<br />And smile +upon the storm—as knowing well<br />The lightning’s flash +would surely turn aside,<br />Nor mar the lowly mound, where peaceful +sleeps<br />All that gave life and love to one fond heart!<br />I talk +of things that are not; and if prayers<br />By night and day availed +from my weak lips,<br />Then should they never be! till I was gone,<br />Before +the friends I loved, to my long home.<br />Oh pardon me, if e’er +I say too much; my mind<br />Too often strangely turns to ribald mirth,<br />As +though I had no doubt nor hope beyond—<br />Or brooding melancholy +cloys my soul<br />With thoughts of days misspent, of wasted time<br />And +bitter feelings swallowed up in jests.<br />Then strange and fearful +thoughts flit o’er my brain<br />By indistinctness made more terrible,<br />And +incubi mock at me with fierce eyes<br />Upon my couch: and visions, +crude and dire,<br />Of planets, suns, millions of miles, infinity,<br />Space, +time, thought, being, blank nonentity,<br />Things incorporeal, fancies +of the brain,<br />Seen, heard, as though they were material,<br />All +mixed in sickening mazes, trouble me,<br />And lead my soul away from +earth and heaven<br />Until I doubt whether I be or not!<br />And then +I see all frightful shapes—lank ghosts,<br />Hydras, chimeras, +krakens, wastes of sand,<br />Herbless and void of living voice—tall +mountains<br />Cleaving the skies with height immeasurable,<br />On +which perchance I climb for infinite years; broad seas,<br />Studded +with islands numberless, that stretch<br />Beyond the regions of the +sun, and fade<br />Away in distance vast, or dreary clouds,<br />Cold, +dark, and watery, where wander I for ever!<br />Or space of ether, where +I hang for aye!<br />A speck, an atom—inconsumable—<br />Immortal, +hopeless, voiceless, powerless!<br />And oft I fancy, I am weak and +old,<br />And all who loved me, one by one, are dead,<br />And I am +left alone—and cannot die!<br />Surely there is no rest on earth +for souls<br />Whose dreams are like a madman’s! I am young<br />And +much is yet before me—after years<br />May bring peace with them +to my weary heart!</p> +<p>Helston, 1835.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>TREHILL WELL</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>There stood a low and ivied roof,<br /> As gazing +rustics tell,<br />In times of chivalry and song<br /> ‘Yclept +the holy well.</p> +<p>Above the ivies’ branchlets gray<br /> In +glistening clusters shone;<br />While round the base the grass-blades +bright<br /> And spiry foxglove sprung.</p> +<p>The brambles clung in graceful bands,<br /> Chequering +the old gray stone<br />With shining leaflets, whose bright face<br /> In +autumn’s tinting shone.</p> +<p>Around the fountain’s eastern base<br /> A +babbling brooklet sped,<br />With sleepy murmur purling soft<br /> Adown +its gravelly bed.</p> +<p>Within the cell the filmy ferns<br /> To woo the +clear wave bent;<br />And cushioned mosses to the stone<br /> Their +quaint embroidery lent.</p> +<p>The fountain’s face lay still as glass—<br /> Save +where the streamlet free<br />Across the basin’s gnarled lip<br /> Flowed +ever silently.</p> +<p>Above the well a little nook<br /> Once held, as +rustics tell,<br />All garland-decked, an image of<br /> The +Lady of the Well.</p> +<p>They tell of tales of mystery,<br /> Of darkling +deeds of woe;<br />But no! such doings might not brook<br /> The +holy streamlet’s flow.</p> +<p>Oh tell me not of bitter thoughts,<br /> Of melancholy +dreams,<br />By that fair fount whose sunny wall<br /> Basks +in the western beams.</p> +<p>When last I saw that little stream,<br /> A form +of light there stood,<br />That seemed like a precious gem,<br /> Beneath +that archway rude:</p> +<p>And as I gazed with love and awe<br /> Upon that +sylph-like thing,<br />Methought that airy form must be<br /> The +fairy of the spring.</p> +<p>Helston, 1835.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>IN AN ILLUMINATED MISSAL <a name="citation216"></a><a href="#footnote216">{216}</a></h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>I would have loved: there are no mates in heaven;<br />I would be +great: there is no pride in heaven;<br />I would have sung, as doth +the nightingale<br />The summer’s night beneath the moonè +pale,<br />But Saintès hymnes alone in heaven prevail.<br />My +love, my song, my skill, my high intent,<br />Have I within this seely +book y-pent:<br />And all that beauty which from every part<br />I treasured +still alway within mine heart,<br />Whether of form or face angelical,<br />Or +herb or flower, or lofty cathedral,<br />Upon these sheets below doth +lie y-spred,<br />In quaint devices deftly blazonèd.<br /> Lord, +in this tome to thee I sanctify<br /> The sinful fruits +of worldly fantasy.</p> +<p>1839.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>THE WEIRD LADY</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>The swevens came up round Harold the Earl,<br /> Like +motes in the sunnès beam;<br />And over him stood the Weird Lady,<br />In +her charmèd castle over the sea,<br /> Sang +‘Lie thou still and dream.’</p> +<p>‘Thy steed is dead in his stall, Earl Harold,<br /> Since +thou hast been with me;<br />The rust has eaten thy harness bright,<br />And +the rats have eaten thy greyhound light,<br /> That +was so fair and free.’</p> +<p>Mary Mother she stooped from heaven;<br />She wakened Earl Harold +out of his sweven,<br /> To don his harness on;<br />And +over the land and over the sea<br />He wended abroad to his own countrie,<br /> A +weary way to gon.</p> +<p>Oh but his beard was white with eld,<br /> Oh but +his hair was gray;<br />He stumbled on by stock and stone,<br />And +as he journeyed he made his moan<br /> Along that weary +way.</p> +<p>Earl Harold came to his castle wall;<br /> The gate +was burnt with fire;<br />Roof and rafter were fallen down,<br />The +folk were strangers all in the town,<br /> And strangers +all in the shire.</p> +<p>Earl Harold came to a house of nuns,<br /> And he +heard the dead-bell toll;<br />He saw the sexton stand by a grave;<br />‘Now +Christ have mercy, who did us save,<br /> Upon yon +fair nun’s soul.’</p> +<p>The nuns they came from the convent gate<br /> By +one, by two, by three;<br />They sang for the soul of a lady bright<br />Who +died for the love of a traitor knight:<br /> It was +his own lady.</p> +<p>He stayed the corpse beside the grave;<br /> ‘A +sign, a sign!’ quod he.<br />‘Mary Mother who rulest heaven,<br />Send +me a sign if I be forgiven<br /> By the woman who so +loved me.’</p> +<p>A white dove out of the coffin flew;<br /> Earl +Harold’s mouth it kist;<br />He fell on his face, wherever he +stood;<br />And the white dove carried his soul to God<br /> Or +ever the bearers wist.</p> +<p>Durham, 1840.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>PALINODIA</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Ye mountains, on whose torrent-furrowed slopes,<br />And bare and +silent brows uplift to heaven,<br />I envied oft the soul which fills +your wastes<br />Of pure and stern sublime, and still expanse<br />Unbroken +by the petty incidents<br />Of noisy life: Oh hear me once again!</p> +<p>Winds, upon whose racked eddies, far aloft,<br />Above the murmur +of the uneasy world,<br />My thoughts in exultation held their way:<br />Whose +tremulous whispers through the rustling glade<br />Were once to me unearthly +tones of love,<br />Joy without object, wordless music, stealing<br />Through +all my soul, until my pulse beat fast<br />With aimless hope, and unexpressed +desire—<br />Thou sea, who wast to me a prophet deep<br />Through +all thy restless waves, and wasting shores,<br />Of silent labour, and +eternal change;<br />First teacher of the dense immensity<br />Of ever-stirring +life, in thy strange forms<br />Of fish, and shell, and worm, and oozy +weed:<br />To me alike thy frenzy and thy sleep<br />Have been a deep +and breathless joy: Oh hear!</p> +<p>Mountains, and winds, and waves, take back your child!<br />Upon +thy balmy bosom, Mother Nature,<br />Where my young spirit dreamt its +years away,<br />Give me once more to nestle: I have strayed<br />Far +through another world, which is not thine.<br />Through sunless cities, +and the weary haunts<br />Of smoke-grimed labour, and foul revelry<br />My +flagging wing has swept. A mateless bird’s<br />My pilgrimage +has been; through sin, and doubt,<br />And darkness, seeking love. +Oh hear me, Nature!<br />Receive me once again: but not alone;<br />No +more alone, Great Mother! I have brought<br />One who has wandered, +yet not sinned, like me.<br />Upon thy lap, twin children, let us lie;<br />And +in the light of thine immortal eyes<br />Let our souls mingle, till +The Father calls<br />To some eternal home the charge He gives thee.</p> +<p>Cambridge, 1841.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>A HOPE</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Twin stars, aloft in ether clear,<br /> Around each +other roll alway,<br />Within one common atmosphere<br /> Of +their own mutual light and day.</p> +<p>And myriad happy eyes are bent<br /> Upon their +changeless love alway;<br />As, strengthened by their one intent,<br /> They +pour the flood of life and day.</p> +<p>So we through this world’s waning night<br /> May, +hand in hand, pursue our way;<br />Shed round us order, love, and light,<br /> And +shine unto the perfect day.</p> +<p>1842.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>THE POETRY OF A ROOT CROP</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Underneath their eider-robe<br />Russet swede and golden globe,<br />Feathered +carrot, burrowing deep,<br />Steadfast wait in charmèd sleep;<br />Treasure-houses +wherein lie,<br />Locked by angels’ alchemy,<br />Milk and hair, +and blood, and bone,<br />Children of the barren stone;<br />Children +of the flaming Air,<br />With his blue eye keen and bare,<br />Spirit-peopled +smiling down<br />On frozen field and toiling town—<br />Toiling +town that will not heed<br />God His voice for rage and greed;<br />Frozen +fields that surpliced lie,<br />Gazing patient at the sky;<br />Like +some marble carven nun,<br />With folded hands when work is done,<br />Who +mute upon her tomb doth pray,<br />Till the resurrection day.</p> +<p>Eversley, 1845.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>CHILD BALLAD</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Jesus, He loves one and all,<br />Jesus, He loves children small,<br />Their +souls are waiting round His feet<br />On high, before His mercy-seat.</p> +<p>While He wandered here below<br />Children small to Him did go,<br />At +His feet they knelt and prayed,<br />On their heads His hands He laid.</p> +<p>Came a Spirit on them then,<br />Better than of mighty men,<br />A +Spirit faithful, pure and mild,<br />A Spirit fit for king and child.</p> +<p>Oh! that Spirit give to me,<br />Jesu Lord, where’er I be!</p> +<p>1847.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>AIRLY BEACON</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon;<br /> Oh the pleasant +sight to see<br />Shires and towns from Airly Beacon,<br /> While +my love climbed up to me!</p> +<p>Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon;<br /> Oh the happy hours +we lay<br />Deep in fern on Airly Beacon,<br /> Courting +through the summer’s day!</p> +<p>Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon;<br /> Oh the weary haunt +for me,<br />All alone on Airly Beacon,<br /> With +his baby on my knee!</p> +<p>1847.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>SAPPHO</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>She lay among the myrtles on the cliff;<br />Above her glared the +noon; beneath, the sea.<br />Upon the white horizon Atho’s peak<br />Weltered +in burning haze; all airs were dead;<br />The cicale slept among the +tamarisk’s hair;<br />The birds sat dumb and drooping. Far +below<br />The lazy sea-weed glistened in the sun;<br />The lazy sea-fowl +dried their steaming wings;<br />The lazy swell crept whispering up +the ledge,<br />And sank again. Great Pan was laid to rest;<br />And +Mother Earth watched by him as he slept,<br />And hushed her myriad +children for a while.<br />She lay among the myrtles on the cliff;<br />And +sighed for sleep, for sleep that would not hear,<br />But left her tossing +still; for night and day<br />A mighty hunger yearned within her heart,<br />Till +all her veins ran fever; and her cheek,<br />Her long thin hands, and +ivory-channelled feet,<br />Were wasted with the wasting of her soul.<br />Then +peevishly she flung her on her face,<br />And hid her eyeballs from +the blinding glare,<br />And fingered at the grass, and tried to cool<br />Her +crisp hot lips against the crisp hot sward:<br />And then she raised +her head, and upward cast<br />Wild looks from homeless eyes, whose +liquid light<br />Gleamed out between deep folds of blue-black hair,<br />As +gleam twin lakes between the purple peaks<br />Of deep Parnassus, at +the mournful moon.<br />Beside her lay her lyre. She snatched +the shell,<br />And waked wild music from its silver strings;<br />Then +tossed it sadly by.—‘Ah, hush!’ she cries;<br />‘Dead +offspring of the tortoise and the mine!<br />Why mock my discords with +thine harmonies?<br />Although a thrice-Olympian lot be thine,<br />Only +to echo back in every tone<br />The moods of nobler natures than thine +own.’</p> +<p>Eversley, 1847<br />From <i>Yeast</i>.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>THE BAD SQUIRE</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>The merry brown hares came leaping<br /> Over the +crest of the hill,<br />Where the clover and corn lay sleeping<br /> Under +the moonlight still.</p> +<p>Leaping late and early,<br /> Till under their bite +and their tread<br />The swedes and the wheat and the barley<br /> Lay +cankered and trampled and dead.</p> +<p>A poacher’s widow sat sighing<br /> On the +side of the white chalk bank,<br />Where under the gloomy fir-woods<br /> One +spot in the ley throve rank.</p> +<p>She watched a long tuft of clover,<br /> Where rabbit +or hare never ran;<br />For its black sour haulm covered over<br /> The +blood of a murdered man.</p> +<p>She thought of the dark plantation,<br /> And the +hares, and her husband’s blood,<br />And the voice of her indignation<br /> Rose +up to the throne of God.</p> +<p>‘I am long past wailing and whining—<br /> I +have wept too much in my life:<br />I’ve had twenty years of pining<br /> As +an English labourer’s wife.</p> +<p>‘A labourer in Christian England,<br /> Where +they cant of a Saviour’s name,<br />And yet waste men’s +lives like the vermin’s<br /> For a few more +brace of game.</p> +<p>‘There’s blood on your new foreign shrubs, squire,<br /> There’s +blood on your pointer’s feet;<br />There’s blood on the +game you sell, squire,<br /> And there’s blood +on the game you eat.</p> +<p>‘You have sold the labouring-man, squire,<br /> Body +and soul to shame,<br />To pay for your seat in the House, squire,<br /> And +to pay for the feed of your game.</p> +<p>‘You made him a poacher yourself, squire,<br /> When +you’d give neither work nor meat,<br />And your barley-fed hares +robbed the garden<br /> At our starving children’s +feet;</p> +<p>‘When, packed in one reeking chamber,<br /> Man, +maid, mother, and little ones lay;<br />While the rain pattered in on +the rotting bride-bed,<br /> And the walls let in the +day.</p> +<p>‘When we lay in the burning fever<br /> On +the mud of the cold clay floor,<br />Till you parted us all for three +months, squire,<br /> At the dreary workhouse door.</p> +<p>‘We quarrelled like brutes, and who wonders?<br /> What +self-respect could we keep,<br />Worse housed than your hacks and your +pointers,<br /> Worse fed than your hogs and your sheep?</p> +<p>‘Our daughters with base-born babies<br /> Have +wandered away in their shame,<br />If your misses had slept, squire, +where they did,<br /> Your misses might do the same.</p> +<p>‘Can your lady patch hearts that are breaking<br /> With +handfuls of coals and rice,<br />Or by dealing out flannel and sheeting<br /> A +little below cost price?</p> +<p>‘You may tire of the jail and the workhouse,<br /> And +take to allotments and schools,<br />But you’ve run up a debt +that will never<br /> Be paid us by penny-club rules.</p> +<p>‘In the season of shame and sadness,<br /> In +the dark and dreary day,<br />When scrofula, gout, and madness<br /> Are +eating your race away;</p> +<p>‘When to kennels and liveried varlets<br /> You +have cast your daughter’s bread,<br />And, worn out with liquor +and harlots,<br /> Your heir at your feet lies dead;</p> +<p>‘When your youngest, the mealy-mouthed rector,<br /> Lets +your soul rot asleep to the grave,<br />You will find in your God the +protector<br /> Of the freeman you fancied your slave.’</p> +<p>She looked at the tuft of clover,<br /> And wept +till her heart grew light;<br />And at last, when her passion was over,<br /> Went +wandering into the night.</p> +<p>But the merry brown hares came leaping<br /> Over +the uplands still,<br />Where the clover and corn lay sleeping<br /> On +the side of the white chalk hill.</p> +<p>Eversley, 1847.<br />From <i>Yeast</i>.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>SCOTCH SONG</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Oh, forth she went like a braw, braw bride<br /> To +meet her winsome groom,<br />When she was aware of twa bonny birds<br /> Sat +biggin’ in the broom.</p> +<p>The tane it built with the green, green moss,<br /> But +and the bents sae fine,<br />And the tither wi’ a lock o’ +lady’s hair<br /> Linked up wi’ siller +twine.</p> +<p>‘O whaur gat ye the green, green moss,<br /> O +whaur the bents sae fine?<br />And whaur gat ye the bonny broun hair<br /> That +ance was tress o’ mine?’</p> +<p>‘We gat the moss fra’ the elditch aile,<br /> The +bents fra’ the whinny muir,<br />And a fause knight threw us the +bonny broun hair,<br /> To please his braw new fere.’</p> +<p>‘Gae pull, gae pull the simmer leaves,<br /> And +strew them saft o’er me;<br />My token’s tint, my love is +fause,<br /> I’ll lay me doon and dee.’</p> +<p>1847.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>THE YOUNG KNIGHT: A PARABLE</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>A gay young knight in Burley stood,<br />Beside him pawed his steed +so good,<br />His hands he wrung as he were wood<br /> With +waiting for his love O!</p> +<p>‘Oh, will she come, or will she stay,<br />Or will she waste +the weary day<br />With fools who wish her far away,<br /> And +hate her for her love O?’</p> +<p>But by there came a mighty boar,<br />His jowl and tushes red with +gore,<br />And on his curled snout he bore<br /> A +bracelet rich and rare O!</p> +<p>The knight he shrieked, he ran, he flew,<br />He searched the wild +wood through and through,<br />But found nought save a mantle blue,<br /> Low +rolled within the brake O!</p> +<p>He twined the wild briar, red and white,<br />Upon his head the garland +dight,<br />The green leaves withered black as night,<br /> And +burnt into his brain O!</p> +<p>A fire blazed up within his breast,<br />He mounted on an aimless +quest,<br />He laid his virgin lance in rest,<br /> And +through the forest drove O!</p> +<p>By Rhinefield and by Osmondsleigh,<br />Through leat and furze brake +fast drove he,<br />Until he saw the homeless sea,<br /> That +called with all its waves O!</p> +<p>He laughed aloud to hear the roar,<br />And rushed his horse adown +the shore,<br />The deep surge rolled him o’er and o’er,<br /> And +swept him down the tide O!</p> +<p>New Forest, <i>July</i> 12, 1847.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>A NEW FOREST BALLAD</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Oh she tripped over Ocknell plain,<br /> And down +by Bradley Water;<br />And the fairest maid on the forest side<br /> Was +Jane, the keeper’s daughter.</p> +<p>She went and went through the broad gray lawns<br /> As +down the red sun sank,<br />And chill as the scent of a new-made grave<br /> The +mist smelt cold and dank.</p> +<p>‘A token, a token!’ that fair maid cried,<br /> ‘A +token that bodes me sorrow;<br />For they that smell the grave by night<br /> Will +see the corpse to-morrow.</p> +<p>‘My own true love in Burley Walk<br /> Does +hunt to-night, I fear;<br />And if he meet my father stern,<br /> His +game may cost him dear.</p> +<p>‘Ah, here’s a curse on hare and grouse,<br /> A +curse on hart and hind;<br />And a health to the squire in all England,<br /> Leaves +never a head behind.’</p> +<p>Her true love shot a mighty hart<br /> Among the +standing rye,<br />When on him leapt that keeper old<br /> From +the fern where he did lie.</p> +<p>The forest laws were sharp and stern,<br /> The +forest blood was keen;<br />They lashed together for life and death<br /> Beneath +the hollies green.</p> +<p>The metal good and the walnut wood<br /> Did soon +in flinders flee;<br />They tost the orts to south and north,<br /> And +grappled knee to knee.</p> +<p>They wrestled up, they wrestled down,<br /> They +wrestled still and sore;<br />Beneath their feet the myrtle sweet<br /> Was +stamped to mud and gore.</p> +<p>Ah, cold pale moon, thou cruel pale moon,<br /> That +starest with never a frown<br />On all the grim and the ghastly things<br /> That +are wrought in thorpe and town:</p> +<p>And yet, cold pale moon, thou cruel pale moon,<br /> That +night hadst never the grace<br />To lighten two dying Christian men<br /> To +see one another’s face.</p> +<p>They wrestled up, they wrestled down,<br /> They +wrestled sore and still,<br />The fiend who blinds the eyes of men<br /> That +night he had his will.</p> +<p>Like stags full spent, among the bent<br /> They +dropped a while to rest;<br />When the young man drove his saying knife<br /> Deep +in the old man’s breast.</p> +<p>The old man drove his gunstock down<br /> Upon the +young man’s head;<br />And side by side, by the water brown,<br /> Those +yeomen twain lay dead.</p> +<p>They dug three graves in Lyndhurst yard;<br /> They +dug them side by side;<br />Two yeomen lie there, and a maiden fair<br /> A +widow and never a bride.</p> +<p>In the New Forest, 1847.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>THE RED KING</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>The King was drinking in Malwood Hall,<br />There came in a monk +before them all:<br />He thrust by squire, he thrust by knight,<br />Stood +over against the dais aright;<br />And, ‘The word of the Lord, +thou cruel Red King,<br />The word of the Lord to thee I bring.<br />A +grimly sweven I dreamt yestreen;<br />I saw thee lie under the hollins +green,<br />And through thine heart an arrow keen;<br />And out of thy +body a smoke did rise,<br />Which smirched the sunshine out of the skies:<br />So +if thou God’s anointed be<br />I rede thee unto thy soul thou +see.<br />For mitre and pall thou hast y-sold,<br />False knight to +Christ, for gain and gold;<br />And for this thy forest were digged +down all,<br />Steading and hamlet and churches tall;<br />And Christés +poor were ousten forth,<br />To beg their bread from south to north.<br />So +tarry at home, and fast and pray,<br />Lest fiends hunt thee in the +judgment-day.’</p> +<p> The monk he vanished where he stood;<br />King +William sterte up wroth and wood;<br />Quod he, ‘Fools’ +wits will jump together;<br />The Hampshire ale and the thunder weather<br />Have +turned the brains for us both, I think;<br />And monks are curst when +they fall to drink.<br />A lothly sweven I dreamt last night,<br />How +there hoved anigh me a griesly knight,<br />Did smite me down to the +pit of hell;<br />I shrieked and woke, so fast I fell.<br />There’s +Tyrrel as sour as I, perdie,<br />So he of you all shall hunt with me;<br />A +grimly brace for a hart to see.’</p> +<p> The Red King down from Malwood came;<br />His heart +with wine was all aflame,<br />His eyne were shotten, red as blood,<br />He +rated and swore, wherever he rode.<br />They roused a hart, that grimly +brace,<br />A hart of ten, a hart of grease,<br />Fled over against +the kingés place.<br />The sun it blinded the kingés ee,<br />A +fathom behind his hocks shot he:<br /> ‘Shoot +thou,’ quod he, ‘in the fiendés name,<br />To lose +such a quarry were seven years’ shame.’<br />And he hove +up his hand to mark the game.<br />Tyrrel he shot full light, God wot;<br />For +whether the saints they swerved the shot,<br />‘Or whether by +treason, men knowen not,<br />But under the arm, in a secret part,<br />The +iron fled through the kingés heart.<br />The turf it squelched +where the Red King fell;<br />And the fiends they carried his soul to +hell,<br />Quod ‘His master’s name it hath sped him well.’</p> +<p>Tyrrel he smiled full grim that day,<br />Quod ‘Shooting of +kings is no bairns’ play;’<br />And he smote in the spurs, +and fled fast away.<br />As he pricked along by Fritham plain,<br />The +green tufts flew behind like rain;<br />The waters were out, and over +the sward:<br />He swam his horse like a stalwart lord:<br />Men clepen +that water Tyrrel’s ford.<br />By Rhinefield and by Osmondsleigh,<br />Through +glade and furze brake fast drove he,<br />Until he heard the roaring +sea;<br />Quod he, ‘Those gay waves they call me.’<br />By +Mary’s grace a seely boat<br />On Christchurch bar did lie afloat;<br />He +gave the shipmen mark and groat,<br />To ferry him over to Normandie,<br />And +there he fell to sanctuarie;<br />God send his soul all bliss to see.</p> +<p>And fend our princes every one,<br />From foul mishap and trahison;<br />But +kings that harrow Christian men<br />Shall England never bide again.</p> +<p>In the New Forest, 1847,</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>THE OUTLAW</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Oh, I wadna be a yeoman, mither, to follow my father’s trade,<br />To +bow my back in miry banks, at pleugh and hoe and spade.<br />Stinting +wife, and bairns, and kye, to fat some courtier lord,—<br />Let +them die o’ rent wha like, mither, and I’ll die by sword.</p> +<p>Nor I wadna be a clerk, mither, to bide aye ben,<br />Scrabbling +ower the sheets o’ parchment with a weary weary pen;<br />Looking +through the lang stane windows at a narrow strip o’ sky,<br />Like +a laverock in a withy cage, until I pine away and die.</p> +<p>Nor I wadna be a merchant, mither, in his lang furred gown,<br />Trailing +strings o’ footsore horses through the noisy dusty town;<br />Louting +low to knights and ladies, fumbling o’er his wares,<br />Telling +lies, and scraping siller, heaping cares on cares.</p> +<p>Nor I wadna be a soldier, mither, to dice wi’ ruffian bands,<br />Pining +weary months in castles, looking over wasted lands.<br />Smoking byres, +and shrieking women, and the grewsome sights o’ war—<br />There’s +blood on my hand eneugh, mither; it’s ill to make it mair.</p> +<p>If I had married a wife, mither, I might ha’ been douce and +still,<br />And sat at hame by the ingle side to crack and laugh my +fill;<br />Sat at hame wi’ the woman I looed, and wi’ bairnies +at my knee:<br />But death is bauld, and age is cauld, and luve’s +no for me.</p> +<p>For when first I stirred in your side, mither, ye ken full well<br />How +you lay all night up among the deer out on the open fell;<br />And so +it was that I won the heart to wander far and near,<br />Caring neither +for land nor lassie, but the bonnie dun deer.</p> +<p>Yet I am not a losel and idle, mither, nor a thief that steals;<br />I +do but hunt God’s cattle, upon God’s ain hills;<br />For +no man buys and sells the deer, and the bonnie fells are free<br />To +a belted knight with hawk on hand, and a gangrel loon like me.</p> +<p>So I’m aff and away to the muirs, mither, to hunt the deer,<br />Ranging +far frae frowning faces, and the douce folk here;<br />Crawling up through +burn and bracken, louping down the screes,<br />Looking out frae craig +and headland, drinking up the simmer breeze.</p> +<p>Oh, the wafts o’ heather honey, and the music o’ the +brae,<br />As I watch the great harts feeding, nearer, nearer a’ +the day.<br />Oh, to hark the eagle screaming, sweeping, ringing round +the sky—<br />That’s a bonnier life than stumbling ower +the muck to colt and kye.</p> +<p>And when I’m taen and hangit, mither, a brittling o’ +my deer,<br />Ye’ll no leave your bairn to the corbie craws, to +dangle in the air;<br />But ye’ll send up my twa douce brethren, +and ye’ll steal me frae the tree,<br />And bury me up on the brown +brown muirs, where I aye looed to be.</p> +<p>Ye’ll bury me ’twixt the brae and the burn, in a glen +far away,<br />Where I may hear the heathcock craw, and the great harts +bray;<br />And gin my ghaist can walk, mither, I’ll go glowering +at the sky,<br />The livelong night on the black hill sides where the +dun deer lie.</p> +<p>In the New Forest, 1847.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>SING HEIGH-HO!</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>There sits a bird on every tree;<br /> Sing +heigh-ho!<br />There sits a bird on every tree,<br />And courts his +love as I do thee;<br /> Sing heigh-ho, +and heigh-ho!<br /> Young maids must marry.</p> +<p>There grows a flower on every bough;<br /> Sing +heigh-ho!<br />There grows a flower on every bough,<br />Its petals +kiss—I’ll show you how:<br /> Sing +heigh-ho, and heigh-ho!<br /> Young maids must marry.</p> +<p>From sea to stream the salmon roam;<br /> Sing +heigh-ho!<br />From sea to stream the salmon roam;<br />Each finds a +mate, and leads her home;<br /> Sing +heigh-ho, and heigh-ho!<br /> Young maids must marry.</p> +<p>The sun’s a bridegroom, earth a bride;<br /> Sing +heigh-ho!<br />They court from morn till eventide:<br />The earth shall +pass, but love abide.<br /> Sing +heigh-ho, and heigh-ho!<br /> Young maids must marry.</p> +<p>Eversley, 1847.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>A MARCH</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p> Dreary East winds howling o’er us;<br /> Clay-lands +knee-deep spread before us;<br /> Mire and ice and +snow and sleet;<br /> Aching backs and frozen feet;<br /> Knees +which reel as marches quicken,<br /> Ranks which thin +as corpses thicken;<br /> While with carrion birds +we eat,<br /> Calling puddle-water sweet,<br />As we +pledge the health of our general, who fares as rough as we:<br />What +can daunt us, what can turn us, led to death by such as he?</p> +<p>Eversley, 1848.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>A LAMENT</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>The merry merry lark was up and singing,<br /> And +the hare was out and feeding on the lea;<br />And the merry merry bells +below were ringing,<br /> When my child’s laugh +rang through me.</p> +<p>Now the hare is snared and dead beside the snow-yard,<br /> And +the lark beside the dreary winter sea;<br />And the baby in his cradle +in the churchyard<br /> Sleeps sound till the bell +brings me.</p> +<p>Eversley, 1848.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>THE NIGHT BIRD: A MYTH</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>A floating, a floating<br />Across the sleeping sea,<br />All night +I heard a singing bird<br />Upon the topmost tree.</p> +<p>‘Oh came you off the isles of Greece,<br />Or off the banks +of Seine;<br />Or off some tree in forests free,<br />Which fringe the +western main?’</p> +<p>‘I came not off the old world<br />Nor yet from off the new—<br />But +I am one of the birds of God<br />Which sing the whole night through.’</p> +<p>‘Oh sing, and wake the dawning—<br />Oh whistle for the +wind;<br />The night is long, the current strong,<br />My boat it lags +behind.’</p> +<p>‘The current sweeps the old world,<br />The current sweeps +the new;<br />The wind will blow, the dawn will glow<br />Ere thou hast +sailed them through.’</p> +<p>Eversley, 1848.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>THE DEAD CHURCH</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Wild wild wind, wilt thou never cease thy sighing?<br /> Dark +dark night, wilt thou never wear away?<br />Cold cold church, in thy +death sleep lying,<br /> The Lent is past, thy Passion +here, but not thine Easter-day.</p> +<p>Peace, faint heart, though the night be dark and sighing;<br /> Rest, +fair corpse, where thy Lord himself hath lain.<br />Weep, dear Lord, +above thy bride low lying;<br /> Thy tears shall wake +her frozen limbs to life and health again.</p> +<p>Eversley, 1848.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>A PARABLE FROM LIEBIG</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>The church bells were ringing, the devil sat singing<br /> On +the stump of a rotting old tree;<br />‘Oh faith it grows cold, +and the creeds they grow old,<br /> And the world is +nigh ready for me.’</p> +<p>The bells went on ringing, a spirit came singing,<br /> And +smiled as he crumbled the tree;<br />‘Yon wood does but perish +new seedlings to cherish,<br /> And the world is too +live yet for thee.’</p> +<p>Eversley, 1848.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>THE STARLINGS</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Early in spring time, on raw and windy mornings,<br />Beneath the +freezing house-eaves I heard the starlings sing—<br />‘Ah +dreary March month, is this then a time for building wearily?<br /> Sad, +sad, to think that the year is but begun.’</p> +<p>Late in the autumn, on still and cloudless evenings,<br />Among the +golden reed-beds I heard the starlings sing—<br />‘Ah that +sweet March month, when we and our mates were courting merrily;<br /> Sad, +sad, to think that the year is all but done.’</p> +<p>Eversley, 1848.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>OLD AND NEW: A PARABLE</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>See how the autumn leaves float by decaying,<br />Down the wild swirls +of the rain-swollen stream.<br />So fleet the works of men, back to +their earth again;<br />Ancient and holy things fade like a dream.</p> +<p>Nay! see the spring-blossoms steal forth a-maying,<br />Clothing +with tender hues orchard and glen;<br />So, though old forms pass by, +ne’er shall their spirit die,<br />Look! England’s +bare boughs show green leaf again.</p> +<p>Eversley, 1848.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>THE WATCHMAN</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>‘Watchman, what of the night?’<br /> ‘The +stars are out in the sky;<br />And the merry round moon will be rising +soon,<br /> For us to go sailing by.’</p> +<p>‘Watchman, what of the night?’<br /> ‘The +tide flows in from the sea;<br />There’s water to float a little +cockboat<br /> Will carry such fishers as we.’</p> +<p>‘Watchman, what of the night?’<br /> ‘The +night is a fruitful time;<br />When to many a pair are born children +fair,<br /> To be christened at morning chime.’</p> +<p>1849.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>THE WORLD’S AGE</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Who will say the world is dying?<br /> Who will +say our prime is past?<br />Sparks from Heaven, within us lying,<br /> Flash, +and will flash till the last.<br />Fools! who fancy Christ mistaken;<br /> Man +a tool to buy and sell;<br />Earth a failure, God-forsaken,<br /> Anteroom +of Hell.</p> +<p>Still the race of Hero-spirits<br /> Pass the lamp +from hand to hand;<br />Age from age the Words inherits—<br /> ‘Wife, +and Child, and Fatherland.’<br />Still the youthful hunter gathers<br /> Fiery +joy from wold and wood;<br />He will dare as dared his fathers<br /> Give +him cause as good.</p> +<p>While a slave bewails his fetters;<br /> While an +orphan pleads in vain;<br />While an infant lisps his letters,<br /> Heir +of all the age’s gain;<br />While a lip grows ripe for kissing;<br /> While +a moan from man is wrung;<br />Know, by every want and blessing,<br /> That +the world is young.</p> +<p>1849.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>THE SANDS OF DEE</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>‘O Mary, go and call the cattle home,<br /> And +call the cattle home,<br /> And call +the cattle home<br /> Across the sands of Dee;’<br />The +western wind was wild and dank with foam,<br /> And +all alone went she.</p> +<p>The western tide crept up along the sand,<br /> And +o’er and o’er the sand,<br /> And +round and round the sand,<br /> As far as eye could +see.<br />The rolling mist came down and hid the land:<br /> And +never home came she.</p> +<p>‘Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair—<br /> A +tress of golden hair,<br /> A drownèd +maiden’s hair<br /> Above the nets at sea?<br />Was +never salmon yet that shone so fair<br /> Among the +stakes on Dee.’</p> +<p>They rowed her in across the rolling foam,<br /> The +cruel crawling foam,<br /> The cruel +hungry foam,<br /> To her grave beside the sea:<br />But +still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home<br /> Across +the sands of Dee.</p> +<p>Eversley, 1849.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>THE TIDE ROCK</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>How sleeps yon rock, whose half-day’s bath is done.<br />With +broad blight side beneath the broad bright sun,<br />Like sea-nymph +tired, on cushioned mosses sleeping.<br />Yet, nearer drawn, beneath +her purple tresses<br />From drooping brows we find her slowly weeping.<br /> So +many a wife for cruel man’s caresses<br /> Must +inly pine and pine, yet outward bear<br /> A gallant +front to this world’s gaudy glare.</p> +<p>Ilfracombe, 1849.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>ELEGIACS</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Wearily stretches the sand to the surge, and the surge to the cloudland;<br />Wearily +onward I ride, watching the water alone.<br />Not as of old, like Homeric +Achilles, κυδει yαιων,<br />Joyous +knight-errant of God, thirsting for labour and strife;<br />No more +on magical steed borne free through the regions of ether,<br />But, +like the hack which I ride, selling my sinew for gold.<br />Fruit-bearing +autumn is gone; let the sad quiet winter hang o’er me—<br />What +were the spring to a soul laden with sorrow and shame?<br />Blossoms +would fret me with beauty; my heart has no time to bepraise them;<br />Gray +rock, bough, surge, cloud, waken no yearning within.<br />Sing not, +thou sky-lark above! even angels pass hushed by the weeper.<br />Scream +on, ye sea-fowl! my heart echoes your desolate cry.<br />Sweep the dry +sand on, thou wild wind, to drift o’er the shell and the sea-weed;<br />Sea-weed +and shell, like my dreams, swept down the pitiless tide.<br />Just is +the wave which uptore us; ’tis Nature’s own law which condemns +us;<br />Woe to the weak who, in pride, build on the faith of the sand!<br />Joy +to the oak of the mountain: he trusts to the might of the rock-clefts;<br />Deeply +he mines, and in peace feeds on the wealth of the stone.</p> +<p>Morte Sands, Devonshire,<br /><i>February</i> 1849.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>DARTSIDE</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>I cannot tell what you say, green leaves,<br /> I +cannot tell what you say:<br />But I know that there is a spirit in +you,<br /> And a word in you this day.</p> +<p>I cannot tell what you say, rosy rocks,<br /> I +cannot tell what you say:<br />But I know that there is a spirit in +you,<br /> And a word in you this day.</p> +<p>I cannot tell what you say, brown streams,<br /> I +cannot tell what you say:<br />But I know that in you too a spirit doth +live,<br /> And a word doth speak this day.</p> +<p>‘Oh green is the colour of faith and truth,<br />And rose the +colour of love and youth,<br /> And brown of the fruitful +clay.<br /> Sweet Earth is faithful, and fruitful, +and young,<br /> And her bridal day shall come ere +long,<br />And you shall know what the rocks and the streams<br /> And +the whispering woodlands say.’</p> +<p>Drew’s Teignton, Dartmoor,<br /><i>July</i> 31, 1849.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>MY HUNTING SONG</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p> Forward! Hark forward’s +the cry!<br />One more fence and we’re out on the open,<br />So +to us at once, if you want to live near us!<br />Hark to them, ride +to them, beauties! as on they go,<br />Leaping and sweeping away in +the vale below!<br />Cowards and bunglers, whose heart or whose eye +is slow,<br /> Find themselves staring alone.</p> +<p> So the great cause flashes by;<br />Nearer +and clearer its purposes open,<br />While louder and prouder the world-echoes +cheer us:<br />Gentlemen sportsmen, you ought to live up to us,<br />Lead +us, and lift us, and hallo our game to us—<br />We cannot call +the hounds off, and no shame to us—<br /> Don’t +be left staring alone!</p> +<p>Eversley, 1849.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>ALTON LOCKE’S SONG</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Weep, weep, weep and weep,<br /> For pauper, dolt, +and slave!<br />Hark! from wasted moor and fen,<br />Feverous alley, +stifling den,<br />Swells the wail of Saxon men—<br /> Work! +or the grave!</p> +<p>Down, down, down and down,<br /> With idler, knave, +and tyrant!<br />Why for sluggards cark and moil?<br />He that will +not live by toil<br />Has no right on English soil!<br /> God’s +word’s our warrant!</p> +<p>Up, up, up and up!<br /> Face your game and play +it!<br />The night is past, behold the sun!<br />The idols fall, the +lie is done!<br />The Judge is set, the doom begun!<br /> Who +shall stay it?</p> +<p>On Torridge, <i>May</i> 1849.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>THE DAY OF THE LORD</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>The Day of the Lord is at hand, at hand:<br /> Its +storms roll up the sky:<br />The nations sleep starving on heaps of +gold;<br /> All dreamers toss and sigh;<br />The night +is darkest before the morn;<br />When the pain is sorest the child is +born,<br /> And the Day of the Lord +at hand.</p> +<p>Gather you, gather you, angels of God—<br /> Freedom, +and Mercy, and Truth;<br />Come! for the Earth is grown coward and old,<br /> Come +down, and renew us her youth.<br />Wisdom, Self-Sacrifice, Daring, and +Love,<br />Haste to the battle-field, stoop from above,<br /> To +the Day of the Lord at hand.</p> +<p>Gather you, gather you, hounds of hell—<br /> Famine, +and Plague, and War;<br />Idleness, Bigotry, Cant, and Misrule,<br /> Gather, +and fall in the snare!<br />Hireling and Mammonite, Bigot and Knave,<br />Crawl +to the battle-field, sneak to your grave,<br /> In +the Day of the Lord at hand.</p> +<p>Who would sit down and sigh for a lost age of gold,<br /> While +the Lord of all ages is here?<br />True hearts will leap up at the trumpet +of God,<br /> And those who can suffer, can dare.<br />Each +old age of gold was an iron age too,<br />And the meekest of saints +may find stern work to do,<br /> In +the Day of the Lord at hand.</p> +<p>On the Torridge, Devonshire,<br /><i>September</i> 10, 1849.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>A CHRISTMAS CAROL</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>It chanced upon the merry merry Christmas eve,<br /> I +went sighing past the church across the moorland dreary—<br />‘Oh! +never sin and want and woe this earth will leave,<br /> And +the bells but mock the wailing round, they sing so cheery.<br />How +long, O Lord! how long before Thou come again?<br /> Still +in cellar, and in garret, and on moorland dreary<br />The orphans moan, +and widows weep, and poor men toil in vain,<br /> Till +earth is sick of hope deferred, though Christmas bells be cheery.’</p> +<p>Then arose a joyous clamour from the wild-fowl on the mere,<br /> Beneath +the stars, across the snow, like clear bells ringing,<br />And a voice +within cried—‘Listen!—Christmas carols even here!<br /> Though +thou be dumb, yet o’er their work the stars and snows are singing.<br />Blind! +I live, I love, I reign; and all the nations through<br /> With +the thunder of my judgments even now are ringing.<br />Do thou fulfil +thy work but as yon wild-fowl do,<br /> Thou wilt heed +no less the wailing, yet hear through it angels singing.’</p> +<p>Eversley, 1849.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>THE OUBIT <a name="citation260"></a><a href="#footnote260">{260}</a></h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>It was an hairy oubit, sae proud he crept alang,<br />A feckless +hairy oubit, and merrily he sang—<br />‘My Minnie bad me +bide at hame until I won my wings;<br />I show her soon my soul’s +aboon the warks o’ creeping things.’</p> +<p>This feckless hairy oubit cam’ hirpling by the linn,<br />A +swirl o’ wind cam’ doun the glen, and blew that oubit in:<br />Oh +when he took the water, the saumon fry they rose,<br />And tigg’d +him a’ to pieces sma’, by head and tail and toes.</p> +<p>Tak’ warning then, young poets a’, by this poor oubit’s +shame;<br />Though Pegasus may nicher loud, keep Pegasus at hame.<br />Oh +haud your hands frae inkhorns, though a’ the Muses woo;<br />For +critics lie, like saumon fry, to mak’ their meals o’ you.</p> +<p>Eversley, 1851.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>THE THREE FISHERS</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Three fishers went sailing away to the West,<br /> Away +to the West as the sun went down;<br />Each thought on the woman who +loved him the best,<br /> And the children stood watching +them out of the town;<br /> For men must work, and +women must weep,<br /> And there’s little to +earn, and many to keep,<br /> Though +the harbour bar be moaning.</p> +<p>Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower,<br /> And +they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down;<br />They looked at the +squall, and they looked at the shower,<br /> And the +night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown.<br /> But +men must work, and women must weep,<br /> Though storms +be sudden, and waters deep,<br /> And +the harbour bar be moaning.</p> +<p>Three corpses lay out on the shining sands<br /> In +the morning gleam as the tide went down,<br />And the women are weeping +and wringing their hands<br /> For those who will never +come home to the town;<br /> For men must work, and +women must weep,<br /> And the sooner it’s over, +the sooner to sleep;<br /> And good-bye +to the bar and its moaning.</p> +<p>Eversley, <i>June</i> 25, 1851.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>SONNET</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Oh, thou hadst been a wife for Shakspeare’s self!<br />No head, +save some world-genius, ought to rest<br />Above the treasures of that +perfect breast,<br />Or nightly draw fresh light from those keen stars<br />Through +which thy soul awes ours: yet thou art bound—<br />O waste of +nature!—to a craven hound;<br />To shameless lust, and childish +greed of pelf;<br />Athené to a Satyr: was that link<br />Forged +by The Father’s hand? Man’s reason bars<br />The bans +which God allowed.—Ay, so we think:<br />Forgetting, thou hadst +weaker been, full blest,<br /> Than thus made strong +by suffering; and more great<br /> In martyrdom, than +throned as Cæsar’s mate.</p> +<p>Eversley, 1851.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>MARGARET TO DOLCINO</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Ask if I love thee? Oh, smiles cannot tell<br />Plainer what +tears are now showing too well.<br />Had I not loved thee, my sky had +been clear:<br />Had I not loved thee, I had not been here,<br /> Weeping +by thee.</p> +<p>Ask if I love thee? How else could I borrow<br />Pride from +man’s slander, and strength from my sorrow?<br />Laugh when they +sneer at the fanatic’s bride,<br />Knowing no bliss, save to toil +and abide<br /> Weeping by thee.</p> +<p>Andernach on the Rhine,<br /><i>August</i> 1851.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>DOLCINO TO MARGARET</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>The world goes up and the world goes down,<br /> And +the sunshine follows the rain;<br />And yesterday’s sneer and +yesterday’s frown<br /> Can never come over again,<br /> Sweet +wife:<br /> No, never come over again.</p> +<p>For woman is warm though man be cold,<br /> And +the night will hallow the day;<br />Till the heart which at even was +weary and old<br /> Can rise in the morning gay,<br /> Sweet +wife;<br /> To its work in the morning gay.</p> +<p>Andernach, 1851.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>THE UGLY PRINCESS</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>My parents bow, and lead them forth,<br /> For all +the crowd to see—<br />Ah well! the people might not care<br /> To +cheer a dwarf like me.</p> +<p>They little know how I could love,<br /> How I could +plan and toil,<br />To swell those drudges’ scanty gains,<br /> Their +mites of rye and oil.</p> +<p>They little know what dreams have been<br /> My +playmates, night and day;<br />Of equal kindness, helpful care,<br /> A +mother’s perfect sway.</p> +<p>Now earth to earth in convent walls,<br /> To earth +in churchyard sod:<br />I was not good enough for man,<br /> And +so am given to God.</p> +<p>Bertrich in the Eifel, 1851.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>SONNET</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>The baby sings not on its mother’s breast;<br />Nor nightingales +who nestle side by side;<br />Nor I by thine: but let us only part,<br />Then +lips which should but kiss, and so be still,<br />As having uttered +all, must speak again—<br />O stunted thoughts! O chill +and fettered rhyme<br />Yet my great bliss, though still entirely blest,<br />Losing +its proper home, can find no rest:<br /> So, like a +child who whiles away the time<br />With dance and carol till the eventide,<br />Watching +its mother homeward through the glen;<br />Or nightingale, who, sitting +far apart,<br />Tells to his listening mate within the nest<br />The +wonder of his star-entrancèd heart<br />Till all the wakened +woodlands laugh and thrill—<br /> Forth all my +being bubbles into song;<br /> And rings aloft, not +smooth, yet clear and strong.</p> +<p>Bertrich, 1851</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>THE SWAN-NECK</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Evil sped the battle play<br />On the Pope Calixtus’ day;<br />Mighty +war-smiths, thanes and lords,<br />In Senlac slept the sleep of swords.<br />Harold +Earl, shot over shield,<br />Lay along the autumn weald;<br />Slaughter +such was never none<br />Since the Ethelings England won.<br /> Thither +Lady Githa came,<br />Weeping sore for grief and shame;<br />How may +she her first-born tell?<br />Frenchmen stript him where he fell,<br />Gashed +and marred his comely face;<br />Who can know him in his place?<br /> Up +and spake two brethren wise,<br />‘Youngest hearts have keenest +eyes;<br />Bird which leaves its mother’s nest,<br />Moults its +pinions, moults its crest.<br />Let us call the Swan-neck here,<br />She +that was his leman dear;<br />She shall know him in this stound;<br />Foot +of wolf, and scent of hound,<br />Eye of hawk, and wing of dove,<br />Carry +woman to her love.’<br /> Up and spake the Swan-neck +high,<br />‘Go! to all your thanes let cry<br />How I loved him +best of all,<br />I whom men his leman call;<br />Better knew his body +fair<br />Than the mother which him bare.<br />When ye lived in wealth +and glee<br />Then ye scorned to look on me;<br />God hath brought the +proud ones low<br />After me afoot to go.’<br /> Rousing +erne and sallow glede,<br />Rousing gray wolf off his feed,<br />Over +franklin, earl, and thane,<br />Heaps of mother-naked slain,<br />Round +the red field tracing slow,<br />Stooped that Swan-neck white as snow;<br />Never +blushed nor turned away,<br />Till she found him where he lay;<br />Clipt +him in her armés fair,<br />Wrapt him in her yellow hair,<br />Bore +him from the battle-stead,<br />Saw him laid in pall of lead,<br />Took +her to a minster high,<br />For Earl Harold’s soul to cry.</p> +<p> Thus fell Harold, bracelet-giver;<br />Jesu rest +his soul for ever;<br />Angles all from thrall deliver;<br /> Miserere +Domine.</p> +<p>Eversley, 1851.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>A THOUGHT FROM THE RHINE</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>I heard an Eagle crying all alone<br />Above the vineyards through +the summer night,<br />Among the skeletons of robber towers:<br />Because +the ancient eyrie of his race<br />Was trenched and walled by busy-handed +men;<br />And all his forest-chace and woodland wild,<br />Wherefrom +he fed his young with hare and roe,<br />Were trim with grapes which +swelled from hour to hour,<br />And tossed their golden tendrils to +the sun<br />For joy at their own riches:—So, I thought,<br />The +great devourers of the earth shall sit,<br />Idle and impotent, they +know not why,<br />Down-staring from their barren height of state<br />On +nations grown too wise to slay and slave,<br />The puppets of the few; +while peaceful lore<br />And fellow-help make glad the heart of earth,<br />With +wonders which they fear and hate, as he,<br />The Eagle, hates the vineyard +slopes below.</p> +<p>On the Rhine, 1851.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>THE LONGBEARDS’ SAGA. A.D. 400</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Over the camp-fires<br />Drank I with heroes,<br />Under the Donau +bank,<br />Warm in the snow trench:<br />Sagamen heard I there,<br />Men +of the Longbeards,<br />Cunning and ancient,<br />Honey-sweet-voiced.<br />Scaring +the wolf cub,<br />Scaring the horn-owl,<br />Shaking the snow-wreaths<br />Down +from the pine-boughs,<br />Up to the star roof<br />Rang out their song.<br />Singing +how Winil men,<br />Over the ice-floes<br />Sledging from Scanland<br />Came +unto Scoring;<br />Singing of Gambara,<br />Freya’s belovèd,<br />Mother +of Ayo,<br />Mother of Ibor.<br />Singing of Wendel men,<br />Ambri +and Assi;<br />How to the Winilfolk<br />Went they with war-words,—<br />‘Few +are ye, strangers,<br />And many are we:<br />Pay us now toll and fee,<br />Cloth-yarn, +and rings, and beeves:<br />Else at the raven’s meal<br />Bide +the sharp bill’s doom.’<br />Clutching the dwarfs work then,<br />Clutching +the bullock’s shell,<br />Girding gray iron on,<br />Forth fared +the Winils all,<br />Fared the Alruna’s sons,<br />Ayo and Ibor.<br />Mad +at heart stalked they:<br />Loud wept the women all,<br />Loud the Alruna +wife;<br />Sore was their need.<br />Out of the morning land,<br />Over +the snow-drifts,<br />Beautiful Freya came,<br />Tripping to Scoring.<br />White +were the moorlands,<br />And frozen before her:<br />Green were the +moorlands,<br />And blooming behind her.<br />Out of her gold locks<br />Shaking +the spring flowers,<br />Out of her garments<br />Shaking the south +wind,<br />Around in the birches<br />Awaking the throstles,<br />And +making chaste housewives all<br />Long for their heroes home,<br />Loving +and love-giving,<br />Came she to Scoring.<br />Came unto Gambara,<br />Wisest +of Valas,—<br />‘Vala, why weepest thou?<br />Far in the +wide-blue,<br />High up in the Elfin-home,<br />Heard I thy weeping.’<br />‘Stop +not my weeping,<br />Till one can fight seven.<br />Sons have I, heroes +tall,<br />First in the sword-play;<br />This day at the Wendels’ +hands<br />Eagles must tear them.<br />Their mothers, thrall-weary,<br />Must +grind for the Wendels.’<br />Wept the Alruna wife;<br />Kissed +her fair Freya:—<br />‘Far off in the morning land,<br />High +in Valhalla,<br />A window stands open;<br />Its sill is the snow-peaks,<br />Its +posts are the waterspouts,<br />Storm-rack its lintel;<br />Gold cloud-flakes +above<br />Are piled for the roofing,<br />Far up to the Elfin-home,<br />High +in the wide-blue.<br />Smiles out each morning thence<br />Odin Allfather;<br />From +under the cloud-eaves<br />Smiles out on the heroes,<br />Smiles on +chaste housewives all,<br />Smiles on the brood-mares,<br />Smiles on +the smiths’ work:<br />And theirs is the sword-luck,<br />With +them is the glory,—<br />So Odin hath sworn it,—<br />Who +first in the morning<br />Shall meet him and greet him.’<br />Still +the Alruna wept:—<br />‘Who then shall greet him?<br />Women +alone are here:<br />Far on the moorlands<br />Behind the war-lindens,<br />In +vain for the bill’s doom<br />Watch Winil heroes all,<br />One +against seven.’<br />Sweetly the Queen laughed:—<br />‘Hear +thou my counsel now;<br />Take to thee cunning,<br />Belovèd +of Freya.<br />Take thou thy women-folk,<br />Maidens and wives:<br />Over +your ankles<br />Lace on the white war-hose;<br />Over your bosoms<br />Link +up the hard mail-nets;<br />Over your lips<br />Plait long tresses with +cunning;—<br />So war-beasts full-bearded<br />King Odin shall +deem you,<br />When off the gray sea-beach<br />At sunrise ye greet +him.’</p> +<p>Night’s son was driving<br />His golden-haired horses up;<br />Over +the eastern firths<br />High flashed their manes.<br />Smiled from the +cloud-eaves out<br />Allfather Odin,<br />Waiting the battle-sport:<br />Freya +stood by him.<br />‘Who are these heroes tall,—<br />Lusty-limbed +Longbeards?<br />Over the swans’ bath<br />Why cry they to me?<br />Bones +should be crashing fast,<br />Wolves should be full-fed,<br />Where +such, mad-hearted,<br />Swing hands in the sword-play.’</p> +<p>Sweetly laughed Freya:—<br />‘A name thou hast given +them,<br />Shames neither thee nor them,<br />Well can they wear it.<br />Give +them the victory,<br />First have they greeted thee;<br />Give them +the victory,<br />Yokefellow mine!<br />Maidens and wives are these,—<br />Wives +of the Winils;<br />Few are their heroes<br />And far on the war-road,<br />So +over the swans’ bath<br />They cry unto thee.’</p> +<p>Royally laughed he then;<br />Dear was that craft to him,<br />Odin +Allfather,<br />Shaking the clouds.<br />‘Cunning are women all,<br />Bold +and importunate!<br />Longbeards their name shall be,<br />Ravens shall +thank them:<br />Where women are heroes,<br />What must the men be?<br />Theirs +is the victory;<br />No need of me!’</p> +<p>Eversley, 1852.<br />From <i>Hypatia</i>.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>SAINT MAURA. A.D. 304</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Thank God! Those gazers’ eyes are gone at last!<br />The +guards are crouching underneath the rock;<br />The lights are fading +in the town below,<br />Around the cottage which this morn was ours.<br />Kind +sun, to set, and leave us here alone;<br />Alone upon our crosses with +our God;<br />While all the angels watch us from the stars.<br />Kind +moon, to shine so clear and full on him,<br />And bathe his limbs in +glory, for a sign<br />Of what awaits him! Oh look on him, Lord!<br />Look, +and remember how he saved thy lamb!<br /> Oh listen +to me, teacher, husband, love,<br />Never till now loved utterly! +Oh say,<br />Say you forgive me! No—you must not speak:<br />You +said it to me hours ago—long hours!<br />Now you must rest, and +when to-morrow comes<br />Speak to the people, call them home to God,<br />A +deacon on the Cross, as in the Church;<br />And plead from off the tree +with outspread arms,<br />To show them that the Son of God endured<br />For +them—and me. Hush! I alone will speak,<br />And while +away the hours till dawn for you.<br />I know you have forgiven me; +as I lay<br />Beneath your feet, while they were binding me,<br />I +knew I was forgiven then! When I cried<br />‘Here am I, +husband! The lost lamb returned,<br />All re-baptized in blood!’ +and you said, ‘Come!<br />Come to thy bride-bed, martyr, wife +once more!’<br />From that same moment all my pain was gone;<br />And +ever since those sightless eyes have smiled<br />Love—love! +Alas, those eyes! They made me fall.<br />I could not bear to +see them, bleeding, dark,<br />Never, no never to look into mine;<br />Never +to watch me round the little room<br />Singing about my work, or flash +on me<br />Looks bright with counsel.—Then they drove me mad<br />With +talk of nameless tortures waiting you—<br />And I could save you! +You would hear your love—<br />They knew you loved me, cruel men! +And then—<br />Then came a dream; to say one little word,<br />One +easy wicked word, we both might say,<br />And no one hear us, but the +lictors round;<br />One tiny sprinkle of the incense grains,<br />And +both, both free! And life had just begun—<br />Only three +months—short months—your wedded wife<br />Only three months +within the cottage there—<br />Hoping I bore your child. . . .<br />Ah! +husband! Saviour! God! think gently of me!<br />I am forgiven! +. . .<br /> And then another dream;<br />A flash—so +quick, I could not bear the blaze;<br />I could not see the smoke among +the light—<br />To wander out through unknown lands, and lead<br />You +by the hand through hamlet, port, and town,<br />On, on, until we died; +and stand each day<br />To glory in you, as you preached and prayed<br />From +rock and bourne-stone, with that voice, those words,<br />Mingled with +fire and honey—you would wake,<br />Bend, save whole nations! +would not that atone<br />For one short word?—ay, make it right, +to save<br />You, you, to fight the battles of the Lord?<br />And so—and +so—alas! you knew the rest!<br />You answered me. . . .<br />Ah +cruel words! No! Blessed, godlike words.<br />You had done +nobly had you struck me dead,<br />Instead of striking me to life!—the +temptress! . . .<br />‘Traitress! apostate! dead to God and me!’—<br />‘The +smell of death upon me?’—so it was!<br />True! true! well +spoken, hero! Oh they snapped,<br />Those words, my madness, like +the angel’s voice<br />Thrilling the graves to birth-pangs. +All was clear.<br />There was but one right thing in the world to do;<br />And +I must do it. . . . Lord, have mercy! Christ!<br />Help +through my womanhood: or I shall fail<br />Yet, as I failed before! +. . . I could not speak—<br />I could not speak for shame +and misery,<br />And terror of my sin, and of the things<br />I knew +were coming: but in heaven, in heaven!<br />There we should meet, perhaps—and +by that time<br />I might be worthy of you once again—<br />Of +you, and of my God. . . . So I went out.<br />. . . . . .<br />Will +you hear more, and so forget the pain?<br />And yet I dread to tell +you what comes next;<br />Your love will feel it all again for me.<br />No! +it is over; and the woe that’s dead<br />Rises next hour a glorious +angel. Love!<br />Say, shall I tell you? Ah! your lips are +dry!<br />To-morrow, when they come, we must entreat,<br />And they +will give you water. One to-day,<br />A soldier, gave me water +in a sponge<br />Upon a reed, and said, ‘Too fair! too young!<br />She +might have been a gallant soldier’s wife!’<br />And then +I cried, ‘I am a soldier’s wife!<br />A hero’s!’ +And he smiled, but let me drink.<br />God bless him for it!<br /> So +they led me back:<br />And as I went, a voice was in my ears<br />Which +rang through all the sunlight, and the breath<br />And blaze of all +the garden slopes below,<br />And through the harvest-voices, and the +moan<br />Of cedar-forests on the cliffs above,<br />And round the shining +rivers, and the peaks<br />Which hung beyond the cloud-bed of the west,<br />And +round the ancient stones about my feet.<br />Out of all heaven and earth +it rang, and cried,<br />‘My hand hath made all these. Am +I too weak<br />To give thee strength to say so?’ Then my +soul<br />Spread like a clear blue sky within my breast,<br />While +all the people made a ring around,<br />And in the midst the judge spoke +smilingly—<br />‘Well! hast thou brought him to a better +mind?’<br />‘No! He has brought me to a better mind!’—<br />I +cried, and said beside—I know not what—<br />Words which +I learnt from thee—I trust in God<br />Nought fierce or rude—for +was I not a girl<br />Three months ago beneath my mother’s roof?<br />I +thought of that. She might be there! I looked—<br />She +was not there! I hid my face and wept.<br />And when I looked +again, the judge’s eye<br />Was on me, cold and steady, deep in +thought—<br />‘She knows what shame is still; so strip her.’ +‘Ah!’<br />I shrieked, ‘Not that, Sir! Any pain! +So young<br />I am—a wife too—I am not my own,<br />But +his—my husband’s!’ But they took my shawl,<br />And +tore my tunic off, and there I stood<br />Before them all. . . . +Husband! you love me still?<br />Indeed I pleaded! Oh, shine out, +kind moon,<br />And let me see him smile! Oh! how I prayed,<br />While +some cried ‘Shame!’ and some, ‘She is too young!’<br />And +some mocked—ugly words: God shut my ears.<br />And yet no earthquake +came to swallow me.<br />While all the court around, and walls, and +roofs,<br />And all the earth and air were full of eyes,<br />Eyes, +eyes, which scorched my limbs like burning flame,<br />Until my brain +seemed bursting from my brow:<br />And yet no earthquake came! +And then I knew<br />This body was not yours alone, but God’s—<br />His +loan—He needed it: and after that<br />The worst was come, and +any torture more<br />A change—a lightening; and I did not shriek—<br />Once +only—once, when first I felt the whip—<br />It coiled so +keen around my side, and sent<br />A fire-flash through my heart which +choked me—then<br />I shrieked—that once. The foolish +echo rang<br />So far and long—I prayed you might not hear.<br />And +then a mist, which hid the ring of eyes,<br />Swam by me, and a murmur +in my ears<br />Of humming bees around the limes at home;<br />And I +was all alone with you and God.<br />And what they did to me I hardly +know;<br />I felt, and did not feel. Now I look back,<br />It +was not after all so very sharp:<br />So do not pity me. It made +me pray;<br />Forget my shame in pain, and pain in you,<br />And you +in God: and once, when I looked down,<br />And saw an ugly sight—so +many wounds!<br />‘What matter?’ thought I. ‘His +dear eyes are dark;<br />For them alone I kept these limbs so white—<br />A +foolish pride! As God wills now. ’Tis just.’<br /> But +then the judge spoke out in haste: ‘She is mad,<br />Or fenced +by magic arts! She feels no pain!’<br />He did not know +I was on fire within:<br />Better he should not; so his sin was less.<br />Then +he cried fiercely, ‘Take the slave away,<br />And crucify her +by her husband’s side!’<br />And at those words a film came +on my face—<br />A sickening rush of joy—was that the end?<br />That +my reward? I rose, and tried to go—<br />But all the eyes +had vanished, and the judge;<br />And all the buildings melted into +mist:<br />So how they brought me here I cannot tell—<br />Here, +here, by you, until the judgment-day,<br />And after that for ever and +for ever!<br />Ah! If I could but reach that hand! One touch!<br />One +finger tip, to send the thrill through me<br />I felt but yesterday!—No! +I can wait:—<br />Another body!—Oh, new limbs are ready,<br />Free, +pure, instinct with soul through every nerve,<br />Kept for us in the +treasuries of God.<br />They will not mar the love they try to speak,<br />They +will not fail my soul, as these have done!<br />. . . . .<br />Will +you hear more? Nay—you know all the rest:<br />Yet those +poor eyes—alas! they could not see<br />My waking, when you hung +above me there<br />With hands outstretched to bless the penitent—<br />Your +penitent—even like The Lord Himself—<br />I gloried in you!—like +The Lord Himself!<br />Sharing His very sufferings, to the crown<br />Of +thorns which they had put on that dear brow<br />To make you like Him—show +you as you were!<br />I told them so! I bid them look on you,<br />And +see there what was the highest throne on earth—<br />The throne +of suffering, where the Son of God<br />Endured and triumphed for them. +But they laughed;<br />All but one soldier, gray, with many scars;<br />And +he stood silent. Then I crawled to you,<br />And kissed your bleeding +feet, and called aloud—<br />You heard me! You know all! +I am at peace.<br />Peace, peace, as still and bright as is the moon<br />Upon +your limbs, came on me at your smile,<br />And kept me happy, when they +dragged me back<br />From that last kiss, and spread me on the cross,<br />And +bound my wrists and ankles—Do not sigh:<br />I prayed, and bore +it: and since they raised me up<br />My eyes have never left your face, +my own, my own,<br />Nor will, till death comes! . . .<br /> Do +I feel much pain?<br />Not much. Not maddening. None I cannot +bear.<br />It has become like part of my own life,<br />Or part of God’s +life in me—honour—bliss!<br />I dreaded madness, and instead +comes rest;<br />Rest deep and smiling, like a summer’s night.<br />I +should be easy, now, if I could move . . .<br />I cannot stir. +Ah God! these shoots of fire<br />Through all my limbs! Hush, +selfish girl! He hears you!<br />Who ever found the cross a pleasant +bed?<br />Yes; I can bear it, love. Pain is no evil<br />Unless +it conquers us. These little wrists, now—<br />You said, +one blessed night, they were too slender,<br />Too soft and slender +for a deacon’s wife—<br />Perhaps a martyr’s:—You +forgot the strength<br />Which God can give. The cord has cut +them through;<br />And yet my voice has never faltered yet.<br />Oh! +do not groan, or I shall long and pray<br />That you may die: and you +must not die yet.<br />Not yet—they told us we might live three +days . . .<br />Two days for you to preach! Two days to speak<br />Words +which may wake the dead!<br />. . . . .<br /> Hush! +is he sleeping?<br />They say that men have slept upon the cross;<br />So +why not he? . . . Thanks, Lord! I hear him breathe:<br />And +he will preach Thy word to-morrow!—save<br />Souls, crowds, for +Thee! And they will know his worth<br />Years hence—poor +things, they know not what they do!—<br />And crown him martyr; +and his name will ring<br />Through all the shores of earth, and all +the stars<br />Whose eyes are sparkling through their tears to see<br />His +triumph—Preacher! Martyr!—Ah—and me?—<br />If +they must couple my poor name with his,<br />Let them tell all the truth—say +how I loved him,<br />And tried to damn him by that love! O Lord!<br />Returning +good for evil! and was this<br />The payment I deserved for such a sin?<br />To +hang here on my cross, and look at him<br />Until we kneel before Thy +throne in heaven!</p> +<p>Eversley, 1852.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>ON THE DEATH OF A CERTAIN JOURNAL <a name="citation282"></a><a href="#footnote282">{282}</a></h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>So die, thou child of stormy dawn,<br />Thou winter flower, forlorn +of nurse;<br />Chilled early by the bigot’s curse,<br />The pedant’s +frown, the worldling’s yawn.</p> +<p>Fair death, to fall in teeming June,<br />When every seed which drops +to earth<br />Takes root, and wins a second birth<br />From steaming +shower and gleaming moon.</p> +<p>Fall warm, fall fast, thou mellow rain;<br />Thou rain of God, make +fat the land;<br />That roots which parch in burning sand<br />May bud +to flower and fruit again.</p> +<p>To grace, perchance, a fairer morn<br />In mightier lands beyond +the sea,<br />While honour falls to such as we<br />From hearts of heroes +yet unborn,</p> +<p>Who in the light of fuller day,<br />Of purer science, holier laws,<br />Bless +us, faint heralds of their cause,<br />Dim beacons of their glorious +way.</p> +<p>Failure? While tide-floods rise and boil<br />Round cape and +isle, in port and cove,<br />Resistless, star-led from above:<br />What +though our tiny wave recoil?</p> +<p>Eversley, 1852.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>DOWN TO THE MOTHERS</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Linger no more, my beloved, by abbey and cell and cathedral;<br />Mourn +not for holy ones mourning of old them who knew not the Father,<br />Weeping +with fast and scourge, when the bridegroom was taken from them.<br />Drop +back awhile through the years, to the warm rich youth of the nations,<br />Childlike +in virtue and faith, though childlike in passion and pleasure,<br />Childlike +still, and still near to their God, while the day-spring of Eden<br />Lingered +in rose-red rays on the peaks of Ionian mountains.<br />Down to the +mothers, as Faust went, I go, to the roots of our manhood,<br />Mothers +of us in our cradles; of us once more in our glory.<br />New-born, body +and soul, in the great pure world which shall be<br />In the renewing +of all things, when man shall return to his Eden<br />Conquering evil, +and death, and shame, and the slander of conscience—<br />Free +in the sunshine of Godhead—and fearlessly smile on his Father.<br />Down +to the mothers I go—yet with thee still!—be with me, thou +purest!<br />Lead me, thy hand in my hand; and the dayspring of God +go before us.</p> +<p>Eversley, 1852.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>TO MISS MITFORD: AUTHORESS OF ‘OUR VILLAGE’</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>The single eye, the daughter of the light;<br />Well pleased to recognise +in lowliest shade<br />Some glimmer of its parent beam, and made<br />By +daily draughts of brightness, inly bright.<br />The taste severe, yet +graceful, trained aright<br />In classic depth and clearness, and repaid<br />By +thanks and honour from the wise and staid—<br />By pleasant skill +to blame, and yet delight,<br />And high communion with the eloquent +throng<br />Of those who purified our speech and song—<br />All +these are yours. The same examples lure,<br />You in each woodland, +me on breezy moor—<br />With kindred aim the same sweet path along,<br />To +knit in loving knowledge rich and poor.</p> +<p>Eversley, 1853.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>BALLAD OF EARL HALDAN’S DAUGHTER</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p> It was Earl Haldan’s daughter,<br /> She +looked across the sea;<br /> She looked across the +water;<br /> And long and loud laughed +she:<br /> ‘The locks of six princesses<br /> Must +be my marriage fee,<br />So hey bonny boat, and ho bonny boat!<br /> Who +comes a wooing me?’</p> +<p> It was Earl Haldan’s daughter,<br /> She +walked along the sand;<br /> When she was aware of +a knight so fair,<br /> Came sailing +to the land.<br /> His sails were all of velvet,<br /> His +mast of beaten gold,<br />And ‘Hey bonny boat, and ho bonny boat!<br /> Who +saileth here so bold?’</p> +<p> ‘The locks of five princesses<br /> I +won beyond the sea;<br /> I clipt their golden tresses,<br /> To +fringe a cloak for thee.<br /> One handful yet is wanting,<br /> But +one of all the tale;<br />So hey bonny boat, and ho bonny boat!<br /> Furl +up thy velvet sail!’</p> +<p> He leapt into the water,<br /> That +rover young and bold;<br /> He gript Earl Haldan’s +daughter,<br /> He clipt her locks +of gold:<br /> ‘Go weep, go weep, proud maiden,<br /> The +tale is full to-day.<br />Now hey bonny boat, and ho bonny boat!<br /> Sail +Westward ho! away!’</p> +<p>Devonshire, 1854<br /> From <i>Westward Ho</i>!</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>FRANK LEIGH’S SONG. A.D. 1586</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Ah tyrant Love, Megæra’s serpents bearing,<br /> Why +thus requite my sighs with venom’d smart?<br />Ah ruthless dove, +the vulture’s talons wearing,<br /> Why flesh +them, traitress, in this faithful heart?<br />Is this my meed? +Must dragons’ teeth alone<br />In Venus’ lawns by lovers’ +hands be sown?</p> +<p>Nay, gentlest Cupid; ’twas my pride undid me;<br /> Nay, +guiltless dove; by mine own wound I fell.<br />To worship, not to wed, +Celestials bid me:<br /> I dreamt to mate in heaven, +and wake in hell;<br />For ever doom’d, Ixion-like, to reel<br />On +mine own passions’ ever-burning wheel.</p> +<p>Devonshire, 1854.<br /> From <i>Westward Ho</i>!</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>ODE TO THE NORTH-EAST WIND</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Welcome, wild North-easter.<br /> Shame it is to +see<br />Odes to every zephyr;<br /> Ne’er a +verse to thee.<br />Welcome, black North-easter!<br /> O’er +the German foam;<br />O’er the Danish moorlands,<br /> From +thy frozen home.<br />Tired we are of summer,<br /> Tired +of gaudy glare,<br />Showers soft and steaming,<br /> Hot +and breathless air.<br />Tired of listless dreaming,<br /> Through +the lazy day:<br />Jovial wind of winter<br /> Turns +us out to play!<br />Sweep the golden reed-beds;<br /> Crisp +the lazy dyke;<br />Hunger into madness<br /> Every +plunging pike.<br />Fill the lake with wild-fowl;<br /> Fill +the marsh with snipe;<br />While on dreary moorlands<br /> Lonely +curlew pipe.<br />Through the black fir-forest<br /> Thunder +harsh and dry,<br />Shattering down the snow-flakes<br /> Off +the curdled sky.<br />Hark! The brave North-easter!<br /> Breast-high +lies the scent,<br />On by holt and headland,<br /> Over +heath and bent.<br />Chime, ye dappled darlings,<br /> Through +the sleet and snow.<br />Who can over-ride you?<br /> Let +the horses go!<br />Chime, ye dappled darlings,<br /> Down +the roaring blast;<br />You shall see a fox die<br /> Ere +an hour be past.<br />Go! and rest to-morrow,<br /> Hunting +in your dreams,<br />While our skates are ringing<br /> O’er +the frozen streams.<br />Let the luscious South-wind<br /> Breathe +in lovers’ sighs,<br />While the lazy gallants<br /> Bask +in ladies’ eyes.<br />What does he but soften<br /> Heart +alike and pen?<br />’Tis the hard gray weather<br /> Breeds +hard English men.<br />What’s the soft South-wester?<br /> ’Tis +the ladies’ breeze,<br />Bringing home their true-loves<br /> Out +of all the seas:<br />But the black North-easter,<br /> Through +the snowstorm hurled,<br />Drives our English hearts of oak<br /> Seaward +round the world.<br />Come, as came our fathers,<br /> Heralded +by thee,<br />Conquering from the eastward,<br /> Lords +by land and sea.<br />Come; and strong within us<br /> Stir +the Vikings’ blood;<br />Bracing brain and sinew;<br /> Blow, +thou wind of God!</p> +<p>1854.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>A FAREWELL: TO C. E. G.</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>My fairest child, I have no song to give you;<br /> No +lark could pipe in skies so dull and gray;<br />Yet, if you will, one +quiet hint I’ll leave you,<br /> For +every day.</p> +<p>I’ll tell you how to sing a clearer carol<br /> Than +lark who hails the dawn or breezy down<br />To earn yourself a purer +poet’s laurel<br /> Than Shakespeare’s +crown.</p> +<p>Be good, sweet maid, and let who can be clever;<br /> Do +lovely things, not dream them, all day long;<br />And so make Life, +and Death, and that For Ever,<br /> One +grand sweet song.</p> +<p><i>February</i> 1, 1856.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>TO G. A. G.</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>A hasty jest I once let fall—<br /> As jests +are wont to be, untrue—<br /> As if the sum of +joy to you<br />Were hunt and picnic, rout and ball.</p> +<p>Your eyes met mine: I did not blame;<br /> You saw +it: but I touched too near<br /> Some noble nerve; +a silent tear<br />Spoke soft reproach, and lofty shame.</p> +<p>I do not wish those words unsaid.<br /> Unspoilt +by praise and pleasure, you<br /> In that one look +to woman grew,<br />While with a child, I thought, I played.</p> +<p>Next to mine own beloved so long!<br /> I have not +spent my heart in vain.<br /> I watched the blade; +I see the grain;<br />A woman’s soul, most soft, yet strong.</p> +<p>Eversley, 1856.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>THE SOUTH WIND: A FISHERMAN’S BLESSINGS</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>O blessed drums of Aldershot!<br /> O blessed South-west +train!<br />O blessed, blessed Speaker’s clock,<br /> All +prophesying rain!</p> +<p>O blessed yaffil, laughing loud!<br /> O blessed +falling glass!<br />O blessed fan of cold gray cloud!<br /> O +blessed smelling grass!</p> +<p>O bless’d South wind that toots his horn<br /> Through +every hole and crack!<br />I’m off at eight to-morrow morn,<br /> To +bring <i>such</i> fishes back!</p> +<p>Eversley, <i>April</i> 1, 1856.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>THE INVITATION: TO TOM HUGHES</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Come away with me, Tom,<br />Term and talk are done;<br />My poor +lads are reaping,<br />Busy every one.<br />Curates mind the parish,<br />Sweepers +mind the court;<br />We’ll away to Snowdon<br />For our ten days’ +sport;<br />Fish the August evening<br />Till the eve is past,<br />Whoop +like boys, at pounders<br />Fairly played and grassed.<br />When they +cease to dimple,<br />Lunge, and swerve, and leap,<br />Then up over +Siabod,<br />Choose our nest, and sleep.<br />Up a thousand feet, Tom,<br />Round +the lion’s head,<br />Find soft stones to leeward<br />And make +up our bed.<br />Eat our bread and bacon,<br />Smoke the pipe of peace,<br />And, +ere we be drowsy,<br />Give our boots a grease.<br />Homer’s heroes +did so,<br />Why not such as we?<br />What are sheets and servants?<br />Superfluity!<br />Pray +for wives and children<br />Safe in slumber curled,<br />Then to chat +till midnight<br />O’er this babbling world—<br />Of the +workmen’s college,<br />Of the price of grain,<br />Of the tree +of knowledge,<br />Of the chance of rain;<br />If Sir A. goes Romeward,<br />If +Miss B. sings true,<br />If the fleet comes homeward,<br />If the mare +will do,—<br />Anything and everything—<br />Up there in +the sky<br />Angels understand us,<br />And no ‘saints’ +are by.<br />Down, and bathe at day-dawn,<br />Tramp from lake to lake,<br />Washing +brain and heart clean<br />Every step we take.<br />Leave to Robert +Browning<br />Beggars, fleas, and vines;<br />Leave to mournful Ruskin<br />Popish +Apennines,<br />Dirty Stones of Venice<br />And his Gas-lamps Seven—<br />We’ve +the stones of Snowdon<br />And the lamps of heaven.<br />Where’s +the mighty credit<br />In admiring Alps?<br />Any goose sees ‘glory’<br />In +their ‘snowy scalps.’<br />Leave such signs and wonders<br />For +the dullard brain,<br />As æsthetic brandy,<br />Opium and cayenne.<br />Give +me Bramshill common<br />(St. John’s harriers by),<br />Or the +vale of Windsor,<br />England’s golden eye.<br />Show me life +and progress,<br />Beauty, health, and man;<br />Houses fair, trim gardens,<br />Turn +where’er I can.<br />Or, if bored with ‘High Art,’<br />And +such popish stuff,<br />One’s poor ear need airing,<br />Snowdon’s +high enough.<br />While we find God’s signet<br />Fresh on English +ground,<br />Why go gallivanting<br />With the nations round?<br />Though +we try no ventures<br />Desperate or strange;<br />Feed on commonplaces<br />In +a narrow range;<br />Never sought for Franklin<br />Round the frozen +Capes;<br />Even, with Macdougall, <a name="citation295"></a><a href="#footnote295">{295}</a><br />Bagged +our brace of apes;<br />Never had our chance, Tom,<br />In that black +Redan;<br />Can’t avenge poor Brereton<br />Out in Sakarran;<br />Tho’ +we earn our bread, Tom,<br />By the dirty pen,<br />What we can we will +be,<br />Honest Englishmen.<br />Do the work that’s nearest,<br />Though +it’s dull at whiles,<br />Helping, when we meet them,<br />Lame +dogs over stiles;<br />See in every hedgerow<br />Marks of angels’ +feet,<br />Epics in each pebble<br />Underneath our feet;<br />Once +a year, like schoolboys,<br />Robin-Hooding go,<br />Leaving fops and +fogies<br />A thousand feet below.</p> +<p>Eversley, <i>August</i> 1856.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>THE FIND</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p> Yon sound’s neither sheep-bell nor bark,<br /> They’re +running—they’re running, Go hark!<br /> The +sport may be lost by a moment’s delay;<br /> So +whip up the puppies and scurry away.<br />Dash down through the cover +by dingle and dell,<br />There’s a gate at the bottom—I +know it full well;<br />And they’re running—they’re +running,<br /> Go hark!</p> +<p> They’re running—they’re running, +Go hark!<br /> One fence and we’re out of the +park;<br /> Sit down in your saddles and race at the +brook,<br /> Then smash at the bullfinch; no time for +a look;<br />Leave cravens and skirters to dangle behind;<br />He’s +away for the moors in the teeth of the wind,<br />And they’re +running—they’re running,<br /> Go +hark!</p> +<p> They’re running—they’re running, +Go hark!<br /> Let them run on and run till it’s +dark!<br /> Well with them we are, and well with them +we’ll be,<br /> While there’s wind in our +horses and daylight to see:<br />Then shog along homeward, chat over +the fight,<br />And hear in our dreams the sweet music all night<br />Of—They’re +running—they’re running,<br /> Go +hark!</p> +<p>Eversley, 1856.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>FISHING SONG: TO J. A. FROUDE AND TOM HUGHES</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p> Oh, Mr. Froude, how wise and +good,<br /> To +point us out this way to glory—<br /> They’re +no great shakes, those Snowdon Lakes,<br /> And +all their pounders myth and story.<br />Blow Snowdon! What’s +Lake Gwynant to Killarney,<br />Or spluttering Welsh to tender blarney, +blarney, blarney?</p> +<p> So Thomas Hughes, sir, if you +choose,<br /> I’ll +tell you where we think of going,<br /> To +swate and far o’er cliff and scar,<br /> Hear +horns of Elfland faintly blowing;<br />Blow Snowdon! There’s +a hundred lakes to try in,<br />And fresh caught salmon daily, frying, +frying, frying.</p> +<p> Geology and botany<br /> A +hundred wonders shall diskiver,<br /> We’ll +flog and troll in strid and hole,<br /> And +skim the cream of lake and river,<br />Blow Snowdon! give me Ireland +for my pennies,<br />Hurrah! for salmon, grilse, and—Dennis, Dennis, +Dennis!</p> +<p>Eversley, 1856</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>THE LAST BUCCANEER</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Oh England is a pleasant place for them that’s rich and high,<br />But +England is a cruel place for such poor folks as I;<br />And such a port +for mariners I ne’er shall see again<br />As the pleasant Isle +of Avès, beside the Spanish main.</p> +<p>There were forty craft in Avès that were both swift and stout,<br />All +furnished well with small arms and cannons round about;<br />And a thousand +men in Avès made laws so fair and free<br />To choose their valiant +captains and obey them loyally.</p> +<p>Thence we sailed against the Spaniard with his hoards of plate and +gold,<br />Which he wrung with cruel tortures from Indian folk of old;<br />Likewise +the merchant captains, with hearts as hard as stone,<br />Who flog men +and keel-haul them, and starve them to the bone.</p> +<p>Oh the palms grew high in Avès, and fruits that shone like +gold,<br />And the colibris and parrots they were gorgeous to behold;<br />And +the negro maids to Avès from bondage fast did flee,<br />To welcome +gallant sailors, a-sweeping in from sea.</p> +<p>Oh sweet it was in Avès to hear the landward breeze,<br />A-swing +with good tobacco in a net between the trees,<br />With a negro lass +to fan you, while you listened to the roar<br />Of the breakers on the +reef outside, that never touched the shore.</p> +<p>But Scripture saith, an ending to all fine things must be;<br />So +the King’s ships sailed on Avès, and quite put down were +we.<br />All day we fought like bulldogs, but they burst the booms at +night;<br />And I fled in a piragua, sore wounded, from the fight.</p> +<p>Nine days I floated starving, and a negro lass beside,<br />Till +for all I tried to cheer her, the poor young thing she died;<br />But +as I lay a gasping, a Bristol sail came by,<br />And brought me home +to England here, to beg until I die.</p> +<p>And now I’m old and going—I’m sure I can’t +tell where;<br />One comfort is, this world’s so hard, I can’t +be worse off there:<br />If I might but be a sea-dove, I’d fly +across the main,<br />To the pleasant Isle of Avès, to look at +it once again.</p> +<p>Eversley, 1857,</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>THE KNIGHT’S RETURN</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Hark! hark! hark!<br />The lark sings high in the dark.<br />The +were wolves mutter, the night hawks moan,<br />The raven croaks from +the Raven-stone;<br />What care I for his boding groan,<br />Riding +the moorland to come to mine own?<br />Hark! hark! hark!<br />The lark +sings high in the dark.</p> +<p>Hark! hark! hark!<br />The lark sings high in the dark.<br />Long +have I wander’d by land and by sea,<br />Long have I ridden by +moorland and lea;<br />Yonder she sits with my babe on her knee,<br />Sits +at the window and watches for me!<br />Hark! hark! hark!<br />The lark +sings high in the dark.</p> +<p>Written for music, 1857.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>PEN-Y-GWRYDD: TO TOM HUGHES, ESQ.</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>There is no inn in Snowdon which is not awful dear,<br />Excepting +Pen-y-gwrydd (you can’t pronounce it, dear),<br />Which standeth +in the meeting of noble valleys three—<br />One is the vale of +Gwynant, so well beloved by me,<br />One goes to Capel-Curig, and I +can’t mind its name,<br />And one it is Llanberris Pass, which +all men knows the same;<br />Between which radiations vast mountains +does arise,<br />As full of tarns as sieves of holes, in which big fish +will rise,<br />That is, just one day in the year, if you be there, +my boy,<br />Just about ten o’clock at night; and then I wish +you joy.<br />Now to this Pen-y-gwrydd inn I purposeth to write,<br />(Axing +the post town out of Froude, for I can’t mind it quite),<br />And +to engage a room or two, for let us say a week,<br />For fear of gents, +and Manichees, and reading parties meek,<br />And there to live like +fighting-cocks at almost a bob a day,<br />And arterwards toward the +sea make tracks and cut away,<br />All for to catch the salmon bold +in Aberglaslyn pool,<br />And work the flats in Traeth-Mawr, and will, +or I’m a fool.<br />And that’s my game, which if you like, +respond to me by post;<br />But I fear it will not last, my son, a thirteen +days at most.<br />Flies is no object; I can tell some three or four +will do,<br />And John Jones, Clerk, he knows the rest, and ties and +sells ’em too.<br />Besides of which I have no more to say, leastwise +just now,<br />And so, goes to my children’s school and ’umbly +makes my bow.</p> +<p>Eversley, 1857.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>ODE ON THE INSTALLATION OF THE DUKE OF DEVONSHIRE, CHANCELLOR OF +THE UNIVERSITY OF CAMBRIDGE, 1862 <a name="citation303"></a><a href="#footnote303">{303}</a></h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Hence a while, severer Muses;<br />Spare your slaves till drear October.<br />Hence; +for Alma Mater chooses<br />Not to be for ever sober:<br />But, like +stately matron gray,<br />Calling child and grandchild round her,<br />Will +for them at least be gay;<br />Share for once their holiday;<br />And, +knowing she will sleep the sounder,<br />Cheerier-hearted on the morrow<br />Rise +to grapple care and sorrow,<br />Grandly leads the dance adown, and +joins the children’s play.<br /> So +go, for in your places<br /> Already, +as you see,<br />(Her tears for some deep sorrow scarcely dried),<br />Venus +holds court among her sinless graces,<br />With many a nymph from many +a park and lea.<br />She, pensive, waits the merrier faces<br />Of those +your wittier sisters three,<br />O’er jest and dance and song +who still preside,<br />To cheer her in this merry-mournful tide;<br /> And +bids us, as she smiles or sighs,<br /> Tune our fancies +by her eyes.</p> +<p> Then let the young be glad,<br /> Fair +girl and gallant lad,<br /> And sun themselves to-day<br /> By +lawn and garden gay;<br /> ’Tis play befits the +noon<br /> Of rosy-girdled June:<br /> Who +dare frown if heaven shall smile?<br /> Blest, who +can forget a while;<br /> The world before them, and +above<br /> The light of universal love.<br />Go, then, +let the young be gay;<br />From their heart as from their dress<br />Let +darkness and let mourning pass away,<br />While we the staid and worn +look on and bless.</p> +<p> Health to courage firm and high!<br /> Health +to Granta’s chivalry!<br /> Wisely finding, day +by day,<br /> Play in toil, and toil in play.<br /> Granta +greets them, gliding down<br /> On by park and spire +and town;<br /> Humming mills and golden meadows,<br /> Barred +with elm and poplar shadows;<br /> Giant groves, and +learned halls;<br /> Holy fanes and pictured walls.<br /> Yet +she bides not here; around<br /> Lies the Muses’ +sacred ground.<br /> Most she lingers, where below<br /> Gliding +wherries come and go;<br /> Stalwart footsteps shake +the shores;<br /> Rolls the pulse of stalwart oars;<br /> Rings +aloft the exultant cry<br /> For the bloodless victory.<br /> There +she greets the sports, which breed<br /> Valiant lads +for England’s need;<br /> Wisely finding, day +by day,<br /> Play in toil, and toil in play.<br /> Health +to courage, firm and high!<br /> Health to Granta’s +chivalry!</p> +<p>Yet stay a while, severer Muses, stay,<br />For you, too, have your +rightful parts to-day.<br />Known long to you, and known through you +to fame,<br />Are Chatsworth’s halls, and Cavendish’s name.<br />You +too, then, Alma Mater calls to greet<br />A worthy patron for your ancient +seat;<br />And bid her sons from him example take,<br />Of learning +purely sought for learning’s sake,<br />Of worth unboastful, power +in duty spent;<br />And see, fulfilled in him, her high intent.</p> +<p> Come, Euterpe, wake thy choir;<br /> Fit +thy notes to our desire.<br /> Long +may he sit the chiefest here,<br /> Meet +us and greet us, year by year;<br /> Long +inherit, sire and son,<br /> All +that their race has wrought and won,<br /> Since +that great Cavendish came again,<br /> Round +the world and over the main,<br /> Breasting +the Thames with his mariners bold,<br /> Past +good Queen Bess’s palace of old;<br /> With +jewel and ingot packed in his hold,<br /> And +sails of damask and cloth of gold;<br /> While +never a sailor-boy on board<br /> But +was decked as brave as a Spanish lord,<br /> With +the spoils he had won<br /> In +the Isles of the Sun,<br /> And +the shores of Fairy-land,<br /> And +yet held for the crown of the goodly show,<br /> That +queenly smile from the Palace window,<br /> And +that wave of a queenly hand.<br /> Yes, +let the young be gay,<br /> And sun +themselves to-day;—<br /> And from their hearts, +as from their dress,<br /> Let mourning +pass away.<br />But not from us, who watch our years fast fleeing,<br />And +snatching as they flee, fresh fragments of our being.<br /> Can +we forget one friend,<br /> Can we +forget one face,<br /> Which cheered +us toward our end,<br /> Which nerved +us for our race?<br /> Oh sad to +toil, and yet forego<br /> One presence +which has made us know<br /> To Godlike +souls how deep our debt!<br /> We +would not, if we could, forget.</p> +<p> Severer Muses, linger yet;<br /> Speak +out for us one pure and rich regret.<br /> Thou, Clio, +who, with awful pen,<br /> Gravest great names upon +the hearts of men,<br /> Speak of a fate beyond our +ken;<br /> A gem late found and lost too soon; <a name="citation306"></a><a href="#footnote306">{306}</a><br /> A +sun gone down at highest noon;<br /> A tree from Odin’s +ancient root,<br /> Which bore for men the ancient +fruit,<br /> Counsel, and faith and scorn of wrong,<br /> And +cunning lore, and soothing song,<br /> Snapt in mid-growth, +and leaving unaware<br /> The flock unsheltered and +the pasture bare<br /> Nay, let us take what God shall +send,<br /> Trusting bounty without end.<br /> God +ever lives; and Nature,<br /> Beneath His high dictature,<br /> Hale +and teeming, can replace<br /> Strength by strength, +and grace by grace,<br /> Hope by hope, and friend +by friend:<br /> Trust; and take what God shall send.<br /> So +shall Alma Mater see<br /> Daughters +fair and wise<br /> Train new lands of liberty<br /> Under +stranger skies;<br /> Spreading round the teeming earth<br /> English +science, manhood, worth.</p> +<p>1862.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>SONGS FROM ‘THE WATER-BABIES’</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>THE TIDE RIVER</h3> +<p> Clear and cool, clear and cool,<br />By laughing +shallow, and dreaming pool;<br /> Cool and clear, cool +and clear,<br />By shining shingle, and foaming wear;<br />Under the +crag where the ouzel sings,<br />And the ivied wall where the church-bell +rings,<br /> Undefiled, for the undefiled;<br /> Play +by me, bathe in me, mother and child.</p> +<p> Dank and foul, dank and foul,<br /> By +the smoky town in its murky cowl;<br /> Foul +and dank, foul and dank,<br /> By wharf and sewer and +slimy bank;<br />Darker and darker the farther I go,<br />Baser and +baser the richer I grow;<br /> Who +dare sport with the sin-defiled?<br /> Shrink from +me, turn from me, mother and child.</p> +<p> Strong and free, strong and free,<br /> The +floodgates are open, away to the sea.<br /> Free +and strong, free and strong,<br /> Cleansing my streams +as I hurry along<br />To the golden sands, and the leaping bar,<br />And +the taintless tide that awaits me afar,<br />As I lose myself in the +infinite main,<br />Like a soul that has sinned and is pardoned again.<br /> Undefiled, +for the undefiled;<br /> Play by me, bathe in me, mother +and child.</p> +<p>From <i>The Water-Babies</i>.<br />Eversley, 1862.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<h3>YOUNG AND OLD</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>When all the world is young, lad,<br /> And all +the trees are green;<br />And every goose a swan, lad,<br /> And +every lass a queen;<br />Then hey for boot and horse, lad,<br /> And +round the world away;<br />Young blood must have its course, lad,<br /> And +every dog his day.</p> +<p>When all the world is old, lad,<br /> And all the +trees are brown;<br />And all the sport is stale, lad,<br /> And +all the wheels run down;<br />Creep home, and take your place there,<br /> The +spent and maimed among:<br />God grant you find one face there,<br /> You +loved when all was young.</p> +<p>From <i>The Water-Babies</i>. 1862</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<h3>THE SUMMER SEA</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p> Soft soft wind, from out the sweet south sliding,<br />Waft +thy silver cloud webs athwart the summer sea;<br /> Thin +thin threads of mist on dewy fingers twining<br />Weave a veil of dappled +gauze to shade my babe and me.</p> +<p> Deep deep Love, within thine own abyss abiding,<br />Pour +Thyself abroad, O Lord, on earth and air and sea;<br /> Worn +weary hearts within Thy holy temple hiding,<br />Shield from sorrow, +sin, and shame my helpless babe and me.</p> +<p>From <i>The Water-Babies</i>. 1862</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<h3>MY LITTLE DOLL</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>I once had a sweet little doll, dears,<br /> The +prettiest doll in the world;<br />Her cheeks were so red and so white, +dears,<br /> And her hair was so charmingly curled.<br />But +I lost my poor little doll, dears,<br /> As I played +in the heath one day;<br />And I cried for more than a week, dears,<br /> But +I never could find where she lay.</p> +<p>I found my poor little doll, dears,<br /> As I played +in the heath one day:<br />Folks say she is terribly changed, dears,<br /> For +her paint is all washed away,<br />And her arms trodden off by the cows, +dears<br /> And her hair not the least bit curled:<br />Yet +for old sakes’ sake she is still, dears,<br /> The +prettiest doll in the world.</p> +<p>From The <i>Water-Babies</i>.<br />Eversley, 1862.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>THE KNIGHT’S LEAP: A LEGEND OF ALTENAHR</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>‘So the foemen have fired the gate, men of mine;<br /> And +the water is spent and gone?<br />Then bring me a cup of the red Ahr-wine:<br /> I +never shall drink but this one.</p> +<p>‘And reach me my harness, and saddle my horse,<br /> And +lead him me round to the door:<br />He must take such a leap to-night +perforce,<br /> As horse never took before.</p> +<p>‘I have fought my fight, I have lived my life,<br /> I +have drunk my share of wine;<br />From Trier to Coln there was never +a knight<br /> Led a merrier life than mine.</p> +<p>‘I have lived by the saddle for years two score;<br /> And +if I must die on tree,<br />Then the old saddle tree, which has borne +me of yore,<br /> Is the properest timber for me.</p> +<p>‘So now to show bishop, and burgher, and priest,<br /> How +the Altenahr hawk can die:<br />If they smoke the old falcon out of +his nest,<br /> He must take to his wings and fly.’</p> +<p>He harnessed himself by the clear moonshine,<br /> And +he mounted his horse at the door;<br />And he drained such a cup of +the red Ahr-wine,<br /> As man never drained before.</p> +<p>He spurred the old horse, and he held him tight,<br /> And +he leapt him out over the wall;<br />Out over the cliff, out into the +night,<br /> Three hundred feet of fall.</p> +<p>They found him next morning below in the glen,<br /> With +never a bone in him whole—<br />A mass or a prayer, now, good +gentlemen,<br /> For such a bold rider’s soul.</p> +<p>Eversley, 1864.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>THE SONG OF THE LITTLE BALTUNG. A.D. 395</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>A harper came over the Danube so wide,<br /> And +he came into Alaric’s hall,<br />And he sang the song of the little +Baltung<br /> To him and his heroes all.</p> +<p>How the old old Balt and the young young Balt<br /> Rode +out of Caucaland,<br />With the royal elephant’s trunk on helm<br /> And +the royal lance in hand.</p> +<p>Thuringer heroes, counts and knights,<br /> Pricked +proud in their meinie;<br />For they were away to the great Kaiser,<br /> In +Byzant beside the sea.</p> +<p>And when they came to the Danube so wide<br /> They +shouted from off the shore,<br />‘Come over, come over, ye Roman +slaves,<br /> And ferry your masters o’er.’</p> +<p>And when they came to Adrian’s burgh,<br /> With +its towers so smooth and high,<br />‘Come out, come out, ye Roman +knaves,<br /> And see your lords ride by.’</p> +<p>But when they came lo the long long walls<br /> That +stretch from sea to sea,<br />That old old Balt let down his chin,<br /> And +a thoughtful man grew he.</p> +<p>‘Oh oft have I scoffed at brave Fridigern,<br /> But +never will I scoff more,<br />If these be the walls which kept him out<br /> From +the Micklegard there on the shore.’</p> +<p>Then out there came the great Kaiser,<br /> With +twice ten thousand men;<br />But never a Thuring was coward enough<br /> To +wish himself home again.</p> +<p>‘Bow down, thou rebel, old Athanarich,<br /> And +beg thy life this day;<br />The Kaiser is lord of all the world,<br /> And +who dare say him nay?’</p> +<p>‘I never came out of Caucaland<br /> To beg +for less nor more;<br />But to see the pride of the great Kaiser,<br /> In +his Micklegard here by the shore.</p> +<p>‘I never came out of Caucaland<br /> To bow +to mortal wight,<br />But to shake the hand of the great Kaiser,<br /> And +God defend my right.’</p> +<p>He shook his hand, that cunning Kaiser,<br /> And +he kissed him courteouslie,<br />And he has ridden with Athanarich<br /> That +wonder-town to see.</p> +<p>He showed him his walls of marble white—<br /> A +mile o’erhead they shone;<br />Quoth the Balt, ‘Who would +leap into that garden,<br /> King Siegfried’s +boots must own.’</p> +<p>He showed him his engines of arsmetrick<br /> And +his wells of quenchless flame,<br />And his flying rocks, that guarded +his walls<br /> From all that against him came.</p> +<p>He showed him his temples and pillared halls,<br /> And +his streets of houses high;<br />And his watch-towers tall, where his +star-gazers<br /> Sit reading the signs of the sky.</p> +<p>He showed him his ships with their hundred oars,<br /> And +their sides like a castle wall,<br />That fetch home the plunder of +all the world,<br /> At the Kaiser’s beck and +call.</p> +<p>He showed him all nations of every tongue<br /> That +are bred beneath the sun,<br />How they flowed together in Micklegard +street<br /> As the brooks flow all into one.</p> +<p>He showed him the shops of the china ware,<br /> And +of silk and sendal also,<br />And he showed him the baths and the waterpipes<br /> On +arches aloft that go.</p> +<p>He showed him ostrich and unicorn,<br /> Ape, lion, +and tiger keen;<br />And elephants wise roared ‘Hail Kaiser!’<br /> As +though they had Christians been.</p> +<p>He showed him the hoards of the dragons and trolls,<br /> Rare +jewels and heaps of gold—<br />‘Hast thou seen, in all thy +hundred years,<br /> Such as these, thou king so old?’</p> +<p>Now that cunning Kaiser was a scholar wise,<br /> And +could of gramarye,<br />And he cast a spell on that old old Balt,<br /> Till +lowly and meek spake he.</p> +<p>‘Oh oft have I heard of the Micklegard,<br /> What +I held for chapmen’s lies;<br />But now do I know of the Micklegard,<br /> By +the sight of mine own eyes.</p> +<p>‘Woden in Valhalla,<br /> But thou on earth +art God;<br />And he that dare withstand thee, Kaiser,<br /> On +his own head lies his blood.’</p> +<p>Then out and spake that little Baltung,<br /> Rode +at the king’s right knee,<br />Quoth ‘Fridigern slew false +Kaiser Valens,<br /> And he died like you or me.’</p> +<p>‘And who art thou, thou pretty bold boy,<br /> Rides +at the king’s right knee?’<br />‘Oh I am the Baltung, +boy Alaric,<br /> And as good a man as thee.’</p> +<p>‘As good as me, thou pretty bold boy,<br /> With +down upon thy chin?’<br />‘Oh a spae-wife laid a doom on +me,<br /> The best of thy realm to win.’</p> +<p>‘If thou be so fierce, thou little wolf cub<br /> Or +ever thy teeth be grown;<br />Then I must guard my two young sons<br /> Lest +they should lose their own.’</p> +<p>‘Oh, it’s I will guard your two lither lads,<br /> In +their burgh beside the sea,<br />And it’s I will prove true man +to them<br /> If they will prove true to me.</p> +<p>‘But it’s you must warn your two lither lads,<br /> And +warn them bitterly,<br />That if I shall find them two false Kaisers,<br /> High +hanged they both shall be.’</p> +<p>Now they are gone into the Kaiser’s palace<br /> To +eat the peacock fine,<br />And they are gone into the Kaiser’s +palace<br /> To drink the good Greek wine.</p> +<p>The Kaiser alone, and the old old Balt,<br /> They +sat at the cedar board;<br />And round them served on the bended knee<br /> Full +many a Roman lord.</p> +<p>‘What ails thee, what ails thee, friend Athanarich?<br /> What +makes thee look so pale?’<br />‘I fear I am poisoned, thou +cunning Kaiser,<br /> For I feel my heart-strings fail.</p> +<p>‘Oh would I had kept that great great oath<br /> I +swore by the horse’s head,<br />I would never set foot on Roman +ground<br /> Till the day that I lay dead.</p> +<p>‘Oh would I were home in Caucaland,<br /> To +hear my harpers play,<br />And to drink my last of the nut-brown ale,<br /> While +I gave the gold rings away.</p> +<p>‘Oh would I were home in Caucaland,<br /> To +hear the Gothmen’s horn,<br />And watch the waggons, and brown +brood mares<br /> And the tents where I was born.</p> +<p>‘But now I must die between four stone walls<br /> In +Byzant beside the sea:<br />And as thou shalt deal with my little Baltung,<br /> So +God shall deal with thee.’</p> +<p>The Kaiser he purged himself with oaths,<br /> And +he buried him royally,<br />And he set on his barrow an idol of gold,<br /> Where +all Romans must bow the knee.</p> +<p>And now the Goths are the Kaiser’s men,<br /> And +guard him with lance and sword,<br />And the little Baltung is his sworn +son-at-arms,<br /> And eats at the Kaiser’s board,</p> +<p>And the Kaiser’s two sons are two false white lads<br /> That +a clerk may beat with cane.<br />The clerk that should beat that little +Baltung<br /> Would never sing mass again.</p> +<p>Oh the gates of Rome they are steel without,<br /> And +beaten gold within:<br />But they shall fly wide to the little Baltung<br /> With +the down upon his chin.</p> +<p>Oh the fairest flower in the Kaiser’s garden<br /> Is +Rome and Italian land:<br />But it all shall fall to the little Baltung<br /> When +he shall take lance in hand.</p> +<p>And when he is parting the plunder of Rome,<br /> He +shall pay for this song of mine,<br />Neither maiden nor land, neither +jewel nor gold,<br /> But one cup of Italian wine.</p> +<p>Eversley, 1864.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>ON THE DEATH OF LEOPOLD, KING OF THE BELGIANS <a name="citation319"></a><a href="#footnote319">{319}</a></h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>A King is dead! Another master mind<br /> Is +summoned from the world-wide council hall.<br />Ah, for some seer, to +say what links behind—<br /> To read the mystic +writing on the wall!</p> +<p>Be still, fond man: nor ask thy fate to know.<br /> Face +bravely what each God-sent moment brings.<br />Above thee rules in love, +through weal and woe,<br /> Guiding thy kings and thee, +the King of kings.</p> +<p>Windsor Castle,<br /><i> November</i> 10, 1865.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>EASTER WEEK</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>(Written for music to be sung at a parish industrial exhibition)</p> +<p>See the land, her Easter keeping,<br /> Rises as +her Maker rose.<br />Seeds, so long in darkness sleeping,<br /> Burst +at last from winter snows.<br />Earth with heaven above rejoices;<br /> Fields +and gardens hail the spring;<br />Shaughs and woodlands ring with voices,<br /> While +the wild birds build and sing.</p> +<p>You, to whom your Maker granted<br /> Powers to +those sweet birds unknown,<br />Use the craft by God implanted;<br /> Use +the reason not your own.<br />Here, while heaven and earth rejoices,<br /> Each +his Easter tribute bring—<br />Work of fingers, chant of voices,<br /> Like +the birds who build and sing.</p> +<p>Eversley, 1867.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>DRIFTING AWAY: A FRAGMENT</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>They drift away. Ah, God! they drift for ever.<br />I watch +the stream sweep onward to the sea,<br />Like some old battered buoy +upon a roaring river,<br />Round whom the tide-waifs hang—then +drift to sea.</p> +<p>I watch them drift—the old familiar faces,<br />Who fished +and rode with me, by stream and wold,<br />Till ghosts, not men, fill +old beloved places,<br />And, ah! the land is rank with churchyard mold.</p> +<p>I watch them drift—the youthful aspirations,<br />Shores, landmarks, +beacons, drift alike.<br />. . . . .<br />I watch them drift—the +poets and the statesmen;<br />The very streams run upward from the sea.<br /> . +. . . . .<br /> Yet overhead the boundless arch of +heaven<br /> Still fades to night, still blazes into +day.<br /> . . . . .<br /> Ah, God! +My God! Thou wilt not drift away</p> +<p><i>November</i> 1867.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>CHRISTMAS DAY</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>How will it dawn, the coming Christmas Day?<br />A northern Christmas, +such as painters love,<br />And kinsfolk, shaking hands but once a year,<br />And +dames who tell old legends by the fire?<br />Red sun, blue sky, white +snow, and pearled ice,<br />Keen ringing air, which sets the blood on +fire,<br />And makes the old man merry with the young,<br />Through +the short sunshine, through the longer night?<br /> Or +southern Christmas, dark and dank with mist,<br />And heavy with the +scent of steaming leaves,<br />And rosebuds mouldering on the dripping +porch;<br />One twilight, without rise or set of sun,<br />Till beetles +drone along the hollow lane,<br />And round the leafless hawthorns, +flitting bats<br />Hawk the pale moths of winter? Welcome then<br />At +best, the flying gleam, the flying shower,<br />The rain-pools glittering +on the long white roads,<br />And shadows sweeping on from down to down<br />Before +the salt Atlantic gale: yet come<br />In whatsoever garb, or gay, or +sad,<br />Come fair, come foul, ’twill still be Christmas Day.<br /> How +will it dawn, the coming Christmas Day?<br />To sailors lounging on +the lonely deck<br />Beneath the rushing trade-wind? Or to him,<br />Who +by some noisome harbour of the East,<br />Watches swart arms roll down +the precious bales,<br />Spoils of the tropic forests; year by year<br />Amid +the din of heathen voices, groaning<br />Himself half heathen? +How to those—brave hearts!<br />Who toil with laden loins and +sinking stride<br />Beside the bitter wells of treeless sands<br />Toward +the peaks which flood the ancient Nile,<br />To free a tyrant’s +captives? How to those—<br />New patriarchs of the new-found +underworld—<br />Who stand, like Jacob, on the virgin lawns,<br />And +count their flocks’ increase? To them that day<br />Shall +dawn in glory, and solstitial blaze<br />Of full midsummer sun: to them +that morn,<br />Gay flowers beneath their feet, gay birds aloft,<br />Shall +tell of nought but summer: but to them,<br />Ere yet, unwarned by carol +or by chime,<br />They spring into the saddle, thrills may come<br />From +that great heart of Christendom which beats<br />Round all the worlds; +and gracious thoughts of youth;<br />Of steadfast folk, who worship +God at home;<br />Of wise words, learnt beside their mothers’ +knee;<br />Of innocent faces upturned once again<br />In awe and joy +to listen to the tale<br />Of God made man, and in a manger laid—<br />May +soften, purify, and raise the soul<br />From selfish cares, and growing +lust of gain,<br />And phantoms of this dream which some call life,<br />Toward +the eternal facts; for here or there,<br />Summer or winter, ’twill +be Christmas Day.</p> +<p> Blest day, which aye reminds us, year by year,<br />What +’tis to be a man: to curb and spurn<br />The tyrant in us; that +ignobler self<br />Which boasts, not loathes, its likeness to the brute,<br />And +owns no good save ease, no ill save pain,<br />No purpose, save its +share in that wild war<br />In which, through countless ages, living +things<br />Compete in internecine greed.—Ah God!<br />Are we +as creeping things, which have no Lord?<br />That we are brutes, great +God, we know too well;<br />Apes daintier-featured; silly birds who +flaunt<br />Their plumes unheeding of the fowler’s step;<br />Spiders, +who catch with paper, not with webs;<br />Tigers, who slay with cannon +and sharp steel,<br />Instead of teeth and claws;—all these we +are.<br />Are we no more than these, save in degree?<br />No more than +these; and born but to compete—<br />To envy and devour, like +beast or herb;<br />Mere fools of nature; puppets of strong lusts,<br />Taking +the sword, to perish with the sword<br />Upon the universal battle-field,<br />Even +as the things upon the moor outside?<br /> The heath +eats up green grass and delicate flowers,<br />The pine eats up the +heath, the grub the pine,<br />The finch the grub, the hawk the silly +finch;<br />And man, the mightiest of all beasts of prey,<br />Eats +what he lists; the strong eat up the weak,<br />The many eat the few; +great nations, small;<br />And he who cometh in the name of all—<br />He, +greediest, triumphs by the greed of all;<br />And, armed by his own +victims, eats up all:<br />While ever out of the eternal heavens<br />Looks +patient down the great magnanimous God,<br />Who, Maker of all worlds, +did sacrifice<br />All to Himself? Nay, but Himself to one;<br />Who +taught mankind on that first Christmas Day,<br />What ’twas to +be a man; to give, not take;<br />To serve, not rule; to nourish, not +devour;<br />To help, not crush; if need, to die, not live.<br /> O +blessed day, which givest the eternal lie<br />To self, and sense, and +all the brute within;<br />Oh, come to us, amid this war of life;<br />To +hall and hovel, come; to all who toil<br />In senate, shop, or study; +and to those<br />Who, sundered by the wastes of half a world,<br />Ill-warned, +and sorely tempted, ever face<br />Nature’s brute powers, and +men unmanned to brutes—<br />Come to them, blest and blessing, +Christmas Day.<br />Tell them once more the tale of Bethlehem;<br />The +kneeling shepherds, and the Babe Divine:<br />And keep them men indeed, +fair Christmas Day.</p> +<p>Eversley, 1868.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>SEPTEMBER 21, 1870 <a name="citation325"></a><a href="#footnote325">{325}</a></h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Speak low, speak little; who may sing<br /> While +yonder cannon-thunders boom?<br />Watch, shuddering, what each day may +bring:<br /> Nor ‘pipe amid the crack of doom.’</p> +<p>And yet—the pines sing overhead,<br /> The +robins by the alder-pool,<br />The bees about the garden-bed,<br /> The +children dancing home from school.</p> +<p>And ever at the loom of Birth<br /> The mighty Mother +weaves and sings:<br />She weaves—fresh robes for mangled earth;<br /> She +sings—fresh hopes for desperate things.</p> +<p>And thou, too: if through Nature’s calm<br /> Some +strain of music touch thine ears,<br />Accept and share that soothing +balm,<br /> And sing, though choked with pitying tears.</p> +<p>Eversley, 1870.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>THE MANGO-TREE</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>He wiled me through the furzy croft;<br /> He wiled +me down the sandy lane.<br />He told his boy’s love, soft and +oft,<br /> Until I told him mine again.</p> +<p>We married, and we sailed the main;<br /> A soldier, +and a soldier’s wife.<br />We marched through many a burning plain;<br /> We +sighed for many a gallant life.</p> +<p>But his—God kept it safe from harm.<br /> He +toiled, and dared, and earned command;<br />And those three stripes +upon his arm<br /> Were more to me than gold or land.</p> +<p>Sure he would win some great renown:<br /> Our lives +were strong, our hearts were high.<br />One night the fever struck him +down.<br /> I sat, and stared, and saw him die.</p> +<p>I had his children—one, two, three.<br /> One +week I had them, blithe and sound.<br />The next—beneath this +mango-tree,<br /> By him in barrack burying-ground.</p> +<p>I sit beneath the mango-shade;<br /> I live my five +years’ life all o’er—<br />Round yonder stems his +children played;<br /> He mounted guard at yonder door.</p> +<p>’Tis I, not they, am gone and dead.<br /> They +live; they know; they feel; they see.<br />Their spirits light the golden +shade<br /> Beneath the giant mango-tree.</p> +<p>All things, save I, are full of life:<br /> The +minas, pluming velvet breasts;<br />The monkeys, in their foolish strife;<br /> The +swooping hawks, the swinging nests;</p> +<p>The lizards basking on the soil,<br /> The butterflies +who sun their wings;<br />The bees about their household toil,<br /> They +live, they love, the blissful things.</p> +<p>Each tender purple mango-shoot,<br /> That folds +and droops so bashful down;<br />It lives; it sucks some hidden root;<br /> It +rears at last a broad green crown.</p> +<p>It blossoms; and the children cry—<br /> ‘Watch +when the mango-apples fall.’<br />It lives: but rootless, fruitless, +I—<br /> I breathe and dream;—and that +is all.</p> +<p>Thus am I dead: yet cannot die:<br /> But still +within my foolish brain<br />There hangs a pale blue evening sky;<br /> A +furzy croft; a sandy lane.</p> +<p>1870.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>THE PRIEST’S HEART</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>It was Sir John, the fair young Priest,<br /> He +strode up off the strand;<br />But seven fisher maidens he left behind<br /> All +dancing hand in hand.</p> +<p>He came unto the wise wife’s house:<br /> ‘Now, +Mother, to prove your art;<br />To charm May Carleton’s merry +blue eyes<br /> Out of a young man’s heart.’</p> +<p>‘My son, you went for a holy man,<br /> Whose +heart was set on high;<br />Go sing in your psalter, and read in your +books;<br /> Man’s love fleets lightly by.’</p> +<p>‘I had liever to talk with May Carleton,<br /> Than +with all the saints in Heaven;<br />I had liever to sit by May Carleton<br /> Than +climb the spherès seven.</p> +<p>‘I have watched and fasted, early and late,<br /> I +have prayed to all above;<br />But I find no cure save churchyard mould<br /> For +the pain which men call love.’</p> +<p>‘Now Heaven forefend that ill grow worse:<br /> Enough +that ill be ill.<br />I know of a spell to draw May Carleton,<br /> And +bend her to your will.’</p> +<p>‘If thou didst that which thou canst not do,<br /> Wise +woman though thou be,<br />I would run and run till I buried myself<br /> In +the surge of yonder sea.</p> +<p>‘Scathless for me are maid and wife,<br /> And +scathless shall they bide.<br />Yet charm me May Carleton’s eyes +from the heart<br /> That aches in my left side.’</p> +<p>She charmed him with the white witchcraft,<br /> She +charmed him with the black,<br />But he turned his fair young face to +the wall,<br /> Till she heard his heart-strings crack.</p> +<p>1870</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>‘QU’EST QU’IL DIT’ <a name="citation330"></a><a href="#footnote330">{330}</a></h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Espion ailé de la jeune amante<br />De l’ombre des palmiers +pourquoi ce cri?<br />Laisse en paix le beau garçon plaider et +vaincre—<br />Pourquoi, pourquoi demander ‘Qu’est +qu’il dit?’</p> +<p>‘Qu’est qu’il dit?’ Ce que tu dis toi-même<br />Chaque +mois de ce printemps eternel;<br />Ce que disent les papillons qui s’entre-baisent,<br />Ce +que dit tout bel jeun être à toute belle.</p> +<p>Importun! Attende quelques lustres:<br />Quand les souvenirs +1’emmeneront ici—<br />Mère, grand’mère, +pâle, lasse, et fidèle,<br />Demande mais doucement—‘Et +le vieillard,<br /> Qu’est qu’il dit?’</p> +<p>Trinidad, <i>January</i> 10, 1870</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>THE LEGEND OF LA BREA <a name="citation331a"></a><a href="#footnote331a">{331a}</a></h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Down beside the loathly Pitch Lake,<br /> In the +stately Morichal, <a name="citation331b"></a><a href="#footnote331b">{331b}</a><br />Sat +an ancient Spanish Indian,<br /> Peering through the +columns tall.</p> +<p>Watching vainly for the flashing<br /> Of the jewelled +colibris; <a name="citation331c"></a><a href="#footnote331c">{331c}</a><br />Listening +vainly for their humming<br /> Round the honey-blossomed +trees.</p> +<p>‘Few,’ he sighed, ‘they come, and fewer,<br /> To +the cocorité <a name="citation331d"></a><a href="#footnote331d">{331d}</a> +bowers;<br />Murdered, madly, through the forests<br /> Which +of yore were theirs—and ours</p> +<p>By there came a negro hunter,<br /> Lithe and lusty, +sleek and strong,<br />Rolling round his sparkling eyeballs,<br /> As +he loped and lounged along.</p> +<p>Rusty firelock on his shoulder;<br /> Rusty cutlass +on his thigh;<br />Never jollier British subject<br /> Rollicked +underneath the sky.</p> +<p>British law to give him safety,<br /> British fleets +to guard his shore,<br />And a square of British freehold—<br /> He +had all we have, and more.</p> +<p>Fattening through the endless summer,<br /> Like +his own provision ground,<br />He had reached the summum bonum<br /> Which +our latest wits have found.</p> +<p>So he thought; and in his hammock<br /> Gnawed his +junk of sugar-cane,<br />Toasted plantains at the fire-stick,<br /> Gnawed, +and dozed, and gnawed again.</p> +<p>Had a wife in his ajoupa <a name="citation332"></a><a href="#footnote332">{332}</a>—<br /> Or, +at least, what did instead;<br />Children, too, who died so early,<br /> He’d +no need to earn their bread.</p> +<p>Never stole, save what he needed,<br /> From the +Crown woods round about;<br />Never lied, except when summoned—<br /> Let +the warden find him out.</p> +<p>Never drank, except at market;<br /> Never beat +his sturdy mate;<br />She could hit as hard as he could,<br /> And +had just as hard a pate.</p> +<p>Had no care for priest nor parson,<br /> Hope of +heaven nor fear of hell;<br />And in all his views of nature<br /> Held +with Comte and Peter Bell.</p> +<p>Healthy, happy, silly, kindly,<br /> Neither care +nor toil had he,<br />Save to work an hour at sunrise,<br /> And +then hunt the colibri.</p> +<p>Not a bad man; not a good man:<br /> Scarce a man +at all, one fears,<br />If the Man be that within us<br /> Which +is born of fire and tears.</p> +<p>Round the palm-stems, round the creepers,<br /> Flashed +a feathered jewel past,<br />Ruby-crested, topaz-throated,<br /> Plucked +the cocorité bast,</p> +<p>Plucked the fallen ceiba-cotton, <a name="citation333"></a><a href="#footnote333">{333}</a><br /> Whirred +away to build his nest,<br />Hung at last, with happy humming,<br /> Round +some flower he fancied best.</p> +<p>Up then went the rusty muzzle,<br /> ’Dat +de tenth I shot to-day:’<br />But out sprang the Indian shouting,<br /> Balked +the negro of his prey.</p> +<p>‘Eh, you Señor Trinidada!<br /> What +dis new ondacent plan?<br />Spoil a genl’man’s chance ob +shooting?<br /> I as good as any man.</p> +<p>‘Dese not your woods; dese de Queen’s woods:<br /> You +seem not know whar you ar,<br />Gibbin’ yuself dese buckra airs +here,<br /> You black Indian Papist! Dar!’</p> +<p>Stately, courteous, stood the Indian;<br /> Pointed +through the palm-tree shade:<br />‘Does the gentleman of colour<br /> Know +how yon Pitch Lake was made?’</p> +<p>Grinned the negro, grinned and trembled—<br /> Through +his nerves a shudder ran—<br />Saw a snake-like eye that held +him;<br /> Saw—he’d met an Obeah man.</p> +<p>Saw a fêtish—such a bottle—<br /> Buried +at his cottage door;<br />Toad and spider, dirty water,<br /> Rusty +nails, and nine charms more.</p> +<p>Saw in vision such a cock’s head<br /> In +the path—and it was white!<br />Saw Brinvilliers <a name="citation334"></a><a href="#footnote334">{334}</a> +in his pottage:<br /> Faltered, cold and damp with +fright.</p> +<p>Fearful is the chance of poison:<br /> Fearful, +too, the great unknown:<br />Magic brings some positivists<br /> Humbly +on their marrow-bone.</p> +<p>Like the wedding-guest enchanted,<br /> There he +stood, a trembling cur;<br />While the Indian told his story,<br /> Like +the Ancient Mariner.</p> +<p>Told how—‘Once that loathly Pitch Lake<br /> Was +a garden bright and fair;<br />How the Chaymas off the mainland<br /> Built +their palm ajoupas there.</p> +<p>‘How they throve, and how they fattened,<br /> Hale +and happy, safe and strong;<br />Passed the livelong days in feasting;<br /> Passed +the nights in dance and song.</p> +<p>‘Till they cruel grew, and wanton:<br /> Till +they killed the colibris.<br />Then outspake the great Good Spirit,<br /> Who +can see through all the trees,</p> +<p>‘Said—“And what have I not sent you,<br /> Wanton +Chaymas, many a year?<br />Lapp, <a name="citation335a"></a><a href="#footnote335a">{335a}</a> +agouti, <a name="citation335b"></a><a href="#footnote335b">{335b}</a> +cachicame, <a name="citation335c"></a><a href="#footnote335c">{335c}</a><br /> Quenc +<a name="citation335d"></a><a href="#footnote335d">{335d}</a> and guazu-pita +deer.</p> +<p>‘“Fish I sent you, sent you turtle,<br /> Chip-chip, +<a name="citation335e"></a><a href="#footnote335e">{335e}</a> conch, +flamingo red,<br />Woodland paui, <a name="citation335f"></a><a href="#footnote335f">{335f}</a> +horned screamer, <a name="citation335g"></a><a href="#footnote335g">{335g}</a><br /> And +blue ramier <a name="citation335h"></a><a href="#footnote335h">{335h}</a> +overhead.</p> +<p>‘“Plums from balata <a name="citation335i"></a><a href="#footnote335i">{335i}</a> +and mombin, <a name="citation335j"></a><a href="#footnote335j">{335j}</a><br /> Tania, +<a name="citation335k"></a><a href="#footnote335k">{335k}</a> manioc, +<a name="citation335l"></a><a href="#footnote335l">{335l}</a> water-vine; +<a name="citation335m"></a><a href="#footnote335m">{335m}</a><br />Let +you fell my slim manacques, <a name="citation335n"></a><a href="#footnote335n">{335n}</a><br /> Tap +my sweet morichè wine. <a name="citation335o"></a><a href="#footnote335o">{335o}</a></p> +<p>‘“Sent rich plantains, <a name="citation336a"></a><a href="#footnote336a">{336a}</a> +food of angels;<br /> Rich ananas, <a name="citation336b"></a><a href="#footnote336b">{336b}</a> +food of kings;<br />Grudged you none of all my treasures:<br /> Save +these lovely useless things.”</p> +<p>‘But the Chaymas’ ears were deafened;<br /> Blind +their eyes, and could not see<br />How a blissful Indian’s spirit<br /> Lived +in every colibri.</p> +<p>‘Lived, forgetting toil and sorrow,<br /> Ever +fair and ever new;<br />Whirring round the dear old woodland,<br /> Feeding +on the honey-dew.</p> +<p>‘Till one evening roared the earthquake:<br /> Monkeys +howled, and parrots screamed:<br />And the Guaraons at morning<br /> Gathered +here, as men who dreamed.</p> +<p>‘Sunk were gardens, sunk ajoupas;<br /> Hut +and hammock, man and hound:<br />And above the Chayma village<br /> Boiled +with pitch the cursed ground.</p> +<p>‘Full, and too full; safe, and too safe;<br /> Negro +man, take care, take care.<br />He that wantons with God’s bounties<br /> Of +God’s wrath had best beware.</p> +<p>‘For the saucy, reckless, heartless,<br /> Evil +days are sure in store.<br />You may see the Negro sinking<br /> As +the Chayma sank of yore.’</p> +<p>Loudly laughed that stalwart hunter—<br /> ‘Eh, +what superstitious talk!<br />Nyam <a name="citation337"></a><a href="#footnote337">{337}</a> +am nyam, an’ maney maney;<br /> Birds am birds, +like park am park;<br />An’ dere’s twenty thousand birdskins<br /> Ardered +jes’ now fram New Yark.’</p> +<p>Eversley, 1870.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>HYMN <a name="citation338"></a><a href="#footnote338">{338}</a></h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Accept this building, gracious Lord,<br /> No temple +though it be;<br />We raised it for our suffering kin,<br /> And +so, Good Lord, for Thee.</p> +<p>Accept our little gift, and give<br /> To all who +here may dwell,<br />The will and power to do their work,<br /> Or +bear their sorrows well.</p> +<p>From Thee all skill and science flow;<br /> All +pity, care, and love,<br />All calm and courage, faith and hope,<br /> Oh! +pour them from above.</p> +<p>And part them, Lord, to each and all,<br /> As each +and all shall need,<br />To rise like incense, each to Thee,<br /> In +noble thought and deed.</p> +<p>And hasten, Lord, that perfect day,<br /> When pain +and death shall cease;<br />And Thy just rule shall fill the earth<br /> With +health, and light, and peace.</p> +<p>When ever blue the sky shall gleam,<br /> And ever +green the sod;<br />And man’s rude work deface no more<br /> The +Paradise of God.</p> +<p>Eversley, 1870.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>THE DELECTABLE DAY</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>The boy on the famous gray pony,<br /> Just bidding +good-bye at the door,<br />Plucking up maiden heart for the fences<br /> Where +his brother won honour of yore.</p> +<p>The walk to ‘the Meet’ with fair children,<br /> And +women as gentle as gay,—<br />Ah! how do we male hogs in armour<br /> Deserve +such companions as they?</p> +<p>The afternoon’s wander to windward,<br /> To +meet the dear boy coming back;<br />And to catch, down the turns of +the valley,<br /> The last weary chime of the pack.</p> +<p>The climb homeward by park and by moorland,<br /> And +through the fir forests again,<br />While the south-west wind roars +in the gloaming,<br /> Like an ocean of seething champagne.</p> +<p>And at night the septette of Beethoven,<br /> And +the grandmother by in her chair,<br />And the foot of all feet on the +sofa<br /> Beating delicate time to the air.</p> +<p>Ah, God! a poor soul can but thank Thee<br /> For +such a delectable day!<br />Though the fury, the fool, and the swindler,<br /> To-morrow +again have their way!</p> +<p>Eversley, 6<i>th</i> <i>November</i> 1872.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>JUVENTUS MUNDI</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>List a tale a fairy sent us<br />Fresh from dear Mundi Juventus.<br />When +Love and all the world was young,<br />And birds conversed as well as +sung;<br />And men still faced this fair creation<br />With humour, +heart, imagination.<br />Who come hither from Morocco<br />Every spring +on the sirocco?<br />In russet she, and he in yellow,<br />Singing ever +clear and mellow,<br />‘Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet you, +sweet you,<br />Did he beat you? Did he beat you?’<br />Phyllopneustes +wise folk call them,<br />But don’t know what did befall them,<br />Why +they ever thought of coming<br />All that way to hear gnats humming,<br />Why +they built not nests but houses,<br />Like the bumble-bees and mousies.<br />Nor +how little birds got wings,<br />Nor what ’tis the small cock +sings—<br />How should they know—stupid fogies?<br />They +daren’t even believe in bogies.<br />Once they were a girl and +boy,<br />Each the other’s life and joy.<br />He a Daphnis, she +a Chloe,<br />Only they were brown, not snowy,<br />Till an Arab found +them playing<br />Far beyond the Atlas straying,<br />Tied the helpless +things together,<br />Drove them in the burning weather,<br />In his +slave-gang many a league,<br />Till they dropped from wild fatigue.<br />Up +he caught his whip of hide,<br />Lashed each soft brown back and side<br />Till +their little brains were burst<br />With sharp pain, and heat, and thirst,<br />Over +her the poor boy lay,<br />Tried to keep the blows away,<br />Till they +stiffened into clay,<br />And the ruffian rode away:<br />Swooping o’er +the tainted ground,<br />Carrion vultures gathered round,<br />And the +gaunt hyenas ran<br />Tracking up the caravan.<br />But—ah, wonder! +that was gone<br />Which they meant to feast upon.<br />And, for each, +a yellow wren,<br />One a cock, and one a hen,<br />Sweetly warbling, +flitted forth<br />O’er the desert toward the north.<br />But +a shade of bygone sorrow,<br />Like a dream upon the morrow,<br />Round +his tiny brainlet clinging,<br />Sets the wee cock ever singing,<br />‘Sweet, +sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet you, sweet you,<br />Did he beat you? +Did he beat you?’<br />Vultures croaked, and hopped, and flopped,<br />But +their evening meal was stopped.<br />And the gaunt hyenas foul<br />Sat +down on their tails to howl.<br />Northward towards the cool spring +weather,<br />Those two wrens fled on together,<br />On to England o’er +the sea,<br />Where all folks alike are free.<br />There they built +a cabin, wattled<br />Like the huts where first they prattled,<br />Hatched +and fed, as safe as may be,<br />Many a tiny feathered baby.<br />But +in autumn south they go<br />Past the Straits and Atlas’ snow,<br />Over +desert, over mountain,<br />To the palms beside the fountain,<br />Where, +when once they lived before, he<br />Told her first the old, old story.<br />‘What +do the doves say? Curuck Coo,<br />You love me and I love you.’</p> +<p>1872.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>VALENTINE’S DAY</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Oh! I wish I were a tiny browny bird from out the south,<br /> Settled +among the alder-holts, and twittering by the stream;<br />I would put +my tiny tail down, and put up my tiny mouth,<br /> And +sing my tiny life away in one melodious dream.</p> +<p>I would sing about the blossoms, and the sunshine and the sky,<br /> And +the tiny wife I mean to have in such a cosy nest;<br />And if some one +came and shot me dead, why then I could but die,<br /> With +my tiny life and tiny song just ended at their best.</p> +<p>Eversley, 1873</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>BALLAD: LORRAINE, LORRAINE, LORRÈE</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>1</p> +<p>‘Are you ready for your steeple-chase, Lorraine, Lorraine, +Lorrèe?<br /> Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, +Barum, Baree,<br />You’re booked to ride your capping race to-day +at Coulterlee,<br />You’re booked to ride Vindictive, for all +the world to see,<br />To keep him straight, to keep him first, and +win the run for me.<br /> Barum, Barum,’ etc.</p> +<p>2</p> +<p>She clasped her new-born baby, poor Lorraine, Lorraine, Lorrèe,<br />‘I +cannot ride Vindictive, as any man might see,<br />And I will not ride +Vindictive, with this baby on my knee;<br />He’s killed a boy, +he’s killed a man, and why must he kill me?’</p> +<p>3</p> +<p>‘Unless you ride Vindictive, Lorraine, Lorraine, Lorrèe,<br />Unless +you ride Vindictive to-day at Coulterlee,<br />And land him safe across +the brook, and win the blank for me,<br />It’s you may keep your +baby, for you’ll get no keep from me.’</p> +<p>4</p> +<p>‘That husbands could be cruel,’ said Lorraine, Lorraine, +Lorrèe,<br />‘That husbands could be cruel, I have known +for seasons three;<br />But oh! to ride Vindictive while a baby cries +for me,<br />And be killed across a fence at last for all the world +to see!’</p> +<p>5</p> +<p>She mastered young Vindictive—Oh! the gallant lass was she,<br />And +kept him straight and won the race as near as near could be;<br />But +he killed her at the brook against a pollard willow-tree,<br />Oh! he +killed her at the brook, the brute, for all the world to see,<br />And +no one but the baby cried for poor Lorraine, Lorrèe.</p> +<p>Last poem written in illness.<br />Colorado, U.S.A.<br /><i>June</i> +1874.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>MARTIN LIGHTFOOT’S SONG <a name="citation346"></a><a href="#footnote346">{346}</a></h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Come hearken, hearken, gentles all,<br /> Come hearken +unto me,<br />And I’ll sing you a song of a Wood-Lyon<br /> Came +swimming out over the sea.</p> +<p>He rangèd west, he rangèd east,<br /> And +far and wide ranged he;<br />He took his bite out of every beast<br /> Lives +under the greenwood tree.</p> +<p>Then by there came a silly old wolf,<br /> ‘And +I’ll serve you,’ quoth he;<br />Quoth the Lyon, ‘My +paw is heavy enough,<br /> So what wilt thou do for +me?’</p> +<p>Then by there came a cunning old fox,<br /> ‘And +I’ll serve you,’ quoth he;<br />Quoth the Lyon, ‘My +wits are sharp enough<br /> So what wilt thou do for +me?’</p> +<p>Then by there came a white, white dove,<br /> Flew +off Our Lady’s knee;<br />Sang ‘It’s I will be your +true, true love,<br /> If you’ll be true to me.’</p> +<p>‘And what will you do, you bonny white dove?<br /> And +what will you do for me?’<br />‘Oh, it’s I’ll +bring you to Our Lady’s love,<br /> In the ways +of chivalrie.’</p> +<p>He followed the dove that Wood-Lyon<br /> By mere +and wood and wold,<br />Till he is come to a perfect knight,<br /> Like +the Paladin of old.</p> +<p>He rangèd east, he rangèd west,<br /> And +far and wide ranged he—<br />And ever the dove won him honour +and fame<br /> In the ways of chivalrie.</p> +<p>Then by there came a foul old sow,<br /> Came rookling +under the tree;<br />And ‘It’s I will be true love to you,<br /> If +you’ll be true to me.’</p> +<p>‘And what wilt thou do, thou foul old sow?<br /> And +what wilt thou do for me?’<br />‘Oh, there hangs in my snout +a jewel of gold,<br /> And that will I give to thee.’</p> +<p>He took to the sow that Wood-Lyon;<br /> To the +rookling sow took he;<br />And the dove flew up to Our Lady’s +bosom;<br /> And never again throve he.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Footnotes:</p> +<p><a name="footnote211"></a><a href="#citation211">{211}</a> +This and the following poem were written at school in early boy-hood.</p> +<p><a name="footnote216"></a><a href="#citation216">{216}</a> +Lines supposed to be found written in an illuminated missal.</p> +<p><a name="footnote260"></a><a href="#citation260">{260}</a> +Found among Sandy Mackaye’s papers, of a hairy oubit who would +not mind his mother.</p> +<p><a name="footnote282"></a><a href="#citation282">{282}</a> +<i>The Christian Socialist</i>, started by the Council of Associates +for promotion of Co-operation.</p> +<p><a name="footnote295"></a><a href="#citation295">{295}</a> +Bishop of Labuan, in Borneo.</p> +<p><a name="footnote303"></a><a href="#citation303">{303}</a> +This Ode was set to Professor Sterndale Bennet’s music, and sung +in the Senate House, Cambridge, on the Day of Installation.</p> +<p><a name="footnote306"></a><a href="#citation306">{306}</a> +His Royal Highness the Prince Consort, Chancellor of Cambridge University.</p> +<p><a name="footnote319"></a><a href="#citation319">{319}</a> +Impromptu lines written in the album of the Crown Princess of Germany.</p> +<p><a name="footnote325"></a><a href="#citation325">{325}</a> +Time of the Franco-Prussian War.</p> +<p><a name="footnote330"></a><a href="#citation330">{330}</a> +The Qu’est qu’il dit is a Tropical bird.</p> +<p><a name="footnote331a"></a><a href="#citation331a">{331a}</a> +This myth about the famous Pitch Lake of Trinidad was told almost word +for word to a M. Joseph by an aged half-caste Indian who went by the +name of Señor Trinidada. The manners and customs which +the ballad described, and the cruel and dangerous destruction of the +beautiful birds of Trinidad, are facts which may be easily verified +by any one who will take the trouble to visit the West Indies.</p> +<p><a name="footnote331b"></a><a href="#citation331b">{331b}</a> +A magnificent wood of the Mauritia Fanpalm, on the south shore of the +Pitch Lake.</p> +<p><a name="footnote331c"></a><a href="#citation331c">{331c}</a> +Humming-birds.</p> +<p><a name="footnote331d"></a><a href="#citation331d">{331d}</a> +Maximiliana palms.</p> +<p><a name="footnote332"></a><a href="#citation332">{332}</a> +Hut of timber and palm-leaves.</p> +<p><a name="footnote333"></a><a href="#citation333">{333}</a> +From the Eriodendron, or giant silk-cotton.</p> +<p><a name="footnote334"></a><a href="#citation334">{334}</a> +Spigelia anthelmia, a too-well-known poison-plant.</p> +<p><a name="footnote335a"></a><a href="#citation335a">{335a}</a> +Cœlogenys Paca.</p> +<p><a name="footnote335b"></a><a href="#citation335b">{335b}</a> +Wild cavy.</p> +<p><a name="footnote335c"></a><a href="#citation335c">{335c}</a> +Armadillo.</p> +<p><a name="footnote335d"></a><a href="#citation335d">{335d}</a> +Peccary hog.</p> +<p><a name="footnote335e"></a><a href="#citation335e">{335e}</a> +Trigonia.</p> +<p><a name="footnote335f"></a><a href="#citation335f">{335f}</a> +Penelope.</p> +<p><a name="footnote335g"></a><a href="#citation335g">{335g}</a> +Palamedea.</p> +<p><a name="footnote335h"></a><a href="#citation335h">{335h}</a> +Dove.</p> +<p><a name="footnote335i"></a><a href="#citation335i">{335i}</a> +Mimusops.</p> +<p><a name="footnote335j"></a><a href="#citation335j">{335j}</a> +Spondias.</p> +<p><a name="footnote335k"></a><a href="#citation335k">{335k}</a> +An esculent Arum.</p> +<p><a name="footnote335l"></a><a href="#citation335l">{335l}</a> +Jatropha manihot, ‘Cassava.’</p> +<p><a name="footnote335m"></a><a href="#citation335m">{335m}</a> +Vitis Caribæa.</p> +<p><a name="footnote335n"></a><a href="#citation335n">{335n}</a> +Euterpe, ‘mountain cabbage’ palm.</p> +<p><a name="footnote335o"></a><a href="#citation335o">{335o}</a> +Mauritia palm.</p> +<p><a name="footnote336a"></a><a href="#citation336a">{336a}</a> +Musa.</p> +<p><a name="footnote336b"></a><a href="#citation336b">{336b}</a> +Pine-apple.</p> +<p><a name="footnote337"></a><a href="#citation337">{337}</a> +Food.</p> +<p><a name="footnote338"></a><a href="#citation338">{338}</a> +Sung by 1000 School Children at the Opening of the New Wing of the Children’s +Hospital, Birmingham.</p> +<p><a name="footnote346"></a><a href="#citation346">{346}</a> +Supposed to be sung at Crowland Minster to Leofric, the Wake’s +Mass Priest, when news was received of Hereward’s second marriage +to Alftruda.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ANDROMEDA AND OTHER POEMS***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 11064-h.htm or 11064-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +https://www.gutenberg.org/1/1/0/6/11064 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Andromeda and Other Poems + +Author: Charles Kingsley + +Release Date: February 12, 2004 [eBook #11064] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: US-ASCII + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ANDROMEDA AND OTHER POEMS*** + + + + +Transcribed by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk + + + + +ANDROMEDA AND OTHER POEMS + + + + +Contents: + + Andromeda + Hypotheses Hypochondriacae + Trehill Well + In an Illuminated Missal + The Weird Lady + Palinodia + A Hope + The Poetry of a Root Crop + Child Ballad + Airly Beacon + Sappho + The Bad Squire + Scotch Song + The Young Knight + A New Forest Ballad + The Red King + The Outlaw + Sing Heigh-ho! + A March + A Lament + The Night Bird + The Dead Church + A Parable from Liebig + The Starlings + Old and New + The Watchman + The World's Age + The Sands of Dee + The Tide Rock + Elegiacs + Dartside + My Hunting Song + Alton Locke's Song + The Day of the Lord + A Christmas Carol + The Oubit + The Three Fishers + Sonnet + Margaret to Dolcino + Dolcino to Margaret + The Ugly Princess + Sonnet + The Swan-neck + A Thought from the Rhine + The Longbeards' Saga. A.D. 400 + Saint Maura. A.D. 304 + On the Death of a Certain Journal + Down to the Mothers + To Miss Mitford + Ballad of Earl Haldan's Daughter + Frank Leigh's Song. A.D. 1586 + Ode to the North-east Wind + A Farewell + To G. A. G. + The South Wind + The Invitation + The Find + Fishing Song + The Last Buccaneer + The Knight's Return + Pen-y-gwrydd + Ode + Songs from 'The Water-babies' + The Tide River + Young and Old + The Summer Sea + My Little Doll + The Knight's Leap + The Song of the Little Baltung. A.D. 395 + On the Death of Leopold, King of the Belgians + Easter Week + Drifting Away + Christmas Day + September 21, 1870 + The Mango-tree + The Priest's Heart + 'Qu'est Qu'il Dit' + The Legend of La Brea + Hymn + The Delectable Day + Juventus Mundi + Valentine's Day + Ballad + Martin Lightfoot's Song + + + +ANDROMEDA + + + +Over the sea, past Crete, on the Syrian shore to the southward, +Dwells in the well-tilled lowland a dark-haired AEthiop people, +Skilful with needle and loom, and the arts of the dyer and carver, +Skilful, but feeble of heart; for they know not the lords of Olympus, +Lovers of men; neither broad-browed Zeus, nor Pallas Athene, +Teacher of wisdom to heroes, bestower of might in the battle; +Share not the cunning of Hermes, nor list to the songs of Apollo. +Fearing the stars of the sky, and the roll of the blue salt water, +Fearing all things that have life in the womb of the seas and the livers, +Eating no fish to this day, nor ploughing the main, like the Phoenics, +Manful with black-beaked ships, they abide in a sorrowful region, +Vexed with the earthquake, and flame, and the sea-floods, scourge of +Poseidon. + Whelming the dwellings of men, and the toils of the slow-footed oxen, +Drowning the barley and flax, and the hard-earned gold of the harvest, +Up to the hillside vines, and the pastures skirting the woodland, +Inland the floods came yearly; and after the waters a monster, +Bred of the slime, like the worms which are bred from the slime of the Nile- +bank, +Shapeless, a terror to see; and by night it swam out to the seaward, +Daily returning to feed with the dawn, and devoured of the fairest, +Cattle, and children, and maids, till the terrified people fled inland. + Fasting in sackcloth and ashes they came, both the king and his people, +Came to the mountain of oaks, to the house of the terrible sea-gods, +Hard by the gulf in the rocks, where of old the world-wide deluge +Sank to the inner abyss; and the lake where the fish of the goddess, +Holy, undying, abide; whom the priests feed daily with dainties. +There to the mystical fish, high-throned in her chamber of cedar, +Burnt they the fat of the flock; till the flame shone far to the seaward. +Three days fasting they prayed; but the fourth day the priests of the +goddess, +Cunning in spells, cast lots, to discover the crime of the people. +All day long they cast, till the house of the monarch was taken, +Cepheus, king of the land; and the faces of all gathered blackness. +Then once more they cast; and Cassiopoeia was taken, +Deep-bosomed wife of the king, whom oft far-seeing Apollo +Watched well-pleased from the welkin, the fairest of AEthiop women: +Fairest, save only her daughter; for down to the ankle her tresses +Rolled, blue-black as the night, ambrosial, joy to beholders. +Awful and fair she arose, most like in her coming to Here, +Queen before whom the Immortals arise, as she comes on Olympus, +Out of the chamber of gold, which her son Hephaestos has wrought her. +Such in her stature and eyes, and the broad white light of her forehead. +Stately she came from her place, and she spoke in the midst of the people. + 'Pure are my hands from blood: most pure this heart in my bosom. +Yet one fault I remember this day; one word have I spoken; +Rashly I spoke on the shore, and I dread lest the sea should have heard it. +Watching my child at her bath, as she plunged in the joy of her girlhood, +Fairer I called her in pride than Atergati, queen of the ocean. +Judge ye if this be my sin, for I know none other.' She ended; +Wrapping her head in her mantle she stood, and the people were silent. + Answered the dark-browed priests, 'No word, once spoken, returneth, +Even if uttered unwitting. Shall gods excuse our rashness? +That which is done, that abides; and the wrath of the sea is against us; +Hers, and the wrath of her brother, the Sun-god, lord of the sheepfolds. +Fairer than her hast thou boasted thy daughter? Ah folly! for hateful, +Hateful are they to the gods, whoso, impious, liken a mortal, +Fair though he be, to their glory; and hateful is that which is likened, +Grieving the eyes of their pride, and abominate, doomed to their anger. +What shall be likened to gods? The unknown, who deep in the darkness +Ever abide, twyformed, many-handed, terrible, shapeless. +Woe to the queen; for the land is defiled, and the people accursed. +Take thou her therefore by night, thou ill-starred Cassiopoeia, +Take her with us in the night, when the moon sinks low to the westward; +Bind her aloft for a victim, a prey for the gorge of the monster, +Far on the sea-girt rock, which is washed by the surges for ever; +So may the goddess accept her, and so may the land make atonement, +Purged by her blood from its sin: so obey thou the doom of the rulers.' + Bitter in soul they went out, Cepheus and Cassiopoeia, +Bitter in soul; and their hearts whirled round, as the leaves in the eddy. +Weak was the queen, and rebelled: but the king, like a shepherd of people, +Willed not the land should waste; so he yielded the life of his daughter. + Deep in the wane of the night, as the moon sank low to the westward, +They by the shade of the cliffs, with the horror of darkness around them, +Stole, as ashamed, to a deed which became not the light of the sunshine, +Slowly, the priests, and the queen, and the virgin bound in the galley, +Slowly they rowed to the rocks: but Cepheus far in the palace +Sate in the midst of the hall, on his throne, like a shepherd of people, +Choking his woe, dry-eyed, while the slaves wailed loudly around him. +They on the sea-girt rock, which is washed by the surges for ever, +Set her in silence, the guiltless, aloft with her face to the eastward. +Under a crag of the stone, where a ledge sloped down to the water; +There they set Andromeden, most beautiful, shaped like a goddess, +Lifting her long white arms wide-spread to the walls of the basalt, +Chaining them, ruthless, with brass; and they called on the might of the +Rulers. + 'Mystical fish of the seas, dread Queen whom AEthiops honour, +Whelming the land in thy wrath, unavoidable, sharp as the sting-ray, +Thou, and thy brother the Sun, brain-smiting, lord of the sheepfold, +Scorching the earth all day, and then resting at night in thy bosom, +Take ye this one life for many, appeased by the blood of a maiden, +Fairest, and born of the fairest, a queen, most priceless of victims.' + Thrice they spat as they went by the maid: but her mother delaying +Fondled her child to the last, heart-crushed; and the warmth of her weeping +Fell on the breast of the maid, as her woe broke forth into wailing. + 'Daughter! my daughter! forgive me! Oh curse not the murderess! Curse +not! +How have I sinned, but in love? Do the gods grudge glory to mothers? +Loving I bore thee in vain in the fate-cursed bride-bed of Cepheus, +Loving I fed thee and tended, and loving rejoiced in thy beauty, +Blessing thy limbs as I bathed them, and blessing thy locks as I combed them; +Decking thee, ripening to woman, I blest thee: yet blessing I slew thee! +How have I sinned, but in love? Oh swear to me, swear to thy mother, +Never to haunt me with curse, as I go to the grave in my sorrow, +Childless and lone: may the gods never send me another, to slay it! +See, I embrace thy knees--soft knees, where no babe will be fondled-- +Swear to me never to curse me, the hapless one, not in the death-pang.' + Weeping she clung to the knees of the maid; and the maid low answered-- +'Curse thee! Not in the death-pang!' The heart of the lady was lightened. +Slowly she went by the ledge; and the maid was alone in the darkness. + Watching the pulse of the oars die down, as her own died with them, +Tearless, dumb with amaze she stood, as a storm-stunned nestling +Fallen from bough or from eave lies dumb, which the home-going herdsman +Fancies a stone, till he catches the light of its terrified eyeball. +So through the long long hours the maid stood helpless and hopeless, +Wide-eyed, downward gazing in vain at the black blank darkness. +Feebly at last she began, while wild thoughts bubbled within her-- +'Guiltless I am: why thus, then? Are gods more ruthless than mortals? +Have they no mercy for youth? no love for the souls who have loved them? +Even as I loved thee, dread sea, as I played by thy margin, +Blessing thy wave as it cooled me, thy wind as it breathed on my forehead, +Bowing my head to thy tempest, and opening my heart to thy children, +Silvery fish, wreathed shell, and the strange lithe things of the water, +Tenderly casting them back, as they gasped on the beach in the sunshine, +Home to their mother--in vain! for mine sits childless in anguish! +O false sea! false sea! I dreamed what I dreamed of thy goodness; +Dreamed of a smile in thy gleam, of a laugh in the plash of thy ripple: +False and devouring thou art, and the great world dark and despiteful.' + Awed by her own rash words she was still: and her eyes to the seaward +Looked for an answer of wrath: far off, in the heart of the darkness, +Blight white mists rose slowly; beneath them the wandering ocean +Glimmered and glowed to the deepest abyss; and the knees of the maiden +Trembled and sunk in her fear, as afar, like a dawn in the midnight, +Rose from their seaweed chamber the choir of the mystical sea-maids. +Onward toward her they came, and her heart beat loud at their coming, +Watching the bliss of the gods, as they wakened the cliffs with their +laughter. + Onward they came in their joy, and before them the roll of the surges +Sank, as the breeze sank dead, into smooth green foam-flecked marble, +Awed; and the crags of the cliff, and the pines of the mountain were silent. +Onward they came in their joy, and around them the lamps of the sea-nymphs, +Myriad fiery globes, swam panting and heaving; and rainbows +Crimson and azure and emerald, were broken in star-showers, lighting +Far through the wine-dark depths of the crystal, the gardens of Nereus, +Coral and sea-fan and tangle, the blooms and the palms of the ocean. + Onward they came in their joy, more white than the foam which they +scattered, +Laughing and singing, and tossing and twining, while eager, the Tritons +Blinded with kisses their eyes, unreproved, and above them in worship +Hovered the terns, and the seagulls swept past them on silvery pinions +Echoing softly their laughter; around them the wantoning dolphins +Sighed as they plunged, full of love; and the great sea-horses which bore +them +Curved up their crests in their pride to the delicate arms of the maidens, +Pawing the spray into gems, till a fiery rainfall, unharming, +Sparkled and gleamed on the limbs of the nymphs, and the coils of the mermen. + Onward they went in their joy, bathed round with the fiery coolness, +Needing nor sun nor moon, self-lighted, immortal: but others, +Pitiful, floated in silence apart; in their bosoms the sea-boys, +Slain by the wrath of the seas, swept down by the anger of Nereus; +Hapless, whom never again on strand or on quay shall their mothers +Welcome with garlands and vows to the temple, but wearily pining +Gaze over island and bay for the sails of the sunken; they heedless +Sleep in soft bosoms for ever, and dream of the surge and the sea-maids. + Onward they passed in their joy; on their brows neither sorrow nor anger; +Self-sufficing, as gods, never heeding the woe of the maiden. +She would have shrieked for their mercy: but shame made her dumb; and their +eyeballs +Stared on her careless and still, like the eyes in the house of the idols. +Seeing they saw not, and passed, like a dream, on the murmuring ripple. + Stunned by the wonder she gazed, wide-eyed, as the glory departed. +'O fair shapes! far fairer than I! Too fair to be ruthless! +Gladden mine eyes once more with your splendour, unlike to my fancies; +You, then, smiled in the sea-gleam, and laughed in the plash of the ripple. +Awful I deemed you and formless; inhuman, monstrous as idols; +Lo, when ye came, ye were women, more loving and lovelier, only; +Like in all else; and I blest you: why blest ye not me for my worship? +Had you no mercy for me, thus guiltless? Ye pitied the sea-boys: +Why not me, then, more hapless by far? Does your sight and your knowledge +End with the marge of the waves? Is the world which ye dwell in not our +world?' + + Over the mountain aloft ran a rush and a roll and a roaring; +Downward the breeze came indignant, and leapt with a howl to the water, +Roaring in cranny and crag, till the pillars and clefts of the basalt +Rang like a god-swept lyre, and her brain grew mad with the noises; +Crashing and lapping of waters, and sighing and tossing of weed-beds, +Gurgle and whisper and hiss of the foam, while thundering surges +Boomed in the wave-worn halls, as they champed at the roots of the mountain. +Hour after hour in the darkness the wind rushed fierce to the landward, +Drenching the maiden with spray; she shivering, weary and drooping, +Stood with her heart full of thoughts, till the foam-crests gleamed in the +twilight, +Leaping and laughing around, and the east grew red with the dawning. + Then on the ridge of the hills rose the broad bright sun in his glory, +Hurling his arrows abroad on the glittering crests of the surges, +Gilding the soft round bosoms of wood, and the downs of the coastland; +Gilding the weeds at her feet, and the foam-laced teeth of the ledges, +Showing the maiden her home through the veil of her locks, as they floated +Glistening, damp with the spray, in a long black cloud to the landward. +High in the far-off glens rose thin blue curls from the homesteads; +Softly the low of the herds, and the pipe of the outgoing herdsman, +Slid to her ear on the water, and melted her heart into weeping. +Shuddering, she tried to forget them; and straining her eyes to the seaward, +Watched for her doom, as she wailed, but in vain, to the terrible Sun-god. + 'Dost thou not pity me, Sun, though thy wild dark sister be ruthless; +Dost thou not pity me here, as thou seest me desolate, weary, +Sickened with shame and despair, like a kid torn young from its mother? +What if my beauty insult thee, then blight it: but me--Oh spare me! +Spare me yet, ere he be here, fierce, tearing, unbearable! See me, +See me, how tender and soft, and thus helpless! See how I shudder, +Fancying only my doom. Wilt thou shine thus bright, when it takes me? +Are there no deaths save this, great Sun? No fiery arrow, +Lightning, or deep-mouthed wave? Why thus? What music in shrieking, +Pleasure in warm live limbs torn slowly? And dar'st thou behold them! +Oh, thou hast watched worse deeds! All sights are alike to thy brightness! +What if thou waken the birds to their song, dost thou waken no sorrow; +Waken no sick to their pain; no captive to wrench at his fetters? +Smile on the garden and fold, and on maidens who sing at the milking; +Flash into tapestried chambers, and peep in the eyelids of lovers, +Showing the blissful their bliss--Dost love, then, the place where thou +smilest? +Lovest thou cities aflame, fierce blows, and the shrieks of the widow? +Lovest thou corpse-strewn fields, as thou lightest the path of the vulture? +Lovest thou these, that thou gazest so gay on my tears, and my mother's, +Laughing alike at the horror of one, and the bliss of another? +What dost thou care, in thy sky, for the joys and the sorrows of mortals? +Colder art thou than the nymphs: in thy broad bright eye is no seeing. +Hadst thou a soul--as much soul as the slaves in the house of my father, +Wouldst thou not save? Poor thralls! they pitied me, clung to me weeping, +Kissing my hands and my feet--What, are gods more ruthless than mortals? +Worse than the souls which they rule? Let me die: they war not with ashes!' + Sudden she ceased, with a shriek: in the spray, like a hovering foam-bow, +Hung, more fair than the foam-bow, a boy in the bloom of his manhood, +Golden-haired, ivory-limbed, ambrosial; over his shoulder +Hung for a veil of his beauty the gold-fringed folds of the goat-skin, +Bearing the brass of his shield, as the sun flashed clear on its clearness. +Curved on his thigh lay a falchion, and under the gleam of his helmet +Eyes more blue than the main shone awful; around him Athene +Shed in her love such grace, such state, and terrible daring. +Hovering over the water he came, upon glittering pinions, +Living, a wonder, outgrown from the tight-laced gold of his sandals; +Bounding from billow to billow, and sweeping the crests like a sea-gull; +Leaping the gulfs of the surge, as he laughed in the joy of his leaping. +Fair and majestic he sprang to the rock; and the maiden in wonder +Gazed for a while, and then hid in the dark-rolling wave of her tresses, +Fearful, the light of her eyes; while the boy (for her sorrow had awed him) +Blushed at her blushes, and vanished, like mist on the cliffs at the sunrise. +Fearful at length she looked forth: he was gone: she, wild with amazement, +Wailed for her mother aloud: but the wail of the wind only answered. +Sudden he flashed into sight, by her side; in his pity and anger +Moist were his eyes; and his breath like a rose-bed, as bolder and bolder, +Hovering under her brows, like a swallow that haunts by the house-eaves, +Delicate-handed, he lifted the veil of her hair; while the maiden +Motionless, frozen with fear, wept loud; till his lips unclosing +Poured from their pearl-strung portal the musical wave of his wonder. + 'Ah, well spoke she, the wise one, the gray-eyed Pallas Athene,-- +Known to Immortals alone are the prizes which lie for the heroes +Ready prepared at their feet; for requiring a little, the rulers +Pay back the loan tenfold to the man who, careless of pleasure, +Thirsting for honour and toil, fares forth on a perilous errand +Led by the guiding of gods, and strong in the strength of Immortals. +Thus have they led me to thee: from afar, unknowing, I marked thee, +Shining, a snow-white cross on the dark-green walls of the sea-cliff; +Carven in marble I deemed thee, a perfect work of the craftsman. +Likeness of Amphitrite, or far-famed Queen Cythereia. +Curious I came, till I saw how thy tresses streamed in the sea-wind, +Glistening, black as the night, and thy lips moved slow in thy wailing. +Speak again now--Oh speak! For my soul is stirred to avenge thee; +Tell me what barbarous horde, without law, unrighteous and heartless, +Hateful to gods and to men, thus have bound thee, a shame to the sunlight, +Scorn and prize to the sailor: but my prize now; for a coward, +Coward and shameless were he, who so finding a glorious jewel +Cast on the wayside by fools, would not win it and keep it and wear it, +Even as I will thee; for I swear by the head of my father, +Bearing thee over the sea-wave, to wed thee in Argos the fruitful, +Beautiful, meed of my toil no less than this head which I carry, +Hidden here fearful--Oh speak!' + But the maid, still dumb with amazement, +Watered her bosom with weeping, and longed for her home and her mother. +Beautiful, eager, he wooed her, and kissed off her tears as he hovered, +Roving at will, as a bee, on the brows of a rock nymph-haunted, +Garlanded over with vine, and acanthus, and clambering roses, +Cool in the fierce still noon, where streams glance clear in the mossbeds, +Hums on from blossom to blossom, and mingles the sweets as he tastes them. +Beautiful, eager, he kissed her, and clasped her yet closer and closer, +Praying her still to speak-- + 'Not cruel nor rough did my mother +Bear me to broad-browed Zeus in the depths of the brass-covered dungeon; +Neither in vain, as I think, have I talked with the cunning of Hermes, +Face unto face, as a friend; or from gray-eyed Pallas Athene +Learnt what is fit, and respecting myself, to respect in my dealings +Those whom the gods should love; so fear not; to chaste espousals +Only I woo thee, and swear, that a queen, and alone without rival +By me thou sittest in Argos of Hellas, throne of my fathers, +Worshipped by fair-haired kings: why callest thou still on thy mother? +Why did she leave thee thus here? For no foeman has bound thee; no foeman +Winning with strokes of the sword such a prize, would so leave it behind +him.' + Just as at first some colt, wild-eyed, with quivering nostril, +Plunges in fear of the curb, and the fluttering robes of the rider; +Soon, grown bold by despair, submits to the will of his master, +Tamer and tamer each hour, and at last, in the pride of obedience, +Answers the heel with a curvet, and arches his neck to be fondled, +Cowed by the need that maid grew tame; while the hero indignant +Tore at the fetters which held her: the brass, too cunningly tempered, +Held to the rock by the nails, deep wedged: till the boy, red with anger, +Drew from his ivory thigh, keen flashing, a falchion of diamond-- +'Now let the work of the smith try strength with the arms of Immortals!' +Dazzling it fell; and the blade, as the vine-hook shears off the vine-bough, +Carved through the strength of the brass, till her arms fell soft on his +shoulder. +Once she essayed to escape: but the ring of the water was round her, +Round her the ring of his arms; and despairing she sank on his bosom. +Then, like a fawn when startled, she looked with a shriek to the seaward. + 'Touch me not, wretch that I am! For accursed, a shame and a hissing, +Guiltless, accurst no less, I await the revenge of the sea-gods. +Yonder it comes! Ah go! Let me perish unseen, if I perish! +Spare me the shame of thine eyes, when merciless fangs must tear me +Piecemeal! Enough to endure by myself in the light of the sunshine +Guiltless, the death of a kid!' + But the boy still lingered around her, +Loth, like a boy, to forego her, and waken the cliffs with his laughter. +'Yon is the foe, then? A beast of the sea? I had deemed him immortal. +Titan, or Proteus' self, or Nereus, foeman of sailors: +Yet would I fight with them all, but Poseidon, shaker of mountains, +Uncle of mine, whom I fear, as is fit; for he haunts on Olympus, +Holding the third of the world; and the gods all rise at his coming. +Unto none else will I yield, god-helped: how then to a monster, +Child of the earth and of night, unreasoning, shapeless, accursed?' + 'Art thou, too, then a god?' + 'No god I,' smiling he answered; +'Mortal as thou, yet divine: but mortal the herds of the ocean, +Equal to men in that only, and less in all else; for they nourish +Blindly the life of the lips, untaught by the gods, without wisdom: +Shame if I fled before such!' + In her heart new life was enkindled, +Worship and trust, fair parents of love: but she answered him sighing. + 'Beautiful, why wilt thou die? Is the light of the sun, then, so +worthless, +Worthless to sport with thy fellows in flowery glades of the forest, +Under the broad green oaks, where never again shall I wander, +Tossing the ball with my maidens, or wreathing the altar in garlands, +Careless, with dances and songs, till the glens rang loud to our laughter. +Too full of death the sad earth is already: the halls full of weepers, +Quarried by tombs all cliffs, and the bones gleam white on the sea-floor, +Numberless, gnawn by the herds who attend on the pitiless sea-gods, +Even as mine will be soon: and yet noble it seems to me, dying, +Giving my life for a people, to save to the arms of their lovers +Maidens and youths for a while: thee, fairest of all, shall I slay thee? +Add not thy bones to the many, thus angering idly the dread ones! +Either the monster will crush, or the sea-queen's self overwhelm thee, +Vengeful, in tempest and foam, and the thundering walls of the surges. +Why wilt thou follow me down? can we love in the black blank darkness? +Love in the realms of the dead, in the land where all is forgotten? +Why wilt thou follow me down? is it joy, on the desolate oozes, +Meagre to flit, gray ghosts in the depths of the gray salt water? +Beautiful! why wilt thou die, and defraud fair girls of thy manhood? +Surely one waits for thee longing, afar in the isles of the ocean. +Go thy way; I mine; for the gods grudge pleasure to mortals.' + Sobbing she ended her moan, as her neck, like a storm-bent lily, +Drooped with the weight of her woe, and her limbs sank, weary with watching, +Soft on the hard-ledged rock: but the boy, with his eye on the monster, +Clasped her, and stood, like a god; and his lips curved proud as he answered-- + 'Great are the pitiless sea-gods: but greater the Lords of Olympus; +Greater the AEgis-wielder, and greater is she who attends him. +Clear-eyed Justice her name is, the counsellor, loved of Athene; +Helper of heroes, who dare, in the god-given might of their manhood, +Greatly to do and to suffer, and far in the fens' and the forests +Smite the devourers of men, Heaven-hated, brood of the giants, +Twyformed, strange, without like, who obey not the golden-haired Rulers. +Vainly rebelling they rage, till they die by the swords of the heroes, +Even as this must die; for I burn with the wrath of my father, +Wandering, led by Athene; and dare whatsoever betides me. +Led by Athene I won from the gray-haired terrible sisters +Secrets hidden from men, when I found them asleep on the sand-hills, +Keeping their eye and their tooth, till they showed me the perilous pathway +Over the waterless ocean, the valley that led to the Gorgon. +Her too I slew in my craft, Medusa, the beautiful horror; +Taught by Athene I slew her, and saw not herself, but her image, +Watching the mirror of brass, in the shield which a goddess had lent me. +Cleaving her brass-scaled throat, as she lay with her adders around her, +Fearless I bore off her head, in the folds of the mystical goat-skin +Hide of Amaltheie, fair nurse of the AEgis-wielder. +Hither I bear it, a gift to the gods, and a death to my foe-men, +Freezing the seer to stone; to hide thine eyes from the horror. +Kiss me but once, and I go.' + Then lifting her neck, like a sea-bird +Peering up over the wave, from the foam-white swells of her bosom, +Blushing she kissed him: afar, on the topmost Idalian summit +Laughed in the joy of her heart, far-seeing, the queen Aphrodite. + Loosing his arms from her waist he flew upward, awaiting the sea-beast. +Onward it came from the southward, as bulky and black as a galley, +Lazily coasting along, as the fish fled leaping before it; +Lazily breasting the ripple, and watching by sandbar and headland, +Listening for laughter of maidens at bleaching, or song of the fisher, +Children at play on the pebbles, or cattle that pawed on the sand-hills. +Rolling and dripping it came, where bedded in glistening purple +Cold on the cold sea-weeds lay the long white sides of the maiden, +Trembling, her face in her hands, and her tresses afloat on the water. + As when an osprey aloft, dark-eyebrowed, royally crested, +Flags on by creek and by cove, and in scorn of the anger of Nereus +Ranges, the king of the shore; if he see on a glittering shallow, +Chasing the bass and the mullet, the fin of a wallowing dolphin, +Halting, he wheels round slowly, in doubt at the weight of his quarry, +Whether to clutch it alive, or to fall on the wretch like a plummet, +Stunning with terrible talon the life of the brain in the hindhead: +Then rushes up with a scream, and stooping the wrath of his eyebrows +Falls from the sky, like a star, while the wind rattles hoarse in his +pinions. +Over him closes the foam for a moment; and then from the sand-bed +Rolls up the great fish, dead, and his side gleams white in the sunshine. +Thus fell the boy on the beast, unveiling the face of the Gorgon; +Thus fell the boy on the beast; thus rolled up the beast in his horror, +Once, as the dead eyes glared into his; then his sides, death-sharpened, +Stiffened and stood, brown rock, in the wash of the wandering water. + Beautiful, eager, triumphant, he leapt back again to his treasure; +Leapt back again, full blest, toward arms spread wide to receive him. +Brimful of honour he clasped her, and brimful of love she caressed him, +Answering lip with lip; while above them the queen Aphrodite +Poured on their foreheads and limbs, unseen, ambrosial odours, +Givers of longing, and rapture, and chaste content in espousals. +Happy whom ere they be wedded anoints she, the Queen Aphrodite! + Laughing she called to her sister, the chaste Tritonid Athene, +'Seest thou yonder thy pupil, thou maid of the AEgis-wielder? +How he has turned himself wholly to love, and caresses a damsel, +Dreaming no longer of honour, or danger, or Pallas Athene? +Sweeter, it seems, to the young my gifts are; so yield me the stripling; +Yield him me now, lest he die in his prime, like hapless Adonis.' + Smiling she answered in turn, that chaste Tritonid Athene: +'Dear unto me, no less than to thee, is the wedlock of heroes; +Dear, who can worthily win him a wife not unworthy; and noble, +Pure with the pure to beget brave children, the like of their father. +Happy, who thus stands linked to the heroes who were, and who shall be; +Girdled with holiest awe, not sparing of self; for his mother +Watches his steps with the eyes of the gods; and his wife and his children +Move him to plan and to do in the farm and the camp and the council. +Thence comes weal to a nation: but woe upon woe, when the people +Mingle in love at their will, like the brutes, not heeding the future.' + Then from her gold-strung loom, where she wrought in her chamber of cedar, +Awful and fair she arose; and she went by the glens of Olympus; +Went by the isles of the sea, and the wind never ruffled her mantle; +Went by the water of Crete, and the black-beaked fleets of the Phoenics; +Came to the sea-girt rock which is washed by the surges for ever, +Bearing the wealth of the gods, for a gift to the bride of a hero. +There she met Andromeden and Persea, shaped like Immortals; +Solemn and sweet was her smile, while their hearts beat loud at her coming; +Solemn and sweet was her smile, as she spoke to the pair in her wisdom. + 'Three things hold we, the Rulers, who sit by the founts of Olympus, +Wisdom, and prowess, and beauty; and freely we pour them on mortals; +Pleased at our image in man, as a father at his in his children. +One thing only we grudge to mankind: when a hero, unthankful, +Boasts of our gifts as his own, stiffnecked, and dishonours the givers, +Turning our weapons against us. Him Ate follows avenging; +Slowly she tracks him and sure, as a lyme-hound; sudden she grips him, +Crushing him, blind in his pride, for a sign and a terror to folly. +This we avenge, as is fit; in all else never weary of giving. +Come, then, damsel, and know if the gods grudge pleasure to mortals.' + Loving and gentle she spoke: but the maid stood in awe, as the goddess +Plaited with soft swift finger her tresses, and decked her in jewels, +Armlet and anklet and earbell; and over her shoulders a necklace, +Heavy, enamelled, the flower of the gold and the brass of the mountain. +Trembling with joy she gazed, so well Haephaistos had made it, +Deep in the forges of AEtna, while Charis his lady beside him +Mingled her grace in his craft, as he wrought for his sister Athene. +Then on the brows of the maiden a veil bound Pallas Athene; +Ample it fell to her feet, deep-fringed, a wonder of weaving. +Ages and ages agone it was wrought on the heights of Olympus, +Wrought in the gold-strung loom, by the finger of cunning Athene. +In it she wove all creatures that teem in the womb of the ocean; +Nereid, siren, and triton, and dolphin, and arrowy fishes +Glittering round, many-hued, on the flame-red folds of the mantle. +In it she wove, too, a town where gray-haired kings sat in judgment; +Sceptre in hand in the market they sat, doing right by the people, +Wise: while above watched Justice, and near, far-seeing Apollo. +Round it she wove for a fringe all herbs of the earth and the water, +Violet, asphodel, ivy, and vine-leaves, roses and lilies, +Coral and sea-fan and tangle, the blooms and the palms of the ocean: +Now from Olympus she bore it, a dower to the bride of a hero. +Over the limbs of the damsel she wrapt it: the maid still trembled, +Shading her face with her hands; for the eyes of the goddess were awful. + Then, as a pine upon Ida when southwest winds blow landward, +Stately she bent to the damsel, and breathed on her: under her breathing +Taller and fairer she grew; and the goddess spoke in her wisdom. + 'Courage I give thee; the heart of a queen, and the mind of Immortals; +Godlike to talk with the gods, and to look on their eyes unshrinking; +Fearing the sun and the stars no more, and the blue salt water; +Fearing us only, the lords of Olympus, friends of the heroes; +Chastely and wisely to govern thyself and thy house and thy people, +Bearing a godlike race to thy spouse, till dying I set thee +High for a star in the heavens, a sign and a hope to the seamen, +Spreading thy long white arms all night in the heights of the aether, +Hard by thy sire and the hero thy spouse, while near thee thy mother +Sits in her ivory chair, as she plaits ambrosial tresses. +All night long thou wilt shine; all day thou wilt feast on Olympus, +Happy, the guest of the gods, by thy husband, the god-begotten.' + Blissful, they turned them to go: but the fair-tressed Pallas Athene +Rose, like a pillar of tall white cloud, toward silver Olympus; +Far above ocean and shore, and the peaks of the isles and the mainland; +Where no frost nor storm is, in clear blue windless abysses, +High in the home of the summer, the seats of the happy Immortals, +Shrouded in keen deep blaze, unapproachable; there ever youthful +Hebe, Harmonie, and the daughter of Jove, Aphrodite, +Whirled in the white-linked dance with the gold-crowned Hours and the Graces, +Hand within hand, while clear piped Phoebe, queen of the woodlands. +All day long they rejoiced: but Athene still in her chamber +Bent herself over her loom, as the stars rang loud to her singing, +Chanting of order and right, and of foresight, warden of nations; +Chanting of labour and craft, and of wealth in the port and the garner; +Chanting of valour and fame, and the man who can fall with the foremost, +Fighting for children and wife, and the field which his father bequeathed +him. +Sweetly and solemnly sang she, and planned new lessons for mortals: +Happy, who hearing obey her, the wise unsullied Athene. + +Eversley, 1852, + + + +HYPOTHESES HYPOCHONDRIACAE {211} + + + +And should she die, her grave should be +Upon the bare top of a sunny hill, +Among the moorlands of her own fair land, +Amid a ring of old and moss-grown stones +In gorse and heather all embosomed. +There should be no tall stone, no marble tomb +Above her gentle corse;--the ponderous pile +Would press too rudely on those fairy limbs. +The turf should lightly he, that marked her home. +A sacred spot it would be--every bird +That came to watch her lone grave should be holy. +The deer should browse around her undisturbed; +The whin bird by, her lonely nest should build +All fearless; for in life she loved to see +Happiness in all things-- +And we would come on summer days +When all around was bright, and set us down +And think of all that lay beneath that turf +On which the heedless moor-bird sits, and whistles +His long, shrill, painful song, as though he plained +For her that loved him and his pleasant hills; +And we would dream again of bygone days +Until our eyes should swell with natural tears +For brilliant hopes--all faded into air! +As, on the sands of Irak, near approach +Destroys the traveller's vision of still lakes, +And goodly streams reed-clad, and meadows green; +And leaves behind the drear reality +Of shadeless, same, yet ever-changing sand! +And when the sullen clouds rose thick on high +Mountains on mountains rolling--and dark mist +Wrapped itself round the hill-tops like a shroud, +When on her grave swept by the moaning wind +Bending the heather-bells--then would I come +And watch by her, in silent loneliness, +And smile upon the storm--as knowing well +The lightning's flash would surely turn aside, +Nor mar the lowly mound, where peaceful sleeps +All that gave life and love to one fond heart! +I talk of things that are not; and if prayers +By night and day availed from my weak lips, +Then should they never be! till I was gone, +Before the friends I loved, to my long home. +Oh pardon me, if e'er I say too much; my mind +Too often strangely turns to ribald mirth, +As though I had no doubt nor hope beyond-- +Or brooding melancholy cloys my soul +With thoughts of days misspent, of wasted time +And bitter feelings swallowed up in jests. +Then strange and fearful thoughts flit o'er my brain +By indistinctness made more terrible, +And incubi mock at me with fierce eyes +Upon my couch: and visions, crude and dire, +Of planets, suns, millions of miles, infinity, +Space, time, thought, being, blank nonentity, +Things incorporeal, fancies of the brain, +Seen, heard, as though they were material, +All mixed in sickening mazes, trouble me, +And lead my soul away from earth and heaven +Until I doubt whether I be or not! +And then I see all frightful shapes--lank ghosts, +Hydras, chimeras, krakens, wastes of sand, +Herbless and void of living voice--tall mountains +Cleaving the skies with height immeasurable, +On which perchance I climb for infinite years; broad seas, +Studded with islands numberless, that stretch +Beyond the regions of the sun, and fade +Away in distance vast, or dreary clouds, +Cold, dark, and watery, where wander I for ever! +Or space of ether, where I hang for aye! +A speck, an atom--inconsumable-- +Immortal, hopeless, voiceless, powerless! +And oft I fancy, I am weak and old, +And all who loved me, one by one, are dead, +And I am left alone--and cannot die! +Surely there is no rest on earth for souls +Whose dreams are like a madman's! I am young +And much is yet before me--after years +May bring peace with them to my weary heart! + +Helston, 1835. + + + +TREHILL WELL + + + +There stood a low and ivied roof, + As gazing rustics tell, +In times of chivalry and song + 'Yclept the holy well. + +Above the ivies' branchlets gray + In glistening clusters shone; +While round the base the grass-blades bright + And spiry foxglove sprung. + +The brambles clung in graceful bands, + Chequering the old gray stone +With shining leaflets, whose bright face + In autumn's tinting shone. + +Around the fountain's eastern base + A babbling brooklet sped, +With sleepy murmur purling soft + Adown its gravelly bed. + +Within the cell the filmy ferns + To woo the clear wave bent; +And cushioned mosses to the stone + Their quaint embroidery lent. + +The fountain's face lay still as glass-- + Save where the streamlet free +Across the basin's gnarled lip + Flowed ever silently. + +Above the well a little nook + Once held, as rustics tell, +All garland-decked, an image of + The Lady of the Well. + +They tell of tales of mystery, + Of darkling deeds of woe; +But no! such doings might not brook + The holy streamlet's flow. + +Oh tell me not of bitter thoughts, + Of melancholy dreams, +By that fair fount whose sunny wall + Basks in the western beams. + +When last I saw that little stream, + A form of light there stood, +That seemed like a precious gem, + Beneath that archway rude: + +And as I gazed with love and awe + Upon that sylph-like thing, +Methought that airy form must be + The fairy of the spring. + +Helston, 1835. + + + +IN AN ILLUMINATED MISSAL {216} + + + +I would have loved: there are no mates in heaven; +I would be great: there is no pride in heaven; +I would have sung, as doth the nightingale +The summer's night beneath the moone pale, +But Saintes hymnes alone in heaven prevail. +My love, my song, my skill, my high intent, +Have I within this seely book y-pent: +And all that beauty which from every part +I treasured still alway within mine heart, +Whether of form or face angelical, +Or herb or flower, or lofty cathedral, +Upon these sheets below doth lie y-spred, +In quaint devices deftly blazoned. + Lord, in this tome to thee I sanctify + The sinful fruits of worldly fantasy. + +1839. + + + +THE WEIRD LADY + + + +The swevens came up round Harold the Earl, + Like motes in the sunnes beam; +And over him stood the Weird Lady, +In her charmed castle over the sea, + Sang 'Lie thou still and dream.' + +'Thy steed is dead in his stall, Earl Harold, + Since thou hast been with me; +The rust has eaten thy harness bright, +And the rats have eaten thy greyhound light, + That was so fair and free.' + +Mary Mother she stooped from heaven; +She wakened Earl Harold out of his sweven, + To don his harness on; +And over the land and over the sea +He wended abroad to his own countrie, + A weary way to gon. + +Oh but his beard was white with eld, + Oh but his hair was gray; +He stumbled on by stock and stone, +And as he journeyed he made his moan + Along that weary way. + +Earl Harold came to his castle wall; + The gate was burnt with fire; +Roof and rafter were fallen down, +The folk were strangers all in the town, + And strangers all in the shire. + +Earl Harold came to a house of nuns, + And he heard the dead-bell toll; +He saw the sexton stand by a grave; +'Now Christ have mercy, who did us save, + Upon yon fair nun's soul.' + +The nuns they came from the convent gate + By one, by two, by three; +They sang for the soul of a lady bright +Who died for the love of a traitor knight: + It was his own lady. + +He stayed the corpse beside the grave; + 'A sign, a sign!' quod he. +'Mary Mother who rulest heaven, +Send me a sign if I be forgiven + By the woman who so loved me.' + +A white dove out of the coffin flew; + Earl Harold's mouth it kist; +He fell on his face, wherever he stood; +And the white dove carried his soul to God + Or ever the bearers wist. + +Durham, 1840. + + + +PALINODIA + + + +Ye mountains, on whose torrent-furrowed slopes, +And bare and silent brows uplift to heaven, +I envied oft the soul which fills your wastes +Of pure and stern sublime, and still expanse +Unbroken by the petty incidents +Of noisy life: Oh hear me once again! + +Winds, upon whose racked eddies, far aloft, +Above the murmur of the uneasy world, +My thoughts in exultation held their way: +Whose tremulous whispers through the rustling glade +Were once to me unearthly tones of love, +Joy without object, wordless music, stealing +Through all my soul, until my pulse beat fast +With aimless hope, and unexpressed desire-- +Thou sea, who wast to me a prophet deep +Through all thy restless waves, and wasting shores, +Of silent labour, and eternal change; +First teacher of the dense immensity +Of ever-stirring life, in thy strange forms +Of fish, and shell, and worm, and oozy weed: +To me alike thy frenzy and thy sleep +Have been a deep and breathless joy: Oh hear! + +Mountains, and winds, and waves, take back your child! +Upon thy balmy bosom, Mother Nature, +Where my young spirit dreamt its years away, +Give me once more to nestle: I have strayed +Far through another world, which is not thine. +Through sunless cities, and the weary haunts +Of smoke-grimed labour, and foul revelry +My flagging wing has swept. A mateless bird's +My pilgrimage has been; through sin, and doubt, +And darkness, seeking love. Oh hear me, Nature! +Receive me once again: but not alone; +No more alone, Great Mother! I have brought +One who has wandered, yet not sinned, like me. +Upon thy lap, twin children, let us lie; +And in the light of thine immortal eyes +Let our souls mingle, till The Father calls +To some eternal home the charge He gives thee. + +Cambridge, 1841. + + + +A HOPE + + + +Twin stars, aloft in ether clear, + Around each other roll alway, +Within one common atmosphere + Of their own mutual light and day. + +And myriad happy eyes are bent + Upon their changeless love alway; +As, strengthened by their one intent, + They pour the flood of life and day. + +So we through this world's waning night + May, hand in hand, pursue our way; +Shed round us order, love, and light, + And shine unto the perfect day. + +1842. + + + +THE POETRY OF A ROOT CROP + + + +Underneath their eider-robe +Russet swede and golden globe, +Feathered carrot, burrowing deep, +Steadfast wait in charmed sleep; +Treasure-houses wherein lie, +Locked by angels' alchemy, +Milk and hair, and blood, and bone, +Children of the barren stone; +Children of the flaming Air, +With his blue eye keen and bare, +Spirit-peopled smiling down +On frozen field and toiling town-- +Toiling town that will not heed +God His voice for rage and greed; +Frozen fields that surpliced lie, +Gazing patient at the sky; +Like some marble carven nun, +With folded hands when work is done, +Who mute upon her tomb doth pray, +Till the resurrection day. + +Eversley, 1845. + + + +CHILD BALLAD + + + +Jesus, He loves one and all, +Jesus, He loves children small, +Their souls are waiting round His feet +On high, before His mercy-seat. + +While He wandered here below +Children small to Him did go, +At His feet they knelt and prayed, +On their heads His hands He laid. + +Came a Spirit on them then, +Better than of mighty men, +A Spirit faithful, pure and mild, +A Spirit fit for king and child. + +Oh! that Spirit give to me, +Jesu Lord, where'er I be! + +1847. + + + +AIRLY BEACON + + + +Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon; + Oh the pleasant sight to see +Shires and towns from Airly Beacon, + While my love climbed up to me! + +Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon; + Oh the happy hours we lay +Deep in fern on Airly Beacon, + Courting through the summer's day! + +Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon; + Oh the weary haunt for me, +All alone on Airly Beacon, + With his baby on my knee! + +1847. + + + +SAPPHO + + + +She lay among the myrtles on the cliff; +Above her glared the noon; beneath, the sea. +Upon the white horizon Atho's peak +Weltered in burning haze; all airs were dead; +The cicale slept among the tamarisk's hair; +The birds sat dumb and drooping. Far below +The lazy sea-weed glistened in the sun; +The lazy sea-fowl dried their steaming wings; +The lazy swell crept whispering up the ledge, +And sank again. Great Pan was laid to rest; +And Mother Earth watched by him as he slept, +And hushed her myriad children for a while. +She lay among the myrtles on the cliff; +And sighed for sleep, for sleep that would not hear, +But left her tossing still; for night and day +A mighty hunger yearned within her heart, +Till all her veins ran fever; and her cheek, +Her long thin hands, and ivory-channelled feet, +Were wasted with the wasting of her soul. +Then peevishly she flung her on her face, +And hid her eyeballs from the blinding glare, +And fingered at the grass, and tried to cool +Her crisp hot lips against the crisp hot sward: +And then she raised her head, and upward cast +Wild looks from homeless eyes, whose liquid light +Gleamed out between deep folds of blue-black hair, +As gleam twin lakes between the purple peaks +Of deep Parnassus, at the mournful moon. +Beside her lay her lyre. She snatched the shell, +And waked wild music from its silver strings; +Then tossed it sadly by.--'Ah, hush!' she cries; +'Dead offspring of the tortoise and the mine! +Why mock my discords with thine harmonies? +Although a thrice-Olympian lot be thine, +Only to echo back in every tone +The moods of nobler natures than thine own.' + +Eversley, 1847 +From Yeast. + + + +THE BAD SQUIRE + + + +The merry brown hares came leaping + Over the crest of the hill, +Where the clover and corn lay sleeping + Under the moonlight still. + +Leaping late and early, + Till under their bite and their tread +The swedes and the wheat and the barley + Lay cankered and trampled and dead. + +A poacher's widow sat sighing + On the side of the white chalk bank, +Where under the gloomy fir-woods + One spot in the ley throve rank. + +She watched a long tuft of clover, + Where rabbit or hare never ran; +For its black sour haulm covered over + The blood of a murdered man. + +She thought of the dark plantation, + And the hares, and her husband's blood, +And the voice of her indignation + Rose up to the throne of God. + +'I am long past wailing and whining-- + I have wept too much in my life: +I've had twenty years of pining + As an English labourer's wife. + +'A labourer in Christian England, + Where they cant of a Saviour's name, +And yet waste men's lives like the vermin's + For a few more brace of game. + +'There's blood on your new foreign shrubs, squire, + There's blood on your pointer's feet; +There's blood on the game you sell, squire, + And there's blood on the game you eat. + +'You have sold the labouring-man, squire, + Body and soul to shame, +To pay for your seat in the House, squire, + And to pay for the feed of your game. + +'You made him a poacher yourself, squire, + When you'd give neither work nor meat, +And your barley-fed hares robbed the garden + At our starving children's feet; + +'When, packed in one reeking chamber, + Man, maid, mother, and little ones lay; +While the rain pattered in on the rotting bride-bed, + And the walls let in the day. + +'When we lay in the burning fever + On the mud of the cold clay floor, +Till you parted us all for three months, squire, + At the dreary workhouse door. + +'We quarrelled like brutes, and who wonders? + What self-respect could we keep, +Worse housed than your hacks and your pointers, + Worse fed than your hogs and your sheep? + +'Our daughters with base-born babies + Have wandered away in their shame, +If your misses had slept, squire, where they did, + Your misses might do the same. + +'Can your lady patch hearts that are breaking + With handfuls of coals and rice, +Or by dealing out flannel and sheeting + A little below cost price? + +'You may tire of the jail and the workhouse, + And take to allotments and schools, +But you've run up a debt that will never + Be paid us by penny-club rules. + +'In the season of shame and sadness, + In the dark and dreary day, +When scrofula, gout, and madness + Are eating your race away; + +'When to kennels and liveried varlets + You have cast your daughter's bread, +And, worn out with liquor and harlots, + Your heir at your feet lies dead; + +'When your youngest, the mealy-mouthed rector, + Lets your soul rot asleep to the grave, +You will find in your God the protector + Of the freeman you fancied your slave.' + +She looked at the tuft of clover, + And wept till her heart grew light; +And at last, when her passion was over, + Went wandering into the night. + +But the merry brown hares came leaping + Over the uplands still, +Where the clover and corn lay sleeping + On the side of the white chalk hill. + +Eversley, 1847. +From Yeast. + + + +SCOTCH SONG + + + +Oh, forth she went like a braw, braw bride + To meet her winsome groom, +When she was aware of twa bonny birds + Sat biggin' in the broom. + +The tane it built with the green, green moss, + But and the bents sae fine, +And the tither wi' a lock o' lady's hair + Linked up wi' siller twine. + +'O whaur gat ye the green, green moss, + O whaur the bents sae fine? +And whaur gat ye the bonny broun hair + That ance was tress o' mine?' + +'We gat the moss fra' the elditch aile, + The bents fra' the whinny muir, +And a fause knight threw us the bonny broun hair, + To please his braw new fere.' + +'Gae pull, gae pull the simmer leaves, + And strew them saft o'er me; +My token's tint, my love is fause, + I'll lay me doon and dee.' + +1847. + + + +THE YOUNG KNIGHT: A PARABLE + + + +A gay young knight in Burley stood, +Beside him pawed his steed so good, +His hands he wrung as he were wood + With waiting for his love O! + +'Oh, will she come, or will she stay, +Or will she waste the weary day +With fools who wish her far away, + And hate her for her love O?' + +But by there came a mighty boar, +His jowl and tushes red with gore, +And on his curled snout he bore + A bracelet rich and rare O! + +The knight he shrieked, he ran, he flew, +He searched the wild wood through and through, +But found nought save a mantle blue, + Low rolled within the brake O! + +He twined the wild briar, red and white, +Upon his head the garland dight, +The green leaves withered black as night, + And burnt into his brain O! + +A fire blazed up within his breast, +He mounted on an aimless quest, +He laid his virgin lance in rest, + And through the forest drove O! + +By Rhinefield and by Osmondsleigh, +Through leat and furze brake fast drove he, +Until he saw the homeless sea, + That called with all its waves O! + +He laughed aloud to hear the roar, +And rushed his horse adown the shore, +The deep surge rolled him o'er and o'er, + And swept him down the tide O! + +New Forest, July 12, 1847. + + + +A NEW FOREST BALLAD + + + +Oh she tripped over Ocknell plain, + And down by Bradley Water; +And the fairest maid on the forest side + Was Jane, the keeper's daughter. + +She went and went through the broad gray lawns + As down the red sun sank, +And chill as the scent of a new-made grave + The mist smelt cold and dank. + +'A token, a token!' that fair maid cried, + 'A token that bodes me sorrow; +For they that smell the grave by night + Will see the corpse to-morrow. + +'My own true love in Burley Walk + Does hunt to-night, I fear; +And if he meet my father stern, + His game may cost him dear. + +'Ah, here's a curse on hare and grouse, + A curse on hart and hind; +And a health to the squire in all England, + Leaves never a head behind.' + +Her true love shot a mighty hart + Among the standing rye, +When on him leapt that keeper old + From the fern where he did lie. + +The forest laws were sharp and stern, + The forest blood was keen; +They lashed together for life and death + Beneath the hollies green. + +The metal good and the walnut wood + Did soon in flinders flee; +They tost the orts to south and north, + And grappled knee to knee. + +They wrestled up, they wrestled down, + They wrestled still and sore; +Beneath their feet the myrtle sweet + Was stamped to mud and gore. + +Ah, cold pale moon, thou cruel pale moon, + That starest with never a frown +On all the grim and the ghastly things + That are wrought in thorpe and town: + +And yet, cold pale moon, thou cruel pale moon, + That night hadst never the grace +To lighten two dying Christian men + To see one another's face. + +They wrestled up, they wrestled down, + They wrestled sore and still, +The fiend who blinds the eyes of men + That night he had his will. + +Like stags full spent, among the bent + They dropped a while to rest; +When the young man drove his saying knife + Deep in the old man's breast. + +The old man drove his gunstock down + Upon the young man's head; +And side by side, by the water brown, + Those yeomen twain lay dead. + +They dug three graves in Lyndhurst yard; + They dug them side by side; +Two yeomen lie there, and a maiden fair + A widow and never a bride. + +In the New Forest, 1847. + + + +THE RED KING + + + +The King was drinking in Malwood Hall, +There came in a monk before them all: +He thrust by squire, he thrust by knight, +Stood over against the dais aright; +And, 'The word of the Lord, thou cruel Red King, +The word of the Lord to thee I bring. +A grimly sweven I dreamt yestreen; +I saw thee lie under the hollins green, +And through thine heart an arrow keen; +And out of thy body a smoke did rise, +Which smirched the sunshine out of the skies: +So if thou God's anointed be +I rede thee unto thy soul thou see. +For mitre and pall thou hast y-sold, +False knight to Christ, for gain and gold; +And for this thy forest were digged down all, +Steading and hamlet and churches tall; +And Christes poor were ousten forth, +To beg their bread from south to north. +So tarry at home, and fast and pray, +Lest fiends hunt thee in the judgment-day.' + + The monk he vanished where he stood; +King William sterte up wroth and wood; +Quod he, 'Fools' wits will jump together; +The Hampshire ale and the thunder weather +Have turned the brains for us both, I think; +And monks are curst when they fall to drink. +A lothly sweven I dreamt last night, +How there hoved anigh me a griesly knight, +Did smite me down to the pit of hell; +I shrieked and woke, so fast I fell. +There's Tyrrel as sour as I, perdie, +So he of you all shall hunt with me; +A grimly brace for a hart to see.' + + The Red King down from Malwood came; +His heart with wine was all aflame, +His eyne were shotten, red as blood, +He rated and swore, wherever he rode. +They roused a hart, that grimly brace, +A hart of ten, a hart of grease, +Fled over against the kinges place. +The sun it blinded the kinges ee, +A fathom behind his hocks shot he: + 'Shoot thou,' quod he, 'in the fiendes name, +To lose such a quarry were seven years' shame.' +And he hove up his hand to mark the game. +Tyrrel he shot full light, God wot; +For whether the saints they swerved the shot, +'Or whether by treason, men knowen not, +But under the arm, in a secret part, +The iron fled through the kinges heart. +The turf it squelched where the Red King fell; +And the fiends they carried his soul to hell, +Quod 'His master's name it hath sped him well.' + +Tyrrel he smiled full grim that day, +Quod 'Shooting of kings is no bairns' play;' +And he smote in the spurs, and fled fast away. +As he pricked along by Fritham plain, +The green tufts flew behind like rain; +The waters were out, and over the sward: +He swam his horse like a stalwart lord: +Men clepen that water Tyrrel's ford. +By Rhinefield and by Osmondsleigh, +Through glade and furze brake fast drove he, +Until he heard the roaring sea; +Quod he, 'Those gay waves they call me.' +By Mary's grace a seely boat +On Christchurch bar did lie afloat; +He gave the shipmen mark and groat, +To ferry him over to Normandie, +And there he fell to sanctuarie; +God send his soul all bliss to see. + +And fend our princes every one, +From foul mishap and trahison; +But kings that harrow Christian men +Shall England never bide again. + +In the New Forest, 1847, + + + +THE OUTLAW + + + +Oh, I wadna be a yeoman, mither, to follow my father's trade, +To bow my back in miry banks, at pleugh and hoe and spade. +Stinting wife, and bairns, and kye, to fat some courtier lord,-- +Let them die o' rent wha like, mither, and I'll die by sword. + +Nor I wadna be a clerk, mither, to bide aye ben, +Scrabbling ower the sheets o' parchment with a weary weary pen; +Looking through the lang stane windows at a narrow strip o' sky, +Like a laverock in a withy cage, until I pine away and die. + +Nor I wadna be a merchant, mither, in his lang furred gown, +Trailing strings o' footsore horses through the noisy dusty town; +Louting low to knights and ladies, fumbling o'er his wares, +Telling lies, and scraping siller, heaping cares on cares. + +Nor I wadna be a soldier, mither, to dice wi' ruffian bands, +Pining weary months in castles, looking over wasted lands. +Smoking byres, and shrieking women, and the grewsome sights o' war-- +There's blood on my hand eneugh, mither; it's ill to make it mair. + +If I had married a wife, mither, I might ha' been douce and still, +And sat at hame by the ingle side to crack and laugh my fill; +Sat at hame wi' the woman I looed, and wi' bairnies at my knee: +But death is bauld, and age is cauld, and luve's no for me. + +For when first I stirred in your side, mither, ye ken full well +How you lay all night up among the deer out on the open fell; +And so it was that I won the heart to wander far and near, +Caring neither for land nor lassie, but the bonnie dun deer. + +Yet I am not a losel and idle, mither, nor a thief that steals; +I do but hunt God's cattle, upon God's ain hills; +For no man buys and sells the deer, and the bonnie fells are free +To a belted knight with hawk on hand, and a gangrel loon like me. + +So I'm aff and away to the muirs, mither, to hunt the deer, +Ranging far frae frowning faces, and the douce folk here; +Crawling up through burn and bracken, louping down the screes, +Looking out frae craig and headland, drinking up the simmer breeze. + +Oh, the wafts o' heather honey, and the music o' the brae, +As I watch the great harts feeding, nearer, nearer a' the day. +Oh, to hark the eagle screaming, sweeping, ringing round the sky-- +That's a bonnier life than stumbling ower the muck to colt and kye. + +And when I'm taen and hangit, mither, a brittling o' my deer, +Ye'll no leave your bairn to the corbie craws, to dangle in the air; +But ye'll send up my twa douce brethren, and ye'll steal me frae the tree, +And bury me up on the brown brown muirs, where I aye looed to be. + +Ye'll bury me 'twixt the brae and the burn, in a glen far away, +Where I may hear the heathcock craw, and the great harts bray; +And gin my ghaist can walk, mither, I'll go glowering at the sky, +The livelong night on the black hill sides where the dun deer lie. + +In the New Forest, 1847. + + + +SING HEIGH-HO! + + + +There sits a bird on every tree; + Sing heigh-ho! +There sits a bird on every tree, +And courts his love as I do thee; + Sing heigh-ho, and heigh-ho! + Young maids must marry. + +There grows a flower on every bough; + Sing heigh-ho! +There grows a flower on every bough, +Its petals kiss--I'll show you how: + Sing heigh-ho, and heigh-ho! + Young maids must marry. + +From sea to stream the salmon roam; + Sing heigh-ho! +From sea to stream the salmon roam; +Each finds a mate, and leads her home; + Sing heigh-ho, and heigh-ho! + Young maids must marry. + +The sun's a bridegroom, earth a bride; + Sing heigh-ho! +They court from morn till eventide: +The earth shall pass, but love abide. + Sing heigh-ho, and heigh-ho! + Young maids must marry. + +Eversley, 1847. + + + +A MARCH + + + + Dreary East winds howling o'er us; + Clay-lands knee-deep spread before us; + Mire and ice and snow and sleet; + Aching backs and frozen feet; + Knees which reel as marches quicken, + Ranks which thin as corpses thicken; + While with carrion birds we eat, + Calling puddle-water sweet, +As we pledge the health of our general, who fares as rough as we: +What can daunt us, what can turn us, led to death by such as he? + +Eversley, 1848. + + + +A LAMENT + + + +The merry merry lark was up and singing, + And the hare was out and feeding on the lea; +And the merry merry bells below were ringing, + When my child's laugh rang through me. + +Now the hare is snared and dead beside the snow-yard, + And the lark beside the dreary winter sea; +And the baby in his cradle in the churchyard + Sleeps sound till the bell brings me. + +Eversley, 1848. + + + +THE NIGHT BIRD: A MYTH + + + +A floating, a floating +Across the sleeping sea, +All night I heard a singing bird +Upon the topmost tree. + +'Oh came you off the isles of Greece, +Or off the banks of Seine; +Or off some tree in forests free, +Which fringe the western main?' + +'I came not off the old world +Nor yet from off the new-- +But I am one of the birds of God +Which sing the whole night through.' + +'Oh sing, and wake the dawning-- +Oh whistle for the wind; +The night is long, the current strong, +My boat it lags behind.' + +'The current sweeps the old world, +The current sweeps the new; +The wind will blow, the dawn will glow +Ere thou hast sailed them through.' + +Eversley, 1848. + + + +THE DEAD CHURCH + + + +Wild wild wind, wilt thou never cease thy sighing? + Dark dark night, wilt thou never wear away? +Cold cold church, in thy death sleep lying, + The Lent is past, thy Passion here, but not thine Easter-day. + +Peace, faint heart, though the night be dark and sighing; + Rest, fair corpse, where thy Lord himself hath lain. +Weep, dear Lord, above thy bride low lying; + Thy tears shall wake her frozen limbs to life and health again. + +Eversley, 1848. + + + +A PARABLE FROM LIEBIG + + + +The church bells were ringing, the devil sat singing + On the stump of a rotting old tree; +'Oh faith it grows cold, and the creeds they grow old, + And the world is nigh ready for me.' + +The bells went on ringing, a spirit came singing, + And smiled as he crumbled the tree; +'Yon wood does but perish new seedlings to cherish, + And the world is too live yet for thee.' + +Eversley, 1848. + + + +THE STARLINGS + + + +Early in spring time, on raw and windy mornings, +Beneath the freezing house-eaves I heard the starlings sing-- +'Ah dreary March month, is this then a time for building wearily? + Sad, sad, to think that the year is but begun.' + +Late in the autumn, on still and cloudless evenings, +Among the golden reed-beds I heard the starlings sing-- +'Ah that sweet March month, when we and our mates were courting merrily; + Sad, sad, to think that the year is all but done.' + +Eversley, 1848. + + + +OLD AND NEW: A PARABLE + + + +See how the autumn leaves float by decaying, +Down the wild swirls of the rain-swollen stream. +So fleet the works of men, back to their earth again; +Ancient and holy things fade like a dream. + +Nay! see the spring-blossoms steal forth a-maying, +Clothing with tender hues orchard and glen; +So, though old forms pass by, ne'er shall their spirit die, +Look! England's bare boughs show green leaf again. + +Eversley, 1848. + + + +THE WATCHMAN + + + +'Watchman, what of the night?' + 'The stars are out in the sky; +And the merry round moon will be rising soon, + For us to go sailing by.' + +'Watchman, what of the night?' + 'The tide flows in from the sea; +There's water to float a little cockboat + Will carry such fishers as we.' + +'Watchman, what of the night?' + 'The night is a fruitful time; +When to many a pair are born children fair, + To be christened at morning chime.' + +1849. + + + +THE WORLD'S AGE + + + +Who will say the world is dying? + Who will say our prime is past? +Sparks from Heaven, within us lying, + Flash, and will flash till the last. +Fools! who fancy Christ mistaken; + Man a tool to buy and sell; +Earth a failure, God-forsaken, + Anteroom of Hell. + +Still the race of Hero-spirits + Pass the lamp from hand to hand; +Age from age the Words inherits-- + 'Wife, and Child, and Fatherland.' +Still the youthful hunter gathers + Fiery joy from wold and wood; +He will dare as dared his fathers + Give him cause as good. + +While a slave bewails his fetters; + While an orphan pleads in vain; +While an infant lisps his letters, + Heir of all the age's gain; +While a lip grows ripe for kissing; + While a moan from man is wrung; +Know, by every want and blessing, + That the world is young. + +1849. + + + +THE SANDS OF DEE + + + +'O Mary, go and call the cattle home, + And call the cattle home, + And call the cattle home + Across the sands of Dee;' +The western wind was wild and dank with foam, + And all alone went she. + +The western tide crept up along the sand, + And o'er and o'er the sand, + And round and round the sand, + As far as eye could see. +The rolling mist came down and hid the land: + And never home came she. + +'Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair-- + A tress of golden hair, + A drowned maiden's hair + Above the nets at sea? +Was never salmon yet that shone so fair + Among the stakes on Dee.' + +They rowed her in across the rolling foam, + The cruel crawling foam, + The cruel hungry foam, + To her grave beside the sea: +But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home + Across the sands of Dee. + +Eversley, 1849. + + + +THE TIDE ROCK + + + +How sleeps yon rock, whose half-day's bath is done. +With broad blight side beneath the broad bright sun, +Like sea-nymph tired, on cushioned mosses sleeping. +Yet, nearer drawn, beneath her purple tresses +From drooping brows we find her slowly weeping. + So many a wife for cruel man's caresses + Must inly pine and pine, yet outward bear + A gallant front to this world's gaudy glare. + +Ilfracombe, 1849. + + + +ELEGIACS + + + +Wearily stretches the sand to the surge, and the surge to the cloudland; +Wearily onward I ride, watching the water alone. +Not as of old, like Homeric Achilles, ??de? ya???, +Joyous knight-errant of God, thirsting for labour and strife; +No more on magical steed borne free through the regions of ether, +But, like the hack which I ride, selling my sinew for gold. +Fruit-bearing autumn is gone; let the sad quiet winter hang o'er me-- +What were the spring to a soul laden with sorrow and shame? +Blossoms would fret me with beauty; my heart has no time to bepraise them; +Gray rock, bough, surge, cloud, waken no yearning within. +Sing not, thou sky-lark above! even angels pass hushed by the weeper. +Scream on, ye sea-fowl! my heart echoes your desolate cry. +Sweep the dry sand on, thou wild wind, to drift o'er the shell and the sea- +weed; +Sea-weed and shell, like my dreams, swept down the pitiless tide. +Just is the wave which uptore us; 'tis Nature's own law which condemns us; +Woe to the weak who, in pride, build on the faith of the sand! +Joy to the oak of the mountain: he trusts to the might of the rock-clefts; +Deeply he mines, and in peace feeds on the wealth of the stone. + +Morte Sands, Devonshire, +February 1849. + + + +DARTSIDE + + + +I cannot tell what you say, green leaves, + I cannot tell what you say: +But I know that there is a spirit in you, + And a word in you this day. + +I cannot tell what you say, rosy rocks, + I cannot tell what you say: +But I know that there is a spirit in you, + And a word in you this day. + +I cannot tell what you say, brown streams, + I cannot tell what you say: +But I know that in you too a spirit doth live, + And a word doth speak this day. + +'Oh green is the colour of faith and truth, +And rose the colour of love and youth, + And brown of the fruitful clay. + Sweet Earth is faithful, and fruitful, and young, + And her bridal day shall come ere long, +And you shall know what the rocks and the streams + And the whispering woodlands say.' + +Drew's Teignton, Dartmoor, +July 31, 1849. + + + +MY HUNTING SONG + + + + Forward! Hark forward's the cry! +One more fence and we're out on the open, +So to us at once, if you want to live near us! +Hark to them, ride to them, beauties! as on they go, +Leaping and sweeping away in the vale below! +Cowards and bunglers, whose heart or whose eye is slow, + Find themselves staring alone. + + So the great cause flashes by; +Nearer and clearer its purposes open, +While louder and prouder the world-echoes cheer us: +Gentlemen sportsmen, you ought to live up to us, +Lead us, and lift us, and hallo our game to us-- +We cannot call the hounds off, and no shame to us-- + Don't be left staring alone! + +Eversley, 1849. + + + +ALTON LOCKE'S SONG + + + +Weep, weep, weep and weep, + For pauper, dolt, and slave! +Hark! from wasted moor and fen, +Feverous alley, stifling den, +Swells the wail of Saxon men-- + Work! or the grave! + +Down, down, down and down, + With idler, knave, and tyrant! +Why for sluggards cark and moil? +He that will not live by toil +Has no right on English soil! + God's word's our warrant! + +Up, up, up and up! + Face your game and play it! +The night is past, behold the sun! +The idols fall, the lie is done! +The Judge is set, the doom begun! + Who shall stay it? + +On Torridge, May 1849. + + + +THE DAY OF THE LORD + + + +The Day of the Lord is at hand, at hand: + Its storms roll up the sky: +The nations sleep starving on heaps of gold; + All dreamers toss and sigh; +The night is darkest before the morn; +When the pain is sorest the child is born, + And the Day of the Lord at hand. + +Gather you, gather you, angels of God-- + Freedom, and Mercy, and Truth; +Come! for the Earth is grown coward and old, + Come down, and renew us her youth. +Wisdom, Self-Sacrifice, Daring, and Love, +Haste to the battle-field, stoop from above, + To the Day of the Lord at hand. + +Gather you, gather you, hounds of hell-- + Famine, and Plague, and War; +Idleness, Bigotry, Cant, and Misrule, + Gather, and fall in the snare! +Hireling and Mammonite, Bigot and Knave, +Crawl to the battle-field, sneak to your grave, + In the Day of the Lord at hand. + +Who would sit down and sigh for a lost age of gold, + While the Lord of all ages is here? +True hearts will leap up at the trumpet of God, + And those who can suffer, can dare. +Each old age of gold was an iron age too, +And the meekest of saints may find stern work to do, + In the Day of the Lord at hand. + +On the Torridge, Devonshire, +September 10, 1849. + + + +A CHRISTMAS CAROL + + + +It chanced upon the merry merry Christmas eve, + I went sighing past the church across the moorland dreary-- +'Oh! never sin and want and woe this earth will leave, + And the bells but mock the wailing round, they sing so cheery. +How long, O Lord! how long before Thou come again? + Still in cellar, and in garret, and on moorland dreary +The orphans moan, and widows weep, and poor men toil in vain, + Till earth is sick of hope deferred, though Christmas bells be cheery.' + +Then arose a joyous clamour from the wild-fowl on the mere, + Beneath the stars, across the snow, like clear bells ringing, +And a voice within cried--'Listen!--Christmas carols even here! + Though thou be dumb, yet o'er their work the stars and snows are singing. +Blind! I live, I love, I reign; and all the nations through + With the thunder of my judgments even now are ringing. +Do thou fulfil thy work but as yon wild-fowl do, + Thou wilt heed no less the wailing, yet hear through it angels singing.' + +Eversley, 1849. + + + +THE OUBIT {260} + + + +It was an hairy oubit, sae proud he crept alang, +A feckless hairy oubit, and merrily he sang-- +'My Minnie bad me bide at hame until I won my wings; +I show her soon my soul's aboon the warks o' creeping things.' + +This feckless hairy oubit cam' hirpling by the linn, +A swirl o' wind cam' doun the glen, and blew that oubit in: +Oh when he took the water, the saumon fry they rose, +And tigg'd him a' to pieces sma', by head and tail and toes. + +Tak' warning then, young poets a', by this poor oubit's shame; +Though Pegasus may nicher loud, keep Pegasus at hame. +Oh haud your hands frae inkhorns, though a' the Muses woo; +For critics lie, like saumon fry, to mak' their meals o' you. + +Eversley, 1851. + + + +THE THREE FISHERS + + + +Three fishers went sailing away to the West, + Away to the West as the sun went down; +Each thought on the woman who loved him the best, + And the children stood watching them out of the town; + For men must work, and women must weep, + And there's little to earn, and many to keep, + Though the harbour bar be moaning. + +Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower, + And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down; +They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower, + And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown. + But men must work, and women must weep, + Though storms be sudden, and waters deep, + And the harbour bar be moaning. + +Three corpses lay out on the shining sands + In the morning gleam as the tide went down, +And the women are weeping and wringing their hands + For those who will never come home to the town; + For men must work, and women must weep, + And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep; + And good-bye to the bar and its moaning. + +Eversley, June 25, 1851. + + + +SONNET + + + +Oh, thou hadst been a wife for Shakspeare's self! +No head, save some world-genius, ought to rest +Above the treasures of that perfect breast, +Or nightly draw fresh light from those keen stars +Through which thy soul awes ours: yet thou art bound-- +O waste of nature!--to a craven hound; +To shameless lust, and childish greed of pelf; +Athene to a Satyr: was that link +Forged by The Father's hand? Man's reason bars +The bans which God allowed.--Ay, so we think: +Forgetting, thou hadst weaker been, full blest, + Than thus made strong by suffering; and more great + In martyrdom, than throned as Caesar's mate. + +Eversley, 1851. + + + +MARGARET TO DOLCINO + + + +Ask if I love thee? Oh, smiles cannot tell +Plainer what tears are now showing too well. +Had I not loved thee, my sky had been clear: +Had I not loved thee, I had not been here, + Weeping by thee. + +Ask if I love thee? How else could I borrow +Pride from man's slander, and strength from my sorrow? +Laugh when they sneer at the fanatic's bride, +Knowing no bliss, save to toil and abide + Weeping by thee. + +Andernach on the Rhine, +August 1851. + + + +DOLCINO TO MARGARET + + + +The world goes up and the world goes down, + And the sunshine follows the rain; +And yesterday's sneer and yesterday's frown + Can never come over again, + Sweet wife: + No, never come over again. + +For woman is warm though man be cold, + And the night will hallow the day; +Till the heart which at even was weary and old + Can rise in the morning gay, + Sweet wife; + To its work in the morning gay. + +Andernach, 1851. + + + +THE UGLY PRINCESS + + + +My parents bow, and lead them forth, + For all the crowd to see-- +Ah well! the people might not care + To cheer a dwarf like me. + +They little know how I could love, + How I could plan and toil, +To swell those drudges' scanty gains, + Their mites of rye and oil. + +They little know what dreams have been + My playmates, night and day; +Of equal kindness, helpful care, + A mother's perfect sway. + +Now earth to earth in convent walls, + To earth in churchyard sod: +I was not good enough for man, + And so am given to God. + +Bertrich in the Eifel, 1851. + + + +SONNET + + + +The baby sings not on its mother's breast; +Nor nightingales who nestle side by side; +Nor I by thine: but let us only part, +Then lips which should but kiss, and so be still, +As having uttered all, must speak again-- +O stunted thoughts! O chill and fettered rhyme +Yet my great bliss, though still entirely blest, +Losing its proper home, can find no rest: + So, like a child who whiles away the time +With dance and carol till the eventide, +Watching its mother homeward through the glen; +Or nightingale, who, sitting far apart, +Tells to his listening mate within the nest +The wonder of his star-entranced heart +Till all the wakened woodlands laugh and thrill-- + Forth all my being bubbles into song; + And rings aloft, not smooth, yet clear and strong. + +Bertrich, 1851 + + + +THE SWAN-NECK + + + +Evil sped the battle play +On the Pope Calixtus' day; +Mighty war-smiths, thanes and lords, +In Senlac slept the sleep of swords. +Harold Earl, shot over shield, +Lay along the autumn weald; +Slaughter such was never none +Since the Ethelings England won. + Thither Lady Githa came, +Weeping sore for grief and shame; +How may she her first-born tell? +Frenchmen stript him where he fell, +Gashed and marred his comely face; +Who can know him in his place? + Up and spake two brethren wise, +'Youngest hearts have keenest eyes; +Bird which leaves its mother's nest, +Moults its pinions, moults its crest. +Let us call the Swan-neck here, +She that was his leman dear; +She shall know him in this stound; +Foot of wolf, and scent of hound, +Eye of hawk, and wing of dove, +Carry woman to her love.' + Up and spake the Swan-neck high, +'Go! to all your thanes let cry +How I loved him best of all, +I whom men his leman call; +Better knew his body fair +Than the mother which him bare. +When ye lived in wealth and glee +Then ye scorned to look on me; +God hath brought the proud ones low +After me afoot to go.' + Rousing erne and sallow glede, +Rousing gray wolf off his feed, +Over franklin, earl, and thane, +Heaps of mother-naked slain, +Round the red field tracing slow, +Stooped that Swan-neck white as snow; +Never blushed nor turned away, +Till she found him where he lay; +Clipt him in her armes fair, +Wrapt him in her yellow hair, +Bore him from the battle-stead, +Saw him laid in pall of lead, +Took her to a minster high, +For Earl Harold's soul to cry. + + Thus fell Harold, bracelet-giver; +Jesu rest his soul for ever; +Angles all from thrall deliver; + Miserere Domine. + +Eversley, 1851. + + + +A THOUGHT FROM THE RHINE + + + +I heard an Eagle crying all alone +Above the vineyards through the summer night, +Among the skeletons of robber towers: +Because the ancient eyrie of his race +Was trenched and walled by busy-handed men; +And all his forest-chace and woodland wild, +Wherefrom he fed his young with hare and roe, +Were trim with grapes which swelled from hour to hour, +And tossed their golden tendrils to the sun +For joy at their own riches:--So, I thought, +The great devourers of the earth shall sit, +Idle and impotent, they know not why, +Down-staring from their barren height of state +On nations grown too wise to slay and slave, +The puppets of the few; while peaceful lore +And fellow-help make glad the heart of earth, +With wonders which they fear and hate, as he, +The Eagle, hates the vineyard slopes below. + +On the Rhine, 1851. + + + +THE LONGBEARDS' SAGA. A.D. 400 + + + +Over the camp-fires +Drank I with heroes, +Under the Donau bank, +Warm in the snow trench: +Sagamen heard I there, +Men of the Longbeards, +Cunning and ancient, +Honey-sweet-voiced. +Scaring the wolf cub, +Scaring the horn-owl, +Shaking the snow-wreaths +Down from the pine-boughs, +Up to the star roof +Rang out their song. +Singing how Winil men, +Over the ice-floes +Sledging from Scanland +Came unto Scoring; +Singing of Gambara, +Freya's beloved, +Mother of Ayo, +Mother of Ibor. +Singing of Wendel men, +Ambri and Assi; +How to the Winilfolk +Went they with war-words,-- +'Few are ye, strangers, +And many are we: +Pay us now toll and fee, +Cloth-yarn, and rings, and beeves: +Else at the raven's meal +Bide the sharp bill's doom.' +Clutching the dwarfs work then, +Clutching the bullock's shell, +Girding gray iron on, +Forth fared the Winils all, +Fared the Alruna's sons, +Ayo and Ibor. +Mad at heart stalked they: +Loud wept the women all, +Loud the Alruna wife; +Sore was their need. +Out of the morning land, +Over the snow-drifts, +Beautiful Freya came, +Tripping to Scoring. +White were the moorlands, +And frozen before her: +Green were the moorlands, +And blooming behind her. +Out of her gold locks +Shaking the spring flowers, +Out of her garments +Shaking the south wind, +Around in the birches +Awaking the throstles, +And making chaste housewives all +Long for their heroes home, +Loving and love-giving, +Came she to Scoring. +Came unto Gambara, +Wisest of Valas,-- +'Vala, why weepest thou? +Far in the wide-blue, +High up in the Elfin-home, +Heard I thy weeping.' +'Stop not my weeping, +Till one can fight seven. +Sons have I, heroes tall, +First in the sword-play; +This day at the Wendels' hands +Eagles must tear them. +Their mothers, thrall-weary, +Must grind for the Wendels.' +Wept the Alruna wife; +Kissed her fair Freya:-- +'Far off in the morning land, +High in Valhalla, +A window stands open; +Its sill is the snow-peaks, +Its posts are the waterspouts, +Storm-rack its lintel; +Gold cloud-flakes above +Are piled for the roofing, +Far up to the Elfin-home, +High in the wide-blue. +Smiles out each morning thence +Odin Allfather; +From under the cloud-eaves +Smiles out on the heroes, +Smiles on chaste housewives all, +Smiles on the brood-mares, +Smiles on the smiths' work: +And theirs is the sword-luck, +With them is the glory,-- +So Odin hath sworn it,-- +Who first in the morning +Shall meet him and greet him.' +Still the Alruna wept:-- +'Who then shall greet him? +Women alone are here: +Far on the moorlands +Behind the war-lindens, +In vain for the bill's doom +Watch Winil heroes all, +One against seven.' +Sweetly the Queen laughed:-- +'Hear thou my counsel now; +Take to thee cunning, +Beloved of Freya. +Take thou thy women-folk, +Maidens and wives: +Over your ankles +Lace on the white war-hose; +Over your bosoms +Link up the hard mail-nets; +Over your lips +Plait long tresses with cunning;-- +So war-beasts full-bearded +King Odin shall deem you, +When off the gray sea-beach +At sunrise ye greet him.' + +Night's son was driving +His golden-haired horses up; +Over the eastern firths +High flashed their manes. +Smiled from the cloud-eaves out +Allfather Odin, +Waiting the battle-sport: +Freya stood by him. +'Who are these heroes tall,-- +Lusty-limbed Longbeards? +Over the swans' bath +Why cry they to me? +Bones should be crashing fast, +Wolves should be full-fed, +Where such, mad-hearted, +Swing hands in the sword-play.' + +Sweetly laughed Freya:-- +'A name thou hast given them, +Shames neither thee nor them, +Well can they wear it. +Give them the victory, +First have they greeted thee; +Give them the victory, +Yokefellow mine! +Maidens and wives are these,-- +Wives of the Winils; +Few are their heroes +And far on the war-road, +So over the swans' bath +They cry unto thee.' + +Royally laughed he then; +Dear was that craft to him, +Odin Allfather, +Shaking the clouds. +'Cunning are women all, +Bold and importunate! +Longbeards their name shall be, +Ravens shall thank them: +Where women are heroes, +What must the men be? +Theirs is the victory; +No need of me!' + +Eversley, 1852. +From Hypatia. + + + +SAINT MAURA. A.D. 304 + + + +Thank God! Those gazers' eyes are gone at last! +The guards are crouching underneath the rock; +The lights are fading in the town below, +Around the cottage which this morn was ours. +Kind sun, to set, and leave us here alone; +Alone upon our crosses with our God; +While all the angels watch us from the stars. +Kind moon, to shine so clear and full on him, +And bathe his limbs in glory, for a sign +Of what awaits him! Oh look on him, Lord! +Look, and remember how he saved thy lamb! + Oh listen to me, teacher, husband, love, +Never till now loved utterly! Oh say, +Say you forgive me! No--you must not speak: +You said it to me hours ago--long hours! +Now you must rest, and when to-morrow comes +Speak to the people, call them home to God, +A deacon on the Cross, as in the Church; +And plead from off the tree with outspread arms, +To show them that the Son of God endured +For them--and me. Hush! I alone will speak, +And while away the hours till dawn for you. +I know you have forgiven me; as I lay +Beneath your feet, while they were binding me, +I knew I was forgiven then! When I cried +'Here am I, husband! The lost lamb returned, +All re-baptized in blood!' and you said, 'Come! +Come to thy bride-bed, martyr, wife once more!' +From that same moment all my pain was gone; +And ever since those sightless eyes have smiled +Love--love! Alas, those eyes! They made me fall. +I could not bear to see them, bleeding, dark, +Never, no never to look into mine; +Never to watch me round the little room +Singing about my work, or flash on me +Looks bright with counsel.--Then they drove me mad +With talk of nameless tortures waiting you-- +And I could save you! You would hear your love-- +They knew you loved me, cruel men! And then-- +Then came a dream; to say one little word, +One easy wicked word, we both might say, +And no one hear us, but the lictors round; +One tiny sprinkle of the incense grains, +And both, both free! And life had just begun-- +Only three months--short months--your wedded wife +Only three months within the cottage there-- +Hoping I bore your child. . . . +Ah! husband! Saviour! God! think gently of me! +I am forgiven! . . . + And then another dream; +A flash--so quick, I could not bear the blaze; +I could not see the smoke among the light-- +To wander out through unknown lands, and lead +You by the hand through hamlet, port, and town, +On, on, until we died; and stand each day +To glory in you, as you preached and prayed +From rock and bourne-stone, with that voice, those words, +Mingled with fire and honey--you would wake, +Bend, save whole nations! would not that atone +For one short word?--ay, make it right, to save +You, you, to fight the battles of the Lord? +And so--and so--alas! you knew the rest! +You answered me. . . . +Ah cruel words! No! Blessed, godlike words. +You had done nobly had you struck me dead, +Instead of striking me to life!--the temptress! . . . +'Traitress! apostate! dead to God and me!'-- +'The smell of death upon me?'--so it was! +True! true! well spoken, hero! Oh they snapped, +Those words, my madness, like the angel's voice +Thrilling the graves to birth-pangs. All was clear. +There was but one right thing in the world to do; +And I must do it. . . . Lord, have mercy! Christ! +Help through my womanhood: or I shall fail +Yet, as I failed before! . . . I could not speak-- +I could not speak for shame and misery, +And terror of my sin, and of the things +I knew were coming: but in heaven, in heaven! +There we should meet, perhaps--and by that time +I might be worthy of you once again-- +Of you, and of my God. . . . So I went out. +. . . . . . +Will you hear more, and so forget the pain? +And yet I dread to tell you what comes next; +Your love will feel it all again for me. +No! it is over; and the woe that's dead +Rises next hour a glorious angel. Love! +Say, shall I tell you? Ah! your lips are dry! +To-morrow, when they come, we must entreat, +And they will give you water. One to-day, +A soldier, gave me water in a sponge +Upon a reed, and said, 'Too fair! too young! +She might have been a gallant soldier's wife!' +And then I cried, 'I am a soldier's wife! +A hero's!' And he smiled, but let me drink. +God bless him for it! + So they led me back: +And as I went, a voice was in my ears +Which rang through all the sunlight, and the breath +And blaze of all the garden slopes below, +And through the harvest-voices, and the moan +Of cedar-forests on the cliffs above, +And round the shining rivers, and the peaks +Which hung beyond the cloud-bed of the west, +And round the ancient stones about my feet. +Out of all heaven and earth it rang, and cried, +'My hand hath made all these. Am I too weak +To give thee strength to say so?' Then my soul +Spread like a clear blue sky within my breast, +While all the people made a ring around, +And in the midst the judge spoke smilingly-- +'Well! hast thou brought him to a better mind?' +'No! He has brought me to a better mind!'-- +I cried, and said beside--I know not what-- +Words which I learnt from thee--I trust in God +Nought fierce or rude--for was I not a girl +Three months ago beneath my mother's roof? +I thought of that. She might be there! I looked-- +She was not there! I hid my face and wept. +And when I looked again, the judge's eye +Was on me, cold and steady, deep in thought-- +'She knows what shame is still; so strip her.' 'Ah!' +I shrieked, 'Not that, Sir! Any pain! So young +I am--a wife too--I am not my own, +But his--my husband's!' But they took my shawl, +And tore my tunic off, and there I stood +Before them all. . . . Husband! you love me still? +Indeed I pleaded! Oh, shine out, kind moon, +And let me see him smile! Oh! how I prayed, +While some cried 'Shame!' and some, 'She is too young!' +And some mocked--ugly words: God shut my ears. +And yet no earthquake came to swallow me. +While all the court around, and walls, and roofs, +And all the earth and air were full of eyes, +Eyes, eyes, which scorched my limbs like burning flame, +Until my brain seemed bursting from my brow: +And yet no earthquake came! And then I knew +This body was not yours alone, but God's-- +His loan--He needed it: and after that +The worst was come, and any torture more +A change--a lightening; and I did not shriek-- +Once only--once, when first I felt the whip-- +It coiled so keen around my side, and sent +A fire-flash through my heart which choked me--then +I shrieked--that once. The foolish echo rang +So far and long--I prayed you might not hear. +And then a mist, which hid the ring of eyes, +Swam by me, and a murmur in my ears +Of humming bees around the limes at home; +And I was all alone with you and God. +And what they did to me I hardly know; +I felt, and did not feel. Now I look back, +It was not after all so very sharp: +So do not pity me. It made me pray; +Forget my shame in pain, and pain in you, +And you in God: and once, when I looked down, +And saw an ugly sight--so many wounds! +'What matter?' thought I. 'His dear eyes are dark; +For them alone I kept these limbs so white-- +A foolish pride! As God wills now. 'Tis just.' + But then the judge spoke out in haste: 'She is mad, +Or fenced by magic arts! She feels no pain!' +He did not know I was on fire within: +Better he should not; so his sin was less. +Then he cried fiercely, 'Take the slave away, +And crucify her by her husband's side!' +And at those words a film came on my face-- +A sickening rush of joy--was that the end? +That my reward? I rose, and tried to go-- +But all the eyes had vanished, and the judge; +And all the buildings melted into mist: +So how they brought me here I cannot tell-- +Here, here, by you, until the judgment-day, +And after that for ever and for ever! +Ah! If I could but reach that hand! One touch! +One finger tip, to send the thrill through me +I felt but yesterday!--No! I can wait:-- +Another body!--Oh, new limbs are ready, +Free, pure, instinct with soul through every nerve, +Kept for us in the treasuries of God. +They will not mar the love they try to speak, +They will not fail my soul, as these have done! +. . . . . +Will you hear more? Nay--you know all the rest: +Yet those poor eyes--alas! they could not see +My waking, when you hung above me there +With hands outstretched to bless the penitent-- +Your penitent--even like The Lord Himself-- +I gloried in you!--like The Lord Himself! +Sharing His very sufferings, to the crown +Of thorns which they had put on that dear brow +To make you like Him--show you as you were! +I told them so! I bid them look on you, +And see there what was the highest throne on earth-- +The throne of suffering, where the Son of God +Endured and triumphed for them. But they laughed; +All but one soldier, gray, with many scars; +And he stood silent. Then I crawled to you, +And kissed your bleeding feet, and called aloud-- +You heard me! You know all! I am at peace. +Peace, peace, as still and bright as is the moon +Upon your limbs, came on me at your smile, +And kept me happy, when they dragged me back +From that last kiss, and spread me on the cross, +And bound my wrists and ankles--Do not sigh: +I prayed, and bore it: and since they raised me up +My eyes have never left your face, my own, my own, +Nor will, till death comes! . . . + Do I feel much pain? +Not much. Not maddening. None I cannot bear. +It has become like part of my own life, +Or part of God's life in me--honour--bliss! +I dreaded madness, and instead comes rest; +Rest deep and smiling, like a summer's night. +I should be easy, now, if I could move . . . +I cannot stir. Ah God! these shoots of fire +Through all my limbs! Hush, selfish girl! He hears you! +Who ever found the cross a pleasant bed? +Yes; I can bear it, love. Pain is no evil +Unless it conquers us. These little wrists, now-- +You said, one blessed night, they were too slender, +Too soft and slender for a deacon's wife-- +Perhaps a martyr's:--You forgot the strength +Which God can give. The cord has cut them through; +And yet my voice has never faltered yet. +Oh! do not groan, or I shall long and pray +That you may die: and you must not die yet. +Not yet--they told us we might live three days . . . +Two days for you to preach! Two days to speak +Words which may wake the dead! +. . . . . + Hush! is he sleeping? +They say that men have slept upon the cross; +So why not he? . . . Thanks, Lord! I hear him breathe: +And he will preach Thy word to-morrow!--save +Souls, crowds, for Thee! And they will know his worth +Years hence--poor things, they know not what they do!-- +And crown him martyr; and his name will ring +Through all the shores of earth, and all the stars +Whose eyes are sparkling through their tears to see +His triumph--Preacher! Martyr!--Ah--and me?-- +If they must couple my poor name with his, +Let them tell all the truth--say how I loved him, +And tried to damn him by that love! O Lord! +Returning good for evil! and was this +The payment I deserved for such a sin? +To hang here on my cross, and look at him +Until we kneel before Thy throne in heaven! + +Eversley, 1852. + + + +ON THE DEATH OF A CERTAIN JOURNAL {282} + + + +So die, thou child of stormy dawn, +Thou winter flower, forlorn of nurse; +Chilled early by the bigot's curse, +The pedant's frown, the worldling's yawn. + +Fair death, to fall in teeming June, +When every seed which drops to earth +Takes root, and wins a second birth +From steaming shower and gleaming moon. + +Fall warm, fall fast, thou mellow rain; +Thou rain of God, make fat the land; +That roots which parch in burning sand +May bud to flower and fruit again. + +To grace, perchance, a fairer morn +In mightier lands beyond the sea, +While honour falls to such as we +From hearts of heroes yet unborn, + +Who in the light of fuller day, +Of purer science, holier laws, +Bless us, faint heralds of their cause, +Dim beacons of their glorious way. + +Failure? While tide-floods rise and boil +Round cape and isle, in port and cove, +Resistless, star-led from above: +What though our tiny wave recoil? + +Eversley, 1852. + + + +DOWN TO THE MOTHERS + + + +Linger no more, my beloved, by abbey and cell and cathedral; +Mourn not for holy ones mourning of old them who knew not the Father, +Weeping with fast and scourge, when the bridegroom was taken from them. +Drop back awhile through the years, to the warm rich youth of the nations, +Childlike in virtue and faith, though childlike in passion and pleasure, +Childlike still, and still near to their God, while the day-spring of Eden +Lingered in rose-red rays on the peaks of Ionian mountains. +Down to the mothers, as Faust went, I go, to the roots of our manhood, +Mothers of us in our cradles; of us once more in our glory. +New-born, body and soul, in the great pure world which shall be +In the renewing of all things, when man shall return to his Eden +Conquering evil, and death, and shame, and the slander of conscience-- +Free in the sunshine of Godhead--and fearlessly smile on his Father. +Down to the mothers I go--yet with thee still!--be with me, thou purest! +Lead me, thy hand in my hand; and the dayspring of God go before us. + +Eversley, 1852. + + + +TO MISS MITFORD: AUTHORESS OF 'OUR VILLAGE' + + + +The single eye, the daughter of the light; +Well pleased to recognise in lowliest shade +Some glimmer of its parent beam, and made +By daily draughts of brightness, inly bright. +The taste severe, yet graceful, trained aright +In classic depth and clearness, and repaid +By thanks and honour from the wise and staid-- +By pleasant skill to blame, and yet delight, +And high communion with the eloquent throng +Of those who purified our speech and song-- +All these are yours. The same examples lure, +You in each woodland, me on breezy moor-- +With kindred aim the same sweet path along, +To knit in loving knowledge rich and poor. + +Eversley, 1853. + + + +BALLAD OF EARL HALDAN'S DAUGHTER + + + + It was Earl Haldan's daughter, + She looked across the sea; + She looked across the water; + And long and loud laughed she: + 'The locks of six princesses + Must be my marriage fee, +So hey bonny boat, and ho bonny boat! + Who comes a wooing me?' + + It was Earl Haldan's daughter, + She walked along the sand; + When she was aware of a knight so fair, + Came sailing to the land. + His sails were all of velvet, + His mast of beaten gold, +And 'Hey bonny boat, and ho bonny boat! + Who saileth here so bold?' + + 'The locks of five princesses + I won beyond the sea; + I clipt their golden tresses, + To fringe a cloak for thee. + One handful yet is wanting, + But one of all the tale; +So hey bonny boat, and ho bonny boat! + Furl up thy velvet sail!' + + He leapt into the water, + That rover young and bold; + He gript Earl Haldan's daughter, + He clipt her locks of gold: + 'Go weep, go weep, proud maiden, + The tale is full to-day. +Now hey bonny boat, and ho bonny boat! + Sail Westward ho! away!' + +Devonshire, 1854 + From Westward Ho! + + + +FRANK LEIGH'S SONG. A.D. 1586 + + + +Ah tyrant Love, Megaera's serpents bearing, + Why thus requite my sighs with venom'd smart? +Ah ruthless dove, the vulture's talons wearing, + Why flesh them, traitress, in this faithful heart? +Is this my meed? Must dragons' teeth alone +In Venus' lawns by lovers' hands be sown? + +Nay, gentlest Cupid; 'twas my pride undid me; + Nay, guiltless dove; by mine own wound I fell. +To worship, not to wed, Celestials bid me: + I dreamt to mate in heaven, and wake in hell; +For ever doom'd, Ixion-like, to reel +On mine own passions' ever-burning wheel. + +Devonshire, 1854. + From Westward Ho! + + + +ODE TO THE NORTH-EAST WIND + + + +Welcome, wild North-easter. + Shame it is to see +Odes to every zephyr; + Ne'er a verse to thee. +Welcome, black North-easter! + O'er the German foam; +O'er the Danish moorlands, + From thy frozen home. +Tired we are of summer, + Tired of gaudy glare, +Showers soft and steaming, + Hot and breathless air. +Tired of listless dreaming, + Through the lazy day: +Jovial wind of winter + Turns us out to play! +Sweep the golden reed-beds; + Crisp the lazy dyke; +Hunger into madness + Every plunging pike. +Fill the lake with wild-fowl; + Fill the marsh with snipe; +While on dreary moorlands + Lonely curlew pipe. +Through the black fir-forest + Thunder harsh and dry, +Shattering down the snow-flakes + Off the curdled sky. +Hark! The brave North-easter! + Breast-high lies the scent, +On by holt and headland, + Over heath and bent. +Chime, ye dappled darlings, + Through the sleet and snow. +Who can over-ride you? + Let the horses go! +Chime, ye dappled darlings, + Down the roaring blast; +You shall see a fox die + Ere an hour be past. +Go! and rest to-morrow, + Hunting in your dreams, +While our skates are ringing + O'er the frozen streams. +Let the luscious South-wind + Breathe in lovers' sighs, +While the lazy gallants + Bask in ladies' eyes. +What does he but soften + Heart alike and pen? +'Tis the hard gray weather + Breeds hard English men. +What's the soft South-wester? + 'Tis the ladies' breeze, +Bringing home their true-loves + Out of all the seas: +But the black North-easter, + Through the snowstorm hurled, +Drives our English hearts of oak + Seaward round the world. +Come, as came our fathers, + Heralded by thee, +Conquering from the eastward, + Lords by land and sea. +Come; and strong within us + Stir the Vikings' blood; +Bracing brain and sinew; + Blow, thou wind of God! + +1854. + + + +A FAREWELL: TO C. E. G. + + + +My fairest child, I have no song to give you; + No lark could pipe in skies so dull and gray; +Yet, if you will, one quiet hint I'll leave you, + For every day. + +I'll tell you how to sing a clearer carol + Than lark who hails the dawn or breezy down +To earn yourself a purer poet's laurel + Than Shakespeare's crown. + +Be good, sweet maid, and let who can be clever; + Do lovely things, not dream them, all day long; +And so make Life, and Death, and that For Ever, + One grand sweet song. + +February 1, 1856. + + + +TO G. A. G. + + + +A hasty jest I once let fall-- + As jests are wont to be, untrue-- + As if the sum of joy to you +Were hunt and picnic, rout and ball. + +Your eyes met mine: I did not blame; + You saw it: but I touched too near + Some noble nerve; a silent tear +Spoke soft reproach, and lofty shame. + +I do not wish those words unsaid. + Unspoilt by praise and pleasure, you + In that one look to woman grew, +While with a child, I thought, I played. + +Next to mine own beloved so long! + I have not spent my heart in vain. + I watched the blade; I see the grain; +A woman's soul, most soft, yet strong. + +Eversley, 1856. + + + +THE SOUTH WIND: A FISHERMAN'S BLESSINGS + + + +O blessed drums of Aldershot! + O blessed South-west train! +O blessed, blessed Speaker's clock, + All prophesying rain! + +O blessed yaffil, laughing loud! + O blessed falling glass! +O blessed fan of cold gray cloud! + O blessed smelling grass! + +O bless'd South wind that toots his horn + Through every hole and crack! +I'm off at eight to-morrow morn, + To bring _such_ fishes back! + +Eversley, April 1, 1856. + + + +THE INVITATION: TO TOM HUGHES + + + +Come away with me, Tom, +Term and talk are done; +My poor lads are reaping, +Busy every one. +Curates mind the parish, +Sweepers mind the court; +We'll away to Snowdon +For our ten days' sport; +Fish the August evening +Till the eve is past, +Whoop like boys, at pounders +Fairly played and grassed. +When they cease to dimple, +Lunge, and swerve, and leap, +Then up over Siabod, +Choose our nest, and sleep. +Up a thousand feet, Tom, +Round the lion's head, +Find soft stones to leeward +And make up our bed. +Eat our bread and bacon, +Smoke the pipe of peace, +And, ere we be drowsy, +Give our boots a grease. +Homer's heroes did so, +Why not such as we? +What are sheets and servants? +Superfluity! +Pray for wives and children +Safe in slumber curled, +Then to chat till midnight +O'er this babbling world-- +Of the workmen's college, +Of the price of grain, +Of the tree of knowledge, +Of the chance of rain; +If Sir A. goes Romeward, +If Miss B. sings true, +If the fleet comes homeward, +If the mare will do,-- +Anything and everything-- +Up there in the sky +Angels understand us, +And no 'saints' are by. +Down, and bathe at day-dawn, +Tramp from lake to lake, +Washing brain and heart clean +Every step we take. +Leave to Robert Browning +Beggars, fleas, and vines; +Leave to mournful Ruskin +Popish Apennines, +Dirty Stones of Venice +And his Gas-lamps Seven-- +We've the stones of Snowdon +And the lamps of heaven. +Where's the mighty credit +In admiring Alps? +Any goose sees 'glory' +In their 'snowy scalps.' +Leave such signs and wonders +For the dullard brain, +As aesthetic brandy, +Opium and cayenne. +Give me Bramshill common +(St. John's harriers by), +Or the vale of Windsor, +England's golden eye. +Show me life and progress, +Beauty, health, and man; +Houses fair, trim gardens, +Turn where'er I can. +Or, if bored with 'High Art,' +And such popish stuff, +One's poor ear need airing, +Snowdon's high enough. +While we find God's signet +Fresh on English ground, +Why go gallivanting +With the nations round? +Though we try no ventures +Desperate or strange; +Feed on commonplaces +In a narrow range; +Never sought for Franklin +Round the frozen Capes; +Even, with Macdougall, {295} +Bagged our brace of apes; +Never had our chance, Tom, +In that black Redan; +Can't avenge poor Brereton +Out in Sakarran; +Tho' we earn our bread, Tom, +By the dirty pen, +What we can we will be, +Honest Englishmen. +Do the work that's nearest, +Though it's dull at whiles, +Helping, when we meet them, +Lame dogs over stiles; +See in every hedgerow +Marks of angels' feet, +Epics in each pebble +Underneath our feet; +Once a year, like schoolboys, +Robin-Hooding go, +Leaving fops and fogies +A thousand feet below. + +Eversley, August 1856. + + + +THE FIND + + + + Yon sound's neither sheep-bell nor bark, + They're running--they're running, Go hark! + The sport may be lost by a moment's delay; + So whip up the puppies and scurry away. +Dash down through the cover by dingle and dell, +There's a gate at the bottom--I know it full well; +And they're running--they're running, + Go hark! + + They're running--they're running, Go hark! + One fence and we're out of the park; + Sit down in your saddles and race at the brook, + Then smash at the bullfinch; no time for a look; +Leave cravens and skirters to dangle behind; +He's away for the moors in the teeth of the wind, +And they're running--they're running, + Go hark! + + They're running--they're running, Go hark! + Let them run on and run till it's dark! + Well with them we are, and well with them we'll be, + While there's wind in our horses and daylight to see: +Then shog along homeward, chat over the fight, +And hear in our dreams the sweet music all night +Of--They're running--they're running, + Go hark! + +Eversley, 1856. + + + +FISHING SONG: TO J. A. FROUDE AND TOM HUGHES + + + + Oh, Mr. Froude, how wise and good, + To point us out this way to glory-- + They're no great shakes, those Snowdon Lakes, + And all their pounders myth and story. +Blow Snowdon! What's Lake Gwynant to Killarney, +Or spluttering Welsh to tender blarney, blarney, blarney? + + So Thomas Hughes, sir, if you choose, + I'll tell you where we think of going, + To swate and far o'er cliff and scar, + Hear horns of Elfland faintly blowing; +Blow Snowdon! There's a hundred lakes to try in, +And fresh caught salmon daily, frying, frying, frying. + + Geology and botany + A hundred wonders shall diskiver, + We'll flog and troll in strid and hole, + And skim the cream of lake and river, +Blow Snowdon! give me Ireland for my pennies, +Hurrah! for salmon, grilse, and--Dennis, Dennis, Dennis! + +Eversley, 1856 + + + +THE LAST BUCCANEER + + + +Oh England is a pleasant place for them that's rich and high, +But England is a cruel place for such poor folks as I; +And such a port for mariners I ne'er shall see again +As the pleasant Isle of Aves, beside the Spanish main. + +There were forty craft in Aves that were both swift and stout, +All furnished well with small arms and cannons round about; +And a thousand men in Aves made laws so fair and free +To choose their valiant captains and obey them loyally. + +Thence we sailed against the Spaniard with his hoards of plate and gold, +Which he wrung with cruel tortures from Indian folk of old; +Likewise the merchant captains, with hearts as hard as stone, +Who flog men and keel-haul them, and starve them to the bone. + +Oh the palms grew high in Aves, and fruits that shone like gold, +And the colibris and parrots they were gorgeous to behold; +And the negro maids to Aves from bondage fast did flee, +To welcome gallant sailors, a-sweeping in from sea. + +Oh sweet it was in Aves to hear the landward breeze, +A-swing with good tobacco in a net between the trees, +With a negro lass to fan you, while you listened to the roar +Of the breakers on the reef outside, that never touched the shore. + +But Scripture saith, an ending to all fine things must be; +So the King's ships sailed on Aves, and quite put down were we. +All day we fought like bulldogs, but they burst the booms at night; +And I fled in a piragua, sore wounded, from the fight. + +Nine days I floated starving, and a negro lass beside, +Till for all I tried to cheer her, the poor young thing she died; +But as I lay a gasping, a Bristol sail came by, +And brought me home to England here, to beg until I die. + +And now I'm old and going--I'm sure I can't tell where; +One comfort is, this world's so hard, I can't be worse off there: +If I might but be a sea-dove, I'd fly across the main, +To the pleasant Isle of Aves, to look at it once again. + +Eversley, 1857, + + + +THE KNIGHT'S RETURN + + + +Hark! hark! hark! +The lark sings high in the dark. +The were wolves mutter, the night hawks moan, +The raven croaks from the Raven-stone; +What care I for his boding groan, +Riding the moorland to come to mine own? +Hark! hark! hark! +The lark sings high in the dark. + +Hark! hark! hark! +The lark sings high in the dark. +Long have I wander'd by land and by sea, +Long have I ridden by moorland and lea; +Yonder she sits with my babe on her knee, +Sits at the window and watches for me! +Hark! hark! hark! +The lark sings high in the dark. + +Written for music, 1857. + + + +PEN-Y-GWRYDD: TO TOM HUGHES, ESQ. + + + +There is no inn in Snowdon which is not awful dear, +Excepting Pen-y-gwrydd (you can't pronounce it, dear), +Which standeth in the meeting of noble valleys three-- +One is the vale of Gwynant, so well beloved by me, +One goes to Capel-Curig, and I can't mind its name, +And one it is Llanberris Pass, which all men knows the same; +Between which radiations vast mountains does arise, +As full of tarns as sieves of holes, in which big fish will rise, +That is, just one day in the year, if you be there, my boy, +Just about ten o'clock at night; and then I wish you joy. +Now to this Pen-y-gwrydd inn I purposeth to write, +(Axing the post town out of Froude, for I can't mind it quite), +And to engage a room or two, for let us say a week, +For fear of gents, and Manichees, and reading parties meek, +And there to live like fighting-cocks at almost a bob a day, +And arterwards toward the sea make tracks and cut away, +All for to catch the salmon bold in Aberglaslyn pool, +And work the flats in Traeth-Mawr, and will, or I'm a fool. +And that's my game, which if you like, respond to me by post; +But I fear it will not last, my son, a thirteen days at most. +Flies is no object; I can tell some three or four will do, +And John Jones, Clerk, he knows the rest, and ties and sells 'em too. +Besides of which I have no more to say, leastwise just now, +And so, goes to my children's school and 'umbly makes my bow. + +Eversley, 1857. + + + +ODE ON THE INSTALLATION OF THE DUKE OF DEVONSHIRE, CHANCELLOR OF THE +UNIVERSITY OF CAMBRIDGE, 1862 {303} + + + +Hence a while, severer Muses; +Spare your slaves till drear October. +Hence; for Alma Mater chooses +Not to be for ever sober: +But, like stately matron gray, +Calling child and grandchild round her, +Will for them at least be gay; +Share for once their holiday; +And, knowing she will sleep the sounder, +Cheerier-hearted on the morrow +Rise to grapple care and sorrow, +Grandly leads the dance adown, and joins the children's play. + So go, for in your places + Already, as you see, +(Her tears for some deep sorrow scarcely dried), +Venus holds court among her sinless graces, +With many a nymph from many a park and lea. +She, pensive, waits the merrier faces +Of those your wittier sisters three, +O'er jest and dance and song who still preside, +To cheer her in this merry-mournful tide; + And bids us, as she smiles or sighs, + Tune our fancies by her eyes. + + Then let the young be glad, + Fair girl and gallant lad, + And sun themselves to-day + By lawn and garden gay; + 'Tis play befits the noon + Of rosy-girdled June: + Who dare frown if heaven shall smile? + Blest, who can forget a while; + The world before them, and above + The light of universal love. +Go, then, let the young be gay; +From their heart as from their dress +Let darkness and let mourning pass away, +While we the staid and worn look on and bless. + + Health to courage firm and high! + Health to Granta's chivalry! + Wisely finding, day by day, + Play in toil, and toil in play. + Granta greets them, gliding down + On by park and spire and town; + Humming mills and golden meadows, + Barred with elm and poplar shadows; + Giant groves, and learned halls; + Holy fanes and pictured walls. + Yet she bides not here; around + Lies the Muses' sacred ground. + Most she lingers, where below + Gliding wherries come and go; + Stalwart footsteps shake the shores; + Rolls the pulse of stalwart oars; + Rings aloft the exultant cry + For the bloodless victory. + There she greets the sports, which breed + Valiant lads for England's need; + Wisely finding, day by day, + Play in toil, and toil in play. + Health to courage, firm and high! + Health to Granta's chivalry! + +Yet stay a while, severer Muses, stay, +For you, too, have your rightful parts to-day. +Known long to you, and known through you to fame, +Are Chatsworth's halls, and Cavendish's name. +You too, then, Alma Mater calls to greet +A worthy patron for your ancient seat; +And bid her sons from him example take, +Of learning purely sought for learning's sake, +Of worth unboastful, power in duty spent; +And see, fulfilled in him, her high intent. + + Come, Euterpe, wake thy choir; + Fit thy notes to our desire. + Long may he sit the chiefest here, + Meet us and greet us, year by year; + Long inherit, sire and son, + All that their race has wrought and won, + Since that great Cavendish came again, + Round the world and over the main, + Breasting the Thames with his mariners bold, + Past good Queen Bess's palace of old; + With jewel and ingot packed in his hold, + And sails of damask and cloth of gold; + While never a sailor-boy on board + But was decked as brave as a Spanish lord, + With the spoils he had won + In the Isles of the Sun, + And the shores of Fairy-land, + And yet held for the crown of the goodly show, + That queenly smile from the Palace window, + And that wave of a queenly hand. + Yes, let the young be gay, + And sun themselves to-day;-- + And from their hearts, as from their dress, + Let mourning pass away. +But not from us, who watch our years fast fleeing, +And snatching as they flee, fresh fragments of our being. + Can we forget one friend, + Can we forget one face, + Which cheered us toward our end, + Which nerved us for our race? + Oh sad to toil, and yet forego + One presence which has made us know + To Godlike souls how deep our debt! + We would not, if we could, forget. + + Severer Muses, linger yet; + Speak out for us one pure and rich regret. + Thou, Clio, who, with awful pen, + Gravest great names upon the hearts of men, + Speak of a fate beyond our ken; + A gem late found and lost too soon; {306} + A sun gone down at highest noon; + A tree from Odin's ancient root, + Which bore for men the ancient fruit, + Counsel, and faith and scorn of wrong, + And cunning lore, and soothing song, + Snapt in mid-growth, and leaving unaware + The flock unsheltered and the pasture bare + Nay, let us take what God shall send, + Trusting bounty without end. + God ever lives; and Nature, + Beneath His high dictature, + Hale and teeming, can replace + Strength by strength, and grace by grace, + Hope by hope, and friend by friend: + Trust; and take what God shall send. + So shall Alma Mater see + Daughters fair and wise + Train new lands of liberty + Under stranger skies; + Spreading round the teeming earth + English science, manhood, worth. + +1862. + + + +SONGS FROM 'THE WATER-BABIES' + + + +THE TIDE RIVER + + Clear and cool, clear and cool, +By laughing shallow, and dreaming pool; + Cool and clear, cool and clear, +By shining shingle, and foaming wear; +Under the crag where the ouzel sings, +And the ivied wall where the church-bell rings, + Undefiled, for the undefiled; + Play by me, bathe in me, mother and child. + + Dank and foul, dank and foul, + By the smoky town in its murky cowl; + Foul and dank, foul and dank, + By wharf and sewer and slimy bank; +Darker and darker the farther I go, +Baser and baser the richer I grow; + Who dare sport with the sin-defiled? + Shrink from me, turn from me, mother and child. + + Strong and free, strong and free, + The floodgates are open, away to the sea. + Free and strong, free and strong, + Cleansing my streams as I hurry along +To the golden sands, and the leaping bar, +And the taintless tide that awaits me afar, +As I lose myself in the infinite main, +Like a soul that has sinned and is pardoned again. + Undefiled, for the undefiled; + Play by me, bathe in me, mother and child. + +From The Water-Babies. +Eversley, 1862. + + +YOUNG AND OLD + + +When all the world is young, lad, + And all the trees are green; +And every goose a swan, lad, + And every lass a queen; +Then hey for boot and horse, lad, + And round the world away; +Young blood must have its course, lad, + And every dog his day. + +When all the world is old, lad, + And all the trees are brown; +And all the sport is stale, lad, + And all the wheels run down; +Creep home, and take your place there, + The spent and maimed among: +God grant you find one face there, + You loved when all was young. + +From The Water-Babies. 1862 + + +THE SUMMER SEA + + + Soft soft wind, from out the sweet south sliding, +Waft thy silver cloud webs athwart the summer sea; + Thin thin threads of mist on dewy fingers twining +Weave a veil of dappled gauze to shade my babe and me. + + Deep deep Love, within thine own abyss abiding, +Pour Thyself abroad, O Lord, on earth and air and sea; + Worn weary hearts within Thy holy temple hiding, +Shield from sorrow, sin, and shame my helpless babe and me. + +From The Water-Babies. 1862 + + +MY LITTLE DOLL + + +I once had a sweet little doll, dears, + The prettiest doll in the world; +Her cheeks were so red and so white, dears, + And her hair was so charmingly curled. +But I lost my poor little doll, dears, + As I played in the heath one day; +And I cried for more than a week, dears, + But I never could find where she lay. + +I found my poor little doll, dears, + As I played in the heath one day: +Folks say she is terribly changed, dears, + For her paint is all washed away, +And her arms trodden off by the cows, dears + And her hair not the least bit curled: +Yet for old sakes' sake she is still, dears, + The prettiest doll in the world. + +From The Water-Babies. +Eversley, 1862. + + + +THE KNIGHT'S LEAP: A LEGEND OF ALTENAHR + + + +'So the foemen have fired the gate, men of mine; + And the water is spent and gone? +Then bring me a cup of the red Ahr-wine: + I never shall drink but this one. + +'And reach me my harness, and saddle my horse, + And lead him me round to the door: +He must take such a leap to-night perforce, + As horse never took before. + +'I have fought my fight, I have lived my life, + I have drunk my share of wine; +From Trier to Coln there was never a knight + Led a merrier life than mine. + +'I have lived by the saddle for years two score; + And if I must die on tree, +Then the old saddle tree, which has borne me of yore, + Is the properest timber for me. + +'So now to show bishop, and burgher, and priest, + How the Altenahr hawk can die: +If they smoke the old falcon out of his nest, + He must take to his wings and fly.' + +He harnessed himself by the clear moonshine, + And he mounted his horse at the door; +And he drained such a cup of the red Ahr-wine, + As man never drained before. + +He spurred the old horse, and he held him tight, + And he leapt him out over the wall; +Out over the cliff, out into the night, + Three hundred feet of fall. + +They found him next morning below in the glen, + With never a bone in him whole-- +A mass or a prayer, now, good gentlemen, + For such a bold rider's soul. + +Eversley, 1864. + + + +THE SONG OF THE LITTLE BALTUNG. A.D. 395 + + + +A harper came over the Danube so wide, + And he came into Alaric's hall, +And he sang the song of the little Baltung + To him and his heroes all. + +How the old old Balt and the young young Balt + Rode out of Caucaland, +With the royal elephant's trunk on helm + And the royal lance in hand. + +Thuringer heroes, counts and knights, + Pricked proud in their meinie; +For they were away to the great Kaiser, + In Byzant beside the sea. + +And when they came to the Danube so wide + They shouted from off the shore, +'Come over, come over, ye Roman slaves, + And ferry your masters o'er.' + +And when they came to Adrian's burgh, + With its towers so smooth and high, +'Come out, come out, ye Roman knaves, + And see your lords ride by.' + +But when they came lo the long long walls + That stretch from sea to sea, +That old old Balt let down his chin, + And a thoughtful man grew he. + +'Oh oft have I scoffed at brave Fridigern, + But never will I scoff more, +If these be the walls which kept him out + From the Micklegard there on the shore.' + +Then out there came the great Kaiser, + With twice ten thousand men; +But never a Thuring was coward enough + To wish himself home again. + +'Bow down, thou rebel, old Athanarich, + And beg thy life this day; +The Kaiser is lord of all the world, + And who dare say him nay?' + +'I never came out of Caucaland + To beg for less nor more; +But to see the pride of the great Kaiser, + In his Micklegard here by the shore. + +'I never came out of Caucaland + To bow to mortal wight, +But to shake the hand of the great Kaiser, + And God defend my right.' + +He shook his hand, that cunning Kaiser, + And he kissed him courteouslie, +And he has ridden with Athanarich + That wonder-town to see. + +He showed him his walls of marble white-- + A mile o'erhead they shone; +Quoth the Balt, 'Who would leap into that garden, + King Siegfried's boots must own.' + +He showed him his engines of arsmetrick + And his wells of quenchless flame, +And his flying rocks, that guarded his walls + From all that against him came. + +He showed him his temples and pillared halls, + And his streets of houses high; +And his watch-towers tall, where his star-gazers + Sit reading the signs of the sky. + +He showed him his ships with their hundred oars, + And their sides like a castle wall, +That fetch home the plunder of all the world, + At the Kaiser's beck and call. + +He showed him all nations of every tongue + That are bred beneath the sun, +How they flowed together in Micklegard street + As the brooks flow all into one. + +He showed him the shops of the china ware, + And of silk and sendal also, +And he showed him the baths and the waterpipes + On arches aloft that go. + +He showed him ostrich and unicorn, + Ape, lion, and tiger keen; +And elephants wise roared 'Hail Kaiser!' + As though they had Christians been. + +He showed him the hoards of the dragons and trolls, + Rare jewels and heaps of gold-- +'Hast thou seen, in all thy hundred years, + Such as these, thou king so old?' + +Now that cunning Kaiser was a scholar wise, + And could of gramarye, +And he cast a spell on that old old Balt, + Till lowly and meek spake he. + +'Oh oft have I heard of the Micklegard, + What I held for chapmen's lies; +But now do I know of the Micklegard, + By the sight of mine own eyes. + +'Woden in Valhalla, + But thou on earth art God; +And he that dare withstand thee, Kaiser, + On his own head lies his blood.' + +Then out and spake that little Baltung, + Rode at the king's right knee, +Quoth 'Fridigern slew false Kaiser Valens, + And he died like you or me.' + +'And who art thou, thou pretty bold boy, + Rides at the king's right knee?' +'Oh I am the Baltung, boy Alaric, + And as good a man as thee.' + +'As good as me, thou pretty bold boy, + With down upon thy chin?' +'Oh a spae-wife laid a doom on me, + The best of thy realm to win.' + +'If thou be so fierce, thou little wolf cub + Or ever thy teeth be grown; +Then I must guard my two young sons + Lest they should lose their own.' + +'Oh, it's I will guard your two lither lads, + In their burgh beside the sea, +And it's I will prove true man to them + If they will prove true to me. + +'But it's you must warn your two lither lads, + And warn them bitterly, +That if I shall find them two false Kaisers, + High hanged they both shall be.' + +Now they are gone into the Kaiser's palace + To eat the peacock fine, +And they are gone into the Kaiser's palace + To drink the good Greek wine. + +The Kaiser alone, and the old old Balt, + They sat at the cedar board; +And round them served on the bended knee + Full many a Roman lord. + +'What ails thee, what ails thee, friend Athanarich? + What makes thee look so pale?' +'I fear I am poisoned, thou cunning Kaiser, + For I feel my heart-strings fail. + +'Oh would I had kept that great great oath + I swore by the horse's head, +I would never set foot on Roman ground + Till the day that I lay dead. + +'Oh would I were home in Caucaland, + To hear my harpers play, +And to drink my last of the nut-brown ale, + While I gave the gold rings away. + +'Oh would I were home in Caucaland, + To hear the Gothmen's horn, +And watch the waggons, and brown brood mares + And the tents where I was born. + +'But now I must die between four stone walls + In Byzant beside the sea: +And as thou shalt deal with my little Baltung, + So God shall deal with thee.' + +The Kaiser he purged himself with oaths, + And he buried him royally, +And he set on his barrow an idol of gold, + Where all Romans must bow the knee. + +And now the Goths are the Kaiser's men, + And guard him with lance and sword, +And the little Baltung is his sworn son-at-arms, + And eats at the Kaiser's board, + +And the Kaiser's two sons are two false white lads + That a clerk may beat with cane. +The clerk that should beat that little Baltung + Would never sing mass again. + +Oh the gates of Rome they are steel without, + And beaten gold within: +But they shall fly wide to the little Baltung + With the down upon his chin. + +Oh the fairest flower in the Kaiser's garden + Is Rome and Italian land: +But it all shall fall to the little Baltung + When he shall take lance in hand. + +And when he is parting the plunder of Rome, + He shall pay for this song of mine, +Neither maiden nor land, neither jewel nor gold, + But one cup of Italian wine. + +Eversley, 1864. + + + +ON THE DEATH OF LEOPOLD, KING OF THE BELGIANS {319} + + + +A King is dead! Another master mind + Is summoned from the world-wide council hall. +Ah, for some seer, to say what links behind-- + To read the mystic writing on the wall! + +Be still, fond man: nor ask thy fate to know. + Face bravely what each God-sent moment brings. +Above thee rules in love, through weal and woe, + Guiding thy kings and thee, the King of kings. + +Windsor Castle, + November 10, 1865. + + + +EASTER WEEK + + + +(Written for music to be sung at a parish industrial exhibition) + +See the land, her Easter keeping, + Rises as her Maker rose. +Seeds, so long in darkness sleeping, + Burst at last from winter snows. +Earth with heaven above rejoices; + Fields and gardens hail the spring; +Shaughs and woodlands ring with voices, + While the wild birds build and sing. + +You, to whom your Maker granted + Powers to those sweet birds unknown, +Use the craft by God implanted; + Use the reason not your own. +Here, while heaven and earth rejoices, + Each his Easter tribute bring-- +Work of fingers, chant of voices, + Like the birds who build and sing. + +Eversley, 1867. + + + +DRIFTING AWAY: A FRAGMENT + + + +They drift away. Ah, God! they drift for ever. +I watch the stream sweep onward to the sea, +Like some old battered buoy upon a roaring river, +Round whom the tide-waifs hang--then drift to sea. + +I watch them drift--the old familiar faces, +Who fished and rode with me, by stream and wold, +Till ghosts, not men, fill old beloved places, +And, ah! the land is rank with churchyard mold. + +I watch them drift--the youthful aspirations, +Shores, landmarks, beacons, drift alike. +. . . . . +I watch them drift--the poets and the statesmen; +The very streams run upward from the sea. + . . . . . . + Yet overhead the boundless arch of heaven + Still fades to night, still blazes into day. + . . . . . + Ah, God! My God! Thou wilt not drift away + +November 1867. + + + +CHRISTMAS DAY + + + +How will it dawn, the coming Christmas Day? +A northern Christmas, such as painters love, +And kinsfolk, shaking hands but once a year, +And dames who tell old legends by the fire? +Red sun, blue sky, white snow, and pearled ice, +Keen ringing air, which sets the blood on fire, +And makes the old man merry with the young, +Through the short sunshine, through the longer night? + Or southern Christmas, dark and dank with mist, +And heavy with the scent of steaming leaves, +And rosebuds mouldering on the dripping porch; +One twilight, without rise or set of sun, +Till beetles drone along the hollow lane, +And round the leafless hawthorns, flitting bats +Hawk the pale moths of winter? Welcome then +At best, the flying gleam, the flying shower, +The rain-pools glittering on the long white roads, +And shadows sweeping on from down to down +Before the salt Atlantic gale: yet come +In whatsoever garb, or gay, or sad, +Come fair, come foul, 'twill still be Christmas Day. + How will it dawn, the coming Christmas Day? +To sailors lounging on the lonely deck +Beneath the rushing trade-wind? Or to him, +Who by some noisome harbour of the East, +Watches swart arms roll down the precious bales, +Spoils of the tropic forests; year by year +Amid the din of heathen voices, groaning +Himself half heathen? How to those--brave hearts! +Who toil with laden loins and sinking stride +Beside the bitter wells of treeless sands +Toward the peaks which flood the ancient Nile, +To free a tyrant's captives? How to those-- +New patriarchs of the new-found underworld-- +Who stand, like Jacob, on the virgin lawns, +And count their flocks' increase? To them that day +Shall dawn in glory, and solstitial blaze +Of full midsummer sun: to them that morn, +Gay flowers beneath their feet, gay birds aloft, +Shall tell of nought but summer: but to them, +Ere yet, unwarned by carol or by chime, +They spring into the saddle, thrills may come +From that great heart of Christendom which beats +Round all the worlds; and gracious thoughts of youth; +Of steadfast folk, who worship God at home; +Of wise words, learnt beside their mothers' knee; +Of innocent faces upturned once again +In awe and joy to listen to the tale +Of God made man, and in a manger laid-- +May soften, purify, and raise the soul +From selfish cares, and growing lust of gain, +And phantoms of this dream which some call life, +Toward the eternal facts; for here or there, +Summer or winter, 'twill be Christmas Day. + + Blest day, which aye reminds us, year by year, +What 'tis to be a man: to curb and spurn +The tyrant in us; that ignobler self +Which boasts, not loathes, its likeness to the brute, +And owns no good save ease, no ill save pain, +No purpose, save its share in that wild war +In which, through countless ages, living things +Compete in internecine greed.--Ah God! +Are we as creeping things, which have no Lord? +That we are brutes, great God, we know too well; +Apes daintier-featured; silly birds who flaunt +Their plumes unheeding of the fowler's step; +Spiders, who catch with paper, not with webs; +Tigers, who slay with cannon and sharp steel, +Instead of teeth and claws;--all these we are. +Are we no more than these, save in degree? +No more than these; and born but to compete-- +To envy and devour, like beast or herb; +Mere fools of nature; puppets of strong lusts, +Taking the sword, to perish with the sword +Upon the universal battle-field, +Even as the things upon the moor outside? + The heath eats up green grass and delicate flowers, +The pine eats up the heath, the grub the pine, +The finch the grub, the hawk the silly finch; +And man, the mightiest of all beasts of prey, +Eats what he lists; the strong eat up the weak, +The many eat the few; great nations, small; +And he who cometh in the name of all-- +He, greediest, triumphs by the greed of all; +And, armed by his own victims, eats up all: +While ever out of the eternal heavens +Looks patient down the great magnanimous God, +Who, Maker of all worlds, did sacrifice +All to Himself? Nay, but Himself to one; +Who taught mankind on that first Christmas Day, +What 'twas to be a man; to give, not take; +To serve, not rule; to nourish, not devour; +To help, not crush; if need, to die, not live. + O blessed day, which givest the eternal lie +To self, and sense, and all the brute within; +Oh, come to us, amid this war of life; +To hall and hovel, come; to all who toil +In senate, shop, or study; and to those +Who, sundered by the wastes of half a world, +Ill-warned, and sorely tempted, ever face +Nature's brute powers, and men unmanned to brutes-- +Come to them, blest and blessing, Christmas Day. +Tell them once more the tale of Bethlehem; +The kneeling shepherds, and the Babe Divine: +And keep them men indeed, fair Christmas Day. + +Eversley, 1868. + + + +SEPTEMBER 21, 1870 {325} + + + +Speak low, speak little; who may sing + While yonder cannon-thunders boom? +Watch, shuddering, what each day may bring: + Nor 'pipe amid the crack of doom.' + +And yet--the pines sing overhead, + The robins by the alder-pool, +The bees about the garden-bed, + The children dancing home from school. + +And ever at the loom of Birth + The mighty Mother weaves and sings: +She weaves--fresh robes for mangled earth; + She sings--fresh hopes for desperate things. + +And thou, too: if through Nature's calm + Some strain of music touch thine ears, +Accept and share that soothing balm, + And sing, though choked with pitying tears. + +Eversley, 1870. + + + +THE MANGO-TREE + + + +He wiled me through the furzy croft; + He wiled me down the sandy lane. +He told his boy's love, soft and oft, + Until I told him mine again. + +We married, and we sailed the main; + A soldier, and a soldier's wife. +We marched through many a burning plain; + We sighed for many a gallant life. + +But his--God kept it safe from harm. + He toiled, and dared, and earned command; +And those three stripes upon his arm + Were more to me than gold or land. + +Sure he would win some great renown: + Our lives were strong, our hearts were high. +One night the fever struck him down. + I sat, and stared, and saw him die. + +I had his children--one, two, three. + One week I had them, blithe and sound. +The next--beneath this mango-tree, + By him in barrack burying-ground. + +I sit beneath the mango-shade; + I live my five years' life all o'er-- +Round yonder stems his children played; + He mounted guard at yonder door. + +'Tis I, not they, am gone and dead. + They live; they know; they feel; they see. +Their spirits light the golden shade + Beneath the giant mango-tree. + +All things, save I, are full of life: + The minas, pluming velvet breasts; +The monkeys, in their foolish strife; + The swooping hawks, the swinging nests; + +The lizards basking on the soil, + The butterflies who sun their wings; +The bees about their household toil, + They live, they love, the blissful things. + +Each tender purple mango-shoot, + That folds and droops so bashful down; +It lives; it sucks some hidden root; + It rears at last a broad green crown. + +It blossoms; and the children cry-- + 'Watch when the mango-apples fall.' +It lives: but rootless, fruitless, I-- + I breathe and dream;--and that is all. + +Thus am I dead: yet cannot die: + But still within my foolish brain +There hangs a pale blue evening sky; + A furzy croft; a sandy lane. + +1870. + + + +THE PRIEST'S HEART + + + +It was Sir John, the fair young Priest, + He strode up off the strand; +But seven fisher maidens he left behind + All dancing hand in hand. + +He came unto the wise wife's house: + 'Now, Mother, to prove your art; +To charm May Carleton's merry blue eyes + Out of a young man's heart.' + +'My son, you went for a holy man, + Whose heart was set on high; +Go sing in your psalter, and read in your books; + Man's love fleets lightly by.' + +'I had liever to talk with May Carleton, + Than with all the saints in Heaven; +I had liever to sit by May Carleton + Than climb the spheres seven. + +'I have watched and fasted, early and late, + I have prayed to all above; +But I find no cure save churchyard mould + For the pain which men call love.' + +'Now Heaven forefend that ill grow worse: + Enough that ill be ill. +I know of a spell to draw May Carleton, + And bend her to your will.' + +'If thou didst that which thou canst not do, + Wise woman though thou be, +I would run and run till I buried myself + In the surge of yonder sea. + +'Scathless for me are maid and wife, + And scathless shall they bide. +Yet charm me May Carleton's eyes from the heart + That aches in my left side.' + +She charmed him with the white witchcraft, + She charmed him with the black, +But he turned his fair young face to the wall, + Till she heard his heart-strings crack. + +1870 + + + +'QU'EST QU'IL DIT' {330} + + + +Espion aile de la jeune amante +De l'ombre des palmiers pourquoi ce cri? +Laisse en paix le beau garcon plaider et vaincre-- +Pourquoi, pourquoi demander 'Qu'est qu'il dit?' + +'Qu'est qu'il dit?' Ce que tu dis toi-meme +Chaque mois de ce printemps eternel; +Ce que disent les papillons qui s'entre-baisent, +Ce que dit tout bel jeun etre a toute belle. + +Importun! Attende quelques lustres: +Quand les souvenirs 1'emmeneront ici-- +Mere, grand'mere, pale, lasse, et fidele, +Demande mais doucement--'Et le vieillard, + Qu'est qu'il dit?' + +Trinidad, January 10, 1870 + + + +THE LEGEND OF LA BREA {331a} + + + +Down beside the loathly Pitch Lake, + In the stately Morichal, {331b} +Sat an ancient Spanish Indian, + Peering through the columns tall. + +Watching vainly for the flashing + Of the jewelled colibris; {331c} +Listening vainly for their humming + Round the honey-blossomed trees. + +'Few,' he sighed, 'they come, and fewer, + To the cocorite {331d} bowers; +Murdered, madly, through the forests + Which of yore were theirs--and ours + +By there came a negro hunter, + Lithe and lusty, sleek and strong, +Rolling round his sparkling eyeballs, + As he loped and lounged along. + +Rusty firelock on his shoulder; + Rusty cutlass on his thigh; +Never jollier British subject + Rollicked underneath the sky. + +British law to give him safety, + British fleets to guard his shore, +And a square of British freehold-- + He had all we have, and more. + +Fattening through the endless summer, + Like his own provision ground, +He had reached the summum bonum + Which our latest wits have found. + +So he thought; and in his hammock + Gnawed his junk of sugar-cane, +Toasted plantains at the fire-stick, + Gnawed, and dozed, and gnawed again. + +Had a wife in his ajoupa {332}-- + Or, at least, what did instead; +Children, too, who died so early, + He'd no need to earn their bread. + +Never stole, save what he needed, + From the Crown woods round about; +Never lied, except when summoned-- + Let the warden find him out. + +Never drank, except at market; + Never beat his sturdy mate; +She could hit as hard as he could, + And had just as hard a pate. + +Had no care for priest nor parson, + Hope of heaven nor fear of hell; +And in all his views of nature + Held with Comte and Peter Bell. + +Healthy, happy, silly, kindly, + Neither care nor toil had he, +Save to work an hour at sunrise, + And then hunt the colibri. + +Not a bad man; not a good man: + Scarce a man at all, one fears, +If the Man be that within us + Which is born of fire and tears. + +Round the palm-stems, round the creepers, + Flashed a feathered jewel past, +Ruby-crested, topaz-throated, + Plucked the cocorite bast, + +Plucked the fallen ceiba-cotton, {333} + Whirred away to build his nest, +Hung at last, with happy humming, + Round some flower he fancied best. + +Up then went the rusty muzzle, + 'Dat de tenth I shot to-day:' +But out sprang the Indian shouting, + Balked the negro of his prey. + +'Eh, you Senor Trinidada! + What dis new ondacent plan? +Spoil a genl'man's chance ob shooting? + I as good as any man. + +'Dese not your woods; dese de Queen's woods: + You seem not know whar you ar, +Gibbin' yuself dese buckra airs here, + You black Indian Papist! Dar!' + +Stately, courteous, stood the Indian; + Pointed through the palm-tree shade: +'Does the gentleman of colour + Know how yon Pitch Lake was made?' + +Grinned the negro, grinned and trembled-- + Through his nerves a shudder ran-- +Saw a snake-like eye that held him; + Saw--he'd met an Obeah man. + +Saw a fetish--such a bottle-- + Buried at his cottage door; +Toad and spider, dirty water, + Rusty nails, and nine charms more. + +Saw in vision such a cock's head + In the path--and it was white! +Saw Brinvilliers {334} in his pottage: + Faltered, cold and damp with fright. + +Fearful is the chance of poison: + Fearful, too, the great unknown: +Magic brings some positivists + Humbly on their marrow-bone. + +Like the wedding-guest enchanted, + There he stood, a trembling cur; +While the Indian told his story, + Like the Ancient Mariner. + +Told how--'Once that loathly Pitch Lake + Was a garden bright and fair; +How the Chaymas off the mainland + Built their palm ajoupas there. + +'How they throve, and how they fattened, + Hale and happy, safe and strong; +Passed the livelong days in feasting; + Passed the nights in dance and song. + +'Till they cruel grew, and wanton: + Till they killed the colibris. +Then outspake the great Good Spirit, + Who can see through all the trees, + +'Said--"And what have I not sent you, + Wanton Chaymas, many a year? +Lapp, {335a} agouti, {335b} cachicame, {335c} + Quenc {335d} and guazu-pita deer. + +'"Fish I sent you, sent you turtle, + Chip-chip, {335e} conch, flamingo red, +Woodland paui, {335f} horned screamer, {335g} + And blue ramier {335h} overhead. + +'"Plums from balata {335i} and mombin, {335j} + Tania, {335k} manioc, {335l} water-vine; {335m} +Let you fell my slim manacques, {335n} + Tap my sweet moriche wine. {335o} + +'"Sent rich plantains, {336a} food of angels; + Rich ananas, {336b} food of kings; +Grudged you none of all my treasures: + Save these lovely useless things." + +'But the Chaymas' ears were deafened; + Blind their eyes, and could not see +How a blissful Indian's spirit + Lived in every colibri. + +'Lived, forgetting toil and sorrow, + Ever fair and ever new; +Whirring round the dear old woodland, + Feeding on the honey-dew. + +'Till one evening roared the earthquake: + Monkeys howled, and parrots screamed: +And the Guaraons at morning + Gathered here, as men who dreamed. + +'Sunk were gardens, sunk ajoupas; + Hut and hammock, man and hound: +And above the Chayma village + Boiled with pitch the cursed ground. + +'Full, and too full; safe, and too safe; + Negro man, take care, take care. +He that wantons with God's bounties + Of God's wrath had best beware. + +'For the saucy, reckless, heartless, + Evil days are sure in store. +You may see the Negro sinking + As the Chayma sank of yore.' + +Loudly laughed that stalwart hunter-- + 'Eh, what superstitious talk! +Nyam {337} am nyam, an' maney maney; + Birds am birds, like park am park; +An' dere's twenty thousand birdskins + Ardered jes' now fram New Yark.' + +Eversley, 1870. + + + +HYMN {338} + + + +Accept this building, gracious Lord, + No temple though it be; +We raised it for our suffering kin, + And so, Good Lord, for Thee. + +Accept our little gift, and give + To all who here may dwell, +The will and power to do their work, + Or bear their sorrows well. + +From Thee all skill and science flow; + All pity, care, and love, +All calm and courage, faith and hope, + Oh! pour them from above. + +And part them, Lord, to each and all, + As each and all shall need, +To rise like incense, each to Thee, + In noble thought and deed. + +And hasten, Lord, that perfect day, + When pain and death shall cease; +And Thy just rule shall fill the earth + With health, and light, and peace. + +When ever blue the sky shall gleam, + And ever green the sod; +And man's rude work deface no more + The Paradise of God. + +Eversley, 1870. + + + +THE DELECTABLE DAY + + + +The boy on the famous gray pony, + Just bidding good-bye at the door, +Plucking up maiden heart for the fences + Where his brother won honour of yore. + +The walk to 'the Meet' with fair children, + And women as gentle as gay,-- +Ah! how do we male hogs in armour + Deserve such companions as they? + +The afternoon's wander to windward, + To meet the dear boy coming back; +And to catch, down the turns of the valley, + The last weary chime of the pack. + +The climb homeward by park and by moorland, + And through the fir forests again, +While the south-west wind roars in the gloaming, + Like an ocean of seething champagne. + +And at night the septette of Beethoven, + And the grandmother by in her chair, +And the foot of all feet on the sofa + Beating delicate time to the air. + +Ah, God! a poor soul can but thank Thee + For such a delectable day! +Though the fury, the fool, and the swindler, + To-morrow again have their way! + +Eversley, 6th November 1872. + + + +JUVENTUS MUNDI + + + +List a tale a fairy sent us +Fresh from dear Mundi Juventus. +When Love and all the world was young, +And birds conversed as well as sung; +And men still faced this fair creation +With humour, heart, imagination. +Who come hither from Morocco +Every spring on the sirocco? +In russet she, and he in yellow, +Singing ever clear and mellow, +'Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet you, sweet you, +Did he beat you? Did he beat you?' +Phyllopneustes wise folk call them, +But don't know what did befall them, +Why they ever thought of coming +All that way to hear gnats humming, +Why they built not nests but houses, +Like the bumble-bees and mousies. +Nor how little birds got wings, +Nor what 'tis the small cock sings-- +How should they know--stupid fogies? +They daren't even believe in bogies. +Once they were a girl and boy, +Each the other's life and joy. +He a Daphnis, she a Chloe, +Only they were brown, not snowy, +Till an Arab found them playing +Far beyond the Atlas straying, +Tied the helpless things together, +Drove them in the burning weather, +In his slave-gang many a league, +Till they dropped from wild fatigue. +Up he caught his whip of hide, +Lashed each soft brown back and side +Till their little brains were burst +With sharp pain, and heat, and thirst, +Over her the poor boy lay, +Tried to keep the blows away, +Till they stiffened into clay, +And the ruffian rode away: +Swooping o'er the tainted ground, +Carrion vultures gathered round, +And the gaunt hyenas ran +Tracking up the caravan. +But--ah, wonder! that was gone +Which they meant to feast upon. +And, for each, a yellow wren, +One a cock, and one a hen, +Sweetly warbling, flitted forth +O'er the desert toward the north. +But a shade of bygone sorrow, +Like a dream upon the morrow, +Round his tiny brainlet clinging, +Sets the wee cock ever singing, +'Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet you, sweet you, +Did he beat you? Did he beat you?' +Vultures croaked, and hopped, and flopped, +But their evening meal was stopped. +And the gaunt hyenas foul +Sat down on their tails to howl. +Northward towards the cool spring weather, +Those two wrens fled on together, +On to England o'er the sea, +Where all folks alike are free. +There they built a cabin, wattled +Like the huts where first they prattled, +Hatched and fed, as safe as may be, +Many a tiny feathered baby. +But in autumn south they go +Past the Straits and Atlas' snow, +Over desert, over mountain, +To the palms beside the fountain, +Where, when once they lived before, he +Told her first the old, old story. +'What do the doves say? Curuck Coo, +You love me and I love you.' + +1872. + + + +VALENTINE'S DAY + + + +Oh! I wish I were a tiny browny bird from out the south, + Settled among the alder-holts, and twittering by the stream; +I would put my tiny tail down, and put up my tiny mouth, + And sing my tiny life away in one melodious dream. + +I would sing about the blossoms, and the sunshine and the sky, + And the tiny wife I mean to have in such a cosy nest; +And if some one came and shot me dead, why then I could but die, + With my tiny life and tiny song just ended at their best. + +Eversley, 1873 + + + +BALLAD: LORRAINE, LORRAINE, LORREE + + + +1 + +'Are you ready for your steeple-chase, Lorraine, Lorraine, Lorree? + Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, Baree, +You're booked to ride your capping race to-day at Coulterlee, +You're booked to ride Vindictive, for all the world to see, +To keep him straight, to keep him first, and win the run for me. + Barum, Barum,' etc. + +2 + +She clasped her new-born baby, poor Lorraine, Lorraine, Lorree, +'I cannot ride Vindictive, as any man might see, +And I will not ride Vindictive, with this baby on my knee; +He's killed a boy, he's killed a man, and why must he kill me?' + +3 + +'Unless you ride Vindictive, Lorraine, Lorraine, Lorree, +Unless you ride Vindictive to-day at Coulterlee, +And land him safe across the brook, and win the blank for me, +It's you may keep your baby, for you'll get no keep from me.' + +4 + +'That husbands could be cruel,' said Lorraine, Lorraine, Lorree, +'That husbands could be cruel, I have known for seasons three; +But oh! to ride Vindictive while a baby cries for me, +And be killed across a fence at last for all the world to see!' + +5 + +She mastered young Vindictive--Oh! the gallant lass was she, +And kept him straight and won the race as near as near could be; +But he killed her at the brook against a pollard willow-tree, +Oh! he killed her at the brook, the brute, for all the world to see, +And no one but the baby cried for poor Lorraine, Lorree. + +Last poem written in illness. +Colorado, U.S.A. +June 1874. + + + +MARTIN LIGHTFOOT'S SONG {346} + + + +Come hearken, hearken, gentles all, + Come hearken unto me, +And I'll sing you a song of a Wood-Lyon + Came swimming out over the sea. + +He ranged west, he ranged east, + And far and wide ranged he; +He took his bite out of every beast + Lives under the greenwood tree. + +Then by there came a silly old wolf, + 'And I'll serve you,' quoth he; +Quoth the Lyon, 'My paw is heavy enough, + So what wilt thou do for me?' + +Then by there came a cunning old fox, + 'And I'll serve you,' quoth he; +Quoth the Lyon, 'My wits are sharp enough + So what wilt thou do for me?' + +Then by there came a white, white dove, + Flew off Our Lady's knee; +Sang 'It's I will be your true, true love, + If you'll be true to me.' + +'And what will you do, you bonny white dove? + And what will you do for me?' +'Oh, it's I'll bring you to Our Lady's love, + In the ways of chivalrie.' + +He followed the dove that Wood-Lyon + By mere and wood and wold, +Till he is come to a perfect knight, + Like the Paladin of old. + +He ranged east, he ranged west, + And far and wide ranged he-- +And ever the dove won him honour and fame + In the ways of chivalrie. + +Then by there came a foul old sow, + Came rookling under the tree; +And 'It's I will be true love to you, + If you'll be true to me.' + +'And what wilt thou do, thou foul old sow? + And what wilt thou do for me?' +'Oh, there hangs in my snout a jewel of gold, + And that will I give to thee.' + +He took to the sow that Wood-Lyon; + To the rookling sow took he; +And the dove flew up to Our Lady's bosom; + And never again throve he. + + + +Footnotes: + +{211} This and the following poem were written at school in early boy-hood. + +{216} Lines supposed to be found written in an illuminated missal. + +{260} Found among Sandy Mackaye's papers, of a hairy oubit who would not +mind his mother. + +{282} The Christian Socialist, started by the Council of Associates for +promotion of Co-operation. + +{295} Bishop of Labuan, in Borneo. + +{303} This Ode was set to Professor Sterndale Bennet's music, and sung in +the Senate House, Cambridge, on the Day of Installation. + +{306} His Royal Highness the Prince Consort, Chancellor of Cambridge +University. + +{319} Impromptu lines written in the album of the Crown Princess of Germany. + +{325} Time of the Franco-Prussian War. + +{330} The Qu'est qu'il dit is a Tropical bird. + +{331a} This myth about the famous Pitch Lake of Trinidad was told almost +word for word to a M. Joseph by an aged half-caste Indian who went by the +name of Senor Trinidada. The manners and customs which the ballad described, +and the cruel and dangerous destruction of the beautiful birds of Trinidad, +are facts which may be easily verified by any one who will take the trouble +to visit the West Indies. + +{331b} A magnificent wood of the Mauritia Fanpalm, on the south shore of the +Pitch Lake. + +{331c} Humming-birds. + +{331d} Maximiliana palms. + +{332} Hut of timber and palm-leaves. + +{333} From the Eriodendron, or giant silk-cotton. + +{334} Spigelia anthelmia, a too-well-known poison-plant. + +{335a} Coelogenys Paca. + +{335b} Wild cavy. + +{335c} Armadillo. + +{335d} Peccary hog. + +{335e} Trigonia. + +{335f} Penelope. + +{335g} Palamedea. + +{335h} Dove. + +{335i} Mimusops. + +{335j} Spondias. + +{335k} An esculent Arum. + +{335l} Jatropha manihot, 'Cassava.' + +{335m} Vitis Caribaea. + +{335n} Euterpe, 'mountain cabbage' palm. + +{335o} Mauritia palm. + +{336a} Musa. + +{336b} Pine-apple. + +{337} Food. + +{338} Sung by 1000 School Children at the Opening of the New Wing of the +Children's Hospital, Birmingham. + +{346} Supposed to be sung at Crowland Minster to Leofric, the Wake's Mass +Priest, when news was received of Hereward's second marriage to Alftruda. + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ANDROMEDA AND OTHER POEMS*** + + +******* This file should be named 11064.txt or 11064.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +https://www.gutenberg.org/1/1/0/6/11064 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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