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diff --git a/3168-0.txt b/3168-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..82e4326 --- /dev/null +++ b/3168-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4762 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of Poems of the Past and the Present, by +Thomas Hardy + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the United States, you +will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before +using this eBook. + +Title: Poems of the Past and the Present + +Author: Thomas Hardy + +Release Date: January 24, 2015 [eBook #3168] +Last Updated: September 2, 2023 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by: David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org from the 1919 +Macmillan and Co. “Wessex Poems and Other Verses; Poems of the Past and +the Present” edition by + + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS OF THE PAST AND THE +PRESENT *** + + + + + [Picture: Book cover] + + + + + + POEMS OF THE PAST + AND THE PRESENT + + + * * * * * + + BY + THOMAS HARDY + + * * * * * + + * * * * * + + * * * * * + + MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED + ST. MARTIN’S STREET, LONDON + 1919 + + * * * * * + + COPYRIGHT + + “_Wessex Poems_”: _First Edition_, _Crown_ 8vo, 1898. _New Edition_ + 1903. + _First Pocket Edition June_ 1907. _Reprinted January_ 1909, 1913 + + “_Poems_, _Past and Present_”: _First edition_ 1901 (dated 1902) + _Second Edition_ 1903. _First Pocket Edition June_ 1907 + _Reprinted January_ 1908, 1913, 1918, 1919 + + * * * * * + + + + +CONTENTS + + PAGE +V.R. 1819–1901 231 +WAR POEMS— + EMBARCATION 235 + DEPARTURE 237 + THE COLONEL’S SOLILOQUY 239 + THE GOING OF THE BATTERY 242 + AT THE WAR OFFICE 245 + A CHRISTMAS GHOST-STORY 247 + THE DEAD DRUMMER 249 + A WIFE IN LONDON 251 + THE SOULS OF THE SLAIN 253 + SONG OF THE SOLDIERS’ WIVES 260 + THE SICK GOD 263 +POEMS OF PILGRIMAGE— + GENOA AND THE MEDITERRANEAN 269 + SHELLEY’S SKYLARK 272 + IN THE OLD THEATRE, FIESOLE 274 + ROME: ON THE PALATINE 276 + ,, BUILDING A NEW STREET IN THE 278 + ANCIENT QUARTER + ,, THE VATICAN: SALA DELLE MUSE 280 + ,, AT THE PYRAMID OF CESTIUS 283 + LAUSANNE: IN GIBBON’S OLD GARDEN 286 + ZERMATT: TO THE MATTERHORN 288 + THE BRIDGE OF LODI 290 + ON AN INVITATION TO THE UNITED 295 + STATES +MISCELLANEOUS POEMS— + THE MOTHER MOURNS 299 + “I SAID TO LOVE” 305 + A COMMONPLACE DAY 307 + AT A LUNAR ECLIPSE 310 + THE LACKING SENSE 312 + TO LIFE 316 + DOOM AND SHE 318 + THE PROBLEM 321 + THE SUBALTERNS 323 + THE SLEEP-WORKER 325 + THE BULLFINCHES 327 + GOD-FORGOTTEN 329 + THE BEDRIDDEN PEASANT TO AN 333 + UNKNOWING GOD + BY THE EARTH’S CORPSE 336 + MUTE OPINION 339 + TO AN UNBORN PAUPER CHILD 341 + TO FLOWERS FROM ITALY IN WINTER 344 + ON A FINE MORNING 346 + TO LIZBIE BROWNE 348 + SONG OF HOPE 352 + THE WELL-BELOVED 354 + HER REPROACH 358 + THE INCONSISTENT 360 + A BROKEN APPOINTMENT 362 + “BETWEEN US NOW” 364 + “HOW GREAT MY GRIEF” 366 + “I NEED NOT GO” 367 + THE COQUETTE, AND AFTER 369 + A SPOT 371 + LONG PLIGHTED 373 + THE WIDOW 375 + AT A HASTY WEDDING 378 + THE DREAM-FOLLOWER 379 + HIS IMMORTALITY 380 + THE TO-BE-FORGOTTEN 382 + WIVES IN THE SERE 385 + THE SUPERSEDED 387 + AN AUGUST MIDNIGHT 389 + THE CAGED THRUSH FREED AND HOME 391 + AGAIN + BIRDS AT WINTER NIGHTFALL 393 + THE PUZZLED GAME-BIRDS 394 + WINTER IN DURNOVER FIELD 395 + THE LAST CHRYSANTHEMUM 397 + THE DARKLING THRUSH 399 + THE COMET AT YALBURY OR YELL’HAM 402 + MAD JUDY 403 + A WASTED ILLNESS 405 + A MAN 408 + THE DAME OF ATHELHALL 412 + THE SEASONS OF HER YEAR 416 + THE MILKMAID 418 + THE LEVELLED CHURCHYARD 420 + THE RUINED MAID 422 + THE RESPECTABLE BURGHER ON “THE 425 + HIGHER CRITICISM” + ARCHITECTURAL MASKS 428 + THE TENANT-FOR-LIFE 430 + THE KING’S EXPERIMENT 432 + THE TREE: AN OLD MAN’S STORY 435 + HER LATE HUSBAND 439 + THE SELF-UNSEEING 441 + DE PROFUNDIS I. 443 + DE PROFUNDIS II. 445 + DE PROFUNDIS III. 448 + THE CHURCH-BUILDER 451 + THE LOST PYX: A MEDIÆVAL LEGEND 457 + TESS’S LAMENT 462 + THE SUPPLANTER: A TALE 465 +IMITATIONS, ETC.— + SAPPHIC FRAGMENT 473 + CATULLUS: XXXI 474 + AFTER SCHILLER 476 + SONG: FROM HEINE 477 + FROM VICTOR HUGO 479 + CARDINAL BEMBO’S EPITAPH ON RAPHAEL 480 +RETROSPECT— + “I HAVE LIVED WITH SHADES” 483 + MEMORY AND I 486 + ἈΓΝΩΣΤΩι ΘΕΩι. 489 + + + + +V.R. 1819–1901 +A REVERIE + + + MOMENTS the mightiest pass uncalendared, + And when the Absolute + In backward Time outgave the deedful word + Whereby all life is stirred: + “Let one be born and throned whose mould shall constitute + The norm of every royal-reckoned attribute,” + No mortal knew or heard. + But in due days the purposed Life outshone— + Serene, sagacious, free; + —Her waxing seasons bloomed with deeds well done, + And the world’s heart was won . . . + Yet may the deed of hers most bright in eyes to be + Lie hid from ours—as in the All-One’s thought lay she— + Till ripening years have run. + +SUNDAY NIGHT, + 27_th_ _January_ 1901. + + + + +WAR POEMS + + +EMBARCATION +(_Southampton Docks_: _October_, 1899) + + + HERE, where Vespasian’s legions struck the sands, + And Cerdic with his Saxons entered in, + And Henry’s army leapt afloat to win + Convincing triumphs over neighbour lands, + + Vaster battalions press for further strands, + To argue in the self-same bloody mode + Which this late age of thought, and pact, and code, + Still fails to mend.—Now deckward tramp the bands, + Yellow as autumn leaves, alive as spring; + And as each host draws out upon the sea + Beyond which lies the tragical To-be, + None dubious of the cause, none murmuring, + + Wives, sisters, parents, wave white hands and smile, + As if they knew not that they weep the while. + + + +DEPARTURE +(_Southampton Docks_: _October_, 1899) + + + WHILE the far farewell music thins and fails, + And the broad bottoms rip the bearing brine— + All smalling slowly to the gray sea line— + And each significant red smoke-shaft pales, + + Keen sense of severance everywhere prevails, + Which shapes the late long tramp of mounting men + To seeming words that ask and ask again: + “How long, O striving Teutons, Slavs, and Gaels + Must your wroth reasonings trade on lives like these, + That are as puppets in a playing hand?— + When shall the saner softer polities + Whereof we dream, have play in each proud land, + And patriotism, grown Godlike, scorn to stand + Bondslave to realms, but circle earth and seas?” + + + +THE COLONEL’S SOLILOQUY +(_Southampton Docks_: _October_, 1899) + + + “THE quay recedes. Hurrah! Ahead we go! . . . + It’s true I’ve been accustomed now to home, + And joints get rusty, and one’s limbs may grow + More fit to rest than roam. + + “But I can stand as yet fair stress and strain; + There’s not a little steel beneath the rust; + My years mount somewhat, but here’s to’t again! + And if I fall, I must. + + “God knows that for myself I’ve scanty care; + Past scrimmages have proved as much to all; + In Eastern lands and South I’ve had my share + Both of the blade and ball. + + “And where those villains ripped me in the flitch + With their old iron in my early time, + I’m apt at change of wind to feel a twitch, + Or at a change of clime. + + “And what my mirror shows me in the morning + Has more of blotch and wrinkle than of bloom; + My eyes, too, heretofore all glasses scorning, + Have just a touch of rheum . . . + + “Now sounds ‘The Girl I’ve left behind me,’—Ah, + The years, the ardours, wakened by that tune! + Time was when, with the crowd’s farewell ‘Hurrah!’ + ’Twould lift me to the moon. + + “But now it’s late to leave behind me one + Who if, poor soul, her man goes underground, + Will not recover as she might have done + In days when hopes abound. + + “She’s waving from the wharfside, palely grieving, + As down we draw . . . Her tears make little show, + Yet now she suffers more than at my leaving + Some twenty years ago. + + “I pray those left at home will care for her! + I shall come back; I have before; though when + The Girl you leave behind you is a grandmother, + Things may not be as then.” + + + +THE GOING OF THE BATTERY +WIVES’ LAMENT +(_November_ 2, 1899) + + + I + + O IT was sad enough, weak enough, mad enough— + Light in their loving as soldiers can be— + First to risk choosing them, leave alone losing them + Now, in far battle, beyond the South Sea! . . . + + II + + —Rain came down drenchingly; but we unblenchingly + Trudged on beside them through mirk and through mire, + They stepping steadily—only too readily!— + Scarce as if stepping brought parting-time nigher. + + III + + Great guns were gleaming there, living things seeming there, + Cloaked in their tar-cloths, upmouthed to the night; + Wheels wet and yellow from axle to felloe, + Throats blank of sound, but prophetic to sight. + + IV + + Gas-glimmers drearily, blearily, eerily + Lit our pale faces outstretched for one kiss, + While we stood prest to them, with a last quest to them + Not to court perils that honour could miss. + + V + + Sharp were those sighs of ours, blinded these eyes of ours, + When at last moved away under the arch + All we loved. Aid for them each woman prayed for them, + Treading back slowly the track of their march. + + VI + + Someone said: “Nevermore will they come: evermore + Are they now lost to us.” O it was wrong! + Though may be hard their ways, some Hand will guard their ways, + Bear them through safely, in brief time or long. + + VII + + —Yet, voices haunting us, daunting us, taunting us, + Hint in the night-time when life beats are low + Other and graver things . . . Hold we to braver things, + Wait we, in trust, what Time’s fulness shall show. + + + +AT THE WAR OFFICE, LONDON +(_Affixing the Lists of Killed and Wounded_: _December_, 1899) + + + I + + LAST year I called this world of gain-givings + The darkest thinkable, and questioned sadly + If my own land could heave its pulse less gladly, + So charged it seemed with circumstance whence springs + The tragedy of things. + + II + + Yet at that censured time no heart was rent + Or feature blanched of parent, wife, or daughter + By hourly blazoned sheets of listed slaughter; + Death waited Nature’s wont; Peace smiled unshent + From Ind to Occident. + + + +A CHRISTMAS GHOST-STORY + + + SOUTH of the Line, inland from far Durban, + A mouldering soldier lies—your countryman. + Awry and doubled up are his gray bones, + And on the breeze his puzzled phantom moans + Nightly to clear Canopus: “I would know + By whom and when the All-Earth-gladdening Law + Of Peace, brought in by that Man Crucified, + Was ruled to be inept, and set aside? + And what of logic or of truth appears + In tacking ‘Anno Domini’ to the years? + Near twenty-hundred livened thus have hied, + But tarries yet the Cause for which He died.” + +_Christmas-eve_, 1899. + + + +THE DEAD DRUMMER + + + I + + THEY throw in Drummer Hodge, to rest + Uncoffined—just as found: + His landmark is a kopje-crest + That breaks the veldt around; + And foreign constellations west + Each night above his mound. + + II + + Young Hodge the Drummer never knew— + Fresh from his Wessex home— + The meaning of the broad Karoo, + The Bush, the dusty loam, + And why uprose to nightly view + Strange stars amid the gloam. + + III + + Yet portion of that unknown plain + Will Hodge for ever be; + His homely Northern breast and brain + Grow up a Southern tree. + And strange-eyed constellations reign + His stars eternally. + + + +A WIFE IN LONDON +(_December_, 1899) + + + I + THE TRAGEDY + + SHE sits in the tawny vapour + That the City lanes have uprolled, + Behind whose webby fold on fold + Like a waning taper + The street-lamp glimmers cold. + + A messenger’s knock cracks smartly, + Flashed news is in her hand + Of meaning it dazes to understand + Though shaped so shortly: + _He—has fallen—in the far South Land_ . . . + + II + THE IRONY + + ’Tis the morrow; the fog hangs thicker, + The postman nears and goes: + A letter is brought whose lines disclose + By the firelight flicker + His hand, whom the worm now knows: + + Fresh—firm—penned in highest feather— + Page-full of his hoped return, + And of home-planned jaunts by brake and burn + In the summer weather, + And of new love that they would learn. + + + +THE SOULS OF THE SLAIN + + + I + + The thick lids of Night closed upon me + Alone at the Bill + Of the Isle by the Race {253}— + Many-caverned, bald, wrinkled of face— + And with darkness and silence the spirit was on me + To brood and be still. + + II + + No wind fanned the flats of the ocean, + Or promontory sides, + Or the ooze by the strand, + Or the bent-bearded slope of the land, + Whose base took its rest amid everlong motion + Of criss-crossing tides. + + III + + Soon from out of the Southward seemed nearing + A whirr, as of wings + Waved by mighty-vanned flies, + Or by night-moths of measureless size, + And in softness and smoothness well-nigh beyond hearing + Of corporal things. + + IV + + And they bore to the bluff, and alighted— + A dim-discerned train + Of sprites without mould, + Frameless souls none might touch or might hold— + On the ledge by the turreted lantern, farsighted + By men of the main. + + V + + And I heard them say “Home!” and I knew them + For souls of the felled + On the earth’s nether bord + Under Capricorn, whither they’d warred, + And I neared in my awe, and gave heedfulness to them + With breathings inheld. + + VI + + Then, it seemed, there approached from the northward + A senior soul-flame + Of the like filmy hue: + And he met them and spake: “Is it you, + O my men?” Said they, “Aye! We bear homeward and hearthward + To list to our fame!” + + VII + + “I’ve flown there before you,” he said then: + “Your households are well; + But—your kin linger less + On your glory arid war-mightiness + Than on dearer things.”—“Dearer?” cried these from the dead then, + “Of what do they tell?” + + VIII + + “Some mothers muse sadly, and murmur + Your doings as boys— + Recall the quaint ways + Of your babyhood’s innocent days. + Some pray that, ere dying, your faith had grown firmer, + And higher your joys. + + IX + + “A father broods: ‘Would I had set him + To some humble trade, + And so slacked his high fire, + And his passionate martial desire; + Had told him no stories to woo him and whet him + To this due crusade!” + + X + + “And, General, how hold out our sweethearts, + Sworn loyal as doves?” + —“Many mourn; many think + It is not unattractive to prink + Them in sables for heroes. Some fickle and fleet hearts + Have found them new loves.” + + XI + + “And our wives?” quoth another resignedly, + “Dwell they on our deeds?” + —“Deeds of home; that live yet + Fresh as new—deeds of fondness or fret; + Ancient words that were kindly expressed or unkindly, + These, these have their heeds.” + + XII + + —“Alas! then it seems that our glory + Weighs less in their thought + Than our old homely acts, + And the long-ago commonplace facts + Of our lives—held by us as scarce part of our story, + And rated as nought!” + + XIII + + Then bitterly some: “Was it wise now + To raise the tomb-door + For such knowledge? Away!” + But the rest: “Fame we prized till to-day; + Yet that hearts keep us green for old kindness we prize now + A thousand times more!” + + XIV + + Thus speaking, the trooped apparitions + Began to disband + And resolve them in two: + Those whose record was lovely and true + Bore to northward for home: those of bitter traditions + Again left the land, + + XV + + And, towering to seaward in legions, + They paused at a spot + Overbending the Race— + That engulphing, ghast, sinister place— + Whither headlong they plunged, to the fathomless regions + Of myriads forgot. + + XVI + + And the spirits of those who were homing + Passed on, rushingly, + Like the Pentecost Wind; + And the whirr of their wayfaring thinned + And surceased on the sky, and but left in the gloaming + Sea-mutterings and me. + +_December_ 1899. + + + +SONG OF THE SOLDIERS’ WIVES + + + I + + AT last! In sight of home again, + Of home again; + No more to range and roam again + As at that bygone time? + No more to go away from us + And stay from us?— + Dawn, hold not long the day from us, + But quicken it to prime! + + II + + Now all the town shall ring to them, + Shall ring to them, + And we who love them cling to them + And clasp them joyfully; + And cry, “O much we’ll do for you + Anew for you, + Dear Loves!—aye, draw and hew for you, + Come back from oversea.” + + III + + Some told us we should meet no more, + Should meet no more; + Should wait, and wish, but greet no more + Your faces round our fires; + That, in a while, uncharily + And drearily + Men gave their lives—even wearily, + Like those whom living tires. + + IV + + And now you are nearing home again, + Dears, home again; + No more, may be, to roam again + As at that bygone time, + Which took you far away from us + To stay from us; + Dawn, hold not long the day from us, + But quicken it to prime! + + + +THE SICK GOD + + + I + + IN days when men had joy of war, + A God of Battles sped each mortal jar; + The peoples pledged him heart and hand, + From Israel’s land to isles afar. + + II + + His crimson form, with clang and chime, + Flashed on each murk and murderous meeting-time, + And kings invoked, for rape and raid, + His fearsome aid in rune and rhyme. + + III + + On bruise and blood-hole, scar and seam, + On blade and bolt, he flung his fulgid beam: + His haloes rayed the very gore, + And corpses wore his glory-gleam. + + IV + + Often an early King or Queen, + And storied hero onward, knew his sheen; + ’Twas glimpsed by Wolfe, by Ney anon, + And Nelson on his blue demesne. + + V + + But new light spread. That god’s gold nimb + And blazon have waned dimmer and more dim; + Even his flushed form begins to fade, + Till but a shade is left of him. + + VI + + That modern meditation broke + His spell, that penmen’s pleadings dealt a stroke, + Say some; and some that crimes too dire + Did much to mire his crimson cloak. + + VII + + Yea, seeds of crescive sympathy + Were sown by those more excellent than he, + Long known, though long contemned till then— + The gods of men in amity. + + VIII + + Souls have grown seers, and thought out-brings + The mournful many-sidedness of things + With foes as friends, enfeebling ires + And fury-fires by gaingivings! + + IX + + He scarce impassions champions now; + They do and dare, but tensely—pale of brow; + And would they fain uplift the arm + Of that faint form they know not how. + + X + + Yet wars arise, though zest grows cold; + Wherefore, at whiles, as ’twere in ancient mould + He looms, bepatched with paint and lath; + But never hath he seemed the old! + + XI + + Let men rejoice, let men deplore. + The lurid Deity of heretofore + Succumbs to one of saner nod; + The Battle-god is god no more. + + + + +POEMS OF PILGRIMAGE + + +GENOA AND THE MEDITERRANEAN +(March, 1887) + + + O EPIC-FAMED, god-haunted Central Sea, + Heave careless of the deep wrong done to thee + When from Torino’s track I saw thy face first flash on me. + + And multimarbled Genova the Proud, + Gleam all unconscious how, wide-lipped, up-browed, + I first beheld thee clad—not as the Beauty but the Dowd. + + Out from a deep-delved way my vision lit + On housebacks pink, green, ochreous—where a slit + Shoreward ’twixt row and row revealed the classic blue through it. + + And thereacross waved fishwives’ high-hung smocks, + Chrome kerchiefs, scarlet hose, darned underfrocks; + Since when too oft my dreams of thee, O Queen, that frippery mocks: + + Whereat I grieve, Superba! . . . Afterhours + Within Palazzo Doria’s orange bowers + Went far to mend these marrings of thy soul-subliming powers. + + But, Queen, such squalid undress none should see, + Those dream-endangering eyewounds no more be + Where lovers first behold thy form in pilgrimage to thee. + + + +SHELLEY’S SKYLARK +(_The neighbourhood of Leghorn_: _March_, 1887) + + + SOMEWHERE afield here something lies + In Earth’s oblivious eyeless trust + That moved a poet to prophecies— + A pinch of unseen, unguarded dust + + The dust of the lark that Shelley heard, + And made immortal through times to be;— + Though it only lived like another bird, + And knew not its immortality. + + Lived its meek life; then, one day, fell— + A little ball of feather and bone; + And how it perished, when piped farewell, + And where it wastes, are alike unknown. + + Maybe it rests in the loam I view, + Maybe it throbs in a myrtle’s green, + Maybe it sleeps in the coming hue + Of a grape on the slopes of yon inland scene. + + Go find it, faeries, go and find + That tiny pinch of priceless dust, + And bring a casket silver-lined, + And framed of gold that gems encrust; + + And we will lay it safe therein, + And consecrate it to endless time; + For it inspired a bard to win + Ecstatic heights in thought and rhyme. + + + +IN THE OLD THEATRE, FIESOLE +(_April_, 1887) + + + I TRACED the Circus whose gray stones incline + Where Rome and dim Etruria interjoin, + Till came a child who showed an ancient coin + That bore the image of a Constantine. + + She lightly passed; nor did she once opine + How, better than all books, she had raised for me + In swift perspective Europe’s history + Through the vast years of Cæsar’s sceptred line. + + For in my distant plot of English loam + ’Twas but to delve, and straightway there to find + Coins of like impress. As with one half blind + Whom common simples cure, her act flashed home + In that mute moment to my opened mind + The power, the pride, the reach of perished Rome. + + + +ROME: ON THE PALATINE +(_April_, 1887) + + + WE walked where Victor Jove was shrined awhile, + And passed to Livia’s rich red mural show, + Whence, thridding cave and Criptoportico, + We gained Caligula’s dissolving pile. + + And each ranked ruin tended to beguile + The outer sense, and shape itself as though + It wore its marble hues, its pristine glow + Of scenic frieze and pompous peristyle. + + When lo, swift hands, on strings nigh over-head, + Began to melodize a waltz by Strauss: + It stirred me as I stood, in Cæsar’s house, + Raised the old routs Imperial lyres had led, + + And blended pulsing life with lives long done, + Till Time seemed fiction, Past and Present one. + + + +ROME +BUILDING A NEW STREET IN THE ANCIENT QUARTER +(_April_, 1887) + + + THESE numbered cliffs and gnarls of masonry + Outskeleton Time’s central city, Rome; + Whereof each arch, entablature, and dome + Lies bare in all its gaunt anatomy. + + And cracking frieze and rotten metope + Express, as though they were an open tome + Top-lined with caustic monitory gnome; + “Dunces, Learn here to spell Humanity!” + + And yet within these ruins’ very shade + The singing workmen shape and set and join + Their frail new mansion’s stuccoed cove and quoin + With no apparent sense that years abrade, + Though each rent wall their feeble works invade + Once shamed all such in power of pier and groin. + + + +ROME +THE VATICAN—SALA DELLE MUSE +(1887) + + + I SAT in the Muses’ Hall at the mid of the day, + And it seemed to grow still, and the people to pass away, + And the chiselled shapes to combine in a haze of sun, + Till beside a Carrara column there gleamed forth One. + + She was nor this nor that of those beings divine, + But each and the whole—an essence of all the Nine; + With tentative foot she neared to my halting-place, + A pensive smile on her sweet, small, marvellous face. + + “Regarded so long, we render thee sad?” said she. + “Not you,” sighed I, “but my own inconstancy! + I worship each and each; in the morning one, + And then, alas! another at sink of sun. + + “To-day my soul clasps Form; but where is my troth + Of yesternight with Tune: can one cleave to both?” + —“Be not perturbed,” said she. “Though apart in fame, + As I and my sisters are one, those, too, are the same. + + —“But my loves go further—to Story, and Dance, and Hymn, + The lover of all in a sun-sweep is fool to whim— + Is swayed like a river-weed as the ripples run!” + —“Nay, wight, thou sway’st not. These are but phases of one; + + “And that one is I; and I am projected from thee, + One that out of thy brain and heart thou causest to be— + Extern to thee nothing. Grieve not, nor thyself becall, + Woo where thou wilt; and rejoice thou canst love at all!” + + + +ROME +AT THE PYRAMID OF CESTIUS +NEAR THE GRAVES OF SHELLEY AND KEATS +(1887) + + + WHO, then, was Cestius, + And what is he to me?— + Amid thick thoughts and memories multitudinous + One thought alone brings he. + + I can recall no word + Of anything he did; + For me he is a man who died and was interred + To leave a pyramid + + Whose purpose was exprest + Not with its first design, + Nor till, far down in Time, beside it found their rest + Two countrymen of mine. + + Cestius in life, maybe, + Slew, breathed out threatening; + I know not. This I know: in death all silently + He does a kindlier thing, + + In beckoning pilgrim feet + With marble finger high + To where, by shadowy wall and history-haunted street, + Those matchless singers lie . . . + + —Say, then, he lived and died + That stones which bear his name + Should mark, through Time, where two immortal Shades abide; + It is an ample fame. + + + +LAUSANNE +IN GIBBON’S OLD GARDEN: 11–12 P.M. +_June_ 27, 1897 + + +(_The_ 110_th_ _anniversary of the completion of the_ “_Decline and +Fall_” _at the same hour and place_) + + A SPIRIT seems to pass, + Formal in pose, but grave and grand withal: + He contemplates a volume stout and tall, + And far lamps fleck him through the thin acacias. + + Anon the book is closed, + With “It is finished!” And at the alley’s end + He turns, and soon on me his glances bend; + And, as from earth, comes speech—small, muted, yet composed. + + “How fares the Truth now?—Ill? + —Do pens but slily further her advance? + May one not speed her but in phrase askance? + Do scribes aver the Comic to be Reverend still? + + “Still rule those minds on earth + At whom sage Milton’s wormwood words were hurled: + ‘_Truth like a bastard comes into the world_ + _Never without ill-fame to him who gives her birth_’?” + + + +ZERMATT +TO THE MATTERHORN +(_June_-_July_, 1897) + + + THIRTY-TWO years since, up against the sun, + Seven shapes, thin atomies to lower sight, + Labouringly leapt and gained thy gabled height, + And four lives paid for what the seven had won. + + They were the first by whom the deed was done, + And when I look at thee, my mind takes flight + To that day’s tragic feat of manly might, + As though, till then, of history thou hadst none. + + Yet ages ere men topped thee, late and soon + Thou watch’dst each night the planets lift and lower; + Thou gleam’dst to Joshua’s pausing sun and moon, + And brav’dst the tokening sky when Cæsar’s power + Approached its bloody end: yea, saw’st that Noon + When darkness filled the earth till the ninth hour. + + + +THE BRIDGE OF LODI {290} +(_Spring_, 1887) + + + I + + WHEN of tender mind and body + I was moved by minstrelsy, + And that strain “The Bridge of Lodi” + Brought a strange delight to me. + + II + + In the battle-breathing jingle + Of its forward-footing tune + I could see the armies mingle, + And the columns cleft and hewn + + III + + On that far-famed spot by Lodi + Where Napoleon clove his way + To his fame, when like a god he + Bent the nations to his sway. + + IV + + Hence the tune came capering to me + While I traced the Rhone and Po; + Nor could Milan’s Marvel woo me + From the spot englamoured so. + + V + + And to-day, sunlit and smiling, + Here I stand upon the scene, + With its saffron walls, dun tiling, + And its meads of maiden green, + + VI + + Even as when the trackway thundered + With the charge of grenadiers, + And the blood of forty hundred + Splashed its parapets and piers . . . + + VII + + Any ancient crone I’d toady + Like a lass in young-eyed prime, + Could she tell some tale of Lodi + At that moving mighty time. + + VIII + + So, I ask the wives of Lodi + For traditions of that day; + But alas! not anybody + Seems to know of such a fray. + + IX + + And they heed but transitory + Marketings in cheese and meat, + Till I judge that Lodi’s story + Is extinct in Lodi’s street. + + X + + Yet while here and there they thrid them + In their zest to sell and buy, + Let me sit me down amid them + And behold those thousands die . . . + + XI + + —Not a creature cares in Lodi + How Napoleon swept each arch, + Or where up and downward trod he, + Or for his memorial March! + + XII + + So that wherefore should I be here, + Watching Adda lip the lea, + When the whole romance to see here + Is the dream I bring with me? + + XIII + + And why sing “The Bridge of Lodi” + As I sit thereon and swing, + When none shows by smile or nod he + Guesses why or what I sing? . . . + + XIV + + Since all Lodi, low and head ones, + Seem to pass that story by, + It may be the Lodi-bred ones + Rate it truly, and not I. + + XV + + Once engrossing Bridge of Lodi, + Is thy claim to glory gone? + Must I pipe a palinody, + Or be silent thereupon? + + XVI + + And if here, from strand to steeple, + Be no stone to fame the fight, + Must I say the Lodi people + Are but viewing crime aright? + + XVII + + Nay; I’ll sing “The Bridge of Lodi”— + That long-loved, romantic thing, + Though none show by smile or nod he + Guesses why and what I sing! + + + +ON AN INVITATION TO THE UNITED STATES + + + I + + MY ardours for emprize nigh lost + Since Life has bared its bones to me, + I shrink to seek a modern coast + Whose riper times have yet to be; + Where the new regions claim them free + From that long drip of human tears + Which peoples old in tragedy + Have left upon the centuried years. + + II + + For, wonning in these ancient lands, + Enchased and lettered as a tomb, + And scored with prints of perished hands, + And chronicled with dates of doom, + Though my own Being bear no bloom + I trace the lives such scenes enshrine, + Give past exemplars present room, + And their experience count as mine. + + + + +MISCELLANEOUS POEMS + + +THE MOTHER MOURNS + + + WHEN mid-autumn’s moan shook the night-time, + And sedges were horny, + And summer’s green wonderwork faltered + On leaze and in lane, + + I fared Yell’ham-Firs way, where dimly + Came wheeling around me + Those phantoms obscure and insistent + That shadows unchain. + + Till airs from the needle-thicks brought me + A low lamentation, + As ’twere of a tree-god disheartened, + Perplexed, or in pain. + + And, heeding, it awed me to gather + That Nature herself there + Was breathing in aërie accents, + With dirgeful refrain, + + Weary plaint that Mankind, in these late days, + Had grieved her by holding + Her ancient high fame of perfection + In doubt and disdain . . . + + —“I had not proposed me a Creature + (She soughed) so excelling + All else of my kingdom in compass + And brightness of brain + + “As to read my defects with a god-glance, + Uncover each vestige + Of old inadvertence, annunciate + Each flaw and each stain! + + “My purpose went not to develop + Such insight in Earthland; + Such potent appraisements affront me, + And sadden my reign! + + “Why loosened I olden control here + To mechanize skywards, + Undeeming great scope could outshape in + A globe of such grain? + + “Man’s mountings of mind-sight I checked not, + Till range of his vision + Has topped my intent, and found blemish + Throughout my domain. + + “He holds as inept his own soul-shell— + My deftest achievement— + Contemns me for fitful inventions + Ill-timed and inane: + + “No more sees my sun as a Sanct-shape, + My moon as the Night-queen, + My stars as august and sublime ones + That influences rain: + + “Reckons gross and ignoble my teaching, + Immoral my story, + My love-lights a lure, that my species + May gather and gain. + + “‘Give me,’ he has said, ‘but the matter + And means the gods lot her, + My brain could evolve a creation + More seemly, more sane.’ + + —“If ever a naughtiness seized me + To woo adulation + From creatures more keen than those crude ones + That first formed my train— + + “If inly a moment I murmured, + ‘The simple praise sweetly, + But sweetlier the sage’—and did rashly + Man’s vision unrein, + + “I rue it! . . . His guileless forerunners, + Whose brains I could blandish, + To measure the deeps of my mysteries + Applied them in vain. + + “From them my waste aimings and futile + I subtly could cover; + ‘Every best thing,’ said they, ‘to best purpose + Her powers preordain.’— + + “No more such! . . . My species are dwindling, + My forests grow barren, + My popinjays fail from their tappings, + My larks from their strain. + + “My leopardine beauties are rarer, + My tusky ones vanish, + My children have aped mine own slaughters + To quicken my wane. + + “Let me grow, then, but mildews and mandrakes, + And slimy distortions, + Let nevermore things good and lovely + To me appertain; + + “For Reason is rank in my temples, + And Vision unruly, + And chivalrous laud of my cunning + Is heard not again!” + + + +“I SAID TO LOVE” + + + I SAID to Love, + “It is not now as in old days + When men adored thee and thy ways + All else above; + Named thee the Boy, the Bright, the One + Who spread a heaven beneath the sun,” + I said to Love. + + I said to him, + “We now know more of thee than then; + We were but weak in judgment when, + With hearts abrim, + We clamoured thee that thou would’st please + Inflict on us thine agonies,” + I said to him. + + I said to Love, + “Thou art not young, thou art not fair, + No faery darts, no cherub air, + Nor swan, nor dove + Are thine; but features pitiless, + And iron daggers of distress,” + I said to Love. + + “Depart then, Love! . . . + —Man’s race shall end, dost threaten thou? + The age to come the man of now + Know nothing of?— + We fear not such a threat from thee; + We are too old in apathy! + _Mankind shall cease_.—So let it be,” + I said to Love. + + + +A COMMONPLACE DAY + + + THE day is turning ghost, + And scuttles from the kalendar in fits and furtively, + To join the anonymous host + Of those that throng oblivion; ceding his place, maybe, + To one of like degree. + + I part the fire-gnawed logs, + Rake forth the embers, spoil the busy flames, and lay the ends + Upon the shining dogs; + Further and further from the nooks the twilight’s stride extends, + And beamless black impends. + + Nothing of tiniest worth + Have I wrought, pondered, planned; no one thing asking blame or + praise, + Since the pale corpse-like birth + Of this diurnal unit, bearing blanks in all its rays— + Dullest of dull-hued Days! + + Wanly upon the panes + The rain slides as have slid since morn my colourless thoughts; and + yet + Here, while Day’s presence wanes, + And over him the sepulchre-lid is slowly lowered and set, + He wakens my regret. + + Regret—though nothing dear + That I wot of, was toward in the wide world at his prime, + Or bloomed elsewhere than here, + To die with his decease, and leave a memory sweet, sublime, + Or mark him out in Time . . . + + —Yet, maybe, in some soul, + In some spot undiscerned on sea or land, some impulse rose, + Or some intent upstole + Of that enkindling ardency from whose maturer glows + The world’s amendment flows; + + But which, benumbed at birth + By momentary chance or wile, has missed its hope to be + Embodied on the earth; + And undervoicings of this loss to man’s futurity + May wake regret in me. + + + +AT A LUNAR ECLIPSE + + + THY shadow, Earth, from Pole to Central Sea, + Now steals along upon the Moon’s meek shine + In even monochrome and curving line + Of imperturbable serenity. + + How shall I link such sun-cast symmetry + With the torn troubled form I know as thine, + That profile, placid as a brow divine, + With continents of moil and misery? + + And can immense Mortality but throw + So small a shade, and Heaven’s high human scheme + Be hemmed within the coasts yon arc implies? + + Is such the stellar gauge of earthly show, + Nation at war with nation, brains that teem, + Heroes, and women fairer than the skies? + + + +THE LACKING SENSE + + + SCENE.—_A sad-coloured landscape_, _Waddon Vale_ + + I + + “O TIME, whence comes the Mother’s moody look amid her labours, + As of one who all unwittingly has wounded where she loves? + Why weaves she not her world-webs to according lutes and tabors, + With nevermore this too remorseful air upon her face, + As of angel fallen from grace?” + + II + + —“Her look is but her story: construe not its symbols keenly: + In her wonderworks yea surely has she wounded where she loves. + The sense of ills misdealt for blisses blanks the mien most + queenly, + Self-smitings kill self-joys; and everywhere beneath the sun + Such deeds her hands have done.” + + III + + —“And how explains thy Ancient Mind her crimes upon her creatures, + These fallings from her fair beginnings, woundings where she loves, + Into her would-be perfect motions, modes, effects, and features + Admitting cramps, black humours, wan decay, and baleful blights, + Distress into delights?” + + IV + + —“Ah! know’st thou not her secret yet, her vainly veiled deficience, + Whence it comes that all unwittingly she wounds the lives she + loves? + That sightless are those orbs of hers?—which bar to her omniscience + Brings those fearful unfulfilments, that red ravage through her zones + Whereat all creation groans. + + V + + “She whispers it in each pathetic strenuous slow endeavour, + When in mothering she unwittingly sets wounds on what she loves; + Yet her primal doom pursues her, faultful, fatal is she ever; + Though so deft and nigh to vision is her facile finger-touch + That the seers marvel much. + + VI + + “Deal, then, her groping skill no scorn, no note of malediction; + Not long on thee will press the hand that hurts the lives it loves; + And while she dares dead-reckoning on, in darkness of affliction, + Assist her where thy creaturely dependence can or may, + For thou art of her clay.” + + + +TO LIFE + + + O LIFE with the sad seared face, + I weary of seeing thee, + And thy draggled cloak, and thy hobbling pace, + And thy too-forced pleasantry! + + I know what thou would’st tell + Of Death, Time, Destiny— + I have known it long, and know, too, well + What it all means for me. + + But canst thou not array + Thyself in rare disguise, + And feign like truth, for one mad day, + That Earth is Paradise? + + I’ll tune me to the mood, + And mumm with thee till eve; + And maybe what as interlude + I feign, I shall believe! + + + +DOOM AND SHE + + + I + + THERE dwells a mighty pair— + Slow, statuesque, intense— + Amid the vague Immense: + None can their chronicle declare, + Nor why they be, nor whence. + + II + + Mother of all things made, + Matchless in artistry, + Unlit with sight is she.— + And though her ever well-obeyed + Vacant of feeling he. + + III + + The Matron mildly asks— + A throb in every word— + “Our clay-made creatures, lord, + How fare they in their mortal tasks + Upon Earth’s bounded bord? + + IV + + “The fate of those I bear, + Dear lord, pray turn and view, + And notify me true; + Shapings that eyelessly I dare + Maybe I would undo. + + V + + “Sometimes from lairs of life + Methinks I catch a groan, + Or multitudinous moan, + As though I had schemed a world of strife, + Working by touch alone.” + + VI + + “World-weaver!” he replies, + “I scan all thy domain; + But since nor joy nor pain + Doth my clear substance recognize, + I read thy realms in vain. + + VII + + “World-weaver! what _is_ Grief? + And what are Right, and Wrong, + And Feeling, that belong + To creatures all who owe thee fief? + What worse is Weak than Strong?” . . . + + VIII + + —Unlightened, curious, meek, + She broods in sad surmise . . . + —Some say they have heard her sighs + On Alpine height or Polar peak + When the night tempests rise. + + + +THE PROBLEM + + + SHALL we conceal the Case, or tell it— + We who believe the evidence? + Here and there the watch-towers knell it + With a sullen significance, + Heard of the few who hearken intently and carry an eagerly upstrained + sense. + + Hearts that are happiest hold not by it; + Better we let, then, the old view reign; + Since there is peace in it, why decry it? + Since there is comfort, why disdain? + Note not the pigment the while that the painting determines humanity’s + joy and pain! + + + +THE SUBALTERNS + + + I + + “POOR wanderer,” said the leaden sky, + “I fain would lighten thee, + But there be laws in force on high + Which say it must not be.” + + II + + —“I would not freeze thee, shorn one,” cried + The North, “knew I but how + To warm my breath, to slack my stride; + But I am ruled as thou.” + + III + + —“To-morrow I attack thee, wight,” + Said Sickness. “Yet I swear + I bear thy little ark no spite, + But am bid enter there.” + + IV + + —“Come hither, Son,” I heard Death say; + “I did not will a grave + Should end thy pilgrimage to-day, + But I, too, am a slave!” + + V + + We smiled upon each other then, + And life to me wore less + That fell contour it wore ere when + They owned their passiveness. + + + +THE SLEEP-WORKER + + + WHEN wilt thou wake, O Mother, wake and see— + As one who, held in trance, has laboured long + By vacant rote and prepossession strong— + The coils that thou hast wrought unwittingly; + + Wherein have place, unrealized by thee, + Fair growths, foul cankers, right enmeshed with wrong, + Strange orchestras of victim-shriek and song, + And curious blends of ache and ecstasy?— + + Should that morn come, and show thy opened eyes + All that Life’s palpitating tissues feel, + How wilt thou bear thyself in thy surprise?— + + Wilt thou destroy, in one wild shock of shame, + Thy whole high heaving firmamental frame, + Or patiently adjust, amend, and heal? + + + +THE BULLFINCHES + + + BROTHER Bulleys, let us sing + From the dawn till evening!— + For we know not that we go not + When the day’s pale pinions fold + Unto those who sang of old. + + When I flew to Blackmoor Vale, + Whence the green-gowned faeries hail, + Roosting near them I could hear them + Speak of queenly Nature’s ways, + Means, and moods,—well known to fays. + + All we creatures, nigh and far + (Said they there), the Mother’s are: + Yet she never shows endeavour + To protect from warrings wild + Bird or beast she calls her child. + + Busy in her handsome house + Known as Space, she falls a-drowse; + Yet, in seeming, works on dreaming, + While beneath her groping hands + Fiends make havoc in her bands. + + How her hussif’ry succeeds + She unknows or she unheeds, + All things making for Death’s taking! + —So the green-gowned faeries say + Living over Blackmoor way. + + Come then, brethren, let us sing, + From the dawn till evening!— + For we know not that we go not + When the day’s pale pinions fold + Unto those who sang of old. + + + +GOD-FORGOTTEN + + + I TOWERED far, and lo! I stood within + The presence of the Lord Most High, + Sent thither by the sons of earth, to win + Some answer to their cry. + + —“The Earth, say’st thou? The Human race? + By Me created? Sad its lot? + Nay: I have no remembrance of such place: + Such world I fashioned not.”— + + —“O Lord, forgive me when I say + Thou spak’st the word, and mad’st it all.”— + “The Earth of men—let me bethink me . . . Yea! + I dimly do recall + + “Some tiny sphere I built long back + (Mid millions of such shapes of mine) + So named . . . It perished, surely—not a wrack + Remaining, or a sign? + + “It lost my interest from the first, + My aims therefor succeeding ill; + Haply it died of doing as it durst?”— + “Lord, it existeth still.”— + + “Dark, then, its life! For not a cry + Of aught it bears do I now hear; + Of its own act the threads were snapt whereby + Its plaints had reached mine ear. + + “It used to ask for gifts of good, + Till came its severance self-entailed, + When sudden silence on that side ensued, + And has till now prevailed. + + “All other orbs have kept in touch; + Their voicings reach me speedily: + Thy people took upon them overmuch + In sundering them from me! + + “And it is strange—though sad enough— + Earth’s race should think that one whose call + Frames, daily, shining spheres of flawless stuff + Must heed their tainted ball! . . . + + “But say’st thou ’tis by pangs distraught, + And strife, and silent suffering?— + Deep grieved am I that injury should be wrought + Even on so poor a thing! + + “Thou should’st have learnt that _Not to Mend_ + For Me could mean but _Not to Know_: + Hence, Messengers! and straightway put an end + To what men undergo.” . . . + + Homing at dawn, I thought to see + One of the Messengers standing by. + —Oh, childish thought! . . . Yet oft it comes to me + When trouble hovers nigh. + + + +THE BEDRIDDEN PEASANT +TO AN UNKNOWING GOD + + + MUCH wonder I—here long low-laid— + That this dead wall should be + Betwixt the Maker and the made, + Between Thyself and me! + + For, say one puts a child to nurse, + He eyes it now and then + To know if better ’tis, or worse, + And if it mourn, and when. + + But Thou, Lord, giv’st us men our clay + In helpless bondage thus + To Time and Chance, and seem’st straightway + To think no more of us! + + That some disaster cleft Thy scheme + And tore us wide apart, + So that no cry can cross, I deem; + For Thou art mild of heart, + + And would’st not shape and shut us in + Where voice can not he heard: + ’Tis plain Thou meant’st that we should win + Thy succour by a word. + + Might but Thy sense flash down the skies + Like man’s from clime to clime, + Thou would’st not let me agonize + Through my remaining time; + + But, seeing how much Thy creatures bear— + Lame, starved, or maimed, or blind— + Thou’dst heal the ills with quickest care + Of me and all my kind. + + Then, since Thou mak’st not these things be, + But these things dost not know, + I’ll praise Thee as were shown to me + The mercies Thou would’st show! + + + +BY THE EARTH’S CORPSE + + + I + + “O LORD, why grievest Thou?— + Since Life has ceased to be + Upon this globe, now cold + As lunar land and sea, + And humankind, and fowl, and fur + Are gone eternally, + All is the same to Thee as ere + They knew mortality.” + + II + + “O Time,” replied the Lord, + “Thou read’st me ill, I ween; + Were all _the same_, I should not grieve + At that late earthly scene, + Now blestly past—though planned by me + With interest close and keen!— + Nay, nay: things now are _not_ the same + As they have earlier been. + + III + + “Written indelibly + On my eternal mind + Are all the wrongs endured + By Earth’s poor patient kind, + Which my too oft unconscious hand + Let enter undesigned. + No god can cancel deeds foredone, + Or thy old coils unwind! + + IV + + “As when, in Noë’s days, + I whelmed the plains with sea, + So at this last, when flesh + And herb but fossils be, + And, all extinct, their piteous dust + Revolves obliviously, + That I made Earth, and life, and man, + It still repenteth me!” + + + +MUTE OPINION + + + I + + I TRAVERSED a dominion + Whose spokesmen spake out strong + Their purpose and opinion + Through pulpit, press, and song. + I scarce had means to note there + A large-eyed few, and dumb, + Who thought not as those thought there + That stirred the heat and hum. + + II + + When, grown a Shade, beholding + That land in lifetime trode, + To learn if its unfolding + Fulfilled its clamoured code, + I saw, in web unbroken, + Its history outwrought + Not as the loud had spoken, + But as the mute had thought. + + + +TO AN UNBORN PAUPER CHILD + + + I + + BREATHE not, hid Heart: cease silently, + And though thy birth-hour beckons thee, + Sleep the long sleep: + The Doomsters heap + Travails and teens around us here, + And Time-wraiths turn our songsingings to fear. + + II + + Hark, how the peoples surge and sigh, + And laughters fail, and greetings die: + Hopes dwindle; yea, + Faiths waste away, + Affections and enthusiasms numb; + Thou canst not mend these things if thou dost come. + + III + + Had I the ear of wombèd souls + Ere their terrestrial chart unrolls, + And thou wert free + To cease, or be, + Then would I tell thee all I know, + And put it to thee: Wilt thou take Life so? + + IV + + Vain vow! No hint of mine may hence + To theeward fly: to thy locked sense + Explain none can + Life’s pending plan: + Thou wilt thy ignorant entry make + Though skies spout fire and blood and nations quake. + + V + + Fain would I, dear, find some shut plot + Of earth’s wide wold for thee, where not + One tear, one qualm, + Should break the calm. + But I am weak as thou and bare; + No man can change the common lot to rare. + + VI + + Must come and bide. And such are we— + Unreasoning, sanguine, visionary— + That I can hope + Health, love, friends, scope + In full for thee; can dream thou’lt find + Joys seldom yet attained by humankind! + + + +TO FLOWERS FROM ITALY IN WINTER + + + SUNNED in the South, and here to-day; + —If all organic things + Be sentient, Flowers, as some men say, + What are your ponderings? + + How can you stay, nor vanish quite + From this bleak spot of thorn, + And birch, and fir, and frozen white + Expanse of the forlorn? + + Frail luckless exiles hither brought! + Your dust will not regain + Old sunny haunts of Classic thought + When you shall waste and wane; + + But mix with alien earth, be lit + With frigid Boreal flame, + And not a sign remain in it + To tell men whence you came. + + + +ON A FINE MORNING + + + WHENCE comes Solace?—Not from seeing + What is doing, suffering, being, + Not from noting Life’s conditions, + Nor from heeding Time’s monitions; + But in cleaving to the Dream, + And in gazing at the gleam + Whereby gray things golden seem. + + II + + Thus do I this heyday, holding + Shadows but as lights unfolding, + As no specious show this moment + With its irisèd embowment; + But as nothing other than + Part of a benignant plan; + Proof that earth was made for man. + +_February_ 1899. + + + +TO LIZBIE BROWNE + + + I + + DEAR Lizbie Browne, + Where are you now? + In sun, in rain?— + Or is your brow + Past joy, past pain, + Dear Lizbie Browne? + + II + + Sweet Lizbie Browne + How you could smile, + How you could sing!— + How archly wile + In glance-giving, + Sweet Lizbie Browne! + + III + + And, Lizbie Browne, + Who else had hair + Bay-red as yours, + Or flesh so fair + Bred out of doors, + Sweet Lizbie Browne? + + IV + + When, Lizbie Browne, + You had just begun + To be endeared + By stealth to one, + You disappeared + My Lizbie Browne! + + V + + Ay, Lizbie Browne, + So swift your life, + And mine so slow, + You were a wife + Ere I could show + Love, Lizbie Browne. + + VI + + Still, Lizbie Browne, + You won, they said, + The best of men + When you were wed . . . + Where went you then, + O Lizbie Browne? + + VII + + Dear Lizbie Browne, + I should have thought, + “Girls ripen fast,” + And coaxed and caught + You ere you passed, + Dear Lizbie Browne! + + VIII + + But, Lizbie Browne, + I let you slip; + Shaped not a sign; + Touched never your lip + With lip of mine, + Lost Lizbie Browne! + + IX + + So, Lizbie Browne, + When on a day + Men speak of me + As not, you’ll say, + “And who was he?”— + Yes, Lizbie Browne! + + + +SONG OF HOPE + + + O SWEET To-morrow!— + After to-day + There will away + This sense of sorrow. + Then let us borrow + Hope, for a gleaming + Soon will be streaming, + Dimmed by no gray— + No gray! + + While the winds wing us + Sighs from The Gone, + Nearer to dawn + Minute-beats bring us; + When there will sing us + Larks of a glory + Waiting our story + Further anon— + Anon! + + Doff the black token, + Don the red shoon, + Right and retune + Viol-strings broken; + Null the words spoken + In speeches of rueing, + The night cloud is hueing, + To-morrow shines soon— + Shines soon! + + + +THE WELL-BELOVED + + + I wayed by star and planet shine + Towards the dear one’s home + At Kingsbere, there to make her mine + When the next sun upclomb. + + I edged the ancient hill and wood + Beside the Ikling Way, + Nigh where the Pagan temple stood + In the world’s earlier day. + + And as I quick and quicker walked + On gravel and on green, + I sang to sky, and tree, or talked + Of her I called my queen. + + —“O faultless is her dainty form, + And luminous her mind; + She is the God-created norm + Of perfect womankind!” + + A shape whereon one star-blink gleamed + Glode softly by my side, + A woman’s; and her motion seemed + The motion of my bride. + + And yet methought she’d drawn erstwhile + Adown the ancient leaze, + Where once were pile and peristyle + For men’s idolatries. + + —“O maiden lithe and lone, what may + Thy name and lineage be, + Who so resemblest by this ray + My darling?—Art thou she?” + + The Shape: “Thy bride remains within + Her father’s grange and grove.” + —“Thou speakest rightly,” I broke in, + “Thou art not she I love.” + + —“Nay: though thy bride remains inside + Her father’s walls,” said she, + “The one most dear is with thee here, + For thou dost love but me.” + + Then I: “But she, my only choice, + Is now at Kingsbere Grove?” + Again her soft mysterious voice: + “I am thy only Love.” + + Thus still she vouched, and still I said, + “O sprite, that cannot be!” . . . + It was as if my bosom bled, + So much she troubled me. + + The sprite resumed: “Thou hast transferred + To her dull form awhile + My beauty, fame, and deed, and word, + My gestures and my smile. + + “O fatuous man, this truth infer, + Brides are not what they seem; + Thou lovest what thou dreamest her; + I am thy very dream!” + + —“O then,” I answered miserably, + Speaking as scarce I knew, + “My loved one, I must wed with thee + If what thou say’st be true!” + + She, proudly, thinning in the gloom: + “Though, since troth-plight began, + I’ve ever stood as bride to groom, + I wed no mortal man!” + + Thereat she vanished by the Cross + That, entering Kingsbere town, + The two long lanes form, near the fosse + Below the faneless Down. + + —When I arrived and met my bride, + Her look was pinched and thin, + As if her soul had shrunk and died, + And left a waste within. + + + +HER REPROACH + + + CON the dead page as ’twere live love: press on! + Cold wisdom’s words will ease thy track for thee; + Aye, go; cast off sweet ways, and leave me wan + To biting blasts that are intent on me. + + But if thy object Fame’s far summits be, + Whose inclines many a skeleton o’erlies + That missed both dream and substance, stop and see + How absence wears these cheeks and dims these eyes! + + It surely is far sweeter and more wise + To water love, than toil to leave anon + A name whose glory-gleam will but advise + Invidious minds to quench it with their own, + + And over which the kindliest will but stay + A moment, musing, “He, too, had his day!” + +WESTBOURNE PARK VILLAS, + 1867. + + + +THE INCONSISTENT + + + I SAY, “She was as good as fair,” + When standing by her mound; + “Such passing sweetness,” I declare, + “No longer treads the ground.” + I say, “What living Love can catch + Her bloom and bonhomie, + And what in newer maidens match + Her olden warmth to me!” + + —There stands within yon vestry-nook + Where bonded lovers sign, + Her name upon a faded book + With one that is not mine. + To him she breathed the tender vow + She once had breathed to me, + But yet I say, “O love, even now + Would I had died for thee!” + + + +A BROKEN APPOINTMENT + + + YOU did not come, + And marching Time drew on, and wore me numb.— + Yet less for loss of your dear presence there + Than that I thus found lacking in your make + That high compassion which can overbear + Reluctance for pure lovingkindness’ sake + Grieved I, when, as the hope-hour stroked its sum, + You did not come. + + You love not me, + And love alone can lend you loyalty; + —I know and knew it. But, unto the store + Of human deeds divine in all but name, + Was it not worth a little hour or more + To add yet this: Once, you, a woman, came + To soothe a time-torn man; even though it be + You love not me? + + + +“BETWEEN US NOW” + + + BETWEEN us now and here— + Two thrown together + Who are not wont to wear + Life’s flushest feather— + Who see the scenes slide past, + The daytimes dimming fast, + Let there be truth at last, + Even if despair. + + So thoroughly and long + Have you now known me, + So real in faith and strong + Have I now shown me, + That nothing needs disguise + Further in any wise, + Or asks or justifies + A guarded tongue. + + Face unto face, then, say, + Eyes mine own meeting, + Is your heart far away, + Or with mine beating? + When false things are brought low, + And swift things have grown slow, + Feigning like froth shall go, + Faith be for aye. + + + +“HOW GREAT MY GRIEF” +(TRIOLET) + + + HOW great my grief, my joys how few, + Since first it was my fate to know thee! + —Have the slow years not brought to view + How great my grief, my joys how few, + Nor memory shaped old times anew, + Nor loving-kindness helped to show thee + How great my grief, my joys how few, + Since first it was my fate to know thee? + + + +“I NEED NOT GO” + + + I NEED not go + Through sleet and snow + To where I know + She waits for me; + She will wait me there + Till I find it fair, + And have time to spare + From company. + + When I’ve overgot + The world somewhat, + When things cost not + Such stress and strain, + Is soon enough + By cypress sough + To tell my Love + I am come again. + + And if some day, + When none cries nay, + I still delay + To seek her side, + (Though ample measure + Of fitting leisure + Await my pleasure) + She will riot chide. + + What—not upbraid me + That I delayed me, + Nor ask what stayed me + So long? Ah, no!— + New cares may claim me, + New loves inflame me, + She will not blame me, + But suffer it so. + + + +THE COQUETTE, AND AFTER +(TRIOLETS) + + + I + + FOR long the cruel wish I knew + That your free heart should ache for me + While mine should bear no ache for you; + For, long—the cruel wish!—I knew + How men can feel, and craved to view + My triumph—fated not to be + For long! . . . The cruel wish I knew + That your free heart should ache for me! + + II + + At last one pays the penalty— + The woman—women always do. + My farce, I found, was tragedy + At last!—One pays the penalty + With interest when one, fancy-free, + Learns love, learns shame . . . Of sinners two + At last _one_ pays the penalty— + The woman—women always do! + + + +A SPOT + + + IN years defaced and lost, + Two sat here, transport-tossed, + Lit by a living love + The wilted world knew nothing of: + Scared momently + By gaingivings, + Then hoping things + That could not be. + + Of love and us no trace + Abides upon the place; + The sun and shadows wheel, + Season and season sereward steal; + Foul days and fair + Here, too, prevail, + And gust and gale + As everywhere. + + But lonely shepherd souls + Who bask amid these knolls + May catch a faery sound + On sleepy noontides from the ground: + “O not again + Till Earth outwears + Shall love like theirs + Suffuse this glen!” + + + +LONG PLIGHTED + + + IS it worth while, dear, now, + To call for bells, and sally forth arrayed + For marriage-rites—discussed, decried, delayed + So many years? + + Is it worth while, dear, now, + To stir desire for old fond purposings, + By feints that Time still serves for dallyings, + Though quittance nears? + + Is it worth while, dear, when + The day being so far spent, so low the sun, + The undone thing will soon be as the done, + And smiles as tears? + + Is it worth while, dear, when + Our cheeks are worn, our early brown is gray; + When, meet or part we, none says yea or nay, + Or heeds, or cares? + + Is it worth while, dear, since + We still can climb old Yell’ham’s wooded mounds + Together, as each season steals its rounds + And disappears? + + Is it worth while, dear, since + As mates in Mellstock churchyard we can lie, + Till the last crash of all things low and high + Shall end the spheres? + + + +THE WIDOW + + + BY Mellstock Lodge and Avenue + Towards her door I went, + And sunset on her window-panes + Reflected our intent. + + The creeper on the gable nigh + Was fired to more than red + And when I came to halt thereby + “Bright as my joy!” I said. + + Of late days it had been her aim + To meet me in the hall; + Now at my footsteps no one came; + And no one to my call. + + Again I knocked; and tardily + An inner step was heard, + And I was shown her presence then + With scarce an answering word. + + She met me, and but barely took + My proffered warm embrace; + Preoccupation weighed her look, + And hardened her sweet face. + + “To-morrow—could you—would you call? + Make brief your present stay? + My child is ill—my one, my all!— + And can’t be left to-day.” + + And then she turns, and gives commands + As I were out of sound, + Or were no more to her and hers + Than any neighbour round . . . + + —As maid I wooed her; but one came + And coaxed her heart away, + And when in time he wedded her + I deemed her gone for aye. + + He won, I lost her; and my loss + I bore I know not how; + But I do think I suffered then + Less wretchedness than now. + + For Time, in taking him, had oped + An unexpected door + Of bliss for me, which grew to seem + Far surer than before . . . + + Her word is steadfast, and I know + That plighted firm are we: + But she has caught new love-calls since + She smiled as maid on me! + + + +AT A HASTY WEDDING +(TRIOLET) + + + IF hours be years the twain are blest, + For now they solace swift desire + By bonds of every bond the best, + If hours be years. The twain are blest + Do eastern stars slope never west, + Nor pallid ashes follow fire: + If hours be years the twain are blest, + For now they solace swift desire. + + + +THE DREAM-FOLLOWER + + + A DREAM of mine flew over the mead + To the halls where my old Love reigns; + And it drew me on to follow its lead: + And I stood at her window-panes; + + And I saw but a thing of flesh and bone + Speeding on to its cleft in the clay; + And my dream was scared, and expired on a moan, + And I whitely hastened away. + + + +HIS IMMORTALITY + + + I + + I SAW a dead man’s finer part + Shining within each faithful heart + Of those bereft. Then said I: “This must be + His immortality.” + + II + + I looked there as the seasons wore, + And still his soul continuously upbore + Its life in theirs. But less its shine excelled + Than when I first beheld. + + III + + His fellow-yearsmen passed, and then + In later hearts I looked for him again; + And found him—shrunk, alas! into a thin + And spectral mannikin. + + IV + + Lastly I ask—now old and chill— + If aught of him remain unperished still; + And find, in me alone, a feeble spark, + Dying amid the dark. + +_February_ 1899. + + + +THE TO-BE-FORGOTTEN + + + I + + I HEARD a small sad sound, + And stood awhile amid the tombs around: + “Wherefore, old friends,” said I, “are ye distrest, + Now, screened from life’s unrest?” + + II + + —“O not at being here; + But that our future second death is drear; + When, with the living, memory of us numbs, + And blank oblivion comes! + + III + + “Those who our grandsires be + Lie here embraced by deeper death than we; + Nor shape nor thought of theirs canst thou descry + With keenest backward eye. + + IV + + “They bide as quite forgot; + They are as men who have existed not; + Theirs is a loss past loss of fitful breath; + It is the second death. + + V + + “We here, as yet, each day + Are blest with dear recall; as yet, alway + In some soul hold a loved continuance + Of shape and voice and glance. + + VI + + “But what has been will be— + First memory, then oblivion’s turbid sea; + Like men foregone, shall we merge into those + Whose story no one knows. + + VII + + “For which of us could hope + To show in life that world-awakening scope + Granted the few whose memory none lets die, + But all men magnify? + + VIII + + “We were but Fortune’s sport; + Things true, things lovely, things of good report + We neither shunned nor sought . . . We see our bourne, + And seeing it we mourn.” + + + +WIVES IN THE SERE + + + I + + NEVER a careworn wife but shows, + If a joy suffuse her, + Something beautiful to those + Patient to peruse her, + Some one charm the world unknows + Precious to a muser, + Haply what, ere years were foes, + Moved her mate to choose her. + + II + + But, be it a hint of rose + That an instant hues her, + Or some early light or pose + Wherewith thought renews her— + Seen by him at full, ere woes + Practised to abuse her— + Sparely comes it, swiftly goes, + Time again subdues her. + + + +THE SUPERSEDED + + + I + + AS newer comers crowd the fore, + We drop behind. + —We who have laboured long and sore + Times out of mind, + And keen are yet, must not regret + To drop behind. + + II + + Yet there are of us some who grieve + To go behind; + Staunch, strenuous souls who scarce believe + Their fires declined, + And know none cares, remembers, spares + Who go behind. + + III + + ’Tis not that we have unforetold + The drop behind; + We feel the new must oust the old + In every kind; + But yet we think, must we, must _we_, + Too, drop behind? + + + +AN AUGUST MIDNIGHT + + + I + + A SHADED lamp and a waving blind, + And the beat of a clock from a distant floor: + On this scene enter—winged, horned, and spined— + A longlegs, a moth, and a dumbledore; + While ’mid my page there idly stands + A sleepy fly, that rubs its hands . . . + + II + + Thus meet we five, in this still place, + At this point of time, at this point in space. + —My guests parade my new-penned ink, + Or bang at the lamp-glass, whirl, and sink. + “God’s humblest, they!” I muse. Yet why? + They know Earth-secrets that know not I. + +MAX GATE, 1899. + + + +THE CAGED THRUSH FREED AND HOME AGAIN +(VILLANELLE) + + + “MEN know but little more than we, + Who count us least of things terrene, + How happy days are made to be! + + “Of such strange tidings what think ye, + O birds in brown that peck and preen? + Men know but little more than we! + + “When I was borne from yonder tree + In bonds to them, I hoped to glean + How happy days are made to be, + + “And want and wailing turned to glee; + Alas, despite their mighty mien + Men know but little more than we! + + “They cannot change the Frost’s decree, + They cannot keep the skies serene; + How happy days are made to be + + “Eludes great Man’s sagacity + No less than ours, O tribes in treen! + Men know but little more than we + How happy days are made to be.” + + + +BIRDS AT WINTER NIGHTFALL +(TRIOLET) + + + AROUND the house the flakes fly faster, + And all the berries now are gone + From holly and cotoneaster + Around the house. The flakes fly!—faster + Shutting indoors that crumb-outcaster + We used to see upon the lawn + Around the house. The flakes fly faster, + And all the berries now are gone! + +MAX GATE. + + + +THE PUZZLED GAME-BIRDS +(TRIOLET) + + + THEY are not those who used to feed us + When we were young—they cannot be— + These shapes that now bereave and bleed us? + They are not those who used to feed us,— + For would they not fair terms concede us? + —If hearts can house such treachery + They are not those who used to feed us + When we were young—they cannot be! + + + +WINTER IN DURNOVER FIELD + + +SCENE.—A wide stretch of fallow ground recently sown with wheat, and +frozen to iron hardness. Three large birds walking about thereon, and +wistfully eyeing the surface. Wind keen from north-east: sky a dull +grey. + + (TRIOLET) + + _Rook_.—Throughout the field I find no grain; + The cruel frost encrusts the cornland! + _Starling_.—Aye: patient pecking now is vain + Throughout the field, I find . . . + _Rook_.—No grain! + _Pigeon_.—Nor will be, comrade, till it rain, + Or genial thawings loose the lorn land + Throughout the field. + _Rook_.—I find no grain: + The cruel frost encrusts the cornland! + + + +THE LAST CHRYSANTHEMUM + + + WHY should this flower delay so long + To show its tremulous plumes? + Now is the time of plaintive robin-song, + When flowers are in their tombs. + + Through the slow summer, when the sun + Called to each frond and whorl + That all he could for flowers was being done, + Why did it not uncurl? + + It must have felt that fervid call + Although it took no heed, + Waking but now, when leaves like corpses fall, + And saps all retrocede. + + Too late its beauty, lonely thing, + The season’s shine is spent, + Nothing remains for it but shivering + In tempests turbulent. + + Had it a reason for delay, + Dreaming in witlessness + That for a bloom so delicately gay + Winter would stay its stress? + + —I talk as if the thing were born + With sense to work its mind; + Yet it is but one mask of many worn + By the Great Face behind. + + + +THE DARKLING THRUSH + + + I LEANT upon a coppice gate + When Frost was spectre-gray, + And Winter’s dregs made desolate + The weakening eye of day. + The tangled bine-stems scored the sky + Like strings from broken lyres, + And all mankind that haunted nigh + Had sought their household fires. + + The land’s sharp features seemed to be + The Century’s corpse outleant, + His crypt the cloudy canopy, + The wind his death-lament. + The ancient pulse of germ and birth + Was shrunken hard and dry, + And every spirit upon earth + Seemed fervourless as I. + + At once a voice outburst among + The bleak twigs overhead + In a full-hearted evensong + Of joy illimited; + An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small, + In blast-beruffled plume, + Had chosen thus to fling his soul + Upon the growing gloom. + + So little cause for carollings + Of such ecstatic sound + Was written on terrestrial things + Afar or nigh around, + That I could think there trembled through + His happy good-night air + Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew + And I was unaware. + +_December_ 1900. + + + +THE COMET AT YALBURY OR YELL’HAM + + + I + + IT bends far over Yell’ham Plain, + And we, from Yell’ham Height, + Stand and regard its fiery train, + So soon to swim from sight. + + II + + It will return long years hence, when + As now its strange swift shine + Will fall on Yell’ham; but not then + On that sweet form of thine. + + + +MAD JUDY + + + WHEN the hamlet hailed a birth + Judy used to cry: + When she heard our christening mirth + She would kneel and sigh. + She was crazed, we knew, and we + Humoured her infirmity. + + When the daughters and the sons + Gathered them to wed, + And we like-intending ones + Danced till dawn was red, + She would rock and mutter, “More + Comers to this stony shore!” + + When old Headsman Death laid hands + On a babe or twain, + She would feast, and by her brands + Sing her songs again. + What she liked we let her do, + Judy was insane, we knew. + + + +A WASTED ILLNESS + + + THROUGH vaults of pain, + Enribbed and wrought with groins of ghastliness, + I passed, and garish spectres moved my brain + To dire distress. + + And hammerings, + And quakes, and shoots, and stifling hotness, blent + With webby waxing things and waning things + As on I went. + + “Where lies the end + To this foul way?” I asked with weakening breath. + Thereon ahead I saw a door extend— + The door to death. + + It loomed more clear: + “At last!” I cried. “The all-delivering door!” + And then, I knew not how, it grew less near + Than theretofore. + + And back slid I + Along the galleries by which I came, + And tediously the day returned, and sky, + And life—the same. + + And all was well: + Old circumstance resumed its former show, + And on my head the dews of comfort fell + As ere my woe. + + I roam anew, + Scarce conscious of my late distress . . . And yet + Those backward steps through pain I cannot view + Without regret. + + For that dire train + Of waxing shapes and waning, passed before, + And those grim aisles, must be traversed again + To reach that door. + + + +A MAN +(IN MEMORY OF H. OF M.) + + + I + + IN Casterbridge there stood a noble pile, + Wrought with pilaster, bay, and balustrade + In tactful times when shrewd Eliza swayed.— + On burgher, squire, and clown + It smiled the long street down for near a mile + + II + + But evil days beset that domicile; + The stately beauties of its roof and wall + Passed into sordid hands. Condemned to fall + Were cornice, quoin, and cove, + And all that art had wove in antique style. + + III + + Among the hired dismantlers entered there + One till the moment of his task untold. + When charged therewith he gazed, and answered bold: + “Be needy I or no, + I will not help lay low a house so fair! + + IV + + “Hunger is hard. But since the terms be such— + No wage, or labour stained with the disgrace + Of wrecking what our age cannot replace + To save its tasteless soul— + I’ll do without your dole. Life is not much!” + + V + + Dismissed with sneers he backed his tools and went, + And wandered workless; for it seemed unwise + To close with one who dared to criticize + And carp on points of taste: + To work where they were placed rude men were meant. + + VI + + Years whiled. He aged, sank, sickened, and was not: + And it was said, “A man intractable + And curst is gone.” None sighed to hear his knell, + None sought his churchyard-place; + His name, his rugged face, were soon forgot. + + VII + + The stones of that fair hall lie far and wide, + And but a few recall its ancient mould; + Yet when I pass the spot I long to hold + As truth what fancy saith: + “His protest lives where deathless things abide!” + + + +THE DAME OF ATHELHALL + + + I + + “SOUL! Shall I see thy face,” she said, + “In one brief hour? + And away with thee from a loveless bed + To a far-off sun, to a vine-wrapt bower, + And be thine own unseparated, + And challenge the world’s white glower?” + + II + + She quickened her feet, and met him where + They had predesigned: + And they clasped, and mounted, and cleft the air + Upon whirling wheels; till the will to bind + Her life with his made the moments there + Efface the years behind. + + III + + Miles slid, and the sight of the port upgrew + As they sped on; + When slipping its bond the bracelet flew + From her fondled arm. Replaced anon, + Its cameo of the abjured one drew + Her musings thereupon. + + IV + + The gaud with his image once had been + A gift from him: + And so it was that its carving keen + Refurbished memories wearing dim, + Which set in her soul a throe of teen, + And a tear on her lashes’ brim. + + V + + “I may not go!” she at length upspake, + “Thoughts call me back— + I would still lose all for your dear, dear sake; + My heart is thine, friend! But my track + I home to Athelhall must take + To hinder household wrack!” + + VI + + He appealed. But they parted, weak and wan: + And he left the shore; + His ship diminished, was low, was gone; + And she heard in the waves as the daytide wore, + And read in the leer of the sun that shone, + That they parted for evermore. + + VII + + She homed as she came, at the dip of eve + On Athel Coomb + Regaining the Hall she had sworn to leave . . . + The house was soundless as a tomb, + And she entered her chamber, there to grieve + Lone, kneeling, in the gloom. + + VIII + + From the lawn without rose her husband’s voice + To one his friend: + “Another her Love, another my choice, + Her going is good. Our conditions mend; + In a change of mates we shall both rejoice; + I hoped that it thus might end! + + IX + + “A quick divorce; she will make him hers, + And I wed mine. + So Time rights all things in long, long years— + Or rather she, by her bold design! + I admire a woman no balk deters: + She has blessed my life, in fine. + + X + + “I shall build new rooms for my new true bride, + Let the bygone be: + By now, no doubt, she has crossed the tide + With the man to her mind. Far happier she + In some warm vineland by his side + Than ever she was with me.” + + + +THE SEASONS OF HER YEAR + + + I + + WINTER is white on turf and tree, + And birds are fled; + But summer songsters pipe to me, + And petals spread, + For what I dreamt of secretly + His lips have said! + + II + + O ’tis a fine May morn, they say, + And blooms have blown; + But wild and wintry is my day, + My birds make moan; + For he who vowed leaves me to pay + Alone—alone! + + + +THE MILKMAID + + + UNDER a daisied bank + There stands a rich red ruminating cow, + And hard against her flank + A cotton-hooded milkmaid bends her brow. + + The flowery river-ooze + Upheaves and falls; the milk purrs in the pail; + Few pilgrims but would choose + The peace of such a life in such a vale. + + The maid breathes words—to vent, + It seems, her sense of Nature’s scenery, + Of whose life, sentiment, + And essence, very part itself is she. + + She bends a glance of pain, + And, at a moment, lets escape a tear; + Is it that passing train, + Whose alien whirr offends her country ear?— + + Nay! Phyllis does not dwell + On visual and familiar things like these; + What moves her is the spell + Of inner themes and inner poetries: + + Could but by Sunday morn + Her gay new gown come, meads might dry to dun, + Trains shriek till ears were torn, + If Fred would not prefer that Other One. + + + +THE LEVELLED CHURCHYARD + + + “O PASSENGER, pray list and catch + Our sighs and piteous groans, + Half stifled in this jumbled patch + Of wrenched memorial stones! + + “We late-lamented, resting here, + Are mixed to human jam, + And each to each exclaims in fear, + ‘I know not which I am!’ + + “The wicked people have annexed + The verses on the good; + A roaring drunkard sports the text + Teetotal Tommy should! + + “Where we are huddled none can trace, + And if our names remain, + They pave some path or p-ing place + Where we have never lain! + + “There’s not a modest maiden elf + But dreads the final Trumpet, + Lest half of her should rise herself, + And half some local strumpet! + + “From restorations of Thy fane, + From smoothings of Thy sward, + From zealous Churchmen’s pick and plane + Deliver us O Lord! Amen!” + +1882. + + + +THE RUINED MAID + + + “O ’Melia, my dear, this does everything crown! + Who could have supposed I should meet you in Town? + And whence such fair garments, such prosperi-ty?”— + “O didn’t you know I’d been ruined?” said she. + + —“You left us in tatters, without shoes or socks, + Tired of digging potatoes, and spudding up docks; + And now you’ve gay bracelets and bright feathers three!”— + “Yes: that’s how we dress when we’re ruined,” said she. + + —“At home in the barton you said ‘thee’ and ‘thou,’ + And ‘thik oon,’ and ‘theäs oon,’ and ‘t’other’; but now + Your talking quite fits ’ee for high compa-ny!”— + “Some polish is gained with one’s ruin,” said she. + + —“Your hands were like paws then, your face blue and bleak, + But now I’m bewitched by your delicate cheek, + And your little gloves fit as on any la-dy!”— + “We never do work when we’re ruined,” said she. + + —“You used to call home-life a hag-ridden dream, + And you’d sigh, and you’d sock; but at present you seem + To know not of megrims or melancho-ly!”— + “True. There’s an advantage in ruin,” said she. + + —“I wish I had feathers, a fine sweeping gown, + And a delicate face, and could strut about Town!”— + “My dear—a raw country girl, such as you be, + Isn’t equal to that. You ain’t ruined,” said she. + +WESTBOURNE PARK VILLAS, 1866. + + + +THE RESPECTABLE BURGHER +ON “THE HIGHER CRITICISM” + + + SINCE Reverend Doctors now declare + That clerks and people must prepare + To doubt if Adam ever were; + To hold the flood a local scare; + To argue, though the stolid stare, + That everything had happened ere + The prophets to its happening sware; + That David was no giant-slayer, + Nor one to call a God-obeyer + In certain details we could spare, + But rather was a debonair + Shrewd bandit, skilled as banjo-player: + That Solomon sang the fleshly Fair, + And gave the Church no thought whate’er; + That Esther with her royal wear, + And Mordecai, the son of Jair, + And Joshua’s triumphs, Job’s despair, + And Balaam’s ass’s bitter blare; + Nebuchadnezzar’s furnace-flare, + And Daniel and the den affair, + And other stories rich and rare, + Were writ to make old doctrine wear + Something of a romantic air: + That the Nain widow’s only heir, + And Lazarus with cadaverous glare + (As done in oils by Piombo’s care) + Did not return from Sheol’s lair: + That Jael set a fiendish snare, + That Pontius Pilate acted square, + That never a sword cut Malchus’ ear + And (but for shame I must forbear) + That — — did not reappear! . . . + —Since thus they hint, nor turn a hair, + All churchgoing will I forswear, + And sit on Sundays in my chair, + And read that moderate man Voltaire. + + + +ARCHITECTURAL MASKS + + + I + + THERE is a house with ivied walls, + And mullioned windows worn and old, + And the long dwellers in those halls + Have souls that know but sordid calls, + And daily dote on gold. + + II + + In blazing brick and plated show + Not far away a “villa” gleams, + And here a family few may know, + With book and pencil, viol and bow, + Lead inner lives of dreams. + + III + + The philosophic passers say, + “See that old mansion mossed and fair, + Poetic souls therein are they: + And O that gaudy box! Away, + You vulgar people there.” + + + +THE TENANT-FOR-LIFE + + + THE sun said, watching my watering-pot + “Some morn you’ll pass away; + These flowers and plants I parch up hot— + Who’ll water them that day? + + “Those banks and beds whose shape your eye + Has planned in line so true, + New hands will change, unreasoning why + Such shape seemed best to you. + + “Within your house will strangers sit, + And wonder how first it came; + They’ll talk of their schemes for improving it, + And will not mention your name. + + “They’ll care not how, or when, or at what + You sighed, laughed, suffered here, + Though you feel more in an hour of the spot + Than they will feel in a year + + “As I look on at you here, now, + Shall I look on at these; + But as to our old times, avow + No knowledge—hold my peace! . . . + + “O friend, it matters not, I say; + Bethink ye, I have shined + On nobler ones than you, and they + Are dead men out of mind!” + + + +THE KING’S EXPERIMENT + + + IT was a wet wan hour in spring, + And Nature met King Doom beside a lane, + Wherein Hodge trudged, all blithely ballading + The Mother’s smiling reign. + + “Why warbles he that skies are fair + And coombs alight,” she cried, “and fallows gay, + When I have placed no sunshine in the air + Or glow on earth to-day?” + + “’Tis in the comedy of things + That such should be,” returned the one of Doom; + “Charge now the scene with brightest blazonings, + And he shall call them gloom.” + + She gave the word: the sun outbroke, + All Froomside shone, the hedgebirds raised a song; + And later Hodge, upon the midday stroke, + Returned the lane along, + + Low murmuring: “O this bitter scene, + And thrice accurst horizon hung with gloom! + How deadly like this sky, these fields, these treen, + To trappings of the tomb!” + + The Beldame then: “The fool and blind! + Such mad perverseness who may apprehend?”— + “Nay; there’s no madness in it; thou shalt find + Thy law there,” said her friend. + + “When Hodge went forth ’twas to his Love, + To make her, ere this eve, his wedded prize, + And Earth, despite the heaviness above, + Was bright as Paradise. + + “But I sent on my messenger, + With cunning arrows poisonous and keen, + To take forthwith her laughing life from her, + And dull her little een, + + “And white her cheek, and still her breath, + Ere her too buoyant Hodge had reached her side; + So, when he came, he clasped her but in death, + And never as his bride. + + “And there’s the humour, as I said; + Thy dreary dawn he saw as gleaming gold, + And in thy glistening green and radiant red + Funereal gloom and cold.” + + + +THE TREE +AN OLD MAN’S STORY + + + I + + Its roots are bristling in the air + Like some mad Earth-god’s spiny hair; + The loud south-wester’s swell and yell + Smote it at midnight, and it fell. + Thus ends the tree + Where Some One sat with me. + + II + + Its boughs, which none but darers trod, + A child may step on from the sod, + And twigs that earliest met the dawn + Are lit the last upon the lawn. + Cart off the tree + Beneath whose trunk sat we! + + III + + Yes, there we sat: she cooed content, + And bats ringed round, and daylight went; + The gnarl, our seat, is wrenched and sunk, + Prone that queer pocket in the trunk + Where lay the key + To her pale mystery. + + IV + + “Years back, within this pocket-hole + I found, my Love, a hurried scrawl + Meant not for me,” at length said I; + “I glanced thereat, and let it lie: + The words were three— + ‘_Beloved_, _I agree_.’ + + V + + “Who placed it here; to what request + It gave assent, I never guessed. + Some prayer of some hot heart, no doubt, + To some coy maiden hereabout, + Just as, maybe, + With you, Sweet Heart, and me.” + + VI + + She waited, till with quickened breath + She spoke, as one who banisheth + Reserves that lovecraft heeds so well, + To ease some mighty wish to tell: + “’Twas I,” said she, + “Who wrote thus clinchingly. + + VII + + “My lover’s wife—aye, wife!—knew nought + Of what we felt, and bore, and thought . . . + He’d said: ‘_I wed with thee or die_: + _She stands between_, ’_tis true_. _But why_? + _Do thou agree_, + _And—she shalt cease to be_.’ + + VIII + + “How I held back, how love supreme + Involved me madly in his scheme + Why should I say? . . . I wrote assent + (You found it hid) to his intent . . . + She—_died_ . . . But he + Came not to wed with me. + + IX + + “O shrink not, Love!—Had these eyes seen + But once thine own, such had not been! + But we were strangers . . . Thus the plot + Cleared passion’s path.—Why came he not + To wed with me? . . . + He wived the gibbet-tree.” + + X + + —Under that oak of heretofore + Sat Sweetheart mine with me no more: + By many a Fiord, and Strom, and Fleuve + Have I since wandered . . . Soon, for love, + Distraught went she— + ’Twas said for love of me. + + + +HER LATE HUSBAND +(KING’S-HINTOCK, 182–.) + + + “No—not where I shall make my own; + But dig his grave just by + The woman’s with the initialed stone— + As near as he can lie— + After whose death he seemed to ail, + Though none considered why. + + “And when I also claim a nook, + And your feet tread me in, + Bestow me, under my old name, + Among my kith and kin, + That strangers gazing may not dream + I did a husband win.” + + “Widow, your wish shall be obeyed; + Though, thought I, certainly + You’d lay him where your folk are laid, + And your grave, too, will be, + As custom hath it; you to right, + And on the left hand he.” + + “Aye, sexton; such the Hintock rule, + And none has said it nay; + But now it haps a native here + Eschews that ancient way . . . + And it may be, some Christmas night, + When angels walk, they’ll say: + + “‘O strange interment! Civilized lands + Afford few types thereof; + Here is a man who takes his rest + Beside his very Love, + Beside the one who was his wife + In our sight up above!’” + + + +THE SELF-UNSEEING + + + HERE is the ancient floor, + Footworn and hollowed and thin, + Here was the former door + Where the dead feet walked in. + + She sat here in her chair, + Smiling into the fire; + He who played stood there, + Bowing it higher and higher. + + Childlike, I danced in a dream; + Blessings emblazoned that day + Everything glowed with a gleam; + Yet we were looking away! + + + +DE PROFUNDIS + + +I + + + “Percussus sum sicut foenum, et aruit cor meum.” + + —_Ps._ ci + + WINTERTIME nighs; + But my bereavement-pain + It cannot bring again: + Twice no one dies. + + Flower-petals flee; + But, since it once hath been, + No more that severing scene + Can harrow me. + + Birds faint in dread: + I shall not lose old strength + In the lone frost’s black length: + Strength long since fled! + + Leaves freeze to dun; + But friends can not turn cold + This season as of old + For him with none. + + Tempests may scath; + But love can not make smart + Again this year his heart + Who no heart hath. + + Black is night’s cope; + But death will not appal + One who, past doubtings all, + Waits in unhope. + + +II + + + “Considerabam ad dexteram, et videbam; et non erat qui cognosceret me + . . . Non est qui requirat animam meam.”—_Ps._ cxli. + + WHEN the clouds’ swoln bosoms echo back the shouts of the many and + strong + That things are all as they best may be, save a few to be right ere + long, + And my eyes have not the vision in them to discern what to these is so + clear, + The blot seems straightway in me alone; one better he were not here. + + The stout upstanders say, All’s well with us: ruers have nought to + rue! + And what the potent say so oft, can it fail to be somewhat true? + Breezily go they, breezily come; their dust smokes around their + career, + Till I think I am one horn out of due time, who has no calling here. + + Their dawns bring lusty joys, it seems; their eves exultance sweet; + Our times are blessed times, they cry: Life shapes it as is most meet, + And nothing is much the matter; there are many smiles to a tear; + Then what is the matter is I, I say. Why should such an one be here? + . . . + + Let him to whose ears the low-voiced Best seems stilled by the clash + of the First, + Who holds that if way to the Better there be, it exacts a full look at + the Worst, + Who feels that delight is a delicate growth cramped by crookedness, + custom, and fear, + Get him up and be gone as one shaped awry; he disturbs the order here. + +1895–96. + + III + + “Heu mihi, quia incolatus meus prolongatus est! Habitavi cum + habitantibus Cedar; multum incola fuit aninia mea.”—_Ps._ cxix. + + THERE have been times when I well might have passed and the ending + have come— + Points in my path when the dark might have stolen on me, artless, + unrueing— + Ere I had learnt that the world was a welter of futile doing: + Such had been times when I well might have passed, and the ending have + come! + + Say, on the noon when the half-sunny hours told that April was nigh, + And I upgathered and cast forth the snow from the crocus-border, + Fashioned and furbished the soil into a summer-seeming order, + Glowing in gladsome faith that I quickened the year thereby. + + Or on that loneliest of eves when afar and benighted we stood, + She who upheld me and I, in the midmost of Egdon together, + Confident I in her watching and ward through the blackening heather, + Deeming her matchless in might and with measureless scope endued. + + Or on that winter-wild night when, reclined by the chimney-nook quoin, + Slowly a drowse overgat me, the smallest and feeblest of folk there, + Weak from my baptism of pain; when at times and anon I awoke there— + Heard of a world wheeling on, with no listing or longing to join. + + Even then! while unweeting that vision could vex or that knowledge + could numb, + That sweets to the mouth in the belly are bitter, and tart, and + untoward, + Then, on some dim-coloured scene should my briefly raised curtain have + lowered, + Then might the Voice that is law have said “Cease!” and the ending + have come. + +1896. + + + +THE CHURCH-BUILDER + + + I + + THE church flings forth a battled shade + Over the moon-blanched sward; + The church; my gift; whereto I paid + My all in hand and hoard: + Lavished my gains + With stintless pains + To glorify the Lord. + + II + + I squared the broad foundations in + Of ashlared masonry; + I moulded mullions thick and thin, + Hewed fillet and ogee; + I circleted + Each sculptured head + With nimb and canopy. + + III + + I called in many a craftsmaster + To fix emblazoned glass, + To figure Cross and Sepulchre + On dossal, boss, and brass. + My gold all spent, + My jewels went + To gem the cups of Mass. + + IV + + I borrowed deep to carve the screen + And raise the ivoried Rood; + I parted with my small demesne + To make my owings good. + Heir-looms unpriced + I sacrificed, + Until debt-free I stood. + + V + + So closed the task. “Deathless the Creed + Here substanced!” said my soul: + “I heard me bidden to this deed, + And straight obeyed the call. + Illume this fane, + That not in vain + I build it, Lord of all!” + + VI + + But, as it chanced me, then and there + Did dire misfortunes burst; + My home went waste for lack of care, + My sons rebelled and curst; + Till I confessed + That aims the best + Were looking like the worst. + + VII + + Enkindled by my votive work + No burning faith I find; + The deeper thinkers sneer and smirk, + And give my toil no mind; + From nod and wink + I read they think + That I am fool and blind. + + VIII + + My gift to God seems futile, quite; + The world moves as erstwhile; + And powerful wrong on feeble right + Tramples in olden style. + My faith burns down, + I see no crown; + But Cares, and Griefs, and Guile. + + IX + + So now, the remedy? Yea, this: + I gently swing the door + Here, of my fane—no soul to wis— + And cross the patterned floor + To the rood-screen + That stands between + The nave and inner chore. + + X + + The rich red windows dim the moon, + But little light need I; + I mount the prie-dieu, lately hewn + From woods of rarest dye; + Then from below + My garment, so, + I draw this cord, and tie + + XI + + One end thereof around the beam + Midway ’twixt Cross and truss: + I noose the nethermost extreme, + And in ten seconds thus + I journey hence— + To that land whence + No rumour reaches us. + + XII + + Well: Here at morn they’ll light on one + Dangling in mockery + Of what he spent his substance on + Blindly and uselessly! . . . + “He might,” they’ll say, + “Have built, some way. + A cheaper gallows-tree!” + + + +THE LOST PYX +A MEDIÆVAL LEGEND {457} + + + SOME say the spot is banned; that the pillar Cross-and-Hand + Attests to a deed of hell; + But of else than of bale is the mystic tale + That ancient Vale-folk tell. + + Ere Cernel’s Abbey ceased hereabout there dwelt a priest, + (In later life sub-prior + Of the brotherhood there, whose bones are now bare + In the field that was Cernel choir). + + One night in his cell at the foot of yon dell + The priest heard a frequent cry: + “Go, father, in haste to the cot on the waste, + And shrive a man waiting to die.” + + Said the priest in a shout to the caller without, + “The night howls, the tree-trunks bow; + One may barely by day track so rugged a way, + And can I then do so now?” + + No further word from the dark was heard, + And the priest moved never a limb; + And he slept and dreamed; till a Visage seemed + To frown from Heaven at him. + + In a sweat he arose; and the storm shrieked shrill, + And smote as in savage joy; + While High-Stoy trees twanged to Bubb-Down Hill, + And Bubb-Down to High-Stoy. + + There seemed not a holy thing in hail, + Nor shape of light or love, + From the Abbey north of Blackmore Vale + To the Abbey south thereof. + + Yet he plodded thence through the dark immense, + And with many a stumbling stride + Through copse and briar climbed nigh and nigher + To the cot and the sick man’s side. + + When he would have unslung the Vessels uphung + To his arm in the steep ascent, + He made loud moan: the Pyx was gone + Of the Blessed Sacrament. + + Then in dolorous dread he beat his head: + “No earthly prize or pelf + Is the thing I’ve lost in tempest tossed, + But the Body of Christ Himself!” + + He thought of the Visage his dream revealed, + And turned towards whence he came, + Hands groping the ground along foot-track and field, + And head in a heat of shame. + + Till here on the hill, betwixt vill and vill, + He noted a clear straight ray + Stretching down from the sky to a spot hard by, + Which shone with the light of day. + + And gathered around the illumined ground + Were common beasts and rare, + All kneeling at gaze, and in pause profound + Attent on an object there. + + ’Twas the Pyx, unharmed ’mid the circling rows + Of Blackmore’s hairy throng, + Whereof were oxen, sheep, and does, + And hares from the brakes among; + + And badgers grey, and conies keen, + And squirrels of the tree, + And many a member seldom seen + Of Nature’s family. + + The ireful winds that scoured and swept + Through coppice, clump, and dell, + Within that holy circle slept + Calm as in hermit’s cell. + + Then the priest bent likewise to the sod + And thanked the Lord of Love, + And Blessed Mary, Mother of God, + And all the saints above. + + And turning straight with his priceless freight, + He reached the dying one, + Whose passing sprite had been stayed for the rite + Without which bliss hath none. + + And when by grace the priest won place, + And served the Abbey well, + He reared this stone to mark where shone + That midnight miracle. + + + +TESS’S LAMENT + + + I + + I WOULD that folk forgot me quite, + Forgot me quite! + I would that I could shrink from sight, + And no more see the sun. + Would it were time to say farewell, + To claim my nook, to need my knell, + Time for them all to stand and tell + Of my day’s work as done. + + II + + Ah! dairy where I lived so long, + I lived so long; + Where I would rise up stanch and strong, + And lie down hopefully. + ’Twas there within the chimney-seat + He watched me to the clock’s slow beat— + Loved me, and learnt to call me sweet, + And whispered words to me. + + III + + And now he’s gone; and now he’s gone; . . . + And now he’s gone! + The flowers we potted p’rhaps are thrown + To rot upon the farm. + And where we had our supper-fire + May now grow nettle, dock, and briar, + And all the place be mould and mire + So cozy once and warm. + + IV + + And it was I who did it all, + Who did it all; + ’Twas I who made the blow to fall + On him who thought no guile. + Well, it is finished—past, and he + Has left me to my misery, + And I must take my Cross on me + For wronging him awhile. + + V + + How gay we looked that day we wed, + That day we wed! + “May joy be with ye!” all o’m said + A standing by the durn. + I wonder what they say o’s now, + And if they know my lot; and how + She feels who milks my favourite cow, + And takes my place at churn! + + VI + + It wears me out to think of it, + To think of it; + I cannot bear my fate as writ, + I’d have my life unbe; + Would turn my memory to a blot, + Make every relic of me rot, + My doings be as they were not, + And what they’ve brought to me! + + + +THE SUPPLANTER +A TALE + + + I + + HE bends his travel-tarnished feet + To where she wastes in clay: + From day-dawn until eve he fares + Along the wintry way; + From day-dawn until eve repairs + Unto her mound to pray. + + II + + “Are these the gravestone shapes that meet + My forward-straining view? + Or forms that cross a window-blind + In circle, knot, and queue: + Gay forms, that cross and whirl and wind + To music throbbing through?”— + + III + + “The Keeper of the Field of Tombs + Dwells by its gateway-pier; + He celebrates with feast and dance + His daughter’s twentieth year: + He celebrates with wine of France + The birthday of his dear.”— + + IV + + “The gates are shut when evening glooms: + Lay down your wreath, sad wight; + To-morrow is a time more fit + For placing flowers aright: + The morning is the time for it; + Come, wake with us to-night!”— + + V + + He grounds his wreath, and enters in, + And sits, and shares their cheer.— + “I fain would foot with you, young man, + Before all others here; + I fain would foot it for a span + With such a cavalier!” + + VI + + She coaxes, clasps, nor fails to win + His first-unwilling hand: + The merry music strikes its staves, + The dancers quickly band; + And with the damsel of the graves + He duly takes his stand. + + VII + + “You dance divinely, stranger swain, + Such grace I’ve never known. + O longer stay! Breathe not adieu + And leave me here alone! + O longer stay: to her be true + Whose heart is all your own!”— + + VIII + + “I mark a phantom through the pane, + That beckons in despair, + Its mouth all drawn with heavy moan— + Her to whom once I sware!”— + “Nay; ’tis the lately carven stone + Of some strange girl laid there!”— + + IX + + “I see white flowers upon the floor + Betrodden to a clot; + My wreath were they?”—“Nay; love me much, + Swear you’ll forget me not! + ’Twas but a wreath! Full many such + Are brought here and forgot.” + + * * * * * * * + + X + + The watches of the night grow hoar, + He rises ere the sun; + “Now could I kill thee here!” he says, + “For winning me from one + Who ever in her living days + Was pure as cloistered nun!” + + XI + + She cowers, and he takes his track + Afar for many a mile, + For evermore to be apart + From her who could beguile + His senses by her burning heart, + And win his love awhile. + + XII + + A year: and he is travelling back + To her who wastes in clay; + From day-dawn until eve he fares + Along the wintry way, + From day-dawn until eve repairs + Unto her mound to pray. + + XIII + + And there he sets him to fulfil + His frustrate first intent: + And lay upon her bed, at last, + The offering earlier meant: + When, on his stooping figure, ghast + And haggard eyes are bent. + + XIV + + “O surely for a little while + You can be kind to me! + For do you love her, do you hate, + She knows not—cares not she: + Only the living feel the weight + Of loveless misery! + + XV + + “I own my sin; I’ve paid its cost, + Being outcast, shamed, and bare: + I give you daily my whole heart, + Your babe my tender care, + I pour you prayers; and aye to part + Is more than I can bear!” + + XVI + + He turns—unpitying, passion-tossed; + “I know you not!” he cries, + “Nor know your child. I knew this maid, + But she’s in Paradise!” + And swiftly in the winter shade + He breaks from her and flies. + + + + +IMITATIONS, ETC. + + +SAPPHIC FRAGMENT + + + “Thou shalt be—Nothing.”—OMAR KHAYYÁM. + + “Tombless, with no remembrance.”—W. SHAKESPEARE. + + DEAD shalt thou lie; and nought + Be told of thee or thought, + For thou hast plucked not of the Muses’ tree: + And even in Hades’ halls + Amidst thy fellow-thralls + No friendly shade thy shade shall company! + + + +CATULLUS: XXXI +(After passing Sirmione, April 1887.) + + + SIRMIO, thou dearest dear of strands + That Neptune strokes in lake and sea, + With what high joy from stranger lands + Doth thy old friend set foot on thee! + Yea, barely seems it true to me + That no Bithynia holds me now, + But calmly and assuringly + Around me stretchest homely Thou. + + Is there a scene more sweet than when + Our clinging cares are undercast, + And, worn by alien moils and men, + The long untrodden sill repassed, + We press the pined for couch at last, + And find a full repayment there? + Then hail, sweet Sirmio; thou that wast, + And art, mine own unrivalled Fair! + + + +AFTER SCHILLER + + + KNIGHT, a true sister-love + This heart retains; + Ask me no other love, + That way lie pains! + + Calm must I view thee come, + Calm see thee go; + Tale-telling tears of thine + I must not know! + + + +SONG FROM HEINE + + + I SCANNED her picture dreaming, + Till each dear line and hue + Was imaged, to my seeming, + As if it lived anew. + + Her lips began to borrow + Their former wondrous smile; + Her fair eyes, faint with sorrow, + Grew sparkling as erstwhile. + + Such tears as often ran not + Ran then, my love, for thee; + And O, believe I cannot + That thou are lost to me! + + + +FROM VICTOR HUGO + + + CHILD, were I king, I’d yield my royal rule, + My chariot, sceptre, vassal-service due, + My crown, my porphyry-basined waters cool, + My fleets, whereto the sea is but a pool, + For a glance from you! + + Love, were I God, the earth and its heaving airs, + Angels, the demons abject under me, + Vast chaos with its teeming womby lairs, + Time, space, all would I give—aye, upper spheres, + For a kiss from thee! + + + +CARDINAL BEMBO’S EPITAPH ON RAPHAEL + + + HERE’S one in whom Nature feared—faint at such vying— + Eclipse while he lived, and decease at his dying. + + + + +RETROSPECT + + +“I HAVE LIVED WITH SHADES” + + + I + + I HAVE lived with shades so long, + And talked to them so oft, + Since forth from cot and croft + I went mankind among, + That sometimes they + In their dim style + Will pause awhile + To hear my say; + + II + + And take me by the hand, + And lead me through their rooms + In the To-be, where Dooms + Half-wove and shapeless stand: + And show from there + The dwindled dust + And rot and rust + Of things that were. + + III + + “Now turn,” spake they to me + One day: “Look whence we came, + And signify his name + Who gazes thence at thee.”— + —“Nor name nor race + Know I, or can,” + I said, “Of man + So commonplace. + + IV + + “He moves me not at all; + I note no ray or jot + Of rareness in his lot, + Or star exceptional. + Into the dim + Dead throngs around + He’ll sink, nor sound + Be left of him.” + + V + + “Yet,” said they, “his frail speech, + Hath accents pitched like thine— + Thy mould and his define + A likeness each to each— + But go! Deep pain + Alas, would be + His name to thee, + And told in vain!” + +_Feb._ 2, 1899. + + + +MEMORY AND I + + + “O MEMORY, where is now my youth, + Who used to say that life was truth?” + + “I saw him in a crumbled cot + Beneath a tottering tree; + That he as phantom lingers there + Is only known to me.” + + “O Memory, where is now my joy, + Who lived with me in sweet employ?” + + “I saw him in gaunt gardens lone, + Where laughter used to be; + That he as phantom wanders there + Is known to none but me.” + + “O Memory, where is now my hope, + Who charged with deeds my skill and scope?” + + “I saw her in a tomb of tomes, + Where dreams are wont to be; + That she as spectre haunteth there + Is only known to me.” + + “O Memory, where is now my faith, + One time a champion, now a wraith?” + + “I saw her in a ravaged aisle, + Bowed down on bended knee; + That her poor ghost outflickers there + Is known to none but me.” + + “O Memory, where is now my love, + That rayed me as a god above?” + + “I saw him by an ageing shape + Where beauty used to be; + That his fond phantom lingers there + Is only known to me.” + + + +ἈΓΝΩΣΤΩι ΘΕΩι. + + + LONG have I framed weak phantasies of Thee, + O Willer masked and dumb! + Who makest Life become,— + As though by labouring all-unknowingly, + Like one whom reveries numb. + + How much of consciousness informs Thy will + Thy biddings, as if blind, + Of death-inducing kind, + Nought shows to us ephemeral ones who fill + But moments in Thy mind. + + Perhaps Thy ancient rote-restricted ways + Thy ripening rule transcends; + That listless effort tends + To grow percipient with advance of days, + And with percipience mends. + + For, in unwonted purlieus, far and nigh, + At whiles or short or long, + May be discerned a wrong + Dying as of self-slaughter; whereat I + Would raise my voice in song. + + + + +FOOTNOTES + + +{253} The “Race” is the turbulent sea-area off the Bill of Portland, +where contrary tides meet. + +{290} Pronounce “Loddy.” + +{457} On a lonely table-land above the Vale of Blackmore, between +High-Stoy and Bubb-Down hills, and commanding in clear weather views that +extend from the English to the Bristol Channel, stands a pillar, +apparently mediæval, called Cross-and-Hand or Christ-in-Hand. 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