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diff --git a/37751.txt b/37751.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d0512ba --- /dev/null +++ b/37751.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2502 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Deluge and Other Poems, by John Presland + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Deluge and Other Poems + +Author: John Presland + +Release Date: October 13, 2011 [EBook #37751] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DELUGE AND OTHER POEMS *** + + + + +Produced by Al Haines + + + + + + + + + + +THE DELUGE + +AND OTHER POEMS + + +BY + +JOHN PRESLAND + +AUTHOR OF "MANIN AND THE DEFENCE OF VENICE" + "MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS," ETC. + + + + +LONDON + +CHATTO & WINDUS + +1911 + + + + +_All rights reserved_ + + + + +CONTENTS + + + The Deluge + + Sonnets-- + To J. F. W. + To Andrew Chatto + November + To a Robin in December + A January Morning + February + To April--I + To April--II + To Daniel Manin + + To the Leaders of both Parties + Consolation + Tapestry + Wisdom and Youth + A Villa on the Bay of Naples + A Song + The Ballad of a Sea-Nymph + Chrysanthemums + A Courtly Madrigal + In Arcadia + A Ballad of King Richard + In the Valley of the Shadow + + + + +THE DELUGE + +"The Sons of God saw the daughters of men, that they were +fair."--_Genesis_ vi. 2. + +DRAMATIS PERSONAE + + _The Seeker after Truth_ + _His Wife_ + _His Mother_ + _Chorus_ + + + SCENE I + + _The wife and the mother spinning_ + + THE WIFE (_sings_) + + Love, it is dark among your roses, + The face of the moon is turned away, + The nightingale is silent and lonely; + Lean from your window a little way!-- + + Lean but a little way towards me, + Out of the window where jasmines twine, + Open the lattice, softly, slowly, + Till the light of your eyes shall gladden mine. + + Love, it is dark among your roses; + And how, since the nightingales are fled, + Can I tell your heart how my heart is lowly, + To touch the ground where your sandals tread? + + This is your garden; these your flowers; + These stars have seen you; these dews have known; + And now your eyes and your smile you give me-- + Give me your love, and be all mine own! + + + THE MOTHER + + Sing that again, the music soothes my ear. + + + THE WIFE + + My husband made it for me ere we wed, + And sang it in my garden; I arose + And leaned down to him, and my fingers gave + To all his kisses. Ah! those days were sweet. + + + THE MOTHER + + Not sweet now? + + + THE WIFE + + I am happy in his love + And thank God for it, nay, propitiate + With vows and offering; I fear a wrath + Called down on too great happiness; I fear-- + I know not what--Oh, I possess a gift + So rare and precious, that, like men who go + Laden with rubies, I am grown suspect + Of all the earth and heaven, feel the stars + Peer covetously on me. Every hour + That he is from my side a cloud of woe + Settles upon me like a swarm of bees. + Ah, is it possible that we can sin + In happiness, against a jealous God? + + + THE MOTHER + + Nay, nay, these foolish thoughts! your wits are strayed + With too much brooding: let me bind afresh + The knot of scarlet lilies in your hair; + They fade already, for the sun is high + Towards the noon: Ah, child, what waits for you + But love, and yet more love, and happiness, + And children of delight, and in old age + Respect of all the peoples, and at last + Death in his arms and burial in peace? + Still do you tremble, what is it you fear? + + + THE WIFE + + Can you not feel a something in the air, + A warning, or a presence, or the weight + Of some unguessed-at horror, that, like dust + Impalpable and deadly, clings and kills? + There is some terror--'tis my heart that speaks + And warns me--ah! would God indeed, your son, + (My love and husband) had another father + Than that celestial being. This it is + That puts eternal sadness on his brow, + And shade within his eyes I cannot lift, + Even with kisses; 'tis the angel nature + That makes him sit spell-woven in a trance, + Chin in his hand, and eyes on vacancy, + And lips all bare of love, the while his soul + Struggles against the bonds of finity. + + + THE MOTHER + + Ah, how you love him! + + + THE WIFE + + More because of it, + This kingdom infinite I cannot know + Though loving him. + + + THE MOTHER + + Alas! so did I love. + + + THE WIFE + + Tell me of love. + + + THE MOTHER + + Beloved, what should I tell + That his lips have not taught you? + + + THE WIFE + + Tell of yours; + So that I may compare your flowers with mine, + Your doubts and times of joy, and how arose + The sudden and sweet passion in your heart; + Did the world burst forth, like a flower from bud, + All suddenly in beauty, when you met? + + + THE MOTHER + + Ah, how your words have wakened memory, + And bitter-sweet, like love itself, it is. + + + THE WIFE + + The first time that you met? + + + THE MOTHER + + Ah, that first time! + It was a night of gods, a night of love. + The earth was still beneath a summer sky + So thickly sown with stars, that it appeared + A vase of ebon in a silver shroud; + No breath there stirred, the hot air seemed to hang + In heavy folds, like silken tapestry, + Clinging, caressing; all the birds were still, + No nightingale with her ecstatic pain + Transfixed the silence; earth was dead asleep, + Sunk in a scented languor; every flower + Steamed all its odour forth, as it would pour + Its soul before the mystery of love. + + And I into the night had stolen forth, + Oppressed, with pain or joy, I knew not which, + Knew only that the blood throughout my veins + Did run like liquid fire, head to foot + I tingled with sensation, all my hair + Stirred, as with separate life within itself; + And as I plucked the flowers and wove them in, + Purple and waxen, languorously sweet, + They seemed anticipation of a touch + Should make each thread of hair become a bird, + Fluttering with outstretched wings. From off my breast + I flung my garment back; the soft air wooed + Like sleepy lips ere love is yet awake. + Then, as I lingered in the dusky depths, + All flower-shadowed, blacker than the night, + Blacker than shadows cast by palace walls + Upon a moonlit night, there, in that web + Of close-knit darkness, suddenly there came + The wonder unto me, the god, my love-- + Within mine ears there was a silver silence, + And in my heart a golden burst of song, + The darkness burned around me, with a light + Born from the other worlds, and there he stood, + Radiant, godlike, purple were his wings + And splashed with fire, purply-black his hair + And crowned with stars for flowers; in his eyes + My soul sank into passion and was drowned. + + + CHORUS + + Oh, what a pair of birds, + Hidden among the leaves! + He a god and she a maid, + Deathless lips on mortal laid; + (Nothing death retrieves.) + + There a son of God + And child of mortal seed + Met and kissed as love with love; + Oh the leaves were thick above, + No stars saw the deed. + + No stars, but the eye of God? + Ah, perchance He saw + How a god to mortal prayed + And the fatal compact made + 'Gainst eternal law. + + Veiled and still the night. + So, a fount of tears + Springs at first unseen, unguessed, + Till at last the flood confessed + Gushes down the years. + + Son of a son of God + And the daughter of men too frail! + Union of the nature's twain? + Only sorrow and want and pain, + Striving without avail; + + Desire for wings of a god + Tied to the will of a man; + Memory of a boundless space, + (Where stars and spheres their dance enlace) + With the threescore human span + + Hung like a bridge, in the gulf + Of God's eternity. + Oh a mind to know and a heart to crave + Beyond the horizon of the grave + To the bounds of infinity! + + Yet ever Fate compels + This infinite desire + To match with cramped and finite brain; + And all of heaven earth may gain + Is smoke, where should be fire. + + + + SCENE II + + THE SEEKER + + The air is heavy, all the winds are still + So that my own breath hangs about my head + Like incense o'er an altar. Now the earth + Lies in a swoon, and all the flowers droop + Weighting their stems, ranged in their brazen pots + Without the house: the very petals lie + Like languid limbs relaxed; this crimson rose + Looks as if blood-steeped, almost to my sense + Smells of the same, the lilies are like death. + There is a taint of sickness in the air + Through all the noonday light--like fever chill + In fever burning,--and the sky is brass; + The very tinkle of the fountain spray + Is dead and tuneless, even the fresh springs + Have lost their freshness, run from off my hands + In drops of lead, and all my spirit seems + Weighed and confined with fetters of decay. + Because I have loved beauty more than most + And striven to pluck out the heart of it; + Because I have such sense of lovely things + That I can pour my soul in thankfulness + Before a leaf God makes to grow aright, + A unit of perfection; 'tis ordained + Because I love most still I most must lack + Love's satisfaction, quietude of soul-- + Still must I find such void disparity + Between the false and true, and yet they grow + Together, intermingled; true is false + Itself, by sometime seeming, who shall find + The point where false and true are reconciled? + + The very flower that we stoop to smell + Grows from a dunghill, look but in its roots, + And what obscene and hideous blind life + Goes teeming; sickened then we shrink aback + From rose's velvet petals. So the soul + Holds best and meanest in a common cup. + Yet must there be a law in things that are + Seemingly lawless, purify the sight + And truth must surely then be visible, + Disparity made clear; the eye of God + Sees good in everything, thereto I strive, + To see with God's own vision, be more clear + In speech, than God, to asking human hearts. + Then is the tangle straightened, and the world + Lies in perspective, as before me lie, + Traced through the shimmering heat, the palaces, + Towers and temples, gardens and granaries, + Of this fair City, melting far away + Into the sunlight-flooded hills at last. + + Yet must I sit here for a little while, + Where many columns make a heavy gloom, + And with the trickle from the water-jars + Of unfresh water, cheat myself awhile + With thought of evening freshness. Oh my soul + Is wearier than my body with the toil, + It aches with length of watching. I have strained + My spiritual eyes to catch a glimpse of dawn + And nothing seen but blackness. Let me rest + As rest the quiet dead from doubt and toil; + Like silver feathers from the wings of God + Sleep fans my senses---- + + [_He sleeps._ + + + THE CHORUS + + Sleep, and forget, forget the aching toil, + The disappointments, and the long delays, + The watches of the night-time and the morn, + The lonely hours, unrewarded days; + Sleep, and forget. + + In death we all are equal, great and small + Brought to the common level of the dust; + There is no glory that survives the years, + Nay, nay, alike we shall be as we must; + Sleep and forget. + + In sleep we are omnipotent as gods, + Beyond our furthest wish we can attain, + Unfettered by the chain of circumstance; + Sleep then; or waking, turn and pray again + A little more to sleep and to forget. + + + + SCENE III + + _Enter the_ MOTHER _to the_ WIFE + + THE MOTHER + + Ah me, your fears have settled on my heart; + I fear the very day, there is a strange + Portentous look o'er all the earth, my hand + Stretched in the sunlight seems to throw no shade + As if the natural laws had all stood still-- + I breathe as in a nightmare, breath oppressed; + I start at every sound, but fear no sound + So much as stillness, which descends on us + Like a great mantle choking out our hearts. + + + THE WIFE + + Give me your hand, what is it makes you fear + And shiver like plane trees before the rain? + + + THE MOTHER + + As I lay in the shadow of the court + During the noonday fierceness, watched the rays + Chequered between the lattice window work, + And listened to the fountain in the grove + Of orange trees go singing to itself-- + Behold, all suddenly before me stood + My lover-god, the angel ever dear, + And radiant as that first night years ago, + There stood he; where the marble touched his feet + It glowed translucent like a sunlit gem, + The perfume of his hair had made me swoon + Had not his eyes compelled me. Grave he looked, + Where gravity in such a beauteous thing + Could find occasion, and his voice was low + And troubled, warning me. "Let not your son + Tempt God too far, He will not brook affront + Though son of mine should dare it; be assured + The secret of this riddle universe + Shall ne'er be known on earth, man was not made + For too much knowledge, mankind ceases then + When man too much aspires. Speak to him + Lest he should bring destruction on your head + And on the world." Thus spoke he, nothing more, + And ere my eyes could hold him he was gone. + + + THE WIFE + + Ah, let us go in to my husband then + And warn him quickly. + + + THE MOTHER + + I have warned, alas! + And he has heard with the unheeding smile + One gives to children's prattle. "Now at last + The hours bear fruit, and shall I hold my hand," + He answered, "for your vision? I have waited, + Now is the time when hope is justified; + Truth dawns, not even God Himself can stand + Between the light and me and shadow it." + + + THE WIFE + + Ah God! ah God! to whom shall be appeal? + + + THE MOTHER + + Look where he comes. + + + THE WIFE + + With what an air fulfilled. + + _Enter the_ SEEKER AFTER TRUTH, _inspired_ + + THE SEEKER + + Now do I stand upon the very brink + Of my desire; as a soul released + And purified by passing through the rays + Of white Eternity, I view the world. + Now am I all at peace; the heart that yearns + In bitter loneliness through midnight hours + Yet cannot voice its longing, brain that weaves + Its subtle web around the central thought + Yet never can absorb it; and this form, + The visible pride of body, all complete + Are one in union; the body knows + Its uses and its worths and has no fear, + The heart no more is empty, I have found + Eternal love to fill it, and no more + Gropes the blind brain for the Great Definite. + Away from me, my people, lest the sight + Of loving faces blunt the senses keen, + Hovering on the pain of a new birth. + + + THE MOTHER + + My son, my son, it is not well to tempt + The thunders of Jehovah; He who placed + Man on this earth, and gave him such a form + And such a nature never did intend + The form or nature to be changed. + + + THE SEEKER + + Enough, + Is it not parcel of the nobleness + Of His conception thus to place us here + Low in the scale; that we, by effort's worth, + May reach to Him and equal Him at last? + + + THE MOTHER + + Oh man was born for failure, not success, + To strive and strive, and evermore to fail, + And failing still strive ever; therein lies + The nobleness that equals him to God + Though linked to insufficient means for God. + Why will you hope to change appointed fate? + While still in man the sad twi-nature dwells, + Godhead and manhood, still as dark and light + The eternal war goes on. It is our lot, + Accept it, spare us last catastrophe. + + + THE WIFE + + Alas! alas! you see he marks you not, + His eyes are fixed on distance, and his lips + Move to the cadence of a song or prayer, + I know not which; and ever and anon, + His forehead, vivid with the teeming brain, + Rests in his hollow hand. He marks you not; + No more than raindrops plashing on a roof, + Whereto perhaps one listens for a space + And says "It raineth"--then again to sleep. + + + THE MOTHER + + Speak you to him, if he may hear his wife! + + + THE WIFE + + Ah me, my lord, what is it I can say + That will excuse the saying? Words are few + When hearts are fullest. On my wedding night-- + Do you remember?--you did take my hand, + (As I take yours now) lay your lips on it, + (See, here I lay my lips) and all the love + Your heart would fain express and tongue could not + I read in eyes and kisses, being well skilled + In love's translation. + + + THE SEEKER + + Who is this that speaks? + Your words come through my musing, like the call + Of quails across the desert, troubling me + With a strange stirring of the peaceful heart. + + + THE WIFE + + It was my soul and not my words that called. + + + THE SEEKER + + My hand is wet with tears. + + + THE WIFE + + They are my prayers. + + + THE SEEKER + + Why do you weep when all the world should be + Poised on the outspread wings of happiness? + Ah! just a little moment loose your hold, + While strips my soul for last and fiercest struggle + That gives us victory. + + + THE WIFE + + Nay cease, ah cease. + Why must you venture to the wrath of God + For a mere idle fancy? Is not love, + My love, and youth and joy enough for you? + Roses are beautiful to bind one's brow, + Why must one grasp at stars? Ah, if my tears, + Barren as dew that falls upon the sand, + Cannot incline you to forgetfulness + Of all save love, you are inexorable, + You love me not. + + + THE SEEKER + + I make an end of tears. + + + THE WIFE + + Nay, rather tears enough to drown the world + + + THE MOTHER + + Again, he lapses in his trance. + + + THE WIFE + + Ah me, + I can no more, we wait on God's event. + + + THE SEEKER + + There have been summer nights so exquisite + The soul in me did pant with pain, + And with its efforts vain + To grasp the beauty of the infinite; + When 'twixt my senses and the silent stars + The world of forms was purged away, + And all creation lay + Intense, eternal, without bounds or bars; + And all my yearning soul + Reached up to, strove for, failed to grasp that Whole. + + Ye who have felt the ache + Of visible beauty burning through your brain, + And vainly tried to break + Through forms of beauty, Beauty to attain; + Ye who have felt the weight + Of much desire in a little space; + God in your narrow brain, and in the face + Of mortals the large lineaments of Fate; + Ye who have felt the pang, + Even in love's most full communion + Of the soul's loneliness, which may not hang + For all its love, another soul upon; + + Draw near, draw near to me now, ye who long + Above the common things, + For truth approaches us on flaming wings + And all life's tangle shall be straightened now, + And right shall rise triumphant over wrong, + And nought be great or little, weak or strong, + But all Creation share in knowledge vast + As in design; with neither first nor last. + A moment let the waiting heart be dumb, + Last silence ere the revelation come-- + The truth! the truth! + + [_He is struck dead._ + + THE MOTHER + + Alas! the Wrath of God + Flashing upon us from the angry skies, + Ah woe! this is destruction. + + + THE WIFE + + Let it be, + Since low he lies, struck by a meteor, + With truth upon his lips. + + + THE MOTHER + + No meteor that; + His father, my god-lover, struck him down. + + + THE WIFE + + Since end must be what matter how it come? + Here will I sit, his head upon my breast, + Where it has lain in sleep, my arms about + His kingly body, sit, and wait the end, + Mocking at God. + + + THE CHORUS + + Alas! alas! alas! + The skies are torn, the heavens crash, + From pole to pole in terror rending, + Mountains against mountains dash, + The blinding lightnings blaze and flash, + And are shaken the foundations + Of the earth, for earth is ending. + + Black the air and black the waters, + Lifeless the life-giving sun; + Woe upon earth's sons and daughters, + For the Wrath is now begun. + Ah, too late you clamour wildly, + Earth is blind, and earth is dumb, + You by earth and earth by you + Child and mother are undone; + Let your cry to God ascend, + For from God the terrors come. + + Now the father is destroyer + And the mother is the grave, + Woe is us for God forsakes us + And 'tis God alone can save. + Oh, a union of destruction + Sons of God and nature's daughters, + Seed of terror, seed of evil, + Nurtured for the hungry waters. + + Is there help now? Oh beseeching, + Raise for help impotent hands. + While the frenzied winds are roaring, + Hound-like loosened from their bands, + And the waters' tumult reaching + To the stars, where quiet stands + God contemplative. Destruction, + 'Tis the uttermost destruction he demands! + + Now the waters are uprising + And the mountain summits bend, + Headlong all the turrets hurling, + Towers and temples now descend; + All in black confusion whirling + Earth and heaven rocking blend, + In the waters wildly swirling + To annihilation's end. + Alas! alas! alas! + Neither foothold, hand-hold, safety + For the body nor the soul. + Cracks the earth, the heavens rend, + And the waters of despair consuming roll. + + + + + SONNETS + + TO J. F. W. + + We've touched the borderland of death and life + And come back to the primroses again, + And see with different eyes the slanting rain + Buffet the larches in a short-lived strife; + With different eyes, for we have looked on death, + And know what life is for; we felt the hand + Of that sad Lady of the other Land, + And now, with her released, we draw our breath. + + Life is for gladness, not for mulish days + Between the galling shafts of commonplace. + See, now, the willow tassels all ablaze + Against the background of the windy blue! + And in the dusk the crocus glimmers through + The footsteps of Persephone we trace. + + + + + TO ANDREW CHATTO + + It is your thin, ungracious wine that runs + Within a year of bottling, to your tongue, + The noblest wine is somewhat harsh when young; + Lay it aside for many moons and suns, + Send it, if so you will, its "wander-year," + A-battling with the ocean's storm and strife, + Then open it, when ripe are wine and life, + And see what mellow sunshine you have there. + + Here is another year to crown that head + So full of years and honour, dear old friend, + Whose wisdom makes a constant, quiet balm + For tricks and trials of life, whose age doth blend + Young-heartedness with philosophic calm, + And sunshine on this generation shed. + + + + + NOVEMBER + + There is a gleam of sunshine on the earth + After so many weary days of rain, + A break of yellowing clouds, which offers plain + The sun's veiled disc (a very shadow-birth, + But still the sun, with sun's November worth); + The sky is of a Turner lived again, + Such colours through the misty greyness gain + They almost seem to touch with spring the earth. + + How should we not be glad, when this one day + Out of the saddest of all months, appears + Suddenly beautiful? A single ray + Of sunlight strikes through cloud, and clears + The whole drear countryside of grey; + So may one word dispel a cloud of tears. + + + + + TO A ROBIN IN DECEMBER + + In Paradise there is no sweeter song + Than that thin music that the robin makes + On short December afternoons, and takes + The winter woods, with utterance frail, yet strong; + Till all the barren fields, and ruined brakes, + The flowerless gardens, and the hedges bare + Dream of the spring, and all the rainy air + Seems soft and mellow as the summer lakes. + + More precious than the treasures of the East, + (Guarded by silver-footed antelope,) + Or all the nightingales that haunt the grove + Of Persian gardens; silver pipe of hope! + That Nature gives us when her gifts are least, + Sing to our hearts, oh, little voice of love. + + + + + A JANUARY MORNING + + How strangely shone the crescent of the moon + In the grey twilight dawning o'er the sea; + A star, that seemed of stars a memory, + (As faint as lilies on a sultry noon) + Ebbed in the chilly waxing of the morn; + The sea was rest in motion; hardly stirred + Its waves upon the beach; there was no bird + To break its undersong of silence born. + + The misty shadows lay upon the trees, + Whose colour was but echo of the tone + That earth and sky were wrapped in, harmonies + Of wedded hue were visible alone, + --And over all a breath of memory blown, + Of other dawnings upon other seas. + + + + + FEBRUARY + + Can there be aught to touch the sleeping dead + To consciousness; can love still call to love + Across that dark abyss; can feeling move + Dead heart and brain, that once with blood were fed, + To stir and quicken in their narrow bed, + For that which yet is living? We believe + Such force has love, that it may still retrieve + Its heart's Eurydice among the dead. + + I shall awake, then, shall awake my soul-- + Not when full summer beautifies the earth, + But with the first sweet stirring of the sap, + Ere yet the fields are green or leaves unroll: + I shall but sleep awhile in Nature's lap, + To be reborn with February's rebirth. + + + + + TO APRIL + + I + + 'Tis not alone the loveliness of spring + That makes spring lovely; there's a sense behind + Of wonders, deeper than the eye can find + In daffodils, or swallows on the wing; + A subtler pleasure than the sense can bind + When on the dusty roads the rain-drops sing + As March turns April, and the hours bring + Songs to deaf ears, and beauty to the blind. + + April is secret nature's treasure room, + Which she unlocks to us who love her well + In magic moments; then indeed we see + The wonder of all spring-times, from the gloom + Of world-beginnings, long ere Adam fell-- + And all the beauty of all springs to be. + + + + + TO APRIL + + II + + There will be other days as fair as these + Which I shall never see; for other eyes + The lyric loveliness of cherry trees + Shall bloom milk-white against the windy skies + And I not praise them; where upon the stream + The faery tracery of willows lies + I shall not see the sunlight's flying gleam, + Nor watch the swallows sudden dip and rise. + + Most mutable the forms of beauty are, + Yet Beauty most eternal and unchanged, + Perfect for us, and for posterity + Still perfect; yearly is the pageant ranged. + And dare we wish that our poor dust should mar + The wonder of such immortality? + + + + + TO DANIEL MANIN + + If that most noble soul, which, here on earth, + Was known as Manin, yet have consciousness + Of what is, and what is not, being not less + Than here he was, in courage and in worth, + Seeing the world whereon we sweat and strive; + Shall he not know his Italy, and bless, + And in his own heart praise the steadfastness + That held him to his purpose when alive? + + Shall he not have reward for all his pain, + Who, dying with his incompleted aim, + Saw failure only, and the bitter toll + Of loved ones lost, and lost, it seemed, in vain? + Must not that heart still keep his country's name, + Though o'er him all death's waters heave and roll? + + + + + TO THE LEADERS OF BOTH PARTIES + + January 1910 + + "A people's voice, we are a people yet." + --TENNYSON'S _Ode on Death of the Duke of Wellington._ + + Think on your birthright, England! On that voice + Which sounded first the ringing clarion note + Of freedom, and the ears of mankind smote + With that brave speech, whose hearing does rejoice + The angels (in his starry sphere remote + Each sitting). Think upon your past, my land; + The heart to wish, the will to dare, the hand + To do the right, though round the senses float + The Protean shapes of evil. We have struck + To free the slave, against a world in doubt; + Have raised the grovelling from their muddy ruck + And made them men; our foes once put to rout + We give them justice; we have scorned to truck + In gold for blood, and fatten on such spoil-- + To others be the gain, to us the toil. + Oh, once more, England, let that voice ring out! + + Alas! thou now dost hide thy Titan self + In a drab's clothing, lies; whilst, false and shrill, + Thy people squabble for the dirty pelf + Of office, at the hustings; while they fill + Our streets with lies, that, from the naked walls, + Mouth blatantly upon us, open shame; + While throughout Europe goes thy honoured name, + Grimacing in a mask of Party brawls. + + Bethink you, Leaders! How will history place + Your name beside her others, if you fight + With such-like weapons? Oh, be bold to face + The conflict, tell the truth, as in your sight + It does appear, with nothing false or base, + --The nation's heart will know to choose aright-- + Be brave! Be true these days! Will you forget + You are our Leaders, we, a people yet? + + + + + CONSOLATION + + "Is there a pain to match my pain + In all this world of woe; + When to and fro on a barren earth + My weary footsteps go? + When no day's sun shall give me mirth + And no stars blessed be; + Because my heart goes hungry and lone + For one who turns from me?" + + Hear what the voice of all Sorrows saith + From out the ages dim: + "As melt the snows your passion goes, + And as dew it vanisheth. + Take up, take up your burden of woe, + Unblenching on your journey go, + For man was born to reap and sow + That earth might fruitful be." + + "Is there a pain to match my pain, + Who watch the small dead face, + With the folded lips, and the folded lids + And the cheek the dimples grace; + Where they will come no more, no more?-- + Oh, small soft hands that hold + So quietly, in rosy palms, + My heart that's dead and cold." + + Hear what the voice of all Sorrows saith: + "Though still the little feet, + Though the hands are chill, and the sweet form chill, + And gone the childish breath; + Take up, take up your burden of woe, + For you were born to sorrow so, + To bear in anguish, and lose in pain, + That earth might be fulfilled." + + "Is there a pain to match my pain + Who loved all men on earth, + Who saw the Godhead, through the shell + That burdened them at birth; + Who strove for right, who strove for good, + Since love must win at last? + --This hour they lead me out to die, + With cords they make me fast." + + Hear what the voice of all Sorrows saith: + "They lead you out to die; + For the love you gave they will dig your grave, + And their thanks to you is death. + Take up, take up your burden of woe, + And proudly to your scaffold go, + For men were born to suffer so, + That mankind might be great." + + + + + TAPESTRY + + God the omnipotent wearied of space, + And the void of endless blue, + And the light of eternity in His face, + And eternity's emptiness round the place + That the presence of Godhead knew. + + So He wove Him a piece of tapestry + O'er all infinity drawn, + And out of His brain and its subtlety + Were the suns that stand, and the comets that flee, + And the paths of the planets born. + + No plan too great, no design too small, + For the fingers of God the Lord, + The joy of invention lived through all, + From the orbit curve of the earthly ball + To the shell where sound is stored. + + And all continued as they were made, + Clean cast from Perfection's brain, + Not a beam of light from its circle strayed, + But the whole the heavenly laws obeyed, + --God looked, and wearied again. + + So He wove Him a piece of tapestry + With fingers thrice refined, + And He mingled the threads with subtlety, + The threads of our human destiny, + And the light with the dark He twined. + + For shadow and shine were mingled there, + And white was matched with red, + And the thread of the silver gleamed more fair + For the gloom that, surrounding, made it rare; + And God in His wisdom said: + + "Of my handiwork but the human soul + Can suffer the laws of change, + That only errs from my set control, + And takes in pleasure, and pays in toll, + The whole of its passion's range. + + "But who shall judge or who condemn + This work that my hands have made, + For the thread that here appears a gem, + --So have I mingled and twisted them-- + Is there the gleam of a blade? + + "Nor evil nor good exists for me, + As I mingle strand with strand; + The past is the visible tapestry, + The present I weave, and the destiny + Of the future is in my hand. + + "And the past and the future both are met + In the present's history; + For the thread I hold is unbroken yet, + And the thing I weave is unguessed at yet, + In this human tapestry." + + + + + WISDOM AND YOUTH + + In the depths of the forest Merlin dreamed; + The shuttle of noon wove light and shade + Over the moss and around the trees, + And a network among the branches made. + + He sat with his back against a tree, + Grey as himself, and gnarled, and old; + The lichen was grey as the ragged beard + Over his friezen mantle's fold. + + Still he sat, like an ancient stone + That time has forgotten to wear away-- + While streamed the forest's green and gold, + Like banners on a windy day. + + And Merlin watched, as watches a tree, + A sombre oak of antiquity, + The myriad life that seethes and hums, + Around its immobility. + + Around himself, himself had made + A monstrous and a mystic spell, + Weblike, wherein he sat and dreamed; + --So in its mesh may spider dwell! + + His silence heard the things that grow + In underwood of tangled green; + His vision penetrated deep, + Beneath the common surface screen; + + The roots of things were plain to him, + He saw the crowded under-earth, + Where every life fought ceaselessly, + To bring a future life to birth; + + For him the stirring of the leaves + Beneath a listless passing breeze, + Spoke with a manifolded tongue + From all the thickly growing trees; + + For him the beetles and the mice + Made magic of desires and fears, + The bumble bee's slow rhythmic hum + Seemed like the passing of the years. + + And where a curving bramble-branch + Lay half in shade and half in light, + The universe's giant curves + Were all discovered to his sight; + + All things were all things' complement, + For what the oak left unexpressed + In line and hue, the silver birch + Continued, in completion's quest. + + There was no moss, nor stone, nor leaf, + Nor lingering small drop of dew, + But he resolved to harmony, + And in the mystic mind-web drew. + + So sat he, abstract as a god, + The greatest wisdom of the world, + While on his head the sunshine played, + And round his robe the shadows curled. + + Till, through the forest's green and gold, + And through the magic afternoon, + --Strange, as moonlit waters are, + Sweet, as cowslip-fields in June:-- + + Oh, summer-footed Vivien came! + And through the web of dreaming broke; + And on her silver clarion note + Of laughter, the great Sage awoke. + + She sat her down beneath the tree, + --Oh! fair her youth his age beside!-- + She plucked the boughs to make her shade. + She pulled the flowers far and wide, + + To deck her hair; and while the glades + Re-echoed to her laughter gay, + She leaned to Merlin, kissing him, + And stroked his beard, unkempt and grey. + + And he forgot the voice of trees, + And of the silent undergrowth, + To hear her merry lilting song, + And watch, reposed in summer sloth, + + Vivien dance upon the sward, + As children dance, alone, at ease; + Till breathlessly she cast her down + And laid her head upon his knees. + + And with his hand among her hair + The magic of his mind was rent, + And captive to her shadowed eyes, + Behold! the Master-Thinker went. + + + + + A VILLA ON THE BAY OF NAPLES + + The crescent's single line of white + Above the pointed cypress tree, + Was all there was of any light + Upon the earth and on the sea; + (Black was the bay of Naples.) + + "And ah," she said, "why have you come + Unbidden on my balcony, + This midnight hour, close and dumb; + What is it you would have of me, + Here by the bay of Naples?" + + "Now having knit, untie the knot," + Said he; "you drew me from afar, + Or having willed or willed it not, + Your face shone on me like a star + Above the bay of Naples. + + "Oh, know you not, fair star of love, + The thought of you is like new wine, + Or strong sweet air on heights above, + For mortal senses too divine----" + (Black was the bay of Naples.) + + Her lamp beside the window set + The woman, and the light shone out + A yellow glimmer in the jet + Of darkness, that lay all about + The outstretched bay of Naples. + + But "Nay" she said, and laughed with scorn. + And also with a little pride; + "My lover comes before the morn, + And, if he find you, woe betide + Beside the bay of Naples. + + "Now get you gone in very deed, + While time is yet for you to go, + Behold, I beg you at my need; + How black the chilly waters flow + Around the bay of Naples!" + + "Ah, do you think I am afraid," + Said he, "of man that sees the light? + If God himself command had laid + To leave you, I should stay to-night." + (Black was the bay of Naples). + + The trouble grew within her eyes, + She seemed to feel, as in a dream, + The ruling force in love that lies; + She veiled the lamplight's yellow gleam + From the black bay of Naples. + + "Ah me," she said, "you tarry yet, + And late and chilly grows the night, + To-morrow shall my lamp be set + To guide you hither with its light," + Across the bay of Naples. + + "To-morrow then, to-morrow's years. + I will be yours, but go to-night." + And dimly through the mist of tears + She saw the crescent's line of white, + High o'er the bay of Naples. + + "To-morrow for to-morrow be! + To-night is all I ask and need, + I cannot loose love's core," said he, + "Once to my hand it has been freed" + (Black was the bay of Naples). + + "Nay, death may follow love! 'Tis fit + That life being empty, should be cast + Carelessly into darkness' pit, + Be one with all the life that's past" + (Black was the bay of Naples). + + "Only compress the joy of years, + Summers and seasons, nights and noons, + To these short hours, where there appears, + As of a mighty god that swoons, + The sea's black arm round Naples. + + "Oh, black beneath us are the trees, + And black the weary line of hills, + With all life's joy, and light, and ease, + This room your radiant presence fills" + (Black was the bay of Naples). + + "And ah," said he, "I'll give my soul + To lie beneath your foot in hell, + That you may walk unscorched and whole-- + Can other lovers love so well?" + (Black was the bay of Naples). + + She took his hand and drew him in. + She quenched the lamplight's yellow gleam; + The moon was like a sabre thin, + The one white thing in all that dream + Of black that lay on Naples. + + + + + A SONG + + What if the rose should bloom, + And the sunset deepen and fade, + If we are penned in the gloom + By close-barred shutters made? + + What of the birds and the sun, + And the moon-rise behind the trees, + To the eyes and ears of one + Who neither hears nor sees? + + What of the world of love, + Its fragrance, and light, and bloom, + To the soul that cannot move + Out of a loveless room? + + Were it better the rose were dead + In a black December frost, + That no more skies were red, + That lovers' ways were lost? + + Ah no! The wood must shrink, + Bar closely as you may, + And between the shutters' chink + Slips in the sunlight's ray. + + So that the prisoner knows + It is June in the world outside, + And his heart is glad for the rose, + Though to him it is denied. + + For the love of lovely things + Must quench all bitterness, + And whilst the robin sings + No heart is comfortless. + + + + + THE BALLAD OF A SEA-NYMPH + + Where the water meets the sands + All alone sat she, + Wrung her hair with chilly hands + That glimmered mistily. + + Phosphorescent were the drips + From her hair she wrung, + And like moonlight on her lips + Were the words she sung. + + White she was, as white as foam + 'Neath a moonlit sky, + And the treasures of her home + On her brow did lie. + + There he found her, he, a man, + Wandering by the sea, + And desire through him ran-- + Misty-white was she. + + There he wooed her, wooed her long, + Till, within her eyes, + Where were erst moonshine and song, + Dawned in slow surprise + + Mortal pain and mortal doubt, + Shades of misery, + And she turned her round about, + Facing from the sea. + + In his hand her hand she laid, + As to land they turned, + And her hand of sea-foam made + 'Neath his fingers burned. + + On they went then, he and she, + Walking toward the East; + And her sisters of the sea + Their bewailing ceased + + As it paled towards the dawn, + From the light they fled; + But she laughed with joy new-born. + "Is this life?" she said. + + There was labour of the day, + Dust upon her feet, + Scorching of the shadeless way, + Clamour of the street; + + All a human want and pain, + Laughter fraught with tears, + Toil, when toil we know is vain, + Hope, when hopes are fears; + + Till this creature of the sea + At the last became + Human, in her misery, + Joy, and pride, and shame. + + With a word he left her then + "Woman that you are, + Mystery attracts us men + Draws us from afar. + + "Sea-nymph as you were, a thing + Intangible, unknown, + Like the light the sunbeams fling, + Where the spray is blown, + + "Sea-nymph have you ceased to be, + Forfeited the whole + Of that moonlight poetry, + Cherished by man's soul; + + "Still we seek the dim Ideal + As the moth the star, + How for women can we feel + That our seekings bar?" + + Where the water meets the sands, + All alone sat she, + With her head between her hands, + Facing from the sea; + + From her forehead pushed her hair + Drooping wearily, + Shivered by the water there: + "Oh, soul's a curse," said she. + + + + + CHRYSANTHEMUMS + + Oh, what a dainty negligence you show + Outspreading all your petals' coquetry, + As careless of restraint as poetry, + Although, like poetry, you surely know + That by the laws of beauty you must grow. + + There is a pure and virgin fantasy + In your curled petals, white as driven snow, + And wayward as the unbound locks that blow + Around a maiden's head, when, mad with glee, + With outstretched arms she dances by the sea. + + Yet in your glad abandon still you show + The wildest beauty sorrow-touched must be, + To give it worth; your leaves curve tenderly + In subtle arches; so the heart may know + Within the dancing maid the roots of woe. + + + + + A COURTLY MADRIGAL + + Between the eyebrow and the eye + Such uncounted beauties lie, + Plain it is 'tis Cupid's pleasaunce only. + There he makes his court and seat, + There lets all his graces meet, + Leaves a loveless world, bereft and lonely. + + Oh, fair straight brows that brood above + The eyelid, as the nesting dove + Broods upon her treasured young; + In rosy flesh the veins of blue + Do softly, dimly glimmer through, + To lose themselves the eyelashes among. + + Such eyelashes! More darkly sweet + Than where the serried treetops meet + Above the forest's undiscovered waters; + Where scarce the stars peep o'er the edge, + (Fringed round about with darkling sedge, + And thickly-growing reeds, fair Syrinx' daughters). + + + + + IN ARCADIA + + See how Pan through the forest goes, + The forest of Arcadia, + Giving a sidelong leer at the rose, + Trampling the daisies with hairy toes, + And wrinkling his ugly gnarled old nose, + In the forest of Arcadia. + + Evil and ugly, Pan is bored, + In the forest of Arcadia; + Tired of hours with honey stored, + What diversion can it afford + The whole green forest of which he's lord, + The forest of Arcadia? + + Till suddenly, the glimpse of a face + In the forest of Arcadia! + In the verdant depths where leaves enlace, + And dapple with shadow the body's grace-- + And Pan, with a snort, gives the Dryad chase, + In the forest of Arcadia. + + She is off, on the nimblest of little feet, + In the forest of Arcadia; + Light as a bird where the treetops meet, + For with sudden terror her pulses beat, + And desire has made the old god fleet, + In the forest of Arcadia. + + Milk-white down the long green avenues, + In the forest of Arcadia, + Like a dove she flies, and he pursues, + Like a hungry hawk when its prey it views-- + --And Zeus, on Olympus, prepares a ruse + For the forest of Arcadia. + + Nearer draws Pan, with outstretched hand, + In the forest of Arcadia, + To grasp her long hair's floating strand; + --But Zeus, with Olympian wink, had planned + That another form for the girl's should stand + In the forest of Arcadia. + + And the poor old sinner who thought to seize, + In the forest of Arcadia, + The daintiest thing that sense could tease, + Found only a satyr if you please, + As like himself as peas to peas, + In the forest of Arcadia. + + + + + A BALLAD OF KING RICHARD + + 1. _The Banner_ + + King Richard wiped the wine from his lips + And laughed full scornfully; + "Oh, I care not a bit for King Philip's wit, + Nor the honour of France," quoth he; + + "And I care not a straw for Austria's wrath, + And little of Templars reck; + If I lead not this host, by the Holy Ghost, + May my head be struck from my neck." + + King Richard drank, and swore in his cups + --And a mighty man was he-- + "Let the mongrels yap, I care not a rap, + I am Richard the Lion," quoth he. + + The news went forth to the King of France + And the Dukes of high degree, + How Richard had sworn that no man born + Should lead the armies but he. + + The Kings were wroth at King Richard's words + That were carried to them that day; + "Does he make a mock of our ancient stock, + This king of an hour?" quoth they. + + "This bastard son of a bastard sire + The standard first would plant + On the city's walls when Jerusalem falls; + Must we this honour grant? + + "Not so; if Christ would have Richard lead, + Let Christ give grace to his arms. + We will stand aside from the battle pride + And the fury of war's alarms. + + "Our men are sick and outnumbered sore, + And words from home reveal + That our country cries for our governance wise; + We will look to our country's weal. + + "For we came to fight for a Holy Cause, + Not dance to an upstart king; + The cause must wait for Richard the Great, + For our weapons down we fling." + + Breathless and hushed the messengers spoke + As they told King Richard the news + How the kings were set and the council met, + And the kings to fight refuse. + + Louder than ever laughed the King + In the depths of his golden beard. + "God rest my soul, I will reach the goal, + And show if Richard's afeared; + + "I will plant my flag amidst this camp + As a token seen of all; + Nor Austria's lance, nor the frown of France, + Shall make its splendour fall." + + So the sultry breezes of Ascalon + Saluted the lions three, + And Austria frowned from his camping ground, + And cursed right bitterly. + + "Shall this bastard son of a bastard sire + Boast he o'erruleth me? + By the Holy Cross, be it living loss, + This shame shall never be." + + So he planted his banner firm and fast, + And it floated high and free, + On the selfsame mound in the Christian ground + Flew eagle and lions three. + + Word they brought to Richard the King + Where in his tent he lay, + "Lo, Austria's hand on the lion's land + Has loosed the eagle," said they. + + Richard arose and strode in haste + --Oh the banners floated free-- + "Ill eagles fare in the lion's lair, + Take down your banner," quoth he. + + But word for word the Archduke gave. + He answered, "Eagles fly; + Let the lion keep to the fields and sheep, + To the eagle leave the sky." + + "Do you give me words?" cried Richard the King; + "Ho, now, at your words I laugh." + And he tore the flag like a worthless rag, + And he wrenched and splintered the staff, + + And he set his foot on the silken flag, + His foot on Austria's fame; + With a swordless hip, yet a smiling lip, + He mocked the eagle's shame. + + (Oh, Richard the Lion, woe is me + For the sorrow your deed shall bring, + For the dungeon walls, and the gloom that falls + On the heart of Richard the King; + + For the long despair of the prison dark, + And the traffic in lordly things, + When the Austrian sold for an Emperor's gold + The son of the English kings.) + + But Richard laughed in the noonday sun + That beats on Palestine. + And Leopold turned, while in hate he burned + Against Plantagenet's line; + + He trusted not in his own right arm, + But justice cried from France, + And France spake fair, but he did not dare + Withstand King Richard's glance. + + Sullenly Austria turned from the Kings + And back to his tents went he; + And the lions of gold above Richard the bold + Floated alone and free. + + + 2. _The Imprisonment_ + + Word they brought to Leopold, + Spake in Austria's ear; + "Rejoice this day that brings your prey, + Your enemy Richard is here; + + "Now is revenge for an ancient grudge + Given into your hand, + He mocked aloud 'mid the allies' crowd + And is now alone in your land." + + Leopold started out of his seat; + "Good be the news indeed! + Now quickly bring to me hither the king, + He shall sue to me in his need." + + Richard the King is before the Duke, + Garbed in a mean disguise, + Yet kingship claim the mighty frame + And the glance of the kingly eyes, + + And the Jove-like head with its close-cut hair, + And the flowing golden beard; + No rags can hide the huge limbs' pride, + In kingly cradle reared. + + Gay, and kingly, and debonair + The Lion-hearted stood. + "Fair come to land, by this right hand, + Your welcome shall be good." + + "Fair thanks to you, our cousin the Duke," + Said Richard, no whit beguiled; + "I thought not to prove the worth of your love + When I entered your land," he smiled. + + "Being in haste to return to my land, + I passed in this disguise, + For I would not stay the rich display + Your ducal bounty supplies." + + Leopold snarled like an angry wolf. + "How came you hither?" said he; + "No choice of mine, but by rule divine," + --Said Richard--"I came by sea, + + "Travelling in haste from Palestine + To assure me England's throne; + But a storm arose, and my fears suppose + That I was saved alone." + + "Now bind his hands," cried Leopold, + "For he comes as a spy, I see." + The King's eyes blazed in wrath amazed, + "A ducal greeting," quoth he. + + "These bonds are unfitting, Duke Leopold, + Both mine and your degree, + Nor consorts my fame with a spying name, + In your throat let your own words be." + + Amazed were they all at Richard's taunts, + But he smiled with easy pride. + "Now what prevents that my fury vents + Itself?" the Austrian cried. + + "Now what prevents that I kill you straight + And your corpse to the ravens fling? + 'Twere easy to say you were ocean's prey." + "But you dare not," said Richard the King. + + Leopold turned to his feudal lords, + Who stood in wondering; + "Now prison me straight this runagate," + Said he, "let us lodge this King!" + + They have taken Richard the Lion-heart + And fettered him fast and sure, + In a narrow cell they have chained him well + With chains that shall endure. + + And even Richard's stout heart fails + When he hears the great doors clang, + And he knows at last that they have him fast, + Whose fame through Europe rang. + + "Oh, what prevents the crafty Duke + From poison or secret knife, + For no one knows that Richard goes + In disguise, in fear of his life; + + "My brother John will well believe + That I was drowned at sea; + Nay, he scarce will ask, but will take the task + Of kingship gleefully; + + "And my people will easily forget + Their monarch so little seen, + And almost my name will be lost to fame, + I shall be as I ne'er had been." + + Many a weary week and month + Must darken prison walls; + And the King's eye dims, and his mighty limbs + Waste, as the leaf that falls. + + And his face is blanched, and sorrow sits + Carven upon his brow, + And his right arm slacks for the battle-axe, + The warlike field to plough. + + And yet and anon comes Leopold + His captive lord to see, + And revenge to taste, as he sees him waste, + "How fares the Lion?" cries he. + + "Cousinly questioned," says the King, + And kingly flashes his eye; + "Let the hog beware of the lion's lair, + Though the lion couchant lie." + + And then gives back Duke Leopold, + And his laugh has a hollow ring; + Once more he goes, and the shadows close + Round the head and the heart of the King. + + Then word comes suddenly, flying fast, + "Masters, the King is found!" + And from distant lands the poet stands + At last upon English ground. + + "I have found him, Blondel de Nesle! + As I wandered, harp in hand, + Through breadth and length of Austria's strength, + I saw a tower stand, + + "And nearer drew, I knew not why, + Till I heard a man's voice sing + With something of skill, and my heart stood still-- + 'Twas the voice of Richard the King, + + "Singing a fitte that we both had made + Once in a banquet hall, + When his heart was light, of a captive knight + Who out upon Fate did call. + + "Then I took up King Richard's words + And sang the fitte again, + And did descry--Oh! hope was high!--- + That he of it was fain. + + "So I struck my harp and sang once more + Of a minstrel wandering far, + Till he reached the strand of a distant land + Where trusty yeomen are, + + "Where hearts will swell with joy to hear + Of their dear and distant King, + And burn for shame of his knightly fame + And the false imprisoning---- + + "And Richard sang from his mighty throat + 'Oh Blondel, blessed be thou, + Thy star of birth makes glad the earth, + Thy wit shall save me now. + + "'Oh tell my people that I am woe + For my absence long and drear, + When the land did bleed under wolfish greed + And the shepherd was not near.'" + + (Sullen and black was the brow of John + Like an angry thunder-cloud, + But the poet recked not in his respect, + His message spake aloud.) + + "'And tell my people Richard sends + His heart in the minstrel's hand, + And my eyes shall yearn until they turn + On the cliffs of my loyal land. + + "'And this do I add at night and morn, + When I pray for the fall of Zion: + To my people send a better friend, + Oh God, than Richard the Lion!'" + + + + + IN THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW + + What can death render us commensurate + With what it takes away; the voice of birds + On sweet spring mornings, and the face of spring; + And lush long grass around the browsing herds; + And shadows on the distant hills the flying rain-clouds fling? + + What is there brighter in the world to come + Than white-winged sea-gulls, flashing in the sun + Above the blue Atlantic; what more free, + Yet what more stable, than those white wings, strung + All motionless, against a wind that whips the racing sea? + + Yea, and if these things yet may be the soul's-- + The summer moon above the garden flowers + Dew-drenched, and the slow song of nightingales-- + Yea, and if all these after death be ours, + More beauty yet, and peace from strife, yet still the debt prevails. + + For what can ever give us back again + The dear, familiar things of every day; + The loved and common language that we share; + The trivial pleasures; and, when children play, + Their laughter, and the touch of hands; and jests; and common care? + + + + + Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & Co. + + Edinburgh & London + + + + +BY THE SAME AUTHOR + +Fcap. 4to, cloth, 5s. net + +MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS + + +EXTRACTS FROM REVIEWS + +"Mr. Presland appears to be following in the footsteps of Schiller.... +Considered generally, Mr. Presland's drama is a fine piece of work. +Excellent in its presentation of character, impressive in sentiment, +and dignified in metre, it lacks none of the greater qualities of the +historical drama...."--_Scotsman._ + +"The author remains as simple and dignified in style as in his +treatment of the tragedy of 'Joan of Arc.' There is no painful +straining after effect. Act V. is really powerful."--_Evening +Standard_. + +"Mr. Presland gives promise of becoming one of the most successful +living writers of poetic drama. His 'Joan of Arc' we have reason to +remember, his 'Queen Mary' is no less striking. There is no +Swinburnian welter of poetry here, but a very dramatically presented +study of a very baffling woman. It would be difficult for anyone to +cavil at the poet's presentation of the time.... Nothing could be +finer, from a dramatic point of view, than her acting after the murder +of Rizzio.... The last act is a splendid bit of work; the savagery of +the street song and the last speech of Mary before signing her +abdication are equally dramatic and equally poetic on very diverse +lines. The play is altogether noteworthy."--_Glasgow Herald_. + +"... It would, in our estimation, be a decided acquisition to any +actor-manager who could arrange with the author to allow him to produce +it.... Space does not permit us to deal with it here as we would like +to do, or as it deserves, but we with pleasure commend it to our +readers in the most emphatic way...."--_Road_. + +"... 'Mary Queen of Scots,' a work in which he equals and even exceeds +his marked success in dramatizing a theme from the history of the +heroic Maid of Orleans.... Its progress is well planned, and it +proceeds with spirit, several of the scenes being splendidly dramatic. +As literature the play is sustained at a high level in strong nervous +verse.... The characters are firmly drawn and +lifelike...."--_Liverpool Daily Post_. + + +LONDON: CHATTO & WINDUS + + + +BY THE SAME AUTHOR + +Fcap. 4to, cloth, 5s. net + +JOAN OF ARC + + +EXTRACTS FROM REVIEWS + +"An excellent drama.... The verse is always flexible, and at the right +moment rises into the atmosphere of poetry in which Shakespeare moves +with such freedom.... Joan is the soul and centre of the play, and the +author has done nobly by her. We catch, as we read, some of the +infection that fell upon men's souls from her presence ... which simply +means that Mr. Presland has realised his historical characters so well +as to make them seem living.... What we have written is sufficient to +show with what dramatic truth and poetic sympathy the dramatist has +approached his great subject, and with what success he has handled +it."--_Glasgow Herald_. + +"Mr. Presland has put some excellent workmanship into this new dramatic +picture of the Maid of Orleans.... The action never flags. The verse +is fluid, natural, yet dignified, and adapts itself easily to the +varying requirements of the situations.... A play which leaves in the +reader's mind a picture that grows upon him. One forgets everything +but Joan, and that not because of any lack of proportion in the +composition, but because of the naturalness and force of her beautiful +character."--_Bibliophile_. + +"At once good drama and good poetry.... The well-known story is deftly +treated. The verse is easy and vigorous--above all, it is +dramatic."--_Sheffield Daily Telegraph_. + +"Mr. Presland's play shows how impressive Joan of Arc may be made as +the central figure in a 'history.' ... Written with faithful adherence +to Shakespearean traditions of form, it follows out in an interesting +sequence of scenes the several stages in the career of the Maid of +Orleans.... The piece is all the more impressive because it does not +bring in any invented theatrical love interest, or anything of that +sort, to confuse the simple lines of the accepted story."--_Scotsman_. + +"Written in language which will commend itself to all educated people, +who will certainly not only be entertained, but instructed thereby. +The author has done his work excellently in every way."--_Road_. + + +LONDON: SIMPKIN, MARSHALL & CO. + + + +BY THE SAME AUTHOR + +Fcap. 4to, cloth, 5s. net + +MANIN + +AND THE DEFENCE OF VENICE + + +EXTRACTS FROM REVIEWS + +"... The play is genuinely dramatic, and its impressiveness is +heightened by the dignity of the blank verse. There is poetry on every +page, but the effects are gained, not by flaunting rhetoric, but by +simplicity of language, which is forcible through its truth.... We can +only advise those who love English verse to read this play; they will +see that poetry is still a living thing among us."--_Oxford Magazine_. + +"Mr. Presland follows up his dramas 'Joan of Arc' and 'Mary Queen of +Scots,' with a picture, at once moving and terrible, of the siege of +Venice by the Austrians in 1849.... He has once more proved himself a +dramatist of that high poetic order which we have so often been told +died out with the eighteenth century."--_Literary World_. + +"His new work condenses into four acts of vigorous and flexible blank +verse, always animated in movement, and skilfully wrought together into +a fine unity of action.... Mr. Presland's Manin is an impressive, +pathetic figure, and the play one which cultured readers should follow +with unqualified interest."--_Scotsman_. + +"... The poetry never clogs the action and the whole play is tense with +the struggle in the soul of the hero.... The play thus becomes the +tragedy of a city but the triumph of a man, and the interplay of the +two ideas is finely wrought out. It is not all sombre, but even the +gayest of its characters throbs to the heart-beat of Italy, and helps +to give unity to the drama."--_Glasgow Herald_. + +"Written in blank verse, that is both flexible and dramatic, the author +gives an effect of spaciousness, combined with tense +feeling."--_Publisher's Circular_. + +"In the unfolding of the story, Mr. Presland shows much greater genius +than he did in either of his two previous dramatic works.... The verse +is most flexible, and practically all through he moves with great +freedom and reaches real dignity; the action seldom flags, and the +whole work is truly dramatic. Especially might we pick out the last +act as extremely powerful."--_Sheffield Telegraph_. + +"Throughout this admirable piece of dramatic work there is clear +evidence of the author's extraordinary power as a delineator in poetic +drama of human character in its many phases. His 'Joan of Arc' was a +work which one could not fail to remember by reason of its striking +characteristics; but we are convinced that remembrance of the 'Defence +of Venice' will be equally, if not more, indelible."--_Cape Argus_. + + +LONDON: CHATTO & WINDUS + + + + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Deluge and Other Poems, by John Presland + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DELUGE AND OTHER POEMS *** + +***** This file should be named 37751.txt or 37751.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/7/7/5/37751/ + +Produced by Al Haines + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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