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diff --git a/37859.txt b/37859.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ca35b19 --- /dev/null +++ b/37859.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1769 @@ +Project Gutenberg's The Call of the Mountains, by James E. Pickering + +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 Call of the Mountains + and other Poems + +Author: James E. Pickering + +Release Date: October 26, 2011 [EBook #37859] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CALL OF THE MOUNTAINS *** + + + + +Produced by Al Haines + + + + + + + + + +The Call of the Mountains + +and other Poems + + +By + +James E. Pickering + + Author of + "The King's Temptation," "The Cap of Care," etc. + + + +London + +A. C. Fifield, Clifford's Inn, E.C. + +1913 + + + + +PRINTED BY + +WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON, LTD. + +PLYMOUTH + + + + +The Cap of Care + +By + +James E. Pickering + +_Grey Board Series, No._ 18. 1_s. net_ + +"Mr. Pickering's metrical faculties are as deft and cunning as those of +anyone now writing verse."--_Athenaeum_. + +A. C. Fifield, 13 Clifford's Inn, E.C. + + + + +Contents + + + The Call of the Mountains + The Old Manor House + The Science Master + Through the Centuries + Winter + Pain and Death + Switzerland + Burial at Sea + The Master of the Marionettes + Love's Counterfeit + The Most Precious Thing + Autumn + To L + Duty + + + Sonnets + + Glastonbury + Galileo + Stratford-on-Avon + To a Daffodil + The Appian Way + From the Fields + Venus de Milo + Fire + + + + + The Call of the Mountains + + Under the shade of the Kursaal veranda + Idly I follow the flight of the seagulls, + Gleaming like snow when their wings catch the sunshine, + While from the palm-house adjacent is wafted + Music half drowned in a babel of voices, + Fitting the mode of this temple of follies. + + Far though the mountains, their influence, ever + Changeful in temper, from sombre to smiling, + Constant in wileful and mystic allurement, + Rouses unrest and a strange fascination. + + Limpid and blue are the waters of Leman + Clear in the deepness, translucent and shining, + Blue as the ether's ineffable azure, + Bright in the glow of the midsummer sunshine. + Cleaving the air with their palpitant pinions, + Wheeling and drifting, the beautiful seagulls + Fly with the grace of unconscious perfection, + Crying exultant and wild in a chorus. + + Are you not fit for the realm of immortals, + To float on the winds of the gardens Elysian? + Or must you hover a little while longer-- + Wandering souls in a state of probation-- + Half-way uplifted beyond our defilement, + Half-way removed from the land of the blessed? + + Far in the distance beyond the blue water, + Rises the hoary old father of mountains, + Rugged and scarred with antiquity's furrows, + Crowned with the snows of a million winters. + Low in the shade of his ponderous presence, + Dappling the slopes, are the homesteads of peasants, + Each with its cloud of blue vapour ascending: + And sweetly the bells across the green pastures + Answer each other with voices persistent, + Telling the herdsman the tale of his charges. + Grim is the smile of the white-headed mountain + For toilers below in the slumbering valley, + Grim is the glance with a touch of derision, + Seeming to say to his towering brothers-- + Catogne and the broad-shouldered heights of the Midi, + "Iguanodon,--Mastodon,--Man,--in their passing + Serve but as signs on the path of the ages." + Softly the plash of the waters of Leman + Sounds from the rough-tumbled stones at its margin: + Gently the zephyrs play over its surface, + Making it glitter with myriads of sparklets. + Swiftly the barques trim their sails in the sunshine-- + Sails high and slender that swell to the breezes, + White as the snow on the breast of the Jungfrau-- + Mirrored in whiteness upon the blue water. + + As I sat watching the lake and the mountains, + Slowly a haze like a curtain of muslin, + Flimsy and fine like a texture of cobweb, + Drifted and rose till it shut out the bases + And bulk of the mountains across the still water, + Whilst high above it the crests and sierras + Stood out as castles and walls of enchantment, + Raised in the air like king Solomon's city, + Held up aloft by invisible genii. + Then in the faintly drawn lines of escarpment, + Battlements, pinnacles, turrets and bastions + Sprang into being, and fancy, untrammelled, + Pictured a palace with walls, and a fortress + Beleaguered and stormed by a shadowy army, + Massed under pennons seen dim through the vapour. + + Over the drawbridge a desperate sortie + Made by the knights of the castle invested + Brings the foes quickly in conflict together. + Plumes white and restless like foam on the breakers + Drift to and fro with the tide of the battle; + Falchions and maces and curtaxes gleaming + A moment aloft, strike sparks in descending + On corslet and casque and dinted escutcheon, + Whilst out of the contest, with stumbling footsteps + The wounded are led sore stricken and helpless. + Ladies in sarcenet, arabesque broidered + With blossoms that climb fantastic in colour,-- + Stiff flowers of blazonry's formal convention + That rise from the hem to the throat in profusion, + Where carcanets flash on bosoms unquiet,-- + Look from their casements with eyes full of wonder, + Down on the conflict that rages below them, + Fierce in the shock and the heat of encounter, + Hearing the war-cries and clashing of weapons, + Winding of horns, and the groans of the dying. + Till all was lost in the thickening curtain, + Veiled by the mist were my golden romances. + + Once when a snowstorm swept over lake Leman + Filling the distance with wildly tossed snowflakes, + I pictured a scene in the heart of the mountains, + Hidden in shadows, unknown to the climber, + Out of the range of Humanity's footsteps. + There is the cave where the slumbering ice god + Hides from the gaze of the wandering stranger, + Shut in the depths of the mountain's recesses, + Rent long ago by the force of upheavals + In the wild turmoil and labour of earthquake. + There sits the god of the cold everlasting, + Guarding the spirits of men who have perished + In their endeavours to master the secrets + Of paths that have never by footsteps been trodden. + In the ice temple his figure majestic + Looms from a throne that through aeons uncounted + Has stood in the gloom and the silence eternal. + Weird is the throng of the spirits in thraldom: + Silent they steal from their icy sepulture, + Slow-pacing figures unchanged and unchanging: + By violent death, swift, ruthless and lonely, + Sentenced to wander for ever in darkness, + Pent in the masterful ice god's dominion. + Primitive hunters with flint-headed arrows, + Whose limited minds ignored the distinction + Engendered by knowledge, of good and of evil: + Acting by impulse and guided by instinct: + Living in caves like the bears and the foxes, + Facing with cunning and courage their quarry, + Guarding their women and feeding their children, + Almost as fierce as the creatures they hunted. + Men who came later throughout the long ages, + Wandering fugitives driven by fortune + Far from their homes to the wild desolation, + Slaves of illusion that lures to destruction: + Some with a love for adventure and daring, + Some to escape from the ills that pursued them, + Some in response to the strong fascination + That calls from the heights of the untrodden mountains, + All destined by fate, that watches unceasing, + To die in the darkness forgotten for ever, + Pent in the ice god's immutable kingdom. + + Wafted by breezes, my white-sailed felucca + Slipped through the blueness to where the grim stronghold + Of Chillon keeps ever in grateful remembrance + The patriot Bonivard, champion of freedom. + The pillar of pain where, writhing in torment, + The captives were scourged at cruelty's bidding, + Is still to be seen, an eloquent witness. + Tenantless now is the cavernous dungeon + Where wretches awaited through darkness unending + The dawn of their last and dreaded to-morrow. + Stripped of its horrors, the chamber of torture + Echoes no more to the shrieks of its victims, + And death's grim abode where agony ended + Is free from the crimes that redden its records. + There by the column of stone in the dungeon + Where Bonivard lay to pine through the seasons + Of six weary years, I mused on his story. + Undaunted by death's ever-threatening shadow, + Unconquered though insolent tyranny triumphed, + Chilled in the summer and frozen in winter, + Famished, neglected and loaded with fetters, + Yet borne up within by courage unflinching, + Supported by Faith when Hope had departed, + Scorning to murmur, he waited with patience. + Morning's faint light through the narrow embrasure, + The wandering cry of a sea-mew in freedom + Heightened the gloom of his roughly hewn prison, + Making a summons to death a deliverance. + Night fell about him in Stygian darkness, + While the faint lap of the waters of Leman, + Beating the ramparts with madding persistence, + Whispered despair in the still isolation. + What were his thoughts when the vault of his prison + Rang with glad cries in the glare of the torches? + Breaking the silence, dispelling the shadows + That darkened his life and threatened his reason, + What were his thoughts at the moment of freedom? + When round him a tempest of passion was raging, + An unloosened storm of passionate feeling, + When men incoherent and hoarse from the conflict + Fought for the honour of breaking his fetters, + Leaving him breathless with hearty embraces, + Weak and unmanned in the sudden revulsion, + Carried away by the flood of emotion, + With something unknown that stifled expression, + That silenced his voice and heaved in his bosom. + + Strong is the spell of the dream-haunted mountains, + Ruddy with gold in the glory of sunrise, + Purple and silver and blue in the daytime, + Tinged by the amethyst splendours of sunset, + Gloomy, majestic and dark in the twilight, + Mystic by moonlight, ethereal, airy, + Changeful and fickle in hues as the opal, + Under the mutable lights and the shadows, + Ever alluring with subtle attraction. + + Far, far away are the waters of Leman + Whence I have fled at the call of the mountains. + Here in the valley where rushes a torrent, + Constant and cold, be it summer or winter, + A village lies hid and hither the climbers, + Strangely alike in their eager impatience, + Wearing the look of enwrapped expectation, + Pause ere they start on their perilous journey. + Hemming me round, the implacable mountains + Shut out the world and confine me in durance, + Bending my soul to the yoke of their bondage, + Dwarfing my self and my little emotions, + Waking desire to escape limitations + And barriers imposed by narrow horizons. + Rugged, majestic, they tower above me, + As lonely and pensive I gaze in the torrent, + Wondering now at the summons insistent, + No longer in dreams and rovings of fancy, + But weighted with impulse, defying resistance, + Rousing unrest like a spirit of evil. + So, as I linger awhile in the village, + Completely I know each day brings me nearer + To what lies beyond, in the regions of silence. + + Now it is over. The lights of the village, + The children at play, the clink from the smithy, + The gurgle and rush of the hurrying torrent, + The rattle of wheels, the tinkle of cowbells, + The inn's open window whence converse in fragments + Floats out with the odours of beer and tobacco, + All welcome me back with familiar voices. + Here time moves onward with rhythmic precision: + Breakfast and dinner, and bed for the darkness, + With Sunday to part one week from another: + Spring time and winter, the snow and the sunshine, + And sooner or later a cross in the churchyard. + Time lacks proportion away in the mountains. + What is a day or an hour or a lifetime + Gauged by the ebb and the flow of the ages + Shown in the tidemarks on crags prehistoric? + If, as men say, time is measured by heartbeats, + I wandered through years of vivid emotions. + Pelion and Ossa, by arrogant Titans + Profanely uplifted to challenge Olympus, + Repeated themselves in the blueness above me. + Sunsets and dawns such as glowed on the marshes, + Silurian haunts of the early creation, + Long ere the age of humanity's advent, + Gleamed through the vapours and red exhalations + Rising from bottomless pits to encolour + Weirdly the matrix, volcanic, primeval, + Riven and torn in the birth-throes of Cosmos. + Slippery ledges uneven and narrow, + Through rarefied air that maddens the pulses, + Treacherous footpaths inviting destruction, + Where fear in the heart disorders the senses. + Vertiginate chasms, abysmal, terrific, + Unfathomed and sheer with never a foothold, + Compelling the gaze with cold fascination. + Stretches of billowy acres of whiteness + Dimming the eyes with their endless expanses; + Ridges upstanding in ice walls cemented + By glacial pressure of slow-moving masses. + Caverns with ice shapes, blue-tinted, translucent: + Columns and altars and figures fantastic, + Imagined in dreams or pictured in fever, + Softly illumed by the moonlight's reflection. + There is the haunt of the evil ice maidens, + The servants of Death, who lure with their beauty, + Who bathe in the stream of the glacier water, + The glacial water that flows through the caverns, + Silent and deep as the river of Lethe. + These memories hold me. I live in a fever. + The air that I breathe, the influence round me + Are charged with a strange and volatile essence + That throbs in my veins and quickens my breathing. + Held by the mountains, I languish in bondage + Under the masterful sway of their presence. + Restless though weary I dream of their perils, + Slipping down chasms with death at the bottom, + Or over the desolate ice fields I wander, + Hopeless, forgotten and lost in the snowdrifts, + Wandering ever past hope of redemption. + Sometimes I swing with a pendulum's measure, + Fitfully swayed by the wind o'er a chasm + That gapes far below, relentless and cruel, + Conscious of all in the terrible moments + That pass till I drop to the doom that is waiting + Far in the depths of the yawning crevasses, + And wake at the instant supreme of destruction. + + To-morrow at dawn I fly from the village + Back to the peace of the waters of Leman. + + Gone, gone at last, is the morbid obsession! + Gone to the shade in the regions of Limbo. + Far, far away, o'er the waters of Leman, + Mistily outlined and faint in the distance, + Threatening no longer, the dream-haunted mountains + Lazily whisper of rest and contentment. + + Softly the plash of the glittering fountain + Falls on the night with the scent of mimosa, + Mingled with polyglot phrases and laughter, + Marking the pause 'twixt a waltz and mazurka. + Soft are the lamps in the Kursaal rotunda + Lighting discreetly the hall of lost footsteps + Whose gleaming mosaics are painted with garlands, + Blossoms exotic, luxuriant, languid, + Red as the souls of the people about them, + Hinting at passions through crimson and purple, + Fitting the vogue of this temple of pleasure. + On a divan in the hall where the idlers + Promenade slowly, in converse together, + I sit all alone in calm contemplation, + Hearing the orchestra faint in the distance + And the croupier's voice from his chamber seductive, + Parrot-like crying in stale iteration, + Summons and challenge across the green table. + Keen-eyed old gamesters who prowl round the players, + Seeking a pigeon to pluck at their leisure: + Black-whiskered barons with blurred reputations + Smirking at B. and his girls from Chicago: + Swaggering captains at best detrimental: + A country-bred youth just come to a fortune, + Trying in vain to conceal his amazement: + Couples awaiting the Absolute's fiat, + Now in pursuit of a flying illusion: + Hebrews from Frankfort and bankers from Paris + Chatting to ladies resplendent in diamonds; + A burgess of London whose wife says: "Disgraceful," + But lingers to study Parisian fashions: + Gamblers inveterate bent to a system, + Silent, unheeding, absorbed in their figures: + Well-groomed young fellows, light-hearted and careless, + Come for the dance and the fun of flirtation, + Bright-eyed and merry, unconsciously breathing + The poisonous air of sepulchres whited. + Perdita, watchful and guardedly smiling, + Trying to lessen the distance between us, + Wafts me a sign with a spray of verbena. + Is she an angel, a beast or a demon, + Or spirit incarnate that onward is passing + To higher avatars by long transmigration? + Ah! how it warms one, this human deflection, + This touch with familiar follies and foibles, + After the limitless space of the aeons, + Out of the measure of time as we know it, + Far in the distant and echoless ages, + Austere, and untouched by our passing emotions, + Where I have wandered in lonely remoteness + Under the passionless spell of the mountains. + + Cold and relentless, eternally lasting! + Silent inscriptions in cryptical cipher! + Unbroken record of time since creation, + Whose secret is hid from human conception. + How small are the things humanity prizes, + The feverish joys of passion and pleasure, + That pass like a dream to dusky oblivion! + How short is man's life compared with the ages + That frown from the face of the mystical mountains, + Far in the blue o'er the waters of Leman. + + + + + The Old Manor House + + The rusted gates whose forgings fine + Enlace a gilded coronet, + Now dim in lustreless decline, + Groaned as I passed the lichened shapes + Of rampant griffin on each side, + Stiff with heraldic, stony pride. + Then through the grass-grown drive I passed + With ancient oaks on either hand, + Throwing their shadows dark and vast + Upon the bracken at their feet + Where rabbits peeped in fear and ran + From the rare sound of living man. + For here no more the sumptuous train + Displays the pomp of falconry; + No more, besprent with mire and rain, + The messenger-at-arms rides in: + Nor, with his retinue of knights + Some great man at the house alights. + + Above the portico + Of the great silent house, + The quarterings' tinctures glow, + Blazoning its history, + From the old Sieur de Caulx, + Whose heavy Norman sword + Helped Harold's overthrow, + And whose long line of sons + Stretches, like a shadow, + Thrown in the eventide, + Through the old folio + Where illumined pages + Bravely the records show, + Till the last, lonely heir + Was carried down below, + To the cold marble vaults + A century ago. + + A gallery o'erlooks the hall, + A gallery where minstrels played + And with their lutes sweet music made, + While from the weapons on the wall, + Reflected shone the lights that glowed + Above the hospitable board + When each successive, generous lord + His loyalty or grandeur showed. + Kings feasted there with stately dames, + Ambassadors and Cardinals + Who, cheered with wine and madrigals, + Fed with their fancies amorous flames. + And at some great eventful scene + Full many a dance the chamber graced, + Pavanes and sarabands were paced, + And minuets when Anne was queen. + + My footsteps echoing from the panelled walls, + Stayed the long sleep of years, + Stirring the thick, accumulated dust + To movement in the ray of light that falls, + From a half-shuttered oriel which appears + Between the rafters, just + Where a stone mullion its carved apex rears. + Faint voices whispered round me as I stood + Spellbound and listening there: + The ghostly strains of melodies forgot, + The happy laughter of fair womanhood: + Children in noisy play, without a care: + Fierce cries with passion hot, + Triumphant some, and some wild with despair. + + Leaving the chamber so haunted by voices, + Fearful, I hastened to where the great staircase + Rears its proud height in a double ascension + Till it is hid in the deepening shadows. + Stiffly upstanding on each chief baluster, + Absently gaze the historical griffins, + Plunged in their silent and deep meditation. + Many a Caulx have they seen pass before them, + Long generations in motley procession, + Halting and feeble, the sick and the aged: + Sanguine and joyous, the young and the hopeful: + Manhood triumphant, crestfallen or thoughtless: + Urbane and discreet, my lady's confessor: + Stealthily creeping, the villainous traitor: + Quick and impatient, the fortunate lover: + Children unconscious of aught but their playthings: + Nobles in ermine, and simpering ladies: + Then, the one end of all human emotions, + Slow-pacing figures who bear on their shoulders, + Silenced for ever, some lord of the staircase. + + The steward, from the all-pervading gloom, + Flung wide the shutters of the drawing-room, + Showing a terrace graced with urn and faun + And steps that led to a neglected lawn, + Whilst rounded hill and valley far were seen + Lit by the summer's radiating sheen. + The room's magnificence, its noble size + And faded splendour filled me with surprise. + A costly pierglass in its tarnished frame, + Which once reflected gallant squire and dame, + Now with fidelity displayed the clear + And gleaming lustres of the chandelier, + Pendent, with ten score sconces silver chased, + From the high ceiling which a master graced + With courtly scenes wherein could be descried + Ancestral figures in their pomp and pride. + The sunlight played on gilded girandole, + On silver candlestick and stiff console, + All of that period when here befell + The scene on which the steward loves to dwell, + Showing the floor's dark stain of sombre red + And how it came about that blood was shed. + I marked the punchbowls, full of leaves and dust, + A slim sword, silver-hiked, flecked with rust: + A daintily escutcheoned chiffonier, + Inlaid with shell and finished with veneer: + Timepieces silent, set in ormolu: + The damask screens of faded red and blue. + And, to enhance the chamber's stately air, + Great Chippendale had made each slender chair. + The stream of life, arrested, seemed to wait + A magic word to set it flowing straight. + + Heated by wine and ombre-play, + Two hundred years ago or more, + Three gamblers, on a morning gray, + Quarrelled about a questioned score. + + Two blades were soon engaged. A tierce, + Ill parried, stretched a swordsman low, + Who lunged with failing point but fierce, + And dying, dropped before his foe. + + And when the growing light of morn + Lit the Venetian mirror's face, + He died, 'twixt pain and passion torn, + And left a curse upon the place. + + And from that day the records show + A slowly creeping, sure decline + That, just a hundred years ago, + Ended the once illustrious line. + + Sometimes upon the dusky hour + That comes before the sun's first rays, + When things occult display their power, + A strange light on the chamber plays + + That is not of the earth or sky, + While hurrying footsteps come and go + And then into the silence die + With whispered mutterings hoarse and low. + + A sliding panel, by the wainscot hid, + Showed, in the unmarked thickness of the walls, + A narrow passage and a secret stair + That brought us to the level of the moat. + Long dry and choked with bracken and with brier, + It made a rugged pathway to a court + Where stands the ruin of an ancient tower, + Fenced in with walls pierced by an entrance low. + "Here," said my guide, "when James the first was king, + "A daughter of the house, through three long years, + "Was by her father close a prisoner kept + "Because she would not wed the man he chose. + "Stern and unyielding, as became her race, + "She set her will against her father's strength. + "Through all the time she saw no living face: + "No sound of human voice, except her own, + "Fell on her ear. She nothing saw but clouds + "That swept athwart the cold and pitiless sky, + "And blinking stars at night that rose and set + "Across the little window in the roof: + "Then she went mad and on the stony walls + "One day beat out her life in frenzied rage, + "And refuge found beyond her father's power." + + Time passed, and it was late + When once again I stood + Outside the ancient gate, + Where the stone griffins ramped, + Cold as relentless fate + Changeless as destiny. + + And I said: "'Tis in vain, + Guardians impassible, + That ye your watch maintain + Over the ghosts of Caulx, + While the years wax and wane + Century by century. + + "For behold! I have been + Among them and have heard + Their voices, I have seen + With swift-discerning eyes + Over their wide demesne + Of human history." + + + + + The Science Master + + "We build," he said, "on elemental things!" + And paused to glance around the silent class. + "On facts well ascertained which insight brings, + "And which in due development must pass + "From the first phase, remote, removed, + "To the Effect. Thus, link by link, we trace + "The lengthening chain of Verity, full proved + "By Knowledge, Reason, Logic, each in place." + It seemed conclusive to us students then. + The man's prestige had weight. Authority + Made him for us above all other men; + He was the head of our academy. + His calm assumption and incisive way, + Admitting no alternative nor doubt, + As he intoned his long familiar lay, + Made his pronouncements clear as if cut out + Of crystal, cold with mathematic test, + Through which he viewed complacently the span + And limit of all scientific quest, + Quite heedless of the growing range of man. + His narrow field so finished and complete, + His standards and his logic's hampering line + Look small where now the long perspectives meet, + Converging in a new horizon's shine. + All this was years ago. What would he say, + I wonder, if he could revisit us + And, with the knowledge of the present day, + See space and pain reduced to minimus, + Electric currents hand in hand with steam, + Men borne in ships across the trackless air, + The widening story of the earth's old scheme + Told in its strata, and, with arduous care, + The age of man thrust back unfathomed years, + New elements, a new chronology + And growing lore that year by year appears + To show how distant is finality? + It sets my fancy roving and I try + In idle hours to think what may befall. + Naught seems impossible, no thought too high, + No dream too mad, to realise it all. + What, for example, is the human mind? + Whence comes it, great or small, at some man's birth? + A fool's or sage's, base or all refined! + What holds it till his body turns to earth? + And whither goes it with the failing breath? + And is the Aura's essence to remain + Ever elusive at the hour of death, + To perish or another home attain? + Or, with close knowledge of man's growing germ, + Shall we not train it and direct its course, + As now we cultivate the floral sperm, + And simple weeds to complex beauty force? + Life is a thing of phases manifold, + By shades diminishing from high to low, + Man, protoplasm, beast, all we are told, + To perish in an equal overthrow. + Our view of life at best is incomplete. + We judge by its effect and action, blind + To its real essence, as to that we meet, + Acting unseen, when wire to wire we bind. + Think of what might be, once this secret known, + Full knowledge of Life's spark, and with the power + To rescue from Death's dark and silent zone + The souls of some great men whose natures tower + Above their fellows and can ill be spared + From some great task far-reaching and benign. + I hear a reader say: "This man has dared + "To claim for us an attribute divine! + "Our times are in God's hands." And I reply: + We do not hesitate to take a life, + The claims of social law to satisfy, + And punish men whose minds with crime are rife. + What then more fitting, given the knowledge there, + To lengthen lives that worthy ends fulfil, + And measure by new standards just and fair + The worth of life as it is good or ill? + Have we exhausted chemistry's domain? + Squeezed dry the elements we say we know? + And does the spinning universe contain + No more our theories to overthrow? + How far does gravitation serve our needs-- + The force that keeps each planet in its place, + Resistless, constant, yet with varying speeds, + For ever acting in unbounded space? + Some day perhaps pent man will learn to brave + An alien atmosphere, and, from afar, + Of weight and distance master, not the slave, + Bring us new wisdom from some distant star. + + + + + Through the Centuries + + While yet the Saxons ruled, a puissant Thane + Made with his unkempt band of mounted spears + A seizin of a hide of forest land + Whereon he built a house of ample size, + With dining-hall and bowers and sleeping-lofts, + And stables shutting in a stone-paved yard: + And round the whole he set a ponderous fence + Of sharpened stakes fast bound with metal bands. + And "Yan, the Wulf," for thus the Thane was known, + Called the place "Wulfden" in his savage tongue. + And here, year after year, he lived at ease, + Oft making sallies for a cattle raid, + Or fighting with some other such as he, + To come back weary at the fall of night, + Driving a herd before him, and his men + Sweating beneath the spoil of plundered foes. + Once as he sat at supper in his hall, + Bemused with mead and satisfied with food, + There came a wandering bedesman to his gate + Craving permission "in Fayre Jesu's name" + To build a church of stone within the shade + Of his protection. And, in generous mood, + The Thane gave gruff assent; and time slipped by. + + Then William swept the land, and, to reward + One of his knights, gave him the Wulf's demesne + To hold in fee, and on the Saxon's land + Arose a fortress with embattled walls, + With donjon, keep and moat and tilting-yard, + To hold in thraldom all the country-side. + But still was left the little Saxon church, + Unchanged save that the Norman owner gave + New consecration in his patron's name, + St. Martinus of Tours, a warrior saint + Who guarded through the centuries his race. + + Then in the War of Roses came the crash + That brought extinction to the feudal name + And desolation to its crumbling home. + And yet, though scarred by time and gray with age, + The little church of Saxon days remained + The emblem of a never-dying faith. + + The years rolled by and then there came a day + Which gave a new possessor to the place, + A nobleman in favour with that queen + Who loved a witty tongue and ready sword + When coupled with good looks and brave attire. + He built a great Elizabethan pile, + The ground-plan shaped to form the royal E, + Conforming to the fashion of the times + When loyalty spoke even from silent stone. + And he, to please his lady's pious whim, + (Though ten years wed, he called her Sweetheart still) + Forbore to raze the chapel to the ground, + But stayed with flying buttress either side, + Repaired the roof and made it to her mind. + And there they lie, both in one marble tomb + On which their effigies with clasping hands + Bear witness to an everlasting love. + + And when vacation brings its hours of rest + I sometimes sit within the Saxon church + And muse upon the changes time has brought + Save to the faith that reared the little shrine, + And still builds churches "in Fayre Jesu's name." + + + + + Winter + + 'Tis winter and the darkening skies + Awake regretful memories + Of wooded hill and sunlit plain, + Ringing with anthems to the sun + Until his arching course was run + And nightingales took up the strain. + + The trees, then dense with leaves and flowers, + Stood through the long and smiling hours, + Housing an honest little folk, + Throbbing with life by day and night, + Whose voices, vibrant with delight, + Of happy labour ever spoke. + + The trees now spread their haggard arms, + Bared of their pristine, leafy charms, + To cold and unresponsive skies + That neither smile nor weep, but chill + With cold indifference, and kill + Hope that all nature underlies. + + A dreary moan floats on the wind + From the gaunt oaks, that, ill defined, + Show spectral shapes against the sky + From which the fleeting day has flown + While dead leaves on the earth are strown + To mark the summer's mortuary. + + Where are the thousand things of life + That erstwhile made the place all rife + With busy hum and restless wing + And turmoil of a world of love? + The blackbird on her nest above, + Below, the beetle tunnelling. + + Gone with the happiness I knew + Because the heavens were always blue, + While the sun shone from day to day + And winter was not. 'Twas as far + And nebulous as yonder star + That throws its cold and sickly ray + + Where once a glorious flood of light + Ceased only with the falling night. + Gloom hovers where triumphant joy + Beatified each passing hour, + For Winter now with ruthless power + Fulfils its mission to destroy. + + _The Voice of Winter._ + + "I bring not death but rest to flower and tree, + "And nurse the flame divine, Vitality, + "That burns immortal since primeval night + "When the Creator said: 'Let there be light!' + "And loosed the sun upon his blazing way + "To roll for ever through an endless day." + + + + + Pain and Death + + Amid the fields of Asphodel + Musing one day by chance, + Imperious Jove + Let memory rove + And turned his gaze austere + To where Arcadian shepherds dwell, + The land of song and dance, + Where Death was not + And Time forgot + To send the rolling year: + Where man, untried by trouble's test, + Found the supreme of life in rest. + + Immortal man without a care + Rivalled the gods above: + Free, effortless, + In sheer idlesse + Aping divinity. + So he was made by Jove to share + A mortal life and love + By anguish tried + And purified + For Death's cold sanctity. + Thus 'twas ordained that Death and Pain + Should raise man to a nobler plane. + + + + + Switzerland + + Land of mountain, lake and river, + Waterfalls, and rushing streams + By the wayside where the cattle + Gather with their bells a-ringing, + In the day's departing beams. + + Land of glorious dawns and sunsets, + Glowing shades of every hue, + Mists enchanted, floating, rising, + Fine-spun softness, tints Olympian, + Regal purple, virgin blue. + + Tinkling zither, echoing jodel, + Horns that loudly hail the morn + From the upland's stony pathways + Where the snowline meets the outposts + Of the forest, sparse and lorn. + + Nether tracts by sunlight heated, + Show the vines in serried rows, + Basking through the drowsy summer + Till their rich and generous vintage + From the wine-press redly flows. + + Land of mountain peaks stupendous, + Lakes that fade to meet the sky! + Land for gods, for dreaming poets, + Fit for men of soaring greatness, + Sons of gifted ancestry. + + Gods I found not, neither poets, + Only little men who toil + To supply the passing stranger, + Bound upon the wheel of pleasure, + With the produce of the soil. + + What would Bonivard or Calvin + Think of you, my little men, + With your minds on money turning, + While you strain with itching fingers + Fast the golden calf to pen? + + Yet I love your honest peasants + Dwelling on the mountain slope, + Slow and stolid, yet the children + Of the spirit born of freedom, + Of the patience born of hope. + + For among these humble toilers, + From the grasping instinct free, + Still we find the cheerful-hearted, + Earnest, honest Switzer people + With the old simplicity. + + + + + Burial at Sea + + 'Twas midnight in the southern seas + And windless. On the placid deep + Flashed sparkling phosphorescences, + While moonbeams, bright in silver bars, + Lay like a pathway to the stars. + + Tireless, our engines, day and night, + A month had throbbed their endless round + Without a pause to mark time's flight. + We heard it all unconsciously + Till suddenly it ceased to be. + + For now the slowing pulse that beat, + Stopped in the vessel's iron breast + And quickly changed my slumber sweet + To wandering and uneasy thought + Of what the midnight might have brought. + + Gaining the deck, I looked around + With drowsy eyes and half asleep, + And saw a something wrapped and bound + And weighted. I was standing near + Some hapless seaman's simple bier. + + A shapeless form in canvas lay, + Stretched on a wooden grating low, + Waiting the word to pass away + Into the silent depths of sea + And boundless realm of fantasy. + + Before the bulwark's opening stood + A group about a lantern's light + Moveless like figures carved in wood, + Whilst one with gruff solemnity, + Read prayers for those who die at sea. + + Then at the end, with sudden leap, + That sent the sparkling water high, + The body plunged into the deep + Amid a million points of light + That glittered as it sank from sight. + + Scarce had a moment passed, before + The men with silent haste had gone: + The engines plied their task, once more, + The ship her steady course pursued + Across the moonlit solitude. + + The morning dawned, the hours passed by + And life on board from day to day + Was changeless as the sea and sky. + And so unreal the memory seemed + I wondered if I had not dreamed. + + + + + The Master of the Marionettes + + 'Twas at the fair of Epinetz, + And all the country-side was there. + Each booth gave out its blatant strains, + And grinning came the sheepish swains, + Who greeted with approving stare + The movements of the marionettes, + While from his place well hid from sight + The master laboured, faint and white. + + A villain dark, with cloak and plume, + Through two acts of imbroglio, + Pursued a maid of laughing mien + Who played a ribboned tambourine + And loved a gay incognito, + By whom the villain met his doom, + While Pierrot, in a comic part, + Danced to conceal a breaking heart. + + 'Twas late. The snow fell thick and still + The market place in silence lay. + The master, tired and overwrought, + For troupe and self a lodging sought. + The inn was full. He went his way + Across the heath; beyond the hill + Dawn found him wrapped from head to feet + In winter's snowy winding-sheet. + + And as he sank in deadly sleep, + His spirit, like a floating haze, + Wavered a moment o'er the snow, + A valediction to bestow. + And solemnly, with wistful gaze, + The puppets bowed in reverence deep, + Speeding with farewells and regrets + The master of the Marionettes. + + + + + Love's Counterfeit + + Old as mankind, yet with immortal youth: + Unyielding, ardent, sinuous and bold, + Alluring ever in the guise of truth. + + Where is the fire that warmed me yesterday? + And where the flame that will to-morrow blaze + To leave me shivering by its ashes gray? + + The wind that sweetly sings in ocean caves, + Then dallies with the wallflowers on the tower + May fan assassins and sweep over graves. + + What pleasure has a kiss that fever brings? + Or one grown cold with satisfied desire? + The love that on the senses fiercely plays, + Comes like a wind and passes like a fire. + + + + + The Most Precious Thing + + What do men rate at the highest in life? + Diamonds that glow, + The finest in water, + In colour and form: + Such as an eastern king's favourite wife + Wears strung in a row, + Or, as those that in slaughter, + In sack or in storm + Of a citadel's heights, + Are torn from a Khalifah slain in the strife? + No. Diamonds decline when Love claims his own, + And freely are bartered for kisses alone. + + Some say that virtue is prized more than all, + Virtue that scorns + The baseness and ill + The decalogue cites + And sternly forbids to great and to small. + But when on the horns + Of dilemma, men kill + Compunction, whose lights + Die in darkness profound, + Where mortals are fated to stumble and fall, + Renouncing for kisses the wisdom of time + To find in the sacrifice something sublime. + + Rank, Riches and Fame have, each in their way, + A hold on the mind + That we think is supreme, + And sweep man along + To sated ambition's omnipotent sway: + Till one day we find + They are vain as a dream, + Or a beautiful song + Evanescently grand: + And the value we see of the brave display + Of Riches and Fame and Rank at their best, + Is far below kisses when put to the test. + + + + + Autumn + + A light mist creeps across the downs: + A gleam through clouds is faintly seen: + The grass is wet with heavy dew: + Sear are the leaves that once were green. + I walk at midday when the sun + Throws still some welcome warmth and light: + A chill comes with the afternoon, + And icy is the air at night. + Summer is dead. Its shrouded form + Lies on the logs that make its pyre, + And fancy sees its ghost ascend, + A shadowy wraith above the fire. + + + + + To L + + Just at this time of great content + Old memories come between the lights + To chasten with their whispers faint + The passing Christmas merriment. + Yet through it all, one constant note + Chimes with the season's higher sense, + Love's influence unchanged remains, + Fragrant and sweet as frankincense. + + + + + Duty + + What is a year that comes and goes + Unless it mark a noble deed? + We sow the seed + Of flower or weed: + Thrice happy he who leaves a rose. + + What is a life in vainness spent, + That will not bear the common test, + When, laid to rest + In earth's cold breast, + We sleep at last, insentient? + + What is a gift bestowed on man, + Unless he spreads abroad its light + And turns its might + To aid the right + And strives to do the best he can? + + What matters it if all your toil + Thankless for ever must remain? + When by your pain + One soul will gain + Somewhat to calm its mortal coil. + + + + + Sonnets + + + + + Glastonbury + + Beacon of Christian truth! across the years + Thy flame undying glows in Faith's clear sight, + As once the Holy Grail's effulgence bright + Shone on the pure in heart, the Saints' compeers, + Who knew no more life's bitterness and fears + But dwelt thenceforth upon a nobler height, + Rapt in the radiance of Redemption's light + That still to the elect of God appears. + Each Christmas sees, before thy ancient shrine, + Its sacred thorn burst into glorious flower, + Of Heaven's immortal life a constant sign, + Shown to mankind in graciousness benign, + To make eternal with enlightening power + The revelation of a truth divine. + + + + + Galileo + + The medieval pomp and civic pride + Which once made Pisa famous, long have lain + Forgotten with her pageants brief and vain + That flashed inconstant on the Arno's tide. + But, toned to softened hues, her walls abide, + Enclosing baptistery, tower, and fane + Wherein yet swings the lamp with brazen chain + That marked the pendulum's time-measured stride + And though the centuries, in lengthening roll, + Show ever fainter through perspective time + The fame depicted in the mouldering scroll, + They cannot dim the shining aureole + Around Galileo's name. Each hourly chime + Proclaims the law that swung the girandole. + + + + + Stratford-on-Avon + + The hushed repose of some fair temple's shade + Falls on the pilgrim when he treads the ways + Where first the world to Shakespeare's childish gaze + Disclosed its wonders when his footsteps strayed; + Where, fired with love, he roamed the forest glade, + Storing clear memories for other days; + And where, at last, acclaimed and crowned with bays, + He dropped the lyre no other hand has played. + Fame watches o'er the deathless poet's sleep, + Her fanfares echoing still their wild applause, + While sweet Melpomene and Thalia weep, + For theirs no more the grandest flight that soars, + But lower planes where smaller spirits sweep, + Whose whispers sound like waves on distant shores. + + + + + To a Daffodil + + Bright messenger of life renewed and love, + Joy fills thy golden chalice to the brim, + Fit symbol of the sacred seraphim + Who with their blazing phalanx headlong drove + The Star of Morning from his seat above, + Scattering celestial sparks through voidness dim, + To fall upon our planet's curving rim + And bloom as thy fair flowers in mead and grove. + As victory's anthem stirred the heavenly choir, + Awaking rapture in triumphant praise, + So thou in spring dost mortal souls inspire + With new-born hope and consecrated fire, + Reflected glory from ethereal rays, + To make divine the human heart's desire. + + + + + The Appian Way + + Road of the dead! whose stately avenue + Of ruined tombs reveals the glorious past, + When proud patrician chariots rolling fast + And litters borne by slaves of ebon hue + Breasted the throng that ever thicker grew + And onward hurried where the portal vast + Showed praetor, tribune and plebeian massed + With traders from afar beyond the blue. + Road of the dead! thy voices haunted me, + Once as I lingered on a starlit night, + Seeing thy restless ghosts in fantasy: + And Peter paused again in act to flee: + With downcast eyes and pale with sudden fright, + Then whispered low: "Quo vadis Domine?" + + +_Note_.--Tradition has it that Peter in a moment of weakness fled to +escape martyrdom, but was turned back by a vision of his Master. The +little church of Quo vadis Domine on the Appian Way commemorates this. + + + + + From the Fields + + The village chime drifts on the summer breeze, + In softened cadence o'er expanses green, + Across the river, winding slow between + Broad fields of clover where marauding bees + Lighten their toil with murmured harmonies, + Whilst corn in rolling waves of verdant sheen + Lends rhythmic movement to the rural scene + And sighs responsive to the wind-stirred trees. + The mingled voices, like a poet's rhyme, + Link with their music pensiveness and joy: + Yet each has meaning in its wayward time: + The wind of freedom sings in every clime, + The bee, that labour's sweetness cannot cloy, + And life is measured by the warning chime. + + + + + Venus de Milo + + Immortal beauty, touched by fire divine + That glows as in thy pristine days, I see + The white-robed priests and virgins joyfully + Bearing their gifts of honey, flowers and wine, + With sounding reed and timbrel, to thy shrine, + Whilst thou, impassive, waitest the decree + Of heaven, to speak with cold solemnity + That which unfolds a deity's design. + Gone are the gods and heroes of the past + To shine in distant stars with pallid gleam, + Subdued and faint beyond the darkness vast, + Their power forgot, their glory overcast; + Yet thou remainest in thy grace supreme + And fadeless splendour that was ne'er surpassed. + + + + + Fire + + To man primeval, the bright god of day + Seemed lord of all things, and he bent the knee, + To adoration moved unconsciously; + And lo! the instinct which had made him pray, + Showed him the mystic fire that latent lay + Within the drying branches of the tree + And brought the earth, in all its purity, + The essence of the sun's benignant ray. + Of Nature's elements the most refined, + Free from pollution and corruption dire, + Art thou, O strong and changeless spirit kind. + Unfailing source of good, thou wast designed + To be the first, man's reverence to inspire, + And light the pathway of his groping mind. + + + + + FINIS + + + + + + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Call of the Mountains, by James E. 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