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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/46112-0.txt b/46112-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..43b5876 --- /dev/null +++ b/46112-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2380 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Dark Ages, by L + + +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 Dark Ages + and Other Poems + + +Author: L + + + +Release Date: June 27, 2014 [eBook #46112] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DARK AGES*** + + +Transcribed from the 1908 Longmans, Green and Co. edition by David Price, +email ccx074@pglaf.org + + + + + + THE DARK AGES + AND OTHER POEMS + + + * * * * * + + BY “L.” + + * * * * * + + LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. + + 39, PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON + + NEW YORK, BOMBAY, AND CALCUTTA + + 1908 + + _All rights reserved_ + + + + +CONTENTS + + PAGE + I. THE DARK AGES 1 + II. THE BELLS OF VENICE 4 + III. AN ANCIENT CHURCH 5 + IV. TO THE ENGLISH GIPSIES 6 + V. AUTUMN DYING 9 + VI. THE DEPARTURE FOR CYTHERA 10 + VII. THE VILLAGE CHURCH 13 + VIII. LADY DAY NEAR BIGNOR 14 + IX. A COTTAGE INSCRIPTION 16 + X. A MEMORY OF IRELAND 18 + XI. “TÍR NAN ÓG” 19 + XII. A HIGHLAND DAY 21 + XIII. TO THE FIRS 23 + XIV. GOOD-BYE 24 + XV. THE FAIRY GLEN REVISITED 26 + XVI. WAITING 28 + XVII. NEAR HAARLEM 30 + XVIII. THE TOMB OF SAINT AUGUSTINE AT PAVIA 31 + XIX. MODERN FLORENCE 32 + XX. TO DANTE 33 + XXI. TO PETRARCH 34 + XXII. TO A LADY OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 35 + XXIII. THE “LIBERAL” DIVINE 37 + XXIV. THE QUARREL 38 + XXV. THE OLD FOUNTAIN 40 + XXVI. LOVE AND DEATH 41 + XXVII. VIOLETS 43 + XXVIII. THE GARDENS OF THE SOUL 44 + XXIX. A MAN TO CHILDISH THINGS 46 + XXX. THE KNIGHT 47 + XXXI. HOPES 48 + XXXII. THE PATH 50 + XXXIII. THE CALL TO BETHLEHEM 52 + XXXIV. A CHRISTMAS LULLABY 53 + XXXV. TO THE HOLY CHILD 55 + XXXVI. MATER AMABILIS 56 + XXXVII. SAINT STEPHEN 57 + XXXVIII. SAINT JOHN AT EPHESUS 59 + XXXIX. THE LITTLE CHILDREN 61 + XL. THE CIRCUMCISION 63 + XLI. THE RETURN OF THE MAGI 64 + XLII. ATONEMENT 66 + XLIII. CALVARY 67 + XLIV. “THE DESERT SHALL BLOSSOM” 68 + XLV. RESURRECTION 69 + XLVI. THE ASCENSION 71 + XLVII. A HYMN TO THE HOLY SPIRIT 73 + XLVIII. “ADORA ET TACE” 76 + XLIX. THE REFUGE OF THE WANDERING 77 + L. THE LEGEND OF ST. CHRISTOPHER 79 + LI. THE LIGHT INVISIBLE 81 + LII. ONWARD 83 + LIII. THE FAITHFUL DEPARTED 84 + LIV. LETHE 86 + LV. AVE ATQUE VALE 88 + + + + +I +THE DARK AGES + + + MEN call you “dark.” What factory then blurred the light + Of golden suns, when nothing blacker than the shades + Of coming rain climbed up the heather-mantled height? + While the air + Breathed all the scents of all untrodden flowers, + And brooks poured silver through the glimmering glades, + Then sweetly wound through virgin ground. + Must all that beauty pass? + And must our pleasure trains + Like foul eruptions belch upon the mountain head? + Must we perforce build vulgar villa lanes, + And on sweet fields of grass + The canting scutcheons of a cheating commerce spread? + + Men call you “dark.” Did that faith see with cobwebbed eyes, + That built the airy octagon on Ely’s hill, + And Gloucester’s Eastern wall that woos the topaz skies, + Where the hymn + Angelic “Glory be to God on high, + And peace on earth to men who feel good will,” + Might softly sound God’s throne around? + Is that a perfect faith + Which pew-filled chapels rears, + Where Gothic fronts of stone mask backs of ill-baked bricks, + And where the frothy fighting preacher fears, + As peasants fear a wraith, + His deacon’s frown or some just change in politics? + + Men call you “dark.” Was Chaucer’s speech a muddy stream, + The language born of Norman sun and Saxon snow? + Was Langland’s verse or Wyclif’s prose mere glow-worm’s gleam? + And the tales + Of Arthur’s sword and of the holy Grail, + And Avalon, the isle where no storms blow: + From such romance did no light glance? + Have we not heard a tongue, + Whose words the Saxon thralls + Would scorn to speak above their muck-rake and their fork, + The speech of barrack-rooms and music-halls, + Where every fool has flung + The rotten refuse of Calcutta and New York? + + Men call you “dark.” But _chivalry_ and _honour_ stand + As words that you, not we, did fashion, when the need + Of food beyond the price of gold awoke our land. + For you taught + Inconstancy is like a standard lost; + And we who prove untrue in love or deed + Will doubly shame an ancient name. + Your robes were not all white, + Your soul was not a sea + Where all the crystal rivulets of God found room: + But we must often to your lessons flee, + Our truth with yours unite, + Before we meet the holy dayspring of the doom. + + + + +II +THE BELLS OF VENICE + + + RING out again that faltering strain, + Cease not so soon, + Sweet peal that brought to me the thought + Of some deep shadowed English lane + Across the blue lagoon. + + The water street where oarsmen meet + And shout ahead, + The glowing quay, all noise and glee, + Seemed hallowed as when angels’ feet + Touched Jacob’s stony bed. + + On pearly dome and princely home + Day’s glory dies: + Once more the bells’ low murmur tells + That faith is not a line of foam + Nor life a bridge of sighs. + + + + +III +AN ANCIENT CHURCH + + + SO little dost thou seem of common earth, + So much of spirit doth thy fabric show, + That we, who watch thee through the azure glow, + Might deem that with the stars thou cam’st to birth. + + So sweet and true the voices from thy spire, + Which bless the day’s betrothal unto night, + That when they falter with the fading light, + We well might think an angel touched his lyre. + + If chiselled stone and molten bronze instil + Hopes deeper than the fountains of my tears, + And love that hungers for eternity, + + God, I believe Thou hast some use for me; + Leave me no life of dumb and sluggard years, + But cut or melt me till I speak Thy will. + + + + +IV +TO THE ENGLISH GIPSIES {6} + + + ROUGH swarthy Gipsy folk, + Would that my voice could once forget to falter, + And sing a song as free as swallows’ wings + Of ancient Gipsies, and their “dukes” and “kings,” + The men who braved the branding-rod and halter, + Because like birds they nimbly came and went, + And loved the stars and road, and crouching tent + Beneath a grove of oak. + + In ages long ago + The Brahman priests pursued you with their curses, + Because you found life sweeter at the core + Without the mumbling of their magic lore. + And you have lived to see their Sanskrit verses + Fall dead; and Brahmans, like mere Romany, + Now tempt their gods by trusting to the sea, + Though trembling while they go. + + Then hardened against fear + You looted caravans of gold-shot dresses + And gems upon their way to bright Baghdad, + And drove the Moslem Khalif rampant mad, + When pearls culled from the ocean for the tresses + Of his Circassian, in your pouches fell, + As trifles to adorn the dusky shell + Of some black virgin’s ear. + + Next Greece and Thessaly + Became the home of many a jocund roamer, + Who gaily danced, or begged with mien forlorn, + And patched his Indian speech where it was torn + With remnants from Demosthenes and Homer, + Until you struck your blackened tents again + And tattered pageants crossed the endless plain + Of fertile Hungary. + + ’Tis even said you planned + To trick the Pope with penitential moaning, + And gained his leave to wander seven years + Towards the melancholy North, with tears + The sin of feigned apostasy atoning: + Thus fortified against enquiring foes, + You, with the budding of the Tudor rose, + Alighted on our land. + + Who says it was not good + To see your handkerchiefs of red and yellow, + And silver rings and basket-laden carts, + And hear the honey-lipped prophetic arts + Of wheedling witches, or a clean-limbed fellow + Who fiddled by the hedgerow in the smoke, + And roused the antique Gipsy song that woke + The silence of the wood? + + Now that your blood must fail, + What artist soul revengefully remembers + You raided the domain of chanticleer, + Or deftly poisoned pigs to swell your cheer + Of hedgehogs cooked in clay amid the embers? + Who says you sometimes wedded art to force, + Or made the worse appear the better horse + Before a coming sale? + + You soon will pass away; + Laid one by one below the village steeple + You face the East from which your fathers sprang, + Or sleep in moorland turf, beyond the clang + Of towns and fairs; your tribes have joined the people + Whom no true Romany will call by name, + The folk departed like the camp-fire flame + Of withered yesterday. + + + + +V +AUTUMN DYING + + + AUTUMN shakes in golden raiment, + Gashed with red; + None can ransom him by payment + From the dead. + + They have shorn his strength with reaping, + Left him cold; + Now he wakes each morning weeping, + Weak and old. + + And last night he sought my casement, + Came and fled; + Wailed for aid from roof to basement, + Touched my bed. + + Though I cannot find his ransom, + Ere he dies; + I will pay all that I can—some + Hopes and sighs. + + + + +VI +THE DEPARTURE FOR CYTHERA + + + ERE they parted for Cythera + When the spring had reached its bloom, + Phyllis, Doris and Neaera + Peeped into their pictured room, + Wished to go, yet wished to linger, + Lifted each a taper finger, + Threw a kiss towards their portraits set in walls of rose brocade. + + Where the beeches lift a curtain + Over shifting sunlit scenes, + They with footsteps light and certain + Used to dance like fairy queens; + Now they speed beneath the beeches + Till the path the water reaches + And the bay just softly ripples by a marble balustrade. + + Purple were the sails that beckoned + And the deck was ivory, + Love stood smiling there and reckoned + His embarking company; + Every mast wore silver sheathing, + Music in the air was breathing, + In the rigging little laughing cupids upwards climbed and strayed. + + On they sailed through fields of azure, + White was all their furrowed way, + Melting in a blue erasure, + Melting fast like yesterday; + Radiant Hope still steered them hoping, + Steered them past the woodlands sloping, + Where the doves descend and flutter on an ancient colonnade. + + On they passed through golden hazes, + Watching distant peaks of snow, + On through shadowed island mazes, + Where the dreamy spices blow; + Till the moon herself was setting, + And the dew fell fast and wetting, + And the silver masts no image on the blackening waves displayed. + + Frayed are now the rose-red panels + Filled with squares of rare brocade, + In the ceiling Time carves channels + Where the frescoes slowly fade; + Chipped are now the scrolls of plaster, + Which a skilled Italian master + Moulded all along the cornice, and with tips of gold o’erlaid. + + But the shallow oval spaces + Underneath the white festoons, + Hold the tender pastel faces + Waiting endless afternoons; + For they never touched Cythera, + Phyllis, Doris, and Neaera, + And again they never landed by the marble balustrade. + + + + +VII +THE VILLAGE CHERUB + + + UP at the church at the edge of the moor, + Flat on the pathway that leads to the door, + Worn by the tread of the mourning and poor, + There is a face that is fit for God’s floor. + + How could a mason create in his brain + Just such a cherub to sob in the rain? + How could the pride of the dying but vain + Want such a cherub to blow a refrain? + + This one had ankles with which he could run— + Is it a fact that a cherub has none? + This one had love-locks that flashed in the sun, + Yes, and his lips often pouted in fun. + + Who was the angel that played on the street; + Whose was the face I can’t soil with my feet? + Nobody knows; but I hope I shall meet + One such a cherub in front of God’s seat. + + + + +VIII +LADY DAY NEAR BIGNOR + + + SOUTH-EASTWARD where the waving line of hills + Bears up the clouds that speed like passing boats, + On one sweet spot which distant sunlight fills + A sudden silver haze descends and floats. + + The trees below like lace veil glistening streams, + The gorse puts on its tiny gloves of gold, + The cattle move as though they fed in dreams, + And timid lambs are bleating in the fold. + + Though tangled bracken like an old man’s beard + Blends autumn’s ruddy brown with winter’s grey, + Soft blows the breeze that through the pines is heard, + Green moss and yellow primrose deck the way. + + The Roman villa level on the grass, + With wrestling cupids on the floor within; + The church where first a Norman priest said mass, + The ivied chimneys of the Georgian inn: + + These have their message. All things tell the change + Of seasons, races, and of man’s estate: + All bid us mark within how small a range + There moves a story tragically great. + + The hills abide, and that mysterious Breath + Which brooded on the slowly shaping earth, + And came to-day like dew to Nazareth + To fashion our Redeemer’s Virgin-birth. + + + + +IX +A COTTAGE INSCRIPTION + + + “TIME trieth troth.” Who carved the text + Above the narrow cottage door? + Two hundred years of storm have vexed + The words which front the western moor. + + Was it a hind who loved the king + That held his court beyond the sea, + A hind who taught his child to sing + Of Stuart rose and Stuart tree? + + Was it a swain whose soul adored + A maid who went to London town? + And did she choose some spangled lord + And coldly flout her country clown? + + “Time trieth troth.” And was he true + Whose chisel carved that rugged line? + And was he loyal till the yew + O’erarched his heart’s now silent shrine? + + Then, though bereft of king or love, + He found the poet’s secret gain, + The sympathy of suns above, + The friendship of the falling rain. + + + + +X +A MEMORY OF IRELAND + + + WHERE the saints of Holy Ireland sleep + No chancels pen them round, + But the waving trees their vigils keep + Above each verdant mound. + + Here they climbed no lofty marble beds + To find a frigid rest, + But a canopy of golden threads + Hangs o’er them in the west. + + When the larks have ceased their thankful hymn, + The ocean booms his bell, + And the lamps of heaven swing o’er the rim + Of every holy well. + + May the Lord bring back that race of men + Whom charity enticed + To desert the world for some poor glen + And give the people Christ. + + + + +XI +“TÍR NAN ÓG” {19} + + + WHEN thou didst die, they say a fairy’s pipe + Was heard outside the castle door, + And wee folk thick as August corn that’s ripe + Came trooping down the moor, + And bore thy soul with laughter and with light + O’er glen and heathered height. + + Friends waked thee till the dawn thrice slanted by + To quench the tapers round thy bier, + And countless decades of the rosary + They numbered with a tear; + But yet they whispered, “She is now a queen, + And clad in rainbow green.” + + They set thy form near blessed Finnan’s side, + And wailed the Gaelic death-lament; + But they believed thee happy as a bride + With long-dreamed joys content + Within the land they name with wistful tongue, + “The land where all are young.” + + + + +XII +A HIGHLAND DAY +WITHIN SIGHT OF CULLODEN + + + THE snow-white borders of the grey-green sea + Peep through the mist that veils the strait with dew, + The sun grows bold and smites the landscape free, + The burn, the woods, the rocks of rose-red hue. + + The world lies warm upon the heart of day, + The callants push their boat from off the shore, + The white gulls sail and flutter through the bay, + The jet-black daws are calling evermore. + + The doves fly wheeling past their mountain wall, + The whispering pine trees weave a ceiling cool, + The rowans redden o’er the foaming fall, + The ferns keep guard around the fairies’ pool. + + The distant moorland where the tribesmen bled + To win their wandering prince a royal home, + Now wraps a deeper purple on their bed, + While he sleeps cold below St. Peter’s dome. + + The waves turn opal in the waning light, + The rocks exchange for grey their rose-red bloom, + The finite sinks into the infinite, + And sea and sky are wedded in the gloom. + + + + +XIII +TO THE FIRS + + + I LOVE the oak-grove where the Druid’s knife + Cut down the mistletoe in days of old; + I love the elms around the convent fold + Where souls escape the dust of highway life. + + I love to watch the tiny milk-white spires + That on the chestnut branches lift their head; + I love to see the rowan growing red + With clusters bright as frosty winter fires. + + But better still I love you, firs that crest + The lonely hill above the moaning firth, + Beside the path where bluebells gently nod. + + To your grey arms, ere sunset leaves the West, + I can confide each sorrow at its birth, + For you have known the waves and storms of God. + + + + +XIV +GOOD-BYE + + + SING me one more villanelle, + Light as elfin foot that brushes + Through the ferns and foxgloves of the fairy dell. + + Come where woodland spices smell, + Where the wild rose faintly flushes, + Sing me one more villanelle. + + Rare as snowy heather bell, + Sweet as melody of thrushes + Through the ferns and foxgloves of the fairy dell. + + When the shade creeps up the fell + Mid the parting sun’s last blushes, + Sing me one more villanelle. + + Sing it to the curfew knell, + Where the streamlet plays with rushes + Through the ferns and foxgloves of the fairy dell. + + Let it breathe no sad farewell, + Only mirth with silent hushes. + Sing me one more villanelle + Through the ferns and foxgloves of the fairy dell. + + + + +XV +THE FAIRY GLEN REVISITED + + + THAT pure and shy retreat + A Tartar would have spared, + But not that lawyer cur from Inverness, + Who thought its sylvan virgin loveliness + Would bring him gold if rudely bared + And hawked upon the street. + + There children checked their race + And crept on tiptoed feet, + Lest they should break upon the rainbow rings + Of fairies glinting through transparent wings, + Or kindly wizard come to meet + A maid with lovelorn face. + + No snow nor stinging sleet + Could chill the fairies’ bath; + So close the vaulting was with fir and larch + Which laid deep carpets underneath their arch, + That on the fairies’ silent path + No blast could ever beat. + + Mid foam more white than fleece + The waterfall rang sweet, + It made each rocky cup a rippling well, + It coyly dived and peeped along the dell, + Then ran the rising sea to greet, + And greeting found its peace. + + And now the cold and heat + Scourge all the glen with ire; + The broken boughs have choked the sobbing stream, + The silver birch is but a sodden beam, + The fairies’ path is sunk in mire, + The moss has left their seat. + + Flash sorrow and disdain + For this most sordid feat, + You whom Burns taught to love a daisy’s face, + And Scott to love the mountains’ gloom and grace; + Or say they scattered chaff for wheat, + And sang their songs in vain. + + + + +XVI +WAITING + + + BASED ON THE GAELIC FEAR A’ BHÀTA + + THE year may change its time, + But still I climb + The cliff above the sea, + And look with eyes half dim with rain, + To know if God has brought again + My lover back to me. + + When darkness downward glides + And slowly hides + The fading hills of blue, + I never bar the cottage door + Without one look across the moor, + A look of hope for you. + + Sometimes when I am free + I seek the quay + Soon after break of day, + And find a newly harboured boat, + And ask if you are still afloat + Near home or far away. + + I ask if you are well, + And they can tell + My heart is set on you: + And then they call me just a fool, + A baby in the world’s hard school + To give you love so true. + + You promised me silk gowns + From Lowland towns, + And rings of twisted gold; + And, best of all, your picture bound + With stones to hem its beauty round + That I might kiss and hold. + + My love is not the flower + Of one short hour; + You were my childhood’s pride; + Your image is my dream by night, + By day if ever put to flight + It comes back like the tide. + + The swan upon the lake + When robbers take + Her young, is left to moan; + None tends her wounds or heeds her cry, + She wails her loss and waits to die: + Like her I cry alone. + + + + +XVII +NEAR HAARLEM + + + TRIUMPHANTLY it soars, that full-domed sky, + Of lucent turquoise fading into pearl; + And here the happy birds their brown wings furl + By waters that lisp seaward dreamily. + + Beyond these plains of silver and of green, + Amid the floating vapours of the town + The vast grey church uplifts its belfry crown, + A chiselled shrine through incense dimly seen. + + The burdened barges trust the smiling flood, + Calm wraps the distance of reclining dunes, + The tower rings peace in soft alternate tones. + + And who that hears the bells’ low luting tunes, + Now thinks of Haarlem’s siege and starving moans, + Or how these brooks once bubbled with brave blood? + + + + +XVIII +THE TOMB OF ST. AUGUSTINE AT PAVIA + + + BENEATH the low barbaric Lombard apse + It rises like a ridge of Alpine snow, + And wry-wheeled ages with uneasy lapse + Creak past its majesty, and go. + + Such music as leaves Milan’s marble spires + To mount towards a greater whiter throne, + Or tempts to earth again seraphic choirs, + Is at Augustine’s shrine unknown. + + No wave of pilgrim footsteps surges here, + No sheaf of tapers lifts its votive gleam, + The half-taught critic comes not with his sneer, + When I draw nigh, dear saint, to dream. + + Enough if far-off sounds of children’s glee + Bid me to “take and read” God’s open call, + Or some sad Monnica pray here to see + Her son, like thee, a second Paul. + + + + +XIX +MODERN FLORENCE + + + HARD by the home of Dante’s infant life + I saw a Yankee “Kake Walk” advertised; + Within San Miniato’s pillared aisle + A Japanese was peering unsurprised; + Where Michelangelo set “Dawn” and “Night,” + And her, most blest, whose softly sculptured smile + Glows with a maiden’s and a mother’s light, + A German Jew was nagging with his wife. + + + + +XX +TO DANTE + + + THE Church divided and the Empire fell, + Grave Dante, but thy verse in magic grows + And charms men upward to the snow-white Rose + Of heaven from the mire and grief of hell. + + No lonely isle of dull forgetfulness + Hides Beatrice within its shadowed gloom, + For ’mid the petals of thy Rose’s bloom + Time’s hand has set that pearl of loveliness. + + Though patched and powdered poets could not taste + Thy limpid sweetness, and exposed thy fame + To meet the leering Frenchman’s cynic air, + + Thy love was fair without brocade or paste, + Thyself too great to need a gilded name; + Thy Comedy and God survive Voltaire. + + + + +XXI +TO PETRARCH + + + YES, Petrarch, we most certainly believe + That you who wore your heart upon your sleeve, + Did love your love for Laura, and the eye + Of public fame, at which your sonnets fly, + Like skyward larks that court the genial sun; + And o’er the tears you treasured one by one + You downward bent with all a statue’s grace + To see reflections of your tearful face. + But none redeemed by love will e’er consent + To say you tasted of love’s sacrament. + + + + +XXII +TO A LADY OF +THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY + + + IN MEMORY OF METASTASIO + + NICE, though your lips of coral + Now are dust; + And the schoolboy scans the moral + Graven on your broken bust + + In the gilt barocco chapel + After Mass; + Where ten coats with broidered lappel + Bent when Nice used to pass. + + Still perchance your spirit hovers + Where the lute + And the voices of your lovers + Chimed, but now are gone and mute. + + Where the lonely arbour’s hollow + Shadier grows, + And the butterflies can follow + Fearlessly to kiss the rose. + + And you smile because a poet + À la mode + Flouted you; and then, we know it, + Wrote an abject palinode. + + For your hands, though light as feathers, + Held him tight: + Love was made to last all weathers, + Not to change with day and night. + + + + +XXIII +THE “LIBERAL” DIVINE + + + THE “middle path” meets every need, + The Stagirite and Buddha say; + I won’t doubt more than half the creed + Nor wear a costume wholly lay. + + + + +XXIV +THE QUARREL + + + SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF FRAGONARD + + ON the elm tree she was swinging, + Just beyond the hedge of yew; + But she slowly ceased from singing, + From her breast a pink she drew. + + Buttoning his coat of satin, + Off he strode towards the woods, + Tartly quoting Virgil’s Latin, + That a woman’s made of moods. + + Long ago within God’s garden + Both were wrapped in long lone sleep, + Heeding not if hoar frosts harden, + Or the autumn leaves fall deep. + + Laugh not at the statue calling + Phyllis with her marble muff, + Nor the marble cupids sprawling + On a cloud of powder puff. + + Laugh not at his hermit fashions + Nor the book unwarmed by hope; + Say not that it shows the passions + Of a stony misanthrope. + + For they loved while they were living, + Loved with love untold, unheard; + Though they parted unforgiving, + Each too proud to say a word. + + + + +XXV +THE OLD FOUNTAIN + + + ONE gay glint of rose and silver flounces + In a deep green dell, + Where a streamlet bubbles down and bounces + From a Triton’s mossy shell. + + One more dance ere sunset on the mountain + Laughing says, “Too late”; + One sweet lute that tinkled with the fountain + Called two hearts to court their fate. + + Some small raindrops, just to tease the Triton, + Mischievously fell; + Some one spoke a jest that quenched the light on + Eyes that he had long loved well. + + That dark night he cursed the love he brought her, + Though it made his soul; + And she sobbed an echo to the water + Brimming in the fountain bowl. + + + + +XXVI +LOVE AND DEATH + + + ONCE toward a sunlit garden, laden + With the lime trees’ scented breath, + Came to watch a merry youth and maiden, + Love and Death. + + At their bosoms Love threw fragrant posies, + Tossed them laughing low and blithe, + In the background Death amid the roses + Moved his scythe. + + Ere the latest rose the path was strewing, + Her sweet maiden soul was fled; + He beside her grave his cheeks bedewing, + Bent his head. + + Sobbing Love then thought to give him pleasure, + Bade his curse on Death attend; + But the youth begged Death who held his treasure + Be his friend. + + Death as friend might give the old completeness + Time could give to him no more, + Death, not Love alone, the former sweetness + Might restore. + + Love then saw the youth was worthier loving, + Dowered with a stronger grace; + And with downcast eyelids shyly moving, + Kissed Death’s face. + + + + +XXVII +VIOLETS + + + WHERE burning tapers hold + White suppliant hands from arms of gold + Around the Host; there no one sets + Sweet violets. + + Fair roses droop and die + In halls of dance and minstrelsy; + But who within those walls has met + The violet? + + Where faintly smiles the sun + Through chequered skies on beech groves dun, + There hides in vales sequestered yet + The violet. + + Where I shall lie asleep, + Some friend, perhaps, a tear will weep, + And if our love knew no regrets, + Strew violets. + + + + +XXVIII +THE GARDENS OF THE SOUL + + + IN a restless land beside a river + Stands a stone enclosure tall, + Rich the finder is, and rich the giver + Of the key to pierce that wall. + + Once within, you drink the clearest pleasures, + And your sorrow change for ease; + Ancient bards enchant you with their measures, + Sweetly sighs the Highland breeze. + + Next amid the orange trees and cedars + Bearded Homer deigns to roam, + Musing tales of marching Argive leaders, + And Ulysses welcomed home. + + Here where daffodils their crowns are bending + On a lawn of English green, + Milton gravely sits to tell the ending + Of angelic strifes unseen. + + Here the almond bloom for ever blushes, + And Italian fountains rise; + While the wine of dawn their dewdrops flushes, + Dante speaks of Paradise. + + But beyond where any poet paces, + Grows a gnarled grey olive grove, + Where the furthest stars have veiled their faces, + Weeping for eternal Love. + + + + +XXIX +A MAN TO CHILDISH THINGS + + + WHERE are the domes of pure mysterious gold, + And myriad angel wings in ordered flight + My childish gaze could once at eve behold + Before the mountains melted into night? + + Where is the island, shy abode of bliss, + Which seemed through summer haze to rise and float, + The isle which merchant fleets could never kiss, + But once stood still for Brendan’s hermit boat? + + Where are my paladins with souls of snow, + Whose swords were fashioned at no mortal forge, + The men who rode where Arthur bade them go + To meet the dragon in his dungeon gorge? + + O happy, happy dreams, ye were no lies, + No true apostle made me put away + Such “childish things,” which mirrored to mine eyes + Faith, Hope and Love. I call you back to stay. + + + + +XXX +THE KNIGHT + + + HE was so courteous to the paynim horde, + Men doubted if he served the Lord + Or held the faith of Christ. + They said he proudly scorned life’s sweetest prize, + Who never played with sparkling eyes + Or kept an evening tryst. + + Their god of love was but Cupidity, + Their Lord an idol vanity + With mail below his vest: + While he, true knight, believed in Christ alone, + And though they thought his heart a stone, + Made love a hero’s quest. + + + + +XXXI +HOPES + + + TO have lived just like a man + And done what one man can, + Not basking like a dog in summer dust; + Nor like a butterfly + That flaunts and flutters by, + Till showers have dimmed its silver wings with rust. + + To have lightened some stiff load + Of men upon the road— + May some remember I am flesh and blood! + To have dried some children’s tears, + And slain some women’s fears + That bid them crouch beneath a brooding flood. + + To have known the throbbing stars, + And traced the ancient scars + That streams have ploughed upon the mountain side; + To have sung songs passing sweet, + And sung with lasting heat + As pure as that of stars that burn and bide. + + To have said the simply true, + Although to preach the new + Might win me prizes and the world’s caress; + To have been misunderstood, + If so the common good + Might bear more harvest through my loneliness. + + To have learnt that love is light + In rain and fog and night, + For eyes that sadly peer and feet that plod: + To have found all life a song + Of rapture calm and strong, + And found the music of the song was God. + + + + +XXXII +THE PATH + + + TO buzzing lecture halls his steps he bent, + Where all the paths to God were well discussed, + Or faith and reason weighed with balance just, + Till he was dizzy with strong argument. + He saw philosophers who shook their fists, + And broke commandment nine; + He saw the Sadducean alchemists + Draw water out of wine; + He saw the knife-eyed Pharisees + Adjusting their phylacteries: + But never found the gate where he could see + The One in Three. + + He watched the hills as dawn unlocked the day, + And felt vibrating o’er the low green lea + The breath of lilac and of hawthorn tree, + While gold laburnums rocked each pendent spray. + He saw the sun salute the moon afar, + And felt their common soul; + He heard the song of star to sister star + Around the sky’s deep bowl; + He watched the waves withdraw their foam, + He watched the rivers wending home: + He found the One, and yet he could not see + The One in Three. + + Still doubting he beheld a brother man, + Whom he ignored and scorned to think akin; + But now a sudden breath of love within + Drove him to serve, and humbly he began. + His hands that worked in love were torn with red, + He shrank not at the sight, + For he who suffered saw a Heart that bled + Become his beacon-light. + Thus brother to the Son of God + With life from heaven on earth he trod: + The Life, the Light, the Love, he knew to be + The One in Three. + + + + +XXXIII +THE CALL TO BETHLEHEM + + + SHEPHERDS, come to Bethlehem, + Pluck yon bush of Christmas rose, + Weave a dainty diadem. + + From my flute with tuneful stem + Music warbles as it flows, + “Shepherds, come to Bethlehem.” + + Lo, upon the mountain’s hem + Ruby clouds above the snows + Weave a dainty diadem. + + Seek not proud Jerusalem, + Where the empty temple shows; + Shepherds, come to Bethlehem. + + Christ without a crown or gem + Lies on straw while winter blows; + Weave a dainty diadem. + + Christ will not our gift condemn; + All our poverty He knows. + Shepherds, come to Bethlehem, + Weave a dainty diadem. + + + + +XXXIV +A CHRISTMAS LULLABY + + + ADAPTED FROM THE SPANISH + + STARS, + Stay your bright amethyst cars, + Flee not away, + Wait till the day, + Come and adore. + + Flowers, + Born in the morning’s first hours, + Stars of the earth, + Bloom for Christ’s birth, + Come and adore. + + Birds, + Songs are far fresher than words, + Christ is your Sun, + Sing every one, + Come and adore. + + Streams, + Whisper in tune with Christ’s dreams, + Throw your sweet spells + From crystal bells, + Come and adore. + + Breeze, + Say to all lands and all seas, + “This merry morn, + Jesus is born, + Come and adore.” + + Child, + Seeking the lost on the wild, + Though Thou dost sleep, + Smile on thy sheep + Come to adore. + + + + +XXXV +TO THE HOLY CHILD + + + AS PAINTED BY RAPHAEL + + O LORD, Thyself hast taught that sight is not belief; + And yet within Thine eyes I see eternity, + The love which told the dying thief + That he should rest in Paradise + Is there, though Thou art still a Child at Mary’s knee; + The joy of perfect sacrifice + Is there, and that unfathomed grief + In which our griefs have sunk like tears in one wide sea. + + + + +XXXVI +MATER AMABILIS + + + AS PAINTED BY BOTTICELLI + + MARY, on the Prince of peace thy gladness + Gleams from radiant eyes; + But their light is touched with passing sadness, + Like our English summer skies. + + Angels’ arms above thy head are holding + Crowns of golden stars; + But the baby hands thy breast enfolding + Show to thee their future scars. + + Lilies cense thee with their exhalations, + But thy heart has guessed + Slanders of the scoffing generations + Who will call thee cursed, not blessed. + + So when clouds of faint foreboding sorrow + From an unknown sea + Come to warn me of a broken morrow, + Mother Mary, pray for me. + + + + +XXXVII +SAINT STEPHEN + + + I SEE that I must die. + O Christ, how shall I bear the cruel stones, + E’en though there be a place among the thrones + At thy right hand for me? Create again + The very sinews of my soul: + I ask not for an aureole, + But strength to brave the pain. + + Help me, for life is dear: + The growing rapture of the summer morn, + The cedared hills, and soft-cheeked roses born + Within the cooling breath of Hermon’s snow, + The rare reluctant shaded streams, + The sea that sings, and weeps, and dreams; + I love them: Thou dost know. + + I loved my father’s faith: + The synagogue with all its sacred gear, + The feasts that guard the march of every year, + The trumpets, lamps, and waving of the palms, + The azure fringe on robes like milk, + The yellow scrolls wrapped round with silk, + The triumph of the Psalms. + + I loved to preach the truth, + To thrust and parry in a fair debate, + To trace God’s dayspring in His nation’s fate, + To lift up Christ, who dying broke death’s bands; + I loved to give men joy for sighs, + To win the thanks of widows’ eyes, + And children’s trustful hands. + + “The truth.” Yes, I will die. + This chafing Sanhedrin shall not prevail + To check me. They shall see the truth full-sail; + They cannot sink truth, stone me though they can. + Lord, I am ready. By thy grace + No shade of fear shall cross my face, + And I will play the man. + + + + +XXXVIII +SAINT JOHN AT EPHESUS + + + MEN ask why I am left alone: + My brother, James, and Peter, all are slain; + Brave men who met the surging crimson deep + With equal minds. And Mary fell asleep, + His mother whom He gave me for my own. + But I with anchored hope remain. + + I loved Him. It is long ago + Since I with Mary stood upon the hill + Where His last breath rose up in Sacrifice, + While tears fell earthward from our burning eyes, + And Jews were gibing on the slope below. + And yet I know He loves me still. + + He loved me. And whene’er I dream + Of sunsets changing into glassy gold + The waters of the Galilean lake, + Or see in thought the Temple portals take + A pearly softness from the moonlight gleam, + He speaks with me, as once of old. + + I love Him, for He first loved me. + He let me lean upon His holy breast, + He brought me first to view His empty grave; + He bade me learn that only love can save, + And call no fire from heaven but charity. + I work and wait, for He knows best. + + That Rome which now oppresses us, + And all this rout of grey idolatry + Shall soon dissolve. For I can see the Light + Which guides the sun disperse the Asian night: + And straight above the reek of Ephesus + There burns the Love which died for me. + + + + +XXXIX +THE LITTLE CHILDREN + + + ALONG the ocean’s stormless side, + Below the never setting sun, + Where Innocent is every one, + Meet all Christ’s babes that ever died. + + Some home around their Monarch’s seat, + Like doves that flutter to their rest; + Within His arms they find their nest + And wonder at His wounded feet. + + Some make a goal of Mary’s knee, + To which they run in joyous race; + Then tell her that their mother’s face + On earth was just like hers to see. + + Some call the angels to their play + Mid flowers of one unfading spring; + In radiant wheels they move and sing, + And learn the angels’ roundelay. + + But some, I think, amid those bands, + Remembering our ruder lore + And love, towards this colder shore + Lift speed-well eyes and rose-leaf hands. + + + + +XL +THE CIRCUMCISION + + + MORE bright than rosebuds on the rounded base + Of some veined alabaster urn, + Wherein a lamp was set to burn + And throw false smiles on Aphrodite’s face. + + More bright than crowns of red anemones, + Which every flushing Syrian year + Saw laid upon Adonis’ bier + By mourning maidens on adoring knees. + + More brightly flashed the drops of precious blood, + The rubies linked upon the shrine + Of Christ the Babe, the Christ divine, + To seal His body for the holy rood. + + + + +XLI +THE RETURN OF THE MAGI + + + HOW they did laugh, when mounting our camels + Three of us rode, obeying the light; + Slowly we cut our hearts from the trammels + Doubt flung around us that first wistful night. + Only a star above wind and rain, + Only a bloom on the passionless plain, + Waving us onward; yet we were right. + We thank Thee, Lord. + + Oft we recalled that kindly derision, + Measuring seas of measureless sand, + Mocked by the streams and trees of the vision + Moving and melting at magic’s command. + Cheated and choked we quailed and burned, + While the blast blew and the desert was churned, + Slipping, it seemed, out of God’s own hand. + We praise Thee, Lord. + + Onward we rode, where silver-meshed rivers + Sang to the birds which singing replied, + Where the soft light through rose-bowers quivers, + On past the voice of the bridegroom and bride. + Seeking the desert and star again, + Leaving the homesteads and fields of white grain + Where the doves called us to dream and bide. + We bless Thee, Lord. + + Onward we went, past temples that brighten, + Sepulchres hiding souls that are dead, + Chambers where bought lips wearily whiten, + Altars and pavements with hecatombs red. + Onward we travelled to Bethlehem, + Guided from Zion, the earth’s diadem, + On to a stable and manger bed, + To greet Thee, Lord. + + Dimly His eyes flashed, laden with presage, + Telling of strife and triumph to be; + Gracious His lips, and glowed with a message + Merciful, strong to set prisoners free. + Lord, use our myrrh and our urns of gold; + Fairer than children of men to behold, + Thine is the sceptre and victory! + We worship Thee. + + + + +XLII +ATONEMENT + + + WHAT love it was that Thou shouldst choose to feel + The chill of valleys where no dawns emerge + To break the mist, and streams repeat the dirge + For faith crushed like a pearl beneath man’s heel. + + How just it was that Thou our Judge shouldst learn + The force of taunts that goad us into sin, + And slowly aureoled perfection win + Through blackened hopes, and through the stripes that burn. + + Thou who didst steel thy will to impotence, + And wouldst not save Thyself, or take control + Of force, make us so dead that we may live. + + Thou God of sorrows, wash our penitence, + Thou who wast naked, help each smitten soul, + Christ strong to suffer, stronger to forgive. + + + + +XLIII +CALVARY + + + AS some weak bird, tossed homeward by the gale, + Is safely nested in the rocky scar + That cleaves the curving beach, but hears afar + The ocean writhing at the tempest’s flail, + + So thou, my soul, hast reached the refuge hill + That Pilate made a pleasance for his jest, + And in Christ’s rose-red side hast found a rest, + Borne half by passion, yet by conscious will. + + O Lord, whose spirit waged so hard a fight, + Scorn not the tainted thing beside thy heart + As too unfit to feel that sacred glow; + + But lest I ere forget how much I owe, + Let not the vision utterly depart + Of frenzied storm and all-engulfing night. + + + + +XLIV +“THE DESERT SHALL BLOSSOM” + + + LONG, long ago He died, and yet He is not dead; + From out His riven side and patient hands that bled + Flows one unebbing tide, by love and pity fed. + + God’s heart is satisfied, man’s eyes are upward led, + And o’er the desert wide, the dew that’s downward shed + Drawn from that flowing tide, forms flowers white and red. + + + + +XLV +RESURRECTION + + + HOPE, last of all the angels, left the three + Who with their woman’s courage watched Christ die; + But Hope, when she had fled, + Returned to plant in them one humble flower, + The thought that in His grey sepulchral bower + They three might strew around the Dead + The alms of one adoring sympathy, + And pray a last good-bye. + + They sped in silence, but the sharp-fanged doubt + Lurked in the path to mock their pungent store + Of spices, hissing, “Nay, + Ye cannot reach the Tenant of that gloom.” + But when the dawn and they retouched the tomb, + They found the stone was rolled away, + And He, their Life who died, now stood without, + Alive for evermore. + + Thus when we seek our buried innocence + With bitter myrrh and grey-leaved rosemary, + And writhing doubts delay + Our steps towards the tomb of our desire, + Do Thou, O Lord, our musing eyes inspire + To see the stone is rolled away, + And find that self has thrown its grave-clothes hence + And risen to live free. + + + + +XLVI +THE ASCENSION + + + “LO, I am with you alway.” Thus He spake + Girt with the zone of His disciples’ love, + And straightway, like the nascent flames that wake + Upon a placid hearth, He soars above. + Forlorn they cannot move; + Their eyes are voyaging to track the Friend + Who promised to be with them till the end. + + Once, the last once, His scar-gemmed Hand He lifts, + The Hand that twined the children to His knee, + Once downward bends the pitying Eye that sifts + Our chaff and grain for all eternity: + The blue immensity + Robes its Creator in a cope of light, + A cloud receives Him from their upturned sight. + + Thou “alway with us”? Do the brakes of thorn + No more entangle our tormented earth, + Do women travail less when babes are born, + Costs it less sweat for men to fight with dearth, + Is life one Eden mirth, + Moves there more laughter on the purple sea, + Or richer gold across the rippling lea? + + I care not: but we know, O Friend of friends, + Thou throned above art by our weary side, + The light that upward sailed with Thee descends + To be our morn undimmed by night or tide; + And Thou, eternal Guide, + Art not content to lead us to thy goal, + But buildest heaven in the broken soul. + + + + +XLVII +A HYMN TO THE HOLY SPIRIT + + + O SMILE upon the mirror of the world, + O Bearer of the censer whence is curled + The fragrant breath of watered trees at eve, + And fires that slowly in the sunrise weave. + + Thou art the Why within the universe, + Thou fillest hidden caves which seas immerse, + Thou sowest flowers upon the snow-bound hills, + And teachest music to the listening rills. + + Thou art the Guide of man’s supreme ascent + From sullen shapes that through the forest bent, + To minds that sift the sovran right from wrong + And forms more perfect than a polished song. + + The lily sceptre of sweet virgin love + Is thine; the rosy coronet above + The bridal brow is thine; from Thee the might + Of infant eyes, like stars that calm the night. + + Thou art the Spirit of insurgent truth, + Thou givest buried lore a second youth, + Thou makest charity with wisdom grow, + And provest falsehood but a losing throw. + + Thou calledst Moses from the wealthy Nile + And all the idols of fair Philae’s isle, + To march for life beneath the desert sun + And teach a rabble that their God was one. + + And Thou didst barb the tongue of Socrates + To sting a city settled on the lees, + To lash the vice of fluent sophistry + And crucify the shifting inward lie. + + Thou plantedst pity in the Indian sage, + Who conned the verses penned on sorrow’s page, + And strove to cut by mental abstinence + The silken cord that threads the beads of sense + + But could not in himself his pity slake, + And watching lotos blooms upon a lake, + Which helpless sank or rose with every wave, + Resolved all sinking souls to lift and save. + + And Thou within a cloud of maiden white + Didst form that sun of radiating light, + Christ’s strong immaculate humanity, + Transparent monstrance of His Deity. + + He, sinless, trod the brink of sin’s abyss + And for His love received a traitor’s kiss; + Then driven by thy soft compelling breath + He, who was Life, resigned himself to death. + + He showed us that this fleshly house of sense + Is not a nomad tent or barrier fence, + But some fair chancel where thy vivid flame + Might find an altar and reveal His name. + + Come, Holy Ghost, and breathe from sea to sea, + Give each his special fruit of liberty; + Tear from deceit the scintillating robe, + From Satan’s hands hurl down the rod and globe. + + Break Thou the spirit of the lords of lust, + Whose passions scatter an infected dust; + Reduce the men for whom the poor have bled, + Who elevate their gold as God and Bread. + + Grant me a mind that may become thy lyre, + A hate of hatred and a tongue of fire; + And mid the clamour of all transient things + Let me not miss the passage of thy wings. + + + + +XLVIII +“ADORA ET TACE” + + + LOVE only is the school of love, + And they who learn from Thee their art, + Will find thy presence from above + Touch altar, hand, and heart. + + While others ask how Thou canst come, + Or tell me when Thou goest away, + Be mine to call Thee to my home, + And know that Thou wilt stay. + + While others all their worship weigh, + And keenly blame the less or more, + Be mine my lowly best to pay, + “Be silent, and adore.” + + Give me to keep thy new command, + Who at thy precious blood was priced; + Make all my world a holy land, + Let all my life be Christ. + + + + +XLIX +THE REFUGE OF THE WANDERING + + + COLD and cruel as the winds that carry + Arctic hills of ice and snow, + Past the cliffs where skirling sea-birds tarry + And the seething breakers flow. + + Burning as the Afric wind that races + Northward from its desert land, + Wind that blasts and covers green oases + With its ropes of parching sand. + + Rough and angry as the winds that bluster + Where Tibetan temples shine, + Winds like savage lancers come to muster + On an Eastern frontier line. + + Sad and blind as winds that wander sobbing, + Where the raw Atlantic mist + From the stars their pearly radiance robbing, + Grips the shore with damp white fist. + + So our souls from every quarter eddy, + North and South and East and West, + Jesu, till the wayward and the ready + On thy heart all sink to rest. + + + + +L +THE LEGEND OF ST. CHRISTOPHER + + + ON to the bank that recedes, + On through the shadows that mock, + Tearing my staff from the weeds, + Bruising my feet on the rock, + Caught by this Babe who appealed, + Calling to echoes astray; + Would that my heart I had steeled, + Left Him to listen till day! + Child, who dost crush me with weight, + Child of the pitiful eyes, + Whence didst Thou come to my gate? + How didst Thou fool me to rise + From my lone bed? + + Sweeter than bells at the Mass, + Older and newer than time, + Charming the shadows to pass + Ringeth His voice in a chime. + Firm is the touch of His hands, + Soft as my mother’s caress, + Loosing my misery’s bands, + Calming the wrath I confess. + Child, who hast healed all my pain, + Joy of my soul, must we part + Just when the bank we shall gain? + Blest be these feet on my heart! + They too have bled. + + + + +LI +THE LIGHT INVISIBLE + + + O LIGHT that lives on every hill and shore, + Beyond the light that dies at close of day, + The tears fill up the chalice of mine eyes + With gladness, when I see Thee far away. + + O Stream that flows until the world shall end, + Past fretful town and hermitage and field, + Red are thy waters, but they throb with peace; + I touch their dew and all my wounds are healed. + + O Voice that speaks in every grove and street, + Above the song of birds and oaths of men, + I hear and follow Thee, although my steps + Begin a course that lies beyond my ken. + + O Face returning at each Eucharist, + More close than forms that change with changing years, + I am the veil between myself and Thee, + Burn Thou the veil, and burning, kill my fears. + + O Guest that comes to take away our best, + And all the loves we garner at our side, + Thou art our Best, our Home art Thou. For Thee, + Attentive I will labour and abide. + + + + +LII +ONWARD + + + FAR, and how far it is not mine to tell, + The hills of silken grey + Enfold the vale, and yet above that fell + The Shepherd knows a way. + + Far, and how far it is not mine to guess, + A sea of hungry waves + Surrounds me, but the Pilot thwarts their stress + With skill that guides and saves. + + Far, and how far is all unknown to me, + The many mansions lie + Beyond the grave, yet will the Builder see + And come to meet my cry. + + + + +LIII +THE FAITHFUL DEPARTED + + + SAY what good-bye + We owe to those who lived unstained by guile, + Who seemed to die, + But made their death a smile, + As though to promise we should meet within + A little while. + + Is this good-bye, + To sorrow o’er the blood-red pall of day, + Till in the sky + Faint tapers coldly pray; + And think our joy died like the buried sun’s + Last golden ray? + + Is this good-bye, + To tread on sallow leaves in autumn rain, + And hear winds sigh + An echo of our pain; + And think that never can the bud-crowned spring + Return again? + + Is this good-bye, + To watch the myriad falling flakes of snow + Whirl down and lie + Upon the fields below; + And think the wonted path is now too dim + For us to know? + + Not so: good-bye + Means faith in love kept warm by robes of white, + Faith to deny + The death of any light, + Faith that to-morrow will be yesterday + Without its night. + + + + +LIV +LETHE + + + ERE we shall touch the jasper parapet, + That God has set + About His garden and the sea of glass, + Shall we first pass + Through some calm stream of soft forgetfulness + And wash our hapless little joys away? + And shall our souls in infant nakedness + Emerge to bathe in God’s eternal day? + + Shall we forget the garden roundelays + Of piping Mays, + When thrushes sang around the dewy lawns + In roseleaf dawns, + And tulips—purple, saffron, red and white,— + Below the shade of box and fragrant bay, + Would lift to heaven their well-poised heads, as bright + As ever bloomed in Shiraz or Cathay? + + Shall we forget the music of the sea, + The virgin glee + Which swayed beneath her robes dyed emerald, + And so enthralled + The vernal sun that he would downward shower + More silver on her violet crystal fringe + Than ever Sultan made his daughter’s dower + Or locked in Istamboul with key and hinge? + + Shall we forget our hearts did ever ache + And slowly break, + Because a dream by lightning truth was rent, + Or we had spent + A love too deep for one whole life to speak + To gain a joy which proved too light to stay, + As quickly fading as the tulip’s cheek, + As fickle as the sea in witching May? + + + + +LV +AVE ATQUE VALE + + + OUR life is but a rosary + Of Hail and then Farewell; + Some never read the mystery + The onyx beads foretell. + + They think each bead falls on the ground + And spells another loss: + God gathers them to make a round + And seals it with His cross. + + WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON, LTD. + PRINTERS, PLYMOUTH + + + + +FOOTNOTES + + +{6} This poem is founded on a genuine study of the history of the +gipsies, whose language was learnt by the writer in his boyhood. + +{19} This poem refers to the mother of one of my friends. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: The Dark Ages + and Other Poems + + +Author: L + + + +Release Date: June 27, 2014 [eBook #46112] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DARK AGES*** +</pre> +<p>Transcribed from the 1908 Longmans, Green and Co. edition by +David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org</p> +<h1>THE DARK AGES<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">AND OTHER POEMS</span></h1> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">By</span> +“L.”</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center">LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">39, <span +class="GutSmall">PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON</span></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">NEW YORK, +BOMBAY, AND CALCUTTA</span></p> +<p style="text-align: center">1908</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>All rights reserved</i></p> +<h2><a name="pagev"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +v</span>CONTENTS</h2> +<table> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">PAGE</span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">I.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Dark Ages</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page1">1</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">II.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Bells of Venice</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page4">4</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">III.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">An Ancient Church</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page5">5</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">IV.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">To the English Gipsies</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page6">6</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">V.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Autumn Dying</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page9">9</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">VI.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Departure for Cythera</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page10">10</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">VII.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Village Church</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page13">13</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">VIII.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Lady Day near Bignor</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page14">14</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">IX.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">A Cottage Inscription</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page16">16</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">X.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">A Memory of Ireland</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page18">18</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">XI.</p> +</td> +<td><p>“<span class="smcap">Tír Nan +Óg</span>”</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page19">19</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">XII.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">A Highland Day</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page21">21</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">XIII.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">To the Firs</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page23">23</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">XIV.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Good-bye</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page24">24</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">XV.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Fairy Glen Revisited</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page26">26</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">XVI.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Waiting</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page28">28</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">XVII.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Near Haarlem</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page30">30</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">XVIII.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Tomb of Saint Augustine at +Pavia</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page31">31</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">XIX.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Modern Florence</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page32">32</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">XX.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">To Dante</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page33">33</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">XXI.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">To Petrarch</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page34">34</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><a name="pagevi"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. vi</span>XXII.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">To a Lady of the Eighteenth +Century</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page35">35</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">XXIII.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The “Liberal” +Divine</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page37">37</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">XXIV.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Quarrel</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page38">38</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">XXV.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Old Fountain</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page40">40</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">XXVI.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Love and Death</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page41">41</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">XXVII.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Violets</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page43">43</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">XXVIII.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Gardens of the Soul</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page44">44</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">XXIX.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">A Man to Childish Things</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page46">46</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">XXX.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Knight</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page47">47</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">XXXI.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Hopes</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page48">48</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">XXXII.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Path</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page50">50</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">XXXIII.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Call to Bethlehem</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page52">52</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">XXXIV.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">A Christmas Lullaby</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page53">53</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">XXXV.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">To the Holy Child</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page55">55</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">XXXVI.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Mater Amabilis</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page56">56</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">XXXVII.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Saint Stephen</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page57">57</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">XXXVIII.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Saint John at Ephesus</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page59">59</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">XXXIX.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Little Children</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page61">61</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">XL.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Circumcision</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page63">63</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">XLI.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Return of the Magi</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page64">64</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">XLII.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Atonement</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page66">66</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">XLIII.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Calvary</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page67">67</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">XLIV.</p> +</td> +<td><p>“<span class="smcap">The Desert shall +Blossom</span>”</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page68">68</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">XLV.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Resurrection</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page69">69</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">XLVI.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Ascension</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page71">71</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">XLVII.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">A Hymn to the Holy Spirit</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page73">73</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">XLVIII.</p> +</td> +<td><p>“<span class="smcap">Adora et Tace</span>”</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page76">76</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><a name="pagevii"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. vii</span>XLIX.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Refuge of the Wandering</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page77">77</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">L.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Legend of St. +Christopher</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page79">79</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">LI.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Light Invisible</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page81">81</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">LII.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Onward</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page83">83</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">LIII.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Faithful Departed</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page84">84</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">LIV.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Lethe</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page86">86</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">LV.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Ave Atque Vale</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page88">88</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<h2><a name="page1"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 1</span><span +class="GutSmall">I</span><br /> +THE DARK AGES</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Men</span> call you +“dark.” What factory then blurred the light<br +/> +Of golden suns, when nothing blacker than the shades<br /> +Of coming rain climbed up the heather-mantled height?<br /> + + +While the air<br /> + Breathed all the scents of all untrodden flowers,<br +/> + And brooks poured silver through the glimmering +glades,<br /> + Then sweetly wound through virgin +ground.<br /> + Must all that +beauty pass?<br /> + And must our +pleasure trains<br /> +Like foul eruptions belch upon the mountain head?<br /> + Must we perforce build vulgar villa lanes,<br /> + And on sweet +fields of grass<br /> +The canting scutcheons of a cheating commerce spread?</p> +<p class="poetry">Men call you “dark.” Did that +faith see with cobwebbed eyes,<br /> +That built the airy octagon on Ely’s hill,<br /> +And Gloucester’s Eastern wall that woos the topaz skies,<br +/> + + +<a name="page2"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 2</span>Where the +hymn<br /> + Angelic “Glory be to God on +high,<br /> + And peace on earth to men who feel +good will,”<br /> + Might softly +sound God’s throne around?<br /> + + +Is that a perfect faith<br /> + + +Which pew-filled chapels rears,<br /> + Where Gothic fronts of stone mask backs of ill-baked +bricks,<br /> + And where the frothy fighting +preacher fears,<br /> + + +As peasants fear a wraith,<br /> +His deacon’s frown or some just change in politics?</p> +<p class="poetry">Men call you “dark.” Was +Chaucer’s speech a muddy stream,<br /> +The language born of Norman sun and Saxon snow?<br /> +Was Langland’s verse or Wyclif’s prose mere +glow-worm’s gleam?<br /> + + +And the tales<br /> + Of Arthur’s sword and of the +holy Grail,<br /> + And Avalon, the isle where no +storms blow:<br /> + From such +romance did no light glance?<br /> + + +Have we not heard a tongue,<br /> + + +Whose words the Saxon thralls<br /> + Would scorn to speak above their muck-rake and their +fork,<br /> + The speech of barrack-rooms and +music-halls,<br /> + + +Where every fool has flung<br /> +The rotten refuse of Calcutta and New York?</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page3"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +3</span>Men call you “dark.” But +<i>chivalry</i> and <i>honour</i> stand<br /> +As words that you, not we, did fashion, when the need<br /> +Of food beyond the price of gold awoke our land.<br /> + + +For you taught<br /> + Inconstancy is like a standard +lost;<br /> + And we who prove untrue in love or +deed<br /> + Will doubly +shame an ancient name.<br /> + + +Your robes were not all white,<br /> + + +Your soul was not a sea<br /> + Where all the crystal rivulets of God found room:<br +/> + But we must often to your lessons +flee,<br /> + + +Our truth with yours unite,<br /> +Before we meet the holy dayspring of the doom.</p> +<h2><a name="page4"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 4</span><span +class="GutSmall">II</span><br /> +THE BELLS OF VENICE</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Ring</span> out again that +faltering strain,<br /> + Cease not so soon,<br /> +Sweet peal that brought to me the thought<br /> +Of some deep shadowed English lane<br /> + Across the blue lagoon.</p> +<p class="poetry">The water street where oarsmen meet<br /> + And shout ahead,<br /> +The glowing quay, all noise and glee,<br /> +Seemed hallowed as when angels’ feet<br /> + Touched Jacob’s stony +bed.</p> +<p class="poetry">On pearly dome and princely home<br /> + Day’s glory dies:<br /> +Once more the bells’ low murmur tells<br /> +That faith is not a line of foam<br /> + Nor life a bridge of sighs.</p> +<h2><a name="page5"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 5</span><span +class="GutSmall">III</span><br /> +AN ANCIENT CHURCH</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">So</span> little dost thou +seem of common earth,<br /> +So much of spirit doth thy fabric show,<br /> +That we, who watch thee through the azure glow,<br /> +Might deem that with the stars thou cam’st to birth.</p> +<p class="poetry">So sweet and true the voices from thy spire,<br +/> +Which bless the day’s betrothal unto night,<br /> +That when they falter with the fading light,<br /> +We well might think an angel touched his lyre.</p> +<p class="poetry">If chiselled stone and molten bronze instil<br +/> +Hopes deeper than the fountains of my tears,<br /> +And love that hungers for eternity,</p> +<p class="poetry">God, I believe Thou hast some use for me;<br /> +Leave me no life of dumb and sluggard years,<br /> +But cut or melt me till I speak Thy will.</p> +<h2><a name="page6"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 6</span><span +class="GutSmall">IV</span><br /> +TO THE ENGLISH GIPSIES <a name="citation6"></a><a +href="#footnote6" class="citation">[6]</a></h2> +<p +class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">Rough</span> swarthy Gipsy folk,<br /> +Would that my voice could once forget to falter,<br /> + And sing a song as free as swallows’ wings<br +/> + Of ancient Gipsies, and their “dukes” +and “kings,”<br /> +The men who braved the branding-rod and halter,<br /> + Because like birds they nimbly came and went,<br /> + And loved the stars and road, and crouching tent<br +/> + Beneath a grove +of oak.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> In +ages long ago<br /> +The Brahman priests pursued you with their curses,<br /> + Because you found life sweeter at the core<br /> + Without the mumbling of their magic lore.<br /> +And you have lived to see their Sanskrit verses<br /> + Fall dead; and Brahmans, like mere Romany,<br /> + Now tempt their gods by trusting to the sea,<br /> + Though trembling +while they go.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> <a +name="page7"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 7</span>Then hardened +against fear<br /> +You looted caravans of gold-shot dresses<br /> + And gems upon their way to bright Baghdad,<br /> + And drove the Moslem Khalif rampant mad,<br /> +When pearls culled from the ocean for the tresses<br /> + Of his Circassian, in your pouches fell,<br /> + As trifles to adorn the dusky shell<br /> + Of some black +virgin’s ear.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Next +Greece and Thessaly<br /> +Became the home of many a jocund roamer,<br /> + Who gaily danced, or begged with mien forlorn,<br /> + And patched his Indian speech where it was torn<br +/> +With remnants from Demosthenes and Homer,<br /> + Until you struck your blackened tents again<br /> + And tattered pageants crossed the endless plain<br +/> + Of fertile +Hungary.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> ’Tis +even said you planned<br /> +To trick the Pope with penitential moaning,<br /> + And gained his leave to wander seven years<br /> + Towards the melancholy North, with tears<br /> +The sin of feigned apostasy atoning:<br /> + Thus fortified against enquiring foes,<br /> + You, with the budding of the Tudor rose,<br /> + Alighted on our +land.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> <a +name="page8"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 8</span>Who says it was +not good<br /> +To see your handkerchiefs of red and yellow,<br /> + And silver rings and basket-laden carts,<br /> + And hear the honey-lipped prophetic arts<br /> +Of wheedling witches, or a clean-limbed fellow<br /> + Who fiddled by the hedgerow in the smoke,<br /> + And roused the antique Gipsy song that woke<br /> + The silence of +the wood?</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Now +that your blood must fail,<br /> +What artist soul revengefully remembers<br /> + You raided the domain of chanticleer,<br /> + Or deftly poisoned pigs to swell your cheer<br /> +Of hedgehogs cooked in clay amid the embers?<br /> + Who says you sometimes wedded art to force,<br /> + Or made the worse appear the better horse<br /> + Before a coming +sale?</p> +<p +class="poetry"> You +soon will pass away;<br /> +Laid one by one below the village steeple<br /> + You face the East from which your fathers sprang,<br +/> + Or sleep in moorland turf, beyond the clang<br /> +Of towns and fairs; your tribes have joined the people<br /> + Whom no true Romany will call by name,<br /> + The folk departed like the camp-fire flame<br /> + Of withered +yesterday.</p> +<h2><a name="page9"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 9</span><span +class="GutSmall">V</span><br /> +AUTUMN DYING</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Autumn</span> shakes in +golden raiment,<br /> + Gashed with red;<br /> +None can ransom him by payment<br /> + From the dead.</p> +<p class="poetry">They have shorn his strength with reaping,<br +/> + Left him cold;<br /> +Now he wakes each morning weeping,<br /> + Weak and old.</p> +<p class="poetry">And last night he sought my casement,<br /> + Came and fled;<br /> +Wailed for aid from roof to basement,<br /> + Touched my bed.</p> +<p class="poetry">Though I cannot find his ransom,<br /> + Ere he dies;<br /> +I will pay all that I can—some<br /> + Hopes and sighs.</p> +<h2><a name="page10"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 10</span><span +class="GutSmall">VI</span><br /> +THE DEPARTURE FOR CYTHERA</h2> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">Ere</span> they parted for Cythera<br /> + When the spring had reached its +bloom,<br /> + Phyllis, Doris and Neaera<br /> + Peeped into their pictured +room,<br /> + Wished to go, yet wished to linger,<br /> + Lifted each a taper finger,<br /> +Threw a kiss towards their portraits set in walls of rose +brocade.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Where the beeches lift a +curtain<br /> + Over shifting sunlit scenes,<br /> + They with footsteps light and certain<br /> + Used to dance like fairy +queens;<br /> + Now they speed beneath the beeches<br /> + Till the path the water reaches<br /> +And the bay just softly ripples by a marble balustrade.</p> +<p class="poetry"> <a name="page11"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 11</span>Purple were the sails that +beckoned<br /> + And the deck was ivory,<br /> + Love stood smiling there and reckoned<br /> + His embarking company;<br /> + Every mast wore silver sheathing,<br /> + Music in the air was breathing,<br /> +In the rigging little laughing cupids upwards climbed and +strayed.</p> +<p class="poetry"> On they sailed through fields +of azure,<br /> + White was all their furrowed +way,<br /> + Melting in a blue erasure,<br /> + Melting fast like yesterday;<br /> + Radiant Hope still steered them hoping,<br /> + Steered them past the woodlands sloping,<br /> +Where the doves descend and flutter on an ancient colonnade.</p> +<p class="poetry"> On they passed through golden +hazes,<br /> + Watching distant peaks of snow,<br +/> + On through shadowed island mazes,<br /> + Where the dreamy spices blow;<br +/> + Till the moon herself was setting,<br /> + And the dew fell fast and wetting,<br /> +And the silver masts no image on the blackening waves +displayed.</p> +<p class="poetry"> <a name="page12"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 12</span>Frayed are now the rose-red panels<br +/> + Filled with squares of rare +brocade,<br /> + In the ceiling Time carves channels<br /> + Where the frescoes slowly fade;<br +/> + Chipped are now the scrolls of plaster,<br /> + Which a skilled Italian master<br /> +Moulded all along the cornice, and with tips of gold +o’erlaid.</p> +<p class="poetry"> But the shallow oval +spaces<br /> + Underneath the white festoons,<br +/> + Hold the tender pastel faces<br /> + Waiting endless afternoons;<br /> + For they never touched Cythera,<br /> + Phyllis, Doris, and Neaera,<br /> +And again they never landed by the marble balustrade.</p> +<h2><a name="page13"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 13</span><span +class="GutSmall">VII</span><br /> +THE VILLAGE CHERUB</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Up</span> at the church at +the edge of the moor,<br /> +Flat on the pathway that leads to the door,<br /> +Worn by the tread of the mourning and poor,<br /> +There is a face that is fit for God’s floor.</p> +<p class="poetry">How could a mason create in his brain<br /> +Just such a cherub to sob in the rain?<br /> +How could the pride of the dying but vain<br /> +Want such a cherub to blow a refrain?</p> +<p class="poetry">This one had ankles with which he could +run—<br /> +Is it a fact that a cherub has none?<br /> +This one had love-locks that flashed in the sun,<br /> +Yes, and his lips often pouted in fun.</p> +<p class="poetry">Who was the angel that played on the street;<br +/> +Whose was the face I can’t soil with my feet?<br /> +Nobody knows; but I hope I shall meet<br /> +One such a cherub in front of God’s seat.</p> +<h2><a name="page14"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 14</span><span +class="GutSmall">VIII</span><br /> +LADY DAY NEAR BIGNOR</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">South-Eastward</span> where +the waving line of hills<br /> +Bears up the clouds that speed like passing boats,<br /> +On one sweet spot which distant sunlight fills<br /> +A sudden silver haze descends and floats.</p> +<p class="poetry">The trees below like lace veil glistening +streams,<br /> +The gorse puts on its tiny gloves of gold,<br /> +The cattle move as though they fed in dreams,<br /> +And timid lambs are bleating in the fold.</p> +<p class="poetry">Though tangled bracken like an old man’s +beard<br /> +Blends autumn’s ruddy brown with winter’s grey,<br /> +Soft blows the breeze that through the pines is heard,<br /> +Green moss and yellow primrose deck the way.</p> +<p class="poetry">The Roman villa level on the grass,<br /> +With wrestling cupids on the floor within;<br /> +The church where first a Norman priest said mass,<br /> +The ivied chimneys of the Georgian inn:</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page15"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +15</span>These have their message. All things tell the +change<br /> +Of seasons, races, and of man’s estate:<br /> +All bid us mark within how small a range<br /> +There moves a story tragically great.</p> +<p class="poetry">The hills abide, and that mysterious Breath<br +/> +Which brooded on the slowly shaping earth,<br /> +And came to-day like dew to Nazareth<br /> +To fashion our Redeemer’s Virgin-birth.</p> +<h2><a name="page16"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 16</span><span +class="GutSmall">IX</span><br /> +A COTTAGE INSCRIPTION</h2> +<p class="poetry">“<span class="smcap">Time</span> trieth +troth.” Who carved the text<br /> +Above the narrow cottage door?<br /> +Two hundred years of storm have vexed<br /> +The words which front the western moor.</p> +<p class="poetry">Was it a hind who loved the king<br /> +That held his court beyond the sea,<br /> +A hind who taught his child to sing<br /> +Of Stuart rose and Stuart tree?</p> +<p class="poetry">Was it a swain whose soul adored<br /> +A maid who went to London town?<br /> +And did she choose some spangled lord<br /> +And coldly flout her country clown?</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page17"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +17</span>“Time trieth troth.” And was he +true<br /> +Whose chisel carved that rugged line?<br /> +And was he loyal till the yew<br /> +O’erarched his heart’s now silent shrine?</p> +<p class="poetry">Then, though bereft of king or love,<br /> +He found the poet’s secret gain,<br /> +The sympathy of suns above,<br /> +The friendship of the falling rain.</p> +<h2><a name="page18"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 18</span><span +class="GutSmall">X</span><br /> +A MEMORY OF IRELAND</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Where</span> the saints of +Holy Ireland sleep<br /> + No chancels pen them round,<br /> +But the waving trees their vigils keep<br /> + Above each verdant mound.</p> +<p class="poetry">Here they climbed no lofty marble beds<br /> + To find a frigid rest,<br /> +But a canopy of golden threads<br /> + Hangs o’er them in the west.</p> +<p class="poetry">When the larks have ceased their thankful +hymn,<br /> + The ocean booms his bell,<br /> +And the lamps of heaven swing o’er the rim<br /> + Of every holy well.</p> +<p class="poetry">May the Lord bring back that race of men<br /> + Whom charity enticed<br /> +To desert the world for some poor glen<br /> + And give the people Christ.</p> +<h2><a name="page19"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 19</span><span +class="GutSmall">XI</span><br /> +“TÍR NAN ÓG” <a +name="citation19"></a><a href="#footnote19" +class="citation">[19]</a></h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">When</span> thou didst die, +they say a fairy’s pipe<br /> + Was heard outside the castle door,<br /> +And wee folk thick as August corn that’s ripe<br /> + Came trooping down the moor,<br /> +And bore thy soul with laughter and with light<br /> + O’er glen and heathered height.</p> +<p class="poetry">Friends waked thee till the dawn thrice slanted +by<br /> + To quench the tapers round thy bier,<br /> +And countless decades of the rosary<br /> + They numbered with a tear;<br /> +But yet they whispered, “She is now a queen,<br /> + And clad in rainbow green.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page20"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +20</span>They set thy form near blessed Finnan’s side,<br +/> + And wailed the Gaelic death-lament;<br /> +But they believed thee happy as a bride<br /> + With long-dreamed joys content<br /> +Within the land they name with wistful tongue,<br /> + “The land where all are young.”</p> +<h2><a name="page21"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 21</span><span +class="GutSmall">XII</span><br /> +A HIGHLAND DAY<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">WITHIN SIGHT OF CULLODEN</span></h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> snow-white +borders of the grey-green sea<br /> +Peep through the mist that veils the strait with dew,<br /> +The sun grows bold and smites the landscape free,<br /> +The burn, the woods, the rocks of rose-red hue.</p> +<p class="poetry">The world lies warm upon the heart of day,<br +/> +The callants push their boat from off the shore,<br /> +The white gulls sail and flutter through the bay,<br /> +The jet-black daws are calling evermore.</p> +<p class="poetry">The doves fly wheeling past their mountain +wall,<br /> +The whispering pine trees weave a ceiling cool,<br /> +The rowans redden o’er the foaming fall,<br /> +The ferns keep guard around the fairies’ pool.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page22"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +22</span>The distant moorland where the tribesmen bled<br /> +To win their wandering prince a royal home,<br /> +Now wraps a deeper purple on their bed,<br /> +While he sleeps cold below St. Peter’s dome.</p> +<p class="poetry">The waves turn opal in the waning light,<br /> +The rocks exchange for grey their rose-red bloom,<br /> +The finite sinks into the infinite,<br /> +And sea and sky are wedded in the gloom.</p> +<h2><a name="page23"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 23</span><span +class="GutSmall">XIII</span><br /> +TO THE FIRS</h2> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="GutSmall">LOVE</span> the +oak-grove where the Druid’s knife<br /> +Cut down the mistletoe in days of old;<br /> +I love the elms around the convent fold<br /> +Where souls escape the dust of highway life.</p> +<p class="poetry">I love to watch the tiny milk-white spires<br +/> +That on the chestnut branches lift their head;<br /> +I love to see the rowan growing red<br /> +With clusters bright as frosty winter fires.</p> +<p class="poetry">But better still I love you, firs that crest<br +/> +The lonely hill above the moaning firth,<br /> +Beside the path where bluebells gently nod.</p> +<p class="poetry">To your grey arms, ere sunset leaves the +West,<br /> +I can confide each sorrow at its birth,<br /> +For you have known the waves and storms of God.</p> +<h2><a name="page24"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 24</span><span +class="GutSmall">XIV</span><br /> +GOOD-BYE</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Sing</span> me one more +villanelle,<br /> +Light as elfin foot that brushes<br /> +Through the ferns and foxgloves of the fairy dell.</p> +<p class="poetry">Come where woodland spices smell,<br /> +Where the wild rose faintly flushes,<br /> +Sing me one more villanelle.</p> +<p class="poetry">Rare as snowy heather bell,<br /> +Sweet as melody of thrushes<br /> +Through the ferns and foxgloves of the fairy dell.</p> +<p class="poetry">When the shade creeps up the fell<br /> +Mid the parting sun’s last blushes,<br /> +Sing me one more villanelle.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page25"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +25</span>Sing it to the curfew knell,<br /> +Where the streamlet plays with rushes<br /> +Through the ferns and foxgloves of the fairy dell.</p> +<p class="poetry">Let it breathe no sad farewell,<br /> +Only mirth with silent hushes.<br /> +Sing me one more villanelle<br /> +Through the ferns and foxgloves of the fairy dell.</p> +<h2><a name="page26"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 26</span><span +class="GutSmall">XV</span><br /> +THE FAIRY GLEN REVISITED</h2> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">That</span> pure and shy retreat<br /> + A Tartar would have spared,<br /> +But not that lawyer cur from Inverness,<br /> +Who thought its sylvan virgin loveliness<br /> + Would bring him gold if rudely bared<br /> + And hawked upon the street.</p> +<p class="poetry"> There +children checked their race<br /> + And crept on tiptoed feet,<br /> +Lest they should break upon the rainbow rings<br /> +Of fairies glinting through transparent wings,<br /> + Or kindly wizard come to meet<br /> + A maid with lovelorn face.</p> +<p class="poetry"> No snow nor +stinging sleet<br /> + Could chill the fairies’ +bath;<br /> +So close the vaulting was with fir and larch<br /> +Which laid deep carpets underneath their arch,<br /> + That on the fairies’ silent path<br /> + No blast could ever beat.</p> +<p class="poetry"> <a +name="page27"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 27</span>Mid foam more +white than fleece<br /> + The waterfall rang sweet,<br /> +It made each rocky cup a rippling well,<br /> +It coyly dived and peeped along the dell,<br /> + Then ran the rising sea to greet,<br /> + And greeting found its peace.</p> +<p class="poetry"> And now the +cold and heat<br /> + Scourge all the glen with ire;<br +/> +The broken boughs have choked the sobbing stream,<br /> +The silver birch is but a sodden beam,<br /> + The fairies’ path is sunk in mire,<br /> + The moss has left their seat.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Flash +sorrow and disdain<br /> + For this most sordid feat,<br /> +You whom Burns taught to love a daisy’s face,<br /> +And Scott to love the mountains’ gloom and grace;<br /> + Or say they scattered chaff for wheat,<br /> + And sang their songs in vain.</p> +<h2><a name="page28"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 28</span><span +class="GutSmall">XVI</span><br /> +WAITING</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">BASED ON THE +GAELIC FEAR A’ BHÀTA</span></p> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">The</span> year may change its time,<br /> + But still I +climb<br /> + The cliff above the sea,<br /> +And look with eyes half dim with rain,<br /> +To know if God has brought again<br /> + My lover back to me.</p> +<p class="poetry"> When +darkness downward glides<br /> + And slowly +hides<br /> + The fading hills of blue,<br /> +I never bar the cottage door<br /> +Without one look across the moor,<br /> + A look of hope for you.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Sometimes +when I am free<br /> + I seek the +quay<br /> + Soon after break of day,<br /> +And find a newly harboured boat,<br /> +And ask if you are still afloat<br /> + Near home or far away.</p> +<p class="poetry"> <a +name="page29"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 29</span>I ask if you +are well,<br /> + And they can +tell<br /> + My heart is set on you:<br /> +And then they call me just a fool,<br /> +A baby in the world’s hard school<br /> + To give you love so true.</p> +<p class="poetry"> You +promised me silk gowns<br /> + From Lowland +towns,<br /> + And rings of twisted gold;<br /> +And, best of all, your picture bound<br /> +With stones to hem its beauty round<br /> + That I might kiss and hold.</p> +<p class="poetry"> My love is +not the flower<br /> + Of one short +hour;<br /> + You were my childhood’s +pride;<br /> +Your image is my dream by night,<br /> +By day if ever put to flight<br /> + It comes back like the tide.</p> +<p class="poetry"> The swan +upon the lake<br /> + When robbers +take<br /> + Her young, is left to moan;<br /> +None tends her wounds or heeds her cry,<br /> +She wails her loss and waits to die:<br /> + Like her I cry alone.</p> +<h2><a name="page30"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 30</span><span +class="GutSmall">XVII</span><br /> +NEAR HAARLEM</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Triumphantly</span> it +soars, that full-domed sky,<br /> +Of lucent turquoise fading into pearl;<br /> +And here the happy birds their brown wings furl<br /> +By waters that lisp seaward dreamily.</p> +<p class="poetry">Beyond these plains of silver and of green,<br +/> +Amid the floating vapours of the town<br /> +The vast grey church uplifts its belfry crown,<br /> +A chiselled shrine through incense dimly seen.</p> +<p class="poetry">The burdened barges trust the smiling flood,<br +/> +Calm wraps the distance of reclining dunes,<br /> +The tower rings peace in soft alternate tones.</p> +<p class="poetry">And who that hears the bells’ low luting +tunes,<br /> +Now thinks of Haarlem’s siege and starving moans,<br /> +Or how these brooks once bubbled with brave blood?</p> +<h2><a name="page31"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 31</span><span +class="GutSmall">XVIII</span><br /> +THE TOMB OF ST. AUGUSTINE AT PAVIA</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Beneath</span> the low +barbaric Lombard apse<br /> +It rises like a ridge of Alpine snow,<br /> +And wry-wheeled ages with uneasy lapse<br /> + Creak past its majesty, and go.</p> +<p class="poetry">Such music as leaves Milan’s marble +spires<br /> +To mount towards a greater whiter throne,<br /> +Or tempts to earth again seraphic choirs,<br /> + Is at Augustine’s shrine unknown.</p> +<p class="poetry">No wave of pilgrim footsteps surges here,<br /> +No sheaf of tapers lifts its votive gleam,<br /> +The half-taught critic comes not with his sneer,<br /> + When I draw nigh, dear saint, to dream.</p> +<p class="poetry">Enough if far-off sounds of children’s +glee<br /> +Bid me to “take and read” God’s open call,<br +/> +Or some sad Monnica pray here to see<br /> + Her son, like thee, a second Paul.</p> +<h2><a name="page32"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 32</span><span +class="GutSmall">XIX</span><br /> +MODERN FLORENCE</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Hard</span> by the home of +Dante’s infant life<br /> +I saw a Yankee “Kake Walk” advertised;<br /> +Within San Miniato’s pillared aisle<br /> +A Japanese was peering unsurprised;<br /> +Where Michelangelo set “Dawn” and +“Night,”<br /> +And her, most blest, whose softly sculptured smile<br /> +Glows with a maiden’s and a mother’s light,<br /> +A German Jew was nagging with his wife.</p> +<h2><a name="page33"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 33</span><span +class="GutSmall">XX</span><br /> +TO DANTE</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> Church divided +and the Empire fell,<br /> +Grave Dante, but thy verse in magic grows<br /> +And charms men upward to the snow-white Rose<br /> +Of heaven from the mire and grief of hell.</p> +<p class="poetry">No lonely isle of dull forgetfulness<br /> +Hides Beatrice within its shadowed gloom,<br /> +For ’mid the petals of thy Rose’s bloom<br /> +Time’s hand has set that pearl of loveliness.</p> +<p class="poetry">Though patched and powdered poets could not +taste<br /> +Thy limpid sweetness, and exposed thy fame<br /> +To meet the leering Frenchman’s cynic air,</p> +<p class="poetry">Thy love was fair without brocade or paste,<br +/> +Thyself too great to need a gilded name;<br /> +Thy Comedy and God survive Voltaire.</p> +<h2><a name="page34"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 34</span><span +class="GutSmall">XXI</span><br /> +TO PETRARCH</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Yes</span>, Petrarch, we +most certainly believe<br /> +That you who wore your heart upon your sleeve,<br /> +Did love your love for Laura, and the eye<br /> +Of public fame, at which your sonnets fly,<br /> +Like skyward larks that court the genial sun;<br /> +And o’er the tears you treasured one by one<br /> +You downward bent with all a statue’s grace<br /> +To see reflections of your tearful face.<br /> +But none redeemed by love will e’er consent<br /> +To say you tasted of love’s sacrament.</p> +<h2><a name="page35"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 35</span><span +class="GutSmall">XXII</span><br /> +TO A LADY OF<br /> +THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY</h2> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><span +class="GutSmall">IN MEMORY OF METASTASIO</span></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Nice</span>, though your +lips of coral<br /> + Now are dust;<br /> +And the schoolboy scans the moral<br /> +Graven on your broken bust</p> +<p class="poetry">In the gilt barocco chapel<br /> + After Mass;<br /> +Where ten coats with broidered lappel<br /> +Bent when Nice used to pass.</p> +<p class="poetry">Still perchance your spirit hovers<br /> + Where the lute<br /> +And the voices of your lovers<br /> +Chimed, but now are gone and mute.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page36"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +36</span>Where the lonely arbour’s hollow<br /> + Shadier grows,<br /> +And the butterflies can follow<br /> +Fearlessly to kiss the rose.</p> +<p class="poetry">And you smile because a poet<br /> + À la mode<br /> +Flouted you; and then, we know it,<br /> +Wrote an abject palinode.</p> +<p class="poetry">For your hands, though light as feathers,<br /> + Held him tight:<br /> +Love was made to last all weathers,<br /> +Not to change with day and night.</p> +<h2><a name="page37"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 37</span><span +class="GutSmall">XXIII</span><br /> +THE “LIBERAL” DIVINE</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> “middle +path” meets every need,<br /> + The Stagirite and Buddha say;<br /> +I won’t doubt more than half the creed<br /> +Nor wear a costume wholly lay.</p> +<h2><a name="page38"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 38</span><span +class="GutSmall">XXIV</span><br /> +THE QUARREL</h2> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><span +class="GutSmall">SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF FRAGONARD</span></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">On</span> the elm tree she +was swinging,<br /> + Just beyond the hedge of yew;<br /> +But she slowly ceased from singing,<br /> + From her breast a pink she drew.</p> +<p class="poetry">Buttoning his coat of satin,<br /> + Off he strode towards the woods,<br /> +Tartly quoting Virgil’s Latin,<br /> + That a woman’s made of moods.</p> +<p class="poetry">Long ago within God’s garden<br /> + Both were wrapped in long lone sleep,<br /> +Heeding not if hoar frosts harden,<br /> + Or the autumn leaves fall deep.</p> +<p class="poetry">Laugh not at the statue calling<br /> + Phyllis with her marble muff,<br /> +Nor the marble cupids sprawling<br /> + On a cloud of powder puff.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page39"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +39</span>Laugh not at his hermit fashions<br /> + Nor the book unwarmed by hope;<br /> +Say not that it shows the passions<br /> + Of a stony misanthrope.</p> +<p class="poetry">For they loved while they were living,<br /> + Loved with love untold, unheard;<br /> +Though they parted unforgiving,<br /> + Each too proud to say a word.</p> +<h2><a name="page40"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 40</span><span +class="GutSmall">XXV</span><br /> +THE OLD FOUNTAIN</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">One</span> gay glint of +rose and silver flounces<br /> + In a deep green dell,<br /> +Where a streamlet bubbles down and bounces<br /> + From a Triton’s mossy +shell.</p> +<p class="poetry">One more dance ere sunset on the mountain<br /> + Laughing says, “Too +late”;<br /> +One sweet lute that tinkled with the fountain<br /> + Called two hearts to court their +fate.</p> +<p class="poetry">Some small raindrops, just to tease the +Triton,<br /> + Mischievously fell;<br /> +Some one spoke a jest that quenched the light on<br /> + Eyes that he had long loved +well.</p> +<p class="poetry">That dark night he cursed the love he brought +her,<br /> + Though it made his soul;<br /> +And she sobbed an echo to the water<br /> + Brimming in the fountain bowl.</p> +<h2><a name="page41"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 41</span><span +class="GutSmall">XXVI</span><br /> +LOVE AND DEATH</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Once</span> toward a sunlit +garden, laden<br /> + With the lime trees’ scented breath,<br /> +Came to watch a merry youth and maiden,<br /> + Love and +Death.</p> +<p class="poetry">At their bosoms Love threw fragrant posies,<br +/> + Tossed them laughing low and blithe,<br /> +In the background Death amid the roses<br /> + Moved his +scythe.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ere the latest rose the path was strewing,<br +/> + Her sweet maiden soul was fled;<br /> +He beside her grave his cheeks bedewing,<br /> + Bent his +head.</p> +<p class="poetry">Sobbing Love then thought to give him +pleasure,<br /> + Bade his curse on Death attend;<br /> +But the youth begged Death who held his treasure<br /> + Be his +friend.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page42"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +42</span>Death as friend might give the old completeness<br /> + Time could give to him no more,<br /> +Death, not Love alone, the former sweetness<br /> + Might +restore.</p> +<p class="poetry">Love then saw the youth was worthier loving,<br +/> + Dowered with a stronger grace;<br /> +And with downcast eyelids shyly moving,<br /> + Kissed +Death’s face.</p> +<h2><a name="page43"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 43</span><span +class="GutSmall">XXVII</span><br /> +VIOLETS</h2> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">Where</span> burning tapers hold<br /> +White suppliant hands from arms of gold<br /> +Around the Host; there no one sets<br /> + Sweet +violets.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Fair roses +droop and die<br /> +In halls of dance and minstrelsy;<br /> +But who within those walls has met<br /> + The violet?</p> +<p class="poetry">Where faintly smiles the sun<br /> + Through chequered skies on beech groves dun,<br /> +There hides in vales sequestered yet<br /> + The violet.</p> +<p class="poetry">Where I shall lie asleep,<br /> + Some friend, perhaps, a tear will weep,<br /> +And if our love knew no regrets,<br /> + Strew +violets.</p> +<h2><a name="page44"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 44</span><span +class="GutSmall">XXVIII</span><br /> +THE GARDENS OF THE SOUL</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">In</span> a restless land +beside a river<br /> + Stands a stone enclosure tall,<br /> +Rich the finder is, and rich the giver<br /> + Of the key to pierce that wall.</p> +<p class="poetry">Once within, you drink the clearest +pleasures,<br /> + And your sorrow change for ease;<br /> +Ancient bards enchant you with their measures,<br /> + Sweetly sighs the Highland breeze.</p> +<p class="poetry">Next amid the orange trees and cedars<br /> + Bearded Homer deigns to roam,<br /> +Musing tales of marching Argive leaders,<br /> + And Ulysses welcomed home.</p> +<p class="poetry">Here where daffodils their crowns are +bending<br /> + On a lawn of English green,<br /> +Milton gravely sits to tell the ending<br /> + Of angelic strifes unseen.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page45"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +45</span>Here the almond bloom for ever blushes,<br /> + And Italian fountains rise;<br /> +While the wine of dawn their dewdrops flushes,<br /> + Dante speaks of Paradise.</p> +<p class="poetry">But beyond where any poet paces,<br /> + Grows a gnarled grey olive grove,<br /> +Where the furthest stars have veiled their faces,<br /> + Weeping for eternal Love.</p> +<h2><a name="page46"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 46</span><span +class="GutSmall">XXIX</span><br /> +A MAN TO CHILDISH THINGS</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Where</span> are the domes +of pure mysterious gold,<br /> +And myriad angel wings in ordered flight<br /> +My childish gaze could once at eve behold<br /> +Before the mountains melted into night?</p> +<p class="poetry">Where is the island, shy abode of bliss,<br /> +Which seemed through summer haze to rise and float,<br /> +The isle which merchant fleets could never kiss,<br /> +But once stood still for Brendan’s hermit boat?</p> +<p class="poetry">Where are my paladins with souls of snow,<br /> +Whose swords were fashioned at no mortal forge,<br /> +The men who rode where Arthur bade them go<br /> +To meet the dragon in his dungeon gorge?</p> +<p class="poetry">O happy, happy dreams, ye were no lies,<br /> +No true apostle made me put away<br /> +Such “childish things,” which mirrored to mine +eyes<br /> +Faith, Hope and Love. I call you back to stay.</p> +<h2><a name="page47"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 47</span><span +class="GutSmall">XXX</span><br /> +THE KNIGHT</h2> +<p class="poetry">HE was so courteous to the paynim horde,<br /> + Men doubted if he served the Lord<br /> + Or held the faith of Christ.<br /> +They said he proudly scorned life’s sweetest prize,<br /> + Who never played with sparkling eyes<br /> + Or kept an evening tryst.</p> +<p class="poetry">Their god of love was but Cupidity,<br /> + Their Lord an idol vanity<br /> + With mail below his vest:<br /> +While he, true knight, believed in Christ alone,<br /> + And though they thought his heart a stone,<br /> + Made love a hero’s +quest.</p> +<h2><a name="page48"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 48</span><span +class="GutSmall">XXXI</span><br /> +HOPES</h2> +<p class="poetry"> <span class="smcap">To</span> +have lived just like a man<br /> + And done what one man can,<br /> +Not basking like a dog in summer dust;<br /> + Nor like a butterfly<br /> + That flaunts and flutters by,<br +/> +Till showers have dimmed its silver wings with rust.</p> +<p class="poetry"> To have lightened some stiff +load<br /> + Of men upon the road—<br /> +May some remember I am flesh and blood!<br /> + To have dried some children’s tears,<br /> + And slain some women’s +fears<br /> +That bid them crouch beneath a brooding flood.</p> +<p class="poetry"> To have known the throbbing +stars,<br /> + And traced the ancient scars<br /> +That streams have ploughed upon the mountain side;<br /> + To have sung songs passing sweet,<br /> + And sung with lasting heat<br /> +As pure as that of stars that burn and bide.</p> +<p class="poetry"> <a name="page49"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 49</span>To have said the simply true,<br /> + Although to preach the new<br /> +Might win me prizes and the world’s caress;<br /> + To have been misunderstood,<br /> + If so the common good<br /> +Might bear more harvest through my loneliness.</p> +<p class="poetry"> To have learnt that love is +light<br /> + In rain and fog and night,<br /> +For eyes that sadly peer and feet that plod:<br /> + To have found all life a song<br /> + Of rapture calm and strong,<br /> +And found the music of the song was God.</p> +<h2><a name="page50"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 50</span><span +class="GutSmall">XXXII</span><br /> +THE PATH</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">To</span> buzzing lecture +halls his steps he bent,<br /> +Where all the paths to God were well discussed,<br /> +Or faith and reason weighed with balance just,<br /> +Till he was dizzy with strong argument.<br /> +He saw philosophers who shook their fists,<br /> + And broke commandment nine;<br /> +He saw the Sadducean alchemists<br /> + Draw water out of wine;<br /> + He saw the knife-eyed Pharisees<br /> + Adjusting their phylacteries:<br /> +But never found the gate where he could see<br /> + The One in +Three.</p> +<p class="poetry">He watched the hills as dawn unlocked the +day,<br /> +And felt vibrating o’er the low green lea<br /> +The breath of lilac and of hawthorn tree,<br /> +While gold laburnums rocked each pendent spray.<br /> +<a name="page51"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 51</span>He saw the +sun salute the moon afar,<br /> + And felt their common soul;<br /> +He heard the song of star to sister star<br /> + Around the sky’s deep +bowl;<br /> + He watched the waves withdraw their foam,<br /> + He watched the rivers wending home:<br /> +He found the One, and yet he could not see<br /> + The One in +Three.</p> +<p class="poetry">Still doubting he beheld a brother man,<br /> +Whom he ignored and scorned to think akin;<br /> +But now a sudden breath of love within<br /> +Drove him to serve, and humbly he began.<br /> +His hands that worked in love were torn with red,<br /> + He shrank not at the sight,<br /> +For he who suffered saw a Heart that bled<br /> + Become his beacon-light.<br /> + Thus brother to the Son of God<br /> + With life from heaven on earth he trod:<br /> +The Life, the Light, the Love, he knew to be<br /> + The One in +Three.</p> +<h2><a name="page52"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 52</span><span +class="GutSmall">XXXIII</span><br /> +THE CALL TO BETHLEHEM</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Shepherds</span>, come to +Bethlehem,<br /> +Pluck yon bush of Christmas rose,<br /> +Weave a dainty diadem.</p> +<p class="poetry">From my flute with tuneful stem<br /> +Music warbles as it flows,<br /> +“Shepherds, come to Bethlehem.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Lo, upon the mountain’s hem<br /> +Ruby clouds above the snows<br /> +Weave a dainty diadem.</p> +<p class="poetry">Seek not proud Jerusalem,<br /> +Where the empty temple shows;<br /> +Shepherds, come to Bethlehem.</p> +<p class="poetry">Christ without a crown or gem<br /> +Lies on straw while winter blows;<br /> +Weave a dainty diadem.</p> +<p class="poetry">Christ will not our gift condemn;<br /> +All our poverty He knows.<br /> +Shepherds, come to Bethlehem,<br /> +Weave a dainty diadem.</p> +<h2><a name="page53"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 53</span><span +class="GutSmall">XXXIV</span><br /> +A CHRISTMAS LULLABY</h2> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><span +class="GutSmall">ADAPTED FROM THE SPANISH</span></p> +<p +class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">Stars</span>,<br /> +Stay your bright amethyst cars,<br /> + Flee not +away,<br /> + Wait till the +day,<br /> + Come and +adore.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Flowers,<br +/> +Born in the morning’s first hours,<br /> + Stars of the +earth,<br /> + Bloom for +Christ’s birth,<br /> + Come and +adore.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Birds,<br +/> +Songs are far fresher than words,<br /> + Christ is your +Sun,<br /> + Sing every +one,<br /> + Come and +adore.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> <a +name="page54"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 54</span>Streams,<br +/> +Whisper in tune with Christ’s dreams,<br /> + Throw your sweet +spells<br /> + From crystal +bells,<br /> + Come and +adore.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Breeze,<br +/> +Say to all lands and all seas,<br /> + “This +merry morn,<br /> + Jesus is +born,<br /> + Come and +adore.”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Child,<br +/> +Seeking the lost on the wild,<br /> + Though Thou dost +sleep,<br /> + Smile on thy +sheep<br /> + Come to +adore.</p> +<h2><a name="page55"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 55</span><span +class="GutSmall">XXXV</span><br /> +TO THE HOLY CHILD</h2> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><span +class="GutSmall">AS PAINTED BY RAPHAEL</span></p> +<p class="poetry">O <span class="GutSmall">LORD</span>, Thyself +hast taught that sight is not belief;<br /> + And yet within Thine eyes I see +eternity,<br /> + The love which told the dying thief<br /> + That he should rest in Paradise<br /> +Is there, though Thou art still a Child at Mary’s knee;<br +/> + The joy of perfect sacrifice<br /> + Is there, and that unfathomed grief<br /> +In which our griefs have sunk like tears in one wide sea.</p> +<h2><a name="page56"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 56</span><span +class="GutSmall">XXXVI</span><br /> +MATER AMABILIS</h2> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><span +class="GutSmall">AS PAINTED BY BOTTICELLI</span></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Mary</span>, on the Prince +of peace thy gladness<br /> + Gleams from radiant eyes;<br /> +But their light is touched with passing sadness,<br /> + Like our English summer skies.</p> +<p class="poetry">Angels’ arms above thy head are +holding<br /> + Crowns of golden stars;<br /> +But the baby hands thy breast enfolding<br /> + Show to thee their future scars.</p> +<p class="poetry">Lilies cense thee with their exhalations,<br /> + But thy heart has guessed<br /> +Slanders of the scoffing generations<br /> + Who will call thee cursed, not blessed.</p> +<p class="poetry">So when clouds of faint foreboding sorrow<br /> + From an unknown sea<br /> +Come to warn me of a broken morrow,<br /> + Mother Mary, pray for me.</p> +<h2><a name="page57"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 57</span><span +class="GutSmall">XXXVII</span><br /> +SAINT STEPHEN</h2> +<p class="poetry"> I <span +class="GutSmall">SEE</span> that I must die.<br /> +O Christ, how shall I bear the cruel stones,<br /> +E’en though there be a place among the thrones<br /> +At thy right hand for me? Create again<br /> + The very sinews of my soul:<br /> + I ask not for an aureole,<br /> + But strength to brave the +pain.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Help me, +for life is dear:<br /> +The growing rapture of the summer morn,<br /> +The cedared hills, and soft-cheeked roses born<br /> +Within the cooling breath of Hermon’s snow,<br /> + The rare reluctant shaded streams,<br /> + The sea that sings, and weeps, and dreams;<br /> + I love them: Thou dost know.</p> +<p class="poetry"> <a +name="page58"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 58</span>I loved my +father’s faith:<br /> +The synagogue with all its sacred gear,<br /> +The feasts that guard the march of every year,<br /> +The trumpets, lamps, and waving of the palms,<br /> + The azure fringe on robes like milk,<br /> + The yellow scrolls wrapped round with silk,<br /> + The triumph of the Psalms.</p> +<p class="poetry"> I loved to +preach the truth,<br /> +To thrust and parry in a fair debate,<br /> +To trace God’s dayspring in His nation’s fate,<br /> +To lift up Christ, who dying broke death’s bands;<br /> + I loved to give men joy for sighs,<br /> + To win the thanks of widows’ eyes,<br /> + And children’s trustful +hands.</p> +<p class="poetry"> “The +truth.” Yes, I will die.<br /> +This chafing Sanhedrin shall not prevail<br /> +To check me. They shall see the truth full-sail;<br /> +They cannot sink truth, stone me though they can.<br /> + Lord, I am ready. By thy grace<br /> + No shade of fear shall cross my face,<br /> + And I will play the man.</p> +<h2><a name="page59"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 59</span><span +class="GutSmall">XXXVIII</span><br /> +SAINT JOHN AT EPHESUS</h2> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">Men</span> ask why I am left alone:<br /> +My brother, James, and Peter, all are slain;<br /> +Brave men who met the surging crimson deep<br /> +With equal minds. And Mary fell asleep,<br /> +His mother whom He gave me for my own.<br /> + But I with anchored hope remain.</p> +<p class="poetry"> I loved Him. It is long +ago<br /> +Since I with Mary stood upon the hill<br /> +Where His last breath rose up in Sacrifice,<br /> +While tears fell earthward from our burning eyes,<br /> +And Jews were gibing on the slope below.<br /> + And yet I know He loves me still.</p> +<p class="poetry"> He loved me. And +whene’er I dream<br /> +Of sunsets changing into glassy gold<br /> +The waters of the Galilean lake,<br /> +Or see in thought the Temple portals take<br /> +A pearly softness from the moonlight gleam,<br /> + He speaks with me, as once of old.</p> +<p class="poetry"> <a name="page60"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 60</span>I love Him, for He first loved me.<br +/> +He let me lean upon His holy breast,<br /> +He brought me first to view His empty grave;<br /> +He bade me learn that only love can save,<br /> +And call no fire from heaven but charity.<br /> + I work and wait, for He knows best.</p> +<p class="poetry"> That Rome which now oppresses +us,<br /> +And all this rout of grey idolatry<br /> +Shall soon dissolve. For I can see the Light<br /> +Which guides the sun disperse the Asian night:<br /> +And straight above the reek of Ephesus<br /> + There burns the Love which died for me.</p> +<h2><a name="page61"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 61</span><span +class="GutSmall">XXXIX</span><br /> +THE LITTLE CHILDREN</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Along</span> the +ocean’s stormless side,<br /> +Below the never setting sun,<br /> +Where Innocent is every one,<br /> +Meet all Christ’s babes that ever died.</p> +<p class="poetry">Some home around their Monarch’s seat,<br +/> +Like doves that flutter to their rest;<br /> +Within His arms they find their nest<br /> +And wonder at His wounded feet.</p> +<p class="poetry">Some make a goal of Mary’s knee,<br /> +To which they run in joyous race;<br /> +Then tell her that their mother’s face<br /> +On earth was just like hers to see.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page62"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +62</span>Some call the angels to their play<br /> +Mid flowers of one unfading spring;<br /> +In radiant wheels they move and sing,<br /> +And learn the angels’ roundelay.</p> +<p class="poetry">But some, I think, amid those bands,<br /> +Remembering our ruder lore<br /> +And love, towards this colder shore<br /> +Lift speed-well eyes and rose-leaf hands.</p> +<h2><a name="page63"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 63</span><span +class="GutSmall">XL</span><br /> +THE CIRCUMCISION</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">More</span> bright than +rosebuds on the rounded base<br /> + Of some veined alabaster urn,<br /> + Wherein a lamp was set to burn<br /> +And throw false smiles on Aphrodite’s face.</p> +<p class="poetry">More bright than crowns of red anemones,<br /> + Which every flushing Syrian year<br /> + Saw laid upon Adonis’ bier<br /> +By mourning maidens on adoring knees.</p> +<p class="poetry">More brightly flashed the drops of precious +blood,<br /> + The rubies linked upon the shrine<br /> + Of Christ the Babe, the Christ divine,<br /> +To seal His body for the holy rood.</p> +<h2><a name="page64"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 64</span><span +class="GutSmall">XLI</span><br /> +THE RETURN OF THE MAGI</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">How</span> they did laugh, +when mounting our camels<br /> + Three of us rode, obeying the light;<br /> +Slowly we cut our hearts from the trammels<br /> + Doubt flung around us that first wistful night.<br +/> + Only a star above wind and +rain,<br /> + Only a bloom on the passionless +plain,<br /> + Waving us onward; yet we were +right.<br /> + + +We thank Thee, Lord.</p> +<p class="poetry">Oft we recalled that kindly derision,<br /> + Measuring seas of measureless sand,<br /> +Mocked by the streams and trees of the vision<br /> + Moving and melting at magic’s command.<br /> + Cheated and choked we quailed and +burned,<br /> + While the blast blew and the +desert was churned,<br /> + Slipping, it seemed, out of +God’s own hand.<br /> + + +We praise Thee, Lord.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page65"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +65</span>Onward we rode, where silver-meshed rivers<br /> + Sang to the birds which singing replied,<br /> +Where the soft light through rose-bowers quivers,<br /> + On past the voice of the bridegroom and bride.<br /> + Seeking the desert and star +again,<br /> + Leaving the homesteads and fields +of white grain<br /> + Where the doves called us to dream +and bide.<br /> + + +We bless Thee, Lord.</p> +<p class="poetry">Onward we went, past temples that brighten,<br +/> + Sepulchres hiding souls that are dead,<br /> +Chambers where bought lips wearily whiten,<br /> + Altars and pavements with hecatombs red.<br /> + Onward we travelled to +Bethlehem,<br /> + Guided from Zion, the +earth’s diadem,<br /> + On to a stable and manger bed,<br +/> + + +To greet Thee, Lord.</p> +<p class="poetry">Dimly His eyes flashed, laden with presage,<br +/> + Telling of strife and triumph to be;<br /> +Gracious His lips, and glowed with a message<br /> + Merciful, strong to set prisoners free.<br /> + Lord, use our myrrh and our urns +of gold;<br /> + Fairer than children of men to +behold,<br /> + Thine is the sceptre and +victory!<br /> + + +We worship Thee.</p> +<h2><a name="page66"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 66</span><span +class="GutSmall">XLII</span><br /> +ATONEMENT</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">What</span> love it was +that Thou shouldst choose to feel<br /> +The chill of valleys where no dawns emerge<br /> +To break the mist, and streams repeat the dirge<br /> +For faith crushed like a pearl beneath man’s heel.</p> +<p class="poetry">How just it was that Thou our Judge shouldst +learn<br /> +The force of taunts that goad us into sin,<br /> +And slowly aureoled perfection win<br /> +Through blackened hopes, and through the stripes that burn.</p> +<p class="poetry">Thou who didst steel thy will to impotence,<br +/> +And wouldst not save Thyself, or take control<br /> +Of force, make us so dead that we may live.</p> +<p class="poetry">Thou God of sorrows, wash our penitence,<br /> +Thou who wast naked, help each smitten soul,<br /> +Christ strong to suffer, stronger to forgive.</p> +<h2><a name="page67"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 67</span><span +class="GutSmall">XLIII</span><br /> +CALVARY</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">As</span> some weak bird, +tossed homeward by the gale,<br /> +Is safely nested in the rocky scar<br /> +That cleaves the curving beach, but hears afar<br /> +The ocean writhing at the tempest’s flail,</p> +<p class="poetry">So thou, my soul, hast reached the refuge +hill<br /> +That Pilate made a pleasance for his jest,<br /> +And in Christ’s rose-red side hast found a rest,<br /> +Borne half by passion, yet by conscious will.</p> +<p class="poetry">O Lord, whose spirit waged so hard a fight,<br +/> +Scorn not the tainted thing beside thy heart<br /> +As too unfit to feel that sacred glow;</p> +<p class="poetry">But lest I ere forget how much I owe,<br /> +Let not the vision utterly depart<br /> +Of frenzied storm and all-engulfing night.</p> +<h2><a name="page68"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 68</span><span +class="GutSmall">XLIV</span><br /> +“THE DESERT SHALL BLOSSOM”</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Long</span>, long ago He +died, and yet He is not dead;<br /> +From out His riven side and patient hands that bled<br /> +Flows one unebbing tide, by love and pity fed.</p> +<p class="poetry">God’s heart is satisfied, man’s +eyes are upward led,<br /> +And o’er the desert wide, the dew that’s downward +shed<br /> +Drawn from that flowing tide, forms flowers white and red.</p> +<h2><a name="page69"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 69</span><span +class="GutSmall">XLV</span><br /> +RESURRECTION</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Hope</span>, last of all +the angels, left the three<br /> +Who with their woman’s courage watched Christ die;<br /> + But Hope, when she had fled,<br /> +Returned to plant in them one humble flower,<br /> +The thought that in His grey sepulchral bower<br /> + They three might strew around the Dead<br /> +The alms of one adoring sympathy,<br /> + And pray a last good-bye.</p> +<p class="poetry">They sped in silence, but the sharp-fanged +doubt<br /> +Lurked in the path to mock their pungent store<br /> + Of spices, hissing, “Nay,<br +/> +Ye cannot reach the Tenant of that gloom.”<br /> +But when the dawn and they retouched the tomb,<br /> + They found the stone was rolled away,<br /> +And He, their Life who died, now stood without,<br /> + Alive for evermore.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page70"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +70</span>Thus when we seek our buried innocence<br /> +With bitter myrrh and grey-leaved rosemary,<br /> + And writhing doubts delay<br /> +Our steps towards the tomb of our desire,<br /> +Do Thou, O Lord, our musing eyes inspire<br /> + To see the stone is rolled away,<br /> +And find that self has thrown its grave-clothes hence<br /> + And risen to live free.</p> +<h2><a name="page71"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 71</span><span +class="GutSmall">XLVI</span><br /> +THE ASCENSION</h2> +<p class="poetry">“<span class="smcap">Lo</span>, I am with +you alway.” Thus He spake<br /> +Girt with the zone of His disciples’ love,<br /> +And straightway, like the nascent flames that wake<br /> +Upon a placid hearth, He soars above.<br /> + Forlorn they +cannot move;<br /> +Their eyes are voyaging to track the Friend<br /> +Who promised to be with them till the end.</p> +<p class="poetry">Once, the last once, His scar-gemmed Hand He +lifts,<br /> +The Hand that twined the children to His knee,<br /> +Once downward bends the pitying Eye that sifts<br /> +Our chaff and grain for all eternity:<br /> + The blue +immensity<br /> +Robes its Creator in a cope of light,<br /> +A cloud receives Him from their upturned sight.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page72"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +72</span>Thou “alway with us”? Do the brakes of +thorn<br /> +No more entangle our tormented earth,<br /> +Do women travail less when babes are born,<br /> +Costs it less sweat for men to fight with dearth,<br /> + Is life one Eden +mirth,<br /> +Moves there more laughter on the purple sea,<br /> +Or richer gold across the rippling lea?</p> +<p class="poetry">I care not: but we know, O Friend of +friends,<br /> +Thou throned above art by our weary side,<br /> +The light that upward sailed with Thee descends<br /> +To be our morn undimmed by night or tide;<br /> + And Thou, +eternal Guide,<br /> +Art not content to lead us to thy goal,<br /> +But buildest heaven in the broken soul.</p> +<h2><a name="page73"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 73</span><span +class="GutSmall">XLVII</span><br /> +A HYMN TO THE HOLY SPIRIT</h2> +<p class="poetry">O <span class="GutSmall">SMILE</span> upon the +mirror of the world,<br /> +O Bearer of the censer whence is curled<br /> +The fragrant breath of watered trees at eve,<br /> +And fires that slowly in the sunrise weave.</p> +<p class="poetry">Thou art the Why within the universe,<br /> +Thou fillest hidden caves which seas immerse,<br /> +Thou sowest flowers upon the snow-bound hills,<br /> +And teachest music to the listening rills.</p> +<p class="poetry">Thou art the Guide of man’s supreme +ascent<br /> +From sullen shapes that through the forest bent,<br /> +To minds that sift the sovran right from wrong<br /> +And forms more perfect than a polished song.</p> +<p class="poetry">The lily sceptre of sweet virgin love<br /> +Is thine; the rosy coronet above<br /> +The bridal brow is thine; from Thee the might<br /> +Of infant eyes, like stars that calm the night.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page74"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +74</span>Thou art the Spirit of insurgent truth,<br /> +Thou givest buried lore a second youth,<br /> +Thou makest charity with wisdom grow,<br /> +And provest falsehood but a losing throw.</p> +<p class="poetry">Thou calledst Moses from the wealthy Nile<br /> +And all the idols of fair Philae’s isle,<br /> +To march for life beneath the desert sun<br /> +And teach a rabble that their God was one.</p> +<p class="poetry">And Thou didst barb the tongue of Socrates<br +/> +To sting a city settled on the lees,<br /> +To lash the vice of fluent sophistry<br /> +And crucify the shifting inward lie.</p> +<p class="poetry">Thou plantedst pity in the Indian sage,<br /> +Who conned the verses penned on sorrow’s page,<br /> +And strove to cut by mental abstinence<br /> +The silken cord that threads the beads of sense</p> +<p class="poetry">But could not in himself his pity slake,<br /> +And watching lotos blooms upon a lake,<br /> +Which helpless sank or rose with every wave,<br /> +Resolved all sinking souls to lift and save.</p> +<p class="poetry">And Thou within a cloud of maiden white<br /> +Didst form that sun of radiating light,<br /> +Christ’s strong immaculate humanity,<br /> +Transparent monstrance of His Deity.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page75"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +75</span>He, sinless, trod the brink of sin’s abyss<br /> +And for His love received a traitor’s kiss;<br /> +Then driven by thy soft compelling breath<br /> +He, who was Life, resigned himself to death.</p> +<p class="poetry">He showed us that this fleshly house of +sense<br /> +Is not a nomad tent or barrier fence,<br /> +But some fair chancel where thy vivid flame<br /> +Might find an altar and reveal His name.</p> +<p class="poetry">Come, Holy Ghost, and breathe from sea to +sea,<br /> +Give each his special fruit of liberty;<br /> +Tear from deceit the scintillating robe,<br /> +From Satan’s hands hurl down the rod and globe.</p> +<p class="poetry">Break Thou the spirit of the lords of lust,<br +/> +Whose passions scatter an infected dust;<br /> +Reduce the men for whom the poor have bled,<br /> +Who elevate their gold as God and Bread.</p> +<p class="poetry">Grant me a mind that may become thy lyre,<br /> +A hate of hatred and a tongue of fire;<br /> +And mid the clamour of all transient things<br /> +Let me not miss the passage of thy wings.</p> +<h2><a name="page76"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 76</span><span +class="GutSmall">XLVIII</span><br /> +“ADORA ET TACE”</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Love</span> only is the +school of love,<br /> +And they who learn from Thee their art,<br /> +Will find thy presence from above<br /> + Touch altar, hand, and heart.</p> +<p class="poetry">While others ask how Thou canst come,<br /> +Or tell me when Thou goest away,<br /> +Be mine to call Thee to my home,<br /> + And know that Thou wilt stay.</p> +<p class="poetry">While others all their worship weigh,<br /> +And keenly blame the less or more,<br /> +Be mine my lowly best to pay,<br /> + “Be silent, and adore.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Give me to keep thy new command,<br /> +Who at thy precious blood was priced;<br /> +Make all my world a holy land,<br /> + Let all my life be Christ.</p> +<h2><a name="page77"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 77</span><span +class="GutSmall">XLIX</span><br /> +THE REFUGE OF THE WANDERING</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Cold</span> and cruel as +the winds that carry<br /> + Arctic hills of ice and snow,<br /> +Past the cliffs where skirling sea-birds tarry<br /> + And the seething breakers flow.</p> +<p class="poetry">Burning as the Afric wind that races<br /> + Northward from its desert land,<br /> +Wind that blasts and covers green oases<br /> + With its ropes of parching sand.</p> +<p class="poetry">Rough and angry as the winds that bluster<br /> + Where Tibetan temples shine,<br /> +Winds like savage lancers come to muster<br /> + On an Eastern frontier line.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page78"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +78</span>Sad and blind as winds that wander sobbing,<br /> + Where the raw Atlantic mist<br /> +From the stars their pearly radiance robbing,<br /> + Grips the shore with damp white fist.</p> +<p class="poetry">So our souls from every quarter eddy,<br /> + North and South and East and West,<br /> +Jesu, till the wayward and the ready<br /> + On thy heart all sink to rest.</p> +<h2><a name="page79"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 79</span><span +class="GutSmall">L</span><br /> +THE LEGEND OF ST. CHRISTOPHER</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">On</span> to the bank that +recedes,<br /> +On through the shadows that mock,<br /> +Tearing my staff from the weeds,<br /> +Bruising my feet on the rock,<br /> +Caught by this Babe who appealed,<br /> +Calling to echoes astray;<br /> +Would that my heart I had steeled,<br /> +Left Him to listen till day!<br /> +Child, who dost crush me with weight,<br /> +Child of the pitiful eyes,<br /> +Whence didst Thou come to my gate?<br /> +How didst Thou fool me to rise<br /> + From my lone bed?</p> +<p class="poetry">Sweeter than bells at the Mass,<br /> +Older and newer than time,<br /> +Charming the shadows to pass<br /> +Ringeth His voice in a chime.<br /> +<a name="page80"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 80</span>Firm is +the touch of His hands,<br /> +Soft as my mother’s caress,<br /> +Loosing my misery’s bands,<br /> +Calming the wrath I confess.<br /> +Child, who hast healed all my pain,<br /> +Joy of my soul, must we part<br /> +Just when the bank we shall gain?<br /> +Blest be these feet on my heart!<br /> + They too have bled.</p> +<h2><a name="page81"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 81</span><span +class="GutSmall">LI</span><br /> +THE LIGHT INVISIBLE</h2> +<p class="poetry">O <span class="GutSmall">LIGHT</span> that +lives on every hill and shore,<br /> +Beyond the light that dies at close of day,<br /> +The tears fill up the chalice of mine eyes<br /> +With gladness, when I see Thee far away.</p> +<p class="poetry">O Stream that flows until the world shall +end,<br /> +Past fretful town and hermitage and field,<br /> +Red are thy waters, but they throb with peace;<br /> +I touch their dew and all my wounds are healed.</p> +<p class="poetry">O Voice that speaks in every grove and +street,<br /> +Above the song of birds and oaths of men,<br /> +I hear and follow Thee, although my steps<br /> +Begin a course that lies beyond my ken.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page82"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +82</span>O Face returning at each Eucharist,<br /> +More close than forms that change with changing years,<br /> +I am the veil between myself and Thee,<br /> +Burn Thou the veil, and burning, kill my fears.</p> +<p class="poetry">O Guest that comes to take away our best,<br /> +And all the loves we garner at our side,<br /> +Thou art our Best, our Home art Thou. For Thee,<br /> +Attentive I will labour and abide.</p> +<h2><a name="page83"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 83</span><span +class="GutSmall">LII</span><br /> +ONWARD</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Far</span>, and how far it +is not mine to tell,<br /> + The hills of silken grey<br /> +Enfold the vale, and yet above that fell<br /> + The Shepherd knows a way.</p> +<p class="poetry">Far, and how far it is not mine to guess,<br /> + A sea of hungry waves<br /> +Surrounds me, but the Pilot thwarts their stress<br /> + With skill that guides and saves.</p> +<p class="poetry">Far, and how far is all unknown to me,<br /> + The many mansions lie<br /> +Beyond the grave, yet will the Builder see<br /> + And come to meet my cry.</p> +<h2><a name="page84"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 84</span><span +class="GutSmall">LIII</span><br /> +THE FAITHFUL DEPARTED</h2> +<p +class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">Say</span> what good-bye<br /> +We owe to those who lived unstained by guile,<br /> + + +Who seemed to die,<br /> + But made their +death a smile,<br /> +As though to promise we should meet within<br /> + + +A little while.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Is +this good-bye,<br /> +To sorrow o’er the blood-red pall of day,<br /> + + +Till in the sky<br /> + Faint tapers +coldly pray;<br /> +And think our joy died like the buried sun’s<br /> + + +Last golden ray?</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Is +this good-bye,<br /> +To tread on sallow leaves in autumn rain,<br /> + + +And hear winds sigh<br /> + An echo of our +pain;<br /> +And think that never can the bud-crowned spring<br /> + + +Return again?</p> +<p +class="poetry"> <a +name="page85"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 85</span>Is this +good-bye,<br /> +To watch the myriad falling flakes of snow<br /> + + +Whirl down and lie<br /> + Upon the fields +below;<br /> +And think the wonted path is now too dim<br /> + + +For us to know?</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Not +so: good-bye<br /> +Means faith in love kept warm by robes of white,<br /> + + +Faith to deny<br /> + The death of any +light,<br /> +Faith that to-morrow will be yesterday<br /> + + +Without its night.</p> +<h2><a name="page86"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 86</span><span +class="GutSmall">LIV</span><br /> +LETHE</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Ere</span> we shall touch +the jasper parapet,<br /> + That God has set<br /> +About His garden and the sea of glass,<br /> + Shall we first pass<br /> +Through some calm stream of soft forgetfulness<br /> +And wash our hapless little joys away?<br /> +And shall our souls in infant nakedness<br /> +Emerge to bathe in God’s eternal day?</p> +<p class="poetry">Shall we forget the garden roundelays<br /> + Of piping Mays,<br /> +When thrushes sang around the dewy lawns<br /> + In roseleaf dawns,<br /> +And tulips—purple, saffron, red and white,—<br /> +Below the shade of box and fragrant bay,<br /> +Would lift to heaven their well-poised heads, as bright<br /> +As ever bloomed in Shiraz or Cathay?</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page87"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +87</span>Shall we forget the music of the sea,<br /> + The virgin glee<br /> +Which swayed beneath her robes dyed emerald,<br /> + And so enthralled<br /> +The vernal sun that he would downward shower<br /> +More silver on her violet crystal fringe<br /> +Than ever Sultan made his daughter’s dower<br /> +Or locked in Istamboul with key and hinge?</p> +<p class="poetry">Shall we forget our hearts did ever ache<br /> + And slowly break,<br /> +Because a dream by lightning truth was rent,<br /> + Or we had spent<br /> +A love too deep for one whole life to speak<br /> +To gain a joy which proved too light to stay,<br /> +As quickly fading as the tulip’s cheek,<br /> +As fickle as the sea in witching May?</p> +<h2><a name="page88"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 88</span><span +class="GutSmall">LV</span><br /> +AVE ATQUE VALE</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Our</span> life is but a +rosary<br /> + Of Hail and then Farewell;<br /> +Some never read the mystery<br /> + The onyx beads foretell.</p> +<p class="poetry">They think each bead falls on the ground<br /> + And spells another loss:<br /> +God gathers them to make a round<br /> + And seals it with His cross.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">WILLIAM +BRENDON AND SON, LTD.</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">PRINTERS, PLYMOUTH</span></p> +<h2>FOOTNOTES</h2> +<p><a name="footnote6"></a><a href="#citation6" +class="footnote">[6]</a> This poem is founded on a genuine +study of the history of the gipsies, whose language was learnt by +the writer in his boyhood.</p> +<p><a name="footnote19"></a><a href="#citation19" +class="footnote">[19]</a> This poem refers to the mother of +one of my friends. She was believed by the peasants on her +estate to have been stolen by the fairies.</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DARK AGES***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 46112-h.htm or 46112-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/4/6/1/1/46112 + + + +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. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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