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diff --git a/78947-0.txt b/78947-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..cc84e75 --- /dev/null +++ b/78947-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5165 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78947 *** + +[Illustration: Sepia-toned profile portrait of Thomas Gordon Hake with +short hair and sideburns, facing right, dated 1872] + + + + + THE POEMS OF THOMAS GORDON HAKE + SELECTED + WITH A PREFATORY NOTE BY + ALICE MEYNELL + AND A PORTRAIT BY + DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI + + + LONDON: ELKIN MATHEWS AND + JOHN LANE + + CHICAGO: STONE AND KIMBALL + 1894 + + + _Of this edition 500 copies have been printed for England_ + + + Edinburgh: T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to Her Majesty + + + + + PREFATORY NOTE + + +The Poems in this collection are chosen from volumes published at +intervals over more than fifty years—among them _The Piromides_, issued +in 1839, _Madeline_, reviewed by Dante Gabriel Rossetti in the _Academy_ +in 1871; _Parables and Tales_, to which Rossetti gave a _Fortnightly +Review_ article in 1873; down to _The New Day_, dated 1890; together +with verses which will be new even to the readers of the hitherto +published works. + +Dr. Hake has a solemn and distinct note, little confusible with the +other notes of the concerted song of poets. Only nine years younger than +the century, he inherited, by right of his time and place, a tradition +of deep composure—poetry aloof from the peril of excitement which knows +neither how to contain nor how to express itself. Dr. Hake’s expression +always implies long intention, deliberate decision. The verse is a +consequence long foreseen. + +The emotion of moments lacks indeed no swiftness of passage, but we are +made aware that it had a past of experience and has a future of power. +It was not a gust born of the moment and then no more. Poetic passion +must be like a wind; thou canst not tell whence it cometh nor whither it +goeth; but surely it appeared with an approach and disappeared with a +departure; it was a thing of transitory phase, but not of transitory +life. Essentially durable and spiritual is the passion of those +infrequent poems in which this poet, raising himself from the attitude +of meditation, gathers his word into intenser action. + +He has emotion which is thus proved true. For the proof of the +authenticity of his thought, also, the reader will look into his own +experience as he reads. + + Il poeta mi disse: Che pense? + +The question which Virgil asked of Dante is a poet’s question. The world +takes it as generally the reader’s question; but it is emphatically the +poet’s. Now, the thought to which Dr. Hake appeals in his reader’s mind +is unquestionably not an easy nor an obvious one. In saying this we +assign to the reader of poetry some part of the writer’s responsibility, +some part of his honour. Or, if this is too much to say, the reader is +at any rate responsible for choosing his poet. And if a poet is worth +reading at all, he is to be trusted both with the importance and with +the distinctness of his own thought. + +The exceeding solemnity of what we have called Dr. Hake’s note—and it is +as indescribable and as peculiar as the note of a voice—suggests a +further meaning, even an allegory, where in fact he had no intention of +proposing anything beyond the text. The more does this illusion occur, +perhaps, because Dr. Hake tells a story—a story of events—in most +meditative stanzas. He writes movingly of dreams and sleep; and his +study of these has added to all or almost all his verse something of the +ecstasy of dreams. + + ALICE MEYNELL. + +_February 1894._ + + + + + CONTENTS + + + PAGE + ALONE 1 + OLD SOULS 8 + VENUS URANIA 16 + THE CRIPPLE 17 + THE INFANT MEDUSA 28 + THE LILY OF THE VALLEY 29 + THE LOVER’S DAY 45 + THE DEADLY NIGHTSHADE 47 + FLOWERS ON THE BANK 57 + THE BLIND BOY 59 + WHEN I THINK OF THEE, BROTHER 72 + ECCE HOMO! 74 + THE SNAKE CHARMER 80 + PYTHAGORAS 88 + THE FIRST SAVED 95 + REMINISCENCE 101 + THE SHEPHERDESS 110 + FAREWELL TO NATURE 117 + THE POET’S FEAST 121 + THE EXILE 122 + THE SIBYL 133 + THE PAINTER 135 + THE SUN-WORSHIPPER 139 + THE INSCRUTABLE 145 + THE WEDDING RING 149 + LET THE DEAD BURY THEIR DEAD 152 + THE GOLDEN WEDDING 154 + + + + + ALONE + + + Loved, wedded, and caressed, + Although her children died + She still seemed doubly blest, + Her helpmate at her side + More dear than all the rest! + + But sorrow did not kill + The thought of those so dear, + Who all her feelings fill, + As though still with her here + To play about her still. + + Her little children’s fate + She never could recall, + Yet lived she desolate, + For she had lost them all,— + And then she lost her mate. + + When came that hour of woe + And all she loved was gone, + Not sorrow’s keenest blow + Left her fond heart alone; + No parting could it know. + + Nigh her he still appears, + The early times so cling; + Her simple heart still hears + Her children laugh and sing + As in the happy years. + + The dead to her remain; + She heeds each gentle sound + Of theirs within her brain, + And answers smiling round: + ‘Sweet love, say that again!’ + + Is it that angels dwell + In that lone mother’s breast? + She knows not what befell, + And so is doubly blest: + No more her heart can tell. + + + + + OLD SOULS + + + I + + The world, not hushed, lay as in trance; + It saw the future in its van, + And drew its riches in advance, + To meet the greedy wants of man; + Till length of days, untimely sped, + Left its account unaudited. + + + II + + The sun, untired, still rose and set,— + Swerved not an instant from its beat: + It had not lost a moment yet, + Nor used in vain its light and heat; + But, as in trance, from when it rose + To when it sank, man craved repose. + + + III + + A holy light that shone of yore + He saw, despised, and left behind: + His heart was rotting to the core + Locked in the slumbers of the mind + Not beat of drum, nor sound of fife, + Could rouse it to a sense of life. + + + IV + + A cry was heard, intoned and slow, + Of one who had no wares to vend: + His words were gentle, dull, and low, + And he called out, ‘Old souls to mend!’ + He peddled on from door to door, + And looked not up to rich or poor. + + + V + + His step kept on as if in pace + With some old timepiece in his head, + Nor ever did its way retrace; + Nor right nor left turned he his tread + But uttered still his tinker’s cry + To din the ears of passers-by. + + + VI + + So well they knew the olden note + Few heeded what the tinker spake, + Though here and there an ear it smote + And seemed a sudden hold to take; + But they had not the time to stay, + And it would do some other day. + + + VII + + Still on his way the tinker wends, + Though jobs be far between and few; + But here and there a soul he mends + And makes it look as good as new. + Once set to work, once fairly hired, + His dull old hammer seems inspired. + + + VIII + + Over the task his features glow; + He knocks away the rusty flakes; + A spark flies off at every blow; + At every rap new life awakes. + The soul once cleansed of outward sins, + His subtle handicraft begins. + + + IX + + Like iron unannealed and crude, + The soul is plunged into the blast; + To temper it, however rude, + ’Tis next in holy water cast; + Then on the anvil it receives + The nimblest stroke the tinker gives. + + + X + + The tinker’s task is at an end: + Stamped was the cross by that last blow. + Again his cry, ‘Old souls to mend!’ + Is heard in accents dull and low. + He pauses not to seek his pay,— + That too will do another day. + + + XI + + One stops and says, ‘This soul of mine + Has been a tidy piece of ware, + But rust and rot in it combine, + And now corruption lays it bare. + Give it a look: there was a day + When it the morning hymn could say.’ + + + XII + + The tinker looks into his eye, + And there detects besetting sin, + The decent old-established lie, + That creeps through all the chinks within. + Lank are its tendrils, thick its shoots, + And like a worm’s nest coil the roots. + + + XIII + + Like flowers that deadly berries bear, + His seed, if tended from the pod, + Had grown in beauty with the year, + Like deodara drawn to God; + Now like a dank and curly brake, + It fosters venom for the snake. + + + XIV + + The tinker takes the weed in tow, + And roots it out with tooth and nail; + His labour patient to bestow, + Lest like the herd of men he fail. + How best to extirpate the weed, + Has grown with him into a creed. + + + XV + + His tack is steady, slow, and sure: + He plucks it out, despite the howl, + With gentle hand and look demure, + As cunning maiden draws a fowl. + He knows the job he is about, + And pulls till all the lie is out. + + + XVI + + ‘Now steadfastly regard the man + Who wrought your cure of rust and rot! + You saw him ere the work began: + Is he the same, or is he not? + You saw the tinker; now behold + The Envoy of a God of old.’ + + + XVII + + This said, he on the forehead stamps + A downward stroke and one across, + Then straight upon his way he tramps; + His time for profit, not for loss; + His task no sooner at an end + Than out he cries, ‘Old souls to mend!’ + + + XVIII + + As night comes on he enters doors, + He crosses halls, he goes upstairs, + He reaches first and second floors, + Still busied on his own affairs. + None stop him or a question ask; + None heed the workman at his task. + + + XIX + + Despite his cry, ‘Old souls to mend!’ + Which into dull expression breaks, + Not moved are they, nor ear they lend + To him who from old habit speaks; + Yet does the deep and one-toned cry + Send thrills along eternity. + + + XX + + He gads where out-door wretches walk, + Where outcasts under arches creep; + Among them holds his simple talk. + He lets them hear him in their sleep. + They who his name have still denied, + He lets them see him crucified. + + + XXI + + On royal steps he takes a stand + To light the beauties to the ball; + He holds a lantern in his hand, + And lets his simple saying fall. + They deem him but some sorry wit + Serving the Holy Spirit’s writ. + + + XXII + + They know not souls can rust and rot, + And deem him, while he says his say, + The tipsy watchman who forgot + To call out ‘Carriage stops the way!’ + They know not what it can portend, + This mocking cry, ‘Old souls to mend!’ + + + XXIII + + While standing on the palace stone, + He is in workhouse, brothel, jail; + He is to play and ball-room gone, + To hear again the beauties rail; + With tender pity to behold + The dead alive in pearls and gold. + + + XXIV + + In meaning deep, in whispers low + As bubble bursting on the air, + He lets the solemn warning flow + Through jewelled ears of creatures fair, + Who, while they dance, their paces blend + With his mild words, ‘Old souls to mend!’ + + + XXV + + And when to church their sins they take, + And bring them back to lunch again, + And fun of empty sermons make, + He whispers softly in their train; + And sits with them if two or more + Think of a promise made of yore. + + + XXVI + + Of those who stay behind to sup, + And in remembrance eat the bread, + He leads the conscience to the cup, + His hands across the table spread. + When contrite hearts before him bend, + Glad are his words, ‘Old souls to mend.’ + + + XXVII + + The little ones before the font + He clasps within his arms to bless; + For Childhood’s pure and guileless front + Laughs back his own sweet gentleness. + ‘Of such,’ he says, ‘my kingdom is, + For they betray not with a kiss.’ + + + XXVIII + + He goes to hear the vicars preach: + They do not always know his face, + Him they pretend the way to teach, + And, as one absent, ask his grace. + Not then his words, ‘Old souls to mend!’ + Their spirits pierce or bosoms rend. + + + XXIX + + He goes to see the priests revere + His image as he lay in death: + They do not know that he is there; + They do not feel his living breath, + Though to his secret they pretend + With incense sweet, old souls to mend. + + + XXX + + He goes to hear the grand debate + That makes his own religion law; + But him the members, as he sate + Below the gangway, never saw. + They used his name to serve their end, + And others left old souls to mend. + + + XXXI + + Before the church-exchange he stands, + Where those who buy and sell him, meet: + He sees his livings changing hands, + And shakes the dust from off his feet. + May be his weary head he bows, + While from his side fresh ichor flows. + + + XXXII + + From mitred peers he turns his face. + Where priests convoked in session plot, + He would remind them of his grace + But for his now too humble lot; + So his dull cry on ears devout + He murmurs sadly from without. + + + XXXIII + + He goes where judge the law defends, + And takes the life he can’t bestow, + And soul of sinner recommends + To grace above, but not below; + Reserving for a fresh surprise + Whom it shall meet in Paradise. + + + XXXIV + + He goes to meeting, where the saint + Exempts himself from deadly ire, + But in a strain admired and quaint + Consigns all others to the fire, + While of the damned he mocks the howl, + And on the tinker drops his scowl. + + + XXXV + + Go here, go there, they cite his word, + While he himself is nigh forgot. + He hears them use the name of Lord, + He present though they know him not. + Though he be there, they vision lack, + And talk of him behind his back. + + + XXXVI + + Such is the Church and such the State. + Both set him up and put him down,— + Below the houses of debate, + Above the jewels of the crown. + But when ‘Old souls to mend!’ he says, + They send him off about his ways. + + + XXXVII + + He is the humble, lowly one, + In coat of rusty velveteen, + Who to his daily work has gone; + In sleeves of lawn not ever seen. + No mitre on his forehead sticks: + His crown is thorny, and it pricks. + + + XXXVIII + + On it the dews of mercy shine; + From heaven at dawn of day they fell; + And it he wears by right divine, + Like earthly kings, if truth they tell; + And up to heaven the few to send, + He still cries out, ‘Old souls to mend!’ + + + + + VENUS URANIA + + + Is this thy Paphos,—the devoted place + Where rests, in its own eventide, thy shrine? + To thee not lone is solitude divine + Where love-dreams o’er thy waves each other chase + And melt into the passion of thy face! + The twilight waters, dolphin-stained, are thine; + The silvery depths and blue, moon-orbed, entwine, + And in bright films thy rosy form embrace,— + Girdling thy loins with heaven-spun drapery + Wove in the looms of thy resplendent sea. + The columns point their shadows to the plain + And ancient days are dialed o’er again; + The floods remember: falling at thy feet, + Upon the sands of time they ever beat. + + + + + THE CRIPPLE + + + I + + A brook beneath the hill-side flows + Amid the downs, whose chalky sweep + A scant though tender herbage grows, + Cropped close by scattered flocks of sheep. + And there a group of huts is seen + Dotted along a village green. + + + II + + Yet, buildings of a statelier look + That poor sequestered valley grace: + An inn beside the village brook; + A church beside the burial-place. + Save at the park, the trees are few; + Still the old graveyard has its yew. + + + III + + Beyond the park, the ring-dove’s haunt, + Red bricks insult the smokeless sky: + There stands the workhouse, bare and gaunt, + Like the drear soul of poverty, + And frowns upon a mossy fen, + Where willows crouch like agéd men. + + + IV + + All life surrounds the roadside inn, + The home of welcome and good cheer, + Where barmaid scores the gill of gin + And oft-repeated pot of beer: + Unlike the fashion of the town— + To drink and fling the money down. + + + V + + The wife, with eggs and milk for sale, + Wrapt in the coat of her good man, + Stops there and takes her drop of ale + While waiting for her empty can, + And, nodding at the landlord’s sport, + Keeps for the last her smart retort. + + + VI + + The goodman, always on his mare, + Stops with familiar nod and wink, + And bids the landlord with him share + His amber draught of foamy drink; + With chuckling joke concludes his say, + And laughs when out of hearing’s way. + + + VII + + There with his team the carter stays, + The water-trough his horses find; + Worn out himself, he little says— + No fun has he to leave behind. + Dull to the merry toper’s call, + His team he follows to their stall. + + + VIII + + The squire, addicted not to chat, + But seldom draws the rein or speaks; + Seeing the landlord touch his hat, + Into a quiet trot he breaks; + Though at election, oft he stops + To praise the children and the crops. + + + IX + + Between the horse-trough and the door + A widow’s son was wont to stand. + He was a cripple, crutched and poor, + Yet always ready with a hand, + Pleased when on trifling errands sent, + With little recompense content. + + + X + + So oft a copper coin the boy + Would earn, that helped to buy him bread, + Too glad to get a light employ: + The parish all his mother’s dread. + Hard had she worked to earn him food + Through all her weary widowhood. + + + XI + + More did that mother love her son + Than had he been the fairest born; + He was her pride to look upon, + Though shrunk of limb and feature worn: + May be she loved him all the more + For that his legs were crookt and sore. + + + XII + + As a wrecked vessel on the sand, + The cripple to his mother clung: + Close to the tub he took his stand + While she the linen washed and wrung; + And when she hung it out to dry + The cripple still was standing by. + + + XIII + + When she went out to char, he took + His fife, to play some simple snatch + Before the inn hard by the brook, + While for the traveller keeping watch, + Against the horse’s head to stand, + Or hold its bridle in his hand. + + + XIV + + Sometimes the squire his penny dropped + Upon the road for him to clutch, + Which, as it rolled, the cripple stopped, + Striking it nimbly with his crutch. + The groom, with leathern belt and pad, + E’en found a copper for the lad. + + + XV + + The farmer’s wife her hand would dip + Down her deep pocket with a sigh; + Some halfpence in his hand would slip, + When there was no observer nigh; + Or give him apples for his lunch, + That he loved leisurely to munch. + + + XVI + + But for the farmer, what he made, + At market table he would spend, + And boys who used not plough or spade + Had got the parish for their friend; + He paid his poor rates to the day, + So let the boy ask parish-pay. + + + XVII + + Yet would the teamster feel his fob, + The little cripple’s heart to cheer, + Himself of penny pieces rob, + That he begrudged to spend in beer; + His boy, too, might be sick or sore, + So gave he of his thrifty store. + + + XVIII + + A sheep-worn walk along the brook + The cripple loved, for there the gush + Of water thralled him as it shook + The ragged roots of the green rush, + Which with its triple flowers of pink + Stood ripe for gathering at the brink. + + + XIX + + The heather bristles round the knoll, + Where inlaid moss and leaflets blend: + ’Tis there he sits and ends his stroll, + His crutch beside him as his friend, + And looks upon the other bank, + Where blue forget-me-not grows rank; + + + XX + + Where purple loosestrife paints the sedge;— + Where bryony and yellow bine, + Locked in blush-bramble, climb the hedge, + And white convolvulus enshrine. + Nestled in leaves, they all appear + Each other’s flowers to nurse and rear. + + + XXI + + There mused he like a child of yore— + By Nature’s simple teachings led; + The cog and wheel of human lore + Not yet were stirring in his head; + The Shaper of his destiny + He felt was smiling from the sky. + + + XXII + + There with soft notes his fife he fills, + A mere tin plaything from the mart, + But his thin fingers as it thrills, + To that poor toy a grace impart, + While it obeys his lips’ control, + And is a crutch unto his soul. + + + XXIII + + At church he longed his fife to try, + Where oboe gave its doleful note, + Where fiddle scraped harsh melody, + Where bass the rustic vitals smote. + Such old-day music was in vogue, + And psalms were sung in village brogue. + + + XXIV + + His cheerful ways gave many cause + For wonder; such ill-founded joy + To others’ mirth would give a pause: + His soul seemed lent him for a toy, + Though on his infant face was age + To mark him for life’s latter stage. + + + XXV + + Dead is his crutch on moping days— + ’Tis so they call his sickly fits, + When by his side his crutch he lays, + And in the chimney-corner sits, + Hobbling in spirit near the yew + That in the village churchyard grew. + + + XXVI + + Ah! it befell at harvest-time,— + Such are the ways of Providence,— + That the poor widow in her prime + Was fever-struck, and hurried hence; + Then did he wish indeed to lie + Between her arms and with her die. + + + XXVII + + Who shall the cripple’s woes beguile? + Who earn the bread his mouth to feed? + Who greet him with a mother’s smile? + Who tend him in his utter need? + Who lead him to the sanded floor? + Who put his crutch behind the door? + + + XXVIII + + Who set him in his wadded chair, + And after supper say his grace? + Who to invite a loving air + His fife upon the table place? + Who, as he plays, her eyes shall lift + In wonder at a cripple’s gift? + + + XXIX + + Who ask him all the news that chanced— + Of farmer’s wife in coat and hat, + Of squire who to the city pranced— + To draw him out in lively chat? + This flood of love, now but a surf + Left on a nameless mound of turf. + + + XXX + + Some it made sigh, and some made talk, + To see the guardian of the poor + Call for the boy to take a walk, + And lead him to the workhouse door: + With lifted hands and boding look + They watched him cross the village brook. + + + + + THE INFANT MEDUSA + + BY POSEIDON + + + I loved Medusa when she was a child, + Her rich brown tresses heaped in crispy curl + Where now those locks with reptile passion whirl, + By hate into dishevelled serpents coiled. + I loved Medusa when her eyes were mild, + Whose glances, narrowed now, perdition hurl, + As her self-tangled hairs their mass unfurl, + Bristling the way she turns with hissings wild. + + Her mouth I kissed when curved with amorous spell, + Now shaped to the unuttered curse of hell, + Wide open for death’s orbs to freeze upon; + Her eyes I loved ere glazed in icy stare, + Ere mortals, lured into their ruthless glare, + She shrivelled in her gaze to pulseless stone. + + + + + THE LILY OF THE VALLEY + + + I + + There was a wood, it does not change, + Not while the thrush pipes through its glades, + And she who did its thickets range + Has willed her sunbeam to its shades. + There still the lily weaves a net + With bluebell, primrose, violet. + + + II + + The wood is what it was of old, + A timber-farm where wildflowers grow. + There woodman’s axe is never cold, + That lays the oaks and beeches low. + But though the hand of man deface, + The lily ever grows in grace. + + + III + + Of loving natures, proudly shy, + The stock-doves sojourn in the tree, + With breasts of feathered cloud and sky, + And notes of soft though tuneless glee: + Hid in the leaves they take a spring, + And crush the stillness with their wing. + + + IV + + The wood is deep-boughed, and its glade + Has ruts of waggon to and fro; + Yet where the print of wheel is made + The bracken ventures still to grow; + And where the foot of man may goad, + The ants are toiling with their load. + + + V + + The wood, even old in olden days, + No longer alters with the year. + The gnarléd boughs, to Nature’s ways + Inured, their honours mildly bear. + And she who there has fixed her beam + Is still remembered as a dream. + + + VI + + There many a legend of the wood + Has hovered from the olden time, + When, with their sooths and sayings good, + Men told not of its youth or prime. + The hollow trunks were hollow then, + And honoured like the bones of men. + + + VII + + There like nine brethren, Nature’s own, + Nine trees within a circle stand, + And to a temple’s shape have grown, + Each trunk a column tall and grand. + And, there, a raven-oak uprears + Its dome that whitens with the years. + + + VIII + + ’Mid these, while on the earth at play, + She, the true beam of living spring, + The playmate of the lily’s ray, + Learnt of the piping thrush to sing. + The lily’s leaves were then her nest, + Its buds half-nestled in her breast. + + + IX + + To her whose beam was lily-bright + ’Neath brakes that hide the sky above, + A primrose seemed a holy sight: + Loveless itself, it taught her love. + It was her welcome to the bowers, + And lured her fingers to its flowers. + + + X + + Not yet to her was Nature’s age + In gnarled and hollow shapes revealed: + The buds and leaflets stamped her page, + And all that Death could say concealed. + To gnarled and hollow Nature cold, + She had not caught the sense of old. + + + XI + + When folk who gossiped thereabout + Asked the child’s name,—the child so pale,— + With looks that gave a sweetness out, + She answered, ‘Lily of the Vale.’ + Not then her eyes had dew-drops shed + In early tribute to the dead. + + + XII + + Alas! her parents came to die; + She was not then too young to weep. + Through all the wood was heard her cry; + Till with her sobs she fell asleep, + And o’er her slumber shot those beams + That with a shiver visit dreams. + + + XIII + + The lilies in their nest had died, + Violets were closed, their petals crushed, + The bracken-stalks were parched and dried, + The flowers she loved no longer blushed. + Towards sorrow did her soul ascend; + Her dawn of joys was at an end. + + + XIV + + The oak spread o’er her troubled sleep, + She sees a gnarled and hollow form + Whose riven branches seem to creep,— + Loosed from their long-enchanted storm, + And like a phantom in the air + It sets on her its naked stare. + + + XV + + That oak she oft had seen before, + And in its empty cell had played, + But felt not it was bald and hoar + With the green ivy o’er it laid. + Now have those thoughtless moments flown + And with the oak she is alone. + + + XVI + + Then she beheld o’ersnowed with age, + Her grandsire trembling in the wind, + Smiling on her, his heritage, + The child his son had left behind. + Old was she now, for she could see + Her grandsire agéd like the tree. + + + XVII + + As flowers her eager heart once fired + With love for things that came and passed, + These visions in her soul inspired + An awe of sadder things that last: + The sire by age and trouble bent, + The tree by storm and lightning rent. + + + XVIII + + Sleep left her, but her startled gaze + Met not the sire beside the oak + There standing in its leafless maze + As in her dream, when she awoke. + Where was the sire? She could not see + The face that smiled beside the tree. + + + XIX + + And then she towards the cottage ran, + There was the sire in his retreat, + There was he still,—the agéd man,— + Calm-sitting on his mossy seat, + And of her dream, as true, she spoke + While resting ’neath the raven-oak. + + + XX + + He told her how the raven reared + Her young ones on the leafy crest, + And now the oak by lightning seared + Could give no shelter for a nest. + With this her simple thoughts he led + To how the bird the prophet fed. + + + XXI + + Then did she feel that he was poor; + That on a scanty crust he fared. + She longed to see within his door + The frugal meal she oft had shared, + And prayed the raven in her need + To do for them the loving deed. + + + XXII + + Through every grove she poured her lay, + This drooping Lily of the Vale; + As through the brakes she took her way + She told the thrush her touching tale, + And bade it in her service press + The bird that waits on man’s distress. + + + XXIII + + So, like a creature on the wing, + She spoke her griefs to all she met. + The thrush had taught her how to sing + Soft notes to all things living set; + Conies that peeped from out the grass, + They had no fear and let her pass. + + + XXIV + + She thought the thrush with mellow song + Would answer to her simple strain, + She thought the other birds would throng + To bring the raven back again, + But not to her the raven sped + Who brought from heaven the prophet’s bread. + + + XXV + + Meantime her grandsire day by day + Was hungered, hopeless though he smiled, + For he would hide his pains away + From her, the watchful, loving child. + She saw him sink upon his bed + Not by the kindly raven fed. + + + XXVI + + Again through brake and bush she flew; + Beyond the wood there lay the field + And paths unknown broke on her view; + Must she to childish terror yield? + She looked at heaven and saw its scope, + Taught by her mother there was hope. + + + XXVII + + And then she to her mother said, + ‘Can God the prophet’s raven spare? + For grandsire lies upon his bed, + And cannot earn his daily fare. + All father’s work he leaves undone, + And says I soon shall be alone.’ + + + XXVIII + + Then she went on and seemed to tread + The buoyant air that past her blew, + But cast her looks about in dread, + As o’er the footless path she flew. + At last she stayed to breathe her fear,— + All was so strange, and no one near. + + + XXIX + + And then she to her father said, + ‘Can God the prophet’s raven spare? + For grandsire lies upon his bed, + And cannot earn his daily fare. + He leaves the work you left undone, + And says I soon shall be alone.’ + + + XXX + + Her slackening pace now plainly told + The way was long for timid feet. + She felt her heart no longer bold: + Oft she looked back her wood to greet. + Her wood from sight a moment gone, + She felt herself indeed alone. + + + XXXI + + She stood where hills and valleys blend; + One struggle more, and heaven seemed nigh. + Beyond where fields and woods ascend, + She saw a mansion towering high, + A noble lady’s home, that seemed + To her the heaven of which she dreamed. + + + XXXII + + ‘Could I,’ she thought, ‘that hill ascend, + Then should I see the lady’s face. + She lives above, where troubles end, + And I have found her heavenly place. + God gives her plenty for the poor, + Who come home laden from her door.’ + + + XXXIII + + She looked till flashed across her dreams + A sight that all her spirit fired; + A form behind the window gleams,— + Could it be she so long desired? + Through windows in that stately pile, + She thought she saw a human smile. + + + XXXIV + + And then she to the lady said, + ‘Can God the prophet’s raven spare? + For grandsire lies upon his bed, + And cannot earn his daily fare. + All father’s work he leaves undone, + And says I soon shall be alone.’ + + + XXXV + + The mansion stood against the sun: + There long she looked for her reply. + The ball of fire whose course had run, + Filled with its red the western sky, + ’Twas awful to her childish sight: + She turned her troubled steps for flight. + + + XXXVI + + Dared she but enter at the gate + To reach that mansion vast and fair, + Then could she all her tale relate + To that sweet lady dwelling there. + But all her little courage fled: + With fainting steps she homeward sped. + + + XXXVII + + First slowly, then with swifter pace, + She outran terror at her heels, + As if to win with Death the race, + Whose shroud now brushing by she feels. + She starts at every rugged bank, + For with the sun her spirit sank. + + + XXXVIII + + The orb, yet vast beyond the height, + Had set more early in the wood; + But o’er the trees the lingering light + Spread floating in a rosy flood. + The birds sank one by one to rest, + As pale and paler grew the west. + + + XXXIX + + She spied her cot, O vision sweet! + A rushlight through the lattice flamed, + And threw its radiance at her feet, + As it the grudging twilight shamed. + Through diamond panes a glimpse to catch, + She held her finger on the latch. + + + XL + + No sound, no breath she heard above, + Where grandsire in the garret lay. + But one was there whose looks of love, + ‘Poor little orphan,’ seemed to say. + She knew the chaplain’s kindly face; + The bearer of the lady’s grace. + + + XLI + + ‘Where hast thou been, my darling maid? + Reply to one who likes thee well.’ + ‘To fetch the raven home,’ she said; + ‘And him my grandsire’s wants to tell. + I stood beneath the raven-tree + And found no bird to succour me.’ + + + XLII + + ‘Why call the raven to thy door, + Thy little heart’s distress to share?’ + ‘Because,’ said she, ‘the sire is poor, + And has not earned his daily fare. + All father’s work he leaves undone, + And says I soon shall be alone.’ + + + XLIII + + ‘To kiss thee, child, he would have stayed, + For oft he called thee to his side. + Where didst thou wander, little maid?’ + ‘I went across the world so wide. + I looked at heaven and saw its scope, + Taught by my mother there was hope. + + + XLIV + + ‘I looked for mother in the sky: + She taught me there my wants to tell; + I looked for father standing by, + For both among the happy dwell; + I cried to them with heart of care, + Can God the prophet’s raven spare? + + + XLV + + ‘Then I came nigh a stately pile, + Where those who ask seek not in vain. + I looked, and saw a human smile, + And thought a lady looked again. + Through windows I beheld her face, + As she looked from her heavenly place. + + + XLVI + + ‘And then I to the lady said, + “Can God the prophet’s raven spare? + For grandsire lies upon his bed, + And has not earned his daily fare. + My father’s work he leaves undone, + And says I soon shall be alone.”’ + + + XLVII + + ‘Thou art not all alone, my child; + Thy griefs that righteous lady hears: + She loves a spirit undefiled; + Her heart is open to thy tears. + Thy father’s work at last is done, + And thou shalt never be alone.’ + + + + + THE LOVER’S DAY + + + I + + Gorse-plains that flower their gold into the streams + Beneath the opal blossoms of the sky; + Sea-floods that weave their blue and purple seams; + White sails that lift the billows as they fly: + Not these in their abounding rapture vie + With love’s diviner dreams. + + + II + + Those lovers tire not when the sun is pale; + No statelier awning than a bristled tree + With branches cedared by the salten gale, + Stretched back, as if with wings that cannot flee: + They linger, and the sun departs by sea; + He spreads his crimson sail. + + + III + + They watch him as he piles his busy deck + With golden treasure; as his sail expands; + They see him sink; they gaze upon the wreck + Through the still twilight of the silvery sands. + One cloud is left to the deserted lands: + The blue-set moon’s cold fleck. + + + IV + + They linger though the pageant hath gone by, + The opal cloud is lit o’er sea and plain; + The moon is full of one day’s memory, + And tells the tale of Nature o’er again, + Its glory mingled in the soul’s refrain + Under that lover’s sky. + + + + + THE DEADLY NIGHTSHADE + + + I + + There was a haunt, it does not change, + Not while the fiend its path invades; + But he who did its alleys range + Has willed his penance to its shades. + There still the nightshade breathes its pest + On fallen spirits not at rest. + + + II + + It is the haunt it was of yore, + A den where thieves and harlots creep, + Where Nature’s voice is heard no more, + Where guilt-stained men night-vigil keep, + And crimes like months afresh appear,— + Ere one runs out, another near. + + + III + + A haunt where all in common share + The sleepless hour, the murderous toil; + Where Death on all has set his stare, + To drag them forth, to grasp their spoil: + Between their gallows and their den, + A hardening sight for other men. + + + IV + + This is the charnel that doth hide + A frantic woman who at play + Has lost her wealth of virgin pride, + And reckless games her soul away; + Whose scarlet rags, deep-dyed, replace + The blushes of her maiden face. + + + V + + A mother’s bitter hour sets in; + Wrecked on her breast the infant lies, + As if to perish for its sin, + There set adrift from human ties + Till its ear-piercing scream prevail + And sullen pity hush the wail. + + + VI + + Where only shadows rise and set, + And love at morn awaketh not, + This child of woe his being met, + To share a loveless parent’s lot, + And at his birth his sentence meet + Before a mother’s judgment-seat. + + + VII + + The mother moaning in the gloom + Laughed when a peaceful breath he drew, + Too conscious of his early doom. + On wounded wings the tidings flew, + On bosoms pitiless they fell: + ‘A child of heaven was born in hell!’ + + + VIII + + His place of birth the skies deplored, + No trees, no brooks, no meadows seen; + And still his heart those skies adored + Before he saw the fields were green. + Born amid broils, in squalor bred, + His soul knew not to where it sped. + + + IX + + The child is taught through many a blow + To shed with sobs the beggar’s tear, + Reared as a prodigy of woe + That gentle women pay to hear. + And many listened and bestowed; + For younger tears had never flowed. + + + X + + Held at his mother’s hand, he hung + A broken spray with misery’s drip; + And often to the ground he clung, + His passion bursting at his lip. + And still she dragged him o’er the stones, + Though tender was he to the bones. + + + XI + + Her eyes of prey like fangs were laid + On all who gave a hurried look. + And while she whined for kindly aid, + She hid away the coin she took, + When suddenly she begged no more + And rushed within a slamming door. + + + XII + + With nostrils spread, and eyes aflame, + Before the shrine of death she stands, + The infant by her, sick and lame, + The lava trembling in her hands. + She drinks it with a vengeful frown; + She feels the fiend of sorrow drown. + + + XIII + + Now in a prison left to rage, + She thirsts, she burns with vain desire + Her deadly sickness to assuage, + To quench its fiery pang in fire. + With what a mother sent to dwell, + This child of heaven reared up in hell! + + + XIV + + Not far away from infancy— + Through weary time a single stage, + The livelong years had hustled by + But left him still of tender age, + When from his mother’s reach he fled, + Outside the doors to make his bed. + + + XV + + Where odours wander, dank and foul, + Through crowded streets and alleys lone, + By day and night his footsteps prowl; + His wants, not many, asked by none: + The roads were new he hourly crossed, + Yet was his way not wholly lost. + + + XVI + + When hunger like a conscience cries, + He asks the needy to bestow, + Afraid to raise his drooping eyes + Except to those who famine know; + Such he believes their crust will break, + And share with him for pity’s sake. + + + XVII + + Hopeful, he glides into a den + Up whose dusk path a shudder flew, + And asks of sick, half-famished men + Whose strength no plenty could renew. + Yet with what startling oaths they rave + And bid him run his neck to save! + + + XVIII + + Still to the poor is his appeal, + And they his mild entreaty spurn: + Some whisper, Be a man and steal; + Some bid him to the gallows turn. + Child-like he credits all he hears, + And rests his troubled heart in tears. + + + XIX + + He rests,—but oft starts up in fear; + His mother’s driving shadow breaks + Upon his slumber unaware, + And sleep’s too light repast awakes + Where dreams the festive board have spread + And turned his sorrow into bread. + + + XX + + Hope, ’mid those shapes of famine sent, + Smiles on him;—she is Childhood’s bride! + The mother’s image, o’er him bent, + Cannot the angel wholly hide,— + Not when her halo o’er him plays, + And all but hunger’s pang allays. + + + XXI + + How did he long for once to taste + Of the forbidden food whose smell + From cellar gratings ran to waste! + Gusts that the passing crowd repel. + As when a rose some maid regales, + The grateful vapour he inhales. + + + XXII + + Less favoured than the dog outside, + He lingers by some savoury mass; + He watches mouths that open wide, + And sees them eating through the glass. + Oft his own lips he opes and shuts, + And sympathy his fancy gluts. + + + XXIII + + So, oft a-hungered has he stood, + And yarn of fasting fancy spun, + As wistfully he watched the food, + With one foot out prepared to run, + In vague misgiving of his right + To revel in the dainty sight. + + + XXIV + + Harmless, yet to the base akin, + He feels a blot no eye could see, + And drags his rags about his skin + To hide from view his pedigree. + He deems himself a thief by birth, + An alien on the teeming earth. + + + XXV + + He begs not, but as in a trance + Admires the gay and wealthy throng; + But if the curious on him glance, + He is abashed and slinks along; + He cares no more, the spell once broke, + Scenes of false plenty to invoke. + + + XXVI + + The man of charity beholds + His vagrant looks with pent-up grief; + He stops, reproves; he gently scolds, + But fails to give the child relief; + ‘So sad,’ he says, ‘to see them thrive + Who on another’s earnings live.’ + + + XXVII + + Then comes the child, this ill-sown seed, + To sweep the purlieus and the wynds, + But few bethink them of his need, + And scanty is the help he finds. + At times he walks upon his head: + A form of prayer for daily bread. + + + XXVIII + + Now seem his days for sorrow made! + He hears that men on Sunday pray; + A world’s proud secret on parade + To him appears the Sabbath-day. + All have asked heaven to take their cares, + But hunger says for him his prayers. + + + XXIX + + Some words have reached him such as jar + On sinners’ ears and seem devout; + They are but as a light from far, + They come from heaven and soon die out, + Too weak as yet to turn a spell + Wove in the alphabet of hell. + + + + + FLOWERS ON THE BANK + + + I + + Flowers on the bank,—we pass and call them gay: + The primroses throw pictures to the mind, + The buttercups lag dazzlingly behind, + And daisy-friends we spy but do not say + A word of joy;—thoughts of them follow not, + And soon are they forgot. + + + II + + What care we for wildflowers except their name? + Bright maidens at the sight in rapture start, + Which, as our smiles say, comes not from the heart: + Flowers dance not, sing not, all their ways are tame; + They love not, neither love in us inspire; + Nor blush when we admire. + + + III + + Yet stay, the fingers of that panting child + Have culled for us the choice ones,—many a gem,— + Have set their lovely colours stem to stem + In her fond hands they are not tame or wild, + Nestled in fringy fern so changed appears + The little gift she bears! + + + IV + + She gives herself, and she can dance and sing, + And she can love inspire and blush at praise; + The flowers are part of her, have caught her ways; + She gives herself who gives so sweet a thing. + And she is gone, with other thoughts than ours + Gathering fresh love and flowers. + + + + + THE BLIND BOY + + + I + + In dark ascent the pine-clad hills + Repose on heaven their rocky crest. + Lit by the flash of falling rills + That in the valley-shadow rest, + Chafing in rainbow-spray that finds + Its sunshine in the gusty winds. + + + II + + Clouds folded round the topmost peaks + Shut out the gorges from the sun: + ’Tis mid-day ere the early streaks + Of sunshine down the valley run; + But where the opening cliffs expand, + The early sea-light breaks on land. + + + III + + Before the sun, like golden shields, + The clouds a lustre shed around; + Wild shadows gambol o’er the fields; + Tame shadows stretch upon the ground. + Towards noon the great rock-shadow moves, + And takes slow leave of all it loves. + + + IV + + The beam-shot clouds dissolve apace; + Stray shades that linger like a scroll, + Draw nearer to their craggy base, + And in clefts and caverns roll; + The light falls down the rocky piles; + The vale a lake of glory smiles. + + + V + + There dwell two orphans: Heaven ordains + The sister’s eyes shall live in light: + Her brother in the shade remains + When morning bursts upon her sight. + Sister and brother, far and wide + As one they wander side by side. + + + VI + + When to the shore through woods and fields + The brother has a wish to stray, + The sister takes the hand he yields; + She by fond habit leads the way. + Skipping along, oft face to face, + Her hand directs his timid pace. + + + VII + + The plains that strike the grey-white line + Where earth’s dim curve in distance fades; + The streams that near the dwelling shine; + The quiet meads; the rustling glades; + The sand-dunes waiting on the shore, + The sister’s eyes for him explore. + + + VIII + + ’Tis all his own, but her loved hand, + Her gentle voice, her sayings dear, + Are choicer gifts than all the land + That he inherits far and near, + For all his light is in her mind,— + The path he loses she can find. + + + IX + + At early morn, embraced by her, + He sits within the shadow’s dip + To list to his sweet minister, + And paint his visions from her lip. + He sees the waters, earth, and skies + Only through her enchanted eyes. + + + X + + Her eyes are bright, his now are blind; + All he once saw has passed away, + But her fond visions fill his mind, + And there disclose the dawn of day. + Her morning breaks upon his night, + Enlivened by her spirit’s light. + + + XI + + She tells him how the mountains swell, + How rocks and forests touch the skies; + He tells her how the shadows dwell + In purple dimness on his eyes, + Whose tremulous orbs the while he lifts, + As round his smile their spirit drifts. + + + XII + + More close around his heart to wind, + She shuts her eyes in childish glee, + ‘To share,’ she says, ‘his peace of mind; + To sit beneath his shadow-tree.’ + So, half in play, the sister tries + To find his soul within her eyes. + + + XIII + + His hand in hers, she walks along + And leads him by the river’s brink; + She stays to catch the water’s song, + Closing her eyes with him to think. + His ear, more watchful than her own, + Had caught the ocean’s distant moan. + + + XIV + + ‘The river’s flow is bright and clear,’ + The blind boy said, ‘and were it dark + We should no less its music hear: + Sings not at eventide the lark? + Still when the ripples pause, they fade + Upon my spirit like a shade.’ + + + XV + + ‘Yet, brother, when the river stops + And in the quiet bay is hushed, + E’en though its gentle murmur drops, + ’Tis bright as when by us it rushed; + Not like a shade, when heard no more, + Except beneath the wooded shore.’ + + + XVI + + Now the resounding beach, wave-swept, + Greets them; now silence softly bears + The likeness of the wave that leapt + Unseen, and broke upon their ears. + ‘Dear sister, tell me once again + The wonders of the sea’s domain!’ + + + XVII + + Down the moist sands she guides his way, + And gazes on the lonesome shores, + Where desultory waves at play, + Enthral her looks ere she explores + The far-off deep; ere those quick eyes + Rove o’er the waters, cliffs, and skies. + + + XVIII + + ‘The farthest seas bend as a bow + Into the light, o’er-arching sky; + There, curdled breakers row on row + With scarce a motion, distant lie; + Or if one vanish from the rest, + It shows again its snowy crest. + + + XIX + + ‘But nearer, midway toward the sands, + I see long lines of billows creep; + One stops and into froth expands, + Then fades away upon the deep; + Close to the shore the waves contend, + And shouting reach the journey’s end.’ + + + XX + + While her bright tones upon him broke + The curtain from his soul was drawn; + His spirit quickened as she spoke,— + Then flashed as at a sudden dawn, + With visions of a world once known, + That for the moment seemed his own. + + + XXI + + ‘O tell me of the changing sky, + Sunless once more!’ ‘’Neath lovely blue,’ + The sister says, ‘the clouds float by, + Of orange, white, and inky hue. + The shifting waves that cannot rest + Are ’neath the gusty breezes pressed. + + + XXII + + ‘A cloud is loosened from the sun; + The sea’s sky-blue now skims the green, + Chasing the billows as they run + And drip their foam in troughs between. + Oh, could you see them as they roar, + Scooping away the glistening shore!’ + + + XXIII + + ‘The waves,’ he said, ‘before me fall, + And memories of a long-lost light + From far-off mornings on me call, + And what I hear comes into sight. + The beauteous skies flash back again, + But, ah! the light will not remain!’ + + + XXIV + + Awhile he pauses; as he stops, + Her little hand the sister moves + And pebbles on the water drops, + As it runs up the sandy grooves, + Or to her ear a shell applies, + With parted lips and dreaming eyes. + + + XXV + + ‘That noise!’ said he, with lifted hand. + ‘The sea-gull’s scream and flapping wings, + Before the wind it flies to land, + And omens of a tempest brings.’ + She tells him how the sea-bird pale + Whirls wildly on the coming gale. + + + XXVI + + ‘And is the sea alone? Even now + I hear faint mutterings,—not the waves’; + It seems a murmur sweeping low + And hurrying through the distant caves. + I hear again that smothered tone, + As if the sea were not alone.’ + + + XXVII + + ‘Heaven slopes o’er us on every side, + And shuts us from the distant land. + The waters only here abide, + And we who sit upon the sand. + A porpoise revels in the spray, + And purple vapours veil the bay. + + + XXVIII + + ‘Come, hasten,’ cries she, ‘to the woods + Where twisted boughs are thickly set, + For soon the rain must fall in floods: + Here is no shelter from the wet. + While like a sea the sky upheaves, + We’ll watch beneath the matted leaves.’ + + + XXIX + + ‘Stay, sister! Listen to that sound;— + It thunders—does the flash appear?’ + ‘It lightens now, and, whirling round, + The gull dips low, as if in fear.’ + The boy now turns his floating eyes, + Though not the way the sea-bird flies. + + + XXX + + ‘The wind is balmy on my cheek, + But now I feel the rain-drop plash. + Let us,’ he said, ‘the woodland seek, + And hear it on the foliage dash. + On the ground-ivy we shall tread, + And through the grove its perfume spread.’ + + + XXXI + + And so they prattle as they leave + The sandy beach, in pensive mood, + His ear turned to the billow’s heave, + Her vision leaning on the wood, + While, as the honeysuckle clings, + About his neck her arm she flings. + + + XXXII + + Better than she the blind boy hears + The whispers of the patient shore, + While yet the wave its crest uprears + To break once more,—and evermore. + Better than she the blind boy feels + The simple pictures she reveals. + + + XXXIII + + Clapping her hands, she spies above + Rich elms, the turrets grey and old,— + But love of home was only love + When to her darling brother told. + Thus ever to his soul replies + The infant passion of her eyes. + + + XXXIV + + While they return, the dwelling near, + One word must yet the sister say. + She lifts her voice: ‘O brother dear, + If good my eyes have been to-day, + Kiss them for every new delight + That kindles in your spirit’s sight!’ + + + XXXV + + Deep in his eyes the love-lights strove; + He clasped her in a close embrace:— + With lips that shook with grateful love + He kissed her eyes—he kissed her face— + He wept upon that tender brow; + ‘Dearest, the darkness leaves me now! + + + XXXVI + + ‘I view all beauty through your eyes; + I see within, you see outside. + Your love has raised me to the skies,— + Once narrow,—lofty now and wide, + And not, as once, of sombre hue; + For I can dream the dark to blue. + + + XXXVII + + ‘The upward-toiling hill; the stream; + The valley; the wide ocean’s sweep; + All take the colours of a dream,— + The glories of the land of sleep. + You are my soul, my eyes, my sight; + ’Tis dark no more, you are my light.’ + + + + + WHEN I THINK OF THEE, BROTHER + + + I + + When I think of thee, brother, + Is my heart not all thine? + Yet the face of another + Seems bending o’er mine. + I call thee by name, yet a name not thy own + Has whispered already its dear undertone. + + + II + + When I think thine eyes greet me, + Their sweet flash of blue + Brings another’s to meet me + Of somberer hue; + And ever before me they seem to remain, + Though my heart but repines to behold thee again. + + + III + + When I list, and would hear thee + Once more in our home, + And thy voice appears near me, + Another’s has come. + I dream of thee only, for thee only sigh, + Yet thy image forsakes me; another’s is nigh. + + + IV + + When thy fond smiles come o’er me, + As in moments now flown, + There riseth before me + A look not thy own: + ’Tis thee I recall to my mind, O my brother! + Yet ever with thine comes the gaze of another. + + + + + ECCE HOMO! + + + I + + He strikes his staff to find his way, + He feels but may not see the day. + The warm sun floods his sightless eyes + That tremble in answer to the skies: + Yet oft he stays as if to look + At memories of the scenes of yore,— + The vine and fig-tree at his door, + The pleasant places by the brook. + + + II + + The voice within him sighs aloud, + When murmurs of a moving crowd + Fall on his ear; he breathes the dust + But, with a blind man’s sturdy trust, + He grasps his staff, and oft he cries, + ‘Who cometh here?’ A voice replies, + ‘O blind man, turn thy step aside, + ’Tis Christ!’ + + + III + + The name rings in his ears: + With flashing hopes and ashen fears, + There stands he breathless, startling all. + Some stop, some into ranks divide, + Their arms outspreading lest he fall. + He drops his staff, throws out his hands, + His fingers are creeping like things that see: + ’Mid all the multitude he stands + And shouts, ‘Have mercy, Lord, on me!’ + His shaking beard, his tottering frame, + His eye-balls in their sockets turning, + His lips delirious with that name,— + O’er his blind face a look is burning + Of dreadful greed, with mouth agape, + Crazed for some good that may escape. + ‘Take my hand, some one; let me feel + His raiment only; it may heal.’ + + + IV + + Christ heard the blind man’s cry, and grieved + Because a soul in darkness heaved. + He said, ‘What seekest thou of Me?’ + But in that presence came a fear: + The man held earthly blessings dear, + Yet more than all was heavenly light. + ‘Lord, that I may receive my sight,— + That I may my Redeemer see!’ + Christ loved him and his anguish soothed. + He took his hand, He gently smoothed + The seams upon his wrinkled brow: + ‘Tell Me what thou beholdest now.’ + ‘Men, dim as shaking trees, I see: + O Lord, I crave to look on Thee!’ + + + V + + Then said the Saviour, ‘Look afar.’ + The blind man raised his dazèd eyes. + ‘I see, Lord, above Thee a new-risen star,— + And beneath it a babe in a manger lies. + Hoary men, kneeling, their gifts prefer: + Frankincense, gold, and sacred myrrh. + Now a mother, a father, a babe softly sleeping + By waters that dream where the lotus bloom reigns; + Shadows of evening over them creeping; + The broad moon breaking o’er palm-bearing plains, + Where the ibis croaks and the jackal cries, + And pyramids point to the purpling skies.’ + + + VI + + He pauses, still he looks afar. + He still beholds the guiding star, + And dreamlight of a sacred river + O’er his lone eyes seems still to quiver. + Sudden, as if the distant air + Stripped the blue curtain from the skies, + He sees prophetic nature bare,— + When, as with far-off voice, he cries— + ‘Lo! a face to heaven in agony gleaming, + Stained of sorrow, but soil-less of sin, + Sweat that is blood breaking and streaming + From brows that are throbbing of anguish within,— + Praying for those that do strip Him and scourge Him + As a cross on His quivering shoulders they place. + ’Neath its burden He sinks while they mock Him, they urge Him, + They crown Him with thorns, they spit in His face. + They are lifting Him, bruising Him, piercing Him, nailing Him + To the cross, that is dyed in a crimson flood. + See, the sun hides his head, see the vapour enveiling him, + Hark, the earth and the skies in the darkness bewailing Him + Who dieth for those that are shedding His blood.’ + + + VII + + He starts, a hand is on his brow. + He looks at Christ in meek surprise, + Tears gather in his new-lit eyes; + ‘’Tis He, the crucified!’ he cries: + ‘Yes, I behold the Saviour now!’ + The adoring people kneel around; + The healed one sinks on the hallowed ground, + Then goes his way in silence and in awe; + For his unsullied eyes had seen + The sight that from the first had been, + The sight that nature like a prophet saw. + + + + + THE SNAKE CHARMER + + + I + + The forest rears on lifted arms + Its leafy dome whence verdurous light + Shakes through the shady depths and warms + Proud trunk and stealthy parasite, + There where those cruel coils enclasp + The trees they strangle in their grasp. + + + II + + An old man creeps from out the woods, + Breaking the vine’s entangling spell; + He thrids the jungle’s solitudes + O’er bamboos rotting where they fell; + Slow down the tiger’s path he wends + Where at the pool the jungle ends. + + + III + + No moss-greened alley tells the trace + Of his lone step, no sound is stirred, + Even when his tawny hands displace + The boughs, that backward sweep unheard: + His way as noiseless as the trail + Of the swift snake and pilgrim snail. + + + IV + + The old snake-charmer,—once he played + Soft music for the serpent’s ear, + But now his cunning hand is stayed; + He knows the hour of death is near. + And all that live in brake and bough, + All know the brand is on his brow. + + + V + + Yet where his soul is he must go: + He crawls along from tree to tree. + The old snake-charmer, doth he know + If snake or beast of prey he be? + Bewildered at the pool he lies + And sees as through a serpent’s eyes. + + + VI + + Weeds wove with white-flowered lily crops + Drink of the pool, and serpents hie + To the thin brink as noonday drops, + And in the froth-daubed rushes lie. + There rests he now with fastened breath + ’Neath a kind sun to bask in death. + + + VII + + The pool is bright with glossy dyes + And cast-up bubbles of decay: + A green death-leaven overlies + Its mottled scum, where shadows play + As the snake’s hollow coil, fresh shed, + Rolls in the wind across its bed. + + + VIII + + No more the wily note is heard + From his full flute—the riving air + That tames the snake, decoys the bird, + Worries the she-wolf from her lair. + Fain would he bid its parting breath + Drown in his ears the voice of death. + + + IX + + Still doth his soul’s vague longing skim + The pool beloved: he hears the hiss + That siffles at the sedgy rim, + Recalling days of former bliss, + And the death-drops, that fall in showers, + Seem honied dews from shady flowers. + + + X + + There is a rustle of the breeze + And twitter of the singing bird; + He snatches at the melodies + And his faint lips again are stirred: + The olden sounds are in his ears; + But still the snake its crest uprears. + + + XI + + His eyes are swimming in the mist + That films the earth like serpent’s breath; + And now—as if a serpent hissed— + The husky whisperings of Death + Fill ear and brain—he looks around— + Serpents seem matted o’er the ground. + + + XII + + Soon visions of past joys bewitch + His crafty soul; his hands would set + Death’s snare, while now his fingers twitch + At tasselled reed as ’twere his net. + But his thin lips no longer fill + The woods with song; his flute is still. + + + XIII + + Those lips still quaver to the flute, + But fast the life-tide ebbs away; + Those lips now quaver and are mute, + But nature throbs in breathless play: + Birds are in open song, the snakes + Are watching in the silent brakes. + + + XIV + + In sudden fear of snares unseen + The birds like crimson sunset swarm, + All gold and purple, red and green, + And seek each other for the charm. + Lizards dart up the feathery trees + Like shadows of a rainbow breeze. + + + XV + + The wildered birds again have rushed + Into the charm,—it is the hour + When the shrill forest-note is hushed, + And they obey the serpent’s power,— + Drawn, to its gaze with troubled whirr, + As by the thread of falconer. + + + XVI + + As ’twere to feed, on slanting wings + They drop within the serpent’s glare: + Eyes flashing fire in burning rings + Which spread into the dazzled air; + They flutter in the glittering coils; + The charmer dreads the serpent’s toils. + + + XVII + + While Music swims away in death + Man’s spell is passing to his slaves: + The snake feeds on the charmer’s breath, + The vulture screams, the parrot raves, + The lone hyena laughs and howls, + The tiger from the jungle growls. + + + XVIII + + Then mounts the eagle—flame-flecked folds + Belt its proud plumes; a feather falls: + He hears the death-cry, he beholds + The king-bird in the serpent’s thralls, + He looks with terror on the feud,— + And the sun shines through dripping blood. + + + XIX + + The deadly spell a moment gone— + Birds, from a distant Paradise, + Strike the winged signal and have flown, + Trailing rich hues through azure skies: + The serpent falls; like demon wings + The far-out branching cedar swings. + + + XX + + The wood swims round; the pool and skies + Have met; the death-drops down that cheek + Fall faster; for the serpent’s eyes + Grow human, and the charmer’s seek. + A gaze like man’s directs the dart + Which now is buried at his heart. + + + XXI + + The monarch of the world is cold: + The charm he bore has passed away: + The serpent gathers up its fold + To wind about its human prey. + The red mouth darts a dizzy sting, + And clenches the eternal ring. + + + + + PYTHAGORAS + + + I + + ’Twas not the hour of death the Master feared: + He oft had died before, his soul had passed + Through many moulds, as each new cycle neared + Hoping the Golden Day had come at last. + + + II + + But like a giant ’neath the weight of age + Hope was bowed down, and oft had ceased to see + Among the spheres the looked for heritage + Where rest the pure from earth’s illusions free. + + + III + + Whither doth this metempsychosis tend? + Doubt stirs the heavy question in his breast. + All that begins is toiling towards its end; + Oblivion hath for all its day of rest. + + + IV + + And when a universe of death absorbs + Into its hungry vortex all that is: + The compact colonies of settled orbs, + The untamed meteors of the free abyss; + + + V + + And when, at length, the lamp of day is spent, + And the charred air of night supplants the skies, + What were the soul without its tenement,— + Without these feeling hands, these seeing eyes? + + + VI + + Even the blest dawn he once had hoped to find + May rise while he in darkness dwells below; + Yes, all may fail him now; the troubled mind + May end at last, and not its ending know. + + + VII + + Such were his thoughts, and while his death hour grew + They pressed into his heart such poignant pangs + As even the lordliest intellect subdue + When life, yet wavering, in the balance hangs. + + + VIII + + ’Tis past: A cycle’s lustres have run out, + And his unquickened soul in ashes sleeps, + Perturbed no longer by the wasting doubt, + Weak as a babe ere in the womb it leaps; + + + IX + + Still as a vessel stranded by the tide + In shallows whereunto no waters drift, + Looming at anchor on its mouldering side + That neither winds disturb nor billows lift. + + + X + + Yet throes half-stir the drowsings of the grave, + As when one turns in sleep with heavy sense + That what suspended being he may have + Is better, yet awhile, with Providence. + + + XI + + But all is like the passing of a breath. + No eager promptings snatch the loosened thread + Wherein is meshed the memory of death: + He knows himself, but not that he is dead. + + + XII + + Another cycle bears the cumbrous night + Unbroken, save as funeral clouds may roll + And for a moment cross the path of light: + So shines the ethereal darkness of his soul. + + + XIII + + Still through these mists of death the cycles shone,— + His soul benumbed, in utter silence hushed, + Advancing time-like through oblivion, + And pace for pace with all that o’er him rushed,— + + + XIV + + When to his grave a sense of nature came, + But with no conscious meaning or surprise: + ’Twas the old flutter of the dying flame, + Tremulousness of being without eyes. + + + XV + + At last a voice, familiar as to seem + His own, heard in his sleep and heeded not, + Broke through the patient whisper of his dream, + Remembered but to be as soon forgot. + + + XVI + + It presages some mighty morrow near + When his long baffled soul once more shall rise: + The muffled cycles fall upon his ear, + And his dust flutters with the centuries. + + + XVII + + Awake, Pythagoras, it seems to say,— + The looked-for morn is breaking o’er the earth: + It grows, it brightens to the perfect day; + Behold man’s resurrectionary birth! + + + XVIII + + His thoughts take shape, his pent-up senses move, + His soul looks out from that abysmal sleep. + Lo! shadows of the living world above + Before his eyes in dreamy pageant sweep. + + + XIX + + And in the midst there shone a god-like youth, + Who on his brow the Crown of Sorrow wore, + And there was meekness, innocence, and truth;— + Eidolon of his highest hope of yore. + + + XX + + Hath it then come at last, the world of peace? + Hath he awakened to that ampler life + Where hate and lust of blood shall ever cease, + And all the bitter days of human strife? + + + XXI + + The world is hushed: must then the cycles end + That ever deepen his immortal tomb? + The wondrous ladder must he re-ascend + To truths revolving round a virgin womb? + + + XXII + + Even so it seems when, hark! the upper air + Rings to the battle’s rage—the soldier’s tread + Echoes above his tomb! In dark despair + He turns his face unto the silent dead. + + + XXIII + + The Master sleeps—the ages onward roll— + O twice nine stormy cycles since o’erpast! + Bore they through eddying lives and deaths a soul + Still dreaming towards its Golden Day at last? + + + XXIV + + The heavens are as they were, the sun, unworn, + Seems on the blue of yesterday to rest, + And drops below; but when shall come the morn + He dreamt of, when shall break that morrow blest? + + + + + THE FIRST SAVED + + + I + + Lucilla lives in yon half-hidden star + Bowered in a dreamy, soft-skied, watery vale, + Where angels gather from bright worlds afar, + To see her face, and listen to her tale. + + + II + + As if all sunset revelled in the air, + The rosy clouds float o’er her paradise,— + Home of the once lone daughter of despair + Who prayed through tears with ever downcast eyes. + + + III + + The lucent hills pant in the azure beams, + Behind empurpled steeps that blend below + With trembling woods and crystal-bearing streams, + And in the sky-paved water-mirrors glow. + + + IV + + As rising stars entangle in their spheres + All the blue ether round, her look of thought + Hangs in heaven’s light, where her sad life appears + A sunless vision in new sunshine wrought. + + + V + + There doth she stand, bliss-stricken as by fear. + On one soft hand she rests her chin and cheek, + Paling with rapture ere the blush appear; + And lips in tremors whisper that would speak. + + + VI + + ‘Yes, I am here, and Heaven is undefiled! + This sinless face and these all-loving eyes + God gave me when I was a little child, + Because I was to be in Paradise. + + + VII + + ‘I heard a voice and slavery’s loosened bond + Fell from my soul, awaking me to die; + I looked into death’s mirror and beyond + I saw these halls of immortality. + + + VIII + + ‘My wounded heart lay in this bosom dead + Ere it had loved—yet oft as I did pray + That these wan hands might labour for their bread, + Hope only came to prayer but did not stay. + + + IX + + ‘Sin compassed me, it was my deadly fate; + Yet lovely visions in the darkness came, + And I fled trembling to the Temple’s gate + But durst not cross the threshold for my shame. + + + X + + ‘While on the Temple’s steps I sat in tears, + One came and spoke: I gazed and I adored! + Then did a voice that only woman hears + Whisper within: I listened, self-abhorred. + + + XI + + ‘’Twas He whose image visited my sleep. + But still He spake to me in words that gave + A world, and had soul-echoes clear and deep + Which widened ever like the circling wave. + + + XII + + ‘His image grew before my wondering mind— + His, ’mid whose many griefs my life began. + Enrapt I gazed, until my eyes were blind, + On Him who in His pity dies for man. + + + XIII + + ‘When the blest vision ceased, my eyes would droop + And in great dreams that holy Being meet; + Then would He clothe me, lowly would He stoop, + And with His hands anoint my weary feet. + + + XIV + + ‘Thenceforth He was the rock that safely drew + My heart to shelter, as the gentle shore + Receives the broken wave: to Him it flew + And the lulled sorrow beat on me no more. + + + XV + + ‘Then o’er me flowed that stream of heavenly grace + Which all my infant innocence restored: + From that glad hour has rested on my face + This happy gaze of one who has adored. + + + XVI + + ‘The living Saviour had my heart enthralled! + I saw His face, in His blessed footsteps moved; + And in my dreams His holy word recalled; + I knew not who He was: I only loved. + + + XVII + + ‘Then did I but remember things to come, + The reveries of pure delights above; + Yes, to this blissful height my passion clomb, + And sin was silenced in the hush of love. + + + XVIII + + ‘In that o’ershadowing trance till death I lay: + Peace weighed upon me like the Saviour’s kiss. + Towards the beloved my eyes would fondly stray + In sleeping rapture and awaking bliss. + + + XIX + + ‘Death with dis-shadowed hand had come betimes, + And bore my grave into the open skies. + And then I hearkened to the heavenly chimes + That cheered my soul’s ascent to Paradise. + + + XX + + ‘My end seemed consummated in the clouds: + There with the purple morn my slumber broke; + But tempting spirits hovered round in crowds + And gathered like a storm as I awoke. + + + XXI + + ‘Upon the Temple’s highest pinnacle + The Saviour stood in glory like the sun. + The rapture of my soul was at the full: + Eternal life had unawares begun. + + + XXII + + ‘He from that holy height upon me gazed; + The angels in His glorious presence trod: + With outstretched wings I rushed to them amazed + And flew into the open arms of God.’ + + + + + REMINISCENCE + + + I + + So you would leave me, little Rose? + Dear child, with all your mother’s ways; + That look she had in girlish days, + The look that with your beauty grows. + + + II + + Oft when you bring her to my mind, + Before my heart has time for pain, + In you she seems to live again, + As though no sorrow were behind. + + + III + + And when that happy, trustful gaze + Meets him you love, yet more I see + Your mother as she looked at me: + It is her own dear, watchful face. + + + IV + + And when he takes your hand in his, + There flits across your lips and eyes + Her own pleased smile of half surprise: + It seems not like departed bliss. + + + V + + Ah! what a heart-locked memory stirs— + I look, ’tis she, and you are gone! + Yes, though so many springs have flown, + Her peace remains, our love is hers. + + + VI + + She sees your arms my neck enclose; + She sees your lips upon my brow. + No truer hour of love than now + Awaits your heart, my happy Rose! + + + VII + + How they come back those days of old! + And now that ’tis your wedding-eve, + Now that for other scenes you leave, + One happy legend shall be told,— + + + VIII + + Told in this home, this sunny vale + That for long years has been our own, + Sacred in days that long have gone + To many another lover’s tale. + + + IX + + It was an hour like this, the sun + Was sinking, yet had far to go: + The richness of his overflow + Down river, wood, and pasture shone. + + + X + + Two lovers in this porch had met + Where often they had met in play: + ’Twas on this memorable day— + As though that sun had never set. + + + XI + + These grey-mossed tiles still ’neath it scorch; + The glare and shade still side by side + Aslant the mullioned casements glide + From yon old gable to the porch. + + + XII + + A youth has hurried from these walls— + He stops, as in a day-dream stands: + His shadow with fast-folded hands + As from yon stone sun-dial falls. + + + XIII + + His eyes are full of one loved face + Sunk pallid in her fingers cleft; + The long-loved one who just had left + In timid haste his wild embrace. + + + XIV + + The love that with her childhood grew + Had still to her unruffled clung; + Engaging, playful, ever young,— + And without change was ever new. + + + XV + + Not its glad pastimes she disowns; + He drew her to a higher love; + But while the pale emotion strove + She fled from his impassioned tones. + + + XVI + + Transparent isles of rushes bind + The rivers light with bars of green + That catch the water’s blue between, + To where it darkens in the wind. + + + XVII + + There lies his boat, and now the sun, + Still going westward with the stream, + Appears to tow him on his dream + As they advance in unison. + + + XVIII + + Along the white and yellow meads, + Which buttercup and daisy share, + The crowding cattle idly stare + As he winds through the matted reeds. + + + XIX + + But her loved image fills his mind, + And, ever gazing at him, screens + His eyes from those long-happy scenes, + As he drifts by them, nature-blind. + + + XX + + The white-flowered weed whose tresses float, + Combed by the stream and water-waved, + Seems her bright hair in crystal laved, + Struggling to overtake his boat. + + + XXI + + His sculls drip o’er the glossy wash: + The ripple of the mellow tide + He scarce feels o’er their edges glide; + He lists not for the thrilling plash, + + + XXII + + But thinks, when last the tide he clove, + How bank-side elms before him flew, + And quiet lay the distant view + Of woodland hill where dwelt his love. + + + XXIII + + His memory holds it as the stream + Holds all the shining summer round: + The sky, the woods, the very sound + Of cuckoos chanting in a dream. + + + XXIV + + And how she loved the grey old bridge! + Those arches mirrored deep below, + That meet the pillars row to row, + Quivering from their ruffled ridge— + + + XXV + + Three tunnels open to the skies! + The tasselled mosses as they float, + Now still, now heaving with the boat + That passes while the vision flies. + + + XXVI + + As melt, with all the watery heaven, + Those arches hanging o’er a sky— + So in the quiet of a sigh + The yearnings of his soul seemed riven. + + + XXVII + + The far-off boom of yonder weir + Now rushes down the narrowed day: + Like sirens battling with the spray, + Once came its music to her ear. + + + XXVIII + + The sun now trembles like a ball + Heaven-forged and glittering in its blast; + A pale green halo round him cast— + Half quenched behind the waterfall. + + + XXIX + + White streaks are creeping through the shade; + The moon climbs up the poplar trees: + But a loved form of light he sees, + As if her spirit walked the glade. + + + XXX + + Well might it be, as since hath seemed,— + So holy are the vanished years. + But then her cheeks were under tears: + It was on them the moonlight gleamed. + + + XXXI + + Her sobbings at his bosom fall; + Fonder than words can tell, they say + Her heart was his, half love, half play, + But now all love she gives it all. + + + XXXII + + ’Twas she, your mother! While she hung + Her head, and hid her tears, and crept + To me, as one who, erring, wept; + Wept more the closer that she clung; + + + XXXIII + + She seemed an infant in my arms— + Kissed me as would a child bereaved: + And then, as ’twere for joy, she grieved— + Her heart released from its alarms. + + + XXXIV + + God bless you, Rose! That loving face— + Could she but see it! Well I knew + Her thoughts when last she looked at you, + Who now have grown up in her place. + + + XXXV + + Ah, leave me, Rose! these memories stir + Depths that you may not dream of, child! + These tears till now your love has wiled; + Leave me, that I may think of her. + + + + + THE SHEPHERDESS + + + I + + By one whose heart kept watch was heard the fame + Of a bright world that, like a ship of war, + Was launched in heaven beside the last that came + O’er the sky’s outer bar: + Her land Chaldea, she that blessed name + Gave to the coming star. + + + II + + Child of a lord, they called on her to reign + O’er that old story-land whose shepherds deem + The stars a flock that studs a holy plain; + And she had learned in dream + That her loved land, through her, that star should gain + And with its blessings teem. + + + III + + But heartless deeds were of her father told + Who the fair daughters, in the mountains born, + Had captured and to days of slavery sold + Where bends the Golden Horn: + A shepherd chief, who robbed his neighbour’s fold, + And took the lamb unshorn. + + + IV + + She bears her crook o’er living plains, her way + Through tents in which the thoughtful shepherds dwell + Who watch the heavens where the bright grazers stray + And think they hear the bell + Whose holy tinklings, as they softly play, + The fates of men foretell. + + + V + + So doth she haste to meet her shepherd-seers, + And see the promised star that shall eclipse + The one which filled her father’s land with tears, + And learn from their own lips + The happy portents that to man it bears + From the new heaven it skips. + + + VI + + While Tigris and Euphrates still o’erleap + Their shallow bounds her camel slowly goes, + When nigh her tent, on vengeful errand, creep + Her father’s olden foes, + And seize her, helpless, in her noon-day sleep + While all her tribes repose. + + + VII + + In a barred chamber, and in chains, a slave, + She weeps with eyes upon the Golden Horn, + And thinks of far-off waters as they lave + Blest homes in Capricorn, + Where happy beings find the Heaven that gave + To her the star new-born. + + + VIII + + Strangers have come and through her prison-gate + They count her price and would her love allure; + But her eyes restless watch and wide dilate; + Their look can none endure, + So wild in sorrow and so mild in hate, + In majesty so pure. + + + IX + + One comes towards whom the look of prayer she bends + That seems to utter ‘Thou, my star, arise!’ + And while that heaven-adoring thought ascends + New sorrows fill her eyes, + That tell how Love is dead and beauty ends + When human pity dies! + + + X + + All that he has, the mystic life he bears, + What is their worth, her soul in slavery? + He pays the ransom, breaks the chain she wears, + As though some god were he: + Voiceless, she offers up to him the tears + Her anguish has set free. + + + XI + + Handmaids and armed protectors are at hand, + All that to queenly power and pomp pertains, + And, passing waters from the stranger-land, + Her star-roofed home she gains, + Where her sleek camels, crimson-girded, stand + To bear her o’er the plains. + + + XII + + In her slow path the faithful seers arrive + And with prophetic tidings bid her cheer: + That night, they tell, the older worlds shall strive, + As the new star comes near, + And into depths of unknown darkness dive + And find no other sphere. + + + XIII + + But little heed gives she to their appeals: + The coming star, alas! not yet is found; + Deep-sighing in her silence, she reveals + A heart in slavery bound: + Her bonds are there, and there it is she feels + The chain about her wound. + + + XIV + + ’Mid joyous shouts she sees her open gates, + But enters not, up-gazing in the thought + That never sleeps or in her breast abates, + Where is the star she sought! + But now a greater seer her advent waits; + He hath the tidings brought. + + + XV + + ‘The hour is come, the star is now in sight; + Portents of blessed change the heavens bestrew: + The shepherds upward gaze, the air is bright, + The sky is gold and blue, + The ancient stars are on their downward flight + And others come anew. + + + XVI + + ‘And in the shower of burning worlds, self-hurled + From heaven to heaven, a lord is on his way + Around whose hosts the golden dust is whirled, + While, in divine array, + Green floats his shepherd-banner, wide-unfurled, + With flocks thereon at play.’ + + + XVII + + The hour has come in clouds that hurry o’er + Her palace towers, and scatter while the rays + Of new-made light upon the valleys pour; + While flocks awake and graze, + And shepherds sing and the new star adore: + But she, beholding, prays. + + + XVIII + + The seer of seers stands forth, he takes her hands; + He cries, ‘Thy star is come! Be it to thee + A rich reward and to these teeming lands; + The lord, who made thee free, + Now in his earthly place before thee stands, + Thy guiding-star to be.’ + + + XIX + + She looks at heaven; afar the cloud-vane drifts; + Her face is pale, he comes, the lord is found: + She kneels, once more his slave; the stranger lifts + The virgin from the ground, + And offers up for sacred wedding gifts + The chains her heart had bound. + + + + + FAREWELL TO NATURE + + + Vain love for Nature! How these heartaches rust + Into the soul as we return to dust! + Hope’s shadow only masks our eventide, + Feigning to lead us to its brighter side, + While yet the mellowing skies that wondrous grow, + Seem left in waiting for the dead below. + But those tranced sunsets,—little they avail, + None travel hence in their alluring trail; + All is a dream, an ancient dream, the same + From the first mortal to the last that came. + Yet could we but for once our eyes unclose + When through the distant days the pageant goes! + Familiar vision, and so soon to be + Entombed within the dead eternity. + + Doth Nature know our dream, or is the mind + A passing breath her beauty leaves behind? + Ah! not for this our grateful souls have wrought + Around her sphere a universe of thought. + ’Tis she inspires our dreams, but no reply + Vouchsafes the loving hearts that for her die, + Who only pray, when life’s surprise is o’er, + They may partake a glimpse of her once more. + Is it too late? She sees not to the end; + What she hath done she never can amend: + Yet once by us beloved, once only known, + She seems from all the past to be our own. + + Last wish of age! How sweet one glance would be + Even from the sod the olden haunts to see; + To watch the long-drawn wavelets as they reach + The silent plains of the deserted beach; + To look where light once was, if but to know + Of its faint struggle through the winnowed snow. + Ah! whence this dream that like the cuckoo-guest + Pleads in such winning accents for a nest, + And with its cloud-note ever on us calls, + And though it passes the fond heart enthralls? + + Little it seems, this wish, when oft our sight + Tires of the world, yet what a fresh delight + Were it sometimes in death those scenes to view, + The olden scenes that to our youth were new, + To linger o’er a sound whose murmurs swell + Upon the heart,—the tinkling village bell,— + To find that all was safe, all gliding on + In beauty’s leisure ways though we were gone; + To see brave Nature in her perilous scheme + Advance without our help, without our dream. + At least ’twould hold ajar death’s open door + To think our love was honoured evermore,— + In dying, on the forward thought to dwell + That it was not our very last farewell. + + Could hope unveil and not its mystic fire + Be lost among the embers of desire! + Ill though desponding hearts their burden bear, + Is not the soul the master of despair? + Is this great life, hard won, achieved in vain, + Is good once found to never be again? + Ask of the worlds if they their path forget, + Ask hope that never ends, its time to set. + One deep desire throughout all being cries, + And this is hope, our future in disguise. + O living lamp, O Hope, the only Seer; + Of Nature’s after-time the pioneer, + Keep in advance across our starless way, + Be the new morrow of our orphan day! + + + + + THE POET’S FEAST + + + The golden feast for jovial souls prepare + Whose wants the wants of nature far exceed; + The nectar of the sun such palates need; + To them the fatted calf is vulgar fare. + Earth’s dripping fruits may wandering Arabs share + Pleased with the pulp and juice whereon they feed; + And bread alone is still the poor man’s meed, + Though milk abound and honey be to spare. + So dreams the Poet, with his crust content: + The crumbs that from the rich man’s table fall + To him are sorry signs of merriment + To show the world has food enough for all. + At festive boards he has but little part— + To him ’twas given to feed on his own heart. + + + + + THE EXILE + + + I + + They bore her to the northern snows + Whose floods down ice-domed caverns run, + From lands where that calm river flows + Whose depths decoy the vagrant sun, + Where palms o’er latticed shadows rise + With boughs that web the sultry skies. + + + II + + Where roses climb the scent-steeped hills + And channelled leaves with dew-drops flash, + Bending beneath the trickled rills + That fall and the pink clusters splash; + Where aloe-flowers, all flaming red, + Like watch-fires o’er the summit spread. + + + III + + They bore her to a desert plain + Where the dry, creviced mosses cling, + Sand-sprinkled as by drizzling rain; + Where dark and ragged pine-boughs swing, + And the free cygnet in its flight + Darts with a meteor’s wingèd light. + + + IV + + Her father, last of mighty lords + Whose deeds the war-like peasants tell, + Fearless had met the northern hordes + And in the battle’s frenzy fell. + Full-armed he sleeps, and still the brave + Salute him as they pass his grave. + + + V + + Now young, she thinks not of her race + But feels its glory and its pride. + She still recalls her mother’s face + Who in her stately sorrow died, + And those large eyes her image keep, + And dream beside it in love’s sleep. + + + VI + + Eyes that are of the sultry zone— + That ofttimes in their musing moods + See rosy banks that seem their own + Where lies the waste: her olive-woods, + Her sky with cypress-skirted folds, + All that she loves, her heart remoulds. + + + VII + + As in a desert one red rose + Seems like a garden full of bloom, + She charms the wilderness, and throws + Her own bright colours o’er its gloom; + Then at the falling cone’s rebound + Pomegranates gild the enchanted ground. + + + VIII + + And lest when dear illusions come + They melt o’er-fast, she hides her eyes, + And feigns to see her native home, + And shouts in play her soul’s surprise. + So while the southern glory burns + The haunting vision still returns. + + + IX + + When spring bursts o’er the wintry plain + And violet skies dissolve in spray, + And marsh-pools echo drops of rain + That o’er the bud’s new secret play, + Her soul seems darting from her eyes + To snatch at nature’s rhapsodies. + + + X + + The serf who toils upon the road + From waste to waste with back that bears + Across the steppes another’s load,— + With eyes that homeward gaze in tears,— + Chills not for long a heart that glows + In its own fire ’mid northern snows. + + + XI + + Where plough may delve or harrow graze, + She tramps beside the sluggish team + As fain to urge its tardy pace: + And when she drifts into some dream + Her laugh, her look of childish glee, + Is still the joy of memory. + + + XII + + But fears flash o’er her mellow eyes + When gaunt sand-fountains, side by side, + Like giants in the distance rise, + Pass slowly by and onward glide, + Like shadows from her father’s land + That seek some rumoured icy strand. + + + XIII + + Then day breaks through a sullen sky; + The keen air shivers;—doth she know + The blackened clouds now sailing by + Are freighted with the virgin snow? + Dark ships of winter that unload + The widespread famine they forbode. + + + XIV + + The snow-flakes build a prison-wall + That slants high o’er her window sill; + She watches while they slowly fall, + Till heaven appears a sinking hill, + And darkness gathers o’er her mind: + Home is too far for hope to find. + + + XV + + In new despair she sees heaven’s sand + Has drifted o’er her cottage gate! + She fears that now her native land + Is like the desert desolate. + The snow still falls and still it clings, + Soft dropped like insects’ broken wings. + + + XVI + + Through the strange dusk she hears the shriek + Of trees snapped by the dreaded wind; + The casements shake, the rafters creak; + Ah! could she now her mother find! + With timid wings too weak for flight + She hangs upon the edge of night. + + + XVII + + A wind’s moan utters, ‘Stir and go’: + Upon its gust she seems to glide + Towards lands beyond the falling snow + But reaches not its further side. + She drops on the cold hilly steeps + And in her distant reverie sleeps. + + + XVIII + + No longer now the large-eyed child, + Who draws her charm so fresh from heaven, + Gives up its beauty to the wild; + The spell of infant faith is riven: + Where the sun’s tender rays were sown + Stones have sprung up and ice-fields grown. + + + XIX + + The spring still comes, when shallow snows + Melt o’er a crisping flame of green + Wherein the nestled herbage glows + Through its white shell,—but there is seen + A heart that still unthawed remains; + An exile of the loveless plains. + + + XX + + When winter’s sun through summer shines, + The joys are banished that she brought: + For home, not dreams of home, she pines; + Thought is the food of famished thought. + It is her heart-corroding hour: + The rose-tree is without a flower. + + + XXI + + She feeds in broken reveries + On her chilled soul: within the light + Of those black lashes, those dark eyes, + The paling cheek seems over-bright, + With lips, like hanging fruit, whose hue + Is ruby ’neath a bloom of blue. + + + XXII + + The friends who love her as their own + Stir self-upbraidings in her breast, + For in their midst she is alone + And in their peace is without rest. + Is there some home by them forgot? + Exiles they seem and suffer not. + + + XXIII + + Their native games to her impart + A fitful joy, that sad appears, + Only because her eyes and heart + Are vacant, and have room for tears. + She knows not yet ’tis love’s first throe: + The snowdrop breaking through the snow. + + + XXIV + + At length comes one whose love ere told + Seems wafted o’er a flowery plain, + And brings her back that charm of old: + The days of childhood live again; + Griefs softened into joys return; + In love’s new-kindled incense burn. + + + XXV + + In silver-crimson trappings gay, + His tinkling barbs with billowy manes + Toss their strong necks before his sleigh— + And he has crossed the snowy plains. + She hails him, and, with heart aflame, + She wonders how such passion came. + + + XXVI + + Beauty and man’s strong soul are his. + Be the earth bare, paved o’er with ice, + ’Tis full even to its dome in bliss: + The desert is her paradise, + Where now the hourly deepening sky + Rains down on her love’s mystery. + + + XXVII + + She hears his love and hears no more. + As waves might cease to beat, as winds + Might drop away on some charmed shore, + The word a soul-deep echo finds— + All her fond life is without breath, + And sinks away in rapturous death. + + + XXVIII + + New paths to home are overlaid + With such deep sunshine, not a tree + In densest woods can cast a shade. + Her glorious soul again is free,— + Free in those bonds of love that wind + In bliss about the heart they bind. + + + XXIX + + Warmer than in its childhood’s flush + Her cheek in this new passion glows; + Not softer is the fitful blush + Of lily ’neath the swaying rose. + Her head droops not as when she pined, + Now bowed in love’s own southern wind. + + + XXX + + A sun of passion is above; + Her home is here,—in cloudless eyes + She sees the birth-place of her love, + And snows dissolve in burning skies. + Palm-leaves above her seem to bow + When bridal roses wreathe her brow. + + + + + THE SIBYL + + + I + + A maid who mindful of her playful time + Steps to her summer, bearing childhood on + To woman’s beauty, heedless of her prime: + The early day but not the pastime gone: + She is the Sibyl, uttering a doom + Out of her spotless bloom. + + + II + + She is the Sibyl; seek not, then, her voice;— + A laugh, a song, a sorrow, but thy share, + With woes at hand for many who rejoice + That she shall utter; that shall many hear; + That warn all hearts who seek of her their fates, + Her love but one awaits. + + + III + + She is the Sibyl; days that distant lie + Bend to the promise that her word shall give; + Already hath she eyes that prophesy, + For of her beauty shall all beauty live: + Unknown to her, in her slow opening bloom, + She turns the leaves of doom. + + + + + THE PAINTER + + + I + + ‘Summer has done her work,’ the painter cries, + And saunters down his garden by the shore. + ‘The fig is cracked and dry; upon it lies, + In crystals, the sweet oozing of its core. + The peach melts in its dusk and yellow bloom, + Grapes cluster to the earth in diadems + Of dripping purple; from their slender stems, + ’Mid paler leaves, the dark-green citrons loom. + + + II + + ‘Summer has done her work; she, lingering, sees + Her shady places glare: yet cooler grow + The breezes as they stir the sunny trees + Whose shaking twigs their ruby berries sow. + Ripe is the fairy-grass, we breathe its seeds, + But, hanging o’er the rocks that belt the shore, + Safe from the sea, above its bustling roar, + Here ripen, still, the blossom-swinging weeds. + + + III + + ‘Pale cressets on the summer waters shine, + No ripple there but flings its jet of fire. + Rich amber wrack still bronzing in the brine + Is tossed ashore in daylight to expire. + Here wallowing waves the rocky shoal enwreathe, + And in loose spray, cascades of bubbles fall, + And steeps of watery, coral-mantled wall + Drink of the billow, and the sunshine breathe. + + + IV + + ‘Summer has done her work, but mine remains. + How shall I shape these ever-murmuring waves, + How interweave these rumours and refrains, + These wind-tossed echoes of the listening caves? + The restless rocky roar, the billow’s splash, + And the all-hushing shingle—hark! it blends, + In open melody that never ends, + The drone, the cavern-whisper, and the clash. + + + V + + ‘And this wide ruin of a once new shore + Scooped by new waves to waves of solid rock, + Dark-shelving, white-veined, as if marbled o’er + By the fresh surf still trickling block to block! + O worn-out waves of night, long set aside— + The moulded storm in dead, contending rage,— + Like monster-breakers of a by-gone age! + And now the gentle waters o’er you ride. + + + VI + + ‘Can my hand darken in swift rings of flight + The air-path cut by the black sea-bird’s wings, + Then fill the dubious track with influent light, + While to my eyes the vanished vision clings? + While at their sudden whirr the billows start, + Can my hand hush the cymbal-sounding sea, + That breaks with louder roar its reverie + As those fast pinions into silence dart? + + + VII + + ‘Press on, ye summer waves, still gently swell,— + The rainbow’s parent-waters overrun! + Can my poor brush your snaky greenness tell, + Raising your sidelong bellies to the sun? + What touch can pour you in yon pool of blue + Circled with surging froth of liquid snow, + Which now dissolves to emerald, now below + Glazes the sunken rocks with umber hue? + + + VIII + + ‘Summer has done her work; dare I begin— + Painting a desert, though my pencil craves + To intertwine all tints with heaven akin? + Nature has flung her palette to the waves! + Then bid my eyes on cloudy landscape dwell,— + Not revel in thy blaze, O beauteous scene! + Between thy art and mine is nature’s screen,— + Transparent only to the soul,—farewell! + + + IX + + ‘Oh! could I paint thee with these ravished eyes,— + Catch in my hollow palm thy overflow, + Who broadcast fling’st away thy witcheries! + Yet would I not desponding turn and go. + Be it a feeble hand to thee I raise, + ’Tis still the worship of the soul within: + Summer has done her work,—let mine begin, + Though as the grass it wither in thy blaze.’ + + + + + THE SUN-WORSHIPPER + + + I + + As a wild comet through the night she hies, + Her face bent towards the temple of the sun, + With golden hair that on the darkness lies + Like break of dawn when daylight, scarce begun, + Meanders into flame whose flashes run + Along the lower skies. + + + II + + Soon as the sun lifts up the morning haze + She rushes towards him; sinks unto the ground + And, clasping the all-shining Presence, prays + In his first beams: again her god is found; + The startled shadows that her heart surround + Are dizzy in his rays. + + + III + + ‘Thee I adore, O Sun! this heart is thine! + The youth who blindly claims its ecstasy + Seeks not thy temple, honours not thy shrine; + He kneels not, utters not his vows to thee, + Who all the worlds beyond this world canst see, + And mak’st all things divine.’ + + + IV + + The sunflowers turn to heaven as still she kneels; + Shall then her heart its coming vow deplore? + Not uttered yet, all utterance it reveals, + And she restrains her ecstasy no more: + Her burning lips the hasty vow outpour + Which her heart-trouble seals. + + + V + + ‘Never, O Sun! till sinking in the west + Thou risest where thy wondrous setting spreads, + While all who love thee slumber in thy rest, + Shall he, who proudly in thy presence treads, + Enthrall me in the light his beauty sheds, + Or wed me to his breast!’ + + + VI + + Silence has tongues; she hears a sister say, + ‘List to the voice of thy companion-mind! + Thy love is still the same as yesterday; + It has not passed, it only lags behind, + And thou art lonely as the wistful wind + Thou meet’st upon the way.’ + + + VII + + Yet she repeats her vow, her heart in pain, + To draw some love from heaven, as from the well + Whose radiant springs she once craved not in vain: + But ebbing hope allures her by its spell + To past despair, on other days to dwell,— + And suffer them again. + + + VIII + + Across the hills of heliotrope she creeps, + Or winds within the many-shadowed wolds, + Till once again the sun her pathway sweeps, + And from her weary feet the way withholds; + The sacred flowers embrace her in their folds; + From dawn to dawn she sleeps. + + + IX + + She sleeps; so still, not even her shadow veers, + Save when from side to side the moonflood roves; + But in sky-dreams the sun to her appears, + Yet with the visage of the one she loves;— + All through her sleep in phantom light he moves, + And still that face he bears. + + + X + + She sleeps, and with the beaming of a bride + Beholds that face; ah! never to be wed! + Yet why a tear, no sorrow shall betide: + Though distant borne, his rays on her are shed; + Her soul, along his way of glory sped, + Shall in his light abide. + + + XI + + She wakes up with the sun, but in his rise + Sees the rich twilight of her love-dream wane: + Day seems to sink in the deserted skies, + Whose broken, many-coloured beams remain + As of her dream whose night comes back again; + ’Twas dawn had closed her eyes. + + + XII + + The cloud-slopes blossom still, but cold and lone; + Down them she floated in those heavenly dreams, + And still the veil that o’er her slumbers shone + Hangs gold-wrought in the fervour of those beams. + She kneels while watching the last fading gleams + O’er the grey twilight thrown. + + + XIII + + With speechless lips she questions the chill blaze: + Behold the sun returns; that brighter flush + Were surely day? Yet she mistrusts her gaze + Though the light widens and with lordly rush + The sun bursts forth in morning’s youthful blush + And floods the heaven with rays. + + + XIV + + Trembling she sees the paleness of her face + In those white clouds which now the sun surround, + Who doth in heaven his spectral way retrace. + Behold, the days brought back, the hours unwound, + The angry sun unto the zenith bound + And the pale moon replace! + + + XV + + Perplexed, all lost, she staggers to the height + Where the twelve pillars in their beauty shine, + The temple circling in the blessed light; + There prostrate doth she o’er her vow repine; + But fears to meet the arbiter divine + Who banishes the night. + + + XVI + + From the lone steps at length she looks above: + Behold, the face is there that filled her dreams; + The youth adored, triumphant o’er her love, + There radiant shines amid descending beams; + His lustrous hair in the rich sunshine streams, + With golden lights inwove. + + + XVII + + She lifts her arms, she falls upon the face + She loved in heaven; her yearning heart, too blest, + Doth in deep sobs its erring way retrace. + All passion weeps, while gathers in her breast + A bliss that bears her spirit to its rest + In that divine embrace. + + + + + THE INSCRUTABLE + + + I + + Dread under-life whose dreams + Along the midnight rush, + Poured out like cavern-streams + That from the darkness gush, + A murderous thought has issued forth to flood + A maiden’s sleep in blood. + + + II + + He that hath swum the heaven + Of woman’s loving eyes— + To him a dream is given, + As helplessly he lies, + A dream that never nigh his thought had passed, + Till in that slumber cast. + + + III + + He loves her and she loves, + But stern her father’s heart + That every passion moves + Their holy hope to thwart. + Can they, meek sleepers, on dream-demons call + To burst the iron thrall? + + + IV + + That night in dreams that sway + The soul to shedding blood, + One hears his own voice say + In sleep’s half-weary mood, + ‘Take down your father’s sword and quickly slide + The blade into his side. + + + V + + ‘Disguise the seeming guilt, + And bend his fingers round, + And put them on the hilt, + And leave him to his wound.’ + In that strange dream until the break of day, + Asleep the lover lay. + + + VI + + He wakes, aghast; he strives + To get the vision hence + That into morning lives, + And fastens on his sense. + ’Tis but a dream, but should her hand fulfil + His will within her will! + + + VII + + She comes up wild and pale, + She wrings her hands in pain, + She utters with a wail— + ‘Who hath my father slain! + My anguished heart sobbed all night in its sleep; + I felt it sob and weep. + + + VIII + + ‘I saw you while I slept, + And to my dream you spoke; + All night your words I kept, + I heard them when I woke: + “Take down your father’s sword and quickly slide + The blade into his side.” + + + IX + + ‘“Disguise the seeming guilt, + And bend his fingers round, + And put them on the hilt, + And leave him to his wound.” + O the false voice, that it so true should seem + In that unthought-of dream! + + + X + + ‘I hurried to the bed, + I saw that he was slain, + I saw the blood was shed, + I saw the deep,—deep stain. + His sword was in his side,—thrust,—to the hilt,— + His fingers took the guilt.’ + + + + + THE WEDDING RING + + + LADY + + ‘Give me a ring, good jeweller, + By no one worn before, + And you shall boast you gave it her + Who wears it evermore.’ + + + JEWELLER + + ‘Then it shall be a ruby ring, + With hoop of richest gold, + And it shall be my offering + For benefits of old.’ + + + LADY + + ‘A ruby ring it must not be, + Which is a thing to shine; + An iron ring is best for me, + No other can be mine.’ + + + JEWELLER + + ‘But surely such a ring ’twere sad + To see a lady wear + Among her guests in jewels clad, + And she so young and fair.’ + + + LADY + + ‘An iron ring is all I crave + Upon my wedding night, + For I must wear it in the grave, + Where it is out of sight.’ + + + JEWELLER + + ‘Is it to be a ring to bind + Your heart in wedlock’s bond, + Or but to link the day behind + And days that are beyond?’ + + + LADY + + ‘It is to link me to his peace + Who is not far away; + And when her lonely term may cease, + The bride shall with him stay.’ + + + JEWELLER + + ‘Who is this bridegroom you would wed, + And yet for ever mourn, + As though you would espouse the dead, + Who never can return?’ + + + LADY + + ‘It is the dead I would espouse, + With him lie side by side; + There is a chamber in his house + He furnished for his bride.’ + + + + + LET THE DEAD BURY THEIR DEAD + + LUKE ix. 60 + + + Where marshes venom-steeped the life-breeze taint + And fitful meteors lap the watery wild, + A moon sinks in the cloud-mire, dazed and faint, + Its pearly flush defiled, + Halo’d in sallow vapours like a saint + Through paths impure beguiled. + + But worse the gloom within the castle walls + Where moans the lord whom pestilence devours: + The serfs awe-stricken flee his festering halls, + The plague-star o’er him lowers, + On his glazed eyes the fatal glimmer falls + While night weighs down his towers. + + A crescent moon whose advent stays the pest + Embalms the dead with heavenly obsequies, + But there are none to bear him to his rest, + His body shroudless lies; + Anointed not, by pious rites unblest, + Unto the grave he cries. + + A great half-moon now dominates the dome, + With stern upbraidings yet not less benign: + But the blank gazers to his final home + The dead dare not consign, + Lured on by sullen spectres of the gloam + Who their own dead enshrine. + + Again the drowsy marshes pillow night + And darkness severs sky and earth in two, + But with a rush of cloud dispersing might + A full moon hurries through; + The corpse is shrouded as in living light, + The castle walls look new. + + The heaven is one blue wave; it seems to break + While lucid spray with dreamlight floods the air: + The coffins in the quickened graveyards quake, + The bones know they are there, + And ghostly shades their buried depths forsake + To gather in the glare. + + As dusk descends, by its scared rays illumed, + A soul-procession dense and denser grows: + Hearse after hearse night-horsed and sable-plumed + A mirage heavenward throws: + The newly dead is by the dead entombed + And nature has repose. + + + + + THE GOLDEN WEDDING + + + The day but not the bride is come, + As in her blossom-time; + But golden lights sustain the home + She cherished in her prime. + + May we not call upon the band? + May we not ask the priest? + Our golden wedding is at hand, + And we shall hold a feast. + + But where is he in snow-white stole + Who the old service read, + That made us one in heart and soul? + Long, long has he been dead. + + The bridesmaids clad in silken fold + Who waited on the bride, + Where are they now? Their tale is told: + Long, long ago they died. + + Where is the groomsman, chosen friend, + The true, the well-beloved; + His term, alas! is at an end; + Too soon was he removed. + + Where is the bride, ah! such a bride + As every joy foretells? + I see her walking by my side, + I hear the wedding-bells. + + Where is she now? That we should say + She did not live to know + How passed her silver wedding-day, + So many years ago! + + But come, and for your mother’s sake, + Though vain it were to weep, + Let us the silent feast partake, + Her golden wedding keep. + + + Printed by T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to Her Majesty, at the + Edinburgh University Press. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + List of Books + + in + + Belles Lettres + +[Illustration: An ornate, black-and-white illustrated publisher's mark +featuring a decorative, wrought-iron style border enclosing stylized +calligraphy that reads: 'Elkin Mathews & John Lane: Publishers and +Vendors of Choice & Rare Editions in Belles Lettres.'] + + ALL BOOKS IN THIS CATALOGUE + ARE PUBLISHED AT NET PRICES + + _1894_ + + _Telegraphic Address_— + ‘BODLEIAN, LONDON’ + +A word must be said for the manner in which the publishers have produced +the volume (_i.e._ “The Earth Fiend”), a sumptuous folio, printed by +CONSTABLE, the etchings on Japanese paper by MR. GOULDING. The volume +should add not only to MR. STRANG’S fame but to that of MESSRS. ELKIN +MATHEWS AND JOHN LANE, who are rapidly gaining distinction for their +beautiful editions of belles-lettres.’—_Daily Chronicle_, Sept. 24, +1892. + +_Referring to_ MR. LE GALLIENNE’S ‘English Poems’ _and_ ‘Silhouettes’ by +MR. ARTHUR SYMONS:—‘We only refer to them now to note a fact which they +illustrate, and which we have been observing of late, namely, the +recovery to a certain extent of good taste in the matter of printing and +binding books. These two books, which are turned out by MESSRS. ELKIN +MATHEWS AND JOHN LANE, are models of artistic publishing, and yet they +are simplicity itself. The books with their excellent printing and their +very simplicity make a harmony which is satisfying to the artistic +sense.’—_Sunday Sun_, Oct. 2, 1892. + +‘MR. LE GALLIENNE is a fortunate young gentleman. I don’t know by what +legerdemain he and his publishers work, but here, in an age as stony to +poetry as the ages of Chatterton and Richard Savage, we find the full +edition of his book sold before publication. How is it done, MESSRS. +ELKIN MATHEWS AND JOHN LANE? for, without depreciating MR. LE +GALLIENNE’S sweetness and charm, I doubt that the marvel would have been +wrought under another publisher. These publishers, indeed, produce books +so delightfully that it must give an added pleasure to the hoarding of +first editions.’—KATHARINE TYNAN in _The Irish Daily Independent_. + +‘To MESSRS. ELKIN MATHEWS AND JOHN LANE almost more than to any other, +we take it, are the thanks of the grateful singer especially due; for it +is they who have managed, by means of limited editions and charming +workmanship, to impress book-buyers with the belief that a volume may +have an æsthetic and commercial value. They have made it possible to +speculate in the latest discovered poet, as in a new company—with the +difference that an operation in the former can be done with three +half-crowns.’ + + _St. James’s Gazette._ + + + + + _January 1894._ + + List of Books + + IN + + _BELLES LETTRES_ + + (_Including some Transfers_) + + PUBLISHED BY + + Elkin Mathews and John Lane + + =The Bodley Head= + + VIGO STREET, LONDON, W. + +_N.B.—The Authors and Publishers reserve the right of reprinting any +book in this list if a second edition is called for, except in cases +where a stipulation has been made to the contrary, and of printing a +separate edition of any of the books for America irrespective of the +numbers to which the English editions are limited. The numbers mentioned +do not include the copies sent for review or to the public libraries._ + + +ADAMS (FRANCIS). + + ESSAYS IN MODERNITY. Cr. 8vo. 5s. net. + + [_In preparation._ + +ALLEN (GRANT). + + THE LOWER SLOPES: A Volume of Verse. 600 copies. Cr. 8vo. 5s. net. + + [_Immediately._ + +ANTÆUS. + + THE BACKSLIDER AND OTHER POEMS. 100 only. Small 4to. 7s. 6d. net. + + [_Very few remain._ + +BEECHING (H. C.), J. W. MACKAIL, & J. B. B. NICHOLS. + + LOVE IN IDLENESS. With Vignette by W. B. SCOTT. Fcap. 8vo, half + vellum. 12s. net. + + [_Very few remain._ + + _Transferred by the Authors to the present Publishers._ + +BENSON (ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER). + + POEMS. 550 copies. Fcap. 8vo. 5s. net. + + [_Very few remain._ + +BENSON (EUGENE). + + FROM THE ASOLAN HILLS: A Poem. 300 copies. Imp. 16mo. 5s. net. + + [_Very few remain._ + +BINYON (LAURENCE). + + POEMS. 16mo. 5s. net. + + [_In preparation._ + +BOURDILLON (F. W.). + + A LOST GOD: A Poem. With Illustrations by H. J. FORD. 500 copies. 8vo. + 6s. net. + + [_Very few remain._ + +BOURDILLON (F. W.). + + AILES D’ALOUETTE. Poems printed at the private press of Rev. H. + DANIEL, Oxford. 100 only. 16mo. £1, 10s. net. + + [_Not published._ + +BRIDGES (ROBERT). + + THE GROWTH OF LOVE. Printed in Fell’s old English type at the private + press of Rev. H. DANIEL, Oxford. 100 only. Fcap. 4to. £2, 12s. 6d. + net. + + [_Not published._ + +COLERIDGE (HON. STEPHEN). + + THE SANCTITY OF CONFESSION: A Romance. Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 3s. + net. + + [_A few remain._ + +CRANE (WALTER). + + RENASCENCE: A Book of Verse. Frontispiece and 38 designs by the + Author. + + [_Small paper edition out of print._ + + There remain a few large paper copies, fcap. 4to. £1, 1s. net. And a + few fcap. 4to, Japanese vellum. £1, 15s. net. + +CROSSING (WM.). + + THE ANCIENT CROSSES OF DARTMOOR. With 11 plates. 8vo, cloth. 4s. 6d. + net. + + [_Very few remain._ + +DAVIDSON (JOHN). + + PLAYS: An Unhistorical Pastoral; A Romantic Farce; Bruce, a Chronicle + Play; Smith, a Tragic Farce; Scaramouch in Naxos, a Pantomime, with + a Frontispiece, Title-page, and Cover Design by AUBREY BEARDSLEY. + 500 copies. Small 4to. 7s. 6d. net. + + [_Immediately._ + +DAVIDSON (JOHN). + + FLEET STREET ECLOGUES. Second Edition. Fcap. 8vo, buckram. 5s. net. + +DAVIDSON (JOHN). + + A RANDOM ITINERARY: Prose Sketches, with a Ballad. Frontispiece, + Title-page, and Cover Design by LAURENCE HOUSMAN. Fcap. 8vo. Uniform + with ‘Fleet Street Eclogues.’ 5s. net. + +DAVIDSON (JOHN). + + THE NORTH WALL. Fcap. 8vo. 2s. 6d. net. + + _The few remaining copies transferred by the Author to the present + Publishers._ + +DE GRUCHY (AUGUSTA). + + UNDER THE HAWTHORN, AND OTHER VERSES. Frontispiece by WALTER CRANE. + 300 copies. Crown 8vo. 5s. net. + + [_Very few remain._ + + Also 30 copies on Japanese vellum. 15s. net. + +DE TABLEY (LORD). + + POEMS, DRAMATIC AND LYRICAL. By JOHN LEICESTER WARREN (Lord De + Tabley). Illustrations and Cover Design by C. S. RICKETTS. Second + Edition. Crown 8vo. 7s. 6d. net. + +DIAL (THE). + + No. 1 of the Second Series. Illustrations by RICKETTS, SHANNON, + PISSARRO. 200 only. 4to. £1, 1s. net. + + [_Very few remain._ + + _The present series will be continued at irregular intervals._ + +EGERTON (GEORGE). + + KEYNOTES: Short Stories. With Title-page by AUBREY BEARDSLEY. Second + Edition. Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. net. + +FIELD (MICHAEL). + + SIGHT AND SONG. (Poems on Pictures.) 400 copies. Fcap. 8vo. 5s. net. + + [_Very few remain._ + +FIELD (MICHAEL). + + STEPHANIA: A Trialogue in Three Acts. 250 copies. Pott 4to. 6s. net. + + [_Very few remain._ + +GALE (NORMAN). + + ORCHARD SONGS. Fcap. 8vo. With Title-page and Cover Design by J. + ILLINGWORTH KAY. 5s. net. + + Also a Special Edition limited in number on hand-made paper bound in + English vellum. £1, 1s. net. + +GARNETT (RICHARD). + + A VOLUME OF POEMS. 350 copies. Crown 8vo. With Title-page designed by + J. ILLINGWORTH KAY. 5s. net. + +GOSSE (EDMUND). + + THE LETTERS OF THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES. Now first edited. Pott 8vo. 5s. + net. + + [_Immediately._ + +GRAHAME (KENNETH). + + PAGAN PAPERS: A Volume of Essays. Fcap. 8vo. 5s. net. + +GREENE (G. A.). + + ITALIAN LYRISTS OF TO-DAY. Translations in the original metres from + about thirty-five living Italian poets, with bibliographical and + biographical notes. Crown 8vo. 5s. net. + +HAKE (DR. T. GORDON). + + A SELECTION FROM HIS POEMS. Edited by Mrs. MEYNELL. With a Portrait + after D. G. ROSSETTI. Crown 8vo. 5s. net. + + [_Immediately._ + +HALLAM (ARTHUR HENRY). + + THE POEMS, together with his essay ‘On Some of the Characteristics of + Modern Poetry and on the Lyrical Poems of ALFRED TENNYSON.’ Edited, + with an Introduction, by RICHARD LE GALLIENNE. 550 copies. Fcap. + 8vo. 5s. net. + + [_Very few remain._ + +HAMILTON (COL. IAN). + + THE BALLAD OF HADJI AND OTHER POEMS. Etched Frontispiece by WM. + STRANG. 50 copies. Fcap. 8vo. 3s. net. + + _Transferred by the Author to the present Publishers._ + +HAYES (ALFRED). + + THE VALE OF ARDEN AND OTHER POEMS. With Title-page and Cover Design by + LAURENCE HOUSMAN. Fcap. 8vo. 5s. net. + + [_In preparation._ + +HICKEY (EMILY H.). + + VERSE TALES, LYRICS AND TRANSLATIONS. 300 copies. Imp. 16mo. 5s. net. + +HORNE (HERBERT P.). + + DIVERSI COLORES: Poems. With ornaments by the Author. 250 copies. + 16mo. 5s. net. + +IMAGE (SELWYN). + + CAROLS AND POEMS. With decorations by H. P. HORNE. 250 copies. 16mo. + 5s. net. + + [_In preparation._ + +JAMES (W. P.). + + ROMANTIC PROFESSIONS: A Volume of Essays, with Title-page by J. + ILLINGWORTH KAY. Crown 8vo. 5s. net. + + [_Immediately._ + +JOHNSON (EFFIE). + + IN THE FIRE AND OTHER FANCIES. Frontispiece by WALTER CRANE. 500 + copies. Imp. 16mo. 3s. 6d. net. + +JOHNSON (LIONEL). + + THE ART OF THOMAS HARDY: Six Essays. With Etched Portrait by WM. + STRANG, and Bibliography by JOHN LANE. Crown 8vo. 5s. 6d. net. + + Also 150 copies, large paper, with proofs of the portrait. £1, 1s. + net. + + [_Very shortly._ + +JOHNSON (LIONEL). + + A VOLUME OF POEMS. Fcap. 8vo. 5s. net. + + [_In preparation._ + +KEATS (JOHN). + + THREE ESSAYS, now issued in book form for the first time. Edited by H. + BUXTON FORMAN. With Life-mask by HAYDON. Fcap. 4to. 10s. 6d. net. + + [_Very few remain._ + +LEATHER (R. K.). + + VERSES. 250 copies. Fcap. 8vo. 3s. net. + + _Transferred by the Author to the present Publishers._ + +LEATHER (R. K.), & RICHARD LE GALLIENNE. + + THE STUDENT AND THE BODY-SNATCHER AND OTHER TRIFLES. + + [_Small paper edition out of print._ + + There remain a very few of the 50 large paper copies. 7s. 6d. net. + +LE GALLIENNE (RICHARD). + + PROSE FANCIES. With a Portrait of the Author. Cr. 8vo. 5s. net. + + Also a limited large paper edition. 12s. 6d. net. + + [_In preparation._ + +LE GALLIENNE (RICHARD). + + THE BOOK BILLS OF NARCISSUS. An Account rendered by RICHARD LE + GALLIENNE. Second Edition. Crown 8vo, buckram. 3s. 6d. net. + +LE GALLIENNE (RICHARD). + + ENGLISH POEMS. Third Edition. Cr. 8vo. 5s. net. + +LE GALLIENNE (RICHARD). + + GEORGE MEREDITH: Some Characteristics. With a Bibliography (much + enlarged) by JOHN LANE, portrait, etc. Third Edition. Crown 8vo. 5s. + 6d. net. + +LE GALLIENNE (RICHARD). + + THE RELIGION OF A LITERARY MAN. Cr. 8vo. 3rd thousand. 3s. 6d. net. + + Also a special rubricated edition on hand-made paper. 8vo. 10s. 6d. + net. + +LETTERS TO LIVING ARTISTS. + + 500 copies. Fcap. 8vo. 3s. 6d. net. + + [_Very few remain._ + +MARSTON (PHILIP BOURKE). + + A LAST HARVEST: LYRICS AND SONNETS FROM THE BOOK OF LOVE. Edited by + LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON. 500 copies. Fcap. 8vo. 5s. net. + + Also 50 copies on large paper, hand-made. 10s. 6d. net. + + [_Very few remain._ + +MARTIN (W. WILSEY). + + QUATRAINS, LIFE’S MYSTERY AND OTHER POEMS. 16mo. 2s. 6d. net. + + [_Very few remain._ + +MARZIALS (THEO.). + + THE GALLERY OF PIGEONS AND OTHER POEMS. Fcap. 8vo. 4s. 6d. net. + + [_Very few remain._ + + _Transferred by the Author to the present Publishers._ + +MEYNELL (MRS.), (ALICE C. THOMPSON). + + POEMS. Second Edition. Fcap. 8vo. 3s. 6d. net. A few of the 50 large + paper copies (First Edition) remain, 12s. 6d. net. + +MEYNELL (MRS.). + + THE RHYTHM OF LIFE, AND OTHER ESSAYS. Second Edition. 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FLETCHER, and Part II. of Mr. ROBINSON K. + ELLIS, and LORD ST. CYRES. 200 copies only, folio, wrapper, 5s. net + per part; 25 special copies containing proof impressions of the + portraits signed by the artist, 10s. 6d. net per part. + +PINKERTON (PERCY). + + GALEAZZO: A Venetian Episode and other Poems. Etched Frontispiece. + 16mo. 5s. net. + + [_Very few remain._ + + _Transferred by the Author to the present Publishers._ + +RADFORD (DOLLIE). + + SONGS. A New Volume of Verse. + + [_In preparation._ + +RADFORD (ERNEST). + + CHAMBERS TWAIN. Frontispiece by WALTER CRANE. 250 copies. Imp. 16mo. + 5s. net. + + Also 50 copies large paper. 10s. 6d. net. + + [_Very few remain._ + +RHYMERS’ CLUB, THE BOOK OF THE. + + A second series is in preparation. + +SCHAFF (DR. P.). + + LITERATURE AND POETRY: Papers on Dante, etc. Portrait and Plates, 100 + copies only. 8vo. 10s. net. + +SCOTT (WM. BELL). + + A POET’S HARVEST HOME: WITH AN AFTERMATH. 300 copies. Fcap. 8vo. 5s. + net. + + [_Very few remain._ + + ⁂ _Will not be reprinted._ + +SHAW (A. D. L.). + + THE HAPPY WANDERER. Poems. Fcap. 8vo. 5s. net. + + [_In preparation._ + +STODDARD (R. H.). + + THE LION’S CUB; WITH OTHER VERSE. Portrait. 100 copies only, bound in + an illuminated Persian design. Fcap. 8vo. 5s. net. + + [_Very few remain._ + +SYMONDS (JOHN ADDINGTON). + + IN THE KEY OF BLUE, AND OTHER PROSE ESSAYS. Cover designed by C. S. + RICKETTS. Second Edition. Thick Crown 8vo. 8s. 6d. net. + +THOMPSON (FRANCIS). + + A VOLUME OF POEMS. With Frontispiece, Title-page and Cover Design by + LAURENCE HOUSMAN. Second Edition. Pott 4to. 5s. net. + +TODHUNTER (JOHN). + + A SICILIAN IDYLL. Frontispiece by WALTER CRANE. 250 copies. Imp. 16mo. + 5s. net. + + Also 50 copies large paper, fcap. 4to. 10s. 6d. net. + + [_Very few remain._ + +TOMSON (GRAHAM R.). + + AFTER SUNSET. A Volume of Poems. With Title-page and Cover Design by + R. ANNING BELL. Fcap. 8vo. 5s. net. + + Also a limited large paper edition. 12s. 6d. net. + + [_In preparation._ + +TREE (H. BEERBOHM). + + THE IMAGINATIVE FACULTY: A Lecture delivered at the Royal Institution. + With portrait of Mr. TREE from an unpublished drawing by the + Marchioness of Granby. Fcap. 8vo, boards. 2s. 6d. net. + +TYNAN HINKSON (KATHARINE). + + CUCKOO SONGS. With Title-page and Cover Design by LAURENCE HOUSMAN. + 500 copies. Fcap. 8vo. 5s. net. + + [_In preparation._ + +VAN DYKE (HENRY). + + THE POETRY OF TENNYSON. Third Edition, enlarged. Crown 8vo. 5s. 6d. + net. + + _The late Laureate himself gave valuable aid in correcting various + details._ + +WATSON (WILLIAM). + + THE ELOPING ANGELS: A Caprice. Second Edition. Square 16mo, buckram. + 3s. 6d. net. + +WATSON (WILLIAM). + + EXCURSIONS IN CRITICISM: being some Prose Recreations of a Rhymer. + Second Edition. Cr. 8vo. 5s. net. + +WATSON (WILLIAM). + + THE PRINCE’S QUEST, AND OTHER POEMS. With a Bibliographical Note + added. Second Edition. Fcap. 8vo. 4s. 6d. net. + +WEDMORE (FREDERICK). + + PASTORALS OF FRANCE—RENUNCIATIONS. A volume of Stories. Title-page by + JOHN FULLEYLOVE, R.I. Crown 8vo. 5s. net. + + _A few of the large paper copies of Renunciations (First Edition) + remain. 10s. 6d. net._ + +WICKSTEED (P. H.). + + DANTE. Six Sermons. Third Edition. Crown 8vo. 2s. net. + +WILDE (OSCAR). + + THE SPHINX. A poem decorated throughout in line and colour, and bound + in a design by CHARLES RICKETTS. 250 copies. £2, 2s. net. 25 copies + large paper. £5, 5s. net. + + [_Very shortly._ + +WILDE (OSCAR). + + The incomparable and ingenious history of Mr. W. H., being the true + secret of Shakespear’s sonnets now for the first time here fully set + forth, with initial letters and cover design by CHARLES RICKETTS. + 500 copies, 10s. 6d. net. + + Also 50 copies large paper. 21s. net. + + [_In preparation._ + +WILDE (OSCAR). + + DRAMATIC WORKS, now printed for the first time with a specially + designed Title-page and binding to each volume, by CHARLES SHANNON. + 500 copies. Small 4to. 7s. 6d. net per vol. + + Also 50 copies large paper. 15s. net per vol. + + Vol. I. LADY WINDERMERE’S FAN: A Comedy in Four Acts. + + [_Ready._ + + Vol. II. A WOMAN OF NO IMPORTANCE: A Comedy in Four Acts. + + [_Shortly._ + + Vol. III. THE DUCHESS OF PADUA: A Blank Verse Tragedy in Five Acts. + + [_In preparation._ + +WILDE (OSCAR). + + SALOMÉ: A Tragedy in one Act, done into English. With 11 + Illustrations, title-page, and Cover Design by AUBREY BEARDSLEY. 500 + copies. Small 4to. 15s. net. + + Also 100 copies, large paper. 30s. net. + + [_Shortly._ + +WYNNE (FRANCES). + + WHISPER. A Volume of Verse. With a Memoir by KATHARINE TYNAN and a + Portrait added. Fcap. 8vo. 2s. 6d. net. + + _Transferred by the Author to the present Publishers._ + +The Hobby Horse + +A new series of this illustrated magazine will be published quarterly by +subscription, under the Editorship of Herbert P. Horne. Subscription £1 +per annum, post free, for the four numbers. Quarto, printed on hand-made +paper, and issued in a limited edition to subscribers only. The Magazine +will contain articles upon Literature, Music, Painting, Sculpture, +Architecture, and the Decorative Arts; Poems; Essays; Fiction; original +Designs; with reproductions of pictures and drawings by the old masters +and contemporary artists. There will be a new title-page and ornaments +designed by the Editor. Among the contributors to the Hobby Horse are: + + The late MATTHEW ARNOLD. + LAURENCE BINYON. + WILFRID BLUNT. + FORD MADOX BROWN. + The late ARTHUR BURGESS. + E. BURNE-JONES, A.R.A. + AUSTIN DOBSON. + RICHARD GARNETT, LL.D. + A. J. HIPKINS, F.S.A. + SELWYN IMAGE. + LIONEL JOHNSON. + RICHARD LE GALLIENNE. + SIR F. LEIGHTON, Bart., P.R.A. + T. HOPE MCLACHLAN. + MAY MORRIS. + C. HUBERT H. PARRY, Mus. Doc. + A. W. POLLARD. + F. YORK POWELL. + CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI. + W. M. ROSSETTI. + JOHN RUSKIN, D.C.L., LL.D. + FREDERICK SANDYS. + The late W. BELL SCOTT. + FREDERICK J. SHIELDS. + J. H. SHORTHOUSE. + The late JAMES SMETHAM. + SIMEON SOLOMON. + A. SOMERVELL. + The late J. ADDINGTON SYMONDS. + KATHARINE TYNAN. + G. F. WATTS, R.A. + FREDERICK WEDMORE. + OSCAR WILDE. + + _Prospectuses on Application._ + +THE BODLEY HEAD, VIGO STREET, LONDON, W. + +‘Nearly every book put out by Messrs. Elkin Mathews & John Lane, at the +Sign of the Bodley Head, is a satisfaction to the special senses of the +modern bookman for bindings, shapes, types, and papers. They have +surpassed themselves, and registered a real achievement in English +bookmaking by the volume of “Poems, Dramatic and Lyrical,” of Lord De +Tabley.’—_Newcastle Daily Chronicle._ + +‘A ray of hopefulness is stealing again into English poetry after the +twilight greys of Clough and Arnold and Tennyson. Even unbelief wears +braver colours. Despite the jeremiads, which are the dirges of the elder +gods, England is still a nest of singing-birds (_teste_ the Catalogue of +Elkin Mathews and John Lane).’—Mr. ZANGWILL in _Pall Mall Magazine_. + +‘All Messrs. Mathews & Lane’s Books are so beautifully printed and so +tastefully issued, that it rejoices the heart of a book-lover to handle +them; but they have shown their sound judgment not less markedly in the +literary quality of their publications. The choiceness of form is not +inappropriate to the matter, which is always of something more than +ephemeral worth. This was a distinction on which the better publishers +at one time prided themselves; they never lent their names to trash; but +some names associated with worthy traditions have proved more than once +a delusion and a snare. The record of Messrs. Elkin Mathews & John Lane +is perfect in this respect, and their imprint is a guarantee of the +worth of what they publish.’—_Birmingham Daily Post_, Nov. 6, 1893. + +‘One can nearly always be certain when one sees on the title-page of any +given book the name of Messrs Elkin Mathews & John Lane as being the +publishers thereof that there will be something worth reading to be +found between the boards.’—_World._ + + +[Illustration: Publisher's colophon showing a sailing ship within an +oval emblem and the text 'Edinburgh: T. and A. Constable, Printers to +Her Majesty'] + + Edinburgh: T. and A. CONSTABLE + Printers to Her Majesty + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES + + + ● Fixed typos; non-standard spelling and dialect retained. + ● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_. + ● Images without captions use HTML alt text provided by transcriber. + ● Enclosed blackletter font in =equals=. + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78947 *** |