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THE

DEATH OF CENONE,
AKBAR'S DREAM,

AND OTHER POEMS

'tii^ iM.'o^-t-i

«^

.^>mk

8i.b

THE

DEATH OF CENONE,

AKBAR^S DREAM,

AND OTHER POEMS

ALFRED
LORD TENNYSON

I'OET I.AUREATF.

MACMILLAN AND CO.

AND LONDON
TORONTO: THE WILLIAMSON BOOK CO.

1892

A// rights reserved

Set up and elecirotyped October, i8q2.
Large faper edition printed October, iSq2.

Typography by J. S. Cushing & Co., Boston, U.S.A.
Presswork by Berwick & Smith, Boston, U.S.A.

CONTENTS

June Bracken and Hi^ather
To THE Master of Balliol
The Death of CEnone .
St. Telemachus

Akbar's Dream

The Bandit's Death

The Church-warden and the Curate

Charity ....

Kapioiani

The Dawn

The Making of Man

The Dreamer

Mechanophilus

Riflemen form!

PAGE

I
3

5
15

77
81

87
90

3''*' ^

CONTENTS

The Tourney ....

The Eee and the Flower .

The Wanderer

Poets and Critics .

A Voice spake out of the Skies

Doubt and Prayer

Faith

The Silent Voices
God and the Universe
The Death of the Duke of Ci
DALE

ARENCE AND AVON-

PACE

100

102

104

107
109

no
. 112

JUNE BRACKEN AND HEATHER

There on the top of the down,
The wild heather round me and over me June's
high bhie,

When I look'd at the bracken so b

and the

heather so brown,
I thought to myself I would offer this book to

you,

This, and my love together.

To you that are seventy-seven,

JUNE BRACKEN AND HEATHER

With a faith as clear as the heights of the June-
blue heaven,
And a fancy as summer-new
As the green of the bracken amid the gloom of

m
«

the heather.

TO THE MASTER OF BALLIOL

Dear Master in our classic town,
You, loved by all the younger gown

There at Balliol,
Lay your Plato for one minute down.

And read a Grecian tale re-told,
Which, cast in later Grecian mould,

Quintus Calaber
Somewhat lazily handled of old ;

TO THE MASTER OF BALLIOL

III

And on this white midwinter day —
For have the far-off hymns of May,

All her melodies,
All her harmonies echo'd away ? —

To'H. ' ore you turn again

1. tiioughts that lift the soul of men.

Hear my cataract's
Downward thunder in hollow and glen,

Till, led by dream and vague desire,
The woman, gliding toward the pyre.

Find her warrior

Stark and dark in his funeral fire.

LLIOL

day —
f May,

ly?-^

of men,

THE DEATH OF CENONE

and glen,

desire,
le pyre.

fire.

THE DEATH OF CENONE

CEnone sat within the cave from out

Whose ivy-matted mouth she used to gaze
Down at the Troad ; but the goodly view
Was now one blank, and all the serpent vines
Which on the touch of heavenly feet had risen,
And gliding thro' the branches overbower'd
The naked Three, were wither'd long ago,
And thro' the sunless winter morning-mist
In silence wept upon the flowerless earth.

And while she stared at those dead cords that

ran

Copyrijiht, i8y«, by Mai.inillaii & Co. 7

THE DEATH OF (EN ONE

Dark thro' the mist, and Unking tree to tree,
But once were gayer than a dawning sky
With many a pendent bell and fragrant star,
Her Past became her Present, and she saw
Him, climbing toward her with the golden fruit,
Him, happy to be chosen Judge of Gods,
Her husband in the flush of youth and dawn,
Paris, himself as beauteous as a God.

Anon from out the long ravine below,
She heard a wailing cry, that seem'd at first
Thin as the batlike shrillings of the Dead
When driven to Hades, but, in coming near.
Across the downward thunder of the brook
Sounded HEnone'-; and on a sudden he,
Paris, no longer beauteous as a God,
Struck by a poison'd arrow in the fight.
Lame, crooked, reeling, livid, thro' the mist

THE DEATH OF (ENONE

vv:

Rose, like the wraith of his dead self, and moan'd

* Q^none, my (Enone, while we dwelt
Together in this valley — hai)py then —
Too happy had I died within thine arms,
Before the feud of Gods had marr'd our peace,
And sunder'd each from each. I am dying now
Pierced by a poison'd dart. Save me. Thou

knowest,
Taught by some God, whatever herb or balm
May clear the blood from poison, and thy fame
Is blown thro' all the Troad, and to thee

The shepherd brings his adder-bitten lamb,
The wounded warrior climbs from Troy to thee.
My life and death are in thy hand. The Gods
Avenge on stony hearts a fruitless prayer
For pity. Let me owe my life to thee.
I wrought thee bitter wrong, but thou forgive.

T//E DEATH OF (ENONE

Forget it. Man is but the slave of Fate.
(Enone, by thy love which once was mine,
Help, heal me. I am poison'd to the heart.'
* And I to mine ' she said ' Adulterer,

Go back to thine adulteress and die !

j-.i

I
I

He groan'd, he turn'd, and in the mist at once
Became a shadow, sank and disappear'd.
But, ere the mountain rolls into the plain.
Fell headlong dead ; and of the shepherds one
Their oldest, and the same wr«o first had found
Paris, a naked babe, among the woods
Of Ida, following lighted on him there.
And shouted, and the shepherds heard and came.

One raised the Prince, one sleek'd the squalid
hair,
One kiss'd his hand, another closed his eyes,
And then, remembering the gay playmate rear'd

THE DBA TH OF (EN ONE

Among them, and forgetful of the man,
Whose crime had half unpeopled Ilion, these
All that day long labour'd, hewing the pines,
And built their shepherd-prince a funeral pile ;
And, while the star of eve was drawing light
From the dead sun, kindled the pyre, and all
Stood round it, hush'd, or calling on his name.
But when the white fog vanish'd like a ghost
Before the day, and every topmost pine
Spired into bluest heaven, still in her cave,
Amazed, and ever seeming stared upon
By ghastlier than the Gorgon head, a face, —
His face deform'd by lurid blotch and blain —
There, like a creature frozen to the heart
Beyond all hope of warmth, CEnone sat
Nc'- moving, till in front of that ravine
Which drowsed in gloom, self-darkeu'd from the west,

.-^s.it^-jiwa.'jr

THE DEATH OF (EN ONE

The sunset blazed along the wall of Troy.

Then her head sank, she slept, and thro' her
dream
A ghostly murmur floated, 'Come to me,
^Enone ! I can wrong thee now no more,
(Enone, my CFnone,* and the dream
Wail'd in her, when she woke beneath the stars.

What star could burn so low? not Ilion yet.
What light was there? She rose and slowly down,
By the long torrent's ever-deepen'd roar.
Paced, following, as in trance, the silent cry.
She waked a bird of prey that scream'd and past ;
She roused a snake that hissing writhed away ;
A panther sprang across her path, she heard
The shriek of some lost life among the pines,
But when she gain'd the broader vale, and saw
The ring of faces redden'd by the flames

THE DEATH OF CENONE

Enfolding tliat dark body which had lain

Of old in her embrace, paused — and then ask'd

Falteringly, * Who lies on yonder pyre ? '

But every man was mute for reverence.

Then moving quickly forward till the heat

Smote on her brow, she lifted up a voice

Of shrill command, • Who burns upon the pyre ? '

Whereon their oldest and their boldest said,

' He, whom thou wouldst not heal ! ' and all at

once
The morning light of happy marriage broke
Thro' all the clouded years of widowhood.
And muffling up her comely head, and crying
• Husband ! ' she leapt upon the funeral pile,
And mixt herself with him and past in fire.

Mi^j^iAmm.-im^i*^ **

ST. TELEMACHUS

't—

ST. TELEMACHUS

Had the fierce ashes of some fiery peak
Been hiirl'd so high they ranged about the globe
For day by day, thro' many a blood-red eve,
In that four-hundredth summer after Christ,
The wrathful sunset glared against a cross
Rear'd on the tumbled ruins of an old fane
No longer sacred to the Sun, and flamed
On one huge slope beyond, where in his cave
The man, whose pious hand had built the cross,
A man who never changed a word with men,
Fasted and pray'd, Telemachus the Saint.

ST. TELEMACHUS

Eve after eve that haggard anchorite
Would haunt the desolated fane, and there
Gaze at the ruin, often mutter low
* Vicisti Galilaee ' ; louder again.
Spurning a shatter'd fragment of the God,
' Vicisti Galilaee ! ' but — when now
Bathed in that lurid crimson — ask'd * Is earth
On fire to the West? or is the Demon -god
W^roth at his fall ? ' and heard an answer * Wake
Thou deedless dreamer, lazying out a life
Of self-suppression, not of selfless love.'
And once a flight of shadowy fighters crost
The disk, and once, he thought, a shape with

wings
Game sweeping by him, and pointed to the West,
And at his ear he heard a whisper * Rome '
And in his heart he cried ' The call of God ! '

ST. TELEMACHUS

And call'd arose, and, slowly plunging down
Thro' that disastrous glory, set his face
By waste and field and town of alien tongue,
Following a hundreei sunsets, and the sphere
Of westward-wheeling stars ; and every dawn

Struck from him his own shadow on to Rome.

Foot-sore, way-worn, at length he touch'd his goal,
The Christian city. All her splendour fail'd
To lure those eyes that only yearn'd to see,
Fleeting betwixt her coluran'd palace-walls.
The shape with wings. Anon there past a crowd
With shameless laughter, Pagan oath, and jest.
Hard Romans brawling of their monstrous games ;
He, all but deaf thro' age and weariness,
And muttering to himself 'The call of (iod'
And borne along by that full stream of men,
IJke some old wreck on some indrawing sea,

ST. TELEMACHUS

Gain'd their huge Colosseum. The caged beast
Yell'd, as he yell'd of yore for Christian blood.
Three slaves were trailing a dead lion away,
One, a dead man. He stumbled in, and sat
Blinded ; but when the momentary gloom,
Made by the noonday blaze without, had left
His aged eyes, he raised them, and beheld
A blood-red awning waver overhead,
The dust send up a steam of human blood.
The gladiators moving toward their fight,
And eighty thousand Christian faces watch
Man murder man. A sudden strength from

heaven,
As some great shock may wake a palsied limb,
Turn'd him again to boy, for up he sprang,
And glided lightly down the stairs, and o'er

The barrier that divided beast from man

S7\ TELEMACHUS

Slipt, and ran on, and flung himself between
The gladiatorial swords, and call'd ' F'orbear
In the great name of Him who died for men,
Christ Jesus ! ' For one moment afterward
A silence follow'd as of death, and then
A hiss as from a wilderness of snakes,
Then one deep roar as of a breaking sea,

And then a shower of stones that stoned him

dead,

And then once more a silence as of death.

His dream became a deed that woke the world.

For while the frantic rabble in half-amaze

Stared at him dead, thro' all the nobler hearts

In that vast Oval ran a shudder of shame.

The Baths, the Forum gabbled of his death,
And preachers linger'd o'er his dying words,

Which would not die, but echo'd on to reach

■r

ST. TELEMACHUS

Honorius, till he heard them, and decreed

That Rome no more should wallow in this old lust

Of Paganism, and make her festal hour

Dark with the blood of man who murder'd man.

(For Honorius, who succeeded to the sovereignty over
Europe, supprest the gladiatorial combats practised of old
in Rome, on occasion of the following event. There was
one Telemachus, embracing the ascetic mode of life, who
setting oat from the East and arriving at Rome for this
very purpose, while that accursed spectacle was being per-
formed, entered himself the circus, and descending into the
arena, attempted to hold back those who wielded deadly
weapons against each other. The spectators of the murder-
ous fray, possest with the drunken glee of the demon who
delights in such bloodshed, stoned to death the preacher of
peace. The admirable Emperor learning this put a stop to
that evil exhibition. — Theodoret's Ecclesiastical History^

Id lust

lan.

ity over
of old
ere was
fe, who
for this
ng per-
into the
. deadly
murder-
ion who
acher of
stop to

AKBAR'S DREAM

An Inscription by Abul Fazl for a Temple in

Kashmir (Blochmann xxxii.)

O God in every temple 1 see people that see thee,
and in every language I hear spoken, people praise thee.

Polytheism and Isldm feel after thee.

Each religion says, ' Thou art one, without equal.'

If it be a mosque people murmur the holy prayer, and
if it be a Christian Church, people ring the bell from
love to Thee.

Sometimes I frequent the Christian cloister, and some-
times the mosque.

But it is thou whom I search from temple to temple.

Thy elect have no dealings with either heresy or
orthodoxy ; for neither of them stands behind the screen
of thy truth.

Heresy to the heretic, and religion to the orthodox,

AK BAR'S DREAM

I \

: i

' \

But the dust of the rose-petal belongs to the heart of
the perfume seller.

Akbar and Abul Fazl before the palace at
Futehpur-Sikri at night.

' Light of the nations ' ask'd his Chronicler

Of Akbar ' what has darken'd thee to-night ? '

Then, after one quick glance upon the stars,

And turning slowly toward him, Akbar said

' The shadow of a dream — an idle one

It may be. Still I raised my heart to heaven,

I pray'd against the dream. To pray, to do —

To pray, to do according to the prayer,

Are, both, to worship Alia, but the prayers.

That have no successor in deed, are faint

And pale in Alla's eyes, fair mothers they

Dying in childbirth of dead sons. I vow'd

Whate'er my dreams, I still would do the right

A K" BAR'S DREAM

Thro' all the vast dominion which a sword,
That only conquers men to conquer peace,

Has won me. Alia be my guide 1

But come,

My noble friend, my faithful counsellor.

Sit by my side. While thou art one with me,

I seem no longer like a lonely man

In the king's garden, gathering here and thtre

From each fair plant the blossom choicest-grown

To wreathe a crown not only for the king

But in due time for every Mussulman,

Brahmin, and Buddhist, Christian, and Parsee,

Thro' all the warring world of Hindustan.

Well spake thy brother in his hymn to heaven
" Thy glory baffles wisdom. All the tracks
Of science making toward Thy Perfectness
Are blinding desert sand ; we scarce can spell

E4 i

AKBAK'S DREAM

The Alif of Thine Al])habet of Love."

He knows Himself, men nor themselves nor
Him,
For every sphnter'd fraction of a sect
Will clamour '' / am on the Perfect Way,

All else is to perdition."

Shall the rose

Cry to the lotus "No flower thou"? the palm '
Call to the cypress *' I alone am fair"?
The mango spurn the melon at his foot?
" Mine is the one fruit Alia made for man."

Look how the living pulse of Alia beats
Thro' all His world. If every single star
Should shriek its claim "I only am in heaven"
Why that were such sphere-music as the Greek
Had hardly dream'd of. There is light in ail.
And light, with more or less of shade, in all

Th
N(i

A
An

A KB A IV S DREAM 39

Man-modes of worship; but our Ulama,
Who "sitting on green sofas contemplate
The torment of the damn'd " already, these
Are like wild brutes new-caged — the narrower
The cage, the more their fury. Me they front
With sullen brows. What wonder ! I decreed
That even the dog was clean, that men may taste
Swine-flesh, drink wine ; they know too that when-

e er

In our free Hall, where each philosophy

Aftd mood of faith may hold its own, they blurt

Their furious formalisms, I but hear

The clash of tides that meet in narrow seas.

Not the Great Voice not the true Deep.

To drive

A people from their ancient fold of Faith,
And wall them up perforce in mine — unwise,

AKBAK'S DREAM

i I

Unkinglike ; — and the morning of my reign

Was redden'd by that cloud of shame when I . . .

I hate the rancour of their castes and creeds,
I let men worship as they will, I reap
No revenue from the field of unbelief.
I cull from every faith and race the best
And bravest soul for counsellor and friend.
I loathe the very name of infidel.
I stagger at the Koran and the sword.
I shudder at the Christian and the stake ;
Yet "Alia," says their sacred book, "is Love," '
And when the Goan Padre quoting Him,
Issa Ben Mariam, his own prophet, cried
" Love one another little ones " and " bless "
Whom? even "your persecutors"! there methought
The cloud was rifted by a purer gleam
Than glances from the sun of our Islam.

AKBAR'S DREAM

And thou rememberest what a fury shook
Those pillars of a moulder'd faith, when he,
That other, prophet of their fall, proclaimed
His Master as ** the Sun of Righteousness,"
Yea, Alia here on earth, who caught and held
His people by the bridle-rein of Truth.

What art thou saying? "And was not Alia call'd

In old Iran the Sun of Love? and Love

The net of truth?"

A voice from old Iran !

Nay, but I know it — his, the hoary Sheik,
On whom the women shrieking "Atheist" flung
Filth from the roof, the mystic melodist
W^ho all but lost himself in Alia, him

Ab{i Said

a sun but dimlv seen

Here, till the mortal morning mists of earth

:1;

AKBAK'S DREAM

Fade in the noon of heaven, when creed and race
Shall bear false witness, each of each, no more.
But find their limits by that larger light,
And overstep them, moving easily
Thro' after-ages in the love of Truth,

The truth of Love.

The sun, the sun ! they rail

At me the Zoroastrian. Let the Sun,
Who heats our earth to yield us grain and fruit.
And laughs upon thy field as well as mine.
And warms the blood of Shiah and Sunnee,
Symbol the Eternal ! Yea and may not kings
P^xpress Him also by their warmth of love
For all they rule — by equal law for all?

By deeds a light to men?

But no such light

■m^;^ I

Glanced from our Presence on tlie face of one,

AK BAR'S DREAM

Who breaking in upon us yestermorn,

With all the Hells a-glare in either eye,

Yell'd "hast thou brought us down a new Koran

From heaven? art thou the Prophet? canst thou

work
Miracles?" and the wild horse, anger, plunged
To fling me, and fail'd. Miracles ! no, not I
Nor he, nor any. I can but lift the torch
Of Reason in the dusky cave of Life,
And gaze on this great miracle, the World,
Adoring That who made, and makes, and is.
And is not, what I gaze on — all else Form,
Ritual, varying with the tribes of men.
Ay but, my friend, thou knovvest 1 hold that
forms
Are needful : only let the hand that rules,
With politic care, with utter gentleness.

AKBAR'S DREAM

Mould them for all his people.

And what are furms?

Fair garments, plain or rich, and fitting close
Or flying looselier, warm'd but by the heart
Within them, moved but by the living limb,
And cast aside, when old, for newer, — Forms !
The Spiritual in Nature's market-place —
The silent Alphabet-of-heaven-in-man
Made vocal — banners blazoning a Power
That is not seen and rules from far away —
A silken cord let down from Paradise,
When fine Philosophies would fail, to draw
The crowd from wallowing in the mire of earth,
And all the more, when these behold their Lord,
Who shaped the forms, obey them, and himself
Here on this bank in some way live the life
Beyond the bridge, and serve tliat Infinite

}

AK BAR'S DREAM

Within us, as without, that All-in-all,

And over all, the never-changing One

And ever-changing Many, in praise of Whom

The Christian bell, the cry from off the mosque,

And vaguer voices of Polytheism

Make but one music, harmonising, " Pray."

There westward — under yon slow-falling star.
The Christians own a Spiritual Head ;
And following thy true counsel, by thine aid.
Myself am such in our Islam, for no
Mirage of glory, but for power to fuse
My myriads into union under one ;
To hunt the tiger of oppression out
I'rom office ; and to spread the Divine Faith
Like c:alming oil on all their stormy creeds.

■^

^mv

And fill the hollows between wave and wave ;

To nurse my children on the milk of Truth,

AK BAR'S DREAM

(

And alchemise old hates into the gold
Of Love, and make it current ; and beat back
The menacing poison of intolerant priests,
Those cobras ever setting up their hoods —

One Alia ! one Kali fa !

Still — at times

A doubt, a fear, — and yester afternoon

I dream'd, — thou knowest how deep a well of

love

My heart is for my son, Saleem, mine heir, —
And yet so wild and wayward that my dream —
He glares askance at thee as one of those
Who mix the wines of heresy in the cup

Of counsel — so — I pray thee

Well, 1 dream'd

That stone by stone I renr'd a sacred fane,
A temple, neither Pagod, Mosque, nor Church,

A KHAR'S DREAM

But loftier, simpler, always open-door'd
To every breath from heaven, and Truth and Peace
And Love and Justice came and dwelt therein ;
But while we stood rejoicing, I and thou,
I heard a mocking laugh " the new Koran ! "
And on the sudden, and with a cry " Saleem "
Thou, thou — I saw thee fall before me, and then
Me too the black-wing'd Azrael overcame.
But Death had ears and eyes ; I watch'd my son,
And those that follow'd, loosen, stone from stone.
All my fair work ; and from the rr.in arose
The shriek and curse of trampled millions, even
As in the time before ; but while I groan'd.
From out the sunset pour'd an alien race.
Who fitted stone to stone again, and Truth,
Peace, Love and Justice came and dwelt therein,
Nor in the field without were seen or heard

AK BAR'S DREAM

Fire^: of Siittee, nor wail of baby- wife,

Or Indian widow; and in sleep I said

"All praise to Alia by whatever hands

My mission be accomplish'd ! " but we hear

Music : our palace is awake, and morn

Has lifted the dark eyelash of thfe Night

From off the rosy cheek of waking Day.

Our hymn to the sun. They sing it. Let us go.'

Hymn

Once again thou flamest heavenward, once again

we see thee rise.

Every morning is thy birthday gladdening human
hearts and eyes.

AKBAR'S DREAM

Every morning here we greet it, bowing
lowly down before thee,
Thee the Godlike, thee the changeless in thine
ever-changing skies.

Shadow-maker, shadow-slayer, arrowing light from

clime to clime,
Hear thy myriad laureates hail thee monarch in
their woodland rhyme.

Warble bird, and open flower, .and, men,
below the dome of azure
Kneel adoring Him the Timeless in the flame that
measures Time !

(•!

i'i'

If rf

NOTES TO AKBAR'S DREAM

The great Mogul Emperor Akbar was born October 14, 1542,
and died 1605. At 13 he succeeded his father Huniayun; at
18 he himself assumed the sole charge of government. He
subdued and ruled over fifteen large provinces; his empire
included all India north of the Vindhya Mountains — in the
south of India he was not so successful. His tolerance of
religions and his abhorrence of religious persecution put our
Tudors to shame. He invented a new eclectic religion by
which he hoped to unite all creeds, castes and peoples : and
his legislation was remarkable for vigour, justice and humanity.

* 77/1' ^/ory baffles wisdom!' The Emperor quotes from a

hymn to the Deity by Faizi, brother of Abul Fazl, Akbar's chief

friend and minister, who wrote the Ain i Akbari (Annals of

Akbar). His influence on his age was immense. It may be

that he and his brother Faizi led Akbar's mind away from
40

NOTES TO AKBAR'S DREAM

Islam and the Prophet — this charge is brought against him
by every Muhammatlan writer; but Abul Fazl also led his
sovereign to a true appreciation of his duties, and from
the moment that he entered Court, the problem of success-
fully ruling over mixed races, which Islam in few other
countries had to solve, was carefully considered, and the
policy of toleration was the result (Blochmann xxix.)

Abul Fazl thus gives an account of himself * The advice of
my Father with difficulty kept me back from acts of folly;
my mind had no rest and my heart felt itself drawn to the
sages of Mongolia or to the hermits on Lebanon. I longed
for interviews with the Llamas of Tibet or with the padres
of i^ortugal, and I would gladly sit with the priests of the
Parsis and the learned of the Zendavesta. I was sick of the
learned of my own land.'

He became the intimate friend and adviser of Akbar, and
helped him in his tolerant system of government. Professor
Blochmann writes ' Impressed with a favourable idea of the
value of his Hindu subjects, he (Akbar) had resolved when
pensively sitting in the evenings on the solitary stone at
Futehpur-Sikri to rule with an even hand all men in his
dominions; but as the extreme views of the learned and
the lawyers continually urged him to persecute instead of
to heal, he instituted discussions, because, believing him-
self to be in error, he thouglit it his duty as ruler to
inquire.' 'These discussions took place every Tlu'rsday night
in the Ibadat-khana a building at Futehpur-Sikri, erected for
the purpose' (Malleson).

■I

K'-i

NOTES TO AK BAR'S DREAM

In these discussions Abul Fazl became a great power, and
he induced the chief of the disputants to draw up a docu-
ment defining the ' divine Faith ' as it was called, and assign-
ing to Akbar the rank of a Mujahid, or supreme khalifah, the
vicegerent of the one true God,

Abul Fazl was finally murdered at the instigation of Akbar's
',jn Saiim, who in his Memoirs declares that it was Abul
Fazl who had perverted his father's mind so that he denied
the divine mission of Mahomet, and turned away his love
from his son.

Faizi, When Vkbar conquered the North-West Provinces
of India, Faizi, then 20, began his life as a poet, and earned
his living as a physician. He is reported to have been very
generous and to have treated the poor for n-./aiing. His
fame reached Akbar's ears who commanded him to come to
the camp at Chitor. Akbar was delighted with his varied
knowledge and scholarship and macr^ the poet teacher to his
sons. Faizi at 33 was appointed Chief Poet (1588). He
collected a fine library of 4300 MSS. and died at the age of
40 (1595) when Akbar incorporated his collection of rare
books in the Imperial Library.

The Warring World of Hindostan. Akbar's rapid con-
quests and the good government of his fifteen provinces with
their complete military, civil and political systems make him
conspicuous among the great kings of history.

The Goan Padre. Abul Fazl relates that * one night the

NOTES TO AKBAK'S DREAM

Ibadat-khana was brightened by the presence of Padre Ro-
dolpho, who for intelligence and wisdom was unrivalled
among Christian doctors. Several carping and bigoted men
attacked him and this afforded an opportunity for the dis-
play of the calm judgment and justice of the assembly.
These men brought forward the old received assertions, and
did not attempt to arrive at truth by reasoning. Their
statements were torn to pieces, and they were nearly put to
shame, when they began to attack the contradictions of the
Gospel, but they could not prove their assertions. With per-
fect calmness, and earnest conviction of the truth he replied
to their arguments.'

. *vl

!i|

Abi'i Sa^hi. ' Love is the net of Truth, Love is the noose
of God ' is a quotation from the great Sufee poet Abd Sa'td
— born A.D. 968, died at *he age of 83. He is a mystical
poet, and some of his expressions have been compared to our
George Herbert. Of Shaikh Abft Sa'td it is recorded that
he said, ' when my affairs had reacht a certain pitch I buried
under the dust my books and opened a shop on my own
account {i.e. began to teach with authority), and verily men
represented mc as that which I was not, until it came to this,
that they went to the Qadht and testified against me of unbe-
lieverhood; and women got upon the roofs and cast unclean
things upon me.' ( Vide reprint from article in National
Review, March, 1891, by C. J. Pickering.)

V f

Aziz, I am not aware that there is any record of such

NOTES TO AK BAR'S DREAM

U ' \

■ i ,v

1 1

intrusion upon the kind's privacy, l)ut the expressions in
the text occur in a letter sent by Akl)ar's foster-ljrother
Aziz, who refused to come to court when summoned and
threw up his government, and ' after writing an insolent and
reproachful letter to Akbar in which he asked him if he had
received a book from heaven, or if he could work miracles
like Mahomet that he presumed to introduce a new religion,
warned him that he was on the way to eternal perdition, and
concluded with a prayer to God to bring him back into the
path of salvation' (Klphinstone).

'The Koran, the Old and New Testament, and the Psalms
of David arc called /'oo/cs by way of excellence, and their
followers "People of the Book"' (Elphinstone).

Akbar according to Abdel Kadir had his son Murad
instructed in the (iospel, and used to make him begin his
lessons ' In the name of Christ ' instead of in the usual way
' In the name of God.'

To drive
A people from their ancient fold of Truth, etc.

jMalleson says ' This must have happened because Akbar
states it, but of the forced conversions I have found no
record. This must have taken place whilst he was still a
minor, and whilst the chief authority was wielded by Bairam.'

' / reap no revenue from the field of unbelief '
The Hindus are fond of pilgrimages, and Akbar removed

NOTES TO A A' BAR'S DA'EAM

a remunerative tax raised by his predecessors on pilgrimages.
He also abolished the fezza or capitation tax on those who
differed from the Mahomedan faith. He discouraged all
excessive prayers, fasts and pilgrimages.

Sati. Akbar decreed that every v^'idovv who showed the
least desire not to be burnt on her husband's funeral pyre,
should be let go free and unharmed.

Baby-wife. He forbad marriage before the age of puberty.

Indian widow. Akbar ordained that remarriage was
lawful.

Mtisic. ' Abi it a watch before daybreak,' says Abul Fazl,
the musicians played to the king in the palace. * His Majesty
had such a knowledge of the science of music as trained
musicians do not possess.'

' 77ie Divine Faith.'' The Divine Faith slowly passed
away under the immediate successors of Akbar. An idea
of what the Divine Faith was may be gathered from the
inscription at the head of the poem. The document referred
to, Abul Fazl says 'brought about excellent results (i) the
Court became a gathering place of the sages and learned of
all creeds; the good doctrines of all religious systems were
recognized, and their defects were not allowed to obscure
their good features; (2) perfect toleration or peace with all

■('!

t i

NOTES TO AK BAR'S DREAM

■■/' '

was established; and (3) the perverse and evil-minded were
covered with shame on seeing the disinterested motives of
His Majesty, and these stood in the pillory of disgrace.'
Dated September 1579 — Ragab 987 (Blochmann xiv.)

THE BANDIT'S DEATH

( 1 '

i?'

..1

■-'I

TO SIR WALTER SCOTT »

O GREAT AM) GALLANT Sco IT,

True gentleman heart, blood and bone,

i would it had been my lot

to have seen thee, and heard thee, and known.

^ I have adopted Sir Walter Scott's version of the following
story as given in his last journal (Death of II Bizarro) — but I
have taken the Uberty of making some slight alterations.

((

THE BANDIT'S DEATH

Sir, do you see this dagger? nay, why do you start
aside?

I was not going to stab you, tho' I am the Bandit's
bride.

You have set a price on his head : I may claim it

without a lie.
What have I here in the cloth? I will show it

you by-and-by.

Sir, I was once a wife. I had one brief summer

of bliss

. %

■1

j I'

T//E BANDIT'S DEATH

K. \

But the Bandit had vvoo'd me in vain, and he
siabb'd my Piero with this.

And he dragg'd me up there to his cave in the

mountain, and there one day
He had left his dagger behind him. I found it.

I hid it away.

For he reek'd with the blood of Piero; his kisses

were red with his crime.
And I cried to the Saints to avenge me. They

heard, they bided their time.

In a while I bore him a son, and he loved to

dandle the child,
And that was a link between l..s ; but I — to be

* t

reconciled ? —

THE BANDIT'S DEATH 51

No, by the Mother of God, tho' I think I hated

him less,
And — well, if I sinn'd last night, I will find the

Priest and confess.

Listen ! we three were alone in the dell at the

close of the day.
I was lilting a song to the babe, and it laugh'd like

a dawn in May.

M I'li

Then on a sudden we saw your soldiers crossing

the riclge,
And he caught my little one from me : we dipt

down under the bridge

By the great dead pine — you know it — and heard,
as we crouch'd below,

I»

THE BANDIT'S DEATH

The clatter of arms, and voices, and men passing

to and fro.

^*;

Black was the night when we crept away — not a

star in the sky —
Hush'd as the heart of the grave, till the little one

utter'd a cry.

I whisper'd 'give it to me,' but he would not

answer me — then

He gript it so hard by the throat that the boy
never cried again.

We return'd to his cave — the link was broken —

he sobb'd and he wept,
And cursed himself; then he yawn'd, for the wretch

could sleep, and he slept

THE BANDIT'S DEATH

Ay, till dawn stole into the cave, and a ray red

as blood
Glanced on the strangled face — I could make Sleep

Death, if I would —

Glared on at the murder'd son, and the murderous

father at rest, ...
I drove the blade that had slain my husband thrice

thro' his breast.

:IJ

boy

He was loved at least by his dog : it was chain'd,

but its horrible yell
'She has kill'd him, has kill'd him, has kill'd him'

rang out all down thro' the dell,

Till I felt I could end myself too with the dagger

— so deafen'd and dazed —

THE BANDIT'S DEATH

Take it, and save me from it ! I fled. I was all

but crazed

With the grief that gnaw'd at my heart, and the

weight that dragg'd at my hand ;
But thanks to the Blessed Saints that I came on

none of his band;

And the band will be scatter'd now their gallant

captain is dead,
For I with this dagger of his — do you doubt me ?

Here is his head !

as all

d the

e on

allant

THE CHURCH-WARDEN AND
THE CURATE

me?

iii

THE CHURCH-WARDEN AND THE

CURATE

This is writte'.i in the dialect which was current in my
youth at Spilsby and in the country about it.

Eh? good daay! good daay ! thaw it bean't not

mooch of a daay,
Nasty, casselty weather ! an' mea haafe down wi'

my haay !

iK-- .. .».

CIWKLH-WARDEN AND CURATE

How be the farm gittin on? noiiways. Gittin on

i'deeiid !

Why, tonups was haiife on 'em fingers an' toas, an'
the mare brokken-kneead,

An' pigs didn't sell at fall, an' wa lost wer Hal-
deny cow,

An' it beats ma to knaw wot she died on, but wool's
looking oop ony how.

Ill

An' soa they've maade tha a parson, an' thou'U git

along, niver fear.
Fur I bean chuch-warden mysen i' the parish fur

fifteen year.

CHURCH-WARDEN AND CURATE

Well — sin ther bea chuch-wardens, iher mun be

parsons an' all,
An' if t'one stick alongside t'uther the chuch weant

happen a fall.

Fur I wur a Baptis wonst, an' agean the toithe an'

the raate,
Till I fun that it vvarn't not the gaainist waay to

the narra Gaate.

An' I can't abear 'em, I can't, fur a lot on 'em

coom'd ta-year —
I wur down wi' the rheumatis then — to my pond

to wesh thessens theere

Sa I sticks like the ivin as long as I lives to the
owd chuch now,

CHURCH -WARDEN AND CURATE

Fur they wesh'd their sins i' my pond, an' I doubts
they poison'd the cow.

Ay, an' ya seed the Bishop. They says 'at he

coom'd fra nowt

Burn i' traiide. Sa I warrants 'e niver said haafe

wot 'e thowt.
But 'e creeiipt an' 'e crawl'd along, till 'e feeald 'e

could howd 'is oan,
Then 'e married a great Yerl's darter, an' sits o'

the Bishop's throan.

Now I'll gie tha a bit o' my mind an' tha weant
be taiikin' offence.

CHURCH-WARDEN AND CURATE

Fur thou be a big scholard now wi' a hoonderd

haacre o' sense —

But sich an obstropulous lad — naiiy, naay — fur I

minds tha sa well,
Tha'd niver not hopple thy tongue, an' the tongue's

sit afire o' Hell,
As I says to my missis to-daiiy, when she hurl'd a

plaiite at the cat
An' anoother agean my noase. Ya was niver sa

bad as that.

But I minds when i' Howlaby beck won daily ya

was ticklin' o' trout,
An' keeiiper 'e seed ya an roon'd, an' 'e beal'd to

ya ' Lad coom bout '

CHURCH-WARDEN AND CURATE

An' ya stood oop maakt i' the beck, an' ya tell'd

'im to knaw his awn plaace
An' ya call'd 'im a clown, ya did, an' ya thraw'd

the fish i' 'is faace.
An' 'e torn'd as red as a stag-tuckey's wattles, but

theer an' then

I coamb'd 'im down, fur I promised ya'd niver not
do it agean.

VIII

An' I cotch'd tha wonst i' my garden, when thou

was a height-year- howd,
An' I fun thy pockets as full o' my pippins as iver

they'd 'owd,
An' thou was as peiirky as owt, an' tha maade me

as mad as mad,

CHURCH-WARDEN AND CURATE

But I says to tha * keeap 'em, an' welcome ' fur

thou was the parson's lad.

thou

An' Parson 'e 'ears on it all, an' then taiikes kindly

to me,
An' then I wur chose Chuch-warden an' coom'd

to the top o' the tree,
Fur Quoloty's hall my friends, an' they maakes ma

a help to the poor.
When I gits the plaate fuller o' Soondays nor ony

chuch-warden afoor,
Fur if iver thy feyther 'ed riled me I kep' mysen

nieeiik as a lamb,
An' saw by the (iraiice o' the Lord, Mr. Harry, I

ham wot I ham.

church-wardemV and curate

But Parson 'e 7i'i7l speak out, saw, now 'e be sixty-

seven,

i Si. •

He'll niver swap Owlby an' Scratby fur owt but the

Kingdom o' Heaven ;
An' thou'U be 'is Curate 'ere, but, if iver tha means

to git 'igher,
Tha mun tackle the sins o' the Wo'ld, an' not the

faults o' the Scjuire.
An' I reckons tha'll light of a livin' somewheers i'

the Wovvd or the Fen,
If tha cottons down to thy betters, an' keeaps thy-

sen to thysen.
IJut niver not speiik plaain out, if tha wants to git

forrardb a bit,
But creeap along the hedge-bottoms, an' thou'U be

a Bishop yit.

CHURCH -WARDEN AND CURATE

Naiiy, but tha mun speiik hout to the Baptises

here i' the town,
P'ur moast on 'cm talks agean tithe, an' I'd hke

tha to preach 'em down,
Fur thefyQ been a-preachin' mca down, they heve,

an' 1 haates 'em iiow.
Fur they leaved their nasty sins i' my pond, an' it

poison'd the cow.

GLOSSARY

r '

' Casselty,' casualty, chance weather.

' Haafe down wi' my haiiy,' while my grass is only half-
mown.

* Fingers an' toas,' a disease in turnips.
' Fall,' autumn.

* If t'one stick alongside t'uther,' if the one hold by the
other. One is pronounced like ' own.' ^

* Fun,' found.
'Gaainist,' nearest.

* Ta-year,' this year.

* Ivin,' ivy.

* Obstropulous,' obstreperous — here the Curate makes a
sign of deprecation.

* Hopple ' or * hobble,' to tie the legs of a skittish cow
when she is being milked.

' Heal'd,' bellowed.

In such words as ' torned,' ' turned,' * hurled,' the r is hardly
audible.

* Stag-tuckey,' turkey-cock.

' Height-year-howd,' eight-year-old.
« 'Owd,' hold.
' Pearky,' pert.

* Wo'ld,' the world. Short o.

* VVowd,' wold.

ly half-

by the

nakes a
ish cow

is hardly

CHARITY

((:-

i
I

HiiWiH faiiw

CHARITY

What am I doing, you say to m**, * .. isting the

sweet summer hours ' ?

Haven't you eyes ? I am dressii ^ the grave of a

woman with flowers.

For a woman min'd the world, as God's own

scriptures tell,
And a man ruin'd mine, but a woman, God bless

her, kept me from Hell.

.»•■»..-.*,.-■ ia «« .*»■ # ..» ,«t. .*.v5 ^^

;■

CHARITY

III

Love nie ? O yes, no doubt — how long — till you

threw me aside !

Dresses and laces ami jewels and never a ring for

the bride.

All very well just now to be calling me darling and

i I

?»

il.

sweet,

And after a while would it matter so much if I

came on the street?

You when I met you first — when he brought you I

— I turn'd away
And the hard blue eyes have it still, that stare of

a beast of prey.

'A.

mlmmmmi^0L

■ ^ ■ f ■-■ • •

»"** ■ ;/ -.nsw

CHARITY

You were his friend — you — you — when he prom-
ised to make me his bride,

And you knew that he meant to betray me — you
knew — you knew that he Hed.

/•I
t ■ 1

ill

He married an heiress, an orphan with half a shire

of estate, —
I sent him a desolate wail and a curse, when I

learn'd my fate.

VIII

For I used to play with the knife, creep down to
the river-shore,

Moan to myself ' one plunge — then quiet for ever-
more.'

'«

7«

CHARITY

Would the man have a touch of remorse when he

heard what an end was mine?

Or brag to his fellow rakes of his conquest over

their wine?

' i

Money — my hire — his money — I sent him back

what he gave, —
Will you move a little that way? your shadow falls

on the grave.

Two trains clash'd : then and there he was crush'd

in a moment and died^
But the new-wedded wife was unharm'd, tho' sitting

close at his side.

CHARITY

XII

She found my letter upon him, my wail of reproach

and scorn ;
I had cursed the woman he married, and him, and

the day I was born.

^11

XIII

They put him aside for ever, and after a week — no

more —

A stranger as welcome as Satan — a widow came to
my door ;

XIV

So I turn'd my face to the wall, I was mad, I was

raving-wild,
J was close on that hour of dishonour, the birth of

a baseborn child.

CHARITY

O you that can flatter your victims, and juggle, and

lie and cajole,
Man, can you even guess at the love of a soul for

a soul?

XVI

I had cursed her as woman and wife, and in wife

and woman I found

The tenderest Christ- like creature that ever stept

on the ground.

XVII

She watcii'd nie, she nursed nie, she fed me, she

sat day and night by my bed.
Till the joyless birthday came of a boy born happily

\\S

dead.

CHARITY

XVIII

And her name? what was it? I ask'd her. She

said with a sudden glow
On her patient face * My dear, I will tell you before
I go.'

XIX

And I when I learnt it at last, I shriek'd, I sprang

from my seat,
I wept, and I kiss'd her hands, I flung myself down

at her feet,

1 1

And we pray'd together for //////, for ///;// who had

given her the name.
She has left mc enough to live on. T need no

wnges of shame.

11 ', I

If-

ClIAKITY

XX!

She died of a fever caught when a nurse in a hos-
pital ward.

She is high in the Heaven of Heavens, she is face
to face with her Lord,

xxri

!»:

And He sees not her Hke anywhere in this pitiless

world of ours !
I have told you my tale, (iet you gone. I am

dressing her grave with flowers.

il'

KAPIOLANI

Kapiolani \va a great chicftaiiiess who lived in the
Sandwich Islands at the beginning of this century.
She won the cause of Christianity by openly defying the
priests of the terrible goddess Peele. In spite of their
threats of vengeance she ascended the volcano Mauna-
Loa, then clambered down over a bank of cinders 400
feet high to the great lake of lire (nine miles round)
— Kilauea — the home and haunt of the goddess, and
flung into the boiling lava the consecrated berries which
it was sacrileite for a woman to handle.

)

Wmkn from the terrors of Nature a people have

fashion'tl and won hip a Spirit o*" I'A'il,
Hlest be the Voice of the Teacher who calls to

tlUMll

' Set yourselves free !'

<ri

KAPWLANI

Noble the Saxon who hurl'd at his Idol a valorous

weapon in olden England

dreat and greater, and greatest of women, Island

! f(

heroine, Kapiolani
Clomb the mountain, and flung the berries, and
dared the Goddess, and freed the people

Of Hawa-i-ee !

A people believing that Peelc the (locUiess would

wallow in fiery riot and revel
On Kilauea,
Dance in a fountain of flame with her devils, or

shake with her thunders and shatter her

island.
Rolling her anger

KAPIOLANI

Thro' blasted valley and flaring forest in bbod-red

cataracts down to t';3 sea!

Ivong as the lava-light

Glares from the lava-lake

Dazing the starlight,

Long as the silvery vapour in daylight

Over the mountain

Floats, will the glory of Kapiolani be mingled with

either on Hawa-i-ee.

What said her Priesthood?

' Woe to this island if ever a woman should handle

or gather the berries of Peele !
Accursed were she !

KAPIOLANl

And woe to this island if ever a woman should

climb to the dwelling of Peel^ the Goddess 1

Accursed were she ! '

One from the Sunrise

Dawn'd on His people, and slowly before him

Vanish'd shadow-like

Gods and (Joddesses,

None hut the terrible Peele remaining as Kapiolani

ascended her momitain,
Haflfled her j)riesthood,
iiroke tlie 'I'aboo,
Dipt to the crater,
Call'd on the i'ower adored by the Christian, antl

crving 'I dare her, let Peelt; avenge herself!'
Into Ji.e n.uTie billow dash'd the berries, and drove

the dt'i; on from Hav/a-i-ee.

«,

•■M-'-.^fe^ £

upon human blood !

•t

1^!

THE DAWN

"You are hxit children.'"

Egyptian Priest to Solon.

Red of the Dawn !

Screams of a babe in the red-hot palms of a
Moloch of Tyre,
Man with his brotherless dinner on man in the

tropical wood,
Priests in the name of the Lord passing souls
thro' fire to the fire,
Head- hunters and boats of Dahomey that float

♦ I

77/A" DAll'N

;!'

,r<';

Red of the Dawn !

(lodless fury of peoples, and Christless frolic of
kings,
And the bolt of war dashing down upon cities

and blazing farms.
For Babylon was a child new-born, and Rome
was a babe in arms,
And London and Paris and all the rest are as yet
but in leading-strings.

Dawn not Day,
While scandal is mouthing a bloodless name at her
cannibal feast,

THE DAWN

And rake-ruin'd bodies and souls go down in a

common wreck,
And the Press of a thousand cities is prized for
it smells of the beast,
Or easily violates virgin Truth for a coin or a
cheque.

♦

i'.'

Dawn not Day !
Is it Shame, so few should have climb'd from the
dens in the level below,
Men, with a heart and a soul, no slaves of a

four-footed will?

But if twenty million of summers are stored in
the sunlight still,
We are far from the noon of man, there is time

for the race to grow.

THE DAWN

. «. 1 ' I

Red of the Dawn !

Is it turning a fainter reel? so be it, but when shall
we lay
The Ghost of the Brute that is walking and haunt-
ing us yet, and be free?
In a hundred, a thousand winters? Ah, what
will our children be.
The men of a hundred thousand, a million summers
away?

h v\

summers

FHK MAKING OF MAN

Where is one that, born of woman, altogether can

escape

From the lower world within him, moods of tiger,
or of ape?
Man as yet is being made, and ere the crown-
ing Age of ages.

Shall not ceon after aeon pass and touch him into
shape?

All about him shadow still, but, while the races

flower and fade.

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THE MAKING OF MAN

Prophet-eyes may catch a glory slowly gaining on
the shade,
Till the peoples all are one, and all their voices

blend in choric

) f

Hallelujah to the Maker ' It is finish'd. Man is

'' .;.

r ..!

made.'

■».'

ing on

voices

THE DREAMER

VI an is

On a midnight in midwinter when all but the

winds were dead,
* The meek shall inherit the earth ' was a Scripture

that rang thro' his head,
Till he dream 'd that a Voice of the Earth went

wailingly past him and said :

* I am losing the light of my Youth
And the Vision that led me of old,
And I clash with an iron Truth,
When I make for an Age of gold,
And I would that my race were run,
For teeming with liars, and madmen, and

knaves,

^t^'T'

THE DREAMER

And wearied of Autocrats, Anarchs, and
Slaves,

And darken'd with doubts of a Faith that

saves,

And crimson with battles, and hollow with

graves,

To the wail of my winds, and the moan of

my waves

I whirl, and I follow the Sun.'

Was it only the wind of the Night shrilling out

Desolation and wrong
Thro' a dream of the dark? Yet he thought that

he answer'd her wail with a song —

Moaning your losses, O Earth,
Heart-weary and overdone !

THE DREAMER

But all's well that ends well,
Whirl, and follow the Sun !

He is racing from heaven to heaven
And less will be lost than won,

For all's well that ends well,
Whirl, and follow the Sun !

The Reign of the Meek upon earth,
O weary one, has it begun?

But all's well that ends well,
Whirl, and follow the Sun !

For moans will have grown sphere-music

Or ever your race be run !
And all's well that ends well.

Whirl, and follow the Sun !

I'M:

MECHANOPHILUS

(In the time of the first railways)

Now first we stand and understand,
And sunder false from true,

And handle boldly with the hand,
And see and shape and do.

Dash back that ocean with a pier,

Strow yonder mountain flat,
A railway there, a tunnel here.

Mix me this Zone with that !

Bring me my horse — my horse ? my wings

That I may soar the sky,
90

MECHANorniL us

For Thought into the outward springs,
I find her with the eye.

O will she, moonlike, sway the main,
And bring or chase the storm.

Who was a shadow in the brain,
And is a living form?

i
I

Far as the Future vaults her skies,
From this my vantage ground

To those still-working energies
I spy nor term nor bound.

As we surpass our fathers' skill,

Our sons will shame our own ;
A thousand things are hidden still

And not a hundred known.

■r^ — " •

;- ' f

MECHANOPHILUS

And

had

some prophet

spoken

true

ii '

* !];^;

.1 !

Of all we shall achieve,
The wonders were so wildly new

That no man would believe.

Meanwhile, my brothers, work, and wield

The forces of to-day,
And plow the Present like a field,

And garner all you may !

You, what the cultured surface grows.
Dispense with careful hands :

Deep under deep for ever goes.
Heaven over heaven expands.

^ield

RIFLEMEN FORM!

There is a sound of thunder afar,

Storm in the South that darlvens the day !

Storm of battle and thunder of war !

Well if it do not roll our way.
Storm, Storm, Riflemen form !
Ready, be ready against the storm !
Riflemen, Riflemen, Riflemen form !

Be not deaf to the sound that warns,

Be not guU'd by a despot's plea !

Are figs of thistles? or grapes of thorns?

How can a despot feel with the Free?

Kr/'/.F-.y/uV /VRAf

Form, Form, Riflemen Form !
Ready, be ready to meet the storm !
Riflemen, Riflemen, Riflemen form !

Let your reforms for a moment go !

Look to your butts, and take good aims !

Better a rotten borough or so

Than a rotten fleet and a city in flames !

Storm, Storm, Riflemen form !

Ready, be ready against the storm !

Riflemen, Riflemen, Riflemen form !

Form, be ready to do or die !
Form in Freedom's name and the Queen's 1
True we have got — such a faithful ally
That only the Devil can tell what he means.

RIl'LEMEX FORM

Form, Form, Riflemen Form !
Ready, be ready to meet the storm !
Riflemen, Riflemen, Riflemen form ! '

^ I have been asked to republish this old poem, which was
first published in ' The Times,' May 9, 1859, before the Volun-
teer movement began.

■i

n's!

eans.

•i t

THE TOURNEY

Ralph would fight in Edith's sight,

For Ralph was Edith's lover,
Ralph went down like a fire to the fight,
Struck to the left and struck to the right,

RoH'd them over and over.

p |i

'(lallant Sir Ralph,' said the king.

Casques were crack'd and hauberks hack'd.

Lances snapt in sunder,
Rang the stroke, and sprang the blood,
Knights were thwack'd and riven, and hew'd

Like broad oaks with thunder.

* O what an arm,' said the king.
96

kVSSlSMlft- '•^ ♦'.V* ->6. «Il--».^':.

I ,* . ^, rjif..^

THE TOURNEY

Edith bow'd her stately head,

Saw them lie confounded,
Edith Montfort bow'd her head,
Crown'd her knight's, and flush'd as red

As poppies when she crown'd it.
'Take her Sir Ralph,' said the king.

f :li '^

THE bp:e and the flower

The bee buzz'd

e heat.

I am faint for ^our honey, my sweet.'

3' H »■ I
1 }

The flower said 'Take it my dear,
For now is the spring of the year.

So come, come

Hum

I '

And the l)ec ImizzM down from the heat.

And the bee buzz'd up in the cold

When the flower was wither'd and old.
98

1 {

THE BEE AND THE FLOWER

'Have you still any honey, my dear?'
She said ' It's the fall of the year,

But come, come !

I '

Hum ! '

And the bee buzz'd off in the cold.

i 5

\\\

THE WANDERER

Thk gleam of household sunshine ends,
And here no longer can I rest;
Farewell ! — You will not speak, my friends,
Unfriendly of your parted guest.

O well for him that finds a friend.
Or makes a friend where'er he come,
And loves the world from end to end,

And wanders on from home to home !
too

THE WANDERER

lOI

O happy he, and fit to live,
On whom a hapi)y home has power
To make him trust his life, and give
His fealty to the halcyon hour!

I count you kind, 1 hold you true;
But what may follow who can tell?
Give me a hand — and you — and you —
And deem me grateful, and farewell 1

POETS AND CRITICS

This thing, that thing is the rage,
HeltPr-skelter runs the age ;

Minds on this round earth of ours

8 i , t

Vary hke the leaves and flowers,

Fashion'd after certain laws ;
Sing thou low or loud or sweet,
All at all points thoii canst not meet.
Some will pass and some 'vill pause.

What is true at last will tell :
Few at first will place thee well ;

102

POETS AND CRITICS

I01

Some too low would have thee shine,
Some too high — no fault of thine —

Hold thine own, and work thy will !
Year will graze the heel of year.
But seldom comes the poet here,

And the Critic's rarer still.

f(^

i«.

A VOICE SPAKE OUT OF THE SKIES

A Voice spake out of the skies
To a just man and a wise —

The world and all within it

t I

Will only last a minute ! '
And a l)eggar began to cry
* Food, food or I die ' !

Is it worth his while to eat,

Or mine to give him meat,

If the world and all within it

AVere nothing the next minute?

104

DOUBT AND PRAYKR

iff

.•r

Tho' Sin too oft, when smitten by Thy rod,
Rail at * Blind Fate ' with many a vain ' Alas ! '
From sin thro' sorrow into Thee we pass
By that same path our true forefathers trod ;
And let not Reason fiiil me, nor the sod
Draw from my death Thy living flower and grass.
Before I learn that Love, which is, and was

II.'

My Father, and my Brother, and my (lod !

105

io6

DOUBT AND PRAYER

HI,

f:'!

Steel me with patience! soften me with grief!
Let blow the trumpet strongly while 1 pray,

Till this embattled wall of unbelief

My prison, not my fortress, fall away !
Then, if thou wiliest, let my day be brief,
So Thou wilt strike Thy glory thro' the day.

% '

iry:.

i:'^"

FAITH

Doubt no longer that the Highest is the wisest

and the best,
Let not all that saddens Nature blight thy hope or

break thy rest,
Quail not at the fiery mountain, at the shipwreck,

or the rolling
'l^hunder, or the rending earthquake, or the famine,

or the pest !

; i

i f j

107

io8

FATTH

Neither mourn if human creeds be lower than the

heart's desire !

Thro' the gates that bar the distance comes a gleam
of what is higher.
Wait till Death has flung them open, when the

man will make the Maker

Dark no more with human hatreds in the glare of

deathless fire !

m '

( \

[ft .r

^an the

a gleam

len the

;lare of

THE SILENT VOICES*

When the dumb Hour, clothed in black,
Brings the Dreams about my bed,
Call me not so often back,
Silent Voices of the dead.
Toward the lowland ways behind me.
And the sunlight that is gone !
Call me rather, silent voices,
Forward to the starry track
Glimmering up the heights beyond me
On, and always on !

* Copyright, 1892, by Macmillan & Co.

109

(iOI) AND THE UNIVKRSE

Will my tiny spark of being wholly vanish in your

deeps and heights?
Must my day be dark bv reason, O ye Heavens,

of your boundless nights,

!« i

Rush of Suns, and roll of systems, and your fiery

clash of meteorites?

' Spirit, nearing yon dark portal at the limit of thy

human state,

in your

eavens.

r fiery

GOD AND THE V XI VERSE

III

Fear not thou the hidden purpose of that Power

which alone is great,
Nor the myriad world, His shadow, nor the silent

Opener of the (iate.'

of thy

I i

THE DEATH

OF THE

DUKE OF CLARENCE AND AVONDALE

ffo tbe Pounurs.

The bridal garland falls upon the bier,
The shadow of a crown, that o'er him hung,
Has vanish'd in the shadow cast by Death.

So princely, tender, truthful, reverent, pure —
Mourn ! That a world-wide Empire mourns with

you,
iia

DEATH OF THE DUKE OF CLARENCE 113

That all the Thrones are clouded by your loss,
Were slender solace. Yet be comforted ;
For if this earth be ruled by Perfect Love,
Then, after his brief range of blameless days,
The toll of funeral in an Angel ear
Sounds happier than the merriest marriage-bell.
The face of Death is toward the Sun of Life,

His shadow darkens earth : his truer name

Is * Onward,' no discordance in the roll
And march of that Eternal Harmony

Whereto the worlds beat time, tho' faintly heard
Until the great Hereafter. Mourn in hope !

THE END

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view of the large and rich inheritance that lies open to them in the poetry of
their country. — J. C. Shaikh, in Academy.

T know of nothing more excellent or more indispensable than such a work,
not only to the student of literature, but to the general reader. It is but
simple justice to say that the book has no rival and is altogether unique. —
Prof. Arthur H. Dundon, Normal College, New York City.

TO BE PUBLISHED SHORTLY.

i2mo, cloth. 52.50.

A HISTORY OF

EARLY ENGLISH LITERATURE.

By Rev. STOPFORD A. BROOKE.

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THE WORKS OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARK.

Edited by W. Aldis Wright, >LA., LL.D.

9 Vols. Large 8vo. $3.00 each.

This well-known text was originally published in 1863-6, and was at once
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THE

LITER/ RY HISTORY OF ENGLAND.

In the End of the Eighteenth and the Beginning
OF the Nineteenth Centiry.

By MRS. OLIPHANT.

3 Vols. i2mo. $3.00. In a Box.

We should be puzzled, indeed, to name any similar work of more entranc-
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CATIONS.

• (I

THE

PEARE.

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KESPEARK.
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■6, and was at once
as been for many
procurable at high
lated, bur has been
ving editor) might
ost recent textual
t is hoped that the
ts final form, may
ar and the general

NGLAND.

Beginning

: of more entranc-
lardly be any dis-
al accuracy with
iterature from the
Vori Tribune.

YORK.