ft''- "bV" .4?"-* y >^. ■^0^ ,^ ^°-nj. ^^-n^. »^ ..V^ ^vrv^>. 'oxb' ^ ^^% •^^ SICUT PATRIBUS AND OTHER VERSE B Y OSCAR FAY ADAMS PUBLISHED BY THE AUTHOR LIBRARY of CONGRESS Two Copies Received WAR 6 1906 ^ CoDyr ^ CoDyriffht Entry CLASS Ct XXc. No. ^ CO^Y B. COPYRIGHT, 1906 BY OSCAR FAY ADAMS THE AUTHOR TO HIS DEAR FRIEND JAMES EELLS This Edition of Sicut Patribus and Other Verse, printed by Winthrop B. Jones at Boston, Massachusetts, during the Winter of 1906 consists of Five Hundred and Ten Copies of which this is Number CONTENTS Sicut Patribus Sicut Patribus II Cathedral Verse The Front of Peterborough Cathedral . 25 At the Tomb of William of Wykeham 27 At Lincoln .... 28 Evensong at Norwich Cathedral 30 In the Galilee at Durham 32 In Waltham Abbey . 83 In the Crypt at Winchester 37 On a Grave at Christchurch, Hants . . 38 Miserrimus . . . . 39 At the Grave of Jane Carlyle . 40 The Burning of Conrad's Choir 41 III Miscellaneous A Withered Rose 50 Inevitable 50 Black Rock, Nantasket 50 December's Wooing . 51 Reality 52 Dear Heart, Believe . 53 Cambridge 54 Naboth 56 On Truro Moors 60 At Parting 61 Ut Quid Domine 62 O Friend Estranged . 64 The Artist's Last Picture 65 In Peace and Quietness 67 In the Library at Elmwood 69 Hull 71 Which 72 What Can Drear December Sa y 78 Horatio Nelson Powers 74 A Memory at Christmastide 74 Love Is So Sweet 75 Before the Gate of Storms 76 At Bay 77 A Laggard Spring 79 IV Post-Laureate Idylls SECOND SERIES The Pleading of Dagonet The Vision of Sir Lionel The Pleasaunce of Maid Marian Gawain and Marjorie , 83 92 102 111 POST-LAUREATE IDYLLS SICUT PATRIBUS A Poem read at the annual meeting of Tufts Chapter, Phi Beta Kappa, June 17, 1902 I. Not mine, not mine the hand to sweep the strings With note triumphal, on this hallowed day. I am no prophet to foretell smooth things. Or choose a nation's glory for my lay. The time for paeans is not yet, or past ; Rather the shuddering call that strikes us dumb. When, unto consciences' aroused at last. The mutterings of a grim tomorrow come. These be no times for lightsome song : The shadow of a mighty wrong Darkens the path before. Clings like a mist behind ; We crouch, who stood of yore ; We grope, who now are blind. 10 SICUr PATRIBUS Alas for us! the sons of patriot sires. Breathing the air of freedom from our birth. Who might have kindled in far lands the fires Of liberty, transfigurer of earth ; Who might have raised a grateful people up To drain deep draughts from freedom's brimming cup; Who might have shown them the sure way to peace — Alas for us! who did no deeds like these. II. Alas for us! who light the fires of hate Instead ; who dash from eager lips the wnne Of freedom, crying: **Ours, the island state! 'Tis w^e must hold it by the right divine Of Saxon peoples, whose benignant sway Inferior races may not once gainsay." Ah me! what sounds are these. Borne o'er Pacific seas? The wail of a people's dirge. That swells as the gathering surge. Filling our ears with shame. Staining our country's name. SICUT PATRIBUS 11 ) 1 How do we brand the sullen Turk who makes Armenian villages a smoking waste, A heap of carnage ; or his pleasure takes In torture by his hapless victims faced ? No more may we, our Pharisaic hands Uplifting, call for vengeance on the Turk, While in far tropic isles our armed bands Engage, relentless, in like cursed work. III. In shadowy ranks before me seem to rise The men of Concord and of Bunker Hill : Brave souls, who wrung from England that fair prize, A nation's freedom, that we cherish still. With questioning, sad tjQSy As in a strange surprise. They stand That plain heroic band, With parted lips, as they who do behold In deep amaze some undreamed horror wrought. And pant for action, as in days of old To Freedom's altar each his offering brought. 12 SICUT PATRIBUS Ah, might they speak! these shadowy risen sires. Who doubts what words of theirs would shame our souls ? The fierce rebukings of our mad desires. The stern contempt for our unworthy goals. They never learned in diplomatic phrase To hide the scheming that plain speech would shame. Their words, straightforward as their clear-eyed gaze. Revealed their instant purpose, praise or blame. But we, Heirs of a land made free By blood and strife of these. Have walked in stranger ways : Unto new gods our knees Have bent, our lips sung praise. IV. ** ToUy sons of ours!" J seem to hear them say Drunk with the wine of conquest, you ! What sign of kinship can ye show today To prove, past cavil, this your lineage true ? We grasped the sword to battle for the right To stand as freemen forth before the world. SICUT PATRIBUS 13 ; 'Gainst subject peoples is your armour dight, 'j For greed of conquest is your flag unfurled. \ ToUy sons of ours, who turn your swords' keen blade \ Against the brown man, fighting for his own ? j Intent on hearkening the behest of trade ' Your human hearts grow cold as any stone. ToUy sons of ours, who fling aside the law ^ And doom the shuddering Negro to the stake ] In wild revenge, or cause the halter draw, j Sans judge and jury, as your choice may take — ! Ton, carry into distant tropic lands ; The flag of progress, and the Christian cross — Alas! your house is founded on the sands ! Your pride is baseless, and your glory, loss. \ Not from unworthy palms Will men receive the alms \ You think to dole. ■ The freedom-loving soul ■ Seeks only that, and that denied, he spurns Your vaunted progress, and your profi^ered Christ, ; Meets all your wiles with wiles of his, and turns i A scornful foeman, whom you deemed enticed. False to the lessons that ye learned in youth, i How dare ye pray for victory in your strife .? \ 14 SICUT PATRIBUS ToUy sons of ours, that with no thought of ruth Would slay the native, pleading for his life! Ah, no! and yet. Who are ye, set In this same land we died to free ? Ye bear our names, and if it be Our blood is yours, then did we die in vain ; The pillars that we raised you overturn ; Unholy purpose binds you with its chain. And all we strove for you would fain unlearn." V. They fade from sight, these builders of our State, And in their stead appear the youthful shades Of those, our brothers, whom we sent but late To wage fierce combat in Philippine glades ; To gather glory, where no glory waits ; To strive for honour, where no honour calls ; To bar with bayonets the opening gates Whereat the Malay, faint for freedom, falls. ** O Motherland!" they cry : *< It had been bliss to die Fighting to save the State, But our ignoble fate Doomed us to die in vain ; SI CUT PATRIBUS 15 Our blood and pain Spent but for naught ; Our hands, that might have brought Heahng and peace to a long subject race. Red with their blood, instead ; the crowning grace Of conflict, a just cause, denied our souls. While o'er our heads the tide of battle rolls. O Motherland! that you should send us then To die for conquest, who had died for men!" VI. These, too, depart, and in a shadowy cloud A host of swarthy figures 'round me crowd Using a stranger speech As from the lips of each Escapes the bitter cry of men deceived. "We trusted you," the voices seem to urge. ** We in your faith and purpose true believed. Till, like a blow from Heaven, fell the scourge. And in sad truth we learned Our friends to foes had turned. And Spanish fetters were reforged anew. Ye might have had our love, who gain a hate Undying, might have garnered praises through The years to come from a new island State, 16 SICUr PATRIBUS \ But hearkening to greed, : Turned from us in our need. And, blindly reckoning on our feebleness, ; Struck down the hand that had been raised to bless. j How have ye dealt with those who would be free j As ye yourselves ? What lessons have ye taught ; Of gentleness, and high humanity, \ Of Christian purpose and of noble thought ? ; Our smiling fields are waste j By Red War's fiery haste ; i Our smoking villages ; Proclaim the flight of Peace, 1 And on the torturer's ear unheeded falls ' ( His victim's cry. Beside a hundred streams \ The unburied brown man lies, nor frenzied calls \ Of wife nor child shall rouse him from his dreams. < VII. \ A nation's honour trembles to its fall j When, at the call ; Of angry pride It swerves aside i From well-worn paths of truth and right ; And, conscious of its sad mistake, -? Speeds ever on, intent to fight 'Gainst right itself sooner than make Confession : *' We have evil wrought, \ SICUT PATRIBUS 17 But, having sinned, will sin no more ; We own our course with peril fraught. And turn to ways we trod of yore." Alas for us! who close resentful ears Against the urgings of that inner voice. And council take of our unworthy fears That press us onward to an evil choice. The Nemesis that follows swift upon The man or nation that provokes its wrath. Hath followed in our track, nor will begone Though flights of angels hovered o'er our path. The swift decay From day to day Of high ideals, purpose great. And brave imaginings for the State — The lust of empire, pushing to the wall The weaker races — greed of trade that pays No heed to aught but sordid gain — these all To our amaze Our shameful new inheritance are made. Blinding our eyes to deeds of violence. Closing our ears against the plea for aid. Cheating our souls with shallowest pretence. Alas! that we Who flamed with anger at the deeds of Spain 18 SICUT PATRIBUS Done in our Western World, should stoop to be Her copy in the far Pacific main. Calling a world to witness that her crimes Demanded judgement swift and sure, we caught The sword and smote. And lo! the changeful times Reveal us to the same tribunal brought. VIII. Ill counsel they Who urge essay Persistent in a dubious course Though all the gathering signs, presage Moral defeat, and cry, perforce, ** *Tis shameful weakness in our age. Not to press forward what is once begun." He is the coward who would seek to shun The consequence of turning back Upon his outward track ; Who fears the foolish word of fools pronounced Upon him, more than good men's honest scorn. The moral weakling he who hath renounced His better self, and soulless walks forelorn, And as the man, the nation that persists In ways mistaken, knowing its mistake ; Almighty purpose halts not nor desists Till erring peoples full confession make. SICUT PATRIBUS 19 IX. Not all in vain Ye died, who dauntless laid With strife and pain The keelson of our Ship of State Though we have blindly strayed From out the narrow path of late. Somewhere within us there abides The passion for a righteous cause We learned from you. The swelling tides Of misdirected purpose pause Or ever they o'erwhelm us quite ; The waning light Ye kindled flames anew As we review Our heritage, and looking back Upon our erring track, Make high resolve again to be Worthy that ye Should own us as true sons and heirs. Mindful the while the alien shares With us at Freedom's gracious banquet spread. Nor e'en the humblest turns from thence unfed. 20 SICUT PATRIBUS X. But you, our brothers, whose young lives Too soon were quenched across the seas — Are there no balms that ruth contrives ? No words to give your souls release ? Our erring Motherland Is slow to understand. But every life ye gave Shall help at last to save Her from herself, to bring her to her knees In penitence, and therefore not for naught. Ye, wrongly striving, passed. From you she caught The first misgivings that disturbed her peace That was not peace, her poor content That all her ways were Wisdom-sent. XI. Nor yet in vain ye died, our foes, whom we. But for our blinded eyes, had made our friends : The freedom that ye strove for yet shall be The guerdon, and the eternal sky that bends Above both lands may see With joy the Filipino's flag unfurled And a new nation born into the world. SI CUT PATRIBUS 21 The memory of those who fell ] In combat stern for that high end \ Shall sanctify your State, shall tell \ A never-wearying tale, shall send ; Its inspiration unto those who stay ! Behind to welcome in the longed for day, ] And fill them with such love for their fair land • They never understand \ That have not freely poured their choicest wine Upon the altar of a cause divine. XII. O God of Nations! we have sorely sinned. ^ Thy wind { Of destiny we may not stand before. -\ Thy open door 1 Of pardon close not yet ] Upon a people who | Repent. O God! forget \ Our sin. Let all we do ^ But show our penitence. Renew our mind. ■ Point us the way we should remorseful tread, ■ That we, remembering with tears, may find \ While we have sinned, indeed. Truth is not dead, ! Though we, for gain, \ Against her turned our arms, ■ And would have slain \ Her with our selfish harms! i CATHEDRAL VERSE THE FRONT OF PETERBOROUGH CATHEDRAL He reared the minster portal long ago. The ** Golden Borough's" chiefest architect. Scooped in its rocky face three caverns deep. Piled 'gainst their sides aspiring carven reeds. Banded as those that stand in neighbour fens. Raised o'er this work of his a soaring mass Of pediment, and pinnacle, and tower. And spire — then passed into the darkness whence He sprang, and no man knoweth of his name. Within the minster aisles lie abbots old. Frowning in marble as they frowned in flesh. And all who will may know them as they were ; But he that wrought the centuries' delight. The glorious minster's crowning grace, lives not In stiffly sculptured effigy like these. Nor on cathedral fabric-rolls are writ The letters of his name. What matters it? 26 CATHEDRAL VERSE He breathed one song, this singer of the past. And all the air yet trembles to his tones ; He wrote his verse across the minster front Where all the world might see, and not one line The world has lost through centuries' sun and storm. What matters that he left his verse unsigned ? What boots it how he looked to those who saw ? Ah! Peterborough's poet questionless Knew well how scant the worth of name beside Achievement's crowning skill. The little deed May fitly claim the signature's reward Scrawled underneath, but not the master's work Needs blurring with the master's name, and thus The triple gate of Peterborough gleams Through all the ages from its maker's times To these, as fair as only that is fair Which has no need that men should ask **Who wrought ? ' * CATHEDRAL VERSE 27 AT THE TOMB OF WILLIAM OF WYKEHAM Builder and prelate, dust five hundred years. Who lent the Norman's handivv^ork such grace The Norman never knew, that Walkelin's nave Men call the nave of Wykeham, what dost thou In some far world beyond our ken ? Palm pressed To palm five centuries have seen thee here Enchantried, and from scholar lips thy praise At Winton and at Oxford echoes still. Dost somewhere rest, as this thy marble rests. Or art thou, builder-bishop, evermore Striving in other fields, in nobler toils. Serenely glad the while as one that sees From some high place, untouched by time, past Grow ever vaster as the centuries fall ? 28 CATHEDRAL VERSE AT LINCOLN When I went up the minster tower. The minster clock rang out the hour ; The restless organ far below Sent tides of music to and fro. That rolled through nave and angel choir. Whose builder knew what lines inspire. And filled the lantern space profound With climbing waves of glorious sound. As I went up the minster tower What time the chimes gave forth the hour. When I stood on the minster tower The lark above me sent a shower Of happy notes, that filtered through The clouds that flecked the sky's soft blue. And mingled with the nearer tones Of jackdaw calls and stockdove moans. While every breeze that round me swirled Brought some sweet murmur from the world. As I stood on the minster tower What time the lark forsook her bower. CATHEDRAL FERSE 29 When I came down the minster tower. Again the chimes proclaimed the hour. Again the mighty organ rolled Its thunders through the arches old. While blended with its note so strong Soft rose and fell the evensong : And all the earth, it seemed to me. Was still by music held in fee. As I came down the minster tower What time the clock chimed slow the hour. 30 CATHEDRAL VERSE EVENSONG AT NORWICH CATHEDRAL Quickly 'midst these arches gray- Dies the short November day ; Through the nave the shadows march, Muffling column, pier and arch. Fining huge triforium With their forces fast they come ; Sw^eeping through the long clerestory. Blotting from the sight the hoary Ribbed and sculptured roof at last Whence the day more slowly past ; While the great choir windows' ghmmer Grows each moment fainter, dimmer, — Now the gloom hides everything! Sudden, then, the tower bells ring. And along that mighty nave. Dark before as deepest cave. Lines of light start forth and burn. Sharp revealing every turn. Curve, or line, though far aloof In the groins of yonder roof. Carved by chisel mediaeval. Smile of saint or leer of devil. CATHEDRAL FERSE 31 Under these clear lines of fire Move the purple-cassocked choir. As through aisles and arcades long Rolls the tide of evensong. And the organ's undertone Trembles through the walls of stone. While the anthem note is telling, «* Oh, how amiable Thy dwelling.** Swells and falls the song of praise In the mellow music maze. Echoes from each far arcade Like the songs by seraphs made. Wanders on from wall to wall. Fainter seems, then ceases all. Till the chanter from his seat Murmurs benedictions sweet. Then the organ peals once more While across the footworn floor Choir and hooded canons go. Two by two and moving slow. Till the last white robe is made Invisible in columned shade. And a moment after then. Floats a solemn, sweet **Amen!" 32 CATHEDRAL VERSE Soon the lines of fire die out. Darkness folds its arms about All within these mighty walls. When the last faint echo falls Night and silence join their files In the long cathedral aisles. IN THE GALILEE AT DURHAM CONFESSION We have erred and strayed from Thy ways : We have followed too much our desires. While we hid from Thy heart-searching gaze. We have erred and strayed from Thy ways. And have wandered in sin many days. Where no breath from Thy presence inspires. We have erred and strayed from Thy ways : We have followed too much our desires. CATHEDRAL VERSE 33 IN WALTHAM ABBEY Here is the temple he builded, he, Harold, the bravest of Saxons. Somewhere near it he lies, where once rose the canons' high altar. Altar and rood and choir walls indeed have long crumbled to ruin ; Only the nave abides yet, with its double arcade of huge columns, Carven eight centuries since with deep groovings of spiral and chevron. Here when the traitorous Tostig, his brother, had fallen at Stamford, Hard by Northumbrian Derwent, with Harold Hardrada, the Norseman, Came, with a few in his train, the victor. King Harold, the Saxon. Afar in the north the foes of his England were broken and flying ; Anear in the south the foes of his England were gathered together. 34 CATHEDRAL VERSE There in the north had he shivered the might of fierce Harold Hardrada ; Now in the south must he scatter the armies of William the Norman, He that would make England free, he, Harold, the great son of Godwin. So, as he entered the fane that in happier time he had builded. Slowly he trod the long nave till he came before the high altar. There bowed him down to the pavement, and tarried prostrate and silent. Shadows of morning had shortened to midday and once more had lengthened Ere he rose up from the stones, that, it may be, had heard his petitions, God and they only, for no human ear heard aught in that silence. Who may tell what were the thoughts of the king in those hours of abasement ? CATHEDRAL VERSE 35 Better than he knew no one the power of the Norman invader. Better than he who should know the strength or the weakness of England ? Was it foretold, as he lay there in humble, silent entreaty. What was to hap on the morrow, who was to win in the conflict ? Was it revealed that the day at Senlac should be William's, not Harold's, Or was it left in the veil of the future, dark wrapt from foreknowledge ? This only is told us : That when the long vigil was ended and Harold, Rising, had passed down the nave to the door at the westward, and turning. Faced yet again the high altar, the great rood before it moved slowly. Leaned itself forward, then bowed as in pity, to Harold. 36 CATHEDRAL VERSE So runs the legend of Waltham concerning that day ere the battle. Forth from the abbey he went on that evening in early October, Mustered his legions together at London and marched to the southward. On to the hill of Senlac, where he pitched his camp on the morrow. On to the gloom of defeat and of death at the hands of the Norman, On to the glory of death for the earldom of Wessex and England! This is the shrine of his building : Here his foot- steps awakened the echoes ( Echoes reverberate still through eight centuries lost in the darkness) On that far distant day when he moved 'mid these arches in anguish of spirit. CATHEDRAL VERSE 37 IN THE CRYPT AT WINCHESTER | DE PROFUNDIS 1 Out of the deep I cry to Thee \ Who notest e'en the sparrow's fall : I Lord, be merciful to me! ^ 1 may not rise unless set free From burdens that my soul enthrall : J Out of the deep I cry to Thee. \ I strive, yet fail, and seem to be i The sport of fate, while doubts appall : j O Lord, be merciful to me! '\ Dark is my path ; I may not see j How good is yet the fruit of all : ] Out of the deep I cry to Thee. i ..1 O let my way with Thine agree ; i (My way, o'erhung as with a pall :) \ O Lord, be merciful to me ! Incline Thine ear unto my plea ; J Break not the reed, but hear my call : l Out of the deep I cry to Thee, ; O Lord, be merciful to me! \ 38 CATHEDRAL FERi>E ON A GRAVE IN CHRISTCHURCH, HANTS Turning from Shelley's sculptured face aside. And pacing thoughtfully the silent aisles Of the grey church that overlooks the smiles Of the glad Avon hastening its tide To join the seaw^ard-winding Stour, I spied Close at my feet a slab among the tiles That paved the minster, where the sculptor's files Had graven only *«Died of Grief," beside The name of her who slept below. Sad Soul ! A century has fled since kindly death Cut short that life which nothing knew but _ grief. And still your fate stirs pity. Yet the whole Wide world is full of graves like yours, for breath Of sorrow kills as oft as frost the leaf. CATHEDRAL VERSE 39 MISERRIMUS This is the sole inscription on the stone which covers the remains of the Reverend Thomas Morris, in the north walk of the cloisters at Worcester Cathedral. He was a Minor Canon of Worcester who refused to take the oath of allegiance to William III., and was consequently reduced to great poverty. He died at the age of eighty- eight, and at his request this single word was placed upon his tombstone. **Most wretched one!" No, not to him belongs Misery's preeminence in this sad world's sight Who suiFereth for conscience and the right. As he deems right. To him the scourging thongs Of adverse fortune and the countless wrongs His fellows cast upon him are too light Afflictions to endure forever. Spite Has never hushed one note of heavenly songs. But he that gains the plaudits of the crowd For deeds unworthy, hears men name his sins As virtues, and thereof wax emulous, — He only that such shameful honour wins, (Not this non-juring priest), should cry aloud Past hope, '* Miserrimus! Miserrimus!^'* 40 CATHEDRAL VERSE AT THE GRAVE OF JANE CARLYLE HADDINGTON ABBEY Here on your grave as evening falls. Sunk 'mid the turf and daisies. Within these roofless abbey walls, I read a husband's praises. Of you to whom in life he showed So little love and kindness. But on your gravestone overflowed In vain remorse for blindness. Not for his pain my eyes are wet. But for your lot so bitter. What is to me his weak regret ? His silence had been fitter. CATHEDRAL VERSE 41 THE BURNING OF CONRAD'S CHOIR, A. D. 1174 Ger-vase, a monk of Christ Church, Canterbury, speaks : Ninety long years have I dwelt here, and much have I seen in that space. I was the least of the monks when first I came to this place. Now is there none in the convent that numbers more years than I ; An' God wills I may call them a hundred before my time comes to die. I can remember the building of Conrad's great, glorious choir ; Conrad, the wonderful mason, and, after Ernulphus, our prior. Month after month wrought the workmen, and year after year rang the blows Of hammer and trowel on stonework till all that fair building arose. When they had end King Henry, and David king of the Scots, Came hither with bishops in train each bringing from holiest spots Some priceless relic to lay in that mighty cathedral of ours. 42 CATHEDRAL VERSE Never since Solomon hallowed the Temple to Heavenly Powers Did mortal behold such a sight as I saw on that far distant day As twice round the walls with loud chanting passed the gorgeous and endless array. Forty years after I watched all one night with the rest in this place. While beside us tall candles threw flickers of light on a murdered man's face. Becket, our bishop, it was, by those knights so wickedly slain Just as the bell rang for vespers and we had assembled again. From behind Saint Benedict's altar I saw the foul murder begun. And there, with his half-severed arm, fled Grim when the murder was done. Never thought 1 a far woefuller sight than this to behold Only a few years after, ere the summer had quite waxen old. Feeble indeed is our wisdom and we know not what shall betide. While above and beneath and around us the hosts of Almighty abide. CATHEDRAL VERSE 43 Midnight had come and the prior had bidden me watch till the day. After our habit at Christ Church, where the bones of the great Dunstan lay. So through the cloister I went at the hour my watch should begin Till I came to where Becket was slain by those terrible minions of sin. There, as I stayed for a moment, to say a short prayer for the dead, I saw a red glow 'mid the arches, and on through the transept I sped And up the long steps to the choir : ah, woe for the terrible sight! From the steps to the shrine of Saint Dunstan the choir was ruddy with light. For flames had curled round the stalls and stretched themselves up to the roof. And, e'en as I gazed, caught the rafters and roared as the sea up aloof. 44 CATHEDRAL VERSE They leaped from one beam to another, and the carven work melted like snow ; They surged up around the shrine pillars that bent like a tightly stretched bow ; And onward they rolled in vast billows ; the place was a horror of fire : The holiest spot in all England, our Conrad's glorious choir. Anon came the prior and the brothers : the people streamed in through the nave And they looked at the fiery tempest, and a horrible cry they gave That rang through the great nave arches, and rose o'er the dull roar of flame. As they called on the Lord in their madness and cursed his most reverend name. Still the surges of fire whirled upward till the choir roof crashed to the floor. And the flames mounted up to the heavens while the people blasphemed yet the more. CATHEDRAL FERSE 45 They tore out their hair in their frenzy ; they beat at the walls with their hands. And they caught at the stones in the pavement as the wild waves clutch at the sands ; They dashed their heads 'gainst the pillars till blood was sprent over the space ; And they burst into terrible singing, as demons had stood in their place. ** Now a curse on Saint Wilfred of Ripon, and a curse on Saint Blasius of Rome ! And curse upon curse light on Dunstan ; the deep pit of hell be his home. May Saint Ouen lie with him in torment ; Saint Swithun be doomed to despair ; And the rest who are snugly enshrined here be torn by the fiends of the air. For they sleep, and the glory of Conrad is past in a moment of time : They sleep, and the enemy cometh and despoileth the altar sublime. 46 CATHEDRAL VERSE <'And a curse upon God in His heaven, who suiFers such evils to be ; And curses, too, on His Son, who refuseth our anguish to see ; And a curse on the Holy Spirit, that to save Hfts never an arm ; And a thrice bitter curse upon Mary, who will not defend from such harm The temple that Conrad hath builded in honour of Jesus, her Son ; And curses, too, on the angels ; away with them, every one! For the glory of Conrad is passing ; our God is as stubble or stone ; Let us turn from His worship forever, and bow us to Satan alone!" And now through the open choir roof a wind from the seaward there drave That lashed the flames into fury and swept them forth to the nave ; CATHEDRAL VERSE 47 And the people fled before them as chaffs when a whirlwind is blown. Or as leaves in the front of a tempest hurried on betwixt high cliffs of stone. And hushed was the voice of blaspheming while high rose the roar of the flames Where the people had stood in their madness reviling the thrice holy names. When the fearsome night past and the morning shone down on our convent once more, **Ichabod," murmured our prior, *'the glory of Conrad is o'er ; He smiteth, and we are sore humbled ; He scourgeth our pride with His fire ; He sendeth His wrath out amongst us and abaseth our glorious choir. O, who can fathom His purpose, or who can read straightvs^ay His plan ? The Lord's w^ays are never as our ways, and foolish before Him is man ! ' ' In the year 1174, the choir of Canterbury Cathedral was destroyed by fire, and according to Gervasc, the monkish chronicler of these events, and himself a witness of what he describes, " The people were astonished that the Almighty should suffer such things, and maddened with excess of grief and perplexity, they tore their hair, and beat the walls and pavement of the church with their hands and heads, blaspheming the Lord and His iaints, the patrons of His church." MISCELLANEOUS VERSE A WITHERED ROSE These brown, curled leaves were once a rose All fair and fresh, and sweet as fair. Now summer's past, and winter snows Have buried Hope slain by Despair ! INEVITABLE The fairest rose that blooms hides yet a thorn ; The dearest friend shall one day bring you grief; In August twilight is the winter born. And waving wheat precedes the falling leaf. BLACK ROCK, NANTASKET A huge black sea-shape left at turn of tide. It drags, afar from shore, its low gaunt length. In dateless aeons in lone waters wide Was this some slimy saurian' s league-long strength? MISCELLANE US VERSE DECEMBER'S WOOING I. DECEMBER TO MAY Though I look old, love, I'm young and bold, love. When I see you. Fain would I ask, love. From you some task, love. To prove this true. That done, I'd take, love. In payment's sake, love. This maid I woo. II. MAY TO DECEMBER Would you, indeed, sir ? Pray take good heed, sir. To what I say. This my behest, sir : Cease to protest, sir. Your love today. Ne'er will I wed, sir. Where youth is sped, sir. So go your way ! 52 MISCELLANEOUS VERSE REALITY Of Love the minstrel sang, and drew An easy finger o'er the strings, Then laughed and sang of other things, — Of grass and flowers and azure blue. Of Love the poet wrote, and soft And sweet the liquid measures flowed. Then gave his moments to an ode. And crooks and shepherds mentioned oft. One day the singer met with Love, And mighty music shook his strings. While dreams and light imaginings His new-roused spirit soared above. Love met the poet on his way. And kindled all his soul to fire. Filled all his measures with desire. And left no room for fancies gay. The minstrel sang to Love one song. And died for joy, yet lives in this. The poet, touched by Love's warm kiss. With echoes fills the ages long. MISCELLANEOUS VERSE 53 J DEAR HEART, BELIEVE Dear heart, believe I think of you When evening grey shuts out the blue ; In the slow hours of middle night. And when the lances of the hght First thrust the mists of darkness through. Nought can the days of absence do. When faith is strong and hearts are true. To blur with change affection's might. Dear heart, believe. If sullen death between us drew The veil that bars from earthly view The much loved face, the clearer sight Would still discern in death's despite. Beyond the veil can love pursue. Dear heart, believe. 54 MISCELLANEOUS VERSE CAMBRIDGE Read at the Annual Meeting of the Boston Authors Club, January 30, 1905 Dear city, round whose marshy rim the Charles Passes his steel-blue sickle in slow glee. And, circling ever, slips at last through snarls Of piers and bridges to the expectant sea. To thee is turned the **soft Venetian side" Of Boston. On thy myriad roofs the slopes Of Arlington look down ; between, a tide Scholastic ebbs and flows, sun-smit with hopes. Needs must they love thee who may call thee home. Whose centuried past their grateful reverence claims ; Thy sister city of the golden dome Points to no fairer scroll of noble names. Here roamed '*the Scholar Gypsy " long ago ; Here gently ruled our ** New World Philhellene ; " Here came the wanderer from the Pays de Vaud ; And here New England's Sibyl passed between The gates of birth. Here, where the lilacs hedge The winding road, the Gentle Singer told The Legend Golden ; and the murmuring sedge Of his loved Charles still with his name makes bold. MISCELLANEOUS VERSE 55 Here, where the Elmwood thickets lift their pyres Of green, a later summons came, and he. Our best and noblest, whose each word inspires. Slipped from life's moorings on a shoreless sea. Ah me! the men that were and are not now. The seasons come and pass and bear away- One after other, as from autumn bough Is swept at whiles the fruitage of its May. O City of the Scholar! Wider spread Each year thy green elm shades, but ever keep In quick remembrance these thy children, sped To some far country through strange fields of sleep. 56 MISCELLANEOUS VERSE NABOTH Great honour hath Boston, the city, won of late in a glorious fray With a handful of Portuguese fishers on that island just down in the bay. The fishers were poor and defenceless, the city was wealthy and strong. Hath it not been ever from old time that the poor to the spoiler belong ? It is twice twenty years since their fathers in the lap of a favouring breeze Put out from the far Western Islands and hitherward sailed over seas. The islands of summer to rearward sank slowly from sight in the wave. As they spread out their sails to the sunshine and swift through the water they drave. And they came, after many days' sailing, to a sea- fronting, sand-girted town, With a fringe of white sand dunes to northward and southward the fishing smacks brown, That lies at the end of a sea-daring, sea-cleaving spear of the land. And after long tossing on billows it was good in that fair town to stand. MISCELLANEOUS VERSE 57 And some of them said, "We will dwell here, nor seek otherwhere for a home," But the rest were not of this liking, and once again sped o'er the foam Till they came to the harbour of Boston, and arrived there in sight of the town. They brought their staunch vessel to anchor in the lee of a yellow cliff's frown. A long, narrow isle was before them, and on it they landed that day. And built them rude huts by the sea beach, where the women and children might stay. And the busy years past and they prospered, these fishers from over the main. Till the elder men died and were buried, and over their labour and pain. But their children remained on Long Island, and followed a sea-faring life. As their fathers before them, in peace, with never the murmurs of strife. Till Boston, the city, grew jealous, like Ahab, the the ruler, of old. When he longed for the vineyard of Naboth, which he from his gates could behold. No vineyard was this on Long Island, but a few scanty acres of beach. 58 MISCELLANEOUS VERSE Yet even there did the city her covetous fingers outreach. Though the fishermen begged for their homesteads, the strong city answered them **Nay," For she wanted, in spite of her riches, those few acres just down in the bay. So she gathered together her servants and sent them to Long Island strand. And they tore down the fisher-folk hom.es and strewed the wreck over the land. While the Portuguese women bewailed them, but their husbands stood sullen aside And wondered that God in the heavens could the wrongs of His servants abide. Thus the work of destruction went onward, while a cloud of dust covered the place Where the men from the distant Azores had nourished a peace-loving race. Till the grey of the long August twilight came down on that isle in the sea And covered the work of the spoilers, and the morrow was yet to be. Then the masterful foemen of Boston shame-facedly hurried away, While the curses of those they had plundered rang after them over the bay MISCELLANEOUS VERSE 59 As they ring in the ears of Almighty who bringeth the strongest to shame. Who heedeth the griefs of the humble and divideth the praise from the blame. But His ways are still hid in the future and the city is great in her pride. And the men in her fair council chambers the Portuguese fishers deride ; And still in the streets of the city the deed of those foemen they praise. Who drave from Long Island the fishers on those sunshiny midsummer days. Thus honour abundant did Boston achieve in a glorious fray With a handful of Portuguese fishers on that island just down in the bay. And so long as the church-bells of Boston ring out from her myriad towers. So long will the praises be chanted of these valorous foemen of ours Who divided in sunder the roof-trees that sheltered a peace-loving folk. Who shattered in fragments their hearth-stones and quenched forever their smoke. 1887 60 MISCELLANEOUS VERSE ON TRURO MOORS O friend of mine, so dear to me. Forget not yet those summer hours On Truro moors beside the sea. O'er rolling downs we roamed in glee To where the tall white lighthouse towers, O friend of mine, so dear to me. On those high cliffs 1 sat with thee. When clinging sea-fog spilt slow showers. On Truro moors beside the sea. Fair hopes we had for days to be. We said high purpose should be ours, O friend of mine, so dear to me. In sun or cloud we paced that lea Elate with all that friendship dowers. On Truro moors beside the sea. Ah ! far-off week from care so free (Time from its span no charm deflowers, O friend of mine, so dear to me) On Truro moors beside the sea. MISCELLANEOUS VERSE 61 AT PARTING With eyes in which there gleamed a tear. And voice whose syllables were broken. She stood aghast in sudden fear. With eyes in which there gleamed a tear. She gazed at him who loved her dear. And left the farewell half unspoken. With eyes in which there gleamed a tear. And voice whose syllables were broken. For soon would seas between them roll. And half the world its distance sever. How should content possess her soul When seas would soon between them roll ? Then round her waist his strong arm stole — **Dear heart," he said, **my love dies never. Though seas will soon between us roll And half the world its distance sever." 62 MISCELLANEOUS VERSE UT QUID DOMINE PSALM X. Why standest Thou from us afar, O Lord ? Why hidest Thy face ? In need and sore trouble we are. Why standest Thou from us afar. When the wicked the poor doth debar From his right, and debase ? Why standest Thou from us afar, O Lord ? Why hidest Thy face ? The wicked hath said in his heart That his glory shall never be less. *< With defeat I shall never have part," The wicked hath said in his heart ; So the poor he maketh to smart. And seeketh his goods to possess. The wicked hath said in his heart That his glory shall never be less. ** For God hath forgotten," he cries ; ** The Lord hath forgotten the poor! " With his tongue he uttereth lies : **For God hath forgotten," he cries. MISCELLANEOUS VERSE 63 He lieth in wait in disguise That his deeds may be secret and sure. ** For God hath forgotten," he cries ; ** The Lord hath forgotten the poor! " Most surely, O Lord, hast Thou known ; For Thou seest all sorrow and wrong ; The friendless Thou helpest alone. Most surely, O Lord, hast Thou known That the wicked so mighty are grown ; And to Thee we lift up our song. Most surely, O Lord, hast Thou known ; For Thou seest all sorrow and wrong. O Lord, Thou hast heard our desire, — Incline Thou Thine ear to our prayer : Let the wicked no longer conspire. O Lord, Thou hast heard our desire, — Lift us up from the clay and the mire. And our hearts in Thy mercy prepare. O Lord, Thou hast heard our desire, — Incline Thou Thine ear to our prayer. 64 MISCELLANEOUS VERSE O FRIEND ESTRANGED O friend estranged, whose love, now cold. Once warmed my heart with bliss untold. How near we were, now sundered far! What fate perverse did forge the bar That holds apart the friends of old ? Do you forget how o'er us rolled The tides of feeling uncontrolled. Before your love knew wound or scar, O friend estranged ? When first your hand-clasp loosed its hold. And dark mistrust, grown over-bold. Crept in, your faith to blur and mar. Did not your spirit feel the jar Preluding friendship's death-knell knolled, O friend estranged ? MISCELLANEOUS VERSE 65 THE ARTIST'S LAST PICTURE Upon the painter's easel stands The latest picture from his hands. The canvas shows a sunset glow- Reflected in the lake below. While mountains farther from the sight Have caught the day's departing light. And autumn's tints upon the leaves Are paled by these the sunset weaves. Oh, nevermore that rosy sky Will darken as the moments fly ; Or colour fade from ofi^ the lake. Or mount a duller tint will take. The glories of the lingering day Are on that canvas fixed for aye! The hand that laid those colours fair. The brain that schemed to set them there. Have no more work, meseems, to do. For both are still ; the palette, too. Hangs idly from its peg ; and o'er The box of pigments on the floor The spider throws her web. The sun That glittered while the work was done. Has set in night for him who made This canvas fair with light and shade ; 66 MISCELLANEOUS VERSE For ere these glowing hues were dry- He turned him from his task to die. Ah ! not in night his day declined ; Not thus the spirit saith. The mind That thought, the brain that willed. Are with diviner cunning skilled. And somewhere out of earthly sight The artist is, and morning light Illumes his canvas : through his soul The harmonies of heaven roll. And mortal sunsets to him seem But as some faintly-outlined dream Recalled in brightest mid-day gleam. MISCELLANEOUS VERSE 67 -IN PEACE AND QUIETNESS" A silver tide. The waters glide. And round the feet of mountains slide. O'er whose high steep The moonbeams peep. And on through winding valleys keep. 'Mid craggy walls. Where alway calls The voice of many waterfalls, A castle stands. Whence robber bands Once ravaged all the neighbour lands. Their fierce alarms. Their clang of arms. Rang o'er the peasants' wasted farms ; And city streets Heard their hoof beats. Beheld the keeping of their leets. 68 MISCELLANEOUS VERSE Their riot fills No more the hills. And stirs a myriad mortal ills. Their day is done. Their course long run. And memory fain their names would shun. Along these slopes With nature copes The peasant, scattering seed in hopes. The fig and vine Their boughs entwine ; The valleys sing with corn and wine. In summer days A golden haze Hides mount and river in its maze ; In summer eves The moonlight weaves A shimmering splendour of the leaves. Or silver lights. On autumn nights. It scatters where no foe affrights ; While softly there The call of prayer Floats forth upon the peaceful air. MISCELLANEOUS VERSE 69 IN THE LIBRARY AT ELMWOOD These are the friends whom he loved : these books that reveal on their pages Pencilled marks of approval, as one claps a friend on the shoulder Who has uttered a witty or wise thing. These are the friends he loved best. And he knew them as one knows a brother. Now they look down from their places. At evening and morning and mid-day, and mourn his untimely departure. Many a time on their leaves has his white hand lovingly rested ; Many a time has he gone to these friends for their generous counsel ; Often and often have they and the poet made merry together. 70 MISCELLANEOUS VERSE Now the sweet converse has past, and the glow ot the fire on the hearthstone Flashes across the dark faces that leaned from the shelves to speak to him In accents that he understood whatever the tongue that was spoken ; Gleams on the papers that lie on the stand where he carelessly tossed them ; Glitters on ceiling and walls but no longer discovers the presence. Gracious and courteous ever, that once made the scholar's apartment Seem like the throne of a king when he sat there by such friends surrounded. 1891 MISCELLANEOUS VERSE 71 HULL Low leagues of coast dunes bending to the west Are tremulous with waving beach grass green. Or all aglare with shifting sands that, seen At midday, show their arid whiteness best. At farthest end start up, as if to breast The ocean's might, low rounded hills that lean Their turfed slopes to the sun, and in between These swelling downs a road winds, all unguessed Till near, and fringed with homely farmsteads hke Some country lane with honest country bloom. The murmurs of the sea seem faint and far Though close beside. All summer sounds that strike The ear bring peace. All winds waft blent perfume Of sea and meadow through the village quaint. 72 MISCELLANEOUS VERSE WHICH O which were best, and who would dare to choose Between the friend who holds you as his life. Counting all effort useless if his strife Win from you no fond word — content to lose All else but you — or him you know no ruse Of time can part your soul from, and no knife Of fate dissever, though all tongues were rife With tales of slander his fair fame to bruise ? O which were best ? To give or to receive ? To love, or to be loved ? To take alway. Or stand with gifts of love before the gate Of one beloved? Oh! curious heart, believe All love wins love, and choice were foolish play In this. The twain are one, or soon or late. MISCELLANEOUS VERSE 73 WHAT CAN DREAR DECEMBER SAY? What can drear December say That should make our souls rejoice ? Fields are white and skies are grey ; Winter speaks with sternest voice. Summer's gone far over seas ; Scent and sweetness all are fled ; Every southward sweeping breeze Wails a dirge for summer dead. Hearts are numb with nameless pain. For the year is near its death : **Joy once past comes not again," To itself the sad soul saith. This is what December says. Heard through snows and flying sleet : ** Even in my shortening days Still abide presagings sweet Of the pleasant time to be. In my woods the hazel swells ; Under snows who looks may see Epigsea's rose tinged bells. All the blasts in fury reehng Cannot quench my Christmas light. Heart, look up! One came with healing On a dark December night." 74 MISCELLANEOUS VERSE HORATIO NELSON POWERS 1826-1890 \ Death hath no power o'er such as he ; The fulness of the life to be Shone round him in the life he spent Within this mortal prison pent. Texts might we gather from his looks Such as men read in holy books. And in his speech could hear at will The Master's gracious accents still. A MEMORY AT CHRISTMASTJDE Again the snows, the Christmas carols sweet ; Again the days so full of Christmas cheer. Ah me ! the friend who spoke with me last year. And warmed my very heart with love's glad heat Lies now where fall the winter snow and sleet. And I, who held him past all others dear And counted every hour without him drear. No more shall list the coming of his feet. 1 i i MISCELLANEOUS VERSE 75 i LOVE IS SO SWEET \ Love is so sweet, but he seldom stays long : ; (Roses of June are go fie ere July.^ \ Love is so sweet, but brief ia his song : \ (Roses of June o?i the first wifids fiy.^ * Love is so sweet, but he leaves a pain : ' (Roses of June have a thorn ^ neath them all.) \ Love is so sweet, but he comes not again : ; ( Roses of Juue must wither and fall. ) ' Love was so sweet, but his day is past : • (Roses lie deep ^neath December snows. ) | Love was so sweet, but he fled so fast ; ! ( Roses are done when the summer-time goes. ) ^ 76 MISCELLANEOUS VERSE BEFORE THE GATE OF STORMS Before the gate of storms two dim shapes met : ( Cold are the winds when December files ;') The one was robed in weeds of sad regret. But saw the shining of the other's eyes. Then he who wore the seal of sorrows great : ( Dark are the nights when December goes ; ) ** Alas ! who art thou, that with face elate Peerest so eagerly through whirling snows ? ' ' Clear rang the other's answer in his ear : {Crisp are the snows when December speeds ;^ ** I am the spirit of the coming year ; My name is Hope, and always hope succeeds." Slow turned the sad one from before the gate : ( Shadows are black when December parts ; ) ** O eager one, within the future wait Thy coming, pain and woe and broken hearts. I am the spirit of the going year ; {Sad are the hours when December files ;') My name is Loss, and me all men do fear. For in my bosom twelve months' anguish lies ! ' * MISCELLANEOUS VERSE 77 AT BAY This the end, then, of striving ; this is what comes of it all ; Darkness and foes just behind one ; before, an impassable wall. What does it matter how staunchly one may have . battled for truth. When with his weapons all broken he sits by the grave of his youth ? What did it profit in past years that one did the best that one knew. When in the gloom of the present, virtue herself seems untrue ? Why should one fight any longer when nothing remains but defeat ? Surely such labour were useless, and idle the stirring of feet. Ah ! but the soul that is faithful knows it is well to have fought ; Knows it is good to have acted, whatever the doing has brought. This is the crown of the conflict, this the reward of all strife, — Faith in one's self and one's motives, no matter how darkened the life. 78 MISCELLANEOUS f^ERSE Flesh may be bruised and defeated, but spirit is never disgraced ; Spirit is always triumphant, whatever sharp pain it it has faced. Here, at the end of my conflict, 1 counsel not yet with dispair. Though to all seeming my struggles are his who but beateth the air. Darkness and foes are about me, yet I stand with my back to the wall. Facing whatever Fate sends me, and facing Fate thus I shall fall ! MISCELLANEOUS VERSE 79 A LAGGARD SPRING The winter tarried and the spring was late. And still from wild waste lands to northward blew The gale that stiffened nightly all the brooks Which fed the rivers flowing past the cliffs Of lonely cloud-swept mountains to the sea ; And all the people wearied of the cold. And all the fields were crying for the sun. But when the mid-March weeks were past there came A wind from southern lands that vanquished quite The hosts of winter. All its snows rushed down In stormful spates, to spread themselves upon The level meads that lay beside the streams That in the summer shrank to silver threads Or lost themselves amid the green, but now Were one wide water, for the spring had come! POST- LAUREATE IDYLLS (SECOND SERIES) THE PLEADING OF DAGONET ARGUMENT The King of Spades^ He kiss''d the maidsy Which vex'd the ^e en full sore. The Q^een of Spades^ She heat those maids. And turnd them out of door. The Knave of Spades Grieved for those jades, And did for them implore. The Queen so gent. She di3 relent. And vow'd she'd ne'er strike more. The time had come when slowly-dying Rome, Feeling the death-chill creeping near her heart, Call'd all the legions home from far-ofF lands That haply they might save the life of her Who once was nam'd the mistress of the world. So they, home summon' d, swarm' d from over seas. Climb' d Alps or cross' d the drifting sands that stretch' d Between them and the much-lov'd mother land. And left their hard-won conquests to their fate, An easy prey to lustful heathen hosts. And bitter was the lot of Britain's isle. 84 POST-LAUREATE IDYLLS Deserted by the legions seeking Rome, Till Arthur came and drave the heathen back That swept from out the North, and made secure A realm of peace and reign' d there as its king. But ere such happy ending had been reach' d. The land was torn with battle, and the streams Ran blood, and all the fertile fields were waste, For none were had to till, and all the isle Seem'd likelier to be the home of beasts Than quiet kingdom of a peaceful king. And once eleven fierce and wolfish kings 'Gainst Arthur join'd their strengths and prest him sore And gave his armed men no rest by night Or day, and truly, as it seem'd, the light Of Christ had been extinguish' d in the isle. Had Arthur sent not out a cry for help That rang across the straits and echo found In wave-beat Brittany and and distant Gaul. King Ban of Ben wick — counted bravest knight In all the world, had not his brother king And brother in the flesh, Bors, King of Gaul, Been reckon'd equal in men's sight — first heard The cry, and sent a messenger to Bors To bid him arm his hosts and speed with him To aid the king of Britain in his need. POST-LAUREATE IDYLLS 85 • So these twain. Ban of Benwick, Bors of Gaul, Past o'er the straits and sprang to Arthur's help. And all the might of the eleven kings Was broken, and themselves were slain, and none Were left who own'd not Arthur for their lord. Now when the powers of the eleven kings Were scatter' d, and the noise of battle ceas'd King Ban of Benwick, with his brother Bors, Laden with Arthur's many grateful gifts. Again past over straits each to his realm. A wifeless palace was the home of Bors, But Ban was wedded unto Margaret, A peasant's daughter who her first estate Had long ere this forgot, and fair was she As many women are, yet not so fair But there were those with whom her face compar'd As canker in the hedge to garden rose. Or moonlight unto dazzling ray of sun ; And this she knew, and rag'd for jealousy Within when women fairer than herself Caught even a passing glance from Ban, her lord. Now when King Ban return' d from Britain's isle. His dark face darker yet from sun and wind Than when he left his realm at Arthur's need. It chanc'd that in the tale of those who serv'd 86 POST-LAUREATE IDYLLS Within the palace were two lately come, • Sisters in blood, in age the same, and fair ; To look upon as sunlight on gold waves Of crinkling wheat. Not yet Queen Margaret | Was 'ware that they were of her retinue, 'j And therefore was it that Ban saw them first. i The time was summer, and a morn of June j Made music in the veins, the scent of flowers i Past down the breeze ; the birds for very joy j Stopt in their songs to circle in mid air. Began once more and once more broke the strain i For gladness* sake, so full their happy hearts. While joy and summer reign' d o'er all the world. i It was the morning of a royal hunt. And Ban the King, array 'd as for the chase, \ Was passing hastily to palace hall, | To join his knights and squires who stay' d him there. When sudden music checkt his kingly haste. And leaning from a window that o'erlookt \ The palace court, he saw the sisters twain \ At work and singing, like the birds, for joy. j No man but might not at that sight have felt I His heart beat quicker, were he old or young ; And all forgetting those his waiting knights, ; Ban, being human, stay'd to gaze and list. ] It was a simple song they sang, of joy \ And dole, and ever as one sister paus'd, I POST-LAUREATE IDYLLS 87 The other caught the music's flying thread And answer' d her, and these the words they sang : — "In life and love, if love in life be ours. Smiling and weeping ne'er were equal powers ; Yet smiles thro' tears are sweetest smiles of all. ** It is the little tear that smiles confute. That soon or late makes lovers' voices mute. Yet ever gathering surely saddens all. ** It is the little tear no smiles refute. Or fleeting smiles of joy all destitute. That in the heart's life surely saddens all. ** Love is not worth your weeping : let it go. Ah, is it ? Tell me, dearest, is it so ? Dear love is richest when 'tis all in all." Sweet were the voices of the sisters fair. And he who listen' d might not say which voice Had most of music in it, more than might One hark'ning to two nightingales that sing Out of their full hearts in a moonlit night. All blossom-scented, of the waning May. So, with the music ringing in his ears. King Ban past down the stairway to the court ; But ere he came within the sisters' sight. One of the twain had taken up the song 88 POST-LAUREATE IDYLLS Again, and intermingling with the words. And like a buttress to some lofty wall. There ran along beside the singer's notes Her sister's murmurous monotones of" song, ** My life, once mine, now thine, is surelier mine. For love, if love be thine, such love were mine. And death, if death be thine, that death were mine. Dear love is richest when 'tis all in all." The song was ended and the maids arose. And rising turn'd, and turning saw the King. Then on the cheek of either flusht the white To red that slowly pal'd again to white. And flee they might not, rooted there by fear. Then he, who saw their fear and sought to calm. Said gently : — ** Maids, I pray you, be of cheer. Such songs as yours are sweet unto mine ears. And therefore make I payment in such wise As best beseems a king when maids are fair." So saying. Ban of Ben wick stoopt and kiss'd The rounded cheeks that seem'd for kisses made. So like the peach-bloom in their tenderness. Then lightly turn'd away to join his knights. His lips still playing with the song's refrain, ** Dear love is richest when 'tis all in all." POST-LAUREATE IDYLLS 89 Scarce had the echo of his footsteps died. And still the wonder linger' d in the eyes Of these King Ban had kiss'd, when Margaret, The Queen, swept down upon the sisters twain ; For she from out her bower had seen the King Salute the maids, and like an angry sea Her rising tide of temper swell' d and surg'd. To break in fury on the heads of these. No word spake Margaret, but with a hand Made hard by anger smote the maids on arm And shoulder, and full harshly drave them forth From palace doors, and all in dole they went. Now in the palace of King Ban was there A bitter-tongued yet not unkindly dwarf. Dark-haired and swart of hue, one Dagonet, Who oft at royal banquets flasht his wit Like nimble lightnings thro' the heavy clouds Of dullness that opprest the wine-soakt brains And chase-worn limbs of stalwart squires and knights. And he returning from some trifling quest Beheld the weeping damsels driven forth. And in a moment's space had guess' d the cause. While all his heart was mov'd and pitiful. But these on whom the anger of the Queen Had fallen heavily beheld him not Thro' mists of tears till he full kindly spoke 90 PGST-LAUREATE IDYLLS And question' d of their grief, and so drew forth In fragments, marr'd with many sobs and tears. Their woful tale. This heard. Sir Dagonet, Eying them tenderly as mothers eye A child heart-broken for some pleasure lost. Shook merrily his cap and bells, and made Some jest that brought the laughter to their lips, And gave thereafter counsel they should bide Nigh to the palace till the queen had ruth. Then Dagonet made haste and sought and found The Queen, and shaking gleefully his bells Broke into sudden laughter. Then the Queen : '* Why laugh you now. Sir Fool ? " And quickly came The answer back, ** J laugh, good mistress fool. To think a queen should be a woman too." Then Margaret, starting quick aside as one Who finds a stinging insect on his arm And would be freed from it, said scornfully, <* Why call me *fool' ? I am no kin of thine." *' Thou art my sister fool," quoth Dagonet, ** For Queens are gracious unto all that live, But baser women know no note but hale To sound in presence of their waiting maids Who win a fleeting favour from> their lord. And therefore do I call thee sister fool. And therefore is it that I laugh so loud." POST-LAUREATE IDYLLS 91 \ When Dagonet had ceas'd, a silence came Upon the jester and the jealous Queen, And either fear'd to speak : the one for shame That she, a Queen, had so her state forgot And beaten cruelly two harmless maids For no fault greater than a simple song. The other doubtful if his words were wise. But ere the shadow of the dial mov'd A hair's-breadth onward toward the close of day. The dwarf found voice again andbegg'dthe Queen To pity those her wrath had driven forth ; And mov'd by pleadings of the sharp tongued dwarf. Or by repentant working of her soul. The Queen melted to pity and the maids Forgave, and in the rush of feeling vow'd Her hand should ne'er strike more. Thus Dagonet O'ercame the wrath of Margaret and saw The maids restor'd, and in the next year went As sign of friendly bonds between the kings To dwell at Arthur's court in Camelot. 92 POST-LAUREATE IDYLLS THE VISION OF SIR LIONEL ARGUMENT " There were three sisters in a hall. There came a knight among them them all ; ' Good-morrow,, aunt,^ to the one, ' Good-morrow, aunt^ to the other, ^ Good-morrow , gentlewoman^ to the third. ' If you were my aunt As the other two be, I would say good-morrow Then, aunts all three.'' " Sir Launcelot had fled the sight of men. And past in dolour to a mournful wood Where seldom rang the voice of knights from chase Returning, but instead the dismal cry Of owl in deepest shadows hid, or beast That prey'd upon his brother beast, like man On man, and there, a hermit, Hved the space Of three long years, and there, a hermit, died. Now at this time Sir Ector and Sir Bors, With others of the broken Table Round, Coming to crave a blessing at his hands. Found when they gain'd the cave beneath the rocks That fring'd the gloomy base of a low hill. That he, the holy man they sought, had died An hour before, and Hke a summer storm Their grief, and like a torrent flow'd their tears. POST-LAUREATE IDTLLS 9g Then he. Sir Ector, standing at the feet Of Launcelot, and lifting up a voice That shook with anguish, cried aloud, ** Thou wert, Sir Launcelot, head of all the Christian knights ! " And hiding in his scarf a face all marr'd With weeping, wept again. There came a hush Upon them, broken not until Sir Bors DeGanis, nephew of the dead, cried out : — **Sir Launcelot, there thou liest, and I dare To say that thou wert never matcht of none Among all earthly knighrs, and that thou wert The courtliest knight that ever bare a shield. And to thy lover truest friend of all That ever rode an horse, and that thou wert The truest lover of a sinful man That ever woman loved, and tenderest man Wert thou that ever struck with sword, and thou The goodliest person among press of knights. And thou the gentlest and the meekest man That ever among ladies ate in hall. And to thy mortal foe the sternest knight That ever put spear in the rest." Then rose A sharp and bitter cry from those who stood f)4 POST-LAUREATE IDYLLS Beside, and stooping down they rais'd the dead And reverently bare hiin forth, the flower Of knighthood, dead before his time. And one. His brother Lionel, a knight who seem'd In the mid-strength and flourish of his youth, Walk'd last of all with downdropt eyes until They reach' d the castle of the Joyous Guard, There he abode till two days after mass Was sung above Sir Launcelot, and the sound Of rolling music surg'd along the aisles Of the small chapel at the Joyous Guard, And died in mournful murmurs like the v/ind In clefts and hollows of some crag above A heaving stormful sea. But when the knights. Sir Ector and Sir Bors and all the rest. Had gone their ways and left Sir Launcelot tomb'd At altar-foot, the young Sir Lionel Departed by another way from these. And past into a wide waste land that lay On both sides of a sullen stream that swept Round many a loop of fenland to the sea. Here in a shatter' d castle of his own That stood half-islanded by the dark stream. He past a lonely autumn-tide, nor knew Nor car'd what hapt amid the world of men ; For ever was he thinking of the dead PGST-LAUREATE IDYLLS 95 Sir Launcelot, and saying to himself, *« Would I had died if so be he had liv'd : Full gladly had I given my life for his." And had his brother knights beheld him then, They might have deem'd the death he crav'd was near ; For like to one whose days have shrunk to hours He sat in hall unheeding, while the v/ind Tore at the casement and was loud without. So ran the autumn to its end. Each night The little marshy pools v/ere iilm.'d with ice. Rime whiten' d the tall reeds that grew beside. And winter came, and still Sir Lionel Abode in gloom ; but on a day in spring Nigh to Our Lady's feast, a sudden glow O'erspread the land and brake from out the earth In flame of crocus and of violet. And on that day Sir Lionel awoke. And on that day bethought him of the world. And felt such stirrings of his youthful blood As if the chase or tourney beckoned him. Fill'd vvath the rush of old impetuous Desires, Sir Lionel was moved to leap At once to horse and lightly ride away. But limbs disus'd from action held him fast. At v/hich he chaf'd and murm.ur'd but endur'd 96 POST-LAUREATE IDYLLS Till all his wonted strength return' d and he Look'd like a copy of that Laimcelot Who in his younger days flasht thro' the lists And charg'd, in shock of tourney, past the eyes Of ladies and of kings at Camelot. The Easter-tide was past when on a morn In green mid-April, young Sir Lionel, To southward turning, rode from out that wild Waste country to a westward-gazing land That breath' d of coming summer. On the branch O'erhead the bud had swell'd to leaf, in hue Pale emerald shot with threads of gold. The birds Made riotous music in mid-air, and all The turf burn'd with the daffodil's sharp flame. Upon the brow of a low hill that cleft The plain a half-league distant, rose the walls Of a great castle from whose highest tower There flutter' d a white ensign cross' d with bars Of gold, that now and ever caught the sun And flasht against the blue of sky beyond. This when he saw, the knight spake to his squire, A man in years much past his own, ** I pray You stay till I return," and he made speech In answer, **Yea, my lord." Thereat the knight Put spurs to horse and rode to castle gate. That stood wide open and no man was near. POST-LAUREATE IDYLLS 97 Above the keystone one long since had carv'd. With intricate device of blazoning, A shield and legend on a streaming scroll. But all were dim with years, and none might tell The sculptor's meaning save that on the scroll **y////