mm HER BARS' 7 DlTtf DART PR6007 A76.E3 ■■'rw»y innw^jii|fij|^>,g t n^»jwii ihj — p i ._ wmsaaa IMM ~ v4' \ LIBRARY UNIVERSH UIFORNIA RIVERSIDE EARTH WITH HER BARS AND OTHER POEMS BY EDITH DART AUTHOR OF "REBECCA DHF.W," ETC. LONGMANS, GREEN AND CO. 39 PATERNOSTER ROAV, LONDON FOURTH AVENUE & 30th STREET, NEW YORK BOMBAY, CALCUTTA, AND MADHAS 1914 PR6007 A 16 > To E. M. B. Friend ! among these pages find Memories many of days entwined Closely with our friendship true. What more fitting than to you I should give them, who may read 'Neath faltering word the living deed ? For permission to republish such of these poems as appeared in their columns, I am indebted to the editors of Country Life, The Westminster Gazette, The Pall Mall Gazette, The Windsor Magazine, The New Witness, The Evening Standard, The Daily Chronicle, T.P.'s Magazine, The Gentle- woman, and The Oueen. E. D. Crediton, May, 19 14. Contents " Earth with her bars was about me for ever " The Kingdom of God . The Voice . . . Love and Life "Inouietum est cor nostrum donec reo^uies CAT IN TE " . A Quiet Pool Va-et-Vient . . . Balance . . . In Memoriam : Sir Redvers Duller, V.C. "To Aileen — Dead at Six Years" " Piu senta il bene, e cosi la doglienza" Awakening A Day in February Spirit of Spring Longing In Hospital . "A May Twilight" The Beech Woods The One White Deed To-night Priscilla TAGE 7 9 IO II 12 '3 i4 15 16 «7 18 »9 20 21 22 2 3 2 4 25 26 28 30 CONTENTS Together A Rift The Happy Valley Amsterdam Dordrecht " City of Dream " Venice The Boboli Gardens At Villa D'Este Keats' Grave Chiaroscuro . Sonnet The Game To a Stone Figure Found in Tomb Summer Storm " Poppy-Land " Moorland Dartmoor A Sin Summer Night In Devon Now Moorward A Countryman's Creed A Country Fair l'AGE an Egyptian " Earth with her bars was about 5? me for ever Jonah ii. 6 I cried, " God, set me free, break down earth bars And let my soul mount upward to the stars. Earth is too small, 'tis heaven that I would gain, Why must these bars perpetually restrain ? But loose all bonds, then might I rise and go, Leaving world mists for some supernal snow Where human things to nothingness must shrink, Dropping unwanted at heaven's utmost brink. God said, " To heaven, thou, whom I made for earth ? Between the narrow gates of death and birth Can'st thou not spend the brief and reckoned space Without a scorn of thy fair dwelling-place ? What would'st in heaven with thy poor human toys Of sense and passion, tears, regrets and joys ? In heaven such are as playthings laid aside ; Of these bereft hast aught to keep beside ? Earth is my handiwork, I joyed therein : If thou as well it therefore were no sin. Each flowing river, laughing brook and rill Holds in its depths my pleasure's echo still. The west wind sighs it and the south replies ; Dawn is as wondrous now as when Eve's eyes 7 8 "EARTH WITH HER BARS" First smiled to see how fair a thing I planned — This simple sunlight o'er a morning land. The moving seas breathe low the same refrain To creek and bay : by wood and grassy plain, All unafraid toward the distant skies Flowers lift their child-like, happy, open eyes ; While birds' glad hearts pour out in constant song From morn to eve in one orchestra long. Yet thou, from this glad earth, would'st be set free : Fashioned for earth, wrought out of it by me ? From the dust made, thou, crying for the stars, Would'st taunt me with earth's bars ? " I said, " Nay, lord ! Thou dost not hear aright. All these thy things are goodly in my sight. And, hadst thou made me as a bird or flower, I had sung, smiled, content with this my dower. But thou didst fashion me, not all of dust. I am not only earth-born, with earth lust : I bear within me, what I cannot tell. But thou, who wrought'st it, know'st if it be well Or evil. I know neither, I but ask Thy meaning of this earth-wove, heaven-pierced mask Of men called Life ? " I woke and was alone. Could I have borne God's answer to have known I THE KINGDOM OF GOD The Kingdom of God I sought for God by all means, everywhere ; Through creed of man, by Litany and prayer. Through weary nights and days, by plea and cry, Sought without finding, faithless, hopeless I. Till, as a baffled bird with broken wing, My soul returned from fruitless journeying. When, at faith's ebb, a sudden message burned — " Within and not without, God is discerned. Look deep, within thyself. There find thy goal For ever shrined — God in thine own soul." io THE VOICE The Voice In the eerie hours of morning When the fires of life burn slow, Inmost heart to heart speaks plainly, Poignantly and very low. In the cold, grey hours of dawning, When heart cannot choose but hear, Through the dream-like hush of waiting, Unseen things draw very near. Of the body scarcely conscious, Fleshly barriers 'fined away : Spirit unto spirit answers, Freed awhile from house of clay. LOVE AND LIFE n Love and Life Yea ! this is love, no less than this — Not to receive and give love's kiss Alone, but her sharp wounds to bear : To let the sword pierce there ! and there ! And say no word, but still to smile Feeling life ebb out all the while : To keep unspoken, let none know, That love beside joy bringeth woe, Joy's sister ever, never far ; These love's most certain duties are. If love be thus, why seek it all Who tread life's way and bear life's thrall? Yea ! verily, thou askest why. None ever lived who might reply — Save only this, that love and life Are severed but by utmost strife : Few be so strong to wrest away Life from love's holding — even they, Who disentangle, still are fain To know not joy but life's fierce pain. As petals from some fair rose torn, Life without love is life forlorn. [2 « 1NQUIETUM EST COR NOSTRUM " Inquietum est cor nostrum donee requiescat in te ' S. Augustine O'er my bewildered spirit falls The grey eve's peace : its shadowy palls Cling close about the brooding hills : And gently, surely, evening fills My restless, aching, human sense With healing balsam : coming whence I know not, only 'neath its spell My heart, too dumb its hurt to tell, Sinks to some far soul-haunt of peace, Where heart ills find a swift release, Where hides a lapping, homelike balm Familiar, of passing calm. And, when a way beset is trod Again, a voice cries — " This was God." A QUIET POOL 13 A Quiet Pool Man's soul is as some quiet pool Where drooping willows low, And boughs of aspen green and cool Around the margin grow. They shut out glancing, clear sun ray, That baffled passes by : Here only dusky shadows stay Faint mirrored from the sky. Thick trees hang close about the brim, No bird e'er breaks them through. The waters glimmer ghostly, dim, Motionless, soundless too. Footstep nor voice is ever known, No song borne light on air About that quiet pool alone — With willows bending there. H VA-ET-VIENT Va-et-Vient Oh ! world invisible, sometimes so near Thou seem'st to draw, that in mine ear Soundest thy voice, drowning this throng Of human tumult, shrill and strong. And listening, I have peace and smile At earth's blind tangle solved awhile. Thy voices die : later, in vain I strain mine ears for one refrain, For vaguest echo, lightest breath Of the Unknown : empty as death, A silent void it closes round. But mine appeal the only sound. Oh ! world invisible, am I Deaf, art thou silent ? To my cry Comes but the echo — thou or I ? BALANCE 15 Balance Must man with pain surrender bliss ? And, with the throe, yield even this, Quick throb of joy, the piercing sense Of unseen beauty, far and hence ; Of which the seen is as moonlight To noontide sunflood, full and bright ? Can there but ransom sure be bought From agony, by keeping naught : Emptying life of feeling bare Till it lie void and vacant there, Senseless alike under blow or kiss, Whisper of passion or scourge's hiss ? And deep springs the answer — " Even so, Man barters joy to relinquish woe. And he who shrinks from pain's payment dies, Though never earth's sod yet upon him lies." 16 IN MEMORIAM : SIR REDVERS BULLER, V.C. In Memoriam : Sir Redvers Buller, V.C. Hero of many fights, none vanquisheth The ultimate foe, attacking death. Here never warfare conquers, for no man These shadowy outposts may victorious scan. Certain thou enterest on this campaign drear With a heroic soul that knew not fear Nor any weakling passion, since life gave Thee courage beyond most, bravest of brave. And England now, on thy still breast, would lay, Not just the fading wreaths of earthly bay, Nor spoken honours of the world's glib praise, Thou sought'st of no man through thine earthly ways ; But England's tears, up-welling from the heart, In which love, sorrow, honour, each bear part. " TO AILEEN— DEAD AT STX YEARS " 17 "To Ailecn — Dead at Six Years" " What need'st tliou with earth's wheel ? " Rabbi Ben Ezra A LITTLE CUp VVherefrom to sup Refreshment day by day — So tender wrought, The potter's thought Expressed in childish clay. Not a vase of grace, Stately and chased, With sculptures and inlay — Given a rare place, Lest use deface The perfect, classic way ; But a simple bowl, Body and soul One, in its meek array The potter then, Mistrusting men Should break — or time decay- — Himself took up This little cup- Safe and unflawed to stay. 18 "PIU SENTA IL BENE" " Piu senta il bene, e cosi la doglienza' Inferno, Canto VI. Wine-red 'neath the sun Ploughed fields lay ; Empty as life done Or love away. Black stretched woods behind, Clouds overhead ; Crept a wailing wind, Sore plaint it said. Wide sky, wine-red earth, What can ye tell Of death or of birth, Love and pangs of hell ? Greater is man than ye, Though heart-sick to go, Since he bears misery Conscious of woe. AWAKENING 19 Awakening Now from her long Winter sleep, Mother Earth turns to awake : Stir of new life in the woods, green of young grass o'er the brake, Movement through covert and copse, rise of the sap in the tree. Red shine elm boughs in the sun, bourgeoning life there to be. Quick beats the pulse of all life : one are we, Nature and man. Flow follows ebb in the wave, so is the seasons' wise plan. After quiescence and sleep, come again effort and zest. Good is life's urgent desire, springing from torpor and rest. Roused from stupor now Earth smiles in young vigour and strife : As from man's dreams are evoked ever fresh visions of life. 20 A DAY IN FEBRUARY A Day in February Oh ! the delight of it, the swift throb of bliss, Yesterday Winter, and then a day as this : With never a cloud in the blue stretch of sky, With thrushes sweet singing in all the trees nigh. Trunks of the beeches are silver a-gleam In flood of the sunlight, as light on a stream ; Elm boughs shine ruddy from dull brown and grey, Except for their bareness it well might be May. Hills in the distance lie purple and blue, With mists in the valley beneath every hue, Caught by the magic of sunlight and kiss't From soft grey and lilac to deep amethyst. Oh ! the delight of it, joy of the sun, What if bleak Winter his course hath not run ? This day is given us, ours to enjoy, Laugh in its gladness, let no cares annoy. Oh ! the delight of it, the swift throb of bliss, The next day to Winter, to be a day as this ! SPIRIT OF SPRING 21 Spirit of Spring Spirit of Spring ! re-kindle me With quickened life, as plant and tree : While bough and branch to blossom break, My sleeping senses stir awake. With rain and shadow, sunlight, dew, Thine ancient meshes weave a-new ; And closer, in my very blood, Thine essence pour in such a flood To make me one, as plant and tree With earth's replenished energy. 22 LONGING Longing Oh ! how the heart awakes and cries At Spring's ineffable surprise, Calls out in quenchless ache and pain, For what no heart may well attain. Through the long, sombre winter days, I tread Life's passionless, drear ways : Think quiet thoughts, serene and still, That vaguely please without a thrill. But when the first sweet breaths of Spring Among the woods go whispering, When thrushes call from tree to tree, Some old deep sorrow stirs in me : I am a-thirst for unseen things, I yearn for vision, weep for wings : Against Life's bars, beat all in vain, For what, I know not . . . save its pain. IN HOSPITAL 23 In Hospital Not Easter lilies wan and sad Bring me, who lie a country lad; Beside my pillow here, instead Set primrose tufts, hazel-buds red, The yellow catkins light that dance In every breeze on hazel branch : For with them will not creep as well "Some sense of Spring, the fresh Earth's smell, Soft quickening breath of winds that wake First daffodils in wood and brake ? I lie and see . . . as in a dream, That flower army, all a-gleam, Midst slight green leaves bending to sigh With every breeze that wanders by. F see . . . the sky beyond the boughs : West winds my dormant senses rouse — Then I awake ... no longer glad, Since I lie here, a country lad. 24 "A MAY TWILIGHT "A May Twilight" To-night a sudden glamour caught the street, Falling athwart its careless London way : And through the ceaseless throng of passing feet One felt the May ! Perchance 'twas witchery of twilight glow Thrown by the rain-gleam on the passers there, Some lingering sunset-magic . . . loth to go From the women's hair 1 Sudden ! the crowd who only knew the Spring There in the bounded city's measured graces, Bore her sweet mystery of wondering Upon their faces ! Weary and beautiful, placid, perplexed, Or eyes as empty as a broken vial . . . Each for the moment shone serene — unvcxed — Transformed awhile ! THE BEECH WOODS 25 The Beech Woods Some men in aisles of fretted stone, Where lighted altars break the gloom, Lift best their hearts to heaven's high throne, With chanted psalm and organ boom. Here in this woodland, aisles of green On living columns skyward reach, A holy place of sun-flecked screen, To me a sanctuary of beech. The noonday light comes softened down Through boughs that interlace o'erhead : Heaven's blue is hid by leafy crown, Heaven enters in the heart instead. Mysterious shadows fall and pass ; With every wind leaves stir beneath, The sun a moment to the grass Flashes like sudden sword to sheath. Some men in aisles of fretted stone Win nearer heaven . . . others are made Closer akin to the Unknown In June beneath the beeches' shade. 26 THE ONE WHITE DEED The One White Deed You ask, one white deed have I done, A single white amid the black That throng in crowds ? Let memory run Backward along my life's fierce track. Aye ! one thing I remember well. It was the best of all my life. Father ! it will be hard to tell, For priests can scarcely know the strife A man as I met, being young, Hot-blooded, very quick and strong. I can feel still how swift there stung A live, wild fire my veins along At sight of her : 'twas not her face, Though face was never like it yet, Nor her young body's swaying grace, Nor her sweet voice (and I forget Its accents only with all things), Through it there ran a tearful note, And then a laugh, as a bird sings. I used to watch her slim white throat And see the laugh begin there first. 'Twas all of her I loved . . . her youth Fresh as a bud soon rose to burst : A white rose — aye ! in very truth This I let be, her whiteness shine Without one spot or stain from me. Think of it ! think ! a life as mine ! Father ! how can I make you see THE ONE WHITE DEED 27 The miracle it was ? To kiss Her soft red mouth with lips of fire I had staked gladly all heaven's bliss : Or once to touch her. Wild desire Burned every sense ; till to me came No other single thought all day But this, a fierce devouring flame, That once against my breast she'd stay, So I might feel her heart on mine And kiss her small, still childish face Unto a woman's : break the shrine Of virgin purity, disgrace Her sexless peace of childhood fair, And make her mine, body and soul. I might have done it. Father ! there Lies my one deed of merit whole. Ah ! father, if you knew such men As I, you would be sure of this, Somehow a miracle was when I there denied myself her kiss. I wonder, should I some day steal Within that heaven you speak of now, And choice were given me. Should I kneel To kiss her robe's hem, her white brow, Or crush her mouth on mine instead ! And hold her close then, breast to breast ? Nay ! you rebuke me, nearly dead. Maybe ! maybe ! you priests know best. And I would even then endure (Losing my paradisal bliss) The old fierce pangs to keep her pure ; Strengthened to forego her kiss. 28 TO-NIGHT To-night To-morrow we'll be wise — to-night instead Forget to-morrow. Child ! your head Wears a faint nimbus from the sun's last ray. And, since a saint but rarely comes my way, Stir not, dear little saint, but sit and smile, Letting me talk just aimlessly awhile. Now that I look again, your drooping face Owns quite the old painters' air of holy grace, Making those worldly things, I find not ill, Drift far and dream-like from this evening still. It seems incongruous, banal now to say All I had meant, December and your May. 'Tis true, despite the dear protesting eyes I bless you for : there the stern fact denies Our sophistry : for naught may ever span That gulf between the lost years of a man And such as yours, a white, unwritten page For youth to pen, not dreary middle-age. They tangled things, somehow, the sisters three Who wove the fates constraining you and me. Will they, I wonder, credit too, someday, My speech of truth, here, in this barren way, Shewing you just how ugly, yet how sure, The barrier between us must endure ? Move not ! I want to keep you pictured thus (For this must mean the end of all, for us), TO-NIGHT ?9 I want to see you in remembrance there With misty ring of sunset round your hair, Tremulous mouth and eyes of honest grey That always keep their childhood's direct way. Child ! you will have your worshippers and flowers Later, among the glad young future's hours, Roses enough, I see them, heap on heap ; Perhaps this spoiled rose cost more giving, keep It. No ! forget ! you must forget ! Not tears ? Not shrined saint with eyelids wet ? To-morrow I'll be wise, and my life dead As wisdom's Solomon — instead Forgive me, fates ! this sudden comfort whereto I am led — To-night. 30 PRISCILLA Priscilla (1840) The preacher took his text o'erhead. I heard Priscilla's laugh instead, So low, I'm sure none other heard The little note, as flute of bird, That slightly stirred the tucker lace About her throat, faint flushed her face, And drew her lips to rosier bow, In way, Priscillas only know ! I, through the dreary sermon's while, Watched the vague flicker of her smile, That crept from eyes to lips' refrain Then lips to eyes swift back again. Black-mittened hands lay in her lap Devoutly still ... if it might hap Along the cushion'd seat, I prayed, For a brief instant one be laid ! But no ! with fingers intertwined, Priscilla's hands were most unkind. The little curls about her neck Had lights of gold and just a fleck She always called " an auburn red," " Carrots " her younger brother said ; Against one ear, a straying lock Just teased my patience, while the clock, Over the gallery, solemn ticked, As through his prosy sermon picked PRISCILLA 31 Our prosy parson his slow way. She wore a posy, sweet and gay, In her high-waisted gown, the twin Of one beneath her bonnet's brim. Is't any wonder I'd to look At her, as parson at his book ? Thirdlies and fourthlies, on he droned In long procession, I had groaned, With eyes upon Priscilla's face For the delayed dismissal's grace, When, by a flower touch so light, Impatience swift was put to flight, For fingers, soft as thistledown On the red cushion pressed mine own : Just at that moment lastly preached The tiresome parson : end was reached Too soon ! 32 TOGETHER Togethei We passed across the moor together, You and I, in the golden weather Of early autumn : down below The little, curling mists did go About the nestling homesteads there. But, on the upland, clear and fair, The sunlight rested ; on your face Lingering with some vague, mystic grace I knew not hitherto, touched mien And voice to dignity serene. Unconsciously we both withdrew, E'en thought, from that we surely knew Whereto our loitering steps must tend, And days together forever end. You plucked a blossom from the down, With steady fingers in your gown Fastened secure. I, watching, guessed How afterward it would lie pressed Between some secret page : my heart Like fashion there, would rest apart From what comes after ; at your smile I forced another ; laughed awhile At some quaint recollection, capped Your foolish fables with one apt, We both grew children over, too. Yet, all the time, I strove with you In secret farewell . . . only jest Withheld or we there, breast to breast, TOGETHER 33 Had mocked the sunlight, spoiled the day Life yielded grandly ; separate way At last we tread : yet, once together We, in the golden October weather Went o'er the fading, purple heather — You and I. 34 A RIFT A Rift You will come no more, And I shall never send : You being you, I — I Until the end. Despite this I am yet No less your friend ; While you, I know, keep mine Until the end. Life fashions strangely thus, Starts flaws she will not mend Nor will not wholly break Until the end. THE HAPPY VALLEY 35 The Happy Valley 'Twixt the moorland and the sea Of all places I would be ; Where a little valley hides, Where the singing of the tides Falls in echo sweetly faint With the sea's eternal plaint. Overhead the great crags sheer Skyward climb : their shadows here Make a shelter from the sun While his blinding course is run. On the springy turf I'd lie, Watch the fierce, unclouded sky, See the waves of heated air Quiver, eddying everywhere : Hear the seabirds' haunting cry As they swoop, wheel and flash by : Smell the wild thyme 'neath my head, Bruised to sweetness for a bed. Let the world without go by, Peace enwrapped would I lie. But alas ! comes not for me, 'Twixt the moorland and the sea, That deep valley, save in gleams Fitfully, about my dreams. Yet I have it none the less, Though no more my footsteps press 36 THE HAPPY VALLEY ♦ That soft turf, I hear the breath Of the distant sea that saith " Peace dwells in thee." Tired soul By that voice is sudden whole. Here, among the city's throng, Sings the sea her low, wise song ; 'Stead of countless passers-by, I discern the wide, far sky, Blue, intense above the crags. When my inmost spirit flags, Comes a vision of the vale — Then no more, I weakling fail ; Blows the breath of Life to me From betwixt the moor and sea. AMSTERDAM 37 Amsterdam Tall houses grim that overlook Your own reflections, year by year, In quiet waters there below Where only shadows seem to stir : Old houses with steep-gabled roofs, Where ancient dates stay carved on high, What secrets an ye'd only try — Ye might relate the passer-by ! Once had ye mistress such an one, As Rembrandt, Hals, or Maes set On canvas for ourselves to know, As though in life we met her yet ; A lady wise, serene and firm, Ruling her household as her spouse His merchant ways with kindness, though Fear tinged affection in her house ? Within your walls how many a feast, With flowing cup and generous fare, Welcomed as guests the faces we Gaze on across the gallery there ! Here portly burgomaster stepped, Clanging yon lion-headed bell, There rich-gowned vrow in ample skirt, If ye their passage might but tell ! Old houses grim that overlook Your own reflections, year by year, 3 8 AMSTERDAM In quiet waters there below Where only shadows seem to stir, What secrets an ye'd only try— Ye might relate the passer-by ! DORDRECHT 39 Dordrecht Venice — men call her in their pride Of winding waterways o'erset By houses, bridges, where the tide Doubles rose glories of sunset ; Where trembling azure, silver, gold, In vague reflections come and go, From every surface that may hold The western skies' mysterious glow. With sunset ended, as a spark Colour extinguished, shadows soft Steal o'er the tender summer dark. Great ships with single lights aloft To guide them seawards at the mast, White sails shine ghostly, hulks in row, Pass towed in line ; toward the vast, Out on a sunset tide all go. A northern Venice, girt around With silent waters, mast on mast ; And in their midst, an ancient crown, Her great tower rises, from the past To front the present ; ever turns To watch the tall ships out to sea, And eastward evermore discerns The tall ships anchor at the quay. 4 o " CITY OF DREAM " " City of Dream " Faery city, whose palaces gleam over the rippling, moving stream, Venice men name you, I — city of dream ! Opal, amber, mother-of-pearl, from each unto each do your half-tones whirl, Fleeting, inconstant, as moods of a girl. You quivering flash, then, an instant burn to rose- red richness, and fading turn Pale purple and lilac a new key to learn. Tremulous light ever comes, ever goes, when twi- light vagueness her magic throws, All city of dream then — amethystine and rose. Which is the Venice that holds men most — the day- light palaces host upon host, Or this phantom city, her daylight ghost ? When shadowy waters now hide, now reveal, beauty and radiance, and hushed we feel Elfin spells o'er the senses steal ? Glide we silently by with the stream ; gondola, waters, reflections, seem With ourselves but part of a wondrous dream. Then Venice at last I truly see, no mortal city, but builded for me Not of marble rare but pure mystery. VENICE 41 Venice The waters lap low, As we go, as we go, Toward the lagoon 'Neath the young crescent moon. Dim palaces shew, As we go, as we go, Marble lintel, facade In the evening's soft shade. The western skies low As we go, as we go, Hold sunset's last flush, Rose, lilac and blush. All is peace : and I know As zee go, as we go, That the heart of heaven's bliss, Would be just again this. 42 THE BOBOLI GARDENS The Boboli Gardens We left the pictures with our eyes A little wearied of their gold And purple glories, azure dyes, And richest crimsons, fold on fold. -'•> Past altar-pieces, dim with Time, Blackened of incense smoke, we went, By courtesans, a motley line Of saints and sinners, oddly blent. Stood grave tall ilex overhead, Along the garden's sunny ways. We roamed oppressed with those old dead, Haunted by thought of other days : Until, we stepped where Florence lies All beauty, framed in living green, Where 'neath the blue Italian skies Giotto's immortal tower is seen. Far white-peaked mountains dimly die Against the furthest stretch of blue ; Soothed by that far expanse of sky, The greatest Artist . . . then, we knew. AT VILLA D'ESTE 43 At Villa D'Este There are ghosts that flit, As here in the sun I sit Looking out over the terrace wall At fountains below and cypress tall, At groves of olive and thickets of rose, Planted how long ago, who knows ? Within they stir not ; those echoing halls With gaudy mould'ring frescoed walls And marbled stairways hold no ghosts ; But here, in the garden, they throng in hosts. In and out of the green arcades Among the tangle of sylvan glades, A many-coloured troop they pass Lightly over the dew-wet grass. Courtiers, poets, musicians and clowns, Ladies in gorgeous Renaissance gowns, In shimmer of silk with jewels a-gleam ; Laughing, rich-clad the shadows stream, Sunlit, brilliant, careless and gay, Living again in their blithe array. I sit and dream in the noonday sun, Living again in a day that is done ; If of human life a single day May be said to die while its memories stay. 44 KEATS' GRAVE Keats' Grave " So sweet a spot in love with death Would make a mortal," poet saith, Who, 'mid the grasses yonder lies, With English roses round and skies Blue as none English there above, " So sweet a spot with death in love." The nameless, deathless poet near By Shelley sleeps ; the birds sing clear As though they loved to sing and knew The dust below a singer's too. Oh ! passionate heart and brain a-flame, " Whom the gods love " a double fame Of death and genius yours to reap. What if the cypresses watch keep Beside a nameless tomb ? No need For any pilgrim name to read — Since long immortal in the blue Have soared your deathless song and you. Rome, April, 1908. CHIAROSCURO 45 Chiaroscuro Mysterious gift, our human Life Of peace and struggle, joy and strife, Of careless laughter, bitter tears, High leaping courage, craven fears, Of changing dreams, and swift desires, Dark moods of torpor, naming fires That light the spirit, spur the brain To life's best efforts, fiercest pain. And none e'er knoweth, nor may know, But dimly of another's woe, Nor utmost pinnacle of bliss. Each heart's tremendous secret this, Making of Life a path of light, Or pilgrimage of blackest night. 4 6 SONNET Sonnet Oh ! restless human heart that as the sea Swings and recedes in ceaseless ebb and flow, Though sighing wind or wilder tempest blow, Ever thou movest 'neath complainingly : And if thou seem'st to rest, can only be Illusion for a summer hour to know, Since surging fathoms, there, the blue below An errant wind may lash to enmity. Yet on thy tides what ships to port are borne ! Rich-cargoed, rare, from stranger lands afar, Weathering the wrack, by beating surges torn, To pass and harbour there, within the bar ; While thine unquiet voice by night and morn Moans in eternal quest 'neath sun or star. THE GAME 47 The Game It's no use stopping to wail when the game is half- way through, Dropping the spoiled laurels to snatch at a sprig of rue. Play for your life with a spirit, play, for one never can say The psychological moment, that leads to, or up from, dismay. Try and forget the spectators tier upon tier behind, They who will clap if you conquer, hiss if your fate's unkind. There are others who strive beside you, men for the selfsame stake, The tag of a ribbon's colour, a cup, or an honour's sake. Bruised and beaten, or hero, cheered, lifted shoulder-high, Smiling bareheaded to all the crowd, or creeping unnoticed by ; After all there's the man unchanged, somebody knows him yet ; And one who remembers is apt to be worth a dozen of those who forget. Time enough to be sorry when the game is over and done And a man has finished for all he is worth, there, in the noonday sun. 48 TO A STONE FIGURE To a Stone Figure Found in ail Egyptian Tomb Who wrought thee long ago, beside the Nile, Setting in stone thy slow, archaic smile : Closing the coffin-lid in gathering gloom, On thee, a thousand years hid in the tomb? Was he a youth, that swathed, mummied clay, Or some old Rameses wearied and grey ; Did quivering mouth thy sculptured one caress In token of the living lips she'd press ? Tears, unavailing, bitter, o'er thee shed As thou wast shaped in image of the dead : Or wild, impelling fear the carver speed To haste and shut thee close, there, with the deed ? Thou dost not answer, only smile and smile As when they fashioned thee, beside the Nile ; And, when these lips are voiceless as thine own, Still thou wilt smile inscrutable in stone. SUMMER STORM 49 Summer Storm . All night the wind against the pane Moaning cried and lashed the rain ; All night the heart within my breast As the wind could never rest. Then tempest died and morning sun Garden colours vivid spun ; Yet all along the garden walks Lay sodden roses torn from stalks ; Red roses trodden, spoiled, forlorn, From fair sweet sisters ruthless torn ; As in the heart lie, trampled low, Passionate dreams Life mav not know. D 50 " POPPY-LAND " " Poppy- Land " All the summers that are dead Seem to flame again, awhile, In these poppy fields of red All the summers seem to smile. Colour, as a banner spread O'er the waste lands, mile on mile, Blazes, riots, poppy-led, All the summers seem to smile. All the summers that are dead Wake to fire in this defile, Lifting from the dust their head, All the summers seem to smile. MOORLAND 51 Moorland O'er the sombre moor they crowd Shadows of the flying cloud, Circling, wheeling, swift away Through the silent, livelong day. Giant boulders, hoary, grim Climb the heights skyline to rim : Purple heather round their stones All the colour moorland owns. Mile on mile stretch open moor, Granite greyness, lonely tor, Where but shadows move and pass, Fleet, mysterious o'er the grass. Watching . . . shadows, moorland, seem Types of man's unceasing dream By man's thought the secret mind Of all living things to find : Thoughts are flying shadows thrown O'er the height of that Unknown Which, untrodden, 'gainst the skies There in greatness ever lies. 52 DARTMOOR Dartmoor Here the winds rove fresh and pure, Sweeping spaces stretch away ; Nothing little may endure, Life's no more a petty day. Room is for man's spirit here, Underneath this wide, far sky ; Room for thought to wing, grow clear, Room for weariness to die. All is beauty free and fair, Joy instinctive floods the soul. Glowing earth, wind-freshened air, Make the sorest spirit whole. This the gift of Mother Earth To her children, sought above On her lonely heights, have birth Wondrous springs of power and love. A SIN 53 A Sin (The Legend of St. Darlugdach, a.d. 526) Dear was Saint Darlugdach to abbess good Saint Bride. Young and fair and white as snow They two did long abide, Blessed abbess, nun devout, known all the country- side. White was the habit of Saint Darlugdach the fair, But whiter yet the sweet young brow Beneath her chestnut hair ; To hide it all within a veil her effort and despair. Red was the mouth, as a rose's heart in June, That told her beads and sung her chants, God wot they went in tune ! Saint Darlugdach's but holy thoughts, eve, morning, and broad noon. And every night she lay at rest against the Abbess' breast, For of the company of nuns, St. Bride did love her best ; Full tenderly she cherished her, a dove within her nest. 54 A SIN White was the habit of Saint Darlugdach the fair, And white her soul, God knew it so, Until her eyes met there, Man's eyes beyond the cloister wall, they seemed to burn the air. They drew the heart from out her breast, her fluttering heart aflame, And all her womanhood up-burst At sound of her own name On wooing lips, the single word, . . . then never Life the same ! She knelt before the altar steps, she told her beads, she sped To scourge her tender flesh, and yet She felt no pain, instead She smiled and scourged again until the very stones ran red. She heard one voice between her chants, from matins to compline. It sang not canticle nor psalm. It drowned the Mass divine. " Can there be sin in Christendom, Mother of God, as mine ? " That voice now called her from her prayers, her soul from Mary's feet, She shuddered and obeyed its thrall, " Mother ! that sin be sweet ! " She moaned and prayed, then straight arose, and went the voice to meet. A SIN 55 " To-night, Oh, Darlugdach ! " it said, " this very night I come To bear thee hence, my prisoned dove." Her tense, red lips were dumb, Her eyes were sudden brands that burnt, of her young life the sum. He kissed her brow, he kissed her breast ; her mouth he dared not kiss, Though for its touch, he was but man, He would have risked heaven's bliss ; " Not yet," she whispered as he yearned toward her, " Nay ! not this." That night she lay her down beside St. Bridget wise and good. Her fingers clasped a crucifix, They seemed to burn the rood, Her breast was flame, although she lay immovable as wood. Without was darkness of the pit, in torrents beat the rain, The wind cried like a human voice, Yet could not drown her pain. She heard before it came love's call " Darlugdach ! ' then again. Loud called that voice amid the storm, and louder her own heart. She trembling rose, " He waits, I go ! " Sudden awake did start, Her slumbering faith, her vows, and shame, passion was rent apart. 56 A SIN She cast her down upon her knees, praying as ne'er before, 'Gainst her own heart, 'gainst her own flesh, Ah ! agony right sore, While in her ears that yearning voice " Dar-lugd- ach ! " o'er and o'er. " My love ! sweet love, ah ! come to me. Here in the storm, I wait," Wailed lover's voice ; she steeled her heart, " Dear love ! The hour grows late." Into the fire where great logs burned she thrust her bare feet straight. She kept her white feet, each by each, there in the fire's fierce core, The tender, living flesh to sear. Ah ! pain in mad pain more, That with love's pain did fight and fight, until it overbore. The voice without grew low and faint, until at length it died. Tortured, exhausted, then at last She crept against St. Bride, With scarred feet and wounded soul to lay her down beside. Morning in moving magic broke o'er Kildare hills at last, Darlugdach turned from pearl and rose ; Since yester-dawn what vast Soul-tracks of anguish hers to treads— all life seemed overpass'd. A SIN 57 Saint Bridget healed the feet, forgave her little nun with tears. There came no other sin to spot Darlugdach through the years. In all the chronicles but this one frailty appears. But, sometimes, when her prayers were said, all told her latest bead, Deep memory in her breast would leap ; Upon her knees she'd plead : " O, Mary mother ! which was sin ? Yea, verily, indeed Are vows by children made to Christ, by women made to men, More holy in the sight of God ? Was I unfaithful when Unspoken vows I broke, and sent a soul to darkness then ? " Into the night her lover passed ; the years let fall their veil. Before, behind him all is dark, Vanished from legend's pale, Save for his passion, fierce and foiled, of which is told this tale. 58 SUMMER NIGHT Summer Night "When I scan the multitudinous circling spirals of the stars no longer do I touch earth with my feet, but sit with Zeus himself and take my fill of the ambrosial food of the gods." — Ptolem^eus (Mackail's trans.). Mortal are we beneath the sky who scan This empyrean arch, a blazing span Of star and planet, burning overhead In steady glow ? Nay, do we feel instead One with the gods, as Ptolemseus saith, Immortal, unafraid of life and death. Earth's little day sinks down and utter dies Before the awful vista of these skies : Man and his race seem pigmies out of sight Under these countless arcs of dazzling light : Time, but a toy for children's make-believe, History, the web that busy spiders weave, Fever and fret subside and fall away : With the high gods we are serene as they. IN DEVON NOW 59 In Devon Now The apple trees in orchard land With ruddy fruit, well-loaded 6tand : Ripe apples fall from off the bough — In Devon now. Against the white-washed cottage wall The many sunflowers, straight and tall, Lift golden cups, the reddest rose In Devon blows. The heather's fading on the hills, But Autumn's mellow sunlight fills The brackens full as they can hold Of Devon gold. Oh ! western land beside the sea, Where'er I wander still to me Come thoughts of orchard, fruit and bough In Devon now. 6o MOORWARD Moorward If I were in heaven I'd want to come back Once again to Devon Toward a moorland track, Where the purple heather Colours all the wold, In this Autumn weather Brackens turning gold. Where are shadows creeping From the clouds o'erhead, Now as softly sleeping, Then as pixy led ; There, with silence resting, Paradise would be : End of fret and questing, Mother Earth, with thee. A COUNTRYMAN'S CREED 61 A Countryman's Creed Passon he saith to me, passon he do, As the years of man upon airth be few, Packed full o' trouble, gude passon saith, And the way o' life's to prepare fer death. I reckon he knaweth deal more'n me In bukes and sich, where larnin' do be. I never worn't no scholard at all, And as fer schulin', why, my dear sawl ! Me darter's littlest maid do knaw More o' schulin'n ever I saw. When passon talketh along o' me, Somehow or t'other I can't agree. I holds as life be gude in the main, For winter, zummer, the sun arter rain. A course there's a passel o' things to bear, A mort o' losses, a plenty o' care For folks to bring up their chillern strong, Brave young tackers, a purty gude throng. But, come to look at it all way round, Countin' right wi' wrong, wi' rotten the sound, I've always reckoned and always should As the scale do most-times tip fer gude. Let passon tache as a man in his prime, Lusty and strong, should use of his time In thinkin' o' death, wi' life runnin' quick. Nay ! but I'll never agree wi' thic. 6z A COUNTRYMAN'S CREED Passon he holdeth, young passon he do, As the years o' men upon airth be few. I'm eighty-six, to his twenty-nine, They hain't so scanty, they years o' mine. I haves me laugh, and I sits in the sun, A-smoking me pipe, while years as be done, Go past in me mim'ry, gude old days, I dawn't care what thic young passon says, Life's man's concarn, when death do end, Maybe he too shall come as friend. A COUNTRY FAIR 63 A Country Fair I mind I was courtin' Loveday Lee, Purty a maid as ever you see, Wi' rosy cheeks and a skin like milk, Hair as yaller as fine-spun silk. I minds it all as 'twas yesterday, Axin' her whether 'twas yea or nay. The maiden coloured and dropped her head As if 'twas a suddint question I'd said, While all the time I was mortal sure As I'd never need for to axe her more. 'Twas August, the week o' Kirton Fair. I zees it all as I still was there Wance agen, and Loveday too Dressed out in her Zinday frock o' blue. Brave and proud of her gown was she And a-gwine off to Fair along o' me. Fairs in my youth was grand, ees, vay ! Nort be a quarter as gude to-day. Crowds o' folks decked out in their best All dringed up in the streets, a press 'Twas, fer a body to get along dro Wi' Loveday in her best Zinday blue On me arm. Dear life ! but worn't I proud Trapesing along wi' the brave gurt crowd ? I bought some fairing, quite half a pound, Pink and white and twisted round Curly sticks and comfits too, Almonds,, macaroons but few. 64 A COUNTRY FAIR What you gets to-day is brave poor trade, Fairings, as in my youth, bain't made. High in the swing-boats both of us soared, Loveday screeched, and the watchers roared As higher us went, wi' the faces below Looking like moons there, row 'pon row. I tried me aim, while Loveday frowned At the gipsy woman chaffing round, A handsome critter, though over-bold, Wi' a scarlet kerchief, an' rings o' gold At her swarthy ears, and eyes that stirred The blood in me veins, so I never heard Her suave, persuasive speech, Loveday Took me arm and us went away. 'Tis clear in me mind as 'twas yesterday, Things o' the moment fades away, Us lives in the Past, old folks, I reckon. And eyes long closed do smile, hands beckon. 'Tis forty year since my Loveday died Wi' her last-born baby coffin'd beside. Yet I often seem as I feel her near, Wi' her hand in mine, and her laugh so clear. To-day is a shadow cast by the sun, But the Past is a day as is never done. WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON, LTD. PRINTERS, PLYMOUTH DATE DUE CAYLORO PRINTED IN U.S.*. UC SOUTHERN REGIOMAL LIBRARY FACILITY AA 000 614 971 o