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 DULCE COR 
 
 BEING 
 
 THE POEMS OF FORD BERETON 
 
 Crot Ke.1/,, 
 
 " My youth 's dear book " 
 
 Vita Nuova 
 
 LONDON 
 
 KEGAN PAUL, TRENXII & CO., i, PATERNOSTER SQUARE 
 
 MDCCCl.XXXVI
 
 
 ( The rights of translation and of reproduction are reserved.)
 
 To you, my heart's Sweet Heart, 
 
 Ideal still to me, 
 My life's far better -part — 
 
 To you, O loifc to be, 
 
 Wherever thou viayst ivait, 
 By what dear trystitig-gate, 
 Thy feet all wet tvith dew, 
 Thy youth's dear deio — 
 
 Dear Muse, so ofteti sought. 
 Tender and wise and true, 
 I dedicate anew 
 
 My 'youth's dear book ' to you, 
 
 Uowe'er imperfect wrought 
 Its Tansies of pure thought, 
 JFith /Rosemary for remembrance. 
 And Rue, sweet Rue, for you. 
 
 ^ 3
 
 FOREWORD. 
 
 In the ancient Abbey of Dtdce Cor, 
 
 The pleasant Solway near, 
 Two passionate hearts they laid of yore 
 
 And a love that cast out fear. 
 
 And still love casts out fear, 
 And hearts like the passionate hearts of yore 
 Throb in the Abbey of Didce Cor, 
 The pleasant Solway near. 
 
 .SwKET Heart Aijijey, 
 1S85. 
 
 "When John Baliol died in 1269 Devorgilla, his wife, had his 
 dear heart enibahned and enshrined in a coffer of ivory, enamelled 
 and bound with silver bright, which was placed before her daily in 
 her hall as her sweet silent companion. At her death she desired 
 the relic to be laid upon her heart, when sleeping in the New Abbey 
 which she caused to be built. Hence it received the name of Sweet 
 Heart Abbey." — Scoti Monasticon.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Memory Harvest ... ... ... ... i 
 
 Ford Ber^ton : Himself ... ... ... 14 
 
 Ford Ber£ton : His Philosophy ... ... ... 21 
 
 Ford Ber^ton : His Wondering ... ... 27 
 
 Ford BerSton : His Home Coming ... ... 32 
 
 A Leaf from the Damask Rose ... ... 39 
 
 The Bells of Antwerp ... ... ... ... 41 
 
 A Summer Day ... • ... ... ... 44 
 
 Alone ... ... ... ... ... ... 47 
 
 Not Alone ... ... ... ... ... 49 
 
 The Choice of Herakles ... ... ... 50 
 
 As IN the Days of Old ... ... ... 57 
 
 My Poetess's Poem ... ... ... ... 73 
 
 That not Impossible She ... ... ... 76 
 
 The Young Things in Thine Eyes ... ... 78 
 
 O Leman Lake ... ... ... ... Si 
 
 Idyll of the Hayfield ... ... ... ... 84
 
 X 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 I CANNOT SEND THEE GOLD 
 
 O Heart's Delight ... 
 
 The Midnight of the Year 
 
 Even Song ... 
 
 Love and Knowledge 
 
 Ey the Sea ... 
 
 "There was ae Flour" 
 
 Cor CoRDiuM 
 
 Wealth of Roses 
 
 Love Lieth Lowly ... 
 
 A Year To-night 
 
 Our Lady of the Woods 
 
 Night by Suilven 
 
 From Two Windows... 
 
 June Rain in Wales 
 
 A Christmas Greeting 
 
 False and True... 
 
 A Far Cry ... 
 
 Love is the True Gold ... 
 
 Among September Snow 
 
 A Christmas Song for a Lady 
 
 A Winter Message from the High Alps 
 
 Hast thou Seen ? Hast thou Known ? .. 
 
 New Rhyme and Old Reason 
 
 Song f'or Bride-Day Morning 
 
 Forget and Remember 
 
 A Transcript from the "Song of Songs 
 
 After Cloud the Sunshine ... 
 
 87 
 89 
 94 
 97 
 99 
 
 lOI 
 
 103 
 104 
 106 
 108 
 no 
 
 112 
 114 
 116 
 119 
 120 
 122 
 125 
 127 
 128 
 130 
 132 
 
 136 
 137 
 139 
 142 
 146
 
 CONTENTS. XI 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Harry Owen's Book ... ... ... ... 149 
 
 Thirty Years ... ... ... ... 150 
 
 Formosa Acerrimaque ... ... ... 153 
 
 Brownorotto's Distemper ... ... 155 
 
 The Penalty ok Greatness ... ... ... 158 
 
 The Man who Laughed no more ... 161 
 
 LiLITH ... ... ... ... ... 163 
 
 The Vision of the Man Orm ... ... 164 
 
 From Philip Drunk to Philip Sober ... 167 
 
 Love and Nature. 
 
 Greeting ... ... ... ... 170 
 
 Love and Nature ... ... ... ... 171 
 
 Memory and Hope ... ... ... 173 
 
 Presence in Absence ... ... ... 174 
 
 Love's Final Cause ... ... ... 175 
 
 To the Author of " Olrig Grange" ... 176 
 
 The Lady Beatrice ... ... ... 177 
 
 The Footprints of the Goth ... ... 178 
 
 For My Mother... ... ... ... 179 
 
 Carpe Diem ... ... ... ... ... 180 
 
 HE Lifting of the Veil ... ... 181 
 
 The Web of Life ... ... ... ... 182 
 
 Spring Yearning ... ... ... 184 
 
 Hope Deferred ... ... ... ... 185 
 
 Anchora Fidei ... ... ... ... 1S6 
 
 Love in a World of Snow ... ... ... 187 
 
 Pro Fano ... ... ... ... 18S 
 
 A Creed for Men — or Devils? ... ... 189
 
 Xll CONTENTS. 
 
 PAG 
 
 A Voice Crying ... ... ... ... ^ 190 
 
 Time's Nemesis ... ... ... ... 191 
 
 To John Greenleaf Whittier, the Friend — 
 
 My Friend ... ... ... ... 192 
 
 Marie ... ... ... ... ... ... 193 
 
 Birthday Blessing ... ... ... ... 195 
 
 Lisa of the Hill ... ... ... ... 196 
 
 Ascription ... .. ... ... ... 200
 
 mp:mory harvest. 
 
 R. M. M. 
 
 Another year it is ! The full spring tide 
 Throbs in the heart of nature and of man. 
 
 It sweeps the drift of other years than these — 
 The spoil of summer, wrack of winter wan, 
 
 Flotsam and jetsam of all memories, 
 Far up the shingly side 
 Of that long barrier-reef we call our Past, 
 
 Which groweth hungrier with the ebbing years. 
 
 Burying far down high hopes and bitter fears, 
 Leaving naught bare for long the seas upcast ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Shall we then make our harvest of the sea 
 And garner memories, which we surely deem 
 
 May light these hearts of ours on darksome days, 
 When loneliness hath power, and no kind beam 
 Lightens about our feet the perilous ways ? 
 For of Eternity 
 
 B
 
 MEMORY HARVEST. 
 
 This present hour is all we call our own, 
 
 And Memory's edge is dull'd, even as it brings 
 The sunny swathes of unforgotten springs, 
 
 And sweeps them to our feet like grass long mown. 
 
 III. 
 
 From out the dark one gloaming shineth bright, 
 When in Fate's door Love placed his golden key — 
 
 A dull December day with spurts of hail, 
 And fine frost garniture on bush and tree. 
 
 O'er a white land had raved the southern mail, 
 And now through early night 
 The city lights flash past, and all my youth 
 
 Stirs in my heart to greet one in the hall — 
 
 A grey-eyed maid, as comely, sweet, and tall, 
 As in Judean fields the gleaner Ruth. 
 
 IV. 
 
 There is an eve in the sweet prime of June 
 Agleam with Love's fierce light, a twilight sky 
 
 Shot through with arrows of a man's despair — 
 Grey seas' monotony, low mists tlmt lie 
 
 Along the tideless flats, a lonely pair 
 In that intense commune 
 Which blots the future and the past, which makes 
 
 The passers-by seem idle phantom shapes ; 
 
 Till, born in fire and dark, twin Love escapes, 
 And in their eyes June's sweetest morning breaks.
 
 MEMORY HARVEST. 
 
 V. 
 
 A day of sunny showers, filled with the scent 
 Of leaves, sun-smitten ere the dews were dry ; 
 
 The path, one dazzling glow of hawthorn bloom, 
 And underfoot were daisies, and the shy 
 
 Red roses beckoning from the woodland gloom ; 
 The graceful foxgloves bent 
 To cool their ladyfingers in the rills ; 
 
 Yet through the gladness in the eyes of each 
 
 We read, that perfect joy hath power to teach 
 Even sadder things than plenitude of ills. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Another eve I cannot choose but name, 
 Nor fail to tell of reunited hands 
 
 Warm after severance — of eyes that scarce 
 Left hold of eyes — the wonderful new lands. 
 
 The purple plain of sea, the gentle airs 
 
 That through the hill-gaps came — 
 
 These were the half-seen setting to our joy ; 
 
 New bliss unrealized warmed us like wine, 
 
 And happier hearts than these of thine and mine 
 Had not the Master in his world-employ. 
 
 vn. 
 
 A bounteous month of joy that August was, 
 Filled with low voice of seas, and lower voice 
 Of love, and warm with love's intensest heart !
 
 MEMORY HARVEST. 
 
 See where the hills dip down, hearken the noise 
 Of falling waters, eager to depart 
 From off the crags and pass 
 
 Into the cool green ocean depths. The land 
 Singeth aloud for love ; and crimson flush 
 The skies at eve and morn ; the uplands blush 
 
 In sheets of heather blossom where we stand. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Give me thine hand, sweet love ! it is not meet 
 
 Thou should'st be silent when the world doth sing ! 
 
 Or is thy silence gladder than my words ? 
 Poor words ! and yet what sw^eetness shall they bring 
 When this our cup of joy seems broken shards 
 Lying about our feet ! 
 '• Behold, I love thee ! " From the midst of this 
 The fairest scene beneath the canopy, 
 An echo cometh, " Thee,'^ and only " Thee /" 
 O love, BE silent — ansiver with a kiss ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 And ah ! the sacred morns that crowned the week — 
 The path betwixt the mountains and the sea. 
 The Sannox water and the wooden bridge. 
 The little church, the narrow seats — and we 
 That through the open window saw the ridge 
 Of Fergus, and the peak
 
 MEMORY HARVEST. 
 
 Of utmost Cior Mohr — nor held it \vrong, 
 When vext with platitude and stirless air, 
 To watch the mist wreaths clothe the rock-scarps 
 bare, 
 
 And in the pauses hear the blackbird's song. 
 
 X. 
 
 nest, leaf-hidden, Dryad's green alcove, 
 Half-islanded by hill-brook's seaward rush. 
 
 My love's still bower, where none may come but I ! 
 Where in clear morning prime and high noon hush 
 
 With only some old poet's book I lie ! 
 Sometimes a lonely dove 
 Calleth her mate, or droning honey thieves 
 
 Weigh down the bluebell's nodding campanule ; 
 
 And ever singeth through the twilight cool 
 Low voice of water and the stir of leaves. 
 
 XI, 
 
 Perfect are August's golden afternoons ! 
 All the rough way across the fells, a peal 
 
 Of joy-bells ring, not heard by alien ear. 
 The jealous brake and close-shut beech conceal 
 
 The sweet bower's queen and mine, albeit I hear 
 Hummed scraps of dear old tunes. 
 I push the boughs aside, and lo, I look 
 
 Upon a sight to make one more than wise, — 
 
 A true maid's heart, shining from tender eyes, 
 Rich with love's lore, unlearnt in any book.
 
 MEMORY HARVEST. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Sweet is this girl as heart's-ease after rain — 
 A sudden wonder to the wayfarers, 
 
 Like silver-gleaming birch in dusk of pines ! 
 Ah ! Paris never saw that head of hers, 
 
 Sun-touched in gloom of leaves as now it shines, 
 Else Troy had saved her pain ; 
 For head of Juno port, Minerva's eyes, 
 
 Queen Venus' grace upon her island strand. 
 
 Hath this dear maid — so from the shepherd's hand, 
 She takes the apple with a sweet surprise. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 And if this beauty fitly doth enshrine 
 
 A maid's pure troth, how fitly that of wife ! 
 
 O subtle essence, meaning ultimate 
 Of Love's dear mystery, life's inner life ! 
 
 We feel thy power, and eagerly await 
 Till thou arise and shine, 
 O Sun of final union, on our bliss. 
 
 Shine quickly — give our hearts a welcome rest, 
 
 For loneliness is lonely at the best. 
 And partner'd poverty more sweet than this ! 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Through the light tresses of the birchen copse 
 The sun sprays down a wealth of wavering gold ; 
 And with a rustle like my lady's skirt
 
 MEMORY HARVEST. 
 
 The winds draw close the leaves about our fold. 
 Deep-bosom'd in the cool ravine, and girt 
 By scorching treeless slopes, 
 
 In the deep tide of bliss our hearts we steep — 
 The same sad hearts that now in silence mourn — 
 Were there no hope in God, O love forlorn, 
 
 The memory of these days might make us weep ! 
 
 XV. 
 
 Yet is there hope, for we in God have trust. 
 And in ourselves — knowing He will not let ' 
 
 Slip from His hand two lives, that He hath 
 brought 
 Together by strange ways — doth not forget 
 To finish well the web Himself hath wroucrht ! 
 
 o 
 
 Is not the Weaver just ? 
 
 Lo, He shall see His labour perfected ; 
 No gracious promise registered above 
 Will He permit to fail, nor this our Love 
 
 W'xW He let ravel like a knotless thread ! 
 
 XVI. 
 
 So in this arbour green, my love and I 
 In pleasant wise made short the afternoon. 
 
 Half-hid in bracken at her feet I lay, 
 Regretting not the glory of our June 
 
 ^\1^ile mellow August in our grasp did stay 
 And hardly did we sigh
 
 MEMORY HARVEST. 
 
 That through our fingers did the sweet time glide, 
 Being so rich in joy, we did not deem 
 That one day we should waken from our dream 
 
 And in the isle of bliss no longer bide. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Yet since each hour had its especial joy, 
 Each eve to south or north along the shore 
 
 We went, and saw the shallow sands 
 Gleam through the pure green brine, and Sannox 
 pour 
 His ocean-tribute from the sterile lands ; 
 Or gather'd woodflowers shy ; 
 And in the gloaming came we singing home, 
 Until we reach'd the parting of the ways. 
 Where with my hand in hers a maiden says, 
 " O love, to one more of our days an etid hath come .'" 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 " Do I remember," say'st thou, "that still night. 
 The harvest moon high overhead, we strayed 
 
 Down the white road ; and over Brodick bay 
 We saw the Holy Isle couch undismayed. 
 
 Vast, vague, and leonine, and the array 
 Of piled cloud-peaks bright 
 Along the dim horizon of the South ? " 
 
 Yea, I remember ; yet more clear I trace 
 
 The dear surrender of one moon-lit face. 
 And, strangely clear, the smile about her mouth.
 
 MEMORY HARVEST. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 One long, long August day the heather bent 
 Under her feet ; still morning's young sunshine 
 
 Caressed the pale gold hair, noon's pulsing fire 
 Made all her cheek's faint rose incarnadine ; 
 
 Her eyes watch'd the low sun beyond Cantyre 
 Fill all the fair extent 
 Of ample cloudland and the narrow seas 
 
 With purple glamour, haze of shining gold, 
 
 And the grey curtains of the night-mists fold 
 The islands of the nether Hebrides. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Not distant from her side through all that day, 
 I wonder'd at the lithe grace of the maid, 
 
 Her bearing high yet frank, as one well used 
 To the free airs that round the hill-tops played. 
 
 A calm sweet nobleness of mien infused 
 In men the wish to pay 
 The homage of their best, ever to show 
 
 Their highest to her eyes, being so pure 
 
 That naught unsightly can her look endure, 
 But, shamefaced, from her presence forth doth go. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Just on the edge of the high table-land 
 
 Where lies the lake, deep girdled with morass, 
 We found two streams, a torrent and a brook.
 
 lo MEMORY HARVEST. 
 
 Slow-winding to the verge the brook did pass, 
 Over its pools heather and harebell shook, 
 And brown bent stretch'd a hand 
 
 To the tall rushes on the hither side. 
 
 Adown the mountain like a lightning flash 
 From the sheer cliffs the torrent waters dash, 
 
 With the sweet valley streamlet fain to bide ; 
 
 XXII. 
 
 But from the granite basin where they meet, 
 Lo, the still brook doth take the headlong pace 
 
 And fiercer heart-throb of the mountain-born 1 
 Through the long pass it foams in arrowy race, 
 
 Forgetful of the still land left forlorn ; 
 Behind their ardent feet 
 The old course lies, a scarce remember'd thread, 
 
 As, glad at heart, they seek the parent sea — 
 
 So of two lives this is the mystery, 
 And thou already hast the riddle read. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 From lone October's melancholy days 
 
 My heart goes back, remembering all the joy 
 
 That August held, and sweet September's bliss. 
 More fully known and charged with less alloy ; 
 Yea, backward looking, sure I am of this, 
 That love in woodland ways
 
 MEMORY HARVEST. ii 
 
 Is not more sweet than by the fireside ; 
 And nearest to my heart of hearts doth stay 
 The gracious duty fitly done each day, 
 
 Thy work at morn and song at eventide. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 For wafts of unforgottcn music come 
 All unawares into my lonely room, 
 
 To thrill me with the memories of the past — 
 Sometimes a tender voice from out the gloom, 
 
 A light hand on the keys, a shadow cast 
 Upon a learned tome 
 That blurs somewhat Alpha and Omega, 
 
 A touch upon my shoulder, a pale face 
 
 Upon whose perfect curves the fire-light plays. 
 Or love-lit eyes, the sweetest e'er I saw. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 These are but idle visions that I trace, 
 
 And yet their summer radiance lights my soul. 
 
 They tell me that this wind weeps not the loss 
 Of Love's ripe grain, that though the waters roll 
 
 Firm stands our bridge of faith — it spans across 
 Tliis empty interspace — 
 Its further arch springs from a land of peace 
 
 That lieth towards the morning ; in that land 
 
 A home for thee and me doth surely stand. 
 Around whose hearth-fire shall our souls find ease.
 
 12 MEMORY HARVEST. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Far in the deep of Arden wood it lies ; 
 About it pleasant leaves for ever wave. 
 
 Through charmed afternoons we wander on, 
 And at the sundown reach the seas that lave 
 
 The golden isles of blessed Avalon. 
 When the sweet daylight dies, 
 Out of the gloom the ferryman doth glide 
 
 To take us both into a younger day ; 
 
 And as the twilight land recedes away, 
 My lady draweth closer to my side. 
 
 XXVI I. 
 
 Thus to a granary for our winter need 
 
 We bring these gleanings from the harvest field : 
 
 Not the full crop we bring, but only sheaves 
 At random ta'en from autumn's golden yield — 
 
 One handful from a forest's fallen leaves ; 
 Yet shall this grain be seed 
 Wherewith to sow the furrows year by year — 
 
 These wither'd leaves of other springs the pledge, 
 
 When thou shalt hear over our hawthorn hedge 
 The mavis to his own mate calling clear. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 For us no early sun shall ever shine. 
 
 And never in the dusk a moon shall rise, 
 
 But through our hearts shall run a sudden thrill
 
 MEMORY HARVEST. 13 
 
 And dews of memory dim the yearning eyes. 
 
 The clouds that cast their shadows on the hill, 
 The mist's swift changing line, 
 Upon the sea the sheets of driving rain — 
 These are, and pass, like to a tale well told ; 
 But Life and Love shall not so slip our hold, 
 While suns and moons like these with us remain. 
 
 1S83.
 
 ( 14 ) 
 
 FORD BERETON. 
 
 Himself. 
 
 I. 
 
 Threading through the ripening barley, 
 Up the long rigs of the corn, 
 'Cross the meadows, with their mallows 
 Wet with dews of early morn, 
 Through the waving oats and barley, 
 With his friend, four-footed Charley, 
 Ford Bereton sought the shallows, 
 Where the swift white-breasted swallows 
 Dash and flash above the river. 
 
 Taller just a single handbreadth 
 On his sun-burnt flitting feet 
 Than the creamy meadow-sweet — 
 He, the sweetheart of the meadows, 
 Of the trembling woodland shadows. 
 Of the flowers and of the hours, 
 Sweetheart of the wood-folk hidden 
 In the dim wych-hazel bowers ! 
 
 River-fairies kiss'd unbidden
 
 FORD BERETON. 
 
 IS 
 
 His red mouth as he lay dreaming, 
 With his hair's gold auriole gleaming 
 
 As the sun peep'd in to see. 
 Bright as early sunshine he, 
 Well-beloved, well beloving, 
 As the winds and waters free ; 
 All alone, but unforsakcn, 
 Hush'd was Ford by summer bees, 
 Watch'd by bright-eyed irises ; 
 
 And in meadows, half-awaken 
 Heard he chimes of harebells, shaken 
 Merrily by small flower-angels. 
 
 All the day these glad evangels 
 Rang like music in his ear. 
 Woodland words and mysteries 
 Of the flowery lakeland leas. 
 
 Though his heart rang clear and true 
 To the human love he knew, 
 Still to them his heart was truer. 
 To the sunshine and the trees — 
 Wooed them like an ardent wooer 
 All the morning of his life ; 
 For the summer sun was clearer. 
 And the August wind was dearer, 
 Circling round the fields at strife, 
 Rustling strife, and whispering parley 
 With the hosts of armed barley, 
 In the wide fields by the lake.
 
 16 FORD BERETON. 
 
 Hardly dearer was the human 
 Love of tender loving woman, 
 Quiet eyes and sad caresses, 
 Than the upland winds' embraces. 
 And the sons; of woodland bird. 
 
 'O 
 
 Ford's small heart was not untender ; 
 But as yet it had not stirr'd 
 In response to love unwearied, 
 Nor could see the soft brown tresses 
 Fading into softer grey. 
 
 Instant was he to defend her 
 Fiercely with small fist and tongue, 
 Like a wild-cat brought to bay, 
 Desperate to guard its young ; 
 Yet he broke from her still keeping, 
 Eager for the moorlands ever. 
 For the heather and the river. 
 And the summer sunshine steeping 
 Lake and hill and yellow corn. 
 Much he griev'd her mother's mildness 
 With his wandering and his wildness. 
 Then when bitter bread of grudging 
 Or the ache of unthank'd drudging, 
 Pain'd in her sore heart the sorest — 
 Lost was Ford within the forest, 
 Lost with Charley, Tweed, or Royal, 
 Good dogs all, and champions loyal. 
 Since the earliest break of morn.
 
 FORD BEK^rON. 17 
 
 Then at evening, scratch'd and torn 
 On the hawthorn hedges jagged, 
 Wonder small that clothes were ragged — 
 Wonder small that one was bending 
 Carefully above her mending 
 Half the night with fingers worn ; 
 While within his crib unwinking, 
 Ford slept sound and dreamless sleep. 
 
 In the morning, never thinking 
 
 How his clothes were once more mended, 
 
 Folded in well-order'd heap. 
 
 Ford would dress, and to the sheep 
 
 And his shepherd friend would run. 
 
 Just as apt was Ford at races 
 
 With his flocks of horn'd black faces, 
 
 As his friends with twice as many 
 
 Feet to twinkle in the sun. 
 
 True it was, Ford had not any 
 
 Tail to wave aloft in air ; 
 
 But a sturdy right arm had he, 
 
 By the elder people's showing 
 
 Over apt at pebble-throwing. 
 
 Yet did Ford his honest share 
 Of the shouting and hallooing. 
 Of the turning and pursuing, 
 And of all that was adoing 
 At the folding and unfolding,
 
 i8 FORD BERETON. 
 
 At the washing and the smearing, 
 And the great day of the shearing — 
 Hounding on or backward holding, 
 Up and down, and to and fro, 
 Mad with rapture, Ford would go ! 
 
 II. 
 
 But on this especial morn 
 Ford went onward through the corn, 
 Past the warren and the sunny 
 Haunts of crop-ear'd, white-tail'd bunny. 
 To his den far out of reach — • 
 Overhung by sweet-leaf'd beech, 
 Underwash'd by limpid water, 
 Just above the great black pool 
 Where last year Ford saw the otter. 
 
 Here in hidden cave enchanted, 
 Was the spot by Ford most haunted ; 
 Safe and secret, still and cool, 
 For, by whomsoever wanted. 
 Here was rest from alien rule. 
 
 Ford could see the fishes swimming. 
 Not a stain the water dimming ; 
 Rippling crisply o'er the stones — 
 Silent, save for undertones 
 From the hazel copse behind, 
 Fretted by the fitful wind. 
 And the shallow river bickering
 
 FORD BEReTOX. 19 
 
 O'er the sloping, pebbly reaches — 
 Dusky, yet with sunshine flickering 
 Through the leaves on either hand 
 On the tiny silver beaches, 
 And the shining granite sand. 
 
 On his throne, moss overgrown, 
 King Bereton sits him down ; 
 Looks upon his kingdom narrow. 
 Lays aside his bow and arrow, 
 Calls his subjects to his presence ! 
 
 Forth with ready acquiescence 
 Two mice come and one lame sparrow. 
 
 Lastly ruddy Robin Redbreast, 
 Who with smooth and plumply fed breast, 
 Sits a-swing upon the pliant 
 Hazel-branches, nearer comes 
 For his hoarded dole of crumbs 
 
 Like a gentlemanly client. 
 
 Unto them doth Boy Bereton, 
 Leaning back his mossy seat on, 
 Slow propound his latest query. 
 
 Stiffly propp'd upon the arrow 
 Stood His Majesty's own sparrow. 
 All-important, wise, and cheery ; 
 Also, having finish'd eating, 
 Both the field-mice back retreating.
 
 20 FORD BE R ETON. 
 
 Curious peer'd from out their hole. 
 
 Ford laid down his broad blue bonnet, 
 Red-breast calmly took his dole, 
 Wiped his beak, and stepp'd upon it. 
 
 Courtier he, but no King's minion, 
 Not averse to give opinion 
 And consider critically 
 
 Even the King's philosophy. 
 1884.
 
 ( 21 ) 
 
 FORD BERETON. 
 His Philosophy. 
 
 " Do you know the silver birches, 
 Just below the hawthorn hedges, 
 On the great black forest's edges ? " 
 
 For reply, Sir Robin perches 
 On the bonnet's woollen tassel, 
 Bows like an obedient vassal, 
 
 Till the King is satisfied 
 With his subject's strict attention. 
 " Then I hardly need to mention 
 Whom I saw so quickly hide, 
 In the leaves of that wild cherry. 
 In his beak a big fat berry 
 Stolen from our orchard croft ! " 
 
 Here His Highness frown'd severely. 
 And Sir Robin calmly coughed, 
 Just to show how very clearly 
 This was no affair of his.
 
 22 FORD B ERE TON. 
 
 " In the field so wide and sunny 
 
 Where the summer clover is, 
 
 Where each year the mower searches 
 
 For the nests of wild-bee honey, 
 
 All along these silver birches 
 
 Stand up straight in shining row, 
 
 Dewdrops sparkling, shadows darkling, 
 
 In the early morning glow ; 
 
 And in gloaming time they're gleaming 
 
 White, like angels when I'm dreaming. 
 
 " There among its handsome brothers 
 Was one little crooked tree. 
 Different from all the others. 
 Just as bent as bent could be. 
 
 First it crawl'd along the heather 
 Till it turn'd up straight again, 
 Then it drew itself together 
 Like a tender thing in pain ; 
 Scarce a single green leaf straggled 
 From its twigs so bare and draggled — 
 And it really looks asham'd 
 When I'm passing by that way, 
 Just as if it tried to say — 
 
 ' Please don't look at such a maim'd 
 Little Cripple-Dick as I ; 
 Look at all the rest about. 
 Look at them and pass me by,
 
 FORD BERETOy. 23 
 
 I'm so crooked, do not flout me, 
 Kindly turn your head awry ; 
 Of what use is my poor gnarl'd 
 Body in this lovely world ? ' 
 
 " Then I cried for very sorrow, 
 And I went up close to say, 
 
 * I must run now, but to-morrow 
 I shall bring my dog and stay ; 
 We'll not sit below the great ones 
 
 Though they are so very tall. 
 Nor below the leafiest straight ones. 
 For I love you best of all.' 
 Then around its little twisted 
 Crippl'd waist I put my arm, 
 Drew it close to me and kiss'd it 
 Where the sunshine makes it warm. 
 
 " Robin Red-breast, are you listening ? " 
 
 Like a knight upon his castle. 
 
 Or a captain on the poop, 
 
 Robin with his bright eyes glistening 
 
 Stood upon the bonnet's tassel, 
 
 Head aside and wings a-droop. 
 
 " So that day I ask'd at dinner, 
 ' Can a birch-tree be a sinner. 
 Or grow twisted out and in 
 For some elder birch's sin ? '
 
 24 FORD B BRETON. 
 
 So they said, ' Depend upon it, 
 Here's some new bee in his bonnet ! ' 
 But I had no bee at all — 
 Only sprigs of meadow-gall. 
 
 "In the afternoon again, 
 I did ask my uncle Ben, 
 
 ' When at first God made the creatures 
 And the garden trees for food. 
 Didn't he look on all their features 
 And pronounce them very good ? 
 Can a God of such good will, 
 Make lame birches on the hill ? ' 
 
 • Go,' he said, ' go carry water — 
 Fit you better than to chatter 
 What you cannot understand ! ' 
 
 " And I think he would have beat me, 
 But that Royal from the sheep 
 Just then bounded up to greet me, 
 Growling in his throat so deep, 
 That he quickly went to stand 
 T'other side the garden paling. 
 
 " So I asked as he was nailing 
 Weasels to the orchard wall — 
 
 ' All things that are very wicked 
 Does God make them crook'd and small ? ' 
 ' No,' he answered, ' little thick-head ; 
 Pests and weeds wax best of all ! ' '•'
 
 FORD BER^TOiV. 25 
 
 What the sense of that might be 
 Ford Bereton could not see. 
 
 Solemnly these questions deep 
 To the sparrow he propounded ; 
 But as he was much confounded, 
 Having early gone to sleep, 
 And the field-mice long had rested 
 
 Cosily within their den, 
 Prompt solution he requested 
 
 From Sir Robin Red-breast then — 
 Down stepp'd he and peck'd a crumb, 
 For the rest, was wisely dumb. 
 
 So, when Ford went on the morrow, 
 Lo, he found with bitter sorrow. 
 From the roots his birch uptorn, 
 Saw it cross the meadow borne, 
 Watch'd in pleasant wood-shed, scented 
 With the chips of fresh-cut pine. 
 As his grand-sire carv'd and bent it 
 
 To a rustic quaint design, 
 Made a chair with arms well curv'd 
 
 And a back well-smooth'd and fine. 
 
 " Thine, my boy, and well-deserv'd 
 By that tender heart of thine. 
 For from straightest trees," he said, 
 " Seats like this are never made ;
 
 26 FORD BE R ETON. 
 
 But for small and crooked birches 
 Carefully the woodman searches." 
 Kindly thus Ford's old grandfather, 
 " Do not weep, my lad, but rather 
 Joy that God can bring from weakness, 
 
 Service noble, fit, and long : 
 And may thou and I in meekness 
 
 Be built up as firm and strong. 
 Every crooked thing that grows 
 Hath a use the Master knows ! " 
 
 So, his well-beloved seat on 
 Nightly sitteth Boy Bereton. 
 
 1885.
 
 ( 27 ) 
 
 FORD BERETON. 
 
 His Wondering. 
 
 In the long grass of the meadow 
 Ford Bereton sits and talketh, 
 To his small self in the shadow. 
 With his wooden sword he knocketh 
 Somewhat fiercely on the capping 
 Of his iron-girded foot gear. 
 Problems strange hath Ford Bereton, 
 So his own folks call him " queer." 
 Argument of knuckle rapping 
 Mostly solves the awkward question, 
 
 " Can your elders never learn you," 
 Oft they argued in this fashion, 
 "To leave what does not concern you 
 With much wiser heads than yours ? " 
 
 Once a master, quick in passion. 
 Closed discussion with a blow ;
 
 28 FORD B ERE TON. 
 
 Unto whom straightway Bereton : 
 
 " ' Hold your hand, sir,' does not answer 
 
 Little boys who want to know." 
 
 To this furious dominie 
 Dauntlessly quoth Boy Bereton. 
 
 " Now, I wonder " 
 (This was ever Ford's beginning) 
 " If I'm really always sinning 
 Like the grown folk say I am ? 
 Uncle Ben says last night's thunder 
 Was God's anger sent to frighten 
 Wicked little boys who lifted 
 The great sluices of the dam, 
 Just to hear the mill-wheel splashing, 
 Just to see the sunlight sifted 
 Through the drops as they come flashing 
 From the big brown wooden boxes 
 Down the mill-race to the pool. 
 
 Now, I don't think God unlocks His 
 Thunder chamber in the heaven, 
 And makes all the black sky lighten 
 Just to scare one little boy, 
 Who is hardly yet turned seven ! " 
 
 (Ford thought God would not employ 
 So much cry for little wool. 
 This was childish, I confess ;
 
 FORD B BRETON. 29 
 
 But you know the lad was small. 
 So I pray, wise people all, 
 Pardon him this foolishness.) 
 
 " Now, I wonder " — Ford a moment 
 Sideways poised his head to listen, 
 A fur voice that called his name, 
 Then resumed without a comment. 
 " Now, I wonder," — pause to squeeze 
 Clover tops between his palms, 
 Sucking honey like the bees — 
 " What a living Pharisee is ? 
 There's my uncle Ben, now he is 
 Just that kind who sneak and bother. 
 Never helping blind or lame. 
 Like those who follow'd Christ. 
 
 " Preachman came uuc day to sing. 
 Asked severely, 'Ford, who made you?' 
 ' God,' I said, ' made everything.' 
 Wasn't he stupid not to know ? 
 Turn about, I asked another, 
 *jDid the God also make you ? ' 
 Easier one couldn't ask, 
 Yet they took me so to task. 
 Just for saying when he nodded, 
 * Is that true ? Well, then, if God did, 
 I am sure He must have weigh'd you 
 On His biggest pair of scales ! '
 
 30 FORD BERETON. 
 
 Why they put me out, and made me 
 Carry water from the spring — 
 More than twenty pair of pails — 
 I could not think. Maybe my feet 
 Made the new carpet dirty, or 
 They wanted just to shut the door, 
 Christ would not shut the door, I know, 
 Nor call me off that shining street 
 Where the fair white angels sing." 
 
 Reader, prithee kindly pardon 
 Ford his foolish childish notions ; 
 Far from church, among the moors, 
 Dwelt the lad. Friends, be not hard on 
 Childish words not wise like yours. 
 Ford to church but once had been 
 Where he much disturbed devotions, 
 With the injudicious queries, 
 " Why must Fordie shut his eyes ? " 
 " Will that man not soon be done ? " 
 
 " Now I'm sure " — the preface varies, 
 
 " If I held Christ by the hand, 
 
 And I asked for all I'm wanting 
 
 So to know, He wouldn't say, 
 
 ' You're too young to understand \ 
 
 Now, don't bother, go away ! ' 
 
 Now I wonder, when they christened
 
 FORD BERETON. 31 
 
 Mc, O such a time ago " 
 
 (Here again he paused and listened 
 
 Very near he heard his name), 
 
 Maybe they forgot to make me 
 
 Good, Hke story-boys, you know ! 
 
 And I wonder, if the Christ came. 
 
 Would He send me out or take me 
 
 In our parlour on His knee, 
 
 As He used to do those other 
 
 Little lads in Galilee ? 
 
 Now I have not any brother ; 
 
 If I had, I'd ask Christ Jesus, 
 
 And He'd take him up and hold him, 
 
 Like He lov'd him, tenderly — 
 
 Then Fd climb the other knee ! " 
 
 Suddenly is closed the thesis. 
 Nemesis his collar seizes, 
 Roughly setteth Ford his feet on ; 
 Endeth quest of Boy Bereton. 
 
 1SS4.
 
 FORD BERETON. 
 His Home Coming. 
 
 " And it shall come to pass that I will put thee in a clift of the 
 rock, and will cover thee with my hand while I pass by." 
 
 Crisply up the frozen road, 
 Roaming here and there abroad, 
 Ford Bereton's small feet clatter'd ; 
 Starting rabbits out of hedges, 
 Waterfowl from fenny sedges. 
 Hares along the pasture's edges, 
 Scapegrace dog and master strode. 
 
 Weightier-footed than his master, 
 In the twilight Royal patter'd 
 O'er the stiff grass grey with frost, 
 Swinging slow or bounding faster 
 Like a stalwart canine ghost.
 
 FORD BERETO.y. 33 
 
 See, they cross the fertile fallows, 
 Now the ice-bound lake-side shallows ; 
 Soon they enter on the poor lands 
 Of the burnt and matted heather, 
 Waste morass and trackless moorlands, 
 Ranging heedlessly together. 
 
 What reck they of black horizon, 
 Or of inky gloom that lies on 
 All the bleak blue mountain ranges, 
 As the face of nature changes, 
 And the landmarks dimmer grow 
 With the coming of the snow. 
 
 First the broad far-sailing flakes 
 Fall in silence slow and heavy ; 
 Then a mirthful dancing bevy 
 Scuds across the sullen lakelets. 
 Soon a moaning wind awaking 
 All the heavy cloud-folds shaking, 
 Drives the steady stinging flakelets, 
 Making Ford's cheeks redder glow 
 In the turmoil of the snow. 
 
 How the pair rejoiced and revelled. 
 Leapt and barked and laughed and shouted, 
 Charged abreast and fell back routed, 
 Clenched and fought and rolled dishevelled 
 In the snow-drifts to and fro ! 
 
 D
 
 34 FORD BE RE ton: 
 
 " Find the way now, good dog Royal ! " 
 Struggling upward quoth the boy, all 
 Sober'd with the ghastly starkness 
 Of the single spectral birches 
 In the swiftly growing darkness ; 
 "Seek it, seek it out, good Royal ! " 
 And the great dog, strong and loyal, 
 Through the snow-wreaths round and round 
 All about the moorland searches, 
 With his nose against the ground, 
 Sought and sought and never found. 
 
 In the silence yet more dreary 
 Boy Bereton's limbs grew weary, 
 Courage waned with Royal gone ; 
 Wearier grew they till he rested, 
 Chill and heartless, on a stone 
 In a covert grim and eery 
 
 Deep among the sheltering rocks. 
 
 From the pocket on his side 
 Slow he drew the precious box. 
 Where his mice had lived together 
 
 In their cave of finest wool. 
 Scarce a week ago one died, 
 Frost-nipp'd by the icy weather, 
 And was borne in funeral 
 From the threshold of the school
 
 FORD BERETON. 
 
 To its grave beneath the wall, 
 With the pomp of mourners all, 
 
 ^s he opens, beaded eyes 
 O'er the edge a moment rise. 
 One small hand the mouse doth hold, 
 With the other, blue and cold, 
 On its smooth head he caressed it ; 
 For a space forgetful smiled 
 At the outer darkness wild, 
 Smiled to see it crouch and nestle 
 In its cosy bed of wool ; 
 In his bosom heard it rustle. 
 As he stamped his frozen feet on 
 Narrow ledge not yet invaded 
 By the fast encroaching snows. 
 
 Instantly the gladness faded 
 As the drifting snow came sweeping, 
 Heavy wreaths in silence heaping 
 Sheltered nook and stony seat on. 
 " Well, at least," quoth Boy Bereton, 
 " Mousie's warm, though I am cold ! " 
 
 " Now I wonder," with a flicker 
 Of the old Ford in his eyes 
 As he watched the snow come thicker, 
 " Are the angels warm and rosy 
 When the snow-storms fill the skies.
 
 J 
 
 6 FORD B ERE TON. 
 
 As in summer when the sun 
 Makes their cloud-beds warm and cosy ? 
 And I wonder if they're sleeping 
 Through this bitter winter weather ; 
 Or aloft their w'atches keeping, 
 As the shepherds said of them, 
 Hosts and hosts of them together, 
 Singing o'er the lowly stable, 
 In that little Bethlehem ! " 
 
 And the pitying angels slowly 
 Sang their Christ songs, pure and holy, 
 As they saw his limbs grow rigid 
 And his features blue and frigid ; 
 And God hearkened more his wonderings 
 Than the starry chariots' thunderings — 
 Shoutings of the sons of God. 
 
 Ford's young feet had never trod 
 In the devious way that brings 
 Doubts and fatal questionings. 
 Early trusted he the sorrow 
 Wrought on Israel's Calvary, 
 Trusted God for each to-morrow, 
 Asking not what God might be. 
 
 " Wonder who will come and take me 
 From the snow, so white and deep ? 
 If it's very hard to die, 

 
 FORD BERETON. 37 
 
 Or like going fast asleep, 
 Only just a little sounder ? 
 Maybe Christ Himself will wake me, 
 Maybe let His Mary-mother 
 Comfort mine, and throw around her 
 Arms that nurse J Him when a boy. 
 
 " And however bad am I, 
 He would let me be His lamb, 
 Rather than with Lazarus lie 
 On the breast of Abraham ! 
 
 " Maybe God sends him the grown ones, 
 While the little lat'ftbs, the lone ones. 
 Go to the Lord Jesus' bosom. 
 And 1 wonder if my mousie 
 Will be sleeping in his housie 
 
 ^^^hen they find me in the snow ? " 
 
 Here grew Ford a little drowsy, 
 Looked one way and then another, 
 Only saw the snow keep falling, 
 All his tiny covert walling 
 
 From the world of warmth and home. 
 
 Feebly now the slow words come, 
 
 " Good night, mousie ; good night, mother : 
 
 Take me, Christ, to Thee to keep — 
 
 I'll be warmer when I waken. 
 
 Coming, mother — I am coming."
 
 o 
 
 8 FORD B ERE TON. 
 
 But 'twas Death, with fingers numbing, 
 Through the darkness that was coming 
 In the sheeted silence deep. 
 
 Distant murmurs, rising, faUing, 
 
 Barking dogs and shepherds caUing : 
 
 Great red Royal, far before, 
 
 Finds the body of his master. 
 
 And like one who fears disaster, 
 
 To the heavens calling " Faster," 
 
 Sends a great deep-throated roar ; 
 
 And the shepherds round and round 
 
 Shake the welkin, echoing, " Found ! " 
 f 
 
 And at home when they undress'd him, 
 Lo, one frozen hand firm closing 
 Round the cage deep in his breast — 
 Inside, mousie warmly dozing ! 
 
 This the tender little mother, 
 Bending over to caress him. 
 Joying in each soft drawn breath, 
 Heard in silence still as death. 
 Trying hard her sobs to smother. 
 With her face against the wall — 
 " Mother, mother, please don't wake me ; 
 Dear Lord Christ has come to take me — 
 Me and mousie, cage and all ! " 
 1885.
 
 ( 39 ) 
 
 A LEAF FROM THE DAMASK ROSE. 
 
 There's a leaf in the book of the damask rose 
 
 That glows with a tender red ; 
 From the bud through the bloom to the dust it goes, 
 
 Into rose dust fragrant and dead. 
 
 And this word is inscribed on the petals fine 
 
 Of that velvety purple page — 
 " Be true to thy youth while yet it is thine 
 
 Ere it sink in the mist of age, 
 
 " Ere the bursting hud be groK>n 
 To a rose nigh overbloivn, 
 And the wind of the autumn eves 
 Comes blowing and scattering all 
 The damask drift of the dead rose leaves 
 Under the orchard wall. 
 
 " Like late-blown roses the joy-days flit, 
 And soon will the east winds blow ; 
 So the love years now must be lived and writ 
 In red on a page of snow.
 
 40 A LEAF FROM THE DAMASK ROSE. 
 
 " i\.nd here the rune of the rose I rede, 
 'Tis the heart of the rose and me — 
 
 O youth, O maid, in your hour of need. 
 Be true to the sacred three — 
 
 Be true to the love that is love indeed. 
 To thyself, and thy God, these three ! 
 
 " Ere the bursting bud is grown 
 To a rose nigJi overblown, 
 And the wind of the autumn eves 
 Conies blowing atid scattering all 
 The damask drift of the dead rose leaves 
 Under the orchard wall." 
 
 1885.
 
 5' lyf' 
 
 -J 
 1^ 
 
 2 
 
 Q 
 
 O 
 
 >
 
 ( 41 ) 
 
 THE BELLS OF ANTWERP. 
 
 I. 
 
 What of the night, O Antwerp bells, 
 
 Over the city swinging, 
 Plaintive and sad, O kingly bells. 
 
 In the winter midnight ringing ? 
 
 And the winds in the belfry moan 
 From the sand-dunes waste and lone, 
 And these are the words they say, 
 The turreted bells and they — 
 
 " Callerhout, Krabbendyk, Calloo" 
 
 Say the noisy, turbulent crew ; 
 ^'■Jabbek'c, C/iaam, Waterloo ; 
 Hoggerhaed, Sandvaet, Lilloo, 
 We are 7veary, a-wcary of you ! 
 We sigh for the hills of snow, 
 For the hills where the hunters go, 
 For the Alatterhorn, Wetterhorn, Doni, 
 For the Dom ! Dom / Doiri !
 
 42 THE BELLS OF ANTWERP. 
 
 For the sicnuner sun mid the rustling co?'n, 
 And the pleasant vales of the Rhineland valley,''^ 
 
 II. 
 
 What of the morn, O Antwerp bells ? 
 
 In the east is the daybreak shining ? 
 Hasten your chimes by an hour, O bells ; 
 
 Peace, O winds, from your pestilent whining — 
 
 " Callerhout, Krabbendyk, Calloo" 
 Go the jangling, turbulent crew ; 
 '■'•Jabbeke, Chaatn, Waterloo, 
 Hoggerhaed, Sandvaet, Lilloo, 
 We are weary, a-weary of you ! " 
 
 And the wind complain'd as it went on its way. 
 And this was its plaintive lay — 
 " Ischia, Spezzia, Bex, 
 Jsola Bella, and Aix, 
 
 To be aye and aye and aye, 
 In the summer sun, and the rustling corn. 
 Arid the pleasant vales of the Rhijiclarid valley." 
 
 III. 
 
 What of the day, O Antwerp bells ? 
 
 Silvery clear your warning. 
 For the wailing winds had gone on their way, 
 
 Ere ye rang your chimes in the morning.
 
 THE BELLS OF ANTWERP. 43 
 
 Never more, never more they say, 
 " Callerhout, Krabhcndyk^ Calloo," 
 
 That jangHng, turbulent crew, 
 "Jabbeke, C/iaam, Waterloo, 
 Ho^gerhaed, Sandvaef, Li/loo, 
 We are tmary, a-weary of you. '^ 
 
 They were weary of Bergen-op-Zoom, 
 
 Of a land as dull as the tomb, 
 Of the boisterous bells of Boom, 
 With their Boom, Boom, Boom, 
 
 And black-a-vised Hollander gloom. 
 
 They have gone where the birds all sing. 
 Where the ring doves mate in the spring ; 
 
 And what say ye to-day 
 
 Ere I too go on my way — 
 From your belfry carv'd and grey ? 
 
 " Canterbury, Winchester, Bray, 
 
 Edinburgh, Elderslie, Spey— 
 O the summer su?i and the rustling corn. 
 And plcasanter vales than the Ehineland valley."
 
 ( 44 ) 
 
 A SUMMER DAY. 
 
 Away from the city's blistering heat, 
 From clang of crank and piston's beat, 
 We stray'd down Chester's galleried street 
 To the bank of her dreaming river. 
 
 For not her glamour of grey renown, 
 Nor minster turrets shining down 
 On the broad- walled old cathedral town, 
 Might hold us long from the river. 
 
 Sweet was the shade in the cloisters dim, 
 Sweet the choir-boys' chanted hymn ; 
 But sweeter the wind on the water's rim 
 And the iris beds in the river. 
 
 Ripple of water, drip of oar, 
 Hum of bee on the blossomed shoj'e, 
 Stirr'd not the silence the landscape wore, 
 A sumt?ier day long on the river.
 
 A SUMMER DAY. 45 
 
 In still procession pass they by 
 The hidden blooms in the coves that lie, 
 And the trees that underarch the sky 
 And shadow the dreaming river. 
 
 Sweetest of all, from her cushion'd ease, 
 A girl's eyes watch'd the daisied leas, 
 And shy little ringlets played witli the breeze 
 That played with the dreaming river. 
 
 Ripple of water., drip of oar, 
 Hum of bee on the blossomed shore ; 
 But sweeter than atight that the May wind bore 
 Was my love's low voice on the river. 
 
 O love, true love, with the eyes so grey, 
 What love more meet for a summer's day, 
 For a breathless afternoon in May, 
 On the breast of an English river. 
 
 And yet there comes as I gaze on thee, 
 Of bitterest storms the memorv, 
 Of surging waves on a winter sea 
 Far out from a summer river. 
 
 Of a ship hard press'd on a wild grey main, 
 Swept by the spray and the thunder rain, 
 Of two that hardly hoped again 
 To float on a summer river.
 
 1 
 
 46 A SUMMER DAY. 
 
 Of a white girl hand that was strong alway, 
 Two brave and faithful eyes of grey, 
 And a love as meet for wintriest day 
 As for summer's noon on the river. 
 
 Therefore I hold thee, love of mine, 
 Precious above the gold most fine, 
 Far more fair than the white sunshine 
 That is bathing this summer river. 
 
 Hippie of water, drip of oar, 
 Hum of bee on the blossonid shore. 
 Sing in my heart, though I no more 
 Float with my love on the river. 
 
 1884.
 
 ( 47 ) 
 
 ALONE. 
 
 What wilt thou leave me, O belovbd, 
 But the trees and the hollow skies ? 
 
 Wilt thou take from me the life of life, 
 And the glory of thine eyes ? 
 
 Did we not watch the sun together, 
 Thou in the stillness, I by thee ? 
 
 Did I watch the sunset or thee, my sweet ? 
 Thine eyes, or the far-hung sea ? 
 
 A lily ensheathed art thou, O love, 
 In the hues of the folded rose. 
 
 Fresher than earliest summer flower 
 To her matins as she goes. 
 
 I see my love in the sullen night 
 With a glory around her hair ; 
 
 And the night is darker all about 
 Because that her face is fair.
 
 48 ALONE. 
 
 In the beeches above I hear the wind, 
 From the south a message bring ; 
 
 Is the willow-whiter the sob of her voice, 
 Or the birch trees' murmuring ? 
 
 For my love hath a voice most tender-sweet. 
 
 With a thrill of pain in its tone, 
 Like the throbbing strings of the pine-wood harj 
 
 When the winds therein make moan. 
 
 But the barred doors shall fall apart, 
 
 And her voice from silence break — 
 The gladsome strength of jubilant morn 
 
 In the heart of midnight wake. 
 
 1883.
 
 ( 49 ) 
 
 NOT ALONE. 
 
 On a morn when the seas are flashing blue, 
 
 And the hills stand round about, 
 From the lintels low of a seaward door 
 
 Is not this my love looks out, 
 
 With a morning sweetness deep in her eyes, 
 
 And a lithe grace as she goes ? 
 Wilt thou come, my love, up the sides of the glen ? 
 
 I will find thee a sweet wild rose. 
 
 The heights of the hills above our heads 
 
 In a glamour of glory lie, 
 As we pass hand-joined as lovers should 
 
 'Twixt the speedwell and the sky. 
 
 Clasped are our hearts as hand holds hand, 
 Strength-stayed for the rockiest road ; 
 
 Not the thinnest veil keeps our spirits twain. 
 And nothing keeps us from God. 
 
 1883. 
 
 E
 
 THE CHOICE OF HERAKLES. 
 Pleasure. Herakles. Virtue. 
 
 Pleasure. 
 
 Come, Herakles, and I will show to thee 
 The places where the hidden treasures be — 
 The riches and the joy of life. Come now 
 And pluck the ruddy apple from the bough ; 
 Take thou thy joy on flowery beds of ease. 
 Deep in the orchards of the Hesperides. 
 
 Virtue. 
 
 Nay, Herakles, be wise as thou art strong. 
 
 And go thou through the kingdoms righting wrong ; 
 
 For the springtime is now upon the earth, 
 
 When every husband sows his garden garth. 
 
 This is thy seedtime too, O Herakles ; 
 
 Be heedful, therefore, of thy destinies. 
 
 The stern-browed Fates no second choice allow ; 
 
 If thou would'st reap, drive straight thy furrow now.
 
 THE CHOICE OF HERAk'LES. 
 
 Pleasure. 
 
 But see, I pray, where each glad Bacchanal 
 Licth at length beneath the vine-clad wall. 
 The languid lutes plead through the enchanted air 
 To banish far dull thought and barren care ; 
 And tendance sweet of snowy-bosomed maid 
 Shall Ai)hrodite send thee in the shade. 
 Yea, peradventure thou herself may'st meet, 
 The dewdrops kissing both her dainty feet. 
 
 Herakles. 
 
 Take me, O fair one, to thy land of bliss, 
 My lips are parch'd for Aphrodite's kiss. 
 
 Virtue. 
 
 Abide thee, Herakles ; consider well 
 Among what folk thou dost desire to dwell ; 
 For Zeus himself may not his life recast, 
 Nor change one jot the unreturning Past. 
 Albeit thou shalt not couch on asphodel. 
 Neither shall fair-hair'd Circe cast her spell, 
 Nor o'er the golden chalice subtly smile, 
 In the high palace of her woodland isle; 
 Work shalt thou have, one maiden for thy wife, 
 And honour from good women all thy life. 
 Come, Herakles, and Hebe shall rejoice, 
 And forth shall ring Selene's silver voice ;
 
 THE CHOICE OF HERAKLES. 
 
 With godlike kisses twain shall greet thee there, 
 Grey-eyed Athene, red-lipped Demeter. 
 
 Pleasure. 
 
 Ah, thou and I are human, Herakles ; 
 We do not love to herd with deities. 
 Nor sit at the Olympian council-board ; 
 But Laughter shall we have for bosom-lord, 
 And Dionysian mysteries shall see 
 In the sweet glades of sacred Thessaly. 
 
 Lo, in the dance the wine-drench'd coronal 
 From shoulder white and golden hair doth fall ! 
 Anigh his breast each youth doth hold a head, 
 Twin flushing cheeks, and locks unfiUeted, 
 Swifter and swifter doth the revel move 
 Athwart the dim recesses of the grove. 
 
 Come, then, and all these things thou shalt assay, 
 O mighty son of Zeus and Alkmene. 
 
 Virtue. 
 
 O Herakles, and wast thou made for this, 
 These thews and sinews for unworthy bliss ? 
 Thy godlike limbs to grace a Maenad's dance, 
 For any wanton's kiss that countenance ? 
 But thou, if amaranth thou make thy bed, 
 Shalt never see thy labours perfected. 
 Nor gain the meed of all the people's praise. 
 Nor win Olympus after many days.
 
 THE CHOICE OF HERAKLES. 53 
 
 Deeds great and mighty wait for thee to do, 
 A world of perilous quests to venture through, 
 To save the folk of many an ancient state 
 From beast that lays their borders desolate ; 
 And Earth-Preserver shall thy name be called ; 
 On thy stout shoulders thou the world shalt hold ; 
 Thine oaken club shall be a name of fear, 
 And in thine hand the ashen-shafied spear, 
 A god-like sacrifice they shall thee bring, 
 Yea, many a crisp-wooled ram for offering ; 
 And in thy need Pallas Athene grave 
 From Erebos and Hades shall thee save. 
 
 Herakles. 
 
 O white-robed maid, no craven heart am I, 
 Nor fear the press where arrows hurtling fly. 
 And through the shield crashes the driven spear — 
 On dreadful days thou shalt the war-cry hear — 
 " Aoi, Herakles, son of Zeuspatt^r ! " 
 
 And yet, O Queen, why should one shun to care 
 In his hot youth for youthful dalliance ? 
 Do not the young lambs in the meadows dance 
 From mere delight to live ? Then why not we, 
 The young blood in us surging like the sea ? 
 
 Virtue. 
 
 Art thou no better than the beast that hies 
 Unto the altar garlanded and dies ?
 
 54 THE CHOICE OF HERAKLES. 
 
 Thou dost not so propose to spend thy life, 
 Till at thy throat doth grate the slayer's knife ; 
 If ill deeds thou vvouldst shun in after time, 
 Do noble things in this thy youthful prime. 
 If to these guileful words thou giv'st no ear, 
 That other siren song thou need'st not fear ; 
 Nor shall their subtlest singing make thee yield, 
 Or leave thy good ship for their flowery field. 
 So to thine haven thou shalt win aright, 
 Nor leave thy bones in cold sea-caves of night. 
 And walk thyself, a shade 'mong shadows grey. 
 Through the dim realm of dread Persephone. 
 
 Pleasure. 
 
 See, Herakles, the palace portals bright 
 
 In Cyprus burnished for thy delight, 
 
 Where Aphrodite reigneth in her prime, 
 
 And laughter ringeth all the summer time. 
 
 There no laborious years thou shalt endure. 
 
 Unto no tyrant king pay forfeiture. 
 
 Nor wade to Death through never-ending pain ; 
 
 There hemlock branches make a languorous gloom. 
 
 And heavy-headed poppies drip perfume 
 
 In secret arbours set in garden close ; 
 
 And all the air, one glorious breath of rose, 
 
 Shakes not a dainty petal from the trees, 
 
 Nor stirs a ripple on the Cyprian seas, — 
 
 There shalt thou quaff, in silence half-divine,
 
 THE CHOICE OF HERAKLES. 55 
 
 From golden cup the honey-hearted wine. 
 In all that land is heard no sound of pain, 
 Save Cytherea's doves their love complain ; 
 And lightfoot Dryades shall grant thy prayer, 
 Upon thy shoulders place their fingers fair, 
 And looking up, the shy love in their eyes, 
 Shall stir thy sluggish pulse in wondrous wise. 
 Waste not thy time in idly counting cost, 
 Or manifold delight thy soul hath lost ; 
 If thou deny to Love thy summer day, 
 What maid shall love thee in thy winter grey ? 
 
 Virtue. 
 
 O son of Zeus, beware her subtle words, 
 Two-edged are they, and keen like battle-swords ; 
 For if thou yield to her thy destiny, 
 Close-pent in Circe's swine-stye thou shalt lie ; 
 Nor shalt thou 'scape by any cunning art 
 Till thou hast lost all thine immortal part, 
 And diest, as the swine do, utterly. 
 
 But trust, O Herakles, thy youth to me. 
 And thou shalt be immortal as thy sire. 
 Thou shalt attain the heart of thy desire — 
 The purest maid Olympus doth uphold, 
 Whose smile gives youth and beauty to the old — 
 Hebe shall love thee. Here's fairest child, 
 Who in the midst of heaven walks undefiled.
 
 56 THE CHOICE OF HERAKLES. 
 
 Herakles. 
 
 O maid, take thou my hand, and let us go — 
 
 Thy bondman I, in years of weal and woe ! 
 
 Yea, though the way be rough and wondrous hard. 
 
 And Hades' horrid portals triply barred, 
 
 Yet with the help of gods I will pass through, 
 
 And whatsoe'er a mortal can, will do. 
 
 So help me thou, and mine own father Zeus ; 
 
 If in my veins there flows no earthly juice. 
 
 But ichor of the gods, of nectar bred, 
 
 And with ambrosial strength divinely fed — 
 
 Then shall I do great deeds undone before. 
 
 Shall win at last the high Olympian floor. 
 
 And stand the peer of god and goddess there 
 
 With Hebe at the side of Zeuspater. 
 
 1884. 
 
 I
 
 ( 57 ) 
 
 AS IN THE DAYS OF OLD. 
 
 I. 
 
 Queenlike along the garden path — 
 Stately, albeit with mien that hath 
 A daintier grace than daffodil, 
 Wind sway'd beneath a southland hill — 
 Cometh my queen of girls. She seems 
 That very maiden won in dreams, 
 Whose yearning eyes evanishing, 
 Haunted my fancy all the spring. 
 
 Gruff March, thou month of storm and fret 
 
 Bring forth thine earliest violet. 
 
 Primrose, or pale anemone. 
 
 And all thy lion front make gay 
 
 With glow of gorse-bloom, flaming high 
 
 On breezy uplands near the sky ; 
 
 For at thy lamblike out-going 
 
 A\'as born the flower of all the spring.
 
 58 AS IN THE DAYS OF OLD. 
 
 3- 
 Say, sweet, if I could take thy hand, 
 And in some haunted woodland stand 
 With love that sanctifieth all. 
 Could not this love of ours recall, 
 In form more fair than mortal mould, 
 The lovers of the days of old — 
 Their pale sweet brows engarlanding 
 y\\\\\ the fresh flowers of this new spring ? 
 
 4- 
 Love-passionate from depth of shade. 
 Would come that Galilean maid 
 Whom Queen's apparel never won, 
 Nor treasures of King Solomon ; 
 Ruth too, whom farmer Boaz saw, 
 Among the sheaves in Ephratah ; 
 And through the boskage, moving tall, 
 Sweet Eve, the mother of us all. 
 
 5- 
 And March himself would curb his play, 
 And breathe like an Arcadian May, 
 While in the woodlands hand in hand, 
 A pair of living lovers stand. 
 And favour'd converse gladly hold 
 With lovers of the days of old ; 
 While all the riches of the spring 
 Break forth in wondrous blossoming.
 
 AS IN THE DAYS OF OLD. 59 
 
 11. 
 
 I never saw that wood save in a dream — 
 
 Nor any wight with unanointed eyes 
 
 May see the marvel — wade the flowery aisles, 
 
 Arch'd with a dim magnificence of leaves ; 
 
 Not such as Dante saw, but carpeted 
 
 With a fair carpet of the flowers of old. 
 
 Whose names I scarce can guess — not common 
 
 bk)oms. 
 But lotus, amaranth and asphodel. 
 And great white lilies floating on the meres, 
 Fit barges for the court of Faerie. 
 And a blue sky o'erarch'd the forest arch, 
 And a blue sea enisled ; and yet the wood 
 Was English, and fresh English air 
 Puls'd in its noonday quiet. 
 
 I and she 
 Were all alone, and overhead the doves 
 Set all the wood a-murmuring with love \ 
 But other sound was none, only ourselves. 
 Two dreamers in a paradise of dreams. 
 Thus hand in hand beneath a bank of bloom 
 We stood, nor were afraid at all, and up 
 Through the sweet dim arcades a woman came, 
 Knit in the fashion of a larger time, 
 And stamp'd more clearly with the image of God ;
 
 6o AS IN THE DAYS OF OLD. 
 
 Who took my maid by the right hand, and look'd 
 Within her eyes, and smil'd at what she saw 
 In their clear depths, and after that she spake : 
 
 2. 
 
 " I am the Mother Eve, 
 
 The mother of all flesh. 
 Glad am I Faith and Love to see, 
 
 And to refresh 
 
 The thirsting of mine eyes 
 
 Ev'n in the midst of Paradise. 
 With sight of earthly daughter like to thee. 
 
 The primal blessing have I known. 
 
 The primal curse. 
 
 As no one of my race may know ; 
 
 Yet have I learn'd to grow 
 In faith and trust — to suffer not alone. 
 
 When all the universe 
 Was nought but darkness and a howling waste. 
 And all the plan of God seem'd turn'd to naught ; 
 
 When I the mother sought 
 Beside the dead son's head to lay mine own ; 
 Nor yet forgat my first-born, whom I thought 
 The man who should redeem the evil days. 
 
 " Yea, ev'n when chas'd. 
 Accursed, from the presence of the Lord, 
 
 Over the Eastern waste. 
 In the dead time of night he heard 
 
 1
 
 AS LV THE DAYS OF OLD. 6i 
 
 His mother's voice that comforted. 
 
 The breast that erstwhile fed 
 
 Panted above him, like a bird 
 
 Over her young one fallen from the nest, 
 
 Whom not her feeble force can raise, 
 
 Yet hovereth and cannot rest 
 All the night season ; when the days 
 Are hottest, fain would be a shadow for him. 
 
 So yearned I, until he found abode. 
 
 And built a city in a land, 
 
 Remote and dim. 
 Yet not forgotten of the face of God. 
 
 My daughter, in the desert sand 
 
 Thy feet may sink, 
 
 And thou thirst at the well to drink ; 
 
 Yet shalt thou sing" 
 
 Thy song of wayfaring, 
 Nor sing it lonely — twain are not alone. 
 Go then, my children, hand in hand. 
 
 Till ye have grown 
 One spirit, worthy to possess the land." 
 
 3. 
 
 With mellow fall her voice ceas'd, and she drew 
 
 Into the dusky covert of the wood ; 
 
 And after she was wholly pass'd away 
 
 A voice floated like perfume through the air :
 
 62 AS IN THE DAYS OF OLD. 
 
 A- 
 SONG. 
 
 " Pleasant is sunshine after rain, 
 Fleasatit the sun ; 
 To cheer the parched land again, 
 Pleasant the rain. 
 
 " Sweetest is joyance after pain, 
 Sweetest is joy ; 
 Yet sorest sorrow worketh gain, 
 Sorrow is gain." 
 
 5- 
 
 So died the song, 
 And once again we heard the wood-doves moan, 
 The breakers churn the shingles on the shore. 
 And for a moment were again alone. 
 
 But to one point drew all the scattered beams, 
 And fresher than a waking rose in May, 
 When from its lips the sun doth kiss the dew, 
 Upward one came, dividing the dark wood 
 With subtlest radiance, and our heart was glad. 
 
 A space she let the silence of her eyes 
 Speak for her, ere the wonder of her voice 
 Brake on us. Lo, the like I never heard. 
 Save one, that on a summer Sabbath morn,
 
 AS IN THE DAYS OF OLD. 63 
 
 Lone in the loneliest dell in Kent, I heard 
 Come with the airs that stir about the dawn — 
 The nightingale's farewell, so sweet and clear, 
 She must have wash'd her throat in morning dew, 
 To still the throb of pain. In such a voice, 
 And with such morning sweetness, she began : 
 
 " Most sweet, my sister, dost thou know. 
 Her who doth call thee so, 
 Ev'n Ruth of Moab ? Unto whom the Lord 
 Gave dower of joy above her kin ; 
 For a great voice she heard 
 Within her house in Moab, and again 
 On the red Edom hills, 
 When about sundown, after weeping vain, 
 Orphah return'd, and only Ruth 
 Clave to Naomi ; and God enter'd in. 
 And all her home-sick crying stills. 
 And the keen natural murmur of her youth. 
 
 " ^ Arise and come, 
 Through midnight and through rain, 
 Into the sweet cool light of morn. 
 And the noontide that ripeneth the corn.'' 
 
 " So the Lord call'd me ; 
 And straightway I arose and went^
 
 64 AS IN THE DAYS OF OLD. 
 
 And evermore clave to Naomi, she 
 Whose name is called Bitterness ; 
 
 And ever less and less 
 Became my kin to me, 
 
 And less and less 
 The homestead and the village well, 
 And all my widow'd life I gave 
 To the thrice widow'd, bearing half her pain, 
 
 In watching tenderness. 
 
 " And lo, the Lord had joy in store 
 For her who only coveted a grave ; 
 
 And more and more 
 When to my feet the ways were hard, 
 From the third heaven smiled the Lord, 
 And sent His angel thence, 
 To me the alien in the children's land, 
 With Love for a full recompense. 
 
 " In morning air 
 Around Beth-Lehem stood the yellow corn. 
 And I, who hardly glean'd on sufferance there ; 
 But when that crop was fully garner'd in, 
 I wan the crown of many a year, 
 
 A mighty thing to win — 
 A strong man's love, the love that casts out fear. 
 O sister mine, young, fair, and dear. 
 If such thou hast, hold it most sure ;
 
 AS IN THE DAYS OF OLD. 65 
 
 For in tliis bitter sea of strife 
 
 Which men call Life, 
 
 Still to endure 
 And wait the grave seems all that most 
 Can hope ; not as in early days 
 
 Before the people lost 
 The peace God gave them at the first ; 
 
 Yet lost not all 
 The love of fields and instinct pastoral. 
 
 Yea, hold thou love, for at the worst 
 
 That is an anchorage 
 When north winds howl and all the waters rage." 
 
 7- 
 
 Bending, she laid a kiss most sisterly 
 Upon my maid's pure forehead, and so flash'd, 
 Like gleam of sun on a cloud-blowing day, 
 Across the wet ripe corn ; and the dim wood 
 Stay'd with us, and the morning grew to noon. 
 Then rose a voice, like to the spring of day, 
 From the dead noon of night, and unto us 
 \<\\o hearken'd, the words seem'd like to these :
 
 66 ^S IN THE DAYS OF OLD. 
 
 8. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 " Entreat me not 
 From thy dear side to rove \ 
 For love uplooks to love, 
 As earth to heaven above. 
 Entreat me not ! 
 
 " Entreat me not 
 To turn from following thee 
 On land or over sea, 
 Where'er thy foot may be. 
 Entreat me not ! 
 
 " Entreat me not ! 
 For shall I not resign 
 The kinsfolk that were mine. 
 And own no God but thine ? 
 Entreat me not ! 
 
 " Entreat me not ! 
 For where 'tis thine to die. 
 In that far country I 
 Ensepulchred shall lie. 
 Entreat me not ! 
 
 " Entreat me not ! 
 For God may me desert,
 
 AS IN THE DAYS OF OLD. 67 
 
 If less than mine thou art, 
 Or aught but death us part ! 
 Entreat me not ! " 
 
 Straightway at the song's ending were we 'ware 
 Of one, warm-splendid like the south, who mov'd 
 As used to woodlands, ardent as the glow 
 Of Syria's noon ; eyes shining from the dusk 
 Of wondrous hair, tender as eyes of doves 
 Among the rocks in cedar'd Lebanon ; 
 Lips like twin flowers, almost one scarlet flower — 
 A dewdrop scarce had resting-place between ; 
 And gracious curves of maidenhood, reveal'd. 
 Through the white raiment that about her clung, 
 As doth the snow on Hermon's sacred head, 
 Or the spring glory on the orchard trees. 
 
 So without word we knew whoso it was — 
 That nameless Shulamite, whose faithfulness 
 Is writ for ever in the " Song of Songs." 
 
 10. 
 
 ** Lo, I," she said, "am she. 
 Whom Solomon the king brought from my home, 
 Among the vineyards of my northern land, 
 
 That I might be 
 Another maid to kiss his sacred hand,
 
 68 AS IN THE DAYS OF OLD. 
 
 And to his hero-guarded chamber come 
 At his most kingly pleasure ; 
 
 But Lebanon doth rear no crouching slave 
 To kiss his garment's hem, 
 Nor daughter of Jerusalem 
 
 To love dishonour when well purple-clad. 
 
 " And when in boundless measure, 
 
 Right royally to make me glad, 
 He pour'd his royal treasure, 
 
 My sick sad heart pursued the grave ; 
 
 Faint grew my soul for fear of sin — 
 Swooning, I seem'd to walk within 
 The holy calm of cedar temples on 
 The sunny slopes of forest Lebanon. 
 
 " No more the perfum'd glooms 
 Of Zion's palace rooms, 
 Languorous and faint and cool ; 
 No more the webs of delicate attire. 
 Strange stones, with hearts of fire ; 
 No more dull eyes and dead burnt-out desire ; 
 But gowns of Syrian wool, 
 Wov'n by the fireside looms. 
 No more the fiery eyes 
 Of the Egyptian queen, 
 But starlight through the arches green. 
 And west winds singing through the trees. 
 Fresh from the blue Sidonian seas.
 
 AS IN THE DAYS OF OLD. 69 
 
 " And One was with me, walking there, 
 A King of simple men, a manly King, 
 My King, straight-limb'd and fair ; 
 Not one who lusteth delicately, 
 For whom from far men bring 
 Things pleasing in his sight : 
 To stir the sated gorge of appetite. 
 
 " And yet, through pain, held I to purity. 
 Until again my land God let me see ; 
 
 And in no dream I stood 
 
 Once more in our dear wood, 
 And at my side close my beloved moved — 
 Ever beloved, now grown thrice belov'd — 
 
 Love shining in our eyes, and we 
 Bond ever each to each, yet ever free. 
 
 " That Love is thus, not less, 
 Thine eyes, O maid, confess ; 
 That Faith is victory, thou, 
 O man, dost surely know." 
 
 II. 
 
 So ending, through the wood we saw her go, 
 And somewhere in the shade a song was sung
 
 AS AV THE DAYS OF OLD. 
 
 12. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 " Floods cannot drown Love's breath, 
 It fears not Death's cold wave, 
 For Love is strong as Death ; 
 
 But Jealousy 
 As cruel as the grave. 
 
 " ' Where is the gold,' he saith, 
 * Gold that I freely gave ? ' • 
 Nay, Love is strong as Death, 
 
 But Jealousy 
 As cruel as the grave. 
 
 " No gold can purchase Faith ; 
 But Love thy soul can save ; 
 For Love is strong as Death, 
 
 But Jealousy 
 As cruel as the grave." 
 
 13- 
 
 So underneath the English sky 
 These ancient lovers pass them by ; 
 Beneath their feet, that knew so well 
 The sunburnt plains of Israel 
 Or high Iranian mountain plain, 
 The northern grass is soft again, 
 
 J
 
 /IS IN THE DAYS OF OLD. 
 
 And England's tender springtime brings 
 The memories of earlier springs. 
 
 There, nurtured in pure Grecian air, 
 Came Helen, fairest of the fair ; 
 Andromeda, upon her wrist 
 The chain-scars Perseus oft had kiss'd ; 
 And, widow-like in disarray. 
 Dead Hector's wife Andromache. 
 These 'neath the fruit-trees blossoming, 
 Found old-time love in this new spring. 
 
 Then three through English woodlands pass 
 Who knew the touch of English grass— 
 The crown of love. Queen Guinevere; 
 That winsome girl, above whose bier 
 All youth and wifehood wept in vain. 
 Queen of our hearts, sweet Lady Jane ; 
 And Shakespeare's daughter, who doth bring 
 With her the keys of love and spring. 
 
 And longing wistful looks they cast 
 Upon a love not overpast, 
 Wliile back the western wind doth bring 
 The sweetly lingering words they sing ; 
 And lo, in this wise did they seem 
 To sing at ending of my dream, 
 As when from winter wakening 
 Rings the full chorus of the spring !
 
 72 AS IN THE DAYS OF OLD. 
 
 14. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 " Sweet mouth, red lips, broad unwrinkled brow, 
 Sworn troth, woven hands, holy marriage vow, 
 Unto us make answer, what is wanting now ? 
 
 Love, Love, Love, the whiteness of the snoiv ; 
 
 Love, Love, Love, and the days of long ago. 
 
 " Broad lands, bright sun, as it was of old ; 
 Red wine, loud mirth, gleaming of the gold ; 
 Something yet awanting — how shall it be told ? 
 
 Love, Love, Love, the whiteness of the snoiv ; 
 
 Love, Love, Love, and the days of long ago. 
 
 " Large heart, true love, service void of sound. 
 Life trust, death trust, here on English ground. 
 As in olden story, surely have we found ! 
 
 Love, Love, Love, the whiteness of the snow ; 
 Love, L.ove, Love, and the days of long ago." 
 
 1884-5.
 
 ( 73 ) 
 
 MY POETESS'S POEM. 
 
 My poetess ! whose verses 
 
 Are those pure thoughts of thine, 
 Whose loyal heart converses 
 
 In words too sweet for rhyme — 
 
 I felt thy love this morning 
 Come o'er me at my prayer ; 
 
 It needed not adorning, 
 Nor words to make it fair. 
 
 For did I not remember 
 The pure His face shall see, 
 
 And God in thy heart's chamber 
 Dwelleth eternally. 
 
 And if the words thou sayest 
 Shame my poor poet's art, 
 
 How wondrous when thou prayest 
 The poems of thine heart.
 
 74 ^^y POETESS'S POEM. 
 
 For somewhere near the flashing 
 Of clear green northern seas, 
 
 Thou Hstenest their dashing, 
 And writest words Hke these : 
 
 I. 
 
 " Far art thou, O beloved, 
 
 Who art mine own right hand ; 
 Thou canst not share the beauty 
 
 Of thine own Scottish land ; 
 Thou canst not hear the love-names 
 
 On the mountains where thou art. 
 Like everlasting music 
 
 That run within my heart. 
 
 2. 
 
 " These sunbeams bring no joyance. 
 
 Because they light not thee ; 
 Most sad, O heart's afiiance, 
 
 Is all the sunbright sea. 
 Yet spite of waves and mountains 
 
 Our lonely hands that part, 
 Like everlasting music 
 
 Thy love runs in my heart. 
 
 3- 
 
 "■ Each day and night there floweth 
 The salt tide to the land.
 
 MY POETESS'S POEM. 75 
 
 And twice a day it goeth 
 
 Back o'er the waste sea-sand ; 
 So with a steady current, 
 
 And by a faithful chart, 
 Like everlasting music 
 
 Thy love runs in my heart. 
 
 A- 
 *' Lo ! thou dost hear the wonder 
 Of God's voice on the hill, 
 The icefall's thrilling thunder, 
 
 The after silence still ! 
 Canst hear in that great silence 
 
 That falleth where thou art. 
 The lo7c> sound of the music 
 That runneth in my heart ? 
 
 5- 
 " Canst thou, O heart's beloved, 
 Hear evermore the chords ? 
 Canst feel that thou art loved 
 
 Above all force of words ? 
 And canst thou hear the message 
 
 I send thee where thou art — • 
 Like everlasting nmsic 
 
 Thy love runs ifi my heart ? " 
 
 RlFFEL, VaI.AIS, 
 
 Aui^nist 8, 1884.
 
 ( 76 ) 
 
 THAT NOT IMPOSSIBLE SHE. 
 
 Lo, in the spring weather, 
 
 Bonnet of dainty size, 
 
 Queen-like, tiara-wise, 
 Just underneath _her 
 Red gipsy feather. 
 
 Down let the eyes go, 
 Following the fineness, 
 The subtle divineness, 
 The perfection of dressing, 
 That defines, unexpressing. 
 Her maidenly figure. 
 
 Wind that so fierce doth blow — 
 
 Blustering weather, 
 Soften thy rigour. 
 Thy boisterous vigour 
 Flee to the hills of the 
 Young mountain heather, 
 Ruffle the rills of the 
 Still upland valleys ;
 
 1 885. 
 
 THAT NOT I M POSSIBLE SHE. 77 
 
 Cease thy wild sallies, 
 
 Thy vehement gesture ; 
 Soft as Ariel's winglet 
 Caress thou each ringlet, 
 
 Each fold of her vesture ; 
 
 Thy rude blowing soften, 
 See that thy freaks of 
 
 Turbulent playing 
 Freshen, not roughen 
 The meadow-sweet cheeks of 
 This maid who goes Maying 
 In gracefuUer guise than a 
 
 Goddess Diana ! 
 
 See the ring on her finger, 
 
 Glove-hidden, dainty ! 
 ^^'hy will ye linger. 
 
 Maids sweet and twenty ? 
 None hath design'd such a 
 
 Charming hand wringer ; 
 Haste ye, and find such a 
 
 Ring for your finger I 
 
 Wind that doth bless her too, 
 
 Blowing so faintly. 
 Thou dost confess her too 
 
 Queenly and saintly ; 
 Now shall I kiss her too, 
 
 Ever so gently.
 
 ( 78 ) 
 
 THE YOUNG THINGS IN THINE EYES. 
 
 In the hawthorn arbour out on the green, 
 
 Withdrawn from the people's view, 
 A man and a maid awhile have been ; 
 
 That is to say — tue ttvo ! 
 
 The world is fair all round about, 
 
 The sky is blue to-day ; 
 On the southward wall are the roses out, 
 
 And the month is the month of May. 
 
 The blossoms above are rosily bright ; 
 
 But the shadows are blue and fine. 
 Where the hawthorn red and the hawthorn white, 
 
 Most lovingly intertwine. 
 
 We two are as close as the red and the white — 
 
 'Tis as pleasant here as there ; 
 And the mad cap dance of the leaf-sieved light 
 
 Never lit on a happier pair.
 
 THE YOUNG THINGS IN THINE EYES. 79 
 
 But yet of the fair things far and near, 
 
 I think that the fairest lies 
 Hid in a fringed tent, my dear, 
 
 'Neath the Uds of thy sweet eyes. 
 
 The rarest of all is never seen 
 
 By folk in the city whirl, 
 But in secret bower like the Fairy Queen 
 
 Hides the sweet rare heart of a girl. 
 
 There's a lambent light in the still sea deeps 
 
 Of a sunless paradise ; 
 But I love the tender dew that steeps 
 
 The babies in thine eyes. 
 
 O small young things of the unknown tongue. 
 
 Whose tale I know so well, 
 Like a chant by unseen angels sung 
 
 Are the Avords ye come to tell. 
 
 Ye sweet twin babies, in years how old 
 
 Were ye in the land above. 
 And what angel touch'd your heads with gold. 
 
 And your baby lips with love ? 
 
 " O ye," they say, " who are living your life, 
 
 We two shall never grow old. 
 But shall babies be, when husband and wife, 
 
 Ye are drawing anear the fold.
 
 So 777^ YOUNG THINGS IN THINE EYES. 
 
 " Let the love that keeps us young and warm 
 
 Live in your hearts so true, 
 That peace may banish the fear of harm 
 
 While we are abiding with you." 
 
 This is the story their silence tells 
 
 To my heart this summer day, 
 That shall ring like the pleasant sound of bells 
 
 When the world is well away. 
 
 When we meet at morn by the summer sea, 
 When we part in the moonlight pale, 
 
 Never old or cold shall the babies be, 
 Nor ever their smiling fail. 
 
 So keep we bright, betide what may. 
 The light in their eyes, my dove, 
 
 That sweet and pure they may shine for aye, 
 Those innocent babies of love. 
 
 Lo, here in the arbour out on the green 
 
 Where awhile there sat 7ae two, 
 Neath the hawthorn blossom four have been — 
 
 The babies — and I — and you ! 
 
 18S5.
 
 !i ) 
 
 O LEMAN LAKE. 
 
 O Leman I^ake, dear Leman Lake, 
 Thy beauty knows no change ; 
 
 In thee the Savoy Alps still make 
 A double mountain range. 
 
 All round the shores of Leman Lake 
 
 Shineth the early dew ; 
 Outstanding lines of poplar break 
 
 Thy plain of steadfast blue. 
 
 O'er Territet and Chillon's keep 
 
 No faintest zephyrs blow ; 
 And terrac'd Vevey lies asleep, 
 
 With vine-stocks all a-ro\v. 
 
 Crimson and glorious morning gold 
 
 Deck every vineyard wall ; 
 The grapes within their sunny fold 
 
 Hang ripe and purple all. 
 
 G
 
 82 LEMAN LAKE. 
 
 There in the blue, Rhone pushes oiit 
 
 His snow-fed waters grey ; 
 And there with walnuts girt about 
 
 Lies little Bouveret. 
 
 At Evian, lo, the flag of France 
 
 Wooeth the breezes coy, 
 And through the pines comes furious Drance 
 
 White from the High Savoy. 
 
 AMiile over all doth brood the light 
 
 So dear to Leman Lake, 
 That glimmer of diftus'd delight 
 
 The lawny cloudlets make. 
 
 Of old, beneath a sky like this 
 
 Love grew and hate was bred ; 
 And still to-day the lovers kiss, 
 
 And still they mourn the dead. 
 
 'Tis long ago since mourner's foot 
 
 Climb'd Jaman's weary road ; 
 Yet exile still is bitter fruit, 
 
 And heavy still its load. 
 
 But, Love, when we together go. 
 
 And thy hand holdeth mine. 
 How limpid Leman's waves will flow, 
 
 How soft the sun will shine !
 
 O LEMAN LAKE. 83 
 
 How the far snows will draw us on, 
 
 The Valais snows I know, 
 On which the morning sunshine shone 
 
 Many an hour ago. 
 
 Yet fair these vineyards round my door, 
 
 Fair this blue inland sea, 
 Since some one on another shore 
 
 Liveth and loveth me. 
 
 How much more fair when her sweet eyes 
 
 Lake Leman's peace shall see. 
 And all the pleasant land that lies 
 
 'Twixt France and Italy. 
 
 1S84.
 
 ( 84 
 
 IDYLL OF THE HAYFIELD. 
 
 Hey for the haymaking weather ! 
 
 Hey for the meadows green ! 
 Scythe?nen all swingmg together, 
 
 Swish of the blades so keen. 
 
 There go the ranks of the mowers, 
 Sweeping the swathes behind, 
 
 Bending as tall meadow flowers 
 Bend in a westerly wind. 
 
 To the east their heads are inclining 
 For a last strong kiss from the sun, 
 
 And a draught of his early shining 
 Just once ere their life is done. 
 
 Dragon-flies hover and shiver 
 Over the gnat-haunted pool ; 
 
 Cows are knee-deep in the river, 
 Flicking the flies in the cool.
 
 IDYLL OF THE HAYFIELD. 85 
 
 Stridently down in the meadow 
 
 Stone upon steel is laid ; 
 Down where the grass is in shadow 
 
 Some one is sharpening his blade ; 
 
 With hey for the haymaking tueather ! 
 
 Hey for the fneadows greeti ! 
 Scythemen all swinging together^ 
 
 Sivish of the blades so keen. 
 
 Here come the haymaking lasses, 
 Bonneted safe from the sun, 
 
 Merrily tossing the grasses. 
 Wild roses every one. 
 
 Brown are their faces haymaking. 
 Bright as this summer's day ; 
 
 Strong are the arms that are raking 
 And shaking the new-mown hay. 
 
 Rare is the haymaking weather, 
 Strong with the strength of June ; 
 
 Lasses and lads together. 
 Sing to a haymaking tune. 
 
 Singing and swinging and bringing 
 Hay from the meadows green, 
 
 Maying and playing and haying, 
 All are most pleasant, I ween.
 
 86 IDYLL OF THE ILAYFLELD. 
 
 All in the haymaking weather, 
 Lumbering along the ways, 
 
 The wains in a row together 
 Creak home in the longest days, 
 
 IVilh hey for the haymaking iveather ! 
 
 Hey for the meadows green ! 
 Scythemen all swinging together. 
 
 Swish of the blades so keen. 
 
 Rattling and battering and clattering, 
 
 The hay waggons cumber the road ; 
 astling and hustling and bustling, 
 The hay-mow swallows the load. 
 
 But somehow the haymaking riot 
 
 Dies into silence soon. 
 For I am possessed with the quiet 
 
 And drowse of the afternoon. 
 
 And in the dim hay-loft, a-glimmer 
 With motes in the slant sunbeam, 
 
 If the world gets dimmer and dimmer 
 Who shall chide if I sleep and dream, 
 
 Of the lazy haymaJmig weather, 
 
 21ie drotvsy meadows green, 
 Scythe7nen all swinging together. 
 
 Swish of the blades so keen ? 
 
 l88:
 
 ( 87 ) 
 
 I CANNOT SEND THEE GOLD. 
 
 I CANNOT send thee gold 
 Nor silver for a show ; 
 
 Nor are there jewels sold 
 One half so dear as thou. 
 
 No daffodil doth blow 
 In this dull winter time, 
 
 Nor purple violet grow 
 In so unkind a clime. 
 
 To-day I have not got 
 
 One spray of meadow-sweet, 
 Nor blue forget-me-not 
 
 My posy to complete.
 
 88 / CANNOT SEND THEE GOLD. 
 
 Yet none of these can claim 
 So much goodwill as you ; 
 
 Their lips put not to shame 
 Cowslip and oxlip too. 
 
 But joy I'll take in this, 
 
 Pleasure more sweet than all, 
 
 If thou this book but kiss 
 As Love's memorial. 
 
 1883.
 
 ( S9 ) 
 
 O HEART'S DELIGHT. 
 
 I, 
 
 O Heart's Delight, on whose love-lorn grey eyes 
 
 And sweet red carven lips a dower of pain 
 Weighs heavily to-day — dumb sorrow lies 
 
 So close about thine heart, thou canst not gain 
 The wreath of joy that is sad sorrow's crown. 
 
 Ah, love, thine eyes pursue me ! look they thus 
 Heavy with tears that will not fall adown, 
 
 Drowned in a waveless sorrow ? Unto us 
 Parting is not mere loosing of two hands. 
 
 Or murmuring of good-byes ; 
 But twaining souls, and breaking body bands, 
 
 And silencing life's sweetest harmonies. 
 
 II. 
 
 Do I not know the ache in thy sick heart, 
 As on thine empty palm thy fingers close ;
 
 90 HEARTS DELIGHT. 
 
 And these thy Ups, that feel the March winds' smart 
 
 Miss sore the kiss whose sweetness no one knows ? 
 Yea, love, my love, this wind is bitter cold ; 
 
 About thee draw thy shawl's soft fold azure, 
 And in thy bosom's screen'd recess withhold 
 
 Thy maiden flower of love, all fair and pure ; 
 For w'e have lost but what our eyes have seen. 
 
 Yet kept securely all 
 Love's country still untroubled and serene. 
 
 And closer drawn our union mystical. 
 
 III. 
 
 I linger by the fen's uncertain edge. 
 
 And watch last year's tall tufted rushes sway, 
 And the dry pennons of the rustling sedge 
 
 On either side the long dim waterway. 
 The moor-birds call responsively, and sweep 
 
 In viewless circles, wailing as they go ; 
 And in the distant pasture-lands the sheep 
 
 To their own lambs bleat plaintively and low. 
 All is most cool and still, when suddenly 
 
 A low sweet murmur fills 
 My pulses like the springtide from the sea — 
 
 " Thine I am 7iow, and all thine ivhen God wills."
 
 O HEART'S DELIGHT. 91 
 
 IV. 
 
 Then golden grows the sudden pall of dark, 
 
 For a fair head lies on my breast, and all 
 The grim world's grief and troublous daily cark 
 
 Into the night's concave doth noiseless fall, 
 And dear arms cling about mine aching head, 
 
 And from that soft touch pain and trouble fly ; 
 The heart's long weary ache is comforted 
 
 By touch of lips, the sweetest under sky. 
 Ah, Heart's Delight, is any love like our's. 
 
 Making dull absence seem 
 Like Presence' self, whose sacred bond empowers 
 
 Our souls to meet in world-forgetting dream ? 
 
 V. 
 
 Doth not the northern wind bring fitfully 
 
 Imagined sense of sweet from a far land 
 Unto this marge of lazy southern sea ? 
 
 Nay, too remote are brown flint-strewn sea sand, 
 And wistful sighing pines high on the down ; 
 
 These golden belts that ring the forest ways, 
 Green bayonetted gorse and heather brown, 
 
 Too distant from yon drifted city haze, 
 And bursting blossoms of a slower spring. 
 
 No winds that wandering go 
 Can wafts of fragrance from the nor'land bring 
 
 To this clear loneliness of morning glow.
 
 92 O HEART'S DELIGHT. 
 
 VI. 
 
 As unkiss'd mountains, underneath the star 
 
 Of sunless January, hunger for 
 The sungod's horses and his flaming car ; 
 
 As on the waste wide sand-dunes by the shore 
 Lieth all night and longeth for the tide, 
 
 A stranger from the waste wide sea ; 
 Or as the ocean's self, unglorified 
 
 By sun or moon, swayeth so wistfully 
 'Twixt sad sea wave and sadder interval ; — 
 
 So uncheered darkness lies 
 Close round my soul, until there break through all, 
 
 The shadowy radiance of thy twilight eyes. 
 
 VII. 
 
 O mellow rain upon the clover tops ; 
 
 O breath of morning blown o'er meadow-sweet ; 
 Lush apple blooms, from which the wild bee drops 
 
 Inebriate ; O hayfield scents, my feet 
 Scatter abroad some morning in July ; 
 
 O wild-wood odours of the birch and pine, 
 And heather breaths from great red hill-tops nigh. 
 
 Than olive sweeter, or Sicilian vine ; — 
 Not all of you, nor summer lands of balm. 
 
 Not blest Arabia, 
 Nor coral isles in seas of tropic calm, 
 
 All Heart's Desire unto my heart can draw.
 
 O HEART 'S DELIGHT. 93 
 
 VIII. 
 O scent of sea on dreaming April morn, 
 
 Borne landward on a steady blowing wind ; 
 O August breeze, o'er leagues of rustling corn, 
 
 Wafts of clear air from uplands left behind. 
 And outbreath'd sweetness of wet wallflower bed ; 
 
 O set in Mid-May depth of orchard close, 
 Tender germander blue, geranium red ; 
 
 O express'd freshness of sweet briar rose ; — 
 Too gross, corporeal, absolute are ye ! 
 Ye help not to define 
 
 That subtle fragrance, delicate and free, 
 
 Which like a vesture clothes this love of mine. 
 
 1884.
 
 ( 94 ) 
 
 THE MIDNIGHT OF THE YEAR. 
 
 Against the pane I press my brow, 
 And wonder in the midnight cold 
 
 What time of year is with us now — 
 Not yet the New, nor quite the Old. 
 
 No wind doth stir ; it is so still 
 That I can hear a mile away 
 
 An outlaw dog upon the hill 
 
 Pursue with pain his swift-foot prey. 
 
 So dark, I hardly see the ash 
 Against the sky uplift its arms ; 
 
 But far away the watch-lights flash 
 In solitary upland farms. 
 
 Behind, the fire hath wan'd to red, 
 And one by one the embers fade ; 
 
 While dimly shineth by my bed 
 The lamp beneath its tripled shade.
 
 THE MIDNIGHT OF THE YEAR. 95 
 
 Though through the dark no bells have peal'd, 
 
 Jarring the air with brazen might, 
 Not all forsaken is the field, 
 
 Nor tenantless the year's midnight. 
 
 Across the silent plain of air 
 
 Stalk four and twenty silent ghosts — 
 
 The phantoms of my years that were, 
 Dead in the drear December frosts. 
 
 And yet I fear them not — they come, 
 Nor shall their race till doomsday fail ; 
 
 They go, the units in my sum. 
 If long or short be then my tale. 
 
 Why should I fear ? They bring me joy 
 
 And grief in almost equal store. 
 Ah ! should not then each year enjoy 
 
 Grateful acceptance more and more. 
 
 Why should I fear, if in the field 
 In the sweet spring I sow the corn, 
 
 Into my barns to store the yield 
 
 Ere unto midnight turns the morn ? 
 
 'o' 
 
 I think that surely that dear grace 
 Which to my life our Lord did lend, 
 
 Will make the ghosts a happier race 
 I turn adrift at the year's end.
 
 96 THE MIDNIGHT OF THE YEAR. 
 
 'Tis now the New Year on the earth ; 
 
 And to a maiden in the south 
 I call amid her festal mirth, 
 
 And bend to kiss her sweet-set mouth. 
 
 My girl, I could not love thee more 
 Wert thou my wedded wife yestreen, 
 
 Or did we hearken at our door 
 
 The bells divide the midnight l<aeen. 
 
 Yet though thou seemest half divine, 
 A flower from Heaven's garden sent. 
 
 One day thou shalt be wholly mine 
 In the sweet land of Well-Content. 
 
 Though now the flowers all hidden are, 
 The lilies sunken in the mere, 
 
 Thine heart is treasure sweeter far 
 Than all the gardens of the year. 
 
 1883-4.
 
 ( 97 ) 
 
 EVEN SONG. 
 
 In the even sings the voice, 
 
 Soft and slow, 
 Of the maiden of my choice : 
 
 Very low 
 
 Singeth she 
 Ballads mystic, carols old, 
 Fragments graceful, sweet, or bold, 
 
 All for me. 
 
 Bliss of love's full thoughtedness 
 
 Swift doth rise ; 
 Haze of unforgetfulness 
 
 Dims mine eyes ; 
 
 And I see 
 
 Precious hopes and bitter fears 
 
 Down the vista of the years 
 
 That shall be. 
 
 H
 
 98 EVEN SONG. 
 
 Thou and I shall ever cling 
 
 Yet more near, 
 And the darkness shall us bring 
 
 Naught to fear; 
 
 We shall go 
 Ringed by evil tongues of spite, 
 Shapes that wander in the night 
 
 To and fro. 
 
 Through the darkness and the noise 
 
 Lo, I hear 
 Thrilling upward a sweet voice ; 
 
 In mine ear 
 
 Doth its tone 
 Tell me all I yearn to know 
 Up the world-way as I go 
 
 Not alone. 
 
 1884.
 
 ( 99 
 
 LOVE AND KNOWLEDGE. 
 
 ■ 
 
 Since I have loved my love 
 A year or so, 
 
 What have I done to prove 
 My love doth grow 
 From less to more ? 
 
 Since I have seen her grace 
 Make glad the home, 
 
 Sweeten the household ways, 
 Hath it become 
 A richer store ? 
 
 Lo ! I have marked her face 
 
 Men's eyes enthrall- 
 Fairest in every place, 
 Yet she through all 
 Was still my maid. 
 
 Love I her less or more 
 That I have seen
 
 lOO LOVE AND KNOWLEDGE. 
 
 And learn'd her deep love lore, 
 And with her been 
 Through shine and shade ? 
 
 Can it be less, when I, 
 In awe and fear, 
 
 Have stood her white soul nigh 
 As it drew near 
 And talked with God ? 
 
 Aye, more a thousand fold 
 My love hath grown. 
 
 Older yet never old, 
 
 Good seed well sown 
 In fruitful sod. 
 
 As knowledge grows in me 
 Love keeps the pace ; 
 
 And never may'st thou see 
 One win the race 
 Nor lag behind. 
 
 Love keepeth that fair land 
 Knowledge hath won, 
 
 And these two hand in hand 
 Till set of sun 
 Thou still shalt find. 
 
 1S84.
 
 lOI 
 
 BY THE SEA. 
 
 The peace of vvaveless rest is on the sea. 
 I hear no sound, albeit I listen till 
 Ears ache with silentness and silence' self 
 Becomes a sound — only the hidden sough 
 Of hill-brook yearning towards the primal sea. 
 Weary of granite hills and clefted glens. 
 
 Peace in my tired heart even as I watch 
 The surge of hills serrate against the sky, 
 Emulous of the steady polar star ; 
 
 For this my love is with me and her voice 
 Dwells in mine ear, and in my central heart 
 The memory of To-day is throbbing strong. 
 
 I feel her blissful kiss upon my lips 
 Say " Benediciie." My soul goes home 
 That way, as a belated bird, aweary, 
 Nestles at last by his homekeeping mate. 
 
 'Tis she and I against the whelming world ; 
 All else falls back — scarce to be wondered at— 
 Faintly at most, hardly of interest
 
 I02 BY THE SEA. 
 
 Sufficient for a question, but as one 
 
 Might say, " What ship is that whose pulsing wheels 
 
 We hear out there i' the west ? " And yet withal 
 
 As meaningless to me as a dog's howl 
 
 Far heard at dead of night when no wind blows. 
 
 That is her casement's narrow vacant square. 
 Lo, see, a light shines from it, and I know 
 All joy within ; without, the empty air. 
 And the unfriendly sea and I alone. 
 
 But in the west I see Love's planet sweet, 
 Regnant above the everlasting hills ; 
 And then, with heart love-heavy, home I go. 
 
 1883.
 
 IO-; 
 
 "THERE WAS AE FLOUR.' 
 
 There was ae flour in a fair garden, 
 
 Where the lilac blossom blooms cheerily ; 
 " Fairest and rarest ever was seen," 
 Sing the mei'le and laverock merrily. 
 
 Watered o' dew i' the earliest morn, 
 Lilac blossom blooms cheerily ; 
 
 Bield aboot wi' a sweet hawthorn, 
 
 Where the merle and lark sing merrily. 
 
 Wha will pu' this flour o' the flours ? 
 
 Lilac blossom blooms cheerily ; 
 Wha hae for aye to grace their hours 
 Where the merle and lark sing merrily ? 
 
 1883.
 
 ( I04 ) 
 
 COR CORDIUM. 
 
 In old sad days when I withdrew me 
 
 To watch thee from afar, 
 Thou wast a goddess fair unto me, 
 
 But distant as they are. 
 
 From earthy dross mine ore refining, 
 
 I felt thy clear eyes draw 
 Truth's minted gold, and their still shining 
 
 Bind all men to their law — 
 
 A law as pure as white lake lilies. 
 
 But cold as snow is cold ; 
 The gold hearts of the daffodillies 
 
 Seem'd more of love to hold. 
 
 And yet each one that knows thee knoweth 
 That strange sweet power of thine. 
 
 To make man's heart a fire that gloweth 
 Fiercer than furnace shine.
 
 COR CORDIUM. 105 
 
 Thou art no goddess, but a maiden 
 Whom God hath made too fair ; 
 
 Thou comest to a heart deep laden 
 Like soft sea-scented air. 
 
 When in the darkness I remember 
 
 Thee smile with quiet eyes, 
 The winter midnight of December 
 
 On a May morn doth rise. 
 
 'Tis long ago since thou hast taken 
 
 The sleeping love in me. 
 And made my whole life to awaken 
 
 To one sole thought of thee. 
 
 And now to thee, my life's liege lady, 
 
 What good gift can I bring ? 
 Is not my whole heart's treasure ready 
 
 To be mine offering ? 
 
 Yea, all of old to maiden given 
 
 Thy knight shall give to thee, 
 Though now most rare on this side heaven, 
 
 Love, worship, fealty. 
 
 188 
 
 J-
 
 ( io6 ) 
 
 WEALTH OF ROSES. 
 
 Wealth of roses hast thou sent, 
 
 Lying bright, 
 All in mellow osier pent, 
 
 Red and white. 
 
 Blue forget-me-nots, the best 
 
 Thou did'st send— 
 Fern encircled, dew caress'd, 
 
 O my friend ! 
 
 Sent too, store of garden grace, 
 
 Cultured sweets — 
 Guardian Dryads of the place, 
 
 Marguerites ; 
 
 Bringing wafts of country air 
 
 To my rooms, 
 Shaming all my foolish care, 
 
 And my glooms.
 
 iS83. 
 
 WEALTH OF ROSES. 107 
 
 Words arc all I can return 
 
 For thy grace ; 
 Yet thy love shall surely earn 
 
 Happy days.
 
 C loS ) 
 
 LOVE LIETH LOWLY. 
 
 A NEW SONG TO AN OLD TUNE. 
 
 Low in the morning, Love lieth weeping, 
 
 Wayworn and weary, ready to die ; 
 All his bright arrows gone from his keeping, 
 
 Broken his pinions — how shall he fly ? 
 Through his fair ringlets rough winds are sweeping, 
 Low his head in the dust doth lie. 
 Maidens, sing this sad song slowly, 
 " Love's head lieth lozvly." 
 
 They have forgotten, all the gay rovers, 
 
 Gifts that he gave them summers ago ; 
 All of them gone now, half-hearted lovers, 
 
 Fair weather friends in the winter that go. 
 Cold is the raiment young Love that covers — 
 Woven webs of the drifted snow. 
 Maidens, sing this sad song sloivly, 
 " Love's head lieth lowly''
 
 LOVE LIETH LOWLY. 109 
 
 Through the white snow-wreath cometh a maiden, 
 
 Up in her arms she taketh the boy. 
 See the soft mantle Love is arrayed in, 
 
 Never again to suffer annoy ; 
 Unto her house she goeth Love-laden, 
 Holding Love in her heart of joy. 
 Sing 110 more a sad song sloiuly. 
 Love's head lies not lowly. 
 
 1884.
 
 
 no 
 
 I 
 
 A YEAR TO-NIGHT. 
 
 To-night I touched thy hand, my dear, 
 In the dead winter of the year ; 
 To-night saw first eyes grey and clear, 
 A year ago. 
 
 Only a year ! but if it were 
 Ten ages more, could it transfer 
 Or alter by a single hair 
 
 This love we know ? 
 
 To-night into my life there came 
 Of Love and Faith the equal flame ; 
 My very soul was not the same 
 A year ago. 
 
 And yet our spirits met, I wot, 
 In some prenatal field of thought — 
 Clasp'd hands, and then a while forgot 
 On earth below.
 
 A YEAR TO-NIGHT. iii 
 
 Didst thou recall a lifetime spent 
 In mutual knowledge well content, 
 When all thy soul to mine outwent 
 A year ago ? 
 
 I think that in the treasure-house 
 Whence souls are taken, God allows 
 Each unborn soul to choose a spouse 
 And forth to go. 
 
 But sometimes in the crowded mart 
 The wedded pair are torn apart — 
 'Twas well I knew whose twin thou wert 
 A year ago ! 
 
 1883.
 
 112 
 
 OUR LADY OF THE WOODS. 
 
 I WILL show you a tree on the edge of the wood, 
 At its foot the lady fern breaketh in spray, 
 And ten times a day it changeth its mood, 
 Like a wayward maiden, grave or gay. 
 
 Aye, our birch is a beauty — I wonder now 
 If you would think it was like a girl — 
 Lissom and graceful, a girl we know ? 
 
 Well, you never had any eyes ; a pearl 
 Might lie a long time in an oyster for you. 
 Unless it should stick in your Philistine throat ! 
 
 Oh, you " see what I'm driving at now,'' you do, 
 And you ask, " What resemblance are you to note ? " 
 
 First, then, you may mark the grace of its curve, 
 And the subtle spring of the airy top. 
 All instinct with life to each delicate nerve. 
 And in each curl'd leaf a crystalline drop. 
 That sprinkles your face as you brush it aside — 
 Then that springtime scent in the morning air 
 Makes you stay unawares the swing of your stride, 
 And take time to admire my beauty there.
 
 OUR LADY OF THE WOODS. 
 
 Can you see it now ? at the fir-wood's end, 
 You'll catch its gleam like a fairy's wand, 
 Grey and clear like the eyes of my friend. 
 
 It is ringed with purple and delicate band 
 Of russet and brown and marvellous grey, 
 And one gets, here and there on its silvery stem, 
 Wherever the bark has curl'd away, 
 Shy glimpse of a dainty underhem. 
 
 But I cannot see it — it stood just here — 
 What is this ? Our birch — in a wrack of trees ! 
 It must have gone with the storm of last year 
 That swept so strong from the western seas 
 And wasted the country side. Well, it must be so ; 
 But yet while my Dryad remaineth to me. 
 This storm-racked year, it is joy to know. 
 Brought a love that is better than flower or tree. 
 
 1884.
 
 ( 114 ) 
 
 NIGHT BY SUILVEN. 
 
 A WEEK ago I heard the hum 
 Of Pleasure's languid multitude, 
 Over the grass to where I stood 
 
 From the gay park's long turmoil come. 
 
 A week ago I saw the glare 
 Upon a hundred dancers fall ; 
 I stood apart and watched it all, 
 
 Nor found I aught in which to share. 
 
 Here morning draws to afternoon, 
 
 And afternoon to eventide ; 
 
 And now the shimmering cloudlets hide 
 Intenser splendours of the moon. 
 
 But from her bonds she breaketh soon, 
 And builds a fairy bridge of light, 
 That marks a pathway shining bright 
 
 Across the narrows of Loch Fewn.
 
 NIGHT B Y SUIL VEM. 1 1 ■ 
 
 The ripples break just out of reach — 
 Beneath, the hasty river brawls ; 
 And, softer than the Kirkaig falls, 
 
 Whispers the wind too low for speech. 
 
 The lake lies underneath the hill, 
 The hill scarce underneath the skies. 
 So instant and abrupt doth rise 
 
 Wierd Suilven's ancient pinnacle. 
 
 Here, then, 'tis passing good to bide. 
 
 For dearer to the quiet mind 
 
 Than fashion's festival, I find 
 The hamlet by the sea-loch's side. 
 
 Assy NT, Souther land, 
 1881.
 
 C ii6 ) 
 
 FROM TWO WINDOWS. 
 
 This window looketh toward the west, 
 And o'er the meadows grey 
 
 GHmmer the snows that coldly crest 
 The hills of Galloway. 
 
 The winter broodeth all between — 
 
 In every furrow lies ; 
 Nor is there aught of summer green, 
 
 Nor blue of summer skies. 
 
 Athwart the dark grey rainclouds flash 
 The sea-bird's sweeping wings, 
 
 And through the stark and ghostly ash 
 The wind of winter sings. 
 
 The purple woods are dim with rain, 
 The cornfields dank and bare ; 
 
 And eyes that look for golden grain 
 Find only stubble there.
 
 FROM TWO WINDOWS. ii; 
 
 But when I to the window turn 
 
 That fronts the southern plain, 
 Small sign of winter I discern, 
 
 Or cloud-rack, fierce with rain. 
 
 Sunshine is not more clear in June, 
 
 Nor August sky more blue ; 
 Not otherwise on summer noon 
 
 Looketh our guardian yew. 
 
 And there in leafage never sere 
 
 Stand all the solemn pines ; 
 Nor fresher in the spring appear 
 
 Their melancholy lines. 
 
 Dark green against the southern sky 
 
 Their shaggy tops are seen ; 
 The flooded meadow-levels lie 
 
 All silver-grey between. 
 
 'J'hus light and dark and dark and light 
 
 So near together come, 
 That you may hold them both in sight 
 
 From one small-window'd room. 
 
 But while I write, behold the night 
 
 Comes slowly blotting all, 
 And o'er grey waste and meadow bright 
 
 The gloaming shadows fall.
 
 ii8 FROM TWO WINDOWS. 
 
 From all the quiet lattices 
 Dim lights are shining soon, 
 
 And through the cross-bars of the trees 
 Breaketh the wading moon. 
 
 1884. 
 
 I
 
 ( 119 ) 
 
 JUNE RAIN IN WALES. 
 
 GoLDENER than gold's clear self, 
 Above the purpling mountain mass the sun 
 Doth hang, mist-mellow in the even-shine ; 
 Higher, the level curtain of the rain — 
 Soft summer rain, that blesseth where it falls — 
 Lets drop two sun-illumin'd folds of shower 
 Over yon dim blue western promontory — 
 The folk here call it Lleyn. Seen hence it seems 
 A chain of islands like our Hebrides, 
 Adream amid the rain-still'd northern sea. 
 
 And now, O love, as thy life circles mine, 
 And thy dear influence, like the blessed rain, 
 Stilleth and purifieth the sea's surge. 
 So is the barren, lone, unquiet sea 
 Bound by the bands of habitable land, 
 Still'd by the gentle falling of the rain. 
 
 Below Caoer Idris, 
 1884.
 
 ( 120 ) 
 
 A CHRISTMAS GREETING. 
 
 A GREETING kind to thee, my friend, 
 To thee a blithe good-morrow ; 
 
 And whatsoe'er He doth thee send, 
 God send thee never sorrow. 
 
 For all good men this Christmas-tide, 
 Good girls and they together, 
 
 About the fire sit side by side 
 To spite the winter weather. 
 
 The wind about the missel-bush 
 Shakes every waxen berry ; 
 
 And while it makes the maidens blush. 
 It makes the men a-merry. 
 
 And while upon this pleasant earth 
 Live men both good and jolly, 
 
 I wot they'll save for Christmas mirth 
 The yule-log and the holly. 
 
 I
 
 i883. 
 
 A CHRISTMAS GREETING. 121 
 
 And if for lack of city lore 
 
 The verses seem but homely, 
 I rede thee pardon them the more 
 
 That thou thyself art comely.
 
 ( 122 ) 
 
 FALSE AND TRUE. 
 
 My soul, what doth this triple promise mean, 
 This vow by men and angels heard, 
 By God enregistered, 
 To love, to honour, and to keep my Queen ? 
 
 Ah, many a pair before the altar kneel, 
 To whom the sacred words that bless 
 Are far more meaningless 
 Than the hill-echo when their joy-bells peal. 
 
 II. 
 
 I hear the woman's voice ring clear and true, 
 With high heart-service in its tone. 
 She gives to him alone 
 Her store of all love's golden revenue —
 
 FALSE AND TRUE. 123 
 
 To him who brings foul heart unpurified, 
 Selfish and cruel as the grave, 
 The false heart of the knave, 
 To match the fair perfection of his bride. 
 
 III. 
 
 Or shallow heart and selfish, giveth she. 
 And thinketh to herself, " Behold, 
 All things are got for gold, 
 And wonderful shall my adorning be ! " 
 
 Yet thinketh not, poor fool, that purity 
 And truth are not yet bought for gold, 
 And happiness not sold 
 For all the wealth of regal argosy. 
 
 IV. 
 
 My God, Avas this the marriage meant by Thee, 
 This union of the foul and fair ? 
 Can such pollution bear 
 Thine Eden stamp of love eternally ? 
 
 And dost Thou smile approval from the skies, 
 Or evil things of darkness leap. 
 Where, in the glimmering deep, 
 Dwelleth Beelzebub, the Prince of Flies ?
 
 124 FALSE AND TRUE. 
 
 Nay, no such marriage Thine, for Thou dost bless 
 The Love and Truth and equal yoke, 
 That bind Thy faithful folk 
 By two and two in bands of stedfastness. 
 
 V, 
 
 So Love is not lip-service, nor is Faith 
 A fair-wind helmsman who can steer 
 Only where skies are clear. 
 But fainteth in the murky chasm of Death. 
 
 Therefore to love her ever is not hard — 
 To love her not, as possible 
 As that the ambient sea 
 Should cease the precinct of our isle to guard. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Like one who, half awaking in the dawn. 
 And turning into well-known arms, 
 Nestleth from reach of harms 
 Li that beloved haven safe withdrawn ; 
 
 So in the shelter of a mutual trust 
 Shall we abide, and closer draw 
 These sacred bonds, whose lav/ 
 Is Love undying, though ourselves be dust 
 
 1884.
 
 ( 125 ) 
 
 A FAR CRY. 
 
 FROM THE ALPS TO ARGYLE. 
 
 A FAIR far land about thee lies, 
 Cool'd by the salt lake's breeze ; 
 
 Thou see'st through great tear-clouded eyes 
 The wash of Scottish seas. 
 
 With heart to Alpine snows anear, 
 From some small hill church bare 
 
 Thou liftest to the All-Father 
 A maiden's simple prayer. 
 
 These thousand miles can not divide 
 
 Thy well-belov'd from thee ; 
 He hearkeneth, silent at thy side, 
 
 The sea-waves' litany. 
 
 With thee he marks the white cloud caps 
 
 Fleck all the sunlit land ; 
 His feet, behind the ebb-tide's lapse, 
 
 Make lightnings in the sand.
 
 126 A FAR CRY. 
 
 He hears, above the tinkhng bells 
 
 Of cattle pasturing 
 High on the parched Alpine fells, 
 
 The Inver church bells rinsr. 
 
 ^£3* 
 
 Steep slopes of dazzling sunlit snow, 
 
 Cleaving the dark-blue sky ; 
 Or Monte Rosa, all aglow, 
 O'erhanging Italy, 
 
 Hide not these misty mountain tops 
 Drench'd in cool drifts of rain. 
 
 The brown-sailed fishing craft that drops 
 Down to the western main. 
 
 For all the banners of the mist 
 
 About the summits furl'd, 
 The ledges by the sun first kiss'd, 
 
 This cold white glacier world, 
 
 Not of themselves are loveliest. 
 
 But by dear hopes that rise 
 That all these things may one day rest 
 
 In the Sabbath of thine eyes.
 
 12: 
 
 LOVE. IS THE TRUE GOLD. 
 
 Here is fine gold for thee 
 
 For thine adorning, 
 Sent for the love of thee 
 
 On Christ's birth morning. 
 
 Wear it for Faith's sake, 
 
 For the work that bought it ; 
 
 Wear it for my sake, 
 
 And the love that thought it. 
 
 'O' 
 
 Love is the true gold. 
 Richest of trover ; 
 
 What is the wife's gold 7- 
 Husband and lover ! 
 
 Ober Engadin, 
 1884.
 
 ( 128 ) 
 
 AMONG SEPTEMBER SNOW. 
 
 At home 'tis sunny September, 
 Though here 'tis a waste of snows, 
 
 So bleak that I scarce remember 
 
 How the scythe through the cornland goes. 
 
 With an aching heart I wander 
 
 Through the cold and curved wreaths, 
 
 And dream that I see meander 
 Brown burns amid purple heaths. 
 
 That I hear the stags on the mountains 
 
 Bray loud in the early morn, 
 And that scarlet gleams by the fountains 
 
 The red-berried wild-rose thorn. 
 
 Very solemn the peaks of the Valais 
 Through the broken storm-clouds show, 
 
 JBy the sun made magically 
 Whiter than whitest snow.
 
 AMONG SEPTEMBER SNOIV. 129 
 
 'I'lic dome of soaring Mischabel 
 
 Shines in a misty dream ; 
 The Wcisshorn and pinnacled Gabel 
 
 Reign in the west supreme ; 
 
 While o'er the White Tooth and the Brothers 
 
 Ariseth, accursM and lorn, 
 God's wedge that divided the others, 
 
 The marvellous Matterhorn. 
 
 Yet scarce can my hungry heart pardon 
 
 The mountains for being so fair ; 
 I had liefer behold a garden, 
 
 And a maiden that resteth there 
 
 All under a red thorn's shading, 
 
 A queen on a rustic throne-^— 
 And an English twilight fading 
 
 On the garden, not alone ! 
 
 1884.
 
 ( I30 ) 
 
 A CHRISTMAS SONG FOR A LADY. 
 
 No song of lark nor blithesome bird 
 
 About our winter land is heard, 
 So I must tune no serious strain, 
 Nor rack my brow for epics vain ; 
 
 But while the snows are drifting white, 
 
 In cosiest corner will I write 
 
 Some dainty lines for a lady. 
 
 II. 
 
 " Goodwill to all who have goodwill, 
 To him that hath be given still /" 
 And he the angels' vision sees 
 Through all the veiled centuries ; 
 So weighty words are lightly said, 
 As gold is wrought in daintiest braid 
 la winsome wise for a lady.
 
 .-/ CHRISTMAS SONG FOR A LADY. \-\\ 
 
 III. 
 
 A song that bears no dirge of pain 
 Rings out from English bells again, 
 By shepherds heard beneath the fold, 
 The glad old song that is not old ; 
 And I, the echo it doth leave, 
 Afar from English gladness weave 
 In graceful guise for a lady. 
 
 IV. 
 
 To all to whom the cross is now 
 
 The crown awaits the weary brow ; 
 
 Like His, that babe whose wondrous birth, 
 In Bethlehem made glad the earth ; 
 
 And all my heart is glad, I wot — 
 
 Or part is glad and part is not — 
 As knoweth well this lady. 
 
 For sad songs may be lightly sung. 
 And gladsome harps on willows hung, 
 And days are days and years are years, 
 And joy lies near the spring of tears ; 
 And so as bond for life-long debt, 
 A thoughtful word or two I set 
 In Christmas key for a lady. 
 
 Maloja, Upper Engadine, 
 Christmas, 18S4.
 
 1^2 
 
 A WINTER MESSAGE FROM THE 
 HIGH ALPS. 
 
 TO GEORGE MILNER. 
 
 To you, O friend, who keep a heart 
 
 Unchilled by any snows ; 
 To you from one who stands apart 4, 
 
 A spring of kindness flows. 
 
 From Alpine snows and granite rocks 
 
 I reach revering hands, 
 Warm with a gratitude that mocks 
 
 These winter-buried Lands. 
 
 I see you homeward slowly come 
 
 And outside shut the day, 
 Silence the city's dreary hum 
 
 And put the world away.
 
 A WINTER MESSAGE FROM THE HIGH ALPS. 133 
 
 And I that have no resting-place 
 
 On hearth for foot of mine, 
 Turn very wistfully my face 
 
 To watch your hearth-fire shine. 
 
 And all my heart goes over seas, 
 
 Though I stay here alone, 
 To share its sweet observances 
 
 And graceful duties done. * 
 
 And with my hearth-fire all unmade, 
 
 My home life yet to be, 
 I sadly watch the sunset fade 
 
 On purple Italy ; 
 
 Yet see above the glacier snow 
 
 The full-orb'd promise rise ; 
 And living love none else may know 
 
 Shine from unfathom'd eyes. 
 
 1884.
 
 ( 134 ) 
 
 i 
 
 HAST THOU SEEN? HAST THOU 
 KNOWN ? 
 
 Hast thou seen the glamour that follows 
 
 The falling of summer rain — 
 The mystical blues in the hollows, 
 
 The purples and greys on the plain ? 
 
 Hast thou seen the moonlight shining 
 
 On the fair four cantons' sea, 
 AVhile all thy heart was pining 
 
 For two eyes' still mystery ? 
 
 Hast thou known desire that groweth 
 
 More wordless and fiercely calm, 
 Fann'd by the wind that bloweth 
 
 Soft from the lands of palm ? 
 
 How wilder than forests Etruscan, 
 
 Sweeter than Lombard vines, 
 Softer than vocables Tuscan 
 
 Heard on the Appennines,
 
 HAST THOU SEEN 1 HAST THOU KNOWN 1 135 
 
 Is the faith that doth not evanish 
 
 Under the glare of the day ; 
 Faith that the night cannot banish — 
 
 As deep as the Milky Way, 
 
 As clear with wonderful lustre, 
 
 As far above earthly jars, 
 As the Pleiades' glimmering cluster, 
 
 The sweetest among the stars. 
 
 1884.
 
 ( 136 ) 
 
 NEW RHYME AND OLD REASON. 
 
 (written in lewis Carrol's "rhyme? or reason?") 
 
 Low down among the summer grass, 
 
 We two, a lover and his lass, 
 
 List the old rhymes of " breeze^' and " trees" 
 
 And the wind on the level meadow leas. 
 
 Dear old-time rhymes of '■'■love'" and " dove^' 
 Heard in the branches high above, 
 Never in days gone by were ye 
 Sung of a love more fair than she. 
 
 Half sad, all glad, on this mad page 
 I rhyme of a love, rhymes cannot gauge ; 
 While wild rose leaves fall tenderly 
 Over words that hide what Love can be. 
 
 June 14, 1884.
 
 ( 137 ) 
 
 SONG FOR BRIDE-DAY MORNING. 
 
 IViiiTE as early roses, girt by daffodillies, 
 Gleain the feet of maidens, moving rhythmically, 
 Roses of the 7fioiintains, flowers of the valley, 
 
 Hill rose and plain rose and white vale lilies. 
 
 Dewy in the meadow lands, clover blossoms mellow 
 Lift their heads of red and white to the bride's adorning; 
 Sweetly in the sky-realms all the summer morning, 
 
 Joyeth the skylark and calleth his fellow. 
 
 In the well-known precincts, lo the wilding treasure 
 Glows for marriage merriment in my sweetheart's 
 
 gardens, 
 Welcoming her joy-day, tenderest of wardens — 
 
 Heart's pride and love's hfe and all eyes' pleasure. 
 
 Bride among the bridesmaids, lily clad in whiteness, 
 She Cometh to the twining none may twain in sunder ; 
 While to marriage merriment wakes the organ's thunder, 
 
 And the Lord doth give us all His heavenly brightness.
 
 i-,8 SONG FOR BRIDE-DAY MORNING. 
 
 'o 
 
 Then like early roses, girt by daffodillies 
 
 Goes the troop of maidens, moving rhythmically, 
 Roses of the mountains, flowers of the valley. 
 
 Hill rose and plain rose and white vale lilies. 
 
 1884.
 
 ( 139 ) 
 
 FORGET AND REMEMBER. 
 
 The March wind piercing keen, 
 Scourging the white highways, 
 Parching the springing green — 
 These fitful vexing days, 
 O love, do thou forget. 
 
 Days of clear sky above 
 And spring flowers underfoot, 
 The bursting bud of Love, 
 And promise of Love's fruit, 
 Remember thou, O love. 
 
 Cold days of clouded sky, 
 And hours of shadowed heart. 
 When one would vainly try 
 Awhile to stay apart. 
 
 Do thou, O love, forget. 
 
 The gold without alloy 
 
 Of Faith and Love supreme,
 
 I40 FORGET AND REMEMBER. 
 
 The pure unsullied joy 
 In waking or in dream, 
 
 O love, remember thou. 
 
 The fear of others' thought, 
 The hardly brooked restraint, 
 A passing strangeness wrought 
 By pride's unkindly taint, 
 O love, do thou forget. 
 
 Those eyes from which shone out 
 The utter trust of each. 
 That inner joy no doubt 
 Or surface storm can reach, 
 Remember thou, O love. 
 
 Though Memory's wells o'erflow 
 With undrawn draughts of joy, 
 Most hard 'tis now to know 
 What motes did us annoy — 
 So, love, do thou forget. 
 
 But love of sacred days, 
 Sweet rest beneath one roof, 
 Two hearts one song of praise, 
 Love, of God's love the proof, 
 O love, remember thou.
 
 FORGET AND REMEMBER. 141 
 
 All that thou wouldst not let 
 Come near our own bright hearth, 
 
 O love, do thou forget ! 
 A love like heaven on earth, 
 
 O love, remember thou ! 
 
 1885.
 
 { 142 ) 
 
 A TRANSCRIPT FROM THE "SONG OF 
 
 SONGS." 
 
 The Maid. 
 I. 
 
 Better than cup of fine gold from the south 
 Fiird with wine's treasure-trove, 
 Are these thy Hps. So kiss me, love, 
 O kiss me, with the kisses of thy mouth. 
 
 2. 
 
 Behold, the damsels love thee, O beloved, 
 
 Because thy name is fair, 
 
 And of sweet odour, like the air 
 
 Of delicate nard that clings about thy head. 
 
 3. 
 
 Draw us, thou strong one, for our hearts incline 
 
 To thee. Within his hall 
 
 The king hath brought me ; but thy call 
 
 I'll follow, for thy love is more than wine.
 
 A TRANSCRIPT FROM THE "SONG OF SONGS." 143 
 
 4- 
 
 Most true, O daughters of the hill of Zion, 
 
 No maiden lily white 
 
 Am I ; yet conielier in his sight 
 
 Than Kedar's tents, curtains of Solomon. 
 
 5- 
 I kept my brethren's vines though I was fair, 
 For hot their anger was — 
 Ah ! look not on me— for, alas ! 
 Of mine own vineyard have I had no care. 
 
 6. 
 
 Tell me, O thou for whom my soul hath love, 
 Where feeds thy flock ? at noon 
 Where rests ? for why should I as one 
 Lone and forgot, among thy fellows rove. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 If this thy good thou wilt not know, 
 
 Thou all too simple maid, 
 Afar among the rocks 
 
 Feed thou thy flocks ; 
 By the low earthen cotes 
 Where shepherds tend their goats, 
 
 By hill and hollow 
 
 The sheep-track follow ; 
 And in queen's raiment be no more arrayed.
 
 14+ A TRANSCRIPT FROM THE " SONG OF SONGS." 
 
 The King. 
 
 I. 
 
 Unto my charger 
 Lo I compare thee, 
 Chief of the horses 
 Southward that bare thee, 
 Guarded and warded, 
 Girt round by heroes, 
 In my state chariot. 
 Gift of the Pharaohs. 
 
 2. 
 
 Comely thy cheeks are. 
 Jewels adorn them ; 
 Chains on thy fair neck, 
 There thou hast worn them ; 
 Chains the king gave thee, 
 His goldsmiths made them, 
 Studded with bell-tassels, 
 Silversmiths weighed them. 
 
 The Maid. 
 
 I. 
 
 While yet the king sat in his banquet hall 
 
 My spikenard scented sweet. 
 
 And I was glad ; but when his feet 
 Drew near, drooping it hung and scentless all.
 
 A TRANSCRIPT FROM THE " SOAG OF SONGS. " 145 
 
 2. 
 
 To me a bunch of pleasant myrrh thou art, 
 My well-beloved, that rests, 
 Lying all night between my breasts 
 
 Stirr'd by the love-sick pulses of my heart. 
 
 3- 
 
 " To what is my beloved like," say I, 
 "In whom I take delight ? " 
 A spray of henna, red and white, 
 
 Among the vines in sunny Engedi. 
 
 I»»2.
 
 ( 146 ) 
 
 I 
 
 AFTER CLOUD THE SUNSHINE. 
 
 I. 
 
 Quiet are the woods, and dumb 
 
 Are the wood-dove's notes ; 
 Honey-bees have hush'd their hum, 
 
 Birds their merry throats. 
 
 Blossoms of the orchard trees, 
 
 Nipp'd by morning frost, 
 Flutter on the bitter breeze. 
 
 Life and freshness lost. 
 
 Dust doth dim the yellow gold 
 
 Of the wayside gorse ; 
 Harebells droop upon the wold. 
 
 Spring hath lost her force. 
 
 Stay'd the first glad burst of power, 
 
 Check'd the mounting sap ; 
 Sweetheart Spring herself doth cower 
 
 In Dame Winter's lap.
 
 AFTER CLOUD THE SUNSHINE. 147 
 
 11. 
 
 Beating down the crested waves 
 On the great sea plain, 
 
 Over fields and towns and graves, 
 Drives the welcome rain. 
 
 All the chill and listless leaves. 
 
 Feeble frosted folk, 
 Sudden smiting tempest reaves 
 
 From the creaking oak. 
 
 'o 
 
 O'er the garden ways are strown 
 
 Spring's untimely wrack ; 
 Leaves and flowers and branches blown 
 
 Line the forest track. 
 
 in. 
 
 This is how the summer came, 
 Came with bursting hail, 
 
 Racking thunder, instant flame, 
 Fierce Atlantic gale. 
 
 Yesterday 'twas doubtful spring, 
 
 Heaven of arid grey ; 
 Day of storm doth summer bring, 
 
 Lo ! 'tis June to-day.
 
 148 AFTER CLOUD THE SUNSHINE. 
 
 Here to-day is summer's prime, 
 New joy in the trees ; 
 
 Sapphire-hearted summer time, 
 Sky, and bluer seas. 
 
 1885.
 
 HARRY OWEN'S BOOK, 
 
 BEING 
 
 POET ECHOES 
 
 IN 
 
 WILD WALES. 
 '■^ Blow bitgle, answer echoes. ^^ 
 
 [Written in days of rain for the Inn Album at Pen-y-Gwryd, in 
 North Wales, to supply spaces left unfilled by certain poets who 
 of late sojourned there — the Prophet of the Lamentation, the Clerk 
 of Oxenford, the Incomprehensible, the Lordly One, the Democrat 
 of the Earthly Paradise, the Master, the Protean Celt, and the 
 Demoniac Clothed.]
 
 ( ISO ) 
 
 HARRY OWEN'S BOOK. 
 
 I came to Pen-y-Gwryd, a-larking with my betters, 
 A mad wag and mad poet, both of them men of letters, 
 Which two ungrateful parties, for the care of them I took, 
 Have set me writing verses in Henry Owen's book." 
 
 T. Hughes. 
 Pen-y-Gwryd, Caernarvonshire. 
 
 THIRTY YEARS. 
 
 " A voice shall cry in the latter days." 
 
 I HAVE not looked for thirty years 
 Upon thy humble roof, mine inn ; 
 
 Yet, though my voice has tuned the spheres, 
 I rest in thee with no disdain. 
 
 When in the school's familiar hum, 
 The little pontiffs watch my nod, 
 
 How often doth the whisper come, 
 
 " How sweet to tread the Cambrian sod."
 
 HARRY OWEN'S BOOK. i;i 
 
 Ah, thirty years ! how much they change, 
 Besides the unquiet heart of man ! 
 
 How many ghosts through Hades range, 
 Who walk'd the earth when ye began. 
 
 There were no flakes upon these locks. 
 No crafty crowsfeet round mine eyes, 
 
 My phrases pointed not the jokes 
 Of editors more smart than wise. 
 
 No church anathemas were hurl'd, 
 Unheard were then Philistia's jeers — 
 
 Ah me ! what changes have the world 
 And I not seen in thirty years. 
 
 But here no sickening discord stills 
 The music of the steady stars ; 
 
 The winds upon the moon-blanch'd hills 
 Joy not in theologic wars. 
 
 And in the freedom of mine inn, 
 
 I should not wonder if I am 
 A trifle nearer to my kin. 
 
 Than isled in esoteric calm. 
 
 But still the greatest thoughts are hid 
 And nurtured by the reverent few ; 
 
 By frantic shriek the mass is led, 
 Though I in peace possess the true.
 
 152 HARRY OWEN'S BOOK. 
 
 Yet though they seek not what I sought, 
 With joy a younger people hears, 
 
 What wisdom it hath been my lot 
 
 To reach through pain in thirty years.
 
 HARRY OWEN'S BOOK. 153 
 
 FORMOSA ACERRIMAQUE. 
 
 By Catullus Oxoniensis. 
 
 O SWEETEST of sad maids, 
 Saddest of sweet maids, 
 
 Euphrosyne's daughter ! 
 In peinture I limn thee. 
 In poesy hymn thee, 
 
 Beloved of Erato! 
 
 Dionysian plethora 
 Pour from the amphora. 
 
 Sweet Welsh Ganymede ; 
 And thou'lt have a lyric — 
 A chaunt neoteric. 
 
 By a poet indeed. 
 
 Hail, gracefuUest Hebe, 
 Whoever you may be ! 
 
 My heart thou hast charmed 
 Far more than the classic 
 Outpourer of Massic, 
 
 Horatian barmaid.
 
 154 HARRY OWEN'S BOOK. 
 
 In my memory rankles 
 The turn of thine ankles, 
 
 As thou pourest the nectar ; 
 Not that I need to 
 Pay any need to 
 
 Propriety's lecture. 
 
 For that angry eyelash down 
 As thou countest the cash down, 
 
 Tell me too plainly 
 Of what I'd a notion — 
 Thou scorn'st my devotion, 
 
 And I sigh for thee vainly ! 
 
 Thou call'st me " a mere swell," 
 Say'st " thou'lt box my ears well " 
 
 " Thou need'st no protector, 
 Thyself art sufficient, 
 Extremely efficient, 
 
 Mad poet ejector ! "
 
 HARRY OWEN'S BOOK. 155 
 
 BROWNOROTTO'S DISTEMPER, 
 
 And how it worked him. 
 
 I. 
 
 Shake fists, O Harry Owen ! 
 
 (Not i' my face, thats not the place — 
 Fm not a fool, Fll not keep cool) 
 
 Egad ! thy missus too ? 
 
 Who's that halloin' ? 
 
 What is all this to-do ? 
 
 A pack o' pleasure-goers ? 
 
 Con-found their hunger din ! 
 Ho ! kick 'em out o' doors, 
 Why ever let 'em in ? 
 O heavens and earth defend us 
 From this ingens — horrendus — 
 Confound — infer — tremendous — 
 Demon — terrif — stupendous — 
 And diabolic roar !
 
 156 HARRY OWEN'S BOOK. 
 
 Is peace an eraj^ty matter? 
 Or art thou so much fatter 
 
 Thou art from nerves exempt ? 
 Ho, Harry, make a sally 
 {Most obvious rime is alley) 
 Ere they have time to rally, 
 Go heave 'em down the valley ! 
 
 What ! treat 'em with contempt, 
 Say'st thou ? Do th' deed myself ! 
 Bah ! Think'st thou a Poet's hands 
 Are under thy commands 
 
 To wash thy kitchen delf ? 
 Bah ! ha ! and pshaw. 
 
 5- 
 
 Ichabod ! Ichabod ! 
 
 It's very odd — very odd — 
 
 What ! can it be my Roland ? 
 
 Mine Oliver's own Roland, 
 I thought thee under sod 
 In Florence wast, or Poland ?
 
 HARRY OWEN'S BOOK. 157 
 
 6. 
 
 Come to a Poet's arms ! 
 
 What ! scornest mine embrace ? 
 Base elf, what counter charms 
 
 Can from thy soul efface 
 
 A Poet's AVATAR ? 
 
 " True counter charms ! " say'st thou, 
 " Spirits ! " mutter'st— " the bar ! " 
 So like a flash of wonder wrought 
 The instant answer echoed thought — 
 '■'' Hail^ Missus Owen, do 
 Bring glasses qiiick for two ! "
 
 158 
 
 HARRY OWEN'S BOOK. 
 
 THE PENALTY OF GREATNESS. 
 
 With a vile pen, in Harty Owen's book 
 I write at random, thus : 
 
 The ivy leaves 
 That tap the pane are fresher than the bays 
 About my brows. I would they had been sere 
 Or never twined there ; for I have fled 
 At the swift heels of steam, to seek afar 
 The peace a laureate longs for when his liege 
 Demands a tribute for the laurel crown. 
 What doth she ask ? A song of Jaune-a-Braune ! 
 From the Nineteenth Century have I received 
 Three hundred pound for less. Albeit, here goes. 
 
 JAUNE-A-BRAUNE. 
 
 No little Lilliputian courtier he, 
 
 Nor stick in waiting, white nor black nor gold — 
 
 A great and granite-headed Norlander, 
 
 A Cerberus with all his heads in one, 
 
 A lord of lackeys, yet the awe of lords, 
 
 A man of title, Jaune-k-Braune, Esquire ! 
 
 He oped the doors of Pullman carriages,
 
 HARRY OWEN'S BOOK. 159 
 
 And no man shut but he — a chieftain eke 
 Of kilt and philibeg, in whom the clan 
 Is honoured, and all the name of Braune 
 Gain'd by his greatness a full inch or more ; 
 Yea, all his kin attain'd to affluence 
 Or bailiffdom at least. 
 
 He, though no more, 
 Much monumented, church and high hill-cairn 
 Proclaim his praise, and the insignia 
 Of a new order, call'd of Jaune-^-Braune, 
 With motto '' Honi soL" 
 
 " A letter for you, sir — 
 Upon the service of her Majesty ! " 
 
 What meaneth this ? Ah, 'tis that very crown 
 I placed to usury i' the post-office 
 Ere yet I left Southampton — the receipt 
 Come in due course. 
 
 Lo, what is this I see — 
 Her Majesty commands, and that weird name 
 Thereafter, Jaune-a-Braune. 
 
 O for a lodge 
 In some vast wilderness or Currie's ship 
 With Gladstone — Gladstone ! By the rood ! 
 A great thought strikes along my pen, 
 And brazens all my cheek. I know the man, 
 AVith hearty right good will, he'll turn into 
 Italian the song that doth begin 
 About the body of Jaune Braune, that lies
 
 i6o HARRY OWEN'S BOOK. 
 
 And moulders i' the dust ! He'll do it, 'tvvixt 
 The empire and the axe ! 
 
 Alfred the Great, 
 Thyself applauds thee — this is more 
 Than all poetic fame, though maybe not 
 Quite so remunerative. Haste, then, to catch 
 The London mail — not the quaint four-in-hand 
 That once I saw, three piebalds and a roan ; 
 But wheezy engine dragging snuff-boxes. 
 Gladstone, I greet thee ! 
 
 I'll not miss that train !
 
 HARRY OWEN'S BOOK. i6i 
 
 THE MAN WHO LAUGHED NO MORE. 
 
 A Neo-archaic Talc. 
 
 Argument. 
 
 A certain poet, who also made much goodly house-gear, as he 
 passed by the way was met by a company of dolorous men. They 
 beseech him to have himself ware of a hoary man who should meet 
 him, and entice him to climb with him certain very high hills that 
 were in that country. 
 
 ]5ut he made naught of their entreaties and would not be dis- 
 suaded, and so it happed that he learned their secret to his own 
 cost and discomfiture soon thereafter. 
 
 Now when the hottest of the season came, 
 A poet of an ancient Cymric name 
 Did pass this way and in this house abode. 
 But as he pondered on the wierdsome road 
 Of loss and gain and carven legs of chairs, 
 Of culture and of cunning wall-papers, 
 Of La Commune, with face all grimy-grey, 
 Sudden a band of strangers stopp'd his way. 
 Batter'd and sad, and ever wearily, 
 They eyed his bag to see what there might be. 
 
 " We bin no cut-purse knaves, have thou no fear, 
 But for thy warning are we gathered here. 
 
 M
 
 1 62 HARRY OWEN'S BOOK. 
 
 Oh, go not thither, it will work thee woe. 
 For what hath thus befallen us, we know. 
 By the wayside doth lurk a grey-beard man, 
 To vex thee ere the threshold thou hast wan, 
 And if his counsel thou do not disdain, 
 Surely and soothly he will be thy bane ! " 
 
 Then vanish'd they, like witches anciently 
 That witch'd upon the borders of the sea. 
 Now right wrong-headed was this foolish wight, 
 Nor feared he wizardry in broad daylight ; 
 Yet when an olden reverend man he met, 
 He reck'd not of their idle words, but let 
 The old man lead him whithersome he would. 
 
 So hillward went he, saying it was good 
 That man should be a-merry, therefore he 
 Would cheer his doleful heart right wondrously, 
 With antique stories, quaint and strange and true, 
 And ancient quips the wise mound-builders knew. 
 So all that day, he murmured ceaselessly, 
 And the wind fell upon the Anglian Sea, 
 And still the stream flow'd on. The new sun rose 
 Upon a man grown grey with many woes. 
 
 Then knew he all the wisdom of the men, 
 And all their secret had he in his ken. 
 
 After these days, he wandered to this inn, 
 A broken man, with cheeks grown wondrous thin. 
 Yea, I that write these grievous things am he 
 Who goes to join that grey-beard company.
 
 HARRY OWEN'S BOOK. 163 
 
 LILITH. 
 
 Sonnet CI. 
 To the Earthly Paradise Maker. 
 
 How far away from here is Willow-wood ? 
 How long since Adam's garden wanted Eve, 
 And Lilith queen'd it — subtle to deceive — 
 
 Cunning to snatch the auriole from Good? 
 
 Yea, hers and his dwelt deep in Willow-wood, 
 While Lilith wrought her vengeance to achieve — 
 In barge of Willow-wood the land they leave, 
 
 And on these Cymric hills escape the flood. 
 
 Ah, wellaway ! among that ancient race 
 Sitteth the Master, pale and marvelling, 
 
 And maidens, wondrous-throated, watch his face, 
 Who scarcely breathe what time he saith this thing, 
 
 *'0 thou my friend, that Jason's quest didst sing. 
 If Lilith's kin thou art, Heaven grant thee grace I "
 
 i64 HARRY OWEN'S BOOK. 
 
 THE VISION OF THE MAN ORM. 
 Preface. 
 
 I am a mortal, and my surname Orm, 
 
 And when I name the name of man, I mean 
 
 Myself, the singer of the mystic glamour. 
 
 I am The Celt — -remember that, mine host. 
 
 In charging for my daily provender. 
 
 Lest I rede thee the doom I visioned 
 
 E'en for the man accurst ! 
 
 I am the Personal in Poetry, 
 
 In me the blood of all the races blend — 
 
 A prophet, with the spirit of the times ; 
 
 A man of many moods, in which I scorn 
 
 The full assembly of the gods — Brahma, 
 
 Osiris, Apis, and Beelzebub, 
 
 Balder and Brigham Young, Allah and Thor ! 
 
 So friends, avoid me when the fury teareth. 
 
 And quickly seek the pavement opposite.
 
 HARRY OWEN'S BOOK. 165 
 
 The Poem. 
 
 I am old, methouglit, 
 
 As the world's day closes, 
 A people anger-wrought 
 Far and near have sought 
 
 Me, the Celtic Moses. 
 
 For I must admit 
 
 That my Highland people, 
 Men of little wit, 
 Alight in frantic fit 
 
 Swing me from the steeple. 
 
 [This from the mystic mad poetic brain, 
 To show its mastery of the bounding rime.] 
 
 Epilogue to Poem. 
 
 How shall I liberate mine Ancient Clan, 
 Clamp'd in the iron fetters of their creeds. 
 Who care for Sabbath desecration. 
 And regulating traffic on that day. 
 More than the poet's realistic vague ! 
 
 Who doubt the singer's sprouting pinions — 
 Yea, hint at cloven foot and forked tail 
 Under the boot and coat immaculate. 
 
 Ah well ! I pardon them ; they will not read 
 The hundred prefaces and epilogues 
 In which I body forth my theory.
 
 i66 HARRY OWEN'S BOOK. 
 
 Nor buy my novels ; when they name my plays 
 They spit like blank phantasmic toads — 
 And shriek ! ! 
 
 Envoi to Epilogue. 
 
 And so in lieu of minted Mammon meanness 
 
 I offer to my brother Cymric Celt 
 
 These awful visions of the man Buchanan.
 
 HARRY OWEN'S BOOK 167 
 
 FROM PHILIP DRUNK TO PHILIP SOBER. 
 
 By Philip I. 
 
 From the depth and the dark of the (hm city closes, 
 
 And the pubhshing houses that sprinkle the Strand, 
 I have come to a land where a poet composes, 
 
 And in infinite series his volumes expand. 
 From Faustine and Felise, and from Fragioletto, 
 
 From the vine-wreath'd cup in the banqueting hall, 
 Though I promised to Chatto to write a libretto, 
 
 Grey spirit of Snowdon, I come at thy call. 
 
 Translation by Philip II. 
 
 Feeling seedy, 
 Looking queer, 
 
 Rai/ier needy, 
 Drifted here.
 
 i68 HARRY OWEN'S BOOK. 
 
 II. 
 Lo, I stand at thy base, 'mid the mists that environ, 
 
 While shadows cerulean are gambolling round ; 
 I'm not very clear, for the earth seems of iron, 
 
 As it rises aloft and caresses my crown. 
 Like a helmless bark whose ways are uncertain, 
 
 Whose captain lists for a God's glad word ; 
 I WTap me around in the red window curtain, 
 
 And hearken the voice of a songless bird. 
 
 Translation. 
 
 Good Scots' whiskey 
 
 Makes one see 
 Demons frisky. 
 
 Frequently. 
 
 III. 
 
 In the dimness and depth of Night's tremulous shadow, 
 
 I gaze on a sight that the sun hath not seen, 
 The far drifted blooms of the star-sown meadow, 
 
 And their glamorous grey efflorescence of sheen. 
 They shine on the slopes like Spanish flies glimmering, 
 
 That blister the throat of my Lady of Pain, 
 Or poultice of herbs of the Orient simmering 
 
 That clings to it sofdy and heals it again.
 
 HARRY OWEN'S BOOK. 169 
 
 Translatfon. 
 
 Standing nightly 
 
 On the road, 
 Mclloiv slightly. 
 
 Things look odd. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Like a fiery eye in the gloom set a-smoulder, 
 
 Overfrown'd by the brow of the imminent eaves, 
 The hght of the inn makes the darkness seem colder, 
 
 And enhances the glamour my poet-heart weaves. 
 But a voice from the midst of the Pleiades seven. 
 
 Or mayhap from the Inn 'twas Ap Owen that cried, 
 " You had better be quick, for we shut at eleven. 
 
 Unless you're determin'd to slumber outside ! " 
 
 Translation. 
 
 Poem sproiiteth 
 
 hi my head ; 
 Landlord shoiiteth, 
 
 " Come to bed!'' 
 
 END OF "harry OWEN's BOOK." 
 1883.
 
 I 
 
 ( 170 ) 
 
 LOVE AND NATURE. 
 
 GREETING. 
 
 (written on goatfell, arran, early morning.) 
 
 In morning's clear dispersed light thy peak 
 Draws me aloft, O Mountain of the Wind ; 
 The girdling pasture-lands I leave behind, 
 
 'Twixt Cyclopean walls my way I seek, 
 
 The strength of strongest hills, albeit weak 
 
 The elemental forces to withstand. 
 
 Within the mighty hollow of thy hand 
 Thou boldest me ; awe keepeth my soul meek. 
 
 And y^t my heart is at thy seaward base — 
 One house is more than all thy majesty. 
 One maiden more than suns that ever were 
 
 In morning lands or on thy mountain ways — 
 Yearneth my heart as yearneth for the sea 
 The tumbling waters of thy White Water. 
 
 1883.
 
 LOVE AND NATURE. lyi 
 
 LOVE AND NATURE. 
 
 On this smooth steep of grey and parchM grass 
 Stretch'd out I lie, and all the Lothian plain, 
 
 Barrier'd by hills, beneath mine eye doth pass, 
 Even from our citadel to where the rain 
 
 Swoops from the cloud on the low Lammermoors — 
 But what boots all this wealth of summer sweets. 
 
 This width of plough-land, Pentland's large contours, 
 When a dull inward sense of loss defeats 
 
 The beauty and the v/isdom, and all meaning steals 
 From what a week agone was laden with it ? 
 Ah, sweet ! those eyes of thine are more to me 
 
 Than all the Gilead-balm that nature deals ; 
 Better by thy sweet side an hour to sit 
 Than all the beauty of the world to see !
 
 172 
 
 LOVE AND NATURE. 
 
 II. 
 
 And thou ? — what dost tJiou do ? Sitt'st thou apart 
 Under the hawthorn tree ? or here and there dost go, 
 
 Ordering all things witli daintiest art ? 
 
 But whatsoe'er she doth, right well I know 
 
 My love hath thought for me, forgettetli not 
 Aught that hath happ'd between us twain. 
 
 Her eyes may rest on southern garden plot, 
 Yet in them is a yearning and a pain ; 
 
 And she had liefer see a sterner land, 
 
 And basalt-bastion'd hills and greyer fields, 
 Than bide alone so long and hide her heart. 
 
 Love, true and tender, reach me here thine hand ; 
 Think, sweet, how much of hope the Future yields, 
 \\'hen Fate shall not for always say " Apart ! " 
 
 1883.
 
 LOP'E AND NATURE. 173 
 
 MEMORY AND HOPE. 
 
 Out of the clinging valley mists I stray 
 Into the summer midnight clear and still, 
 
 And which the brighter is no man may say — 
 Whether the gold beyond the western hill 
 
 Where late the sun went down, or the faint tinge 
 Of lucent green, like sea wave's inner curve 
 
 Just ere it breaks, that gleams behind the fringe 
 Of eastern coast. So which doth most preserve 
 
 My wistful soul in hope and steadfastness 
 1 know not — all that golden-memoried past 
 So sudden wonderful, when new life ran 
 
 First in my veins ; or that clear hope, no less 
 Orient within me, for whose sake I cast 
 
 All meaner ends into these ground mists wan.
 
 174 LOVE AND NATURE. 
 
 PRESENCE IN ABSENCE. 
 
 The mists lie in the hollows of the hills, 
 
 In wreaths festoon the ridges ; but the heights 
 Are clear and bare — a few blurred lights 
 
 Gleam yellow from below ; but starlight fills 
 
 The lucid vault of night ; the air is sweet, 
 And the far Pentland range is not less clear 
 Though darker than by day — distinct and near 
 
 The crags arise of Arthur's royal seat — 
 
 But whose dear hand is this that guideth me ? 
 What subtle dainty pressure thrilleth all 
 My lonely life ? Who leads me by the way 
 
 That overclimbs the mist, and makes me see 
 Where Purity abides, whate'er befall 
 My mist-environ'd life by night or day.
 
 LOVE AND NATURE. 175 
 
 LOVE'S FINAL CAUSE. 
 
 What is it that I love ? The tender glow, 
 And faint half-shadows on thy golden hair ? 
 Thine eyes as clear as summer morning air? 
 
 Yea, these — yet not for these alone I love thee so. 
 
 Is it that rest and solace go with thee ? 
 
 That all my happinesses in thee dwell ? 
 
 Is it for these I love thee passing well ? 
 Yea, dearest — but the springs yet deeper flow — 
 
 Ask some vext trader far on Indian seas 
 Why he runs races with the hurricanes, 
 Or floating weed, tide-driven out from land, 
 
 Why it returns not shoreward with the breeze. 
 Love hath no law — it comes and it remains ; 
 Yea, stays for ever, daring all command.
 
 ( 176 ) 
 
 TO THE AUTHOR OF "OLRIG GRANGE." 
 
 Mv friend, to thee from out the silent ranks 
 Of those thou knowest not, who yet give thanks 
 
 For all they owe thy mellow thoughtfulness, 
 I send a brother's greeting— for no less 
 
 We in the turmoil love thy fearless truth, 
 And ever youthful sympathy with youth, 
 
 Than they who daily know thy kindly voice. 
 And quiet shepherding 'mid city noise. 
 
 No Jack o'-Lantern glimmer lights thy book, 
 No moth burns here the fringes of her wing, 
 
 Nor gleams thy torch o'er any carnival, 
 
 But broad sunshine, which foul things may not brook, 
 
 Yet men may work by, till the hours do bring, 
 y\fter the noon, the mists of evenfoll. 
 
 1881.
 
 LOVE AND NATURE. 177 
 
 THE LADY BEATRICE. 
 
 My love is like that lady Beatrice 
 
 Who held great Dante's heart, whose beauty grew 
 So marvellous to his thought, that he would do 
 
 All things to give his wistful longing ease — 
 
 To touch her hand would overpass the seas, 
 To do her will would into exile go, 
 Or in the dust a city's headship throw, 
 
 If so his well-beloved lady please. 
 
 So loved art thou. Queen Soul, that sitt'st above 
 These turmoils in the whirling straits of life. 
 
 Reaching a steady hand to stay thy love, 
 Vext with the waters, weary of the strife — 
 
 Whose feeblest songs of thee impart him peace 
 Like Dante's when he sang of Beatrice. 
 
 1883. 
 
 N
 
 178 LOVE AND NATURE. 
 
 THE FOOTPRINTS OF THE GOTH. 
 
 RHIADYR-Y-WENNOL, CAERNARVONSHIRE. 
 
 The Vandal and the Visigoth come here, 
 The trampler under foot, and he whose eyes, 
 Unblest, behold not where the glory lies ; 
 
 The wallower in mire, whose sidelong leer 
 
 Degrades the wholesome earth — these all come near 
 To gaze upon the wonder of the hills. 
 And drink the limpid clearness of the rills. 
 
 Yet each returns to what he holds most dear, 
 
 To change the script and grind the mammon mills 
 Unpurified ; for what men hither bring. 
 
 That take they hence, and Nature doth appear 
 
 One that doth spend herself for sodden wills. 
 That pearls of price before the swine doth fling, 
 And from the shrine casts out the sacred gear 
 
 i88 .
 
 LOVE AND NATURE. 179 
 
 FOR MY MOTHER. 
 
 Hard is it, O my friends, to gather up 
 
 A whole Hfe's goodness into narrow space — 
 A life made Heaven-meet by patient grace,' 
 
 And handling oft the sacramental cup 
 
 Of sorrow, drinking all the bitter drains. 
 
 Her life she kept most sacred from the world ; 
 
 Though Martha-wise, much cumber'd and imperill'd 
 With service, Mary-like she brought her pains. 
 
 And laid them and herself low at the feet. 
 The travel-weary, deep-scarr'd feet, of Him 
 The incarnate Good, who oft in Galilee 
 
 Had borne Himself the burden and the heat — 
 Ah ! couldst thou hear, thy tender eyes were dim 
 With humble tears to think this meant for thee I 
 
 1880.
 
 i8o 
 
 LOVE AND NATURE, 
 
 CARPE DIEM. 
 
 I SAW two lovers on a day of days, 
 
 A day of winds spray-tossing, and the swift 
 Glad interchange of shine and shade, the drift 
 
 Of Atlantean clouds, the heavens that raise 
 
 On their white shoulders ; round them the mid-noon 
 Pulsed warmly with the sense of summer air, 
 A far thing seem'd the weight of winter care. 
 
 And the " Asunder," coming all too soon. 
 
 Then my sad heart did say, " Lo, this is well ; 
 Take they their fill of love and joy to-day, 
 To-morrow, and the next day ; ere the shears 
 
 (3f Atropos divide them, do thou tell 
 
 Those twain their hearts to strengthen while they may, 
 And so stand firm through all the lonely years. 
 
 1884.
 
 LOVE AND NATURE. i8l 
 
 THE LIFTING OF THE VEIL. 
 
 In the still dewy morn of Western Isles, 
 Up some lone loch far in the Hebrides, 
 I hear among the heath the honey bees, 
 
 And the long level lake in sunshine smiles : 
 
 I round the cliff, a roaring in mine ears — 
 For miles and miles the grey Atlantic booms, 
 As down the coast the breaker surging comes 
 
 Whitecrested, like a rush of mountaineers. 
 
 So too, a youth, whose feet in quiet ways 
 
 Have gone through all his years, exploring bold 
 By speculation's vast and trackless sea. 
 
 Finds realms undreamt of in his careless days 
 Flash on his sight — at noon the copestone rolled 
 From whited sepulchres' hypocrisy. 
 
 1877.
 
 iS2 LOVE AND NATURE. 
 
 THE WEB OF LIFE. 
 
 I. 
 
 In the cool precinct of a quiet room, 
 Lit by the glory of the northern eves, 
 Her web of life a maiden sits and weaves — 
 
 Gold web of pleasure, purple fringe of gloom. 
 
 Some after-rose of the late sunset's bloom 
 Cleaves to her cheek and robing virginal, 
 And softly round about her feet doth fall 
 
 The cloth of gold she weaveth on her loom, 
 
 As through and through the steadfast weft of love 
 She drives the shining thread of memories — 
 
 Here fashioning a waste of waves — above. 
 Two hands that clasp a golden Fleur-de-lis ; 
 
 And higher, One, whose emblem is the dove, 
 Broodeth for always over the grey seas.
 
 LOVE AND NATURE. 183 
 
 II. 
 
 Far sever'd from the first by measured miles, 
 Another web is woven and other hands 
 Ply the swift shuttle, guide the shining strands 
 
 To form that strange compound of tears and smiles, 
 
 Glad hearted laughtsr, dear delicious wiles 
 That make the mantle of Love's hidden form, 
 And interwoven arms more close and warm 
 
 Because the earth is chilly and the aisles 
 
 Of Life's high temple, builded all of stone, 
 
 Too unresponsive to humanity 
 For man or maid to dwell in all alone. 
 
 So grows on each the pattern we shall see 
 One day by Love's hands round our shoulders drawn- 
 
 A wedding garment fit for thee and me. 
 
 1884.
 
 i84 LOVE AND NATURE. 
 
 SPRING YEARNING. 
 
 TO R. W. 
 
 New lands, strange faces, all the summer days 
 My weary feet have trod, mine eyes have seen ; 
 Among the snows all winter have I been, 
 
 Rare Alpine air, and white untrodden ways. 
 
 From the great Valais mountain peaks my gaze 
 Hath seen the cross on Monte Viso plain. 
 Seen blue Maggiore grey with driving rain, 
 
 And white cathedral spires like flames of praise. 
 
 Yet now the spring is here, who doth not sigh 
 
 For showery morns, and grey skies sudden bright, 
 And a dear land a-dream with shifting light ! 
 
 Or in what clear-skied realm doth ever lie, 
 
 Such glory as of gorse on Scottish braes. 
 
 Or the white hawthorn of these English Mays ? 
 
 1885.
 
 LOVE AND NATURE. 185 
 
 HOPE DEFERRED. 
 
 Bare is the waste sea-margin in the dawn, 
 Barren the baffled ebbing of the tide, 
 Grey tracks of shingle, miles on either side ; 
 
 Here is no trace of any work of man. 
 
 Above and underfoot God's perfect plan, 
 
 Unbounded, vast, and fill'd with loneliness — 
 Swift race of breakers, ranks of cloud that press 
 
 Hard in the breeze's wake, whose rare draught ran 
 
 Clear through my heart and cool'd its burning thirst. 
 
 Here o'er and o'er I conn'd this barren lore : 
 " Tha7i Hope deferred, better Hope lost at first" 
 
 Until upon the barren salt sea-shore, ^ 
 
 Forsaken by the ebb's forlorn regress, 
 I wept for love and utter loneliness. 
 
 18S4. t
 
 1 86 LOFE AND NATURE. 
 
 ANCHORA FIDEL 
 
 When from the depths of an unclouded sky 
 The thunderbolt doth fall, or earthquake waves 
 Threaten the sleeping city, he who saves 
 
 His sacredest possession, doth not cry 
 
 With bootless wailing, or inactive lie 
 
 Waiting the crash of doom. Nay, he doth face 
 The terror of great darkness, firmly brace 
 
 His feet against some bar of faith, or try 
 
 Which bands are iron, which of twisted straw ; 
 And most rejoic'd is he, who then hath found 
 The one sure band that may not broken be, 
 
 That in the tempest Faith doth closer draw 
 Until her arms engird his body round. 
 
 And bring his soul in safety through the sea. 
 
 1883.
 
 LOVE AND NATURE. 187 
 
 LOVE IN A WORLD OF SNOW. 
 
 On either side the great and still ice sea 
 
 Are compassing snow mountains near and far ; 
 While dominant Schreckhorn and Finsteraar 
 
 Hold their grim peaks aloft defiantly. 
 
 Blind with excess of light and glory, we, 
 
 Above whose heads in hottest mid-day glare 
 The Schreckhorn and his sons arise in air. 
 
 Sink in the weary snowfields to the knee ; 
 
 Then, resting after peril pass'd in haste, 
 
 I saw, from our rock-shelter'd vantage ledge, 
 In the white fervent heat sole shadowy spot, 
 
 Familiar eyes that smiled amid the waste — 
 Lo ! in the sparse snow at the glacier edge. 
 The small blue flower we call Forget-me-not ! 
 
 1884.
 
 1 88 LOVE AND NATURE. 
 
 PRO FANO. 
 
 Hail, World-adored ! to thee three times all hail ! 
 We at thy mighty shrine, profane, obscure, 
 With clenched hands beat at thy cruel door. 
 
 O hear, awake, and let us in, O Baal ! 
 
 Low at thy brazen gates ourselves we fling — 
 Hear us, ev'n us, thy bondmen firm and sure, 
 Our thoughts, our souls, our very God abjure ! 
 
 Art thou asleep, or dead, or journeying? 
 
 Hear us, O Ashtoreth, O Baal, that we 
 In mystic mazes may a moment gleam. 
 
 May touch and twine with hot hearts pulsing free 
 Among thy groves by the Orontes stream. 
 
 Open and make us, ere our sick hearts fail. 
 Hewers of wood within thy courts, O Baal ! 
 
 December, 1885.
 
 LOVE AND NATURE. 189 
 
 A CREED FOR MEN— OR DEVILS? 
 
 " Behold the Final Truth of cosmic things ! 
 
 All is unreal, all the shifting play 
 
 Of lights that gild a horror of decay- 
 A gold dome charnelling worm-eaten kings. 
 
 No truth in God — or is there any God ? 
 
 The universe, dead matter, working by 
 
 Some hidden yeast of inward energy ; 
 Mind, but mere brain-cell, good to feed the sod ; 
 
 No whence or whither, just a Nothing thrown 
 In th' empty space betwixt two Nothingnesses. 
 But live — live on, O men ; be loath to end 
 
 This vegetable life ! You'll not be mown 
 
 This sickle sweep ; so kiss the heel that presses, 
 And bless your gods for these good gifts they send 1 " 
 
 1882.
 
 I90 LOVE AND NATURE. 
 
 A VOICE CRYING. 
 
 Who calls it harm to play this pleasant game, 
 Or Folly's ball to toss from hand to hand ? 
 
 And, while the feet are light, why should one stand 
 Out in the corridor among the lame ? 
 
 Nay, entering rather, hearken the acclaim 
 That is our welcome to the lightsome band. 
 
 Who whirl so swiftly through Queen Pleasure's land, 
 Whom Thought may not annoy, nor Conscience blame. 
 
 Shut out the stars and the fair universe — 
 Shut out the silent spaces of the wood ; 
 Let not that wild wail from the darkness pierce 
 
 The graceful lightness of our airy mood — 
 '■'■Ah, had I known, when just as gay was I, 
 That in the waste, untended, I should lie ! " 
 
 1884.
 
 LOVE AND NATURE. 191 
 
 TIME'S NEMESIS. 
 
 Ho, let the viol's pleasing swifter grow — 
 Let Music's madness fascinate the will, 
 And all Youth's pulses with the ardour thrill ! 
 
 Hast thou, Old Time, e'er seen so brave a show? 
 
 Did not the dotard smile as he said "No?" 
 
 Pshaw ! hang the grey-beard — let him prate his fill ; 
 Men are but dolts who talk of Good and 111. 
 
 These grapes of ours are wojidrous sour, I trow ! 
 
 They sneer because we joy in other things. 
 
 And think they know The Good. I tell the fools 
 
 We have the pleasure — We ! Our master flings 
 Full-measured bliss to all the folk he rules. 
 
 Nor asks he aught for quit-rent, fee, or tithe — 
 Ho, Bald-head, wherefore sharpenest thy scythe ? 
 
 1884.
 
 192 LOVE AND NATURE. 
 
 TO JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER, 
 THE FRIEND— MY FRIEND. 
 
 North of the North Cape I remember thee, 
 Brave Quaker poet of the New World North ! 
 To thee, my friend, in silence goeth forth 
 
 Into the keen air of this Arctic sea, 
 
 Greeting and filial reverence heartily. 
 
 As when in shade of gardens summer-leaved 
 Thy first grave benediction I received. 
 
 Or when in towered town more dear to me 
 
 Thou bad'st me God-speed in the young man's race, 
 I am thy liegeman still, and humbly kneel 
 
 Between thy scarred hands to lay my face — 
 Desiring most thy pure heart fire to steal, 
 
 A double portion of thy spirit's grace, 
 And ardour for an equal Commonweal. 
 
 1885.
 
 ( '93 ) 
 
 MARIE. 
 
 (from ALFRED DE MUSSET's " POESIES NOUVELLES.") 
 
 I. 
 
 As from spring buds in woodlands 
 
 Break mystical smiles, 
 At the breathing of warm airs 
 
 From westerly isles ; 
 
 II. 
 
 As their stems, fresh and tender. 
 Shake with joy and desire. 
 
 From their roots in earth's bosom 
 To their cups full of fire ; 
 
 III. 
 
 So soareth my love's song 
 
 As upward it goes 
 When she stirreth to music 
 
 A mouth like a rose
 
 194 MARIE. 
 
 18S5. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And her lover stands listening 
 
 How thrillingly true, 
 Rings the voice that is hovering 
 
 Far up in the blue.
 
 ( 195 ) 
 
 BIRTHDAY BLESSING. 
 
 Be brave and true to God alone, 
 
 And without fear 
 Do thou rejoice to enter on 
 
 Another year. 
 
 Each spring the trees are fresh and green ; 
 
 The springing flowers 
 In fair fresh dress each year are seen 
 
 In thy still bowers. 
 
 So keep thy maiden heart as bright ; 
 
 Each year renew 
 Thy soul's apparel of delight 
 
 In all things true ; 
 
 And long ere winter's twilight falls 
 
 With chill and damp, 
 And at the door the Bridegroom calls, 
 
 Trim thou thy lamp. 
 
 1885.
 
 C 196 ) 
 
 LISA OF THE HILL. 
 
 Into the hotter sun 
 
 Out of the old stone wall, 
 
 Lithe lizards flash and run 
 
 And slow soft blind-worms crawl. 
 
 Lisa among the leaves, 
 
 Under her hat's brown brim, 
 A web of fancy weaves, 
 
 What she shall say to him — 
 
 How she shall bid him go 
 To Netta of the Mill, 
 
 And no more trouble know 
 Through Lisa of the Hill.
 
 LISA OF THE HILL. 197 
 
 All in the cloudless glow 
 
 Lisa doth dress the vines ; 
 Yet Lisa's self doth go 
 
 Among the shady pines. 
 
 Along their forest tracks 
 
 Her heart flits on the wing, 
 Round w'here she hears the axe 
 
 Of woodman Petro ring — 
 
 Petro, whose sunburnt face 
 
 And sunny Lombard curls, 
 Whose open forest ways, 
 
 Are lov'd of Lombard girls. 
 
 Boldly will Lisa say 
 
 To Petro words severe ; 
 Petro shall turn away, 
 
 In wondering and in fear. 
 
 But, swiftly driven apart, 
 
 Just then the leaves divide, 
 And Lisa with a start 
 
 Turneth her head aside. 
 
 And lo, two hands are laid 
 
 Upon her shoulders so, 
 That 'neath the vine-leaves' shade 
 
 Hotly her cheek doth glow :
 
 198 
 
 LISA OF THE HILL. 
 
 And though a stahvart arm 
 Somehow is round her waist, 
 
 Lisa takes no alarm, 
 
 Nor shows a sign of haste. 
 
 She goes an inch more near, 
 And, speaking somewhat low, 
 
 She saith her words severe 
 And biddeth him to go. 
 
 But he who comes to stay 
 Turns not so quick again. 
 
 So all the summer day 
 Netta may watch in vain. 
 
 And Petro needs not fear ; 
 
 For, turning up her head. 
 Something much less severe 
 
 Her tell-tale eyes have said ; 
 
 When he, through broad green leaves 
 
 Moves as to go away. 
 He sees a face that grieves, 
 
 Two hps that murmur "Stay !" 
 
 Then dainty finger-tips 
 Make for his eyes a hood. 
 
 The while her daintier lips 
 Behave as red lips should.
 
 LISA OF THE HILL. 199 
 
 Ah, Netta of the Mill, 
 
 Long mayst thou lonely brood, 
 
 With Lisa of the Hill 
 Stays Petro of the Wood. 
 
 1SS5.
 
 ( 200 ) 
 
 ASCRIPTION 
 
 IVit/i Aldrictis " Queen of Shebtx'' and ivith 
 ''Duke Cor." 
 
 Unto another Ruth, 
 
 Not woo'd 'neath Savoy pine, 
 
 Fair in her queenly youth, 
 Not Sheba's queen, but mine. 
 
 1886.
 
 HRINTEI) BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITEn, 
 LONDON AND BECCLES.
 
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