6037 583^A17 THE POEMS 1916 ROBERT W. STERLING / -.<^^^L^ THE POEMS OF ROBERT W. STERLING PRINTED IN ENGLAND AT THE OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS THE POEMS OF ROBERT W. STERLING BORN 19th NOVEMBER, 1893 GLASGOW ACADEMY AND SEDBERGH SCHOLAR OF PEMBROKE COLLEGE, OXFORD LIEUTENANT, ROYAL SCOTS FUSILIERS KILLED IN ACTION, S. GEORGE'S DAY, 1915 HUMPHREY MILFORD OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS LONDON EDINBURGH GLASGOW NEW YORK TORONTO MELBOURNE BOMBAY 1916 First Impression^ February, igi6 Second Impression, May, igi6 S83H \n ! f Robert Sterling's career at Oxford was cut short after two years by the outbreak of war. But these two years had sufficed to create an impression of him which will endure. As a poet he was known only to a few till after his Newdigate Poem had been written. One evening, at the urgency of friends, he read this poem to them, and what they now discovered in its author they felt to be the corollary of what they had seen before. Doubtless they under- stood him better through it, and found therein a new interpretation of him ; but because it was so true an expression of himself, they realized that their experience of him was the best inter- pretation of his poetry. For this reason more than any other, it may be valuable to say something however brief about his life ; and to attempt, imperfectly enough, to communicate the impression, itself fragmentary, which he left upon those who had begun to know and love him. V iai0576 He came to Oxford from Sedbergh. Here he had spent four years of his school-life ; and entering into its various activities with a boy's enthusiasm had grown to be a very part of the place — ' He could see and put into words some- thing of what Sedbergh meant to us*. For he never became absorbed in one aspect to the exclusion of others. His bent was literary, and he had a refined classical taste, illustrated espe- cially in his Latin Verses. * His interest in literature alone ', wrote one who shared a study with him, ' was quite enough to keep him busy and happy. Like a true workman he put his whole soul into what he did.' But ' at the same time he enjoyed to the full every part of school- life, especially the various societies, and could always find some common ground for talk with any one. Although a classical man, he would if he wished even discuss chemistry or any other science, and would build up an argument from first principles in a most amazing way.' And, on the other hand, he felt intensely the rapture of the open air, of the fresh wind upon the fells ; had learnt the beauty of the fells themselves, and the spirit which for lover's eye they embodied. He understood also, and shared, the strenuous vi enjoyment of the football field, as afterwards of the river ; but * perhaps his happiest hours were spent quietly wandering over the Sedbergh hills, now leisurely fishing some lonely beck, now lying on the grass in the sunshine, watching the clouds drift over Winder' ^ In 1 91 2 he left for Oxford. 'I remember', wrote another and older friend, * the delight of his cavalier soul when he found himself King Charles' scholar at Pembroke.' Hither the allegiance he had given his school was extended, not transferred. His presence still breathed the freshness of his school-days. This boyishness and simplicity he never lost ; nor did it become, as is sometimes the case, overlaid with a veneer of intellectualism. He had no conceit of know- ledge, and this was because whatever he learnt he learnt well, so that it became an intrinsic part of himself. For the same reason it was characteristic of him to be conscious of his own ignorance ; ^ ' Winder ', which is mentioned more than once in the poems, is the fell nearest to the school, rising some 1,100 feet above it. It is the most conspicuous and characteristic object in the view from the playing-fields, and has always been regarded by Sedberghians as one source of their school's inspiration. • A new boy is not considered initiated till he has climbed Winder. vii besides, he realized better than most the infinity of knowledge. And so, while a superficial view might fail to detect peculiar intellectual gifts, those who could see below the surface discovered that he had thought on things. There was no precocity, but rather almost a maturity in the midst of simplicity. He had in fact a clearer vision than most around him : he could see in the things that matter aspects which escaped the common observation. But in this there was more than perception, at least in the ordinary sense of the word: there was an imaginative force which could reclothe past scenes in their romantic dress, create in fancy beauties un- experienced, or dream an ideal future fairer than to-day. He had indeed in him something of the visionary, an indication of which may be seen in the love which, from his school-days, he had for Blake ; he used to wish that he could draw, feeling that so only — by artistic as well as literary expression, as in Blake — could he give adequate expression to his ideas. A serenity, and at times a certain dreamy wistfulness, were peculiarly typical of him, and the quiet strength that comes of a firm hold upon a principle of life. Generally he would be the most silent of viii a party, and yet on occasions, as when some cherished conviction was challenged, he would burst into an ardour that took his hearers by storm. For linked indissolubly with this clearness of vision was — what has already been implied — a depth of affection. In everything characteristic of him these two elements, clear vision and deep affection, united and grew intenser in the union. At school they were expressed in that appreciation of natural beauty which bespeaks not love alone but intimacy ; at Oxford he found a new world of beauty — Oxford's spirit. Sensitive to her influence, he began to see nature in a wider context : the Beautiful, which hitherto he had found especially in physical nature, he now more than before sought and found in human nature also. Only a nature like his, both affec- tionate and discerning, could have had both the will and the power to look beyond his friends' shortcomings and to love them no less. For his affection was not due to ignorance of, still less indifference to, their defects. It was because he had a keen enough sympathy to see and believe in what was best in them ; and so it was that herein he was not false but faithful to his ideals. ix It is hardly surprising that there was a catholicity about his friendships : his rooms in college were a centre where men of very various types would gather ; quite simply and generously he grappled them to him. 'He could convey a rare warmth of welcome in one exclamatory syllable; whilst in his mouth the use of a Christian name at some surprise meeting or in farewell was a thing not lightly forgotten.' There was the same glad responsiveness to simple human joy as to the joy of the country, and a tenderness of sympathy with trouble as precious as it is rare. Just because it was deep, his affection was neither ostentatious nor capricious. He never courted friendships : his friends grew around him ; and they learnt that the force which had drawn them to him became stronger with closer contact. ' His personality could always inspire older friendships with a fresh enthusiasm,' wrote one who knew him both at Sedbergh and Oxford. Indeed, inspiration rather than attraction is the true description of his influence. His friendship ennobled, because his nature was less mundane, more spiritual, than that of the ordinary mortal. ' He went about life in the same manner as did the knight-errant of old, who would give his purse to the first wandering beggar he met, and forget all about it in a moment. Material things were taken as they came ; if they did not come he wasted little time in trying to get them.' This was written of him as known at school, but it is true of his character throughout : those who associated with him realized that here was finer fabric than any dross of earth. Even a casual acquaintance could hardly fail to mark the dignity of character sounding in the clear crisp voice, or writ fair upon the features. Here surely beauty within and without combined into that harmony in which Greeks of old saw the ideal of human life. With calm clear gaze He saw and loved the beauty earth can show : The love was true, as it was young, no phase That passed, but strengthening with inward glow. Which woke in others fire. He drew from. Heav'n What only love can take, a vision whole Of things sublime. The richer life thus giv'n Back to his God he gave : his gift — his soul. XI What followed after he left Oxford for the Long Vacation of 19 14 must be told briefly. Early in August, on the declaration of war, he applied for and received a commission. The same allegiance that he had freely given to his school, his college, and his friends, he now gave to his country at need. The rest of the year he spent training in Scotland. Probably during this time he wrote out fair the poem ' Maran ' printed at the end of this volume. It seems that he had begun it in his school-days, working at it afterwards from time to time, and that he was intensely fond of intoning its verses to himself. It was left unfinished, but he evidently wished it preserved in case he did not return, as is suggested by the explanatory note which he prefixed to it.^ In February 191 5 he went out to France. ^ This note is reproduced in this book immediately before the text of ' Maran '. With certain passages of this poem he associated other poems, which were apparently meant to interpret its meaning. A facsimile of this association is included with the text in the hope that it may serve this object. (Towards its end, ' before him ' and * behind left ' reproduce a clearly unintentional transposition, as may be seen by refer- ence to the end of ' Maran ', where the associated poems are printed separately.) xii * It was a great relief, he wrote, 'to get out here after kicking my heels toy-soldiering at home/ But he adds, ' I've been longing for some link with the normal universe detached from the storm. It 's funny how trivial incidents sometimes are seized as symbols by the memory ; but I did find such a link about three weeks ago. We were in trenches in woody country (just S. E. of Ypres). The Germans were about eighty yards away, and between the trenches lay pitiful heaps of dead friends and foes. Such trees as were left standing were little more than stumps, both behind our lines and the enemy*s. The enemy had just been shelling our reserve trenches, and a Belgian battery behind us had been replying, when there fell a few minutes* silence ; and I, still crouching expectantly in the trench, suddenly saw a pair of thrushes building a nest in a " bare ruin'd choir " of a tree, only about five yards behind our line. At the same time a lark began to sing in the sky above the German trenches. It seemed almost incredible at the time, but now, whenever I think of those nest-builders and that all but " sightless song ", they seem to represent in some degree the very essence of the Normal and Unchangeable Uni- xiii verse carrying on unhindered and careless amid the corpses and the bullets and the madness. . . . I suppose Kipling meant something when he said that Life runs large on the Long Trail. In the sense I take it, it runs large out here, not only for the reason of which you so eloquently remind me — the inspiration of a Cause, but because Death has become its insistent and intruding neighbour.' This was written within a week of his own death, and about a month after the death in battle of his own closest friend. This friend and he had gone up together for commissions the August before, but had been assigned them in different regiments, stationed far apart. They went abroad at different times, but once, for one dramatic hour, ten days before the friend's death, they were granted what had hitherto been denied them : they met unex- pectedly. ' As always, we didn't know who was going to relieve us, and we were sitting in our quarters — what remained of the shell-shattered lodge of the chateau, playing cards by candle- light, awaiting events, when knocked at the door and came in. ... I walked about with him for about an hour and a half in the chateau grounds, stray bullets from the firing-line xiv whistling around us, . . . but I had no idea I was afterwards going to treasure every incident as a precious memory all my life.' Those who had learnt something of the power of such a friend- ship, can best understand the desolation of his grief when his friend was killed. * I think I should go mad ', he wrote, ' if I didn't still cherish some faith in the justice of things, and a vague but confident belief that death cannot end great friendships.' It may be that death came to confirm that faith. He fell one evening after holding his trench throughout the day. It was Saint George's Day. The latter half of these poems— from ' Oxford, First Vision ' to the end — have not been pub- lished before. Of the others : ' The Burial of Sophocles' won the Newdigate Prize of 1914 ; ' Early Poems ' (except the first two) and ' To B. W.' appeared in school magazines — one (' Hail ') in T^he JVasp^ the Evans House maga- zine, the rest in The Sedberghian. The Sonnet immediately following is printed by kind permission of its author and The Glasgow Herald, XV SONNET IN MEMORY OF R. W. STERLING As if Apollo's self had swept the strings. From Isis' banks came one clear burst of song, So sad, so noble, beautiful and strong, Poised through its flight on such majestic wings. It might not seem a youth's imaginings. But to an Attic age might well belong. Or be the flower of that Miltonian throng That for dead Lycidas sobs, and sobbing sings. O brave Boy-Poet, who, at Duty's call. Laid down thy lyre, thy chaplet cast aside To don the armour of a sterner day ; Who scorned the lures that held thy heart in thrall : Sped down Parnassus with a warrior's pride To meet thy death in dark Thermopylae ! ROGER QUIN. XVI THE POEMS OF ROBERT W. STERLING THE BURIAL OF SOPHOCLES . EARLY POEMS Prologue to a Children's Play Sonnet on a Picture by R. Macaulay Stevenson The River Bathe . Hail .... In Hendecasyllables The Treasures of the Snow The Faery Birth . Gleams and Glimpses Vale .... POEMS 1913-1915 To B. W. . Oxford — First Vision Oxford's Promise Oxford's Dawn Historic Oxford To Pembroke College Sonnet . Lines written on Loch Lomond Lines written in the Trenches MARAN .... PAGE 3 15 17 18 20 23 25 28 30 33 37 38 40 41 43 45 46 47 49 THE BURIAL OF SOPHOCLES Kai €7ri Tov Trarpwov rd€povcrYj Kiijxivov irpo tov t€i>(Ovs ei^Sc/ca O-raStW Kttl ToCtOV tov TOTTOV e7rtT€T€l)(lK0T(01' AaKcSat/xovtwv Kar' ^AOrjvatoiv Al6vv(to<; kqt ovap k-mcTTo.^ Ava-dvSpio eKcAevcrcv iTrtTpiiJ/aL TiOrjvaL tov avOpo. eis tov Tdov' ws S' wXiywpYjcrev 6 AvoravSpos, SevTcpov avToi k-rricTTq o Atovucros TO ariTO /ceXei^wv. 6 8c Ai;o-avSpos 7rvv^avo//,€vo$ Tvapa Twv vydS(x)v Tis ct?/ 6 TeA.€VT7yo-as, Kat fxaOuiV oti ^ooKX^S vTrdpx^i-) KypvKa 7re//,i/'a5 eStSov OdirTiiv tov avopa. 'And he was laid in the tomb of his fathers, that is situated eleven furlongs in front of the wall, on the road leading past Decelea. . . . Now Decelea had been taken from the Athenians and fortified against them by the Lace- daemonians ; to whose general, Lysander, the god Dionysus appeared in a dream, bidding him give leave for the man to be buried in the tomb. When Lysander made light of it. the God appeared a second time with the same behest. Then Lysander inquired from deserters who the dead man was ; and learning that it was Sophocles, sent a herald with permission for the burial.' THE BURIAL OF SOPHOCLES Sophocles, the grandson, speaks at the poet's tomb. Green hills that wave your olives to the sun. Who but an hour ago did flaming rise Over the tombs of hidden Marathon And gave you back your shining jewelleries What meaning dear can the dull eyes of grief Trace in your moving groves and wizard streams ? — Have ye a knowledge of our troubled quest, The lamentation brief. The grey road and the haunting twilight dreams, And the lov'd burden laid this morn to rest ? The BinHal of Sophocles Ah ! surely there is wonder and strange stir Amid Earth's guardian gods, when the last goal Hath gain'd the crown, and to Earth's sepulchre We bear the way-worn chariot of the soul ! — And surely here a memory shall last, In hill and grove and torrent, of this day, For bards to glean who can : and they shall sing How the sweet singer pass'd Forth to his rest with war about his way And a dread mask of Ares menacing ! Alas ! poor city, fate-enshadowed, How powerless all thy pride of piety To give due service to thy poet dead — Save by the favour of an enemy ! — A bitter hard-won favour; for folks say Lord Dionysus twice in vision came. Jealous and wroth, to school Lysander's might. That, where his fathers lay, The darling prophet of the god's own flame, Cradled in calm, should sleep his endless night. 6 The Burial of Sophocles 'Twas thus, that, ere the arrows of the dawn First shot the peaks of clear Pentelicus With the day's golden promise, we had drawn Nigh to the house of death and girded us With the dim livery of the funeral : A small, sad band, whom love or blood allow'd To tend the dead ; while vexing the repose Of stars, who listening all Peered through a shifting curtain of frail cloud. Like a wild song the women's wailing rose. Slowly we brought him forth — can I forget ? — And soft adown the lantern-hemmed street Parted the throngs who paid their pious debt Of patient watching and of reverence meet. And there were sudden tears and murmurs faint And floating cries upon the midnight air, — Not that they grudg'd him death, nor would importune The gods in idle plaint : But oh ! he went (their burthen of despair) — Athens* last light — in Athens* darkest fortune I 7 The Burial of Sophocles How lingeringly we reached the guarded gate Of the dear city fate-enshadowed ! — As if reluctantly she bore the fate That stole his presence. For of old ('twas said) The palaces of Kings had sought in vain To woo him from his Athens, and the long Proof of the years had found him ever true : So, like a lover, fain Would she have held him from this shelter strong Once hers, now — gift of a curs'd stranger crew ! But when we left the wakeful, following crowd Within the walls, and passed the sentinels. Pausing we turn'd : and lo ! for us the shroud Of silent night hid nothing. All the bells Were set a-chiming in each memory. And to fond eyes, that knew the outline clear Of every tower and temple and the whole Form of her majesty, Athens, the queenly city, bade appear, Rob'd in revealing shade, her wondrous soul. The Burial of Sophocles Her wondrous soul, her wondrous, grieving soul Captur'd and fiU'd us. — Oh, how fevrous then (When we had forfeited the passing toll Of tears, that Love itself exacts from men On such an errand) did we take the road. And by Cephisus' ' sleepless fountains ' bore On the dead singer of Colonus fair, Yon kindly last abode Of the royal Theban martyr, who of yore Curs'd a false son and dying triumph'd there. Ah ! Fancy loves to weave at such an hour A faery web of false resemblances. — And who hath strength to curb her perilous power Of blind divining } Many phantasies Made riot in our thought and seem'd to bring The living children of his poesy Winging from out the night to claim a part In all our sorrowing : While the lorn gale out of the Northern sky Sped its far, sullen mutterings to our heart. 9 The Burial of Sophocles And then that darkly-ridhig company ! — What rapid, iron question stabb'd the air ? Rude force in-bursting on our reverie With insolence of arms and doubting stare ! But when the whisper flew that this was he^ Poet of all the nations, rare bequest Of Hellas to the treasuries of Time, — Forgot was enmity, And, sons of Hellas all, we onward press'd Hot with one fervour and one care sublime. And last, the tomb. — One struck the dead man's lyre By Death long silenc'd, and our hearkening ears Were open'd for one moment of desire To the pure, perfect music of the spheres ; As if his Spirit had vouchsafed to us A fragment of eternal harmony From its new dwelling-place. The player ceas'd ; All dumb and tremulous We smooth'd the coffin, cas'd in greenery And with our own shorn tresses over-fleec'd. lO The Burial of Sophocles And so we laid him : even so he lies To be for aye the Muse's pensioner : Poets unborn shall sing him, centuries Untold tell of his fealty to her. — For oh ! the service of his life will live Deathlessly eloquent. But I alas ! Left desolate within this teasing world — What comfort can I give My comrades ere again those walls we pass Whose flag of hope for evermore is furl'd ? O multitudinous music of the day — Bird-song and breeze and forest-minstrelsy — You storm this heart and to your chorus gay Marry its dirge of desolate misery : Whence a faint song of musing hope is born, — Hope for Earth's children whom the Master lov'd, And for God's justice that he witness'd e'er, Hope for his Athens torn By foe and feud : So be my spirit prov'd Not all unworthy him whose name I bear. II The Burial of Sophocles Ah ! Master, when the blast uproots a tree, Its form lies bedded — but a god beneath Treasures its leaves and perish'd fragrancy To pierce anew the pregnant soils of death : So from thy poetry, thy spirit-tomb. Shall burgeon wealth of tears and tenderness And beauty, when forgotten is this pit And drain'd is Athens' doom Come, leave his body, friends, to Earth's caress. — Oh, lightly, lightly. Earth, encompass it ! 12 EARLY POEMS PROLOGUE TO A CHILDREN'S PLAY SPOKEN BY FAIRY The golden deities of legend old Have passed away. No more the hero bold Holds free discourse with Gods and Goddesses ; And Nymph and Satyr 'mid the shady trees No more do revel in a lonely vale ; Nor Pan's wild music grace the sylvan tale. But yet to-day our authoress has made The fairy brood inhabit still the glade. The tinkling bells of fairyland do sound As from a distance, and the country round Is subject still unto their gentle sway. My name is Starlight, and in this our play I am the fairy Good who helps the Weak Against foul-gotten Strength, 'tis I who seek To foster Justice and to make the Right Triumph o'er Evil in the well-fought fight. 15 Prologue to a Children s Play This is the very essence of the play That we present to you, O maidens gay. And you, O gallant youths, and last of all (And also least) to you, O puppy small. 1909. 16 SONNET ON A PICTURE BY R. MACAULAY STEVENSON GIFTED Hunter, would thy skill were mine ! How could'st thou snare the summer's passing voice ? How could'st thou choose the choicest from the choice Of dulcet summer melodies, combine And mould them into this — a thing sublime, Rich in the luxury of loveliness ? What hallowed musing did thy heart impress ? Surely the thought was God's, thy brush divine. Oh ! I could feel those gentle Zephyrs blow And see thy river mirroring the sun ; And I could scent the honeyed flowers that grow Empurpling that meadow every one ; And somewhere yonder in the fading sky 1 gain the secret of Eternity ! 1910. 17 THE RIVER BATHE When the messenger sunbeam over your bed Silently creeps in the morn ; And the dew-drops glitter on flower and tree. Like the tears of hope new-born ; When the clouds race by in the painted sky And the wind has a merry tune : Ah! then for the joy of an early dip In the glorious pools of Lune ! Up ! up from your bed ! Let the sluggards lie In an airy palace of dreams, Respond to the joyous lapwing's call And the song of the burbling streams 1 Oh, balmy the air, and wondrous fair Are the hills with sunlight crowned, And all the voices of nature seem To mingle in one glad sound. i8 The River Bathe Then hurry along, for as light as the heart Are the feet on a morning in June, To the banks that are speckled with sunshine and shade, 'Neath the guardian trees of Lune, Where the eddies play with the rocks all day In a whirl of fretful fun, And the wavelet kisses the pebbly shore With a mirrored smile from the sun. A good brave plunge in the crystal cool Of this grand primeval tub : Then glowing you stand on the warm dry rocks By the edge of the foaming Dub. Then homeward along, like the soul of a song That has every note in tune ; And dear will the memory always be Of the glorious pools of Lune. November, 1910. 19 HAIL Crown'd is our king to-day, Bloom on the faded spray, Dawn and her golden ray After sad night ; Fled be the clouds that loom, Routed the year-long gloom, Shade of our Edward's tomb. By the new Light! Waft it, O breeze ! Whisper the Word on thy rustling wing, Carry it over the leaping seas — Kissing the dimly glittering sands — To the lowly homes of far-off lands. And the palaces of kings ! 20 Hail Ah ! welcome the Word ; Wherever the red flag flutters And a people's heart is true, Wherever the olden songs are heard Commingling with the new ; Where they think on sea-girt Britain, And fight the wilful tears ; And the old home is the dear home To wistful sojourners. As when a weary captive lies, Pale-peering through the bars. And a noble thought flushes his brain. And, all oblivious of pain. His soul soars upward to the skies And the bright joy-sobbing stars : So, men on earth, O myriad-minded throng. Scorning your narrow fetters, upward soar. And with one voice to the wild air outpour The thunderous magic of the patriots' song : 21 Hail Crown'd is our king (ye say), Crown'd are our hearts to-day, One heart and crown for aye, One song we sing; Nobly his life be spent For the world's betterment, Peace, honour, and content : Long reign our kingl June, 191 1. 22 IN HENDECASYLLABLES DYING LILIES CHASTE queens of a fairy flow'ry kingdom, Beauteous progeny of the kindly sunshine And soft show'rs, ever in my heart the fragrance From you stealing awakes a dreamy vision Of things beautiful, olden, and eternal : Passing beautiful ! — harmonies so dulcet That they give to me viewless happy pinions, On which soaring up into lofty temples, 1 drink Truth in a world of airy fancy. Once you liv'd in a fairy flow'ry kingdom, Lov*d, and ruling it, innocently happy ; Now more beautiful in the hour of old age You still breathe evVy perfume of the woodland. Drooping gracefully, like the last repining Of some sage who has help'd the weary people. And whose message at ending is the sweetest. 23 In Hen deca syllables Untaught wisdom ! (in all the fields of Eden No more lovely an emblem of Creation !) Your souls, dying, appear to sigh the knowledge, Heav*n-born, forth to the hearts of all around you, Breathing sympathy, calmness, and achievement. Queens, farewell! In an age when ^all the laughter 's With pain fraught', when a wrinkled, angry brow shows Discontent everywhere among my fellows. Sure *tis good to devote a fleeting half-hour. O'er you musing upon the joys eternal . . . And I hope in an after age to see you Still more joyfully grace the Heav'nly Gardens ! June, 191 1. 24 THE TREASURES OF THE SNOW Love you the sun's gaze on the brow of Winder, Toning the world to the faery voice of Spring ? Love you the storm-rack riding o'er him ghostly, While rush the streamlets, madly bickering ? Fairer I ween is the dower of horned Winter ; Joy-shafts keener than arrows he can throw ; Lovelier his tresses than all the wealth of Summer : Say, have you seen the treasures of the snow ? Silently and softly, tender and caressing, (Soft as the down that lines the linnet's nest : Silent as the Music that soothes the ear of Fancy : Tender as the wind's love, sighing from the West !) Embodied smiles from the white sky falling, Come the white flakes in airy revelry. Over the whole earth swiftly, surely weaving One rare carpet of delight for me. 25 The Treasures of the Snow Run, litde burn, fast flying from your lover Strong and importunate to make you his own : Rapidly, oh rapidly, else he will detain you, Grip you, and embrace you, and kiss you all to stone ! Ah ! fantastical glory mid the branches : Frost wed to snowflake : masonry sublime : Beauty death-dealing, pitiless and lovely, — Sure, the fair effulgence of an angel's crime ! So sings the heart, as we glide adown the valleys. Borrowing wings from the glittering below. Careless of all things, save the world around us, — World of white palaces and kingdoms of the snow : Wanton, ye gods, in the cloudy space of Heaven ! IVe are as free, and we choir as free a song. Flying? — IVe fly, as to heights unmeasured soaring : This is no Earth, that is sweeping us along. 26 The Treasures of the Snow Pleasure, says the Bard, is as fleeting as the snowflake : Fleeting as pleasure is the glory of the snow : Fades the fair shroud that has hush'd the earth to wonder. Soon, soon evanishing the earth below. What if the dank rain patters down to ruin, Printing me the lesson that Beauty may not last ? Is the snow lost in the wilderness of dead things? Nay, for I glean'd its treasure as it pass'd. February^ 1 9 1 2 . 27 THE FAERY BIRTH A WANDERING maiden travel-worn, Scorch'd by the red sun's cruelty, Espied a little hut forlorn ; Enter'd and grateful down did lie. From sweet repose she woke at last, And 'mid the dirt about the ground. Lone relic of the silent past, A candlestick of brass she found. She pluck'd it from the floor below, And softly musing to herself She rubb'd it with her rags of woe ; Then set it on the lonely shelf. The Faery Birth She went. But lo 1 the fiery King, Now kindly smiling from above, Shone through the dust upon the thing Bright burnish'd by the maiden's love And from that wedding glance was born A dream of golden charities, Which first illum'd the hut forlorn. Then flitted forth to glad the skies. March, 191 2. 29 GLEAMS AND GLIMPSES MORNING— AND EARLY PREP. O Sedbergh and the Morning And the dancing of the air ; See the crown of Winder glancing To the sun his welcome rare ! — And we valley-folk are scorning All the labour and the care : For heart and feet are dancing With the dancing of the air ! NIGHT AND DEJECTION Mirror D light the moon doth shed, And the sun *s remembered : For she promises the gloom Day arising from her tomb. Alas ! no Hope doth lighten so The starless midnight of my woe ! 30 Gleams and Glimpses ON THE WEATHER Tell me not what again, again We hear about the Sedbergh rain ; Yes, with a kindly frown. Full oft on Eden send the skies. To spangle all her greeneries, A dower of diamonds down ! ANOTHER ON THE SAME * Stern nurse of men' and Nature's mother, I: Homeward to sleep On my hilly bosom. Thunder and Tempest fly. And Clouds that weep ! 31 Gleams and Glimpses RETURNING FROM THE RIVER BATHE The morning music In the heart revels fair : The river water Still brightly in the hair Glistens, glistens. Then the glad bells to Heaven And the Mind of Man give birth : And the song of my heart, Hush'd music of the Earth, Listens, oh ! listens. EVENING FROM THE CRICKET FIELD The grey-wing'd Evening flits adown the dale, And shades dissolve in undetermined shade : The mystic music of the scented gale Sings the dead day: and all the objects fade. Making their separate hues one blended whole . . , Chapel and Church and Field — whatever made Glorious the day — richly together roll In single wealth : Sedbergh reveals her soul. June^ 1 91 2. 32 VALE We Ve wander 'd by the well-lov'd ways That burgeon with remembrances Of time that 's flown : Our song is low, — a farewell song, — But its theme shall linger with us long, Loud blown from out thy breezes, Sedbergh, To our hearts from out thy breezes blown. We've seen thee smile and sternly frown ; Or grief or joy becomes thy crown. Shine-, shadow-dress'd : Our eyes have drain'd the cup to-day, But the wine shall ever with us stay. So pressed from out thy vintage, Sedbergh, Unto Time from out thy vintage press'd. Yon kindly peaks, yon fells have seen Our pleasure, toil, and striving keen. The songs we've sung : But Time shall spend his treasuries Or ever the winged Spirit dies, Far flung from out thy bosom, Sedbergh, To the world from out thy bosom flung. 33 Vale O shrouded in the mystic Word, Thou queenly Servant of the Lord, Accept, nor scorn : Sung by the lordly trump of fame. Shall rise the glory of thy Name Proud borne upon thy banner, Sedbergh, To the stars upon thy banner borne. July, 191 2 (when, besides his elder brother Robert, John Sterling was also leaving Sedbergh — hence the ' we '. They had come together, and the younger afterwards became an officer in his brother's regiment, and fell a few months after him before Hulloch, France). 34 POEMS 1913-1915 To B. W. (Thirty-seven years master at Sedbergh ; died January, 1913.) So, kind, unconquered spirit, fare you well. Sedbergh must onward yet with steadfast mind, (For such would be your wish) — nor must we tell The world of sorrow that you leave behind. And yet we feel Winder doth surely grieve His well-loved pilgrim of the happy years. — Surely the day droops sadly : and at eve Our Heaven trembles into starry tears! 37 OXFORD— FIRST VISION I SAW her bow'd by Time's relentless hand, Calm as cut marble, cold and beautiful, As if old sighs through the dim night of years, Like frosted snow-flakes on the silent land. Had fallen : and old laughter and old tears. Old tenderness, old passion, spent and dead. Had moulded her their stony monument: While ghostly memory lent Treasure of form and harmony to drape her head. Proud-stooping statue! still her arm, up-rais*d. Pointed the sceptre skyward, like a queen Gleaning bright wonder from the world amazed, Thrilling the firmament with rapturous awe ; Yet blind in giving light — unseeing, seen : Self-wrapp'd in gloom of wisdom and deep law. 38 Oxford — First Vision Oh, could I pluck (methought) from out yon breast A share of her rich mystery, and feel Flushing my soul with new adventurous zeal The fiery perfume of that flame-born flower "Which grows in man to God: then 1 might wrest Glad secrets from the past, — the golden dower Of the world's sunrise and young glimmering East. 39 OXFORD'S PROMISE She show'd me where the wakeful gardens grow Bright with the opening blossom of the Spring, The fairy births that ever burgeon — lo 1 Out of the teeming shadowland of thought : Such new delight, new hope, new life they bring (Heart cannot feel nor these dull numbers tell) As all rare poets down the years have sought, — Gardens of light and Spring perpetual. She told me how the Traveller in the way Borrows fair wings from all the flowery pride Empurpling the hedge-row at his side : And how, sped onward by each glad delay — By wayward Fancy, sudden to inspire. Or Peril calling Valour to the fray. Or human Love yet hot with Heav'nly fire — He gains the city gate — past foe and friend — With full spoil laden at the journey's end. 40 OXFORD'S DAWN There was a day when valleys laugh'd aloud, And Joy danc'd on the waters, and the world With all its treasure, beast and tree and cloud. Quiver 'd with wisdom, — so the Fancy tells. Not rarely then upon the earth were hurl'd Sparks from the fountain-furnace of the sky ; But, as the sea yet roars in hollow shells Forlorn, so clear from God an endless stream Flow'd wild among his children from on high : Who, ever gleefully. Drank in full flush of innocence that Heav'nly beam. Happy, oh, happy fled the rushing years, Until alas ! the wilful and the blind Lost the rare glory in a mist of tears, And the great Father hid his face and mourn'd : But through the poisonous wrack the light behind Came palely struggling, and to men returned. 41 Oxford^ s Dawn For some great souls with swords of true desire Pierc'd the gross shroud, and gaining fitful gleams Fashion'd anew the wisdom of the past ; And scatter'd to their fellows in the mire The shining fabric of their gathered dreams. They grop'd to find the links that couple fast All things within the Universe. They lit The lamp of passionate Faith, and tended it *Mid scorn and strife. They dipped the poet's pen Into the rainbow, and in simile Join'd fair to fair. They search'd the mystery Of that old Eden long denied to men. And thou, my Oxford, gracious citadel Of these who follow'd Truth, — thou didst arise, The hopeful darling of our western skies, Sung into being by an antique spell: Or whether, as the dim old fables tell. Brut and his pilgrims from unhappy Troy Built thee : or, servant of high destiny. Fierce Mempric, red with slaughter of his foes Covered dark evil with a deed of joy, And hearing in the night a troubled cry — ^Dawn ! Dawn !' — unknowing to the favour rose. 42 HISTORIC OXFORD Ah ! Time hath loaded thee with memories Processional. What could these piles unfold Of war's lost travail, and the wearied cries Of vexed warriors, struggling to hold Their hearth secure against proud Norman arms ? — And yet the while thy quest was not forgot ; 'Mid war and waste and perilous alarms Ever thy purpose stood, and yielded not. Noble in faith, gallant in chivalry. Thou flung'st a radiant Word to all the land, — Pluck'd from the wealth of thy philosophy, And to the world upon the breezes strewn ; — When, great with loyalty, thou didst withstand The kingly perjuror in battle brave : While England's Lady by the Winter's boon Fled from thy peril o'er the frozen wave. What need to tell of all thy generous sons?— The priestly Theobald, and in his train Master Vacarius, mighty in old law. And the great multitudes that now remain But shadows flitting in dim pageantry 43 Histoj'^ic Oxford Across the low-lit stage. In life they saw Service of toil and striving for thy gain : The Muse's pensioners in death they lie. They cherish'd thee through bitter strife and strain Faithful. They fought the zealous heretic, Rapt Wyclif, zealously to guard their Truth. . . . Nor worthy less were they who serv'd the sick 'Mid hopeless plague, and rifled Nature's store To bless mankind : nor who for creed or king Chang'd learning's mantle for the arms of war, Their lives and treasuries surrendering. Martyrs and saints have dower'd thee: one in Truth, Old Faith, new Hope, have died to save or mar The idols of flown ages ; for Truth's sun Shines glad alike upon all enterprise That in the Father's eyes Flatters the fledgling soul till the pure heights be won. These golden memories sit round thy throne — They are all thine; and thou art all my own. 44 TO PEMBROKE COLLEGE Full often, with a cloud about me shed Of phantoms numberless, I have alone Wander'd in Ancient Oxford marvelling : Calling the storied stone to yield its dead : And I have seen the sunlight richly thrown On spire and patient turret, conjuring Old glass to marled beauty with its kiss, And making blossom all the foison sown Through lapsed years. I've felt the deeper bliss Of eve calm-brooding o'er her loved care, And tingeing her one all-embosoming tone. And I have dream'd on thee, thou college fair, Dearest to me of all, until I seem'd Sunk in the very substance that I dream'd. And oh 1 methought that this whole edifice, Forg'd in the spirit and the fires that burn Out of that past of splendent histories, Up-towering yet, fresh potency might learn. And to new summits turn. Vaunting the banner still of what hath been and is. 45 A SONNET Yea, Oxford, for the glories of one wreath The withered fragrance of all time is fee ; Trees draw their sacrifice of greenery From the old charnels that repose beneath ; — So let me feel the impulse of thy breath. Like an enchanter's spell, awakening me To thy new treasures of Eternity Bursting from out the pregnant soils of Death ; And therefore through my lips to all the earth Adown the ages be thine anthem sung. Undying Truth's perennial rebirth — The burthen of the Old and ever Young : 'For me and mine new wealth from old is grown : And sure, who love me, shall be all my own V 46 LINES WRITTEN ON LOCH LOMOND Lonely I linger'd when you went, Recalling how the days had fled Each with its mingled treasure pent Of shine and shade remembered. . . . Oh, how I crush'd the grapes divine, Blending a flood of wakeful wine. Next look'd I on the weU-lov'd scene, Eager its ready wealth to glean : And forg'd therefrom a cup of gold — Red hills, blue loch, and islands green — (Rare alchemy !). So could it hold That vintage of our joy, and I Drink deep the draught of memory. July, I913. 47 Lines writte7t on Loch Lomond II Love be not sad, but listen To the laughter of the wave. Sweeping ever madly after His desire above yon cave : See the leaping shingle glisten With the fire his kisses gave. . . Oh, mingle, love, your laughter With the laughter of the wave ! July, 1 91 3. 48 LINES WRITTEN IN THE TRENCHES Ah ! Hate like this would freeze our human tears, And stab the morning star : Not it, not it commands and mourns and bears The storm and bitter glory of red war. II To J. H. S. M., killed in action, March 13, 191 5. O BROTHER, I have sung no dirge for thee : Nor for all time to come Can song reveal my grief's infinity : The menace of thy silence made me dumb. 49 MARAN [Note by the Author] The fragment Maran is valuable, not for its theme or language (which are both in parts immature, uncertain, and childish), but for its rhythm, which reveals a new music, and, properly handled, might afford a contribution to literature and the melody of the world. The poem is an attempt to recover for the English tongue a lost heritage — that bequeathed by the old Saxon epicists (see Bridges' Christmas Carol, ^9^3)' Stress and alliteration. Lyrical; stanzas superficially resembling Norman conven- tion. Should be intoned, with emphasis on each stressed word, with special care to mark the structure-rhymes of the even lines. Only one accentuated syllable in each line is unalliterative. The -a-fiid was wailing over the land wfldly 5'6ng-jighing, and the moon languishing, a /6ve-/6m maiden Pale-Bering from a shroud. 12 3 4 I. X — X — XXXX X 12 3 2. XXX — 1 2 3 4 3. ~ X X X X 12 3 4. XXX — The number of unaccentuated syllables (x) does not matter. Accentuated syllables ( — ) must be four and three alternately. Second and fourth lines coincide in structure. Tk u4-.b koa? w4euL^ jit\ l-C« Liw;l«U| L MARAN The wind was wailing over the land wildly Song-sighing, and the moon Languishing, a love-lorn maiden Pale-peering from a shroud. Then friendless there fled through the sobbing forest Maran, a maid gentle Striving to save herself from the murderer Kroston the King-slayer. Burning ambition ! in his blind heart Hate rankled against the Royal ones : And when the mountain mist had rolled to the meadows Crime-covering, he had slain them. 55 Maran When the sun had sped to the ever-hungry shadows, Lone in the land, friendless, Left of the house of Landa now but lived Maran the maid gentle. Then Kroston cried to the other King-slayers, ' Allow we this fledgling to flee us ? ' * The Black Brethren would blush at the triumph Of Maran the maiden, O Kroston.' Panting and panic-pale as a dove Doth flutter before the cruel falcon : So fearful fled the maiden through the forest, That sobb'd ever to the wind's wildness. Blood on her bonnie feet, and bruises : Like deer before dread tiger. So fearful fled the maiden from the fury Of Kroston the King-slayer. Sympathy she sought from the trees sobbing. But no sympathy had the twining trees ; And the wind wail'd as with woe laden, Yet all careless of her cruel woe. S6 Maran Pity she pleaded from yon pale maiden : Tears, spangled in the sky, Fiercely the fond hope freezing, Dim glitter 'd through the gloom. And in her mind, grief-murky and madden'd, Memory sparkled sweet : Brutal as the beam that mocks the blind, Stinging the sightless eye. As when lowly a forest lord is laid In winter by the axe wasted. Dusty, with arms undrap'd and drooping, Where melody of old haunted. Yet sweetest of all the Spring are his scarce tresses. Smiling amid Death strangely ; And the woodman is weeping, of his work peni- tent. Sorrowing o'er Might murdered ; 57 Ma ran As a star that hath shone in the sky-furnace, Bright-burning through the ages, Falters and falls on a day fated (Dread doom to every beauty 1) ; Then flames he brightest with a flare of fury. Rushing to dark ruin ; And silent in their spheres are the sons of morning Dimmed by their dead brother : So 'mid stifling Sorrow did burning Sweet Wanton in Maran's mind, Grief gaining a spectre of gladness. Darkness a demon light. (O garden of years, golden and glad. Bright with the blossom Love ; O ancient home of a happy people :— ) Woe ! 'tis a wither'd dream ! (Ever-lighted lamp of holy labour. Land of the singing swain : — Happy my eyes that gloried in that heaven,) Curst that behold this hell 1 58 Ma ran (O ye fields fair with corn and fruits, Trees breaking *neath their treasure : — ) O heart of me heavy with the fruits of happiness Dead, — breaking 'neath the burden. (O loving father, and lord beloved, Thou mirror of Landa's light ! — ) Ah ! cruelty to murder a king kindly ! — What darkness is mine to-day ? (O valley singing to the sound of streamlets, — ) Nay, the light is for thee lost : Shall thy songs not evermore be with sorrow sounding. And thy rivers with blood red ? (O Peace of the Past!) they have deposed and sold thee So blindly by a blind one led ; For cruelly have they murder'd their king kindly. And darkness is on all to-day. 59 Maran So she raving ran with a rage pitying, Maran the maid gentle, Striving ever to save herself from the murderer, Kroston the King-slayer. But ever pitiless he followed with poor passion Burning in his blind heart, Scorning the sacred gods as shadows. Lusting for the maid's life. And onward the cruel hunt hasted ; Nor stay'd the forest his steps : — Ah I shame on you, shame, ye trees sobbing, To let him pitiless pass. Panting and panic-pale his quarry Still ran the fateful race ! Twice shame on you, ye trees tangling. To stay her flying steps. But sudden the wind song-sighing Hush'd amid the high branches ; And the leaves murmur'd with a mournful mystery, Silenc'd after wild sobbing. 60 Maran And the clouds becalmed, with their vap'rous cohorts Commingling in grim mass, Fraught with unutterable future, floated Expectant in the vast vault. And the maiden moon, unshrouded for the moment. In her grief gazed awfully. As if innocence should utter a doom of the ages, Or a child pale prophecy. And the forest creatures in fretful fear Stirr'd within their lairs sleepless: The lion growl'd as about to lose a lov'd thing, Dreading an unseen spoiler. So all nature, nursing a nameless terror, Listen'd and waiting watched: As, when lightning flashing from the fever 'd firmament Swoops on the nerveless night, 6t Maran Then the shepherds, in lonely silence sitting, Listen and waiting watch, In pious prayer to the gods impassion'd, Fearing the following peal. Yet ever onward the cruel hunt hasted; Do they know not of all Nature's watch ? Will fear fly and fury pursue Till the treasuries of Time be spent ? Nay ! . . . for the unknown is near, and Kroston In his course sudden stopt: And his men marvell'd at the awful madness Of his cry woe-wild. But silent they stood round the king-slayer, And they felt his fear in their hearts : And waiting they watched for the untellable wonder That was coming, coming to pass. Then forth from his limbs a form of fairness Sped, like a wan wave Of living cloud, light-laden, Seeing and dim seen. 62 Maran Oh, agony beyond utterance, and stained horror ! He watch'd the winged shadow Fast flitting through the aw'd forest To Maran the maid gentie. And she stopt and turn'd, and saw it sailing Swift and sure in her path ; And in wondrous wise her fear wan'd ! Dawning day after night ! Her body enfolded it beautifying, emboldening, Till its light in her eyes did leap. And there stately she stood like a queen sorrowing, And she raised to the air her hand. Then the men of Kroston, amaz d and maddened In taut sorrow shrieked ; For released and lost, their bodies leaving. Each fair phantom pass'd. And Nature knew of the nameless terror That carp'd her haunted heart : And her gaunt bosom, great with grief, Like swollen ocean, shook. 63 Maran Then flash'd her phantoms, tongues of fire, From earth and sky streaming, Filling the maiden's form with a fairness Unknown to mind mortal, With unending hue empurpling the air And soft shapes innumerable (Even drear depths of darkness sent Their bright burdens glitteringly) — Lovelier than the light of lonely skies O'er snow-white wastes. When for pale mariners in perilous passage The dance-rays dart — Purer than the palace of pale heat In yon throbbing ember on the altar. Which glows and gives the priest of its glory. And his soul is nourish'd by its splendour. Each flower or blossom through the far forest, Each branch or lowly blade. Sent forth its soul — or the soul of Something It felt and lov'd before. 64 Maran Then wail'd the wind in bereavement wasted, Sighing a broken song, Like a mermaid moaning the drowned millions Lost in the sceptred sea. And the forest sobb'd : and feeble and fainting The tribes of the teeming earth Uttered a lament from the heart's agony: But vain was their voice of woe. And the people of mountain and meadow, miserable, The anguish'd beasts of the earth, And the stars of the sky and their sad mistress. All paid the pitiless toll. O tears of the land 1 what toll terrible ! What lov'd and lost delight ! O land of tears ! so lonely and loveless, — What trembling tears are thine ! 65 The wind among The willows seems To sing a song Of many themes : The moon looks down Upon the sea ; With smile or frown Inconstant she : Now joyous soft : For waves reflect Now musing slow : Her as they will, — Tempestuous oft With storm-foam fleck'd Or wild with woe. Or clear and still. Man^s mind is a sea The moon doth scan. And a willow tree Is the mind of man. 66 1 TIP-TOED from the palace gates To find the toy The rainbow spilt: In fearful joy And innocent guilt ; Nor heard the laughter of the Fates. And straight into a painted sphere Of rainbow mist I seem'd to rise : And phantoms kiss'd Of starry eyes, And all forgot my palace dear. But when the shadows set me free A memory yet tormenteth me : — And oh ! that laughing mockery. 67 THE ROUND Crown of the morning Laid on the toiler: Joy to the heart Hope-rich. Treasure behind left ; Riches before him, Treasured in toil, To glean. Starlit and hushful Wearily homeward : Rest to the brow Toil-stain'd. 68 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY Los Angeles This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. Form L9-32m-8,'58(5876s4)444 PR 6037 3834A17 1916 r