University of California • Berkeley ! j,m POEMS BY ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON Hitherto Unpublished POEMS BY ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON (HITHERTO UNPUBLISHED) WITH INTRODUCTION AND NOTES BY GEORGE S. HELLMAN AND WILLIAM P. TRENT PRIVATELY PRINTED FOR MR. FRANCIS S. PEABODY CHICAGO MCMXXI Copyright 1921 by The Bibliophile Society All rights reserved The Bibliophile Society desires to acknowledge its obligations to Mr. Francis S. Peabody for his generosity in permitting it to print the Robert Louis Stevenson manuscripts for its members, and as a token of gratitude and appreciation, has issued this small complimentary edition from the same type forms from which the bibliophile edition was printed Life's winds and billows, hoarse and shrill, Could ne'er his minstrel-ardor still; He sailed and piped until his breath Went out within the grip of death ; And now, upon his island home, Fringed with the far Pacific foam, He lies at peace, beloved, renowned The sympathetic world around. W. P. T. M666S47 INDEX OF TITLES AND FIRST LINES IN THIS VOLUME A Summer Night All influences were in vain All night through, raves or broods At morning on the garden seat . Aye, mon, it's true . Eh, man Henley, you're a Don Far over seas an island is Gather ye roses while ye may . Good old ale, mild or pale Her name is as a word of old romance Here he comes, big with statistics Here lies Erotion Hopes I am a hunchback, yellow-faced I am like one that has sat alone I have a friend ; I have a story . I look across the ocean I saw red evening through the rain I sit up here at midnight . If I could arise and travel away If I had wings, my lady . ['»■] 39 43 1 02 109 130 100 132 86 113 82 75 126 69 139 57 65 141 92 58 in 98 In autumn when the woods are red . Last night we had a thunderstorm, etc Light as my heart was long ago Link your arm in mine, my lad . Love is the very heart of spring My wife and I, in one romantic cot Nay, but I fancy somehow, etc. . Of schooners, islands and maroons O lady fair and sweet On the gorgeous hills of morning Poem for a Class Re-union Rivers and winds among the twisted hills Since I am sworn to live my life Sit doon by me, my canty freend Take not my hand as mine alone The look of Death is both severe and mild The Mill-House The moon is sinking, etc. . The old world moans and topes The rain is over and done The Well-Head The whole day thro', etc. . There where the land of love To Priapus To A Youth . We are as maidens, one and all Yes, I remember, etc. 78 94 84 61 107 117 114 122 96 134 89 137 87 76 4i 80 29 50 54 104 35 52 105 128 72 47 119 [12] THE STEVENSON MANUSCRIPTS At the time when the great mass of manu- scripts, books, and other personal belongings of Robert Louis Stevenson were dispersed through a New York auction room in Novem- ber 1914, and January 1915, the whole of civilization was being shaken to its very foun- dations, and the exigencies of the times were such that people were concerned with more important matters than the acquisition of manuscripts and relics. Therefore the sale, which in ordinary times would have attracted widespread attention among editors, critics, publishers and collectors, went comparatively unnoticed amid the general clamor and ap- prehension of the time. There was, however, one vigilant Stevenson collector, in the person of Mr. Francis S. Peabody, who bought a large part of the unpublished manuscripts at the sale, and has since acquired most of [13] the remainder which went chiefly to various dealers. Mr. Peabody has generously offered to share the enjoyment of his Stevenson treas- ures with his fellow bibliophiles, and we are indebted to him for the privilege of issuing the first printed edition of many precious items, without which no collection of Steven- soniana can ever be regarded as being com- plete. It will be remembered that the last years of Stevenson's life were spent at Samoa, which became the only permanent home of his married life, where he kept his great col- lection of manuscripts and note books, the accumulation of his twenty-odd years of work; and where, being far removed from the centers of civilization, he came very little in contact with editors or publishers who, dur- ing his lifetime or subsequently, would have been interested in ransacking his chests for new material. When his personal effects were finally packed up and shipped to the United States they were sent to the auction room and disposed of for ready cash, and thereafter it became impossible for publishers to acquire either the possession or the publication rights [14] of the manuscripts without great expense and inconvenience. From events that have transpired since the publication in 1916 of the two-volume Bib- liophile edition of Stevenson's unpublished poems, we are led to believe that the literary importance of the manuscripts was not appre- ciated by the Stevenson heirs. It is neither necesssary nor advisable to comment or specu- late further upon the circumstances which led to the sale of the manuscripts before being published ; whatever they may have been, they are of far less importance to the public than the established fact that the manuscripts were dispersed before being transcribed "or pub- lished, and the further fact that they ulti- mately came into the possession of an owner who now permits them to be printed. If it be regrettable that the distribution of the present edition, in which there is des- tined to be a world-wide interest, is confined to the relatively limited membership of a book club, the circumstances are made inevitable by certain fundamental rules, without which no cohesive body of booklovers can long exist. And these restrictive measures are not in- [15] spired by selfish motives, but purely as a matter of necessity in preserving the organ- ization. Some of the manuscripts printed in the four separate volumes now issued were not avail- able at the time when the two-volume edition was brought out by The Bibliophile Society in 1916, and it was thought best to defer their publication until such time as we could bring together the major part of the remaining in- edited material, which we believe has now been accomplished. H. H. H. [16] INTRODUCTION The present collection of hitherto unpub- lished poems gathered from the manuscripts of Robert Louis Stevenson will be found to contain much that is of keen interest to read- ers and of both sentimental and practical value to collectors. Nor is it likely that this interest and value will prove to be transitory, since the volume now offered, like its notable predecessors issued by The Bibliophile So- ciety in 1916, must afford very important aid to future biographers and critics of a writer who has taken a high and secure place in the literature of the English-speaking peoples. Although the books of verse issued under the supervision of Stevenson himself and of his representatives may contain a larger number of finished, artistic products along with the few poems in which his genius found perfect expression, such as the best pieces of "The [17] Child's Garden," "Requiem," and "In Mem- oriam F. A. S.," the poems here and lately published from his manuscripts may fairly be held to do more than the earlier volumes of his verse could ever have done towards estab- lishing his reputation as a poet born, not made; as a writer who could probably have won fame through poetry had he not turned to prose, as a child of song not unworthy to be remembered with those Scotch forerun- ners whom he so delighted to honor, Robert Fergusson and Robert Burns. Like Fergusson and Burns, Stevenson is not less interesting as a man than he is as a poet, and it is therefore proper to consider first the biographical importance of the poems here collected. One piece in particular calls for attention. The lines assigned provisionally to the year 1872, "I have a friend; I have a story," if Mr. Hellman be right, as he doubt- less is, in connecting them with the verses first published in 1916 entitled "God gave to me a child in part," offer hints of a love tragedy of intense passion and suffering enacted in Edinburgh in the opening years of Steven- son's manhood. It is neither necessary nor [18] prudent, where all is as yet shadowy, to ven- ture upon speculations specific in character, but it seems permissible to wonder whether in the two poems just named we have not heard a rustling premonitory of the gradual lifting of the curtain that has appeared to screen phases at least of the youthful career of the poet and romancer. That Stevenson was no saint in what Sir Sidney Colvin discreetly calls "his daft stu- dent days" has long been clear, despite the deft indefiniteness with which editors, biog- raphers and friends have treated the period; but with the challenge these two poems, inter- preted as they have been, fling down to ret- icence — loyal and commendable though this has surely been thus far — and with the sup- porting hints and implications that may be gathered from other verses of the same period of immaturity and effervescence, one feels that the legend-making against which Henley raised his much deprecated but unforgettable protest must soon be more or less a thing of the shamefaced past. It was natural for Stevenson's contempor- aries and for the immediately succeeding gen- [19] eration of readers to give themselves to the cult of a charming poet for children, a courageous mentor and fascinating companion of youth, a lay-preacher with a gospel of cheery opti- mism drawn from triumph over suffering and adapted to all human beings whatever their time and condition of life. It was equally natural for Stevenson's intimate friends, who believed that the side of his character which contemporaries admired was the best and tru- est side of the man they knew and loved, not to dwell upon another side of him, especially of his earlier self, which did not so justly and fully represent him, and called for no em- phasis in those days when his fame was in the making. Yet, whatever Henley's lack of tact and his underlying promptings, conscious or unconscious, his protest, we cannot but feel, was one that had to be made sooner or later, and now that those most likely to be vitally affected by resolute biographical realism have passed away, it is not treasonable to Steven- son's memory to hope that the publication by The Bibliophile Society of manuscripts which he did not destroy and must consequently, in a sense, have destined to publication, will [20] mark the beginning of a period of minute scholarly investigation into each stage of his life. He would have been the last person to object to this, and his best admirers are surely those who serenely welcome every honest at- tempt at study of his life and works as well as all efforts to recover whatever scrap of his multifarious writings may appear to possess the slightest value. To such scholarly investigation the present collection and the prior Bibliophile volumes will be indispensable. They show plainly that verse-making played a much larger part in Stevenson's training as a writer — a matter abundantly discussed — than there had form- erly been reason even so much as to suspect. It is open to doubt whether Mrs. Stevenson herself, although her intelligence in all that concerned her famous husband was almost equal to her devotion to him and to his mem- ory, ever fully comprehended the range of his poetic interests, or carefully examined the mass of his early experiments in verse. I am at least certain that when some twenty-one years ago I wrote an introduction to an Am- erican edition of a part of Stevenson's then [21] known poetry, I had no notion that what I then had before me did not represent even half of his accomplished work in that cate- gory of literature. There was then, for ex- ample, little ground for believing that the strictly lyrical impulse was strong in him from the beginning; that he had ever very seriously essayed the old French forms of verse in which his contemporaries like Lang and Dobson were so fluent, or that he had shown more than an amateurish interest in the work of such a poet as Martial. It is true, of course, that his discussions of Villon and of Charles of Orleans might, without Mr. Graham Balfour's aid, have led one to suspect dabbling in French forms, and it is possibly true that for at least a consid- erable portion of his later life the writing of verse was, to quote the biographer just named, "almost always a resource of illness or of convalescence." He appears, according to the same authority, to have written "Re- quiem" when recovering from the drastic ill- ness at Hyeres in the early eighties, and in a letter to his mother he confirmed in a measure the view just cited, when he declared, "I do [22] nothing but play patience and write verse, the true sign of my decadence." But much the greater part of the present volume, and most of the first of the two Bibliophile volumes of 1916, must be assigned to the decade preced- ing the breakdown on the Riviera, and the verses they contain suggest "storm and stress" more than they do valetudinarianism. It seems plain therefore that, although no longer than five years ago it might have been permissible to regard Stevenson as an excep- tion to the rule that successful writers of prose often begin their careers with verse-writing which they later abandon, it is now neces- sary — and pleasant — to believe that in this respect, as in not a few others, the lines of his development run parallel with those fol- lowed in the case of many a distinguished pre- decessor. This is fortunate, since wider and more permanent fame is the portion of those who keep steadily to the broad highways of literature than seems to come to those who to any appreciable extent are diverted into its by-ways. The more Stevenson's career as a man of letters is studied, the less, it is to be hoped, will it appear eccentric. As poet, [23] essayist, romancer, correspondent, and writer of travels, he keeps step with his great peers, and like them he has arrived at the bourne of permanent and large renown. Of more specific comment upon the present new poems there seems to be little need, since Mr. Hellman has covered the important points in his introductory notes. Still it may be desirable to call attention here to the strong influence exerted on the early and notable poem, "The Mill House," by one of Steven- son's favorite poets — now dead just a century — John Keats. The curious individuality of "The Well-Head," the note of poetic intensity in the poem beginning, "I am like one that has sat alone" — due, perhaps, to the influence of Heine, who was one of Stevenson's early masters despite a repugnance to the German language sometimes expressed in the corres- pondence — the singular wealth of poetical material dissociated from the needed techni- cal skill in handling to be observed in "To a Youth," the courage with its touch of brav- ado, attributable in part to frail health, dis- played in "Since I am sworn to live my life," — one of the experiments in French forms [24] which constitute perhaps the most important contribution made by the present collection, although not necessarily the most attractive — on all these points one might dwell at some length with pleasure and possible profit were one writing a formal essay. Even in a brief foreword it seems incumbent to forestall the notes in emphasizing the daring unconven- tionality of "Last night we had a thunder- storm in style," the humor of "Eh, man Hen- ley, you're a don," the curious anticipation of Kipling in "If I could arise and travel away," the poignant note of "The rain is over and done," — not exceptional in the verses of this fermenting epoch of Stevenson's life — and, last but not least, the rather extraordin- ary quality of certain individual lines. Evi- dences of immaturity in respect to details of literary training are everywhere to be found, but who, save a poet of authentic utterance, would have been likely to achieve such initial verses as — "I saw red evening through the rain," or "Love is the very heart of spring," or "Of schooners, islands, and maroons," or "Far over seas an island is," [25] whether or not he was able to continue the poetic flight so auspiciously begun? But it is time to let the reader judge of these matters for himself. W. P. T. [26] POEMS BY ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON Hitherto Unpublished THE MILL-HOUSE— 1866 This impressive poem antedates any piece included in any previous volume of Steven- son's verse, and appears to be the longest of his early attempts at poetry. Written pre- sumably at Swanston, it is very successful in many of its descriptive passages, both in its sense of actuality, as where "great horses strain against the load of the sack-laden wagons," and in that imaginative atmosphere created by chivalrous knights and phantom castles. It is permissible to believe that the verses are merely the opening portion of some long composition which Stevenson had in mind; yet in themselves they give a sense of completeness, because the poet, after having let his thought wander into the fields of ro- mance and of faery, ends his manuscript with a mental and spiritual return to those prob- lems of life, those "grim questionings of heart," which were just beginning to absorb the thoughtful and passionate boy. [29] THE MILL-HOUSE (a sick-bed fancy) An alley ran across the pleasant wood, On either side of whose broad opening stood Wide-armed green elms of many a year, great bowers Of perfect greenery in summer hours. A small red pathway slow meandered there Between two clumps of grapes, [both] lush and fair, Well grown, that brushed a tall man past the knee. No summer day grew therein over hot, For there was a pleasant freshness in the spot Brought thither by a stream that men might see Behind the rough-barked bole of every tree — A little stream that ever murmured on And here and there in sudden sunshine shone ; But for the most part, swept by shadowy boughs, Among tall grass and fallen leaves did drowse, With ever and anon, a leap, a gleam, As some cross boulder lay athwart the stream. [30] ^t &£&% n#**<*>- &u>-trfo fat- Iw^Z^e^r CsruTTCX- J w^~ H^Zul. <3^Jv t^fcc £^ ft W* H ^ -Vj\W^ V^-yV IH^>^A^ trpATOf M^JQ & Ufa *&$&* < - V ' HER NAME IS AS A WORD OF OLD ROMANCE Her name is as a word of old romance That thrills a careless reader out of sleep. Love and old art, and all things pure and deep Attend on her to honour her advance, — The brave old wars where bearded heroes prance, The courtly mien that private virtues keep, — Her name is as a word of old romance. Peer has she none in England or in France, So well she knows to rouse dull souls [from sleep] So deftly can she comfort those that weep And put kind thought and comfort in a glance. Her name is like a [word of old romance.] [8 3 ] LIGHT AS MY HEART WAS LONG AGO— 1875 The same form shown in the verses begin- ning, "In Autumn When the Woods are Red," is followed here in a poem that comes close to the spirit of some of Francois Villon's lyrics. Stevenson's story, "A Lodging for the Night," based on Villon's life, and his essay on that inspired and interesting reprobate, are among his most sympathetic works in the fields of the short story and of criticism. And it is curious to reflect that while Thoreau, the ascetic New Englander, was the American to whom Stevenson most instinctively reacted, the licentious Villon was, we fancy, his favor- ite hero in French literature. But an even more interesting thought that arises from the present verses and from those that belong to their little group of the year 1875, is that just as Stevenson's apprenticeship as a man of letters in Scotland began with at- tempts at verse writing, so similarly when, on the continent, he sought to improve his work- manship by the study of French forms, it was to poetry that he first turned, and in poetry that he continued his training. [84] LIGHT AS MY HEART WAS LONG AGO Light as my heart was long ago, Now it is heavy enough; Now that the weather is rough, Now that the loud winds come and go, Winter is here with hail and snow, Winter is sorry and gruff. Light as last year's snow, Where is my love? I do not know; Life is a pitiful stuff, Out with it — out with the snuff! This is the sum of all I know, Light as my heart was long ago. [85] GATHER YE ROSES WHILE YE MAY 1875 This is another one of Stevenson's poems written in France, and a charming bit of verse experimentation, where Stevenson weaves the famous lines of Robert Herrick into a more concrete form of old French poetry. GATHER YE ROSES WHILE YE MAY Gather ye roses while ye may, Old time is still a-flying; A world where beauty fleets away Is no world for denying. Come lads and lasses, fall to play Lose no more time in sighing. The very flowers you pluck today, Tomorrow will be dying; And all the flowers are crying, And all the leaves have tongues to say, — Gather ye roses while ye may. [86] SINCE I AM SWORN TO LIVE MY LIFE— 1875 Of all the poems belonging to the little group of experimentations in the French style these verses, written at Nemours, are the most successful in their succinct combination of the French spirit and of Stevenson's own attitude towards life, especially in his youth. Not only in form, but likewise in the phrase drawn from the terminology of duelling, or in such an adverb as "gaily,"' we have the French animation, while such lines as "I bear a ban- ner in the strife," and "prudence brawling in the mart," are intimately akin to earlier verses written in Scotland. Then, too, if there is one statement that can always incontrovertibly be made of Stevenson, it is, that he was sworn to lead his life, for all his weakness in health, and his minor weaknesses in character, and that he always carried through, at whatever cost, his main purposes, whether, as in mak- ing — against the wishes of his father — liter- ature his profession, or, against the advice of all his friends, in setting forth with little strength and less money on the great adven- ture of his marriage. [87] SINCE I AM SWORN TO LIVE MY LIFE Since I am sworn to live my life, And not to keep an easy heart, Some men may sit and drink apart, — I bear a banner in the strife. Some can take quiet thought to wife, — I am all day at tierce and carte; Since I am sworn to live my life And not to keep an easy heart. I follow gaily to the fife, Leave wisdom bowed above a chart And prudence brawling in the mart, And dare misfortune to the knife, Since I am sworn to live my life. [88] POEM FOR A CLASS RE-UNION- 1875 Mr. D'Arcy Wentworth Thompson, himself an author and a man described as charming in his personality, was the Master referred to in the third line of this poem. It was at his pri- vate school in Frederick Street, Edinburgh, that Stevenson during the years 1864-1867 had formed the friendships that led him, some years later, to attend the class re-union for which this poem was written. POEM FOR A CLASS RE-UNION Whether we like it, or don't, There's a sort of bond in the fact That we all by one master were taught, By one master were bullied and whackt. And now all the more when we see Our class in so shrunken a state And we, who were seventy- two, Diminished to seven or eight. One has been married, and one Has taken to letters for bread; Several are over the seas; And some I imagine are dead. [89] And that is the reason, you see, Why, as I have the honour to state, We, who were seventy-two, Are now only seven or eight. One took to heretical views, And one, they inform me, to drink; Some construct fortunes in trade, Some starve in professions, I think. But one way or other, alas! Through the culpable action of Fate We, who were seventy-two Are now shrunken to seven or eight. So, whether we like it or not, Let us own there's a bond in the past, And, since we were playmates at school, Continue good friends to the last. The roll-book is closed in the room, The clackan is gone with the slate, We, who were seventy-two Are now only seven or eight. We shall never, our books on our back, Trudge off in the morning again, To the slide at the janitor's door, By the ambush of rods in the lane. [90] We shall never be sent for the tawse, Nor lose places for coming too late; We shall never be seventy-two, Who now are but seven or eight! We shall never have pennies for lunch, We shall never be strapped by Maclean, We shall never take gentlemen down, Nor ever be schoolboys again. But still for the sake of the past, For the love of the days of lang syne The remnant of seventy-two Shall rally together to dine. [91] I SAW RED EVENING THROUGH THE RAIN— 1875 This Edinburgh poem of the year 1875 is another of an unhappy mood, when even the memory of delight has in it a bitter touch. The verses are an original draft, showing the writer groping after the finished form, and thus the second and fourth stanzas should be regarded as varying attempts to phrase the same emotion, rather than as separate finished stanzas of a completed poem. In the final verse we have again, in the phrase, "the forward way," an indication of Stevenson's characteristic insistence upon the value, however difficult the circumstances of the moment, of continuing towards the goal. I SAW RED EVENING THROUGH THE RAIN I saw red evening through the rain Lower above the steaming plain; I heard the hour strike small and still, From the black belfry on the hill. Thought is driven out of doors tonight By bitter memory of delight; [92] The sharp constraint of finger tips, Or the shuddering touch of lips. I heard the hour strike small and still, From the black belfry on the hill. Behind me I could still look down On the outspread monstrous town. The sharp constraint of finger tips, Or the shuddering touch of lips, And all old memories of delight Crowd upon my soul tonight. Behind me I could still look down On the outspread feverish town; But before me, still and grey, And lonely was the forward way. [93] LAST NIGHT WE HAD A THUNDER- STORM IN STYLE— 1875 This draft of a rondeau written in France in the summer of 1875, seems to be the only one of Stevenson's poems where he patently attempts to incorporate into his verses the spirit of Voltaire. The conception of the thunder as the voice of God is an old one, and the thunderbolts of Jove echo through Greek and Roman literature ; but it has remained for Stevenson, in ironic mood, lying in bed "with a Voltairean smile," and while others are praying — to think of the thunder as the noise made by God falling down a flight of stairs. It is the most daring bit of ridiculous imagery in all his writings, and however greatly some may be shocked thereby, its success can hardly be questioned in view of its attainment of its object — the smile that it almost inevitably arouses. [94] SjX* j : V \» U«^V :■-■ '- ►• ' ' hi ^S- LAST NIGHT WE HAD A THUNDER- STORM IN STYLE Last night we had a thunderstorm in style. The wild lightning streaked the airs, As though my God fell down a pair of stairs. The thunder boomed and bounded all the while; All cried and sat by waterside and stile, — To mop our brow had been our chief of cares. I lay in bed with a Voltairean smile, The terror of good, simple guilty pairs, And made this rondeau in ironic style. Last night we had a thunderstorm in style. Our God the Father fell down stairs, The stark blue lightning went its flight the while, The very rain you might have heard a mile, — The strenuous faithful buckled to their prayers. [95] O LADY FAIR AND SWEET— 1875 In this poem, another of Stevenson's ron- deau experiments, does he again address the girl who is the subject of so many of his earlier lyrics? If so, with the succeeding poem, "If I had wings, my lady, like a dove," it forms a pair wherein for the first time she is addressed as "My Lady," a form of appellation in conso- nance with the formal nature of the old French poetry that was at the time providing Stevenson with models. The two poems, as their references to "winter air" and "blinding sleet" indicate, were presumably written in the winter months of 1875, after Stevenson's return from France, and the "noisy street," and "the doleful city row," point to Edin- burgh. O LADY FAIR AND SWEET O lady fair and sweet Arise and let us go Where comes not rain or snow, Excess of cold or heat, To find a still retreat By willowy valleys low [96] Where silent rivers flow. There let us turn our feet O lady fair and sweet, — Far from the noisy street, The doleful city row, Far from the grimy street, Where in the evening glow The summer swallows meet, The quiet mowers mow. Arise and let us go, O lady fair and sweet, For here the loud winds blow, Here drifts the blinding sleet. [97] IF I HAD WINGS, MY LADY, LIKE A DOVE— 1875 This is one of the most successful results of Stevenson's studies in French verse, and none the less interesting in that it gives indication of the author's intimate knowledge of the sev- enteenth century English poets. Such senten- ces as "To kiss the sweet disparting of her hair," and "spend upon her lips my all of breath" bring up memories of Herrick, Marvell and Waller; and the whole argument of what he would do, if he were a dove, is an argument proper to the pages of that quaint and delight- ful group of English lyric writers. IF I HAD WINGS, MY LADY, LIKE A DOVE If I had wings, my lady, like a dove I should not linger here, But through the winter air toward my love, Fly swift toward my love, my fair, If I had wings, my lady, like a dove. If I had wings, my lady, like a dove, And knew the secrets of the air, [98] I should be gone, my lady, to my love, To kiss the sweet disparting of her hair, If I had wings, my lady, like a dove. If I had wings, my lady, like a dove, This hour should see my soul at rest, Should see me safe, my lady, with my love, To kiss the sweet division of her breast, If I had wings, my lady, like a dove. For all is sweet, my lady, in my love; Sweet hair, sweet breast and sweeter eyes That draw my soul, my lady, like a dove Drawn southward by the shining of the skies ; For all is sweet, my lady, in my love. If I could die, my lady, with my love, Die, mouth to mouth, a splendid death, I should take wing, my lady, like a dove, To spend upon her lips my all of breath, If I could die, my lady, with my love. [99] EH, MAN HENLEY, YOU'RE A DON! i875 Discussion has been frequent upon Henley's attitude towards the Stevenson of later life, and the over-idealization of the Stevenson of posthumous fame. In the earlier days of their acquaintance, when both were strug- gling young poets, a very sympathetic friend- ship existed between them and their minds caught fire from the sparks of each other's conversations. Even their faults of tempera- ment and character brought them closer to- gether. It was only after the public began to set Stevenson on too high a pedestal of virtue that Henley's reaction found voice in expostu- lation and regret. Here, in verses written several years before this friendship, from the point of view of literature, reached its consummation in vari- ous plays of collaboration, we have a witty and familiar little poem, full of all the tang of the vernacular, and of Stevenson's admira- tion for Henley; full, too, of encouragement. But in the retrospect, there is a touch of pathos in Stevenson's prophecy, never to be fulfilled, of the time when the whole world [ 100] would cheer on his friend Henley. Henley was a born poet, and it is not to be wondered that he was able — to use Stevenson's term — to spit out admirable lines, lines whose wis- dom entitled him to the appellation of "Don." But life was cruel to Henley; the world never "patted" his shoulders, as towards the end it patted the shoulders of Stevenson, and these verses, thus faulty in prophecy, have their value mainly as a bright jeu d' esprit dating from the younger days of the two men. EH, MAN HENLEY, YOU'RE A DON! Eh, man Henley, you're a Don I Man, but you're a deevil at it! This ye made an hour agone — Tht! — like that — as tho ye'd spat it, — Eh, man Henley. Better days will come anon When you'll have your shoulders pattit, And the whole round world, odd rat it! Will cry out to cheer you on; Eh, man Henley, you're a Don! ['WW] ALL NIGHT THROUGH, RAVES OR BROODS— 1876 We have already called attention to the fact that the winter of 1876 was a period of such melancholy brooding for Stevenson, that he lacked the energy even for correspondence, two or three cheerless letters being the sum total of his efforts of that kind; while two poems of that winter, to be found in the Bib- liophile edition of 1916, are among the most despondent that came from his pen. The present poem belongs to the same month, March, as the pair just mentioned, and it was presumably written on the same day as the short poem entitled "Soon Our Friends Perish." The evidence for this is furnished by Stevenson's marginal comment on the pre- viously published manuscript where, after asking why God has deserted him, he adds: "And why does the damned wind rave in my ears?" In the present poem the lines occur — All night through, raves or broods The fitful wind among the woods — the same wind, presumably, as raved on that same night. But, as we so often find in Stev- [ 102] enson, even in his darkest moments, he here goes beyond the pessimism of the other poem, and lets his fancy stray into more hopeful fields of memory. The verses are a first and never-to-be per- fected draft, and their incompletion affords an added testimony of the unstrung condition of the poet's mind. ALL NIGHT THROUGH, RAVES OR BROODS All night through, raves or broods The fitful wind among the woods ; All night through, hark! the rain Beats upon the window pane. And still my heart is far away, Still dwells in many a bygone day, And still follows hope with [rainbow wing] Adown the golden ways of spring. In many a wood my fancy strays, In many unforgotten Mays, And still I feel the wandering — [Manuscript breaks off here.~\ [103] THE RAIN IS OVER AND DONE (.876?) The handwriting and context of these verses point to the winter of 1876, and the poem is emphatically in consonance with the moods of those months when Stevenson's out- look on life was darkest. The poem indicates that his despondency was partly due to the recognition of the lessening of his love for the Edinburgh girl who had aroused the great passion of his early manhood. THE RAIN IS OVER AND DONE The rain is over and done; I am aweary, dear, of love; I look below and look above, On russet maiden, rustling dame, And love's so slow and time so long, And hearts and eyes so blindly wrong, I am half weary of my love, And pray that life were done. [104] THERE WHERE THE LAND OF LOVE— 1876 As the winter of 1876 gave way to spring, Stevenson's spirits greatly improved. His letters to friends were far more numerous in the second half of that year than in the first half, and the charm of Nature reasserted its power over his spirits. In the present frag- mentary poem, we find the first lyric indica- tion of the re-appearance of Nature's appeal, though even here, in the comment in his auto- graph where the briefness of life is imaged forth as a flash between the past and the fu- ture, the poet is seen as still under the sway of the sombre thoughts that have darkened his winter. THERE WHERE THE LAND OF LOVE There where the land of love, Grown about by fragrant bushes, Sunken in a winding valley, Where the clear winds blow And the shadows come and go, And the cattle stand and low [IOJ] And the sheep bells and the linnets Sing and tinkle musically. Between the past and the future, Those two black infinities Between which our brief life Flashes a moment and goes out. [106] LOVE IS THE VERY HEART OF SPRING— 1876 In foregoing pages it has been shown how, in 1875, while in France, Stevenson had be- come interested in forms of poetry where the element of the refrain comes musically into play. The present verses are his most sustained attempt at this kind of poetry, and some may feel that the manner wherein he introduces a few lines in constant repetition is so tuneful that the poem becomes a really successful paean of love and springtime. LOVE IS THE VERY HEART OF SPRING Love is the very heart of spring; Flocks fall to loving on the lea And wildfowl love upon the wing, When spring first enters like a sea. When spring first enters like a sea Into the heart of everything, Bestir yourselves religiously, Incense before love's altar bring. [ 107 ] Incense before love's altar bring, Flowers from the flowering hawthorn tree, Flowers from the margin of the spring, For all the flowers are sweet to see. Love is the very heart of spring; When spring first enters like a sea Incense before love's altar bring, And flowers while flowers are sweet to see. Bring flowers while flowers are sweet to see; Love is almighty, love's a King, Incense before love's altar bring, Incense before love's altar bring. Love's gifts are generous and free When spring first enters like a sea; When spring first enters like a sea, The birds are all inspired to sing. Love is the very heart of spring, The birds are all inspired to sing, Love's gifts are generous and free; Love is almighty, love's a King. [108] AT MORNING ON THE GARDEN SEAT— 1880 In his volume entitled "Literary Friends and Acquaintances," William Dean Howells quotes the saying of Lowell's "which he was fond of repeating at the menace of any form of the transcendental, 'Remember the dinner bell.'" There is always something comfort- ing in the recognition on the part of philos- opher or poet of man's interest in so universal and appealing a theme as that of food and drink. In the present delightful little poem, probably written at Silverado, Stevenson not only declares that he dearly loves to drink and eat, and relates how the morning star, the dew and perfumes, the sweet air of dawn all put him in the humor for food, but quaintly em- phasizes his avowal by signing his name in full, as if to a credo. [109] AT MORNING ON THE GARDEN SEAT At morning on the garden seat I dearly love to drink and eat; To drink and eat, to drink and sing, At morning, in the time of spring. In winter honest men retire And sup their possets by the fire; But when the spring comes round again, you see, The garden breakfast pleases me. The morning star that melts on high, The fires that cleanse the changing sky, The dew and perfumes all declare It is the hour to banish care. The air that smells so new and sweet, All put me in the cue to eat. A pot at five, a crust at four, At half past six a pottle more. Robert Louis Stevenson [no] ill Vv». w — kj^ /Uv~^/OA~»~~«~-. Kt/^-'-i. 1/? Ik fcX JU^-o^tto. &1***- r^j -*^i i ^Ut pw»ys (t-j( ww^-jJU-w^ 'V^^o .C~X* ft- 4 "-**^- | iJ A. , ft. (X— <- VriAy^u^^k ^Cc^ct^ xX^ -ylf^A x , I' J j . v f**l (AT ^^ CWpjl^U *Mjl_ *~ ^COW-flUl Wv^^aAo -Wju-J*-^ ^ '-, u 5 r> ^- the days of his apprenticeship in verse some ten years earlier. During the Samoan period he now and then resorted to an irregular son- net form; but this is as far as we know, the only exact sonnet of the intermediate period. Perhaps his acquaintance with French poetry led him to admit the two lines ending with the same sound — feet, defeat — a practice es- chewed by the best English sonneteers. NAY, BUT I FANCY SOMEHOW, YEAR BY YEAR Nay, but I fancy somehow, year by year The hard road waxing easier to my feet; Nay, but I fancy as the seasons fleet I shall grow ever dearer to my dear. Hope is so strong that it has conquered fear; Love follows, crowned and glad for fear's defeat. Down the long future I behold us, sweet, Pass, and grow ever dearer and more near; Pass and go onward into that mild land Where the blond harvests slumber all the noon, And the pale sky bends downward to the sea; Pass, and go forward, ever hand in hand, Till all the plain be quickened with the moon, And the lit windows beckon o'er the lea. [116] MY WIFE AND I, IN ONE ROMAN- TIC COT— 1880 The early months of Stevenson's married life were spent at Silverado, a deserted Cali- fornia mining camp ; and it was there that he wrote this draft of a poem never brought to perfection. Its main interest lies in its reve- lation of the things that Stevenson and his wife were hoping someday to have — she, a horse and a garden, and he, a yacht and a cellar well stocked with wine. These wishes bring to mind Stevenson's sailing, among the islands of the South Sea, and Mrs. Stevenson's many hours of happy and arduous hoeing in the garden at Vailima. But the final wish, to have their friends share in the pleasures of their household, was not to be fulfilled in that far off island which was their only real home. The well, knell, hell, dell, etc., in the mar- gin of the manuscript, as shown in the accom- panying f acsmile, remind us of similar gather- ings of ammunition by Stevenson for other poems. [»7] MY WIFE AND I, IN ONE ROMAN- TIC COT My wife and I, in one romantic cot, The world forgetting, by the world forgot, Or high as the gods upon Olympus dwell, Pleased with what things we have, and pleased as well To wait in hope for those which we have not. She vows in ardour for a horse to trot; I stake my votive prayers upon a yacht. Which shall be first remembered, who can tell — My wife or I? Harvests of flowers o'er all our garden plot, She dreams; and I to enrich a darker spot, — My unprovided cellar. Both to swell Our narrow cottage huge as a hotel, Where portly friends may come and share the lot Of wife and I. [118] \ J &X mX^A\ -.jc^pg&^ >;u -sig^^g^fe^ ..'4— '—— '-•^■■■* "« YES, I REMEMBER, AND, STILL RE- MEMBER WAILING— 1881 The comment at the bottom of the manu- script page — Brown in his haste demanded this from me; I in my leisure made the present verse would seem to establish the place, as well as the year of the composition of these verses, wherein the poet uses, for metrical experi- mentation, the memories of his first voyage to America. The discussions of John Adding- ton Symonds, Horatio F. Brown and Steven- son — men interested in certain classical forms of verse — led Stevenson to various successful efforts in English Alcaics, a group of such poems being included in the two-volume Bibliophile edition of Stevenson's poems. With this group belong the present verses, written at Davos in 1881; and they are of special interest because the attempt in rhyme- less verses in the first eleven lines is followed by a rhymed rendering of the same theme in the last eight lines. We know of no other poem of Stevenson's, based on that adventurous sea trip when, after having left home without announcing his [»9] plans or bidding his friends farewell, the young author, ill and almost penniless, trav- elled on an emigrant ship toward a strange land where the woman he loved was awaiting him. It was in 1879 that Stevenson embark- ed; and the closing months of that year and the early months of 1880, constitute the period when his fortune was at its nadir, with sick- ness, and moments almost of starvation and despair, very nearly pulling him under. But even so, numerous poems of those days give evidence of that will and courage which he never quite lost, and in the present verses we find the poor emigrant raising his voice in songs of home. By the time — two years later — when he recorded in these experimental verses the memories of that difficult ocean voyage, home associations had been renewed, and he was again in Europe, with a wife who had at once won her way into the affections of his parents. YES, I REMEMBER, AND STILL RE- MEMBER WAILING Yes, I remember, and still remember wailing Wind in the clouds and rainy sea-horizon, [ 120] 1 S\ I^V, rJ J i A, r.vv cL <~ « v V V. J - °' ' ' c i -f- o I f J 4 < . V 1 .y Empty and lit with a low nocturnal glimmer; How in the strong, deep-plunging, transat- lantic Emigrant ship we sang our songs in chorus. Piping, the gull flew by, the roaring billows Jammed and resounded round the mighty vessel ; Infinite uproar, endless contradiction; Yet over all our chorus rose, reminding Wanderers here at sea of unforgotten Homes and the undying, old, memorial loves. R. L. Stevenson, esq. Here in the strong, deep-plunging transat- lantic Emigrant ship the waves arose gigantic; Piping the gull flew by, the roaring billows Rose and appeared before the eye like pillows. Piping the gull flew by, the roaring waves Rose and appeared from subter-ocean caves, And as across the smoothing sea we roam, Still and anon we sang our songs of home. Brown in his haste demanded this from me; I in my leisure made the present verse. [12!] OF SCHOONERS, ISLANDS AND MAROONS— 1 88 1 Although Treasure Island was not publish- ed in book form until 1883, Stevenson had well-nigh completed it during his residence at Braemar in 1881, and his letter of the 25th of August of that year, addressed to Henley and signed, "R. L. S., Author of Boy Stories," shows what fun he was having in the writing of this tale. "The Sea Cook, or Treasure Is- land, A Story for Boys," was the title Steven- son had in mind for the book that was the first to bring him fame; and he wrote to Henley: "If this don't fetch the kids, why, then, they have gone rotten since my day." It is that thought which underlies the present poem, written assuredly as a sort of rhymed pre- face for his "ripping" novel of adventure among the Buccaneers. If boys have grown too wise to care for treasure islands and dere- lict ships, for villainous mariners singing "Yo ho ho! and a bottle of rum," why then let the tale remain unread, beside the writings of Kingston and Ballantyne and "Cooper of the land and wave." (This, by the way, is the only reference in Stevenson's verses to Coop- [ 122] er.) But the budding romancer probably had no misgivings, and the young lad, Lloyd Os- bourne, owing to whom the book was written, and who gave orders that no women were to appear in the story, was there to indicate by his enthusiasm the reception that Treasure Island was to receive from the youth of the world. Like so many others of his prefaces, whether in verse or in prose, this one was not used when the book was published; and its present first appearance in type is an especial- ly interesting contribution to Stevenson liter- ature. It is worth adding, perhaps, that when Stevenson, writing from the "Schooner Equa- tor, at sea, IQO miles off Samoa, Monday, December 2nd, i88q," gave his friend Colvin — later Sir Sidney — the plan of his proposed book, The South Seas, he began with the head- ing "Part I. General. Of Schooners, islands, and maroons" — that is, with the first line of this poem. [ 123] OF SCHOONERS, ISLANDS AND MAROONS Of Schooners, Islands and Maroons, And Buccaneers and Buried Gold, And Torches red and rising moons, If all the old romance retold Exactly in the ancient way, Can please, as me they pleased of old, The wiser youngsters of today — So be it, and fall on! If not, — If all the boys on better things Have set their spirits and forgot — So be it, and fall on! If not — If all the boys on solid food Have set their fancies, and forgot Kingston and Ballantyne the brave And Cooper of the land and wave, So be it also ; and may I And my late-born piratic brood Unread beside the ancients lie! So be it and fall on! If not, — ' If studied youth no longer crave, — Their ancients' appetites forgot, — Kingston and Ballantyne the brave, 1 The following eight lines were evidently intended by Stevenson as alternatives for the eight preceding lines. [124] For Cooper of the sea and wood — So be it also; and may I And all my pirates share the grave Where these and their creations lie. [125] HERE LIES EROTION— 1884 In connection with Stevenson's translations from Martial — included in the earlier Bibli- ophile edition, — translations that embodied two of the Roman poet's tributes to the little slave child and dearly loved playmate who died at the age of six, -it was natural to dwell on the fact that Martial's most winning poems were those concerning Erotion. The present verses show Stevenson attempting an imitation in couplets, rather than a verbal translation of Martial (Book V, No. 35), and with the previously printed poems, one begin- ning, "Here lies Erotion whom at six years old Fate pilfered," and the other, "This girl was sweeter than the song of swans," they consti- tute a modern poet's group of adaptations of an unusual theme of ancient literature. The original poem, "De Erotio," has only ten lines. Stevenson follows them fairly closely, the changes of the actual names of Erotion's parents (Fronte and Flaccila), to "mother and sire," and the introduction of the line "Where the great ancients sit with reverend face," being the only departures from the original worthy of note. [126] At the bottom of his Ms. appear two alter- nate lines as follows :- That swam light-footed as the thistle-burr On thee O mother earth, be light on her. HERE LIES EROTION Mother and sire, to you do I commend Tiny Erotion, who must now descend, A child, among the shadows, and appear Before hell's bandog and hell's gondolier. Of six hoar winters she had felt the cold, But lacked six days of being six years old. Now she must come, all playful, to that place Where the great ancients sit with reverend face; Now lisping, as she used, of whence she came, Perchance she names and stumbles at my name. O'er these so fragile bones, let there be laid A plaything for a turf; and for that maid That ran so lightly footed in her mirth Upon thy breast — lie lightly, mother earth! [ 127] TO PRIAPUS — (1884?) In Martial's works (VI- 16) this poem ap- pears under the title "Ad Priapum." Priapus, as the deity symbolizing the fruitfulness of nature, was the recipient of the first fruits and the first flowers, and his image with the sig- nificance of regeneration often appeared on the tombs of the ancient world. To him, there- fore, Martial addresses himself in this invoca- tion on behalf of the dead. The entire tenor of the verses, the desire that none but children shall enter the "green enclosure," would seem to indicate that this too was a poem for the beloved "Erotion;" and although Stevenson has lengthened the four lines of the Latin into six lines of Eng- lish, and has taken the liberty in the fifth line of naming a definite age, he nevertheless pre- serves the spirit and the sentiment of the or- iginal. [.28] TO PRIAPUS Lo, in thy green enclosure here, Let not the ugly or the old appear, Divine Priapus; but with leaping tread The schoolboy, and the golden head Of the slim filly twelve years old — Let these to enter and to steal be bold! [ 129] AYE, MON, IT'S TRUE- 1885 In a letter written from Bonallie Towers, Bournemouth, in February, 1885, to John Ad- dington Symonds, Stevenson tells of "two thundering influenzas" that he had caught in the previous August and November. He had recovered with difficulty from the latter at- tack. His ill health had "painfully upset" Mrs. Stevenson, and he himself confesses to feeling "a little old and fagged." Yet, as al- ways, his courage and his philosophical hu- mor stood him in good stead; and even as he lay very ill on his sick bed he could write such a bright little poem as the following lines in the Scots dialect. [130] AYE, MON, IT'S TRUE Aye mon, it's true; I'm no that weel. Close prisoner to my lord the de'il, As weak 's a bit o' aipple peel, Or ingan parin', Packed like a codfish in a creel, I lie disparin'. Mon, it's a cur-ous thing to think How bodies sleep and eat and drink; I'm no that weel, but micht be waur An' doubt na mony bodies are. ["31] FAR OVER SEAS AN ISLAND IS (1889?) The date of the manuscript is uncertain, but the contents would seem to indicate that it was written prior to Stevenson's setting forth upon his voyage to the islands of the Pacific. "Tos- sing palms" belong to the Southern Seas, 1 and Stevenson was indeed "done with all," when he took up his abode in the far off island of Samoa. His recognition of the modes of rest- lessness which would assail him in a place so distant from all the friends and scenes of his past life, here leads him to call upon those re- sources of the spirit and of the imagination that are the mainstay of man in whatever abode. And so, after asking himself, — Have I no castle then in Spain, No island of the mind? he charges his soul to seek those enchanted islands and streams of desire that are not charted on any map. 1 In Stevenson's description of the South Sea Island of Tutuila he says: "Groves of cocoanut run high on the hills;" and on entering the bay of Oa, he exclaims, "At the first sight, my mind was made up; the bay of Oa was the place for me!" [132] FAR OVER SEAS AN ISLAND IS Far over seas an island is Whereon when day is done A grove of tossing palms Are printed on the sun. And all about the reefy shore Blue breakers flash and fall. There shall I go, methinks, When I am done with all. Have I no castle then in Spain, No island of the mind, Where I can turn and go again When life shall prove unkind? Up, sluggard soul! and far from here Our mountain forest seek; Or nigh enchanted island, steer Down the desired creek. 1 1 To these lines, which Stevenson wrote in one of his note books, he added the following verses which, although in a dif- ferent meter, seem to be a continuation of the same thought. There, where I never was, There no moral laws, Pleasures as thick as haws Bloom on the bush! Incomes and honours grow Thick on the hills. O naught the iron horse avails, And naught the enormous ship. [133] ON THE GORGEOUS HILLS OF MORNING (Samoan period, i 890- 1 894) This page of verse, unfinished though the poem is, has a very personal charm both in the actual picture that it presents (Stevenson, abed, in the forest storm, listening to the early symphony of the birds), and in showing the thoughts that stirred him despite "the merry piping." Though repining was not his way, his letters often indicate his longing for that Scotland which he was never to see again ; and here, after the note of tropic beauty has been struck in the initial portion of his poem, he evokes the picture of the far-away Highlands with their "old plain men," and their "young fair lasses." And as cut off from all the ac- tivities and interests of his former life he re- flects on the remoteness of the secluded island from which he can no longer fare, the great forests seem to him mere "empty places," mocked at not only by life but even by death. [134] ON THE GORGEOUS HILLS OF MORNING On the gorgeous hills of morning A sudden piping of birds, A piping of all the forest, high and merry and clear, I lay in my tent and listened; I lay and heard them long, In the dark of the moonlit morning, The birds of the night at song. I lay and listened and heard them Sing ere the day was begun ; Sing and sink into Silence one by one. I lay in my bed and looked — Paler than starlight or lightning A glimmer . . . In the highlands in the country places Where the old plain men have rosy faces, And the young fair lasses Quiet eyes, Light and heat begin, begin and strengthen, And the shadows turn and shrink and lengthen, As the great sun passes in the skies. [135] Life and death go by with heedful faces — Mock with silent steps these empty places. [136] RIVERS AND WINDS AMONG THE TWISTED HILLS— 1 890- 1 894 Obviously a fragment of a poem written in the Samoan days, these verses show how en- tirely Stevenson has left behind him the active and intense emotional life of the past, and now, among the rivers and winds and twisted hills of his South Sea island, keeps the tran- quil brow of reposeful thought, though well knowing that Death is not far off. RIVERS AND WINDS AMONG THE TWISTED HILLS Rivers and winds among the twisted hills, Hears, and his hearing slowly fills, And hearkens, and his face is lit, Life facing, Death pursuing it. As with heaped bees at hiving time The boughs are clotted, as (ere prime) Heaven swarms with stars, or the city street Pullulates with passing feet; So swarmed my senses once, that now Repose behind my tranquil brow, Unsealed, asleep, quiescent, clear; Now only the vast shapes I hear — [ 137] Hear — and my hearing slowly fills — Rivers and winds among the twisting hills, And hearken — and my face is lit — Life facing, Death pursuing it. [138] I AM A HUNCHBACK, YELLOW FACED (uncertain date) This little poem may possibly belong to that juvenile period when Stevenson was some- what under the influence of Heine. But while the German poet might easily have de- picted hunchback and harlot as being of one class with the fellow mortal whom they ac- cost, the "friendly hand" that Stevenson holds out as the poem closes is extended without that ironical gesture which Heine would have been inclined to make. I AM A HUNCHBACK, YELLOW FACED I am a hunchback, yellow faced, — A hateful sight to see, — 'T is all that other men can do To pass and let me be. I am a woman, — my hair is white — I was a drunkard's lass; The gin dances in my head, — I stumble as I pass. [i39] I am a man that God made at first, And teachers tried to harm; Here hunchback, take my friendly hand,- Good woman take my arm. [140] I LOOK ACROSS THE OCEAN (date uncertain) The following verses show a poem not al- together complete, although it seems that an- other two lines might have rounded it out. In any case, it is unique among the manu- scripts of Stevenson, in that it is addressed to America. It is written in a spirit of great faith in the future of our country and exhibits an almost mystic tensity in the hope it cher- ishes for what America shall achieve. I LOOK ACROSS THE OCEAN I look across the ocean, And kneel upon the shore, I look out seaward — westward, My heart swells more and more. I see the great new nation, New spirit and new scope Rise there from the sea's round shoulder, — A splendid sun of hope! I see it and I tremble — My voice is full of tears — America tread softly, You bear the fruit of years. [ho Tread softly — you are pregnant And growing near your time — [Manuscript breaks off here'] [142] A3 OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARv