BY 
 
 LAURENCEj 
 

 
 THE LIBRARY 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 ri
 
 POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 J. LAURENCE HART 
 
 WITH AN INTRODUCTION 
 BY 
 
 J. CUMING WALTERS 
 
 author of " in tennyson land," 
 "phases of dickens," etc. 
 
 RUGBY: GEORGE E. OVER 
 1912
 
 ?^ 
 
 J. LAURENCE HART. i-j-nS^ 
 
 Born August 2, 1850; died October, 1907. l-i UX-^ *C A\ 
 An Appreciation by J. Cuming Walters. / Q f^ 
 
 In the following pages a representative selection is 
 given of the poems of J. Laurence Hart. The volume 
 is in itself a memorial wreath, fashioned from his own 
 work, and gathered by those who loved him in life. 
 Poetry was his pleasure. Few were the days, whether of 
 shine or storm, of sorrow or joy, which did not produce 
 some flower of verse, and it seems fitting that those which 
 retain a dewy freshness and still exhale the sweetness of 
 the man's own spirit, should form a chaplet for his tomb. 
 His main pursuit was art, and his reverent devotion to 
 nature is attested in enduring works treasured by those 
 who possess them ; but his passion for all that was beauti- 
 ful broke forth in song, spontaneously, irrepressibly ; and 
 both as artist and poet he deserves remembrance. 
 
 Praise and fame, in the ordinary acceptation, he scarcely 
 sought. His life was too gentle and retired and his dis- 
 position too modest to seek the acclamation of the crowd ; 
 yet a recognition of his merits, too long delayed, would 
 have been dear to him, and the pity of it is that his hopes 
 only came near fulfilment when he " met the Sliadow in 
 the path." To preserve and enshrine something of what 
 came from his heart, to exemplify his power, to rescue 
 from time's desert the evidence of his genius, seem to be 
 duties laid upon his friends. It is in this spirit that the 
 preparation of this modest volume has been undertaken. 
 
 The poems reveal much of the man himself — his secret 
 desires, his inner thoughts, his self-communing ; we find in 
 them his abounding love of nature and his ready response 
 to her moods and influences ; and we see his large-hearted 
 love for mankind despite his aloofness from the throng. In 
 
 ■Q
 
 IV 
 
 essence the poems are those of a recluse, but they express 
 what many feel, and should therefore possess tliat potency 
 of appeal which is the final test of true poetry. 
 
 Writing in 1893 to a lad of fifteen who had expressed 
 appreciation of his poems, Mr. Hart made these character- 
 istic remarks : — 
 
 " To deal with one's personality in actual black and 
 
 white, other than through the medium of song or art, 
 
 is distasteful to the sensitive spirit. 
 
 The knowledge your letter brings is both cheering 
 
 and pleasant, as a voice answering the voice of another, 
 
 the response of humanity to the impersonal utterance 
 
 of song. 
 
 It is for this I sing. I would lay a finger on the 
 
 chords of the human heart — I would draw the eyes of 
 
 men to the sweet secrets of Nature's deep strong heart 
 
 . . . and if I make some stronger for God and Truth, I 
 
 am repaid. 
 
 I am hoping to gather my song children home some 
 
 day." 
 These words well serve as an introduction to the pages 
 which follow, but it is meet also that a little should be 
 said of the author whose name may be new to a consider- 
 able proportion of the present readers. 
 
 Fifteen years or more have passed since a stranger, tall, 
 stately, and of quiet dignity, called upon me to prefer the 
 simple request that he should be permitted to contribute a 
 poem every week to a paper in the Midlands I was then 
 editing. There was something impressive about my 
 visitor — the well-formed artistic head, the deep studious 
 eyes, the regular features, the long beard, all made up a 
 picture not soon to be forgotten. His delicate and shapely 
 hands were not without their own suggestion, while the 
 richly-toned voice had an arresting power, restrained and 
 controlled as it always was. The stranger was diffident 
 too, diffident to shyness in preferring his request ; and,
 
 whilst he awaited an answer, he seemed almost to shrink 
 lest it should be unfavourable and should hurt him like a 
 blow. He had several specimens of his verse with him, and 
 as I glanced them through I realised that here was a singer 
 with a real message. Believing then, as I still believe, 
 that in those poems is a quality which renders them of 
 permanent value, I have gladly participated in the task of 
 preparing this memorial volume. I cannot but have 
 many misgivings, however, as to the selections I have 
 made from his hundreds of poems, all proof of his readi- 
 ness to receive suggestion and translate it into song, all 
 reminiscent of his pensive moods, and proof of his entire 
 domination bv the spirit of beauty. The utmost I can 
 claim is to have chosen representative pieces, though I 
 have put aside very many with genuine regret. 
 
 I cannot speak of Mr. Hart as an intimate acquaintance 
 so much as of a friend in close communion, for our paths 
 lay apart. We met only at rare intervals by cross roads, 
 immediately to separate again ; his voice was nearly 
 always distant, and his form invisible. Yet I count it as a 
 privilege and a satisfaction that we always felt a closeness 
 to each other, and that there was no severance of the 
 intangible but ever-strengthening ties by which we were 
 united. Years passing by brought knowledge which made 
 me the more admire the man for his many talents, some of 
 them quite unexpectedly revealed ; while my regard for 
 him deepened steadily as I knew of the esoteric life he had 
 chosen to live, and of the patience, the endurance, the 
 courage, the greatness of heart, which enabled him to 
 continue it. He had ideals which he never lowered or 
 debased, and in the struggle to reach which he never 
 wavered or turned aside. Judged by ordinary worldly and 
 commercial standards he was scarcely to be deemed 
 successful — how could that possibly be in the case of one so 
 "other-worldly'' and so disinterested? He pursued a 
 straight undeviating course, hoping to reach the distant
 
 gleam which beckoned him onwards ; he dreamt of appre- 
 ciation and fame to come ; he was a knight upon his 
 quest ; and just as he seemed nearing the goal, just as the 
 dimness was passing away and the welcome dawn was 
 breaking — he died. The pathos of Laurence Hart's tragedy 
 is increased by that sudden blotting-out of the prospect of 
 victory on which his yearning vision was fixed. He passed 
 away with only half the illusion dissipated, but I think in 
 his last hours he knew that his toil and his constancy to 
 an ideal had not been in vain. He had wrought well, and 
 though he had not been able to seize his reward, his genius 
 is not without its guerdon. The many pictures he has left 
 depicting nature in her infinite variety and displaying the 
 magic and glamour visible to poetic interpreters, will 
 preserve his name from fading and ensure him a place 
 among the artists of his time ; and I feel convinced that 
 some of these songs he breathed into the air will be found 
 " long, long afterwards " cherished in the hearts of his 
 friends. 
 
 Whilst it is necessary to speak of iMr. Hart primarily as 
 the artist, he was altogether too versatile to allow of other 
 matters to be over-looked. Among other things he was a 
 man of remarkable eloquence. I remember that on one 
 occasion, at a small gathering, he was suddenly asked to 
 respond to the toast of literature and art. He at once 
 arose, and poured forth a wealth of beautiful thoughts 
 which simply electrified his audience. The hearers were as 
 if spell-bound while sentence after sentence flowed forth 
 with perfect ease, the language always rich and choice, the 
 glimmering image stealing into it, the sentiment elevated, 
 and the apt quotation, introduced without an effort, 
 adding its gleam to the rushing torrent of speech. It was 
 a perfect piece of oratory, delivered in faultless style. 
 Yet it was only once in a way like this, and on a sudden 
 inspiration, that this shy and reserved man could be 
 induced to speak at all. He was essentially meditative and
 
 Vll 
 
 introspective, but when there was an outlet for the long- 
 pent-up ideas, they burst from him as in wild and 
 spontaneous music. 
 
 As a student of literature he deserves special mention 
 also. He had not only read the poets ; he had absorbed 
 them. He knew every good line, every exquisite verse, 
 so it seemed, that had ever been written in praise of 
 nature. Once he wrote a series of idylls of the months, 
 in which he revealed not only what he himself thought of 
 the change and variety of nature's pageantry, but what 
 the poets from Chaucer to Tennyson had said of worth in 
 its praise and celebration. His mind was a storehouse, a 
 treasury of choice extracts, a repository on which he could 
 draw at any moment for the golden words and the shining 
 imagery he desired to use. Himself a poet, as this volume 
 shows, he was none the less so diffident that he almost 
 dreaded his lyric utterances to be heard, and he sent 
 hundreds of songs into the world without seeking the 
 slightest recognition, and still less thinking of the scanty 
 meed which is offered for a poet's wares. It satisfied him 
 to sing, to write, to paint, to live the poet's life remote, to 
 seek out nature in her sweetest and holiest sanctuaries, to 
 use to the best the gifts with which he had been endowed, 
 to devote himself to the priesthood of his art. Doubtless 
 he had his struggles and his time of sadness and despair. 
 But he never forsook the shrine at which he had chosen 
 to worship. He found peace, joy, and compensation in 
 the exercise of his powers, and in his hermit-like retreat at 
 Morfa Nevin he perchance pursued that idyllic existence 
 which Cowley coveted and of which Marvell dreamed. I 
 use no hackneyed term in saying that his character was 
 beautiful, and there was a fragrance about his life which 
 seemed to make all sweet and beautiful about him. No 
 claim is made that he was " great," but he was good, he 
 was genuine, and his genius was manifest. 
 
 I do not propose to give many details of .Mr. Hart's
 
 Vlll 
 
 career. He himself would not have wished it. A recluse 
 during the greater part of his life, content with a silent 
 priesthood in nature's sanctuaries, he would have dreaded 
 the thought of a publicity beyond that which his actual 
 labours brought him. He can emphatically be deduced 
 from his writings. His note was a sad one in the main, 
 yet not lacking courage ; he suffered, but he hoped. The 
 brave and undaunted soul was always shining out despite 
 bar and cloud, and his philosophy was summed up in a 
 poem such as this : — 
 
 JUST BE CONTENT. 
 
 The Spring that brings the daffodils, 
 
 Holds back the buds of May ; 
 In cloudy isles the skylark trills, 
 
 Before the cuckoo's lay ; 
 But shall I miss the daffodils, . 
 And mourn below the windy hills. 
 
 Because it is not May ? 
 
 The Slimmer paints my lady's I'ose, 
 
 Unlids the lily's eyes, 
 Bids Philomel pour out her woes, 
 
 And waste her twilight sighs ; 
 But shall I gather me no rose, 
 Nor pluck the lily while it blows, 
 
 For crave of cooler skies ? 
 
 / When Autumn ruddy-faced and kind, 
 
 Smooths out the apple's cheek. 
 And ripeness floats adown the wind. 
 
 And harvest wagons creak, — 
 Shall I forgo the pippen'd sweet, 
 And let regret the moment cheat 
 
 For boughs my fancies seek ? 
 
 Be wiser, oh, my seasoned years. 
 
 And take what each shall bring ; 
 Crush not the lowly crocus spears 
 
 That kiss the feet of Spring, 
 But finding each day's gift the best. 
 Just be content, and leave the rest 
 
 For others following I
 
 IX 
 
 Mr. Hart was born at Harborne, then a pretty old- 
 fashioned suburb of Birmingham, on August 2nd, 1850. 
 His father lived near David Cox, the very name of whom 
 appealed to the artistic instinct of the lad ; often, perhaps 
 for no conscious or comprehensible reason, but drawn by 
 the spell of the genius who most stronglv appealed to him, 
 Laurence Hart in his childhood would follow the great 
 artist along the quiet roads, even trying to fit his little 
 footsteps to those of the master he revered. The incident 
 is worth recalling as a manifestation of temperamant. 
 David Cox was, throughout Mr. Hart's life, his inspirer 
 and guide. 
 
 In a leaf of the biography of David Cox, by William 
 Hall, he was found to have written (January, 1899) : — 
 
 " Happy Artist to have had such a biographer. 
 Happy biographer to have had such a painter on whom to 
 lavish such love and appreciation ! How well these pages 
 are known to me ! livery word I read is aureoled with 
 early memories of the dear old painter persuing his tasks 
 in the leafy ways of Harborne ; every praiseful word of the 
 Author flames with memories of him under my father's 
 roof. Here is the wedding of affinities indeed ! Here is 
 the true solace of labour — the finding of a twin soul to 
 that alongside in joy and sorrow, triumph and failure- 
 gripping hard in the miry shadeful valleys — laughing on 
 the slopes — glad in strength and power on the majestic 
 summits of success. Happy twain ! O happy lots ! Dear, 
 happy Cox ! how well, how deeply I love you. How the 
 record of your life's toiling braces me at my lonely easel. 
 Again, and again, how has it been as the winds of heaven 
 over the heathery moors — fragrant, exhilarating, quicken- 
 ing me to the True, steadfast and immovable to the ideals of 
 my soul. To-day I read again. Aye, and many to-morrows 
 shall fling their dawns around me, and many sunsets find 
 me clinging, hopeful still, because of the tonic of this life, 
 the friendship of a noble man whose eye and heart saw 
 and felt so fully and so well."
 
 Unfortunately, Mr. Hart's early hopes were not encour- 
 aged, and his youth was one of struggle, fears, and 
 disillusion, and the sensitive soul was sorely bruised, 
 though not crushed. The conflict fully tested his quality 
 and proved that the "unquenchable hope" was his. These 
 sorrows left their shadow upon him, and they seem to 
 explain his oft-repeated expressions on the disappointments 
 of life. He had been educated at a Roman Catholic 
 school and trained in the choir of the Oratory which will 
 ever be memorable on account of Cardinal Neviman's long 
 connection with it. One of the priests, Father Edward, 
 showed special interest in the pupil, and encouraged his 
 love of books and art. But at the age of seventeen, 
 Laurence Hart, after enduring much distress of mind, 
 became a Protestant, joined the Wesleyans, and threw 
 himself whole-heartedly into lay-work as Sunday School 
 teacher, class leader, and local preacher. Unhappily, this led 
 to a family rupture ; he lost the love of his father, a man 
 of considerable wealth, he was forbidden to return home, 
 and eventuallv was disinherited. In dire need, he turned 
 to art as a means of livelihood, and for years fought the 
 grim fight against poverty and neglect. All this I touch 
 upon with the utmost brevity, accusing none and con- 
 demning none ; doubtless all that was done was in sincerity ; 
 but Laurence Hart was the one who suffered most poign- 
 antly for the convictions he held. Can we not see something 
 of the man's own heart in his poem on Disappointment ? 
 
 How many disappointments wait on life ! Tlirough many doors 
 T liey enter in, and lay an icy hand upon our chierish'd hopes, 
 Like blighting frost that chills the heart-blood of the flowers 
 Too early ventured on the Winter lap of Earth. The tender bud 
 Is rudely nipped, and Sorrow sits awhile with us as guest 
 Unquestioned, while our eyes, tear-wet, and sealed, forget 
 To-morrow waits upon to-day with chalice full of recompense 
 To patient heart and soul of Faith. We know not all 
 The moments mean in their bestowments and withholdings; 
 What seemeth loss may hide beneath a larger gain.
 
 XI 
 
 As lie the flower-germs 'neath the barren sod. Arise, 
 
 My soul ! Put on thy strength, as God, through nature 
 
 Teaches thee. Before thine eyes lies wide an open book, 
 
 That thou may'st read how all-wise Wisdom works, and find a balm 
 
 For present pain in laws which urge an end, unseen us yet ; 
 
 The Winter reigns ! and to our feet the wailing lands are dumb : 
 
 But hidden pulses stir, and currents warm awhile, 
 
 Shall loose the festive fountains of the Spring ! 
 
 His pictures were exhibited from time to time in London, 
 Liverpool, Manchester, and Birmingham. With all their 
 indisputable merit, they did not win large favour among 
 the general public. Mr. Hart belonged to the Impressionist 
 school, and his subjects did not always immediately explain 
 themselves. He loved to cast about them a poetic mysti- 
 cism, to shew Nature in rare moods, to catch strange lights 
 and colours, and to pervade scenes in a glamorous atmos- 
 phere which only the initiated could fully understand. It 
 was his very worship of Nature which led him to seek her 
 beauties in secret spots and hallowed shrines ; he loved her 
 in radiance and in shadow ; he received his impressions 
 instantaneously and could reproduce them long after with 
 faithfulness and charm. His " Footsteps of Night," " The 
 Floodgates," "Birdingbury,'' "The Garden of Sleep," and 
 "The Meadow — Moonlight," probably represent his power 
 at its highest. 
 
 Laurence Hart had the capacity.- of visualising scenes 
 and making them visible to other eyes. Many of his 
 poems seem to be an invitation to come and gaze upon 
 those things which gave him pleasure and brought him 
 enchantment; they bid us enter into his mood, to commune 
 with him in the wood, the vale, the far -spread meadow, 
 the bracing hill-top, and to pierce to the secret of Nature's 
 excellence. Laurence Hart is always companionable in 
 his writings, and seems to make us his fellow-traveller and 
 his friend. His was no selfish enjoyment of the good he 
 found — he spoke, he sang, he appealed, that others might 
 share his raptures and partake of the consolation and
 
 Xll 
 
 solace that he found. And thus in his gentle way he 
 became a leader and teacher — a leader into pleasant paths, 
 and a teacher of good cheer and hope and fortitude. 
 
 He was fond of retrospection, of calling up memories 
 tinted with gold or dimmed with tears. But never have I 
 found in his poems a trace of bitterness. Even when he 
 lamented most his tone was resignation. Nor must it be 
 forgotten that he found in his intense and fervid religious 
 faith the balm he so often needed, and though shadows 
 might be about him he believed in a divine purpose work- 
 ing through all. His life was in this respect an example 
 and an inspiration. 
 
 As to the poems in general, they practically divide 
 themselves into lyrics of the four seasons during which 
 every tint and shade dear to the poet's eye is reproduced, 
 and every thought suggested by them set down in appro- 
 priate lines. There is an atmosphere about all that 
 Mr. Hart wrote which is comparable to the atmosphere 
 of a picture : he takes the scene as it presents itself to the 
 artist-eye, endeavours to paint it in radiance or in sombre 
 grey, and not infrequently adds " the gleam — the light 
 that never was on land or sea, the consecration and the 
 poet's dream." In all this work there is no pretentiousness, 
 no suggestion that the poet thought he was engaged upon 
 great work — rather is it suggested to us that he " sang 
 because he must," and that he relieved a full heart of those 
 melodies which nature herself whispered to him in all 
 sweetness. The artlessness of it all is most apparent, and 
 constitutes its chief charm. 
 
 In making a selection from the very considerable 
 number of Mr. Hart's poems, I have aimed at securing 
 a representative few — those which denote the constant trend 
 of his thought, those which bring out his salient charac- 
 teristics as author and man. I found many repetitions of 
 subjects, due, no doubt, to habitual state of mind. But 
 I would point out that if frequently he dwelt upon griefs,
 
 XIU 
 
 disappointments, and the more sombre side of things, he 
 never grew morbid, and however plangent the note he 
 struck, the conclusion was hopeful and happy. He was 
 no moping and complaining sophist; as with Dr. Johnson's 
 philosophic friend, " cheerfulness was always breaking in." 
 There was a delicacy, a refinement of spirit in Mr. Hart 
 which prevented him from dulness and despair ; easily 
 moved and quickly responsive to the mournful undertone 
 in nature, he none the less was fortified with a faith in all 
 things, and refused to be cast down. Thus, not one of his 
 poems ends in the minor key — he calls for courage even 
 while revealing acute sensitiveness to a blow of adversity, 
 or when manifesting sympathy with a soul stricken by 
 tragedy. Upon this phase in his poems I like to dwell, 
 knowing so well that only the truly heroic nature could 
 have displayed it. 
 
 One of his last poems, written in dire illness and in 
 much anxiety, is a self revelation of importance. It was 
 penned on the first April day of 1Q07 and he called it 
 "My Share" — the share of a man whom fortune had so 
 often spited, and whose day was drawing to its dim close. 
 
 In all the glad things of this April day 
 
 I have a share ; 
 The garden bushes in their bright array, 
 The drumming bees, the thrushes' mated lay ; 
 
 The happy living stir 
 
 Around mc everywhere ! 
 The young Spring's maiden play, 
 
 All, all are mine to share ! 
 
 And if uinged pleasures flutter in the sun 
 
 Of memoried years. 
 When youth's high rapture like the morning shone,- 
 And deeds were only summits to be won ; 
 
 Though capped by years 
 
 Thought but endears 
 The golden remnant of the sands unrun 
 
 Though Fame be in arrears.
 
 XIV 
 
 1 cavil not with Fortune (fickle sprite), 
 
 Give, or withliold. 
 If life has dower of worship and delight 
 In simple things — the world's brave might 
 
 In cloth of gold 
 
 Hard-aged and bold 
 May pass— I have a fairer sight, 
 
 Undreamed, untold ! 
 
 These lines are particularly worth noting, for it was so 
 destined that Laurence Hart's life-battle should be waged 
 to the last. The great heroic soul was still engaged in an 
 uneven contest with fate. A heavy cloud, arising from 
 private misfortune, hung over his last year, and the 
 sensitive spirit showed signs of sinking. On October 23rd, 
 1907, his eyes closed ; and then, too late, eager words of 
 praise were poured upon him. Not in vain had a noble 
 and disinterested life been lived if only for its influence 
 upon those around. 
 
 The Welsh have a beautiful custom of showing respect 
 for those who have dwelt among them and won their 
 special favour. The whole community takes part in the 
 funeral ceremony, the coffin being borne to its last resting 
 place first by one party, then another, and the changes made 
 so frequently that it can truly be said that every hand has 
 helped in the reverent and solemn task. This was the 
 honour accorded Laurence Hart by the people of Morfa 
 Nevin, all differences of race and sects being forgotten in 
 the desire to pay him the last human tribute. It was a 
 touching scene, eloquent as pathetic, and the spirit of the 
 dead man might at last have exulted that a gracious life 
 of benign influence and faithful labour had not been 
 without its crown of victor}'. 
 
 January, 19 12.
 
 FANCIES BY THE WAY
 
 AN OLD-FASHIONED WORLD 
 
 T SOMETIMES wonder, as I walk, 
 
 On lonely musings bent, 
 To hold, unheard, a %^oiceless talk 
 With flower and firmament, 
 
 Why Spring should paint the primrose hue. 
 
 As deftly as she did 
 When Eden budded, young and new, 
 
 And man's designs were hid. 
 
 How strangely old — old-fashioned, all 
 
 The work the seasons show ! 
 Without remission, or recall, 
 
 As softly as the snow, 
 
 She decks the daisy's disc, as when 
 
 The first morn saw it rise. 
 And eyes perchance of happy men 
 
 Shone with a glad surprise. 
 
 She clothes the lily white, the rose 
 
 With Love's divinest dyes ; 
 Above us poise the cloudy floes. 
 
 In changeless, changing skies. 
 
 The throstle pipes no newer note 
 Than deathless Shakespeare heard ; 
 
 For us the sk)'-lark's fountain through 
 The soul of Milton stirred ! 
 
 October sets the scarlet hip. 
 
 Beside the purple sloes — 
 Still curves the mushroom's satin'd lip, 
 
 And pearls the thistle's hose ;
 
 Paves out the forest-aisles with gold, 
 
 In ruby robes the thorn ; 
 Spins bridal veils of mist to fold 
 
 About the frosty morn. 
 
 And yet we scorn old-fashioned things ! 
 
 Had we the will to do. 
 Perhaps, our scientific springs 
 
 Would boast a bluer blue ; 
 
 Change lives on change, till, overfed, 
 
 It wearies as a child, 
 And longs to lay its fevered head 
 
 On banks where once it smiled 
 
 In innocence of trust that pried 
 
 No further than it saw, 
 And ate the manna satisfied 
 
 Ungrown of wheaten straw. 
 
 What will of mine may never shape. 
 Old-fashioned Nature frames. 
 
 Inconstancy dry bones ma)? drape 
 And classify with names. 
 
 I wander further back — at ease 
 From vaulting feats of man, 
 
 Content to have the eye that sees 
 Where Paradise began.
 
 THE PHANTOM FIRE 
 
 The red glow of the firelight flared 
 
 A phantom image through the pane, 
 Across the path where shadow stirred 
 Before the Spring day's chilly wane, 
 I watch'd it as it danced and leapt, 
 And in my heart a sweet thought crept. 
 
 To nestle as the birds to rest 
 
 Deep in the yew tree's scented shade ; 
 
 Nor moved I from my watching, lest 
 
 The ghostly tongues that danced and played 
 
 Should melt mto the darkling night, 
 
 And oust my thought to aimless flight. 
 
 But as the darkness grew and hid 
 
 The children in its cold embrace. 
 And only tuneful voices slid 
 
 Their gladness 'tween its fading grace, 
 The warm light glowed with richer tone : 
 My thought to flower had quickly blown ! 
 
 The fires of noble deeds, and true, 
 The love that burned on altars pure. 
 
 Again on forivard paths u>e vieiv: 
 The past unseen— they still endure — 
 
 The phantom fires that dance and leap. 
 
 Our pathivay to the land of sleep !
 
 THE UNSEEN 
 
 Jf unto us the seen is fair, 
 That all about us lies, 
 Shall we not climb the unseen stair. 
 That winds unto the skies ? 
 
 The skies where viewless planets shine, 
 Where suns unsetting burn. 
 
 Beyond the dusky twilight line 
 That belts each questful turn. 
 
 The eyes of intellect may scan 
 
 Each miracle of God, 
 That flames upon the path of man, 
 
 And man remain unshod 
 
 For roadways to the spirit shown — 
 
 The undiscovered land. 
 Soul intuitions only, own — 
 
 Beyond Time's shady strand. 
 
 O, for the seeing heart, the eyes 
 Of feeling deep and pure : — 
 
 Love's vision that can recognise 
 The Truth that shall endure.
 
 WHEN THE CHILDREN ARE AWAY 
 
 "The door is open to the night, 
 
 And all the rooms are still ; — 
 A muteness over which no might, 
 
 Or wish of mine hath will, 
 Sits sphinx-like by the hearth and hall, 
 On empty chair and pictured wall. 
 
 The door is open to the night — 
 The night that falleth sweet ; 
 
 I mark no more the swallow's flight, 
 I listen for returning feet — 
 
 For voices of the children, when 
 
 The place with mirth shall sing again. 
 
 The door is open to the night. 
 
 But as I watch, 1 catch 
 The glimmerings of muslin white, 
 
 The gleeful click of garden latch ; 
 The silence vanishes — once more 
 The house is Home, and shut the door !
 
 VISIONS IN THE NIGHT 
 
 ■^yiTH wakeful eyes that slumber woos 
 
 In vain I peer about 
 The sea of thought wherein I cruise 
 
 While all the stars are out — 
 A long, long voyage, rudderless, 
 
 A weary, aimless drift, 
 Ah ! me, I wish the stars would fade, 
 
 And let the morning lift. 
 
 For Fancies, like the sea-gulls, wing 
 
 In circles round and round, 
 I hear the waves' deep murmuring. 
 
 But whither am I bound ? 
 A pathless deep behind, before — 
 
 Awilderness of sea, 
 Without a hope, without a shore, 
 
 Or harbour light for me ! 
 
 The vision changes ! faces grim. 
 
 Like snowfiakes, crowd and stare, 
 From worlds afar, and regions dim. 
 
 And bodiless as air. 
 They leer, and laugh, in demon jest, 
 
 In wild confusion blent. 
 Until as surges seeking rest 
 
 Their mimicry is spent. 
 
 Once more a change ! Soft elfin strains 
 
 Break tuneful on my ears, 
 Low cadences like summer rains 
 
 That fill the woods with tears : 
 And on and on the dreary waste, 
 
 With calm and wind I drift, 
 Until the watching stars shall fail. 
 
 And let the morning lift.
 
 A MOOD 
 
 QoME odd volume, some old ditty, 
 
 Shall be mine to-night. 
 I crave me neither love nor pity, 
 
 Passion nor delight, 
 But to feel the sharp rain falling 
 
 Through the moonless night. 
 
 I would feel the moor-wind blowing. 
 
 Scent the heather's lip ; 
 Hark the naked storm scythe mowing 
 
 Over ridge and dip. 
 Bared, unbowed before the wrestler's 
 
 All-devouring grip. 
 
 Let me see the white-mist maidens 
 
 Leap the boggy pools : 
 Follow into unknown aidens, 
 
 Led by star-eyed ghouls — 
 Through the purple-painted spaces, 
 
 From the tongues of fools. 
 
 Some old singer— half forgotten. 
 
 Shall be mine to-night — 
 Some old shelf — moth-eaten — rotten. 
 
 Fancy shall re-light. 
 While the sharp rain brawling, falling, 
 
 Drowns the winter night.
 
 10 
 
 IN FAIRYLAND 
 
 J^END me your tongues, O elves of the islands, 
 
 Girt with the sea of immortals ; 
 Lend me your eyes, and your gossamer pinions, 
 
 To hie me from earth's cloudy portals ! 
 Give me the draught of the chalice supernal. 
 
 The fruit that enpurples, untouched of decay, 
 Gird me with gladness, and banish all sadness, 
 
 Come ! fairies of Fairyland, bear me away ! 
 
 See ! from the heart of the odorous rose — 
 
 Down stairways of starlight thev hasten ! 
 On the breasts of the ripples the river is flashing — 
 
 From valleys the twilight doth cherish, and chasten. 
 From bells where the bees were summer-long trysting, 
 
 From flags 'neath the willows, from lily cups white, 
 With the glow-worm"s wan torches — from cavernous 
 porches, 
 
 On bat's wing and bell-note they throng on my sight. 
 
 Through echoless aisles of the winter — red-berried— 
 
 Where winds mouth their madness uncurbed. 
 Through sunsets that burn brief vigils o'er shroudings. 
 
 Of snow-forests, dumb, undisturbed. 
 The elves of the Isles of Enchantment come singing, 
 
 Gay sprites of the eves of midsummers dead ; 
 With will-o-wisps' eerie, from dark days and dreary, 
 
 They bear me to where the immortals are wed !
 
 II 
 
 THE PAGE TURNED DOWN 
 
 gOMETiMES we come to it again — 
 
 A moment from the thralling throng, 
 A dead flower from a summer lane — 
 
 The lilt of some old-fashioned song ; 
 We halt with tears in eye and heart, 
 
 A memor}- no floods can drown, 
 It is a sacred thing apart- 
 
 The page of life turned down. 
 
 What hopes and joys are hidden there. 
 
 No other knows, no other heeds : 
 They flowered a moment — but the air 
 
 Blew cold and chill, and memory bleeds ! 
 Across the blue the angry cloud ; 
 
 The icy breath that doth imbrown ; 
 Ah me ! my heart to-night is bowed 
 
 Before the page turned down. 
 
 Dear volume of my life, my heart 
 
 Is often tired, and often sad, 
 And sometimes from the noisy mart 
 
 Thy folded places heal and glad ; 
 And all is now — or yonder — I 
 
 Have bygone shrines of sweet renown. 
 And chiefest to the inward eye 
 
 The page of life turned down.
 
 12 
 
 A CHALLENGE TO CHEERFULNESS 
 
 ''P'ls a weary way through the cloudy day, 
 
 To the scent and song of June ; 
 The wind is chill that around the hill 
 Makes bitter the Winter noon. 
 
 And some in the wearier glooms of life. 
 
 May call it an idle dream, 
 With memories cold, of the suns of old, 
 
 That never again shall gleam. 
 
 But O, if your ears have heard, as mine, 
 
 On the topmost ash, a-sway — 
 The carolling thrush, in the windy rush 
 
 That raced from the spumy bay : 
 
 You had learned again to take heart, and greet 
 
 This mate of the mirth of June, 
 Who, up on his perch, the sea-wind's lurch, 
 
 Sings through the Wintry noon : 
 
 Sings — with a heart red-ripe for bliss. 
 
 To his sweetheart, barkening nigh, 
 Of a songful nest below her breast, 
 
 Though the North-wind rakes the sky !
 
 13 
 THE WELL-WORN ROAD 
 
 Is not every life full of a pettiness of detail, a continuous 
 monotony of repetition ? This is the well-worn road we all 
 travel . . . and let the track be rough or smooth, high or 
 low, there will be times in the journey when every wayfarer's 
 heart will expand to embrace a joy or contract under the sting 
 of a sharp agony. — Holm Lee. 
 
 Qthers before me, weary as L 
 
 Under the rain, and burning sky, 
 
 Have trodden in faith and fear ; 
 Ah ! how the tramp of the toiling feet 
 Beats into my brain in the dust and heat, 
 
 As I rest by the milestone here ! 
 
 Sometimes a level, easy and straight. 
 Seemed it a dance to the golden gate 
 
 Of the kingdom of desire ; 
 Sometimes sweet with the sea-salt air. 
 And Hope blown up from the everywhere, 
 
 And the sky arch higher and higher ! 
 
 Sometimes rough as the ribbed-rock side, 
 Deep and dark it would grimly stride 
 
 To the awful caves of death ; 
 Till the falt'ring foot held back, and beat 
 The heart in agony of defeat 
 
 And cold with its bated breath.
 
 H 
 
 And ever through all the changing moons 
 Grows still the tramp like the ceaseless runes 
 
 Of the surf on shingly floor ; 
 For ever — through rise and set of days, 
 In sorrow and laughter, mourning and praise, 
 
 Presses heel unto heel the more ! 
 
 Wayfarers all on the dusty track, 
 Tethered to Toil and to Duty's pack, 
 
 Task-mastered every one ; 
 The Dead who have passed have nothing to say. 
 There is but a print on the well-worn way, 
 
 And the Living are passing on !
 
 15 
 TO THOSE WHO SPIN AXD TOIL 
 
 Jn the green heart of the forest 
 
 Let me weave a leafy rhyme. 
 For the hearts that need it sorest, 
 For the ears that hear no chime 
 But the Babel call to toil, 
 Lest should fail the cruise of oil ! 
 
 Had I wit to score the gladness, 
 Ye should feel the balmy breath 
 
 In the winter of your sadness, 
 In the chambers of your death ; 
 
 Ye should see with tearless eyes 
 
 The rounded blue of sunny skies. 
 
 Had 1 skill to catch the measure 
 Of the forest songs, and sing. 
 
 Ye should know the tranquil pleasure 
 Of the summer's solacing ; 
 
 Music from the birds' free heart, 
 
 Should float into your Babel-mart. 
 
 Ye should hear the sound of sickle, 
 Through the barley fields, aglow ; 
 
 Ye should hark the streamlet's trickle 
 Echo with its laughter, low — 
 
 Soothful scenes and sweetened air 
 
 Should bless ye as the peace of prayer.
 
 i6 
 
 Could I flash this warmth and shining, 
 Trust it on yon swallow's wing — 
 
 Sun-smiles from the fern's entwining, 
 From the willow-mirrored spring — 
 
 Ye, methinks, with gladlier hope 
 
 Should bear the stress of labouring slope. 
 
 Ye should learn, if slow believing. 
 How the sweet day follows night ; 
 
 How earth's shadows, and its grieving. 
 Shall have end, sometime, in light ; 
 
 Ye should bless the forest's speech. 
 
 And trust to heaven's succouring reach.
 
 17 
 CAST DOWN BUT NOT DESTROYED 
 
 pROM whence this mournful mood, all joy dispelling, 
 
 That on my spirit sets its icy chill, 
 Like winter's snowy shroud, that round my dwelling 
 Yet rests the shoulders of the greening hill ? 
 
 I had some cherished dreams of Spring awaking : 
 Within — serener thought began to flow — 
 
 Now through my brain a tumult fierce is raking — 
 Outside, comes thick and fast the blinding snow. 
 
 Too quick was I — too warm with sweet desiring — 
 
 I held not cold aloof, like yonder oak, 
 But touched by tiniest spark of Fancy's firing, 
 
 Hope's branches bloomed, unheeding this fell stroke. 
 
 So flashed the moment's glow, as sudden disappearing, 
 A gleam of gladness shot from dismal skies — 
 
 The pure, Diviner calm, like sunsets' clearing, 
 That blesses weary day, ere daylight dies. 
 
 Thus ever strife and peace ; the wrestling ills unsparing, 
 
 The under-whisper of a day unborn ; 
 Art tired ? Look thou beyond the hard hour's faring, 
 
 God hides His roses in the Winter thorn.
 
 i8 
 
 A PLEA FOR LEISURE 
 
 YyAYFARER, whose swift feet o'ertake 
 
 My laggard step, by dreaming tied — 
 Why hurriest so ? And what thy stake — 
 The way is long, the world is wide. 
 
 Spare, prithee, of thy running breath 
 To hold such converse as may fit ; 
 
 His not all loss that tarrieth 
 Among the golden days to sit ; 
 
 With flower, and weed, in common need, 
 To bask beneath the azured tent. 
 
 While Nature shapes the future seed 
 To sow the fields of thine intent. 
 
 W'hy lure the eye with ghostly goals, 
 Forgetful of the sense that cries — 
 
 Unsatisfied with stinted doles — 
 For food the living hour supplies? 
 
 The white-browed noon — the sunset shore, 
 Where ebbs the purple sea of day 
 
 Unto the Night that evermore 
 In silent darkness drinks alway ; 
 
 The moon's soft parley — twilight still— 
 The stars above the moorlands mute ; 
 
 The shadows nestling to the hill. 
 
 When down mill sluices owlets hoot ; 
 
 The gloom whose ebon caverns awe. 
 And hold divulgeless all they breed ; 
 
 Charm'd mystery, in whose toiling maw 
 Uncanny incarnations feed ;
 
 19 
 
 The scarring storm's tempestuous wake, 
 Where winds, unbaffled, whip like thongs, 
 
 And o'er the thundery cloud-vans break 
 Grim Rudra-led, their frenzied songs. 
 
 The windless dawn, whose kisses lure 
 
 The river into laughter rare. 
 And like some god-impassioned wooer, 
 
 Pours gifts divine of light and air ; 
 
 ■Warm, flowery breathings of delight, 
 Of heaven winnow'd— pure as dew — 
 
 The effluence of a gladness white 
 As thrones of pearl on aerial blue ; 
 
 Hours whose enchantments are the lutes 
 
 Of no false siren to destroy : 
 Fine ecstasies their spirit flutes 
 
 From out the golden pipes of joy ; 
 
 These, these with ardours would entice 
 From mundane cares and murky aims, 
 
 From greed whose utmost farthing's price. 
 If wet with blood, it surely claims ; 
 
 Sphered wonders orb our swelt'ring way, 
 Hash forth their radiance as we tread 
 
 Through glimmering mazes — half at bay 
 Before the sphinx's brazen head : 
 
 These, these the genii that disarm 
 The spells that hold us to the earth. 
 
 And keep us poised, and free from harm 
 To breathe the air of larger birth !
 
 30 
 
 NIGH 
 
 "Do not seek so anxiously to be developed, to subject 
 yourself to many influences to be played upon : it is dis- 
 sipation. Humility, like darkness, reveals the heavenly 
 lights.'' — Walden. 
 
 J HOLD a creed that quiet eye and passive will 
 
 may meet 
 With unexpected pleasures unfound of search- 
 
 ful feet. 
 
 We take our pilgrim staff too oft for golden 
 
 goals afar. 
 And crush the flower below our feet in quest of 
 
 wandering star. 
 
 We urge our spirit's pace uncurbed o'er common 
 
 levels— spurned, 
 To find at weary halting hour the bush which 
 
 never burned. 
 
 Knights errant, with Quixotic steel we push for 
 
 sorceried shore — 
 For moons and suns and dawns and eves we 
 
 saw not at our door. 
 
 The far hills grow the gayest green — the un- 
 possessed, possessed 
 
 Of all the balm of Gilead to heal our mad un- 
 rest. 
 
 To brazen altars we would trend with sacrifice 
 unclean, 
 
 All through the shining aisles of God, to wor- 
 ship the Unseen ;
 
 21 
 
 Untempered by the tempered light of glory 
 
 swung around, 
 Of days and nights that coronate each step as 
 
 hallowed ground ! 
 
 Cease ye from searching ! cease, and wait, in 
 
 lowliness attired. 
 The passing of the angel hosts with sunset hues 
 
 affired ; 
 
 List ye the latticed song that greets your morn- 
 saluted ears. 
 
 Cleanse ye your eyes in lilied light from un- 
 corrupted spheres ; 
 
 Off pilgrim shoes! Unshod, unshod! let staff 
 and buckler lie, 
 
 Pray ye for simple hearts that find God's ever- 
 sweetest Nigh.
 
 22 
 
 BEHIND THE PLOUGH 
 
 'The ploughshare ribs the winter fields 
 
 With furrows straight : 
 The red leaf flutters on the bough — 
 Its farewell late. 
 
 And slowly up, and slowly down, 
 
 Old Robin drives 
 His sturdy team— till hungry noon — 
 
 Till twilight hives 
 
 Each haggard gleam of fainting light. 
 
 With thrifty care, 
 And sets her sentinels of mist, 
 
 Through valleys bare ! 
 
 Where late the tuneful sickle sang 
 
 The reaper's hymn, 
 The stubble's sallow nakedness 
 
 Is cold and grim ; 
 
 Flown everv gentle charm that graced 
 
 The summer hours. 
 With loveliness of laughing light. 
 
 And feast of flowers. 
 
 Weep forth your woe, O dreary skies ! 
 
 The furrows wait 
 To drink the sorrow of your thought 
 
 For earth's hard fate. 
 
 Wail, winds, that herald winter snows,. 
 
 While furrows keep 
 The harvests that to-morrow's suns 
 
 Shall ripe and reap.
 
 23 
 
 DEAD LEAVES 
 
 Qf thee, dead leaves, I sing, 
 
 That erstwhile sang to me, 
 Through azured-hours of Spring, 
 In summer revelry. 
 
 Dead days are shrined in thee ; 
 
 Cast vestments of a time, 
 When gladness wandered free, 
 
 From morn to even chime ; 
 
 When joy piped as the birds ; 
 
 When sweet desire grew strong 
 When like new wine, its words, 
 
 When thought was only song ! 
 
 And now, when heedless feet, 
 But crush thee in the mire, 
 
 Bedrenched with rain and sleet, 
 I string once more my lyre 
 
 In winter days, and dark, 
 Of thee, dead leaves, to sing. 
 
 That when the wold is stark. 
 Bring back the suns of spring, 
 
 The light of love, and youth. 
 The lily-vestured days. 
 
 Pure as the face of Truth, 
 Sweet as the breath of praise.
 
 24 
 
 PIPPIN TIME 
 
 J LOVED the golden pippin time, 
 
 When life was young, 
 When like the pleasant sound of rhyme, 
 
 To music sung, 
 The seasons all, were all to me 
 
 Festivity. 
 
 Then, indiscretion found the way 
 
 To russet stores, 
 As blithely as in merry May, 
 
 Through leafy shores. 
 It hunted for the nested thrush, 
 
 With face aflush. 
 
 And now, through rime-besprinkled years, 
 
 The vision comes 
 Of lads and lasses free of fears, 
 
 'Mid purple plums, 
 And giant codlings near the sky, 
 
 That filch'd a sigh. 
 
 But some are gone, and some are old ; 
 
 While pippins glow 
 Among the thinning leaves of gold 
 
 As long ago ; 
 For ever thus the Autumn brings 
 
 Her offering 
 
 To fill the lap of age and youth : — 
 
 Great Nature's tryst, 
 Unchanged through earth's unrest and ruth, 
 
 Its sun and mist. 
 As bounteous as when Eden bore 
 
 Her virgin store.
 
 25 
 
 LEISURED DAYS 
 
 Like some far azure-girdled moon, 
 
 Unto the Harvest night, 
 Lifting a golden face a-swoon, 
 Above the waving white ; 
 
 So here and there, calm, isolate, 
 
 We count our leisur'd days — 
 Still pools amid life's fretful spate. 
 
 The green of dusty ways. 
 
 Brighter for circling darkness, deep, 
 
 Stillier for the roar 
 Of bleaching torrent's rush and sweep 
 
 Adown the rock-scoop'd floor ; 
 
 Slim margins on the graven scroll 
 
 Of Time's indenture stem. 
 Where to the half-blind, sense-bound soul, 
 
 Unwritten lessons burn.
 
 26 
 
 RESTLESSNESS. 
 
 JyjY heart is restless— the busy hours 
 
 Have tossed it to and fro — 
 To and fro, as the woods are bent. 
 When the wintry tempests blow. 
 
 And the waning day in silence dies, 
 
 Dies as I watch and wait ; 
 Moment by moment deeper shade 
 
 Sweeps over the Western gate. 
 
 Solenm and slow, with unhasting step, 
 
 Into the far unknown, 
 Goes the day from my fever'd grasp — 
 
 The day I had called my own ; 
 
 Goes with its myriad thoughts and fears. 
 
 Its effort and discontent — 
 The work, maybe, of a master-mind, 
 
 Or rude disfigurement. 
 
 Over me shimmer the stars, in peace, 
 
 Round me the shadows creep : 
 Come near, O Night, with thy gentle touch. 
 
 And soothe with the gift of sleep !
 
 27 
 
 THE HILLSIDE OF THE YEAR 
 
 TJpoN the hillside of the year 
 
 The poppy burns, the golden ear 
 
 To harvest fills, — 
 When pippins blink on orchard boughs, 
 And russet tones begin to drowse 
 
 Among the hills. 
 
 Upon the hillside of the year 
 We greet the robin's dainty cheer, 
 
 And find again 
 The vanish'd light of younger days — 
 The chords of half-forgotten lays 
 
 In his dear strain. 
 
 Upon the hill -side of the year 
 The wonder of the Spring is clear, 
 
 And clearer still 
 The vexed and troubled winter stress. 
 That hid the power to give and bless 
 
 In seeming ill. 
 
 Upon the hillside of the year 
 The heart of Nature beateth near, 
 
 And warm and strong 
 The juicy tide of plenty flows, 
 And flowing, deeper, grander grows 
 
 Its mellow song. 
 
 Upon the hillside of the year 
 
 With gathered riches why should fear 
 
 Or hunger be ? 
 And on Life's ever west'ring slope, 
 O God, so little light and hope 
 
 When men have Thee ?
 
 28 
 
 A HARVEST IDYLL 
 
 guT late, I chanced on wistful age, 
 
 In harvest fields of gold, 
 For him no longer toil brought wage, 
 His years were full nigh told. 
 
 Yet hither drawn by instinct deep 
 
 In his rough nature sown. 
 He loves to see the reapers reap, 
 
 Though he must watch alone. 
 
 On knotty staff his thews had cut 
 
 In winters long ago 
 From some wild copse of hazel nut. 
 
 He bent his body low ; 
 
 Frail with the buffetings of years, 
 
 The drain of ceaseless moil — • 
 Of rugged sorrows — honest tears — 
 
 The heritage of toil. 
 
 Yet even as I looked, his eye 
 
 Grew brighter as he swept 
 The grain-fields sloping to the sky ; 
 
 His mem'ry stirr'd and leapt : 
 
 New life pulsed through his thinning veins, 
 
 As he once more beheld 
 The graceful shocks — the freighted wains. 
 
 Like the brave days of eld. 
 
 His rheumv fingers itched to grip 
 
 The sickle, tried and true, 
 And follow blithely, heel and hip. 
 
 The golden billows through.
 
 29 
 
 And when I spoke, he answered not — 
 
 The bygone held him so, 
 And led him to this trv'sting spot, 
 
 Where old-time flowers might blow. 
 
 The red sun dipt below the hill, 
 The reapers' work was done ; 
 
 Above the church tower, pure and still, 
 The moon of Harvest shone ! 
 
 When next I passed the churchyard yew, 
 
 The wintry trees were bare : 
 Old Time had gathered sheaf anew, 
 
 My aged friend was there !
 
 30 
 
 A MEMORY 
 
 ''pwEEN bracken and boulder, the brown burn is leaping, 
 
 As it leaped in the vears long ago, 
 And laughing the louder, when hills are a-weeping, 
 When up in the glen the wind-bugles blow ; 
 But the bonnie, braw graces — 
 The winsome, glad faces, 
 That beamed like the sunshine on heather and stone, 
 Have vanished like mist from the rock-haunted places, 
 The light o' the valley has flown ! 
 
 The blue lake is silent, its sweet secrets hiding. 
 
 As it hid in the long years ago. 
 But on its broad bosom the shadows are gliding, 
 And the wind-ripples flit to and fro ; 
 But the shy, sheeny glances — 
 The blithe maiden fancies. 
 That flasht like a mere with summer light strewn, 
 Are but as a dream that the moment entrances, 
 The light o' the valley has flown ! 
 
 The heather may purple, the whin's yellow blacken. 
 
 The curlew wail over the moor ; 
 The red hand of autumn may crimson the bracken. 
 The mists lie a-sleeping, the spate rush and roar; 
 But the bonnie, braw graces, 
 The winsome, glad faces. 
 That beamed like the sunshine on heather and stone, 
 Have vanished like mist from the rock-haunted places, 
 The light o' the valley has flown !
 
 31 
 
 THE POET'S GIFT 
 
 'Thought took up the poet's page, and strayed 
 
 among the flowers, 
 And in its joy forgot that Time was woof of 
 
 fleeting hours ; 
 With leisured step, forgetful, dreamed the present 
 
 out of sight. 
 By singing stream, and fragrant bowers led 
 
 on by pure delight. 
 
 Love chanced upon forgotten chords, and swept 
 
 its dusty lyre 
 With fingers passionate and strong — with touch 
 
 of early fire ! 
 Forth leapt the spirit of the past— the laughter 
 
 of its spring — 
 When Hope was bright as silver cloud below 
 
 the lark's flush'd wing. 
 
 Need shut the poet's page and plied in harsher 
 
 tone her wants. 
 And pointing to life's toiling ways, bade leave 
 
 the fabled fonts ; 
 I rose obedient, when behold ! the water changed 
 
 to wine. 
 My heart was lightened of its load, the poet's 
 
 gift was mine !
 
 32 
 
 TRADITION 
 
 Jn hoary haunts, and hoarier than all wherein 
 she dwells, 
 She greets you, leisure-footed, her garments 
 rimed with mould ; 
 From dust-encrusted centuries she manipulates 
 her spells, 
 And wraps you in her shadows, invisible, and 
 cold. 
 
 O Witch fantastic, in whose eye the dead past 
 sleeps — as some 
 Black tarn mav shroud the blue of cloudy 
 heights remote; 
 O awesome Witch that thrillest though no living 
 utterance come 
 To listening ears that wait beside thy spectral 
 throat ; 
 
 Of yesterday thou art, whose protean shape not 
 ever 
 Hath visioned eye, save dreaming o'er the 
 idle, myth -mouthed tales. 
 Elusive, futureless, a mock to curious endeavour, 
 Like fitful will-o'-wisps in twilight tangled 
 vales ; 
 
 In peace hold thou thy ghostly keeps, and 
 speechless, speak, while bowed. 
 We hold dumb converse with the still, sur- 
 rendered days, 
 And walk with thee, Tradition, through thy 
 phantom-peopled crowd 
 That wake no more the echoes in the dead 
 environed maze.
 
 33 
 
 THE ENCHANTED VALLEY 
 
 ■Y\/'here is the valley golden, 
 
 Where never a shadow lies, 
 Where joys are as roses folden, 
 The light as the morning skies? 
 
 I met a maid who had found it. 
 With eyes like the flush of dawn, 
 
 A mouth with a sweetness round it, 
 More gentle than breath of fawn. 
 
 I chanced on a child, lap-laden, 
 With lilies its garden grew — 
 
 But never the child or maiden 
 Could tarry to show me through. 
 
 I heard them pass me in laughter — 
 Playful and free as the wind, 
 
 And day unto day, long after, 
 I wandered in hope to find 
 
 Where lieth the valley golden. 
 Where never a shadow lies, 
 
 Where joys are as roses folden, 
 Where dav has no sunset skies !
 
 34 
 
 WHEN SUMMER BOUGHS WERE GREEN 
 
 r)EAR heart, we are growing older, 
 
 And the leaves begin to fall. 
 Some tints in our sky are colder. 
 
 And some are not there at all ; 
 For the strong years in their flowing. 
 
 Through cloud and light serene, 
 Make us think of the sweet thyme blowing, 
 
 When the summer boughs were green. 
 
 Dear heart, we are growing older. 
 
 For the world stands never still ; 
 Time everv day gets bolder, 
 
 As we jog adown the hill, 
 But the days are brighter, dearest, 
 
 For the days that were, I ween, 
 For the love we pledged each other. 
 
 When the summer boughs were green. 
 
 Dear heart, we are growing older, 
 
 And the winter snow is nigh. 
 But on our life's bent shoulder, 
 
 We can hear the robin cry ! 
 The leaves of age may be round us, 
 
 The frost of his breath be keen, 
 But never shall die the love we found 
 
 When the summer boughs were green.
 
 35 
 
 THE SUNSET OF THE HEART 
 
 'J'here's beauty in the curling wave, 
 
 Upon the fleecy foam, 
 That restless, flashes in the light, 
 
 That trembles o'er its home ; 
 There's beauty in the misty mom. 
 
 When life begins to start, 
 But give to me beyond it all. 
 
 The sunshine of the heart ! 
 
 There's beautv on the mountain height. 
 
 And in the valley still ; 
 A glory in the river's flight. 
 
 And in the laughing rill : 
 There's beauty in the forest dim, 
 
 Alone, divine, apart : 
 But give to me beyond it all. 
 
 The sunshine of the heart ! 
 
 There's beauty in the swallow's curve, 
 
 The moor-hen on the lake : 
 In summer's sweet suspended hours. 
 
 In winter's snowy flake ; 
 There's beauty in each season sent, 
 
 Beyond the ken of art, 
 But give to me, beyond it all, 
 
 The sunshine of the heart !
 
 36 
 
 The morn may cloud, the noon despoil, 
 
 The swallow haste away : 
 The summer fail, the winter grim, 
 
 Hush bird and river's lay : 
 Yet could I see them all take wing, 
 
 Without a pain or smart. 
 If I but hold the keys that keep 
 
 The sunshine of the heart. 
 
 The day may end in fiery clouds 
 
 Across the brow of night. 
 The vision of earth's loveliness 
 
 Pale on the sinking sight. 
 Yet still no raven's wing of gloom 
 
 Can bid my joys depart. 
 There is no night to overcome 
 
 The sunshine of the heart.
 
 37 
 AN ODE TO FAME 
 
 Q GODDESS, statuesque and cold, 
 
 If I afar have worshipped thee, 
 Nor ever yet my soul hath told 
 
 The urge of its intensity : — 
 The red blood of its fervency 
 
 Still courses through my swollen veins, 
 As winter-fed, more angrily 
 
 The mountain brook its bounds disdains. 
 
 Cursed by the syren glance that lures 
 
 To vanity, and Hope's excess. 
 Whose selfish, pouting power immures 
 
 Each abject slave, without caress : — 
 For thee, the virgin happiness 
 
 Of youth, and Friendship's sunny smile — 
 Dear life's divinest tenderness. 
 
 Have blent in sacrificial pile ! 
 
 Thy promised bays, with baleful light, 
 
 (ileam through the sullen night of toil, 
 Bright burning o'er each treach'rous height 
 
 Ambition marks without recoil, — 
 O hateful, mocking wisp to spoil. 
 
 The palsied palms so feebly hold, 
 E'er crumbling to their native soil, 
 
 They are as thee — great Goddess — cold !
 
 38 
 
 Disdainful, in proud I'itan mien, 
 
 Thy slain-enmoulded shrine is stained 
 With blood, and foolish tears between 
 
 Footstools the victor 'd few have gained ; 
 While yet thou scorn 'st the Spartan-brained 
 
 Each Time-begotten day brings forth, 
 To tread by thy fierce beauty chained 
 
 The path of thy capricious wrath. 
 
 Go, Goddess ! thy unhallowed charms 
 
 No longer shall befool my sight ; 
 Come thou not near with proffered arms 
 
 Of embrace ! Go, thou mocking Might ! — 
 Thou whose fair fingers touch to blight 
 
 With Disappointment's bolted-cloud : 
 Go ! leave me toil, till Death's long night 
 
 Shall hide me with the unwreathed crowd.
 
 THE SPELL 
 
 OF 
 
 THE SEASONS
 
 41 
 
 SPRING 
 
 A JANUARY DAY 
 
 A RIFT of gold beneath the leaden grey, 
 So ends the dreary January day. 
 
 A day of anger, and of fierce menace, 
 Without one smile upon its chilling face ! 
 
 Birth-time of winds whose fury leaves 
 
 The forest maimed. Alas ! my spirit grieves 
 
 Before this spoil of Winter, and I fain 
 Would have the days of Summer back again ! 
 
 But vain my wish — her sunny joys are fled, 
 And beauty everywhere is stricken — dead ! 
 
 Yet with yon gleam I gather hope, and sing, 
 Bevond the shadow lies the border-land of Spring !
 
 42 
 
 A DAY IN FEBRUARY 
 
 jyjAXY a memory haunts to-day, 
 
 The chamber of my brain, 
 As o'er the miry, soddened way, 
 I buifet with the rain — 
 
 The February rain, and chill. 
 
 With icicles and sleet, 
 That drives with harsh, relentless will 
 
 Its wrath unto my feet. 
 
 The weary trees are shivering. 
 And stung with winter spite. 
 
 Stretch out their branches quivering 
 Within the vapoury light. 
 
 The frighted thrush has flown and left 
 
 A tim'rous note of pain, 
 To nestle somewhere, lone, bereft. 
 
 With me, and this cold main. 
 
 Oh ! day of loneliness and woe, 
 
 The heart has chronicle 
 Of hours in life's uneven flow 
 
 That bear thine image well ; 
 
 Hours when the spirit's light is quenched 
 
 Beneath the shroud of care. 
 When every hope is torn and drenched 
 
 As these stark uplands, bare ;
 
 43 
 
 When sorrow presses out the tears, 
 
 As do the clouds the rain, 
 To bathe the bleach'd face of our fears 
 
 As this rude spray the plain. 
 
 And yet, so surely as beyond 
 This mournfulness shall rise 
 
 A day dissolving every bond 
 That prisons earth and skies ; 
 
 A day of fragrance and of flowers, 
 
 Of joyous light and song, 
 So shall earth's dreariest, darkest hours 
 
 Yield recompense ere long.
 
 44 
 
 SPRING 
 
 gLUE-EYED Spring ! with fairy feet, 
 
 Thou trippest o'er the meadows sweet, 
 And cowslip bells, and daisies white. 
 Look up to bless the gladsome sight. 
 With odorous breath, and voice of song. 
 For which the year has waited long, 
 Once more with us thou keepest tryst, 
 By pearly light and violets kissed. 
 
 How blush the willows by the stream ! 
 How laughingly the waters gleam 
 By shooting rush and marigold, 
 And mirror back the days of old-- 
 When heart was young, and Hope was high, 
 And only sunshine bathed the sky : 
 When hand in hand with Spring's delight. 
 Love's morning filled our happy sight. 
 
 O gentle guest, if April tears 
 Hang on thine eyelids, and our fears 
 Of Winter torment be not hushed. 
 The westering winds thy tresses brushed, 
 Are tender as thy snowy breast. 
 Where plum and cherry blossom rest 
 In virgin vestments, pure and proud, 
 Disdainful of the threatening cloud.
 
 45 
 
 Fill up our cup, and let us taste 
 The joy thou givest, lest it waste 
 And be no more. Thou wilt not stay, 
 O song of thrush and cuckoo gay ; 
 Pipe for us long, and let the strain 
 Revive the thought of youth again. 
 When in thy presence life was May, 
 And every hour kept holiday. 
 
 Many a garland dost thou weave. 
 For eyes that mourn and hearts that grieve, 
 And bid men from their Winter gloom 
 Arise, dear guest, and give Thee room : 
 For bursting bud, and song of bird, 
 Hold prophecy of surer word. 
 Than doubt, that digs a daily grave, 
 While all unseen God's blossoms wave.
 
 46 
 
 RENEWAL 
 
 QvER the blind starved fields there went 
 A presence veiled, but with consent, 
 The wolds awoke, and flowery eyes 
 Returned the welcome of the skies. 
 
 Cloud-hidden in seraphic bliss, 
 Dropt note to note, and kiss to kiss. 
 The Spring unprisoned lark to her 
 Who lowly dwelt in nested care ; 
 
 The forest flushed — each dusky limb 
 Gave answering voice with leafy hymn ; 
 While hill and valley made reply — 
 " Rejoice, O man, the Spring is nigh ! 
 
 " Turn over Sorrow's soil, and sow 
 Unstint of hand and heart, and know 
 The heritage of flower and song 
 Is his who waiteth and is strong ! "
 
 47 
 
 A SOFT MARCH MORNING 
 
 ]y[0RN of March, like lion roaring, 
 
 Look we for thine advent here — 
 With a wind-paw, strong and mighty, 
 Making wince and drawing tear. 
 
 What has tamed thy fiercesome spirit, 
 Smoothed the ruffles of thy mane ? 
 
 Does the Norse God, Odin, hold thee 
 In a leash beyond thy strain ? 
 
 Thou must mean to be more kindly : 
 Mild thine eye as April blue ; 
 
 Timid buds are shyly peeping. 
 
 Where last year the wild-rose grew ; 
 
 In the woods there is a whisper, 
 And green hints of fragrant bloom, 
 
 Bursting through the tangled cover, 
 And the dead leaves make them room. 
 
 Morn of March, the rooks are flying 
 
 High amid thy cloudy bars, 
 Soon the breath of Spring shall banish 
 
 Stain and tear of Winter scars. 
 
 Bring the west-wind, bring the sunlight, 
 
 Herald true of sunny davs. 
 Morn of March, I give thee greeting, 
 
 Take this wayside song of praise.
 
 48 
 
 WHISTLING MARCH 
 
 "^^HiSTLE, winds of March, and set 
 
 Your notes both strong and true ; 
 Wake up the drowsy violet, 
 The crocus nods to you ! 
 
 Whistle, winds of March, for long 
 Earth's frozen lips were dumb ; 
 
 The life-blood quickens with your song, 
 Through apple-tree and plum ! 
 
 Whistle, winds of March, and stir 
 
 The laggard steps of Spring ; 
 Pipe your loudest— do not spare — 
 
 Till all the woodlands ring ! 
 
 Till gladness carols with the morn. 
 And skips like lambs at play, 
 
 And blue eggs nestle in the thorn, 
 A-curtained round with May. 
 
 Whistle winds of March, for you 
 
 The Herald's voice of cheer ; 
 Blow forth your message, strong and true, 
 
 Make answer all who hear !
 
 49 
 APRIL, PITIFUL TO TEARS. 
 
 ^I^HEN April, pitiful to tears, 
 
 For hedge and field, by winter whipped- 
 Smiles through her gentle sorrows — lipped 
 
 To tender kisses in arrears — 
 
 What wonder flower-eyed beauty opes 
 Shy glances down the greening slopes ! 
 
 Frail, venturesome, and hued of grace 
 The Winter never guessed, they seem 
 The offspring of a drowsy dream. 
 
 On which the lines of sleep we trace, 
 Ere yet the pirate cuckoo calls 
 His mate beside the waterfalls. 
 
 And once again we greet them, where 
 They bloomed in unforgotten Springs ; 
 While lighter than the flight of wings 
 
 Come memories on the scented air. 
 When April, pitiful to tears 
 Bids us forget the waste of years.
 
 50 
 
 APRIL DAISIES 
 
 On seeing little McC. picking daisies. 
 
 J)ear child, with April in your eyes, 
 
 And morning in your smile, 
 Capricious as the April skies 
 Your dancing feet beguile : 
 As fragrance to the rose, so ye 
 Are one with all the day to me. 
 
 For vou, apparelled as a flower, 
 
 As beautiful and free, 
 Ask nothing of the scented hour. 
 
 But to accept its glee — 
 As careless as the grass that springs 
 About the nest while builder sings. 
 
 If fairies haunt no more the earth, 
 
 These fields, with daisies set, 
 Could well be cradles of their birth, 
 
 Nor fancy perish yet. 
 Where all that dainty sprites might need 
 Lies ambushed in each lowly weed. 
 
 And if a swift regret clouds o'er 
 The joy the moment brings, 
 
 It is that I no more— no more- 
 Like everything that sings 
 
 This x'\pril day, can ever be 
 
 A child again and sing as free.
 
 51 
 
 APRIL OR MAY? 
 
 Q SUNNY beam from April skies, 
 
 Where is the Summer hiding ? 
 Come, show me where the rosebud lies, 
 O prithee, be confiding ! 
 
 Upon the glade a rosy lip 
 You press in pure enjoyment. 
 
 All through the purple spinnies skip 
 In magical employment. 
 
 The golden daffodils aglow. 
 
 Give back vour amorous glances. 
 
 And where the silver catkins blow, 
 Your revels and your prances 
 
 Look very much like fairies out 
 
 On madcap frolic playing : 
 I almost hear the festive shout, 
 
 The sweet things you are saying. 
 
 sunny truant, hark, my quest ! 
 Where are the lilies dressing ? 
 
 Where is the sedge's silver crest. 
 The wood-dove's low caressing ? 
 
 And where the blue forget-me-nots — 
 The shimmer and the quiver 
 
 About the moorhen's matted cots, 
 Adown the sleeping river ! 
 
 1 half believe you know, and yet 
 
 You leave my heart in wonder — 
 A wilful, April-eyed coquette. 
 That tears Hope's buds asunder.
 
 52 
 
 A FIELD OF BUTTERCUPS 
 
 'po-DAY my rambling footsteps strayed 
 
 Where massy elms, and hoary, 
 Shook over gold no mint assayed — 
 Of unimagined glory : 
 
 The mellow myth of Midas seemed 
 Before my eyes in splendour ; 
 
 Had he across those meadows dreamed, 
 And was his touch so tender ? 
 
 Nay ! gold that sharp 'neth lust, not there 
 
 Awoke ignoble longing. 
 But buttercups beyond compare, 
 
 On daisy-snow a-thronging ! 
 
 Fit haunt for gentle Mab and train, 
 If she by day went roaming ; 
 
 Ah ! me, if fabled things were plain, 
 I then had caught them combing 
 
 Her silken tresses in the sun, 
 
 Their eyes with mischief sparkling. 
 
 As dream-embroidered veils they spun, 
 Before the twilight's darkling. 
 
 O, well for me my footsteps found, 
 
 Outside of story olden, 
 So fair a spot — like fabled ground, 
 
 Of Attic days, all golden 1 
 
 Methought I heard the magic strains 
 Of Amphion — was it dreaming ! 
 
 As back into the shadowed lanes, 
 I left those meadows gleaming ?
 
 53 
 MAY-BLOOMS 
 
 "^HEN May-blooms whiten on the thorn 
 
 And coombe and garden gay, 
 When thrushes at the gate of morn 
 Call to the coming day — 
 With love-impassioned lay- 
 Then be my lot, in homage — still— 
 Of scent and song to take my fill, 
 And love's allegiance pay, 
 
 When May-blooms whiten. 
 
 When May-blooms whiten, give to me 
 
 Freedom of foot and eye, 
 Freedom of fleeting bird and bee, 
 
 Freedom to leap or lie 
 
 With all things bright and nigh. 
 There let my heart unburdened sing. 
 In happy tryst with everything 
 
 Around and in the sky, 
 
 When May-blooms whiten. 
 
 When May-blooms whiten, and my sight 
 No more shall greet its snows, 
 
 Nor glad steps wander with delight 
 Beside the green hedgerows. 
 When Time must needs foreclose. 
 
 Oh, be my lot— apart — again 
 
 In gentle thought to walk the lane. 
 And feel the scented wind that blows. 
 When May-blooms whiten.
 
 54 
 
 A DAY IN MAY 
 
 ^DORNED in perfumed gold and green. 
 
 Milky blossoms on the plum, 
 Warm as a mother's heart, the air — 
 Oueen May is come ! 
 
 The gauzy elm-tops screen the rooks, 
 Emerald hedges bridal birds, 
 
 Tuneful twitterings fill the hour. 
 Too sweet for words. 
 
 The meads are white with flow'ry drift- 
 Happy children weave their chains 
 
 Of cowslip bells, and daisy stars, 
 With infant pains. 
 
 The cuckoo's distant notes distrain 
 
 Soft, answering echo, nigh ; 
 O song for ever young, though youth 
 
 Must pass and die ! 
 
 Again ! again ! from fragrant garth. 
 
 It wanders o'er the vale — 
 Rare consort for the blue-bell days. 
 
 Ere love shall fail. 
 
 O virgin moments, in whose cells 
 
 Joy storeth wealth untold, 
 Give me to gather as yon bee, 
 
 Ere days grow cold 
 
 And winter blows through leafless age 
 My bloomless boughs among, 
 
 The memories of departed youth, 
 And cuckoo's song.
 
 55 
 
 A WOODLAND TRYST. 
 
 J AND April in the woods, 
 
 Found to-day each other, 
 Crocus gold upon her breast, 
 
 Maid of queenly mother ; 
 How I worshipped as she tript, 
 Dainty limbed, and rosy-lipt. 
 
 Round about us zephyrs sang ; 
 
 In my heart the gladness grew 
 Till I told with passioned tongue 
 
 All its longing ever knew : 
 Then I knelt beside her, still — 
 Of her beauty took my fill ! 
 
 Chiff-chaff building in the thorn 
 Spied us with unfearful eyes ; 
 
 From the sun-bathed hills of morn 
 Dropt the lark's fond rhapsodies ; 
 
 Bliss imprisoned, she and I 
 
 Caring naught for liberty. 
 
 In her hands she held for me 
 
 Wind-flowers frail, and daisies fair, 
 
 I tremble, lest my touch might be 
 Too rude such joyous things to share. 
 
 She wove them with her fingers deft 
 
 In coronal while tryst we kept.
 
 56 
 
 The blue above, the green around, 
 And careless as the lambs at play — 
 
 From every meaner wish unbound, 
 
 And white in thought as bloom of May ; 
 
 The sweet hours languish'd to the noon, 
 
 The joy sands slipped away too soon. 
 
 And there on sunny couch we kissed, 
 And all the air was like a rose : 
 
 No glance unheeded, or unmissed. 
 Unmindful of life's sterner pose, 
 
 The moment in itself the key 
 
 To love's divinest ecstacy.
 
 57 
 SUMMER 
 
 JUNE 
 
 Q June, the poets sang thy praise, 
 
 In jocund verse, ere I was born : 
 From far-flown, ancient yesterdays. 
 
 Their music beats from mom to morn ; 
 And men shall sing, and men shall pass, 
 As flowers of field — as with 'ring grass, 
 And leave thee yet unsung, 
 O June, whose beauty is unworn — 
 Whose heart is ever young ! 
 
 Had I the liquid notes of bird 
 
 The secret of thy simple rose, 
 The melodies by moonlight stirr'd, 
 
 When deep woods tremble in repose, 
 How should I compass thy desert, 
 O month with loveliness begirt, 
 Divinest of the year ? 
 O June, whose fragrant bounty throws 
 Our heart's celestial cheer ! 
 
 Were mine the buoyancy of wing, 
 
 To bear me whither I would soar. 
 The freedom of each fluttering thing 
 
 That revels on thy flow'ry floor, 
 My gladness would not be content — 
 My rapture spilled, would be unspent, 
 Thy sweet delights unsung — 
 O June, to paradise the door. 
 Whose heart is ever young !
 
 58 
 
 UNDER A JUNE SKY 
 
 Q WONDROUS arc of blue and white, 
 Wherein the lark, far out of sight. 
 
 Pours forth its song, 
 Thy pure untrodden aisles of light, 
 Unbend my Fancy for a flight 
 
 Thy spheres among ; 
 
 For I am restless with the strife, 
 The warfare and the grief of life, 
 
 Its cold and frost : 
 The wish for conquest never won, 
 The weary heart at set of sun, 
 
 The ideal lost ! 
 
 The scented breath of June but stirs 
 The top-plumes of the solemn firs 
 
 That throw their shade 
 Upon the daisy-dappled green. 
 To form for me a pleasant screen 
 
 In sunny glade. 
 
 Here I can watch the cloudy isles 
 Dilating in the morning smiles, 
 
 Swift happening : 
 Up through the pearly spaces soar. 
 Traverse each orient sea and shore, 
 
 And soaring, sing :
 
 59 
 
 Forgetful of Earth's tares and tears — 
 Self-generated cares and fears, 
 
 That so molest 
 The spirit seeking for its goal, 
 The ripening promise of the soul, 
 
 The heart's best rest. 
 
 O lucent heights of cloud and air, 
 Did we more frequent climb thy stair 
 
 Above life's fret, 
 Each moment might be sacrifice. 
 Each duty of the day suffice — 
 
 An altar set.
 
 6o 
 
 MIDSUMMER EVE. 
 
 ■pHROUGH the iris-bannered marshes the mill 
 stream finds the sea. 
 
 With pools of twilight, sleeping, 'neath the 
 rushes' panoply ; 
 
 With tripping, silvery laughter it winds its 
 course along, 
 
 With the sun-kiss on its bosom, and on its lips 
 a song ! 
 
 The stately foxgloves glimmer above its gleam- 
 ing tide. 
 
 And the slender reeds bow lowly beneath their 
 purple pride. 
 
 And o'er the Sea's strong labour Time never 
 shall reprieve 
 
 The wordless, swooning sweetness of a mid- 
 summer's eve. 
 
 No white-winged gull is dipping about the 
 
 glowing bar. 
 Low as a cradle lullaby comes the sea-rune 
 
 from afar. 
 And if some later Romeo his Juliet woos, 'tis 
 
 where 
 The dumb rocks hide the secret their cold 
 
 hearts cannot share. 
 The winds, unshod, are lighter than the sigh 
 
 of lovers' lips. 
 And o'er the drowsy ocean seem asleep the 
 
 misty ships. 
 Soundless, and softly radiant, the setting day 
 
 shall leave 
 No shadow of a sorrow on this midsummer's 
 
 eve.
 
 6i 
 
 Flow, flow, dear brook that singest ! it may 
 be yonder sphere, 
 
 Bending in pearl above me, hath many a 
 listening ear ! 
 
 It may be — who shall tell us ? — the spell it 
 lays on me, 
 
 Still has its fair remembrance in that eternity! 
 
 And joys, wrought out of beauty as brief as 
 this rare hour. 
 
 Blow there in undecaying, and June appa- 
 relled flower. 
 
 So, Memory, hide the dream the magic 
 moments weave — 
 
 The wordless, swooning sweetness of the mid- 
 summer's eve.
 
 62 
 
 A SUMMER BEATITUDE 
 
 Q WOULD that I had art to counterfeit 
 
 In some rare image all this morn's suggest, 
 Some poet-figure flamed with glory meet, 
 To paint this summer paradise the gods have 
 drest ! 
 
 Sweet fancies fill my brain, 
 
 The heart's clear music springs. 
 But languishes to pain. 
 And silences the strings. 
 
 In vain I crave, and vainer still desire. 
 So impotent before this flooding joy. 
 Warmed into ardours by empyreal fire. 
 
 So wond'rous near, and yet so wond'rous coy ; 
 I am as one who sips 
 
 Some elfish cup — to find 
 It shattered from my lips, 
 
 And waste the draught enshrined. 
 
 Let me be still — unwishful — better boon — 
 
 Since leafy lilt, and quivering note of bird, 
 That reaches all my soul this day of June, 
 Eludes my little craft and lifeless word ; 
 Let me be still to guard 
 
 The charm unutterable. 
 Nor any sense retard 
 Of the wild woodland spell.
 
 63 
 
 Why should I sing — made emulous by thrush ? 
 
 Why foolish flaunt my hueless flowers of speech 
 In mimic adulation when each bush, 
 
 Each flowery-burnished bank, hath that to teach ? 
 We know not, neither dream, 
 Barred by the flaming gate, 
 Brighter than noon's high beam 
 Of some diviner state ? 
 
 I would be comforted — lose yoke and strain, 
 
 Forget — and, in forgetting, open wide 
 A purer eye upon the world again, 
 
 And read " the weed's plain secret " at my side ; 
 Too much ourselves, we miss 
 The gifts the gods do bring 
 On such a morn as this. 
 
 When earth and heaven sing !
 
 64 
 
 MIDSUMMER NOON 
 
 "The windless trees are lazy, 
 
 All slumb'rous in the heat ; 
 The air is full of sunshine, 
 The fields are full of wheat. 
 
 The zenith, like Narcissus, 
 Peeps into drowsy pools — 
 
 Blue eyes throw back a greeting 
 Below the teazel spools. 
 
 The dragon-fly is napping 
 
 On lily islands cool. 
 The butterfly is folded 
 
 Like Puck upon a stool. 
 
 The sheep are in the shadow, 
 The cows are half asleep. 
 
 Knee-deep in juicy rushes. 
 Where moorhens idly cheep. 
 
 The hav-fields are a-shimmer, 
 The brawny swains adrowse ; 
 
 The lads coo to the lasses 
 
 Of when they'll wed, and house. 
 
 The day is full of gladness — 
 Of all things pure and sweet ; 
 
 The air is full of sunshine, 
 The fields are full of wheat.
 
 65 
 SUMMER SONG 
 
 J KNEW not I was winter-bound 
 
 And under songless skies, 
 And through the songless landscape walked, 
 
 With drooping sunless eyes ; 
 But when the summer came, my sweet, 
 
 Soft presenced in thy glance, 
 The snowdrifts slipped awav — and lo ! 
 
 I woke me from my trance ! 
 
 I know not whither winter fled, 
 
 Nor care, for thou art near ! 
 Sweet is the violet-haunted bank, 
 
 But thou art sweeter, dear ; 
 I knew not 1 was winter-bound : 
 
 I know the summer's come ! 
 I know the world is full of song. 
 
 Where all the world was dumb.
 
 66 
 
 THE POET'S SUMMER 
 
 TJPON a bank where mallows spread 
 
 Their gloss to glossy stream. 
 Where every living thing was wed 
 To smiles as gleam to gleam : 
 
 There, on a day of blue there came 
 
 A poet in whose heart 
 Dwelt, shrined as some beloved name — 
 
 A thought — a dream— apart. 
 
 He watched the river flash and flow, 
 Through meadow green and gay, 
 
 He watched the shadows come and go, 
 The swallow skim and play : 
 
 He caught the burthen of the breeze. 
 
 And tuned his ears anew ; 
 He learned the love-tales of the trees, 
 
 Of weed that near him grew : 
 
 He knew the wind-weft on the lake, 
 The mill-wheel's frothy yeast, 
 
 The frighted moorhen's glittering wake, 
 The lap of watering beast : 
 
 The ring of whetting scythe, the scent 
 Of new-mown grass and hay, 
 
 The wandering soul of bell and bent 
 Abroad that Summer's day ; 
 
 He watched the wild-rose lure the bee, 
 
 The honeysuckle climb, 
 And net its odorous canopy 
 
 Above the banks of thyme :
 
 67 
 
 And bursting into song, his Thought — 
 
 As children cull a flower — 
 Took up the spell the moment brought, 
 
 The birthgift of the hour. 
 
 " O Seeker, searching unto tears, 
 To-morrow's bourne, and bay. 
 
 Call in thy vision, ope thy ears 
 To hear God's voice to-day. 
 
 "The tortured roots of hungry haste, 
 
 Exposed by ruthless toil. 
 By feverish lingers torn, displaced, 
 
 Crave for their mother soil ; 
 
 " Unflowering promise crieth, hid : 
 
 ' O give me life and light ! 
 Let morning touch my languid lid, 
 
 Evoke my sleeping might ! ' 
 
 " The heart's unrest for ever ploughs 
 
 Its Eden-flowers to death. 
 Untimely blights the blossomed boughs 
 
 With discontented breath ; 
 
 " Self forges swords of banishment 
 
 From gardens of delight, 
 Unsuns the glowing firmament, 
 
 Unmoons the healing night ! 
 
 " Slaves to the Nero of Desire, 
 
 We make our senses spies. 
 Command them forth in fateful ire 
 
 To watch with lustful eyes : 
 
 " Whip into spume God's gentle calm. 
 
 Iconoclasts of peace, 
 Who valley roods bescorn, to farm 
 
 The rocks of cold caprice.
 
 " O Searcher, searching unto tears, 
 To-morrow's bourne and bay, 
 
 Call in thy vision, nigh are seers, 
 Take thou sweet holiday. 
 
 " Bid home thy senses from the plains: 
 
 Arcady as of yore. 
 If shepherded by simple swains, 
 
 Unversed in musty lore, 
 
 " Hath sages who with gentle art 
 Read well the flow'ry page 
 
 Of Nature's book, and can impart 
 Its wisdom to the age. 
 
 The drowsy hum of dragon flies, 
 
 O'er quivering iris sheen, 
 The flash of burnished insect dyes 
 
 About their scabbards green : 
 
 The choiring flight of migrant birds, 
 
 Broke on the Poet's song. 
 Soft melodies more sweet than words 
 
 Of Love's impassioned tongue. 
 
 Made conquest of the Quiet — filled 
 
 The moment as with wine, 
 Till worship worshipped, hushed and thrilled,. 
 
 And Thought was half divine ! 
 
 Below the ranks of bullioned gorse. 
 
 He watched the river swim. 
 Till whiter than the Southern Cross, 
 
 Its lust'rous, shining brim.
 
 69 
 
 Bent round by orchard-hidden farms, 
 
 Past roofs of rural ease, 
 Sung softly by quaint garden arms, 
 
 And hives of thriving bees ; 
 
 In hemlock snows, staid, knee-deep, stood 
 
 Sleek-sided kine, content. 
 Some laving in the purling flood, 
 
 'Neath w^ind-fanned willow tent ; 
 
 The lang'rous music of the breeze, 
 
 Like Beauty's dreaming sigh, 
 A-sleeping in its fragrant ease. 
 
 Scarce shook the dove's low cry : 
 
 And, mingling with its orisons. 
 
 The bugling gnats, and bees. 
 With wingless, working garrisons 
 
 Of ants blent harmonies ; 
 
 Soft pseans, Lydian-voiced, and sweet 
 
 With lily breath, and rose, 
 Such as no quills of ancient feat 
 
 Soothed Delphic maiden's woes. 
 
 The measured dip of pleasured oar — 
 
 The liquid laugh of Love — 
 The slumb'rous tides of Avon Bore 
 
 Past haunts of merle and dove ; 
 
 Warm, truant raptures, freedom stung. 
 
 In eddying echoes tossed. 
 Like trembling bells by wind-waves rung- 
 
 A moment heard, and lost ! 
 
 Then, as those haunting sounds of song 
 
 Broke on the main of mom, 
 The Poet's answering spirit — strong — 
 
 As one to Hope re-born.
 
 70 
 
 Once more took up his silent quill : 
 
 " O, Searcher unto rest, 
 Cool banks invite thy hot-heeled will, 
 
 Forego thy footsore quest. 
 
 " The seedling wayside weed that springs 
 
 To die upon the waste. 
 The rude worm's burrowed, loamy rings, 
 
 Rebuke thy wilful haste ; 
 
 "Swart spheres invoke world-leisured eyes, 
 
 The craft of Love to find 
 Behind the moment's masked disguise 
 
 Where paths untrodden wind ; 
 
 "Adown calm, ivoried skies, the eve 
 
 Trips, clothed in rare array. 
 While Ariel-fingered genii weave 
 
 The couch of drowsing day ; 
 
 " Transfigured beauty blossoms space, 
 
 As May the barren thorn. 
 The hour is robed with royal grace, 
 
 As Autumn vales with com : 
 
 " No Sappho-perfumed-phrase could speak 
 
 The silences that fold 
 Softly about the soul as peak 
 
 Of snow puts on its gold : 
 
 " Great issuings of wordless speech, 
 
 A comradeship of mood. 
 When man and moment, each to each 
 
 Convoys a stainless good : 
 
 " Dear confidences that but crave 
 
 Purged hearing from the rout 
 Of herding tumults — the mad rave 
 
 Of Passion's ribald shout :
 
 71 
 
 " Warm, gentle friendliness of flower, 
 
 And air, and tinted leaf, 
 The lilt of sunset's rainbowed shower — 
 
 Tears of the hour's brief grief. 
 
 " O Searcher, searching pomp and pelf. 
 
 Impatient, burden-bent, 
 Can'st thou not get outside thyself — 
 
 Outside the low-roofed tent 
 
 " Of soulless sense whose atmosphere, 
 
 With semblances is thick. 
 To cast a far- look— cleansed and clear, 
 
 Beyond thy bawble pick ? 
 
 " We see not all the moment means. 
 
 Our dross-filled eyes unnote 
 The rhythmic clasp of leafy sheens 
 
 Around the forest's throat : 
 
 " Our ears unheed the throstle's song. 
 
 The lullaby of June, — 
 Bedulled by Mammon's mammoth gong 
 
 And Lust's derisive croon. 
 
 " O Searcher, seeking through the vain 
 Of mocking years — unhealed — 
 
 The Mother Healer soothes thy pain 
 With medicine of field ; 
 
 " With touch that stills the fevered mind, 
 With draught as sweet as breath 
 
 That blossoms on the western wind. 
 When Spring dawn issueth ; 
 
 " Lave thou in founts of ether — breast 
 
 In nakedness of will. 
 The circling wave whose crystal crest 
 
 Sings round God's morning hill ;
 
 72 
 
 " Surrendered to the spell that spins 
 Through each revolving hour, 
 
 Forget the world's untempered dins — 
 Take thou the gracious dower : 
 
 " These, Servitors of God who wait 
 The challenge of the heart, 
 
 Who guard the best of life — the gate 
 To Love's divinest mart. 
 
 " Seek thou not further gifts, — behold 
 
 The flower of Joy is nigh, 
 Unbought of Caesar's shining gold, 
 
 Unseen of Caesar's eye."
 
 73 
 IN BONDAGE 
 
 •pHE red-heart of the rose to me discloses 
 
 A dream far hid, like some unopened bud, 
 
 And o'er the Summer feeling, as a flood — 
 Dealing swift ruin to its tender posies — 
 
 Drives the black rain of memory's icy scud ! 
 
 What if with pansy eyes, June heeds my grieving. 
 And flowers again the spray with sweet beguile? 
 No bloom can bring me more the vanished smile ! 
 
 Nay, unto me, the Summer's glad achieving 
 Is labour unrewarded, vain of wit and wile. 
 
 O red-rose thought, that blooms for aye, undying, 
 Climbing the crannied walls of Love's regret, 
 June with a thousand counterfeits is set 
 
 To while away the pain of fruitless sighing. 
 But never one to make the heart forget.
 
 74 
 
 LENGTHENING DAYS 
 
 ^H ! who shall tell what sweet enchantment works 
 
 Within this lovely hour of gentle eve — 
 Scarce eve as yet, for in its magic lurks 
 
 Dream-colour dewy morn might only weave? 
 
 The lusty winds have lulled, and from the sky 
 The cloudy flocks are gathered to the fold, 
 
 A voilet-golden glory fills the eye, 
 
 And for a while harsh Winter dares not scold. 
 
 Delight, re-vestured, lifts its early bloom, 
 
 Flowering the fields of feeling — long time dead, 
 
 The heart finds songs unsung, though shadows loom. 
 And hope, by frosty airs, is buffeted ! 
 
 So come the lengthening days upon our dearth. 
 Luring us forth with bird and bud, to be 
 
 Sharers of all the new-born cheer of earth, 
 Lords of the air, the sun, and tumbling sea !
 
 75 
 
 AUTUMN 
 
 A SEPTEMBER GLOAMING 
 
 QoLDEN corn and tawny sky, 
 
 About me, rustling, menace, sigh. 
 As the moody winds drift by. 
 And the day droops down to die. 
 
 Golden corn and purple hills. 
 Over-hung with cloudy frills — 
 Vapour-sails the sunset fills 
 With light and beauty as it wills. 
 
 Tawny corn and ghostly sky, 
 Whither, Beauty, dost thou fly? 
 Hast thou secret hiding nigh 
 To the quest of longing eye? 
 
 Ghostly corn with shadows spanned : 
 Murmurings mystic as the strand 
 Where waters break on Naiad's sand. 
 Let me love and understand : 
 
 Ere stars are born, 
 
 Beyond the corn, 
 I dream the dreams of wonderland.
 
 76 
 
 AUTUMN LEAVES 
 
 TTall, golden leaves of Autumn, fall, 
 
 Ye stir my heart to sing ! 
 Though Summer flowers are dead below 
 The frosty winds that wail and blow. 
 Sweet recollections leap and spring 
 With your fair fall. 
 
 Fall, golden leaves of Autumn, fall ! 
 
 Bear secrets to the dust — 
 Secrets the Summer suns but knew. 
 And moons that pearl'd the tearful dew: 
 
 Full many a transient trust 
 Goes with your fall. 
 
 Fall, golden leaves of Autumn, fall. 
 
 Make room for growths to be ; 
 
 The forest branches moan, and yet 
 
 The moons of coming eves shall set 
 
 And rise above a stauncher tree. 
 
 For this your fall. 
 
 Fall, golden leav-es of Autumn, fall. 
 
 Ye stir my heart to lift 
 The wider vision of the soul ; 
 We hold not in the leaf the ivhole, 
 
 Beyond us still the larger gift. 
 Though leaves may fall.
 
 11 
 
 CLOUDS OF AUTUMN 
 
 "The August sun is beating into burnish'd gold 
 The waving iields of grain that well enfold 
 My leisured nook with circlet rare, 
 While every sense within the perfumed air 
 Finds, like the bee, unravished honey cells 
 Of joy's sweet nectar in myriad hidden wells. 
 For me, these cloudy domes, and ether deeps 
 Of orient pearl where Autumn sunlight sleeps 
 Embalmed, move on my spirit as of eld 
 God moved upon the waters : my being held 
 In wonder, poised, like airy battlements. 
 The briefest hour above earth's discontents. 
 No features humanise these wind-blown shapes, 
 Dappling the azure sea with snow-fleck'd capes- 
 With towers, and minarets, like citadels 
 Of Magi where unveiled Beauty dwells; 
 No fabled god had ever throne so fair 
 As these pavilion splendours carved of air, 
 Ethereal art through all the seasons free 
 To hearts that love and mortal eyes that see. 
 How poor the arts of Time ; how meagre, cold, 
 Their richest dyes beside these glories rolled 
 Across the skies in such profusive grace — 
 Beyond the power of man to grasp or trace ! 
 Shores of the Infinite where viewless tides 
 Incessant ebb and flow, and mystery hides 
 Below the unsleeping stars through wasting time, 
 Perhaps to be no more in some unclouded clime. 
 On such a day my nature leaps to find 
 So near the secrets of the Eternal Mind, 
 With cloud and light my purgM vision sees 
 The rounded orb of Heaven's divine decrees.
 
 78 
 
 SONG OF THE SICKLE 
 
 gHEAFS against the windy sky, 
 
 Hungry birds that thieve and fly 
 
 Harvest valleys yellow ; 
 Cleaving wings, and sickle swings, 
 In my heart a thousand strings, 
 
 Swept to music mellow. 
 
 Ruddy lips of ripeness press 
 Others in a sweet excess, 
 
 Stirring me to covet. 
 Ravished meed of tiny weed, 
 Prisoned by a golden reed, 
 
 Poppy plumes above it. 
 
 Jocund uplands toss and laugh. 
 Bound their throats with russet scarf. 
 
 And bands of green begirt ; 
 Purple sheen of thistles lean. 
 Scabious blossoms, blue, between, 
 
 Upon their bosoms pert. 
 
 Bended backs, and brawny hands. 
 Gleam among the valley lands — 
 
 Goodly sight, and cheery ; 
 Swallows fly the southern sky, 
 Falleth soon the leaf to die. 
 
 When the year is weary.
 
 79 
 
 WINTER 
 
 BEFORE THE WINTER GATES 
 
 "yHE snowy scarf that folded up the morn in 
 
 gray, 
 And hung about the sunless hills and plains 
 
 in mist, 
 Is now unloosened by the kindly sun. The 
 
 afternoon is mild 
 And garmented in light. Along the level 
 
 meadows — 
 Where winds, in many a tortuous line, the 
 
 brook, 
 It plays, in step with elfish shadows sinister; 
 Above, the cloud-wrack drives before the breeze, 
 
 and sunny bars 
 Make stairways down to earth — and in the vale 
 The sun-shot vapour shines like sheen of silver 
 
 sea. 
 But as I watch, the cold mists thicken ; the icy 
 
 sleet 
 In eddying current whirls, and wails ; a moment 
 
 more 
 And visions tender as the dawn are blurred and 
 
 lost! 
 Stung to the heart, the stern woods wake and 
 
 weep. 
 Like surgeful sob — their embrown 'd brows, 
 
 abent
 
 8o 
 
 And blanched, while fiercer leaps the gale 
 Behind the drifting snows, and gathering 
 
 strength 
 And voice, in deep, majestic and sonorous song 
 Blows forth its passion o'er the melancholy 
 
 scene ! 
 So grows the night — the long, cold cheerless 
 
 night 
 Of Winter stupor, when landmarks dumbly 
 
 die, 
 And dawn uplifts its sullen eye upon 
 A white-wan wilderness of leagueless snow.
 
 8i 
 THRENODY 
 
 "YV'TH a face set white, in the moonless night, 
 
 The fields lay stark, snow-bounded, 
 And down from the cloudy ice-nunib'd height, 
 Like gnomes all bedight, 
 All palsied with fright, 
 Fell drizzly flakes by the mad winds hounded. 
 
 Winds fearsome as wolves, with their fangs for fight — 
 
 Rampant, remorseless, shrieking, 
 Blasting like fire through the terrible night — 
 O'er the desolate white — 
 Unscanned by the sight. 
 Their merciless vengeance swift wreaking ? 
 
 Down, down, in my heart, the far-buried past, 
 
 Lay stiffen'd, starless, woe-bounded, 
 And memory, lashed by the breath of the blast. 
 While the flakes fell fast, 
 The bygone recast. 
 And every note of its sorrow resounded. 
 
 Up, up, from the valley of Youth, long dead, 
 
 The sound of voices unnumbered. 
 Like the wail of the winds in the trees overhead, 
 Like the sigh of the leaves as they fall to their dead. 
 Through the desolate night, 
 O'er the held-way of white. 
 They hail'd me as souls that had slumbered.
 
 82 
 
 A NOVEMBER SKETCH 
 
 A TAWNY upland ridge — wind shrived- 
 
 A belt of blackening firs — 
 A whirling, gusty pack of clouds, 
 Through which the sunset flares — 
 Bedraggled, torn — 
 Wild, wet, forlorn, 
 And riotous with roystering airs. 
 
 The leaf-lined slopes a moment burn — 
 
 A smouldering, sullen, glow, 
 
 Below the purpling, pallid aisles 
 
 That swift to phantoms grow ; 
 
 Strong, ghastly chills 
 
 Blow from the hills. 
 
 And all the valley takes on woe. 
 
 Broad-breasted, like a legion'd host, 
 
 The dusky ghouls of night 
 Fling forth their sooty banners— at 
 The straggling scouts of light 
 The red leaf falls, 
 The white owl calls : 
 Tu whit— tu whoo, in ghostly flight !
 
 83 
 
 A SNOWSTORM AND GALE 
 
 QNOIV! sang the gale from its lusty throat, 
 
 Sharp as its stinging hail ; 
 Swift o'er the cloud-ljergs, near, and remote, 
 
 The face of the sky grew pale ; 
 In the teeth of the wind, like a hunted hind, 
 Fled the weakling sun, 
 While the white-flakes spun 
 In a whirling drift behind ! 
 
 Earth! laughed the snow, as the ghostly host 
 
 Tumbled and tossed in glee. 
 Buried the hamlet, pillar, and post. 
 
 Padded each shivering tree ; 
 In the teeth of the wind, till the day was blind. 
 Faltered in step, and died ; 
 And the landscape wide 
 At bay, with the drift behind ! 
 
 Flashed red through the orchard the eye of the gloaming, 
 
 Malignant, menaceful, fierce, rampant, and surly ; 
 Across its black forehead, like hordes to their homing. 
 Swept over and under the night-runners burly — 
 Splintered and broken, 
 Their passion unspoken, 
 Snow-laden, and soaken, 
 Like ghoul-driven furies in frenzy a-roaming ; 
 Deep weltered in passion, 
 O'er the lowlands all ashen 
 Swooped the night in its might, might awful in gloom, 
 The white drifts to ermine its blanched, stricken tomb.
 
 84 
 
 NIGHTFALL 
 
 piERCELY all day the wind has raged, 
 
 And still unspent 
 It roars like angry lions caged, 
 In discontent. 
 
 The night swoops down on pinions dark 
 
 And chill, with rain : 
 The storm- vexed woodlands, pinch'd and stark, 
 
 Moan in their pain ; 
 
 For like marauding spirits, bent 
 
 On evil deed, 
 Unleashed from gusty firmament, 
 
 With vengeful speed 
 
 The savage ice-blasts scourge the main 
 
 In hoarse delight. 
 And ruddy rifts of dead leaves stain 
 
 Their way of might ! 
 
 How sway the trees, and crack, and strain 
 
 The ravish'd boughs ! 
 No more adown the Autumn lane 
 
 Will beauty drowse : 
 
 November, like a giant strong, 
 
 Must gather all ; 
 And leave to me the Winter, long, 
 
 And windy brawl. 
 
 Yet if of Summer joys bereft. 
 
 And Autumn dyes. 
 Keen are the pleasures that are left 
 
 'Neath wintry skies.
 
 85 
 A WILD NIGHT 
 
 gEE now, through wraiths of wet and woeful wrack 
 Of hounded cloud, the dim December moon ! 
 
 In tearful plight, 
 With weird, fantastic hordes that crowd and hack 
 Her peri beauty, till she well nigh swoon 
 
 From sight ! 
 
 While tameless winds, unleash'd, leap wild and wroth. 
 And havoc heave among each shuddering shroud, 
 
 Agaunt and pale : 
 Caught in the bellowing breath of ice-lipt North. 
 Whetting his coulter keen in fury loud. 
 
 And hale ! 
 
 O moon of month mist-muffled to the throat. 
 Sore vex'd with vengeful airs and ariel moan. 
 
 Thy robes arent ; 
 And o'er thy tearful beams the Stygian mote : 
 Through wasting years thou art, in beauty lone. 
 
 Unspent !
 
 ALONE WITH NATURE
 
 89 
 
 A SANCTUARY 
 
 'po thee, O woods, I bring a breath 
 
 Corruptible, and brief, and spent— 
 The breath of Life whose eager vent 
 Speeds ever onward, courting death : — 
 To thee, O woods, whose leaf-lips blow 
 The incorrupt, I come, with heart and hope aglow I 
 
 Rare odours thine for nostrils sick 
 With reek and riot of the earth — 
 Its heat and shams— its crowded berth, 
 Its clotted atmospheres— sweat-laden, thick 
 With awful toil, and cares that lift 
 Unanswered eyes of pain across its sunless drift. 
 
 Omnipotent and vast and strong, 
 Cool as the dew night softly drops, 
 When softer moons thy piny tops 
 Bathe in eternal calm and soundless song. 
 The message of thy lips is strength : 
 Possessed by thee, I, too, possess height, breadth, and 
 length! 
 
 Each duct of drought-dried consciousness 
 Sucks in the brimming draught of life ; 
 In wild, full overflow— arife 
 With tossing, glad imperiousness. 
 The joy-tide rolls to slake the sense, 
 With undefiled, and undefiling recompense.
 
 90 
 
 Thy silent solitudes of shade 
 Inspire no terror, wake no dread : 
 Thy giant sinews, centuries fed — 
 Green-summer nourish'd, and by winter frayed ; 
 No menace in their mighty girths 
 Unbare to him who walks among their bosky births. 
 
 I talk with seers, and prophets, versed 
 In lore unwrit in tomes of Time : 
 Sweet songs unsung, chords from a clime 
 Unblistered by the wrongs that make this cursed 
 Flow to my ears, unmeasured, free, 
 And all the great woods know, in love they give to me.
 
 91 
 
 LATE AUTUMN WOODS 
 Bedvean Woods, North Wales 
 
 giLENCE has laid her slumber spell 
 
 On you to-day ; 
 So sweet it is 1 cannot tell 
 
 My heart it breathes decay : 
 Why should I ? Hush, my sorrow, too, 
 And cradle me in dreams with you ! 
 
 For so it seems to me, you dream 
 
 On pillowed gold ! 
 Hugging the sun-lit summer's gleam 
 
 In strong enfold. 
 Heedless of autumn's last caress 
 In visions of past happiness. 
 
 A thousand unforgotten things 
 
 Yet linger here ! 
 The rustling harmonies of wings — 
 
 Bird-pipings clear — 
 Dove-calls, and twilight serenades ; 
 The wonder of nocturnal glades. 
 
 Now, tired, you sleep ; Sleep on, dear woods ! 
 
 Break not the spell 
 That over all your beauty broods 
 
 So passionately well ; 
 The winds shall winnow all too soon 
 And leave you naked to the moon !
 
 92 
 
 AN UPLAND VISION 
 
 Prom one grey upland-ridge, wind-shorn, 
 And still— with all the dead romance 
 Of Autumn round me, tossed and torn ; 
 
 Struck down in chill unwaking trance — 
 I watched the troubled host of cloud, 
 
 In dark battalions, spread abroad 
 Rain-gloom'd, as if with sorrow bowed 
 
 For valleys given to the sword ! 
 
 Across the devious-outlined hills. 
 
 The sullen musk of mist lay deep ; 
 Cold, phantom fingers, weaving frills 
 
 For summer's loveliness asleep; 
 I watched them fashion into shape 
 
 The solemn tapestries of woe. 
 O'er songless wood, and mountain cape 
 
 Like exhalations of the snow! 
 
 Far outward toward Plinlimmon's crest, 
 
 I shared the passing of the day ; 
 The darkly-moving, weird unrest. 
 
 The gleaming lights, like fays at play; 
 Till, fairer-hued those flowers that ope 
 
 Their matchless secrets to the spring, 
 Rolled down o'er vale and craggy slope 
 
 A glory overmastering ! 
 
 Crowning each frowning glen and pass- 
 Each rampart of Llewelyn's pride — 
 
 The tawny woods, and spangled grass, 
 The blacken'd gorge sepulchral-eyed 
 
 In splendour, surely fabled dyes 
 Of kingdoms nurtured of the sun. 
 
 Could not outvie in rare surprise. 
 So exquisite, so finely spun !
 
 93 
 
 O moments magical with change — 
 
 With silence, loss, and calm content ; 
 With awe that shaded mountain range, 
 
 And gilded autumn's gold, nigh spent, 
 If we must mourn decav and death, 
 
 A sweetness softens pang and pain, 
 When every fleeting, floating breath 
 
 Bids us take heart and hope again !' 
 
 Fade, fade the flowers — the root remains ; 
 
 Each day brings ransoms of its own ; 
 Adown the deluged track of rains. 
 
 The songs of coming springs are blown; 
 .And ever from life's upland height. 
 
 At dawn or sunset, we shall find 
 The shining of the gods that light 
 
 The feet from valleys left behind !
 
 94 
 
 ON THE DESTRUCTION OF 
 A FAVOURITE NOOK 
 
 TJnheeding hand, unsparing knife— 
 
 What havoc thine ! 
 Fiercer than edge of wintry strife, 
 Cutting the very roots of life ! 
 
 What sorrow mine ! 
 
 Full many a minstrel, fledged of Spring, 
 
 Was cradled here : 
 Taught how to forage and to sing, 
 And bear itself on venturous wing. 
 
 To me how dear ! 
 
 Bee-haunted blossoms, shyly sweet, 
 
 Looked out for me. 
 And many a weedy heart could cheat 
 The baffling thought from black defeat 
 
 Reprovingly. 
 
 What love each sunny leaf would tell 
 
 To him, whose ear 
 Bent low beside the simple spell 
 Learned lowly lessons— learning well— 
 
 With heart sincere ! 
 
 And if with dreamer's heart I took 
 
 A simple fare. 
 This bank above the laughing brook 
 Was salutation, psalm, or book, 
 
 And blessing rare ! 
 
 So wonder not I mourn, and shed 
 
 A poet's tear, 
 For ruthless deed, and promise dead, 
 And weep regret, uncomforted 
 
 Beside its bier.
 
 95 
 
 UNDER GARN MADRYN 
 
 (An Evening Reverie) 
 
 TJpoN Garn Madryn's lonely height — 
 
 Lord of the fertile vale — 
 The pillowed mists, in vesture light, 
 Lie shadowy and pale. 
 
 The summer twilight's tender spell 
 Broods on its w^oody breasts, 
 
 And here and there the sun's farewell 
 In rosy blushes rests ; 
 
 Long ling'ring, as a lover might, 
 
 On wheaten roods of gold, 
 C)n pastures fading on the sight, 
 
 Inclosing night's enfold ! 
 
 Methinks the blue Unganean shades 
 Of Petrarch's deathless song, 
 
 Might be twin-mated with these glades. 
 And Laura feel no wrong ! 
 
 Abode of all quick Fancy loves 
 
 Of lore, and legend wild. 
 And musical with cooing doves. 
 
 And hymn of moorland child. 
 
 And if through all the hallowed hush 
 
 That folds me as a dream, 
 I hear the Cymric passion rush. 
 
 Impetuous as a stream 
 
 Full-throated by the winter rains, 
 
 And thirsty for the sea. 
 Did Petrarch of the Tuscan plains 
 
 Know purer ecstasy ?
 
 96 
 
 The strength of all the hills is mine- 
 Each silent tor and Uyn, 
 
 And every hoary bardic shrine, 
 Where blow the heath and whin, 
 
 Throws wide sweet sheltering solitudes 
 
 To me, whose spirit hears, 
 Behind Time's blank desuetudes, 
 
 The message of the years. 
 
 Avenging, not with sword, but song, 
 The bastard hordes of Fate, 
 
 Whose cynic harpies gibe and throng, 
 In Doubt articulate. 
 
 So from those dim retreats of old, 
 To me this summer's night, 
 
 No beggar's mite is coldly doled. 
 But Hope and conquering Might !
 
 97 
 
 BODVEAN WOODS, NORTH WALES 
 
 (On hearing the First Cuckoo and Woodpigeons) 
 
 J^EAR notes, the clangour of the years 
 
 May dull the ear's first virgin sense. 
 And things appear less wonderful, 
 
 Than in the bud of innocence. 
 Yet never fails thy spell to bring 
 A joy as deep and nourishing ! 
 
 And here, on mountain boulder, pressed 
 By all the living mirth of May, 
 
 Below — the valley's fair expanse — 
 
 Soft, greening slopes, apparelled gay — 
 
 My inner vision marks not less 
 
 A far-home's tender loveliness ; 
 
 W'here through the scented meadows flowed 
 The lilied stream in simple guise, 
 
 Marged by the willows' silver sheen, 
 That dropped their lashes o'er its eyes. 
 
 And runed with rippling lip, to rush. 
 
 What all the wind said, and the thrush ! 
 
 The straggling copse — the sluices drip — 
 Secluded haunt of moony owls — 
 
 The grave, ancestral elms and ash. 
 The marsh-bed of the water-fowls ; 
 
 These, as thy notes come ringing clear. 
 
 Seem not afar, but warm and near ! 
 
 Sweet thoughts that throng, sweet notes 
 that bring 
 
 A wordless pleasure to the mind. 
 While such enchantments touch the heart, 
 
 Delight new feasts may ever find. 
 Nor yet unmoved by present scenes 
 Find wealth in what the memory gleans !
 
 98 
 
 THE RIVALS 
 
 {North Wales) 
 
 f HE giant keepers of the Hills no more 
 
 These solitudes invade, 
 Yet to a modern's ear, the storied lore 
 
 Of vale and glade, 
 Lives all around, and lends a charm supreme 
 To those rude ways — and to the poet's dream. 
 
 For here, where healthy verdure robes the steep 
 
 In regal panoply. 
 And low, melodious murmurs softly creep 
 
 To find the sea — 
 The freedom of the mountain sons of yore. 
 Floods thought and heart, as surges do the shore! 
 
 Methinks each fastness — each secluded glen, 
 
 Repeats in echoes loud, 
 The voice and valour of stern fighting men — 
 
 Of prowess proud — 
 Disdaining aught but deed for clan and kin, 
 And love of hearth and home, of stone and linn. 
 
 The flush of fray and forage dyed these glooms 
 
 In crimson -tinctured stain ; 
 Where crop the shaggy sheep amid their blooms, 
 
 Blood ran like rain ; 
 Louder than torrent's tumult surged the strife, 
 Where long-sown dead sleep 'neath this purple life ! 
 
 What say the winds among the tufted bells ? 
 
 What secrets has the Sea ? 
 From storm-brazed trench, and weather-beaten cells, 
 
 A grim antiquity 
 Sends forth its ghostly shadows, and I dream, 
 Answer the call to arms, so real they seem.
 
 99 
 
 It is a dream ! The shepherd's shout afar 
 
 My musing mood molests ; 
 Dark grows the hilly crescent, with a star 
 
 Above its breasts ! 
 It is a dream ! The lapping waves below 
 My moment's foothold, answer, weird and low. 
 
 Cold, brooding mists swoop o'er the inky earns, 
 
 The stilly hollows hide 
 The dewy shadows sleeping on the tarns, 
 
 And high and wide 
 The moorland silence, and the misty sea. 
 Give of their strength, and lend me company.
 
 lOO 
 
 SNOWDON 
 
 (As seen from the Roman Bridge, Dolwyddellan, 
 on an April evening) 
 
 "pHOU vast, remote, waste wilderness of stone ! 
 
 A peachv-purple mass among the hills. 
 Whose lesser heights, with less ambitious wills, 
 Have left thee monarch — stern, aloof, alone ! 
 First kissed of dawn — with misty banners strown 
 About thy shoulders when the tempests beat 
 Their thunders out, and mad spates wash thy feet:^ 
 Majestic, silent— save for windy secrets blown 
 Into thy bleak, black tarns, and buried there 
 For aye ; what mvst'ry and power are thine ! how stir 
 Strange fancies in thy presence whose years of change 
 Have brushed thy changeless brow as doth the air. 
 And left thee so much more the mightier. 
 Great granite god of Cambria's solemn range.
 
 lOI 
 
 A WELSH SPATE AT XIGHT 
 
 'pHE lids of the morning drooped, but noon 
 
 Its sorrow knew, and wept ; 
 And when at night the venturous moon 
 Through black clouds, wan-faced, crept. 
 
 The mad spate swept 
 
 Through gorge and cleft, 
 White-tongued, and torn with striving haste, 
 A thunderous, deafening, watery waste ! 
 
 Hark ! how it rips the inky night. 
 In zigzag, frothy, fearsome might ! 
 
 Down, down, it pours, 
 
 And shrieks, and roars 
 In reckless, hissing spite ! 
 
 And up from its weltering haunts, its song 
 
 Chaunts through the hours of sleep ; 
 I listen, and fancy a grim, gaunt throng 
 Of ghouls their orgies keep ; 
 And the pale moon dies 
 In the moist dawn-skies. 
 But to wearied ears, and sleepless eyes, 
 Still, tortured, and strong, in the face of dav, 
 It shouts its defiance, and dashes away !
 
 102 
 
 A WELSH MOUNTAIN STREAM 
 
 QvER sunny shingle reaches 
 
 Silver gray, 
 Over dusky golden shallows, 
 
 Cool all day : 
 In merry tones, like laughter, 
 It babbles, ever after 
 Its love, the deep, great river, 
 Where the tender moon-shafts quiver. 
 
 Like fairies out at play. 
 
 By many a cowslip coppice, 
 
 Full of song. 
 Where birds in leafy coverts pipe 
 
 Loud and long : 
 In sunny day and showery, 
 Through meadows green and flowery, 
 Its ripples gleam and glitter. 
 And mock the linnet's twitter, 
 
 In never-ceasing song. 
 
 When Spring puts forth her blossoms 
 
 Like a bride. 
 And pink-white banners glisten 
 
 O'er its tide: 
 In Summer's fuller splendour. 
 In Autumn dim and tender. 
 And Winter, cold and hoary, 
 I've listened to its story. 
 
 And wandered by its side.
 
 I03 
 
 For my merry water mavis, 
 
 Secret knows! 
 And I wait to hear it whisper'd, 
 
 As it flows, 
 In merry tones, like laughter, 
 And babbles, ever after 
 Its love, the deep, great river. 
 When the tender moon -shafts quiver, 
 
 Like fairies out at play.
 
 104 
 
 NIGHTFALL IN THE LLEDR VALLEY 
 
 "YVhile night, athirst, drinks up the day, 
 And drains the golden goblet dry. 
 And low winds through the fir-woods sigh. 
 Among the moss-grown wilds I stray: 
 
 My footfall noiseless as the tread 
 Of feline night the landscape o'er; 
 And, save the Lledr's tuneful roar 
 
 Below me through its dusky bed ; 
 
 Or startled bleat of drowsing sheep, 
 The silence unmolested broods 
 On moorland wide, and valley woods, 
 
 On ravine rift, and craggy steep. 
 
 Now, in its awful strength, the gloom 
 Enwraps each purple ridge and fort ; 
 Each truant patch of colour caught 
 
 Gives up the ghost before its doom. 
 
 But through the fragrant darkness slips 
 The voiceful murmur of the stream, 
 Unhushed in shadow or in gleam. 
 
 In seaward song with sealless lips ; 
 
 I check my footsteps, but the song 
 The hidden river sings shall stay— 
 A memory when life's waning day 
 
 Shall troop its raven shades along.
 
 105 
 
 BIRDINGBURY 
 
 (On seeing the name pencilled on a fly-leaf of an old book) 
 
 r)EAR spot ! Remembrance holds thee yet 
 So warm and close, thy pencilled name, 
 Floods all my thought, desire, and aim, 
 As with a rain of wild regret ; 
 
 I should but give my love to shame, 
 Could 1 forget. 
 
 Since when I left thy meadows, set 
 So softly round thy willowed Leam — ■ 
 And coppiced haunts, where in a dream 
 
 I left awhile Life's tare and tret. 
 
 Myself now changed — thy wood and stream 
 Could I forget ! 
 
 But thou art far, the sea-deep's fret, 
 
 Rolls upward through the troubled night. 
 And scorneth it with hateful spite. 
 
 To mock me that my eyes are wet 
 
 With visions of a lost delight. 
 
 Could I forget !
 
 io6 
 
 A NORFOLK NOTE 
 
 J WATCHED the sunset, brief, 
 
 On ashen altars flare, 
 Fling over dripping leaf. 
 And through the sullen air, 
 
 A vesture as of fire. 
 
 That burnt, but unconsumed 
 The fallow-flats, the spire, 
 
 In blurring branches tombed ; 
 
 The sluggish dykes gleamed gold ; 
 
 The reedy lances red ; 
 Crimson the beechen mould, 
 
 As if for grief it bled. 
 
 'Twas passed ! The night, unfed, 
 In hunger prowled apace ; 
 
 The timid daylight fled 
 
 And swooned below the chace ; 
 
 All motionless, the mills 
 
 Stood ghost-like, sail to sail ; 
 
 Under star-beacon'd hills 
 
 The wild ducks picked their trail ; 
 
 In mist, gray Ely reared 
 
 Above the flooded main ; 
 The blackwings disappeared, 
 
 More solemn grew the plain ; 
 
 The dark, damp, oozy fen. 
 Whose brackish waters kept 
 
 Its secret things from men, 
 And winter-wasted, slept.
 
 loy 
 
 EDGE HILL WOODS 
 
 (Revisited) 
 
 ]])ear Woods, the footway of the years, 
 
 Like your sweet windings, tell 
 Of stress, and storm, of light and tears. 
 
 And dirge of wint'ry knell, 
 Since I your aisles of beauty sought 
 To tread, leaf-wrapt, in musing thought. 
 
 Yet change, than season's fleeter, leaves 
 
 Me still a mem'ry green, 
 And over all the bygone weaves 
 
 A tender, veiling sheen, 
 Where pain is lost, and joy alone 
 Sings true above the winter moan. 
 
 Ah, me ! the spring flowers burst and glow 
 Beneath vour old gnarl'd crowns, 
 
 Unmindful of Time's ebb and flow, 
 Of Care's corroding frowns. 
 
 While on the banks the red leaf lies, 
 
 And over bend the autumn skies. 
 
 Dear Woods ! the hour is charmed that brings 
 
 Your presence once again, 
 To hear the love the linnet sings. 
 
 The wood-dove's pensive strain, 
 And soothe my spirit with the song 
 That croons your budding boughs among. 
 
 L'envoi. 
 Fall back, O years ! I live once more 
 The red-wme bliss of days of yore ; 
 Each branch, each bud, to me is door 
 To dreams where light dwells evermore 1
 
 io8 
 
 AFTER A STORM 
 
 T SIT and watch the gloomful drift 
 
 Of rain-cloud o'er the evening sky, 
 Slow exodus, with partial rift 
 
 Between the phalanx blowing by; 
 The wrathful tempest pass'd but late 
 
 In surly anger o'er the scene — 
 Dark-brooding, like the scowl of hate. 
 
 And vengeful as the tongue of spleen ; 
 It smote the Autumn peace to death ; — 
 
 Bent taut its bow of might and slew ; 
 Let loose the whirlwind of its breath, 
 
 And swathed in black the tearful blue ; 
 Relentless, heedless, awesome, shod 
 
 With fearful fire, and snorting hail, 
 In direful deed at Pluto's nod, 
 
 Plough'd path of flame like meteor trail ! 
 And ling'ring yet, in aerial keeps 
 
 The lusty legions hold converse ; 
 Across the far cloud-carven steeps 
 
 The lurid hosts burn in disperse, 
 But fainter, as I watch the Night 
 
 Come nearer to the weeping earth, 
 To heal the wound of stormy spite, 
 
 And lure it back to morning mirth. 
 
 I watch no more— the cooling lip ] 
 Bids me soft pillow all my care 
 
 In restful trust, and sleeping, sip 
 The peace of Him who sendeth her.
 
 FLOWERS AND BIRDS
 
 Ill 
 
 MY SNOWDROPS 
 
 ^LL in their dainty gowns of white, 
 Arrayed as if for bridal rite, 
 
 Spotless, pure, and peerless, 
 A virgin throng of snowdrops spread 
 A milky way across my bed, 
 
 Winter -worn and cheerless. 
 
 My garden bed, beshrewn and blank. 
 Where throttled tangles, wan and lank, 
 
 Spectre-like and sapless — 
 The ghostly shreds, the shriven shells 
 Of trailing peas, and jasmine cells. 
 
 Are woe-begone and hapless. 
 
 Capricious airs, frost-burden'd, stirred 
 Each drooping bell, the while 1 heard 
 
 Dreamy, drowsy humming ; 
 And lo! sun-tempted, hardy bees 
 Chimed in and out the nectaries 
 
 And told me spring was coming ! 
 
 Hope-vestured blossoms, song is meet 
 For thee who darest wind and sleet. 
 
 Breath of wrathful weather : 
 Take thou my song, and give to me 
 The secret of thy heart that we 
 
 May chaunt of Hope together.
 
 112 
 
 THE BLACKTHORN 
 
 "Thorn of the time when stressful gusts 
 Of windy-temper, yoked with sleet, 
 Wax arrogant in jealous thrusts, 
 And smite the promise at thy feet — 
 Dear pioneer 
 Of May Day cheer, 
 Thou claimest homage, and 'tis meet. 
 
 Fair consort of the violet, low. 
 
 Beneath thy purple-spiked defence, 
 Thy pyramid of clustering snow 
 Doth captivate the wand'ring sense, 
 Till love hath dived 
 Like bees, and hived 
 Sweet morsels for its sacraments. 
 
 I would that gath'ring, I might hold 
 Thy beauty and its winsome spell, 
 Might bear thee to my roof-tree fold 
 Till all thou art thou shouldest tell : 
 I pluck — and know 
 The charm must go. 
 As ebb the tides from stranded shell ! 
 
 Of spring's divine enchantments, thou. 
 
 With warbling finch, and budding leaf, 
 Dost deck the young year's virgin brow, 
 Beshadowed yet with wintry grief : 
 Brave pioneer 
 Of May Day cheer, 
 For rose of June thou boldest brief !
 
 "3 
 TO AN EARLY ACONITE 
 
 ]y[ETHiNKS, dear flower, your cheery face 
 
 Hath lit anew 
 The flames the years have dimmed apace, 
 Since I was young like you. 
 
 Sweet intercourse of innocence 
 
 On budding ways, 
 When cares were few as thought and pence. 
 
 Dear, long-departed days ! 
 
 Ye, with a glance old friendship owns 
 
 Alone, dost peer 
 Behind the porcli's carven stones. 
 
 And drawest closely near. 
 
 Ye hold the password to the bloom. 
 
 The fruit of love ; 
 The heart's warm revel finds ye room 
 
 Where'er our footsteps rove. 
 
 The storied phrase, the courtly art 
 
 Are left, as when 
 The mellow friend speaks to the heart 
 
 From out the world of men ! 
 
 Dear homely blossom, robed in hint 
 
 Of laughing Spring, 
 Forgive, if miser-like, I mint 
 
 Your golden offering. 
 
 And loudly tell my riches forth 
 
 With gusty glee. 
 Though prowls the fore-whelp of the north 
 
 About your territory.
 
 114 
 
 POPPIES IN THE CORN 
 
 ■^yHEN swallows wheel their airy flight 
 
 Within the mystic blue, 
 And summer woods are putting on 
 
 A softened, soberer hue ; 
 When fields of scented grass and bent 
 
 Are of their glory shorn, 
 I love the deepening harvest ways, 
 
 With poppies in the corn. 
 
 The jewelled briar has lost its rose. 
 
 The hips are green and cold ; 
 The downy nest is tenantless, 
 
 The cuckoo's notes are told ! 
 The year is halting in its race. 
 
 The Summer days are worn. 
 And Autumn shows her ruddy face, 
 
 With poppies in the corn. 
 
 The swallow soon will quit my eaves. 
 The yellow grain be down, 
 
 And Winter blow his icy blast 
 Across the valleys brown ; 
 
 Life's pleasures like the seasons go- 
 As night succeeds the morn : 
 
 Joy lifts its scarlet flame, and dies 
 Like poppies in the corn.
 
 "5 
 AN ORCHARD OF PLUM BLOSSOM 
 
 Plum blossom as surf — 
 
 Frail flow'rets of foam- 
 Tossed, broken, and braiding 
 The rocks frowning purple : 
 On a green breast upheaving, 
 Multitudinous, mighty, 
 A surging cohesion. 
 
 The Bridal of Spring ! 
 Woven of cloud-sheen. 
 The veil of the orchard : 
 Aglow as the rounded 
 And tremulous blue ; 
 Glad as the songful 
 Tide of the singer, 
 Spilling his passion 
 O'er the pavement of heaven. 
 Prodigal, wasteful, 
 A leavening fusion 
 Of lightness and brightness 
 Crowding the branch-ways : 
 A riotous melody 
 Unheard of the ear, 
 Soundless, not soulless, 
 Ecstasy fluting 
 Its music in bloom !
 
 ii6 
 
 Threshold of Promise : 
 Brimming with sweetness 
 The lips of the chalice, 
 Proffered, uplifted 
 In April's fair fingers. 
 Pressed to the parched-mouth 
 Of Hope long deferred : 
 First-fruits of Summer's 
 Ripe, redolent morrow, 
 Hasting, and pauseless 
 To earth's pure embracing.
 
 117 
 DAY UNTO DAY UTTERETH SPEECH 
 
 "pHE day is cold, the light is failing, 
 O'er the wold the wind is wailing. 
 
 And the rain 
 Drips upon the drifted leaves, 
 Huddled underneath the eaves, 
 
 That lid my window pane. 
 
 The sky is dark, the twilight slowly 
 Swallows up, like thought unholy, 
 
 Each fair grace ; 
 While with frenzied tongue, and loud, 
 Rules the tempest, panting, proud, 
 
 O'er orchard, hill, and chace. 
 
 The fuchsias fail — their bells bestricken ; 
 On the beds the mould-woof's thicken, 
 
 Like a shroud — 
 Where the June-bee mined her gold, 
 Where from flowei*y belfry's tolled 
 
 Dew-matins soft as cloud. 
 
 Ah ! me, without the winds aweary, 
 
 Blow through the gloaming, cold, and dreary, 
 
 And within 
 Memories Hood the haunted brain, 
 Long-hush'd voices sing again 
 
 With all the past shut in.
 
 ri8 
 
 THE BLACKBIRD 
 
 'pop of the elms in the winter sun, 
 
 A piper shook with glee: 
 Piped in the ebb of the day nigh done, 
 And the song was sweet to me. 
 
 Never a flower in the grass below, 
 
 Never a leaf on tree ; 
 The winds wailed only of tears and woe, 
 
 But stoutly and strong piped he ! 
 
 Bird whose paean is a call to cheer ! 
 
 Throat of clarion ring : 
 Bird on the brow of the naked year. 
 
 Rousing the sleeping spring ! 
 
 Never a lamb with the folded ewes : 
 
 Never a primrose hint; 
 The days fail soon, and the snow-winds fuse 
 
 The forsaken paths to flint. 
 
 Top of the elms in the winter sun. 
 
 Bird like a prophet true, 
 If the day is dumb — the landscape dun, 
 
 We forget it all in you ; 
 
 Never a nest in the frosted thorn. 
 
 Never a crocus spear, 
 But over the elm-tops comes the morn. 
 
 And thy mate, O blackbird dear !
 
 iig 
 
 THE SPELL OF THE CUCKOO 
 
 QuCKOO, I know not if your note 
 Be vanity or praise of spring : 
 
 What matter, so your ditty float 
 Wtiere fiappy maids are primrosing, 
 And blithe of heart is everything. 
 
 I love you, egotist of May, 
 Who with reiteration light 
 
 Dispenses us your simple lay, 
 
 When earth takes on a new delight. 
 And fields with buttercups are bright. 
 
 Above the withered mould of years. 
 Peeps forth a tender green of grace. 
 
 And by the brimming brook of tears. 
 Some blossom still may find a place 
 To show its half-forgotten face. 
 
 When, Cuckoo, your elusive song 
 Breaks o'er the bluebell drift below, 
 
 And to our graver mem'ries throng 
 Sweet cherishings of long ago, 
 Ere Time had filtered down its snow. 
 
 Not thankless is my heart, nor yet 
 So thankful, that it has no crave 
 
 For days ere yet the blossom set 
 
 In manhood's sterner mould, and grave. 
 And wood and fell found me their slave. 
 
 Yet years have little count, if still 
 The heart warms to your merry lay 
 
 As mine, dear Cuckoo, till it thrill 
 With all the melody of May, 
 And answers to your message — yea 1
 
 120 
 
 THE PEEWIT 
 
 ■piLLED with the eerie fall of the night, 
 
 Wet with the dews of Spring, 
 The fields fail fast in the waning light, 
 
 Like a bird on the homing wing : 
 Filled with a vision'ry, vague menace, 
 The landscape swoons of its gentle grace. 
 
 Back of the fallow, the wind-wom clouds 
 
 Blacken the golden reach, 
 Oozing and weltering in the shrouds 
 
 That buttress the serial beach — 
 Blacken their coils like the lines of care 
 Over the pallid forehead of air. 
 
 Somewhere, cleaving the viewless gloom. 
 The peewit circles and chaunts 
 
 His wearyful note to the stars that loom 
 From their vapoury, misty haunts, 
 
 Wearyful — like some soul distraught, 
 
 In the sluices of maddening fury caught. 
 
 Hush, it is over ! The silence creeps 
 Down from the starlight still ; 
 
 Into the valley with bounds and leaps. 
 Strong of purpose and will : 
 
 Filled with peace of the night I wait 
 
 My summons to pass the enchanted gate.
 
 121 
 
 IN A GORSE COPSE 
 
 An April Fancy 
 
 'pHE bird that nests among your bloom, 
 
 Far more than I may guess 
 Within your golden breast may find 
 A poet's happiness ! 
 
 In hues whose opulence may watch 
 
 The sunset's royal glow 
 Beneath whose living warmth, the shy 
 
 Sweet April violets blow ; 
 
 The bright-winged moth, if epicure, 
 
 Of dainties takes his fill, 
 Flitting in fitful wantonness 
 
 Free as the soft wind's will. 
 
 Surely such bowery lusciousness 
 Might tempt long-sleeping fays 
 
 To coquette in this copse again 
 And grace these dreary days. 
 
 Nay, peradventure, as I dream. 
 They throng with merry feet 
 
 The nectared chambers, as of old 
 In elfish grave conceit. 
 
 And if my fancy feeds on dreams, 
 
 ■What could be better fare ? 
 Joy is as lightsome as a lilt. 
 
 And Spring is in the air !
 
 122 
 
 TO AN OWL 
 
 giRD of the ghostly hours, while nature sleeps, 
 
 Thou holdest vigil through the friendless dark, 
 High throned among the woody keeps 
 Of unmolested park. 
 
 What is thy woeful cry ? inimic, lone. 
 
 It trembles forth upon the winter's night, 
 Like some grim answer to the moan 
 Of cavern 'd surges' spite. 
 
 Far off, and shrill, the swift responding call 
 
 Of watching mate comes from the gruesome main, 
 Distinct above the sluices' fretful brawl, 
 And all is still again ! 
 
 Bird of the ghostly hours, my footstep scares ; 
 Unseen, I hear thy cleaving wings in flight ! 
 I came upon thee unexpected, unawares. 
 Witch of the winter's night.
 
 123 
 
 AN OPTIMIST 
 
 J HEARD him yestereve — a speech 
 So musically clear, 
 It lingers still upon my ear, 
 And will for many a year ; 
 
 Yet did he neither plead nor preach, 
 
 Or aught in jealousy impeach. 
 
 No warmth was in the sky, no sign 
 
 Of flower, of bud, or bee ; 
 (I could not see as far as he) 
 
 Yet so it seemed to me. 
 That he did prophesy of wine — 
 The Lotus-draught of love divine. 
 
 Blithe, hardy optimist ! You ask 
 His name and fame's degree? 
 His pulpit was a beechen tree ; 
 He was a blackbird, bold, and free, 
 Who knew his theme, and loved his task. 
 And tore to shreds my moody mask.
 
 124 
 
 THE POET AND THE BIRD 
 
 Tn a beech-tree on the Cotswolds, — 
 
 (So the wind-harps told it me) 
 There was fledged a gentle singer, 
 A Woodland poet he. 
 
 Down below the primrose listened ; 
 
 Here and there, a violet came : 
 Every day the beech grew brighter 
 
 With the lustre of its fame ; 
 
 Through the day-dream, April ariels 
 Plumed themselves upon the clouds, 
 
 Through the night the moon was watching. 
 And the stars in milky crowds. 
 
 Thereunto an earth-born poet 
 Ventured with his trembling reed, 
 
 Blew his longing to the singer, 
 Begged of him a tiny meed. 
 
 But the minstrel's throat was silent, 
 
 And the poet's wish in fee : 
 Hushed the song, and dead the singer — 
 
 The poet of the beechen tree !
 
 125 
 
 THE SONG OF THE ROBIN 
 
 TPoBiN, the year has run away — 
 
 Away from the cuckoo's note, 
 Far, far away, from flowers of May 
 That blossomed round his throat ; 
 The yellow is on the apple tree, 
 But Robin, thy song for me. 
 
 Robin, pippins are on the boughs — 
 On boughs of the orchard ways, 
 
 Sweet as the twilight-soften'd vows 
 Will to Marjorie pays ; 
 
 The russet is on the arbour tree, 
 
 But Robin, thy song for me. 
 
 Robin, canker is on the leaf — 
 The leaf the Summer sun kissed 
 
 In honeymoon days, when never a grief, 
 Beaded their brows with mist : 
 
 Coral the fruit of the barberry tree ; 
 
 But Robin, thy song for me. 
 
 Robin, the sickle is silent now ; 
 
 Silent the glean'd stubbles, lone ; 
 Cold are the winds that mournfully sough 
 
 Over the thistles, blown ; 
 Ripe is the hip on the hawthorn tree. 
 And Robin, thy song for me.
 
 126 
 
 THE ROBIN'S SONG 
 
 {Last poem: Written at his old favourite home, Plas Tirion, 
 on his couch in the garden. September, 1907) 
 
 I love the song 
 That trembles through the twilight's dusky gold, 
 ■When Autumn bids her shepherdesses fold 
 The recreant clouds that stray beyond the wold, 
 
 In rosy throng : 
 
 When slowly down 
 The upland's tawny stubble creeps soft-footed eve. 
 And o'er the blinking pools the white mists weave 
 Their vapoury wonders while their fingers thieve 
 
 "The Summer's crown ! 
 
 The Robin's song ! 
 Sweet as the garnered ripeness of the corn ; 
 Its mellow chime floats from the scarlet thorn 
 To mingle with the fading day, the hope of morn- 
 
 And courage strong ! 
 
 Dear songster ! Thou 
 Shalt lesson me in melody whose tone 
 Is no chill requiem over fair things flown, 
 But rare content that makes a purple throne 
 
 Of barest bough !
 
 THOUGHTS FROM THE SEA
 
 129 
 
 THE WAVE 
 
 JTleest thou, fugitive wave, for rest ? 
 
 Seekest for this the shore ? 
 Cruel and cold is the rock's hard breast, 
 And the lost have gone before ! 
 
 Comest thou hither virith vaunt, or fear ? 
 
 Tellest thou mirth or death ? 
 Thy music seems akin to a tear. 
 
 Reveal what thy white lip saith ! 
 
 Under the reef are thy comrades slain 
 (The black rocks ever slay) 
 
 ihe sands but drink, and forget the pain- 
 Aye, drink, and forget alway !
 
 I30 
 
 UNDER THE CLIFFS 
 Abergeirch 
 
 J^EWED by the God of storm and calm, 
 
 Mighty in girth, and breast — 
 Ribbed of a thousand moods of years, 
 
 From shingle to lichened crest : 
 Dumb — whate'er the seas may bring. 
 
 Darkly, awfully, lone — 
 
 cliffs, what hauntings about you cling. 
 What spells are around you thrown ! 
 
 For you, the runes of ebb and flow — 
 
 The white-witch dance of death ! 
 The flying march of the northern sand, 
 
 The sting of the tempest's breath ; 
 Round you wrangle the unquell'd moans 
 
 Dying in caves of gloom. 
 The tortured cries that have floated far, 
 
 From swift and sudden doom ! 
 
 1 scan you — but you give no clue ; 
 
 My mortal gaze is mocked ; 
 I shudder with falt'ring feet below. 
 
 Black scouts sternly locked — 
 The earth-juice drips from vent and pores, 
 
 Your cold heart awes and chills : 
 O cliffs, what — what to you our dream — 
 
 Our little day's brief ills ?
 
 131 
 
 I touch your carven strength with mine, 
 
 So frail, so fugitive — 
 I pluck the heath flower from your brow, 
 
 That now your strength may live, 
 And passion deepens in my soul, 
 
 O cliffs, God hewn, and strong. 
 Till brighter than the seas that roll, 
 
 Thoughts that glow and throng !
 
 132 
 
 ON THE SHORE 
 
 fHE petrel's wing, the sighted sail — 
 
 The glancing sunlight that doth pave 
 The swelling corridors of wave — 
 Dear morning gifts, I give thee hail ! 
 
 Ye come upon my vision's light, 
 
 From whence 1 do not know, or ask, 
 Yet, being seen, the daily task 
 
 Is burnished with a new delight ! 
 
 The soft commotion of the sea, 
 That beats its music to my feet, 
 Methinks from spheres eternal greet 
 
 The heir of immortality. 
 
 And wing and sail that come and go — 
 The known — the unknown— what are they 
 But servitors of that broad day 
 
 Whose tides, e'en now, about us flow ?
 
 133 
 SEA-DOWNS 
 
 Qalm, grand, and with unchanging grace, 
 
 Ample, and wide, and sweet. 
 With great green breasts to the zenith's eye, 
 The sea-lips at their feet ; 
 
 Curved as the cheek of a maid — yet staid — 
 
 Graven with countless years, 
 Charged with a strength in breadth and length. 
 
 Heedless of smiles and tears ; 
 
 How shall I sing the breeze-blown runes. 
 
 That hold, like the folded rose, 
 The secret heart of the calm and storm 
 
 Of the sea that round them flows ? 
 
 Of the stately wing of the gull, and swing 
 
 Of the billows on the shore — 
 The rippling bliss of the summer's kiss. 
 
 Or hurricane's awful roar ? 
 
 Let it suffice that Spring's young smiles. 
 
 Lure me with lambs that dance 
 To forgo and forget the quest and strife 
 
 Of the weary world's mischance ; 
 
 Taking: the gift of the day, while drift 
 
 The idle tides and clouds 
 Far off, and away from the things that slay 
 
 And the cities' restless crowds !
 
 134 
 
 ON THE SANDS 
 
 Qn a lonely stretch of wind-swept bay, 
 
 Where the breakers roar, and petrels play 
 Winnowing weedy strands, 
 With age bent low, 
 In the wasting glow, 
 An old man paced the sands : 
 
 The red sun sleeps, but the ivaves roll on, 
 
 The white crests sparkle ever; 
 The dav may ebb, and the years be gone. 
 The heaving tides cease never. 
 
 A hulk, sea-scarred as the rocks that belt 
 The white sea's passion'd wail and welt; 
 Salt-lined, and tough, and taut; 
 I watched him bide 
 By the sun-kissed tide. 
 As one long tired of port. 
 
 The red sun sleeps, but the j.vaves roll on, 
 
 The ivhite crests sparkle ever; 
 The day may ebb, and the years be gone, 
 The heaving tides cease never. 
 
 Clean swept his deck— a poor, waste drift — 
 He waits the last round wave to lift 
 His battered bark ashore. 
 Where fearful shriek, and tortured cry, 
 Shall beat their voice against the sky. 
 No more, O sea, no more. 
 
 The red sun sleeps, but the ivaves roll on, 
 
 The tvhite crests sparkle ever; 
 The day may ebb, and the years be gone. 
 The heaving tides cease never.
 
 135 
 VOICES OF WIND AND SEA 
 
 Q WINDS of the sea, your voices 
 Over the headlands wide — 
 Start — till it leaps — rejoices 
 Raptures' exultant tide. 
 
 Bleached with the drought of cities 
 
 I welcome, as the sands, 
 The rush of the surges' ditties 
 
 Over the hearkening strands— 
 
 Your breath, blown down from the heavens- 
 Blown o'er the purging sea, 
 
 Till it stirs in the blood, and leavens 
 My being with ecstasy. 
 
 sob, and murmur of ocean, 
 Unutterable, great and strong, 
 
 1 hearken, till every motion 
 
 Flows into my soul like song. 
 
 Nor envious how the sea-bird 
 
 Hath liberty not mine, 
 The morning gift by all things shared 
 
 Is share of the divine !
 
 136 
 
 THE CURFEW OF THE SEA-GULL 
 
 To my Wife 
 
 "Yhrice higher than the lordly cliff, 
 
 By lords of earth untrod, 
 A sea-gull at the curfew hour 
 Sang at the gates of God. 
 
 And mournfully, o'er lapping tides 
 
 That wash my heedless feet, 
 The weird wild notes drop down the air 
 
 My listening ear to greet. 
 
 Harmonious, — bird, and cry, and surge- 
 While brooding silence stills 
 
 The mind's disordered toss and swell 
 In thought's tumultuous mills. 
 
 Chant on, O bird of watery waste ! 
 
 Thy note sets free for me, 
 Imprisoned longings of the soul, 
 
 Boundless as is thy sea : 
 
 Flow in, flow in, great deeps of God ! 
 
 Fill in my shallows — spread 
 Thy healing waters till my heart 
 
 In peace is quieted.
 
 137 
 NIGHTFALL ON THE SHORE 
 
 T ONG since the lark's sweet litany 
 
 Grew silent in the sky: 
 With set of sun, the singer's glee 
 And warmth and beauty die ! 
 
 A lonely sea-bird's wing I hear, 
 Unvisioned in the gloom — 
 
 Mysterious, hauntful as a fear. 
 About the billows boom. 
 
 The vagrant spirit of the deep 
 Fills me with weird delight, 
 
 While closer to the shadows creep 
 The motherhood of night. 
 
 For me, for me, alone, the sea's 
 
 Unquiet soul is stirred. 
 Deep — deep, unslumbrous melodies 
 
 That mock the sleeping bird : 
 
 Break over dusky reef and sands 
 
 In deluges of song. 
 For Rona's maid, with clasped hands- 
 
 For ever fair and strong; 
 
 Make ready for their starry tryst 
 
 No human eyes may see, 
 But through the tapestries of mist 
 
 Floats forth the revelry ! 
 
 Cast out upon the constant tides — 
 Inconstant mirth and woe — 
 
 The sorrow and the joy of brides 
 The sea kings only know.
 
 138 
 
 BY THE SEA 
 
 Q SEA, whose yesterdays no more may count, 
 
 To-day — as yesterday — untired, 
 Of ebb and flow, of storm and calm, 
 
 And songs thy years have quired. 
 How thy wildering, rhythm'd marches, 
 Under cloud, and God's blue arches. 
 
 Have for ever men inspired ! 
 
 With ardours kindled of the fitful day 
 
 Of moods as variant as the souls. 
 Wide-bosomed, mothering broods of ships. 
 
 Cradling great cargoes on thy rolls ; 
 Cradling — unknown — the all unknowing — 
 O sea, for ever flowing, flowing. 
 
 Secret of deeps and syren shoals ; 
 
 Profound, incomparable, vestured of God 
 
 With mystery baffling men, 
 Suggester — mocker of the inner quest — 
 
 The shore-dark riddle of the Now and Then, 
 How thy mighty, rhythm'd marches 
 Under cloud in God's blue arches 
 
 Have comforted, and will again !
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING
 
 HI 
 UNTO THE NIGHT 
 
 ■Relow a hawthorn— haunted knoll, 
 
 Where nibbling sheep, in burrow, browsed, 
 And scamp'ring rabbits, startled, stole 
 To refuges of bank and bole : 
 While amorous interchanges flasht 
 Upon the windy currents, light, 
 I stood to watch the daylight go 
 Unto the night. 
 
 Ere yet the twilight stilled the song, 
 Or hypnotised the festive dell. 
 And wound about the sleepy throng 
 Of folded wings secure and strong : 
 For me the cloudy pageant rolled. 
 Above the ridge — a flaming might — 
 As there I watched the daylight go 
 Unto the night. 
 
 And ev'r\^ homing cloud seemed charged 
 With m^sage of its noon-day quest : 
 Back to the Western Gate enlarged. 
 With gold and crimson glory marged, 
 Each guise of beauty waxed and waned, 
 And died upon the falt'ring sight. 
 As awed, 1 watched the daylight go 
 Unto the night. 
 
 lustrous moments wrought of air, 
 And fire that warms the tufted earth ! 
 My blinking sense cried out to share 
 The glad, free, essence everywhere ! 
 But lo ! I knew ere that could be. 
 And mine the crystal secret white, 
 
 1 should not heed the daylight go 
 
 Unto the night.
 
 142 
 
 THE THRESHOLD OF THE NIGHT. 
 
 "YyHEN the moon of winter lifts her radiance on 
 
 the snow, 
 When one by one the shadows clothe the 
 
 moments as they p;o, 
 When all the wonder of the day fades on my 
 
 wond'ring sight, 
 How beautiful and still the hour that borders 
 
 on the night : 
 The winter's night, with crystals crowned, and 
 
 mute, with frozen airs, 
 Below the glistering mound of white the low 
 
 wind scarcely stirs! 
 The soft clouds fold on fold unveil beyond the 
 
 glazing trees, 
 And here and there a trembling speck tells out 
 
 star mysteries : 
 The silence deepens on the soul — the silence of 
 
 the snow — 
 Of moon, and stars, and dusky cloud, and 
 
 drowsy earth below. 
 And night takes up her witcheries, and paces 
 
 to and fro.
 
 143 
 
 MOONRISE 
 
 TJp amid the sweet blue spaces, 
 
 Fleck'd with amber, gold, and red, 
 See the new moon's silver crescent, 
 Like a burnish'd sickle spread ! 
 
 Do^\^l behind the belt of fir-wood. 
 Drops the sun, and all is still : 
 
 And the pine-trees' shadow darkens, 
 And the mists wrap round the hill. 
 
 Deeper is the weird enfolding. 
 
 Till each day-charm fades from sight. 
 And the shining silver crescent 
 
 Starts the marches of the night.
 
 144 
 
 IN THE WINTER TWILIGHT 
 
 J-Jere, underneath the old church tower, 
 
 Where darkness grows apace, 
 There comes within this twilight hour 
 A sweet subduing grace. 
 
 Peace with a noiseless footfall steals 
 
 O'er mossy mound and wall, 
 The earth at her calm altar kneels. 
 
 And silence covereth all. 
 
 Now hold we fellowship with forms 
 
 Invisible by day, 
 The quicken'd fire of Fancy warms 
 
 Into a kindlier ray ; 
 
 The angel of the night descends 
 
 With rich gift-laden hands, 
 Pure as the sphere that overbends 
 
 The flowerless Winter-lands ; 
 
 I take the proffered gift and learn 
 
 The secret stair to rest. 
 Beside the quenchless stars that burn 
 
 Above earth's shadowed breast.
 
 145 
 NIGHT WINDS 
 
 T HEAR the windy clamours 
 
 Shriek past my postern gate, 
 And knock with air-flung hammers, 
 
 Like couriers loud and late ; 
 I listen to the tramping 
 
 Of choristers of snow. 
 With strange and fearful anthems, 
 
 And wonder whence they go ! 
 
 And are they guests— or singers— 
 
 Or spirits, craven, lean — 
 Whose bloodless, viewless fingers 
 
 Some spectre harvests glean ? 
 What mirth, or madness, is it. 
 
 What freakish, frenzied might, 
 That hoots adown the chimney, 
 
 That fills the clammy night? 
 
 I care not, for my ingle 
 
 With festive flame is warm ; 
 I sit, to dream, and mingle 
 
 With the wind-scouts of the storm ; 
 They chant their eerie dirges. 
 
 They crouch, and bound, and weep ; 
 I let them rave, and lure me 
 
 To dusky isles of sleep. 
 
 /
 
 146 
 
 THE CRADLE OF THE DAY 
 
 Q vroLET-scENTED winds that rock 
 
 The cradle of the morn, 
 Cool as the moss's velvet frock, 
 Where giddy spates are bom, 
 Unloose your silver veils of mist : 
 The valleys wait, the glad birds list ! 
 
 O guarding sentinels of cloud. 
 
 Put out the stars, and set 
 The portals wide with shoutings loud 
 
 From height to height, and let 
 The warm light dance adown the hills. 
 And wake to song the mimic rills. 
 
 O buds, the May is come, is come — 
 
 The fair, blue day of Spring : 
 The cuckoo calls, and truant hum 
 
 Marks out the bee's bright wing : 
 While sweet delight like nectar lies 
 To fill our cup with fresh supplies. 
 
 O virgin airs, that blowing straight 
 
 From off the hills of Day, 
 With earth's divinest things to mate, 
 
 And loveliest to play. 
 Blow morning through my heart, and bring 
 Once more to me the bliss of Spring 1
 
 147 
 MORNING COMES 
 
 Q SLEEPLESS eyes through watches dark, 
 
 Whose lids in vain 
 Forbid the day's usurping greed, 
 
 To yoke the brain 
 With fears that waste the silent hours : 
 Whose hunger-famish'd strength devours : 
 
 The morning comes again ! 
 
 O ghostly thought, whose wings outstrip 
 
 The howling wind, 
 To beat against the star-sprent height, 
 
 Through midnight blind : 
 Unsatislied thou comest back, 
 All wearied with the phantom wrack : 
 
 The morning comes again ! 
 
 O futile plans, the mocking guise 
 
 Of baffled skill : 
 The ideals lost through doubt and death. 
 
 The truant will^ 
 The watches wane, the shadows go, 
 From hills of dawn the spices blow, 
 
 The morning comes again !
 
 148 
 
 MORN 
 
 gpHERED by the new-born blue of Day, 
 
 With silver wings, 
 The virgin morn betook her way 
 With carolings. 
 
 The great woods listened ; more and more 
 
 Did shadows lift 
 From off their massy brows, and o'er 
 
 Their crowns a rift 
 
 Of gladness chase the gloom afar, 
 
 And twinkling leaves 
 Shake out their laughter like a star 
 
 On summer eves. 
 
 The golden valleys heard, and smiled ; 
 
 The reapers bent 
 Among the braided grain, beguiled 
 
 From discontent ; 
 
 The ploughman on the upland strode 
 
 A firmer gait, 
 Till bloomy furrows rose and glowed 
 
 In glist'ning state. 
 
 And all in white the river danced 
 
 Through green and gold, 
 With eyes of blue, half-shyly glanced 
 
 At rushes bold ; 
 
 Cooed to the lilies, rippled by 
 
 A weathered punt. 
 And fisherman with tranquil eye 
 
 On float in front ;
 
 149 
 
 Gave back the flash of swallows' flight ; 
 
 And flow'ry pride 
 Below the willows cool and light 
 
 On either side. 
 
 From cottages the children ran 
 
 With eager feet, 
 To prosecute the latest plan 
 
 In sweet conceit ; 
 
 Down briary lane to laugh and sing — 
 
 Rare roundelay — 
 Till matin bell of school shall ring 
 
 Their sport away. 
 
 Sphered by the new-born blue, old earth 
 
 Repeats again. 
 The virgin rapture of her birth 
 
 To gladden men !
 
 15° 
 
 UP ROSE THE DAY 
 
 TJp rose the day, undaunted, bold, 
 
 On wrathful furj' bent ! 
 All through the dark and gusty night 
 The winds had raged unspent, 
 And still they lifted up their voice, and shook 
 
 themselves with glee, 
 And blew their notes from bough to bough like 
 roar of northern sea ! 
 
 The fitful light, affrighted shrank 
 
 Behind the stormy clouds. 
 That gath'ring strength, their banners raised 
 In high fantastic crowds ; 
 And down through shadowy meadows came the whirl- 
 wind of the blast. 
 And rush of ringing rain and hail fell furious 
 and fast. 
 
 Then grew the day up toward the noon, 
 
 With halting step and slow. 
 The heavens brooded dark and dull. 
 Like mourners wrapped in woe, 
 The sun a moment shot a glance across the rain- 
 
 rimm'd land. 
 Then hastened with a wan, wet face from such 
 a cheerless strand. 
 
 But as the wintry daylight ebb'd. 
 The stubborn clouds gave way, 
 A tender beauty stood revealed, 
 Beyond the belted gray. 
 The great gales slept in slumber deep, the even- 
 ing rose in peace. 
 The anger of the storm was o'er, its soul had 
 found release !
 
 PAST AND FUTURE
 
 153 
 CHRISTMAS 
 
 Qnce more the berried thorn— the bells — 
 
 Frost's tonic in the air. 
 The silence over wood and fells, 
 Snow wonder everywhere. 
 
 Once more the cradle-song — the child — 
 
 Tale of the manger birth ; 
 The lusty carol, while leaps wild 
 
 The Yule-log's ruddy mirth ! 
 
 Once more the touch, the lip, the look 
 Of goodwill— gracious, sweet. 
 
 The warm breath of the ingle nook 
 To welcome wandering feet. 
 
 O Christmas, ever green, and great, 
 With Christly love and grace, 
 
 Blot out the world's hard greed and hate. 
 Purge thou the stricken place ! 
 
 Evoke men's slumb'ring good, and give — 
 Guest welcome, give us this — 
 
 The Christian power to help us live 
 Unyoked of cowardice.
 
 ^54 
 
 YULE-TIDE 
 
 J^VANGEL of the wayworn year, 
 
 With ermine scarf, and winds a-blowing, 
 Our fathers loved thy honest cheer, 
 
 Thy presence pure as snowdrifts growing ; 
 Time, dire in ravage, hath no will 
 
 Of conquest o'er thy deathless story, 
 For us the yule-log, flaming still. 
 
 Rekindles mem'ry, loved and hoary. 
 
 Within thy radiance men have seen 
 
 An ideal nobler than the present : 
 A dream like unto shimmering sheen 
 
 That trembles round a young moon's crescent ; 
 And following the transfigured light. 
 
 In kindly deeds have given token 
 Of Love's eternal, matchless might. 
 
 Of selfish bonds for ever broken. 
 
 Absorbed in life's tumultuous things. 
 
 On plan and purpose deeply brooding. 
 Where is the heart whose voiceless strings 
 
 Have answered not the snows intruding ? 
 Or walked unheeding as the flakes 
 
 The old familiar path effaces, 
 And banished thought, aroused, awakes, 
 
 To lead us to forgotten places ? 
 
 The lost regained, the fruitless past 
 
 Forgiven, cancelled— good re-quickened — 
 A rainbow through the tearfall, fast — 
 
 A bud on trees neglect had strickened — 
 A dawn upon a long, black night — 
 
 A shore through surf of angry ocean — 
 A leaf unstained, a purged sight — 
 
 A rest to Toil's whirlwind of motion.
 
 155 
 
 So men have dreamed ; so dream they still ; 
 
 The white WTeath of old Christmas ever 
 Doth cover with profoundest skill 
 
 The failures of life's frail endeavour ; 
 Sets Hope aflame in burden'd breast, 
 
 The lusty tides of Love a-flowing, 
 Great gift of God, the sweet, the blest, 
 
 With ermine scarf and winds a-blowing.
 
 156 
 
 THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW 
 
 ]y[ETH0UGHT I stood in the palace of Time, 
 
 On an eve of yesterday : 
 The lights had paled, and the winds bewailed- 
 The old year dying lay — 
 On his snow-cold bier. 
 On that night so drear, 
 His spirit was passing away. 
 
 I was not alone in that palace fair, 
 
 A motley group was by — 
 The young and old, and the weak and bold. 
 Rich and poor drew nigh 
 To the shrouded bier. 
 On that night so drear, 
 To watch the old year die. 
 
 Then out spake he to the wond'ring crowd. 
 
 Though his voice was faint and low — 
 " Live while you may, work, watch, and pray. 
 The future from past will grow. 
 To-day is the sowing. 
 To-morrow the blowing 
 Of harvests of joy or woe." 
 
 Darkness fell o'er the palace of Time, 
 
 On that eve of yesterday : 
 The great bells toU'd o'er city and wold, 
 The year had passed away : — 
 On the ice-cold bier. 
 In that midnight drear, 
 The old year lifeless lay.
 
 157 
 
 I heard a stir in the palace halls, 
 
 The gates were opened wide ! 
 And a form I had never seen before, 
 Came swiftly through the morning door, 
 
 And stood by the old year's side. 
 
 Then clash'd the bells o'er the world again, 
 
 Telling of hope and cheer. 
 And 1 knew by the light on the radiant face, 
 That he who had taken the vacant place, 
 
 Was the bright— the glad New Year !
 
 158 
 
 A FAREWELL MONOLOGUE 
 
 •pHE hearth is red with Yule-log light, 
 
 The year far spent ; 
 The last day drops unto the night, 
 And to a long eternal flight. 
 Its course is bent. 
 
 Come near ! my friend of many days, 
 
 Come, let me look 
 Thy features o'er within the rays, 
 That half in sadness seems to blaze 
 
 About the ingle nook. 
 
 Time hurries thee, I know, but yet 
 
 1 urge my plea : 
 It is so easy to forget — 
 Life's best things go so soon, so let 
 
 Me talk with thee ! 
 
 What if the boughs are bare, old friend, 
 
 Where nests were built : 
 No more the song-birds' notes ascend. 
 And flowers have found untimely end. 
 
 Their nectar spilt ? 
 
 What if some suns went down in cloud, 
 
 That rose so fair. 
 And Hope is swath'd in ghostly shroud. 
 And Fears, a grim and clam'rous crowd. 
 
 Have block'd the stair ; 
 
 The Western skies have fill'd with light, 
 
 As fills the moon ; 
 The warm wings of the summer's night 
 Has nourished into shapeful sight 
 
 A radiant noon !
 
 159 
 
 So ever as the hours have flown 
 
 Each one has brought 
 Its other self, that not alone 
 Should sorrow be, or mishap's moan 
 
 Seems fateful sport. 
 
 For He, whose high commission thou 
 
 Dost simply do, 
 Asks no unmeaning, thoughtless bow 
 To chance and change, but to allow 
 
 The Future view. 
 
 Thou goest whither all have fled, 
 
 The New I face ! 
 Across the hills the light is spread, 
 Hope beckons from the valley's dead, 
 
 Heart, take thy place !
 
 i6o 
 
 THE LONG AGO 
 
 'pHE Yule-log blazes as of yore, 
 
 The wild bells clash across the snow ; 
 The waits are muffled at the door, 
 
 As in the long ago ; 
 The rafters ring, the children sing, 
 
 Around the hearthstone red. 
 But swifter than the snowflakes, wing 
 
 The dreams of days long dead ! 
 
 O voices from the buried years, 
 
 Ye mingle with our own to-night. 
 And melt our gladness into tears, 
 
 For lov'd ones out of sight : 
 The saintly face, the gentle grace. 
 
 Are pictured on the walls — 
 But in the heart's best hiding place 
 
 The accents Love recalls ! 
 
 No ghostly, clammy errand yours. 
 
 Dear forms that visit us again ; 
 Your soul-seen presence cheers, assures 
 
 Our hearts to-night as then ; 
 We fear no spell, no gruesome knell 
 
 On joys and quick desires. 
 That leap through youthful veins as well 
 
 As erst they did their sires.
 
 i6i 
 
 Come, lips that shaped sweet words of old — 
 
 Come hands with claspings strong — 
 Come, features with diviner mould — 
 
 Come, heart, and voice, and song ! 
 The rafters ring, the children sing, 
 
 Around the hearthstone red, 
 And with the Christmas carols, spring 
 
 The flowers of days long dead. 
 
 Glow, ruddy beams of firelight, gloiv, 
 Ring out wild bells across the snow; 
 
 Love is not vain 
 
 That lives again 
 In dreams of long ago.
 
 l62 
 
 THE CENTURY'S SUNSET 
 
 "Yhe Century, like a long-drawn tale, 
 
 Is told — the last worn page 
 In Time's old volume turn — we hail, 
 To prophet's eyes, the Golden Age ! 
 
 The stars still marshal nightly fires 
 Above earth's change and rue, 
 
 Still voiceful are the tidal choirs 
 That wake the Old and New ; 
 
 If promise slumbers in the bud, 
 
 Nor yet the watchman cries 
 " The morning breaks above the flood, 
 
 Lift up, lift up the eyes; " 
 
 Our sires, who sowed, saw not the gold 
 
 Of Harvests such as we 
 Blow to fruition o'er the wold 
 
 Of worlds from sea to sea. 
 
 Hope dies not with the garnered years^ 
 The grave breeds finer strength ; 
 
 And through the vapours, mists, and tears, 
 God's light shall dawn at length ! 
 
 Watch, if ye will, where stiff and cold 
 The worn-out Century sleeps ; 
 
 Watch ye ! and then with passion bold 
 On to the Future's steeps ! 
 
 Life lifts through Time's tempestuous gray 
 
 The rosy peaks of Morn ; 
 Ours are the ears of Yesterday, 
 
 The sheaves, our sons unborn !
 
 i63 
 THE YEAR IS GOING 
 
 "pHE pear hangs red, and redbreast sings, 
 
 On the bough where sits decay ; 
 The sun-flower flames below, but brings 
 A pang with its bold array. 
 
 I cannot suppress the pain that comes 
 
 Like a bolt of quivering fire ; 
 I only know how the vision numbs 
 
 And changes my feast to mire. 
 
 I have lived and loved in the summer's sun 
 I have hived, like bees, sweet things : 
 
 But the pear hangs red, the day is done, 
 And only the robin sings ! 
 
 The year is going — like a silent ebb — 
 
 Going, as goes a friend, 
 While Memory sits and spins her web 
 
 O'er joys of untimely end ! 
 
 I have nought to say : my sorrow flowers, 
 While the frost consumes the leaf ; 
 
 Farewell! I pluck the red-ripe hours. 
 And the redbreast soothes my grief. 
 
 M
 
 164 
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 
 
 TJnwearied Winter, on the brow of Spring, 
 
 Must bind his own. 
 What matters it the thrushes sing 
 
 Below his throne ? 
 They are but trespassers, and he 
 Lord of the mountain territory. 
 
 Sing louder, O ye birds, on budding bough, 
 
 Though dawns comes slow; 
 The seagull's snow-wings flower the plough, 
 
 And March winds blow. 
 The lambs are truant from the fold : 
 Sing louder, birds— be bold, be bold ! 
 
 Let not his hoarse voice hinder your sweet task- 
 Love, youth, and light 
 
 Are vours, and ours— in hope. We ask — 
 Give of your might ! 
 
 He who rebukes shall be the trespasser. 
 
 When April shepherds through the fields of air.
 
 i65 
 
 THE CRAG 
 
 QvER the sea-ward crag the blue 
 
 Of the Summer noon is sleeping : 
 There — where the gales of Winter flew, 
 
 And hurricane seas were sweeping, 
 Down the ledge, to the darkling edge. 
 
 Sheer to the tides far under, 
 Spreads to-day the heather gay, 
 
 A dream of purple wonder. 
 
 Barren through Winter waste and strife, 
 
 Hooded of mist and sadness, 
 Stern and cold as the angry life 
 
 Of the awful watery madness ; 
 Does it forget the wrack and fret — 
 
 The storm's imperious scorning. 
 Decked to-day in heather gay 
 
 Bright in September's morning ? 
 
 " Come blue, come black — come sun or shade 
 
 I hold myself undaunted : 
 Keep my heart as no man or maid. 
 
 In the world by mortals haunted ! 
 For seas may break, and tempests shake 
 
 The grass'that dies to-morrow, 
 The purple plaid is the secret, lad. 
 
 Of strength that beareth sorrow."
 
 1 66 
 
 BEHIND — BEFORE! 
 (A neiv Year's Reflection) 
 
 gEHiND — the unsealed summits that smote the 
 
 aching sight ; 
 The valley, ploughed by failure — the torrent's 
 
 mad despite — 
 Unbridged, unforded, mocking; its angry menace 
 
 ever 
 In heart and ear deriding irresolute endeavour ! 
 Behind — the baffling mirage — the morass, grim 
 
 and green. 
 Defeat bleached into memories of all that might 
 
 have been : 
 The chill of disappointments — the bivouacs of 
 
 care, 
 Behind, behind, O, heart of mine, what bitter- 
 ness is there ! 
 Yet hark thee, angels beckon ; before thee — height 
 
 to height, 
 The virgin Future lifteth its hope upon thy 
 
 sight : 
 Up ! up ! if faint, pursuing — in patience hold 
 
 thy soul, 
 Nor ask of Fate a pittance, of Chance a beggar's 
 
 dole. 
 If sycophants waylay thee, or sophists bid thy 
 
 ear, 
 Press on, pray on, reliant, God's thought out- 
 lives the year. 
 Earth — dust may soil the moment, the white 
 
 hereafter gives 
 Its coronal of conquest to him who dying — 
 
 lives !
 
 167 
 THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 Q YESTERDAYS that are no more, 
 
 I think I hear your ghostly tread — 
 As soft as snow-fall — at my door ; 
 I wait you with uncovered head. 
 
 The torches of the Year burn low, 
 The ashes of dead fires bestrew 
 
 My lonely chamber — still as snow — 
 But all I have I give to you. 
 
 Come in, companions of the Past — 
 A fragrance in your garments clings — 
 
 As precious fruits that ripen last 
 
 Hold longest breath of juicy Springs. 
 
 Transfigured through the tender haze 
 Of Time's deserted, leafless aisles, 
 
 O gentle throng of Yesterdays 
 
 Your features wear celestial smiles. 
 
 But in Love's morning of delight, 
 I read not so each saintly grace ; 
 
 Xor in the currents black as Night 
 That caught me in their foulsome race ! 
 
 Nor sheafless in the harvesting — 
 When others stored, and I alone. 
 
 In Want's keen, awful torturing. 
 Felt naked as a Desert bone ; 
 
 Nor yet when passion's lurid flames 
 
 Leapt on the altar of Desire, 
 And unronsumed, consuming shames 
 
 Found fuel for the hungry fire ;
 
 i68 
 
 Nor when the unseen Archer sped 
 His dark-plum'd arrow with intent, 
 
 And left me with my idol dead, 
 
 Without my quiv'ring heart's consent. 
 
 Forgive, O God, the foolishness, 
 The angry mood, the hasty word, 
 
 That smote'Thy Throne when black distress 
 Swept through me like a prairie herd ; 
 
 Forgive the eyeless wrath that slew 
 The baleful hours with steely thought, 
 
 And all the mangled moments threw 
 At Fate, defiant, and distraught. 
 
 And you, O Yesterdays, who come 
 
 Unsought around my hearth to-night — 
 
 Your glory vanish'd, voices dumb — 
 I bow me to your mystic might. 
 
 While out below the frosty skies. 
 You beckon forth the latest hour. 
 
 Go ! last of all the year — my eyes 
 
 Are toward To-morrow's dawn and dower!
 
 169 
 
 THE MORTAL, AND DYING YEAR 
 
 ]yjoRTAL, eternal silence nears ! 
 
 I go 
 Unto the dust of gathered years ; 
 
 My life is low, 
 
 The death-winds blow 
 About my bier washed with a rain of tears. 
 
 Befriend thine ears — the rabble shout, 
 
 Unheed ; 
 Nor counselled be by Cynic's pout, 
 
 The miry creed — 
 
 Of selfish greed, 
 The strident jest of cold, unfostering doubt. 
 
 Unshuttered senses teasing go : 
 
 List then, 
 Ere shades eternal round me throw 
 
 A veil from men ; 
 
 Take thou a pen, 
 I have some alms of speech — make record slow. 
 
 I gave thee seed for sowing —where 
 
 The flower 
 My seasons sought in gardens fair, 
 
 Through sun and shower. 
 
 The blessed dower, 
 Of God to breezeless wastes, and stifling air ? 
 
 1 gave thee blocks for stair and tower. 
 
 Unhewn ^ — 
 Uncarved they lie, the arrowed hour 
 
 To moss and rune. 
 
 Forgot — bestrewn 
 With dirt and drift that should have praised 
 thy power.
 
 lyo 
 
 I gave thee strength thou hast mislent 
 
 Toward goals 
 Ignoble, and of coarse content, 
 
 Whose ashy doles, 
 
 Like ghostly coals 
 Hold only dust of kindlings long since spent. 
 
 I gave thee Truth for pure embrace, 
 
 Whose eyes 
 For ever cloudless, hold the grace 
 
 Of morning skies ; 
 
 But cold surmise 
 On tiptoe flings her frost upon thy face. 
 
 I gave thee arrows for the chase ; 
 
 And spoil 
 Did promise, didst thou up and brace 
 
 Thy thews to toil ; 
 
 Thou mad'st recoil ; 
 Behold ! another holds the conquered place ! 
 
 I gave thee Love, with lute and string, 
 
 And train 
 Flower-skirted like the breasts of spring, 
 
 To soften pain. 
 
 To hallow gain, 
 And lead, through ruth, to God's best triumphing. 
 
 I set before thee ideals, high, 
 
 And true ; 
 Parnassus choired to draw thee nigh 
 
 To bound'ries blue ; 
 
 To knowledge new 
 Thy effort, soaring languished, fell to die.
 
 I/I 
 
 I proffered patience, wisdom, mirth — 
 
 God's meed 
 To toiling man, and clouded earth, 
 
 In triple need ; 
 
 But little heed 
 Thou gavest, gold seeking — travailling from 
 thy birth. 
 
 Unsated, scornful mortal, hark ! 
 
 Time wastes 
 No gift of God ; learn thou, and mark 
 
 Thy strange distastes ; 
 
 To-morrow hastes, 
 Forget the past, greet thou its singing lark !
 
 THE RUGBY PRESS 
 RUGBY
 
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