THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES a IDYLLS AND LYRICS THE POETICAL WORKS SIR L E W I°S MORRIS NEW AND CHEAPER EDITIONS. Poetical Works in Seven Volumes at $s. each. VOL. I. SONGS OF TWO WORLDS. With Portrait. Twenty- third Thousand. VOL. II. THE EPIC OF HADES. Thirty-ninth Thousand. VOL. III. GWEN and THE ODE OF LIFE. Twenty-first Thousand. VOL. IV. SONGS UNSUNG andGYCIA. Eighteenth Thousand. VOL. V. SONGS OF BRITAIN. Sixteenth Thousand. With " A Song of Empire " and " The Imperial Institute : an Ode." VOL. VI. A VISION OF SAINTS. Sixth Thousand. VOL. VII. SONGS WITHOUT NOTES. Second Edition, with several New Poems, including "The Voice of Sprint;." THE EPIC OF HADES. Third and Cheaper Illus- trated Edition. With sixteen Autotype Illustrations after the Drawings by the late George R. Chapman. 4to, cloth extra, gilt edges, \os. 6d. THE EPIC OF HADES. The Presentation Edition. 4to, cloth extra, gilt edges, 7s. 6d. THE EPIC OF HADES. Elzevir Edition. Printed on hand-made paper. Cloth extra, gilt top, 5s. POETICAL WORKS. Including "A Vision of Saints." In One Volume. With Portrait. Eleventh Thousand. 6.y. ; cloth extra, gilt edges, 7s. 6d. IDYLLS AND LYRICS. Including "A Modern Idyll." 5J. London: Osgood, McIlvaine & Co., 45 Albemarle Street. IDYLLS AND LYRICS BY SIR LEWIS MORRIS, Knt. M.A., HON. FELLOW JES. COLL., OXFORD, AND TRIN. COLL., LONDON ETC., ETC. LONDON OSGOOD, McILVAINE & CO. 45 ALBEMARLE STREET 1896 PR - >2 CONTENTS PAGE Morning Song ... ... ... ... ... i In the Baptistery ... ... ... ... 3 Meliora ... ... ... ... ... ... 6 From a Ruined Tower ... ... ... ... 15 A Plea for the Children ... ... ... ... 18 Ad Animam ... ... ... ... ... 22 A Modern Idyll ... ... ... ... ••• 26 An ! what is Truth? ... ... ... ... 69 Regina Cceli ... ... ... ... ■.. 71 In the Dark East ... ... ... ... 74 The True Story of Damon and Pythias ... ... 78 Armenia, a.d. 1894-5 ■•• ••■ ••• ••• 94 Song ... ... ••■ ••• ••• ••• 100 A Christmas Carol ... ... ... ... 102 -5 ( vi Contents. I'AGE In Bohemia ... ... ... ... ... 106 Self-slain ... ... ... ... ... 1 18 America and Armenia ... ... ... ... 121 To May ... ... ... ... ... 125 Llyn Ovvain ... ... ... ... ••• 126 Llywelyn ap Gruffydd ... ... ... 131 An Elegy, January 3, 1895 ... ... ... 138 In Memoriam: H. D. H. ... ... ... 140 Aberystwyth, March i, 1895 ... ... ... 143 St. Paul's, February 3, 1896 ... ... ... 146 Lines on the Unveiling of the Statue of the Right Hon. John Bright, February ii, 1896 ... 149 IDYLLS AND LYRICS. MORNING SONG. Awake, arise ! Day's shining eyes Open unclouded to the waking skies ; Night and the hosts of Sleep, Dispersed, defeated, creep To their Leth?ean dens and sunless caverns deep. Hark ! with the day His roundelay Each brave bird sings, and speeds away ; B Idylls and Lyrics. Aloft, on circling wings, The mounting skylark sings, A denizen of air, scorning terrestrial things. Arise, awake ! And, singing, make Thy morning orisons for Love's sweet sake. Awake, awake, arise ! Keep the cerulean skies Reflected in the faithful azure of thine eyes. IN THE BAPTISTERY. In Pisa once, within the Baptistery I well remember, the astonished ear Took sounds too sweet for earth. For as we stood Beneath the fretted ambit of the dome The poor guide lifted a worn voice, not sweet, But skilled to evoke the subtle harmonies Which lurked in those dim heights ; a common voice And earthy as the accents, coarse and dull, Of some street singer at a tavern door, Frighting the midnight street ; some hackneyed phrase Stolen from the Missal-book, so poor and flat We fain had silenced it. But hark ! but hark ! Idylls and Lyrics. Ere it is done what heavenly harmonies Flout those poor tones of earth. The ambient air Seems filled with voices, voices everywhere, Of some angelic choir, which swell, which beat, Reverberating ; circling waves of sound, Now single, doubled now, and resonant And grown together, and interlaced and lost In some unearthly sweetness mystical, Till all the enchanted vault is charged with joy, As when of old, by some sea isle remote, The lurking Sirens drew the listening crews ; Or as the chanting quires which soar and fall In hoary fanes ; or the aerial flights Of the angelic host whose heavenly tones The rapt Cecilia heard ; or those white ranks Of gold-haired Seraphs, chanting row on row, With viol and voice and trump, the painter saw And filled with high-pitched music for all time In the Baptistery Though no sound come. Anon the circling waves, Ebbing and flowing through the stately round Of that great dome, are driven back, wave on wave. High, repercussive, till they sink and die, As might the wavelets of the summer sea, In sweetness, and transform themselves and flow In some low gracious melody which sighs, Fainter and fainter, to its perfect close, — As 'twere the soaring, rapt, angelic choir Which vanished in heaven's vault and left earth dumb Of music, first the uplifted, pealing, high Archangels' trumpets, then the chanting saints, And then the faint child-angels' voices last. MELIORA. The feeble folk wane through the ages, and careless the Mighty ones smite them ; Who is there that shall avenge the shedding of inno- cent blood? Over the earth and the sea, the spoiler and slayer triumph, Till the low sobs grow to a shriek, and the tears to a flood. Careless are they, the strong, secure of the fathomless Future ; As it has been shall it be even to the pitiless end. In their dens, by the hills, or the sea, long ages the bickering cave-men, Armed with their sharpened flints, rob and ravish and slay; Meliora. The smoke of the Aztec victims steams up from the Mexican altars, And the quivering heart is torn by the priests from the living breast ; The bearded Assyrian treads on the necks of the van- quished foemen ; The shafts from the chariot pierce the huddled wretches who fly. On the tombs of the Nile's grave lords still marches the doleful procession — The captives go forth to swift death or the lifelong doom of the slave. Laurel-crowned, up the Capitol's steep the heavy-eyed Caesar advances ; Splendid the triumph rolls by, with the fettered captives behind ; The half-famished lions leap forth on the sands of the bloody arena, 8 Idylls and Lyrics. And for ages no pitying thrill touches those merciless hearts. Through all time under African skies, the tyrant or slaver oppresses ; The red man slays and is slain on the limitless plains of the West ; Through the weary suffering Past, far and wide, by land and o'er ocean, The feeble are trampled down, and only the mighty are blest. Comes there no end of these things ? shall men murder and ravage for ever ? Shall not a mightier hand give to the desolate Peace ? And thou, my Britain, unconquered, untrod by the foot of the foeman. Hast thou deep Peace indeed in thy borders, or imminent strife ? Meliora. Thou who slayest the savage with bolts from thy mur- derous death-dealing engines, And lettest thy children starve in the midst of plenty around, Though to-day thou seemest at rest, shalt thou scorn the lesson of ages, Singing thoughtless paeans of Peace in a time wherein no Peace is ? When the graves of the slain lie thick, Lorraine, on thy vine-covered hillsides, And the New World echoes and throbs with the stress of a fratricide strife ; When the cry of the tortured for Christ rises up from ravaged Armenia, And the murdered myriads appeal from the fiendish Moslem in vain ; Maidens outraged, and teeming mothers cut open, the innocent children io Idylls and Lyrics. Dashed to death on the stones of the street, or spared for a crueller lust, While strong Europe, too selfish to aid, is wrecked by her useless battalions, And the people, affrighted, shrink back from the thought of the terrors to be ; When fiends plot together in secret, driven mad by un- reasoning hatred, Flinging death and destruction unmoved, though 'tis only the innocent bleed, And groans of the strong men rise, who fain would labour, but may not, While their pale-faced children starve or rot in their feverish dens ; — What heart has a man to tell of an infinite ruth and pity, Whose ears are filled with the noise of the woes and the sorrows around ? Meliora. i I Shall the common lot take thee too, O dear land, the doom of the feeble, When the strength that was thine is spent, and the foemen beleaguer thee sore ? Nay ; destroy not the reckless savage, who flings his rude manhood against thee, Whom thy pitiless engines mow down as a mower the grass of the field. But keep thou thy Power unassailed, and be just and fear not the future ; With equal and merciful laws make thou thy wide Empire, rejoice ! Be to thy children a Mother, be they as brother to brother, Acting the precept divine which was taught by thy Teacher and Lord ; Let thy strong sons raise up thy weak, through a Christ- like strength of compassion, I 2 Idylls and Lyrics. Bearing each other's burdens, and lightening each other's woes ; Let not the State any more turn with pitiless aspect averted From the sight of the people's pain, unheeding their pitiful cry. Scorn thou the pedants who prate of dead laws stern and unbending, Based only on selfish instincts, and spurning the general good, Knowing one limit alone to the Commonwealth's pro- vince of mercy — That no action of all shall mar the life-giving effort of each. Let thy Empire of self-governed men prove how weak is the arm of the despot, How mighty the sum of the strength of myriads obeying the law. Meliora. i *> j Save thou the weak from themselves when strong temp- tations assail them, The curses of Greed and of Sloth, the Demons of Lust and of Drink. By patient toil without price, raise thou in the hearts of the lowly The white bloom of knowledge, to swell to wisdom's ineffable fruit. Destroy not the humble home, when the strength of the worker has vanished, And the young have gone from the nest, and the cottage is silent and still. Let the State, with wise providence, aid the faithful servants of labour To an honest wage for their toil, and relief from the sorrows of age. Raise the myriads of poor and cast-down from the sloughs where to-day they languish, 14 Idylls and Lyrics. Teach them the civic sense, their duty to man and to God. Join thou and thy children your strength, till the nations learn the unreason, The folly, the mischief, the crime of the murderous evils of war ; Let a stronger league of Peace dispel the jealous sus- picions, The angers, the senseless hates, which divide and distract men to-day, Till the Voice of Justice is heard, August, Inviolate, Awful, Where now are the myriad cries of causeless passion and hate; Then let the Judge ascend to his Throne, and the weak and the strong be judged. FROM A RUINED TOWER. The eyes of dreaming Fancy fall On ivied tower and moss-grown wall, And straightway o'er the unlovely Past The glamour of Romance is cast. Forth from the high portcullised gate The knights and damsels ride in state, The white plumes nod, the rich robes gleam, Mail flashes like a sunlit stream. And all that sordid story mean, The sin, the suffering that have been, The lifelong dungeons dark and foul, The tortured limbs, the famished soul, 1 6 Idylls and Lyi'ics. Fade from the self-deluded mind, And eyes by wayward Fancy blind, Till of the crime, the blood, the pain, No faintest memories remain. Ah ! wayward Fancy, turn from these Fond dreams and bootless fantasies ; Upon the living, not the dead, Are golden rays of noontide shed. The lives to-day of small and great March onward to a nobler fate ; Hopes higher, darker fears they hold, Than those ignoble days of old. The Present's wider, fuller life, Its loftier aims, its keener strife, Can deeper touch the yearning heart To higher song and truer art. From a Ruined Tower. 1 7 And fairer still and nobler far The glimpses of the Future are : The race transfigured, wrong redressed, Creation tending towards the Best. And queenly Knowledge, throned fair, Mistress alike of Earth and Air, Crowned with a diadem of Peace, Watches her boundless realms increase. Turn, wayward Fancy, turn thine eye From these false tales of chivalry ; The Night is past, the Day begun, Salute, acclaim the ascending Sun. A PLEA FOR THE CHILDREN. Shall woman's pitying love Its object seek in vain ? Comes there to-day our hearts to move No hopeless, innocent pain ? The dull world speeds on its unbending course- No law there seems but Force ! — And those whose tender hearts would seek To aid the helpless weak, Too oft, with folded hands, sit impotent Waiting the dark event. So loud the doubting voices are. We scarce may stir at all, A Plea for the Children. 1 9 Though at the shock of ruthless war The young battalions fall ! Over all lands in vain The toiling worker's pain Speaks, with a terrible voice unheard, Its awful Sibylline word ! Hardly we dare assuage The ever-growing ills of Age, Who, knowing how the lifelong sufferers live, Know, too, how hard the task to wisely give. The homes of healing languish for the gold The rich, perplexed, withhold : Since hardly may our minds discern the clue To separate the false need from the true — So hard to tell if that we strive to do Make not the tangle worse, And bring, indeed, no blessing, but a curse ! 20 Idylls and Lyrics. One cause there is, indeed — Alas for all the Christian centuries !— Calls clear from childish lives that bleed With daily miseries. Within a thousand homeless homes to-day The sot, the savage, bear remorseless sway — Vile souls, and hearts of stone ! With none to heed the helpless children moan — Starved, beaten, prisoned, drugged, tormented, slain : In life a burden, but in death a gain ! Shall these still suffer ? Shall the State's tired arm, Too slow to save from harm, Its dim eye, by a thousand cares, grown blind, No willing helpers find ? These little ones ! Shall they unaided pine ? Who, fresh from the creative Hand Divine, A Plea for the Children. 21 Bring to our sad, laborious earth Bright memories of their birth ! Who 'neath a happier, juster fate May give strong, willing workers to the State ! Here no doubt comes ; here is our duty plain : Soothe, tender women, soothe their hopeless pain ! And trample, with a righteous anger strong, This thrice accursed wrong ! AD ANIMAM. Therefore I said unto my Soul, " Rejoice, Oh Soul, be comforted, for thou long time Hast fared upon the snow-clad heights, and breathed The icy mountain air, and watched the dawn Steal upward from the Eastern rim, and marked The silver shafts transmuted into gold By the uprushing Sun, and oft alone, Sole, unattended, save of thine own strength, Above the slumbering cities seen the throngs Wake the hushed streets, and heard the warring sounds Of joy and sorrow, birth and death, arise, Blent in the sweet sad symphony of Life, Ad Animam. 2% o And the tired world revive. And thou hast smiled, Flouting the aimless struggle from afar On thy untrodden height, the stress, the toil, And trouble of the Race ; dwelling apart From wars and tribulations, and the clash And jangle of opposing schools, convinced That all alike were vain, and mocking all. " Nor hast thou bowed thee with hysteric zeal At shrines which were not Reason's, casting down The birthright of thy freedom and the gains Of Man's long upward struggle, and the hope Of his high-soaring Future, in the mire At the priest's bidding, while the blinding fumes Of the swung censers and the magic spell Of Art and Music chained thee, eye and ear. But standing cold, aloof, disdain'dst to kneel Where the throng knelt, incredulous, alone. 24 Idylls and Lyrics. " Nor hast thou wallowed in the sensual sty, Nor known the fetters Youth and Dalliance Bind round the nascent life, the mists of sense Quenching youth's pure white fire ; but by thy cell And midnight lamp, Divine Philosophy Sate grave, with clear cold eyes ; and wholesome toil Engrossed thy days and purged thee of all stain Of sin, till thou, to godlike stature grown, Didst spurn the grosser Earth. Therefore, oh Soul, Rejoice, and be thou glad." But not a word Of answer came, but through the formless void, Beyond the circuits of the faintest stars, A thin wail, like the melancholy wind Among the high-set pines or caverned rocks, Ad Animam. 25 Hopeless, revoluble, reverberant, And deepening to a groan, which seemed to say, "Oh, self-deceived, self-righteous, nothing worth, And self-betrayed ! Oh, fool ! in vain ! in vain !" A MODERN IDYLL. I. Crowning the sapphire of our Southern sea The white cliffs gleam. Above the dark pines rise From purple heather. The clear autumn sky Bears white winged cloudlets, drifting leisurely Across the azure. A caressing breeze Breathes upon sea and sky, and wakes the deep To rippling laughter. All is calm and peace. Calm the clear evening of untroubled lives, As if no trumpet-blast of woe and pain Might wake their slumbering depths and wreck their peace ; And calm the aspect of the smiling sea, A Modern Idyll. 27 As if no tempest ever lashed the surge To thunder in the ocean caves, nor dashed Strong ships to ruin, nor sowed the rocky walls With undistinguished corpses of the dead. Here on a golden August eve of old, Two score of years ago, on that calm sea, Churning the slumbering waters into foam, A long black hull, trailing a cloud of smoke, Throbbed swiftly to the West. 'Twas time of war, And this a troopship from the neighbouring port Laden with youthful lives, for whom swift Fate Had come to change the frivolous daily round Of strenuous idleness, the sloth, the rust Of long ignoble peace for the wild joy Of battle, the tame fields of common flowers For the red rose of perilous enterprise Which wounds the hand that grasps it. The great ship 28 Idylls and Lyrics. Sped with its thousand hopes, its diverse fates Of fame and golden ease, of death and pain, The white thread with the black, the enchanted skein Which weaves the mystic vesture of our lives. There in a high cliff-garden, mute, alone, A young girl sat, her head upon her hand ; Her fair hair hid her brow, her cheek was pale. Shyly, she waved her handkerchief, then flushed, Marking an answering signal from the deck, " Farewell, dear heart, farewell." Then the ship passed, But still she watched. At last the western cape Shut out the view, and then she dropped her eyes, Sobbing ; and on the unbounded ocean plains And on the high-set downs and misty leas, And painted glories of the autumnal flowers, Smooth laurel and the feathery tamarisk, The swift gloom fell, and left her weeping there. A Modern Idyll. 29 Then when the twilight fell, and a cool breeze Breathed from the sea, shivering, but not with cold, She rose, a tall young figure, lithe and slim, Crowned with the crown of youth, and health and grace And innocence ; and to the new-lit house She stole, and softly up the noiseless stair Sped to her maiden chamber; knelt awhile In speechless prayer, then bathing her sad eyes To hide the tell-tale tears, in virgin white, Lit by one blushing rose, descended slow To where the din, confused, of eager talk Burst from the opened door ; and, scarce perceived, Passed like a breathing statue, and feigned to smile And seemed to share the polished trivial themes Of books and pictures, plays and politics ; And, always smiling, listened ; till the talk Turned to the war and its quick coming ills, And, since none knew her secret, all the fears o Idylls and Lyrics. Of trouble, the strong forces of the foe, The dread of coming pestilence, the strength Of the great fortress, all the miseries Of frozen winter on the unsheltered heights — A hundred presages of ill. At last One, turning to her, marked her ashy face, Pale lips, and closing eyes, as, faint and white, She sank upon her chair. Soon with forced smiles And slow-reviving pulse, she rose and went, Vowing 'twas nothing but the heat, the glare Of the long cloudless day, and, scorning aid, Swept slowly to her room, and there within The locked door swooned, and fell prone on her bed, And lay long time unconscious ; then again Revived, but from her mother's soothing hand And kiss and tender words of comfort shrank, Locking her fateful secret in her heart. A Modern Idyll. 31 Sweet Amy Howard, opening like a rose In youth's enchanted air, to the gay town Came forty Mays ago, and there she took, The darling of an old patrician home, Whatever innocent pleasure might await The happy young. The Court's high pageantries Opened swift doors to her. The snowy plumes Crowning the girlish head, the glittering gems, The flowers, the costly robes, the stately trains ; Tragedy's cleansing tears : the singer's voice Thrilling the stately throng, the streets aglow With gliding lights, the whirling dances sweet Fainting with dawn, the brief hushed hours of rest, And happy dreams ; the ambling cavalcade Through the brisk morn beneath the scented limes ; The vernal harvest of the Active hand On canvass or in stone ; the clustering blooms In thronged marquees ; the martial melodies, 32 Idylls and Lyrics. Rising and falling 'mid the courtly crowd On smooth pleached lawns ; the flower-hung barges, moored On the cool stream to watch the flashing oars Through sweet June days ; the sheen of straining limbs Flashing like lightning by ; the rippling flow Of youthful laughter, when the rich and fair Met with each joyous day ; — all these were hers One summer long ago. And then the dream Faded in grosser day, and that clear sky Was veiled with cloud, and on that youthful life There passed the first grey shadow of the unknown. For that strong primal passion which inspired Man's voice when Time was young — in the old East, Beneath the desert stars, old Greece, old Rome, As now in populous cities, North and South, In all the countryside, by hill and dale, A Modern IdyL i 1 1 In this grey teeming London of our love, — Had swept her chords of life and played on them The old mysterious music, blinding sweet, Which takes young hearts ; the melody of Pan Which floods the listening soul, and leaves it deaf Thenceforth to lower tones. This taking her, Silenced the strains of mirth, and turned the girl To woman, though the face and form were young — A woman knowing care. But he to whom she gave her girlish heart Was worthy of her — a young soldier bold, Careless and pleasure-loving, yet untouched By grosser sense ; the scion of a house High born, yet unennobled as the use Of rural England is, whereon the load Of long-inherited burdens bears so hard, That while the eldest born alone is set D Idylls and Lyrics. In lifelong ease, the rest the happier lot Of Labour takes, and by the sword, the pen, Or ventures of the mart, they gain with toil What the wise law denies them. So it came That this young soldier, knowing well what need Constrained him, to his father's counsels sage, That he should only mate with hoarded gold (Since not as yet he knew the power of love), Consented, and among the joyous throng Fluttered long time a careless butterfly, Yet lighted on no bloom. Till one blest night Of summer, 'mid the flower-decked dance, he saw, Herself the fairest flower, a girlish form, Lithe, clad in virgin white, with eyes of blue, Sweep by him, and their glances met, and then- No longer might his careless fancy roam To others, nor the maiden keep her troth Unplighted more, so strong an influence Bound each to each, its name, Requited Love. A Modem Idyll. ^ So through the flying summer days and nights They met and grew together, till their souls, Fused in one common essence, lived no more Their separate lives ; with vows unuttered yet, Deep graven on their hearts, but since the lack Of riches vexed them, never by the lips A word of love was spoken, yet no less Their troth was plighted by a thousand signs And hidden bonds. Amid the careless crowd Careless they moved, nor might the Argus eyes Of women trace their secret, yet they knew Themselves fast bound, though seeming to be free. Then one day on those happy fateful days, Careless no longer, rose a sudden storm Out of the distant East, the trump of war Breaking the age-long peace. A thousand homes In happy rural England heard the sound, 6 6 Idylls and Lyrics. And shivered for the dear ones of their love — Sons, brothers, lovers. All the lightsome thoughts Of the old joyous life vanished and gone ; Fled were the careless hours, the music mute, The feasts, the dances done. But ere it came The soldier's ardent heart broke forth in words Which spoke his love. What answer could she make, Who knew it long ago ? Her heart was his, And had been from the first. So these young lives Were plighted each to each, and 'mid the chill Of parting and impending trouble glowed With that fine inner light which doth illume Those happier souls which 'mid life's gathered clouds Find their long missing and divided selves And grow complete. What was to them the gloom Of swift descending night which hid the East, The crash of nations, hurled together and wrecked In deadly fight ? Amid the storm, the frown A Modern Idyll. 37 Of that embattled sky, one little ray, One little golden glory of the heavens, The secret knowledge of their mutual love, Crowned them with halcyon calm, like that which lies Deep in the heart of the vexed hurricane. So the swift days fled on. Dark and more dark The storm-cloud lowered ; louder and yet more loud The thunder roll of war. At last it came, The voice of Fate, and he who heard with joy The order that he longed for, which should bring The chance of Fame and, higher, dearer far, The voice of Duty, calling him to spend His life for England, took a bold resolve And told his dear. He dared not face as yet His father's baffled hopes, which looked for gold To build the shattered fortunes of his house, 38 Idylls and Lyrics. Nor leave his love unplighted, for whose hand A score of suitors pleaded. So at last He prayed his love, if only ere they went, They should be wed in secret. Long the maid Doubted, for though she lived her life alone, She would not wed another, and her heart Abhorred concealment. Last, in trustfulness And pure, ungrudging love, she put aside Her maiden fears, and then one morn they stole To some near church, and there, with none of kin As witness of the rite, half blind with tears, Yet all in love, she heard the priest pronounce The solemn words which bound their lives in one ; And at the porch, parting with one long kiss, They went their ways, and all was as before To outward eyes, though a deep sense of change Had passed upon their lives transmuting all — The young man, graver from his doubled life ; The wedded maid, a bride, but not a wife. A Modern Idyll. 39 Nor met they more. She to her father's house Went by the Southern sea ; he presently Whither his duty called him, till that eve When his stout ship passed to the West, and left, On that high cliff, his maiden wife alone. II. The swift days fled, the earlier autumn waned To later, when the harvest fields grew bare And the year past its prime. On that young heart Fell an autumnal sadness, brooding deep Upon her day and night. Her cheek grew pale, While, shrinking from the careless joys which once Allured, in silent musings she would spend Her recluse days. Only her mother's voice She loved, and she who marked her day by day Fading, grew anxious for her, questioning 40 Idylls and Lyrics. What thing had been, if haply she might find Some solace for her pain. But not a word Her shy soul dared to speak ; for day by day She scanned the journals, but no news would come Save vague reports alone. At last they told How, sudden from the City of the Turk, The great Armada sailed, and then the news How, after forty years of peace, once more Climbing the volleying hillsides from the vines, Our England's columns charged the guns and drove The enemy in flight. Her heart stood still, Reading the fateful list of those who fell Wounded or slain. But the reviving hope, The vivid glow of undefeated youth Flushed her pale cheek ; for not 'mid these sad lists Found she the one dear name, but ranged with theirs Whom for sheer daring with the coveted Cross The General rewarded. He had borne A Modern Idyll. 41 The colours up the hill, braving the fire Of half a hundred guns, when others fell, 'Scaping without a wound. 'Twas he whose hand Shot the tall Russian dead, whose lifted sword Had cut the Ensign down. 'Twas he who nursed The wounded lad to life. Then her fond heart, A little chilled by bloodshed, flushed with pride For him who was her husband, and that night The old fire lit her cheek, her eyes, and gave New spirit to her voice, till as of yore She seemed again the bright and joyous girl Who in high summer, scarce three months ago, Lit the old home with innocent mirth and song Uncaring, and her mother's heart was glad. But when the days grew short, and the spent year Was dying fast, came news of dull delays And how the tide of war, leaving the plains 42 Idylls and Lyrics. And hard-won heights, broke in a surge of blood Round the beleaguered fortress. Then, when now The thick fogs hid the sea and blurred the land In dull November, came the fateful tale Of furious storms, driving to wreck the ships Laden with food and shelter, stubborn fight Fought through the mist, each man for his own hand, " The soldiers' battle," and her heart stood still, Fearing the voice of Fate. But though once more, Amid the dreadful sum of blood and death, Came news that he was safe, the gathering sum Of daily growing miseries, want and cold, Disease and hunger, vexed her, till the girl Could bear no more suspense, nor anxious care, Nor longer sit in idle luxury, While he perhaps lay dying, calling for her To soothe his pain. This thought, recurring still, Tormented her long time ; till at the last, A Modem Idyll. 43 When every journal told its harrowing tale Of suffering, she took a stern resolve : She bared to those she loved her secret grief, And prayed consent to go where she might gain To tend her husband. Not her father's voice Of prudent counsel, nor her mother's love, Nor any maiden dread of war and pain Or danger moved her. When they bade her dream No longer of her madness, she locked fast Her purpose in her breast. And one sad morn, Before the loitering dawn she stole away, Leaving with tears her childhood's cherished home, The parents of her love, her girlish friends, White bed and dainty room, her books, her flowers- All things that made life sweet; passed to the town, Taking her little store of gems and gold, And setting on her pillow a brief note : " Forgive me, mother. Duty bids me go. 44 Idylls and Lyrics. My place is with my husband. He has need Of tender care, and I will seek him out If he still lives. Fear not for me ; I go Hoping to join the noble new-formed band Of ministering women. If my skill Is wanting now, yet I may gain in time To help him or his comrades, whom sad Fate Condemns to pain. Fear not, 'tis better so ; I should go mad to sit at home and think That we should meet no more. But now I know, So sure a presage occupies my mind, That he shall owe to me returning life And health ; no more I know, nor seek to know, But so I gain to save him, all is well." So ere the wintry day began to close In dreary twilight, to the gloomy town — Not the gay town of summer past and gone, A Modern Idyll. 45 But dark with choking mists — she passed, and there Besought the gracious women who went forth To that new work of mercy, strange to them, Familiar now, if only she might share Their blessed task, and with the strength of love Grown eloquent, prevailed, and to the ship Which soon should sail betook her. Not the tears Of those she loved, who came in haste and strove To bend her purpose, moved her. So at last, Down the rude wintry channel, tossed the ship, Passing the pines, the heather, withered now ; Passing the well-known cliffs, the towers of home And that high garden where, three brief months since, She sat a girl pining in luxury, And watched the strong ship fading in the West That bore her life away. The strong god Love Had nerved the girlish heart and braced her soul To high resolve, so that the wintry wave, 46 Idylls and Lyrics. The weary days of storm and stress and gloom, The strangers' faces round, affrighted not. Till, passing through the lion -guarded gates Into the Middle Sea, and by the blue Sicilian straits, and many a classic shore And fairy islet of the purple deep, She felt her heart beat faster as she saw, Crowning the Golden Horn the minarets Of Stamboul, knowing well her love had passed The self-same way before, and wondering much If there he lay wounded in some fierce fight Longing for her, or if indeed he lived Unwounded still, or mouldering, perchance, Upon the frozen, bleak Crimean plain, Dead of disease or cold or suffering, dead In battle slain, a bullet through his heart. Now when the ship cast anchor, and gave forth, Thronging the narrow, ill-paved city streets, A Modern Idyll. 47 That band of pitiful women, her first thought Was of her love ; and when they gained at last The palace where the sick and wounded pined, Brought from the front by sea, shyly she asked If he were with the rest. But when she learned He had no hurt indeed, but on the field Was marked for higher rank, with thankful heart She wrote to tell him what had been, and prayed Forgiveness, and, if haply it might be, That she might come to him, or if indeed That might not be, she in the hospital Would live content, amid the duteous throng Of English nurses ; only this she prayed That he would send one little word of love, And she would ask no more, only to hear That he was well. But when her husband knew All that had been, and that his maiden bride, 48 Idylls and Lyrics. That careless, delicate child, so lately won, Toiled uncompanioned 'mid the thousand woes Of ruthless war, his heart, so light before, Grew heavy in him, knowing not what fate Might yet befall. Yet since he loved her well, A passionate longing filled the young man's heart To embrace his dear, and be with her and smooth The hardships which she faced for him — ay, though Through sickness and through wounds ; and so he wrote A letter in his tent, when the day's tale Of labour and of danger now was done ; A letter full of love : how he was well, Unwounded, happy ; yet would give his health And scatheless limbs, if only he might feel, Paying the price of sickness or of wounds, The touch of her soft hand, and see her stoop To kiss him as he lay. But as he closed A Modern Idyll. 49 The letter, through the night above, the shrill Scream of a hurtling shell, then a loud crash. Nor knew he more, and the new-written page Fell from his hand, torn, crushed, and blurred with blood. III. Then for that yearning, unrewarded heart There came the weary days of endless toil ; The unaccustomed cares, the sleepless nights, Or scarce-snatched slumbers ending ere the dawn ; The sordid offices ; the delicate hands, Dressing the festering wounds ; the cries and groans Worse than the battle's, the coarse sights which shocked The maiden's innocent eyes, the maniac shouts Of some poor fevered brain, the blasphemies Of desperate sufferers, the surgeon's knife, E 5