^S3 ftgi>.^.K>a,4»i. ^.^e-^^<;i^:a.^..AS 3-;!<.-,:««i»m UC-NRLF $B ifis S2^ DESTROYERS AND OTHER VERSES BY HENRY HEAD, M.D., F.R.S. HUMPHREY MILFORD Oxford University Press London • Edinburgh * Glasgow • New York Toronto • Melbourne * Cape Town * Bombay J919 Grateful acknowledgments for their courtesy in giving permission to republish some of these Verses are due to the following periodical Reviews : To TIhe Yale Reviezv, Newhaven, Con., for " I cannot Stand and Wait," "Destroyers," and "Died of His Wounds." To The English Review for " Homing Wings" and "The. Price." .To The. fdutltvlAview for "To Courage,' Seated'." * * , . . To Her without whose touch the strings would have been mute Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2007 with funding from IVIicrosoft Corporation http://www.archive.org/details/destroyersothervOOheadrich I 9 1 4 TO 1 9 1 8 1914 TO 1918 I CANNOT STAND AND WAIT. How can. I serve who am too old to fight? I cannot ^and and wait With folded hands, and lay me down at night In re ^1 ess expeiflation that the day Will bring some ^oke of Fate I cannot help to ^y. Once, like the spider in his patterned web, Based on immutable law. Boldly I spun the ^ands of arduous thought. Now seeming naught, Rent in the sudden hurricane of war. Within my comer I will take my place, And grant me gprace Some delicate thing to perfect and complete With passionate contentment, as of old Before my heart grew cold. This in the Temple I will dedicate, A widow's mite. Among more precious gifts, obscured from sight By the maje^c panoply of ^late. But when triumphal candles have burned low And valorous trophies crumbled into du^, Perchance my gift may glow, Still radiating sacrificial joy Amid the ravages of moth and du^. I9I4 '^o I9I8 HOMING WINGS. Poised like the black-winged swallow born to roam And find a living in the ambient air, We sacrificed our home For unpolluted realms of natural law. Mu^ we despair Because the neutral tissue of our dreams Dissolves like ravelled mi^ before the heat, And at our feet The radiant prospedt of this ancient land. Grey hamlets, happy fields, seque^ered ^eams, Unconquerable ^nd? E 'en the world-wandering bird suspends her ne^ Beneath the overhanging cottage eaves In fecund re^; And breezes ocean-bom In brooding oaks scarce ^r the crumpled leaves, Where poppies flame among the ripening com. So we return to worship homely things. That filled our baby hands, ance^al springs Resurgent and intense Stirring the reverent heart Of childhood's innocence. I 9 14 TO igi8 PARIS. APRIL, 1916. "//s paniaient notre esprit^ jamais notre endurance." How silent are the .^eets of this grave town; Discordant vanity is swept away, And mourners everywhere pass (up and down, Sombring the radiance of an April day. Here all men wear the inward, brooding look Of a young mother, when her time is near, Devoid of fear. She knows the agony pf hope ^U-bom, And, once before, her body racked and torn Was at the la^ denied its vidtory. How can we under^nd, Whose land inviolate was clogged with dreams ? They with a single purpose are imbued, That like a mighty river onward ^eams In multitudinous channels ruthlessly, Pa^ tangled isles and barriers of sand, Until its irresi^ble waters roll To their triumphal goal. With all-embracing, silent fortitude. 1914 TO igi8 THE PRICE. Night hovers blue above the sombre square, The solitary amber lanterns throw A soft penumbra on the path below, And through the plumed pavilion of the trees A solemn breeze Bears faintly from the river midnight bells; While at this peaceful hour my spirit tells Its tale of arduous joys. Pain conquered, Fear resolved, or Hope regained. Swift recognition of some law divine, Shy gratitude that could not be regained, All these were mine. And so, supremely ble^, I sink to re^. Through labyrinthine sleep I grope my way. Feeble of purpose, sick at heart, and sure Some unknown ill will lead my ^eps a^ay. Till, cold and gray. The dawn rays through piy shuttered windows steal And with closed eyes I thank my God for light. For the fierce purpose of another day. When work and thought forbid the heart to feel. 10 I 9 I 4 TO 1 9 I 8 DESTROYERS. On this primeval ^Irip of we^em land, With purple bays and tongues of shining sand, Time, like an echoing tide. Moves drowsily in idle ebb and flow; The sunshine slumbers in the tangled grass And homely folk with simple gfreeting pass. As to their worship or their work they go. Man, earth, and sea Seem linked in elemental harmony, And my insurgent sorrow finds release In dreams of peace. But silent, gray. Out of the curtained haze, Across the bay Two fierce de^oyers glide with bows a-foam And predatory gaze, Like cormorants that seek a submerged prey. An angel of de^udlion guards the door And keeps the peace of our ance^al home ; Freedom to dream, to work, and to adore, These vagrant days, nights of untroubled breath, Are bought with death. xz 1914 TO I 9 I 8 DIED OF HIS WOUNDS. Death set his mark and left a mangled thing, With palsied limbs no jscience could re^ore, To weary out the weeks or months or years, Amid^ the tumult of -a mother's tears Behind the sick-room door, Where tender skill and subtle knowledge bring Brief respite only from ,the ultimate Decree of fate. Then, like the flowers we planted in his room. Bud after bud we watched his soul unfold; Each delicate bloom Of alaba^er, violet, and gold Struggled to light. Drawing its vital breath Within the pallid atmosphere of death. That valiant spirit has not passed away, But lives and grows Within us, as a penetrating ray Of sunshine on a iCry^lal surface glows With many-hued refradlion. He has fled Into the unknown silence pf the night. But cannot die till human hearts are dead. 12 1914 TO igi8 EPIPHANY. No starry candles lit this fe^l time, And round our Twelfth iNight table there was none Who did not mourn a husband, brother, son Gone in his prime;- Not with the cu^omary pomp of death, With sick-bed ritual and with flickering* breath. But like the blossom of tempe^hious May, In one night swept away; And of its radiance no memorial seen Beyond the empty place where it had been. So we ^land sorrow-laden at the fea^, Where wisdom knelt in homage to a Child, And three world-weary pilgrims from the Ea^ Laid at His feet Gold, and a healing balm, and odours sweet. We too mu^ bring our offering, pay the price To gain the goal of sacramental peace? Where doubts dissolve, insurgent longings cease, And sorrow is sublimed in sacrifice. 13 I 9 I 4 TO I 9 I 8 TO COURAGE, SEATED. We wandered through the chill autumnal Park, And spoke of courage and the youthful (dead, And how the bolder spirit may be cowed By indiscriminate terror. Overhead, The moon rode high on her prede^ned arc, Steadfa^ through tidal waves of sombre cloud. Like vast antennae, search-lights swept the sky. When, suddenly, as if in swift reply, Out of the south, with jets of luminous smoke, And coughing clatter, hidden guns awoke. And we fell silent at the thought of death. We were too old to leap with panting breath Into the turmoil of the bloody ^ife. And dance upon the razor-edge of life To fame or to oblivion. We must wait Like senators of old, with folded hands, In silence, seated, for the ^oke of Fate. One boon alone an ardent soul demands, To die before its passion waxes cold. Enthusiasm fails, or Love grows old. 14 I914 TO 1918 ELAN VITAL. All things that live and grow are full of hope. The slender primrose on the woodland slope, Tangled and overgrown, Unfolds its crumpled florets one by one To seek the sun; The snow-bound crocus thru^ an amber cone Through frozen earth; even the fallen elm Fringes with tender green its ancient bole. But Death exacits a toll From Beauty, Courage, innocent Desire, And tempers overwhelm The fruit-tree blossom, trampled in the mire, Sweet harbinger of unfulfilled delight. When terror keeps the watches of the night And childhood's faith is gone. And passion spent. We dagger to our feet and thimble on In pain, in sorrow and bewilderment Impelled to hope by man's in^ndlive soul. K I 9 I 4 TO I g I 8 PEGASUS. The wind is ^11; from far and wide the air Resounds with Sabbath bells, calling to prayer, And from the va^, unfathomable blue Hums a propeller's penetrating drone. We ^land enchanted, and our eyes pursue An aeroplane, that climbs the summer sky To drift alone On mountainous clouds of ever-virgin snow^, Suspended like a black-winged dragon-fly, That turning gleams. Dove-gray and silver in the morning beams ; Or like a dead leaf, loosened from a height, Spins in its perilous flight. We catch our breath like children at a show, Of martial music and heroic deeds, On every glittering incident intent, Forgetting for a time terresTrial creeds For joy that man now rides the firmament. i6 SONGS OF LA MOUCHE "LA MOUCHE." Elise K , or, as she preferred to be called in later life, " Camille Selden," was bom in Saxony in 1829. She was adopted in infancy by a childless married couple, and her fo^er parents emigrated to Paris whil^ she was ^11 young. In Augu^, 1847, her fo^er father went to America to found a business, and she accompanied him as far as Havre. On the return journey from Havre to Paris, she travelled with Alfred Meissner, the Au^rian poet and play-wright, then a young man forced to travel abroad for a time by the political unre^ in Bohemia. The day after this encounter Meissner left Paris for Ger- many, and knew his fellow traveller by the name of " Margot " only. In 1849, Meissner was again in Paris. One April morning, whil^ sitting in his 19 SONGS OF LA MOUCHE hotel, he was surprised by a visit from " Margot," who, hearing he had returned, obtained his address from a bookseller. This meeting was the forerunner of a num- ber of excursions in and around Paris. But " Margot " his friend ^ill remained, and she forbade him to enquire who she was and whence she came. This friendship was ended in May by Meissner's journey to England. In July of the same year when walking down Regent Street, he saw two ladies alight from a carriage in front of a jeweller's shop. In spite of her changed surroundings, he fancied the younger mu^ be " Margot," and rushing forward through the crowd im- petuously greeted her by her pet name— the only name he knew. She " regretted that Monsieur had made a mi^ke as she had not the pleasure of knowing him." Then followed " Camille Selden's " im- happy marriage to a Frenchman who ran through her money, and shut her up in a lunatic asylum. She was, however, speedily released, and shortly afterwards obtained a separation from her husband. In 1855 she was living in Paris with her mother, supporting herself by teaching. Heine had always been one of her heroes, and a chance commission gave her the 20 SONGS OF LA MOUCHE opportunity of calling upon him in the Avenue Matignon. He was entirely con- fined to his bed by the disease that ulti- mately proved fatal, and found pleasure in her brightness and in the activity of her mind. He begged her to repeat her visits, and under the name of " La Mouche," she adted as his secretary, companion, and translator of his poems into French. This association was only broken in June, 1855, by a journey to the Black Fore^, undertaken on account of her health. After her return in July, her visits to Heine were of almo^ daily occurrence, in spite of the jealousy of his wife, " Frau Mathilde," who saw the place she had voluntarily resigned in her daily search for pleasure, filled by another. After Heine's death, on February 17th, 1856, Meisaner was sent to Paris by the publishers, to save, if possible, Heine's papers from the de^trudlive adlivity of his wife. Whil^ engaged upon this work, he again met his " Margot," whose identity with Heine's " Mouche " he had not sus- pected. She took him to her home, poured out before him the letters and poems sent to her by the poet, and permitted him to publish some of them in his memoir of Heine, SONGS OF LA MOUCHE " Camille Selden " then disappeared from hi^ory until 1885, virhen she published " Les derniers Jours de Henri Heine," as a monument of their friendship. She died in 1896, at Rouen, where she had long been teaching. 92 PART I. ALFRED MEISSNER. SONGS OF LA MOUCHE The Journey from Havre. We raced through midsummer weather- A du^ cloud danced in the heat- Through a country of gardens and orchards And patches of simmering wheat. You spoke of the chances that made you An exile in foreign lands, Of life and death and hereafter— But gazed on my slender hands. " Thrones totter and empires crumble, The times are in a whirl " — And then your thoughts went wandering In the tangle of a curl. But when it came to parting, You were dumb, for you dared not speak A wish that was bom of the dimple That ne^les in either cheek. The dingy lamplight flickered, But a silver midsummer moon Smiled through the dusky branches On the joy of an unasked boon. Paris, Aa^astf 1847. as SONGS OF LA MOUCHE Masqueraders, Life is but a masquerade— You mu^ choose some well-wom part, Play, and be for playing paid, Take your money and depart. Yet the spangled Harlequin, Agile dandy full of je^, Hides beneath a cloak of sin The my^ic's heart within his brea^. Columbine with flaunting frills Makes an all-devoted wife; Gigantic hidden laughter fills The fur-robed Docflor's solemn life. And the slippered Pantaloon Suffers from a broken heart, Sings his sorrows to the moon. Tender l5rrics, full of art. So beneath each daily task Life flows on, a hidden ^eam— Every wise man wears a mask. Only fools are what they seem. Paris, April, 1849. 26 SONGS OF LA MOUCHE In the Garden of the Luxembourg. My idle hours of spring Beneath the chestnut trees Float on like clouds that ^ing White streamers to the breeze. Eiach thought that upward floats Its wanton course doth take, Wind-tossed like baby boats Upon a mimic lake. My spirit leaps and bounds, Propelled by childish joy. And merrily resounds With laugh of girl and boy. Come where the chestnut trees Their new-found shadows fling, Ca^ care away and seize The idle hours of spring. Parisy Spring, 1849. 27 SONGS OF LA MOUCHE Watteauesque. There he ^ands, in exquisite array, Bending forward with half-opened lips. Wondering if perchance he dare to pay Homage to her rosy finger tips. She is gay with every tender grace, Artificial, admirably vain — And the smile on her averted face Fills his shallow heart with jealous pain. Overhead the pearly ^orm clouds brood ; To the twang of lute and mandolin, She mu^ be fanta^ically wooed. Prelude to a love he cannot win. Hand in hand we'll dance a little while. As they danced a hundred years ago ; Then you *11 ask my favour— I shall smile, And our separate journeys we will go. Paris, Spring, 1849. 28 SONGS OF LA MOUCHE Sur la Rive Gauche. My heart is full of music, For the world is a-dance to-day, And my feet go tripping, tripping To the melody of May. The hum of a birring city Comes pulsing up and down, Wind borne across the river The cadence of the town* And ^urdy plane-trees glimmer Grey through the eddying du^— Their leaves like paper windmills Whirl in each tiny gu^. Bright ripples in the sunshine Go waltzing down the ^eam, And gaily set to corners At every balk and beam. I wonder waiting, waiting. Will my lover's heart be gay. Attuned to the generous piping And melody of May. Parisj Sprini, 1849. 29 PART II. HEINRICH HEINE. SONGS OF LA MOUCHE The New Sprini. A March wind whirls and eddies In gu^s of rain and sleet, I ^land at my lonely window And gaze on the empty ^eet. In a lull of the boi^erous whirlwind Floats upward from afar A thin metallic tinkle, The twang of a guitar. The dreamy warmth of girlhood Comes back to me again, And my fingers are idly beating Time on the window-pane. Pari*, 1855. 33 SONGS OF LA MOUCHE Mother of Heaven, I pray thee Hear but this prayer of mine, And my scoffing lover shall worship Each Sunday at thy shrine. Let him rise again and ^tand upright, Heal thou his hideous pain: Let him see the leaves in the spring-time, The sweet earth after rain. Perhaps his sins are so many Thou wilt not make him whole; Grant only that on crutches He may come, to save his soul. For thy great fame 'twere better He were not healed outright: For then no shrine he 'd visit. But roy^er through the night. Paris, Aprils 1855. 34 SONGS OF LA MOUCHE My tender ways and laughter Have gained me lovers twain. I flouted the one, but the other I bitterly love again. One loved me for my great virtue; I was sweet, and pure, and good. He worshipped in me incarnate, My^erious womanhood. To the other my soul lies open — I never oould play my part- He thinks that virtue 's scarcely The thing I 've mo^ at heart Paris, May, 1855. 35 SONGS OF LA MOUCHE Fantasy. The Poplars on the highway, Court ladies all a-row, Bowed whispering " May good fortune Attend the way you go." I left my home in the sunshine, I rode in a coach and four, But now with the world behind me, I creep to my father's door. And the Poplars in the night-wind Rock groaning to and fro. They hiss like village gossips, " *Tis right the world should know." German^f ]une^ 1855. 36 SONGS OF LA MOUCHE The Post. Hark! a di^ant po^-horn winding Underneath the purple hills, Sets my languid pulses racing Like the tumbling mountain-rills. See, the slow po^-carriage crawling Like a little yellow toy. Cracking whip, and three white horses Fill my silly heart with joy. Hark! I hear the po^-bells jangle, And the drum of clattering hoofs Comes to me in w^indy snatches Up above the pointed roofs. See, it halts before the po^-house; And the message that it brings. Stirs within me depths of gladness, And the flutter of Love's wings. The Black Forest, 1855. 37 SONGS OF LA MOUCHE La^ night the summer thunder Lashed the dark wood with rain: I lie at ease and wonder, It is so ^11 again. The silver rain-drops glitter And patter to the ground: Birds call and chirp and twitter, A happy di^ant sound. Now we sleep far asunder. And I lie here alone So peacefully, I wonder How calm my love has grown. The Black Forest, 1855. 38 SONGS OF LA MOUCHE Home-coming. Where men of every nation Go up and down the Rhine, Within Cologne Cathedral Three wise men have a shrine. League upon league in the darkness, By the light of a shining ^r, To seek their soul's salvation. They journey'd from afar. But when they turned them hom-eward, No ^r was then in sight, Deep in each heart lay treasured The memory of its light. By the light of your love I have travelled, Till I 'm weary and sick and sore, But I dread my lonely journey, When that ^lar will shine no more. Coloine, July, 1855. 39 SONGS OF LA MOUCHE Augu^ is blazing through the dingy win- dow; Splotches of sunlight on carpet, wall and ceiling, Glow through the sickroom, its tawdry and du^-^lained Meanness revealing. Silent he dreams, fetched out upon a mattress With eyelids closed and waxen hands to- gether, Dreams, and a youth again, bids death defiance. Midsummer weather Glimmers through rifts in the canopied pinetops. Glints on the brown ^eam that tumbles and races To join a blue river, and lights up its flowery. Precipitous places. Grasshoppers whirr, and the resinous carpet Springs at his tread, as once more with arms swinging. Free and exultant he climbs the dark hill- tops, Splendidly singing. 40 SONGS OF LA MOUCHE With a sigh he awakes ; from a neighbouring casement Pours a piano's impudent jangle: Down in the courtyard a man and a woman Bitterly wrangle. 41 SONGS OF LA MOUCHE East and West. Twilight has veiled the Ea^ in sundown And the dun wold Stretches in one unbroken sheet away To climb the sky: a rich autumnal day Dies colourless and cold. Grey silent poplars, ^raight as grenadiers, Guard the King's way— A long white ^eak that winds and dis- appears Into the darkness, far from hopes and fears And joyless play. Though all the Ea^ seems full of quiet prayer. The we^ wind flings In upward gu^s the frolic of a fair, A tinkling dissonance and murky glare Of booths and swings. Parisj September^ 1855. 4* SONGS OF LA MOUCHE Lullaby. A child in the dark, I am frightened and cold, But the sound of your voice Turns the shadows to gold. At your tender rebuke My night-terrors cease; I lay me down gently, The soft words you croon Are a sovereign charm j As a child in its cot I am happy and warm. Parisj 1855. 43 SONGS OF LA MOUCHE You dominate my lighted thought, Even in words that I was taught Nightly to pray I seem to hear The long-drawn chuckle of your sneer. And when I lay me down in bed, Your words go trooping through my head, Your kisses on my body bum And hot with shame I toss and turn. You kiss my hands, you kiss my hair. And when I cry in my despair, " God save me from so fierce a bane," I hear your voice in mine again. Where 'er I go, what 'er I do, I suffer for my thoughts of you; Mu^ my tormented senses pay The price of pity night and day? Paris, 1855. 44 SONGS OF LA MOUCHE When each morning I awaken, Conscience cries, "Go not again"; Every night I boldly answer, *Tis to ease a heart in pain. " Little fool, he cannot want thee "— That may be, but ^11 I '11 go ; For a lark is gaily singing In my heart once dumb with woe. PariSf 1855. 45 SONGS OF LA MOUCHE Frau Mathilde's Parrot. Up five long flights my poet lies, Inch by inch his body dies; No ray of sunshine lights the gloom Within that solitary room; No loving hands upon him wait, He lies alone from dawn till late ; Each groan of pain, each lonely sigh Is answered by a parrot's cry. There, when the winter's fitful light Faded with on-coming night. His loneliness would find relief In taunting my too timid grief; With song and ^ory grave and gay He 'd chase his gloomy gho^s away — With many a bitter je^ defy The world's malignant parrot-cry. But when to quiet my despair At some rude word, he smoothed my hair, And looped to kiss my faded cheek, All the thoughts I dared not speak Surged in a tempestuous tide Of wayward tears— I could not hide The love I 'd ^iven to deny. And shivered at that parrot's cry. Paris, 1855. 46 SONGS OF LA MOUCHE When I am old it may be I shall sit, The sober guardian of a merry throng, Where one will praise your passion, one your wit, And one the flood of your melodious song. Some tender maid will then about me fling Soft arms, and ne^ing, whisper in my ear, " He is my poet, for he knows each thing My lover loves to say and I to hear." But I shall silent sit, with downca^ eyes. Intent upon my toil, with lips compressed, Fearing le^ she, by love grown overwise, Divine the kindred tumult in my brea^. Paris, 1855. 47 SONGS OF LA MOUCHE My love welled up in a dry and desolate land, A hidden spring that trickled away unseen, Revealed alone by blossoming bowers that ^nd. Where no blossoms had been. But my tiny spring is swollen by summer rain To an open flood, and the ^agnant pools are filled With eddying joy from a torrent that races to gain The sea, and be ^lled. Flowerets quicken, sweet birds with melody wake The silent valley and slopes of the echoing hills, For over the thir^ meadows fresh waters break In a thousand rills. So joy sprang up from a temped of way- ward tears, And my lonely life is gay with awakening song: Open and unashamed my love appears Careless and ^ong. Paris, 1856, 48 SONGS OF LA MOUCHE Thin rain drifts across the pavement; Love confessed Burns, an intermittent fever, In my brea^. Hours of joy bring nights of sorrow: I am very tired— to-morrow Let me re^. Will the weariness and aching Never cease? Shall I never from my hunger Gain release? Grant to-night I may be taken, Sleep and nevermore awaken, Sleep in peace. Paris, Fthmaryj 1856. 49 SONGS OF LA MOUCHE I heard them say, " He died la^ night," Paused on the threshold, drawn and white, Entered that dear familiar room; Two candles on the curtained gloom Ca^ orange light. Beside his bed, in my wonted chair I took my place; but he lay there. Stiff and ^aight from head to feet, Half revealed through a winding sheet. In the heavy air. No petulant greeting, no sombre je^, t Silent, his hands crossed over his brea^, He lay, the carven monument Of a warrior, whose la^ bolt is spent, Taking his re^. Maje^c in death's ^ern array, Wrapped in a passionless calm he lay — A danger usurping my lover's place — I could not weep, but covered his face And went my way. February \7th^ 1856. 50 SONGS OF LA MOUCHE My soul revolves in helpless grief, Alone, a prey to pain, In quivering silence I am scourged Back to my fault again. For as a harassed mother waits, Nor havens to her baby's bed, Negledling his familiar wail, And coming, finds her infant dead, So I, who tarried at Love*s call, Mu^ bear that bitter ^ng. And at the la^ his spirit found My love a faithless thing. February ISthj 1856. 51 SONGS OF LA MOUCHE Ye^erday to the grave they silently bore him, Chanting no lament of the children of Zion, Mass, nor prayer, nor word of farewell greeting Said they at parting. I, alone, his passionate servant unbidden. Dare not veil my face nor cry for pity. Dare not creep for a moment aside to bewail him. Shaken with sorrow. But, when the twilight thickens, with lamp unlighted, Aching I lie on my lonely bed in the darkness. Prone and swept by gu^s of familiar weeping. Toss until day-dawn. February 21sf, 1856. 5» SONGS OF LA MOUCHE Anniversary. I dreamt I through a cemetery went, Where lay the dead it seemed so hard to lose, And by each tomb^one, mound and monu- ment. Stood a down-trodden, du^-^ined pair of shoes. And one beside me whispered, "Do not weep, They but await the call that mu^ begin Another day; each body here doth sleep Throughout the night, as at a quiet Inn. " Though many fell asleep with tired eyes, Stained by the du^ on life's malodorous way, With that new dawn each traveller will arise, Cleansed and refreshed to face another day." February 17 th, 1857. 53 Songs of la mouche Envoy. At length beside the ^lagnant quay, Like some tall ship to harbour brought, The sport of a tempestuous sea, I wait my end; nor care I aught Whate 'er it be. For Time his mouldering havoc plays. And Duty ^ffens roving wings, The sluggish peace of measured da5rs. Like sodden weed about me clings. But when the dying year grows cold, Old wounds reopen; once again I face the ^ormy days of old. When persecution, sorrow and pain Were lined with gold. Steering a half -remembered course, My vagrant fancy tacks and veers, Swung by an unknown current's force, Defle<5led by forgotten fears. And drifting on, I find no clue To my Grange life's disordered plan; Were ^orms so fierce? was heaven so blue? Now all is grey, I wonder can My tale be true? Rouetiy 1885. 54 SEEDTIME AND HARVEST SEEDTIME AND HARVEST. In the beginning God created man, Perfect in all things, Lord of land and sea : So close the creature to Creator ran, It seemed a form to ape divinity. From Adam's side a rib He therefore took. And making woman halved that form divine : Who now would on God's perfecft image look Mu^ every grace of man and ntiaid combine. The severed halves of man's once perfedl soul. Dwelling apart, their wailing never cease Till they be joined in one primeval whole, And in reunion find eternal peace. 57 SEEDTIME AND HARVEST. Above the Church, above the clock, The haughty gilded weathercock Swings upon a towering ^eeple, Beacon to a lowland people. Facing windward, there it Elands, And overlooks the windswept lands, But cannot watch the seaward gale Strike the peaceful flapping sail. To every wind it crows in scorn, " I can tell vrhere you w^re born : *' The tinie^ breeze can secret keep Where he lays him down to sleep. Am I denned to remain An ever veering weather-vane, Swnng by all the winds that blow, Whither I can never know? 58 SEEDTIME AND HARVEST. I am loved by little children: Happy girl and laughing boy Ca^ their tender arms around me, Clamorous with joy. Baby waking out of slumber To a solitary land Gathers open-eyed contentment From my out-fetched hand. On my arm, he ^lls his sorrow, At my brea^ his wailings cease To be loved by little children Brings me hope and peace. 59 SEEDTIME AND HARVEST. When the copse is grey with bud, And spring is surging in my blood, Year by year beneath the hill I sought a simple for my ill. Blushing at a word o'erbold, Praying when the world seemed cold, Lovelier of flowers to me Was the wood anemone. On simple homely cares intent, A spring of passive self-content Led me where among the kine Gleams the golden celandine. Yellow primroses that vie With the dawn tints of the sky; Violets with a joyous sense Of hidden, scented opulence; Palm that on a leafless tree Flowers foretelling Calvary, Each has caught a fleeting mood Of my budding womanhood. Doomed a maid to dwell apart, Within my solitary heart. When bitter milk-^eams upward surge, I go to pluck the woodland spurge. 60 SEEDTIME AND HARVEST. Long ago I used to pray To be loved and to be wooed, Spotlessly as maidens may, Ignorant of motherhood. Now I am to woman grown. Love seems but an idle mood, For I hear in every tone Overtures to motherhood. And I lie and pray to thee, Mary Virgin, pure and good. Thou can^ calm the raging sea, Still my cry for motherhood. Grant my breads may yield reply To an infant's cry for food; May his dimpled fingers lie On those springs of motherhood. I would brave the hideous pain Of thy death-watch by the rood, If by sorrow I could gain That fierce joy of motherhood. 6i SEEDTIME AND HARVEST. Within my arms my lord becomes a little child, And softly as a nurseling babe on mother's brea^ Lays on my shoulder his dear head, and sinks to re^ With limbs relaxed, in my embrace to sleep beguiled. With equal breath my bosom rocks his cradled head. My pulses learn in true accord with joy to beat. Straight grow the sombre winding ways, and at my feet My narrow path with starry flowers like heaven is spread. And I who am so little worth, so poor and weak. Alone about the source of life my watch can keep, Hold in my arms the labouring world subdued to sleep. As in the hollow of my hand I hold his cheek. 62 SEEDTIME AND HARVEST. No longer, when the cold and sterile moon Paces her virgin watch across the sky, Calling the hours of life's long afternoon, Mu^ I from out the deep in answer cry. With rhythmic tides she swept the fore- shoreland, Whereon I often set my heart's desire, Leaving a barren ^ip of watery sand, A mirror for the moon's cha^e silver fire. For I have built a barrier 'gain^ the sea: No more the moon-swept tide my fruit devours ; The seed is set, and in security, I watch the silent passage of life's hours. May that sea-wall till harve^-time abide, Steadfa^ again^ the ever recess tide. 63 SEEDTIME AND HARVEST. To her there came at dawn, as she lay ^11, A seins€ of moth -wings fluttering in the dark ; Then the swift ^oke of the imprisoned lark, Beating his lowly cage; whereat a thrill Shot through her members, and as clouds di^l In heavy drops, unloaded by a spark. She wept for joy, though she mu^ now embark Upon that lonely journey fraught with ill. Yet never word she spake to him that lay Beside her: but her carriage was so proud, Her secret became plain, as it may be A child reveals some hidden joy in play : She bore herself as if she were endowed! A tabernacle for some my^ery. 64 SEEDTIME AND HARVEST. The fir^ fruits of a pregnant soul's increase Like little flames of newly-kindled fire Lie on life's threshold neare^ unto death; And her life ebbs till she encompasseth The tender offspring of fulfilled desire And sinks into impenetrable peace. Sleep, my darling, naught can harm thee, May no sudden fear alarm thee. Let my singing rock thy slumber. Baby, sleep! Once within a lowly manger, Mary hid our Lord from danger: Soft and silent swings thy cradle, Baby, sleep! God shall hold thee in His keeping, Angel-wings about thee sleeping, Sleep, my darling. Lord and ma^er, Baby, sleep! 65 SEEDTIME AND HARVEST. A sparkling coldness in the morning air Proclaims the death of summer; without fear, I greet this herald of the dying year, Whose icy breath cries ; " Winter comes ! Prepare ! " Let winter come; for though the wold be bare, My com is garnered: now the leaves are sere, E^ch orchard-twig droops with its russet tear, And I greet winter with a harve^ prayer. The recess hopes of spring have dropped away In fruitful generation, and desire Died with the virgin petals' snowy fall. But many a fruitful hour and glorious day Close soul to soul, beside the evening fire, We celebrate with harve^ fe^val. 66 SUN AND SHOWER SUN AND SHOWER He . . . I have wandered round an Empire To the kingdom whence it grew, And the coa^-line of my country Flashes white between the blue. Blue the sky and blue the water, And a ruddy little town Ne^les in a sunny hollow Underneath the windy down. In that town a winding alley Leads into a little square With an almond-tree in blossom, And I know my home is there. Home and country, kingdom, Empire, All the universe to me Is a little laughing woman In her brown room by the sea. 69 SUN AND SHOWER She . . . In my copse a blackbird whiles, Whiles like a saucy boy: Rain-drops glitter in the sunshine- Sorrow turned to joy. Rain and sun have swelled my lilacs, Golden leaf and purple flower, And my longing turns to you-ward Set by sun and shower. Come, my lilacs are in blossom, Come, and to my dwelling bring Joy that makes the happy blackbird Harbinger of Spring. 70 SUN AND SHOWER He . About an upland meadow A vagrant cuckoo cried; From far below came dealing The whisper of the tide; And my words had died away, I watched you as you lay With your hands among the cowslips In the idle month of May. Low down upon the housetops A dusky orange moon Glows at the heart of Midnight Through the purple haze of June. As my dreams go sailing by, I kiss you as you lie With your hands among the cowslips, And I hear the Cuckoo cry. 71 SUN AND SHOWER She . . . Grey flowed the river, high up in the sky Flocculent clouds hung silver-grey: Cool and clean the wind went by With a scent of spring, when you and I Made holiday. You found an inn where the river's bow Encloses a garden of sandy weeds; And a ferryman's boat plies to and fro From bank to bank, and kingcups glow In the yellow reeds. We climbed the wood to an open space And looked on a valley clothed in green, With a poplar fringe of orange lace ; No drifting shadow marred the face Of that happy scene. We watched the horizontal light Of the sunset silver each shallow pool— And wondered, at home in the city that night Was ever a day of rich delight So calm and cool. 72 SUN AND SHOWER He . . . La^ night there came a dream that it was day, Day, where tall houses shut the darkness in, Where noise and tumult at the dawn begin. And with the dawn all peace has passed away. Half dreaming I awoke and could regain No sunlit memory of our re^ng-place, No vision of your happy up-turned face. Rippling like meadow-grass before the rain. Then through my bedroom window poured the sun, A lark sang, and a soft wind from the south Stirring the leaves, and salt upon my mouth, Told me our golden day had scarce begun. 73 SUN AND SHOWER She . . . Would you might bear me away! You, my companion and friend! Into a land where the day No parting could end! There with no thought but of you Softly the white hours would pass, Fresh as the dawn with the dew On the untrodden grass. Never a thought would I hide, And, when night covered the land, You would draw close to my side, And perhaps touch my hand. 74 SUN AND SHOWER He . . . I rode in gathering twilight, Through mi^ and wind and rain, By valley and by hill-side, Across the darkening plain. Almo^ despair had caught me, And courage in me died, When you, it seemed, Beloved, Rode onward at my side. The full moon to the eastward Swept from a cloudy screen, Whitened the rain-swept meadows. Glittered on summer-green. About the water-courses, The mi^ in cloudlets streamed, Like nymphs from out a fountain, And silver elders gleamed. With jojrfulness and wonder, My feet grew light as air, My wheels were winged, and gaily I sped, for you were there. 75 SUN AND SHOWER She . . . Deep within me springs a fountain, Leaping upward to the sunlight, At the sport of little breezes Rudely scattered. Deare^, all my veering sorrows In your warmth are turned to beauty, And the clear spring of my longing Sobbing gently, Ever con^nt, gay or tearful, Breaks to dewdxops in the sunshine. Falling back into my bosom. Rainbow tinted. 76 SUN AND SHOWER He . . . Deep runs a silent music Through my laborious days: I set your name, Beloved, To a hundred thousand lays. The clang of a di^nt organ At the corner leaps and falls. I go my way rejoicing. In the love that it recalls. Through the din of many journeys A song within me peals, To a running bass of the rattle, The endless roar of wheels. 77 SUN AND SHOWER She . . . High upon the hill you slumber; I sit watching by your side, Coloured figures without number, Through the checkered lowland glide. Far off in a shallow runnel, Silently the brown trains pass, Slip to earth within the tunnel. Like a blind-worm in the grass. Down the white road by the river Like a hawk a quick wheel skims. And the darting sunbeams quiver, Flashing from its silver rims. Far from trouble you are sleeping. New-created to arise: Watch beside you I am keeping, Calm as Eve in Paradise. 78 SUN AND SHOWER He . . Hid from sight of pa^bire lands, Behind the Church a yew-tree ^ands, Banished from the cheerful fields, For the deadly fruit it yields. Year by year it waxes tall. Hemmed within the Church-yard wall; For the Church mu^ ever keep Poisoned fruit from silly sheep. Without a knot its branches grow, Each to form a yeoman's bow. Evergreen and never old. For they spring from churchyard mould. A solitary from the throng, I fashion weapons for the ^ong: But every thought within my head Has its roots among the dead. 79 SUN AND SHOWER She . . . Willows are white as a breath upon silver Beneath a dark sky: On a grey wa^e of waters the promise of summer Floats eddying by. And the ne^ that we built in the grass by the river, The home of our dream, Far from men, where we sang through the soft summer weather Lies under the ^ream. Come quickly, the night will bring silence and darkness To cover my tears And ^ars will shine brighter above the dark waters And shadowy weirs. 80 SUN AND SHOWER He . . . I gallop, I gallop along, To save you from death or from shame. The burden and lilt of my song, Beloved, you cried and I came. Why trouble to find the world's way? As I gallop, I gallop along; One look in your eyes will repay The whispers and jeers of the throng. Do I hurry to save you from wrong? From the claws of some treacherous bea^ ? Or gallop and gallop along, The one bidden gue^ at your fea^? To the rhythm of galloping feet. Urgent, pulsating and ^ong. My heart sets your name to the beat, As I gallop, I ijallop along. SUN AND SHOWER She . . . A wood-fire bright and candle-light Ca^ golden shadows on the gloom. You came, my dear, and with you fear Fled from the comers of my room. My sad heart swells with gladness: bells Ring peace to earth and mercy mild On Chri^hnas-Eve, and I believe With rapture like a little child. So year by year for you, my dear, I set my radiant Christmas-tree, all, green and ^aight tc My little love's nativity. H SPRING DEATH Spring death. IN MEMORY OF J. W., who died on Active Service, 1901 I will bear forth my sorrow to the sun, For dumb and cold I sit at home with grief. Eddies of spring-tide through the dark limbs run Of this foul city, over park and square Ripple in golden leaf. Each solitary tree, once dank and bare, Poised in a fluttering skirt of gauzy green, Whirls to the rh3rthm of awakening earth; Through murky lane and highway throbs a clean Bass note of birth. The chestnut spreads her fingers to the breeze. Adorned with perfumed candles for the fea^. Once more the little murmurs haunt the trees, And all that buds has ca^ the pall of sleep. From grimy bonds released. Over the churchyard paling, lilacs peep, E^ch golden leaflet quick with gentle rain. And all the world that once was tired and old. Decked out with new desires, grows young again, Lilac and gold. SPRING DEATH But death has dipped me bare of all desire : An outca^ from earth's generous fe^val, I go to warm me by the altar fire, Whereat we worshipped. Happy little shrine — Soft garlands on the wall, The music and the laughter and the wine, Talk, like a fountain pulsing to the blue, To fall in rainbow droplets on the grass, Warm human joys— they shall my heart renew, They cannot pass. What shadow haunts that dear familiar room And, like a night-bird poised on silent wing. Hovers upon the violet-scented gloom? Our in^uments of joy lie untouched there And, scarcely whispering, We say not what we would but all w^e dare, Quelling the tumult of forbidden tears; No more to wander with the roving throng. Bowed by resentment for remembered years — Our years of song. Together through the blue transparent nights. Together through the hum of London ^eets. Our path was like a garden gay with lights. Tall lilies among tulips gold and red; 86 SPRING DEATH Where with insi^ent beats Love called, and all the world a-try^ng sped. Beneath the whispering plane-trees passion burned, Glowed like illumined green in every brea^, Then piping happy songs we homeward turned. Turned home to re^. Over the housetop climbs a cowslip moon, To join the expecftant company of ^lars. New-risen— And I little care how soon My feet turn homeward by familiar ways. No fellowship unbars That narrow dwelling, where the measured days Pass, and leave naught to show that they are fled. I am grown weary, and to me alone Love pipes a foolish tune, for thou art dead, And youth is gone. PRINTED IN THE CITY OF LONDON AT THE EDINBURGH PRESS RETURN TO the circulation desk of any University of California Library or to the NORTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY University of California Richmond Field Station, BIdg. 400 1301 South 46th Street Richmond, CA 94804-4698 ALL BOOKS MAY BE RECALLED AFTER 7 DAYS To renew or recharge your library materials, you may contact NRLF 4 days prior to due date at (510) 642-6233 DUE AS STAMPED BELOW rjAN 05 2008 jcjyy^^' UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY m