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 MEADOW AND • BUSH 
 BY ■ JAMES HEBBLETHWAITE 
 
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 THE ■ BOOK 
 
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 C.L.N.E.F. 
 Memorial Centre \ 
 
 201 Castlereagh St., j 
 SYDNEY. I 
 
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 'Phone - - - - MA 9641 | 
 
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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 MEADOW . AND • BUSH 
 
 A BOOK OF VERSES 
 
 BY ■ JAMES ■ JHEBBLETHWAITE 
 
 VICAR OF DENTRECASTEAUX CHANNEL 
 TASMANIA 
 
 t Title (Do 
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 i 
 
 PUBLISHED BY THE BOOKFELLOW 
 No. 6 ROWE STREET, SYDNEY, 1911 
 
 C.C.H.t.F. MEMORIAL 
 Lt»»*NQ LIBRARY 
 8c BOOK QEPOT 
 
 WITHDRAWN
 
 ?R 
 
 ■'A Rose of Regret" 
 
 By James Hebblethwaite 
 
 (Out of Print) 
 
 <^ 
 
 A Second Impression of "A Rose of 
 Regret" is Included in "A Southern 
 Garland." The Bulletin Company, 
 Sydney. — By Kind Permission of 
 The Bulletin Company, Several of 
 the Verses Printed in "A Rose of 
 Regret" are Reproduced in this 
 Volume. 
 
 Many Verses Appeared in "The 
 Bookfellow. " Others are now 
 First Published. 
 
 J. H. 
 
 i ai^/lQO :^
 
 To A. G. S.
 
 TABLE OF CONTENTS 
 
 A DREAM RETURN XLVI 
 
 A FRIENDLY PLACE .... XXXII 
 
 A GEORGIAN HOUSE Ill 
 
 A MOON OF MUSIC XXXV 
 
 AN ECHO XCIII 
 
 A NIGHT WATCH LIV 
 
 ANTIGONE XVII 
 
 A SABINE FARM LXI 
 
 A SECURE TIME II 
 
 A SONG OF RECOLLECTION AND 
 
 THANKSGIVING .... LXXVIII 
 
 AYE LOVE XCVII 
 
 CYTHEREA XL 
 
 DEAD ISLAND XCI 
 
 DEATH'S HOMAGE XCI 
 
 DIRGE XCVII 
 
 DREAM ECHO XLII 
 
 7
 
 ELIA 
 
 EROTION 
 
 EURYDICE 
 
 GARRETS . 
 
 HALCYON 
 
 HIS DEATHBED 
 
 HOME 
 
 IN RETROSPECT 
 J. H. . . 
 
 LAMENT 
 
 LOVE-IN-IDLENESS 
 LOVE NEVER DIES 
 
 MEADOW-LAND . 
 MERRYMIND 
 
 NIGHT AND MORN 
 NO OTHER WAY 
 
 OLD CATALOGUES 
 OLD CHRISTMAS 
 OLD PORCELAIN . 
 
 XXVI 
 XIX 
 
 I 
 
 XXXIV 
 
 LXXII 
 
 XCV 
 
 XLIX 
 
 XLV 
 
 XI 
 
 XLII 
 
 XL 
 
 XCII 
 
 V 
 
 LXXXVII 
 
 LIX 
 XCIV 
 
 LXV 
 
 XII 
 
 XXXIII
 
 PASSING XC 
 
 PERDITA XX 
 
 PROPHECY XCIII 
 
 PROVENCE XLI 
 
 REMEMBRANCE XXXII 
 
 SHAKESPEARE'S TOMB .... XXI 
 
 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY . . . XXIII 
 SONG— O Something Whispers In My Heart . .XL 
 
 SONG— Like the Scent of Violet . • • XLVIII 
 
 SONG— There Dweh a King in Babylon . . LVIII 
 
 SONG— A King Renounced His Crown and Globe . LXXXVI 
 
 SORROW LXXII 
 
 THE BUSH LXXIV 
 
 THE CATHEDRAL XXXVIII 
 
 THE CHILD LXVII 
 
 THE CHILDREN'S MINUET . . . .IV 
 
 THE ECSTASY LXXXV 
 
 THE END IN VIEW LXXXVIII 
 
 THE FOREST XIX 
 
 THE FUNERAL MARCH .... XCVI 
 
 THE HAPPY LIFE XXXVI
 
 THE HAUNTED PRIORY 
 
 THE HERMIT .... 
 
 THEIR LETTERS .... 
 
 THE LAND OF GREECE . 
 
 THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE 
 
 THE LAST TOAST . 
 
 THE LIBRARY .... 
 
 THE MANLY HEART 
 
 THE OLD SCOTS' TALES 
 
 THE SIRENS .... 
 
 THE SYMBOL .... 
 
 THE YOUNG KNIGHT'S CHANT 
 
 ULYSSES 
 
 VIOLETS 
 
 VIRGIL IN THE BUSH . 
 VOYAGE 
 
 WANDERERS .... 
 
 WEDDED 
 
 WESTMINSTER ABBEY 
 WINGED WARFARE 
 
 YOUTH DREAMS OF SEPULCHRES 
 
 XIII 
 
 LXXXVI 
 
 LIII 
 
 XIV 
 
 IX 
 
 XCII 
 
 XXVIII 
 
 LXXXV 
 
 XXXIX 
 
 XLI 
 
 LXXXIX 
 
 VI 
 
 XVI 
 
 XXII 
 
 LXIII 
 
 XLV 
 
 LXX 
 
 LVI 
 
 XLIII 
 
 LXXII 
 
 VII 
 
 10
 
 V 1 1 -1 *
 
 C.E.K.f.F. MEM' 
 LENDIN6 LlBn-r 
 Eurvdkc, «^ BOOK DEPOT 
 
 Ah, the srveet-throated cr})mg 
 
 B}) the wild sea. 
 
 By the gate of Dis dying, 
 
 Eurydice! 
 
 Turning rvith tears. 
 
 For pale Orcus was calling — 
 
 O the long years! — 
 
 / saw thee fading, falling. 
 
 To mourning meres.
 
 A SECURE TIME. 
 
 O for the breath that youth's far dawning bore 
 
 When shone the sun from angel-guarded way. 
 
 Flowering with silken flame on patchwork hoar 
 
 In blazoning of shreds of blossomed may. 
 
 Blush crimson, cinnamon, and Quaker grey; 
 
 And for the waking Boy who heaped his bed 
 
 With faded heirlooms, lost in silent play: 
 
 The quaint old China green and rosy red. 
 
 The fan from lumber-room with perfume still unfled! 
 
 How beautiful was light to those pure eyes — 
 
 Whether the glories of the sunset sea, 
 
 Or moted beams, or day's faint dying sighs. 
 
 Or rays from golden glass at Trinity, 
 
 Or those he watched beside his Mother's knee 
 
 Driving the shadows up the dusky wall. 
 
 Or moving spots from lanthorn swaying free. 
 
 The fanlight's tracery in the shadowy hall. 
 
 The white upon the ceil that told the snow's thick fall! 
 
 He heard the sound of Penwortham's sweet bells. 
 
 They found a gentle echo in his breast; 
 
 In odour cool of twilight's glooming dells 
 
 The children's wavering ring broke for their rest; 
 
 And with the screen he made a glowing nest 
 
 u
 
 For painted scrap-book (ah, that it were mine!); 
 And he divined some note of love confest. 
 Some w^orship of the golden-snooded Nine, 
 And valentine disdains from hearts that ever pine. 
 
 O could I breathe once more the aisle's pent air. 
 
 And hear the mighty organ shuddering blow; 
 
 And see again the women who sat there 
 
 Within the curtained pew, a comely row, 
 
 (They all are very old or dead, I know) ; 
 
 And watch the ancient men with trembling hand 
 
 Touch thin grey temple curl — ah, then to go 
 
 In a rare dream along with homeward band 
 
 Treading the golden trails strown through the winter land! 
 
 A GEORGIAN HOUSE. 
 
 In blushing freshness of their endless years 
 The Sister and the Boy with loitering feet. 
 And a fond indolence, turn from the crowd 
 For a large grassy square that lies asleep 
 In its own air, absorbed in reverie. 
 So far aloof the gentle Boy is hurt 
 By this faint negligence. 
 
 Soothed by her kiss 
 He feels the patience of that slumbrous hour, 
 
 111
 
 And loves the ordered leisure; nay, his soul 
 
 Is trembhng at the passionings that steal 
 
 From dim deserted rooms. . . The sunset glow. 
 
 Soft fadmg crimson, lights the mirrored dark 
 
 Of old mahogany; and on the stair 
 
 Shelving away to dusk, the children see 
 
 A dream of small pure faces peering down. 
 
 And from the noble frames of tarnished gold 
 
 Their elders lean; and to the Boy withal 
 
 There is a murmured music that the years 
 
 Will yield not in their sighing till they bring 
 
 The Funeral March that weeps with tender fall 
 
 A Marionette — for in that shadowy place 
 
 The Boy conceives the folk as very far. 
 
 With grief grown tiny, and that sobbing strain 
 
 Laments their failure, swelling keen and shrill 
 
 In poignancy, then sinking to a moan 
 
 Receding — ah, the sadness of the grave! 
 
 Into the distance . . mournful . . . infinite. . . 
 
 THE CHILDREN'S MINUET. 
 
 Ah! ah! this is our holiday. 
 
 Trip it with laughter again ; 
 
 And gracefully bending in mode that is olden. 
 
 Now dance to the minuet's strain. 
 
 IV
 
 Slow! slow! silent and courteous — 
 
 Stately the minuet goes. 
 
 And sweet the refrain to the youths and the maidens 
 
 In satin and powder and rose. 
 
 See! see! just for a moment 
 
 The old world is with you again; 
 
 And now it has vanished, and we are but children 
 
 That dance to the minuet's strain. 
 
 MEADOW-LAND. 
 
 Dreaming upon the day in quiet eve. 
 With half-closed eyes I see thy haunted dales. 
 Thy lanes and dipping streams; and here I leave 
 Old cobweb grime and long wet golden trails. 
 For clocks of thistle down and crannied rills. 
 And moving sunlight on the heather hills. 
 
 Within those grey and softly lighted Halls, 
 
 Where Ribble murmurs by the low-browed door. 
 
 Now music's mourning melancholy falls. 
 
 And gently peopled is the mirrored floor. 
 
 And hand in hand beneath the flower-wreathed lance 
 
 They thread with happy hearts the stately dance.
 
 Surely that ford of shame and grieving sings. 
 For sainted Henry on the forest lowe 
 Withered with raining tears those elfin rings. 
 Knowing betrayal pang of sourest woe: 
 Poor soul! through dewy launds on sunshine day. 
 He rode with sorrow to the south away. 
 
 Come, for the dial's silent stealing line 
 Echoes the chiming bells, come thou with me 
 And kneel within this ancient Church of mine. 
 And slender high-born beauty thou shalt see 
 Bend with the snows rimed tenderly by age 
 Of humble folk before the sacred page. 
 
 THE YOUNG KNIGHT'S CHANT. 
 
 Your love would make a shepherd lad a flame. 
 Ennobling every drop within his veins. 
 And famousing for ever his great name 
 Beyond all earthly stains. 
 
 O come and let the sunshine flush your cheek. 
 Else sweetly cold and clear; Cecilia's robe 
 Of amber light shall dye your breast so meek. 
 And sparkles of wet green the dew shall globe 
 Upon your gown; and I will sing of faint 
 Reluctancy that 'longs to pucellage; 
 
 VI
 
 And for my very Saint 
 
 I'll make romaunts from waxed and narded page 
 
 For winter winds and rains. 
 
 Vawards of fame and dantours of the world, 
 
 In flashing steel, with golden flag unfurled. 
 
 On foamy-wet destreres, through greenwood glade. 
 
 With lifted ventayles, tossing plume and blade. 
 
 We'll ride with you, our Queen, 
 
 Girl of braced drum and spears and knighthood lean. 
 
 i shall not fear the dungeon black and strong 
 Within the closed wall, the yearning air 
 That waves the thin poor grass, if but my song 
 Be filled with you, O love! nor shall I care 
 For shadows of the swallows blown along. 
 When I shall dream you there! 
 
 YOUTH DREAMS OF SEPULCHRES. 
 
 With book and friend let me grow old. 
 
 And draw a quiet breath 
 
 As shadows lengthen, and the slope 
 
 Runs down to dusky death. 
 
 With open eyes for those pure forms 
 
 Hauntmg the heart of things. 
 
 And ears for secret charities 
 
 That float on Angel wings. 
 
 VII
 
 So pass my life until there come 
 
 From far the last sad call, 
 
 And understanding I will go 
 
 From library and stall, 
 
 From sunny pavement written o'er 
 
 With names of friends at rest. 
 
 To watch through forest dells the deer 
 
 Speed to the mountain breast. 
 
 Then after long farewell — the last! 
 
 And parting with the sun. 
 
 With bird and Rower and noble tree. 
 
 In calm of labour done. 
 
 Within the solitary hills. 
 
 By lonely churchyard gate. 
 
 And low embattled tower and wall, 
 
 God's kindly time I'll wait. 
 
 T here sheep would feed around my grave. 
 
 The scythe flame in the corn. 
 
 The lark rise singing to the blue. 
 
 The peewit call forlorn: 
 
 O nameless there would I be laid 
 
 In that green quiet place. 
 
 Not without tears — and so farewell. 
 
 Mute unresisting face.
 
 THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE. 
 
 O far, O far away, beyond the hills. 
 Over the level line of fairy sills. 
 The Dwellers of the Plain of Pleasure gaze 
 In sad remembrance of the ancient days. 
 
 In that old time the womb of morning bare 
 A purer gleam than ours, a thinner air. 
 And very earth was sown with light that grew 
 Upbreaking into founts of living blue. 
 
 The old brown cabins nested on the earth 
 A quiet folk of rustic love and mirth: 
 Lily and rose were in the women blent. 
 The heart of song with all the people went. 
 
 For primal voices still were heard around 
 From beast and bird, and in the solemn sound 
 Of rushing river; and the gentle breeze 
 Gave mystic meanings to the leaves of trees. 
 
 Lit with a shyer gold than that of noon 
 Pure Angel heads leaned to the rising moon: 
 To us they are but clouds with kindling fleece. 
 To them they were soft harbingers of peace. 
 
 IX
 
 The seasons flowed with song and laughter sweet. 
 And Hghtly passed the hours with flying feet ; 
 But by the winter hearth they gathered all 
 Their wan romance in music's dying fall. 
 
 And mothers knelt above their children's nest, 
 Or held the loved one to the deep-cleft breast. 
 Lest the Green People of the Forest wild 
 Should change the sleeping babe for fairy child. 
 
 Ah, if some human bud were rapt away. 
 
 What watchings by the ford at noon of day. 
 
 When leaves were broad and long, in flame and shade. 
 
 And Love had power upon the Fairy Raid. 
 
 Beyond, beyond, low in the quiet West, 
 
 In Twilight Region, lay a Land of Rest, 
 
 Of passioned rest untouched by passion's stings. 
 
 Beneath calm-featured forms with folded wings. 
 
 At times a still small Voice was heard to call. 
 Naming some one on lasting sleep to fall — 
 So Death came then: the summoned one arose 
 And passed alone untroubled by dim foes. 
 
 But when some girl in beauty's early flower 
 Heard in the Rumour name and so brief hour.
 
 And turned to say farewell, her lovers true 
 
 Went all the way and made Death name them too. 
 
 They come no more, they will not come agam. 
 Those far-off days of old romantic pain. 
 For faith is dying, beauteous things are fled. 
 The heart of man to love and song is dead. 
 
 J.H. 
 
 Wistful the olden time comes back. 
 
 And oft of him I dream 
 
 Who bore my name at Agincourt 
 
 Beside that Morning beam, 
 
 F"amed Harry, on St. Crispin's Day, 
 
 When the French Chivalry 
 
 Went down before the starved band 
 
 Of bowmen from the sea. 
 
 He loved the belling hart beneath 
 
 The green and whispering trees. 
 
 Soft chequerings on ancient sward. 
 
 The peaceful forest breeze; 
 
 His Lady slender sweet and gay. 
 
 Waited in twilight room 
 
 For his return from hound and spear 
 
 Through evening's amber gloom. 
 
 XI
 
 They were the gentle visitants 
 
 Of visionary hours, 
 
 1 hey mingled with the loves and fears 
 
 Of Childhood's happy bowers — 
 
 His sword is laid beneath his head, 
 
 His lady sleeps full fast. 
 
 And I salute them o'er the years. 
 
 Of all their race the last. 
 
 OLD CHRISTMAS. 
 
 Reeded and gilt the organ looms 
 
 In pinnacle and crown, 
 
 While candle lights star golden glooms 
 
 Within the panel's brown. 
 
 Strange pallors haunt the crumbling walls 
 From windows deep with snow. 
 The poppies on the carven stalls 
 In sleepy crimson blo.w. 
 
 And greener holly never shone 
 With clustered berries red, 
 Memoried and ever dear, upon 
 Beauty and Valour's bed.
 
 From holy Worship forth folk fare 
 And scatter in white ways. 
 And in the darkening winter air 
 Ruddy the home-lights blaze. 
 
 And cronies draw about the flame. 
 And in the rose-red blooms 
 Tell ghostly tales of Knight and Dame 
 In dusky haunted rooms. 
 
 And maids in silken softness gowned 
 Look up in starry night 
 To gaze of gallants bending round 
 In gold brocade and white. 
 
 And all we love of delicate 
 
 In Memoirs of dead lips. 
 
 Light criss-cross gossip without hate, 
 
 A witty circle sips. 
 
 THE HAUNTED PRIORY. 
 
 The music of the Waits died on the moor 
 In murmuring echoes of sweet plaintive sound. 
 And with low moan the wind stole by my door 
 And passed without along the snowy ground.
 
 Above each hooded stone that marks the dead 
 The moonbeams seemed to whisper, "This is best," 
 And deeper slumber touched the quiet head, 
 And deeper patience calmed the sunken breast. 
 
 Within, the Yule light danced on shining oak. 
 On pale white mistletoe and ruddy gleam 
 Of holly berry, and on phantom folk 
 In blackened frames of old and tarnished beam. 
 
 My cheek sank to the pillow for a space 
 Of happy thinking, but a sighing breath 
 Awoke me, and I saw her clear pure face. 
 Dark-sweet as night, as thoughts of love and death. 
 
 Ashes of yellow roses filled her hands- 
 She bowed above them fading from my sight ; 
 And now I haunt the ways of shadowy lands. 
 And watch the portals of the dreaming Night. 
 
 THE LAND OF GREECE. 
 
 Ah, days that to immortal joy we gave. 
 Leisured, unhindered, crowned with purple dream, 
 Illyrian or by Ilissus wave, 
 
 Those hours of childlike gaze at Life's soft beam, 
 Their threnes for fadmg beauty, mid the gleam 
 
 XIV
 
 Of noble marbles veined with violet 
 Against a sea of azure, while the stream 
 Sang of some thought eluding memory yet. 
 Some faint felicity we may not quite forget. 
 
 White holy order in that purest air 
 
 The Parthenon arose, and evermore 
 
 Faming the frieze our chivalry so fair 
 
 Rode, and below m blossomed life they bore 
 
 The robe of Pallas stained with earth and ore, 
 
 Balming the breeze and musking glorious name — 
 
 High Salamis and Marathon and more — 
 
 And as the priests unto the Altar came 
 
 The white uncorded bulls sank to the thin clear flame. 
 
 On wings Iberian yellow let us fly 
 
 To Cyclad isle and winding olive vale, 
 
 Green-boughed Idalium whence comes no sigh, 
 
 Or reedy Cnidus where the gentle gale 
 
 Flutters the garments of the maidens pale 
 
 Who sing of heroes and their lofty mound; 
 
 Or we will watch the youth in viney dale 
 
 All crimson-thighed from rough stone circle bound 
 
 With song of satyr-band upon the swarded ground. 
 
 XV
 
 ULYSSES. 
 
 The wise Ulysses climbs the rude old stair, 
 His wave-worn raft sways idly at his feet. 
 To lift the drooping sail there is no air. 
 And stillness reigns around save for the beat 
 Of faintest ripples that make cool the heat 
 With cool-lipped sigh, and on the amber floor 
 Of weed-grown rock flit golden shadows fleet. 
 And in the light-blown murmurs evermore 
 Ulysses hears a moan for happy days of yore. 
 
 In silent sunshine lies each winding street 
 
 All garlanded with flowers in streamy flow. 
 
 There comes no voice from palace or fair seat. 
 
 And dawn's blue air is in a soft pure glow 
 
 From some divinest wellspring's overflow 
 
 Of tender bliss, and in the rainbow dew 
 
 And on the statue's limbs of carven snow 
 
 And on the columned marble's peachy hue. 
 
 The glad young morning light trem.bles and blooms anew. 
 
 O hush! speak not! but list the silvery sound 
 Of flutes and pipes and merry clashing din. 
 And cry of clear sweet voices floating round 
 The Temple's porch^ — ^O can it be a sin 
 To dream Apollo and his shining kin 
 
 XVI
 
 Have left the glittering mount! In coloured weeds 
 They slowly loiter past where keen and thin 
 The hot Hght cleaves the ebon shade, . . Who leads 
 This train of gentle youth fresh from the flowery meads! 
 
 Faint haunting winds of silvan fragrance breathe, 
 
 The dews of morn about their garments cling. 
 
 And round their heads light-flaming flowers they wreathe, 
 
 And scatter buds from arks the children bring, 
 
 And wavering move in slow and charmed ring 
 
 To sacred song — then on again they roam, 
 
 Ulysses of their band, and clearly sing 
 
 In ravished harmony: Ah, Spring's white foam. 
 
 Ah, leave the house of stone, the green earth is your home. 
 
 ANTIGONE. 
 
 Methought I heard a melancholy sound, 
 A song divine of pure immortal breath. 
 And loitering near the Parthenon I found 
 The mourners of Antigone's lone death. 
 
 Wreathed with wild olive from the sacred grove 
 Where flows the crystal of Castalian fount. 
 The secret home of god Apollo's love, 
 Went the fresh youth of valley, plain, and mount. 
 
 xvn
 
 This flower of virgins made a perfect dirge 
 For her who sought so iimelessly her grave. 
 And strewed white violets from ledge and verge 
 Of Helicon, white as the foamy wave. 
 
 In that pellucid air they walked along 
 By marbles graved in gold and fair with frost 
 Of snowy blossoms, and they sang a song 
 Of grief for noble house gone down and lost. 
 
 And so they came thus sorrowing with tears 
 To carven seats of rock before a stage 
 Whereon Antigone's last silent fears 
 Enacted were from old and yellow page. 
 
 She stood a delicate and holy thought 
 
 Clothed in pure lovely flesh, with gesture sweet 
 
 To olive land and Altar richly wrought. 
 
 And all that once had stirred her young heart's beat. 
 
 Her eyes were full of tears, she did not hear. 
 Her lips that curved for love were pale and mule. 
 Her soul regretting all that she held dear 
 Was saying low farewell to lover's lute. 
 
 Thus through a dream reluctancy she made 
 Her way to death, without reproach or cry. 
 For Zeus this girl so sweet and unafraid 
 By other law had aye foredoomed to die. 
 
 XVI
 
 EROTION. 
 
 Here is a stela of pale stone 
 With head of child Erotion; 
 And though I may not own the earth 
 That hghtly covers tears and mirth 
 To give her strewings, yet is paid 
 The rite to her faint slender shade 
 By these red roses in her cup. 
 And of dark wine a httle sup. 
 
 THE FOREST. 
 
 Once as I lay a-sleeping 
 Beneath an ancient oak. 
 There stole to me a maiden. 
 One of the silvan folk. 
 
 Pale sweet her face as moonbeam 
 That through the forest slips — 
 Beneath her hair's twin darkness 
 She kissed my dreaming lips. 
 
 XIX
 
 PERDITA. 
 
 The sea coast of Bohemia 
 
 Is pleasant to the view 
 
 When singing larks spring from the grass 
 
 To fade into the blue. 
 
 And all the hawthorn hedges break 
 
 In wreaths of purest snow. 
 
 And yellow daffodils are out. 
 
 And roses half in blow. 
 
 The sea coast of Bohemia 
 
 Is sad as sad can be. 
 
 The prince has ta'en our flower of maids 
 
 Across the violet sea; 
 
 Our Perdita has gone with him, 
 
 No more we dance the round 
 
 Upon the green in joyous play. 
 
 Or wake the tabor's sound. 
 
 The sea coast of Bohemia 
 
 Has many wonders seen. 
 
 The shepherd lass wed with a king. 
 
 The shepherd with a queen; 
 
 But such a wonder as my love 
 
 Was never seen before. 
 
 It is my joy and sorrow now 
 
 To love her evermore. 
 
 XX
 
 The sea coast of Bohemia 
 
 Is haunted by a Hght 
 
 Of memory fair of lady's eyes. 
 
 And fame of gallant knight; 
 
 The princes seek its charmed strand, 
 
 But ah, it was our knell 
 
 When o'er the sea our Perdita 
 
 Went with young Florizel. 
 
 The sea coast of Bohemia 
 
 Is not my resting place. 
 
 For with her waned from out the day 
 
 A beauty and a grace: 
 
 had I kissed her on the lips 
 
 1 would no longer weep. 
 
 But live by that until the day 
 I fall to shade and sleep. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE'S TOMB. 
 
 O call the passioned heart, the dreaming hand. 
 
 And we will fashion for his bones a tomb — 
 
 Letting the marbler Time 
 
 Smooth with a gentle touch the fretted bloom — 
 
 And guard it with a band 
 
 Of those who live so greatly in his rhyme: 
 
 Pale Desdemona, pure Cordelia, 
 
 XXI
 
 Sweet Rosalind of tender forest play, 
 
 Miranda of the Isle, and Juliet 
 
 With eyes still dewy wet; 
 
 And roughened there shall Kings of hoary balm. 
 
 Proud peers and prelates spring from massy stone. 
 
 Making withal a stately chant and moan 
 
 For him who sleeps above in centuried calm. 
 
 VIOLETS. 
 
 Roses red of royal blood. 
 
 Yellow tea with memoried flood 
 
 From dim silken folds and dust, 
 
 Cramosie or velour rust. 
 
 Mossed or blushed or scarlet-striped, 
 
 Love your praise hath whilom piped. 
 
 Nancies sweet and daffodils. 
 Cowslips from the meadow hills. 
 Primroses with faint cool smell. 
 Hyacinths from musky dell: 
 Pardon if with dreaming bliss 
 Violets in love I kiss. 
 
 xxii
 
 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY. 
 
 Last night the wind was blowing wild. 
 
 The sea-coal fire burnt brightly. 
 
 The candles' light was clear and mild. 
 
 My bosom's lord sat lightly; 
 
 And deep within my old arm-chair 
 
 I sank in rosy basking. 
 
 Distilling all the sweet and rare. 
 
 And spirit-vintage flasking. 
 
 When lo! methought in London street. 
 
 An Angel-meadow lodger, 
 
 I loitered in the way called "Fleet," 
 
 And met my dear Sir Roger; 
 
 We reached his club without mishap> 
 
 One witty, wise and sober. 
 
 Where Peace might take a pleasant nap 
 
 After his old October. 
 
 The door was closed: by right divine 
 Sir Roger used the poker. 
 Each Clubman sipped his slender wine 
 And proved a peaceful smoker; 
 And he was there from ancient Gate, 
 Whose studies went a-maying 
 With things antique and delicate. 
 To law-books never straying. 
 
 XXUI
 
 Will Honeycomb's old stories ran 
 
 About some dainty duly. 
 
 And kind sweet glance and blow of fan 
 
 From long-forgotten beauty; 
 
 And feeling we were gone in years. 
 
 The clergymen we beckoned. 
 
 And heard with silent flowing tears 
 
 1 he world divinely reckoned. 
 
 Next day we went to see the Tombs 
 
 And viewed their faded glory. 
 
 Of honour in the dust that blooms 
 
 Sir Roger told the story; 
 
 His hand upon King Edward's sword. 
 
 Upon the pommel leaning. 
 
 From Chronicle and Ballad hoard 
 
 He reaped a loyal gleaning. 
 
 Then to his Country Seat we went. 
 
 Where Time sits and remembers 
 
 With grey old Chaplain thin and bent. 
 
 Ghostly by glowing embers; 
 
 And long sweet leisure hours were mine 
 
 In chamber rare and sunny. 
 
 With elbow-glass of cowslip wine, 
 
 And crust and golden honey. 
 
 xxiv
 
 In shallow parlour cool and dim 
 
 With bunches of old roses. 
 
 Sir Roger told the latest whim 
 
 About the Widow's posies; 
 
 Her hand he praised all hands above. 
 
 Each pure Angelic feature. 
 
 His fancy fed with tender love 
 
 On that most lovely Creature. 
 
 The Picture-gallery then we sougtit: 
 The Knight gave quaint discourses 
 Upon the gallant men who fought 
 With lances, swords and horses; 
 And her so beautiful and sweet. 
 Who early died a maiden — 
 The heart of age began to beat, 
 With lonely pathos laden. 
 
 On Sunday by the Church's aisle 
 
 Sir Roger woke from sleeping. 
 
 And sat upright with stately smile, 
 
 A watch in kindness keeping: 
 
 I saw John Matthews through a pane 
 
 Armorial and mellow. 
 
 On mossy tomb, and I was fain 
 
 To love the careless fellow.
 
 Sir Roger passed to far dream lands. 
 
 My exile tears up-welling. 
 
 But still in farewell sweet he stands 
 
 Before his ancient dwelling: 
 
 A thousand follies had the Knight, 
 
 Kindly and dear debaters 
 
 Of tears and laughter — now they light 
 
 The leaves of old Spectators. 
 
 ELIA. 
 
 On Crusoe Island were I cast forlorn 
 So I had Elia I should never be 
 Uncomforted, but from the summer morn 
 To golden eve, fronting the chaining sea. 
 Lapsed in his fair enchantments I should prove 
 That neither grief nor time could steal my love. 
 
 As he went bedward I would burn with him 
 Before the cobwebbed splendour of those arms 
 And word triumphant, range at will the dim 
 Deserted rooms, haunting their pensive charms. 
 Or in the cheerful days of wasp-loved heat 
 Read Cowley in the lowly window seat. 
 
 XXVI
 
 Mine, too, would be those reverend College walks, 
 The trees of Christ's, the Magdalen groves so green. 
 The Founder's dusky tomb, the silent talks 
 With shadows of the past — the might have been 
 Of lost humanities and scented books 
 From long ago in soothing cloistral nooks. 
 
 If thus his page could sweeten desert isle 
 And mournful fate: what magic might it lend 
 To pleasant Hertfordshire? By lane and stile 
 We trace the memoried way to Mackery End, 
 And home returning rest in Temple bound 
 Calmed by the ancient Fountain's evening sound. 
 
 Dream-Alices he gives to lonely breasts. 
 Youthful romance's exquisite wild thrill. 
 And childless men amid their dark unrests 
 Weeping with inward tears the end so chill — 
 Untended by fond hands — have fathers grown 
 And loved his Dream-born Children as their own. 
 
 Dear are his vanities of cosy room 
 
 And charm of fireside talks by candle light 
 
 Of bygone playbills, as in golden gloom 
 
 We closer sit, fearing the swifter flight 
 
 Of Time, who will not let us live for long 
 
 With piquet played for love, old tones and song. 
 
 xxvi
 
 Elia, a happy, happy fate is thine. 
 Beloved for aye! In thee thy lovers see 
 Thine Angel-Child, half human, half divine. 
 With sad sweet quips of tenderest irony 
 Gently beguiling those whose cheeks are wet 
 With hopeless tears of passionate regret. 
 
 THE LIBRARY. 
 
 Bring from old treasuries the diamond globe 
 
 Of royal Kings, or from the plashy shore 
 
 Dim crusted ingots, or the Tyrian robe. 
 
 Empurpled alchemy, that evermore 
 
 Is balmed with sovran dreams; yet for the lore 
 
 Closed in this mellow space they may not be 
 
 A ransom! yea, though flaming foray bore 
 
 From fatherlands of peace immortal fee, 
 
 And dragon-guarded gold from ooze of foaming sea! 
 
 Umbras of forms of sun and wind and dew. 
 
 Of purer spring and fairer vintage flame. 
 
 Move in these legends of the tranquil blue 
 
 Of elder emblem, giving death and fame 
 
 And seats to heroes, calling each by name 
 
 To live divine crowned with undying palm. 
 
 Forgetting not the countries whence they came. 
 
 And chanting to the Father victor psalm. 
 
 Now sung by Masters old of ripe autumnal calm. 
 
 xxviii
 
 Here pumice-smoothed reclines the roll embossed 
 
 That sings of Helen from the battled wall, 
 
 Looking on Grecian helms and spears uptossed; 
 
 And of Achilles mourning crimson fall 
 
 From mortal whiteness of the virgin tall; 
 
 And of the pale dark girl so pure and sweet 
 
 In Scheria amid the festival 
 
 Wandering, or where the sea and river meet 
 
 Weeping with bosom tears for shame of wild heart beat. 
 
 On page of long ago stained amber dusk 
 Slip dryads from the bark in clustered band; 
 A nereid's white shoulder oars eve's musk; 
 And ardent youths spring on the Italian strand. 
 Seaward they point the prows along the sand. 
 And free from bending labour mount the vale 
 Drinking from palm the water of that land. 
 And hearing song of bird in woody dale 
 No longer fugitive they doff the shining mail. 
 
 Yea loiter here to see the passionmg 
 Of earth's great souls pontifical in dream 
 Of human valour soaring on Love''s wing; 
 And faint with mystic incense, odoured beam. 
 Pause in the thick of monumental gleam 
 Full of the last sad sweetness of dim woe. 
 And in the stillness watch the souls that stream 
 
 XXIX
 
 From aisle and chapel, helmed and bannered row. 
 Thoughts that no clothing words can to another show. 
 
 Lo, fragrant "Hours" from daughter of old France 
 Close clasped in wormy oaken boards that knew 
 The silver flash of Pharamound's light lance; 
 The "Shepheardes Calender" as clear as new. 
 Original, immaculate, to view; 
 And "Poems Lyrick, Pastorale" in green 
 Bringing again the scent of vernal dew 
 Trodden by those who shall no more be seen. 
 The shepherd lovers true of fair and rustic Queen. 
 
 And here be leisures delicate and brown, 
 
 Breathing from ancient prints a soothing sleep. 
 
 An idling with the uncared face and town 
 
 In placid sunshine softly calm and deep; 
 
 And there by evening flambeau horn, O peep 
 
 At blushing Beauty lighting from her chair. 
 
 And Lovelace bending with a heart at leap. 
 
 White periwig above the perfumed hair. 
 
 While cheek of purest rose calls on the lips that dare. 
 
 But from the miniature, the fair young face 
 Made all for love and tender conquering night. 
 Swept by the waving fan of old-time grace. 
 Scented and ribbed with tortoise shelly light.
 
 Now turn to singing page of sunshine white. 
 
 And shallow arch on water's threaded gold. 
 
 The cuckoo's lone deep note, the robin's flight 
 
 With gentle autumn song, the winter cold 
 
 Shrilling the plaintive cries that call from wattled fold. 
 
 Ah, no! the folios clad in orient blue. 
 Madonna blue, and those in sunset red 
 Of robed imperial Saint, or darkened hue 
 From faded dreamful sheen of dim cope shed. 
 Have fair large prefaces by men long dead 
 Telling of loiterings and of slow delay. 
 And here from joy those nameless ones are fled. 
 And from their leaves rise odours of decay. 
 Faint precious mustiness as sweet as early May. 
 
 So in this hollow nest of fashioned age 
 
 Morn music breaks on slumbering shadowed dust. 
 
 And very light is soft as vellum page. 
 
 And rich and beautiful with Time's worn rust; 
 
 And here I read of faith that keeps Life's trust. 
 
 Endures its manage, yet can follow dream. 
 
 Confronting with heroic will Fate's must. 
 
 Lifting all Nature to the light of gleam 
 
 That shone on Galilee and Golgotha's wan stream. 
 
 XXXI
 
 REMEMBRANCE. 
 
 Ah, for that Kingdom by the sounding sea 
 Where, laid in tomb of dim rich sculptured stone. 
 Sleeps Annabel for aye with lover's moan 
 And voice of waters for her elegy. 
 
 A FRIENDLY PLACE. 
 
 When in my mood I seek a Cell 
 For charmed meditation deep; 
 My Fancy's Waring weaves a Spell, 
 And holy-day I keep. 
 
 My hearth's great shrine is carven oak. 
 
 My panel dark as ruby wine. 
 
 My tapestry of hunter folk. 
 
 My bay of crystalline. 
 
 My bureau comes from lady's bower. 
 Her perfume lingers faint from far; 
 My tall-boy shines with lire-lit flcwer. 
 Or wavering golden star. 
 
 A viola de Gamba leans 
 
 On spinet made by Annibale, 
 
 Or virginal once touched by Queens 
 
 Who went with passion pale. 
 
 xxxii
 
 OLD PORCELAIN. 
 
 Love in my heart I find for those 
 Who pine for jar with hawthorn bloom. 
 The Gift of Spring to Beauty's Rose 
 Now sleeping in the tomb. 
 
 Me would content for daily view 
 
 A pot with blossomed peach or mound. 
 
 Or slender vase of wavy blue 
 
 With dragons ramping round. 
 
 Of Celadon from time of Sung, 
 I do desire a Peacock set. 
 With yellow of the age of Yung 
 The hours I could forget. 
 
 Of blue and white of Kung one must 
 Of course have perfect pieces five, 
 Or those in whose seed golden-dust 
 The lizards seem alive. 
 
 There is a joy that cannot fade 
 In rouge-pot made for lady bright. 
 Vert bowl, or noire, with stand of jade. 
 And beaker tender white. 
 
 xxxin
 
 Ah, what old China sealed of fair! 
 Egg-tint of bird's wild woodland hour. 
 The azure of the summer air, 
 The lilac of the flower. 
 
 From dim old shop in alley pent. 
 From cabinet of gentle dame. 
 From treasure of an Empress rent. 
 They come — these dreams of fame! 
 
 GARRETS. 
 
 When in the night you waken 
 From slumber, list the cry. 
 The wail of ghosts forsaken 
 Within the garrets high. 
 
 When winter sounds are going 
 Along the crazy heights. 
 Their spectral tears are flowing. 
 And moaning fills the nights. 
 
 Dim straitened souls regretting 
 Their penury and pain. 
 Rebel at Time's forgetting, 
 The Poppy's last disdain. 
 
 xxxiv
 
 A MOON OF MUSIC. 
 
 O list! O steal away! 
 
 Why linger so? 
 
 Come wake the trembling strings 
 
 Before we go. 
 
 This room is full of peace 
 And mellow shade ; 
 O play the dawn of love 
 In youth and maid. 
 
 Music so young and sad 
 Follows my beat. 
 The song of nightingale 
 Is not more sweet. 
 
 Golden the Symphony, 
 The Pastoral strain. 
 But life seems desolate. 
 Fleeting and vain. 
 
 Night darkens in the lime. 
 The air breathes musk. 
 And gowns are ghostly white. 
 Faces are dusk.
 
 Ah, now the Nocturne play; 
 Chopin's I mean. 
 Tender as minstrel love 
 Set on a Queen. 
 
 O violins with sob 
 
 And cry forlorn, 
 
 And tears of passioned hope. 
 
 In marching mourn. 
 
 The moon is silvery white. 
 Fragrant the rose. 
 Come let us bring our dreams 
 To lovely close. 
 
 THE HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 I sing not armour in the light 
 
 That burns on spears in forest night. 
 
 Nor foray in the sunshine white 
 
 Of April weather; 
 
 But of the happy life I croon 
 
 Led by a long and lazy loon 
 
 When summer skies are mild and boon 
 
 Amid the heather.
 
 His Whatman paper, sable, paint, 
 
 He loves as ever monkish saint 
 
 Loved missal gold for title quaint 
 
 Of Gospel Story; 
 
 And joyously he tells his beads. 
 
 His colours' names, while golden reeds 
 
 Whisper, and morning dews are seeds 
 
 Of garnered glory: 
 
 The soft old red of Venice sails. 
 
 The ancient earth of Ombrian vales. 
 
 The sepia of Adrian gales. 
 
 And sunset yellow. 
 
 That stain of Eden's infant blue. 
 
 Lapis Lazuli, crimson hue. 
 
 And Indian purple, olive, too. 
 
 So grave and mellow. 
 
 He dreams of Beauty day and night: 
 Of trees with blossoms winged and light. 
 Of solitudes wind-pure and bright, 
 And peace unbroken. 
 Landscapes with cattle white and roan, 
 Lacework of grey and russet stone. 
 And groinings, doors set deep and lone 
 With mystic token. 
 
 XXXVll
 
 For him the buoys dance in the flood, 
 Sah green and crimson as of blood. 
 And water-hghts play on old wood 
 With idle shimmer; 
 And all his heart with trembling goes 
 To where in phantom gold and rose 
 Rome of the antique sleepy woes 
 Grows ever dimmer. 
 
 THE CATHEDRAL. 
 
 The summer noon curves for a little space 
 Into a statued porch profound with gloom. 
 Like weathered cavern in a mountain face, 
 And leaving all the sunshine and the bloom 
 In aged aisle I pass receding doors. 
 Withdrawn, recluse, on overwritten floors. 
 
 The forest echoes in the branched night 
 To my slow footfalls, and in casement high 
 Gleam angel-robes green-gold as chrysolite. 
 Or red as sard — the pomp of those who He 
 In desuetude, no longer passionate. 
 But reconciled to sleep and during fate. 
 
 xxxviii
 
 From niched place the prelates of the soul 
 Lean in the leisured smoke of tender eve 
 With mourning gesture. . . Gentle echoes roll 
 From distant closing gate; and shadows leave 
 The lofty apse and dim each trefoiled Sign, 
 Veiling the Eucharistic Corn and Vine. 
 
 THE OLD SCOTS TALES. 
 
 What happiness beside the low. 
 
 The ripe-red glowing cave. 
 
 To watch the turf-heaps crumble down 
 
 And hear the tempest rave. 
 
 while the shadows dance and creep 
 In dusk and golden light. 
 
 Close round and tell the old Scots tales 
 And daff away the night. 
 
 They are compact of many things: 
 The murmur of the ford, 
 Sweet love and tender fantasy. 
 The long sigh of the sword. 
 
 1 love their talk of plough and kine. 
 Of kiss in gloaming nook. 
 
 Their melancholy strange and wild. 
 Their reverence for the Book. 
 
 XXXI X
 
 LOVE-IN-IDLENESS. 
 
 With madrigal and canzonets, 
 And sweetest ayres, the Pages lean 
 Upon the marble parapets 
 Dreaming in song of virgin Queen. 
 
 CYTHEREA. 
 
 O white foam-born so old, so old, yet fresh 
 
 As veiling spring! 
 
 Thee hoary tides of wild and wandering mesh 
 
 Did sweetness bring. 
 
 Clothing Jove's naked thought with lovely flesh! 
 
 Though thou dost make it joy to live, to love. 
 The bitter sea 
 
 Hath mingled with the passion from above, 
 Hate with fehcity. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 O something whispers in my heart. 
 Leaves on my lips a kiss. 
 Breathes sweetness in the folding air. 
 Can love be this? 
 
 xl
 
 Red earth I come again to thee 
 And by thy flowing spice 
 Find in the dawn unguarded gate 
 Of Paradise. 
 
 PROVENCE. 
 
 In old Provence I love to stray 
 All for the old love's sake. 
 For there in far-off times a lay 
 To minstrel harp at close of day 
 I sang beside the lake. 
 
 Sad in the summer twilight air — 
 
 dusk of summer eves! 
 Around sat knight and lady fair, 
 
 1 saw them not for you were there. 
 My love, beneath the leaves. 
 
 THE SIRENS. 
 
 The Sirens are singing 
 Sweeter than music of lute. 
 Or harp of mortal stringing. 
 And the Angels are mute. 
 O desolate sadness, 
 O notes elusive and vain. 
 Ecstasy touched to madness. 
 Deepness of yearning pain! 
 
 xli
 
 LAMENT. 
 
 Love that brings the laughing tears 
 Of an April day, 
 Comes but once in all our years. 
 Comes but once for aye. 
 
 Roses shadow forth fair hue, 
 Violets sweet breath. 
 Lilies hint of form so true. 
 Marigolds of death. 
 
 DREAM ECHO. 
 
 I love the morning Star — 
 O love pure and tender! 
 In Dreamland very far 
 She dwelleth in splendour. 
 
 Her bosom hath a spell 
 For cooling, for healing. 
 Her beauty is a well 
 Of mystic revealing. 
 
 The flowers on a bier 
 Have some of her sweetness. 
 And the leaves that grow sere 
 In autumn's winged fleetness. 
 
 xlii
 
 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 With melancholy full of sweet as though 
 One prest the grape of sorrow, here I kneel 
 And breathe farewell before I seek the keel 
 For other land — O, England, ere I go 
 Close to thy heart I steal. 
 
 Looking like crag from swarded mountain side. 
 Or ancient cromlech, the great Abbey looms. 
 While Time's gold stains are lost in silver glooms. 
 Save where above the creeping twilight tide 
 Linger faint rosy blooms. 
 
 Lost in this world of crumbling stone I love 
 To trace its sheafy pillars to the height 
 Where molten rubies kindle, or the light 
 Yellow as autumn leaves, sleeps far above 
 A dimly glorious night. 
 
 The shadows gather as I softly go 
 On hearts unmindful now of love and hate. 
 And pore on emblems of their mouldered state 
 Sepulchral — tears for Beauty lying low 
 With all too brief a date. 
 
 Here on the marble leafage laid in gold 
 Un faded, sleep in bronze the ancient brave. 
 
 xliii
 
 From their dear land, or from their native wave. 
 Returning home to earth in silent cold 
 Of uninvaded grave. 
 
 On this waste tomb I love to read the verge 
 
 Of Alianor reposing, jadis Reyne 
 
 De Angleterre, with blazon and rich stain 
 
 Armorial of old Castile, and dirge 
 
 And tears forlorn and vain. 
 
 Sorrow resigned and deep hangs over all 
 These regions of cave darkness vast and drear. 
 Worm-eaten aged holds of very fear 
 And dungeon light remote, dim, tragical 
 With life's untimely bier. 
 
 So read the labels: "Killed in flower of age," 
 Bringing a breath of brine and smoke from far. 
 And crimson, golden glories crown their star. 
 Rich, puissant, superb, with graven page. 
 Memorials of war. 
 
 O in this land to which I go may I 
 
 Live worthy of our heritage so great 
 
 Of love and valour, freedom from foul hate. 
 
 And faith in noble vision from on high 
 
 Triumphing over fate. 
 
 xliv
 
 VOYAGE. 
 
 A gentler clime or death. 
 
 The calm physician saith. 
 
 And so to thinking: 
 
 Shall I with yearning seek those lovely fields 
 
 Of beauteous art Italia yields, 
 
 Or 'neath the Lion-flag, my future linking 
 
 With the dim Past, live out my shortened days? 
 
 Dear are those pale gold discs with faces dark. 
 The song wild as the thrilling of the lark. 
 But blood is dearer far than time's fair loss. 
 So to the Southern Cross 
 I am hull down in glory all ablaze. 
 
 IN RETROSPECT. 
 
 How strange to hear 
 In distant land, and after many days. 
 The mournful tidings of an old friend's death. 
 Full well I loved her sweet calm face that seemed 
 Cut in pale ivory, and her parlour cool 
 With rose leaves scented, and alight with hues 
 Of ancient China in the shining dark 
 Of panels and old kists. With her there passed 
 A world of dream: those faces far and faint 
 
 xlv
 
 In Childhood seen, and fields and wavering trees 
 That are no more, and pets that knew dear hands 
 And went with tears. 
 
 On winter eves we heard 
 The latch-hole's music shrill, the voice of eld 
 Quavering so thin and frail an old love song; 
 And turned the ancient books whose fading leaves 
 And quaint and yellow prints stained by the hand 
 Of happy, happy Childhood in some day 
 Of beating wind and rain, were scribbled o'er 
 By lovers gone to earth. 
 
 But now for me 
 Beleaguered by the Bush there lies a place 
 Of vam and gentle sorrow, and its stones 
 Are graved with English names; and there I stand 
 For hours above the men and women who 
 Will neighbour my last sleep. 
 
 A DREAM RETURN. 
 
 By winding meadow paths, by rustic stiles 
 Sweet with love's whisper, down the sunny lane 
 Where Gill lends murmurs, under scented rain 
 Of soft green light I run the well-known miles 
 To be at home again. 
 
 xlvi
 
 This roof is very peaceful, guarded, low. 
 
 With old brown thatch and walls of hawthorn white 
 
 With mellow stains for sleepy Time's delight — 
 
 For here the moments linger, pensive, slow. 
 
 And gently falls the night. 
 
 And there are faces — long ago made dust. 
 That lift to mine, and arms that cling around 
 My humbled neck, and voices softly sound 
 As hand in hand with looks of loving trust 
 We roam that haunted ground. 
 
 The thatchy nest, the sheets from whitethorn hedge 
 Well lavendered in oaken kist, give sleep. 
 Save when the ancient clock melodious, deep. 
 Chimes in the dawn and from the lattice ledge 
 Answers each feathered heap. 
 
 These rustlers in the ivy cheep and sing. 
 And wake me to the vacant golden light 
 And thin pure air, and in the dews of night 
 I wash all aches away, and from the Spring 
 Bear water sunny bright. 
 
 The palmer's holy fount, the Mary well. 
 
 The fall from ancient mask, the nymphy stream. 
 
 These are not dearer to the memoried dream 
 
 xlvii
 
 Than this poor hedge-side flow in ferny dell 
 Of light and sunken beam. 
 
 I run to all: the hoary orchard bourn. 
 
 The fallen beech adzed to a bridge, the brook 
 
 And shallow silver plash, the deep brown nook 
 
 With amber pebbles very thin and worn. 
 
 So cool for rod and book. 
 
 The doves are cooing on the barn's grey roof, 
 A peaceful sound for sitters in the sun 
 Of afternoons when half the work is done. 
 And bare and blue old Parlic holds aloof. 
 And curlews cry and run. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Like the scent of violet. 
 Subtly sweet with all regret. 
 Love and Springtide pass away — 
 Ah me, well a-day! 
 
 Vesper-bell knells dying beam. 
 Form and feature fall to dream. 
 Gone the voice, the love of May— 
 Ah me, well a-day! 
 
 xlviii
 
 Sigh we for the sunhght fled. 
 Sigh we for the love that's dead, 
 Love and violet decay — 
 Ah me, well a-day! 
 
 HOME. 
 
 The blue Pacific waves ran clear 
 
 In ridges to my feet. 
 
 And from their range, and from the gums 
 
 Gushed odours keen and sweet: 
 
 Squat in the sheoak's golden flame 
 
 The billy boiled too soon, 
 
 For all was golden drowsiness 
 
 That golden afternoon. 
 
 I fell asleep and saw myself 
 
 Within an ancient room 
 
 Of English grange, a white-haired man, 
 
 Quiet in ruddy gloom; 
 
 And in my heart a whisper went, 
 
 A sense of great release, 
 
 I knew that 1 was home again. 
 
 With life and death at peace. 
 
 xlix
 
 The toil was over — God, how strange! 
 The tears were on my face, 
 I need not wander for my bread 
 From homeless place to place; 
 But here a breathing space I had 
 Unknown to fate, my foe. 
 Before I went the outland way 
 That mortal men must go. 
 
 I looked around the panelled walls 
 
 And saw dim portraits there 
 
 Of noble knight and noble dame 
 
 And girlhood sweet and fair; 
 
 And in old carven cabinets 
 
 Were letters, faded, sere. 
 
 With folded tresses, long dead flowers. 
 
 And mark of fallen tear. 
 
 Old perfumes stirred before my hand. 
 
 Old heart-breaks bled anew; 
 
 The pink was there, the daffodil. 
 
 And for remembrance rue; 
 
 My spirit touched the unseen dead 
 
 Behind the written word. 
 
 The heart of sadness touched and wept. 
 
 And spirit weeping heard.
 
 ^ENDING LIB > 
 : SOOK DE.POT 
 
 And there was grief for happy hours 
 
 Beyond recall for aye. 
 
 Regret for lonely youth and love — 
 
 November tears in May: 
 
 A note of joy rose in the sound 
 
 Of coming home at last. 
 
 My name was soft on waiting lips 
 
 Loved in the ancient past. 
 
 My spirit with her sense of rest 
 Behind the brightening veil. 
 Had pity on my body's grief. 
 For her made weak and pale; 
 And as the winds grew to their pitch 
 Grappling like deadly foes, 
 She gave unto my mortal part 
 An hour of deep repose. 
 
 And by the winter (ire I sat. 
 
 Remembered faces came. 
 
 By love and death made wondrous sweet. 
 
 Of purest spirit flame; 
 
 The hour beside the ruin grey, 
 
 The kiss by summer night. 
 
 So beautiful, so sad, were seen 
 
 In delicate clear light. 
 
 li
 
 Children unborn, but passionate 
 
 With mournful loveliness. 
 
 Smiled through their tears and she was there 
 
 "Who did my sad years bless; 
 
 And all my simple pilgrim gold — 
 
 Old print with passing gleam 
 
 On ivied tower, old summer walks 
 
 By haunted mount and stream. 
 
 The flame paled on the hollied crest 
 And on the mistletoe. 
 And something whispered in my heart 
 'Twas time for me to go; 
 Aside my spirit, seraph-fresh, 
 Stood looking on the clay 
 Chastened for service of the soul. 
 Then turned toward the Day. 
 
 I woke, and to my dreaming eyes 
 
 The hour was as before. 
 
 But still I knew my life was changed 
 
 Then and for evermore: 
 
 The wistful passion in my breast 
 
 Is not for earthly home. 
 
 But I must seek a City still 
 
 Wherever I may roam. 
 
 lii
 
 L€1lOlNG LIB 
 & BOOK DtHv^T 
 
 THEIR LETTERS. 
 
 SHE: 
 
 We watched the moon 
 Go sailing in a sea of silver foam. 
 And someone touched the open instrument. 
 And as the notes fell with a sound of tears 
 My heart seemed audible. 
 
 Come back, sweetheart ! 
 Though life be passing we may yet grow young 
 In our remembrance! O but yesternoon 
 Within the silent Church I knelt in prayer 
 Where streams Christ's blood for our lamenting love. 
 And from the shadowed undercroft there rose 
 The melancholy odour of decay 
 That breathes of death. I saw two lovers there: 
 They lay in stone upon one quiet tomb. 
 Without all earthly pomp, assured of peace. 
 And in the stillness redolent of love 
 I wished to be as they in endless dream 
 Abed for evermore in gentle death — 
 At last I turned and went as one who goes 
 Upon a distant journey and with tears 
 Bids an adieu to joy and weeping friends. 
 
 liii
 
 HE: 
 
 Dear Love. I see you in the noontide beam 
 
 Mid softly gilded old memorial brass 
 
 And worn faint words and scrollings ... by your side 
 
 I kneel in tempered sunshine of the Choir 
 
 And plead a Litany in faltered tones 
 
 For pardon and one hour of sweetest joy 
 
 In our so shadowed lives. O love I fain 
 
 Would climb for aye some wide and shelving stair 
 
 To book-clad cell whose low and silvan walls 
 
 And darkened groinings so that you were there 
 
 Were dear as Paradise! I am alone 
 
 Like some worn creature wounded to the death 
 
 That sees with anguish in reverted look 
 
 Abandonment. . . O, 'tis a moment rare 
 
 The Symbol's rind grows thin, nay, rends, I bathe 
 
 In limpid golden ether and I know 
 
 Our love is sacred and will be fulfilled! 
 
 A NIGHT WATCH. 
 
 The sallow autumn light, the glow above 
 The dying hearth, a twilight sad and lone 
 Made in my room; and in a waking sleep 
 I heard from out the heart of night a moan 
 And sighing whisper calling me to keep 
 
 liv
 
 A vigil with my love, 
 
 The maiden who in English field afar 
 
 Sat with me underneath the shadowed green 
 
 Of yew and cypress . . . Ah! what might have been 
 
 From beauty sweet as eve and single star. 
 
 Again in deep of silent summer air 
 
 We trod the forest path and in a mist 
 
 Of golden lights and shadows pouring down 
 
 On lap of dry and faded leaves we kist. 
 
 And on her head I placed a fragrant crown 
 
 Of flowers and blossoms rare, 
 
 And told her tales of Knight and Maid forlorn. 
 
 Of castle, haunted upland, fairy well. 
 
 And wistfully fraught with the woodland spell 
 
 We bent to listen fpr the magic horn. 
 
 Within that other thicket of black oak. 
 And pensive streaming crimson, azure, white. 
 The simple country chapel, hand in hand. 
 We knelt in silence, while the closing night 
 And tinkle of quaint bell, drew in a band 
 Of quiet rustic folk 
 
 Along the aisles dark with the mortal fate 
 Of bygone men and women shut in stone. 
 Whose sad old partings in dim lines made moan 
 Beneath rich heraldries and crumbling state. 
 
 Iv
 
 sweeter far than branch of almond bloom, 
 With pathos laden as of ancient song 
 
 Or April's Angel-blue and lilied way. 
 
 Or maiden of the legend of earth's throng, 
 
 1 heard thy whisper, and when Time must stay 
 His immemorial loom. 
 
 Sad labour done, in love we still shall dwell. 
 Nor in eternal gleam and light forget. 
 Remembered then without the old regret. 
 Our field of meeting by the leafy well. 
 
 WEDDED. 
 
 Aeries of lofty gums with rustling rinds 
 
 And noble sweep these lovers overspread 
 
 In halcyon wilderness whose gentle winds 
 
 Sing a Placebo for the quiet dead; 
 
 But they ride on with hope no more to part, 
 
 Hearing a song whose close leaves vacant heart. 
 
 They lean together laughing yet again 
 As with a snort their horses toss aside 
 Parting love's kissing lips without sweet gain; 
 And then they come into a valley wide 
 And see in ooze of watchet air a-near 
 The spray surroyal of the trembling deer. 
 
 Ivi
 
 Ah, that rich vagamund whose sounding tomb 
 Were this wild land, with loving soul to burn 
 His body left, to store his ash with bloom, 
 No nuts of crystal, in a humble urn. 
 So with youth's care for gentle death they play. 
 Nor fear the shadows of that mortal day. 
 
 And now with fire and horses tended he 
 Lies by her own command in peace most fair, 
 And smokes his calumet of joy while she 
 Moves beautiful enshrined in evening air. 
 And in her heart there sings clear delicate 
 The Song of Songs, for she is love's true mate. 
 
 Now like a golden orb lost in the trees 
 The sun declines to dusk, and ruby flame 
 Burns on the stems; and with a whimper breeze 
 Up comes a spumy light that has no name. 
 And hunting echoes rise from distant bounds 
 Amaritude of exile in the sounds. 
 
 Their horses whinney and with moving ears 
 And staring eyes point to a grinning head. 
 And nuzzle them; but the grim tiger hears 
 And trails the kangaroos to their far bed; 
 And happy, happy, in the forest light 
 The lovers give themselves unto the night. 
 
 Ivii
 
 SONG. 
 
 There dwelt a King in Babylon, 
 Babylon, Babylon, 
 There dwelt a King in Babylon, 
 In Babylon the Great. 
 
 And Apame that laughing girl. 
 Sunny bright of eye and curl. 
 Sweet with youth that laughing girl. 
 Struck him with her hand. 
 
 She took his crown from off his head. 
 Nod of which could strike one dead. 
 She took his crown from off his head. 
 And set it on her own. 
 
 Darius gaped upon the lass. 
 For laugh and tear she was his glass. 
 He loved his Kingdom for this lass. 
 His crown fell at her feet. 
 
 Iviii
 
 NIGHT AND MORN. 
 
 The faint far colour from the dying fire 
 Of sunken sun pales to a lonely white 
 Foam-blanched and cold, and out of forest heart 
 A nameless murmur floats. 
 
 The pastor rides 
 Mid darkness gathering up the trees on high 
 To meet night falling violet with threads 
 Of starry light; and there are sighs and groans 
 And plunging rushes in the underwood. 
 And now a shape, a thing uncouth and dim. 
 Keeps easy pace with his great horse's stride 
 Then vanishes, and noises rise and fall 
 Like those that haunt old houses in night's prime 
 When ghosts tread lightly. Or some grief unknown 
 Breathes from the mourning waste as though it were 
 The moan of women speared, the fierce wild oath 
 Of retribution — see the traveller reins 
 And with one hand upon his horse's back. 
 Peers earnestly behind him in the dark 
 And listens ... ah, the silence of the world 
 Is broken by the mournful belching yawn 
 And strangled whistle of a mating bull. 
 And at the menace with a little snore 
 
 His horse pricks on. 
 
 He makes his evening camp 
 
 lix
 
 And boils his billy at the huge prone log. 
 While far away the mopoke calls a weird 
 Upon the night, and with a fare of birds. 
 The light vaunt-couriers of the winter rimes. 
 He seeks a bed unbought of hollow rind. 
 
 From dreamless sleep into the soft fresh dark 
 He rising comes with thoughts of pastoral cares. 
 The toils and sorrows of his scattered flock ; 
 And he is snared by something old and sweet 
 That never can grow sere, and knows, alas. 
 The faint far purple of enchanted ways 
 That beckoned him across the ocean wave, 
 Broods now upon the distant hills of home. 
 
 The sheoaks sigh, and on the woven roof 
 
 Burn crimson flakes of morning sacrifice. 
 
 And in an emerald mist a deer glides by, 
 
 And birds are glad; and in the dew-grey grass 
 
 For pure perpetual alms of grace he prays. 
 
 No longer in the sphery mihtant. 
 
 But in sweet peace of perfect rest ... his hound 
 
 With beautiful brown eyes adoring fawns. 
 
 His horse comes nuzzling, and with gesture shy 
 
 He gives his blessing to the animals. 
 
 Ix
 
 A SABINE FARM. 
 
 Horace, the flying years glide by 
 And still we drain with thee 
 Amphorae of old Massic wine 
 Beneath the myrtle tree; 
 And by the source of sacred stream 
 We hold pale Death in fee. 
 With Chloe of the laughing lips 
 And rustic Phydile. . . 
 
 Of late I kept a farm for love 
 
 Of all thy tranquil days, 
 
 A sunny corner of the earth 
 
 Beyond my fondest praise; 
 
 I wreathed green myrtles round my brow 
 
 And read thy ordered lines 
 
 On leaves as aged ivory pale. 
 
 And drank thy classic wines. 
 
 I lived untroubled by the thought 
 
 Of night and parting love. 
 
 Me neither Geryon's triple frame 
 
 Nor Pelops' fate could move; 
 
 And I remembered Plancus' year. 
 
 The fire of love's sweet fool. 
 
 And called for chaplets and pure nard 
 
 By summer streaming cool. 
 
 Ixi
 
 But ah. thy she-goat sought the pail 
 
 With udder pointing free. 
 
 My Nan refused to yield her milk 
 
 Save to the toils of three; 
 
 Moreover, in the midnight hour 
 
 On roses she must feed. 
 
 And round the garden flutteringly 
 
 I've followed on her lead. 
 
 She loved the dandelion gold 
 
 And plucked, chained to my wrist. 
 
 As underneath a violet sky 
 
 I lay on wild flower mist; 
 
 But then a Cretan came to me 
 
 And talked of moth and pest, 
 
 And scorned the moss upon my trees. 
 
 Token of summer rest. 
 
 The beauty of the briar rose. 
 
 The blackberry's pale flower. 
 
 The thistle's royal purple hue. 
 
 The gorse's golden hour. 
 
 The crimson creeper in the grass. 
 
 The rush's greening lane. 
 
 Were naught before an orchard clean- 
 
 We said farewell in pain. 
 
 Ixii
 
 Horace, I may not keep a farm. 
 
 Short is the span of life, 
 
 And kings and husbandmen must go 
 
 Where shadows hush the strife; 
 
 But though the Capitol is dust. 
 
 Pontiff and Virgin sleep. 
 
 Pure as thy fountain in our hearts 
 
 Thy songs well from the deep. 
 
 VIRGIL IN THE BUSH. 
 
 Now comes the very sweetest hour of night. 
 The Poet's noon, and by the golden core 
 Of sheoak log I savour Time's soft flight. 
 And steep my soul in fragrant Latin lore. 
 
 I am for Virgil — lo, the College lawn 
 By Thames his side and walnut-scented shade; 
 There with the treasured volume and the dawn 
 I dream of Trojan shore and slender maid. 
 
 The wind fresh blowing draws me to the deep. 
 From home and pleasant thresholds far I go; 
 And learn the long farewell of those who weep 
 The casting of the earth, the pyre's last glow. 
 
 Ixiii
 
 For her the fragile hemlock pipe I play 
 Wreathed with dark violets, or sing of streams 
 And hallowed fountains, and the idle day 
 That fades at length to stars and happy dreams. 
 
 With tiny waving masks I hang the pine 
 To Ceres great, where sweet the milky corn 
 Swells on the greener stem; and carve the vine 
 On beechen cups, and hyacinths forlorn. 
 
 O grave and sweet, of antique grief the flower. 
 Those words of purest sorrow: Tears are shed 
 For sad misfortune; mortal woes have power 
 To touch the heart; give lilies for the dead. 
 
 Our Italy is still upon the rim 
 Of all the world, though here a fuller gleam 
 And interwoven azure faint and dim. 
 And blushing rose, hint of Lavinian dream. 
 
 Ah, Love, the melancholy waters lave 
 The silent shore, but ere we stoop to drink 
 Of that indifference we call Lethe's wave 
 Of Virgil's perfect line we'll smilmg think. 
 
 Ixiv
 
 OLD CATALOGUES. 
 
 The moaning winds are out upon the sea. 
 The wild white horses plunge to dragon foam. 
 Close in the bush a worn and withered tree 
 Falls with a crash, and I ride swiftly home, 
 Where one is waiting by the sheoak flame 
 To catch the rider's Coo-ee! and her name. 
 
 The supper over and the table clear, 
 
 With glowing hearth and lamp and easy chair. 
 
 And bundle of old catalogues, I hear 
 
 The roar of sea and wind without a care. 
 
 And sink into the past with still delight 
 
 And in remembrances forgot the night. 
 
 Pale beams of eve now light the Dreamland ways; 
 My feet tread without echo on the green 
 Of vanished England; Clive and Ethel gaze 
 Sad for lost years of love that might have been; 
 While Esmond and his mistress bring again 
 Their sheaves with laughter and a tearful rain. 
 
 Once more the Vernon lighted by the moon 
 Leans to young Frank; again the simple flute 
 Of Bertram wakes "The links of bonnie Doon" 
 From wayside well; and those wild notes long mute 
 In deep old glades of noble Sherwood rise 
 In yearning music as the King's deer dies. 
 
 Ixv
 
 What hosts of poignant memories are here! 
 
 What well-loved faces glimmer in the dark! 
 
 VC'hat hints of love from eyes and lips so dear! . . 
 
 Ah me! I take my pencil and I mark 
 
 The catalogues, lest from my eyes the tears 
 
 Should spring at thought of all the old dead years. 
 
 On monumental effigies I gloat. 
 
 On castle, abbey, mansion and grey peel. 
 
 On secret panel, stairway, and deep moat. 
 
 And antique vestiges; again I feel 
 
 The joy of walking tours in youth and May 
 
 By lonely peaceful stream and ruin grey. 
 
 And then the bindings! purple, green, and blue. 
 
 Old Spanish red, buff, citron, violet, white. 
 
 Dark crimson, orange — all as fresh as new! 
 
 Pale, polished, panelled, full, rich, crushed, and bright. 
 
 With laureate wreath, curled dolphin, golden bee. 
 
 Stamped Tudor roses, crown, and fleur-de-lis. 
 
 What talk of watered silk and India proofs, 
 
 Large paper, type, and edge uncut of blade. 
 
 Of black and Gothic letters under roof 
 
 Of dim and fretted glory! All things fade; 
 
 Yea, Time deals with our treasures; some are worn. 
 
 The last leaf wormed, discoloured, stained or torn. 
 
 Ixvi
 
 THE CHILD. 
 
 The hour of peace came with a sunset glow 
 Of hving ember in the sacred west. 
 And in that old forsaken place I reigned, 
 A king of silence, save for rustling leaf 
 Making a gentle echo to my page 
 As there I read. 
 
 It was that moment rare 
 When from the summer land a soul exhales 
 In sad felicity; and as the hres 
 Faded to twilight at my knee there stood 
 A phantom child whose eyes were full of dream. 
 And shadowed with the dream. It was myself 
 Yet in the bud; and pity swelled my heart 
 For all the bitter of the coming years; 
 And then there grew a murmur that the Boy 
 Should have the blossom of his infant days 
 Uncankered, and for keeping and defence 
 I gathered up the glamour of my time — 
 The finer Truth. 
 
 And so I sang of Love, 
 The Life in tenderness, and that pure eyes 
 Unseen were glad of holy innocence 
 And wept for fallen ways; and of the Grail 
 Ablaze and brimmed with ruby of His blood; 
 
 Ixvii
 
 And gave a sweetness to the high stern face 
 Of Duty, and for haunting, goading fear. 
 Freedom and rule. 
 
 Again the smiles I brought 
 To those grave eyes with fair enchanting tales: 
 Sinbad and Ali Baba, Robin Hood, 
 And Crusoe of the Island — 'ah, those coasts 
 Where figure-heads of once tall ships look forth 
 On flaming waves; and moidores, silks and arms 
 Are strewn in massy chests by blackened ribs 
 Stuck in the sand! — and of those golden days 
 When Kings and Queens were fain to mate with folk 
 Of rustic kind, and little princes looked 
 'Tween prison bars on happy shepherd boys. 
 And forest glades with archers sleeping fast. 
 The sun for clock. I sang of Heroes tall; 
 And of the wash and sparkle of the tide 
 When ships rode high on waves of hyacinth. 
 And merry winds blew free for Colchos strand 
 And Golden Fleece; Apollo's songs and steeds; 
 And Aphrodite rising from the sea. 
 White as the foam, with winds as delicate 
 As breathings of the viol and the flute; 
 And of that Kingdom of empurpled calm 
 Now desolate beneath Atlantic wave. 
 Unpeopled of its beauteous Chivalry. 
 
 Ixviii
 
 7 hen in a wayward mood we talked of Sly, 
 
 And old John Naps of Greece and Peter Turf, 
 
 And Henry Pimpernell; and in the shire 
 
 Of pleasant Gloster a ripe pippin ate 
 
 Of Shallow's grafRng, in his orchard land. 
 
 While he lamented those faint midnight chimes 
 
 Of old sepulchral churches hid away 
 
 In London's labyrinths; and Silence sighed: 
 
 "O sweet Anne Page, that sweet virginity! 
 
 A thousand vagrom posies nested there 
 
 In her white bosom; and, alas, we cry 
 
 'Budget' in vain: we shall not hear her lips 
 
 Say *Mum' for evermore! But still the sweet 
 
 Of night comes in, so let us merry be!" 
 
 Of mighty Kings we dreamed and their great fates: 
 
 Whose circled glory fell before the time — 
 
 The hollow gold low as the crook, the staff — 
 
 Yea, they from airy towers to prison vaults 
 
 Declined and left their weeping Queens to mourn 
 
 By dim and fretted shrines. The Boy's proud eyes 
 
 Shone as I chanted of the valiant tops 
 
 Borne down by* England's might — that dear, dear land 
 
 Of voices tranquilised by time, and glades 
 
 Of softest rains and sun-lit meadow slope. 
 
 And Cross insculped with flowing runes, and shell. 
 
 Ixix
 
 Lipped and green stained, of fountain crystal clear — 
 Antiquity time-silvered. 
 
 Thus the hours 
 Fell like the lapse of water over stones 
 Smoothed through the centuries; and the quiet child 
 Somewhat divined of pure and trembling joy, 
 Life swift as foam, as mountain torrent foam. 
 With Lady, horse, and good sword on the road, 
 Unviolated honour, sacrifice. 
 Of faithful service, fame well left for love. 
 And chastity's clear flame, and pity dear 
 For beauty fading and forsaken quite. 
 Dead and forgotten save for perfume caught 
 From some old leisure of the storied page — 
 And then he passed with warmth of lip and arm 
 To that sad land we call the might-have-been. 
 
 WANDERERS. 
 
 As I rose in the early dawn. 
 While stars were fading white, 
 I saw upon a grassy slope 
 A camp-fire burning bright; 
 With tent behind and blaze before 
 Three loggers in a row 
 Sang all together joyously — 
 Pull up the stakes and go! 
 
 Ixx
 
 As I rode on by Eagle Hawk, 
 
 The wide blue deep of air. 
 
 The wind among the glittering leaves. 
 
 The flowers so sweet and fair. 
 
 The thunder of the rude salt waves. 
 
 The creek's soft overflow. 
 
 All joined in chorus to the words — 
 
 Pull up the stakes and go! 
 
 Now by the tent on forest skirt. 
 
 By odour of the earth. 
 
 By sight and scent of morning smoke. 
 
 By evening camp-fire's mirth, 
 
 By deep-sea call and foaming green. 
 
 By new stars' gleam and glow, 
 
 By summer trails in antique lands — 
 
 Pull up the stakes and go! 
 
 The world is wide and we are young. 
 The sounding marches beat. 
 And passion pipes her sweetest call 
 In lane and field and street; 
 So rouse the chorus, brothers all, 
 We'll something have to show 
 When death comes round and strikes our tent- 
 Pull up the stakes and go!
 
 WINGED WARFARE. 
 
 And then he told about the fatal war 
 
 Between proud East and West, and how they came 
 
 Each King unparagoned, an ebon star. 
 
 Like Angels militant, in jewelled flame 
 
 And splendour fabulous and royal dye. 
 
 Now ridged in Heaven, now like light's far blue sigh. 
 
 "I turned to view the West's great serried steep 
 Where in clear space on high it fiercely rayed 
 Like thickets of pure starry fire, or deep 
 Assumptions— then like keen and glittering blade 
 It cleft the air, and Angel forms went round 
 Slow eddying with huge dim moaning sound." 
 
 HALCYON. 
 
 She builds her nest and from above 
 Calm broods upon the sunlit deep. 
 All for the sake of love — ay, love, 
 Fleet joy and memoried tears and sleep. 
 
 SORROW. 
 
 A song of sorrow for the driven sheep 
 Whose cloud of summer dust hangs over fear 
 And patient suffering; and for all the deep 
 Dark lack of those who strike the falling rear. 
 
 Ixxii
 
 A song of sorrow for the stumbling feet 
 Of dying horse; and for the hearts that breed 
 The foul-mouthed oath and for the hands that beat 
 The labouring side to wake a wild sad speed. 
 
 A song of sorrow for the prey that strains 
 In hope obscure to reach its place of birth; 
 For mothers and their young in hunger pains. 
 Nested in tree or holed in cave or earth. 
 
 A song of sorrow for the footsore tramp 
 Of captives desolate and doomed by race 
 And foul environment to cold and damp, 
 (Workhouse or gaol), with poor bewildered face. 
 
 A song of sorrow for the man who fares 
 Unfit, incompetent, and with sad look 
 Of humble pleading offers his poor wares 
 To an unheeding world, from straitened nook. 
 
 A song of sorrow for the multitude 
 Who toil and sweat and agonise and die 
 Without a parting breast; and for the rude 
 Of earth who see them fall and give no sigh. 
 
 A song of sorrow for the wintered heart 
 That loved unloved, and now no longer young. 
 
 Ixxiii
 
 But old, ah old! must linger and depart 
 Leaving the lips unkissed, the song unsung. 
 
 A song of sorrow for the quick-drawn breath 
 And inward trembling sob when men first learn 
 They have no morrow, but in silent death 
 Must sleep alway and never more return. 
 
 A song of sorrow for the stream of tears 
 Falling for loved ones gone the way of earth 
 With meek and passive faces — can these years 
 So brief be all the promise of our birth! 
 
 THE BUSH. 
 
 Here raged the ocean in the far-off time 
 And made this shallow: yonder rode 
 At anchor under that green island's lea 
 The mariner who from low Norland shore 
 Sailed to the lonely South, beyond the verge 
 Of other voyagers, and found a land, 
 Heart-shaped and rare, and left this happy coast 
 Riched with remembrances of slow canal 
 And blossomed mead and ancient water-gate 
 And yellow foaming sea. 
 
 But come away! 
 Forget the spuming wave: from forest deeps 
 
 Ixxiv
 
 A thin blue smoke floats over bushland home 
 And wandering peace; for, ah, from memories dear. 
 Like him of whom the Roman Virgil sang. 
 Austerely sweet, these dwellers in the wild 
 Have called the green redeemings of their toil 
 By kindly home-born names. Now slacken rein 
 Upon this flowering earth, and brood on woods 
 Sofltly alight with faded sunshine, streams. 
 Mere threads of amber, sapphire, and pure rose. 
 And crystal air fine-spun with cadences 
 Of distant birds. O in the silent eve 
 The forest life goes on its ancient way — 
 And down the valley comes the porcupine 
 With slow grave tread, and in an azure mist 
 The deer glance by shadowed on lilac bole. 
 And from the leaves a troubling odour breathes 
 Coming with night and dews beneath the moon 
 And thick-strown stars. 
 
 Behind the homing cows 
 
 Loiter in fragrant stillness boy and girl 
 With wonder filled at some strange gentleness 
 That late as yesterday has come between 
 Their comrading, and made their rarer dream 
 At one with all the music of the sea 
 And earth and sky. . . 
 
 O lift the fallen rail 
 
 Ixxv
 
 And leave the wistful forest and the hills 
 
 Hoar with the silver moon, this sweet neglect 
 
 Of English flowers, for mighty caverned glow 
 
 And welcome meal and wayworn bushland tales 
 
 Of lion hearts braving the ruined fall 
 
 Of giant gums, the toil of cankered years. 
 
 And that great sorrow when adown the trail 
 
 The horsemen ride in light and shade behind 
 
 Their fellow whom nor coo-ee from the stead. 
 
 Nor bark of dog, will ever waken more. 
 
 What though there are no legends from the past 
 
 Of sacred isle and barrow, fairy dell. 
 
 Or wave of border war — a wash of steel 
 
 Breaking on massy gate — or love and death 
 
 In country ballads sung by ingle-nook 
 
 When winds sweep down the valley; yet the same 
 
 Are human hearts, and here in this deep bush 
 
 They have their brave romance of fire and flood. 
 
 And as of old still hides the laughing girl 
 
 With merry eyes that shine with night and love 
 
 And sweet relentings — and some bard will rise 
 
 Steeped in the glamour of it all and sing 
 
 Horse, axe, and gun, and bed beneath the green. 
 
 And gentler theme of golden fleece, and plough 
 
 Spilling white dust and turning falling flower. 
 
 With shadowed rest at headland, and the peace 
 
 Ixxvi
 
 And love of bushland homes, 
 
 O when that touch 
 Of dim uncertainty that makes our faith 
 Heroic, and the haunting fear of Death, 
 Our brother of old silences and rest. 
 Darken our crown of pure immortal Light 
 And chill the tenderness of blossoming 
 Of earthly hopes and passions, here are found 
 Places impregnable to cruel words 
 
 And wounds and scornings, where in rough green land. 
 In calm ineffable the heart may heal 
 And gain of beauty and of love and hope. 
 Though in the fulness of our joy there be 
 The sense of tears and of the brooding peace 
 Of sunshine falling in forgotten place 
 On quiet graves. 
 
 Ixxvii
 
 A SONG OF RECOLLECTION AND THANKS- 
 GIVING. 
 
 I. 
 
 Come, dearest friend, with long unhindered hours. 
 Come, cHck my humble latch and tell June's flowers 
 Where mingle scents of rose and new-mown hay, 
 Come, for the daylight will not leave my bowers 
 
 Or come when slopes are steeped in heather wine. 
 And homeward children on the hazels dine 
 To faint autumnal songs and rustling mast 
 Stirred in the forest by the wandering swine. 
 
 Our Lady's raiment now the fairy weaves. 
 
 And with soft flight the martins dip from eaves. 
 
 And snowy light will soon be strange on ceil, 
 
 And on the pane the icy ferns and leaves. 
 
 The world shut out now crouch about the rose 
 Of soothing slumbrous hearth from winter foes. 
 While loud the wind moans at the close barred door. 
 And candles swale and mighty Yule log glows. 
 
 II. 
 Have you no Odyssey from out the past. 
 No Memory's saving from the Thracian blast. 
 For sunny nook or bench by blazing fire. 
 When in the fleeting days you near your last? 
 
 lxx\'iii
 
 Did not the sycamores of Academe 
 Shadow sweet study and the learned dream? 
 And as those scholars walked in still retreat, 
 In pure white robes, had they of joy no beam? 
 
 Brood over things of beauty and of light. 
 Survivals of dim ages lost in night. 
 Touched with a grace of wasting delicate, 
 Pleadmg so old and frail with pensive might. 
 
 Yet walk at eventide with pilgrim feet 
 To hallowed ground so melancholy sweet. 
 Where Love let fall earth's raiment for the morn 
 And all the rarer dreams of sorrow meet. 
 
 III. 
 
 The schoolboy on isome vacant summer day 
 Beneath the elm, sees in the rude decay 
 Of prior's ancient stone a memory high 
 That gives a noble worth to work and play. 
 
 What joy when dewdrops globe the morning sun 
 To bathe and roam, and when the day is done 
 To mark on soiled page in silver blaze 
 The pirate royals mid the palm trees run. 
 
 And when he kneels on Sunday in the Choir 
 While darkened rays burn into dusky fire 
 
 Ixxix
 
 Through Founder's lofty arms, is there no call 
 To faith and valour from his ghostly sire? 
 
 And dear in after-dream will be the lore 
 Caught from the murmuring of the Latin shore. 
 Old balming of Life's melancholy gold. 
 Dim quiet grief at peace for evermore. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Come, flee through postern in the thickened wall 
 Of daily round and lose by water fall 
 Sick fears and self, and near the crystal waves 
 Carve infant Aeolus in silvan hall. 
 
 The noble beech, the sun-tanned spreading oak. 
 Have equal shade for purse and beggar's poke. 
 And silent happy dreams for aye to dwell 
 And be the last sweet thought of woodland folk. 
 
 When in the sunshine faint the shadows fade 
 And leaves fall down before rude winter's raid, 
 I love to find in stoup of mouldering stone. 
 Ghostly from olden showers, worn bud and blade. 
 
 Upon the just and unjust pours the sun 
 His light and heat; and when the day is done 
 A soft and silver lamp floats in the sky — 
 O by such beauty let thy heart be won! 
 
 Ixxx
 
 V. 
 
 Where royal blazons guarded with dim gold. 
 Beaten and pounced with symbols haught and bold, 
 Ensanguined pennocels, hang from the roof, 
 View me neglectful over holy mould. 
 
 O let the shuddering organ peal and blow. 
 Or trample in a sea of golden flow. 
 Or falter faint at more than mortal biers. 
 Then soar divine and into glory go! 
 
 Who would not roam when leaves are fledged and take 
 The Elegies from Arden's forest brake 
 Of merry Rosalind gone by and dead — 
 Ah, bitter pang of sweet celestial ache. 
 
 Wander around the hearths, when eve is late. 
 Of old unlatchers of the woodland gate — 
 Does not the heart swell with a plenitude 
 Of more than sorrow for their humble fate? 
 
 VI. 
 
 The candles of the chestnut spire in May, 
 The almond blossoms through the winding way, 
 The oozy earth-springs sliding from the ledge 
 Are embassies to call my soul to pray. 
 
 The painter's tent is white upon the mount. 
 He sees the brimming pitcher by the fount. 
 
 Ixxxi
 
 The green and silent pastures thick with dew — 
 The happy moments are beyond his count. 
 
 blessings of pure colour in the sky, 
 
 1 he heart of blue, the sunset's scarlet dye, 
 
 green of ancient chase: O everywhere, 
 Soft voices of a world born from on high! 
 
 And when from blossomed festival I go 
 And hear the distant music faintly flow, 
 
 1 feel a strange unquiet in my heart. 
 Mingling of darkling joy and April woe. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Colour and music, form and carven line. 
 Love and the golden Life behind the Sign, 
 Shall I renounce and sink in sensual mire. 
 Drown consciousness in coward draught of wine> 
 
 Mine eyes are opened wider for the things 
 Made full of grace and value by the wings 
 Of passing Death — the wondrous things of earth. 
 And like a lark my mounting spirit sings. 
 
 I send my soul through distant silent lands. 
 Old tragic exits, and I sing the bands 
 Of earth's great lovers, martyrs to their faith. 
 Forlorn and haughty on dim twilight strands. 
 
 Ixxxii
 
 With them I suffer in the lonely place. 
 Their places desolate, yet peal the race 
 With high funereal marches, for I know 
 Earth is ennobled by their mortal grace. 
 
 Here where the dew is flashing in the cup 
 Of pure and perfect lily, looking up 
 To Jesus, we may make of homely ways 
 Places of Holy Ground with Him to sup. 
 
 Yea, still a ruby kindles in the Vine 
 Guiding to Him who is the infant Wine, 
 The Bread within the wheaten that we eat. 
 The Giver of the Good within the Sign. 
 
 VIII. 
 Remember how the sun sank in the west 
 When in rapt silence lips and breasts were prest, 
 (O old refrain, a lover and his lass!). 
 And each young bosom had a wondrous guest. 
 
 There is no solace like a woman true. 
 
 Lovely and steadfast, pure as trembling dew. 
 
 One who shall light your way with mild sweet eyes. 
 
 And make grey earth a dwelling ever new. 
 
 To feel there is no living in earth's light 
 Unless her love be there to gild it right. 
 
 Ixxxiii
 
 And then to close the fixed eyes in death — 
 Only purged hope can sanctify the night. 
 
 IX. 
 
 What though the Soul in faring might not find 
 An answering Thought, a Breath of Spirit Wind? 
 Once to have felt immortal is enough. 
 Once to have pierced the Symbol's veiling rind! 
 
 Narrows the thread of life and fear o'erwhelms 
 From wild dark faces gloomed by shadowy helms. 
 But God doth guard the portals and His power 
 Blossoms in Jesus and in starry realms. 
 
 I know a clearer Light behind the light, 
 Unorbed and uncreated, and no night 
 Can close around my feet: I dwell with Him 
 In glory of my birth and Blood-won right. 
 
 Bless God for sleep within thy fathers' land. 
 
 For love's drawn mouth and tears and tender hand 
 
 About thy body, and the deep green grass. 
 
 And farewell touch of sunset's smouldering brand. 
 
 And soft as starlight gleams and lingers on 
 After the star has into darkness gone, 
 May the remembrance of thee still be light. 
 Thy land the fairer for thy kindness done. 
 
 Ixxxiv
 
 THE ECSTASY. 
 
 Ah, could I mount to that high Plain of Love 
 
 And walk in sweet Jerusalem above 
 
 And be with God . . . then on this earth awhile. 
 
 His presence felt in every pilgrim mile. 
 
 Breaking the silence of the Great Release 
 
 Do all in beauteous act from inner peace, 
 
 Moving to heal with Unction of the Place 
 
 And fill with joy for tears the human face. 
 
 And passing Death as through a little door 
 
 Open on Paradise there evermore 
 
 Go on from stair to stair of purity 
 
 In pain remedial and in service free. 
 
 Until to Resurrection morn I rise 
 
 Like bridegroom sun chmbing the happy skies, 
 
 A perfect soul in perfect body shrined — 
 
 O that were bliss to find! 
 
 THE MANLY HEART. 
 
 Not in the throned and laurelled height. 
 
 Nor in the culled surcease 
 
 Of old regret in cloister garth. 
 
 Can mortal man find peace. 
 
 But ever will the manly heart 
 
 Be errant for the good,
 
 With sacrifice made beautiful. 
 In peace of songful blood. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 A King renounced his crown and globe, 
 
 His sceptre and imperial robe. 
 
 And clothed in gown of withered grey 
 
 Into the forest went away. 
 
 And lighting on a lonely cave 
 
 By ripples of an amber wave. 
 
 Of autumn leaves he made his bed, 
 
 And quiet crowned his royal head. 
 
 And in the sunny dale he sat 
 
 From scent of day to flight of bat 
 
 And watched the moving golden beam, 
 
 And pierced the veil in Imgering dream. 
 
 And smiled upon the evening dew. 
 
 Nor wept the world, because he knew. 
 
 THE HERMIT. 
 
 Soft sunlight dies with tender stain 
 On ruined abbey fresh with rain. 
 And quietly the hermit goes 
 Through folding light of lovely rose.
 
 And sinks into a wooded vale 
 Sober with eve and whispering gale. 
 And by his fire, no care withal. 
 His memory keeps high festival. 
 
 MERRYMIND. 
 
 Merrymind, Merrymind, whither art thou roaming. 
 Merrymind, Merrymind, nay art thou sleeping yet? 
 O to us sweet minstrel dear, wilt thou not be homing? 
 Or we shall forget. 
 
 Vale of toil so waste and drear, hear him now advancing 
 Playing on the golden strings, the midnight maiden's boon. 
 Breaks the sunshme on the hills, the princess falls to dancing 
 In a bridal noon! 
 
 O, the joyfulness and kissing of that fiddle's Rowings, 
 Giving rest and happiness, and laughter delicate! 
 Fling out from this iron world to his merry bowings, 
 O be not too late. 
 
 Lancelot, Lancelot, ride with song and gleaming, 
 Robin wind in greenwood shaw thy dreaming silvery horn, 
 Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down thy hair a-beaming. 
 Yellow as the corn. 
 
 Ixxxvi:
 
 Pride begone, thou hateful curse oi narrowed blood and breeding. 
 Cruel growth of heaviness and dull cold ignorance; 
 Come, thou golden Charity, lend to us thy leading 
 In a sunny dance. 
 
 THE END IN VIEW. 
 
 Love, may I be first to part! 
 When the long slow moments creep 
 Hold me to thy mourning heart. 
 With thy tears hush me to sleep. 
 Kiss thy sweetest on my eyes. 
 Kiss my lids with farewell sighs — 
 
 Farewell sighs. 
 
 No, I cannot leave thee so! 
 Lonely in the winter ways, 
 Heart and soul bowed very low. 
 Low for all the old white Mays, 
 Let us two go through the stream 
 Hand in hand and fall on dream — 
 
 Fall on dream. 
 
 Ixxxviii
 
 THE SYMBOL. 
 
 Thus pass the glories of the world! 
 He lies beneath the pall's white folds: 
 His sword is sheathed, his pennon furled. 
 Him silence holds. 
 
 The pilgrim staff, the cockle-shell. 
 The crown, the sceptre of his pride. 
 The simple flower from forest dell, 
 Heap at his side. 
 
 And add thereto the wild-heart lute. 
 The voice of love and twilight song; 
 Those passioned strings though he is mute 
 Remember long. 
 
 And move not thence his evening book 
 
 The sifted grains of calm and storm; 
 
 And bow before that dust-strewn nook 
 
 And silent form. 
 
 To-morrow hath no hope for him. 
 No clasp of friend, no grip of foe: 
 Remember, love, with eyes tear-dim. 
 We too must go. 
 
 Ixxxix
 
 PASSING. 
 
 Sacred bell at eventide, 
 
 Calling, calling, far and wide. 
 
 Ah, so sweet and low! 
 
 Sweet and sad as autumn light. 
 
 Low and sweet as closing night, . . 
 
 Pilgrim, let us go. 
 
 Youth and beauty far away 
 Lean together in the may, 
 Shining head to head; 
 But for us the solemn peace, 
 (Do not sigh) and great release 
 Of the happy dead. 
 
 Come, as children, steal to Him 
 Who through all the ages dim 
 Offers calm relief: 
 Stricken heart, so fierce and wild. 
 Come, as comes a little child. 
 With thy wasting grief. 
 
 Far above the creeds He stands 
 With His pierced and pitying hands 
 Stretched to thee and me; 
 He is Love's last tender bed. 
 Bosom for the weary head 
 To eternity. 
 
 xc
 
 DEATH'S HOMAGE. 
 
 With pomp and plume and lettered gold. 
 With undertone of wailing breath 
 And trembling hope, we greet thy cold 
 Impartial touch, O sovereign Death. 
 
 DEAD ISLAND. (Port Arthur.) 
 
 It is the hour of sunset: on the hills 
 
 A rose-light slumbers; in the quiet west. 
 
 Deep in its heart, soft splendours roll and run, 
 
 And twilight falls upon the dead who rest 
 
 So thick beneath my feet. Farewell, O sun! 
 
 The far blue region fills 
 
 With starry lamps; an echo of the roar 
 
 Of distant wave adds to the solitude 
 
 Where, heaped together, gentle, fierce and rude. 
 
 The trumpet wait on this forgetful shore. 
 
 sombre island grave! among thy shades 
 
 1 stand on guard, the living with the dead. 
 And sadness infinite swells in my breast 
 For all man's generations that have fled 
 
 This lonely earth on which they found no rest: 
 
 Here as the slow light fades 
 
 How strange seems Life! we love, we strive, we hate. 
 
 XCl
 
 We weep and passion, greyer grows the day. 
 And one by one, friends, foemen, steal away, 
 And Death and Time in silence close the Gate. 
 
 THE LAST TOAST. 
 
 Beyond the use of words must be the heart 
 
 Of him for whom Death idles while his friends 
 
 Are all departed — ^how he rakes the fire 
 
 On Christmas hearth, 
 
 And standing toasts the loved ones gone away. 
 
 LOVE NEVER DIES. 
 
 Once upon a weary day 
 Sang I of pure Love's decay. 
 Sighing for his old fond play. 
 Ah me, well-a-day. 
 
 All sweet things were in my mind. 
 Things that leave upon the wind 
 Odours — ah, the dim regret — 
 As of April violet 
 Passing far away. 
 
 But I know Love never dies 
 Though we seek him now with sighs. 
 For he lives beyond the skies 
 In a purer day. 
 
 XCll
 
 AN ECHO. 
 
 the wattle trees are yellowing 
 Adown the dark green lane. 
 
 Ana the bush winds are blowing so sweetly. 
 But I and my true love shall never meet again 
 When I come home from the riding. 
 
 With a coo-ee from the mountain, 
 And a coo-ee from the vale. 
 With a trample and iingle so gaily, 
 
 1 called to my true love to meet me at the rail 
 When I come home from the riding. 
 
 Now the sheoak leaves are sorrowing 
 
 For hearth-stone cold and grey. 
 
 And my bosom is aching with sadness. 
 
 But when through the River I shall ford at close of day 
 
 She will welcome me home from the riding. 
 
 PROPHECY. 
 
 Our souls are thoughts of God above. 
 And some by channels delicate 
 Re-enter that vast ocean Love, 
 And know beyond their human fate. 
 
 XCUl
 
 NO OTHER WAY. 
 
 When breaking buds were cups of light 
 And breathed their perfumes in sweet airs, 
 And crystal clear the murmuring fall 
 Whispered the heart to leave its cares. 
 Then fine-spun gold was all my thought. 
 Of you I dreamed unto the verge 
 Of tears, and child-earth songs I heard. 
 And all of grief was autumn dirge. 
 
 The soft and silent shadows slept 
 Upon the mountains, and the sea 
 Was blue as sapphire fabulous. 
 And through me swept eternity. 
 While from an open pane in Heaven 
 Pure glories slanted on my earth 
 Softer than sheen of ancient cope 
 And filled with orient light at birth. 
 
 From hidden furnace of God's love 
 Raptured assumptions rose and fell; 
 Ennobled pallors of grave peace 
 In plenitude composed my cell ; 
 And so with forlay of the Spring, 
 Insurgent flights of lyric cry. 
 And regnant heart I took my staff. 
 No vading mortal colour nigh. 
 
 xciv
 
 Ah, but at evening in the doubtful hght 
 
 I came upon a river dark as night 
 
 Filling the valley with a murmuring flow 
 
 Neglectful, and I knew my way must go 
 
 Through that unfathomed flood whose only gleam 
 
 Crested the rolling waves with pallid beam. 
 
 And in my heart there swelled a mortal pain 
 
 Half given to sorrow, half to sweetest rain 
 
 Of farewell tears. . . 
 
 Then I remembered me 
 
 Of a fair promise of felicity 
 
 Whispered of old by my Companion dear, 
 
 Jesus, my Way-friend, and I put off fear 
 
 And waded in the shallows of the brim 
 
 And ashen grew my life, but through the dim 
 
 Dark vapours, over lowlands waste and chill 
 
 There loomed in shining on a vernal hill 
 
 A City of Delight, new, fresh, unworn; 
 
 And so I deeper went, sustained, up-borne 
 
 By my Redeemer. 
 
 HIS DEATHBED. 
 
 Open the lattice lies on breadths of corn 
 Softly aflame in slow and waning light 
 Of later afternoon; and from the skirt 
 Of a dim solitude, fall clear and frail 
 Sweet woodland notes. 
 
 xcv
 
 With farewell lingering sad 
 The pastor looks in silence, for he knows 
 His time is come to go the way of earth. 
 Nor to be gathered to his fathers' place 
 Of burial, but to a lowly grave 
 In kindly foster-land. The sudden tears 
 Of love had told of ending, and a sigh 
 As of a wildwood thing enfanged in steel 
 On careless sunshine morn had parted then 
 Despairing lips awhile; but he has ta'en 
 With flakes of bread that inward gracious Flesh, 
 And flutes and flagons of redeeming Blood 
 Poured out for love of him, in drops of wine — 
 Viaticum; and now the thought so strange 
 That morn will see him not, contains no pang. 
 
 And so with tender swell of heart for hei. 
 And with a founded trust in Christ's dear Cross. 
 And penitence for evil of his life. 
 He turns and falls on sleep. 
 
 THE FUNERAL MARCH. 
 
 O hear the cymbal's sour-sweet clash, the roll 
 Of muffled drums, the pure entreating breath 
 Of silver clarion, fluted wail of soul, 
 The trumpet pealing hope above pale death 
 
 xcvi
 
 AYE LOVE. 
 
 Above these lovers gone beyond Time's wrong 
 Loud, pure and clear, the magpie's matins ring. 
 The nooning bush birds softly flit and sing. 
 And famtly spires the starhngs' evensong, 
 While they in slumber mourn no more joy's dearth 
 In quiet earth. 
 
 DIRGE. 
 
 God breathed in Man His Breath, 
 
 And gave him fat of wheat and blood of grape. 
 
 And oil — and holy death. 
 
 He set eternity 
 
 Within his heart, and made his bed of green 
 
 Beside the sounding sea. 
 
 Sin kindled coals of fire. 
 
 And bared the founding bars of hollow earth. 
 
 And cankered men's desire. 
 
 Love caught them back to life. 
 
 These shadows having no abiding place. 
 
 And gave them peace from strife. 
 
 xcvn
 
 Siloah's brooks that go 
 
 So softly are the emblems of His love. 
 
 His mercy's gentle flow. 
 
 O in our sorrow's night 
 
 Look, Father, on Thy children's parting souls. 
 
 Give them eternal Light. 
 
 • F N.E.F. Mt 
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