UC-NRLF B 3 315 2fia «g4s!tySi;4«J0^ Js?;?«^y£ ,v ' Ks ,V; ^--i >M '^■'^■^^^^j: /berTeTTy" I LIBRARY I UNIVERSinr OF 1 \CALIFO«NIA/ Digitized by tine Internet Arciiive in 2008 witii funding from IVIicrosoft Corporation littp://www.arcliive.org/details/confessionsofpoeOOwardricli CONFESSIONS OF A POET. ABERDEEN UNIVERSITY PRESS. mmtm (/-/< /'.V i'tKClVAL SS J-Jll.llliir, j:u.uI. II t^ •<:?201 I Confessions of a lP>oet BY F. HARALD WILLIAMS ^ 9^-^"^^ ■ AUTHOR OF "women MUST WEEP," " 'tWIXT KISS AND LIp" ETC., ETC. HUTCHINSON & CO. 34 PATERNOSTER ROW, E.G. 1894 LOAN STACK c.e>n. PREFACE. In a certain sense the following verses are posthumous. That is to say, I was supposed to have died three years ago. But I have committed the indiscretion of coming to life again, like the old man in the story. He was pronounced defunct by his doctor, but persisted in reviving and asserting his right to existence, though his indignant wife exclaimed : " Hold your tongue, you old fool, the doctor must know best ". But, while unquestionably alive, I am buried in the obscurity of an enforced retirement. And, being completely cut off from the stream of the busy working world, I feel the necessity of connecting myself with it by the frail link of another book. My first venture, Womefi Must Weep, was for poetry a success. My second book, 'Twixt Kiss and Lip, was a failure, partly perhaps because of its encyclopaedic bulk, which quite exasperated some reviewers, though it contained the labours of twenty-five years. My third and present venture embodies the thoughts and feelings of three or four years, during which time I have done little beyond reading and writing. To the title, at any rate, no exception can be taken. Though the name of my second book was a sore offence to a brilliant Fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge, who assured me solemnly that he dared not enter a respectable bookseller's shop and ask for a volume with such an improper name. Well, sunt lacrymce rerum ; and I am sorry if I have done anything indecorous. 474 VI PREFACE. Mrs. Grundy must be respected. But I wonder how my squeamish friend passed unsoiled through such an ordeal as that presented by improper nouns and irregular verbs in the triumphant course of his educational career. However, the objection to a title is of small consequence. It is the dishonest criticism — misquotations and perversions of fact — which all authors must feel acutely, if they do not resent them. Reviewers in prominent journals are not ashamed to garble and misrepresent lines and passages in order to snatch a temporary triumph or a desperate point. And then, of course, there is no redress ; protests are useless. Editores errare non posstmt. They shield the delinquencies of their young jackals, who must be smart at any price — even at the price of principle and truth. For a popular paper to be dull is the one unpardonable sin. But, when there is no dishonesty, the ordinar\' running reviewer lacks the leisure or the inclination to pronounce proper judgment. And it seems hardly fair, from any standground, to dismiss the labour of years in one contemptuous sentence. The work of criticism should be done well, or not done at all. Probably no masterpiece of genius has ever been produced that could not on some sides be covered with ridicule. Any fool can make fun of a kind and throw the mud or dirty missile. But it takes a wise man to criticise, and a patient man to criticise honestly. Few will give the trouble required. Editors should remember that there are numbers of leisured ladies and gentlemen who would do notices of books just to employ themselves. One or two reviewers are quite inade- quate for any journal. And these at present are often as irresponsible as they are anonymous — for quis judicabit ipsos judices ? It is true, perhaps, few contemporary estimates are final. Posterity will revise them with justice and without PREFACE. Vll mercy. The critics of any given time stand far too near that time to see its defects. The besetting sin of our day is mannerism, affectation, obtrusive self-consciousness. We have a great deal of art, and a very little of nature ; and w^e want both in due proportions. The modern maxim is, ars est revel a re artein, and poeta fit non nascitur. Even the Master himself, even Tennyson, is a sad offender herein, and has made the vice fashionable. And then most writers painfully stick to the old ruts and measures. But why, in the name of common-sense, wear or attempt to wear another man's clothes ? This is suicide. The style is the man. My favourite stanza is in twelve lines, and this I have made very much my own. As a rule, for most purposes I find a longer stanza unwieldy, and a shorter one inadequate. My theory may be wrong. But I think every verse (not line) should be, where possible, a complete poem in itself, with a marked beginning and middle and end. Naturally, the common stanza of four lines cannot accomplish this, and I do not see myself that even eight lines generally suffice. Now and then, in rapid movement and elsewhere, when the subject appeared to require it, I have employed stanzas of twenty and even twenty-four lines — for instance, in my battle ballad, " How I won the Victoria Cross ". But at present I can hardly discern the rhythmical advantage of alternating, as some do, iambic with trochaic lines; and the anapaestic measure needs a Tennyson. Personally, I prefer an irregular vehicle for most matters, where the soaring excur- siveness of the lyric can be mingled with the stately march of the epic, and (as Mr. J. A. Noble rightly asserts) the " meditativeness " of the sonnet. In my threnody on the death of the great Master, which several living poets have generously admired, I have exemplified this range of hand- VIU PREFACE. ling, and especially in my second section, " The Light of the Amethyst ". I have no right to complain of adverse or unjust criticism, perhaps, as both of my preceding books have met with a kind reception on the whole. But how can competent critics differ as to the musical or unmusical character of poetry ? A reviewer in the Guardian said of my book with the improper title : " Mere doggrel, passing human scansion and comprehension ". A writer in St. Stephen's Review pointed out " the accurate rhythm and almost perfect versijicatiofi " . And Mr. E.J. Payne praised my ^'■extraordinary skill and felicity in versification''. There should not be two opinions on this point. And now I would humbly ask all my reviewers, before passing judgment on me, to read "The Light of the Amethyst" and "The Pilgrim of Eternity". If these fail to please them, I shall think the doctor was right and the old man wrong. And yet my " Babydom " and " Dreamland " at the end of the Fifth Section seem to me at least very much alive indeed. But then I may be prejudiced, of course. Though, if the verdict does go against me, I can still plead, De mortuis nil nisi bonum. F. H. W. March, 1894. CONTENTS. SECTION I. CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Prologue, I The Poet's Confession, - 2 To My Wife, ..-.------ 4 The Lost Soul, ----- 6 Home Sickness, ---------- 14 A Child of Adam, - i? The Pessimist, - - .--..-- 19 Ringing to Evensong, - 21 Vixi, - - - - - - - 23 The Man who knew not Sorrow, ------- 35 The Prison House, --------- 38 The Rape of the Rose, - - - 40 A Hard Question, - - - - 42 The Poet's Euthanasia, 43 XU ♦ CONTENTS. PAGE Flos Florum, 206 An Autochthon, 208 The Awkward Princess, 209 The Happy Princess, 214 The Busy Princess, 218 The Inquisitive Prince, 223 Nurse, 227 The Housemaid, - - 229 A Lady's Maid, 230 The Nursery Governess, 231 Babydom, -- 233 The White Baby, 240 Maudie, ----.-..... 243 Dreamland, 246 SECTION VI. SORTES POETICS. The Land of Nod, 261 The Conquerors of Heaven, 266 The Two Ways, 271 Jericho Rebuilt, 273 The Curse of Greatness, .... .... 277 A King of Men, 279 Within a Church, 280 The Two Worlds, 284 Nota Bene, 286 Post Eqidfern sedet atra Cnra, ....... 289 Credit popiilus, ........ . 292 Bene vixit qui bene latuit, ...... 294 CONTENTS. Xin PAGE To the Bodleian Librarian, .----... 294 The Scourge of God, 297 Waiting, 298 The Phantom Ship, ......... 299 Ship, Ahoy ! 302 Sleep, 305 Spring, 306 The Donkey, 310 A Glimpse, --. 312 A Little Bird, 313 Urbs Orbis, -----.--.-- 315 Knights of Knowledge, - --...... 315 Jack, 317 Scandal, 318 Nudus ara, sere ntidus, --------- 320 My Housekeeper, - - - - - - - - - -321 Bulldog and Wolf, 323 Christmas Eve, 326 Lovely Woman, 338 Vox Populi Vox Dei, ......... 358 A Daughter of Earth, 361 To a Theosophist, 365 Judas, 367 The Cry of Labour, 368 SECTION VII. PRO P ATRIA. Pax Britannica, 371 A Song of the Union, 373 Xiv CONTENTS. PAGE The Last of the Tories, 374 The Road to Ruin, 375 An Epithalamium, 377 How to Die, ------ 380 Pro Arts et Focis, - 3°^ How I won the Victoria Cross, 3^3 Blood and Iron, 39^ SECTION VIII. LAUGHING PHILOSOPHY. Ipse Dixit, 395 The Porter at the Gate, 397 St. Colman's Girdle, 402 Chcrchez la Fcmnic, ......... 407 Divine Service will be Performed, ------- 408 General Boom, .----.--.- 410 A Drop of Rain, ---------- 411 Rosa Rosarum, ---------- 414 The Devil's Workshop, _ - - 418 Sixes and Sevens, 421 A Plea for Poetry, 424 Le Bon Diable, 425 Um Enfant Terrible, 427 Naughty but Nice, 428 Flapdoodle, 430 Alas! A Lass! 431 The Forlorn Hope, 433 Donna Juanna, ---------- 434 The Triumph of Evil, 441 CONTENTS. XV SECTION IX. HERBARIUM. PACE Herbarium, ----.-..--. ^65 SECTION I. CONFESSIONS OF A POET. CONFESSIONS OF A POET. PROLOGUE. To thee, my beautiful one boy, My light and joy, I give this little lover's greeting Of rhymes, like rosy kisses meeting And rosy lips, When welcome sips Its honey from the moment fleeting, Before it slips ; To thee, my bright and only son. My very one, I give this toy of my own making Just for thy breaking. Ah, could I enter that gold mine Profound of thine — - That fairy fancy always raising New palaces, that have the praising They shyly ask Behind a mask Of careless pride, at each amazing Triumphant task ; Then I might paint such wonders' pose As even those Built by thy hand, with summit solemn And court and column. CONFESSIONS OF A POET. O bliss from musty toil to turn, And meekly learn Strange lessons of thy tender teaching, And parables that pass my reaching ! Thy serious looks Are better books To me, than all the pompous preaching Of cloister nooks ; And o'er their manuscripts and wines, Our great divines Show not in wisest arts and ages Such precious pages. For thee I would a season sing, My boy and king, If but to come, as thou confessing With wide grave eyes some small transgressing With royal air That makes half fair The faults, and seeks with pardon blessing And fondled hair. My boy, I own thy sceptred love Prevails above The error, and on me the sentence Falls, and repentance. THE POET'S CONFESSION. Within the Temple of God's awful Space, Those cloisters calm and dim, I seek and do not find the resting-place Which only is in Him. But what it is and where I cannot guess, • An infant lost and blind, Who feels some wafts of His great Loveliness Upon each wave and wind. For everywhere He moves, and yet this heart May nowhere see the Sight THE POET S CONFESSION. Which is revealed to babes, and souls apart In solitudes of light. I seem to walk on air, through pillared porch And dreadful carven shade, By serpent flames that lick my cheeks and scorch The ghostly colonnade. And now a vision mocks my hungering eyes Where roses blushed and fell, And then a rift of other bluer skies In peace ineffable. Ah, if I knew some snow-pure woman child Appareled all in love. She might lead somehow these dark footsteps wild To the new earth above. But still I wander on without a guide Save thought's own scourging rod, Through ocean, desert, mountain, hell, outside The refuge that is God. Although He is the breath wherewith I live. Wherewith I loose and bind, A burning fire that is not fugitive Deep in my haunted mind. With no true compass but my fevered breast, Without one lamp or law, I stumble forth a pilgrim of unrest In uncompanioned awe. But here I snatch the shadow of a flower, And there a piercing thorn ; Betwixt the sunshine and the thunder shov/er, Hope withers before born. I have no comrades but the stock and stone Even in the roaring strife. And no untravelled land were half so lone As my most separate life. My work is blighted all, because its whole Is but a splintered thing, Unmated and un wrapt by gleam or goal, And under Azrael's wing. CONFESSIONS OF A POET. My hand is stained, and froHi my trembling lips That moulded are to pray, Instead of praise the malediction slips And dogs my darkened way. I am aware at times of a soft hand And baby fingers white, Laid on my brow that wears an inward brand, As from the Infinite. But still I seek the Unknown God, and scorn The lie by traitors dinned, And sigh with broken heart that waits the morn For others, "/ have sinned''. TO MY WIFE. We have faced all kinds of weather, Dear wife, in many lands. And borne them all together With wedded hearts and hands. There was a time for kisses — I feel their fragrance yet. And then by bleak abysses Our sunless pathway set. There was a place for meetings We never shall have more, Save when we clasp in greetings Upon the farther shore, ogether we picked posies Just crimson from God's sight, When all the earth was roses And all the waters light. We saw the tempest riven By the red lightning's power, And then the opening heaven Burst into flame and flower. We have sailed the tumbling ocean And broader seas of life, TO MY WIFE. Bound by the same devotion That steered us home through strife. No voice but thine could rally The purpose plunged in fears, It murmurs musically Through all my married years. No eyes but thine can beacon My heart to better things, When doubts of darkness weaken And jar the golden strings. No other hand is sweetness Like thine upon my brow, Or gives the one completeness That is all comfort now. Together at the Fountain We quench our daily thirst, And thus descend the mountain We climbed as comrades first. And though long faithful duty Has silvered thy fair head, I see the same young beauty I saw with morning shed. And now whate'er the weather. If ebb or tiowing tide. We will sail the seas together On to the Other Side. O if my heart has wandered A moment from its track Or fancies idly squandered. It ever soon came back. Betwixt the thorn and blossom Uprose thy face of love, And called me to thy bosom. As flies the homing dove. Its blush has left the clover, Its glory left the hill, But kisses are not over And we go courting still. CONFESSIONS OF A POET. THE LOST SOUL. PART I. It was not many years ago When I, a wild and wayward man, Yet with some sort of godUke plan, Lost the best gift the Heavens bestow On sinners as they stray below. With which my brightening life began ; I lost it in an evil hour Beneath the gay and garish lamp, Amid a city's ceaseless tramp. To one who in her glorious flower Had sold her grace to Satan's power, Dark with his deadly beauty stamp. And O the awful change that broke With its accursed blinding art Into my sick and haunted heart. And like a damned spirit spoke. When I in empty state awoke To miss and mourn my better part ! And O the horror of the shade That shrouded weary earth and sky, And bade the ancient splendour fly From blushing cloud and dewy blade, That faith's one conquering moment made God's own great calm eternity! Something, the vision and the dream. That murky midnight turned to day. And wrought of labour childhood's play, And caught the more than mortal gleam That consecrated stone and stream, Had now for ever passed away ; The ken that heard the angels call, And the grand unseen forces grind New systems out of wave and wind THE LOST SOUL. And build of love a living wall, Was gone in gloom that buries all, And left no ray of light behind. I sought it fondly but in vain With terrible sweet bitter tears Of the stern task and sterile years, On altar pyres of blessed pain, And in the martyr's iron chain That bound to burning stake of fears ; I sought it of diviner deeds, And in the dim but hallowed soil Of tender, true, unselfish toil. That showed me in my brother's needs Religion more than all the creeds Lit with a lamp of holier oil. I sought it in the busy life, The fever and the fiery glow Of all this outward ebb and flow That fashions us with stormy strife, And bared my bosom to the knife Of every coward's cruel blow ; I sought it in the holy hush, That in the loudest lot finds room And waves the wanderer back from doom, When passions in their crimson flush Turned to some nobler channel rush Into immortal sudden bloom. I sought it in the builded line, Where temples out of frost and flame The architects of wisdom frame, That truth in shapely forms may shine And make this earthly dross Divine And give the Secret Word a name ; I sought it in the thunderous maze Of mighty thoughts that brood and plot, When kingdoms in corruption rot, CONFESSIONS OF A POET. To burst at last in lightning blaze And guilty rulers blast and raze — Alas, I sought and found it not. For science told me all was vain, And man but tangled in the mesh Of frail and transitory flesh, A little while to fret and strain, To fall and rise and fall again, And die and be recast afresh ; And Progress could not spare a space To give the spirit now its due, And long had lost the saving clue That once had everywhere a place, And was of all the crowning grace, And made the heavens so near and blue. The chemist labelled man as dust. And mingled with a whiff of gas As fleeting as the summer grass, In spite of lofty shoots like trust. That withered at the first rude gust, Whatever might be clime or class ; We were but bubbles on a stream, Now in the darkness doomed and sad, And now a mocking moment glad With laughter of some lying beam. The future was a poet's dream, A living soul none ever had. Philosophers, with hoary faiths Wrought on the ages' forge of mind As fetters hammered out to bind Those that outsped their early spathes, Swore my best hopes were idle wraiths And only could poor bigots blind ; The soul was but a useful tool For grasping priests, or pretty toy To last an hour of empty joy, THE LOST SOUL. And leave its dupe a cheated fool With babblers in a dying school That the next buffet would destroy. And every culture seemed to say That man was just a brittle bond Of earth, and must to earth respond, Though he might climb the starry way And walk with God Himself and pray, Or see a world of bliss beyond ; And when the body turned to dust There came an ending to the store Of sacred love and solemn lore. And monarch's crown and beggar's crust Alike were into silence thrust — Man was mere dust and nothing more. But, though I cannot find it yet, I see it hinted in the skies, And dawn in children's wondering eyes. Or tiny hands that feel and fret For prizes which they may not get- In brows with awful watching wise ; And it was truly once my own When I a purer pathway trod, It gave its greenness to the sod And peace on evening breezes blown, A fearful blessing but unknown That turned its sightless orbs to God. Perhaps some day, I cannot tell. It will come back with vanished love, As to its ark the wandering dove. Borne on some earth-effacing swell Transforming all, ineffable. With a new message from above ; And from my prison I shall start Into a freedom full and sweet. And face to face that presence meet lO CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Which though myself in God has part, And makes Divine the humblest heart And puts the world beneath its feet. PART II. It was not many years far back, When in mad wilfulness of mood And seeking some forbidden food, I wandered from the sober track To flowers that veiled abysses black, And dropt the guiding holy rood ; And thus I lost a jewel rare, The pride and glory of my kind. For grace that was a passing wind And only brought a gilded care — That like a robber stript me bare. And left me homeless, deaf and blind. I lost myself, I lost my way And springs that watered the dim dearth Or leprous blots on blooming earth, And fire that kindled the dead clay ; I could not look without and pray, Nor look within and wait for birth ; For all seemed blasted, and a blight Lay heavy on the lurid lands. Like the dull reek of smouldering brands- It took the beauty from my sight, It gave a mocking tone to right And marred the promise of my hands. Alas, I lost my soul, and none Could tell me where its riches hid. Where'er I went, whate'er I did. Nor teach me if the ruin done Might be repaired, and blessing won Beneath my coffin's iron lid ; THE LOST SOUL. II But yet I hunted high and low And wrestled with the adverse years, I threw myself on bloody spears Of thirsty bane and pressing blow, Tost on the tempest ebb and flow Of gray intolerable fears. I sought it of the mighty deep, That in its cradle rocked the globe And round it spread a purple robe, And somewhere might the secret keep Among its waves that laugh and weep. If one its treasure-house could probe ; But though I searched its every store, And glimpses caught of things to be In the old murmur of the sea Which gathers up the ages' lore, The deep (as to vain quests before) Made answer, " It is not in me." I sought it of the solemn Powers That keep guard over life and death, To whom earth is a fleeting breath And but a troubled moment ours, Though God may walk amid the bowers And commune with the sons of Heth ; And life and death with single voice Replied, " Lo, we have heard its fame, We know the sweetness of its name For those who make the better choice, We see its footsteps and rejoice But cannot guess its fount or frame." I sought it of the rolling Space, And in the corridors of Time Where mirth and madness change and chime, And in the silence found its trace That vanished ere I marked the place. And left the sadness more sublime ; 12 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. And all responded to m}' cry, " It is not in the pillared stone Nor in the star of orbit lone, The lion hath not passed it by. Its path the eagle may not fly, And none can tell its hidden throne." I asked the depth, I asked the height, I asked the angel of the sun, Who must his daily journey run ; I sought it of the dazzling light, And in the womb of darkest night. But all the answer still was one : " It is not there, it is not here. It is not in the miry way Where pilgrims stumble as they stray, Though it is higher than the sphere Which pours its beams on bosom sere. But where it dwells we cannot say ". I sought it everywhere with pain, I could not purchase it for gold, For rubies it was never sold. And merchants with it got no gain ; But all my weary search was vain, To find the treasure in its hold ; No mortal knew the costly price. Nor where the jewel might be found That had no earthly place or bound. More precious than all pearls and spice. And sweeter than all sacrifice, Though each had heard its blessed sound. PART III. Then, as my passion deepened down And heavier grew the ghastly load. While conscience stabbed me with its goad THE LOST SOUL. I3 And life put on its fiercest frown, When Heaven denied the craved-for crown, I met an Angel by the road ; My pilgrim path was dim and wild, And she put forth her holy hand To pluck me as a burning brand From woe that vanished as she smiled, — That wonderful pure woman child, Whose touch of love was a command. She was not high, she was not low. But she was delicate and fair, Delicious as the evening air That trembles in the sunset glow ; And virtue from her seemed to flow, And lift me up a starry stair; Oh, she renewed me as a gust That plays about the cottage eaves, And lisps a little in the leaves, And sweeps away the noontide dust ; Till in me sprang full-armed trust, And harvest round me shone in sheaves. I looked into her happy eyes That answered mine like steadfast stars, And, lo, the blackness and the scars Were scattered, and new earth and skies Awoke and left me calm and wise. As backward clanged my prison bars ; I listened to her beauteous tones, That breathed of better nobler things And stablished tender hopes as kings Exalted to eternal thrones, And out of fears like stubborn stones Drew heavenl}^ harps with golden strings. Once more I saw the snowy gleam On virgin peaks of promise fall. And life as some enchanted hall 14 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Threw wide its portals to each beam That dropt from every passing dream, And felt the miracle in all ; I found myself, I found my soul In finding her who sweetly trod As treads the sunbeam on the sod And now I hear the music roll. And facing the same glorious goal Divinely walk with her and God. HOME SICKNESS. I am sick of the soft madam Who was never touched by toil, And I seek a child of Adam. With the savour of the soil ; Not a peg for pretty clothing And the jewels that she buys, While perhaps she pays for nothing With her impudence and eyes ; Not a thing of thorns and roses Who can play a gilded part. And is perfect in her poses — If you just omit the heart. I am sick of the grand lad}- With her elegance and airs, And repute a trifle shady That will some day need repairs Who would scorn to set a finger To the fringe of any task, And yet does with gladness linger With pet sins behind her mask; And I want no sugared sweetness That conceals a ghastl}' dearth, But in careless incompleteness A true dausfhter of the earth. HOME SICKNESS. I5 I am sick of painted woman With her fussing and her fads, Who has Httle of her human Save the powder box and pads ; Who despises all the anguish Of the starveling's bitter plea, And prefers to lie and languish With her dainty toys and tea ; A mere fool of every fashion — The last lunacy in jugs. With a breast that knows no passion But for dirty tales and pugs. I am sick of false society With its endless talk and tramp, And I will have some variety If it bears the gutter stamp ; From the dust we each have risen, And I often feel it burn When I kick against this prison, And to dust we shall return ; And the bread and butter misses Now for me possess no charms, But I sigh for fresher kisses And in Nature's naked arms. I am sick of studied paces On the staircase up and down. And the over-youthful faces That would hide their age's frown ; Heavy eyes that force a twinkle From the havoc still unhealed, Through the crow's feet and the wrinkle Which decline to be concealed ; Yes, I pine for franker motion And without the treadmill brand. Blushing cheeks and pure devotion Of unfettered heart and hand. l6 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. I am sick of bows and backing And the livery of slaves, Who yet seek delight in blacking Noble boots and helpless graves ; Pallid lips that mince or mumble The stale stories ever told, And the weary feet that stumble The same circle as of old ; But I long for some sweet scandal, And a romp of rustic ways, With a waist that one can handle And not be impaled on stays. I am sick of mock repentance. And the under-dressing doll Who cannot go through one sentence As correctly as poor Poll ; All the reverent show and shamming Of the humbug with his lies. Who returns from worship damning His dear neighbours' souls and eyes ; Give me ripe and nude reality. If it be a little coarse, For the pink and white formality That goes smiling to divorce. I am sick of titled sinners. Fair and forty and so tough, And the endless round of dinners, Where I never get enough ; The dull compliment or question Which, alas ! I know too well ; The champagne and indigestion With its prophecies of hell ; Ah, I hate the prim hypocrisy Veiled in simperings and lace, And I sigh for rude democracy With her broad and buxom grace. A CHILD OF ADAM, \'] A CHILD OF ADAM. Give me a true child of Adam, If a fickle fortune please, One to be my own heart's ease, Though a thorn to you, dear madam, And for others framed to tease ; Aye, to me a wilful treasure, When it is her last new pleasure To be somewhat cold and coy, As if loving were a toy For a maiden who has leisure Just to pass an idle day, And may then be thrown away. Deck her not with paint and patches, Nor with ancestors and purse And a parson as a nurse, Such a thing as fashion hatches To be everj'body's curse ; Oh, I dread that monstrous chicken. And her antics make me sicken, When just hopping from her shell She begins to crow and swell And my tardy course to quicken ; Strutting down the ages' track, With the shell upon her back. Let her be no heavenly creature Too refined almost to live. Such as prayers and penance give, Without one kind human feature, A mere fragrance fugitive ; Let her be of common metal, Haifa rose and half a nettle, Common as the rain and air, And to sight and sunshine fair Opening out each hungry petal ; And if earthly be her love, Yet a flame that points above. 2 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Rob her not of honest blushes, Colour that no art can lend, Which in wild enchanting blend Sunrise fires with sunset flushes, To one bright and beauteous end ; Rob her not of that full figure For a starving custom's rigour, Nor of hand adept at toil Jewelled with its splendid soil, True as hand upon the trigger — All a soldier's keen to smite. All a woman's warm and white. Leave to her the young glad motion, As of birdies in the spring, When a breeze is on the wing And they drink its magic potion, Till they cannot choose but sing ; Leave to her the larger paces Of the old imperial races, When the footstep still kept time With the heart's own happy chime, And from freedom learnt fresh graces. Rich in glory, beyond chance One with woods and waters' dance. Robe her in the dress of Nature, Dew and storm and laughing light. And the stillness of the night. Whence God's first grand legislature Has not all yet taken flight ; Robe her in the generous raiment, — That forbids a sordid claimant Who would bring unhallowed fire, Deeming one may hold for hire What abides unbought with payment — In the charms, without pretence. Of her naked innocence. THE PESSIMIST. Crown her with the ocean's blessing — Liberty and breadth and power, And the scent of the wild flower Yielded to the sun's caressing, And the secret summit's dower ; Crown her with that spirit glamour, Caught not from the sage's grammar With its wise and wondrous page, Granted not to gold or age Or great thrones and kingly clamour — With that sweet and subtle breath, Deeper than all life and death. Let her be a plain true woman, And a modest maiden still. Knowing but above the ill. And in all things richly human Working out her own pure will ; Let her be herself — no copy. Nor in trade shut up and shoppy, And though steadfast in her trust, Swayed by feeling's every gust, As the meadow's pride the poppy ; Full of earth's most homely leaven. While she draws the air of heaven. THE PESSIMIST. " Sic omnia fatis In pejus ruere ac retro sublapsa referri." — Virg. Geoi'g., I. 200. For aeons man has lived to love. And tried each system as the glove He wears and casts away. And from the heart of black damnation His hand had plucked his own salvation But for the grim decay ; 19 20 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. His passing soul would love to live, Were not its fate so fugitive, A bubble or a breath, And he a beggar at the portal Which bids him knock for the immortal And opens unto death. His purpose like a giant form That wrestles with the dark and storm Arises in its might, And from the grip of iron ages Tears now and then those bloody pages Which are his only light ; And here and there with wondrous plan He may a trembling moment span The hell where serpents hiss, And tossing arms and tortured faces In waves of woe from burning spaces Surge up from the abyss. Those porches paved with solid fire In the great passion of desire His fearless feet have trod, In search of truth and some foundation And food to stay in blank starvation The hunger for his God ; He never deemed the battle lost Nor counted once the bitter cost In his unequal strife, And struggled on the hopeless track To find some refuge in the rack Of ruin misnamed Life. Dim revelations to him came In mocking masks of cloud and flame But brought no saving sight. And on the souls of reverend sages Lay through the dumb and dreary stages A horror of dead night ; RINGING TO EVENSONG. 21 And yet he traversed sea and land To build his faith on sinking sand, And not the central rock, He found the fairest tower was Babel And each new heaven a foolish fable, That bore no trial shock. But still he fights the desperate fray. Pent in his dying cage of clay. Believing mist is morn, And till it burst in scarlet blossom He sings and presses yet his bosom Upon the piercing thorn ; And of the martyrs' blessed bones He makes and breaks his stepping stones To triumph over ill. And to the goal that comes not nigher He shapes his shadowed pathway higher That leads to nothing still. He rolls through space his sightless orbs In the great gulf that hope absorbs, And never yields a spark ; He feeds his faith on pastures bitter. That lure him with their grave-like glitter, Yet deeper in the dark ; And in the mockery of his love He bares his breast to wrath above. Perched on his crumbling clod. And arms all blasted with the levin He stretches to the empty heaven And to the Unknown God. RINGING TO EVENSONG. It is not sadness nor yet joy, as lone I sit among the ruins of my life And watch the red-hot ashes crumbling down. Expiring spark by spark, and strive to warm 22 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. My chilly hands with their remembered heat, And by the light that lingers in my mind Essay to read once more the wrinkled Past, And piece its broken letters. ... I have climbed Beyond the barren rocks of vain regret, Whereon my spirit early dashed fond hopes And wrecked its youth, that rich with noble scars The freight of surer knowledge it might rise Again and justly self-reliant, strong, Ascend by certain steps to grander heights And virgin lands. , . . Lo, from my vantage ground Of glorious faiths and gray philosophies, I sight at eve the dim and distant shores Through rolling radiant mists that men call Truth, And mountain peaks of snow that prop blue heavens, In solemn vision which is more than sight And crowned awe. . . . But still, although I stand On the white threshold of that inner Light Which is the veiled face of God Himself Wrapt in His robe of stars. Eternity, Strange, struggling glimpses of the byegone days Ghostly come back to me, come back to me, Like wistful faces wan, in fire and smoke And burning blooms, with claspt familiar hands That do beseech me and then fade away, And slow sad eyes big with unuttered pain The gift of pleasure set on me, that smile Through unshed tears. I see again the forms Of magic maidens fair, with laughing lips Red and rebellious, pouting for the touch They yet refuse and yet will not resent. I see the hoary heads so dear and wise With garnered times and toils and lore unwrit, Great with green laurels of imperial thought. I hear the babbling messages of brooks And children's voices and the angels' call That carolled through my dreams, and was more clear Than the dull prate of pedants big with facts 23 And terrors of mere law. . . . Around me stretch The bones of stranded creeds, that could not help Nor bear my burdened life in its sore need Safe into port. And low beneath me crawl The conquered clouds of foolish menace robbed, And baffled thunders in their sullen sleep Mutter and moan like giants chained. And yet Within my soul is God's sweet armed peace. While all the bells of all the beauteous worlds Are ringing home my heart to evensong. VIXI. I have shouted with the thunder, I have wrestled with the wind, I have trodden ocean under When I left my heart behind. I have wandered in the forest And held frolics with the foam. And have felt the exile sorest From the shadows that would roam. Through a path of knightly stages I have jousted to the end, While I asked no sordid wages And I leaned upon no friend. By the dark detested portal Which alone is passion's grave, I have gazed at the Immortal And returned to be a slave. In the highways And the byeways Of the city and the moor. Up the mountain. By the fountain With its spell and lion spoor, I have loitered, I have struggled. As a pilgrim late and lone, Through the giant mists that juggled 24 CONFESSION'S OF A POET. And the desert heart of stone. And I learned the life of Nature In the Australasian leas, Where a larger legislature Is impressed on soil and seas, And the utterance is bolder And the hand has broader sweep, Than our freedom pinched and colder In its custom's iron keep — Where the labour is no burden And the master is as man, And the toiler gets the guerdon That has justice in its plan. In the courses Of the forces At their world-compelling sway. With the scarlet Lips and starlit Eye, I followed night and day. I have meted out the measure Of the bitter and the sweet, And come back to find the treasure That was lying at my feet. For it was delight to rough it In the ecstasy of youth, And to bear the sturdy buKet Of the tempest and the Truth ; Though around me roared the surges With their sullen angry shocks, And the wind like icy scourges Drove me on the hungry rocks ; When the trial was no stranger And stood ever at my side. And I loved the face of danger As a man may love his bride. On the journey. In the tourney With the beautiful and brave. vixi. 25 Breaking lances, Weaving dances, By the cradle and the grave, I have ruffled late and early And assayed rny fullest powers, In the dusty hurly-burly And in ladies' gilded bowers ; Where the gifted and the gallant Were rejoicing in their pride, And her graces were a talent That the comely did not hide. I have lived and loved as others Through the sunshine and the shade, And been loyal to my brothers, And my share of history made. I have loved and lived, at bridal And at biers where nations prayed, And in feastings with the idle I have dressed and dined and played. In gray alleys And green valleys. Under stars or steaming dome, With the black man And the pack man I have been alike at home. When blue eyes were weeping, weeping, And the orphan dimly stept ; I have heard her, keeping, keeping The long vigil, while she slept. When despair drew nearer, nearer. And the widow's day was night, I have left it clearer, clearer With the loving that is light. When the curse came falling, falling On the innocent and weak, And the wolves were calling, calling, I was there revenge to wreak. When the kiss grew colder, colder, 26 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. And my darling sobbed for breath, I prevailed to fold her, fold her, In the kindness more than death. And the scholar And the dollar, Both were pages for my book ; I was serious And mysterious, As the Chinaman my cook. In the palaces magnifical I have been a pampered guest, ^ And on problems old terrifical I have stamped probatum est. When the tempest waxed exceedingly I was ready for the stroke. And I walked erect unheedingly When the lightnings round me broke. And with danger I toyed merrily, With the pestilence and asp. And the tiger I took verily As a plaything in my clasp. From the sweet mouth ripe and amorous I have brushed the precious dew. In the new world, great and clamorous, Where the faint their youth renew. « I have sported, I have courted, And at distant fountains quaffed ; W^ith dark graces And white faces I have hunted, flirted, laughed. I have heard the grasses growing In the warm wet tropic eve, I have seen the rivers flowing, That a golden treasure leave. I have skirted coral islands. With their naked nymphs at play ; And have scaled the Arctic highlands, 27 Where the midnight is as day. I have wantoned with the Naiad In the laughing lilied stream, And gone nutting with the Dryad In a pastime hke a dream. With the Croesus in his factory, I have watched the engines toil, And the Pharisee's phylactery I have dreaded much to soil. I have pondered As I wandered Over all the lands and seas. Of the fashions And the passions That can never give us ease ; While the mermaid low was singing Her sweet riddles in the deep, And the ocean bells were ringing The wild sea-birds unto sleep ; And strange phantom forms, with tresses Of green seaweed, from the gloom Stole, with dank and dim caresses. And delight that was but doom. I have mixed with many peoples And have broken virgin sods, And have heard a thousand steeples Tell a thousand different gods. I have murdered pretty pigeons And as other butchers done, And tried raptures and religions, But not found content in one. And I only Feel more lonely In the roaring city marts, As if guided And divided All astray from fellow hearts. I have basked in smiles of Royalty, 28 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. And burnt incense at the shrine ; I have paid a proper loyalty To fair women and good wine. I have supped with statesmen garrulous About politics and port, And been elegantly querulous With grand dowagers from Court. I have tested men's cupidity, How the purest has his price ; And found drops of worse acidity In the angels without vice. From the actor and his attitudes I have learned he reasoned right, While in theologians' platitudes I but vainly sought for light. In the trouble Dark and double Of the shadow and the spear, I was master Of disaster And myself, and felt no fear. I have sat with seers and Plato, With old fountains flashing up, And observed the solemn Cato Growing softer in his cup ; While the sweetness of the siren, Which was mixed with madness then. Brake the stays and rules of iron. And the gods cam.e down to men. I have walked with maids diviner Than the fairest that have names, And when Love was the refiner I have frolicked in the flames. When the air was waxing crisper In the languid palmy South, I have drunk the honeyed whisper Of the coy and crimson mouth. Then with burn in e," 29 Heart returning, And with penitent dim eyes That were moister, In the cloister I essayed new earth and skies. Under sackcloth and the ashes And behind forbidding books, I have seen through dusky lashes The sweet unregenerate looks. In the most ascetic stations, Where the passions ought to rest, I have felt the palpitations Of a warm and carnal breast. In the shrine that showed no mercy And the world esteemed as dross, I have found a fatal Circe, Though with rosary and cross ; And the monk in mid devotions Or the penance of his cell, With unsanctified emotions Kas gone sprawling at her spell. Armed with Latin Or in satin. High in honour, low with shame, After sentence And repentance. Beat the human heart the same. I have borne convention's pillory Where the truth too often stands, And the churches, grim artillery For the waving of white hands. I have striven to be dutiful To my country and my kin. And have plucked the roses beautiful From the bosom of bare sin. I have wandered with Euphrosyne In her silver-columned gloom. And gone back with dear Mnemosyne 30 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. To the earl}' dew and bloom. In temptation's golden crucible, If the gleam did only strike, I proved virtue was reducible With the saint and all alike. For the error And the terror. The abysses and the shoal. And the kissings With the missings, Reached at last a common goal. I have been as sourly sober As the dullest of divines. And with must of mild October I have drowned myself in wines. In the fantasies of fable And the metaphors of creed, With their adjectives unstable, I have differed and agreed. And I found, of all the visions From beneath and from above, In their dogmas and decisions. There was nothing true but Love. But on lips of solemn sages, And in eyes with passion wet. Though I trod a thousand stages, I have never won it yet. From the windings And the grindings Of the marches and the mill. And the orgies Of black forges, I have come back empty still. To the ledges crumbling, crumbling, Of the flowery-mantled vice, I have tottered stumbling, stumbling. On the damned precipice. When the light waxed dimmer, dimmer, vixi. 31 On the virgin peak or face, And the storm fell grimmer, grimmer, I was steadfast in my place. If the wind was blowing, blowing, And the waves were tossing high, In a horror growing, growing. Yet I heard my sister sigh. By the ordeal shaken, shaken. And of all but honour reft. Though the best was taken, taken, I was in my meanness left. Out of losing, In the choosing Of fair Sodom's watered plain. And my splutter In the gutter, I have found myself again. I have slept on Jacob's pillow And scaled ladders to the sky. And at every peccadillo Played that mortal man can try. With the pretty painted Ethel I have rocked on rose-hung streams, And confessed my sins at Bethel In the awful House of Dreams. I have toiled and prayed and revelled, And laid hundreds in the clods. Courted nymphs with locks dishevelled, And served epithets and gods. But the hope I gave to others, And the rest that did renew The poor shattered lives of brothers, I have missed and must pursue. Though for nothing But gay clothing Or the smile on beauty's cheek, And for ever In endeavour, CONFESSIONS OF A POET. I must vainly sadly seek. As I roystered, I have written And made many books for men, And in lust of battle smitten With the sabre and the pen. At the shock of slander's onset I have hardly held my place, And have marked the dying sunset Flicker on the dying face. With the sage in custom simple I have worn a proper pose, And seen cheek of maiden dimple To a pure and perfect rose. In the purple halls of plenty I have drunk of pleasure's fill. With the rustic sweet and twenty I have shared the shadowed ill. And the portion Of distortion Has been mine, like poisoned stee I have spoken Truth, when broken On the fate of iron wheel. With the sinful I was tainted, And as Vestals kept my soul. While I marked the sun unsainted With expiring aureole. Like the gipsy I have travelled With the heaven as canopy, Though no dream has yet unravelled Half the moonlight's myster)\ I have watched on Jacob's ladder The fair angels come and go, While they left the gray earth gladder With their feet of virgin snow. With the frozen I have shuddered In the red Aurora light. And uncharted and unruddered vixi. 33 Voyaged out into the night. Past abysses, Like Ulysses, I have flashed and scarcely 'scaped ; And I drifted Through the rifted Iron rocks with lilies draped. _ On the sweets of thought and action, And the bliss of ballet legs, And the wordy war of faction, I have feasted to the dregs. With the headlong I have hasted And delayed with prudes and pugs, And not left a cup untasted — If it drew from stolen jugs. I have sown beside all waters Solemn sayings and wild oats, And have felt in queerest quarters The sweet power of petticoats. I have learned from children's studies And the maiden's prayers and pleas. And the sword that sways and bloodies The blue bosom of our seas. By dim fable And the stable Old foundations of the Truth, I was shaken. And did waken To a second wiser youth. Sickness, pain and passion took me Down where wounded creatures hide. Though the Pharisee forsook me Passing on the other side. Mates with whom I loved to linger In their evil hour of grief, Would not even upraise one finger Or a word for my relief. Butterflies were far more steady, 34 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Stocks and stones revealed more heart. Than my guests who kissed me, ready Then to play a Judas part. Christians left me sad and lonely, While I waited the black end, And they prayed and cursed, and only Has my dog remained a friend. Life's enigma, With the stigma At its tortured bosom, bleeds ; But the fiddle Solves the riddle. Better than ten thousand creeds. I have passed through ordeals terrible, In the blackest of black fire, With a step that was inerrable And a darker still desire. From the flames and their fierce sediment, Which my madness trod, I tore Their red heart without impediment, Till I gained the restful shore. And the veil on Fate's dread history Was no banning veil to me, When I probed its awful mystery And arose more fresh and free. On the desert soil and arable I have wisdom sought to find, And yet found the hardest parable Ever in a maiden's mind. But dumb creatures And dear features Of sweet children at their play, Gave me knowledge That no college Could with all its learning sway. And I did not reap one pleasure Such as these bestowed so well, From the world with all its treasure THE MAN WHO KNEW NOT SORROW. 35 And all beauty with its spell. With the bird that sang me stories Of the kingdoms soft as sleep, And its echoes of strange glories, I did higher commune keep. With the babe, on whose brow glistened Yet the brightness of its fount, I shone too, and shyly listened, To the Presence on the Mount. Ah ! I gathered less from bibles Than from modest virgin looks, And the gospels were but libels On the old unwritten books. But the Vision In derision Still recedes, as I draw near ; Yet I follow As the swallow Sings the sun around the year. THE MAN WHO KNEW NOT SORROW. I know not why, but yet without a heart A thing apart I moved among my fellows and was kind In outward semblance, though to suffering blind And dead to sorrow, while the weak went down Into the darkness like a dead man's frown, And pain and terror made their palsied life A hopeless strife ; While poor men rose and writhed a little space, And tottered forth with shy and shambling pace Beneath unequal burdens, fell, and on Still stumbled into silence and were gone ; I saw them sunk in fever's putrid pen. Nor sorrowed then. 36 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. I know not why but yet, without a heart Enslaved by art And dazzHng science with its sunHke sweep That walked through space, and the abysmal deep Eternity had sounded with its plan, I had no mortal sympathy for man. And stiffer than the cold sepulchral stone I lived alone ; The innocents I saw trod low in mire. And helpless infants passed through murderous fire As to some Moloch, bathed in tender tears And slain twice over with their cruel fears ; Yet I, absorbed in dreams with which I dwelt, No sorrow felt. I know not why, but yet without a heart Upon the mart I bought and sold, and over-reached the fools Whom fortune brought as profitable tools. And found dishonest gold was always cheap, While daily adding to the dirty heap ; But, though I robbed the orphan of his crust And dearer trust, And plunged the widow in still blacker woe, Or threw the maiden to her bitterest foe (As dainties to a dog), and left her dead With love I poisoned at the fountain head. And though behind me followed death and shame, No sorrow came. I know not why, but yet without a heart Or human smart, I wielded with bold hand the bloody knives, And practised upon worn and weary lives Of sufferers, in the home of mercy's arms That clasped the sick and did them direr harms — I supped on sighs and those despairing calls Beatinjr deaf walls THE MAN WHO KNEW NOT SORROW. 37 And deafer bosoms, and held glorious feasts Of long red torture wreaked upon the beasts, That fell in awful hecatombs, to drape A naked crotchet or give falsehood shape ; But, though for science I made myriads rot, I sorrowed not. I know not why, but yet without a heart I saw depart Out of the hurly-burly one by one My comrades, when their fighting days were done And duty called them, stretching forth dim hands That struggled idly with their iron bands And clung to bosoms warm, their wild eyes wet With vain regret ; But, though familiar was my walk with each. And they beside me in the fiery breach Had stood, and borne for me the deadly blow Which I deserved, that them had smitten low, I made of losses in that front red line No sorrow mine. I know not why, but yet without a heart Disease's dart I watched, by careless wind or water thrown, That pierced the tender fibres of my own, And the grim shadow of its poison shed On the full glory of the kingly head, Till in the refuge of the equal ground It dropt discrowned ; Though wife and children laid them down to die. And snapt the sweetness of the last true tie Which fastened me to earth, and weeping went Into the awful unmapped continent Beyond this bourne, I felt no thrill Of sorrow still. 38 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. I know not why, but yet, without a heart, A bitter start My life put forth in the gray troubled seas That break upon our little isles of ease Arising here and there, green spots of calm, Like cool dim temples set in pillared palm, And fret at such small boundaries that keep Aloof the deep ; Till, lo, one day I marked a maiden child, Fair as a rosebud and by nought defil'd. Who bent her trustful brow and fondly prayed Unto a God who with her blindness played ; But then the winter heart within me broke, And sorrow woke. Now I at length know why, without a heart, A thing apart I may no longer live and cannot die. Who see a sadness in the azure sky. And read the sentence of a solemn dearth Betwixt the richest harvests of the earth. And in the oldest beacons sure and bright A mocking light ; And from my breast well oft unsummoned tears, Mixed with the madness of forbidding fears, Since I have found a God who under cloud Weaves of our highest hopes a funeral shroud, And but misguides us till we learn from graves That sorrow saves. THE PRISON HOUSE. For well nigh fifty years, a part It never chose at first. In prison wrack, this panting heart Hath hid its heavenly thirst ; The years had grimly come, and gone Down the same dreary track. THE PRISON HOUSE. 39 And still the struggling heart beat on, Beneath its ruins black ; But yet, in spite of penal rod, It waved its captive wing. And tried to tremble up to God, And sing. I saw the darkness deepen round, And nameless horrors hang, With ghastly sight and ghostly sound. And only more I sang ; The chains lay heavy, and they drew All to their iron strife, That ate into my soul, and grew A portion of my life ; None knew my bondage sore, none cared What burdens they might give My broken breast, and yet I dared To Hve. Though every door was under bar. Through the wan window haze Floated at times some fairy star, To greet my hungry gaze ; And angels came, in the dark hour Of anguish lone and long, Till all the night burst into flower And overflowed with song ; To them I stretched my straining hands, As calls the caged dove, And yet I dared in prison bands To love. But oft I chafed at brazen bolt, And fetters darkly wound On hand and foot, and made revolt Against my burial bound ; My spirit fretted to be free And sang, nor might despond 4° CONFESSIONS OF A POET. In depths of pain, and pined to see The roses blue beyond ; Through crack and crevice of my cell, Sweet sudden gates would ope Their pearls, and yet I dared in hell To hope. I feel the summer in the air, The life at fullest flood, That, framing old things young and fair, Makes music in my blood ; Glimpses of glorious mountain crests Gleam through the crannied walls. That bear new worlds on virgin breasts. With snowy pillared halls ; And yet, while bondage grows, I dare With louder songs from dust. In triumph over everj' care To trust. The stripes fall heavy on me now, And weary is my will That scarce lifts up the bruised brow. Albeit they may not kill ; But if the cruel bolts are here. And barriers stare and start Around me, in the silence sere, They cannot bind my heart ; And yet, though sunlight never shone To bless one bitter tie, I dare to sing, and singing on To die. THE RAPE OF THE ROSE. I found it in a cottage room — They called me hard and cruel — Betwixt the doors of shame and doom I seized the rosy jewel ; THE RAPE OF THE ROSE. 4I The lightning flashed its lurid fate, The thwart and groaning thunder Rolled grimly forth, as if the gate Of hell were burst asunder ; I bore it, though forbidding hands Thrust out their blasting fingers And flaming sword to brighter lands — For love is lost that lingers. The guardian of the threshold reared His giant shield and shoulder, But on I fought who nothing feared, The peril made me bolder ; A lion strode across my way, Tremendous in the distance, To prove when stricken low he lay A stepping-stone's assistance ; And fiery forms, that threatened harms To cowards caught by errors, Wreathed at the onset of my arms With smiles their smouldering terrors. Poured his loud malice then on vie, With petty tithes and morals, The maskings of the Pharisee That were but bells and corals ; He damned me by his penal book, And labelled me as sinner, Seduced his neighbour's wife, and took Devotions like his dinner ; Me would he murder or make slave With his own foolish fetter, But tumbled in my ready grave, Choked with his lying letter. Beneath me reeled the earth and rocked, And all the old'foundations Were shaken, and the rogue looked shocked At my last depredations ; 42 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. The timid thought the end had come, And opened hearts and purses, Or tearful turned to bed, and some Expended prayers and curses ; The wantons painted more their skin, And the grand best society Went on in undetected sin ; And praised their mock propriety. A HARD QUESTION. O have I Hved for nought in deed, Who echoed Nature's chime And sowed the beautiful bright seed That was (with roots in human need) The blossom of a time ? ]\Iay I not enter through the Porch, And see Truth's ever-burning torch That only evil things may scorch With its consuming flame, And hear the voices of the Blest In glory without name. Who reap the service that is rest ? O have I dearly loved in vain. And have I idly sung ? Hath Fate, which doth for all ordain The measure of their joy and pain, The compass of their tongue, No lustred corner left for me In that great Temple of the Free Where mortals do their Maker see. Beyond these earthly bars Of fire and tears and darkness wrought. And read above the stars The unveiled splendour of all Thought ? THE poet's euthanasia. 43 THE POET'S EUTHANASIA. No crown for me, they say ! It matters not; Now I must wend the way of human lot Alone, as I have lived alone with stars Of wandering thoughts that burst the prison bars Called earth, and led me still for ever on B}' a dread pathwa}' none before had gone, Above the utmost waft of fancy's wing And the great globes that move in rhythmic ring World beyond world, out into unmapped space Which is the glory of God's hidden face. I see the way, that widens as it runs. In the soft light of unarisen suns, And brighter grows, as round me shadows fall To shut me out from human claims and call, And break the dazzling splendour that would blind. I feel no fear, my unimprisoned mind Did alway dwell in other realms and sweep W^ithout the bounds of this unquiet sleep, And gathered in its hospitable arms The solemn beauty or the secret charms Of every sphere. Death is no foe to fly When I have lived so in eternity, And trodden its dim courts and made them one With the sweet work this loving heart hath done : And here is nothing strange, and the dark end But the veiled kiss of a familiar friend. I see the faces I have loved and known, The angel faces now not more my own Than they from childhood were, divinely dear, That shared my toil and wiped away the tear. But crowned with kingly peace and the pure joy That deems this little life a passing toy. I hear the voices that have hourly been My comforters and guides through pastures green Or iron rocks, not clearer than of old, If with a rapture then not fully told. 44 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Intelligences fair, from their blue calm Of fixed and final rest, with pomp and palm, They come, they come, a surging silver line, To wave me welcome to the inner shrine ; And, as they step down the cloud-columned track, The darkness opens like a rose, and back For me the portals roll, the music peals, The palpitating depth its truth reveals. And in white petals of consuming light Breaks into sudden bloom the heart of night. I know these stately halls, these cloisters hung In purple space, where the same lamps have swung, ^ons and aeons at their silent task, Which earth with its pale splendours could not mask ; And at the end of all the Presence lone, Self-centred, on the insufferable throne Of thunder. I have marked the lightnings here Stab through and through the awful atmosphere With their red daggers, and in them have bathed My human heart with Deity enswathed. The petty winds might rise, the bubbles rage, I fought not with the potsherds of the age That with the potsherds fought and fumed and made A ripple on their miry ruts of shade, And had no message and no meaning. Still I stood apart, and from the hoary hill Its treasure drew, and out of rugged stone Bade the bright angel start with maiden zone And conquering eyes. The wrath of lava streams With woods and waters mingled in my dreams. And wrought one passion. And the damned sin Of the lost soul or Cain I felt akin To me and mine, it had some fellow taint, And found an echo in the templed saint. I sought the grace that glorified the mud, And made the sterile stock in beauty bud, Out-reddening the shy blush on Hebe's cheek Or morning's brow ; I did not vainly seek. THE poet's euthanasia. 45 I never spoke an unkind word to one, I never deemed the longest day was done Without some gentle charity. I cared For sufferers, and with them my sunshine shared. And, when the weary craved for wounds a rest, I let the surf of sadness on my breast Beat, and with nails of bitter shame and loss I married my own bosom to the cross Of sacrifice for others. This bowed back Seemed to bear on its solitary track The weight of worlds and sins of countless souls, For whom I paid the last exceeding tolls In daily dying tortures, and the hell Heated for those who only love too well And lose ; though I would not recall the pain To save myself, and let one fall again. And now I die not, for love cannot die ; I simply loose the sole remaining tie, That links me to the lot of common clay, I live, I live ; my grave-clothes drop away ; Fearless I go, with faith of burning fire, Up the white steps of infinite desire. SECTION II. THE LIGHT OF THE AMETHYST. THE LIGHT OF THE AMETHYST. PROLOGUE. Ye, who, through mocking mist, Armed with the mystic rod. Led as the Triers Hst, Passing the sword have trod Right to the amethyst Glory that circles God ; Ye, who, through burning fire Walled to a solid flame, Braving the Law's black ire. Dreading no shade of shame, Found a fulfilled desire One with the nameless Name ; Take from a maiden hand Firstling of maiden heart. Plucked from the pleasant land Known not to vulgar art, Where the strong Watchers stand Feeding the light apart. Ye, who have walked before, Striven as I and won Terrible right to adore Beauty denied to none — Truth they in vain implore, 4^ CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Sealed not by duty done ; Ye are baptized in Day Risen from dreadful night, Gilding the ghostly way Red with the purging fight, Where it is death to stay Though it be all delight. Hail to the gladness given. Hail to the sure repose. Seekers, whose love has riven Portals that else would close, Wresting the light from heaven Rayed to a perfect rose ! Hail to you, spirits high. Who from the blessed calm, Hearing a whole world sigh Brought it the healing balm. Brought the eternal nigh Bright with the victor's palm ! Ye, in a vigil lone Signed with the royal stamp, Bound with the virgin zone Whether in court or camp. Fashioned of thoughts a throne. Trimming a deathless lamp. All through the ages gone Down to our barren grace, Handing the lustre on Life to the darkest place. Till it in splendour shone Sweet as God's very face. Woman am I and weak, Yet in my breast a spark Flutters that fain would speak, Rising above the dark Bounds to some purple peak. Soaring as Eden's mark. Ye have inspired my song. THE LIGHT OF THE AMETHYST. 49 Given me wings to fly, Carried me late and long Under a bluer sky, Out of the squalid throng Into Infinity. I in your conquering tread Followed and found the same, Plenty in famine spread. Honour beside the blame, Living beyond the dead, Glor}' above the shame. Ah ! to be only a spray Lost in your fadeless crown. Only an unseen ray Blent with the white renown. Broadening till the day Brightens that goes not down. PART I. INCUNABULA. When I was young, And breezes blew That sweetly sung From Edens new, I stept at once by strange ascension Outside the flesh. As into some fair Fourth Dimension Of beauty fresh. Then all dear things seemed possible. The unknown and impassable, The mighty and magnificent, The blessed and beneficent. The solemn thoughts and serious. The magic throbs mysterious, The pure and true and terrible, And all alike inerrable. 4 50 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. For I was young, And I believed What Sirens sung, If they deceived. And then the world was twined with us, A thrilling portion With no distortion, And I would speak in rapture thus. " Dear heart Of daring. Apart In caring From every other, Untaught to bend, You have no brother. Nor closer friend. Save in the common curse of sinning (Our human tie) Or fatal wooing without winning ; And you and I, Who never seemed to have beginning And cannot die, We shall range on our way in blest and beauteous thought Beyond the realms of day and the great night of nought, And follow glad green spring all round the laughing globes Upborne on fancy's wing and in her royal robes. In brighter being Still farther seeing. And on for ever In sweet endeavour Of broader giving And deeper living, While growing yet more fresh and fair In larger and more liberal air, To find the dear dread God past each most distant bound, Who as we dimly plod seems never to be found, And flies before us still and just eludes our grasp, A light on every hill, a cloud we cannot clasp. INCUNABULA. 5I And yet concealed by pride Keeps walking at our side, Who is not here or there, And yet speaks everywhere, In duty wrought And joy unsought, In tear Or fear." Ah, thus in ignorance I spoke, As into the new life I woke And waves of laughter round me broke In purple spray of pleasure ; For to my innocent young eyes Earth was a heaven, and the blue skies In hyacinthine ecstasies Spread at my tread their treasure. And in its glory to my call The great world, like a golden ball. Lay at my feet and offered all Its dew and fire and splendour ; The bloom and passion of the days, The wild roses in secret ways. To me the sweetness of their rays Gave like red lips' surrender. For I was God myself and saw Whate'er I wished in star or straw. And mine the impress of the law That made the moods of Nature ; Upon the gloom I wrote the gleam And glamour of my early dream, The mossy stone and moonlit stream Smiled at my legislature. Dear heart, when I look back into the Past, I see a sacred vision Of solemn figures upon cloudland cast As in divine derision. And baby wonder that goes wider far Than any creed or college, 52 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. And is a truer knowledge — Which stays not at the uttermost dim star, But from the flaming fountains Of earthquake-ridden mountains Steps forth unscorched b}^ fire and without scar, And even in splendid error Feels not the touch and terror, And bursts like cobwebs every iron bar. For then the Heaven was nearer, The very sun seemed clearer, And all the lands were bathed in dewy bliss Fresh from their loving Maker's last long kiss, That made the darkness dearer. And threw a glory on the lost abyss. The golden dreams of fable Looked, in that living Light, More certain and more stable, Than facts of vulgar sight ; And armed with maiden might. In white robes we were able To sit at God's own table. As by a native right ; We cut the prison cable. Which anchors man to night. All things, the giant laughter Of thunders in their lair, The owls that on the rafter Saw things before and after Up the old belfry stair. Said then. Amen. For verily and merrily the great world swung Backward and forward, Southward and nor'ward. Seaward and shoreward, So beautiful and dutiful, like the bells hung In the gray church tower With the gray church clock. INCUNABULA. 53 When they ring in their power And the bases rock, In the shine and shower, And the breezes knock Till the gates unlock Of their Lady's bower. For then we were so near the breast of Nature, My happy heart and I, We knew the tongue of every mortal creature And those that never die, And read the record on each veiled feature Where the grand secrets lie ; We heard the murmur of the unborn nations That struggle to the birth. And the broad pistons of the deep foundations Within their iron girth. And all was nigh, The far and high, As sob and sigh; And all was sweet, The snowflakes' feet. The lips that meet ; And all was true, The rose and rue. The wandering blue ; And all was fresh. The seaweed's mesh, The peach's flesh ; And all was fair. The dungeon stair, The gypsy's hair ; And all was joy. The broken toy. The coppice coy ; And all was great, The willow plate. The cottage gate ; And all was love, 54 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. The mating dove, The pink foxglove ; And all was hope, The midnight cope. The greensward slope ; And all was God, The blooming sod, The judgment rod ; And all was ours, Dead leaves and flowers, Eternal dowers. We strolled among the distant stars As in our native street, Who owned no clouds or prison bars, Nor wot of winding sheet ; We solved the riddle of the years With flash of simple faith, And from the mystery of tears We tore the lying wraith ; While lightly laid on every wheel That rolls the systems round, Our ready love could always feel The pulses at their bound, And catch the spirits at their spinnings Behind the sapphire loom, And trace the buds and fair beginnings Of melody and bloom, For ever weaving Robes of Spring. And yet deceiving As they sing. We knew our buildings were but Babel And yet most blessed still. And truer in their pictured fable Than creeds that threaten ill ; We knew the glory of illusion, Which turns to Eden toys, Was better than the sour confusion INCUNABULA. 55 Of facts denying joys ; We knew the leaves in foolish dances Taught truth that never dies, While feeding on mere bubble fancies And beautiful fond lies. For Life and Love From wells above Bathed all our days in splendour, And Love and Life In fruitful strife Strove which could most surrender ; They washed our feet And made them sweet As may in mountain gorges, They washed our hands And broke the bands Of custom's iron forges ; They washed our face With secret grace And set the clods aglowing, They washed us quite As angels white From treasures overflowing. But then we had a short and simple creed, No heaven in hopeless distance, That wrought a bondage of our bitter need And mocked at vain resistance — Ah ! then we fully lived and loved indeed, Just in mere glad existence. For Life was utter Love without the thorn And Love was Life in blossom, And evening had the brightness of the morn Breathed from its scarlet bosom. We caught the west wind where it lay asleep And chained in purple tether. And with the silver clouds we bade it sweep, To romp and rhyme together. We saw the petal how it reached its curve, 56 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. The exquisite fair finish, And colour ripened every cell to serve Lest one hue might diminish ; We heard deep down the mills in silence grind All beauty into being, And that last marvel the consummate mind Of consecrated seeing. We learned why roses laugh and redden yet In summer's wanton weather, The message of the moss with rapture wet, The rainbow on a feather, The secret of the fragrant violet. The passion of the heather. For v/ork was play, And every day Brought its own proper meetness ; And all the nights Gave solemn sights And miracles of sweetness ; And gloom and gleam, The truth and dream, Were one to indiscreetness ; And broken vows, With baby brows. Had perfect incompleteness. And all the wonder of the world Awake and sleeping, Was in a little dewdrop curl'd That smiled through weeping. The cowslip bell, The pimpernel, The oak in its proportion, Ere art's profane distortion — We spoke the speech Observed by each ; We had their hidden measure, And it was supreme pleasure. My heart and I, INCUNABULA. 57 That loved to lie Upon the greensward as it glanced and threw (Beneath the wind that kisses to it blew) Waves after waves their course to run, And in its perfumed strength and stature grew With every hour to something fair and new, In the embraces of the sun. And the broadening billows, Under the blue sk}', Of pastures bright and pillows For the butterfl}' ; If on the grasses dusty Fell the wind too lusty And would crease the clover, As it bustled over. Or assayed the metal Of a rumpled petal ; Yet the greensward tender Made a full surrender, Loved the wild wind's wooing, Though it were undoing Of its open arms And their unruffled charms. It softened in a simple Gladness, like the dimple On the cheek of maiden Kneeling, ere her tryst, Before the pictured blessing And the calm caressing Of the Holy Christ ; It welcomed to its breast and border. As they heaved and sparkled up, That breath which gave in dear disorder Life to bee and buttercup. The daffodils in all their splendour nodding In the scented air. The castled snail with its grave burden plodding Up its strawberry stair, ^8 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. That pretty death's head, the exclusive spider, Making love a meal, The crimson sunsets that then opened wider And did more reveal, The yellow lichen on the roof, the pebble Polished white and round. The madcap gust that raised a peevish treble Bursting from its bound, In love that mellows Were our fellows. Such playmates had we there and then Before we felt the bonds of men And fashion with its cruel force ; We drank sweet living at its source, And mixed our souls with every beam Or waft of wind or tender dream, And as we stept to earth's true story Were one with God and all His glory, And in His goodness done Were one. O it was beautiful to be, Linked to the very rock and tree. The autumn leaf, the moonlit wave, The wild flower on the quiet grave. The murmur of the rushy brook. The red cup in the mossy nook. The shimmer down the shadowed pond. With wonderful and secret bond ; To know a unity in all. The baby's cry, the blackbird's call. The blossom's bell, the armed thorn, The breeze's chanting to the morn, Beneath the mystic outward strife Of flowing, glowing, blowing life ; To feel that in the silent stone A hidden music had its throne, A prayer that waited but the time To wake in praise's bubbling chime. PSYCHAGONIA. _5g And flash the fire of its address To the sweet awful Loveliness, That breathes alike in sun and clod, The known and unknown Human God. PART II. PSYCHAGONIA. Then my heart and I Stept serene and eager to the front, Where the actors vie With each other, bathed in Love's young font; Shielded with the trust. Which is not an arm, but victory, Over lies and lust, And conceals a soul of rosemary ; All devoid of doubt, All possessed with hope's celestial fire Rushing in and out On the wings of infinite desire. Ruddy ran the blood In the bosom beating fast to fate With its living flood. Red as juice within the pomegranate. But was this the life of being, In the unveiled scar, And the scornful bar ? And was this the light of seeing, In the mocking star Still for ever from us fleeing Higher and more far ? Was I sleeping, did I waken From false dreams of beauty shaken Into dead blank night Of despairing flight. But to find myself forsaken All but of affright ? 60 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Ah ! I dreamed, And in my wild fevered vision Earth w^as seamed With grim sutures of derision, Which upon my will's decision Coldly gleamed. Yes, the world was robed in fond fallacious mist, Dear illusive depths beyond the amethyst And the emerald which met the curious eye ; Earth was not eternal yet, nor heaven the sky ; Forms were fleeting, and through change their features moved To the goal of something strange and fair and proved, If we passed the mourner's wreath and mourner's bell ; And to faith that looked beneath them all was well. The ideal Was the real, And the glimmer Grew not dimmer On the star-lit. Skies and scarlet Lips of maiden, Honey-laden ; And the blushes Of the flushes, In the bosom Of the blossom Still were cherished, Though they perished To our blindness And unkindness. We waxed duller, Not the colour Or gold metal Of one petal ; We fell stupid, Not the Cupid In the roses. And the posies PSYCHAGONIA. 6l Of sharp tansy And the pansy ; We were dying, Not the flying Flowers and fancies, God's romances ; We were dead Dreams instead. Fickle were our moods and tenses. Prejudiced and vain, Veering with each pain, And through avenues of senses Sights and sounds with false pretences Passing duped the brain ; Dazzled easily, and driven Like the morning dust. Was conceit called trust, By the first small buffet riven And to the last fancy given. Caught with every gust. Nay, we would not, and we could not then believe Earth did truly and unduly thus deceive, We were chidden and forbidden to draw nigh. And the fountains of the mountains flashed too high For poor mortals, and the portals of the Day, To our wonder would not sunder on the way. And the resting was the jesting of a Force That in terrors knew not errors or remorse, And with mocking set its blocking at each gate Or duped asking with the masking of black fate. And made living the misgiving of a breath Which the story of our glory blew to death. Therefore did my heart and I Take the bitter blame. Swear the bloom could never die — Ashes were the flame ; We determined all was good Through the suffering years, 62 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Mercy though with weeping stood In prevailing tears ; All was better than it seemed, Sadnesses were kind, And the loss and cross redeemed By the gain behind ; And, in spite of damning fall With the pierced breast, Earth was really Heaven, and all Always for the best. And the dimness With the grimness Doubt would find, Were confusion And delusion Of the mind. So we sallied forth to welcome all, Even vices' vermin Or the fool in ermine. And to see a bliss beneath the pall ; Forth to see a grace in every brand. And a more than lustre On the blighted cluster Of the grapes that baulked the harvest hand ; To discern a promise on the brow Of decay and ruin. And the rogues that sue in Courts of shame that to injustice bow ; To profess that ill is good and wrong is right. And the victim's portion Is not dire distortion, And the crown of sorrow is delight ; To be sure the wickedness is scourged, Not the baby weakness, Not the holy meekness. Which of nothing is for nothing purged ; And be blind to every blank, or stain Where the bayonet bristles. PSYCHAGONIA. 63 And pluck thorns from thistles, Or find freedom in the iron chain. Then within the strife Of all the sweet Many-coloured life Under our feet, Into the wild stress Still tossing up Foam of bitterness From hatred's cup, Gaily bent and clad Adown we plunged, Deeming all the sad Was quite expunged. Hoping all the ills Were but a dream. And the shadowed hills Withheld a gleam. And the cruel might Betrayed no curse, Blemishes and blight Could yet be worse, Woe and weary pangs Were not a part Of despair with fangs At every heart, Man was God, and knew All He could know, God was man, and drew The Heaven below. Oh ! it was not utter sorrow, Sunshine was not always brief, And the pallid face of grief Dared at times with joy to borrow Blushes from the coming morrow, Which assured a fond relief. Men were good and true at seasons, And showed pity to the poor — 64 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Sought their suffrages and floor, When they had sufficient reasons And could prate of party treasons, Not the wolf outside the door. We were young and we would purge the nation With the rapt reformer's broom, And arrayed it with imagination Working at its wondrous loom ; Youth is such a wise and strong magician It can glorify the gloom, And in sickness be its own physician On the very eve of doom ; In black forges' Fiery orgies, It can breathe unharmed and bloom ; On the crumbling Edge of tumbling Precipices it finds room ; From mad surges It emerges Fairer, as from earthquake's womb ; Rising younger In the hunger And the horror of the tomb. So we wandered forth about the lands. Took the sweetness with the sour. Proved the softness of bright maidens' hands, Sipped the honey of the hour ; In the chalice Even of malice Found some grateful drops to drain. Tried the measure Of each pleasure And the inmost pulse of pain. We were gallant knight and faithful squire Bound upon no certain quest, While before us seemed to float the fire Which was burning in the breast. PSYCHAGONIA. 65 Love and dangers Were no strangers On our daring, devious road, Bliss and beauty. Death and duty Were a glad and constant goad. Shade and sunshine came alike to us, And with calm we wedded storm, Frost and heat were comrades both, and thus Did we taste each fount and form. All the pages Of the ages Which had gone before we read. How the venal Life had penal Terrors if with halting tread. From the blossom of the present all the dew Still we fashioned to a toy. Sure to find us something fair and new What we sought in careless joy. In the message And the presage Of the coming years, we saw Mercy's sentence For repentance, And for Pharisees the Law. For we looked at Nature and at man Through the wish that kindled thought, And on chaos traced the perfect plan Which our own deception wrought. And our glosses Gilt the crosses Reared as milestones on our path. And our pity Veiled the city Doomed like Sodom unto wrath. Down into the awful deep and burning crater Whence is banished alway sleep, gazed the creator 5 66 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Youth, and gazing could but weep ; and hell grew greater With the beauty that we brought and that fresh glory Which against the evil fought and changed the story, And washed out with tears unbought the footprints gory. Yet upon the road Darker with the load Which was only ours. In the summer flowers, Brighter with the care We agreed to share With a brother's breast Who despaired of rest — Yet we journeyed on, While our fancy shone Over graves and dust Of defeated trust, And on ruin played In its lines arrayed. Seeking balm for shame. Though it never came. Down beside the pastures yellow Dotted red with kine, Where the creature found a fellow In the celandine, And the bennets laughed and rustled In their virgin dress, As the breeze about them bustled Wild with happiness, And the bee in search of nectar Rode the sunlight's ray. And the spider like a spectre Gloomed and glanced away. And the stream the meadow nibbled As it chattered by, And the lazy rooks were scribbled Black against blue sky ; There we watched betimes and waited For the saving Sight, PSYCHAGONIA. 67 Till sank low on us belated Evening's rose of light. But the promised ill's unfolding, As a flower in flame, With its weary long withholding, Never to us came. In the maddening hurly-burly of the masses Risen up erect in sovereign might, Like new continents to life and light. From a surging sea of jealous rocky passes And the doles and burdens of the tyrant classes, Who had kept them groping in the night ; In the market of the million, where the riddle Of eternity is sharply cut With the steel, as in the starving hut. And, while unlaid ghosts are stalking in the middle, Jesters dance upon the graves and dine and fiddle, Till the judgment door is on them shut ; In the senate vulgarized with venal thunder And the downward and demented race, Not for honor but for pelf and place, Where betwixt the cup and crime or bigot blunder Easy patriots conspire to hound and plunder Empire to the dunghill of disgrace ; In the chamber of the student early christened At the font of learning with the name Which alone the savage soul can tame, While the awful dews Divine of wonder glisten Yet upon his carven brow — we fondly listened, For the saving Sound that never came. In the blossom stigma, On the baby's brow, Frowned the same enigma Then that darkens now. Where the cheek was moister With the sacred tear, In the court and cloister Fell the blasting fear. 68 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. In the slum and chapel, Where they mumbled still The forbidden apple, Hung the haunting ill. With the woman sainted Lurked the nameless blight, As with wantons painted For their damned delight. On the ruin hoary And the laughing blade, Like a garment gory Dropt the dreadful shade. In the red gold tresses, Mouth of crimson bloom, Serpent's grim caresses, Lay the common doom. On the bride's adorning, As in duty's call, Mystery and mourning Reigned alike in all. Ah ! the clue expected By our loving gaze, Dawned not on dejected Hope, from lurid haze. In the curses muttered. Where the blessing shone, There the same unuttered Agony writhed on. Yet, though every joy seemed brief and hollow, We essayed in dim, wild ways to follow That desired, delayed and unseen Vision, Which would 3'ield the one Divine decision, Making sweet the sorrow and explaining All the horror of the dumb complaining. So we loved and strove with men and pondered. As we soared or sank and blindly wandered Up the sheer black sides of rocky ranges, Down the sunless gulf that never changes, DYSTHANASIA. 69 After the one Voice for which we hearkened, Though yet more and more the rough road darkened, While the slow faint steps waned short and troubled, And the deep night of the blank breast doubled. But in frost and autumn flame, Though we looked and listened Till our wet eyes glistened, The solution never came. This sad heart and I, In the spring's green clothing And our fresh betrothing With a fairer tie, Knew that we must die And the bond was nothing. Yet the passion and the will Ineradicable still, Light of seeing, Breath of being. That deep principle All invincible, With its rapture For the capture Of the prize we ever missed. If the warm lips almost kissed, Grandly bare us up and on, Though no guiding beacon shone. And the light within had gone. PART III. DYSTHANASIA. But now My brow Is dim with sadness, The light Is night And mirth is madness ; 70 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. While on the face Of morning's grace, If mountain top or daisied meadow, On green water Or gossamer Hangs the echpse of evening's shadow. My heart and I Know we must die And the sweet spell of earth be broken. The fairest tie Is but a lie. The truest word was vainly spoken. For all will surely pass, Like leaves and summer grass, The prayer of hallowed hush, The magic maiden's blush. The stain of jewelled hand. The blood on rusty brand. The palace on the mount, The pitcher at the fount. The love and crowned lust, The graveyard and its dust, The master and his ass. The golden creed or class. Not simply in the flower, but on the summit hoary, In weakness and in power is writ moiiento mori ; On blazing poppy mead or field of battle gory, In letters plain we read the same sad ancient story. For all in season pass, And all must perish Whate'er we cherish ; Alas ! Give me a crown of withered leaves, A sceptre of the straw, A throne of shadowed hopes and sheaves Beneath the mildew's law, A court of want that grimly weaves For castles' pride or cottage eaves DYSTHANASIA. 71 One famine's blighting flaw And awe ; For life is but the lurid breath Of death. Our dawning opened fair and free Its golden gates of splendour, Gate above gate in blessed bond Like bridal union tender, Gate above gate and gate beyond Sense and its base surrender. The sparrow's note was then a psalm, No poor thing had to borrow, The shore was ever white and calm With happy waves of sorrow. And in the promise of the palm Immeasurable morrow. The winds were angels we knew well That hourly brought assistance. We nowhere saw a sign of hell But heaven in each blue distance, The stocks and stones had all a spell, And all in God existence. Fancy, that then had wings to fly, Outflew the hunted widgeon, The heart leapt up at every cry Of mating thrush or pigeon. And over earth its purple sky Beautiful spread Religion. For Love was then The king of men. It crowned the humblest creature, And turned to gold The moss and mould. And found some royal feature. But now King Love Has fled above And gone to Mars or Venus ; I and my heart 72 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Feel we must part, And night has come between us. No longer free, I only see The darkness round and under, And gilded doors, With marble floors. Awake no more to wonder ; In living clay Death and decay, As in the doomed and dying, Are all I mark. And all is dark, The wedding and the buying. The gloom goes on, And light that shone When very hope had dwindled, Deserts my side. Though once so wide It worlds with glory kindled. In earth and skies. My clouded eyes Discern no joy or vision, And dimly trace Instead of grace Mere ashes and derision. My tortured mind Is deaf and blind To sight or sound of beauty, And heeds no call Beneath its pall, When clash the swords of duty. Blemish and rust. Despair and dust, On fair young foreheads linger, In bloom and blade And shine and shade, The brand of a dead finger. DYSTHANASIA. 73 Among the ghosts of creeping fears the life grows sick and numb, And with the rolHng of the years the prophecies are dumb. For something now has vanished, A music from the streams, The rapture of the dreams ; And I am cold and banished To wolds of winter gleams, By the ice hammer planished Along their wrinkled seams. The glamour and the greeting That blew with every gust And chimed with simple trust, With more than lovers' meeting. Have passed as all things must ; The dear old world was fleeting. The dear old gods are dust. The glow, the gleesome shiver. That thrilled the lonely lot And brightened the worst blot. Have set on rock and river ; The Dryads now are not, No darts has Cupid's quiver. And where fruits rest they rot. The smile upon sweet Nature's mouth that led the seasons forth, It is not in the sunny South, it is not in the North ; And that enchanting nameless charm I ever mourn and miss. Which clasped me like a snowy arm and veiled a crimson kiss. Grim science with its ghastly doubt Snuffs out The pretty lamps that faith had lighted. And with its finger damp and cold And old The darling buds of joy has blighted ; Behind it creeps the desert, made Of shade 74 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. And mocking shame that is not living, Before it goes the cry of fears With tears And awful murmur of misgiving. Romance is spoiled of splendid gloom And bloom. By this forbidding fatal spectre, Which with its knife and funeral robe And probe Freezes the fount of all our nectar ; Which pokes about and weighs and pries And lies Though at its step we groan and languish, And finds beneath its microscope No hope, And gloats on the good news of anguish. For all the sweetness and completeness of the earth, That in its measure plucked a pleasure out of dearth, And knew that peril was not sterile and would seed In more than fiction's benedictions at our need, Or opened portals for the mortals who had none And promised laughter should hereafter yet be won. These sorely shaken have forsaken now the lands, With all the waving and the saving of v;hite hands. The ruined tower Has lost its power, The wondrous walls Are cattle stalls, The holy shrines Are human swine's. On solemn saints The scoffer paints, The dear church bell No tale can tell. The sceptic's wits Pull God to bits. Old pomp and pride In embers hide, DYSTHANASIA. 75 And on their <;raves Drink sots and slaves. The Naiads do not wanton in the waters And peep from nodding flags, Or lie voluptuous among lilied quarters Where the late moonbeam lags ; And on the castled crags, I see not now my Dreamland's golden daughters Bewitched by cruel hags, And the gray wolf that at their bidding slaughters. From the mere's lucent lip, Whence in these days have passed the forms of fable, I see no Undine slip With beautiful bare hip Into blue deeps of palace gate and gable So dimly and deliciously unstable, Where pearls and diamonds drip Down on the silver floor and sapphire table. I read no fairy lore On emerald rings and in the purple valley, Where shy winds with the sheltered violets dally And rob their perfumed store ; From legend's mistj^ shore, Gay shadows of old knights no longer sally ; And haunted rivers murmur musically. No more, no more, no more. My heart and I With sacred tie Are somehow rudely widely sundered, And in our bright Young joyous might Of all that makes life living plundered. I and my heart Now walk apart. Who once were knit in happy marriage, While over both And plighted troth Creaks Science with its vulgar carriage. 76 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. What do they leave, Who thus bereave A suffering world of sinful masses ? Darkness and dust, A murdered trust, A few retorts and bones and gases. For in the whirl of atoms struggling through their hostile parts, There is no room with all this juggling for the grace of hearts. And in the crucible God is reducible To fantasies and fears ; And bitter blinding tears Are just completing Glands' secreting ; And when we feel awry, Our nervous energy Escapes and rushes Red in blushes ; And the world-shaping thought We deemed salvation, Little is or nought But cerebration. And all is right, And all is night, Though it conceals the Heaven it smutches. Stays our flight And steals delight, Bequeathing only cripples' crutches. But that is all, For Christ or Paul. Yes, Science is not pretty but then it is proper. And explains away your soul for a mere copper ; Here is a heap And quite dirt cheap, And truly nowise better With its gags and fetter. DYSTHANASIA. 77 For though it be most perfect and most pat, Yet (curse it !) it wants something, it wants tJiat — The indefinable And unassignable, The atmosphere and hush, The coaxing and the gush Of some sweet hoarded question's Infinite suggestions. Very grace Of God's veiled Face ; Which lurks in green sad corners Where the joys are mourners, Suddenly dropt down A glad and heavenly crown. In wondrous ways appointed, On the head anointed ; That pure and perfect charm, Whose bliss may not be uttered, And is faintly muttered By the reverent heart that watching waits And wonders at the golden gates, Until they open with their torches Rosy lines of pillared porches. And the secret Sight With its redeeming might ; That kindly Spell Which could have drawn with its true magic Souls from hell And for a season lulled the terrors tragic, If in Easter brief Yet with a sure relief, Is dead, is dead. And reigns instead On butchered love and palsied prayer Science the Slayer. And why should I live tamely on, When every gift of life is gone ? Oh ! why not pass 78 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. With summer grass, And April showers, Or sweet May flowers, That as they die in beauty still The richer world with fragrance fill ? Let me some blossom of the mind, A white-winged fancy leave behind, A seed to save The crouching slave, That from my grave Shall wax a splendid thought, and spread Its branches fair And purple air In lepers' lair, And raise the fallen and the dead. Are there not higher Temples where God comes yet nigher Man than here ? Are there not fairer lands in legions With no sad defiling soil. And rose-soft fanes and lily regions Where the work is without toil, And great sweet lamps of holy oil For ever burn, and all the burdens Are delights and restful guerdons Claspt not by our serpent soil ? May I not flee the gabble Of these hateful climes In our poor withered times, The glare, and strife, and rabble, Mixing brighter babble With yon sacred chimes ? May I not in a broader sphere Do labour that will not turn sere, And sing in simple childlike trust The truths I know because I must, And there throw out the shoots of infinite warm love PALINGENESIS. 79 Which now die at their roots ere they can chmb above ? Here all is vain and trifling, And the soul Within a world of stifling Stark controul, On food that does not nourish Finds no room, And cannot flower and flourish In its tomb. Earth is but God's apprentice art, In other worlds He gives His heart. And thither would I fly, To a far bluer sky And greener shore Of blessed store. Where rolls and rests our home Eternity, For evermore. And now my eager spirit Would its home inherit And outspreads its wings, To the white court and column Where in session solemn Reign its brother kings. Go, life, and break ; my heart has long been broken ; And I have spoken. PART IV. PALINGENESIS. Yet, yet How forget All the promise and the power Stored within the rose's bower, Subtle shoots that gleam and grow From that virgin snood of snow, Where the lily fain would tell Its eternal parable ? 8o CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Yet from death and bitter pain We awoke and lived again, We arose, I and my heart, To a new diviner part. Slept outside the rude crude strife, Through redeemed affection And its resurrection, Into the calm hallowed life Great with all the added love Of the greater world above. Bright with all the blessed glow Of the brighter founts below. Sweet with all the sacred bliss That the selfish seekers miss Of the sweeter hidden grief Which is its own one relief, Fair with all the solemn grace In that secret beauty Of a broader duty. Reflex of God's very face. In the world, not of it, With its poor vain profit. Lived we but lived needingly, Loved we and exceedingly. Strove we but most graciously, Gave we and gave spaciously. Soft things made more slenderly Touched us and right tenderly, With a true note amorous In the rough press clamorous, And white wings celestial Waved in ways terrestrial. Why should we by careless touch Tamper with the sacred plinth Or the purple hyacinth. And be curious overmuch — How the solemn legend runs Carven not by human hands, PALINGENESIS. 8l Numbering for fated lands All the passion of the suns ; How within the blossom's breast Traced with keen and trembling dart, Lie upon its bleeding heart Words of woe that cannot rest ? Why should man desire to know What is writ in books below, Purposes and mystic plan Voiceless since the world began, Hidden by the crimson glove Of the flower that whispers love, Shouted by the north wind's breath When it drives and threatens death, Painted on the clouded sky Peeping through with azure eye, Dashed with colour warm and wet On the weeping violet — Why should man desire to know What is writ in books below ? Why should man desire to tell What is so ineffable, All the darkness of the years. All the trouble of the tears, All the sadness of the soil, All the burden of the toil. All the meaning of the rod, All the Silence that is God — Why should man desire to tell What is so ineffable ? Why should man desire to see What is said by tower and tree, What is with the sunrise sown. Ever read and never known. Glimpses of an iron fate. Gleams of more than angel state. Surges, scourges, crowns for kings, Ashes, lashes, murmurings — 6 82 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Why should man desire to see What is said by tower and tree ? Ah, when mortal man is such, Why be curious overmuch ? Oh, it were for us divinely better. Clogged with our old dragging earthl}' fetter, Through the dimness of our mournful mazes Just to gather on our road the daisies. As we meet them, and to take the pleasure Where we find it, and not ask the measure — Just to wish for welcome words and scorning With a calm content the same good morning. When they come as they will come in kindness If we bravely greet them without blindness ; Not to flout the fond lips that would kiss us, Nor to love ourselves like vain Narcissus ; Not to seek beyond the scope of reason, And in idle sport to play at treason. Not to make disease or mad desiring The one joy and toy of false inquiring ; But to hail the portion that comes double, Shine and shadow and delight and trouble, Each to check the other and make sweeter Days that nowise else could be completer. Life is large and many-sided giving, Life is the full sum of all and living. Life is solved by being, and not questions Raising like the dead but dead suggestions. So we lived, my heart and I, Not as lives the varlet Clothed in black or scarlet, Just because we chose to die, And had broken the last tie Which with golden tresses And voluptuous dresses Bound us to a glittering lie ; So we lived away from toys In the kingly station PALINGENESIS. 83 Of renunciation, With its true sublimer joys Of the creed that never cloys, And we found the Tansy * Blooming by the Pansy f In the Love that self destroys — The divine Anodyne. Lo, the Guardians of the race From their upper awful place, Spirits of the great and good. Men and god-like womanhood, Who above the fear of fate Watch for ever at the gate. Shutting out that world from this With its sensuous synthesis, Looked in reverend pity down, As we sank and seemed to drown In the stream whose hungry flow Carries all at length below — All save those in blessed pain Dying but to rise again ; So they took us by the hand Through a dim and dolorous land, Led us blindfold yet in faith Past each rock and dazzling wraith, Where the Sirens on the shore Sing deceiving evermore — Where, beside the shining shells, Circe sits and weaves her spells — Till we passed, beyond the mist, To the Throne of Amethyst. They were holy, And with moly Stayed and fed us. As they led us * aOavaffia. \ Thought, peusee. 84 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Out of errors Past the terrors Of the Lion Hard by Sion, And the fateful Serpent wakeful, And the Giant Dark defiant, And the Raven To our Haven, And the summits in the splendour Where they nod. In the Silence great and tender Which is God. There we sweetly bathed, And were all enswathed In the saving light Of the solemn Sight. And the Wisdom sure Made us very pure, Washed away the mean And what was unclean, Clothed us inward quite Beautiful and white. There we dropt the flesh, Rising fair and fresh Yet again to be From that sunny sea. Where the summits nod. Bathing us in God. Thus in dying and denying did we find our better selves, Not by straining and the gaining but to fill up golden shelves. As the miser who unwiser heaps and hoards for others all. Though his trouble he redouble and the riches come at call ; Out of losses and on crosses we arose to higher things. Tribulation's coronations made us more than any kings, Sacrifices of our vices gave us an undreamed of wealth. And through tender life's surrender yet we lived in brothers' health ; PALINGENESIS. 85 Till the stages writ in pages torn from an enduring part, Led us slowly, led us lowly, by a way unknown to Art, Through the labour that is neighbour unto everything with breath, To the gladness that of sadness born is perfected by death. Thus did we come boldly back To the conquered sin, Having peace within. Strewing roses on the track Of the ruin and the wrack. Whence all wrongs begin. Knowing men were soiled and such, Knowing men were weak. Why on frailty wreak Wrath and steal the cripple's crutch. And be righteous overmuch, Or in judgment speak ? So we made a path of pity Through the dreadful deeps Of the lost and sunken city Which for ever weeps, Whilst the shadow creeps Closer like a gravecloth gritty Over foolish men and witty — Where no mourner sleeps. But with sad and sombre ditty Lonely vigil keeps. And we lit the Lamp whose shining Never can go out. And in its serene entwining Gilds the beggar's clout, Drives away the doubt. And with wonderful refining Stays the infamous maligning And the ribald shout. Or on lips of dark designing Bids red cherries pout. Spending still and freely spent 86 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. On in gentle ways we went, Bearing and forbearing yet, Glad to pardon and forget, Giving here a happy look, Leaving there some holy book, Granting always of our best Whether food or flower or rest, Knitting love with baby socks, Hailing kings in vulgar smocks, Quick with sweet compassion's oil. Slow where angry waters boil, Shutting nothing out but hate From our hospitable gate. Fearing nothing — fire or sword, Devils' ire or dungeon cord, Judas kiss or killing pain — But the sin that leaves a stain, Fain to let the meanest live Or the blackest debt forgive, And for all one tender touch — Why be righteous overmuch ? On our journey. In the tourney, While we lingered Yet and fingered Dusky tresses In recesses Hushed and hidden And forbidden All, save only For the lonely — When we hastened Or were chastened By affliction's Benedictions, Laughing, weeping, Waking, sleeping. Teaching, jesting, PALINGENESIS. 87 Toiling, resting, — In the kindness Done to blindness, On our sorrow For the morrow With its certain Final curtain, On the mountain, through the mist. Shone the holy Amethyst. We have passed above the surges seething yet In their prison. And arisen To the heights of hope where suns may never set ; Though we move among the millions as they slave, Strive and stumble, Proud or humble, To their grandeur or dishonour and the grave. We have toiled ourselves and to the curse that clung Set the shoulder, Waxing older, In the awful wisdom that through fire makes young. We have stooped beneath the burden as it fell On another, Yet a brother. And redeemed him from the very hold of hell ; While we bore on our own bosom smarting still All the anger And the languor Treasured in the black and blasted stores of 111. For we dared to cross the limit Shutting round our mortal state, Struggling up -though fear would dim it — To a nobler form and fate ; Forward, where the Serpent hisses, Past each crumbling rock and ledge, Over flower — concealed abysses. On the Sword of naked edge ; Though the powers of Darkness met us, 88 CONFESSIONS OF A POET, And the hands of Darkness dread With their snares and baits beset us, And enticed us to the dead. Turning a new page Of our pilgrimage, With the solemn look Of some blessed book, We upon it bent Glances reverent, And therein we saw Writ the larger law Of the wondrous things. Men august as kings In the coming years, Through atoning tears ; Humbly there we read, As around the head Of a saintly soul Shines an aureole, Lofty truths to be In the ages free, When collective will Working mine and mill, Dealing out the land With impartial hand. Guiding every trade Under shine and shade, Moulding minds as clay To a better way. Should with justice teach Equal rights to each. Science purged of passion through the nations Moved with gentler, kinder tone. And from every stock and stone. With the magic of its ministrations. Drew the rapture and the revelations Which belonged to each alone. And on each bestowed new consecrations PALINGENESIS. 89 Till it seemed God's very throne. Science linked with faith lit up the alleys Of the sinning slaving town, Where the drudges starve or drown, And despair with ruin hourly dallies, Or from crime to crime in silence sallies, Dreadful as a dead man's frown ; It breathed freshness of the hills and valleys, And the Pariah gave a crown. Science solved the riddle of the ages. Armed with love's resistless might And its beatific sight, Calmed the questions and the idle rages Of the force that fights for bloody wages With a vision of the right. Rolling earth down rainbow-covered stages To a future lost in light. W^e have looked and we have listened For the tidings, till they came Out of shadow, out of shame. While the dearth with promise glistened. We have carried on the message, Hung it like a fiery torch In the jail and brothel porch. With its wide and wondrous presage. We have with all danger striven, Though it never fell on us. And the beasts of Ephesus Tamed and maimed before us driven. Men and beasts, Fights and feasts, Tears and smiles. Words and wiles. Work and play. Night and day, All conspired with peace and passion Us on every forge to fashion, Till the sword and sharper pen Wrote " Amen ". go CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Now the world is waxing bolder, And upon the sunny foreheads of the great and gifted Few Looking over Shakespeare's shoulder, Falls the light of larger ages which shall yet the earth renew ; Now the younger ransomed nations. Rising to the full dimensions of their heritage and due, Seek in fairer fields salvation's Circle, not in deadly drudging, and a brighter path pursue. For the truths that never vary, Though the views and passing visions of the passing times turn old. To Thy Face, O Son of Mary, Looking, over all the lustres, they the Amethyst behold ; And they find in beauty's culture Strength, and joy, and grace, and triumph, and the treasures of the Rest, Which defies the cruel vulture Feeding on the fettered serf and tearing at his tortured breast. We have come in reverent asking That alone gives eyes to see, And have stept behind the masking To the Wisdom that makes free. We have seen, and we are victors Over suffering and shame, Over false reproach and blame And the fasces of the lictoi's, Over all the dark afflictors Proved but terrors of a name. For we mark beyond the shadow, Like a mist upon a meadow Hiding all the brooks and flowers And the birds in happy bowers — Mark beneath the tears and trying And the agony of dying. In the winter promise vernal. On the slave a crov/n eternal. We have conquered, and Aniavi PALINGENESIS. 9I Has expunged the old Peccavi, And through blood and fiery dew Of a high and holy cJirisma, In a fiercer fresh baptisma The dead earth is born anew. Men are gods, and white virginity Is a tender true Divinity, Which shall bring a better time With a more than Christmas chime, Opening out into infinity With enfranchised souls sublime. Lo ! the goddess in the maiden. If with sin and sorrow laden, On a throne of glorious ken ; And a thousand angels thunder From the ransomed worlds of wonder, yanua vitce mors. Amen. God is beauty, God is duty, And all Heaven is in the clod ; And the mortal Is the portal Which reveals the man as God. Though He slay me, I will stay me On the eternal rock of trust ; If the evil God be Devil, I will love because I must. Till the better Life its fetter Breaks and bursts in flower above. Ever hiving More, and striving Under the blue sky of Love. Earth may rend its tie, Heaven in ashes lie, Or the world become a slaughter pen g2 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Yet my Heart and I Know we cannot die, But to live for evermore. Amen. EPILOGUE. Great with the treasures of Time Comes the Desire of the years, Man with his work subhme, Woman redeemed through tears Fair with her voice's chime, Wonderful, born of fears ; Rich in the solemn right Wrung from the conquered doom. Seeing with inward light Windows in earthly gloom, Opening broad and bright Infinite rest and room. White are their royal feet Washed from the clinging mire, Whiter the hands that meet Wedded in one desire, Whitest the hearts and sweet Burning with holy fire ; Strong in the wisdom bought Dearly through stains and strife. Roughly on anvils wrought, Fashioned with flame and knife, Orbed to the perfect thought Blooming in perfect life. Godlike they come, the dearth Bursts into bud and dew, Glad the enfranchised earth Knowing her cares are few Laughs with a giant mirth, Called to a bridal new. Happy their eyes, their hands EPILOGUE. 93 Pour the divinest dowers Freely, their fond commands Give to the dyin<,r powers, Under their steps the lands Break in a foam of flowers. Ah, they have listened long, Knelt at the awful Gate Trusting, and caught the song Sung for regret too late, Love, which has vanquished wrong Master of hell and fate. Yes, they beheld the Sight, Drunk in the Vision true Veiled behind bars of night. Higher than mortals sue, Arming with better might Souls that seek others' due. Cleansed with their offered blood Shed for a wider plan, Turning to gold the mud, Turning to Godhead man, Bathed in the sacred flood Flowing since Time began. Ah ! they have heard and seen. Ah ! they have felt, and know All that has grimly been Under the hues and glow Making the earth so green. All the despair below. Now with their larger lore Clearly they read the tale Writ on the silver shore, Sighed in the savage gale, Hid with the buried ore, Sobbed by the violet vale. Oh ! they believe and live Deep in the hearts of all. Out of their fulness give 94 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Sorrow and soothe its call, Not with a fugitive Grace that must ever fall. Theirs is the guiding clue, Told by a treasured glove, Smiling in heavenly blue, Cooed by the mating dove, Breathing in rose and rue — Living (through dying) Love. SECTION III. " THE PILGRIM OF ETERNITVr (Shelley.) I. No banner waved, no trumpet blew Its message from the mouldering wall, No beacon flared, and no one knew The knell had rung of Empire's fall ; And no one answered to the call. Which round the hoary ruin flew ; Where stood a Pilgrim sad and solemn. Himself a gnarled and wrinkled column ; Scarred by the lightning, pale and lone, A sunset glory on his face, As stiffened into breathing stone, The last of his imperial race. Who cared, if the lorn hunted Jew Was starved and hounded from the lands, That drank his revelation's dew ? They burst their superstitions' bands, By him who owned the ruler's hands, And moulded the wide world anew ; He called God from His awful distance, And then was blotted from existence ; 'Twas he who with his mighty faith Created the high Heaven of Love, Gave form and substance to a wraith And drew the fire from founts above. g6 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. 3- Who knew that now this regal race, Which had enriched with graves the sod Of every people in each place, Bearing for all the penal rod, And almost had discovered God, Was gone and hardly left a trace ? Save where its burning holy passion. Taught better times a fairer fashion ; For it had sunk with savage pains Down to the basest lowest lees, And struck through deathless history strains Its dirge of terrible degrees. 4- And here this strange unearthly man. Firm in his sole sufficient might, Stood, under universal ban ; As if he would in conscious right Men and his Maker singly fight. With sword of no unequal plan ; Some thought that, sweet as angel singing. Woke hidden spheres to bright beginning ; Some wish, so beautiful and dread It made the feeblest nature strong. And raised the spirits from the dead Or swayed the world with echoing song. 5- A figure scarcely human he, Cast in an older vaster form And with a fallen beauty free ; As meant to ride a rebel storm And frozen hearts with purpose warm, Or other larger visions see ; As wrought to suffer more than reason. For every time and not one season ; " THE PILGRIM OF ETERNITY." 97 As born with many a mystic throe To battle on with lust and pelf And be the everlasting foe Of God and all, and of himself. His look was proud, untamed by ill, He shot his fiery glances far On desert bare and blasted hill ; As if he spurned the fleshly bar That stayed him from the kindred star. An exile but a conqueror still ; He gazed on earth, he gazed on heaven That travailed with its thunder leaven — That wrapped him in its shadowy robe And flung abroad a flaming ring; He trod in triumph on the globe, That groaned and trembled at its king. 7- Behind him crept the cruel night, Before him fled the dying day ; And clouds in the uncertain light, Like ghosts that took their tortured way With sheeted forms and garments gray, Loomed dim and dreadful on the sight ; But in the storm he stood, a giant, Hewn out of rock, with front defiant; Although he bare the bitter load Of dark insufferable years. And long had walked the weary road Wet with a mighty nation's tears. 8. Lo, scarlet flowers he would not cull Flashed from a skeleton's grim side. And out of eyeless sockets dull ; The bones were scattered bleached and wide 7 g8 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. About him, as in rugged pride His foot he planted on the skull ; Above him, at the broken portal Stared forth a face in calm immortal ; The vulture, in its crumbling tower, Bent down on curst dethroned Bel And the last heir of greater Power, That solitary sentinel. 9- The rolling space, the boundless air, The might of the tempestuous sea, Had wrought his spirit free and fair And verdant as some deathless lea ; They gave the indomitable plea. Which scaled the highest heavenly stair ; And, woven with his inmost being, They dowered his faith with more than seeing ; The fever of the battle strife And peace of holy hands that bless, Had poured into his looks and life The wonder of the wilderness. He heard the happy waters chime, Upon the shining golden shore ; Where, above reach of care and crime, They wash as they have washed before, And make a murmur evermore. Beyond the troubles of all time ; Last of the grand old prophet order. He stood just at his Canaan's border; The systemed orbs might feel decay, But he could never faint or ily, Who was (though each world passed away) A portion of eternity. II. " God of my fathers," then he cried, " I lift my equal prayer to Thee ; " THE PILGRIM OF ETERNITY." 99 I have the hostile earth defied And kept my spirit pure and free, Though oft Thy Presence none could see, And many fell and faith denied ; I bowed not, if I served Thy sentence, And wrought in fire my fierce repentance ; In memory of the dreadful deed, The first black flower of bloody strife, Which shut me in a doom decreed And gave me damned and endless life. 12, " Preserver, I may get no grave — I whom the Deluge could not drown And Thou didst in Thy wisdom save, To wear this wan and cursed crown That is my shame and my renown ; I envy still the murdered slave ; Thou drovest me to a far shelter, Beyond the watery rage and welter ; I might not bury in the deep That vengeance written in the sky, I could not even escape in sleep My evil immortality. 13- " Terrible God, I tried each art To comfort me in wanderings wide, Though yet of every ill a part ; While to myself I hugged the pride That kindled, in my world aside, The terrors of a haunted heart ; High on my forehead flared the branding, Burnt in with fire by Thy commanding ; I vainly bent to scathe and loss. Despoiled of all but that one mark, The ineradicable cross, Which daily grew more grim and dark. lOO CONFESSIONS OF A POET. 14. " Destroyer, none could see the sign But Cain, in guilt's remorseful throe ; Though all men knew I was malign, And separated unto woe ; They felt I was the general foe, Outside the pale of things benign ; In secret worlds and worlds external, I saw and loathed the light infernal ; 'Twas blazoned on the heavens at noon, And in the midnight it was there, It dimmed the magic of the moon, I saw it threatening everywhere. 15- " Dread Unity, my cross of sin Seemed scribbled as by demon art In meadow brook, on mountain whin. In mazes of the roaring mart ; Engraven always on my heart It shadowed out the wrath within ; Aye, in the sleep of tortured vision, it followed me with dire derision ; Upon each stock, upon each stone, In refuges that would not hide, I saw the accusing mark alone, Around, above, on every sjde. 16. " Maker of evil, grave and gloom, I strove a myriad ways to burst This boundless life that yet lacked room, As far as desperate mortal durst. Shut in, a leprous thing accurst, To unimaginable doom ; I braved the spear, the axe, the halter, And fuel was to Moloch's altar ; ' " THE PILGRIM OF ETERNITY. lOI But no deliverance was to be, I could not break the fatal tie ; For from myself I might not flee, And I should never never die. 17- " Relentless One, I sought the sea. There to inter my ceaseless crime ; But ocean only mocked my plea. And cast me forth as filthy slime Upon the ghastly glare of Time, To find no sheltering vale or lea ; I got no wound from poisoned arrows, Nor beneath torture's red-hot harrows ; Wild beasts and wilder men in fright Turned from my presence, when I came ; I seemed to breathe a deadly blight, The shadow of my lasting shame. i8. " Sole and Serene, Rest of the saint, I wooed the desert, wooed the town. Where men in iron forges faint. And smoke with sullen knitted frown Lets not one loving ray come down ; But neither heard my heart's complaint ; Though the dire word could scarce be spoken, And speaking had its vessel broken ; And when, defying every law, I pushed beyond the charts of men And all things living, there I saw My sorrow waiting for me then. 19. " Great Architect, I temples built To hide my blot and naked need ; I only saw the red blood spilt. I02 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. The inextinguishable deed And wounds that opened but to bleed ; I knew the irreparable guilt ; I asked the eve, I asked the morning, Alike they turned from me with scorning ; By night I felt the lurid shape, By day I marked the present sin, I could not from myself escape, The fear I fled from lay within." 20. He spoke, and issued out of Space Expanding into splendid flower, A Child of more than human grace And breathing more than earthly power, With all Divinity for dower ; Eternity was in His face ; Love, flowing from each gentle gesture. Held forth His own white royal vesture ; Compassion shone in every look ; And through His tears in mercy smiVd Upon that life's blurred, ghastly book, The Holy, the Eternal Child. Cain heeded 7iot the tender call, But fixed his glances on the ground, And clung more tightly to the pall Of horror wherein he was ivound ; He would not, could not, be unbound. He loved to feel his fetters gall ; Though earth to its foundation slniddered. At that dark soul swept on unruddered ; He still disdained the blessed gift Of pardon for his erring way Through homeless worlds, and hope's blue rift That pointed to the endless Day. " THE PILGRIM OF ETERNITY." IO3 " Thou Stern Pursuer, whom I fear And love with love akin to hate, To fly and follow year by year, And worship early and weep late ; I knock and knock at Mercy's gate, An outcast from Thee, yet so near ; I needed not the Rabbins' College, Who tasted of the Tree of Knowledge ; But all my learning cannot blunt The point of conscience with its knife, For I (whom pangs for ever hunt) Have eaten, too, the Tree of Life. 23- " O Blessed One, whom I would curse. But am constrained instead to bless, My deed was black, the meaning worse, And more than mortal words express ; My bosom bears, without redress, Its centuried grief — as on a hearse ; I sought to quench, in my mad sinning, The human at its fair beginning ; I meant to wipe from every place Creation's crown, in my fell pride, To mock Thee with the murdered race And cheat Thee then with suicide. 24. "Omniscient, I, whose heart is rent Now with the torments of the lost. Who have all hell within me pent On waves of hopeless passion tost, Disdained to count the dreadful cost, With one poor victim not content ; I would blot out, in his fresh glory, Man at the starting of his story ; 104 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. The heaven was callous to my call, It spurned my gift of humble price, And so I offered man and all — A braver, bloodier sacrifice. 25- " Omnipotent, I scorn to plead The malice of a Devil's ire ; Who did betray my soul and lead Unto the monstrous pit of mire, And gat my soul for damned hire — That ignorance might some pity read ; Why should I sink to cowards' level, Who was myself my own dark Devil ? Now comes no respite for these pangs Beneath the surf, below the ground ; Thy furies with their cruel fangs My flying heart for ever hound. 26. " Thou Omnipresent One, the blow That slew a brother and would slay And would all human kind lay low, Was struck at Thy most righteous way And Thee in that unclouded day, Whence our sweet streams of blessing flow ; Infatuate, I dreamed my malice Could drink of Thee its venomed chalice ; But, though inspired with the dark pledge Which nought but murder's breast could hold, It missed and with a sharper edge Recoiled on me a hundredfold. 27. " O Wisdom, I, who crossed the bound Where boldest eyes with awe grow dim, And dared to tread that solemn ground " THE PILGRIM OF ETERNITY." 105 Which blasts the foot of idle whim — Who passed the sleepless Cherubim, In Thee a dreader knowledge found ; For, when I plucked the flame-girt treasure, I hungered for a vaster pleasure ; Thy retribution, in the heat Of pride's intoxicating breath, Bade me of richer banquet eat And live for ever living death. 28. " Great God, my senseless passion smote Thee in Thy Honour's noblest grace — In the warm Love that widening wrote Its characters throughout all space, And shone most brightly in man's face That bore in gloom Thy perfect note ; And thus it fouled the very fountains, The Right like seas, the Truth like mountains ; And forth that changeless fiat went Which drove me to a desert dearth. Beneath a heaven in judgment bent, An exile in a homeless earth. 29. " Lord, yet I grimly hug these chains And bless the bondage of m}' lot ; I revel in the biting pains, And probe with joy each loathsome spot, Which ripens in me but to rot And every star I look at stains ; It casts on sunny stream or meadow, The horror of its corpse-like shadow ; And if despair and ghostly doubt Take form and body out my sin, Thy torturers lashing me without, I lash them fiercer yet within. I06 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. " Almighty One, the Lord of Hosts, With hierarchies in Thy train Passing- the sands on all our coasts. Of blessed privilege in pain And buffets I do not complain, Nor sins that haunt like unlaid ghosts ; I am the clay, Thou art the Potter, And Thou may'st heat the furnace hotter ; For nought could shake the conquering trust That gives my lot its single sweet. If I were only but the dust Beneath the passage of Thy Feet. 31. " Eternal Rock, on Whom we stand. The Hope of each attempt and age, Who boldest nations in Thy Hand, That for a moment cross the stage And idly sport or idly rage. Thou art the Light of every land ; Should earthly dreams this bosom cherish, I care not if they pass and perish ; Away with empty gauds and gold, The fleeting breath that fools call fame And beauty that so soon turns old, If Thou abidest yet the same. 32. " Thou Sun and Shield, my awful fate Is little to the hearts that know The Mercy of the Sworded Gate, Beyond which living fountains flow And fragrant airs of Eden blow, Which opens though it opens late ; I had my sin, I have my sorrow, I ask not for a brighter morrow ; " THE PILGRIM OF ETERNITY." IO7 The humble hearts that love Thee well And bare the tempest of Thine ire, Come to their knowledge out of hell And climb to Heaven through burning fire. 33- " O Sanctifier, Time is good Herein to the poor maddened mind, That else in endless torture stood Pursuing what it could not find ; Its touch is healing, it is kind As the first kiss of maidenhood ; My woes are now my very tissue, Bone of my bone, my aim and issue ; And from the grinding forge of grief That shapes me as a shattered toy, I draw a passionate relief, I wrest an agony of joy. 34- " Moulder of men, I would not change The leprous blighting of my lot. For peace or pleasure new and strange Without the burden of the blot, Which is my comfort and is not. The one companion as I range ; It is my doom, it is my nature, My bliss, my bar of judicature ; A lesser life were tame and cold. To this in horror yet I clung. Which made my spirit sad and old And keeps me still for ever young. 35- "Jehovah, Name I fear to speak, Yet unto Thee I lowly call. Because I am so vile and weak, I08 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. And each step is a broken fall Toward Thee, my Author and my All, On whom my foes their fury wreak ; For every fall is up, and prison A ground of glory for the risen ; My purpose in its woe heldt out, Though crushed by torture's iron glove ; I saw the chastening was throughout, The measure of Thy mighty Love. 36. " Dear Despot, yet my fearful Choice, I own Thee, and my feeblest nerve Vibrates to Thy most subtle Voice ; And when my footsteps wildly swerve The farthest off, they fain would serve Thee and in Thee alone rejoice ; I clasp Thy kindness in rejection, And hate is hallowed with affection ; Whom could this solitary heart Seek with the sorrows it would tell. Save Thee who in Thy greatness art So sweet and unapproachable ? 37- " Fair Paradox, to Thy vast Deep I track this dim divided will Which mocking shadows casts, that creep Confusing good alike and ill, Mephitic marsh and holy hill. Like visions of a fevered sleep ; The same seem blessings and afflictions, Thou Sum of all our contradictions ; For now I see no boundary line Betwixt the fat and mildewed ears, The human melts in the Divine, And every joy is crowned with tears. " THE PILGRIM OF ETERNITY. 38. " My Father, in the unmapped range Of Thy compassion's boundless fold, Where oldest things are new and strange And newest things Divinely old, I mark but one abiding mould Amid the flux of endless change ; For I have loved Thee long and only, And therefore I am lost and lonely ; I learn the vessels of Thy choice Have had the suffering as their due, Because they hated evil's voice And were to Thee in trial true. 39- "All-Strange, in the dark rolling years The sorrow was my only mate ; I had no promise but of fears, In this distorted twilight state, Till love grew grimly out of hate ; I knew no pillow save Thy spears ; Mocked with dim doubtful simulations, Warped was my mind to its foundations ; The Evil an enchanter stood Beautiful ever at my call, And the diskinged and downcast Good Gloomed forth the gravest ill of all. 40. " Thou Secret One, the bitter cup To me at length was passing sweet ; The midnight with its mask rose up, A radiance that I craved to greet ; When famine stayed my stumbling feet, With very Gods I seemed to sup ; Misgivings waxed like sunshine certain, And truth was hid in horror's curtain ; [09 no CONFESSIONS OF A POET, I courted wounds and weary thirst Or clung to any transient toy, I hated what I loved at first And sadness was my sweetest joy." 41. He spoke, and from the cloven cloud Whose climbing bastions propt the sky, As echo to that challenge proicd Came an exceeding bitter cry ; Wrung from a God in agony Wrapt in Creation'' s funeral shroud; Heaven opened with an awful spasm And a great Cross bestrode the chasm ; While calm, amid the rising storm And in His crowned and conquered stress, Htmg a most fair and wondrous Form With pierced Hands that strove to bless. 42. Cain turned him from the pleading Face, And closer fiercer drew around The mantle of his Pride, that Space Had swept and yet no Saviotir found — That spurned sicbmission and its botmd, Content to keep a demon's grace ; Though thrice the shadowed earth was shaken. By that lone cry of Love forsaken ; But still, though thrice the Vision shook The heavens that fain on him would shine, He yielded not, he scorned to look Into those Hunian eyes Divine. 43- " Most Righteous Judge, I have been taught By temptings and resisted vice, That every noble thing and thought Is purchased at a heavy price, " THE PILGRIM OF ETERNITY. Through death and sorer sacrifice, Ere into vital texture wrought ; Though sharp as nails came driven losses, I shrank not even from brothers' crosses ; For others I was glad to give. The offering of the dearest tie ; But, if he would arise and live, I knew the suffering soul must die. 44. " O Refuge of the lost, the scourge Of generations and the scorn. And sorrows in their iron surge Whereby this evil heart was torn And into goodlier fashion born, I suffered still — that they might purge ; I welcomed every blast and billow. That harder made my stormy pillow ; It is not troubles that I fear. It is not any pang or grief That wakes in me the unwilling tear; I do not seek a slave's relief. 45- Stern Lord, not for myself one hour Would I a craven murmur lift ; Nor mourn if, in the fairest flower And in the brightest grace or gift. Has ever lurked some secret rift, To lay it low as Babel's Tower ; For he, who has the God-like guerdon. Must feel the fire and bear the burden ; The sentence of the outcast fate, The hate that hunts the outcast down. Are portions of a high estate And jewels in a kingly crown. 112 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. 46. " Creator, I do here confess I have deserved Thy utmost wrath, Who dared so blackly to transgress And wandered from the royal path ; If thus, at length, some aftermath Might bloom though in a wilderness ; Though dying daily, racked and riven, I ask not now to be forgiven ; There is a sweetness in the dearth. There is a rapture in the rod, That drives me farther from the earth And draws me nearer to my God. 47- " Fountain of Life, I censure not (Who am but ashes in Thy sight) The purpose which has shaped our lot Through tears and tempests and the night, To be the sovereign saving light Of lands that had the Truth forgot ; For when the sun of nations dwindled, At our great faith it was rekindled ; To stand on naked ramparts, lone, A worn but sleepless sentinel. And guard Thine undefended Throne, Has been the pride of Israel. 48. "Author of all, I will not pine To think that Empire now has set. Which made the grandest peoples Thine ; In which the rays of wisdom met, Though in its ruins mighty yet ; It showed, how man could be Divine ; What if the glory has departed From earth, and none is broken-hearted ? "THE PILGRIM OF ETERNITY." II3 What if to idols myriads bow Who once Thine awful Temple trod, And on the world's cold blighted brow Is darkly written — " Ichabod " ? 49. " Elohim, sworn to us as none By solemn covenant and seal, We shared Thy kingdom and were one With Thee, to hallow and to heal The nations and Thy truth reveal, And in the marvels that were done ; And I, who vainly courted dying, Stood upon Sinai death defying ; I was with Moses, when he saw Thy dazzling presence on the height. And lived to hear the sacred Law — I in the shadow, he in light. 50- " Great God, I heard the thunder sound, The trumpet for the trysting blown, The earthquake tear and toss the ground, And felt these terrors were my own ; While I was still a thing unknown. Untouched within the flaming bound ; / seemed the race, / drained the vial Of wrath and love, in every trial ; I came unharmed from each fierce test, The dire eclipse, the battle shock Of Nature's powers that would not rest, Though stars might fall and mountains rock. 51- " Bright Being, yet I praised the Will That gave us only crowns of thorn, A grand inheritance of ill, 114 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. To leave us trampled on and torn, The butt of every scathe and scorn ; They strengthened us, they could not kill For we to sadness were anointed, And thus we ruled for ends appointed ; And in our sanctuary walls We heard the awful armies meet, The surf of suffering worlds, that falls In crimson tears at Thy white Feet. 52- " Splendour, Thou madest light, and joy Sprang bubbling heavenward at Thy tread ; And earth seemed but a happy tO}' For man, in sparkling beauty spread ; And through it ran a golden thread. Thy Grace, that then was never coy ; And thus Thy might was always making New forms, that only come by breaking ; Space felt the moulding of Thy hand. And when Thy will the waters heard They blossomed in the smiling land. That rose refulgent at Thy word. 53- " O Lord of Life, Thou framedst Love, To riot in the veins of all. And set to song the mating dove Or hearts that to each other call. Though oceans bar and chaos fall ; It rules our storms and stars above ; For each a hope, a kindred greeting, For each with some one some time greeting ; But uncompanioned I went on By blessed streams and bowers of spice, For me no woman's glamour shone. No woman's arms were Paradise. "THE PILGRIM OF ETERNITY." 54- " El Shaddai, a helpless child, A babe was once Thine Israel, Lured to the brink of waters wild By the red harlot Jezebel ; Without a guide or citadel, Until Thy mercy on him smil'd ; Betwixt him and the fatal blossom, Then Thou didst bare Thy glorious Bosom ; He saw Thee as in Horeb's mount, When racked with thirst and throbbing pain, And flying to the Living Fount He drank and lived and drank again. 55- " O Woman God, our Mother Blest And blessing like the heavenly blue, Above us bowed and breathing rest ; Though we refused Thee oft Thy due, We ever found Thee tried and true, With food and refuge on Thy IBreast ; With broken bows and emptied quivers, Strength we renewed at those deep rivers ; Refreshed we then rose up as kings, And in our consecrated might Once more went forth on eagle wings. To conquer and to spread the light. 56. " Most Bountiful, Thy Love came down Like milk and honey in its dew. And laid a more than royal crown On all who of that plenty drew Or did to Thee their love renew — In darkness, like a dead man's frown ; Though the same Peace, that came in laughter. Left blackened walls and smoking rafter ; "5 Il6 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. And woe to rebel pride and power That fain would stem Thy righteous path, When over blasted town and tower Swept on Thy desolating Wrath. 57- " Beautiful and Best, I drank Some drops of that benignant Source ; It gave a grandeur and a rank Even to my dark and dreary course. And soothed its infinite remorse Wherein I sank and rose and sank ; And thus revived I could adventure, To bear Thy terrible indenture ; More homic-like seemed the living hell And less the inexpiable woe. If I could seek that sacred well, My Life and my Eternal Foe. 58- '• Thou El Elyon, Father still ; For Thou art Father of the lost, And those that exiles unto ill Are tumbled by the winds and tost On waves which Love alone has crost. In the great wonder of Thy Will ; Though some would bow to Baal rather, Yet all at last have but One Father ; Pale Ashtaroth her shining sham Before Thee stooped with palsied neck, Thou Lord of all, of Abraham, Ishmael and Melchizedek. 59- " God of the Gentiles, from the first I knew and hated the fair hope, Which slaked that universal thirst "THE PILGRIM OF ETERNITY. IXJ Of wanderers toiling up the slope Through darkness, if it yet might ope Some day and in bright blossom burst ; I knew that Thou wast always Human, And truly Man and more than Woman ; But, ah, I grudged the boundless grace, Which was not Israel's one lot And fell outside the chosen race ; If elsewhere shed, I prized it not. 60. " O Thou Most High, a jealous rage Possessed my soul, that surely read In Thy broad Mercy's purest page The promise in its pity spread-^ My own one respite from the dead, My stay on this unending stage ; I saw, I see Thy hated blessing. Like a warm Hand the world caressing ; Gehenna feels a secret joy, The shadow of Thy sheltering Bliss, Which nothing there can quite destroy In the black heart of the Abyss. 61. " Father, I would Thy love have kept In iron walls for just our land — For Israel, that toiled and wept. And fettered forged a stouter band With the stern stuff of Thy command. While priests were blind and princes slept ; I would have left to bits and bridles The dupes that made and worshipped idols ; That we might take a grander form In Thee enriched, with Thee allied. Against the world and every storm. And Thou in us be glorified." Il8 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. 62. He spoke, and by the levin's blade Created and exceeding art, Stept forth a Temple from the shade, Complete in each proportioned part ; And on an Altar lay a Heart, A sacrifice no mortal made ; A Heart of Fire for ever burning, In love that did not know returning ; And through the pillared porches rayi A prayer from that great Heart which pled, A nd in its woe for exiled man For ever burned, for ever bled. 63. Cain hid his face with wrathful hand. He would not see the accusing sight That seared his bosom with a brand ; If into his heart's rayless flight, It poured a moment Mercy's light And eased the eating iron band ; While on his brain, with ghastly stricture, Was scorched that terrible red pictiwe ; But, though the refuge stood so near. Its sanctuary he contemned, And rushed upon the judgment spear. Self-tortured still and self -condemned. 64. "El 01am, God who hidden art From sage, and sovereign, and the rich, Thou hast in every age a part — A place, Thy servants know in which ; Thou buildest high a temple niche. Within each pure and humble heart ; O Lord of aeons, what can sever Thy servants' faith from Thee for ever ? "THE PILGRIM OF ETERNITY." Iig Time writes an epitaph for all, Except for me beneath Thy ban, And on the bridal treads the pall ; Unchanged art Thou, unchanged Thy plan. 65- " Eternal, I ten thousand gods Have witnessed and ten thousand creeds ; They ruled and fooled with flimsy rods, They were no more than bruised reeds, Nor hearkened once to human needs, And crumbled with the crumbling clods ; They were as fleeting as a bubble, They served for fuel like the stubble ; They came in cruelty and lust And wrought their evil hour of pain, But now their memory is dust And Thou the Ruler dost remain. 66. " O God of Ages, the dim past To Thee is as the present known ; And future times their shadows cast About the intolerable Throne, Where Thou art seated, calm, alone, Judging as Thou shalt judge at last ; Earth is at best a melting vapour. And heaven the twinkling of a taper ; But Thou hast led Thy people on From clouded dawn to clearer Day, And still Thy presence brighter shone At every step, with every ray. 67. "Thou Everlasting, in the rise And fall of dynasties but One, Amid the flux of lands and skies I20 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. And creatures doomed and fanes foredone Or worlds emerg-ing where was none, Thou art the same in each disguise ; Things come and go, man fails and falters 'Twixt fresh enchantments and fresh altars ; But in the restless ebb and flow Of many climes and cults at strife, That flashed and fell as sparks below, Thou hast the same unrufiled Life. 68. " O King of Battles, Lord of Hosts, Ten thousand times ten thousand bands Of angels at their awful posts, With thunder feet and lightning hands Await the word of Thy commands. To purge as chaff" all idle boasts ; What are the weapons then but water. When Thou art girded for the slaughter ? Our tools and triumphs feel at length The fretting of the rust and moth, But Thine is undecaying strength, O dread Jehovah Sabaoth. 69. "Thou Man of War, Thou fighting Lord, Before Thee failed the shield and spear ; And broken was the victor sword That scattered round it fire and fear And left the laughing garden drear. When Thou Thy judgment didst award ; The stars strove for us in their courses. Earthquake and tempest were our forces ; For Thou didst captain us so well. We mocked at wilderness and flood And giants and the jaws of hell, Baptised Thy sons in seas of blood. *' THE PILGRIM OF ETERNITY." 70. " Avenging One, the halls of Heth At Thy consuming name grew dim, And with the blasting of Thy breath The tide rolled back on Mirzaim ; And they who saw the Cherubim, Beheld the unveiled brow of death ; The storm for us a steadfast omen, Hurled fierce destruction at our foemen ; They heard Thy dreadful trumpets blow, They needed not an arm to smite. And fell the walls of Jericho And fled the ravening Midianite. 71- " Sole Conqueror, the sudden blaze Of the Shechinah's blinding shroud, Redemption to our reverent gaze, Was night and ruin to the proud ; And Thou, attired in glorious cloud, Didst triumph in the world's amaze ; The heavens above, the mountains under, Before Thy chariot rent asunder ; And, in Thy might, the broadest lands We bowed and scattered as the straw ; On nations, crushed by Thy commands. We carved the letters of Thy Law. 72. " Breastplate of Truth, while Israel Faithful to Thee and to Thine aim, Slept not on beds of asphodel, He dared not that grand message maim ; And all enkindled with Thy claim. He spread and spread invincible ; More swift than bow, more keen than lances, The terrors of Thine ordinances ; 122 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. He wrote it legible and red In pages grim of gory strife, On fields of dying foes and dead, The stern old statute — '•life for life\ 73- " Thou Sword of Justice, we would stray From the bright circle of Thy Sun, And stumble on the treacherous way And the dear shrine of Duty shun ; Till Mercy's final sands were run. And Thou hadst risen up to slay ; We turned aside to cisterns broken, We would not see the saving token ; Then we in vain our armies massed And then against us Thou didst fight ; Victory from our banners passed To other lands, and down came night. 74- " O Adonai, Lord of all And me, but not of me indeed, Who wander through this picture hall Of painted earth, by doom decreed. While ages ages still succeed. Yet farther though so near Thy call ; We knew Thy Love was ever flowing, And felt its fire within us glowing ; But deaf were we to Mercy's voice, Regardless of our plighted troth. And fixed our hearts with fatal choice On lewd and lovely Ashtaroth. 75- " True Master, when the service came To bid the reverence due to Thee And the unutterable Name "THE PILGRIM OF ETERNITY.' I23 Whereby we rose so fair and free, Our eyes were blind and would not see ; We offered Thee the sick and lame ; We heaped our own and heathen treasures And sold our souls for passing pleasures ; We crowded every evil shrine And entered at false idols' gate, We knelt to beings not Divine Thy Temple courts were desolate. 76. "O Husband, title that I dare Hardly to frame with warped white lips, So faithful in thy ceaseless care For us beneath the Pharaoh's whips, Or under the extreme eclipse Of spoiling Medes that did not spare ; Yea, Thou didst save us from the lion. And bring her captives back to Zion ; But we were faithless to our bond. In base adulteries lightly led By foreign lords and lovers fond, We soiled the sacred marriage bed. 77- " Dear Ruler of our House, and yet So dreadful to this hunted soul, How could we the One King forget Who took from us a petty dole, And giving Love gave us the whole. And with all Light our land beset ? For Thou to us wast food and clothing, And we repaid Thy gifts with loathing ; Yea, we dishonoured Thee and burned For easier ties and cheaper arms. And in our frantic folly turned To harlots nude and coarser charms. 124 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. 78. "Great Governor of earth and sky, And yet the Bridegroom of our race, Thou didst Thine awful rank deny. The heaven of heavens, to find us grace And make our hearts Th}' dwelling-place, And fill with Thine eternity ; But lust, that maddens whom it scorches. Fell on our hearts and dimmed our porches ; We left Th}' Temple white and calm And over nameless orgies cowered, Upon the hill, beneath the palm, A Bride dishonoured and deflowered. 79- " O Sovereign Spouse, we wooed our fall, ^^'ho mocked Thy Sabbaths, though the beast That knew its owner and the stall Had led us to the holy feast ; And we, so faithless in the least, Now drink the wormwood and the gall ; Foul grew the priest and false the prophet. And fanned alike the flames of Tophet ; We sought Thee latest in our need And glittering shadows lured us on, We trusted to the trembling reed Of Egypt or of Babylon." 80. He spoke, and from the creeping gloow A deep and multiUidinous sigh Fell, sadder than the tnunp of doom ; It seemed to bring all N attire nigh, And all the passion bear on high, And in God's Bosom find it room ; But, lo I once more the dusk was rended, And white wings through the dusk descended : "THE PILGRIM OF ETERNITY. 1 25 ^•^5 if they gathered, in the light Of unconjecturable Love, All sins and sorrows of the night, That fled before the Holy Dove. 81. Cain heard not in his frantic speech, Cain saw not that Infinite care Which wonld the vilest soul beseech And in its midmost anger spare, Or death for any creature dare And hottest hell in pity reach ; No glimpse of peace, no gleam of pardon, For him whom Love could only harden; His was the irrevocable choice. He felt no Spirit and no spell. He lifted louder yet his voice In his great ire implacable. 82. " Thou Providence, O stern and strange, Ours was the empire of the heart ; And when Thy blasting storms of change, Or subtler foes of trade and art Drove us on land and sea apart. We found Thee in our farthest range; Rome had her fasces, and her Victors, But we had God and we were victors : Thy Temple sank in seas of blood And fire on Zion's holy hill, But faith came glorious from the flood, And our proud conquerors conquered still. 83. " Disposer of the ends, our arms Survived the horror and the hate Of ages and ten thousand harms. 126 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. That shut us out from Mercy's gate With grim relentless iron fate, Till we grew dead to earth's alarms ; The eagle preyed upon the pigeon, But we were strong in Thy religion ; They starved and tortured us to doom, They laid our City in the dust, And mocked our maidens in their bloom, But could not shake our shadowed trust. 84. " Lord, still we ever dared to be Ourselves, and were not cringing slaves ; We carried Thy dread Law and Thee, Through persecution's foaming waves. To light at least our gloomy graves ; And thus, though fettered, were we free ; We drudged and bled for cruel masters. But worked with Thee in all disasters ; We knew we were a royal race And would not, with Thy blessed dower, Take the tame colour of the place Or wear the fashion of the hour. 85. " Adored, if others plucked the sheaf Our hands had garnered from the blight. To riot in their plunder brief, They did not cloud Thy saving sight ; And through the drearest densest night. We bore Thy sacred olive leaf ; The winds might rave and rise the ocean, They could not daunt our fixed devotion ; Thy chosen saints have oft turned pale, Plunged in the deep and unmapped dark, But we rode out the roughest gale Within the imperishable Ark. "the pilgrim of eternity." 127 86. " One God, I mourn not empire fled, Now weaker hands essay the task, And trim Thine awful Lamp, that shed Conviction on each lying mask And gave what blinded souls would ask ; Thou knowest all, and we have sped ; The feeble flickering spark of Science, Was kindled at our great reliance ;• What sages only guessed, we saw Instructed in a better way, Who preached Thy boundless Reign of Law, Which opes all Heaven to those that pray. 87. " High Teacher, yet we do not doubt Or fear the issue of the end, If our grand race is blotted out Past even Omnipotence to mend— The race that unveiled God as Friend, In social time, in battle shout; Our worship was a feast of glory, Our feast a sacramental story ; And though we smitten are by death, Our hope destruction could not kill, And each with his last loyal breath — Departed trusting in Thee still. 88. " Unchanging One, we passed Thy Truth A beaconing torch in pious hands, Down ages that repaired their youth ; They rose again, like burning brands, In the broad Life of Thy commands, Which clasped a Rahab and a Ruth ; We proved in fire, O Thou Refiner, That man was God and made Diviner ; CONFESSIONS OF A POET. And thus we struck a deeper chord, To show how infinite Thy plan Revealed not to mere wit or sword — God always was and will be Man. 89. " Deep Wellspring of the worlds, we knew Down in Thy bountiful warm Breast For ever lay that precious dew, Humanity, though long at rest, To overflow the last and best Of all Thy works that worlds renew ; For Thou art Man and Thou art Woman, And in Thy Godhead grandly Human ; We gave this treasure fresh from Thee, And what could mortals greater give, If they their triumph might not see ? And, in our dying, yet we live. 90. "All-Wise, vain lore could find no space, Though lashed by keen ascetic whips, For knowledge old and common grace Wide-wafted with our merchant ships, A proverb upon children's lips, A maxim of the market-place ; The patriarch felt that strange affection, The separate joy of Thine Election ; And learning now has hardly caught The text of lilies and the dove, Some fragments of the mighty thought Which is the shadow of Thy Love. 91. "x\ll-Good, Thine individual ken. And kindness counting even the hairs Of every brow as lives of men. " THE PILGRIM OF ETERNITY.'' Iig And tempering the winter airs To creatures with no sheltering lairs, We taught by Inspiration's pen ; The suns that wake, the motes that slumber, Have each their special name and number ; And the same Father's care, that bowed In blessing over Israel, Took thought of oxen and allowed For every babe its Gabriel. 92. " All-Great, we had but little store Of worldly wisdom, but we gave A rarer wit, a richer ore. Than learned fools that at Thee rave ; We taught the sovereign and the slave, To love, to wonder, to adore ; The nations had a dream or idol, We faith and Thee in tender Bridal ; We found the earth an empty toy, And left upon its every page An incommunicable joy. An undecaying heritage. 93- " All-Holy, many are my pains And black the memories they bring. Nor soothed by wisdom's tardy gains; But this the sharpest poisoned sting, That Thou art a dethroned King And Christ the false Usurper reigns ; For millions now uplift the paean, To that pale conquering Galilaean ; Let cowards serve Him, who have tried And tremble at a Peasant's nod, I will not own the Crucified, I will not serve a slavish God. 130 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. 94. "All-Merciful, we taught each time, With Thy prevailing sword of song And faith a shield for every clime Invincible in armed wrong — If ruling makes man brave and strong, Obedience builds him up sublime ; But I will never stoop to follow, A leader but of visions hollow; When Jael called we followed her, Queen Esther filled a worthy scene. But not the village Carpenter And not the shrinking Nazarene. 95- "All-Pure, I cannot hail a lie, Though it should leave my sorrows less. And loose the adamantine tie Which links me to this corpse-like stress ; And none Thy statute may transgress — " The soul that sinneth it shall die ; " Shame has no shifting or condoning, Man measures out his own atoning ; Each has his furnace for the dross. While none may bear a brother's load, Each must bend under his one cross And walk himself his suffering road. 96. "All-Dread, I question not my doom, Nor feel the drawing of one lure ; If oft I wrestle with the gloom And passion that no balm can cure, Who in my solitude endure ; For Thee and me is boundless room ; I looked down Sinai's burning crater, I felt its flame, but mine was greater ; "THE PILGRIM OF ETERNITY. I3I Refreshed me Sodom's fiery rain, I waxed when Rome the tyrant fell, And though the judgment fell on Cain, I am not Cain but Israel. 97- Seen and Unseen, Thou knowest why I watched the wan Pretender hang On the red cross in agony, Pierced by desertion's keener pang And failure's dull corroding fang ; I stood on bald stern Calvary ; But I lived on, alone, unwilling. For me no mercy came like killing ; Eclipse and horror filled the air And lightnings blasted root and stem, Not me — nor hurt a single hair, When low fell fair Jerusalem. 98. " Revered, I could not worship One, Who, while the land for freedom cried, And gallant deeds might well be done. Struck not a blow when sorely tried ; For a poor metaphor he died. And of his promise left us none ; We were the butt of every nation, Though the bright crown of Thy Creation ; He offered us a realm of cloud. The sceptre of the beaten slave. The wrapping of a royal shroud, The peace of ashes in the grave. 99. " Most Wonderful, I will not frame My acts to own an abject law That makes the manly spirit tame 132 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Nor will the sword of justice draw ; Its heroes are but stuff of straw, Its glory is a mocking shame ; Secure in my strong hate's reliance, I fling at him my set defiance ; His meekness can no grandeur give, That doles us water and a crust, I shall his kingdom long outlive And see his temples turn to dust. 100. "Unread One, records of the past Lie open to me as a book, And lurid rays of lightning cast Upon the future's darkest nook. As forward still my glances look ; The Christian nightmare will not last ; I see a surge of angry peoples, That thunder o'er the toppling steeples ; The empire has no pledge of life Which answers not one human need, Gives stones for bread and empty strife And bids its victims toil and bleed. lOI. " O Light of lights, I see it now, I see his splendour waxing dim. Confusion on the Impostor's brow Before the masses gaunt and grim, That cheated sorely spurn at him Who only duped their frequent vow ; His power is doomed, his palace trembles, The prince is deaf, the priest dissembles ; His weakly rule shall now decay Before this iron purpose bend. If heaven and earth should pass away, And I defy him to the end." "THE PILGRIM OF ETERNITY." 133 He spoke, and from the silence came The shadow of a shining Form, That was no shadow n>id not flame, Though bathed in the deep burning stonn ; Life in its every breath was warm. And shook and showed the rapturous frame The limbs were like the mighty moimtains. And the great breasts like bubbling fountains ; Full in Its naked beauty bright. With all fair women s wedded grace And in a sweetness more than sight, It bent on Cain that maddening Face. 103. Cain saw and trembled, and drew nigh One step, and then again drew back ; He lifted both his hands on high, Red-writhen in the tempest wrack, That down upon him bellied black And caught the semblance of a sigh ; But love, that would his weakness cozen. Passed, in mid fire to hatred frozen ; He scowled defiance at those lips That breathed the pity of all time, In agony of dread eclipse And everlasting wrath sublime. 104. " Beautiful Terror, in the night I waited still year after year For the Messiah's saving might ; Delayed, though tear fell upon tear And darker fear was joined to fear, That cried for the avenging right ; I stayed me on the killing letter, My hope was blind, my faith a fetter ; 134 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. I dreamed of earthly rule to be, And clothed with force a Soldier sent Redressing wrongs — but not for me, And beaming battle as he went. 105. " Giver of Grace, I waited on And watched the human saviours set, Like moons that out of midnight shone ; While the Redemption dawned not yet, In any Christ or Mahomet ; They taught, they trembled, they were gone ; For me I knew there was no morrow, No rest, no sun but that of sorrow ; I stumbled on from age to age The cheated prey of idle chance. Through scenes unnumbered on one stage, In my dim groping ignorance. 106. " Ineffable, he came at last. With power and beauty in his gift ; Not on the tempest's iron blast, Not with the lightning's fierce red rift, In ruin all his foes to sift And under conquering footsteps cast ; He came, he ruled, as Thine Anointed, He did the mighty work appointed ; But not as even prophets deemed Who sang of slaughter's vulgar charms. And vain deliverance that seemed Wrung from a hostile world in arms. 107. " Thou Silent One, he came, he came. Though the dull nations knew not whence, Whom he and he alone could tame " THE PILGRIM OF ETERNITY." I35 And give a light and a defence — In the strange holy Influence, Which purged them Hke refining flame ; And rude barbarians felt his moulding, The presence as of wings enfolding ; The savage dropt his bloody knife, And prayed when that pure Spirit spoke ; To a new nature and true life, Ransomed the proudest peoples woke. 108. " Mysterious God, I do not care That mine and many a race has fled ; If types that laid Thy beauty bare Shone out and then their blossom shed, And mingled with the myriads dead ; For not a pattern wilt Thou spare ; Things rise and fall, and nothing lingers. Worlds are but jewels on Thy Fingers ; But I must carry in my breast One feature under each new sky, A will that cannot fade or rest, The curse of warped humanity. 109. "Abiding One, I go, I go. The sport of any wind or wave And tossed a shuttle to and fro ; Master of time, and yet its slave ; Possessing all things, but a grave ; While cosmic currents ebb and flow ; New stars and hopes the heavens bedizen, I always see the same horizon ; The shadow still is at my side Unchanged in every turn of chance, The inextinguishable pride My awful one inheritance. 136 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. no. " Dark dreadful Life, I fly to Thee With this unbroken spirit yet ; It knows the God it cannot see, And feehng will not own the fret Of bonds it never may forget ; It is and is not blindly free ; What if we had no crown but slaughter. And death has wedded Judah's daughter? What if no touch of Jewish hands, No gift of Jewish grace remains. To love and guide the helpless lands, If thus Thy Providence ordains ? III. " Bright beauteous Death, from Thee I fly, I fly who still adore Thy Face ; Which hides and only hastens by, And in its circuits throughout space Forbears on me to leave a trace, And when I call makes no reply ; Shall pardon for the dire transgression, Be bought by stooping to confession ? I sinned, I sinned, as others now, For vengeance, not for power or pelf; But if to Thee all beings bow, I will not, while I am myself. 112. " Inscrutable, I would not grieve. For the mad onslaught on my kin ; Because they still could not believe In cheap salvation they deemed sin, And the false heaven that Christians win, Nor sought the refuge of reprieve ; When millions, to our execution Marched, with the Impostor's absolution ; " THE PILGRIM OF ETERNITY. I37 When all the peoples in their rage Rose up against the outcast Jews, And dealt them out a bloody stage, A blacker St. Bartholomew's. 113- " O Infinite, no crowned fool Can banish quite our beacon star, Which guides all lands and every school ; Although he be that creeping scar Upon the nations, called the Tsar ; Our spirit is no tyrant's tool ; And, not as saints on dusty niches, It lives and the whole earth enriches ; And it shall last in conquering trust, When even Time's gray portals close. When despots with their frantic lust Return to dirt from which they rose. 114. " Lord, bitter years have come and gone, And kingdoms have been swept away That once led mighty peoples on In arts and arms' superb array ; The globe itself has felt decay. While suns are dead that brightly shone ; But I, the shadow of their glory, Endure and witness to their story ; For, though discrowned from their place The nations all in ashes lie, I live sole remnant of my race. And know that I shall never die. 115- " O Changeless One, these eyes have seen New earth and heavens, through purging pain, Veil over the old blue and green ; 138 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. They were a fleeting stir or stain, And passed to be renewed again, As if no worlds before had been ; New sheep-bells in the sheep-folds tinkled, Old stars were quenched and new stars twinkled ; It mattered not if bell or star, Alike they came, alike they went. Beyond the silence and the bar That covers beast or continent. 116. " Resistless Power, the empires rose And fluttered for a space and fell ; Each had its frolic and its close. An eddy on the ocean swell ; Now they are nought, and it is well. And the wild fever earns repose ; Amid the wreck of things forsaken, I journey on, I am unshaken ; But in the ruins, as they fall Like broken waves upon the beach, I see my fatal sin in all, I feel my damned self in each." 117. The brightness faded from his brow, But not the passion in his breast, Inspiring that eternal vow Which still forbade the thought of rest ; Though he was faint and over-prest With ages' weight, he would not bow ; If long and sore his soul repented. His will to God's had not consented ; The heaven shrank to one ghastly frown, The old earth shuddered and then stopt, With moaning winds the sun went down, And like a curse the darkness dropt. " THE PILGRIM OF ETERNITY. 139 Il8. A few more stifled words of hate Burst from those daring lips of sin ; He stood outside the golden gate, And the dear God who is our Kin ; Alas ! he would not enter in ; And now returning" was too late ; The universe and all might perish, Ere he his madness ceased to cherish ; He fronted with his impious plan (Though single-handed) earth and sky, Defying God Himself and man, " The pilgrim of eternity ". 119. He spoke, and flung his garment round The radiance of his hoary head ; While crimson lightnings fawned and wound An awful carpet for his tread, Upon a royal pathway spread, And roofed with thunder's solemn sound ; At war with God, and man, and Nature, Himself he rose to Godlike stature ; The subject earth was still his throne, His settled purpose gave him light. And in his courage strong, alone, He passed into the fire and night. 120. And, lo ! the terror of a Sword Upon no earthly anvil made, As though all flames were in it stor'd, And the dread hour of judgment bade ! It burst the blackest heart of shade. It gave the final fixed award ; Creation seemed to groan and sicken. By a grim sudden death-wound stricken ; J40 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. And forth from heaven, that seemed to fail Beneath the woe that through it trod, Went up the broken-hearted wail Of a despised departing God. SECTION IV. WINGS. MY CICELY. Pure and pensive Cicely, Tell me, daughter, tell me why Lurks the mischief in that eye Calm and clear, As the tear On the dewy blade of grass, Where the sunbeams peep and pass As within a magic glass ; Tall and fair, With the hair In a cloud of glory spread Loose about the haughty head. Proud and shy Cicely, Pure and proper Cicely, Winter snow and summer try With the hues of earth and sky. All their arts, All their parts, On the fashion of thy frame Without fetter, without name, Fiery frost and frozen flame. 142 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. How to form Sleep and storm Both within one maiden dress, Pink and golden prettiness, Proud and shy Cicely. Pure and wayward Cicely, Tell me, darling, tell me why Fast the happy seasons fly. And a wee Thing like thee. As thou wast not long ago, Dares so naughtily to grow Far above the flowers that blow, Made more sweet By thy feet ? If I only had my will. Thou wouldst be a baby still, Proud and shy Cicely. Pure and untamed Cicely, Maidens we can cheaply buy When we bid enough and cry ; But the price For a nice Daughterkin like thee, were more Than the diamonds and the ore In the fairies' hidden store. Ah, if face Were all grace, Thou would'st have but little need But the beauty is the deed. Proud and shy Cicely. MY WINIFRED. 1 43 MY WINIFRED. Have you not seen Winifred, Winifred, Never silent, never still, By her will ? Then you surely have to see What a maiden child can be. Who is quite Now a mite, Like a bud on a rose-tree, Soft and white. O she is the sweetest pet, Ever framed or dreamed of yet. You must see my Winifred, Winifred, In her glancing girlie state Delicate. Like a butterfly she goes. Scarcely touching with her toes Stone or stair. As on air. In a little breeze that blows Back her hair. Catch the sunbeam, bind it fast — There's the living child at last. Would you hear my Winifred, Winifred, Queen-like moving up and down With her crown ? With the halo on her face Of the ardent eager grace Shining out, Chasing doubt From the dimple's scarlet trace. With a pout ? When she prattles, in the chime Rings the music of all time. 144 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Oh, I love my Winifred, Winifred, Rustling, bustling in a glow To and fro. With her tiny hands at toil. Heedless if they speed or spoil What they take, What they break. Or bequeath a hopeless coil For my sake ; Like a roseleaf on the wind, Leaving sweeter worlds behind. THE WHITE MAIDEN. Oh ! is she gone, Queen Beauty with'her blessing, Who shed a sunshine on the lowliest flower, And moved in music like God's own caressing Alike on breaking heart and broken tower ; Who filled the awful blank of empty spaces. In the lone labour struggling dimly up, With the sweet glory of bright angel faces And hands that held the sacramental cup ; Who bade the downcast look and hope for ever. And on the darkest midnight shadow shone, With some great thought that fired a great endeavour Oh, is she gone ? She walked beside the nomad in his ranging. As over rolling pasture waves he went, The one true presence amid death unchanging, That led his wanderings and illumed his tent ; She showed the blade of grass ran out in wonder At length, and blots had a celestial pose. Heaven in a herb, the dust with jewels under, And made the desert blossom as the rose ; She lent the grandeur of her consecration To common clay, and upward framed each fall, Unfolding to pure eyes the revelation Aflame in all. THE WHITE MAIDEN, 1 45 Oh, is she gone, and blessing with Queen Beauty, Who did transfigure the most ugly lot, And made Divine the meanest drudging duty. And poured all Heaven on earth's least lovely spot ? She was behind the hero in his cottage, And wafted him to power on eagle wings. Turning to nectar his poor mess of pottage, And strengthened him to do heroic things ; Aye, then she gave the rapt and rugged toiler Nobility, that kings may never don, And raised him to a rank above his spoiler ; Oh, is she gone ? The shepherd boy, who trod the misty mountain, Fotind there the footprints of her chosen place, And the fair maiden mirrored in the fountain Caught a new splendour from her blushing face ; Veiled as a virgin, to the prophet's guesses She did unbare the secret of her charms, In solitudes of solemn wildernesses, And wrapt the reverent saint within her arms ; She turned to pearls the dew-drops on the blossom. And wrought to marble halls the huts of mire, And burned in each unconquerable bosom A sacred fire. Nay, yet in quiet nooks with some she lingers, The Beauty Queen whom Science doth not give. While here and there her glorifying fingers Are laid on us, till we arise and live ; If faith is feeble, and the stars we cherish Are fading as in blind despair we grope. When solid landmarks melt as mist and perish, She whispers to the heart undying hope ; Though pedants seek the grace which in dissection Escapes, as they their crimson pages con, She sends through loving souls her resurrection ; She is not gone. ID 146 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Even in the grimy town by God forsaken, Deep in the muddy maze of sin and soot, She can strange thrills of wonderment awaken, And on the prostrate vice hath set her foot ; The pining seamstress swept in lordly vision, Who puts her life into each starving stitch, Forgets awhile the grudging world's derision. And dreams possest by her that she is rich ; The hardened wretch, an outcast, dogged by danger, Where'er he sinks in subterfuges wild, Once more with her who is not all a stranger Becomes a child. The Crowned Skeleton, that men call Science And love to honour, now is in her place. With scales, and scoops, and probes, it scowls defiance At the White Maiden with the modest grace ; Propt on a ghastly throne, with blood cemented By gags and straps and saws and murderous knives, It revels in new crimes by it invented. And hecatombs of wasted tortured lives ; And shall we pay it tax of tears and crying, Though sceptred by the earth and fawned upon, Or bend the knee to one that feeds on dying, A Skeleton ? Still doth Queen Beauty breathe her benediction On loyal breasts that seek her in their toil, And in the hovel breaks the black affliction That hugs the cradle with its serpent coil ; And still in dirty court and devious alley She drops her diamonds and repairs the wrong. And casts on snowy peak and snooded valley The mantle of her many-coloured song ; And still she stands, though veiled, and flings her fancies Like flowers of flame on wayside and on shore. And those who mock her radiant young romances Steal from her store. A GLIMPSE. 147 A STELLAR EXCURSION. I am alone, save for the moon so white, Alone with God as any anchorite ; And yet a waft of airy presences From cowslip bells and coy anemones, Falls on me as a fragrance of the night Divine as death and sweeter far than sight, And fills me with its rapture till I float (Or seem to) in a silver-winged boat With stars and planets through the purple air Like fireflies tangled in the dusky hair Of beautiful dear night. And unseen hands Bind me with grateful gossamers and bands Of kind delicious dew, and pelt my face With roses torn from some enchanted place. But still I am alone with God, and fly Swift as a thought through the dim dreamy sky, Which opens to receive me and my bliss And closes on me softly like a kiss. Borne by a cloud yoked to a balmy wind, That laughs for utter joy and leaves behind A trail of star-dust, I go gently on By trackless paths no man before has gone, And on the drowsy air unfolding sweet I mark the rosy print of baby feet. A GLIMPSE. Lo ! in the middle watches of the night That brooded o'er me like a raven's wing, I was aware of something more than sight, An awful instant overshadowing. I heard no solemn sound of wind or wave, No voice of One that ruled the cosmic strife, I seemed beyond the borders of the grave And at the dreadful bases of all Life. 148 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Far, far away the pallid stars had fled I knew not whither, like a flock of sheep, And a great Rose that crimson lustre shed Crept over the broad bosom of the deep. It grew a churning sea of fire and blood Tost upward like the petals of a flower, And moved in silence on that flaming flood The breath of unimaginable Power. No fear was mine, and deeper even than joy The passion that possessed me, as I lay One with Omnipotence, and not a toy Clogged with the fleshly garments of decay. As some dissolving mist before me Space Rolled backward, and the earth itself took flight, I felt a Presence, but I saw no Face, And all around me and within was Light. THOUGHTS. The thoughts that thrill throughout all space To break like waves on distant shores, Reflect the glory of God's Face And shine from His exceeding stores ; To throb for ever in the breast Of other souls in larger lands, And breathe the rapture of unrest With moulding as of giant hands ; Till their strange pulses stir the life And shape the work of angel powers, And burst at length through blessed strife In marvels of immortal flowers. They rise from this poor mortal dearth In sudden moods, I know not why. And lift me beyond time and earth To range through all eternity. My inmost being seems to rend And yield its final secret up. THE EVERLASTING CHILD. With every bliss its own to blend In one intoxicating cup. Vast heights and depths before me lie And something of each treasure give, Till all my life begins to die And as it dies begins to live. THE EVERLASTING CHILD. Though in the purple born to wealth and pleasure And glorious art, I made for my own breast as its one measure The human heart ; And long I wandered lonely among plains And bitter pains That were not mine, yet were my very own, The sadder that they seemed unheard, unknown, Upon me thrown By brothers who would sin and mourn and slave Unto the grave. Why did the world go round to wails of sorrow, And dimmer loom Through lurid rays of each more ghastly morrow, Its daily doom ? I sought to probe the mystery, that still A crowned 111 Sat as a nightmare on the suffering la»ds With giant hands, And wove of wedding robe for rapture sweet A winding sheet — That crushed into the dust the bloom of beaut}- And all the strife and stern delight of duty, With iron feet. But, ah, I could not find the fount of error Where'er it rose, Nor would the white lips of despair and terror The truth disclose. 149 150 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. And then I climbed till darkness bade me stop A mountain top, And wearily I laid me down and wept, I wished to die and in my sadness slept, While angels kept Around me faithful watch, till silence spoke And I awoke. The earth and heaven seemed by some magic tether, With mingled sound And sight that yet were one, together In music bound. A storm was gathering, and the vapours rolled And voices tolled. While all about me was the summer's hue And blessed blue. As though the skies had fallen upon the v/ild, And daylight smil'd On midnight's breast, and, lo, amid the thunder And stars and flowers and clouds that burst asunder, A little Child. The lightning came and crept with slavish fawning Unto his feet. And wrapt about him in the dreadful dawning Its shining sheet. And with its red tongue licked his baby hands Tllat gave commands. And bathed his brow in its consuming sight. His brow that was with solemn beauty bright And sacred might ; Till he stood out, in that tremendous frame Incarnate flame. And yet those eyes in all that blaze of glory That blasting fell, Beamed with the joy of Love's own ancient story Ineffable. And I was strangely drawn in spite of fear Divinely near, THE EVERLASTING CHILD. I5I To that young Form which had an infant face And yet with Space Seemed clothed as with Eternity's attire And old desire ; And, yielding to the rapture strong and tender, I knelt at last by him in that great splendour Within the fire. And then, without a single thought of turning, I lowly laid Myself on the white bosom of that burning. If half afraid, Yet stirred by holy passion to espy The majesty Of that most gentle Child, who made his throne Of thunder with the lightning for his zone. In peace alone. I poured my heart of universal care In one wild prayer Before him, as he played in calm reliance Of grandeur mild, With deadly forces in their vain defiance, That little Child. And as I prayed unutterable Life, Begot by strife, Rushed through my veins in re-creating love ; And all above. And all around, as if I were a toy They would destroy, Those waves of Life rolled as the clouds they rifted And my sad soul to their own height uplifted. In fearful joy. It was not sight and it was more than seeing. While tempests blew. When passed into the texture of my being A knowledge new. Celestial kindness in its perfect rose, 152 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. And pure repose Almighty, and through everlasting time Voice of the planets chanting their old chime, Robed him sublime. I saw, I heard, I felt the kingly Truth Divine as Youth, That God arrayed in His serene infinity At awful rest, Is with the glory of a glad virginity Secure and blest. And a new nature told me all through Space That childlike Face For ever laughed, and in the shine and shade Made and unmade The many worlds, and scattered pain and bliss That none may miss, And is the God whom we in life keep trying To find and follow, who to us in dying Reveals His kiss. WHITE FEET. A little child with golden hair, A little child was she, But the moon went up its starry stair And the night-wind chanted free ; On either cheek a red rose burned And her eyes with fever shone, And never to right or left she turned But stept serenely on ; The vampire swooped and fluttered round And flapt its fatal wing, But she was bound for a better ground In the Presence of the King. Strange faces peeped and peered at hei; Dim cries made mocking plea, And she heard from far the wild water That tumbled to the sea ; WHITE FEET. The leopard from its bloody lair Arose a feast to find, But when he saw that marvel fair He followed meek behind ; For she was led by an inward light That bade her bosom sing, On her pathway bright with more than sight To the Presence of the King. The bushes drew in threat'ning hands And the briars left no trace, As she passed through danger's haunted lands To her own appointed place ; The robber with his weapon bared To deal the deadly thrust. Slunk from her pure proud beauty scared By the more than human trust ; And a sweeter way and a softer will Came to each savage thing, As she journeyed still through every ill To the Presence of the King, A little child in Nature's dress A little child was she. Clothed in her own dread loveliness And wonderful to see ; The tiger with its form of flame Sprang splendid in his pride, But beneath her glance grew fond and tame And purring kept her side ; The serpent with its evil eye And frightful folds to cling, Could only fly as she floated by To the Presence of the King. The shadows wrapt her in their robes, And a blessing breathed the skies, And the stars lit up the unearthly globes Of her great steadfast eyes ; 153 [54 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. But the darkness opened wide its door And the poison damps turned sweet, And the grimmest reptiles were a floor Under those dear white feet ; She had heard of palms and raiment blest That the pretty angels bring, And she wanted rest on some pink cloud's breast In the Presence of the King. She had risen from her burning bed And the stifling bounds and pain, And to midnight as her mother fled With that vision on her brain ; The pictures danced and music made Before her, as she trod On air and through the awful shade That seemed the skirts of God ; She only felt she must be free From the fever's fiery sting, And would bend her knee in the fair countree In the Presence of the King. Then a leaf fell that could hardly fly On her dim and lonely dearth, And while it unlocked all the sky It darkened the whole earth ; And the woods and waters seemed so far That she scarcely saw them now, And the heaven shrunk to one happy star That kissed her upturned brow ; The leopard trembled at her grace That shed a radiant ring; For it filled her face like some holy place With the Presence of the King. A little child too frail to roam, A little child was she. Who simply sought her native home In the larger life to be ; COGITO, ERGO SUM. I55 And the leaf that lighted on her eye Brought her a better hap, And the wind it moaned her lullaby On a scarlet blossom's lap ; And the tiger, lured no farther on, Stood frozen in mid spring, And when morning shone her soul had gone To the Presence of the King. COGITO, ERGO SUM. I. In the hurry of the Age, Blurred and blotted as a page Torn to open a new stage. We forget the way to live ; While we hasten, hasten on, And the lesson hardly con, Till the schooling time is gone, As we take and never give ; Ah ! we blindly forward rush, Maiden cheeks have lost the blush, When our hearts forsake their hush And forget the way to live. Now no duty calls to stay, None to ponder and to pray, We forget till end of day, Thinking is the way to live ; On we stumble, man and child, In the race for riches wild, All defiling and defil'd, For a bubble fugitive ; Madly, sadly, do we fret Fiery hands and feet, and yet In the weary work forget Thinking is the way to live. 156 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. To and fro, by every wind Tost, we little comfort find. Fearful to be left behind. And forget to think and live ; We no leisure have for rest, Or to watch through windows blest Visions widening down the West, In the strife acquisitive ; Still, while pausing not to scan In the centuries the plan Shaping forth a fairer man, We forget to think and live, 4- At religion's bidding now Worshippers no longer bow, • And forget with broken vow. They who think not cannot live ; Love hath vanished, though it trod Once in triumph sun and sod. To the Silence that is God, Which no vulgar gain may give ; None consider life is wrought Beautiful as death by thought. Fools forget (though fame be bought) They who think not cannot live. KNOW THYSELF. BE THYSELF. I. Said the ancient Gospel, sent Down from Heaven to mortals pent In their ignorance content, ^^ Know thyself" and be ; News it told to every nation Tuned by martial meditation KNOW THYSELF. BE THYSELF. To receive its revelation, Purchased not with fee ; Sweet it fell on breaking hearts, Groping in the glorious arts For their proper human parts — ^^ Know thyself" and be. Says the modern Gospel, taught By the earth in living wrought With unselfish act and thought, " Be thyself' and know ; Joy it carries to the labour Done with kingly song or sabre, Flashed to help a wounded neighbour With a righteous blow ; Beautiful it calls to men, Armed with rifle or the pen, On the throne, in fever's den — " ^e thyself" and know. 3- Said the ancient Gospel writ In the flames by passion lit. All of tears and travail knit, " Know thyself'' and be ; Teach the mind, that is the measure Of thy toiling and thy pleasure And the truth, that is a treasure Which alone sets free ; From these cramping prison bars Raise it to its native stars, Lamp of Venus, torch of Mars — " Know thyself' and be. 4- Says the modern Gospel, new To the Gentile and the Jew, ■57 158 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Bathing all the world like dew, " Be thyself' and know; Wisdom oft the feeling smothers, Keeps the kindest men from others Made and meant to be their brothers, As does Arctic snow ; Charity comes now and yet Preaches love, till we forget Use of bloody bayonet — '■''Be thyself' and know. 5- Said the ancient Gospel, read In the track of battle's tread, By the dying and the dead, " Know thyself" and be ; In the compass of the learning Pushed to the most hidden turning, Hard it strove with idle yearning Heaven itself to see ; It could not the secret find Dear to every wave and wind, While it sang in error blind, " Know thyself" and be. Says the modern Gospel, clear To the bosom wrung with fear, In the shadow of the tear, " Be thyself" and know ; Look within and mark the glory Of the love surpassing story. Better than the laurels gory. To its greatness grow ; Rise upon the barren clod Of the earth where earthlings plod To thy summit — thou art God ; " Be thyself" and know. THE UNKNOWN GOD. I 59 THE UNKNOWN GOD. Thou Unknown God, whom yet I serve In dim and doubtful ways, Though oft the unequal soul may swerve From sudden light that slays ; To Thee I lift my lowly sight And at Thy glory guess, Who seek a Presence in the night Of Thy great loveliness. 2. Thou art above me in a thought Of overwhelming grace, Whereby this little life is caught Beyond all starry space ; And yet I cannot touch Thy hands Which from my worship fly And move in music through the lands, O crowned Mystery. 3- Thou art beneath me as I tread The rugged upward slope. That through the dying and the dead Climbs to the heaven of Hope ; And if I tremble at the truth Or faint in weathers wild, From Thee I yet rekindle youth, Thou dread Eternal Child. 4- Thou art around me in the hush Before the thunder shower, W^hen all my better passions rush Into their perfect flower ; l60 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. And yet it seems a mocking act Sung when the players cease, A vision more than living fact Of awful armed Peace. 5- Thou stealest on me like a thief, When shadows weave a chain Within me, in the splendour brief Of some delicious pain ; And though I trust Thy grandeurs clasp The heart that sees not them And hungers on, I may not grasp Thy garment's fleeting hem. 6. I place the Picture on the shelf Of that which cannot be, O Thou that hidest so Thyself From one that needeth Thee ; But though Thy darkness deepen still, I only follow more The stars that work Thine unknown Will, And Thee in night adore. THE MASTER OF THE SPELL. In Honorem. O lay the warrior in the grave, Whose only sword was song. Who drew it for the suffering slave And battled against wrong. The fight is fought, The victory wrought ; Lo, hushed and weeping kings and kingdoms round him throng, THE MASTER OF THE SPELL. l6l He found his country strong and fair And raised it up the starry stair, And left it and ail countries yet more fair and strong; He came, and with no faltering foot or breath To his last field and his last conquest — Death. And none is greater Than this creator, Who, with his wondrous will and solemn seeing. New globes in slumber still called into being ; Bury him with the dear and mighty dead And to a mourning empire's muffled tread, That all who honoured him may know We prized his glorious art, And we are stricken with the blow That pierced his human heart. No sackcloth sere, No cypress here For him whose fame is as the awful mountains. Who slaked our eager thirst With draughts divine from those eternal fountains Whence drew our Shakespeare first. He is not dead and he shall live for ever. Who with his pure and passionate endeavour Fought those dark pains and tangled problems out Which many fight that fail. And sent down Time the echoing victor's shout Which bids us too prevail. He bears the bays, and splendid laurels Wrung from the night in bloodless quarrels So wisely and so well, In all things high and richly human The Master of the Spell, With strength of man and warmth of woman. A universal man. He held no sordid plan. But took the least and greatest in his arms And found a message in the meanest bud. And saw and gathered unsuspected charms II l62 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. In humble trifles under moss or mud. Ah, he had gazed on God's sweet dreadful Face And caught some reflex of the unearthly grace And terrible pure fire with infinite desire — Who was so broad and earthly yet, And in his vision solemn of heavenly court and column The kindly soil could not forget, And our great common Mother whence he drew His power and all the rapture and the dew ; For, though he was a very king, And with the holy flame of Heaven anointed. And loved upon his throne to sing Of those high themes to which he was appointed, Yet would he stoop to waving woods and streams, And mix their music with his wildest dreams. But, in his stepping down. While he would press the baby to his bosom, He (as he picked with us the wayside blossom) Remembered still his crown. And now, as then, A king of men. In nothing common, though he sang of common things. Who rather bare the low above on angel wings. And let them in his sunshine flutter. And his great language utter. He never wrote a line to raise a blush Upon one maiden's cheek. Nor broke with careless gibe the holy hush Of prayer that children seek ; But with a knightly heart he dared and did Meet services for men. Nor prying looked beneath the coffin lid Of things past wholesome ken. Those ministries of general use And pleasant rites profuse, That are the flower And happy power Of every day and every year. THE MASTER OF THE SPELL. 1 63 He sang and made them doubly dear ; And those sweet human franchises of love, Which levels all vain strife, And lifts the beggar to the stars above Beside the God of Life ; Fair freedoms and equalities of heart, With consecrating art He sang and old observances made young With dews divine that on them glistened. And rainbow hopes on black abysses hung He sang and all men listened. The pilgrimage of souls in pain Bound with their sins' sore burning chain, In battle tost and tumbled As to the Light they stumbled, By strange stern ways and loss and cross and woe and shame, Through night and blight, with rod and flood and each false name, Lured not by Siren's glamour, Proof against armies' clamour, With faint pursuing feet and faces sad and seamed. And hardly then through blood and tears and fire redeemed, At death's last grim pale portal, He sang and made immortal. And, with his wondrous word. He had for those that heard The prophet's burden, and in trumpet tones Which leapt from heart to heart like stepping stones, With its true presage He told us of the better times to be, And his clear message Made slaves and cowards men and rise up free ; He taught contempt of pelf And place and power when only gilded. And one great purpose through his preaching ran — That he who ruled himself Upon the rock of duty builded, Was more than king and God's first gentleman. 164 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. And, if horizons darkened, He sang till peoples hearkened That sure and simple duty, Done in no poor and private strength, But somehow sometime carried out at length. Would roll the world rejoicing up the path of duty. Alas, that he is gone ! Alas, for us ! Not for that royal head ; We would not have it otherwise than thus, For him who is not dead ; Though now all climes and nations, All true and tender breasts With ours mix lamentations. He only rests. Ah, now the sword is sheathed, Those tender words he breathed. That thrilled above our petty fears and fasting And dreadful ambient deeps, And echo on in music everlasting — • For now the warrior sleeps. Lo, the supreme and awful seer of Avon, Who held God's hand and wrote Touching each human note, Came down and welcomed him to the blest haven, Where in pure light And perfect sight All seers and sages of all times and creeds In their white glory dwell. The Brothers of the Spell ; And there, beyond the shadow of our needs. He sleeps, and all is well ; And there he dreams, on his high throne of thunder. Great thoughts of conquering love and worlds of wonder. In peace ineffable. A DREAM. It was a little girl of seven, Her childish looks were free, A DREAM. 165 The Star the brightest in the heaven Was not more bright than she, The great church clock had struck eleven And clouds were none to see. I trow she had a winsome air, Her wondrous eyes were sweet, She made the very earth more fair, Whatever she did meet — The sun (I envied) on her hair, The flowers beneath her feet. She held a lily in her hand, She looked a sceptred queen Who walked in love about her land, And left her footsteps green, She had the habit of command And honour that was seen. Behind her followed a great hound Most fearsome to the sight, By a thin thread of scarlet bound Which curbed his monstrous might, The birds in beauty sung around, And all the land was light. She said, " O stranger, come with me And duteous presents bring, I seek the better days to be, Where shadows do not cling And care and sin and sorrow flee — I journey to the King, " They tell me, He is very good To children and to all, He made the water and the wood Which to each other call. And mountains that have ever stood Like pillars in His hall." l66 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. I went with her a flowery way, Where winds rejoicing run — Where pretty brooks delight to stray, That babble in the sun, As if they thankfully would pray And Heaven had quite begun. But then, I cannot tell you why, Before I even could mark The angel wings that fain would fly, Soft singing like a lark She melted in the morning sky, And all the land was dark. Yet, though I cannot see her still That voice may never rest, And when with bitter ache or ill The weary heart is prest, Like music of a secret rill It murmurs in my breast. THE HOLY QUEST. For fifty years this heart had waited Some glorious deed to work for men, But yet it hungered still unmated And swept through space with fruitless ken It told its passion to the pen. And only woke in night belated ; Unhelped it never had a doubt. That past the vulgar sham and shout And all the pride of petty scorning, At last must rise the radiant morning. And the one angel would step out Robed in the love her sole adorning. THE HOLY QUEST. 167 From day to day I sought the fuel Which burning keeps the Vestal fire, And in the teeth of tempest cruel I found great thoughts and sweet desire And maiden hope in white attire With purity that is God's jewel ; My body drooped, and darkness came With poverty that fools deem shame, And wrapt me in its wings of wonder, Where dwell the secrets of the thunder, While brighter glowed the sacred flame And solemn portals burst asunder. And still I knew the rapturous vision Of queenly grace, or kingly toil Done in the light of that decision Which draws from Heaven its holy oil. Would bring some day a splendid spoil To crown me 'mid the world's derision ; I heard afar on misty mount, Beyond all human quest and count And threatening shadows growing grimmer That made the angel faces dimmer. The murm.ur of the mystic fount And caught at times its golden glimmer. It might be death, it might be glory, In which this mateless heart should meet At length the hour to live its story, And rushing into blossom sweet Break as a billow at the feet Of some great guardian promontory ; It might be sacrifice or gain That shed no black accusing stain, But come it would when I was fitted. If other fading joys had flitted. And leave me with its blessed pain Into the inner shrine admitted. l68 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. And yet the years rolled on, and nothing Brought to my seamed and slaving hands But daily bread and common clothing, And not the rule of richer lands To slake ambition's large demands With royalty of high betrothing ; No bosom opened to me rest, No swimming eyes the love confest That would have been my soul's salvation ; No mighty task of tribulation. On me the awful brand imprest, Which is the sinner's consecration. I lower stooped, my head grew hoary In fretting over problems deep And gazing at the harvests gory Where graves their grisly triumphs keep And sigh from their gray centuried sleep, Vita est nil, memento mori ; But still, though others won their meed In fiery font, or godlike deed The chains of captive arms to sever And shine for ever and for ever, I only felt my footsteps bleed On stones that mocked my stern endeavour. The love or laurels to my neighbour Though undeserving alway fell. With joy of festive dance or tabor And music of the marriage bell. But left me yet alone to dwell With honest want and grinding labour ; But firm I held my conquering hope, And inch by inch up the steep slope Pushed on from cross to cross my station, Drawn by a secret gravitation, Assured the gate some day would ope And bathe me in its revelation. THE BLIND GOD. 169 At last I found, when pomp and pleasure And legalized and lordly pelf Had lost for me their might and measure And lay like rubbish on the shelf, The unknown God was but Myself— The sweetest Truth and dearest treasure ; I did not find Myself in art, Nor in some loud heroic part Which yet a pinch of dust would smother, But in the poor and helpless brother Laid at the threshold of my heart ; And now I rest, and seek no other. THE BLIND GOD. Once forth on the great homeless earth I wandered night and da}', While round me deepened a grim dearth As I went more astray ; The shadows put forth threatening hands, The briars were my bed, And in the silence of the lands Fear raised its snaky head ; I knew not whither now to fly Nor had a settled goal. The earth disowned me, and the sky Scowled on my hunted soul. Then from the darkness long and low, Out of the frozen wild Stept forth, as statue from a stone, A blind and blessed Child ; A shaft of moonlight smote his brows And showed the lurid loss, The pale lips wreathed with holy vows, One hand upon a cross ; And still he journeyed steadfast on, Though fiends would backward pull, An awful light about him shone, And he was beautiful. lyO CONFESSIONS OF A POET. He turned his sightless orbs on me, The face of conquering love, And when I would but peril see He pointed me above ; And, as I lifted up my gaze, He caught my trembling hands. And led me through the thorny maze With looks that were commands ; But then the danger seemed to melt As mists in morning air. And from the haunts where horror dwelt Burst revelations fair. And when the fears had taken flight, He smiled into my own With heavenly eyes that made earth bright And had all sorrow known ; And now when doubts and shadows fall Or evil would press nigh, I seek to Him who serveth all And send my vision high ; And then the dreadful darkness opes, I see the presence mild Of him who comes with angel hopes, That blind and beauteous Child. IN MEMORIAM H.R.H. THE DUKE OF CLARENCE AND AVONDALE. It was not in the bloody strife, He held no knightly sword, When Albert Victor gave his life An offering to the Lord ; It was not in the iron chains Of business that he fell, All jewelled with the splendid stains Of those that labour well ; IN MEMORIAM H.R.H. THE DUKE OF CLARENCE. I'] I It was not after glorious years That served his country best, He entered with the country's tears Into more glorious rest. But, to the sound of pleasure's call And music of the feast. The message came that comes to all, By him expected least ; Ah ! when the toilers for him wrought And glittered gold and gem, The shout of joy which blessings brought Sank to a reqiiieiii ; All happiness was at his side, He felt his darling's breath. But when he would embrace a bride, Behold the kiss was deatii. Untried in that imperial part He destined was to play, He yet had the great kingly heart Which rules with broader sway ; And if not his the dazzling throne He worthy was to fill, The royal nature was his own — To do the people's will ; And his, where'er the Master led, The consecrated choice. When heaven its honours on him shed, To follow Duty's voice. And, lo ! it was the Father's kiss Which drew his soul away Unto the wedding-feast of Bliss, Which nothing might delay ; His blameless life, which fain would ope Beneath blue skies of love. Bright with the beauty of all hope, Has blossomed now above ; 172 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. At noontide if his sun went down, He conquered earthly ill, And he will wear a heavenly crown And be a Victor still. THE LIFE BEAUTIFUL. What is the sweet life beautiful, Brother, what may it be That makes the dear heart dutiful, And like the ocean free ? It murmurs in the bosom Of children at their play, And bursts in snow-white blossom For maidens when they pray ; And on the mother pressing The baby to her heart. It breathes a solemn blessing That never may depart. What is the sweet life beautiful. Sister, what is the life That makes the brave hand dutiful, And steadfast in the strife ? It echoes in the kindness Of comrades as they toil. And brings to souls in blindness The lamp of holy oil ; It is the blue sky rifting The clouds that compass trust, For gentle saints uplifting The sinner from the dust. What is the sweet life beautiful, Brother, what is the spell That makes the service dutiful, For angels who once fell ? It ripples round the edges Of awful acts, where stand THE LIFE WONDERFUL. I73 Pale Vestals on lone ledges, To save a sinking land ; And when the child scarce woman Steps through the starless night, To carry comfort human, It breaks in heavenly light. What is the sweet life beautiful, Sister, what is the bliss That makes the spirit dutiful. As sealed with God's kiss ? It is the angel fashion Moulded by fire and storm. That wraps its robe compassion Around the fainting form ; And when the feet go dutiful To love's low secret song. This is the sweet life beautiful That makes the feeble strong. THE LIFE WONDERFUL. What is the life of sweetness, My darling, above strife. In glory of completeness. The wonderful white life ? Go, ask it of sick pillows That fondled are to rest, And seek it from the billows That break on woman's breast ; In quiet deeds for others To loose their iron chains, And the great heart that smothers Its own exceeding pains. What is the life of beauty With heavenly music rife. 174 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. That toils for simple duty, The wonderful white life ? It dwells in dusky corners Amid the burnt-out fires, Where lost and lonely mourners Weep over dead desires ; And when no stream is flowing Through wrinkled desert sand, It falls like summer snowing Upon a thirsty land. What is the life of victors, That triumphs o'er the knife Andi fasces of the lictors. The wonderful white life ? It hungers, as it wrestles For sisters sad and wan, And like the storm-tost vessels Goes struggling, struggling on ; And when on the dark door-sill The baby fingers plead For pity or a morsel. It stoops to baby need. What is the life that closes Not here, my girlie wife, Who camest with the roses. The wonderful white life ? It is as soft and vernal As April in the years, And spirit hath eternal With vestment of sweet tears ; Beyond all earthly notion, Above this crumbling clod, It is the pure devotion Of woman to her God. THE BEATIFIC VISION. I75 THE BEATIFIC VISION. Betwixt the dawning and the day it came Upon me like a spell, While tolled a distant bell, A wondrous vision but without a name In pomp of shining mist and shadowed flame, Exceeding terrible ; Before me seemed to open awful Space, And sheeted tower and spire With forms of shrouded 'tire Arose and beckoned with unearthly grace, I felt a Presence though I saw no face But the dark rolling fire. And then a Voice as sweet and soft as tears But yet of gladness part, Thrilled through my inmost heart, Which told the secret of the solemn years And swept away the clouds of gloomy fears, The riddles raised by art ; Till all my soul was bathed with trembling joy And lost in dreadful bliss, As at God's very kiss, While the earth shrivelled up its broken toy. And like a rose the heavens no longer coy Laid bare their blue abyss. The giant wheels and all the hidden springs Of this most beauteous globe. Which man ma}^ never probe. Burst on me with a blaze of angel wings And each bright orb that like a diamond clings To the veiled Father's robe ; I saw with vision that was more than sight, The levers and the laws That fashion stars as straws And link with perfect loveliness of right, In the pure duty that is pure delight And to one Centre draws. 176 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. I knew with sudden insight all was best, The passion and the pain, The searchings that seem vain But lead if by dim blood-stained steps to Rest^ And only are the beatings of God's Breast Beneath the iron chain ; I knew each work was blessed in its place, The eagle and the dove, While Nature was the glove Of that dear Hand which everywhere we trace, I felt a Presence though I saw no face, And it was boundless Love. MORS yANUA VITM. What is the life the Stoic Essayed but never won, The simple life heroic Of honest duty done ? My child, I see its traces In soldier saints of yore, Who up the stony places The cross of suffering bore ; And in the lilied meadow Of glory fair and green, Where God has left His shadow And virgin steps have been. What is the life, that rises Above all pett}- things, And as it prays surprises The waft of angel wings ? My child, it is the tender Submission to a blow, And the calm sweet surrender Of what we love below ; When, earthly dower despising, Before the parting ways, We chose the sacrificing That in its saving slays. THE NEW ROUND TABLE. I'J'J What is the life, whose fountains Flow ever through the years, That builds on stormy mountains Temples of fire and tears ? My child, go read the pages A maiden hand has turned, And ask of better ages That with its altar burned ; It flashes from the trembling Prayer at a mother's knee, And the dim wild assembling Of nations to be free. What is the life the Master Has in its beauty shown, Which makes man's worst disaster Divine and all His own ? My child, it seeks the burden That other backs should bear And gladly finds as guerdon A heavier cross of care ; It treads the path of trial By martyrs' crimson graves, And loves the last denial That in its slaying saves. THE NEW ROUND TABLE. Hail to the august and good, To the Science Brotherhood, Flower of school and college. Ever foremost in the fray For the Truth's untrodden way, Gallant knights of knowledge ! Hail to the devoted band, Pushing on with fearless hand Through the fogs of fable, 12 178 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. With the light upon the lance Thrust at Crowned Ignorance, By the New Round Table. Now we have a higher rank, Far above the gilded blank Of a worn out order. Raised by right of wisdom's power To a more than kingly dower — Realms without a border ; Titles long have lost their hold, Dead with their abuses old And the false servility ; With uncovered head we bow To the furrows on the brow Of the New Nobility. Down before them bloody faiths Fall, and melt as misty wraiths Grim and honoured errors ; Creeds that poison souls of men In their dark mephitic den, But with lying terrors ; Gaunt religions prone to prey On the beauty they would slay With a quack perdition, Topple from their ghastly thrones On the path of martyrs' bones — Cursed with superstition. Forward go the glorious Few, Still baptized in crimson dew With their wounds as graces. And if soldiers fail and drop From the ranks that never stop. Others fill their places ; Forward from eclipse of fears Through ennobling flame and tears. THE BUTTERCUP TIME. lyg Clouds before them flying To the waters at the Fount Ot the veiled and virgin Mount, Conquerors though dying. THE BUTTERCUP TIME. When the yellow flower comes up Which we call the Buttercup, Buttercup, Buttercup — In that happy blossom time, When the fancy runs in rhyme And sweet feelings pair and chime ; Then, O then Past all ken Love that is the life of men From my budding breast comes up. With a colour, and a glow. And a flashing, and a flow. Like the yellow Buttercup, Buttercup, Buttercup. When the sunbeams fall and sup On the yellow Buttercup, Buttercup, Buttercup, And the gold dust ever bright Lures the honey bee in flight To its vegetable light ; O my heart Feels a smart. Blissful pain through every part, And in flower comes flaming up With the passion of a boy In intoxicated joy. l8o CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Like the yellow Buttercup, Buttercup, Buttercup. When the yellow flower comes up Which we call the Buttercup, Buttercup, Buttercup ; Spring puts on its royal crown, And the sky forgets to frown Or sends laughing breezes down ; And, from gloom, Bridal bloom Of a lover's bridal room. In a glory all comes up ; While my spirit of it takes, And is wedded and awakes, Like the yellow Buttercup, Buttercup, Buttercup. DREAM BABIES. Sometimes, when I am alone — Am alone, Baby footsteps come to me — Come to me. Out of Dreamland and the zone Where good babies love to be ; Baby voices Wake my breast, Which rejoices And takes rest ; Baby shoulders bud with wings. While they talk of wondrous things ; Patter, patter, Chatter, chatter Through the shut and bolted door DREAM BABIES. l8l Up and down the painted floor, In bright frocks Fair as stars, Through the locks. Through the bars, O they glimmer, float and fly, Rise and flutter In an utter Wonderment of ecstasy — Ecstasy, Ecstasy. Sometimes, when my heart is sad — Heart is sad, Baby fingers pat my face, Pat my face. Till I feel I never had Sorrow and can find no trace ; Baby fingers Give a touch, And it lingers Loving much. Ah, the pressure of those hands Warm and white from better lands, Calling, calling. Falling, falling. Just like rose leaves on my brow, Thrills me ever — thrills me now. In the strife Their pure breath. More than life. More than death. Stays and strangely stirs my powers With the story Of a glory From the happy land of flowers — Land of flowers, Land of flowers. l82 CONFESSION'S OF A POET. Sometimes, when my hopes are dim- Hopes are dim, Bab}- eyes look through the dark — Through the dark, And with light and laughter swim Like the rainbow on the Ark ; Baby glances Fire my mind. Till it dances Free as wind ; And I see a haven near, One betwixt the smile and tear, Holding, holding. Folding, folding. All my being in its arms On a bed of baby charms, As with sleep Lightly prest In a deep Crimson rest. Through the curtain of the night, With the morning Blue adorning, Steals that vision more than sight — More than sight, More than sight. Sometimes when I seem quite lost — Seem quite lost. Baby lips all fresh from Heaven — Fresh from Heaven. Rhyme with mine in fragrance tost Not from blooms to mortals given ; Baby kisses Brush my mouth. Sweet as blisses Of the South. And their fresh and fragrant dew DREAM BABIES. 1S3 Makes my broken world anew. Dearer, dearer, Clearer, clearer. O the prett}- lips that pout Bringing my lost language out, With a crisp Scarlet How, And a lisp Soft as snow ! ^^^lispering leaves, and brooks, and birds. Meet and mingle In a single Waft o{ music not in words — Not in words. Not in words. SECTION V. PANSIES AND ROSEMARY. THE PRETTY PURITAN. With thy presence falls a hush, Pretty Puritan, Cheeks unknown before to blush To their red confession rush, Fearful of thy ban : And the hardest bosoms oft At thy saintly glance grow soft, Pretty Puritan. No one coins a doubtful jest, Pretty Puritan, And our naughty passions rest When thou speakest what is best, As no triiler can ; And the story that would sting Flies, as winter from the spring. Pretty Puritan. In thy cool white dove-like dress, Pretty Puritan, We at angel wings may guess. With that lowly loveliness Sweet without a plan ; Modesty, that in thee lives, All its heavenly armour gives. Pretty Puritan l86 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Thou dost heal the broken troth, Pretty Puritan, And with thee no longer loath Hate forgets the hideous oath Which rude lips began ; Wounded creatures to thee run, As dim blossoms seek the sun, Pretty Puritan. Not with mortal sinners sup, Pretty Puritan, When with thee who callest up Christ and makest holy cup Of the cottage pan ; Then the dinner of the least Is a sacramental feast, Pretty Puritan. Birds and children know thy face, Pretty Puritan, Find in thee a hiding place From the flood, in thy embrace With its rainbow span ; Drop the winds and waters' pride, When these nestle to thy side, Pretty Puritan. Spiteful spinsters grey and old, Pretty Puritan, Cannot in thy hearing scold, While the miser quits his gold And becomes a man ; Near thee slanderers dare not lie, And the doomed may hardly die, Pretty Puritan. Soured divines forsake their dust. Pretty Puritan, PRETTY PURITAN. 187 As the dog its dirty crust, Learning from thee simple trust By which heroes ran ; Glad to leave their fossil form For anathemas and storm, Pretty Puritan. Politicians play no tricks. Pretty Puritan, Builders do not use bad bricks. Leave their care for candlesticks, Church and charlatan ; When thy clear and candid gaze Reads their projects' muddy maze, Pretty Puritan. Partisans with paper fleet, Pretty Puritan, Will not thy true judgment meet, And soft vices are not sweet If thy vision scan ; Fools with guns they cannot horse Marked by thee feel some remorse, Pretty Puritan. Causes that would vanquished be, Pretty Puritan, When like rats reformers flee. Breathe another life with thee Virtuous in their van ; Following thy faultless pace. Catch from thee victorious grace, Pretty Puritan. Earth is richer for thy tread. Pretty Puritan, Better tastes the homely bread. Greener is the greensward spread, Kinder breezes fan ; CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Nay, the earth is heavenly quite, Where thou walkest calm and white, Pretty Puritan. Queen and crowned by every heart, Pretty Puritan, Fraud to thee displays no art, And the beggar his old part Blushes through his tan ; At thy soul's divine undress. And thy lovely lowliness, Pretty Puritan. THE PRETTY PARLOUR MAID. Trim and taking, sweet and shy Is our modest Kate, When the mistress passes by, Or the master's errant eye Scans a doubtful plate ; Pretty proper Kate. If the master's back is turned. Different is Kate ; And the steady ways are spurned. When the kitchen fire has burned Low within its grate ; Nice and naughty Kate. Simply drest in quiet black Is our sober Kate ; Dust avoids her searching track, And her besom is not slack To decide its fate ; Pretty proper Kate. Should the mistress take a trip, Quite transformed is Kate ; Jests in mocking laughter slip THE PRETTY PARLOUR MAID. 189 From her ripe and rosy lip, Always up to date ; Nice and naughty Kate. Crowned with cap of snowy hue, Glides our busy Kate ; Still to every meal-time true, With those eyes of serious blue, In her humble state ; Pretty proper Kate. Sometimes — this we blush to own — When unwatched our Kate, She to loving friends is known Arms of welcome to have thrown Round a manly mate ; Nice and naughty Kate. Sad and silent save when called Seems our thoughtful Kate ; Primly in her pantry stalled, With her silver quite enthralled, Never slow or late ; Pretty proper Kate. In not inconvenient gloom, Cleverly will Kate Disappearing from the room Wander off, to fetch a broom — At the garden gate ; Nice and naughty Kate. Guests remark her pleasant looks, Praise our little Kate, Armed with prudent eyes and looks And the most religious books That must elevate ; Pretty proper Kate. igO CONFESSIONS OF A POET. When I go my final rounds, Thinking well of Kate, I have heard suspicious sounds As of some one breaking bounds — • Not a falling slate ; Nice and naughty Kate. Even the parson good will find In our gentle Kate ; Though he draws his window blind Down on other womankind, Her he cannot hate ; Pretty proper Kate. Right upon the parlour floor, Casually has Kate Danced and not with any boor, And behind the parlour door Steps at times elate ; Nice and naughty Kate. Clean and careful in her toil Is our natty Kate, Not to let the linen soil, Nor the kettle overboil. Nor the fire abate ; Pretty proper Kate. Folks have said who envy bliss, Not averse is Kate To a compliment or kiss, That no gentleman would miss Calling for the rate ; Nice and naughty Kate. None need tell her duty twice. So discreet is Kate, While her footseps move like mice, ON A DOOR-STEP. I9I Looking always neat and nice, And at work sedate ; Pretty proper Kate. Oft has magic moonlight shone On excursive Kate, With a bosom not of stone, Deeming stars (but not alone) Mind will educate ; Nice and naughty Kate. Tended by her, I am sure No one is like Kate, With the forehead pale and pure, Downcast eyes and pose demure. Lips that never prate ; Pretty proper Kate. When I mark her romps not seen, Hear of roving Kate, I, beneath that saintly sheen, Feel the Devil who has been Her must animate ; Nice and naughty Kate. ON A DOOR-STEP. Gaily in the gilded hall. No one's Pet, Moves the wanton queen of all. Ready vassals at her call Should she for some trifle fret Jewelled, painted to her eyes, Fawned upon with fulsome lies. As if earth and starry skies Just for her in beauty met ; 192 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. While upon her door-step lone Heaven to thee gives but a stone, No one's Pet. Rude thy pillow, rough thy fare, No one's Pet, With the brow opprest by care, With the feet defil d and bare And those long dark lashes wet With the lips that sorrows parch Tost about from street to arch, Ever on the weary march, Ever with grim foes beset ; While the peeress in her pride Heeds not suffering at her side. No one's Pet. 3- But for Light thy passion pleads, No one's Pet, As it vainly darkness reads Which to greater darkness leads, And its wounds cannot forget ; Ere the lamps that brightly shone Over silken sin are gone, And the crowned crime sleeps on ; Though thy want is waking yet, Seeking love that others feasts, Shelter shared by very beasts. No one's Pet. 4- Sick of pleasure, sickjof art, No one's Pet, Drop the revellers their part Danced upon a broken heart. MADEMOISELLE. I93 Heeding not their holy debt ; Each has somewhere some one dear, Eyes that hold the happy tear, Breast attuned to help and hear. Lips of coral, locks of jet; Thou hast nought where myriads roam, Till thy God becomes thy home, No one's Pet. MADEMOISELLE. From her crown of dusky tresses, To the feet that like caresses Hardly touch the earth they tread, In the bright hour and the shady As a worker so a lady Is she, nobly earning bread ; To the tips of her white fingers When she moves and when she lingers, In her breast's bewitching swell. With the graces that are plenty Fair and foreign, tall and twenty, Mademoiselle. AVhen were such a supple figure, Frock from Paris all de rigueur, Shoes the triumph of sweet toil, Hat the final word of fashion, Crimson lips for prayer or passion. Grown upon our surly soil ? All the winter's charm and summer's Graver gifts and mirth of mummers. In a wondrous union dwell. Like the clouds on clover meadows, In thy face with shine and shadows. Mademoiselle. 13 194 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. If she gives an early lesson, If she puts the evening dress on Fitting to her like a glove, If she tells a fireside story, Life in all its youthful glory Overflows from her in love ; Yes, my children leave their dances For dear science and romances Which she coaxes from its well ; Up the heights and down the hollows. Happily each learner follows Mademoiselle. 4- In the dark, dark hour of sickness, Never nurse such helpful quickness With the knowledge of all herbs ; None so wise on arduous errands, Or in conjugating gerunds Of the most distracting verbs ; None so good to serve at tennis Or in making pounds of pennies With the true financing spell. Or at Sunday School addresses, As the queen of governesses, Mademoiselle. THE QUEEN OF EVENING. What is it makes Ethel fair ? Dewy eyes or dusky hair ? — What is it, my brother ? Is it those enchanting eyes, Blue and deep as summer skies, When the light upon them lies As upon no other ? THE QUEEN OF EVENING. Is it eyes that shyly look, Like some sweet half-folded book, Full of love and blessing, Sad, yet laughing as a brook With a soft caressing ? What is it makes Ethel fair ? Kissing eyes, or crowned hair Which no band can smother ? Sunrise mixed with sunset fires, All delights with all desires ? What is it, my brother ? What is it makes Ethel fair ? Crimson lips that pout and pair ? — What is it, O stranger ? Lips that like a budding rose Blush and tremble and unclose And then seek sedate repose, As afraid of danger ? Lips that redden, if they smile Or devise a dainty wile To give some one pleasure, And a dim lone life beguile With a new-found treasure ? What is it makes Ethel fair ? Lips that so discreetly pair. When the rake and ranger Woo her with deceit in hope Gates of Paradise will ope ? What is it, O stranger ? What is it makes Ethel fair ? Heavenly nose, or modest air ? — What is it, pale lover ? Nose that from our earthly scars And these petty bolts and bars Points up to its native stars, Which for her uncover ? 195 196 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Modesty that fled from all, Yet obedient to her call And restraining fingers, Came to her like evening's fall And with her yet lingers ? What is it makes Ethel fair ? Pretty nose, or purest air In which angels hover ? Nose that is God's temple spire ? Atmosphere of holy ftre ? What is it, pale lover ? What is it makes Ethel fair ? White-waved hands, the world's despair ?- What is it, ye sages ? Hands that conquer, as they show Heart of flame and form of snow. And in deeds of kindness glow. Working not for wages ? Hands that mould Divine their part, In compassion quick to start, Glad to raise and cherish Breasts in iron mill or mart Born to pine and perish ? What is it makes Ethel fair ? Hands, that are the arts' despair, And adorn the pages Of the wondrous Book called Life With bright pictures not of strife ? What is it, ye sages ? What is it makes Ethel fair ? Form, that fits a royal chair? — What is it, O artist ? Form that from the queenly head To the feet with rhythmic tread Is with such bewitching spread It would melt a Chartist ? MAUDE. Form, that men admire and must, Swayed by each emotion's gust As a young green willow. But when we desire to trust A delicious pillow ? What is it makes Ethel fair? Form to fill the Imperial chair Of a Buonapartist ; Form that in celestial gleams. Gives the sculptor's wildest dreams ? What is it, O artist ? / know what makes Ethel fair, Not her glorious eyes or hair— / know, gentle reader ; "" Not the mouth whose crimson curve From its beauty could not swerve. And was sweetly meant to serve As a perfect pleader ; Not the petit nez that turns Proudly upward, as it spurns Bounds of this poor mortal, And with heavenly instinct yearns For its native portal ; / know what makes Ethel fair, Not the hand beyond compare Shaped to mark a leader. Not the form where graces dwell ; And, if I should never tell, / know, gentle reader. MAUDE. Are you pretty, or a fraud But of one or two sweet tenses On the poor bewildered senses. Cold and calm and measured Maude ? Shall we toast in juices Massic 197 ig8 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Or from a Falernian butt That proud face serene and classic, Like a cameo sharply cut With the lips of marble shut — So indisputably classic, That it must receive some laud ? Are you pretty, or a fraud ? Is it sterling gold, or trick Of a calculating nature, Mocking the true legislature Stamped in others to the quick ? Is it real unquestioned beauty In your very being born, Or a mask whose paint does duty For the blushes of the morn, And conceals the cruel thorn With false charms that have no duty. And disguise the poisoned prick ? Is it sterling gold, or trick ? Is it virgin snow or not ; Like the study of a statue Which stares still unruffled at you, With the same impassive lot ? And those not unlovely graces For a world of frigid art. Are they just the pose and paces Acted well and got by heart. Bought and sold upon the mart ; As a steed's, that shows her paces Learned at first nor yet forgot ? Is it virgin snow, or not ? Are you pretty or a fraud, With your clean and classic features As of the grand Roman creatures We can see in busts unflaw'd ? AT THE LOOKING-GLASS. 199 Was there ever such a maiden With your profile, or a brow Sculptured as if it were laden With some great Augusta's vow, Under v/hich it does not bow — - As if you with empire laden, Still by nothing could be aw'd ? Are you pretty, or a fraud ? AT THE LOOKING-GLASS. Come, pretty face, my own and not my own, And full of secret blisses And subtle feeling yet to me unknown, O teach me tender kisses ; And how to look when wooed and hardly won Just with the proper sweetness. And when to grant the gift (confessed to none) With coy and grudged discreetness ; And where to raise to Heaven my ruffled brow Top-heavy with its tresses, And with indignant head that will not bow To take the scorned caresses. Do show me shyly how to frame a blush In the most graceful fashion, And when at the right moment I should rush To a becoming passion ; How to adjust my ribands and my love To every fond invasion. Or trifle gently with a heart or glove And suit the last occasion ; And still to carry to the best effect My virtues and my vesture, And keep a careful liberty correct Down to a pin or gesture. Come, pretty face, with not a straying hair Or touch to hint the slattern. Instruct me how to be as Venus fair 200 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. And still Diana's pattern ; When to reserve my warmth, or melt as wax With soft and easy unction, And out of sternest dignity relax Into a brief compunction ; How to compose my beauty for the hour And humble seem or haughty, To be the rose's thorn or opening flower And ever nice if naughty ; When to be silent or go babbling on, As times and persons vary, The gayest partner for the gallant John, And prim with prudish Mary ; How to be ready for each ardent scene With captain or with curate, And in the hottest fires remain serene But never quite obdurate ; When to be grave with bishops for a while With conscience sad and smitten, Or effloresce in tennis and a smile And play with boys the kitten. Come, pretty face, with such suggestive eyes That can be meek or merry. And infinite sweet possibilities, Another Ellen Terry ; Before I leave you, tell me how to make The best of earth and heaven. And of the whitest flour my shewbread bake With unseen spicy leaven ; How I myself may serve and never fast While serving God and mammon, And cheat the nameless personage at last, Nor bate a slice of salmon. Inform me how to be assured of bliss In spite of soft transgression, And not to lose one honest crimson kiss Atoned for by confession ; When to be noisy with the brave and blithe AT THE LOOKING-GLASS. 20I Or cross with crabbed inspectors, And pay attentions and their lawful tithe Of platitudes to rectors ; Where to be wise as serpents and take care Or harmless as the pigeon, To mix the pleasures of this world and prayer. And racquets with religion. Come, pretty face, with that voluptuous mouth, Not for one moment quiet, In solitude a rose that droops of drouth, Not curved for Lenten diet ; What shall I do to be beloved by all, The pet of saints and sinners, To slide with Demas and yet preach like Paul And miss no decent dinners ? How must I look to gratify the prude, Or blunt at least her strictures. And yet enjoy frank Nature in the nude And all the warmest pictures ? What should I say to always have my will With Heaven and even Old Harry, To flirt with Jack and not offend his Jill, And then a fortune marry ? How may I to the most advantage turn The modes of court and cloister, Freeze with Priscilla, and like Sappho burn, A butterfly and oyster ? Ah, yes, I see ! the m3'stery is out. The secret is variety, To be demure and dance, to please and pout, And wear the paint of piety ; And to all })ieii to be all things, asleep At times of vile reflection, And from the slander and the sun to keep My credit and complexion. Thanks, now I must try an imposing state And hurry this new dress on ; I hear the squire and parson at the gate, And I have learned my lesson. 202 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. PENELOPE. Yes, in spite of petty sinnings Beautiful like her Who could hardly err, My Penelope with spinnings Made of life but fair beginnings. Sweet philosopher ; All her life went budding out Daily, and was nipt with doubt Ere the evening came ; All the passion of her bosom, Never grew to one full blossom In its scarlet flame. Yet no pretty purpose altered In its perfect pose. Like an opening rose, And no step once taken faltered, If with theirs her comrades paltered. Till its sudden close : Rich and ready with the morn, Though the purpose were a thorn Veiled in velvet mask, With the rapture of a woman And a heart divinely human, She began her task. Daily she arose in glory Eager for her loom, Through the winter gloom. To resume the broken story ; She would work with fingers gory. Duty-led, to doom ; Strong in faith, and fretting not At her toil's unfinished lot, So forlorn and bound ; FAR OFF. 203 As by God Himself anointed, For some holy work appointed, Which she never found. Thus her love was coined in labour Hourly spent on need, Calm and constant heed For the sick and suffering neighbour, Wounded by the savage sabre Which is cowards' creed ; Nothing was completed still. Though she fought each giant ill With unbated breath, Till, as if her life were spinning But her shroud, the last beginning Brought in mercy Death. FAR OFF. She is fashioned out of all things fair, Of the moonlight and the morn, And her mantle is of mountain air That the tempest has not torn. She is whiter than the virgin snow. She is dewy as the dawn. In the grace of far-oft' sunset's glow- She is wondrously withdrawn. For her heart is without strife or stain, And she quaft's from sacred springs Of the glorious Love that seeks not gain, And is fairer crown than kings'. From her presence every passion flies, She would conquer Death the slayer, And the heavens that are her happy eyes For ever call to prayer. 204 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. MY IDEAL. Dark and fair, dark and fair, With a neck of snow and midnight hair Of wavy gleams, as star-lit ; Dark and fair, dark and fair. With a white, white brpw and modest air And a kissing mouth of scarlet. Fair and dark, fair and dark, With the eyes that have a heavenly spark Of the softest deepest azure ; Fair and dark, fair and dark. With the shell-like ears that seem to hark As for only God's good pleasure. Calm and storm, calm and storm, With the flowmg lines of perfect form That with perfect movement mingle ; Calm and storm, calm and storm, With the raptures of all colours warm That yet paint a passion single. Storm and calm, storm and calm, With a voice that falls like magic balm And a pride that laughs at dangers ; Storm and calm, storm and calm, Like the wind that wrestles with the palm In some purple isle of strangers. Frost and fire, frost and fire. In the sudden moods of her soul's attire. When she steps to meet the morning; Frost and fire, frost and fire, With the changeful notes of sweet desire That are one in their adorning. Fire and frost, fire and frost. With a breast by each pure feeling tost That will ope to every comer ; A ROSE WITH THORNS. 205 Fire and frost, fire and frost, By the icy blasts of winter crost And the scorching breath of summer. Strong and weak, strong and weak, With a face that must her spirit speak And betrays its hidden story ; Strong and weak, strong and weak, With the thoughts Hke shadows on her cheek In the shifting gloom and glory. Weak and strong, weak and strong, In the presence of a coward wrong As the angel of detection ; Weak and strong, weak and strong, Like the quivering parts of a broken song If the weary ask affection. A ROSE WITH THORNS. I know an English rosebud fair With sunshine hair, And brown, brown eyes that shyly peep From fountains deep To laugh a moment and look down And feign a frown, That yet would more than any smile A saint beguile ; And then her crimson lips look up, A honeyed cup, Beneath those eyes clear as the morn's : But she has thorns. Alas, I know them and have felt, Who vainly knelt, But drew no nearer than her glove With all my love Poured out in passion at her feet, No love to meet ; 2o6 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. I only proved, when sad and sick, The piercing prick ; Under the beauty and the bloom, That mocked my doom, I found (with treasures soft and seen) The thorns were keen. I know an English rosebud bright With native light, Not with the painted perjured face Of borrowed grace ; Although she is not kind to me. Yet I can see Her opening charms that soon will rush To their full blush ; And love that I may never win (If welcomed in) To blossoms then- — in spite of scorns — Will change the thorns. Alas, I know my scanty sheaves Were ever leaves, And all her fragrance and the hue Are others' due ; But I am happy yet in this — The rosebud's bliss, Content the same fresh airs I breathe Her lips enwreathe ; Though me she only gives a prick Unto the quick, / swear her thorns are sweeter dowers Than any flowers. FLOS FLORUM. Flowers I see, that shoot and shine And the vilest room refine. With a beauty all their own, Full of passion and of fire, FLOS FLORUM. 207 Clothed in royallest attire, Not to kings in splendour known ; Flowers I see, that laugh and lean Dainty heads through casements mean, High above the reach of art, Breathing as the thoughts of God To the drudges as they plod, Lessons for the loving heart. Flowers I see of noble speech, Which with words of life beseech All who go astray to turn^ — ■ All who stumble through the dark In their wild descent to hark. And within the bosom burn ; Flowers I see of fancy rare. Born to gladden worlds of care And illume the dim lone march, As they cast upon the cloud With its shadow like a shroud. Colours of the rainbow arch. Flowers I see of dazzling deeds, W^hich have sprung divine from seeds Sown in breasts without a spot, Watered by the dew of skies Which the dark hour glorifies And transforms the poor man's lot ; Flowers I see of giant acts Blooming in eternal facts, By the hand unbent and pure Struck to make a nation free, Or to hold the Heaven in fee, And for evermore endure. Flowers I see of every kind Wrought by love or mighty mind, Which dispel the dungeon's gloom, And amid the scoffs of scorn 208 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Break in blossom from the thorn, Till the very deserts bloom ; But the flower to me most dear, Jewelled with the sacred tear, In its shy and humble pose, Innocent of blot or blame Blushes on the cheek of shame, Reddening to the perfect rose. AN AUTOCHTHON. It was not in the slough of a city Or the furnace of sweating slaves, Where the things of contempt and pity Start up from their open graves ; And grim with their garments rotten Fling words that are cruel as knives — The curse of the souls forgotten, The hate of the helpless lives ; It was not in the ranks of toilers, In the riches that bring them dearth — To make surer the doom of spoilers, I met the daughter of earth. Not a maenad who meant destruction. Not a siren with frailty fond, And she asked for no introduction But the bliss of our human bond ; And her face had the print of the Mother Whom alone of her kin she knew, With a smile that she could not smother And the shade that the sunshine drew ; An Autochthon and free and simple With the scent of the meadow hay, With a kiss in the red red dimple And the hue of the homely clay. And a rent had revealed the bosom Through her frock as it sweetly swelled. THE AWKWARD PRINCESS. 209 Were it not for a bunch of blossom, Though it rose and in vain rebelled ; And she stood in the summer morning With her strong bright freshness fair, And her brow had not one adorning But the crown of her dusky hair ; As if sprung from the earth in glory And arrayed in a crimson coil, Just to tell me the young world story, While she smacked of the kindly soil. And her station I never reckoned, I uncovered my head and bowed. As the brown brown fingers beckoned And the eyes my eyes allowed ; What she said, what I gave not chidden, Though in Heaven it all had part. Is a secret that must be hidden Which I keep to my happy heart ; I was man, and she but woman Who in me had reposed her trust, We were both of us fond and human And we both would return to dust. THE AWKWARD PRINCESS. They say a fairy, at her birth. Which was of lofty station, Laid on her like an iron girth An awful incantation ; And when the doctor turned his head, She tied with dark obliquity Around one royal toe a thread, A piece of red iniquity ; And all the nurses of the lands. Though in the best condition, Could not, with all their cunning hands. Improve her sad position. 14 210 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. And so she grew a clumsy child, In spite of love maternal, And made the house a Bedlam wild With antics quite infernal ; She tore to tatters all her clothes, She laughed at bib and bottle, And with suspicious sounds like oaths Her father tried to throttle ; And once, and this is really true, When lying in the cradle, She beat the nursemaid black and blue With the best silver ladle. But though she waxed more awkward yet, The queen upon her doted. And offered many a prayer and threat Before she was short-coated ; The doctors she had called to prove. Flocked out of every nation. But could not with their magic move That red abomination ; And, when her grand relations came With sugar-plums and kissed her, With finger-nails that knew no shame, She pinched them like a blister. And so they brought a bishop next, A man of light and leading, Whose face was like a heavenly text, And pale with midnight reading ; Who learned was in tongues that closed With the most crabbed vowels, And guttural languages, and those That rumble in the bowels ; But, ah, she gave a horrid whack His gouty foot, it may be Without a thought, and sent him back Exclaiming, " Bless the baby ! " THE AWKWARD PRINCESS. 211 But as she throve and bigger grew And got more varied wishes, Into a thousand fragments flew About her plates and dishes; For everywhere she flung her arms, That stretched out daily stronger — They left a trail of grievous harms, And daily worse and longer; Her sisters, if they would not yield, She tumbled down in mockery. Her path was like a battlefield Of broken heads and crockery. She spoiled each month a dozen hats. And lost a score of mittens, While treading on a hundred cats And thrice a hundred kittens ; She soiled so many frocks a week That pan, and tub, and copper Began at such a strain to leak, And could not wash them proper ; She trampled over baby too. And all pet toys and treasures, She quite wore out her every shoe And baffled Crispin's measures. She hourly led her nurse a dance Across the chairs and tables, Down cellars grim with ghosts' romance. And into sties and stables ; She climbed through hedges and up trees And made her hair a muddle. Went sprawling on her hands and knees Right in the dirtiest puddle ; She ever came back wet and stained, Reproved by prudes and clerics. Her sisters all in tears and pained. The servants in hysterics. 212 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. But when at last in dire distress, To give her tongue a bridle, They brought a solemn governess, She only grew more idle ; The ink she emptied down her neck And smeared her face with ochre. And made her costly cap a wreck, Burnt with a red-hot poker ; Till scared and worried and abused, That sad and sapient lady Politely begged to be excused, And took a seat more shady. The queen then rent her radiant hair, The question was so tragic, And in the depth of her despair She tried all sorts of magic ; She felt her daughter was bewitched With that base red impiety, That never now could be unstitched By any known sobriety ; She cast black powders in the fire, And burnt the bluest candle. And made her pages all perspire, But could not stop the scandal. At length, the Lady of the Loves Sped to her ceaseless knockings. And bought a pair of golden gloves, A pair of silver stockings ; A rosebud and a thorn, a bond Of flame, the snow's protection, And to a royal suitor fond Turned that wild heart's affection. Then when she looked into his eyes And one sweet word was spoken, The world became new earth and skies. And the dark spell was broken. THE AWKWARD PRINCESS. 213 But now her fingers once all thumbs Grew soft and nice and nimble, And fed the dicky-birds with crumbs Or wore the dainty thimble ; They played the zither and the harp, Or stroked old lord and lady When gouty pains fell on them sharp In bedroom shy and shady ; They combed her Arab's mane for rides With kind and tender touches, Or patted down the suffering sides Of reverend dean and duchess. She nursed the baby in its crib, And often brought the wee thing A lump of sugar or a bib, To help it in its teething ; And mothers (seeking a new gown) Who their own children dandled, Had never seen in all the town A baby better handled ; Till even dirt}^ Bess, who stormed Against her, to the laundry Turned her attention and reformed. And gave up polyandry. The maids and dogs no longer winced, When they beheld her progress. For fear of being mauled or minced, As if she were an ogress ; The pussycats around her played While daily waxing purrier, Assured they now would not be flayed By her as by a furrier ; And all the owls with all their winks Came to her evening classes. While geese and donkeys had high jinks With fair blue-buskined lasses. 214 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. The cups and saucers did not crack, Or cut a hundred capers Whene'er she passed and strew her track With stories for the Papers ; Sweet roses by her feet were sown, And from her Hps dropped jewels And pearls of wisdom never known, — Unless the mighty Whewell's ; And this was wrought by radiant love, Which turns to lamb tough mutton, And fitted her just like a glove That no one can unbutton. THE HAPPY PRINCESS. They say a Fairy brought one morn A basketful of blisses. When little Wendeline was born, With honeydew and kisses ; A basketful of pretty things, The biggest plums and pleasures, Bewitching dolls and wondrous rings, And all the last new treasures ; .Rare morsels only meant for her, Of magic songs and simples, A snood of snowy gossamer, A cup of tears and dimples. But then the Princess had to choose Among this vast variety, From golden crowns to baby shoes And sugar in satiety ; Whate'er she liked would be her own, She could be rich or clever. Have beauty such as was not known, Or almost live for ever ; She might have monarchs at her feet, To hand her silver dishes — To pave her pathway smooth and sweet, And sate her wildest wishes. THE HAPPY PRINCESS. 215 And SO the Princess, nothing moved By this enchanting vision, As though she had temptation proved, Was prompt in her decision ; She did not even ask her fate. If there were trouble after. Nor for one moment hesitate Betwixt the love and laughter ; But without sadness, without fears Of evil arts or wiling. She took the blessed cup of tears And boldly drank it, smiling. She chose the thorny road of grief Which Science vainly smothers, If she might give the lost relief, And spend her life for others ; And then the Fairy kissed her thrice, She left her toys and dresses, Black pearls and diamonds and white mice And cradles like caresses ; She promised her the brightest part, Till she grew gray and cappy. And, while she kept a loving heart, She should be loved and happy. Then, lo, to crown the tender child Who took the nobler duty And through her tears on suffering smil'd, Flashed wealth and wit and beauty ; For what she touched turned into gold, And all that badness hinders Became for her a help and hold And jewels peeped from cinders ; And lilies leapt up at her feet. As at St. Leonard's paces, While roses rained from thorns to greet Her path with boundless graces. 2l6 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. And now, whenever sorrow laid On breasts its burning trial, The Princess flew to offer aid With noble self-denial ; There was no baby in the land. No beggar dropt in ditches. That did not feel her coaxing hand And share her choicest riches ; And if the mother could not sleep. Or food was scarce and scrappy. The Princess only had to weep And every one was happy. And to her cradle bird and beast Flocked by some sapient presage, To draw from her a daint}^ feast Or a more dainty message ; The owl, sore wounded in the trap. And many a mangled pigeon, Found healing in her loving lap And warmth of real religion ; The donkeys with the longest ears. So bruised they scarce could clamber, Yet gathered comfort from her tears Right in the royal chamber. And as she wiser, fairer grew. The years her sweetness heightened, That wrought the serest life anew. The darkest bosom brightened ; The prisoner behind cruel bars. Who saw her shadow only, Forgot the night she changed to stars. And felt not lost and lonely ; And dogs that wicked were and wild. Could now no more be snapp}', If once the Princess wept and smiled. Who made the world more happy. THE HAPPY PRINCESS. 217 And pussies used to tender play, For ladies' laps to cherish, And petted only yesterday — Now basely left to perish Out in the bitter rain and wind By pangs of terror shaken. And staring blankly at the blind, Forgotten and forsaken — If the good Princess dropt one tear, Found open breasts and purses, With others glad to call them dear And be the kindest nurses. The cab-horse with its filmy eye. Crushed down by iron rigour, When thoughtful Wendeline went by, Woke to its early vigour ; Remembered not the mouldy corn, The curse and cruel beating. And all the burden and the scorn Hour after hour repeating ; It knew no more the aching head, The knees so bruised and chappy, And, as she wept and smiling spread A feast, grew plump and happy. The starving seamstress, pure and proud, Who yet had wealth for giving. While ever working at the shroud That was her daily living — Perched in her little attic lone Among the tiles and sparrows. And looking down on hearts of stone. On cares and costers' barrows — Yet, when the Princess smiled and wept. Drew comfort sweet and sappy From her great love, and softly slept, And in her dreams was happy. 2l8 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Yes, all the withered, lame and blind. The dumb and the unbless'd, a Great crowd of impotent mankind, Bathed in her love's Bethesda ; The troubled waters of her care. That was as wise as Goschen, And did what none but angels dare, Girt every land like ocean ; The squeaking things, and things that crept, And creatures finned and flappy. Though dying, when she smiled and wept. Expired in odour happy. THE BUSY PRINCESS. They say a Fairy fond of toil. Who in the workshop lingers And likes a little honest soil, Put magic in her fingers ; And gave a wreath of snowy thread That youthful fancy wheedles, To tiny Princess Winifred, And hedged her round with needles ; And said, on hearing her first cry, Her hands should be her fortune. And wicked arts that others ply, Should vainly her importune. And thus the baby knew no joys In pleasure sights or cymbals, But took to sewing, and her toys Were only tapes and thimbles ; She robed her nurse in rabbit skins. And promptly made her push on By studding her with dreadful pins, As if she were a cushion ; Though never did she mean her harm Or mock her like a slattern, But simply wished to try her arm At some new point or pattern. THE BUSY PRINCESS. 219 Her sisters idled out the day, And in the sunHght sported, Or romped through merry miles of play By cats and dogs escorted ; But, though their tears were freely shed And dried with music after, Yet had the Princess Winifred No time for grief or laughter ; Yes, they might gaily smile or weep Or mow from masks and visors. She laboured on, and even in sleep Cut pretty shapes with scissors. And as she older, stronger grew. Her light would not be smothered, All servants to her side she drew And each domestic mothered ; She helped the housemaid with her broom. The butler at his table. And gave five minutes to the groom Who whistled in the stable ; At laundry tubs she had a bout, And garden lore was rich in, And turned as good a pudding out As Monsieur in the kitchen. Her hands were busy through the town And gave bald heads a lustre, And rubbed men's dirty measures down With besom and with duster ; While politicians were in bed Or laying on the butter. Swilled out the Princess Winifred Their Parliamentary gutter ; She burnished all the rusty Boards And patched the country's banners, And taught the lazy House of Lords To mend their broken manners. 220 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. She did not care for dancing dames And only turned to troubles, When other children were at games Or blowing soapy bubbles ; She polished up the royal crown, And saw the fires had fuel And aired her mother's morning gown, Or made her evening gruel ; She did not wince at menial tasks That people said were shocking. Drew beer for beggars out of casks And darned their coat or stocking. The grand old Premier could not call, Unless he washed her poodle. Or wound her worsted in a ball, Or brushed some waif or noodle ; The stoutest clergy kicked and fled And burst their pious traces, When active Princess Winifred Would put them through their paces ; Men who did not that pastime choose, Who blazoned were with medals, Were sent to black her walking shoes, Or slave at sewing pedals. When came in majesty and might To woo her kingly lovers, She set them all to making bright The dishes and their covers ; She bade them scrub the palace floors And scour the rusty iron, Or oil the hinges of the doors Instead of reading Byron ; She gave them labour hard to do, And would not have a sloven — To carry coal and break it too, Or heat the biggest oven. THE BUSY PRINCESS. 221 And so she laboured night and day While noble idlers jested, Though the infection had its way And not a person rested ; The carpenter, the cobbler sped. If folks grew tired and nodded, Except the Princess Winifred, Who some with needles prodded ; She never spared her purse or pains. And helped the nurses tubbing. Or swept the cobwebs from their brains, Till all the world was scrubbing. The plates and dishes, not by chance. Whene'er they heard her coming, Forsook their racks and led a dance. Pianos went off strumming ; The wheels of every mine and mill. The steam in forge and factory. Now were not for a moment still — ■ For who could be refractory ? No hands and feet could ever stop And spun their workings wider. While every house became a shop, And every man a spider. She corresponded with all lands In all their tongues and tenses. And kept a hundred scribbling hands Of smart amanuenses ; Her letters each on its own shelf Were pigeon-holed and sorted, She had an office for herself And every tale reported ; She let a thousand pages loose — Whate'er might be the weather — To gather quills, till not a goose Had left a single feather. ■222 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Her private wires ran south and north, Her cables crossed the oceans, And groaning did the mails go forth To flash her fertile notions ; She daily got the earliest news And daily sent the latest, From roaring marts to pious pews Where humbugs sit sedatest ; Her recipes for making jams, Or draining Bogs Sirbonian, Her postcards and her telegrams Were really quite Gladstonian. And ready stood a hundred steeds Saddled, with bit and bridle. For couriers to make known her needs, That none should dare be idle ; She babbled in a myriad tones Of toiling and mendicity, Used endless trains and telephones And harnessed electricity ; Flew carrier pigeons for her sake, And lectured every college On every theme, but could not slake Her boundless thirst for knowledge. The very cats and dogs were set To work at wise professions, And better than most Christians met The lures to base transgressions ; The tiniest kit, the poorest pup, She trained in useful courses, To turn their little noses up At bets and racing horses ; And tuned by the terrestrial George She made with sweetest bonhomie Her every field a patent forge. To teach the new Economy. THE INQUISITIVE PRINCE. 223 THE INQUISITIVE PRINCE. They say a Fairy with four eyes, In place of sham pomposity, When dropt Prince Aubrey from the skies Gave him her curiosity ; Endowed him with a scorn of fools, And in his heart of wonder Shut up a box of magic tools, To rive the rocks asunder ; That thus all secrets he might know, The tricks of every nation, The things above, the things below, By serious observation. Inductive, eager, from the first He paid most marked attention To bottles, when he slaked his thirst, And would have new inventions ; Betwixt the pages and the pugs He daily formed comparison, With showers of brushes and of jugs, To daunt the bravest garrison ; The hardness of the nurses' backs And boots he often tested. And smothering maids with fearful sacks His baby powers invested. He wanted once a helpless jade To slice in vulgar fractions. Only to mark how she was made — The meaning of her actions ; And into cupboards full of jam, Down cellars, up the churches. While doors could nothing do but slam, He pushed his rapt researches ; He tumbled into water-butts. Was drowned and boiled and baken. In quest of sugar and short cuts. And into wisdom shaken. 224 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. No scrap of rubbish came amiss, No bit of glass or iron, He always ready was to kiss Or carve the sweetest Siren ; He took the jewels from the crown And hacked the throne to sections, And fried a nice fat baby brown, In spite of interjections ; But no one had a warmer heart x\nd no one had a bigger, For a neglected toy or tart, A casual knife or nigger. When to maturer years he came He was not more pacific, His ardent soul grew all aflame With fury scientific ; He sent the courtiers into fits Of terror, though he simply meant To train their little minds by bits With some new murderous implement The fatter samples oft he packed In pickle-jar and crucible, And to its final atoms cracked Whatever was reducible. Experimenting night and day He hardly ate his rations. But with his scalpel worked away On cats and poor relations ; Colonial bishops he found cheap, Though some with tears objected. And stale old statesmen in a heap He bought and vivisected ; He tried his theories upon man And dog and dunce and rabbits, And cooked in chemists' awful pan Home Rulers with bad habits. THE INQUISITIVE PRINCE. 22; He burrowed into beggars' heads With gimlets' penetration, If he might trace the nervous threads Or signs of cerebration ; The mystery of the pineal gland He probed with busy needle, And laid a meditative hand Upon the parish beadle ; And when (to joys of science dull) Came in the royal hatter, Prince Aubrey opened his poor skull To study the grey matter. Beneath his philanthropic knife Fell wretches who wrote hymnals. Or stirred up theologic strife And played the part of Simnels ; But though he wanted to be just And poked with patience double, Mere cobwebs of old Fathers' dust Alone repaid his trouble ; For with his long laborious pains Repose and food denying, He found no vestige there of brains With all his quantifying. He watched the wincing of the knaves Beneath the force of blisters, Who wedded even over graves Their poor deceased wives' sisters ; He listened with judicial ear To their pretentious platitudes, And put a little wholesome fear Into their wormy attitudes ; And bade them turn to nobler creeds From squirmings of obscurity, That widened with such wicked deeds The circle of impurity. 15 226 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. But on himself he always tried First every curious question, Daily was carved, and bled, and died, In search of a digestion ; Elixirs, potions, by the score, That better were for foemen, He would at awful risk explore And test in his abdomen ; He took what pills the market gave. Pursuing some idea. But to discover a new grave In each new panacea. He braved the fury of the fire. And proved the upper classes. When stript of just their gay attire, Were only dirt and gases ; And though he often spared the weak. Himself he gave no quarter. And crucial tests would hourly wreak In iced or boiling water ; Before the doctors could arrive To offer wise inspection, He buried was in earth alive And made a resurrection. He fasted fifty days, and beat The biggest record hollow. And would not let his friends retreat But called on them to follow ; He tried all heresies and foods, Socinian sauce and Arian, And flitted from his fleshy moods To courses vegetarian ; He blenched not at the wildest plan, The hardest nut or strawberry. The queerest morsel, view or man, Was nothing to Prince Aubrey. NURSE. With cunning tools he toiled amain, With acids he corroded, And if he erred he tried again Till someone was exploded ; He turned the palace to a pot With servants boiled successive, And if they grumbled it was hot He called them unprogressive ; He burnt three-quarters of the town To prove the power of smashes, And then in placid joy sat down And analysed the ashes. And when his brothers brought a wife In hopes they might have nieces. He married her, and took his knife And snipt her into pieces ; For none, the loftiest in the land Or of a lowly station, Were safe from his inquiring hand And keen evisceration ; Till subjects all were of the past. Which scarcely was surprising, And on himself he fell at last And died philosophising. NURSE. Dorcas, womanly, and fervent For her precious children's sake, All a friend and all a servant. Is the model you should take ; Full of innocent devices She the little ones entices To the refuge of her arms. With her plain and kindly charms As with costly bribes no other, Still for better and for worse, All a queen and all a mother ; Greet her warmly — this is Nurse. >27 228 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Angel heart and strength of giant She embraces in one form, And on loving gifts reliant Stills the tumult of the storm ; When the hungry pets at table Make confusion bad as Babel, She is ready for the hour And maintains her modest power, Till is hushed the wildest billow With a playful quip or verse, And some culprit finds a pillow On the bosom of dear Nurse. None may know but she the trial At her sad and silent post, And the constant stern denial Of the rest she covets most — All the long and sleepless coping With the fever against hoping, Through the dark and endless night, In a patience more than might, While the force of life did battle With the blackness of the curse, When the babe had ceased to prattle — None can really tell but Nurse. Oh, she is a daily wonder Of endurance wise and calm, To excuse the careless blunder Or apply the healing balm On the wounded frame or feeling, And beside her charges kneeling To outpour her jealous care In a tender tide of prayer ; Yes, and to their touch magnetic Opens out her slender purse, With each birthday sympathetic — Blessed among women, Nurse. THE HOUSEMAID. 22g THE HOUSEMAID. Upstairs in a corner shady Of the passage long and shy, In the bedroom of the lady, And with business in her eye, Sweeping, dusting, And disgusting Spiders at their curious toil, Lest the cobwebs leave some soil. And at labours quite Titanic In her pink and dainty dress, See my tidy and tyrannic Housemaid, Bess. Ah, the earwigs know how savage She can be in serious mood, If one moment they would ravage Through her realm in quest of food ; Brisk and bustling, In her rustling Print she seems to scent afar Any stain or door ajar. And with all a zealot's unction Traps the beetles at a guess. And destroys without compunction ; Cruel Bess. Never queen so swayed a sceptre In her gilded prison gloom. Or at ruling was adepter Than this despot of the broom ; In the border Of disorder With the flagrant blot or brand. Bringing with her moulding hand Method and its grace harmonious, Over wardrobe and the press Reigning proud and ceremonious, Royal Bess. 230 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. True she is, but rarely tender, While she puts in heaven her trust. Haloed with the homely splendour Of the raised and routed dust ; Fired by duty. Bright with beauty Of a mission from her God, Treading as she ever trod Conquering to her goal domestic, Equal to the hour and stress. And in little tasks majestic. Glorious Bess. A LADY'S MAID. Wise opinions well may vary Of all persons and all things, But who can deny that Mary Is an angel without wings ? To and fro she softly flutters, And at morn unbars the shutters. With so delicate a hand. Opening out the misty meadow And the oaks about the land Which in guardian glory stand. That she looks a heavenly shadow, Not a servant to command. Yet, my sweet and honoured madam. If she in your chamber trod, You would find this child of Adam Also was a child of God ; While her every modest motion Is an act of pure devotion To the Present Master paid. And the deft and dainty fingers Flashing with the needle's aid O'er the frock for mending laid, Work for Him for whom she lingers, Though a simple lady's maid. THE NURSERY GOVERNESS. 23I Once a lord of line illustrious, Smitten by her lovely face, As she passed with steps industrious And her strange unearthly grace. Deeming her as lightly taken As a bird by serpent shaken From the refuge of its perch, Asked the way that was the nearest To her bedroom, though the search Would her sacred honour smirch And destroy the treasure dearest ; But she answered, " Through the church ". Her's may be a portion shady, Life a poor unnoticed lot. Yet is she a perfect lady And without a fear or spot ; For the crown of maiden meetness Gives to her its grand completeness, If on her no jewels shine ; Though she has a lowly station, Flowers of faith around her twine, Gems of love her mien refine. Royal robes of consecration Are her own by right Divine. THE NURSERY GOVERNESS. On the threshold of two lands, Joining both with useful hands Trained to bring in perfect order From the rule of chaos wild. Here a wardrobe, there a child, But a tenant of the border ; Though she does no duty ill. And her fingers have a skill Not to be attained by money. Conscious of a secret might She, who craves a bolder flight, Longs for Canaan's milk and honey. 232 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Haifa servant, half a queen, And two jarring worlds between, Still she looks across like Moses From the height of labour wrought, On the wings of wistful thought, To the realm of bliss and roses ; In her little sphere of frocks. Pinafores and pretty socks, Mabel five years old and fervent And yet younger Maude she sways, On first lessons' pictured ways. Half a queen and half a servant. Sensitive and shy and proud, Like a star behind a cloud. For a second rays revealing Of an orb without a mote. Which a careless eye would note. Then again its light concealing ; Sometimes from a girlish dream. Not devoid of fruit and cream. Up she starts and goes forth brisker. To retire within her print. At the very faintest hint Of an aggravating whisker. Nurse admires her, calls her smart, Keeps for her the crispest tart, And employs her clever needle For that bonnet of gay straw, Which inspires a deeper awe Than the cocked hat of the beadle ; Baker gives her furtive looks, Butcher reads romantic books And for her his fatling slaughters ; Their despair she does not guess, If a nursery governess Yet the flower of England's daughters. BABYDOM. 233 BABYDOM. Babies do, as children guess, Come from God right out of Heaven, And are then to parents given In their pretty mortal dress, Sweet as souls just newly shriven, Pink and white deliciousness. Babies come From our Home, Soft, round, warm, and blessed things, Angels, though they leave their wings At earth's portal, When they take Garments mortal For our sake. Yet when nobody is by, They resume their wings and fly, In a quiver And a shiver, With a rustle And a bustle Of the most bewitching joy, As if life were but a toy. I have seen, I have been Hiding near them, when they spread Golden plumes about their head, And their rosebud lips shone out With a red and restless pout, And their eyes' Ecstasies Gave a glory and a hue Such as is not in the blue Sky with all its summer due. Without cloud, and without clue For the fancies Of romances. 234 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. I have watched them with a sigh — With a sigh, Mounting upward, floating high — Floating high, With a motion Quite devotion; Or did God draw dearly nigh— Dearly nigh, Like the ocean ? Till I truly could not tell — It was so ineffable — And I really did not know, Lying very far below, In the lovelinesses bright, Which was Baby, which was light. Hoary sages, Who the stages Of the ages. Print on pages, Long, and learned, and profound, Would our simple faith confound. When with pompous words they draw Man from beast by iron law. But the Love, Beyond doubt Lord above, They leave out. We say only what we see. What is certain, what must be. What the waves and breezes blow — Woodlands whisper, what we know. Science goes its ponderous way While we wonder, while we pray Science will Keep earth's leaven, Babies still Come from Heaven. Sages with their heads in dust BABYDOM. 235 Miss the stars that shine on trust, And with cruel Piercing goad. Kill the jewel In the toad ; They arose from earth, it may be, God alone could make the Baby. Winsome dear wee fluffy thing — Fluffy thing, With the hands that climb and cling- Climb and cling, And yet hardly show the knuckle, Like the scented honey-suckle As it winds about and clambers To its leafy upper chambers ; Hands that do Fondly woo, Cling and climb As they chime With the feeling of the hour, Turning as the sunward flower For some new and surer place On the yet untravelled face. Which is an enchanted shore For the fingers to explore, And with all their baby art Twining love-links round the heart, Binding with a thousand ties Tenderness that never dies ; Hands that double Joys, and trouble Turn to blisses As with kisses, And hold out when others fly Anchors from eternity. Ah, the little lips rise up Like a little crimson cup, Round and ready 236 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. And unsteady, As if bursting, As if thirsting For your petting and caress, In their utter helplessness. Don't you see That pure sight, Seraphs free Watch in Light ? Would you, could you turn away Or a moment span delay, Were you crying, Were you flying From an armed host's array, Were you dying ; When you noted that full gaze Of inquiry and amaze, In its awful innocence Turned on you, Big with simple confidence Through and through ? And yet devils. To their shame. In mad revels Without name. Seared and sunken, Damned and drunken. Babies maim ; And the mother and the woman, Half Divine and not all human, Babies harm And alarm, Babies take And forsake. Babies starve While they carve Steps to hell Terrible, BABYDOM. 237 Babies curse While they nurse, Babies hate Left to fate And all ill- Babies kill. But, though baby- slayers go To the bourne of endless woe. As they fell. Babies, just to help them live And some cool sweet comfort give, Hear their knell, And at seasons fugitive Go as well. Have you marked a Baby's feet. Each pink toe Wonderfully wrought and sweet, To and fro, Glancing up and glancing down, Never still For the laughter or the frown Forced by will ? Sculptor, painter, poet, none Could portray the charms of one Baby foot Lightly put Here and there, Everywhere, Like a snowflake, like a bud That has never heard of mud, Never seen a single speck, Purer than the swan's pure neck, Which when really put down quite In its virgin freshness white, Makes us tremble Though we would Fear dissemble, If we could ; '238 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Which in mischief and in mirth On all lands Conquering stands, And sends echoes through the earth. Have you marked a Baby's eye Which came forth when God went by, Just to take a little look At that beauteous Picture Book, And got there from what it saw Angel rapture, human awe ? Mark it well, And the spell That does gladden spirits lost And on fiery surges tost, Where flames dwell, And does glorify and turn Or make new Thoughts that crucify and burn. Into dew. Do you love a Baby's eye With the sweetness of the sky After rain. Deep as deep Infinity Without stain ? O it speaks a language known Not to mortals, of its own ; Soft as flowers On the Maker's pathway strown. Washed with showers. Do you love a Baby's eye. That your will Asks with wistful laughter shy ? Love it still. Have you marked a Baby's ear, Which stole out when none was near But the angels with their wings. Just to hear their silver strings, As they rang, BABYDOM, 239 As they sang Of the higher thoughts and things, Ere to holy communings They upsprang ? Haifa blossom, half a shell, All of gold, Carved in ways ineffable, Manifold ; Ah, it has the rose's curve, And a colour Nowise duller, Yet does not a hair's breadth swerve From the duty Owed to beauty. And within that mystic seat — Mystic seat. Melodies of ages beat- Ages beat, And the music of all times — Of all times. Rippling rill and lisping lea — Lisping lea, There for ever chants and chimes — Chants and chimes, With the murmur of the sea — Of the sea. Breaking gently on the shore — On the shore, Evermore, Evermore. Babies go and Babies come, Cooing, kind, and cuddlesome ; If they suck Tiny thumbs. Crusts or crumbs, Each a duck, Someone's pet When they fall, When they call, 240 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Though they fret, Babies yet, Babies all ; Babies thin and Babies fat. Babies none would dare to pat, Babies dark and Babies fair, Babies with the haloed hair, Babies short and Babies long. Babies weak and Babies strong, Babies white and Babies pink. Babies who but sleep and drink, Babies purring, Babies pleased, Babies smiling still though teased. Babies far too proud to walk. Babies ripe for fun and talk. Babies kept within no girth. All /row Heaven and all /or earth, U Envoi. Babies past and Babies present And to be, Without whom no life were pleasant Life or free ; Without whom no house were furnished. Nothing sweet, And no table rightly burnished Or complete; To your cry Dearer than the call of doves, Full of all delights and loves, Now bye-bye. THE WHITE BABY. I. Sweetest thing God ever made, Carven out of shine and shade And of gold ; Brimming o'er with love and life, THE WHITE BABY. 24I Hope and fear and mimic strife, Now so cold — Now so cold ; Could'st not thou yet longer stay While the dew was on the day, Baby dear, Once a smile that books might fill With its meaning, not a still Frozen tear ? Never will I dare to think All those breathing roses pink. That pure head, With the sunshine glad and fair, Tangled in its crowned hair Can be dead. Whither hast thou taken flight. For an hour or for a night, Baby bold ? Thou art busy in strange lands With those wee soft sceptred hands, Now so cold — Now so cold. 2. Sweetest joy in earth or sky, Born for nothing but to fly, With the plan Of the angels who are flame, Binding in one tiny frame God and man ; Far above our thoughts and things With the glory of thy wings Strong as fire, Soaring up to fields of love Whence the roses came, above Our desire ; Thou did'st never stoop to walk, 16 242 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. And thy wisest baby talk Mocked our ears With a melody not known, But the angels' and thine own, Past the years. Lilies' lustre, waters' chime, Bliss and blossom of all time, Nectared grape, Curve and colour as of flowers, Gave thee with those dainty dowers Shine and shape. 3- Baby, calm, and terrible In thy mystic miracle, More than life, More than beauty in the charms Of the chiseled brow and arms From the knife Of the Almighty Sculptor fresh, Bodied into conscious flesh, Perfect form, Snow and bud and spirit blent All with dew and motion lent By the storm ; As upon thy gifts I gaze, Backward rolls the mortal haze, Time past count, And I see the solemn sun In its endless race begun At the fount. In thy compass comes to be All the world's epitome, All its grace ; And, behind the painted shell, Bowed alike on heaven and hell God's own face. MAUDIE. 4- Sweetest thing eye ever saw, Delicatest, without flaw, In the mould Wherein work alone is cast Meant like God Himself to last, Art thou cold — Art thou cold ? Art thou dreaming, or afar In some dim and distant star, Baby mine, Where the angels vigil keep And about thy blessed sleep Moonbeams twine ? Wonderful art thou and white, And the spell is infinite Round thee spread ; And those feet divinely wrought. More than music, swift as thought, Are not dead. We are dreaming, we who die. And the shadows only lie. Truth has told ; When at last the shadows break, Thou with us will brightly wake ; We are cold — We are cold, MAUDIE. Maudie often looks so nice, Looks so nice. Marvellously meek as mice, Meek as mice When they are on mischief bent, With the sweetness of a saint And a smile of calm content As if far from evil taint. 243 244 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. And is so demurely drest That she seems the very best Of all lasses ; And the masses Of her hair that tumbles down Grow into a saintly crown, Like the olden Haloes golden. But I know my Maudie well, Every turn and every tittle, Every fault Which I never mean to tell, And I take her with a little Pinch of salt ; That is why — but do not tell her ! — • I still keep my big salt cellar. Maudie has a classic face — Classic face, And the kind of sculptured grace — Sculptured grace, With those grave and measured looks, Which we read in pictures pale And in mighty antique books With a dim and distant tale, As if she herself had kept Company with these and stept From their glory To the story Of our mean and prosy times, Not forgetting the old chimes ; Like a statue Which looks at you. With the same unruffled pose And the same serene expression Of the eyes. And the same provoking nose Turned above our weak transgression MAUDIE. 245 To the skies ; Modern modes may cramp and skimp us, Maudie dwells upon Olympus. Maudie has her pretty ways — Pretty ways, If at times she lightly strays — Lightly strays ; When was there a child so quick To anticipate a need. If the paper, or my stick. Or the Athanasian creed For the proper service set, Which perhaps I might forget ? And her presage For a message Is unearthly, and I vow She can trace it on my brow As if uttered There, or buttered On her bread or on my own ; And for finding lost umbrellas Or a stool. Never was her equal known In the last and best Mundella's Model School. Ah 1 she is as keen and canny As the greatest old great-granny. Maudie is a borrowed child — Borrowed child. And her manners quaint and mild, Quaint and mild, Take demurely that or this. Lazy couch or climbing stair, Coryigenda or a kiss, With the same untroubled air ; For she has enchanting gleams 24.6 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Of her Indian home in dreams, Wondrous odours And pagodas Underneath the pillared palm, In their immemorial calm. But she flashes Out of sashes, And of knowledge, and of frocks, With a most amazing splutter Now and then. Like an earthquake in the shock She inflicts on shelf and shutter, Mice and men ; Mixing with her fiery leaven Tongs and tables, earth and heaven. DREAMLAND. Sometimes in the evening hour — Evening hour. When the drowsy lights are low — Lights are low, Sudden fancies burst in flower 'Twixt the glooming and the glow ; And they make. And they take All the most surprising forms, Birds and blossoms white and red, Butterflies and bees in swarms Like a cloud in glory shed ; And I wonder. And I wonder, Till the gates that shadows close Burst asunder. Burst asunder Like the petals of a rose. And bright shapes, Owls and apes, DREAMLAND. 247 Shining babes and shrouded things, Children naked and with wings, Children tied to leading strings, Children crowned as queens and kings Flash and flutter In with utter Mirth and mischief to and fro, Through the shutter ; As the firelights' ebb and flow Spit and sputter ; While they mutter Spells and charms about me throw. Owls as solemn As the column Of a church, With a winking And a blinking On me perch ; Apes as serious And mysterious As a sage, Read my feelings' Last revealings Like a page. Ah, they flop above and flout me, Dance in front and all about me In unheard of droll gyrations. Which arouse queer perturbations In my breast ; Till entangled in their tether I am dancing too together With the rest. But no mortal mind could tell. And no tongue might syllable Half the joy and miracle Of the sight ; When, from silence growing dimmer All these visions in the shimmer 248 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Of the shades that glance and gHmmer Leap to Hght. Babies dear and dutiful, Pink and gold and beautiful, With a cooing And a wooing Of white arms and crimson lips — Crimson lips, And low laughter That hereafter Even to my finger-tips — Finger-tips, Thrills me through and through again, Start from wall and window-pane, Start from space and solid floor. From the ceiling and the door. From each empty couch and chair, From the chambers of the air, From the flicker of the flame Still enchanting, still the same ! From the lands Of poppied sleep, Blooming bands With white hands Awake and peep Arise and sweep Through all strands In rapture deep. And those faces soft and simple Full of love and pleasure dimple With their wiles Into smiles, And draw fairy circles round Bluer than the sea-water, Stronger than an iron bound But as fine as gossamer; And they bind me very fast With a thousand threads of might DREAMLAND. 249 1 o the peoples of the past — Of the past, And the shores of old delight — Old delight, Where in temples cool and vast — Cool and vast, Dreamings may be read aright — Read aright. Then the great white owls august With the secrets they entrust Unto none, One by one With a flop Downward drop — With a stare, None can bear — None can flee, Gaze at me ; Each one gazing at me blinks Grave and awful as the Sphinx, Ghostwise from the Shadow's womb, Like carved figures on a tomb Dreadfully demure and calm, But with quiet that is balm. Then they stir and step and nod In a fashion old and odd. Each one winks, Each one thinks Deeper than the deepest law, But the gains Of their pains None yet truly heard or saw. Then with flapping And a flopping — Flopping, Flopping, As if clapping Wings were dropping — 250 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Dropping, Dropping, Lower lower down through all And for evermore must fall. They beyond my utmost hopes — Farthest fear, Saddest tear, Through the sinking floor that opes Moonlit depths and misty slopes Wherewith fancy vainly copes. Disappear — Disappear. And the apes more odd and old, Looking wiser Than a miser Who has heaps of countless gold, Safely hidden In forbidden Nooks beneath the churchyard mould, With grey faces And grimaces Mop and mow, Bob and bow Backward, forward, Southward, nor'ward. Eastward, westward, and with looks More profound and learned far Than the most profound of books Weave with wedded hands a bar None could ever Hope to sever, Close me fast and shut me in While they gaily sport and spin. Round and round, Wound, unwound. Heads and legs and arms like flails Linked in most confusing lots, And their very toes and tails DREAMLAND. 25 1 In inextricable knots ; While they babble, Grin and gabble, Duck and dabble In the flowers, Such a rabble And with such unearthly powers ; Yes, they spin Out and in, Cheep and chatter, Peep and patter, Now still fatter Now more thin, Fawn and flatter Till they win, And begin Then to shatter Cup and platter Without clatter, And my skin Tweak and tatter. Pinch and batter Without din. And the flowers in handfuls scatter All about me to and fro. As if flowers were but a matter Made to pelt and play with so ; And when I am fairly bothered. Blind and smothered. With their jowls Set like owls, And like them demurely still And unfathered and unmothered, With the same sad sapient will, Having worked me every ill They (with nothing more to do) Shake their heads and vanish too. And I wander. 252 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. And I ponder, In the haze Of a maze That looks yonder All ablaze. Then, as under azure skies — Azure skies, Come the wanton Butterflies — Butterflies, Come in clouds of every hue, Scarlet, crimson, pink and blue, Brown and mellow, Bright and yellow In the splendour of their plumes Which the light of suns assumes. And their fellow Flowers in myriads illumes. Till I really cannot guess, In the woven loveliness Of the blending And unending Choirs and colours shot in showers By unseen and frolic Powers Through and through the magic bowers, Still ascending, Still descending, Which are Butterflies or flowers. Now as stars In white cars Set on high in purple space, O they twinkle And they sprinkle Blessed beams upon my face. Now they go, Flakes of snow, Wild and whirling on the blast. Till I seem. In a dream. DREAMLAND. 253 On the snowstorm caught and cast. Then the Birds, Pretty Birds, Sweetly painted, As if sainted Things from pictures old and dim — Old and dim, Holy doves, Angel loves, Touched with haloes swoon and swim — Swoon and swim ; Pretty Birds, WingM words. Talk and twitter, Music fitter Than the music of the spheres — Of the spheres, As they flitter Through my bitter Memories and track of tears — Track of tears. Ah, I cease to wake and wonder. When I read the writing under Dainty throats and breasts of Birds, Pretty Birds, Winged words. Why, when Heaven was rent asunder, God embodied all His Love In a Dove, Holy Dove, Happy Dove. But at last away they fly To their opening native sky, While they carol In apparel As of moons, and say good-bye. But the Bees, But the Bees, 254 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Gold and silver striped with black, Cream and crimson do not lack, And from trees Down the breeze Seem to hurtle bullet-swift On each ray, through every rift, In a hurry And a flurry, As if worry Made them scurry, With a fuzzing And a buzzing, Straight to bleeding hearts of flowers As to bridal beds and bowers ; Thirsty Bees not educated, And with sweets intoxicated. Tumbling down and topphng over From the honey-dew of clover — Broad red splashes. Great white dashes, Perfumed pillows, Rolling billows Sweeping on a boundless lea Like the glory of the sea, Where the honey ever drips Food for thousand thousand lips. O the Bees, O the Bees, Hear their coming Far as mortal vision sees, With a humming And a strumming Where the roses bloom at ease ! But no money Buys the honey Of the nectar that they find Unto which our eyes are blind, And no measure DREAMLAND. ^55 Metes the treasure Which they take and safely bind Hidden from all dull mankind ; But they know In the corners quaint and funny How to seek it, where the sunny Fountains flow. Have they stings As well as wings ? Are they only thoughts, or things All quite real. Not ideal Nonsense which a poet sings ? Ask the blossom. In whose bosom Softly folded. As if moulded By sheer duty To its beauty And no other, Like a brother Lies the toiler And the spoiler, If it stings While it clings. They are busy, they are free, Far too much to notice me, And they keep their secret well Buried in the blossom's bell. Then in one vast cloud of sound Rising, where they sweetly found Work and shone. Rushing on, Overhead or underground They are gone. And the Flowers, And the Flowers Never grown in human bowers, 256 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Never washed by earthly showers, Lifting up Scarlet cup, Golden shell Never filled with mortal dowers, Out of which the angels sup ; Ringing here a silver bell Soft and low. Sad and slow, Music true and terrible, Music all ineffable. Which once heard In the night Is a word More than sight, And abides a treasure yet When our passing suns have set ; Showing there a veiled fire. As from thunder A white wonder. Half delight and half desire, In its modest eloquence With the stamp Of a lamp Of an awful innocence In some shrine, Dim Divine, Hung as by Omnipotence Evermore a prayer to shine. Here and there, Everywhere, Softly laughing Flowers of grandeur and of grace. Sweetly quafiing In their shy and shadowed place Of nepenthe and its balm. Gladly weeping. Stilly steeping DREAMLAND. 257 In their ecstasy of tears All the triumphs of the years, Climbing, creeping, Brightly keeping Watch in avenues of calm, Where red obelisk and palm In long levels Rest from revels And upraise the silent psalm. Yes, the Flowers Toss their towers, Carven stem and moulded stalk And their beryl chapiters, Where the starbeams love to walk To the strains of dulcimers. And strange powers Unlike ours And with other larger skill Make the living chlorophyll In laboratories fair. Of the sunshine and the air. O the Flowers, Where the light Never lowers In its might, And the glory •Is a story Ever old and ever new, Writ in colour and in dew Lightly spread, Only read By the holy and the few ! Suns and moons, Nights and noons, Stars and gems. Diadems, Madness, mirth, Heaven and earth, 17 258 CONFESSIONS OF A POET, Meet and mingle, Dance and tingle In the rapture of their glow, Summer sheen and winter snow, Till they fold their wings and pass With a quiver And a shiver, Like a breath upon a glass. But the dear Sweet forms a painter Should make clear Now grow yet fainter, And their bright Soft golden tresses, Woven of light And all caresses, Melt into the dusk and marry With the fireshine and the shade. As if they were meant to tarry There, and one pale picture made While the growing And the flowing Darkness clothes me like a dress, With a thoughtful tenderness Covering each curve and line In its mystery divine, Fitting into every fold And assuming just the mould Of my frame — each subtle whim Fashioned by each separate limb, Taking just the trick and turn That no mortal art could learn, And imprints on every crease All its poetry and peace ; And with quite a mother's hand. Half embracing, half command — Half command. Wraps me round from outside din DREAMLAND. 259 And most gently tucks me in — Tucks me in. While those flower-like faces soft Waxing dimmer, Which do visit me so oft, 'Twixt the glimmer And the gloom upraised aloft, Like a swimmer Pass into the ocean shade And grow fairer as they fade — As they fade. With the last red lingermg spark Floating upward in the dark — In the dark, Waving still white arms to Die Wonderfully, as they flee — As they flee, Children's arms And golden charms Of bright hair that seems to fly Flashing through Infinity Dim and deep ; And I sleep — And I sleep. Sinking, sinking, hushed with kisses And unthought of precious blisses, Through the endless blue abysses, Down and down, Down and down In the waves that do not drown And the clouds that cannot frown, Faster, faster Through the vaster Space that is my tyrant master, Overwhelming and confounding With its marvellous surrounding And its courts that have no bounding- Ever faster, 26o CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Without heed of a disaster, Falling, falling Through the calling Winds and waters on my way. At their play And enthralling, Through the blue and bluer walling Of a void that is appalling, But yet joy That does not cloy ; As no mortal ever sank, To the final dreamless Blank. Till from deep Unfathomed sleep, In a moment then I break With a quake And a shake, To my children round me smiling, With their pretty ways beguiling, And I wake. SECTION VI. so RTFS POETICS. THE LAND OF NOD. The stream of quiet life goes smoothly on, In sunshine and in shade Without a check, as it has ever gone, "While blossoms form and fade ; And scarce a ripple breaks the even tide Of labour touched with tears, And modest hopes whose sober colours hide The face of human fears Deep down below, like an uncovered corpse That yet no burial earns Or decent rest, and with the current warps And turns. And scarce a murmur rises from the crowd, They play unhonoured parts, One wears a wedding robe and one a shroud, And all have simple hearts ; They take the daily burdens as they come, With the old patient air. And many brows are seamed with toil, and some Are delicate and fair : And no one dreams of shrinking from the task That stocks their tiny store. Or in the stress of noonday heat would ask For more. 262 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Not much above the horses that they drive To plough the surly sod, The men with wind and rain as meekly strive And at their duties plod ; And never think of other higher place, But hardened in the snow While shaped by storm, they get a rugged grace And like their cattle grow ; Yes, faithful as their dogs they draw its hue And stiffness from the clay, Or lift dim eyes to the o'erarching blue And pray. Each season brings the same unvaried lot, Its pittance for the poor, Another baby crying in the cot Or tumbling on the floor ; The sickness that no mortal arm can stay, The share in earthl)'^ ill, And, what they trust kind Providence will pay, A dreadful doctor's bill ; A breathing-space at Club time, a print dress From the small Christmas dole. And services slept through that make them guess A soul. They ask no questions, and accept the fate Divided with their beasts. That knocks in terror at the ivied gate Or calls to casual feasts ; And rising early late they find their rest Of dreamless heavy sleep. After a day that hardly yields a jest, Through which they darkly creep ; They eat and drink, and drudge the weary round Of a dull hopeless fight. Shut in by shadows of the churchyard bound And nie:ht. THE LAND OF NOD. 263 A birth, a death, a marriaj^e is their change, And little more they know. Whose loftiest aims do yet not upward range, On fleshpots set below ; While children, like fledged birds that spread their wings At length and farther fly, Forsake the nest, to which affection clings. By turns in flitting shy ; Or friends like sudden ghosts start strangely up From countries over sea. To spin long yarns and drink the social cup Of tea. A drowsy place it is, where silence reigns And foliage falls to rot Just where it rests, and no one brightly feigns The pleasures he has not ; And no one recks of any prouder part Or richer realm and food, Each nurses still the same unruffled heart With the same quiet mood; They come and go as their forefathers did. Who toiling left no name. And on them drops some time the coflin lid The same. Yet no unhappy lot which little dares, Secluded from the beat Of angry waves, and raises above cares Its solitary seat ; And though without the joy of gallant strife Across the ages fought. Without the sorrow of the larger life That is so dearly bought ; And what is saved is certain for the hand, If soul or seeding pod. For yet the spoiler's grip has spared the Land Of Nod. 264 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Faint murmurs from the mighty world afar Steal through the sheltered pale, When some grand crisis leaves the door ajar For deeper draughts than ale ; Or an adventurous lad has broken loose, From the tame trodden ruts And common dotted o'er with goat and goose. To higher joys than nuts ; And then wild visions, not by fancy craved. Paint on their prison hold The treasures of the town, and markets paved With gold. Perchance disasters come, that roughly shake The dullest from their trance, And, lo, they rub their sleepy eyes and wake To woe's great grim romance ; A tragic death or murder with red arm. Drops like a thunder bolt, And at the spell of that long peaceful charm Makes sudden fierce revolt ; But thus once more the stagnant mind is moved Down to its lowest deep. And then they turn (a moment roused and proved) And sleep. Spring speaks to them, not of its laughing flowers. But burdens carried late. And all the harder work with longer hours That from the primrose date ; Beneath the beauty gaily round them set, And bursting from the soil The yellow cup and virgin violet, They only see the toil ; And if they ever sing upon the track Of service surely wrought. They sing not out of greater bliss but lack Of thought. THE LAND OF NOD. 265 The summer is no glory, nor a slip Of sweetness quickly gone, Betwixt new life and death, but just a whip That hastens harvest on ; A fiery scourge that beats upon the head, Or bids the shoulders bow. To wring from daily work the daily bread And scorch the furrowed brow ; But not a feast that sound and perfume blends With colour's magic link, To those whose thirst too oft begins and ends In drink. And so the labourers sleep and drudge and sup, Like pigs about the fields They take their portion and yet look not up To Him who blessing yields ; Like vegetables fattening on the ground They deeper strike their roots, And stare with stupid eyes at God's own round Of frost and summer fruits ; They in the moment live, and do not live Who miss the fairer Dawn, To seize the scraps their petty fortunes give And yawn. They gaze not forward, and they look not back To gather wisdom's ears. And though the thunder roar and earthquake crack Their world the same appears ; Without one noble fear, without regret, Unconscious they are slaves, They ankle-deep in mud by eve forget The morning's cruel graves ; They blindly mount the hill where others rose. And fail as others fall, And blankly wait the Union at the close Of all. 266 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. The parson is the keeper of their souls, Between them and hot hell, And does religion for them, as he rolls Forth sermons known so well ; He prays for them and reads the blessed Book, And lavish is with pence. And teaches them to trust his Christian cook Even more than Providence ; The lordly squire, who feeds on fatted calf And drinks the costliest wine, A distant wonder is and figure half Divine. But still the brute machine its ponderous part Goes grinding slowly on, Without a lofty hope or living heart, As it has ever gone ; The toilers are but pivots in the wheel That works its duties out. And in the thick of fighting do not feel The shaking battle shout ; They at the utmost heave the prison band Beneath the crusting clod, And dream but of free dinners in the land Of Nod. THE CONQUERORS OF HEAVEN. Thou turnest darkness into light, Great God, our own and only part, O glorious eavesdropper, that art In all Thy majesty of might, Behind the door of every heart, And dwellest in the night. God of our fathers, unto Thee We lift our agonising hands That may not break their iron bands, THE CONQUERORS OF HEAVEN. 267 And strain these eyes that cannot see Thy Presence, once the sun of lands Where dwelt Thy Israel free. Yea, something of celestial grace Those holy seers on holy ground From Thee in Thy great mercy found. Who communed with Thee face to face, And with the lightning robed around Made Thee their dwelling-place. And who shall all the wonders count, Wrung from redeeming flame and tears, Their portion in those solemn years. Who talked with earthquakes on the mount, And the new life of noble fears Drank from the fiery fount ? Ah, whither is the splendour gone, That brightened earth and sea, and made Thy very Hand its battle blade, And deathless through all history shone — That shed on Heaven itself a shade. And guided ages on ? Now we are scattered far, and born To woe and bitter want and shame ; Who have no treasure but Thy Name, And see no mercy in the morn. That damns to fiercer gyves of flame. And heavier cross of scorn. We cannot call our own the wife, The baby at the bosom nursed, Whose pretty lips are fondly pursed To look for love and meet the knife ; For we, O Lord, are only cursed And blasted into life. 268 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. We suffer all that mortals can, Who may not learn, who cannot toil, Who are not sure of any soil Except the grave's poor narrow span ; And even the lamp of holy oil Is dying under ban. Our daughters are not safe from harms, The jest of sots, a tavern song, And yet we cannot help the wrong Wrought on them for their fatal charms ; But Thou, Jehovah, still art strong. And judgment clothes Thine arms. O in this cruel Christian land, The brutes are better kept than we, Who suffer sore and dare not be Ourselves, and scarce may raise a hand Or bent in worship bow the knee, Without the galling brand. Our foes are many, we are few, We totter feebly, dumb and blind. In quest of love we cannot find, And rest with its refreshing dew ; But who was ever just or kind, To the lone hunted Jew ? For we are lower than the least, And dare not claim that common right, Which is the refuge and the light Of wretches with no other feast ; And savage laws against us fight. Which yet protect the beast. And all these horrors in Thy Name, O God of Righteousness and Love, Who sentest man the Holy Dove, THE CONQUERORS OF HEAVEN. 269 Are wrought on woman's tender frame, Who draws her blessing from above And with Thy beauty came. We knock and knock at Mercy's gate, Before Thy feet we fainting lie, Who must not rend the monstrous tie Which knots us to our homeless fate ; And yet we know we cannot die, Though lost and desolate. The prey of murder, hate and theft. Where'er the Russian eagle raves And leaves its ghastly peace of graves. Of every hope but Thee bereft ; We are of all the crouching slaves. And Heaven alone is left. And yet we will not tamely yield To legal pelf or crowned lust, That inextinguishable trust Which is our glory and our shield, And makes (though empires turn to dust) The world its harvest-field. We have heroic minds, and trod The centuries with heroic pace. And left on all a grander grace Than any by the Roman rod ; Because we were the chosen race. The favourites of God. And never were we meant to drudge Or yield to yoke of baser brain. And suffer penury and pain, To sate a coward despot's grudge ; We should enrich the earth with gain. And be the nations' judge. 270 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. O we were made to carry light With warmth and wisdom unto all, And rend from Heaven the deadly pall That darkened even the poet's sight ; To rule the ages, and to call The kingdoms to their right. Rejected by the lands, that draw The riches none but we have sown, Where'er the Blessed Book is known, Which gave them holy life and law, Outcasts to Thee we are Thine own, And monarchs only straw. Each day they plunder us of store So hardly won and then not blest. And tear our darlings from the breast. Or drive us from yet dearer lore ; While vainly unto Thee for rest, We cry for evermore. And year by year yet farther spread, The iron empire now too vast. And built upon a bloody past. Is in the light of ruin read. Which captive Israel shall outlast — An empire of the dead. God of our fathers, Thou dost see How they have only conquered earth, And made it but a darker dearth ; But we have conquered Heaven and Thee, To give all climes a second birth. With Thy own greatness free. Reveal Thy vengeance now, and break The pride and prowess of their sword ; Cast from our necks the hangman's cord, The glorious seat of judgment take ; And evil on its throne, O Lord, Now let thy thunder shake. THE TWO WAYS. Tjl THE TWO WAYS. Vain and valiant in his walk, Most devoted with his talk, Ever is the way of man With the maiden of his choice, Who will listen to the voice Sugared nicely to her taste, Trembhng in its tender haste — Ever is the way of man, Passion moulded on a plan. Just to snare her simple love, Worn a season like his glove — Ever is the way of man. Shy and shamefaced in her look, Like a bright half-opened book. Ever is the way of maid With the man her fancy takes, When it coyly first awakes To the glory of new skies And new earth in human eyes — Ever is the way of maid. Rushing forth and yet afraid Of the treasure more than dress, Strange and awful happiness — Ever is the way of maid. Eager, ardent, quick to strife For her sake, and pledging life, Ever is the way of man With the maiden he would woo, Load with gifts and worship too, Queen and goddess, slave and toy, For a passing jest or joy^ — - Ever is the way of man. Who will promise what he can. Just to wreak an idle whim. Bubble on his glass's brim — Ever is the way of man. 272 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. True and steadfast, giving all, Wild devotion at his call, Ever is the way of maid With the man her glowing heart Yields the riches it must part. Reverence that goes not by, Honour for eternity — Ever is the way of maid, Who refuses to be paid, And will lavish hope and health, That her idol may have wealth — Ever is the way of maid. Fair and fervent, wise and brave, Ready to dare wind or wave, Ever is the way of man With the maiden he would choose, Proud to lace her pretty shoes. Fetch the missing shawl or hat, Be her mantle or her mat — Ever is the way of man. Prompt to carry world or fan On his shoulders, just to please, Or his darling set at ease — Ever is the way of man. Greatly clinging, sweet and sure, Though so downcast and demure, Ever is the way of maid With the man of her desire. Whom she clothes in king's attire. Raises to a dazzling throne Meant for him and him alone — Ever is the way of maid. Who her tresses' silken braid Would bestow lest he should drown, And her fame creates his crown — Ever is the way of maid. JERICHO REBUILT. 273 In his purpose fixed and strong, With professions loud and long, Ever is the way of man With the maiden he would win, As the claret for his bin, For a bumper at the first. Then the sip of sated thirst — Ever is the way of man, Since the world of love began ; Since the Devil, tempting Eve, Him apprenticed to deceive — Ever is the way of man. Proof against the golden lure. Meek and mighty to endure, Ever is the way of maid With the man of her delight. Whom she seeks to serve aright In the raging fire and flood, Sealing ministry with blood — ■ Ever is the way of maid. But to lend her hero aid, With her first and latest breath Fond and faithful unto death — Ever is the way of maid. JERICHO REBUILT. For centuries it lay, disthroned, discrowned, A memory, a sign, a thing of shame, A shadow thwart, that on the pilgrim's path Its horror threw and lifted threatening hands As though to strike, and chilled the summer's heat ; For centuries it lay, and stone on stone Was not, and solemn word on solemn word Was not — though once the lofty hymn and hope There rose up, step by step, and climbed to Heaven, Like fire — and only blasted wrack remained, 18 274 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. With shapeless shapes ; and the avenger Time Had driven its ploughshare deep in buttressed wall, And vi^ritten mockery on the marble niche, And dashed the window's wonder to the ground, Scrabbling on mouldy mullions letters dark, Judgment and wrath and woe and bitter tears, In flame of lichen and the weeping moss. The wrinkled ruins, with the yoke of years And burden of God's doom, lay in the dust Grovelling and grim, and hid their withered face, Unknown, unhonoured, and unburied still. In hateful haunted silence ; and the days Went on, and brought no beauty of relief Nor voice of one to comfort ; and the night Refused to hide or heal the gaping wounds And ugly seams. The drunkard sat and scrawled His ribald jest on broken pillar's pride, And cornice erst so reverend and fair ; Yea, loathsome reptiles in the fallen fane Sported and sprawled, and reared their hideous brood. The curse was on it, and no mortal dared Once more to build the Temple from its base, The calm white column and the echoing aisle That vanished into dim and distant space. With the great pagan altar beautiful Where daily the dread sacrifice was set, And doors that opened out eternity. The traveller hurried by, the children stared And stayed a moment petrified with fear, Then turned aghast and fled on wings of wind. As at a vision of the dead and damned. For there the giant stretched his massive limbs, The writhing terror of the shattered trunk, The legs of iron and the feet of clay Which once Colossus-like bestrode the world, And awful arms that raised on high to slay Were stiffened as they stabbed with killing frost, JERICHO REBUILT. 275 Now cold and stark but terrible in death. A sad and sombre cloud above it hung, Intolerable, deep, and heavier fell And heavier still, and hourly gathered gloom That crept with chilling blight upon the breast, And sapped the fiery fountainhead of life, And hushed the laugh which curled the rosy lip, And quenched the sunrise of the radiant eye. And over all sweet promise cast a spell Malignant, dire and dark, and infinite ; So sullen was the atmosphere, that hugged The desolation in its stern embrace, Like the long winter of the Arctic ice, And that gaunt land where day itself is night. But, while men slept, the Adversary came, Whose name is Evil, with the woman's brow And heart of lust, and dug foundations deep In darkness, and yet built and built again Silently, surely, as the hours unrolled The secret of their solemn manuscript. Regardless of the curse, he laboured on To shape a dungeon for the souls of men Of a great temple wonderful and fair, But always in the mask of something else And something good or beautiful and grand, To cheat the charmed ears and trick the eyes Of willing dupes in admirable ways ; And always in the shadow of the night He toiled, and traced the circuit of the walls And planned the rapture of the rising towers. The window lights that burned like holy fire For ever in their storied frames of stone And as from altars leaped to kindred Heaven, Yet chained by sorceries of unrighteous prayer ; He toiled, and slept not in his vigil vast. That compassed in its kingdom every clime, 276 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. He added stone to stone, and pile to pile, And thought to thought that in white marble stamped Budded and blossomed and broke forth in fruit And rippled over in sweet surf of song, In laughter low and inextinguishable ; While tier on tier the stately courses ran, Rejoicing in their majesty and might, Higher and higher to the perfect plan And meet proportion of their measured height. Shot here and there with shining columned shafts In constellations rich or sole and rare, While spread the spandrel and its crowning grace Dropt like a dream from architrave sublime. But still men slept, and, lo, the wicked work In its exceeding splendour manifold Waxed under the thick curtain of the night In pomp of purpose and sweet circumstance, With many glittering baits and golden lures, The wealth of waving palms and purple robes. The arts with all their gay adulteries, And witcheries of wedded sight and sound, Tempest of music, and the master step That walked in glory on the waves it stirred To rise and fall and wrestle, and then die In agonies of endless cadences. And in the darkness worshippers came fast, The pulse of many feet in porches long, That echoed in innumerable tones,— Like surge of seas on soft white coral strands Beating for ever and for ever on Out into spaces of iniinit}', — Thronging the painted shrines and porticoes, That glowed within the City of the Moon And made the Temple marvellous and bright With an unhallowed beauty terrible, That stole its starry graces not from Heaven. THE CURSE OF GREATNESS. 277 And thus, at last, the children of the light Awoke and saw the sudden towers rebuilt, Seeming to float as clouds in summer skies ; While walls, that flashed their fair artillery, The ravishments of false religion's wiles, Put forth enchanting arms and drew to them And the sweet fever of illicit love. Strange fires of altars' palpitating breast, The foolish myriads dazzled to their doom. But over it still hung the curse of God, Grim as a sword and hungry as the grave. THE CURSE OF GREATNESS. He stood among the herd, a king of men. And towered above them in imperial thought That communed with the kindred Heaven, and wrought New realms of riches with his magic pen ; He trod unharmed the lions' bloody den, And with the powers of death and darkness fought, Or the fierce lightning to sweet service brought, Who passed beyond the climes of human ken. But yet, alas ! he had no fellow mind To mate with his, that read the storied stone And cast around the stars its conquering zone ; While to his chariot yoking wave and wind. The love of mortals yet he could not bind, Wrapt in his dreadful majesty, alone- He looked beyond the bars, that lesser scope Shut in to shadow of ignoble fears, Ever in pain and penury to grope, And bade bright portals out of chaos ope ; He wrung their secret from the silent years, x\nd the fair message of forgotten tears, In the great kindling of a larger hope, 278 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. On altar of the ages' long arrears. But still between his life and others' lay A gulf unbridged, as of the night and day, That severed him from follies base and rude ; He boldly clasped the form of Nature nude, And beauty that would weaker spirit slay, In uncompanioned awful solitude. No friend had he to cheer his upward track, Born in the purple of a royal life, Which nought in common had with vulgar strife And petty hearts, that trembled and turned back ; No equal mate was his, no loving wife Might share his greatness in her modest lack. When lone he faced the tempest's roar and wrack, Nor stand betwixt him and the assassin's knife. He had no fellow, and he needed none, Who looked straight forward to the end of time, And made his own the cross of every clime ; While rested fools on barren fighting done, He held it little till all worlds were won, Apart from others, with his soul sublime. As soars a mighty peak above the main. That rolls around and yet is not its kin, He stretched above the mob that strove in vain To burst the prison, and then hugged their chain ; He took no pleasure in the sweets of sin. He found amusement only mean and thin. And lust of lucre but a haunting pain That when it vanished left the venom in. Thus men and women by him idly danced Down into darkness, and the dreadful gate Received them with its silence to their fate ; And still upon his iron armour glanced The fiery shafts of time, as he advanced To meet the future, sole and separate. A KING OF MEN. 279 A KING OF MEN. The dower of greatness was his own at birth, And like a glory girt the haloed head Even in the cradle ; and his mother heard The angels talking with him in the night Of hopes august and awful mysteries, With a fair future that would ope its gates And golden dawn to him and him alone, While he replied with blessed baby song And laugh. And much she marvelled at his ways, The upturned look and clear intelligence Of those grey eyes, most beautiful and calm, That lived on earth and walked the heaven itself, As if they saw the vision past the veil. And so he grew, a solitary child, Who read the mighty book of Nature's lore, The pages of the sky, the tales of trees On which were written reverend histories And unknown arts through immemorial time ; The wisdom of the waters, as they carved And shaped the plastic earth to work their will, For aeons and for aeons evermore, While stars arose and set, and other stars Were born and died ; the lessons learned of fire, Which laid its strong hand architectural On teeming matter multiform, and all Moulded in magic veins for future use, In sealed volumes. Thus he gathered grace And strength, and rapture of sublime repose Given but to souls that sit at Nature's feet, And quarry thence their human love divine. But, as he nearer drew to her, and God Who breathes through her and grandly prophesies To eyes that see and hearts that understand. He farther moved from men that buzzed around Like summer flies, and strove, and stung, and died. And deemed his giant fancies foolishness, 28o CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Though more than vulgar facts ; while they themselves, In sensual slumber nodding lived and dreamed, And never woke. No friendships could he frame With minds attuned to earth and earthly chants. And miry of the mire that clove to them, That dragged them down, and yet still lower dragged To the base level of one little world Of brutal lusts, and soiled their very souls. None might endure the awful atmosphere Of kingly thought, that did encompass him, Through which he drank and drank the glorious cup, Nepenthe called, that is eternity, Life to the few and to the many death. And sadness sometimes on his forehead lay, It dimmed his eye, and shook the conquering arm That met the Maker's in a common toil To one high end, and joined with his. A gulf Wherein the winds of separation howled, A gulf unbottomed and impassable. Yawned between him and even the purest aims, And cast its shadow on him, as he stept, Robed in the curse of his great loneliness. Out upon empty Space that bore him up Like solid granite, over blasted plans. Through flame and tears and bitter night of scorn, By desperate circuits, to the blessed goal, Which is no other than the kiss of God. WITHIN A CHURCH. The morning breaks, the shadows rise and flee, Like guilty ghosts, that start Forth from the haunted dusk of tower or tree, And tremble and depart ; Its rays write poems on the marble floors, And roses fling in strife. Till day throws open wide a thousand doors Of splendid spacious life ; WITHIN A CHURCH. 281 A glorious burst of music, and the tread Of winds in gathering hosts That arm for battle's joy, although the dead Sleep at their solemn posts. Awakes the busy world to laugh and weep In the old human way. While mourners to their curtained haven creep, And pilgrims curse or pray ; The mother greets her baby with a kiss, The tyrant lifts his rod, And sufferers kneel in vain to the abyss Of Silence men call God ; But each has work to do, if only sport. And iron harness don Or festive raiment, for the time is short ; And yet the dead sleep on. But once those voices mixed in mirth, as ours. Or joined in friendly fray. And from the singing summer caught the flowers That smiled but would not stay ; And once those hands, long crumbled into dust. Were eager for their toil And gript the spade, or fed in tender trust The lamp of holy oil ; And once those feet were fired with purpose high. To dare the untravelled deep, Or climb to Heaven and draw its radiance nigh, Though with the dead they sleep. Their hearts were just as full of guardian hopes, And mingled with sweet tears. As thine, that unto suns unearthly opes Its fount of blessed fears ; They loved, as thou, who lettest generous life Go out in utter faith, To reel in horror from the murderous knife, Or meet a mocking wraith ; 282 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. And their affection all its rapture spread On each enchanted hill Of old romance and rest, though now the dead In darkness sleep so still. Beneath this quiet slab a soldier lies, Who victories might have won In worlds where yet no flag of England flies, A greater Wellington ; Whose sword had flashed, the glory of the State, Not drawn for petty hire, Betwixt our altars and o'erwhelming fate, A wall of living fire ; Even if the tempest of each deadly stroke On his one bosom fell. That but for country beat until it broke ; Though now the dead sleep well. Here rests a statesman, whose prophetic soul Had seen the coming gloom Afar, and with the shield of his control Staved off its dreadful doom ; Who long had stood a refuge for all needs, With ready hero hand, And built his greatness into patriot deeds, A bulwark of the land ; Born to command, and gifted with the grace And light that never shone For royal despot hedged with lies and lace ; Though now the dead sleep on. Here rests a dreamer, one inspired to heed (Below the thunder's cloud) The wedding-garment of a golden creed, Which yet became his shroud ; Whose visions truer were than vulgar facts, The food of vulgar minds, And breathed the promise of immortal acts, Above all waves and winds ; WITHIN A CHURCH. 283 Who might have been a maker of his time, And steered its venturous prow Across new oceans to a nobler clime ; Though here the dead sleep now. Here rests a maiden, beautiful and sweet. And girt with gracious ways And fairer flowers, that blossomed at the feet Of larger other days ; Who gave to all her all, and only found Earth paid with burial stone, And cramped her mighty world in that cold bound, And lived and loved alone ; Who might have been a grateful kingdom's joy, For monarchs great and gone, And not one sordid household's tool and toy ; Though now the dead sleep on. Here rests a saint, whose spirit was a flame Kindled at suffering's cross, Brave to endure the shadow and the shame Of all his brothers' loss ; That, while it throbbed with more than human hope, To succour hearts and save, Had burst the prison of its envelope. And lit a people's grave ; That might have led, where none before him trod, By solemn path and sere, A weeping realm back to itself and God ; Though now the dead sleep here. And there outside and everywhere the sound Of happy things at play. That washes these old walls, and ripples round The buttress gaunt and gray ; Green leaves are dancing in the wind, young blooms Half open but to blush. 284 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. And scribbled on the sky in gleams and glooms The swallow makes its rush ; Light through red panes that dim its laughing mood, While leaps the matin's bell, Falls like great drops of blood upon the rood ; And yet the dead sleep well. THE TWO WORLDS. I. Beautiful with all that earth can render Of its most bewitching and its best. All the poetry divine and tender Breathing from a wondrous woman's breast ; Fair, it rises with its store of riches Far and wide in pomp of stately streets, Forms like saints that have stepped down from niches Where the heart with Heaven adoring meets ; Spreading to the light its laughing glory, Crimson lips, dark eyes, and haloed hair, Claspt white hands, and love's impassioned story, Beautiful and fair. n. Terrible with wried and wrinkled faces, Scowling hatefully as from the tomb. Things that stagger down with stealthy paces From the darkness to the welcome doom ; Grim it burrows deep, with curse and crying. In gaunt dens that never know the day. Peopled only with the dead and dying. Where gray children dare not smile or play ; Where the female is no longer woman. Hideously unsexed by hourly need. Haunt of blear-eyed demons, nothing human, Terrible indeed. THE TWO WORLDS. 285 I. World of bliss, where bosoms do not tremble Save with joy at the requited glance, Where the revellers part but to assemble Yet again for feasting and the dance ; Low bright brows, the secret intimation Flashed by grace with sweetness of the South, Movement set to song, the revelation In the rapture of a rosy mouth ; Waves of rippling talk in shy recesses, Sighs betwixt the throb of golden strings, Looks that fall like kisses, and caresses Soft as angel wings. n. World of woe and one unending sadness, Black and blasted from the very first, Breaking into sudden moans of madness From pale lips for ever cracked with thirst ; Babies blighted ere they reach the portal Of the birth that is a poison breath, Where the evil only is immortal And the life a stark and staring death ; Where they herd in horror and suspicion, Till the coffin lid is on them jammed. Like a ghastly picture of perdition, Dreadful as the damned. Yet they touch, though fear and famine sever Guilty shame from those enchanting charms, But while neighbours always they may never Mix or mingle white and sullied arms ; Thrust apart, if each the other misses. Through the shadow of the yearning years. By those awful and unbridged abysses Of the ruin beyond reach of tears ; 286 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Here is sorrow with the sin its leaven, There is music of the marriage bell- Side by side with lower streets of Heaven, Upper streets of Hell. NOTA BENE. Dear old boy, now y 021 are going Out into the strife, For the victors life, For the many vanquished growing (If on pain its garlands throwing) Grim as slaughter knife ; Take, as little birds their groun'sel, From your father this brief counsel ; Aubrey mine, you shall ; Valeat quantum val. ; For I know I am but mortal And of little worth Drawing to the last dim portal, To return to earth ; Yet in my long fitful journey, From the travel and the tourney, I have gathered bane and bliss— I have learnt that even Irene May be deadly with her kiss ; Nota bene. Old am I and you are younger With a poet's heart, Ignorant of art Cruel and its creeping hunger Greedy as an evil-monger Never to depart ; Still untouched by tender passion Or the tyrannies of fashion, NOTA BENE. 287 Young enough to look At the hoary book Of my memories, and in it Read the yellow page For one brief and passing minute Of its wrinkled age ; When amid the fight or feasting Or the heedless happy easting Of the painted pleasure ship, Flashes forth the warning " Mene" On the wall or curling lip ; Nota bene. Hear me, boy, while you can listen In the opening day Bright on manhood's way — While the tears that grace you glisten In the loving eyes they christen Nobly for the fray ; Ah, expect from fortune little. Fate is strong, your staff is brittle If of bravest oak, And the awful yoke With its grinding weight of iron Still forbidding rest Soon perchance will you environ Eating in the breast ; Buckle on your stoutest armour. Turn not for the voice of charmer Wooing to the Sirens' land ; Think of Marathon, Mycend, And with soldiers take your stand ; Nota bene. Ah, my own and only darling Of the crowned race, Though the tempest chase, Heedless of its sullen snarling, 288 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Eager as an uncaged starling For the larger space ; Trust not overmuch the knowledge Taught not by the camp but college, Wisdom of the schools Lore for chambered fools, Meant not for the shock of battle In the bloody field, When the bolts of thunder rattle On the brazen shield ; Trust not greatly promise human, Laughing lips and eyes of woman With the sweetness of a saint, Pure and perfect as Selene, For the sweetness has a taint ; Not a bene. Son and soldier, hold the banner Beautiful and free, Handed down to thee. In the fine and fearless manner Borne by many a hero planner Dying not to flee ; Love thou well, but loving only What is fair, if thou be lonely In the trysting late. Kept at glory's gate ; He that of his heart is miser Hoarding on the shelf. Is not reaping, nor is wiser Living for himself; Look within thy breast ; affection Ever gives the best direction, And the pathway of the night Far as African Cyrene, Is the pathway of the light ; Nota bene. POST EQUITEM SEDET ATRA CURA. 289 Now, good-bye, your work is ready For the gallant arm Nerved with honour's charm, And the footstep firm and steady, If the thoughts at first be heady, Steeled against alarm ; In the bitter hour of trial, Bear the buffets of denial, Ridicule and loss. Standing by the Cross ; Take what sturdy struggling teaches Souls repulsed and rent In the jaws of fiery breaches, Holy discontent ; Still advance and be the master Of thyself and thence disaster, Wounds or women's honeyed wiles. Cheap and chattering as Gallinae, With their paid and perjured smiles ; Nota bene. POST EQUITEM SEDET ATRA CURA. It was in the Autumn late and lone. And I stood by a blighted tree. And its shadow fell on a blasted stone Which was dolorous to see. The clouded sky was tost and torn And a north wind wailed afar. And betwixt the boughs of the aged thorn Looked down one little star ; But the little star stept out and in As the clouds came rushing by, Like an angel's face on a world of sin From a sweet eternity. 19 290 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. And a weary horseman lean and lank From the forest bracken burst, With the midnight dews his face was dank And he looked like a thing accurst ; He was pale and withered and he bent In a saddle seamed with time, And his head that nodded as he went With his horse's pace kept chime ; He turned not either left or right, And the leaves they rustled on, But he rode straight forward through the night And the star above him shone. But never a sound of man or steed, Though they brake from the bitter north, While they seemed in the grip of a frightful need, As they hurried wildly forth. They were now in glimmer and now in gloom In the curtain black or white, Of the silvery birch or the swarthy broom Or the bramble's armed spite ; But never a sound of steed or man That a mortal ear might woo. While they hurried on as beneath a ban And the little star stept too. So I hailed them there with a greeting loud, And the wind was all astir, And the moon just tipt an angry cloud, " What luck, O traveller ? Thou art late abroad and the way is dark And thy roan is jaded sore, And there is no friendly voice or mark To guide thy journey more." But he only stared before him yet That rider thwart and thin. And the grasses waved their banners wet. And the little star stept in. POST EQUITEM SEDET ATRA CURA. 29I Though he scarce might be of human mould, For he grizzled looked and grim And his face was ashen white and cold In the creeping vapours dim ; And the eyes seemed sternly fixed and strange With a purpose not of earth, That had swept the fields of mortal change And gathered thence but dearth ; Yet I saw the bony fingers gleam And the saddle's seamy clout. In the ghostly glance of a sudden beam, As the little star stept out. Then I hailed him once in the Blessed Name, As he fared on his awful tryst, While I bade him pause for the very shame And the love of the Blessed Christ. But I signed my breast with the Holy Rood And again I signed my brow. And I swore by the Altar's Living Food With a thrice-repeated vow ; Till the rider stooped to a stronger will, With the star above him lone, And the red roan bounded and then stood still As stiffened into stone. And he spoke in the forest gaunt and gray While a child might count a score, Though his voice seemed leagues and leagues away From a dark and distant shore. " I have ridden since the eve came down, I may never once turn back. If the thunder peal or the midnight frown And the lightning sear my track ; Oh, I dare not tarry on the road With the star above to guide, For my heart is bowed with a bitter load And I haste to meet my bride. 2g2 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. " I have ridden thus for a hundred years And shall ride a hundred yet, On this one sad night of m}^ solemn tears, Ere this broken heart forget ; And my light, my life, I must follow still If I never see her more. Through the bearded brake, by the rock or rill, — She is flying on before. We were joined in wedlock true and tight As the hand within the glove, But she fell from her horse on the wedding night, And I go to meet my love." And then like melting shapes of snow. While the leaves resumed their dance, The man and the steed in a fiery glow Burst forth from their frozen trance ; And he galloped madly from my gaze With his frame in sorrow bent, And the drooping head in the autumn haze That nodded as he went. But never a sound that told the doom Of that rider thwart and thin ; As he spurred straight forward through the gloom And the little star stept in. CREDIT POPULUS I. I do believe, the goodly land. Like sunshine and the air, Was framed to fill the labourer's hand And be his portion fair ; The harvest rendered by the soil Which idlers wrongly sheave. Should be the blessing of his toil — And this I do believe. CREDIT POPULUS. 293 2. / do believe, God never meant The manhood He has wrought To be a slavish instrument, By petty tyrants bought ; To wrestle in the iron mill Where thousands grind and grieve, For selfish masters' wanton will — And this I do believe. 3- I do believe, this form was made To flourish in the light, And not be huddled up in shade Or barred from common right ; To stand erect and strong and share Those gifts the classes thieve. Not crippled by the strife of care — And this I do believe. 4- I do believe, the Godlike mind, That severs us from beasts, Was not to be for ever blind To science and its feasts ; The beauties of the bounteous earth That sweetly hearts deceive, Should shine on our poor stunted dearth — And this 1 do believe. 5- / do believe, no thorn and weed For us were simply sown, But we may clasp a kinder creed And call ourselves our own ; No earnings need we lightly lose Past reaching of reprieve, Nor worship as we would not choose — And this I do believe. 294 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. 6. / do believe, we have a claim On every gift of God, And may in freedom boldly aim Above the creeping clod ; And man is worth whate'er he is, Not what his riches weave, The earth and heaven and all are his — And this I do believe. BENE VIXIT QUI BENE LATUIT. I. No suns for me, O God, nor larger light, But blessed Night And more of darkness and its sweeter day, The long delay Of the vast vision now too much for me With lowly love. Who care not to be overwise or free Of thrones above ; Mine is the earth and mine the common toil And kindred soil ; Give me not Thou the curse of killing light, But native Night. 2. Dear is the friendly shadow, and I spurn At every turn The lamps of Science with their sickly glare And vulgar stare. That strips its decent dress from Nature's form. Reducing trust, The power of beauty and the pomp of storm To sordid dust ; I hate the knowledge, that is devil's power Blasting my bower ; Oh ! give me blossoms that retain their bloom And kindly gloom. TO THE BODLEIAN LIBRARIAN. 295 3- Sweet is the twilight and the upward gaze In glorious haze, And the dim rapture behind radiant bars, Unrisen stars. And woe the ghastly Learning with rude touch Of hands profane, That rob the pilgrim of his pious crutch The heavens ordain ; For sight, that takes from prayer its hopeful breath, Is cruel death ; Oh ! give me wonder for the wave and wind. And reason blind. 4- No suns for me, O God, that never shine On ways Divine, And kindle beams a pathway but to pave Unto the grave ; But ignorance I choose and reverent faith With veiled eyes, Which sees past Science with its garish wraith Yet bluer skies ; I ask more darkness for my mortal pains And tighter chains ; Give me Thy Love who beyond human light Thyself art Night. TO THE BODLEIAN LIBRARIAN. Friend, suckled with me at the same rude fount, Rough as the fabled Roman she-wolf's breast. While taught with me to climb the classic mount And drink the waters of a wild unrest. Ah, the fierce rapture of that sacred stream Poured in thy heart and hospitable mind The passion and the glory of a dream, And all the freedom of the ocean wind ; 2g6 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. And thou hast won this vision for thy own, Though I but humbly gaze on it from far, And passed through spaces yet unmapt, unknown, Beyond the footstep of the last faint star. Now crowned as a king among thy books Thou sittest calm while subjects urge their plea, As a great rock that marks a thousand brooks Go babbling on down to the silent sea ; Innumerable servants round thee range And welcome are in every human speech, That note the fevered pulse of party change Or troubled tide of reason's utmost reach ; And all the thought of all the boundless earth Before thee spreads the riches of its stores, The secret of the air, the dew and dearth. And the dim murmur of untravelled shores. 3- Each day to thee a hundred vassals bear Their gold and spices, and the precious gems Fit for the monarchs of the mind to wear And to adorn the sages' diadems ; The softest ripple of the farthest ray Just wafted to thee with its joy unspent, The song that dazzles for a summer day, The thunder of a nation's argument, The breath that trembles upon maiden lips, The blushing of the blossom at her feet. The tempest wrought of earthquake and eclipse, In the grand cycle of the ages meet. 4- Electric lines through all the seas and lands, Where reignest thou in study long and lone. Obey the touch of thy compelling hands And bind the world as subject to thy throne ; THE SCOURGE OF GOD. 297 The treasures of the height and of the deep, The flowers that sparkle on the breast of night, Unfold to thee in thy majestic sweep The inner sweetness of their hidden sight ; Oh, thou hast glimpses there of Nature nude And treadest where but veiled the angels dare, In uncompanioned awful solitude Beneath the shadow of imperial care. THE SCOURGE OF GOD (THE EPIDEMIC, 1891). We come from the fiery East, From the land of the yellow face — We come to the funeral feast. To our own appointed place ; From the dismal swamps that breed Fever and woe and pain, With the slimy toad and reed And the belt of scorching plain ; On the back of the stormwind's breath. In the right of the judgment rod, With our mission of doom and death We come as the Scourge of God. 2. We are sent by an awful Power And its sentences we wreak, And we laugh at the radiant flower That glows on the maiden's cheek We regard not the snows of age Nor the fulness of the years, And the bud in its opening stage Folds up at our blasting fears ; As we march on our silent path, The thrones of the highest nod And the bravest flee our wrath, For we are the Scourge of God. 2g8 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. 3- We mock at the wisest plan As we hurry on to slay, All the barriers built by man Cannot bind our course a day ; For his false and foolish lore Tricked out in the learned names,. And the medicines in his store, Are but fuel to our flames ; He may baffle the shot and shell And triumph as others trod. Against 71s there is no spell. For we are the Scourge of God. 4- We follow the wake of sin xAs the shadow falls with night, When our armies enter in The angels have taken flight ; For we iniist perform our task. While we purge the temple floor And the guilty land unmask, As we knock at every door ; And the hidden vice starts up Though in pearls and purple shod. Though it grasps the golden cup, For we are the Scourge of God. WAITING. I have waited here in the winter sere, With the summer rose and rain, In my ashes cold and my bosom old Yet a living spark has lain. I have listened long to the evening song Of the blackbird in the brake ; To the scarlet sky I would gladly fly, Did my body but awake. THE PHANTOM SHIP. 299 And I hearken still to the woodland rill, As it babbles down the steep, Over mossy stones with their broken tones, Through the figured veil of sleep. But they seemed afar, like a distant star, Or a note of other years, When the morning came in its flowers of flame, With its hopes and happier fears, I am waiting yet, I cannot forget What I saw in the upper lands, What my spirit felt when I blindly knelt At the waving of white hands. Is she coming soon with the silver moon, In her beauty swift and sweet ? I shall lightly break from my tomb awake, As the blossom at her feet. THE PHANTOM SHIP. The night was dark. And ruin stark Loomed threatening on our lee ; The ship lay over on her side, And in her beauty and her pride Welcomed the brunt of wind and tide, What made her faster flee ; A bonny ship was she ; And through the welter of the storm, That gathered round us wet and warm. We marked the ribbed rocks' giant form, Across that lonely sea. » The wild blast blew, The stout bark drew Tight every rag she bore ; And, like dumb driven creatures pained, 300 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. The tall masts trembled as they strained, And still the tempest on us gained, While slow the grim night wore Beside that deadly shore ; And with the beating salt spray blind, We groped for what we scarce could find : A terror followed us behind, A terror went before. A sound of fears Was in our ears, And smote each troubled heart ; A ghastly sound that seemed to mock, We heard it in the sullen shock Of breakers on the wrinkled rock Black staring from the chart. Where mercy had no part ; Betwixt the breakers and their fall. Was it the fatal Sirens' call That flung in laughter over all Made the quick horror start ? Then, through the night, A sudden sight Drave right athwart our bows ; One cry burst from each blanching lip, As that gaunt shadow of a ship Flashed full against the tempest grip ; Sweat brake from writhen brows, All raised despairing vows ; Her sails were as the sheeted fire. The masts rose in a flaming spire, The ropes wore the same red attire As in some mad carouse. « Her keel, dear God, Like lightning trod In triumph on the deep THE PHANTOM SHIP. 3OI The hull was riddled through with rot, With here a hole or bloody blot And there the splinters of a shot, Where dripping mould would creep And faces seemed to peep ; The serpent seaweed to her clung And from the yards strange signals swung The helmsman on his rudder hung In silence as of sleep. And as she flew We saw her crew, The corpses as of men ; A moment fell the moonlight wan In ghostly spurts and splashes on Each grinning skull and skeleton, That nodded there and then, As dashed by demons' pen ; And every long and bony hand Straight pointed to the stony land, As though they gave one stern command, And passed beyond our ken. And then we struck. From keel to truck She shivered at the blow ; The good ship in her glory reeled, Though bravely built and strongly steeled, And cruel rocks her beauty peeled, That made a gallant show On many an ebb and flow ; The breakers proved her fair sides soft, That hammered on her hard and oft ; While some poor souls were piped aloft, And some went down below. And from the wrack One wretch came back. But battered sore and pale ; 302 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Who on him bears the branded fright For ever of the accursed sight, Renewed when falls the dreadful night With the old haunted gale, That never can grow stale ; His tongue is like a funeral bell, He looks a sinner plucked from hell (On whom the flames have feasted well) To toll this awful tale. "SHIP, AHOY!" Our time was short, And out of port We hurried with despatches ; The moon rose yellow on our right And clouds were gathering in their might, The skipper feared a nasty night And battered down the hatches : Her business well the Seabird knew And white in straining canvas flew. She laughed at any storm that blew And felt no more than scratches — The boat with the despatches. We cleared the buoy. When " Ship, ahoy ! " Rang through the moans of thunder ; And, lo, a long and rakish craft. Without one sail to give a waft. Murk as the midnight fore and aft, A line of light all under ; Her spars were naked and each mast, Like branches stript by winter's blast, And there in solemn silence fast She tore the surge asunder. And louder grew the thunder. " SHIP AHOY ! 303 Too late, too late, And grim as fate She bore upon us sweeping ; Swift on the curling of the swell Which on each side in glory fell, Awful as death and dark as hell. One even pathway keeping ; But, in the furrow of her track Which never altered from its tack, The waters closed up calm and black, Behind her dumbly creeping. As on she still came sweeping. But not a trace Of human face, Nor any guiding token ; We saw no sign of living thing, But horror with its sable wing Gloomed round us past imagining, And not a word was spoken ; We heard no washing of the wave Which right and left its homage gave In silence dreadful as the grave The ages have not broken ; There was no earthly token. Straight for us bound. And without sound She drove right on our quarter ; And in a moment sprang a crew Of armed men that awful grew. As nearer and more near she drew And ploughed the flaming water ; The skipper swore a frightful oath And cursed us for our coward sloth ; We ran a gun out nothing loth, And she seemed ripe for slaughter. Stem-down full on our quarter. 304 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. A shot, a cry Of agony — Or was it wind, or vision ? We saw the rent and riven side, ^ Which to our challenge opened wide And through it showed the shining tide, Then shut as in derision ; Again we fired, the good shot shore Down those strange foemen by the score, And up they started as before Unto a fresh decision ; But was it truth, or vision ? A moment yet And then we met. The old ship gave one shiver ; No time to wonder and to wait Or hold her off with idle bait, And through our very centre straight She flew as shaft from quiver ; We felt no shadow of a shock Nor aught that would our tideway block. We stood as steady as a rock Or toy-boat on a river — But for that gruesome shiver. An icy blast And all was past, The moon stared dim and yellow ; And as we scudded with the wind In rolling mists that made us blind. We cast our fearful looks behind But could not see our fellow ; She left no single mark or sound. Although we swept the ocean round Unto the sky-line's farthest bound ; We saw, in distance mellow, The low moon large and yellow. SLEEP. 305 SLEEP. What is Sleep ? Shadows creep From their Dreamland, where they linger, And the forms of fancy dwell Bathed in peace ineffable, Firing all with rosy finger ; Shadows come, and gladly twine Fetters soft and sweet as blossom Plucked from dewy nooks divine Round the captured brow and bosom, Flowers that weep — This is Sleep. What is Sleep ? Angels peep Out of halls of solemn vision Pillared up from earth to sky Into old eternity, While they laugh in low derision ; Fanning us with pure white wings, Loud with murmured message human As a maid's imaginings, Whom her love hath made a woman With its deep — This is Sleep. What is Sleep ? Lips that keep Mysteries beyond our knowing, Breathed upon us as we lie Dead to earth but cannot die, Fair into the spirit flowing ; Fall of snowflakes trembling down But with hidden fire of kisses, Better than a monarch's crown, Gentler than the tender blisses Songbirds cheep — This is Sleep. 20 306 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. What is Sleep ? Thoughts that sweep Up and down a hundred stages, And would in their careless pride Broad as wash of ocean's tide, Round the riddle of the ages ; Riding to the tops of rest Where a calm delight is calling, On the Universal Breast In a hush of wonder falling Down the steep — This is Sleep. SPRING. The dear God He is busy now When wakes in green the gladsome Spring, He paints the butterfly's blue wing And roses on the evening's brow ; For of the music in His heart And of the colours in His hand. He gives to each its proper part And scatters jewels through the land. From out His winter home Within the starry dome. He steps into the stony dearth Of this poor waiting earth, And duly plies Fair ministries Of use Profuse. An unseen Workman, with the tools That turn to shining shapes All things, not as in human schools, Till not a weed escapes ; The brown loam sterile He forms a beryl. SPRING. 307 And ruby graces Cleave barren places, The topaz and the emerald start up In verdant mantle or with yellow cup. But here He sets a maiden's blush, And there a virgin flower. And bids it robed in beauty rush White to its perfect power. He loves His mortal garden much When the bright hours begin ; And with a kind and quickening touch He daily walks therein. And now He throws the diamond's flame That were a world's desire On pastures' dull attire, Or gives the desert a new name And clothes with gems its naked shame, Or sets the sea afire. But then He takes a pearly tear, A dewdrop from a heavenlier sky. And hangs it in the happy eye Of one whose love is holy fear. In corners cold The crocus gold He weaves upon the carpet gray. And snowy blooms In greenwood glooms, Like some blind child in careless play. Round the coy hollow Sunbeams twine, And fleck and follow Steps Divine, And drive the dark and threatening shadows From the frosty nook, Or romp with breezes through the meadows Smiling where they look, And singing as they flash and fall Upon the buds, that to them bow 308 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. And answer to the sunbeams' call ; The dear God He is busy now. O hark ! Up in the blue The rapt and radiant lark, In notes for ever fresh and true, Pours fourth the passion of his burning breast, The rippling stream, the broken clamour. The praise, the wonder, the wild glamour Of all the earth and all its glad unrest, A vision of embodied fire, A universal voice Of vast desire, " Rejoice ! " And see. Oh ! see, On every tree And lisping leaf and humid blade, The same sweet story Of coming glory, That bursts in blessings from the shade. 'Tis just His hand That gives command To all His works to do their duty And music make, While souls awake To His new world of wealth and beauty. On rock and rill And haunted hill, He strikes with His soft rousing hammer, To loose their chains And winter pains, Though some may only sigh or stammer. They hear, they know, They feel the glow Of gladness risen. Within their prison ; And the sweet juices Of the earth SPRING. 309 Break from their sluices Unto birth. And mark upon the uplands bright and arable He plants the splendour of His feet, Till stock and stone and clod proclaim the parable And in His sacred service meet. For He is working, working, working still, To mould each thing and creature to His will, With here a line, and there a finish That none may add to or diminish ; And in the pulses of the stir and strife, Eternity runs over in new life On wold and wood And maidenhood, That now with restless hopes and joys are rife And have withstood The icy edge of winter's cruel knife ; And all is good. The skies before Him veil their brow, And the dear God is busy now. From the broad breast of Nature Fountains run, And with the legislature Of the sun Uplift to awful stature Strength begun. The grasses and the foliage — aye, the mountains dance. With each fair bursting blossom And every vibrant bosom, In the green world of Love and loving circumstance ; Wave upon wave of Love And Life in bridal tether, From happy wells above Break on earth's coast together ; A bridal bond of utter gladness girds The throbbing land and heaven, And, from the kindling leaven, With insects' hum and babblement of birds 3IO CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Leaps the young giant Called the Spring, Proud, self-reliant, Rioting In fruitful showers And his fresh powers ; For he is king. Ah, the first primrose from its dreaming Looks up with eye of yellow gleaming. And laughs to see the sunny lands Released from their old iron bands, That fettered them in vain — It looks, and laughs again. The daisy, that with modest hush Feels its great Maker's fingers. Who fondly round it lingers, Cannot but hide its face and blush ; It owns that mighty thrill Not of mere mortal skill, The touched rays tremble, None may dissemble, And cannot but before Him bow ; While shout the winds and waters, Throughout earth's farthest quarters ; For the dear God is busy now. Uenvoi. And O the true and tender Infinite surrender, As of newly-wedded man and wife, And with a free affection, In the resurrection Of a God-intoxicated life. THE DONKEY. "The Lord hath need of him." — Mark xi. 3. Dear patient Ass, thy suffering voice Too often falls on breasts of stone, Although the Saviour made His choice THE DONKEY. 3II Of thee a season for His throne ; He might have ridden upon the storm, On thunder clouds or clouds of flame, While lightning wrapt His rushing form And guilty earth stood dumb with shame ; Yet He, who wrought the mighty globe And saw the centuried systems pass, That were mere spangles on His robe, Had need but of one lowly ass. To many thou wert just a slave. Foredoomed to care and crushing loads, And only finding in the grave The end of all thy weary roads ; And yet a servant true and tried In every burden on thee thrown. Who deemed it little when he died, 111 fed, unpitied and unknown ; But I who see thy splendid worth, Which dust and travail cannot bend, Unhid below a homely birth. Delight to count thee as a friend. Dear patient Ass, no sense of time Was planted in that humble heart. Which seems to hear the Heavenly chime And be of wider worlds a part ; Perchance the wise Creator set A secret hope in thee at first, Which thou canst never more forget. To bid thee for his Presence thirst ; And so like Him thou hastest not, While bearing what the worst may give. Because thine is a larger lot — Eternity — in which to live. And now, if others mock the scars Or scorn the awkward plodding tread, I only mark a crown of stars 312 ■ CONFESSIONS OF A POET. That pours a halo round thy head ; I know the angels still are near Thy pathway and to thee art kind, And thou beholdest wonders clear With visions to which we are blind ; If want and woe with cruel barb Should leave thee wounded, lame and lone, Beneath thy rough and battered garb I see the Saviour's radiant throne. A GLIMPSE. But then Uprose the clash of arms and fighting men, Where sword met sword. And through the leaden smoke Red lines of demon figures reeled, and broke In fiery fragments on a thunderous hill, And rose and writhed a moment and lay still As turned to stone. Thus iron wave on wave Swept on in glory and but found a grave. Shouts, groans and curses, cheers and shrieking shell Stabbed through the struggle, as men flashed and fell And others filled the ragged ranks, and on The hurly-burly eddied and was gone, But left great swathes of dreadful forms and brands Of bloody things that lifted tortured hands In vain to Heaven. The very wind seemed wet With carnage and red mist of doom ; and yet The dying horse with crimson nostril drank In lust of battle, pawed the air, and sank Hardly its stormy life stiffened by frost At length. None counted there the awful cost. But breast to breast and hand to hand, intent Only on slaughter and by wounds unbent They wrestled and knew not wherefore they died Nor cared, in that grim furnace tost and tried And shattered out of human shape. A strayed Sweet woman child drew near and played A LITTLE BIRD. 3I3 Bright on the brink of madness, and drew back To step once more on that tempestuous track, And clapt her baby hands in glee and bathed Her brow in hell that had the earth enswathed In murk of midnight. It was all a toy For her, a pageant, though it did destroy An empire ; and with innocent shy face, She ran rejoicing to the trysting place Of all the terrors. A LITTLE BIRD. It was the evening hour When chimed the vesper bell, And like a scarlet flower The sunset flushed and fell On happy tree and tower. That answered, " All is well." And with the shadows came, Like flying joy or flame With all its fierceness gone, A little Bird Which hardly stirr'd The leaf it lighted on. Its colour, who can say ? Its beauty, who may know ? The brightness of the day With the soft moonnse glow, Mingled with leaves at play And the wild waters' flow ; In glory it was wreathed, A fragrant air it breathed Of music more than sight. That little Bird A\"hich faintly chirr'd And whispered her " Good night". 314 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. It was the evening hour, When frolic fairies peep From every closing flower That would but cannot sleep, And moved by magic power From very gladness weep ; And like a winged Thought, Of light and laughter wrought And blessed things to be, That little Bird I sweetly heard A message brought to me. The meaning I know well, That thrilled my thirsty ear And made the bosom swell With pleasure kin to fear ; Its passion none may tell, So past all saying dear. In silence it had part, And murmured in my heart Just as the mourning dove. That little Bird One little word, And it was only Love. URBS ORBIS. I stood in that great City of the Dead, Where our thin life is but a passing day To wake the echoes of the awful tread Which shook the world on its imperial way ; When giants ruled, and in eternal stone Hewed their stern steps and made the common clods Speak, and in dreadful majesty alone Laughed, fought, and feasted as the very gods ; Who thought in marble, and their iron dream Of conquest with its universal care Left a fixed landmark in the ages' stream. To show how much a mortal hand could dare. URBS ORBIS. 315 And there around me rose in ruined pride The monuments of all the gods, and men Like gods, built up by her whose stately stride Bridged the old world and deemed it little then ; To Beauty and to Passion and to Power Soared solemn temples that defied the dust, And quarried rock broke into deathless flower To every crowned and consecrated Lust ; Yea, supple Fraud found favour and a shrine With royal honours, and the leering face Of drunken Folly leaned from walls Divine, Imperishable, throned in splendid space. There Vice was sceptred, that turned kingdoms pale Beneath its blasting shade, and cruel Crime Shone deified when poets told its tale Or history chose to make the sin sublime ; Force that swept low in its devouring flood Whate'er opposed the rush of eagle wings, And drank new life and blossomed out of blood, Had there a welcome and the seat of kings ; And there the tempest in triumphant sweep Seemed frozen in mid fury of its wave, That drew all peoples in its fateful deep And made the ghastly Peace that was the grave. The conquering Wolf had left his footprints there, The crimson steps that after centuries still Reeked with the breath of death, and everywhere Had glorified the ugliness of 111 ; And altars rose to Infamy styled Fame, The Pride that fed and fattened on the life Of nobler things, and in the pomp of shame Arrayed itself for the unholy strife ; There worship roofed with stars the strong and rich And gave remorseless Hate a dazzling home, But Mercy found no altar nor a niche In the infernal splendour men called Rome. 3l6 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. KNIGHTS OF KNOWLEDGE. Theirs no coat of cunning steel, Crested helm or armed heel, Flashing lance or sabre ; Theirs no tyranny of might. Mailed hands that wrest the right From the serfs of labour ; Theirs the sword that breaks in flower, And the wisdom that is power Taught by book and college ; Theirs contention that is love, And the harness from above Meet for Knights of Knowledge. Thought the weapon that they wield, Proved on many a famous field By the soldier sages, Passed along from sire to son From the stars of Babylon Through the broadening ages ; Thought that bright and brighter grew, In the storms that idly blew On the path of Science, Sharpened by the blows of hate. And the demons at the gate Opening to reliance. What but bigotry their foe, And the error that is woe If in proud position, And the ignorance that feeds On the blind and blasted creeds Crawling to perdition ? Ah ! they fight against the doom Of deceit that dwells in gloom. Like some grim old giant, And the dragon brood that still Authors are of every ill. Damned but yet defiant ! JACK. 317 Thus whate'er is found a lie, At their onset soon must die By the sword of Learning ; For the progress of the brave, Though it be across the grave, Moves with no returning; They alone the light to live Can to reverent seekers give, If in cot or cloister ; While the dogmas false from hell Miss, in striving for the shell, Pearls within the oyster. JACK. Sweet it is, amid the quarrels Of this jangling life, In a nobler strife Than for petty bells and corals, Sometimes yet to see the laurels Not of butcher's knife ; And they grace thine honoured head Like the crown of morning spread On a mountain track, When the breezes give the message, Of a great and glorious presage. Jack. First among the first, a scholar, Free from coward fears. Broadening with the years, Not a slave with gilded collar. Heaping not the dirty dollar Ground from drudges' tears ; Hating sway of sceptred force. Wisdom at its sacred source Drinking, that shall never lack ; Thou hast passed beyond the portal, Of this mean and creed-bound mortal. Jack. 3l8 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Let the rabble rave of treason, Unto worn-out rites, Only meat for mites, Fools of empty form and season ; Be thou staunch to royal Reason, Which like kings requites ; Thou art marked for better things, Than the buzz of insect wings In their prison black ; Dread is learning's high anointing, Which is thy serene appointing. Jack. Lean upon the staff of science. Facts that cannot err ; Like a Scaliger, Put in laws alone reliance And to dogmas bid defiance, Young philosopher ; Heir of every truth divine. That the human may refine From its follies' wrack, Forward, though the clouds may dim it, To the future without limit. Jack. SCANDAL. Fama malum quo tion alitid velocius ulltim, etc. First a tiny timid whisper. Told by stealth in twilight hours By some petticoated lisper. Whom her single portion sours ; Just a hint, a doubtful question, Like the Serpent's asked of Eve, Seed of mischief, a suggestion Idly dropt and to deceive ; SCANDAL. 319 Dropt among the neighbours itching For some He behind the back, Ready for its fresh enriching With another coat of black. Then a cloud it casts a terror On the maiden white as snow, Fed by folly and its error Direr than the downright blow ; Yet it thrives on lips of slander- Lips that play the Devil's part, And delight with hate to pander To the false and filthy heart ; Stealing from the mud its raiment, From the offal heap its breath, And demanding its repayment With dishonour worse than death. Still it grows in bulk and boldness And yet sharper whets the knife, Breeds with calumnies a coldness Doom to husband and to wife ; Treads upon the strongest pledges In the safety of the dark. And behind convenient hedges Speeds the missile or the spark ; Takes religion for a leaven And pollutes its holy well. And degrades the robes of Heaven With the offices of hell. Till it takes a solemn swagger For sweet hypocrites to see, And unsheaths the poisoned dagger Of the virtuous Pharisee ; Throws the mask of censor uiorum Over deep and dirtier stains, And invokes the grave's decorum To make fast its rotten chains ; 320 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. And decries the motes of brothers, With its undiscovered pelf And big beams, and damning others Only goes down damned itself. NUDUS ARA, SERE NUDUS. I spread my fancy to the wanton breezes And drift by any idle fortune led, Careless if virtue snores and wisdom sneezes Or some sweet Princess goes too late to bed ; I weary am of all the cold conventions That clog my feet and lengthen out my face, I loathe the lies of those d d good intentions Paving the road to the Unmentioned Place ; And now for freedom I have cut the cables That only bind me to the faiths of fools, I leave to them their pious forms and fables, And all the cant of musty-fusty schools. Long have I starved on stale dry bread and butter And danced like every cheated dolt in chains, But here I sprawl in the congenial gutter And kick away the clothes and prison pains ; Let me for once throw off the paint and patches Of stupid custom and the squeamish modes, And with a blast of passion burst the hatches That shut me into bleak and barren codes ; What matter if I flutter the prim Quorum Of frumps and fogeys by my actions rude, That tear aside the curtain of Decorum Exulting in their naughty licence nude. MY HOUSEKEEPER. 32I 3- Hurrah for freedom and the muddy pavement, The beer}' breath of comrades with their crust Who have renounced the white shirt of enslavement And revel in their soil and kindred dust ! Away with starch and stays that give but colic And cramp the heart in gilded shams and shows, When it would beat and bound in naked frolic To the wild tune of every wind that blows ! I will not keep a crumb of sour tradition Though sweetened with some pleasant sin as sauce, Nor wear one rag of the old imposition, But follow Nature's own unfettered course. 4- Let priests and peasants hug dead bones and babble Of mouldy rites that kill each kingly thought, Give me the drunken hiccough of the rabble And iron deeds on iron anvil wrought ; 'Tis *' better to be free than to be sober " * And plant sad harvests (if but yours the seed) Than garner the late fruits of chill October In some castrated monk's dull faultless creed ; And so I spread my canvas to the breezes To find the Graces in their glory nude, Though Piety through all its padding wheezes And tickles with sly hand the prurient prude. MY HOUSEKEEPER. In a little world of art, Decked with china pugs on presses And astounding shepherdesses, From the vulgar strife apart ; Full of shelves and curious corners, Pictures veiled like female mourners, * Archbishop Magee. 21 322 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Cupboards with the scent of spice, Lavender, and all things nice. Dwells my excellent housekeeper Famed for wisdom and her gown, One eye open when a sleeper, Prim and portly Mrs. Brown. All the servants style her Ma'am, And the harpies of the village Who delight good folks to pillage, Rich in pity and in jam ; And the men of every station With profoundest veneration Always doff for her their hats ; Aye, the very dogs and cats Bow submissive, as she passes ; And the tipplers at the " Crown " Cease their yarns and clink their glasses, At the name of Mrs. Brown. In her crisping black silk frock, Down the groaning stairs majestic On the careless gay domestic She comes swooping with a shock ; And of work she is so jealous That the idlest page grows zealous, When she in the distance looms. Looking awful mops and brooms ; And the boldest rats and vermin, At the vision of her frown, With a common fear determine To avoid my Mrs. Brown. Burglars breaking in my store. With their grip upon the handle Of that chest from Coromandel, Bolted when they heard her snore ; BULLDOG AND WOLF. 323 Yes, and left that priceless coflfer And the jewels it would offer- Cleared the window at a jump, Deeming it was the Last Trump ; So I take my early diet And in safety lay me down, Or abroad can range in quiet, Ramparted by Mrs. Brown. BULLDOG AND WOLF. As we lay In Plymouth Bay, With our vessel taut and trim. Fled a fishing boat to say She had spied at blush of day, Like her bloodhounds gaunt and grim, Spain's fell Pirate looming black On a goodly trader's track, Stern and straining Still and gaining Fast and faster, till they might Hear at last the timbers crack In the fury of her flight, And the raining Bullets belched in leaden blight ; Aye, they saw The Pirate draw Near and nearer to the prize. Cutthroats all outside the law. Darkly driven And unshriven — Marked the hunger in their eyes Murderous red as stormy skies, When by lightning wrapt and riven — As we lay In Plymouth Bay. 324 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. And we swore As none before, While we drank confusion deep To the raiders on our shore And the robbers of our store, Who had often roused from sleep Helpless souls to sword and fire And the doom of demons' ire — Child and woman, To inhuman Tortures and more hellish lust And their homesteads' burial pyre Dancing to the midnight gust, Which the foeman Burnt and blasted down to dust ; Well we knew The strong wind blew Straight and steady for our end, As we now with vengeance flew Forth with bounding Hearts, confounding Buccaneers that touched a friend And could only wreck and rend ; Ah ! we needed little hounding, And we swore As none before. Then we met Like iron set. Wolf and bulldog fierce for fight, As they never struggled yet, Till the crimson deck was wet. And the scuppers ran outright ; Oh ! we hung upon her flanks. Riddled through her sides and planks. Hung and worried Her and hurried To destruction, fleshed our teeth. BULLDOG AND WOLF. 325 Mowed the ruffians down in ranks, While above the funeral wreath O'er them scurried, And each gun spat flame beneath ; Shot and shell Tolled out their knell, And we boarded her and clung, Closed and hustled them to hell, With the streaming Cutlass gleaming, While a merry tune it rung ; Till upon the yards they swung. Branded by its bloody seaming ; When we met Like iron set. And we lay In Plymouth Bay, With our ghastly prize in tow. Ere the sunset of that day Which had made the spoiler pay And his black rag hauled below ; But our sweethearts were not slack When we took that homeward tack, As with blushing Cheeks and flushing Eyes, they moored alongside then And as heroes welcomed back Weary lads and wounded men, To the gushing Tears that cleansed our slaughter pen ; Cheers and chimes And poets' rhymes Greeted us, and every street Flowered in flags those golden times, And in wonder Echoed under At ten thousand tramping feet, 326 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Come to make our crown complete With the glory of their thunder ; As we lay In Plymouth Bay. CHRISTMAS EVE— A LEGEND OF THE CHRIST. The Baby Christ is out to night — Ah ! ring the joy-bells low ! — The clouds take glory in His flight, The wan moon veils its altar light That He should suffer so — That He should suffer so. Dear God, that Thou must ever be Thus Self-condemned and lone to flee, A leaf upon the wind, A wave that cannot reach the shore. With all eternity before — Eternity behind ! That Thou shouldst wear an Infant dress, And in that Infant helplessness For ever sadly roam, Tost up and down Thy palaced earth Within the very heart of dearth, Beyond the reach of human mirth, And still without a home — And still witJiout a hotne ! The Baby God is out to-night, An exile for our sin That hugs a heart of leprous blight, With its red harlot beauty bright ; — Will no one let Him in — Will no one let Hiiu in ? CHRISTMAS EVE. 327 For this is Christmas Eve When men their labours leave And children holly weave, To keep a holy tryst With the dear Baby Christ, That He may be sufficed. They mock the winter snow, That sees a springtide glow In the green mistletoe. The hall in pillared pride, The cottage at its side. Their doors thrown open wide. But not for Him the sheltering rafter. Nor happy eyes that swim And overflow with love and laughter To echo on through life hereafter ;— For every one but Him — For every one but Him. Sometimes with Baby hand He knocks x\nd thrills the distant stars. While the great earth's foundation rocks — But not our bosom bars ; Sometimes outside the lattice frame He lingers in the gloom. Betwixt our shadow and our shame. And calls some cherished soul by name. That finds for Him " no room " — That finds for Him " no room ". And then upon the tempest flying Goes forth the Christ a Baby crying Some softer breast to win. And vainly tries each guarded portal With gifts of precious things immortal ; Will no one let Him in — Will no one let Him in ? 3^8 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Then wearied with His hopeless quest Without the frolic and the feasts, He seeks once more a lowly rest Among His own rough kinder beasts, To snatch a moment's refuge blest Agam in the old manger, A blindly-known and honoured guest Of brutes and welcome to their best, And there not all a strufiger — A nd there not all a stranger. Oh ! it is true the Baby Christ The wicked world so dearly priced, He laid His heavenly garments down And set aside His royal crown ; With utter speed He came indeed, In Infant's guise And loving-wise, To set us free From gramary Of evil power Which has its hour. But when He reached this islet bald Of emerald, x\ speck that hardly leaves a trace In awful Space, An ocean drop, a grain of sand, Upon thy strand. Eternity, He found no kiss Nor greeting bliss. But only met the cruel ban Of brother man. Who hailed the falsehood and the fight But not the Light And banished for a crowned Death The Living Breath, CHRISTMAS EVE. 329 That made the earth for mercy's sake And could unmake ; Yea, all (except within the tomb) Left Him no room — Left Him no room. His world was blind, His kin unkind. And so He bade an angel wear His livery of love, And in His Name the burden bear We could not raise above. And be like Him the Son of Man Who in our weakness trod This human world a little space, And as the Son of God. He gave him strength to suffer much And with His pity bless, And dowered him with the dreadful touch Of His Almightiness. But then He stopped an Infant still And played an Infant part With all its helpless art. If He might fashion to His will And with His Spirit's freedom fill One true and tender heart, And thus He wanders lone and late To seek His mortal kin. Outside the Christmas din. And knocks at every breast and gate ; Will no one let Him in — Will no one let Him in ? The Baby Christ is out to-night — O hush the festive song ! — The dance and tumult of delight Would only do Him wrong. Dost think it is the waters' wail. 33° CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Or the distempered wind That calls when other voices fail, And wanders lost and blind ? Ah, no, it is the Baby God Who evermore must fly, And bleeding from the earthly rod Lifts up His bitter cry. The stocks and stones In startled tones Their wondering witness cast, And little birds Like winged words Wake up as He goes past. Yea, bird and beast From west to east Drink music from His mouth ; Thistle and thorn. The eve and morn Hail Him in north and south. And between whiles He sadly smiles. Till all things feel His power ; And sunny lands At His commands Burst into blushing flower. And now His cry Fills earth and sky. Dost think it is the winter rain That comes in poverty and pain, And beats the glass and beats again ? Ah, no, it is His human tears That fall as they have fallen for years, And mingle with our hopes and fears. Those pearly fountains Shake the mountains, And reach through space's utmost part; They purge our pleasures With their treasures, CHRISTMAS EVE. 33 1 That flow from out His broken Heart. His tears must so For ever flow. Dost think it is the peevish blast That homeless travels far and fast, And is an outcast yet at last ? Ah, no, it is His pleading voice. So sorrowful it hath no choice But weeping, when it would rejoice. He talks in each Frail infant form. The same sad speech That thrills the storm. Dost think it is the lapsing leaf That rustles as it drops, And hides its restless hunted grief Low in the murmuring copse ? Ah, no, it is His Baby feet. That ere they touched the earth They came in graciousness to greet, Were exiled from their birth. But yet they fall. Unseen by all. And still outside the bolted door He hears the joy begin. But may not walk one banquet floor That without Him is mean and poor ; — Will no one let Him in — Will no one let Him in ? His Baby fingers hardly hold The peaceful holly branch That would our struggling staunch. In the great hunger of the cold, While round it timidly they fold (As they have claspt since suns grew old) The love that fain would launch Out into slum and iron wold And sunless mines of blood-bought gold. 332 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. But, as the leaflets toss Back on the troubled wind That is not all unkind And mourns the world's wide loss And humbly walks behind, They seem the Holy Cross ; And every pouting point Above Him, as he sails. From every armed joint Bursts into crimson nails. And dost not see upon the glass — Upon the glass, The tracing of His dear white fingers^ His dear white fingers, That gently wrote when He did pass — When He did pass. Their passion tale that fondly lingers — That fondly lingers Till morning light. In letters bright Of silver frost — The mercy lost ? O it is softly sadly written Upon our fretted panes, Deep by the wintry sculpture bitten In gleaming stars and stains — Yea, on those strange and storied windows With their new glory dim, That sign the Holy Rood, And would unclose to heathen Hindoos Or any idol mood. But open not to Him — Bid open not to Him. And sometimes on His head, Or sometimes on His shoulder When it has waxen bolder, The Robin dares to tread ; CHRISTMAS EVE. And from the weird moonshine Poured in a mystic flood It stands out half Divine, A patch of sacred Blood. O hear it twitter Past and fly, Blent with His bitter Baby cry ! The children with their chilly thumbs That on the window tap, Scatter the Redbreast all their crunibs But offer Him no scrap ; No crust of kindness In their blindness Great and grim, No drop of pity In the city. Falls to Him. But thus He wanders to and fro Betwixt the starlight and the snow, For sufferers thwart and thin And man's exceeding sin ; Foxes have holes, and in its nest Each little bird a while may rest ; Will no one let Him in — Will no one let Him in ? The Baby Christ is out to-night — O shall our pleasures bloom ? — The universe is all His right, Not thorns that only mock His plight ; Yet we make Him " no room " — Yet we make Hi)n " no room ". The dog, the Pariah finds a ditch. The sempstress with her woe Who strikes dear life into each stitch, Has yet a nook below ; 333 334 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. The gipsy skulking by the hedge, The infant in its cot, The wretch on winter's keen knife-edge, Have all some resting-spot. The sailor on the billow, The murderer in his cell, Have still some sort of pillow, And devils even in hell; But in the whirl and welter And blast so fiercely iced, Where is the warmth or shelter For the cold Baby Christ ? Alas ! there is no rudest bed In shadows bright or dim, By jewelled hand or seamed outspread To cradle His dear bruised head ; — No comer left for Him — No corner left for Him. Too long with the rough wind He wrestles, That beauteous Baby Form Which rides upon the storm ; None brings Him food or brimming vessels, But winding sheets and coffin tressels ; The snowflakes round Him swarm ; And once more with His beasts He nestles Safe in the manger warm. But sore He toils and may not tarry, And forth again He fares As Mercy only dares. Who on His Heart alone must carry The world and all its cares — The world and all its cares. The Baby Christ is out to-night — Ah, ring the joy-bells low ! — And sounds of weeping and affright Stab through the cheery glow. CHRISTMAS EVE. 335 It dulls the loud and cruel mirth, It dims the shining robe, That voice which puts a piteous girth Of prayer around the globe. The goodly gold, the radiant gems It turns to dusty dross. And hangs about the holly stems The shadow of the Cross. The wiser kine look up and call The Master whom they greet, And through the tempest catch the fall Of His most gentle feet, That rest a moment as they pass Upon the lowly byre, And leave for humble ox and ass A print of blessed fire. The little child By winter wild Tost up and down, that tumbles In icy snow And to and fro Yet farther strays and stumbles, Sees through the dark That saving spark Beyond the whirl and welter. And steadfast flies With straining eyes Straight to the happy shelter ; And quick to raise A sob of praise To Him who is all blessing. Feels to him prest A Baby's breast — A Baby's warm caressing. And (as he slips) A Baby's lips Set on his own, in tender Sweet sudden power 336 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. That bursts in flower, Till all the night is splendour. But though that Infant is our Light, And stands betwixt their doom, And wanderers weary for His sight Who darkly welcome bane and blight, Yet we find Hii)t no room — Yet we fijid Him no room. Oh ! sometimes on the moonlight sheet Of the fair virgin snow We see his wondrous Baby feet, Roses of afterglow ! And we are sure the very Christ, Whom never rank or wealth enticed To silken sin below. Has gone in mercy just that way And left behind a tell-tale ray, Love's fervent overflow. And when from rifted purple cloud That breaks in gleaming bars Step forth two brighter stars, While winds abroad are not so loud And the whole heavens are pale and proud» It is His glorious eyes That, in compassion for our race Blind to the beauty of His Face, Bend from the listening skies ; For softly thus They shine on iis. And when within its cot Thy baby nestles not. And lonely is thy lot, Dear mother ; Then upon Christmas Eve, When children holly weave, Comes, while you fondly grieve, Another ; CHRISTMAS F.VE. 337 And lays His golden Head Down on the dazzled bed, And is thy Babe instead, And Brother. He takes the empty chair With kissing lips and hair, A thousand times more fair And winning, Than any mortal child That ever sweetly smil'd Upon a world defil'd And sinning; He cradles in thy heart. And is a living part Of all the love thou art Beginning ; Although it looks a gleam Of but a passing dream ; And thou thyself art far From Him ; As the most distant star And dim — Thyself art far From Him. The Baby Christ is out to-night- Must it be ever so ? — The winds are waking for the fight And loud their trumpets blow. And still the story Of His glory Is music for all ears, And still the fashion Of His Passion Is sunshine to our fears ; And still man only Leaves Him lonely At feasts His love has spiced, 22 33^ CONFESSIONS OF A POET. And still the manger Is no stranger To the sweet outcast Christ. And no one yet Will pay the debt. And but for those dear Baby hands, That bear the burden of all lands And reach and rule throughout all Time, While suns and seasons change and chime, And mould the myriad worlds of Space To wondrous stepping-stones of grace, The solid earth would faint and sink And into dust and shadow shrink — But for those wee white Baby hands, That pillar seas and skies and lands. There goes His bitter cry, For us and every sin, Now He is passing by And mourns exceedingly ; Will no one let Him in — Will no one let Him in ? LOVELY WOMAN. Women are of clay and gold, Simple but mysterious creatures, Single-hearted, manifold ; And they differ From us not alone in features And their making, but in mind. By some law, And grow stiffer And conveniently blind. When we thaw ; They assume more starch and stays, When we tremble And pour out the warmest rays Of the love that almost slays, LOVELY WOMAN. 339 Which we can't in proper ways Now dissemble. And their no means often yes, Lips that flout would fain caress, Cold hands splendid in their spite Though repelling do invite ; And the face that flees with laughter Half averted, Half asserted. Calls on you to follow after — If you only have the wit And can read the welcome writ On that flying Form defying All your efforts, all your art — Glancing round With shy charms. And would nestle on your heart Or be wound In your arms. Don't believe one half they say, Language merely is a mask Of their feelings And their fancies When they really wish to play And be wooed, but will not ask Those revealings And romances Which compose a woman's way, Mixed with steelings, Dew and dances, And full moons wherein they bask. Yes, they differ from us quite. Women wonderful and white, In confessions And transgressions Light and lovely as a fan Which would never move a man. 340 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. In a thousand thousand Hghts, In a thousand thousand shades, Deep as rapture of the nights, Tender as the green grass-blades Of the meadow, Now in shadow, Now in shine, But still human, still Divine — Always human, Always woman. And they diflfer too in kind. In the framework of the mind And their purpose, not as we From each other in degree. Sternest facts And stormy trifles, Broken pacts And hate that stifles, Faded loves. With jests and gloves, And roses, ribbons. Mirth and mystery, And a casual peep in Gibbon's Temple with its columned history. Strong devotion to one end And one friend, Pathways by the waves and willows Leading to the primrose pillows Fringed with pretty soul and feather Run together, And a passion Beyond fashion Single-minded, Purely blinded, And a heart's whole consecration More than queenly coronation With its gnosis Radiant as apotheosis — LOVELY WOMAN. 34I Such is woman, Such her Hfe, Sweetly human, Maid or wife ; Though her being Is not seeing, Is not knowing, But keeps flowing, Quite beyond our plane and orders And our acts, All betwixt its own strange borders Outside facts, With that terrible devotion (Fair in her) But to one supreme emotion Which may err, And is oft as wild and stupid In its glow As a Cupid Without arrows and a bow. For they differ from us madly. Differ sadly. Differ badly, But are grander, truer still In their instincts even to ill, Than the sensual selfish man Smelling of the kitchen pan. And with sordid petty greed In his highest, broadest creed ; They can quite forget themselves And the purse and cupboard shelves. Though yet guided not by reason, Not by right, In their flight Through the night ; But by any whim or treason Out of measure, out of season — Not by rule 342 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Though at Yule, But by petulant affections Which defy the plain directions And go up Or go down, With the same capricious fire 'Twixt a cup And a crown. And with one insane desire. Woman's name they say is weakness ; No, with all her holy meekness. And consent To a frailty that is finer And diviner Than the hero's vast intent, When she throws her soul and body And a heart ashamed of shoddy In the crucible Of a love above our laws That to her are still reducible, And as straws — Is she weak or rather iron. Who renouncing the home rafter And the present and hereafter, Though a hundred hells environ, Goes to meet a certain death, As if but a passing breath Or as putting on her gloves — If she loves ? What have wives and mothers done, And the maiden Early laden With a burden not for one, Such as Atlas never bare Who upheld a world of care ? What have suffering women not Dared or done, who with a kiss Or a laugh took the abyss, LOVELY WOMAN. And within the meltings-pot Of an Etna flung their all And themselves at passion's call, Not to win a tardy shrine But because the}' were divine ? They have sought Past our ken Goals of exquisite delusion, They have wrought More than men If in beautiful confusion, They have fought In their den With a calm sublime intrusion With the lions And the scions Of all 111, Through their conquering woman's will ; Moving mountains. Drawing fountains From the rocks, Bearing queenly And serenely Earthquake shocks. When I picture woman now. Blessed woman, Very human, I descry an upturned brow And sweet eyes To the skies Truly delicately pointing, And iDright hair Wondrous fair With a mystical anointing; As if all her spirit's leaven Were pure heaven. And I see her sunny hands Waving to the lofty lands, 343 344 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Gently waving, Softly saving Prostrate souls that grope in mire With their ministry of fire ; And I see the fatal dart. Plunged in her own shielding heart. But when I Long to think Her the triumph of perfection, In her beauty and election Poised between a song and sigh, And a gold connecting link With the awful Powers on high Standing at the heavenly brink Of Divinity brought nigh, In her saintly white and pink ; Then I see Wistful glances looking back Fond and free On another earthlier track, To the clay Of a way By her angel moments chidden And forbidden, Where she sometimes goes astray With a glee that is not hidden ; And the angel who has stormed Starry heights, God's delights, Then is horribly transformed Into something fair and false, Sere and salse. And with serpent convolutions And sweet sound Winding round Men and mightv institutions, Till they fall Faith and all. LOVELY WOMAN. 345 Ah ! I see her Then and flee her With her sweUing bosom bare And the lust that cannot spare, Looking back, With her rosy Hmbs of fire Gleaming through their frail attire, And insatiable desire, On a black Moonlit track With the warmest of caresses And the dearest lovelinesses, Flame and snow. Frost and glow, All the grace above, below, Clouds of glory for her tresses, Dew and bloom from day and night, All the best of dark and bright. Spirit, body, sense and soul Mingled in a maddening whole, With the gladness And the sadness Of the blossom of the years, Writ in laughter and in tears ; With a vagrant Charm and fragrant Air, that passes as you close With the treasure And the pleasure Of an evanescent rose. Which bequeaths you but the scent Of a cheated ravishment And a dream of perfect pose With delicious discontent ; Tempting, mocking, Tempting still, Though the weak and weary rocking To the rest 34^ CONFESSIONS OF A POET. On her breast That may comfort but must kill ; Always tempting, With the passions that will peep Through her soft uncurtained sleep, Not exempting Sinners whom she truly teaches But bewitches as she preaches, And when she says " Worship God And from naughty visions flee,'' Means with pretty pout and nod, " Worship me ". Ah ! the knowledge Of the college Never yet has taught men how On the brow Of a woman in her joy Falls a sunrise that is more Than the light on any shore, Unto which it is a toy — How unutterable grace Fills her face. From the woods and fields and waters And the Naiads And the Dryads Or the misty mountain daughters ; How the moonshine And the noonshine Both are married in her eyes With the skies, Blue and grey in blessed gleams Big with all delights and dreams ; How from her pure parted lips Honey drips, Music slips, And the kisses for which wealth Would surrender gold and health Fall and sting like living whips ; LOVELY WOMAN. 347 How the colour comes and goes, Ebbs and flows, Pales and glows, On the canvas of her cheek Painted by the thoughts that seek Utterance and cannot find, Flitting as the wave and wind — On the curves so round and sleek. And the mirror of the mind ; How the spell, Artless, indefinable, By her dainty manner breathed, As the perfume of a song Heard but once yet cherished long, Is enwreathed Round and through her inmost being, Fixed and fleeing As you wonder, and more fair Then returning like an air From above, a haunting grace On the face, In the hair, But without a settled place For the winning Of the boldest heart or hand, — Grace to conquer and command And in death anew beginning. Wisdom never told us why, In her eye Meet and mingle all the pages Of the ages, Earth and sky, Time and calm eternity ; Why her lucent limbs are moulded In one way, and she is folded As a mystery to read Only thus, And for us 348 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Meant to follow who would lead, In a fashion amorous Which need hardly pause to plead ; Why her duty Is but beauty, And a glance from her upsets Empires built by bayonets. Bearded lips, Iron ships. Ever since fair Helen came In the glory of her shame And the wonder of her frame, And the splendour of her fame, Just to kindle Such a frenzy, such a flame As may never, never dwindle While men's hearts abide the same. And the spindle Meets the all-unequal sword And is lord. When have sages Who have trodden world-wide stages, Told us whence Woman draws omnipotence And her cast-off faded flower Has more power In the silly empty stress Of its utter nothingness. Than the dark and dreadful tower Bristling with a hundred guns, And the blinding blazing fire In their ire As of many, many suns ? Whence her voice of subtle charm That in secret rose or fell, Marvellous to help or harm. Deeper than the depth of hell. Higher than the height of heaven. LOVELY WOMAN. 349 Calls it magic Sweet and tragic, And the leaping of its levin Unto which we humbly stoop And from which we cannot flee Who prefer not to be free, Though we droop And before it helpless lie — Though we die ? Whence her strength and from what sources, Flowing on, Flowing on, In the rapture of its courses, Flowing on, Flowing on. With the freshness of new forces That without her never shone ? Whence her innocence was born, In what morn Far away upon the summit Where the rose has not a thorn, In abysses which no plummet Yet has sounded And no fancy ever rounded. Though it were the most forlorn ? If in waking worlds, on hoary Top of sacred promontory, It descended like a dove From above, And took refuge in the blossom Of her bosom, With the greatness of its love, A white dove ? Whence she got that noblest nature, Awful stature, And the fulness of virginity Jewelled though in harlot frame With the solemn legislature 35° CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Of a sacrosanct infinity Without name ; Scarce of earth so lightly trod, Half a child and half a God ? When did mortal At the portal Of the citadel of Truth, Tell us whither woman clothed In the royalty of youth And betrothed But to beauty, not to man. Now is tending Now is wending, In the compass of her plan Rising like the rainbow span, If ascending, If descending To the springs whence life began ; Whither she is sweeping all With the music of her call. If to wedding-robe or pall, In her tender Fatal splendour — To Creation or the Fall ? Or if hither And then thither, At the passing moment's beck, She is guiding And deriding Us and lightly luring whither None return who come to wreck. With no purpose, with no will But to wreak the direst ill Anywhere and anyhow, With the sunset on her brow ? With no balance In her being, with no end Save to ravin and to rend, LOVELY WOMAN. 35 1 And as heedful of the valance Of the sofa or the chair As the honour of a friend, Which she never could repair ? With no ballast, with no strong Principle to stay and steer. For a song Or the chance of better cheer Selling one and selling all ; Like a ball Tossing duty to and fro In her guile, With a smile Cruel as the winter snow ? Hungry Science With its husks and doleful tales And reliance In its peddling scoops, and scales On the eyes as in the hand. Never yet could understand Wondrous woman, Who is more than dust and gases For retorts and probes and glasses, And is human ; Not to be just pinned and throttled And incised, Analysed, Classified and corked and bottled, Labelled, libelled, Aristotled, Shelved and all dehumanised ; As if but a wart or wen, Or another Specimen ; Not a glorious wife or mother And a spirit who can free us From the closeness Of our grossness, But a kind of scarahceus ; 352 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Yes, a subject to be pat in With a little Greek and Latin — French might do — If they can but keep the cat in Their prodigious bag of tricks Full of fads and fiddlesticks And their prophets — Heaven knows who, Patched about with silk and satin And a little English too. She may be just food for fables Or the red dissecting tables ; Or a sermon, For a German With his spectacles and surds And the dew not dew of Hermon And sesquipedalian words, Undecided, Subdivided, Traced with here and there a chasm And with now and then a spasm. To the first primeval point Without gender, without joint Which as king we now anoint — Protoplasm ; Down the muddy stream of time With a hobbling And a wobbling Gait that grows at last sublime ; Till the tiny spot of jelly Has achieved a brain and belly, And the joys Beyond toys Of a differentiation With a weakness for Orelli And a taste for Francatelli Which is quite an education, And the thing is really sexed And becomes a proper text LOVELY WOMAN. 353 Of the knife, With its Hfe For the nearest rack or rope Or the next Muddle with the microscope. Then at last the thing (mere matter) Growing fatter Is an instance or a case For the interminable chatter Of the dolts that splash and splatter, Or beginning of a base For a spry Theory, And the stuff dupes feed upon, Or a metaphor None is better for In a musty lexicon. This is certain, This is sure, Man can never By the most astute endeavour With or without the old curtain Now dispense with woman pure, Whole and simple ; And the dimple Rules and fools the conquered lands, East and west, North and south ; And the maiden's magic wimple With the gleaming of white hands Coaxing to her balmy breast And the scarlet of her mouth. Wake a passion More than Fashion, Make the hero of an age Drop his laurels And magnificence of quarrels On a universal stage. 23 354 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. And for one I prefer the woman's sceptre, To the biggest exploit done By a statesman's wiles adepter In mere law And the waiting on events, With his mouldy precedents And the awe But of office and its whips, Yet the slave of laughing lips. I prefer the dainty throat With its throbs, And the rustle And the bustle Of the pretty petticoat, To the brazen party jobs. Fallen stars Fair and frail as Potiphar's Naughty spouse, I would rather hail and house- Always in a proper way — Than the prude who sneers at Byron And has not a dash of clay In her maxims of cast-iron Death to any sort of Siren, And can only curse and pray. Give me woman Frank and human, With her tenderness supreme Down to the last sobbing breath, Facing death And the agony extreme ; With her patience and her trust Flowering from the charnel dust, And her courage more than man's In its mean and measured plans For salvation And its chilly calculation ; LOVELY WOMAN. 355 With her trifles And her tricks And her pettish wayward turns, More convincing; than the rifle's Argument and golden sticks ; While the fire celestial burns In her bosom, half an altar Raised to God, Half the sod Seat of ebon funeral urns, Wherewith none may hope to palter. Which like Fate can never falter, Whence no willing love returns. Give me woman As a foeman, If she may not be a mate, With a little bit of scandal And the spice Of some splendid sin or vice And her unrelenting hate, Though a fortune be the candle ; Not the ermined fool of State, With his handle And the plundered silver plate ; Let me be her dusty sandal Or the doll she loves to dandle. Rather than attend the prate Of the heedless And the needless Politician, with the lie In his eye, Which in words he never utters. Though he stutters On and flounders into messes And most hopeless wildernesses Half unmeaning, half untrue ; While he butters Bread of office with the oil 356 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. That may sweeten but must soil. If the Devil gets his due ; With his educated stammer, And bad grammar. Better powder, better paint Than the saint Who is but a clumsy libel On the Bible, And condemns without a voice Without choice, Any female thing that strays But an inch from beaten ways, And is not demurely foxy Like the sisters who rejoice In their barren orthodoxy And their boa-constrictor stays. Better Hallelujah Jane With her jumping, With her stumping, With her thumping Which may break a window pane Or a heart or idol fane, W^ho keeps pumping Nothing out of nothing still With a will ; Than the bigot with her forms And her rigid Rules and frigid Rites, allowing not for storms In a teacup, nor one pace Just outside her chosen place, Nor a healthy wild emotion With devotion ; Weighing in her narrow scale The exact amount and tale For each sinner, What he may enjoy at dinner. How he may in safety sup LOVELY WOMAN. 357 And the colour of his cup Or the matter Of his platter, When he must rejoice or grieve, What he may or mayn't believe ; Always guiding And providing Every jot and every tittle With her little Legislature And her art, But omitting human nature And the heart. Give me woman above morals — Not without. Not beyond — If her conduct breeds a doubt, And she plays with bells and corals, Fair and fond ; With affection And complexion And red ripened lips that pout. Who may lose the right direction And yet win a resurrection More devout. But I want the woman whole. In my adding. Not mere padding Or a body minus soul. Not a peg Just for jewels or the last Fashion uglier than the past, Unashamed to own a leg And its adequate assertion, Who can walk, Who can talk Of her faith or pet aversion ; Fair and free 358 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. With reserve, no Pharisee Binding burdens Upon others, taking guerdons For herself and damning all Not as whitewashed or as small ; Not a mimic of a man With his vices, With his dress and hair and clothes And his oaths And his follies — as she can, Yet despite the sacrifices Of her sex without one spark From his virtues in the dark. Give me woman fair and bright. Not afraid of Mrs. Grundy And her sour perpetual Sunday, Open to each pure delight In her proud and careless joy, The true article With no particle Of a Puritan alloy ; Blown upon by all the breezes Of all sweet and healthy things. Treading dust and yet with wings — If she pleases ; Grace her garb, and love her leaven, Meant for earth as well as Heaven. VOX FOFULI, VOX DEI. I heard a voice, a feeble sigh At first it dimly came, That trembled from black deeps on high, With hiddden heart of flame ; But what it meant no mortal knew. And cared no statesman then, Save that in tender bonds it drew The common hopes of men ; vox POPULI, VOX DEI. 359 It wavered into silence soon And nothing said more loud, As passes over the full moon A cloud. And then it grew a murmur deep That yearly gathered strength, And wakened from his drunken sleep The tyrant lord at length ; It reached the gambler at his play And sounded forth a knell Where thousands for the sinful way Their souls and honour sell ; But still it struggling was and low Though touched with troubled ire, And smothered in a smouldering glow Its fire. And then it took a fairer form, It borrowed from all parts. The rapture of the rushing storm. The love of royal hearts ; The hope of each imperial mind To mend each cruel wrong. Was mingled with the sunset wind And syllabled in song ; The might of mountains calm and old, The passion of work done, It breathed a music manifold But one. And then it filled the prophet's mouth, Of life the frozen stream It stirred with breezes of the south, No longer now a dream ; The preacher caught its burning tones. And darted as a brand Among the palaces and thrones. To purge the unclean land ; 3^0 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Abroad in day from dungeon gloom On eagle wings it flew, It added force from martyrs' doom, And grew. And then it burst from bearded lips, From serried ranks of men, And with the shadow of eclipse It shook the giant's den ; A trumpet call, the clearer voice Of brothers tried and true, Who shaped in words the ages' voice And asked the ages' due ; Firm as the final speech of Fate, That unto crowned 111 Utters in woe articulate Its will. And then the thought, that hardly spoke At first in workshops dim, A proud, tempestuous torrent broke And overflowed its brim. It seized the madness of all pain. And moulded as a friend ; And drew the earthquake in its train, Yoked to its glorious end. It joined the bitter pangs of dearth To injury's fiercer leaven ; And in the lightning wedded earth With heaven. And then hoar statesmen bowed the head That long had turned away. And paved a pathway for its tread Triumphant from delay ; They hearkened humbly to its tale. To reason's grandeur grown, Swept onward with the conquering gale, And offered as their own ; A DAUGHTER OF EARTH. 361 While gilded nobles bent the knee, Who reverence now would feign ; They swore the masses should be free, And reign. Till, lo ! it mixed with mighty law. Not for a pampered class. And moved the Senate with its awe A broader scheme to pass ; It seemed the people's general voice. Marching in dauntless line When with one purpose they rejoice, And yet it was Divine. It daily waxed more swift and sweet. As labour lightlier trod, And fell in gladness at the feet Of God. A DAUGHTER OF EARTH. It was just at a rather hot corner In the City of Sin, Where the scum of the land and the scorner With his close-shaven chin, For a moment had met by a crossing In fine raiment and rags. And old Dives a penny was tossing To despair on the flags, When she flashed on my sight as a comet From the plenty and dearth — From the gems and the gutter's last vomit, A dear Daughter of Earth Not a bit like your beautiful daughter. My grand lady in lace. Who is led as a lamb to the slaughter In the banqueting place ; With the flowers and sacrifice fillet Over bosom and hair, 362 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. On the scent of some nobleman's billet And a carriage and pair ; Not a bit like the pet you must marry- To a title or till, To mere Mammon or drunken Lord Harry Who may settle your bill. No, thank God, she was all naked Nature In that nightmare of art. From bare toes to the top of her stature, In each movement and part — In the turn of the head and the shoulder, And the tresses' mad maze ; And sham modesty hung down looked bolder, By her frank open gaze ; And the smooth placid parson, who smugly Reined his virtue in tight. And the over-dressed dame, stood out ugly In that innocent sight. There was grace in the tattered sweet vesture Setting off her pure gold. And the ease of the unstudied gesture Was a thing to behold ; As she swayed to some ecstasy simple, Cooing low like a dove, The brown cheeks breaking into a dimple Of young laughter and love ; There was grace in the plea for a copper As requesting a right, That in only a man were improper, But from her seemed delight. Ah, the sot at her elbow yet pallid From the criminal cup. And the wench in her infamy, rallied Before Jier and rose up To a healthier height, and grew better For a moment or two, A DAUGHTER OF EARTH. 363 And relaxed at her look the old fetter Which they could not undo ; And the rake who was reckless and idle. Without law ever known, As he gazed felt how blessed a bridle Were demands not his own. x\nd the boy, ready-witted and smacking Of the primitive mire, A rude jest quite forgot and was lacking In the vulgar desire. Open-mouthed, as he stared and nigh stumbled In a constable's arms. While he drank in her beauty and fumbled For some tribute to charms, Which aroused an undreamed of emotion Coming home like a spur, With the dim and half-savage devotion Of a desolate cur. Up and down rolled humanity's torrent, And the sunlight it burned, And the curse with its message abhorrent To a blessing was turned, At a glimpse of that face in its sweetness As it rippled with joy, Till each tatter and stain had a meetness That no dust could destroy ; And the coster, who passed with his barrow Wide awake to good grit, Dropt his pipe, and an impudent sparrow On her shoulder alit. To and fro went the multitude tramping Unto evil or good. With the babble of babies and stamping Of the horses that stood. With the rattle of harness and thunder Of re-echoing wheels, 364 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Where the crowd for a space burst asunder From pursuit at their heels ; In the hubbub and haste she yet Hngered, Though she hardly knew why, And a red rose in petulance fingered Glancing up at the sky. And a masterless dog, that had wrestled With policemen and pride. Caught her eye in its anguish and nestled In content at her side ; While she stroked it and gave to its needing The remains of her crust, And then staunched with her brown hand tlie bleeding From some Christian thrust ; Till it gazed up in gratitude, wagging The poor tail all bemired, And recalled the old energy flagging With one sob, and expired. Then she knelt down and kissed it, and smiling Through her beautiful tears Laid her blossom, with touches beguiling, On the frame be3'ond fears ; And she muttered a prayer of pity, For the victim of might, That went up from the sin of the City Like an arrow of light. To the Father of all, who, on Fashion And its lusts looking down, Wears as brightest the jewel compassion In His glorious crown. Oh ! my heart and my pocket grew wider And I opened my arms, While she spun around ]]ie like a spider Her invincible charms; TO A THEOSOPHIST. 365 And I vanted one hug, but I dared not With the parson's prim face, And the prude in her plenty who spared not — As if gifts were disgrace ; Though I gave of my gold and the honour I reserve for the best, That I would to a Queen or Madonna In virginity drest. Yes, she thanked me, and not as a beggar With a dolorous whine. With the grace of a Duff or McGregor And a gesture divine ; While a bell, like an echo of fiction Or from Paradise heard. Said " Amen " with a soft benediction To her musical word ; And she plunged in the tide with its clamour And its riches and dearth. In the glow of her innocent glamour, The dear Daughter of Earth. TO A THEOSOPHIST. Dost thou say, if I would choose and cherish All the Secret the Great Masters teach, I must break the dearest ties and perish To this world, ere I that summit reach ? I must tread alone the awful journey. With a black abyss on either hand, And engage in many a desperate tourney, Cheered by no glimpse of the Promised Land ? I must learn the dread last word of History Taught the ego by Creative Breath, And take heart to pluck the solemn mystery From the stern forbidding grasp of Death ? 366 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Dost thou bid me brave with dauntless paces The rough upward road that leads through Night, Past the threatening arms and fiery faces To some portal of some doubtful Light ? Flee the plash of sweet and friendly fountains And the joy of each familiar form, For the iron crags of cold dark mountains Wrestling ever with the flame and storm ? Walk in silence, and embrace the sorrow Set apart to be my ghastly bride. For the shadow of a dim far morrow, When my darlings long have left my side ? Be it so, if that is what you offer, I prefer my own small portion yet, Ignorance and peace, an empty coffer, To the treasures of the wise Thibet ; To the unknown bliss of puppet fetters Worked by Brothers who employ strange tools, And precipitate ill-written letters On the heads of weak deluded fools ; Thunder-bolts, that out of this or that sky Of the seven so dear to sages drop, Manufactured by the bold Blavatsky In her pet peculiar tea-cup shop. Fain would I dare the worst leap initial And for others clear my every shelf, Ready for the act most sacrificial, But I want no Heaven all to myself; This is not the teaching of the Story Told by God to prophets good and great, Which pursues alone the path to Glory And consigns the feeble to their fate ; And if Heaven be purchased by the giving Up of wife and children I love well, And whate'er makes this life worth the living, Then, theosophist, I will have hell. JUDAS. 367 JUDAS. Once when I had a humble friend, I thought it no impiety To let him just a bit ascend And hover near Society ; I opened wide to him my doors And heart, that he might enter, Though he seemed used to kitchen floors And was a dear Dissenter ; I welcomed him to half my kin, Two parsons and one writer, In hopes his dirty iEthiop skin Would turn a little whiter. He ate my mutton, drank my wine, And traded without question Upon my name, and like his swine Enjoyed a good digestion ; He talked of oxen and of roots. Of farming stock and stable, And wiped his wondrous muddy boots Beneath my suffering table ; I tried to make his rustic mind Polished as my mahogany, And bade him change his preference blind Of cattle for cosmogony. I deemed his manners soon would mend And take a saving lustre, Though they might sometimes from a friend Require a casual duster; I threw a veil o'er broken plates Or grammar innovations, His havoc among aspirates And awful aspirations ; I rubbed him free from vulgar mire, As well as I was able, And warmed him at my social fire Regardless of the fable. 368 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Till bloated with his pride and lands, Though I had paid the piper, Fresh from the clasp of kindly hands He proved a very viper ; He showed he had a Judas mind, The passions of a pander. And stabbed me in the back behind With poisoned blade of slander ; Now I commend him to his gigs, His shame and bad divinity, And see him growing like his pigs In foul and coarse affinity. THE CRY OF LABOUR. The land is ours by right of suffering years, The centuries of toil, Through which we sowed our sweat and bitter tears Into the grave-like soil ; For we have purchased it with blood and pain, That endless weary strife. Which was to grinding landlords only gain, And cost us very life. Yes, it is ours, who are prepared to strike For statutes bright and new. The gift of equal Heaven to all alike. And not a grasping few ; Ours as the sunshine and the rain and air, With that sweet common trust, Which makes the meanest future large and fair. And raises men from dust. It shall be free, no heritage of drones Who on our winnings prey. And pave with myriads of our martyr bones Their idle careless way ; THE CRY OF LABOUR. 369 It shall be ours, who only break the sod To bury those that till, If yet the people's is the voice of God, Who works a nation's will. The rule is ours, that now has passed away From leaders base and blind, The sweeter surer from its long delay. And richer for mankind ; The power has settled down on us at length, By ages taught to reign. And grown to ripeness of the stately strength, Which monarchs only feign. Authority has armed with iron hand. And in its thunder clothed The breast that now is fitted for command. To freedom's heart betrothed ; We have the might, the majesty of Law Is at our sovereign claim, And will the dreadful blade of justice draw With no uncertain aim. We know the Right, through nameless wrong secured. Is our one true defence, And suffering that has conquered and endured Is like Omnipotence ; And, lo ! we rise and in our millions call From muddy court and street. And bid the gorged and gilded spoilers fall Discrowned at our feet. 24 SECTION VII. PRO PA TRiA. PAX BRITANNICA. O brave men of this British land, Who loyal are and true, Born to the habit of command And an imperial due — The spoil of ancestors, that fought And filled a gallant stage, And wrung from larger deeds and thought A glorious heritage ; Who flash your edicts far and near, Swift as the lightning flame. And bare the sword that tyrants fear Of the great British name, And find an hospitable roof Beneath the Arctic sky, Nor from the furnace stand aloof And make the storm ally. And everywhere with all at home On earth or tossing waves, If under Egypt's fiery dome Or by our Indian graves — Accustomed yet to be obeyed. Speak, till the discord cease, Words of which despots are afraid, " Let there be Peace ". 372 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Ye good men of this ancient realm, Who hear the sufferer's pleas, And ride with justice at your helm A hundred surging seas, And carry terror unto knaves On schemes of rapine bent, And to down-trodden dying slaves Your own enfranchisement ; Your ships are many, and your arm With thunder clothed is strong. Still to beat back the crushing harm And right the dastard wrong ; Your will is law, your sentence yet Is wide as your repute, And though the evil fume and fret They dare not this dispute ; Your mercy is a fortress free For all who ill endure, Wherein the worn and wounded see A sanctuary sure ; Ah ! by the brightness of your flag Without a blot or crease, In thunder shout from every crag, " Let there be Peace ", O stout men of historic fights On crimson field or flood, Who sealed with scars these famous rights And purchased with your blood ; Say, is it time the ravening reign Of armed force should end. And lives that love of Christians feign To fairer service bend ? Your navies girdle round the globe And bring the better time. And on your empire's royal robe Are pearls from every clime ; A SONG OF THE UNION. 373 Your soldiers with the hero's heart Form the old fearless ring ; And each must play a noble part As though himself a king ; The cause is good and cannot fail, Your iron walls are strong, And truth shall evermore prevail Above the brutal wrong ; The ocean with your fleets patrol, A new and longer lease Of golden years at length unroll ; " Let there be Peace.'"' A SONG OF THE UNION. One are we — but one nation By Jiat of creation. And truly one at heart ; One by the act of moulding, Our title deeds of holding, That bade this Union start ; One in the hour of danger. Against the storm or stranger And every hostile art ; What God hath joined together By sea or silver tether, Shall man presume to part ? One are we by a marriage, Which onl}^ foes disparage, And millions will defend ; One by that sacred leaven. The law that came from Heaven, Whereby two races blend ; One by dear Nature's token, The covenant unbroken, Our bulwark to the end ; 374 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. What God hath joined together, To brave all winds and wea titer, Shall man presume to rend ? One are we in aspiring, By gallant aims untiring, Enfranchisements of toil ; One by our grand endeavour, To carry far and ever The lamp of holy oil ; One in our love of duty. That heritage of beauty Which traitors may not soil ; What God hath joined together, As eagle wing and feather, Shall V7an presume to spoil ? One are we by our story, And in the common glory We suffered much to make ; One in the stern red battle, And where the bullets rattle That cannot Union shake ; One on the Senate benches, As in the bloody trenches, With kindred needs at stake ; What God hath joined together As rose and Scottish heather, Shall man presume to break ? THE LAST OF THE TORIES. I stand alone of all that elder race, Who scorned the dirty bribes of power and place And turned no coats to suit a traitor's nod — Who served themselves but when they served their God, And fatherland, and Queen, nor dared to sell Their souls for sops and a division-bell. THE ROAD TO RUIN. 375 All now are gone, and happy in the fact, To see not this great Empire by an act Of unveiled treason, like a beggar's clout Dropt, and its old magnificence snuffed out. As one might snuff the candle of a day; While over its dead glory gamblers play And bless their luck, and curse the evil chance That ever raised such splendid circumstance On such foundations. Through the palace prowl Unclean and furtive shapes, as bat and owl Haunt solitary nooks and hug the shade, Among the damned ruins they have made. And honour too is gone with principle, That were our bulwarks and ineffable Grandeur and grace. And nothing nov/ is left But loud dishonour and the thumb of theft. Fools outlie fools, and class has war with class ; The royal robes hang on a jewelled Ass ; Pawned is the Crown ; dust is upon the Throne ; And I beside them weep and watch alone. THE ROAD TO RUIN. Where is the courage that stept out On freedom's suffering side, And shaped from many a battle shout The charters of our pride ? The rulers of the land are reeds, And swayed by every gust For dirty place or party needs Betray their sacred trust. They walk not in the goodly ways Our fathers loved to tread, When honour for heroic days A track of glory spread. 376 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. They turn not from their small content To dare imperial acts, Or mould a mighty government, Built up on iron facts. They look not forward to the age When nations wake from sleep, Beyond the gaslight of the stage Whereon they twist and creep. The bulwarks of our kingdom reel Beneath the felon stroke. And at the stab of guardian steel Goes down the centuried oak. The beacons of our creeds are gone, And doubt with shifting wraith Is throned where once in thunder shone The fortress of our faith. Our watchmen slumber at their post, And open wide the gate Regardless of the hostile host, That fools may legislate. Shall we be led by solemn cheats Who dupe with dazzling lies, And sell for gain or sordid seats Our grand old liberties ? Nay, we will follow landmarks true That keep a broader ken, And pay a people's homage due To measures, not to men. We take our stand on ancient rights That wrought our country's fame, And 3'et will last, when meteor lights Have veiled their scarlet shame. AN EPITHALAMIUM. 377 Ours is a history, wrung from strife On field and tossing flood By warriors careless of their life, And written in their blood. And we will hand that freedom down Which made our Britain great, The brightest jewel of our Crown, The buttress of our State. AN EPITHALAMIUM. {6th yuly, 1893.) Hail to the life that closes, Hail to the life that starts ; Come, strew a path of roses, For these young Royal hearts. In Heaven it was appointed, On earth it is decreed. That these by Love anointed Should be made one indeed. Come, tell it out in story, To our remotest kin ; Throw wide the gates of glory. That Love may enter in. There was a time of sadness, There was a time for fears, But now the dawn of gladness Has smiled away the tears. The winds and storms are over. The land has honeyed rest. And to the bee the clover Gives up its bleeding breast. Gone are the April shadows. Gone is the April day, The sun is on the meadows. And all the world is May. Ring lowly, Ring slowly, 378 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. And let the message sink and rest, Deep in the sanctuaried breast ; For Love is sacred, Love is solemn, And soaring up to God in praise, Like some pure white cathedral column, Or simple songs that children raise. Ring loudly, Ring proudly. For ye will never fling so wide Your blessing for a fairer bride ; O all ye bells of every steeple. That hang betwixt the Heaven and us And now proclaim a happy people. Ye minister as angels thus. Ring gladly. Ring madly. And send the Bridegroom with the sounds Our blessing to earth's farthest bounds ; Though wall and buttress with the thunder Of your great passion rock and reel, That bursts the bars of Space asunder, Till all the same sweet madness feel. Ring ever. Or never Upon the wind that wafts your strain, Ring out the wedding peal again ; O ring it down the generations For them and brighter broader parts ; To keep with rich reverberations The wedding music in their hearts. O happy hour Of happier token, That bursts in flower And bliss unspoken ; Say, who can find a worthier rest, In all the raptures Of Love's captures. Than on our Sailor Prince's breast ? AN EPITHALAMIUM. 379 Come, we will fill their cup with sweetness, And let no English {greeting fail To spread the splendour of completeness, And so again we bid them Hail. With garland and with carol, In holiday apparel. We yield them honoured place. Saluting them with plaudit Down to the final Audit — The hope of England's r:ice. And let ten thousand battle voices From our unbroken iron wall. Show how a mighty realm rejoices And echo back one nation's call. The sea that is our world-wide vassel Roars welcome from its myriad waves, The banner with its bloody tassel Lifts up the song of rescued slaves. From sombre pinewoods and the billows That beat on Australasian sands. Where dusky maids on golden pillows Start from their dreams at stranger hands, From desert wild with thorn and thistle And icebergs as they plough their track, And outposts where our bayonets bristle To hold the Russian spoiler back, From East and West and South and Nor'land Where monsters wallow in the deep. From basking creek and breezy foreland And bowers of immemorial sleep, Goes up one universal chorus. From isles and legendary Ind, . That now their welcomes blend sonorous With every waft of every wind ; And all the tongues of all the nations, Men of each colour and each creed. Unite for Them their acclamations, And like the ocean shout God speed. 380 CONFESSIONS OF A POET, Come, strew a path of lilies, For this young Royal Pair. Now March and daffodillies Are gone with winter air. The Bride is pure and pleasant The Bridegroom is our best, The gladness of the present Brings in an era blest. Horizons new are lifting Beyond this fevered strife, And rosy Dawn comes rifting The clouds with larger life. The eve has linked a message Of love to laughing leas, And morn a hopeful presage Sends down on sunny seas. The heaven from its blue bosom Pours forth the brightest ray, The earth is but one blossom, And all the world is May. HOW TO DIE. If she must go, great England in her flower, And sink at last to littleness and shame, Then let her fighting fall by hostile power, Not stabbed by friends that spit upon her fame. Let not the children, who upon her breast Have hung and gathered food and waxen strong, Now turn and rend the Mother who gave rest And life to be paid back in dastard wrong. t O in her hour of need shall England find Her danger in her own divided land, And in her grandeur basely struck behind Die by the treachery of a trusted hand ? PRO ARIS ET FOCIS. 381 Is none left loyal now ? Does no one prize The glory that her heroes bought with blood, Who made all lands her costly merchandise And stamped their iron law on field and flood ? And must her greatness wither as the reed, Or be the sport of every wind of chance ? And must her shopmen's pettifogging greed Sell in the mart our old inheritance ? Ah ! better were at once some noble death Wrought by the mercy of the knightly steel, Than to be flattered by the garlic breath Of perjured patriots whining at her heel. Let her not live to be a party's tool In any sordid service lightly prest, A butt at which the careless passing fool May fling the unavenged and idle jest. Once nations quailed at her forbidding brow That bade their angry strife or murmur cease, Her sword was sharp, her banner bright, that now Are byewords both in Europe's armed peace. Her feet bestrode the earth she ruled to bless With broader justice, and her pilgrims bold Gave a new world its being to redress The unequal power and balance of the old. Where are the leaders ? Friends and foes are one On her white honour to impress the brand. And her own guardians' labour has undone The ancient bases of their fatherland. PRO ARIS ET FOCIS, Close up by the bright Banner, That round the rolling world In the same fearless manner Is as of old unfurl'd ; 382 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Held by our fighting fathers, As now young valour holds, Which slave and exile gathers Beneath its guardian folds ; A refuge from the tyrant, To which the helpless flee, A hope for each aspirant, The fortress of the free. Our empire is in danger. That union dear to all, The coward and the stranger Are striving for its fall ; This land, earth's one white blossom Is darkened in mid day, The sons that sucked her bosom Have traitors turned and slay ; The flag that centuries guided, Shall it be basely torn ? Must Britain be divided, And left an empty scorn ? By sufferings long and cruel. Through vigils and red fights, We won that precious jewel — The vantage of our rights ; 'Twas wrung from ills abolished, For children and for wives, In the fierce furnace polished And sealed with sacred lives ; And shall we tamely barter The bulwark of our State, Its fair and famous charter That makes our Britain Great ? No more with treason dally, To England's name be just, And in your thousands rally Around our solemn trust ; HOW I WON THR VICTORIA CROSS. 383 Oh ! by the blood-bought stages That built this glorious power, Let not the work of ages Be blasted in an hour ; Hold tight the bond of nations, The pledge of peaceful earth, The old and tried foundations Of altar and of hearth. HOW I WON THE VICTORIA CROSS. Come fetch me bit and bridle, Come saddle me the mare, Black Bess will not be idle. And must the peril share ; The blood of Arab rangers Is hers, she cannot fear, And still the note of dangers Is music to her ear ; Like sudden sunrise breaking On a dim desert space. In her young heart is waking The passion of her race ; Her nostrils ope and quiver, Her haunches fret and strain, She scents the tossing river And the damned leaden rain ; Her small proud head she raises To seek the foe afar, And on her forehead blazes The one white beacon star ; Ah ! let me draw it tighter, The girth must never slip. And rub the sabre brighter To redden in my grip ; Black Bess is wild for going. And I shall sooner tire, And all her frame is glowing Like an incarnate fire. 384 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Come, wrap the Colours round me, Our bulwark and our pride, 'Twere well that they enwound me, Should death become my bride ; That Flag I followed early, Sole armour for a man, Which in the hurly-burly Flashed ever in the van ; No robe however royal Were better garb to wear. For one who would be loyal x\nd the old fame upbear ; Is Space about me rifted ? Are thousands near me prest ? I feel as though I lifted An empire on my breast ; Is it a madman's crazing ? The shadows rise and flee. As if the world were gazing And every eye on me ; Come, mount, I may not tarry, This is no common vow. But first Black Bess must carry A kiss upon her brow ; For England and for duty And darlings I love well, She goes in all her beauty Into the jaws of hell. Not for true love's sweet story, Not for a Prince's power. Would I exchange the glory Of this one gallant hour : 'Tis rank enough to rough it, Not for the longest life Would I abate a buffet In this unequal strife ; Before me spreads the splendour HOW I WON THK VICTORIA CROSS. 385 Of an immortal deed, And God is my Defender Who knows a nation's need ; Behind me ring the voices Of comrades' cheering cry, The plaudit that rejoices A soul in agony ; Around me bullets whistle, Below me stare the dead, And gory lances bristle, But Heaven is overhead ; Black Bess is bravely flying, She loves the fiery test. And who could dream of dying In this imperial vest ? The battle rage is on her, The spirit nought can bend, If it be death or honour 'Twill be a soldier's end. I sit upon my saddle, A king upon a throne. And pools of blood bestraddle In awful joy alone ; No thought of asking quarter. The fever of the fight — The savage thirst of slaughter Burns in me its delight ; Hurrah for cuts and killing, For parry and for thrust, Black Bess is wild and willing And spatters brains in dust ! Down go the dusky devils,^ Up comes the sabre right, There will be cursed revels In hottest hell to-night ! Who cares for wounds or losses, Before that grim black line, 25 386 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. When close the river tosses Its waters as they shine ? What are the stabbing lances Or the more piercing yell, The shot that stings and glances To duty's guardian spell ? They shall not take me living, Although they clamour loud, No grave clothes of their giving, I have a fairer shroud. The lust that has no laying Has crimsoned me with gore, For slaying, slaying, slaying, Till I can slay no more ; The wall of iiame is scattered, The sooty demons reel, Black Bess their pride has shattered Beneath her iron heel ; I feel the ancient Viking All blazing in my blood, The hungry wrath for striking Through fiercest fire or flood ; Why, 'tis a game for Prmces, With sword and belching gun. That the stout heart evinces, When those poor vermin run ; My steed her head has lowered Prepared for worse than that. To seize yon creeping coward And shake him like a rat ; His stroke has lost its labour, The swarth}' visage pales. As through him shears my sabre, And dead men tell no tales ; What, faint ? Think not of falling So near the dazzling goal. With England's honour calling. And here the waters roll. HOW I WON THE VICTORIA CROSS. 387 Come, in we plunge, while volley The rebel curses round, And at the godlike folly In baffled hate resound ; Come, swim for love and glory. And thousands dead that lie, So that our stirring story Shall never, never die ; Oh ! the new life that rushes Through every bursting vein, And with its healing brushes Away each maddening pain ! The strength as of a giant Inflames my weary arms, As I look back defiant And mock the vanquished harms ; But one is gashed and broken And hardly holds the reins, And yet it bears the token Of ruddy splendid stains ; Black Bess is sorely stricken, If still her head is high. And sad her sobbings quicken, Though refuge now is nigh ; But cruel are the surges. And angry is the wind That beats my face with scourges, And dark is death behind. Ah ! if my God would will it x\nd we might struggle thro', The bullet with its billet Would then no mischief do ! I ask Him for no guerdon, But only beg to spare Black Bess who bears the burden. My gallant glorious mare ; But, hark ! the shots are singing 388 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Like hailstones round my head. And far-off bells seem ringing The requiem of the dead; If I could clear the river, Then welcome were the ball, Did I my tale deliver Right gladly would I fall. Great Heavens, the blow has lighted Upon its prey at last. Just with the harbour sighted From the hot iron blast ! But now I will not perish. No failure can be mine. While I the Colours cherish That give me strength Divine ; On, on, at duty's guiding. For kingdoms on me lean. And God with me is riding For country and for Queen. Before me swims the distance, The waters dance and foam, But none can give assistance, And still unreached is home ; My senses reel and rally, I bite my parching lips. And visions gleam and dally With one in dread eclipse ; I see the Highland mountains. The cradle of my birth. And the long leap of fountains That burst their granite girth ; I hear the eagle calling High in his cosmic sweep, And like a meteor falling Into the sunless deep ; The thousand leagues have vanished, Earth's giant barriers bow. HOW I WON THE VICTORIA CROSS. 389 And faces bright and banished Come pressing nigh me now ; And one in fair white clothing Steps through the tumult down, Who yields her hand's betrothing And in her hand a crown ; But yet the battle rages, My purpose sets like stone, As if the pride of ages Rests upon me alone. Oh ! by the crimson laurels Of many a famous field, Like brands from fiery quarrels, We cannot, dare not yield ! By the grand Flag, that faces All quarters of the deep. And the whole world embraces In its majestic sweep ! That under its broad pinions Gives slaves their freedom yet, The Flag on whose dominions The sun can never set ! By England's maids and mothers Who hang upon our deeds, W^ith love that vainly smothers The sob for bitter needs! Who watch with wan devotion These tempest-ridden lands, And seem across the ocean To stretch their praying hands ! By all most sweet and solemn In our great annals read, And by the sacred column That guards the warrior dead ! We will not fail the anguish Of those with weeping blind, And brothers left to languish In awful siraits behind. 390 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Come, comrade, just one struggle And mastered is the shore, And those black fiends shall juggle With England's might no more Remember outraged woman, The child with dabbled hair. The crimes that were not human. And mocked at dumb despair ! Remember the pale prison And letters scrawled in gore. The cry from graves uprisen, The well at grim Cawnpore ! Remember the word broken. Red ribands and red shoes, Pierced frocks with the same token, And then we cannot lose ! Think of the blessed meeting. The prize within our grasp. The rapturous look and greeting. And the warm loving clasp ! Think of the joy and shelter, The bugle's welcome call, The peace beyond this welter, The bayonets' safe wall ! Black Bess, these balls are trifles Now succour is at hand — The glint upon the rifles Of our brave English band. Hurrah for the dear haven, Hurrah for triumph won From rebels crushed and craven. Hurrah for duty done ! We stop, at length, all bleeding. Half blinded, worn and wet. To send the avengers speeding In time for rescue yet ; They stay our headlong paces BLOOD AND IRON. 391 With smile or anxious frown, On soldiers' furrowed faces The iron tears roll down ; They weep, laugh, talk, assemble. From scarred and bearded lips That whiten as they tremble The prayer or cursing slips. But, though such death is glorious With honour at its side, Black Bess has fallen victorious In her last stately stride; In sad and solemn manner We gather where she fell, And on her lay the banner She died to save so well. Alas, that fate should sever The life it cannot kill ! But she shall ride for ever Through England's story still. BLOOD AND IRON. What built England great ? Gamblers' luck or prate — Party babble ? Sops like Honour thrown As a crust or bone To the rabble ? Fighting but for power Or the victor's hour And his chariot. Bought at dreadful cost, Soul and country lost, With Iscariot ? Tarnishing old fame With the sordid shame Of a ragman, Tumbling Empire hot 392 CONFESSIONS OF A FOET. In the melting pot For some bagman ? Tyranny's red whips, Or the redder lips Of some Siren ? — England slowly rose Out of thunder throes, Blood and iron. What made England great ? Licking others' plate, Dirty dishes ? Picking up the scraps Tost from richer laps And brave wishes ? Fouling her own nest, With the open pest Of loud haters, Who her ruin spread Eating of her bread, Unhung traitors ? Hawking up and down Church itself and Crown In the gutter, But to fatten more All the knaves that store Stolen butter ? Was it Shakespeare's name Handing his bright fame Down to Byron ? These alone were yiil, With no bigger bill — Blood and iron. What built England great ? Grandeur in her hate Of dishonour, Which made Principle BLOOD AND IRON. 393 Fair and terrible Her Madonna ; Scorn of coward acts, Loyalty to pacts If once spoken, And the plighted word Like her awful sword Never broken ; Love of lofty ends, Jealousy for friends Wronged or strangers, And her charters' trust Wrung through glorious dust From dread dangers ; Heritage of deeds Better than all creeds, Which environ Our White Island Rose In her sure repose — Blood and iron. SECTION VIII. LAUGHING PHILOSOPHY. IPSE DIXIT, I deemed it rather hard, to think A serpent so could chatter, And once like Huxley used to wink At many a Bible matter; I puzzled over sacred lines. And started issues foxy — If donkeys might be sound divines Or cows love orthodoxy ; How every creature great and small The tiny Ark could enter, And like good churchmen come at call Without one d — d Dissenter ; Why rolling sun and moon should stay Stock still for any mortal, And death to the most holy hand Unlock its iron portal. But the Magister then looked in, Lest Science Truth should weaken, And I knew it were deadly sin To doubt the Great Archdeacon ; He bade me hold the ancient faith And not with error mix it. While hurling at Lux Mundi's wraith His dauntless " Ipse Dixit ". 3g6 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Lo ! Reason all away refines, And our last educator Devours the toughest of divines Sauced vi^ith some commentator ; And German critics none agree With us or with each other, While Tweedledum cuffs Tweedledee, And flea bites flea his brother ; And doctors quarrel with the text Or steal the fire from Blazes, To be knocked over by the next Who hold yet wilder crazes. And so I argue it were well To stay by steady landmarks, When in an hour the ocean swell Sweeps over idle sandmarks ; To anchor on the Ancient Rock That bears the brunt of ages, And will outlast the puny shock Of pettifogging sages ; To leave distortion's dirty plate The dogmatist who licks it, And wait till opening of the Gate The final ''Ipse Dixit". And now what would I not believe. In spite of the majority And sophists who their dupes deceive, When backed by good authority ? And if the mighty Mistress Caird, Whose Christian name is Mona, Should vovv', with Bishop Huxley paired, No whale could swallow Jonah ; Yet I, led by no pretty nose. Would the Archdeacon follow. And think that Jonah if he chose The whale itself could swallow ; And I could swallow both with ease THE PORTER AT THE GATE. 397 Nor trouble at a question, Should but the grand old Scripture please, And have no indigestion. Once I with learning used to nod, And guilty was of treason Against my better self and God, When tost about by Reason ; But now I let each quibble be. Or scholars leave to fix it, While finding quite enough for me God's glorious '•'■Ipse Dixit ". THE PORTER AT THE GATE. Sat as always good St. Peter At the Heavenly gate. Early hours and late. Though his language scarce was sweeter Nor his conduct now discreeter Than in mortal state ; For it was such weary work, Infidel, and Jew, and Turk, Sure to spoil his honest napping, Just as he began to snore, And with noisy fingers rapping. That he sometimes swore. Up they jostled without number, Piebald souls and white, Brown and sooty quite, StutTed with stupid creeds and lumber, Wide awake and some in slumber, Majesty and mite; In a motley crowd they came, Deaf and withered, blind and lame. Evermore the entrance blocking, With their scraps of Scriptural tags, Or with ceremonies knocking. Clothed in ritual rags. 398 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Came a Churchman, though with quaking Heart he slowly went, In his Prayer-book pent, Doubtful of St. Peter waking, Trusting in his doomed and shaking Old Establishment ; Yet with swagger proud and bold, On his rubrics laying hold ; But with patience waxing shorter Or an earthly touch of gout, The disturbed and drowsy Porter Shut the Churchuian out. Came a Fool of Forms, disguising Errors dark in dress, Raising as to bless Holy hands in ways surprising, Ever attitudinising His mock righteousness; Great at small religious tricks. Millinery, candlesticks. Pious pose, the east direction ; But St. Peter, with a flout, Sick of all his genuflection. Shut the Forinist out. Came a Broad Churchman, with fancies Culled from every store. Dross and little ore, Not averse to plays and dances And the very last romances Spun by German lore ; Eager to explain away Hell and all its black array. And each text that was not pleasant Or made erring beauties pout ; But St. Peter, for the present. Shut the babbler out. THE PORTER AT THE GATE. 399 Came a Low Churchman, who cuddled On defiant arm, As a holy charm, His big Bible, mixed and muddled With mad views, by visions fuddled Braying loud alarm ; Sure his soundness ought to win Heaven and all the bliss therein, With his muzzle mean and foxy ; But, though he might never doubt, Peter, tired of orthodoxy, Shut the driveller out. Came the author of that beacon Lighting to the shoals Lost and silly souls. Seeking still a Church to weaken, Though in fear of the Archdeacon With his burning coals ; Breaking grand old faiths and straws, Splitting hairs, and bearding laws — God and even Mrs. Grundy, Like a pig's uprooting snout ; But the saint (alas " Lux Mundi " /) Shut the casuist out. Came a Calvinist, with ration Short for hungry need. Fruit of bloody seed, Hugging as his own salvation Good news of the world's damnation. With his Devil's creed ; Hoping it might be his turn, Now to see by millions burn Heretics in their own gravy ; But St. Peter, with a clout. Ere he could exclaim " Peccavi,'" Shut the murderer out. 400 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Came a man of milk and water, Moderate and bland, Holding well in hand Virgin views like Jephthahs daughter, Frisking innocent to slaughter, For the butcher's brand ; Peeping here and there for aid, And of novel creeds afraid, As of all things strong and manly ;, But, a friend of doctrine stout, Peter, not too hard on Stanley, Shut the shambler out. Came a so-called Independent, Boasting none but he Was from fetters free, Yet, with poverty ascendant, Quite the Devil's own defendant, On a beggar's knee ; Preaching still to pew and purse, Fearful of the rich men's curse, Any trash or pious error, That might profit for a bout ; But the Saint, to point his terror. Shut the trimmer out. Came a whining old Wesleyan, In the gravest pose, Singing through his nose Hymns that please the breast plebeian,. Though with leavening Sadducean, Of the Judgment close : Not disliking practice sharp. If atoned on David's harp, Clinging to his tea and hassocks And the canting ranting rout ; But the Saint, preferring cassocks,, Shut the brawler out. THE PORTER AT THE GATE. 4OI Came a Baptist bold, as rocket Ready to ascend, For a glorious end. One hand with his party docket, And the other in the pocket Of his dearest friend ; Marching on by devious tricks, Through the dirt of Politics, Right away to bliss and glory, With the latest sham and shout ; But St. Peter knew his story, Shut the viper out. Still they came at every season. Faded souls and fat, With their passports pat, Quite forgetting lives of treason And without a rag of reason Save the lifted hat ; * High and humble, rich and poor, Knocking at the Heavenly door. Some with meekness, some with unction, Here a lion, there a lout, But the Saint, with no compunction, Shut the humbugs out. Vainly did he ask the ticket Which would welcome all. After any fall, Cursed theology's dark thicket, As he nodded at the wicket, Wantmg Christ not Paul ; Each came labelled like a bale. With denomination's tale. * A poor man on his death-bed assured his clergyman he felt sure oi eaven, because he never entered a chuTch without raising his hat. 26 402 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. One from church and one from chapel, Running Hke a leaky spout ; But the Saint, who smelled the apple, Shut the Insects out. Then, in hope to get some quittance From the constant strokes, Now no longer jokes, Seeking rest — if one hour's pittance, Peter wrote up, " No admittance But for business folks " ; Yet they only prest him more, " Christians " self-styled by the score, Till, though in the act of sleeping, He resolved such dregs to scout. Seized a broom and rudely sweeping Shut the rubbish out. Came, at last, a child the winner Of no earthly meed. Starved, without a creed Save that angels must have dinner, Sighing, " I am just a sinner, Who the Saviour need " ! Though she knocked with trembling touch, Hoping little, fearing much. Yet all Heaven to its far centre Shook, and Peter owning kin. Though she was a d— d Dissenter, Shut the beggar in. ST. COLMAN'S GIRDLE. St. Colman, as he breathed the spice And honey-dews of Paradise, Grew troubled in his resting ; For rumours reached him even there ST. COLMAN S GIRDLE. Of dreadful doings everywhere, The wicked world infesting ; Deceptions wreaked on poor Papa Touched him on Abraham's Bosom, And turned to thorns the blossom ; While Princes played at baccarat With fools who left the door ajar, And did not use the besom. He wondered, with a peevish tone, They would not leave him yet alone And bothered him by scandal ; And why they vainly washed the dirt, On damaged name and shady shirt, By light of public candle ; The dear ascetics were quite dead. Who heaped the holy ashes And penitential lashes Upon the offending back and head. And humbly walked with naked tread And just their fig-leaf sashes. And then he deeply sighed and drest, A rose-leaf and a sunbeam vest Were all he ever needed ; Though now he took a piercing thorn, Which on his pious breast was borne And wayward fancies weeded ; Again determined he to stoop — Though drawn on felon's hurdle, With blood that terrors curdle — His neck to earth's old cramping loop, The strife of knave and nincompoop, And bring his precious Girdle. And so he came with doubtful pace. Armed only with that godly grace Which is the best protection. 403 404 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Resolved to test the awful tales Of such adulterous aims and ales By his own sure dissection ; For, if the gossip heard was true, And men lived but for pleasure Or hoarding empty treasure, While no one bravely did his due Nor looked to Heaven for guiding clue, He soon would take their measure. Alas ! he found the earth had grown No better, still with evil sown In search of sweet variety — The prudes and prophets were, at cards And corners, keen as sporting Guards Who moved in grand Society ; He saw how Royalty had run On high its colours gambling. While judge and law went rambling, And drew the curtain on the sun Resolved to have a little fun, With wild lieutenants scrambling. He probed for honesty with pain The loftiest place, and probed in vain, For there it did not flourish ; He sounded too the lowest deep, Where outcasts cursing in their sleep Sedition grimly nourish ; He tried his Girdle in the State, On losers and the winner, Before and after dinner. And only proved the golden mate Was welcome at the golden gate — It would not fit one sinner. He sought for modesty in maids. Who used all other artful aids, And asked the wisest matron ; ST. COLMAN S GIRDLE. 4O5 But, though he hunted high and low, At home and church and cattle show, It did not boast a patron ; He saw now value it had not, When women liked joys risky Or smoked and smacked of whisky, Aiid no one minded a black spot, Though tattle made it rather hot — The oldest were most frisky. He tried his Girdle on the saint, Who ogled behind pious paint The young and tender oyster, And marked the morals of the camp — Aye of the gutter bird or tramp, Were more than in the cloister ; The Girdle could not clasp such dregs ; No jewel in the casket, However they might mask it, Could he discover^ — only legs And filthy facts, and rotten eggs All huddled in one basket. Lo, up and down he weary went, And in and out of Parliament, To prove the various Members ; He traced no good in either House, Whose mountain could not yield a mouse. But virtue in its embers ; And though he still stept curious on. He only smelled rich pasty Or pleasures nice but nasty ; For truth and purity were gone From the great Modern Babylon, That toyed with paederasty. He entered then the Courts, where laws Are weighed, and found them splitting straws And selling souls for money ; 406 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. He heard how wealthy sins were hushed And hid, and all men madly rushed For neighbours' pots of honey ; The cases ever were the same, Of sots and gamblers' courses Or pretty girls and horses, And rakes who played a losing game, To burn their fingers in the flame That lighted up divorces. Although he knocked at every door. And measured mighty souls and poor, He gained no doubtful sentence ; Decorum seemed as bad as vice, And furious passions under ice. Dreamed nowise of repentance ; Illegal acts the judges blest, And sealed with their authority The gilded gay minority If solvent, prim, and grandly drest, While prisons and police opprest The erring mean majority. His Girdle would not suit a lass In any lot of any class, With or without a copper ; The ugly kicked the traces off And made of virtue but a scoff, The pretty were not proper ; Till peeping through that open pane, Where honour never winces At test that truth evinces, He found at last the Royal Dane For ever young and free from stain, And left it with the Princess. CHERCHE2 LA FEMME. 407 CHERCHEZ LA FEMME. Scandal like that was never known, Which records all defeated, Like wild fire through the parish blown, By every tongue repeated ; The banner had its folds to furl. Pigs carried tails quite out of curl, And moped with prudes and purists ; The busiest folks who plan and plot. While they an hour their cares forgot. Hobnobbed with sinecurists ; Even schoolboys cried, with lips of jam, " Cherchez la femme." Someone had something dreadful wrought. The rector too was in it. The Bishop bent his solemn thought Thereon for full a minute ; The Bishop's wife, who drew from dukes That awful frown, which with rebukes Had routed many a curate. Turned up her grand ancestral nose, Assuming her most moral pose. So proper and obdurate, And murmured like the mighty Cham, " Cherchez la femme." The spinsters all were up in arms, Who showed the azure stocking, And hid in crystal homes their charms. Declaring it was shocking ; The beggar, who with beery wrath, Called at the *' public" on his path And never put a shirt on, Was nigh as angry (if with oaths) As she who beamed in classic clothes. 408 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. The pretty girl from Girton, Who sighed, " Though innocent I am, " Cherchez la femme." But whether it was that or this, No gossips could make certain, Who on the doubtful crime or kiss, Pulled down the pious curtain ; Though still it seemed a mischief dire, To simple Hodge and bloated squire Nose deep in " night-cap " jorum — A sin that tattlers set agog. Defenders of the Decalogue And whitewash of Decorum ; Each offered up his neighbour's lamb, " Cherchez la femme." " DIVINE SERVICE WILL BE PERFORMED," ETC The stage is ready and the curtain up, And still the audience stand Betwixt confession and the social cup That waits the greedy hand ; The scenery is all the very best Their money can procure And gay the garments which the priests invest Fresh victims to allure ; The great wax candles in their glory shine Against which fools have stormed, The play is perfect now, and so " Divine Service will be performed ". The actors polished are in every part And know their business well. The postures and impostures got by heart Which of the workshop smell ; " DIVINE SERVICE WILL BE f>ERFORMED, ETC." 409 The tricks and turns, the genuflexion show, In ordered mummery made, The movement and the meretricious glow Of pious masquerade ; The droning words, the dim reHgious Hght That veils each doubtful fact. The mumbling sounds that herald more than sight The opening of the act. The play goes on to its appointed end Through the well-studied dance Of shifting shades, and symbols mighty lend Reluctant circumstance; Here is a stir of clasping hands and feet Hid in the newest gown, With glimpse of downcast eyes divinely sweet That crave the martyr's crown ; And there the flash of fluctuating shapes That never come too nigh. While from red penitential lips escapes The educated sigh. The points are duly taken as they rise, Each in its proper place. While rapture of a sad well-bred surprise Sets off the priceless lace ; The wine of worship fair devotion drinks. Bright is the feast evolved. The actors bow, and soft the curtain sinks On sinners all absolved ; And then they go to grace some other shrine For worldly pastime warmed, To err with greater zest, and thus Divine Service has been performed. 4IO CONFESSIONS OF A POET. GENERAL BOOM. Who is this with awful pose Sanitary nod and nose, Prodding, prying, Calling, crying, Up and down the dirty street, With the march of many feet, Down in every corner poking, Waif and stray and outcast stroking, To the strains of fife and drum, Right away to Kingdom Come, With a prophet's voice of doom ? General Boom. Who this stoppage makes and stir, Like the ancient mariner, Cursing, blessing. Feeding, dressing All the Pariahs that go by, Caught with his convicting eye, Sounding on his brazen trumpet Joyful news to thief and strumpet, Ragged Bob and naughty Bet Hauling to the Gospel net Cast out deep in ghostly gloom ? General Boom. Who has everywhere his stand, Lean and hungry, hat in hand, Praying, begging. Grinding, pegging At the organ he can play Beautifully night and day. For the welfare of the masses, Girt with Hallelujah Lasses, A DROP OF RAIN. 4I I TamlSours, hymns of solemn tone. Set to tunes, the devil's own, In the highest, lowest room ? General Boom. Who is this that sternly sweeps To the dregs the vilest deeps, With a bluster And a duster For the vice whose ugly head Dares to brave his pious tread, Far and near his buffets dealing. On the drinking and the stealing, With a proper pat for each Sinner sent within his reach, Brushing on with glorious broom ? General Boom. A DROP OF RAIN. The lordly squire stept from his mansion, A mighty man was he. And on his waistcoat's white expansion No soil could censor see ; He bore a noble silk umbrella, It was his second best. Cursed the New Code and old Mundella For spoiling his night's rest ; 'Twas half-past ten, and from the minster The bells their warning sent, And hastened virtuous prude and spinster To prayers all penitent ; He felt the pride of his position, And fingered his gold chain. Then turned and fled (as from perdition), A drop of rain. 412 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. " Dear John," the partner of his pickings, Cried to that legal soul, Who after many snake-like lickings Devoured his clients whole ; " Dear John, though sorely absolution I need for sinful talk. And much my fragile constitution Requires a daily walk ; Though Lady Sarah's Paris bonnet I dying am to see — To form a better style upon it. And bend the suppliant knee ; Yet, were I blacker than a Hindoo, Could I this cashmere stain ? For, look, it trickles down the window, A drop of rain.'" The farmer with his creatures fattening, But dreading to be poor. With pipe in mouth, and fondly flattening Against his stable door, Surveys his horses and the cattle, That model fabrics house, And hears from far the tempest tattle That marks his prudent spouse ; He coughs, and puts a pious tether Upon his worldly aims, And turns a moment from the weather To answer Sunday claims ; But then he shies as at a buffet, Or stroke of doubtful gain ; What is it ? Ah ! he cannot rough it — A drop of rain. The labourer with his scanty leisure. No longer bound to dig, Stares with wide-open mouth of pleasure At the rent-paying pig ; A DROP OF RAIN. Dim notions of the sacred season Steal through his stoHd head, And hardly rise to heights of reason Above his cabbage bed ; He hears the chimes ring out their numbers, In his flesh prison pent. And at the thought of holy slumbers Feels a dull brute content ; Till, as he rouses from the vision Of beef and grow^ing grain, He finds what routs his whole decision — A drop of rain. And then the big clock strikes eleven. The doors they duly close. The congregation (six or seven) Absolved soon seek repose ; The organ Heaven with music storming Awakes the usual sound, And all go through the came performing In the same dreary round ; The people snore, and drones the sexton With his old nasal twang, The parson claps the steam and text on, And makes the cushion bang ; The church is empty, and the Devil Loves the familiar strain, Who sent (to show religion's level) A drop of rain. 413 ^14 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. ROSA ROSA RUM. " Who will fight beneath my banner — Just a rose-leaf and no straws, Not without some pretty flaws, In the sweet improved new manner, For the Donna bright, Juanna, Free from bondage, like bad laws ? I am young, and fair, and fervent, And reward each faithful servant In the only proper way ; And to be so near the Donna, Rose of roses, is an honour That the thorns will soon allay." (Presbyter :) " Prayer cannot resist you, madam, When about my glass of wine Fancies linked with feeling twine, I am but a son of Adam And have learned in the Academ- y of Plato the Divine ; Studied in the grand old fashion Something of the joys of passion Which exalts the earth-bound clods. Though rebuked by saint and sermon And the sacred snows of Hermon, To Olympus and the gods." (Donna:) "Welcome, priest, my wide affection Marks the gleam of golden ore Deep below the dusty lore. And the ice of cold correction ; Kneel, and take my lips' election. As my knight for evermore ; Go and preach a gospel broader, Hope for every class and order In the refuge of my loves, Grace for vice in peer or varlet Or the painted thing of scarlet. Not reserved for fine kid gloves. ROSA ROSARUM. " Who will bear my colours flying Victory, that shot and shel! Never yet have won so well, Where the old moustache is lyinj^ To the young for laurels crying And white bosoms as they swell ? Who will show a fighting nation Tost through blood to its salvation With its sinews true and tense, Marching like one man to glory. Half the rapture, half the story Of the consecrated sense ? " (Miles :) " Low to you I bow, sweet Siren, Head that never stooped to man. To a petticoat or plan Not rough-hewn of rugged iron, Though all dangers did environ And the tears of beauty ran ; Once I laughed at love and shady Walks and lisping of the lady Who delights in circling arms, But escaped from that and this stress I have found at last a mistress In your ripe and rosy charms.'' (Donna:) " Soldier, hail, be true and enter My great army bound to win, Deeming not a kiss is sin, Striking lies at their dark centre, Showing churchman and dissenter Faith that deeper goes than skin ; Take my touch to give your steeling Just the warm rich pulse of feeling Which cannot be had for hire. And amid your dim conventions, The demure and dead intentions. Bear my heart of burning fire. 415 4l6 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. " Who will serve me, who will carry Freedom's tale baptised in fears, Spell to wipe away all tears, To the dupes that mart and marry And among their fleshpots tarry Till the harvest of the years ? Mark the music of my paces, Read the triumph in their traces Bringing hearts a better tie, Naked youth that needs no clothing But its grace, and no betrothing But the truth that cannot die." (Doctor:) "Queen of loves, the desert moister Grows beneath your fair white feet, And the very thorns are sweet ; I released from the close oyster Of my dim and dreary cloister With m}'^ pen your summons greet; I am but a poor dry student, Yet I thirst for the imprudent « Now I feel your magic power, And the dust of old dead ages Treasured in my yellow pages Bursts before you into flower." (Donna :) " Scholar, there is room for learning In my gay and gallant lines, Where the flag of freedom shines And the sword for conquests burning Knows no resting or returning; Come, with wisdom that refines ; Strike into the breast of error Panic of a new strange terror, As it trails its serpent length ; There is room, if but by losses And in graves or upon crosses. For the knowledge that is strength." ROSA ROSARUM. 417 *' Who can hold the spade to level Fraud and force, whate'er would thrust Shame or shadow over trust, Ripe for blows or laughing revel And to face at need the Devil With cold water and a crust ? Who, entangled in my tresses, With the flame of these caresses Much will do and further dare, Dance with neck inside the halter And like Isaac on the altar Lay his life with little care ? " (Rusticus :) " Wonderful great empress, labour Long has hardened me to ill, Wrought of iron this rude will Ready to unsheathe its sabre To befriend a foe or neighbour. And to smile and suffer still ; Pick and axe for you are welcome, Though the demons and all hell come, You alone can bring me bliss ; You alone can keep the soiling From the horny hand of toiling, With the glory of a kiss." (Donna :) "Weary drudge, yours is a splendour, That no crowned dunce or drone On the rack misnamed a throne Yet can purchase with the tender Of his wealth, though he surrender Every stick and precious stone ; Take my touch upon your shoulder, Brave you are but now be bolder. And arise a nobler knight Of the spade, than those who jingle Gilded spurs and mounted mingle In a meaner earthlier fight." 27 4l8 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. THE DEVIL'S WORKSHOP. I have a mind which every matter teaches Some useful lesson, and it came to pass In a weak hour, I read some Gladstone speeches Which opened to me like a sorcerer's glass. Thunder and lightning! Lo, I had a vision, Which was too vivid to be all a dream, It tore from life the veil in grim derision And bared the ugly soil and ghastly seam. I saw the Devil in mid revel At fierce forges of black orgies, With his bellows and lewd fellows, In the clamour of his hammer Shaping rifles, rakes and trifles. Battle trumpets bright and strumpets, On his anvil — here a Granville, There a snob About his job. But all were in a mortal haste And hurried madly on, They snatched at any pins or paste Or shadow and were gone. The very children had no time To linger on the way ; They heard the hungry anvil chime, And dropt their toys and play. The youngest looked as old as sin. Their baby brows were wet With painful dews, and down the din Like waning stars they set. And maidens passed with draggled hair. To which white ro; as clung, Yet, in their fallen beauty fair. With curses on their tongue. And ever they stared wildly back, As though some dreadful sight THE DEVIL S WORKSHOP, 4I9 Dogged step by step their trembling track, And faded in the night. Ah, withered woman, hoary man, Who had grown gray in vice. With padded breast and flirting fan And souls as sacrifice. Came mincing by, and bowing still Above their empty parts. Hugged to the grave the hated ill Which poisoned all their hearts. And in the rushing and the crushing of the race They cast petitions in Perdition's very face, Unto the Being whom unseeing yet they swore To worship ever though they never learned His lore; But yielding idle to no bridle made by Him They chose to follow every hollow passing whim. They had no leisure but for pleasure and the joys That sprang from making and then breaking oaths and toys. But there the Devil drest All in his Sunday best. Moved gaily up and down And tinkered Church and Crown With some new tawdry plan — A perfect gentleman. He rubbed his hands and smiled Till bishops were beguiled. And when he smote as slayer He breathed a pious prayer, Which easy Churchmen charmed And critics quite disarmed. He had such modern modes And pliant Gladstone codes That none could be alarmed. And poets burst in odes. His manners were so good And high in credit stood, The door he never slammed And no one rudely damned. 420 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. I saw no dear St. Dunstan with the tongs, To keep the Devil quiet, And curb the souls that loved adulterous songs With wholesome Spartan diet ; But in the Church the mummery of the stage And wondrous new gymnastics, • And leering from their stolen Confession cage The smug ecclesiastics. Lo, mothers who could better dance than read Would offer up a daughter. And (from French novels fresh) devoutly lead The pretty lamb to slaughter. And to and fro in ebb and flow He lifted up his golden cup, While thousands drank and downward sank, Betwixt the strokes that levelled oaks, Like fragile straws, with ancient laws. The monarch bent. The painted Siren Incontinent, To blood and iron. It seemed so empty and so dim. The chamber that he trod, In which all classes bowed to him And worshipped as their God. It was not Heaven, it was not earth. It was not utter hell. And through the gloomy gleams of dearth Rang but the dinner bell. Men were as busy about nought As if they governed lands, And only sinned for lack of thought Just with their aimless hands. They loved and gambled, strove and drank, Or burnt the sacred oil, Because they carried wealth or rank And knew no better toil. Oh ! in the grimness of the dimness, as they lightly rose ar fell. SIXES AND SEVENS. 42I Where men and brothers preyed on others and yet deemed it all was well, While lowly meekness and pure weakness suffered, not the wicked way, And the red rigour of the trigger taught the savage soul to pray, Or fools hived honey and made money for the ready-witted rogue, And gilded Fashion turned each passion and each vice into the vogue, No glimpse of brightness in the lightness dawned upon the troubled sight. But stark confusion wrought delusion to a darkness worse than night. I saw the pious proper Devil, At little cost and pains. Had found a workshop and his level In empty idle brains. SIXES AND SEVENS. Man is born to toil and trouble. Trials fall on him a host, And they say the pains are double In the t'other world for most ; And your sin becomes a ghost, With an order on damnation For the next young generation. Certain as the parcel post. Fortune too, sir, is the devil, Dealing each some dirty trick — Here a shade across the revel, There a husband's vengeful stick, Or a blessing in a brick ; Granting, though they be not willing, This a crown and that a shilling, One a kingdom, one a kick. 422 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Maidens now are not particular, And for ways lascivious burn, Zola, cigarettes, auricular Practices they used to spurn, Cinerary acts and urn ; And, though lashed with songs and sermons, Hanker for their unwashed Germans And to French professors turn. Women too will not put stitches In their henpecked husbands' socks, Have the whip-hand, wear the breeches, Dabble in the sea of Stocks To be wrecked upon its rocks. Dare to ask improper questions, And regardless of digestions Drink like men in blooming frocks. Women, in pursuit of fuel For sensation's sinking fire. Take to doubtful games and jewel- Stealing, in the best attire. Till they get what they desire, And suppose the little scandal Well is worth the costly candle, Though they make their lords perspire. Women have revised their nature, Who reveal no rag of grace, And expect the Legislature To confer both speed and space, If they cannot keep the pace. And arrayed in manly dresses Advertise their cheap caresses. Up and down the market place. Things at sixes are and sevens. And the world seems upside down. While we strut across the Heavens As if through a country town, SIXES AND SEVENS. 423 And with many an awful noun Clap our God into the crucible, If He may be found reducible — Though refusing still to drown. And, in spite of insect powder Freely dropt about their lugs, Minor poets yet sing louder And now quite divide with pugs. Curates, actresses, and jugs Of the last new hideous fashion All the honour and compassion. Wasted on such bards and b — gs. Letters are not for the nation, But a sort of private show For a Mutual Admiration Gang, in a new Rotten Row, Who just for each other blow, And from their own roost or midden Drive, as off the fruit forbidden, Other cocks that fain would crow. Politics and timber-hewing The grand old familiar firm Undertakes, with some reviewing, For a more than natural term, Though at times rude people squirm ; While the country (John and Mary Ann) Under heels octogenarian, Writhes a crushed and tortured worm. Murder too as done by Deeming In a fine artistic way. With a minimum of screaming, And a maximum of pay. Can amuse us for a day — Or a week, if the pet Siren Beautiful, more brass than iron Does not figure at the play. 424 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Truth has grown so scarce and scurvy We can hardly truth detect ; But, now all is topsy turvy And the Church her own elect, From the rogues she should eject, Cannot tell and yet is prouder, And explosives are "tooth-powder," What the deuce can we expect ? A PLEA FOR POETRY. I. They say, the muses now have gone From haunted hill and valley, And wander through the night alone In dirty street or alley ; With tresses torn and red cheeks pale, They fly from more Mundella, Not even get shelter from the gale In Gladstone's big Umbrella ; Not one is wanted, in this time Of shops and banking shady. That pets the ballet girl or mime, But not the classic lady. 2. They say, sweet Poetry is dead As Hurlingham's last pigeon, And only now by school-girls read Or fools that like Religion ; It's out of fashion and of date. And cannot find a niche in A decent room, if pretty Kate Should hug it in the kitchen ; Though it may echo in the slums, A sop to soothe the Masses, To tambourines and kettle drums Of" Hallelujah Lasses". LE BON DIAPLE. 425 3; They say, the world is waxing old, And long has left such trifles As sentiments, and goes for gold And Companies and rifles; It has outlived its silly youth And honesty and dances, And does not care a d — n for truth Or rubbish like romances ; There is no leisure in this age For subjects so desultory, When all are busy with the stage And swindling or adultery. 4- They say, mankind are mostly fools, In spite of well-paid piety, State coddling with its boards and schools And all the grand Society ; And folks are really not so wise As penny journals bluster. Who trade in souls as merchandise And make our flag a duster ; And with nev/ sciences and arms, Home Rule and Hyde Park revel, Talk, vivisection, baby farms. We are going to the Devil, LE BON D I ABLE. I. Ah ! he was not crowned in the Abbey, And he sits on no gilded throne, While his coat may be often shabby And his voice have a tipsy tone ; He may beg with the monkey Jacko And a wheezing organ grind. 426 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Or smell of the worst tobacco And not whisk a tail behind ; He is given to sweet variety, In the cabin grimed with soot, Or the cream of the grand Society, Though he hides his cloven foot 2. With the old man he may mellow And brag of the better times. But is always our good fellow For the work or the wedding chimes ; He is pious with the parson. And a friend to the frisky dames Or the fool who would go for arson — If he had but insured the Thames ; But whatever his luck or level, Blue eyes or a swindler's hand, Though we do not call him the Devil, He is lord of this blooming land. 3- He has dropt all the fires and terrors That made timid hearts so shy, And he winks at our crimes as errors With a large and lenient eye ; For the falsehood he styles romancing, And the blackest cheats and shames With a flourish of mere financing He decks with the nicest names ; He is tender to each transgression — If turned out in a decent way, Dubs adultery indiscretion — - When it can afford to pay. 4- He will chant you the holiest hymn's tone, If he only gets a chance, And without the least odour of brimstone He will pipe to the sinner's dance ; UN ENFANT TERRIBLE. 427 On the Stock Exchange he dabbles In the dirtiest " pools " and pies, And with lips of crimson babbles The old luscious dainty lies ; Yet we love the dear good Devil, And yield hini the monarch's place. When he joins in our naughty revel Or comes with a woman's face. UN ENFANT TERRIBLE. 1. I have to make a sad confession Unto the public ear, That is not tied to one transgression Nor to a single tear ; For in Society A sore anxiety I am to even my greatest chums. When all my fingers turn to thumbs, Because I am so sadly errable, And sure to drop the dirtiest plate (At dinner) on some Potentate — Un enfant terrible. And when a playful Royal Highness, Whose name I cannot give. Had drawn me (notwithstanding shyness) With graces fugitive ; I talked of Thackeray, And then of Baccarat, Oblivious of the awful past. Which on that precious game had cast A shadow he had not found bearable, And asked him if he carried oft His counters, as at Tranby Croft— Un enfant terrible. 428 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. 3- And when the chat was all of horses, Home Rule and raptures brief, I changed the topic to divorces, Forgetting the poor Chief; But he was present, And turned unpleasant ; Although I quoted Scripture next, While offering comfort in a text, And hoped its figleaf would be wearable, To prove that woman sinned the first, And ever was (O she !) the worst — Uji enfant terrible. 4- And when, just after his queer marriage, I met a sporting peer, Who drove a barmaid in his carriage. No better for the beer ; Of odd assortment And dim deportment, I jested in my happiest mood. And found in his own scandal food, Unconscious of my pointed parable, And wondered why the lady fair Looked at me with that loving air — Un enfant terrible. NAUGHTY BUT NICE. I cannot, sir, I will not say What dreadful words were spoken, Betwixt the dawning and the day, And what great law was broken ; Should I confess To a caress, NAUGHTY BUT NICE. Then up would rise the Rabbi Schread, To cloud my pleasant places, And loose with stern avenging tread His bloodhounds on my traces ; It was, O bosoms not of ice, Natighty but nice. 2. Alas, I know my flesh is frail, Most pure and proper madam, And the fierce passions often ail This fallen son of Adam; The rose's curve, I would observe. It ever was my joy to seek. In wild-flower or in woman. On petal or a pretty cheek. And I am very human ; I study feet that play like mice, Naughty but nice. 3- And thou, Blue Girl from Newnham shades, In classic streams an angler. Who hopest like Minerva's maids Some day to be a Wrangler ; I do assure Thy mind demure, My loyal heart is always kind To wise or foolish lasses, Who will not have the window blind Or blossom under glasses ; I sharply draw the line at vice, Naughty but nice. 4- And what she did it matters not. Even if she raved of Ruskin, Or mud had left a lingering stain, Upon her tennis buskin ; 429 430 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. If haply then, Afar from ken, Our hands and lips some treason hatched And were not often idle, Or found on meeting that they matched, And needed fear no bridle ; We dreamed of sweet forbidden spice. Naughty biU nice. FLAPDOODLE. Cant about the Constitution, Home of liberties, and stuff. Food at best of Revolution Or a party bid and puff; Cant about our glorious banners Flying on a hundred seas, Bringing trade and drunken manners To the dupes in ignorant ease ; Honeyed lip and hand of iron — If within a silken glove. Though the shades of shame environ- This is what the people love. Blarney of an open Bible That the prosperous sinner reads, But to find the fittest libel For the brother he misleads ; Rubbish for the rank oration Mouthed in some Iscariot's part. Or the last false adulation Offered to the Masses' heart ; Capers of my Lord Fitznoodle Cut with ballet legs and gas, All the humbug and flapdoodle Welcome to the British Ass. ALAS ! A LASS ! 3- True or false it does not matter, If it be the latest thing, Wedded to a pretty patter With the right improper sting; If it please the precious Quorum And can murmur mystic sounds Paid to Rimmon or Decorum, It may push beyond the bounds ; Yet it always must be gammon Cunningly disguised, to strike Itching ears with modes of Mammon ; This is what the people like. 4- Flattery and tender twaddle Just to tickle traders' mind, Who believe their work and waddle Are the wonder of mankind ; Who believe a shoppy nation Vulgarly attired and shod, Is a credit to Creation And may patronise its God ; Sops for fools in house of crystal Casting stones at all who pass. Lies to hide the robber's pistol, Welcome to the British Ass. ALAS! A LASS. I met her betwixt dawn and day, When lights and shadows were at play, Upon a pretty violet way ; I stept aside to let her pass, Alas! She gave the kindest look and bow, I feel their magic sweetness now Alas! 431 432 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. And all the mystery of the morn, The passion of the flower and thorn, She mirrored fondly as a glass, Alas ! A lass. I met her at the noontide hour. Betwixt the sunshine and the shower. Beneath the old and ivied tower, That dropt on us its waving mass, Alas! She gave me then her lily hands. As queens give laws to subject lands, Alas! And all my heart from winter gloom. Seemed bursting into glorious bloom ; She soared above our human class, Alas ! A lass ! I met her betwixt eve and night, Ere early stars were big and bright, Or earth had lost its emerald light And donned the garish robe of gas, Alas! And touched our lips by happy chance, That turned my world to wild romance, Alas! I saw her lips like rosebuds pout, And all my love went rushing out, Refined from feelings coarse and crass,. Alas ! A lass ! I met her betwixt parents twain, She had a Croesus in her train And eyes with wolfish lust of gain ; Her altered face was bold as brass, Alas! She never knew me, had no care, THE FORLORN HOPE. 433 And killed me with her cruel stare, Alas! And then she asked the golden cad That bore her meanness and last fad, Whose was that ugly awkward ass ; Alas ! A lass ! THE FORLORN HOPE. Thirty-eight pious clergymen stood on the shore, And observed that the Sea was a puddle. And protested the Tide should not flow any more, Though their notions were rather a muddle ; They had thirty-eight mops in their reverend hands. Which they brandished in zeal, while they trembled For the fate of the castles they built of the sands, If their doubtings and fears were dissembled ; But the Tide came in nearer still yet, in the face Of their valorous airs and their attitudes, For it knew below high-watermark was the place Which upheld these professors of platitudes. There were Bishops and Deans and most excellent men. Who mistook their small lamp for a beacon And discoursed of new laws that were out of their ken. All inspired by the splendid Archdeacon ; O they handled their mops in a masterly style And they made quite a gallant commotion, And looked brave at the incoming waves with a smile In the triumph of trustful devotion ; But the Tide took no heed of that thin solemn line And rolled on to the edge of their border. For it drew its commission from fountains Divine And was part of an infinite Order. But the champions still on their battlements stood. Though the base was beginning to crumble. While proclaiming their fortress was final and good And if shaken yet never could tumble ; 28 434 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. And they pushed at the Ocean with vigorous mops In defence of their flimsy foundation, And they threw it at times some convenient sops Or just winked at a wild innovation ; But the Tide came in swifter, and angrily flung On their site unsubstantial its billows. And its shadow rose up and a horror it hung Right above their pet sinecure pillows. There were heroes among them and saints of the best And mere placemen with lineaments foxy, Though they all were in proper phylacteries drest And would die for their dear Orthodoxy ; And they flourished their mops and appealed to the Past When the high-water mark was a mystery, And they clung to their refuge of sand to the last, In the teeth of sure reason and history ; But the Tide had no pity, and whirled them away With their castles and curious vesting, The more sweeping because of the stubborn delay, To the end the Archdeacon protesting. DONNA JUANNA. Many loves I have, and all Gallant knights obey my call, , When they thirst for honour ; Soldiers with their bearded lips, Mariners who swear in ships, Drink to me their Donna ; Heroes of the sword or gown. Fond of the improper noun. Fight beneath my banner ; Those that woo a wandering star And the verbs irregular, Serve the fair Juanna. DONNA JUANNA. Yet no blot upon me rests, If a thousand manly breasts Beat to win my beauty ; Or old fools with palsied arms, Cheated by my fatal charms, Do their neighbours' duty; If the gay and gilded boy Proud to be my passing toy Wears the empty collar, Or the Jew who fattens still On his comrade's need and ill, Drops for me his dollar. Scientists, who dare to probe The abyss, prefer my robe To the midnight candle. Heedless of their debt to Truth, And renew the days of youth In the skirts of scandal ; Grey philosophers, with brows Crossed by stern and studious vows, Leave their sombre Syren, And pursuing in hot haste Culture of a sweeter taste, Go to bed with Byron. Pioneers from frozen parts Touched by me resume their hearts With the first affection, And at last forget the whole Path of glory to the Pole In their new direction ; Travellers (not on the sea) Only round a cup of tea. If I but solicit, At the waving of my hand Fly to the remotest land — Not to be explicit. 435 436 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Prelates, who yet find a place For the world and worldly grace In their shrines' devotion, If I give the faintest hint, Rush into my arms or print With a strange commotion ; Lay aside their solemn looks And confess the power of cooks Or consult their cellar, And assume the festive wreath, Or like puppets dance beneath Gladstone's great umbrella. Statesmen fettered to the wheel, Steadfast, and with nerves of steel Proof against all comers, Big at tape and income tax, Smitten with my smile relax, And will romp like mummers; Patriots who live a lie. And (if paid) would gladly die For some stupid notion, Quite forget their sacred trust, When I flatter them and just- Touch with magic potion. Forth my knights in service go In the empire to and fro, Seeking wild adventures, Here the dregs of sorrow's cup, There a lady fair locked up With her fat debentures ; Eager are they to redress Woes of beauty in distress Or in the wrong stable, And to publish (though at nights) Women's sweet and sovereign rights Of the new Round Table. DONNA JUANNA. 437 Cavaliers with hoary head Follow me with frisky tread When I do but beckon, And with sad and senile love Kiss the stain upon my glove And no dangers reckon ; They remember not grey hairs And put on most youthful airs, If I chance to enter, And the coldest Churchman thaws At the passion of mj' laws, Though I am Dissenter. Many a leader of the land, Fired by my caressing hand And ripe lips' solution. Flies at some great kingdom's throat, Wafted by mj^ petticoat To red revolution ; Or distracted by my frown Topples a grand party down Broken into pieces. Heedless of the hungry yelp Raised by nephews robbed of help And exacting nieces. Oft the General, so harsh To his troops, whose stern moustache Strikes in heroes terror. At one word of coaxing turns From his iron rules and burns To commit some error ; Chooses with me to delay. And though duty calls away To brave action nimble, Yet rejects his bonds and plan, And prefers to bear my fan Or pick up the thimble. 438 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Despots who despise the cry Of a nation's agony Wrung from ravished places, At the rustle of my dress Hurried headlong to transgress Melt in my embraces ; Deaf to pity's softer aims, As to justice and the claims Sobbed by fear and famine, Steeled against their people's joy They at once my simplest toy Tenderly examine. Ah ! The sour and learned fool Comes to study in my school. Greedy for the session, And ignores the dues of age When he turns a dearer page In some indiscretion ; Grows more wise in pleasant ways, When the offering he lays At my temple porches, Though beneath the flowers are stings, And the moth its curious wings In my candle scorches. Women, that would do and dare To be rid of grinding care And the last new waddle — Fashionable shapes and shrugs, Wondrous things in lords and jugs — Make of me their model ; Merry maids, that wield the pen And refuse the yoke of men Or prefer their freedom, True philosopher and friend Find with me, and manners mend In the wilds of Edom. DONNA JUANNA. 439 Ladies on and off the stage Or uncertain as to age And with all at schism, Looking in my fervent face Soon revive the vanished grace And old organism ; And released from social chains Now employ their own quick brains Without one apology ; And, in hope thy fresher scenes, Liberty, can make them queens, Curtsey to chronology. Often steals the jaded King, When he would enjoy a fling- Far from public forum, From my book a pretty page, And disowns the golden cage Of his d — d decorum ; He rejects the royal task And throws off the grinning m.ask For the mess of pottage, And for fun or mischief ripe Takes his quiet glass and pipe In my open cottage. Girls confined in stays and starch Ever at the mill, who march Only to set orders. Checked and chafed at every turn When for breezy life they burn Flee across my borders ; Kick aside the shafts, and burst From their bondage, as none durst But my hot young Arabs, Rather than abide their fate And in dulness vegetate, Penned and pinned like Scarabs. 440 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. North and south my servants fly, Bridge the ocean, scale the sky In the gay old fashion, Laugh at bounds, upon the dark Stamp the imperishable mark Kindled by my passion ; East and west in journey strange Fearlessly they romp and range, Force from peril pleasure. Empires leave or lay in dust. Fired by me with conquering trust Which is all their treasure. Love of me illumes the dearth, Seeks the jewels of the earth Hidden in its bowels, Bids the sage his lore divulge, And the fighting man indulge In unheard of vowels ; Love of me compels the brave To explore the ver}' grave For the truth and maggots — To defy the hangman's rope Or the blessing of the Pope And be food for faggots. Up and down inspired by me, For the goodly days to be Tilt the knights of knowledge, Wring its secret from the star And break down convention's bar That would close the college ; On they urge the fiery quest. With their lances still in rest Making strife a story, Some in velvet, some in rags. Some with feet on earthly crags And their eyes in glory. THE TRIUMPH OF EVIL. 44I Many names have I, and each May a living lesson teach Those I choose to honour, ^ But though I have many forms And survive a thousand storms I am still the Donna ; All that scorn the musty schools And the chains of chartered fools Bear aloft my banner ; Beauty, wit, address and skill, Power that waits on iron will, Fight for fair Juanna. THE TRIUMPH OF EVIL. PROLOGUE. (Diaboliis loqjiitur.) The world is mine, and 111 sustained by Science And not with dead men's bones or infants' caul, Need drown no longer and can bid defiance To outmanoeuvred Christ and musty Paul. I am protected now, and those iniquities That once were hardly sighed with bated breath. Are all preserved as worthy old antiquities By jealous dupes who grudge his scythe to death. Societies, that raven without number, Have pledged m}' being to subscribing fools ; They will not let me die or even slumber. And wrangle over me in rusty schools. Sour pulpiteers and prigs, with crabbed Divinity Of ignorance and swelling sounds and pride, That never knew the virtue of virginity And have no soul, keep canting on my side. My form is whitewashed, and the latest fashion Speaks of me with a spice of grave respect, 442 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. And prudes and parsons weep in mild compassion That I am still not one of the elect. So my appearance does not crave apology, Good times relieve me of the tedious task, Since I am sanctioned by the best theology And wear decorum's sweetest fig-leaf mask. You hear me lisping out a naughty sentence. Which red lips fancy has a savour nice, Sure yet to win the rapture of repentance From some dear priest who ministers to vice. My courts are crowded still with many a maiden. They come their tender lapses to confess With the last thing in scents and scandal laden, And lovingly they linger to caress. In drawing-rooms I air my soft hypocrisy, I gather round me duchesses and deans, The brightest flower of Britain's aristocracy That gaily on my inspiration leans. I suit the taste of every Royal Person And gallant soldiers who excel at cards, Just as I taught that erudite Macpherson The mystic ways of manufactured bards. I get by heart the ready lie and lesson For frisky matrons mincing to their play. And help the erring wife to put that dress on Which some one not her husband has to pay. Where am I not ? My modernized existence Is wanted now at every cultured throng ; The rostrum traffics with my hired assistance, I find the sauce for creed and comic song. 'Tis true they water me with holy chrisms And style abnormal growth my saddest sore, And sin when murmured in mild euphemisms Cannot offend where princely prelates snore. So, if each custos morum glosses evil And dull abstainers put their law for Christ's, The world is surely going to the Devil And innocents still keep illicit trysts. GONIOBOMBUKES IN TH?: CHURCH. 443 GONIOBOMBUKES IN THE CHURCH. All the pious virtue now is vanity, Thou<;h fair penitents may pout, And the creed of gray old Christianity With the Bourbons is played out ; Christ Himself has left the lifeless Churches Busy with mere tailors' text, Wrangling in their pitiful researches What new vestment shall be next ; Like a landlord, who from distant drudges Wrings the very dregs of gain. While his greedy agents wreak their grudges On the ruins that remain. Bishops,* though their sees are in a muddle, Fly from duties more than paid, While the Rector naked in his puddle Sits and cries aloud for aid ; Drive their clergy mad with curious questions. What their washing costs them, how Certain taxes suit their tired digestions, If they keep a milking cow ; If they dine at six or social seven And make sermons brief and blithe. Or have found the rugged way to Heaven Smoothed with teas and punctual tithe. Institutions lag behind the masses. Who leave teachers in the lurch. And employment Christ has given to asses, — All progresses but the Church ; State-established forms may please the pigeon Fashioned only to be plucked, Death is at the heart of that religion Which its guardians dry have sucked ; * This did happen in the absence of the Bishop of Exeter. 444 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. State-protected worship and its clerics, With their temple's craz}^ poles, Cannot long be saved by high hysterics Or deceive awakening souls. Thought, a thousand years ahead of mumbling Priests who darken Heaven with lies, Soon will sweep away the footstep stumbling And let in the larger skies ; Life, that has outgrown the garb monastic And the rule of cunning loathes, Kicks against its nurse ecclesiastic With his pap and swaddling-clothes. Demos, now no baby but a giant, Sick of serpent cheats and charms, Taught by suffering to be self-reliant Strangles them in toil-stained arms. Little do they reckon, priest and people, How they serve my sovereign call With their stupid antics, while the steeple Totters lower to its fall ; How the placemen perched in lofty station. Fattening on the booty thieved, Lure along with rose leaves to damnation Fools who wish to be deceived : How I stand behind the old abuses Propt with reasons urged too well, Just to smoothe the way with smart excuses Good enough for paving hell. When with anguish comes the fair transgressor, Pleading guilt in look and gait, At the elbow of the glib confessor I have pat some tender bait ; Prompt to give a vile and useless pardon Purchased with a pinch of dust, Which is only meant to hold and harden Beauty in a life of lust ; GONIOBOMBUKES IN THE STATE. 445 I explain away the sin and deeper Plunge the culprit in the mire, While more closely to the fated sleeper Creeps the black and hungry fire. Vainly do the starved and striving masses Turn to teachers who are blind, All religions now are for the classes And on poor men burdens bind ; When they ask for comfort in their losses, Bread to stay the breaking hearts, They are shown the candlesticks and crosses Or mere music sung in parts ; They are mocked with empty forms' directions And the patterns of new stoles, Agonies of stale genuflections. Which are sorry food for souls. Where is Christ ? The gold-bedizened altar Bears the impress of His name, But, while He is stifled in a halter, Dies the sacrificial flame ; His expiring creed my damned Democracy Teaches just to lie with grace, How to organise a paid hypocrisy Tricked with harlot gauds and lace ; While behind their masks the perjured scorners Laugh and piety make cheap. And the Flies keep buzzing in their corners Over the old carrion heap. GONIOBOMBUKES IN THE STATE. Propt on the lame staff of stale tradition. Feudal rags of the wrong Past, With its farce of solemn imposition, Totters the old fraud at last ; Not found out for ages, it rejected Schooling of the fire and storm, 446 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Counsels of the great, and now detected Withers at thy breath, Reform ; Feels a sickening qualm, a coward trembling, And its lips with lying pleas Blanch beneath their mask of gay dissembling, Paint that cannot cure disease. Slowly the poor duped and dazzled nation Sees the sinking of the sand, And at straws (to save its false foundation) Clutches with despairing hand ; Throwing overboard some friend or Jonah, Here a party, there a tax. Then the gorged and greedy landed owner. To escape the judgment axe : Giving sops to make the downfall tender. Lower rent and broken chain, Even a church betrayed by its defender, Prayers and curses — all in vain. Statesmanship has fled to fairer regions, Trimming now is at the helm, While adventurers in hungry legions Fatten on the dying realm ; And the rats, ere they forsake the vessel Only for its wreck insured, Strike each other as they stink and wrestle For the prey they have secured ; While they glut their spite and wanton wishes, Sparing not the temple store, And delight to gnaw the dirty dishes They have licked and licked before. All is sacrificed to perjured party, With its double tongue and face, And the words and acts alone are hearty, Which pursue some sordid place ; Who will care for right, when princes rattle But the counters or the dice, GONIOBOMBLKES IN THE STATE. 447 And their Parliaments are just a battle Fought between the frogs and mice ? Principles are shaped by private lucre, Though it be the public fate. And the rival champions cheat at euchre O'er the death-bed of the State. Ha, behind the country's quack physicians I unseen am standing still, Meting out to my pet politicians Each new swindling pact and pill ; Mine the hand that shapes the mocking measure Passed to stop the sufferer's cry, And, while legislators take their pleasure, Starve the people in their sty ; Mine the foot that, when grown fierce and sadder They would struggle to the fount, Kicks away the grand remedial ladder, Justice, whereby they might mount. I keep sounding the loud brazen clapper Of the agitator's tale, With his victims' money dressed and dapper, With the borrowed pipe and ale ; I inspire the promise to be broken. Which has compassed earth and skies, Ere the ink that is its idle token Lavished on the paper dries ; I create and spread the specious libel, To which fools in fetters dance — Not the Temperance of God's own Bible, But the false God Temperance. For the stupid aims and arts outrageous, To preserve their honoured vice Or diseases, with the Acts Contagious, I alone in all suffice ; In my aid the Government is trusting. Which on dirty profit doats. 448 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. While the Gospel after Opium thrusting Down the cursed Indian throats ; While they let wild Missions haunt and harry China's nose, till out of joint, And the good news of damnation carry At the bayonet's bloody point. Yet ungrateful I cannot be, when a Nation serves my plans so well, Marching on the broad road to Gehenna, Solaced by the dinner bell ; When in Parliament with blank derision Christ's most holy Name is met, And the settlement of each division Adds to old dishonour's debt ; When the Members take to courses nasty And make privileges toys. Ply seduction and from paederasty Draw unowned illicit joys. GONIOBOMBUKES IN THE STREET. Two long ears that stretch as far as Thule, And with itching of unease Greedily devour the messes duly Blown from the Antipodes, Or served up with home sauce by the nation To the tune of festive drums. When the linen washed in public station Brings the bill in solemn sums ; Ready for the latest trick, when, presto ! Some fresh conjuror of the land Juggles tax or sop or manifesto In his false and filching hand. Grubby nose that, buried in the manger Picking out the richest corn, Does not scent the certain signs of danger^ Smell of fire now nearer borne ; GONIOBOMBUKES IN THE STREEl . Sniffing at the hay that might be better, If it be a trifle old, And the safety of the friendly fetter, Just because it is not gold ; Thrusting back a tried and true affection For the teaching of new schools. And the poor relief of sham Protection An umbrella but for fools. Mouth that opens merely as a glutton's For debauches or a bribe. And would eat the soldier's very buttons Or his orphans' tears imbibe ; Never satisfied, though feeders fawning Throng around with hourly baits. And for something sweeter further yawning, Though the country be in straits ; Living but to eat and for blind orgies, As when brute with Satyr sups, With the heart of those unkingly Georges Who left nothing but cracked cups. Legs that kick against religious bridle And yet backward slowly wend, Shambling lower down with follies idle To the Bonfire at the end ; Broken-kneed by falls, and scarred and scabby By diseases hardly named. Like some statesman in his toga shabby. While successful not ashamed ; Trampling on the sick and poor, with coward Heels that count a sore offence Weakness, and rich humbugs or a Howard Guard with pious impotence. What is this vile monster proud and pampered, Just a stomach and no more, By no scruples of refinement hampered, If its larder has a store ? 29 449 450 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. What is this that like an Of,'re lunches On its choicer children's flesh, And if dropping; the sweet morsel munches Ere the night the same afresh ? Ramparted by crazy tower and steeple, Ribbin<^ up its sovereif^n mass, This coarse Thinj^ is the superior People, Made by votes a Crowned Ass. Poets pipe to it, and wake no pleasure In its vulgar carcase stuffed With foul provender, and pour their treasure Vainly forth to be rebuiled ; Genius mourns and moves the rocks and timber Vainly with its wild sad spells. Though the artilleries of Heaven unlimber And shoot out their thunder shells ; But when charlatans the jocund fiddle Strike to bloody tunes of France, And red fires unfold their angry riddle. Then the Beast delights to dance. I am pleased, my Brute, so dear to squarson In beef-witted port-wine haze, Is prepared so soon to play at arson, VV^ith the kingdom in a blaze ; Just to win a crotchet's dear solution In anarchic smoke and reek. And to cook in flames of revolution Dinner for a day or week ; Just to warm its mean and mangey shoulders In the bright and passing flash, Till the remedy of ruin smoulders Into black and formless ash. Well my pupil now its lesson masters, How to wreck a royal race, And displays a talent for disasters Worthy of my special place ; GONIOBOMBUKES IN SOCIETY. 451 Rogues are useful, but the downright stupid Ever was my dearest tool, And the wiles of commerce or of Cupid Feeble are to a wise fool ; So I place him high in paying corners, And forbid him to let in Heroes, saints and bards and maiden mourners — Donkey in a lion skin. GONIOBOMBUKES IN SOCIETY. I delight in that supreme abstraction Grinding hourly at the golden mill Nothing, sentenced to sublime inaction And in earthquakes only to sit still ; Just to dress and undress for the dinner Or some naked joy and naughty dance, And to paint the sweet and pretty sinner With rose-water of polite romance ; Cultivating beards and thoughtless babble Of green fields in gay and gaslit rooms. While with social dynamite they dabble. Sweep the streets and worship their pet brooms. But what is the paradise of fashion And the fools that blindly in it play, With their silver bells and paper passion, What outsider can pretend to say ? White-gloved gentlemen and powdered ladies All of easy virtue enter in, And unite before they plunge in Hades To make science of decorous sin ; Yet to name the very best society From the palace or the pew or stage, Duchess, demi-monde and Jews' variety, Would require a Royal Personage. Rogues who ought to swing as high as Haman While they leave a country in the lurch, Here just take the roughness off the layman In the shade of an obliging Church ; 452 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. But why blame promiscuous caresses And grand dames that Hke Herodias Hve, Or the primrose path of tithed excesses, If the priest his benediction give ; If the sulhed darhng can but dish up With her costly cates and venal smile, The bland presence of some princely squishop Who both worlds will gravely reconcile ? Lord Flapdoodle flirts with Mistress Mary, When he is not snoring at his club. And they both (who vow nil admiyari) Lick the boots of any royal cub ; Lady Lawless makes some rapid running With the beardless boy her seven days' pet, And old Bigwig tries his padded cunning In the pastures of raw Miss Coquette ; Dandies drawl of some preserve or rookery At the feast with gilt vulgarians crammed, And betwixt false compliments and cookery All agree that all outside be damned. In this charmed and charming circle enter Dupes, and those that fatten on their purse Blowing bubbles, and the stray dissenter With a gay archdeacon as wet nurse ; Now and then a traveller, or lion From the battle with his wounds scarce healed. Or a penny pulpiteer of Sion With some cheap salvation just revealed ; Men grown rich on soaps and pills and polish Or some puffed adulterated ale, Who would God and government abolish If they cleared a sixpence by the sale. Women with their ethics very latent But yet more bewitching from the spots. Manufacturers with rings and patent Processes for wondrous pans and pots ; GONIOBOMBUKES IN THK SERVICE. 4.53 Merchant, millionaire and foreij;n banker, Scientist who deals with deadly spores, In the Great Umbrella huddled hanker For the Egypt of forbidden stores ; All combine to buzz and sting and chatter Of strange husbands and voluptuous wives, And to lie with careless grace and scatter Dirt upon whatever good survives. Here philanthropy that would not harm a Worm and keeps afloat the most unfit. Notwithstanding Spencer, vies with Karma And theosophy which saints commit; Stark materialists who fool and flounder On the surface they proclaim the deep, Tilt with gray Mahatmas and old Rounders That through many lives and ages sweep ; Scandal-scraping, to but pleasure loyal Lower yet, and lower yet they fall. While in crown of cards the Figure Royal Beams benevolently down on all. I am pleased my carrion flies are sporting In the splendour of the night their day, Killing time and characters and courting Dear divorces the adulterous way ; Though a virtuous Queen, whose every motion Is as proper as Lord Burleigh's nod, Gives the world a pattern of devotion To her Mausoleum and her God ; Still upon the precipice they flutter While they ravish each new opening bud, Sip their tea and eat their bread and butter And turn marble palaces to mud. GONIOBOMBUKES IN THE SERVICE. With a General, they say one only Skilled to turn the battle from the gate, Who (poor fellow) must feel rather lonely In sublime and solitary state 454 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Up above the race of mice and midges, And perhaps a Httle out of it and cold, If his genius makes the best of bridges From true steel and not the dirty gold ; Britain now is but a third-class nation Out at elbows and unarmed and rent, Though she trades on the old reputation, With the spirit of her heroes spent. One first line she has and that too hollow And with much weak rubbish in its ranks, But no seasoned second line to follow And fill up in war the bloody blanks ; Boys no doubt with all the best intention. Boys by hundreds wavering at the front, Not the stuff for strife's stern intervention Or to be baptised in fier}' font ; Like a palace faced with many a column. And a vestibule of marble wrought Strong and stately, and with sphinxes solemn Leading through great pillars unto nought. Starved recruits that clamour for compulsion As they dribble in by puny drops, While the proper lads in proud revulsion Stick to business and protect the shops ; Wretched weeds that hardly know their A B, Never meant with iron Mars to rub. Who should stay at home and nurse the baby Or assist their mothers at the tub ; Such are Britain's props and mean material, Dregs and refuse of the cheapest lives, To uphold a Majesty Imperial And defend the honour of her wives. War officials wanted for the pillory Who grow rich upon their country's shame. Overpaid for arms and grand artillery Which exist as nothing but a name ; GONIOBOMBUKF.S IN THK SERVICE. 455 Guns that burst at every serious trial And a danger only are to friends, Bayonets that break with no denial And bring soldiers to untimely ends Cavalry superb but without horses, Leaders brave to rashness if so few, But engaged in cards or their divorces Or at home with some obliging Jew. Yet the money flows away like water, To maintain tradition and red tape And the gang of clerks who at each quarter Have to lick expenses into shape ; Millions' waste, to pay contractors' prices, Claims of families in hungry hordes, Or accommodate expensive vices, Mouldy chiefs and military boards ; And disdaining not theatric scenery Through disaster in its sure descent Groans and grumbles on the huge machinery, The most costly and most impotent. Ships abound that dare not leave the harbour. Admiralties quickly come and go And regard the claims of ball and barber More than any rocks or threatening foe ; Architects unmoved by that or this stress Change their minds and models every week. As a libertine discards one mistress For another with a fairer cheek ; Fortunes sink in blunders doomed and sterile With each new designer's shifting bents. And at most are (when not downright peril) Ruinous and mad experiments. Never was a finer fleet on paper. Iron walls to girdle the wide globe, Though they fade before the prying taper Of the critic with his cruel probe ; 4156 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Never were such figures, save by Mystics In their endless incarnations booked, As those estimates of sea statistics By experts in office duties cooked : Never was a Navy in condition Fitter storm or enemies to meet, Than that organized great imposition Called by courtesy the British Fleet. Where the ships to shield the distant treasures. Where the stations to provide the stores, When they grudge the means except for pleasures And refuse to fence unguarded shores ? Party government my best production Is to bring the bravest country lov.-, And divided aims insure destruction From inside without one hostile blow ; So I let them buzz with spite unsparing. While the Empire slowly shrivels up, Thanks to idiot chatter and cheese-paring And high place that holds the jewelled cup. GONIOBOMBUKES IN TRADE. High and low in every place they gamble In the drawing-room and on the street. While they scrape the mud and fight and scramble Just for gain if but their winding-sheet; Everywhere my master lust is present As the root of each triumphant ill, From the bloated prince to the starved peasant Breaking open some unguarded till ; Everywhere the furious race for riches Rushes on to my determined goal, And the hand of priestly blessing itches For the savings rather than the soul. Royalty rides on the broker's pillion And obeys my mammon's jockey call Winning thousands, if it drops a million Now and then and gets a nasty fall ; GONIOBOMBUKES IN TRADE. 457 Never mind, since fools were born to losses And a casual tumble in the mire, If as sops to Cerberus it tosses Crown and jewels all into the fire ; In good time a rich and toadying nation Which to plain folks only is a boor, Will wipe out the spots of speculation By another tax upon the poor. Trade, my boys, is now the proper ticket Which will bring you if not glory gain, And the dirtiest platter though you lick it Will find fouler rogues to lick again ; Sell your dearest friend or prize, your honour Must ere long go in the melting pan. And your wife divine as a Madonna Will fetch something from a business man : Do not spare that young and lovely daughter Coveted by Croesus of the mills, Let her slide the helpless lamb to slaughter Just to settle the most pressing bills. Speed the lucky dollar with its spinnings Down the vilest depths and darkest track, And you soon will have a handsome innings, When like curses it with more comes back ; Keep it going, do not stick at trifles And a stain or two upon the coat, Should a fist grow leprous as it rifles Orphan's purse and grips the widow's throat ; Run religion, you may score well off it And betray the Christ you will not miss With good conscience and a better profit, If like Judas you can crawl and kiss. Great is commerce, and the man of mettle Waiting for the fixed and fated hour. Gets the fish for his own silver kettle, And with money its almighty power : 45^ CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Opens every door to him, the gallows Cannot block his conquering march, and prayer Offered by the priest he purchased hallows Doubtful deeds and the undoubtful payer ; Beauty shines upon his shadiest actions If they only swell the sweater's heap, And disdaining decent figleaf fractions Freely sells in public market cheap. Ah, the clinking of the precious pieces 'Tis the sweetest music of the da}', And the sheep that carry golden fleeces Can be shorn at innocent high play ; Bland promoters with their bubble dealings Haul in hard-won earnings, by their plots Too magnificent for vulgar stealings And the jail that lesser ruffians pots ; And the fiend with true financing humour For a fall of unexpected range. Slays his thousands with a lying rumour In the shambles of the Stock Exchange. Where is not the trail of filthy lucre Which defiles the hovel and the house, And leaves droppings in the chaste Proseucha That might shock the shabbiest Church mouse ? Old and young, the halt and withered, scuffle For their pickings as they cast the dice, While they note the cards they do not shuffle x\nd pay dearly for the pleasant vice ; In that region known too well to mention Which to my warm place is now annexed. Prude and prostitute in sharp contention Meet and flutter shameless and unsexed. Capital is pitted against Labour, As apace it greedier grows and tries With the clamour of its festive tabor To conceal the murdered victims' cries ; GONIOBOMBUKES IN LITKRATURE. 459 And my insects buzz and sport and sputter On the carcases they grudge their graves, And when they have scraped the bread of butter FHng it in the gutter for their slaves ; While the toiler's wound unheeded rankles And for Dives only serve the laws, Till the Flood now rising to the ankles Sweeps away the millionaires like straws. GONIOBOMBUKES IN LITERATURE. Awful engines I have framed or fractured (As they suited) to be plagues of men, But of all the torments manufactured In my mill is nothing like the Pen ; Nothing like the paying party journal Steeped in venom and convenient lies, AVith a spirit truly quite infernal Splashing mud alike on earth and skies ; Never in miy wildest rape or revel When I turn the brightest blossom sere, Do I feel so proud to be the devil As when bearing my false witness here. Ah ! the Sword is good when by a tyrant Held who mocks at even religion's bar, Or by Russians and some red aspirant Like the bloody butchers of the Tsar ; And the Pestilence has got rare beauties When it hardens sire against the son. Or makes mothers drop their sacred duties And the trust a new-born babe has won ; And the Fire is not without some merit When a young volcano helps its plan, While an earthquake may a prize inherit If stray bishops jaunt about Japan. 460 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. But the Pen is still my stoutest minion, If it bids the tenant pay no rent, Or as firebrand tosses an opinion Which will set in flames a continent ; Doubtless with the neat and flashing needle I have damned in thousands ready fools, And this evermore will work and wheedle Idle minds to be mere harlot tools ; But my first and favourite production To perform the most amount of ill, And my instrument of chief destruction Is and always was the goose's quill. Yes, I make it spit awa}' and sputter At whatever gracious is and good. With its message of the grave or gutter And a hate of Christ and maidenhood ; Who would not in some cheap lay or libel Tear aside the veil from holy charms. And while trampling on the truth or Bible Hug a naked error in his arms ? Who has not condemned great institutions In the maudlin trash that aids me well, And contrived by the best resolutions To put down some proper bricks in hell ? Journalists who write for Party Papers May be bought in market any hour, By proprietors who like hot capers With their mutton lest it should go sour ; Men who are not over-strong in reason And in grammar have but little part, Yet know well the nicest way to season Scum of scandal for the lecherous heart ; Prompt to stab a foe behind and ruin Virtue if upon the other bench. And to strangle like a Tartar Bruin Life from every rival work or wench. GONIOBOMBUKES IN LITERATURE. 461 Fun not food, not service but sensation, Smartness at the cost of dirty hands, Barefaced foil}' if an innovation. Such are what the British Ass demands ; Photographs of Hon and of leper Mixed with fairy tales from Foreign Courts, And (provided they abound in pepper) Nasty pickings from police reports ; Froth of open drains and filthy flotage Wafted by ill winds that are my whips, All the babble of the anecdotage Hiccoughed over wine by senile lips. Now the Gospel of the British Nation, is the journal with the smallest truth And the very largest circulation — A lewd blear-eyed Boaz without Ruth ; For the Board-schools, that without contention Form the masterpiece of modern art And my latest and supreme invention. For the Bible take the Paper's part ; And the children like a sauce sensational To wash Drawing and Pianos down, And I must be undenominational. Though I like improper news and noun. Progress downward would lack sweet variety. With no faded grandeur of fine airs, And no mean Press organs of Society Dishing up the tattle of backstairs ; And the sty oi absinthe and French novels In their nude and naughty stage undress, Is the temple in which Fashion grovels Still more low the louder to confess ; While in this my own especial corner I the puppets work that pose as men. As they follow me the arch suborner And keep buzzing with their devilled pen. 462 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. EPILOGUE. (Dia bolus loquitur.) Yet stay, dear friends, and with the kind assistance Of cultivated ;^Z(75OTrt', misnamed men, I hope to prove I have no true existence Outside the sputterings of weak prate and pen. How can I live, when Science pleads her parable And leaves no room for the old Devil's dance, And turns the classic groves to spaces arable With loud display of learned ignorance ? Evil is but the accident of matter And motion in their rhythmic ebb and flow, But not my work, as theologians chatter. Who dub each mystery a Satanic show. As evolution in its pomp and progress Speeds onward, plucking jewels out of mire, All this will vanish with the fallen ogress, The brimstone terrors and the fabled fire. My being is but the devout confusion Of gaunt divines like Calvin, Knox, and Laud, Who palmed upon you this grotesque delusion And thanked their God for such a pious fraud. I have no person and no real identity, As Huxley sees and his Agnostic crew, Who deem my name at Gadara a nonentity, And steal those swine from the discrowned Jew. At most I am a useful party fiction. To stop a gaping corner in a creed. To figure at an advertised eviction As the promoter of some statesman's need. I'm but a phantom, rising from the crucible Of educated matter, known as mind, By quantitative methods now reducible To vapourings of idle words and wind. So do not fear me if some sacred oracle Insists upon the mischief I have wrought, EPILOGUE. 463 Remember I am only metaphorical, A mere convenience for the shifts of thought ; A turn of speech, a symbol of negation Or all the naughty things you love so well. But not the spirit of a damned damnation With its exploded dreams of woes and hell. I am a Bogey, if you find a niche in Your temple still for ghosts at best but gas, To scare bad children and to keep the kitchen In due submission to the upper class ; To frighten fools and spectacled old spinsters Who harry pretty maidens over tea, And point a text for pulpiteers in minsters To splash their superstition's dear dead sea. So treat me gently, since to hate religious I am sweet fuel that is never cold, And give the human heart its love litigious Which is a treasure better far than gold. And as her shadow I can freely enter The proudest Church at which rude stones are cast. Though history says I was the first Dissenter, And lying still I shall outlive the last. SECTION IX. HERBARIUM. BEN TILLETT. Every dunghill has its cock Every bullet has its billet, Every Session has its block, Every squabble has its Tillett. THE OLD JUDAS AND THE NEW. Old Judas sold his Master for just thirty Blood bits of money — dead men do tell tales ! Our Judas sells his Lord for the same dirty Sum of unhallowed votes from Godless Wales. LADY BURTON LOQUITUR. If he be there, then all is spoken ; It may be Heaven, it may be hell ; I simply wait the pilgrim's token — " Tlie ti)ikliiii( of his camel's bell". 30 466 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. NED. Ranting, raving, roaring Ned, Throwing stones when we want bread, Mixed with every muddy pie. Never never told a He, Never never did a thing Worth the least remembering, Foremost with his prurient pen, And the very last of men. THE TWO ASSES. A Parson climbed up to a steeple, With prayers and bitter pain, And preached long sermons to the people, But always preached in vain. An Ass passed by, no Ass of Hermon, Smirched with the miry street. And brayed a short and lusty sermon — The people called it sweet. HOW WE CONFESS NOW. I had a sin I would confess, My own and not another's. And worse no mortal could transgress ; So I confessed my brother's. AN EPITAPH. Here lies a nameless Rector. Who was he ? A man who struck at all things bad and rotten, And hurt himself, and only asks to be Forgotten. HERBARIUM. 467 THE WAY IN INDIA. England, home of beef and beauty And that statesman — all know who, Hopes each man will do his duty And his blessed neighbour's too. MRS. BESANT. Really, really, Annie Besant, Things are getting d — d unpleasant And beyond a jest, With your wonderful gyrations And those endless incarnations ; Let poor devils rest. THE LAST EMPEROR OF BRAZIL. Once Don Pedro in his Tub Splashed, and merrily did rub His uncommon clay ; None might break on his ablutions ; So he (deaf to revolutions) Washed his crown away. CHERRY-STONE POETRY. Multa tulit fecitque puer, sudavit et alsit. Erst our Bards, of cameo gems Shaping deathless diadems. Sat on kingly thrones ; Now on dung heaps, in the mire, Much they toil and more perspire, Carving cherry stones. 468 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. AT THE FUNERAL. Irish patriots have their Sexton, Undertaker's office plies Gladstone, ready for the next stone And the Empire's obsequies. THE GLADSTONE BAG. Gladstone tumbles in his Bag Each impossible bad measure, Silk of duchess, beggar's rag, Jams and justices at pleasure, Hangman's rope and England's flag, Irish prisons' choicest treasure, Shuffles them with baits and brag. And denies them all at leisure. TRAVELLERS' TALES. Writers now of Lap and Hindoo, Bogus lands and champagne seas, Seen as through a Hansom window. Lie devoutly at their ease. THE NEW GOLDEN AGE. Young Liberty its tide rolled proudl}^ on. It gilt the strongest tower and every steeple ; But as we hailed the blessing it was gone, And left instead a Despot in the People. HERBARIUM. 469 IRISH MAGGOTS. Traitors are ye, food for fagj^ots, Wallowing; in native slime, Bred (as out of oftal maggots) In corruption of the time. IRELAND'S GRATITUDE. Give her Home Rule, Rome Rule and the pleasures Flowing from that muddy fount ; She accepts them, money, and all treasures, Gratefully but "on account". THE GLADSTONEBURY THORN. Flowers at Christmas the old famous Thorn, And new coats get Hodge and Bruin ; Gladstone also then renews his morn, And the flower is England's ruin. RUB-A-DUB-DUB. Gladstone with his Irish one idea Takes the Empire for a patent scrub, Pops it in the bath like old Medea, Then away throws Empire with the Tub. HYPERPNEUMATISM. Sanctus loves the soul and not the body. And with only one will keep his troth ; / think P'ather Sanctus is a noddy, And believe in both. 470 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. WOMAN V. WOMAN. Set a thief to catch a brother thief, Both alike are very human ; And, would you a sister bring to grief, Let a woman catch a woman. A MODERN HERO. A hero, if not one who walks in white Or keeps the Queen's dominions ; A hero still, who has the courage quite Of other men's opinions. A LOST JEW. I met a weeping Jew, and said, " Can I Console you with a simple proved prescription ? " " 'Tis vain," he sobbed ; " let luckless Moses die, Who has not spoiled to-day one d — d Egyptian." VERY ORIGINAL. O he was an original man. Not of course in mere simian kin, Nor in breadth of his stomach or plan ; It was only " original sin." THE OLD SCHOOL AND THE NEW. Of old our seekers, with no vain commotion. Bottomed the deeps where Truth is known to dwell ; Now, though they splash and muddy all the ocean, They only bring up some poor paltry shell. HERBARIUM. 47 1 THE MODERN FREEDOM. Freedom fought for, sought for, came in time, Mainly for the Upper Classes ; Then it chose a sort of taproom chime, And migrated to the Masses; Now, devoid of reason and of rhyme, 'Tis the Sovereignty of Asses. WORSE THAN DEATH. To die in life's sweet summer time were sad, With joy in every breath ; To die and suffer Gladstone's praise, would add Another sting to death. BURIED ALIVE. They buried a man — a man alive. For forty days, with his ass's ears ; But, believe me, I who yet survive. Have been buried alive for forty years. PLEASURES OF THE SEASIDE. A thousand nurses, niggers and their noise, Ten thousand children paddling, ducked or wailing. And martyrs going through their ghastly joys Of sickness, brandy, soda, and blackmailing. SIGNS OF THE TIMES. A Premier cutting his country's throat And the country giving the knife. While the carpenter mends the tailor's coat And is paid with the tailor's wife. 472 CONFESSIONS OF A POET, LIFE. Life is so short, a promise broken ; An unreached port, a love not spoken. Life is so vain, a pinch of pleasure ; A gilded chain, an empty measure. Life is so small, dark eyes and lashes; The prompter's call, a heap of ashes. Life is so dim, a glimpse of morning ; The ocean's brim, a tomb's adorning. Life is a breath, a fading meadow ; The mask of death, a shining shadow. THE CURLEW'S CRY. Ah, often when in flesh I fain would rest, I hear it like the curlew's cry — The call to lure me from earth's sordid nest. To my true home Eternity. SONGS OF THE TIMES. A mistress for her jewels chosen, Outlandish words, a figleaf shirt, Rant of infinities and hosen, A little blasphemy and dirt. WRITING IN STAYS. With pretty nymphs I oft have dallied, Who love constricted ways ; But far more wasp-like, pinched and pallid. The man who writes in stays. HERBARIUM. 473 HOW TO WRITE. If you would write and be a man of mettle, Then choose a term from the most lying creed, As loud and empty as an old tin kettle, And (if you lose your soul) you may succeed. THE HIGHER CRITICISM. If one might hazard what is not a witticism, But just an effort to explain a plan, Then I should say the stuff called Higher Criticism Is one more proof of the " Descent " of Man. INCONSISTENCY A VIRTUE. Did I hear Gladstone sticking to one honest text For one short hour on time's poor little stage, Then I would stake my hope of mercy in the next, On this — that he had turned another page. A GOOD EXAMPLE. Just take a phrase the cheapest and most hollow And light it at your neighbour's fireside flames, If you would make your brother asses follow And set ablaze (when well insured) the Thames. OUR NEW SCHOOLMASTERS. The child is father of the man, the}- say ; My boy does really rule ; He makes me work and has himself all play And keeps me still at school. 474 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. WRITTEN IN DUST. If you would yield the Master trust, Then play the servant's part ; He wrote His judgment in the dust, His mercy on the heart. LORD ROSEBERY. Lord Rosebery his race began too well, And swallowed like a man his Gladstone poker ; But from his clever conjuring soon he fell, And finished as a third-rate table joker. ITEMS. Gladstone swears that black is white — Evil good and justice hollow, Then his front reverses quite ; And his Items humbly follow. ANDREW SHORT. The burden of much writing; men turn stale; And dulcet Short grows maundering and long, Who mumbles yet the thrice-repeated tale, And drones again the too familiar song. AN EPITAPH. God will not have a wretch who cannot sing, And has no virtue — not the faintest particle, Who would pluck feathers from an angel's wing, Or fire all heaven with some perfervid article. Hell will not have a fool so proper grown Above one vice's frank redeeming level, Who was a member of the " Devil's Own," And yet denied the existence of the Devil. HERBARIUM. 475 G. O. M. A sceptred slave who wears a tinsel crown He throws his country's honour to the Beast, And in the coming deluge lest he drown Clings to the cassock of the Irish Priest. THE EMPEROR OF ASIA. Tired of the trombone and the narrow North And his stale stupid carpentering caper, The Tsar in mushroom majesty steps forth An Emperor of continents — on paper. MRS. STAFFORD. Her face, on which bright visions play, Seems to have plucked its joy from sorrow, With all the sweetness of to-day And all the promise of to-morrow. HOW TO MAKE THE BEST OF BOTH WORLDS. Start a stupid crabbed Church Paper, Serving up old falsehoods fresh ; Wipe your nose upon the scraper Of the pretty painted Flesh. IT IS WRITTEN. Write out service fair in trust. Nor offer Christ a part ; He wrote His judgment in the dust, His mercy on the heart. 476 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. A CORRUPT PASSAGE. Two scholars who had deeply learnt and supt Sat beaten by a crabbed text of Aristotle. Pronounced the passage hopelessly corrupt And made another " passage " to the bottie. LORD GOOSEBERRY. There was a thin statesman called Rosebery Quite at home in his Foreign Affairs ; But the French made him little Lord Gooseberry, And now his duped nation despairs. BANGKOK AND H.M.S. "PALLAS". Shall our brave sailors scuttle for a pinch, At the thrice-beaten French cock's crowing ? Stout Richard Grenville had not budged an inch, If all the winds of hell were blowing. Civilians guide our ships, who basely cringe And lower the Flag to please a faction ; O for an hour of England's old " Revenge," When true men cleared the deck for action ! THE SIAMESE TWINS. Lord Rosebery a statesman might have been, Had no big bidder come to try him ; But, ah ! he sold his country and his Queen ; And now for sixpence who would buy him ? So he and Gladstone, quite a pretty pair, As sweet as Hector and King Priam, Will stick together in our showman's care i\.nd be the immortal Twins of Siam. HERBARIUM. EPIMETHEUS. I would not learn, though in prophetic tones I heard the message of the years, And saw the legend of the still white stones Read in a lurid mist of tears. Though suffering came with its grim iron whip. And trouble with its tempest wind ; Like the stern lights of some great passing ship, Thev onlv threw a blaze behind. T. HUXLEY. I asked Tom Huxley about God and Fate, Creation's puzzle and Free-Will's acrostic ; He said : " Your present and your future state To me are blank, I am a d d Agnostic " But might he not have urged with equal sense, And thereby made his folly just as famous, " Who cares for Souls and Goals or Providence ? Thank God, I am a blooming Ignoramus ". THE OXFORD MOVEMENT. Some call it Keble, some say crafty Newman Put all his wicked will in her ; But it began with really nothing human, And ended at the milliner. Let's give to Newman what we can. His genius fair and flighty. He was at best an erring man And not a God Almighty. 477 478 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. 3- The Oxford Movement rose, to call To prayers a godless nation ; And yet its postures are not all The purpose of creation. 4- The Oxford Movement came to men, With views and vestments flowing ; But now it nothing moves, and when The devil is it going ? A PRAYER. O Fortune, give me what thou wilt, A curse, sweet Maude's caressing, The critic's dagger to the hilt, But not — not Gladstone's blessing. A GAME AT MARBLES. The playful little Jemmy Knowles, ' Who nothing weakly garbles. Would have his little game of bowls With the dear Elgin Marbles ; Despising ancient use and form, He braved the Comtist garrison. And heedless of the avenging storm Was floored by Frederic Harrison. LOVE. The highest water-mark of human tide, The fountain of virginity. That gives to earth its sweetest power and pride. And gathers of infinity ; That makes alone of Heaven its measure wide, And is God's own Divinity. HERBARIUM. 479 CONSCIENCE AND GOD. Whigs may have conscience — at a pinch, That makes them sometimes doubt ; But Tories, though they fret and flinch. Have never more than irout. LORD ROSEBERY AND MR. STRANGE. It was not at a marriage, Lord Rosebery's carriage, But in fulness of plenipotentiary airs, Committed that blunder — And sent a man under. Because he was " Strange"— in his Foreign Affairs. ST. WILLIAM. The old St. Patrick loved and did his level Best, when he made the Fiend and Reptiles pack ; Our new St. William now has raised the Devil (He cannot lay) and brought the Reptiles back. AN ADDER. I found a fallen wretch half-starved and cold ; I fed him, raised him up, and was his ladder ; But, when he felt the summit in his hold, He kicked me down and turned into an Adder. UGANDA. O why, impervious to the sling of slander Do you, great England, still play fast and loose With those who trust your faith in far Uganda, When at your feet the treasure lies, yon Goose ? 480 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. THE "HOUSE". When from the Commons manners fly And noise displaces nous, And Members live on charity, 'Twill be indeed the " House ". ST. MATHEW. St. Matthew gave us, by Divine commission, Salvation's Gospel with no legal flaw ; The modern Matliew only gives perdition And nothing knows of Gospel or of Law. UGANDA. Rome, when of old the wear}^ watch was loose, And spent and beaten slept her brave commander, Owed safety to your cackling, O you Goose ! Shall we lose honour by you, O Uganda ? BLOOD AND IRON. What has made our England fair and great ? Law, our charters, Bible, or sweet Siren ? Wooden walls or thin red line like Fate ; All were worthless without blood and iron. A REAL STATESMAN. Strong in his great and single love for truth, An iron ruler and a subject still. The head of reverend age, the heart of youth — To mould the murmur of the people's will. HERBARIUM. 481 A MODERN HOME SECRETARY. A cussed thin thing, with one leg Of law which he but hobbles on ; One thought and that a rotten egg — That he's the last Phenomenon. YOUNG WILLIAM. Hail to thee, O theatrical Figure, In thine awfully various rig, Who art half of thee /Ethiop nigger, And half of thee glorified prig. MORLEY'S FOOD FOR ASSES. Cattle wisely go to Thorley For the food he sells, Asses only get from Morley Mean and empty shells. A SECOND-CLASS MAN. John Morley took a second class — But hardly got a niche in, He borrowed bluster from the ass. His manners from the kitchen. He called the honoured House of Peers A mere " dead weight of passion," " Unmoved by aught hut force and fears And simply fools of fashion ". But then a noble youth went by, Who had a stick for giving; He made the dust and falsehood fly. And showed one Lord was living. 31 482 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A KITTEN. I have had my little share of loves, I have purred and played the kitten, And ruined many lives and gloves, Have bit and then been bitten. A LIVING WAGE. What is a " living wage " for working cheer? Go, ask the drunken miner; Silk dresses, salmon, four days' labour, beer, Pianos, bull-dogs, china. A MODERN BEAUTY. Here's your modern beauty — All things done, but duty; Pretty, but not proper ; Dear, sir, at a copper. TO MRS. (OR MISS) JULIA WEDGWOOD (ON HER "BIBLE IN THE BIBLE"). No thanks, madam, for your labours Stolen from your richer neighbours ; Better any sort of libel, Than your last amended Bible. THE PLEASURES OF HELL. A Popular View of Professor St. George Mivart's "Happiness in Hell". If, when you are old and cappy, Lady Belle, You would once more be quite happy, Go to Hell. HERBARIUM. 483 Mivart says there are no treasures And no revels, Full of such exceeding pleasures As the Devil's. Poena sensits seems a blister, And no toy ; Poena dauini is, my sister, Perfect joy. Hell will prove (O shade of Leighton !) But bad Latin, And the fiery throne of Satan Will be sat in. Blessings on the learned Roman Knight St. George, Who despite the Fiend as foeman Steals his forge ; And for every sot and Siren, Child of Adam, Wreathes with flowers the red-hot iron, Frisky madam. AN EVIL ODOUR. When someone nameless went to h — 11 — Mind ! / was there and know it well And all exactly that befell. And stick to every word I tell, As truly as my dinner-bell — He carried with him such a smell, An evil odour Of brandy and soda, He drove the Devil out of h — 11. 484 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. JUDAS, M.P. Judas, journalist and traitor Would for sixpence sell the Crown, With the manners of a waiter And the morals of a clown. R. L. STEVENSON. He gives as heroes only blackguards And never drew a lady, His lights outrider Rider Haggard's, His shades are very shady. ALGIE. Who can say much for his October, Or Algie sunk ? And I appeal from Algie sober To Algie drunk. THE NEW FELLOW. O there was a }'oung Fellow of Trinity, Who supposed that his rooms were Infinity ; So he told his Mamma He would order a Star To be ready and in his vicinity ; For he wanted to study Divinity, And might travel afar In that luminous car With the aid of its lamp and Latinity, Ere he hit on the proper affinity ; HHRHARIUM. 485 And he thought his Papa Might just hght a cigar Now and then at his glory in Trinity, Which was yet in its blooming virginity. But a black sheep cried "Baa" And extinguished his Star, And then butted him out of Infinity With all his preposterous ninnity. MAD DOGS. A mad dog is a mad dog the world over, And has no earthly right ; The Anarchist is just the same mad rover, And should be shot at sight. TO A. B. C. Alas, for Cambridge, when its foremost college Returns once more to A. B. C, And thinks to slake its human thirst for knowledge With frying-pan and fricassee ; When the great wisdom she was once so rich in Subsides to Mother Beeton's books, And is replenished from the greasy kitchen Which serves for Fellows now its " Cooks ". A ROAMER. Our dear old Gladstone's birth-place was a roamer And could not find a stage whereon to stand. He had as many lives as cats and Homer And was born, too, out of his native land. HOME RULE. What is this shambling endless Home Rule botheration ? Sham veto, sham finance, sham safeguards' chain, A sham supremacy on a shamrock foundation, " Meershams," and all washed down with sham cham- pagne. 486 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. A PROPHECY. The day the British Empire died, A party sacrifice to Pat, Great Gladstone from the Commons fled With flying locks and hands outspread ; And though he'd lost an Empire, cried — Posterity, I've lost my hat ! HOW NOT TO DO IT. We starve our patriots and toast The traitors with full glasses, Leave helpless arsenal and coast And feast our dangerous classes. TO M. DUPUY, PRESIDENT. " Gentlemen, the Sitting is continued. It would not be to the dignity of France or the Republic, that such attempts (dynamite) should disturb your deliberations." Hail to thee, noble President, Who didst so bravely stand A shock that shook a Continent, But not thy guiding hand ! Because thou barest on thy heart A brightness without brand, That greatness of which thou art part — The Honour of thy land. URBI—ORBI. Mother of many peoples, on thy brow Are writ the awful destinies of Time, In love and war and unimagined crime And hate that never would forget its vow ; HERBARIUM. 487 When pomp of cities passed thine did not bow, But spread its empire more through every clime In every breast that owned a sway sublime, Dethroned, but in thy ruins greatest now. Heart of the storied world, still rolling on Eternal music from each tower and dome. To saint and seer and king alike a home ; With all thy wonders but the glory gone. Bright with a light that on no other shone, Death is thy footstool. Universal Rome, HOW TO BE A POPULAR POET. Dress a la Byron, not too often sober, A sceptic of the school of Taine, A breezy pagan saddened by October, With the street morals of Verlaine. MODERN POLITICS. Let principle and honour both go hang, While party triumph like a carrion vulture Feathers the rogue who has the sharpest fang, And preys on empire, fame, and every culture. A MASTER OF BALLIOL. There was an Aristotle ; there is Jowett : Each Master, I and he ; Whatever has been taught, I know it — And all that is to be. 488 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. TO THE S. P. C. K. The Lord Chief Justice spoke, and truly gave The law of Christ's own college : — The wisdom of the knife may gild the grave, But is not " Christian Knowledge". A QUACK PHYSICIAN. Labby, you have but one song, And the same dreary text, That England miist be always ivrong — What next ? Agreed, that y 071 are always right And wisest of all men. And we dull sinners in d — • — d plight — What then? And now that you have blackened all, Though not of venom reft, And really can no lower fall — WhaVs left 2 If England tried your quack receipt And traded at your store, Your penance would be quite complete — What more 1 THE MAKER AND THE BREAKER. Bismarck, who made an Empire, plants his trees, And never served himself but served the Crown ; Gladstone, who his own end in all things sees And serves himself, cuts trees and Empire down. "THE DAILY PAPER." Thank God, in spite of Boards and Model schools And "armed Science" with its taper. There are not yet one hundred thousand fools, To start bold Stead's mad " Daily Paper". HERBARIUM. 489 THE COUNT LYOF TOLSTOI. Count Tolstoi, here's a nut for thee — If two and one are only three, It stands to reason four is treason ; Then why, if evil, resist the Devil ? But two to one, you are not right; And so, Count Tolstoi, now good night. EXIT GLADSTONE (March, 1894). Gladstone his exit makes like the old Law, And drops his sceptre with a curse ; Some devils (only rending) will withdraw ; But no one is a rap the worse. DENYING THE MASTER. Peter denied his Master with an oath, But melted soon in tears And bowed to sorrow's sentence ; Gladstone denied his Master and his troth And cursed the House of Peers, And howls for their repentance. THE NATION'S VERDICT. " Old Man," exclaims a tired long-suffering nation, " Mine was the patience and you sore did vex it, But yours at last the tardy resignation. And for your finest act your final exit." SENTENCE ON GLADSTONE. This be the sentence, Gladstone, to retrieve Thy errors wrought by sheer age : — All thy remaining life, without reprieve. Hard labour in the Peerage. 490 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. VERMICIDE POWDER. Take a boot of solid leather, Iron-tipt and tried and true. And apply it quick and smart To his tender nameless part With a cuff or two together, Till your Vermin's black and blue. A PRESCRIPTION. Grip your Vermin by the throat, And with penal boot and hand Deeper than the thickest coat Print indelibly vour brand. TO ARMCHAIR CRITICS. Critics, who are always biting. Always queer and always queasy, Say my writing reads too easy, But I know it's d d hard writins[. THE CROWNED ASS. '1 o the mighty Sovereign People, Lord of tower and lord of steeple. Lord of every City shelf And of all except Itself, — To the Crowned Ass, I most reverently kneeling With a touch of fellow-feeling Hold this looking-glass; HERBARIUM. 49I Wherein all Its hopes and fears, With Its triumphs and Its tears, And the yearning of the years, Through Its long amazing ears, As the shadows pass. To that once Imperial scion. Once the proper British Lion Of the ruling Class, Now by treason's vulgar wiles And our precious Burns and Byles Run to mangey Mass ; To the Beast in its Sirbonian Bog, like Neb the Babylonian King, reduced, alas ! Shabby scabby flabby thin Donkey in a lion skin. Eating dust and grass ! EPILOGUE. To thee, my delicate sweet Wenda, Rosebud and rue, These closing words not half so tender As thou and true. Thine is the nameless secret glamour I cannot spell Who know it well, A hush amid the sordid clamour Where passions dwell. Ineffable, A grace unknown to mortal grammar Which angels tell. For thou, my happy winsome Wenda, Rosebud and rue, Robed in the afterglow of splendour Beyond this blue. 492 CONFESSIONS OF A POET. Art well-nigh all compact of Heaven And white as snow On Arctic floe, Without a thought of lower leaven Or fleshly throe To make a foe, And only to the earth hast given One dainty toe. Yes, thou, my radiant golden Wenda, Rosebud and rue. Hast yet a thorn to be defender Of others' due — And yet a sharpness, that is pleasant To bosoms wild And still defil'd ; To thee the timid fawn or pheasant Are ever mild, By thee beguil'd, And from thy hand take pat or present, O spirit child. I cannot teach thee, my pure Wenda, Rosebud and rue, A line or lesson that is tender As thou and true. Thou art incarnate joy, and glory From larger skies Those laughing eyes Haunts with their unforgotten story ; And in them lies A love that flies From sages, who with learning hoary Are otherwise. OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. " WOMEN MUST WEEP." THIRD EDITION. '• Another book worth getting is Prof. F. H. Williams' volume, 'Women must Weep,' a collection of remarkable poems, dealing with power and keen sympathy with the condition of fallen women and neglected children. Mr. Williams is a genuine poet of the ' White Cross.' The purity of his sentiments is equal to the force with which he expresses them ; and ' Women must Weep ' should prove a real aid to all who have the welfare of women and of children at heart." — Society Times. " We have read many of the pieces, and it is only fair to say we have not found one which in expression could fairly give offence to the most fastidious taste. Prof. Williams writes like a gentleman as well as like a Christian. He is fired by a very noble enthusiasm, and he has both literary fluency and lyrical fervour.''' — Manchester Examiner. " I have read ' Women must Weep ' with mingled feelings of pain, pleasure, and gratitude. Nothing I can say will do justice to it." — jfennette Fothergill, the Poet. " ' Women must Weep,' by Prof. F. H. Williams, is a collection of verses written with a truly noble purpose — the advocacy of the cause of the poor and neglected, especially the women and children in our city streets. Apart from this, the verse is at times of a high order, as in 'The White Cross,' 'On the Threshold,' 'Baby Innocents,' and ' No- body's Child.' " — Graphic. " A really remarkable volume of poems. The author is a veritable modern crusader. He fights for the purity of women under the White Cross, like a knight of old, and his weapons are a curiously unconven- tional poetic style and a boldness verging upon audacity in his choice of 49^ OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. subjects. . . . Not only clever, but strikingly in earnest, and therefore effective. . . . Every side of the delicate problem is treated with philo- sophical consideration and poetic force. Some of the metaphors and phrases are conspicuous for originality and beauty, and the book as a whole is something quite out of the common groove.^' — Court jfournal. " The author has a true conception of the needs of humanity, and has therefore the true poet's proper standpoint. He writes in active sympathy with the poor and needy, and has the courage to denounce the oppression of the strong. Many of his poems are worthy of immor- tality, and some of them (if we mistake not) will secure this." — Christian Commonwealth. " The Laureate of the Army of the White Cross." — Liverpool Daily Post. " There is plenty of wit and humour in your book, and real pathos too." — George Barlow, the Poet. " Prof. F. H. Williams is the Laureate of the ' New Crusade.' These poems are red hot with holy passion, and fierce with the righteous indignation that arises unbidden at the sight or the story of women's woes and wrongs." — The Christian. " The lesson of Mercy and Charity eloquently taught by Prof. F. H. Williams' volume of sympathetic verse, especially by his fine City poem, ' Between the Banks.' A thoughtful and seasonable book of poems." — Penny Illustrated Paper. " Prof. Williams handles his subject with the ease of a master and yet with the finesse of a diplomatist. The topics treated of demand the most delicate handling — swerve a very hair's breadth, and you offend sus- ceptibilities predisposed to take offence. Prof. Williams has skilfully steered his bark through the many treacherous shoals, and we arise from a perusal of his tuneful poems with a glow of satisfaction. In tone and in manner of execution they charm and enchain attention. Their lines are melodious, they bespeak the culture of a scholar and the deep earnestness of a Christian." — United Service Gazette. Mark Lemon, editor of Punch, said years ago of one of Prof. Williams' poems, " No future ^ Lyra Elegantiarum^ will be complete without it." OPINIONS OF THK HRESS. " The Ititi'si successor tu the iiuv.itte of Tom H( od." — Society. 497 " By many Prof. Williams is consicleied one of the first ballad- writers of the day.'" — Christian Million. " Professor F. Harald Williams, the clever author of that remark- able book of poems, ' Women must Weep.' " — Pump Ccvrf. "Very telling; and pitiful. Earnest and {(ood work. A vein of Christian chivalry runs all through his book.'' — Vanguard (organ of Church of England Purity Society). " There can be no doubt these realistic verses zi-ill be productive of much good. They deal with one particular aspect of life in our great cities, but in a manner the deep intensity and pathos of ivhich few readers will forget. It would be difficult to conceive of anything more calculated to produce sober reflection than the 'Baby Innocents.' 'On the Threshold,' 'A Leap in the Dark,' 'The Unpardonable Sin,* and 'The Other Side,' all of which are vivid pictures drawn from veritable life." — Liverpool Courier. "These poems are emphatically 'cries from the depths.' They give eloquent and touching expression to the strong and indignant feel- ings, with which all true men, and especially Christian men, regard the wrongs of v/omen. Some of the poems are very powerfully written. ' Between the Banks ' contains some thrilling verses of terrible things that are terribly true, ivhich might rouse dead consciences. Ste:;iiy solemn are the verses from a ' Leap in the Dark.' ' One poem, an echo of the Gospel narrative, of the Saviour's rebuke of the self-righteous Pharisee, ' The Magdalen.' " — The Fireside News. " We strongly advise the members of the Social Purity Branch of the Y.M.C.A. to purchase a copy of ' Women must Weep.' A subject to enlist the sympathies of all true men is here treated with earnestness of purpose and great delicacy of expression.'"'' — Y.M.C.A., Bee-Hive. " This volume really worth getting. Mr. Williams fights for purity of women, his weapons, . , . remarkable poems, both clever and tiVective. . . . verse of high order, and book as a whole something quite out of the common groove." — Y.M.C.A. Times and Young Men's Review. 32 498 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. "Verses, which frequently rise to high levels of poetic beauty — terrible earnestness — exquisite alike in melody and feeling. No one can rise from it without having his sympathies for the fallen enkindled, and his aspirations after a purer, higher life intensified." — Y.M. Christian Magazine. " I am glad your poems have reached a second edition, a very rare rcumstance in the case of English poetry, and / have read many of them with pleasure. Your method seems to be very much your own. — Lewis Morris. " I have looked into your ballads and feel how much force and power there are in them. I hope they will do God's work in the great struggle for the right against the wrong under the ' White Cross.' " — The Bishop of Exeter. " Your interesting book, many of the poems in which I have read with great pleasure. I trust it may do good, iti helpitig to raise the standard of purity among the educated." — The Bishop of Wakefield, President of the White Cross Society. " Thank you very sincerely for the very interesting volume sent me The approval of the other Bishops was thoroughly deserved.'^ — Bishop of Gloucester and Bristol. " It has a liigh tone, and shows great power. I am much struck by so much as I have had time to read." — Bishop of St. David's. " My best thanks for the very interesting and stirring work, I have read a large portion of the poems, and several of them twice over .... heartily hope your glowing words may waken sympathy and action." — Bishop of Bath and Wells. "Thank you heartily for ' Women must Weep.' / will not lay it aside, but will keep it on my table, and turn to it for help and inspira- tion." — Bishop of Sodor and Man. " The poems abound in seinina ceternitatis .... You have done a noble piece of work.'''' — Bishop of Derry. OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 499 NOTICES OF '^'TWIXT KISS AND LIP'\ " Ckariiiing and valuable . . . Charming and valuable I have found it to be . . . certainly stiviulatiug." — Walter Pater. "Real poetry 0/ no common order; I trace everywhere originality, beauty of thought, and music of versification — some pieces 'please per- manently and please instantly ' — power of sarcastic epigram certainly very remarkable. I augur an enduring life for your book." — Bishop oj Dcrry. " The Professor has great lyrical powers. There is much in ' this volume' li'hich should live ... he is a poet ... a loving, human, tender heart beats and throbs all through his \woxk.'' —Magazine and Book Review. •' Beautiful passages . . . abound, and were it not for . . . space, we should dearly like to quote a few of them at length. We shall be much mistaken, if this really versatile rhymer is not through this publica- tion elevated by the voice of the 7vorld to the rank of Poet. The variety of ideas, the closeness of the reasoning, the accurate rhythm and almost perfect versification stamp the man as a thinker of no common order.'"' — St. Stephen's Review. " This is a volume of poetry so prodigious in quantity and so in- teresting in quality that a keen analysis of its merits is impossible. Were we to consult our own feeling we should very much like to spend days and 7veeks in the pleasing study of brilliant thought and true poetry submitted to us in this stupendous work." — Irish Society. " Mr. Williams touches the whole gamut of human feelings, interests, hopes and fears . . . truly charming, tender, pathetic, satirical and even humorous." — Manchester Examiner. " I hasten, with pleasure, to admit that your Sonnets are distinctly the work of a Poet, and that many of them are very beautiful. . . . The beauty and power in your work — as they exist in many places." — George Barlow, the Poet. " ' 'Twixt Kiss and Lip ' is a bulky volume, which few would wish to see reduced in size. Prof. Williams . . . firmly establishes his claim to the title of ' Laureate of the White Cross.' He depicts wealth and poverty, pride and shame, with an intensity of colour, which can scarcely fail to strike even the most callous reader." — Liverpool Daily Post. 500 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. " This remarkable volume — in the steady glow of the larger poems we discern tiiosf unmistakable genius, both as to thought and expression — many a fiery blast of scorn and indignation directed to the damning sins of the age." — The Christian. " Professor Williams is to be eongratnlatcd . . . the general merit of the book, in which a liigh level of quality is reached. His verses in their permanent printed form will uudouhtcdly help for good the social work oi the Church and Nonconformity." — Pictorial World. "I am sure you will be admired both for the earnestness of your purpose, and your extraordinary skill and felicity in versification.'" — E. y. Payne. " The work of a bold man — 40,000 lines for 2/6 is liberal measure, and many of the verses are really good. No subject is too high for him nor too low, and often his treatment is original enough. In ' Venus and Ascanius ' he evidences scholarly aptitude. But of all his verses most pleasing . . . ' Baby," which for lilt and idea arc unrivalled." — Vanity Fair. " Mr. Williams has rendered signal service to the Social Purity Movement. With very much contained in this volume we deeply sympathise, and with many of the poems viewed as literary productions we are greatly gratified." — Young Men's Christian Magazine. "A volume of beautiful poems ... in which is the charming series of verses on ' Baby Beautiful ' . . . the varied talents of the author . . . vcjy smart criticism . . . champion of the poor and oppressed . . . especially successful with childhood.'' — Baby. " The fluency is remarkable, there is plenty of smartness, and there is often that vv^hich ranks a great deal higher than fluency or smartness." — Bodleian Librarian. " You have beyond doubt the inspiration of a real poet, and could not write ' mere doggrel '. I am quite sure that your verse must be recog- nised ultimately as true, strong, and musical." — A Bishop {Bampton Lecturer). RETURN TO the circulation desk of any University of California Library or to the NORTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY Bldg.400, Richmond Field Station University of California Richmond, CA 94804-4698 ALL BOOKS MAY BE RECALLED AFTER 7 DAYS • 2-month loans may be renewed by calling (510)642-6753 • 1-year loans may be recharged by bringing books to NRLF • Renewals and recharges may be made 4 days prior to due date. DUE AS STAMPED BELOW SENT QH ill. NOV 2 6 ZOOZ U. C. BERKELEY 12,000(11/95)