Confessions of a Poet

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, Women Must Weep, was for poetry a success. My second book, 'Twixt Kiss and Lip, was a failure, partly perhaps because of its encyclopædic 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 lacrymæ rerum ; and I am sorry if I have done anything indecorous. 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 possunt. 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 ordinary 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 inadequate 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.

. VII 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 we want both in due proportions. The modern maxim is, ars est revelare artem, 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 anapæstic 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-

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 pers ect versification" . 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 PAGE Prologue, i The Poet's Confession, 2 To My Wife, 4 The Lost Soul, - 6 Home Sickness, - 14 A Child of Adam, 17 The Pessimist, - - 19 Ringing to Evensong, - - 21 Vixi, . . - - 23 The Man who knew not Sorrow, 35 The Prison House, --------- 38 The Rape ofthe Rose, - - - 4° A Hard Question, - - 42 The Poet's Euthanasia, X CONTENTS.

Section II. The Light Of The Amethyst

PAGE Prologue, ...------47 Part I., Incunabula, --------- 4g II. , Psychagonia, -------- 59 III., Dysthanasia, ........ _g IV., Palingenesis, 79 Epilogue, - 92

Section IV. Wings

Cicely, 141 Winifred, ----------- 143 The White Maiden, 144 A Stellar Excursion, --------- A Glimpse, - - 147 Thoughts, - - - - 148 The Everlasting Child, --------- CONTENTS. XI PAGE White Feet, I52 Cogito ergo Sum, kj Know Thyself, Be Thyself, - 156 The Unknown God, - - !jg The Master of the Spell, 160 A Dream, - - - 164 The Holy Quest, !66 The Blind God, 169 In Memoriam H.R.H. the Duke of Clarence, - 170 The Life Beautiful, 172 The Life Wonderful, --------- The Beatific Vision, ......... Xyj Mors Janua Vitæ, 176 The New Round Table, 177 The Buttercup Time, 179 Dream Babies, ---------- ig0

Section V. Pansies And Rosemary

The Pretty Puritan, 185 The Pretty Parlour Maid, 188 On a Doorstep, - _g_ Mademoiselle, 193 The Queen of Evening, 194 Maude, ------------ 197 At the Looking Glass, - - ...... !gg Penelope, ----------- 202 Far Off, 203 My Ideal, - 204 A Rose with Thorns, CONTENTS. PAGE Flos Florum, - 2°6 An Autochthon, 2o8 The Awkward Princess, - 2°9 The Happy Princess, 2I4 The Busy Princess, --------- 2r8 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

POETICÆ. 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 Equitem sedet atra Cura, - - 289 Credit populus, ........ . 292 Bene vixit qui bene latuit, ...... CONTENTS. XIII PAGE To the Bodleian Librarian, 2g4 The Scourge of God, 2g_ Waiting, 298 The Phantom Ship, 2g„ Ship, Ahoy! 302 sleeP. 305 Spring, ----- 306 The Donkey 3IO A Glimpse, - ,I2 A Little Bird, 3I3 Urbs Orbis, - ,IL- Knights of Knowledge, - - - - 3I6 Jack, --------- ___3Ij Scandal, 3Ig Nudus ara, sere nudus, 320 My Housekeeper, - 32_ Bulldog and Wolf, 323 Christmas Eve, - 326 Lovely Woman, 33g Vox Populi Vox Dei, . 358 A Daughter of Earth, 36! To a Theosophist, 365 Judas, 367 The Cry of Labour, 368

Section VII. Pro Patria

Pax Britannica, ---------- 371 A Song ofthe Union, - CONTENTS. XIV PAGE The Last of the Tories, 374 The Road to Ruin, 375 An Epithalamium, ------ 377 How to Die, - 3So Pro Aris et Focis, - - - - 381 How I won the Victoria Cross, 3°3 Blood and Iron, ---------- 391

Ipse Dixit, 395 The Porter at the Gate, 397 St. Colman's Girdle, 402 Cherchez la Femme, --------- 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 Un Enfant Terrible, 427 Naughty but Nice, 428 Flapdoodle, 430 Alas! A Lass! 431 The Forlorn Hope, --------- 433 Donna Juanna, ---------- The Triumph of Evil, contents. XV

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. 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. 3 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 shower, 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 unwrapt by gleam or goal, And under Azrael's wing. My hand is stained, and from 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. 5 strife. Bound by the same devotion That steered us home through 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 flowing 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. THE LOST SOUL.

Part I

It was not many years ago When I, a wild and wayward man, Yet with some sort of godlike 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 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 nfsh 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, 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, 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 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 ; I I chime, 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 ofthe 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 And in the silence found its trace That vanished ere I marked the place, And left the sadness more sublime ; And all responded to my 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 ofthe 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 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 heavenly harps with golden strings Once more I saw the snowy gleam On virgin peaks of promise fall, And life as some enchanted hall ,9 Threw wide its portals to each beam That dropt from every passing dream, And felt the miracle in ali ; 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 — Ifyou 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 ghastly dearth, But in careless incompleteness A true daughter of the earth. HOME SICKNESS. 15 I am sick of painted woman With her fussing and her fads, Who has little 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 ever)' fashion — The last lunacy in jugs, With a breast that knows no passion But for dirt}7 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. 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.