Rosemary and Pansies

Front matter

ROSEMARY AND PANSIES

ROSEMARY AND PANSIES

BY

The Pageant of the Hours

THE PAGEANT OF THE HOURS

<>I For ever do the Hours unfold The tale in Fate's great book enrolled, The tale for ever to be told, For ever new, yet ever old: They march for ever on their way Nor prayer nor threat their course can stay; Impassive ministers of Fate, Unmoved alike by Love or Hate: Yet are they friends, not foes, to man, Could he their course with calmness scan.

<>II They bring us Life—ill-omened gift! And set us in the world adrift To struggle with it as we may, To triumph or become its prey: Indifferent on their path they go, Regardless of our joy or woe, Unenvious of our happiness, And pitiless to our distress; They furnish forth for us the stage, But care not how we rant or rage.

<>III They give us love, good-fortune, joy, Yet as they give their gifts destroy; Enchant with visions of delight, Then plunge us deep in starless night; Our hopes for ever dash with fears, Our joys for ever drown in tears; Never unmingled bliss bestow, Or give it but to overthrow; Man's soul a pipe whereon they play What tones they will, or grave or gay.

<>IV Tireless upon their way they sweep, Bearing their burdens to the deep Eternal sea from whose dim shore Return is barred for evermore; All that we prize and all we fear They bear onto its waters drear, Which, though they seem so dark and cold, Nepenthe for all sorrows hold; A gift of all good gifts the best— Eternal and undreaming rest.

<>V Unhindered on their way they keep, Nor ever pause nor ever sleep, Nor torn aside nor look behind, But tread the path to them assigned

When Nature, born a Twin with Time, Assumed her attributes sublime, And entered on her glorious dower Of all-embracing rule and power: So till her sovereignty is past The Pageant of the Hours shall last

1901

"Beauty and the Beast"

"BEAUTY AND THE BEAST"

AN IMPRESSION

(Alhambra, January 20, 1898)

A feast of colour gay and bright, A scene of unalloyed delight, A glad escape from drabs and greys, From racking thought and toilsome days; A vision of a fairy land Where youth and beauty hand in hand Dance through radiant summer hours O'er verdant lawns bestrewn with flowers: Earth made a Paradise anew, The Golden Age again in view; All thought of life's sad discords drowned In wave on wave of pulsing sound; Beauty, enchantment, poetry, Motion harmonious, rhythmic, free; Forms graceful, sinuous, and lithe, With gladsome animation blithe; Houris for whose bewitching eyes Angels would forfeit Paradise; All that the senses can delight, All that can wing time's heavy flight; A show of loveliness supreme, A realised poetic dream;

All here exhilarates and gladdens, And not a thought intrudes that saddens; A wild delirium of joy Without control, without alloy, Intoxicating and entrancing Till heart and brain and nerves are dancing!

Ah! with a sudden shock of pain, I'm thrown back on myself again— Descending on the final rally, The curtain falls upon—the Ballet! And leaves me once again to feel The disillusion of the real; To pass into the gloomy night With no deceptive splendours bright; To meditate how transitory Are all man's pleasures, all his glory; How fast his happy moments fleet, While misery moves with leaden feet.

What I moralise in style so trite That Mawworms might your verses cite! Away with thoughts which, false or true, Are profitless and far from new; 'Tis much to gain an hour's delight, And wing with joy time's weary flight: To analyse our joys away Is but mere folly to display; If all our joys are but illusions Our sorrows also are delusions: If nature cheats us into grief Should we not thank her for relief? If life is a dissolving view Then death no more than life is true:

Real are our visions while they last, Unreal as they seem when past: With every pleasant hour that's spent We cheat the fates malevolent, Who may indeed with martyrdom Afflict us in the time to come, But cannot those blest hours recall, When pleasure did our souls enthral.

The Spiritual Life

THE SPIRITUAL LIFE

There lived a man in days long past, The happiest of his kind, Who kept unstained from first to last His pure and lucid mind.

Not of, though in the world he dwelt, Eventless was his life; No greed, no lust, no hate he felt, With no man had he strife.

Ambition, wealth, and beauty sought To tempt him with their wares, But on his equal temper wrought In vain with all their snares.

They offered him a statesman's place, He held it for a time, But left it rather than abase His soul with statecraft's slime.

Reason was valued not, he found, By people or by prince, Who on his wisest measures frowned And at plain truth did wince.

But when by sad disasters tried, They sought his aid again, And begged he would the kingdom guide, And as their sovereign reign.

Ah! could I only think," he said, "Taught in affliction's school, That you the righteous path would tread Then would I o'er you rule.

But nations never yet for long Have been by wisdom swayed, Reason than passion's far less strong, And truth's with treachery paid.

As king I must my own soul lose To gain ingratitude, Wherefore the path of peace I choose, Where no false shows delude.

Ambition's but a will o' th' wisp, Wealth's but a pedlar's pack, Beauty is but a shining lure The souls of men to wreck.

Mine are the stars, the sun, the moon, Valleys and mountains mine; All things yield up some precious boon To make my life divine.

When morning breaks I greet the sun With ever-new delight, And still, when he his course has run, Welcome no less the night.

An everlasting spring I see Of beauty and of love In earth, sea, rock, stone, flower, and tree, And in the heavens above.

All natural things my soul sustain, Supplying all its needs; From them that full content I gain Men vainly seek in creeds.

Glories where'er I gaze appear Of colour, beauty, form; The music of one Voice I hear Alike in calm and storm.

All things transfigured in my sight A greater radiance gain, I see the very light of light, The heaven of heavens attain.

One impulse ruling all I feel That in one chain doth bind What some call real and some ideal, Sense, substance, soul, and mind:

The soul that unifieth all, And all doth animate; That finds no grain of sand too small, No universe too great.

Divine ideas all unsought My spirit apprehends: Ever the greatness of my thought My power of speech transcends.

Words cannot tell the sweet content That in my soul doth reign, Whose wealth the faster it is spent The richer doth remain.

Stars crown me with their aureole, The sea flows through my veins, The heavens clothe me, and my soul Infinity contains.

I look beyond Earth's petty span, And worlds of light I see, Where, cleansed from sin and suffering, man Ascends to deity,

Until, at variance no more With the eternal Will, I see him, strife and effort o'er, His destiny fulfil."

A Poet's Grievance

A POET'S GRIEVANCE

Yes, sir! my name is Milton—Spenser Milton. Am I descended from the famous John? I knew you'd ask that—everybody puts That question to me, making me sometimes Fit to blaspheme the poet's memory, By which I've all my life been handicapped. "Paradise Lost" I've often wished had been Lost literally and never more Regained. John Milton was John Milton, I'm myself: He had his special talent, I have mine: 'Tis true indeed a family tradition (I care not for its authenticity) Asserts we are descended from the poet: But can you give me any reason why One family should not produce two poets? I couldn't write a "Paradise" I'll own, And if I could I would not: but could John With all his genius have composed that song, So full of patriotic inspiration, Of foreign foes so scornfully defiant, So trumpet-like in its triumphant measure, Which the great MacMungo sang with such success At almost every Music Hall in England, And which so roused the spirit of the nation,

And I—yes! I, your humble servant, wrote? I trow he could not: wherefore I contend 'Tis most unjust my corn to measure by John Milton's bushel. Do you think that he, Were he to come to life again, would choose To write another "Paradise"? Not he! He was a man (considering the times He lived in) of advanced opinions; not By any means a man to take unquestioned His principles from masters and from pastors. His Epic owes far more to his invention Than to the Book which he professed to follow: His Jesus and Jehovah were but Miltons "Writ large," through whom the bard ventriloquised. Did he live now and know the proved results Of Biblical research in modern times, He would be counted in the foremost ranks Of those who have cast off the chains of dogma: But that is scarcely what I meant to urge: I dare say folks have no design to hurt My feelings when they ask if I'm descended From the great Milton. It's a natural question— That is it's natural inconsiderate folk (Most folk are inconsiderate) should ask it; But don't you see (and here's the sting of it,) Most people ask as though within their minds There lurked the thought "A long descent indeed." Now this is aggravating you must own: I don't by choice bear so renowned a name; Could I have chosen my own patronymic I'd have preferred Smith, Brown, Jones, Robinson, Or any other undistinguished surname, Which I perchance by merits of my own, O'ershadowed by no famous ancestor,

Might then have made renowned and glorious. Let me confide a secret to your ear: Three tragedies I've written in a style Never attempted by another poet, Original in matter as in form, And full of great sensational effects, Which, were they once produced upon the stage, Would rank me even with the Bard of Avon. You smile, sir! but I mean just what I say, In fact I know not if I'm not too modest, And should not claim a higher place than Shakespeare: For what says Bernard Shaw?—"Excepting Homer, There is no famous writer I despise So much as I despise the vaunted Shakespeare, When I compare my intellect with his:" (And that is just what I should say of Shaw, Were I—but modesty restrains my speech.) Buchanan too (I mean the famous Robert, The author of—hang it! I've clean forgotten Their names—of countless poems, plays, and novels,) He also thinks that Shakespeare's overrated,— See! here's his "Open Letter," where he shows That the absurd idolatry of Shakespeare Is but a superstition of the mob, Who worship him for his faults and not his merits; (Robert, you see, is candid and allows That Shakespeare has some merits): Listen now— "Shakespeare, of course, writing in barbarous times, Wrote like a savage: he could do naught else! But what is most amazing in his most Amazing genius is the thorough-going Consistency with which he ever seizes The brutal and the barbarous side of things, Be it the Trojan War or Jack Cade's rising,

His horrid caricature of hunchbacked Richard, Or his bestial libel on heroic Joan." Now, sir, I don't endorse all Robert says, (His pen, I fancy, masters him at times, And writes down things which no one is astonished More than their author is to see in print:) But I do think that if you take away His six or seven masterpieces, Shakespeare Falls to a level which may well be reached, Or overleaped even by your humble servant. But let that pass; comparisons are odious, And I'm content posterity should judge Between me and the Elizabethan bard: That is, I should be well content could I But get my plays produced upon the stage, Or could I even find a publisher With enterprise enough to make them known To the great British public. Genius, sir, Both manager and publisher are blind to, And so my plays remain unknown, unacted, And I make but a poor precarious living By writing songs (at half a crown a time) For music-hall professionals. Dame Fortune Has never yet your humble servant favoured, And at the present moment worse than usual She's treating me. Behold! my purse contains Not even a copper coin. I know not How to replenish it. I should be in luck If some kind soul would lend me half a crown. Thanks, friend; my lucky star must rise some day, I shan't be always penniless, unknown, And down at heel; depend on't I'll repay you.

1886-1899

The Dream of Life

THE DREAM OF LIFE

"2We are such stuff As dreams are made of, and our little life Is rounded with a sleep."

Is all existence then a dream, Where midwife Fancy reigns supreme? Are earth and ocean, sun and sky, Creations of mere Phantasy? Are all the things that seem but vain Phantoms within a phantom brain? Is Nature but a mirage bright On ancient Chaos' mask of night? Are all we see and all we feel Alike phantasmal and unreal?

Ah yes! existence is but dreaming, However solid 'tis in seeming; Dreams are our loves and hopes and fears, Ambitions, triumphs, smiles and tears; In waking dreams we pass the day, And dreams the hours of darkness sway, (Day-dreams or night-dreams—who can guess Whether their truth is more or less?) Perchance even Death is but a dream, And fleshless skulls with visions teem. The Gods we pray to and adore

Are shadows of our dreams—no more; Heaven is a dream of yearning born, And hell the dream of the forlorn; Angels are born from sunny skies, Devils from night and storm arise; A vast phantasmagoric birth Is all our wondrous heaven and earth; Space, Time, the Universe, are naught But shadows of that central Thought, Which mortals ne'er may comprehend, Whence issues all, where all doth end: O'er all is phantasy supreme, What most seems real is most a dream!

The visions that we dream to-day That seem such newness to display, Were dreamed in dim and long-past ages By patriarchs, poets, lovers, sages; All that we feel and all we know Were felt and known long, long ago; We think no thought, no passions feel Save such as nature did reveal To our first father, when this earth From fiery star-dust sprang to birth. We dream of progress gained by stages Successive through successive ages. But like a squirrel in a cage Never advance a single stage, Or like a horse to mill-wheel bound For ever travel round and round; Condemned to think thoughts thought before, And wearily to travel o'er The barren realm of make-believe, And knowingly ourselves deceive

With the old childish speculations And unexplaining explanations: Trusting in old worn-out traditions, Or newly-minted superstitions, Which prove to be, when tested, naught But bastard spawn of ancient thought; Nothing we see in truth's pure light, But all in falsehood's hues bedight; The cup from life's pure fount decline To drug ourselves with poisoned wine; Curse fate which does but give us scope To hang ourselves with our own rope; With all that we can use or need Grasping at more with sateless greed; Ever, though mocked and mortified, Parading with a peacock's pride; Matching brave words with coward deeds, Fettering our souls with craven creeds; For ever forging chains to bind In straiter bondage heart and mind.

Dreams within dreams and dreams within them We spin and never cease to spin them. The victims ever of illusions. And mocking protean delusions: The playthings of ironic fate. Dreaming we live and love and hate; Striving though strife brings naught but pain, Hoping though all our hopes are vain; Seeking for what we may not find, Wayward and roving as the wind; Shadows for ever we pursue, And still the bootless chase renew;

Prefer a Will o' the Wisp's false light To Reason's lanthorn dear and bright; Heap follies upon follies till They overmaster mind and will, And, rendering us to reason blind, Perversity controls the mind; For truth pretend to yearn, but when She shows herself, avert our ken In mortal fear her gaze so stern Win all our weaknesses discern, And an the errors that we cherish 'Neath her too-piercing eyesight perish.

Soaring, alas! how soon we tire, To sink yet deeper in the mire, Yet from our deepest degradation, Ascend to heights of exaltation, For still there shines a spark within That's never wholly quenched by sin.

Look through a microscope and see The countless animalculæ That in a drop of water dwell:— Think you the creatures do not swell With self-importance at the thought That the whole universe was wrought Solely to give them such a home, With space so vast in which to roam? And who shall say they are not wise At a high rate themselves to prize? Since in Dame Nature's wondrous scheme, Where miracles on all sides teem,

We know not what she may account Of her creations paramount; Or rather say, her equal eye Doth all impartially descry, Nothing to her is great or small, Alike her bosom fosters all, Despises naught, loves none too well Of all that in her kingdom dwell, But gives to all whate'er they need Favouring no more the flower than weed.

What but a dream is all that's past? The Future's but a dream forecast; If aught that's not a dream can be 'Tis what we in the present see, But that dissolves before our eyes Ere we its import realise; Strive as we may to hold it fast. Naught that we see or feel may last; As in a swiftly-moving train We motionless seem to remain, While the receding landscape flies So fast it mocks our straining eyes— So are we hurried on our way, No time to think, no power to stay; With swifter and yet swifter pace, Onward, we know not where, we race, Until, amazed and out of breath, We reach the final station—Death.

So in a tangled maze of errors. Of sins, perplexities and terrors,

Of rushings hither, flyings thither, And never knowing whence or whither, Seeking to find his soul for ever, But ever foiled in the endeavour; A shuttlecock predestinate Created for the sport of fate; An actor in an aimless plot— Such is man's ever-hapless lot: Consistent but in inconsistence, Such is, was, must be, his existence.

1901-3

Unspoken Passion

UNSPOKEN PASSION

We never breathed of lore a word, Yet we were both aware Of the deep passion newly stirred Which neither might declare.

We talked of things indifferent, And none our thoughts might guess, Though love to every accent lent A tone of tenderness.

Swift telegraphic messages Flashed forth from eye to eye: "I love, but must my love suppress"— "O cruel destiny."

"Ah! had we only met before. When we to love were free!" "Wretched we must be evermore, None so forlorn as we!"

"Our secret love our eyes alone, And not our lips may tell." "No need of words for what is known To both of us so well."

And still we talked of this and that, Scarce knowing what we said; But through our disconnected chat There ran a subtle thread—

A subtle underlying thread Of pleasure mixed with pain, A mingled ecstasy and dread That thrilled through heart and brain.

And left us with a yearning sense Of sorrow and regret, And of a mighty difference Since we that night had met.

1899

Lost Identity

LOST IDENTITY

I had a curious dream last night, So odd it set me pondering: Its lesson how to read aright My thoughts afar went wandering.

Methought by evil planet crossed, Or destiny unkind, That I myself myself had lost, And strove in vain to find.

I wandered here, I wandered there, Poor weary-footed elf! But found no traces anywhere Of my unlucky self.

I asked of every one I met If they had seen me lately; A man, said I, well made and set, Though not so very stately.

But none in country or in town Could tell where I had wandered, And so at last I sat me down, And o'er the puzzle pondered.

I've searched in every likely place Where he most oft is seen, Said I, but find of him no trace: What may this portent mean?

Every old bookshop hereabout In search of him I've entered, For that is where (without a doubt) His thoughts are chiefly centred.

To concert hall and theatre I've also gone—but vainly— Although 'tis there, his friends aver, He spends his leisure mainly.

Brown, Jones, and Robinson all say That they nowhere have seen him, Men of good faith and honour they, Who wouldn't lie to screen him.

He'd no misfortunes to lament, Nor ways nor means was tasked for: If cash he'd wanted I'd have lent Whatever sum he asked for.

And still the more for light I sought The mystery seemed to thicken, Till suddenly a brilliant thought Did in my cranium quicken:

He by some magical device As I was masquerading, And by this shabby artifice On my good name was trading.

But here the tangle grew too great To hope for its untying: I woke and found both him and me Upon the sofa lying.

(That "lying" comment doth invite, And 'tis indeed suggestive, But I'm not fibbing—honour bright! Nor had I been too festive.)

'Tis usual when a fable's told With a moral to equip it; So I my moral will unfold For you to read—or skip it.

Most men, departing from the rôles Nature for them intended, Have wandered widely from their goals, And to worse things descended.

So, in a sense, they lose themselves (They may or may not know it) And go about—poor witless elves— Like your bewildered poet.

Few are the lucky folk whose lines Are cast in places pleasant On whom benignant fortune shines With lustre ever crescent.

Alas! of these I am not one, But spend my life in groping After a path and finding none, Yet always vainly hoping.

On many paths I've sought to tread, But still turned back defeated; With countless projects in my head Have never one completed.

And now a life I feel was meant Some good deed to achieve, Can scarce do aught (so far 'tis spent) Its promise to retrieve.

Oh! that myself I might but find Ere fate rings down the curtain, And no more wander, sick and blind, Where naught is plain or certain!

1897

A Bookworm's Confession

A BOOKWORM'S CONFESSION

E'en in my youth I knew the bookworm's passion; I felt it ere I well had learned to read: While cakes and sweets my comrades spent their cash on, I to the bookshop with my pence would speed.

Ever the passion more and more controlled me, Absorbing all my thoughts, my cash, my time; 'Twas vain, for parents or for friends to scold me, My ears were shut to reason or to rhyme.

More than the fondest lover loves the maiden Whose spell is on him ne'er to be o'erthrown, I loved my books, which gratefully repaid in A thousand ways the favour to them shown.

Old tomes I love most with their time-worn covers, Quaint printing and dark paper stained with age; About them a peculiar magic hovers Such as I find not in the modern page.

I love the odd, the quaint, and the fantastic; All that your men of "common sense" decline; Such treasures with a joy enthusiastic I greet and prize as connoisseurs old wine.

My crowded bookroom gives me greater pleasure Than misers from their money-bags can gain; Upon its shelves rests many and many a treasure Sought for long years before I could obtain.

Therein I'm king—all elements contentious Are there subdued and dwell in perfect peace; Mohammed there rests quietly by Mencius; There Pope and Protestant their warfare cease.

Old plays are there, old poems, old romances, Things that the busy world has long forgot; Books full of strange and undigested fancies By brains half-mad and half-inspired begot.

All kinds of useless knowledge in it slumber; Lamb's "books that are no books" there find no rest; Few of its tomes would be allowed to cumber Their shelves who chatter of "the hundred best."

It holds a thousand volumes none would value, Save such another "dryasdust" as I, Though why I love them I could scarcely tell you— Lover ne'er loved who knew the reason why.

Treasures I see, wherever fall my glances, If not unique of rarity extreme, Each with a curious history which enhances Its value past all price in my esteem.

I know wise worldlings look on me with wonder, As one beneath a strange obsession's sway. Though they perchance the influence are under Of passions which to countless ills betray,

The bookworm's passion brings no keen repentance, And if he spends he still retains his wealth; Indulgence in it never yet did sentence A man to vain regrets and ruined health.

Name a pursuit as pleasure-fraught and harmless, Giving as many hours of calm delight, And I'll at once abandon mine as charmless: Till then I'll love it in the world's despite.

Let who will blame, my dear old books I'll cherish, Since they for all my troubles make amends; 'Twill be my greatest sorrow when I perish That I no more can guard my silent friends.

Hymn of the Pantheist

HYMN OF THE PANTHEIST

Wondrous essence, Being's stay, Light that shineth night and day; Power that doth all uphold, Spirit that doth all enfold; Heart of peace in maddest strife, Joy of Joy and Life of Life; Soul of Nature! let me rest Childlike on thy loving breast, Shadow me beneath thy wings From Despair's envenomed stings.

Let me, when I wake at morn Render thanks that I was born; Let me, ere I sink to rest, Ever own how much I'm blest; Let me always grateful be For the joy I have in Thee! Ever, ever thank the Power Gave me such a splendid dower; All my thoughts thanksgivings be Till I at last return to Thee!

February 1903

The Dead Soul

THE DEAD SOUL

[Thomas Cooper, in his Autobiography, gives an account of William Thom, whose fate was a very sad one. Coming to London, he fell into dissipated habits, and consequently into distress. "Again and again," says Cooper, "I carried invitations to him from Douglas Jerrold to contribute to the 'Shilling Magazine,' and from William Howitt to contribute to his periodical, but it was in vain. 'Nay, nay,' he used to say with an air of wretchedness, 'I can do nae such thing as they ask, although they promise me siller for it. I threw off my lilts o' the heart in auld times when I had a heart, but I think I've none left noo.

The following poem was suggested by the above story; but it is intended to have a general application rather than to be understood as relating to William Thom.]

Oh! Where's the heart I once possessed, With fire poetic filled, With which my fervent youth was blessed, Ere disillusion chilled: Oh then what glorious visions came My spirit to delight! How did Life's pure aspiring flame Burn ever dear and bright!

How wondrous did all things seem, My soul how great its scope! I wandered in a blessed dream, Bathed in the light of hope; A Paradise I found where'er Were seen blue sky, green earth, An angel was each maiden fair; Fresh joys each hour had birth.

Rich in the alchemy of thought Base metal tamed to gold; Bright inspirations came unsought, Earth all its secrets told: I dwelt with saints and sages dead, And made their raptures mine; A luxury was common bread, And water was as wine.

Shakespeare my master was and friend, Shelley upon me smiled; Burns did his fiery spirit lend Keats ravished and beguiled: I heard the minstrels of all time One wondrous chorus singing, Whose dominant recurrent rhyme With lore and joy was ringing,

Too glowing was the fire, or I Unworthy of its flame; And now I shiver, faint and die, Lost every noble aim: The glorious palace of my soul Is now a prison drear; Darkly I burrow like a mole, Ghostlike I linger here.

Oh! might the fire burn up once more! But oh! that hope how vain! The corse long dead to life restore, Bid roses bloom again! When once the summer-time is o'er Winter will have his reign, But my lost summer never more Shall I, like earth, regain.

The poet lives on love and hope, And they his muse inspire; When they have fled his soul is dead, And silent is his lyre; One burst of anguish and despair May from his spirit come, Then he his grievous cross must bear, Heart-broken, soulless, dumb!

1902

Cradle Song

CRADLE SONG

Little laughing, crowing sprite, Mother's ever-new delight! How I love thee can I show By word or action? No, no, no! Smile, my darling, smile again! Far from thee be care and pain! All the joys of life be thine, Boundless love and pride be mine!

Gladdest of all living things, Happier than queens or kings! In thy little cot upcurled, Sweetest creature in the world! Wealth or glory for a night Or a day may give delight, Day and night and night and day Lasts a mother's joy alway.

Omar-FitzGeraldics

OMAR-FITZ-GERALDICS

You laugh To-day, the Preacher said, but know Salt tears To-morrow from your eyes shall flow: Bah! he's a fool who, fearing future ills, Doth this day's mirth and happiness forego.

Let Fate inflict what future ills it may, It cannot touch the joy enjoyed To-day: The deed accomplished shuts the door on Fate: The Past has passed for ever from its sway.