Verses

Front matter

By

ARCHIBALD CONSTABLE & CO 1898

Butler & Tanner, The Selwood Printing Works, Frome, and London.

February

FEBRUARY

THE waters awake at last, and the tawny meads grow green; Clouds run over the sky, and the air is wild with glee. Who can doubt for a minute what all the stir may mean? The Thrush goes flying up to the top of the poplar-tree, With a “Spring! Spring! Spring! Pretty bird! Pretty bird! Pretty bird!” sings he.

Brave little points of palm begin to twinkle and gleam; Frolicsome catkins volley gold-dust over the lea. Earth is busy forgetting her weariful winter dream,

And loud and louder sings the Thrush, high up in the poplar-tree, With a “Pretty bird! Pretty bird! Pretty bird! Spring! Spring! Spring!” carols he.

Spring’s Chorister

SPRING’S CHORISTER

Spring sang a song, and sang it me Right glad was I to hear it! It set my heart from chillness free, And gloriously did cheer it. Then said sweet Spring To me, “Now sing An answer, shall come near it.”

Therewith I did a song essay, Brimming with blithest gladness, But ah! my voice (alackaday!) Still echoed Winter’s sadness; Well might I try— Came never nigh That song’s bewitching madness.

Then as against a tree I leant, And o’er my song was sighing, Came to me for my solacement Some pretty bird a-flying; Flew round and round Above the ground Where yet the snow was lying:

Flew in and out the branches bare, Whose arms kind Spring was filling With baby sunbeams: everywhere Flew, flitted, flutter’d, trilling Out of his throat A little note, That thro’ my heart went thrilling,

Till, looking up, “O Spring!” I said, “Mute must I stand, confessing My human dulness. Take, instead Of mine, this singer’s blessing— In lightsome flight, And song’s delight, Thy very self expressing!”

An Inquest

AN INQUEST

Bumble’s dead! the young Grass springs, Deep in blue a Laverock sings, Violets nestle ’mid the lines Of the bold bright Celandines, Willow her golden goblet spills, And puffs of airy wine distils, Almond-scented and honey-fed;— Bumble’s not asleep, he’s dead!

Dear big beautiful brown Bee, What hurt you? Let me look and see . . Thighs, and breast, and head and back— No! There's not the slightest crack In these greaves of burnish’d brass, In this velvety cuirass, Or all this plated gossamer Of wings that wont to whirr and whirr, You burly hoplite, what went wrong In a panoply so strong? Your golden collar is in place, These great eyes visor yet your face, Your broad sash is not push’d awry. Bumble! How did you come to die?

Ah! what’s this lolling from your lips, This bronzéd shaft with two fine tips? Bumble! and does the wind sing true? He sings a shocking tale of you! Of willow-wine, and helpless drouth, And one poor greedy tippling mouth! And, then, this tell-tale tongue! what needs More witness? Plain, I fear, that pleads “Guilty!”

Laverock’s carols fail, The young Grass looks very pale, Willow quivers, shivers, sighs, Celandines turn up their eyes, Violets droop the ashaméd head— O poor Bumble! And you’re dead!

Golden-Mouth

GOLDEN-MOUTH

Out of the streets I went my way One grey-ey’d January day. Suddenly, as I stroll’d along, A wayside throstle burst out in song.

Long, long months my weary mind Had conn’d the griefs of humankind; Care had had my heart to school, And sear’d it with her iron rule.

But oh! what’s this—this strange unrest? Is the heart turning in my breast? Oh, mercy! is it joy or pain Lets the tears rush into my eyes again?

And are these wings, my spirit feels? And are wings growing at my heels? Something touches me! something gleams! The air is quick with resurgent dreams!

For, “Love! Love and Life! Oh, back to you! Trouble’s a lie, but ye are true!”— Now, praise and thanks to my brother the bird— This was he singing; this I heard!

Sing Happily

SING HAPPILY

I heard a Robin from a leafless tree Sing happily. A meagre bird in sober suit was he, Singing a carol of surpassing glee. Sing happily, Robin, Robin, happily!

No furtive sun hearten’d the heavy sky, (Sing happily!) December’s churlish wind push’d roughly by, Earth lay a-dreaming deep with upclosed eye. (Sing happily, Robin, Robin, happily!)

A poor wan world, with wintry grief forspent, (Sing happily!) Wherein no faintest voice responsive lent This lonely singer its encouragement. (Sing happily, Robin, Robin, happily!)

He sang; and after every mellow trill, Sung happily, He paus’d; as tho’ at heart retracing still Each utter’d rapture to its inmost thrill, Oh! happily, Robin, Robin, happily!

He felt no solitude, no chill distress; (Sing happily!) Sipping at his own song’s deliciousness, He needed nought, his rich estate to bless— Sing happily, Poet, Poet, happily!

Death-in-Life

DEATH-IN-LIFE

Awhile ago I lay down in this place, Hard by the summit of a heathery hill. The Autumn afternoon was very still, All things seem’d melting into sunny space. I lay long, looking in the sky’s dear face, Wearing my heart away with prayers, until Nature releas’d me from my weary will, Gave me sweet Death-in-Life.

O sovereign grace! Gone is the misty question, “What am I?” No part of me but in the sunlight shares. I am become a morsel of blue sky, A breath among the slowly-sauntering airs, A tuft of heather, rooted where I lie— Anything, save a creature that hath cares!

The Summons

THE SUMMONS

“Leave the broad sunshine, and the pleasant plain; Seek thou the o’erclouded height!” Great was the voice that call’d. I rose, and went Out from the light That makes the happy valleys laugh; I left Glad homes and children’s prattle all behind; And, climbing up the hillside, a sheer cleft, Pine-clad and dark, did find.

What mystery Divine, what unknown calm Made awful that dim air! Twilight’s deep wings, laid tenderly above, Held silence there. Birds in the valley caroll’d. I lay still. Vague stirrings of some giant soul possess’d My soul with its vast Life’s tumultuous thrill— How much more sweet than rest!

To Night

TO NIGHT

Wrap me round with thine arms, O Mother! Take my head to thy dim, deep bosom, Dark and mighty Mother of mine. Rest me a moment—I am tired, Mother mine!

These dull tears that keep welling, welling, Kiss them back! And this hard, hot forehead, Calm and patient Mother of mine, Let thy cool palm soothe and loosen, Mother mine!

This heart-aching, these cares, this weakness, Draw them off—they are harsh and heavy, Dewy-handed Mother of mine! Lave me in purity, lap me in freshness, Mother mine!

Sing, now! Open my spirit’s portals Wide; all the bustling thoughts lure outward, Dulcet-breathing Mother of mine! With melodious quiet lull me, Mother mine!

Sow the dear dreams thick on mine eyelids, Fold my face in thy neck—O Mother, Strong and tender Mother of mine; I am thy child, and thou art my Mother, Mother mine!

Five Prayers

FIVE PRAYERS

To taste Wild wine of the mountain-spring, fresh, living, strong, Running and rushing like a triumph-song Round hearts new-braced:

To smell A growing cowslip, some glad morn of Spring, And breathe the breath of every fragrant thing From every bell:

To touch A sliding wavelet, supple, smooth and thin,— Just ere the pois’d and perfect crests begin To bend too much:

To hear Amid May twilight, by the murmuring sea, Some blackbird warbling from a budded tree, Tender and clear:

To see Down young rose-petals how the deepening light Glides gradually, till, somewhere out of sight, What light must be!—

O Thou, intense Rapture of Beauty! All-pervading Lord! Is not this worship? So art Thou ador’d By every sense!

Church

CHURCH

The people bent above their books, And sweetly pray’d the priest, My heart stay’d frozen by their fire, And fasted at their feast.

But where the lonely breezes blow Above the lonely sod, Where mountain-heads are hid in mist, My heart was hid with God.

Forgiven

FORGIVEN

O Bliss too exquisite for song! I am at peace, my pain is past. For Nature, holy, sweet and strong, Hath drawn me back to her at last.

Mother! Loose not thy dear embrace From thy poor passionate child again! I could not even dream thy face In that wild agony of pain.

But, now!—The clouds are roll’d away, The moon looks lovingly from Heaven. Thousands of tender voices say, “Rest now, poor soul! Thou art forgiven!”

Saint Margaret

SAINT MARGARET

Just ere the swell of the down is broken Sheer by the sea cliff, sky and air Brood o’er a farmplace bleak and bare, Where the wind is master; and this is his token— Two writhen trees, and no more, are there.

You might call it God-forsaken, only Within her white-wall’d chamber lies Margaret, gazing thro’ the skies, Or past the sweep of the upland lonely: Margaret, with the grateful eyes!

With yonder harebells, pure and pale, How gentle is the rough down made! Yet ere October they must fade … —There's another flower, more fair, more frail, Will first upon God’s knee be laid.

And ah! the wheat has finish’d turning Her waves of green to waves of gold, Rich light is swimming round stalk and fold, The fields with a ruddy joy are burning —And all the August suns are told.

Already the mellow mists do creep Upon the pasture, soft and slow. The air they soothe with dreamy glow, The sky they lull to tranquil sleep —And Summer steals away, tiptoe.

The noon-sun’s finger turns the moss A-bask on the barn-roof, golden-green; The ricks are bright with paly sheen; The treetops rustle not, nor toss; All is silent, still, serene.

Only the swallows flit and flicker Rapidly, rapidly, round and round, Now fanning the straws on the court-yard ground With smooth down-swoop, now quicker and quicker Pulsing up with a strong rebound.

Margaret, at her window lying, Studies this ripening world outside, This book before her open’d wide; Looks for help in this strange pass—Dying; Sees; and lies there, satisfied!

The wise words in the printed books Dazzle her mind, till it cannot see; A simple, ignorant girl is she; But, here, in Nature’s heart she looks, And finds there—God, immediately.

God smiles at her in the austere sweet gloaming That muffles the feet of the coming dawn; God's hand smoothes out the fair long morn; God rides the waters, thro’ all their roaming, And hangs the cool stars over the corn.

’Twas God that bade the downs outspread All their heart to the large-ey’d sky. —In ceaseless worship do they lie With ever His puissance overhead Mirror’d in their humility:

For, when the sun is over-brimming Heaven’s chalice of profoundest blue, The downs run o’er with rapture, too; Their russet cup hath a golden rimming, And Glory swings in the grass like dew:

But the grey clouds, with their daylong weeping Droop o’er lonely stretches vast With mute mournfulness o’ercast— Till Comfort on amber wings comes leaping Out of the evening sky at last:

And when, thro’ folds of violet cloud Steals forth a vague pathetic sense, Like some hid grief’s half-evidence, The downs, like one to patience vow’d Wait, in a sober, meek suspense:—

Till Margaret, o’er the page God-given Musing with love-illumin’d mind, Reads this amid the lettering twined: “As the look of the downs to the look of heaven, My will to Thine, Lord, be resign’d!”

—Often the bees’ low song, enwove With sunbeams and warm clover-scent, Floats in, a balmy murmurment, That laps her in a sense of love, An idle sense of blank content:

Till down the quicken’d air comes pouring Ecstasy, rapture infinite! Her eyes flash open, wet and bright. “Oh! can you see Him in your soaring? Skylark! I wish He were in sight!

Or she will gaze where, far away, Clasp’d in an amethystine zone, The sea and sky melt into one. “Something’s behind that!” she will say, “And there, I think, must be His Throne.”

By day she watches, fair and smooth, The amethyst sea-water shine;— By night she hears its voice, benign, Mighty, a voice to calm and soothe. “Father!” she murmurs, “sure ’tis Thine!”

But when the stars come too, and sing Strange, high hymns, and wingèd beams Troop in to vigil round her dreams, One cry all thro’ her heart doth ring: “God! Thou art everywhere, it seems!”

Ah, love! Let others reach salvation Thro’ tears and consciousness of sin; God hath His way each heart to win. Nature He made thy Revelation, Held out her hand, and led thee in!

Ireland

IRELAND

Land of the hidden sun, Poor land of pensive skies, —Between whose long grey lids Glide out long golden eyes:

Land of tyrannic cloud, —Betray’d by peeping blue, Where, from her huddled rags, The native Heaven laughs thro’:

Land of drear noons, with roof And quaking walls of rain, —Issuing on royal eves, Pure fire without one stain:

God spread and spread thy light, God thrust thy clouds apart, Land of the tear-fill’d eyes, Land of the laughing heart!

Trafalgar Square

TRAFALGAR SQUARE

Strong isle of stillness ’mid a roaring Sea! Like some great Queen thy solitude doth stand, Deigning with quiet majesty and grand To front these wild waves of Humanity. How proud a privilege is granted thee! All round thou see’st the mighty flood expand, Hear’st its hoarse voice of thunderous command, Know’st all its power; yet from that power art free!

Man’s joy, Man’s woe, his hunger and his wealth, For ever art thou contemplating these; Yet still thy fountains the air with health, Above the glaring pavement dream thy trees. —Could but my soul, herself as free from strife, As fully face each fact of human life!

Spring in London

SPRING IN LONDON

There’s one that calleth in the street, Merry of voice, named Wickedness. And many a man will push and grope His way towards a sound so sweet. —Later, the sense thereof no less, He hears: “There is no Hope!”

One croucheth by, fordone with woe. All know her—she is Suffering. The winds wax clammy cold as Death, While, shuddering, thro’ her rags they go. Sharp her unsobbing voice doth ring: “There is no Hope!” she saith.

Day after day, and night by night, Upon me, sitting all alone, Beats the double desperate cry. Till champion Faith is put to flight, And ’mid my fences overthrown, “There's no Hope!” mutter I.

—So last night. … But to-day, to-day, Each pool in the street is an eye of blue, Buoyant with Spring is the smoky air, And a girl sells daffodils, over the way.— Why should not everything come new? Thank God! Hope’s everywhere!

The Terrace

THE TERRACE

“Mentem mortalia tangunt.”

The Terrace is full of sun, And holds warm air. Invalids, day by day, Take refuge there.

Here stands one in his prime, And begs for breath. Yonder a fair girl walks In step with Death.

Children move here on crutches; Some, not at all. None are too grown to be ill, And none too small.—

—Among the dying babies And dying men, The merry crocuses bloom; Spring’s back again!

Dives and Lazarus

DIVES AND LAZARUS

I wander thro’ the streets, and see The poor man and the rich; But I am sure that God alone Knows rightly which is which.—

—There was an old man once, who bore A tray of wither’d fruit; It snow’d; and people hurried by, Deaf to his quavering suit.

Last, by a lit wide-window’d shop With doubled prayers he plied One who, alas! like all the rest Unheeding, pushed inside,

Where the pinch’d face against the glass Might watch him fling down gold For a few flowers, that all would be Dust ere the week was old.

Then turned the beggar to the cur That shivering by him stood: “Ay, Mick! yon lad has gold for flowers; We haven’t pence for food!”

But ah! those instant-lifted eyes, How loving, patient, true! Till Love in those down-cast cried out “Right, friend! I have got you!”

—He of the rare load, coming home, Upon a cold still bed Cast it, with tears. He, too, had had One friend. She lay there, dead.

—I wander through the streets, and see The poor man and the rich, And sure I am that God alone Knows rightly which is which!

Renaissance

RENAISSANCE

What strange device is this of Fate’s, that thou, Being such, in such a time, to such an earth Art born, O damsel of the unruffled brow? Sure, in a stately age long-past, thy birth Must have made glad some lordly palace-pile In some far dreamy city of the South, Whose languid grace yet lingers in thy smile And curves the corners of thy pouted mouth, Sunbeams less shy than ours have kiss’d that cheek Into its changeful almond-petal bloom, And play’d their mazy game of hide-and-seek ’Mid those crisp tresses; till a sudden doom Fasten’d them there, for ever to abide, To lave thy brow in floods of radiant light, Or soft adown thy shoulder’s dimpled side Dance out a dazzling brede of gold and white.

—Yea, cloistered round with old red crumbling wall, On marble steps methinks I see thee stand, Erect and gracious, young and fair and tall, Holding sweet purple violets in thy hand!

Yet as I gaze, rejoicing,—ah, behold! Is there not spread a warm blue sky afloat Above thee, and beneath thee? From the gold Of those rough-rippling locks, thy dulcet throat, All lilywhite and clear, leans yearningly Along the blue; thy face is full of dreams, Pensive, mysterious, very sweet to see! And, thro’ the bright air flashing brighter beams, Lo! from each pure-curv’d shoulder a white wing Upleaping, for a veil that thou mayst spread Before thy face, in that high communing When God’s own voice rings round thine awe-struck head.

Star-bright thou standest on the sapphire floor, And, floating round thee cloud-like, soft as love, Fair many-folded raiment eddies o’er Thy white feet, lifted as in act to move.

I know thee now! Thou art that angel dear Whom Perugino saw, so long ago, And never tir’d of limning. Prison’d here Thou art, in this deep dungeon-world of woe, This dreariness, that men call daily life. Alas! thou hast forgone thy visions blest. Where are thy wings? Like us, with sin, with strife, Like us with littleness, thou art oppress’d!

Fate! Shall I bless or curse thee, who ordain’d So dim a setting for a gem so rare— Made woman of an Angel, yet retain’d The Angel’s halo in the woman’s hair?

Dethroned, Rethroned

DETHRONED, RETHRONED

The pride of rooted majesty, The splendid pride of lordliness Stamp’d with the right imperial die— Most royal in adversity, Most radiant in distress— To-day beside the sea-waves wild I found it, in a beggar-child.

She sings upon the beach for hire; The vivid mirth across her face, Her Creole eyes of night and fire, The boldness of her bright attire, Daily suffuse the place; Light the dull ground, re-light the air, And lure a ring of gazers there.

To whom she croons a curious strain, Lawless, outlandish, eerie, sweet;— Not till she ends that wild refrain Her thralls can catch their breath again, And feel their bosoms beat. So every day, with merry din, Her revenues come clattering in.

And yesterday they did not fail But ah! to-day Dolores found A stranger, squalid, gaunt and pale, Screaming a scrannel ditty stale On her peculiar ground. And just as thickly stood the ring To hear the newer singer sing!

Then ’mid the ring, with face unstirr’d, With unabash’d considerate mien, Leaving the whisper’d jeers unheard, Appraising but the sway preferr’d, Stood she, the cast-off Queen; Nor claimed again her wrested sway, But listen’d—look’d—and turn’d away.

And climbing a near stairway steep, There, O the wonder! poised clate, With eyes that danced, and yet were deep With secrets that they scarce could keep, Alone, aloft, she sate; And with serene contentment view’d Poor rival and fond multitude!―

—She sees her gold and purple gay Its undull’d flutter round her make; She hears, within, her music play Unmarr’d—and her whole soul can say, “It is but a mistake! Tho’ at her feet my pennies fall, I am the right one, after all!”

Twilight by the Sea

TWILIGHT BY THE SEA

Above the weary world is spread A sky of gentle grey, And Eve’s unhasting footstep creeps Across the quiet bay. The waves along the beach Plash ever, each on each.

The cliffs defiant brow takes on A tenderer look; the wail Of the wild sea-birds dies away; Sleep folds her gradual veil Earth’s tired eyes around, But still the seawaves sound.

The daisies purse their petals up, The lambs to shelter creep; Man, putting off his toil, puts on The nothingness of sleep. Still, still upon the shore The waves their music pour.

Deep grows the dusk. You cannot see One crest or column shine. Yet still the unceasing voice on voice Attests the unending line Of homebound waves that come Surely and safely home.

Ay, waves so many! and not one, O’er trackless leagues and vast By nature sent to seek the shore, But finds the shore at last! —God! God! would men were free With no less liberty!

A March Evening

A MARCH EVENING

The night steals down upon the sea, Mystery unto mystery. So late? And we are due at home, Rover, ere night be fully come! Whew! Bitter blows the wind and shrill, As we turn inland, up the hill With its one cottage—snug, no doubt, Inside, but grim and grey without; Save where yon line of light shoots thro’ The good green shutter, half-pull’d to On father’s meal and tiny prayers Said in the warmth to-night downstairs; God bless them! Ay, but does she wait, Quit fire and lamp, and sigh, “He’s late!” To the cold pane? Come on, lad!

Here Glimmers our path, still vaguely clear, The little rutted chalky way That none, I’ll warrant, all the day Has trod, save us. On either hand The dim, pathetic downs expand,— Patches of wan and whiten’d green, Or purple where the plough has been, And tawny hillocks. Not a sound, Save, somewhere rustling near the ground, A homeward lark; and, far behind, A great voice vanquishing the wind— The Sea’s. All else is near asleep, No daring star makes shift to peep Twixt these wild massy clouds that fly So fast along the pallid sky. Only the lighthouse beacon streams Athwart the night in two bright beams That lonelier make the dark.

Ah—hush! What moved? What’s all that sudden rush Of something white—can those be lambs? They glimmer ’mid their scarce-seen dams Like baby-ghosts. . . . And now a warm Sweet whiff of hay . . . the half-way farm Must be at hand; but where’s the light? Ah, there. . . . And now ’tis past. The night Is on us. The black world around Lies steep’d in loneliness profound. We plod a mile, and do not speak.

. . . A stinging scud of rain! And bleak And bleaker comes the wind, with whirls That choke one, and wild whoops and skirls Worrying one mad. . . . How foolish! Yet You, too, begin to whine and fret, Rover! What is it? Just the storm? Or can you scent some fiendish form Prowling ahead? Get on! you slink Too close. Now, were we near the brink Instead of safe inland . . . What! Hark! . . . One’s ear is dull’d by all this dark. . . . Can that be—surf? . . . . . . The night so black— The cliff-track for the homeward-track— Death in the dark, and no farewell— My God! . . . Look! look! the hideous spell Breaks! Ay, lad, bark and run! All’s past! Home and the lodestar face at last, The lifted lamp, the door held wide; “My dearest!” and the night’s outside!

Gaffer’s Last Journey

GAFFER’S LAST JOURNEY

The cart is ready; come! Oh, is it true? Gaffer, dear Gaffer, can’t you hear me cry? Must the old place call out, instead of you, “Good-bye”?

Ah, sure, ’tis only market-day at Shere; We’ve only tuck’d you in all snug to go With Polly that you’ve harness’d, Gaffer, dear. No! no!

Never again you’ll yoke her at the door! Never, but this once, take the market-track! And oh! you’ll never, never any more Come back!

. . . You’re all alone. Tho’ we trudge on beside (All of us but poor Pincher), one by one, And Granny often stumbles: yet you ride Alone.

. . . You need no gaiters, tho’ the roads be mire; Your old blue cloak’s at home, despite the rain; We needn’t be afraid you’ll ever tire Again.

. . . ’Tis market-day, we're all for Shere, and yet There’s not one word among so many souls. But, straight ahead, a bell one can’t forget Tolls, tolls. . . .

Stop, yon’s the village! Lay the holly-greens Upon the lid . . . lift him . . . with bated breath Bear him along, and reverence! Oh, this means Death!

Gaffer! this change to you that shrank from change, That liked things every-day, not new and odd! Oh, do not let him find Heaven very strange, Please, God!

Barbara

BARBARA

I

I SAW three ships go sailing, And two I’ve seen come back; A ship of war, and a merchant ship,— And the third was a fisher-smack.

The first is back with glory, The next with treasure stor’d.— But the little smack, she’ll ne’er be back, That had my love aboard.

II

Seven riding-lights but now; Now, only three. And still creeps the sheeted fog Across the numb sea.

A night’s fog for the fisher-boats, A night’s fog for the sea— Night on night, day on day A life’s fog for me.

III

North I turn, but never his face I find; South,—but it is not there! Night cannot lull my sorrow asleep, nor dawn Awaken my despair.

But, oft-times, twixt the rim of the dying day, And the rim of the darkening sea, Hope spies the pearly gleam of that far-off Sail, Will give him back to me!

The Pool and the Kingfisher

THE POOL AND THE KINGFISHER

A deep Pool lay within a forest dark. No grass grew on its brim, No sun, no swallow knew the place; it was Vacant and drear and dim.

Thither, one day, a gem-bright Kingfisher O, as the blue seas bright! Swept, with a flash that waked the swooning air, And smote the dark to light.

And the sad Pool rejoiced, and said: “At last Comes lightly to my breast The natural lord of its unrifled deeps,— And O, the glorious Guest!

“Now my perpetual pall of murky days What secret Sun will line! Now all my shadows shall with light be sped, Or, lingering, learn to shine.

“And ye, charged Clouds, ye shall but gladden me Now, with your rainbow rain!” —The Bird was flying to his nest, far off, And never came again.

Naxos

NAXOS

When lonely on the once-delightful shore Stood Ariadne, and the stern wind blew Steadily seaward, till at last she knew Theseus could come no more:

Behold, a God, a God rush’d to her side!— —Think you she cared? I know which way she turn’d Fain eyes, and longing heart, and lips that burn’d; I know which name she cried!

For now the Godlike let draws near to me; Yea, Love-of-one denied, comes Love-for-all,— But, where art thou? Canst thou not hear me call, O lost, lost Love, to thee?

Lustleigh Cleave

LUSTLEIGH CLEAVE

This is a haunt of Peace! This room, Like some still convent-cell White-wall’d and innocently bare, Knoweth her presence well.

Her breath hath touch’d this quiet air, Her hand these quiet rills; Her kiss yet lingers at the heart Of these shy daffodils.

As fields with dew, yon spacious sky Is sooth’d with her decree; These open-hearted lonely hills Are made her sanctuary.

O that so consecrate and calm’d, O that so sure a shrine, So purposéd and so fulfill’d Were this hot heart of mine!

The Ishmaelite

THE ISHMAELITE

Some men have souls like gardens,— Fair plots of fruitful ground, Smooth lawns and ways well-order’d, With chosen blossoms border’d, And walls to fence them round.

O still and safe and fragrant! Kind homes of peace and love! All things uncouth excluding, Free only to the brooding Of the great sky above!

’Tis said, by Angel-footsteps Such garden-paths are trod— Angels, the sky forsaking, Tend every blossom, making A pleasure-place for God.

—I have walk’d in some such garden. How well it was, how meet! Yet, down each alley shining, With tears I wander’d, pining For wild things round my feet!

Sweeter than thrush or robin, To me, the seagull’s scream; Fairer the blacken’d heather That fronts the bleak moor-weather, Than that soft garden-dream.

Oh, peace is not so precious, Perchance, as is distress! Forbid Thine Angels, Father, To tend me—keep Thou rather One unwall’d wilderness!

The Neighbour

THE NEIGHBOUR

[“῾Ιν᾽ αὐτὸς ἦν πρόσουρος.”—Sophocles.]

“Lonely, lonely, O life!” I said, “This path thou givest me to tread, Sadly I watch my fellow-kind Along the level roadway wind, Step mating step, and arms entwined. I from my uphill rut may see How readily, for weal, for woe, They win and render sympathy; But I for ever friendless go”— Saith a small voice: “Oh, say not so! Hast thou not me?”

“Give me but leave to play my part, And be consoled, thou sick at heart! Ay, upon dreary errands sent With wrested will, and footsteps bent Into a byway, be content! One is but one, two make a world; And two may laugh where one must weep. Whither is bubble Sorrow whirl’d When half is given a friend to keep? Give me my half, whose life so deep In thine lies furl’d!

“Hast heavy trouble? I, too, bear it! Fugitive joy? Yet I, too, share it! The dull ache of the listless sense, The fretted fire, the want immense, The rending passion, the pang intense— Friend! I know all their influence, Comrade! take heart!” O subtle bliss, O Hope, thro’ desolation stealing Like water thro’ a wilderness With comfort and delicious healing! Who renders me such fellow-feeling? —My own self ’tis!