The Project Gutenberg eBook, Andromeda and Other Poems, by Charles Kingsley This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Andromeda and Other Poems Author: Charles Kingsley Release Date: February 12, 2004 [eBook #11064] Language: English Character set encoding: US-ASCII ***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ANDROMEDA AND OTHER POEMS***
Transcribed by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk
Contents:
Andromeda
Hypotheses Hypochondriacæ
Trehill
Well
In an Illuminated Missal
The
Weird Lady
Palinodia
A
Hope
The Poetry of a Root Crop
Child
Ballad
Airly Beacon
Sappho
The
Bad Squire
Scotch Song
The
Young Knight
A New Forest Ballad
The
Red King
The Outlaw
Sing
Heigh-ho!
A March
A Lament
The
Night Bird
The Dead Church
A
Parable from Liebig
The Starlings
Old
and New
The Watchman
The
World’s Age
The Sands of Dee
The
Tide Rock
Elegiacs
Dartside
My
Hunting Song
Alton Locke’s Song
The
Day of the Lord
A Christmas Carol
The
Oubit
The Three Fishers
Sonnet
Margaret
to Dolcino
Dolcino to Margaret
The
Ugly Princess
Sonnet
The
Swan-neck
A Thought from the Rhine
The
Longbeards’ Saga. A.D. 400
Saint
Maura. A.D. 304
On the Death of a Certain
Journal
Down to the Mothers
To
Miss Mitford
Ballad of Earl Haldan’s Daughter
Frank
Leigh’s Song. A.D. 1586
Ode to the
North-east Wind
A Farewell
To
G. A. G.
The South Wind
The
Invitation
The Find
Fishing
Song
The Last Buccaneer
The
Knight’s Return
Pen-y-gwrydd
Ode
Songs
from ‘The Water-babies’
The
Tide River
Young and Old
The
Summer Sea
My Little Doll
The
Knight’s Leap
The Song of the Little Baltung.
A.D. 395
On the Death of Leopold, King of the
Belgians
Easter Week
Drifting
Away
Christmas Day
September
21, 1870
The Mango-tree
The
Priest’s Heart
‘Qu’est Qu’il
Dit’
The Legend of La Brea
Hymn
The
Delectable Day
Juventus Mundi
Valentine’s
Day
Ballad
Martin Lightfoot’s
Song
Over the sea, past Crete, on the Syrian shore to the southward,
Dwells
in the well-tilled lowland a dark-haired Æthiop people,
Skilful
with needle and loom, and the arts of the dyer and carver,
Skilful,
but feeble of heart; for they know not the lords of Olympus,
Lovers
of men; neither broad-browed Zeus, nor Pallas Athené,
Teacher
of wisdom to heroes, bestower of might in the battle;
Share not
the cunning of Hermes, nor list to the songs of Apollo.
Fearing
the stars of the sky, and the roll of the blue salt water,
Fearing
all things that have life in the womb of the seas and the livers,
Eating
no fish to this day, nor ploughing the main, like the Phœnics,
Manful
with black-beaked ships, they abide in a sorrowful region,
Vexed
with the earthquake, and flame, and the sea-floods, scourge of Poseidon.
Whelming
the dwellings of men, and the toils of the slow-footed oxen,
Drowning
the barley and flax, and the hard-earned gold of the harvest,
Up
to the hillside vines, and the pastures skirting the woodland,
Inland
the floods came yearly; and after the waters a monster,
Bred of
the slime, like the worms which are bred from the slime of the Nile-bank,
Shapeless,
a terror to see; and by night it swam out to the seaward,
Daily
returning to feed with the dawn, and devoured of the fairest,
Cattle,
and children, and maids, till the terrified people fled inland.
Fasting
in sackcloth and ashes they came, both the king and his people,
Came
to the mountain of oaks, to the house of the terrible sea-gods,
Hard
by the gulf in the rocks, where of old the world-wide deluge
Sank
to the inner abyss; and the lake where the fish of the goddess,
Holy,
undying, abide; whom the priests feed daily with dainties.
There
to the mystical fish, high-throned in her chamber of cedar,
Burnt
they the fat of the flock; till the flame shone far to the seaward.
Three
days fasting they prayed; but the fourth day the priests of the goddess,
Cunning
in spells, cast lots, to discover the crime of the people.
All
day long they cast, till the house of the monarch was taken,
Cepheus,
king of the land; and the faces of all gathered blackness.
Then
once more they cast; and Cassiopœia was taken,
Deep-bosomed
wife of the king, whom oft far-seeing Apollo
Watched well-pleased
from the welkin, the fairest of Æthiop women:
Fairest, save
only her daughter; for down to the ankle her tresses
Rolled, blue-black
as the night, ambrosial, joy to beholders.
Awful and fair she arose,
most like in her coming to Here,
Queen before whom the Immortals
arise, as she comes on Olympus,
Out of the chamber of gold, which
her son Hephæstos has wrought her.
Such in her stature and
eyes, and the broad white light of her forehead.
Stately she came
from her place, and she spoke in the midst of the people.
‘Pure
are my hands from blood: most pure this heart in my bosom.
Yet
one fault I remember this day; one word have I spoken;
Rashly I
spoke on the shore, and I dread lest the sea should have heard it.
Watching
my child at her bath, as she plunged in the joy of her girlhood,
Fairer
I called her in pride than Atergati, queen of the ocean.
Judge
ye if this be my sin, for I know none other.’ She ended;
Wrapping
her head in her mantle she stood, and the people were silent.
Answered
the dark-browed priests, ‘No word, once spoken, returneth,
Even
if uttered unwitting. Shall gods excuse our rashness?
That
which is done, that abides; and the wrath of the sea is against us;
Hers,
and the wrath of her brother, the Sun-god, lord of the sheepfolds.
Fairer
than her hast thou boasted thy daughter? Ah folly! for hateful,
Hateful
are they to the gods, whoso, impious, liken a mortal,
Fair though
he be, to their glory; and hateful is that which is likened,
Grieving
the eyes of their pride, and abominate, doomed to their anger.
What
shall be likened to gods? The unknown, who deep in the darkness
Ever
abide, twyformed, many-handed, terrible, shapeless.
Woe to the
queen; for the land is defiled, and the people accursed.
Take thou
her therefore by night, thou ill-starred Cassiopœia,
Take
her with us in the night, when the moon sinks low to the westward;
Bind
her aloft for a victim, a prey for the gorge of the monster,
Far
on the sea-girt rock, which is washed by the surges for ever;
So
may the goddess accept her, and so may the land make atonement,
Purged
by her blood from its sin: so obey thou the doom of the rulers.’
Bitter
in soul they went out, Cepheus and Cassiopœia,
Bitter in
soul; and their hearts whirled round, as the leaves in the eddy.
Weak
was the queen, and rebelled: but the king, like a shepherd of people,
Willed
not the land should waste; so he yielded the life of his daughter.
Deep
in the wane of the night, as the moon sank low to the westward,
They
by the shade of the cliffs, with the horror of darkness around them,
Stole,
as ashamed, to a deed which became not the light of the sunshine,
Slowly,
the priests, and the queen, and the virgin bound in the galley,
Slowly
they rowed to the rocks: but Cepheus far in the palace
Sate in
the midst of the hall, on his throne, like a shepherd of people,
Choking
his woe, dry-eyed, while the slaves wailed loudly around him.
They
on the sea-girt rock, which is washed by the surges for ever,
Set
her in silence, the guiltless, aloft with her face to the eastward.
Under
a crag of the stone, where a ledge sloped down to the water;
There
they set Andromeden, most beautiful, shaped like a goddess,
Lifting
her long white arms wide-spread to the walls of the basalt,
Chaining
them, ruthless, with brass; and they called on the might of the Rulers.
‘Mystical
fish of the seas, dread Queen whom Æthiops honour,
Whelming
the land in thy wrath, unavoidable, sharp as the sting-ray,
Thou,
and thy brother the Sun, brain-smiting, lord of the sheepfold,
Scorching
the earth all day, and then resting at night in thy bosom,
Take
ye this one life for many, appeased by the blood of a maiden,
Fairest,
and born of the fairest, a queen, most priceless of victims.’
Thrice
they spat as they went by the maid: but her mother delaying
Fondled
her child to the last, heart-crushed; and the warmth of her weeping
Fell
on the breast of the maid, as her woe broke forth into wailing.
‘Daughter!
my daughter! forgive me! Oh curse not the murderess! Curse
not!
How have I sinned, but in love? Do the gods grudge glory
to mothers?
Loving I bore thee in vain in the fate-cursed bride-bed
of Cepheus,
Loving I fed thee and tended, and loving rejoiced in
thy beauty,
Blessing thy limbs as I bathed them, and blessing thy
locks as I combed them;
Decking thee, ripening to woman, I blest
thee: yet blessing I slew thee!
How have I sinned, but in love?
Oh swear to me, swear to thy mother,
Never to haunt me with curse,
as I go to the grave in my sorrow,
Childless and lone: may the
gods never send me another, to slay it!
See, I embrace thy knees—soft
knees, where no babe will be fondled—
Swear to me never to
curse me, the hapless one, not in the death-pang.’
Weeping
she clung to the knees of the maid; and the maid low answered—
‘Curse
thee! Not in the death-pang!’ The heart of the lady
was lightened.
Slowly she went by the ledge; and the maid was alone
in the darkness.
Watching the pulse of the oars
die down, as her own died with them,
Tearless, dumb with amaze
she stood, as a storm-stunned nestling
Fallen from bough or from
eave lies dumb, which the home-going herdsman
Fancies a stone,
till he catches the light of its terrified eyeball.
So through
the long long hours the maid stood helpless and hopeless,
Wide-eyed,
downward gazing in vain at the black blank darkness.
Feebly at
last she began, while wild thoughts bubbled within her—
‘Guiltless
I am: why thus, then? Are gods more ruthless than mortals?
Have
they no mercy for youth? no love for the souls who have loved them?
Even
as I loved thee, dread sea, as I played by thy margin,
Blessing
thy wave as it cooled me, thy wind as it breathed on my forehead,
Bowing
my head to thy tempest, and opening my heart to thy children,
Silvery
fish, wreathed shell, and the strange lithe things of the water,
Tenderly
casting them back, as they gasped on the beach in the sunshine,
Home
to their mother—in vain! for mine sits childless in anguish!
O
false sea! false sea! I dreamed what I dreamed of thy goodness;
Dreamed
of a smile in thy gleam, of a laugh in the plash of thy ripple:
False
and devouring thou art, and the great world dark and despiteful.’
Awed
by her own rash words she was still: and her eyes to the seaward
Looked
for an answer of wrath: far off, in the heart of the darkness,
Blight
white mists rose slowly; beneath them the wandering ocean
Glimmered
and glowed to the deepest abyss; and the knees of the maiden
Trembled
and sunk in her fear, as afar, like a dawn in the midnight,
Rose
from their seaweed chamber the choir of the mystical sea-maids.
Onward
toward her they came, and her heart beat loud at their coming,
Watching
the bliss of the gods, as they wakened the cliffs with their laughter.
Onward
they came in their joy, and before them the roll of the surges
Sank,
as the breeze sank dead, into smooth green foam-flecked marble,
Awed;
and the crags of the cliff, and the pines of the mountain were silent.
Onward
they came in their joy, and around them the lamps of the sea-nymphs,
Myriad
fiery globes, swam panting and heaving; and rainbows
Crimson and
azure and emerald, were broken in star-showers, lighting
Far through
the wine-dark depths of the crystal, the gardens of Nereus,
Coral
and sea-fan and tangle, the blooms and the palms of the ocean.
Onward
they came in their joy, more white than the foam which they scattered,
Laughing
and singing, and tossing and twining, while eager, the Tritons
Blinded
with kisses their eyes, unreproved, and above them in worship
Hovered
the terns, and the seagulls swept past them on silvery pinions
Echoing
softly their laughter; around them the wantoning dolphins
Sighed
as they plunged, full of love; and the great sea-horses which bore them
Curved
up their crests in their pride to the delicate arms of the maidens,
Pawing
the spray into gems, till a fiery rainfall, unharming,
Sparkled
and gleamed on the limbs of the nymphs, and the coils of the mermen.
Onward
they went in their joy, bathed round with the fiery coolness,
Needing
nor sun nor moon, self-lighted, immortal: but others,
Pitiful,
floated in silence apart; in their bosoms the sea-boys,
Slain by
the wrath of the seas, swept down by the anger of Nereus;
Hapless,
whom never again on strand or on quay shall their mothers
Welcome
with garlands and vows to the temple, but wearily pining
Gaze over
island and bay for the sails of the sunken; they heedless
Sleep
in soft bosoms for ever, and dream of the surge and the sea-maids.
Onward
they passed in their joy; on their brows neither sorrow nor anger;
Self-sufficing,
as gods, never heeding the woe of the maiden.
She would have shrieked
for their mercy: but shame made her dumb; and their eyeballs
Stared
on her careless and still, like the eyes in the house of the idols.
Seeing
they saw not, and passed, like a dream, on the murmuring ripple.
Stunned
by the wonder she gazed, wide-eyed, as the glory departed.
‘O
fair shapes! far fairer than I! Too fair to be ruthless!
Gladden
mine eyes once more with your splendour, unlike to my fancies;
You,
then, smiled in the sea-gleam, and laughed in the plash of the ripple.
Awful
I deemed you and formless; inhuman, monstrous as idols;
Lo, when
ye came, ye were women, more loving and lovelier, only;
Like in
all else; and I blest you: why blest ye not me for my worship?
Had
you no mercy for me, thus guiltless? Ye pitied the sea-boys:
Why
not me, then, more hapless by far? Does your sight and your knowledge
End
with the marge of the waves? Is the world which ye dwell in not
our world?’
Over the mountain aloft ran a rush and a roll and
a roaring;
Downward the breeze came indignant, and leapt with a
howl to the water,
Roaring in cranny and crag, till the pillars
and clefts of the basalt
Rang like a god-swept lyre, and her brain
grew mad with the noises;
Crashing and lapping of waters, and sighing
and tossing of weed-beds,
Gurgle and whisper and hiss of the foam,
while thundering surges
Boomed in the wave-worn halls, as they
champed at the roots of the mountain.
Hour after hour in the darkness
the wind rushed fierce to the landward,
Drenching the maiden with
spray; she shivering, weary and drooping,
Stood with her heart
full of thoughts, till the foam-crests gleamed in the twilight,
Leaping
and laughing around, and the east grew red with the dawning.
Then
on the ridge of the hills rose the broad bright sun in his glory,
Hurling
his arrows abroad on the glittering crests of the surges,
Gilding
the soft round bosoms of wood, and the downs of the coastland;
Gilding
the weeds at her feet, and the foam-laced teeth of the ledges,
Showing
the maiden her home through the veil of her locks, as they floated
Glistening,
damp with the spray, in a long black cloud to the landward.
High
in the far-off glens rose thin blue curls from the homesteads;
Softly
the low of the herds, and the pipe of the outgoing herdsman,
Slid
to her ear on the water, and melted her heart into weeping.
Shuddering,
she tried to forget them; and straining her eyes to the seaward,
Watched
for her doom, as she wailed, but in vain, to the terrible Sun-god.
‘Dost
thou not pity me, Sun, though thy wild dark sister be ruthless;
Dost
thou not pity me here, as thou seest me desolate, weary,
Sickened
with shame and despair, like a kid torn young from its mother?
What
if my beauty insult thee, then blight it: but me—Oh spare me!
Spare
me yet, ere he be here, fierce, tearing, unbearable! See me,
See
me, how tender and soft, and thus helpless! See how I shudder,
Fancying
only my doom. Wilt thou shine thus bright, when it takes me?
Are
there no deaths save this, great Sun? No fiery arrow,
Lightning,
or deep-mouthed wave? Why thus? What music in shrieking,
Pleasure
in warm live limbs torn slowly? And dar’st thou behold them!
Oh,
thou hast watched worse deeds! All sights are alike to thy brightness!
What
if thou waken the birds to their song, dost thou waken no sorrow;
Waken
no sick to their pain; no captive to wrench at his fetters?
Smile
on the garden and fold, and on maidens who sing at the milking;
Flash
into tapestried chambers, and peep in the eyelids of lovers,
Showing
the blissful their bliss—Dost love, then, the place where thou
smilest?
Lovest thou cities aflame, fierce blows, and the shrieks
of the widow?
Lovest thou corpse-strewn fields, as thou lightest
the path of the vulture?
Lovest thou these, that thou gazest so
gay on my tears, and my mother’s,
Laughing alike at the horror
of one, and the bliss of another?
What dost thou care, in thy sky,
for the joys and the sorrows of mortals?
Colder art thou than the
nymphs: in thy broad bright eye is no seeing.
Hadst thou a soul—as
much soul as the slaves in the house of my father,
Wouldst thou
not save? Poor thralls! they pitied me, clung to me weeping,
Kissing
my hands and my feet—What, are gods more ruthless than mortals?
Worse
than the souls which they rule? Let me die: they war not with
ashes!’
Sudden she ceased, with a shriek:
in the spray, like a hovering foam-bow,
Hung, more fair than the
foam-bow, a boy in the bloom of his manhood,
Golden-haired, ivory-limbed,
ambrosial; over his shoulder
Hung for a veil of his beauty the
gold-fringed folds of the goat-skin,
Bearing the brass of his shield,
as the sun flashed clear on its clearness.
Curved on his thigh
lay a falchion, and under the gleam of his helmet
Eyes more blue
than the main shone awful; around him Athené
Shed in her
love such grace, such state, and terrible daring.
Hovering over
the water he came, upon glittering pinions,
Living, a wonder, outgrown
from the tight-laced gold of his sandals;
Bounding from billow
to billow, and sweeping the crests like a sea-gull;
Leaping the
gulfs of the surge, as he laughed in the joy of his leaping.
Fair
and majestic he sprang to the rock; and the maiden in wonder
Gazed
for a while, and then hid in the dark-rolling wave of her tresses,
Fearful,
the light of her eyes; while the boy (for her sorrow had awed him)
Blushed
at her blushes, and vanished, like mist on the cliffs at the sunrise.
Fearful
at length she looked forth: he was gone: she, wild with amazement,
Wailed
for her mother aloud: but the wail of the wind only answered.
Sudden
he flashed into sight, by her side; in his pity and anger
Moist
were his eyes; and his breath like a rose-bed, as bolder and bolder,
Hovering
under her brows, like a swallow that haunts by the house-eaves,
Delicate-handed,
he lifted the veil of her hair; while the maiden
Motionless, frozen
with fear, wept loud; till his lips unclosing
Poured from their
pearl-strung portal the musical wave of his wonder.
‘Ah,
well spoke she, the wise one, the gray-eyed Pallas Athené,—
Known
to Immortals alone are the prizes which lie for the heroes
Ready
prepared at their feet; for requiring a little, the rulers
Pay
back the loan tenfold to the man who, careless of pleasure,
Thirsting
for honour and toil, fares forth on a perilous errand
Led by the
guiding of gods, and strong in the strength of Immortals.
Thus
have they led me to thee: from afar, unknowing, I marked thee,
Shining,
a snow-white cross on the dark-green walls of the sea-cliff;
Carven
in marble I deemed thee, a perfect work of the craftsman.
Likeness
of Amphitrité, or far-famed Queen Cythereia.
Curious I came,
till I saw how thy tresses streamed in the sea-wind,
Glistening,
black as the night, and thy lips moved slow in thy wailing.
Speak
again now—Oh speak! For my soul is stirred to avenge thee;
Tell
me what barbarous horde, without law, unrighteous and heartless,
Hateful
to gods and to men, thus have bound thee, a shame to the sunlight,
Scorn
and prize to the sailor: but my prize now; for a coward,
Coward
and shameless were he, who so finding a glorious jewel
Cast on
the wayside by fools, would not win it and keep it and wear it,
Even
as I will thee; for I swear by the head of my father,
Bearing thee
over the sea-wave, to wed thee in Argos the fruitful,
Beautiful,
meed of my toil no less than this head which I carry,
Hidden here
fearful—Oh speak!’
But the maid,
still dumb with amazement,
Watered her bosom with weeping, and
longed for her home and her mother.
Beautiful, eager, he wooed
her, and kissed off her tears as he hovered,
Roving at will, as
a bee, on the brows of a rock nymph-haunted,
Garlanded over with
vine, and acanthus, and clambering roses,
Cool in the fierce still
noon, where streams glance clear in the mossbeds,
Hums on from
blossom to blossom, and mingles the sweets as he tastes them.
Beautiful,
eager, he kissed her, and clasped her yet closer and closer,
Praying
her still to speak—
‘Not cruel nor
rough did my mother
Bear me to broad-browed Zeus in the depths
of the brass-covered dungeon;
Neither in vain, as I think, have
I talked with the cunning of Hermes,
Face unto face, as a friend;
or from gray-eyed Pallas Athené
Learnt what is fit, and
respecting myself, to respect in my dealings
Those whom the gods
should love; so fear not; to chaste espousals
Only I woo thee,
and swear, that a queen, and alone without rival
By me thou sittest
in Argos of Hellas, throne of my fathers,
Worshipped by fair-haired
kings: why callest thou still on thy mother?
Why did she leave
thee thus here? For no foeman has bound thee; no foeman
Winning
with strokes of the sword such a prize, would so leave it behind him.’
Just
as at first some colt, wild-eyed, with quivering nostril,
Plunges
in fear of the curb, and the fluttering robes of the rider;
Soon,
grown bold by despair, submits to the will of his master,
Tamer
and tamer each hour, and at last, in the pride of obedience,
Answers
the heel with a curvet, and arches his neck to be fondled,
Cowed
by the need that maid grew tame; while the hero indignant
Tore
at the fetters which held her: the brass, too cunningly tempered,
Held
to the rock by the nails, deep wedged: till the boy, red with anger,
Drew
from his ivory thigh, keen flashing, a falchion of diamond—
‘Now
let the work of the smith try strength with the arms of Immortals!’
Dazzling
it fell; and the blade, as the vine-hook shears off the vine-bough,
Carved
through the strength of the brass, till her arms fell soft on his shoulder.
Once
she essayed to escape: but the ring of the water was round her,
Round
her the ring of his arms; and despairing she sank on his bosom.
Then,
like a fawn when startled, she looked with a shriek to the seaward.
‘Touch
me not, wretch that I am! For accursed, a shame and a hissing,
Guiltless,
accurst no less, I await the revenge of the sea-gods.
Yonder it
comes! Ah go! Let me perish unseen, if I perish!
Spare
me the shame of thine eyes, when merciless fangs must tear me
Piecemeal!
Enough to endure by myself in the light of the sunshine
Guiltless,
the death of a kid!’
But the boy still
lingered around her,
Loth, like a boy, to forego her, and waken
the cliffs with his laughter.
‘Yon is the foe, then?
A beast of the sea? I had deemed him immortal.
Titan, or
Proteus’ self, or Nereus, foeman of sailors:
Yet would I
fight with them all, but Poseidon, shaker of mountains,
Uncle of
mine, whom I fear, as is fit; for he haunts on Olympus,
Holding
the third of the world; and the gods all rise at his coming.
Unto
none else will I yield, god-helped: how then to a monster,
Child
of the earth and of night, unreasoning, shapeless, accursed?’
‘Art
thou, too, then a god?’
‘No
god I,’ smiling he answered;
‘Mortal as thou, yet divine:
but mortal the herds of the ocean,
Equal to men in that only, and
less in all else; for they nourish
Blindly the life of the lips,
untaught by the gods, without wisdom:
Shame if I fled before such!’
In
her heart new life was enkindled,
Worship and trust, fair parents
of love: but she answered him sighing.
‘Beautiful,
why wilt thou die? Is the light of the sun, then, so worthless,
Worthless
to sport with thy fellows in flowery glades of the forest,
Under
the broad green oaks, where never again shall I wander,
Tossing
the ball with my maidens, or wreathing the altar in garlands,
Careless,
with dances and songs, till the glens rang loud to our laughter.
Too
full of death the sad earth is already: the halls full of weepers,
Quarried
by tombs all cliffs, and the bones gleam white on the sea-floor,
Numberless,
gnawn by the herds who attend on the pitiless sea-gods,
Even as
mine will be soon: and yet noble it seems to me, dying,
Giving
my life for a people, to save to the arms of their lovers
Maidens
and youths for a while: thee, fairest of all, shall I slay thee?
Add
not thy bones to the many, thus angering idly the dread ones!
Either
the monster will crush, or the sea-queen’s self overwhelm thee,
Vengeful,
in tempest and foam, and the thundering walls of the surges.
Why
wilt thou follow me down? can we love in the black blank darkness?
Love
in the realms of the dead, in the land where all is forgotten?
Why
wilt thou follow me down? is it joy, on the desolate oozes,
Meagre
to flit, gray ghosts in the depths of the gray salt water?
Beautiful!
why wilt thou die, and defraud fair girls of thy manhood?
Surely
one waits for thee longing, afar in the isles of the ocean.
Go
thy way; I mine; for the gods grudge pleasure to mortals.’
Sobbing
she ended her moan, as her neck, like a storm-bent lily,
Drooped
with the weight of her woe, and her limbs sank, weary with watching,
Soft
on the hard-ledged rock: but the boy, with his eye on the monster,
Clasped
her, and stood, like a god; and his lips curved proud as he answered—
‘Great
are the pitiless sea-gods: but greater the Lords of Olympus;
Greater
the Ægis-wielder, and greater is she who attends him.
Clear-eyed
Justice her name is, the counsellor, loved of Athené;
Helper
of heroes, who dare, in the god-given might of their manhood,
Greatly
to do and to suffer, and far in the fens’ and the forests
Smite
the devourers of men, Heaven-hated, brood of the giants,
Twyformed,
strange, without like, who obey not the golden-haired Rulers.
Vainly
rebelling they rage, till they die by the swords of the heroes,
Even
as this must die; for I burn with the wrath of my father,
Wandering,
led by Athené; and dare whatsoever betides me.
Led by Athené
I won from the gray-haired terrible sisters
Secrets hidden from
men, when I found them asleep on the sand-hills,
Keeping their
eye and their tooth, till they showed me the perilous pathway
Over
the waterless ocean, the valley that led to the Gorgon.
Her too
I slew in my craft, Medusa, the beautiful horror;
Taught by Athené
I slew her, and saw not herself, but her image,
Watching the mirror
of brass, in the shield which a goddess had lent me.
Cleaving her
brass-scaled throat, as she lay with her adders around her,
Fearless
I bore off her head, in the folds of the mystical goat-skin
Hide
of Amaltheié, fair nurse of the Ægis-wielder.
Hither
I bear it, a gift to the gods, and a death to my foe-men,
Freezing
the seer to stone; to hide thine eyes from the horror.
Kiss me
but once, and I go.’
Then lifting her neck,
like a sea-bird
Peering up over the wave, from the foam-white swells
of her bosom,
Blushing she kissed him: afar, on the topmost Idalian
summit
Laughed in the joy of her heart, far-seeing, the queen Aphrodité.
Loosing
his arms from her waist he flew upward, awaiting the sea-beast.
Onward
it came from the southward, as bulky and black as a galley,
Lazily
coasting along, as the fish fled leaping before it;
Lazily breasting
the ripple, and watching by sandbar and headland,
Listening for
laughter of maidens at bleaching, or song of the fisher,
Children
at play on the pebbles, or cattle that pawed on the sand-hills.
Rolling
and dripping it came, where bedded in glistening purple
Cold on
the cold sea-weeds lay the long white sides of the maiden,
Trembling,
her face in her hands, and her tresses afloat on the water.
As
when an osprey aloft, dark-eyebrowed, royally crested,
Flags on
by creek and by cove, and in scorn of the anger of Nereus
Ranges,
the king of the shore; if he see on a glittering shallow,
Chasing
the bass and the mullet, the fin of a wallowing dolphin,
Halting,
he wheels round slowly, in doubt at the weight of his quarry,
Whether
to clutch it alive, or to fall on the wretch like a plummet,
Stunning
with terrible talon the life of the brain in the hindhead:
Then
rushes up with a scream, and stooping the wrath of his eyebrows
Falls
from the sky, like a star, while the wind rattles hoarse in his pinions.
Over
him closes the foam for a moment; and then from the sand-bed
Rolls
up the great fish, dead, and his side gleams white in the sunshine.
Thus
fell the boy on the beast, unveiling the face of the Gorgon;
Thus
fell the boy on the beast; thus rolled up the beast in his horror,
Once,
as the dead eyes glared into his; then his sides, death-sharpened,
Stiffened
and stood, brown rock, in the wash of the wandering water.
Beautiful,
eager, triumphant, he leapt back again to his treasure;
Leapt back
again, full blest, toward arms spread wide to receive him.
Brimful
of honour he clasped her, and brimful of love she caressed him,
Answering
lip with lip; while above them the queen Aphrodité
Poured
on their foreheads and limbs, unseen, ambrosial odours,
Givers
of longing, and rapture, and chaste content in espousals.
Happy
whom ere they be wedded anoints she, the Queen Aphrodité!
Laughing
she called to her sister, the chaste Tritonid Athené,
‘Seest
thou yonder thy pupil, thou maid of the Ægis-wielder?
How
he has turned himself wholly to love, and caresses a damsel,
Dreaming
no longer of honour, or danger, or Pallas Athené?
Sweeter,
it seems, to the young my gifts are; so yield me the stripling;
Yield
him me now, lest he die in his prime, like hapless Adonis.’
Smiling
she answered in turn, that chaste Tritonid Athené:
‘Dear
unto me, no less than to thee, is the wedlock of heroes;
Dear,
who can worthily win him a wife not unworthy; and noble,
Pure with
the pure to beget brave children, the like of their father.
Happy,
who thus stands linked to the heroes who were, and who shall be;
Girdled
with holiest awe, not sparing of self; for his mother
Watches his
steps with the eyes of the gods; and his wife and his children
Move
him to plan and to do in the farm and the camp and the council.
Thence
comes weal to a nation: but woe upon woe, when the people
Mingle
in love at their will, like the brutes, not heeding the future.’
Then
from her gold-strung loom, where she wrought in her chamber of cedar,
Awful
and fair she arose; and she went by the glens of Olympus;
Went
by the isles of the sea, and the wind never ruffled her mantle;
Went
by the water of Crete, and the black-beaked fleets of the Phœnics;
Came
to the sea-girt rock which is washed by the surges for ever,
Bearing
the wealth of the gods, for a gift to the bride of a hero.
There
she met Andromeden and Persea, shaped like Immortals;
Solemn and
sweet was her smile, while their hearts beat loud at her coming;
Solemn
and sweet was her smile, as she spoke to the pair in her wisdom.
‘Three
things hold we, the Rulers, who sit by the founts of Olympus,
Wisdom,
and prowess, and beauty; and freely we pour them on mortals;
Pleased
at our image in man, as a father at his in his children.
One thing
only we grudge to mankind: when a hero, unthankful,
Boasts of our
gifts as his own, stiffnecked, and dishonours the givers,
Turning
our weapons against us. Him Até follows avenging;
Slowly
she tracks him and sure, as a lyme-hound; sudden she grips him,
Crushing
him, blind in his pride, for a sign and a terror to folly.
This
we avenge, as is fit; in all else never weary of giving.
Come,
then, damsel, and know if the gods grudge pleasure to mortals.’
Loving
and gentle she spoke: but the maid stood in awe, as the goddess
Plaited
with soft swift finger her tresses, and decked her in jewels,
Armlet
and anklet and earbell; and over her shoulders a necklace,
Heavy,
enamelled, the flower of the gold and the brass of the mountain.
Trembling
with joy she gazed, so well Hæphaistos had made it,
Deep
in the forges of Ætna, while Charis his lady beside him
Mingled
her grace in his craft, as he wrought for his sister Athené.
Then
on the brows of the maiden a veil bound Pallas Athené;
Ample
it fell to her feet, deep-fringed, a wonder of weaving.
Ages and
ages agone it was wrought on the heights of Olympus,
Wrought in
the gold-strung loom, by the finger of cunning Athené.
In
it she wove all creatures that teem in the womb of the ocean;
Nereid,
siren, and triton, and dolphin, and arrowy fishes
Glittering round,
many-hued, on the flame-red folds of the mantle.
In it she wove,
too, a town where gray-haired kings sat in judgment;
Sceptre in
hand in the market they sat, doing right by the people,
Wise: while
above watched Justice, and near, far-seeing Apollo.
Round it she
wove for a fringe all herbs of the earth and the water,
Violet,
asphodel, ivy, and vine-leaves, roses and lilies,
Coral and sea-fan
and tangle, the blooms and the palms of the ocean:
Now from Olympus
she bore it, a dower to the bride of a hero.
Over the limbs of
the damsel she wrapt it: the maid still trembled,
Shading her face
with her hands; for the eyes of the goddess were awful.
Then,
as a pine upon Ida when southwest winds blow landward,
Stately
she bent to the damsel, and breathed on her: under her breathing
Taller
and fairer she grew; and the goddess spoke in her wisdom.
‘Courage
I give thee; the heart of a queen, and the mind of Immortals;
Godlike
to talk with the gods, and to look on their eyes unshrinking;
Fearing
the sun and the stars no more, and the blue salt water;
Fearing
us only, the lords of Olympus, friends of the heroes;
Chastely
and wisely to govern thyself and thy house and thy people,
Bearing
a godlike race to thy spouse, till dying I set thee
High for a
star in the heavens, a sign and a hope to the seamen,
Spreading
thy long white arms all night in the heights of the æther,
Hard
by thy sire and the hero thy spouse, while near thee thy mother
Sits
in her ivory chair, as she plaits ambrosial tresses.
All night
long thou wilt shine; all day thou wilt feast on Olympus,
Happy,
the guest of the gods, by thy husband, the god-begotten.’
Blissful,
they turned them to go: but the fair-tressed Pallas Athené
Rose,
like a pillar of tall white cloud, toward silver Olympus;
Far above
ocean and shore, and the peaks of the isles and the mainland;
Where
no frost nor storm is, in clear blue windless abysses,
High in
the home of the summer, the seats of the happy Immortals,
Shrouded
in keen deep blaze, unapproachable; there ever youthful
Hebé,
Harmonié, and the daughter of Jove, Aphrodité,
Whirled
in the white-linked dance with the gold-crowned Hours and the Graces,
Hand
within hand, while clear piped Phœbe, queen of the woodlands.
All
day long they rejoiced: but Athené still in her chamber
Bent
herself over her loom, as the stars rang loud to her singing,
Chanting
of order and right, and of foresight, warden of nations;
Chanting
of labour and craft, and of wealth in the port and the garner;
Chanting
of valour and fame, and the man who can fall with the foremost,
Fighting
for children and wife, and the field which his father bequeathed him.
Sweetly
and solemnly sang she, and planned new lessons for mortals:
Happy,
who hearing obey her, the wise unsullied Athené.
Eversley, 1852,
And should she die, her grave should be
Upon the bare top of
a sunny hill,
Among the moorlands of her own fair land,
Amid
a ring of old and moss-grown stones
In gorse and heather all embosomed.
There
should be no tall stone, no marble tomb
Above her gentle corse;—the
ponderous pile
Would press too rudely on those fairy limbs.
The
turf should lightly he, that marked her home.
A sacred spot it
would be—every bird
That came to watch her lone grave should
be holy.
The deer should browse around her undisturbed;
The
whin bird by, her lonely nest should build
All fearless; for in
life she loved to see
Happiness in all things—
And we
would come on summer days
When all around was bright, and set us
down
And think of all that lay beneath that turf
On which
the heedless moor-bird sits, and whistles
His long, shrill, painful
song, as though he plained
For her that loved him and his pleasant
hills;
And we would dream again of bygone days
Until our eyes
should swell with natural tears
For brilliant hopes—all faded
into air!
As, on the sands of Irak, near approach
Destroys
the traveller’s vision of still lakes,
And goodly streams
reed-clad, and meadows green;
And leaves behind the drear reality
Of
shadeless, same, yet ever-changing sand!
And when the sullen clouds
rose thick on high
Mountains on mountains rolling—and dark
mist
Wrapped itself round the hill-tops like a shroud,
When
on her grave swept by the moaning wind
Bending the heather-bells—then
would I come
And watch by her, in silent loneliness,
And smile
upon the storm—as knowing well
The lightning’s flash
would surely turn aside,
Nor mar the lowly mound, where peaceful
sleeps
All that gave life and love to one fond heart!
I talk
of things that are not; and if prayers
By night and day availed
from my weak lips,
Then should they never be! till I was gone,
Before
the friends I loved, to my long home.
Oh pardon me, if e’er
I say too much; my mind
Too often strangely turns to ribald mirth,
As
though I had no doubt nor hope beyond—
Or brooding melancholy
cloys my soul
With thoughts of days misspent, of wasted time
And
bitter feelings swallowed up in jests.
Then strange and fearful
thoughts flit o’er my brain
By indistinctness made more terrible,
And
incubi mock at me with fierce eyes
Upon my couch: and visions,
crude and dire,
Of planets, suns, millions of miles, infinity,
Space,
time, thought, being, blank nonentity,
Things incorporeal, fancies
of the brain,
Seen, heard, as though they were material,
All
mixed in sickening mazes, trouble me,
And lead my soul away from
earth and heaven
Until I doubt whether I be or not!
And then
I see all frightful shapes—lank ghosts,
Hydras, chimeras,
krakens, wastes of sand,
Herbless and void of living voice—tall
mountains
Cleaving the skies with height immeasurable,
On
which perchance I climb for infinite years; broad seas,
Studded
with islands numberless, that stretch
Beyond the regions of the
sun, and fade
Away in distance vast, or dreary clouds,
Cold,
dark, and watery, where wander I for ever!
Or space of ether, where
I hang for aye!
A speck, an atom—inconsumable—
Immortal,
hopeless, voiceless, powerless!
And oft I fancy, I am weak and
old,
And all who loved me, one by one, are dead,
And I am
left alone—and cannot die!
Surely there is no rest on earth
for souls
Whose dreams are like a madman’s! I am young
And
much is yet before me—after years
May bring peace with them
to my weary heart!
Helston, 1835.
There stood a low and ivied roof,
As gazing
rustics tell,
In times of chivalry and song
‘Yclept
the holy well.
Above the ivies’ branchlets gray
In
glistening clusters shone;
While round the base the grass-blades
bright
And spiry foxglove sprung.
The brambles clung in graceful bands,
Chequering
the old gray stone
With shining leaflets, whose bright face
In
autumn’s tinting shone.
Around the fountain’s eastern base
A
babbling brooklet sped,
With sleepy murmur purling soft
Adown
its gravelly bed.
Within the cell the filmy ferns
To woo the
clear wave bent;
And cushioned mosses to the stone
Their
quaint embroidery lent.
The fountain’s face lay still as glass—
Save
where the streamlet free
Across the basin’s gnarled lip
Flowed
ever silently.
Above the well a little nook
Once held, as
rustics tell,
All garland-decked, an image of
The
Lady of the Well.
They tell of tales of mystery,
Of darkling
deeds of woe;
But no! such doings might not brook
The
holy streamlet’s flow.
Oh tell me not of bitter thoughts,
Of melancholy
dreams,
By that fair fount whose sunny wall
Basks
in the western beams.
When last I saw that little stream,
A form
of light there stood,
That seemed like a precious gem,
Beneath
that archway rude:
And as I gazed with love and awe
Upon that
sylph-like thing,
Methought that airy form must be
The
fairy of the spring.
Helston, 1835.
I would have loved: there are no mates in heaven;
I would be
great: there is no pride in heaven;
I would have sung, as doth
the nightingale
The summer’s night beneath the moonè
pale,
But Saintès hymnes alone in heaven prevail.
My
love, my song, my skill, my high intent,
Have I within this seely
book y-pent:
And all that beauty which from every part
I treasured
still alway within mine heart,
Whether of form or face angelical,
Or
herb or flower, or lofty cathedral,
Upon these sheets below doth
lie y-spred,
In quaint devices deftly blazonèd.
Lord,
in this tome to thee I sanctify
The sinful fruits
of worldly fantasy.
1839.
The swevens came up round Harold the Earl,
Like
motes in the sunnès beam;
And over him stood the Weird Lady,
In
her charmèd castle over the sea,
Sang
‘Lie thou still and dream.’
‘Thy steed is dead in his stall, Earl Harold,
Since
thou hast been with me;
The rust has eaten thy harness bright,
And
the rats have eaten thy greyhound light,
That
was so fair and free.’
Mary Mother she stooped from heaven;
She wakened Earl Harold
out of his sweven,
To don his harness on;
And
over the land and over the sea
He wended abroad to his own countrie,
A
weary way to gon.
Oh but his beard was white with eld,
Oh but
his hair was gray;
He stumbled on by stock and stone,
And
as he journeyed he made his moan
Along that weary
way.
Earl Harold came to his castle wall;
The gate
was burnt with fire;
Roof and rafter were fallen down,
The
folk were strangers all in the town,
And strangers
all in the shire.
Earl Harold came to a house of nuns,
And he
heard the dead-bell toll;
He saw the sexton stand by a grave;
‘Now
Christ have mercy, who did us save,
Upon yon
fair nun’s soul.’
The nuns they came from the convent gate
By
one, by two, by three;
They sang for the soul of a lady bright
Who
died for the love of a traitor knight:
It was
his own lady.
He stayed the corpse beside the grave;
‘A
sign, a sign!’ quod he.
‘Mary Mother who rulest heaven,
Send
me a sign if I be forgiven
By the woman who so
loved me.’
A white dove out of the coffin flew;
Earl
Harold’s mouth it kist;
He fell on his face, wherever he
stood;
And the white dove carried his soul to God
Or
ever the bearers wist.
Durham, 1840.
Ye mountains, on whose torrent-furrowed slopes,
And bare and
silent brows uplift to heaven,
I envied oft the soul which fills
your wastes
Of pure and stern sublime, and still expanse
Unbroken
by the petty incidents
Of noisy life: Oh hear me once again!
Winds, upon whose racked eddies, far aloft,
Above the murmur
of the uneasy world,
My thoughts in exultation held their way:
Whose
tremulous whispers through the rustling glade
Were once to me unearthly
tones of love,
Joy without object, wordless music, stealing
Through
all my soul, until my pulse beat fast
With aimless hope, and unexpressed
desire—
Thou sea, who wast to me a prophet deep
Through
all thy restless waves, and wasting shores,
Of silent labour, and
eternal change;
First teacher of the dense immensity
Of ever-stirring
life, in thy strange forms
Of fish, and shell, and worm, and oozy
weed:
To me alike thy frenzy and thy sleep
Have been a deep
and breathless joy: Oh hear!
Mountains, and winds, and waves, take back your child!
Upon
thy balmy bosom, Mother Nature,
Where my young spirit dreamt its
years away,
Give me once more to nestle: I have strayed
Far
through another world, which is not thine.
Through sunless cities,
and the weary haunts
Of smoke-grimed labour, and foul revelry
My
flagging wing has swept. A mateless bird’s
My pilgrimage
has been; through sin, and doubt,
And darkness, seeking love.
Oh hear me, Nature!
Receive me once again: but not alone;
No
more alone, Great Mother! I have brought
One who has wandered,
yet not sinned, like me.
Upon thy lap, twin children, let us lie;
And
in the light of thine immortal eyes
Let our souls mingle, till
The Father calls
To some eternal home the charge He gives thee.
Cambridge, 1841.
Twin stars, aloft in ether clear,
Around each
other roll alway,
Within one common atmosphere
Of
their own mutual light and day.
And myriad happy eyes are bent
Upon their
changeless love alway;
As, strengthened by their one intent,
They
pour the flood of life and day.
So we through this world’s waning night
May,
hand in hand, pursue our way;
Shed round us order, love, and light,
And
shine unto the perfect day.
1842.
Underneath their eider-robe
Russet swede and golden globe,
Feathered
carrot, burrowing deep,
Steadfast wait in charmèd sleep;
Treasure-houses
wherein lie,
Locked by angels’ alchemy,
Milk and hair,
and blood, and bone,
Children of the barren stone;
Children
of the flaming Air,
With his blue eye keen and bare,
Spirit-peopled
smiling down
On frozen field and toiling town—
Toiling
town that will not heed
God His voice for rage and greed;
Frozen
fields that surpliced lie,
Gazing patient at the sky;
Like
some marble carven nun,
With folded hands when work is done,
Who
mute upon her tomb doth pray,
Till the resurrection day.
Eversley, 1845.
Jesus, He loves one and all,
Jesus, He loves children small,
Their
souls are waiting round His feet
On high, before His mercy-seat.
While He wandered here below
Children small to Him did go,
At
His feet they knelt and prayed,
On their heads His hands He laid.
Came a Spirit on them then,
Better than of mighty men,
A
Spirit faithful, pure and mild,
A Spirit fit for king and child.
Oh! that Spirit give to me,
Jesu Lord, where’er I be!
1847.
Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon;
Oh the pleasant
sight to see
Shires and towns from Airly Beacon,
While
my love climbed up to me!
Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon;
Oh the happy hours
we lay
Deep in fern on Airly Beacon,
Courting
through the summer’s day!
Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon;
Oh the weary haunt
for me,
All alone on Airly Beacon,
With
his baby on my knee!
1847.
She lay among the myrtles on the cliff;
Above her glared the
noon; beneath, the sea.
Upon the white horizon Atho’s peak
Weltered
in burning haze; all airs were dead;
The cicale slept among the
tamarisk’s hair;
The birds sat dumb and drooping. Far
below
The lazy sea-weed glistened in the sun;
The lazy sea-fowl
dried their steaming wings;
The lazy swell crept whispering up
the ledge,
And sank again. Great Pan was laid to rest;
And
Mother Earth watched by him as he slept,
And hushed her myriad
children for a while.
She lay among the myrtles on the cliff;
And
sighed for sleep, for sleep that would not hear,
But left her tossing
still; for night and day
A mighty hunger yearned within her heart,
Till
all her veins ran fever; and her cheek,
Her long thin hands, and
ivory-channelled feet,
Were wasted with the wasting of her soul.
Then
peevishly she flung her on her face,
And hid her eyeballs from
the blinding glare,
And fingered at the grass, and tried to cool
Her
crisp hot lips against the crisp hot sward:
And then she raised
her head, and upward cast
Wild looks from homeless eyes, whose
liquid light
Gleamed out between deep folds of blue-black hair,
As
gleam twin lakes between the purple peaks
Of deep Parnassus, at
the mournful moon.
Beside her lay her lyre. She snatched
the shell,
And waked wild music from its silver strings;
Then
tossed it sadly by.—‘Ah, hush!’ she cries;
‘Dead
offspring of the tortoise and the mine!
Why mock my discords with
thine harmonies?
Although a thrice-Olympian lot be thine,
Only
to echo back in every tone
The moods of nobler natures than thine
own.’
Eversley, 1847
From Yeast.
The merry brown hares came leaping
Over the
crest of the hill,
Where the clover and corn lay sleeping
Under
the moonlight still.
Leaping late and early,
Till under their bite
and their tread
The swedes and the wheat and the barley
Lay
cankered and trampled and dead.
A poacher’s widow sat sighing
On the
side of the white chalk bank,
Where under the gloomy fir-woods
One
spot in the ley throve rank.
She watched a long tuft of clover,
Where rabbit
or hare never ran;
For its black sour haulm covered over
The
blood of a murdered man.
She thought of the dark plantation,
And the
hares, and her husband’s blood,
And the voice of her indignation
Rose
up to the throne of God.
‘I am long past wailing and whining—
I
have wept too much in my life:
I’ve had twenty years of pining
As
an English labourer’s wife.
‘A labourer in Christian England,
Where
they cant of a Saviour’s name,
And yet waste men’s
lives like the vermin’s
For a few more
brace of game.
‘There’s blood on your new foreign shrubs, squire,
There’s
blood on your pointer’s feet;
There’s blood on the
game you sell, squire,
And there’s blood
on the game you eat.
‘You have sold the labouring-man, squire,
Body
and soul to shame,
To pay for your seat in the House, squire,
And
to pay for the feed of your game.
‘You made him a poacher yourself, squire,
When
you’d give neither work nor meat,
And your barley-fed hares
robbed the garden
At our starving children’s
feet;
‘When, packed in one reeking chamber,
Man,
maid, mother, and little ones lay;
While the rain pattered in on
the rotting bride-bed,
And the walls let in the
day.
‘When we lay in the burning fever
On
the mud of the cold clay floor,
Till you parted us all for three
months, squire,
At the dreary workhouse door.
‘We quarrelled like brutes, and who wonders?
What
self-respect could we keep,
Worse housed than your hacks and your
pointers,
Worse fed than your hogs and your sheep?
‘Our daughters with base-born babies
Have
wandered away in their shame,
If your misses had slept, squire,
where they did,
Your misses might do the same.
‘Can your lady patch hearts that are breaking
With
handfuls of coals and rice,
Or by dealing out flannel and sheeting
A
little below cost price?
‘You may tire of the jail and the workhouse,
And
take to allotments and schools,
But you’ve run up a debt
that will never
Be paid us by penny-club rules.
‘In the season of shame and sadness,
In
the dark and dreary day,
When scrofula, gout, and madness
Are
eating your race away;
‘When to kennels and liveried varlets
You
have cast your daughter’s bread,
And, worn out with liquor
and harlots,
Your heir at your feet lies dead;
‘When your youngest, the mealy-mouthed rector,
Lets
your soul rot asleep to the grave,
You will find in your God the
protector
Of the freeman you fancied your slave.’
She looked at the tuft of clover,
And wept
till her heart grew light;
And at last, when her passion was over,
Went
wandering into the night.
But the merry brown hares came leaping
Over
the uplands still,
Where the clover and corn lay sleeping
On
the side of the white chalk hill.
Eversley, 1847.
From Yeast.
Oh, forth she went like a braw, braw bride
To
meet her winsome groom,
When she was aware of twa bonny birds
Sat
biggin’ in the broom.
The tane it built with the green, green moss,
But
and the bents sae fine,
And the tither wi’ a lock o’
lady’s hair
Linked up wi’ siller
twine.
‘O whaur gat ye the green, green moss,
O
whaur the bents sae fine?
And whaur gat ye the bonny broun hair
That
ance was tress o’ mine?’
‘We gat the moss fra’ the elditch aile,
The
bents fra’ the whinny muir,
And a fause knight threw us the
bonny broun hair,
To please his braw new fere.’
‘Gae pull, gae pull the simmer leaves,
And
strew them saft o’er me;
My token’s tint, my love is
fause,
I’ll lay me doon and dee.’
1847.
A gay young knight in Burley stood,
Beside him pawed his steed
so good,
His hands he wrung as he were wood
With
waiting for his love O!
‘Oh, will she come, or will she stay,
Or will she waste
the weary day
With fools who wish her far away,
And
hate her for her love O?’
But by there came a mighty boar,
His jowl and tushes red with
gore,
And on his curled snout he bore
A
bracelet rich and rare O!
The knight he shrieked, he ran, he flew,
He searched the wild
wood through and through,
But found nought save a mantle blue,
Low
rolled within the brake O!
He twined the wild briar, red and white,
Upon his head the garland
dight,
The green leaves withered black as night,
And
burnt into his brain O!
A fire blazed up within his breast,
He mounted on an aimless
quest,
He laid his virgin lance in rest,
And
through the forest drove O!
By Rhinefield and by Osmondsleigh,
Through leat and furze brake
fast drove he,
Until he saw the homeless sea,
That
called with all its waves O!
He laughed aloud to hear the roar,
And rushed his horse adown
the shore,
The deep surge rolled him o’er and o’er,
And
swept him down the tide O!
New Forest, July 12, 1847.
Oh she tripped over Ocknell plain,
And down
by Bradley Water;
And the fairest maid on the forest side
Was
Jane, the keeper’s daughter.
She went and went through the broad gray lawns
As
down the red sun sank,
And chill as the scent of a new-made grave
The
mist smelt cold and dank.
‘A token, a token!’ that fair maid cried,
‘A
token that bodes me sorrow;
For they that smell the grave by night
Will
see the corpse to-morrow.
‘My own true love in Burley Walk
Does
hunt to-night, I fear;
And if he meet my father stern,
His
game may cost him dear.
‘Ah, here’s a curse on hare and grouse,
A
curse on hart and hind;
And a health to the squire in all England,
Leaves
never a head behind.’
Her true love shot a mighty hart
Among the
standing rye,
When on him leapt that keeper old
From
the fern where he did lie.
The forest laws were sharp and stern,
The
forest blood was keen;
They lashed together for life and death
Beneath
the hollies green.
The metal good and the walnut wood
Did soon
in flinders flee;
They tost the orts to south and north,
And
grappled knee to knee.
They wrestled up, they wrestled down,
They
wrestled still and sore;
Beneath their feet the myrtle sweet
Was
stamped to mud and gore.
Ah, cold pale moon, thou cruel pale moon,
That
starest with never a frown
On all the grim and the ghastly things
That
are wrought in thorpe and town:
And yet, cold pale moon, thou cruel pale moon,
That
night hadst never the grace
To lighten two dying Christian men
To
see one another’s face.
They wrestled up, they wrestled down,
They
wrestled sore and still,
The fiend who blinds the eyes of men
That
night he had his will.
Like stags full spent, among the bent
They
dropped a while to rest;
When the young man drove his saying knife
Deep
in the old man’s breast.
The old man drove his gunstock down
Upon the
young man’s head;
And side by side, by the water brown,
Those
yeomen twain lay dead.
They dug three graves in Lyndhurst yard;
They
dug them side by side;
Two yeomen lie there, and a maiden fair
A
widow and never a bride.
In the New Forest, 1847.
The King was drinking in Malwood Hall,
There came in a monk
before them all:
He thrust by squire, he thrust by knight,
Stood
over against the dais aright;
And, ‘The word of the Lord,
thou cruel Red King,
The word of the Lord to thee I bring.
A
grimly sweven I dreamt yestreen;
I saw thee lie under the hollins
green,
And through thine heart an arrow keen;
And out of thy
body a smoke did rise,
Which smirched the sunshine out of the skies:
So
if thou God’s anointed be
I rede thee unto thy soul thou
see.
For mitre and pall thou hast y-sold,
False knight to
Christ, for gain and gold;
And for this thy forest were digged
down all,
Steading and hamlet and churches tall;
And Christés
poor were ousten forth,
To beg their bread from south to north.
So
tarry at home, and fast and pray,
Lest fiends hunt thee in the
judgment-day.’
The monk he vanished where he stood;
King
William sterte up wroth and wood;
Quod he, ‘Fools’
wits will jump together;
The Hampshire ale and the thunder weather
Have
turned the brains for us both, I think;
And monks are curst when
they fall to drink.
A lothly sweven I dreamt last night,
How
there hoved anigh me a griesly knight,
Did smite me down to the
pit of hell;
I shrieked and woke, so fast I fell.
There’s
Tyrrel as sour as I, perdie,
So he of you all shall hunt with me;
A
grimly brace for a hart to see.’
The Red King down from Malwood came;
His heart
with wine was all aflame,
His eyne were shotten, red as blood,
He
rated and swore, wherever he rode.
They roused a hart, that grimly
brace,
A hart of ten, a hart of grease,
Fled over against
the kingés place.
The sun it blinded the kingés ee,
A
fathom behind his hocks shot he:
‘Shoot
thou,’ quod he, ‘in the fiendés name,
To lose
such a quarry were seven years’ shame.’
And he hove
up his hand to mark the game.
Tyrrel he shot full light, God wot;
For
whether the saints they swerved the shot,
‘Or whether by
treason, men knowen not,
But under the arm, in a secret part,
The
iron fled through the kingés heart.
The turf it squelched
where the Red King fell;
And the fiends they carried his soul to
hell,
Quod ‘His master’s name it hath sped him well.’
Tyrrel he smiled full grim that day,
Quod ‘Shooting of
kings is no bairns’ play;’
And he smote in the spurs,
and fled fast away.
As he pricked along by Fritham plain,
The
green tufts flew behind like rain;
The waters were out, and over
the sward:
He swam his horse like a stalwart lord:
Men clepen
that water Tyrrel’s ford.
By Rhinefield and by Osmondsleigh,
Through
glade and furze brake fast drove he,
Until he heard the roaring
sea;
Quod he, ‘Those gay waves they call me.’
By
Mary’s grace a seely boat
On Christchurch bar did lie afloat;
He
gave the shipmen mark and groat,
To ferry him over to Normandie,
And
there he fell to sanctuarie;
God send his soul all bliss to see.
And fend our princes every one,
From foul mishap and trahison;
But
kings that harrow Christian men
Shall England never bide again.
In the New Forest, 1847,
Oh, I wadna be a yeoman, mither, to follow my father’s trade,
To
bow my back in miry banks, at pleugh and hoe and spade.
Stinting
wife, and bairns, and kye, to fat some courtier lord,—
Let
them die o’ rent wha like, mither, and I’ll die by sword.
Nor I wadna be a clerk, mither, to bide aye ben,
Scrabbling
ower the sheets o’ parchment with a weary weary pen;
Looking
through the lang stane windows at a narrow strip o’ sky,
Like
a laverock in a withy cage, until I pine away and die.
Nor I wadna be a merchant, mither, in his lang furred gown,
Trailing
strings o’ footsore horses through the noisy dusty town;
Louting
low to knights and ladies, fumbling o’er his wares,
Telling
lies, and scraping siller, heaping cares on cares.
Nor I wadna be a soldier, mither, to dice wi’ ruffian bands,
Pining
weary months in castles, looking over wasted lands.
Smoking byres,
and shrieking women, and the grewsome sights o’ war—
There’s
blood on my hand eneugh, mither; it’s ill to make it mair.
If I had married a wife, mither, I might ha’ been douce and
still,
And sat at hame by the ingle side to crack and laugh my
fill;
Sat at hame wi’ the woman I looed, and wi’ bairnies
at my knee:
But death is bauld, and age is cauld, and luve’s
no for me.
For when first I stirred in your side, mither, ye ken full well
How
you lay all night up among the deer out on the open fell;
And so
it was that I won the heart to wander far and near,
Caring neither
for land nor lassie, but the bonnie dun deer.
Yet I am not a losel and idle, mither, nor a thief that steals;
I
do but hunt God’s cattle, upon God’s ain hills;
For
no man buys and sells the deer, and the bonnie fells are free
To
a belted knight with hawk on hand, and a gangrel loon like me.
So I’m aff and away to the muirs, mither, to hunt the deer,
Ranging
far frae frowning faces, and the douce folk here;
Crawling up through
burn and bracken, louping down the screes,
Looking out frae craig
and headland, drinking up the simmer breeze.
Oh, the wafts o’ heather honey, and the music o’ the
brae,
As I watch the great harts feeding, nearer, nearer a’
the day.
Oh, to hark the eagle screaming, sweeping, ringing round
the sky—
That’s a bonnier life than stumbling ower
the muck to colt and kye.
And when I’m taen and hangit, mither, a brittling o’
my deer,
Ye’ll no leave your bairn to the corbie craws, to
dangle in the air;
But ye’ll send up my twa douce brethren,
and ye’ll steal me frae the tree,
And bury me up on the brown
brown muirs, where I aye looed to be.
Ye’ll bury me ’twixt the brae and the burn, in a glen
far away,
Where I may hear the heathcock craw, and the great harts
bray;
And gin my ghaist can walk, mither, I’ll go glowering
at the sky,
The livelong night on the black hill sides where the
dun deer lie.
In the New Forest, 1847.
There sits a bird on every tree;
Sing
heigh-ho!
There sits a bird on every tree,
And courts his
love as I do thee;
Sing heigh-ho,
and heigh-ho!
Young maids must marry.
There grows a flower on every bough;
Sing
heigh-ho!
There grows a flower on every bough,
Its petals
kiss—I’ll show you how:
Sing
heigh-ho, and heigh-ho!
Young maids must marry.
From sea to stream the salmon roam;
Sing
heigh-ho!
From sea to stream the salmon roam;
Each finds a
mate, and leads her home;
Sing
heigh-ho, and heigh-ho!
Young maids must marry.
The sun’s a bridegroom, earth a bride;
Sing
heigh-ho!
They court from morn till eventide:
The earth shall
pass, but love abide.
Sing
heigh-ho, and heigh-ho!
Young maids must marry.
Eversley, 1847.
Dreary East winds howling o’er us;
Clay-lands
knee-deep spread before us;
Mire and ice and
snow and sleet;
Aching backs and frozen feet;
Knees
which reel as marches quicken,
Ranks which thin
as corpses thicken;
While with carrion birds
we eat,
Calling puddle-water sweet,
As we
pledge the health of our general, who fares as rough as we:
What
can daunt us, what can turn us, led to death by such as he?
Eversley, 1848.
The merry merry lark was up and singing,
And
the hare was out and feeding on the lea;
And the merry merry bells
below were ringing,
When my child’s laugh
rang through me.
Now the hare is snared and dead beside the snow-yard,
And
the lark beside the dreary winter sea;
And the baby in his cradle
in the churchyard
Sleeps sound till the bell
brings me.
Eversley, 1848.
A floating, a floating
Across the sleeping sea,
All night
I heard a singing bird
Upon the topmost tree.
‘Oh came you off the isles of Greece,
Or off the banks
of Seine;
Or off some tree in forests free,
Which fringe the
western main?’
‘I came not off the old world
Nor yet from off the new—
But
I am one of the birds of God
Which sing the whole night through.’
‘Oh sing, and wake the dawning—
Oh whistle for the
wind;
The night is long, the current strong,
My boat it lags
behind.’
‘The current sweeps the old world,
The current sweeps
the new;
The wind will blow, the dawn will glow
Ere thou hast
sailed them through.’
Eversley, 1848.
Wild wild wind, wilt thou never cease thy sighing?
Dark
dark night, wilt thou never wear away?
Cold cold church, in thy
death sleep lying,
The Lent is past, thy Passion
here, but not thine Easter-day.
Peace, faint heart, though the night be dark and sighing;
Rest,
fair corpse, where thy Lord himself hath lain.
Weep, dear Lord,
above thy bride low lying;
Thy tears shall wake
her frozen limbs to life and health again.
Eversley, 1848.
The church bells were ringing, the devil sat singing
On
the stump of a rotting old tree;
‘Oh faith it grows cold,
and the creeds they grow old,
And the world is
nigh ready for me.’
The bells went on ringing, a spirit came singing,
And
smiled as he crumbled the tree;
‘Yon wood does but perish
new seedlings to cherish,
And the world is too
live yet for thee.’
Eversley, 1848.
Early in spring time, on raw and windy mornings,
Beneath the
freezing house-eaves I heard the starlings sing—
‘Ah
dreary March month, is this then a time for building wearily?
Sad,
sad, to think that the year is but begun.’
Late in the autumn, on still and cloudless evenings,
Among the
golden reed-beds I heard the starlings sing—
‘Ah that
sweet March month, when we and our mates were courting merrily;
Sad,
sad, to think that the year is all but done.’
Eversley, 1848.
See how the autumn leaves float by decaying,
Down the wild swirls
of the rain-swollen stream.
So fleet the works of men, back to
their earth again;
Ancient and holy things fade like a dream.
Nay! see the spring-blossoms steal forth a-maying,
Clothing
with tender hues orchard and glen;
So, though old forms pass by,
ne’er shall their spirit die,
Look! England’s
bare boughs show green leaf again.
Eversley, 1848.
‘Watchman, what of the night?’
‘The
stars are out in the sky;
And the merry round moon will be rising
soon,
For us to go sailing by.’
‘Watchman, what of the night?’
‘The
tide flows in from the sea;
There’s water to float a little
cockboat
Will carry such fishers as we.’
‘Watchman, what of the night?’
‘The
night is a fruitful time;
When to many a pair are born children
fair,
To be christened at morning chime.’
1849.
Who will say the world is dying?
Who will
say our prime is past?
Sparks from Heaven, within us lying,
Flash,
and will flash till the last.
Fools! who fancy Christ mistaken;
Man
a tool to buy and sell;
Earth a failure, God-forsaken,
Anteroom
of Hell.
Still the race of Hero-spirits
Pass the lamp
from hand to hand;
Age from age the Words inherits—
‘Wife,
and Child, and Fatherland.’
Still the youthful hunter gathers
Fiery
joy from wold and wood;
He will dare as dared his fathers
Give
him cause as good.
While a slave bewails his fetters;
While an
orphan pleads in vain;
While an infant lisps his letters,
Heir
of all the age’s gain;
While a lip grows ripe for kissing;
While
a moan from man is wrung;
Know, by every want and blessing,
That
the world is young.
1849.
‘O Mary, go and call the cattle home,
And
call the cattle home,
And call
the cattle home
Across the sands of Dee;’
The
western wind was wild and dank with foam,
And
all alone went she.
The western tide crept up along the sand,
And
o’er and o’er the sand,
And
round and round the sand,
As far as eye could
see.
The rolling mist came down and hid the land:
And
never home came she.
‘Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair—
A
tress of golden hair,
A drownèd
maiden’s hair
Above the nets at sea?
Was
never salmon yet that shone so fair
Among the
stakes on Dee.’
They rowed her in across the rolling foam,
The
cruel crawling foam,
The cruel
hungry foam,
To her grave beside the sea:
But
still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home
Across
the sands of Dee.
Eversley, 1849.
How sleeps yon rock, whose half-day’s bath is done.
With
broad blight side beneath the broad bright sun,
Like sea-nymph
tired, on cushioned mosses sleeping.
Yet, nearer drawn, beneath
her purple tresses
From drooping brows we find her slowly weeping.
So
many a wife for cruel man’s caresses
Must
inly pine and pine, yet outward bear
A gallant
front to this world’s gaudy glare.
Ilfracombe, 1849.
Wearily stretches the sand to the surge, and the surge to the cloudland;
Wearily
onward I ride, watching the water alone.
Not as of old, like Homeric
Achilles, κυδει yαιων,
Joyous
knight-errant of God, thirsting for labour and strife;
No more
on magical steed borne free through the regions of ether,
But,
like the hack which I ride, selling my sinew for gold.
Fruit-bearing
autumn is gone; let the sad quiet winter hang o’er me—
What
were the spring to a soul laden with sorrow and shame?
Blossoms
would fret me with beauty; my heart has no time to bepraise them;
Gray
rock, bough, surge, cloud, waken no yearning within.
Sing not,
thou sky-lark above! even angels pass hushed by the weeper.
Scream
on, ye sea-fowl! my heart echoes your desolate cry.
Sweep the dry
sand on, thou wild wind, to drift o’er the shell and the sea-weed;
Sea-weed
and shell, like my dreams, swept down the pitiless tide.
Just is
the wave which uptore us; ’tis Nature’s own law which condemns
us;
Woe to the weak who, in pride, build on the faith of the sand!
Joy
to the oak of the mountain: he trusts to the might of the rock-clefts;
Deeply
he mines, and in peace feeds on the wealth of the stone.
Morte Sands, Devonshire,
February 1849.
I cannot tell what you say, green leaves,
I
cannot tell what you say:
But I know that there is a spirit in
you,
And a word in you this day.
I cannot tell what you say, rosy rocks,
I
cannot tell what you say:
But I know that there is a spirit in
you,
And a word in you this day.
I cannot tell what you say, brown streams,
I
cannot tell what you say:
But I know that in you too a spirit doth
live,
And a word doth speak this day.
‘Oh green is the colour of faith and truth,
And rose the
colour of love and youth,
And brown of the fruitful
clay.
Sweet Earth is faithful, and fruitful,
and young,
And her bridal day shall come ere
long,
And you shall know what the rocks and the streams
And
the whispering woodlands say.’
Drew’s Teignton, Dartmoor,
July 31, 1849.
Forward! Hark forward’s
the cry!
One more fence and we’re out on the open,
So
to us at once, if you want to live near us!
Hark to them, ride
to them, beauties! as on they go,
Leaping and sweeping away in
the vale below!
Cowards and bunglers, whose heart or whose eye
is slow,
Find themselves staring alone.
So the great cause flashes by;
Nearer
and clearer its purposes open,
While louder and prouder the world-echoes
cheer us:
Gentlemen sportsmen, you ought to live up to us,
Lead
us, and lift us, and hallo our game to us—
We cannot call
the hounds off, and no shame to us—
Don’t
be left staring alone!
Eversley, 1849.
Weep, weep, weep and weep,
For pauper, dolt,
and slave!
Hark! from wasted moor and fen,
Feverous alley,
stifling den,
Swells the wail of Saxon men—
Work!
or the grave!
Down, down, down and down,
With idler, knave,
and tyrant!
Why for sluggards cark and moil?
He that will
not live by toil
Has no right on English soil!
God’s
word’s our warrant!
Up, up, up and up!
Face your game and play
it!
The night is past, behold the sun!
The idols fall, the
lie is done!
The Judge is set, the doom begun!
Who
shall stay it?
On Torridge, May 1849.
The Day of the Lord is at hand, at hand:
Its
storms roll up the sky:
The nations sleep starving on heaps of
gold;
All dreamers toss and sigh;
The night
is darkest before the morn;
When the pain is sorest the child is
born,
And the Day of the Lord
at hand.
Gather you, gather you, angels of God—
Freedom,
and Mercy, and Truth;
Come! for the Earth is grown coward and old,
Come
down, and renew us her youth.
Wisdom, Self-Sacrifice, Daring, and
Love,
Haste to the battle-field, stoop from above,
To
the Day of the Lord at hand.
Gather you, gather you, hounds of hell—
Famine,
and Plague, and War;
Idleness, Bigotry, Cant, and Misrule,
Gather,
and fall in the snare!
Hireling and Mammonite, Bigot and Knave,
Crawl
to the battle-field, sneak to your grave,
In
the Day of the Lord at hand.
Who would sit down and sigh for a lost age of gold,
While
the Lord of all ages is here?
True hearts will leap up at the trumpet
of God,
And those who can suffer, can dare.
Each
old age of gold was an iron age too,
And the meekest of saints
may find stern work to do,
In
the Day of the Lord at hand.
On the Torridge, Devonshire,
September 10, 1849.
It chanced upon the merry merry Christmas eve,
I
went sighing past the church across the moorland dreary—
‘Oh!
never sin and want and woe this earth will leave,
And
the bells but mock the wailing round, they sing so cheery.
How
long, O Lord! how long before Thou come again?
Still
in cellar, and in garret, and on moorland dreary
The orphans moan,
and widows weep, and poor men toil in vain,
Till
earth is sick of hope deferred, though Christmas bells be cheery.’
Then arose a joyous clamour from the wild-fowl on the mere,
Beneath
the stars, across the snow, like clear bells ringing,
And a voice
within cried—‘Listen!—Christmas carols even here!
Though
thou be dumb, yet o’er their work the stars and snows are singing.
Blind!
I live, I love, I reign; and all the nations through
With
the thunder of my judgments even now are ringing.
Do thou fulfil
thy work but as yon wild-fowl do,
Thou wilt heed
no less the wailing, yet hear through it angels singing.’
Eversley, 1849.
It was an hairy oubit, sae proud he crept alang,
A feckless
hairy oubit, and merrily he sang—
‘My Minnie bad me
bide at hame until I won my wings;
I show her soon my soul’s
aboon the warks o’ creeping things.’
This feckless hairy oubit cam’ hirpling by the linn,
A
swirl o’ wind cam’ doun the glen, and blew that oubit in:
Oh
when he took the water, the saumon fry they rose,
And tigg’d
him a’ to pieces sma’, by head and tail and toes.
Tak’ warning then, young poets a’, by this poor oubit’s
shame;
Though Pegasus may nicher loud, keep Pegasus at hame.
Oh
haud your hands frae inkhorns, though a’ the Muses woo;
For
critics lie, like saumon fry, to mak’ their meals o’ you.
Eversley, 1851.
Three fishers went sailing away to the West,
Away
to the West as the sun went down;
Each thought on the woman who
loved him the best,
And the children stood watching
them out of the town;
For men must work, and
women must weep,
And there’s little to
earn, and many to keep,
Though
the harbour bar be moaning.
Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower,
And
they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down;
They looked at the
squall, and they looked at the shower,
And the
night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown.
But
men must work, and women must weep,
Though storms
be sudden, and waters deep,
And
the harbour bar be moaning.
Three corpses lay out on the shining sands
In
the morning gleam as the tide went down,
And the women are weeping
and wringing their hands
For those who will never
come home to the town;
For men must work, and
women must weep,
And the sooner it’s over,
the sooner to sleep;
And good-bye
to the bar and its moaning.
Eversley, June 25, 1851.
Oh, thou hadst been a wife for Shakspeare’s self!
No head,
save some world-genius, ought to rest
Above the treasures of that
perfect breast,
Or nightly draw fresh light from those keen stars
Through
which thy soul awes ours: yet thou art bound—
O waste of
nature!—to a craven hound;
To shameless lust, and childish
greed of pelf;
Athené to a Satyr: was that link
Forged
by The Father’s hand? Man’s reason bars
The bans
which God allowed.—Ay, so we think:
Forgetting, thou hadst
weaker been, full blest,
Than thus made strong
by suffering; and more great
In martyrdom, than
throned as Cæsar’s mate.
Eversley, 1851.
Ask if I love thee? Oh, smiles cannot tell
Plainer what
tears are now showing too well.
Had I not loved thee, my sky had
been clear:
Had I not loved thee, I had not been here,
Weeping
by thee.
Ask if I love thee? How else could I borrow
Pride from
man’s slander, and strength from my sorrow?
Laugh when they
sneer at the fanatic’s bride,
Knowing no bliss, save to toil
and abide
Weeping by thee.
Andernach on the Rhine,
August 1851.
The world goes up and the world goes down,
And
the sunshine follows the rain;
And yesterday’s sneer and
yesterday’s frown
Can never come over again,
Sweet
wife:
No, never come over again.
For woman is warm though man be cold,
And
the night will hallow the day;
Till the heart which at even was
weary and old
Can rise in the morning gay,
Sweet
wife;
To its work in the morning gay.
Andernach, 1851.
My parents bow, and lead them forth,
For all
the crowd to see—
Ah well! the people might not care
To
cheer a dwarf like me.
They little know how I could love,
How I could
plan and toil,
To swell those drudges’ scanty gains,
Their
mites of rye and oil.
They little know what dreams have been
My
playmates, night and day;
Of equal kindness, helpful care,
A
mother’s perfect sway.
Now earth to earth in convent walls,
To earth
in churchyard sod:
I was not good enough for man,
And
so am given to God.
Bertrich in the Eifel, 1851.
The baby sings not on its mother’s breast;
Nor nightingales
who nestle side by side;
Nor I by thine: but let us only part,
Then
lips which should but kiss, and so be still,
As having uttered
all, must speak again—
O stunted thoughts! O chill
and fettered rhyme
Yet my great bliss, though still entirely blest,
Losing
its proper home, can find no rest:
So, like a
child who whiles away the time
With dance and carol till the eventide,
Watching
its mother homeward through the glen;
Or nightingale, who, sitting
far apart,
Tells to his listening mate within the nest
The
wonder of his star-entrancèd heart
Till all the wakened
woodlands laugh and thrill—
Forth all my
being bubbles into song;
And rings aloft, not
smooth, yet clear and strong.
Bertrich, 1851
Evil sped the battle play
On the Pope Calixtus’ day;
Mighty
war-smiths, thanes and lords,
In Senlac slept the sleep of swords.
Harold
Earl, shot over shield,
Lay along the autumn weald;
Slaughter
such was never none
Since the Ethelings England won.
Thither
Lady Githa came,
Weeping sore for grief and shame;
How may
she her first-born tell?
Frenchmen stript him where he fell,
Gashed
and marred his comely face;
Who can know him in his place?
Up
and spake two brethren wise,
‘Youngest hearts have keenest
eyes;
Bird which leaves its mother’s nest,
Moults its
pinions, moults its crest.
Let us call the Swan-neck here,
She
that was his leman dear;
She shall know him in this stound;
Foot
of wolf, and scent of hound,
Eye of hawk, and wing of dove,
Carry
woman to her love.’
Up and spake the Swan-neck
high,
‘Go! to all your thanes let cry
How I loved him
best of all,
I whom men his leman call;
Better knew his body
fair
Than the mother which him bare.
When ye lived in wealth
and glee
Then ye scorned to look on me;
God hath brought the
proud ones low
After me afoot to go.’
Rousing
erne and sallow glede,
Rousing gray wolf off his feed,
Over
franklin, earl, and thane,
Heaps of mother-naked slain,
Round
the red field tracing slow,
Stooped that Swan-neck white as snow;
Never
blushed nor turned away,
Till she found him where he lay;
Clipt
him in her armés fair,
Wrapt him in her yellow hair,
Bore
him from the battle-stead,
Saw him laid in pall of lead,
Took
her to a minster high,
For Earl Harold’s soul to cry.
Thus fell Harold, bracelet-giver;
Jesu rest
his soul for ever;
Angles all from thrall deliver;
Miserere
Domine.
Eversley, 1851.
I heard an Eagle crying all alone
Above the vineyards through
the summer night,
Among the skeletons of robber towers:
Because
the ancient eyrie of his race
Was trenched and walled by busy-handed
men;
And all his forest-chace and woodland wild,
Wherefrom
he fed his young with hare and roe,
Were trim with grapes which
swelled from hour to hour,
And tossed their golden tendrils to
the sun
For joy at their own riches:—So, I thought,
The
great devourers of the earth shall sit,
Idle and impotent, they
know not why,
Down-staring from their barren height of state
On
nations grown too wise to slay and slave,
The puppets of the few;
while peaceful lore
And fellow-help make glad the heart of earth,
With
wonders which they fear and hate, as he,
The Eagle, hates the vineyard
slopes below.
On the Rhine, 1851.
Over the camp-fires
Drank I with heroes,
Under the Donau
bank,
Warm in the snow trench:
Sagamen heard I there,
Men
of the Longbeards,
Cunning and ancient,
Honey-sweet-voiced.
Scaring
the wolf cub,
Scaring the horn-owl,
Shaking the snow-wreaths
Down
from the pine-boughs,
Up to the star roof
Rang out their song.
Singing
how Winil men,
Over the ice-floes
Sledging from Scanland
Came
unto Scoring;
Singing of Gambara,
Freya’s belovèd,
Mother
of Ayo,
Mother of Ibor.
Singing of Wendel men,
Ambri
and Assi;
How to the Winilfolk
Went they with war-words,—
‘Few
are ye, strangers,
And many are we:
Pay us now toll and fee,
Cloth-yarn,
and rings, and beeves:
Else at the raven’s meal
Bide
the sharp bill’s doom.’
Clutching the dwarfs work then,
Clutching
the bullock’s shell,
Girding gray iron on,
Forth fared
the Winils all,
Fared the Alruna’s sons,
Ayo and Ibor.
Mad
at heart stalked they:
Loud wept the women all,
Loud the Alruna
wife;
Sore was their need.
Out of the morning land,
Over
the snow-drifts,
Beautiful Freya came,
Tripping to Scoring.
White
were the moorlands,
And frozen before her:
Green were the
moorlands,
And blooming behind her.
Out of her gold locks
Shaking
the spring flowers,
Out of her garments
Shaking the south
wind,
Around in the birches
Awaking the throstles,
And
making chaste housewives all
Long for their heroes home,
Loving
and love-giving,
Came she to Scoring.
Came unto Gambara,
Wisest
of Valas,—
‘Vala, why weepest thou?
Far in the
wide-blue,
High up in the Elfin-home,
Heard I thy weeping.’
‘Stop
not my weeping,
Till one can fight seven.
Sons have I, heroes
tall,
First in the sword-play;
This day at the Wendels’
hands
Eagles must tear them.
Their mothers, thrall-weary,
Must
grind for the Wendels.’
Wept the Alruna wife;
Kissed
her fair Freya:—
‘Far off in the morning land,
High
in Valhalla,
A window stands open;
Its sill is the snow-peaks,
Its
posts are the waterspouts,
Storm-rack its lintel;
Gold cloud-flakes
above
Are piled for the roofing,
Far up to the Elfin-home,
High
in the wide-blue.
Smiles out each morning thence
Odin Allfather;
From
under the cloud-eaves
Smiles out on the heroes,
Smiles on
chaste housewives all,
Smiles on the brood-mares,
Smiles on
the smiths’ work:
And theirs is the sword-luck,
With
them is the glory,—
So Odin hath sworn it,—
Who
first in the morning
Shall meet him and greet him.’
Still
the Alruna wept:—
‘Who then shall greet him?
Women
alone are here:
Far on the moorlands
Behind the war-lindens,
In
vain for the bill’s doom
Watch Winil heroes all,
One
against seven.’
Sweetly the Queen laughed:—
‘Hear
thou my counsel now;
Take to thee cunning,
Belovèd
of Freya.
Take thou thy women-folk,
Maidens and wives:
Over
your ankles
Lace on the white war-hose;
Over your bosoms
Link
up the hard mail-nets;
Over your lips
Plait long tresses with
cunning;—
So war-beasts full-bearded
King Odin shall
deem you,
When off the gray sea-beach
At sunrise ye greet
him.’
Night’s son was driving
His golden-haired horses up;
Over
the eastern firths
High flashed their manes.
Smiled from the
cloud-eaves out
Allfather Odin,
Waiting the battle-sport:
Freya
stood by him.
‘Who are these heroes tall,—
Lusty-limbed
Longbeards?
Over the swans’ bath
Why cry they to me?
Bones
should be crashing fast,
Wolves should be full-fed,
Where
such, mad-hearted,
Swing hands in the sword-play.’
Sweetly laughed Freya:—
‘A name thou hast given
them,
Shames neither thee nor them,
Well can they wear it.
Give
them the victory,
First have they greeted thee;
Give them
the victory,
Yokefellow mine!
Maidens and wives are these,—
Wives
of the Winils;
Few are their heroes
And far on the war-road,
So
over the swans’ bath
They cry unto thee.’
Royally laughed he then;
Dear was that craft to him,
Odin
Allfather,
Shaking the clouds.
‘Cunning are women all,
Bold
and importunate!
Longbeards their name shall be,
Ravens shall
thank them:
Where women are heroes,
What must the men be?
Theirs
is the victory;
No need of me!’
Eversley, 1852.
From Hypatia.
Thank God! Those gazers’ eyes are gone at last!
The
guards are crouching underneath the rock;
The lights are fading
in the town below,
Around the cottage which this morn was ours.
Kind
sun, to set, and leave us here alone;
Alone upon our crosses with
our God;
While all the angels watch us from the stars.
Kind
moon, to shine so clear and full on him,
And bathe his limbs in
glory, for a sign
Of what awaits him! Oh look on him, Lord!
Look,
and remember how he saved thy lamb!
Oh listen
to me, teacher, husband, love,
Never till now loved utterly!
Oh say,
Say you forgive me! No—you must not speak:
You
said it to me hours ago—long hours!
Now you must rest, and
when to-morrow comes
Speak to the people, call them home to God,
A
deacon on the Cross, as in the Church;
And plead from off the tree
with outspread arms,
To show them that the Son of God endured
For
them—and me. Hush! I alone will speak,
And while
away the hours till dawn for you.
I know you have forgiven me;
as I lay
Beneath your feet, while they were binding me,
I
knew I was forgiven then! When I cried
‘Here am I,
husband! The lost lamb returned,
All re-baptized in blood!’
and you said, ‘Come!
Come to thy bride-bed, martyr, wife
once more!’
From that same moment all my pain was gone;
And
ever since those sightless eyes have smiled
Love—love!
Alas, those eyes! They made me fall.
I could not bear to
see them, bleeding, dark,
Never, no never to look into mine;
Never
to watch me round the little room
Singing about my work, or flash
on me
Looks bright with counsel.—Then they drove me mad
With
talk of nameless tortures waiting you—
And I could save you!
You would hear your love—
They knew you loved me, cruel men!
And then—
Then came a dream; to say one little word,
One
easy wicked word, we both might say,
And no one hear us, but the
lictors round;
One tiny sprinkle of the incense grains,
And
both, both free! And life had just begun—
Only three
months—short months—your wedded wife
Only three months
within the cottage there—
Hoping I bore your child. . . .
Ah!
husband! Saviour! God! think gently of me!
I am forgiven!
. . .
And then another dream;
A flash—so
quick, I could not bear the blaze;
I could not see the smoke among
the light—
To wander out through unknown lands, and lead
You
by the hand through hamlet, port, and town,
On, on, until we died;
and stand each day
To glory in you, as you preached and prayed
From
rock and bourne-stone, with that voice, those words,
Mingled with
fire and honey—you would wake,
Bend, save whole nations!
would not that atone
For one short word?—ay, make it right,
to save
You, you, to fight the battles of the Lord?
And so—and
so—alas! you knew the rest!
You answered me. . . .
Ah
cruel words! No! Blessed, godlike words.
You had done
nobly had you struck me dead,
Instead of striking me to life!—the
temptress! . . .
‘Traitress! apostate! dead to God and me!’—
‘The
smell of death upon me?’—so it was!
True! true! well
spoken, hero! Oh they snapped,
Those words, my madness, like
the angel’s voice
Thrilling the graves to birth-pangs.
All was clear.
There was but one right thing in the world to do;
And
I must do it. . . . Lord, have mercy! Christ!
Help
through my womanhood: or I shall fail
Yet, as I failed before!
. . . I could not speak—
I could not speak for shame
and misery,
And terror of my sin, and of the things
I knew
were coming: but in heaven, in heaven!
There we should meet, perhaps—and
by that time
I might be worthy of you once again—
Of
you, and of my God. . . . So I went out.
. . . . . .
Will
you hear more, and so forget the pain?
And yet I dread to tell
you what comes next;
Your love will feel it all again for me.
No!
it is over; and the woe that’s dead
Rises next hour a glorious
angel. Love!
Say, shall I tell you? Ah! your lips are
dry!
To-morrow, when they come, we must entreat,
And they
will give you water. One to-day,
A soldier, gave me water
in a sponge
Upon a reed, and said, ‘Too fair! too young!
She
might have been a gallant soldier’s wife!’
And then
I cried, ‘I am a soldier’s wife!
A hero’s!’
And he smiled, but let me drink.
God bless him for it!
So
they led me back:
And as I went, a voice was in my ears
Which
rang through all the sunlight, and the breath
And blaze of all
the garden slopes below,
And through the harvest-voices, and the
moan
Of cedar-forests on the cliffs above,
And round the shining
rivers, and the peaks
Which hung beyond the cloud-bed of the west,
And
round the ancient stones about my feet.
Out of all heaven and earth
it rang, and cried,
‘My hand hath made all these. Am
I too weak
To give thee strength to say so?’ Then my
soul
Spread like a clear blue sky within my breast,
While
all the people made a ring around,
And in the midst the judge spoke
smilingly—
‘Well! hast thou brought him to a better
mind?’
‘No! He has brought me to a better mind!’—
I
cried, and said beside—I know not what—
Words which
I learnt from thee—I trust in God
Nought fierce or rude—for
was I not a girl
Three months ago beneath my mother’s roof?
I
thought of that. She might be there! I looked—
She
was not there! I hid my face and wept.
And when I looked
again, the judge’s eye
Was on me, cold and steady, deep in
thought—
‘She knows what shame is still; so strip her.’
‘Ah!’
I shrieked, ‘Not that, Sir! Any pain!
So young
I am—a wife too—I am not my own,
But
his—my husband’s!’ But they took my shawl,
And
tore my tunic off, and there I stood
Before them all. . . .
Husband! you love me still?
Indeed I pleaded! Oh, shine out,
kind moon,
And let me see him smile! Oh! how I prayed,
While
some cried ‘Shame!’ and some, ‘She is too young!’
And
some mocked—ugly words: God shut my ears.
And yet no earthquake
came to swallow me.
While all the court around, and walls, and
roofs,
And all the earth and air were full of eyes,
Eyes,
eyes, which scorched my limbs like burning flame,
Until my brain
seemed bursting from my brow:
And yet no earthquake came!
And then I knew
This body was not yours alone, but God’s—
His
loan—He needed it: and after that
The worst was come, and
any torture more
A change—a lightening; and I did not shriek—
Once
only—once, when first I felt the whip—
It coiled so
keen around my side, and sent
A fire-flash through my heart which
choked me—then
I shrieked—that once. The foolish
echo rang
So far and long—I prayed you might not hear.
And
then a mist, which hid the ring of eyes,
Swam by me, and a murmur
in my ears
Of humming bees around the limes at home;
And I
was all alone with you and God.
And what they did to me I hardly
know;
I felt, and did not feel. Now I look back,
It
was not after all so very sharp:
So do not pity me. It made
me pray;
Forget my shame in pain, and pain in you,
And you
in God: and once, when I looked down,
And saw an ugly sight—so
many wounds!
‘What matter?’ thought I. ‘His
dear eyes are dark;
For them alone I kept these limbs so white—
A
foolish pride! As God wills now. ’Tis just.’
But
then the judge spoke out in haste: ‘She is mad,
Or fenced
by magic arts! She feels no pain!’
He did not know
I was on fire within:
Better he should not; so his sin was less.
Then
he cried fiercely, ‘Take the slave away,
And crucify her
by her husband’s side!’
And at those words a film came
on my face—
A sickening rush of joy—was that the end?
That
my reward? I rose, and tried to go—
But all the eyes
had vanished, and the judge;
And all the buildings melted into
mist:
So how they brought me here I cannot tell—
Here,
here, by you, until the judgment-day,
And after that for ever and
for ever!
Ah! If I could but reach that hand! One touch!
One
finger tip, to send the thrill through me
I felt but yesterday!—No!
I can wait:—
Another body!—Oh, new limbs are ready,
Free,
pure, instinct with soul through every nerve,
Kept for us in the
treasuries of God.
They will not mar the love they try to speak,
They
will not fail my soul, as these have done!
. . . . .
Will
you hear more? Nay—you know all the rest:
Yet those
poor eyes—alas! they could not see
My waking, when you hung
above me there
With hands outstretched to bless the penitent—
Your
penitent—even like The Lord Himself—
I gloried in you!—like
The Lord Himself!
Sharing His very sufferings, to the crown
Of
thorns which they had put on that dear brow
To make you like Him—show
you as you were!
I told them so! I bid them look on you,
And
see there what was the highest throne on earth—
The throne
of suffering, where the Son of God
Endured and triumphed for them.
But they laughed;
All but one soldier, gray, with many scars;
And
he stood silent. Then I crawled to you,
And kissed your bleeding
feet, and called aloud—
You heard me! You know all!
I am at peace.
Peace, peace, as still and bright as is the moon
Upon
your limbs, came on me at your smile,
And kept me happy, when they
dragged me back
From that last kiss, and spread me on the cross,
And
bound my wrists and ankles—Do not sigh:
I prayed, and bore
it: and since they raised me up
My eyes have never left your face,
my own, my own,
Nor will, till death comes! . . .
Do
I feel much pain?
Not much. Not maddening. None I cannot
bear.
It has become like part of my own life,
Or part of God’s
life in me—honour—bliss!
I dreaded madness, and instead
comes rest;
Rest deep and smiling, like a summer’s night.
I
should be easy, now, if I could move . . .
I cannot stir.
Ah God! these shoots of fire
Through all my limbs! Hush,
selfish girl! He hears you!
Who ever found the cross a pleasant
bed?
Yes; I can bear it, love. Pain is no evil
Unless
it conquers us. These little wrists, now—
You said,
one blessed night, they were too slender,
Too soft and slender
for a deacon’s wife—
Perhaps a martyr’s:—You
forgot the strength
Which God can give. The cord has cut
them through;
And yet my voice has never faltered yet.
Oh!
do not groan, or I shall long and pray
That you may die: and you
must not die yet.
Not yet—they told us we might live three
days . . .
Two days for you to preach! Two days to speak
Words
which may wake the dead!
. . . . .
Hush!
is he sleeping?
They say that men have slept upon the cross;
So
why not he? . . . Thanks, Lord! I hear him breathe:
And
he will preach Thy word to-morrow!—save
Souls, crowds, for
Thee! And they will know his worth
Years hence—poor
things, they know not what they do!—
And crown him martyr;
and his name will ring
Through all the shores of earth, and all
the stars
Whose eyes are sparkling through their tears to see
His
triumph—Preacher! Martyr!—Ah—and me?—
If
they must couple my poor name with his,
Let them tell all the truth—say
how I loved him,
And tried to damn him by that love! O Lord!
Returning
good for evil! and was this
The payment I deserved for such a sin?
To
hang here on my cross, and look at him
Until we kneel before Thy
throne in heaven!
Eversley, 1852.
So die, thou child of stormy dawn,
Thou winter flower, forlorn
of nurse;
Chilled early by the bigot’s curse,
The pedant’s
frown, the worldling’s yawn.
Fair death, to fall in teeming June,
When every seed which drops
to earth
Takes root, and wins a second birth
From steaming
shower and gleaming moon.
Fall warm, fall fast, thou mellow rain;
Thou rain of God, make
fat the land;
That roots which parch in burning sand
May bud
to flower and fruit again.
To grace, perchance, a fairer morn
In mightier lands beyond
the sea,
While honour falls to such as we
From hearts of heroes
yet unborn,
Who in the light of fuller day,
Of purer science, holier laws,
Bless
us, faint heralds of their cause,
Dim beacons of their glorious
way.
Failure? While tide-floods rise and boil
Round cape and
isle, in port and cove,
Resistless, star-led from above:
What
though our tiny wave recoil?
Eversley, 1852.
Linger no more, my beloved, by abbey and cell and cathedral;
Mourn
not for holy ones mourning of old them who knew not the Father,
Weeping
with fast and scourge, when the bridegroom was taken from them.
Drop
back awhile through the years, to the warm rich youth of the nations,
Childlike
in virtue and faith, though childlike in passion and pleasure,
Childlike
still, and still near to their God, while the day-spring of Eden
Lingered
in rose-red rays on the peaks of Ionian mountains.
Down to the
mothers, as Faust went, I go, to the roots of our manhood,
Mothers
of us in our cradles; of us once more in our glory.
New-born, body
and soul, in the great pure world which shall be
In the renewing
of all things, when man shall return to his Eden
Conquering evil,
and death, and shame, and the slander of conscience—
Free
in the sunshine of Godhead—and fearlessly smile on his Father.
Down
to the mothers I go—yet with thee still!—be with me, thou
purest!
Lead me, thy hand in my hand; and the dayspring of God
go before us.
Eversley, 1852.
The single eye, the daughter of the light;
Well pleased to recognise
in lowliest shade
Some glimmer of its parent beam, and made
By
daily draughts of brightness, inly bright.
The taste severe, yet
graceful, trained aright
In classic depth and clearness, and repaid
By
thanks and honour from the wise and staid—
By pleasant skill
to blame, and yet delight,
And high communion with the eloquent
throng
Of those who purified our speech and song—
All
these are yours. The same examples lure,
You in each woodland,
me on breezy moor—
With kindred aim the same sweet path along,
To
knit in loving knowledge rich and poor.
Eversley, 1853.
It was Earl Haldan’s daughter,
She
looked across the sea;
She looked across the
water;
And long and loud laughed
she:
‘The locks of six princesses
Must
be my marriage fee,
So hey bonny boat, and ho bonny boat!
Who
comes a wooing me?’
It was Earl Haldan’s daughter,
She
walked along the sand;
When she was aware of
a knight so fair,
Came sailing
to the land.
His sails were all of velvet,
His
mast of beaten gold,
And ‘Hey bonny boat, and ho bonny boat!
Who
saileth here so bold?’
‘The locks of five princesses
I
won beyond the sea;
I clipt their golden tresses,
To
fringe a cloak for thee.
One handful yet is wanting,
But
one of all the tale;
So hey bonny boat, and ho bonny boat!
Furl
up thy velvet sail!’
He leapt into the water,
That
rover young and bold;
He gript Earl Haldan’s
daughter,
He clipt her locks
of gold:
‘Go weep, go weep, proud maiden,
The
tale is full to-day.
Now hey bonny boat, and ho bonny boat!
Sail
Westward ho! away!’
Devonshire, 1854
From Westward Ho!
Ah tyrant Love, Megæra’s serpents bearing,
Why
thus requite my sighs with venom’d smart?
Ah ruthless dove,
the vulture’s talons wearing,
Why flesh
them, traitress, in this faithful heart?
Is this my meed?
Must dragons’ teeth alone
In Venus’ lawns by lovers’
hands be sown?
Nay, gentlest Cupid; ’twas my pride undid me;
Nay,
guiltless dove; by mine own wound I fell.
To worship, not to wed,
Celestials bid me:
I dreamt to mate in heaven,
and wake in hell;
For ever doom’d, Ixion-like, to reel
On
mine own passions’ ever-burning wheel.
Devonshire, 1854.
From Westward Ho!
Welcome, wild North-easter.
Shame it is to
see
Odes to every zephyr;
Ne’er a
verse to thee.
Welcome, black North-easter!
O’er
the German foam;
O’er the Danish moorlands,
From
thy frozen home.
Tired we are of summer,
Tired
of gaudy glare,
Showers soft and steaming,
Hot
and breathless air.
Tired of listless dreaming,
Through
the lazy day:
Jovial wind of winter
Turns
us out to play!
Sweep the golden reed-beds;
Crisp
the lazy dyke;
Hunger into madness
Every
plunging pike.
Fill the lake with wild-fowl;
Fill
the marsh with snipe;
While on dreary moorlands
Lonely
curlew pipe.
Through the black fir-forest
Thunder
harsh and dry,
Shattering down the snow-flakes
Off
the curdled sky.
Hark! The brave North-easter!
Breast-high
lies the scent,
On by holt and headland,
Over
heath and bent.
Chime, ye dappled darlings,
Through
the sleet and snow.
Who can over-ride you?
Let
the horses go!
Chime, ye dappled darlings,
Down
the roaring blast;
You shall see a fox die
Ere
an hour be past.
Go! and rest to-morrow,
Hunting
in your dreams,
While our skates are ringing
O’er
the frozen streams.
Let the luscious South-wind
Breathe
in lovers’ sighs,
While the lazy gallants
Bask
in ladies’ eyes.
What does he but soften
Heart
alike and pen?
’Tis the hard gray weather
Breeds
hard English men.
What’s the soft South-wester?
’Tis
the ladies’ breeze,
Bringing home their true-loves
Out
of all the seas:
But the black North-easter,
Through
the snowstorm hurled,
Drives our English hearts of oak
Seaward
round the world.
Come, as came our fathers,
Heralded
by thee,
Conquering from the eastward,
Lords
by land and sea.
Come; and strong within us
Stir
the Vikings’ blood;
Bracing brain and sinew;
Blow,
thou wind of God!
1854.
My fairest child, I have no song to give you;
No
lark could pipe in skies so dull and gray;
Yet, if you will, one
quiet hint I’ll leave you,
For
every day.
I’ll tell you how to sing a clearer carol
Than
lark who hails the dawn or breezy down
To earn yourself a purer
poet’s laurel
Than Shakespeare’s
crown.
Be good, sweet maid, and let who can be clever;
Do
lovely things, not dream them, all day long;
And so make Life,
and Death, and that For Ever,
One
grand sweet song.
February 1, 1856.
A hasty jest I once let fall—
As jests
are wont to be, untrue—
As if the sum of
joy to you
Were hunt and picnic, rout and ball.
Your eyes met mine: I did not blame;
You saw
it: but I touched too near
Some noble nerve;
a silent tear
Spoke soft reproach, and lofty shame.
I do not wish those words unsaid.
Unspoilt
by praise and pleasure, you
In that one look
to woman grew,
While with a child, I thought, I played.
Next to mine own beloved so long!
I have not
spent my heart in vain.
I watched the blade;
I see the grain;
A woman’s soul, most soft, yet strong.
Eversley, 1856.
O blessed drums of Aldershot!
O blessed South-west
train!
O blessed, blessed Speaker’s clock,
All
prophesying rain!
O blessed yaffil, laughing loud!
O blessed
falling glass!
O blessed fan of cold gray cloud!
O
blessed smelling grass!
O bless’d South wind that toots his horn
Through
every hole and crack!
I’m off at eight to-morrow morn,
To
bring such fishes back!
Eversley, April 1, 1856.
Come away with me, Tom,
Term and talk are done;
My poor
lads are reaping,
Busy every one.
Curates mind the parish,
Sweepers
mind the court;
We’ll away to Snowdon
For our ten days’
sport;
Fish the August evening
Till the eve is past,
Whoop
like boys, at pounders
Fairly played and grassed.
When they
cease to dimple,
Lunge, and swerve, and leap,
Then up over
Siabod,
Choose our nest, and sleep.
Up a thousand feet, Tom,
Round
the lion’s head,
Find soft stones to leeward
And make
up our bed.
Eat our bread and bacon,
Smoke the pipe of peace,
And,
ere we be drowsy,
Give our boots a grease.
Homer’s heroes
did so,
Why not such as we?
What are sheets and servants?
Superfluity!
Pray
for wives and children
Safe in slumber curled,
Then to chat
till midnight
O’er this babbling world—
Of the
workmen’s college,
Of the price of grain,
Of the tree
of knowledge,
Of the chance of rain;
If Sir A. goes Romeward,
If
Miss B. sings true,
If the fleet comes homeward,
If the mare
will do,—
Anything and everything—
Up there in
the sky
Angels understand us,
And no ‘saints’
are by.
Down, and bathe at day-dawn,
Tramp from lake to lake,
Washing
brain and heart clean
Every step we take.
Leave to Robert
Browning
Beggars, fleas, and vines;
Leave to mournful Ruskin
Popish
Apennines,
Dirty Stones of Venice
And his Gas-lamps Seven—
We’ve
the stones of Snowdon
And the lamps of heaven.
Where’s
the mighty credit
In admiring Alps?
Any goose sees ‘glory’
In
their ‘snowy scalps.’
Leave such signs and wonders
For
the dullard brain,
As æsthetic brandy,
Opium and cayenne.
Give
me Bramshill common
(St. John’s harriers by),
Or the
vale of Windsor,
England’s golden eye.
Show me life
and progress,
Beauty, health, and man;
Houses fair, trim gardens,
Turn
where’er I can.
Or, if bored with ‘High Art,’
And
such popish stuff,
One’s poor ear need airing,
Snowdon’s
high enough.
While we find God’s signet
Fresh on English
ground,
Why go gallivanting
With the nations round?
Though
we try no ventures
Desperate or strange;
Feed on commonplaces
In
a narrow range;
Never sought for Franklin
Round the frozen
Capes;
Even, with Macdougall, {295}
Bagged
our brace of apes;
Never had our chance, Tom,
In that black
Redan;
Can’t avenge poor Brereton
Out in Sakarran;
Tho’
we earn our bread, Tom,
By the dirty pen,
What we can we will
be,
Honest Englishmen.
Do the work that’s nearest,
Though
it’s dull at whiles,
Helping, when we meet them,
Lame
dogs over stiles;
See in every hedgerow
Marks of angels’
feet,
Epics in each pebble
Underneath our feet;
Once
a year, like schoolboys,
Robin-Hooding go,
Leaving fops and
fogies
A thousand feet below.
Eversley, August 1856.
Yon sound’s neither sheep-bell nor bark,
They’re
running—they’re running, Go hark!
The
sport may be lost by a moment’s delay;
So
whip up the puppies and scurry away.
Dash down through the cover
by dingle and dell,
There’s a gate at the bottom—I
know it full well;
And they’re running—they’re
running,
Go hark!
They’re running—they’re running,
Go hark!
One fence and we’re out of the
park;
Sit down in your saddles and race at the
brook,
Then smash at the bullfinch; no time for
a look;
Leave cravens and skirters to dangle behind;
He’s
away for the moors in the teeth of the wind,
And they’re
running—they’re running,
Go
hark!
They’re running—they’re running,
Go hark!
Let them run on and run till it’s
dark!
Well with them we are, and well with them
we’ll be,
While there’s wind in our
horses and daylight to see:
Then shog along homeward, chat over
the fight,
And hear in our dreams the sweet music all night
Of—They’re
running—they’re running,
Go
hark!
Eversley, 1856.
Oh, Mr. Froude, how wise and
good,
To
point us out this way to glory—
They’re
no great shakes, those Snowdon Lakes,
And
all their pounders myth and story.
Blow Snowdon! What’s
Lake Gwynant to Killarney,
Or spluttering Welsh to tender blarney,
blarney, blarney?
So Thomas Hughes, sir, if you
choose,
I’ll
tell you where we think of going,
To
swate and far o’er cliff and scar,
Hear
horns of Elfland faintly blowing;
Blow Snowdon! There’s
a hundred lakes to try in,
And fresh caught salmon daily, frying,
frying, frying.
Geology and botany
A
hundred wonders shall diskiver,
We’ll
flog and troll in strid and hole,
And
skim the cream of lake and river,
Blow Snowdon! give me Ireland
for my pennies,
Hurrah! for salmon, grilse, and—Dennis, Dennis,
Dennis!
Eversley, 1856
Oh England is a pleasant place for them that’s rich and high,
But
England is a cruel place for such poor folks as I;
And such a port
for mariners I ne’er shall see again
As the pleasant Isle
of Avès, beside the Spanish main.
There were forty craft in Avès that were both swift and stout,
All
furnished well with small arms and cannons round about;
And a thousand
men in Avès made laws so fair and free
To choose their valiant
captains and obey them loyally.
Thence we sailed against the Spaniard with his hoards of plate and
gold,
Which he wrung with cruel tortures from Indian folk of old;
Likewise
the merchant captains, with hearts as hard as stone,
Who flog men
and keel-haul them, and starve them to the bone.
Oh the palms grew high in Avès, and fruits that shone like
gold,
And the colibris and parrots they were gorgeous to behold;
And
the negro maids to Avès from bondage fast did flee,
To welcome
gallant sailors, a-sweeping in from sea.
Oh sweet it was in Avès to hear the landward breeze,
A-swing
with good tobacco in a net between the trees,
With a negro lass
to fan you, while you listened to the roar
Of the breakers on the
reef outside, that never touched the shore.
But Scripture saith, an ending to all fine things must be;
So
the King’s ships sailed on Avès, and quite put down were
we.
All day we fought like bulldogs, but they burst the booms at
night;
And I fled in a piragua, sore wounded, from the fight.
Nine days I floated starving, and a negro lass beside,
Till
for all I tried to cheer her, the poor young thing she died;
But
as I lay a gasping, a Bristol sail came by,
And brought me home
to England here, to beg until I die.
And now I’m old and going—I’m sure I can’t
tell where;
One comfort is, this world’s so hard, I can’t
be worse off there:
If I might but be a sea-dove, I’d fly
across the main,
To the pleasant Isle of Avès, to look at
it once again.
Eversley, 1857,
Hark! hark! hark!
The lark sings high in the dark.
The
were wolves mutter, the night hawks moan,
The raven croaks from
the Raven-stone;
What care I for his boding groan,
Riding
the moorland to come to mine own?
Hark! hark! hark!
The lark
sings high in the dark.
Hark! hark! hark!
The lark sings high in the dark.
Long
have I wander’d by land and by sea,
Long have I ridden by
moorland and lea;
Yonder she sits with my babe on her knee,
Sits
at the window and watches for me!
Hark! hark! hark!
The lark
sings high in the dark.
Written for music, 1857.
There is no inn in Snowdon which is not awful dear,
Excepting
Pen-y-gwrydd (you can’t pronounce it, dear),
Which standeth
in the meeting of noble valleys three—
One is the vale of
Gwynant, so well beloved by me,
One goes to Capel-Curig, and I
can’t mind its name,
And one it is Llanberris Pass, which
all men knows the same;
Between which radiations vast mountains
does arise,
As full of tarns as sieves of holes, in which big fish
will rise,
That is, just one day in the year, if you be there,
my boy,
Just about ten o’clock at night; and then I wish
you joy.
Now to this Pen-y-gwrydd inn I purposeth to write,
(Axing
the post town out of Froude, for I can’t mind it quite),
And
to engage a room or two, for let us say a week,
For fear of gents,
and Manichees, and reading parties meek,
And there to live like
fighting-cocks at almost a bob a day,
And arterwards toward the
sea make tracks and cut away,
All for to catch the salmon bold
in Aberglaslyn pool,
And work the flats in Traeth-Mawr, and will,
or I’m a fool.
And that’s my game, which if you like,
respond to me by post;
But I fear it will not last, my son, a thirteen
days at most.
Flies is no object; I can tell some three or four
will do,
And John Jones, Clerk, he knows the rest, and ties and
sells ’em too.
Besides of which I have no more to say, leastwise
just now,
And so, goes to my children’s school and ’umbly
makes my bow.
Eversley, 1857.
Hence a while, severer Muses;
Spare your slaves till drear October.
Hence;
for Alma Mater chooses
Not to be for ever sober:
But, like
stately matron gray,
Calling child and grandchild round her,
Will
for them at least be gay;
Share for once their holiday;
And,
knowing she will sleep the sounder,
Cheerier-hearted on the morrow
Rise
to grapple care and sorrow,
Grandly leads the dance adown, and
joins the children’s play.
So
go, for in your places
Already,
as you see,
(Her tears for some deep sorrow scarcely dried),
Venus
holds court among her sinless graces,
With many a nymph from many
a park and lea.
She, pensive, waits the merrier faces
Of those
your wittier sisters three,
O’er jest and dance and song
who still preside,
To cheer her in this merry-mournful tide;
And
bids us, as she smiles or sighs,
Tune our fancies
by her eyes.
Then let the young be glad,
Fair
girl and gallant lad,
And sun themselves to-day
By
lawn and garden gay;
’Tis play befits the
noon
Of rosy-girdled June:
Who
dare frown if heaven shall smile?
Blest, who
can forget a while;
The world before them, and
above
The light of universal love.
Go, then,
let the young be gay;
From their heart as from their dress
Let
darkness and let mourning pass away,
While we the staid and worn
look on and bless.
Health to courage firm and high!
Health
to Granta’s chivalry!
Wisely finding, day
by day,
Play in toil, and toil in play.
Granta
greets them, gliding down
On by park and spire
and town;
Humming mills and golden meadows,
Barred
with elm and poplar shadows;
Giant groves, and
learned halls;
Holy fanes and pictured walls.
Yet
she bides not here; around
Lies the Muses’
sacred ground.
Most she lingers, where below
Gliding
wherries come and go;
Stalwart footsteps shake
the shores;
Rolls the pulse of stalwart oars;
Rings
aloft the exultant cry
For the bloodless victory.
There
she greets the sports, which breed
Valiant lads
for England’s need;
Wisely finding, day
by day,
Play in toil, and toil in play.
Health
to courage, firm and high!
Health to Granta’s
chivalry!
Yet stay a while, severer Muses, stay,
For you, too, have your
rightful parts to-day.
Known long to you, and known through you
to fame,
Are Chatsworth’s halls, and Cavendish’s name.
You
too, then, Alma Mater calls to greet
A worthy patron for your ancient
seat;
And bid her sons from him example take,
Of learning
purely sought for learning’s sake,
Of worth unboastful, power
in duty spent;
And see, fulfilled in him, her high intent.
Come, Euterpe, wake thy choir;
Fit
thy notes to our desire.
Long
may he sit the chiefest here,
Meet
us and greet us, year by year;
Long
inherit, sire and son,
All
that their race has wrought and won,
Since
that great Cavendish came again,
Round
the world and over the main,
Breasting
the Thames with his mariners bold,
Past
good Queen Bess’s palace of old;
With
jewel and ingot packed in his hold,
And
sails of damask and cloth of gold;
While
never a sailor-boy on board
But
was decked as brave as a Spanish lord,
With
the spoils he had won
In
the Isles of the Sun,
And
the shores of Fairy-land,
And
yet held for the crown of the goodly show,
That
queenly smile from the Palace window,
And
that wave of a queenly hand.
Yes,
let the young be gay,
And sun
themselves to-day;—
And from their hearts,
as from their dress,
Let mourning
pass away.
But not from us, who watch our years fast fleeing,
And
snatching as they flee, fresh fragments of our being.
Can
we forget one friend,
Can we
forget one face,
Which cheered
us toward our end,
Which nerved
us for our race?
Oh sad to
toil, and yet forego
One presence
which has made us know
To Godlike
souls how deep our debt!
We
would not, if we could, forget.
Severer Muses, linger yet;
Speak
out for us one pure and rich regret.
Thou, Clio,
who, with awful pen,
Gravest great names upon
the hearts of men,
Speak of a fate beyond our
ken;
A gem late found and lost too soon; {306}
A
sun gone down at highest noon;
A tree from Odin’s
ancient root,
Which bore for men the ancient
fruit,
Counsel, and faith and scorn of wrong,
And
cunning lore, and soothing song,
Snapt in mid-growth,
and leaving unaware
The flock unsheltered and
the pasture bare
Nay, let us take what God shall
send,
Trusting bounty without end.
God
ever lives; and Nature,
Beneath His high dictature,
Hale
and teeming, can replace
Strength by strength,
and grace by grace,
Hope by hope, and friend
by friend:
Trust; and take what God shall send.
So
shall Alma Mater see
Daughters
fair and wise
Train new lands of liberty
Under
stranger skies;
Spreading round the teeming earth
English
science, manhood, worth.
1862.
Clear and cool, clear and cool,
By laughing
shallow, and dreaming pool;
Cool and clear, cool
and clear,
By shining shingle, and foaming wear;
Under the
crag where the ouzel sings,
And the ivied wall where the church-bell
rings,
Undefiled, for the undefiled;
Play
by me, bathe in me, mother and child.
Dank and foul, dank and foul,
By
the smoky town in its murky cowl;
Foul
and dank, foul and dank,
By wharf and sewer and
slimy bank;
Darker and darker the farther I go,
Baser and
baser the richer I grow;
Who
dare sport with the sin-defiled?
Shrink from
me, turn from me, mother and child.
Strong and free, strong and free,
The
floodgates are open, away to the sea.
Free
and strong, free and strong,
Cleansing my streams
as I hurry along
To the golden sands, and the leaping bar,
And
the taintless tide that awaits me afar,
As I lose myself in the
infinite main,
Like a soul that has sinned and is pardoned again.
Undefiled,
for the undefiled;
Play by me, bathe in me, mother
and child.
From The Water-Babies.
Eversley, 1862.
When all the world is young, lad,
And all
the trees are green;
And every goose a swan, lad,
And
every lass a queen;
Then hey for boot and horse, lad,
And
round the world away;
Young blood must have its course, lad,
And
every dog his day.
When all the world is old, lad,
And all the
trees are brown;
And all the sport is stale, lad,
And
all the wheels run down;
Creep home, and take your place there,
The
spent and maimed among:
God grant you find one face there,
You
loved when all was young.
From The Water-Babies. 1862
Soft soft wind, from out the sweet south sliding,
Waft
thy silver cloud webs athwart the summer sea;
Thin
thin threads of mist on dewy fingers twining
Weave a veil of dappled
gauze to shade my babe and me.
Deep deep Love, within thine own abyss abiding,
Pour
Thyself abroad, O Lord, on earth and air and sea;
Worn
weary hearts within Thy holy temple hiding,
Shield from sorrow,
sin, and shame my helpless babe and me.
From The Water-Babies. 1862
I once had a sweet little doll, dears,
The
prettiest doll in the world;
Her cheeks were so red and so white,
dears,
And her hair was so charmingly curled.
But
I lost my poor little doll, dears,
As I played
in the heath one day;
And I cried for more than a week, dears,
But
I never could find where she lay.
I found my poor little doll, dears,
As I played
in the heath one day:
Folks say she is terribly changed, dears,
For
her paint is all washed away,
And her arms trodden off by the cows,
dears
And her hair not the least bit curled:
Yet
for old sakes’ sake she is still, dears,
The
prettiest doll in the world.
From The Water-Babies.
Eversley, 1862.
‘So the foemen have fired the gate, men of mine;
And
the water is spent and gone?
Then bring me a cup of the red Ahr-wine:
I
never shall drink but this one.
‘And reach me my harness, and saddle my horse,
And
lead him me round to the door:
He must take such a leap to-night
perforce,
As horse never took before.
‘I have fought my fight, I have lived my life,
I
have drunk my share of wine;
From Trier to Coln there was never
a knight
Led a merrier life than mine.
‘I have lived by the saddle for years two score;
And
if I must die on tree,
Then the old saddle tree, which has borne
me of yore,
Is the properest timber for me.
‘So now to show bishop, and burgher, and priest,
How
the Altenahr hawk can die:
If they smoke the old falcon out of
his nest,
He must take to his wings and fly.’
He harnessed himself by the clear moonshine,
And
he mounted his horse at the door;
And he drained such a cup of
the red Ahr-wine,
As man never drained before.
He spurred the old horse, and he held him tight,
And
he leapt him out over the wall;
Out over the cliff, out into the
night,
Three hundred feet of fall.
They found him next morning below in the glen,
With
never a bone in him whole—
A mass or a prayer, now, good
gentlemen,
For such a bold rider’s soul.
Eversley, 1864.
A harper came over the Danube so wide,
And
he came into Alaric’s hall,
And he sang the song of the little
Baltung
To him and his heroes all.
How the old old Balt and the young young Balt
Rode
out of Caucaland,
With the royal elephant’s trunk on helm
And
the royal lance in hand.
Thuringer heroes, counts and knights,
Pricked
proud in their meinie;
For they were away to the great Kaiser,
In
Byzant beside the sea.
And when they came to the Danube so wide
They
shouted from off the shore,
‘Come over, come over, ye Roman
slaves,
And ferry your masters o’er.’
And when they came to Adrian’s burgh,
With
its towers so smooth and high,
‘Come out, come out, ye Roman
knaves,
And see your lords ride by.’
But when they came lo the long long walls
That
stretch from sea to sea,
That old old Balt let down his chin,
And
a thoughtful man grew he.
‘Oh oft have I scoffed at brave Fridigern,
But
never will I scoff more,
If these be the walls which kept him out
From
the Micklegard there on the shore.’
Then out there came the great Kaiser,
With
twice ten thousand men;
But never a Thuring was coward enough
To
wish himself home again.
‘Bow down, thou rebel, old Athanarich,
And
beg thy life this day;
The Kaiser is lord of all the world,
And
who dare say him nay?’
‘I never came out of Caucaland
To beg
for less nor more;
But to see the pride of the great Kaiser,
In
his Micklegard here by the shore.
‘I never came out of Caucaland
To bow
to mortal wight,
But to shake the hand of the great Kaiser,
And
God defend my right.’
He shook his hand, that cunning Kaiser,
And
he kissed him courteouslie,
And he has ridden with Athanarich
That
wonder-town to see.
He showed him his walls of marble white—
A
mile o’erhead they shone;
Quoth the Balt, ‘Who would
leap into that garden,
King Siegfried’s
boots must own.’
He showed him his engines of arsmetrick
And
his wells of quenchless flame,
And his flying rocks, that guarded
his walls
From all that against him came.
He showed him his temples and pillared halls,
And
his streets of houses high;
And his watch-towers tall, where his
star-gazers
Sit reading the signs of the sky.
He showed him his ships with their hundred oars,
And
their sides like a castle wall,
That fetch home the plunder of
all the world,
At the Kaiser’s beck and
call.
He showed him all nations of every tongue
That
are bred beneath the sun,
How they flowed together in Micklegard
street
As the brooks flow all into one.
He showed him the shops of the china ware,
And
of silk and sendal also,
And he showed him the baths and the waterpipes
On
arches aloft that go.
He showed him ostrich and unicorn,
Ape, lion,
and tiger keen;
And elephants wise roared ‘Hail Kaiser!’
As
though they had Christians been.
He showed him the hoards of the dragons and trolls,
Rare
jewels and heaps of gold—
‘Hast thou seen, in all thy
hundred years,
Such as these, thou king so old?’
Now that cunning Kaiser was a scholar wise,
And
could of gramarye,
And he cast a spell on that old old Balt,
Till
lowly and meek spake he.
‘Oh oft have I heard of the Micklegard,
What
I held for chapmen’s lies;
But now do I know of the Micklegard,
By
the sight of mine own eyes.
‘Woden in Valhalla,
But thou on earth
art God;
And he that dare withstand thee, Kaiser,
On
his own head lies his blood.’
Then out and spake that little Baltung,
Rode
at the king’s right knee,
Quoth ‘Fridigern slew false
Kaiser Valens,
And he died like you or me.’
‘And who art thou, thou pretty bold boy,
Rides
at the king’s right knee?’
‘Oh I am the Baltung,
boy Alaric,
And as good a man as thee.’
‘As good as me, thou pretty bold boy,
With
down upon thy chin?’
‘Oh a spae-wife laid a doom on
me,
The best of thy realm to win.’
‘If thou be so fierce, thou little wolf cub
Or
ever thy teeth be grown;
Then I must guard my two young sons
Lest
they should lose their own.’
‘Oh, it’s I will guard your two lither lads,
In
their burgh beside the sea,
And it’s I will prove true man
to them
If they will prove true to me.
‘But it’s you must warn your two lither lads,
And
warn them bitterly,
That if I shall find them two false Kaisers,
High
hanged they both shall be.’
Now they are gone into the Kaiser’s palace
To
eat the peacock fine,
And they are gone into the Kaiser’s
palace
To drink the good Greek wine.
The Kaiser alone, and the old old Balt,
They
sat at the cedar board;
And round them served on the bended knee
Full
many a Roman lord.
‘What ails thee, what ails thee, friend Athanarich?
What
makes thee look so pale?’
‘I fear I am poisoned, thou
cunning Kaiser,
For I feel my heart-strings fail.
‘Oh would I had kept that great great oath
I
swore by the horse’s head,
I would never set foot on Roman
ground
Till the day that I lay dead.
‘Oh would I were home in Caucaland,
To
hear my harpers play,
And to drink my last of the nut-brown ale,
While
I gave the gold rings away.
‘Oh would I were home in Caucaland,
To
hear the Gothmen’s horn,
And watch the waggons, and brown
brood mares
And the tents where I was born.
‘But now I must die between four stone walls
In
Byzant beside the sea:
And as thou shalt deal with my little Baltung,
So
God shall deal with thee.’
The Kaiser he purged himself with oaths,
And
he buried him royally,
And he set on his barrow an idol of gold,
Where
all Romans must bow the knee.
And now the Goths are the Kaiser’s men,
And
guard him with lance and sword,
And the little Baltung is his sworn
son-at-arms,
And eats at the Kaiser’s board,
And the Kaiser’s two sons are two false white lads
That
a clerk may beat with cane.
The clerk that should beat that little
Baltung
Would never sing mass again.
Oh the gates of Rome they are steel without,
And
beaten gold within:
But they shall fly wide to the little Baltung
With
the down upon his chin.
Oh the fairest flower in the Kaiser’s garden
Is
Rome and Italian land:
But it all shall fall to the little Baltung
When
he shall take lance in hand.
And when he is parting the plunder of Rome,
He
shall pay for this song of mine,
Neither maiden nor land, neither
jewel nor gold,
But one cup of Italian wine.
Eversley, 1864.
A King is dead! Another master mind
Is
summoned from the world-wide council hall.
Ah, for some seer, to
say what links behind—
To read the mystic
writing on the wall!
Be still, fond man: nor ask thy fate to know.
Face
bravely what each God-sent moment brings.
Above thee rules in love,
through weal and woe,
Guiding thy kings and thee,
the King of kings.
Windsor Castle,
November 10, 1865.
(Written for music to be sung at a parish industrial exhibition)
See the land, her Easter keeping,
Rises as
her Maker rose.
Seeds, so long in darkness sleeping,
Burst
at last from winter snows.
Earth with heaven above rejoices;
Fields
and gardens hail the spring;
Shaughs and woodlands ring with voices,
While
the wild birds build and sing.
You, to whom your Maker granted
Powers to
those sweet birds unknown,
Use the craft by God implanted;
Use
the reason not your own.
Here, while heaven and earth rejoices,
Each
his Easter tribute bring—
Work of fingers, chant of voices,
Like
the birds who build and sing.
Eversley, 1867.
They drift away. Ah, God! they drift for ever.
I watch
the stream sweep onward to the sea,
Like some old battered buoy
upon a roaring river,
Round whom the tide-waifs hang—then
drift to sea.
I watch them drift—the old familiar faces,
Who fished
and rode with me, by stream and wold,
Till ghosts, not men, fill
old beloved places,
And, ah! the land is rank with churchyard mold.
I watch them drift—the youthful aspirations,
Shores, landmarks,
beacons, drift alike.
. . . . .
I watch them drift—the
poets and the statesmen;
The very streams run upward from the sea.
.
. . . . .
Yet overhead the boundless arch of
heaven
Still fades to night, still blazes into
day.
. . . . .
Ah, God!
My God! Thou wilt not drift away
November 1867.
How will it dawn, the coming Christmas Day?
A northern Christmas,
such as painters love,
And kinsfolk, shaking hands but once a year,
And
dames who tell old legends by the fire?
Red sun, blue sky, white
snow, and pearled ice,
Keen ringing air, which sets the blood on
fire,
And makes the old man merry with the young,
Through
the short sunshine, through the longer night?
Or
southern Christmas, dark and dank with mist,
And heavy with the
scent of steaming leaves,
And rosebuds mouldering on the dripping
porch;
One twilight, without rise or set of sun,
Till beetles
drone along the hollow lane,
And round the leafless hawthorns,
flitting bats
Hawk the pale moths of winter? Welcome then
At
best, the flying gleam, the flying shower,
The rain-pools glittering
on the long white roads,
And shadows sweeping on from down to down
Before
the salt Atlantic gale: yet come
In whatsoever garb, or gay, or
sad,
Come fair, come foul, ’twill still be Christmas Day.
How
will it dawn, the coming Christmas Day?
To sailors lounging on
the lonely deck
Beneath the rushing trade-wind? Or to him,
Who
by some noisome harbour of the East,
Watches swart arms roll down
the precious bales,
Spoils of the tropic forests; year by year
Amid
the din of heathen voices, groaning
Himself half heathen?
How to those—brave hearts!
Who toil with laden loins and
sinking stride
Beside the bitter wells of treeless sands
Toward
the peaks which flood the ancient Nile,
To free a tyrant’s
captives? How to those—
New patriarchs of the new-found
underworld—
Who stand, like Jacob, on the virgin lawns,
And
count their flocks’ increase? To them that day
Shall
dawn in glory, and solstitial blaze
Of full midsummer sun: to them
that morn,
Gay flowers beneath their feet, gay birds aloft,
Shall
tell of nought but summer: but to them,
Ere yet, unwarned by carol
or by chime,
They spring into the saddle, thrills may come
From
that great heart of Christendom which beats
Round all the worlds;
and gracious thoughts of youth;
Of steadfast folk, who worship
God at home;
Of wise words, learnt beside their mothers’
knee;
Of innocent faces upturned once again
In awe and joy
to listen to the tale
Of God made man, and in a manger laid—
May
soften, purify, and raise the soul
From selfish cares, and growing
lust of gain,
And phantoms of this dream which some call life,
Toward
the eternal facts; for here or there,
Summer or winter, ’twill
be Christmas Day.
Blest day, which aye reminds us, year by year,
What
’tis to be a man: to curb and spurn
The tyrant in us; that
ignobler self
Which boasts, not loathes, its likeness to the brute,
And
owns no good save ease, no ill save pain,
No purpose, save its
share in that wild war
In which, through countless ages, living
things
Compete in internecine greed.—Ah God!
Are we
as creeping things, which have no Lord?
That we are brutes, great
God, we know too well;
Apes daintier-featured; silly birds who
flaunt
Their plumes unheeding of the fowler’s step;
Spiders,
who catch with paper, not with webs;
Tigers, who slay with cannon
and sharp steel,
Instead of teeth and claws;—all these we
are.
Are we no more than these, save in degree?
No more than
these; and born but to compete—
To envy and devour, like
beast or herb;
Mere fools of nature; puppets of strong lusts,
Taking
the sword, to perish with the sword
Upon the universal battle-field,
Even
as the things upon the moor outside?
The heath
eats up green grass and delicate flowers,
The pine eats up the
heath, the grub the pine,
The finch the grub, the hawk the silly
finch;
And man, the mightiest of all beasts of prey,
Eats
what he lists; the strong eat up the weak,
The many eat the few;
great nations, small;
And he who cometh in the name of all—
He,
greediest, triumphs by the greed of all;
And, armed by his own
victims, eats up all:
While ever out of the eternal heavens
Looks
patient down the great magnanimous God,
Who, Maker of all worlds,
did sacrifice
All to Himself? Nay, but Himself to one;
Who
taught mankind on that first Christmas Day,
What ’twas to
be a man; to give, not take;
To serve, not rule; to nourish, not
devour;
To help, not crush; if need, to die, not live.
O
blessed day, which givest the eternal lie
To self, and sense, and
all the brute within;
Oh, come to us, amid this war of life;
To
hall and hovel, come; to all who toil
In senate, shop, or study;
and to those
Who, sundered by the wastes of half a world,
Ill-warned,
and sorely tempted, ever face
Nature’s brute powers, and
men unmanned to brutes—
Come to them, blest and blessing,
Christmas Day.
Tell them once more the tale of Bethlehem;
The
kneeling shepherds, and the Babe Divine:
And keep them men indeed,
fair Christmas Day.
Eversley, 1868.
Speak low, speak little; who may sing
While
yonder cannon-thunders boom?
Watch, shuddering, what each day may
bring:
Nor ‘pipe amid the crack of doom.’
And yet—the pines sing overhead,
The
robins by the alder-pool,
The bees about the garden-bed,
The
children dancing home from school.
And ever at the loom of Birth
The mighty Mother
weaves and sings:
She weaves—fresh robes for mangled earth;
She
sings—fresh hopes for desperate things.
And thou, too: if through Nature’s calm
Some
strain of music touch thine ears,
Accept and share that soothing
balm,
And sing, though choked with pitying tears.
Eversley, 1870.
He wiled me through the furzy croft;
He wiled
me down the sandy lane.
He told his boy’s love, soft and
oft,
Until I told him mine again.
We married, and we sailed the main;
A soldier,
and a soldier’s wife.
We marched through many a burning plain;
We
sighed for many a gallant life.
But his—God kept it safe from harm.
He
toiled, and dared, and earned command;
And those three stripes
upon his arm
Were more to me than gold or land.
Sure he would win some great renown:
Our lives
were strong, our hearts were high.
One night the fever struck him
down.
I sat, and stared, and saw him die.
I had his children—one, two, three.
One
week I had them, blithe and sound.
The next—beneath this
mango-tree,
By him in barrack burying-ground.
I sit beneath the mango-shade;
I live my five
years’ life all o’er—
Round yonder stems his
children played;
He mounted guard at yonder door.
’Tis I, not they, am gone and dead.
They
live; they know; they feel; they see.
Their spirits light the golden
shade
Beneath the giant mango-tree.
All things, save I, are full of life:
The
minas, pluming velvet breasts;
The monkeys, in their foolish strife;
The
swooping hawks, the swinging nests;
The lizards basking on the soil,
The butterflies
who sun their wings;
The bees about their household toil,
They
live, they love, the blissful things.
Each tender purple mango-shoot,
That folds
and droops so bashful down;
It lives; it sucks some hidden root;
It
rears at last a broad green crown.
It blossoms; and the children cry—
‘Watch
when the mango-apples fall.’
It lives: but rootless, fruitless,
I—
I breathe and dream;—and that
is all.
Thus am I dead: yet cannot die:
But still
within my foolish brain
There hangs a pale blue evening sky;
A
furzy croft; a sandy lane.
1870.
It was Sir John, the fair young Priest,
He
strode up off the strand;
But seven fisher maidens he left behind
All
dancing hand in hand.
He came unto the wise wife’s house:
‘Now,
Mother, to prove your art;
To charm May Carleton’s merry
blue eyes
Out of a young man’s heart.’
‘My son, you went for a holy man,
Whose
heart was set on high;
Go sing in your psalter, and read in your
books;
Man’s love fleets lightly by.’
‘I had liever to talk with May Carleton,
Than
with all the saints in Heaven;
I had liever to sit by May Carleton
Than
climb the spherès seven.
‘I have watched and fasted, early and late,
I
have prayed to all above;
But I find no cure save churchyard mould
For
the pain which men call love.’
‘Now Heaven forefend that ill grow worse:
Enough
that ill be ill.
I know of a spell to draw May Carleton,
And
bend her to your will.’
‘If thou didst that which thou canst not do,
Wise
woman though thou be,
I would run and run till I buried myself
In
the surge of yonder sea.
‘Scathless for me are maid and wife,
And
scathless shall they bide.
Yet charm me May Carleton’s eyes
from the heart
That aches in my left side.’
She charmed him with the white witchcraft,
She
charmed him with the black,
But he turned his fair young face to
the wall,
Till she heard his heart-strings crack.
1870
Espion ailé de la jeune amante
De l’ombre des palmiers
pourquoi ce cri?
Laisse en paix le beau garçon plaider et
vaincre—
Pourquoi, pourquoi demander ‘Qu’est
qu’il dit?’
‘Qu’est qu’il dit?’ Ce que tu dis toi-même
Chaque
mois de ce printemps eternel;
Ce que disent les papillons qui s’entre-baisent,
Ce
que dit tout bel jeun être à toute belle.
Importun! Attende quelques lustres:
Quand les souvenirs
1’emmeneront ici—
Mère, grand’mère,
pâle, lasse, et fidèle,
Demande mais doucement—‘Et
le vieillard,
Qu’est qu’il dit?’
Trinidad, January 10, 1870
Down beside the loathly Pitch Lake,
In the
stately Morichal, {331b}
Sat
an ancient Spanish Indian,
Peering through the
columns tall.
Watching vainly for the flashing
Of the jewelled
colibris; {331c}
Listening
vainly for their humming
Round the honey-blossomed
trees.
‘Few,’ he sighed, ‘they come, and fewer,
To
the cocorité {331d}
bowers;
Murdered, madly, through the forests
Which
of yore were theirs—and ours
By there came a negro hunter,
Lithe and lusty,
sleek and strong,
Rolling round his sparkling eyeballs,
As
he loped and lounged along.
Rusty firelock on his shoulder;
Rusty cutlass
on his thigh;
Never jollier British subject
Rollicked
underneath the sky.
British law to give him safety,
British fleets
to guard his shore,
And a square of British freehold—
He
had all we have, and more.
Fattening through the endless summer,
Like
his own provision ground,
He had reached the summum bonum
Which
our latest wits have found.
So he thought; and in his hammock
Gnawed his
junk of sugar-cane,
Toasted plantains at the fire-stick,
Gnawed,
and dozed, and gnawed again.
Had a wife in his ajoupa {332}—
Or,
at least, what did instead;
Children, too, who died so early,
He’d
no need to earn their bread.
Never stole, save what he needed,
From the
Crown woods round about;
Never lied, except when summoned—
Let
the warden find him out.
Never drank, except at market;
Never beat
his sturdy mate;
She could hit as hard as he could,
And
had just as hard a pate.
Had no care for priest nor parson,
Hope of
heaven nor fear of hell;
And in all his views of nature
Held
with Comte and Peter Bell.
Healthy, happy, silly, kindly,
Neither care
nor toil had he,
Save to work an hour at sunrise,
And
then hunt the colibri.
Not a bad man; not a good man:
Scarce a man
at all, one fears,
If the Man be that within us
Which
is born of fire and tears.
Round the palm-stems, round the creepers,
Flashed
a feathered jewel past,
Ruby-crested, topaz-throated,
Plucked
the cocorité bast,
Plucked the fallen ceiba-cotton, {333}
Whirred
away to build his nest,
Hung at last, with happy humming,
Round
some flower he fancied best.
Up then went the rusty muzzle,
’Dat
de tenth I shot to-day:’
But out sprang the Indian shouting,
Balked
the negro of his prey.
‘Eh, you Señor Trinidada!
What
dis new ondacent plan?
Spoil a genl’man’s chance ob
shooting?
I as good as any man.
‘Dese not your woods; dese de Queen’s woods:
You
seem not know whar you ar,
Gibbin’ yuself dese buckra airs
here,
You black Indian Papist! Dar!’
Stately, courteous, stood the Indian;
Pointed
through the palm-tree shade:
‘Does the gentleman of colour
Know
how yon Pitch Lake was made?’
Grinned the negro, grinned and trembled—
Through
his nerves a shudder ran—
Saw a snake-like eye that held
him;
Saw—he’d met an Obeah man.
Saw a fêtish—such a bottle—
Buried
at his cottage door;
Toad and spider, dirty water,
Rusty
nails, and nine charms more.
Saw in vision such a cock’s head
In
the path—and it was white!
Saw Brinvilliers {334}
in his pottage:
Faltered, cold and damp with
fright.
Fearful is the chance of poison:
Fearful,
too, the great unknown:
Magic brings some positivists
Humbly
on their marrow-bone.
Like the wedding-guest enchanted,
There he
stood, a trembling cur;
While the Indian told his story,
Like
the Ancient Mariner.
Told how—‘Once that loathly Pitch Lake
Was
a garden bright and fair;
How the Chaymas off the mainland
Built
their palm ajoupas there.
‘How they throve, and how they fattened,
Hale
and happy, safe and strong;
Passed the livelong days in feasting;
Passed
the nights in dance and song.
‘Till they cruel grew, and wanton:
Till
they killed the colibris.
Then outspake the great Good Spirit,
Who
can see through all the trees,
‘Said—“And what have I not sent you,
Wanton
Chaymas, many a year?
Lapp, {335a}
agouti, {335b}
cachicame, {335c}
Quenc
{335d} and guazu-pita
deer.
‘“Fish I sent you, sent you turtle,
Chip-chip,
{335e} conch,
flamingo red,
Woodland paui, {335f}
horned screamer, {335g}
And
blue ramier {335h}
overhead.
‘“Plums from balata {335i}
and mombin, {335j}
Tania,
{335k} manioc,
{335l} water-vine;
{335m}
Let
you fell my slim manacques, {335n}
Tap
my sweet morichè wine. {335o}
‘“Sent rich plantains, {336a}
food of angels;
Rich ananas, {336b}
food of kings;
Grudged you none of all my treasures:
Save
these lovely useless things.”
‘But the Chaymas’ ears were deafened;
Blind
their eyes, and could not see
How a blissful Indian’s spirit
Lived
in every colibri.
‘Lived, forgetting toil and sorrow,
Ever
fair and ever new;
Whirring round the dear old woodland,
Feeding
on the honey-dew.
‘Till one evening roared the earthquake:
Monkeys
howled, and parrots screamed:
And the Guaraons at morning
Gathered
here, as men who dreamed.
‘Sunk were gardens, sunk ajoupas;
Hut
and hammock, man and hound:
And above the Chayma village
Boiled
with pitch the cursed ground.
‘Full, and too full; safe, and too safe;
Negro
man, take care, take care.
He that wantons with God’s bounties
Of
God’s wrath had best beware.
‘For the saucy, reckless, heartless,
Evil
days are sure in store.
You may see the Negro sinking
As
the Chayma sank of yore.’
Loudly laughed that stalwart hunter—
‘Eh,
what superstitious talk!
Nyam {337}
am nyam, an’ maney maney;
Birds am birds,
like park am park;
An’ dere’s twenty thousand birdskins
Ardered
jes’ now fram New Yark.’
Eversley, 1870.
Accept this building, gracious Lord,
No temple
though it be;
We raised it for our suffering kin,
And
so, Good Lord, for Thee.
Accept our little gift, and give
To all who
here may dwell,
The will and power to do their work,
Or
bear their sorrows well.
From Thee all skill and science flow;
All
pity, care, and love,
All calm and courage, faith and hope,
Oh!
pour them from above.
And part them, Lord, to each and all,
As each
and all shall need,
To rise like incense, each to Thee,
In
noble thought and deed.
And hasten, Lord, that perfect day,
When pain
and death shall cease;
And Thy just rule shall fill the earth
With
health, and light, and peace.
When ever blue the sky shall gleam,
And ever
green the sod;
And man’s rude work deface no more
The
Paradise of God.
Eversley, 1870.
The boy on the famous gray pony,
Just bidding
good-bye at the door,
Plucking up maiden heart for the fences
Where
his brother won honour of yore.
The walk to ‘the Meet’ with fair children,
And
women as gentle as gay,—
Ah! how do we male hogs in armour
Deserve
such companions as they?
The afternoon’s wander to windward,
To
meet the dear boy coming back;
And to catch, down the turns of
the valley,
The last weary chime of the pack.
The climb homeward by park and by moorland,
And
through the fir forests again,
While the south-west wind roars
in the gloaming,
Like an ocean of seething champagne.
And at night the septette of Beethoven,
And
the grandmother by in her chair,
And the foot of all feet on the
sofa
Beating delicate time to the air.
Ah, God! a poor soul can but thank Thee
For
such a delectable day!
Though the fury, the fool, and the swindler,
To-morrow
again have their way!
Eversley, 6th November 1872.
List a tale a fairy sent us
Fresh from dear Mundi Juventus.
When
Love and all the world was young,
And birds conversed as well as
sung;
And men still faced this fair creation
With humour,
heart, imagination.
Who come hither from Morocco
Every spring
on the sirocco?
In russet she, and he in yellow,
Singing ever
clear and mellow,
‘Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet you,
sweet you,
Did he beat you? Did he beat you?’
Phyllopneustes
wise folk call them,
But don’t know what did befall them,
Why
they ever thought of coming
All that way to hear gnats humming,
Why
they built not nests but houses,
Like the bumble-bees and mousies.
Nor
how little birds got wings,
Nor what ’tis the small cock
sings—
How should they know—stupid fogies?
They
daren’t even believe in bogies.
Once they were a girl and
boy,
Each the other’s life and joy.
He a Daphnis, she
a Chloe,
Only they were brown, not snowy,
Till an Arab found
them playing
Far beyond the Atlas straying,
Tied the helpless
things together,
Drove them in the burning weather,
In his
slave-gang many a league,
Till they dropped from wild fatigue.
Up
he caught his whip of hide,
Lashed each soft brown back and side
Till
their little brains were burst
With sharp pain, and heat, and thirst,
Over
her the poor boy lay,
Tried to keep the blows away,
Till they
stiffened into clay,
And the ruffian rode away:
Swooping o’er
the tainted ground,
Carrion vultures gathered round,
And the
gaunt hyenas ran
Tracking up the caravan.
But—ah, wonder!
that was gone
Which they meant to feast upon.
And, for each,
a yellow wren,
One a cock, and one a hen,
Sweetly warbling,
flitted forth
O’er the desert toward the north.
But
a shade of bygone sorrow,
Like a dream upon the morrow,
Round
his tiny brainlet clinging,
Sets the wee cock ever singing,
‘Sweet,
sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet you, sweet you,
Did he beat you?
Did he beat you?’
Vultures croaked, and hopped, and flopped,
But
their evening meal was stopped.
And the gaunt hyenas foul
Sat
down on their tails to howl.
Northward towards the cool spring
weather,
Those two wrens fled on together,
On to England o’er
the sea,
Where all folks alike are free.
There they built
a cabin, wattled
Like the huts where first they prattled,
Hatched
and fed, as safe as may be,
Many a tiny feathered baby.
But
in autumn south they go
Past the Straits and Atlas’ snow,
Over
desert, over mountain,
To the palms beside the fountain,
Where,
when once they lived before, he
Told her first the old, old story.
‘What
do the doves say? Curuck Coo,
You love me and I love you.’
1872.
Oh! I wish I were a tiny browny bird from out the south,
Settled
among the alder-holts, and twittering by the stream;
I would put
my tiny tail down, and put up my tiny mouth,
And
sing my tiny life away in one melodious dream.
I would sing about the blossoms, and the sunshine and the sky,
And
the tiny wife I mean to have in such a cosy nest;
And if some one
came and shot me dead, why then I could but die,
With
my tiny life and tiny song just ended at their best.
Eversley, 1873
1
‘Are you ready for your steeple-chase, Lorraine, Lorraine,
Lorrèe?
Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum,
Barum, Baree,
You’re booked to ride your capping race to-day
at Coulterlee,
You’re booked to ride Vindictive, for all
the world to see,
To keep him straight, to keep him first, and
win the run for me.
Barum, Barum,’ etc.
2
She clasped her new-born baby, poor Lorraine, Lorraine, Lorrèe,
‘I
cannot ride Vindictive, as any man might see,
And I will not ride
Vindictive, with this baby on my knee;
He’s killed a boy,
he’s killed a man, and why must he kill me?’
3
‘Unless you ride Vindictive, Lorraine, Lorraine, Lorrèe,
Unless
you ride Vindictive to-day at Coulterlee,
And land him safe across
the brook, and win the blank for me,
It’s you may keep your
baby, for you’ll get no keep from me.’
4
‘That husbands could be cruel,’ said Lorraine, Lorraine,
Lorrèe,
‘That husbands could be cruel, I have known
for seasons three;
But oh! to ride Vindictive while a baby cries
for me,
And be killed across a fence at last for all the world
to see!’
5
She mastered young Vindictive—Oh! the gallant lass was she,
And
kept him straight and won the race as near as near could be;
But
he killed her at the brook against a pollard willow-tree,
Oh! he
killed her at the brook, the brute, for all the world to see,
And
no one but the baby cried for poor Lorraine, Lorrèe.
Last poem written in illness.
Colorado, U.S.A.
June
1874.
Come hearken, hearken, gentles all,
Come hearken
unto me,
And I’ll sing you a song of a Wood-Lyon
Came
swimming out over the sea.
He rangèd west, he rangèd east,
And
far and wide ranged he;
He took his bite out of every beast
Lives
under the greenwood tree.
Then by there came a silly old wolf,
‘And
I’ll serve you,’ quoth he;
Quoth the Lyon, ‘My
paw is heavy enough,
So what wilt thou do for
me?’
Then by there came a cunning old fox,
‘And
I’ll serve you,’ quoth he;
Quoth the Lyon, ‘My
wits are sharp enough
So what wilt thou do for
me?’
Then by there came a white, white dove,
Flew
off Our Lady’s knee;
Sang ‘It’s I will be your
true, true love,
If you’ll be true to me.’
‘And what will you do, you bonny white dove?
And
what will you do for me?’
‘Oh, it’s I’ll
bring you to Our Lady’s love,
In the ways
of chivalrie.’
He followed the dove that Wood-Lyon
By mere
and wood and wold,
Till he is come to a perfect knight,
Like
the Paladin of old.
He rangèd east, he rangèd west,
And
far and wide ranged he—
And ever the dove won him honour
and fame
In the ways of chivalrie.
Then by there came a foul old sow,
Came rookling
under the tree;
And ‘It’s I will be true love to you,
If
you’ll be true to me.’
‘And what wilt thou do, thou foul old sow?
And
what wilt thou do for me?’
‘Oh, there hangs in my snout
a jewel of gold,
And that will I give to thee.’
He took to the sow that Wood-Lyon;
To the
rookling sow took he;
And the dove flew up to Our Lady’s
bosom;
And never again throve he.
Footnotes:
{211} This and the following poem were written at school in early boy-hood.
{216} Lines supposed to be found written in an illuminated missal.
{260} Found among Sandy Mackaye’s papers, of a hairy oubit who would not mind his mother.
{282} The Christian Socialist, started by the Council of Associates for promotion of Co-operation.
{295} Bishop of Labuan, in Borneo.
{303} This Ode was set to Professor Sterndale Bennet’s music, and sung in the Senate House, Cambridge, on the Day of Installation.
{306} His Royal Highness the Prince Consort, Chancellor of Cambridge University.
{319} Impromptu lines written in the album of the Crown Princess of Germany.
{325} Time of the Franco-Prussian War.
{330} The Qu’est qu’il dit is a Tropical bird.
{331a} This myth about the famous Pitch Lake of Trinidad was told almost word for word to a M. Joseph by an aged half-caste Indian who went by the name of Señor Trinidada. The manners and customs which the ballad described, and the cruel and dangerous destruction of the beautiful birds of Trinidad, are facts which may be easily verified by any one who will take the trouble to visit the West Indies.
{331b} A magnificent wood of the Mauritia Fanpalm, on the south shore of the Pitch Lake.
{331c} Humming-birds.
{331d} Maximiliana palms.
{332} Hut of timber and palm-leaves.
{333} From the Eriodendron, or giant silk-cotton.
{334} Spigelia anthelmia, a too-well-known poison-plant.
{335a} Cœlogenys Paca.
{335b} Wild cavy.
{335c} Armadillo.
{335d} Peccary hog.
{335e} Trigonia.
{335f} Penelope.
{335g} Palamedea.
{335h} Dove.
{335i} Mimusops.
{335j} Spondias.
{335k} An esculent Arum.
{335l} Jatropha manihot, ‘Cassava.’
{335m} Vitis Caribæa.
{335n} Euterpe, ‘mountain cabbage’ palm.
{335o} Mauritia palm.
{336a} Musa.
{336b} Pine-apple.
{337} Food.
{338} Sung by 1000 School Children at the Opening of the New Wing of the Children’s Hospital, Birmingham.
{346} Supposed to be sung at Crowland Minster to Leofric, the Wake’s Mass Priest, when news was received of Hereward’s second marriage to Alftruda.
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