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 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31 92401 351 6830 
 
THE FLOWER SELLER 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
THE 
 
 FLOWER SELLER 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 LADY LINDSAY 
 
 LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. 
 
 LONDON, NEW YORK, AND BOMBAY 
 1896 
 
TO 
 
 SIR EDWARD BURNE-JONES. 
 
 Master, whose true and noble poet-thought 
 Breathes to the canvas songs of mystic lore, 
 There where thy painter-touch bids Fancy pour 
 The Tyrian hues she for thy palette wrought — 
 Friend of long years — take thou the book I 've sought 
 To mould as worth thy treasuring. Nay, more ; 
 Remembrance aud Affection, to thy door, 
 For choicest gifts I with glad hand have brought. 
 
 Great art thou named because of wondrous skill ; 
 Haply most great in that life's earlier part 
 Found thee as strong as thou art steadfast still : 
 A rock, that saw'st the shallow ebb-tides go 
 Back on quick shifting sands of troubled Art, 
 Though now full waves of praise toward thee flow. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 THE FLOWER SELLER, 
 
 OUTREMER, 
 
 THE WORTH OF A SONG, 
 
 THE GENTLE KNIGHT, 
 
 THE STORMY PETREL, 
 
 THROUGH FIELDS OF ASPHODEL, 
 
 IN SLEEP, .... 
 
 INTROSPECTION, 
 
 LONG TEARS AFTER, 
 
 A SPACE OF SUMMER, 
 
 TO A FAIR MAID, . 
 
 SEPTEMBER THOUGHTS, . 
 
 DECEMBER SONG, 
 
 OF A BIRD-CAGE, 
 
 COSIE SONG, . 
 
 INCONSEQUENCE, 
 
 EARTHWARD, . 
 
 THE GOLD-WORKER, 
 
 WIND AND FOAM, . 
 
 SICILIAN SONG, 
 
 TWO MESSENGERS, . 
 
 WEST OF THE MOUNTAINS, 
 
 PAGE 
 1 
 
 25 
 
 57 
 
 79 
 
 85 
 
 88 
 
 92 
 
 97 
 
 103 
 
 118 
 
 122 
 
 124 
 
 126 
 
 128 
 
 130 
 
 131 
 
 133 
 
 135 
 
 137 
 
 139 
 
 140 
 
 141 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 SONNETS- 
 
 .' 
 
 SONNET OR SONG, .... . . . 
 
 TO MINE OWN SOTJL, . 
 
 THE PASSING HOUR, . . . . . 
 
 WRITTEN ON MY BIRTHDAY . 
 
 OF REMEMBRANCE, .... ... 
 
 LOVE'S DIAPASON, 
 
 LOVE SAYING, . 
 
 ON THE CARDS, . . .... 
 
 FOLK-SONGS, . . .... 
 
 EVENING AFTER RAIN, ... . . 
 
 B.C. 500, . . . . . . . 
 
 LUCINDA'S LETTERS — 
 
 I., 
 
 
 II., 
 
 
 III., 
 
 
 IV., 
 
 
 v 
 
 
 VI., 
 
 
 VII., 
 
 
 VIII., 
 
 
 IX., 
 
 
 X., . . . 
 
 
 XL, 
 
 
 XII., 
 
 
 XIII., 
 
 
 XIV., 
 
 
 XV., 
 
 
THE FLOWER SELLER 
 
 'Glycera, the flower girl, knew so well how to 
 diversify the combination and arrangement of 
 her flowers, as with the same flowers to make a 
 great variety of nosegays.' — s. Francis de sales. 
 
 A gala day ! On this thrice glorious day 
 He should return, the young king, to his own. 
 The city, banner-drest — by wreaths made gay 
 As are fair brides, or garden plots rich grown 
 For Phoebus — decked with silk her walls of stone, 
 O'erflowing in each open court or street 
 With folks of happy look and eager feet. 
 
 The war was ended ; healed the gaping wound 
 That wept alike man's blood and woman's tears ; 
 A new bright cycle this, with joyance mooned, 
 And grace, and plenty ; pass'd and gone sad years, 
 Therefore forgot ; forgot all pains and fears. 
 
THE FLOWER SELLER. 
 
 Peace waved her wand, and, at her sweet command, 
 Hope and Content came gladly, hand in hand. 
 
 Now while, within an ample market-place, 
 The wealthy burghers and my lord the mayor, 
 Collared and robed, awaited, grave of face, 
 Their earliest mounted messenger who 'd bear 
 News of a near approach, or conned with care 
 Th' illuminated scroll that prayed the king 
 From loyal kingdom take warm welcoming : 
 
 Out to the meadows, where the road lay white 
 'Twixt fragrant limes, the joyous people went ; 
 And every vantage place, on left or right, 
 Was quickly seized and held, the green boughs 
 
 bent 
 By jealous grasp. Yet some ran far, intent 
 They 'd be the first the coming show to meet, 
 The first that homing warrior-band to greet. 
 
THE FLOWER SELLER. 3 
 
 From every steeple clanged quick gladsome bells, 
 
 And answering chimes sped softly o'er the plain, 
 
 As if in echo ; so a lover tells 
 
 His mistress that she knows, till she be fain 
 
 In turn to falter back such tender strain. 
 
 Then, as the grateful world to sanctify, 
 
 The sky grew clear, the sun blazed bright on high. 
 
 Still from each gate the hurrying people poured ; 
 Gay as the rampart flags their festive dress. 
 Across the moat all drawbridges lay lowered, 
 On every chain and beam a mighty stress. 
 Eed gleamed the roofs and towers numberless 
 Capping yon ancient walls, and twinkling eyes 
 Of narrow casements mirrored back blue skies. 
 
 Hark ! for already creeps to straining ears 
 A murmur faint, so faint, so vague, so far, 
 Scarce may it be discerned. Nay, nay, it nears. 
 
4 THE FLOWER SELLER. 
 
 A white streak mounts th' horizon, like a star 
 That lifts to dawn. And, as on harbour bar 
 Sea-tides inflowing moan, the broad fields ring 
 With a fast-gathered cry : ' The king ! The king ! ' 
 
 Yea, from the dust-white cloud that, rolling, spread, 
 
 All tremulous-specked of steel and steeds and men 
 
 And tattered blood-like standards borne o'erhead — 
 
 With fitful music, bursting now and then 
 
 To wildest jubilance, next quelled as when 
 
 We mourn dead brothers — slowly drawing near, 
 
 Did that victorious host at length appear. 
 
 Not yet distinguishable. Troop on troop, 
 
 In glittering line (as though a sword were laid 
 
 Down the straight road) loomed closer, but no group 
 
 Clearly detached, only the king, arrayed 
 
 In armour flashing gold, great radiance made, 
 
THE FLOWER SELLER. 5 
 
 (As 'twere the hilt,) with princes at his side, 
 And jewelled shields and panoply of pride. 
 
 The brave young king, mounted on milk-white steed, 
 
 His gilded helm swathed with a knot of bay — 
 
 Leader of men, right worthy proved to lead, 
 
 Yet by a boyish gladness ruled to-day ; 
 
 And, thronging close, on this triumphal way, 
 
 As many a time in fierce and famous fights, 
 
 His company of wan and war-stained knights. 
 
 Down, down upon their path green laurels rain, 
 
 And roses red ; these Love, those Victory. 
 
 What matter wound or scar, or gory stain, 
 
 Or toilsome march, to such as hear the cry 
 
 Of long-lost wife and child ? The crowds press nigh, 
 
 And drown the drums with joy of voice or hand. 
 
 The king pulls rein and smiles ; his horse must stand. 
 
6 THE FLOWER SELLER. 
 
 High from the city wall soars trumpet blast, 
 And feux de joie peal thunder from broad towers, 
 O'er-clamouring noisy belfries whence are cast 
 Hailstones or snows of fair and perfumed flowers, 
 That strike the surging multitude in showers, 
 While kerchiefs, with girls' arms for flag-staffs, wave, 
 And boys shout loud huzzas to cheer the brave. 
 
 Then, as the king, not far now from the gate, 
 
 Kaised his pleased eyes the merry sight to see, 
 
 Lo, distant scarce a yard — in meanest state — 
 
 A slender maid gazed from an apple-tree, 
 
 And caught his glance with hers — 'mid green boughs, 
 
 she 
 Sat perched, half-hid ; her silver feet hung bare ; 
 Her rags ill matched the glory of her hair. 
 
 She smiled, and, as he looked, so also smiled 
 The king ; for she was bright and fair as day, 
 
THE FLOWER SELLER. 7 
 
 Large-eyed, most beautiful — a winsome child. 
 Then threw she down in haste and pretty play 
 A wealth of buds. But he rode on his way, 
 Indifferent, and nor turned, nor looked again, 
 But passed from sight amid his gorgeous train. 
 
 Swift dropt she from the branch as might a bird, 
 Most light, that cares not to unfold its wings ; 
 And one long sigh she gave, but ne'er a word, 
 And stood with shading hand, strange marvellings 
 Brimming her eyes beneath the dusky rings 
 That crowned her brow, till onward she was borne 
 By hurrying crowds which rocked like swaying corn. 
 
 None cared for her, though many knew the child. 
 
 A flower-seller — but she 'd wasted all 
 
 Her wares, forsooth ! Gaily the army filed, 
 
 Fast threading, riband- wise, the gateway tall, 
 
 So stormed the town, with townsfolk great and small 
 
8 THE FLOWER SELLER. 
 
 Crushing close after. Thus the day wore by, 
 And the red sun dropt westward in the sky. 
 
 Then stillness fell upon the meadows grey, 
 
 And the brown walls loomed dark as though nor 
 
 light, 
 Nor merriment, nor joy, within them lay 
 To greet with torch and dance the summer night. 
 Then every tender thing that for affright 
 Had hid, or fled in unknown wilds to roam, 
 Came softly back to seek its former home. 
 
 So through the gloom, from out some shadowy nook 
 That the broad ramparts gave of murky mist, 
 There crept a barefoot girl with furtive look, 
 Whose rippling locks her slender shoulders kissed ; 
 An empty basket swung upon her wrist ; 
 Empty her hands — the meanest coin unearned, 
 And naught of food for lips that fevered burned. 
 
THE FLOWER SELLER. 9 
 
 She sought the shelter of the poorest street — 
 
 To-night a desert — onward hasted sore, 
 
 Wild, spirit-like, with eager gliding feet, 
 
 Until she reached her goal — then pushed the door, 
 
 And, dreamful still, a-trembling, stood before 
 
 Her sisters twain, her mouth with strange smile set, 
 
 As though thereon the sunlight lingered yet. 
 
 ' Well come, and what hast seen ? ' One wrought a 
 
 plait 
 Of straw that grew apace beneath her hand, 
 While by a circling wheel the other sat, 
 And from the spindle drew soft flaxen strand, 
 Turned soon to gleaming thread at her command. 
 'Say, Brunhild, what hast seen ? what news dost bring? 
 Wags the world yet ? ' ' Nay, I have seen the king.' 
 
 ' Ay, ay, the king — the rumour is he J s young. 
 Tell us how tall, how short ; red, dark, or fair ? 
 
io THE FLOWER SELLER. 
 
 Old Anna came to chat — thou know'st her tongue — 
 
 She much extolled his gracious princely air, 
 
 Yet gave of praise the very fullest share 
 
 To gilt-mouthed trumpeters ! But come, child, draw 
 
 Thy pocket ; where 's thy gain ? ' — ' The king I saw.' 
 
 Her elders laughed. ' Good luck to those grey eyes ! 
 
 / had no time — not I — to seek the show.' 
 
 ' Nor / — to-morrow at day dawn we '11 rise, 
 
 And with our humble wares to market go.' 
 
 Thus spake they wrathfully, so she should know — 
 
 That youngest one — harm lurks in loitering. 
 
 Yet stood she mute, then sighed : ' I love the king.' 
 
 Thereon she fled away to loneliness, 
 
 By laughter chased as though by stinging whips, 
 
 And reached a scarce-used loft where none might guess 
 
 To find her lying low, with moaning lips, 
 
 Sunk safe in store of hay and dusty chips, 
 
THE FLOWER SELLER. n 
 
 While bats swung 'mid the rafters overhead, 
 And darkness, for cool counterpane, was spread. 
 
 But from yon fatal hour her aching sight 
 
 Strained at an idle vision — poor fond maid, 
 
 Who saw the king ride on, by day, by night, 
 
 In clanking harness wondrously arrayed ! 
 
 On her young soul some spell was surely laid ; 
 
 Full oft he glanced (she deemed) with laughing look, 
 
 And peace and joy forthwith her heart forsook. 
 
 Last grew she sick. She haunted all the ways 
 Where he might pass, not daring draw o'ernear ; 
 She shrined the palace in a reverent gaze — 
 Her choicest flowers unsold — yet fled for fear 
 When heralds' greeting told her listening ear : 
 ' He comes, he comes, the king ! ' So mighty he ! 
 A beggar maid, his poorest vassal, she ! 
 
2 THE FLOWER SELLER. 
 
 Now for thanksgiving should the court attend 
 Beneath the great cathedral's misty dome, 
 In state, with warrior chiefs, the knee to bend 
 Because that these victorious reached their home, 
 Nor in strange land for battle-quest need roam ; 
 So should the wide Te Deum's solemn note 
 From human voice and deep-toned organ float. 
 
 All were held free to see the sight who willed, 
 The town once more prankt out for holiday. 
 Quoth Brunhild : 'On the bridge I '11 stand,' and filled 
 Her pannier with rich blooms : carnations gay, 
 Roses, and flower de luce, and orange spray. 
 The perfume sweet so strongly touched her brain, 
 'Twas half a pleasure, half a madding pain. 
 
 She fell to singing snatches of weird tune ; 
 Next, like a merry wild goat, skipped a space ; 
 Nodded to one, or told some grandame's rune ; 
 
THE FLOWER SELLER. 13 
 
 Beckoned another, smiles upon her face, 
 Peeping 'twixt posies in her youth and grace ; 
 Yet ne'er bestowed a leaf. ' Nay, nay,' she said, 
 And went her way with proud uplifted head. 
 
 Upon the bridge she stayed her steps, and found 
 Cool sheltered rest from mid-day heat of sun, 
 There, where a quaint-walled house cast shade around ; 
 For on those ancient piles stood many a one, 
 With low-browed shops whose trade was briskly 
 
 done 
 That day, when coral, seed pearl, fine-chased gold, 
 And glass-cut beads and garnet strings were sold. 
 
 Below the bridge the restless river ran, 
 Not yet by summer parched on stony bed, 
 But flowing, rushing, as the life of man, 
 (Thought Brunhild) or perchance as Fate more 
 dread, 
 
14 THE FLOWER SELLER. 
 
 More chill, and with relentless message sped 
 
 T'ward dark stone arches, carrying on its way 
 
 All straws and drifts that would such strength essay. 
 
 So stood the child until her heart grew faint, 
 Her set lips wan — o'erhead her garlands raised 
 Lest they too droop — a young and gentle saint 
 By unseen angels crowned. Yet was she crazed 
 (The passers said, while on her rags they gazed), 
 That bartered not for coin, at buyer's call, 
 The perfume of a rose ephemeral. 
 
 For 'mong the rest came many an eager swain 
 
 To seek a flaunting posy for his dear, 
 
 Or one choice gilly-blossom bud which fain 
 
 He'd tilt with jaunty grace behind his ear. 
 
 Good Sir, in vain ! no reason will she hear. 
 
 ' All, all is sold,' she cries, nor whispers how 
 
 Her blooms were picked the dusty path to strow. 
 
THE FLOWER SELLER. 15 
 
 Ay, when the king shall pass, his charger's feet 
 
 May trample freely, treading down a gift 
 
 Most honoured thus, while hers be triumph sweet ; 
 
 For then his gracious eyes he 11 surely lift 
 
 With radiant glance, as when bright sunbeams rift 
 
 Dull clouds ; then, quick alight in glad desire, 
 
 Her soul must kindle his with answering fire. 
 
 She waits. Anon the herald army comes ; 
 Scarce dare she gaze as men and steeds draw nigh. 
 Her pulses throb in measure with the drums, 
 Red as the bannered silk her cheeks flame high 
 Weak in the jostling throng she reels ; she '11 die ! 
 Yet seeks the parapet with trembling knees, 
 And climbs, swings high her wreaths aloft, arid sees. 
 
 Yea, sees — the king in velvet robes that gleam 
 With sheen of jewels bright as are his smiles ; 
 And satin scarves wave out, and ribands stream, 
 
1616 THE FLOWER SELLER. 
 
 To grace the peaceful pageant that beguiles 
 This happy folk to idleness through miles 
 Of flowering land, while from the joyous rout 
 Peals many a cheer and glad triumphal shout. 
 
 And by him, close on his right hand, behold 
 A beauteous lady riding, clothed in white, 
 Whose snowy palfrey, bridled with pure gold, 
 Keeps pace with that brave charger, steel bedight, 
 Whence bends the king, smiling in new delight 
 Toward the lovely damsel at his side — 
 His chosen queen, his fair affianced bride ! 
 
 Swift ran the turbid river, and thus fast 
 
 On swept the shouting serried multitude 
 
 In wake of royal pageantry, that passed, 
 
 As by a mighty swarm of bees pursued, 
 
 Unto yon vast grey dome crowned with God's rood ; 
 
THE FLOWER SELLER. 17 
 
 Then loud huzzas died out on the warm air, 
 And o'er the crowd fell the soft cloak of prayer. 
 
 The bridge is left a desert path of stone ; 
 Forsaken its gay booths and vantage towers. 
 Yet, in a shadowy nook, grief-struck and lone, 
 With arms still lifted to her pile of flowers, 
 A childish form against the grey wall cowers. 
 Sudden she rises, angered, pale as death, 
 And flings her burthen to the swirl beneath. 
 
 Ay, let them die, the senseless petalled things ! 
 Koses sharp- thorned, crushed bells, and sickly bloom ! 
 Some quick engulfed, and some, with painted wings, 
 Still floating ere they yield to watery tomb ; 
 But all like idle hopes — that erst would loom 
 Perfumed, well-nurtured, on a phantom tree — 
 By grief now smitten to obscurity. 
 
18 THE FLOWER SELLER. 
 
 Yea, as she were herself but one of these, 
 
 Brunhild waged war with her heart's grief no more. 
 
 She lay in narrow bed, sick, ill at ease, 
 
 Heedless of all who passed or pushed the door, 
 
 Of sun or shadow slanting on the floor, 
 
 Of Time himself — for Time is Life and Light ; 
 
 To her strained eyes the whole sad world was Night. 
 
 While, as she grew more weak, her mind distraught 
 
 Made her lips garrulous, and oft she cried : 
 
 ' I love the king,' and thus in fever taught 
 
 Her madness to the sisters at her side. 
 
 They, with chilled heart, sought from all folk to hide 
 
 What seemed in truth a sore and shameful thing — 
 
 Still, she, unwitting, wailed : ' I love the king.' 
 
 Then, as to please her, spake the second. ' Dear, 
 A-hawking goes our liege to-morrow morn, 
 With him the princess ; they must pass anear, 
 
THE FLOWER SELLER. 19 
 
 Threading the west gate, so to thee '11 be borne 
 Some merry echoes of the hunting horn.' 
 Whereat the child turned in her lowly bed, 
 Stretched her thin hands and raised her weary 
 head. 
 
 And prayed : ' If e'er ye loved me, listen now. 
 
 My pleading 's not for long. Yon is green grass — 
 
 The very thought nigh cools my burning brow — 
 
 Without the gate — there where the king shall pass. 
 
 My limbs are weak to walk or stand, alas ! 
 
 In pity carry me to that fair spot. 
 
 I fain would see him, though he knows me not.' 
 
 ' Nay, nay,' the answer came. She wept full sore, 
 And wrung her hands — a piteous sight to see — 
 Might she but gaze upon his face once more ! 
 Till spake that gentler sister : ' Child, let be ! 
 Pray heaven no harm thereof may come to thee, 
 
20 THE FLOWER SELLER. 
 
 Weep not ; methinks our mother feels thy tears, 
 Though she has lain in grave these many years.' 
 
 They wrapt her in a mantle grey and long — 
 Their mother's gear — and bore her to the place. 
 But, when she came the gay-drest folk among, 
 A wraith she seemed, with weird unearthly 
 
 face, 
 And all forbore to press, so gave her space, 
 Or, pitiful, sighed out : ' Alack, dear heart,' 
 Seeing where faint and wan she lay apart. 
 
 One sister turned — her soul o'ergrieved and proud ; 
 But she — the younger — crouched, and on her knee 
 Pillowed the child, heedless of place or crowd, 
 Till — when the loud horns rang, and all could see 
 The falconers in their greenwood livery 
 Spring from the drawbridge, and the royal pair, 
 In green arrayed, with hawk on wrist, most fair — 
 
THE FLOWER SELLER. 21 
 
 Low whispered Brunhild : ' Leave me now and run.' 
 
 ' But whither ? ' 'To the king ! Woe 's me, I 'm blind, 
 
 A cold mist creeps betwixt me and the sun.' 
 
 Soft was the brown-tress'd head laid down, and kind 
 
 And swift that other sped, no glance behind, 
 
 Nor pause till she the highway's breadth might gain ; 
 
 Then reckless stood, and bade the king draw rein. 
 
 Rough hands were on her shoulder, but he leant 
 From saddle-bow and spake in quick amaze — 
 Not wrath — so told she trembling her intent : 
 ' My sister dies ; that thou wouldst come she prays.' 
 The courtiers laughed in scorn, with mocking gaze, 
 While he, the king, still wondering, stared toward 
 The dusky figure stretched on grassy sward. 
 
 A shadowy thing — from which the people shrank 
 In some strange fear, yet more through reverence ; 
 A spirit form — whose face most white and dank 
 
22 THE FLOWER SELLER. 
 
 Drooped like a storm-dashed flower of innocence, 
 The princess looked ; her pity grew intense. 
 ' Dismount we,' so she prayed ; ' a king 's decreed 
 For servant to his poorest serf in need.' 
 
 ' Yea, sweet one, at thy will,' her knight replied. 
 Thus hand in hand, alone, afoot they trod 
 The grassy bank, and silent stood beside 
 That childish grey-clad palmer on the sod 
 Dropt weary, ere she travelled home to God. 
 Low bent the princess, lifting her ; but she 
 With hungered straining eyes the king would see. 
 
 Therein the royal maid read store of pain, 
 
 That brought from her own eyes a gushing spring. 
 
 Quick asked she : ' Where hast seen her ? ' But in 
 
 vain 
 Eansacking mind and memory, sought the king, 
 With puckered brows, perplexed — he could not wring 
 
THE FLOWER SELLER. 23 
 
 From life's remembrance aught, and yet a gleam — 
 A girl's bright face — flit past him as in dream. 
 
 Certes a phantom — some gay laughing elf, 
 Twin mould evoked — nay, but if that were ghost, 
 What should this be, this semblance of herself, 
 A pallid sheath which life too soon had crost 
 By chill, as many a tender leaf is lost ? 
 ' I know not,' quoth the king in whisper low, 
 ' Haply I saw her once — would I might know ! ' 
 
 Thereat the princess took his twain clasp'd 
 
 hands 
 In gentle wise, though forceful, drew and laid 
 Them under Brunhild's fainting head for bands 
 That pillowed and held fast the slender maid. 
 So for one quick-lived instant, unafraid, 
 The craving eyes on longed-for goal reposed — 
 And after, weary of this sad world, closed. 
 
24 THE FLO WER SELLER. 
 
 While round about, most strangely hushed, the crowd, 
 With silence pregnant more than noisiest sound, 
 Fuller of speech than shouts or wailings loud, 
 For that sweet spirit made lament profound. 
 The very babes grew mute, the birds spellbound. 
 Yea, quivering leaves upon the bushes stilled, 
 And overhead dull mist the azure filled. 
 
 Then, in grave reverence, bowed the king his knee, 
 As from strong grasp his burthen seemed to fade 
 And sink to earth, and, with right hand set free, 
 He doffed his rich plumed cap beside the maid. 
 So likewise knelt his bride and weeping prayed. 
 And lo ! all people knelt, with bated breath, 
 For presence of the mightiest monarch — Death. 
 
OUTEEMER 
 
 Down by the sea, i' the hollow of the land, 
 
 A dreamer sat with chin on hand. 
 
 The tide welled in and the tide welled free 
 
 Up from the depths of the murmuring sea, 
 
 Rounding the rocks over glassy sand, 
 
 Up to the shingly shelving beach, 
 
 Till a fringe of foam lay white on the reach, 
 
 Like some feathery band 
 About the neck of a slumbering maid, 
 In yellow shimmering dress arrayed. 
 
 The dreamer gazed where the sea shone blue- 
 
 A sapphire hue — 
 As far away as sight could view. 
 
26 OUTREMER. 
 
 He fain had trod the path that the sun 
 Cleft golden- wise the waters through, 
 And dipped his fingers, one by one, 
 And gathered the radiant field-blooms there 
 Beyond compare, 
 
 To bruise, 
 
 And use, 
 For stain of vellum with colour more rare 
 Than Urban the Pope in his robes might wear. 
 More kin such tint to the heav'n-spun dress 
 By Gabriel, the archangel, worn, 
 When he swept down, in cloud-loveliness, 
 To a garden of lilies one clear spring morn, 
 
 Our Lady to bless 
 With the message from God's high city borne. 
 
 But a poor monk this, who in his cell, 
 
 With tremulous hand, 
 From morn till eve sought hard to spell 
 
OUTREMER. 27 
 
 The letters that Nature could so well 
 
 Paint over the land 
 For the calendar of her own fair book. 
 
 He strove to look 
 Into the wonders of every curl 
 Of bud and leaf, to catch the dust 
 That stains the butterfly's wing like rust, 
 
 And mirror a pearl, 
 As though the tide had just cast it up 
 
 In an opal cup. 
 The pallid scorpion-grass he drew, 
 
 And the fever-few, 
 And crowned the page he loved most well 
 With a miniature wreath of asphodel. 
 
 Yet all the time, 
 
 Like a haunting rhyme, 
 Which the heart holds true but the ear's forgot, 
 
 A colour he knew 
 
 Of seraphic hue — 
 
28 OUTREMER. 
 
 Alas ! the good monks had it not. 
 
 And well was he ware how temptation creeps in 
 
 If the door of the heart 
 
 Be left open in part ; 
 How a longing thought soon swells into sin, 
 When such a growth is let begin. 
 
 Yonder, see the cloister roof 
 O'er bleak sandhills' solitude, 
 With the chapel's meagre spire, 
 And the gateway low and rude 
 From grey granite roughly hewed 
 Now the vesper bell is ringing ; 
 In the choir 
 Monks are singing — 
 One, alone, has stayed aloof. 
 
 Long — ah, 'tis a long while since ! 
 To the convent came a guest, 
 
OUTRE MER. 29 
 
 Named by prelate or by prince 
 For some distant saintly quest. 
 
 On his way, 
 From the brethren nigh the sea, 
 Craved he hospitality — 
 One short night, but ne'er a day. 
 So, in stable warm, at rest, 
 That white mule on which he 
 
 rode 
 Munched what kindly hosts bestowed 
 As for quadrupeds the best ; 
 While its rider sat in hall, 
 'Mid th' obsequious brethren all, 
 Drinking mead with thirsty mouth 
 
 From a silver beaker, 
 Telling legends of the South, 
 Italy, and France, and Spain, 
 Till the abbot and his train, 
 Growing every moment meeker, 
 
30 OUTREMER. 
 
 Blushed, as they 'd ne'er blushed before, 
 For their barren northern shore. 
 
 Lastly, that strange comer took 
 
 One small book 
 From the wallet, leather-bound, 
 Tied with cord his loins around. 
 
 He was graced, 
 From chin to waist, 
 By a long grey beard that flowed 
 An it pleased, in Eastern mode. 
 Hands he had so spare and thin, 
 You could trace all bones therein, 
 When the book and silver clasp 
 Lay within their quiet grasp. 
 
 wondrous book ! A novice young — 
 A stripling pale, of eager tongue — 
 Whose wayward heart in tendrils curled 
 
OUTRE MER. 31 
 
 Toward the fair things of this world 
 
 As bindweed climbs a rose — 
 Though sure the goodman gardener goes 
 Each day with shears, 
 And clips and tears, 
 Nor counts the poor weed's throes — 
 This lad, agape with wonder and with joy, 
 This foolish boy, 
 Knelt to the missal which he deemed 
 To hold th' incarnate beauty he had dreamed 
 So oft, so oft ! Delectable wild flowers 
 Damasked each page of yon brave book of 
 hours ; 
 
 For every prayer 
 Was scrolled a frame most fair, 
 Or, ever and anon, a picture, wrought 
 Of Mary's life, pure as an angel's thought, 
 Serene as though great Luke himself had 
 fashioned it. 
 
32 OUTREMER. 
 
 Next, golden words in golden letters writ, 
 
 That climbed the page on some unwitnessed stair ; 
 
 While, best of all, behind them, like the sea 
 
 That backs gold-masted fisher-boats — 
 Or, as th' ethereal anthem backs quaint notes 
 Of music penned, and through the measure floats — 
 
 Or, as the heavens that be 
 Calm far beyond us, placid o'er our moil — 
 
 So th' entrancing restful blue 
 (The youth had dreamed of through his hours of 
 toil) 
 Lay spread the whole book through, 
 Clear as a summer night, fresh as the dawn's own 
 dew. 
 
 He wept — he could not speak ; 
 On either cheek 
 A tear coursed slowly down because that he was glad. 
 Divining, asked the stranger monk : ' Dear lad, 
 
OUTRE MER. 33 
 
 Lov'st thou this colour ? Is 't to thee so new ? ' 
 ' Yea/ quoth the boy, ' God's heaven is painted blue,' 
 And said no more, but only once again : 
 ' God's heaven is blue, as is His shifting main.' 
 
 ' True,' spake the envoy, smiling in his beard. 
 
 ' Years gone, along a sultry Tuscan plain, 
 
 A boy — Giotto they called him— steered 
 
 In shepherd-wise his peaceful flock to fold, 
 
 As David did of old ; 
 
 And watched the horned moon increase and wane, 
 
 And watched the broad blue spangled veil behind, 
 
 Whereon the wind, 
 
 Most mischievous, chased gossamers of clouds 
 
 That angels spin and weave for shrouds 
 
 Of dying saints. But, as years went, 
 
 The boy took brush and palette — such his bent. 
 
 'Twas he who limned the frescoes with a master hand 
 
 Of th' Arena Chapel — ay, 'tis said he planned 
 
 c 
 
34 OUTREMER 
 
 It like to blue convolvulus, and welcome vines 
 Grow round, for hot the summer noon-ray shines 
 In burning dusty Padua. Thence I came, 
 And oft have viewed the cool distempered wall — 
 The tint thereof imperishable, by name 
 " Beyond the sea " or " outremer " ; some call 
 
 It likewise lapis-lazuli, 
 A precious gem that 's brought across the sea, 
 Beyond the sea in beauty. Nay, content thee, I 
 Will send thee, boy, a chip from off our sky, 
 
 A drop from our warm southern shore ! 
 Yet learn to still thine o'erwrought anxious brain. 
 Drink deep — so haply Giotto drank — of hellebore, 
 That herb of Christ — plucked first on classic 
 plain 
 By Grecian shepherd's hand — yea, taste of 
 peace.' Thus spake 
 A stranger guest in days long past, and laughed, 
 And once again the brimming tankard quaffed. 
 
OUTREMER. 35 
 
 The novice felt his quick heart like to break 
 For joy, and punctuated thanks with happy tears. 
 
 But syne that day had sped calm measured years. 
 The dreaming boy to earnest manhood grew, 
 And with quotidian labour drew 
 Illumined page on page, until 
 
 His fame spread wide, 
 And people whispered, wonder-eyed, 
 Far, far beyond the monastery gate, 
 Of one young monk's transcendent skill, 
 And how, at love's own labour, dawn, noon, late, 
 He worked. Alas ! Ne'er yet 
 Had come from o'er the sea that promised shaft of 
 blue 
 On which his ardent soul had long been set ; 
 With prayer he partly learned the lesson ' to 
 forget ' ; 
 And seldom now for aught but simple tools 
 
36 OUTRE MER. 
 
 Travelled a vagrant wish. His needs were few, 
 And his trained mind forbore 
 To soar 
 
 Outside the cramping convent rules, 
 
 Albeit for him, had he so pleased 
 (He was a favourite son) they had been surely 
 
 eased. 
 He dwelt obedient in his cell, content, 
 With fair head bowed above a desk, to limn 
 
 Whate'er the good monks asked of him, 
 
 And best content when he had spent 
 
 His inborn talent, rich and full, 
 
 Close, as it were, to God's own feet. 
 The brethren deemed his work a miracle, 
 
 And he a chosen angel sent 
 
 Straight down to bless their calm retreat ; 
 
 Thus all went well. Yet not to-day. 
 To-day a dull oppression filled the air ; 
 In narrow haunts the worker could not stay. 
 
OUTRE ME R. 
 
 37 
 
 His mind was sore and ill ; 
 His pulses fiercely stirred ; 
 The blue horizon beckoned him away. 
 A bird, 
 That lighted on the window sill, 
 Sang passionate, as though 'twould bear 
 Unto the prison-like abode — which all 
 Earth-joys forsook, fearing the high stone wall — 
 
 A breath, a whiff from some fair isle 
 Where golden fruit hangs ripe, and maidens 
 smile 
 Whom men may clasp close, heart to heart, 
 In world-forgetting kiss, 
 To part 
 never more from such unutterable bliss ! 
 
 So went he out ; one moment stayed 
 Within the chapel. In a corner dim, 
 He knelt and beat his breast and prayed. 
 
38 OUTRE MER. 
 
 Some slumberous voices faint intoned a hymn ; 
 Some pallid rushlights twinkled at a shrine, 
 Where dusky shadows on mosaic played. 
 To his sick heart this day no message seemed 
 divine. 
 There are such days for all and every one. 
 
 Unto the shore — 
 The sandy shore where he might roam alone, 
 The humid shore with ne'er a soul in sight, 
 
 And scarce a muffled roar 
 From out the low-lying crescent of the bay, 
 Whose salt sea-spray 
 Gives stinging strong delight 
 To eyes and lips, intoxicating brine, 
 Kenewing sense and spirit as with wine — 
 Unto the shore he sped, and sat him down 
 Beneath the warm cliffs' tufted crown, 
 Where grow sweet clover and long grass. 
 There could he hear the small birds pass — 
 
OUTREMER. 39 
 
 The martins, out and in from nests 
 Above him — they upon their quests 
 Of midge and fly, and he, keen-aimed as they, 
 Busily seeking. Yea, he sought for Peace. 
 And presently, while yet undying was the day, 
 
 She came, as might a white ship o'er the bay, 
 With floated wings to greet him, so her light touch 
 
 fann'd 
 His cheek, and on his brow she laid her tender 
 hand, 
 And gave the troublings of his brain release. 
 
 Then, sudden, once again it seemed 
 He was an eager boy who dreamed, 
 Most innocent, of some bright-coloured gem, 
 A wondrous pigment, torn from off the hem 
 Of southern skies and seas; and surely — as he 
 smiled, 
 Because of how for love thereof 
 
40 OUTREMER. 
 
 His boyish heart had once been wild, 
 And surely — as his wise self tried to scoff 
 At the remembrance quaint — that thraldom weird, 
 That subtle phantasm from afar appeared, 
 And grew, and grew, 
 Until he longed with fire 
 Of ancient re-illumed desire 
 To hold the gift of eastern blue, 
 E'en as he longed of yore. 
 Thus the strange craving which he thought had 
 died, 
 
 Slow filtered as a low-ebbed tide, 
 Returned like foam on shore. 
 
 He took never a count how long he stayed. 
 O'er the face of day drew quiet shade, 
 As gathers oft-soon 
 In afternoon 
 Of the noblest lives that for earth are made. 
 
OUTREMER. 
 
 And — just as in such, 
 When noontide brilliance begins to fade, 
 Some spiritual tenderness grows o'ermuch, 
 
 More nigh in touch 
 With an unseen world it had but begun 
 To mirror the radiance of — one by one, 
 Eose-colours paled from sea and sky ; 
 
 And, by and by, 
 Grey Evening, in her pilgrim's dress, 
 
 Wan, lustreless, 
 Across the bay stretched quiet hands, 
 And blessing laid o'er hills and sands. 
 Then, spirit-like, upraised herself the moon, 
 From curtained couch of clustered violet, 
 As though the sun — conscious he must forget 
 Our world for a brief space — had bade her soon 
 Rule from his empty throne when he should set, 
 Albeit in his broad garden, ere he went, 
 He planted pinks and April verdure sweet 
 
 41 
 
42 OUTRE MER. 
 
 For the white feet, 
 That on steep travel would be bent, 
 Of her — pale star-crown'd consort whom he sent. 
 
 Then likewise rose the monk and went his way. 
 Faint was he, who had tasted nought 
 
 Since early morn that day ; 
 The fierce-fann'd passion of his thought, 
 
 Scorching all want till now, 
 Had burned itself at last so low, 
 Hunger found room to enter with an angry 
 throe. 
 Yea, uprose that poor monk — aweary he, 
 
 And stiff — and wandered slow 
 Toward the monastery. He could see 
 Spare outlines of the building grey and cold 
 Against the cowslip sky — 
 Walls of his life-long home — a fold 
 For feeble sheep 'gainst worldly wolves that try 
 
OUTREMER. 43 
 
 Them to devour. Landward, some wind-bowed 
 
 trees 
 As ink-blots marked the garden space. Near 
 
 these, 
 Upon a bleak and storm-swept eminence, 
 The graveyard stones seemed but a stride 
 Beyond conventual silence ; thence 
 Might tired souls sure as obedient spring — 
 And with as little fear — 
 When far and wide 
 The judgment trumpet-call should sound, 
 And wake their sleep profound — 
 As now embodied brethren stirred to hear 
 The chapel's feeble clapper ring. 
 
 On this the painter monk mused while he strolled 
 along, 
 Skirting the bay with laggard feet that sank 
 Deep in the sand, as did his staff, among 
 
44 OUTRE MER. 
 
 Small mounds and pitfalls, soft o'ergrown 
 With tufted grass that fringed the shadowy bank. 
 His figure, tall and lank, 
 Moved slow, a white-clad spirit lone 
 Of that lone northern coast : 
 Nay, part by struggle, part by abstinence, made 
 light, 
 His soul and body waxed as disunite 
 As one were dead, the other but a wandering ghost. 
 And all things earthly in his sight grew small. 
 A few short years (he thought), but few at most, 
 He and his follies bulbwise must be laid, 
 By pious monks with shovel, hoe, and spade — 
 As in its turn each monkish body lies — 
 
 Consigned to yon grim graveyard's thrall, 
 Though fresh-born lives, in change perpetual, 
 Shall blossom thick through coming centuries. 
 What then of yearnings ? If for red or green, 
 Purple imperial, gold, ultramarine, 
 
OUTRE MER. 45 
 
 Or if for some fair woman's charms, 
 A woman's arms, 
 A woman's golden hair flung on your face, 
 And 'gainst your beating heart her figure's grace, 
 You yearn and long — 
 Why, where 's the difference, say ? Where then 
 The greater or the lesser level 
 Of the desires of men ? 
 Where hides the deeper wrong ? 
 All, all vain dreams are prompted by the devil, 
 Who baits his hook with what may best inspire 
 
 His fish — the sinner — to the chase ; 
 And dubs the bait no name that 's mean or base, 
 But only ' Heart's Desire.' 
 
 Thus argued he, the dreamer, as he went, 
 His own mind for antagonist 
 That oftener echo-like chimed in than spake dissent ; 
 Yea, ere he reached the convent gate he wist 
 
46 OUTREMER. 
 
 No heart's desire but one : to lay him down, 
 Exchanging frock and hood for heavenly robe and 
 crown. 
 No other need seemed worth a sigh, no whim 
 
 To him 
 Worth breath of wishing. Earth in dusk lay hid ; 
 With it all earthly thought. A shrouding mist 
 
 Hung low across the sleeping sea. 
 The wind had hushed, and heaven's great firma- 
 ment, 
 Like to a radiant silver lid 
 Of some dark tomb, shone spangled with bright 
 stars. 
 
 Far o'er the lea, 
 The sandhills' undulation here and there was rent 
 By scars 
 Of gulleys deep, meandering out and in, 
 Where heather-patches and the thick-spiked whin 
 Broke through grey arid fields of straggling bent. 
 
OUTRE MER. 47 
 
 Yet all these landmarks that he knew so well 
 
 He saw no more, but only guessed, 
 For in a blur of shade were they soft pressed 
 To calm mysterious and magnificent. 
 He could not trace the outlines of the fell. 
 
 'Twas as some spell 
 Fettered the world by gentlest swathing peace, 
 And only overhead 
 Yon anthem, of bright star-notes spread, 
 Thrilled to bid human troubles cease. 
 
 Ay, let the thought bring rest ! 
 When puny human life is sped, 
 Heaven's clear, and quiet falls on every anxious 
 breast. 
 
 Soft stole he in 'twixt sheltering convent walls, 
 Whose gates for him were gladly thrown apart ; 
 The ' open sesame ' of his great art, 
 Might it not break a thousand petty thralls ? 
 
48 OUTREMER. 
 
 But, as he crept the corridor along, 
 Weary of foot, though reconciled of heart, 
 There met him a bewildering throng 
 Of many monks who swiftly ran 
 From out each passage, every door — 
 With hurrying patter 
 And marvellous clatter, 
 Like sound of mice on granary floor — 
 And one and all and every man, 
 A clamorous history quick began, 
 Flocking around in a hustling crowd, 
 While each talked fast and each talked loud. 
 He looked from brother to brother aghast, 
 Ne'er had he known them chatter so fast ! 
 And lo, the din 
 Pursued him in, 
 Though he fled as quick as able, 
 To take his sup 
 From one porridge cup 
 Left on the refectory table. 
 
OUTREMER. 49 
 
 But, sudden, all fell back, for there, 
 In blear torchlight, half down the stair, 
 Stood the abbot grave, with lifted hand 
 
 That, like to a crozier, could scatter the band. 
 Kindly his air 
 As nigh he drew : ' Feace, all is well, 
 My son, yet come — myself will go 
 
 With thee for speech unto thy quiet cell. 
 Good brethren, tarry awhile below.' 
 
 The young monk paused — in his upraised eyes 
 Was a dreamful look of mild surprise, 
 
 Though withal — thought the abbot — they shone 
 more bright 
 Than e'er was their wont until to-night. 
 
 No torches but stars had kindled such light. 
 
 The white-washed cell was poor and small ; 
 
 Of comfort spare. 
 Only a lamp of iron swung, 
 
 D 
 
So OUTREMER. 
 
 Flickering faint o'er the table where 
 Books and pens and brushes lay, 
 In neat array, 
 Waiting the master's hand ; 
 And, 'mid the shadows on the wall, 
 Below the crucifix there hung 
 A narrow picture — Byzantine, 
 The abbot termed it, when one day 
 'Twas placed thus by his kind command, 
 Because he deemed the painter's work divine, 
 So would have holy things anear it. Spread 
 About were varied glues in pots and pans, 
 
 And water-cans, 
 And gilding tools, and shining flecks of gold, 
 With vellum strips, 
 And feathered tips, 
 Vermilion red, 
 And rare dyes manifold. 
 But in the midst, just where the lamp-light fell, 
 
OUTRE MER. 51 
 
 And burned 
 Most yellow in that cold white cell, 
 The monk's quick sight discerned 
 A linen cloth — a package new. 
 It was a cloth such as are used to hold 
 The powdered hues of worth untold 
 "Which from the Orient come, or Italy, 
 With, on its frayed-out marge, a stain of blue — 
 The very blue that 's named * from o'er the sea.' 
 Then, as he looked, and as, with tremulous hands, 
 The artist loosed some silver-threaded bands 
 That held the cloth, as eager thoughts came 
 
 swift — 
 Too flooding swift for words, while, in his breast, 
 
 O'erwhelming joy down press'd — 
 He could not find a breath for to rejoice. 
 
 He heard the abbot's voice, 
 That seemed to bring the warm South in its drift, 
 Yet from his own full heart no utterance could he lift : 
 
52 OUTREMER. 
 
 ' Lo now, my son ! 
 Our brother from beyond the sea 
 Hath not through all these years 
 Forgot thy joy, thy tears. 
 Here is the thing for which thy young soul yearned. 
 
 God's will be done, 
 And His Name praised ; 'tis He remembered thee. 
 Behold, an implement ! 
 A heavenly colour sent 
 To make thy pious work more fine and great, 
 
 And bring thee that most pure content 
 Thy saintly artist soul hath surely earned. 
 Dear son, meseems, if patient- wise we wait, 
 The Lord bids — not all things — but some 
 Unto our earnest longings come. 
 He blesseth thee with gifts ; yea, He hath lent 
 
 Thy talent unto thee to use, 
 Not as thou wilt, but as Himself shall choose. 
 
OUTRE MER. 53 
 
 So take my blessing likewise ; if we deem it sweet 
 When prayers be answered, eke we hold it meet 
 For those unanswered still the Lord to praise, 
 Who treads His Heaven — we grope through 
 human ways. 
 
 Be blest, my son.' 
 
 Then quoth the monk, ' Amen,' and bent his knee : 
 ' Bless me again, father, bless thou me ! 
 Truly my heart is but untamed and wild, 
 And I for human ways too oft have yearned, 
 Leaving thanksgiving words and deeds undone. 
 Pray then, father, for thy wayward child.' 
 ' Yea, for us all,' the abbot said, and smiled. 
 So knelt a space, and after rose, and turned, 
 And left the cell. At that the other stept 
 
 Toward the linen bag, and took 
 The wondrous gift — remembering how his eyes had 
 
 wept, 
 
54 OUTREMER. 
 
 And his soul thirsted — in quick hands that shook ; 
 And to his mind it seemed as though 
 The beauteous blue should overflow, 
 And steep his fingers in rich hue, 
 Like oft in dreams he 'd bade the sea to do. 
 Yet now he dreamed not — nay, but garnered close 
 again 
 The powder in its linen folds, and bent 
 Once more his knees most reverent ; 
 Then raised him, and with wistful gaze unto the 
 casement went. 
 
 He looked out on the sombre main, 
 Beyond the sandhills — all was black; 
 The moon deep hid behind a cloud, 
 Enwrapt in sable shroud, 
 And cheerless were heaven's doorways, curtained 
 dark, 
 
 Faint lit by starry spark. 
 Below, scarce could be seen the track 
 
OUTRE MER. 55 
 
 Of murmurous waves upon the sand-bound bay, 
 While plaintively they sighed alway, 
 As if, in semi-sleep, 
 Uuto the stars mourned spirits of the deep. 
 
 ' Not all,' — the monk spake gently — ' Nay, but some 
 
 Of our most weary wishes wander home, 
 
 Poor birds sent back from distant lands to trace, 
 
 And find again, their calm familiar place. 
 
 Perchance upon my soul at last falls rest. 
 
 Is it not purged of longing ? God knows best 
 
 Whether to grant or to withhold. 
 Let no man crave an idol wrought of gold, 
 Naught that is earth-stained. If he would be wise, 
 Bid him seek out such precious gift as lies 
 Beyond all seas, beyond our sphere, beyond 
 This piteous throbbing life of which we 're overfond. 
 So to us here, e'en to the least, may come 
 Some answering flash from yon unerring dome.' 
 
56 OUTREMER. 
 
 Lo ! as he spake the great moon burst 
 Out her black cerements, and the land — 
 The broad grey tracts of sand 
 That erst 
 Were dark as pitch — illumed. Then the wide 
 dreamful sky 
 Gleamed rapturous to effulgent light on high, 
 
 Where stars 'gainst diamond dust of stars 
 Clung thick as years that sand the plains of Time 
 Of which man's life counts scarce a handbreadth. On 
 the water's breast, 
 As down a floor of steely bars, 
 A silver path, sprung from the pebbled beach, 
 
 Ran straight to reach 
 Unto the far horizon of the west. 
 And in the midst slow rocked a fisher-boat — 
 A speck, a swarthy human life, a mote — 
 Alone ; all else immense, immutable, sublime. 
 
THE WORTH OF A SONG. 
 
 Close nestled where the chalk hills curve and dip 
 Ere their broad lines into green valleys slip, 
 Hard by an ancient quarry's frowning lip — 
 
 Girt safe with belt of juniper and yew, 
 
 The riotous March whirlwind dared not through, 
 
 When from chill East his white-maned coursers drew- 
 
 A farmstead raised its gables, chimney-stacks, 
 And deep roofs, glinting in red fiery tracks, 
 With many a cone-shaped hay-rick at their backs 
 
 Prank'd out for wintry hoard in neat array. 
 And there — long years ago, so gossips say — 
 Three brothers dwelt, in amity alway. 
 
58! THE WORTH OF A SONG. 
 
 Three brothers, young and brave of life and limb, 
 To whom the outer world seemed void and dim ; 
 Each loved his fellows twain, and they loved him. 
 
 Orphaned in name, but scarce in loss, at call 
 Of one the others ran — no grief too small, 
 Nor joy. The farm gave maintenance to all. 
 
 Thus passed their boyhood's span. They tilled the 
 
 ground, 
 And fertile earth brought answer all around ; 
 Folks marvelled at wise heads on young necks found. 
 
 Yet oft, when sporting in short holiday, 
 
 The brothers sought the hills that, sea-like, lay 
 
 Green, undulous, as in primeval day. 
 
 Far, far as sight, the velvet turf spread fair, 
 Untouched by spade or hoe or ploughman's share, 
 With sombre yew-trees studded here and there ; 
 
THE WORTH OF A SONG. 59 
 
 Such yew boughs as each youngster learned to bend 
 In bow or javelin shape, such as might send 
 Unto some traitor heart rewarding end. 
 
 They wrestled oft, boy-like, yet loving- wise ; 
 Bousing no anger in each other's eyes. 
 They practised how a disk of iron flies ; 
 
 Or snared wild game with nets. The third who 
 
 most 
 Sat calm as umpire — truly, 'twas his boast — 
 Grew garrulous when twilight, pallid ghost 
 
 That lulls some minds to silence, woke up his 
 (Being a poet's) with impassioned kiss, 
 And tender yearning in itself a bliss. 
 
 Close crept his comrades, clambering at his knee, 
 As though grown lads were children yet, while he 
 Unfolded for their ear sweet mystery : 
 
60 THE WORTH OF A SONG. 
 
 All that his keen soul wist, nay, read in cloud 
 
 Or sunset, through night's swarth emblazoned shroud, 
 
 Or if the distant sea moaned out aloud ; 
 
 Or in the Future — youth's most precious book, 
 Where every round-cheeked learner seeks to look, 
 Fraying the page with eager finger's crook. 
 
 Broad schemes they laid, these three ! 'Twas no 
 
 surprise 
 That he, the youngest, with his mother's eyes, 
 Could peer so far across life's unknown skies. 
 
 The eldest was of mood more fierce and bold. 
 
 The next o'er taciturn, too self-controll'd. 
 
 But he — cast half in child's, half angel's mould, 
 
 Guessed many a secret from the birds and flowers ; 
 Perchance because he lay, long summer hours, 
 Listing to thrush or finch 'mid hawthorn bowers. 
 
THE WORTH OF A SONG. 61 
 
 From such calm hermitage he fondly plann'd 
 His brethren's lives. Right beautiful and grand, 
 Earning men's praise and wonder through the land, 
 
 Those glorious lives, strong tools in hand of Fame, 
 Should gild afresh an honoured golden name — 
 Though England's roll knows ne'er a son of shame. 
 
 Thus dreamed the boy; then, when through scant 
 
 trees shone 
 Queen Moon, three hearts that beat in unison 
 Home wended, toil and play alike being done. 
 
 And so to wholesome supper ; next to rest — 
 
 Dark hours of sleep by tranquil prayer made blest — 
 
 Till the great sun once more 'gan journey west. 
 
 Serenely fair, the blameless days went past, 
 And each revolving season fled more fast. 
 It was the eldest brother spake at last : 
 
62S2 THE WORTH OF A SONG. 
 
 ' Dear ones, farewell ; to man's estate I 've grown. 
 
 Keep ye the homestead ; I am called alone, 
 
 For some are marked in need their country's own. 
 
 War, like a lurid star, gleams in the north. 
 Grant me your blessing, ere I sally forth 
 A poor recruit, as yet of untried worth.' 
 
 Soon was that valour proved to every eye ; 
 In martial ranks his place grew quickly high ; 
 The battle heat he pleasured to defy ; 
 
 Till, on the eve of a decisive day, 
 
 To lead some hope forlorn he chose to stray, 
 
 And met his death at outset of the fray. 
 
 Alas ! to him from thenceforth mattered not 
 The issue of the fight — he cared no jot ; 
 His limbs on alien soil must lie and rot. 
 
THE WORTH OF A SONG. 63 
 
 Senseless his eyeballs, staring at the sky, 
 Though all war's panoply should clatter by, 
 Though mighty armies clash, advance, or fly. 
 
 Cut down like grass in field to fade unknown, 
 
 Cold, struck at heart, mere food for hawks, there prone 
 
 He lay untombed, unmarked by cross or stone. 
 
 E'en so unchronicled, his name of pride 
 
 From Fame's bright scroll like dust was brushed aside. 
 
 Peace be to him and those who with him died. 
 
 A year revolved. Again the homestead leas 
 Bloomed ripe with harvesting ; in golden seas 
 Rippled the wheat about the workers' knees. 
 
 The two young owners of the farm were there, 
 
 Taking of toil and heat their willing share, 
 
 Locks backward toss'd, and glistening shoulders bare; 
 
64 THE WORTH OF A SONG. 
 
 While to the echoing grass-grown hills rang out 
 Full many a jolly quip and laughing shout 
 From all the busy happy peasant rout. 
 
 The main — a riband blue to bind the sheaves — 
 Lay dim beyond the barns and low-roofed eaves 
 Where dark- winged swifts twittered in ivy-leaves. 
 
 But now the white and winding pathway, lo ! 
 A stranger climbs with footsteps sad and slow ; 
 Dust-stained his garb, pallid his face of woe. 
 
 A wanderer from the wars, who paused awhile — 
 Gaining his breath — blinked at the sun's hot smile, 
 And fainted when he reached the reapers' file. 
 
 What news ? Alack ! when that sad tale was said 
 Each brother saw the other's tears, and read 
 The meed of pain that bowed a brother's head. 
 
THE WORTH OF A SONG. 65 
 
 While all men stood in reverent grief beside, 
 Until those twain whom Fate had so denied 
 Passed from the midst, and sought their dark fireside. 
 
 But hour by hour the warlike echoes spread. 
 
 Folks told dread tales — the very skies gleamed red — 
 
 Who paused to grieve for one brave heart struck dead ? 
 
 Great slaughter bred a pestilence. Each day 
 The poor in hundreds died. Chill famine lay 
 Where, locust-like, armies had ta'en their way. 
 
 Uprose the second brother, nobly fain 
 
 To succour such as writhed in need or pain, 
 
 To ease the torture of the plague's dark stain. 
 
 One hand-grip — brief farewell. His comrade sighed ; 
 
 He jested. ' Nay, 'tis long ere eventide, 
 
 I 'm scarce at life's noon yet ' — so spake in pride. 
 
 E 
 
66 THE WORTH OF A SONG. 
 
 Alas ! a few weeks sped, he lay and burned 
 
 On couch of pain, with wistful thoughts that turned 
 
 Like homing doves ; for boyhood's peace he yearned. 
 
 To him it seemed — now strength was ebbing fast — 
 Swift as a dream had been that tender past, 
 By Death's stern verity too soon o'ercast. 
 
 What 's Time but treasure idly spent ? Though here 
 Where men cursed Fate, racked with sore pain and fear, 
 Some grateful hearts replied that held him dear ; 
 
 And blessed him ere they sighed life out and slept. 
 Close drew he to the hospice wall, so wept, 
 While o'er his mind one long-lost memory crept : 
 
 A slender form, a face beloved and fair, 
 Kind mother-eyes, a crown of red-gold hair — 
 A scarce-shaped vision fleeting into air. 
 
THE WORTH OF A SONG. 67 
 
 Soft rose the De Profundis' solemn stave ; 
 The fainting soul, caught by God's lifting wave, 
 Passed out to space. They bore him to the grave. 
 
 A pilgrim to the chalk hills wended, 
 
 A pilgrim old and grey, 
 Whose eyes had seen yon brave life ended 
 
 While he, too, plague-struck lay. 
 The farmer stood with shadowing hand 
 And gazed out o'er the fruitful land. 
 
 Within his orchard stood he, leaning 
 'Gainst a gnarled apple-tree, 
 
 While all around sweet blossom, screening 
 Earth's wintry nudity, 
 
 Uttered rich promise, far and near, 
 
 That autumn plenty should appear. 
 
68 THE WORTH OF A SONG. 
 
 He bade the palmer welcome, fed him, 
 
 And gave him of the best ; 
 Next morning o'er the hillside led him, 
 
 And scarce the old man guessed 
 How a deep wound, ne'er to be healed, 
 
 Clung fast to silence for its shield. 
 
 Then turned the stripling farmer, lonely, 
 
 Unto the bouse he loved ; 
 Empty and chill it seemed, for only 
 
 His shadow therein moved : 
 Outside, the merry labourers quaffed 
 
 Their honied mead, and sang, and laughed. 
 
 He paid them, each above his earning, 
 And bade them swift begone. 
 
 Then, from the barns and byres spurning 
 The dumb beasts, one by one, 
 
 He opened doors and coops and sheds, 
 
 And drove the poultry from their beds. 
 
THE WORTH OF A SONG. 69 
 
 So fled they, much affrighted, straying 
 
 O'er fields and hilly land ; 
 Only the great dray horses, neighing, 
 
 Came fondly to his hand, 
 Until he tore a bough of ash 
 And beat them from him with the lash. 
 
 Last, when all in and out the dwelling 
 
 Grew mute as his own soul, 
 When sombre twilight, night foretelling, 
 
 Began her cloak unroll, 
 The man whose life was desolate 
 Left hearth and home and garden gate. 
 
 To a new world, with arms entreating 
 
 As one stone blind, he went. 
 Well to be blind ! Nor kiss of greeting, 
 
 Nor glad smile, might be bent 
 On such poor mourner, whose bruised heart 
 With naught of earthly world had part. 
 
7o THE WORTH OF A SONG. 
 
 Yet 'twas a little space he 'd journeyed 
 When sudden, palsy-shook, 
 
 Down by the road he sat and turned 
 His wet regretful look 
 
 To that old home, half dipt in hill, 
 
 But half in moonlight outlined still 
 
 Ton shutter, with one pane quite broken — 
 His brothers crushed the thing 
 
 In mimic strife — he 'd kept as token 
 (Which set folks wondering) 
 
 The empty gap that grinned like grief ; 
 
 For never yet he 'd feared a thief 
 
 Yon tree — whose leafage, sharp as fret- work 
 That backs the church-choir stalled, 
 
 Held great white clouds in priso ning network- 
 Yon tree o'er-well recalled 
 
THE WORTH OF A SONG. 71 
 
 An hundred talks, the ring-dove's nest, 
 Long summer hours of peace and rest. 
 
 Then sobbed the lone man, till much weeping, 
 Self- answered, calmed his breath. 
 
 'Mid the smooth hills all things were sleeping ; 
 Silent the vales beneath. 
 
 Only a light wind rose and sighed 
 
 As some dead voice had fain replied. 
 
 Erewhile an archer — so the story ran — 
 
 A fine-built youth of wondrous skill ; 
 (The king's guard held his service but a span,) 
 By careless comrade lamed — ay, sure, the 
 man 
 Had no intent to wound or kill. 
 
72 THE WORTH OF A SONG. 
 
 'Twas a mere accident — as such things are ; 
 
 We see them, children, every day. 
 Yea, some are born beneath a lucky star 
 And some bide village-wise, some wander 
 far; 
 
 But each fulfils his fate, they say. 
 
 The gossips pointed as he mutely went, 
 
 Lifted, adown an alien street ; 
 His soul morose, his body sore and bent, 
 A cripple evermore — such fiat sent 
 
 To yon proud spirit seemed not sweet. 
 
 Impious, he mused : three brethren young and 
 pure — 
 
 Why not accounted worth indeed 
 To serve or king or country ? to endure 
 As others can, and of reward make sure, 
 
 Plucking at last true valour's meed ? 
 
THE WORTH OF A SONG. 73 
 
 God had forgot him — God forgot those twain — 
 Let men forget, and deem him dead ! 
 
 He cursed the sunlight warm, the quickening 
 rain; 
 
 A misanthrope, he hugged his cloak of pain ; 
 All creatures shunned his door in dread. 
 
 Long time he dwelt thus — slow years silvered o'er 
 
 The red gold that had been his crown. 
 One day he called some varlets, drew out store 
 Of coin to their pleased sight, and promised more, 
 And bade them bear him from the town. 
 
 Yea, to the hills, the green-clad hills that soothe 
 
 A restless mind in malady, 
 That bid man's brow, like to themselves, grow 
 
 smooth, 
 And, far from noise of city, mart, and booth 
 
 Rise calm toward God's tender sky. 
 
74 THE WORTH OF A SONG. 
 
 'Twas there the gnawing vengeance-pain learned 
 
 slake 
 Its thirst of useless fierce regret : 
 His heart throbbed loud as though but just awake, 
 While Nature's choir seemed all the day to make 
 
 Such paeans as he knew not yet. 
 
 The massive clouds poised on the loftiest edge 
 Of the wide upland's distant wave, 
 The trembling weeds within the brooklet's sedge, 
 Things most diminutive — all brought new pledge, 
 All a sweet healing message gave. 
 
 Each chalk-lined depth, each grim primeval yew, 
 
 Slant shadows, clover scent, or may — 
 Each by its beauty told in tones most true 
 How broad God's greatness is, how closed our 
 view, 
 How vast His power, how small our day. 
 
THE WORTH OF A SONG. 75 
 
 Yea, as the sick man on kind earth reclined, 
 God's light his soul's ingress achieved ; 
 Again, as in gone years, the fluting wind, 
 The bees, the swaying grass, within his mind 
 From chaos blessed hymnals weaved. 
 
 Dame Nature strikes one grand vibrating string 
 
 To which life tunes its melody ; 
 And fluent counterpoint the glad birds bring 
 When through thin ether's blue they cleave, or 
 sing 
 
 Swayed among emerald domes on high. 
 
 Thus was it blind eyes saw, and lips shut long 
 
 Were oped, the heart — a poisoned waste — 
 Blossomed, and the quick hand wrote down a song 
 The singer sent his fellow-men among, 
 That they his joy might taste. 
 
76 THE WORTH OF A SONG. 
 
 Strong as a rose in summer swelled that strain, 
 More bounteous daily, more beloved, 
 
 For they that learned it taught the song again ; 
 
 So English hearts were neared by its sweet 
 chain, 
 By self-same impulse moved. 
 
 It told of fairest love and youth most fair, 
 
 Of comrades, yet of joys oft riven ; 
 How each one for his country's sake may spare 
 Things twain : Life, Death ; although he shall 
 not dare 
 To choose how they be given. 
 
 Fast this brave rhyme across the counties sped, 
 
 Tramped by a nation's eager feet ; 
 By noblest knights heard with uncovered head 
 Ere they in wrack of war for England bled 
 Holding such life-gift sweet. 
 
THE WORTH OF A SONG. 77 
 
 Unto the common soldiers grew the song, 
 
 Like paternoster, known and dear, 
 And mothers crooned it sleeping babes among, 
 And, in the market, many a girlish tongue 
 Would lilt it loud and clear — 
 
 While he that wrote lay in the tomb and 
 slept, 
 His blurred-out name on ne'er a lip. 
 Fame reached him not ; unnoticed and unwept 
 He passed, as drifts from view a dim lamp 
 kept 
 On some out-sailing ship. 
 
 Yet, though we hear not now the trumpet note 
 
 That rang, all-conquering, long ago, 
 The story lives, how crippled fingers wrote 
 A warrior's song, and down the ages float 
 Traditions all aglow, 
 
78 THE WORTH OF A SONG. 
 
 To tell that lie a Titan record won, 
 
 Who was in life nor great nor strong, 
 But by his country's vast acclaim had done 
 A deed accounted as excelled by none, 
 With worth of one poor song. 
 
THE GENTLE KNIGHT. 
 
 There was a fair and gentle knight 
 Dwelt in his father's hall : 
 
 So kindly wont of deed and tongue, 
 He was beloved by all. 
 
 He cared no whit to hurt or slay, 
 Ne'er rode in field or chase ; 
 
 He would not tilt his lance in fight, 
 Nor strive for lady's grace. 
 
 They deemed him fey that saw him sit 
 And watch the clouds go by, 
 
 A-dreaming dreams without an end, 
 And bend his brows and sigh. 
 
So THE GENTLE KNIGHT. 
 
 Of clerkly tomes lie owned a score, 
 And these he loved to con 
 
 Till the old earl, his sire, waxed wroth 
 For such unworthy son. 
 
 ' Go forth ! thy harness turns to rust, 
 And pallid grows thy cheek ; 
 
 Hast ne'er a friend who needs thine arm 
 Hast ne'er a foe to seek ? ' 
 
 ' Friends are but scant, my father dear ; 
 
 One enemy I have. 
 Alas ! his deadly grip is sure ; 
 
 He '11 chase me to my grave.' 
 
 Uprose the earl : ' A coward born ! 
 
 No child of mine art thou ; 
 Would I had died ere blot of shame 
 
 Deface my good shield now. 
 
THE GENTLE KNIGHT. 81 
 
 ' Haste, haste, and fall upon thy foe, 
 
 Sans merci. By the rood, 
 I will not see thy face again 
 
 Till thou have spilt his blood. 
 
 ' Here be thy challenge.' As he spake 
 
 The grim earl drew anear ; 
 His gauntlet smote the young knight's lips 
 
 That ashen seemed for fear. 
 
 Then strode he frowning from the hall, 
 
 That father cruel cold — 
 And called his squire to saddle steed, 
 
 And rode out o'er the wold. 
 
 Scarce had he gone a day, I ween, 
 Of journey scarce a day, 
 
 F 
 
82 THE GENTLE KNIGHT. 
 
 Through field and glen came his own true 
 men, 
 And stayed him on the way. 
 
 ' Thy son, he lies a-dying, 
 
 Chilly as stone he lies — 
 A wound in his heart from a deadly dart, 
 
 And death in his brave blue eyes.' 
 
 The earl he turned with ne'er a word, 
 And galloped to castle gate, 
 
 Nor slacked he rein till he came again 
 To the threshold he reached o'er late. 
 
 For lo ! in the banqueting chamber, 
 Where a pool of blood shone red — 
 
 With armour dight lay the fair young 
 knight, 
 And he lay there stark and dead. 
 
THE GENTLE KNIGHT. 83 
 
 On a bier was he stretched right lowly, 
 His steel-clad hands as in prayer, 
 
 A sword at his side with the gore scarce dried, 
 And his golden head all bare. 
 
 Then the hard old earl, his sire, 
 
 Kneeled down on the green rush floor : 
 
 ' My son, my son, yea, mine only one ! ' 
 And he wept full long and sore. 
 
 But a fluttering scroll dropt sudden 
 From the armoured fingers at rest : 
 
 ' My father, in grace look now on my face, 
 For I have obeyed thy behest. 
 
 ' Slain is the foe I dreaded ; 
 
 Yea, he is slain, low laid — 
 Of mine own wild heart, with its fury and smart, 
 
 I have long, long, been afraid ! 
 
84 THE GENTLE KNIGHT. 
 
 ' Sith my heart would play the tyrant 
 
 I was feared, though I would not yield ; 
 
 Now I 've dealt a How to the demon foe — 
 My lord, is there stain on our shield ? ' 
 
THE STORMY PETREL. 
 
 Harbinger of death and danger, o'er the darkling 
 
 furrowed sea 
 Rides the Stormy Petrel telling where the gathered 
 
 whirlwinds be. 
 Bird of Fate, whom we should welcome, counting 
 
 thee as truly blest 
 For thy tidings and thy warnings timely brought 
 
 from east or west, 
 Know'st not that an ill-tongued prophet is by all 
 
 men deemed accurst — 
 He that soonest cries disaster, he that sees far doom 
 
 the first ? 
 
 Thou and thy weird web-foot brethren, sable-featured, 
 tempest-toss'd, 
 
86 THE STORMY PETREL. 
 
 Ye are held for souls of pirates, errant-drifting, 
 
 sentenced, lost, 
 Spirits of such crafty Norsemen as in rapine ruled 
 
 the main, 
 Shedding blood for very fierceness, lust of treasure 
 
 and of gain, 
 Now condemned to wander ever, evermore to dip 
 
 and lave 
 Black-stained sins, black deeds of old time, in the 
 
 crystal-crested wave. 
 
 Say, ye wraiths of Viking rovers, grim and dreaded 
 
 buccaneers, 
 Whose vindictive quest of white sails still across 
 
 mid-ocean steers, 
 Tracking wreck and bringing wreckage — say in 
 
 mystic demon form 
 Do ye plan and tread, commanding, every footprint 
 
 of the storm ? 
 
THE STORMY PETREL. 87 
 
 Nay, poor Petrel, here 's a story writ for thee through 
 
 gentler lore : 
 Named wert thou, that walk'st the water, from the 
 
 impetuous saint of yore — 
 Peter — who by faith would gladly step with trembling 
 
 human feet 
 On the Lord's own shining pathway, there his 
 
 gracious Lord to greet. 
 Fear not. He, whose touch upheld the apostle's life 
 
 on Galilee, 
 Gave thy wings strong and sustaining, thou 
 
 wandering bird, to thee ! 
 
THROUGH FIELDS OF ASPHODEL. 
 
 She moved across the Elysian meads, 
 Life, Death, gone o'er ; behind her lay 
 The river chill in sombre reeds — 
 Before her, endless Day. 
 
 Yet lagged her feet upon the sward 
 That gleamed with budding asphodel, 
 While other pilgrims pressed toward 
 The glorious citadel. 
 
 With outstretched arms, man, woman, child, 
 They clomb the hill — a joyous band — 
 And saints serene upon them smiled 
 Or took them by the hand. 
 
THROUGH FIELDS OF ASPHODEL. 
 
 ' But who should meet me at the gate, 
 And greet my lips with tender kiss ? 
 I stayed on earth too late, too late — 
 I had no thought of this. 
 
 ' How cruel strikes such lambent glare 
 On palsied form and withered brow ! 
 for a veil of golden hair ! 
 I 'd hide me in it now. 
 
 ' Mother and father haply gaze, 
 Outlooking for their long-lost maid ; 
 Counting as beads past childish days — 
 To meet them I 'm afraid.' 
 
 She knelt her down, and masked her face, 
 Closing dim eyes that might not weep ; 
 'Mid that bright field she dreamed a space, 
 As in a balmy sleep. 
 
90 THROUGH FIELDS OF ASPHODEL. 
 
 About her sprang the bushes green, 
 Strange flowers blossomed on tall stems, 
 And rhythmic singing swayed between 
 Of birds that shone like gems ; 
 
 Till woke she. Near her, silently, 
 Two beings skimmed the shadowy grass, 
 Their eyes love-wistful as though she 
 Were yet a baby lass. 
 
 Fair gentle forms and soft arrayed ! 
 Familiar as some well-learned song 
 Their voices : ' Welcome, darling maid, 
 Though thou hast tarried long. 
 
 ' Sing with us, make thy parents glad ! ' 
 ' Nay, nay, I 'm old.' ' Ah, 'tis not so ! 
 What if thy lips and brow be sad ? 
 Our daughter dear we know. 
 
THROUGH FIELDS OF ASPHODEL. 91 
 
 ' Here is nor time, nor eld, nor grief, 
 Naught but a youth divine ; 
 No Autumn plucks the vernal leaf; 
 Spring, Summer, both are thine.' 
 
 They bore her o'er the shining field, 
 Within their arms, in childhood's nest ; 
 Their love made mantle, yea, and shield ; 
 Her tired soul found rest. 
 
 Above was peace, in prismic dome — 
 Though ne'er a moon nor sun nor star — 
 And thence a dulcet sigh : ' Home ! Home ! ' 
 That wandered near and far. 
 
IN SLEEP. 
 
 There is a dream — I have dreamed it oft — I dream 
 
 it now and again, 
 'While the sensitive strings of my soul vibrate till 
 
 they murmur and cry for pain. 
 
 I climb the steps of a tower steep, I weary at foot 
 
 and knee, 
 And still above me in endless height the circling 
 
 stair I see. 
 Yet at a threshold I pause at last, on the mellowed 
 
 marble floor, 
 While my fingers tap in silent rhythm the latch of 
 
 a phantom door. 
 'Tis ajar — I enter, for none says nay, and noiseless 
 
 I sweep across 
 
IN SLEEP. 93 
 
 A long low room where my eager walk seems urged 
 
 by a soundless force. 
 Then I tremble, I wait, I hold aloft my shuddering 
 
 anxious hands, 
 I would fain advance, but I may not stir, I am 
 
 prisoned by unseen bands, 
 And I catch my breath as I gaze my fill, and see a 
 
 sight that I held 
 To have slipped away with bygone years like the 
 
 fairy tales of eld. 
 
 Before me he lies, the brother I loved — his fair and 
 
 open brow 
 By suffering touched, a flower in frost; 'twas wont 
 
 to be so, 'tis now ; 
 And his eyes — where thought and spiritual strength, 
 
 like deep streams down in the blue, 
 Shine swift, and eddy, and surge, methinks — his eyes, 
 
 with reproach that is new, 
 
94 IN SLEEP. 
 
 Fix keenly on mine ; he rivets my will, and he pins 
 
 my speech at bay ; 
 Nay, the slash from a knife were gentler far than 
 
 the words he has to say. 
 ' How long ? ' he asks, and his pale hand droops from 
 
 the big Greek tome at his side, 
 ' How long have you left me here forgot, unloved, 
 
 untended, denied ? ' 
 And hark! as he speaks his voice mounts up, in a 
 
 cadence shrill and wild ; 
 Though his thin little shrunken limbs lie still — he is 
 
 yet, as he was, but a child. 
 Has Time passed by and touched him not, for ruth 
 
 of the boy's sweet years, 
 While we have grown worn in stemming the world, 
 
 all shattered by struggle and tears ? 
 While we have grown faint, and our hearts have 
 
 ached, and our anguished eyes sore wept, 
 And he has slept in his captive youth — alone and 
 
 unknown, has he slept ? 
 
IN SLEEP. 95 
 
 ' But why came you not ? ' he upbraids again. And 
 
 why, my God, O why ? 
 I wring my hands, but I answer ne'er; I've no 
 
 answer to give, not I ! 
 I see the sunshine that filters through from the 
 
 casement toward the floor 
 As God's fair grace may come to our souls when this 
 
 dull life is coldened o'er ; 
 And the blue sky rocks, and the grey walls rock 
 
 of the tower in which I stand, 
 And again I seek — but I move no inch — to stretch 
 
 forth a pleading hand. 
 ' My brother, my brother . . . ' the fiery words from 
 
 my seething heart o'erflow ; 
 But voice dies down into quivering grief, and the 
 
 blistering tears fall slow. 
 My brother ! Alas, that the throe at my heart grows 
 
 great to an opened wound ! 
 And fiercer they rise — remorse and grief — for the 
 
 chain that bars me from sound. 
 
96 IN SLEEP. 
 
 I may not utter, nor murmur, nor sob ; not a groan, 
 
 not a prayer, not a sigh, 
 While he gazes on with questioning eyes till for pity 
 
 I 'd like to die. 
 And his smileless lips as they meet and part are 
 
 repeating their dire refrain : 
 ' Why came you never ? Why came you not ? ' 
 
 Then I sink with swooning brain, 
 For I'd give my life, all its past young years, and 
 
 any of joy to come, 
 To have travelled back once, to have sought him 
 
 out — twin soul of my childish home ! 
 
INTROSPECTION. 
 
 Two friends — staunch friends whate'er befel- 
 Each loved the other passing well ; 
 The one grave-natured : Daniel, 
 
 In name, and race, and thought, a Jew ; 
 The other Norman, christened Hugh — 
 But school and college mates are true. 
 
 Their generous minds had ever been 
 Like fair broad fields of playing green, 
 Duple yet free ; no fence between. 
 
 Thus, if they sparred, or if they talked, 
 Or through deep shades of learning walked, 
 By divers creeds they ne'er were balked ; 
 
 G 
 
98 INTROSPECTION. 
 
 Nay, rather moved to closer grip, 
 
 As wrestlers, who shake hands, then trip 
 
 Their dearest chums, with smiling lip. 
 
 One day — 'twas as they slowly paced 
 The terrace path by roses graced, 
 O'erlooking russet woodland waste, 
 
 Where wave-like distance, peeping blue 
 
 As future days, unclear and new 
 
 Thrilled misty through the boughs — spake Hugh; 
 
 And Mischief set his cheeks alight, 
 Then, climbing, made his grey eyes bright. 
 (He e'er was slave to that bold sprite.) 
 
 ' Friend, we 've been comrades through our lives, 
 Yet ne'er told faults — as men tell wives — 
 So that each heart its fellow shrives ; 
 
INTROSPECTION. 99 
 
 ' Plain faults need plainly probing too. — 
 You 're wrong, my Daniel. — Ay, and you ! 
 Here 's your worst flaw, believe me, Hugb.' 
 
 Tbe other pondered. ' Were it not 
 Folly to seek some smoke-grimed cot, 
 When the wide vale shines free from blot ? ' 
 
 But Hugh : ' Nay, friendship hath its needs, 
 Else how spell amity ? One leads 
 Perchance, yet friends are harnessed steeds ; 
 
 ' Both drag the cart. Or, as twin birds, 
 Chase the same quarry ; or, as herds. 
 Together tend their flock of words. 
 
 ' Let both play judge ; though, an you please, 
 Take we the converse first, at ease — 
 Our virtues. Pick the best of these ! 
 
INTROSPECTION. 
 
 ' Also in them the lesson lies — 
 
 Read me my paradox. Calm skies 
 
 Bring storms ; snares lurk in girls' kind eyes.' 
 
 But Daniel smiled. ' Is this your mood ? 
 You '11 paint for sake of mental good, 
 The best of me your eyes have viewed V 
 
 ' I will, fair sir.' ' Lurks there my sin ? ' 
 ' More ; mine. For if I glance within 
 Your mirror, I 'm askew.' ' Begin.' 
 
 ' "lis well. The Hebrew reverence, 
 Naming Jehovah — no offence — 
 Seems to my mind your finest tense. 
 
 'But yesterday, your heel had press'd 
 Some fluttering scrap of card, and lest 
 God's name were writ thereon (at best 
 
INTROSPECTION. 101 
 
 A pencil scrawl) you stept aside.' 
 
 ' Thus do my race,' the Jew replied. 
 
 ' Therein your race takes righteous pride.' 
 
 ' True,' muttered Daniel. Then the twain 
 Upon the path turned slow again, 
 Where cedar shadows made blue stain 
 
 Though with warm red their boughs were fused. 
 ' Yea, true,' quoth Daniel twice, and mused 
 How oft friend Hugh God's name abused 
 
 By roundly cursing. ' G-entiles swear, 
 Breaking divinest law, and dare 
 With hideous oaths to foul the air. 
 
 ' Rashly the sacred word they speak ; 
 Yet see — you Christians can be meek, 
 To smiters turning either cheek. 
 
INTROSPECTION.. 
 
 ' 'Tis strange, nigh grand. You kneel before 
 The crucifix which you adore, 
 Studying meekness o'er and o'er. 
 
 ' You say : Christ drew the humblest breath, 
 And likewise chose the humblest death ; 
 All things such meekness conquereth.' 
 
 Hugh listened. Would, he thought, my friend 
 Some Pharisaic ways might mend ! 
 To pride all Jewish virtues tend ! 
 
 Then smiled. ' Now for our faults,' he said. 
 ' Mayhap, as in a toad's grim head, 
 Bright gems be there discovered.' 
 
 But Daniel laughed outright. ' Nay, nay, 
 Enough of searching test to-day ! 
 Come to the bowling-green and play.' 
 
LONG YEARS AFTER. 
 
 Give me the brush — 1 11 hold it in my hand, 
 And dream a while there 'a strength in this faint 
 
 wrist, 
 Nerve in these flaccid fingers, beat in pulse 
 Sprung of hot blood like wine that leaps and burns 
 Out-bubbling free from vineyards of the south 
 To crystal beakers — ay, 'twas so of old — 
 Youth kissed by genius — that 's a perfect kiss ! 
 Ripe red warm lips, with fellowship of hands 
 Fit to defy the world. Once I was young. 
 Give me the brush, I say — not that one, no ! 
 O'er fair and silken are its shining hairs, 
 The point too dainty — see the gloss undimmed 
 Of varnish on the stem ! Pah ! throw it by. 
 
104 LONG YEARS AFTER. 
 
 I '11 choose this battered relic of past days. 
 Poor labourer — pale and care-worn as myself, 
 As ragged and as bent of back, thy beard 
 Scant and uneven as mine own — can Time 
 And Work have brought thee to this sorry pass ? 
 Thou didst begin life as a slave to Art, 
 And Art in age, thou see'st, may profit naught ; 
 And ofttimes those who praise fair handiwork 
 Forget the doer. He that fills the loom 
 Gives out the shimmering golden stuff for use, 
 And faints thereat, most weary— but the king, 
 The young king in his glory on the throne, 
 Kicks it aside, yon trailing robe of state, 
 Or o'er his harness gathers it, to heap 
 Magnificence upon magnificence. 
 So with a poem or a pictured song. 
 'Twas writ or painted years and years ago ; 
 But he the toiler, nay, he made no name. 
 Yet 'tis a pretty thing enough — alas ! 
 
LONG YEARS AFTER. 105 
 
 Poor soul, he died, not famous, and his brush 
 (Or pen) dropt to the dust, e'en as himself. 
 
 How strange to-day's chance, meeting, my good 
 
 sir! 
 Such long years since we twain, in Newman Street, 
 Shoulder to shoulder, chalked the Laocoon, 
 A- whispering all the while of future days, 
 When Fame should pluck bay leaves to crown us 
 
 both. 
 You were more idle, I less quick, and so 
 The grave Professor chid us both, because 
 (He said) we were like steeds close bridled, each 
 Failing of duty to the pole between. 
 Yet for our taste, those merry student days — 
 When Hope carved pencils, sharpening every point 
 To sure strong lines of glory — held more sweets 
 Than older brains may dream of ; strange, to-day, 
 Scarce knew we one another in our beards ! 
 
1006 LONG YEARS AFTER. 
 
 Mine 's grey, too. Yet you stretched an eager 
 
 hand. 
 Kind, for I 'm poor — look now, my hat 's a sight ! 
 Believe me, I 'd have gladly passed you by 
 With haughty step, and stare that fixed you not. 
 ' Nay, friend,' you cried, ' what worlds between our 
 
 youth, 
 And this, the present. You " arrived " in Art, 
 But I stood still. No matter. Come, I own 
 A studio near, a palace, and its gem — 
 Prized far beyond all other treasured toys 
 My purse has bought — a picture done by you. 
 Come now and see it, dine with me to-night ; 
 We 11 garner up a harvest of old yarns. 
 You left us at the dawning of your fame, 
 And we, as under shadow of eclipse, 
 Lunged at each other, crying : Where is he, 
 Our country's promise, whither hid away ? 
 You ve tried, I hear, the backside of our globe, 
 
LONG YEARS AFTER. 107 
 
 Where all bright days are nights, and nights are day, 
 And fortune so revolves — not always, nay, 
 But oft — come, comrade mine, a pipe with me.' 
 Thus spake your courtesy. Yet my coat is 
 
 patched — 
 The priests of Art at times own scanty purse — 
 And we twain met just where the Green Park's 
 
 fringe 
 Shadows your Piccadilly's whitest space ; 
 There Club-land, with its many peering eyes, 
 Views friendship for a needy suit askance. 
 Well, raise the picture — ha ! a better thing 
 Than erst I deemed — right worth such gorgeous 
 
 frame. 
 Hurrah for friendship ! I 've one triumph now ! 
 Think you my work would grace the nation's walls, 
 Well shrined by lock and key, like burning words 
 Of some dead poet, classed 'mong titled odes, 
 Yet lost of lineage, humbly dubbed ' anon ' ? 
 
icio8 LONG YEARS AFTER. 
 
 Nay, I 'm not dead yet ; here are eyes to see, 
 
 A brain to think, a heart to feel swift pain, 
 
 When Memory touches each quiescent nerve 
 
 Just as a player wakes the silent notes 
 
 That have not wailed from some old harpsichord 
 
 For dream-benumbed long years. Ay, with this 
 
 heart, 
 These eyes and brain, I '11 work yon picture out 
 Afresh, as in the summer of my youth. 
 
 She stood just there — there in her cool white 
 
 dress, 
 As though she had but sauntered down the 
 
 glade 
 Wherein my fancy posed her, yet the breath 
 Of this dark city with its poisoned stings 
 Had seared the linen and the bosom too, 
 Stifling her tender life. Those pleading eyes — 
 
LONG YEARS AFTER. 109 
 
 They were no country maid's ! They 'd worn them- 
 selves 
 Into such yearning gaze because they stitched 
 Through London days and nights at needlework. 
 
 I know a churchyard in the city's core, 
 And yonder deep in humble grave she lies 
 And waits for me. The busy people pass 
 Beside, around, with heedless rapid tread : 
 The trader who on anxious gain is bent, 
 Th* apprentice, boyish still and fresh of heart, 
 The working woman, saddened ere her prime ; 
 And wizened children, playing at tip-cat, 
 Crouch on the graves, or beggar girls, quite lost 
 To what 's refined, sit sighing, suckling babes 
 They'd gladly push beneath the close head- stones, 
 And stretch out greedy palms to garner pence. 
 There haply, on a while, some countryman, 
 
o LONG YEARS AFTER. 
 
 Well-nigh distraught with din and press of crowd, 
 Strolls, tempted by the dust-choked o'er- rank grass 
 To pause, dreaming of that green resting-place 
 Where late they laid his mother — and the tears 
 O'erflow to see God's Acre misused thus. 
 So from his waistcoat broad he takes a coin 
 To give one ragged wench, whose great bold eyes 
 Stare hard because his like she ne'er beheld. 
 
 There were two cruel vultures — Want and Woe — 
 They struck their talons in my sweet one's heart, 
 And drank her blood. The child died — so died 
 
 she, 
 That never raised her head when he had died. 
 sir, you have a noble studio here ! 
 Floors velvet-carpeted, walls hung with silk, 
 Gold, lapis, and rare marble in the dome, 
 With touch of agate and of ivory, 
 To show the colours of your picture up 
 
L ONG YEA RS A FTER. 1 1 1 
 
 As autumn buds advantage a red rose. 
 You know not what it is to toil and moil 
 In some chill attic, where a woman weeps 
 Beside the cradle of her sickened babe ; 
 And hear the child, and then the woman, sob, 
 And hear the woman sigh, and then the child, 
 And hear the woman pray : God save my child ! 
 Though God turns not to hearken — and work on, 
 With blur of tears betwixt you and the paint, 
 And such an anger raising up your gorge 
 As you could kill whoe'er should cross your path. 
 So little bread, so scanty warmth for those 
 You love, and scarce a meagre coin at hand ! 
 How shall you paint when fingers, shuddering blue, 
 111 hold the weighty palette — how shall thought, 
 Eich noble thought, such affluent image find 
 To deck it as may teach the world your dreams, 
 When you 've no ell of cloth for wife and child ! 
 How shall your art burn when the coal 's used out, 
 
2 LONG YEARS AFTER. 
 
 And smouldering scraps yield no more latent fire 
 Than fading whims of youth which manhood 
 spurns ? 
 
 She stood — well I remember — one sad day, 
 
 And watched me work. See this long zig-zag shade 
 
 About the foreground, where the sunlight strives 
 
 To touch the dock-leaves and the swaying ferns. 
 
 I 'd mixed a tint for it— she stood close by, 
 
 So close I might have counted every thread 
 
 Gold spun on her low brows, above the eyes 
 
 That were so weary, yet so luminous. 
 
 Quoth I : ' Dear heart, always I think of you 
 
 As on that one brief holiday of ours — 
 
 A daisy 'mid the sunny woodland glade, 
 
 A pearl set in some store of emerald 
 
 By Hand divine of Him the Jeweller 
 
 Who made your soul as flawless as your face. 
 
 You in your white gown — look, dear, is it like ? 
 
LONG YEARS AFTER. 113 
 
 But now, yes, now, ah ! times have sorry changed, 
 
 And I that took the jewel-flower, watch 
 
 It droop and dull — great God, I 'm going mad ! 
 
 Why don't you curse me that I spoilt your life ? ' 
 
 ' Not spoilt,' she said, ' oh never, never that ! 
 
 Love thrives best, surely, on the sunless days, 
 
 And I 've been blest. But, husband, grant me this : 
 
 Give me enough of silver that I go 
 
 To buy some shred of black to trim my gown — 
 
 Black — ay, not grey: — black, black as jet, as 
 
 night, 
 Because the child died and I cannot mourn.' 
 
 Quick then I turned and kissed her on the mouth : 
 ' I have not,' stammered I, ' I have naught left.' 
 And then I looked, and saw her flowing tears, 
 And then she brake from me and fled away, 
 And crouched deep in the window,, and sobbed loud : 
 ' I may not mourn,' she said, ' not mourn for him.' 
 
1 14 LONG YEARS AFTER. 
 
 And later on, and as it were in dream, 
 She said : ' Methinks that when we die we drift 
 As travellers do who journey by the rail, 
 For all the things of this cold cruel world 
 Seem to fly back from us, not we from them.' 
 And afterward, she scarcely spake a word, 
 But sat and shivered. 
 
 And I flung the paint 
 Upon the canvas till the night came, dark, 
 Yet merciful, because it hid from me 
 The stormy dolour of her pallid face. 
 Then went I out. I was not cold, I said, 
 Nor hungry, and I starved that day and next. 
 I walked to ease the pain that hunger brought ; 
 I could not sleep. I was too starved to sleep. 
 And when at last I turned back, she lay ill. 
 But I unrolled a length of woollen stuff — 
 Merino, so they called it — and some crape, 
 
LONG YEARS AFTER. 115 
 
 I 'd pawned my watch to purchase, and I threw 
 The fierce black folds about her hands and knees. 
 And she — she smiled — ah yes, remember that ! 
 She smiled at me — not all the diamonds brought 
 From Scinde, not all the pearls from deep sea mines, 
 Had brought that smile to her dry parted lips. 
 I was not hungry then — oh no ! the pain 
 Hid in my temples, where it beat as when 
 The giant mechanism of some steam thing 
 Is like to burst and break. 
 
 Poor picture mine, 
 Thou canst not speak, or thou wouldst tell harsh 
 
 tales ! 
 faithful calendar, that chronicled 
 Day after day the waning of a life ! 
 Each touch of colour here — as charcoal scratch 
 On prison wall — denotes some further grief 
 Breathed in the sighs of helpless prisoners, 
 
n6 LONG YEARS AFTER. 
 
 None less embittered for their helplessness. 
 
 And I, as once again I stand to thee, 
 
 And stroke thy surface with my finger tip, 
 
 Or, by strange faintness smitten, press a while 
 
 My enfeebled limbs against the gorgeousness 
 
 Of this gilt easel where thou reign'st supreme — 
 
 I read the hieroglyphics clearly out 
 
 On every tenth of inch of texture rough 
 
 Or smooth ; I read familiar- lines and signs 
 
 Which spell out one and all the same word — Death. 
 
 O Death ! that art in nature and in life 
 
 Our close familiar comrade day and night, 
 
 That starest plain from grandest sights and sounds, 
 
 Eke peering from small pebbles and young buds, 
 
 Must thou in Art reign also ? Here 's a scrap 
 
 Of paper writ an hundred years ago — 
 
 Say, where 's the writer ? And that pictured head, 
 
 Good sir, you cherish on your favourite wall — 
 
 The girl who sat, perchance has drowned herself ; 
 
LONG YEARS AFTER. 117 
 
 And he, the artist, drank himself to death. 
 
 Yet, conquering life, his thoughts lie scrawled there- 
 on: 
 
 Brave thoughts that make the picture shine with light 
 
 Better than flake white or the madder's rose ; 
 
 Grim thoughts that make the laden canvas crack, 
 
 Or pierce, like worm-holes, panels through and 
 through ; 
 
 Sad thoughts which make men sigh they know not 
 why. 
 
 He died by inches — so from Life to Death. 
 
 Yet lives the picture — so from Death to Life ! 
 
A SPACE OF SUMMER 
 
 Summer, Summer, 
 Thou glad comer, 
 Hasten to my garden door, 
 For thy tender touch uncloses 
 
 Buds of roses ; 
 And the woods thou sett'st a-ringing 
 With birds' singing 
 Sweeter than was heard before. 
 
 Summer, Summer, 
 Gracious comer, 
 Spring a moment since pass'd by; 
 All her thin green robes a-trailing, 
 
A SPACE OF SUMMER. 119 
 
 She 's bewailing 
 That her queendom fast recedeth, 
 Thine succeedeth, 
 And she 's scarcely earned a sigh. 
 
 Summer, Summer, 
 Radiant comer, 
 She was changeful, thou art true. 
 Cypris-like, bless with warm breathings, 
 
 Perfumed wjeathings. 
 Love and Flora both invite thee ; 
 To delight thee 
 Phcebus smiles, and skies are blue. 
 
 11. 
 
 Summer is wounded — Autumn struck her — broken- 
 wing'd she lies, 
 
 And dies 
 
120 A SPACE OF SUMMER. 
 
 As a red rose o'erblown, whose honied petals when 
 they fall 
 
 Stain all 
 The grass with ruddy drops, wind-wafted. Wild 
 birds hush their song 
 
 Along 
 The fading sedge or copse, where swoon the butter- 
 flies at breath 
 
 Of Death. 
 
 in. 
 
 Farewell, farewell to Summer sweet ! 
 The swallows on the barn-roof, ranged in line, 
 Utfered her death decree, 
 And we 
 Must hasten our funereal wreaths to twine. 
 
 Grey lavender shall swathe her feet, 
 Where the wan roses stand for sentinels ; 
 
A SPACE OF SUMMER. 121 
 
 And pansies, and sad yew, 
 And rue, 
 Go gather, with the pallid mountain bells. 
 
 Nay, let yon purpled saffron greet 
 The advancing steps of Autumn — gold-crown'd 
 king — 
 
 We mourn our queen's long sleep, 
 And weep 
 As droops the garland that our fond hands bring. 
 
TO A FAIR MAID. 
 
 (The snowdrop, formerly in England called white bulbous 
 
 violet, was also known as 'fair maid of February,' because 
 
 at the feast of the Purification the custom was for girls, 
 
 dressed in white, to walk in procession.) 
 
 Haste thee early, sweet my lass ! 
 Trip beyond the frozen grass, 
 Gather in for Candlemass 
 Each snow-blossom, set 
 Dainty in its sheath of green — 
 Helmet bright on silken sheen — 
 Peeping cold brown mould between, 
 'Clept white violet. 
 
 In thy hands, thy rosy hands, 
 
 Bear the pale faint-perfumed strands ; 
 
TO A FAIR MAID. 123 
 
 They are innocent soft bands 
 Drawing hearts to prayer. 
 Be thy thoughts as brave as they, 
 Though the storm drive on its way 
 Blackest clouds through night and day— . 
 Kneel thou strong and fair. 
 
 Hence grim yew and holly sere ! 
 Here 's a young and tender year ; 
 Jocund Spring shall soon appear 
 With gay blossom rife. 
 Don thy whitest robe, dear maid ; 
 'Mid thy comrades, thus arrayed, 
 Pass from home's sequestered shade 
 Out to nobler life. 
 
SEPTEMBEK THOUGHTS. 
 
 The autumn day 
 
 Wanes fast away, 
 And thus, with slower pulse, the year. 
 Within our garth I walk, to hear 
 Sweet robins trill from crown of tree, 
 Brave robins, singing loud and clear 
 Their ever-answering harmony ; 
 Like orchard spirits russet drest — 
 Brown leaves for wings and apple vest. 
 
 In misty deeps 
 
 The river sleeps, 
 The pale sun hastes to reach the hill. 
 Scarce floats a cloud, the air is still ; 
 
SEPTEMBER THOUGHTS. 125 
 
 The leas are bare that glowed with corn ; 
 Dead droop the lilies by the mill, 
 And summer garlands trail forlorn. 
 Each season spreads a scroll that tells 
 Its rhythmic rune of link'd farewells. 
 
DECEMBEK SONG. 
 
 Who would thy laureate be 
 And tune for thee, 
 cruel Winter, churlish king, 
 Grim lord of dearth, and ice, and snow, 
 That com'st with footstep hard and slow 
 Across the brown and withered leaves 
 To store thy diamonds in our eaves ? 
 
 Who would thy triumph sing ? 
 
 No heralds thine as they, 
 In bright array, 
 That weave for Spring her rainbow dress ; 
 Brave maids, they greet her waking hour- 
 Primrose, Lent lily, and wind-flower. 
 
DECEMBER SONG. 127 
 
 What though thy frosty mandate 's writ 
 On twinkling lattice-panes — can it 
 Command our tenderness ? 
 
 Yet giv'n to thee is grace 
 Of noblest place 
 'Mong seasons of our changing earth. 
 For He Who rules each yearly round 
 Was lowly born on wintry ground. 
 Yea, Winter brings the Christmas time ; 
 White Winter, ringing Christmas chime, 
 
 Rings in the White Christ's birth. 
 
OF A BIRD-CAGE. 
 
 One of those made in Germany by convicts sentenced 
 to penal servitude. 
 
 A tiny prison built by prisoned hands 
 To coop some bright-wing'd thing ; a mimic cell, 
 Wrought amid sighs by one who knew full well 
 The smart and pressure of enforced bands, 
 When high-soul'd courage failed him to assuage 
 The close-laid torture of a life-locked cage. 
 
 Perchance he wept his own deep grief and pain. 
 
 Alas, each day the sun rose high to set 
 
 In clouds of golden hope ! And yet, and yet, 
 
 Time mattered naught. Him freedom called in vain, 
 
 As in the future she might beckon it — 
 
 That bird now free — who captive here should sit. 
 
OF A BIRD-CAGE. 129 
 
 Thus with vague sympathy was each space barr'd, 
 Yet none less sure. Here shall the creature eat, 
 Here drink, here restless perch in cold or heat, 
 Setting to melody the sentence hard 
 Fate spells the words of. Plane the cramping floor, 
 Bend down the latch, and firmly bolt the door ! 
 
COSIE SONG. 
 
 Rock thee to sleep, my bonnie, bonnie bairn, 
 Hush tb.ee to sleep on mitber's knee ; 
 
 Dream thou o' bowers, a' amang the flowers, 
 There where the fairy folk be. 
 
 Hark! down the glen come the merry, merry men, 
 Hurrying wi' steady tramp o' feet ; 
 
 Now the rain falls, now the wind calls — 
 Willow leaves lilt a music sweet. 
 
 Rock thee to sleep, my bonnie, bonnie bairn ; 
 
 Father 's o'er the hill folding sheep ; 
 Hush thee to rest, here on my breast — 
 
 Sleep then, my pretty lammie, sleep. 
 
INCONSEQUENCE. 
 
 There is no rose without a thorn. 
 
 But thorns are rife without a rose — 
 Strong thorns galore, sharp and unshorn, 
 
 To cut the cheek and scar the brows. 
 
 Beauteous are clouds of silvered fold, 
 Though better far yon peaceful skies 
 
 Whence the warm sun his shafts of gold 
 Upon our grateful verdure plies. 
 
 And deeds are greater gain than words, 
 Yet some wrongs stain with blackest ink ; 
 
 And many a saying, light as curds, 
 Has wider meaning than we think. 
 
132 i INCONSEQUENCE. 
 
 Men's views oft make a cynic smile ; 
 
 He holds their praise for what 'tis worth : 
 O'er-lightly earned, bestowed the while 
 
 Unnoticed angels walk the earth. 
 
EAKTHWAKD. 
 
 I planted my standard 
 In the morn of my days ; 
 It should soar, so high ! 
 And in realms of pure sky 
 Flare out with refulgent rays. 
 
 Yet, as time ran to noontide, 
 It slacked on the mast ; 
 So fluttered a bit ; 
 And I pulled soft at it, 
 To see if the bunting held fast. 
 
134 EARTHWARD. 
 
 But eve curls it lower, 
 To my wonder and grief; 
 Now I well-nigh forget 
 How the King's sign was set, 
 That has earthward dropt down as a leaf. 
 
THE GOLD-WOEKER. 
 
 See — yonder he sits 
 The worker in gold and metals, 
 Welding the rough-edged bits 
 Into smooth and delicate petals ; 
 
 Calling aloud for pearl, 
 Red ruby or blue sapphire, 
 That the calyx soon may curl 
 At his will in the rapturous fire. 
 
 See — yonder he beats, 
 And hammers, and slowly fashions 
 The ore which the furnace treats 
 As it might our human passions. 
 
136 THE GOLD-WORKER. 
 
 Our Creator saith : ' I will make 
 A form in likeness of mine, 
 And bid Life's hot flame take 
 The work to purge and refine.' 
 
 So, unless the bauble break, 
 It becometh a thing divine. 
 
WIND AND FOAM. 
 
 wind from the west, 
 spray from the sea, 
 Bring ye never the guest 
 Of my thoughts to me ? 
 Come, build me a face 
 With blue eyes and tears, 
 And the sweet childish grace 
 Of ebb'd-away years ! 
 
 wild west wind ! 
 O salt sea spray ! 
 Ere she left us behind 
 On that desolate day, 
 
138 WIND AND FOAM. 
 
 At my bosom she sobbed, 
 While I clasped her and wept ; 
 And her heart — how it throbbed ! 
 As yet closer she crept. 
 
 wind and white foam, 
 Bring her near, bring her here ! 
 Let her ride to me home — 
 My darling, my dear ! 
 On the wild horses' back, 
 Down the trough of the sea, 
 O'er the storm and the wrack, 
 Come, thou lost one, to me ! 
 
SICILIAN SONG. 
 
 herdsman, take thy reedy pipe, 
 For beauteous Daphne comes anear .- 
 Behold her starry eyes so clear, 
 
 Her cherry lips so red and ripe ! 
 
 Good herdsman, take thy pipe and play. 
 
 I '11 sit me by yon limpid stream ; 
 
 Perchance in pause of some fair dream 
 My Daphne 11 greet me on her way. 
 
 Kind herdsman, music make for me ! 
 For when I see that darling maid 
 In all her loveliness arrayed, 
 
 1 'm mute as any stone can be. 
 
TWO MESSENGEES. 
 
 Love and Death, God's messengers, armed beside 
 Him stand. 
 
 * 
 
 Love, with eyes divinely bright, close at His right 
 hand; 
 
 Death, in pallid garments wrapt, waiting His com- 
 mand. 
 
 Thence they travel, fast and far, north, south, east 
 
 and west. 
 Can we tell whose stroke of lance wounds each human 
 
 breast ? 
 Love may bring the more of pain, Death a sweeter 
 
 rest. 
 
WEST OF THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 .... When I go 
 Beyond those heights of dusk'd illimitable snow 
 Which we call Death, say, dearest, shall my spirit 
 
 know 
 If you sit sad-faced in the vale, the red sun set ? 
 For you the world in gloom — for me in radiance ? Yet, 
 Ah yet, I '11 yearn for you ! Can I forget ? forget ? 
 
SONNETS. 
 
SONNET OR SONG. 
 
 The sonnet treads its way with stately air, 
 As yon princess glides slowly down the hall, 
 Speeding a smile to some, a bend to all 
 That make their deep obeissance then and 
 
 there. 
 Or like 'tis to a young monk, wrapt in prayer. 
 Who, downcast-eyed, cares not what may befall, 
 But saintly moves amid the lilies tall, 
 Deeming his well-thumbed missal page more 
 
 fair. 
 
 Then, if you 'd further ask, I 'd say : a sonnet 
 Speaks pedant mode ; 'tis no light lyric sung 
 
146 SONNET OR SONG. 
 
 To lute, no idle folly, prankt in bonnet 
 
 That, proverb-wise, o'er windmills may be flung. 
 
 The student pens grave verse; he's learned to 
 
 con it. 
 A madrigal trips best on lover's tongue. 
 
TO MINE OWN SOUL. 
 
 Speak to me, my soul ! There is so much 
 I fain would know of thee. Whence earnest 
 
 thou, 
 That, like a spirit, walk'st with veiled brow, 
 Through din of life beside me ? At thy touch 
 Base things flee exorcised — thou hast for such 
 A Michael's sword, though heaven did thee 
 
 endow 
 With sorrow's lore and piteous griefs enow. 
 Lift then my heart ; be thou my body's crutch. 
 
 Dear soul, thorn-pricked by earth ! I 've seen 
 
 thee turn 
 From my backsliding paths with discontent. 
 
148 TO MINE OWN SOUL. 
 
 Strange, if for realms immortal thou wert trained, 
 That, tarrying here, thou dost not restless yearn — 
 Fretting the wings by human hands detained — 
 To speed where, so reluctant, I am bent. 
 
THE PASSING HOUR. 
 
 Life 's but a shifting of goodbyes. ' Farewell,' 
 The children lisp to infant joys and plays ; 
 Next, adolescence strains to grasp the bays 
 Crowning strong manhood's race, and soon a knell 
 Is by our own hand rung all ears to tell : 
 ' Youth goes, is gone.' Alas, for present days ! 
 See, while we mourn the past, no present stays ; 
 Time's pace grows quicker though our steps 
 rebel. 
 
 Strange beings we. If vainly stretched our arms 
 When we would garner there some heedless 
 heart, 
 
ISO THE PASSING HOUR. 
 
 Or when before us fades a dear one's breath 
 Whose certain doom outshadows all alarms — 
 Yea — when grey Sorrow in Love's home takes 
 
 part — 
 Love cries ' adieu ' to Life and prays for Death. 
 
WRITTEN ON MY BIRTH-DAY. 
 
 When is my Death-day, solemn dreaded hour, 
 That gives no yearly witness I must die, 
 And, rent in fiercest fight, shall swooning lie 
 While Nature, pitiless, claims back her dower ? 
 Each of us, on Life's tree, is but a flower 
 Whose wind-blown petals lean to earth or sky 
 As we toward mean or lofty conquest try — 
 Though some are plucked in bud for angels' 
 bower. 
 
 If I but guessed, no longer at mine ease 
 I 'd spend such day in idleness or mirth ; 
 Nay, rather keep long vigil on my knees, 
 
1 5 2 WRITTEN ON MY BIR TH-DA Y 
 
 Trusting that some new star, some dawning birth, 
 From out His inmost shrouded heaven the Lord 
 
 might please 
 To show my fainting soul, for sake of Death's true 
 
 worth. 
 
OF REMEMBRANCE. 
 
 Methinks that you 11 remember, when I die, 
 Not some brave action, nor yet stately speech — 
 Though sheltered lives to these may sometimes 
 
 reach — 
 But just a turn of lip, a glance of eye, 
 A trivial jest, a laughing word, a sigh, 
 A trick too strong to cure, too slight to teach, 
 Scarce noticed, haply mocked by all and each — 
 Now a full source of tears you 'd fain defy. 
 
 Ah, do not weep ! The traveller, having come 
 From mountain heights, cares naught for drifted 
 snow, 
 
154 OF REMEMBRANCE. 
 
 Nor rock, nor branch, as record of the day : 
 But plucks a gentian blue and bears it home, 
 Safe in his bosom — I would have you so 
 Keep one sweet speck of love at heart alway. 
 
LOVE'S DIAPASON. 
 
 An octave is the tonic come again. 
 
 Thus with the gamut of affection is 't. 
 
 In gay or minor key, what clef we list, 
 
 Love, that first-uttered note, Love ends our 
 
 strain — 
 A common scale, too oft intoned in vain, 
 Yet through the whole world breathed; and, 
 
 if quite miss'd 
 By any heart that 's lone, unloved, unkiss'd, 
 May dusk of peace bring bandage for her 
 
 pain ! 
 
 Yea, some dwell voiceless ; some are surely born 
 With poet-soul, though no hand try the strings, 
 
156 LOVE'S DIAPASON. 
 
 And thus the dreaming melody 's ne'er heard. 
 Yet, all the while, Love's concords lie forlorn, 
 In dungeon-chain, spirits of song whose wings 
 Should bear abroad his name : Life's fairest word. 
 
LOVE SAYING. 
 
 Dear, when you come, my heart, o'erdone with 
 
 ice, 
 Is like a stream that hears the voice of Spring 
 Among the mountains. With glad murmuring 
 It breaks chill ways, leaps high, unlocks each 
 
 vice 
 Through secret tools of joy, and in a trice 
 Bids every pebbled path or runnel sing ; 
 Then calls the fauns and dryads so they bring 
 Young leaves to twine the trees with green device. 
 
 Next, swift adown the hill my fond heart flows, 
 And drops unto the broad and kingly lake 
 
158 LOVE SAYING. 
 
 That waits — as you might — calmly. By and by, 
 When overhead yon pallid twilight grows, 
 The silver stars their watery compeers wake, 
 And this, methinks, means blessing from on high. 
 
ON THE CARDS. 
 
 A house of cards I once for pastime made. 
 
 Each wall against some neighbour tipped or 
 
 leaned ; 
 The inmost bower of chief delight was screened, 
 And on a velvet floor most deftly laid. 
 Yet, sudden, with a touch the fabric swayed ; 
 My princely dwelling tottered low, demeaned ; 
 So kings fell prone, and mighty dames, who'd 
 
 queened 
 It o'er the court subservient, dropt to shade. 
 
 I mused of woman's life ; methought each suit 
 Found place ; gay robes and Diamonds bright she 
 had 
 
160 ON THE CARDS. 
 
 A wealthy spouse — what if he were a brute ? 
 And praise from Pall Mall Clubs to make her glad. 
 Came by the Knave of Hearts ; her soul grew sad. 
 Last, Death drew near, with Spade and mourners 
 mute. 
 
FOLK-SONGS. 
 
 Our lives are tunes by untaught voices sung 
 In widest range. Some breathe but few bars' 
 
 And thenceforth silence ; some a minor piece. 
 
 From pallid lips are grievous dirges wrung ; 
 
 By valiant knights loud trumpet-blasts are 
 
 flung; 
 While gay hearts trip to dancing jigs at ease. 
 Strange hands oft add what harmonies they 
 
 please, 
 Roaming the wide world's ivory keys among. 
 
 Yon cantus haply with full chords is set ; 
 Through this the florid counterpoint flits fast. 
 
1 62 FOLK-SONGS. 
 
 And here, 'mid changeful notes that throb and 
 
 fret, 
 One deep-toned chime of pain's recurrent cast. 
 If grief's our figured bass, let none regret — 
 God's Perfect Cadence closes Life at last. 
 
EVENING AFTEE EAIN 
 
 (A PICTURE BY GEORGE BOTJGHTON, R.A.) 
 
 The storm is past — soft twilight brings repose. 
 Blue 's in the sky, yet here and there o'er-run 
 With clouds flushed by an unseen setting sun, 
 While lamplight from the cottage window glows. 
 They stand there by the gate — fond school- 
 fellows — 
 Two slender girls, whose grudging farewell done 
 Still lingers in their looks ; black-robed, the one 
 Must stay, the other flower-laden goes. 
 
 What is that sad heart's narrow fate ? Her friend, 
 Leaving the dusky homestead, its grey road 
 
164 EVENING AFTER RAIN. 
 
 Bain-sodden, the lone cliff, the sombre yews, 
 To a more garish lot will gladly wend, 
 Life's joy her meed, rose-wreaths her only load ; 
 For few there be who twilight shadows choose. 
 
B.C. 500. 
 
 Old Age, avaunt ! for I will none of thee. 
 Better far Death, so my staunch feet may go 
 Firm on their way to realms of Dis below, 
 Than with eld palsied and reluctant be. 
 Bring robes purpureal; bind my brown locks; 
 
 see 
 How sweet the sacrificial roses blow ! 
 Youth 's swift aweary of this world, to grow 
 Love-sick of Hades and Futurity. 
 
 Who comes? Who sings? Nay, silence, girl, 
 
 away! 
 For if Eurydice her Orpheus lured 
 
1 66 B.C. 500. 
 
 Beyond the tombs, at thy fond pleading I 
 In this glad world must fain elect to stay. 
 Thy shackling beauty — like to cords assured — 
 Back to thy white arms draws me : I '11 not die ! 
 
LUCINDA'S LETTERS. 
 
I saw the postman speed along the street, 
 And wished him Hermes' wings in lieu of feet : 
 ' Haste, laggard, haste, why cam'st thou not before ? 
 Then ran downstairs to rifle what, at door, 
 The letter-box might give. But, when I took 
 A pale blue crinkling thing in hand, my look 
 Bent jealous on it, quick me thought: 'How much, 
 cruel carrier, has thy vulgar touch 
 Profaned the love-lined letter sped to me 
 By yon dear hand across the silver sea ! ' 
 
170 LUCINDA'S LETTERS. 
 
 II. 
 
 My bullfinch caught the trick from some brave 
 nightingale 
 
 To pipe a woodland tune — so he, 
 "When twilight bids the sun and shade alike grow pale, 
 
 Makes tender melody. 
 
 Ah ! soon we learn that in the garish hours of day 
 Our clearest songs are poorly heard ; 
 
 A wise man stills at noon, when chatterers have their 
 say, 
 And hoards till eve his word. 
 
 What means such evening ? Calm and sacred solitude, 
 
 Wherein the poet loves to find 
 Blue violet-blooms of thought to wreathe his vagrant 
 mood, 
 
 Or, best — a kindred mind. 
 
LUCINDA'S LETTERS. 171 
 
 Then haste you, come, dear heart, for I wait praying 
 here, 
 
 I, your soul's twilight, fraught with rest ; 
 Songless, o'er-dark, until your voice fall on mine ear ; 
 
 Then by sweet music blest. 
 
172 LUCINDA'S LETTERS. 
 
 III. 
 
 I send you, dear, for your birthday, 
 A bunch of this love of mine ; 
 
 The roots are dusty with touch of earth, 
 Yet the blossom, methinks, is divine. 
 
 So take the flowers and wear them, 
 Treasure them close in your breast ; 
 
 They had not sprung but for earthly soil ; 
 They bloomed by God's own light blest. 
 
LUCINDA'S LETTERS. 173 
 
 IV. 
 
 You hold my heart within your hand ; 
 Tis a frightened thing, a bird 
 That quick, at look or word, 
 
 May soar away from an unsafe strand. 
 
 Then keep my heart within your heart ; 
 
 'Twere sheltered there, would sing, 
 
 Nor seek (I vow) to wing 
 Its flight to an alien land apart. 
 
174 LUCINDA'S LETTERS 
 
 V. 
 
 You 're not here ! 
 I sit me sadly by the hearth ; 
 I wander slowly round the garth — 
 
 Where 's my dear ? 
 
 Empty March ! 
 Within the flower-beds brown mould only, 
 And one grey dove is swinging lonely 
 
 On the larch. 
 
LUCINDA'S LETTERS. 175 
 
 VI. 
 
 Oft we wander, in my dreams, 
 Through the woods and by the streams ; 
 Earth is bare and rills run dry 
 For our dull reality. 
 
 Ne'er by Fancy willed apart, 
 Hand in hand, we 're heart to heart. 
 Fact compels you far away 
 In this world of everyday. 
 
 Only crafty Eros can 
 Mighty plains and mountains span 
 From his wing he pulls a feather — 
 By such quill we 're bound together. 
 
176 LUCINDA'S LETTERS. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Tell me, dear, just this one thing : 
 
 When your roaming thoughts take wing, 
 
 Float they, as gay butterflies 
 
 That 'twixt roses dip and rise ? 
 
 Or, like sweet doves at a spring, 
 
 Drink they deep and tender- wise 
 
 Of that love our poets sing ? 
 
 Or — an eagle — from the skies 
 
 Gleans your spirit, as it flies, 
 
 Mighty cloud- wrought phantasies ? 
 
LUC IN DA'S LETTERS. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 I have grown wise 
 In the space of a year ; 
 Grief's in mine eyes, 
 But I shed no tear. 
 
 Tears cannot make 
 A raft or a boat, 
 Nor even a lake 
 Whereon thou shalt float. 
 
 When art thou coming 
 To bid me be glad ? 
 Swallows are homing — 
 My lad, my lad ! 
 
 M 
 
178 LUCINDA'S LETTERS. 
 
 Fate may have tied 
 Weak foot or hand ; 
 Yet to thought 'a denied 
 No pass of the land : 
 
 Page-like and dumbly, 
 Disguised but at rest, 
 My heart follows humbly 
 The heart she loves best. 
 
LUCINDAS LETTERS. 179 
 
 IX. 
 
 Ah ! if I might be 
 All I would to thee, 
 That were Heaven to me. 
 
 But, as my poor worth 
 In thy mind seems dearth, 
 This to me is Earth. 
 
i8d LUCINDA'S LETTERS. 
 
 X. 
 
 I would I were a book, 
 To lean against thy knee ; 
 Thy thought should turn to me, 
 And with thy thought thy look. 
 
 And, with thy look, thy heart 
 That down each line might read 
 What 's writ there clear indeed : 
 Love's gladness and Love's smart. 
 
 Nay, fain I 'd be the pen 
 That shapes for thee my name ; 
 Oft to this darling dame 
 We 'd speed fond missive then ! 
 
LUCINDA'S LETTERS. 181 
 
 ' My love ' — so shouldst thou spell ; 
 Nor pause o'erlong to think, 
 But dip me quick in ink, 
 And add : ' I love thee well ! ' 
 
 M 2 
 
1 82 LUC IN DAS LETTERS. 
 
 XL 
 
 Once, a captive queen was lifted 
 By a cloud of flying birds ; 
 
 So my willing heart is drifted 
 On these swift-wing'd words. 
 
 She — the exile — home was carried, 
 From all pain and sorrow freed ; 
 
 I — alas ! my body J s tarried : 
 You 've my heart indeed. 
 
LUCINDAS LETTERS. 183 
 
 XII. 
 
 All yester-eve I read Theocritus, 
 
 So dreamed we sat close hand-locked, you 
 
 and I, 
 Beneath a sapphire-blue Sicilian sky, 
 The peaceful kine-crowned hills surrounding 
 
 us. 
 
 You Daphnis ; I a wood-nymph, Na'is named, 
 And, as we sat — wreathed white anemone 
 Bound in our hair — and gazed out toward the 
 
 sea, 
 Joy, with her gilding touch, the picture 
 
 framed. 
 
!4 LUCINDA'S LETTERS. 
 
 And yet, meseems, 'mid London smoke -grimed 
 
 walls 
 For ilex groves, for beauty ugliness, 
 Love's shepherd-pipe carries no sweetness less, 
 But through our murky streets still leads and calls. 
 
LUCINDA'S LETTERS. 185 
 
 XIII. 
 
 I have a calendar ; 
 A pile of card pinned up against the wall. 
 I turn the leaves ; the harvest time grows nigh ; 
 And yet this frozen year, in wintry sky, 
 
 Is still a clouded star, 
 Hid by dark Janivere's funereal pall. 
 I count my lonely days — the past 's out-torn — 
 Succeeding months are pictured ; daffodils 
 
 For March, for April gleaming rills, 
 And May has apple-bloom and rosy thorn ; 
 But June — ah, sweet warm love-fraught June ! 
 Come soon ! 
 Thy ' leit-motiv ' the throstle's tune ! 
 
186 LUCINDA'S LETTERS. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 I heard a song to-day, 
 
 And the lilt was sweet. 
 It dropt from a window open and high ; 
 
 No singer could I there espy, 
 But the tune winged out to the open street, 
 
 And cheered me on my way. 
 
 I also fain had sung, 
 But my heart J s o'er-sad. 
 In tears my music seemed to close — 
 So dew-drops quench a perfumed rose — 
 And the joy evoking that love-lilt glad 
 Uttered an unknown tongue. 
 
LUCINDA'S LETTERS. 187 
 
 XV. 
 
 0, but I 'm happy ! Let none say me nay. 
 I con the book you gave me ere you went ; 
 I clasp the letter you so lately sent — 
 I 'm busied all the day. 
 
 What if sometimes the book shuts on my knee, 
 Marked by a kiss ? What if the letter 's stained 
 By tears that o'er its tenderest words have rained ? 
 I 'm happy — come and see ! 
 
Printed by T. and A. Constable, Printers to Her Majesty 
 at the Edinburgh University Press