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 Cornell University Library 
 
 PR6011.L46 1921 
 
 The collected poems of James EIroy Fleck 
 
 3 1924 013 611 953 
 
WIS 
 
 Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tiiis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013611953 
 
THE death of Mr. Flecker in 
 1915, at the age of thirty, and 
 with his real work hardly 
 begun (although he had been 
 writing for fifteen years), left a 
 sense of loss with lovers of poetry 
 comparable to that felt for Rupert 
 Brooke. The Athenceum said: "It 
 has been the fate, and perhaps the 
 happy fate, of many English poets 
 to die young. . . Great as was the 
 promise of Middleton and Brooke, 
 it is the death of Flecker that is 
 perhaps our most grievous loss." 
 Hir collected poems have been 
 out of print in the United States 
 for some time. 
 
 BORZOI 
 
 BOOKS 
 
 PUBLISHER, N. Y. 
 
The Collected Poems of 
 James Elroy Flecker 
 
I a/vM*/j vbv^y-i^ A \e^tA<Jt>w 
 
The Collected Poems of 
 
 James Elroy Flecker 
 
 Edited, with an Introduction, 
 by J. C. Squire 
 
 New York ^^^^^^ Mcmxxi 
 
 Alfred • A • Knopf 
 
\ J r-. '. 
 
 4 %0^~6l 
 
 7 
 
 The frontispiece to this volume is from a 
 
 photograph of the Author taken 
 
 at Beyrout in 1912 
 
Contents 
 
 Introduction, ix 
 Editorial Note, xxxi 
 
 JUVENILIA 
 
 Four Translations and Adaptations from CatuUus, 3 
 
 Sirmio, 8 
 
 Lucretia, 9 
 
 Song in the Night, 14 
 
 Glion — Noon, 15 
 
 Glion — Evening, 16 
 
 Last Love, 17 
 
 Fragments of an Ode to Shelley, 18 
 
 LATER POEMS 
 
 A New Year's Carol, 27 
 
 From Grenoble, 29 
 
 Narcissus, 30 
 
 Inscription for Arthur Rackham's " Rip Van Winkle, " 
 
 Envoy, 33 
 
 Riouperoux, 34 
 
 Mignon, 35 
 
 Tenebris Interlucentem, 36 
 
 The First Sonnet of Bathrolaire, 37 
 
The Second Sonnet of Bathrolaire, 38 
 
 The Ballad of Hampstead Heath, 39 
 
 Litany to Satan, 42 
 
 The Translator and the Children, 45 
 
 Destroyer of Ships, Men, Cities, 46 
 
 Oxford Canal, 48 
 
 Hialmar Speaks to the Raven, 50 
 
 The Ballad of the Student in the South, 52 
 
 The Queen's Song, 54 
 
 On Turner's Polyphemus, 56 
 
 The Bridge of Fire, 57 
 
 We That Were Friends, 62 
 
 My Friend, 63 
 
 Ideal, 65 
 
 Mary Magdalen, 67 
 
 I Rose from Dreamless Hours, 69 
 
 Prayer, 70 
 
 The Piper, 71 
 
 The Masque of the Magi, 72 
 
 To a Poet a Thousand Years Hence, 75 
 
 Heliodora, 77 
 
 Love, the Baby, 78 
 
 BaDad of the Londoner, 79 
 
 Resurrection, 80 
 
 Duke Lumen, Triste Numen, Suave Lumen Luminumi, 
 
 81 
 Joseph and Mary, 83 
 The Lover of Jalalu'ddin, 87 
 Donde Estan ? 88 
 The Town without a Market, 91 
 A Western Voyage, 94 
 Invitation, 96 
 War Song of the Saracens, 98 
 
The Ballad of Camden Town, lOO 
 
 Gravis Dulcis Immutabilis, 102 
 
 Fountains, 103 
 
 Dirge, 104 
 
 The Parrot, 106 
 
 Lord Arnaldos, 108 
 
 A Miracle of Bethlehem, no 
 
 Felo-de-se, 119 
 
 The Welsh Sea, 121 
 
 In Memoriam, 122 
 
 Opportunity, 123 
 
 No Coward's Song, 125 
 
 Pillage, 126 
 
 The Ballad of Zacho, 128 
 
 Pavlova in London, 130 
 
 The Sentimentalist, 133 
 
 Don Juan in Hell, 135 
 
 The Ballad of Iskander, 137 
 
 The Golden Journey to Samarkand, 144 
 
 Gates of Damascus, 151 
 
 Yasmin, 158 
 
 Saadabad, 160 
 
 The Hammam Name, 163 
 
 In Phaeacia, 166 
 
 Epithalamion, 168 
 
 Hyali, 170 
 
 Santorin, 173 
 
 A Ship, an Isle, a Sickle Moon, 175 
 
 Oak and Olive, 176 
 
 Brumana, 179 
 
 Areiya, 182 
 
 Bryan of Brittany, 183 
 
 Don Juan Declaims, 189 
 
 vii 
 
The Painter's Mistress, 192 
 
 In Hospital, 194 
 
 Taoping, 196 
 
 Virgil's ^neid : Book VI, 198 
 
 The Dying Patriot, 210 
 
 A Sacred Dialogue, 212 
 
 The Old Ships, 216 
 
 The Blue Noon, 218 
 
 A Fragment, 219 
 
 Narcissus, 221 
 
 Stillness, 223 
 
 The Pensive Prisoner, 224 
 
 Hexameters, 225 
 
 Philomel, 726 
 
 From Jean Mor^as' " Stances," 228 
 
 The Princess, 229 
 
 Pannyra of the Golden Heel, 231 
 
 The Gate of the Armies, 232 
 
 November Eves, 233 
 
 God Save the King, 234 
 
 The Burial in England, 236 
 
 The True Paradise, 240 
 
 Ode to the Glory of Greece, 242 
 
 The Old Warship Ablaze, 247 
 
Introduction 
 
 James Elroy Flecker was born in London (Lewisham) 
 on November 5, 1884. He was the eldest of the four 
 children of the Rev. W. H. Flecker, D.D., now Head 
 Master of Dean Close School, Cheltenham. After some 
 years at his father's school he went in 1901 to Uppingham, 
 proceeding to Trinity College, Oxford, in 1902. He stayed 
 at Oxford until 1907 and then came to London, teaching 
 for a short time in Mr. Simmons' school at Hampstead. 
 In 1908 he decided to enter the Consular Service, and 
 went up to Cambridge (Caius College) for the tuition in 
 Oriental languages available there. He was sent ta 
 Constantinople in June 1910, was first taken ill there in 
 August, and in September returned to England and went 
 to a sanatorium in the Cotswolds. He returned to his 
 post, apparently in perfect health, in March 191 1; was 
 transferred to Smyrna in April ; and in May went on leave 
 to Athens, where he married Miss HeUe Skiadaressi, a 
 Greek lady whom he had met in the preceding year. He 
 spent three months' holiday in Corfu, and was sent to- 
 Beyrout, Syria, in September 1911. In December 1912 
 he took a month's leave in England and Paris, returning 
 to Beyrout in January 1913. In March he again fell 
 iU, and after a few weeks on the Lebanon (Brumana) he 
 
went to Switzerland, where, acting on his doctors' advice, 
 he remained for the last eighteen months of his life. He 
 stayed successively at Leysin, Montreux, Montana, Locarno, 
 and (May 1914) Davos, where on January 3, 191 5, he died. 
 He is buried in Cheltenham at the foot of the Cotswold 
 Hills. 
 
 His pubHshed books include : 
 
 Verse : " The Bridge of Fire " (Elkin Matthews, 1907), 
 "Forty-two Poems" (Dent, 1911), "The Golden Journey 
 to Samarkand" (Goschen, 191 3, now published by Martin 
 Seeker), and " The Old Ships " (Poetry Bookshop, 1915). 
 
 Prose : " The Last Generation (New Age Press, 1908), 
 "The Grecians" (Dent, 1910), "The Scholar's Italian 
 Grammar " (D. Nutt, 191 1), and " The King of Alsander " 
 (Goschen, 1914, now published by Allen and Unwin). 
 He left also two unpublished dramas, " Hassan " and 
 " Don Juan," and a number of published and unpublished 
 short stories, articles, and poems. Of the last all the 
 most important will be found in the present volume. 
 
 n 
 
 That is the bare outline of Flecker's life and work. 
 The present Introduction does not pretend to supply a 
 " personal memoir," for which materials have not been 
 collected; and the work of estimating Flecker's art and 
 " placing " him in relation to his contemporaries may be 
 left to others. But one may usefully give a few more 
 biographical details and a short analysis of the poet's 
 artistic attitude and methods of work. 
 
In person Flecker was tall, with blue eyes, black, straight 
 hair, and dark complexion. There was a tinge of the 
 East in his appearance, and his habitual expression was 
 a curious blend of the sardonic and the gentle. Until 
 illness incapacitated him he was physically quite active, 
 but his principal amusement was conversation, of which 
 he never tired. He felt acutely the loss of good talk during 
 his years abroad, in Syria especially. He was sociable, 
 and enjoyed meeting and talking with crowds of people ; 
 but he had few intimate friends at Oxford, and, after he 
 left England, little opportunity of making any. One of 
 the few, Mr. Frank Savery, now of the British Legation, 
 Berne, sends the following notes : 
 
 " My acquaintance with him began in January 1901, when 
 he was a lanky, precocious boy of sixteen, and lasted, 
 with long interruptions, until his death. His fate took 
 him to the Near East, mine took me to Germany : for 
 this reason we never met from 1908 to 1914, though we 
 never ceased to correspond. Largely because our inter- 
 course was thus broken, I believe that I am better able 
 to appreciate the changes which his character underwent 
 in the latter years of his life than those who never lost 
 sight of him for more than a few months at a time. 
 
 " It was at Oxford that I first came to know him inti- 
 mately. He was extraordinarily undeveloped, even for 
 an English Public School boy, when he first went up in 
 1902. He already wrote verses — with an appalling facility 
 that for several years made me doubt his talent. He 
 imitated with enthusiasm and without discrimination, and, 
 the taste in those long-gone days being for Oscar WUde's 
 early verse and Swinburne's complacent swing, he turned 
 
out a good deal of decadent stuff, that was, I am convinced, 
 not much better than the rubbish written by the rest 
 of his generation at Oxford. What interested me in 
 Flecker in those days was the strange contrast between the 
 man — or rather the boy — and his work. Cultured Oxford 
 in general, I should add, was not very productive at that 
 time : a sonnet a month was about the maximum output 
 of the lights of Balliol. The general style of literature in 
 favour at the time did not lend itself to a generous out- 
 pouring. Hence there was a certain piquancy in the 
 exuberant flow of passionate verse which issued from 
 Flecker's ever-ready pen in spite of his entire innocence 
 of any experience whatever. 
 
 " Furthermore, he was a wit — a great wit, I used to think, 
 but no humorist — and, like most wits, he was combative. 
 He talked best when some one baited him. At last it got 
 to be quite the fashion in Oxford to ask Flecker to luncheon- 
 and dinner-parties— simply in order to talk. The sport 
 he afforded was usually excellent. . . . Looking back on 
 it now, I believe I was right in thinking that in those days 
 he had no humour (there is very little humour in Oxford) ; 
 nor am I so entirely sure that his wit was bad. I had, at 
 any rate, a growing feeling that, in spite of his immaturity 
 and occasional bad taste, he was the most important of 
 any of us : his immense productiveness was, I vaguely but 
 rightly felt, better and more valuable than our finicky and 
 sterile good taste. 
 
 " By 1906 he had developed greatly — largely thanks to 
 the companionship of an Oxford friend whom, in spite 
 of long absence and occasional estrangements, he loved 
 deeply till the end of his life. Even his decadent poems 
 had improved : poor as are most of the poems in ' The 
 Bridge of Fire,' they are almost all above the level of 
 
Oxford poetry, and there are occasional verses which 
 forecast some of his mature work. Thus I still think that 
 the title-poem itself is a rather remarkable achievement 
 for a young man and not without a certain largeness of 
 vision. The mention of this poem reminds me of an 
 episode which well illustrates the light-heartedness which 
 at that time distinguished the self-styled ' lean and swarthy 
 poet of despair.' I was sitting with him and another 
 friend in his rooms one day — early in 1906, I think — when 
 he announced that he was going to publish a volume of 
 poems. ' What shall I call it ? ' he asked. We had 
 made many suggestions, mostly pointless, and almost all, 
 I have no doubt, indecent, when Flecker suddenly 
 exclaimed : ' I'U caU it " The Bridge of Fire," and I'll 
 write a poem with that name and put it in the middle 
 of the book instead of the beginning. That'll be original 
 and symbolic too.' We then debated the not unimportant 
 question of what ' The Bridge of Fire ' would be about. 
 At midnight we parted, the question stUl unsettled. 
 Flecker, however, remarked cheerfully that it did not 
 much matter — it was a jolly good title and he'd easily be 
 able to think of a poem to suit it. 
 
 " Flecker always cherished a great love for Oxford : he 
 had loved it as an undergraduate, and afterwards not 
 even the magic of the Greek seas, deeply as he felt it, 
 ever made him forget his first university town. But on 
 the whole I think that Cambridge, where he went to study 
 Oriental languages in preparation for his consular career, 
 did more for him. I only visited him once there — in 
 November 1908, I think — but I had the distinct impression 
 that he was more independent than he had been at Oxford. 
 He was writing the first long version — that is to say, the 
 third actual draft — of the ' King of Alsander.' Inci- 
 
 xiu 
 
dentally he had spoilt the tale, for the time being, by intro- 
 ducing a preposterous sentimental conclusion, a departure 
 to unknown lands, if I remember rightly, with the peasant- 
 maid, who had not yet been deposed, as she was later on, 
 from her original position of heroine. 
 
 " And now follow the years in which my knowledge of 
 Flecker is drawn only from a desultory correspondence. 
 I should like to quote from some of the letters he wrote 
 me, but, alas, they are in Munich with all my books and 
 papers. He wrote to me at length whenever he had a big 
 literary work on hand ; otherwise an occasional post card 
 sufficed, for he was a man who never put either news or 
 gossip into his letters. I knew of his marriage ; I knew 
 that his literary judgment, as expressed in his letters and 
 exemplified in his writings, had improved suddenly and 
 phenomenally. That was all. 
 
 "At last his health finally collapsed and he came to 
 Switzerland. It was at Locarno, in May 1914, that I saw 
 him again. He was very ill, coughed continually, and 
 did not, I think, ever go out during the whole fortnight 
 I spent with him. He had matured even more than I 
 had expected. . . . 
 
 " He was very cheerful that spring at Locarno — cheerful, 
 not extravagantly optimistic, as is the way of consump- 
 tives. I think he hardly ever mentioned his illness to me, 
 and there was certainly at that time nothing querulous 
 about him. His judgment was very sound, not only on 
 bocks but also on men. He confessed that he had not 
 greatly liked the East — always excepting, of course, Greece 
 — and that his intercourse with Mohammedans had led 
 him to find more good in Christianity than he had previously 
 suspected. I gathered that he had hked his work as 
 Consul, and he once said to me that he was very proud 
 
of having been a good businesslike official, thereby dis- 
 posing, in his case at any rate, the time-honoured concep- 
 tion of the poet as an unpractical dreamer. He was 
 certainly no mere dreamer at any period of his life ; he 
 appreciated beauty with extraordinary keenness, but, like 
 a true poet, he was never contented with mere apprecia- 
 tion. He was determined to make his vision as clear to 
 others as it was to himself. 
 
 " I saw Flecker once more, in December 1914. He was 
 already visibly dying, and at times growing weakness 
 numbed his faculties. But he was determined to do two 
 things — to complete his poem, * The Burial in England,' 
 and to put his business affairs into the hands of a com- 
 petent literary agent. The letters and memoranda on 
 the latter subject which he dictated to me were admirably 
 lucid, and I remember that, when I came to read them 
 through afterwards, I found there was hardly a word 
 which needed changing. 
 
 "One evening he went through the 'Burial' line byline 
 with Mrs. Flecker and myself. He had always relied 
 greatly on his wife's taste, and I may state with absolute 
 certainty that the only two persons who ever really influenced 
 him in literary matters were the Oxford friend I have already 
 mentioned and the lady whose devotion prolonged his 
 life, and whose acute feeling for literature helped to a 
 great extent to confirm him in his lofty ideals of artistic 
 perfection. 
 
 "Although he never really finished the longer version 
 of the 'Burial' which he had projected, the alterations 
 and additions he made that evening — ' Toledo-wrought 
 neither to break nor bend ' was one of the latter — were 
 in the mam improvements and in no way suggested that 
 his end was so near. To me, of course, that poem must 
 
always remain intolerably sad, but, as I re-read it the 
 other day, I asked myself whether the casual reader would 
 feel any trace of the ' mattrass grave ' on which it was 
 written. Candidly I do not think that even the sharpest 
 of critics would have known, if he had not been told, 
 that half the lines were written within a month of the 
 author's death." 
 
 His letters, as is remarked above, were generally business- 
 like and blunt. I have found a few to myself : they are 
 almost all about his work, with here and there a short, 
 exclamatory eulogy of some other writer. He observes, in 
 December 1913, that a journal which had often published 
 him had given " The Golden Journey " " an insolent 
 ten-line review with a batch of nincompoops " ; then 
 alternately he is better and writing copiously, or very 
 ill and not capable of a word. In one letter he talks of 
 writing on Balkan Politics and Italy in Albania ; in another 
 of translating some war-poetry of Paul Deroul^de's. 
 Another time he is even thinking of " having a bang at 
 the Cambridge Local Examination . . . with a whack in 
 it at B. Shaw." Then in November 1914 he says : " I 
 have exhausted myself writing heroic great war-poems." 
 He might comprehensibly have been in low spirits, dying 
 there in a dismal and deserted " health resort " among 
 the Swiss mountains, with a continent of war-zones cutting 
 him off from all chance of seeing friends. But he always 
 wrote cheerfully, even when desperately ill. The French 
 recovery filled him vsdth enthusiasm ; he watched the 
 Near Eastern tangle with the peculiar interest of one who 
 'knew the peoples involved ; and in one delicate and 
 
 XVI 
 
JUVENILIA 
 
Four Translations and Adaptatiom 
 from Catullus 
 
 For whom this pretty pamphlet, polished new 
 
 With pumice-stone ? Cornelius, for you : 
 
 For you were never unprepared to deem 
 
 My simple verses worthy of esteem, 
 
 Though you yourself — who else in Rome so bold ? — 
 
 In volumes three have laboured to unfold 
 
 A " Universal History of Man " — 
 
 Dear Jove ! A learned and laborious plan ! 
 
 Wherefore to you, my friend, I dedicate 
 This so indifiFerent bookling ; yet I pray, 
 Poor as it is — goddess of my fate. 
 Let it outlive the writer's transient day ! 
 
 1900 (f) : cet. 16 
 
Ill 
 
 Cupids and loves, and men of gentler mien. 
 Mourn, for my lady's lovW one is dead, 
 Her darling sparrow that to her hath been 
 Dearer than her own eyes : even as a maid 
 Loveth her mother, so had he been bred 
 To know his mistress. He was honeysweet 
 Nor ever truant from her bosom strayed. 
 But there would twitter from his soft retreat. 
 And now — he's flitting down the Shadow Way, 
 Ah, never to return ! A curse on ye, 
 Black shades of death, that let no fair thing stay ; 
 How fair a sparrow have ye snatched from me ! 
 
 Poor birdie — all for thee the teardrops rise. 
 Till red with weeping are my Love's bright eyes. 
 
 1900 
 
 IV 
 
 Proud is Phaselus here, my friends, to tell 
 That once she was the swiftest craft afloat : 
 No vessel, were she winged with blade or sail, 
 Could ever pass my boat. 
 
Phaselus shunned to shun grim Adria's shore, 
 
 Or Cyclades, or Rhodes the wide renowned, 
 
 Or Bosphorus, where Thracian waters roar. 
 
 Or Pontus' eddying sound. 
 
 It was in Pontus once, unwrought, she stood. 
 
 And conversed, sighing, wth her sister trees, 
 
 Amastris bom, or where Cytorus' wood 
 
 Answers the mountain breeze. 
 
 Pontic Amastris, boxwood-clad Cytorus ! — 
 
 You, says Phaselus, are her closest kin : 
 
 Yours were the forests where she stood inglorious : 
 
 The waters yours wherein 
 
 She dipped her virgin blades ; and from your strand 
 
 She bore her master through the cringing straits. 
 
 Nought caring were the wind on either hand. 
 
 Or whether kindly fates 
 
 Filled both the straining sheets. Never a prayer 
 
 For her was offered to the gods of haven, 
 
 Till last she left the sea, hither to fare. 
 
 And to be lightly laven 
 
 By the cool ripple of the clear lagoon. 
 
 This too is past ; at length she is allowed 
 Long slumber through her life's long afternoon. 
 To Castor and the twin of Castor vowed. 
 
 1901 
 
When lounging idle mid forensic whirl, 
 
 Friend Varus took me off to see his girl. 
 
 rhe naughty wench, I very soon was shewn , 
 
 Had got some wit and beauty of her own. 
 
 Arriving, we began a busy chat 
 
 On politics, and weather, this and that — 
 
 Then on my province's internal state, 
 
 And " Had I found the profit adequate ? " 
 
 I answered truthfully, " There's nothing there 
 
 For common soldier or for officer 
 
 Wherewith to purchase grease for home-bound hair." 
 
 " You found at least " — said she — " one always can : 
 
 Some aboriginals for your sedan ? " 
 
 Said I in answer, posing for her eyes 
 
 In prosperous and fashionable guise, 
 
 " Oh, really, I was not so penniless 
 
 That any mere provincial distress 
 
 Should render me incompetent to get 
 
 Eight smartish bearers for the voiturette." 
 
 (In truth there was no slave in all the earth 
 
 Whom I could then have summoned to my hearth 
 
 To shoulder the debilitated leg 
 
 Of my old pallet.) " Then, dear friend, I beg " — 
 
 Cries she most aptly for so bad a minx — 
 
 " I want to pay a visit to the Sphinx — 
 
 You'D lend them me just to the temple door, 
 
 My sweet Catullus ? " 
 
" Oh, you may be sure " — 
 Said I — " I would — but what I mentioned now 
 As mine — I just forgot — what matter how f — 
 My messmate Cinna, Gaius Cinna, he 
 Has commandeered them. Really, as for me, 
 What difference if you call them his or mine f 
 I use them just whenever I incline. 
 But you'ie a silly pestilential jade 
 To want a chance remark so nicely weighed." 
 
 1901 
 
Sirmio 
 
 Little gem of all-but-islands and of islands, Sirmio, 
 Whether set in landlocked waters, or in Ocean's freer flow — 
 Oh the pleasant seeing of thee, bright as ever — there below — 
 Far behind me, to the Northward, lie the dreamy lands 
 
 of snow. 
 Oh the hour of mad rejoicing, oh the sweet good-bye to woe 
 As with quiet soul aweary of world-wandering to and fro 
 In we hurry through the doorway of our home of long 
 
 ago. . . . 
 Hail then, hail ! Thy master welcome, welcome him, 
 
 sweet Sirmio, 
 Leap for joy, ye tumbling waters, winking at the summer's 
 
 glow, 
 Gaily through the house resounding let the peals of laughter 
 
 go- 
 
 1901-04 
 
Lucretia 
 
 As one who in the cold abyss of night 
 Stares at a book whose grey print meaningless 
 Dances between the lamplight and his eyes, 
 Lucretius lay, soul-poisoned, conquering still 
 With towering travail Reason's Hellene heights. 
 Listen, Lucretia, to the voice of his pain : 
 
 Thrice welcome hour of Reason : ne'er of old 
 
 Knew I thy naked loveliness, till night. 
 
 The nether night of FoUy pinioned forth. 
 
 Shrouded my senses, taught me terribly 
 
 That thou alone, my light and life and love, 
 
 Wearest the high insignia of the stars. 
 
 Grant then thy worshipper, austerest Queen, 
 
 Refreshing dews — Now, now, I thirst with flame : 
 
 They flee the strainings of my fevered hps 
 
 Cruelly, and in dank distance a new noise 
 
 Of rushing wings I hear. Who thunders nigh ? 
 
 Devil delirium, chaos charioted. 
 
 Curb, curb, the coal-red chargers, heard not seen. 
 
 See, Madam Wife, that loveless lust of thine 
 
Leaves no sweet savour lingering, but a curse : 
 And 'stead of Love and Reason, palace tenant, 
 There flits a weak and tremulous loathsomeness ! 
 
 Suf pliant fled Lucreiia to the couch : 
 And all her glory trembled as she sang : 
 
 Awake, dead soul of dear Lucretius, 
 Awake, thy witless fond destroyer prays. 
 Awake, awake, and quit thy aimless journey 
 In old oblivion's purple-misted paths. 
 
 Dost thou remember, husband ? It was evening : 
 We wandered shorewards, mid the ocean of air 
 That glassed the gliding Nereids of the Pole. 
 Immeasurable moonlight kissed the brow 
 Of the white sea whose ripples swayed to greet 
 Our heart's unnumbered laughter. Strongest sleep 
 So held the life of earth that dimly we heard 
 Time's fatal pulse through the dark reverberated. 
 Then died thy soul : that night I, murderess, dreamt, 
 Ah, dolorous dreams of limb-dissolving love. 
 Lucretius, 
 
 Why live I srill, protracting hopeless pain ? 
 "Hie chiUness of the long Lethean stream 
 Is more to be commended for my sailings 
 Than love's hot eddies. 
 
 God, for the draught of death ! 
 What sourer, sweeter vintage could be pressed ? 
 
 10 
 
To slumber shall I lull me, where no sorrow 
 Can pierce the drifted overmantling haze : 
 No sorrow, no despair, nor any love ! 
 
 My soul is thine, husband, thy mad soul. 
 Madness, swift foretaste of oblivion 
 Shall wed us to delirious dim despair 
 Till bone claim bone beneath the cypress tree. 
 What pleasant dawn of madness ! Off I rend 
 This fair hypocrisy of raiment. Down — 
 There's fairer guile within — down, frippery ! 
 Veil me not from my love. Dear arms outstretched. 
 Am I not fair ? These quick white limbs of mine 
 Shall brand in thee their passionate symmetry. 
 Till as the bee within the lily trembles 
 Thyself, body and soul, shall move within me. 
 Has sculptured Venus thighs of richer vein ? 
 Spread thyself round about me ; let us wrench 
 Self unto self. Why life is lovely still ! 
 
 Fair wings of madness, drift us far away 
 To an unseen Empyrean, where no care 
 Can frost the magic mirror of our loves. 
 Thence we shall see the sorrowful world of men, 
 Old castles fired, old mountains overturned. 
 Old majesties conculcate in the dust. 
 With short sad smiles for every thing destroyed. 
 
 Why do red eyes draw nearer ? Husband, wake ! 
 The palace is fired and falling ! Not with love 
 Thy body's life, that throbs within me, burns 
 
 II 
 
Lucretius — those same eyes, grey Furies wear them. 
 They seethe in double dullness 'neath their ovra ! 
 
 Thus muttered she in dread : he glaring lay : 
 Passion had made him beast, and passion sated 
 Did leave him than the beasts more bestial. 
 Till fhantomed reason fled his turning brain 
 And with a cry he struck her from his breast. 
 Heavily, and her hair, like the finger of night. 
 Pencilled the marble as she fell, and cried : 
 
 Kill me not, devil : ofiF, blood-searching hands ; 
 
 Nay, strike me thus — and rend me thus, and thus : 
 
 I would not be the mother of mad children. 
 
 Burst forth, my blood, burst forth from wound and weal. 
 
 The body's pain is blister for the soul's. 
 
 Then, as her anguish slumbered for awhile . 
 
 CMi for a word of consolarion dear 
 Sadder than dirge from old Simonides, 
 Sweeter than echoes of the Linos song 
 Whispering through the drowsy sheaves of com 
 On summer evenings, when the harvesters 
 Homeward return, and children rush to greet 
 Their father, and to snatch the kisses first— 
 
 12 
 
But a nex torment rent her, and she rose ; 
 Her veins large-knotted, standing out in fire ; 
 She grasped his arm and shrieked to the solemn sun 
 That rolled in horror down the Western Sea : 
 
 There, red-eyed Fury — ^with. lash and terrible hiss, 
 
 With lash and terrible hiss of steaming snakes — 
 
 Blood from the breast-wound drips, and from my heart. 
 
 And from those eyes, and from the pillars — See 
 
 There, and the statues move. Take away the blank eyes ! 
 
 Oh wild, wild irony of Life and Lust, 
 Life is to death so near, and lust to loathing. 
 All is a jest, a shadow, and a lie. 
 A whirlwind-wondrous lie ! 
 
 Laugh, husband, laugh ! 
 Laughter is man's supreme prerogative : 
 The beasts are sane ; they laugh not. I will laugh. 
 My bones and flesh are quaking. Laugh, thou fool ! 
 For love is lust, and life is a dream of death 
 — Hell is opening, opening horribly. 
 
 March 1904. 
 
 «3 
 
Song m the Night 
 
 (^From Bierbaum) 
 
 Streets to left, and streets to right, 
 
 Dull and dank it seems, 
 As I wander in the night 
 Wakened from my dreams. 
 Yearning, 
 Burning, 
 Pain and smart. 
 Whither dost thou sink, my heart i 
 Whither dost thou sink, my heart ? 
 
 There's a house with shutters green 
 
 Far away from town. 
 Where the river rolls serene 
 Moving, murmuring down. 
 Bowers, 
 flowers ! 
 Fold it in ! 
 Would I were a guest within ! 
 Would I were a guest within ! 
 
 June 1904 
 
 H 
 
Glion — Noon 
 
 From Glion on an August noon 
 I scarcely see the ripples shine 
 
 Where sunbeam spirits lightly swooa 
 On drifting shrouds of cyanine. 
 
 The Dent du Midi now uprears 
 His proud tiara through the mist. 
 
 The sacred crown whose triple tiers 
 Are walls of Titan amethyst. 
 
 A voiceless, dreamless paradise 
 Of fleeting and fantastic form 
 
 More lovely than the fierce sunrise. 
 More visionary than the storm. 
 
 Here would I dream away long years 
 Till with the mountains I was one. 
 
 Knowing not loves or hates or fears. 
 Standing immutably alone. 
 
 15 
 
Glion — Evening 
 
 From Glion when the sun declines 
 The world below is clear to see : 
 
 I count the escalading pines 
 Upon the rocks of Meillerie. 
 
 Like a dull bee the steamer plies 
 And settles on the jutting pier : 
 
 l^e barques, strange sailing butterflies, 
 Round idle headlands idly veer. 
 
 "Die painted sceneries recall 
 Such toil as Canaletto spent 
 
 To give each brick upon each wall 
 Its due partition of cement. 
 
 Yet rather seem those lands below 
 From Ghon at the close of day 
 
 As vivid as a cameo 
 
 Graved by the poet Gautier. 
 
 July 1904 
 
 16 
 
capricious piece of prose, published in a weekly in October, 
 he recalled his own experiences of warfare. He had had 
 glimpses of the Turco-Italian War : Italian shells over 
 Beyrout (" Unforgettable the thunder of the guns shaking 
 the golden blue of sky and sea while not a breath stirred 
 the palm-trees, not a cloud moved on the swanhke snows 
 of Lebanon ") and a " scrap " with the Druses, and the 
 smoke and distant rumble of the battle of Lemnos, " the 
 one effort of the Turks to secure the mastery of the ^Egean." 
 These were his exciting memories : 
 
 " To think that it was with cheerful anecdotes like these 
 that I had hoped, a white-haired elder, to impress my 
 grandchildren ! Now there's not a peasant from Picardy 
 to Tobolsk but will cap me with tales of real and frightful 
 tragedy. What a race of deep-eyed and thoughtful men 
 we shall have in Europe — now that all those millions have 
 been baptized in fire ! " 
 
 Then in the first week of January 1915 he died. I cannot 
 help remembering that I first heard the news over the 
 telephone, and that the voice which spoke was Rupert 
 Brooke's. 
 
 Ill 
 Flecker began writing verse early, and one of his existing 
 notebooks contains a number of poems written whilst he 
 was at Uppingham. The original poems composed, at 
 school and at Oxford, up to the age of twenty are not very 
 remarkable. There is nothing unusual in some unpublished 
 h'nes written on the school chapel bell at the end of his 
 
last term, and little in " Danae's Cradle-Song for Perseus " 
 (1902). A typical couplet is 
 
 Waste of the waves ! O for dawn ! For a long 
 
 low level of shore ! 
 Better be shattered and slain on the reef than 
 
 drift evermore. 
 
 Both rhythm and language are Tennysonian, and the allite- 
 rative Tennysonianism at the end of the first line is repeated 
 in a " Song " of 1904 beginning : 
 
 Long low levels of land 
 
 And sighing surges of sea. 
 Mountain and moor and strand 
 
 Part my beloved from me. 
 
 A " Dream-Song " of 1904 is equally conventional, though 
 in the lines 
 
 Launch the galley, sailors bold, 
 Prowed with silver, sharp and cold. 
 Winged with silk and oared with gold, 
 
 may be seen the first ineffective attempt to capture an 
 image that in various forms haunted Flecker to the end 
 of his life. But the most numerous and, on the whole, 
 the best of his early poems are translations. And this is 
 perhaps significant, as indicating that he began by being 
 more interested in his art than in himself. Translating, 
 there was a clearly defined problem to be attacked ; diffi- 
 culties of expression could not be evaded by changing the 
 thing to be expressed ; and there was no scope for fluent 
 reminiscence or a docile pursuit at the heels of the rhyme. 
 
 xviu 
 
In 1900-1, at. 16-17, ^^ was translating Catullus and the 
 " Pervigilium Veneris," and amongst the poets he attacked 
 in the next few years were Propertius, Muretus, Heine, 
 Bierbaum, of whose lyrics he translated several, one of 
 which is given in this volume. This habit of translation, 
 so excellent as a discipline, he always continued, amongst 
 the poets from whom he made versions being Meleager, 
 Goethe, Leconte de Lisle, Baudelaire, H. de Regnier, 
 Saraain, Jean Moreas, and Paul Fort. In the last year 
 or two his translations were mostly made from the French 
 Parnassians. What drew him to them was his feeling of 
 especial kinship with them and his belief that they might 
 be a healthy influence on English verse. 
 
 He explained his position in the preface to " The Golden 
 Journey to Samarkand." The theory of the Parnassians 
 had for him, he said, " a unique attraction." " A careful 
 study of this theory, however old-fashioned it may by 
 now have become in France, would, I am convinced, benefit 
 English critics and poets, for both our poetic criticism 
 and our poetry are in chaos." Good poetry had been 
 written on other theories and on no theories at all, and 
 " no worthless writer will be redeemed by the excellence 
 of the poeric theory he may chance to hold." But " that 
 a sound theory can produce sound practice and exercise 
 a beneficent effect on writers of genius " had been 
 repeatedly proved in the history of the Parnasse. 
 
 " The Parnassian School [he continued] was a classical 
 reaction against the perfervid sentimentality and extrava- 
 gance of some French Romantics. The Romantics in 
 France, as in England, had done their powerful work and 
 
infinitely widened the scope ana enriched the language 
 of poetry. It remained for the Parnassians to raise the 
 technique of their art to a height which should enable 
 them to express the subtlest ideas in powerful and simple 
 verse. But the real meaning of the term Parnassian may 
 be best understood from considering what is definitely not 
 Parnassian. To be didactic like Wordsworth, to write 
 dull poems of unwieldy length, to bury hke Tennyson or 
 Browning poetry of exquisite beauty in monstrous realms 
 of vulgar, feeble, or obscure versifying, to overlay fine work 
 with gross and irrelevant egoism like Victor Hugo, would 
 be abhorrent, and rightly so, to members of this school. 
 On the other hand, the finest work of many great English 
 poets, especially Milton, Keats, Matthew Arnold, and 
 Tennyson, is written in the same tradition as the work of 
 the great French school : and one can but wish that the 
 two latter poets had had something of a definite theory 
 to guide them in self-criticism. Tennyson would never 
 have published ' Locksley Hall ' and Arnold might have 
 refrained from spoiling his finest sonnets by astonishing 
 cacophonies." 
 
 There were, he naturally admitted, " many splendid 
 forms of passionate or individual poetry " which were 
 not Parnassian, such as the work of Villon, Browning, 
 Shelley, Rossetti, and Verlaine, " too emotional, individual, 
 or eccentric " to have Parnassian affiniries : 
 
 " The French Parnassian has a tendency to use traditional 
 forms and even to employ classical subjects. His desire 
 in writing poetry is to create beauty : his inclination is 
 toward a beauty somewhat statuesque. He is apt to he 
 dramatic and objective rather than intimate. The enemies 
 
of the Parnassians have accused them of cultivating unemo- 
 tional frigidity and upholding an austere view of perfection. 
 The unanswerable answers to all criticism are the works of 
 Her^dia, Leconte de Lisle, Samain, Henri de R^gnier, and 
 Jean Mor^as Compare the early works of the latter poet, 
 written under the influence of the Symbolists, with his 
 ' Stances ' if you would see what excellence of theory can 
 do when it has genius to work on. Read the works of 
 Heredia, if you would understand how conscious and 
 perfect artistry, far from stifling inspiration, fashions it 
 into shapes of unimaginable beauty. . . At the present 
 moment there can be no doubt that English poetry stands 
 in need of some such saving doctrine to redeem it from the 
 formlessness and the didactic tendencies which are now in 
 fashion. As for EngUsh criticism, can it not learn from 
 the Parnassian, or any tolerable theory of poetic art, to 
 examine the beauty and not the ' message ' of poetry." 
 
 " It is not [he said] the poet's business to save man's 
 soul but to make it worth saving. . . . However, few poets 
 have written with a clear theory of art for art's sake, it 
 is by that theory alone that their work has been, or can 
 be, judged ; — and rightly so if we remember that art 
 embraces all Hfe and all humanity, and sees in the tem- 
 porary and fleeting doctrines of conservative or revolu- 
 tionary only the human grandeur or passion that inspires 
 them." 
 
 His own volume had been written " with the single inten- 
 tion of creating beauty." 
 
 Though many of his own poems show the " tendency to 
 use tradirional forms and even to employ classical subjects," 
 Flecker did not, it must be observed, dogmatize as to 
 
choice of subject or generalize too widely. The Parnassians 
 were not everything to him, nor were those older poets 
 who had resembled them. It was as a corrective that he 
 recommended the study of this particular group to his 
 English contemporaries. It is arguable that most of his 
 major contemporaries — one might instance Mr. Bridges 
 and Mr. Yeats — are anything but chaotic, extravagant, 
 careless, or didactic. References to " the latest writer of 
 manly tales in verse " and " formlessness " might certainly 
 be followed up ; but formlessness and moralizing are not 
 so universal amongst modern English writers as Flecker, 
 making out his case, implied. It does not matter ; there 
 is not even any necessity to discuss the French Parnassians. 
 Flecker had an affinity with them. He disliked the pedes- 
 trian and the wild ; he did not care either to pile up 
 dramatic horrors or to burrow in the recesses of his own 
 psychological or physiological structure. He liked the 
 image, vivid, definite in its outline : he aimed everywhere 
 at clarity and compactness. His most fantastic visions 
 are solid and highly coloured and have hard edges. His 
 imagination rioted in images, but he kept it severely under 
 restraint, lest the tropical creepers should stifle the trees. 
 Only occasionally, in his later poems, a reader may find the 
 language a little tumultuous and the images heaped so 
 profusely as to produce an effect of obscurity and, some- 
 times, of euphuism. But these poems, it must be remem- 
 bered, are precisely those which the poet himself did not 
 finally revise. Some of them he never even finished : 
 " The Burial in England," as it appears, is the best that 
 can be done with a confusing collection of manuscript 
 
thoughts and second thoughts. He was, as he claimed, 
 constitutionally a classic ; but the term must not be 
 employed too rigidly. He was, in fact, like Flaubert, both 
 a classic and a romantic. He combined, like Flaubert, 
 a romantic taste for the exotic, the gorgeous, and the 
 violent, with a dislike for the romantic egoism, looseness 
 of structure, and turgidity of phrase. His objectivity, 
 in spite of all his colour, was often very marked ; but there 
 was another trend in him. Though he never wrote slack 
 and reasonless vers libres, the more he developed the more 
 he experimented with new rhythms ; and one of his latest 
 and best lyrics was the intensely personal poem " Stillness." 
 He ran no special kind of subject too hard, and had no 
 refined and restricted dictionary of words. A careful 
 reader, of course, may discover that there are words, just 
 as there are images, which he was especially fond of using. 
 There are colours and metals, blue and red, silver and gold, 
 which are present everywhere in his work ; the progresses 
 of the sun (he was always a poet of the sunlight rather than 
 a poet of the moonlight) were a continual fascination to 
 him ; the images of Fire, of a ship, and of an old white- 
 bearded man recur frequently in his poems. But he is 
 anything but a monotonous poet, in respect either of forms, 
 subjects, or language. It was characteristic of him that 
 he should be on his guard against falhng into a customary 
 jargon. Revising " The Welsh Sea " and finding the 
 word " golden," which he felt he and others had overdone, 
 used three times (and not ineffectively) in it, he expunged 
 the adjective outright, putting " yellow " in the first two 
 places and " slow green " in the third. His preface on 
 
 xxui 
 
Parnassianism was whole-hearted ; but any one who inter- 
 preted some of his sentences as implying a desire to restrict 
 either the poet's field or his expression to a degree that 
 might justifiably be termed narrow would be in error. 
 In one respect, perhaps, his plea was a plea for widening ; 
 he did not wish to exclude the classical subject. And his 
 declaration that poetry should not be written to carry a 
 message but to embody a perception of beauty did not 
 preclude a message in the poetry. His last poems, includ- 
 ing " The Burial in England," may be restrained but are 
 scarcely impersonal, may not be didactic but are none 
 the less patriotic. He need not, in fact, be pinned to every 
 word of his preface separately. The drift of the whole is 
 evident. He himself, like other people, would not have 
 been where he was but for the Romantic movement ; but 
 he thought that English verse was in danger of decompo- 
 sition. He merely desired to emphasize the dangers both 
 of prosing and of personal paroxysms ; and, above all, to 
 insist upon careful craftsmanship. 
 
 This careful craftsmanship had been his own aim from 
 the beginning. " Libellum arida modo pumice expolitum " 
 is a phrase in the first of the Catullus epigrams he trans- 
 lated at school ; and, whilst the content of his poetry showed 
 a steadily growing strength of passion and thought, its 
 form was subjected to, though it never too obviously 
 " betrayed," an increasingly assiduous application of 
 pumice-stone and file. His poems were written and re- 
 written before they were printed ; some were completely 
 remodelled after their first publication ; and he was 
 continually returning to his old poems to make alterations 
 
in single words or lines — many of his recent MS. altera- 
 tions are now incorporated for the first time. His changes 
 at their most extensive may be seen in the development 
 of " The Bridge of Fire," in that (both versions are given 
 in this volume) of " Narcissus," and in that of " Tenebris 
 Interlucentem." As first published this ran : 
 
 Once a poor song-bird that had lost her way 
 Sang down in hell upon a blackened bough, 
 Till all the lazy ghosts remembered how 
 The forest trees stood up against the day. 
 
 Then suddenly they knew that they had died. 
 Hearing this music mock their shadow-land ; 
 And some one there stole forth a timid hand 
 To draw a phantom brother to his side. 
 
 In the second version, also of eight lines, each line is 
 shorter by two syllables : 
 
 A linnet who had lost her way 
 Sang on a blackened bough in Hell, 
 Till aU the ghosts remembered well 
 The trees, the wind, the golden day. 
 
 At last they knew that they had died 
 When they heard music in that land. 
 And some one there stole forth a hand 
 To draw a brother to his side. 
 
 The details of this drastic improvement are worth study- 
 ing. The treatment of the first line is typical. The 
 general word " song-bird " goes, the particular word 
 
 XXV 
 
" linnet " is substituted ; and the superfluous adjective 
 is cut out, like several subsequent ones. " Gravis Dulcis 
 Immutabilis " was originally written as a sonnet ; the 
 " Invitation to a Young but Learned Friend " was con- 
 siderably lengthened after an interval of years ; and the 
 poet's own copies of his printed volumes are promiscuously 
 marked with minor alterations and re-alterations. One of 
 the most curious is that by which the sexes are transposed 
 in the song printed first as " The Golden Head " and 
 then as " The Queen's Song." The last four lines of the 
 first stanza originally ran : 
 
 I then might touch thy face 
 
 Delightful Maid, 
 And leave a metal grace, 
 
 A graven head. 
 
 This was altered into : 
 
 I then might touch thy face 
 
 Delightful boy. 
 And leave a metal grace, 
 
 A graven joy. 
 
 The reasons for the alterarion are evident. The sounds 
 " ace " and " aid " are uncomfortably like each other ; 
 the long, lingering " oy " makes a much better ending of 
 the stanza than the sound for which it was substituted ; 
 and the false parallelism of " metal grace " and " graven 
 head " was remedied by eliminating the concrete word and 
 replacing it by another abstract one on the same plane as 
 " grace." Such a substitution of the abstract for the 
 concrete word, sound enough here, is very rare with him ; 
 
normally the changes were the other way round. He 
 preferred the exact word to the vague ; he was always on 
 his guard against the " pot-shot " and the complaisant 
 epithet which will fit in anywhere. With passionate de- 
 liberation he clarified and crystallized his thoughts and 
 intensified his pictures. 
 
 He found, as has been said, kinship in the French Par- 
 nassians : and, though he approached them rather as a 
 comrade than as a disciple, traces of their language, 
 especially perhaps that of de Rdgnier and Her^dia, may 
 be found in his later verse. A reading of H^redia is surely 
 evident in the " Gates of Damascus " : in 
 
 Beyond the towns, an isle where, bound, a naked giant 
 
 bites the ground : 
 The shadow of a monstrous wing looms on his back : 
 
 and still no sound. 
 
 and the stanzas surrounding it. An influence stiU more 
 marked is that of Sir Richard Burton. Flecker, when still 
 a boy, had copied out the whole of his long " Kasidah," 
 and its rhythms and turns of phrase are present in several of 
 his Syrian poems. It was in the " Kasidah " that Flecker 
 found Aflatun and Arista, and the refrain of " the tinkling 
 of the camel-beUs " of which he made such fine use in 
 " The Golden Journey." The verse-form of the " Kasidah " 
 is, of course, not Burton's, it is Eastern ; and the use 
 Flecker made of it suggests that an infusion of Persian 
 and Arabic forms into English verse might well be a ferti- 
 lizing agent. He always read a great deal of Latin verse : 
 Latin poetry was as much to him as Greek history, myth, 
 
 xxvii 
 
and landscape. Francis Thompson, Baudelaire, and Swin- 
 burne were all early " influences." He learnt from them 
 but he was seldom mastered by them. He did not imitate 
 their rhythms or borrow their thought. The Swinburnian 
 " Anapaests " — in the first volume — written in a weak 
 moment, were an exception. In Flecker's printed copy 
 the title has first, in a half-hearted effort to save the poem 
 whilst repudiating its second-hand music and insincere 
 sentiments, been changed to " Decadent Poem " ; and 
 then a thick pencil has been drawn right through it. Fiom 
 his English contemporaries Flecker was detached. He 
 admired some of them — Mr. Yeats, Mr. A. E. Housman, 
 Mr. de la Mare, and others ; and with some he was friendly, 
 especially Rupert Brooke, with whom he had been at Cam- 
 bridge. Of Mr. Chesterton's " Flying Inn " he writes in 
 January 1914 : " A magnificent book — his masterpiece ; 
 and the humorous verse splendid." But his physical 
 absence, first in the Levant and then in Switzerland, 
 in itself prevented him from getting into any literary 
 set, and his temperament and opinion of current tendencies 
 was such that, even had he lived in England, he would 
 probably have escaped " infection " by any school or 
 individual. Flecker's vision of the world was his own ; 
 his dreams of the East and Greece were born with him. 
 He knew the streets of Stamboul and the snows of Lebanon, 
 and the caravans departing for Bagdad and the gates 
 of Damascus, and the bazaars heaped with grapes and 
 " coffee-tables botched with pearl and little beaten brass- 
 ware pots " ; but his hankering long antedated his travels. 
 There is an unpublished poem written when he was twenty 
 
in which voices call him " to white Agean isles among the 
 foam " and the " dreamy painted lands " of the East. In 
 the same year he translated Propertius I, xx. His life- 
 long love of Greek names is shown by his enunciation of 
 them even then : 
 
 But Oreithyia's sons have left him now : 
 Hylas, most foolish boy, where goest thou ? 
 
 He is going to the Hamadryades, 
 To them devoted — I will tell you how. 
 
 There's a clear well beneath Arganthos' screes 
 Wherein Bithynian Naiads take their ease, 
 
 By leafage overarched, where apples hide 
 Whilst the dew kisses them on the unknown trees. 
 
 This poem is dated 1904. It is the year of the Glion 
 stanzas, the sonnet on Francis Thompson, and (probably) 
 the fragmentary " Ode on Shelley." It is the year, that 
 is, when Flecker began to show marks of maturity. The 
 translation, like a number of other early poems quoted 
 above, has not been included in the present collection, 
 as it is certain that Flecker would not have wished it. 
 Just enough of his unpublished " Juvenilia " have been 
 included to illustrate his development, and it may be 
 alleged without rashness that those selected are the best 
 of their respective periods. 
 
 Whatever may be said about the poems which follow, 
 there are few which are not characteristic of the poet. 
 His rigorous conception of his art and his fidelity to his 
 own vision prevented many lapses, and he suppressed 
 those which he did commit. One unrepresentative phrase 
 
 xxix 
 
there is which might be seized on to give a very untrue 
 description of him. In the Envoy to " The Bridge of 
 Fire " he speaks of himself as " the lean and swarthy poet 
 of despair." It meant nothing ; the first poem in the 
 same book, with its proclamation that " the most surprising 
 songs " must still be sung, and its challenge to youth to 
 turn to " the old and fervent goddess " whose eyes are " the 
 silent pools of Light and Truth " is far more characteristic 
 of him, first and last. " Lean and swarthy poet " may 
 stand ; but not of despair. The beauty of the world was 
 a continual intoxication to him ; he was full, as a man, 
 if not as a poet, of enthusiasms, moral and material, 
 economic, educational, and military. Neither the real nor 
 the spurious disease of pessimism is present in his verse 
 and in his last autumn he was writing, with an energy 
 that sometimes physically exhausted him, poems that 
 blazed with courage, hope, and delight. Like his " Old 
 Battleship," he went down fighting. 
 
 The value of what he has left it is not, as I have said 
 before, my intention to discuss here. My only object in 
 writing this necessarily rather disjointed Introduction is to 
 give some information that may interest the reader and 
 be useful to the critic ; and if a few personal opinions have 
 slipped in they may conveniently be ignored. A vehement 
 " puff preliminary " is an insolence in a volume of this 
 kind : it might pardonably be supposed to imply either 
 doubts about the author or distrust of his readers. 
 
 J. C. SQUIRE 
 
Editorial Note 
 
 Twenty of the poems in this edition have never been published 
 before, or have appeared only in periodicals. These may be 
 distinguished by the dates which are appended beneath them. 
 The whole of the poems published in book form during the 
 poeis lifetime are reprinted with the exception of seven lyrics 
 which there is reason to believe he did not desire to perpetuate. 
 Of the new ones several are "fuvenilia," written between the 
 ages of sixteen and twenty, which have been included in order 
 to illustrate his development. 
 
 The poems are arranged in a roughly chronological order ; 
 those written in the years 1907-10 follotoing most nearly 
 {more information as to date being available with these) the 
 actual order of composition. 
 
 The text of many, especially of the early, poems will be 
 found to differ considerably from that hitherto printed, owing 
 to Fucker's habit of continual revision. In sorru of the 
 MSS. there are variant readings from which the present 
 editor has been compelled to select. The fragments of the 
 " Ode to Shelley " presented the most difficult problem, and 
 the order in which they are placed is not to be presumed the 
 correct order. 
 
 XXXI 
 
Last Love 
 
 {From Novalis — adaptation oj his last words) 
 
 Now for a last glad look upon life : my journey is ending : 
 
 Now this door that is Death quietly shuts me behind. 
 
 Thankful I hear Love's call — the faithful call of a comrade : 
 
 Then all joyful am I, ready to give her my heart. 
 
 All through life it is Love hath been my counsellor only : 
 
 Hers be the praise alway if I have followed aright. 
 
 For as a mother awakes with kisses her slumbering baby, 
 
 As she first has a care — as she alone understands — 
 
 So has Love been mine, has watched and tended and kissed 
 
 me : 
 Near me when I was a child : near me tiU I was a man. 
 Thus, mid sorrow or doubt, I have clung to her, learning 
 
 her lesson : 
 Now she has made me free — free to rejoice evermore. 
 
 1904 I 
 
 17 
 
Fragments of a?t Ode to Shelley 
 
 I 
 
 Since men have always crowned the tomb 
 
 With those sweet diadems of doom. 
 
 The twinings of memorial flowers, 
 
 So that their brother's first few hours 
 
 Of waiting in his lonely room 
 
 May pass in peace while Time devours 
 
 The body's brief and bitter bloom. 
 
 The last extortion of sad powers. 
 
 And downwards through the grudging soil 
 
 The piteous perfumes strain and toil. 
 
 II 
 
 Let the kind ritual remain : 
 
 We seek an emblem of our pain — 
 
 The dry scant holly of the shore, 
 
 The grass upon the dunes — What more 
 
 Can sorrow bring ? We cannot drain 
 
 [8 
 
The spacious Sea for his rich store 
 
 Of coloured weeds that shine in vain 
 
 Upon the wide inhuman floor, 
 
 The lonely yard where drowned men lie 
 
 And gaze through water to white sky. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Forgive, thou calm and godlike shade, 
 
 The drooping wreath, the flowers that fade. 
 
 This passionless pale offering 
 
 From one who scarcely dares to sing 
 
 His love and praises, being afraid 
 
 At the sweet brilliance of thy spring. 
 
 Seeing his lute is rudely made, 
 
 His thoughts too dull and weak of wing. 
 
 More fit for noons that lull and warm 
 
 Than for the stress of fire and storm. 
 
 IV 
 
 The slender boat that stretched her sail 
 To fly before the sultry gale. 
 That from her moorings leapt and sped 
 Before the forest leaves were red. 
 Before the purple noon was pale. 
 
 19 
 
Round whom delight and fancy spread 
 Their guardian wings, without avail, 
 Is shipwrecked, and her captain dead. 
 The children of the stainless sea 
 Laid him ashore mysteriously. 
 
 O none of those who came to mourn 
 
 The body cold and water-worn, 
 
 Nor any of us in later days 
 
 Who walk at evening in soft ways 
 
 Could bring thee tribute of the morn 
 
 Or any music that repays 
 
 The soul of Adonais, borne 
 
 To heaven on thy fluted phrase. 
 
 Poets have wept ; but which of them 
 
 Were fit to sing thy requiem ? 
 
 VI 
 
 That song shall wait tiU delving time 
 Finds the lost treasures of earth's prime, 
 When moil and tears and dire distress 
 Shall flee the dawn of joyousness, 
 When some new monarch of sweet rhyme 
 
 20 
 
Or mild surprising poetess, 
 
 Some Sappho in a mood sublime 
 
 Or Pindar freed and fetterless, 
 
 In a far island in far seas 
 
 Shall send their sorrow down the breeze. 
 
 O shining servant of the evening star 
 
 Whom no soft footfall of Lethean song 
 
 Delighted, but a strong celestial war 
 
 To batter down the gates of earthly wrong, 
 
 To thee old Rhea yielded up her foison, 
 
 Thou rash knight-errant of heroic love. 
 
 That dreams and trances, being most vital poison 
 
 To whoso looks but dares not live above. 
 
 For thee, who wast more bold. 
 
 Might lead to earth along light chains of gold. 
 
 Lest some rebellious airs of spirit 
 
 Should blow each image into windy space 
 
 Nor leave it vocal, to inherit 
 
 The toil and triumph of our mortal race. 
 
 O thou hast shown us legions in the skies, 
 
 And passed the earth before us in review 
 
 Till shadows came and went before our eyes, 
 
 And shafts of dim desire pierced us through, 
 
 And draughts of joyous day 
 
 And winds that calmly blew 
 Swift strength and splendour in our dreams, and songs 
 from far away. 
 
 21 
 
Light and the subtler light of wizard fire, 
 
 And winds tliat strike forth hope on some grand lyre, 
 
 And spirits of blue air like April clouds, 
 
 And all the water-company that crowds 
 
 The river-spaces and dark open sea. 
 
 Conspired at his creation : Liberty, 
 
 Watching his prowess from her tower above. 
 
 Took to her side a royal-winged Love. 
 
 And when he died and they could do no more 
 
 To strengthen him who graced that southern shore 
 
 They bade a clearer, stronger sun arise 
 
 And drive old darkness from the Italian skies. 
 
 • • * 
 
 Many there be to-day whose foolish praise 
 Has dulled the roar of thy old fighting days, 
 So that thy hymns of intellectual joy 
 Seem but fine utterance of a wayward boy. 
 Thy call of war, thy thunderbolts of hate 
 A madman's cry, that rails against his fate ; 
 Who find in them a vague and phantom truth 
 Or dim ideal of a lovelorn youth. 
 
 • * * 
 
 He was too beautiful ; he died too young. 
 Before the mellow season of his prime ; 
 Sweet songs he left, but sweeter songs unsung, 
 Whose thin ghosts wander out of space and time. 
 All his philosophy was Love and Hate, 
 His life a rainbow for the sun to fashion. 
 His thoughts most royally importunate, 
 
Forged by the beats of elemental passion. 
 
 Like some young tressed tree 
 
 That sighs to each . . . wind, so he 
 
 Stretched arms to welcome Love, who softly winging 
 
 Came down to earth from lands beyond the dawn ; 
 
 Her strength and gentleness inspired his singing. 
 
 Until she stood amazed, from whom 'twas drawn. 
 
 Spirit of love, draw near this monument 
 
 And veil the ancient glory of thy head, 
 
 For he is dead, whose silver days were spent 
 
 In thy eternal service, he is dead 
 
 And borne aloft away 
 
 On gloomy wings outspread 
 More strong and sure than thy bright plumes, 
 
 O mistress of a day ! 
 
 [EPODE] 
 
 Nothing of him is left us, save this scroll. 
 The fire-thrown shadow of his silent soul. 
 The glass whose even rondure is to keep 
 The immortal country of his mortal sleep. 
 Where terrors move and angry phantoms cry. 
 Titans and tyrants in a ragged sky. 
 Where in tall caves magicians read the rune, 
 And white limbs glitter in the plenilune ; 
 
 23 
 
And where a voice more human, more divine, 
 Commends a brother dead to Proserpine. 
 But now that Queen of undivided rest 
 Reopening the closures of her breast 
 Has taken our royal-winged child of light, 
 And bathed his forehead in the pool of night. 
 
 [Dau uncertain, early] 
 
 H 
 
LATER POEMS 
 
A New Years Carol 
 
 Awake, awake ! The world is young, 
 For all its weary years of thought : 
 The starkest fights must still be fought. 
 The most surprising songs be sung. 
 
 And those who have no other Gods 
 May still behold, if they bestir. 
 The windy amphitheatre 
 Where dawn the timeless periods. 
 
 Then hear the shouting-voice of men 
 Magniloquently rise and ring : 
 Their flashing eyes and measured swing 
 Prove that the world is young again. 
 
 I was beyond the hills, and heard 
 That old and fervent Goddess call. 
 Whose voice is like a waterfall, 
 And sweeter than the singing-bird. 
 
 17 
 
stubborn arms of rosy youth. 
 Break down your other Gods, and turn 
 To where her dauntless eyeballs bum, — 
 The silent pools of Light and Truth. 
 
 z8 
 
From Grenoble 
 
 Now have I seen, in Graisivaudan's vale. 
 
 The fruits that dangle and the vines that trail, 
 
 The poplars standing up in bright blue air. 
 
 The silver turmoil of the broad Is^re 
 
 And sheer pale chffs that wait through Earth's long noon 
 
 Till the round Sun be colder than the Moon. 
 
 Mine be the ancient song of Travellers : 
 
 I hate this gUttering land where nothing stirs : 
 
 I would go back, for I would see again 
 
 Mountains less vast, a less abundant plain. 
 
 The Northern Cliffs clean-swept with driven foam. 
 
 And the rose-garden of my gracious home. 
 
 29 
 
Narcissus 
 
 thou with whom I dallied 
 Through all the hours of noon,- 
 
 Sweet water-boy, more pallid 
 Than any watery moon ; 
 
 Above thy body turning 
 
 White Hly-buds were strewn : 
 
 Alas, the silver morning, 
 Alas, the golden noon ! 
 
 Alas, the clouds of sorrow, 
 The waters of despair ! 
 
 1 sought thee on the morrow. 
 And never found thee there. 
 
 Since first I saw thee splendid, 
 Since last I called thee fair. 
 
 My happy ways have ended 
 By waters of despair. 
 
 The pool that was thy dweUing 
 
 I hardly knew again. 
 So black it was, and swelling 
 
 With bitter wind and rain. 
 
 30 
 
Amid the reeds I lingered 
 Between desire and pain 
 
 Till evening, rosy-fingered, 
 Beckoned to night again. 
 
 Yet once when sudden quiet 
 
 Had visited the skies. 
 And stilled the stormy riot, 
 
 I looked upon thine eyes. 
 I saw they wept and trembled 
 
 With glittering mysteries. 
 But yellow clouds assembled 
 
 Redarkening the sides. 
 
 listless thou art lying 
 
 In waters cool and sweet. 
 While I, dumb brother, dying. 
 
 Faint in the desert heat. 
 Though thou dost love another. 
 
 Still let my lips entreat : 
 Men call me fair, brother. 
 
 And women honey-sweet. 
 
 JI 
 
Inscription for Arthur RackhanCs 
 Rip Van Winkle 
 
 Since youth is wise, and cannot comprehend 
 
 Proportion, nor behold things as they are, 
 
 ^CKoQeay.ovei we'll be, my friend. 
 
 And laugh at what appears quadrangular. 
 
 Our only Gods shall be the Subterrane, 
 
 Pictures of things misshapen, harsh and crude. 
 
 The flattened Face outside the window-pane. 
 
 The little Squeak behind us in the wood. 
 
 Here, fnend, are subtly drawn uncommon things : 
 
 Make such your Gods : they only understand. 
 
 Only a Headless Ape with slimy wings 
 
 Can whisk you round the Interesting Land. 
 
 Though after twenty years they may not please. 
 
 Sane men have worshipped stranger Gods than these. 
 
 32 
 
Envoy 
 
 The young men leap, and toss their golden hair, 
 Run round the land, or sail across the seas : 
 But one was stricken with a sore disease, — 
 The lean and swarthy poet of despair. 
 
 Know me, the slave of fear and death and shame, 
 A sad Comedian, a most tragic Fool, 
 Shallow, imperfect, fashioned without rule. 
 The doubtful shadow of a demon flame. 
 
 33 
 
Riouperoux 
 
 High and solemn mountains guard Riouperoux, 
 — Small untidy village where the river drives a mill : 
 Frail as wood anemones, white and frail were you, 
 And drooping a little, like the slender daffodil. 
 
 Oh I will go to France again, and tramp the valley through, 
 And I will change these gentle clothes for clog and corduroy. 
 And work with the mill-hands of black Riouperoux, 
 And walk with you, and talk with you, like any other boy. 
 
 34 
 
Mig: 
 
 non 
 
 {From Goethe) 
 
 Knowest thou the land where bloom the lemon trees. 
 
 And darkly gleam the golden oranges ? 
 
 A gentle wind blows down from that blue sky ; 
 
 Calm stands the myrtle and the laurel high. 
 
 Knowest thou the land ? So far and fair ! 
 
 Thou, whom I love, and I will wander there. 
 
 Knowest thou the house with all its rooms aglow. 
 And shining hall and columned portico ? 
 The marble statues stand and look at me. 
 Alas, poor child, what have they done to ihee f 
 Knowest thou the land ? So far and fair. 
 My Guardian, thou and I will wander there. 
 
 Knowest thou the mountain with its bridge of cloud ? 
 The mule plods warily : the white mists crowd. 
 Coiled in their caves the brood of dragons sleep ; 
 The torrent hurls the rock from steep to steep. 
 Knowest thou the land ? So far and fair. 
 Father, away ! Our road is over there ! 
 
 35 
 
Tenebris Interlucentem 
 
 A linnet who had lost her way 
 Sang on a blackened bough in Hell, 
 Till all the ghosts remembered well 
 The trees, the wind, the golden day. 
 
 At last they knew that they had died 
 When they heard music in that land. 
 And some one there stole forth a hand 
 To draw a brother to his side. 
 
 36 
 
The First Sonnet of Bathrolaire 
 
 Over the moonless land of Bathrolaire 
 
 Rises at night, when revelry begins, 
 
 A white unreal orb, a sun that spins, 
 
 A sun that watches with a suUen stare 
 
 That dance spasmodic they are dancing there, 
 
 Whilst drone and cry and drone of violins 
 
 Hint at the sweetness of forgotten sins, 
 
 Or call the devotees of shame to prayer. 
 
 And all the spaces of the midnight town 
 
 Ring with appeal and sorrowful abuse. 
 
 There some most lonely are : some try to crown 
 
 Mad lovers with sad boughs of formal yews, 
 
 And Titan women wandering up and down 
 
 Lead on the pale fanatics of the muse. 
 
 37 
 
The Second Sonnet of Bathrolaire 
 
 Now the sweet Dawn on brighter fields afar 
 Has walked among the daisies, and has breathed 
 The glory of the mountain winds, and sheathed 
 The stubborn sword of Night's last-shining star. 
 In Bathrolaire when Day's old doors unbar 
 The motley mask, fantastically wreathed. 
 Pass through a strong portcullis brazen teethed. 
 And enter glowing mines of cinnabar. 
 Stupendous prisons shut them out from day. 
 Gratings and caves and rayless catacombs. 
 And the unrelenting rack and tourniquet 
 Grind death in cells where jetting gaslight gloamSj 
 And iron ladders stretching far away 
 Dive to the depths of those eternal domes. 
 
 38 
 
The Ballad of Hampstead Heath 
 
 From Heaven's Gate to Hampstead Heath 
 
 Young Bacchus and his crew 
 Came tumbling down, and o'er the town 
 
 Their bursting trumpets blew. 
 
 The silver night was wildly bright, 
 And madly shone the Moon 
 
 To hear a song so clear and strong, 
 With such a lovely tune. 
 
 From London's houses, huts and flats, 
 Came busmen, snobs, and Earls, 
 
 And ugly men in bowler hats 
 With charming httle girls. 
 
 Sir Moses came with eyes of flame, 
 
 Judd, who is like a bloater, 
 "Dje brave Lord Mayor in coach and pair. 
 
 King Edward, in his motor. 
 
 39 
 
Far in a rosy mist withdrawn 
 
 The God and all his crew, 
 Silenus pulled by nymphs, a faun, 
 
 A satyr drenched in dew. 
 
 Smiled as they wept those shining tears 
 
 Only Immortals know, 
 Whose feet are set among the stars, 
 
 Above the shifting snow. 
 
 And one spake out into the night. 
 
 Before they left for ever, 
 " Rejoice, rejoice ! " and his great voice 
 
 Rolled hke a splendid river. 
 
 He spake in Greek, which Britons speak 
 
 Seldom, and circumspectly ; 
 But Mr. Judd, that man of mud. 
 
 Translated it correctly. 
 
 And when they heard that happy word, 
 
 Policemen leapt and ambled : 
 The busmen pranced, the maidens danced. 
 
 The men in bowlers gambolled. 
 
 A wistful Echo stayed behind 
 
 To join the mortal dances. 
 But Mr. Judd, with words unkind. 
 
 Rejected her advances. 
 
 40 
 
And passing down through London Town 
 She stopped, for all was lonely, 
 
 Attracted by a big brass plate 
 
 Inscribed, FOR MEMBERS ONLY. 
 
 And so she went to Parliament, 
 
 But those ungainly men 
 Woke up from sleep, and turned about. 
 
 And fell asleep again. 
 
Litany to Satan 
 
 {From Baudelaire) 
 
 grandest of the Angels, and most wise, 
 O fallen God, fate-driven from the skies, 
 Satan, at last take pity on our pain. 
 
 first of exiles who endurest wrong, 
 
 Yet growest, in thy hatred, still more strong, 
 
 Satan, at last take pity on our pain ! 
 
 O subterranean King, omniscient, 
 Healer of man's immortal discontent, 
 Satan, at last take pity on our pain. 
 
 To lepers and to outcasts thou dost show 
 That Passion is the Paradise below. 
 Satan, at last take pity on our pain. 
 
 "Diou by thy mistress Death hast given to man 
 Hope, the imperishable courtesan. 
 Satan, at last take pity on our pain. 
 
 42 
 
Thou givest to the Guilty their calm mien 
 Which damns the crowd around the guillotine 
 Satan, at last take pity on our pain. 
 
 Thou knowest the corners of the jealous Earth 
 Where God has hidden jewels of great worth. 
 Satan, at last take pity on our pain. 
 
 Tliou dost discover by mysterious signs 
 Where sleep the buried people of the mines. 
 Satan, at last take pity on our pain. 
 
 Thou stretchest forth a saving hand to keep 
 Such men as roam upon the roofs in sleep. 
 Satan, at last take pity on our pain. 
 
 Thy power can make the halting Drunkard's feet 
 Avoid the peril of the surging street. 
 Satan, at last take pity on our pain. 
 
 Tliou, to console our helplessness, didst plot 
 The cunning use of powder and of shot. 
 Satan, at last take pity on our pain. 
 
 Thy awful name is written as with pitch 
 On the unrelenting foreheads of the rich. 
 Satan, at last take pity on our pain. 
 
 43 
 
In strange and hidden places thou dost move 
 Where women cry for torture in their love. 
 Satan, at last take pity on our pain. 
 
 Father of those whom God's tem|>estuous ire 
 Has flung from Paradise with sword and fire, 
 Satan, at last take pity on our pain. 
 
 Prayer 
 
 Satan, to thee be praise upon the Height 
 Where thou wast king of old, and in the night 
 Of Hell, where thou dost dream on sUently. 
 Grant that one day beneath the Knowledge-tree, 
 When it shoots forth to grace thy royal brow, 
 My soul may sit, that cries upon thee now. 
 
 44 
 
The Translator and the Children 
 
 While I translated Baudelaire, 
 
 Children were playing out in the air. 
 
 Turning to watch, I saw the Ught 
 
 That made their clothes and faces bright. 
 
 I heard the tune they meant to sing 
 
 As they kept dancing in a ring ; 
 
 But I could not forget my book. 
 
 And thought of men whose faces shook 
 
 When babies passed them with a look. 
 
 They are as terrible as death, 
 Those children in the road beneath. 
 Their witless chatter is more dread 
 Than voices in a madman's head : 
 Their dance more awful and inspired, 
 Because their feet are never tired. 
 Than silent revel witli soft sound 
 Of pipes, on consecrated ground, 
 When ail the ghosts go round and round. 
 
 45 
 
Destroyer of Ships ^ Men^ Cities 
 
 Helen of Troy has sprung from Hell 
 To claim her ancient throne, 
 
 So we have bidden friends farewell 
 To follow her alone. 
 
 The Lady of the laurelled brow, 
 The Queen of pride and power, 
 
 Looks rather like a phantom now, 
 And rather like a flower. 
 
 Deep in her eyes the lamp of night 
 
 Burns with a secret flame. 
 Where shadows pass that have no sight. 
 
 And ghosts that have no name. 
 
 For mute is battle's brazen horn 
 That rang for Priest and King, 
 
 And she who drank of that brave morn 
 Is pale with evening. 
 
 46 
 
An hour there is when bright words flow, 
 
 A httle hour for sleep, 
 An hour between, when lights are low. 
 
 And then she seems to weep. 
 
 But no less lovely than of old 
 She shines, and almost hears 
 
 The horns that blew in days of gold. 
 The shouting charioteers. 
 
 And she still breaks the hearts of men. 
 Their hearts and all their pride. 
 
 Doomed to be cruel once again, 
 And live dissatisfied. 
 
 47 
 
Oxford Canal 
 
 When you have wearied of the valiant spires of this 
 County Town, 
 
 Of its wrjde white streets and glistening museums, and 
 black monastic walls. 
 
 Of its red motors and lumbering trams, and self-sufficient 
 people, 
 
 I will take you walking with me to a place you have 
 not seen — 
 
 Half xovm. and half country — the land of the Canal. 
 
 It is dearer to me than the antique town : I love it 
 more than the rounded hiUs : 
 
 Straightest, sublimest of rivers is the long Canal. 
 
 I have observed great storms and trembled : I have 
 wept for fear of the dark. 
 
 But nothing makes me so afraid as the clear water of 
 this idle canal on a summer's noon. 
 
 Do you see the great telephone poles down in the water, 
 how every wire is distinct ? 
 
 If a body fell into the canal it would rest entangled in 
 those wires for ever, between earth and air. 
 
 For the water is as deep as the stars are high. 
 
 48 
 
One day 1 was thinking how if a man fell from that 
 lofty pole 
 
 He would rush through the water toward me till his 
 image was scattered by his splash. 
 
 When suddenly a train rushed by : the brazen dome of 
 the engine flashed : the long white carriages roared ; 
 
 The sun veiled himself for a moment, and the signals 
 loomed in fog ; 
 
 A savage woman screamed at me from a barge : little 
 children began to cry ; 
 
 The untidy landscape rose to life ; a sawmill started ; 
 
 A cart rattled down to the wharf, and workmen clanged 
 over the iron footbridge ; 
 
 A beautiful old man nodded from the first story window 
 of a square red house. 
 
 And a pretty girl came out to hang up clothes in a 
 small delightful garden. 
 
 O strange motion in the suburb of a county town : slow 
 regular movement of the dance of death ! 
 
 Men and not phantoms are these that move in light. 
 
 Forgotten they live, and forgotten die. 
 
 49 
 
Hialmar Speaks to the Raven 
 
 {From Leconte de Lisle) 
 
 Night on the bloodstained snow : the wind is chill : 
 And there a thousand tombless warriors lie, 
 Grasping their swords, wild-featured. All are still. 
 Above them the black ravens wheel and cry. 
 
 A brilliant moon sends her cold light abroad : 
 Hialmar arises from the reddened slain, 
 Heavily leaning on his broken sword. 
 And bleeding from his side the battle-rain. 
 
 " Hail to you all : is there one breath still drawn 
 Among those fierce and fearless lads who played 
 So merrily, and sang as sweet in the dawn 
 As thrushes singing in the bramble shade ? 
 
 " They have no word to say : my helm's unbound. 
 My breastplate by the axe unriveted : 
 Blood's on my eyes ; I hear a spreading sound. 
 Like waves or wolves that clamour in my head. 
 
 SO 
 
" Eater of men, old raven, come this way, 
 And with thine iron bill open my breast, 
 To-morrow find us where we lie to-day. 
 And bear my heart to her that I love best. 
 
 " Through Upsala, where drink the Jarls and sing, 
 And dash their golden bowls in company. 
 Bird of the moor, carry on tireless wing 
 To Ylmer's daughter there the heart of me. 
 
 " And thou shalt see her standing straight and pale. 
 High pedestalled on some rook-haunted tower : 
 She has two ear-rings, silver and vermeil, 
 And eyes like stars that shine in sunset hour. 
 
 " Tell her my love, thou dark bird ominous ; 
 Give her my heart, no bloodless heart and vile 
 But red compact and strong, raven. Thus 
 Shall Ylmer's daughter greet thee with a smUc. 
 
 " Now let my life from twenty deep wounds flow. 
 And wolves may drink the blood. My time is done. 
 Young, brave and spotless, I rejoice to go 
 And sit where aU the Gods are, in the sun." 
 
 51 
 
The Ballad of the Stude7^t in the 
 South 
 
 It was no sooner than this morn 
 That first I found you there, 
 
 Deep in a field of southern corn 
 The colour of your hair. 
 
 I had read books you had not read, 
 
 Yet I was put to shame 
 To hear the simple words you said, 
 
 And see your eyes aflame. 
 
 Shall I forget when prying dawn 
 
 Sends me about my way, 
 The careless stars, the quiet lawn, 
 
 And you with whom I lay ? 
 
 Yours is the beauty of the moon. 
 
 The wisdom of the sea. 
 Since first you tasted, sweet and soon. 
 
 Of God's forbidden tree. 
 
 52 
 
Darling, a scholar's fancies sink 
 
 So faint beneath your song ; 
 And you are right, why should we think. 
 
 We who are young and strong ? 
 
 For we are simple, you and I, 
 
 We do what others do. 
 Who live because they fear to die 
 
 And love the whole night through. 
 
 5^ 
 
The Queen s Song 
 
 Had I the power 
 
 To Midas given of old 
 To touch a flower 
 
 And leave the petals gold 
 I then might touch thy face, 
 
 Delightful boy, 
 And leave a metal grace, 
 
 A graven joy. 
 
 Thus would I slay, — 
 
 Ah, desperate device ! 
 The vital day 
 
 That trembles in thine eyes. 
 And let the red lips close 
 
 Which sang so well, 
 And drive away the rose 
 
 To leave a shell. 
 
 Then I myself. 
 
 Rising austere and dumb 
 On the high shelf 
 
 Of my half-lighted room, 
 
 54 
 
Would place the shining bust 
 
 And wait alone, 
 Until I was but dust, 
 
 Buried unknown. 
 
 Thus in my love 
 
 For nations yet unborn, 
 I would remove 
 
 From our two lives the morn, 
 And muse on loveliness 
 
 In mine arm-chair. 
 Content should Time confess 
 
 How sweet you were. 
 
 55 
 
071 Turner s Polyphemus 
 
 Painter of day, let my dark spirit fly 
 Past the Trinacrian Sound, to gaze upon 
 The deathless horses of Hyperion 
 
 Driven up fiery stairs tumultuously : 
 
 To see once more the Achaian prows ghde by, 
 Odysseus in his burnished galleon. 
 Nereides that sing him swiftly on. 
 
 And baffled Cyclops fading in the sky. 
 
 Master, you paint the passion of the Earth, 
 The faint victorious music of her birth, 
 
 The splendour of things lost and things grown old ; 
 And show us song new-wrought with ardent might 
 Of strong-winged morning and of sure dehght, 
 
 Of hyacinthine mist, and shining gold. 
 
 ^6 
 
The Bridge of Fire 
 
 I 
 
 High on the bridge of Heaven whose Eastern bars 
 Exclude the interchange of Night and Day, 
 Robed with faint seas and crowned with quiet stars 
 All great Gods dwell to whom men prayed or pray. 
 No winter chills, no fear or fever mars 
 Their grand and timeless hours of pomp and play ; 
 Some drive about the Rim wind-golden cars 
 Or, shouting, laugh Eternity away. 
 
 The daughters of their pride. 
 
 Moon-pale, blue-water-eyed. 
 Their flame-white bodies pearled with failing spray, 
 
 Send all their dark hair streaming 
 
 Down where the worlds lie gleaming, 
 And draw their mighty lovers close and say : 
 
 " Come over by the Stream : one hears 
 The speech of Nations broken in the chant of Spheres." 
 
 57 
 
II 
 
 Hear now the song of those bright Shapes that shine 
 Huge as Leviathans, tasting the fare 
 DeUcate-sweet, while scented dews divine 
 Thrill from the ground and clasp the rosy air, 
 " Sing on, sing out, and reach a hand for wine, 
 For the brown small Earth is softly afloat down there. 
 And the suns burn low, and the sky is sapphirine. 
 And the httle winds of space are in our hair — 
 
 The little winds of space 
 
 Blow in the love-god's face, 
 The only god who lacks not praise and prayer ; 
 
 He shall preserve his powers 
 
 Though Ruin shake square towers 
 And echoing Temples fall without repair. 
 And still go forth as strong as ten, 
 A red immortal riding in the hearts of men ! " 
 
 III 
 
 The Gods whose faces are the morning light 
 Of they who love the leafy rood of song. 
 The Gods of Greece, dividing the broad night, 
 Have gathered on the Bridge, of all that throng 
 The fairest, whe*her he whose feet for flight 
 Had plumy wings, or she to whom belong 
 Shadows, Persephone, or that swan-white 
 
 S8 
 
Rose-breasted island lady, gentle and strong, 
 Or younger gods than these 
 That peep among the trees 
 And dance when Dionysus beats his gong, 
 Or the old disastrous gods 
 That nod with snaky nods 
 Brandishing high the sharp and triple thong, 
 Or whom the dull profound of Hell 
 Spits forth, the reeling Typhon that in dark must dwell. 
 
 IV 
 
 Shadows there are that seem to look for home 
 Each spreading like a gloom across the plain. 
 Voiced like a great bell swinging in a dome, 
 Appealing mightily for realms to reign. 
 They were the slow and shapeless gods of Rome, 
 Laborious gods, who founded power on pain. 
 These watched the peasant turn his suUen loam. 
 These drave him out to fight, nor drave in vain : 
 
 Saturnus white and old 
 
 Who lost the age of gold. 
 Mars who was proud to stand on the deep-piled slain, 
 
 Pomona from whose womb 
 
 Slow fruits in season come, 
 And, tower-crowned mother of the yellow grain, 
 Demeter, and the avenging dead. 
 The silent Lemures, in fear with honey fed. 
 
 59 
 
Belus and Ra and that most jealous Lord 
 Who rolled the hosts of Pharaoh in the sea, 
 Trolls of the North, in every hand a sword, 
 Gnomes and dwarfs and the shuddering company, 
 Gods who take vengeance, gods who grant reward, 
 Gods who exact a murdered devotee, 
 Brahma the kind, and Siva the abhorred 
 And they who tend Ygdrasil, the big tree. 
 
 And Isis, the young moon, 
 
 And she of the piping tune, 
 Her Phrygian sister, cruel Cybele, 
 
 Orpheus the lone harp-player 
 
 And Mithras the man-slayer, 
 And Allah rumbling on to victory, 
 And some, the oldest of them all. 
 Square heads that leer and lust, and lizard shapes that 
 crawl. 
 
 VI 
 
 Between the pedestals of Night and Morning, 
 
 Between red death and radiant desire 
 
 With not one sound of triumph or of warning 
 
 Stands the great sentry on the Bridge of Fire. 
 
 transient soul, thy thought with dreams adorning. 
 
 Cast down the laurel, and unstring the lyre : 
 
 60 
 
The wheels of Time are turning, turning, turning, 
 The slow stream channels deep and doth not tire. 
 
 Gods on their Bridge above 
 
 Whispering lies and love 
 Shall mock your passage down the sunless river 
 
 Which, rolling all its streams, 
 
 Shall take you, king of dreams, 
 — Unthroned and unapproachable for ever — 
 To where the kings who dreamed of old 
 Whiten in habitations monumental cold. 
 
 61 
 
We That Were Friends 
 
 We that were friends to-night have found 
 A fear, a secret, and a shame : 
 
 I am on fire with that soft sound 
 You make, in uttering my name. 
 
 Forgive a young and boastful man 
 
 Whom dreams delight and passions please, 
 
 And love me as great women can 
 Who have no children at their knees. 
 
 63 
 
My Friend 
 
 I had a friend who battled for the truth 
 With stubborn heart and obstinate despair, 
 Til] all his beauty left him, and his youth. 
 And there were few to love him anywhere. 
 
 Then would he wander out among the graves. 
 And think of dead men lying in a row ; 
 Or, standing on a cliflF, observe the waves. 
 And hear the wistful sound of winds below ; 
 
 And yet they told him nothing. So he sought 
 The twittering forest at the break of day. 
 Or on fantastic mountains shaped a thought 
 As lofty and impenitent as they. 
 
 And next he went in wonder through a town 
 olowly by day and hurriedly by night, 
 And watched men walking up the street and down 
 With timorous and terrible delight. 
 
 63 
 
Weary, he drew man's wisdom from a book, 
 And pondered on the high words spoken of old, 
 Pacing a lamplit room : but soon forsook 
 The golden sentences that left him cold. 
 
 After, a woman found him, and his head 
 Lay on her breast, tUl he forgot his pain 
 In gentle kisses on a midnight bed. 
 And welcomed royal-winged joy again. 
 
 When love became a loathing, as it must, 
 He knew not where to turn ; and he was wise, 
 Being now old, to sink among the dust, 
 And rest his rebel heart, and close his eyes. 
 
 64 
 
Ideal 
 
 When a]] my gentle friends had gone 
 
 I wandered in the night alone : 
 
 Beneath the green electric glare 
 
 I saw men pass with hearts of stone. 
 
 Yet still I heard them everywhere. 
 
 Those golden voices of the air : 
 
 " Friend, we will go to hell with thee, 
 
 Thy griefs, thy glories we will share. 
 
 And rule the earth, and bind the sea. 
 
 And set ten thousand devils free ;— " 
 
 " What dost thou, stranger, at my side. 
 
 Thou gaunt old man accosting me ? 
 
 Away, this is my night of pride ! 
 
 On lunar seas my boat will glide 
 
 And I shall know the secret things." 
 
 The old man answered : " Woe betide ! " 
 
 Said I : " The world was made for kings r 
 
 To him who works and working sings 
 
 Come joy and majesty and power 
 
 And steadfast love with royal wings." 
 
 " watch these fools that blink and cower," 
 
 Said that wise man : " and every hour 
 
 65 
 
A score is born, a dozen dies." 
 Said I : "In London fades the flower ; 
 But far away the bright blue skies 
 Shall watch my solemn w.ills arise, 
 And all the glory, all the grace 
 Of earth shall gather there, and eyes 
 Win shine like stars in that new place." 
 Said he : " Indeed of ancient race 
 Thou comest, with thy hoUow scheme. 
 But sail, O architect of dream. 
 To lands beyond the Ocean stream. 
 Where are the islands of the blest. 
 And where Atlantis, where Theleme ? " 
 
 60 
 
Mary Magdalen 
 
 eyes that strip the souls of men ! 
 There came to me the Magdalen. 
 Her blue robe with a cord was bound, 
 Her hair with knotted ivy crowned. 
 " Arise," she said, " God calls for thee. 
 Turned to new paths thy feet must be. 
 Leave the fever and the feast, 
 Leave the friend thou lovest best : 
 For thou must walk in barefoot ways. 
 On hills where God is near to praise." 
 
 Then answered I — " Sweet Magdalen, 
 
 God's servant, once beloved of men, 
 
 Why didst thou change old ways for new. 
 
 Thy trailing red for corded blue. 
 
 The rose for ivy on thy brow, 
 
 That splendour for this barren vow ? " 
 
 Gentle of speech she answered me : — 
 
 " Sir, I was sick with revelry. 
 
 True, I have scarred the night with sin, 
 
 A pale and tawdry heroine ; 
 
Yet once I heard a voice that said, 
 ' Who lives in sin is like one dead. 
 But follow : thy dark eyes shall see 
 The towns of immortality.' " 
 
 " Mary, not for this," I cried, 
 
 " Didst thou renounce thy scented pride 
 
 Not for the roll of endless years 
 
 Or fields of joy undewed by tears 
 
 Didst thou desert the courts of men. 
 
 Tel) me thy truth, grave Magdalen ! " 
 
 She trembled, and her eyes grew dim : — 
 " For love of Him, for love of Him." 
 
 68 
 
/ Rose from Dreamless Hours 
 
 I rose from dreamless hours and sought the mora 
 
 That beat upon my window : from the sill , 
 
 I watched sweet lands, where Autumn light newborn 
 
 Swayed through the trees and lingered on the hill. 
 
 If things so lovely are, why labour still 
 
 To dream of something more than this I see ? 
 
 Do I remember tales of Galilee, 
 
 I who have slain my faith and freed my will \ 
 
 Let me forget dead faith, dead mystery. 
 
 Dead thoughts of things I cannot comprehend. 
 
 Enough the light mysterious in the tree, 
 
 Enough the friendship of my chosen friend. 
 
 69 
 
Prayer 
 
 Let me not know how sins and sorrows glide 
 
 Along the sombre city of our rage. 
 
 Or why the sons of men are heavy-eyed. 
 
 Let me not know, except from printed page, 
 The pain of bitter love, of baffled pride. 
 Or sickness shadowing with a long presage. 
 
 Let me not know, since happy some have died 
 
 Quickly in youth or quietly in age. 
 
 How faint, how loud the bravest hearts have cried. 
 
 70 
 
The Piper 
 
 A lad went piping through the Earth, 
 
 Gladly, madly, merrily. 
 With a tune for death and a tune for birth. 
 
 And a tune for lover's revelry. 
 
 He kissed the girls that sat alone 
 With none to whisper, none to woo ; 
 
 Fired at his touch their faces shone. 
 And beauty drenched them as the dew. 
 
 Old men who heard him danced again. 
 And shuffled round with catching breath. 
 
 And those that lay on beds of pain 
 
 Went dancing through the gates of death. 
 
 If only he could make us thrill 
 
 Once more with mirth and melody ! 
 
 I listened, but the street was still, 
 And no one played for you and me. 
 
 1907 
 
 71 
 
The Masque of the Magi 
 
 Three Kings have come to Bethltehem 
 With a trailing star in front of them. 
 
 Mary 
 
 What would you in this little place. 
 You three bright kings f 
 
 Kings 
 
 Mother, we tracked the trailing star 
 Which brought us here from lands afar. 
 And we would look on his dear face 
 Round whom the Seraphs fold their wings. 
 
 Mary 
 
 But who are you, bright kings 
 72 
 
Caspar 
 
 Caspar am I : the rocky North 
 
 From storm and silence drave me forth 
 
 Down to the blue and tideless sea. 
 I do not fear the tinkling sword. 
 For I am a great battle-lord, 
 
 And love the horns of chivalry. 
 And I have brought thee splendid gold, 
 The strong man's joy, refined and cold. 
 
 All hail, thou Prince of Galilee ! 
 
 Balthazar 
 
 I am Balthazar, Lord of Ind, 
 Where blows a soft and scented wind 
 
 From Taprobane towards Cathay. 
 My children, who are tall and wise. 
 Stand by a tree with shutten eyes 
 
 And seem to meditate or pray. 
 And these red drops of frankincense 
 Betoken man's intelligence. 
 
 Hail, Lord of Wisdom, Prince of Day ! 
 
 Melchior 
 
 I am the dark man, Melchior, 
 And I shall live but little more 
 Since I am old and feebly move. 
 
 73 
 
My kingdom is a burnt-up land 
 Half buried by the drifting sand, 
 
 So hot Apollo shines above. 
 What could I bring but simple myrrh 
 White blossom of the cordial fire ? 
 
 Hail, Prince of Souls, and Lord of Love ! 
 
 Chorus of Angels 
 
 Prince of souls and Lord of Love, 
 O'er thee the purple-breasted dove 
 Shall watch with open silver wings, 
 
 Thou King of Kings. 
 Suaviole ofios Virginum, 
 Apfaruit Rex Gentium. 
 
 " Who art thou, little King of Kings ? " 
 His wondering mother sings. 
 
 74 
 
To a Poet a Thousand Years Hence 
 
 I who am dead a thousand years, 
 And wrote this sweet archaic song, 
 
 Send you my words for messengers 
 The way I shall not pass along. 
 
 I care not if you bridge the seas. 
 Or ride secure the cruel sky, 
 
 Or build consummate palaces 
 Of metal or of masonry. 
 
 But have you wine and music stiU, 
 And statues and a bright-eyed love. 
 
 And fooUsh thoughts of good and ill, 
 And prayers to them who sit above ? 
 
 How shall we conquer f Like a wind 
 That falls at eve our fancies blow, 
 
 And old Mzonides the bhnd 
 
 Said it three thousand years ago. 
 
 7S 
 
friend unseen, unborn, unknown, 
 Student of our sweet English tongue. 
 
 Read out my words at night, alone : 
 I was a poet, I was young. 
 
 Since I can never see your face. 
 And never shake you by the hand, 
 
 I send my soul through time and space 
 To greet you. You will understand. 
 
 76 
 
Heliodora 
 
 {From Meleager) 
 
 Why dost thou touch, flower-fed bee, 
 
 Heliodora's skin, 
 When open buds are asking thee 
 
 To make thy home within f 
 
 What parable art murmuring f — 
 That Eros makes man whole. 
 
 And turns the poison of his sting 
 To sweetness in the soul ? 
 
 Is this your message, sUly bee ? 
 
 A dreamer takes it so. 
 Then home again ! Don't trouble me ! 
 
 I knew it long ago. 
 
 1908 ? 
 
 77 
 
Love^ the Baby 
 
 (From Meleager) 
 
 Let him be sold, I say ! Let him be sold, 
 Even while he slumbers at his mother's breast. 
 Why should I tend a thing so bad and bold, 
 A snub-nosed imp, a little scratching pest ! 
 I find him always laughing through his tears : 
 He treats his mother badly ; won't be tamed. 
 Has baby wings behind him ; pries and peers. 
 Behaves unruly, chatters unashamed, — 
 A shocking monster ! Sailor men, this way ! 
 Who wants a boy to carry off to sea ? 
 Oh dear, he's crying ! Come, I'll let you stay 
 CiOSe to the heart of my Zenophile. 
 
 1908 f 
 
 78 
 
Ballad of the Londoner 
 
 Evening falls on the smoky walls. 
 And the railings drip with rain, 
 
 And I will cross the old river 
 To see my giri again. 
 
 The great and solemn-gliding tram. 
 Love's still-mysterious car. 
 
 Has many a light of gold and white. 
 And a single dark red star. 
 
 I know a garden in a street 
 Which no one ever knew ; 
 
 I know a rose beyond the Thames, 
 Where flowers are pale and few. 
 
 79 
 
Resurj-ection 
 
 {By Piero degli Franceschi, at Borgo) 
 
 Sleep holds you, sons of war : you may not see 
 (You whose charmed heads sink heavy in your hands) 
 How 'twixt the budding and the barren tree 
 With glory in his staring eyes, he stands. 
 There's a sharp movement in this shivering morn 
 That blinds your senses while it breaks your power : 
 The Phoenix grips the eagle : Christ reborn 
 Bears high the standard. Sleep a little hour : 
 Sleep : it were best ye saw not those bright eyes 
 Prepared to wreck your world with errant flame, 
 And drive strong men to follow mysteries, 
 Voices, and winds, and things that have no name. 
 Dare you leave strength half-proved, duty half-done ? 
 Awake ! This God will hunt you from the sun ! 
 
 Nov. 10, 1908 
 
 80 
 
Duke Lumen^ Triste Numen^ Suave 
 Lumen Luminum 
 
 The town whose quiet veins are dark green sea, 
 
 The town whose flowers and forests are bright stone ; 
 
 There it was the God came to you and me 
 
 In the signless depth of summer. All alone 
 
 We lay, and half in dream 
 
 Gazed at the thin salt stream. 
 
 And heard the ripples talking lazily. 
 
 No verdurous growth, no sudden sharp decUne 
 
 Of buds or leaves is there : the marble towers 
 
 Come rain, come cold, come snow or gay sunshine 
 
 Blossom eternally with graven flowers ; 
 
 Yet there the mild God came, 
 
 In silence, shod with flame. 
 
 Girdled with mystery and crowned with vine. 
 
 We lay in the sun and Ustened and we heard 
 Soft-treading feet and whispers in the air. 
 And thunder far away, Uke a god's word 
 Of dire import, and saw the noonday flare 
 
 8i 
 
And tall white palaces 
 
 Sway all with dizziness ; 
 
 The bells pealed faintly, and the water stirred 
 
 And Life stood still a moment, mists came swinging 
 
 Blindly before us ; suddenly we passed 
 
 The boundaries of joy : our hearts were ringing 
 
 True to the trembling world : we stood at last 
 
 Beyond the golden gate, 
 
 Masters of Time and Fate, 
 
 And knew the tune that Sun and Stars were singing. 
 
 For like two travellers on a hill, who stay 
 
 Viewing the smoke that dims the busy plains. 
 
 So, far away (sweet words are " tar away " ! ) 
 
 We saw our life : and all its crooked lanes, 
 
 Dim cities and dark walls 
 
 Fell as a world that falls 
 
 And left us radiant in the Wind of Day. 
 
 .\n end, an end ! Again the leaden noon 
 
 Glowed, and hot Fever opened her red eyes, 
 
 And Misery came creeping out, and soon 
 
 We felt once more the sorrow of the Wise. 
 
 Come, friend ! We travel on 
 
 (That one brief vision gone) 
 
 Bravely, like men who see beyond the skies. 
 
 Nov. 20, 1908 
 
 82 
 
Joseph and Mary 
 
 J OSF.PH 
 
 Mary, art thou the little maid 
 
 Who plucked me flowers in Spring ? 
 
 I know thee not : I feel afraid : 
 Thou'rt strange this evening. 
 
 A sweet and rustic girl I won 
 
 What time the woods were green ; 
 
 No woman with deep eyes that shone, 
 And the pale brows of a Queen. 
 
 Mary {inattentive to his words) 
 
 A stranger came with feet of flame 
 And told me this strange thing, — 
 
 For all I was a village maid 
 My son should be a King. 
 
 83 
 
Joseph 
 
 A King, dear wife. Who ever knew 
 Of Kings in stables born ! 
 
 Ua 
 
 Do you hear, in the dark and starlit blue 
 The clarion and the horn ? 
 
 Joseph 
 
 Mary, alas, lest grief and joy 
 Have sent thy wits astray ; 
 
 But let me look on this my boy. 
 And take the wraps away. 
 
 Mary 
 Behold the lad. 
 
 Joseph 
 
 I dare not gaze ; 
 Light streams from every limb. 
 
 84 
 
Masy 
 
 The winter sun has stored his rays. 
 And passed the fire to him. 
 
 Look Eastward, look ! I hear a sound. 
 O Joseph, what do you see i 
 
 Joseph 
 
 The snow lies quiet on the ground 
 And glistens on the tree ; 
 
 The sky is bright vvitli a star's great light. 
 
 And clearly I behold 
 Three Kings descending yonder hill, 
 
 Whose crowns are crowns of gold. 
 
 O Mary, what do you hear and see 
 With your brow toward the West f 
 
 Mary 
 
 The snow lies glistening on the tree 
 And silent on Earth's breast ; 
 
 8S 
 
And strong and tall, with lifted eyes 
 Seven shepherds walk this way, 
 
 And angels breaking from the skies 
 Dance, and sing hymns, and pray. 
 
 Joseph 
 
 I wonder much at these bright Kings ; 
 The shepherds I despise. 
 
 Mary 
 
 You know not what a shepherd sings. 
 Nor see his shining eyes. 
 
 86 
 
The Lover of Jalalu ddin 
 
 My darling wandered through the house. 
 
 His bow upon the rebeck, light as flame. 
 
 Soft melodies he played, astray with sweet carouse, 
 
 Mad songs without a name. 
 
 Then, changing to a solemn mode and measure, 
 
 " Cupbearer, wine ! " he cried, 
 
 " Wine for the sons of pleasure. 
 
 The children of desire ! " 
 
 Forth from his comer came 
 
 The moonbright boy, and set the brimming bowl 
 
 Before us, with sweet reverence and grace. 
 
 My darling took the cup : over his face 
 
 Flowed truant flames. " Ye evil ghosts," he cried, 
 
 " I know my beauty : who is like to me ? 
 
 The sun of all the world, the Lover's pride, 
 
 I am, I was, shall be 
 
 With soul and spirit moving at my side." 
 
 Dec. 1908 
 87 
 
Donde Estan f 
 
 {Fragment) 
 
 We are they who dream no dreams. 
 
 Singers of arising day 
 
 Who undaunted, 
 
 Where the sword of reason gleams. 
 
 Follow hard, to hew away 
 
 The woods enchanted. 
 
 Through each dark and rustling byway 
 
 Evil things have fled before us : 
 
 We pursue them : 
 
 We have carved an open highway, 
 
 We have sung of Truth in chorus 
 
 As we slew them. 
 
 II 
 
 Tliough the shapes had something human. 
 Though sweet lips and eyes entreated 
 By their beauty : 
 
 88 
 
Though processions of tall women 
 
 Looked and lured, we undefeated 
 
 Did our duty. 
 
 Though fair children, running after, 
 
 Held out hands of supplication. 
 
 Smiled and cried. 
 
 Yet we watched with bitter laughter 
 
 When delusion's fair creation 
 
 Smitten, died. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Where are they, the half-deceivers 
 
 Statue-forms and young men's fancies, 
 
 Gods of Greece ? 
 
 Dryads, where your groves and rivers, 
 
 Where thy chaste and woodland dances, 
 
 Artemis ? 
 
 Shadows, shadows ! None will follow 
 
 Cyprian maids ; or voices sighing 
 
 From the sea ; 
 
 Veiled is Iris, dark Apollo, 
 
 Dead the Queen who called the dying 
 
 Hecate. 
 
 89 
 
Where are they who crushed the East 
 
 With ribaldry and song, and where 
 
 The lewd viziers ? 
 
 Where the girls who crowned the feast 
 
 For the Lords who had no care 
 
 Of blood or tears ? 
 
 Where the millions who, forgotten, 
 
 Fought for Selim's sultanate 
 
 And fiUed Gehenna '( 
 
 Where the sword ? — but dim and rotten 
 
 Lies the sword that cleft the gate 
 
 Of proud Vienna. 
 
 Feb. or Mar. 1909 
 
 90 
 
The Town without a Market 
 
 There lies afar behind a western hill 
 
 The Town without a Market, white and still ; 
 
 For six feet long and not a third as high 
 
 Are those small habitations. There stood I, 
 
 Waiting to hear the citizens beneath 
 
 Murmur and sigh and speak through tongueless teeth. 
 
 When all the world lay burning in the sun 
 
 I heard their voices speak to me. Said one : 
 
 " Bright lights I loved and colours, I who find 
 
 That death is darkness, and has struck me blind." 
 
 Another cried : " I used to sing and play, 
 
 But here the world is silent, day by day." 
 
 And one : " On earth I could not see or hear, 
 
 But with my fingers touched what I was near. 
 
 And knew things round and soft, and brass from gold, 
 
 And dipped my hand in water, to feel cold, 
 
 And thought the grave would cure me, and was glad 
 
 When the time came to lose what joy I had." 
 
 Soon all the voices of a hundred dead 
 
 Shouted in wrath together. Some one said, 
 
 " I care not, but the girl was sweet to kiss 
 
 At evening in the meadows." " Hard it is," 
 
 91 
 
Another cried, " to hear no hunting horn. 
 
 Ah me I the horse, the hounds, and the great grey morn 
 
 When I rode out a-hunting." And one sighed, 
 
 " I did not see my son before I died." 
 
 A boy said, " I was strong and swift to run ; 
 
 Now they have tied my feet : what have I done ? " 
 
 A man, " But it was good to arm and fight 
 
 And storm their cities in the dead of night." 
 
 An old man said, " I read my books all day, 
 
 But death has taken all my books away." 
 
 And one, " The popes and prophets did not well 
 
 To cheat poor dead men with false hopes of hell. 
 
 Better the whips of fire that hiss and rend 
 
 Than painless void proceeding to no end." 
 
 I smiled to hear them restless, I who sought 
 
 Peace. For I had not loved, I had not fought. 
 
 And books are vanities, and manly strength 
 
 A gathered flower. God grant us peace at length ! 
 
 I heard no more, and turned to leave their town 
 
 Before the chill came, and the sun went down. 
 
 Then rose a whisper, and I seemed to know 
 
 A timorous man, buried long years ago. 
 
 " On Earth I used to shape the Thing that seems. 
 
 Master of all men, give me back my dreams. 
 
 Give me that world that never failed me then, 
 
 The hUIs I made and peopled with tall men. 
 
 The palace that I built and called my home. 
 
 My cities which could break the pride of Rome, 
 
 The three queens hidden in the sacred tree. 
 
 And those white cloudy folk who sang to me. 
 
 92 
 
death, why hast thou covered me so deep ? 
 
 1 was thy sister's child, the friend of Sleep." 
 
 Then said my heart, Death takes and cannot give. 
 Dark with no dream is hateful : let me live ! 
 
 93 
 
A Western Voyage 
 
 My friend the Sun — ^like all my friends 
 Inconstant, lovely, far away — 
 
 Is out, and bright, and condescends 
 To glory in our holiday. 
 
 A furious march with him I'll go 
 And race him in the Western train, 
 
 And wake the hiUs I used to know 
 And swim the Devon sea again. 
 
 I have done foolishly to tread 
 TTie footway of the false moonbeams, 
 
 To light my lamp and call the dead 
 And read their long black printed dreams. 
 
 I have done foolishly to dwell 
 With Fear upon her desert isle, 
 
 To take my shadowgraph to Hell, 
 
 And then to hope the shades would smile. 
 
 94 
 
And since the light must fall me soon 
 (But faster, faster, Western train !) 
 
 Proud meadows of the afternoon, 
 I have remembered you again. 
 
 And I'll go seek through moor and dale 
 A flower that wastrel winds caress ; 
 
 The bud is red and the leaves pale, 
 The name of it Forgetfulness. 
 
 Then like the old and happy hills 
 With frozen veins and fires outrun, 
 
 I'll wait the day when darkness kills 
 My brother and good friend, the Sun. 
 
 95 
 
Invitation 
 
 TO A YOUNG BXrr LEARNED FRIEND TO ABANDON 
 
 ARCHEOLOGY FOR THE MOMENT, AND PLAY ONCE 
 
 MORE WITH HIS NEGLECTED MUSE 
 
 In those good days when we were young and wise, 
 You spake to music, you with the thoughtful eyes. 
 And God looked down from heaven, pleased to hear 
 A young man's song arise so firm and clear. 
 Has Fancy died ? The Morning Star gone cold ? 
 Why are you silent ? Have we grown so old ? 
 Who sings upon Parnassus ? He is dead. 
 The God to whom be prayers, not praises, said, 
 The sea-born, the Ionian. There is one — 
 But he dreams deeper than the oaks of Clun. 
 (May summer keep his maids and meadows glad : 
 They hear no more the pipe of the Shropshire Lad !) 
 And our Tyrtaeus ? Strange that such a name 
 Already fades upon the mist of fame 
 With the smoke of Eastern armies. But the third 
 Still knows the dreadful meaning of a word. 
 His gown is black and crimson : mystery 
 Veils all his speech, so wonderful is he. 
 
 96 
 
These three remain, and voiceless you, and I. 
 —Come, the sweet radiance of our Spring is nigh. 
 Must I alone keep playing ? Will not you, 
 Lord of the Measures, string your lyre anew ? 
 Lover of Greece, is this the richest store 
 You bring us, — withered leaves and dusty lore, 
 And broken vases widowed of their wine, 
 To brand you pedant while you stand divine ? 
 Decorous words beseem the learned lip. 
 But Poets have the nicer scholarship. 
 In English glades they watch the Cyprian glow 
 And all the Maenad melodies they know. 
 They hear strange voices in a London street. 
 And track the silver gleam of rushing feet ; 
 And these are things that come not to the view 
 Of slippered dons who read a codex through. 
 
 O honeyed Poet, will you praise no more 
 The moonlit garden and the midnight shore ? 
 Brother, have you forgotten how to sing 
 The story of that weak and cautious king 
 Who reigned two hundred years in Trebizond ? 
 You who would ever strive to pierce beyond 
 Love's ecstasy. Life's vision, is it well 
 We should not know the talcs you have to tell ? 
 
 97 
 
War Song of the Saracens 
 
 We are they who come faster than fate : we are they who 
 
 ride early or late : 
 We storm at your ivory gate : Pale Kings of the Sunset, 
 
 beware ! 
 Not on silk nor in samet we lie, not in curtained solemnity 
 
 die 
 Among women who chatter and cry, and children who 
 
 mumble a prayer. 
 But we sleep by the ropes of the camp, and we rise with a 
 
 shout, and we tramp 
 With the sun or the moon for a lamp, and the spray of the 
 
 wind in our hair. 
 
 From the lands, where die elephants are, to the forts of 
 
 Merou and Balghar, 
 Our steel we have brought and our star to shine on the 
 
 ruins of Rum. 
 We have marched from the Indus to Spain, and by God 
 
 we will go there again ; 
 We have stood on the shore of the plain where the Waters 
 
 of Destiny boom. 
 
 q8 
 
A mart of destruction we made at Jalula where men were 
 
 afraid, 
 For death was a diflicult trade, and the sword was a broker 
 
 of doom ; 
 
 And the Spear was a Desert Physician who cured not a few 
 
 of ambition, 
 And drave not a few to perdition with medicine bitter and 
 
 strong : 
 And the shield was a grief to the fool and as bright as a 
 
 desolate pool. 
 And as straight as the rock of Stamboul when their 
 
 cavalry thundered along : 
 For the coward was drowned with the brave when our 
 
 battle sheered up like a wave, 
 And the dead to the desert we gave, and the glory to God 
 
 in our song. 
 
 99 
 
The Ballad of Camde?i Town 
 
 I walked with Maisie long years back 
 The streets of Camden Town, 
 
 I splendid in my suit of black, 
 And she divine in brown. 
 
 Hers was a proud and noble face, 
 A secret heart, and eyes 
 
 Like water in a lonely place 
 Beneath unclouded skies. 
 
 A bed, a chest, a faded mat. 
 And broken chairs a few, 
 
 Were all we had to grace our flat 
 In Hazel Avenue. 
 
 But I could walk to Hampstead Heath, 
 And crown her head with daisies, 
 
 And watch the streaming world beneath. 
 And men with other Maisies. 
 
 100 
 
When I was ill and she was pale 
 And empty stood our store, 
 
 She left the latchkey on its nail, 
 And saw me nevermore. 
 
 Perhaps she cast herself away 
 Lest both of us should drown : 
 
 Perhaps she feared to die, as they 
 Who die in Camden Town. 
 
 What came of her ? The bitter nights 
 
 Destroy the rose and lily, 
 And souls are lost among the lights 
 
 Of painted Piccadilly. 
 
 What came of her ? The river flows 
 So deep and wide and stilly. 
 
 And waits to catch the fallen rose 
 And clasp the broken lily. 
 
 I dream she dwells in London still 
 And breathes the evening air. 
 
 And often walk to Primrose Hill, 
 And hope to meet her there. 
 
 Once more together we will live. 
 
 For I will find her yet : 
 I have so little to forgive ; 
 
 So much, I can't forget. 
 
 lOI 
 
Gravis Duicis Immiitahilts 
 
 Come, let me kiss your wistful face 
 Where Sorrow curves her bow of pain, 
 And live sweet days and bitter days 
 With you, or wanting you again. 
 
 I dread your perishable gold : 
 
 Come near me now ; the years are few. 
 
 Alas, when you and I are old 
 
 I shall not want to look at you : 
 
 And yet come in. I shall not dare 
 To gaze upon your countenance, 
 But I shall huddle in my chair, 
 Turn to the fire my fireless glance, 
 
 And listen, while that slow and grave 
 Immutable sweet voice of yours 
 Rises and falls, as falls a wave 
 In summer on forsaken shores. 
 
 102 
 
Fountains 
 
 Soft is the collied night, and cool 
 Tl^e wind about the garden pool. 
 Here will I dip my burning hand 
 And move an inch of drowsy sand, 
 And pray the dark reflected skies 
 To fasten with their seal mine eyes. 
 A million million leagues away 
 Among the stars the goldfish play. 
 And high above the shadowed stars 
 Wave and float the nenuphars. 
 
 103 
 
Dirge 
 
 If there be any grief 
 For those lost eremites 
 Who live where no man roams. 
 It is on Autumn nights 
 At falling of the leaf, 
 It is when pale October, 
 Relentless tree-disrober, 
 Conceals the smokeless homes. 
 
 Autumn is not so chill 
 Nor leaves so light in air, 
 Nor any wind as dim 
 Blowing from any where. 
 Nor fallen snow as still 
 As the boy who loved to wander 
 Singing till the forest yonder 
 Shouted in response to him. 
 
 My love has come to this— 
 And what of this to me ? 
 His eyes are eaten now, 
 My eyes he cannot see ; 
 
 104 
 
Those gentle hands of his 
 Are taken by a stronger, 
 There is a hand no longer 
 To lay upon my brow. 
 
 Autumn has killed the rose ; 
 mock him not with flowers 
 For they are troublesome : 
 Take him to pass the hours 
 Where the grey nettle grows. 
 Scantly his couch adorning 
 Let him who praised the morning 
 Lie here, till morning come. 
 
 1909. Based on a foem. 
 fublished in 1907 as " The 
 Young Poet " 
 
 105 
 
The Parrot 
 
 The old professor of Zoology- 
 Shook his long beard and spake these words to me : 
 " Compare the Parrot with the Dove. They are 
 In shape the same : in hue dissimilar. 
 The Indian bird, which may be sometimes seen 
 In red or black, is generally green. 
 His beak is very hard : it has been known 
 To crack thick nuts and penetrate a stone. 
 Alas that when you teach him how to speak 
 You find his head is harder than his beak. 
 The passionless Malay can safely drub 
 The pates of parrots with an iron club : 
 The ingenious fowls, like boys they beat at school, 
 Soon learn to recognize a Despot's rule. 
 
 Now if you'd train a parrot, catch him young 
 While soft the mouth and tractable the tongue. 
 Old birds are fools : they dodder in their speech, 
 More eager to forget than you to teach ; 
 They swear one curse, then gaze at you askance, 
 And all obhvion thickens in their glance. 
 
 Thrice blest whose parrot of his own accord 
 Invents new phrases to delight his Lord, 
 1 06 
 
Who spurns the dull quotidian task and tries 
 Selected words that prove him good and wise. 
 Ah, once it was my privilege to know 
 A bird like this . . . 
 
 But that was long ago ! " 
 
 July 1909 
 
 107 
 
Lord Ai'tialdos 
 
 ^ Oiiien huhiese ial venlura ? 
 
 The strangest of adventures, 
 That happen by the sea, 
 Befell to Lord Arnaldos 
 On the Evening of St. John ; 
 For he was out a-hunting — 
 A huntsman bold was he ! — 
 When he beheld a little ship 
 And close to land was she. 
 Her cords were all of silver, 
 Her sails of cramasy ; 
 And he who sailed the little ship 
 Was singing at the helm : 
 The waves stood still to hear him, 
 The wind was soft and low ; 
 The fish who dwell in darkness 
 Ascended through the sea. 
 And all the birds in heaven 
 Flew dovi'n to his mast-tree. 
 Then spake the Lord Arnaldos, 
 (Well shall you hear his words !) 
 
 1 08 
 
" Tell me for God's sake, sailor, 
 What song may that song be ? " 
 The sailor spake in answer, 
 And answer thus made he : 
 " I only tell my song to those 
 Who sail away with me." 
 
 loq 
 
A Miracle of Bethlehem 
 
 Scene : A street oj that village 
 Ihree men iidth ropes, accosted hy a stranger 
 
 The Stranger 
 
 I pray you, tell me where you go 
 With heads averted from the skies, 
 And long ropes trailing in the snow. 
 And resolution in your eyes. 
 
 The First Man 
 
 I am a lover sick of love. 
 For scorn rewards my constancy ; 
 And now I hate the stars above, 
 Because my dear will naught of me. 
 
 no 
 
The Second Man 
 
 I am a beggar man, and play 
 Songs with a splendid swing in them. 
 But I have seen no food to-day. 
 They want no song in Bethlehem. 
 
 The Third Man 
 
 I am an old man. Sir, and blind, 
 A child of darkness since my birth. 
 I cannot even call to mind 
 The beauty of the scheme of earth. 
 
 Therefore I sought to understand 
 A secret hid from mortal eyes, 
 So in a far and fragrant land 
 I talked with men accounted wise. 
 
 And I implored the Indian priest 
 For wisdom from his holy snake. 
 Yet am no wiser in the least, 
 And have not seen the darkness break. 
 
 Stranger 
 
 And whither go ye now, unhappy three ? 
 
 Ill 
 
The Three Men with Ropes 
 
 Sir, in our strange and special misery 
 We met this night, and swore in bitter pride 
 To sing one song together, friend with friend. 
 And then, proceeding to the country side, 
 To bind this cordage to a barren tree, 
 And face to face to give our hves an end, 
 And only thus shall we be satisfied. 
 
 {They make to contmue tkeir roaJ) 
 
 The Stranger 
 
 Stay for a moment. Great is )our despair, 
 But God is kind. What voice from over there f 
 
 A W OMAN {from a lattice) 
 My lover, O my lover, come to me ! 
 
 First Man 
 
 God with you. {He runs to the ivindow) 
 
 111 
 
Stranger 
 Ah, how swiftly gone is he ! 
 
 Many Voices [heard singing in a cottage) 
 
 There is a softness in the night 
 
 A wonder in that splendid star 
 
 That fills us with delight, 
 
 Poor foolish working people that we are. 
 
 And only fit to keep 
 
 A little garden or a dozen sheep. 
 
 Old broken women at the fire 
 
 Have many ancient tales they sing, 
 
 How the whole world's desire 
 
 Should blossom here, and how a child should bring 
 
 New glory to his race 
 
 Though born in so contemptible a place. 
 
 Let all come in, if any brother go 
 
 In shame or hunger, cold or fear, 
 
 Through all this waste of snow. 
 
 To-night the Star, the Rose, the Song are near,. 
 
 And still inside the door 
 
 Is full provision for another score. 
 
 {The Beggar runs to tberti) 
 
 113 » 
 
The Stranger {to the Blind Man) 
 Do you not mean to share these joys ? 
 
 The Blind Man 
 
 Aweary of this earthly noise 
 
 I pace my silent way. 
 
 Come you and help me tie this rope ; 
 
 I would not lose my only hope. 
 
 Already clear the birds I hear, 
 
 Already breaks the day. 
 
 Stranger 
 
 foolish and most blind old man. 
 Where are those other two ? 
 
 The Blind Man 
 
 Why, one is wed and t'other fed • 
 Small thanks they gave to you. 
 
 Stranger 
 
 To me no thanks are due. 
 
 Yet since I have some little power 
 
 114 
 
Bequeathed me at this holy hour, 
 
 I tell you, friend, that God shall grant 
 
 This night to you your dearest want. 
 
 The Blind Man 
 
 Why this sweet odour ? Why this flame ? 
 I am afraid. What is your name ? 
 
 The Stranger 
 
 Ask your desire, for this great night 
 Is passing. 
 
 The Blixd Man 
 Sir, I ask my sight. 
 
 The Stranger 
 
 To see this earth ? Or would you see 
 That hidden world which sent you me ? 
 
 "5 
 
The Blind Man 
 
 sweet it were but once before I die 
 
 To track the bird about the windy sky, 
 
 Or watch the soft and changing grace 
 
 Imprinted on a human face. 
 
 Yet grant me that which most I struggled for, 
 
 Since I am old, and snow is on the ground. 
 
 On earth there's little to be found. 
 
 And I would bear with earth no more. 
 
 O gentle youth, 
 
 A fool am I, but let me see the Truth ! 
 
 The Stranger 
 Gaze in my eyes. 
 
 The Blind Man 
 
 How can I gaze ? 
 What song is that, and what these rays 
 Of splendour and this rush of wings ? 
 
 The Stranger 
 These are the new celestial things. 
 ii6 
 
The Blind Man 
 
 Round the body of a child 
 A great dark flame runs wild. 
 What may this be ? 
 
 The Stranger 
 Look further, you shall see. 
 
 The Blind Man 
 
 Out on the sea of time and far away 
 
 The Empires sail like ships, and many years 
 
 Scatter before them in a mist of spray : 
 
 And mountains rise like spears 
 
 Silver and sharp against the scarlet day. 
 
 The Stranger 
 It is most sure that God has heard his prayer. 
 {The Stranger vanishes) 
 117 
 
The Beggar 
 
 (Leading a troop of revellers from the house where 
 they were singing) 
 
 Come, brothers, seek my friend and bring him in. 
 On such a night as this it were a sin 
 To leave the blind alone. 
 
 The Revellers 
 
 Greatly we fear lest he, still resolute, 
 
 Have wandered to the fields for poisoned fruit. 
 
 The Beggar 
 
 See here upon this stone . . . 
 
 He is all frozen . . . take him to a bed 
 
 And warm his hands. 
 
 The Revellers 
 
 O sorrow, he is dead ! 
 
 Ii8 
 
Felo-de-se 
 
 The song of a man who was dead 
 Ere any had heard of his song, 
 Or had seen this his ultimate song, 
 With the lines of it written in red. 
 And the sound of it steady and strong. 
 When you hear it, you know I am dead. 
 
 Not because I was weary of life 
 
 As pallid poets are : 
 
 My star was a conquering star. 
 
 My element strife. 
 
 I am young, I am strong, I am brave. 
 
 It is therefore I go to the grave. 
 
 Now to life and to life's desire. 
 And to youth and the glory of youth, 
 Farewell, for I go to acquire, 
 By the one road left me. Truth. 
 Though a great God slay me with fire 
 I will shout till he answer me. Why f 
 
 119 
 
(One soul and a Universe, why ?) 
 And for this it is pleasant to die. 
 
 For years and years I have slumbered, 
 
 And slumber was heavy and sweet, 
 
 But the last few moments are numbered. 
 
 Like trampling feet that beat. 
 
 I shall walk with the stars in their courses, 
 
 And hear very soon, very soon. 
 
 The voice of the forge of the Forces, 
 
 And ride on the ridge of the moon. 
 
 And sing a celestial tune. 
 
 120 
 
The Welsh Sea 
 
 Far out across Carnarvon bay, 
 Beneath the evening waves. 
 
 The ancient dead begin their day 
 And stream among the graves. 
 
 Listen, for they of ghostly speech. 
 Who died when Christ was born. 
 
 May dance upon the yellow beach 
 That once was yellow corn. 
 
 And you may learn of Dyfed's reign, 
 
 And dream Nemedian tales 
 Of Kings who sailed in ships from Spaia 
 
 And lent their swords to Wales. 
 
 Listen, for like a slow, green snake 
 The Ocean twists and stirs. 
 
 And whispers how the dead men wake 
 And call across the years. 
 
 izi 
 
In Memoriam 
 
 I never shall forget that night — 
 
 Mid-April, four years gone : 
 Nor how your eyes were bright, too bright, 
 
 And how the pavement shone. 
 
 Death on you now, death on your brow. 
 
 Death on your eyes so fair, 
 Death with his thin shadow hands 
 
 Combing out your hair. 
 
 O eyes long shut and lip to lip 
 
 Fastened no more to sing : 
 Old winter turned you in his grip 
 
 And icy blew your spring. 
 
 Old winter had you by the throat 
 
 You could not speak to me 
 Save in a low and whispered note 
 
 As through a shell the sea. 
 
 Death on you now, death on your brow. 
 
 Death on your eyes so fair, 
 Death with his thin shadow hands 
 
 Combing out your hair. 
 
 1910 
 122 
 
opportunity 
 
 {From Machiavelli) 
 
 " But who art thou, with curious beauty graced, 
 O woman, stamped with some bright heavenly seal ? 
 Why go thy feet on wings, and in such haste ? " 
 
 " I am that maid whose secret few may steal 
 Called Opportunity. I hasten by 
 Because my feet are treading on a wheel, 
 
 " Being more swift to run than birds to fly. 
 
 And rightly on my feet my wings I wear, 
 
 To blind the sight of those who track and spy ; 
 
 " Rightly in front I hold my scattered hair 
 
 To veil my face, and down my breast to fal', 
 
 Lest men should know my name when I am there ; 
 
 " And leave behind my back no wisp at all 
 For eager folk to clutch, what time I glide 
 So near, and turn, and pass beyond recall." 
 
 123 
 
" Tell me ; who is that Figure at thy side ? ' 
 " Penitence. Mark this well that by degree 
 Who lets me go must keep her for his bride. 
 
 " And thou hast spent much time in talk with me 
 Busied with thoughts and fancies vainly grand. 
 Nor hast remarked, fool, neither dost see 
 How lightly I have fled beneath thy hand." 
 
 124 
 
No Coward's Song 
 
 I am afraid to think about my death, 
 When it shall be, and whether in great pain 
 I shall rise up and fight the air for breath 
 Or calmly wait the bursting of my brain. 
 
 I am no coward who could seek in fear 
 A folk-lore solace or sweet Indian tales : 
 I Jcnow dead men are deaf and cannot hear 
 The singing of a thousand nightingales. 
 
 I know dead men are blind and cannot sec 
 The friend that shuts in horror their big eyes, 
 And they are witless — 0, I'd rather be 
 A living mouse than dead as a man dies. 
 
 1 25 
 
Pillage 
 
 They will trample our gardens to mire, they will bury our 
 
 city in fire ; 
 Our women await their desire, our children the clang of 
 
 the chain. 
 Our grave-eyed judges and lords they will bind by the 
 
 neck with cords, 
 And harry with whips and swords till they perish of shame 
 
 or pain, 
 And the great lapis lazuli dome where the gods of our 
 
 race had a home 
 Will break like a wave from the foam, and shred into 
 
 fiery rain. 
 
 No more on the long summer days shall we walk in the 
 
 meadow-sweet ways 
 With the teachers of music and phrase, and the masters 
 
 of dance and design. 
 No more when the trumpeter calls shall we feast in the 
 
 white-hght halls ; 
 For stayed are the soft footfalls of the moon-browed 
 
 bearers of wine. 
 
 126 
 
And lost are the statues ot Kings and of Gods with great 
 
 glorious wings, 
 And an empire of beautiful things, and the lips of the love 
 
 who was mine. 
 
 We have vanished, but not into night, though our manhood 
 
 we sold to delight, 
 Neglecting the chances of fight, unfit for the spear and 
 
 the bow. 
 We are dead, but our living was great : we are dumb, but 
 
 a song of our State 
 Will roam in the desert and wait, writh its burden of long, 
 
 long ago. 
 Till a scholar from sea-bright lands unearth from the years 
 
 and the sands 
 Some image with beautiful hands, and know what we want 
 
 him to know. 
 
 127 
 
The Ballad of Zacho 
 
 {A Greek Legend) 
 
 Zacho the King rode out of old 
 
 (And truth is what I tell) 
 With saddle and spurs and a rein of gold 
 
 To find the door of Hell. 
 
 And round around him surged the dead 
 
 With soft and lustrous eyes. 
 " Why came you here, old friend ? " they said ; 
 
 " Unwise . . . unwise . . . unwise ! 
 
 " You should have left to the prince your son 
 
 Spurs and saddle and rein : 
 Your bright and morning days are done ; 
 
 You ride not out again." 
 
 " I came to greet my friends who fell 
 
 Sword-scattered from my side ; 
 A.nd when I've drunk the wine of Hell 
 
 I'll out again and ride ! " 
 
 128 
 
But Charon rose and caught his hair 
 
 In fingers sharp and long. 
 " Loose me, old ferryman : play fair : 
 
 Try if my arm be strong." 
 
 Thrice drave he hard on Charon's breast. 
 And struck him thrice to ground, 
 
 Till stranger ghosts came out o' the west 
 And sat like stars around. 
 
 And thrice old Charon rose up high 
 
 And seized him as before. 
 " Loose me ! a broken man am I, 
 
 And fight with you no more." 
 
 " Zacho, arise, my home is near ; 
 
 I pray you walk with me : 
 I've hung my tent so full of fear 
 
 You well may shake to see. 
 
 " Home to my home come they who fight. 
 
 Who fight but not to win : 
 Without, my tent is black as night, 
 
 And red as fire within. 
 
 " Though winds blow cold and I grow old,. 
 
 My tent is fast and fair : 
 The pegs are dead men's stout right arms,. 
 
 The cords, their golden hair." 
 
 129 
 
Pavlova in London 
 
 I listened to the hunger-hearted clown. 
 
 Sadder than he : I heard a woman sing, — 
 A tall dark woman in a scarlet gown — 
 
 And saw those golden toys the jugglers fling. 
 I found a tawdry room and there sat I, 
 
 There angled for each murmur soft and strange. 
 The pavement-cries from darkness and below : 
 I watched the drinkers laugh, the lovers sigh. 
 
 And thought how Httle all the world would change 
 If clowns were audience, and we the Show. 
 
 What starry music are they playing now ? 
 
 What dancing in this dreary theatre f 
 Who is she with the moon upon her brow, 
 
 And who the fire-foot god that follows her ? — 
 Follows among those unbelieved-in trees 
 
 Back-shadowing in their parody of light 
 Across the Uttle cardboard balustrade ; 
 And we, like that poor Faun who pipes and flees. 
 
 Adore their beauty, hate it for too bright, 
 And tremble, half in rapture, half afraid. 
 
 130 
 
Play on, O furtive and heartbroken Faun ! 
 
 What is your thin dull pipe for such as they ? 
 I know you blinded by the least white dawn, 
 
 And dare you face their quick and quivering Day ? 
 Dare you, like us, weak but undaunted men, 
 
 Reliant on some deathless spark in you 
 
 Turn your dull eyes to what the gods desire, 
 Touch the light finger of your goddess ; then 
 
 After a second's flash of gold and blue. 
 Drunken with that divinity, expire i 
 
 dance, Diana, dance, Endymion, 
 
 Till calm ancestral shadows lay their hands 
 Gently across mine eyes : in days long gone 
 Have I not danced with gods in garden lands ? 
 
 1 too a wild unsighted atom borne 
 Deep in the heart of some heroic boy 
 
 Span in the dance ten thousand years ago. 
 And while his young eyes glittered in the morn 
 Something of me felt something of his joy. 
 And longed to rule a body, and to know. 
 
 Singer long dead and sweeter-lipped than I, 
 
 In whose proud line the soul-dark phrases burn. 
 
 Would you could praise their passionate symmetry. 
 Who loved the colder shapes, the Attic urn. 
 
 131 
 
But your far song, my faint one, what are they, 
 And what their dance and faery thoughts and ours 
 Or night abloom with splendid stars and pale ? 
 'Tis an old story that sweet flowers decay, 
 And dreams, the noblest, die as soon as flowers, 
 And dancers, all the world of them, must fail. 
 
 1^2 
 
The Sentimentalist 
 
 There lies a photograph of you 
 Deep in a box of broken things. 
 
 This was the face I loved and knew 
 Five years ago, when Ufe had wings ; 
 
 Five years ago, when through a town 
 Of bright and soft and shadowy bowers 
 
 We walked and talked and trailed our gown 
 Regardless of the cinctured hours. 
 
 The precepts that we held I kept ; 
 
 Proudly my ways with you I went : 
 We lived our dreams while others slept, 
 
 And did not shrink from sentiment. 
 
 Now I go East and you stay West 
 And when between us Europe lies 
 
 I shall forget what I loved best, 
 Away from hps and hands and eyes. 
 
 133 
 
But we were Gods then : we were they 
 Who laughed at fools, believed in friends, 
 
 And drank to all that golden day 
 Before us, which this poem ends. 
 
 134 
 
Doti Juan in Hell 
 
 (From Bauddaire) 
 
 The night Don Juan came to pay his fees 
 To Charon, by the caverned water's shore, 
 
 A beggar, proud-eyed as Antisthenes, 
 
 Stretched out his knotted fingers on the oar. 
 
 Mournful, with drooping breasts and robes unsewn 
 The shapes of women swayed in ebon skies, 
 
 Trailing behind him with a restless moan 
 Like cattle herded for a sacrifice. 
 
 Here, grinning for his wage, stood Sganarelle, 
 And here Don Luis pointed, bent and dim. 
 
 To show the dead who lined the holes of Hell, 
 This was that impious son who mocked at him. 
 
 The hollow-eyed, the chaste Elvira came. 
 
 Trembling and veiled, to view her traitor spouse. 
 
 Was it one last bright smile she thought to claim, 
 Such as made sweet the morning of his vows ? 
 
 135 
 
A great stone man rose like a tower on board, 
 Stood at the helm and cleft the flood profound : 
 
 But the calm hero, leaning on his sword. 
 
 Gazed back, and would not ofier one look round. 
 
 136 
 
The Ballad of Iskander 
 
 Aflatun and Aristu and King Iskander 
 Are Plato, Aristotle, Alexander 
 
 Sultan Iskander sat him down 
 On his golden throne, in his golden crown, 
 And shouted, " Wine and flute-girls three. 
 And the Captain, ho ! of my ships at sea." 
 
 He drank his bowl of wine ; he kept 
 The flute-girls dancing tiU they wept, 
 Praised and kissed their painted lips. 
 And turned to the Captain of All his Ships 
 
 And cried, " Lord of my Ships that go 
 From the Persian Gulf to the Pits of Snow, 
 Inquire for men unknown to man ! " 
 Said Sultan Iskander of Yoonistan. 
 
 " Daroosh is dead, and I am King 
 Of Everywhere and Everything : 
 Yet leagues and leagues away for sure 
 The lion-hearted dream of war. 
 
 137 
 
" Admiral, I command you sail ! 
 Take you a ship of silver mail, 
 And fifty sailors, young and bold, 
 And stack provision deep in the hold, 
 
 " And seek out twenty men that know 
 All babel tongues which flaunt and flow ; 
 And stay ! Impress those learned two. 
 Old Aflatun, and Aristu. 
 
 " And set your prow South-western ways 
 A thousand bright and dimpling days, 
 And find me lion-hearted Lords 
 With breasts to feed Our rusting swords." 
 
 The Captain of the Ships bowed low. 
 " Sir," he replied, " I wdll do so." 
 And down he rode to the harbour mouth. 
 To choose a boat to carry him South. 
 
 And he launched a ship of silver mail, 
 With fifty lads to hoist the sail. 
 And twenty wise — all tongues they knew, 
 And Aflatun, and Aristu. 
 
 There had not dawned the second day 
 But the glittering galleon sailed away, 
 And through the night like one great bell 
 The marshalled armies sang farewell. 
 
 138 
 
In twenty days the silver ship 
 Had passed tlie Isle of Serendip, 
 And made the flat Araunian coasts 
 Inhabited, at noon, by Ghosts. 
 
 In thirty days the ship was far 
 
 Beyond the land of Calcobar, 
 
 Where men drink Dead Men's Blood for wine, 
 
 And dye their beards alizarine. 
 
 But on the hundredth day there came 
 Storm with his windy wings aflame. 
 And drave them out to that Lone Sea 
 Whose shores are near Eternity. 
 
 For seven years arid seven years 
 Sailed those forgotten mariners, 
 Nor could they spy on either hand 
 The faintest level of good red land. 
 
 Bird or fish they saw not one ; 
 There swam no ship beside their own, 
 And day-night long the lilied Deep 
 Lay round them, with its flowers asleep. 
 
 The beams began to warp and crack. 
 The silver plates turned filthy black, 
 And drooping down on the carven rails 
 Hung those once lovely silken sails. 
 
 139 
 
And all the great ship's crew who were 
 Such noble lads to do and dare 
 Grew old and tired of the changeless sky 
 And laid them down on the deck to die. 
 
 And they who spake all tongues there be 
 Made antics with solemnity, 
 Or closely huddled each to each 
 Talked ribald in a foreign speech 
 
 And Aflatun and Aristu 
 Let their Beards grow, and their Beards grew 
 Round and about the mainmast tree 
 Where they stood still, and watched the sea. 
 
 And day by day their Captain grey 
 Knelt on the rotting poop to pray : 
 And yet despite ten thousand prayers 
 They saw no ship that was not theirs. 
 
 When thrice the seven years had passed 
 They saw a ship, a ship at last ! 
 Untarnished glowed its silver mail. 
 Windless bellied its silken sail. 
 
 With a shout the grizzled sailors rose 
 Cursing the years of sick repose. 
 And they who spake in tongues unknown 
 Gladly reverted to their own. 
 
 140 
 
The Captain leapt and left his prayers 
 And hastened down the dust-dark stairs. 
 And taking to hand a brazen Whip 
 He woke to life the long dead ship. 
 
 But Aflatun and Aristu, 
 
 Who had no work that they could do, 
 
 Gazed at the stranger Ship and Sea 
 
 With their beards around the mainmast tree. 
 
 Nearer and nearer the new boat came. 
 
 Till the hands cried out on the old ship's shame 
 
 " Silken sail to a silver boat, 
 
 We too shone when we first set float ! " 
 
 Swifter and swifter the bright boat sped. 
 But the hands spake thin like men long dead- 
 " How striking like that boat were we 
 In the days, sweet days, when we put to sea." 
 
 The ship all black and the ship all white 
 Met like the meeting of day and night. 
 Met, and there lay serene dark green 
 A twilight yard of the sea between. 
 
 And the twenty masters of foreign speech 
 Of every tongue they knew tried each ; 
 Smihng, the silver Captain heard. 
 But shook his head and said no word. 
 
 141 
 
Then Aflatun and Aristu 
 Addressed the silver Lord anew, 
 Speaking their language of Yoonistan 
 Like countrymen to a countryman. 
 
 And " Whence," they cried, " Sons of Pride, 
 
 Sail you the dark eternal tide ? 
 
 Lie your halls to the South or North, 
 
 And who is the King that sent you forth f " 
 
 " We live," replied that Lord with a smile, 
 " A mile beyond the millionth mile. 
 We know not South and we know not North, 
 And SULTAN ISKANDER sent us forth." 
 
 Said Aristu to Aflatun — 
 " Surely our King, despondent soon, 
 Has sent this second ship to find 
 Unconquered tracts of humankind." 
 
 But Aflatun turned round on him 
 Laughing a bitter laugh and grim. 
 " Alas," he said, " Aristu, 
 A white weak thin old fool are you 
 
 " And does yon silver Ship appear 
 As she had journeyed twenty year ? 
 And has that silver Captain's face 
 A mortal or Immortal grace ? 
 
 142 
 
" Theirs is the land (as well I know) 
 Where live the Shapes of Things Below : 
 Theirs is the country where they keep 
 The Images men see in Sleep. 
 
 " Theirs is the Land beyond the Door, 
 And theirs the old ideal shore. 
 They steer our ship : behold our crew 
 Ideal, and our Captain too. 
 
 " And lo ! beside that mainmast tree 
 Two tail and shining forms I see, 
 And they are what we ought to be. 
 Yet we are they, and they are we." 
 
 He spake, and some young Zephyr stirred : 
 The two ships touched : no sound was heard ; 
 The Black Ship crumbled into air ; 
 Only the Phantom Ship was there. 
 
 And a great cry rang round the sky 
 Of glorious singers sweeping by, 
 And calm and fair on waves that shone 
 The Silver Ship sailed on and on. 
 
 H3 
 
The Golden Journey to Samarkand 
 
 PROLOGUE 
 
 We who with songs beguile your pilgrimage 
 And swear that Beauty lives though HHes die, 
 
 We Poets of the proud old lineage 
 
 Who sing to find your hearts, we know not why, — 
 
 What shall we tell you ? Tales, marvellous tales 
 Of ships and stars and isles where good men rest, 
 
 Where nevermore the rose of sunset pales, 
 
 And winds and shadows fall toward the West : 
 
 And there the world's first huge white-bearded kings 
 In dim glades sleeping, murmur in their sleep. 
 
 And closer round their breasts the ivy clings, 
 Cutting its pathway slow and red and deep. 
 
 II 
 
 And how beguile you ? Death has no repose 
 Warmer and deeper than that Orient sand 
 
 Which hides the beauty and bright faith of those 
 Who made the Golden Journey to Samarkand. 
 
 144 
 
And now they wait and whiten peaceably. 
 Those conquerors, those poets, those so fair : 
 
 They know time comes, not only you and I, 
 
 But the whole world shall whiten, here or there ; 
 
 When those long caravans that cross the plain 
 With dauntless feet and sound of silver bells 
 
 Put forth no more for glory or for gain, 
 
 Take no more solace from the palm-girt wells. 
 
 When the great markets by the sea shut fast 
 All that calm Sunday that goes on and on : 
 
 When even lovers find their peace at last, 
 And Earth is but a star, that once had shone. 
 
 14s K 
 
Epilogue 
 
 At the Gate of the Sun, Bagdad., in olden time 
 
 The Merchants (together) 
 
 Away, for we are ready to a man ! 
 
 Our camels sniff the evening and are glad. 
 Lead on, O Master of the Caravan : 
 
 Lead on the Merchant-Princes of Bagdad. 
 
 The Chief Draper 
 
 Have we not Indian carpets dark as wine. 
 
 Turbans and sashes, gowns and bows and veOs, 
 
 And broideries of intricate design, 
 
 And printed hangings in enormous bales I 
 
 The Chief Grocer 
 
 We have rose-candy, we have spikenard. 
 Mastic and terebinth and oil and spice. 
 
 And such sweet jams meticulously jarred 
 As God's own Prophet eats in Paradise. 
 
 146 
 
The Principal Jews 
 
 And we have manuscripts in peacock styles 
 By Ali of Damascus ; we have swords 
 
 Engraved with storks and apes and crocodiles, 
 And heavy beaten necklaces, for Lords. 
 
 The Master of the Caravan 
 But you are nothing but a lot of Jews. 
 
 The Principal Jews 
 Sir, even dogs have daylight, and we pay. 
 
 The Master of the Caravan 
 
 But who are ye in rags and rotten shoes, 
 You dirty-bearded, blocking up the way ? 
 
 The Pilgrims 
 
 We are the Pilgrims, master ; we shall go 
 
 Always a little further : it may be 
 Beyond that last blue mountain barred with snow. 
 
 Across that angry or that glimmering sea, 
 
 H7 
 
White on a throne or guarded in a cave 
 There Hves a prophet who can understand 
 
 Why men were born : but surely we are brave. 
 Who make the Golden Journey to Samarkand, 
 
 The Chief Merchant 
 We gnaw the nail of hurry. Master, away ! 
 
 One of the Women 
 
 O turn your eyes to where your children stand. 
 Is not Bagdad the beautiful ? O stay ! 
 
 The Merchants {in chorus) 
 We take the Golden Road to Samarkand. 
 
 An Old Man 
 
 Have you not girls and garlands in your homes. 
 Eunuchs and Syrian boys at your command ? 
 Seek not excess : God hateth him who roams ! 
 
 14.S 
 
The Merchants (in chorus) 
 We make the Golden Journey to Samarkand. 
 
 A Pilgrim with a Beautiful Voice 
 
 Sweet to ride forth at evening from the wells 
 When shadows pass gigantic on the sand, 
 
 And softly through the silence beat the bells 
 Along the Golden Road to Samarkand. 
 
 A Merchant 
 
 We travel not for trafficking alone : 
 
 By hotter winds our fiery hearts are fanned : 
 
 For lust of knowing what should not be known 
 We make the Golden Journey to Samarkand, 
 
 The Master of the Caravan 
 Open the gate, watchman of the night ! 
 
 The Watchman 
 
 Ho, travellers, I open. For what land 
 Leave you the dim-moon city of delight ? 
 
 149 
 
The Merchants {with a shout) 
 We make the Golden Journey to Samarkand. 
 
 \lhe Caravan ■passes through the gate] 
 
 The Watchman {consoling the women) 
 
 What would ye, ladies f It was ever thus. 
 Men are unwise and curiously planned. 
 
 A Woman 
 They have their dreams, and do not think of us. 
 
 Voices of the Caravan {in the distance, singing) 
 We make the Golden Journey to Samarkand. 
 
 150 
 
Gates of Damascus 
 
 Four great gates has the city of Damascus, 
 And four Grand Wardens, on their spears reclining. 
 
 All day long stand like tall stone men 
 
 And sleep on the towers when the moon is shining. 
 
 This is the song of the East Gate Warden 
 
 When he locks the great gate and smokes in his garden. 
 
 Postern of Fate, the Desert Gate, Disaster's Cavern, Fort 
 
 of Fear, 
 The Portal of Bagdad am I, the Doorway of Diarbekir. 
 
 The Persian Dawn with new desires may net the flushing 
 
 mountain spires : 
 But my gaunt buttress still rejects the suppliance of those 
 
 mellow fires. 
 
 Pass not beneath, Caravan, or pass not singing. Have 
 
 you heard 
 That silence where the birds are dead yet something pipeth 
 
 like a bird ? 
 
 IS' 
 
Pass not beneath ! Men say there blows in stony deserts 
 
 still a rose 
 But with no scarlet to her leaf — and from whose heart no 
 
 perfume flows. 
 
 Wilt thou bloom red where she buds pale, thy sister rose ? 
 
 Wilt thou not fail 
 When noonday flashes Uke a flail ? Leave nightingale 
 
 the caravan ! 
 
 Pass then, pass all ! " Bagdad ! " ye cry, and down the 
 
 biUows of blue sky 
 Ye beat the bell that beats to hell, and who shall thrust ye 
 
 back ? Not I. 
 
 The Sun who flashes through the head and paints the 
 
 shadows green and red, — 
 The Sun shall eat thy fleshless dead, Caravan, O Caravan ! 
 
 And one who licks his lips for thirst with fevered eyes shall 
 
 face in fear 
 The palms that wave, the streams that burst, his last 
 
 mirage, O Caravan ! 
 
 And one — the bird-voiced Singing-man — shall fall behind 
 
 thee. Caravan ! 
 And God shall meet him in the night, and he shall sing as 
 
 best he can. 
 
 152 
 
And one the Bedouin shall slay, and one, sand-stricken on 
 
 the way 
 Go dark and blind ; and one shall say — " How lonely is 
 
 the Caravan ! " 
 
 Pass out beneath, Caravan, Doom's Caravan, Death's 
 
 Caravan ! 
 I had not told ye, fools, so much, save that I heard your 
 
 Singing-man. 
 
 This was sung by the West Gate's keeper 
 When heaven's hollow dome grew deeper. 
 
 I am the gate toward the sea : sailor men, pass out from 
 
 me ! 
 I hear you high on Lebanon, singing the marvels of the sea. 
 
 The dragon-green, the luminous, the dark, the serpent- 
 haunted sea. 
 
 The snow-besprinkled wine of earth, the white-and-blue- 
 flower foaming sea. 
 
 Beyond the sea are towns with towers, carved with lions 
 
 and lily flowers, 
 And not a soul in all those lonely streets to while away 
 
 the hours. 
 
 153 
 
Beyond the towns, an isle where, bound, a naked giant bites 
 
 the ground : 
 The shadow of a monstrous wing looms on his back : and 
 
 still no sound. 
 
 Beyond the isle a rock that screams like madmen shouting 
 
 in their dreams. 
 From whose dark issues night and day blood crashes in a 
 
 thousand streams. 
 
 Beyond the rock is Restful Bay, where no wind breathes or 
 
 ripple stirs, 
 And there on Roman ships, they say, stand rows of metal 
 
 mariners. 
 
 Beyond the bay in utmost West old Solomon the Jewish 
 
 King 
 Sits with his beard upon his breast, and grips and guards 
 
 his magic ring : 
 
 And when that ring is stolen, he will rise in outraged 
 
 majesty, 
 And take the World upon his back, and fling the World 
 
 beyond the sea. 
 
 '54 
 
This is the song of the North Gate's master. 
 Who singethfast, but drinketh faster. 
 
 I am the gay Aleppo Gate : a dawn, a dawn and thou art 
 
 there : 
 Eat not thy heart with fear and care, O brother of the beast 
 
 we hate ! 
 
 Thou hast not many miles to tread, nor other foes than fleas 
 
 to dread ; 
 Homs shall behold thy morning meal and Hama see thee 
 
 safe in bed. 
 
 Take to Aleppo filigrane, and take them paste of apricots. 
 And coffee tables botched with pearl, and little beaten 
 brassvvare pots : 
 
 And thou shalt sell thy wares for thrice the Damascene 
 
 retailers' price, 
 And buy a fat Armenian slave who smelleth odorous and nice. 
 
 Some men of noble stock were made : some glory in the 
 
 murder-blade ; 
 Some praise a Science or an Art, but I like honourable 
 
 Trade ! 
 
 Sell them the rotten, buy the ripe ! Their heads are weak ; 
 
 their pockets burn. 
 Aleppo men are mighty fools. Salaam Aleikum ! Safe 
 
 return ! 
 
 ^SS 
 
This is the song of the South Gate Holder, 
 A silver man, but his song is older. 
 
 I am the Gate that fears no fall : the Mihrab of Damascus 
 
 wall, 
 The bridge of booming Sinai : the Arch of Allah all in all. 
 
 O spiritual pilgrim rise : the night has grown her single 
 
 horn : 
 The voices of the souls unborn are half adream with 
 
 Paradise. 
 
 To Meccah thou hast turned in prayer with aching heart 
 
 and eyes that burn : 
 Ah Hajji, whither wilt thou turn when thou art there, 
 
 when thou art there ? 
 
 God be thy guide from camp to camp : God be thy shade 
 
 from well to well ; 
 God grant beneath the desert stars thou hear the Prophet's 
 
 camel bell. 
 
 And God shall make thy body pure, and give thee knowledge 
 
 to endure 
 This ghost-life's piercing phantom-pain, and bring thee out 
 
 to Life again. 
 
 156 
 
And God shall make thy soul a Glass where eighteen 
 
 thousand iEons pass, 
 And thou shalt see the gleaming Worlds as men see dew 
 
 upon the grass. 
 
 IVnd son of Islam, it may be that thou shalt learn at journey's 
 
 end 
 Who walks thy garden eve on eve, and bows his head, and 
 
 calls thee Friend. 
 
 157 
 
Yasmin 
 
 A Ghazel 
 
 How splendid in the morning glows the hly : wdth what 
 
 grace he throws 
 His supplication to the rose : do roses nod the head, Yasmin? 
 
 But when tlie silver dove descends I find the little flower of 
 
 friends 
 Whose very name that sweetly ends I say when I have said, 
 
 Yasmin. 
 
 The morning light is clear and cold : I dare not in that 
 
 light behold 
 A whiter light, a deeper gold, a glory too far shed, Yasmin. 
 
 But when the deep red eye of day is level with the lone 
 
 highway. 
 And some to Meccah turn to pray, and I toward thy bed, 
 
 Yasmin ; 
 
 158 
 
Or when the wind beneath the moon is drifting like a soul 
 
 aswoon, 
 And harping planets talk love's tune with milky wings 
 
 outspread, Yasmin, 
 
 Shower down thy love, burning bright ! For one night or 
 
 the other night 
 Will come the Gardener in white, and gathered flowers are 
 
 dead, Yasmin. 
 
 1 59 
 
Saadabad 
 
 Let us deal kindly with a heart of old by sorrow torn : 
 Come with Nedim to Saadabad, my love, this silver morn : 
 I hear the boatmen singing from our caique on the Horn, 
 Waving cypress, waving cypress, let us go to Saadabad I 
 
 tVe shall watch the Sultan's fountains ripple, rumble, 
 
 splash and rise 
 Over terraces of marble, under the blue balconies. 
 Leaping through the plaster dragon's hollow mouth and 
 
 empty eyes : 
 Waving cypress, waving cypress, let us go to Saadabad. 
 
 Lie a little to your mother : tell her you must out to pray. 
 And we'll slink along the alleys, thieves of all a summer 
 
 day, 
 Down fo the worn old watersteps, and then, my love, away : 
 my cypress, waving cypress, let us go to Saadabad. 
 
 1 60 
 
You and I, and with us only some poor lover in a dream : 
 I and you — perhaps one minstrel who will sing beside the 
 
 stream. 
 Ah Nedim will be the minstrel, and the lover be Nedim, 
 Waving cypress, waving cypress, when we go to Saadabad ! 
 
 II 
 
 Down the Horn Constantinople fades and flashes in the blue, 
 Rose of cities dropping with the heavy summer's burning 
 
 dew. 
 Fading now as falls the Orient evening round the sky and 
 
 you, 
 Fading into red and silver as we row to Saadabad. 
 
 Banish then, O Grecian eyes, the passion of the waiting 
 
 West! 
 Shall God's holy monks not enter on a day God knoweth 
 
 best 
 To crown the Roman king again, and hang a cross upon his 
 
 breast ? 
 Daughter of the Golden Islands, come away to Saadabad. 
 
 And a thousand swinging steeples shall begin as they began 
 When Heraclius rode home from the wrack of Ispahan, 
 Naked captives pulled behind him, double eagles in the van- 
 But is that a tale for lovers on the way to Saadabad ? 
 
 l6l L 
 
Rather now shall you remember how of old two such as we. 
 You like her the laughing mistress of a poet, him or me, 
 Came to find the flowery lawns that give the soul tranquil- 
 lity : 
 Let the boatmen row no longer — for we land at Saadabad. 
 
 See you not that moon-dim caique with the lovers at the 
 
 prow, 
 Straining eyes and aching lips, and touching hands as we do 
 
 now. 
 See you not the turbaned shadows passing, whence ? and 
 
 moving, how ? 
 Are the ghosts of all the Moslems floating down to 
 
 Saadabad ? 
 
 Broken fountains, phantom waters, nevermore to ghde and 
 
 gleam 
 From the dragon-mouth in plaster sung of old by old 
 
 Nedim, 
 Beautiful and broken fountains, keep you still your Sultan's 
 
 dream. 
 Or remember how his poet took a girl to Saadabad i 
 
 i6z 
 
The Hammam Name 
 
 {From a poem by a Turkish lady) 
 
 Winsome Torment rose from slumber, rubbed his eyes, and 
 
 went his way 
 Down the street towards the Hammam. Goodness 
 
 gracious ! people say. 
 What a handsome countenance I The sun has risen twice 
 
 to-day ! 
 And as for the Undressing Room it quivered in dismay. 
 With the glory of his presence see the window panes perspire, 
 And the water in the basin boils and bubbles with desire. 
 
 Now his lovely cap is treated like a lover : off it goes ! 
 Next his belt the boy unbuckles ; down it falls, and at his 
 
 toes 
 All the growing heap of garments buds and blossoms like 
 
 a rose. 
 Last of all his shirt came flying. Ah, I tremble to disclose 
 How the shell came off the almond, how the lily showed its 
 
 face. 
 How I saw a silver mirror taken flashing from its case. 
 
 163 
 
He was gazed upon so hotly that his body grew too hot, 
 So the bathman seized the adorers and expelled them on 
 
 the spot ; 
 Then the desperate shampooer his propriety forgot, 
 Stumbled when he brought the pattens, fumbled when he 
 
 tied a knot, 
 And remarked when musky towels had obscured his idol's 
 
 hips. 
 See Love's Plenilune, Mashallah, in a partial eclipse ! 
 
 Desperate the loofah wriggled : soap was melted instantly : 
 AD the bubble hearts were broken. Yes, for them as well 
 
 as me. 
 Bitterness was born of beauty ; as for the shampooer, he 
 Fainted, till a jug of water set the Captive Reason free. 
 Happy bath ! The baths of heaven cannot wash their 
 
 spotted moon : 
 You are doing well with this one. Not a spot upon him 
 
 soon ! 
 
 Now he leaves the luckless bath for fear of setting it ahght ; 
 Seizes on a yellow towel growing yellower in fright, 
 Polishes the pearly surface till it burns disastrous bright, 
 And a bathroom window shatters in amazement at the 
 
 sight. 
 Like the fancies of a dreamer frail and soft his garments 
 
 shine 
 As he robes a mirror body shapely as a poet's line. 
 
 164 
 
Now upon his cup of coffee see the lips of Beauty bent : 
 And they perfume him with incense and they sprinkle him 
 
 with scent, 
 Call him Bey and call him Pasha, and receive with deep 
 
 content 
 The gratuities he gives them, smiling and indifferent. 
 Out he goes : the mirror strains to Idss her darling ; out 
 
 he goes ! 
 Since the flame is out, the water can but freeze. 
 
 The water froze. 
 
 i6s 
 
In Phceacia 
 
 Had I that haze of streaming blue, 
 
 That sea below, the summer faced, 
 I'd work and weave a dress for you 
 
 And kneel to clasp it round your waist. 
 And broider with those burning bright 
 
 Threads of the Sun across the sea, 
 And bind it with the sUver light 
 
 That wavers in the olive tree. 
 
 Had I the gold that like a river 
 
 Pours through our garden, eve by eve. 
 Our garden that goes on for ever 
 
 Out of the world, as we believe ; 
 Had I that glory on the vine 
 
 That splendour soft on tower and town, 
 I'd forge a crown of that sunshine. 
 
 And break before your feet the crown. 
 
 Through the great pinewood I have been 
 An hour before the lustre dies, 
 
 Nor have such forest-colours seen 
 As those that glimmer in your eyes. 
 
 i66 
 
Ah, misty woodland, down whose deep 
 And twilight paths I love to stroll 
 
 To meadows quieter than sleep 
 
 And pools more secret than the soul ! 
 
 Could I but steal that awful throne 
 
 Ablaze with dreams and songs and stars 
 Where sits Night, a man of stone. 
 
 On the frozen mountain spars 
 I'd cast him down, for he is old, 
 
 And set my Lady there to rule, 
 Gowned with silver, crowned with gold. 
 
 And in her eyes the forest pool. 
 
 167 
 
Epithalamion 
 
 Smile then, children, hand in hand 
 
 Bright and white as the summer snow, 
 
 Or that young King of the Grecian land. 
 
 Who smiled on Thetis, long ago, — 
 
 So long ago when, heart aflame. 
 
 The grave and gentle Peleus came 
 
 To the shore where the halcyon flies 
 
 To wed the maiden of his devotion, 
 
 The dancing lady with sky-blue eyes, 
 
 Thetis, the darling of Paradise, 
 
 The daughter of old Ocean. 
 
 Seas before her rise and break. 
 
 Dolphins tumble in her wake 
 
 Along the sapphire courses : 
 
 With Tritons ablow on their pearly shells 
 
 With a plash of waves and a clash of bells 
 
 From the ghmmering house where her Father dwells 
 
 She drives his white-tail horses ! 
 
 And the boys of heaven gowned and crowned. 
 
 Have Aphrodite to lead them round. 
 
 Aphrodite with hair unbound 
 
 i68 
 
Her silver breasts adorning. 
 
 Her long, her soft, her streaming hair. 
 
 Falls on a silver breast laid bare 
 
 By the stir and swing of the sealit air 
 
 And the movement of the morning. 
 
 169 
 
Hyali 
 
 2to FvaXi, (TTO yaXafio fipaxe 
 
 Island in blue of summer floating on, 
 
 Little brave sister of the Sporades, 
 Hail and farewell ! I pass, and thou art gone. 
 
 So fast in fire the great boat beats the seas. 
 
 But slowly fade, soft Island ! Ah to know 
 Thy town and who the gossips of thy town, 
 
 What flowers flash in thy meadows, what winds blow 
 Across thy mountain when the sun goes down. 
 
 There is thy market, where the fisher throws 
 
 His gleaming fish that gasp in the death-bright dawn : 
 
 And there thy Prince's house, painted old rose, 
 Beyond the ohves, crowns its slope of lawn. 
 
 And is thy Prince so rich that he displays 
 At festal board the flesh of sheep and kine ? 
 
 Or dare he — summer days are long hot days — 
 Load up with Asian snow his Coan wine ? 
 
 170 
 
Behind a rock, tliy liarbour, wlience a noise 
 Of tarry sponge-boats hammered lustily : 
 
 And from that little rock thy naked boys 
 Like burning arrows shower upon the sea. 
 
 And there by the old Greek chapel — there beneath 
 A thousand poppies that each sea-wind stirs 
 
 And cyclamen, as honied and white as death, 
 Dwell deep in earth the elder islanders. 
 
 Thy name I know not, Island, but his name 
 
 I know, and why so proud thy mountain stands. 
 
 And what thy happy secret, and Who came 
 Drawing his painted galley up thy sands. 
 
 For my Gods — Trident Gods who deep and pale 
 Swim in the Latmian Sound, have murmured thus 
 
 " To such an island came with a pompous sail 
 On his first voyage young Herodotus." 
 
 Since then — tell me no tale how Romans built, 
 Saracens plundered — or that bearded lords 
 
 Rowed by to fight for Venice, and here spilt 
 
 Their blood across the bay that keeps their swords. 
 
 171 
 
That old Greek day was all thy history : 
 For that did Ocean poise thee as a flower. 
 
 Farewell : this boat attends not such as thee : 
 Farewell : I was thy lover for an hour ! 
 
 Farewell ! But I who call upon thy caves 
 Am far like thee, — like thee, unknown and poor. 
 
 And yet my words are music as thy waves, 
 
 And like thy rocks shall down through time endure. 
 
 172 
 
Santorin 
 
 [A Legend of the /Egean) 
 
 " Who are you, Sea Lady, 
 
 And where in the seas are we f 
 
 I have too long been steering 
 
 By the flashes in your eyes. 
 
 Why drops the moonlight through my heart, 
 
 And why so quietly 
 
 Go the great engines of my boat 
 
 As if their souls were free ? " 
 
 " Oh ask me not, bold sailor ; 
 
 Is not your ship a magic ship 
 
 That sails without a sail : 
 
 Are not these isles the Isles of Greece 
 
 And dust upon the sea ? 
 
 But answer me three questions 
 
 And give me answers three. 
 
 What is your ship ? " "A British." 
 
 " And where may Britain be ? " 
 
 " Oh it lies north, dear lady ; 
 
 It is a small country." 
 
 173 
 
" Yet you will know my lover 
 
 Though you live far away : 
 
 And you will whisper where he has gone. 
 
 That lily boy to look upon 
 
 And whiter than the spray." 
 
 " How should I know your lover, 
 
 Lady of the sea ? " 
 
 " Alexander, Alexander, 
 
 The King of the World was he." 
 
 " Weep not for him, dear lady. 
 
 But come aboard my ship. 
 
 So many years ago he died. 
 
 He's dead as dead can be." 
 
 " base and brutal sailor 
 
 To lie this lie to me. 
 
 His mother was the foam-foot 
 
 Star-sparkling Aphrodite ; 
 
 His father was Adonis 
 
 Who lives away in Lebanon, 
 
 In stony Lebanon, where blooms 
 
 His red anemone. 
 
 But where is Alexander, 
 
 The soldier Alexander, 
 
 My golden love of olden days 
 
 The King of the world and me ? " 
 
 She sank into the moonlight 
 And the sea was only sea. 
 
 174 
 
A Ship^ an Isle, a Sickle Moon 
 
 A ship, an isle, a sickle moon — 
 With few but with how splendid stars 
 The mirrors of the sea are strewn 
 Between their silver bars ! 
 
 An isle beside an isle she lay. 
 The pale ship anchored in the bay, 
 While in the young moon's port of gold 
 A star-ship — as the mirrors told — 
 Put forth its great and lonely light 
 To the unreflecting Ocean, Night. 
 And still, a ship upon her seas. 
 The isle and the island cypresses 
 Went sailing on without the gale : 
 And still there moved the moon so pale, 
 A crescent ship without a sail ' 
 
 I7S 
 
Oak and Olive 
 
 \ 
 
 Though I was born a Londoner, 
 And bred in Gloucestershire, 
 
 I walked in Hellas years ago 
 With friends in white attire : 
 
 And I remember how my soul 
 Drank wine as pure as fire. 
 
 And when I stand by Charing Cross 
 
 I can forget to hear 
 The crash of all those smoking wheels. 
 
 When those cold flutes and clear 
 Pipe with such fury down the street, 
 
 My hands grow moist with fear. 
 
 And there's a hall in Bloomsbury 
 
 No more I dare to tread, 
 For all the stone men shout at me 
 
 And swear they are not dead ; 
 And once I touched a broken girl 
 
 And knew that marble bled. 
 
 176 
 
II 
 
 But when I walk in Athens town 
 That swims in dust and sun 
 
 Perverse, I think of London then 
 Where massive work is done. 
 
 And with what sweep at Westminster 
 The rayless waters run. 
 
 I ponder how from Attic seed 
 There grew an EngHsh tree, 
 
 How Byron like his heroes fell, 
 Fighting a country free. 
 
 And Swinburne took from Shelley's lips 
 The kiss of Poetry. 
 
 And while our poets chanted Pan 
 Back to his pipes and power. 
 
 Great Verrall, bending at his desk. 
 And searching hour on hour 
 
 Found out old gardens, where the wi?e 
 May pluck a Spartan flower. 
 
 Ill 
 
 When I go down the Gloucester lanes 
 My friends are deaf and blind : 
 
 Fast as they turn their foolish eyes 
 The Maenads leap behind. 
 
 And when I hear the fire-winged feet. 
 They only hear the wind. 
 
 177 
 
Have 1 not chased the fluting Paa 
 Through Cranham's sober trees i 
 
 Have I not sat on Painswick Hill 
 With a nymph upon my knees. 
 
 And she as rosy as the dawn. 
 And naked as the breeze ? 
 
 IV 
 
 But when I lie in Grecian fields. 
 
 Smothered in asphodel, 
 Or climb the blue and barren hills, 
 
 Or sing in woods that smell 
 With such hot spices of the South. 
 
 As mariners might sell — 
 
 Then my heart turns where no sun burns, 
 
 To lands of glittering rain. 
 To fields beneath low<louded skies 
 
 New-widowed of their grain. 
 And Autumn leaves like blood and gold 
 
 That strew a Gloucester lane. 
 
 V 
 
 CHi well I know sweet Hellas now. 
 
 And well I knew it then. 
 When I with starry lads walked out — 
 
 But ah, for home again ! 
 Was I not bred in Gloucestershire, 
 
 One of the Englishmen ! 
 
 178 
 
Brumana 
 
 Oh shall I never never be home again f 
 
 Meadows of England shining in the rain 
 
 Spread wide your daisied lawns : your ramparts greea 
 
 With briar fortify, with blossom screen 
 
 Till my far morning — and streams that slow 
 
 And pure and deep through plains and playlands go, 
 
 For me your love and all your kingcups store. 
 
 And — dark militia of the southern shore. 
 
 Old fragrant friends — preserve me the last lines 
 
 Of that long saga which you sung me, pines, 
 
 When, lonely boy, beneath the chosen tree 
 
 1 listened, with my eyes upon the sea. 
 
 traitor pines, you sang what life has found 
 
 The falsest of fair tales. 
 
 Earth blew a far-horn prelude all around. 
 
 That native music of her forest home. 
 
 While from the sea's blue fields and syren dales 
 
 Shadows and light noon-spectres of the foam 
 
 Riding the summer gales 
 
 On aery viols plucked an idle sound. 
 
 179 
 
Hearing you sing, trees, 
 
 Hearing you murmur, " There are older seas. 
 
 That beat on vaster sands, 
 
 Where the wise snailfish move their pearly towers 
 
 To carven rocks and sculptured promont'ries," 
 
 Hearing you whisper, " Lands 
 
 Where blaze the unimaginable flowers." 
 
 Beneath me in the valley waves the palm, 
 
 Beneath, beyond the valley, breaks the sea ; 
 
 Beneath me sleep in mist and Hght and calm 
 
 Cities of Lebanon, dream-shadow-dim. 
 
 Where Kings of Tyre and Kings of Tyre did rule 
 
 In ancient days in endless dynasty. 
 
 And all around the snowy mountains swim 
 
 Like mighty swans afloat in heaven's pool. 
 
 But I will walk upon the wooded hill 
 
 Where stands a grove, pines, of sister pines, 
 
 And when the downy twilight droops her wing 
 
 And no sea ghmmers and no mountain shines 
 
 My heart shall listen still. 
 
 For pines are gossip pines the wide world through 
 
 And full of runic tales to sigh or sing. 
 
 'Tis ever sweet through pines to see the sky 
 
 Mantling a deeper gold or darker blue. 
 
 'Tis ever sweet to lie 
 
 On the dry carpet of the needles brown, 
 
 i8o 
 
And though the fanciful green lizard stir 
 And windy odours light as thistledown 
 Breathe from the lavdanon and lavender, 
 Half to forget the wandering and pain, 
 Half to remember days that have gone by. 
 And dream and dream that I am home again ! 
 
 i8i 
 
Areiya 
 
 This place was formed divine tor love and us to dwell ; 
 
 This house of brown stone built for us to sleep therein ; 
 Those blossoms haunt the rocks that we should see and 
 smell ; 
 Those old rocks break the hill that we the heights should 
 win. 
 
 Those heights survey the sea that there our thoughts should 
 sail 
 
 Up the steep wall of wave to touch the Syrian sky : 
 For us that sky at eve fades out of purple pale, 
 
 Pale as the mountain mists beneath our house that lie. 
 
 In front of our small house are brown stone arches three ; 
 
 Behind it, the low porch where all the jasmine grows ; 
 Beyond it, red and green, the gay pomegranate tree ; 
 
 Around it, like love's arms, the summer and the rose. 
 
 Within it sat and wrote in minutes soft and few 
 
 This worst and best of songs, one who loves it, and you. 
 
 I»2 
 
Bryan of Brittany 
 
 Roses are golden or white or red 
 
 And green or grey for a sea, 
 But the loveliest girl alive, men said, 
 
 Was Bryan of Brittany." 
 
 Court or courtier never a one 
 
 Had Bryan the farmer's lass : 
 Her glorious hair was spread in the sun 
 
 And her feet were dewed in the grass. 
 
 Evening opened a flower in the skies 
 
 And shut the others asleep : 
 Home she came with the West in her eyes, 
 
 Driving her silver sheep. 
 
 " O Mother, say, and brothers seven. 
 What guests are these we have 
 
 With beards as white as the snow of heaven 
 And their dark faces grave f 
 
 " But are tliey merchants from the towns 
 
 Or captains from the sea, 
 These that are clothed in crimson gowns. 
 
 And bow to the earth to me f " 
 
 183 
 
" kiss me, Bryan, and take the ring : 
 
 Kiss me good-bye, my daughter : 
 You're to marry a crowned king 
 
 In Babylon over the water." 
 
 Golden hair as the gold of a rose 
 
 Had Bryan of Brittany, 
 And her breasts were white as the foam, and the light 
 
 Of her eyes was the light of the sea. 
 
 " What shall I do in Babylon 
 
 A crowned king to keep ? 
 I'll not leave you and my brother John 
 
 And my flock of silver sheep." 
 
 " Ah, Bryan, bravely spoken. 
 
 And bravely, dear, you speak, 
 Not to leave me heart-broken 
 
 And mother old and weak." 
 
 Said James the eldest brother, 
 
 With his deep black eyes ablaze, 
 " They bring us gold, O mother, 
 
 And jewels with red rays." 
 
 And John, the youngest brother, 
 
 Whose eyes were bright and blue, 
 Said, " Let her go, my mother : 
 
 I'll bring her back to you." 
 
 184 
 
" Swear by Christ's love then, my son John, 
 
 That when I feel the pain 
 You'll go to leafy Babylon 
 
 And bring her back again." 
 
 " By Christ upon the Cross who bled 
 And the seventy saints of Rome, 
 
 I'll go there living or go there dead. 
 And bring my sister home." 
 
 II 
 
 It fell the mother had not seen 
 
 A second Whitsuntide 
 Since Bryan sailed, a Persian Queen, 
 
 When her seven sons all died. 
 
 " false and faithless, my son John, 
 
 And traitor in your tomb : 
 Who now will go to Babylon 
 
 And bring me Bryan home ? — 
 
 " Whose hair is the golden gold of a rose. 
 
 And red rose lips has she, 
 And her breasts are as white as the foam, and the light 
 
 Of her eyes is the light of the sea." 
 
 i8s 
 
Ill 
 
 It chanced a summer night so fair, 
 
 A night so fair and calm, 
 Bryan was combing her beautiful hair 
 
 In the moon, beneath a palm. 
 
 And gently sounded through the skies 
 
 Slow bells of Babylon, 
 When there came one with bright blue eyes 
 
 And the face of her brother John. 
 
 " Bryan, away from Babylon : 
 Our mother weeps to-night ! " 
 
 " How tall you are, my brother John, 
 And your blue eyes how bright ! " 
 
 '' Oh, I am tall enough to stand 
 
 And eyed enough to see. 
 And we'll go round by way of the land 
 
 From here to Brittany." 
 
 Days went on and the road went on 
 And skies brought paler skies : — 
 
 " You never sleep, my brother John, 
 You never close your eyes." 
 
 " O Bryan, sister, do not fear. 
 
 And Bryan, do not weep : 
 Before I came to find you, dear, 
 
 I had enough of sleep." 
 
 1 86 
 
Days went on and the road went on, 
 
 And stars to pale or shine : — 
 " You never eat, my brother John, 
 
 Nor drink a drop of wine." 
 
 " Fear not, dear girl : though long our road 
 
 So great a strength is mine, 
 For I have eaten holy food. 
 
 And drunk a scented wine." 
 
 A month and a year and a day had gone, 
 They came to a sweet country : 
 
 the silver shades of the forest glades 
 Of Bryan's Brittany ! 
 
 And the Uttle birds began to talk 
 
 In voices faintly human : — 
 " Who ever saw a dead man walk 
 
 Beside a rosy woman ? " 
 
 " brother, listen to the birds 
 
 Chattering all together ! " 
 " The talk of the birds is feather words 
 
 And lighter than a feather. 
 
 " Open, mother, to your son John, 
 And open to your daughter : 
 
 1 bring you Bryan from Babylon, 
 From Babylon over the water. 
 
 187 
 
" And her hair is the golden gold of a rose. 
 
 And her hps as the red rose tree, 
 And her breasts are as white as the foam, and the light 
 
 Of her eyes is the light of the sea. 
 
 " But I must back and over the hill, 
 
 And Bryan must over the sea, 
 And you, old mother, who sit quite still, 
 
 Must over the hill with me." 
 
 iS8 
 
Don Juan Declaims 
 
 I am Don Juan, curst from age to age 
 By priestly tract and sentimental stage : 
 Branded a villain or believed a fool, 
 Battered by hatred, seared by ridicule. 
 Noble on earth, all but a king in Hell, 
 I am Don Juan with a tale to tell. 
 
 Hot leapt the dawn from deep Plutonian fires 
 And ran like blood among the twinkling spires. 
 The market quickened : carts came rattling down : 
 Good human music roared about the town, 
 " And come," they cried, " and buy the best of Spain's 
 Great fireskinned fruits with cold and streaming veins !" 
 Others, " The man who'd make a lordly dish. 
 Would buy my speckled or my silver fish." 
 And some, " I stitch you raiment to the rule ! " 
 And some, " I sell you attar of Stamboul ! " 
 " And I have lapis for your love to wear. 
 Pearls for her neck and amber for her hair." 
 Death has its gleam. They swing before me stUl, 
 The shapes and sounds and colours of Seville ! 
 
 For there I learnt to love the plot, the fight. 
 The masker's cloak, the ladder set for flight. 
 
 189 
 
The stem pursuit, the rapier's glint of death, 
 The scent of starlit roses, beauty's breath, 
 The music and the passion and the prize, 
 Aragon lips and Andalusian eyes. 
 This day a democrat I scoured the town ; 
 Courting, the next, I brought a princess down : 
 Now in some lady's panelled chamber hid 
 Achieved what love approves and laws forbid, 
 Now walked and whistled round the sleepy farms 
 And clasfved a Dulcinea in my arms. 
 
 I was the true, the grand idealist : 
 My light could pierce the pretty golden mist 
 That hides from common souls the starrier climes : 
 I loved as small men do ten-thousand times : 
 Rose to the blue triumphant, curved my bow, 
 Set high the mark and brouglit an angel low, 
 And laced with that brave body and shining soul 
 Learnt how to live, then learnt to love the whole. 
 And I first broke that jungle dark and dense, 
 Which hides the silver house of Commonsense, 
 And dissipated that disastrous lie 
 Which makes a god of stuflBess Unity, 
 And drave the dark behind me, and revealed 
 A Pagan sunrise on a Christian field. 
 
 My legend tells how once, by passion moved, 
 I slew the father of a girl I loved, 
 Then summoned — ^hke an old and hardened sinner- 
 The brand-new statue of the dead to dinner. 
 My ribald guests, with Spanish wine aflame. 
 Were most delighted when the statue came. 
 
 190 
 
Bowed to the party, made a Kttle speech, 
 And bore me off beyond their human reach. 
 Well, priests must flourish and the truth must pale : 
 A very pious, entertaining tale. 
 
 But this believe. I struck a ringing blow 
 .\t sour Authority's ancestral show. 
 And stirred the sawdust understuffing all 
 The sceptred or the surpliced ritual. 
 1 willed my happiness, kept bright and brave 
 My thoughts and deeds this side the accursed grave. 
 Life was a ten-course banquet after all, 
 And neatly rounded by my funeral. 
 " Pale guest, why strip the roses from your brow i 
 " We hope to feast till morning." " Who knocks now i " 
 " Twelve of the clock, Don Juan." In came he. 
 That shining, tall and cold Authority, 
 Whose marble lips smile down on lips that pray. 
 And took my hand, and I was led away. 
 
 191 
 
The Painter s Mistress 
 
 And still you paint, and still I stand 
 White and erect, the classic pose. 
 
 And still, a soft-winged bee, your hand 
 Moves comrade of a glance that flows 
 
 Over my body like love's tide : 
 
 And still the pale noon-shadows glide. 
 
 And stiU I hear each sound that falls. 
 The wood that starts in the sun's heat. 
 
 The mouse astir among the walls, 
 
 While down the summer-smitten street 
 
 A cart rolls lonely on : the hush 
 
 Tightens : I hear the flickering brush. 
 
 So with sweet pain for hour on hour 
 I to your dark and roving eyes 
 
 Abandon more than Love had power 
 To offer, in Love's mysteries : 
 
 You see me with the deeper sight. 
 
 Veiled in faint air and gemmed with light. 
 
 192 
 
So shall the gaze of the soul-deep lover 
 Guide where the sunray darts and swims 
 
 Down from the shoulders : still discover 
 The rose and iris of these limbs, 
 
 Low flames that haunt the curve and fold 
 
 And in dark hollow tresses, gold. 
 
 193 
 
In Hospital 
 
 Would I might lie like this, without the pain. 
 
 For seven years — as one with snowy hair. 
 Who in the high tower dreams his dying reign — 
 
 Lie here and watch the walls — -how grey and bare, 
 The metal bed-post, the uncoloured screen. 
 
 The mat, the jug, the cupboard, and the chair ; 
 
 And served by an old woman, calm and clean, 
 
 Her misted face familiar, yet unknown. 
 Who comes in silence, and departs unseen. 
 
 And with no other visit, lie alone, 
 Nor stir, except I had my food to find 
 In that dull bowl Diogenes might own. 
 
 And down my window I would draw the blind, 
 And never look without, but, waiting, hear 
 A noise of rain, a whistling of the wind. 
 
 And only know that flame-foot Spring is near 
 By triUing birds, or by the patch of sun 
 Crouching behind my curtain. So, in fear. 
 
 194 
 
Noon-dreams should enter, softly, one by one. 
 
 And throng about the floor, and float and play 
 And flicker on the screen, while minutes run — 
 
 The last majestic minutes of the day — 
 And with the mystic shadows. Shadow grow. 
 Then the grey square of wall should fade away. 
 
 And glow again, and open, and disclose 
 
 The shimmering lake in which the planets swim, 
 And all that lake a dewdrop on a rose. 
 
 »9S 
 
Taoping 
 
 Across the vast blue-shadow-sweeping plain 
 
 The gathered armies darken through the grain, 
 
 Swinging curved swords and dragon-sculptured spears. 
 
 Footmen, and tiger-hearted cavaliers. 
 
 Them Government (whose fragrance Poets sing) 
 
 Hath bidden break the rebels of Taoping, 
 
 And fire and fell the monstrous fort of fools 
 
 Who dream that men may dare the deathless rules. 
 
 Such, grim example even now can show 
 
 Where high before the Van, in triple row, 
 
 First fiery blossom of rebellion's tree. 
 
 Twelve spear-stemmed heads are dripping silently. 
 
 (On evil day you sought, O ashen lips. 
 
 The kiss of women from our town of ships, 
 
 Nor ever dreamt, O spies, of falser spies, 
 
 The poppied cup and passion-mocking eyes !) 
 
 By these grim civil trophies undismayed, 
 In lacquered panoplies the chiefs parade. 
 Behind, the plain's floor rocks : the armies come : 
 The rose-round lips blow battle horns : the drum 
 
 196 
 
Booms oriental measure. Earth exults. 
 
 And still behind, the tottering catapults 
 
 Pulled by slow slaves, grey backs with crimson lines, 
 
 Roll resolutely west. And still behind, 
 
 Down the canal's hibiscus-shaded marge 
 
 The glossy mules draw on the cedar barge. 
 
 Railed silver, blue-silk-curtained, which within 
 
 Bears the Commander, the old Mandarin, 
 
 Who never left his palace gates before, 
 
 But hath grown blind reading great books on war. 
 
 Now level on the land and cloudless red 
 The sun's slow circle dips toward the dead. 
 Night-hunted, all the monstrous flags are furled : 
 The Armies halt, and round them halts the World. 
 A phantom wind flies out among the rice ; 
 Hush turns the twin horizons in her vice ; 
 Air thickens : earth is pressed upon earth's core. 
 The cedar barge swings gently to the shore 
 Among her silver shadows and the swans : 
 The blind old man sets down his pipe of bronze. 
 The long whips cease. The slaves slacken the chain 
 The gaunt-towered engines space the silent plain. 
 The hosts like men held in a frozen dream 
 Stiffen. The breastplates drink the scarlet gleam. 
 But the Twelve Heads with shining sockets stare 
 Further and further West. Have they seen there. 
 Black on blood's sea and huger than Death's wing, 
 Their cannon-bowelled fortress of Taoping f 
 
 197 
 
VirgiPs j^neid^ Book^ VI 
 
 * 
 
 (U. 1-19) 
 
 Tearful he spake : then drave the fleet along : 
 At length to Cumae, by Eubceans raised, 
 They gliding came : set prows to face the sea, 
 Struck deep the anchor's stubborn tooth, festooned 
 Its harbour with the sweep of curved array. 
 Then leap the young ashore with flashing souls 
 (Are not the sands Hesperian ?) : they strike 
 Flints for their veins' hot secret, or they stray 
 With cleavesome axe unhoming furry beasts 
 Or shew on what tracks water may be found. 
 
 But this meanwhile god-fearing ^neas 
 Seeks the gapped cave where high Apollo reigns 
 And his dire Sybil murmurs truth of doom. 
 Mind and soul breathed on by the god-inspired 
 To flash out prophecies. They have come near 
 Diana's garden and her golden fane. 
 
 Daedalus once, Minoan realms to flee 
 
 • Author's Note. — I have of course tried to translate the sound 
 ol the thing rather than the text — cf. my translation of " armatus," 
 1. 388, and of "noctemque profundam," 1. 462. 
 
 198 
 
— Brave with great swooping wings to swim the sky 
 Steered a blind journey to the windy North 
 Till his strange shadows darkened Cumae's rock. 
 He, there alighting, there to Earth returned. 
 To Phoebus sacrificed those oars, his wings. 
 • « * • 
 
 (11. 264-547) 
 
 Gods of the ghostly Empire and ye shades 
 So still. Chaos and Phlegethon so still 
 With leagues of night around you, me empower 
 Heard tales to tell : me with high aid empower 
 Earth's deep-emboweUed secret to betray ! 
 
 They went obscure in lowering lone night 
 Through lodges of King Dis, untenanted, — • 
 Featureless lands. Thus goes a forest pathway 
 Beneath the curst light of the wav'ring moon, 
 When Jove has gloomed the sky, and pitchy dark 
 Uncoloured all the world. In Hell's first reach 
 Fronting the very vestibule of Orcus 
 Griefs and the Cares have set their couches down, — 
 The vengeful Cares. There pale Diseases dwell, 
 Sad Eld and Fear and loathsome Poverty 
 And Hunger, that bad counsellor, — dire shapes — 
 And Death and Toil, and Sleep brother of Death 
 And soul-corrupting joys. Opposed he viewed 
 War the great murderer, and those steel bowers 
 The Furies deck for bridal, and Discord 
 Daft, with blood-ribbons on her serpent hair. 
 
 But straight in front a huge black knotted elm 
 
 199 
 
Stood branching : here, they say, the Vain Dreams roost ;- 
 
 There's not a leaf without one stuck behind ! 
 
 Next he saw twisted beasts of the old tales : 
 
 Centaurs were stabled at the gates : Scyllas 
 
 Spread their twin shapes, Briareus his hundred arms. 
 
 And Lerna's beast behold hissing out fear, 
 
 Chimaera too, who fights with fire, and Gorgons 
 
 And Harpies, and a shade with a triple form ! 
 
 Such was the horror seized ^neas then 
 
 He made to meet their onset with cold steel, 
 
 And had th' instructed Sybil not advised 
 
 That these were gossamer vitaHties 
 
 Flitting in stuffless mockery of form, 
 
 He'd have leapt on and lashed the empty air. 
 
 Hence leads a road to Acheron, vast flood 
 Of thick and restless slime : aU. that foul ooze 
 It belches in Cocytus. Here keeps watch 
 That wild and filthy pilot of the marsh 
 Charon, from whose rugged old chin trails down 
 The hoary beard of centuries : his eyes 
 Are fixed, but flame. His grimy cloak hangs loose 
 Rough-knotted at the shoulder : his own hands 
 Pole on the boat, or tend the sail that wafts 
 His dismal skiff and its fell freight along. 
 Ah, he is old, but with that toughening eld 
 That speaks his godhead ! To the bank and him 
 All a great multitude came pouring down, 
 Brothers and husbands, and the proud-souled heroes, 
 Life's labour done : and boys and unwed maidens 
 \nd the young men by whose flame-funeral 
 
 200 
 
Parents had wept. Many as leaves that fall 
 
 Gently in autumn when the sharp cold comes 
 
 Or all the birds that flock at the turn o' the year 
 
 Over the ocean to the lands of light. 
 
 They stood and prayed each one to be first taken : 
 
 They stretched their hands for love of the other side, 
 
 But the grim sailor takes now these, now those : 
 
 And some he drives a distance from the shore. 
 
 iEneas, moved and marvelling at this stir 
 
 Cried — " chaste Sibyl tell me why this throng 
 
 That rushes to the river ? What desire 
 
 Have all these phantoms ? and what rule's award 
 
 Drives these back from the marge, let those go over 
 
 Sweeping the Uvid shallows with the oar ? " 
 
 The old priestess replied in a few words, 
 
 " Son of Anchises of true blood divine. 
 
 Behold the deep Cocytus and dim Styx 
 
 By whom the high gods fear to swear in vain. 
 
 This shiftless crowd all is unsepulchred : 
 
 The boatman there is Charon : those who embark 
 
 The buried. None may leave this beach of horror 
 
 To cross the growling stream before that hour 
 
 That hides their white bones in a quiet tomb. 
 
 A hundred years they flutter round these shores : 
 
 Then they may cross the waters long desired." 
 
 jEneas stopped and stood there heavily 
 Thoughtful and sad for this unfair decree. 
 Wretched for lack of sepulchre he saw 
 Leucaspis and the Lycian convoy's chief 
 Orontes. They left Troy with rough sea 
 
 201 
 
And lost their ships and crew to the south-west wind. 
 
 There too did roam the pilot Palinurus, 
 Who steering up from Libya by the stars 
 Had fallen from the stern a few days since 
 Deep in the wave. So girt with gloom stood he 
 The hero scarce could see — but seeing, he cried : — 
 " Thee, PaUnurus, what relentless god 
 Tore from our love to drown thee in mid main ? 
 Say, for Apollo never yet found false 
 Deceived me here, in mystic song foretelling 
 That safe across the waters thou shouldst come 
 To tread Italian soil. Is this kept promise ? " 
 But he : — " Captain, the Tripod sang no hes 
 Nor was't a god that flung me to the waves, 
 But whilst I steered, the chance of a sharp shock 
 So wrenched the gear entrusted to my hands 
 That clinging fast I was swept overboard 
 Tiller and all. Witness, passionate waves. 
 Less did I fear my peril than the ship's 
 Which now dismantled and its pilot gone 
 Rode at the mercy of the bristling swell. 
 Three winter nights across the infinite sea 
 The strong South bore me, piling up the waves ; 
 But the fourth morning from a billow's crest 
 I saw the chfis of Italy and swam 
 Landwards slowly. For now was danger past 
 Had not a cruel folk come on with swords. 
 As weighted by my dripping clothes I clutched 
 A broken rock's summit with crooked hand, 
 And deemed me — brutes — a prize. Sport of the waves 
 
 202 
 
Is Palinurus now, and the winds whirl him 
 
 All up and down the shore. By the kind light 
 
 And spacious air I pray thee : by thy Sire 
 
 And young lulus growing fair and tall 
 
 Defeat my woes, unconquerable man ! 
 
 Either cast earth upon me — as thou mayst 
 
 To Veline harbour steering, or maybe 
 
 If there's a way — thy mother was divine 
 
 And much it needeth the god's help to float 
 
 On such grand rivers and the Stygian mere — 
 
 Hold out thy hand to one who is in sorrow, 
 
 Bear me across the wave ! So shall I know 
 
 At least of Death the quiet and the home." 
 
 He spake : the Sibyl answered : " Palinurus 
 
 What dread desire is thine ? Wouldst thou attempt, 
 
 Unburied, waves of Styx and that stern stream 
 
 The Furies haunt ? Wouldst thou approach that shore- 
 
 And have no mandate f Dost thou hope to melt 
 
 Fate with a prayer ? But listen and take heart 
 
 For all the people of the cities round 
 
 Driven forth by omens dire from the high heaven 
 
 Shall honour thy remains and raise a tomb 
 
 And on thy tomb shall all due rites perform 
 
 And all that place for evermore shall keep 
 
 The name of Palinurus." As she spake 
 
 His trouble ceased : a while from his sad heart 
 
 Grief flies. He is glad the land should bear his name. 
 
 Set path pursuing they approached the stream 
 Whom soon the sailor of the Stygian wave 
 Saw pass the silent wood and seek the marge 
 
 203 
 
And hailed censorious : — " Thou who walkest down 
 
 Clashing thy armour by our streams of Hell, 
 
 Speak thy intent : there on thy road stand still ! 
 
 Here lies the land of shadow dream and night, 
 
 And no warm flesh may ride on Stygian keel. 
 
 Small joy had I admitting to this mere 
 
 Hercules or those victor sons of Heaven 
 
 Peirithoos and Theseus. Hercules 
 
 Chained with bare hands the dog of Tartarus 
 
 And dragged him from the throne quaking : they came 
 
 To rape our mistress from the bed of Dis." 
 
 " We spin no snares," the Amphrysian sharp replied : 
 
 " Be soothed, no violence these arms portend. 
 
 Let the huge Janitor's eternal cry 
 
 Still from his cave confound the bloodless ghosts, 
 
 And Proserpine unravished still attend 
 
 Her kinsman's threshold, .^neas of Troy, 
 
 Famed dutiful and fearless, here descends 
 
 To embrace his father in your pits of gloom. 
 
 If high devotion spells thee nought, this bough 
 
 (She drew it from her breast) may move thee still." 
 
 Calm sank the heart but now swoln out with rage : 
 With no word more, eyeing that ancient bough, 
 Doom's symbol, after ages seen again, 
 Turned he his caerule prow and made the shore. 
 Thence other souls who sat along the dunes 
 He drave, and let his gangway down, and took 
 The huge .^Eneas in his patched punt, 
 Which groaned o'ercargoed ; and through many a crack 
 Oozed up the mere : yet safe across the stream 
 
 204 
 
Sybil and soldier did he row, and beached 
 On the green formless slime of the other side. 
 
 Cerberus here sends ringing through his realm 
 A triple-throated howling, couched, immune, 
 With cavern for a kennel. The Priestess, 
 Seeing his dragon necks stiffen to strike, 
 A cake of honey and bemusing herbs 
 Tossed him. Three maws the ravening monster spread. 
 Snapped it in air, and all his hugesome bulk 
 Uncoiled and sprawled and stretched across the cave, 
 ^neas down the brute-unwardened path 
 Quick pace pursues. Behind him lies the stream 
 Whose waves whisper no whisper of return. 
 
 Now cries are heard, and thin abundant wind : 
 All down Hell's forecourt weep the Infant Souls, 
 Whom shareless of life's shining dower, Doom 
 Tore from the breast and whelmed in Death's sharp wave. 
 Near, men judged out of life by false decree. 
 They have their urn, their Umpire, these abodes : 
 'Tis Minos draws the lots, he who may call 
 The council of the silent : he who reads, 
 Grand arbiter, the histories of men. 
 And next them flit the Sad Ones who prepared 
 With their rash hands their own extinction's cup 
 And flung their souls on dark to spite the day. 
 Ah could they, could they back to the bright sky 
 What years would they not bear of toil or pain ! 
 Law bars them fast : the mere's grim loveless wave 
 Bounds their domain : Styx nine times interfused 
 Imprisons. Here the Broken-hearted Fields 
 
 20; 
 
Roll out to the horizon. Such their name. 
 
 Here those whom Love remorseless and unkind 
 
 Devoured by dissolution, walk in peace 
 
 Down secret byways of a myrtle forest. 
 
 Here Phaedra, Procris and sad Eriphyle 
 
 He saw, whom her fierce son had wounded sore, 
 
 Pasiphae, Evadne : in their train 
 
 Laodamia, and that once a boy 
 
 Now woman, Caeneus, thus reshaped by doom. 
 
 Among them one love-pierced not long ago, — 
 
 Dido of Carthage roamed the tall grove through 
 
 Whom when Troy's hero drawing near beheld 
 
 Gliding through murk and shadow, as one sees 
 
 Or dreams to see through clouds the thin new moon, 
 
 He wept, calling her with a lover's cry : — 
 
 " Dido ill-starred, but was it truth they told me, 
 
 Thy fate — the self-sought ending by the sword ? 
 
 To death I brought thee. by the stars I swear 
 
 By the high gods and by all faith that holds 
 
 In Earth's black core, unwilHng, my queen. 
 
 Sailed I away from Carthage. But the gods 
 
 They who now send me through this shadow world, 
 
 These lands so far, this oceanic night, 
 
 Drave me with uncharitable command 
 
 Nor could I dream sorrow as sharp as that 
 
 Should wait on my departure. But stay, stay ! 
 
 I do not pass so soon : whom dost thou flee f 
 
 Fate grants me thus to haU thee the last time ! " 
 
 So tried iEneas through his tears to assuage 
 
 That shy wild spirit glancing round in fear : 
 
 206 
 
But she looked down, turning her face aside, 
 
 A face as unresponsive to appeal 
 
 As a hard flint or a high marble mountain. 
 
 Then darting back, down the dark grove she flies 
 
 Unfriendly, where Sichseus, her old spouse. 
 
 His gentleness love's proxy, tends her still. 
 
 ^neas, victim of a chance unfair 
 
 Still follows, weeps, and pities as she flies. 
 
 But now, their journey's settled path pursuing. 
 On to the ultimate secret fields they move, 
 Where walk the mighty Captains. Tydeus here 
 He saw, and Parthenopaeus, warrior bold. 
 And one that seemed Adrastus, and so pale. 
 And all the war-mown Trojans, for whose fate 
 Such tears had been shed in the face of heaven. 
 Rank upon rank he, sorrowful, saw them, — 
 Glaucus and Medon and Thersilochus, 
 Antenor's son and Polyphoetes, vowed 
 Demeter's, and still armed, still charioted 
 Idaeus. Right and left the Spirits crowd 
 To their eyes' festival, to dally pleased. 
 Or step beside, or ask him all his tale. 
 But when the Danaan phalanx and great hosts 
 Of Agamemnon saw a Man and Arms 
 That flashed among the shadows, terrible fear 
 Set them aquiver : as to the ships of old 
 Some turned to flee : some raised a little cry. 
 So thin its echoes mocked their gaping mouths. 
 
 Here saw he Priam's son, Deiphobus, 
 With all his body rent, all his face torn 
 
 207 
 
And both his hands, and ravaged earless head, 
 
 And cut nostrils — dishonourable wounds. 
 
 Yet could he recognize the quaking ghost 
 
 That strove to veil the horror of its face 
 
 And called him in the voice he could well know : — 
 
 " Deiphobus, Hero of old Trojan blood, 
 
 Who wiUed you this vile punishment ? To whom 
 
 Was power against you given. Rumour told me 
 
 On that last night how on a tower of dead, 
 
 Weary with slaughter of the Greeks, you lay 
 
 Prone. It was I then raised on Rhastian shore 
 
 The empty mound and thrice with a loud cry 
 
 Summoned thy wraith. Arms and a name preserve 
 
 That place — but thee, dear friend, I could not find 
 
 To bury e'er I left my native land." 
 
 But Priam's son : — " Friend, what couldst thou do more ? 
 
 Thou hast paid every due to death and me. 
 
 But me my destiny true the sin 
 
 Of that She-murderess of Spartan brood 
 
 Whelmed in these woes : these are her monuments. 
 
 How in deceitful pleasure that last night 
 
 We spent, well dost thou know, too well must know, — 
 
 When with a leap o'er steep-stoned Pergamon 
 
 Pregnant with soldiery, the fatal horse 
 
 Its bristling burden flung. She, she it was 
 
 With traitor dance led round our Phrygian dames 
 
 The wild Evoe proclaiming ! A huge torch 
 
 She shook above the revel, which did call 
 
 The Danaans from Troy Tower. I heavily 
 
 Slept the meanwhile on couch of doom, and me 
 
 208 
 
Deep honied quiet, miming Death's own peace, 
 Thralled. And my dear spouse, busy all the while, 
 Strips the house bare of arms : and my good sword 's 
 No longer at my pillow. ' Ready now ! 
 In Menelaus ! Every door's ajar ! ' 
 This was her great gift to her old lover. 
 And this her scheme for hushing up old tales ! 
 Quick to the end now ! They break in my door, 
 With them Ulysses, Crime's High Advocate. 
 Gods, load this on the Greeks, — if the good man 
 Who cries down vengeance be a good man still ! 
 But thee alive what hap — tell in thy turn — 
 Brought here ? Dost come a plaything of the wave 
 By traveller's chance ? Or at the hest divine ? 
 What fate's oppression draws thee to these homes 
 Where no sun shines nor any view stands clear ? " 
 But while they talked, across the pole of heaven 
 Had swept the Charioteer who drives from Dawn, 
 And dalliance had soon eaten up the dole 
 Of time allotted : so the Sybil warned — 
 " Down comes the night, .^Eneas : all too fast 
 We weep the hours away. Here splits the road. 
 Right, to the foot of the big walls of Dis, 
 But the left leads the damned to their deserts 
 In impious Tartary." " But chide no more," 
 Replied Deiphobus : " I will return : 
 My place is in the roll-call of the Dead, 
 Go, Splendour of our Story : grace be thine 
 Beyond our measure." And he turned away. 
 
 1914 
 209 
 
The Dying Patriot 
 
 Day breaks on England down the Kentish hills. 
 
 Singing in the silence of the meadow-footing rills, 
 
 Day of my dreams, day ! 
 
 I saw them march from Dover, long ago, 
 With a silver cross before them, singing low. 
 
 Monks of Rome from their home where the blue seas break 
 in foam, 
 Augustine with his feet of snow. 
 
 Noon strikes on England, noon on Oxford town, 
 
 — Beauty she was statue cold — there's blood upon her gown : 
 
 Noon of my dreams, O noon ! 
 
 Proud and godly kings had built her, long ago, 
 With her towers and tombs and statues all arow. 
 
 With her fair and floral air and the love that lingers there, 
 And the streets where the great men go. 
 
 Evening on the olden, the golden sea of Wales, 
 When the first star shivers and the last wave pales : 
 evening dreams ! 
 
 2IO 
 
There's a house that Britons walked in, long ago, 
 Where now the springs of ocean fall and flow, 
 And the dead robed in red and sea-lilies overhead 
 Sway when the long winds blow. 
 
 Sleep not, my country : though night is here, afar 
 Your children of the morning are clamorous for war : 
 Fire in the night, dreams ! 
 Though she send you as she sent you, long ago. 
 South to desert, east to ocean, west to snow. 
 West of these out to seas colder than the Hebrides 
 I must go 
 Where the fleet of stars is anchored and the young 
 Star-captains glow. 
 
 211 
 
A Sacred Dialogue 
 
 {Christmas 1912) 
 
 The silver Bishop of Bethlehem, 
 
 A desolate Turkish town, 
 Speaks with a shape each Christmas day 
 
 That floats to music down. 
 
 The Bishop of Bethlehem 
 
 Peace and good\vill, Son of the King ! 
 Thy Birthday and Thy Star ! 
 
 Christ 
 
 Peace and goodwill the world may sing: 
 But we shall talk of war ! 
 
 How fare my armies of the North ? 
 
The Bishop 
 
 They wait victorious peace, 
 All the high forts of Macedon 
 Fly the proud flag of Greece. 
 
 Christ 
 
 Then surely on that Eastern dome 
 
 The AUies' cross is gleaming, 
 Redeemed my loved and ancient home ! 
 
 The Bishop 
 Ah, it still waits redeeming ! 
 
 Christ 
 
 StiU waits — Five hundred years, and still 
 My soldiers wait — so long ? 
 
 The Bishop 
 
 Thou hast Fate's sceptre. What thy will 
 Dooms could split earth, thou Strong ! 
 
 * St. Sophia. 
 213 
 
Christ 
 
 My nations are steel towers built tall, 
 
 Shepherd of Bethlehem, 
 Tell none this Moslem cracked stone wall 
 
 Is more than jest for them ? 
 
 Yet Islam oft would strip and slay 
 Christian woman and child, 
 
 And Europe feast that Christmas day 
 A coward reconciled. 
 
 Yet some day o'er Pamphylian waves 
 Shall Byzant chants be ringing, 
 
 And rose-crowned hermits leave their caves 
 And sail to Patmos singing ; 
 
 Some day Nicea's pool again 
 Shall bear the creed of the World, 
 
 And that day crashing from my fane 
 Shall that horned moon be hurled. 
 
 Then some deep-faithed Priest will shout ; 
 
 " Oh, cease ye bells forlorn. 
 We have forgotten Jerusalem 
 
 And the land where He was born ! " 
 
 214 
 
Then the black cannons of the Lord 
 
 ShaU wake crusading ghosts 
 And the Milky Way shall swdng like a sword 
 When Jerusalem vomits its horde 
 On the Christmas day preferred of the Lord, 
 
 The Christmas day of the Hosts ! 
 
 Note by the Author. — Originally written for Christmas 
 1912, and referring to the first Balkan War, this poem 
 contains in the last speech of Christ words that ring like 
 a prophecy of events that may occur very soon. 
 
 December 1914 
 
 215 
 
The Old Ships 
 
 I have seen old ships sail like swans asleep 
 Beyond the village which men still call Tyre, 
 With leaden age o'ercargoed, dipping deep 
 For Famagusta and the hidden sun 
 That rings black Cyprus with a lake of fire ; 
 And aU those ships were certainly so old 
 Who knows how oft with squat and noisy gun. 
 Questing brown slaves or Syrian oranges. 
 The pirate Genoese 
 Hell-raked them till they rolled 
 Blood, water, fruit and corpses up the hold. 
 But now through friendly seas they softly run. 
 Painted the mid-sea blue or shore-sea green. 
 Still patterned with the vine and grapes in gold. 
 
 But I have seen. 
 
 Pointing her shapely shadows from the dawn 
 And image tumbled on a rose-swept bay, 
 A drowsy ship of some yet older day ; 
 And, wonder's breath indrawn, 
 
 216 
 
Thought I — who knows — who knows — but in that same 
 
 (Fished up beyond Mxa., patched up new 
 
 — Stern painted brighter blue — ) 
 
 That talkative, bald-headed seaman came 
 
 (Twelve patient comrades sweating at the oar) 
 
 From Troy's doom-crimson shore, 
 
 And with great lies about his wooden horse 
 
 Set the crew laughing, and forgot his course. 
 
 It was so old a ship — who knows, who knows ? 
 — ^And yet so beautiful, I watched in vain 
 To see the mast burst open with a rose. 
 And the whole deck put on its leaves again. 
 
 217 
 
The Blue Noon 
 
 When the whole sky is vestured silken blue 
 
 With not one fleece to view, 
 
 Drown your deep eyes afar, and see you must 
 
 How the light azure dust 
 
 And speckled atoms of the polished skies 
 
 Are large blue butterflies. 
 
 The proof ? Lie in a field on heavy noons, 
 
 When Nature drones and croons 
 
 And on man's distant cry or dog's far bark 
 
 Hush sets the instant mark. 
 
 Look up : when nothing earthly stirs or sings 
 
 You hear them wave their wings. 
 
 And watch the breeze their vanity awakes 
 
 Light on the heavenly lakes. 
 
 But when the shades before the sun's huge fall 
 
 In sham retreat grow tall, 
 
 Their ambushed allies, the impatient stars, 
 
 Make ready for bright wars. 
 
 And shoot ten million arrows to chastise 
 
 The tardy butterflies 
 
 Who dive in hosts toward the diving sphere 
 
 That holds the light's frontier, 
 
 And the poor vanquished, turning as they glide. 
 
 Show their gold underside. 
 
 2l8 
 
A Fragment 
 
 pouring westering streams 
 Shouting that I have leapt the mountain bar, 
 Down curve on curve my journey's white way gleams- 
 My road along the river of return. 
 
 I know the countries where the white moons bum, 
 
 And heavy star on star 
 
 Dips on the pale and crystal desert hills. 
 
 I know the river of the sun that fills 
 
 With founts of gold the lakes of Orient sky. 
 
 And I have heard a voice of broken seas 
 
 And from the cliffs a cry. 
 
 Ah still they learn, those cave-eared Cyclades, 
 
 The Triton's friendly or his fearful horn 
 
 And why the deep sea-bells but seldom chime, 
 
 And how those waves and with what spell-swept rhyme 
 
 In years of morning, on a summer's morn 
 
 219 
 
Whispering round his castle on the coast, 
 Lured young Achilles from his haunted sleep 
 And drave him out to dive beyond those deep 
 Dim purple windows of the empty swell, 
 His ivory body flitting like a ghost 
 Over the holes where flat blind fishes dwell, 
 All to embrace his mother throned in her shell. 
 
 Z20 
 
Narcissus 
 
 O pool in which we dallied 
 
 And splashed the prostrate Noon • 
 O Water-boy, more paUid 
 
 Than any watery moon ! 
 O Lilies round him turning ! 
 
 O broken Lilies, strewn ! 
 O silver Lutes of Morning ! 
 
 O Red of the Drums of Noon ! 
 
 dusky-plumaged sorrow ! 
 
 ebon Swans of Care — 
 
 1 sought thee on the Morrow, 
 
 And never found thee there ! 
 I breathed the vapour-blended 
 
 Cloud of a dim despair : 
 White lUy, is it ended ? 
 
 Gold lily — oh, golden hair ! 
 
 The pool that was thy dwelling 
 
 1 hardly knew again. 
 
 So black it was, and swelling 
 With bitter wind and rain, 
 
 221 
 
'Mid the bowed leaves I lingered, 
 
 Lashed by the blast of Pain, 
 Till evening, storm-rose-fingered, 
 
 Beckoned to night again. 
 
 There burst a flood of Quiet 
 
 Over the unstelled skies ; 
 Full moon flashed out a-riot : 
 
 Near her I dreamt thine eyes 
 Afloat with night, still trembling 
 
 With captured mysteries : 
 But sulphured wracks, assembling, 
 
 Redarkened the bright skies. 
 
 Ah, thou at least art lying 
 
 Safe at the white nymph's feet, 
 Listless, while I, slow-dying, 
 
 Twist my gaunt limbs for heat ! 
 Yet I'll to Earth, my Mother : 
 
 So, boy, I'll still entreat 
 Forgive me — for none other 
 
 Like Earth is honey-sweet 1 
 
 {See former version, page 30) 
 
 222 
 
Stillness 
 
 When the words rustle no more, 
 
 And the last work's done, 
 When the bolt lies deep in the door, 
 
 And Fire, our Sun, 
 Falls on the dark-laned meadows of the floor ; 
 
 When from the clock's last chime to the next chime 
 
 Silence beats his drum. 
 And Space with gaunt grey eyes and her brother Time 
 
 Wheeling and whispering come. 
 She with the mould of form and he with the loom of 
 rhyme : 
 
 Then twittering out in the night my thought-birds flee, 
 
 I am emptied of all my dreams : 
 I only hear Earth turning, only see 
 
 Ether's long bankless streams. 
 And only know I should drown if you laid not your 
 hand on me. 
 
 223 
 
The Pensive Prisoner 
 
 My thoughts came drifting down the Prison where I lay — 
 Through the Windows of their Wings the stars were 
 
 shining — 
 The wings bore me away — the russet Wings and grey 
 With feathers like the moon-bleached Flowers — I was a 
 
 God reclining : 
 Beneath me lay my Body's Chain and all the Dragons born 
 
 of Pain 
 As I burned through the Prison Roof to walk on Pavement 
 
 Shining. 
 
 The Wild Wind of Liberty swept through my Hair and sang 
 
 beyond : 
 I heard the Souls of men asleep chattering in the Eaves 
 And rode on topmost Boughs of Heaven's single-moon- 
 fruited Silver Wand, 
 Night's unifying Tree whereof the central Stars be leaves— 
 O Thoughts, Thoughts, Thoughts, — Fire-angel-birds relent- 
 less — 
 Will you not brood in God's Star-tree and leave Red Heart 
 tormentless ! 
 
 22^ 
 
Hexameters 
 
 happy Dome so lightly shimming through storm-riven 
 
 iEther, 
 Blue burning and gold, the hollow of Chaos adorning, 
 Shine, happy Dome of th' air, on Sea thy sister, on ancient 
 Plains, on sharp snowbeard mountains, on silvery waters. 
 On knotted eld-mossed trees, on roses starry with April — 
 But most shine upon one lying tormented, a dreamer, 
 Thy lover. Ah wherefore did a rift so cruel across thee 
 Open ? A long tremulous sighing comes thence, with a 
 
 great wind. 
 Darkness ever blowing round thy blue curtain. A finger 
 Out of HeU aims at me. Gather, O sweet Dome o' the 
 
 Morning, 
 Thy rapid ardent flamy quiver, thy splintery clusters : 
 Send a volley straight through to the heart of this desolation, 
 And burning, blasting with a shaft of thunderous azure. 
 Break the ebon soldiers, restore his realm to the dreamer ! 
 
 22; 
 
Philomel 
 
 {From the French of Paul Fort) 
 
 sing, in heart of silence hiding near, 
 Thou whom the roses bend their heads to hear ! 
 In silence down the moonlight slides her wing : 
 Will no rose breathe while Philomel doth sing ? 
 No breath — and deeper yet the perfume grows : 
 The voice of Philomel can slay a rose : 
 The song of Philomel on nights serene 
 Implores the gods who roam in shades unseen, 
 But never calls the roses, whose perfume 
 Deepens and deepens, as they wait their doom. 
 Is it not silence whose great bosom heaves i 
 Listen, a rose-tree drops her quiet leaves. 
 
 Now silence flashes hghtning like a storm : 
 Now silence is a cloud, and cradled warm 
 By risings and by fallings of the tune 
 That Philomel doth sing, as shines the moon, 
 — A bird's or some immortal voice from Hell f 
 There is no breath to die with, Philomel ! 
 
 220 
 
And yet the world has changed without a breath. 
 The moon Ues heavy on the roses' death, 
 And every rosebush droops its leafy crown. 
 A gust of roses has gone sweeping down. 
 
 The panicked garden drives her leaves about : 
 The moon is masked : it flares and flickers out. 
 O shivering petals on your lawn of fear, 
 Turn down to Earth and hear what you shall hear. 
 A beat, a beat, a beat beneath the ground. 
 And hurrying beats, and one great beat profound. 
 A heart is coming close : I have heard pass 
 The noise of a great Heart upon the grass. 
 The petals reel. Earth opens : from beneath 
 The ashen roses on their lawn of death. 
 Raising her peaceful brow, the grand and pale 
 Demeter listens to the nightingale. 
 
 227 
 
From Jean M areas' " Stances " 
 
 The garden rose I paid no honour to, 
 So humbly poised and fashioned on its spray, 
 Has now by wind unkissed, undrenched by dew, 
 Lived captive in her vase beyond a day. 
 
 And tired and pale, bereft of earth and sun, 
 Her blossom over and her hour of pride. 
 She has dropped all her petals, one by one. 
 Unmindful if she lived or how she died. 
 
 When doom is passing in her dusky glade 
 Let us learn silence In this evening hour, 
 heart bowed down with mystery and shade. 
 Too heavy lies the spectre of a flower ! 
 
 228 
 
The Princess 
 
 {A Story from the Modern Greek) 
 
 A Princess armed a privateer to sail the Chersonese 
 And fitted it with purple sails to belly in the breeze, 
 With golden cords and oaken boards and a name writ 
 
 out in pearls. 
 And aU the jolly mariners were gallant little girls. 
 
 The King's Son he came hunting her in frigates two or three, 
 " Give me one kiss, Princess," he cried, " and take a ship 
 
 from me ; 
 And would you like the yellow boat or would you like the 
 
 red. 
 Or would you take myself and mine, the gold and green 
 
 instead ? " 
 
 " Sir, handsome fellow as you are, it's curious, you know, 
 
 To ask a maid for kisses in mid-archipelago : 
 
 But come and fight with us, young man ; the prize is for 
 
 the brave." 
 They fought : it chanced the lady won and took him for 
 
 a slave. 
 
 229 
 
She drave him to the yellow boat and lashed him to the oar. 
 " Now puU, my handsome Prince," said she, " till you can 
 
 pull no more." 
 " Princess, do but listen to a valiant boy's appeal, 
 And take me from this bitter oar, and put me at the wheel." 
 
 " foolish Prince," she answered him ; " back to your 
 
 oar and pull. 
 Row hard and soon we'll anchor in the gulf of Istamboul. 
 While the slaves collect provisions and the sailors go for 
 
 drink 
 You may chance to find your Captain not so brutal as you 
 
 think ! " 
 
 2^0 
 
Pannyra of the Golden Heel 
 
 (From Albert Samain) 
 
 The revel pauses and the room is still : 
 The silver flute invites her with a trill, 
 And, buried in her great veils fold on fold, 
 Rises to dance Pannyra, Heel of Gold. 
 Her light steps cross ; her subtle arm impels 
 The clinging drapery ; it shrinks and swells. 
 Hollows and floats, and bursts into a whirl : 
 She is a flower, a moth, a flaming girl. 
 All Ups are silent ; eyes are all in trance : 
 She slowly wakes the madness of the dance, 
 Windy and wild the golden torches bum ; 
 She turns, and swifter yet she tries to turn. 
 Then stops : a sudden marble stiff she stands. 
 The veil that round her coiled its spiral bands. 
 Checked in its course, brings all its folds to rest, 
 And clinging to bright limb and pointed breast 
 Shows, as beneath silk waters woven fine, 
 Pannyra naked in a flash divine ! 
 
 231 
 
The Gate of the Armies 
 
 {From Henri de Regnier) 
 
 Swing out thy doors, high gate that dreadst not night, 
 
 Bronze to the left and iron to the right. 
 
 Deep in a cistern has been flung thy key ; 
 
 If dread thee close, anathema on thee ; 
 
 And like tvnn shears let thy twin portals cut 
 
 The hand's fist through that would thee falsely shut 
 
 Again thy dusky vault hath heard resound 
 
 Steps of strong men who never yet gave ground, 
 
 Marching with whom came breathless and came bold 
 
 Victory naked with broad wings of gold. 
 
 Her glaive to guide them calmly soars and dips ; 
 
 Her kiss is lifeblood's purple on their lips. 
 
 From rose-round mouths the clarions shake and shrill, 
 
 A brazen boom of bees that hunt to kill. 
 
 " Drink, swarm of war, stream from your plated hives 
 
 And cull death's dust on flowery-fleshed fierce lives, 
 
 So, when back home to native town ye march, 
 
 Beneath those golden wings and my black arch 
 
 May all men watch my pavement, as each pace 
 
 Of your red feet leaves clear its sanguine trace." 
 
 232 
 
November Eves 
 
 November Evenings ! Damp and still 
 They used to cloak Leckhampton hill, 
 And lie down close on the grey plain, 
 And dim the dripping window-pane. 
 And send queer winds like Harlequins 
 That seized our elms for violins 
 And struck a note so sharp and low 
 Even a child could feel the woe. 
 
 Now fire chased shadow round the room ; 
 Tables and chairs grew vast in gloom : 
 We crept about like mice, while Nurse 
 Sat mending, solemn as a hearse, 
 And even our unlearned eyes 
 Half closed with choking memories. 
 
 Is it the mist or the dead leaves. 
 Or the dead men — November eves f 
 
 233 
 
God Save the King 
 
 God save our gracious King, 
 Nation and State and King, 
 
 God save the King ! 
 Grant him the Peace divine, 
 But if his Wars be Thine 
 Flash on our fighting line 
 
 Victory's Wing ! 
 
 rhou in his suppliant hands 
 Hast placed such Mighty Lands : 
 
 Save thou our King ! 
 As once from golden Skies 
 Rebels with flaming eyes, 
 So the King's Enemies 
 
 Doom Thou and fling ! 
 
 Mountains that break the night 
 Holds He by eagle right 
 
 Stretching far Wing ! 
 Dawn lands for Youth to reap, 
 Dim lands where Empires sleep, 
 His ! And the Lion Deep 
 
 Roars for the King. 
 
 234 
 
But most these few dear miles 
 Of sweetly-meadowed Isles, — 
 
 England all Spring ; 
 Scotland that by the marge 
 Where the blank North doth charge 
 Hears Thy Voice loud and large, 
 
 Save, and their King ! 
 
 Grace on the golden Dales 
 Of Thine old Christian Wales 
 
 Shower till they sing. 
 Till Erin's Island lawn 
 Echoes the dulcet-drawn 
 Song with a cry ot Dawn — 
 
 God save the King ! 
 
 235 
 
The Burial in England 
 
 These then we honour : these in fragrant earth 
 Of their own country in great peace forget 
 Death's Uon-roar and gust of nostril-flame 
 Breathing souls across to the Evening Shore. 
 Soon over these the flowers of our hill-sides 
 Shall wake and wave and nod beneath the bee 
 And whisper love to Zephyr year on year, 
 Till the red war gleam like a dim red rose 
 Lost in the garden of the Sons of Time. 
 But ah what thousands no such friendly doom 
 Awaits, — whom silent comrades in fuU night 
 Gazing right and left shall bury swiftly 
 By the cold flicker of an alien moon. 
 
 Ye veUed women, ye with folded hands, 
 Mourning those you half hoped for Death too dear, 
 I claim no heed of you. Broader than earth 
 Love stands eclipsing nations with his wings, 
 While Pain, his shadow, delves as black and deep 
 As he e'er flamed or flew. Citizens draw 
 Back from their dead awhile. Salute the flag ! 
 
 If this flag though royally always borne. 
 Deceived not dastard, ever served base gold ; 
 
 236 
 
If the dark children of the old Forest 
 Once feared it, or ill Sultans mocked it furled, 
 Yet now as on a thousand death-reaped days 
 It takes once more the unquestionable road. 
 bright with blood of heroes, not a star 
 Of all the north shines purer on the sea ! 
 
 Our foes — the hardest men a state can forge, 
 An army wrenched and hammered Uke a blade 
 Toledo-wrought neither to break nor bend, 
 Dipped in that ice the pedantry of power, 
 And toughened with wry gospels of dismay ; 
 Such are these who brake down the door of France, 
 Wolves worrying at the old World's honour, 
 Hunting Peace not to prison but her tomb. 
 But ever as some brown song-bird whose torn nest 
 Gapes robbery, darts on the hawk like fire. 
 So Peace hath answered, angry and in arms. 
 And from each grey hamlet and bright town of France 
 From where the apple or the olive grows 
 Or thin tall strings of poplars on the plains. 
 From the rough castle of the central hills. 
 From the three coasts — of mist and storm and sun, 
 And meadows of the four deep-roUing streams. 
 From every house whose windows hear God's bell 
 Crowding the twilight with the wings of prayer 
 And flash their answer in a golden haze. 
 Stream the young soldiers who are never tired. 
 For aU the foul mists vanished when that land 
 Called clear, as in the sunny Alpine morn 
 The jodeler awakes the frosty slopes 
 
 237 
 
To thunderous replies, — soon fading fat 
 
 Among the vales like songs of dead children. 
 
 But the French guns' answer, ne'er to echoes weak 
 
 Diminished, bursts from the deep trenches vet ; 
 
 And its least light vibration blew to dust 
 
 The weary factions, — priest's or guild's or king's, 
 
 And side by side troop up the old partisans, 
 
 The same laughing, invincible, tough men 
 
 Who gave Napoleon Europe like a loaf, 
 
 For slice and portion, — not so long ago ! 
 
 Either to Alsace or loved lost Lorraine 
 
 They pass, or inexpugnable Verdun 
 
 Ceintured with steel, or stung with faith's old cry 
 
 Assume God's vengeance for his temple stones. 
 
 But you maybe best wish them for the north 
 
 Beside you 'neath low skies in loam^d fields, 
 
 "Or where the great line hard on the duned shore 
 
 Ends and night leaps to England's sea-borne flame. 
 
 Never one drop of Lethe's stagnant cup 
 
 Dare dim the fountains of the Marne and Aisne 
 
 Since still the flowers and meadow-grass unmown 
 
 Lie broken with the imprint of those who fell, 
 
 Briton and Gaul — but fell immortal friends 
 
 And fell victorious and like tall trees fell. 
 
 But young men, you who loiter in the town, 
 Need you be roused with overshouted words. 
 Country, Empire, Honour, Liege, Louvain ? 
 Pay your own Youth the duty of her dreams. 
 For what sleep shall keep her from the thrill 
 Of War's star-smiting music, with its swell 
 
 238 
 
Of shore and forest and horns high in the wind, 
 
 (Yet pierced with that too sharp piping which if man 
 
 Hear and not fear he shall face God unscathed) ? 
 
 What, are you poets whose vain souls contrive 
 
 Sorties and sieges spun of the trickling moon 
 
 And such a rousing ghost-catastrophe 
 
 You need no concrete marvels to be saved ? 
 
 Or live you here too lustily for change ? 
 
 Sail you such pirate seas on such high quests. 
 
 Hunt you thick gold or striped and spotted beasts. 
 
 Or tread the lone ways of the swan-like mountains ? 
 
 Excused. But if, as I think, breeched in blue, 
 
 Stalled at a counter, cramped upon a desk, 
 
 You drive a woman's pencraft — or a slave's. 
 
 What chain shall hold you when the trumpets play, 
 
 CaUing from the blue hill behind your town, 
 
 Calling over the seas, calling for you ! 
 
 " But " — do you murmur ? — " we'd not be as those. 
 
 Death is a dour recruiting-sergeant : see. 
 
 These women weep, we celebrate the dead." 
 
 Boys, drink the cup of warning dry. Face square 
 
 That old grim hazard, " Glory-or-the-Grave." 
 
 Not we shall trick your pleasant years away. 
 
 Yet is not Death the great adventure stiU, 
 
 And is it all loss to set ship clean anew 
 
 When heart is young and life an eagle poised ? 
 
 Choose, you're no cowards. After all, think some, 
 
 Since we are men and shrine immortal souls 
 
 Surely for us as for these nobly dead 
 
 The Kings of England lifting up their swords 
 
 Shall gather at the gate of Paradise. 
 
 239 
 
The True Paradise 
 
 Lord, is the Poet to destruction vowed, 
 
 Like the dawn-feather of an April cloud, 
 
 Which signs in russet character or grey 
 
 The name of Beauty on the book of Day ? 
 
 We poets crave no heav'n but what is ours — 
 
 These trees beside these rivers ; these same flowers 
 
 Shaped and enfragranced to the English field 
 
 Where Thy best florist-craft is full revealed. 
 
 Trees by the river, birds upon the bough 
 
 My soul shall ask for, whose flesh enjoys them now 
 
 Through both the pale-blue vidndows of quick Mind ; 
 
 Grant me earth's treats in Paradise to find. 
 
 Nor listen to that island-bound St. John 
 
 Who'd have no Sea in Heaven, no Sea to sail upon ! 
 
 Remake this World less Man's and Nature's Pain ; 
 
 Save such dear torment as the chill of Rain 
 
 When the sun flouts us like a maid her man 
 
 Drowned in long meshes of a silver Fan. 
 
 Nor, Lord, the good fatigue of labouring breath 
 
 Destroy, but only Sickness, Age and Death. 
 
 Let old Plays teach Despair's sad grandeur still 
 
 And legends trumpet War's last Hero-thrill. 
 
 240 
 
So I and all my friends, still young, still wise, 
 Will shout along thy streets — " Paradise ! " 
 But if prepared for me new Mansions are, 
 Chill and unknown, in some bright windy Star, 
 Mid strange-shaped Souls from all the Planets seven. 
 Lord, I fear deep, and would not go to Heaven. 
 Rather in feather-mist I'd fade away 
 Like the Dawn-writing of an April day. 
 
 741 
 
Ode to the Glory of Greeci 
 
 {A Fragmen(\ 
 
 Hellas victorious ! 
 
 Two came to me at night 
 
 Glorious 
 
 With that Elysian light 
 
 Which round the phantoms of great Poets dead 
 
 Hovers, as once in their blue earthly eyes 
 
 Played Thoughts with wings outspread, — 
 
 The splendour of their souls. 
 
 Cried one to me," O mortal brother, since thou lovest too 
 
 With all thy burning breath 
 
 The stony hills and salt Corinthian blue 
 
 From whose divine dear shore 
 
 ApoUo led me to the caves of death " 
 
 But charmid, he forbore. 
 
 His voice had sung to measure grave and low 
 
 When suddenly his young friend-phantom spoke, 
 
 And Shelley's voice rang like a wave of aether 
 
 Blazing and breaking on rosy cliffs of air, 
 
 And his face was flaming snow, overlushed 
 
 242 
 
By a river of the sun — his long bright hair. 
 
 " Inheritor," he sang, " speed thou away 
 
 Rushing with ^olus and Boreas, rushing on the 
 
 ancient paths 
 Scattering the rosy plumage of the new arisen day. 
 
 " Go thou to Athens, go to Salonica, 
 
 Go thou to Yannina beside the lake, 
 
 And cry, ' The vision of the Prophet dead ! ' 
 
 Cry, ' The Olympians wake ! ' 
 
 And cry, ' Towers of Hellas built anew by rhyme, 
 
 Star-woven to my Amphionic lyre. 
 
 Stand you in steel for ever. 
 
 And from your lofty lanterns sweeping the dim hills 
 
 and the nocturnal sea 
 Pour out the fire of Hellas, the everlasting fire 1 ' " 
 
 And then to me once more the Elder Shadow : 
 
 " Still, brother, Shelley's fancy brims desire : 
 
 His soul is so acquainted with great dreams 
 
 That even the immane Elysian meadow 
 
 Whose flowers are stars and every star a world that 
 
 glides and gleams, 
 Confines him not — but still he longs to roam 
 Beyond the quiet spiritual home. 
 — His soul is so acquainted with great dreams 
 That man's endeavour 
 He seeth not near — that broken river 
 Struggling — to what salt sea ? 
 
 24.% 
 
" Since man's endeavour flows as a river, how shall it 
 turn to the hills again ? 
 
 — Burst again all rosy with morning from snow- 
 starred mountains of first renown ; 
 
 Who to-day shall hear the Ach^ans shout from the 
 trench of the Troyans slain, 
 
 Who rebuild in music or memory Sparta's tower or 
 Athena's town ? 
 
 " Since the Roman intercepted and Rome's dimidiate, 
 
 stoled Byzance, 
 Shall they hear above their cannon grave, the 
 
 Periclean tune ? 
 Christ oversang it, chivalry dimmed it, winding on 
 
 Parnes the horns of France, 
 Islam drowned the echo of echo deep in the night- of 
 
 her languid moon." 
 
 Passionate thus he spake, the wise ghost unforgetful 
 
 Of stone and tree, river and shore and plain, 
 
 And the good coloured things of Earth the dead see 
 
 not again, 
 And how man's hope grows weak and his force fretful 
 With such great hUls to gain. 
 I for an answer pondered deep. 
 And then I seemed to fall from sleep to sleep, 
 Watching as through a veil I could not tear 
 The threads of rose and gold of Shelley's hair. 
 
 244 
 
The gold glowed deeper and the rose burnt red, 
 
 And I saw running and rustling at my feet 
 
 The rivers of a golden sun that bled 
 
 Scarlet, scarlet, scarlet as though wounded 
 
 By some celestial archer of the Stars 
 
 In the last fight when God's last trump was sounded ; 
 
 Then the great lake of commingling blood and fire 
 
 Burst in a fountain to my window streaming, 
 
 To my Cephisian window high and cool. 
 
 Over far Salamis and Athens gleaming. 
 
 Drowning the sea and city in one deep pool. 
 
 And only now old Parnes of the West 
 
 And grey Hymettus of the dawn 
 
 Rose above the phantom seas 
 
 Like Islands of the Blest. 
 
 Then a wind came and swept and whirled away, 
 
 And the mist left Hymettus broken small 
 
 Like a swarm of golden bees. 
 
 Gone is the Poet of the magic locks, 
 
 And Byron gone ; master of war's [....] 
 
 Outflashes white the holy Parthenon 
 
 And broad calm streets of Athens of to-day, 
 
 And in the barracks the far bugles play, 
 
 O listen what they say ! 
 
 Hark, hark the shepherd piping far and near. 
 The hills are dancing to the Dorian mood. 
 
 24s 
 
To-day Arcady is and the white Fear 
 Naked in sunshine glory still haunts here ; 
 The old dark wood 
 
 Invites to prayer — or fountain in the vale. 
 If not the Cytherean, one more dear 
 Daphnis shall worship — one more pale, 
 She too a heroine of a Grecian tale. 
 
 But if no Pheidias with marble towers 
 
 Grace our new Athens, simple, calm and wide, 
 
 Carving a group of men to look like flowers 
 
 For our new glory's pride. 
 
 If songs of gentle Solomos be less 
 
 Than that Aeschylean trump of bronze 
 
 And if beside Eurotas the lone swans 
 
 About the desolation press. 
 
 Yet still victorious Hellas, thou hast heard 
 Those ancient voices thundering to arms, 
 Thou nation of an older younger day 
 Thou hast gone forth as with the poet's song. 
 Surely the spirit of the old oak grove 
 Rejoiced to hear the cannon round Yannina, 
 Apollo launched his shaft of terror down 
 On Salonica. .... 
 
 1913 
 
 246 
 
The Old Warship Ablaze 
 
 Founder, old batdeship ; thy fight is done ! 
 Yonder ablaze like thee now sinks the sun, 
 Shooting the last grand broadside of his beams 
 Over thy blackened plates and writhing seams. 
 Against hard odds thy crew played all their part, 
 Driving thee deathwards that the foe should smart 
 Till the guns brake and fire leapt up insane. 
 And they abandoned thee, to fight again, 
 Who on thy deck, where flicker the gaunt flames. 
 Have left so many dead — won such proud names. 
 
 Dark flow the waiting waves : one can still see 
 Thy giant murderer edge sullenly 
 Eastward among the swelling towers of night. 
 Canst thou, dying, forget in Hell's despite 
 Thy freight of fire and blood, the roar and rage 
 Of waves and guns f Thou liest age on age 
 Tranced like the Princess in her sleepy Thorn, 
 In that curv'd bay where once the film of morn 
 Brake azure to thy bugles, skilled to bring 
 The Afric breeze, who, prompt on honied wing 
 
 247 
 
Silvered the waves and then the olive trees, 
 And shook like sceptres those stiff companies 
 The columned palms, — nor till the air was full 
 Of flash and whisper came the noon-tide lull. 
 Or that far country's ten-year-buried eves 
 Or moonlight scattered like a shower of leaves 
 Dost thou recall ? — Or how on this same deck. 
 Whose flaming planks blood-boulter ed tilt to wreck, 
 The dance went round to music, and how shone 
 For English grey, black eyes of Lebanon ? 
 
 But Eastward and still east the World is thrown 
 Like a mad hunter seeking dawns unknown 
 Who plunges deep in sparkless woods of gloom. 
 Lebanon long hath turned into night's womb 
 And through her stelldd casements pass new dreams : 
 Thee too from those last no-more-rival beams 
 Earth rolleth back. Alone ship, flower, 
 flame, thou sailest for a moth-weak hour ! 
 
 They come at last, the bird-soft pattering feet ! 
 
 Flame high, old ship ; the Fair throng up to greet 
 
 Thy splendid doom. See the long spirits, curled 
 
 Beside their dead, stand upright free of the world ! 
 
 And seize the bright shapes loosed from blood-warm sleep. 
 
 They, the true ghosts, whose eyes are fixed and deep ! 
 
 248 
 
O ship, fire, O fancy ! A swift roar 
 
 Has rent the brow of night. Thou nevermore 
 
 Shalt glide to channel port or Syrian town ; 
 
 Light ghosts have danced thee like a plummet down. 
 
 And, swift as Fate through skies with storm bestrewn^ 
 
 Dips out ironical that ship New Moon. 
 
 The End 
 
PRINTED IN RNGLAND AT 
 
 THE WESTMINSTER PRBSS 411A HARROW ROAO 
 
 LONnON