op TMB A/U^eMt Z'WLYDJS b O ,51 3 IMM^^C^^U^iS:!^ '"~"~' IB Aa^I'^i'^ OLIN LIBPA?xY - CIRCULATION DATE DUE OCT ^. Wr^ th^^ v-^Ii^i=¥i ^ GAYLORO PfONTEDIN U S.A PR6023.Y36Mr"'""'"^'-"'"^ "°S«.«,!?,^,,^,?,^f,:;.V,,f??!'79 verses cotlec 3 1924 013 643 014 Cornell University Library The original of this book is in the Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013643014 MOODS OF THE MOMENT, MOODS OF THE MOMENT BEING VERSES COLLECTED FROM The Merchistonian, Time, The Academy, The Monthly Packet, Sr'c. nv LIONEL W. LYDE ILLUSTRATED BY G. STRATON FERRtER, R.S.W. EDINBURGH H. & J. PILLANS & WILSON, 48 HANOVER STREET V':H '/'/. "l k. i^'\']-\% - TO The Sweetest Woman in the World. TO THE READER. TV y/TY only reason for writing a Preface is to give ^^ ^ myself another opportunity of repeating my " Carthago est delenda." Of course, it makes no pre- tence whatever to being original ; but it is simple. True Religion is not — to hold up, in prayer to God on high, hands which one never holds out in pity to man on earth. True Love is not — only a flame-winged passion for a particular person, but also the white-winged worship of an Ideal. True Poetry is not — only writing, but also doing ; ' ' And if a man have a poet's heart, Minus the head — as it sometimes chances ! — Far better display his rhythmic art In tuning this harsh world's dissonances 1 ■ ' And leaving his dactyls to find their way, Mend, as he can, life's halting metre, Making the poem of every day Ring on the ear a little sweeter." So, we all may be poets, however rough or weak our verses are. L. W. L. Glasgow, April 1895. CONTENTS. The Seasons— I. PAGE 12 A Dedication .... 13 By the Sea ..... 14 Father Damien .... IS Only ..... 16 On the Engine of the Night Express 17 Children of Chance .... 18 A Bruised Leaf .... 19 The Dust of the Road 20 A Death in a Cottage 22 Between the Seasons 24 Not Very Far . . . 25 Red and White Roses 26 After the Crossing .... 27 A Summer Night .... 28 lO PAGE The Seasons— II. . . . . 30 In June . . . . . 31 Axel (from the Swedish of Tegner) 35 A Failure .... 40 " Go and Forget " . 44 The Seasons— III. . . 48 The Rhymer's Choice 49 Yule-Tide .... 51 Spes Magistri 53 Adrift 55 The Surrey Hills 57 Merchiston Castle " Bank ' 59 The Vigils of Music 61 Dawn and Darkness 62 1894-95 .... • 63 " A Happy New Year" 64 MKD C>ITTIE IHAat Till UDOfH-OEff. KOtt\ HAKVfST mRK, By MOONLIGHT HOME ^SWfET DAM6,£IIS lURK fOI^ THOSE WHO HQAHl ReTn, aOLDEN, ClUf THE YMR'S fl£(jur FOLLOW rn£ D;i\y TO DU3K :f|ND RfST. 13 A DEDICATION. A POET, SO some poet sings, Can glory in familiar things. And see them new on Fancy's wings. If that were all, I, too, might claim Through you. Dear Life, a poet's fame, For I can partly do the same. I know so well your sweet, shy ways. Your moods, and every trivial phrase You uttered in those far, glad days. I know them all ; so you have guessed On what my claim as Bard would rest— I love those most that I know best. 14 BY THE SEA. The sea-breeze sank upon the mountain crest Seeking rest ; The blue mists crept along the glen to meet At my feet ; And, when the wind dropped, still a spirit spoke Where waves broke. I watched the softly-coloured shadows fade Where they played, — The rainbowed ripple lose its tiny spark, And grow dark, — Until the dim night's unstilled voices lent Deep content. " Join hands, and lift your eyes to yon vault spread Overhead ! These shadows but conceal the day-drawn dust ; And we trust Those grey clouds will be gilded when the deep Wakes from sleep." 15 FATHER DAMIEN. He is not dead, but sleeping ; though he dared To give what most count life, to teach us how To wipe the grave-damp from the leper's brow, And tend their souls for whom the Master cared. He sleeps ; and leper mourners laid his bier Where, by the far Pacific's sapphire flood, The deathless creeper's gold and scarlet bud Sheds its eternal bloom from year to year. He died a leper's death, self-sacrificed To sweetest pain ; and all the world has heard His knightly story, and been strangely stirred To momentary sympathy with Christ. For echoes of those lips are with us yet First heard beside the blue Gennesaret. i6 ONLY. Only a leaf, I said, Damp with the dew, — Flushed with a brown and red Ominous hue, — Loosened from overhead. If a gale blew. Only a love, I sighed, Haply mis-known, All that it asked denied. Useless alone. Making, as if to chide, Mere monotone. Only a life, may be. Tending to tears, — Losing, in losing thee, Joy through its years, — All save Eternity Facing with fears. i; ON THE ENGINE OF THE NIGHT EXPRESS. Faster, and faster, and faster, Into the teeth of the gale, Into the night, Fearful of looming disaster, Thrilled with the pulse of the Mail, Dumb with delight. Into a tunnel whose portals Start like the bottomless pit Full at your face, Smoke-wreathed as Etna's immortals, Caverned, confused, furnace-lit, Dazed with the pace. Faster, and faster, and faster. Feeling the storm on your face, Kissing the night, Scoffing at chance of disaster, White with the spell of the pace, Mad with delight. CHILDREN OF CHANCE. I MET a maid, With lilies in her hair, Like snowflakes laid Amid the nut-brown tresses there. Across her cheek There spread a pure, pink glow, As if to seek A contrast in the lilies' snow. Her eyes, like mist On far off hills in Spring, Pale amethyst, Were filled with lustrous shadowing. Children of chance, Ye deathless hopes that start From a stray glance, With mutual music of the heart ! 19 A BRUISED LEAF. They were only plain green leaves, But the flower was very fair, — Most sweet where the bosom heaves. Or among dark, loosened hair ; And only the heart that grieves, For the sombre leaf would care. But a child in her little hand Soon crushed the tempting spray ; And the flower could not withstand The test, and was thrown away ; But the leaves make a fragrant band For that little one's hair to-day. So I know that my Love is true, Because she has borne earth's bane ; Her beauty will blossom anew, And her heart is enriched by the pain ; For the mower must wait for the dew To be dried, ere he gather the grain. 20 THE DUST OF THE ROAD. As we stood down the bay in the sunset's force, A fleecy veil of quiet haze Dimpled the full tide's level course ; And down by the beach the sea-shell Fays Deepened their murmurs to mirrored gorse. So I watched the flow by the vessel's side, Till a sportive air caught some wandering spray, And sprinkled it down in wanton pride On my face ; and I shrank towards the skipper in play. " It's the dust of the road," with a laugh, he replied. 21 The tempest had broken while we were asleep, But we crept on deck to the canvassed bridge, And longed for the day — too wistful to peep Through the darkest hour for the dawn's dim ridge, To heed the shuddering cataract's heap. So then, while the storm was nearing its height, A billow broke over the bridge with a roar ; And the skipper groped round for my hand in the night, And stooped to my ear, and sang out as before, — " It's the dust of the road," — with a grim delight. 22 A DEATH IN A COTTAGE. Outside — from the rude window-sill's mid chink, Fronting the weather, A yellow creeper twined, as if to link The bits together, For the old stone-work here and there was cleft Down to the centre. And soil by man or tempest had been left For seed to enter. Within — the muUions broke the sunset's fall On faded curtain ; And, farther in, the tiny panes made all Dim and uncertain. But, when your eyes were rested to the dun. You could discover Two outlined figures — one asleep, and one Bending above her. 23 Her breath still blurred the glass before her face, Hope's last endeavour To catch some sign of life, ere Time's short race Was run for ever. At length she stirred, and woke, and tried to speak Words never spoken — " Mother, — " ; and one was left, who kissed her cheek, And sank heart-broken. 24 BETWEEN THE SEASONS. There is a dreamy, old-world peace About the year, Before we hear The Winter moaning in the storm's release. Soft mists are on the fields where stood The golden sheaf ; The Autumn leaf Has torn its cheery crimson from the wood. The world is sad, but there are some Whose faith is tried ; No heart has sighed For love, and found the ivhole world dumb. " Praise God ! " sang on the hermit priest. When he was dead, An x'\ngel said The flowers faded where the song had ceased. 25 NOT VERY FAR. Not very far — the silent city lies, The city where those tiny, human feet, That made such music with their baby beat, Lie eastward till Time's last, sad sun shall rise. Not very far — and yet so far that we Who were as one till almost yesterday In life and love, are now such worlds away As mortals dread in Immortality. Not very far — for westward wends the sun ; And, ere that sea of scented blossom fall Upon her little grave, another call May summon me, and we again be one. 26 RED AND WHITE ROSES. " A ROSE at her breast, in her tresses a spray ! " And the rose must be red in her life's full day, And she must be joyous the few hours she may. " A rose at her breast, in her tresses a spray ! " To-morrow will blemish what blossoms to-day, For even red roses will wither away. " A rose at her breast, in her tresses a spray ! " And the rose must be white on that still, cold clay. And the spray must be myrtle to shadow decay. 27 AFTER THE CROSSING. " All of the Poet that can die, is dead," And rests within our calm, Cathedral walls, Though many a curious stranger's footstep falls Unchecked now on the sleeper's soundless bed. And he, his long secluded life all sped, Lives in our life, and to our hearts recalls The trailing gleams — but with such intervals — Of knightly fire that once flamed overhead. There was no moaning when he put to sea. But silver, silent moonlight — watchers say — For it was fittest he should die at night. Now, harboured by his Pilot tenderly. With Him he bids us still, as yesterday. Just because Right is Right, to follow Right. 28 A SUMMER NIGHT. Where pearl tints of grey Nightly creep, Fairies play, Or on dewy spray. Saddened, weep. Tiny fairy feet On the grass Part and meet ; Tiny voices greet. As they pass. Fairy loves are told, Answers bring Arms to fold ; Tiny threads of gold Make the ring. ^ ^^r--. Ml SEASOft[S HE END OF MARCH, THE BIRTH OFSPRINa, QKltfi ON THE L/^RCH, youNtt Blf(DS 0^ WIMG BKf-TIREO AOOK B-£5'lB£ THE BURN , WITH FRIEND f,!iB BOOK 'niio I^OCK fiHtS tehH r RIPfNED SHEAF, THE LADEN WAIN, THE TINTED LEAF N AUTUMN LANE rHOSTED HEDGE, A BLAST THAT NUMBS, A WINDOW UDdE WITH robin's CRUMB3 31 IN JUNE. Hail, merry month of June ! Now summer birds attune Their song in harmony with our new love ; And — soft as shadows — fall Whispers more musical On my fond ear, than note of woodland dove. The lights of day are low, But golden afterglow Still warms the world to life ; and Thy fair brow Is lit by love's pure blush, And by the light's last flush, Which warns my heart that I must leave Thee now. 32 The laughing day is dead ; The shroud of night is spread Darkly across each nameless, low grass-tomb. The yews are dusk with pain, And the night wind's refrain Comes sobbing on my ear from out the gloom. And songs remain unsung ; The lyre is left unstrung ; The master's hand is still, the heart-throb slow. The silence is too deep. Such stillness is not sleep, Though day is dead, and passion must forego Its busy joys and fret, Unless it can forget In calm which comes only of power to pray. 33 I do not understand, Some one must take my hand And lead me, or I may not find my way. Such things have often been ; Yet much remains unseen ; Nor can we know all that the end requires. We only dream — one morn Will have no eve, and scorn Will not be hurled upon our best desires. We may have stood aghast At failures, but at last, After the darkest passage of the night, We shall have found our quest, Somewhere there will be rest. Somewhere the darkness will be turned to light. 34 So to-morrow will atone For leaves to-night has blown In new succession, listless on the lawn, For night does not efface The folded flower's grace, It only veils it — waiting for the dawn. Then the soft touch of day Will wake the tender spray, And heaven will steal the sleeping drops of dew. The night has been forlorn, But bright will be the morn, For with its break we meet, Dear Life, anew. 35 AXEL. Thkn from the floods that foul the lowest Hell Uprose pale Madness, Death's young brother fell, Wearing, as he is ever wont to wear, A poppy-wreath on his dishevelled hair. (Sometimes to heaven he turns his vacant gaze. Then downward to the earth, while laughter plays Round his contracted lips with hideous cries, And mocking tears stand in his half-dimmed eyes.) He laid his shuddering hand on Axel's head. And from that moment forth, with ceaseless tread, He ever wandered round his lost Love's grave, As the dead miser haunts the charnel-cave Where — story runs — his hidden treasure lies. Thus day and night did Axel's mournful cries Sob out their piteous wailing to the sea. And clamour to the shore for sympathy : — 36 " Be still, be still, Blue Wave Beat not against the shore ! Only this boon I crave — Be silent evermore ! You but disturb my dreams ; I hate your noisy flood, For all your foaming streams Seem to be mixed with blood. Death to my land you bring, Defiling everything. Just now a boy was here, Bleeding to death ; and I Strewed roses on his bier, Although I scarce know why. Did not his face recall Some one ? I know not whom. Yet, God willing, in the fall Of the spring I'll bring Her home. 3; Yet they say that the dull earth hides My Bride — that the grasses grow On yonder sod that divides Me from my lost Love below. But I know — that is not true ; For it was only last night She sat — as we often do, She and I — upon this height. I saw that Her face was pale, As pale as one paints the dead ; But how could any one fail To be so with the moon overhead ? And cold were Her lips and cheek, But only because the wind Blew from the North, and was bleak. As North winds are — 38 She cannot be dead to-day, For only last night I prayed That She would remain alway With me ; and She promised, and staj'ed. She laid Her hand on my head. When it was heavy and dazed ; And all my bewilderment fled Before Her cool touch was raised." So he makes ceaseless wail on Sotaskar. The dawning day will find him watching there ; The sun may set, but he will not return ; There he will ever pace alone, and yearn For Her — his Love. 39 One morning he was dead, Down on the lonely shore. Bowed was his head ; His hands were clasped, as if in silent prayer ; And, almost frozen in the chill, dawn air, The tears stood on his cheeks. His eyes were turned Towards the well-loved grave ; but in them burned No ray of life. The severed light had sped To guide the spirit as it seaward fled. 40 A FAILURE. I AM alone, and all is still. Already love's good-night is pressed On tired lips that soon will rest ; And I have watched the night until The darker mood has left my eyes, And there is peace ; and I would sing, But I am loath to touch a string Which you might welcome — might despise. Hereafter, when those lights are low, I'll take my pen again and write. It may be that the overflow Of sadder thoughts will suit the night. 41 For somewhere long ago I read How all true shadows fall behind; And, as I turned the page, I said, — " But, when the sun has all declined, And yet the moon is dim, why then No shadows will be seen at all, For underneath the one dark pall Are deeply hidden things and men." Thus darkness may interpret best My mental shadows, and may fling A restful shade on the unrest Of one who would, but cannot sing. 42 For I am grieved at my mischance. I did my best, but I was tired. I thought to win a kindly glance By having done as you desired ; And I have failed. 'Tis nothing new. I should have wearied of the load Of failures, but my heart has glowed With some successes. Yet 'tis true — It will not matter in the years Whether our lives were sad or not ; We soon forget, and are forgot. Time cannot stop to count up tears. 43 And yet at times a vague regret Is with us — for the charm mislaid, — The faded piece of mignonette, — The hazel spray which only played Above a woman's breast, and thus Is yet remembered ; while the dell Where thousands bloomed, and browned, and fell, Is nameless — like to most of us. Chance singles out the one for fame, And sunshine smiles an hour on him. The others never have a claim On memory. 'Tis Fortune's whim. 44 "GO AND FORGET!" " Go, and forget me, friend, if friend you be ! That will be best. Go, and forget me ! Do not answer me ! Leave unconfessed All that could make the past worse misery ! " " Go, and forget you ? If you bid me, Dear, I must obey, Where choice is mine. No selfish fear Shall answer Nay, If I can spare your eyes a single tear. " Go, and forget you .' One is mine to do, As mine to choose. To go is easy, if it is for you, Whate'er I lose ; Nor is there count of loss between us two. 45 " But to forget you is no longer mine. My heart, my head, Alike have lost their freedom to untwine The golden thread Of memory, the tendrils of Love's vine. " Therefore, forgive me, if I disobey Only in this ! Let me remember you on life's lone way ! You will not miss My worship ; grant me memory for aye ! " For sometimes, as I lie awake at night, I wonder how. And when, and where. The Reaper's acolyte Will sign my brow With the pale silence of his Master's rite. 46 " In answer faith and fear alike are dumb ; Love unawares Has locked their lips, and left their pulses numb, Nor greatly cares With them to wonder how that call shall come. " If I may only hear in memory Your voice again. See your dear eyes, and feel your touch on me, Death has no pain That can obtrude on such sad ecstasy. " Who trod alone the winepress to the lees, Was deathless Love ; So, in fond pictures from the past, love sees A spell above The cold, dull touch of life's last agonies." ai\i siin)i?|-i1 by H. ^^ J. Piltans &* i^'ilso?i. 48 Hanover Street, Edinburgh,