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Cornell University Library PR6025.A1772N5 New poems. 3 1924 013 657 378 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/cu31924013657378 NEW POEMS BY THE SAME AUTHOR GRANITE DUST: POEMS Mr. William Sharp in The Academy. — " The author is undoubtedly a poet." Mr. Andrew Lang in The Illustrated London News. — ' ' The spirit of these verses is young, passionate and sincere." Mr. John Davidson in The Speaker. — " Had Mr. Macfie called his book ' Diamond Dust ' it would not have unfitly described much that is splendid in it." Mr. George Saintsbuby in TJte New Review. — " For original music, for artistic (not impressionist) rendering of impression, and for fresh expression of the eternal commonplaces which form the subject of poetry, I have not often seen a better first appearance." N EW POEMS BY RONALD CAMPBELL MACFIE JOHN LANE : THE BODLEY HEAD LONDON fcf NEW YORK MDCCCCIV -r I\^\? Z %%1 Printed by Lali.antvm-:, Hanson 6-' Co. London &° Edinburgh TO A. L. F. N. P. R. S. The author acknowledges the courtesy of the editors of "Black and White," "The Bookman," "The British Weekly," "The Evergreen," "The Illustrated London News," and " The Sphere," for permission to republish a number of these poems. CONTENTS If I were Sleep To the Twentieth Century Tides .... A Singer Brown Eyes Waves . Truth . Apologia Faith . Psyche You and I . The Peak of Love " 1 was as Dead " Birds .... " Oh Vague and Blurred " " They hold the Heart " The Mark of Cain William Minto : In Memoriam " Are all the Stars 1 " . ix PAGE I 5 io 12 '3 18 21 *5 26 28 3z 38 39 44 45 49 5i 56 To Save my Soul . Also . Chrysanthemum Gold " Why vex thy Soul " Misgiving Dreams Vita Nuova . A Poet Wild Roses A Burning Bush . A Keepsake'. The Tree of Time By a Rosebud A Bud Youth and Age A Rosary A Moral To . Queen of the Night To the Queen of England 5» 7+ 76 79 82 83 «5 90 92 93 94 96 98 99 100 101 103 104. 105 107 NEW POEMS IF I WERE SLEEP If I were Sleep With scythe to reap, Like faded flowers, The weary hours Of withered day — If I were Sleep With dreams to keep And give away, — If I were Sleep And God should say, "Go down to her you love to-night, Go down and lay A dream upon her eyelids white ! " What dream of wonder and delight Would I convey, — If I were Sleep With dreams to keep And give away ? Oh this, meseems, Of all the dreams, My choice would be — A dream compact of sun and shade, A dream of truth and fancy made, A dream that on her eyelids laid, Would make her see Love standing near with wistful eyes Unhappy and unwise, With tragic lips withered by many sighs, With weary hands, holding no flowers of fame, No high achievements perfect and complete, But bitter weeds of failure and defeat, And cruel thorns of shame, — With broken heart deeming all things are vain, And so o'erbrimmed with memories of disgrace, It has no place Even for pain. And then the dreamland mist would stir, And Love's unhappy face Lit with a wonder strange, Would flush and change ; And his sad eyes would gleam, For at his side he would discover her Who dreams the dream. And still for very pity's sake I would not have the dreamer wake — Would have her see herself appear In the dim dreamland atmosphere — Would have her wait and witness how Her own red lips bend down and kiss his brow, And her own eyes peruse his very soul, Reading it like a scroll, And finding still her name in it Imperishably writ. Oh, I would have her understand, Seeing it in a dream, How her bright eyes and her white hand Love's life redeem Till sweeter even than success his failures seem. O Love the baffled, Love the dumb, In her fair presence would become A singer with a magic lyre, A saint consumed by high desire, A warrior-god Cuirassed and shod With lightning and Olympic fire. Oh, warmly Love's sad heart would beat, And brightly his dim eyes would glance, And joyously his weary feet Would leap and dance. This is the dream I would convey ; And haply at the break Of day, She would awake, And for the sake Of the strange dream with Love would stay. This is the dream I would convey If I were Sleep, With dreams to keep, Or give away. TO THE TWENTIETH CENTURY Upon a grave your cradle stands, Lo, Life and Death Commingled breath And wedded hands, As in the lap of Time you lay, And the old Century passed away. And strangely in your soul are wed The young and old, The warm and cold, The quick and dead ; And past and future, fruit and bud Make Spring and Autumn of your blood Art thou not old who at thy birth Inheritest From east to west The ancient Earth, What frost of age can ever blight The Amaranth of the Infinite ? Youth blossoms in thy fervid blood, As Aaron's rod Instinct with God Broke into bud. And these worm-eaten swaddling clothes Are but the sepals of a rose. And even Sin's distorted root Will some day bear, Thro 1 saving prayer, A holy fruit. Out of old Sin God's Love will make New Beauty for His Mercy's sake. Thy spirit is as fresh as dew, So sweet and warm It can transform The old to new, And make the muscles move upon The driest bones in Aijalon. Oh, young thou art in heart and will, Thy lips can pray, Thy cheeks display The dimples still. Must not the moments lusty be Whose loins contain Eternity ? Oh, strangely in thy soul are wed The young and old, The warm and cold, The quick and dead, And both the future and the past Within thine infant veins thou hast. TIDES We are the tides fast and slow Bitter and sweet, We are the tides that come and go, Ebb and flow, Throb and beat In the GodheadVevery vein, Hands and feet, And body and brain A SINGER As shakes the broom in April wind Till the seeds tinkle in the pod, Hearing within their purple rind The summer prophecies of God. So did his music stir and shake Our lives that lay in winter gloom, And made our dormant souls awake To know the universe a womb. Where Love is ever working out With subtle, slow creative power, In silence and the dark of doubt The seed of an immortal flower. Which summer some day will unrol, Kissing with warm persuasive breath, And ripen to a perfect soul In the green garden land of Death. BROWN EYES Her hazel eyes are deep As the fathomless eyes of Sleep, — Deep, deep — And will no love declare, And will no sorrow share, Nor laugh, nor weep ? Warm tears may hide behind The eyelids cold ; And treasure undivined, For Love to find, The depths may hold : But daring souls who dive Into the water brown To seek the secrets there Sink and drown, Or else are chained alive A thousand fathoms down. WAVES Beyond the blue, beyond the red, The waves of ether fast and slow, Against our eyelids vainly beat Vainly atween our eyelids flow ; And yet to the clairvoyant dead What various colours they may show ! The colour of translucent thoughts, Of golden dreams, and silver sighs, The crimson of a human heart, That, ever-loving, never dies, The blue of the forget-me-nots That live in God's immortal eyes. Beyond the billows of the air That bring the sounds of every day, Ten thousand tiny ripples dance, Ten thousand little currents play, 14 Whereby the dead become aware What words the silent roses say, And learn the secrets of a star, And catch the breathing of the Spring, And hear above the scythe of death The disembodied spirits sing, And God's eternal heart afar, Like a loud ocean thundering. O thou, whose human eyes were bright, Whose human ears were quick and keen, Thrice-happy Friend whom Death hath crowned, Of what new country art thou Queen ? Ah me, what music and what light, Hast thou in heaven heard and seen ? In life thy violin could shake The silence to a living voice, And with a few vibrating strings Could make the sullen air rejoice, And love or pity could awake, According to thy spirit's choice. New seas of sound thou couldst create, And with their waves thy soul fulfil ; The slightest flutter of thy hand Would make the welkin throb and thrill. Oh, it was good to be so great And witch the air to do thy will ! But Death thy mundane music stole, And bore thee through the dark away. And now what psaltery or harp In highest heaven dost thou play ? What currents can thy living soul By its commotion move and sway ? I know not ; but I know thou hast New notes and chords at thy command, And tempests of thy soul can stir High waves that never knew thy hand ; And harmonies divine and vast- Thy quickened heart can understand. And lo, the ether-ripples gleam As novel colours rich and rare, Until thy spirit-eyes discern Beings like gods with faces fair, Clad in the glory of a dream, Crowned with the halo of" a prayer. Nay, even as a music note Once made the air to ebb and flow, So has the ether now become Obedient to thy hand and bow, And from thy lyric lips and throat Sunbeams and moonbeams come and go. Light is the singing of the sun, And likewise sijiging thou canst sway The waves of ether as thou wilt, And waken dawn and kindle day, And redden roses one by one, And with the lurid lightning play. In the Beginning was the Word. God made the world of melody, — His Laughter grew a laughing star : His Breathing branched into a tree : His Whispering became a bird : His Thunder made the moaning sea. i7 And so thy shuttle-bow can spin Golden and silvern, green and blue, Making the ether leap and dance, As stars, and suns, and flowers, and dew. Meseems thy voice and violin Can weave, and form the world anew. So do we dream of what thou art, With keener ears and clearer eyes, Yet love thee as thou wert of yore, Gracious, and fair, and sweet, and wise, And to the sorrow in our heart Thy gentle, human voice replies. TRUTH " Beauty is Truth, Truth Beauty." " Certum est quia impossibile est." O cynic-friend, so willing to dispel The dreams that make our day-time dim and sweet, Be silent we entreat, And in our happy dreamland come and dwell Incredulous of deceit. Though Duty be but Pleasure in disguise, And Love be only lies, Yet the ideals are so sweetly fair, So nobly wise, That we must follow still with praise and prayer Their phantom eyes. Lo, if our spirit worship not it dies, Lost in a lonely desert of distrust, Bitten by scorpion lust, J 9 Blinded and withered by the blazing skies, Stifled by surges of Sirocco dust. Phantoms and visions call them if ye will, Yet phantoms, visions have their beauty still, And though material things decay, Yet dreams will last When life is past, And all the suns are burnt away ; And beauty even for beauty's sake Our hearts will make Of common clay. To tyrant Truth we are no slaves ; Nay, Truth must mock or Truth must lie Who stumbles o'er the mounded graves And says that Love will die. Oh, Truth is but a pigmy pale A Lilliput in form and face, And on Love's little-finger-nail Might find sufficient strutting place. Oh, Truth is but an arrow shot At random thro' our prison-bars, 20 And Time is but a passing thought — A shadow shepherding the suns and stars. No skill of logic can remove The pang of pain, the barb of grief, No dialectics can disprove The passionate instincts of belief. APOLOGIA (To A. H. L.) O Friend, and is my life unjust Because I do not seek renown, Nor love the hot arena-dust, Nor toil to win an olive crown, But rather for a time would hide Deep in a vale of Thessaly, And watch the cool Peneus glide Atween its laurels to the sea. My waiting is not wholly weak, Nor is my idle dreaming wrong, For lo ! the only crowns I seek Are inspiration for my song, 22 And love, to garner and to give, And joy, to harvest and to sow, And health, that I may largely live, Missing no boon the gods bestow. And heat and haste will help me not, Nor days of toil, and nights of care, But idle dream, and vagrant thought, And sunny sky, and fragrant air. O brave, strong friend, who cannot rest, Who dare not dream, who will not wait, What man can know what life is best ? The Best is the Predestinate — The life we feel the gods desire, The fate they urge us to fulfil : Suffice it, if we both aspire To work with the Almighty Will, Whether it lead us forth to sing In Tempe's vale a gentle note, Or writhe in the arena-ring With cruel thumbs upon our throat. 2 3 Whether by patience or by strife Thus only can our spirits climb From Death into Immortal Life, From Now into Eternal Time. Thus only can we guard and save Our soul's divine integrity, Else are we broken like a wave Torn by a tempest from the sea. And even tho' we win success, We lose all saving self-control, Unable even to possess A fickle, fragmentary soul. Friend, tho' we differ here and there, Yet have we bonds of brotherhood — A common love of all things fair, A common reverence for the Good. And fain are we that Knowledge be No daughter of the gods above, But sister of sweet Sympathy, And handmaid in the courts of Love. 24 Lo, to the gods I give my will, And by my "daemon " am I led. Why should you rack and prune me still To fit a hard Procrustes' bed ? Altho', perchance, I find delight In other lesser joys than you, Yet haply both our lives are right, If we to our own selves are true. Each man a separate life must lead, Each soul a separate path must wend : Content am I if I succeed In sometimes meeting with a Friend. FAITH If Faitli were given human form, Alive and warm, I think thy steady-burning eyes, Where Love, and Hope, and Courage dwell, I think thy mouth so sweet and wise, Would suit her well ; For if not very Faith thou art, Yet Faith abiding in thy heart Hath wrought thy features to her will, And made them pure, and glad, and still. PSYCHE Psyche, so fair, thou art asleep, So calm and deep Thy slumber seems, Surely thy happy eyes will weep If Love awake thee from thy dreams. Were it not better to be blind To things behind The world of sense, Than, waking from a dream, to find Love's terrible omnipotence ? Holding thy very heart in fief — A crimson leaf His breath may blow A ruby cup of joy or grief, Which for his lips must overflow. 2 7 Are not thy dreams a garden bright Full of delight And summer bliss ? And will not Passion sear and blight Its beauty with his burning kiss ? Perchance, perchance, — and yet I know That pang and throe Thou wilt forgive To Love who teaches even so Thy blood to flow, thy heart to live. YOU AND I I am the Earth, and you the Sea : Against my rocks your billows roll, And flood with surging melody The silent caverns of my soul. You smile ; you dance ; you leap ; you sing ; You make what music you desire. Your surges are a silver string My sands are as a golden lyre. You pluck a chord and I become Laughter, or music, or a sigh. I, who am scarred, and old, and dumb, To every touch of yours reply. I, who am frozen through and through, I, who have neither youth nor grace, Grow molten when I meet with you, Grow passionate in your embrace. 29 You federate my East and West, You interweave my North and South, By the wide billows of your breast, And the warm kisses of your mouth. The argosy of all my dreams Is by your supple arms upborne, And o'er your rounded shoulder gleams The rosy visage of the Morn. Singer, Dreamer, Lover mine, I am the Earth, and you the Sea, Our surges and our rocks combine To make a perfect harmony. My dimples comprehend your deep, My rugged silence makes your song, My precipices lower steep, Because your leaping heart is strong. 1 have no shore you do not know, No hollow that you cannot fill ; All round my world there ebb and flow The choral currents of your will. 3° Your waves caress my sharpest cliff, Your surges sing in every chime, And though my hand is rough and stiff, Your fingers nestle into mine. Also the breezes you reveal By rippling touch and gentle tune, And through your swelling tides I feel The sweet persuasion of the moon. And learn the transcendental law Which makes a million systems one — The subtle central bonds that draw Planet to planet, sun to sun. Till at the very core of Space Throned in Infinity afar, I find the Soul in whose embrace Are Earth, and Sea, and Sun, and Star. Thus is my life enriched by you, Yet you are saturate with me. Behold my little drops of dew Are federated in your sea. My hills' hard hands draw down the rain, And pour it forth to make your flood, Each river-artery and vein Brings you the tribute of its blood. Though seeming twain yet we are one, Though seeming free yet bound we are,- Drawn soul to soul by every sun, Held heart to heart by every star. I cannot, dare not let you go, Nor can you tear yourself from me, A million stars and planets know I am the Earth, and you the Sea. And when Eternity is old, And Death has froze you into rest, Still will I passionately hold Your iceberg bosom to my breast. THE PEAK OF LOVE A WEDDING ODE The mountain-air has grown so still, The silence maketh audible Your very hearts ; and strange and new Your lonely voices seem to you ; While to your eyes By Love made wise, The earth, the skies, The stars, the dew, Seem merely symbols of the True. Nay, all the outer world, I wis, Is as empty chrysalis, Wherein ye dwelt e'er Love ye knew, The Love who with a summer kiss Made your wings burn and blossom through The hatching-place Of Time and Space, The hollow husk of green and blue. 33 And how then dare My song invade The sanctuary Love has made ? How dare my trembling lyre intrude With praise or prayer Upon so fair A solitude ? How dare I singing, singing come, When voices of the world are dumb ? O Friends, my song is as a bird Hovering o'er your mountain height, Soaring above Your peak of Love, Warbling and singing out of sight. Listen, its notes are hardly heard, Nor is your holy silence stirred By the far voice of its delight. O Friends, as winds that sing around A sacred shrine, So will you hear the distant sound Of these poor words of mine. 34 My scrannel speech Will hardly reach Your passion peak divine. Lo, strand by strand, and mesh by mesh, Strong Love has burst the bonds of flesh That held your spirits body-bound. No law of sense controls Your disembodied souls, Upon the Peak of Passion you have found, Beyond our valley-ground Of sight and sound ; And, in the holy atmosphere, Wonder has kissed and conquered Fear. Though Love have come so near, His eyes your eyes are meeting, And you can almost feel, and hear, Beside your hearts his great heart beating. And lo ! when Love shall lead you back By some green gradual mountain track To the old world and olden ways, When from the Peak, You come to seek 35 The common tasks of common days, To you the common tasks will seem Common no more, But hallowed by the mystic light, That on the lofty mountain height, Your passion wore. And though your deeper insight deem The outer shapes of earth and sky Merely a fiction of the eye ; Yet will ye be content a while With human lips to speak and smile ; Nor will ye less a man esteem, Knowing his outer shape a dream ; Knowing besides His body hides A soul as swift, and strong, and true, As in your own warm flesh abides, And on the mountain quickened you. Have you beheld one deep heart through, In all its aisles and caverns have you trod ? Then all hearts blossom in your view, The hearts of men, the Heart of God. 36 O Love by smile, and Love by kiss Will verily have taught you this — That every flower upon your path A spiritual meaning hath, That men hath living souls within, And are your kin. Every mother breathes a prayer, Every father takes your hand, All the children fresh and fair See your eyes and understand ; Mother Mary draweth nigh With the Babe upon her heart, And on Earth and in the sky Is the Father manifest. Love is no Hermit in a hut, No Monarch throned upon a hill, His loving heart is never shut, His loving voice is never still. He will be with you in the street As in the lonely Halls of Space, In every country you will meet His shining face. 37 O Friends, as winds that sing around A sacred shrine, So will you hear the distant sound Of these poor words of mine. My paltry speech Will hardly reach Your Passion-Peak divine. I WAS AS DEAD AS THE MUMMIED MOON I was as dead as the mummied moon, As cold and dumb as its craters are : But you touched, and my heart is a joyous tune ; You smiled, and my soul is a shining star. I shine, but I shine with reflected light ; I gleam, but my rays to you belong ; I sing, but it is your fingers white That smite my silence into song. BIRDS " O lyric-love, half-angel and half-bird ' Thy soul an ocean-bird might be — An ocean-bird who hovers home, Who gives her bosom to the sea, And dips her pinions in the foam, Who floats a moment in the flood, Feeling the ocean-beat impart New passion to the stormy blood That pulses in her strenuous heart. Anon is carried to and fro, Poised on a cloud of purple mist, Like a gigantic flake of snow Melting upon an amethyst. 4 2 Who soaring, carols to proclaim That life is beautiful and good, And flutters with her wings of flame In lonely, lyric solitude, And feels her voice grow sweet and strong,, For all the atmosphere remote Is germinant with joyous song And blossoms in her fervid throat. Meseems thy soul might be a lark, Such melodies it can awake, Soaring in heaven from dawn to dark, Singing for simply singing's sake. Bird of the sea, and of the air, Bird of the garden and the wood, To each and all, we can compare Thy lovely, various womanhood. Unto thy happy life belong The sea-bird's stormy-winged delight, The dove's content, the skylark's song, The humming-bird's unweary flight. 43 Surely thy happy soul enjoys In dream, and thought, and deed, and word, The song, the wing, the equipoise, The buoyant balance of a bird. OH, VAGUE AND BLURRED Oh, vague and blurred His face appears, Because our eyes Are blind with tears And misty sighs And cloudy fears. He speaks no word But yet He hears, And He replies, In spirit-wise, With all the music of the spheres. THEY HOLD THE HEART WITH POEMS They hold the heart : they catch the breath, So sweet in sound and sense are they. What sweeter words could Life, or Death, Or Love, or Wisdom say ? Yet who am I to dare to praise So high an art, so fair a scroll ? Mine eyes are too profane to gaze Into so pure a soul. Such lofty spirits live apart Above my ken, beyond my reach, With foreign music in their heart, Speaking an alien speech. 4 6 What fellowship have I with them, Who hear the blood of Beauty beat, I, who have merely kissed her hem, And knelt beside her feet ? If one shall dare to take the hand That touched the lyre to such a song, To one like you who understand, The honour should belong. If any one to praise shall dare, O Lady, be it one like you, Whose presence and whose life are fair, Whose heart is sweet and true, Whose beauty is itself a song, An inspiration, a delight, To whom things beautiful belong By Beauty's royal right, Whose soul is like a lucent stream, Rippling with every passing breeze, Radiant with many a rainbow dream, Murmuring mountain melodies. 47 The flowers nod along its track, And song-birds build among its rushes, And oh, it flings the sunbeams back, As silver smiles and rosy blushes ! So clear, so pure its currents are, All beauty it reflects again, The morning sun, the evening star Are given golden back to men. Its eddies laugh, its ripples shine ; Beside its waters bright and blue, My soul is like a pool of brine, Which song and sunlight never knew. To such as thee the poet sings, 'Tis thine to praise : thine eyes can see Into the very heart of things, By their pellucid purity. And notes our coarser natures miss Thy finer nature apprehends, Thy spirit and her spirit kiss Like two familiar bosom friends. 48 Meseems that chiefly for thy sake The little book of songs was writ, That thy sweet heart and soul might make Warm breathing beauty out of it. THE MARK OF CAIN I prayed to God, " Oh, give me once again The love I had. I never cherished it, I never knew it." But God made answer, " Surely thou art mad To pray for Love that thine own hand hath slain. Thy brow is branded with the mark of Cain, Thine own hand slew it." I prayed to God, " Oh, give me once again The love I had. I sinned a sin. I weep it and I rue it." But God made answer, " Surely thou art mad So foolishly to murmur and complain. Thy brow is branded with the mark of Cain, Thine own hand slew it." 50 I prayed to God, " Oh, give me once again The love I had. I did a cruel wrong. I would undo it." But God made answer, " Surely thou art mad. In loneliness and woe thou must remain, Thy brow is branded with the mark of Cain, Thine own hand slew it." WILLIAM MINTO IN MEMORIAM " Nor seems it strange indeed To hold the happy creed That all fair things that bloom and die Have conscious life as well as I." Altho', a while, His eyes are blind, His eyes are blind, Which were so blue — Altho' a while, He cannot smile With the rare smile That once we knew — Altho' his bright and vivid mind Illume no more his mobile face, Yet we who love him ever find The thought of him in every place. 52 Altho' his body from our view Be hidden in a narrow grave, No tomb can hold a heart so true ■■ And strong and brave. Not only in the deeds he wrought, Not merely in the written scroll, But, subtly tuning every thought, We feel the presence of his soul. Has he a wider being found — A wider scope for mind and will ? If brain and soul in wedlock bound, Give birth to sense of sight and sound, Then maugre Death we will believe That some new wedlock nobler still May ampler consciousness conceive And higher purposes fulfil. Why should a spirit be aware Only by throb of heart and brain, Of hope, and memory, and despair, And happiness, and pain ? Why should it have a conscious being But by the senses five ? 53 Have only eyes the power of seeing ? Might not a soul in another Karma thrive ? Are not the flowers, and the stars, and the winds alive ? What sound and light, Hearing and sight Mean to a lily tall and white — What the curving petals disclose — Joys or woes — What a star Dreams afar No mortal knows ! But we, in the mesh Of the weary flesh, We, who are saved from the doom of death By the fickle blood, and the feeble breath, We, who have only the right to live In the little world the senses give — We may surely surmise and dream That the sap which flows In a living stream — 54 That the sap which flows In lily and rose, — As the blood in our body comes and goes, — May mean a world of light and sound To a conscious soul in the calyx bound, May quicken the hearing and kindle the sight Of a soul in the petals red and white, And waken senses more subtle and fine Than these sullen senses of yours and mine. Can the strange subtle essence, thought, Can the warm love, the strenuous will Perish, and be a thing of naught, Simply because a heart is still ? Nay, his great spirit must exist Dormant, or in another guise, Though God have sent a heavy mist To hide him from our human eyes. So, if once more the blood should beat In the same strong brain, We know that we should surely meet Our friend again. And now perchance When the green leaves dance 55 On the waving trees, When the roses wake, And the lilies shake, He hears and sees. In other Karma his soul may dwell ; To other motions it may be wed, But oh, we know that he is not dead, The noble friend whom we love so well. ARE ALL THE STARS ? Are all the stars that gleam and glance, And rise and set, and roll and range, But fire-flies on the feet of Chance, And bubbles in the breath of Change ? Or are the rays of yonder spark The rowels of a devil's spur ? And are the outskirts of the dark A shambles and a sepulchre ? And is the Infinite afar A charnel-house, a noisome den, Bestrewn with shards of sun and star, And meagre mummy souls of men ? Nay, we believe that star and sun Are rosaries that angels wear. We tell the planets one by one, Each is the symbol of a prayer : 57 We trace the chain of sun and star Into the holy heights remote, Until our fingers touch afar An angel's warm and lyric throat. TO SAVE MY SOUL " Is not Cant the materia prima of the Devil ? " But, Sir, I choose to live apart : The public pathways I eschew : Nor will I try to force my heart To save my soul by loving you, And all my fellows high and low, And rich and poor, and great and small. For love so catholic, I know, Cannot in sooth be love at all. I much prefer to lose my soul, But keep my heart reserved and proud, I will not for advantage dole A forced affection to the crowd. 59 It may be wrong ; it may be right, I know not, I care not much. I will not let Love's red and white Be sullied by a stranger's touch, Nor coax my friendship here and there, And climb to heaven by its art, Nor let the British Public share The sanctuaries of my heart. I will not emulate and ape Affection broad as it is flat, Nor twist my love into a shape As artificial as a hat, And lift it to all passers-by, With easy smile and pleasant nod, And lordly condescension, / Will only lift my love to God, And to my friends, and to my kin ; And I will lift it sound and whole, Not torn and tattered, worn and thin, With vain attempts to save my soul. 6o Love indiscriminately sought And given, merely runs to waste, And loses all its depth of thought, Its narrow nicety of taste. I know you say that, quite apart From any gift of saving grace, It shows a truly Christian heart To love the total human race. / think it shows an utter lack Of common sense and common sight ; You mix together white and black, And whiten black, and blacken white, And lose perception of the hues That colour love, and make a man, Blending together by your views A Plato and a Caliban. Also, you say that every one Is lovable in Heaven's sight ; That all the spots upon the sun Have beauty if we see aright. 6i No doubt — but I, I do not see, Nor would it please me if I did. The visible suffices me, I care not for a chrysalid. You surely love your children less, Loving your fellows by the score, And yet, despite what you profess, You do not love your fellows more Than we who see them unadorned, And somewhat as they really are, Some to be loved, and others scorned, And some anear, and some afar. And though you to such heights aspire, Meseems you live upon the plain. You warm your feet before the fire, And love your brother in the rain ; And if he be a broken wreck, You offer him a bit of bread, Or sign a fifty-guinea cheque, That hungry paupers may be fed. 62 While he who has a velvet coat Sits by you in an easy-chair, And chuckles at your anecdote, And joins you in your evening prayer. Yea, while your loved ones sin and starve, You live in an artistic house, And beam upon your guests and carve Your dish of ptarmigan and grouse. You love your brethren high and low, With all the world you laugh and weep, You love them so, Oh yes, I know, And yet you never lose your sleep. It is so easy to condole, Sitting amid your golden hoards, With your poor drunken brother's soul Coffined between the sandwich-boards. But if you loved him as you say, And felt him as your kith and kin, Your heart would be outworn and grey, With all his sorrow and his sin. 63 Some few there be who half attain The love that you profess to know, And only reap a crop of pain From the broad acres that they sow. And those for whom they labour reap But little sustenance from the seeds, For what is broad is never deep, And all the corn is choked with weeds. Ah, in the Paradise of Bliss And on the lonely Peak of Pain, Ungrateful is a stranger's kiss, A stranger's presence is profane. The laws of love we cannot mend, Shallow is love that all must share, And feats of self-denial end In self-deception or despair. Our deepest sympathies demand Antipathies to make them grow : Aversion and attraction stand Equal and opposite, you know. 6 4 I will not be a foolish sham, I will not dephlogisticate The atmosphere in which I am — The living breath of love and hate. I will not for a chestnut's sake Use the white ringers of my ruth As catspaw, and I will not make A Lazaretto of my youth. I have no wish to comprehend A stupid unattractive heart, And you and I, my would-be friend, Are many million miles apart. And many others whom I meet At work and pleasure every day — My nearest neighbours in the street — May yet be worlds and worlds away. We take each other by the hand, And look into each other's eyes, And yet we cannot understand Each other's hopes and thoughts and sighs. 65 Vain, vain it were to try to give My heart's best love to all the race — To men who have nor heart nor brain, To women with nor charm nor grace. At least for me, and what they seem To others cannot change my view. Perhaps the others sometimes dream And fancy that their dreams are true. Nor would I care to overcrowd My life with loves, if that could be. Love is far richer, rare and proud, And frank, and natural, and free. I will not make affection blind, To love you I will not pretend, And though I sometimes may be kind, I will refuse to call you friend. And I must evermore decline To love you as I love myself. The Dresden china must be mine, Yours are the pewter and the delf. 66 And I will lend you half a crown Without the least pretence of love, And if I find you broken down May tell you there is peace above, Like any preacher. None the less I keep my bank-account intact, For that large love which you profess Looks foolish in the face of fact. If I with you my wealth should share A million more would claim their part, I should be wheedled, whittled bare, Both of my fortune and my heart. Far better see things as they are, Love's limitation and its power, That if we cannot seize a star, At least we may attain a flower. For you to come and offer me A friendship of a fortnight's growth Is folly, or profanity — Perhaps a little bit of both. 6 7 You would my joy and sorrow share, And with my heart would smile and grieve. It cannot be : I will not wear My heart for you upon my sleeve. And though you may profess to yearn To help the needy and the sick, Yet in your motives I discern A policy most politic. And self-conceit and self-esteem That savour of the Pharisees, Most ostentatiously you seem To broaden your phylacteries. I did not ask, I will not take Friendship — you call it so — from you, Knowing you give it just to make More obvious your ribands blue. And yet if love I do not sow By a machine, or from a sack, At least no love unpaid I owe, All love I pay with interest back. 68 I love where heart and soul incline. What fetters can the heart control ? What rules can limit and confine The appetencies of the soul ? I love the love which touches strings No other love can touch or see, The love whose beating heart and wings Are tuned with mine in syntony. So each can feel each other's bliss, And quiver with each other's pain, And vibrate like a lover's kiss Where twain are one, and one is twain. Friend, whose friendship gave me light, In lonely sorrow-darkened days, To you, to you, my love takes flight, I love you in a thousand ways. 1 love you for the bonds you wear, Even as a king might wear a crown. I love you for your spirit fair. I love you for your white renown. 6 9 You look your sorrow in the face With calm, unconquerable mind, Nor can your bonds disguise the grace And beauty of the soul behind, Awaiting to fulfil its force Like a strong river bound in ice, But yet assurgent at its source Upon the peaks of Paradise. You make no impotent complaint, You wait — and at the summer thaw Your torrents, stronger by restraint, Will toss a pine-tree like a straw. Your fetters make you doubly great, Your burdens make your shoulders broad, The waters deeper, as they wait The liberating warmth of God. It is no penance, and no task, To love a man so strong and true. I play no part, I wear no mask, I am myself in loving you. 7° And you, my friend of Irish blood, Wayward as wind among the corn, And evermore a rose in bud, And evermore a day at morn, And evermore a year at Spring, And evermore a hope at hand, And evermore a lark on wing, Raining its joy upon the land, You give me hopes, you give me songs, And joyance of an April day ; And so my best to you belongs, I give you friendship an I may. And you, the comrades of my youth, Surely my heart with you I share, Together we beleaguered Truth, And captured castles in the air. Do you remember how we talked Along the empty moonlit street ? How, from the granite as we walked Clattered the echo of our feet ? 7i And how the clocks chimed two and three, And dawn began to stir above, While still we plumbed the mystery Of sin, and pain, and death, and love ? Gone are the castles that we made, Nor tower nor parapet endures, And many splendid visions fade, Yet evermore my love is yours. And you who in Despair's embrace Were held half-strangled and half-blind, Yet issued with a smiling face, And loving heart, and living mind. And you whose more than summer smile Was sunlight on the Alpine snows, And you, who made a barren Isle Bourgeon and blossom like a rose. And you I met upon the sea, The bravest heart that ever beat. And you beside the Don and Dee, Whose homes and lives are fair and sweet. 72 And you whose intellect and charm Transform the world as by a spell, And make a little Suffolk farm A temple where the Muses dwell. And you whom I have only seen In dreams, between the hours of strife, You, who are undisputed Queen, And sovereign Lady of my life. — All you I love as love I must, For you are nobler far than I, And richer-souled, and it were just I for your sake should even die. And if it were a law of Fate That there must perish one of two — You or another — I must hate The other out of love for you. And since in life if one will rise, Another sinks, then love to all Is an illusion of weak eyes, A notion most fantastical. 73 If I have friend, or child, or wife, What care I for the lout or clown ? To save one well-belov6d life, I trample half a nation down. Men are not made upon one plan, Similar units, one, two, three ; One is a fraction of a man, Another is Infinity. And so my warmest love and hate Are yours to use, O friends of mine, For you are infinite and great. And strong, and splendid, and divine. And though I choose to live apart, And false philanthropy eschew, I think perhaps my froward heart May save my soul by loving you. ALSO Also the darkness falling on thy face, The shadows as they dance, and flit, and hover, Display in every line a novel grace, In every dimple deeper charms discover, Showing in arc of lid, in curve of lip, The twilight wonder of God's workmanship. The twilight wonder of some gentle thought Translated into beauty gently fair, Some eyelid-languor by a vision wrought, Some record of an often-whispered prayer, Some hope, by daylight hidden for a while, Blossoming in the shadow as a smile. O sweetest face, how varying light reveals The various beauties that thy lines possess. 75 The twilight shows the charm that noon con- ceals, Yet noonday has its own bright loveliness, And evermore, both noon and night, we see God's love and holiness illumine thee. CHRYSANTHEMUM GOLD Thro' patient years we strive and toil, With rusty pick and ruddy fire, To wrest the gold from rock and soil, And mould a crown, and shape a lyre. A lyre whereon our Love may play Soft music to our Lady fair, A crown of gold that we may lay Upon her crown of golden hair. But while we toil our hearts grow old, The lyre we make we cannot play, And, ere we mould the crown of gold, The golden hair is growing grey. But God achieves in wiser ways, With instant love, and facile art. No labouring for gold delays The golden harvest of His heart. 77 He lays a sunbeam on the ground, He looks and smiles, and soon there comes Thro' the grey soil without a sound The gold of His chrysanthemums. Oh, wondrous prodigy of sheen ! Oh, matchless miracle of birth ! How can be made such gold and green Of sun, and rain, and lifeless earth ? How do the tiny- seeds transform To living gold the leaden sod ? How is the dead made quick and warm ? Oh, mystic alchemy of God ! We know not by what charm 'tis done, This miracle of summer hours, But yet of earth, the rain, and sun, Are made the living golden flowers ; And every leaf is as a tongue, Giving fit words to our desire, And singing songs we fain had sung On our unfinished golden lyre. 78 And every flower is as a crown That any Queen might proudly wear. O Queen of mine, bend down, bend down, I, kneeling, bring them for your hair. Fair Lady, I, whose love is strong, Altho' my words and deeds are weak, Send with the flowers my unsung song, And all the words I cannot speak, And all the crowns I fain would reach, And all the deeds I fain would do, O Lady fair, their golden speech Has many messages for you. Unwrought is still my crown of gold, My golden lyre-strings still are dumb, Yet may my love perchance be told By lips of a chrysanthemum. WHY VEX THY SOUL WITH DISCONTENT ? Why vex thy soul with discontent ? Wait passively as flowers do, With every morning will be sent The silver sunbeams and the dew. The thoughts of other minds will fall With pregnant influence on thine, And on thy leaves and petals all The light of other lives will shine. And Love will fan thee evermore With scented breezes from the South, And Death will thrill thee to the core, Kissing thee with an icy mouth. 8o Thou must be made as buds are made, And live the life that God ordains, Nursed by the sunshine and the shade, Shaped by the breezes and the rains, And sombre night, and sunny days, And lightning-flash, and thunder-roll, Ripened in all the divers ways, In which are made a living soul, Till in the autumn-time of Death, God makes at last thine ignorance wise, And takes from thee the futile breath, And gives thee spiritual eyes. Meantime, if active service seem Forbidden thee by perverse Fate, Be patient. Rest awhile and dream. They also serve who stand and wait. Actions are weak. To thee belong Uses than actions nobler far — The splendid service of a song, The golden purpose of a star. Tho' passively thy life must grow Rooted and trammelled to the sod, Thy blossoms by their beauty show The beauty of the mind of God. So, Lady fair, I wish for thee, Nor knowledge, nor material power, But the superb serenity, The healthy growing of a flower. MISGIVING Her radiant amber-lucent eyes Have far unknown infinitudes : We merely wot the nether skies That sparkle with her lighter moods. The suns, the stars, above, behind, — The radiance of remoter Space, We know not. We are dazed and blind With the near beauty of her face. But could we the deep eyes explore, Would nobler constellations shine ? Would the eyes sparkle more and more, Lit by a spirit more divine ? Or would we find the lights inane, And would we find the depth a shoal, And would we seek the skies in vain To catch the glimmer of a soul ? DREAMS " With the first dream that comes with the first sleep I run, I run, I am gathered to thy heart." Unworthy, yea. So high thou art above me, I do not dare to love thee, But kneel, and lay- All homage, and all worship at thy feet, O Lady sweet. Yet dreams are strong, A wordless wish suffices To win them Paradises Of sun and song, And joy our waking hours may never know, The dreams bestow. 84 And in a dream — ■ Dupe of its bold beguiling, I watch thy bright eyes smiling, I see them gleam With love the jealous daylight has forbidden, And veiled and hidden. O brave deceit, In dreams thy glad eyes glisten, In dreams I lie and listen Thy bosom-beat, And hive my lips among thy temple-hair, O Lady fair. And if I live, Dreaming in such fair fashion, I think in deep compassion Thou wilt forgive, Because I only dream, and when I wake My heart will break. VITA NUOVA Alas, a veiled and silent Comer Has dimmed the stars and hid the sun. Gone is the glory of the summer, And life is done. Oh, life is done, for hope is banished, What joy can be for you in store, When the one face you loved has vanished For evermore ? Nay, lonely mother, love is stronger Than any tyranny of death ; Does faithful love survive no longer Than fickle breath ? — No longer than the blood goes beating Along the tideways of the brain ? Is love so transient and fleeting ? Is life so vain ? 86 O mother, once your son and lover, By face, — by eyes and lips you knew : From eyes and lips you could discover His love for you. And now, altho' the eyes are darkened By heavy eyelids closed and chill, Altho' the lips to which you hearkened Are grey and still, Meseems the lips were but a portal, The eyes were but a sunlit scroll, To show you the divine, immortal, Implicit soul. And love that was to you attested By radiant smile and ready praise, May still be subtly manifested In other ways. Oh, surely, love is higher, deeper, Than human smile, and human speech. So high, so deep, the angel-reaper Cannot reach. 87 Oh, love is more than carnate being, Altho' it take such garb and guise ; Yea, more than hearing, and than seeing, With ears and eyes. Cannot you hear the spirit-voices, Filling the silences around ? And how his winged soul rejoices To be unbound ? To have no body intervening Between his deepest thoughts and you, To have no tabernacle screening Your love from view ? The bond between you is not riven, But forged into a finer chain ; Love, that the God of Love has given Is not in vain. And some day Death will make completer, The bond that he appeared to break ; Some day, of love, diviner, sweeter, You will partake. Men who in arid deserts perish See in their dreams a crystal spring, And so the forlorn wish we cherish, Death dreams will bring. Even Sleep, who is Death's gentle brother, Makes mock of bounds of Time and Space ; And in the dreams of sleep, sad mother, You see his face. And all the barriers of the real In Space and Time will melt away In the death-dream of the ideal, Some happy day. And in the wonderful awaking, From Life's elusive phantom show The love for which your heart is aching, Your heart will know. Meantime your souls are ever meeting, And though you cannot hear and see, His heart by yours is beating, beating, Continually. 8 9 And God, meseems, would subtly teach you, By this far exile from your son, That love from unseen hearts can reach you, That love is one. Your son's dear love was part and token Of love that had beside you been All through your life, with words unspoken, With face unseen. And yearning for your son and lover, Hid in the silent realms of Space ; Your spirit surely will discover His Father's Face. A POET His soul's divine beatitude Lit up his eyes like altar fire, Crowned with the laurel-leaves he stood, And God's breath ran along his lyre. So the strings ripples music-fain, Like breezy ranks of golden grain. He merely caught God's lyric wind In a strange web of waiting strings, And we the deaf, and we the blind, Heard the soft sound of many wings, And saw the light of heaven gleam On the horizon of a dream. He merely waited pure and pale, Kneeling alone on Calvary sod, And humbly held the holy Grail To catch the heart-blood of his God — 9 1 The blood of love that trickles yet, Tho' men deny and men forget. Thus merely did he sing and do, So little, yet perchance so much, He held his hands to catch the dew, He made a harp for God to touch, And kept his soul so pure and fair, We found God's face reflected there. WILD ROSES Wild roses hidden in the hedge Surrender to the lips of June ; White lilies cloistered in the sedge Permit the kisses of the moon. And, oh, my heart desires your love, As never June desires a rose, And never the pale moon above Such longing for a lily knows. And yet your love I vainly seek, Unto my love no love replies, No blush gives answer in your cheek, No passion lightens in your eyes. Ardent as June I watch and wait, Pale as the moon I pace your sky ; O lady, be compassionate, And kiss and love me or I die. A BURNING BUSH " Nee tamen consumebatur " Lady, thy face is a translucent flower, The spirit by its garb is hardly hid. Nay, burning thro' it threatens to devour The petals luminous of lip and lid. No Burning Bush of God did Moses meet Brighter, diviner than thy glowing face ; Behold, we walk like him with shoeless feet, Feeling a Holy Presence in the place. A KEEPSAKE I think you still can hear me as I sing, And so, dear friend, as keepsake and adieu, This song, which God has given me, I bring And offer you. Death his scythe is swinging, Thro' the corn and clover, Death is softly singing " Summer-time is over." Oh, thou stealthy comer, Thou art here too soon, It is early summer, It is only June. God is still bestowing Summer sun and rain, On a blossom growing, Hidden in the grain. 95 Gently Death replieth, " Who the seed hath sown Reaps it ere it dieth, Blighted overblown. " Great is His compassion, And He reaps the flower In His Father-fashion At its fairest hour. "All are in His keeping, So my song is blithe, Love directs the reaping, Tho' I hold the scythe." Death is singing, singing, " Summer-time is over," Death his scythe is swinging Through the corn and clover. THE TREE OF TIME O strong must be Time's mighty tree Fed richly with the sun and dew ! O young its root, To bear a fruit So golden and so sweet as you ! Your wisdom and your courage show We are still in the age of gold, Nor will we hold The tree is old, Though seasons come and seasons go ; And though a windy, autumn day Have made its branches bare and grey, We will not doubt that in the Spring Among the leaves the birds will sing. Thy soul so strong, Cannot belong 97 To withered, dark, decrepid days : It is not death, But autumn's breath, That makes the green leaves fade and fall, And not a single twig decays, The sap is surging in them all. We must believe, We must believe, That Spring will autumn-time retrieve, And that the buds will come anew, Despite despair, And branches bare, We must believe, beholding you. BY A ROSEBUD Out of Paradise there came Flame like snow, and snow like flame, Flashed around me, touched, and lo, Suddenly the flame and snow Changed to fingers white and fair Gathering my bud to wear ; And the flashing fingers then Changed as suddenly again, To a cloudlet white and warm, And a summer-lightning storm ; And upborne and rapt thereby, I was carried through the sky, Till at last I lay at rest On a lady's summer breast. A BUD Thou art a bud, I ween, And what the flower will be Was long ago foreseen By summer-time and me. We long ago foretold The petals red and white, And found a heart of gold Deep-hidden out of sight. And we will touch the heart, By charm of sun and shower, And curve the bud apart Into the perfect flower. YOUTH AND AGE (To A. M.) Friend, I was young when you were old, Now old am I, and young are you, For you continually behold A Vision that makes all things new, And love is still a tale untold, And still your Hermon has its dew. Space is not measured by the mile, Nor Life Eternal by the year, You are immortal, and you smile At mortal pain, and mortal fear, Knowing that in a little while The Sun of Glory will appear. A ROSARY Make my songs a rosary, Thread them on a silken string, On thy bosom each will be A holy thing. They will lie abashed and dumb — Beads within thy fingers fair. Tell them and they will become Each a prayer. Their own words will die away If thy " paters " thou repeat, With thy lips they all will pray, Lady sweet. Lift them gently bead by bead, Thinking worthy words for each, Touch them, and they will not need Spoken speech. 102 Dearest Saint of mine thou art, All my love to thee belongs, Hallow with thy perfect heart My poor songs. A MORAL A million stars decide the place Of any single star in space, And though they draw it divers ways, The star in steady orbit stays ; And tho' contrariwise they draw, They all are followers of one law, — In fact they find in mutual strife The equilibrium of life. They find an unanimity, Agreeing all to disagree ; And when they wish to peg their tether, They pull in every way together. Moral : The remedy for schism Is universal egotism. TO Her fertile wit and facile mirth Doubly betray her Irish birth, And still there lingers in her smile The sunlight of the Sister Isle. And though March cometh clad in snow. She quickens faith and courage so That when we see her face we sing, To-morrow will be surely Spring. QUEEN OF THE NIGHT High in the midnight heavens is thy throne, Queen of the Night art thou ! Like dust about thy feet the stars are blown, The constellations sparkle on thy brow, Queen of the Night, Queen of the Night art thou ! No shadow dark as that dark hair of thine, Queen of the Night art thou ! And meshed in it a million moonbeams shine, And dance into my blood, I know not how, Queen of the Night, Queen of the Night art thou ! Round are thy breasts as is the ripened moon, Queen of the Night art thou ! And sweet thy voice as is the gentle tune, io6 The night-wind in thy praise is singing now, Queen of the Night, Queen of the Night art thou ! Brighter than any stars thy dark eyes glance, Queen of the Night art thou ! Queen of the midnight song, and midnight dance> Queen of the midnight kiss, and midnight vow, Queen of the Night, Queen of the Night art thou ! Thy beauty fills my heart with wild desire, Queen of the Night art thou ! Thy beauty gives new music to my lyre. O Queen, before thy starry throne I bow, Queen of my heart, Queen of my heart art thou ! TO THE QUEEN OF ENGLAND "A Symbol of true Guidance in return for loving Obedience " We see thee on the summit of the world, Queen of all Queens, throned on a thousand thrones, Ruling a multitude of living men — Queen of all Queens, yet made in human form, Mortal and vulnerable ; and our loves, Upleaping to thee, though thou art so high, Love thee, beholding how thou art a Queen, And yet a woman — distant as a Queen, Bright, and exalted as a Queen should be, Yet wholly human in thy womanhood — As brave and timorous, as strong and weak, As wise and foolish as all women are ; So that the women of plebeian streets, And country cottages, and lonely kraals, io8 Shown in their womanhood akin to thee, Are lifted by thy queendom to thy height, Are throned in honour, and redeemed by love, Comforted, and anointed, and made fair As we might wish for them, and God might will. We love thee as the Woman born a Queen, We love thee as the Queen whose bosom holds A Woman's heart : we love thee as a Dream In which impossible pleasures come to pass, And things incredible are proven true. Thou art a Dream, splendid, and vague, and wild, Which some inveterate and violent Hope With wayward hands has set upon a throne To dream and dream, and dream away despair ; Yet thou art woman too, spirit and flesh ; Thou hast a woman's hands, and throat, and brow ; Thou hast a woman's bosom beautified, Rounded, and ripened by a baby's lips ; And thou art verily a very Queen, Dowered with an indomitable soul, Queen-hearted, and queen-minded, and queen- fair. 109 Therefore we love thee in the thousand ways We love a Queen, a Woman, and a Dream. And since a Woman and a Queen thou art, Therefore we pray thee counsel us betimes. Thou art the sunny summit of the height Whereto men's panting, hot ambitions climb Through cloud and tempest, and above thy throne There is no height in the whole world to win. Thou art the Queen of England, and the swords That leap to do thy bidding can outrun The lightning, and thy cannon can outroar The rumbling of the thunder ; and thy ships, Buoyant and proud, are masters of the sea, And naught is left for thee in all the world To climb or conquer. Where our hearts aspire There thou art throned, and all our dreams of fame Kven in thy baby hands were broken toys ; For thou art Queen of England. We are led From height to higher height, from hope to hope, Breathless and eager. Dreams of wealth and fame no Spur us and fever us. Despite the stars, Despite the dew upon the meadow-flowers, And the soft sleep God sends to us at night, We are a-fevered, and we cannot rest. Love sometimes comes, and shows the flaunty world A dead star floating in the abyss of Time, And sometimes Death, placid, and wise, and pale, Looks wondering in our faces — and we pause To pray a moment ; but, anon, the press Of human lust and passion bears us on To battle, in some blind Ambition's name. And oh, our hearts are weary, O our Queen, With striving, vainly striving evermore. Lo, in thy hands, are the desires we chase ; The wealth, the power, the honour we pursue Fawn at thy feet. Therefore, we pray thee, speak. We are thy people, we have made thee Queen, Speak as a Queen, and tell us if the prize Will recompense the struggle. Speak, we prav. All others have a fever in their souls ; All others dream that higher there is peace, Ill And wider life, but thou upon the Peak, With only stars between thyself and God, Canst judge serenely. Are the proud and high Who dwell in palaces more lofty-souled, More happy-hearted than the simple poor ? Does our beatitude depend on height Measured on golden mountains of success ? Burn thoughts more brightly underneath a crown ? Grows passion purer panoplied in gold ? And can the pageantry and purple pomp Of court and palace satisfy the soul ? Speak, Queen of England, speak. For why should men So crave, and toil, and agonise for gold, So use their gold to pave a shining path Whereby their feet may climb to Place and Power, Unless their Queen assure them that a throne Concentres and commeasures their desires — Unless their Queen, who knows the worth of things, Having surely tasted all the joys of life, Wisdom and beauty, love, and fame and wealth — 112 Unless their Queen, having adjudged all these, To Wealth and to the World award the prize ? Speak, Queen of England, what is thine award ? Speak ! Nay, but thou hast spoken long ago. Thou knowest, as we know, that wealth is good. Is not wealth strong and great as any god ? Do not we worship him, and dost not thou Delight to honour him ? In his soft hand Are charity, and fair and noble deeds : He builds white temples ; he dispenses alms, He feeds the hungry ; he surrounds his soul With the Beauty and the Wisdom of all Time. His kingdom comprehends the whole round world — Islands and continents and hills and seas, Science and Art and Poetry and Song Acknowledge his dominion. Even Death Approaches with all circumstance and pomp, Clad like a courtier in silk and gold, And, bowing, offers him the gift of Sleep ; And when at last the Sleep has found his heart, And hushed its beating, and annulled its pride, His children dance along an easy path To influence and honour. Such is Wealth, "3 Happy and strong and free and unafraid. But Poverty is woe-begone and weak, Hungry and haggard, hard and hollow-eyed, Too tired to think, too sorrowful to dream, Too wretched, and too hopeless even to pray. What knoweth Poverty of Love and Joy, Of gentle graces, and melodious speech — Poor Poverty, who dwells in squalid streets To which the sun is jaundice, and the moon A lurid, livid leprosy ? Ah me, What careth Poverty for Kings and Queens ? His King is Hunger, and his Queen, Despair ; His wife is dying ; and his children starve. No man with mind, or soul, or wife, or child, May dare be poor. Therefore, O Queen, we say, Let Wealth be worshipped as the Lord of Life ; It gives to living men the right to live ; It is the blood in the blue veins of Power. However brave and strong a man may be, Devoid of wealth he is a bloodless ghost Gibbering on the banks of Acheron, Ixion bound upon the blazing wheel, A Tantalus who cannot grasp the grapes, ii4 A Sisyphus behind the heavy stone. Long live our Queen ! Put gold beneath her feet, Let golden banners wave above her head ! And yet, O Queen, our hearts misgive us still, A poor man is a weak man it is true, And a great, double-handed sword of gold Confounds Excalibur ; and timid hearts, That beat on lotus beds in sunny isles, And will not battle, and contend for power, Grow thin and feeble ; and unwonted wills Tremble like aspen-leaves in time of war. And yet, and yet, between the slough of life, Between the gutters of the meaner streets, And the far summits of the World's success, Are silent battlefields where souls are made ; And sunny gardens visited by God ; And there are glories which no gold can buy, Which poor men sometimes seek, and sometimes win. And might not all men reach so happy-high, If all men were content so low to stay ? Perchance we fly from Poverty too far, We who are panic-stricken by its woes. "5 Perchance our measurement of height is false ;. For if the world be round, thy queenly throne Must be beneath the feet of those who live At the Antipodes ; and height and depth Are only relative and shadowy words For men to play with in their misty dreams. Perchance the truest height is height of soul, Stature of spirit, and we waste our strength Climbing the boulders of a phantom hill. Perchance the deprivations of the poor Are not essential in the scheme of things, And Poverty might be surpassing rich, And Opulence might be exceeding poor, Without more revolution in the world Than just an hour or two of summer rain. For why are poor men weak, and why does gold Give rich men influence and power and fame, Unless. because the Queen have so ordained ? For whom you honour, by all men must be In sooth most honoured, and whom you ignore Must be ignoble. Can the Power of Wealth Live without honour, and against thy will ? Wealth, stripped of the enchantment of thy smile. n6 Would be impoverished of half its power ; And energies that now are used to climb The barren, selfish summits of success, Would work, and battle in the name of love, On levels worldly-low and heavenly-high, Until the only poverty in life Were the blind, bitter poverty of sin, Until each mind and soul in all the world Had opportunity in its degree To glorify, and to enjoy its God, And work its own salvation. With a smile Thy love, O Queen, can save the souls of men, Making them follow what is strong and true, Making them hate the feeble and the false. If thou, who hast such glory and such power, If thou, whom we have put upon a throne, As incarnation of a hopeless dream, Compensate poverty with smile and praise, All men will be disciples. Yea, I know Thy queendom is a queendom of the world ; Yet may a Queen of armies, and of fleets, Both illustrate the glory of the world, And worship Him by Whom the world is made, Even as she keeps, despite of throne and crown, II 7 A woman's bosom, and a woman's heart. Yea, and again, I know that many say- That wealth and character are soil and seed, That cultured spirits with accrescent roots Inherit richer land, whereas the poor Are merely weeds of life, and flourish well In fallow places ; and, in very sooth, The rich, apart from wealth, are often rich, The poor, apart from poverty, are poor. It is the strength that makes the man aspire, And grow, and climb — but still the doubt persists, Is the height worth the climbing ? Is the soil Richer and worthier because of gold ? Do men employ their strength in wisest ways, Climbing and toiling, hastening to be rich ? And if a Queen, uplevelling by praise The depths of poverty, the peaks of wealth, Make poverty secure, and wealth in vain ; Might not the strong, climbing the peaks of love^ With just enough of wealth to guard their feet With golden sandals from the rocks of life, Might not the strong, electing to be poor, Employ their unworn strength in better ways Than in a weary race for worldly wealth ? u8 Might not the weak and foolish also rise A little higher, finding no false shame In poverty to which they are compelled, Seeing strong men have wedded it from choice, And won the smiles and praises of a Queen ? This is a doubt that clamours in our heart. And yet again, another doubt demurs — Are reverence, and poetry, and love, And all the fairer faculties of soul, So tested in the sordid race for wealth, So proven by the winner, that a Queen Must hasten to reward him with her smile ? O Queen, for thou hast known all wealth can give, Now, from the fulness of thy wisdom, say Is worldly height the measure of a soul ? Does worldly fortune bring abiding peace ? Do men not lose in climbing to success "The dew, and sun, and sanity of life ? O Queen of England, may thy smile be wise, For it becomes the conscience of the world. Thou, who wast born, and cradled on a throne, With more than common sight canst surely see Beneath the gilded surfaces of things, ii 9 Under the gaudy garments of disguise, Deep into the essential heart of Life, Which beats for ever in the hand of God. O Queen of England, may thy smile be wise. O Queen, if we be bodies, nothing more, We must be merry, we must eat and drink, Or ere our bodies wither, and our flesh Becomes an aching burden : we must live The moments to their very uttermost, Who have so brief a time to comprehend A life so manifold, and moribund : We must ascend a Pisgah to espy The Promised Land which we can never reach, — Yea, we must ever climb, and climb, and climb, For if there be no heaven, we will crave A wider prospect of the meagre world, And full experience of worldly joy. But ah, our life, at best, is scant and poor. If it be bounded by the hills of Time, Soon, soon, the land is catacombed with graves, And soon the molten ardency of Spring Becomes a crater with an empty heart ; And howsoe'er, and howsoe'er we climb, Sorrow and Death are ever at our heels, 120 And still the blood-hounds of despair pursue, Yea, even to the culminating peak, Into the very presence of our Queen. Alas, if we be bodies, nothing more, Life is a mockery, and its end is death, Darkness, and silence. In a dream I see The world a vapour without form and void : I see it cooling till the boiling waves Bubble upon its bosom — cooling still Till there are icebergs at the frozen poles, Still cooling till the sea is solid ice, And the air falls in snow, and life is dead. O Queen, if we be bodies, nothing more — ■ Altho' we make-believe with thrones and crowns, And eat, and drink, and half forget our doom, And fading stars, and the approaching death ; — Yet is our make-belief a poor pretence, A drunken temporising with Despair. O Queen, if we be bodies, nothing more, Why should we care for one another's weal ? Why should we love the suffering and the poor ? We are unhappy, and unloved as they, If the great God has left us all to die. O Queen, if we be bodies, nothing more, 121 Height is but little higher than the Pit. But if we be immortal we discern That there are mortal and immortal joys — That, far above the mountains of the world, Rise the white ranges of Eternity, Where grow the dewy amaranths of God ; And God is loving Father of us all ; And Death is as a maiden calm and kind, Kissing our brow and eyelids till we wake Into a world of beauty fresh and new ; And wealth, and all the glamour of a throne Seem to have little worth. O Queen, our Queen, Are we but bodies, or immortal souls ? We doubt, and doubt, and doubting come to thee, For thou upon the height hast wider view And better seest the verities of Life. Help us to free our lives from make-believe. With true belief, help us to save our souls. O Queen, our Queen* if thou in sooth believe That we are beings with immortal souls, Having immortal joys to sow and reap, We pray thee, smile even upon the poor, If so be they are fair and strong and true, We pray thee, honour far above all wealth 122 The wings and wisdom of a living soul ; That we, enlightened by a Queen's belief, May leave the fading vanities of Life, And gather on the mountain-tops of God Beauty, and Peace, and Poetry, and Love — The amaranths that need immortal air. Behold, the High, the Unattainable, The far Unknown, the radiance of a crown. Bedazzle men, and they contend and climb, Until the glory of Eternal Life Becomes a rumour and a fairy tale, Until they dare not rest, and dare not dream, And dare not sit silent beneath the stars, And dare not look into the eyes of Death. Armies, and palaces, and fleets, and crowns, Lands, and possessions — these are very facts, And men by custom and conformity Acknowledge and esteem them ; but the World, Born of the senses, yet above all sense, Requires the testimony of a Queen Ere men believe it fairer than a throne. What wilt thou testify, O Queen, our Queen, Throned there in calm above the busy world ? Are we but bodies ? Does the Best of Life 123 Lie in the yellow, greedy land of Wealth ? Do love and passion wither with the heart ? Do thought and fancy with the brain decay ? Are mind and soul merely the body's flame, Flickering, wavering, when the blood is slow, And failing wholly when the heart is still ? Or are we spirits with immortal dooms ? What wilt thou testify, O Queen, our Queen ? Ah nay, what testify our living souls ? The worlds decay, but still the atoms throb : The body changes, but its elements still Are vital in a million ways : Force is eternal, though its features change ; Nay more, its various aspects — motion, light — Are very part of us, from us apart Are nothing. The commotion of the sun Makes ripples in the ether, and the waves Lap-lap upon our eyes, and there are light And shining colours ; and we say the sun Causes the sunshine, but the sun is naught Except the sunshine, and the sunshine gleams Within us. And we say that eyes perceive The light ; but what in very sooth are eyes ? Eyes, like the sun, are nothing save in thought, 124 And not upon the eyes does sight depend : A blind man may have light within the brain : A blow may make him see a thousand stars, Pursue the vision to the ultimate cell — What is the cell but sensible qualities Existent only in the soul which fools Would make its offspring ? And take any sense And chase it boldly to its final lair, Yea, analyse it to its smallest cell — That cell exists only in consciousness, And cannot therefore cause it. There it is, Simply a soft, grey, branching little thing, But, still the softness, greyness surely are Thine own sensations — nay, I will be bold, They are thyself. How wilt thou then explain Thyself with that which also is thyself — Explain sensations with a bundle thereof Which also needs explaining, or surmise That if the bundle change, then all ourself May be annulled ? A mystery it is, But we may search, and search it through and through, We cannot find even a shadow of Death In any corner, and the more we seek 125 The more our spirit rises strong and brave, Feeling itself immortal. Limbs may fail, And hearts may wither, but the consciousness That holds them, and that is them, will remain Immortal to the eternal touch of God. There is no bond between the things of sense, And the sensation, and the sensate soul, That may be broken, for they all are one. Does sense of limb depend upon the flesh, When one without a foot has felt a straw Between his toes ? Yea, and the cold or pain Which we refer to face, or hand, or foot, The scientist has hunted to the cell : Nor is the cell its final lurking-place, But the immortal soul. Ideas named, Hand, foot, and brain may seemingly be hound, And wedded to ideas, speed, and pain, And such like, but ideas still can stand Unwedded and eternal. Is a flower A flower unto the madman grinning there ? And yet his flower may smell as sweet as thine, The spirit is eternal. God can make Hearing and sight and touch in many ways, With many antecedents. What is Cause ? 126 A mystery and a riddle — but the soul Feels, thinks, and loves, and is, and cannot die. End, and beginning, bounds of space, and time Are merely forms of thought, and Reason stands Blinded and dazzled : it can find no death Save the reflection of its own pale face ; And in the mystery in which we move We feel ourselves immortal. In a dream, When the blood-currents in the weary brain Trickle along, the mind is lightning swift, And flits and flashes over space and time ; And when the blood is frozen in the veins, And the warm heart is cold, what dreams may come — What new and splendid life amid the stars ? The spirit is not born of flesh and brain And beating heart, for heart and brain and flesh Are merely portions of its conscious life. Then, Queen, let us be bold as souls may be, And hope into belief the blessed hope Of life immortal. Then, tho' thrones may fall, And bodies wither, we may still be glad And confident, awaiting fuller life, To blossom even from decay and death. 127 Fear not, for thou art Queen, and God is God ; And spirits are immortal. Shall a corpse, Known only by our spirits, make us doubt The soul within us ? Lo, yon solid stone, In very sooth, is seething like the sea : Its atoms thrill, and throb, and swing, and sway, In syntony with every sun and star ; And all the atoms of the universe Are wedded by the ether into one, And with this subtle ether we can play, Ruffling it into light, and force, and sound, As a wind raises ripples on a lake. And shall a corpse, amid such mystery — Itself so moving and mysterious — Itself but linked ideas in our soul, Make us afraid ? How can a single drop Of liquid potent poison drown the soul, Which holds the stars, and suns, and ether-sea, And love, and hope, yea, and the poison-drop Within its various, vast infinitude ? Can a seed grow a body in a womb, With eyes, and ears, with hand, and heart, and brain ? — Can a seed build, simply of air and earth, 128 A rose with inspiration for a soul, Without persuading us that life and death Are mysteries so deep we dare not say " This rose is withered, so its charm is gone : This heart is still, therefore the soul is dead ? " Ah, mid such mysteries, no corpse can solve The secrets of the silent angel death. Cause is a mystery from head to heel. What prophet could foresee, in mortal seed, The body, or from body guess the soul ? O Queen, with mystery let us save our hopes From shallow reasoning, and cynic doubt, And hope into belief the splendid hope Of life immortal ; so that mortal things May even at their true worth be esteemed In the white light of immortality. We are immortal — and all human heights Dwindle to mole-heaps on the plains of Time. We are immortal— and, behold, the wealth Of all the world becomes a little thing ; And Age is younger than a new-born babe, And Love is stronger than the strongest kin^. We are immortal, and immortal God Ripens our spirits by the outer world, 129 And by the strong ideas that we call Our bodies, and thereby He gives to us An inner beauty, and an inner life ; And since we are immortal, and since Time Is but a passing moment, and our flesh Merely a garment for a little while, He cares not greatly for our bodies' weal, He withers, and defaces them with pain, He tortures them with cancer and disease, He wrinkles them with age and sordid care, He martyrs them with famine and with fire, Yea, with Mount Pelee's cataracts of flame. He cares not. We behold it evermore. And yet without a smile to Him we pray For wealth, and worldly happiness, and health. Oh, we may pray, and pray, from morn to night, He will not give our bodies one more bliss, Nor grant them one less agony of pain, Nor hold the lava of Mount Pelee back, Unless to make our souls more bright and deep. Pain is a pigmy in the eyes of God. We sow the wheat to make our bodies rich, And evermore the chance of rain or drought Bemocks our labour ; but amid the grass 130 The crimson poppies beautify our soul, And in the sky the larks are shaken with song, And the white mountain-peaks, against the blue, Uplift our dreams ; and the waves surge and moan ; And stars and planets glorify the night. How God must love our souls to labour so ! What miracle of love is in a rose — What patience, and what passion, and what art ! How fair and finished are the very thorns That wound our fingers ! We may pray for bread, And hack ourselves with knives before His face. He will not hear ; but if for love we pray, With love by night and day He feasts our souls ; He surfeits them with dreams and thoughts and hopes, With roses and with rainbows and with dew ; He puts cool poppies in the lands of Pain, He sprinkles sunbeams on the brow of Death ; He gives us Wisdom, Beauty, as we will, Because we are immortal souls. O Queen, God writes a creed for us with every star. Shall we not look on things with God's own eyes, And see in pain proof of immortal life ? J 3* No less art thou a Queen in throne and crown, Seen in the light of Immortality. For by thy queenship thou art lifted high, Above the tumult of the market-place, Above the bustle of the busy street, Above the curses of the battlefield, Above ambition and the reach of fear, And in the peace and silence thou canst grow Like a white lily on a hill of God. The world is dancing round a Golden Calf, Giddy and godless, without hope or faith, Drinking and dancing to forget its doom, Trying to satisfy with noisy mirth The appetence of an immortal soul ; While like a cancer the disease of wealth Corrodes its inner being. Oh, our Queen, Wilt thou bring down to us the law of God Written on plain grey stone, and save the world, And give it power of sane and simple joy, Of rest, and silence, and belief in Good ? We are immortal souls : and life is fair Because eternal, and because of Love, And Mystery, and Beauty. All things fade, Sorrow and Age and Custom steal their bloom ; 132 But Beauty, Wonder, Reverence, and Love Are everlasting, and our old blind eyes, And faltering weary hearts still lighten and leap In their immortal Presences, and know A sacred and abiding Sense of God : For God is Love, and Beauty is His voice, His whispers and His gestures and His smiles. Beauty, apart from Love, is cold and dead : Roses and rubies lose their charm and fire If so our hearts have lost the light of love ; But, in the light of love, our lives acquire Such meaning and such wonder and such worth, They rend the cerement of mortality, And claim the freedom of eternal Time. The dew, the sea, the mountains, and the clouds, The eyes of happy children, dawn and eve, Are, to immortal souls, immortal joy, Being testimony of immortal love. Yea, and if Beauty, in the light of love, Is doubly wonderful and doubly good, So Wisdom, lacking love, is weak and vain, But knit, and lit, and glorified by love, Becomes a sacred source of strength and joy. Is it not better to be Queen of Love, !33 Of Beauty, and of Wisdom — to command The winged legions of the heart and mind, Which go from strength to strength, from star to star, Than to be strong in body, or in wealth, And feel their power diminish with the years ? Is it not better to be sure of God, And read His Love in every star and flower, Even as the story of a human love Is somewhat shown by words and smiles and sighs ? Is it not better to be sure of life Beyond the tyrannous boundaries of Time, Than to possess the wealth and the estate Of all the Kings and Rulers in the world ? Is not a woman's love a wondrous thing, Better than sapphires and a hill of gold ? Is not;a home diviner than a court ? Is not a heart at peace better than wine And mirth and dancing ? Is not friendship more Than all the praise of strangers, and of kings ? Are not thy children more to thee, O Queen, Than all the fame and glory thou dost rule ? Have not Sorrow, and Death, and Love, and Pain, J 34 Had stronger hands to give thee weal and woe, Than all the appanages of a throne ? Lovest thou not more than memories of power The thoughts of thy white childhood long ago, In Copenhagen by the Northern Sea ? And, these things being so, O Queen, our Queen, Wilt thou not speak, and save poor foolish men From wasting noble lives in vain pursuit Of phantom joys ? Wilt thou not be the Queen Of the great world of love, and make our lives Happy and peaceful with immortal Hope, So that the years may bring us nearer God, And so that Death may be a shining light, The threshold angel of a larger life? O Queen of England, speak, and save our souls ! With its black burden of despair, Its garb of grief, its crown of care ? Art thou not old ? The Past survives Living in thee Recurrently Its pallid lives. Are not thy crimson roses fed With the grey ashes of the dead ? Thine aged eyes, with backward gaze, Can see amid, Hot vapour hid, The First of Days, When from the fire-mist fringe was hurled The hissing, spinning, splendid world. As old as wrinkled Sin thou art, And all the eld Sin ever held Is in thy heart. Though thou an infant form assume Thy soul was senile in the womb. And beldame Time with dotard hands, Mockingly made Of shrouds decayed Thy swaddling-bands, And scented them with musk and myrrh, And odours of the sepulchre. And yet thy heart is warm with youth While stellar space Has novel grace, And nascent truth, And many an undiscovered star And undescended Avatar. Oh, young thou art, who canst delete Or cover sorrows With to-morrows, Bright and sweet, Counting as an unwritten scroll The palimpseston of thy soul. And young thou art who see no end, And hast in view The Good whereto All changes tend ! 40 Thy soul an ocean-bird might be — A daughter of the wind and wave, Its soarings are so wild and free, Its pathless journeys are so brave. Also thy happy soul would seem A humming-bird with brilliant breast, Whose native country is a dream, Who on a rainbow makes her nest, Whose radiant eyes become at will An emerald, or ruby star, Whose slender, honey-golden bill Is like a fairy scimitar, And flickers through the summer hours From morning-break to even-fall, Piercing a million, million flowers, And taking honey from them all. Thy soul a humming-bird would seem, So rarely is its plumage wrought, So wonderfully glint and gleam The dainty pinions of its thought. 4i Also thy soul might be a dove Who dwells in silent forest glades, And coos a gentle lay of love Along colossal colonnades, Who sees the sunlight's sorcery To Paradise transform the world, Making the lichen fleur-de-lys, Charming the moss to ruddy gold, Who dreams that heaven is not far, Who fancies that its trees so high And mighty-shouldered surely are The caryatids of the sky. Meseems thy soul might be a dove, It lives in such a sweet content, With flowers below, and stars above, Dreamful, and white, and innocent. Also thy soul might be a lark, Who carols o'er the welkin's cope Above the realm of care and cark, A hymn of never-dying hope,