mmmmm mmm mmmm'mmmmmm ^ORCHARD* PK v^v^ '\ ^36 3 pfHl^iUf^^W^^^m^ <: VV' /{ ?V i; •OKCHARD* SONGS) Cornell University Library The original of tiiis bool< is in tile Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013615152 r@[^(six]^[E©\v NORMAN GALE. ^ —.^r^^ ^^e — ~ — "^^^^/^L^ ^w ^5 LONDON • LLRIN MATHLWS KSHMS^JOHN LANLlfl NLWyORR-G.P.rUTNAn^SONS /\ ?'^03tr Edinburgh: T. and A. Constable, Printers to Her Majesty. I DEDICATE THESE COUNTRY AIRS to those friends of mine Alfred Hayes and Richard Le Gallienne AS AN attempted PROOF OF FRIENDSHIP EQUAL TO THEIR OWN a 2 For permission to reprint, my thanks are heartily due to the Editors of ' The Christian World,' the ' Vail Mall Maga- zine,'' the 'Literary World,' the 'English Illustrated Magaxjne,' and ' The Woman at Home.' CONTENTS PAGE Dawn and Dark I A Shilling Each 2 A Cotswold Village 5 Wages .... 15 Pigeons at Cannon Street 16 Parting .... 20 A Farewell .... 21 Going South 24 An Orchard Dance 25 Delia ..... 33 In Pain 34 Baby ... ■ 36 Father Thrush • 38 A Walk 39 Convalescence • 45 To Oranges .... 47 CONTENTS PAGE A Pastoral . . Si The Nightingale 52 At Brandon . . -53 A Prayer . 56 At Midnight . . . 57 A Pastoral . . .58 North-Wind at Night . 60 The First Kiss . 63 A Wish . . 64 To my Brothers . . .65 The Budding of the Orchard . 69 Happy Life . .71 Inspiration . 72 To Dora . 73 Clarinda's Beauty . 74 Regret 76 Hannibal, Sagunto Capto, Loquitur 79 A Contrast .... • 8S A Song ... 87 Cicely Bathing . 88 Hester Sinclair 89 CONTENTS PAGE 90 98 99 100 102 Better So . ... Dora's Ribbon .... Comfort ..... To a Glow-Worm A Song . . . . At Evening 103 Old Letters ..... 104 Morning .... 106 A Lullaby . . ... 107 To my Love (with a rose) .... 108 A Defence (written on being charged with undue frankness) . . . . • 109 DAWN AND DARK God with His million cares Went to the left or right, Leaving our world ; and the day Grew night. Back from a sphere He came Over a starry lawn, Looked at our world ; and the dark Grew dawn. A SHILLING EACH How shall a man or woman pass unstirred ? A shilling these ! One shilling, cage and bird 1 1 vow to birds my pennies ! I will pinch, Redeeming redstart, yellowhammer, finch. Let them recover all their greens and blues ! Threadbare my coat shall be and old my shoes. O sweet to fill my hand with living fluff, And toss the loves to heaven — joy enough ! Give me to kiss each shining head ; to feel The wild-bird in the captive make appeal. Suffer my cheek, O blackbird, on your breast, Then slip to Laura's bosom for a nest ; Ker lips must gently consecrate your flight — Dear bird, she kisses you. Good-night, good-night! Behold my darling's orchard for your bill ! Peck here in peace and take your fruity fill. No kin of mine shall cheat you of the blue And keep my love and Laura's ; nor shall you Feel grip of Christmas hunger, for a tithe Of all our bread shall help you that you thrive. My heart has ached to see your duller eye Watching the greedy city hurry by. On Laura's breast at evening I have heard A heart beat pity for the prisoned bird ; And we have vowed to spend with care ; to pinch For Unnet, lark and starling, thrush and finch. To throw these loves to heaven with a kiss. Blue-ward and sun-ward — that shall be our bliss. 3 Faded is Laura's homespun, if you will — The woodland knows a once famiUar bill ! What need to care for shabbiness that shows ? A shilling redstart perches on her rose ! Children of men and brothers of my day, How long shall feathered joy be thrust away To find a foot of prison, smoky air For that large liberty and country fare Which tenderness celestial set apart For woodlark wings and velvet whitethroat heart ? How shall a man or woman pass unstirred ? A shilling these ! One shilling, cage and bird ! A COTSWOLD VILLAGE Roses ! Great wild roses, Aisles of bud and whitethroat song All along The lower lanes Where Peace, That first inhabitant of earth, Remains : Folding her hands as day begins And closes She, tranquil, watches May That melts to June in roses, Great wild roses, Roses 1 These are so fair that they should rest My rivals on the snowdrop breast Where God, by some sweet circle of event, Has lent me refuge when I turn From street and stool And work by rule, Scarred by the plea of endless discontent. The wine of morning sunshine stale or spent. We neither spoke.' The leafy lyrics of the stripling oak Sang us along. Hamlet by hamlet passed. And yellow sheep, We came at last Upon the hills that keep, As mothers watch their babes asleep, Long Compton guarded in the vale : There as a dreaming child it lay And took the evening light ; It was the vocal end of day And larks in giddy flight So out of view made music ring That clouds, not 6irds, Appeared to sing. Go home, go home, ye doves, from out the field 1 Fly to your forest cradles, fly ! In ambuscades of greenery concealed Ponder the day gone by. The shepherd is gone home, The last rooks come, Dear Jenny Wren shall whistle nothing more ; His team well-housed and fed The ploughman thinks of bed, And smiles upon his sweetheart at the door. Down Gipsy Lane we roam, Go home, ye doves, go home ! Little of sunlight now This fruitful valley holds. Deeper the greys invade, Fainter become the golds ; The youngling's tap is on the pane. And maids with sewing mothers sigh ; Go home, go home, ye doves, from out the field, To forest cradles fly ! We walked toward the inn. O host and hostess looking forth To make the welcome warm, Whatman may fare from south to north, From palace or from farm. Shall early learn your kindly hearts And never come to harm ! O happy days ! O days of country beauty made more sweet By steppings of dear feet And voices captured from the city's stress To add a charm to all the loveliness Of leaf and land ! The lesser whitethroat in the orchard growth Beneath an apple planned A hive for nest, And as we lay and watched The while she matched Each grassy joist and beam. The fluffy architect, unstirred. Rounded the entrance with her beak Or smoothed the cup Where she would dream Upon her family of eggs, And warm them into song Where pears and pippins throng. Early we rose and raced to catch Initial glories of the morn ; The air itself was an embrace, And Beauty, living in the place, Seemed growing personal and kind. Till in my heart. Till on my face I felt the thrill That comes when lips I love consent, Obedient to my wiU. So hour by hour and day by day Long Compton nursed our idleness. Each meadow-path, each woodland way Where campion calls and bluebells press Conferred its bounty of delight ; And when the fields of heaven were bright With stars that have a native fire. And those that do conspire To rob a sun. We knew a lane Where in a briar's heart a bird Released a strain To cheer the mother musing on her eggs, And promise her a son Whose tender tale Should shake the sleeping rosebud into dreams And be the wonder of this Cotswold vale. When time is weary of my company Here let me rest. If I should end within four walls With bricks around, Buy me no smoky patch of city ground, But bring me to these acres of repose Whose natural consecration is most sure, That I may sleep beneath a country rose And where the dew is pure ; For in this valley God appeared to me, And where my soul is let my body be. What time the Father walked His earth He trod, I know, these Cotswold slopes ; With silence and with sound He clothed each mound ; The shadow of His robe goes over them. The bounties of His wisdom cover them And whoso cometh here To tread this sod — 13 He sees the neighbour neighbourly, And learning all Long Compton's loveliness The better learns his God. 14 WAGES My lass, when God To suffer sent me, No gifts He gave, But only lent me For gold, my breath. For silver, labour ; The sky as friend. The grass as neighbour. The Vineyard called For workers many ; At eve I took God's punctual penny : Because I bowed Content, I fancy He gave me you For wages, Nancy ! 15 PIGEONS AT CANNON STREET YE pigeons of the Station with your sorcery Of hues, Some in opal tints resplendent, some in filmy fluff of Blues, As ye circle dearly downward, peck the cabmen's Alms, imshot, 1 could think you living colours falling on this dull Stone plot. Here, the friends of men and horses, ye serenely find Your food, Ev'ry happy mother bringing sons and daughters from Her brood ; Rough the act and strange the tumult that can stir you From your rest. Making all the yard a rainbow with the light of wing And breast. i6 Ye are birds in Babylon wliose sires were babies in The tree ; Once the bright eyes of your nation saw beneath Them romp in glee Little roes that chased the fawns, and tusky boars that Stabbed the dog Where the lovely leagues of azure sparkled innocent Of fog. Tho' the wilderness of mortar, tho' the miles of brick And slate Dawn by dawn are seen for ever as the comrades of Your fate. In the fairy tales of pigeons, in the folk-songs, in The lore Are not green and grassy counties mingled sweetly as Of yore ? B 17 Surely when the windy gods come roaring from the Sea and wold Creeping closely to some elder ye will ask him tales Of old- How the piping shepherd gathered all his lambs at Death of light ; How the fields were fat with increase ; how the Were-wolf snarled at night. London pigeons, many brothers, many sisters have I seen Flying woodward in the evening to their palaces Of green ; Tho' I closelier scan your feathers more I love the Wild surprise Of your Warwickshire relations mounting sudden to The skies. O the peaty moorland odours and the sparkling sweep Of lawn ! O the last thin shade of darkness melting on the lips Of dawn ! These are gifts of God your kindred spy and ponder From their trees WhUe the mower's scythe is making golden haloes Round his knees ! 'Twixt the rows of mangel-wurzels, strutting stately, I Can see Careful cousins pecking, wary, ready for the hill Or tree ; Ye, methinks, have lost your birthright, lost your Heritage of dew, Lost the verdant county acres and the freedom of The blue ! 19 PARTING Why, love, don't weep ! Our joy was long, Sweet twenty years Of smile and song. I shall but wait Asleep, asleep, For you to come — Why, love, don't weep ! Why, love, don't weep ! The end is this ; There comes a bound To speech and kiss : For joy like ours The price is cheap — Sweet twenty years ! Why, love, don't weep ! A FAREWELL Good-bye, little maid. You 're too old for my knee ! You are dressed in a frock 'tis a torture to see ; And the skirt has invaded The hose which concealed The limbs that went twinkling From forest to field. But a week, and I saw a sweet flash of your knee As you jumped at the brook In a moment of daring, Not thinking of, caring For sudden concealment Of virgin revealment. And now in a dress 'tis a torture to see They wiU teach you to smirk And to ogle, and be But a bait for the wealthy, The wolfish and stealthy Who buy a young girl at a fabulous fee. For the man who is poor — For my heart — you will be Unapproachable She ! In a year you will blush If I speak of your rush At the brook and the fence, And with tutored pretence Talk the tattle that grows at an afternoon tea ! Alas for the gossiping, tremulous tree Which you mounted to loot ; Till, afar in the green, Brightly golden, was seen The head that I loved so, the fairest of fruit ! No more shall I follow, no more shall you flee, For now, in a dress 'tis a torture to see, You who were yesterday Wild as a finch They gird and be-pinch. Farewell to the days when your tresses were free- Good-bye, little maid. You 're too old for my knee ! 23 GOING SOUTH It is ever so far away For the swallow to fly ; And she peeped from an English thatch At a round of sky I But the elders have told her tales Of the sister blues ; And she starts at the wink of dawn On her windy cruise. She can tell her path in the void, Though her native sod Was here in a Warwickshire lane ; For her pilot 's God. 24 AN ORCHARD DANCE All work is over at the farm And men and maids are ripe for glee ; Love slips among them sly and warm Or calls them to the chestnut-tree. As Colin looks askance at Jane He draws his hand across his mouth ; She understands the rustic pain, And something of the tender south About her milkmaid beauty flits. Her dress of lilac print for guide Draws shepherd Colin where she sits, Who, faring to her lovely side To snatch his evening pension tries. But skimming like a bird from clutch The maid escapes his Cupid touch. And speeding down a pdssage flies 25 Not fast enough to cheat his eyes. Ah, sweet-lip ways and sweet-lip days, And sweetheart captures of the waist, How swiftly still the virgin runs She 's sure at last to be embraced ! Now Colin fires at kiss delayed, And faster flits the red stone floor Till Fortune yields the tricky maid A captive at the pantry door ! The farmer with his fifty years Is not too old to join the fun ; He pulls the milkmaids' pinky ears And bids a likely striphng run To find the fiddlers for a dance : And in the cherry orchard there 26 A tune shall mingle with romance, And love be brave in open air. The village wakens to the bliss, The crones and gaffers crawl to see The country game of step and kiss Beneath the laden cherry-tree. The chairs and benches now are set, Old John is wheedled from his pet. The cider cup with beady eyes Responds to winkings of the skies. The farmer, burly in his chair. Now claps for ev'ry fond and fair To foot it on the grassy patch While rustic violinists snatch From out those varnished birds of wood 27 A tune to jink it in the blood. Now Jane and Colin in a trice Float sweetly round not less than thrice Before their motion draws a pair To revel with the dancing air. The thrush, that on his velvet wipes His juicy bill, protesting pipes, And, somewhat as a piccolo. Doth race the concord of the bow. A virgin yonder by the tree Rejects a mate who saucily Would press, if she might only start. Her modest homespun to his heart. Ah, sweet-lip ways and sweet-lip days. And sweetheart captures of the waist, Though like a finch the maiden flies 28 She 's sure at last to be embraced. The orchard now is in full bloom With rosy cheek and snowdrop throat ; The stars invade the growing gloom, And rarelier sounds the blackbird's note. But in this dewy little park Love burns the brighter for the dark, And till he use a stricter rule Dear Cicely's cheek shall never cool ! The fiddlers storm a tomboy tune. The shepherds closer clasp the girls While skirts the more desert the shoon, And rebel leap the lovely curls. The farmer glows within his chair And muses on the dancing time 29 When he and She — a matchless pair — Were warm and nimble in their prime. God bless the man who, duller grown, Can feel the younger heaven anew By granting to his maids and men A romp by starlight in the dew ! Ah, greenwood ways and greenwood days. And soft pursuings of the waist, The cheek must yellow out of praise. And bent be those who once embraced ! And now they pant against the trees, And, using darkness for their plan. Girls loose the garters at their knees And mend the clumsiness of man. One virgin, thankful for the dance, 50 About the music shyly trips — Her Love 's a fiddler, and her love Pops fruit in Paganini's lips ; Or finding on the starlit tree The wife and husband cherry there, She hangs the couple at his cheek And hides the stalk with tufts of hair. The girls are at the cider-cup. And shepherds tilt the yellow base Until a giddy amber flood Runs, kissing, over Cicely's face. And Dora's upper lip doth shine With winking beads of apple-wine. The fiddlers scrape a farewell tune. The dancers dwindle in the dusk While summer puffs of easy wind 31 Bring hints of cottage garden musk. And thus the revel dearly ends With milkmaid's palm in shepherd's hand, And lovers grow from only friends Where plum and pear and apple stand. Ah, sweet-lip ways and sweet-lip days. And sweetheart captures of the waist, How fast so-e'er the virgin flies She 's sure at last to be embraced ! DELIA Delia, that will not kiss, Is hardly ripe To glow again at airs Of shepherd-pipe. Sing of the flock to-day, And wait for Love To storm the simple breast, And stir the dove. Touch but her tender waist And she shall cry ! But Love may come before Her tears are dry. Then, shepherd, tune to trees Your wanton pipe; Delia, that will not kiss, Is hardly ripe. 33 IN PAIN Pain is the language of decay, The tongue of human impotence ; It waits upon our coming here, Our going hence. Implacably austere : And from our earliest breath. Which is the birth of death, A soft-foot mute It seems to prophesy a coming sleep. Another sphere. Long have I journeyed thro' the Great Fatigue Of life. Lo, I have had my share of grass and birds — And strife. For me has Pain, the sentinel. Been vigilant 34 To pace my plot and dwell Within my tent ; Oft in the night with small alarms Has stirred me out of rest, Alert, oppressed. Till shepherded within thine arms And on thy breast, loving Lady, in the curse of Pain 1 have been blest — Have felt soft hands rebuke the agony And stroke my face With fingers that are ministers of love. Ambassadors of peace To bring release For that sharp prisoned pain along my brow As, would to God, they brought it, Lady, now ! 35 BABY Come, Mother, bring the baby out. And let her roll — the grass is dry ! Take off her shoes, and she shall kick Those pinl{y toes toward the sicy. The firmament forgive her crime ! And as a sign of love and grace May God, who holds it, send my child Her mother's hair, her mother's face ! See, Mary, here 's a cherry-tree To make her eyes grow round and bright ; Oh, how she chatters to the fruit — The dimpled bundle of delight ! There, sweetheart ! See the gaudy cheek. And see the naughty lurking stone ; And now each juicy half (my word !) Is Baby Rosebud's very own ! 56 Dear Mother, as I watch this child Stare upward to the depthless blue, My spirit, fleeter than the gaze. Goes up with thanks for her and you. God, blight my orchard, scourge my friend, And drive my blackbird from his tree. But leave this babe for Mary's breast, And let me tend them both for Thee ! FATHER THRUSH The thrush was a bachelor early in March, And now there's a wife with a velvety heart ; There 's a house in the quick Never builded of brick And a capital egg for a start. The thrush was a bachelor early in March, And now there's a medley of bosom and bill ! There are Susan and Dick In the daggers of quick. And a couple of golden-throats still ! 58 A WALK Cow-HONEYBOURNE, that dost survey The profile of that great green range So seeming near, so far away. It was from out thy sleepy heart My friend and I did start To tramp toward the temple of the hills, Past poising hawks, past little gossip rills, To storm the Cotswolds, and enjoy thereon The fine frugality of winter sun. The great tit in the apple-tree Delayed us long ; The shrill staccato song The creeper chirped amid his industry Drew us from pollard unto pollard, till We drank our fill Of that white-feathered patch, his breast. His busy bill That with detective skill Stabbed at each crevice in the wood In search of food. 'Twas through an orchard valley that we passed, And all the pear-tree boles were painted white ; Small wonder if the pinky maid, A kiss half-melted on her lips, Should shrink at night When not embraced About her waist By Dick the ploughman's arm, For very ghostly in the gloom These whitened files of pear-trees loom 40 Beside the farm. We marched toward the succour of the hills, And came to Weston at the middle day. We hymned the rural loveliness With glowing words, And made response with clumsy human lips To all the easy chattering of the birds. The hedge's darltly purple top We praised ; The verdure of the coming crop ; The glazed And glorious bulwark of the beach ; The wind that with clear Cotswold speech Addressed the poplar gustily — 41 The poplar that would rather be A spire to pierce the blue Than lend its secret energy To grow In liberal breadth below. The lane that led us upward now was steep, And slowller we stept. Oh, how the peace of God was there, And how the country slept ! Ten leagues away the city's filth That gnaws our faculties by stealth. And we were free ! Men flying from our slavery ! Nothing between our lowliness 42 And God on high ! Here in this pure encampment of repose The grass can see the sky, And all the acres of exceeding blue Look down upon the dew ; No hell of uncongenial fog Can come betwixt these two. We stood upon the forehead of the hills, And lifted up our hearts in prayer ; And as we halted, reverent, Meseemed that Nature o'er us bent, That she did bid us sup From bread she gave and from her cup. There at her large communion did we feast. Herself the Substance and herself the Priest. 43 The immaterial wine she poured, And standing on the Cotswold sward Administered to us Beneath the unsupported sky Her sacrament of scenery. Thus made her child, I inly felt Her gradual unction me possess ; Accumulated baseness melt, And such behaviour press Into my life as shall invoke The rainbow to the street. Green grasses for my feet Unseen by blinder folk ; And leave me heir to some supreme content Until, O Friend, with you I drink anew On Cotswold hills of Nature's sacrament. 44 CONVALESCENCE Three weeks her face was snowy white From memory of her pain, But then, with dear, recapturing light A gradual glow again Taught almost tintless buds to show Their mimicry of pink ; They were but ghosts of former glow, But yet a lovely link Between the opulence of health. The poverty of care, When she but grew my greater wealth. And fathomlessly fair. At last the happy edict gave A boundary to alarms, And lifting her, myself the slave, Heaven trembled in my arms ! 45 Now wife and babe before my fire In speechless converse rest ; The milky comfort, his desire, And hers, the bounteous breast. One arm is free, and strong with joy Around me warmly slips When that I stoop to bless the boy, And touch him with my lips. 46 TO ORANGES Ye thousand yellow worlds from Spain Upon a barrow piled, And bartered for the timid pence Of some desirous child, How do your smooth and shining spheres Recall the years When by that sunny inland sea I dreamed great dreams that may not be Translated to reality ! Throughout the gradual day Ye fade away As dreams. Hoarsely the invitation of your master goes Adown the street ; With careless, cunning hand he throws 47 To children's innocence Some value for their pence ; And his proud pyramid of fruit From apex unto base descends ; Each golden atom blends With all the large and general life That throbs through London strife. Ye ride to far suburban homes In Juliet's very cosy muff — The one that cousin Herbert gave, All wonder, warmth, and fluff ! The haggard merchant rushing by Thinlcs sweetly of his nursery Where Ralph and Jenny watch the rain Becloud the pane. If he should miss the train ! The Coster, cordial, winks ; God bless the babes, the merchant thinks, If I should lose the six There 's one at seven, And these will make a little heaven For those two angels whom I love ! OfF goes his glove ! Out comes a threepenny bit ! And the abysses of the bag are lit By leaping rounds of yellow rain — Soft tumbling circles fresh from Spain ! O Spanish captives in the Strand That pour the south along the street, 49 A man in pleasantness may stand And read your history awhile ; Thus ye have made me smile, And made me sigh, For as ye go, go I. My pyramid of hours grows less, Fewer the lips that laugh. The hands that bless, And rarely comes the greeting kind To make my heart the quicklier beat. I am not fruit, but rind, O sweet barbarians of the street, That, severed from your native land. Do pour the south Along the Babel length of Strand ! SO A PASTORAL Come you, Mary, there 's a dear ! Mind no more the plaguy dairy ! Milk can never match your white — Come you, Mary ! All the music of my scythe Sang you in the heated meadow ; And I thought your shape behind Ev'ry shadow ! Down with sleeves, and bring those lips (Roseleaves in the happy dairy) To the chestnut where we kiss — Come you, Mary ! SI THE NIGHTINGALE Whereas the blackbird and the thrush Are fondly English in their song, And finely pipe great island airs Where bloomy orchards throng, The nightingale has all the East Within his dear tumultuous breast ; World-passions and the strong refrains That ring in wild unrest. Circassian music he can sing. Rough mountain loves, and stories meek That in the vineyard vaUey run From traitor cheek to cheek. And all the secrets of desire. By right of lyric ancestry, From out a midnight hawthorn bush He now reveals to me. 52 AT BRANDON On the ivied house the starling Clapped his beak as we went by, And the dipping chaffinch flying Slipped in loops across the sky. Here and there a hermit poplar Musing on his stature stood, And we heard, advancing farther, Unseen wings within the wood. What a lesson is the forest For a brotherhood of life ! What a green rebuke for nations Ever ready for the strife ! Here within a space no longer Than a blackbird floats unfanned, Oak and elm and beech, the chieftains, Spire in peace above the land. S3 Here we heard the windy shepherd Making cloudy lambkins pass Over Nature's pupils dreaming With their mistress in the grass. As we lay a stockdove fluttered, Settled on a branch in view, And we saw her comely plumpness Lined against the evening blue, Till she spied beneath her pouting Shapes that are the pulse of flight — Thought us enemies, and melted Very softly out of sight Westward, where a wall of blackness Stood before a yellow lake, While along the inky summit Crawled a great and golden snake ! 54 Here we heard the whitethroats homing From the raiding of the day ; Heard the prophet thrush proclaiming Divination from his spray. Bringing back his song from spaces Where the world is faintly seen To his field the lark descended, Seeking slumber in the green. Multitudes of gossip creatures Darkness gathered to repose ; But we drank of Nature's silence Till the huntress moon arose — Till Diana, lap and bosom Finely full of stolen hght. By her beautiful unbending Made a lover of the night. 55 A PRAYER Tend me my birds, and bring again The brotherhood of woodland life, So shall I wear the seasons round, A friend to need, a foe to strife. Keep me my heritage of lawn. And grant me, Father, till I die The fine sincerity of light And luxury of open sky. So, learning always, may I find My heaven around me everywhere. And go in hope from this to Thee, The pupil of Thy country air. 56 AT MIDNIGHT Now that the living sleep And the dead awake, Joy shall return to me And my cold hands take. Here at the midnight hour I shall feel again Love in a kiss, and then The resulting pain. But when the dawn shall speed With its stealth and flash, Deep in my heart the fire Shall again be ash. 57 A PASTORAL Who would shepherd pipes forsake If there greet him dearly Cupid in the knee-deep brake Singing sweet and clearly? Who to London deserts go, Scanning friendless faces, If there beat a heart for him Under Laura's laces ? As I near the leafy oak, Laura, swift as starling, Brings her cheek for me to stroke — Little fragrant darling ! Take your air in Rotten Row, Gentlemen of leisure, Millunaid kiss and velvet sloe Fashion me my pleasure ! 58 While we sit the stilly skies Change from blue to purple, And my arm in daring lies Round a homespun circle ! Thus doth pastoral delight Follow shepherd-duty, Speeding to my heart at night Laura's love and beauty ! 59 NORTH WIND AT NIGHT Good it is when Northern winds come blowing from the ice and bear, * Shouting round the shaking steeple till the opal stars can hear ; Good it is in shifting dusks to feel the polar thunder- Bail Lashing at the weary forehead with its knots of biting hail! Hurricanes that blow the foxes over leagues towards their prey. Roaring sagas of the icebergs, songs of baby seals at play ! Hurricanes with ghostly chorus of the Norsemen grim and stark Hurling oaths at giant foemen hacking furious in the dark ! 60 In the lulls between the wrangle of the tempest and the floe Sweet it is to fancy love-songs of the patient Es- quimaux ; Speeding, warm at heart, across the level purity of plain. Love beneath his furs as constant as beneath the ice the main ! Oh, I joy to hear the sinews of the god of Northern blast Crackle as his fingers fasten on the icy hilt and vast ! Rushing over wold and valley, dusky dells and uplands bleak. How he flings his frozen gauntlet at the challenge of my cheek ! 6i Tho' he dash the dew about me from the blooms of other stars, Pansies from the lap of Venus, speary rushes down from Mars, More I love his gusty onset than the woman-breeze that brings Scent of harems and the radiant Persian roses on his wings ! Northland god, your tears of fury drive upon my freshened cheeks. While the roadside branch above me writhes in agony and creaks ! As we wrestle at the midnight, breast to breast and hand to hand. Care and pain depart like swallows lifting to a friendly land! 62 THE FIRST KISS On Helen's heart the day were night ! But I may not adventure there : Her breast is guarded by a right, And she is true as fair. And though in happy days her eyes The glow within mine own could please, She's purer than the babe who cries For empire on her knees. Her love is for her lord and child, And unto them belongs her snow ; But none can rob me of her wild Young kiss of long ago ! 6i A WISH When I am done with pen and ink, And only sleep in careless hope, Oh, bear me to the Cotswold hills And leave me on the southern slope ! The modesty of Nature glows And mingles with the country air ; The peace of God is on the land. And passeth understanding there. Come, sweet and dearest, nor deny The tribute of one gentle pain ; Refresh my primrose with a tear ; But never wish me home again. 64 TO MY BROTHERS O BROTHERS, who must ache and stoop O'er wordy tasks in London town, How scantly Laura trips for you — A poem in a gown ! How rare if Grub-street grew a lawn ! How sweet if Nature's lap could spare A dandelion for the Strand, A cowslip for Mayfair ! But here, from immaterial lyres, There rings in easy confidence The blackbirds' bright philosophy On apple-spray or fence : For ploughmen wending home from toil Some patriot thrush outpours his lay. And voices, wildly eloquent. The diary of his day. E 65 These living lyrics you may liear Remembering the lane's romance, All hung in wiclier hells to chirp Thin ghosts of utterance : But where the gusts of liberty Make Ragged Robin wisely bend They quicken hedgerows with their song, Melodiously unpenned. If souls of mighty singers leave The vacant body to its hush, Does Shelley linger in the lark, Or Keats possess the thrush? The end is undecaying doubt, And in some blackbird's bosom still Great Tennyson may sweeten eve And whistle on the hill. 66 Come, brothers, to this clean delight, And watch the velvet-headed tit. Here 's honest sorrel in the grass And sturdy cuckoo-spit : What shepherds hear you shall not miss. And at deliverance of dawn Shall see a miracle of bloom Across the sparkling lawn. The forest musically begs To fan you with its leafy love ; Oh, fall asleep upon this moss Entreated by the dove ! Here shall that sweet Conservative, Dear Mother Nature, lend to you Her lovely rural elements Beneath the primal blue. 67 O brothers, who must ache and stoop O'er wordy tasks in London town, How scantly Laura trips for you — A poem in a gown ! How good if Fleet-street grew a lawn ! How sweet if garden-plots could spare A bed of cloves to scent the Strand, A pansy for Mayfair ! 68 THE BUDDING OF THE ORCHARD Oh ! the budding of the orchard Is a heralding of June ; Of the woodlark's brighter bosom. And the freedom of her tune. In the hedge's heart the sparrow Tends her sapphire eggs in love Till the song that 's in the oval Makes a music for the grove. And the grass beside the river Grows the long cool green of joy For the creature in its comfort, And the maiden and the boy. Oh ! the budding of the orchard Is a promise to my hope 69 Of the grey and opal evening Over lambs upon the slope. I shall see the stock and pansy And the brown of Cicely's arm ; I shall hear the harness tinkle, And the cattle at the farm : And the God above my forehead In his camp of beam and blue For the colony of rosebuds Shall remember drops of dew. 70 HAPPY LIFE Baby beauty on my knee, Baby's mother near me ; Master Bullfinch grown so tame That he cannot fear me ; Brooks to tell of dipping maids, Ruby cloves to scent me — What a happy, happy life God in trust has lent me ! Baby tumbles on our bed, Either cheek a cherry. Raiding Laura's lovely heart. Mischievous and merry ! Infant swallows at my eaves Twitter^ and content me — What a happy, happy life God in trust has lent me ! 71 INSPIRATION I LAY my head on the foolscap page, Bidden to sing, and being mute ; No help there came with the lovely air Of the blackbird's magic flute. My Love ran in, and she kissed my cheek. Lyrics woke in my blood and rang ; Her hair glowed gold by the foolscap page, And the barren singer sang. 72 TO DORA God's mercy, Dora, what 's a kiss That you should whimper like a child ? A maid was ne'er as coy as this, A woodlark never was so wild. There went, i' faith, no niggard pinch You little pecking sweetbill finch ! Come, loveliness, 'tis but the task Of mating Cupid's red to red ; A rosebud touch is all I ask. Lift up, dear nun, this shining head ! There ! see how good a thing it is — God's mercy, Dora, what 's a kiss ? 73 CLARINDA'S BEAUTY The tree may win the stripling With its clusters round and red, And a shepherdess may languish Till his silly mouth is fed ; But Clarinda has an orchard Where sweet circles grow for me, And no shepherd, though he covet, Dares approach my cherry-tree ! The mistress airs her velvet Ev'ry Sunday down the aisle As the sunburnt farmers titter, And the saucy milkmaids smile ; Though it cost a mort of money And can make the children stare, 'Tis a thistle to the softness That Clarinda's cheek doth wear. 74 But when my sweetheart dangles In the Avon as it goes Her feet, and cattle ponder On the marvel of her hose, Not a virgin ever trusted Such a comely white as this To the chilly river fingers, And for water-lips to kiss ! 75 REGRET O HUMAN bird, whose nest has been Within my heart a thousand days, To fly away so suddenly When April glittered in her green. And woodland aisles For leafy miles In fifty fine harmonious ways Were musical with flying praise, Was a strange winging from my life, O false and fair — Was a departure that the sense Could nowhere gather strength to bear ! Day comes. The Artist of the dawn Makes all the sky a masterpiece ; 76 The dewdrops vanish from the lawn And from the shepherd's sheep. Each day 's a miracle to cheat the mind, Night brings the wonder, sleep ; But all along the lane there flies My loss of her whose helping eyes Made olden moments kind ; And in the pulsing heart of night, When darkness seems to throb to light, Remembrance of my whitethroat yet Comes with a great regret. No blackbird's magic in. the bush. Succeeded by the aching hush. Can win me from my thought of her ; And all that Father Avon says To leagues of blue forget-me-nots 77 Cannot cast out My dream of Jenny's girlish ways, Her lovely pout ; And all those perished days When on my knees She sat contented till the sun was set — God has not fashioned me to think them nought, Or taught me to forget ! 78 HANNIBAL, SAGUNTO CAPTO, LOaUITUR. Thanks to your pith Saguntum is destroyed 1 'Tis time to pipe the songs of Carthage now ; To muse upon the world within its streets, The tinkling in some soft and sandy place Of camel cavalcades whose spicy loads Make fragrant leagues for those who march behind. The Gods are gracious. I enrich you all With pastoral dawns and twilights of repose. Go, make the girdled hearts revolt with joy, And feel around your necks the arms of peace ; Hide in the sheath that gapped and greedy blade That drank the plenty of Saguntum veins ! What of the siege, my heroes ? Was it long ? What of the sack, my heroes ? Was it good ? Each sword has won a virgin ; ev'ry man White witching arms to tie him round with love. 79 Has not the wine run freely in the camp, Or have I niggardly denied the can Its island-cluster of canary beads That hissed and bridled, sparkling as you roared Great soldier-songs that rumbled in the hills ? Your beards are hung with purple dewdrops yet. Drops of the wine that splashed the naked knees Of girls who speed it round your garrulous fires. Take back this history of roaring fight. Take home your scars to Carthage ; show the trench Saguntum bullies carved upon your cheeks, Till youths, midway between the boy and man. Shall itch to glut beside their country's sons A thirsty blade throughout our next campaign, And maidens sing you in their fountain-songs. Oh, how the dame's recovered cheek will flush 80 At news of hostile handiwork ; to learn Her husband's mightier arm confused the foe ! Your sons will reap incentives, and each wound Will be a star to guide the coming brood To follow glory upward to a scar. The striplings of the land will charge at play With girlish swords and baby javelins ; Their harmless bows will speed as harmless shafts. 'Tis thus the glamour grows ; for stirring tales Of onset, and the death-grip day by day, Of peril, rescue, booty and applause Are trumpets to the blood and signals fine To urge the sprouting heroes of our kin. I am a man of battle, and I yearn To see young tigers lap their early blood. So here I make a harvest of my plans 8i And loot the hours of possible design. Gods, if the soul of Carthage should not feel That glory waiting past the Pyrenees — Should dwindle to a passive, womanish thing, And, barren, shirk the dominating task ! But when your stiffened fingers scarce stretch out For gripping iron handles, it is ill To let the shadow of another war Fall thus athwart your pleasure. Let me hope. Home to the mellow homeland songs and dance. For standards, scars upon your daring cheeks ! for a sight of Carthage ! Homing braves, 1 charge you bear me when the Spring's at bud Sweet gossip of my mistress and my wife ! She sits eternal by the lusting sea And stares upon the wilderness of blue. 82 Kept by the beating of a million hearts ! Within her gates unrivalled maidens blush Whose necks are clasped by chiming ornaments ; They look to Spain, and supplicate the Gods To bring you home to kisses from the war. Go, dream beside their beauty ! Go, and take The throbbing sweethearts in your potent arms — Arms that can help an empire to be set, Babe of an empire, in this Spanish West. Each with his lips against some sleeping cheek Forget the clank of armour and the shrill Quick scream of arrows, and the wind The stone makes coming from the monstrous sling ; But when the branch begins to feel the leaf At push and pout in her, forsake those lips Are rivals of your greatness, and arise ! 83 Your road is Spain-wards ! Once again Intrust you to the mouthings of the deep, Placating first, by prayers and gifts of worth, Tlie sea-god looking through his opal roof. Come back to me with even sharper swords, And not one pinch of all the excellence You showed of old lost in the realm of ease, Forgetting not the soul of all my need Sweet gossip of my mistress and my wife — Carthage I took in trust from Hasdrubal, Carthage I widen, love, and glorify. So, with good news of her, and you in trim To swing her steel as strongly as of old, I doubt not we shall fright the Eagle yet, And pour our language through the streets of Rome ! 84 A CONTRAST The apple in my garden Is a round of bloom and scent, With the grass beneath it pointing To the blue above it bent : Here 's dew of dawn, and music That can shame a city's rush ; For Town the hurdy-gurdy, But for Warwickshire the thrush ! At middle day the blossom Takes the utmost of the sun ; The tits as sweet explorers All along the branches run : 'Tis wild-birds' country piping That can make the forehead flush ; For Town the hurdy-gurdy, But for Warwickshire the thrush ! 85 As Mary milks the cattle, And I stoop to kiss her cheek, The lilac shakes with lyrics From the song-bird's easy beak : 'Twas God who made him poet — How his masterpieces gush ! For Town the hurdy-gurdy. But for Warwickshire the thrush ! 86 A SONG All night I have lain in the Gipsies' camp, Heel to heel with a gipsy lass, With a planet hung in the sky for lamp. And for bed the honest grass : At morn I have wended upon my way. Taking only as baggage this — The love that lies in a gipsy's eyes And a gipsy maiden's kiss. All day I have pined for the greensward girl. Brown and sweet in the forest hush, Where a man may play with a southland curl, And a southland virgin's blush : I'd give my wealth if there warmed me again, Filling eve with a daring bliss, The heart that pressed at a gipsy's vest, And a wildwood gipsy's kiss. 87 CICELY BATHING The brook told the dove And the dove told me That Cicely 's bathing at the pool With other virgins three. The brook told the dove And the dove told me That Cicely floating on the wave Woke music in the tree. The brook told the dove And the dove told me That Cicely 's drying in the sun, A snowy sight to see. HESTER SINCLAIR Hester Sinclair passed me by, Busy at her glove — Hester Sinclair wliom I call Lavender and love ! Little waves of muslin film Lapping at her feet, Hester trips, all snow in snow. Country fair and sweet. Hester Sinclair homes to me — Mine this woodland dove ! Hester trembles in my arras Lavender and love ! BETTER SO Friend, you did well to die ! How agonising was that hour When the last inch of candle grew A heated pool ; when at the pane The morning wind, a bully, blew, While you, no whit discomfited By all these great Spring gusts at play, In all the sorcery of senselessness Did hardly stay To breathe away The fragments of your span. Last lingerings of the man 90 So soon to fashion us supreme distress. In the acacia on the lawn The storm-cock whistled vengeance and disdain ; The milder thrush, in harmony with fate, Piped cheerly through the active flight of rain Ineffably sedate. Below him in the lilac-tree The blackbird in his cottage green Did sing between The plainings and content. O God, I thought, bring back again His pleasure in the firmament ; Instruct his ears to catch Some redstart's whisper, some reviving snatch Of chaffinch music, ere, the morning spent, These servants of the dawn, 91 These breathing songs, Desert the lawn ! His ears, O Lord, were reverent, And Thou dost know He loved Thy miracles With all his force, Praising Thee daily more because Thy love Mellowed the woodland with the soothing dove, Set linnets in the gorse. Made sweet the darkness with the nightingale That we might find his comfort in the vale Though seeing not its source. Give him to hear again our words. To hear the birds ; To drink the landscape's distances With those deep eyes 92 In ecstasies At finding spread around him everywhere The everlasting sameness and surprise. Friend, you did well to die ! The incarnation of ideals Is slow ; The health of nations mendeth not ; They go From base to base Immeasurably fraudulent In gross and cunning government. But you did burn to see A Brotherhood arise That in nobility should not misfit 9? The Maker of our skies ; But day by day more separate we stand. Pursuing pelf. Adoring self, One blood, one fate, but not one Band. Due to the spade and promised to the earth We buy our guinea's worth of evening mirth, Go home and ponder how the money spent Shall be extorted from the negligent, Improvident Poor brother, who, with equal worth, By all the devilry of biting need Comes as a test of our prevailing creed To beg, for Christ's sake, aid ! We, dressing for the tomb and promised to the spade, Make profit of his hurt 94 In golden dirt I How this would wrench your heart if you were nigh, You who with me Could bear to see Espousals of the brick and of the glade — The serpent street crawl greedy to the wood. The mason drive the pigeon from her bough, The hind, dismayed, From following his plough. If all this robbery from Nature meant A crop of fresh content ; If all these rendings of her verdant robe. Invasions of her temples gave Serener glory to the globe, 95 A thrilling to the slave ! Brother, they drive the field-mouse hence, They steal the finches' home ; From mead to mead, from fence to fence. With all the power of impotence The merchant-princes come, Sending the workmen first to clear the way, To build and slay. In half a hundred dingles where of yore We lay on moss, and spake of Evermore While blackbirds shrilled the present in our ears. Are cots and babes and tears ! With moss and melody and woodlands dense Fled Innocence, 96 As She will fly from centres of repose, Northward and southward, east and west, Within her bosom thrusting as She goes Her honeysuckle and her pink wild-rose. How this would wrench your heart if you were nigh ! Friend, it was well — that bitter vanishing — Friend, you did well to die ! 97 DORA'S RIBBON Plague upon the ribbon And the bow beneath my chin ! Bells no longer call me, And the service should begin. Kate will walk with Colin, Mary go with John — Drat the band of cherry silk That won't go on ! Plague upon the ribbon ! I must fix it with a pin ! Yet the bow looks pretty As it cuddles at my chin I Richard's in the garden Looking at my pane — Sunday next the cherry band May sulk again I 98 COMFORT How poorly reaches to my heart, When all my joy is in eclipse, The stilted comfort and the noise Of kind, but useless, lips. But down the road an arrow's flight Where evening brings the sleepy birds. The thinnest twitter in the green Is more than clumsy words. And in that forest synagogue, Whose aisles are paved with bloom and sod, A broken heart may haply find The tenderness of God. 99 TO A GLOW-WORM In thee there lives the energy Can make the turf a heaven, May birds that peck tliy candle die By Parson Rook unshriven ! Thou art a child the Father's hand Within this fruity acre Dropt in the grass, as shy and still As any virgin Qpaker ! Thou tiny, unofficial lamp Within my orchard burning, Dost signal by this living star Thy husband home returning ? Here at this cherry's grassy base Thou 'rt sure of no upbraiding ; Too small thy lantern to arouse The thrush for midnight raiding. 1 00 As tender girls at water-play Grow blanched when shepherds whistle, So fades thy spark if carelessly I brush this neighbour thistle. Ah, how my freckled lads would run, A knee apiece would capture, And prattle questions if they watched Thy lovely light in rapture ! lOI A SONG It was the time when heaven comes down And paves the wood with blue ; A firmament of hyacinths Dranlc deep of forest dew : The cooing of a lonely dove Went mourning on the breeze, And over aU there swayed the songs And sighings of the breeze. The velvet palms of moss caressed And comforted my face ; An angel joy from Paradise Seemed truant in the place : The forest was a voice, and sang, O Love long dead, of you What time the gracious heaven came down And paved the wood with blue. AT EVENING Below her in the valley farm She heard the rustic mirth ; The pastures lessened to a line Was heaven as much as earth. The fiddle poured a dancing tune, That called her feet. And oh ! Her heart was hungry for the lad She danced with long ago ! 103 OLD LETTERS Last night some yellow letters fell From out a scrip I found by chance ; Among them was the silent ghost, The spirit of my first romance : And in a faint blue envelope A withered rose long lost to dew Bore witness to the dashing days When love was large and wits were few. Yet standing there all worn and grey The teardrops quivered in ray eyes To think of Youth's unshaken front, The forehead lifted to the skies ; How rough a hill my eager feet Flung backward when upon its crest I saw the flutter of the lace The wind awoke on Helen's breast ! 104 How thornless were the roses then When fresh young eyes and Hps were kind When Cupid in our porches proved How true the tale that Love is blind ! But Red-and-White and Poverty Would only mate while shone the May ; Then came a Bag of Golden Crowns And jingled Red-and-White away. Grown old and niggard of romance I wince not much at aught askew, And often ask my favourite cat What else had Red-and-White to do ? And here 's the bud that rose and sank, A crimson island on her breast — Why should I burn it ? Once again Hide, rose, and dream. God send me rest. los MORNING The throstle and the dawn Together come That light and music may Invade my home ; And wakefulness begins In Laura's hands ; Upon her pillow stir Those glowing strands That lure me till I kiss Her dreamy eyes To win her back from sleep To Paradise. io6 A LULLABY Sleep, dearest, sleep. The birds are still, The trees are hushed Upon the hill. Oh, in green dreamland valleys deep Rest, dearest, rest — sleep, dearest, sleep. Rest, Alice, rest. And wait for me. If Gods be kind I come to thee ! Oh, in thine eyes the dawn is deep, Rest, Alice, rest — sleep, Alice, sleep. 107 TO MY LOVE {With a rose) That freedom thou dost now control Once basely commerced with my soul ; All inward enterprise, unchid, In fancy grew as Fancy bid ; But now, possessed by thee, it grows So clean a captive as this rose. 108 A DEFENCE (Written on being charged with undue frankness) Dear country Muse, my heart's delight, Whose purity displays Tlie rounded nude of loveliness For shepherd-pipes to praise — Dear Muse, that dancing on the green Inspired my country tone. Have I who saw your chastity In seeing lost my own ? Have I, for all your liberal love And wildfiower music, taught A multitude your bosom's white Uncovered, but unsought — And not this lesson from your snow. This knowledge from your knee — That more of virtue, less of robe, Belongs to purity ? ' 109 With glimpses of a sunny neck, And ripe untrespassed lips That boasted even brighter red Than any autumn hips, Barefooted, in a rebel robe That kissed your careless knee And showed the splendour of your shape With woodland modesty. You danced adown a forest-aisle And taught me from the store Of simple airs your lyric lips Shall sing for evermore. In what array your beauty came — I sang it as I might ; So sings the pupil blaclcbird, so The poet of the night ; no The thrush, a student of your dance, Divinely serenades Your revelation of the limbs That twinkle in the glades. Should I within your leafy school The only scholar sit To pipe discordantly, and be Less trusted than the tit ? Not so, sweet country Muse ! The wood Demands the scanty gown ; Why should their London velvets clog Your dances on the down? I have not shamed you, O my love, So friendly and so wild 1 You shall not blush to teach again Your lover and your child ! Ill Who call me base must think me base ; But soon afresh for me Your speeding footsteps in the grass Shall prove my purity ! Printed by T. and A. Constable, Printers to Her Majesty, at the Edinburgh University Press. List of Books in Relies Jettres 'Sgs %. mnmmebtp s^dQffn/?anr. 'C^ CMct4.^an. ALL BOOKS IN THIS CATALOGUE ARE PUBLISHED AT NET PRICES Telegraphic Address — ■ ' Bodleian, London ' ' A WORD must be said for the manner in which the pubhshers -^*- have produced the volume {i.e. "The Earth Fiend"), a sumptuous foUo, printed by Constable, the etchings on Japanese paper by Mr. Goulding. The volume should add not only to Mr. Strang's fame but to that of Messrs. Elkin Mathews and John Lane, who are rapidly gaining distinction for their beautiful editions of belles-lettres.' — Daily Chronicle, Sept. 24, 1892. Referring to Mr. Le Gallienne's ' English Poems ' and ' Silhouettes' by Mr. Arthur Symons : — ' We only refer to them now to note a fact which they illustrate, and which we have been observing of late, namely, the recovery to a certain extent of good taste in the matter of printing and binding books. These two books, which are turned out by Messrs. Elkin Mathews and John Lane, are models of artistic publishing, and yet they are simplicity itself. The books with their excellent printing and their very simplicity make a harmony which is satisfying to the artistic sense.' — Sunday Sun, Oct. 2, 1892. ' Mr. Le Gallienne is a fortunate young gentleman. I don't know by what legerdemain he and his publishers work, but here, in an age as stony to poetry as the ages of Chatterton and Richard Savage, we find the full edition of his book sold before publication. How is it done, Messrs. Elkin Mathews and John Lane? for, without depreciating Mr. Le Gallienne's sweetness and charm, I doubt that the marvel would have been wrought under another publisher. These publishers, indeed, produce books so de- lightfully that it must give an added pleasure to the hoarding of first editions.' — Katharine Tynan in The Irish Daily Independent. ' To Messrs. Elkin Mathews and John Lane almost more tha to any other, we take it, are the thanks of the grateful singer especially due ; for it is they who have managed, by means of limited editions and charming workmanship, to impress book- buyers with the belief that a volume may have an esthetic and commercial value. They have made it possible to speculate in the latest discovered poet, as in a new company — with the difference that an operation in the former can be done with three half-crowns.' St James's Gazette. September 1893. List of Books IN BELLES LETTRES (Including some Transfers) PUBLISHED BY Elkin Mathews and John Lane VIGO STREET, LONDON, W. N.B. — The Authors and Publishers reserve the right of reprinting any hook in this list if a second edition is called for, except in cases where a stipulation has been made to the contrary, and of printing a separate edition of any of the books for America irrespective of the numbers to which the English editions are limited. The numbers mentioned do not include the copies sent for review or to the public libraries. ADDLESHAW (PERCY). Poems. l2mo. 5s. net. \_In preparation. ALLEN (GRANT). The Lower Slopes : A Volume of Verse. 600 copies. Fcap. 8vo. 5s. net. {Immediately. ANTAEUS. The Backslider and other Poems. 100 only. Small 4to. 7s. 6d. net. [ Very few remain. BEECHING (H. €.), J. W. MACKAIL, & J. B. B. NICHOLS Love in Idleness. With Vignette by W. B. Scott. Fcap. 8vo, half vellum. 12s.net. \Very few remain. Transferred by the Authors to the f resent Publishers, THE PUBLICATIONS OF BENSON (ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER). PoBMS. 550 copies. i2mo. 5s. net. BENSON (EUGENE). From the Asolan Hills : A Poem. 300 copies. Imp. i6mo. 5s.net. [Very few remam. BINYON (LAWRENCE). Poems. i2mo. 5s. net. [In preparation. BOURDILLON (F. W.). A Lost God : A Poem. With Illustrations by H. J. Ford. 500 copies. Svo. 6s. net. [ Very few remain. BOURDILLON (F. W.). AlLES d'Aloubtte. Poems printed at the private press of Rev. H. Daniel, Oxford. 100 only. i6mo. ;^i, los. net. [Very few remain. BRIDGES (ROBERT). The Growth of Love. Printed in Fell's old English type at the private press of Rev. H. Daniel, Oxford. too only. Fcap. 4to. £2, 12s. 6d. net. [ Very few remain. COLERIDGE (HON. STEPHEN). The Sanctity of Confession : A Romance. Second Edition. Crown Svo. 3s.net. [A few remain. CRANE (WALTER). Renascence : A Book of Verse. Frontispiece and 38 designs by the Author. Imp. i6mo. 7s.6d.net. [Very few remain. Also a few fcap. 410. £1, is. net. And a few fcap. 4to, Japanese vellum. £t^ 15s. net. CROSSING (WM.). The Ancient Crosses of Dartmoor. With 1 1 plates. Svo, cloth. 4s. 6d. net. [ Very few remain. ELKIN MATHEWS &= JOHN LANE DAVIDSON (JOHN). Plays : An Unhistorical Pastoral ; A Romantic Farce ; Bruce, a Chronicle Play ; Smith, a Tragic Farce ; Scaramouch in Naxos, a Pantomime, with a Frontis- piece, Title-page, and Cover Design by Aubrey Beardsley. 500 copies. Small 410. 7s. 6d. net. l^Immediately. DAVIDSON (JOHN). Fleet Street Eclogues. Second Edition. Fcap. 8vo, buckram. 5s. net. DAVIDSON (JOHN). A Random Itinerary : Prose Sketches. With a Ballad. Fcap. 8vo. Uniform with 'Fleet Street Eclogues.' 5s. net. \lmmediatdy.' DAVIDSON (JOHN). The North Wall. Fcap. 8vo. 2s. 6d. net. The few remaining copies transferred by the Author to the present Publishers. DE GRUCHY (AUGUSTA). Under the Hawthorn, and other Verses. Frontis- piece by Walter Crane. 300 copies. Crown 8vo. 5s. net. [ Very few remain. Also 30 copies on Japanese vellum. 15s. net. DE TABLEY (LORD). Poems, Dramatic and Lyrical. By John Leicester Warren (Lord De Tabley). Illustrations and Cover Design by C. S. Ricketts. Second Edition. Crown 8vo. "]%. 6d. net. DIAL (THE). No. I of the Second Series. Illustrations by Ricketts, Shannon, Pissarro. 200 only. 410. £\, is. net. [ Very few remain. The present series will he continued at irregular intervals. THE PUBLICATIONS OF EGERTON (GEORGE). Keynotes : Short Stories. Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. net. FIELD (MICHAEL). Sight and Song. (Poems on Pictures.) 400 copies. i2mo. 5s.net. yVery few remain. FIELD (MICHAEL). Stephania : A Trialogue in Three Acts. 250 copies. Pott 4to. 6s. net. [ Very few remain. GALE (NORMAN). Orchard Songs. Fcap. 8vo. With Title-page and Cover Design by Will Rothenstein. 5s. net. Also a Special Edition limited in number on small paper (Whatman) bound in English vellum. ;^i, is. net. GARNETT (RICHARD). A Volume of Poems. 350 copies. Crown Svo. With Title-page designed by J. Illingworth Kay. Js. net. [^Immediately. GOSSE (EDMUND). The Letters of Thomas Lovell Beddoes. Now first edited. Pott Svo. 5s. net. [I?nmediately. GRAHAME (KENNETH). Pagan Papers : A Volume of Essays. Fcap. Svo. 5s. net. [^Immediately. GREENE (G. A.). Italian Lyrists of To-day. Translations in the original metres from about thirty-five living Italian poets, with bibliographical and biographical notes. Crown Svo. 5s. net. ELKIN MATHEWS