/4-731W !L°fl iii/rsjf Cornell University Library PR 6005.R209D2 Daisies of the dawn. 3 1924 013 601 756 Cornell University Library The original of tliis book is in tine Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013601756 Daisies OF THE Dawn J DAISIES OF THE DAWN. BY L. CRANMER-BYNG, AUTHOR OF '* POEMS OF PAGANISM," ETC. LONDON: THE ROXBURGHE PRESS, Fifteen, Victoria Street, Westminster. GUERNSEY: T. B. BANKS 6- CO., ^y, Grande Rue. {Copyright.] ? VERLAINE. An In Memoriam Dedication to Vincent O' Sullivan. 'T'HE chasms of companionless despair Yawn round the watcher as the sentry fire Dies out ; so died the beacon of his lyre. And left us lonelier in the midnight air. Yet greater than our grief that does him. wrong, Crowned with the fadeless tribute of the bays. The name of him who gathers all his days Trailing behind him, as a meteor, song. You who have shed for France the bitterest tears. The tears unshed, that mack unmanly grief Have seen a living drama past belief- — The dark affliction of his numbered years; You who have stood beside the envious grave. That silent partner of his future fame. Take from the sheltering harbour of his name The frail-blown fancies that T proudly gave DEDICATION. Here in a land I love, because my own. And more because her virtues are so small (For greed has cast a glamour over all). And all her sons she needs who stands alone : Here, where the Rachel of the natiojis weeps Her scattered pearls beneath unpitying skies. Too sad to smile, too weary to be wise. An English singer starless vigil keeps. Yet what avails the conquering death to greet With tears the tomb so powerless to unseal 1 When to the Hades of his lost ideal Another Orpheus turns his faltering feet 1 The grandest music is the song unsung. The greatest bard the child as yet unborn , And, in a world whose motive is to mourn. What lives beyond the passion to be young 1 CONTENTS. — *■ — PAGE DEDICATION — VERLAINE 5 THE DAISIES OF THE DAWN 9 love's MESSENGER lO GARDEN SCANDAL . II TO A BLACKBIRD 13 MY SAILOR-BOY 15 FRISSON DU MATIN l6 MY QUEEN . 17 THE TROUBADODR 18 NIGHTMARE 19 DREAM-SHIP 21 PEACE . 22 THE WINE OF LIFE 23 GUERNSEY LILIES 25 THE daisy's SONG . 26 DEAD CHILD OF THE SEA 28 MA CHfeRE AMIE 29 IN THE NOON OF YEARS 3^ THE FOUR, GIFTS 32 WHEN MUSIC DIES 34 DIANa's BATH 3^ A GLIMPSE OF OLD WISBY 37 LOVE, THE ROVER 39 TO ONE FROM OLYMPUS 4I A VISION OF LESBOS 43 executioner's EVE 45 BLIND LOVE — 47 TO MABEL 47 HER EVENING 47 TO LESBIA 48 THE STAR AND THE SAIL 49 SLEEPER AND SUNBEAM 5° MATER DOLOROSA 52 » CONTENTS. PAGE BEFORE THE SHRINE 53 "THE CRUCIFIX " 54 VOX CONSOLANTIS 55 TWO SONNETS — LOVE 56 FRIENDSHIP 57 FAREWELL, MY FANTASY ! 58 NIGHT THOUGHTS 59 love's PENITENT 62 COMING HOME 63 LA FIN DES DIEUX 64 THE NEW PROMETHEUS 65 THE TRAIN-FIEND 67 DESOLATION 68 WIND IN SAVILE ROW 69 THE TOILET OF CONSTANCE 70 AT END OF DAY 72 POUR ANDRfi LEBEY 73 THE EARTH-GODDESS 74 IN THE SHADOW OF DEATH 76 THE WATCHER 78 love's LULLABY 80 THE PASSING OF SPRING 82 AN exile's REASON 84 A CHANGE OF RELIGION 85 THE FUGITIVES 87 TO 88 BECAUSE SHE MAY NOT HEAR 89 ODETTE 91 TO CYBELE . 93 SONG'S LEMAN 94 THE HERMIT SINGER OP THE SEA 95 PAST AND PRESENT . . 97 MOTl, THE BAYADERE . 98 A MODERN VIGIL IO4 THE NEW SAPPHO I05 MORNING DREAMS IN FERMAIN BAY . I08 THE DAISIES OF THE DAWN. The daisies of the dawn In their pink apparel sing Of the bridals of the summer And the wooing of the spring. They have seen her distant tresses, And her white feet wandering. The daisies of the dawn Are the pilgrims of afar ; They were mothered in the mountains, And begotten of a star : But they smile on earth to teach us How fair God's fancies are. The daisies of the dawn Are the songs a poet sows As he struggles to the summit Of his little world of woes ; And where he drops the daisy Some day will bloom the rose. LOVES MESSENGER. Blow, tender spirit, of the purple West — Blow from the haven of our sunset years. Ah ' bring me tiding of her heart's unrest, And breathe me all her tears. Tell me upon what dim and distant strand She takes the twilight to her seaward eyes ; Send me her white thoughts winging from the land, Where sight to memory dies. Tell me amid soft intervals of sleep What maiden dream goes stealing out to sea. Ah ! say that love has launched upon the deep. And follows after me. GARDEN SCANDAL. Grey Pan was piping to his myrmidons, The Stone Achilles and a dancing faun. Under the shadow of a ruined shrine All ivy-kissed and covered. And there leapt A merry twinkle to his mad old eye, As from the reed he gave his Satyr soul To bubble in the sunshine. And he piped Fully many a naughty tale of former years, Of all the frailties of a farthingale, The strange adventures of Sir Robert's ruff, And how my Lady's slipper But the dusk Came creeping through the trellis overhead : Achilles yawned. The tale was very old, And, like his moss-grown niche, monotonous : Three centuries at least the hoary god Had vexed the innocent air with like refrain Of mouldy peccadilloes. So he yawned ; And as the folds of vesper fluttered down The faun's impatient feet were beating time 12 Garden Scandal. To many an old-world measure ; and they stamped A challenge to the gods to come and dance. Then from quaint nooks and many a cool recess A- medley of queer beings, motley-clad — Low Satyrs, merry Nymphs, and lusty goats — Came prancing down the sward. Then suddenly Pan's heart went piping to the Bacchic reel. TO A BLACKBIRD. Sing! ah, sing ! For all thy heart is worth, Now winter's given birth To the blackbird's darling — spring — A birthday ode, thou laureate of the wing. Cleave ! ah, cleave Out in the laughing blue Thy path of wonders new. And bid the grey clouds weave No marriage-veil where Phoebus comes to woo. Hide ! ah, hide Under some haven green. Music is best unseen When the lover claims his bride : No eyes save his should light upon their queen. 14 To A Blackbird. Sweet ! ah, sweet Are those impassioned strains Ere the weary daylight wanes, When sun and shadow meet, And wandering fancy shakes her loosened reins. Peace ! ah, peace ! For the stars are all aglow For a song they long to know — A song that, when your voices cease. Wakes their cold hearts with its ecstatic woe. MY SAILOR-BOY. FROM THE FRENCH OP JEAN RICHEPIN. Take me to sea, thou gentle sailor-boy ; I long for sunny southern lands with thee, Where love is life, and kisses cannot cloy, Though the sun droop to sleep in the deep, To sleep in the deep, deep sea. Oh, I am young, my sailor-boy, and fair ; Open thy hammock, and my breast shall be The pillow of thy weary head ; lie there ! For the sun droops to sleep in the deep. To sleep in the deep, deep sea. Thou gentle boy, make answer to my moan. Ere silent waters shroud the heart of me. He vowed to take her, but he went alone. And the sun fell asleep in the deep. Asleep in the deep, deep sea. FRISSON DU MATIN. Day through the blinds ; and a sudden sun That flaunts at my window his shameless beams, Whose insolent virtue mocks my dreams Of night, and her maiden zone undone. He sneers away, and a solernn gloom — Oh 1 not the tender eclipse of night. But a horrible twilight black and white — Comes deepening down with the chill of doom. " Come back, thou insolent sun," I scream, "And rend the shroud of my winding cares." But the silence suffocates my prayers. And the sun has followed my futile dream. MY QUEEN. Those eyes changed colour when they met my own ; From winter's grey they deepened into green, The blush of summer, when the sun hath been ; In all her maiden tyranny o'erthrown. And I have conquered only to condone The baffled past, and bid thee reign a queen — A queen of flowers and hours — whose subjects glean Their golden harvest for thy hands alone. Nay ! I have ta'en farewell of all sweet flowers, For thou art, sweet, the only flower I see, And all my manhood goes to follow thee — To ride with thee across the crimson hours. And taste in pleasure all the pain that dowers Our souls with strength to front eternity. THE TROUBADOUR. Oh ! gather round him, ye who long to hear A strange new song of peril over seas, Of lovers' sighs a-dying down the breeze, And murder's mufided feet a-creeping near, A start, a challenge, and a shriek of fear. The clash of rapiers gleaning the green trees, The stir of branches where a lady flees, The trumpet-call, and rescue's rousing cheer. Yet who are these, thou gentle troubadour — These armed men and their frail captive, led To the grim scaffold, with its boding block, Through lewd, unpitying crowds that loudly mock ? Who lays beneath the avenging axe her head, And cries for pity and her paramour } iS NIGHTMARE. The shining legions of the silver sea Sweep, like awakened armies back to war, To some red Armageddon in the fore Of days to be. A dim presentiment of doom affrights The shrinking moonlight, and it seems to press My soul into the primal nothingness Of rayless nights. The air is hot, and heavy with the blooms That herald dissolution and decay. And the foul presence of a bird of prey That on me looms. O'er yonder hill, his shadow vaguely grand. Comes flitting down the valley to my side Half-beast, half-bat — I watch the monster glide 'Twixt sky and land. B 2 ,g 20 Nightmare. I feel the hot sirocco of his breath, The iron claws that clench around my throat . . . Air ! Give me air ! I faint ! I fade ! I float To death, to death ! DREAM-SHIP. O WHITE-SAILED wanderer to lands afar, Star of the sea — and fairer than the star, Whose radiant hemisphere thou dost out- shine, Set in a sky of waters opaline — One, trampled out of life, whose lonely feet Have flown to silence from the roaring street, Not wholly lost, but soiled and sad and tired — A random arrow into being fired — Would fain alight upon thy shadowy beams. Or flutter through the canvas of his dreams. PEACE. Upon a solemn eve of swarthy June, When the sun dazzled into deeper green The pale young leaves that panted for the moon ; When roses fell into a languorous swoon, And told in sleep their scented thoughts between The night and noon ; Ere stars were born and cradled in the bay That only shimmered to the hot white shore. And silence hovered on the waters grey — Whilst the red kisses of the abandoned day Still burned the westward skies that slowly wore Their shame away ; Just as the first cool dew came timidly A-tremble on the lips of fainting flowers. Making an Eden of moist reverie, And bringing balm of the calm night to be ; So in the parched and palpitating hours She came to me. THE WINE OF LIFE. Still haunted by the fear that I may die And leave no tribute of myself to time, I seal the old blue vintage of the sky In modern rhyme. I tread the wine-press of a heart that love Has filled with burning fruit, whose crimson streams Are sweetened by a sunlight far above My starlight dreams. In splendid solitudes, 'mid verdurous halls And kingless palaces, that backward fling The baffled sea that thunders at their walls, I learned to sing. And I have known bright eyes grow brighter still. And warm hearts quicken to the living lyre. And gentle lips that trembled to the thrill Of lips afire. 24 The Wine of Life. So, in some tomb of minds long gleaned and gone, Some mellow toper of old song may see These relics of the past still mouldering on, And musingly Open the leaves, and let the alchemic light That love transmuted into gold Tokay Raise, to seduce him from December white, The ghost of May. GUERNSEY LILIES. TO GEORGE BARLO W. Flowers from the home of Hugo, where ye grow Rocked in the cradle of our Norman race, Where still song's weary birds find resting- place, And break their sunward passage through the blue. Go, tell the poet of the skies ye knew. What earth's green mantle and what sea's grey face. Or where the madcap billows leap and chase Their wanton sisters round some venturous crew. Go, breathe the incense of an isle remote O'er him whose life is lonelier amid crowds. Tell him how bravely we have moored the boat ; Tell him what princes we poor exiles be, Whose dreams are canopied by purple clouds. Whose feet are cushioned on the sovereign sea. THE DAISY'S SONG. Oh, hush the thought that speaks of pain, And let thy cradled cares be dumb : The gods have sent a gracious rain To pierce the tomb where love has lain So cold and numb. Not idly Patience whispered " Wait,'' And Wisdom sealed the lips that strove To kiss across the bars that Fate So blindly set to separate Our lives from Love. See, through the grass, whereunder lies The sum of all my summer years, A song of spring and tenderer ties, A seraph smiling at the skies. The daisy peers. 26 The Daisy's Song. 27 Oh, dainty token of her choice, At thy command I'll take the lute, And bid the frozen hours rejoice, To melt and mingle with her voice Too early mute. She is not dead whose music springs From where I buried long ago A heart grown weary of its wings And bee-like worship of bright things ; She is not dead — because she sings, My sweet, below. DEAD CHILD OF THE SEA. My voice with the moan of the wind Doth mingle her misery — Ah ! pity me : come back to me, Dear bride of a heart gone blind ; Come back, dead child of the sea. A tap at the window-pane, Above the tramp of the tide, And the lattice opens wide To the fingers, louder than rain, Of my cold, invisible bride. The damp of her sea-salt breath Plays over my paling cheek, And, oh ! that her lips would speak Through the kisses, colder than death. On the living lips they seek. And, oh ! to be dumb like these Adrip with the wet of the wave. Ah ! they tell of a tombless grave Far under the coal-black seas, And night that is sorrow's slave. MA CHERE AMIE. A THING of music and light and flame, Like a humming-bird was she ; But she fluttered away when strangers came, Ma chere Amie. Her soft brown eyes, they were lambs dis- tressed : Oh ! they fled with dread from me ; She seemed like a saint, of a sin confessed. Ma chfere Amie. Two little pink rosebuds flushed her face. And the poets all agree No courtly countess could match for grace Ma chere Amie. We lived apart from the haunts of men, By field and forest trees ; Ah ! we were prodigal lovers then, Ma chere Amie ! 30 Ma ChMrb Amis. We spent the weeks as we spent the days, And the days like hours did flee ; She charmed the spring with her winning ways, Ma ch^re Amie. The summer dews on the lawn were shed, And the linnets sang with glee, As the sun poured gold on the golden head Of ma ch^re Amie. But a gallant came, whose name was Death — With autumn's wrath came he, And he stole the soul and the gentle breath. Of ma chfere Amie. Yet now that she lies where the daisies rise That hide the best of me, Our hearts still meet. Sleep on, my sweet, Ma ch^re Amie. IN THE NOON OF YEARS. TO MISS M. ROSE. Out of the mist, the tomb-grey mist, With its cold enfolding shroud, I have called one heart to follow me, One heart from the mocking crowd. Out of the crowd, the mocking crowd, She flutters to my side. She leaves a cruel past behind And a cruel world defied. Only to know, only to know, Though years have wept away, The soft renaissance of delights That smiled in mortal May. Fades in the mist, the tomb-grey mist. My blind and blighted noon. O sun-gold hair, O song-blown lips. Ye have plucked the heart of June. THE FOUR GIFTS. Give me your prayers, for mine are un- availing ; Faith means so little, yet so much, to me, Who am a vessel without pilot sailing Out of the shoals to Life's uncertain sea. Give me your tears ; I have no power to mingle Sorrow and sympathy, and make them one : My own have parched and perished in the shingle. Or gone to feed the rainbows of the sun. Give me your mirth ; then part the clouds that sever The rayless noontide from a morn of light : Lead back with laughing eyes my lost endeavour, And send me with a smile to face the night. 3<2 The Four Gifts. 33 Yet this I ask : your presence doth reveal me A music incomplete, a stricken soul. Prayers, tears, and smiles may help — but cannot heal — me, Ah ! give me, then, your heart, and make me whole. WHEN MUSIC DIES. The memory of a chord's enchantment creeps Upon the soul, with all its pain implies, And Sympathy, most tender-hearted, weeps When music dies. A thousand hopes, a thousand formless fears, From one stray inspiration take their rise. And melt the charmed silence into tears When music dies. The shadow of a subtle, vague unrest Floats, like a mist, between our meeting eyes. Oh, I would fold thee closer to my breast When music dies. A poet feels the sorrow of the surge That gathers, as it ebbs, all human ties, And leaves him but the echo of a dirge When music dies. When Music Dies, 35 He wanders through a world of fancy dim, And steals from stars their voiceless harmonies ; But silence seals the murmuring lips of him When music dies. Will there be one to weep as I have wept When Death has robbed the singer of his sighs, And, with the heart that woke and smiled and slept, My music dies ? C 2 DIANA'S BATH. The gods should strike me blind, for I have seen A sight unseemly for these eyes profane, As young Actaeon in the forest green, That looked on Dian, and was rightly slain. The water-diamonds, dancing in her hair. Shone like white Maenads in a wild affright. Incredulous that any man should dare To view Love's nakedness, nor lose his sight. And though the long dark lashes were drawn down, As if their naked stars were shamed and set, I caught a quiver in those eyes of brown And the flushed sunrise of a faint regret. Then rose Desire and beckoned to Delight, And, like two thieves, they waited for the night. 36 A GLIMPSE OF OLD WISBY. Between the wood and wall a little track Goes groping blindly, as if half afraid ; Landward there looms the wood's unhallowed black, Beyond the wall the sea's wild serenade Comes howling back. On either side tall avenues of trees Toss their cadaverous arms in gaunt delight, Weaving dark spells and breathing mysteries, The vague magicians of the vasty night. When no man sees, Save here and there, and ever and anon Where through the battlements a wan moon peers In snaky streaks, now growing and now gone, And in the creeping shadow fancy rears The Evil One. 38 A Glimpse of Old Wis by. Now from the gloom that gathers and appals, Far echoed out of centuries ago, On living ears dead wassail faintly falls, While from his tower, that tops the sea below, The sentry calls. LOVE, THE ROVER. Grey perilous eyes, What danger lies Within your soul-seducing deeps ? What passion sleeps 'Mid hulls of sunken hearts that never rise Upon the surface of their smiling peace, That lures Love's mariner to seek release And solace from his woes ? Ah ! little knows The timid merchant as he tempts the main, Hugging his little gain, What treasures there repose. Not for his paltry wares The bold adventurer dares The perils of the vast inviolate sea, Whose guide the rocking star. Whose chants the breezes are, 39 40 Love, the Rover. And groaning timbers strained in savage glee. I am no coward that my heart should shun The storm or sun Of you grey oceans that encompass me. But boldly pirate Love defies The treacherous challenge of those eyes. TO ONE FROM OLYMPUS. Calm prophet of eternal spring, No pagan rioting Doth rouse thee from thy dim Olympian dream ; The burden of thy lays Is steeped in silver days Of twilight grove and happy roving stream. Not thine the splendid pageant of the morn : Aurora, with her purple curtains torn, Pales in her guilty passion from thy sight ; For thee no swoons Of torrid noons Proclaim the bridals of the day and night ; Demeter yields not to thine eye Her tokens of maternity, But ever and anon, When day is done, 42 To One from Olympus. The air is tuned to some divine regret, A breath of old-world song That faints and floats along, And in the hush Of even's blush Draws summer's leafy bosom to complain ; And, growing bold, in gentle gusts of pain Makes all her roses with soft sorrow wet. Then Pan's pathetic face Peeps from its hiding-place. Half-scared, half-mournful at the magic tune That sways and sobs In broken throbs. As once o'er White Endymion sobbed the moon. She took no solace in the cold caress, So hast thou vainly striven in the stress Of unmelodious years. Who mad'st immortal moan For Greece and glories flown. And found no comfort save the calm of tears. A VISION OF LESBOS. Then blue-fringed beautiful Lesbos Awoke from her marble dream To the pleading of dark-haired Atthis, Sweet-toned as a silver stream. It seemed as though earth had never Been melted to love before ; The winds and the waves were silent — And silent the sailor's oar. Blue sky and blue water mingled, Then passion and peace were one, And the town, like a tender beauty, Smiled up to her lord the sun. And he murmured, " My Mitylene, Whose palaces court the sky, A rose for a rose is pining — A moth for a star doth sigh." 43 44 A Vision of Lesbos. And he lingered above the terrace And over the cypress-tree, Where Megara's soul, green-shaded. Leaned out to a sapphire sea. But the voice of the dark-haired Atthis Dawned into the sunlight clear, And the heart of the maiden dreaming Was stirred by a phantom fear. Was it Love that had sought and found her Where, lulled and entranced, she lay, White flower on the whiter marble, In the gleam of a golden day .? Was it Love that so warmly whispered, " The dark and the blonde shall wed. The beautiful cleave to beauty, The white rose marry the red " ? Was the soul of the deathless Sappho Enshrined in the living song That murmured, " For ever and ever The fair to the fair belong " ? EXECUTIONER'S EVE. Now all was peace in the murderer's cell, Save only his heavy breathing, As he lay asleep and dreamed of Hell And a noose of Satan's wreathing. " To-morrow," he thought, " is New Year's Eve, And little luck 'twill bring me ; There ain't much time for a bloke to grieve When the rascals come to swing me." Then his gaze alit on a Christmas-tree Where murderers hung like cherries, And Death was a fearsome sight to see As he grinned at the gallows' berries. "'Tis Executioner's Eve," he screamed, " With its bloody consummations." And by the door the murderer dreamed He saw his dead relations. 46 Executioner's Eve. Six foolish faces they bleared at him, From his mother down to Polly, And Tom's white corpse with its severed limb Bound up with a wreath of holly. And in they pranced, a mouldy crowd, To join the Devil's ballet, And Tom and father shrieked aloud When Richard danced with Sally. So round and round the tree they flew, With kicks and tricks unruly, Till, ere the candles smouldered blue, Death snipped the presents duly. And he made a grab at the topmost bough As an iron bell went clanging. Then " Wake," said the warder's minions, " now. For it wants an hour to hanging." BLIND LOVE. Oh, Love is blind, And blind am I ; Then let me die While Love is blind. And slumber steep my visionary gleams Of mortal rapture with immortal dreams. TO MABEL. Before the love of one true woman go The minor constellations of the heart ; For me my lady hath no counterpart In all her shining sisters here below. The stars that gave us all that night was able Melt in the sun, and morning breaks with Mabel. HER EVENING. Go, wander among roses. Too bright a thing to stay ; Of thine eventful day How summer-calm the close is ! So, tired of life and play. My butterfly reposes. TO LESBIA. FROM THE LATIN OF CATULLUS. Lesbia mine, let's live and love, Age's hard opinion scorning. Suns may sink, and suns return. Yet for us too soon the morning Fades to one long night above — One eternal night to yearn For the sense that slumber misses. Give me, then, a thousand kisses, Yet another hundred kisses. Till, in rapture unabated, We shall lose all calculation, Lest we find how oft we mated. Or some wretch, in emulation. When he hears the number stated, Ask another consummation. 48 THE STAR AND THE SAIL. One star rides out in the sky ; One sail glides over the sea ; Yet the warm blue silence has laid No finger of peace on me. Yon star and my soul are one, Both beautify dusk afar ; But the soul I strive to possess Is naught but a mocking star. I follow yon fading sail, My fugitive heart's ideal. As a bird droops wearily on In the wake of a roving keel. But the years grow yellow and sere, For youth has vanished aghast, And Hope is a sightless jade Whose feet drag sullenly past. O, star of a distant soul ! O, sail of a love that flies ! Will you shun me beyond the grave, And mock me beyond the skies ? SLEEPER AND SUNBEAM. A RAY of the rising dawn Stole in at the window, red With the blood of the sinless dead, The lost star-legions of night. And the hours sun-conquered and sped. He dazzled the sentry blind, And over the pillow leapt Where Rose and her roses slept, Dreaming of pearls unpriced — The tears that the angels wept. Why should she dream of tears ? Ah ! why ? It is nothing new For a flower to dream of the dew ; But maiden visions should be As clear as yon skies of blue. The lady stirs in her sleep. And her lips have uttered a word, But only the sunbeam heard ;. And he will only reveal Perchance to a passing bird. Sleeper and Sunbeam. 51 But the sunbeam fluttered away, Like a butterfly taking flight ; Ah ! the bud had bloomed in the night, And the lady will weep in vain For a soul no longer white. D 2 MATER DOLOROSA. Upon yon storm-beat hill, a thing of stone, Stands the impassioned spectre of Despair; Grey speechless agony and sunless care Have marked her massy features for their own. Too sealed from human sympathy to moan. Too lost to life for aught but vacant stare. She looms through mist against the mountain air, A sphinx-like horror from a goddess grown. Love, they have mocked thee in these idle years, Worms of a world's decay and foetid might ; And ghouls, the sexless citizens of night Throng at thy desecrated shrine with jeers. Yet take from one who saw thee virgin-white This simple tribute of a few sad tears. BEFORE THE SHRINE. There is no law by which I may not plead For light to her who glorifies the day, Whose ardent soul doth brook no chill delay, To bear me succour in mine hour of need : No harsh commandment bids me intercede With the pale Christ, who seems so far away From all the passionate woes of mortal clay And all the clash of jarring thought and deed. I lack no reverence to make me kneel Before the Saviour of her sheltering eyes, Whose passion doth a mystery reveal Of love transfigured in ecstatic skies. Nay ! God Himself hath let those planets steal Some revelation of His paradise. "THE CRUCIFIX." FROM THE FRENCH OF VICTOR HUGO. Come unto Him, all ye that weep — He weeps to dry your tears. Look unto Him, all ye that reap The sorrow that He cheers. Fly to Him o'er the perilous deep, Who smiles away your fears. Stay with Him, ye that pass to sleep — He sleeps not with the years. vox CONSOLANTIS. Oh, take no thought of the years behind thee ; Look up, dear heart, for the roses bind thee. Sleep, calm and still, I n the death of care And the dream of will ! God hath answered thy prayer. And over the brow of the purple hill The lady fair, Thy love, shall find thee. TWO SONNETS. LOVE. Oh ! you who took me, knowing all my sins And all my weakness — you have asked too much ; Think you, the nature of my love is such That she will tarry when the frost begins. And winter wakes the biting wind that pins Her petals of soiled beauty in his clutch. No, no ! she trembles at the slightest touch Whose treasure-heart alone the Zephyr wins. A banker, lap-dog, and obedient slave — This is the lot to which I must aspire ; The gold of Love you do not care to have — The gold of man may take your soul on hire. I'd rather fling Love's carcase to the grave Than be the idol of your bought desire. 56 Tivo Sonnets. 57 II. FRIENDSHIP. Can this be merriment that treads so fast Upon the heels of languor and decay ? Surely I needs must laugh my soul away, And shriek my mirth upon the wintry blast That, like a guilty spirit, shudders past : Finished the schools of life, I go to play With Death, my jolly mate of yesterday, And have our game of mouldy skulls at last. friends, you murder me with aching jest ! Off with those thin grimaces of despair ! Off with you all, I say, and give me air ! 1 want no sympathy from fools confessed : Job's maudlin comforters, who stole his rest. Were better than such clowns in motley wear. FAREWELL, MY FANTASY! Faint minstrelsy of Lydian harps, farewell ! Farewell, green bowers, where swallow- thoughts went gliding ! Dead is the dream, and shattered is the spell, And in my heart there rules no charm abiding. Out in the grey cold world of mortal things I'll take the sweetest echoes I remember ; Song shall console me for my captive wings, And gild with May the twilight of December. The pain of living shall find recompense In loving words that Death has softly spoken ; And every sunset drowse the aching sense With opal visions of a dream unbroken. S8 NIGHT THOUGHTS. Give the night to the gods ; They will ask you no more. When the shadows come round you And barred is the door, Let your thought seek the gods. In the gloom of the dusk And the grey of the dawn, While fear goes a-creeping And sepulchres yawn. Let your thought seek the gods. While a phantasy lurks Where the wainscotting groans, And the wind, like a martyr. Incessantly moans. Let your thought seek the gods. 59 6o Night Thoughts. As they ride through the sky- On the back of the storm, And the lightnings illumine Each vanishing form, Let your thought seek the gods. They are bringers of balm, They are pilots of peace, They will steer you through sorrow To shores of release. If you follow the gods. In the hurry and rush Of your decadent years They have come to console you And banish your tears. The all-merciful gods. By the Asgard of dream You may follow their flight To the heaven that welcomes Each son of the night, To the home of the gods. Night Thoughts. 6i And your soul shall drink deep Of their mystical lore, For your friend shall be Baldur, Your guide shall be Thor, To the joys of the gods. Falls the twilight of death On your life's little day, Father Odin shall bear you, Rejoicing, away To feast with the gods. LOVE'S PENITENT. Go by, go by, old ghost of sin, In the shroud of a gilded past ; Kiss sorrow dumb And say I'll come, Love's penitent, all pure within, To claim my own at last ; That care shall drown When kisses meet, When eyes of brown Have owned defeat. And the rosy secrets ripple down. Go, tell my sweet of other places Where twilight covers conscious faces — Not in this world of ours, But far away, Where lies the amaranth land of flowers, And no decay, Nor any mortal pain Save love, abides again. COMING HOME. Out of the open window, leaning on to a blue world Born of the marriage of blue in the sky with the blue of the sea, Dreamily floating away, my soul wings out to a new world, Mocking the maiden air agleam with her glittering tresses. And shimmering over the waves with a sea- gull's venturous glee. Over the wine-dark waters a bird comes wearily winging. Tired of chasing the sunbeams and scared of the sombre light. O soul, thou hast had thy day — thou hast done with soaring and singing, Come out of the quivering shades ! Come home to thy mate's caresses ! Then droop with the dying sun, and give to the world " Good-night." 63 LA FIN DES DIEUX. TO MY FRIEND HENRI MAZEL. Dead cities of my dream, gigantic walls, Red smoking ruins, lakes of amber hue, Dim pinnacles that cloud and cap the blue, Grey minarets, and thunder's ebon halls, What awful voice of desolation falls Upon your wind-swept wilderness anew ! What dirge for deities the Christian slew Moans in the troubled sleep of meaner thralls ! There stalks a phantom down abandoned streets, Through empty thoroughfares he wends his way, And fans his embered eyeballs with decay Of mouldering stoles and saints' deserted seats. Gone are the gods, and Christ has had His day; Now death with desecration here competes. 64 THE NEW PROMETHEUS. As yon green ivy clings About the crumbled wall, So the living on dead things Hold thoughtless festival ; And oft a poet sings From a wasting heart in thrall. The harp's hushed pulsings rise When night bestrews the seas With the riddles of the skies And moonlight's mysteries ; But a harp that dreams and dies Hath little joy in these. She tells no moving tale Of lovers in distress, Nor strokes the cradled gale With sorrow's soft caress ; But she moves, a spirit pale. In her own wild wilderness. E 65 66 The New Prometheus. The sombre centuries glide ; The lean years, tottering, go ; And the tourist winds deride The rapt and ragged show Of a god's unbending pride And a man's unwithering woe. If the night could pine for the day, Or the sea cry out for the land. Or a soul for its vanished clay. You would shudder and understand A Titan desire, grown grey. Fulfilled by a master-hand. THE TRAIN-FIEND. He follows in the wake of rushing wheels, With long colossal stride to overtake The shrieking terror and its human freight Of fragile lives. Now roaring o'er the bridge, Now crashing through the dark tremendous tomb Of tunnels, now again, grown timorous. Soft gliding into sunlight, goes the Fiend. By day I dread the coming of his feet, At dusk I close my ears and strive to shun The echo of his merciless pursuit — But vainly. In the spectral silences I hear the phantom of his Phantom flight. And sweat to see Death's awful lineaments Upon his palsied front, and catch a gleam Of grey hair streaming down the gulfs of gloom. The windy vastness of old Mother Night Bears me the shudder of his faint approach. And louder in his mad monotony He tramps the railroads of eternity. E 2 67 DESOLATION. Ah ! who will weep my stricken love, And watch the coming feet of Death ? Ah ! who will tend my tired dove Till God redeems her gentle breath ? Nay, though the sun for ever shine. And though the stars for ever sleep, His Comforter shall ne'er be mine. Nor any bear me to the deep, Till o'er faint harps invisible Angelic hands have swept a dirge In gardens of gold asphodel Beyond the moaning of the surge. 68 WIND IN SAVILE ROW. Wearily, wearily the wind sings through the wires ; Drearily, drearily he wanders to and fro, And hisses at the unresponsive fires That in the lamps* pale forehead dimly glow. Lashing his lusts, unkennelling desires. He scares the stars that reel o'er Savile Row. 69 THE TOILET OF CONSTANCE. FROM THE FRENCH OF CASIMIR DE LA VIGNE. Quick, Anna, quick ! the mirror, girl ! Move faster, Anna ; the hours advance, And I must join the joyous whirl At the ambassador's of France. Ah ! faded are those ribbons fair I bought but lately for the ball ; See, from the meshes of my hair How gracefully the tassels fall ! Too low ! What will you understand ? The crescent's place is on my brow. You prick me, clumsy ! Ah, that's grand. There, Anna dear, I'm lovelj'- now. He whom I vainly would forget (My bodice !) he'll be there, I hope. (Ah, stupid 1 where's the necklace set With trinkets hallowed by the Pope ? ) The Toilet of Constance. 71 He will be there ! And if he press My hand ? — I stifle at the thought, To-morrow I must needs confess : How should I tell Pere Ambrose aught ? Quick ! one more vision of delight — The last, a long and lingering glance. How they will worship me to-night At the ambassador's of France ! Upon the hearth she stands elate, Heavens ! on her dress a spark has sprung. Fire ! Fire ! When hopes intoxicate, To lose her life ! so fair, so young ! The terrible flame licks up with greed Her arms, her bosom, and higher gleams In its pitiless course, and gives no heed To her eighteen years and her maiden dreams. Good-bye to the ball ! To love good-bye ! They say " Poor girl ! " and they let her lie ; Then on, and into the day they dance At the ambassador's of France. AT END OF DAY. FROM BAUDELAIRE S " LES FLEURS DU MAL." Life, impudent and shrill, Leaps in a light bizarre ; And mad contortions are The antics of her will. Then, night's voluptuous breath Strokes the warm cheeks of shame, Quells even hunger's flame, " At length ! " the poet saith. My spirit frets her clay, My heart is full of grey Funereal fancies grim. I will lie down and close Your curtains of repose, O darkness, cool and dim. POUR ANDRE LEBEY. The cold white stars o'er the far blue gloom that freeze May sigh for the sun they flee in the dim grey dawn, To melt in his arms and drop down gulfs that yawn, Or drift as derelict ships ablaze in the breeze. And I, like the cold white stars, may shiver and sigh For the love and the friends that I never may quite possess ; But in the dawn of our dreams the stars and I Must pass, alas ! into cold white loneliness. THE EARTH-GODDESS. FROM THE FRENCH OF ANDRE LEBEY. My threads of golden hair Forgotten suns reveal ; And twilights rosy-fair Have dyed my coat of steel. Throbs in my shadow-lips The blood of trampled blooms : Mine eyes are sunken ships Engulfed in shadow-glooms. My flesh, the tinted foam That glimmers ere the night Is shot with rays that roam From purple into white. The Earth-Goddess. 75 Upon my pallid arms Dead opals, one by one, Display their spirit-charms. Snatched from a cindered sun. Ho ! passer, whence thy bliss ? Doom's muffled feet grow loud : Light withers at my kiss. And — thou dost weave thy shroud. IN THE SHADOW OF DEATH., So he went where his fancy carried him, And sleeps where the starfish gleam ; For the dark-eyed odalisk married him In the blue-green grottoes of dream. No sultan of fabled history Had slave so faithful and fair As the maiden whose source was mystery, Whose dower was her sunbeam hair. Though the stalactite fingers are mocking him, 'Tis little their spite he'll mind With his sea-love soothing and rocking him, And her white arms around him twined. And now that his vision is verified, And now that desire hath gone, Will he start from satiety terrified, Or slumber and slumber on ? 76 In the Shadow of Death. yj For the worm of the cave is awaiting them, And closer their lips will meet In the coils of the monster mating them With a death-grip silent and sweet. THE WATCHER. The lean, grey man with the sugar-loaf head, And his arms like feelers thrown Through the frightened twilight, menacing me, Looms under the firs alone. For the birds take flight when his billowy shape Grows dark by the darkened tree ; He comes like a kite to the frightened birds. But he looks like Death to me. When night floats down and the shutters are closed, I can see his face no more ; But the flop ! flop ! flop ! of his wet,web feet Draws nigh to the creaking door. And I hear him moan through my long, black dreams, Outside, in the cursed calm ; I would give whole years for a wind to rise Or a snatch of the storm's deep psalm. 78 The Watcher. yg For I know what he craves — this lean, grey man With the seaweed locks, that flow From the palsied peak of his sugar-loaf head, And his eyeballs' mad red glow — He whines and pines for the priceless gems That lighten this lonely place. For the sea-green eyes of the strange white girl I stole from the sea's embrace. LOVE'S LULLABY. Oh, close your eyes, for Love is blind Take the fruit, but spare the rind ; Now that we have done with play, Let our thoughts keep holiday : Close your eyes. Oh, close your eyes. All my being, love-inspired. Like a little tyrant tired, Droops to lullaby, and rest, Cradled on the beloved breast : Close your eyes. Oh, close your eyes. Let no black remorse appear ; Eden's only serpent. Fear, Keeps the iron hand of Fate Clanging at the morrow's gate : Close your eyes. Oh, close your eyes. 80 Love's Lullaby. 8i May Lethean waters claim Every deed of rosy shame ; Or, while stars above you gleam, Dream it only was a dream : Close your eyes, Oh, close your eyes. May their moon-bewildered gaze Wander into wavering haze, And the wash of oceans dim Lap each drowse-anointed limb : Close your eyes. Oh, close your eyes — Sleep shall bring you memories. THE PASSING OF SPRING. Deep in delicious green the pale young Spring Goes loitering, And everywhere her subjects, gold and green, Adore their queen ; And everywhere her plumy divas sing. Heard she no tremor of prophetic bells That faintly wells From the blue throats of hyacinths that greet Her dew-bright feet ? No chant of marriage in secluded dells ? Was there no note in the orchestral wind Her heart divined ? No stifled love-sonata of a bliss Beyond May's kiss, To work soft havoc in her maiden mind } The Passing of Spring. 83 Oh, hush ! no blush of shame upon her set : Not yet ! Not yet ! She is too young to yield her tender mouth To summer's drouth, And taste the bitter-sweet of sweet regret. F 2 AN EXILE'S REASON. The passing fantasy Of winged ephemerae Whirls in the golden haze Of mine ephemeral days ; And naught to break my reverie, Save the complaining, straining sea That chides me with the fret Of cares I ne'er forget, Of many withered years And many woeful tears. " Why hast thou fled ? " her voices moan. " O dreary voices monotone," My heart replies, " A dreamer flies To some far isle To dream awhile, And loose his caged melodies To lighten in the stormless skies." 84 A CHANGE OF RELIGION. Around the cavern that we called our own, The temple of our love that used to be, Roars the dull thunder, hoarsely monotone. The war-chant of the sacrilegious sea. His white, encroaching robes have trailed the floor, And swept your plundered limpets from the shrine ; Yet, though the goddess fills the place no more. Some pagan touches keep the cult divine. For on a summer's eve the gentle West Assumes the crimson vestments of her creed. And purple waters chant themselves to rest, Where Love's young acolytes were wont to plead. 85 86 A Change of Religion. And there I found, a tribute from the waves, This golden token of a drowned romance — A sea-worn trinket from the silent graves Of days when Aphrodite led the dance. Golden and gone, their sweets are out of reach ; 'Twere folly, dear, to wish them otherwise ; Yet will the Sunday God we now beseech Blot out the memory of our Paradise. The overflowings of the artist soul — Alas ! for love — are bounded by restraint. So I am colder than the Southern pole, And you the very idyll of a saint. THE FUGITIVES. Under a twilight of prophetic boughs That spake oracular to the curious breeze, A wounded fugitive of Cybele's Desire, lies marble in the moony drowse Of breathless midnight, broken by carouse And the faint hum of men across the trees ; When the leaves part, the dreamer starts and sees A priestess of the cult his blood endows. What butcherous knives had carved that bosom white, And wiped their black lips in her clotted hair? Away ! away ! the goddess leaves her lair ; Her tiger-hounds are baying into sight ; Down the calamitous foreboding night A howl of hungry vengeance shakes the air. 8^ TO Would I could wear the dewdrops as you wear Those frozen tears, the diamonds, in your hair! For if the symbol of each heart were known, Love's ocean would obliterate the stone. BECAUSE SHE MAY NOT HEAR. Bear me away, thou fairy boat ; I only ask to sail Away and away to a land remote, To a violet-scented vale, Where poets are kings. And their songs have wings ; Where harp-strings cannot fail — For mine are mute, that gaily swelled To the gaily-dancing day. And the life-blood of their music welled Till it welled their life away. Why should I wait The hand of Fate To hush me to decay ? 89 90 Because She may not Hear. Bring me a crown — an ivy crown — And place me at the prow ; Let sorrow sink and kisses drown — I shall not need them now, But only sleep To come and keep Smooth vigil o'er my brow. Give me the verses that I made, The songs she may not heed ; Perchance in some more happy glade The harp shall intercede. And buy me rest Upon her breast To whom I vainly plead. ODETTE. I LEAVE and love you for a while. What, then! The sun will not stand still because we met, And made an hour of all most memorable — Because an English singer kissed Odette. Odette ! there lurks a magic in that name, And in the oceans of her Spanish eyes Are gleams of gold Armadas, that allure My pirate heart to their wild enterprise. Yet, like an ancestor that once recoiled From doomed Minorca, lacking men and ships, I, that lack confidence to conquer all, Must shun the sweet encounter of our lips. So try me, Venus, for my fell offence Upon some Cyprian galley, and condemn My traitor-life to pay the penalty, And bid thy ring-doves coo my requiem. 92 Odette. But, O divine, adorable dark eyes. Whose native freedom is my one regret, Would I had fallen in your escalade. Arid breathed my last adieu to you, Odette ! TO CYBELE. All the futility of fruitless years, The blight of life, the vanity of praise, That brings no recognition to my days, Nor crowns the urn that holds my tuneful tears With aught save dust and ashes, disappears . When at the summons of thy voice I raise Mine ancient self, transfigured in the blaze Of thy white deity and frenzied fears. Oh, thou that bidest in the forest dim, Whose bridal couch is littered among caves Wet with the blood-embraces of thy slaves, I top the mountains, and the torrents swim. To know thee in the shadow of their graves Ere I be rent asunder limb from limb. SONG'S LEMAN. Under the windy tumuli Of sad and sandy dunes Slumbers the hidden treasury Of vanished picaroons, Where moidores upon ducats lie And ducats on doubloons. No foot has pattered on the beach Two centuries and more ; Still in the palms the parrots screech, The turtles rove the shore. But the schooner skurries out of reach Of the hungry shoals in store. And I am older than the isle. Older than treasure-trove — Ay ! fairer than the frowning pile That knows nor creek nor cove. Yet never mortal eyes shall smile Upon my buried love. THE HERMIT SINGER OF THE SEA. My days are like dreams as they glide down the banks of the morrow, I have gathered strange joys as the fruit of my vision austere, Learned a peace that is not of the towns nor the regions of sorrow. Whose memory bides but the space of a crystalline tear. I am old with the prophets of eld and the splendid recluses Who clamoured to God from the deeps of their desolate souls — Song's anchorite, crying for light at the shrine of the muses, And her prodigal fain of the husks that her charity doles. 96 The Hermit Singer of the Sea. I am wearied of men ; I have palled of their shallow pretences, Of the life and the strife and the lusts of the civilised world ; I have built me a bulwark of sea, and my frowning defences Are of gaunt imperturbable granite by Titans uphurled. In the sound of the surge, in the warfare of waters tremendous, That crash at the base of my barren life's harbour and home. We wander, my spirit and I, till eternity end us Or cast us like flotsam adrift, the ddbris of the foam. PAST AND PRESENT. The heavy day drags slowly to an end, A sullen captive in the hulks of time, Still wearing tatters of the robe sublime That snared the hours when Psyche was her friend And the fair sun, her lover, sought to rend The frail-bound girdle of her maiden rime ; Like human cyphers that have outworn crime. Life's cadence and her lifeless footfalls blend. Mine be the songs begotten of the grace Of Attic tears ; the dead, the pagan day. When Aphrodite and her doves found place, And halcyon summers smiled themselves away; Warm with the sunlight of her Sappho's face, Treading the wine-press of Anacraeon's lay. MOTI, THE BAYADERE. Tree grappled tree ; the encountering branches clashed Like bulls embattled for the patient mate That bides the gory victor's love elate ; And loud the Maruts in their fury lashed The fury of the combatants, till groaned The bruised sapling as a love disowned. Deep in some island dell, whose grassy spears. Like hearse- plumes nodding to the sepulchre, A phantom multitude, made fitful stir, Lay Moti brightest of the Bayaderes Who lived and loved and suffered for the Khonds, A captive in the grip of Kali's bonds. MoTi, THE Bayadere. 99 The Vindyha mountains knew her for their child ; The far blue mountains and their rocky steeps, Where now no more her light foot glancing leaps From crag to crag, from peak to passes wild ; The forest chains her with its pathless maze, And out of sight she labours through long days. From love to love; this is the Merieh's doom — Untiring, passion in the shade of Death ; The intermingling of enamoured breath, And then — the cold repulsion of the tomb ; Tears, agonising tokens of despair, Red tears for life so fugitively fair. Throughout the parched night no lullaby But thirsty kisses still unsatisfied, And with the morn new ecstasies untried. Or ever she invoke the burning sky To come and crush her with his gold embrace, Or try his manhood in her trysting-place. G 2 lOO MoTi, THE Bayadere. But Mod's heart unlocked to one alone — A Brahman boy, whose sire, the bearded priest, Presided at the blood-begotten feast, When in the spring dread Kali claimed her own ; And his the frenzied knife that gashed the nude Girl-victim for the howling multitude. Now, when night lulled the village, love arose Wide-lidded from the purple shores of sleep> And, gliding like a thief, he went to reap The secret fruit that fond impatience sows On lips that wait the long-delayed caress, And bear new roses in their loneliness. And through the fringe of dark foreshowing leaves That murmured, boding of some pallid ill. Ghostly and ghnting in the moonlight chill. That with its loomed tapestries achieves Dim dramas to appal the shaking sense That founders in the night's omnipotence ; MoTi, THE Bayadere. ioi And by the haunt of many a stealthy sin That bloomed unheeded in the filtering light Where Rapture's feet were sandalled with affright, And Silence watched the carnival begin, While Death, the shrouded reveller of bliss, Lurked in the dance and came between the kiss ; O'er many a tangled track and privy way He rustled, like a pale moth seeking rest On some far star-enamelled mead, whose quest. Unending, unattained, for ever lay For ever onward to that happy field That lies beyond all empires, unrevealed. The spent winds die around him as he flees ; The curtained shadows close upon his form ; And, like the flash of some faint thunder- storm. He whirls into a womb of sullen seas, Whose branchy billows heave against the sky. Emblazoned by the lightning's heraldry. 102 Mot I, THE Bayadere. It seemed as though the white limbs never tired Of speeding under wavy canopies And the dim arches of cathedral trees, As though the nymph beyond them had inspired Their course for ever down the violet gloom, And drew the impassioned athlete until doom. The goddess moves abroad. Ye cannot hear Her vasty footfall breaking through the swoon Of midnight drowse and phosphorescent moon ; But over mortal knees a palsied fear Comes creeping, and a horror, undefined, Of Death before and devilment behind. And, like an arrow as the lover sped. This keen presentiment sped after him Of crimson doom, the apparitions grim Of Khond and Kali and a victim led. The frantic crowd that clamoured for a life. The sire, the shambles, and the accursed knife. MoTi, THE Bayadere. 103 His quest is at an end. The lover comes Within the circle of that island glade, Nor eye could tell the lover from the maid, So close they intermingle ; then the drums Roll in the distance ; the avenger beats A bloody consummation to Love's sweets. Alas, for Love ! so foully overthrown. Pale from her pent-up kisses M6ti springs, And boy and Bayadere, two hunted things. Flit through the bosom of the black unknown, When — ah, what fresh recoil the forest hath !— The goddess flings a python in their path. Thou shalt not ever sever from her arms, Poor fettered fugitive ! content to die Stealing from lips beloved the last warm sigh, To mingle, breast to breast, dissolving charms. The serpent winds them in a living grave, The high-born Brahman and the lowly slave. A MODERN VIGIL. To guard the armour of a spotless trust He keeps his soul untarnished from the rust, And hears undaunted, amid twilight glooms. The dull reverberation of the tombs ; And sudden footfalls, palpitating near, Raise in the dusk the spectre of his fear. About the altar of his high belief Contending phantoms and their shadowy chief Draw from the organ of his dreaming soul Notes of despair and many a thunder-roll Of barren hate against the powers that be. But, ever bowed upon his bended knee. The knight keeps vigil o'er the virgin shrine Till dawn has flushed the darkened hills with wine, And, in the peace that follows after prayers, He yearns to God, who greets him unawares. And sheds upon the white ascetic face The ministering sunlight of His grace. THE NEW SAPPHO. I HAD a message to the men of old, When laughter triumphed over lust of gold ; When sorrow bloomed to song, and music reigned From queenly dawn till white Selene waned. Mine was the rapture of .^Egean seas Breathing to Lesbian shores soft messages. The melting azure of ^gean skies Leaning to Lesbos for my lullabies. Mine was the heart of flame that never tired Till Sappho sang to Love the thing desired. Mine was the music of the sunny south, Of warm-blown kisses on a wanton mouth ; And — oh ! so tenderly — I soothed distress From timid lips, that trembled to confess How Eros through the sacred shrine had strayed And taught a sweeter worship to the maid ; io6 The New Sappho. For Pain's high-priestess was the queen of love, Who sang to rest the weary turtle-dove, Who, healing others, strove not to conceal The scars Time brought no anodyne to heal, So down the years that, ghost-like, flit away, Star conquering night and sun redeeming day. Lonely through life and death goes sorrowing A mateless maid, a queen without a king. Yet, leaving soft Sicilian fields behind. My spirit wanders northward, till I find Another Sappho in another land. Whose lips shall meet my lips and under- stand The fadeless and unfathomable bliss Of beauty meeting beauty in a kiss. And all my songs, that perished to endure, Shall find an echo in her heart, more sure. More soul-entrancing than her burning daughters Set once afloat on Mitylene's waters ; And man shall know the summits and the deeps Of woman's heart, that wearies not, nor sleeps, But, like some hushed volcano silently The New Sappho. 107 That bares impassioned secrets to the sky, Awaits the mystic moment to deHv^r The lava-stream of love's impetuous river, Till, as the torrent sweeps the mountain-side, No bars can set a limit to the tide. Peace with the grave ! Alas, there is no peace For those who love as I did ; never cease Their battles with Despair, their loyal strife For love in bitter death and bitterer life. Peace with the past ! Alas, I cannot rest Till song finds echo in another breast ; Till from another's heart mine own outsprings. And men acknowledge that a goddess sings, Till from his giant bergs loom grandly forth, Self of myself, the Sappho of the North. MORNING DREAMS IN FERMAIN BAY. Over the bay the waters flash, Like a floor bestrewn with a thousand gems, And morning smiles on my shelving lawn. Wearing her dimples and diadems. A choir of thrushes floods the air With careless carol and tireless hymn ; Over my hedge the blackbirds dive As into the golden haze they swim. The sunlight catches a spider's thread. And burns the delicate gos.samer blue ; Now, as a dream of a world remote. The fairy chain floats out from view. And I, like the spider, weave my web Of rainbow vision and fairy thought. Shall the breeze that scatters her silken toil Bring all my gossamer dreams to naught ? loS NOTICES FROM THE FRENCH PRESS OF WORKS BY Mr. CRANMER=BYNQ. " Au moment cu Ton pourrait se sentir las et comme vraiment un peu obs^G^ des Scandinaves que Ton nous sert aprfes les Slaves, eux- memes pr6c6d6s dans cette voie de Tadmiration badaude (snobisme, si j'en crois mon dictionnaire boulevardier, qui consiste en la lecture de quelques journaux boulevardiers) par te\s Anglo-Saxons et Saxo- Anglais franchement, mais, eux, slmplement ennuyeux— c'est une douceur, c'est un charme, c'est mieux encore, c'est la rentr^e dans la nature pour un artiste sincerement 6pris de son art, que de lire d'outre-Manche des pofemes clairs comme du Byron, exquis comme du Tennyson, un peu 6lev6s aussi ^ I'^cole de notre Gautier, de notre Baudelaire, et de notre BanvlUe. Non sans que la n^cessaire, j'allais dire la 16gendaire, la traditionnelle ou si, comme moi, vous pr6f6rez, la belle, la noble, I'essentielle mdancolie de ce pays de reve , . . et de r^alit6, n'ait \k pris place." "Vous le voyez, la Lyre de M. Arthur Symons, comme celle de M. Cranmer-Byng, sonne haut et clair dans la plein air de la joie . . . et du souci de vivre. Tous deux ils sentent et ressentent, et le chantent sur la corde d'or ou sur celle d'airain, au gr^ de I'occurrence ou de leur fier caprice ! "Et j'ai pris en exemple de belle clart^ et de verve vaillante ces deux jeunes pofetes, parce qu'ils me semblent, d'entre leurs d'ailleurs remarquables et tres remarquables compatriotes et rivaux dans I'Art divin, rendre le mieux, le plus 6nergiquement, la tendance bien caract6ris6e des ^crivains actuels anglais, rimeurs ou rythmeurs en tete, — comme toujours, et comme partout — vers un arc de plus en plus d^fini, plus plastique, plus sonore aussi, et, parallfelement, en un mot, se rapprochant de notre effort latin &. nous tous de bonne volont6, de ce c6t6-ci de la Manche, dans le cher fran^ais rest6 luraineux, direct qu'y 6crivent et lisent encore ceux de TElite." "Et j'aime encore la Pri^re pour la Paix, oil le pofete se rSve^et se cr6e un ossuaire parmt les pavots, pour y reposer eiifin sa tete fatigu^e et son coeur las, ou il puisse tout de meme, au bout de tant de vie et de pens6e, dormir du vrai, vrai sommeil. Non, ce iivre n'a rien qui nous ennuie, qui nous d6courage surtout. Moyennant des conclusions qui ne sont pas miennes puisque je suis chr^tien, il fait son Iivre humain et glonfid d'intensit^, tout en souhaitant le repos, avec le regret, je le r^pfete, tout de mime, de la vie, — en paien effective- ment, en 6picurien, ajouterai-je, dans I'accepdon noble de I'^pithfete. Ce repDS n'est pas celui auquel j'aspire, qui est I'^ternel ^veil dans r^temelle Chant6, mais il est, il fut celui de bien des grandes ames. ..." From, the ^^ Revue Litiiraire, ' by Paul Verlaine, A SELECTION FROM THE List of Publications ISSUED BY Conducted by Mr. CHARLES F. RIDEAL, Pellow of the Royal Society of Liierature. The Senate : A Review of Modern and Progressive Thought. Edited by L. Cranmer-Byng. " Principle before Party." Each issue contains two " Silhouettes " from the clever pencil of Mr. Starr Wood. Published on the First of each Month, 6d. Subscription, 7s. 6d. per annum, post free. ** Is always fresh." — Sheffield Independent. "... It is as well got up as anything of its kind need be." — V anity J^a-ir. " Does not lack in energy and plain speaking." — JVestern Mercury. Poems of Paganism ; or, Songs of Life and Love. By " Paganus " (L. Cranmer-Byng). 3s. 6d. *' The satirical verse is good." — Cambrian. " Paganus, too, can write poetry." — North Devon Herald. " ' Love beyond Law ' calling for especial praise." — Popular Medical Monthly. A Romance of tlie Fair, and Other Short Stories. By L. and H. Cranmer-Byng. Manilla, is. ; Cloth, 2S. FIFTEEN VICTORIA STREET, WESTMINSTER. Ansted's Book on the Channel Islands. 7s. 6d. Most up-to-date and best work on the Norman Archipelago. Victor Hugo's Toilers of the Sea, in French, 4s. ; Illustrated, 7s. 6d. English, 6d., 2s., and 3s. 6d. Life of Victor Hugo. is. Elizabeth College List of Scholars and Chronicle of Events. 2s. 6d. Castle Cornet. 2s. Sermon on the Mount, &c., in Guernsey and Sark patois. The Doctor's Dilemma. By Hesba Stretton. A Tale of Sark. Out of print ; obtainable for perusal through Central Circulating Library. T. B. BANKS & CO., College Booksellers, Stationers, &c., CENTRAL LIBRARY, GRANDE RUE, GUERNSEY. Central Circulating Library, Gf^RTlt) HUB, GTjEt^]