5iia /V86RS The Rueing ofGudrun and other Poems /" ( LIMITED SC TO 34<,NEW OXFORD Six.*.>^. CITr OFFICE, 2, KING STREET, CH EARS I DE. SUBSCRIPTION. One GuineaPer Annum <'uiii upwaixls ?R AJsyd^i ^ i'/y//9^z Cornell University Library *RS112.N86R9 The rueing of Gudrun, and other poems, by 3 1924 013 530 559 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/cu31924013530559 The Rueing of Gudrun eALLANTYNE, HAKSON AND CO., EmNEUKClI CHANDOS STRBET. LONDON The Rueing of Gudrun And other Poems BY THE HON. MRS. GREVILLE-NUGENT LONDON DAVID BOGUE, 3, ST. MARTIN'S PLACE TRAFALGAR SQUARE, W.C. 1884 eft TO VIOLET, LADY GREVILLE THESE POEMS atj JBeUuatEi BY HER AFFECTIONATE SISTER-IN-LAW EJ^MENGARDA GREVILLE-NUGENT CioNYN Castle January i, 1884 Contents. PAGE The Rueing of Gudrun i A Greek Frieze . . 4 Love's Pedlary ... . . 7 POEMS IX FOREIGN FORMS OF \'ERSE. CHANTS ROYAL. The Vaie of Avalon .... . . ...11 The Praise of Poseidon .... 14 BALLADE. The Ballade of Dead Fame . ... 17 SESTINES. The Queen's Pouncet Box . 19 The Last Napoleon 22 VILLAUELLE. A Xme Days' Wonder 25 TRIOLETS. The Comet . . . . 27 The Song 28 A Xnisery Rhyme 29 RONDEAUX. The Lyre of Amphion . .... 30 The Golden Age 31 ROXDEAr RfiDOUBLg. An Epithalaminm . . ... 33 viii Contents. SONNETS. PAGE Put Asunder 37 Waiting 38 The Biography of a Toadstool 39 Danger 40 The Forgotten Troth 41 The Triumph of Wind over String 43 Void 44 A False Tongue 47 The Abbey of Thelema : A Prologue and Epilogue ... 48 Serpent Worship 54 The Pastoral 57 A Replica of the Windsor Tapestry . . 61 From Midgard to Asgard by the Stair of Seven Steps . . 63 Ciytemnestra the Queen 66 Jason in lolchus . .... . . . 70 SONGS. 1^* "ArsMusica". . - . . 75.. Jilted ... 77 Betrothed 79 Philosophy 81 The Death of Love 82 Translation : From the Inferno ... 85 My Scutcheon 87 The Witch-Woman 89 The Writing of Pacificus 92 The Extasy of St. Cecilia 97 A Buried Book .... , . . lOj The Rueing of Gudrun. " Gudrun, Vu m:iX7uficent mdtraj, vdAo ^ins hearts, and sees strangt- deeds front Iceland to Greeniand, and Greeniand to VvUand, and back ; . . and goes ai last, ^jom out and sad, on a pilgrimage to Rome, tc get absolution /or all the sins oj her strange, rich, stormy, inajripard life. " — Charles Kjmgsle:\-, "Lectures in America." " IVith hands stretched out /or all that she had lost." " The Loz-ers of Gndrun." O HE said, " I will depart ! For I am sick '^ With loathing bom of sin's monotony : From silver cups I drink but agaric ! For shadows lurk beneath my canopy. And seated shadows share my place with me, The dais trembles where their footsteps fall. The ver\- tapestry's for them a palL " Lo, there, where hangs the tale of Baldur bright Well-woven by swift fingers long ago, I only see, in place of Hel's delight, Kiartan lying slain by Oswif s bow ; And hearts for me once broken, Ups of woe, And shapes that flit, dim-eyed, with tangled hair — And the worM's darkness, and my soul's despair .' B The Rueing of Gudrun. One spirit mocks me from a silent plain, — Two from the crested ridges of the deep, — And one, — ah ! best love, yet most bitter bane, Both loved and hated once ! — Lo, now I weep, And pace this hall benights, and find no sleep ; Because thy pale lips murmur 'neath the moon : ' The fairest among women was Gudrun.' " She said, " It may be that if I could flee And pass awhile within some quiet place, And weep at holy shrines on bended knee, Wearing the stones in penitence; and pace Long days and nights within that hallowed space That in the end I might forego my dole ; And turn once more toward the heavenly goal." She said, " It may be that if I could knock Before the wicket of some cloister gate, Kind hands in pity might put back the lock. Kind souls my sick soul might compassionate ; And ere life's even waxes overlate My halting limbs be healed, my feeble eyes Discern afar the doors of Paradise.'' She said, " It may be that if I could kneel Before the holy feet of some good man, And all my sins and all my grief reveal, His word of blessing might withdraw the ban : And on my life's storm-swept, storm-beaten span Tlie Rueing of Gudriui, 3 Might God's shed Peace so rest, a lingering boon. As snow upon the mountain-tops at noon." " Like pilgrim to the Holy Sepulchre I will depart," she said " for I am fain To find amid the Christian city's stir Some power to quell the pulses of my pain . It may be, there, that I shall wake again To feel at last some little, silent space Within my soul the whisper of God's grace." ♦ **•** Down from the silent dais-place she stepped. Her hand undid the haspings of the door : Betwixt the carles and sen'ing men that slept. With speeding feet along the rush-strewn floor She moved, to leave the hall for evermore ; And passed away from Herdholt to the sea Low murmuring through the darkness, "// may be .'" B 2 A Greek Frieze. TIj'AR in an underworld of gloom, Peopled by watchers wan, Rolls through the mirk a sombre stream, Whose breadth no bridges span ; — But plying ever, night and day, Toils here one Ferryman. Down by the dank, unlovely bent, Where purpling poppies shiver ; Down by the black-stemmed Tree of Death Whose boughs stand bare for ever ; Down to the blacker depths beyond. It glides, that turbid river. One after one, and many a one, Folk flee life's agonies : And in a pale procession, swelled Through coursing centuries, Adown the shore those supple shades Move in an endless Frieze. A Greek Frieze. One after one, and many a one, A yearning, joyless crowd, They pass, sad-eyed, with feltering limbs Draped in an ashen shroud ; With feet unshod, with brows unwreathed. With faces earthward bowed- And each steps down amoi^ the weeds And beckoning speechlessly. Points to the oars that he beside That Boatman, for whose fee Between the lips that speak no word Gutters one ddnace. And each holds out a golden bough Hung with a golden berry, A token from the Sibyl dread That he may cross the ferry ; And Rower Charon from the pier Unmoors his crazy wherrj-. Hard by the further landing-place Pomegranate glooms between, Is reared the palace of the dead, A pillared space serene ; Where sits beside her sullen Lord Persephon^, the Queen. A Greek Frieze. Toward her swart groves, who erst upheld The fateful daffodil, Press the pale throngs, in haste to cleave These waters deep and chill ; For on beyond Death's nether plain Runs Lethe, deeper still. Unnumbered ranks of passengers Against his prow have leant ; But though the Rower's locks are grey, And though his form is bent, The old arm is not wearied yet, Nor the old vigour spent. O son of Erebus ! I too Shall one day meet with thee ; In that still boat, on that still flood. Shall seat me silently. And bend my branch, and drop my coin :- And thou wilt ferry me ! Love's Pedlary. Portia. " And for your love I'll take this ring from yon'* Bassanio. " There's more depends on this than on the valtu,." " Mercliant ofVenice^' act iv., scene i. " T ADY, were I a pedlar brave, ^ — ' Crying my goods in jocund stave, For how much money wouldst thou have This twisted chain that hangs so fine ? " " A fair rose-noble should be thine To make that twisted fetter mine." "And went I on the dusty way, Finding no buyer all the day. And met thee, — wouldst conjure away My posy-ring, Maid Marjorie ? " " Sir, I have silver pennies three Would buy your posy-ring for me." "Now were I Prince of Allemande, And you the Lady of the Land, Loves Pedlary. What would you give me for the hand That wears the ring ? — ( I will be bold ! ) " " Ah, such sweet wares are scarcely sold, Save an it were for faiiy gold." " Nor Prince, nor pedlar ; but thine own True love, I wait for this alone : To yield my heart to be thy throne ! Thine answer, sweet my Marjorie ? . . . ." " Mine own heart, love, that beats for thee, Is thine while life shall last for me ! " poems in f orcitjn f onus of IDerse. II The Vale of Avalon. CHANT ROYAL. LAIN would we enter where the brave abide, In that fair place whereof the poets sing ; Yet thou from our dim sight dost ever hide, — O Fount of Jouvence, Land of marvelling I Alas, their stainless feet how might lue see, Who were as gods of old for majesty, The unknown summit of all gladness gain ? For as the swell, that open seas contain With river-floods rejects comparison, So sink our joys beside the ceaseless train Of their delights who dream in Avalon. II. On that far plain, Achilles deified Goes ever now, hand clasped in wandering With constant Iphegenia, crowned his bride. .£neas resting, Venus hastes to bring Fresh roots of Ida's heahng dittany. Twined with red-fruited, snake-like briony ;' 12 The Vale of Avalon. And from his deadly wound charms out the pain. And pale Sarpedon, sleeping — (nay, not slain But borne hence from the field of Ilion !) Now in the calm fruition long hath lain Of their delights who dream in Avalon. III. There belted Sigurd, strong yet tender-eyed. Leads out his love across the fiery ring ; For twain are met who flam.es no more divide. And Arthur, shrined in Britain's sorrowing. Yet rapt from Camlan by the Fay Ladye, Walks with the hidden ones in extasy. And there is he who bore the brand Courtain Last seen of men beside the glittering Seine, He comes not now to blast of clarion ; But young for ever, tastes Ogier the Dane Of their delights who dream in Avalon. IV. Till dawns the day that bards have prophesied, When at our direst need awakening, Forth to the last great battle these shall ride. And front the charge with lances quivering ; To purge with blood, and set the nations free In evil days of sin and treachery. Tlie VaU of Avalon. 13 Yea, with our chief, grey-bearded Charlemaine, Heroes and paladins shall shake the plain, The people's Oriflamme their gonfalon : And \-ictors crowned, disclose the fiiUer reign Of their delights who dream in Avalon. Then through the glad earth, freshly purified. Shall burst forth buddings of a swifter spring. In all the vales shall blossoms multiplied Grow for the white- clad maiden's garlanding. The rose-plumed shoots of each young ahnond-tree Shall meet the breath of gums and spicery ; Then shall the bent ears shed their golden grain. And hoofs of cattle dent the green champaign : Because the world's deUverance is won. And men with parted lips shall chaimt amain, Of their delights who dream in Avalon I ENVOI. Prince I seek it not ! — ^Alas, thy search were vain. Far off dwell they of whom the world was fain ; And what are we ? ChiU watchers, tired and wan, ^^llo in dead rhymes catch but the dull refrain Of their de!ic;hts who dream in Avalon. 14 The Praise of Poseidon. CHANT ROYAL. PRINCE of the blue and pathless waterways, Beneath whose feet the billows gather fire, Who among potentates so greatly sways ? Who among gods so mighty, Ocean-sire? Fixed is thy face, immutable thy reign Beneath the southing stars ; — from main to main We feel thy breath in every salt sea-breeze. Of every rock-bound coast thou hast the keys, Illimitable is thy kingdom's span : Tides flow and tempests fall at thy decrees. Soul of the surge, lord of leviathan ! II. Behold, each riplet thy command obeys, Yea, and each storm-blast howls thy mandate dire, What time, with churnfed foam and hissing sprays The quivering deep is troubled at thine ire. Ah woe ! for then at last in vain, in vain, The seamen cry to thee to cease, to sain : The Praise of Poseidon. i Not all the fulness of our treasuries A^'ails in aught thine anger to appease, But swallowing, crushing, masts, and sails, and man, Thy waves o'erclose their hidden destinies : — Soul of the surge, lord of leviathan ! III. The merchant to thy glory tribute pays, For knowing all the store that kings desire. He gathers to a thousand distant quays The freights of Tarshish and the ships of Tyre. The helmsmen steer across thy furrowed plain Proud fleets that bear their wealth of golden grain, And for queens' palaces sail argosies Laden with spices, gems, and tapestries. From Thracian shores, from ports lUjTian, They throng thy borders like a living frieze. Soul of the surge, lord of leviathan ! IV. Thou hast thy temple in all foaming bays, Thou hast the wrack and mist for royal attire. About thy locks there gleams a twisted maze Of purple seaweed and the swart samphire. Fair are the forms, and endless is the train Of those who wait within thy solemn fane, 1 6 TIte Praise of Poseidon. A glittering shoal before thee darts and flees, Nautikis chariots with Nereides, Blue-eyed and joyous, follow in the van ; And leaping dolphins gambol at thy knees, Soul of the surge, lord of leviathan ! V. By flood and fountain thou hast heard our lays ; Far on the waves glad seamen in a choir (The land long sought for sighting) lift their praise, As 'neath the plectrum wakes the smitten lyre. Thine altar smokes, low lie the horses slain, And on the scented air thy priests sustain Long cadences of sweet antiphonies ; While for the pine-wreath (crowning victories) Contests each young and lithe-limbed Isthmian ; And all who breathe revere thy mysteries, Soul of the surge, lord of leviathan ! ENVOI. God of the storm, king of eternal seas, Light of the depth, great among deities. For whom the waves have swept since time began ; Low at thy feet, behold, we bow with these : — Soul of the surge, lord of leviathan 1 The Ballade of Dead Fame. BALLADE. " On th£ short Of Uu vnd€ world I stand aione and i/titiM, Till Lave ami FaTJig to notliingness do sink. " "V X /'HAT are these ghosts of the deep sea-store * ^ White with the frothing of foam-flaked snows? These be dead shells that the Ocean bore, Shells that the pitiless Ocean throws Back on sand-reaches in fretted rows ; Reft of their brightness, and dull and dried. Worthless they he where no Umpet grows, Cast to the shingles at turn of tide. These be dead leaves of forgotten lore. Filled with dead love-words and sudden throes, Writ by some poet whose locks are frore : — Up spring new critics with young, hot brows, Call his thoughts witless, his song hard prose Yea, tiU the Thinker stands wean,- eyed, Seeing his toil by these upstart foes Cast to the shingles at turn of tide. The Ballade of Dead Fame. Where are the forms that on coral floor Of old, in some cavern's purple glows, Beat at each pink shell's hidden core ? At your feet lifeless, and food for crows ! And what of the Poet's rhythmic woes, Passionate outcries of love long tried, Laughter that leapt i' the blood ? — Who knows ? Cast to the shingles at turn of tide ! ENVOI. Man, take heed lest the years disclose This bitter ending to all thy pride : To find thy fame, like a rotting rose, Cast to the shingles at turn of tide ! 19 The Queen's Pouncet Box. SESTIffE. lyiilten, by request, for the dear Lady iclio ozuns it lunv. ' I ■■RULY, for true love-token of true love, i ■*- Madam, a fitting gift. Aye, finely chased, 2 Old Italy's great craftsmen bowed to none ; 3 Cut with the arms of Medicis : the clasp 4 Worked to its close with gracefiil, sure intent ; 5 A marvel of the smith's most dainty art. 6 II. Shaped long ago, by some skilled son of art 6 (Belike 'twas for the lady of his love), i Hereto he brought such amorous intent 5 That never yet was toy so richly chased, 2 So finished to the very hinge and clasp, 4 Borne at the belt of dame surpassed by none. 3 III. 'Twas prized and praised in days known now to none, 3 When Cosmo, prince and father of all art, 6 For grateful Florence loosed the treasury's clasp ; 4 When, — but yet not for gold alone, but love, — i c 2 20 The Queen's Poiincet Box. Cellini (Benvenuto!) carved and chased 2 With many a famous smith of like intent. 5 IV. TiU in fair France, on villanies intent, 5 A daughter of the race, who pitied none, 3 Girt to her silken side the trinket chased : 2 Where it befell that this same toy of art 6 Help potent waters, not distilled of Love, i That wrought strange spells when Fate withdre\v the clasp! 4 V. So, worn at court, white fingers toward the clasp 4 Strayed, serpent-like, with venomous intent ; 5 (Had Catherine ever spared or life or love ?) — i While some brave foe stood near, avenged of none, 3 Death's victim and the Queen's ; by dastard art 6 Of subtle essence through his life-blood chased. 2 .... Time's feet such old dread dynasties have chased, 2 'Tis long since lives trembled 'twixt case and clasp ! 4 Bought, bartered, hugged by connoisseurs in art, 6 It comes at last, with Fortune's best intent, 5 To one who wears it kindly, one whom none 3 Owes death, nor grief, nor ought beside save love. i The Queen's Pouncet Box. 2 1 ENVOI. Lady of chaste and generous intent, 2 5 Whose dear hands on the clasp do hurt to none ; 4 3 Though scant my art, here leave I, too, my love. 6 i On a Pouncet Case of Catherine de Medicis, now in the pos- session of Mrs. FitzGerald, of Shalstone Manor, Bucks. 22 The Last Napoleon, SESriNB. I. 13 LACE in the covered ways ! Make room, make room, i ■*• Within your ranks, O ye who throng the land, 2 And tread the sealed labyrinths of death ! 3 Who Cometh here, stained with a crimson stain ? 4 Lo, one who seeks beside your pastures rest, 5 Who claims beneath your canopy a throne. 6 His brow is bare : Had he no earthly throne ? 6 None ; and no palace but this boundless room i Whereto the souls of all men turn to rest. 5 A stripling sighing for a pleasant land, 2 War-wracked, and fouled with Communism's stain ; — 4 Could any do him kinder deed than Death ? 3 III. He left here, ere he trod the way of death, 3 Reached on a sudden from the saddle-throne 6 The Last Napoleon. 23 Where assegais expelled that deathly stain), 4 A mother wailing in an empty room, — j Foes that lurked, waiting,— and a stricken land : — 2 The exile fell. What better ? Let him rest ! 5 IV. Who were his foes ? Some, traitors. For the rest, 5 Folk that thought little of the chills of death ; 3 A people dancing in a reckless land 2 Of jests and pipings : heedless, though their throne 6 Sank ruined in its still, forsaken room, \ While France lay reddened with Republic stain. , 4. V. So, ere his hand might purge that country's stain, 4 Far over seas God laid him to his rest. 5 Freed from the fetters of life's narrow room, i Behold he draweth through thy doorway. Death ! 6 In this still quietude to find the throne 3 By man denied him in his father's land. 2 VI. And better dead than ruler of that land 2 Of storms and factions ; sullied with the stain 4 Of ills contaminous that hedge a throne ; 6 The butt of kings, in vain desiring rest ; 5 By adverse fortunes harried on to death, — 3 To leave a traitor reigning in his room. i 24 The Last Napoleon. ENVOI. Prince of a land disloyal ! Kinder rest 5 Is here, 'mid dust of wars forgotten. Death 3 Gives fearless welcome, and the dead make room ! i 25 A Nine Days' Wonder. VILLANELLE. "TTA^IE flies on gilded wings. And gilds men's lives in flying ;- Yet Time forgets these things. Some nine days' wonder brings Its crowd of gazers crying : " Fame flies on gilded wings 1" Her slow-wreathed laurel-rings Fools with their blood are buying ;- Yet Time forgets these things. To Aganippic springs Fresh bards are ever hieing : (Fame flies on gilded wings). The fair from envious stings In Beauty's court are sighing ; Yet Time forgets these things. 26 A Nme Days' Wonder. New cities find new kings, To whose desires replying, Fame flies on gilded wings. And still on tense harp-strings Young hands with old are vieing :• Yet Time forgets these things. " O world," the poet sings, " Love only is undying ! Though Fame shall gild her wings, Chill Time forgets these things !" 27 The Comet. TRIOLET. "\ i; riTH tail aflame the Comet came. But now 'tis gone, and none remember ; While all old stars were put to shame. With tail aflame the Comet came. It rose in June, it made a name, It fled and fell before September ; With tail aflame the Comet came. But now 'tis gone and none remember ! 28 The Song. TRIOLET. "\ XT ILL Katharine sing * '' When I ask her, I wonder ? The tunes trip, dong-ding ; Will Katharine sing ? Ah sweet notes, come fling Her proud lips asunder ! Will Katharine sing When / ask her, I wonder ? 29 A Nursery Rhyme. TRIOLET. D ABY Pink-Lips wants to climb ^-^ To the top of Sugar Mountain : Where's the top ? I'll tell next time Baby Pink-Lips wants to climb. What a stupid nursery rhyme ' — Ah ! to gain the Muses' fountain We've a harder height to climb, Baby, than your Sugar Mountain ! 3° The Lyre of Amphion. RONDEA U. •"PHE walls of Thebes were yet unraised. -•- As o'er the plain Amphion gazed With lifted hand and raptured eyes, Swept forth his magical decrees. In webs of music deftly mazed. He smote his lyre ; and slowly raised (While men and maidens stood amazed At those entrancing melodies). The walls of Thebes. And where wild goats of old had grazed, Her temples in the sunset blazed. The City's fame spread over seas ; And wise men sought for centuries And kings desired, and poets praised, The walls of Thebes. 31 The Golden Age. RONDEA U. " And vten beholding the fair state and Iienlth Wherein his land uuas, said tJiai now at last A fragment oftlie Goldert Age was cast Over the plaee^for there luas no debate ^ And trzen forgot the very name of hate." " The Earthly Paradise — Lo%>e of Alcestis.'' " T^'HE Golden Age, — ah, would its rays -*- Still wanned this dull world with their blaze ! " Fair folk, why halt ye as men blind. With robes out-fluttering i' the wind. Till Life's dawn turns to twilight haze ? " What do ye here, with soulless gaze Reverted to some land of fays ; Shrouding in myths long left behind. The Golden Age ? The Golden Age. " O men, set forth, and go your ways : Be wise — be noble— reach and raise Their self-bound fetters from your kind ; And in such seeking ye shall find (Albeit after many days) The Golden A?e ! " 33 An Epithalamium. RONDEAU REDOUBLE. MOST constant friend ! blest, as thou shouldst be blest. This day by all shed blessings from Love's hand, Thou art content, thy soul hath found her quest, And Passion passeth through Life's fairyland ! Behold, there have arisen before Love's wand Light for thy gloom, and peace for thine unrest : Strong tides of joy chase sorrow's shifting sand ; — Most constant friend, blest, as thou shouldst be blest ! Fairer than scented lilies of the West, Thy bride-robes whitely gleamed where thou didst stand ; The myrtle on thy brow was stirred and pressed This day, by all shed blessings from Love's hand. 34 -^« Epithalamiiim. Like to a bird that in some deep glen, fanned With sweet spice-breezes, flutters to her nest, Thou feelest that thou canst not understand ; Thou art content, thy soul hath found her quest. When, without need of word from lips carest, Heart strains to heart in ever closer strand, Are men's supremest joys made manifest, And Passion passeth through Life's fairyland ! Take now the gift sweet Life for thee has planned ; And take therewith my longing that Life's best Lie all the long glad years at thy command, Who ever wert my truest, tenderest. Most constant friend ! October 1, 1 883. Sonnets. 37 Put Asunder. T N sunny closes, 'neath a garden wall, -'• I strayed at noon, and watched the shadows blend The pink, fair-blossomed ahnond-branches bend : Beside me went my love with fleet footfall, In breeze-blown raiment ; white, and fair, and tall. Methought : Should such sweet dreamings ever end ? And " O my love," I cried, " my only friend. Let us be each to other all in all ! " Yet even as I spake, came one that caught Her hand, and swiftly led her forth, and in — Whither I, joyless, dared not penetrate. No echoes bring me back the words I sought, The door is shut ; I tirl not at the pin The sun sinks fast. I stand without and wait. 38 Waiting. T WAIT. For like a ringdove's ceaseless plain, -*• Searching the hidden end I may not know, Comes one pale thought, that with pulsations slow, Oft as I crush it down, revives again : " Are not men sometimes fickle ? — Love may wane ; (Though Heaven forefend that thoic should'st taste such woe !) Yet, if it were, — in griefs sad seeking, oh Come back, my friend," I cry, " and lose thy pain." The sun sinks. Yet if haply it might be That she should ever come at twilight cold, Put back the rusted pin, unhasp the gate. And step adown the grass-grown treadway ; she Shall find me where she left me, as of old With patient heart, I therefore watch and wait ! 39 The Biography of a Toadstool. f~^ ROWN in a night, — most deadly^in one night, ^-^ At a tree's root in danlt and weedy place ; With circled stem, and baneful, slime-smooth face — A thing for snakes to spurn, for men to smite. But passing where it cowered and shunned the light, I cried : " Doth earth retain a thing so base ? " And would have crushed it, but forbore a space ; Yet feared some child might pluck, and feel its blight. • **«#» But on the morrow, guileless lay the ground Where, deep in weeds, that noxious thing had frowned In wait to spread immedicable ill : Dried up and vanished was its evil round. And not one shrunken part thereof I found. No, not a stalk. — But the tree flourished still. 40 Danger. /^NE sent to tempt me'muttered mockingly : ^-^ " This fruit thou seest or ever ripe shall rot ; But I have knowledge of a fairer spot, A green Hesperides beyond the sea. There in a fenced garden stands a tree Guarding the shaded entrance to a grot, With boughs bent down to kiss the daisied plot Whence luscious riches hang caressingly. Then " Lo," I said, "now will I rise and launch. And sail till those enchanted shores appear ; O'er-climb the wall, and seek the fairest branch. Stretch forth my hand, and win the golden fruit."- An angel came and whispered in mine ear, " Beware ! a Dragon sleepeth at the root" 41 The Forgotten Troth. ' E s^ieii attc jorttfui gays ni attwros Er itoil at joy d'aitwr ni twn Pesper.'' FoLQUET of Marseilles. FOLQUET. " /^ LOVE, once more my soul to thine I cast ! " AZALAIS. " Thou could'st deceive me ? Cease importuning ! " FOLQUET. " Yet Arthur was deceived, and lo, the king Forgave, and looked on Guenevere at last" AZALAIS. " Thoughfst thou that my forgiveness moved so fast ? Not so, for treason dies a dastard thing." FOLQUET. " Renew the troth ! I swear me on this ring — " AZALAIS. " Not so ; Faith wavered once, our love is past." 42 FOLQUET. " Could thy ruth reach me, sleeping in the mould ? " AZALAIS. ' ' Life is a lie, and all beneath the sun : Shall death bring troth-plights to the hearts grown cold ? " FOLQUET. " Alas, too late ! Vain suns of hope, ye set ; Yet give me, love, one word of pity ! " AZALAIS. " One ! Pray God forgive you .... I would fain forget." 43 The Triumph of Wind over String. For an Organ Room. ' I '"HEY sliaped a room for service of sweet strains, -*■ And day and night the air was never mute, For grace of clavicithern or of lute, Nor wanted there for sound of viol-plains : They set therein strung harps, that shower'd down rains Of dropping melody. Cithole and flute Awoke, and raised their voices in dispute, And rebecks whispered long in soft refrains. When all was done the Master murmured : " Yet The matter is not perfect. Let me seek (For grander climax than men reach by such) A mighty, gold-mouthed Regal. At a touch God's breath, the Wind, shall fill my pipes, and speak — And drown in one great wave this jangled fret ! 44 Void. T WANDERED through a city without folk, -*- The City of Men's Hearts, and found anon White palace walls, therein set for up one Who held my foolish being in her yoke. There oft we sat ; claspt in with studded oak, Veiled by myrrh-fragrant hangings, finely spun ; White-litten jasmine tapers made our sun, And merry mandolins the silence broke. * * * « * But now my heart's guest-chamber lieth bare. And though with hands that tremble in the dusk, I strew of dittany and golden musk For her a scented foot-track up the stair : . . . God pity me ! for through that open door To me my friend shall enter, — nevermore. 47 A False Tongue. ■\/T OTHER, the gipsy did not tell me true, ■*" That black-haired woman with the fiery eyes ; The cunning cards she shifted two-by-two Were but as covers to her ignorant lies. Somewhat she told me of a stranger knight With gilded harness (but I heeded not), Of passing pain and possible deUght ; And many such vague, soothless tales ; I wot. She did not tell me that the soul I thought So white, so strong, so tender and all mine. Was none of these ; that everj' gift I brought Had long been piled before a hollow shrine. » * * * « Now the round world seems like dead fruit, — on high Hung dank and purpling ; at whose rotten core Lies the black seed Hypocrisy ; and I Find the taste bitter and the vision sore. And O if I had known it long ago, I had not dreamt the dreams that waking slew ;— Mother, are aU tongues false ? For now I know The gipsy woman did not tell me true : 48 The Abbey of Thelema. Being a Nineteenth Century Prologue and Epilogue to those Writings which treat thereof. Prologue. /^NCE in the days when Fancy's pen ^~^ Ruled the still-drowsy minds of men, While the world's dawn was yet aglow: (Ah, damoiselles ! ) Betwixt the sleeping and the waking, Before the setting and forsaking. One dwelt awhile where shadows dwell. (Ah, damoiseaux ! ) And shadow-sick, this son of France In some far land of idlest chance. Set in a dream of long ago (Ah, damoiselles ! ) The Abbey of a new-made Order, Fit peopled by its famed Recorder To be the world's last miracle. (Ah, damoiseaux ! ) Tlie Abbey of Tlielema. 49 It was a place of proven charms, A place that never knew alarms, Eyes waxed not dim nor pulses slow ; (Ah, damoiselles ! ) But they of Thelema were plighted To leave no sadness unrequited. Whether the world wagged ill or well. (Ah, damoiseaux ! ) Together there, in gentlehood, All, as behoved, of gentle blood, Dwelt damoiseUe and damoiseau : (Ah, damoiselles ! ) No several rules, no separation. No tears, no penance, no probation ; — And never sorrow here befell. (Ah, damoiseaux ! ) No tress was shorn, no cheek was pale. Of samite, sooth, were cowl and veil; Save to win joy they vowed ho vow. (Ah, damoiselles ! ) " Fay ce que vouldras !" was their burthen And life's delights they held for guerdon- Theirs was a bliss insatiable. (Ah, damoiseaux ! ) 50 The Abbey of Thelema. Gardens of grace their kingdom clad, Fountains of fire their grottoes had, And all sweet fruits that sphere-like g^ow ; (Ah, damoiseUes ! ) Their fruits swayed seven on every cluster. Their fountains shone fourfold for lustre, A liUed space sei-ved each for cell; (Ah, damoiseaux ! ) Sure such fair youths were never seen, Such ladies moved in raiment sheen Oh, never yet as here, I trow. (Ah, damoiseUes ! ) By tower and terrace rose their laughter, Their lutes sent forth from haU to rafter Sweet cadences to sink or swell. (Ah, damoiseaux ! ) And if in aught twain differed there. Their founder's rule bade each repair The just Assizes d' Amour unto ; (Ah, damoiseUes ! ) And in those courts of peaceful trial, Where lips gave not to Love denial. They sought to weave afresh Love's spelL (Ah, damoiseaux ! ) Tfie A bbey of Thelema. 5 1 Till on a day the solemn troth Of sweet words joined them, nothing loth, In Wedlock's sacred bond ; — and so (Ah, damoiselles ! ) The world their fitter cloister seeming, Widened before them in their dreaming ; And these fared forth to clang of beU. (Ah, damoiseaux ! ) Fared forth to meet their bliss.— Alas! That we might see the shadows pass Of damoiseUe and damoiseau; (Ah, damoiselles ! ) The dreams of olden times are banished, The " snows of yester-year " have vanished, As in a night the tales ye tell (Ah, damoiseaux ! ) Epilogue. Spirit of Rabelais ! In vain We seek the cloister-maze to gain Where-through thy thoughts were wont to stray, (Ah, woe is me ! ) Are they not laid, those ghosts once gathered. To teach the nobler living fathered Of gentlehood and courtesy ? (Ah, well-a-day ! ) E 3 52 The Abbey of Thelema. The Courts of Love for tennis-courts Are changed, and 'mid our duller sports Love's winged shafts fall flat to-day ; (Ah, woe is me ! ) No music either side the netting But racquet-strokes, and shouts, and bettfng ;- Lute-strings ere this have ceased to be. (Ah, well-a-day ! ) Stern tutor, once, of courts and kings, The voice of wit no longer rings, And satire's rod has lost its sway. (Ah, woe is me ! ) Those patient myths that wait our reading, Impatient minds of rougher breeding Discard, alas ! too hastily. (Ah, well-a-day ! ) And in a wild travesty, — hurled To court a laugh, — the Cynic's " World " * Receives the dream of Rabelais. (Ah, woe is me ! ) * Readers of Besant and Rice's " Monks of Thelema '' will not need to be reminded that that 19th-century version of a 16th-century dream appeared originally in The World for 1876. The Abbey of Thelema. 53 Thy curtain, Time, has long descended ; Master, farewell ! the masque is ended ; And hushed the praise earth jielded thee. (Ah, well-a-day ! ) 54 Serpent Worship. T ONG time unreached of spoilers galleon -* — ' Amid the isles, I think, of some far sea, Or else betwixt Cathay and Avalon, There lay a land : withal, as it might be, A goodly land ; well robed in fields of spice. All grain, all fruits grew here, with blossoms all, And strange, bright birds outflashed the peacock's plume. Here dwelt a people, fair-Umbed folk and tall. By day the men chased deer or chinked the dice. The women wove bright raiment on the loom Or stored the flax. But when the calm sun set. They turned their faces to the upland, where A mighty mountain loomed against the gold ; And kneeling, bound their brows with serpolet, And shed sweet scents upon the evening air. For " Lo," they said, " fire bu;rneth ever there. And in the fire, coiled round in many a fold. The serpent sleeps, our lord, whom whispers say Woke in our father's memory of old. And shall awake once more, some fatal day." Serpent Worship. 55 So when beneath the groves of firs The brown earth quaked, they said " He stirs ! " And when the angry mountain's smoke Arose in black'ning clouds, the folk Trembled, saying : " Lo, the breath Of his nostrils. In the lake Of molten flame he slumbereth ; Move we softly, lest he wake In wrath ! " (For all men feared the snake.) But sometime, steering westward o'er the seas Came certain men, and preached One crucified ; TiU these defying, bade them hold their peace, And when they would not, stoned them, that they died. Then after moved, a white-robed company, And scaled the height with singing. '• Prince," they sang. " Serpent-god, from this dark cone. Where is hid thy heaving throne, Rearing, shoot thy poisoned feng. Pierce thy foes, and rule alone ! " (Lest themselves might overtake The jealous fiiry of the snake). Now on a day, the sullen smoke burst high, And the sea's waves grew green and spread their foam. 56 Serpent Worship. Strange thunders rolled beneath that rocky dome. And sudden red leapt up to light the sky. Rivers of fire ran down on every side, And showers of fire fell all about the plain. Above, where sheep the yestermorn had lain And browsed the grass — ashes, and streams. Beneath, Where waved ripe com — ashes, and pools, and heaps. Vineyards where razed, and tender shoots lay rent, And fore-doomed, fiery vengeance, like a wreath Of desolation, o'er the land was cast ; Much people also perished where the steep Lay scorched to blackness ; — because GOD had lent Time for repentance, .... and the time was past ! # # « * # But this foolish people cried. In the blindness of their pride, " Bring incense, set here altars by the way ; Behold ! at length he doth awake, He rises from the lurid lake ; Lift up your chant, cry out aloud, and pray ! — It is the snake ! " 57 The Pastoral. '* Nay, ^twas a songofSt. Aulaire" '* Then read ine otte, we^ve time to spare. " " The Ballad a la Mode" Scene. — The BStel de Rambouillet. A Corridor overlooking a Courtyard. (Temp. JJmis Quaiorze.) HoRTENSE. The Marquis de Sainte-Aulaire.* HORTENSE. npHIS way. Ah ! we are followed ? No, 'tis well ! A -•- charming grot, with satin ' bleu de ciel.' I breathe once more. What terrible ennui assailed me as I raised my eyes to see The Rambouillet approaching to present — (Monsieur can picture my embarrassment ?) — That old De Benserade,t who, as you know, has meta- morphosed Ovid in Rondeaux ! * The Marquis de St. Aulaire, sumamed by the Duchesse de Maine, " son vieux berger" t Isaac de Benserade, the rival of Voiture in the palmy days of the Hotel Rambouillet, where both poets were constant guests, translated the whole of Ovid into Rondeaux, "the very Table of Errata being a Rondeau." S8 The Pastoral. A near escape ! How cool it is, how still, down yonder, where the starlit fountains fill ! So, drop-by-drop, those cups the Naiads bear, while Cupids idle on the mossy stair. But, apropos, may I not hear to-night the Pastoral you promised to recite ? THE MARQUIS (aside). The Pastoral I promised ?. . . . Ah, 'tis true ! {Aloud) : Madame, to die were bliss obeying you. On green Sicilian plains, where roved the Nine, Lay Daphnis, youngest of the bards divine. And told of earth's delights, with eyes a-fire. The while his arms upheld the magic lyre. He sang of nymph and shepherdess and flock, He sang of tender vows by tree and rock. He sang of rustic lovers on the plain. And cried in rapture, as he ceased the strain : " Shepherds, from me a deathless gift receive ; To you my new-found Pastoral I leave ! " Then weary with the toil of singing pressed His golden head against the warm earth's breast ; And Morpheus, passing, dropped one poppy flower, And straight fell Daphnis in the dream-God's power. And lo ! a vision. Swift before him rose The ribboned tribe that every poet knows, Astrophel, Delia, Celia, Colinette, TIte Pastoral. 59 Clorinda, Phillis, Corjdon, Ninette, Hebe, and Phcebe : till, with sated sight. Dismay assailing him, — as well it might, — Not so serenely now the dreamer breathed. Yet none the less they waved their crooks be-wreathed. Danced, with unmeaning simpers, would-be skill. And blew on " oaten pipes " their greeting shrill. Till cried the god : " Oh hateful dream, depart ! Was it for this I sang in pride of heart?" But now there moved inexorably by The Bards who wove these in their minstrelsy : From Virgil and Theocritus they range. Boccaccio, Sanazzar (oh, medley strange ! ) To Pulci, Sidney, Marlowe, and so down To Voitiu-e, and the others of this town. {Lowering his voice impressively) Men say he even saw of times untold New singers rise, as now, to gather gold : Men say there passed him with portfolio sealed The aspiring Poets of the H — r — w W — ^Id ! * I know not whether this be truth they tell, But nathless, this one thing I know fuU well : That ere he woke, the echoes to beguile. There came to him One shepherdess, whose smile Made sweet the ending of his dream ; whose eyes * This was written for the Harrow- Weald Poetical Society. Subject given : " A Pastoral." 6o The Pastoral. Belied the blue of e'en Sicilian skies ; And at her feet a bard reclining sang The notes which first from Daphnis' lyre outrang. So fair was she, the god forgot his pain And listened to the homage of the swain ; And for her sake who queened that wondrous throng The son of Mercury forgave the song ! * * * * * Hortense, your hand. — Forgive me. Yet I swear, her humble shepherd's name was. . . Ste. Aulaire! HORTENSE. You do me too much honour, Sir Divine ! While gods lie dreaming, cynics grow maUgn ! MARQUIS. Only in artificial Arcady ! HORTENSE. Where rouge and court-hoops congregate ? — But see, They wait for Monsieur in the salon there. MARQUIS. Permit me, then, to lead you to your chair. 6i A Replica of the Windsor Tapestry. On a Cartoon designed by Herbert Bone. T T TITHIN, all silence ; and without, the waiting feet ' * Of them that keep the bier ; The heavy curtains by the doorway meet (Worked over with the stories of dead kings, And old-world fights, and curious mythic things). So, put them back, and enter here. So peaceful, and so quiet ! Yes — to-day ; But sometime, chafing at life's tether-rope. In long, delusive sad expectancy ; In thrusting out a love Time would not slay. In the pent quiver of each sobbing sigh. And in the strangling of each sudden hope. Her life lapsed by. But yester-eve — they knew it by the falter in her breath. And then the stillness — through the open door There came to meet her, 'mid the gloom, King Death, Whom she so patientl)- had waited for. 62 A Replica of the Windsor Tapestry. And so they dressed her in right royal guise, And smoothed the rippling gold above her eyes, And decked her in her fairest. Look you, see The long white lily-wand that queenly-wise She holds for sceptre ; and the gems that be About her throat. Oh, is her sleeping sweet ? Yes, she is happy now, low-lying here. Within, all silence ; and without, the feet Of them that keep the bier : The pattern on her golden coverlet Flows on continuously in even waves, The changing sunbeams come with fitful fret And play about her couch's carven staves. Yes, she is happy now ! Bend down and kiss her once upon the brow, And say " Christ sain her ! " after, turn aside ; The persons of the dead are sacred, — come away But see her always as she looked to-day. Triumphant now : serene and tried, Patient and purified ; Having forever lost the old unrest : — And when you think of that still sweetness, say " Death loved her best ! " 63 From Midgard to Asgard by the Stair of Seven Steps. 'T^HIS is that rainbow (like the spreading wings -'- Of some fair-plumM bird that floats on high), That bridge of light, that lyre of seven strings, Set in the sun's great minstrel-hall, the sky. And swept of sunbeam fingers. — Gone is time. And they, the old far Northland skalds who prayed Not Christ the \Miite, but Woden, gazing, said That by this path to high Asgard did climb The souls of those whom men on earth called dead. A stair of seve:i steps, — each step a stone : A scale cf seven sounds — tone over tone : A quivering pendant — mingling ruby-red With fire of berjl and of topaz gold, — With tender green of grass-like emerold, — With turcoyse blue — sapphire — and amethyst, — So toward N'alhalla sloped the way of rest. " But now — it lifts, to what avail ? '' ye say. The heroes ride not now by such bright stair : The path to Heaven, if any, lies otherwhere ; And Beauty dieth in an evil day : 64 From Midgard to Asgard How on such wise, so borne to such abodes, Might men await the twilight of the Gods ? " Nay, listen. — Once there came to me in thought A greater Rainbow In an infinite space It spanned an infinite sky ; dim, star-bewrought. Now, on life's lowest step, contented not, There stood a man, with white, transfigured face. Rough-clad in garb of grey-haired camelot. The mystic scale its steps above him told. There cried a Voice : " Unsheath ! Let loose for life ! And know the gamut's key-note, strife, red strife, Until the world and sin be overcome ! " He clomb, and trod the gamut's supertone Of fiery orange, mellowed into gold. There cried a Voice ; " Light, light upon his soul ! " And wings of seraphim around him shone. He clomb, and trod the edge of emerald light ; There cried a Voice : " Be jealous for the right ! " He clomb, and treading now the dominant blue. Where Hope amidmost of the gamut lies. Thereafter reached the sapphire step of Faith, And clomb afresh with Heaven-discerning eyes. The Violet step, — the prism's utmost pale — He trod at last ; his sark of soiled hue Showed like the purple robe of Victory. I heard a Voice, clear-toned, run up the scale : " Strife — Hope — Faith — Conquest — and, behold, the End ! " by the Stair of Seven Steps, 65 Then the way opened, and a city shone Unlitten by the discs of sun or moon ; Where down still ways fair-clothfed forms did pass By fruited trees that brinked a sea of glass. A hundred strings swept. With exultant clang A hundred bells of heaven clashed and rang. And while, fanned round by breath of pinions plumed, He stood fire-footed on the topmost ridge, Came down that kindling arc, now half consumed, A Hand Divine, and rapt him from my sight. .... So from the stairway of that luminous bridge By paths occult he won the highest height ; — And Man held commune with the Saints in light ! " This Poem was written for the Harrow-Weald Poetical Society. Subject given : " Colours." It has been here endeavoured to trace the theory (set forth by Professor Barrett and others) of the analogy between sound and light ; by which the seven notes of the natural major scale are shown to correspond with the seven colours of the rainbow, thus: c. Keynote. Red. D. Super- tonic, Orange. E. Mediant. Yellow. F. Sub- dominant. QreetL. G. Dominant. LigUBlue. A. Sub- mediant. Dark Blue. B. Leading- note. , Violet. \ and, at the same time, setting the scale to the attributes of a perfect life, to draw the parallel between the rainbow bridge across which rode the Scandinavian heroes, and the way of light by which a Christian soul nears heaven. 66 Clytemnestra the Queen. " Poor sfuzdovj, painted Queen. • «•****« For one being sued to, one that hutnbly sues ; For qtteeiif a very caitiff' crowned with care ; For one being feared of all, now /earing one ; For one contjnanding all, obeyed ofnojie. Thus hath the course o/j'tistice wheeled about, A nd left thee but a very prey to time ; Having jw more but thought of luhett thcu wert. To torture thee the inore, being what thou art.*' " King Richard ///.," Act iv. Scene A H woe is me ! Henceforth my weird is — woe ! ■^^ Just visitation of the faultless gods, And righteous punishment for all my guilt. I, Queen of Argos, am in mine estate More miserable than the meanest slave That toils for daily bread in this my realm. 1 hate myself; I hate this dull, dark life ; This fruitless groping after better things, This fitful climbing towards a greater height. Only to fall, back, back, to where I am ! Sometimes when I have tried to still my thoughts. And float me on calm waters, grows the roar Clytemnestra tlie Queeii. 6^ Of thunder, and the tempest comes amain, And the swift stonn-light wakens and lays bare Myself to me ; vain — cruel — selfish — blind — And miserable ; — and I hate myself. And marvel not that others hate me too. Life is for me one void, vague emptiness. Once I had dreams of nobler things : — but now All that I held for beautiful and true (Ah, what have such as I to do with truth ?), And worthiest of attainment, and most blest. And nighest to perfection on this earth, Goes suddenly to dust, as if a curse Were laid on all, that it should sicken me. All those I would have fettered with my love Turn carelessly from me, as though my fate Forbade,— and justly, — that this sinful life .Should be endowed with that best guerdon, Love. The day to me seems equal with the night, Gladness like grief, and light akin to shade ; 1 know no thrill of joy, no weight of care For others or myself ; my seared heart Is turned to stone, and all is as a dream. Only there sometimes reaches even me The rumour of some noble deed or death. The light of some great life. By this I know The right hath yet pre-eminence with some. And learn that good is still a living thing. V 2 68 Clytemnestra the Queen. Hark ! from afar, without my palace walls Come borne to me faint echoes of sweet hymns. The people in processional array, Their stainless garments girded, and their brows With crowns of olive or of laurel decked, Adown the street pass to some temple gate. They bring their offerings of milk and oil ; The incense mingles with the scent of flowers From wreathen garlands held aloft. The flutes And seven-stringed lyres send forth sweet strains To lead the chant. And while I listening stand. The measured tramp comes nearer, and the train Of priests, and youths, and children hand-in-hand. With white-robed virgins, walking two-by-two, And singing to appease the wrath of heaven, Press onwards to the place of sacrifice. Dare /, like these, lift up my hands in prayer ? Dare /make sacrifice, or set my steps Upon Mount jEta? — Nay, for guilty feet May not essay to scale that holy height, Nor guilty lips address their sufiirages To the pure hearing of the Eternal Gods ! What was it that the seer-maiden cried, {His death-shriek almost drowned the fateful words). Clytemnestra the Queen. 69 " The son, O Queen, shall yet avenge the sire ; Orestes be his mother's murderer ! " Just fate that somewhere waits to shroud my guilt, O come, why tarry ? Son, hft up thy hand ! Slay — slay — fulfil the curse ; for only Death, Sweet Death, can bring me respite from my pain ! 70 Jason in lolchus. A 17 HO is it standeth in the market-place, • * Tall as the gods, and fair ; Of kingly mien, with white, determined face And flowing hair ; And one foot shod like runner's in a race, And one foot bare ? Who is it lifteth in the market-place A cry that rends the air ; A leopard-skin in folds of scanty grace For all his wear ? Men whisper awestruck answer : " Sorry case, It is the heir ! " # * # « * O Pelias, tremble ! for a just disgrace O'erhangs thee in thy lair, When he whose very name thou wouldst efface (A hero rare) Shall come, from off thy head, usurper base. The crown to tear. jtason in lolchus. 7 1 When he thou hatest shall have dared to trace His steps to Colchis— (there To wrest his golden prize 6x)m jEetes" race) — Have praj'ed his prayer, And offered sacrifice in Samothrace, — And won his fair ; Then, Pelias, tremble ! To the market-place, FuU in the noonday glare. The man, 'twas prophesied should come from Thrace With one foot bare, Shall come soft-clad ; with silken sandal-lace And cloak of \'air. Jason shall tread as king the market-place. The tjTrant's palace-stair ; For he whom righteous vengeance doth displace Shall dree despair : And he to whom the gods have given grace His sceptre bear ! Songa. 75 "Ars Musica." (Dedication of a Song to a Singer. ) T>EAR friend, thou sing'st my songs to me, ■•--' Thou knowest all of mine is thine, I hold not true, the fire divine. As yet I dare not claim to be Of those who catch with sudden thrills, And strive to set in mortal speech. The White Gods' voices as they reach Us, downwards from the Eternal Hills. Not one of those soul-gifted men Who stand before the multitude With words not wholly understood, Yet echoing in all hearts again. Not mine to speak in tones that wend Through sequence bold with clarion call, And crashing to their climax thrall All listeners to their mighty end. J6 " Ars Musical Yet take thou, dear, my feebler strain ; It lacketh power, yet lacks not love For thee and those sweet tones that move All hearts where they have lived and lain ! 77 Jilted. T WORE a false heart on my sleeve For daws' dissection, And bade the true heart take its leave Of recollection. L forced myself to smile and scout Each rash enquirer Who whispered : " Is it true about Your old admirer ? " I pondered : Can his new-found dream Be wholly pleasant ? I laughed : To such a man loves seem But for life's present. I held a letter to a flame. And through the flashes I watched the fragments till they came To curling ashes. 78 Jilted. Then through the furnace of my soul Passed that deceiver Who wasted hope, and left me whole. But lone for ever ! 79 Betrothed. ' I 'HE yellow flags were out in bloom, And lifted each a stately head ; The over-leaning rushes fringed In wind-blown ranks the river-bed. The blue kingfishers down their creeks Came darting through the fragrant air ; And gentle cushats swayed the boughs, And cooed soft idylls everywhere. My love ! she wandered on afar, I marked her where the river ran ; She stood and raised her sunny eyes The breadth of that blue reach to span. The Uttle curling waves danced down, And ran and rippled at her feet, In shining ranks that curtseyed low As onward swept the current fleet. 8o Betrothed. I strode to meet her down the way, We joined our hands across the flowers — A startled thorn-branch swerved aside, And flecked the green with silver showers. Beside the stream we mutely went, And followed far her shining track ; While louder grew the woodland strains, That echoed our rejoicings back. So, hand in hand, we traced our steps. And ere we parted on the shore The broadened river heard our vows : My love was mine for evermore ! 8i Philosophy. ' I "IS up and down for king and clown, -*■ For ladye and for loon ; To-day barefooted thro' moorlands brown, To-morrow in silver shoon. For heigh-ho ! Tho' the winds do blow. The world spins round on her way ; Meadow and mine, through rain or shine, For ever and a day. Why should I hate my lot (of late Scant pleasure, and smarting pain) ? — I will e'en wait tiU the wheel of Fate Revolveth for me again. For heigh-ho ! Though the winds do blow, The world turns round on her way Mine may be thine, and thine be mine. With the dawn of another dav ! 82 The Death of Love. T OVE lay upon a couch flower-strewn, — ' With sad eyes riveted On old dim shades that with a ceaseless tread The witchfed bower revisited. White orange blooms dropt softly down, As stars are wont to flash and fall. And crowned his head. Upon the pall Red rose-leaves with pomegranates red In mazy traceries were wed. Two wings, whose fringes rainbow-eyed Once to my soul all passionate dreams conveyed, Were lying straightly folded, fiery-dyed. I wept : " Death ! let thy scythe this once be stayed ! Life ! save him, sore bested ! " But neither Death nor Life obeyed. The hours passed on, twilight to darkness led, I knelt and watched in drearihed ; — (I wept so long, it waxed so late My tears alone could overfiU TJie Death of Love. 83 Meseemed, the cup of Mourning) — to the bed Behold there came the hand of Fate, And cut the thread That moved amid the blossoms. Then I said : " Let me go forth and wander where I will, For Love is dead ! " 85 A Translation of Twenty Lines From the Divina Commedia of Dante Alighieri. {Being a portion of the Third Canto in the "Inferno," done into English in the Terza-rima of the Original.) " "T^HROUGH vie you reach the city of all pain. Through me the woe that shall eternal prove, Through 7ne the sorry folk whose hopes are slain. Justice unerring did my Maker move, And shapen I by that High Potentate The Sttn of Wisdom, and the Source of love. Before me where not any things create Except, like me, eternal they endure. Leave ye all hope, who pass behind this gate.'' These mystic sentences in hues obscure, I, seeing soothly written on the stone. Said : " Master, what mean they ?" and he answered sure Like one to whom the answer is well-known ; " Here it behoves that all distrust lie dead, Behoves all terror here be overthrown : 86 A Tratislation of Twenty Lines. For to the place we come where I have said, That on those dolorous people thou should'st gaze Whose intellectual weal is forfeited." Then, while his hand in my hand he did place With such sweet looks that I took comfort straight. He gave me entrance to the secret ways. LA DIVINA COMMEDIA. DANTE ALIGHIERI. Dell' Inferno. Canto Terzo. {Giunge il Poeia alia Porta dell' Inferno, e sopr' essa legge una spaventosa inscrizione. V'enlra, preceduto dell' buon Maestro^ " Tr)ER me si va nella cittk dolente, X Per me si va nell' etemo dolore, Per me si va tra la perduta geute. Giustizia mosse il mio alto fattore ; Fecemi la divina potestate. La somma sapieuzi e il primo amore. Dinanzi a me non fur cose create Se non eteme ; io etemo duro. Lasciate ogni speranza, voi che entrate." Queste parole di colore oscuro Vid, io scritte al sommo d'una porta ; Perch' io: Maestro, il senso lor m'e duro Ed egli a me, come persona accorta : " Qui si convien lasciare ogni sospetto, Ogni vilta convien che qui sia morta. Noi sem venuti al loco ov' io t'ho detto Che tu vedrai le gente dolorose C'hanno perduto il ben dell' intelletto." Epoiche la sua mano alia mia pose Con lieto volto, oud' io mi confortai. Mi raise dentro alle segvete cose. 87 My Scutcheon. ' I ""HE coat is fair, the deeds were brave, -*• A lion crests the bend ; My sires who forth their foemen drave. Letting each arrow wend, Cried : " To the end ! " The first good quarter of the shield Bears a red lion ; see Erect upon a silver field And crowned imperially, Guardant stands he. And on the second, blazoned or, Three ruby crescents part A double tressure, counterflore ; And — ^bleeding from some dart, — A human heart. 88 My Scutcheon. They all are dead, those knights of yore, Lintrathen and Gilchrist, Dougal and Serlo ; all who bore To battle (God them rest) This coat and crest. White Ermengarda, too, I wis ; Earl Gilbrede's royal dame. Who wove them in her tapestries, Each lion like a flame Circling her name. Sir Christopher, to whom Bruce gave The tressure, for good-will What while the knight his lord did save In fight from grame and ill : We bear it still. They all are dead : But yet will I To whom descent doth lend The cry they bore to Victory, (God help me) Right defend. Aye, " To THE END !'' 89 ''The Witch- Woman." ' IVJiy did you nuUyour waxen jna/z. Sister HeUit ? " — Dante Gabriel Rossetti, " TIj"OR all clandestine charms, ■*■ For strength of secret power. For weaving with crossed arms Spells that shiver through the air To the sound of the Black Prayer, It is the fore-doom'd hour,'' (Hark! the witch-woman is crooning !) " Now while the moon is old, Till seven nights are told, I have sworn to work the charm That shall bring the babe to harm." {My child, of grief unweeting, lie still and sleep, my sweeting.') " Here's a fair waxen toy, shall bear his Worship's name ; Art cold, thou shapely boy ? I'll warm thee at this flame ; So may His Worship's son Shudder, and gasp, and groan ! go The Witch Woman. Now, three faggots of wood. (Rare faggots, by the Rood Ha, they are charred and brown. But dearer to me than pelf. For I sought them out myself On the common nigh the town. There seven days ago When the clouds were low Folk stood beside three stakes, — (" 'Tis just, the witches sinned ! " ) And so they stood and grinned While the ashes fell in flakes ! But in the crowd that gaped was one witch that had escaped ! Shine out, old mother moon, that the charm work soon. (Hark, the witch-woman is crooning !) A faggot from each fire A curse for every pyre. There was Gammer Betsy and Gossip Jane, And Mother Eleanor ; And his Worship in fur and chain, I swore — I swear again— I will bring his babe to harm. Work well,my charm ! {Child! may no ill betide thee ! thy mother is beside thee ! ) So from henceforth, fair, my son, Melt, melt, melt till all is done ! Till the wax is wasted TJie Witch Woman. 91 Till the last pent sigh is past, TiU the cofifin-lid shuts fast. Till I revenge have tasted : {Hark, the witcli--u.'oman is crooning!) TUl the evil things i' the air Goad him slowly to despair \Mien he hears his own child's kneU ; While to him and his are given Not the benison of heaven. But the malison of hell : Every gruesome, fatefiil night, Till the nights shall number seven. Waning in the pale moonlight. Melt, thou little waxen wight, Melting, till by this my charm I have brought the child to harm ! — (My Baby is not sleeping ! Child, child, why art tliou 'weeping f ) 92 The Writing of Pacificus. (A.D. 400.) ** / vjas not biddejt teach But simply listen^ take a book aitd write." — Browning. ' I "HE words of one, an Alexandrian, Known in the flesh as Euplius, of old ; But called in the Lord, Pacificus : Spoken to me, Julian, the neophyte, Who serve in this Coenobia for the faith. Spoken last night, at the sun's hour of rest. What time I set the wine-cup to his lips, And turned him on the pallet in his cell. " The time is short Tarry, my son, awhile, — (It may be at the cockcrow, or at prime, Or in the middle watch that He will come) ; Mine eyes are dim, and I would speak with thee. Julian, the world is weary, and men's steps Have gone a-straying, yea, in devious ways ; Though once the bones of Martyrs cried aloud Beneath their feet, to point the path to God. The Writing of Pacificus. 93 Where is the old Church, constant unto death ? Hath she found cloaks to screen her sons withal Since last the Roman Wind blew, blasting them ? Has the Fire vanished from us, that of old Made men sing Nunc Dimittis, while the beasts Leapt on their flesh infuriate : made men Dwellers in caves, whose beards were wet with dew What time night fell on Egypt in the wild, Take by the Holy Ghost fresh utterance ? Where's Simeon — where Xystus, — Polycarp ? Dead, say you. But of scoffers cohorts still Scoff on (yea, here in Alexandria). Do these men, whom God slays not, yield the worm's Thanks to the heel that spared it ? Not so much. Rather they scorn him, mock, — mistrust, — deny. — The Lord recall them, lest they die unshriven ! Alas, why must it be that sons of earth Reject so oft the whispered word from Heaven ? I also, Julian, I who lie this night Waiting the tender summons of my King, I also once thought to myself to build A stronger, straighter bridge from life to death, Paved with the old beliefs, but propped by new And harder wearing. To this end I dwelt Long years apart within the desert space, Seeing no sky from three sides of a cave. No living form save creatures of the waste 94 The Writing of Pacificus. Lion, or owl, or satyr met me there ; My pillow was a hollow of the rock, No human hand shared bread or drink with. me. Thus I abode, self-righteous, yea, and blind ; Till Pride the Demon folded his swart wings. And hissed out pleasant lies in my rapt ear, And breathed hot breaths that fired my foolish brain ; Till lo, the darkness fell upon my soul. But God yet pitied me, and through the sleep Of sloth His warning pierced me, till I woke And cried for but the tenth part of the light. If I might win the faintest glimmer back Of that which had been as a fresh-filled lamp. Then to me, kneeling at the cavern's mouth, God sent a vision of the angel-choirs Rank unto rank succeeding, circle-wise, TiU the nine blessed orders all were told. And each of these was servant unto each, None for himself, but all for others there. And all bowed down before the enthroned Lamb ; For of the lowly mind, the obedient heart. Kingdom of Heaven, are thy bulwarks made ! And I beheld it as a little child. And wept till all the stars had paled and fled. Then I arose and left that lonely place Where solitude was minister to pride ; With painful steps I crossed the desert reach, And entered here in new humility. The Writing of Pacifiais. 95 And now, because to me, laid here to-night This and the like old memories crowd anew. Of days when I, young, heard the Martjrrs teach And saw the struggles of the new-born Church ; Which things, I dying, would have died with me, I have bethought me it were well to write. Lest haply one man, reading, might repent. Not any learned tracts leave I the world. Glosses or transcripts ; but the saintly words I have heard spoken when the Faith was youi^ And now, my son, give me thine aid in this, I speaking, write thou : for my craft is gone. But thou hast skill to bring the matter through- Look, thou shalt see in our Scriptoritmi A carven chest of scented cedar-wood, Brought from Aleppo by Theoctenes The Syriac. Open and reach thee thence The goat-skins laid in linen, and prepared By mine own hand, and stretched for codices. And dyed with purple foUum. Afterward Bring beaten gold, and much vermihon pure, Bring " dragon's blood," and green and orpiment. With juice of iris for the denser shades. And silver for the uncials. Furthermore Prepare for ink red minium withal. And add thereto three parts of cinnabar. And pour it in a horn. Then take thy pen And write as I shall tell thee ere I die. g6 The Writing of Pacificus. Each hour is precious, for the hours are few, This night will I with Fasting wake and pray ; But at the time of Lauds I charge thee come. Peace be to thee, my son ! Go now and sleep. But when I came at day-dawn to the cell He had no need of me. ... I knelt and gazed, And having crossed him, quickly called the rest. I may not end, because his lips are sealed That he may hear the saint's antiphonies. But I have set down thus much : and may God Have mercy on his soul who spoke these things, Have pity on their souls who read these things. And blot us not from out His Book of Life, But let our names stand written at the end. 97 The Extasy of St. Cecilia. f~^ OD hath a world of sound : ^-^ God's world of sound is large and very fuU Of all hid wonders. Lo, in woodland ground About our footsteps ring the gentle knells Of wild wood-grasses and of lily-bells ; And on mid-ocean swells there not the boom Of strong waves rushing ? Yea, and in the sky, Heard by Him only who is throned on high, Songs of stars spinning in their given room ? Man's music is but piping there. — And yet, — And yet — men pluck a reed or string a shell. And hearing but their own dull finite ttex, Think aU God's world of sound Is sealed and bound In that small socket. But not so thought I, Though like a human creature with a soul H 98 The Extasy of St. Cecilia. Awoke the hidden heart of my cithole, (Whence a touch draws out strains that shake and swell, As though an angel with an aureole Had kissed the wires and worked a miracle), I longed to hear diviner harmony. Yea, tiU indeed I heard last night New songs ; and saw (oh strange, oh dazzling sight, "Whereafter shall mine eyes be ever blest ! ) Innumerable angels throng the West ; With Saints and Martyrs, at whose feet unfold The red torch-iris and the marygold. Before their crimson cloud I saw the smoke of strong strange incense rise ; And Earth, while I beheld and bowed, Was hushed to hear the songs of Paradise. For silver cymbals clashed upon the air. And sweet knee-viols clamoured everywhere ; While all these spirits sang to psaltery. To rebeck, dulcimer and flute, To lyre and lute. And in their midst, athwart the crimson sky, A shining Regal towered aloft : thereby A Player stood, and one who knelt behind With folded feathers floating rosy-lined. Pressed in the wind. The Extasy qf St. Cecilia. ^ It's golden tongues were ten, Ten pipes that shone arow : Wherethrough, by God's sweet scak built up aslant, Diviner chords than man may know He smote out on the board below, Keynote to dominant ! Oh mighty was the music as it rose ! There were no discords, for he knew no throes ; Only a ninth, — a seventh, — in hiding kept The mystery of a tear unwept. As some suspension yearned towards its close. Oh mighty was the music as it leapt ! (No mortal's powerless hand the like achieves). Great bars of breves In sequences that trilled, and thrilled, and swept The bellows rose and fell In even swell. As, following that music's rhythmic pace. The kneeling Spirit listened in his place With upturned face. Then all at once and altogether burst All voices in a tumult up the sky : "Glory to Him Who setteth streams aflow, Who maketh worlds to sing, and winds to blow ; AU love, all glory to the Last and First, All power, all honour to the Trinity ! H 2 100 The Extasy of St. Cecilia. And thou, our Sister, worship with the rest. Rejoice, give thanks, give praise, for thou art blest ! We joy with thee that thou hast sought and found God's world of sound ! " lOI A Buried Book. (In Memoriam Dante Gabriel Rossetti : Obiit 1882.) O" jNCE on a day Love came Glad-eyed, with wiags of flame, And touched a Poet's lips with sudden fire ; Who at his lady's knee Bowed in new ecstacy, Poured straightway forth fresh pleadings of desire : So in the " House of Life" he sat and swept All day for her the strings whence music leapt. 11. But on his amorous tongue Lo, stiU the song was young, And scarce the Proem ended in soft chords ; When with his terror-train Death, entering, stayed the strain, And turned to sudden hush the eager words. Smote him, with half his passion yet unsaid, And left him — fallen in vain before his dead. 102 A Buried Book. III. Then cried the Singer : " God ! Too bitter is Thy rod ! My red wine, ere I raised the cup, lies spilt. Had I Thy power defied To dash the draught aside, No punishment more dread had met my guilt. How shall I live who have no part nor lot Within the voiceless world where she is not .'' IV. " Peace : Though the turtle mourn Left by the dart love-lorn. While scattered feathers quiver down the glade ; Though the hart rage at fate, Reft of his stricken mate, Whose blood out-trickles in the oak tree's shade ; Shall / convulse the stillness with my groans, And curse that Heaven where the dead find thrones "i V. " Nay, reed : so gently drops Death's finger on thy stops, Shall the world judge the measure of my woe ; When all the sorry while Her lips are set to smile. Because her listening soul has learned to know Divided cadences that proudlier fall, Angelic epode and antiphonal.'' A Buried Book. 103 VI. " For this no more shall win Viol or mandoUn The wedding of my fingers to the wires, Alas ! of what avail To sound anew the scale, Or stir the hopeless slumbering of spent fires ? Rather let silence her best mourning be, And dumb despair my tenderest monody. VII. "And thou, my Book, that wast Mine offering in the past To her who taught me in the name of joy, Now lacking for sweet wage Her hand to part the page. Shall the world have thee for a nine-days' toy ? Nay — but within a prison stiU and sure My broken song shall share her sepulture. VIII. " Lapped in that leaden place Where lies the sheeted face Which smiled for me more sweetly than sunrise. Book, thou shall seek her tomb. And there dree out Death's doom. Sealed, like the sealed splendours of her eyes ; And be to one I loved but over-weU The last poor token of my love's farewell ! " 104 -^ Buried Book. IX. So, through the long sweet days Kissed by the warm sun's rays, And meetly mourned by songbirds sorrowing, Buried in holy land She lay .—On one cold hand That held his book, circled a golden ring, Yea golden the book's leaves, and her long hair ; And over these, all in the summer air. X. Grew golden celandine Bright as the sparkling wine ; And daisies fluttered by the sacred mound, White as the pages there Whereon his sorrows were. And white as those white lips that kissed the ground : Yet not so white, oh, newly-shriven soul. As thy white robes in God's loom woven whole. XI. Oh rapturous, new-born soul, Veiled in thine aureole. The earth hath still her storms, her tides the sea ; But thou art free, and far Beyond the rainbow bar. Borne on the ebbings of immensity ; And seest with new wisdom, growing glad. Although on earth one waiteth and is sad. A Buried Book. 105 XII. Now, as a lonely ship Letting her anchor slip At even, when the bay stirs 'neath a breeze, Leaving the friendly strand, And lights upon the land, Goes forth to cleave the solitary seas ; So this man nursed his sorrow, and had lief Have left the world to dwell alone with grief. XIII. But time too swiftly ran, And younger men began With heated Ups, to vaunt their new-found fame ; Mocking his feebler flight. Till in his grief's despite The poet woke to right his clouded name ; And give the narrow world he once forsook The new-bom wonder of this buried book. io6 A Buried Book. XIV. Embalmed with spice and nard, And wrapped in covering hard. Fragrant of myrrh and stained with cinnabar. Lie Egypt's somewhile kings, And yet are soulless things. Corpses whose beauty slow decay doth mar ; But the book's life awaited but one word Of power, to feel its waking pulses stirred. XV. Wrenched from the torpid gloom Of that long-silent tomb. Slowly they drew the upreared coffin-lid ; There in the pallid clay Of that dead hand it lay. Safe as the love that in its leaves he hid. Oh Love ! when are thy cycles ever run .? Oh Song ! when are thine echoes ever done ? XVI. Wide through the mocking world Its power the Poet hurled. And wonder fell upon the multitude : For in the self-same hour That buried book took power To win for him the fame he never wooed ; Earth hailed him as a master of the pen, That singer, solitary among men. A Buried Book. 107 XVII. Many a marvellous strain His verse renewed again ; Old tales of Troy, and Helen's drearihead ; Lilith in Eden's bower. Queen Venus robed with power, All these grew yojing before us ; while we read That chain of pearls the great Florentine strung, And Frangois Villon, rhymed in English tongue. XVIII. Oh, Philokalos ! king. Whose praise the while I sing, Fails of its flight, (poor poetaster I ! ) Now sitting in the shade By golden branches made, That grew from that dead hand in days gone by. Master, we thank thee, and in thine own hand We set the latter laurels of our land. XIX. What poet-soul had peace ? Had he who fought for Greece, And fighting, found on Grecian soU a shroud ? I08 A Buried Book. Or he who, lacking eyes. Yet looked on Paradise ? Or he who sang of fire, and wave, and cloud ; ■Xyhom yet the storm-wind o'er the ocean drave, TiU flames charred that which fills his Roman grave ? Nay, — till they fire the flax, And moiild anew the wax, Master, the griefs of poets dare not die ! It needs the breath of sighs To make life's incense rise, It needs a sob to swell life's threnody ; And the world's music sweetlier rings to-day For Dante's woe, for Keats's young decay. XXI. Blest is the poet band, And blest through aU the land Are they who reach the temple's inner shrine ; Of these not thou the least Art meet, O solemn priest, To wear the gemmed dalmatic of thy line ; For over all the wrangling tongues astir Still to our hearts thy words do minister. A Buried Book. 109 XXII. "Lastly, he died?"— Not thus : (Though thou art gone from us, Perchance to chafe again those hands Death chilled ; ) Ah well, it matters not, Thy fame is not forgot. Neither the echo of thy singing stilled : For thou hast walked with gods, and on thy brow Behold their greatness shines for ever now ! PRINTED EV BALLANTVNE, HANSON AND CO LONDON AND EDlNBaRGK