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LIBRARY OF THE 
 NEW YORK STATE COLLEGE 
 OF HOME ECONOMICS 
 
 CORNELL UNIVERSITY 
 ITHACA, NEW YORK 
 
The original of this book is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
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Titlepage engraved by 
 
 A. N. jVIACDONALD 
 
 The picture at the top represents Stevenson's Travels with 
 a Donkey ; on the left side, the shipwreck is from Kid' 
 napped'; John Silver with his-. parrot, from Treasure Island'f- 
 on the right side, the' duet of the" two brothers, from Mqs-. 
 ter bf Ballflntrae, and beneath it- a- bit of the Inland 
 Voyage. v 'The'bottom pictures, from left to right, shwv^ 
 his birthplace, his home in Samoa, n.nd his tomb. 
 
M fe ' W. i 
 
 P 
 
 
Copyright iqi6 by 
 
 The Bibliophile Society 
 
 All rights reserved 
 
UNPUBLISHED POEMS 
 
 OF 
 
 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 
 Vol. II 
 
POEMS WRITTEN IN 1885 
 
 HAIL GUEST, AND ENTER FREELY ! ALL YOU SEE 
 
 LO, NOW, MY GUEST, IF AUGHT AMISS WERE SAID 
 
 SO LIVE, SO LOVE, SO USE THAT FRAGILE HOUR 
 
 AD SE IPSUM 
 
 BEFORE THIS LITTLE GIFT WAS COME 
 
 GO, LITTLE BOOK — THE ANCIENT PHRASE 
 
HAIL GUEST, AND ENTER FREELY! 
 
 LO, NOW, MY GUEST, IF AUGHT 
 AMISS WERE SAID 
 
 In the spring of 1885 Robert Louis Steven- 
 son was at last to live in a home of his own. 
 His wife had won her way into the affections 
 of his parents, and "Skerryvore" (a name com- 
 memorating "one of the great lighthouse 
 works carried out by the family firm" of the 
 Stevensons) was presented to her by her 
 father-in-law. Stevenson tried his hand at 
 various inscriptions for the new home. Two 
 of these were printed in "Underwoods" (Book 
 I, Nos. XXXIV and XXXV). Another two 
 are the poems that follow. In the first there 
 is a reminiscence of "The Rubaiyat;" al- 
 though, of course, the idea of hospitality that 
 it embodies goes back to the earlier Greeks. 
 The second inscription is more original, with 
 its well-phrased characterization of the spirit 
 of forgiveness as both "the parent and the 
 child of sleep." 
 
 [ 9 ] 
 
HAIL GUEST, AND ENTER FREELY 1 
 
 Hail, guest, and enter freely! All you see 
 Is, for your momentary visit, yours; and we 
 Who welcome you, are but the guests of God 
 And know not our departure. 
 
 LO, NOW, MY GUEST 
 
 Lo, now, my guest, if aught amiss were said, 
 Forgive it and dismiss it from your head. 
 For me, for you, for all, to close the date, 
 Pass now the evening sponge across the slate; 
 And to that spirit of forgiveness keep, 
 Which is the parent and the child of sleep. 
 
 [ 10 ] 
 
SO LIVE, SO LOVE, SO USE THAT 
 FRAGILE HOUR 
 
 In this quatrain, also written at Skerryvore, 
 the significant word is "shining." Stevenson 
 was often bed-ridden during these weeks and 
 he well knew how fragile is life's hour; but 
 though the hand of death might seem dark, he 
 clung to his vision of death in its entirety, as 
 "a shining power." We know how often he 
 bodied forth this conception both in his poems 
 and in his essays, and it is all the more note- 
 worthy — as it may, for some, be all the more 
 inspiriting — that this attitude did not in his 
 case depend for support upon the rock of re- 
 ligious belief in the continuance of individual 
 life beyond the grave. 
 
 SO LIVE, SO LOVE, SO USE THAT 
 FRAGILE HOUR 
 
 So live, so love, so use that fragile hour, 
 That when the dark hand of the shining power 
 Shall one from other, wife or husband, take, 
 The poor survivor may not weep and wake. 
 
 [ ii ] 
 
AD SE IPSUM 
 
 Stevenson here addresses himself. He re- 
 calls the adventure of marriage five years ear- 
 lier, and reflecting on its happy consequences, 
 acknowledges once more that the fate of man 
 lies in the hand of God. In an earlier poem 
 in volume one ("It's Forth Across the Roar- 
 ing Foam"), written in California, he gave 
 sincere praise to God for the friends that then 
 arose to comfort him. 
 
 The reference to the "various whimsical 
 pretexts" whereby he won his bride is con- 
 tained in a couplet worthy of Pope. 
 
 AD SE IPSUM 
 
 Dear sir, good morrow! Five years back 
 When you first girded for this arduous track, 
 And under various whimsical pretexts 
 Endowed another with your damned defects, 
 Could you have dreamed in your despondent 
 
 vein 
 That the kind God would make your path so 
 
 plain? 
 Non nobis, domine! — O, may He still 
 Support my stumbling footsteps on the hill! 
 
 [ 12 ] 
 
BEFORE THIS LITTLE GIFT WAS 
 COME 
 
 At his home in Bournemouth, Stevenson fin- 
 ished "A Child's Garden of Verses," his first 
 published volume of poetry. One surmises 
 that this book is referred to in the following 
 poem as his "little gift" to a child. But whose 
 child had died ere the gift arrived — who was 
 the mother for whom Stevenson wrote these 
 verses? Perhaps it was Nelly, his wife's sis- 
 ter. 
 
 BEFORE THIS LITTLE GIFT WAS 
 COME 
 
 Before this little gift was come, 
 The little owner had made haste for home; 
 And from the door of where the eternal dwell, 
 Looked back on human things and smiled 
 
 farewell. 
 O may this grief remain the only one! 
 O may your house be still a garrison 
 Of smiling children, and forevermore 
 The tune of little feet be heard along the floor! 
 
 [ 13 1 
 
GO, LITTLE BOOK— THE ANCIENT 
 PHRASE 
 
 Stevenson was very fond of his sister-in-law, 
 Nelly Sanchez, and at her California home 
 he had been a welcome guest. To her, in 
 1885, he sent "Prince Otto," and with it these 
 beautiful lines. The poem is in the form of a 
 colloquy between the author and his work. In 
 the first stanza, Stevenson bids Otto go to 
 Nelly; in the second he answers the book's 
 query as to how Nelly shall be recognized; 
 and in the rest of the poem he instructs his 
 messenger regarding what shall be said and 
 done when Nelly's home is reached. 
 
 The poem is all the more interesting be- 
 cause it was to her that "Prince Otto" was 
 dedicated. Giant Adulpho was Stevenson's 
 brother-in-law. 
 
 GO, LITTLE BOOK — THE ANCIENT 
 PHRASE 
 
 Go, little book — the ancient phrase 
 And still the daintiest — go your ways, 
 
 [ H ] 
 
My Otto, over sea and land, 
 
 Till you shall come to Nelly's hand. 
 
 How shall I your Nelly know? 
 By her blue eye and her black brow, 
 By her fierce and slender look, 
 And by her goodness, little bookl 
 
 What shall I say when I come there? 
 You shall speak her soft and fair: 
 See — you shall say — the love they send 
 To greet their unforgotten friend 1 
 
 Giant Adulpho you shall sing 
 
 The next, and then the cradled king: 
 
 And the four corners of the roof 
 
 Then kindly bless ; and to your perch aloof, 
 
 Where Balzac all in yellow dressed 
 
 And the dear Webster of the west 
 
 Encircle the prepotent throne 
 
 Of Shakespeare and of Calderon, 
 
 Shall climb an upstart. 
 
 There, with these, 
 You shall give ear to breaking seas 
 And windmills turning in the breeze, 
 A distant undetermined din 
 Without; and you shall hear within 
 The blazing and the bickering logs, 
 
 [ 15 1 
 
The crowing child, the yawning dogs, 
 And ever agile, high and low, 
 Our Nelly going to and fro. 
 
 There shall you all silent sit, 
 
 Till, when perchance the lamp is lit 
 
 And the day's labour done, she takes 
 
 Poor Otto down, and, warming for our sakes, 
 
 Perchance beholds, alive and near, 
 
 Our distant faces reappear. 
 
 [ 16 ] 
 
POEMS WRITTEN IN 1886 
 
 MY LOVE WAS WARM 
 
 DEDICATORY POEM FOR "UNDERWOODS" 
 
MY LOVE WAS WARM 
 
 At Kingussie, in March, 1886, Stevenson 
 wrote this little lyric in which he shows with 
 what deep love he still is held by the bond of 
 marriage. Six years had passed since "the 
 mountains and the sea" — the Atlantic and the 
 Rockies — had been crossed by him in that 
 journey which ended in the lovers' meeting. 
 
 MY LOVE WAS WARM 
 
 My love was warm ; for that I crossed 
 The mountains and the sea, 
 
 Nor counted that endeavour lost 
 That gave my love to me. 
 
 If that indeed were love at all 
 
 As still, my love, I trow, 
 By what dear name am I to call 
 
 The bond that holds me now? 
 
 [ 19 ] 
 
DEDICATORY POEM FOR "UNDER- 
 WOODS" 
 
 Although "Underwoods" was not published 
 until the latter half of 1887, Stevenson was 
 preparing his book of verses for the press in 
 the preceding year. This dedication was 
 never used, the actual dedication, in prose, be- 
 ing to some ten or eleven physicians who, both 
 in Europe and in America, had tended him 
 during many illnesses. 
 
 The present dedicatory poem (to the pieces 
 in English, Book I of "Underwoods") is most 
 interesting. The Spectator — that austere and 
 critical review — had in the course of years 
 commented both adversely and favorably 
 upon the writings of Stevenson. He com- 
 pares The Spectator to a scolding grandam, 
 who yet can be kind; and we should have 
 to seek far to find a poem in which an au- 
 thor takes so smiling and gracious a revenge 
 upon his critics. The line "She damned me 
 with a misquotation" will appeal to both writ- 
 ers and reviewers; while the entire concluding 
 stanza wherein Stevenson shows his recogni- 
 tion of the value of publicity, even when the 
 notice is unfavorable, is full of humor. 
 
 [ 20 ] 
 
DEDICATORY POEM FOR "UNDER- 
 WOODS" 
 
 To her, for I must still regard her 
 
 As feminine in her degree, 
 
 Who has been my unkind bombarder 
 
 Year after year, in grief and glee, 
 
 Year after year, with oaken tree ; 
 
 And yet betweenwhiles my laudator 
 
 In terms astonishing to me — 
 
 To the Right Reverend The SPECTATOR 
 
 I here, a humble dedicator, 
 
 Bring the last apples from my tree. 
 
 In tones of love, in tones of warning, 
 She hailed me through my brief career; 
 And kiss and buffet, night and morning, 
 Told me my grandmamma was near; 
 Whether she praised me high and clear 
 Through her unrivalled circulation, 
 Or, sanctimonious insincere, 
 She damned me with a misquotation — 
 A chequered but a sweet relation, 
 Say, was it not, my granny dear? 
 
 Believe me, granny, altogether 
 
 Yours, though perhaps to your surprise. 
 
 Oft have you spruced my wounded feather, 
 
 [ 21 ] 
 
Oft brought a light into my eyes.- 
 For notice still the writer cries. — 
 In any civil age or nation, 
 The book that is not talked of dies. 
 So this shall be my termination: 
 Whether in praise or execration, 
 Still, if you love me, criticise! 
 
 [ 22 ] 
 

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 I 
 
POEMS WRITTEN IN 1888- 1894 
 
 FAREWELL 
 
 THE FAR-FARERS 
 
 COME MY LITTLE CHILDREN, HERE ARE SONGS 
 
 FOR YOU 
 HOME FROM THE DAISIED MEADOWS 
 EARLY IN THE MORNING I HEAR ON YOUR PIANO 
 FAIR ISLE AT SEA 
 
 LOUD AND LOW IN THE CHIMNEY 
 I LOVE TO BE WARM BY THE RED FIRESIDE 
 AT LAST SHE COMES 
 
 MINE EYES WERE SWIFT TO KNOW THEE 
 FIXED IS THE DOOM 
 MEN ARE HEAVEN'S PIERS 
 THE ANGLER ROSE, HE TOOK HIS ROD 
 SPRING CAROL 
 
 TO WHAT SHALL I COMPARE HER 
 WHEN THE SUN COMES AFTER RAIN 
 LATE, MILLER 
 TO FRIENDS AT HOME 
 I WHOM APOLLO SOMETIME VISITED 
 
FAREWELL 
 
 The manuscript of these verses is not dated, 
 but the second line with its reference to the 
 Bay of San Francisco and to the Pacific isles 
 would seem to place the poem in the summer 
 of 1888. Mrs. Stevenson had preceded her 
 husband to California and there had chartered 
 the schooner "Casco" in which the Stevenson 
 party set forth, toward the end of June. The 
 voyage terminated at Samoa where the re- 
 maining years of Stevenson's life were spent. 
 
 The poem is presumably unfinished, the 
 sixth line revealing an incomplete sentence, al- 
 though even there, if we adopt the theory of an 
 aposiopesis, the very lack of conclusion carries 
 the thought into paths of suggestion which the 
 reader may follow as he lists. In idea and in 
 effect the poem is an entity, despite its frag- 
 mentary form, and embodies Stevenson's con- 
 viction of the fruitlessness of the quest on 
 which "a hopeless sailor" he is now about to 
 adventure. As he prophesies herein, that was 
 indeed the last of his travels. 
 
 [ 25 ] 
 
FAREWELL 
 
 Farewell, and when forth 
 
 I through the Golden Gates to Golden Isles 
 
 Steer without smiling, through the sea of 
 
 smiles 
 Isle upon isle, in the seas of the south 
 Isle upon island, sea upon sea 
 Why should I sail, why should the breeze? — 
 ******** 
 
 I have been young, and I have counted friends, 
 
 Sk, SLl ~k. ilt jit j|& *k. ,a|& 
 
 A hopeless sail I spread, too late, too late — 
 Why should I from isle to isle, 
 Sail, a hopeless sailor? 
 
 [ 26 j 
 
THE FAR-FARERS 
 
 This little poem was perhaps written about 
 the time that the Stevensons sailed from Cali- 
 fornia. There is in the melody of these verses 
 the note of a dirge, and the concluding lines 
 were to prove prophetic. 
 
 THE FAR-FARERS 
 
 The broad sun, 
 
 The bright day: 
 White sails 
 
 On the blue bay: — 
 The far-farers 
 
 Draw away. 
 
 Light the fires 
 
 And close the door. 
 To the old homes, 
 
 To the loved shore, 
 The far-farers 
 
 Return no more. 
 
 [ 27 J 
 
COME, MY LITTLE CHILDREN 
 HERE ARE SONGS FOR YOU 
 
 There seems to be no way of establishing 
 just what songs Stevenson had in mind when 
 he wrote these verses. The phrase "all, all 
 are new," indicates that the songs to which he 
 refers may have been compositions of his own. 
 The manuscript belongs to the last years of 
 his life, a fact which precludes the theory that 
 the lines might have been meant as a prefatory 
 poem for "A Child's Garden of Verses." 
 Moreover, the second stanza points to musical 
 as well as verbal composition. It is very likely 
 that Stevenson thought of writing songs for 
 children during the Vailima days, but we lack 
 the data that might prove this; although 
 the two poems that follow this one may be 
 regarded as evidence tending to bear out such 
 a theory. 
 
 [ 28 ] 
 
COME, MY LITTLE CHILDREN 
 HERE ARE SONGS FOR YOU 
 
 Come, my little children, here are songs for 
 
 you; 
 Some are short and some are long and all, all 
 
 are new. 
 You must learn to sing them very small and 
 
 clear, 
 Very true to time and tune and pleasing to the 
 
 ear. 
 
 Mark the note that rises, mark the notes that 
 
 fall. 
 Mark the time when broken, and the swing of 
 
 it all. 
 So when night is come and you have gone to 
 
 bed, 
 All the songs you love to sing shall echo in 
 
 your head. 
 
 [ 29] 
 
HOME FROM THE DAISIED 
 MEADOWS 
 
 At the top of the manuscript page Steven- 
 son has written a line in German: "Kind, 
 willst du ruhig schlafen?" He then launches 
 forth into his own verses, the only lullaby 
 among these poems. It belongs to the Samoan 
 years, as evidenced by the appearance on the 
 manuscript page of some fragmentary lines 
 referring to an island legend. 
 
 A study of the poem leads to the belief that 
 it was written for music, at least the compara- 
 tive commonplaceness of the phraseology and 
 the disparity in length of line seem most easily 
 accounted for by the necessity of conforming 
 the words to notes. It is possible that these 
 verses were intended for music of Stevenson's 
 own composition. And since we have ven- 
 tured into the realm of conjecture, perhaps 
 this lullaby may have been meant as one of 
 those songs referred to by Stevenson in the 
 preceding poem. 
 
 These surmises are, in any case, not weak- 
 ened by the inference to be drawn from the 
 line in German; for it points to a literary in- 
 spiration, and the poem seems therefore to be 
 
 [ 30 ] 
 
addressed to an imaginary child, or to a child 
 evoked by memory. The purpose of writing 
 words for music renders unnecessary the iden- 
 tification of an actual child as Stevenson's play- 
 mate at the time. 
 
 HOME FROM THE DAISIED 
 MEADOWS 
 
 Home from the daisied meadows, where you 
 
 linger yet, 
 Home, golden-headed playmate, ere the sun 
 
 is set, 
 For the dews are falling fast 
 And the night has come at last. 
 Home with you, home and lay your little head 
 
 at rest, 
 Safe, safe my little darling, on your mother's 
 
 breast. 
 Lullaby, darling, your mother is watching 
 
 you, she'll be your guardian and shield, 
 Lullaby, slumber, my darling, till morning be 
 
 bright upon mountain and field. 
 Long, long the shadows fall. 
 All white and smooth at home your little bed 
 
 is laid. 
 All round your head be angels. 
 
 [ 3i ] 
 
EARLY IN THE MORNING I HEAR 
 ON YOUR PIANO 
 
 The appearance of the following lines on 
 the reverse of the sheet where Stevenson wrote 
 the first draft of the envoy for "The House of 
 Tembinoka" places this little poem in the 
 Samoan period. 
 
 This, like the one preceding, may have been 
 intended by Stevenson as the words for a song 
 of childhood. 
 
 EARLY IN THE MORNING I HEAR 
 ON YOUR PIANO 
 
 Early in the morning I hear on your piano 
 You (at least I guess it's you) proceed to learn 
 
 to play. 
 Mostly little minds should take and tackle 
 
 their piano, 
 While the birds are singing in the morning 
 
 of the day. 
 
 [ 32 ] 
 
FAIR ISLE AT SEA 
 
 This quatrain appears on the page of manu- 
 script with the preceding poem. The island 
 of "soft and lovely name" was, of course, 
 Samoa. 
 
 FAIR ISLE AT SEA 
 
 Fair Isle at Sea — thy lovely name 
 Soft in my ear like music came. 
 That sea I loved, and once or twice 
 I touched at isles of Paradise. 
 
 [ 33 ] 
 
LOUD AND LOW IN THE CHIMNEY 
 
 This is a Vailima poem, very probably of 
 the year 1893. The last line refers to the war 
 that was then raging among the Samoan tribes; 
 and "the youth apart" who "hearkens with 
 changing colour and leaping heart" one iden- 
 tifies as the Samoan boy in the Stevenson 
 household. 
 
 The metrical arrangement is very unusual 
 with Stevenson, and the single example of its 
 kind in the present volumes. 
 
 LOUD AND LOW IN THE CHIMNEY 
 
 Loud and low in the chimney 
 
 The squalls suspire; 
 Then like an answer dwindles 
 
 And glows the fire. 
 And the chamber reddens and darkens 
 
 In time like taken breath. 
 Nearby the sounding chimney 
 
 The youth apart 
 Hearkens with changing colour 
 
 And leaping heart, 
 And hears in the coil of the tempest 
 
 The voice of love and death. 
 
 [ 34] 
 
Love on high in the flutelike 
 
 And tender notes 
 Sounds as from April meadows 
 
 And hillside cotes; 
 But the deep wood wind in the chimney 
 Utters the slogan of death. 
 
 [ 35 ] 
 
I LOVE TO BE WARM BY THE RED 
 FIRESIDE 
 
 On the reverse side of the manuscript of the 
 poem beginning, "Loud and low in the chim- 
 ney" there are various lines of verse, also some 
 sentences written in the Samoan language. 
 On the next page are further sentences in 
 Samoan, and the quatrain commencing, "I 
 love to be warm by the red fireside." It is a 
 very Stevensonian bit of poetry and is typical 
 of some of the shorter poems in "A Child's 
 Garden of Verses." His was the affection for 
 the hearth; but he loved the open road "wet 
 with rain," the door that opened into the lamp- 
 lit room, and the door that opened out to the 
 wanderer's freedom. 
 
 I LOVE TO BE WARM BY THE RED 
 FIRESIDE 
 
 I love to be warm by the red fireside, 
 
 I love to be wet with rain ; 
 I love to be welcome at lamplit doors, 
 
 And leave the doors again. 
 
 [ 36 ] 
 
AT LAST SHE COMES 
 
 There is little need to comment on the fol- 
 lowing lines. In themselves they render the 
 complete and appealing picture: the longing 
 poet on his bed of pain, and the coming of 
 his dearly beloved wife. 
 
 AT LAST SHE COMES 
 
 At last, she comes, Oh never more 
 In this dear patience of my pain 
 To leave me lonely as before 
 Or leave my soul alone again. 
 
 [ 37 ] 
 
MINE EYES WERE SWIFT TO KNOW 
 THEE 
 
 In these verses addressed to the loyal com- 
 panion of many years, Stevenson refers speci- 
 ficially to the love episode which, beginning in 
 France, found its consummation in his mar- 
 riage. The stream, "deep, swift and clear," 
 is the river at Grez mentioned elsewhere 
 among the verses in these volumes. The poem 
 is undated, but in all probability it belongs to 
 the late years at Samoa. 
 
 MINE EYES WERE SWIFT TO KNOW 
 THEE 
 
 Mine eyes were swift to know thee, and my 
 
 heart 
 As swift to love. I did become at once 
 Thine wholly, thine unalterably, thine 
 In honorable service, pure intent, 
 Steadfast excess of love and laughing care: 
 And as I was, so am, and so shall be. 
 I knew thee helpful, knew thee true, knew thee 
 And Pity bedfellows: I heard thy talk 
 With answerable throbbings. On the stream, 
 Deep, swift and clear, the lilies floated; fish 
 
 [ 38 ] 
 
Through its cool shadows ran. There, thou 
 
 and I 
 Read Kindness in our eyes and closed the 
 
 match. 
 
 [ 39 ] 
 
FIXED IS THE DOOM; AND TO THE 
 LAST OF YEARS 
 
 In thought this is one of the deepest of 
 Stevenson's poems. In other instances, so 
 numerous as to confirm his position as the most 
 delightful of modern writers in the realm of 
 occasional poetry of love and friendship, he 
 shows his power in the expression of the close 
 ties of love and affection ; but here we find him 
 beginning with the recognition of one of the 
 most essential facts in the individual life of 
 man. No matter how intimate are the bonds 
 that connect one life with another, the soul 
 still walks alone. As in the world of physical 
 atoms, so too in the spiritual world, immediate 
 contact, in the last analysis, is not to be. For 
 some great authors this is far the most potent 
 and the most tragic truth in human life, and 
 perhaps nowhere else in poetry is it more suc- 
 cinctly expressed than in the first four words 
 of Stevenson's poem: "Fixed is the Doom." 
 
 As the verses proceed, Stevenson, with his 
 characteristic inclination to oppose with the 
 compensation of wisdom the weight of sorrow 
 on the scales of destiny, has recourse to the 
 thought that "The years shall bring us ever 
 
 [ 40 ] 
 
nearer ;" but even so he knows that only death 
 can dissolve that "long divorce" which sep- 
 arates, by the very nature of the mind's ac- 
 tivities, even the lover from the beloved. 
 
 FIXED IS THE DOOM 
 
 Fixed is the doom; and to the last of years 
 
 Teacher and taught, friend, lover, parent, 
 child, 
 
 Each walks, though near, yet separate; each 
 beholds 
 
 His dear ones shine beyond him like the stars. 
 
 We also, love, forever dwell apart; 
 
 With cries approach, with cries behold the 
 gulph, 
 
 The Unvaulted; as two great eagles that do 
 wheel in air 
 
 Above a mountain, and with screams confer, 
 
 Far heard athwart the cedars. 
 Yet the years 
 
 Shall bring us ever nearer; day by day 
 
 Endearing, week by week, till death at last 
 
 Dissolve that long divorce. By faith we love, 
 
 Not knowledge; and by faith though far re- 
 moved 
 
 [ 4i ] 
 
Dwell as in perfect nearness, heart to heart. 
 
 We but excuse 
 Those things we merely are ; and to our souls 
 A brave deception cherish. 
 So from unhappy war a man returns 
 Unfearing, or the seaman from the deep; 
 So from cool night and woodlands, to a feast 
 May some one enter, and still breathe of dews, 
 And in her eyes still wear the dusky night. 
 
 [ 42 ] 
 
MEN ARE HEAVEN'S PIERS 
 
 The first four lines here are perhaps the on- 
 ly instances among Stevenson's poems of his 
 use of metaphors drawn from the terminology 
 of architecture. The fifth and sixth lines are 
 notable for their epigrammatic compactness. 
 For the wife, the atmosphere of the home de- 
 pends upon her husband; it is he who upholds 
 the sun, or, negligent, brings the cold. Then 
 follow six lines of tribute to the wife's power, 
 lines suggestive of Emerson's poetry at its best. 
 
 The remainder of the poem pictures the 
 Stevensons "sequestered in the seas of life," 
 love still blossoming in the garden of their 
 "unfrequented isle." These verses are among 
 the fairest of all that Stevenson wrote at 
 Vailima. 
 
 [ 43 1 
 
MEN ARE HEAVEN'S PIERS 
 
 Men are Heaven's piers; they evermore 
 
 Unwearying bear the skyey floor; 
 
 Man's theatre they bear with ease, 
 
 Unfrowning cariatides! 
 
 I, for my wife, the sun uphold 
 
 Or, dozing, strike the seasons cold. 
 
 She, on her side, in fairy-wise 
 
 Deals in diviner mysteries, 
 
 By spells to make the fuel burn 
 
 And keep the parlor warm, to turn 
 
 Water to wine and stones to bread 
 
 By her unconquered hero-head. 
 
 A naked Adam, naked Eve, 
 
 Alone the primal bower we weave; 
 
 Sequestered in the seas of life, 
 
 A Crusoe couple, man and wife, 
 
 With all our good, with all our will, 
 
 Our unfrequented isle we fill; 
 
 And victor in day's petty wars, 
 
 Each for the other lights the stars. 
 
 Come then, my Eve, and to and fro 
 
 Let us about our garden go ; 
 
 And grateful-hearted, hand in hand, 
 
 Revisit all our tillage land 
 
 And marvel at our strange estate. 
 
 [ 44 ] ' 
 
For hooded ruin at the gate 
 
 Sits watchful, and the angels fear 
 
 To see us tread so boldly here. 
 
 Meanwhile, my Eve, with flowers and grass, 
 
 Our perishable days we pass ; 
 
 Far more the thorn observe — and see 
 
 How our enormous sins go free — 
 
 Nor less admire, beside the rose, 
 
 How far a little virtue goes. 
 
 [ 45 1 
 
THE ANGLER ROSE, HE TOOK HIS 
 ROD 
 
 In this quatrain there is perhaps a trench- 
 ant moral, pertinent to Stevenson's general 
 thought. The business of the angler is not 
 to pray, but to fish. Let him attend to his 
 business and he will do well. Let him pray 
 when he should fish, and the eels will feed on 
 him. Here we have in a nutshell Stevenson's 
 impatience with lip service, his faith in the 
 value of a man's adherence to the task in hand. 
 
 THE ANGLER ROSE, HE TOOK HIS 
 ROD 
 
 The angler rose, he took his rod, 
 
 He kneeled and made his prayers to God. 
 
 The living God sat overhead: 
 
 The angler tripped, the eels were fed. 
 
 [ 46 ] 
 
SPRING CAROL 
 
 The hand-writing of this poem is of the 
 Vailima period, and the first line of the second 
 stanza points similarly to the later years of 
 Stevenson's life; but the memory of the poet 
 recurs to the days of youth. 
 
 There is one line — the second of the second 
 stanza — which is especially interesting to the 
 student of Stevenson's verses, in that it is rem- 
 iniscent of that one of the English poets who 
 most influenced Stevenson, whose heart "with 
 rapture thrills," and "dances with the dancing 
 burns," as Wordsworth's heart "with pleasure 
 fills," and "dances with the daffodils." 
 
 SPRING CAROL 
 
 When loud by landside streamlets gush, 
 And clear in the greenwood quires the thrush, 
 With sun on the meadows 
 And songs in the shadows, 
 Comes again to me 
 The gift of the tongues of the lea, 
 The gift of the tongues of meadows. 
 
 Straightway my olden heart returns 
 And dances with the dancing burns, 
 
 [ 47 J 
 
It sings with the sparrows; 
 
 To the rain and the (grimy) barrows 
 Sings my heart aloud — 
 To the silver bellied cloud, 
 
 To the silver rainy arrows. 
 
 It bears the song of the skylark down, 
 And it hears the singing of the town, 
 And youth on the highways 
 And lovers in byways, 
 Follows and sees : 
 And hearken the song of the leas 
 And sings the songs of the highways. 
 
 So when the earth is alive with gods 
 And the lusty ploughman breaks the sods, 
 And the grass sings in the meadows, 
 And the flowers smile in the shadows, 
 Sits my heart at ease, 
 Hearing the song of the leas 
 Singing the songs of the meadows. 
 
 [ 48 ] 
 
TO WHAT SHALL I COMPARE HER 
 
 This poem, of uncertain date, but very 
 probably belonging to the Samoan days, may 
 be one of those poems of memory referring to 
 the woman that he loved when he was young, 
 and whom he never married. The conclud- 
 ing lines depict that heritage which is the pos- 
 session of all who have the poetic imagination. 
 For this brotherhood the actual truth of exist- 
 ence is of less moment than those dreams 
 which are the essential and potent truth of the 
 inner life. 
 
 TO WHAT SHALL I COMPARE HER 
 
 To what shall I compare her, 
 
 That is as fair as she? 
 For she is fairer — fairer 
 
 Than the sea. 
 What shall be likened to her, 
 
 The sainted of my youth? 
 For she is truer — truer 
 
 Than the truth. 
 
 As the stars are from the sleeper, 
 Her heart is hid from me; 
 
 [ 49 ] 
 
For she is deeper — deeper 
 
 Than the sea. 
 Yet in my dreams I view her 
 
 Flush rosy with new ruth — 
 Dreams! Ah, may these prove truer 
 
 Than the truth. 
 
 [ 5o ] 
 
WHEN THE SUN COMES AFTER 
 RAIN 
 
 Another poem probably of the Vailima 
 period, these verses have the lilt and simple 
 music of a characteristic lyric, although they 
 are descriptive rather than personally expres- 
 sive. The final stanza is unusual among Stev- 
 enson's poems, by reason of its unqualified 
 statement of Heaven as that home to which all 
 shall go at last. It is in significant contrast to 
 many of Stevenson's earlier poems written in 
 a vein of religious cynicism. 
 
 WHEN THE SUN COMES AFTER 
 RAIN 
 
 When the sun comes after rain 
 
 And the bird is in the blue 
 The girls go down the lane 
 
 Two by two. 
 When the sun comes after shadow 
 
 And the singing of the showers, 
 The girls go up the meadow, 
 
 Fair as flowers. 
 When the eve comes dusky red 
 
 And the moon succeeds the sun, 
 
 [ P ] 
 
The girls go home to bed 
 
 One by one. 
 And when life draws to its even 
 
 And the day of man is past 
 They shall all go home to heaven, 
 
 Home at last. 
 
 [ 52 ] 
 
LATE, O MILLER 
 
 The hand-writing of this unfinished poem 
 (some tentative lines are omitted) is again of 
 the Samoan days, and its form indicates the 
 same period, as short lines of this nature were 
 seldom used by Stevenson in his early verses. 
 One might otherwise attribute it to that period 
 of his life when, with his friend Walter Simp- 
 son, he was deep in the study of Goethe. 
 While there is no suggestion of any direct con- 
 nection between this poem and the famous 
 Evening Song of the great German, yet one 
 perceives its affiliation with his lyric begin- 
 ning: 
 
 "Ueber alien Gipfeln ist Ruh." 
 
 LATE, O MILLER 
 
 Late, O miller, 
 
 The birds are silent, 
 
 The darkness falls. 
 
 In the house the lights are lighted. 
 
 See, in the valley they twinkle, 
 
 The lights of home. 
 
 [ 53 ] 
 
Late, O lovers, 
 The night is at hand, 
 Silence and darkness 
 Clothe the land. 
 
 [ 54 ] 
 
TO FRIENDS AT HOME 
 
 In connection with the present publication, 
 these few verses have a special importance. 
 The fourth and fifth lines place them in 
 Samoa, and the poem is obviously a dedica- 
 tion. We thus have proof that during the last 
 years of his life Stevenson was contemplating 
 another book of verse. The manuscripts 
 from which he would have drawn his mate- 
 rial are among those that have formed the 
 basis of the present volumes, which are thus 
 in a way the fruition of the poet's unfulfilled 
 desire. 
 
 TO FRIENDS AT HOME 
 
 To friends at home, the lone, the admired, the 
 
 lost, 
 The gracious old, the lovely young, to May 
 
 The fair, December the beloved, 
 These from my blue horizon and green isles, 
 These from this pinnacle of distances, I 
 
 The unforgetful, dedicate. 
 
 [ 55 1 
 
I WHOM APOLLO SOMETIME 
 VISITED 
 
 We may read these verses as the poet's epi- 
 taph for himself. They differ radically from 
 the famous epitaph inscribed on his tomb. 
 Altogether impersonal, they portray no in- 
 dividual predilection for the wanderer's life 
 or for the life of the home; they indicate no 
 philosophy of cheer or of despair of whatso- 
 ever nature. 
 
 Only in a minor point need the foregoing 
 comment be qualified. In the second line, 
 there is the note of Stevenson's modesty in re- 
 gard to his rank as a poet; but otherwise we 
 find nothing beyond the quiet understanding 
 of the finality of death, and of that eternity 
 which obliterates the individual records of 
 man. 
 
 I WHOM APOLLO SOMETIME 
 VISITED 
 
 I, whom Apollo sometime visited, 
 
 Or feigned to visit, now, my day being done, 
 
 Do slumber wholly; nor shall know at all 
 
 [ 56] 
 
The weariness of changes ; nor perceive 
 Immeasurable sands of centuries 
 Drink up the blanching ink, or the loud sound 
 Of generations beat the music down. 
 
 [ 57] 
 
POEMS OF UNCERTAIN DATE 
 
TEMPEST TOSSED AND SORE 
 AFFLICTED 
 
 That Stevenson could have been a success- 
 ful writer of hymns had his character and his 
 life developed differently is shown by these 
 verses, which are equally adapted for congre- 
 gational singing and for the voice of the in- 
 dividual heart. Yet even here we find the 
 touch that comes from his personal attitude 
 toward death, in that line where the ending of 
 life is thought of as the approach of "the 
 songful morning." 
 
 At the top of this manuscript Stevenson 
 wrote four titles: "Starry Evening," "Adieu," 
 "Du Bist," and "Standschen." These are of 
 songs of Heine; the third surely being the 
 lyric beginning, "Du bist wie eine Blume," 
 and the first, perhaps, Stevenson's title for 
 Heine's poem commencing, "Es fallt ein 
 Stern herunter." Although he knew but little 
 German, it is possible that Stevenson contem- 
 [ 61 ] 
 
plated translating these poems. In any event 
 these jottings are worth recording, in view of 
 that decided influence of the German over the 
 Scotch poet, to which reference has been made 
 in connection with the dated poems that Stev- 
 enson wrote in the early 70's. 
 
 TEMPEST TOSSED AND SORE 
 AFFLICTED 
 
 Tempest tossed and sore afflicted, sin defiled 
 
 and care oppressed, 
 Come to me all ye that labour, come and I will 
 
 give ye rest. 
 Fear no more, O doubting hearted, weep no 
 
 more, O weeping eye! 
 Lol the voice of your redeemer, lo the songful 
 
 morning near. 
 
 Here one hour you toil and combat, sin and 
 
 suffer, bleed and die; 
 In my father's quiet mansion, soon to lay your 
 
 burden by. 
 Bear a moment, heavy laden, weary hand and 
 
 weeping eye, 
 Lo the feet of your deliverer, lo the hour of 
 
 freedom here. 
 
 [ 62 ] 
 
VARIANT FORM OF THE PRECED- 
 ING POEM 
 
 Come to me all ye that labour, I will give your 
 
 spirits rest; 
 Here apart in starry quiet, I will give you rest. 
 Come to me, ye heavy laden, sin defiled and 
 
 care opprest, 
 In my father's starry mansions, 
 In your father's quiet mansions soon to prove 
 
 a welcome guest. 
 
 But an hour you bear your trial, sin and suffer, 
 
 bleed and die; 
 But an hour you toil and combat, here in day's 
 
 inspiring eye, 
 Bear a moment, heavy laden, weary hand and 
 
 weeping eye, 
 See the feet of your deliverer, Lo the hour of 
 
 freedom nigh. 
 
 [ 63 ] 
 
I NOW, O FRIEND, WHOM NOISE- 
 LESSLY THE SNOWS 
 
 The following verses may with consider- 
 able certainty be assigned to the year 1872. 
 They are, in the rough drafts of the manu- 
 script, unfinished compositions, with some in- 
 complete lines, and, now and then, repetitions. 
 
 The verses begin with a line addressed to 
 one who had died — -not inconceivably the 
 poet Fergusson, lying at rest in the Canongate 
 churchyard. The "disused quarry" places the 
 poem at Swanston; and the authors whom 
 Stevenson introduces into his verses — Horace 
 and gossiping Montaigne and "chattering 
 Pepys" — are the three that head a list he made 
 in 1872 of his favorite authors — a list of 
 eleven writers that of course included the 
 names of Burns and Heine. 
 
 These incomplete verses have much of in- 
 terest in them. In the first place, they are the 
 earliest instance of an ambitious attempt in 
 the couplet form, an order of rhyme through 
 which Stevenson later achieved much of his 
 best poetry. Then, too, enter the notes of the 
 wandering preacher and of Prince Charlie's 
 Highlanders, evocative of memories of Stev- 
 
 [ 64 ] 
 
enson's romances. The references to his read- 
 ings ; to his twilight dreams ; to a new purpose 
 in life, all confirm the personal significance 
 of these lines where Stevenson plays — not 
 quite firmly as yet, but with original melody — 
 upon the strings of his own lyre. 
 
 I NOW, O FRIEND, WHOM NOISE- 
 LESSLY THE SNOWS 
 
 I, now, O friend, whom noiselessly the snows 
 Settle around; and whose small chamber 
 
 grows 
 Dusk as the sloping window takes its load: 
 
 The kindly hill, as to complete our hap 
 Has ta'en us in the shelter of her lap; 
 Well sheltered, in our slender grove of trees 
 And ring of walls, we sit between her knees; 
 A disused quarry, paved with rose-plots hung 
 With clematis, the barren womb whence 
 
 sprung 
 The crowstepped house itself, that now, far 
 
 seen 
 Stands, like a bather, to the neck in green. 
 A disused quarry, furnished with a seat 
 
 [ 6 5 ] 
 
Sacred to pipes and meditation meet 
 
 For such a sunny and retired nook. 
 
 There in the clear, warm mornings, many a 
 
 book 
 Has vied with the fair prospect of the hills 
 That, vale on vale, rough brae on brae upfills 
 Halfway to the zenith, all the vacant sky 
 To keep my loose attention . . . 
 Horace has sat with me whole mornings 
 
 through : 
 And Montaigne gossipped, fairly false and 
 
 true; 
 And chattering Pepys, and a few beside 
 That suit the easy vein, the quiet tide, 
 The calm and certain stay of garden-life, 
 Far sunk from all the thunderous roar of 
 
 strife. 
 There is, about the small secluded place, 
 A garnish of old times; a certain grace 
 Of pensive memories lays about the braes: 
 The old chestnuts gossip tales of bygone days. 
 Here, where some wandering preacher, blest 
 
 Lazil 
 Perhaps, or Peden, on the middle hill 
 Had made his secret church, in rain or snow, 
 He cheers the chosen residue from woe, 
 [ 66 ] 
 
All night the doors stood open, come who 
 
 might 
 The hounded kebbock mat the mud all night. 
 Nor are there wanting later tales ; of how 
 Prince Charlies Highlanders . . . 
 
 I have had talents, too. In life's first hour 
 God crowned with benefits my childish head. 
 Flower after flower, I plucked them; flower 
 
 by flower 
 Cast them behind me, ruined, withered, dead. 
 Full many a shining godhead disappeared. 
 From the bright rank that once adorned her 
 
 brow 
 The old child's Olympus — 
 
 Gone are the fair old dreams, and one by one, 
 As, one by one, the means to reach them went, 
 As one by one, the stars in riot and disgrace, 
 I squandered what — 
 
 There shut the door alas on many a hope 
 Too many; 
 
 My face is set to the autumnal slope, 
 Where the loud winds shall — 
 
 [ 6 7 ] 
 
There shut the door alas! on many a hope, 
 And yet some hopes remain, that shall decide 
 My rest of years and down the autumnal slope. 
 
 Gone are the quiet, twilight dreams that I 
 Loved, as all men have loved them; gone! 
 I have great dreams and still they stir my soul 
 
 on high. 
 Dreams of the knight's stout heart and tem- 
 pered will. 
 Not in Elysian lands, they take their way; 
 Not as of yore across the gay champaign, 
 Towards some dream city, towered in . . . 
 
 and my . . . 
 The path winds forth before me, sweet and 
 
 plain, 
 Not now; but though beneath a stone-gray sky, 
 November's russet woodlands toss and wail, 
 Still the white road goes thro' them, still may I 
 Strong in new purpose, God, may still prevail. 
 
 I and my like, improvident sailors! 
 
 At whose light fall awaking, all my heart 
 Grew populous with gracious-favoured 
 thought 
 
 [ 68 ] 
 
And, all night long thereafter, hour by hour, 
 The pageant of dead love before my eyes 
 Went proudly, and old hopes with downcast 
 
 head 
 Followed like Kings, subdued in Rome's im- 
 perial hour, 
 Followed the car; and I — 
 
 [ 69 ] 
 
SINCE THOU HAST GIVEN ME THIS 
 GOOD HOPE, O GOD 
 
 This undated poem belongs either to the 
 early days of Stevenson's marriage in Califor- 
 nia, or to the Samoan years, when his life was 
 drawing towards its close. At both periods 
 "great woods" embosomed him, the "light of 
 love" shone on him, and in his wife he had 
 "a perfect friend." It may be added that 
 while the punctuation of these verses is not 
 beyond censure, it would be rash to introduce 
 any change that might detract from the cumu- 
 lative effect which the poet managed to secure 
 by giving his poem the form of a single sen- 
 tence. 
 
 SINCE THOU HAST GIVEN ME THIS 
 GOOD HOPE, O GOD 
 
 Since thou hast given me this good hope, O 
 
 God, 
 That while my footsteps tread the flowery sod 
 And the great woods embower me, and white 
 
 dawn 
 And purple even sweetly lead me on 
 From day to day and night to night, O God, 
 
 [ 70 ] 
 
My life shall no wise miss the light of love, 
 But ever climbing, climb above 
 Man's one poor star, man's supine lands, 
 Into the azure steadfastness of death 
 My life shall no wise lack the light of love, 
 My hands not lack the loving touch of hands, 
 But day by day, while yet I draw my breath, 
 And day by day unto my last of years, 
 I shall be one that has a perfect friend, 
 Her heart shall taste my laughter and my tears 
 And her kind eyes shall lead me to the end. 
 
 [ 7i ] 
 
GOD GAVE TO ME A CHILD IN PART 
 
 Among the poems of Robert Burns, there is 
 one addressed to a daughter born out of wed- 
 lock, and in his verses Burns expresses, along 
 with paternal affection and loyalty, an almost 
 bitter defiance to the opinion of society. In 
 the present poem to an unborn child — and, as 
 such, a poem of very unusual character — 
 Stevenson writes in a vein far more beautiful 
 than that of Burns. One would have to search 
 far to find any other poem of a famous author 
 so essentially ideal in its expression of paternal 
 love. He has no living child upon which the 
 affections can center, but only the idea of that 
 child who was never to be born. It is as if 
 the poet had, through his imagination and his 
 emotions, visualized in a bud killed by early 
 frost all the wonder and delight of the unful- 
 filled days of blossom. The love that would 
 have made him "immortal among mortal 
 men" was destined to come to no fruition, and 
 the poet, dreaming of the unattainable joy, 
 presents a phase of grief as appealing as it is 
 unusual. 
 
 [ 72 ] 
 
The original draft of this poem was pre- 
 sumably written in the early 70's; the form 
 shown here is from the later manuscript which 
 Stevenson preserved among the poems that he 
 selected for retention from the numerous writ- 
 ings of various periods of his life. The earl- 
 ier draft (a more intimate account) has thirty- 
 five lines, many of them incomplete. The final 
 version, as revised by Stevenson, contains six- 
 teen lines. 
 
 GOD GAVE TO ME A CHILD IN PART 
 
 God gave to me a child in part, 
 Yet wholly gave the father's heart: — 
 Child of my soul, O whither now, 
 Unborn, unmothered, goest thou? 
 
 You came, you went, and no man wist; 
 Hapless, my child, no breast you kisst; 
 On no dear knees, a privileged babbler, clomb, 
 Nor knew the kindly feel of home. 
 
 My voice may reach you, O my dear — 
 
 A father's voice perhaps the child may hear; 
 
 And pitying, you may turn your view 
 
 On that poor father whom you never knew. 
 
 [ 73 ] 
 
Alas! alone he sits, who then 
 Immortal among mortal men 
 Sat hand in hand with love, and all day 
 
 through 
 With your dear mother, wondered over you. 
 
 [ 74 ] 
 
OVER THE LAND IS APRIL 
 
 LIGHT AS THE LINNET 
 
 The handwriting of the two poems which 
 follow is that of Stevenson's later years, but the 
 verses themselves seem beyond doubt to estab- 
 lish the place of their composition as Scotland, 
 and the period as the 70's. The manuscripts 
 are therefore to be considered as late tran- 
 scripts from earlier drafts, the whereabouts of 
 which it would be difficult to establish. "The 
 high brown mountain" which figures in the 
 first of these poems is assuredly one of the 
 Pentland hills. The references to the snows 
 and the wind of winter of course preclude the 
 possibility of its being a Samoan mountain, 
 and the mention of sonnets recalls the fact that 
 it was during the years 1870- 1872 that Steven- 
 son was most addicted to this form of versifica- 
 tion. Altogether there can be little question 
 that this lyric, so redolent of spring, belongs 
 with the series of love poems inspired by the 
 romance of his early manhood. 
 
 [ 75 ] 
 
The general tenor of the second poem gives 
 some evidence of the time of composition, and 
 it may be surmised that the verses were written 
 when Stevenson was about to leave Scotland 
 to set forth on his great adventure, his voyage 
 across the ocean to meet Fanny Osbourne in 
 California. On the other occasions of his de- 
 parture from home, Stevenson had been ade- 
 quately provided for by his father; only this 
 time did he start "light as the linnet" and with 
 an empty pack. However, he bears "a char- 
 tered heart" and is content in the knowledge 
 that the "eternal woman" is waiting for him. 
 The last phrase, it is almost needless to re- 
 mark, is taken from Goethe, who, it will be re- 
 membered, had been studied by Stevenson dur- 
 ing his early life. Later the Scottish poet was 
 to some extent estranged from the thought and 
 philosophy of the German. 
 
 OVER THE LAND IS APRIL 
 
 Over the land is April, 
 
 Over my heart a rose ; 
 Over the high, brown mountain 
 
 The sound of singing goes. 
 
 [ 76 ] 
 
Say, love, do you hear me, 
 
 Hear my sonnets ring? 
 Over the high, brown mountain, 
 
 Love, do you hear me sing? 
 
 By highway, love, and byway, 
 The snows succeed the rose. 
 
 Over the high, brown mountain 
 The wind of winter blows, 
 
 Say, love, do you hear me, 
 Hear my sonnets ring? 
 
 Over the high, brown mountain 
 I sound the song of spring. 1 
 I throw the flowers of spring. 1 
 Do you hear the song of spring. 1 
 Hear you the songs of spring? 1 
 
 LIGHT AS THE LINNET ON MY WAY 
 I START 
 
 Light as the linnet on my way I start, 
 For all my pack I bear a chartered heart. 
 Forth on the world without a guide or chart, 
 Content to know through all man's varying 
 
 fates, 
 The eternal woman by the wayside waits. 
 
 (i) Variations of the final line. 
 
 [ 77 ] 
 
COME, HERE IS ADIEU TO THE 
 CITY 
 
 Although a poem of no great distinction, 
 these verses have an interest as an evidence of 
 that enthusiasm for "the broad road" so char- 
 acteristic of their author. The one phrase in- 
 dicative of Stevenson's faculty of artistic ob- 
 servation is to be found in the seventh line 
 where he notes how the fallows are yet a- 
 gleam with the rainfall of the night. 
 
 The character of the manuscript points to 
 Stevenson's younger years, and the poem prob- 
 ably belongs to the early '70's. 
 
 COME, HERE IS ADIEU TO THE 
 CITY 
 
 Come, here is adieu to the city 
 
 And hurrah for the country again. 
 The broad road lies before me 
 
 Watered with last night's rain. 
 The timbered country woos me, 
 
 With many a hill and bough; 
 And again in the shining fallows, 
 
 The ploughman follows the plough. 
 
 [ 78 ] 
 
The whole year's sweat and study 
 
 And the whole year's sowing time, 
 Comes now to the perfect harvest 
 
 And ripens now into rhyme. 
 For we that sow in the Autumn, 
 
 We reap our grain in the Spring, 
 And we that go sowing and weeping, 
 
 Return to reap and sing. 
 
 [ 79 ] 
 
IT BLOWS A SNOWING GALE 
 
 These few experimental verses show Stev- 
 enson in the incompleted act of composition. 
 There is in them one fine touch of description: 
 the seizure of the flash of sun on the veering 
 vane. This is what would have immediately 
 caught a painter's eye, however unconscious 
 he might have remained of the inferential 
 symbolism of this note of sunlight amid the 
 "autumn leaves and rain." 
 
 IT BLOWS A SNOWING GALE 
 
 It blows a snowing gale in the winter of the 
 
 year; 
 The boats are on the sea and the crews are on 
 
 the pier. 
 The needle of the vane, it is veering to and fro, 
 A flash of sun is on the veering of the vane. 
 Autumn leaves and rain, 
 The passion of the gale. 
 
 [ 80 ] 
 
NE SIT ANCILLAE TIBI AMOR 
 PUDARI 
 
 "Be not ashamed of your love for the hand- 
 maiden," Stevenson exhorts us in the title of 
 a poem which is an achievement of grace and 
 delicacy. Class distinctions are class distinc- 
 tions, and while Mrs. Grundy is watching us 
 we take care to observe them ; but the poet is 
 willing to proclaim that the uniform of ser- 
 vice and the dress of the master are, after all, 
 but outward insignia. And so, sometimes "by 
 chance" (though well we know it as a happy 
 chance, if chance at all) he touches the finger 
 of the handmaiden, and in that touch expresses 
 a sentiment that his wording renders free from 
 even the remotest shadow of vulgarity. It is 
 one of the most essentially human of all his 
 poems. 
 
 The stanzaic form points to an early peri- 
 od, say 1874; the place, very possibly, Swans- 
 ton. 
 
 NE SIT ANCILLAE TIBI AMOR 
 PUDARI 
 
 There's just a twinkle in your eye 
 That seems to say I might, if I 
 
 [ 81 ] 
 
Were only bold enough to try 
 An arm about your waist. 
 
 I hear too as you come and go, 
 
 That pretty nervous laugh, you know; 
 
 And then your cap is always so 
 Coquettishly displaced. 
 
 Your cap! the word's profanely said. 
 That little top-knot, white and red, 
 That quaintly crowns your graceful head, 
 
 No bigger than a flower, 
 Is set with such a witching art, 
 Is so provocatively smart, 
 I'd like to wear it on my heart, 
 
 An order for an hour! 
 
 graceful housemaid, tall and fair, 
 
 1 love your shy imperial air, 
 And always loiter on the stair, 
 
 When you are going by. 
 A strict reserve the fates demand ; 
 But, when to let you pass I stand, 
 Sometimes by chance I touch your hand 
 
 And sometimes catch your eye. 
 
 [ 82 ] 
 
TO ALL THAT LOVE THE FAR AND 
 BLUE 
 
 These twenty-four lines form but one sen- 
 tence, whose period is reached only when 
 Stevenson has proclaimed to all wanderers 
 that "at the end of ends" they shall see "the 
 golden city come in view." This last phrase 
 is reminiscent of San Francisco with its 
 Golden Gate; and the mention of Utah at the 
 close of the second stanza would seem further 
 to confirm the surmise that the verses were 
 written either during or after his visit to the 
 United States. Indeed the whole tenor of the 
 poem points to its composition after his happy 
 marriage in 1880. In the first stanza are the 
 references to earlier years and to his canoe 
 trips; in the second, to his crossing of the 
 ocean; in the third, to the long way across the 
 plains with their "dust and dew," and to the 
 interment of old hopes (one recalls his tem- 
 porary estrangement from his parents) as well 
 as to the new joy that awaited him in Cali- 
 fornia. 
 
 [ 83 ] 
 
TO ALL THAT LOVE THE FAR AND 
 BLUE 
 
 To all that love the far and blue: 
 
 Whether, from dawn to eve, on foot 
 The fleeing corners ye pursue, 
 
 Nor weary of the vain pursuit; 
 Or whether down the singing stream, 
 
 Paddle in hand, jocund ye shoot, 
 To splash beside the splashing bream 
 
 Or anchor by the willow root: 
 
 Or, bolder, from the narrow shore 
 
 Put forth, that cedar ark to steer 
 Among the seabirds and the roar 
 
 Of the great sea, profound and clear; 
 Or lastly if in heart ye roam, 
 
 Not caring to do else, and hear, 
 Safe sitting by the fire at home, 
 
 Footfalls in Utah or Pamere: 
 
 Though long the way, though hard to bear 
 
 The sun and rain, the dust and dew; 
 Though still attainment and despair 
 
 Inter the old, despoil the new; 
 There shall at length, be sure, O friends, 
 
 Howe'er ye steer, whate'er ye do — 
 At length and at the end of ends, 
 
 The golden city come in view. 
 
 [ 84 ] 
 
THOU STRAINEST THROUGH THE 
 MOUNTAIN FERN 
 
 (A Fragment) 
 
 Did these verses (whose handwriting points 
 to the 8o's) accompany some volume of Swin- 
 burne's, sent by Stevenson to the friend who is 
 adjured to burn the book? In any case, the 
 poem is a humorous piece of interesting crit- 
 icism on a famous contemporary. Stevenson 
 entirely escaped the influence of Swinburne — 
 in itself a noteworthy fact. Despite the fur- 
 ore and din of the greatest metrical master of 
 the Victorian era, Stevenson finds in Swin- 
 burne's poetry only a thin stream of enduring 
 human appeal. The true poetic kin are those 
 who enter into less esoteric fields of human 
 emotions, passing with singing voice along the 
 common highways of life: poets like Burns 
 and Wordsworth. "Tintern Abbey" was as- 
 suredly one of the vital poems in Stevenson's 
 career, bringing to him not alone "The still 
 sad music of humanity" but also the sense of 
 that sublime spirit 
 
 Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, 
 And the round ocean and the living air, 
 And the blue sky, and in the mind of man. 
 
 [ 8 5 ] 
 
THOU STRAINEST THROUGH THE 
 MOUNTAIN FERN 
 
 (A Fragment) 
 Thou strainest through the mountain fern, 
 A most exiguously thin 
 
 Burn. 
 For all thy foam, for all thy din, 
 Thee shall the pallid lake inurn, 
 With well-a-day for Mr. Swin- 
 
 Burne! 
 Take then this quarto in thy fin 
 And, O thou stoker huge and stern, 
 The whole affair, outside and in, 
 
 Burn! 
 But save the true poetic kin, 
 The works of Mr. Robert Burn' 
 And William Wordsworth upon Tin- 
 Tern! 
 
 [ 86 ] 
 
TO ROSABELLE 
 
 This poem is an example of Stevenson's 
 ability to use, for the purposes of his art, the 
 incident of a child's gracious action. The 
 verses recount how one hot day when Steven- 
 son was seated with a friend, the latter's little 
 daughter noticing the languor of the "giants," 
 climbed a piano, and took down a pair of fans. 
 First, she gave the smaller fan to Stevenson 
 and the larger one to her father; but then she 
 remedied her error — 
 
 and with the greater fan, 
 In gracious better thought, equipped the guest. 
 
 Stevenson then goes on to describe the little 
 girl as she reviewed her work of art, now 
 advancing and now stepping back, as painters 
 do "before the growing canvas." His com- 
 parison of the piano to a "vast plateau," and 
 of the little girl to a mountaineer, shows him 
 employing the imagination of childhood in 
 the manner that is so often the charm of the 
 "Child's Garden of Verses." 
 
 [ 87 1 
 
TO ROSABELLE 
 
 When my young lady has grown great and 
 
 staid 
 And in long raiment wondrously arrayed 
 She may take pleasure with a smile, to know 
 How she delighted men-folk long ago. 
 For her long after, then, this tale I tell 
 Of the two fans and fairy Rosabelle. 
 Hot was the day; her weary sire and I 
 Sat in our chairs companionably nigh, 
 Each with a headache sat her sire and I. 
 
 Instant the hostess waked: she viewed the 
 
 scene, 
 Divined the giants' languor by their mien, 
 And with hospitable care, 
 
 Tackled at once an Atlantean chair. 
 Her pigmy stature scarce attained the seat — 
 She dragged it where she would, and with her 
 
 feet 
 Surmounted: thence, a Phaeton launched, she 
 
 crowned 
 The vast plateau of the piano, found 
 And culled a pair of fans; wherewith 
 
 equipped, 
 Our mountaineer back to the level slipped; 
 [ 88 ] 
 
3t. T u (l^XsAh- 
 
 <]1-\aa~-*-J( Iti ^c-Xj Co— ^-to^^. «^vJtt«— 1~~i^/v j 
 
 
And being landed, with considerate eyes, 
 Betwixt her elders dealt her double prize; 
 The small to me, the greater to her sire. 
 
 As painters now advance and now retire 
 Before the growing canvas, and anon 
 Once more approach and put the climax on : 
 So she awhile withdrew, her piece she 
 
 viewed — 
 For half a moment, half supposed it good — 
 Spied her mistake, nor sooner spied than ran 
 To remedy; and with the greater fan, 
 In gracious better thought, equipped the 
 
 guest. 
 
 From ill to well, from better on to best, 
 Arts move; the homely, like the plastic kind; 
 And high ideals fired that infant mind. 
 Once more she backed, once more a space 
 
 apart 
 Considered and reviewed her work of art: 
 Doubtful at first, and gravely yet awhile ; 
 Till all her features blossomed in a smile. 
 And the child waking at the call of bliss, 
 To each she ran, and took and gave a kiss. 
 
 [ 89] 
 
NOW BARE TO THE BEHOLDER'S 
 EYE 
 
 If the reader should consult the third poem 
 in "Underwoods," he would find that "The 
 Canoe Speaks" has a series of dots following 
 the last line as there printed. In the present 
 verses (written, assuredly, previous to 1887) 
 these dots are explained, for here we have the 
 portion which Stevenson decided to omit when 
 preparing "Underwoods" for the press. Curi- 
 ous that what even the most narrow-laced pub- 
 lic will allow in the case of a painter, it hes- 
 itates to accord to the writer who draws upon 
 his palette of words. Stevenson was, however, 
 careful to preserve these unpublished lines 
 which picture the young girl as she is about to 
 enter "chaste Diana's bathing-place." Here 
 is the kind of writing one is more apt to find in 
 French poetry; Mallarme, for instance. 
 There is a touch of it in Meredith's "Love in 
 the Valley," a poem no doubt familiar to 
 Stevenson. 
 
 The present verses are highly successful, not 
 alone in their happy use of metaphors sug- 
 
 [ 9o] 
 
gested by battle, and intimating the battle of 
 sex, but also by reason of such fine lines as 
 these : 
 
 But let the stars appear and they 
 
 Shed inhumanities away; 
 
 while the concluding verse "leaps forth," as 
 does "the laughing girl," with that vitality and 
 freshness which permeate the entire poem. 
 
 It might have been more logical to include 
 these verses in that section given over to varia- 
 tions and unpublished portions of Stevenson's 
 published poems; but so complete in them- 
 selves are the lines that they invite the dignity 
 of independent presentation. 
 
 NOW BARE TO THE BEHOLDER'S 
 EYE 
 
 Now bare to the beholder's eye, 
 Your late denuded bindings lie, 
 Subsiding slowly where they fell, 
 A disinvested citadel : 
 The obdurate corset, Cupid's foe, 
 The Dutchman's breeches frilled below, 
 Those that the lover loves to note, 
 And white and crackling petticoat. 
 
 [ 9i ] 
 
From these, that on the ground repose, 
 Their lady lately re-arose; 
 And laying by the lady's name 
 A living woman re-became. 
 Of her, that from the public eye 
 They do inclose and fortify, 
 Now, lying scattered as they fell, 
 An indiscreeter tale they tell: 
 Of that more soft and secret her 
 Whose daylong fortresses they were, 
 By fading warmth, by lingering print, 
 These now discarded scabbards hint. 
 
 A twofold change the ladies know. 
 First, in the morn the bugles blow, 
 And they, with floral hues and scents, 
 Man their beribboned battlements. 
 But let the stars appear, and they 
 Shed inhumanities away; 
 And from the changeling fashion see, 
 Through comic and through sweet degree, 
 In nature's toilet unsurpassed, 
 Forth leaps the laughing girl at last. 
 
 [ 92 ] 
 
THE BOUR-TREE DEN 
 
 These lines are important as being Steven- 
 son's only poem based on an episode of Scot- 
 tish life or legend, and as the lengthiest of his 
 hitherto unpublished poems in the Scots dia- 
 lect. In its relation of the tryst kept by the 
 young girl with her lover in hiding, and in its 
 connection with those Highland feuds that 
 were so favored a theme of Stevenson the nov- 
 elist, the poem is associated with his romances. 
 Altogether one is inclined to call it the most 
 appealing of Stevenson's excursions into the 
 realm of ballad poetry. 
 
 While the Scottish theme might seem to 
 point to earlier years, the hand-writing is of 
 the South Seas period, and one surmises that 
 the poem belongs to that time when, as is 
 shown by the "Song of Rahero" and "The 
 Feast of Famine," Stevenson had become espe- 
 cially interested in the writing of ballads. 
 
 THE BOUR-TREE DEN 
 
 Clinkum-clank in the rain they ride, 
 Down by the braes and the grey sea-side, 
 Clinkum-clank by stane and cairn : 
 Weary fa' their horse-shoe-airn! 
 
 [ 93 ] 
 
Loud on the causey, saft on the sand, 
 Round they rade by the tail of the land, 
 Round and up by the Bour-Tree Den : 
 Weary fa' the red-coat men! 
 
 Aft hae I gane where they hae rade 
 And straigled in the gowden brooms — 
 
 Aft hae I gane, a saikless maid, 
 
 And O! sae bonny as the bour-tree blooms! 
 
 Wi' swords and guns they wanton there, 
 Wi' red, red coats and braw, braw plumes. 
 
 But I gaed wi' my gowden hair, 
 And O! sae bonny as the bour-tree blooms! 
 
 I ran, a little hempie lass, 
 In the sand and the bent grass, 
 Or took and kilted my small coats 
 To play in the beached fisher-boats. 
 I waded deep and I ran fast, 
 I was as lean as a lugger's mast, 
 I was as brown as a fisher's creel, 
 And I liked my life unco weel. 
 
 They blew a trumpet at the cross, 
 Some forty men, both foot and horse. 
 A'body cam to hear and see, 
 And wha, among the rest, but me. 
 
 [ 94] 
 
My lips were saut wi' the saut air, 
 My face was brown, my feet were bare, 
 The wind had ravelled my tautit hair, 
 And I thought shame to be standing there. 
 
 Ae man there, in the thick of the throng, 
 Sat in his saddle, straight and strong. 
 I looked at him and he at me, 
 And he was a master-man to see. 
 
 — And who is this yin? and who is yon 
 That has the bonny lendings on? 
 
 That sits and looks sae braw and crouse? 
 
 — Mister Frank o' the Big House! 
 
 I gaed my lane beside the sea ; 
 The wind it blew in bush and tree, 
 The wind blew in bush and bent: 
 Muckle I saw, and muckle kent! 
 Between the beach and the sea-hill, 
 I sat my lane and grat my fill — 
 I was sae clarty and hard and dark, 
 And like the kye in the cow park! 
 
 There fell a battle far in the north, 
 The evil news gaed back and forth, 
 And back and forth by brae and bent 
 Hider and hunter cam and went: 
 The hunter clattered horse-shoe-airn 
 
 [ 95 1 
 
By causey-crest and hill-top cairn ; 
 The hider, in by shag and shench, 
 Crept on his wame and little lench. 
 
 The eastland wind blew shrill and snell, 
 The stars arose, the gloaming fell, 
 The firelight shone in window and door 
 When Mr. Frank cam here to shore. 
 He hirpled up by the links and the lane, 
 And chappit laigh in the back-door-stane. 
 My faither gaed, and up wi' his han'! 
 — Is this Mr. Frank, or a beggarman? 
 
 I have mistrysted sair, he said, 
 
 But let me into fire and bed, 
 
 Let me in for auld lang syne, 
 
 And give me a dram of the brandy wine. 
 
 They hid him in the Bour-Tree Den, 
 
 And I thought it strange to gang my lane. 
 
 I thought it strange, I thought it sweet, 
 
 To gang there on my naked feet, 
 
 In the mirk night, when the boats were at sea, 
 
 I passed the burn abune the knee. 
 
 In the mirk night when the folks were asleep, 
 
 I had a tryst in the den to keep. 
 
 Late and air', when the folks were asleep, 
 I had a tryst, a tryst to keep, 
 
 [ 96 ] 
 
I had a lad that lippened to me, 
 And bour-tree blossom is fair to seel 
 
 O' the bour-tree leaves I busked his bed, 
 The mune was siller, the dawn was red : 
 Was nae man there but him and me, — 
 And bour-tree blossom is fair to see! 
 
 Unco weather hae we been through, 
 The mune glowered, and the wind blew, 
 And the rain it rained on him and me, 
 And bour-tree blossom is fair to see! 
 
 Dwelling his lane but house or hauld, 
 Aft he was wet and aft was cauld, 
 I warmed him wi' my briest and knee, — 
 And bour-tree blossom is fair to see! 
 
 There was nae voice of breast ae man, 
 But the tree soughed and the burn ran, 
 And we heard the ae voice of the sea: — 
 Bour-tree blossom is fair to see! 
 
 [ 97 ] 
 
A SEQUENCE OF EARLY SONNETS 
 
SONNETS 
 
 Among the "Collected Poems" of Stevenson 
 there is, curiously enough, not a single sonnet. 
 There are a few — very few — poems which, 
 by reason of their metre and the number of 
 their lines might pass as informal members of 
 the sonnet family — easy-going cousins, im- 
 patient of the rigid rules that govern their 
 more distinguished kin. The verses to Henry 
 James and those to King Kalakaua, swinging 
 along with the facile couplet rhyme, are 
 poems of this class ; but it is to Stevenson's un- 
 published verse that we must turn in order to 
 see him precisely essaying versification's most 
 difficult task. 
 
 The sonnets here printed follow the se- 
 quence in which Stevenson finally arranged 
 them. The composition of Sonnet I antedated 
 by two years the writing of the second sonnet, 
 the third again belongs to 1870, and the fol- 
 lowing five to 1872, so that it would have been 
 impossible to assign them to their chronolog- 
 ical places earlier in these volumes without 
 breaking in upon Stevenson's own arrange- 
 
 [ 101 ] 
 
ment. Moreover, they constitute an interest- 
 ing group worthy of study in themselves. 
 
 It was probably the influence of Words- 
 worth that led to Stevenson's experimentation 
 in the sonnet form, for he was a great favorite 
 of Stevenson, especially in those years. The 
 fifth and sixth lines of the first sonnet are 
 Wordsworthian, with perhaps a touch of Mil- 
 ton, a tinge that takes on a more decided color 
 in the seventh line. 
 
 The theme of the first sonnet is the possibil- 
 ity of achievement by the devotee of "Taste, 
 the golden pilot," as well as by the more stren- 
 uous class of men who are continually striving 
 in opposition to the difficulties of their sur- 
 roundings. Stevenson has not, indeed, made 
 a clear-cut distinction in the two attitudes that 
 he is trying to contrast, but we find in this son- 
 net a suggestion of the difference between the 
 moral and the aesthetic points of view in regard 
 to life. 
 
 The second sonnet, written in Earraid, 
 would seem to be addressed to the book "once 
 blank" which shall contain his poems — poems 
 whose "sunshine shall stint the meagre winter" 
 of "his projected triumph." The hoard of 
 
 [ I02 ] 
 
treasure "from the grange of memory" which 
 was to provide him with the jewelry of his 
 song is the theme of the third sonnet, the last 
 line of which reminds us of the stanzas in the 
 Rubaiyat. This last line is open to two inter- 
 pretations. Stevenson had been a sensitive 
 child, deeply feeling the limitations as well as 
 the joys of childhood, which might thus seem 
 to him to contain both the "best of Heaven 
 and the worst of Hell," and we may look upon 
 this concluding phrase as indicative of elder 
 regret for the early and irreclaimable years. 
 The fourth sonnet introduces that disillusion 
 which came with the frustration of the love 
 affair commemorated in many of his other 
 poems of this period. Here, similarly, he is 
 resolved to face with courage the future. The 
 scene of his writings is described in the fifth 
 sonnet, which has an Horatian quality as well 
 as a line taken bodily from Stevenson's well- 
 beloved Horace. Its place in this sequence of 
 sonnets is happily chosen, for with its quiet- 
 ness of natural description it comes like an 
 interlude between the fourth sonnet, with its 
 farewell to love, and the sixth, where the "old 
 hopes" "again seek to rise." But these desires 
 [ 103 ] 
 
are restrained, and in the next sonnet the poet 
 turns to thoughts of glory; his mood of disen- 
 chantment, however, leading him to cast dark 
 shadows on the prospect of achievement. 
 
 Having thus shown his recognition of life's 
 "unlovely web," and having expressed senti- 
 ments characteristic of youth in regard to old 
 age, Stevenson emerges in the final sonnet into 
 the sunnier atmosphere of the philosophy that 
 was to attend him throughout the years. In 
 comparing to the "starry prophets" and to the 
 faithful adherents of "forgotten creeds" those 
 who turn to "friendly arts" and offer homage 
 at the shrine of mirth, he emphasises the value 
 of joyous activity. But his creed is not the 
 negative creed of hedonism, a religion of re- 
 action ; it is affirmative, constructive — the joy- 
 ousness of Paganism transmuted into a spirit- 
 ual force. 
 
 These sonnets are here printed in their re- 
 vised form. It so happens that the original 
 draft of the first is still extant, among Mr. 
 Peabody's manuscripts. The earlier verses 
 comprise twenty-three lines, many of them ex- 
 perimental and incomplete. Ex uno disce 
 omnes; and we thus have some idea of the lit- 
 
 [ 104 ] 
 
erary labor wrought by the poet in the produc- 
 tion of the finished sonnets. 
 
 But there is another, and even more inter- 
 esting, manuscript copy of the first sonnet in 
 Mr. Peabody's collection. Stevenson sent this 
 copy to his cousin Robert who replies with 
 the following sonnet: 
 
 Surely he was that penned that supine lay 
 A seaman unambitious in his craft 
 Whom the gay indolence of some river raft 
 Floating at ease all through a Summer's Day 
 Had better pleased than steering arduous way 
 With eye intent on glorious enterprise. 
 Were there no seas beneath Italian skies 
 Of placid aspect that could tempt away 
 Columbus from the sterner paths he chose ? 
 Yes, but his soul sublimely rose 
 Above the routine of a meaner thing 
 Deeming tho' failure from a nobler spring, 
 Heaven afterward triumphantly will bring 
 Its imperfection to a glorious close. 
 
 This of course is the answer, rather felici- 
 tously expressed, of one who deprecates the 
 dilettante ideal which a surface reading of 
 Stevenson's lines connotes. But the cousin 
 seems to be aware that the deep thought of the 
 
 [ 105 ] 
 
artist underlies the superficial irresponsibility 
 of Stevenson's verses, and adds this postscript 
 in prose: 
 
 I admire the poetry, vous savez, the spirit, &c, 
 &c, if possible more than the form, which is too in- 
 volved, I think; especially that piece in brackets 
 about deeming rashly being the game of God only. 
 You must excuse me calling your lay supine but I 
 could not get a word. 
 
 We thus see how the cousins were exchang- 
 ing not alone their thoughts, but also the pro- 
 ' ducts of their pens, and this series of sonnets is 
 revealed, in part at least, as a literary act of 
 collaboration between the two most gifted of 
 the Stevensons. 
 
 SONNETS 
 i 
 Nor judge me light, tho' light at times I seem 
 And lightly in the stress of fortune, bear 
 The unnumerable flaws of changeful care — 
 Nor judge me light for this, nor rashly deem 
 (Office forbid to mortals, kept supreme 
 And separate, the prerogative of God!) 
 That seaman idle, who is borne abroad 
 To the far haven by the favouring stream. 
 
 [ 106 ] 
 
/. 
 &~3 Se^uiu%^^ / fez fiusur&ti&^jz. <?/ fore*- ■' J 
 
 ^bn**- e«*L<j A**/* ., <fci_ a^e^lt^. ZuLtof~, aZzzh*^ , 
 
 r Cufist^ t*sis™C £h*ZA/i c*<*-M^ f€</iu>^c*^i3 • am/%. ^t(*ti, 
 L*A- &c>rfc. /Uf2^jc_ X&A**- l 44<*e<X~ i^/z^J^*.^ c<aaJL^o aAu*^ f 
 
Not he alone that to contrarious seas 
 Opposes, all night long, the unwearied oar, 
 Not he alone, by high success endeared 
 Shall reach the Port; but, winged with some 
 
 light breeze, 
 Shall they, with upright keels, pass in before, 
 Whom easy Taste, the golden pilot, steered. 
 
 2 
 So shall this book wax like unto a well 
 Fairy with mirrored flowers about the brim 
 Or like some tarn, that wailing curlews skim, 
 Glassing the sallow uplands or brown fell ; 
 And so, as men go down into a dell 
 (Weary with noon) to find relief and shade, 
 When on the uneasy sick-bed we are laid, 
 We shall go down into thy book, and tell 
 The leaves once blank to build again for us 
 Old summer dead and ruined and the time 
 Of later autumn with the corn in stook. 
 So shalt thou stint the meagre winter thus 
 Of his projected triumph, and the rime 
 Shall melt before the sunshine in thy book. 
 
 3 
 I have a hoard of treasure in my breast; 
 The grange of memory steams against the door 
 
 [ io7 J 
 
Full of my bygone lifetime's garnered store, 
 Old pleasures crowned with sorrow for a zest, 
 Old sorrow grown a joy, old penance blest, 
 Chastened remembrance of the sins of yore 
 That like a new evangel more and more 
 Supports our halting will toward the best. 
 Ah, what to us the barren after years 
 May bring of joy or sorrow, who can tell? 
 Or, knowing not, who cares? It may be well, 
 That we shall find old pleasures and old fears 
 And our remembered childhood seen thro' 
 
 tears 
 The best of Heaven and the worst of Hell. 
 
 4 
 As starts the absent dreamer, when a train 
 Suddenly disengulphed below his feet 
 Roars forth into the sunlight, to its seat 
 My soul was shaken with immediate pain 
 Intolerable, as the scanty breath 
 Of that one word blew utterly away 
 The fragile mist of fair deceit that lay 
 O'er the bleak years that severed me from 
 
 death. 
 Yes, at the sight I quailed; but, not unwise 
 Or not, O God, without some nervous thread 
 [ 108 ] 
 
Of that best valor, Patience, bowed my head 
 And with firm bosom and most steadfast eyes, 
 Strong in all high resolve, prepared to tread 
 The unlovely path that leads me toward the 
 skies. 
 
 5 
 Not undelightful, friend, our rustic ease 
 To grateful hearts; for by especial hap 
 Deep nested in the hill's enormous lap 
 With its own ring of walls and grove of trees 
 Sits, in deep shelter, our small cottage — nor 
 Far-off is seen rose carpeted and hung 
 With clematis, the quarry whence she sprung, 
 O matre pulchra filia pulchrior. 
 Whither in early spring, unharnessed folk, 
 We join the pairing swallows, glad to stay 
 Where, loosened in the hills, remote, unseen, 
 From its tall trees, it breathes a slender smoke 
 To heav'n, and in the noon of sultry day 
 Stands, coolly buried, to the neck in green. 
 
 6 
 
 As in the hostel by the bridge, I sate 
 Mailed with indifference fondly deemed com- 
 plete, 
 
 [ io9 ] 
 
And (O strange chance, more sorrowful than 
 
 sweet) 
 The counterfeit of her that was my fate, 
 Dressed in like vesture, graceful and sedate, 
 Went quietly up the vacant, village street, 
 The still small sound of her most dainty feet 
 Shook, like a trumpet blast, my soul's estate. 
 Instant revolt ran riot through my brain; 
 And all night long, thereafter, hour by hour, 
 The pageant of dead love before my eyes 
 Went proudly; and old hopes broke loose 
 
 again, 
 From the restraint of wisely temperate power 
 With ineffectual ardour sought to rise. 
 
 7 
 The strong man's hand, the snow-cool head of 
 
 age, 
 The certain-footed sympathies of youth — 
 These, and that lofty passion after truth, 
 Hunger unsatisfied in priest or sage 
 Or the great men of former years, he needs 
 That not unworthily would dare to sing 
 (Hard task!) black care's inevitable ring 
 Settling with years, upon the heart that feeds 
 Incessantly on glory. Year by year, 
 [no] 
 
The narrowing toil grows closer round his 
 
 feet, 
 With disenchanting touch rude-handed time 
 The unlovely web discloses, and strange fear 
 Leads him at last to eld's inclement seat, 
 The bitter north of life — a frozen clime. 
 
 8 
 As Daniel, bird-alone 1 in that far land, 
 Kneeling in fervent prayer with heart-sick 
 
 eyes 
 Turned thro' the casement toward the wester- 
 ing skies ; 
 Or as untamed Elijah, that red brand 
 Among the starry prophets; or that band 
 And company of Faithful sanctities, 
 Who, in all times, when persecutions rise 
 Cherish forgotten creeds with fostering hand ; 
 Such do ye seem to me, light-hearted crew 
 O turned to friendly arts with all your will, 
 That keep a little chapel sacred still, 
 One rood of Holy-land in this bleak earth 
 Sequestered still (our homage surely due!) 
 To the twin Gods of mirthful wine and mirth. 
 
 d)Sic. 
 
 [ III ] 
 
POEMS OF STEVENSON'S HOUSE- 
 HOLD AT VAILIMA 
 
POEMS OF STEVENSON'S HOUSE- 
 HOLD AT VAILIMA 
 
 During the Samoan days Stevenson set him- 
 self the interesting task of writing a series of 
 poems on the members of his own household. 
 The manuscript volume, belonging to the year 
 1893, in which Stevenson wrote these poems 
 shows so many variations, erasures, and trans- 
 positions, that it is impossible to print them 
 in that entirety which would have resulted 
 had Stevenson finally prepared them for the 
 press, and so it therefore seems wiser not to 
 attempt here the publication of every line, but 
 rather to choose such passages as seem to be 
 most complete and in themselves suffice to in- 
 dicate the character of this poem-cycle. The 
 following are the lines in which he describes 
 his wife, intent upon tasks of the farm : 
 
 About my fields, in the broad sun 
 And blaze of noon, there goeth one, 
 Barefoot and robed in blue, to scan 
 With the hard eye of the husbandman 
 My harvests and my cattle. Her, 
 
 [ "5 ] 
 
When even puts the birds astir 
 And day has set in the great woods, 
 We seek, among her garden roods, 
 With bells and cries in vain: the while 
 Lamps, plate and the decanter smile 
 On the forgotten board. But she, 
 Deaf, blind, and prone on face and knee, 
 Forgets time, family and feast 
 And digs like a demented beast. 
 
 The next verses describe Isobel Strong and 
 her daughter Aolele. The title is a gallant 
 adaptation from Horace: "Mater Pulchra 
 nee Filia Pulchrior." These verses, however, 
 Mrs. Strong has already printed under the 
 title of "Mother and Daughter" in her "Mem- 
 ories of Vailima," although there are various 
 unpublished lines in the original draft, among 
 which are the following: 
 
 Alike the steps on stair, in bower 
 Alike the heads poised like a flower, 
 The inimitable arms, the lines 
 Inimitably feminine 
 Of tender limbs. 
 
 Lloyd Osbourne, Stevenson's step-son and 
 collaborator, is pictured in the next poem: 
 
 [ "6 ] 
 
Tall as a guardsman, pale as the east at dawn, 
 Who strides in strange apparel on the lawn? 
 Rails for his breakfast? routs his vassals out 
 (Like boys escaped from school) with song 
 
 and shout? 
 Kind and unkind, his Maker's final freak, 
 Part we deride the child — part dread the an- 
 tique ! 
 See where his gang, like frogs, among the dew 
 Crouch at their duty, an unquiet crew; 
 Adjust their staring kilts; and their swift eyes 
 Turn still to him who sits to supervise. 
 He, in the midst, perched on a fallen tree 
 Eyes them at labour; and, guitar on knee, 
 Now ministers alarm, now scatters joy, 
 Now twangs a halting chord — now tweaks a 
 
 boy. 
 Thorough in all, my resolute vizier, 
 Plays both the despot and the volunteer, 
 Exacts with fines obedience to my laws, 
 — And for his music, too, exacts applause. 
 
 After this there follows a long series of 
 verses to Mrs. Strong's daughter "Teuila, her 
 native name, the Decorator," including these 
 expressive lines belonging to the same poem, 
 and hitherto unpublished: 
 
 [ "7 ] 
 
The Adorner of the uncomely — Those 
 
 Amidst whose tall battallions goes 
 
 Her pretty person out and in 
 
 All day with an endearing din, 
 
 Of censure and encouragement; 
 
 And when all else is tried in vain 
 
 See her sit down and weep again. 
 
 She weeps to conquer; 
 
 She varies on her grenadiers 
 
 From satire up to girlish tears! 
 
 Or rather to behold her when 
 She plies for me the unresting pen, 
 And when the loud assault of squalls 
 Resounds upon the roof and walls, 
 And the low thunder growls and I 
 Raise my dictating voice on high. 
 
 Mrs. Strong's son Austin was also a great 
 favorite of Stevenson's, and he took part in 
 both the studies and the recreations of the lad. 
 The following verses commemorate one of 
 those excursions with horses on which young 
 Austin frequently went with "Uncle Louis:" 
 
 What glory for a boy of ten, 
 
 Who now must three gigantic men, 
 
 And two enormous, dapple gray, 
 
 [ "8 ] 
 
New Zealand pack-horses, array 
 And lead, and wisely resolute 
 Our day-long business execute 
 In the far shore-side town. His soul 
 Glows in his bosom like a coal ; 
 His innocent eyes glitter again, 
 And his hand trembles on the rein. 
 Once he reviews his whole command 
 And chivalrously planting hand 
 On hip — a borrowed attitude — 
 Rides off downhill into the wood. 
 
 We now come to the verses in which the 
 poet has pictured himself: 
 
 I meanwhile in the populous house apart 
 Sit, snugly chambered, and my silent art 
 Uninterrupted, unremitting ply 
 Before the dawn, by morning lamplight, by 
 The glow of smelting noon, and when the sun 
 Dips past my westering hill and day is done; 
 So, bending still over my trade of words, 
 I hear the morning and the evening birds, 
 The morning and the evening stars behold; — 
 So there apart I sit as once of old 
 Napier in wizard Merchiston ; and my 
 Brown innocent aides in home and husbandry, 
 
 [ HP ] 
 
Wonder askance, What ails the boss? they ask, 
 Him, richest of the rich, an endless task 
 Before the earliest birds or servants stir 
 Calls and detains him daylong prisoner? 
 He, whose innumerable dollars hewed 
 This cleft in the boar and devil haunted wood, 
 And bade therein, from sun to seas and skies, 
 His many-windowed, painted palace rise 
 Red-roofed, blue-walled, a rainbow on the 
 
 hill, 
 A wonder in the forest glade: he still, 
 Unthinkable Aladdin, dawn and dark, 
 Scribbles and scribbles, like a German clerk. 
 We see the fact, but tell, O tell us why? 
 My reverend washman and wise butler cry. 
 Meanwhile at times the manifold 
 Imperishable perfumes of the past 
 And colored pictures rise on me thick and 
 
 fast: 
 And I remember the white rime, the loud 
 Lamplitten city, shops and the changing 
 
 crowd, 
 And I remember home and the old time, 
 The winding river, the white moving rhyme, 
 The autumn robin by the riverside, 
 That pipes in the grey eve. 
 
 [ 1 20 ] 
 
Stevenson's manuscript volume shows as the 
 final act of composition in his series of verses 
 on his household at Vailima, an unfinished 
 draft of a poem to his mother. A study of 
 these lines, some of them merely beginnings, 
 makes possible the following reasonably close 
 approximation to the form which the poem 
 would have taken had Stevenson completed it: 
 
 The old lady (so they say) but I 
 Admire your young vitality. 
 Still brisk of foot, still busy and keen 
 In and about and up and down. 
 
 I hear you pass with bustling feet 
 The long verandahs round, and beat 
 Your bell, and "Lotu! Lotu!" cry; 
 Thus calling our queer company 
 In morning or in evening dim, 
 To prayers and the oft mangled hymn. 
 
 All day you watch across the sky 
 The silent, shining cloudlands ply, 
 That, huge as countries, swift as birds, 
 Beshade the isles by halves and thirds ; 
 Till each with battlemented crest 
 Stands anchored in the ensanguined west, 
 An Alp enchanted. All the day 
 
 [ 121 ] 
 
You hear the exuberant wind at play, 
 
 Its vast, unbroken voice uplift 
 
 In roaring tree, round whistling clift. 
 
 Even in their incompleteness, the foregoing 
 poems give a vivid picture of the household 
 at Vailima. They reveal the sympathetic 
 bond between himself and his wife, not devoid 
 of a touch of humorous understanding of her 
 ways; his appreciation, in the verses to Isobel 
 Strong and her daughter, of the charm of wo- 
 manhood and of girlhood; his recognition of 
 the force of manly character as exemplified in 
 Lloyd Osbourne; his sympathy with Austin's 
 emotions of boyhood ; his loyal devotion to his 
 own mother. Then in the verses where he 
 writes of himself we have not alone the ex- 
 pression of that life-long adherence to the 
 laborious art of the unremitting craftsman in 
 the field of authorship and the insight into the 
 minds of the Samoan laborers, but also — here 
 near the end of his life — reminiscences of the 
 far Scotland days of his youth, — the "imper- 
 ishable perfumes of the past." 
 
 [ 122 ] 
 
WE HAVE LOVED OF YORE 
 
 ( To an air of Diabelli) 
 During the last part of his life Stevenson 
 wrote one of the best of his poems in blank 
 verse, wherein he addresses his wife, evoking 
 memories of earlier days of love. It appears 
 under the above title, as the twelfth poem in 
 the "Songs of Travel and Other Verses" 
 (Book III of "Underwoods"). In order to 
 illustrate the careful art characteristic of the 
 poet, especially at the culmination of his ca- 
 reer, the genesis of this poem is here traced. 
 The first page contains sixteen lines : 
 
 Up the river where the berries hang in clusters 
 
 on the island brakes 
 Up the still enchanted river 
 Where the ruby berries cluster 
 Where the berries on the island, where the 
 
 mill wheel hums and sings the weir 
 Where the mill wheel shakes the lilies 
 Where begarlanded the islands 
 Up the stream and through the islands 
 Who are there around the river? 
 [ 123 ] 
 
Too late your love is dying 
 
 Too late you see before you, the love that 
 
 might have been. 
 What was to be is finished, what is to be begun. 
 The seal of the eternal proclaims your story 
 
 done. 
 Too late the fault repented, too late the evil 
 
 seen, 
 Too late beheld the beauty, the love that might 
 
 have been. 
 The dews of death 
 That dimpling face immobile, those blind 
 
 averted eyes. 
 
 The poet here has before him the image of 
 the placid river at Grez, memorable not alone 
 for its natural beauty, but laden also with the 
 glamour of romantic associations; for at Grez 
 he first met and fell in love with his future 
 wife. The first seven preceding lines give the 
 setting; the eighth line accentuates the spirit 
 of days gone by. But in the next eight Stev- 
 enson seems to go astray. He drifts into an 
 almost moralizing poem fraught with a bur- 
 den of regret and not free from commonplace 
 lines. But after that, he sees better use for 
 his material, and swiftly finds his way back to 
 [ 124 ] 
 
the purely lyrical field, as revealed in the sec- 
 ond page of his manuscript. Here too he 
 gives the poem a title — one which is to be- 
 come the parenthetical or sub-title in the print- 
 ed version. Diabelli was an Austrian com- 
 poser who died in 1858. 
 
 AIR OF DIABELLI'S 
 
 Call it to mind, O my love, 
 
 Dear were your eyes as the day 
 
 Bright as the day and the sky 
 
 Like the stream of gold and the sky above. 
 
 Dear were your eyes in the grey 
 We have lived, my love, O, we have lived, my 
 love! 
 
 Now along the silent river 
 
 azure 
 Through the sky's inverted image 
 Softly swam the boat that bore our love 
 Swiftly ran the shallow of our love 
 Through the Heaven's inverted image 
 In the reedy mazes round the river 
 See along the silent river 
 See of old the lovers' shallop steer. 
 Berried brake and reedy island 
 
 [ 125 ] 
 
Heaven below and only heaven above 
 Through the sky's inverted image 
 Swiftly swam the boat that bore our love. 
 
 Berried brake and reedy island 
 
 Mirrored flower and shallop gliding by 
 
 All the earth and all the sky were ours 
 
 Silent sat the wafted lovers 
 
 Bound with grain and watched by all the sky 
 
 Hand to hand and eye to something 1 eye. 
 
 Of the preceding twenty-three lines, the 
 fourteenth (compressed from the first line of 
 the first page) is to be the first line of the final 
 version ; the fifteenth line will be used as the 
 second; and the eighth and ninth lines, in a 
 varied form, are to become the third and 
 fourth of the printed poem. Here too we 
 have the material shaping itself for the fifth, 
 sixth and seventh lines; while the thirteenth 
 and fourteenth of the published version are 
 contained in the sixth line of this page of man- 
 uscript. By this time everything, sentiment 
 as well as setting, is lyrical. 
 
 The poem as finally wrought by Stevenson 
 has two stanzas of fourteen lines each. In the 
 
 (i) Sic. 
 
 [ 126 ] 
 
next page of manuscript we find the eighth, 
 ninth, tenth and eleventh lines rounding out 
 the first stanza. They appear as lines six, 
 seven, eight and nine of the following verses: 
 
 Days of April, airs of Eden 
 
 Call to mind how bright the vanished angel 
 
 hours 
 Golden hours of evening 
 When our boat drew homeward, filled with 
 
 flowers. 
 O darling, call them to mind, love the past my 
 
 love 
 Days of April, airs of Eden. 
 How the glory died through golden hours 
 And the shining moon arising 
 How the boat drew homeward filled with 
 
 flowers. 
 Age and winter close us slowly in. 
 
 Level river, cloudless heaven 
 Islanded reed mazes, silver weirs 
 How the silent boat with silver 
 Threads the inverted forest as she goes 
 Broke the trembling green of mirrored trees 
 O remember, and remember 
 How the berries hung in garlands. 
 [ 127 ] 
 
Stevenson has in the preceding pages gath- 
 ered together all the necessary colors for his 
 palette. The redness of the "berried brake" 
 the azure of the sky reflected in the stream, the 
 golden glory of sunset, the brilliancy of the 
 moon, flowers filling the homeward boat — and 
 the light in the eyes of the beloved, bright as 
 day, bright in the night. What a wealth of 
 color and beauty and joy — woven into one 
 with strands of love — are in this picture of the 
 past! But springtime is over, and it is a pic- 
 ture of the present that the poet now needs to 
 carry out the idea that came to him as soon as 
 he had abandoned his first conception. In the 
 eleventh line of the next page Stevenson sticks 
 close to the trail that is to lead him to the de- 
 sired goal. But this line, 
 
 O half in vain they grew old 
 
 will yet be rejected as not sufficiently positive 
 in its affirmation; for the thesis of the second 
 stanza is to be that entire permanency of the 
 love which years avail not to lessen. 
 
 Still in the river see the shallop floats 
 Hark! Chimes the falling oar. 
 
 Still in the mind 
 
 [ 128 ] 
 
Hark to the song of the past! 
 
 Dream and they pass in their dreams. 
 
 Those that loved of yore, O those that loved of 
 yore! 
 
 Hark through the stillnesses, O darling hark 
 Through it all, the ear of the mind 
 
 Knows the boat of love, Hark! 
 Chimes the falling oar. 
 
 O half in vain they grew old. 
 
 The next page sees the evolution of impor- 
 tant verses. Stevenson in the first stanza has 
 painted a picture of the river in springtime. 
 The artist sees the value of a contrasted set- 
 ting. The imagery of winter is thus called in- 
 to requisition; and as the page ends (lines 
 seventeen and eighteen) he finds the verses 
 that are to begin his second stanza. From his 
 material here he is later to choose the third 
 and fourth lines of the second stanza as print- 
 ed (the eighth and ninth verses of this orig- 
 inal draft) ; striking the personal note in a 
 masterly way, for Joan and Darby, — here, of 
 course, Stevenson and his wife, — are names 
 already replete with tender associations of old 
 [ 129 ] 
 
and loyal married love. We shall, however, 
 have to go a little further in the study of these 
 pages before we find, in their final form, the 
 other ten lines of this second stanza. 
 
 Now the halcyon days are over 
 
 Age and winter close us slowly round 
 
 And there sounds at fall of even 
 
 Dim the sight and muffle all the sound. 
 
 And at the married fireside, sleep of soul and 
 
 sleep of fancy, 
 Joan and Darby 
 
 Silence of the world without a sound 
 And beside the winter faggot 
 Joan and Darby sit and doze and dream and 
 
 wake 
 Dream they hear the flowing singing river 
 See the berries in the island brake. 
 Dream they hear the weir 
 See the gliding shallop mar the stream 
 Hark in your dreams do you hear? 
 
 Snow has filled the drifted forest 
 Ice has bound the something 1 stream. 
 
 Frost has bound our flowing river 
 Snow has whitened all our island brake. 
 
 (i) Sic. 
 
 [ I30 ] 
 
Stevenson now pauses to get the first stanza 
 into a form that shall satisfy him, and the next 
 page reveals the consummation of this part of 
 his task. Of the fifteen lines there shown, the 
 first thirteen are in the same sequence as the 
 opening stanza of the printed poem, line six 
 of this draft being lines six and seven in the 
 published version. 
 
 Berried brake and reedy island 
 Heaven below and only heaven above 
 
 azure 
 Through the sky's inverted image 
 
 Bright 
 Safely swam the boat that bore our love. 
 
 Dear were your eyes as the day 
 
 Bright ran the stream, bright hung the sky 
 above 
 Days of April, airs of Eden 
 How the glory died through golden hours 
 And the shining moon arising 
 How the boat drew homeward filled with 
 flowers. 
 
 Bright were your eyes in the night: 
 
 We have lived my love 
 
 O, we have loved, my love 
 
 [ 131 ] 
 
Now the . . . days are over 
 Age and winter close us slowly round. 
 
 Stevenson now again proceeds to fashion 
 verses for the second stanza. To facilitate his 
 task, he heads the next page with a number of 
 words that rhyme. This is, of course, not the 
 way of the inspired poet; it shows, rather, the 
 craftsman in verse, carefully arranging his 
 tools. But as Stevenson never claimed that he 
 was the poet born, we need not comment fur- 
 ther on this legitimate yet significant act of 
 authorship. 
 
 But how happily Stevenson's art serves him 
 in finding just the fitting phrase! Here we 
 have a perfect instance in the thirteenth and 
 fourteenth lines, which are, with slight 
 changes, to become the tenth and eleventh of 
 the printed stanza. "Love's own river!" It 
 is the river of love down which their bark of 
 life has floated, and the passing years have left 
 their relationship as it was in those "days of 
 April," in the little French town of Grez. 
 
 Vainly time departs, and vainly 
 
 Age and winter come and close us round. 
 
 Hark the river's long continuous sound. 
 
 [ r 32 ] 
 
Hear the river ripples in the reeds. 
 
 Lo in dreams they see their shallop 
 Run the lilies down and drown the weeds 
 Mid the sound of crackling faggots. 
 So in dreams the new created 
 Happy past returns, today recedes 
 And they hear once more 
 
 From the old years, 
 
 Yesterday returns, today recedes 
 
 And they hear with aged hearing 
 
 warbles 
 Loves own river ripple in the weeds. 
 And again the lovers shallop 
 Lo the shallop sheds the streaming weeds 
 And afar in foreign countries 
 In the ears of aged lovers. 
 
 The next page shows us the entire second 
 stanza. In the printed form, however, the 
 verses do not follow the sequence of this manu- 
 script. The numerals (ours, not Stevenson's) 
 at right indicate how the stanza appears in the 
 published version, where also, the line, 
 
 Still in the hush of the past 
 becomes 
 
 Still in the river of dreams 
 
 [ 133 1 
 
and the word "old" (line ten) is changed to 
 "yore." But the most interesting alteration is 
 to be found in line sixteen. We have already 
 seen it in its first form as 
 
 Love's own river ripples in the weeds. 
 Stevenson, with his ear so finely attuned to the 
 sound value of words, realizes that "river rip- 
 ples" is not felicitous, and so he seeks a sub- 
 stitute for "ripples." What he finds we must 
 regard as little less than an achievement of 
 inspiration. The word "warbles" contains in 
 itself all the sentiment and imagery of that 
 springtime of love which has been the theme 
 of the first stanza. Indeed a word of wonder; 
 well nigh winning us, against our will, to be- 
 lief in that definition of genius as the infinite 
 capacity for taking pains. After this altera- 
 tion, the change of weeds to reeds becomes one 
 of consonantal necessity, 
 i Age and winter close us slowly round 
 
 2 Still in the hush of the past 5 
 
 3 Swims the boat of love 6 
 
 4 Hark! chimes the falling oar. 7 
 
 5 Frost has bound our flowing river 1 
 
 6 Snow has whitened all our island brake; 2 
 
 7 And beside the winter faggot, 3 
 
 [ 134 1 
 
8 Joan and Darby doze and dream and 
 
 wake. 4 
 
 9 Love still the past, my love; 12 
 
 yore 
 
 10 We have lived of old 13 
 
 11 O, we have loved of yore. 14 
 
 12 And again in winter evens 8 
 
 13 When from frosty fields the days recede 
 
 14 When on firelight dreaming fancy feeds 9 
 
 15 In those ears of aged lovers 10 
 
 16 Love's own river warbles in the reeds. 11 
 The drafts that we have studied come to a 
 
 close with a page on which appear the follow- 
 ing four verses, the last of which shows, in 
 over-alliterative form, the verse elsewhere 
 perfected by Stevenson : 
 
 And again in winter evens 
 
 Starred with lilies . . . with stirring 
 
 weeds. 
 In these ears of aged lovers 
 Love's own river ripples in the reeds. 
 
 Here then we have studied the original 
 draft of a single poem of Stevenson's. There 
 has been no attempt to give every slight jot- 
 ting, change and elision that make these manu- 
 
 [ 135 1 
 
scripts in some places most difficult to de- 
 cipher; but nothing of significance, it is be- 
 lieved, has been overlooked. Out of one hun- 
 dred and thirty lines the poet wrought a poem 
 of twenty-eight lines. 
 
 [ 136] 
 
VARIATIONS AND UNPUBLISHED 
 PORTIONS OF PRINTED POEMS 
 
 ENVOY 
 
 THE CANOE SPEAKS 
 
 TO K. DE M. 
 
 TO F. J. S. 
 
 THE SICK CHILD 
 
 MY HOUSE, I SAY 
 
 WHEN AINCE APRILE HAS FAIRLY COME 
 
 A LOWDEN SABBATH MORN 
 
 SHE RESTED BY THE BROKEN BROOK 
 
 I WILL MAKE YOU BROOCHES AND TOYS 
 
 BRIGHT IS THE RING OF WORDS 
 
 HE HEARS WITH GLADDENED HEART 
 
 TO S. C. 
 
 THE WOODMAN 
 
 TROPIC RAIN 
 
 EVENSONG 
 
ENVOY 
 
 In Stevenson's "Envoy," as printed in "Un- 
 derwoods," these two lines, constituting the 
 third and fourth in his manuscript, are omit- 
 ted: 
 
 An active conscience, honoured life, 
 A tender and a laughing wife — 
 
 It may be that these lines were omitted on 
 account of the phrase "active conscience" — 
 not always a pleasurable possession, as Stev- 
 enson knew from experience. 
 
 [ 139 ] 
 
THE CANOE SPEAKS 
 
 There are in existence at least three manu- 
 scripts of this poem which is printed in Book 
 I of "Underwoods." Mr. Peabody's manu- 
 script is, however, the only one to show im- 
 portant variations. Line six reads, "Of the 
 sweet cedar and strong pine" instead of "Of 
 sweeter cedar, pithier pine." Lines seven and 
 eight read : 
 
 Fairyly fashioned, fairy slight 
 Seems moulded for a maid's delight, 
 
 while in the printed version, we have : 
 
 Is fashioned on so frail a mould, 
 A hand may launch, a hand withhold. 
 
 Lines seventeen and eighteen in the manu- 
 script are: 
 
 By where the map ignores, by where 
 The peering poacher spreads his snare. 
 
 In the printed book they read: 
 
 And by the nested angler fare, 
 And take the lovers unaware. 
 
 Lines twenty-three and twenty-four read: 
 
 By where in the gross heats of noon 
 Stripling maidens doff their shoon, 
 
 [ 140 ] 
 
instead of — 
 
 By meadows where at afternoon 
 The growing maidens troop in June. 
 
 After the twenty-fifth line of the printed 
 poem there appear in the manuscript these 
 three unpublished lines : 
 
 And stepping free, each breathing lass 
 From her discarded ring of clothes 
 Into the crystal coolness goes. 
 
 In Vol. II, of the present publication, there 
 appear as a separate poem a number of lines 
 which Stevenson composed probably as the 
 concluding part of "The Canoe Speaks." 
 
 [ Hi ] 
 
TO K. DE M. 
 
 This poem to his cousin, Katherine de Mat- 
 tos, contains, in the printed form (No. IX, 
 Book I of "Underwoods"), twenty-two lines. 
 The manuscript shows between the fifteenth 
 and sixteenth lines of the published form the 
 following lines: 
 
 More human grown, yet more divine 
 You now outsavour, now outshine, 
 The golden lamps that rare and far 
 Along the blue embankments are, 
 The salty smell of running tides, 
 The rowan wild on mountain sides, 
 The silver and the saffron dawn 
 Across the arched orient drawn. 
 
 In the margin of the manuscript are eight 
 more unpublished lines, as follows: 
 
 We see you as we see a face 
 That trembles in a forest place 
 Upon the mirror of a pool 
 Forever clear and beautiful; 
 And in the wayward glass appears 
 To hover between smiles and tears, 
 Elfin and human, airy and true, 
 And backed by the reflected blue. 
 
 One might have wished that Stevenson had 
 
 [ H 2 1 
 
not eliminated the lines in which he describes 
 the subtle loveliness of the face that hovered 
 "between smiles and tears;" but his decision 
 to strike out the first eight lines is more easily 
 understood. For all their fine quality as poet- 
 ry they have a note of exaggeration, and Stev- 
 enson was aware that nothing is to be gained 
 by which the beauty of "the silver and the saf- 
 fron dawn" is rendered inferior to however 
 fair a woman. 
 
 [ 143 ] 
 
TO F. J. S. 
 
 By reading the letters of Stevenson one may 
 readily discover the depth of his devotion for 
 his friend Mrs. Sitwell, who in later years was 
 to become the wife of another of his dearest 
 friends, Sidney Colvin. The poem begin- 
 ning, "Yet, O stricken heart" and written in 
 memory of Mrs. Sitwell's son, is a lyric of 
 solace never to be forgotten. Another poem 
 written at Mentone, in November, 1873, and 
 addressed to Mrs. Sitwell, appears as the twen- 
 tieth in the first book of "Underwoods." There 
 it has three stanzas, the concluding lines of 
 which run: 
 
 From your whole life, O fair and true, 
 Your flowers and thorns you bring with you ! 
 
 Stevenson's manuscript shows these addi- 
 tional stanzas: 
 
 And thorns! But did the sculptor spare 
 Sharp steel upon the marble ere 
 Thro' cruel discipline of blows 
 From the dead stone the statue rose? 
 
 Think you I grudge the seed, who see, 
 Wide armed, the consummated tree? 
 
 [ H4 ] 
 
Or would go back, if it might be, 
 
 To some old geologic time 
 
 With Saurians wallowing in the slime 
 
 Before the rivers and the rains 
 Had fashioned and made fair with plains 
 And shadowy places fresh with flowers, 
 This green and quiet world of ours, 
 
 Where, as the grass in springtime heals 
 The furrows of the winter's wheels, 
 Serene maturity conceals 
 All memory, in the perfect earth 
 Of the bygone tempestuous birth. 
 
 The foregoing verses were published in the 
 little book entitled "Three Short Poems," 
 privately issued at London in 1898, and re- 
 printed in 1902, at Chicago. They are in- 
 cluded here (with minor changes), because 
 the earlier editor seems to have been unaware 
 that these verses were originally a portion of 
 Stevenson's poem to Mrs. Sitwell. 
 
 [ 145 1 
 
THE SICK CHILD 
 
 One of Stevenson's very few poems in dia- 
 logue form is that in which the mother brings 
 the comfort of the coming day to her child 
 lying dangerously ill throughout the night. 
 In the printed version — the twenty-sixth in 
 Book I of "Underwoods" — when the child 
 speaks for the second time, there is in the 
 queries addressed to the mother, the sugges- 
 tion of approaching death — "Why are you 
 crying, Mother, dear?" But in the version as 
 published, the mother's answer contains no re- 
 sponse to her child's questions of fear; and 
 there is mention of God who is so kind; of the 
 sounds of life; of the blue day so soon ap- 
 proaching; and the poem ends with the 
 mother's promise that 
 
 Then shall my child go sweetly asleep, 
 
 And dream of the birds and the hills of sheep. 
 
 When Stevenson originally wrote the poem, 
 however, it had these two further stanzas: 
 
 So, in the dream-beleaguered night, 
 While the other children lie 
 Quiet, and the stars are high, 
 
 [ 146 ] 
 
The poor, unused and playful mite 
 Lies strangling in the grasp of fright. 
 
 O, when all golden comes the day, 
 And the other children leap 
 Singing from the doors of sleep, 
 
 Lord, take thy heavy hand away! 
 
 Lord, in thy mercy, heal or slay ! 
 
 Considered merely as verses, there is noth- 
 ing to call for the omission of these lines ; yet 
 a brief consideration of them makes it ap- 
 parent why Stevenson decided to leave them 
 out. They are obviously not the expression of 
 the mother's thought, but the comment of the 
 poet himself. The mother would not, in all 
 probability, have expressed herself in the form 
 shown in the last two lines of the first stanza, 
 and assuredly no mother would have felt the 
 wish indicated in the concluding verse. On 
 the other hand, an outsider, however sym- 
 pathetic, might well feel the desirability of 
 the child's death rather than a continuance of 
 its suffering. Although such a thought might 
 take fleeting passage through a parent's mind, 
 it would indeed require a most desperate state 
 of affairs to call forth the expression of such an 
 appeal in prayer. 
 
 [ i47l 
 
Thus by omitting these stanzas the poet 
 eliminates himself, leaving the verses in their 
 more effective form as a dialogue between 
 mother and child. The deep sorrow of the 
 episode is sufficiently indicated in the child's 
 fear of something inexpressible and the quiet 
 weeping of the mother, whose natural words 
 of comfort may disguise for the child — but 
 not for the reader — the real meaning of the 
 scene. 
 
 [ 148 ] 
 
MY HOUSE, I SAY 
 
 The poem which is printed as the thirty- 
 sixth, Book I of "Underwoods," contains in the 
 manuscript before us eight unpublished lines. 
 In the printed form there are twelve lines. 
 The theme of this delightful little poem, writ- 
 ten at Skerryvore, is all the more notable when 
 we recall that Skerryvore was the first home of 
 which Stevenson was the master. But how- 
 ever much he might think of it as his house, 
 he yet realizes that it is as much the home of 
 all the other occupants: "the sunny doves," the 
 cat, the dog, and even the transient deer claim 
 it, with as much right, to be their home. 
 
 After the eighth line of the poem, as print- 
 ed, there appear in Stevenson's manuscript the 
 following four lines : 
 
 And she, the changeful stranger in our gates 
 That left for us the land beyond the straits, 
 That now the servant seems and now the guest 
 Has but to say our house to please us best. 
 
 The omission of these lines from the printed 
 version is testimony to Stevenson's sense of ar- 
 tistic fitness ; for by deleting any verses having 
 to do with a human being he more success- 
 
 [ H9 1 
 
fully achieves his purpose of accentuating the 
 sense of proprietorship on the part of the 
 dumb animals to whom his house belongs as 
 fully as to himself. 
 
 After the concluding lines of the printed 
 version the manuscript shows the following 
 four lines: 
 
 Man, maid and beast, but for an hour we stay 
 Whilst the veiled owner dallies on the way; 
 Who shall ere long return, his journeys o'er, 
 And like the gardener show us all the door. 
 
 Here again we note the keenness of the critic 
 in eliminating lines so excellent in themselves. 
 In these lines, with their suggestion of Omar 
 Khayyam, the idea of death is introduced. 
 Death is the "veiled owner" — the sure and 
 final owner of every home. This is all very 
 well, but the lines take away from the effect 
 that Stevenson desires, not alone because they 
 have in them the note of moralization, but also 
 inasmuch as they cast a tinge of sorrow over a 
 poem which, in its printed form, is one of pure 
 comradeship between man and beast. 
 
 [ 150 ] 
 
WHEN AINCE APRILE HAS FAIRLY 
 COME 
 
 The third poem of Book II of "Under- 
 woods" shows in the original manuscript the 
 first stanza in the following form: 
 
 When aince Aprile has fairly come 
 And winter turned his icy bum 
 Wi pleisant days to a' and some 
 
 O' whatna state 
 Luve, wi' her auld recruiting drum 
 
 Then takes the gate. 
 
 Of course, the chief variation is in the second 
 line with its perhaps vulgar, although cer- 
 tainly original metaphor. 
 
 [ i5i ] 
 
A LOWDEN SABBATH MORN 
 
 By some critics, this poem (No. 5 of "Under- 
 woods," Book II) is considered the most im- 
 portant of those written by Stevenson in the 
 Scots dialect. The original manuscript con- 
 tains a number of stanzas hitherto unpub- 
 lished. The first of these has its place be- 
 tween the first and second stanzas of the print- 
 ed version, and is as follows: 
 
 A' legs an' airms, the dand'rin men 
 
 Hing round the doors and doun the glen — 
 
 They're naethin, wantin work, ye ken, 
 
 Tho' blythe to want it — ; 
 While weeminfolk are hit an' hen 
 
 An' gey fu' handit. 
 
 Between the fifth and sixth stanzas as found 
 in the printed form, there are in the manu- 
 script the following two unpublished stanzas: 
 
 Again the bells begin to jowl, 
 And as their aim summons rowl, 
 Gudeman, just clappin hat on pow 
 
 Tak's first the gate; 
 An the hale clan comes on in tow 
 
 Wi' face sedate. 
 
 [ 152 ] 
 
Noo under rowth o' hawthorn bloom 
 Whaur simmer flees may swarf and soom, 
 The thrangin' gate shune lacks for room 
 
 As friens foregaither. 
 — The day, the kirk'll no be toom 
 
 Says ain to ither. 
 
 The manuscript shows a few other varia- 
 tions, the most important of which is at the 
 beginning of the tenth stanza. As originally 
 written by Stevenson the opening line reads, 
 
 But here we are, we've no been lang 
 The mill-door sings its Sabbath sang, 
 
 instead of in the printed form, 
 
 But hark the bells frae nearer clang; 
 To raust the slaw, their sides they bang. 
 
 The manuscript is of further interest as 
 showing Stevenson's study of Scottish terms, 
 and in the margin of his poem he gives the 
 English equivalents of many of the more diffi- 
 cult dialect words and phrases. 
 
 [ 153 ] 
 
SHE RESTED BY THE BROKEN 
 BROOK 
 
 Under the title of "The Unforgotten — II" 
 — probably the unforgotten beloved who was 
 the heroine of so many of his earlier verses — 
 there appears in "Songs of Travel" (No. V) 
 a poem of three four-line stanzas, of which 
 the first and third are identical with the first 
 and last of the present manuscript. The man- 
 uscript shows three other stanzas (as printed 
 below), the first of which becomes, after con- 
 siderable change, the second stanza in the pub- 
 lished book; while from the other two, Stev- 
 enson gleaned phrases that he used in the in- 
 termediate stanza of the published poem: 
 She came, she passed, like summer rains, 
 
 She went like summer dew: 
 The azure of her eyes remains 
 
 Eternal in my view. 
 I know it well, in other lands, 
 Embowered by fairer skies, 
 Her hands shall mix with other hands, 
 
 Her eyes with other eyes. 
 The glitter of the sunny rain, 
 
 The glint of summer dew, 
 The lad that gazed and gazed again, 
 Does she remember too? 
 
 [ 154 ] 
 
I WILL MAKE YOU BROOCHES AND 
 TOYS 
 
 As this poem appears ("Songs of Travel" — 
 XI) in the printed version it has three stanzas 
 of four lines each. In the manuscript, how- 
 ever, the stanzas contain six lines each. 
 
 The fifth and sixth lines of the first stanza, 
 omitted in the printed version, are as follows : 
 
 It's there that I'll be yours, it's there that you'll 
 
 be mine, 
 Where the green leaves rustle and the blue days 
 
 shine. 
 
 The concluding lines of the second stanza, 
 also left unpublished, are: 
 
 It's you shall be the queen, and it's I shall be the 
 
 king, 
 When the full stream gushes and the brown birds 
 
 sing. 
 
 Of the third stanza, the final lines not print- 
 ed are: 
 
 The broad road that wanders, the bare feet that 
 
 go, 
 
 Where the white rain hisses and the loud winds 
 
 blow. 
 
 [ 155 1 
 
The third stanza shows a further variant 
 from the printed form, whose final lines are: 
 
 That only I remember, that only you admire 
 Of the broad road that stretches, and the roadside 
 fire. 
 
 In the earlier draft before us, however, the 
 corresponding verses read : 
 
 The song that I remember, and all the world for- 
 gets 
 
 Of the brown plain that stretches, the red sun 
 that sets. 
 
 [ 156 
 
BRIGHT IS THE RING OF WORDS 
 
 One of the most beautiful of Stevenson's 
 lyrics — this poem in the printed version 
 ("Songs of Travel" — XV) has two eight-line 
 stanzas. The manuscript, in addition to vari- 
 ous experimental verses, shows the following 
 intermediate stanza: 
 
 After the maker is laid 
 
 In the grave of thistles, 
 Still the lover sings 
 
 And the ploughboy whistles : 
 After the singer lies 
 
 In the field of heather 
 The beautiful lilt of song 
 
 Goes on forever. 
 
 There is in addition the following variant for 
 the concluding four of the above lines : 
 
 Lasses and lads shall sing 
 
 His carols together. 
 Music and song shall sound 
 
 In the April weather. 
 
 With the exception of the unsatisfactory 
 rhyming of "heather" with "forever," there is 
 nothing in these lines to be criticised; but as 
 the thought contained in all these verses is bet- 
 
 [ 157 ] 
 
ter expressed in the concluding stanzas of the 
 poem as published, Stevenson saw the desir- 
 ability of omitting the superfluous lines, thus 
 making his song tell in every line. 
 
 Elsewhere in his poetry Stevenson has dwelt 
 on the temporal nature of fame, the oblivion 
 which falls on all mortal things; but here he 
 finds the fairest guerdon of the poet's achieve- 
 ment in the immortality which his songs shall 
 have in young affection : 
 
 And when the west is red 
 
 With the sunset embers, 
 The lover lingers and sings 
 
 And the maid remembers. 
 
 [ 158 ] 
 
HE HEARS WITH GLADDENED 
 HEART 
 
 As printed ("Songs of Travel" — XXII) 
 this poem begins with the line 
 
 He hears with gladdened heart the thunder, 
 
 and contains only eight lines. In its original 
 form the poem has eighteen lines, as follows : 
 
 He hearkens all, to melt or harden, 
 He hears the children in the garden 
 
 Sing, and the sexton delve the tomb. 1 
 At dawn he hears the wood birds twitter, 
 He sees the lights of cities glitter, 
 
 And the dusk z of thickets gloom. 3 
 
 He knows the earth above and under, 
 
 He hears with gladdened heart the thunder 
 
 Peal, and loves the falling dew. 
 He sees the ship, and longs to man it — 
 He sees and longs to touch the planet — 
 
 Sits and is content to view. 
 
 The mean may crouch, the proud may clamber, 
 He sits beside the dying ember, 
 
 God for hope and man for friend: 
 He sits alone in the high chamber 
 Content to see, glad to remember, 
 
 Expectant 4 of the certain end. 
 
 Variations: (i) grave; (2) shade; (3) wane; (4) conscious. 
 [ 159 ] 
 
The eighth and ninth lines of the above 
 poem become the first two lines in the printed 
 version ; the seventh becomes the third ; the 
 twelfth line the fourth ; the fourteenth and fif- 
 teenth lines the fifth and sixth; the seven- 
 eenth and eighteenth the last two of the final 
 form. 
 
 Stevenson thus reduced the draft to a poem 
 of less than half the original length. In this 
 process he has foregone various lines which 
 portray desires of activity and dreams of am- 
 bition. The result is a brief expression of 
 the philosophy of content, having in it an epi- 
 grammatic quality reminding us of Landor's 
 perfect quatrain that ends 
 
 I warmed my hands before the fire of life; 
 It sinks and I am ready to depart. 
 
 [ 1 60 ] 
 
TO S. C. 
 
 Under the title of "To S. C." the verses be- 
 ginning, "I heard the pulse of the besieging 
 sea," appear as the twenty-seventh poem of 
 Book III of "Underwoods." In the manuscript 
 Stevenson writes out in full the name of his 
 friend, Sidney Colvin, and dates the poem 
 "Isle of Apemama, October 1889." In its 
 inedited form the first eleven lines run: 
 
 I heard the breath 1 of the besieging sea 
 Beleaguer and becanopy the isle; 
 With sound and fear of inroads 2 heard the wind 
 Fly crying, and convulse tumultuous palms. 
 Heard whiles the watcher with the scarlet conch 
 Sing lusty-shrill, or the mysterious fowl 
 Of night and ocean that, out-croaking loud, 
 Crosses from sea to sea the narrow isle; — 
 Whiles peeped abroad beneath the wattled blinds, 
 Up-strutted, whence the effulgence of the night 
 Leaked in and lit the cabin, scattering sleep. 
 
 From comparison with the printed version, 
 it will be seen that the first four lines of the 
 manuscript become, in changed form, the first 
 three lines of the printed poem; while the 
 next seven lines remain entirely unpublished. 
 
 Variations: (i) pulse; (2) Speak far away all night. I. 
 [ l6l ] 
 
On timber navels. I could see 
 No sting to their vitality, 
 No pang to set a price on life, 
 No wink before the falling knife - 
 No empty tombs, no broken rules, 
 In that green paradise of fools. 
 
 [ 163 ] 
 
TROPIC RAIN 
 
 This Vailima poem as published in "Songs 
 of Travel" — XL, contains sixteen lines, while 
 the manuscript has thirty lines. The first two 
 in the manuscript are as follows: 
 
 The mirk of the night was solid; a trowel had 
 
 plastered it on; 
 And blue as the summer heaven, the levin glanced 
 
 and was gone. 
 
 Then follows the line 
 
 As the single pang of the blow, when the metal is 
 mingled well, 
 
 this being the initial line in the printed ver- 
 sion. The next three lines of the manuscript 
 are almost identical with the printed poem. 
 Then follow these thirteen lines : 
 
 Long was the storm; till lo ! a jubilant river of 
 
 rain 
 Suddenly stunned the storm, and the mountains 
 
 answered again — 
 Suddenly pealed and fell, with a sound that beat 
 
 on the ear 
 The innocent joys of bathers, the innermost pangs 
 
 of fear. 
 
 [ 164 1 
 
And pleased as a girl of the islands stands, with 
 
 streaming hair, 
 By the well known pool of the river, when all of 
 
 the village is there, 
 And laughs aloud to her mates, and shivers and 
 
 plunges deep: 
 The virgin spirit of rain laughed and leaned to 
 
 her leap. 
 So — spirit of rain — for a moment, for a mo- 
 ment I saw you attired 
 In freshness and mirth, and my heart and the 
 
 eyes of my heart admired. 
 And loud as the maddened cataract raves in the 
 
 cloven glen 
 Spirit of rain! you bellowed and fell on the 
 
 houses of men. 
 And the houses shook, and the hearts of men 
 
 were swayed as you fell. 
 
 When the poem was printed the above thir- 
 teen lines were compressed into the fifth, sixth, 
 seventh and eighth lines of the published 
 poem. The concluding eleven lines of the 
 manuscript are as follows: 
 
 You struck, and my cabin quailed; the roof of it 
 
 roared, like a bell; 
 You spoke, and at once the mountain shouted and 
 
 shook with brooks, 
 
 [ 165 ] 
 
And behold in the forge of the witches, the sedu- 
 lous smith of books. 
 The fire sprang in the ash and the metal ran as I 
 
 heard, 
 And rhyme rallied to rhyme, and word was wed- 
 ded to word. 
 And I wrote that terror and beauty were only 
 
 one, not two, 
 And the world has room for love, and death, and 
 
 thunder, and dew; 
 And all the sinews of hell slumber in summer air; 
 And the face of God is a rock, but the face of the 
 
 rock is fair. 
 Beneficent streams of tears flow at the finger of 
 
 pain; 
 And out of the cloud that smites, beneficent rivers 
 of rain. 
 In the printed version these eleven lines are 
 reduced to nine, and show numerous varia- 
 tions. 
 
 While the poem has gained in cohesion and 
 simplicity through Stevenson's revision of it, 
 the unpublished portions reveal various 
 phrases whose beauty is apparent; most not- 
 able among these, that in which 
 The virgin spirit of rain laughed and leaned 
 to her leap. 
 
 [ 166 ] 
 
The omission of this metaphor is perhaps 
 due to Stevenson's desire to portray the tropic 
 storm alone in its rush and intensity; but there 
 is some doubt as to whether he could not have 
 made an even more effective poem by adher- 
 ing to the scheme made evident in his manu- 
 script, with its contrast between the rain in 
 its first movements, fraught with the spirit of 
 joyous virginity, and the later downpour, mas- 
 culine in its force, striking at the roofs of men. 
 
 [ 167 ] 
 
EVENSONG 
 
 With this poem, the "Songs of Travel" fit- 
 tingly conclude. The printed version (No. 
 XLVI) has two stanzas, the first of nine, and 
 the second of six lines. The manuscript, how- 
 ever, has an additional stanza, as follows: 
 So in the furthest camp of man — 
 Where he deems himself alone, 
 Left without sign or plan, 
 
 At random in a desert thrown — 
 For ears that hear, for running feet, 
 There daily is the tatoo beat, 
 There the reveille blown. 
 
 Stevenson's omission of these eight lines is as 
 easy to understand as it is interestingly sig- 
 nificant. In the printed form we have the 
 expression of resignation to the will of God. 
 Wonderful are his works and past comprehen- 
 sion. The poet "will not question more" and 
 when the night comes he will eat and sleep, 
 trusting in the Lord's design. In its perfected 
 form the poem is thus a simple utterance, an 
 evening song of almost child-like confidence, 
 and it is this child-like quality with which the 
 moralizing note of the stanza given above 
 tends to interfere. 
 
 [ 168 ] 
 
STEVENSON'S TRANSLATIONS 
 FROM MARTIAL 
 
 EROTION'S EPITAPH 
 
 CONCERNING ANTONIUS 
 
 TO A SCHOOLMASTER 
 
 TO NEPOS 
 
 TO CHARIDEMUS 
 
 CONCERNING LIGURRA 
 
 TO LUPUS 
 
 TO QUINTILIAN 
 
 JULIUS MARTIAL'S GARDEN 
 
 TO MARTIAL 
 
 TO MAXIMUS 
 
 TO OLUS 
 
 CONCERNING A SMALL BANQUET HALL 
 
 EROTION, THE LITTLE MAID 
 
 TO A FISHERMAN 
 
STEVENSON'S TRANSLATIONS 
 FROM MARTIAL 
 
 Poets of many lands arid many centuries 
 have tried their skill at translating the in- 
 imitable epigrams of Martial, the brilliant 
 author who has in the amber of his wit pre- 
 served for all time the Roman society of the 
 first century A.D. ; and numerous critics also 
 have directed their attempts to the interpreta- 
 ion of his genius. Although the name of 
 Byron figures in the former of these catego- 
 ries, and that of Lessing in the latter, it may 
 be doubted whether any writer has approached 
 the fourteen books of Martial's epigrams in a 
 finer and more sympathetic spirit than Robert 
 Louis Stevenson. 
 
 Stevenson's liking for Martial is shown here 
 and there among his letters; but that he was 
 engaged upon a volume of translations of 
 Martial, — the publication of which was one 
 of his cherished ambitions, — is a fact new to 
 the general reader. He may possibly have 
 translated other Martial epigrams, but those 
 
 [ i7i 1 
 
that follow are sufficient to establish his name 
 as the most delightful of modern translators 
 of Martial. It is perhaps more accurate to 
 qualify this term "translator," for Stevenson 
 would be the last to desire classic laurels to 
 which he is not fully entitled. In his preface l 
 for the contemplated volume he calls his 
 poems "imitations," and he names the edition 
 of Martial used by him, a work in which the 
 Latin appears on the left hand pages, with the 
 French prose translation facing on the right. 
 The French translation thus served him as a 
 "crib," whose inadequacy, however (despite 
 his disclaimer of his own knowledge of 
 Latin), was obvious to Stevenson. 
 
 At first blush there may seem to be a wide 
 disparity of temperament and outlook between 
 the so frequently vulgar poet of the early 
 Roman days and the essentially refined author 
 of our own times. Yet the points of contact 
 are numerous. We need hardly have recourse 
 to the thought that among English poets Her- 
 rick is the literary descendant of Martial, and 
 that Stevenson called himself "a lesser Her- 
 rick." Stevenson's selections from among the 
 
 (i) See page 175. 
 
 [ 172 ] 
 
many books of Martial's epigrams suffice to 
 show the consanguinity of these two men. It 
 is not in the role of the scholar that Stevenson 
 approaches Martial, nor did he desire to ap- 
 peal to critics, or alone to the literary public. 
 His aim, as his choice of epigrams confirms, 
 was to show the great expositor of Roman 
 society in those human aspects which immedi- 
 ately laid claim to Stevenson's sympathies. 
 Recognizing the dual element in man's make- 
 up, Stevenson felt how inherently human was 
 the Roman writer. The main difference that 
 he noted between Martial and the general run 
 of men and women was Martial's willingness 
 to expose the inferior side of his nature, while 
 it is the "Mr. Hyde" element that the majority 
 of the human clan so assiduously strives to con- 
 ceal. This very frankness is open to objec- 
 tions, of course; but frankness it is, and as such 
 made its appeal to Stevenson. 
 
 On Martial's grace of diction, his humor in 
 characterization and his lightning wit, there is 
 no need to dilate. He ranged a freebooter 
 through all grades of a society that offered the 
 most various plunder for his genius, and his 
 books of epigrams are a microcosm. 
 
 [ 173 1 
 
Stevenson's choice of epigrams was made 
 here and there from pages widely separated 
 in the original Latin; yet all these poems 
 (with one possible exception) are directly re- 
 lated to Stevenson's own feelings, thoughts, 
 and points of view. I can think of no instance 
 where one poet, in translating the verses of 
 another, has, by the very character of his 
 choice of material, reflected more accurately 
 his own nature. 
 
 [ 174 ] 
 
PREFACE BY STEVENSON 
 
 [The following is Stevenson's preface in an 
 edited form, that renders his remarks easily in- 
 telligible to the reader. The facsimile of the 
 original manuscript is here given in order to 
 reveal his thoughts in their initial shape, thus 
 affording an interesting study of Stevenson's 
 method in drafting his preface^ 
 
 If it is ever permitted for a person to apol- 
 ogize, it must be allowed my case is grave 
 enough. I have forgot [the] little Latin I 
 ever knew. I had no dictionary, and I de- 
 pended upon a French crib of which, to those 
 who know French cribs, it may be enough to 
 say I never saw a worse. Yet such is the 
 charm of Martial that I was driven to attempt 
 these imitations. In an English crib the point 
 I descry had been missed, but some of the 
 words had been translated. The French 
 translator is more independent; he casts but a 
 glance at his original, and, with a smooth and 
 
 [ 175 ] 
 
inexpressive pen commits to paper something 
 perfectly different and perfectly inept. 
 
 Why, then, if I can see the faults of others, 
 am I not silent? I fear this is very much the 
 judgment my commission must expect from 
 two classes: the scholars, who understand the 
 meaning of the original, and the poets, who 
 are critical of verse. But in this age, when 
 we all lean to the reading of light verses, Mar- 
 tial, the neatest of versifiers, the wittiest of 
 men, is passed over with contempt; and either 
 no one reads, or every one considers it decent 
 to dissemble, having read him. Let this be 
 my excuse ; "and take, O reader, for the deed 
 the will." 
 
 [ 176 ] 
 
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EROTION'S EPITAPH 
 
 Among Martial's verses there is nothing 
 more winning than his poems concerning Ero- 
 tion. This little girl — a slave-child — had 
 been a cherished playmate, and Martial com- 
 memorates her death with a tenderness that 
 more than compensates for his bitter satire 
 elsewhere, and his vulgarity. Little more 
 than a baby, Erotion has, through the poet's 
 affection for her, achieved an immortality 
 such as emperors might envy. Martial's trib- 
 utes to her have been the theme of commenta- 
 tors and critics, and have been translated by 
 many poets of renown. 
 
 "Erotion's Epitaph" (Book X, No. 61) has 
 six lines in the Latin, and Stevenson has ad- 
 hered to the same number in his rendering, 
 while Leigh Hunt in translating it doubled 
 this number. Of the two versions Stevenson's 
 is the more faithful. Yet, apart from pur- 
 poses of comparison, so charming are the 
 
 [ *77 ] 
 
verses of Leigh Hunt that they are given a 
 place here: 
 
 Underneath this greedy stone 
 
 Lies little sweet Erotion; 
 
 Whom the Fates, with hearts so cold, 
 
 Nipp'd away at six years old. 
 
 Thou, whoe'er thou mayest be, 
 
 That hast this small field after me, 
 
 Let the yearly rites be paid 
 
 To her slender little shade ; 
 
 So shall no disease or jar 
 
 Hurt thy house, or chill thy Lar, 
 
 But this tomb be here alone 
 
 The only melancholy stone. 
 
 EPITAPHIUM EROTII 
 
 Here lies Erotion whom at six years old 
 Fate pilfered. Stranger (when I too am cold, 
 Who shall succeed me in my rural field), 
 To this small spirit annual honors yield! 
 Bright be thy hearth, hale be thy babes, I 
 
 crave, 
 And this, in thy green farm, the only grave! 
 
 [ 178 ] 
 
CONCERNING ANTONIUS 
 
 In his translation Stevenson calls Martial's 
 friend Antoninus. It should of course be An- 
 tonius, whose seventy-five years of life well 
 lived, led Martial to write one of his best re- 
 membered epigrams (Book X, No. 23). 
 
 Stevenson's version could not easily be bet- 
 tered, and it closely approximates the eight 
 lines of the original, both in language and in 
 spirit. Death's waters (in Latin, the waters 
 of Lethe) rise for Antonius, as they did for 
 Stevenson, without any suggestion of fear; and 
 memory of past events is (again with Steven- 
 son as with Antonius) a continually replenish- 
 ing delight. Thus we see in this epigram two 
 of the main currents that run through Steven- 
 son's life and writings : courage as regards 
 death, and love of past days. 
 
 Alexander Pope thus expressed the con- 
 cluding thought of Martial's poem: 
 
 For he lives twice who can at once employ 
 The present well, and e'en the past enjoy. 
 
 [ 179 ] 
 
DE M. ANTONIO 
 
 Now, Antoninus, in a smiling age 
 Counts of his life the fifteenth finished stage. 
 The rounded days and the safe years he sees, 
 Nor fears death's water mounting round his 
 
 knees. 
 To him remembering not one day is sad, 
 Not one but what its memory makes him glad. 
 So good men lengthen life ; and to recall 
 The past, is to have twice enjoyed it all. 
 
 [ 1 80 ] 
 
TO A SCHOOLMASTER 
 
 Herein is revealed Martial's — as also Stev- 
 enson's — sympathy with the schoolboy. A 
 plea is made for a real vacation, without any 
 studies or any punishments. The last line of 
 this poem (Book X, No. 62) is as follows: 
 
 Aestate pueri si valent, satis discunt. 
 In summer if boys keep healthy that is all they 
 need learn. 
 
 There are twelve lines in the original, the 
 first few of which do not appear in Stevenson's 
 draft. This untranslated portion of the poem 
 begins with an appeal to the schoolmaster for 
 indulgence to his scholars, if he would be 
 loved by them. 
 
 AD MAGISTRUM LUDI 
 
 (Unfinished draft) 
 Now in the sky 
 And on the hearth of 
 
 Now in a drawer, the direful cane 
 That sceptre of the reign 
 
 And the long hawser that on the back 
 [ 181 ] 
 
Of Marsyas fell with many a whack, 
 Twice hardened out of Scythian hides, 
 Now sleep till the October ides. 
 
 In summer if the boys be well. 
 
 [ 182 
 
TO NEPOS 
 
 Martial's poem to his neighbor Nepos has 
 for its theme the delight of wine and the com- 
 panionship of the bowl. The Latin has only 
 ten lines, whereas Stevenson's version has sev- 
 enteen : a rare discrepancy, as if a mental taste 
 of the prime Falernian had led the translator 
 to become expansive. 
 
 Stevenson carries out the geniality of Mar- 
 tial's verses, but he balks at one touch of hu- 
 mor where Martial, in commenting on the 
 resemblance of the daughter of Nepos to her 
 father, writes: 
 
 "Testis maternae nata pudicitiae;" 
 and he rather freely renders the last line, 
 which, curiously enough, if translated accord- 
 ing to modern slang, would have an amusing 
 and opposite emphasis. "For Fathers also may 
 enjoy their nights," writes Stevenson; while 
 Martial wrote: "Possunt et patres vivere 
 crede mihi;" which, colloquially rendered, 
 means: "Fathers also know how to live, be- 
 lieve me!" 
 
 [ 183 ] 
 
AD NEPOTEM 
 
 O Nepos, twice my neigh[b]our 1 (since at 
 
 home 
 
 We're door by door, by Flora's temple dome; 
 
 And in the country, still conjoined by fate, 
 
 Behold our villas standing gate by gate,) 
 
 Thou hast a daughter, dearer far than life — 
 
 Thy image and the image of thy wife. 
 
 Thy image and thy wife's, and be it so! 
 
 t> * u t u (neglect the flowing) 
 But why for her, <^ ° T , & > can 
 
 (O Nepos, leave the J 
 
 And lose the prime of thy Falernian? 
 
 Hoard casks of money, if to hoard be thine; 
 
 But let thy daughter drink a younger wine I 
 
 Let her go rich and wise, in silk and fur; 
 
 T j /bin that shall) , i .,, 
 
 .Lay down a < . > grow old with 
 
 her; (vinta £ e t0 j 
 
 But thou, meantime, the while the batch is 
 
 sound 
 With pleased companions pass the bowl 
 
 around; 
 Nor let the childless only taste delights, 
 For Fathers also may enjoy their nights. 
 
 (i) Stevenson often had difficulty in spelling this word. 
 [ l8 4 ] 
 
TO CHARIDEMUS 
 
 Stevenson's manuscript shows his title to be 
 "Ad Charidemum," — an error worth correct- 
 ing, since the word "In," used by Martial, in- 
 dicates adverse criticism of the person ad- 
 dressed, while the word "Ad" is simply our 
 English "To." 
 
 In this poem Martial animadverts against 
 the freedman tutor who refuses to recognize 
 that his former pupil has grown to manhood; 
 and in this connection we may recall Steven- 
 son's own impatience against the restrictions 
 of father and friends when he himself was 
 seething with the desires and with the aspira- 
 tions for personal liberty that follow adoles- 
 cence. 
 
 Stevenson's translation has sixteen lines, the 
 same number as the Latin, but there are also 
 numerous variant lines affording interesting 
 study. Single words, however, that were 
 stricken out by Stevenson have in most cases 
 been omitted. 
 
 Stevenson's rendition of the final line calls 
 for special comment. The Latin has it: 
 "Esse virum jam me dicet arnica tibi ;" and the 
 French translation which lay before Steven- 
 
 [ 185 1 
 
son has rendered this: "Ma maitresse te dira 
 si je suis un homme." Stevenson interprets 
 the line differently and lets "arnica" refer to 
 Charidemus. This interpretation, as shown 
 in Stevenson's phrase, "your own mistress," 
 gives special zest and humor to the poem. 
 One recalls the old lines concerning the nature 
 of an epigram: 
 
 The qualities rare in a bee that we meet 
 In an epigram never should fail. 
 
 The body should always be little and sweet, 
 And a sting should be left in the tail. 
 
 If ever there was an epigram with a real 
 sting in its tail, it is this one to Charidemus, 
 in the form that Stevenson presents the con- 
 cluding line. 
 
 IN CHARIDEMUM 
 
 You Charidemus who my cradle swung 
 And watched me all the days that I was young, 
 You, at whose step the laziest slaves awake 
 And both the bailiff and the butler quake; 
 The barber's suds now blacken with my beard 
 And mv rough kisses make the maids afeard; 
 [ 1 86 ] 
 
Big with reproach, your awful eyebrows 
 
 twitch ; 
 And for the cane, I see, your fingers itch. 
 If something daintily attired I go, 
 Straight you exclaim: "Your father did not 
 
 so." 
 
 And fuming count the bottles on the board 
 As though my cellar were your private hoard. 
 Enough, at last: I have done all I can, 
 And your own mistress hails me for a man. 
 
 [Variant lines for the foregoing poem\ 
 
 My boyhood's guide, philosopher and friend, 
 Thou who the rule of my small house doth take 
 'Fore whom the farmer and the steward quake, 
 O Cheridemus, bear for reason's sake! 
 And yet for you I am no older grown 
 Still like a child I must not walk alone — 
 
 Nor will thus groan below a servingman. 
 
 My mistress calls me man, but still to you 
 
 Spying and groaning at my heels you keep 
 You shake the head prophetic and you weep. 
 
 [ 187 ] 
 
What boots it? Since to you still incomplete 
 
 Still in your eyes in penitential sheet 
 
 And still be called before your judgment seat, 
 
 I stay the baby that you used to beat; 
 
 T . ( your) . „ • 
 
 In vain< > mistress calls me man; in vain 
 
 (my j 
 
 For love or war my heart expands amain. 
 
 In vain I threaten — 
 
 All is to you permitted: nought to me: 
 You must do all things, unreproved; but I 
 If once to play or to my love I fly — 
 
 [ 188 ] 
 
CONCERNING LIGURRA 
 
 This poem (Book XII, No. 61) is the only 
 one of Stevenson's selections where the rela- 
 tionship to his own thoughts, predilections and 
 sentiments is difficult to establish; and it is 
 moreover Stevenson's only choice of an epi- 
 gram which has a vulgar phrase. It would 
 be interesting to know if Stevenson had in 
 mind a person, whether man or woman, who 
 stood in the same relation to him as Ligurra 
 to Martial. And if so who was this person 
 whom he was unwilling even to smite "with a 
 stinging song?" The poem in the original has 
 eleven lines, — in Stevenson's version, twelve. 
 As a translation the English rendering is very 
 successful, — the only liberty Stevenson al- 
 lowed himself being "the midge along the 
 pool," where Martial merely says "the butter- 
 flies." 
 
 It was this poem that Ben Jonson para- 
 phrased, and applied to Sir Inigo Jones: 
 
 Sir Inigo doth fear it, as I hear, 
 
 And labors to seem worthy of that fear, 
 
 That I should write upon him some sharp verse, &c. 
 
 [ 189 ] 
 
DE LIGURRA 
 
 You fear, Ligurra, — above all, you long — 
 That I should smite you with a stinging song. 
 This dreadful honour you both fear and 
 
 hope — 
 Both all in vain : you fall below my scope. 
 The Lybian lion tears the roaring bull, 
 He does not harm the midge along the pool. 
 Lo! if so close this stands in your regard, 
 From some blind tap, fish forth a drunken 
 
 bard, 
 Who shall with charcoal, on the privy wall, 
 Immortalize your name for once and all. 
 
 [ 190 ] 
 
TO LUPUS 
 
 In the poem to Lupus (Book XI, No. 18) 
 Martial sarcastically expresses his disapproval 
 of an all too moderate gift. He indulges in 
 amusingly superlative statements with which 
 to ridicule the farm he has received from 
 Lupus; and the poem ends with a play upon 
 the words pradium and prandium, — Martial 
 expressing his desire to exchange the farm for 
 a dinner. 
 
 Stevenson's manuscript, taking into account 
 the variant verses left in the body of the poem, 
 does not exceed the twenty-six lines of the 
 Latin. After he had effectively introduced the 
 "stalking lion of Algiers," he decided that as 
 no lion appears in Martial's verses he had bet- 
 ter use the animal that does appear there, the 
 Calydonian Boar. However, after this abdi- 
 cation of poetical license, he seems to have felt 
 that he had done enough without finding a 
 rhyme for Calydon. 
 
 The reference to Priapus may need a com- 
 ment. His attributes were the scythe and the 
 sceptre, and of course the meaning is that even 
 if these were cast aside the small Priapian 
 figure would find no room to stand in the 
 
 [ I9i ] 
 
diminutive farm presented to Martial by 
 Lupus. 
 
 IN LUPUM 
 
 Beyond the gates, thou gav'st a field to till, 
 I have a larger on my window sill. 
 A farm d'ye say? Is this a farm to you, 
 Where for all woods I spay one tuft of rue, 
 And that so rusty, and so small a thing, 
 One shrill cicada hides it with a wing; 
 Where one cucumber covers all the plain; 
 And where one serpent rings himself in vain 
 To enter wholly; and a single snail 
 Eats all and exit fasting to the pool. 
 /Here shall my gardener be the dusty mole. 
 (My only ploughman the mole 
 
 Here shall I wait in vain till figs be set 
 And till the spring disclose the violet. 
 Through all my wilds, a tameless mouse ca- 
 reers, 
 And in that narrow boundary appears 
 /Huge as the stalking lion of Algiers. 
 iHuge as the fabled boar of Calydon. 
 And all my hay is at one swoop impresst 
 By one low-flying swallow for her nest. 
 Strip god Priapus of each attribute, 
 
 [ r 92 ] 
 
Here finds he scarce a pedestal to foot. 
 The gathered harvest scarcely brims a spoon ; 
 And all my vintage drips in a cocoon. 
 Generous are you, but I more generous still : 
 Take back your farm and stand me half a gill! 
 
 [Variations^ 
 
 No toiling ploughman shall with aching arm 
 His great-flanked horses goad around my farm; 
 Followed by crows; for judging on the whole 
 I shall leave all that business to the mole — 
 
 The dusty mole 
 
 Shall both my gardener and my ploughman be. 
 
 [ 193 1 
 
TO QUINTILIAN 
 
 Martial here calls his friend "the glory and 
 the grace of Rome," although the great rhet- 
 orician, like the poet, was born in Spain : 
 Quintilian in 40 A.D., and Martial in 43 A.D. 
 As a teacher of oratory Quintilian was indeed 
 the "chief director of the growing race," a 
 teacher who sought to cultivate character as 
 well as eloquence. Among his pupils he had 
 the flower of the Roman youth, including the 
 Younger Pliny and various members of the 
 family of the Emperor Domitian. But, with 
 full appreciation of the value of Quintilian's 
 teachings, Martial in this poem lays stress on 
 the value of other aspects of life than those of 
 knowledge and success. The desirable exist- 
 ence, as here outlined (and one sees why this 
 poem appealed to Stevenson) , is not the career 
 of wealth or power, but the contemplative life 
 of peace in a simple home and among simple 
 surroundings of nature. 
 
 The English version, like the Latin, has ten 
 lines. The only liberty Stevenson allows 
 himself is in the final phrase, where he renders 
 as "a quiet life" the Latin phrase, "sit sine lite 
 dies." Lawsuits were very common at Rome 
 
 [ 194 1 
 
in Martial's time, and perhaps the chief in- 
 fraction upon a quiet life ; so that Stevenson's 
 equivalent is a satisfactory one, although it 
 does not quite provide for the significance of 
 the Latin words "sine lite," with their special 
 connotation for Quintilian, as a teacher of that 
 eloquence which found so many of its oppor- 
 tunities in the law courts. 
 
 AD QUINTILIANUM 
 
 O chief director of the growing race, 
 Of Rome the glory and of Rome the grace, 
 Me, O Quintilian, may you not forgive 
 Before from labor I make haste to live? 
 Some burn to gather wealth, lay hands on rule, 
 Or with white statues fill the atrium full. 
 The talking hearth, the rafters sweet with 
 
 smoke, 
 Live fountains and rough grass, my line in- 
 voke: 
 A sturdy slave: a not too learned wife: 
 Nights filled with slumber, and a quiet life. 
 
 [ 195 1 
 
JULIUS MARTIAL'S GARDENS 
 
 In his poem concerning the garden of his 
 friend Martial, our poet of the same name 
 achieves one of the most delightful of his de- 
 scriptive poems. It is notable as a composi- 
 tion in which the human element enters only 
 as an accessory to the scenery, the "shrill pipe" 
 of the seaman and the "rude cries of the por- 
 ters" fading into the silence that permeates the 
 serene and beautiful garden. 
 
 In the Latin there are thirty-six lines; but 
 Stevenson lays aside his pen after translating 
 thirty, thus letting his poem conclude with the 
 fine tribute to the hospitable atmosphere of the 
 home. The last few lines which he leaves 
 untranslated are a somewhat fulsome compli- 
 ment to Julius Martial, and detract from the 
 perfect simplicity, or the simple perfection, of 
 the picture given in the poem as Stevenson has 
 chosen to preserve it. This function of eli- 
 sion Stevenson often performed in relation to 
 his own verses, and his exercise of it in the 
 present instance is a striking evidence of his 
 critical discrimination. What may seem to 
 the precise scholar an unwarranted liberty, 
 
 [ 196 ] 
 
commends itself to the lover of poetry as an 
 act of artistic judgment. 
 
 DE HORTIS JULII MARTIALIS 
 
 My Martial owns a garden, famed to please 
 Beyond the glades of the Hesperides, 
 Along Janiculum lies the chosen block 
 Where the cool grottoes trench the hanging 
 
 rock. 
 The moderate summit, something plain and 
 
 bare, 
 Tastes overhead of a serener air; 
 And while the clouds besiege the vales below 
 Keeps the clear heaven and doth with sunshine 
 
 glow. 
 To the June stars that circle in the skies 
 The dainty roofs of that tall villa rise. 
 Hence do the seven imperial hills appear; 
 And you may view the whole of Rome from 
 
 here; 
 Beyond, the Alban and the Tuscan hills ; 
 And the cool groves and the cool falling rills, 
 Rubre Fidenae, and with virgin blood 
 Anointed once Perenna's orchard wood. 
 Thence the Flaminian, the Salarian way, 
 
 [ 197 1 
 
Stretch far abroad below the dome of day; 
 And lo! the traveler toiling towards his home; 
 And all unheard, the chariot speeds to Rome! 
 For here no whisper of the wheels ; and tho' 
 The Mulvian Bridge, above the Tiber's flow, 
 Hangs all in sight, and down the sacred stream 
 The sliding barges vanish like a dream, 
 The seaman's shrilling pipe not enters here, 
 Nor the rude cries of porters on the pier. 
 And if so rare the house, how rarer far, 
 The welcome and the weal that therein are! 
 So free the access, the doors so widely thrown, 
 You half imagine all to be your own. 
 
 [ 198 ] 
 
TO MARTIAL 
 
 In this epigram (Book V, No. 20) , in which 
 his friend Martial again figures, the poet ex- 
 presses thoughts obviously in consonance with 
 Stevenson's own feelings; and it may be 
 pointed out that the last line of the Latin, 
 "quisquam vivere cum sciat, moratur" (ren- 
 dered rather freely in Stevenson's version) is 
 the key-note of such a poem as Herrick's 
 "Gather Ye Roses While Ye May," and of 
 many other poems from the days of Omar 
 Khayyam to our own times. 
 
 Martial's Latin has fourteen lines; Steven- 
 son's version fifteen. Cowley extended himself 
 to twenty-six lines in his translation, and in- 
 cluded among them two verses which are not 
 to be found in Stevenson's rendition : 
 
 A few companions which ourselves should choose, 
 A gentle mistress and a gentler muse. 
 
 AD MARTIALEM 
 
 Go[d] knows, my Martial, if we two could be 
 To enjoy our days set wholly free; 
 To the true life together bend our mind 
 And "take a furlough from the falser kind, 
 
 [ 199 ] 
 
No rich saloon, nor palace of the great 
 
 Nor suit at law should trouble our estate; 
 
 On no vainglorious statues should we look. 
 
 But of a walk, a talk, a little book, 
 
 Baths, wells and meads and the veranda shade, 
 
 Let all our travels and our toils be made. 
 
 Now neither lives unto himself, alas! 
 
 And the good suns we see, that flash and pass 
 
 And perish ; and the bell that knells them cries 
 
 "Another gone: O when will ye arise?" 
 
 [Variation of last two lines] 
 
 And perish; and with each a voice that cries: 
 "Ye still delay to live," and then "O fools, arise!" 
 
 [ 200 ] 
 
TO MAXIMUS 
 
 This poem, which Stevenson renders in the 
 same number of lines as the original, contains 
 that philosophy of life which is based upon 
 contentment with simple things. Maximus is 
 adjured to find essential freedom in divesting 
 himself of the desires of social ambition. 
 
 Stevenson's verses may call for a few com- 
 ments. In his fifth line, the neighbor referred 
 to was the wealthy Scinna ; in the sixth line the 
 phrase "my threadbare toga" must be under- 
 stood as "a threadbare toga like mine;" while 
 in the eighth line Stevenson has circumvented 
 Martial's rather vulgar phrase by using the 
 felicitous term "a mistress a la mode," well 
 retaining Martial's suggestion that the desire 
 for notoriety in a love affair was as much op- 
 posed to a satisfactory life of simplicity as the 
 ambition to outshine one's neighbor with gold 
 plate or resplendent toga. 
 
 [ 201 ] 
 
IN MAXIMUM 
 
 Woulds't thou be free? I think it not indeed : 
 
 But if thou woulds't; attend this simple rede: 
 
 When quite contented ) „, t <• 
 
 I* > thou canst dine at 
 
 1 hou shall be free when) 
 
 home 
 And drink a small wine of the march of 
 
 Rome; 
 When thou canst see unmoved thy neighbour's 
 
 plate 
 And wear my threadbare toga in the gate; 
 When thou hast learned to love a small abode 
 And not to choose a mistress a la mode : 
 When thus contained and bridled thou shalt 
 
 be, 
 Then Maximus, then first, shalt thou be free. 
 
 [ 202 ] 
 
TO OLUS 
 
 This poem is in much the same vein as the 
 preceding one. In his version (exceeding by- 
 one line the nine in the Latin) Stevenson has 
 a notable couplet: 
 
 The unruly wishes must a ruler take, 
 
 Our high desires do our low fortunes make. 
 
 Written at a period when servility to the 
 Emperor and the noble potentates of Rome 
 was the order of the day, Martial's epigram is 
 all the more creditable for its spirit of inde- 
 pendence, which of course was ever one of the 
 attributes of Stevenson. Everything consid- 
 ered, Stevenson's version of this epigram has 
 no superior among the English translations of 
 Martial, although both Sedley and Cowley 
 were successful in their renditions. 
 
 [Variant lines, stricken out by Stevenson] 
 
 Those only who desire — 
 
 Those only, Olus, bow before a King. — 
 
 He, Olus, that can do without a slave — 
 
 Who stoop and tremble at their patron's ire? 
 
 Those only who desire what Kings desire — 
 
 Set loose thy slave ; 
 
 Learn — 
 
 [ 203 ] 
 
(he 
 Call me not rebel though i- 
 
 AD OLUM 
 
 here at every word 
 what I sing 
 
 If I no longer hail thee < T ° , __. 
 
 (Lord and King 
 
 I have redeemed myself with all I had 
 
 And now possess my fortunes poor but glad. 
 
 With all I had I have redeemed myself 
 
 And scaped at once from slavery and pelf. 
 
 The unruly wishes must a ruler take, 
 
 Our high desires do our low fortunes make: 
 
 Those only who desire palatial things, 
 
 Do bear the fetters and the frowns of Kings ; 
 
 Set free thy slave : thou settest free thyself. 
 
 [ 204 ] 
 
CONCERNING A SMALL BANQUET 
 HALL 
 
 This quatrain, the fifty-ninth epigram of the 
 second book (mistakenly noted as the six- 
 tieth in Stevenson's MS.), is one of the most 
 effective pieces of verse among the writings of 
 Martial and may manifestly be associated with 
 other expressions of the same theme through- 
 out the gamut of poetry. "Mica" — the Latin 
 "crumb" — was a small banquet hall erected by 
 the Emperor Domitian, "the great Caesar" 
 whose tomb Martial now sees from the win- 
 dow of this room. Thus we have here in 
 dramatic juxtaposition the feasting hall and 
 its creator, now feasted upon by death. The 
 wisdom of Ecclesiastes — "Eat, drink and be 
 merry;" of Horace's "Carpe diem;" and of 
 that legion of other poems which emphasize 
 the mortality of human things, is Mica's les- 
 son. 
 
 Stevenson's version has, in the word "jo- 
 vial," a contribution which the Latin does not 
 call for, and the warrant for its introduction is 
 not apparent. Otherwise it would be difficult 
 to suggest any improvement; and Stevenson 
 has shown good judgment in translating the 
 [ 205 J 
 
word "deus" as "the great dead." Its English 
 equivalent of "God" would give a wrong sig- 
 nificance, for "deus," as here used by Martial, 
 meant merely Domitian, the god or tutelary 
 deity of the building. 
 
 DE COENATIONE MICAE 
 
 Look round. You see a little supper room; 
 But from my window lo! great Caesar's tomb! 
 And the great dead themselves, with jovial 
 
 breath, 
 Bid you be merry and remember death. 
 
 [ 206 ] 
 
EROTION, THE LITTLE MAID 
 
 This is another of the tributes to Erotion, 
 the little slave-girl whose epitaph figures as 
 the first of Stevenson's translations from Mar- 
 tial. Latin literature has bequeathed to us 
 few verses more beautiful than these. 
 
 Why Stevenson should have omitted the 
 ninth, tenth and eleventh lines of the original, 
 in which the breath of Erotion is compared to 
 the roses of Paestum, is open to surmise. It 
 may have seemed to him a displeasing exag- 
 geration; but certainly the omission of the 
 concluding seven lines of Martial's poem calls 
 for gratitude. Here, beguiled by the spirit of 
 satire, Martial lost his sense of artistic fitting- 
 ness. He closes his poem with the record of 
 some remarks made to him by his friend Pac- 
 tus, who asks : "Are you not ashamed to beat 
 your breast, to tear your hair, to dissolve in 
 tears, merely on account of the death of a 
 young slave? I have lost my distinguished, 
 handsome, noble and wealthy wife ; yet I live." 
 Then Martial concludes: "Could any one be 
 finer than our friend Pactus who has inherited 
 200,000 sesterces, yet has the courage to live?" 
 [ 207 ] 
 
One can readily imagine that this sarcastic 
 ending appealed to the risibilities of Roman 
 society, and the friends of Martial and Pac- 
 tus; but for us it has a decidedly jarring note; 
 and in omitting these lines, in letting the poem 
 conclude with the beautiful verse concerning 
 Martial's "child love and playmate," Steven- 
 son gives another instance of his critical fas- 
 tidiousness and his delicacy of sentiment, and 
 leaves Martial's tribute to Erotion a gem with- 
 out the disturbing flash of inopportune satire. 
 
 DE EROTIO PUELLA 
 
 This girl was sweeter than the song of swans, 
 And daintier than the lamb upon the lawns, 
 Or Lucrine oyster. She, the flower of girls, 
 Outshone the light of Erythraean pearls ; 
 The teeth of India that with polish glow, 
 The untouched lilies or the morning snow. 
 Her tresses did gold dust outshine 
 And the fair hair of women of the Rhine. 
 Compared to her the peacock seemed not fair, 
 The squirrel lively, or the phoenix rare, 
 Her on whose pyre the smoke still hovering 
 waits : 
 
 [ 208 ] 
 
Her whom the greedy and unequal fates 
 On the sixth dawning of her natal day — 
 My child-love and my playmate — snatcht 
 away. 
 
 [ 209 ] 
 
TO A FISHERMAN 
 
 The original of Martial's poem, "To a Fish- 
 erman" (Book IV, No. 30), contains sixteen 
 lines. Stevenson's version shows the same 
 number, but omits the first two lines of the 
 Latin, although the few words at the bottom 
 of the page, "Off, fisher, from the . . ." 
 show that he had begun his rendition of them. 
 These opening lines may be translated: 
 
 Fisher, from Baiae's lake we warn you stay, 
 Lest you in guilt may go away. 
 
 Baiae, a favorite resort near Naples of the 
 wealthy Romans, and remembered even more 
 because of Horace's love for it and Seneca's 
 detestation than as the residence of Caesar 
 and of Pompey, now shows only the ruins of 
 its old time splendor. It was a place of im- 
 perial voluptuousness, and the fish that inhab- 
 ited its waters were the protected playmates of 
 emperors. In choosing these fish as the sacred 
 theme of his poem, Martial finds a good field 
 for the employment of his gifts of humor and 
 satire; and it is easy to understand how Stev- 
 enson, with his democratic faith in the in- 
 trinsic value of the individual, must have de- 
 [ 210 ] 
 
lighted in a poem where one is adjured to have 
 respect for fishes, because "their friends are 
 great." 
 
 AD PISCATOREM 
 
 For these are sacred fishes all 
 Who know that lord that is the lord of all, 
 Come to the brim and nose the friendly hand 
 That sways and can beshadow all the land, 
 Nor only so, but have their names and come 
 When they are summoned by the Lord of 
 
 Rome. 
 Here once his line an impious Lybian threw; 
 And as with tremulous reed his prey he drew, 
 Straight, the light failed him, 
 He groped, nor found the prey that he had 
 
 ta'en. 
 Now as a warning to the fisher clan 
 Beside the lake he sits, a beggarman. 
 Thou, then, while still thine innocence is pure, 
 Flee swiftly, nor presume to set thy lure; 
 Respect these fishes, for their friends are 
 
 great; 
 And in the waters empty all thy bait. 
 
 [ 211 J 
 
INDEX OF TITLES AND FIRST 
 LINES IN VOL. II 
 
 Ad Se Ipsum .... 
 
 , 
 
 
 
 12 
 
 Air of Diabelli's 
 
 
 125 
 
 A Lowden Sabbath Morn 
 
 
 152 
 
 At Last She Comes .... 
 
 
 37 
 
 Before this little gift was come 
 
 
 13 
 
 Bright is the Ring of Words 
 
 
 157 
 
 Come, here is adieu to the city 
 
 
 78 
 
 Come, my little children, here are songs fo 
 
 r you 
 
 29 
 
 Come to me all ye that labour . 
 
 
 63 
 
 Concerning a Small Banquet Hall 
 
 
 206 
 
 Concerning Antonius 
 
 
 179 
 
 Concerning Ligurra .... 
 
 
 190 
 
 Dedicatory Poem for "Underwoods" 
 
 
 21 
 
 Early in the morning I hear on your pian< 
 
 ) 
 
 32 
 
 Envoy ...... 
 
 
 139 
 
 Erotion's Epitaph 
 
 
 
 
 177 
 
 Erotion, The Little Maid 
 
 
 
 
 208 
 
 Evensong .... 
 
 
 
 
 168 
 
 Fair Isle at Sea 
 
 
 
 
 33 
 
 Farewell .... 
 
 
 
 
 26 
 
 Fixed is the Doom . 
 
 
 
 
 4i 
 
 [ 213 
 
 ] 
 
 
 
 
God gave to me a child in part 
 
 Go, little book — the ancient phrase 
 
 Hail, guest, and enter freely! All you see 
 
 He Hears With Gladdened Heart 
 
 Home From the Daisied Meadows . 
 
 I love to be warm by the red fireside 
 
 I, now, O friend, whom noiselessly the snows 
 
 It Blows a Snowing Gale 
 
 I, whom Apollo sometime visited 
 
 I Will Make You Brooches and Toys 
 
 Julius Martial's Gardens . 
 
 Late, O miller .... 
 
 Light as the linnet on my way I start 
 
 Lo, now, my guest, if aught amiss were said 
 
 Loud and low in the chimney . 
 
 Men Are Heaven's Piers . 
 
 Mine Eyes Were Swift to Know Thee 
 
 My House, I Say .... 
 
 My Love Was Warm 
 
 Ne Sit Ancillae Tibi Amor Pudari . 
 
 Now bare to the beholder's eye 
 
 Over the land is April 
 
 Poems of Stevenson's Household at Vailima 
 
 She Rested by the Broken Brook 
 
 Since thou hast given me this good hope, O God 
 
 Sonnets ...... 
 
 So live, so love, so use that fragile hour 
 Spring Carol ..... 
 
 Tempest Tossed and Sore Afflicted 
 The angler rose, he took his rod 
 
 [ 214 ] 
 
 73 
 H 
 10 
 
 159 
 3i 
 36 
 65 
 80 
 56 
 155 
 197 
 
 53 
 77 
 10 
 
 34 
 
 44 
 
 38 
 
 149 
 
 19 
 81 
 91 
 76 
 
 "5 
 154 
 
 70 
 106 
 
 11 
 
 47 
 62 
 46 
 
The Bour-Tree 
 
 Den 
 
 
 
 93 
 
 The Canoe Speaks . 
 
 
 
 140 
 
 The Far-Farers 
 
 
 
 27 
 
 The Sick Child 
 
 
 
 146 
 
 The Woodman 
 
 
 
 162 
 
 Thou strainest through the mountair 
 
 i fern 
 
 
 86 
 
 
 
 
 211 
 
 To all that love the far and blue 
 
 
 
 84 
 
 To a Schoolmaster . 
 
 
 
 181 
 
 To Charidemus 
 
 
 
 186 
 
 To F. J. S 
 
 
 
 144 
 
 To Friends at Home . 
 
 
 
 55 
 
 To K. De M. . 
 
 
 
 142 
 
 To Lupus 
 
 
 
 
 192 
 
 To Martial 
 
 
 
 
 199 
 
 To Maximus 
 
 
 
 
 202 
 
 To Nepos 
 
 
 
 
 184 
 
 To Olus . 
 
 
 
 
 204 
 
 To Rosabelle 
 
 
 
 
 88 
 
 To S. C. . 
 
 . * 
 
 
 
 161 
 
 To Quintilian 
 
 
 
 
 195 
 
 To What Shall I Compare Her 
 
 
 
 49 
 
 Translations from Martial 
 
 
 
 171 
 
 
 
 
 164 
 
 We Have Loved of Yore . 
 
 
 
 123 
 
 When Aince Aprile Has Fairly Come 
 
 
 151 
 
 When the sun c 
 
 omes after rain . 
 
 
 
 5i 
 
 [ 215 1 
 
THE TORCH PRESS 
 
 CEDAR RAPIDS 
 
 IOWA