Poems. Volume 1

THE LONGEST DAY

 
On yonder hills soft twilight dwells
   And Hesper burns where sunset dies,
Moist and chill the woodland smells
   From the fern-covered hollows uprise;
   Darkness drops not from the skies,
But shadows of darkness are flung o’er the vale
   From the boughs of the chestnut, the oak, and the elm,
While night in yon lines of eastern pines
   Preserves alone her inviolate realm
         Against the twilight pale.
 
 
Say, then say, what is this day,
   That it lingers thus with half-closed eyes,
When the sunset is quenched and the orient ray
   Of the roseate moon doth rise,
   Like a midnight sun o’er the skies!
’Tis the longest, the longest of all the glad year,
   The longest in life and the fairest in hue,
When day and night, in bridal light,
   Mingle their beings beneath the sweet blue,
         And bless the balmy air!
 
 
Upward to this starry height
   The culminating seasons rolled;
On one slope green with spring delight,
   The other with harvest gold,
   And treasures of Autumn untold:
And on this highest throne of the midsummer now
   The waning but deathless day doth dream,
With a rapturous grace, as tho’ from the face
   Of the unveiled infinity, lo, a far beam
         Had fall’n on her dim-flushed brow!
 
 
Prolong, prolong that tide of song,
   O leafy nightingale and thrush!
Still, earnest-throated blackcap, throng
   The woods with that emulous gush
   Of notes in tumultuous rush.
Ye summer souls, raise up one voice!
   A charm is afloat all over the land;
The ripe year doth fall to the Spirit of all,
   Who blesses it with outstretched hand;
         Ye summer souls, rejoice!
 

TO ROBIN REDBREAST

 
Merrily ’mid the faded leaves,
   O Robin of the bright red breast!
Cheerily over the Autumn eaves,
   Thy note is heard, bonny bird;
Sent to cheer us, and kindly endear us
   To what would be a sorrowful time
   Without thee in the weltering clime:
   Merry art thou in the boughs of the lime,
      While thy fadeless waistcoat glows on thy breast,
      In Autumn’s reddest livery drest.
 
 
A merry song, a cheery song!
   In the boughs above, on the sward below,
Chirping and singing the live day long,
   While the maple in grief sheds its fiery leaf,
And all the trees waning, with bitter complaining,
   Chestnut, and elm, and sycamore,
   Catch the wild gust in their arms, and roar
   Like the sea on a stormy shore,
      Till wailfully they let it go,
      And weep themselves naked and weary with woe.
 
 
Merrily, cheerily, joyously still
   Pours out the crimson-crested tide.
The set of the season burns bright on the hill,
   Where the foliage dead falls yellow and red,
Picturing vainly, but foretelling plainly
   The wealth of cottage warmth that comes
   When the frost gleams and the blood numbs,
   And then, bonny Robin, I’ll spread thee out crumbs
      In my garden porch for thy redbreast pride,
      The song and the ensign of dear fireside.
 

SONG

 
The daisy now is out upon the green;
   And in the grassy lanes
   The child of April rains,
The sweet fresh-hearted violet, is smelt and loved unseen.
 
 
Along the brooks and meads, the daffodil
   Its yellow richness spreads,
   And by the fountain-heads
Of rivers, cowslips cluster round, and over every hill.
 
 
The crocus and the primrose may have gone,
   The snowdrop may be low,
   But soon the purple glow
Of hyacinths will fill the copse, and lilies watch the dawn.
 
 
And in the sweetness of the budding year,
   The cuckoo’s woodland call,
   The skylark over all,
And then at eve, the nightingale, is doubly sweet and dear.
 
 
My soul is singing with the happy birds,
   And all my human powers
   Are blooming with the flowers,
My foot is on the fields and downs, among the flocks and herds.
 
 
Deep in the forest where the foliage droops,
   I wander, fill’d with joy.
   Again as when a boy,
The sunny vistas tempt me on with dim delicious hopes.
 
 
The sunny vistas, dim with hurrying shade,
   And old romantic haze:—
   Again as in past days,
The spirit of immortal Spring doth every sense pervade.
 
 
Oh! do not say that this will ever cease;—
   This joy of woods and fields,
   This youth that nature yields,
Will never speak to me in vain, tho’ soundly rapt in peace.
 

SUNRISE

 
The clouds are withdrawn
And their thin-rippled mist,
That stream’d o’er the lawn
To the drowsy-eyed west.
Cold and grey
They slept in the way,
And shrank from the ray
Of the chariot East:
But now they are gone,
And the bounding light
Leaps thro’ the bars
Of doubtful dawn;
Blinding the stars,
And blessing the sight;
Shedding delight
On all below;
Glimmering fields,
And wakening wealds,
And rising lark,
And meadows dark,
And idle rills,
And labouring mills,
And far-distant hills
Of the fawn and the doe.
The sun is cheered
And his path is cleared,
As he steps to the air
From his emerald cave,
His heel in the wave,
Most bright and bare;
In the tide of the sky
His radiant hair
From his temples fair
Blown back on high;
As forward he bends,
And upward ascends,
Timely and true,
To the breast of the blue;
His warm red lips
Kissing the dew,
Which sweetened drips
On his flower cupholders;
Every hue
From his gleaming shoulders
Shining anew
With colour sky-born,
As it washes and dips
In the pride of the morn.
Robes of azure,
Fringed with amber,
Fold upon fold
Of purple and gold,
Vine-leaf bloom,
And the grape’s ripe gloom,
When season deep
In noontide leisure,
With clustering heap
The tendrils clamber
Full in the face
Of his hot embrace,
Fill’d with the gleams
Of his firmest beams.
Autumn flushes,
Roseate blushes,
Vermeil tinges,
Violet fringes,
Every hue
Of his flower cupholders,
O’er the clear ether
Mingled together,
Shining anew
From his gleaming shoulders!
Circling about
In a coronal rout,
And floating behind,
The way of the wind,
As forward he bends,
And upward ascends,
Timely and true,
To the breast of the blue.
His bright neck curved,
His clear limbs nerved,
Diamond keen
On his front serene,
While each white arm strains
To the racing reins,
As plunging, eyes flashing,
Dripping, and dashing,
His steeds triple grown
Rear up to his throne,
Ruffling the rest
Of the sea’s blue breast,
From his flooding, flaming crimson crest!
 

PICTURES OF THE RHINE

I

 
   The spirit of Romance dies not to those
   Who hold a kindred spirit in their souls:
   Even as the odorous life within the rose
   Lives in the scattered leaflets and controls
   Mysterious adoration, so there glows
   Above dead things a thing that cannot die;
   Faint as the glimmer of a tearful eye,
   Ere the orb fills and all the sorrow flows.
   Beauty renews itself in many ways;
   The flower is fading while the new bud blows;
   And this dear land as true a symbol shows,
   While o’er it like a mellow sunset strays
   The legendary splendour of old days,
   In visible, inviolate repose.
 

II

 
   About a mile behind the viny banks,
   How sweet it was, upon a sloping green,
   Sunspread, and shaded with a branching screen,
   To lie in peace half-murmuring words of thanks!
   To see the mountains on each other climb,
   With spaces for rich meadows flowery bright;
   The winding river freshening the sight
   At intervals, the trees in leafy prime;
   The distant village-roofs of blue and white,
   With intersections of quaint-fashioned beams
   All slanting crosswise, and the feudal gleams
   Of ruined turrets, barren in the light;—
   To watch the changing clouds, like clime in clime;
Oh sweet to lie and bless the luxury of time.
 

III

 
   Fresh blows the early breeze, our sail is full;
   A merry morning and a mighty tide.
   Cheerily O! and past St. Goar we glide,
   Half hid in misty dawn and mountain cool.
   The river is our own! and now the sun
   In saffron clothes the warming atmosphere;
   The sky lifts up her white veil like a nun,
   And looks upon the landscape blue and clear;—
   The lark is up; the hills, the vines in sight;
   The river broadens with his waking bliss
   And throws up islands to behold the light;
   Voices begin to rise, all hues to kiss;—
   Was ever such a happy morn as this!
Birds sing, we shout, flowers breathe, trees shine with one delight!
 

IV

 
   Between the two white breasts of her we love,
   A dewy blushing rose will sometimes spring;
   Thus Nonnenwerth like an enchanted thing
   Rises mid-stream the crystal depths above.
   On either side the waters heave and swell,
   But all is calm within the little Isle;
   Content it is to give its holy smile,
   And bless with peace the lives that in it dwell.
   Most dear on the dark grass beneath its bower
   Of kindred trees embracing branch and bough,
   To dream of fairy foot and sudden flower;
   Or haply with a twilight on the brow,
   To muse upon the legendary hour,
And Roland’s lonely love and Hildegard’s sad vow.
 

V

 
   Hark! how the bitter winter breezes blow
   Round the sharp rocks and o’er the half-lifted wave,
   While all the rocky woodland branches rave
   Shrill with the piercing cold, and every cave,
   Along the icy water-margin low,
   Rings bubbling with the whirling overflow;
   And sharp the echoes answer distant cries
   Of dawning daylight and the dim sunrise,
   And the gloom-coloured clouds that stain the skies
   With pictures of a warmth, and frozen glow
   Spread over endless fields of sheeted snow;
   And white untrodden mountains shining cold,
   And muffled footpaths winding thro’ the wold,
O’er which those wintry gusts cease not to howl and blow.
 

VI

 
   Rare is the loveliness of slow decay!
   With youth and beauty all must be desired,
   But ’tis the charm of things long past away,
   They leave, alone, the light they have inspired:
   The calmness of a picture; Memory now
   Is the sole life among the ruins grey,
   And like a phantom in fantastic play
   She wanders with rank weeds stuck on her brow,
   Over grass-hidden caves and turret-tops,
   Herself almost as tottering as they;
   While, to the steps of Time, her latest props
   Fall stone by stone, and in the Sun’s hot ray
   All that remains stands up in rugged pride,
And bridal vines drink in his juices on each side.
 

TO A NIGHTINGALE

 
O nightingale! how hast thou learnt
   The note of the nested dove?
While under thy bower the fern hangs burnt
   And no cloud hovers above!
Rich July has many a sky
With splendour dim, that thou mightst hymn,
And make rejoice with thy wondrous voice,
   And the thrill of thy wild pervading tone!
But instead of to woo, thou hast learnt to coo:
Thy song is mute at the mellowing fruit,
And the dirge of the flowers is sung by the hours
   In silence and twilight alone.
 
 
O nightingale! ’tis this, ’tis this
   That makes thee mock the dove!
That thou hast past thy marriage bliss,
   To know a parent’s love.
The waves of fern may fade and burn,
The grasses may fall, the flowers and all,
And the pine-smells o’er the oak dells
   Float on their drowsy and odorous wings,
But thou wilt do nothing but coo,
Brimming the nest with thy brooding breast,
’Midst that young throng of future song,
   Round whom the Future sings!
 

INVITATION TO THE COUNTRY

 
Now ’tis Spring on wood and wold,
Early Spring that shivers with cold,
But gladdens, and gathers, day by day,
A lovelier hue, a warmer ray,
A sweeter song, a dearer ditty;
Ouzel and throstle, new-mated and gay,
Singing their bridals on every spray—
Oh, hear them, deep in the songless City!
Cast off the yoke of toil and smoke,
As Spring is casting winter’s grey,
As serpents cast their skins away:
And come, for the Country awaits thee with pity
And longs to bathe thee in her delight,
And take a new joy in thy kindling sight;
And I no less, by day and night,
Long for thy coming, and watch for, and wait thee,
And wonder what duties can thus berate thee.
 
 
Dry-fruited firs are dropping their cones,
And vista’d avenues of pines
Take richer green, give fresher tones,
As morn after morn the glad sun shines.
 
 
Primrose tufts peep over the brooks,
Fair faces amid moist decay!
The rivulets run with the dead leaves at play,
The leafless elms are alive with the rooks.
 
 
Over the meadows the cowslips are springing,
The marshes are thick with king-cup gold,
Clear is the cry of the lambs in the fold,
The skylark is singing, and singing, and singing.
 
 
Soon comes the cuckoo when April is fair,
And her blue eye the brighter the more it may weep:
The frog and the butterfly wake from their sleep,
Each to its element, water and air.
 
 
Mist hangs still on every hill,
And curls up the valleys at eve; but noon
Is fullest of Spring; and at midnight the moon
Gives her westering throne to Orion’s bright zone,
As he slopes o’er the darkened world’s repose;
And a lustre in eastern Sirius glows.
 
 
Come, in the season of opening buds;
Come, and molest not the otter that whistles
Unlit by the moon, ’mid the wet winter bristles
Of willow, half-drowned in the fattening floods.
Let him catch his cold fish without fear of a gun,
And the stars shall shield him, and thou wilt shun!
And every little bird under the sun
Shall know that the bounty of Spring doth dwell
In the winds that blow, in the waters that run,
And in the breast of man as well.
 

THE SWEET O’ THE YEAR

 
Now the frog, all lean and weak,
   Yawning from his famished sleep,
Water in the ditch doth seek,
   Fast as he can stretch and leap:
      Marshy king-cups burning near
      Tell him ’tis the sweet o’ the year.
 
 
Now the ant works up his mound
   In the mouldered piny soil,
And above the busy ground
   Takes the joy of earnest toil:
      Dropping pine-cones, dry and sere,
      Warn him ’tis the sweet o’ the year.
 
 
Now the chrysalis on the wall
   Cracks, and out the creature springs,
Raptures in his body small,
   Wonders on his dusty wings:
      Bells and cups, all shining clear,
      Show him ’tis the sweet o’ the year.
 
 
Now the brown bee, wild and wise,
   Hums abroad, and roves and roams,
Storing in his wealthy thighs
   Treasure for the golden combs:
      Dewy buds and blossoms dear
      Whisper ’tis the sweet o’ the year.
 
 
Now the merry maids so fair
   Weave the wreaths and choose the queen,
Blooming in the open air,
   Like fresh flowers upon the green;
      Spring, in every thought sincere,
      Thrills them with the sweet o’ the year.
 
 
Now the lads, all quick and gay,
   Whistle to the browsing herds,
Or in the twilight pastures grey
   Learn the use of whispered words:
      First a blush, and then a tear,
      And then a smile, i’ the sweet o’ the year.
 
 
Now the May-fly and the fish
   Play again from noon to night;
Every breeze begets a wish,
   Every motion means delight:
      Heaven high over heath and mere
      Crowns with blue the sweet o’ the year.
 
 
Now all Nature is alive,
   Bird and beetle, man and mole;
Bee-like goes the human hive,
   Lark-like sings the soaring soul:
      Hearty faith and honest cheer
      Welcome in the sweet o’ the year.
 

AUTUMN EVEN-SONG

 
   The long cloud edged with streaming grey
      Soars from the West;
   The red leaf mounts with it away,
      Showing the nest
   A blot among the branches bare:
There is a cry of outcasts in the air.
 
 
   Swift little breezes, darting chill,
      Pant down the lake;
   A crow flies from the yellow hill,
      And in its wake
   A baffled line of labouring rooks:
Steel-surfaced to the light the river looks.
 
 
   Pale on the panes of the old hall
      Gleams the lone space
   Between the sunset and the squall;
      And on its face
   Mournfully glimmers to the last:
Great oaks grow mighty minstrels in the blast.
 
 
   Pale the rain-rutted roadways shine
      In the green light
   Behind the cedar and the pine:
      Come, thundering night!
   Blacken broad earth with hoards of storm:
For me yon valley-cottage beckons warm.
 

THE SONG OF COURTESY

I

 
When Sir Gawain was led to his bridal-bed,
By Arthur’s knights in scorn God-sped:—
How think you he felt?
      O the bride within
Was yellow and dry as a snake’s old skin;
      Loathly as sin!
      Scarcely faceable,
      Quite unembraceable;
With a hog’s bristle on a hag’s chin!—
Gentle Gawain felt as should we,
Little of Love’s soft fire knew he:
But he was the Knight of Courtesy.
 

II

 
When that evil lady he lay beside
Bade him turn to greet his bride,
What think you he did?
      O, to spare her pain,
And let not his loathing her loathliness vain
      Mirror too plain,
      Sadly, sighingly,
      Almost dyingly,
Turned he and kissed her once and again.
Like Sir Gawain, gentles, should we?
Silent, all!  But for pattern agree
There’s none like the Knight of Courtesy.
 

III

 
Sir Gawain sprang up amid laces and curls:
Kisses are not wasted pearls:—
What clung in his arms?
      O, a maiden flower,
Burning with blushes the sweet bride-bower,
      Beauty her dower!
      Breathing perfumingly;
      Shall I live bloomingly,
Said she, by day, or the bridal hour?
Thereat he clasped her, and whispered he,
Thine, rare bride, the choice shall be.
Said she, Twice blest is Courtesy!
 

IV

 
Of gentle Sir Gawain they had no sport,
When it was morning in Arthur’s court;
What think you they cried?
      Now, life and eyes!
This bride is the very Saint’s dream of a prize,
      Fresh from the skies!
      See ye not, Courtesy
      Is the true Alchemy,
Turning to gold all it touches and tries?
Like the true knight, so may we
Make the basest that there be
Beautiful by Courtesy!
 

THE THREE MAIDENS

 
There were three maidens met on the highway;
   The sun was down, the night was late:
And two sang loud with the birds of May,
   O the nightingale is merry with its mate.
 
 
Said they to the youngest, Why walk you there so still?
   The land is dark, the night is late:
O, but the heart in my side is ill,
   And the nightingale will languish for its mate.
 
 
Said they to the youngest, Of lovers there is store;
   The moon mounts up, the night is late:
O, I shall look on man no more,
   And the nightingale is dumb without its mate.
 
 
Said they to the youngest, Uncross your arms and sing;
   The moon mounts high, the night is late:
O my dear lover can hear no thing,
   And the nightingale sings only to its mate.
 
 
They slew him in revenge, and his true-love was his lure;
   The moon is pale, the night is late:
His grave is shallow on the moor;
   O the nightingale is dying for its mate.
 
 
His blood is on his breast, and the moss-roots at his hair;
   The moon is chill, the night is late:
But I will lie beside him there:
   O the nightingale is dying for its mate.
 

OVER THE HILLS

 
The old hound wags his shaggy tail,
   And I know what he would say:
It’s over the hills we’ll bound, old hound,
   Over the hills, and away.
 
 
There’s nought for us here save to count the clock,
   And hang the head all day:
But over the hills we’ll bound, old hound,
   Over the hills and away.
 
 
Here among men we’re like the deer
   That yonder is our prey:
So, over the hills we’ll bound, old hound,
   Over the hills and away.
 
 
The hypocrite is master here,
   But he’s the cock of clay:
So, over the hills we’ll bound, old hound,
   Over the hills and away.
 
 
The women, they shall sigh and smile,
   And madden whom they may:
It’s over the hills we’ll bound, old hound,
   Over the hills and away.
 
 
Let silly lads in couples run
   To pleasure, a wicked fay:
’Tis ours on the heather to bound, old hound,
   Over the hills and away.
 
 
The torrent glints under the rowan red,
   And shakes the bracken spray:
What joy on the heather to bound, old hound,
   Over the hills and away.
 
 
The sun bursts broad, and the heathery bed
   Is purple, and orange, and gray:
Away, and away, we’ll bound, old hound,
   Over the hills and away.
 

JUGGLING JERRY

I

 
Pitch here the tent, while the old horse grazes:
   By the old hedge-side we’ll halt a stage.
It’s nigh my last above the daisies:
   My next leaf ’ll be man’s blank page.
Yes, my old girl! and it’s no use crying:
   Juggler, constable, king, must bow.
One that outjuggles all’s been spying
   Long to have me, and he has me now.
 

II

 
We’ve travelled times to this old common:
   Often we’ve hung our pots in the gorse.
We’ve had a stirring life, old woman!
   You, and I, and the old grey horse.
Races, and fairs, and royal occasions,
   Found us coming to their call:
Now they’ll miss us at our stations:
   There’s a Juggler outjuggles all!
 

III

 
Up goes the lark, as if all were jolly!
   Over the duck-pond the willow shakes.
Easy to think that grieving’s folly,
   When the hand’s firm as driven stakes!
Ay, when we’re strong, and braced, and manful,
   Life’s a sweet fiddle: but we’re a batch
Born to become the Great Juggler’s han’ful:
   Balls he shies up, and is safe to catch.
 

IV

 
Here’s where the lads of the village cricket:
   I was a lad not wide from here:
Couldn’t I whip off the bail from the wicket?
   Like an old world those days appear!
Donkey, sheep, geese, and thatched ale-house—I know them!
   They are old friends of my halts, and seem,
Somehow, as if kind thanks I owe them:
   Juggling don’t hinder the heart’s esteem.
 

V

 
Juggling’s no sin, for we must have victual:
   Nature allows us to bait for the fool.
Holding one’s own makes us juggle no little;
   But, to increase it, hard juggling’s the rule.
You that are sneering at my profession,
   Haven’t you juggled a vast amount?
There’s the Prime Minister, in one Session,
   Juggles more games than my sins ’ll count.
 

VI

 
I’ve murdered insects with mock thunder:
   Conscience, for that, in men don’t quail.
I’ve made bread from the bump of wonder:
   That’s my business, and there’s my tale.
Fashion and rank all praised the professor:
   Ay! and I’ve had my smile from the Queen:
Bravo, Jerry! she meant: God bless her!
   Ain’t this a sermon on that scene?
 

VII

 
I’ve studied men from my topsy-turvy
   Close, and, I reckon, rather true.
Some are fine fellows: some, right scurvy:
   Most, a dash between the two.
But it’s a woman, old girl, that makes me
   Think more kindly of the race:
And it’s a woman, old girl, that shakes me
   When the Great Juggler I must face.
 

VIII

 
We two were married, due and legal:
   Honest we’ve lived since we’ve been one.
Lord!  I could then jump like an eagle:
   You danced bright as a bit o’ the sun.
Birds in a May-bush we were! right merry!
   All night we kiss’d, we juggled all day.
Joy was the heart of Juggling Jerry!
   Now from his old girl he’s juggled away.
 

IX

 
It’s past parsons to console us:
   No, nor no doctor fetch for me:
I can die without my bolus;
   Two of a trade, lass, never agree!
Parson and Doctor!—don’t they love rarely,
   Fighting the devil in other men’s fields!
Stand up yourself and match him fairly:
   Then see how the rascal yields!
 

X

 
I, lass, have lived no gipsy, flaunting
   Finery while his poor helpmate grubs:
Coin I’ve stored, and you won’t be wanting:
   You shan’t beg from the troughs and tubs.
Nobly you’ve stuck to me, though in his kitchen
   Many a Marquis would hail you Cook!
Palaces you could have ruled and grown rich in,
   But our old Jerry you never forsook.
 

XI

 
Hand up the chirper! ripe ale winks in it;
   Let’s have comfort and be at peace.
Once a stout draught made me light as a linnet.
   Cheer up! the Lord must have his lease.
May be—for none see in that black hollow—
   It’s just a place where we’re held in pawn,
And, when the Great Juggler makes as to swallow,
   It’s just the sword-trick—I ain’t quite gone!
 

XII

 
Yonder came smells of the gorse, so nutty,
   Gold-like and warm: it’s the prime of May.
Better than mortar, brick and putty,
   Is God’s house on a blowing day.
Lean me more up the mound; now I feel it:
   All the old heath-smells!  Ain’t it strange?
There’s the world laughing, as if to conceal it,
   But He’s by us, juggling the change.
 

XIII

 
I mind it well, by the sea-beach lying,
   Once—it’s long gone—when two gulls we beheld,
Which, as the moon got up, were flying
   Down a big wave that sparked and swelled.
Crack, went a gun: one fell: the second
   Wheeled round him twice, and was off for new luck:
There in the dark her white wing beckon’d:—
   Drop me a kiss—I’m the bird dead-struck!