Chapter II: Poole Harbour

O valiant reach of land that doth include
The striving sea in such a large embrace!
O valiant homes that overlook the face
Of water by a hundred keels subdued!
Poole, thou art map of thine own fortitude,
And, in thy building, eloquent of a race
That singed the beard of Spain and for a lace
Fought on this quay the Georgian excise-brood.
Old, and thy harbour skies more scantly sparred,
Thy constant stones survey the fickle flow
Of Tide and Time; and on thy casements barred
Burns Memory like a crimson afterglow,
Bright as the blood-red hollyhocks that blow
Through the grey timber in this silent yard.

THE JAPANESE DUCKLING

The shop-girl in my fingers laid
The Yellow Duckling, Mother paid
A silver coin to set him free
And so he came to live with me.

I kissed his baby feathers sweet,
His callow bill and parchment feet;
And so his love for me began—
My Yellow Duckling from Japan.

And he forgot his native nest,
Forgot the way his plumy breast
Parted the waters as they ran
Amid strange weeds in far Japan.

And he forgot the yellow child
Whose narrow eye-lids on him smiled:—
I kissed him, and he settled down
To live with me in London town.

THE PRIVET HEDGE

The common pavement dull and grey
Is strewn with leafy wands to-day,
And sceptres green to the curb’s edge—
For they have cut the privet hedge.

My Baby gathers, bending down,
The branches swept by Mother’s gown
And carries home into the house
Those magical and royal boughs.

But O the milky blossoms sweet
That scented all the sunny street—
Crushed by the Baby’s sandalled tread
They lie behind her, brown and dead.

THE VEGETARIAN’S DAUGHTER

She ate her oat-cake by the fire,
Her bath was done and dried her hair,
Her nightgown was her sole attire,
Her towel steamed across a chair.

And as the oat-cake contour grew
Eroded as a tide-worn cape,
She named the jagged residue
After the beast most like its shape.

“This is a pig, a growly bear,
A baa-sheep” (and she bit him)—thus
Her speech flowed on, to my despair
Incredibly carnivorous.

At last, all wreathed in drowsy smiles,
She munched the final gee-gee’s head—
“Ah, Betsey, what would Eustace Miles,
And what would Bernard Shaw have said?”

HONEY MEADOW

Here, Betsey, where the sainfoin blows,
Pink and the grass more thickly grows,
Where small brown bees are winging
To clamber up the stooping flowers,
We’ll share the sweet and sunny hours
Made murmurous with their singing.

Dear, it requires no small address
In such a billowy floweriness
For you, so young, to sally:
Yet would you still out-stay the sun
And linger when his light was done
Along the haunted valley.

O small brown fingers, clutched to seize
The biggest blooms, don’t spill the bees;
Imagine what contempt he
Would meet who ventured to arrive
Home, of an evening, at the hive,
With both his pockets empty!

Moreover, if you steal their share,
The bees become too poor to spare
Their sweets nor part with any
Honey at tea-time; so for you
What were for them a cell too few
Would be a sell too many!

Or, what were worse for you and me,
They might admire the industry
So thoughtlessly paraded,
And, tired of their brown queen, maintain
That no one needed Betsey-Jane
As urgently as they did.

So should you taste in some far clime
The plunder of eternal thyme
And you would quite forget us,
Our cottage and these English trees,
When you were Queen of Honey Bees
At Hybla or Hymettus.

AN ELEGY, FOR FATHER ANSELM, OF THE ORDER OF REFORMED CISTERCIANS, GUEST-MASTER AND PARISH PRIEST

“Et pastores erant in regione eadem vigilantes”

You to whose soul a death propitious brings
Its Heaven, who attain a windless bourne
Of sanctity beyond all sufferings,
It is not ours to mourn;

For you, to whom the earth could nothing give,
Who knew no hint of our inspirèd pride,
You could not very well be said to live
Until the day you died.

’Tis upon us—father and kindly friend,
Holy and cheerful host—the unbidden guests
You welcomed and the souls you would amend,
The weight of sorrow rests.

From Sarum in the mesh of her five streams,
Her idle belfries and her glittering vanes,
We are clomb to where the cloud-race dusks and gleams
On turf of upland plains.

Southward the road through juniper and briar
Clambers the down, untrodden and unworn
Save where some flock pitted the chalky mire
With little feet at dawn.

Twice in a week the hooded carrier’s lamp,
Flashing on wayside flints and grasses, spills
Its misty radiance where the dews lie damp
Among the untended hills;

Here lies the hamlet ringed with grassy mound
And brambled barrow where, superbly dead,
The dust of pagans turned to holy ground
Beneath your humble tread.

Here we descend at drooping dusk the side
Of the stony down beneath the planted ring
Of beeches where you showed with pastoral pride
The folded lambs in spring;

Here pull at eve the self-same bell that hastened
Your rough-shod feet behind the hollow door—
Yet never see you stand, the chain unfastened,
Your lantern on the floor.

Others will spread the board now you are gone
Here where you smiled and gave your guests to eat,
Learning your menial kingliness from One
Who washed His servants’ feet;

Along the slumbering corridor betimes
Others will knock and other footsteps pass
Down the wet lane e’er the thin shivering chimes
Toll for the early mass.

Yet in the chapel’s self no sorrows sing
In the strange priest’s voice, nor any dolour grips
The heart because it is not you who bring
Your Master to its lips.

Here let us leave the things you would not have—
Vain grief and sorrow useless to be shown—
“God’s gift and the Community’s I gave
And nothing of my own,”

You would have said, self-deemed of no more worth
Than the green hands that guard a poppy’s grace,—
Blows the eternal flower and back to earth
Tumbles the withered case.

Nay, but Our Lord hath made renouncement vain,
Himself into those humble hands let fall,
Guerdon of willing poverty and pain,
The greatest gift of all;

To you and all who in that life austere
Mid fields remote your harsher labours ply
Singing His praise, girt round from year to year
With sheep-bells and the sky—

This, that to you is larger audience given
Where prayer and praise with sighing pinions shod
Piercing the starry ante-rooms of Heaven
Sway the designs of God:

And now yourself, standing where late hath stood
The echo of your voice, are prayer and praise—
O sweet reward and unsurpassing good
For that small gift of days.

Yourself, who now have heard such summoning
And seen such burning clarities alight
As broke the vigilant shepherds’ drowsy ring
On the predestined night,

Who made such haste as theirs who rose and trod
To Bethlehem the dew-encumbered grass,
Trustful to see the showing forth of God
And the Word come to pass;

With how much more than home-spun Israelites’
Poor hungry glimpse of Godhead are you blest
Whom Mary shows for more than mortal nights
The Jewel on her breast.

Yet, as one kneeling churl might chance to think
Of the wan herd behind their wattled bars,
Moving unshepherded with bells that clink
And stir beneath the stars,

And, for the thought’s space wishing he were back,
Pray to that Sum of Sweetness for his sheep—
“Take them, O Thou that dost supply our lack,
Into Thy hands to keep,”

So you who in His presence move and live
Recall amid your glad celestial cares
Your chosen office, to your children give
The charity of prayers.

THE REGRET

The mallow blooms in late July
Along the dusty track
To Romsey where the waters run
And Norman stones confront the sun—
Ah, Dear, that all our work were done
And we were getting back!

The whinchat in the willow runs
From silver stair to stair,
Cocks his white eyebrow, tunes his throat
And plans his little creaking note
To please the leaves that past him float—
Ah, Dear, that we were there!

Now all the world is carrying hay
And all the world is wise,
And O to trudge it once again
There in the wake of a green wain
That over-tops the rustling lane
Beneath familiar skies!

FIRST SNOW

Now Hertha hath, without a doubt,
Got all her winter peltry out;
And, for the weeds dispersèd show
Dark through that field of fallen snow,
We may felicitate in her
The happy choice of minever.

The well beside the rusty shed
Hath screened his pent-house lapt in lead
In candour of Carthusian cowl,
(Soft as the plumage of white owl),
Whose pail, for all the long night’s drouth,
Hath foam about his sable mouth.

How dark my cottage window eyes
Her wonted landscape’s white disguise—
Ho, Sulky-face, thine own brick ledge
Beareth such burden as the hedge,
And thatch, for all the warmth within,
Is bearded like a Capuchin!

TO A CHILD RETURNING HOME UPON A WINDY DAY

Prythee what mad contentments canst thou find,
Rosy-cheeked Betsey, in this blust’rous wind
Loved of thy Babyhood? Without the door
His leaves as running footmen go before
Thy lagging feet who with compliant grace
Smilest, his kisses mantling on thy face.

Go back and bid him use while yet he may
His favour brief and pre-determined day;
Bear with his wooing, nor forbid him now
Lift the light hair from thine untroubled brow,
Whom thou shalt dub a churl, when thou art grown
A woman, but for ruffling of thy gown.

THE DEATH OF SIR MATHO

[“Nam quis iniquæ
Tam patiens urbis, tam ferreus ut teneat se
Causidici nova cum veniat lectica Mathonis
Plena ipso.”—_Juvenal_, I. 30.]

When Sir Matho lay a-dying and his feet were growing cold,
For the fire was out and left the place in gloom,
And he could not see the night-light on his cornices of gold
And the nurses that were hired for him some grisly gossip told
As they lingered in the little dressing-room,
There was none to light him candles or to kneel by him and pray
And the youth that fed the fire-dogs had packed up and gone away—
For where’s the sense of waiting on a man whose days are done?
_And the faggots lie a-rotting where the brown pheasants run._

As Sir Matho lay a-shivering, for Death crept on apace,
Came an agèd woman in the flickering light;
Like the women of the village, but he didn’t know her face,
For his 50-h.p. Panhard used to go at such a pace
That he never knew his cottagers by sight.
He saw her twist her apron in her ugly withered hands
As the poor did who awaited, while he lived, his high commands
And Sir Matho blinked upon her like an old dog in the sun.
_And the faggots lie a-rotting where the brown pheasants run._

Then Sir Matho saw she looked on him and waited his desire
And he conjured the poor mis-shapen witch
To bring some logs of cedar and of oak to light his fire,
For he counted on the pity that is never had for hire
And is all the poor possess to give the rich.
But she wrung her hands and cried to him, “Ah, Sir, I’ve done
the oil
Wherewith upon a little stove my mess of greens I boil;
And coal is dear, and very dear, and fuel have we none.”
_And the faggots lie a-rotting where the brown pheasants run._

She knelt her at his couch’s foot, he saw her sorrow rise,
Her tears bestarred his fair embroidered sheet,
She pierced his silken coverlid with pity of her eyes,
Her tenderness descended, like the dews of Paradise
Or grace of shining chrism, upon his feet—
The feet that trod the russet woods and broke the bracken curls;
And crushed the purple whinberries, that grow for little girls,
When the silly foreign feathers fell a-screaming to his gun.
_And the faggots lie a-rotting where the brown pheasants run._

And her tears recalled Sir Matho to a Woman ’neath a Tree,
’Twas an old pietà in his hall below
(Bought to pass the time at Christie’s for a song) wherein you see
How a Mother holds the Body of her Son upon her knee,
But her eyes are red for them that dealt the blow.
“This woman has forgiven me, and You forgive,” he cried.
“So He may still be merciful.” With that Sir Matho died.
But Satan ceased to blow the fire that he had well begun.
_And the faggots lie a-rotting where the brown pheasants run._

THE PETALS

Yourself in bed
(My lovely Drowsy-head)
Your garments lie like petals shed

Upon the floor
Whose carpet is strewn o’er
With little things that late you wore.

For the morrow’s wear
I fold them neat and fair
And lay them on the nursery chair;

And round them lie
Airs of the hours that die
With all their stored-up fragrancy.

As a flower might
Give out to the cool night
The warmth it drank in day-long light

So wool and lawn
From your soft skin withdrawn
(Whereon they were assumed at dawn)

Breathe the spent mood,
Lost act and attitude,
Of the small sweetness they endued.

Ere all turn cold
No garment that I hold
But shakes a vision from its fold

Of little feet
That vainly would be fleet,
Tangled about with meadow-sweet,

And of bent knees
When Betsey kneeling sees,
In the parched hedge-row, strawberries.

Such things I see
Folding your clothes, which be
Weeds of the dead day’s comedy.

The while I pray
Your part may be alway
So simple and so good to play,

And do desire
Your life may still respire
Such sweetness as your cast attire.

POST-COMMUNION

Lord, when to Thine embrace I run
Gathered like waters to the Sun,
Shape me to such celestial mirth
As may go back and glad the earth.
Let Thy rays compass me, and crowd
Into the semblance of a cloud
Mine idle and dispersèd powers;
That I, the casket of Thy showers,
May, for my closeness, coloured be
(Howe’er so faintly) like to Thee,

And when Thou loosest me to go
Diffused into Thy world below,
May I, till drip of words shall cease,
Sing of Refreshment, Light and Peace;
And, poured into the Time’s abyss,
Revive one blossom for Thy bliss.

INDEX TO FIRST LINES

PAGE
The brook along the Romsey road 3
A portly Wood-louse, full of cares 5
When the wind blows without the garden walls 7
How late in the wet twilight doth that bird 8
Of Sorrow, ’tis as Saints have said 9
Within our garden walls you see 10
The fuchsias dangle on their stem 11
My night-dress hangs on fire-guard rail 12
While I stand upon the pavement and I dress the
dusty stall 13
When by the fire-light Dulcibel 15
Whom meet we, Betsey, in the wood? 16
How few alack 17
’Tis the old wife at Rickling, she 19
Pull out my couch across the fire 21
When the Wind comes up the lane 22
What dusky branches fret the yellow sky 23
Three candles had her cake 25
The Baby slumbers through the night 26
With a full house of other folks 27
He who a mangold-patch doth hoe 30
Throw up the cinders, let the night wear through 31
When elm-buds turn from red to green 32
Vainly, my Betsey, to the weeping day 34
O the trucks that leave Southampton bring a smell
of twine and tar 36
When the young Spring in Betsey’s fingers sets 38
Permit, Dear Sir, that the judicious grieve 39
’Twas bought in Bruges, the shop was poor 41
The sun sank, and the wind uprist whose note 43
My Betsey-Jane it would not do 45
In Bethlehem Town by lantern light 46
Playthings my Betsey hath, the snail’s cast shell 48
I am not lightly moved, my grief was dumb 49
You taught me ways of gracefulness and fashions
of address 51
You that have fenced about my storm-swept ways 52
Pardon, Dear Sir, if with intrusive pen 53
When I was small, great joy it was to see 56
We came on Christmas Day 57
On the high frosty fields afoot at dawn 59
Now night hath fallen on the little town 60
Dear, the delightful world I see 61
So ’tis your will to have a cell 63
My Sorrow diligent would sweep 65
Here lies A. B. who, four years from her birth 67
On the painted bridge at Mottisfont above the Test
I’ve stood 70
It is told of the painter Da Vinci 72
Follow, my Betsey-Jane, as best you can 75
Scarce hath the crookèd scythe 77
Four-paws, the kitten from the farm 79
Four-paws, we know the sun is white 81
Time, cunning smith, hath set you in my heart 83
I saw myself encircled in the grey 84
Now candle-flames disperse the rout 86
In Sarum Close, when she had said her say 87
O thou who ’neath the umbrageous trees 88
The world’s a quarry for whose spoils 89
Whiffin, with all thy faults, I love thee still 90
An old white Jocko, kindly and urbane 91
By brook and bent 98
So now my Thames is fairly on the turn 100
So, dear, have you and Nurse conspired 101
Four alders guard a bridge of planks 103
Quite given o’er to shameful destinies 105
O valiant reach of land that doth include 105
The shop-girl in my fingers laid 107
The common pavement dull and grey 108
She ate her oat-cake by the fire 109
Here, Betsey, where the sainfoin blows 110
You to whose soul a death propitious brings 112
The mallow blooms in late July 117
Now Hertha hath, without a doubt 118
Prythee what mad contentments canst thou find 119
When Sir Matho lay a-dying and his feet were
growing cold 120
Yourself in bed 124
Lord, when to Thine embrace I run 126

SOME OPINIONS OF THE PRESS

“A poem by Mrs. Helen Parry Eden, ‘A Suburban Night’s
Entertainment,’ is in itself good enough to sustain
the Englishwoman’s reputation as a judge of verse.”

“A delightful fable.”

“The most sensational feature of this number.”
_The Westminster Gazette._

“A very pretty and finished piece of descriptive
verse.” _The Queen._

“A little masterpiece.”
“JACOB TONSON” in _The New Age_.

* * * * * *

Transcriber’s note:

Typographical errors have been silently corrected.

The corrections in the ERRATA have been applied to the text.

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed
in the public domain.