Chapter III: Splendide Mendax

When God some day shall call my name
And scorch me with a blaze of shame,
Bringing to light my inmost thought
And all the evil I have wrought,

Tearing away the veils I wove
To hide my foulness from my love,
And leaving my transgressions bare
To the whole heaven's clear, cold air--

When all the angels weep to see
The branded, outcast soul of me,
One saint at least will hide her face--
She will not look at my disgrace.

"At least, O God, O God Most High,
He loved me truly!" she will cry,
And God will pause before He send
My soul to find its fitting end.

Then, lest heaven's light should leave her face
To think one loved her and was base,
I will speak out at judgment day--
"I never loved her!" I will say.

LOVE SONG.

Light of my life! though far away,
My sun, you shine,
Your radiance warms me every day
Like fire or wine.

Life of my heart! in every beat
This sad heart gives,
It owns your sovereignty complete,
By which it lives.

Heart of my soul! serene and strong,
Eyes of my sight!
Together we can do no wrong,
Apart, no right.

THE QUARREL.

Come down, my dear, from this high, wind-swept hill,
Where the wild plovers scream against the sky;
Down in the valley everything is still--
We also will be silent, you and I.

Come down, and hold my hand as we go down.
A gleam of sun has dyed the west afar;
The lights come out down in the little town,
'Neath the first glimmer of the evening star.

Did my heart forge the bitter words I said?
Did your heart breed those bitterer replies--
Spoken with plovers wheeling overhead
In the gray pallor of the cheerless skies?

Is it worth while to quarrel and upbraid,
Life being so little and love so great a thing?
The price of all life's follies has been paid
When we, true lovers, fall to quarrelling.

Here is the churchyard; swing the gate and pass
Where the sharp needles of the pines are shed.
Tread here between the mounds of flowered grass;
Tread softly over these forgotten dead.

We are alive, and here--O love! O wife!
While life is ours, and we are yours and mine,
How dare we crush the blossom of our life?
How dare we spill love's sacramental wine?

Kiss me! Forget! We two are living now,
And life is all too short for love, my dear.
When one of us beneath these flowers lies low,
The other will remember we kissed here.

Some one some day will come here all alone
And look out on the desolated years,
With bitter tears of longing for the one
Who will not then be here to dry the tears!

CHANGE.

There's a little house by an orchard side
Where the Spring wears pink and white;
There's a garden with pansies and London pride,
And a bush of lad's delight.
Through the sweet-briar hedge is the garden seen
As trim as a garden can be,
And the grass of the orchard is much more green
Than most of the grass you see.

There used to be always a mother's smile
And a father's face at the door,
When one clambered over the orchard stile,
So glad to be home once more.
But now I never go by that way,
For when I was there of late,
A stranger was cutting the orchard hay,
And a stranger leaned on the gate.

THE MILL.

The wheel goes round--the wheel goes round
With drip and whir and plash,
It keeps all green the grassy ground,
The alder, beech and ash.
The ferns creep out 'mid mosses cool,
Forget-me-nots are found
Blue in the shadow by the pool--
And still the wheel goes round.

Round goes the wheel, round goes the wheel,
The foam is white like cream,
The merry waters dance and reel
Along the stony stream.
The little garden of the mill,
It is enchanted ground,
I smell its stocks and wall-flowers still,
And still the wheel goes round.

The wheel goes round, the wheel goes round,
And life's wheel too must go--
But all their clamour has not drowned
A voice I used to know.
Her window's blank. The garden's bare
As her chill new-made mound,
But still my heart's delight is there,
And still the wheel goes round.

RONDEAU.

A red, red rose, all wet with dew,
With leaves of green by red shot through,
And sharp, thin thorns, and scent that brings
Delicious memories of lost things,
A red rose, sweet--yet sad as rue.

'Twas a red rose you gave me--you
Whose gifts so sacred were, and few--
And that is why your lover sings
A red, red rose.

I sing--with lute untuned, untrue,
And worse than other lovers do,
Because perplexing memory stings--
Because from your green grave there springs,
With your spilt life-blood coloured through,
A red, red rose.

A MÉSALLIANCE.

I hear sweet music, rich gowns I wear,
I live in splendour and state;
But I'd give it all to be young once more,
And steal through the old low-lintelled door,
To watch at the orchard gate.

There are flowers by thousands these ball-rooms bear,
Fair blossoms, wondrous and new;
But all the flowers that a hot-house grows
I would give for the scent of a certain rose
That a cottage garden grew!

Oh, diamonds that sparkle on bosom and hair,
Oh, rubies that glimmer and glow--
I am tired of my bargain and tired of you!
I would give you all for a daisy or two
From a little grave I know.

THE LAST THOUGHT.

It's weary lying here,
While my throbbing forehead echoes all the hum of London near,
And oh! my heart is heavy, in this dull and darkened room,
When I think about our village, where the orchards are in bloom--
Our little red-roofed village, where the cherry orchards are--
So far away, so far!

They say that I shall die--
And I'm tired, and life is noisy, and the good days have gone by:
But oh! my red-roofed village--I should die with more content
Could I see again your gables, and the orchard slopes of Kent,
And the eyes that look out vainly, from a rose-wreathed cottage door,
For one who comes no more.

APOLLO AND THE MEN OF CYMÉ.

(Herodotus, I. 157-160.)

"What be these messengers who come fleet-footed
Between the images that guard our roadway,
Beneath the heavy shadow of the laurels--
Whence be these men, and wherefore have they come?"

"We come to crave the counsel of Apollo--
The men of Cymé he has counselled often--
Ask of the god an answer to our question,
Ask of Apollo here in Branch[)i]dæ.

"Pactyes the Lydian, flying from the Persian,
Has sought in Cymé refuge and protection;
The Persian bids us yield--our hearts bid shield him,
What does Apollo bid his servants do?"

The Oracle replied--and straight returning
To Cymé ran the messengers fleet-footed,
Brought to the citizens the Sun-god's answer:
"Apollo bids you yield to Persia's will".

So when the men of Cymé heard the answer,
They set in hand at once to yield their suppliant,
But Aristodicus, loved of the city,
Withstood their will,--and thus to them spake he.

"Your messengers have lied--they have made merry
In their own homes, they have not sought Apollo;
The god in Branch[)i]dæ had never counselled
That we should yield our suppliant to the foe.

"Wait. I, myself, with others of your choosing,
Will seek the god, and bring you back his answer,
_I_ would not yield the man who trusted Cymé--
What--is the god of baser stuff than I?"

So, by the bright bay, under the blue heavens,
A second time to Branch[)i]dæ they journeyed,
A second time beneath the purple shadows
Passed through the laurels to Apollo's fane.

Then Aristodicus spake thus: "To Cymé
Comes Pactyes fleeing from the wrath of Persia--
And she demands him, but we dare not yield him,
Until we know what thou wouldst have us do.

"Our arm is weak against the power of Persia,
The foe is strong, and our defences slender;
Yet, Lord, not yet have we been bold to render
Him who has come, a suppliant, to our gates."

So the Cyméan spake. Apollo answered:
"Yield ye your suppliant--yield him to the Persians".
Then Aristodicus bethought him further,
And in this fashion craftily he wrought.

All round the temple, in the nooks and crannies
Of carven work made by man's love and labour,
In perfect safety, by Apollo guarded,
The swallows and the sparrows built their nests.

And all day long their floating wings made beauty
About the temple and the whispering laurels,
And their shrill notes, with the sea's ceaseless murmur,
Rose in sweet chorus to the great god's ears.

Now round the temple went the men of Cymé,
Tore down the nests and snared the building swallows,
And a wild wind went moaning through the branches.
The sunlight died, and all the sky grew gray.

Men shivered in the disenchanted noontide,
And overhead the gray sky darkened, darkened,
And, in the heart of every man beholding,
The anger of the immortal gods made night.

Then from the hid shrine of the inner temple
Came forth a voice more beautiful than music,
More terrible than thunder and wild waters,
And more to be desired than summer sun.

"O thou most impious of all impious mortals,
Why hast thou dared defy me in my temple,
And torn away the homes of those who trust me,
Taken my suppliants from me for thy prey?"

Then Aristodicus stood forth, and answered:
"Lord, is it thus _thy_ suppliants are succoured,
What time thy Oracle bids men of Cymé
To yield their suppliant to the Persian spears?"

Then on the hush of awful expectation
Following the challenge of the too-bold mortals,
Broke the god's voice, unspeakably melodious
With all the song and sorrow of the world:--

"Yea, I do bid you yield him, that so sinning
Against the gods ye may the sooner perish--
And come no more to question at my temple
Of yielding suppliants who have trusted you!"

AT THE PRIVATE VIEW.

Yes, that's my picture. "Great," you say?
The crowd says it will make my name--
A name I'd gladly throw away
For a certain unseen star's pure ray.
I want success I've missed--not fame.

You see the mother kneeling there,
The child who cries for bread in vain.
The hard straw bed, the window bare,
The rags, the rat, the broken chair,
The misery and cold and pain.

But what you don't see--(never will!)--
Is what was there while yet I drew
The lines--which are not drawn so ill,
Put on the colours--worthy still
Of praise from critics such as you.

I used to paint all day, to pour
My soul out as I painted--see
There, to the life, the rotten floor,
The rags, the damp, the broken door,
For those your world will honour me.

But, though if here my models were,
You should not find a line drawn wrong,
Yet there is food for my despair,
But half my picture's finished fair;
Words without music are not song.

Sometimes I almost caught the tune,
Then changing lights across the sky,
Turned gray morn to red afternoon,
I had to drop my brush too soon,
Lay the transfigured _palette_ by.

That woman did not kneel on there,
When once my back was turned, I know,
She used to leave the broken chair
And show her face and its despair:
Oh--if I could have seen her so!

About her neck child-arms clung close,
Close to her heart the child-heart crept,
My room could tell you--if it chose.
There was a picture, then--God knows!
And I--who might have painted--slept.

Then when birds bade the world prepare
For dawn--ere yet the East grew wan,
She stepped back to the canvas there,
Wearing the look she will not wear
When eyes like yours and mine look on.

And when the mother kneeled once more,
While birds grew shrill, and shadows faint,
The child's white face the one look bore,
Which to my eyes it never wore,
Which I would give my soul to paint.

* * * * *

Hung, as you see--upon the line--
But when I laid the varnish on
And left my two--Fate laughed, malign,
"Farewell to that last hope of thine,
Thy chance of painting them is gone!"

A DIRGE IN GRAY.

Larranagas! Thank you, thank you!
Not a knife. I never use one--
I've the right thing on my watch-chain
Which some fool or other gave me--
Takes the end off in a second--
Sharp as life bites off our pleasures.

See! The soft wreath upward curling,
Gray as mists in leaf-strewn hollows;
Blue as skies in mild October;
Vague, elusive as delight is.
Ah! what shapes the smoke-wreaths grow to
When they're looked at by a dreamer!

Waves that moan--cold, gray, and curling,
On a shore where gray rocks break them;
Skies where gray and blue are blended
As our life blends joy and sorrow.
Angel wings, and smoke of battles,
Lines of beauty, curved perfection!

Half-shut eyes see many marvels;
Gazed at through one's half-closed lashes
Wreaths of smoke take shapes uncanny--
Beckoning hands and warning fingers--
But the gray cloud always somehow
Ends by looking like a woman.

Like a woman tall and slender,
Gowned in gray, with eyes like twilight,
Soft, and dreamy, and delicious.
Through my half-shut eyes I see her--
Through my half-dead life am conscious
Of her pure, perpetual presence.

Then the gray wreaths spread out broadly
Till they make a level landscape,
Toneless, dull, and very rainy--
And an open grave--I saw it.
Through the rain I heard the falling
Of the tears the heart sheds inly.

Oh, I saw it! I remember
Leafless branches, dripping, dripping,
Through a chill not born of Autumn.
To that grave tends all my dreaming--
Oh, I saw it, I remember ...
By that grave all dreaming ended!

THE WOMAN'S WORLD.

Oh! to be alone!
To escape from the work, the play,
The talking, everyday;
To escape from all I have done,
And all that remains to do.
To escape, yes, even from you,
My only love, and be
Alone, and free.

Could I only stand
Between gray moor and gray sky
Where the winds and the plovers cry,
And no man is at hand.
And feel the free wind blow
On my rain-wet face, and know
I am free--not yours--but my own.
Free--and alone!

For the soft fire-light
And the home of your heart, my dear,
They hurt--being always here.
I want to stand up--upright
And to cool my eyes in the air
And to see how my back can bear
Burdens--to try, to know,
To learn, to grow!

I am only you!
I am yours--part of you--your wife!
And I have no other life.
I cannot think, cannot do,
I cannot breathe, cannot see;
There is "us," but there is not "me"--
And worst, at your kiss, I grow
Contented so.

THE LIGHTHOUSE.

Above the rocks, above the waves
Shines the strong light that warns and saves.
So you, too high for storm or strife,
Light up the shipwreck of my life.

The lighthouse warns the wise, but these
Not only sail the stormy seas;
Towards the light the foolish steer
And, drowning, read its meaning, dear.

And, if the lamp by chance allure
Some foolish ship to death, be sure
The lamp will to itself protest:
"His be the blame! I did my best!"

TO A YOUNG POET.

Tired of work? Then drop away
From the land of cheerful day!
Pen the muse, and drive the pen
If you'd stay with living men.

Fancy fails? Then pluck from those
Gardens where her blossom blows;
Trim the buds and wire them well,
And your bouquet's sure to sell.

Write, write, write! Produce, produce!
Write for sale, and not for use.
This is a commercial age!
Write! and fill your ledger page.

If your soul should droop and die,
Bury it with undimmed eye.
Never mind what memory says--
Soul's a thing that never pays!

THE TEMPTATION.

Let me go! I cannot be
All you think me, pure and true:
Those brave jewel-names crown you,
They were trampled down by me.

Horrid ghosts rise up between
You and me; I dare not pass!
What might be is dead; what was
Is its poison, O my Queen!

I should wither up your life,
Blacken, blight its maiden flower;
You would live to curse the hour
When you made yourself my wife.

Yet, your hand held out, your eyes
Pleading, longing, brimmed with tears ...
I have lived in hell for years:
Do not show me Paradise.

Lest I answer: "Take me, then!
Take me, save me if you can,
Worse than any other man,
Loving more than other men."

THE BALLAD OF SIR HUGH.

The castle had been held in siege,
While thrice three weeks went past,
And still the foe no vantage gained
And still our men stood fast.

We held the castle for our king
Against our foes and his;
Stout was our heart, as man's must be
In such brave cause as this.

But Sir Hugh walked the castle wall,
And oh! his heart was sore,
For the foe held fast the only son
His dead wife ever bore.

The castle gates were firm and fast,
Strong was the castle wall,
Yet bore Sir Hugh an aching heart
For the thing that might befal.

He looked out to the pearly east,
Ere day began to break:
"God save my boy till evensong,"
He said, "for Mary's sake!"

He looked out on the western sky
When the sun sank, blood-red:
"God keep my son till morning light
For His son's sake," he said.

And morn and eve, and noon and night,
His heart one prayer did make:
"God keep my boy, my little one,
For his dear dead mother's sake!"

At last, worn out with bootless siege--
Our walls being tall and stout--
The rebel captain neared our gates
With a flag of truce held out.

"A word, Sir Hugh, a word with you,
Ere yet it be too late;
We have a prisoner and would know
What is to be his fate.

"Yield up your castle, or he dies!
'Tis thus the bargain stands:
His body in our hands we hold,
His life is in your hands!"

Sir Hugh looked down across the moat
And, in the sunlight fair,
He saw the child's blue, frightened eyes
And tangled golden hair.

He saw the little arms held out;
The little voice rang thin:
"O father dear, undo the gates!
O father--let me in!"

Sir Hugh leaned on the battlements;
His voice rang strong and true:
"My son--I cannot let thee in,
As my heart bids me do;

"If I should open and let thee in,
I let in, with thee, shame:
And that thing never shall be done
By one who bears our name!

"For honour and our king command
And we must needs obey;
So bear thee as a brave man's son,
As I will do this day."

The boy looked up, his shoulders squared,
Threw back his bright blond hair:
"Father, I will not be the one
To shame the name we bear.

"And, whatsoever they may do,
Whether I live or die,
I'll bear me as a brave man's son,
For that, thank God, am I!"

Then spake Sir Hugh unto the foe,
He spake full fierce and free:
"Ye cowards, deem ye, ye have affair
With cowards such as ye be?

"What? I must yield my castle up,
Or else my son be slain?
I trow ye never had to do
Till now with honest men!

"'Tis but by traitors such as you
That such foul deeds be done;
Not to betray his king and cause
Did I beget my son!

"My son was bred to wield the sword
And hew down knaves like you,
Or, at the least, die like a man,
As he this day shall do!

"And, since ye lack a weapon meet
To take so good a life
(For your coward steel would stain his blood),
Here--take his father's knife!"

With that he flung the long knife down
From off the castle wall,
It glimmered and gleamed in the brave sunlight,
Full in the sight of all.

Sir Hugh passed down the turret stair,
We held our breath in awe ...
May my tongue wither ere it tell
The damnèd work we saw!

* * * * *

When all was done, a shout went up
From that accursèd crew,
And from the chapel's silence dim
Came forth in haste Sir Hugh.

"And what may mean this clamour and din?"
"Sir Hugh, thy son is dead!"
"I deemed the foe had entered in,
But God is good!" he said.

We stood upon the topmost tower,
Full in the setting sun;
Shamed silence grew in the traitor's camp
Now that foul deed was done.

See! on the hills the gleam of steel,
Hark! threatening clarions ring,
See! horse and foot and spear and shield
And the banner of the king!

And in the camp of those without,
Hot tumult and cold fear,
For the traitor only dares be brave,
Until his king be near!

We armed at speed, we sallied forth,
Sir Hugh was at our head;
He set his teeth and he marked his path
By a line of traitors, dead.

He hacked his way straight to the churl
Who did the boy to death,
He swung his sword in his two strong hands
And clove him to the teeth.

And while the blade was held in the bone,
The caitiffs round him pressed,
And he died, as one of his line should die,
With three blades in his breast.

And when they told the king these things,
He turned his head away,
And said: "A braver man than I
Has fallen for me this day!"

FEBRUARY.

The Spring's in the air--
Here, there,
Everywhere!
Though there's scarce a green tip to a bud,
Spring laughs over hill and plain,
As the sunlight turns the lane's mud
To a splendour of copper one way, of silver the other;
And longings one cannot smother,
And delight that sings through the brain,
Turn all one's life into glory--
'Tis the old new ravishing story--
The Spring's here again!

When the leaves grew red
And dead,
We said:
"See how much more fair
Than the green leaves shimmering
Are the mists and the tints of decay!"
In the dainty dreamings that lighted the gray November,
Did our hearts not remember
The green woods--and linnets that sing?
Ah, we knew Spring was lost, and pretended
'Twas Autumn we loved. Lies are ended;
Thank God for the Spring!

APRIL.

Who calls the Autumn season drear?
It was in Autumn that we met,
When under foot dead leaves lay wet
In the black London gardens, dear.
The fog was yellow everywhere,
And very thick in Finsbury Square,
Where in those days we used to meet.
I used to buy you violets sweet
From flower-girls down by Moorgate Street.
'Twas Autumn then--can we forget?--
When first we met.

Who says that Spring is dear and fair?
It is in Spring-time that we part,
And weary heart from weary heart
Turns, as the birds begin to pair.
The sun shines on the golden dome,
The primroses in baskets come,
With daffodils in sheaves, to cheer
The town with dreams of the crownèd year.
We're both polite and insincere:
Though neither says it, yet--at heart--
We mean to part.

JUNE.

Oh, I'm weary of the town,
Where life's too hard for smiling--and the dreary houses frown,
And the very sun seems cruel in its glory, as it beats
Upon the miles of dusty roofs--the dreary squares and streets;
This sun that gilds the great St. Paul's--the golden cross and dome,
Is this the same that shines upon our little church at home?

Our little church is gray,
It stands upon a hill-side--you can see it miles away,
The rooks sail round its tower, and the plovers from the moor.
I used to see the daisies through the low-arched framing door,
When all the wood and meadow with June's sunshine were ablaze,--
Then the sun had ways of shining that it hasn't nowadays.

There are elm trees all around
Where the birds and bees in summer make a murmuring music-sound,
And on the quiet pastures the sheep-bells sound afar,
And you hear the low of cattle--where the red farm buildings are;
Oh! on that grass to rest my head and hear that old sweet tune,
And forget the cruel city--on this first blue day of June!

The grass is high--I know;
And the wind across the meadow is the same that used to blow;
But if my steps turned thither, on this golden first June day--
It would only be to count my dead--whom God has taken away.
That graveyard where the daisies grow--not yet my heart can bear
To pass that way--but oh, some day, some kind hand lay me there!

JULY.

The night hardly covers the face of the sky,
But the darkness is drawn
Like a veil o'er the heaven these nights in July,
A veil rent at dawn,
When with exquisite tremors the poplar leaves quiver,
And a breeze like a kiss wakes the slumbering river,
And the light in the east keener grows--clearer grows,
Till the edge of the clouds turn from pearl into rose,
And o'er the hill's shoulder--the night wholly past--
The sun peeps at last!

Come out! there's a freshness that thrills like a song,
That soothes like a sleep;
And the scent of wild thyme on the air borne along,
Where the downs slope up steep.
There's such dew on the earth and such lights in the heaven,
Lost joys are forgotten, old sorrows forgiven,
And the old earth looks new--and our hearts seem new-born,
And stripped of the cere-clothes which long they have worn--
And hope and brave purpose awaken anew
'Mid the sunshine and dew.

NOVEMBER.

Low lines of leaden clouds sweep by
Across the gold sun and blue sky,
Which still are there eternally.
Above the sodden garden-bed
Droop empty flower-stalks, dry and dead,
Where the tall lily bent its head
Over carnations white and red.

The leafless poplars, straight and tall,
Stand by the gray-green garden wall,
From which such rare fruit used to fall.
In the verandah, where of old
Sweet August spent the roses' gold,
Round the chill pillars, shivering, fold
Garlands of rose-thorns, sharp with cold.

And we, by cosy fireside, muse
On what the Fates grant, what refuse;
And what we waste and what we use.
Summer returns--despite the rain
That weeps against the window-pane.
Who'd weep--'mid fame and golden gain--
For youth, that does not come again?

ROCHESTER CASTLE.

Blue sky, gray arches, and white, white cloud;
Gray eyes, white hands, and a free, white crowd
Of wheeling, whirling, fluttering things--
Pink feet, bright feathers, and wide, warm wings.
Thousands of pigeons all the year
Fly in and out of the arches here.

What prisoned hands have torn at the stone
Where your soft hand lies--oh my heart!--alone?
What prisoned eyes have grown blind with tears
To see what we see after all these years--
The free, broad river go smoothly by
And the free, blithe birds 'neath the free, blue sky?

And now--O Time, how you work your will!
--The pitiless walls are standing still,
But the wall-flowers blossom on every ledge,
And the wild rose garlands the walls' sheer edge,
And where once the imprisoned heart beat low,
The beautiful pigeons fly to and fro!

In the sad, stern arches they build and pair,
As happy as dreams and as free as air,
And sorrow and longing and life-long pain
Man brings not into these walls again;
And yet--O my love, with the face of flowers--
What do we bring in these hearts of ours?

RUCKINGE CHURCH.

"And we said how dreary and desolate and forlorn the church
was, and how long it was since any music but that of the
moth-eaten harmonium and the heartless mixed choir had sounded
there. And we said: 'Poor old church! it will never hear any
true music any more'. Then she turned to us from the door of
the Lady Chapel, which was plastered and whitewashed, and had a
stove and the Evangelical Almanac in it, and her eyes were full
of tears. And, standing there, she sang 'Ave Maria'--it was
Gounod's music, I think--with her voice and her face like an
angel's. And while she sang a stranger came to the church door
and stood listening, but he did not see us. Only we saw that he
loved her singing. And he went away as soon as the hymn was
ended, we also soon following, and the church was left lonely
as before."--_Extract from our Diary._

The boat crept slowly through the water-weeds
That greenly cover all the waterways,
Between high banks where ranks of sedge and reeds
Sigh one sad secret all their quiet days,
Through grasses, water-mint and rushes green
And flags and strange wet blossoms, only seen
Where man so seldom comes, so briefly stays.

From the high bank the sheep looked calmly down,
Unscared to see my boat and me go by;
The elm trees showed their dress of golden brown
To winds that should disrobe them presently;
And a marsh sunset flamed across the wold,
And the still water caught the lavished gold,
The primrose and the purple of the sky.

The boat pressed ever through the weeds and sedge
Which, rustling, clung her steadfast prow around;
The iris nodded at the water's edge,
Bats in the elm trees made a ghostly sound;
With whirring wings a wild duck sprang to sight
And flew, black-winged, towards the crimson light,
Leaving my solitude the more profound.

We moved towards the church, my boat and I--
The church that at the marsh edge stands alone;
It caught the reflex of the sunset sky
On golden-lichened roof and gray-green stone.
Through snow and shower and sunshine it had stood
In the thronged graveyard's infinite solitude,
While many a year had come, and flowered, and gone.

From the marsh-meadow to the field of graves
But just a step, across a lichened wall.
Thick o'er the happy dead the marsh grass waves,
And cloudy wreaths of marsh mist gather and fall,
And the marsh sunsets shed their gold and red
Over still hearts that once in torment fed
At Life's intolerable festival.

The plaster of the porch has fallen away
From the lean stones, that now are all awry,
And through the chinks a shooting ivy spray
Creeps in--sad emblem of fidelity--
And wreathes with life the pillars and the beams
Hewn long ago--with, ah! what faith and dreams!--
By men whose faith and dreams have long gone by.

The rusty key, the heavy rotten door,
The dead, unhappy air, the pillars green
With mould and damp, the desecrated floor
With bricks and boards where tombstones should have been
And were once; all the musty, dreary chill--
They strike a shudder through my being still
When memory lights again that lightless scene.

And where the altar stood, and where the Christ
Reached out His arms to all the world, there stood
Law-tables, as if love had not sufficed
To all the world has ever known of good!
Our Lady's chapel was a lightless shrine;
There was no human heart and no divine,
No odour of prayer, no altar, and no rood.

There was no scent of incense in the air,
No sense of all the past breathed through the aisle,
The white glass windows turned to mocking glare
The lovely sunset's gracious rosy smile.
A vault, a tomb wherein was laid to sleep
All that a man might give his life to keep
If only for an instant's breathing while!

Cold with my rage against the men who held
At such cheap rate the labours of the dead,
My heart within me sank, while o'er it swelled
A sadness that would not be comforted;
An awe came on me, and I seemed to face
The invisible spirit of the dreary place,
To hear the unheard voice of it, which said:--

"Is love, then, dead upon earth?
Ah! who shall tell or be told
What my walls were once worth
When men worked for love, not for gold?
Each stone was made to hold
A heartful of love and faith;
Now love and faith are dead,
Dead are the prayers that are said,
Nothing is living but Death!

"Oh for the old glad days,
Incense thick in the air,
Passion of thanks and of praise,
Passion of trust and of prayer!
Ah! the old days were fair,
Love on the earth was then,
Strong were men's souls, and brave:
Those men lie in the grave,
They will live not again!

"Then all my arches rang
With music glorious and sweet,
Men's souls burned as they sang,
Tears fell down at their feet,
Hearts with the Christ-heart beat,
Hands in men's hands held fast;
Union and brotherhood were!
Ah! the old days were fair,
Therefore the old days passed.

"Then, when later there came
Hatred, anger and strife,
The sword blood-red and the flame
And the stake and contempt of life,
Husband severed from wife,
Hearts with the Christ-heart bled:
Through the worst of the fight
Still the old fire burned bright,
Still the old faith was not dead.

"Though they tore my Christ from the cross,
And mocked at the Mother of Grace,
And broke my windows across,
Defiling the holy place--
Children of death and disgrace!
They spat on the altar stone,
They tore down and trampled the rood,
Stained my pillars with blood,
Left me lifeless, alone--

"Yet, when my walls were left
Robbed of all beauty and bare,
Still God cancelled the theft,
The soul of the thing was there.
In my damp, unwindowed air
Fugitives stopped to pray,
And their prayers were splendid to hear,
Like the sound of a storm that is near--
And love was not dead that day.

"Then the birds of the air built nests
In these empty shadows of mine,
And the warmth of their brooding breasts
Still warmed the untended shrine.
His creatures are all divine;
He is praised by the woodland throng,
And my old walls echoed and heard
The passionate praising word,
And love still lived in their song.

"Then came the Protestant crew
And made me the thing you have known--
Whitewashed and plastered me new,
Covered my marble and stone--
Could they not leave me alone?
Vain was the cry, for they trod
Over my tombs, and I saw
Books and the Tables of Law
Set in the place of my God.

"And love is dead, so it seems!
Shall I never hear again
The music of heaven and of dreams,
Songs of ideals of men?
Great dreams and songs we had then,
Now I but hear from the wood
Cry of a bat or a bird.
Oh for love's passionate word
Sent from men's hearts to the Good!

"Sometimes men come, and they sing,
But I know not their song nor their voice;
They have no hearts they can bring,
They have no souls to rejoice,
Theirs is but folly and noise.
Oh for a voice that could sing
Songs to the Queen of the blest,
Hymns to the Dearest and Best,
Songs to our Master, her King!"

The church was full of silence. I shut in
Its loss and loneliness, and went my way.
Its sadness was not less its walls within
Because I wore it in my heart that day,
And many a day since, when I see again
Marsh sunsets, and across the golden plain
The church's golden roof and arches gray.

* * * * *

Along wet roads, all shining with late rain,
And through wet woods, all dripping, brown and sere,
I came one day towards the church again.
It was the spring-time of the day and year;
The sky was light and bright and flecked with cloud
That, wind-swept, changeful, through bright rents allowed
Sun and blue sky to smile and disappear.

The sky behind the old gray church was gray--
Gray as my memories, and gray as I;
The forlorn graves each side the grassy way
Called to me "Brother!" as I passed them by.
The door was open. "I shall feel again,"
I thought, "that inextinguishable pain
Of longing loss and hopeless memory."

When--O electric flash of ecstasy!
No spirit's moan of pain fell on my ear--
A human voice, an angel's melody,
God let me in that perfect moment hear.
Oh, the sweet rush of gladness and delight,
Of human striving to the heavenly light,
Of great ideals, permanent and dear!

All the old dreams linked with the newer faith,
All the old faith with higher dreams enwound,
Surged through the very heart of loss and death
In passionate waves of pure and perfect sound.
The past came back: the Christ, the Mother-maid,
The incense of the hearts that praised and prayed,
The past's peace, and the future's faith profound.

"_Ave Maria,
Gratiâ plena,
Dominus tecum:
Benedicta tu
In mulieribus,
Et benedictus fructus ventris tui Jesus.
Sancta Maria, Mater Dei,
Ora pro nobis peccatoribus
Nunc et in horâ mortis nostræ. Amen._"

And all the soul of all the past was here--
A human heart that loved the great and good,
A heart to which the great ideals were dear,
One that had heard and that had understood,
As I had done, the church's desolate moan,
And answered it as I had never done,
And never willed to do and never could.

I left the church, glad to the soul and strong,
And passed along by fresh earth-scented ways;
Safe in my heart the echo of that song
Lived, as it will live with me all my days.
The church will never lose that echo, nor
Be quite as lonely ever any more;
Nor will my soul, where too that echo stays.

RYE.

A little town that stands upon a hill,
Against whose base the white waves once leaped high;
Now spreading round it, even, green and still,
The placid pastures of the marshes lie.

The red-roofed houses and the gray church tower
Bear half asleep the sunshine and the rain;
They wait, so long have waited, for the hour
When the wild, welcome sea shall come again.

The lovely lights across the marshes pass,
The dykes grow fair with blossom, reed and sedge;
The patient beasts crop the long, cool, green grass,
The willows shiver at the water's edge;

But the town sleeps, it will not wake for these.
The sea some day again will round it break,
Will surge across these leagues of pastoral peace,
And then the little town will laugh, and wake.

THE BALLAD OF THE TWO SPELLS.

"Why dost thou weep?" the mass priest said;
"Fair dame, why dost thou weep?"
"I weep because my lord is laid
In an enchanted sleep.

"It was upon our bridal day
The bitter thing befel,
My love and lord was lured away
By an ill witch's spell.

"She lured him to her hidden bower
Among the cypress trees,
And there she holdeth manhood's flower
Asleep across her knees."

"Pray to our Father for His aid,
God knows ye need it sore."
"O God of Heaven, have I not prayed?
But I will pray no more.

"God will not listen to my prayer,
And never a Saint will hear,
Else should I stand beside him there,
Or he be with me here.

"But there he sleeps--and I wake here
And wet my bread with tears--
And still they say that God can hear,
And still God never hears.

"If I could learn a mighty spell,
Would get my love awake,
I'd sell my soul alive to hell,
And learn it for his sake.

"So say thy mass, and go thy way,
And let my grief alone--
Teach thou the happy how to pray
And leave the devil his own."

* * * * *

Within the witch's secret bower
Through changeful day and night,
Hour after priceless golden hour,
Lay the enchanted knight.

The witch's arms about him lay,
His face slept in her hair;
The devil taught her the spell to say
Because she was so fair.

And all about the bower were flowers
And gems and golden gear,
And still she watched the slow-foot hours
Because he was so dear.

Watched in her tower among the trees
For his long sleep to break;
And still he lay across her knees
And still he did not wake.

What whisper stirs the curtain's fold?
What foot comes up the stair?
What hand draws back the cloth of gold
And leaves the portal bare?

The night wind sweeps through all the room,
The tapers fleer and flare,
And from the portal's outer gloom
His true love enters there.

"Give place, thou wicked witch, give place,
For his true wife is here,
Who for his sake has lost heaven's grace
Because he was so dear.

"My soul is lost and his is won;
Thy spells his sleep did make,
But I know thy spell, the only one
Can get my lord awake."

The witch looked up, her shining eyes
Gleamed through her yellow hair--
(She was cast out of
Paradise Because she was so fair).

"Speak out the spell, thou loving wife,
And what it beareth, bide,
Go--bring thy lover back to life
And give thy lord a bride."

The wife's soul burned in every word
As low she spoke the spell,
Weeping in heaven, her angel heard,
One, hearing, laughed in hell.

And when the spell was spoken through,
Sudden the knight awoke
And turned his eyes upon the two--
And neither of them spoke.

He did not see his pale-faced wife
Whom sorrow had made wise,
He only saw the light of life
Burn in the witch's eyes.

He only saw her bosom sweet,
Her golden fleece of hair,
And he fell down before her feet
Because she was so fair.

She stooped and raised him from the floor
And held him in her arms;
She said: "He would have waked no more
For any of my charms.

"You only could pronounce the spell
Would set his spirit free;
And you have sold your soul to hell
And wakened him--for me!

"I hold him now by my blue eyes
And by my yellow hair,
He never will miss Paradise,
Because I am so fair."

The wife looked back, looked back to see
The golden-curtained place,
Her lord's head on the witch's knee,
Her gold hair on his face.

"I would my soul once more were mine,
Then God my prayer would hear
And slay my soul in place of thine
Because thou art so dear!"

IN MEMORIAM

PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON.

When you were tired and went away,
I said, amid my new heart-ache:
"When I catch breath from pain some day,
I will teach grief a worthier way,
And make a great song for his sake!"

Yet there is silence. O my friend,
You gave me love such years ago--
A child who could not comprehend
Its worth, yet kept it to the end--
How can I sing when you lie low?

Not always silence. O my dear,
Not when the empty heart and hand
Reach out for you, who are not near.
If you could see, if you could hear,
I think that you would understand.

The grief that can get leave to run
In channels smooth of tender song
Wins solace mine has never won.
I have left all my work undone,
And only dragged my grief along.

Many who loved you many years
(Not more than I shall always do),
Will breathe their songs in your dead ears;
God help them if they weep such tears
As I, who have no song for you.

You would forgive me, if you knew!
Silence is all I have to bring
(Where tears are many, words are few);
I have but tears to bring to you,
For, since you died, I cannot sing!

RONDEAU.

TO AUSTIN DOBSON.

Your dainty Muse her form arrays
In soft brocades of bygone days.
She walks old gardens where the dews
Gem sundials and trim-cut yews
And tremble on the tulip's blaze.
The magic scent her charm conveys
Which lives on when the rose decays.
She had her portrait done by Greuze--
Your dainty Muse!

Mine's hardier--walks life's muddy ways
Barefooted; preaches, sometimes prays,
Is modern, is advanced, has views;
Goes in for lectures, reads the news,
And sends her homespun verse to praise
Your dainty Muse!

RONDEAU.

TO W. E. HENLEY.

Dream and delight had passed away,
Their springs dried by the dusty day,
And sordid fetters bound me tight,
Forged for poor song by money-might;
I writhed, and could not get away.
There might have been no flowering may
In all the world--life looked so gray
With dust of railways, choking quite
Dream and delight.

When, lo! your white book came my way,
With scent of honey-buds and hay,
Starshine and day-dawns pure and bright,
The rose blood-red, the may moon-white.
I owe you--would I could repay--
Dream and delight.

TO WALTER SICKERT.

(IN RETURN FOR A SIGHT OF HIS PICTURE "RED CLOVER".)

There is a country far away from here--
A world of dreams--a fair enchanted land--
Where woods bewitched and fairy forests stand,
And all the seasons rhyme through all the year.

The greenest meadows, deepest skies, are there;
There grows the rose of dreams, that never dies;
And there men's heads and hands and hearts and eyes
Are never, as here, too tired to find them fair.

Thither, when life becomes too hard to bear,
The poet and the painter steal away
To watch those glories of the night and day
Which here the days and nights so seldom wear.

In that brave land I, too, have part and lot.
Dim woods, lush meadows, little red-roofed towns,
Walled flowery gardens, wide gray moors and downs;
Sedge, meadow-sweet, and wet forget-me-not;

The Norman church, with whispering elm trees round;
A certain wood where earliest violets grow;
One wide still marsh where hidden waters flow;
The cottage porch with honey-buds enwound--

These are my portion of enchanted ground,
To these the years add somewhat in their flight;
Some wood or field, deep-dyed in heart's delight,
Becomes my own--treasure to her who found.

To my dream fields your art adds one field more,
A field of red, red clover, blossoming,
Where the sun shines, and where more skylarks sing
Than ever in any field of mine before.

OLD AGE.

Between the midnight and the morn
When wake the weary heart and head,
Troops of gray ghosts from lands forlorn
Keep tryst about my sleepless bed.

I hear their cold, thin voices say:
"Your youth is dying; by-and-by
All that makes up your life to-day,
Withered by age, will shrink and die!"

Will it be so? Will age slay all
The dreams of love and hope and faith--
Put out the sun beyond recall,
And lap us in a living death?

Will hearts grown old forget their youth?
And hands grown old give up the strife?
Shall we accept as ordered truth
The dismal anarchy of life?

Better die now--at once be free
Of hope and fear--renounce the whole:
For of what worth would living be
Should one--grown old--outlive one's soul?

Yet see: through curtains closely drawn
Creeps in the exorcising light;
The sacred fingers of the dawn
Put all my troop of ghosts to flight.

And then I hear the brave Sun's voice,
Though still the skies are gray and dim:
"Old age comes never--Oh, rejoice--
Except to those who beckon him.

"All that youth's dreams are nourished by,
By that shall dreams in age be fed--
Thy noble dreams can never die
Until thyself shall wish them dead!"

INDEX.

PAGE

APOLLO AND THE MEN OF CYMÉ, 98
APRIL, 123

BABY SONG, 49
BALLAD OF CANTERBURY, 58
BALLAD OF SIR HUGH, 114
BALLAD OF TWO SPELLS, 145
BETROTHAL, THE, 80
BRIDAL BALLAD, 1

CHANGE, 92

DEATH-BED, A, 12
DEVIL'S DUE, THE, 20
DIRGE IN GRAY, A, 106

EAST-END TRAGEDY, AN, 53

FEBRUARY, 121

GARDEN, THE, 33
GHOST, THE, 5
GREAT INDUSTRIAL CENTRE, A, 38

HERE AND THERE, 55

IN MEMORIAM PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON, 151

JUNE, 125
JULY, 127

LAST THOUGHT, THE, 97
LIGHTHOUSE, THE, 110
LONDON'S VOICES, 40
LOST SOUL AND THE SAVED, THE, 14
LOVE:--
1. THE DESIRE OF THE MOTH
FOR THE STAR, 84
2. WORSHIP, 85
3. SPLENDIDE MENDAX, 87
LOVE IN JUNE, 30
LOVE SONG, 89
LULLABY, 51

MÉSALLIANCE, A, 96
MILL, THE, 93
MODERN JUDAS, THE, 7
MORNING, 67
MOTHER, 57

NOVEMBER, 129

OLD AGE, 157
ON THE MEDWAY, 73

PRAYER, THE, 68
PRAYER UNDER GRAY SKIES, 36
PRISON GATE, AT THE, 18
PRIVATE VIEW, AT THE, 103

QUARREL, THE, 90

RIVER MAIDENS, THE, 70
ROCHESTER CASTLE, 131
RONDEAU, A, 95
RONDEAU. TO AUSTIN DOBSON, 153
RONDEAU. TO W. E. HENLEY, 154
RUCKINGE CHURCH, 133
RYE, 144

SOUL TO THE IDEAL, THE, 10
SICK JOURNALIST, THE, 42

TEMPTATION, THE, 112
TO WALTER SICKERT, 155
TO A YOUNG POET, 111
TRAGEDY, A, 81
TWO LULLABIES, 45

WOMAN'S WORLD, THE, 108