Chapter I: Front Matter

_This edition is limited to 750 copies for England
and America._

POEMS

BY

LIONEL JOHNSON.

POEMS

BY

LIONEL JOHNSON

1895

LONDON * ELKIN MATHEWS
BOSTON * COPELAND & DAY

TO THE HONOURED AND GREATLY LOVED SAINT
MARY COLLEGE OF WINCHESTER NEAR
WINCHESTER A WYKEHAMIST
COME OF WYKEHAMISTS
I DEDICATE THIS
BOOK.

_Gulielmum Wickamum, ut optimum parentem agnosco, suscipio, colo, cui si quid in me doctrinae, virtutis, pietatis, et Catholicae religionis, maxime acceptum refero. Quippe qui ab ineunte aetate, in Wintoniensi primum, deinde et Oxontensi eius collegio, ad omnem ingenii, doctrinae, et pietatis cultum capessendum institutus sim._

HARPSFIELD.

CONTENTS.

WINCHESTER
TO MORFYDD
PLATO IN LONDON
IN FALMOUTH HARBOUR
A FRIEND
A BURDEN OF EASTER VIGIL
BY THE STATUE OF KING CHARLES AT CHARING CROSS
LALEHAM
OUR LADY OF FRANCE
IN MEMORY
THE PRECEPT OF SILENCE
HILL AND VALE
GWYNEDD
A CORNISH NIGHT
MYSTIC AND CAVALIER
PARNELL
IN ENGLAND
TO OCEAN HAZARD: GIPSY
UPON A DRAWING
THE ROMAN STAGE
"TO WEEP IRISH"
SUMMER STORM
TO A TRAVELLER
IN MEMORY OF M. B.
HAWTHORNE
GLORIES
LINES TO A LADY UPON HER THIRD BIRTHDAY
CELTIC SPEECH
WAYS OF WAR
THE COMING OF WAR
IRELAND'S DEAD
HARMONIES
THE LAST MUSIC
A DREAM OF YOUTH
ROMANS
THE TROOPSHIP
DEAD
SANCTA SILVARUM
BAGLEY WOOD
CORONA CRUCIS
A SONG OF ISRAEL
THE DARK ANGEL
A FRIEND
TO A PASSIONIST
ADVENTUS DOMINI
MEN OF ASSISI
MEN OF AQUINO
LUCRETIUS
ENTHUSIASTS
CADGWITH
VISIONS
TO LEO XIII.
AT THE BURIAL OF CARDINAL MANNING
VIGILS
THE CHURCH OF A DREAM
THE AGE OF A DREAM
OXFORD NIGHTS
TO A SPANISH FRIEND
TO MY PATRONS
BRONTË
COMFORT
MOEL FAMMAU
SORTES VIRGILIANAE
CONSOLATION
ORACLES
THE DESTROYER OF A SOUL
OUR LADY OF THE SNOWS
ASH WEDNESDAY
DESIDERIA
ARMA VIRUMQUE
THE DAY OF COMING DAYS
RENEGADE
WALES
HARVEST
TO CERTAIN FRIENDS
THE PETITION
THE CLASSICS
APRIL
A PROSELYTE
BEYOND
EXPERIENCE
ESCAPE
TRENTALS
THE RED WIND
SERTORIUS
SAINT COLUMBA
BELLS

POEMS

WINCHESTER.

To the fairest!
Then to thee
Consecrate and bounden be,
Winchester! this verse of mine.
Ah, that loveliness of thine!
To have lived enchaunted years
Free from sorrows, free from fears,
Where thy Tower's great shadow falls
Over those proud buttressed walls;
Whence a purpling glory pours
From high heaven's inheritors,
Throned within the arching stone!
To have wandered, hushed, alone,
Gently round thy fair, fern-grown
Chauntry of the Lilies, lying
Where the soft night winds go sighing
Round thy Cloisters, in moonlight
Branching dark, or touched with white:
Round old, chill aisles, where moon-smitten
Blanches the _Orate_, written
Under each worn, old-world face
Graven on Death's holy place!

To the noblest!
None but thee.
Blest our living eyes, that see
Half a thousand years fulfilled
Of that age, which Wykeham willed
Thee to win; yet all unworn,
As upon that first March morn,
When thine honoured city saw
Thy young beauty without flaw,
Born within her water-flowing,
Ancient hollows, by wind-blowing
Hills enfolded ever more.
Thee, that lord of splendid lore,
Orient from old Hellas' shore,
Grocyn, had to mother: thee,
Monumental majesty
Of most high philosophy
Honours, in thy wizard Browne:
Tender Otway's dear renown,
Mover of a perfect pity,
Victim of the iron city,
Thine to cherish is: and thee,
Laureate of Liberty;
Harper of the Highland faith,
Elf, and faery, and wan wraith;
Chaunting softly, chaunting slowly,
Minstrel of all melancholy;
Master of all melody,
Made to cling round memory;
Passion's poet, Evening's voice,
Collins glorified. Rejoice,
Mother! in thy sons: for all
Love thine immemorial
Name, august and musical.
Not least he, who left thy side,
For his sire's, thine earlier pride,
Arnold: whom we mourn to-day,
Prince of song, and gone away
To his brothers of the bay:
Thine the love of all his years;
His be now thy praising tears.

To the dearest!
Ah, to thee!
Hast thou not in all to me
Mother, more than mother, been?
Well toward thee may Mary Queen
Bend her with a mother's mien;
Who so rarely dost express
An inspiring tenderness,
Woven with thy sterner strain,
Prelude of the world's true pain.
But two years, and still my feet
Found thy very stones more sweet,
Than the richest fields elsewhere:
Two years, and thy sacred air
Still poured balm upon me, when
Nearer drew the world of men;
When the passions, one by one,
All sprang upward to the sun:
Two years have I lived, still thine;
Lost, thy presence! gone, that shrine,
Where six years, what years! were mine.
Music is the thought of thee;
Fragrance, all thy memory.
Those thy rugged Chambers old,
In their gloom and rudeness, hold
Dear remembrances of gold.
Some first blossoming of flowers
Made delight of all the hours;
Greatness, beauty, all things fair
Made the spirit of thine air:
Old years live with thee; thy sons
Walk with high companions.
Then, the natural joy of earth,
Joy of very health and birth!
Hills, upon a summer noon:
Water Meads, on eves of June:
Chamber Court, beneath the moon:
Days of spring, on Twyford Down,
Or when autumn woods grew brown;
As they looked, when here came Keats,
Chaunting of autumnal sweets;
Through this city of old haunts,
Murmuring immortal chaunts;
As when Pope, art's earlier king,
Here, a child, did nought but sing;
Sang, a child, by nature's rule,
Round the trees of Twyford School:
Hours of sun beside Mead's Wall,
Ere the may begin to fall;
Watching the rooks rise and soar,
High from lime and sycamore:
Wanderings by old-world ways,
Walks and streets of ancient days;
Closes, churches, arches, halls,
Vanished men's memorials.
There was beauty, there was grace,
Each place was an holy place:
There the kindly fates allowed
Me too room; and made me proud,
Prouder name I have not wist!
With the name of Wykehamist.
These thy joys: and more than these:
Ah, to watch beneath thy trees,
Through long twilights linden-scented,
Sunsets, lingering, lamented,
In the purple west; prevented,
Ere they fell, by evening star!
Ah, long nights of Winter! far
Leaps and roars the faggot fire;
Ruddy smoke rolls higher, higher,
Broken through by flame's desire;
Circling faces glow, all eyes
Take the light; deep radiance flies,
Merrily flushing overhead
Names of brothers, long since fled;
And fresh clusters, in their stead,
Jubilant round fierce forest flame.
Friendship too must make her claim:
But what songs, what memories end,
When they tell of friend on friend?
And for them, I thank thy name.

Love alone of gifts, no shame
Lessens, and I love thee: yet
Sound it but of echoes, let
This my maiden music be,
Of the love I bear to thee,
Witness and interpreter,
Mother mine: loved Winchester!

1888.

TO MORFYDD.

A voice on the winds,
A voice by the waters,
Wanders and cries:
_Oh! what are the winds?
And what are the waters?
Mine are your eyes!_

Western the winds are,
And western the waters,
Where the light lies:
_Oh! what are the winds?
And what are the waters?
Mine are your eyes!_

Cold, cold, grow the winds,
And wild grow the waters,
Where the sun dies:
_Oh! what are the winds?
And what are the waters?
Mine are your eyes!_

And down the night winds,
And down the night waters,
The music flies:
_Oh! what are the winds?
And what are the waters?
Cold be the winds,
And wild be the waters,
So mine be your eyes!_

1891

PLATO IN LONDON.

_To Campbell Dodgson._

The pure flame of one taper fall
Over the old and comely page:
No harsher light disturb at all
This converse with a treasured sage.
Seemly, and fair, and of the best,
If Plato be our guest,
Should things befall.

Without, a world of noise and cold:
Here, the soft burning of the fire.
And Plato walks, where heavens unfold,
About the home of his desire.
From his own city of high things,
He shows to us, and brings,
Truth of fine gold.

The hours pass; and the fire burns low;
The clear flame dwindles into death:
Shut then the book with care; and so,
Take leave of Plato, with hushed breath:
A little, by the falling gleams,
Tarry the gracious dreams:
And they too go.

Lean from the window to the air:
Hear London's voice upon the night!
Thou hast bold converse with things rare:
Look now upon another sight!
The calm stars, in their living skies:
And then, these surging cries,
This restless glare!

That starry music, starry fire,
High above all our noise and glare:
The image of our long desire,
The beauty, and the strength, are there.
And Plato's thought lives, true and clear,
In as august a sphere:
Perchance, far higher.

1889.

IN FALMOUTH HARBOUR.

_To Frank Mathew._