Chapter I: Front Matter

[Picture: Book cover]

[Picture: The South Wester]

POEMS
VOL. III

BY
GEORGE MEREDITH

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SURREY EDITION

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LONDON
THE TIMES BOOK CLUB
376–384 OXFORD STREET, W.
1912

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Edinburgh: T. and A. Constable, Printers to his Majesty

CONTENTS

PAGE
A STAVE OF ROVING TIM, 1

The wind is East, the wind is West,
JUMP-TO-GLORY JANE, 5

A revelation came on Jane,
THE RIDDLE FOR MEN, 14

This Riddle rede or die,
THE SAGE ENAMOURED AND THE HONEST LADY, 15

One fairest of the ripe unwedded left ‘LOVE IS WINGED FOR TWO,’ 30 ‘ASK, IS LOVE DIVINE,’ 30 ‘JOY IS FLEET,’ 31 THE LESSON OF GRIEF, 31

Not ere the bitter herb we taste,
WIND ON THE LYRE, 32

That was the chirp of Ariel
THE YOUTHFUL QUEST, 33

His Lady queen of woods to meet,
THE EMPTY PURSE, 34

Thou, run to the dry on this wayside bank,
TO THE COMIC SPIRIT, 56

Sword of Common Sense!—
YOUTH IN MEMORY, 68

Days, when the ball of our vision
PENETRATION AND TRUST, 75

Sleek as a lizard at round of a stone,
NIGHT OF FROST IN MAY, 76

With splendour of a silver day,
THE TEACHING OF THE NUDE, 79

A Satyr spied a Goddess in her bath,
BREATH OF THE BRIAR, 81

O briar-scents, on yon wet wing
EMPEDOCLES, 82

He leaped. With none to hinder,
ENGLAND BEFORE THE STORM, 83

The day that is the night of days,
TARDY SPRING, 85

Now the North wind ceases,
THE LABOURER, 87

For a Heracles in his fighting ire there is never the
glory that follows
FORESIGHT AND PATIENCE, 89

Sprung of the father blood, the mother brain,
THE WARNING, 99

We have seen mighty men ballooning high,
OUTSIDE THE CROWD, 99

To sit on History in an easy chair,
TRAFALGAR DAY, 100

He leads: we hear our Seaman’s call
Odes in Contribution to the Song of French History
THE REVOLUTION, 105

Not yet had History’s Aetna smoked the skies,
NAPOLÉON, 116

Cannon his name,
FRANCE, 140

We look for her that sunlike stood
ALSACE-LORRAINE, 150

The sister Hours in circles linked,
THE CAGEING OF ARES, 170

How big of breast our Mother Gaea laughed
THE NIGHT-WALK, 175

Awakes for me and leaps from shroud
AT THE CLOSE, 178

To Thee, dear God of Mercy, both appeal,
A GARDEN IDYL, 179

With sagest craft Arachne worked
A Reading of Life
THE VITAL CHOICE, 185

Or shall we run with Artemis
WITH THE HUNTRESS, 186

Through the water-eye of night,
WITH THE PERSUADER, 189

Who murmurs, hither, hither: who
THE TEST OF MANHOOD, 200

Like a flood river whirled at rocky banks,
THE HUELESS LOVE, 208

Unto that love must we through fire attain,
UNION IN DISSEVERANCE, 209

Sunset worn to its last vermilion he;
SONG IN THE SONGLESS, 210

They have no song, the sedges dry,
THE BURDEN OF STRENGTH, 210

If that thou hast the gift of strength, then know
THE MAIN REGRET, 211

Seen, too clear and historic within us, our sins of
omission
ALTERNATION, 211

Between the fountain and the rill
FOREST HISTORY, 212

Beneath the vans of doom did men pass in.
Fragments of the Iliad in English Hexameter Verse
THE INVECTIVE OF ACHILLES, 221

‘Heigh me! brazen of front, thou glutton for plunder, how
can one,

‘Bibber besotted, with scowl of a cur, having heart of a
deer, thou!
MARSHALLING OF THE ACHAIANS, 225

Like as a terrible fire feeds fast on a forest enormous,
AGAMEMNON IN THE FIGHT, 227

These, then, he left, and away where ranks were now
clashing the thickest,
PARIS AND DIOMEDES, 228

So he, with a clear shout of laughter,
HYPNOS ON IDA, 230

They then to fountain-abundant Ida, mother of wild
beasts,
CLASH IN ARMS OF THE ACHAIANS AND TROJANS, 231

Not the sea-wave so bellows abroad when it bursts upon
shingle,
THE HORSES OF ACHILLES, 232

So now the horses of Aiakides, off wide of the
war-ground,
THE MARES OF THE CAMARGUE, 234

A hundred mares, all white! their manes
‘ATKINS’, 236

Yonder’s the man with his life in his hand,
THE VOYAGE OF THE ‘OPHIR’, 237

Men of our race, we send you one
THE CRISIS, 239

Spirit of Russia, now has come
OCTOBER 21, 1905, 241

The hundred years have passed, and he
THE CENTENARY OF GARIBALDI, 243

We who have seen Italia in the throes,
THE WILD ROSE, 245

High climbs June’s wild rose,
THE CALL, 247

Under what spell are we debased
ON COMO, 250

A rainless darkness drew o’er the lake
MILTON, 251

What splendour of imperial station man,
IRELAND, 253

Fire in her ashes Ireland feels
THE YEARS HAD WORN THEIR SEASONS’ BELT, 255

The years had worn their seasons’ belt,
FRAGMENTS, 257

Open horizons round,

A wilding little stubble flower

From labours through the night, outworn,

This love of nature, that allures to take
IL Y A CENT ANS, 259

That march of the funereal Past behold;
YOUTH IN AGE, 261

Once I was part of the music I heard
Epitaphs
TO A FRIEND LOST, 265

When I remember, friend, whom lost I call,
M. M., 265

Who call her Mother and who calls her Wife
THE LADY C. M., 266

To them that knew her, there is vital flame
ON THE TOMBSTONE OF JAMES CHRISTOPHER WILSON, 266

Thou our beloved and light of Earth hast crossed
GORDON OF KHARTOUM, 266

Of men he would have raised to light he fell:
J. C. M., 267

A fountain of our sweetest, quick to spring
THE EMPEROR FREDERICK OF OUR TIME, 267

With Alfred and St. Louis he doth win
ISLET THE DACHS, 267

Our Islet out of Helgoland, dismissed
ON HEARING THE NEWS FROM VENICE, 268

Now dumb is he who waked the world to speak,
HAWARDEN, 269

When comes the lighted day for men to read
AT THE FUNERAL, 270

Her sacred body bear: the tenement
ANGELA BURDETT-COUTTS, 270

Long with us, now she leaves us; she has rest
THE YEAR’S SHEDDINGS, 270

The varied colours are a fitful heap:

A STAVE OF ROVING TIM (ADDRESSED TO CERTAIN FRIENDLY TRAMPS.)

I

THE wind is East, the wind is West,
Blows in and out of haven;
The wind that blows is the wind that’s best,
And croak, my jolly raven!
If here awhile we jigged and laughed,
The like we will do yonder;
For he’s the man who masters a craft,
And light as a lord can wander.
So, foot the measure, Roving Tim,
And croak, my jolly raven!
The wind according to its whim
Is in and out of haven.

II

You live in rows of snug abodes,
With gold, maybe, for counting;
And mine’s the beck of the rainy roads
Against the sun a-mounting.
I take the day as it behaves,
Nor shiver when ’tis airy;
But comes a breeze, all you are on waves,
Sick chickens o’ Mother Carey!
So, now for next, cries Roving Tim,
And croak, my jolly raven!
The wind according to its whim
Is in and out of haven.

III

Sweet lass, you screw a lovely leer,
To make a man consider.
If you were up with the auctioneer,
I’d be a handsome bidder.
But wedlock clips the rover’s wing;
She tricks him fly to spider;
And when we get to fights in the Ring,
It’s trumps when you play outsider.
So, wrench and split, cries Roving Tim,
And croak, my jolly raven!
The wind according to its whim
Is in and out of haven.

IV

Along my winding way I know
A shady dell that’s winking;
The very corner for Self and Co
To do a world of thinking.
And shall I this? and shall I that?
Till Nature answers, ne’ther!
Strike match and light your pipe in your hat,
Rejoicing in sound shoe-leather!
So lead along, cries Roving Tim,
And croak, my jolly raven!
The wind according to its whim
Is in and out of haven.

V

A cunning hand ’ll hand you bread,
With freedom for your capers.
I’m not so sure of a cunning head;
It steers to pits or vapours.
But as for Life, we’ll bear in sight
The lesson Nature teaches;
Regard it in a sailoring light,
And treat it like thirsty leeches.
So, fly your jib, cries Roving Tim,
And top your boom, old raven!
The wind according to its whim
Is in and out of haven.

VI

She’ll take, to please her dame and dad,
The shopman nicely shaven.
She’ll learn to think o’ the marching lad
When perchers show they’re craven.
You say the shopman piles a heap,
While I perhaps am fasting;
And bless your wits, it haunts him in sleep,
His tin-kettle chance of lasting!
So hail the road, cries Roving Tim,
And hail the rain, old raven!
The wind according to its whim
Is in and out of haven.

VII

He’s half a wife, yon pecker bill;
A book and likewise preacher.
With any soul, in a game of skill,
He’ll prove your over-reacher.
The reason is, his brains are bent
On doing things right single.
You’d wish for them when pitching your tent
At night in a whirly dingle!
So, off we go, cries Roving Tim,
And on we go, old raven!
The wind according to its whim
Is in and out of haven.

VIII

Lord, no, man’s lot is not for bliss;
To call it woe is blindness:
It’ll here a kick, and it’s there a kiss,
And here and there a kindness.
He starts a hare and calls her joy;
He runs her down to sorrow:
The dogs within him bother the boy,
But ’tis a new day to-morrow.
So, I at helm, cries Roving Tim,
And you at bow, old raven!
The wind according to its whim
Is in and out of haven.

JUMP-TO-GLORY JANE

I

A REVELATION came on Jane,
The widow of a labouring swain:
And first her body trembled sharp,
Then all the woman was a harp
With winds along the strings; she heard,
Though there was neither tone nor word.

II

For past our hearing was the air,
Beyond our speaking what it bare,
And she within herself had sight
Of heaven at work to cleanse outright,
To make of her a mansion fit
For angel hosts inside to sit.

III

They entered, and forthwith entranced,
Her body braced, her members danced;
Surprisingly the woman leapt;
And countenance composed she kept:
As gossip neighbours in the lane
Declared, who saw and pitied Jane.

IV

These knew she had been reading books,
The which was witnessed by her looks
Of late: she had a mania
For mad folk in America,
And said for sure they led the way,
But meat and beer were meant to stay.

V

That she had visited a fair,
Had seen a gauzy lady there,
Alive with tricks on legs alone,
As good as wings, was also known:
And longwhiles in a sullen mood,
Before her jumping, Jane would brood.

VI

A good knee’s height, they say, she sprang;
Her arms and feet like those who hang:
As if afire the body sped,
And neither pair contributed.
She jumped in silence: she was thought
A corpse to resurrection caught.

VII

The villagers were mostly dazed;
They jeered, they wondered, and they praised.
’Twas guessed by some she was inspired,
And some would have it she had hired
An engine in her petticoats,
To turn their wits and win their votes.

VIII

Her first was Winny Earnes, a kind
Of woman not to dance inclined;
But she went up, entirely won,
Ere Jump-to-glory Jane had done;
And once a vixen wild for speech,
She found the better way to preach.

IX

No long time after, Jane was seen
Directing jumps at Daddy Green;
And that old man, to watch her fly,
Had eyebrows made of arches high;
Till homeward he likewise did hop,
Oft calling on himself to stop!

X

It was a scene when man and maid,
Abandoning all other trade,
And careless of the call to meals,
Went jumping at the woman’s heels.
By dozens they were counted soon,
Without a sound to tell their tune.

XI

Along the roads they came, and crossed
The fields, and o’er the hills were lost,
And in the evening reappeared;
Then short like hobbled horses reared,
And down upon the grass they plumped:
Alone their Jane to glory jumped.

XII

At morn they rose, to see her spring
All going as an engine thing;
And lighter than the gossamer
She led the bobbers following her,
Past old acquaintances, and where
They made the stranger stupid stare.

XIII

When turnips were a filling crop,
In scorn they jumped a butcher’s shop:
Or, spite of threats to flog and souse,
They jumped for shame a public-house:
And much their legs were seized with rage
If passing by the vicarage.

XIV

The tightness of a hempen rope
Their bodies got; but laundry soap
Not handsomer can rub the skin
For token of the washed within.
Occasionally coughers cast
A leg aloft and coughed their last.

XV

The weaker maids and some old men,
Requiring rafters for the pen
On rainy nights, were those who fell.
The rest were quite a miracle,
Refreshed as you may search all round
On Club-feast days and cry, Not found!

XVI

For these poor innocents, that slept
Against the sky, soft women wept:
For never did they any theft;
’Twas known when they their camping left,
And jumped the cold out of their rags;
In spirit rich as money-bags.

XVII

They jumped the question, jumped reply;
And whether to insist, deny,
Reprove, persuade, they jumped in ranks
Or singly, straight the arms to flanks,
And straight the legs, with just a knee
For bending in a mild degree.

XVIII

The villagers might call them mad;
An endless holiday they had,
Of pleasure in a serious work:
They taught by leaps where perils lurk,
And with the lambkins practised sports
For ’scaping Satan’s pounds and quarts.

XIX

It really seemed on certain days,
When they bobbed up their Lord to praise,
And bobbing up they caught the glance
Of light, our secret is to dance,
And hold the tongue from hindering peace;
To dance out preacher and police.

XX

Those flies of boys disturbed them sore
On Sundays and when daylight wore:
With withies cut from hedge or copse,
They treated them as whipping-tops,
And flung big stones with cruel aim;
Yet all the flock jumped on the same.

XXI

For what could persecution do
To worry such a blessed crew,
On whom it was as wind to fire,
Which set them always jumping higher?
The parson and the lawyer tried,
By meek persistency defied.

XXII

But if they bore, they could pursue
As well, and this the Bishop too;
When inner warnings proved him plain
The chase for Jump-to-glory Jane.
She knew it by his being sent
To bless the feasting in the tent.

XXIII

Not less than fifty years on end,
The Squire had been the Bishop’s friend:
And his poor tenants, harmless ones,
With souls to save! fed not on buns,
But angry meats: she took her place
Outside to show the way to grace.

XXIV

In apron suit the Bishop stood;
The crowding people kindly viewed.
A gaunt grey woman he saw rise
On air, with most beseeching eyes:
And evident as light in dark
It was, she set to him for mark.

XXV

Her highest leap had come: with ease
She jumped to reach the Bishop’s knees:
Compressing tight her arms and lips,
She sought to jump the Bishop’s hips:
Her aim flew at his apron-band,
That he might see and understand.

XXVI

The mild inquiry of his gaze
Was altered to a peaked amaze,
At sight of thirty in ascent,
To gain his notice clearly bent:
And greatly Jane at heart was vexed
By his ploughed look of mind perplexed.

XXVII

In jumps that said, Beware the pit!
More eloquent than speaking it—
That said, Avoid the boiled, the roast;
The heated nose on face of ghost,
Which comes of drinking: up and o’er
The flesh with me! did Jane implore.

XXVIII

She jumped him high as huntsmen go
Across the gate; she jumped him low,
To coax him to begin and feel
His infant steps returning, peel
His mortal pride, exposing fruit,
And off with hat and apron suit.

XXIX

We need much patience, well she knew,
And out and out, and through and through,
When we would gentlefolk address,
However we may seek to bless:
At times they hide them like the beasts
From sacred beams; and mostly priests.