Chapter III: Miscellaneous Verses

A WOMAN'S LOVE

I am not blind I understand;
I see him loyal, good, and wise,
I feel decision in his hand,
I read his honour in his eyes.
Manliest among men is he
With every gift and grace to clothe
him;
He never loved a girl but me —
And I I loathe him! loathe him!

The other! Ah! I value him
Precisely at his proper rate,
A creature of caprice and whim,
Unstable, weak, importunate.
His thoughts are set on paltry gain —
You only tell me what I see —
I know him selfish, cold and vain;
But, oh! he's all the world to me!

BY THE NORTH SEA

Her cheek was wet with North Sea spray,
We walked where tide and shingle
meet;
The long waves rolled from far away
To purr in ripples at our feet.
And as we walked it seemed to me
That three old friends had met that
day,
The old, old sky, the old, old sea,
And love, which is as old as they.

Out seaward hung the brooding mist
We saw it rolling, fold on fold,
And marked the great Sun alchemist
Turn all its leaden edge to gold,
Look well, look well, oh lady mine,
The gray below, the gold above,
For so the grayest life may shine
All golden in the light of love.

DECEMBER'S SNOW

The bloom is on the May once more,
The chestnut buds have burst anew;
But, darling, all our springs are o'er,
'Tis winter still for me and you.
We plucked Life's blossoms long ago
What's left is but December's snow.

But winter has its joys as fair,
The gentler joys, aloof, apart;
The snow may lie upon our hair
But never, darling, in our heart.
Sweet were the springs of long ago
But sweeter still December's snow.

Yes, long ago, and yet to me
It seems a thing of yesterday;
The shade beneath the willow tree,
The word you looked but feared to say.
Ah! when I learned to love you so
What recked we of December's snow?

But swift the ruthless seasons sped
And swifter still they speed away.
What though they bow the dainty head
And fleck the raven hair with gray?
The boy and girl of long ago
Are laughing through the veil of snow.

SHAKESPEARE'S EXPOSTULATION

Masters, I sleep not quiet in my grave,
There where they laid me, by the Avon
shore,
In that some crazy wights have set it forth
By arguments most false and fanciful,
Analogy and far-drawn inference,
That Francis Bacon, Earl of Verulam
(A man whom I remember in old days,
A learned judge with sly adhesive palms,
To which the suitor's gold was wont to
stick) —
That this same Verulam had writ the plays
Which were the fancies of my frolic brain.
What can they urge to dispossess the crown
Which all my comrades and the whole loud
world
Did in my lifetime lay upon my brow?
Look straitly at these arguments and see
How witless and how fondly slight they be.
Imprimis, they have urged that, being
born
In the mean compass of a paltry town,
I could not in my youth have trimmed
my mind
To such an eagle pitch, but must be found,
Like the hedge sparrow, somewhere near
the ground.
Bethink you, sirs, that though I was
denied
The learning which in colleges is found,
Yet may a hungry brain still find its fo
Wherever books may lie or men may be;
And though perchance by Isis or by Cam
The meditative, philosophic plant
May best luxuriate; yet some would say
That in the task of limning mortal life
A fitter preparation might be made
Beside the banks of Thames. And then
again,
If I be suspect, in that I was not
A fellow of a college, how, I pray,
Will Jonson pass, or Marlowe, or the rest,
Whose measured verse treads with as
proud a gait
As that which was my own? Whence did
they suck
This honey that they stored? Can you
recite
The vantages which each of these has had
And I had not? Or is the argument
That my Lord Verulam hath written all,
And covers in his wide-embracing self
The stolen fame of twenty smaller men?
You prate about my learning. I
would urge
My want of learning rather as a proof
That I am still myself. Have I not traced
A seaboard to Bohemia, and made
The cannons roar a whole wide century
Before the first was forged? Think you,
then,
That he, the ever-learned Verulam,
Would have erred thus? So may my very
faults
In their gross falseness prove that I am true,
And by that falseness gender truth in you.
And what is left? They say that they
have found
A script, wherein the writer tells my Lord
He is a secret poet. True enough!
But surely now that secret is o'er past.
Have you not read his poems? Know
you not
That in our day a learned chancellor
Might better far dispense unjustest law
Than be suspect of such frivolity
As lies in verse? Therefore his poetry
Was secret. Now that he is gone
'Tis so no longer. You may read his verse,
And judge if mine be better or be worse:
Read and pronounce! The meed of
praise is thine;
But still let his be his and mine be mine.
I say no more; but how can you for-
swear
Outspoken Jonson, he who knew me well;
So, too, the epitaph which still you read?
Think you they faced my sepulchre with
lies —
Gross lies, so evident and palpable
That every townsman must have wot of it,
And not a worshipper within the church
But must have smiled to see the marbled
fraud?
Surely this touches you? But if by chance
My reasoning still leaves you obdurate,
I'll lay one final plea. I pray you look
On my presentment, as it reaches you.
My features shall be sponsors for my fame;
My brow shall speak when Shakespeare's
voice is dumb,
And be his warrant in an age to come.

THE EMPIRE

1902

They said that it had feet of clay,
That its fall was sure and quick.
In the flames of yesterday
All the clay was burned to brick.

When they carved our epitaph
And marked us doomed beyond recall,
"We are," we answered, with a laugh,
"The Empire that declines to fall."

A VOYAGE

1909

Breathing the stale and stuffy air
Of office or consulting room,
Our thoughts will wander back to where
We heard the low Atlantic boom,

And, creaming underneath our screw,
We watched the swirling waters break,
Silver filagrees on blue
Spreading fan-wise in our wake.

Cribbed within the city's fold,
Fettered to our daily round,
We'll conjure up the haze of gold
Which ringed the wide horizon round.

And still we'll break the sordid day
By fleeting visions far and fair,
The silver shield of Vigo Bay,
The long brown cliff of Finisterre.

Where once the Roman galley sped,
Or Moorish corsair spread his sail,
By wooded shore, or sunlit head,
By barren hill or sea-washed vale

We took our way. But we can swear,
That many countries we have scanned,
But never one that could compare
With our own island mother-land.

The dream is o'er. No more we view
The shores of Christian or of Turk,
But turning to our tasks anew,
We bend us to our wonted work.

But there will come to you and me
Some glimpse of spacious days gone
by,
The wide, wide stretches of the sea,
The mighty curtain of the sky,

THE ORPHANAGE

When, ere the tangled web is reft,
The kid-gloved villain scowls and
sneers,
And hapless innocence is left
With no assets save sighs and tears,

'Tis then, just then, that in there stalks
The hero, watchful of her needs;
He talks, Great heavens how he talks!
But we forgive him, for his deeds.

Life is the drama here to-day
And Death the villain of the plot.
It is a realistic play.
Shall it end well or shall it not?

The hero? Oh, the hero's part
Is vacant to be played by you.
Then act it well! An orphan's heart
May beat the lighter if you do.

SEXAGENARIUS LOQUITUR

From our youth to our age
We have passed each stage
In old immemorial order,
From primitive days
Through flowery ways
With love like a hedge as their border.
Ah, youth was a kingdom of joy,
And we were the king and the queen,
When I was a year
Short of thirty, my dear,
And you were just nearing nineteen.
But dark follows light
And day follows night
As the old planet circles the sun;
And nature still traces
Her score on our faces
And tallies the years as they run.
Have they chilled the old warmth in your
heart?
I swear that they have not in mine,
Though I am a year
Short of sixty, my dear,
And you are well, say thirty-nine.

NIGHT VOICES

Father, father, who is that a-whispering?
Who is it who whispers in the wood?
You say it is the breeze
As it sighs among the trees,
But there's some one who whispers in the
wood.

Father, father, who is that a-murmuring?
Who is it who murmurs in the night?
You say it is the roar
Of the wave upon the shore,
But there's some one who murmurs in the
night.

Father, father, who is that who laughs
at us?
Who is it who chuckles in the glen?
Oh, father, let us go,
For the light is burning low,
And there's somebody laughing in the
glen.

Father, father, tell me what you're waiting
for,
Tell me why your eyes are on the
door.
It is dark and it is late,
But you sit so still and straight,
Ever staring, ever smiling, at the door.

THE MESSAGE

(From Heine)

Up, dear laddie, saddle quick,
And spring upon the leather!
Away post haste o'er fell and waste
With whip and spur together!

And when you win to Duncan's kin
Draw one of them aside
And shortly say, "Which daughter may
We welcome as the bride?"

And if he says, "It is the dark,"
Then quickly bring the mare,
But if he says, "It is the blonde,"
Then you have time to spare;

But buy from off the saddler man
The stoutest cord you see,
Ride at your ease and say no word,
But bring it back to me.

THE ECHO

(After Heine)

Through the lonely mountain land
There rode a cavalier.
"Oh ride I to my darling's arms,
Or to the grave so drear?"
The Echo answered clear,
"The grave so drear."

So onward rode the cavalier
And clouded was his brow.
"If now my hour be truly come,
Ah well, it must be now!"
The Echo answered low,
"It must be now."

ADVICE TO A YOUNG AUTHOR

First begin
Taking in.
Cargo stored,
All aboard,
Think about
Giving out.
Empty ship,
Useless trip!

Never strain
Weary brain,
Hardly fit,
Wait a bit!
After rest
Comes the best.

Sitting still,
Let it fill;
Never press;
Nerve stress
Always shows.
Nature knows.

Critics kind,
Never mind!
Critics flatter,
No matter!
Critics curse,
None the worse.
Critics blame,
All the same!
Do your best.
Hang the rest!

A LILT OF THE ROAD

Being the doggerel Itinerary of a Holiday in September, 1908

To St. Albans' town we came;
Roman Albanus hence the name.
Whose shrine commemorates the faith
Which led him to a martyr's death.
A high cathedral marks his grave,
With noble screen and sculptured nave.
From thence to Hatfield lay our way,
Where the proud Cecils held their sway,
And ruled the country, more or less,
Since the days of Good Queen Bess.
Next through Hitchin's Quaker hold
To Bedford, where in days of old
John Bunyan, the unorthodox,
Did a deal in local stocks.
Then from Bedford's peaceful nook
Our pilgrim's progress still we took
Until we slackened up our pace
In Saint Neots' market-place.

Next day, the motor flying fast,
Through Newark, Tuxford, Retford
passed,
Until at Doncaster we found
That we had crossed broad Yorkshire's
bound.
Northward and ever North we pressed,
The Brontë Country to our West.
Still on we flew without a wait,
Skirting the edge of Harrowgate,
And through a wild and dark ravine,
As bleak a pass as we have seen,
Until we slowly circled down
And settled into Settle town.

On Sunday, in the pouring rain,
We started on our way again.
Through Kirkby Lonsdale on we drove,
The weary rain-clouds still above,
Until at last at Windermere
We felt our final port was near,
Thence the lake with wooded beach
Stretches far as eye can reach.
There above its shining breast
We enjoyed our welcome rest.
Tuesday saw us still in rain —
Buzzing on our road again.

Rydal first, the smallest lake,
Famous for great Wordsworth's sake;
Grasmere next appeared in sight,
Grim Helvellyn on the right,
Till we made our downward way
To the streets of Keswick gray.
Then amid a weary waste
On to Penrith Town we raced,
And for many a flying mile,
Past the ramparts of Carlisle,
Till we crossed the border line
Of the land of Auld lang syne.
Here we paused at Gretna Green,
Where many curious things were seen
At the grimy blacksmith's shop,
Where flying couples used to stop
And forge within the smithy door
The chain which lasts for evermore.

They'd soon be back again, I think,
If blacksmith's skill could break the link.
Ecclefechan held us next,
Where old Tom Carlyle was vexed
By the clamour and the strife
Of this strange and varied life.
We saw his pipe, we saw his hat,
We saw the stone on which he sat.
The solid stone is resting there,
But where the sitter? Where, oh! where?

Over a dreary wilderness
We had to take our path by guess,
For Scotland's glories don't include
The use of signs to mark the road.
For forty miles the way ran steep
Over bleak hills with scattered sheep,
Until at last, 'neath gloomy skies,
We saw the stately towers rise
Where noble Edinburgh lies —
No city fairer or more grand
Has ever sprung from human hand.
But I must add (the more's the pity)
That though in fair Dunedin's city
Scotland's taste is quite delightful,
The smaller Scottish towns are frightful.

When in other lands I roam
And sing "There is no place like home."
In this respect I must confess
That no place has its ugliness.
Here on my mother's granite breast
We settled down and took our rest.
On Saturday we ventured forth
To push our journey to the North.

Past Linlithgow first we sped,
Where the Palace rears its head,
Then on by Falkirk, till we pass
The famous valley and morass
Known as Bannockburn in story,
Brightest scene of Scottish glory.
On pleasure and instruction bent
We made the Stirling hill ascent,
And saw the wondrous vale beneath,
The lovely valley of Monteith,
Stretching under sunlit skies
To where the Trossach hills arise.
Thence we turned our willing car
Westward ho! to Callander,
Where childish memories awoke
In the wood of ash and oak,
Where in days so long gone by
I heard the woodland pigeons cry,
And, consternation in my face,
Legged it to some safer place.

Next morning first we viewed a mound,
Memorial of some saint renowned,
And then the mouldered ditch and ramp
Which marked an ancient Roman camp.
Then past Lubnaig on we went,
Gazed on Ben Ledi's steep ascent,
And passed by lovely stream and valley
Through Dochart Glen to reach Dalmally,
Where on a rough and winding track
We wished ourselves in safety back;
Till on our left we gladly saw
The spreading waters of Loch Awe,
And still more gladly truth to tell —
A very up-to-date hotel,
With Conan's church within its ground,
Which gave it quite a homely sound.
Thither we came upon the Sunday,
Viewed Kilchurn Castle on the Monday,
And Tuesday saw us sally forth
Bound for Oban and the North.

We came to Oban in the rain,
I need not mention it again,
For you may take it as a fact
That in that Western Highland tract
It sometimes spouts and sometimes drops,
But never, never, never stops.
From Oban on we thought it well
To take the steamer for a spell.
But ere the motor went aboard
The Pass of Melfort we explored.
A lovelier vale, more full of peace,
Was never seen in classic Greece;
A wondrous gateway, reft and torn,
To open out the land of Lome.
Leading on for many a mile
To the kingdom of Argyle.

Wednesday saw us on our way
Steaming out from Oban Bay,
(Lord, it was a fearsome day!)
To right and left we looked upon
All the lands of Stevenson —
Moidart, Morven, and Ardgour,
Ardshiel, Appin, and Mamore —
If their tale you wish to learn
Then to "Kidnapped" you must turn.
Strange that one man's eager brain
Can make those dead lands live again!
From the deck we saw Glencoe,
Where upon that night of woe
William's men did such a deed
As even now we blush to read.
Ben Nevis towered on our right,
The clouds concealed it from our sight,
But it was comforting to say
That over there Ben Nevis lay'.
Finally we made the land
At Fort William's sloping strand,
And in our car away we went
Along that lasting monument,
The good broad causeway which was made
By King George's General Wade.
He built a splendid road, no doubt,
Alas! he left the sign-posts out.
And so we wandered, sad to say,
Far from our appointed way,
Till twenty mile of rugged track
In a circle brought us back.
But the incident we viwed
In a philosophic mood.
Tired and hungry but serene
We settled at the Bridge of Spean.

Our journey now we onward press
Toward the town of Inverness,
Through a country all alive
With memories of "forty-five."
The noble clans once gathered here,
Where now are only grouse and deer.
Alas, that men and crops and herds
Should ever yield their place to birds!
And that the splendid Highland race
Be swept aside to give more space
For forests where the deer may stray
For some rich owner far away,
Whose keeper guards the lonely glen
Which once sent out a hundred men!
When from Inverness we turned,
Feeling that a rest was earned.
We stopped at Nairn, for golf links famed,
"Scotland's Brighton" it is named,
Though really, when the phrase we heard,
It seemed a little bit absurd,
For Brighton's size compared to Nairn
Is just a mother to her bairn.
We halted for a day of rest,
But took one journey to the West
To view old Cawdor's tower and moat
Of which unrivalled Shakespeare wrote,
Where once Macbeth, the schemer deep,
Slew royal Duncan in his sleep,
But actors since avenged his death
By often murdering Macbeth.
Hard by we saw the circles gray
Where Druid priests were wont to pray.

Three crumbling monuments we found,
With Stonehenge monoliths around,
But who had built and who had planned
We tried in vain to understand,
As future learned men may search
The reasons for our village church.
This was our limit, for next day
We turned upon, our homeward way,
Passing first Culloden's plain
Where the tombstones of the slain
Loom above the purple heather.
There the clansmen lie together —
Men from many an outland skerry,
Men from Athol and Glengarry,
Camerons from wild Mamore,
MacDonalds from the Irish Shore,
Red MacGregors and McLeods
With their tartans for their shrouds,
Menzies, Malcolms from the islands,
Frasers from the upper Highlands —
Callous is the passer by
Who can turn without a sigh
From the tufts of heather deep
Where the noble clansmen sleep.
Now we swiftly made our way
To Kingussie in Strathspey,
Skirting many a nameless loch
As we flew through Badenoch,
Till at Killiecrankie's Pass,
Heather changing into grass
We descended once again
To the fertile lowland plain,
And by Perth and old Dunblane
Reached the banks of Allan Water,
Famous for the miller's daughter,
Whence at last we circled back
Till we crossed our Stirling track.
So our little journey ended,
Gladness and instruction blended —
Not a care to spoil our pleasure,
Not a thought to break our leisure,
Drifting on from Sussex hedges
Up through Yorkshire's fells and ledges
Past the deserts and morasses
Of the dreary Border passes,
Through the scenes of Scottish story
Past the fields of battles gory.

In the future it will seem
To have been a happy dream,
But unless my hopes are vain
We may dream it soon again.