Chapter I: Front Matter

THE POEMS OF THOMAS GORDON HAKE
SELECTED
WITH A PREFATORY NOTE BY
ALICE MEYNELL
AND A PORTRAIT BY
DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI

LONDON: ELKIN MATHEWS AND
JOHN LANE

CHICAGO: STONE AND KIMBALL
1894

_Of this edition 500 copies have been printed for England_

Edinburgh: T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to Her Majesty

PREFATORY NOTE

The Poems in this collection are chosen from volumes published at intervals over more than fifty years—among them _The Piromides_, issued in 1839, _Madeline_, reviewed by Dante Gabriel Rossetti in the _Academy_ in 1871; _Parables and Tales_, to which Rossetti gave a _Fortnightly Review_ article in 1873; down to _The New Day_, dated 1890; together with verses which will be new even to the readers of the hitherto published works.

Dr. Hake has a solemn and distinct note, little confusible with the other notes of the concerted song of poets. Only nine years younger than the century, he inherited, by right of his time and place, a tradition of deep composure—poetry aloof from the peril of excitement which knows neither how to contain nor how to express itself. Dr. Hake’s expression always implies long intention, deliberate decision. The verse is a consequence long foreseen.

The emotion of moments lacks indeed no swiftness of passage, but we are made aware that it had a past of experience and has a future of power. It was not a gust born of the moment and then no more. Poetic passion must be like a wind; thou canst not tell whence it cometh nor whither it goeth; but surely it appeared with an approach and disappeared with a departure; it was a thing of transitory phase, but not of transitory life. Essentially durable and spiritual is the passion of those infrequent poems in which this poet, raising himself from the attitude of meditation, gathers his word into intenser action.

He has emotion which is thus proved true. For the proof of the authenticity of his thought, also, the reader will look into his own experience as he reads.

Il poeta mi disse: Che pense?

The question which Virgil asked of Dante is a poet’s question. The world takes it as generally the reader’s question; but it is emphatically the poet’s. Now, the thought to which Dr. Hake appeals in his reader’s mind is unquestionably not an easy nor an obvious one. In saying this we assign to the reader of poetry some part of the writer’s responsibility, some part of his honour. Or, if this is too much to say, the reader is at any rate responsible for choosing his poet. And if a poet is worth reading at all, he is to be trusted both with the importance and with the distinctness of his own thought.

The exceeding solemnity of what we have called Dr. Hake’s note—and it is as indescribable and as peculiar as the note of a voice—suggests a further meaning, even an allegory, where in fact he had no intention of proposing anything beyond the text. The more does this illusion occur, perhaps, because Dr. Hake tells a story—a story of events—in most meditative stanzas. He writes movingly of dreams and sleep; and his study of these has added to all or almost all his verse something of the ecstasy of dreams.

ALICE MEYNELL.

_February 1894._

CONTENTS

PAGE
ALONE 1
OLD SOULS 8
VENUS URANIA 16
THE CRIPPLE 17
THE INFANT MEDUSA 28
THE LILY OF THE VALLEY 29
THE LOVER’S DAY 45
THE DEADLY NIGHTSHADE 47
FLOWERS ON THE BANK 57
THE BLIND BOY 59
WHEN I THINK OF THEE, BROTHER 72
ECCE HOMO! 74
THE SNAKE CHARMER 80
PYTHAGORAS 88
THE FIRST SAVED 95
REMINISCENCE 101
THE SHEPHERDESS 110
FAREWELL TO NATURE 117
THE POET’S FEAST 121
THE EXILE 122
THE SIBYL 133
THE PAINTER 135
THE SUN-WORSHIPPER 139
THE INSCRUTABLE 145
THE WEDDING RING 149
LET THE DEAD BURY THEIR DEAD 152
THE GOLDEN WEDDING 154

ALONE

Loved, wedded, and caressed,
Although her children died
She still seemed doubly blest,
Her helpmate at her side
More dear than all the rest!

But sorrow did not kill
The thought of those so dear,
Who all her feelings fill,
As though still with her here
To play about her still.

Her little children’s fate
She never could recall,
Yet lived she desolate,
For she had lost them all,—
And then she lost her mate.

When came that hour of woe
And all she loved was gone,
Not sorrow’s keenest blow
Left her fond heart alone;
No parting could it know.

Nigh her he still appears,
The early times so cling;
Her simple heart still hears
Her children laugh and sing
As in the happy years.

The dead to her remain;
She heeds each gentle sound
Of theirs within her brain,
And answers smiling round:
‘Sweet love, say that again!’

Is it that angels dwell
In that lone mother’s breast?
She knows not what befell,
And so is doubly blest:
No more her heart can tell.

OLD SOULS

I

The world, not hushed, lay as in trance;
It saw the future in its van,
And drew its riches in advance,
To meet the greedy wants of man;
Till length of days, untimely sped,
Left its account unaudited.

II

The sun, untired, still rose and set,—
Swerved not an instant from its beat:
It had not lost a moment yet,
Nor used in vain its light and heat;
But, as in trance, from when it rose
To when it sank, man craved repose.

III

A holy light that shone of yore
He saw, despised, and left behind:
His heart was rotting to the core
Locked in the slumbers of the mind
Not beat of drum, nor sound of fife,
Could rouse it to a sense of life.

IV

A cry was heard, intoned and slow,
Of one who had no wares to vend:
His words were gentle, dull, and low,
And he called out, ‘Old souls to mend!’
He peddled on from door to door,
And looked not up to rich or poor.

V

His step kept on as if in pace
With some old timepiece in his head,
Nor ever did its way retrace;
Nor right nor left turned he his tread
But uttered still his tinker’s cry
To din the ears of passers-by.

VI

So well they knew the olden note
Few heeded what the tinker spake,
Though here and there an ear it smote
And seemed a sudden hold to take;
But they had not the time to stay,
And it would do some other day.

VII

Still on his way the tinker wends,
Though jobs be far between and few;
But here and there a soul he mends
And makes it look as good as new.
Once set to work, once fairly hired,
His dull old hammer seems inspired.

VIII

Over the task his features glow;
He knocks away the rusty flakes;
A spark flies off at every blow;
At every rap new life awakes.
The soul once cleansed of outward sins,
His subtle handicraft begins.

IX

Like iron unannealed and crude,
The soul is plunged into the blast;
To temper it, however rude,
’Tis next in holy water cast;
Then on the anvil it receives
The nimblest stroke the tinker gives.

X

The tinker’s task is at an end:
Stamped was the cross by that last blow.
Again his cry, ‘Old souls to mend!’
Is heard in accents dull and low.
He pauses not to seek his pay,—
That too will do another day.

XI

One stops and says, ‘This soul of mine
Has been a tidy piece of ware,
But rust and rot in it combine,
And now corruption lays it bare.
Give it a look: there was a day
When it the morning hymn could say.’

XII

The tinker looks into his eye,
And there detects besetting sin,
The decent old-established lie,
That creeps through all the chinks within.
Lank are its tendrils, thick its shoots,
And like a worm’s nest coil the roots.

XIII

Like flowers that deadly berries bear,
His seed, if tended from the pod,
Had grown in beauty with the year,
Like deodara drawn to God;
Now like a dank and curly brake,
It fosters venom for the snake.

XIV

The tinker takes the weed in tow,
And roots it out with tooth and nail;
His labour patient to bestow,
Lest like the herd of men he fail.
How best to extirpate the weed,
Has grown with him into a creed.

XV

His tack is steady, slow, and sure:
He plucks it out, despite the howl,
With gentle hand and look demure,
As cunning maiden draws a fowl.
He knows the job he is about,
And pulls till all the lie is out.

XVI

‘Now steadfastly regard the man
Who wrought your cure of rust and rot!
You saw him ere the work began:
Is he the same, or is he not?
You saw the tinker; now behold
The Envoy of a God of old.’

XVII

This said, he on the forehead stamps
A downward stroke and one across,
Then straight upon his way he tramps;
His time for profit, not for loss;
His task no sooner at an end
Than out he cries, ‘Old souls to mend!’

XVIII

As night comes on he enters doors,
He crosses halls, he goes upstairs,
He reaches first and second floors,
Still busied on his own affairs.
None stop him or a question ask;
None heed the workman at his task.

XIX

Despite his cry, ‘Old souls to mend!’
Which into dull expression breaks,
Not moved are they, nor ear they lend
To him who from old habit speaks;
Yet does the deep and one-toned cry
Send thrills along eternity.

XX

He gads where out-door wretches walk,
Where outcasts under arches creep;
Among them holds his simple talk.
He lets them hear him in their sleep.
They who his name have still denied,
He lets them see him crucified.

XXI

On royal steps he takes a stand
To light the beauties to the ball;
He holds a lantern in his hand,
And lets his simple saying fall.
They deem him but some sorry wit
Serving the Holy Spirit’s writ.

XXII

They know not souls can rust and rot,
And deem him, while he says his say,
The tipsy watchman who forgot
To call out ‘Carriage stops the way!’
They know not what it can portend,
This mocking cry, ‘Old souls to mend!’

XXIII

While standing on the palace stone,
He is in workhouse, brothel, jail;
He is to play and ball-room gone,
To hear again the beauties rail;
With tender pity to behold
The dead alive in pearls and gold.

XXIV

In meaning deep, in whispers low
As bubble bursting on the air,
He lets the solemn warning flow
Through jewelled ears of creatures fair,
Who, while they dance, their paces blend
With his mild words, ‘Old souls to mend!’

XXV

And when to church their sins they take,
And bring them back to lunch again,
And fun of empty sermons make,
He whispers softly in their train;
And sits with them if two or more
Think of a promise made of yore.

XXVI

Of those who stay behind to sup,
And in remembrance eat the bread,
He leads the conscience to the cup,
His hands across the table spread.
When contrite hearts before him bend,
Glad are his words, ‘Old souls to mend.’

XXVII

The little ones before the font
He clasps within his arms to bless;
For Childhood’s pure and guileless front
Laughs back his own sweet gentleness.
‘Of such,’ he says, ‘my kingdom is,
For they betray not with a kiss.’

XXVIII

He goes to hear the vicars preach:
They do not always know his face,
Him they pretend the way to teach,
And, as one absent, ask his grace.
Not then his words, ‘Old souls to mend!’
Their spirits pierce or bosoms rend.

XXIX

He goes to see the priests revere
His image as he lay in death:
They do not know that he is there;
They do not feel his living breath,
Though to his secret they pretend
With incense sweet, old souls to mend.

XXX

He goes to hear the grand debate
That makes his own religion law;
But him the members, as he sate
Below the gangway, never saw.
They used his name to serve their end,
And others left old souls to mend.

XXXI

Before the church-exchange he stands,
Where those who buy and sell him, meet:
He sees his livings changing hands,
And shakes the dust from off his feet.
May be his weary head he bows,
While from his side fresh ichor flows.

XXXII

From mitred peers he turns his face.
Where priests convoked in session plot,
He would remind them of his grace
But for his now too humble lot;
So his dull cry on ears devout
He murmurs sadly from without.

XXXIII

He goes where judge the law defends,
And takes the life he can’t bestow,
And soul of sinner recommends
To grace above, but not below;
Reserving for a fresh surprise
Whom it shall meet in Paradise.

XXXIV

He goes to meeting, where the saint
Exempts himself from deadly ire,
But in a strain admired and quaint
Consigns all others to the fire,
While of the damned he mocks the howl,
And on the tinker drops his scowl.

XXXV

Go here, go there, they cite his word,
While he himself is nigh forgot.
He hears them use the name of Lord,
He present though they know him not.
Though he be there, they vision lack,
And talk of him behind his back.

XXXVI

Such is the Church and such the State.
Both set him up and put him down,—
Below the houses of debate,
Above the jewels of the crown.
But when ‘Old souls to mend!’ he says,
They send him off about his ways.

XXXVII

He is the humble, lowly one,
In coat of rusty velveteen,
Who to his daily work has gone;
In sleeves of lawn not ever seen.
No mitre on his forehead sticks:
His crown is thorny, and it pricks.