Chapter 7

Oh the fairest flower in the Kaiser's garden Is Rome and Italian land: But it all shall fall to the little Baltung When he shall take lance in hand.

And when he is parting the plunder of Rome, He shall pay for this song of mine, Neither maiden nor land, neither jewel nor gold, But one cup of Italian wine.

Eversley, 1864.

ON THE DEATH OF LEOPOLD, KING OF THE BELGIANS {319}

A King is dead! Another master mind Is summoned from the world-wide council hall. Ah, for some seer, to say what links behind-- To read the mystic writing on the wall!

Be still, fond man: nor ask thy fate to know. Face bravely what each God-sent moment brings. Above thee rules in love, through weal and woe, Guiding thy kings and thee, the King of kings.

Windsor Castle, November 10, 1865.

EASTER WEEK

(Written for music to be sung at a parish industrial exhibition)

See the land, her Easter keeping, Rises as her Maker rose. Seeds, so long in darkness sleeping, Burst at last from winter snows. Earth with heaven above rejoices; Fields and gardens hail the spring; Shaughs and woodlands ring with voices, While the wild birds build and sing.

You, to whom your Maker granted Powers to those sweet birds unknown, Use the craft by God implanted; Use the reason not your own. Here, while heaven and earth rejoices, Each his Easter tribute bring-- Work of fingers, chant of voices, Like the birds who build and sing.

Eversley, 1867.

DRIFTING AWAY: A FRAGMENT

They drift away. Ah, God! they drift for ever. I watch the stream sweep onward to the sea, Like some old battered buoy upon a roaring river, Round whom the tide-waifs hang--then drift to sea.

I watch them drift--the old familiar faces, Who fished and rode with me, by stream and wold, Till ghosts, not men, fill old beloved places, And, ah! the land is rank with churchyard mold.

I watch them drift--the youthful aspirations, Shores, landmarks, beacons, drift alike. . . . . . I watch them drift--the poets and the statesmen; The very streams run upward from the sea. . . . . . . Yet overhead the boundless arch of heaven Still fades to night, still blazes into day. . . . . . Ah, God! My God! Thou wilt not drift away

November 1867.

CHRISTMAS DAY

How will it dawn, the coming Christmas Day? A northern Christmas, such as painters love, And kinsfolk, shaking hands but once a year, And dames who tell old legends by the fire? Red sun, blue sky, white snow, and pearled ice, Keen ringing air, which sets the blood on fire, And makes the old man merry with the young, Through the short sunshine, through the longer night? Or southern Christmas, dark and dank with mist, And heavy with the scent of steaming leaves, And rosebuds mouldering on the dripping porch; One twilight, without rise or set of sun, Till beetles drone along the hollow lane, And round the leafless hawthorns, flitting bats Hawk the pale moths of winter? Welcome then At best, the flying gleam, the flying shower, The rain-pools glittering on the long white roads, And shadows sweeping on from down to down Before the salt Atlantic gale: yet come In whatsoever garb, or gay, or sad, Come fair, come foul, 'twill still be Christmas Day. How will it dawn, the coming Christmas Day? To sailors lounging on the lonely deck Beneath the rushing trade-wind? Or to him, Who by some noisome harbour of the East, Watches swart arms roll down the precious bales, Spoils of the tropic forests; year by year Amid the din of heathen voices, groaning Himself half heathen? How to those--brave hearts! Who toil with laden loins and sinking stride Beside the bitter wells of treeless sands Toward the peaks which flood the ancient Nile, To free a tyrant's captives? How to those-- New patriarchs of the new-found underworld-- Who stand, like Jacob, on the virgin lawns, And count their flocks' increase? To them that day Shall dawn in glory, and solstitial blaze Of full midsummer sun: to them that morn, Gay flowers beneath their feet, gay birds aloft, Shall tell of nought but summer: but to them, Ere yet, unwarned by carol or by chime, They spring into the saddle, thrills may come From that great heart of Christendom which beats Round all the worlds; and gracious thoughts of youth; Of steadfast folk, who worship God at home; Of wise words, learnt beside their mothers' knee; Of innocent faces upturned once again In awe and joy to listen to the tale Of God made man, and in a manger laid-- May soften, purify, and raise the soul From selfish cares, and growing lust of gain, And phantoms of this dream which some call life, Toward the eternal facts; for here or there, Summer or winter, 'twill be Christmas Day.

Blest day, which aye reminds us, year by year, What 'tis to be a man: to curb and spurn The tyrant in us; that ignobler self Which boasts, not loathes, its likeness to the brute, And owns no good save ease, no ill save pain, No purpose, save its share in that wild war In which, through countless ages, living things Compete in internecine greed.--Ah God! Are we as creeping things, which have no Lord? That we are brutes, great God, we know too well; Apes daintier-featured; silly birds who flaunt Their plumes unheeding of the fowler's step; Spiders, who catch with paper, not with webs; Tigers, who slay with cannon and sharp steel, Instead of teeth and claws;--all these we are. Are we no more than these, save in degree? No more than these; and born but to compete-- To envy and devour, like beast or herb; Mere fools of nature; puppets of strong lusts, Taking the sword, to perish with the sword Upon the universal battle-field, Even as the things upon the moor outside? The heath eats up green grass and delicate flowers, The pine eats up the heath, the grub the pine, The finch the grub, the hawk the silly finch; And man, the mightiest of all beasts of prey, Eats what he lists; the strong eat up the weak, The many eat the few; great nations, small; And he who cometh in the name of all-- He, greediest, triumphs by the greed of all; And, armed by his own victims, eats up all: While ever out of the eternal heavens Looks patient down the great magnanimous God, Who, Maker of all worlds, did sacrifice All to Himself? Nay, but Himself to one; Who taught mankind on that first Christmas Day, What 'twas to be a man; to give, not take; To serve, not rule; to nourish, not devour; To help, not crush; if need, to die, not live. O blessed day, which givest the eternal lie To self, and sense, and all the brute within; Oh, come to us, amid this war of life; To hall and hovel, come; to all who toil In senate, shop, or study; and to those Who, sundered by the wastes of half a world, Ill-warned, and sorely tempted, ever face Nature's brute powers, and men unmanned to brutes-- Come to them, blest and blessing, Christmas Day. Tell them once more the tale of Bethlehem; The kneeling shepherds, and the Babe Divine: And keep them men indeed, fair Christmas Day.

Eversley, 1868.

SEPTEMBER 21, 1870 {325}

Speak low, speak little; who may sing While yonder cannon-thunders boom? Watch, shuddering, what each day may bring: Nor 'pipe amid the crack of doom.'

And yet--the pines sing overhead, The robins by the alder-pool, The bees about the garden-bed, The children dancing home from school.

And ever at the loom of Birth The mighty Mother weaves and sings: She weaves--fresh robes for mangled earth; She sings--fresh hopes for desperate things.

And thou, too: if through Nature's calm Some strain of music touch thine ears, Accept and share that soothing balm, And sing, though choked with pitying tears.

Eversley, 1870.

THE MANGO-TREE

He wiled me through the furzy croft; He wiled me down the sandy lane. He told his boy's love, soft and oft, Until I told him mine again.

We married, and we sailed the main; A soldier, and a soldier's wife. We marched through many a burning plain; We sighed for many a gallant life.

But his--God kept it safe from harm. He toiled, and dared, and earned command; And those three stripes upon his arm Were more to me than gold or land.

Sure he would win some great renown: Our lives were strong, our hearts were high. One night the fever struck him down. I sat, and stared, and saw him die.

I had his children--one, two, three. One week I had them, blithe and sound. The next--beneath this mango-tree, By him in barrack burying-ground.

I sit beneath the mango-shade; I live my five years' life all o'er-- Round yonder stems his children played; He mounted guard at yonder door.

'Tis I, not they, am gone and dead. They live; they know; they feel; they see. Their spirits light the golden shade Beneath the giant mango-tree.

All things, save I, are full of life: The minas, pluming velvet breasts; The monkeys, in their foolish strife; The swooping hawks, the swinging nests;

The lizards basking on the soil, The butterflies who sun their wings; The bees about their household toil, They live, they love, the blissful things.

Each tender purple mango-shoot, That folds and droops so bashful down; It lives; it sucks some hidden root; It rears at last a broad green crown.

It blossoms; and the children cry-- 'Watch when the mango-apples fall.' It lives: but rootless, fruitless, I-- I breathe and dream;--and that is all.

Thus am I dead: yet cannot die: But still within my foolish brain There hangs a pale blue evening sky; A furzy croft; a sandy lane.

1870.

THE PRIEST'S HEART

It was Sir John, the fair young Priest, He strode up off the strand; But seven fisher maidens he left behind All dancing hand in hand.

He came unto the wise wife's house: 'Now, Mother, to prove your art; To charm May Carleton's merry blue eyes Out of a young man's heart.'

'My son, you went for a holy man, Whose heart was set on high; Go sing in your psalter, and read in your books; Man's love fleets lightly by.'

'I had liever to talk with May Carleton, Than with all the saints in Heaven; I had liever to sit by May Carleton Than climb the spheres seven.

'I have watched and fasted, early and late, I have prayed to all above; But I find no cure save churchyard mould For the pain which men call love.'

'Now Heaven forefend that ill grow worse: Enough that ill be ill. I know of a spell to draw May Carleton, And bend her to your will.'

'If thou didst that which thou canst not do, Wise woman though thou be, I would run and run till I buried myself In the surge of yonder sea.

'Scathless for me are maid and wife, And scathless shall they bide. Yet charm me May Carleton's eyes from the heart That aches in my left side.'

She charmed him with the white witchcraft, She charmed him with the black, But he turned his fair young face to the wall, Till she heard his heart-strings crack.

1870

'QU'EST QU'IL DIT' {330}

Espion aile de la jeune amante De l'ombre des palmiers pourquoi ce cri? Laisse en paix le beau garcon plaider et vaincre-- Pourquoi, pourquoi demander 'Qu'est qu'il dit?'

'Qu'est qu'il dit?' Ce que tu dis toi-meme Chaque mois de ce printemps eternel; Ce que disent les papillons qui s'entre-baisent, Ce que dit tout bel jeun etre a toute belle.

Importun! Attende quelques lustres: Quand les souvenirs 1'emmeneront ici-- Mere, grand'mere, pale, lasse, et fidele, Demande mais doucement--'Et le vieillard, Qu'est qu'il dit?'

Trinidad, January 10, 1870

THE LEGEND OF LA BREA {331a}

Down beside the loathly Pitch Lake, In the stately Morichal, {331b} Sat an ancient Spanish Indian, Peering through the columns tall.

Watching vainly for the flashing Of the jewelled colibris; {331c} Listening vainly for their humming Round the honey-blossomed trees.

'Few,' he sighed, 'they come, and fewer, To the cocorite {331d} bowers; Murdered, madly, through the forests Which of yore were theirs--and ours

By there came a negro hunter, Lithe and lusty, sleek and strong, Rolling round his sparkling eyeballs, As he loped and lounged along.

Rusty firelock on his shoulder; Rusty cutlass on his thigh; Never jollier British subject Rollicked underneath the sky.

British law to give him safety, British fleets to guard his shore, And a square of British freehold-- He had all we have, and more.

Fattening through the endless summer, Like his own provision ground, He had reached the summum bonum Which our latest wits have found.

So he thought; and in his hammock Gnawed his junk of sugar-cane, Toasted plantains at the fire-stick, Gnawed, and dozed, and gnawed again.

Had a wife in his ajoupa {332}-- Or, at least, what did instead; Children, too, who died so early, He'd no need to earn their bread.

Never stole, save what he needed, From the Crown woods round about; Never lied, except when summoned-- Let the warden find him out.

Never drank, except at market; Never beat his sturdy mate; She could hit as hard as he could, And had just as hard a pate.

Had no care for priest nor parson, Hope of heaven nor fear of hell; And in all his views of nature Held with Comte and Peter Bell.

Healthy, happy, silly, kindly, Neither care nor toil had he, Save to work an hour at sunrise, And then hunt the colibri.

Not a bad man; not a good man: Scarce a man at all, one fears, If the Man be that within us Which is born of fire and tears.

Round the palm-stems, round the creepers, Flashed a feathered jewel past, Ruby-crested, topaz-throated, Plucked the cocorite bast,

Plucked the fallen ceiba-cotton, {333} Whirred away to build his nest, Hung at last, with happy humming, Round some flower he fancied best.

Up then went the rusty muzzle, 'Dat de tenth I shot to-day:' But out sprang the Indian shouting, Balked the negro of his prey.

'Eh, you Senor Trinidada! What dis new ondacent plan? Spoil a genl'man's chance ob shooting? I as good as any man.

'Dese not your woods; dese de Queen's woods: You seem not know whar you ar, Gibbin' yuself dese buckra airs here, You black Indian Papist! Dar!'

Stately, courteous, stood the Indian; Pointed through the palm-tree shade: 'Does the gentleman of colour Know how yon Pitch Lake was made?'

Grinned the negro, grinned and trembled-- Through his nerves a shudder ran-- Saw a snake-like eye that held him; Saw--he'd met an Obeah man.

Saw a fetish--such a bottle-- Buried at his cottage door; Toad and spider, dirty water, Rusty nails, and nine charms more.

Saw in vision such a cock's head In the path--and it was white! Saw Brinvilliers {334} in his pottage: Faltered, cold and damp with fright.

Fearful is the chance of poison: Fearful, too, the great unknown: Magic brings some positivists Humbly on their marrow-bone.

Like the wedding-guest enchanted, There he stood, a trembling cur; While the Indian told his story, Like the Ancient Mariner.

Told how--'Once that loathly Pitch Lake Was a garden bright and fair; How the Chaymas off the mainland Built their palm ajoupas there.

'How they throve, and how they fattened, Hale and happy, safe and strong; Passed the livelong days in feasting; Passed the nights in dance and song.

'Till they cruel grew, and wanton: Till they killed the colibris. Then outspake the great Good Spirit, Who can see through all the trees,

'Said--"And what have I not sent you, Wanton Chaymas, many a year? Lapp, {335a} agouti, {335b} cachicame, {335c} Quenc {335d} and guazu-pita deer.

'"Fish I sent you, sent you turtle, Chip-chip, {335e} conch, flamingo red, Woodland paui, {335f} horned screamer, {335g} And blue ramier {335h} overhead.

'"Plums from balata {335i} and mombin, {335j} Tania, {335k} manioc, {335l} water-vine; {335m} Let you fell my slim manacques, {335n} Tap my sweet moriche wine. {335o}

'"Sent rich plantains, {336a} food of angels; Rich ananas, {336b} food of kings; Grudged you none of all my treasures: Save these lovely useless things."

'But the Chaymas' ears were deafened; Blind their eyes, and could not see How a blissful Indian's spirit Lived in every colibri.

'Lived, forgetting toil and sorrow, Ever fair and ever new; Whirring round the dear old woodland, Feeding on the honey-dew.

'Till one evening roared the earthquake: Monkeys howled, and parrots screamed: And the Guaraons at morning Gathered here, as men who dreamed.

'Sunk were gardens, sunk ajoupas; Hut and hammock, man and hound: And above the Chayma village Boiled with pitch the cursed ground.

'Full, and too full; safe, and too safe; Negro man, take care, take care. He that wantons with God's bounties Of God's wrath had best beware.

'For the saucy, reckless, heartless, Evil days are sure in store. You may see the Negro sinking As the Chayma sank of yore.'

Loudly laughed that stalwart hunter-- 'Eh, what superstitious talk! Nyam {337} am nyam, an' maney maney; Birds am birds, like park am park; An' dere's twenty thousand birdskins Ardered jes' now fram New Yark.'

Eversley, 1870.

HYMN {338}

Accept this building, gracious Lord, No temple though it be; We raised it for our suffering kin, And so, Good Lord, for Thee.

Accept our little gift, and give To all who here may dwell, The will and power to do their work, Or bear their sorrows well.

From Thee all skill and science flow; All pity, care, and love, All calm and courage, faith and hope, Oh! pour them from above.

And part them, Lord, to each and all, As each and all shall need, To rise like incense, each to Thee, In noble thought and deed.

And hasten, Lord, that perfect day, When pain and death shall cease; And Thy just rule shall fill the earth With health, and light, and peace.

When ever blue the sky shall gleam, And ever green the sod; And man's rude work deface no more The Paradise of God.

Eversley, 1870.

THE DELECTABLE DAY

The boy on the famous gray pony, Just bidding good-bye at the door, Plucking up maiden heart for the fences Where his brother won honour of yore.

The walk to 'the Meet' with fair children, And women as gentle as gay,-- Ah! how do we male hogs in armour Deserve such companions as they?

The afternoon's wander to windward, To meet the dear boy coming back; And to catch, down the turns of the valley, The last weary chime of the pack.

The climb homeward by park and by moorland, And through the fir forests again, While the south-west wind roars in the gloaming, Like an ocean of seething champagne.

And at night the septette of Beethoven, And the grandmother by in her chair, And the foot of all feet on the sofa Beating delicate time to the air.

Ah, God! a poor soul can but thank Thee For such a delectable day! Though the fury, the fool, and the swindler, To-morrow again have their way!

Eversley, 6th November 1872.

JUVENTUS MUNDI

List a tale a fairy sent us Fresh from dear Mundi Juventus. When Love and all the world was young, And birds conversed as well as sung; And men still faced this fair creation With humour, heart, imagination. Who come hither from Morocco Every spring on the sirocco? In russet she, and he in yellow, Singing ever clear and mellow, 'Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet you, sweet you, Did he beat you? Did he beat you?' Phyllopneustes wise folk call them, But don't know what did befall them, Why they ever thought of coming All that way to hear gnats humming, Why they built not nests but houses, Like the bumble-bees and mousies. Nor how little birds got wings, Nor what 'tis the small cock sings-- How should they know--stupid fogies? They daren't even believe in bogies. Once they were a girl and boy, Each the other's life and joy. He a Daphnis, she a Chloe, Only they were brown, not snowy, Till an Arab found them playing Far beyond the Atlas straying, Tied the helpless things together, Drove them in the burning weather, In his slave-gang many a league, Till they dropped from wild fatigue. Up he caught his whip of hide, Lashed each soft brown back and side Till their little brains were burst With sharp pain, and heat, and thirst, Over her the poor boy lay, Tried to keep the blows away, Till they stiffened into clay, And the ruffian rode away: Swooping o'er the tainted ground, Carrion vultures gathered round, And the gaunt hyenas ran Tracking up the caravan. But--ah, wonder! that was gone Which they meant to feast upon. And, for each, a yellow wren, One a cock, and one a hen, Sweetly warbling, flitted forth O'er the desert toward the north. But a shade of bygone sorrow, Like a dream upon the morrow, Round his tiny brainlet clinging, Sets the wee cock ever singing, 'Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet you, sweet you, Did he beat you? Did he beat you?' Vultures croaked, and hopped, and flopped, But their evening meal was stopped. And the gaunt hyenas foul Sat down on their tails to howl. Northward towards the cool spring weather, Those two wrens fled on together, On to England o'er the sea, Where all folks alike are free. There they built a cabin, wattled Like the huts where first they prattled, Hatched and fed, as safe as may be, Many a tiny feathered baby. But in autumn south they go Past the Straits and Atlas' snow, Over desert, over mountain, To the palms beside the fountain, Where, when once they lived before, he Told her first the old, old story. 'What do the doves say? Curuck Coo, You love me and I love you.'

1872.

VALENTINE'S DAY

Oh! I wish I were a tiny browny bird from out the south, Settled among the alder-holts, and twittering by the stream; I would put my tiny tail down, and put up my tiny mouth, And sing my tiny life away in one melodious dream.

I would sing about the blossoms, and the sunshine and the sky, And the tiny wife I mean to have in such a cosy nest; And if some one came and shot me dead, why then I could but die, With my tiny life and tiny song just ended at their best.

Eversley, 1873

BALLAD: LORRAINE, LORRAINE, LORREE

1

'Are you ready for your steeple-chase, Lorraine, Lorraine, Lorree? Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, Baree, You're booked to ride your capping race to-day at Coulterlee, You're booked to ride Vindictive, for all the world to see, To keep him straight, to keep him first, and win the run for me. Barum, Barum,' etc.

2

She clasped her new-born baby, poor Lorraine, Lorraine, Lorree, 'I cannot ride Vindictive, as any man might see, And I will not ride Vindictive, with this baby on my knee; He's killed a boy, he's killed a man, and why must he kill me?'

3

'Unless you ride Vindictive, Lorraine, Lorraine, Lorree, Unless you ride Vindictive to-day at Coulterlee, And land him safe across the brook, and win the blank for me, It's you may keep your baby, for you'll get no keep from me.'

4

'That husbands could be cruel,' said Lorraine, Lorraine, Lorree, 'That husbands could be cruel, I have known for seasons three; But oh! to ride Vindictive while a baby cries for me, And be killed across a fence at last for all the world to see!'

5

She mastered young Vindictive--Oh! the gallant lass was she, And kept him straight and won the race as near as near could be; But he killed her at the brook against a pollard willow-tree, Oh! he killed her at the brook, the brute, for all the world to see, And no one but the baby cried for poor Lorraine, Lorree.

Last poem written in illness. Colorado, U.S.A. June 1874.

MARTIN LIGHTFOOT'S SONG {346}

Come hearken, hearken, gentles all, Come hearken unto me, And I'll sing you a song of a Wood-Lyon Came swimming out over the sea.

He ranged west, he ranged east, And far and wide ranged he; He took his bite out of every beast Lives under the greenwood tree.

Then by there came a silly old wolf, 'And I'll serve you,' quoth he; Quoth the Lyon, 'My paw is heavy enough, So what wilt thou do for me?'