Chapter 4

When I thy lover first Shook out my canvas free And like a pirate burst Into that dreaming sea, The land knew no such thirst As then tormented me.

Now when at eve returned I near that shore divine, Where once but watch-fires burned I see thy beacon shine, And know the land hath learned Desire that welcomes mine.

The Sufi In The City

I.

When late I watched the arrows of the sleet Against the windows of the Tavern beat, I heard a Rose that murmured from her Pot: "Why trudge thy fellows yonder in the Street?

II.

"Before the phantom of False Morning dies, Choked in the bitter Net that binds the skies, Their feet, bemired with Yesterday, set out For the dark alleys where To-morrow lies.

III.

"Think you, when all their petals they have bruised, And all the fragrances of Life confused, That Night with sweeter rest will comfort these Than us, who still within the Garden mused?

IV.

"Think you the Gold they fight for all day long Is worth the frugal Peace their clamours wrong? Their Titles, and the Name they toil to build--- Will they outlast the echoes of our Song?"

V.

O Sons of Omar, what shall be the close Seek not to know, for no man living knows: But while within your hands the Wine is set Drink ye--to Omar and the Dreaming Rose!

Yattendon

Among the woods and tillage That fringe the topmost downs, All lonely lies the village, Far off from seas and towns. Yet when her own folk slumbered I heard within her street Murmur of men unnumbered And march of myriad feet.

For all she lies so lonely, Far off from towns and seas, The village holds not only The roofs beneath her trees: While Life is sweet and tragic And Death is veiled and dumb, Hither, by singer's magic, The pilgrim world must come.

Among The Tombs

She is a lady fair and wise, Her heart her counsel keeps, And well she knows of time that flies And tide that onward sweeps; But still she sits with restless eyes Where Memory sleeps--- Where Memory sleeps.

Ye that have heard the whispering dead In every wind that creeps, Or felt the stir that strains the lead Beneath the mounded heaps, Tread softly, ah! more softly tread Where Memory sleeps--- Where Memory sleeps.

A Sower

With sanguine looks And rolling walk Among the rooks He loved to stalk,

While on the land With gusty laugh From a full hand He scattered chaff.

Now that within His spirit sleeps A harvest thin The sickle reaps;

But the dumb fields Desire his tread, And no earth yields A wheat more red.

A Song Of Exmoor

The Forest above and the Combe below, On a bright September morn! He's the soul of a clod who thanks not God That ever his body was born! So hurry along, the stag's afoot, The Master's up and away! Halloo! Halloo! we'll follow it through From Bratton to Porlock Bay!

So hurry along, the stag's afoot, The Master's up and away! Halloo! Halloo! we'll follow it through From Bratton to Porlock Bay!

Hark to the tufters' challenge true, 'Tis a note that the red-deer knows! His courage awakes, his covert he breaks, And up for the moor he goes! He's all his rights and seven on top, His eye's the eye of a king, And he'll beggar the pride of some that ride Before he leaves the ling!

Here comes Antony bringing the pack, Steady! he's laying them on! By the sound of their chime you may tell that it's time To harden your heart and be gone. Nightacott, Narracott, Hunnacott's passed, Right for the North they race: He's leading them straight for Blackmoor Gate, And he's setting a pounding pace!

We're running him now on a breast-high scent, But he leaves us standing still; When we swing round by Westland Pound He's far up Challacombe Hill. The pack are a string of struggling ants, The quarry's a dancing midge, They're trying their reins on the edge of the Chains While he's on Cheriton Ridge.

He's gone by Kittuck and Lucott Moor, He's gone by Woodcock's Ley; By the little white town he's turned him down, And he's soiling in open sea. So hurry along, we'll both be in, The crowd are a parish away! We're a field of two, and we've followed it through From Bratton to Porlock Bay!

So hurry along, we'll both be in, The crowd are a parish away! We're a field of two, and we've followed it through From Bratton to Porlock Bay!

Fidele's Grassy Tomb

The Squire sat propped in a pillowed chair, His eyes were alive and clear of care, But well he knew that the hour was come To bid good-bye to his ancient home.

He looked on garden, wood, and hill, He looked on the lake, sunny and still: The last of earth that his eyes could see Was the island church of Orchardleigh.

The last that his heart could understand Was the touch of the tongue that licked his hand: "Bury the dog at my feet," he said, And his voice dropped, and the Squire was dead.

Now the dog was a hound of the Danish breed, Staunch to love and strong at need: He had dragged his master safe to shore When the tide was ebbing at Elsinore.

From that day forth, as reason would, He was named "Fidele," and made it good: When the last of the mourners left the door Fidele was dead on the chantry floor.

They buried him there at his master's feet, And all that heard of it deemed it meet: The story went the round for years, Till it came at last to the Bishop's ears.

Bishop of Bath and Wells was he, Lord of the lords of Orchardleigh; And he wrote to the Parson the strongest screed That Bishop may write or Parson read.

The sum of it was that a soulless hound Was known to be buried in hallowed ground: From scandal sore the Church to save They must take the dog from his masters grave.

The heir was far in a foreign land, The Parson was wax to my Lord's command: He sent for the Sexton and bade him make A lonely grave by the shore of the lake.

The Sexton sat by the water's brink Where he used to sit when he used to think: He reasoned slow, but he reasoned it out, And his argument left him free from doubt.

"A Bishop," he said, "is the top of his trade: But there's others can give him a start with the spade: Yon dog, he carried the Squire ashore, And a Christian couldn't ha' done no more.

The grave was dug; the mason came And carved on stone Fidele's name; But the dog that the Sexton laid inside Was a dog that never had lived or died.

So the Parson was praised,and the scandal stayed, Till, a long time after, the church decayed, And, laying the floor anew, they found In the tomb of the Squire the bones of a hound.

As for the Bishop of Bath and Wells No more of him the story tells; Doubtless he lived as a Prelate and Prince, And died and was buried a century since.

And whether his view was right or wrong Has little to do with this my song; Something we owe him, you must allow; And perhaps he has changed his mind by now.

The Squire in the family chantry sleeps, The marble still his memory keeps: Remember, when the name you spell, There rest Fidele's bones as well.

For the Sexton's grave you need not search, 'Tis a nameless mound by the island church: An ignorant fellow, of humble lot--- But. he knew one thing that a Bishop did not.

Moonset

Past seven o'clock: time to be gone; Twelfth-night's over and dawn shivering up: A hasty cut of the loaf, a steaming cup, Down to the door, and there is Coachman John.

Ruddy of cheek is John and bright of eye; But John it appears has none of your grins and winks; Civil enough, but short: perhaps he thinks: Words come once in a mile, and always dry.

Has he a mind or not? I wonder; but soon We turn through a leafless wood, and there to the right, Like a sun bewitched in alien realms of night, Mellow and yellow and rounded hangs the moon.

Strangely near she seems, and terribly great: The world is dead: why are we travelling still? Nightmare silence grips my struggling will; We are driving for ever and ever to find a gate.

"When you come to consider the moon," says John at last, And stops, to feel his footing and take his stand; "And then there's some will say there's never a hand That made the world!" A flick, and the gates are passed.

Out of the dim magical moonlit park, Out to the workday road and wider skies: There's a warm flush in the East where day's to rise, And I'm feeling the better for Coachman John's remark.

Master And Man

Do ye ken hoo to fush for the salmon? If ye'll listen I'll tell ye. Dinna trust to the books and their gammon, They're but trying to sell ye. Leave professors to read their ain cackle And fush their ain style; Come awa', sir, we'll oot wi' oor tackle And be busy the while.

'Tis a wee bit ower bright, ye were thinkin'? Aw, ye'll no be the loser; 'Tis better ten baskin' and blinkin' Than ane that's a cruiser. If ye're bent, as I tak it, on slatter, Ye should pray for the droot, For the salmon's her ain when there's watter, But she's oors when it's oot.

Ye may just put your flee-book behind ye, Ane hook wull be plenty; If they'll no come for this, my man, mind ye, They'll no come for twenty. Ay, a rod; but the shorter the stranger And the nearer to strike; For myself I prefare it nae langer Than a yard or the like.

Noo, ye'll stand awa' back while I'm creepin' Wi' my snoot i' the gowans; There's a bonny twalve-poonder a-sleepin' I' the shade o' yon rowans. Man, man! I was fearin' I'd stirred her, But I've got her the noo! Hoot! fushin's as easy as murrder When ye ken what to do.

Na, na, sir, I doot na ye're willin' But I canna permit ye; For I'm thinkin' that yon kind o' killin' Wad hardly befit ye. And some work is deefficult hushin', There'd be havers and chaff: 'Twull be best, sir, for you to be fushin' And me wi' the gaff.

Gavotte

(Old French)

Memories long in music sleeping, No more sleeping, No more dumb; Delicate phantoms softly creeping Softly back from the old-world come.

Faintest odours around them straying, Suddenly straying In chambers dim; Whispering silks in order swaying, Glimmering gems on shoulders slim:

Courage advancing strong and tender, Grace untender Fanning desire; Suppliant conquest, proud surrender, Courtesy cold of hearts on fire---

Willowy billowy now they're bending, Low they're bending Down-dropt eyes; Stately measure and stately ending, Music sobbing, and a dream that dies.

Imogen

(A Lady of Tender Age)

Ladies, where were your bright eyes glancing, Where were they glancing yester-night? Saw ye Imogen dancing, dancing, Imogen dancing all in white? Laughed she not with a pure delight, Laughed she not with a joy serene, Stepped she not with a grace entrancing, Slenderly girt in silken sheen?

All through the night from dusk to daytime Under her feet the hours were swift, Under her feet the hours of play-time Rose and fell with a rhythmic lift: Music set her adrift, adrift, Music eddying towards the day Swept her along as brooks in May-time Carry the freshly falling May.

Ladies, life is a changing measure, Youth is a lilt that endeth soon; Pluck ye never so fast at pleasure Twilight follows the longest noon. Nay, but here is a lasting boon, Life for hearts that are old and chill, Youth undying for hearts that treasure Imogen dancing, dancing still.

Nel Mezzo Del Cammin

Whisper it not that late in years Sorrow shall fade and the world be brighter, Life be freed of tremor and tears, Heads be wiser and hearts be lighter. Ah! but the dream that all endears, The dream we sell for your pottage of truth--- Give us again the passion of youth, Sorrow shall fade and the world be brighter.

The Invasion

Spring, they say, with his greenery Northward marches at last, Mustering thorn and elm; Breezes rumour him conquering, Tell how Victory sits High on his glancing helm.

Smit with sting of his archery, Hardest ashes and oaks Burn at the root below: Primrose, violet, daffodil, Start like blood where the shafts Light from his golden bow.

Here where winter oppresses us Still we listen and doubt, Dreading a hope betrayed: Sore we long to be greeting him, Still we linger and doubt "What if his march be stayed?"

Folk in thrall to the enemy, Vanquished, tilling a soil Hateful and hostile grown; Always wearily, warily, Feeding deep in the heart Passion they dare not own---

So we wait the deliverer; Surely soon shall he come, Soon shall his hour be due: Spring shall come with his greenery, Life be lovely again, Earth be the home we knew.

Pereunt Et Imputantur

(After Martial)

Bernard, if to you and me Fortune all at once should give Years to spend secure and free, With the choice of how to live, Tell me, what should we proclaim Life deserving of the name?

Winning some one else's case? Saving some one else's seat? Hearing with a solemn face People of importance bleat? No, I think we should not still Waste our time at others' will.

Summer noons beneath the limes, Summer rides at evening cool, Winter's tales and home-made rhymes, Figures on the frozen pool--- These would we for labours take, And of these our business make.

Ah! but neither you nor I Dare in earnest venture so; Still we let the good days die And to swell the reckoning go. What are those that know the way, Yet to walk therein delay?

Felix Antonius

(After Martial)

To-day, my friend is seventy-five; He tells his tale with no regret; His brave old eyes are steadfast yet, His heart the .lightest heart alive.

He sees behind him green and wide The pathway of his pilgrim years; He sees the shore, and dreadless hears The whisper of the creeping tide.

For out of all his days, not one Has passed and left its unlaid ghost To seek a light for ever lost, Or wail a deed for ever done.

So for reward of life-long truth He lives again, as good men can, Redoubling his allotted span With memories of a stainless youth.

Ireland, Ireland

Down thy valleys, Ireland, Ireland, Down thy valleys green and sad, Still thy spirit wanders wailing, Wanders wailing, wanders mad.

Long ago that anguish took thee, Ireland, Ireland, green and fair, Spoilers strong in darkness took thee, Broke thy heart and left thee there.

Down thy valleys, Ireland, Ireland, Still thy spirit wanders mad; All too late they love that wronged thee, Ireland, Ireland, green and sad.

Hymn

In The Time Of War And Tumults

O Lord Almighty, Thou whose hands Despair and victory give; In whom, though tyrants tread their lands, The souls of nations live;

Thou wilt not turn Thy face away From those who work Thy will, But send Thy peace on hearts that pray, And guard Thy people still.

Remember not the days of shame, The hands with rapine dyed, The wavering will, the baser aim, The brute material pride:

Remember, Lord, the years of faith, The spirits humbly brave, The strength that died defying death, The love that loved the slave:

The race that strove to rule Thine earth With equal laws unbought: . Who bore for Truth the pangs of birth, And brake the bonds of Thought.

Remember how, since time began, Thy dark eternal mind Through lives of men that fear not man ls light for all mankind.

Thou wilt not turn Thy face away From those who work Thy will, But send Thy strength on hearts that pray For strength to serve Thee still.

The Building Of The Temple

(An Anthem Heard In Canterbury Cathedral)

[The Organ]

O Lord our God, we are strangers before Thee, and sojourners, as were all our fathers: our days on the earth are as a shadow, and there is none abiding.

O Lord God of our fathers, keep this for ever in the imagination of the thoughts of Thy people, and prepare their heart unto Thee.

And give unto Solomon my son a perfect heart to keep Thy commandments, and to build the palace for the which I have made provision.

[Boys' voices.]

O come to the Palace of Life, Let us build it again. It was founded on terror and strife, It was laid in the curse of the womb, And pillared on toil and pain, And hung with veils of doom, And vaulted with the darkness of the tomb.

[Men's voices.]

O Lord our God, we are sojourners here for a day, Strangers and sojourners, as all our fathers were: Our years on the earth are a shadow that fadeth away; Grant us light for our labour, and a time for prayer.

[Boys.]

But now with endless song, And joy fulfilling the Law; Of passion as pure as strong And pleasure undimmed of awe; With garners of wine and grain Laid up for the ages long, Let us build the Palace again And enter with endless song, Enter and dwell secure, forgetting the years of wrong.

[Men.]

O Lord our God, we are strangers and sojourners here, Our beginning was night, and our end is hid in Thee: Our labour on the earth is hope redeeming fear, In sorrow we build for the days we shall not see.

[Boys.]

Great is the name Of the strong and skilled, Lasting the fame Of them that build: The tongues of many nations Shall speak of our praise, And far generations Be glad for our days.

[Men.]

We are sojourners here as all our fathers were, As all our children shall be, forgetting and forgot: The fame of man is a murmur that passeth on the air, We perish indeed if Thou remember not.

We are sojourners here as all our fathers were, Strangers travelling down to the land of death: There is neither work nor device nor knowledge there, O grant us might for our labour, and to rest in faith.

[Boys.]

In joy, in the joy of the light to be,

[Men.]

O Father of Lights, unvarying and true,

[Boys.]

Let us build the Palace of Life anew.

[Men.]

Let us build for the years we shall not see.

[Boys.]

Lofty of line and glorious of hue, With gold and pearl and with the cedar tree,

[Men.]

With silence due And with service free,

[Boys.]

Let us build it for ever in splendour new.

[Men.]

Let us build in hope and in sorrow, and rest in Thee.

NOTES

Drake's Drum.

A state drum, painted with the arms of Sir Francis Drake, is preserved among other relics at Buckland Abbey, the seat of the Drake family in Devon.

The Fighting Téméraire.

The two last stanzas have been misunderstood. It seems, therefore, necessary to state that they are intended to refer to Turner's picture in the National Gallery of "The Fighting _Téméraire_ Tugged to her Last Berth."

San Stefano.

Sir Peter Parker was the son of Admiral Christopher Parker, grandson of Admiral Sir Peter Parker (the life-long friend and chief mourner of Nelson), and great-grandson of Admiral Sir William Parker. On his mother's side he was grandson of Admiral Byron, and first cousin of Lord Byron, the poet. He was killed in action near Baltimore in 1814, and buried in St. Margaret's, Westminster, where may be seen the monument erected to his memory by the officers of the _Menelaus_.

The Quarter-Gunner's Yarn.

This ballad is founded on fragmentary lines communicated to the author by Admiral Sir Windham Hornby, K.C.B., who served under Sir Thomas Hardy in 1827.

Væ Victis.

See _Livy_, XXX.,43, _Diodorus Siculus_, XIX., 106.

Seringapatam.

In 1780, while attempting to relieve Arcot, a British force of three thousand men was cut to pieces by Hyder Ali. Baird, then a young captain in the 73rd, was left for dead on the field. He was afterwards, with forty-nine other officers, kept in prison at Seringapatam, and treated with Oriental barbarity and treachery by Hyder Ali and his son Tippoo Sahib, Sultans of Mysore. Twenty-three of the prisoners died by poison, torture, and fever; the rest were surrendered in 1784. In 1799, at the siege of Seringapatam, Major-General Baird commanded the first European brigade, and volunteered to lead the storming column. Tippoo Sahib, with eight thousand of his men, fell in the assault, but the victor spared the lives of his sons and forbade a general sack of the city.

Clifton Chapel.

Clifton is one of the schools from which the largest number of boys pass direct into the R.M.A., Woolwich, and R.M.C., Sandhurst. Thirty-five Old Cliftonian officers served in the campaign of 1897 on the Indian Frontier, of whom twenty-two were mentioned in despatches and six recommended for the Distinguished Service Order. Of the three hundred Cliftonians who served in the war in South Africa, thirty were killed in action and fourteen died of wounds or fever.

Clifton, remember these thy sons who fell Fighting far oversea; For they in a dark hour remembered well Their warfare learned of thee.

The Echo.

The ballad was "The Twa Sisters of Binnorie," as set by Arthur Somervell.

THE END.

End of Project Gutenberg's Collected Poems 1897 - 1907, by Henry Newbolt