Chapter 596

Night on the rolling foliage fell: But I, who love old hymning night, And know the Dryad voices well, Discerned them as their leaves took flight, Like souls to wander after death: Great armies in imperial dyes, And mad to tread the air and rise, The savage freedom of the skies To taste before they rot. And here, Like frail white-bodied girls in fear, The birches swung from shrieks to sighs; The aspens, laughers at a breath, In showering spray-falls mixed their cries, Or raked a savage ocean-strand With one incessant drowning screech. Here stood a solitary beech, That gave its gold with open hand, And all its branches, toning chill, Did seem to shut their teeth right fast, To shriek more mercilessly shrill, And match the fierceness of the blast.

But heard I a low swell that noised Of far-off ocean, I was 'ware Of pines upon their wide roots poised, Whom never madness in the air Can draw to more than loftier stress Of mournfulness, not mournfulness For melancholy, but Joy's excess, That singing on the lap of sorrow faints: And Peace, as in the hearts of saints Who chant unto the Lord their God; Deep Peace below upon the muffled sod, The stillness of the sea's unswaying floor, Could I be sole there not to see The life within the life awake; The spirit bursting from the tree, And rising from the troubled lake? Pour, let the wines of Heaven pour! The Golden Harp is struck once more, And all its music is for me! Pour, let the wines of Heaven pour! And, ho, for a night of Pagan glee!

There is a curtain o'er us. For once, good souls, we'll not pretend To be aught better than her who bore us, And is our only visible friend. Hark to her laughter! who laughs like this, Can she be dead, or rooted in pain? She has been slain by the narrow brain, But for us who love her she lives again. Can she die? O, take her kiss!

The crimson-footed nymph is panting up the glade, With the wine-jar at her arm-pit, and the drunken ivy-braid Round her forehead, breasts, and thighs: starts a Satyr, and they speed: Hear the crushing of the leaves: hear the cracking of the bough! And the whistling of the bramble, the piping of the weed!

But the bull-voiced oak is battling now: The storm has seized him half-asleep, And round him the wild woodland throngs To hear the fury of his songs, The uproar of an outraged deep. He wakes to find a wrestling giant Trunk to trunk and limb to limb, And on his rooted force reliant He laughs and grasps the broadened giant, And twist and roll the Anakim; And multitudes, acclaiming to the cloud, Cry which is breaking, which is bowed.

Away, for the cymbals clash aloft In the circles of pine, on the moss-floor soft. The nymphs of the woodland are gathering there. They huddle the leaves, and trample, and toss; They swing in the branches, they roll in the moss, They blow the seed on the air. Back to back they stand and blow The winged seed on the cradling air, A fountain of leaves over bosom and back.

The pipe of the Faun comes on their track And the weltering alleys overflow With musical shrieks and wind-wedded hair. The riotous companies melt to a pair. Bless them, mother of kindness!

A star has nodded through The depths of the flying blue. Time only to plant the light Of a memory in the blindness. But time to show me the sight Of my life thro' the curtain of night; Shining a moment, and mixed With the onward-hurrying stream, Whose pressure is darkness to me; Behind the curtain, fixed, Beams with endless beam That star on the changing sea.

Great Mother Nature! teach me, like thee, To kiss the season and shun regrets. And am I more than the mother who bore, Mock me not with thy harmony! Teach me to blot regrets, Great Mother! me inspire With faith that forward sets But feeds the living fire, Faith that never frets For vagueness in the form. In life, O keep me warm! For, what is human grief? And what do men desire? Teach me to feel myself the tree, And not the withered leaf. Fixed am I and await the dark to-be And O, green bounteous Earth! Bacchante Mother! stern to those Who live not in thy heart of mirth; Death shall I shrink from, loving thee? Into the breast that gives the rose, Shall I with shuddering fall?

Earth, the mother of all, Moves on her stedfast way, Gathering, flinging, sowing. Mortals, we live in her day, She in her children is growing.

She can lead us, only she, Unto God's footstool, whither she reaches: Loved, enjoyed, her gifts must be, Reverenced the truths she teaches, Ere a man may hope that he Ever can attain the glee Of things without a destiny!

She knows not loss: She feels but her need, Who the winged seed With the leaf doth toss.

And may not men to this attain? That the joy of motion, the rapture of being, Shall throw strong light when our season is fleeing, Nor quicken aged blood in vain, At the gates of the vault, on the verge of the plain? Life thoroughly lived is a fact in the brain, While eyes are left for seeing. Behold, in yon stripped Autumn, shivering grey, Earth knows no desolation. She smells regeneration In the moist breath of decay.

Prophetic of the coming joy and strife, Like the wild western war-chief sinking Calm to the end he eyes unblinking, Her voice is jubilant in ebbing life.

He for his happy hunting-fields Forgets the droning chant, and yields His numbered breaths to exultation In the proud anticipation: Shouting the glories of his nation, Shouting the grandeur of his race, Shouting his own great deeds of daring: And when at last death grasps his face, And stiffened on the ground in peace He lies with all his painted terrors glaring; Hushed are the tribe to hear a threading cry: Not from the dead man; Not from the standers-by: The spirit of the red man Is welcomed by his fathers up on high.

MARTIN'S PUZZLE

I

There she goes up the street with her book in her hand, And her Good morning, Martin! Ay, lass, how d'ye do? Very well, thank you, Martin!--I can't understand! I might just as well never have cobbled a shoe! I can't understand it. She talks like a song; Her voice takes your ear like the ring of a glass; She seems to give gladness while limping along, Yet sinner ne'er suffer'd like that little lass.

II

First, a fool of a boy ran her down with a cart. Then, her fool of a father--a blacksmith by trade - Why the deuce does he tell us it half broke his heart? His heart!--where's the leg of the poor little maid! Well, that's not enough; they must push her downstairs, To make her go crooked: but why count the list? If it's right to suppose that our human affairs Are all order'd by heaven--there, bang goes my fist!

III

For if angels can look on such sights--never mind! When you're next to blaspheming, it's best to be mum. The parson declares that her woes weren't designed; But, then, with the parson it's all kingdom-come. Lose a leg, save a soul--a convenient text; I call it Tea doctrine, not savouring of God. When poor little Molly wants 'chastening,' why, next The Archangel Michael might taste of the rod.

IV

But, to see the poor darling go limping for miles To read books to sick people!--and just of an age When girls learn the meaning of ribands and smiles! Makes me feel like a squirrel that turns in a cage. The more I push thinking the more I revolve: I never get farther:- and as to her face, It starts up when near on my puzzle I solve, And says, 'This crush'd body seems such a sad case.'

V

Not that she's for complaining: she reads to earn pence; And from those who can't pay, simple thanks are enough. Does she leave lamentation for chaps without sense? Howsoever, she's made up of wonderful stuff. Ay, the soul in her body must be a stout cord; She sings little hymns at the close of the day, Though she has but three fingers to lift to the Lord, And only one leg to kneel down with to pray.

VI

What I ask is, Why persecute such a poor dear, If there's Law above all? Answer that if you can! Irreligious I'm not; but I look on this sphere As a place where a man should just think like a man. It isn't fair dealing! But, contrariwise, Do bullets in battle the wicked select? Why, then it's all chance-work! And yet, in her eyes, She holds a fixed something by which I am checked.

VII

Yonder riband of sunshine aslope on the wall, If you eye it a minute 'll have the same look: So kind! and so merciful! God of us all! It's the very same lesson we get from the Book. Then, is Life but a trial? Is that what is meant? Some must toil, and some perish, for others below: The injustice to each spreads a common content; Ay! I've lost it again, for it can't be quite so.

VIII

She's the victim of fools: that seems nearer the mark. On earth there are engines and numerous fools. Why the Lord can permit them, we're still in the dark; He does, and in some sort of way they're His tools. It's a roundabout way, with respect let me add, If Molly goes crippled that we may be taught: But, perhaps, it's the only way, though it's so bad; In that case we'll bow down our heads,--as we ought.

IX

But the worst of ME is, that when I bow my head, I perceive a thought wriggling away in the dust, And I follow its tracks, quite forgetful, instead Of humble acceptance: for, question I must! Here's a creature made carefully--carefully made! Put together with craft, and then stamped on, and why? The answer seems nowhere: it's discord that's played. The sky's a blue dish!--an implacable sky!

X

Stop a moment. I seize an idea from the pit. They tell us that discord, though discord, alone, Can be harmony when the notes properly fit: Am I judging all things from a single false tone? Is the Universe one immense Organ, that rolls From devils to angels? I'm blind with the sight. It pours such a splendour on heaps of poor souls! I might try at kneeling with Molly to-night.

Poems by George Meredith - Volume 2

[This etext was prepared from the 1912 Times Book Club "Surrey" edition by David Price]

TO J. M.

Let Fate or Insufficiency provide Mean ends for men who what they are would be: Penned in their narrow day no change they see Save one which strikes the blow to brutes and pride. Our faith is ours and comes not on a tide: And whether Earth's great offspring, by decree, Must rot if they abjure rapacity, Not argument but effort shall decide. They number many heads in that hard flock: Trim swordsmen they push forth: yet try thy steel. Thou, fighting for poor humankind, wilt feel The strength of Roland in thy wrist to hew A chasm sheer into the barrier rock, And bring the army of the faithful through.

LINES TO A FRIEND VISITING AMERICA

I

Now farewell to you! you are One of my dearest, whom I trust: Now follow you the Western star, And cast the old world off as dust.

II

From many friends adieu! adieu! The quick heart of the word therein. Much that we hope for hangs with you: We lose you, but we lose to win.

III

The beggar-king, November, frets: His tatters rich with Indian dyes Goes hugging: we our season's debts Pay calmly, of the Spring forewise.

IV

We send our worthiest; can no less, If we would now be read aright, - To that great people who may bless Or curse mankind: they have the might.

V

The proudest seasons find their graves, And we, who would not be wooed, must court. We have let the blunderers and the waves Divide us, and the devil had sport.

VI

The blunderers and the waves no more Shall sever kindred sending forth Their worthiest from shore to shore For welcome, bent to prove their worth.

VII

Go you and such as you afloat, Our lost kinsfellowship to revive. The battle of the antidote Is tough, though silent: may you thrive!

VIII

I, when in this North wind I see The straining red woods blown awry, Feel shuddering like the winter tree, All vein and artery on cold sky.

IX

The leaf that clothed me is torn away; My friend is as a flying seed. Ay, true; to bring replenished day Light ebbs, but I am bare, and bleed.

X

What husky habitations seem These comfortable sayings! they fell, In some rich year become a dream:- So cries my heart, the infidel! . . .

XI

Oh! for the strenuous mind in quest, Arabian visions could not vie With those broad wonders of the West, And would I bid you stay? Not I!

XII

The strange experimental land Where men continually dare take Niagara leaps;--unshattered stand 'Twixt fall and fall;--for conscience' sake,

XIII

Drive onward like a flood's increase; - Fresh rapids and abysms engage; - (We live--we die) scorn fireside peace, And, as a garment, put on rage,

XIV

Rather than bear God's reprimand, By rearing on a full fat soil Concrete of sin and sloth;--this land, You will observe it coil in coil.

XV

The land has been discover'd long, The people we have yet to know; Themselves they know not, save that strong For good and evil still they grow.

XVI

Nor know they us. Yea, well enough In that inveterate machine Through which we speak the printed stuff Daily, with voice most hugeous, mien

XVII

Tremendous:- as a lion's show The grand menagerie paintings hide: Hear the drum beat, the trombones blow! The poor old Lion lies inside! . . .

XVIII

It is not England that they hear, But mighty Mammon's pipers, trained To trumpet out his moods, and stir His sluggish soul: HER voice is chained:

XIX

Almost her spirit seems moribund! O teach them, 'tis not she displays The panic of a purse rotund, Eternal dread of evil days, -

XX

That haunting spectre of success Which shows a heart sunk low in the girths: Not England answers nobleness, - 'Live for thyself: thou art not earth's.'

XXI

Not she, when struggling manhood tries For freedom, air, a hopefuller fate, Points out the planet, Compromise, And shakes a mild reproving pate:

XXII

Says never: 'I am well at ease, My sneers upon the weak I shed: The strong have my cajoleries: And those beneath my feet I tread.'

XXIII

Nay, but 'tis said for her, great Lord! The misery's there! The shameless one Adjures mankind to sheathe the sword, Herself not yielding what it won:-

XXIV

Her sermon at cock-crow doth preach, On sweet Prosperity--or greed. 'Lo! as the beasts feed, each for each, God's blessings let us take, and feed!'

XXV

Ungrateful creatures crave a part - She tells them firmly she is full; Lost sheared sheep hurt her tender heart With bleating, stops her ears with wool:-

XXVI

Seized sometimes by prodigious qualms (Nightmares of bankruptcy and death), - Showers down in lumps a load of alms, Then pants as one who has lost a breath;

XXVII

Believes high heaven, whence favours flow, Too kind to ask a sacrifice For what it specially doth bestow; - Gives SHE, 'tis generous, cheese to mice.

XXVIII

She saw the young Dominion strip For battle with a grievous wrong, And curled a noble Norman lip, And looked with half an eye sidelong;

XXIX

And in stout Saxon wrote her sneers, Denounced the waste of blood and coin, Implored the combatants, with tears, Never to think they could rejoin.

XXX

Oh! was it England that, alas! Turned sharp the victor to cajole? Behold her features in the glass: A monstrous semblance mocks her soul!

XXXI

A false majority, by stealth, Have got her fast, and sway the rod: A headless tyrant built of wealth, The hypocrite, the belly-God.

XXXII

To him the daily hymns they raise: His tastes are sought: his will is done: He sniffs the putrid steam of praise, Place for true England here is none!

XXXIII

But can a distant race discern The difference 'twixt her and him? My friend, that will you bid them learn. He shames and binds her, head and limb.

XXXIV

Old wood has blossoms of this sort. Though sound at core, she is old wood. If freemen hate her, one retort She has; but one!--'You are my blood.'

XXXV

A poet, half a prophet, rose In recent days, and called for power. I love him; but his mountain prose - His Alp and valley and wild flower -

XXXVI

Proclaimed our weakness, not its source. What medicine for disease had he? Whom summoned for a show of force? Our titular aristocracy!

XXXVII

Why, these are great at City feasts; From City riches mainly rise: 'Tis well to hear them, when the beasts That die for us they eulogize!

XXXVIII

But these, of all the liveried crew Obeisant in Mammon's walk, Most deferent ply the facial screw, The spinal bend, submissive talk.

XXXIX

Small fear that they will run to books (At least the better form of seed)! I, too, have hoped from their good looks, And fables of their Northman breed; -

XL

Have hoped that they the land would head In acts magnanimous; but, lo, When fainting heroes beg for bread They frown: where they are driven they go.

XLI

Good health, my friend! and may your lot Be cheerful o'er the Western rounds. This butter-woman's market-trot Of verse is passing market-bounds.

XLII

Adieu! the sun sets; he is gone. On banks of fog faint lines extend: Adieu! bring back a braver dawn To England, and to me my friend.

November 15th, 1867.

TIME AND SENTIMENT

I see a fair young couple in a wood, And as they go, one bends to take a flower, That so may be embalmed their happy hour, And in another day, a kindred mood, Haply together, or in solitude, Recovered what the teeth of Time devour, The joy, the bloom, and the illusive power, Wherewith by their young blood they are endued To move all enviable, framed in May, And of an aspect sisterly with Truth: Yet seek they with Time's laughing things to wed: Who will be prompted on some pallid day To lift the hueless flower and show that dead, Even such, and by this token, is their youth.

LUCIFER IN STARLIGHT

On a starred night Prince Lucifer uprose. Tired of his dark dominion swung the fiend Above the rolling ball in cloud part screened, Where sinners hugged their spectre of repose. Poor prey to his hot fit of pride were those. And now upon his western wing he leaned, Now his huge bulk o'er Afric's sands careened, Now the black planet shadowed Arctic snows. Soaring through wider zones that pricked his scars With memory of the old revolt from Awe, He reached a middle height, and at the stars, Which are the brain of heaven, he looked, and sank. Around the ancient track marched, rank on rank, The army of unalterable law.

THE STAR SIRIUS

Bright Sirius! that when Orion pales To dotlings under moonlight still art keen With cheerful fervour of a warrior's mien Who holds in his great heart the battle-scales: Unquenched of flame though swift the flood assails, Reducing many lustrous to the lean: Be thou my star, and thou in me be seen To show what source divine is, and prevails. Long watches through, at one with godly night, I mark thee planting joy in constant fire; And thy quick beams, whose jets of life inspire Life to the spirit, passion for the light, Dark Earth since first she lost her lord from sight Has viewed and felt them sweep her as a lyre.

SENSE AND SPIRIT

The senses loving Earth or well or ill Ravel yet more the riddle of our lot. The mind is in their trammels, and lights not By trimming fear-bred tales; nor does the will To find in nature things which less may chill An ardour that desires, unknowing what. Till we conceive her living we go distraught, At best but circle-windsails of a mill. Seeing she lives, and of her joy of life Creatively has given us blood and breath For endless war and never wound unhealed, The gloomy Wherefore of our battle-field Solves in the Spirit, wrought of her through strife To read her own and trust her down to death.

EARTH'S SECRET

Not solitarily in fields we find Earth's secret open, though one page is there; Her plainest, such as children spell, and share With bird and beast; raised letters for the blind. Not where the troubled passions toss the mind, In turbid cities, can the key be bare. It hangs for those who hither thither fare, Close interthreading nature with our kind. They, hearing History speak, of what men were, And have become, are wise. The gain is great In vision and solidity; it lives. Yet at a thought of life apart from her, Solidity and vision lose their state, For Earth, that gives the milk, the spirit gives.

INTERNAL HARMONY

Assured of worthiness we do not dread Competitors; we rather give them hail And greeting in the lists where we may fail: Must, if we bear an aim beyond the head! My betters are my masters: purely fed By their sustainment I likewise shall scale Some rocky steps between the mount and vale; Meanwhile the mark I have and I will wed. So that I draw the breath of finer air, Station is nought, nor footways laurel-strewn, Nor rivals tightly belted for the race. Good speed to them! My place is here or there; My pride is that among them I have place: And thus I keep this instrument in tune.

GRACE AND LOVE

Two flower-enfolding crystal vases she I love fills daily, mindful but of one: And close behind pale morn she, like the sun Priming our world with light, pours, sweet to see, Clear water in the cup, and into me The image of herself: and that being done, Choice of what blooms round her fair garden run In climbers or in creepers or the tree She ranges with unerring fingers fine, To harmony so vivid that through sight I hear, I have her heavenliness to fold Beyond the senses, where such love as mine, Such grace as hers, should the strange Fates withhold Their starry more from her and me, unite.

APPRECIATION