Chapter 608

Yet space is given for breath of thought Beyond our bounds when musing: more When to that musing love is brought, And love is asked of love's wherefore. 'Tis Earth's, her gift; else have we nought: Her gift, her secret, here our tie. And not with her and yonder sky? Bethink you: were it Earth alone Breeds love, would not her region be The sole delight and throne Of generous Deity?

To deeper than this ball of sight Appeal the lustrous people of the night. Fronting yon shoreless, sown with fiery sails, It is our ravenous that quails, Flesh by its craven thirsts and fears distraught. The spirit leaps alight, Doubts not in them is he, The binder of his sheaves, the sane, the right: Of magnitude to magnitude is wrought, To feel it large of the great life they hold: In them to come, or vaster intervolved, The issues known in us, our unsolved solved: That there with toil Life climbs the self-same Tree, Whose roots enrichment have from ripeness dropped. So may we read and little find them cold: Let it but be the lord of Mind to guide Our eyes; no branch of Reason's growing lopped; Nor dreaming on a dream; but fortified By day to penetrate black midnight; see, Hear, feel, outside the senses; even that we, The specks of dust upon a mound of mould, We who reflect those rays, though low our place, To them are lastingly allied.

So may we read, and little find them cold: Not frosty lamps illumining dead space, Not distant aliens, not senseless Powers. The fire is in them whereof we are born; The music of their motion may be ours. Spirit shall deem them beckoning Earth and voiced Sisterly to her, in her beams rejoiced. Of love, the grand impulsion, we behold The love that lends her grace Among the starry fold. Then at new flood of customary morn, Look at her through her showers, Her mists, her streaming gold, A wonder edges the familiar face: She wears no more that robe of printed hours; Half strange seems Earth, and sweeter than her flowers.

WOODMAN AND ECHO

Close Echo hears the woodman's axe, To double on it, as in glee, With clap of hands, and little lacks Of meaning in her repartee. For all shall fall, As one has done, The tree of me, Of thee the tree; And unto all The fate we wait Reveals the wheels Whereon we run: We tower to flower, We spread the shade, We drop for crop, At length are laid; Are rolled in mould, From chop and lop: And are we thick in woodland tracks, Or tempting of our stature we, The end is one, we do but wax For service over land and sea. So, strike! the like Shall thus of us, My brawny woodman, claim the tax. Nor foe thy blow, Though wood be good, And shriekingly the timber cracks: The ground we crowned Shall speed the seed Of younger into swelling sacks.

For use he hews, To make awake The spirit of what stuff we be: Our earth of mirth And tears he clears For braver, let our minds agree; And then will men Within them win An Echo clapping harmony.

THE WISDOM OF ELD

We spend our lives in learning pilotage, And grow good steersmen when the vessel's crank! Gap-toothed he spake, and with a tottering shank Sidled to gain the sunny bench of Age. It is the sentence which completes that stage; A testament of wisdom reading blank. The seniors of the race, on their last plank, Pass mumbling it as nature's final page. These, bent by such experience, are the band Who captain young enthusiasts to maintain What things we view, and Earth's decree withstand, Lest dreaded Change, long dammed by dull decay, Should bring the world a vessel steered by brain, And ancients musical at close of day.

EARTH'S PREFERENCE

Earth loves her young: a preference manifest: She prompts them to her fruits and flower-beds; Their beauty with her choicest interthreads, And makes her revel of their merry zest; As in our East much were it in our West, If men had risen to do the work of heads. Her gabbling grey she eyes askant, nor treads The ways they walk; by what they speak oppressed. How wrought they in their zenith? 'Tis not writ; Not all; yet she by one sure sign can read: Have they but held her laws and nature dear, They mouth no sentence of inverted wit. More prizes she her beasts than this high breed Wry in the shape she wastes her milk to rear.

SOCIETY

Historic be the survey of our kind, And how their brave Society took shape. Lion, wolf, vulture, fox, jackal and ape, The strong of limb, the keen of nose, we find, Who, with some jars in harmony, combined, Their primal instincts taming, to escape The brawl indecent, and hot passions drape. Convenience pricked conscience, that the mind. Thus entered they the field of milder beasts, Which in some sort of civil order graze, And do half-homage to the God of Laws. But are they still for their old ravenous feasts, Earth gives the edifice they build no base: They spring another flood of fangs and claws.

WINTER HEAVENS

Sharp is the night, but stars with frost alive Leap off the rim of earth across the dome. It is a night to make the heavens our home More than the nest whereto apace we strive. Lengths down our road each fir-tree seems a hive, In swarms outrushing from the golden comb. They waken waves of thoughts that burst to foam: The living throb in me, the dead revive. Yon mantle clothes us: there, past mortal breath, Life glistens on the river of the death. It folds us, flesh and dust; and have we knelt, Or never knelt, or eyed as kine the springs Of radiance, the radiance enrings: And this is the soul's haven to have felt.

Poems by George Meredith--Volume 3

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

A STAVE OF ROVING TIM (ADDRESSED TO CERTAIN FRIENDLY TRAMPS.)

I

The wind is East, the wind is West, Blows in and out of haven; The wind that blows is the wind that's best, And croak, my jolly raven! If here awhile we jigged and laughed, The like we will do yonder; For he's the man who masters a craft, And light as a lord can wander. So, foot the measure, Roving Tim, And croak, my jolly raven! The wind according to its whim Is in and out of haven.

II

You live in rows of snug abodes, With gold, maybe, for counting; And mine's the beck of the rainy roads Against the sun a-mounting. I take the day as it behaves, Nor shiver when 'tis airy; But comes a breeze, all you are on waves, Sick chickens o' Mother Carey! So, now for next, cries Roving Tim, And croak, my jolly raven! The wind according to its whim Is in and out of haven.

III

Sweet lass, you screw a lovely leer, To make a man consider. If you were up with the auctioneer, I'd be a handsome bidder. But wedlock clips the rover's wing; She tricks him fly to spider; And when we get to fights in the Ring, It's trumps when you play outsider. So, wrench and split, cries Roving Tim, And croak, my jolly raven! The wind according to its whim Is in and out of haven.

IV

Along my winding way I know A shady dell that's winking; The very corner for Self and Co To do a world of thinking. And shall I this? and shall I that? Till Nature answers, ne'ther! Strike match and light your pipe in your hat, Rejoicing in sound shoe-leather! So lead along, cries Roving Tim, And croak, my jolly raven! The wind according to its whim Is in and out of haven.

V

A cunning hand 'll hand you bread, With freedom for your capers. I'm not so sure of a cunning head; It steers to pits or vapours. But as for Life, we'll bear in sight The lesson Nature teaches; Regard it in a sailoring light, And treat it like thirsty leeches. So, fly your jib, cries Roving Tim, And top your boom, old raven! The wind according to its whim Is in and out of haven.

VI

She'll take, to please her dame and dad, The shopman nicely shaven. She'll learn to think o' the marching lad When perchers show they're craven. You say the shopman piles a heap, While I perhaps am fasting; And bless your wits, it haunts him in sleep, His tin-kettle chance of lasting! So hail the road, cries Roving Tim, And hail the rain, old raven! The wind according to its whim Is in and out of haven.

VII

He's half a wife, yon pecker bill; A book and likewise preacher. With any soul, in a game of skill, He'll prove your over-reacher. The reason is, his brains are bent On doing things right single. You'd wish for them when pitching your tent At night in a whirly dingle! So, off we go, cries Roving Tim, And on we go, old raven! The wind according to its whim Is in and out of haven.

VIII

Lord, no, man's lot is not for bliss; To call it woe is blindness: It'll here a kick, and it's there a kiss, And here and there a kindness. He starts a hare and calls her joy; He runs her down to sorrow: The dogs within him bother the boy, But 'tis a new day to-morrow. So, I at helm, cries Roving Tim, And you at bow, old raven! The wind according to its whim Is in and out of haven.

JUMP-TO-GLORY JANE

I

A revelation came on Jane, The widow of a labouring swain: And first her body trembled sharp, Then all the woman was a harp With winds along the strings; she heard, Though there was neither tone nor word.

II

For past our hearing was the air, Beyond our speaking what it bare, And she within herself had sight Of heaven at work to cleanse outright, To make of her a mansion fit For angel hosts inside to sit.

III

They entered, and forthwith entranced, Her body braced, her members danced; Surprisingly the woman leapt; And countenance composed she kept: As gossip neighbours in the lane Declared, who saw and pitied Jane.

IV

These knew she had been reading books, The which was witnessed by her looks Of late: she had a mania For mad folk in America, And said for sure they led the way, But meat and beer were meant to stay.

V

That she had visited a fair, Had seen a gauzy lady there, Alive with tricks on legs alone, As good as wings, was also known: And longwhiles in a sullen mood, Before her jumping, Jane would brood.

VI

A good knee's height, they say, she sprang; Her arms and feet like those who hang: As if afire the body sped, And neither pair contributed. She jumped in silence: she was thought A corpse to resurrection caught.

VII

The villagers were mostly dazed; They jeered, they wondered, and they praised. 'Twas guessed by some she was inspired, And some would have it she had hired An engine in her petticoats, To turn their wits and win their votes.

VIII

Her first was Winny Earnes, a kind Of woman not to dance inclined; But she went up, entirely won, Ere Jump-to-glory Jane had done; And once a vixen wild for speech, She found the better way to preach.

IX

No long time after, Jane was seen Directing jumps at Daddy Green; And that old man, to watch her fly, Had eyebrows made of arches high; Till homeward he likewise did hop, Oft calling on himself to stop!

X

It was a scene when man and maid, Abandoning all other trade, And careless of the call to meals, Went jumping at the woman's heels. By dozens they were counted soon, Without a sound to tell their tune.

XI

Along the roads they came, and crossed The fields, and o'er the hills were lost, And in the evening reappeared; Then short like hobbled horses reared, And down upon the grass they plumped: Alone their Jane to glory jumped.

XII

At morn they rose, to see her spring All going as an engine thing; And lighter than the gossamer She led the bobbers following her, Past old acquaintances, and where They made the stranger stupid stare.

XIII

When turnips were a filling crop, In scorn they jumped a butcher's shop: Or, spite of threats to flog and souse, They jumped for shame a public-house: And much their legs were seized with rage If passing by the vicarage.

XIV

The tightness of a hempen rope Their bodies got; but laundry soap Not handsomer can rub the skin For token of the washed within. Occasionally coughers cast A leg aloft and coughed their last.

XV

The weaker maids and some old men, Requiring rafters for the pen On rainy nights, were those who fell. The rest were quite a miracle, Refreshed as you may search all round On Club-feast days and cry, Not found!

XVI

For these poor innocents, that slept Against the sky, soft women wept: For never did they any theft; 'Twas known when they their camping left, And jumped the cold out of their rags; In spirit rich as money-bags.

XVII

They jumped the question, jumped reply; And whether to insist, deny, Reprove, persuade, they jumped in ranks Or singly, straight the arms to flanks, And straight the legs, with just a knee For bending in a mild degree.

XVIII

The villagers might call them mad; An endless holiday they had, Of pleasure in a serious work: They taught by leaps where perils lurk, And with the lambkins practised sports For 'scaping Satan's pounds and quarts.

XIX

It really seemed on certain days, When they bobbed up their Lord to praise, And bobbing up they caught the glance Of light, our secret is to dance, And hold the tongue from hindering peace; To dance out preacher and police.

XX

Those flies of boys disturbed them sore On Sundays and when daylight wore: With withies cut from hedge or copse, They treated them as whipping-tops, And flung big stones with cruel aim; Yet all the flock jumped on the same.

XXI

For what could persecution do To worry such a blessed crew, On whom it was as wind to fire, Which set them always jumping higher? The parson and the lawyer tried, By meek persistency defied.

XXII

But if they bore, they could pursue As well, and this the Bishop too; When inner warnings proved him plain The chase for Jump-to-glory Jane. She knew it by his being sent To bless the feasting in the tent.

XXIII

Not less than fifty years on end, The Squire had been the Bishop's friend: And his poor tenants, harmless ones, With souls to save! fed not on buns, But angry meats: she took her place Outside to show the way to grace.

XXIV

In apron suit the Bishop stood; The crowding people kindly viewed. A gaunt grey woman he saw rise On air, with most beseeching eyes: And evident as light in dark It was, she set to him for mark.

XXV

Her highest leap had come: with ease She jumped to reach the Bishop's knees: Compressing tight her arms and lips, She sought to jump the Bishop's hips: Her aim flew at his apron-band, That he might see and understand.

XXVI

The mild inquiry of his gaze Was altered to a peaked amaze, At sight of thirty in ascent, To gain his notice clearly bent: And greatly Jane at heart was vexed By his ploughed look of mind perplexed.

XXVII

In jumps that said, Beware the pit! More eloquent than speaking it - That said, Avoid the boiled, the roast; The heated nose on face of ghost, Which comes of drinking: up and o'er The flesh with me! did Jane implore.

XXVIII

She jumped him high as huntsmen go Across the gate; she jumped him low, To coax him to begin and feel His infant steps returning, peel His mortal pride, exposing fruit, And off with hat and apron suit.

XXIX

We need much patience, well she knew, And out and out, and through and through, When we would gentlefolk address, However we may seek to bless: At times they hide them like the beasts From sacred beams; and mostly priests.

XXX

He gave no sign of making bare, Nor she of faintness or despair. Inflamed with hope that she might win, If she but coaxed him to begin, She used all arts for making fain; The mother with her babe was Jane.

XXXI

Now stamped the Squire, and knowing not Her business, waved her from the spot. Encircled by the men of might, The head of Jane, like flickering light, As in a charger, they beheld Ere she was from the park expelled.

XXXII

Her grief, in jumps of earthly weight, Did Jane around communicate: For that the moment when began The holy but mistaken man, In view of light, to take his lift, They cut him from her charm adrift!

XXXIII

And he was lost: a banished face For ever from the ways of grace, Unless pinched hard by dreams in fright. They saw the Bishop's wavering sprite Within her look, at come and go, Long after he had caused her woe.

XXXIV

Her greying eyes (until she sank At Fredsham on the wayside bank, Like cinder heaps that whitened lie From coals that shot the flame to sky) Had glassy vacancies, which yearned For one in memory discerned.

XXXV

May those who ply the tongue that cheats, And those who rush to beer and meats, And those whose mean ambition aims At palaces and titled names, Depart in such a cheerful strain As did our Jump-to-glory Jane!

XXXVI

Her end was beautiful: one sigh. She jumped a foot when it was nigh. A lily in a linen clout She looked when they had laid her out. It is a lily-light she bears For England up the ladder-stairs.

THE RIDDLE FOR MEN

I

This Riddle rede or die, Says History since our Flood, To warn her sons of power:- It can be truth, it can be lie; Be parasite to twist awry; The drouthy vampire for your blood; The fountain of the silver flower; A brand, a lure, a web, a crest; Supple of wax or tempered steel; The spur to honour, snake in nest: 'Tis as you will with it to deal; To wear upon the breast, Or trample under heel.

II

And rede you not aright, Says Nature, still in red Shall History's tale be writ! For solely thus you lead to light The trailing chapters she must write, And pass my fiery test of dead Or living through the furnace-pit: Dislinked from who the softer hold In grip of brute, and brute remain: Of whom the woeful tale is told, How for one short Sultanic reign, Their bodies lapse to mould, Their souls behowl the plain.

THE SAGE ENAMOURED AND THE HONEST LADY

I

One fairest of the ripe unwedded left Her shadow on the Sage's path; he found, By common signs, that she had done a theft. He could have made the sovereign heights resound With questions of the wherefore of her state: He on far other but an hour before Intent. And was it man, or was it mate, That she disdained? or was there haply more?

About her mouth a placid humour slipped The dimple, as you see smooth lakes at eve Spread melting rings where late a swallow dipped. The surface was attentive to receive, The secret underneath enfolded fast. She had the step of the unconquered, brave, Not arrogant; and if the vessel's mast Waved liberty, no challenge did it wave. Her eyes were the sweet world desired of souls, With something of a wavering line unspelt. They hold the look whose tenderness condoles For what the sister in the look has dealt Of fatal beyond healing; and her tones A woman's honeyed amorous outvied, As when in a dropped viol the wood-throb moans Among the sobbing strings, that plain and chide Like infants for themselves, less deep to thrill Than those rich mother-notes for them breathed round. Those voices are not magic of the will To strike love's wound, but of love's wound give sound, Conveying it; the yearnings, pains and dreams. They waft to the moist tropics after storm, When out of passion spent thick incense steams, And jewel-belted clouds the wreck transform.

Was never hand on brush or lyre to paint Her gracious manners, where the nuptial ring Of melody clasped motion in restraint: The reed-blade with the breeze thereof may sing. With such endowments armed was she and decked To make her spoken thoughts eclipse her kind; Surpassing many a giant intellect, The marvel of that cradled infant mind. It clenched the tiny fist, it curled the toe; Cherubic laughed, enticed, dispensed, absorbed; And promised in fair feminine to grow A Sage's match and mate, more heavenly orbed.

II

Across his path the spouseless Lady cast Her shadow, and the man that thing became. His youth uprising called his age the Past. This was the strong grey head of laurelled name, And in his bosom an inverted Sage Mistook for light of morn the light which sank. But who while veins run blood shall know the page Succeeding ere we turn upon our blank? Comes Beauty with her tale of moon and cloud, Her silvered rims of mystery pointing in To hollows of the half-veiled unavowed, Where beats her secret life, grey heads will spin Quick as the young, and spell those hieroglyphs Of phosphorescent dusk, devoutly bent; They drink a cup to whirl on dizzier cliffs For their shamed fall, which asks, why was she sent! Why, and of whom, and whence; and tell they truth, The legends of her mission to beguile?

Hard likeness to the toilful apes of youth He bore at times, and tempted the sly smile; And not on her soft lips was it descried. She stepped her way benevolently grave: Nor sign that Beauty fed her worm of pride, By tossing victim to the courtier knave, Let peep, nor of the naughty pride gave sign. Rather 'twas humbleness in being pursued, As pilgrim to the temple of a shrine. Had he not wits to pierce the mask he wooed? All wisdom's armoury this man could wield; And if the cynic in the Sage it pleased Traverse her woman's curtain and poor shield, For new example of a world diseased; Showing her shrineless, not a temple, bare; A curtain ripped to tatters by the blast; Yet she most surely to this man stood fair: He worshipped like the young enthusiast, Named simpleton or poet. Did he read Right through, and with the voice she held reserved Amid her vacant ruins jointly plead?