Chapter 5

And soon I sat below my grandsire's bust, Which in the school he loved not deigns to stand, That Earl, who forced his compeers to be just, And wrought in brave old age what youth had planned.

But no ancestral majesties could fix The wistful eye, which fell, and fondly read, Fresh carven on the panel, letters six, A brother's name, more sacred than the dead.

How far too sweet for school he seemed to me, How ripe for combat with the wits of men, How childlike in his manhood! Can it be? Can I indeed be now what he was then?

He past from sight; my laughing life remained Like merry waves that ripple to the bank, Curved round the spot where longing eyes are strained, Because beneath the lake a treasure sank.

Dear as the token of a loss to some, And praised for likeness, this was well; and yet 'Twas better still that younger friends should come, Whose love might grow entwined with no regret.

They came; and one was of a northern race, Who bore the island galley on his shield, Grand histories on his name, and in his face A bright soul's ardour fearlessly revealed.

We trifled, toiled, and feasted, far apart From churls, who wondered what our friendship meant; And in that coy retirement heart to heart Drew closer, and our natures were content.

My noblest playmate lost, I still withdrew From dull excitement which the Graces dread, And talked in saunterings with the gentle few Of tunes we practised, and of rhymes we read.

We swam through twilight waters, or we played Like spellbound captives in the Naiad's grot; Coquetted with the oar, and wooed the shade On dainty banks of shy forget-me-not.

Oh Thames! my memories bloom with all thy flowers, Thy kindness sighs to me from every tree: Farewell I I thank thee for the frolic hours, I bid thee, whilst thou flowest, speak of me.

July 28th, 1864.

PHAEDRA'S NURSE

A plague on the whimsies of sickly folk! What am I to do? What not? Why, here's the fair sky, and here you lie With your couch in a sunny spot. For this you were puling whenever you spoke, Craving to lie outside, And now you'll be sure not to bide.

You won't lie still for an hour; You'll want to be back to your bower-- Longing, and never enjoying, Shifting from yea to nay. For all that you taste is cloying, And sweet is the far away.

'Tis hard to be sick, but worse To have to sit by and nurse, For that is single, but this is double, The mind in pain, and the hands in trouble. The life men live is a weary coil, There is no rest from woe and toil; And if there's aught elsewhere more dear Than drawing breath as we do here, That darkness holds In black inextricable folds.

Lovesick it seems are we Of this, whate'er it be, That gleams upon the earth; Because that second birth, That other life no man hath tried.

What lies below No god will show, And we to whom the truth's denied Drift upon idle fables to and fro.

BELOW BOULTER'S LOCK

The aspen grows on the maiden's bank, Down swoops the breeze on the bough, Quick rose the gust, and suddenly sank, Like wrath on my sweetheart's brow.

The tree is caught, the boat dreads nought, Sheltered and safe below; The bank is high, and the wind runs by, Giving us leave to row.

The bank was dipping low and lower, Showing the glowing west, The oar went slower, for either rower The river was heaving her breast.

That sunset seemed to my dauntless steerer The lifting and breaking of day, That flush on the wave to me was dearer Than shade on a windless way.

June 2nd, 1868.

FROM HALS DON TO CHELTENHAM TO TWO LITTLE LADIES.

Across three shires I stretch and lean, To gaze beyond the hills that screen The trustful eyes and gracious mien Of unforgotten Geraldine.

Up Severn sea my fancy leadeth, And past the springs of Thames it speedeth, On to the brilliant town, which needeth, Far less than I, the laugh of Edith.

Sad gales have changed my woodland scene To russet-brown from gold and green; Cold and forlorn like me hath been The boat that carried Geraldine.

On silent paths the whistler weedeth, And what his tune is no one heedeth; On hay beneath the linhay feedeth The ass that felt the hand of Edith.

Oh cherished thought of Geraldine, I'd rhyme till summer, if the Queen Would blow her trumpets and proclaim Fresh rhymes for that heroic name.

Oh babbler gay as river stickle, Next year you'll be too old to tickle; But while my Torridge flows I'll say "Blithe Edith liked me half day."

A POOR FRENCH SAILOR'S SCOTTISH SWEETHEART

I cannot forget my jo, I bid him be mine in sleep; But battle and woe have changed him so, There's nothing to do but weep.

My mother rebukes me yet, And I never was meek before; His jacket is wet, his lip cold set, He'll trouble our home no more.

Oh breaker of reeds that bend! Oh quencher of tow that smokes! I'd rather descend to my sailor friend Than prosper with lofty folks.

I'm lying beside the gowan, My jo in the English bay; I'm Annie Rowan, his Annie Rowan, He called me his _bien-aimee_.

I'll hearken to all you quote, Though I'd rather be deaf and free; The little he wrote in the sinking boat Is Bible and charm for me.

A GARDEN GIRL

Oh, scanty white garment! they ask why I wear you, Such thin chilly vesture for one that is frail, And dull words of prose cannot truly declare you To be what I bid you be, love's coat of mail.

You were but a symbol of cleanness and rest, To don in the summer time, three years ago; And now you encompass a care-stricken breast With fabric of fancy to keep it aglow.

For when it was Lammastide two before this, When freshening my face after freshening my lilies, A door opened quickly, and down fell a kiss, The lips unforeseen were my passionate Willie's.

My Willie was travel-worn, Willie was cold, And I might not keep but a dear lock of hair. I clad him in silk and I decked him with gold, But welcome and fondness were choked in despair.

I follow the wheels, and he turns with a sob, We fold our mute hands on the death of the hour; For heart-breaking virtues and destinies rob The soul of her nursling, the thorn of her flower.

The lad's mind is rooted, his passion red-fruited, The head I caressed is another's delight; And I, though I stray through the year sorrow-suited, At Lammas, for Willie's sake, robe me in white.

TO TWO YOUNG LADIES

There are, I've read, two troops of years, One troop is called the teens; They bring sweet gifts to little dears, Ediths and Geraldines.

The others have no certain name, Though children of the sun, They come to wrinkled men, and claim Their treasures one by one.

There is a hermit faint and dry, In things called rhymes he dabbles, And seventeen months have heard him sigh For Cissy and for Babbles.

Once, when he seemed to be bedridden, These girls said, "Make us lines," He tried to court, as he was bidden, His vanished Valentines.

Now, three days late, yet ere they ask, He's meekly undertaken To do his sentimental task, Philandering, though forsaken.

I pace my paradise, and long To show it off to Peris; They come not, but it can't be wrong To raise their ghosts by queries.

Is Geraldine in flowing robes? Has Edith rippling curls? And do their ears prolong the lobes Weighed down with gold and pearls?

And do they know the verbs of France? And do they play duetts? And do they blush when led to dance? And are they called coquettes?

Oh, Cissy, if the heartless year Sets our brief loves asunder! Oh, Babbles, whom I daren't call dear! What can I do but wonder?

I wonder what you're both become, Whether you're children still; I pause with fingers twain and thumb Closed on my faltering quill;

I pause to think how I decay, And you win grace from Time. Perhaps ill-natured folks would say He's pausing for a rhyme.

The sun, who drew us far apart, Might lessen my regrets, Would he but deign to use his art In painting your vignettes.

Then though I groaned for losing half Of joys that memory traces, I could forego the talk, the laugh, In welcoming the faces.

A HOUSE AND A GIRL

The strawberry tree and the crimson thorn, And Fanny's myrtle and William's vine, And honey of bountiful jessamine, Are gone from the homestead where I was born.

I gaze from my Grandfather's terrace wall, And then I bethink me how once I stept Through rooms where my Mother had blest me, and wept To yield them to strangers, and part with them all.

My Father, like Matthew the publican, ceased Full early from hoarding with stainless mind, To Torrington only and home inclined, Where brotherhood, cousinhood, graced his feast.

I meet his remembrance in market lane, 'Neath town-hall pillars and churchyard limes, In streets where he tried a thousand times To chasten anger and soften pain.

Ah I would there were some one that I could aid, Though lacking the simpleness, lacking the worth, Yet wanted and trusted by right of birth, Some townfellow stripling, some Torrington maid.

Oh pitiful waste! oh stubborn neglect! Oh pieties smothered for thirty years! Oh gleanings of kindness in dreams and tears! Oh drift cast up from a manhood wrecked!

There's one merry maiden hath carelessly crossed The threshold I dread, and she never discerns In keepsakes she thanks me for, lessons she learns, A sign of the grace that I squandered and lost.

My birthplace to Meg is but window and stone, My knowledge a wilderness where she can stray, To keep what she gathers or throw it away; So Meg lets me laugh with her, mourning alone.

A FELLOW PASSENGER UNKNOWN

Maiden, hastening to be wise, Maiden, reading with a rage, Envy fluttereth round the page Whereupon thy downward eyes Rove and rest, and melt maybe-- Virgin eyes one may not see, Gathering as the bee Takes from cherry tree; As the robin's bill Frets the window sill, Maiden, bird, and bee, Three from me half hid, Doing what we did When our minds were free.

Those romantic pages wist What romance is in the look. Oh, that I could be so bold, So romantic as to bold Half an hour the pensive wrist, And the burden of the book.

NUREMBERG CEMETERY

Outside quaint Albert Durer's town, Where Freedom set her stony crown, Whereof the gables red and brown Curve over peaceful forts that screen Spring bloom and garden lanes between The scarp and counter-scarp. Her feet One highday of Saint Paraclete Were led along the dolorous street By stepping stones towards love and heaven And pauses of the soul twice seven.

Beneath the flowerless trees, where May, Proud of her orchards' fine array, Abates her claim and holds no sway, Past iron tombs, the useless shields Of cousins slain in Elsass fields, The girl, with fair neck meekly bowed.

Mores bravely through a sauntering crowd, Hastening, as she was bid, to breathe Above the breathless, and enwreathe, With pansies earned by spinster thrift, And lillybells, a wooer's gift, A stone which glimmers in the shade Of yonder silent colonnade, Over against the slates that hold Marie in lines of slender gold, A token wrought by fictive fingers, A garland, last year's offering, lingers, Hung out of reach, and facing north. And lo! thereout a wren flies forth, And Gertrude, straining on toetips, Just touches with her prayerful lips The warm home which a bird unskilled In grief and hope knows how to build.

The maid can mourn, but not the wren. Birds die, death's shade belongs to men.

1877.

MORTAL THING NOT WHOLLY CLAY

J'aurai passe sur la terre, N'ayant rien aime que l'amour.

Mortal thing not wholly clay, Mellowing only to decay, Speak, for airs of spring unfold Wistful sorrows long untold.

Under a poplar turning green, Say for age that seems so bold, Oh, the saddest words to say, "This might have been."

Twenty, thirty years ago-- Woe, woe, the seasons flow-- Beatings of a zephyr's plume Might have broken down the doom.

Gossamer scruples fell between Thee and this that might have been; Now the clinging cobwebs grow; Ah! the saddest loss is this, A good maid's kiss.

Soon, full soon, they will be here, Twisting withies for the bier; Under a heathen yew-tree's shade Will a wasted heart be laid-- Heart that never dared be dear.

Leave it so, to lie unblest, Priest of love, just half confessed.

A SICK FRENCH POET'S ENGLISH FRIENDS

When apple buds began to swell, And Procne called for Philomel, Down there, where Seine caresseth sea Two lassies deigned, or chanced, to be Playmates or votaries for me, Miss Euphrasie, Miss Eulalie.

Then dates of birth dropt out of mind, For one was brave as two were kind; In cheerful vigil one designed A maze of wit for two to wind; And that grey Muse who served the three Broke daylight into reverie.

Peace lit upon a fluttering vein, And, self forgetting, on the brain, On rifts, by passion wrought, again Splashed from the sky of childhood rain; And rid of afterthought were we, And from foreboding sweetly free.

Now falls the apple, bleeds the vine, And moved by some autumnal sign, I, who in spring was glad, repine, And ache without my anodyne. Oh things that were, oh things that are, Oh setting of my double star!

This day this way an Iris came, And brought a scroll, and showed a name. Now surely they who thus reclaim Acquaintance should relight a flame. So speed, gay steed, that I may see Dear Euphrasie, dear Eulalie.

Behind this ivy screen are they Whose girlhood flowered on me last May. The world is lord of all; I pray They be not courtly--who can say? Well, well, remembrance held in fee Is good, nay, best. I turn and flee.

L'OISEAU BLEU

Down with the oar, I toil no more. Trust to the boat; we rest, we float. Under the loosestrife and alder we roam To seek and search for the halcyon's home.

Blue bird, pause; thou hast no cause To grudge me the sight of fishbones white. Thine is the only nest now to find. Show it me, birdie; be calm, be kind.

Wander all day in quest of prey, Dart and gleam, and ruffle the stream; Then for the truth that the old folks sing, Comfort the twilight, and droop thy wing.

HOME, PUP!

Euphemia Seton of Urchinhope, The wife of the farmer of Tynnerandoon, Stands lifting her eyes to the whitening slope, And longs for her laddies at suppertime soon.

The laddies, the dog, and the witless sheep, Are bound to come home, for the snow will be deep. The mother is pickling a scornful word To throw at the head of the elder lad, Hugh; But talkative Jamie, as gay as a bird, Will have nothing beaten save snow from his shoe. He has fire in his eyes, he has curls on his head, And a silver brooch and a kerchief red.

Poor Hugh, trudging on with his collie pup Jess, Has kept his plain mind to himself all the way, Just quietly giving his dog the caress Which no one gave him for a year and a day. And luckily quadrupeds seldom despise Our lumbering wits and our lack-lustre eyes.

Deep down in the corrie, high up on the brae, Where Shinnel and Scar tumble down from the rock The wicked white ladies have been at their play, The wind has been pushing the leewardly flock. The white land should tell where the creatures are gone, But snow hides the snow that their hooves have been on.

Ah! down there in Urchinhope nobody knows How blinding the flakes, and the north wind how cruel. Euphemia's gudeman will come for his brose, But far up the hill is her darling, her jewel. She sees something crimson. "Oh, gudeman, look up! There's Jamie's cravat on the neck of the pup."

"Where, where have ye been, Jess, and where did ye leave him? Now just get a bite, pup, then show me my pet. Poor Jamie 'll be tired, and the sleep will deceive him; Oh, stir him, oh, guide him, before the sun set!" "Quick, Jock, bring a lantern! quick, Sandie, some wraps! Before ye win till him 'twill darken, perhaps."

Jess whimpered; the young moon was down in the west; A shelter-stone jutted from under the hill; Stiff hands beneath Jamie's blue bonnet were pressed, And over his beating heart one that was still. Bareheaded and coatless, to windward lay Hugh, And high on his back the snow gathered and grew.

"Now fold them in plaids, they'll be up with the sun; Their bed will be warm, and the blood is so strong. How wise to send Jessie; now cannily run. Poor pup, are ye tired? we'll be home before long." Jess licked a cold cheek, and the bonny boy spoke: "Where's Hugh?" The pup whimpered, but Hugh never woke.

A SOLDIER'S MIRACLE

'Twas when we learnt we could be beat; Our star misled us, and' we strayed. Elsewhere the host was in retreat; We were a guideless lost brigade.

We stumbled on a town in doubt, To halt and sup we were full fain, The man that held the chart cried out, "'Tis Vaucouleurs in old Lorraine."

In Vaucouleurs we will not doubt, For here, when need was sore, Saint Jane Arose, and girt herself to rout The foes that troubled her Lorraine.

So here we feast in faith to-night, To-morrow we'll rejoin the host Drink, drink! the wine is pure and bright, And Jane our maiden is the toast.

But I, that faced the window, caught A passing cloud, a foreign plume, A Prussian helmet; and the thought Of peril chilled the tavern room.

We rose, we glared through twilight panes, We muttered curses bosom-deep; A tell-tale gallop scared the lanes, We grudged to spoil our comrades' sleep.

Then louder than the Uhlan's hoof Fell storm from sky and flood on banks, September's passion smote the roof; We blest it, and to Jane gave thanks.

Betwixt us and that Uhlan's mates A bridgless river strongly flowed. A sign was shown that checked the fates, And on that storm our maiden rode.

A BALLAD FOR A BOY

When George the Third was reigning a hundred years ago, He ordered Captain Farmer to chase the foreign foe. "You're not afraid of shot," said he, "you're not afraid of wreck, So cruise about the west of France in the frigate called _Quebec_.

Quebec was once a Frenchman's town, but twenty years ago King George the Second sent a man called General Wolfe, you know, To clamber up a precipice and look into Quebec, As you'd look down a hatchway when standing on the deck.

If Wolfe could beat the Frenchmen then so you can beat them now. Before he got inside the town he died, I must allow. But since the town was won for us it is a lucky name, And you'll remember Wolfe's good work, and you shall do the same."

Then Farmer said, "I'll try, sir," and Farmer bowed so low That George could see his pigtail tied in a velvet bow. George gave him his commission, and that it might be safer, Signed "King of Britain, King of France," and sealed it with a wafer.

Then proud was Captain Farmer in a frigate of his own, And grander on his quarter-deck than George upon his throne. He'd two guns in his cabin, and on the spar-deck ten, And twenty on the gun-deck, and more than ten score men.

And as a huntsman scours the brakes with sixteen brace of dogs, With two-and-thirty cannon the ship explored the fogs. From Cape la Hogue to Ushant, from Rochefort to Belleisle, She hunted game till reef and mud were rubbing on her keel.

The fogs are dried, the frigate's side is bright with melting tar, The lad up in the foretop sees square white sails afar; The east wind drives three square-sailed masts from out the Breton bay, And "Clear for action!" Farmer shouts, and reefers yell "Hooray!"

The Frenchmen's captain had a name I wish I could pronounce; A Breton gentleman was he, and wholly free from bounce, One like those famous fellows who died by guillotine For honour and the fleurs-de-lys, and Antoinette the Queen.

The Catholic for Louis, the Protestant for George, Each captain drew as bright a sword as saintly smiths could forge; And both were simple seamen, but both could under- stand How each was bound to win or die for flag and native land.

The French ship was _La Surveillante_, which means the watchful maid; She folded up her head-dress and began to cannonade. Her hull was clean, and ours was foul; we had to spread more sail. On canvas, stays, and topsail yards her bullets came like hail.

Sore smitten were both captains, and many lads beside, And still to cut our rigging the foreign gunners tried. A sail-clad spar came flapping down athwart a blazing gun; We could not quench the rushing flames, and so the Frenchman won.

Our quarter-deck was crowded, the waist was all aglow; Men clung upon the taffrail half scorched, but loth to go; Our captain sat where once he stood, and would not quit his chair. He bade his comrades leap for life, and leave him bleeding there.

The guns were hushed on either side, the Frenchmen lowered boats, They flung us planks and hencoops, and everything that floats. They risked their lives, good fellows! to bring their rivals aid. 'Twas by the conflagration the peace was strangely made.

_La Surveillante_ was like a sieve; the victors had no rest. They had to dodge the east wind to reach the port of Brest. And where the waves leapt lower and the riddled ship went slower, In triumph, yet in funeral guise, came fisher-boats to tow her.

They dealt with us as brethren, they mourned for Farmer dead; And as the wounded captives passed each Breton bowed the head. Then spoke the French Lieutenant, "'Twas fire that won, not we. You never struck your flag to us; you'll go to England free."

'Twas the sixth day of October, seventeen hundred seventy-nine, A year when nations ventured against us to combine, _Quebec_ was burnt and Farmer slain, by us remem- bered not; But thanks be to the French book wherein they're not forgot.

Now you, if you've to fight the French, my youngster, bear in mind Those seamen of King Louis so chivalrous and kind; Think of the Breton gentlemen who took our lads to Brest, And treat some rescued Breton as a comrade and a guest.

1885.

EPILOGUE.