Chapter 6

Exactos, puer, esse decern tibi gratulor annos; Hactenus es matris cura patrisque decus. Incumbis studiis, et amas et amaris, et audes Pro patria raucis obvius ire fretis. Non erimus comites, fili, tibi; sed memor esto Matris in oceano cum vigil astra leges. Imbelli patre natus habe tamen arma Britannus, Militiam perfer, spemque fidemque fove.

1889.

JE MAINTIENDRAI

(FOR THE TUNE CALLED SANTA LUCIA)

Rise, rise, ye Devon folk! Toss off the traitor's yoke, Peer through the rain and smoke, Look, look again! Run down to Brixham pier-- Quick, quick, the Prince is near! All the rights ye reckon dear He will maintain.

Chorus-- Welcome, sweet English rose! Welcome, Dutch Roman nose! Scatter, scatter all the Gospel's foes, William and Mary!

High over gulls and boats Bright, free the banner floats; Hearken, hear the clarion notes! Lift hats and stare. Courtiers who break the laws, Tame cats with velvet paws, Hypocrites with poisoned claws, Croppies, beware!

Trust, Sir, the western shires, Trust those who baffled Spain; We'll be hardy like our sires. Down, Pope, again! Off, off with sneak and thief! We'll have an honest chief. England is no Popish fief; Free kings shall reign.

SAPPHICS FOR A TUNE

MADE BY REQUEST OF A SONGSTRESS, AND REJECTED

Relics of battle dropt in sandy valley, Bugle that screamed a warning of surprise, Shreds of the colour torn before the rally, Jewel of troth-plight seen by dying eyes-- Welcome, dear tokens of the lad we mourn. Tell how that day his faithful heart was leaping; Help me, who linger in the home forlorn, Throw me a rainbow on my endless weeping.

1885.

JOHNNIE OF BRAIDISLEE

A SECOND ATTEMPT, ACCEPTED

Down the burnside hurry thee, gentle mavis, Find the bothie, and flutter about the doorway. Touch the lattice tenderly, bid my mother Fetch away Johnnie.

Mother, uprouse thee! many bitter arrows Out of one bosom gather, and for ever Pray for one resting in a chilly forest Under an oak tree.

Gentle mavis! hover about the window Where the sun shines on happy things of home life, Bid the clansmen troop to the gory dingle. Clansmen, avenge me!

Mother! oh, my mother! upon a cradle Woven of willows, with a bow beside me, Near the kirk of Durrisdeer, under yew boughs, Rock thy beloved.

1885.

EUROPA

May the foemen's wives, the foemen's children, Feel the kid leaping when he lifts the surge, Tumult of swart sea, and the reefs that shudder Under the scourge.

On such a day to the false bull Europa Trusted her snowy limbs; and courage failed her, Where the whales swarmed, the terror of sea-change and Treason assailed her.

For the meadow-fays had she duly laboured, Eager for flowers to bind at eventide; Shimmering night revealed the stars, the billows, Nothing beside.

Brought to Crete, the realm of a hundred cities, "Oh, my sire! my duty!" she clamoured sadly. "Oh, the forfeit! and oh, the girl unfathered, Wilfully, madly!

What shore is this, and what have I left behind me? When a maid sins 'tis not enough to die. Am I awake? or through the ivory gateway Cometh a lie?

Cometh a hollow fantasy to the guiltless? Am I in dreamland? Was it best to wander Through the long waves, or better far to gather Rosebuds out yonder?

Now, were he driven within the reach of anger, Steel would I point against the villain steer, Grappling, rending the horns of the bull, the monster Lately so dear.

Shameless I left the homestead and the worship, Shameless, 'fore hell's mouth, wide agape, I pause. Hear me, some god, and set me among the lions Stript for their jaws.

Ere on the cheek that is so fair to look on Swoop the grim fiends of hunger and decay, Tigers shall spring and raven, ere the sweetness Wither away.

Worthless Europa! cries the severed father, Why dost thou loiter, cling to life, and doat? Hang on this rowan; hast thou not thy girdle Meet for thy throat?

Lo, the cliff, the precipice, edged for cleaving, Trust the quick wind, or take a leman's doom. Live on and spin; thou wast a prince's daughter; Toil at the loom.

Pass beneath the hand of a foreign lady; Serve a proud rival." Lo, behind her back Slyly laughed Venus, and her archer minion Held the bow slack.

Then, the game played out, "Put away," she whispered, "Wrath and upbraiding, and the quarrel's heat, When the loathed bull surrenders horns, for riving, Low at your feet.

Bride of high Jove's majesty, bride unwitting, Cease from your sobbing; rise, your luck is rare. Your name's the name which half the world divided Henceforth shall bear."

HYPERMNESTRA

Let me tell Lyde of wedding-law slighted, Penance of maidens and bootless task, Wasting of water down leaky cask, Crime in the prison-pit slowly requited.

Miscreant brides! for their grooms they slew. One out of many is not attainted, One alone blest and for ever sainted, False to her father, to wedlock true.

Praise her! she gave her young husband the warning. Praise her for ever! She cried, "Arise! Flee from the slumber that deadens the eyes; Flee from the night that hath never a morning.

Baffle your host who contrived our espousing, Baffle my sisters, the forty and nine, Raging like lions that mangle the kink, Each on the blood of a quarry carousing.

I am more gentle, I strike not thee, I will not hold thee in dungeon tower. Though the king chain me, I will not cower, Though my sire banish me over the sea.

Freely run, freely sail, good luck attend thee; Go with the favour of Venus and Night. On thy tomb somewhere and some day bid write Record of her who hath dared to befriend thee."

BARINE

Lady, if you ever paid Forfeit for a heart betrayed, If for broken pledge you were By one tooth, one nail less fair,

I would trust. But when a vow Slips from off your faithless brow, Forth you flash with purer lustre, And a fonder troop you muster.

You with vantage mock the shade Of a mother lowly laid, Silent stars and depths of sky, And high saints that cannot die.

Laughs the Queen of love, I say, Laughs at this each silly fay, Laughs the rogue who's ever whetting Darts of fire on flint of fretting.

Ay, the crop of youth is yours, Fresh enlistments throng your doors, Veterans swear you serve them ill, Threaten flight, and linger still.

Dames and thrifty greybeards dread Lest you turn a stripling's head; Poor young brides are in dismay Lest you sigh their lords away.

TO BRITOMART MUSING

Classic throat and wrist and ear Tempt a gallant to draw near; Must romantic lip and eye Make him falter, bid him fly?

If Camilla's upright lance By the contrast did enhance Charms of curving neck and waist, Yet she never was embraced.

She was girt to take the field, And her aventayle concealed Half the grace that might have won Homage from Evander's son.

Countess Montfort, clad in steel, Showed she could both dare and feel; Smiled to greet the champion ships, Touched Sir Walter with the lips.

She could charm, although in dress Like the sainted shepherdess, Jeanne, a leader void of guile, Jeanne, a woman all the while.

Damsel with the mind of man, Lay not softness under ban; For the glory of thy sex Twine with myrtle manly necks.

HERSILIA

I see her stand with arms a-kimbo, A blue and blonde s_ub aureo nimbo_; She scans her literary limbo, The reliques of her teens;

Things like the chips of broken stilts, Or tatters of embroidered quilts, Or nosegays tossed away by jilts, Notes, ballads, tales, and scenes.

Soon will she gambol like a lamb, Fenced, but not tethered, near the Cam. Maybe she'll swim where Byron swam, And chat beneath the limes,

Where Arthur, Alfred, Fitz, and Brooks Lit thought by one another's looks, Embraced their jests and kicked their books, In England's happier times;

Ere magic poets felt the gout, Ere Darwin whelmed the Church in doubt Ere Apologia had found out The round world must be right;

When Gladstone, bluest of the blue, Read all Augustine's folios through; When France was tame, and no one knew We and the Czar would fight.

"Sixty years since" (said dear old Scott; We're bound, you know, to quote Sir Wat) This isle had not a sweeter spot Than Neville's Court by Granta;

No Newnham then, no kirtled scribes, No Clelia to harangue the tribes, No race for girls, no apple bribes To tempt an Atalanta.

We males talked fast, we meant to be World-betterers all at twenty-three, But somehow failed to level thee, Oh battered fort of Edom!

Into the breach our daughters press, Brave patriots in unwarlike dress, Adepts at thought-in-idleness, Sweet devotees of freedom.

And now it is your turn, fair soul, To see the fervent car-wheels roll, Your rivals clashing past the goal, Some sly Milanion leading.

Ah! with them may your Genius bring Some Celia, some Miss Mannering; For youthful friendship is a thing More precious than succeeding.

SAPPHO'S CURSING

Woman dead, lie there; No record of thee Shall there ever be, Since thou dost not share Roses in Pieria grown. In the deathful cave, With the feeble troop Of the folk that droop, Lurk and flit and crave, Woman severed and far-flown.

A SERVING MAN'S EPITAPH

A slave--oh yes, a slave! But in a freeman's grave. By thee, when work was done, Timanthes, foster-son, By thee whom I obeyed, My master, I was laid. Live long, from trouble free; But if thou com'st to me, Paying to age thy debt, Thine am I, master, yet.

A SONG TO A SINGER

Dura fida rubecula, Cur moraris in arbore Dum cadunt folia et brevi Flavet luce November.

Quid boni tibi destinat Hora crastina? quid petes Antris ex hiemalibus? Quid speras oriturum?

Est ut hospita te vocet Myrtis, et reseret fores, Ut te vere nitentibus Emiretur ocellis.

Quod si contigerit tibi, Ter beata vocaberis, Invidenda volucribus, Invidenda poetae.

AGE AND GIRLHOOD

A dry cicale chirps to a lass making hay, "Why creak'st thou, Tithonus?" quoth she. "I don't play; It doubles my toil, your importunate lay; I've earned a sweet pillow, lo! Hesper is nigh; I clasp a good wisp, and in fragrance I lie; But thou art unwearied, and empty, and dry."

A LEGEND OF PORTO SANTO

A time-worn sage without a home, A man of dim and tearful sight, Up from the hallowed haven clomb In lowly longing for the height.

He loiters on a half-way rock To hear the waves that pant and seethe, Which give the beats of Nature's clock To mortals conscious that they breathe.

The buxom waves may nurse a boat, May well nigh seem to soothe and lull The crying of a tethered goat, The trouble of a searching gull.

There might be comfort in the tide, There might be Lethe in the surge, Could they but hint that oceans hide, That pangs absolve, bereavements purge.

The thinker, not despairing yet, Upraises limbs not wholly stiff, Half envying him that draws the net, Half proud to combat with the cliff.

He groans, but soon around his lips Tear-channels bend into a smile, He thinks "They're saying in the ships I'm looking for the hidden isle.

I climb but as my humours lead, My thoughts are mazed, my will is faint, Yon men who see me roam, they need No Lethe-fount, no shriving saint."

Good faith! can we believe, or feign Believing, that such lands exist Through ages drenched with blotting rain, For ever folded in the mist?

Maybe some babe by sirens clothed Swam thence, and brought report thereof. Some hopeful virgin just betrothed Braved the incredulous pilot's scoff;

And murmuring to a friendly lute, While greybeards snored and beldames laughed, Some minstrel-corsair made pursuit Along the moon's white hunting-shaft;

Along the straight illumined track The bride, the singer, and the child Fled, far from sceptics, came not back, Engulped? Who knows? perhaps enisled.

Now were there such another crew, Now would their bark make room for me, Now were that island false or true, I'd go, forgetting, with the three.

TO A LINNET

My cheerful mate, you fret not for the wires, The changeless limits of your small desires; You heed not winter rime or summer dew, You feel no difference 'twixt old and new; You kindly take the lettuce or the cress Without the cognizance of more and less, Content with light and movement in a cage. Not reckoning hours, nor mortified by age, You bear no penance, you resent no wrong, Your timeless soul exists in each unconscious song.

A SONG FOR A PARTING

I. Flora will pass from firth to firth; Duty must draw, and vows must bind. Flora will sail half round the earth, Yet will she leave some grace behind.

II. Waft her, on Faith, from friend to friend, Make her a saint in some far isle; Yet will we keep, till memories end, Something that once was Flora's smile.

MIR IST LEIDE

Woe worth old Time the lord, Pointing his senseless sword Down on our festal board, Where we would dine, Chilling the kindly hall, Bidding the dainties pall, Making the garlands fall, Souring the wine.

LEBEWOHL--WORDS FOR A TUNE

I. With these words, Good-bye, Adieu Take I leave to part from you, Leave to go beyond your view, Through the haze of that which is to be; Fare thou forth, and wing thy way, So our language makes me say. Though it yield, the forward spirit needs must pray In the word that is hope's old token.

II. Though the fountain cease to play, Dew must glitter near the brink, Though the weary mind decay, As of old it thought so must it think. Leave alone the darkling eyes Fixed upon the moving skies, Cross the hands upon the bosom, there to rise To the throb of the faith not spoken.

REMEMBER

You come not, as aforetime, to the headstone every day, And I, who died, I do not chide because, my friend, you play; Only, in playing, think of him who once was kind and dear, And, if you see a beauteous thing, just say, he is not here.

APPENDIX

TO THE INFALLIBLE

("Ionica," 1858, p. 60)

Old angler, what device is thine To draw my pleasant friends from me? Thou fishest with a silken line Not the coarse nets of Galilee.

In stagnant vivaries they lie, Forgetful of their ancient haunts; And how shall he that standeth by Refrain his open mouth from taunts?

How? by remembering this, that he, Like them, in eddies whirled about, Felt less: for thus they disagree: He can, they could not, bear to doubt.

THE SWIMMER'S WISH

("Ionica," 1858, p. 81)

Fresh from the summer wave, under the beech, Looking through leaves with a far-darting eye, Tossing those river-pearled locks about, Throwing those delicate limbs straight out, Chiding the clouds as they sailed out of reach, Murmured the swimmer, I wish I could fly.

Laugh, if you like, at the bold reply, Answer disdainfully, flouting my words: How should the listener at simple sixteen Guess what a foolish old rhymer could mean Calmly predicting, "You will surely fly"-- Fish one might vie with, but how be like birds?

Sweet maiden-fancies, at present they range Close to a sister's engarlanded brows, Over the diamonds a mother will wear, In the false flowers to be shaped for her hair.-- Slow glide the hours to thee, late be the change, Long be thy rest 'neath the cool beechen boughs!

Genius and love will uplift thee: not yet, Walk through some passionless years by my side, Chasing the silly sheep, snapping the lily stalk, Drawing my secrets forth, witching my soul with talk. When the sap stays, and the blossom is set, Others will take the fruit, I shall have died.

AN APOLOGY

("Ionica," 1858, p. 115)

Uprose the temple of my love Sculptured with many a mystic theme, All frail and fanciful above, But pillared on a deep esteem.

It might have been a simpler plan, And traced on more majestic lines; But he that built it was a man Of will unstrung, and vague designs;

Not worthy, though indeed he wrought With reverence and a meek content, To keep that presence: yet the thought Is there, in frieze and pediment.

The trophied arms and treasured gold Have passed beneath the spoiler's hand; The shrine is bare, the altar cold, But let the outer fabric stand.

NOTRE DAME--FROM THE SOUTH-EAST

("Ionica," 1877)

Oh lord of high compassion, strong to scorn Ephemeral monsters, who with tragic pain Purgest our trivial humours, once again Through thine own Paris have I roamed, to mourn

For freemen plagued with cant, ere we were born, For feasts of death, and hatred's harvest wain Piled high, for princes from proud mothers torn, And soft despairs hushed in the waves of Seine.

Oh Victor, oh my prophet, wilt thou chide If Gudule's pangs, and Marion's frustrate plea, And Gauvrain's promise of a heavenly France, Thy sadly worshipt creatures, almost died This evening, for that spring was on the tree, And April dared in children's eyes to dance?

April 1877.

IN HONOUR OF MATTHEW PRIOR

("Ionica," 1877)

I am Her mirror, framed by him Who likes and knows her. On my rim No fret, no bead, no lace. He tells me not to mind the scorning Of every semblance of adorning, Since I receive Her face.

Sept. 1877.

The following little Greek lyric occurs in a letter of December 18, 1862, to the Rev. E. D. Stone. "My lines," wrote William Johnson, "are suggested by the death of Thorwaldsen: he died at the age of seventy, imperceptibly, having fallen asleep at a concert. But when I had done them, I remembered Provost Hawtrey's last appearance in public at a music party, where he fell asleep: and so I value my lines as a bit of honour done to him, and it seems odd that I should unintentionally have caught in the second and third lines his characteristic sympathy with the young...."

NEC CITHARA CARENTEM

Guide me with song, kind Muse, to death's dark shade; Keep me in sweet accord with boy and maid, Still in fresh blooms of art and truth arrayed.

Bear with old age, blithe child of memory! Time loves the good; and youth and thou art nigh To Sophocles and Plato, till they die.

Playmate of freedom, queen of nightingales, Draw near; thy voice grows faint: my spirit fails Still with thee, whether sleep or death assails.

End of Project Gutenberg's Ionica, by William Cory (AKA William Johnson)