Chapter 4

Another trice, and I beheld What first I had not scanned, That now and then she tapped and shook A timbrel in her hand.

So late the hour, so white her drape, So strange the look it lent To that blank hill, I could not guess What phantastry it meant.

Then burst I forth: “Why such from you? Are you so happy now?” Her voice swam on; nor did she show Thought of me anyhow.

I called again: “Come nearer; much That kind of note I need!” The song kept softening, loudening on, In placid calm unheed.

“What home is yours now?” then I said; “You seem to have no care.” But the wild wavering tune went forth As if I had not been there.

“This world is dark, and where you are,” I said, “I cannot be!” But still the happy one sang on, And had no heed of me.

THE FALLOW DEER AT THE LONELY HOUSE

ONE without looks in to-night Through the curtain-chink From the sheet of glistening white; One without looks in to-night As we sit and think By the fender-brink.

We do not discern those eyes Watching in the snow; Lit by lamps of rosy dyes We do not discern those eyes Wondering, aglow, Fourfooted, tiptoe.

THE SELFSAME SONG

A BIRD bills the selfsame song, With never a fault in its flow, That we listened to here those long Long years ago.

A pleasing marvel is how A strain of such rapturous rote Should have gone on thus till now Unchanged in a note!

—But it’s not the selfsame bird.— No: perished to dust is he . . . As also are those who heard That song with me.

THE WANDERER

THERE is nobody on the road But I, And no beseeming abode I can try For shelter, so abroad I must lie.

The stars feel not far up, And to be The lights by which I sup Glimmeringly, Set out in a hollow cup Over me.

They wag as though they were Panting for joy Where they shine, above all care, And annoy, And demons of despair— Life’s alloy.

Sometimes outside the fence Feet swing past, Clock-like, and then go hence, Till at last There is a silence, dense, Deep, and vast.

A wanderer, witch-drawn To and fro, To-morrow, at the dawn, On I go, And where I rest anon Do not know!

Yet it’s meet—this bed of hay And roofless plight; For there’s a house of clay, My own, quite, To roof me soon, all day And all night.

A WIFE COMES BACK

THIS is the story a man told me Of his life’s one day of dreamery.

A woman came into his room Between the dawn and the creeping day: She was the years-wed wife from whom He had parted, and who lived far away, As if strangers they.

He wondered, and as she stood She put on youth in her look and air, And more was he wonderstruck as he viewed Her form and flesh bloom yet more fair While he watched her there;

Till she freshed to the pink and brown That were hers on the night when first they met, When she was the charm of the idle town And he the pick of the club-fire set . . . His eyes grew wet,

And he stretched his arms: “Stay—rest!—” He cried. “Abide with me so, my own!” But his arms closed in on his hard bare breast; She had vanished with all he had looked upon Of her beauty: gone.

He clothed, and drew downstairs, But she was not in the house, he found; And he passed out under the leafy pairs Of the avenue elms, and searched around To the park-pale bound.

He mounted, and rode till night To the city to which she had long withdrawn, The vision he bore all day in his sight Being her young self as pondered on In the dim of dawn.

“—The lady here long ago— Is she now here?—young—or such age as she is?” “—She is still here.”—“Thank God. Let her know; She’ll pardon a comer so late as this Whom she’d fain not miss.”

She received him—an ancient dame, Who hemmed, with features frozen and numb, “How strange!—I’d almost forgotten your name!— A call just now—is troublesome; Why did you come?”

A YOUNG MAN’S EXHORTATION

CALL off your eyes from care By some determined deftness; put forth joys Dear as excess without the core that cloys, And charm Life’s lourings fair.

Exalt and crown the hour That girdles us, and fill it full with glee, Blind glee, excelling aught could ever be Were heedfulness in power.

Send up such touching strains That limitless recruits from Fancy’s pack Shall rush upon your tongue, and tender back All that your soul contains.

For what do we know best? That a fresh love-leaf crumpled soon will dry, And that men moment after moment die, Of all scope dispossest.

If I have seen one thing It is the passing preciousness of dreams; That aspects are within us; and who seems Most kingly is the King.

1867: WESTBOURNE PARK VILLAS.

AT LULWORTH COVE A CENTURY BACK

HAD I but lived a hundred years ago I might have gone, as I have gone this year, By Warmwell Cross on to a Cove I know, And Time have placed his finger on me there:

“_You see that man_?”—I might have looked, and said, “O yes: I see him. One that boat has brought Which dropped down Channel round Saint Alban’s Head. So commonplace a youth calls not my thought.”

“_You see that man_?”—“Why yes; I told you; yes: Of an idling town-sort; thin; hair brown in hue; And as the evening light scants less and less He looks up at a star, as many do.”

“_You see that man_?”—“Nay, leave me!” then I plead, “I have fifteen miles to vamp across the lea, And it grows dark, and I am weary-kneed: I have said the third time; yes, that man I see!

“Good. That man goes to Rome—to death, despair; And no one notes him now but you and I: A hundred years, and the world will follow him there, And bend with reverence where his ashes lie.”

_September_ 1920.

_Note_.—In September 1820 Keats, on his way to Rome, landed one day on the Dorset coast, and composed the sonnet, “Bright star! would I were steadfast as thou art.” The spot of his landing is judged to have been Lulworth Cove.

A BYGONE OCCASION (SONG)

THAT night, that night, That song, that song! Will such again be evened quite Through lifetimes long?

No mirth was shown To outer seers, But mood to match has not been known In modern years.

O eyes that smiled, O lips that lured; That such would last was one beguiled To think ensured!

That night, that night, That song, that song; O drink to its recalled delight, Though tears may throng!

TWO SERENADES

I _On Christmas Eve_

LATE on Christmas Eve, in the street alone, Outside a house, on the pavement-stone, I sang to her, as we’d sung together On former eves ere I felt her tether.— Above the door of green by me Was she, her casement seen by me; But she would not heed What I melodied In my soul’s sore need— She would not heed.

Cassiopeia overhead, And the Seven of the Wain, heard what I said As I bent me there, and voiced, and fingered Upon the strings. . . . Long, long I lingered: Only the curtains hid from her One whom caprice had bid from her; But she did not come, And my heart grew numb And dull my strum; She did not come.

II _A Year Later_

I SKIMMED the strings; I sang quite low; I hoped she would not come or know That the house next door was the one now dittied, Not hers, as when I had played unpitied; —Next door, where dwelt a heart fresh stirred, My new Love, of good will to me, Unlike my old Love chill to me, Who had not cared for my notes when heard: Yet that old Love came To the other’s name As hers were the claim; Yea, the old Love came

My viol sank mute, my tongue stood still, I tried to sing on, but vain my will: I prayed she would guess of the later, and leave me; She stayed, as though, were she slain by the smart, She would bear love’s burn for a newer heart. The tense-drawn moment wrought to bereave me Of voice, and I turned in a dumb despair At her finding I’d come to another there. Sick I withdrew At love’s grim hue Ere my last Love knew; Sick I withdrew.

From an old copy.

THE WEDDING MORNING

TABITHA dressed for her wedding:— “Tabby, why look so sad?” “—O I feel a great gloominess spreading, spreading, Instead of supremely glad! . . .

“I called on Carry last night, And he came whilst I was there, Not knowing I’d called. So I kept out of sight, And I heard what he said to her:

“‘—Ah, I’d far liefer marry _You_, Dear, to-morrow!’ he said, ‘But that cannot be.’—O I’d give him to Carry, And willingly see them wed,

“But how can I do it when His baby will soon be born? After that I hope I may die. And then She can have him. I shall not mourn!”

END OF THE YEAR 1912

YOU were here at his young beginning, You are not here at his agèd end; Off he coaxed you from Life’s mad spinning, Lest you should see his form extend Shivering, sighing, Slowly dying, And a tear on him expend.

So it comes that we stand lonely In the star-lit avenue, Dropping broken lipwords only, For we hear no songs from you, Such as flew here For the new year Once, while six bells swung thereto.

THE CHIMES PLAY “LIFE’S A BUMPER!”

“AWAKE! I’m off to cities far away,” I said; and rose, on peradventures bent. The chimes played “Life’s a Bumper!” on that day To the measure of my walking as I went: Their sweetness frisked and floated on the lea, As they played out “Life’s a Bumper!” there to me.

“Awake!” I said. “I go to take a bride!” —The sun arose behind me ruby-red As I journeyed townwards from the countryside, The chiming bells saluting near ahead. Their sweetness swelled in tripping tings of glee As they played out “Life’s a Bumper!” there to me.

“Again arise.” I seek a turfy slope, And go forth slowly on an autumn noon, And there I lay her who has been my hope, And think, “O may I follow hither soon!” While on the wind the chimes come cheerily, Playing out “Life’s a Bumper!” there to me.

1913.

“I WORKED NO WILE TO MEET YOU” (SONG)

I WORKED no wile to meet you, My sight was set elsewhere, I sheered about to shun you, And lent your life no care. I was unprimed to greet you At such a date and place, Constraint alone had won you Vision of my strange face!

You did not seek to see me Then or at all, you said, —Meant passing when you neared me, But stumblingblocks forbade. You even had thought to flee me, By other mindings moved; No influent star endeared me, Unknown, unrecked, unproved!

What, then, was there to tell us The flux of flustering hours Of their own tide would bring us By no device of ours To where the daysprings well us Heart-hydromels that cheer, Till Time enearth and swing us Round with the turning sphere.

AT THE RAILWAY STATION, UPWAY

“THERE is not much that I can do, For I’ve no money that’s quite my own!” Spoke up the pitying child— A little boy with a violin At the station before the train came in,— “But I can play my fiddle to you, And a nice one ’tis, and good in tone!”

The man in the handcuffs smiled; The constable looked, and he smiled, too, As the fiddle began to twang; And the man in the handcuffs suddenly sang Uproariously: “This life so free Is the thing for me!” And the constable smiled, and said no word, As if unconscious of what he heard; And so they went on till the train came in— The convict, and boy with the violin.

SIDE BY SIDE

SO there sat they, The estranged two, Thrust in one pew By chance that day; Placed so, breath-nigh, Each comer unwitting Who was to be sitting In touch close by.

Thus side by side Blindly alighted, They seemed united As groom and bride, Who’d not communed For many years— Lives from twain spheres With hearts distuned.

Her fringes brushed His garment’s hem As the harmonies rushed Through each of them: Her lips could be heard In the creed and psalms, And their fingers neared At the giving of alms.

And women and men, The matins ended, By looks commended Them, joined again. Quickly said she, “Don’t undeceive them— Better thus leave them:” “Quite so,” said he.

Slight words!—the last Between them said, Those two, once wed, Who had not stood fast. Diverse their ways From the western door, To meet no more In their span of days.

DREAM OF THE CITY SHOPWOMAN

’TWERE sweet to have a comrade here, Who’d vow to love this garreteer, By city people’s snap and sneer Tried oft and hard!

We’d rove a truant cock and hen To some snug solitary glen, And never be seen to haunt again This teeming yard.

Within a cot of thatch and clay We’d list the flitting pipers play, Our lives a twine of good and gay Enwreathed discreetly;

Our blithest deeds so neighbouring wise That doves should coo in soft surprise, “These must belong to Paradise Who live so sweetly.”

Our clock should be the closing flowers, Our sprinkle-bath the passing showers, Our church the alleyed willow bowers, The truth our theme;

And infant shapes might soon abound: Their shining heads would dot us round Like mushroom balls on grassy ground . . . —But all is dream!

O God, that creatures framed to feel A yearning nature’s strong appeal Should writhe on this eternal wheel In rayless grime;

And vainly note, with wan regret, Each star of early promise set; Till Death relieves, and they forget Their one Life’s time!

WESTBOURNE PARK VILLAS, 1866.

A MAIDEN’S PLEDGE (SONG)

I DO not wish to win your vow To take me soon or late as bride, And lift me from the nook where now I tarry your farings to my side. I am blissful ever to abide In this green labyrinth—let all be, If but, whatever may betide, You do not leave off loving me!

Your comet-comings I will wait With patience time shall not wear through; The yellowing years will not abate My largened love and truth to you, Nor drive me to complaint undue Of absence, much as I may pine, If never another ’twixt us two Shall come, and you stand wholly mine.

THE CHILD AND THE SAGE

YOU say, O Sage, when weather-checked, “I have been favoured so With cloudless skies, I must expect This dash of rain or snow.”

“Since health has been my lot,” you say, “So many months of late, I must not chafe that one short day Of sickness mars my state.”

You say, “Such bliss has been my share From Love’s unbroken smile, It is but reason I should bear A cross therein awhile.”

And thus you do not count upon Continuance of joy; But, when at ease, expect anon A burden of annoy.

But, Sage—this Earth—why not a place Where no reprisals reign, Where never a spell of pleasantness Makes reasonable a pain?

_December_ 21, 1908.

MISMET

I

HE was leaning by a face, He was looking into eyes, And he knew a trysting-place, And he heard seductive sighs; But the face, And the eyes, And the place, And the sighs, Were not, alas, the right ones—the ones meet for him— Though fine and sweet the features, and the feelings all abrim.

II

She was looking at a form, She was listening for a tread, She could feel a waft of charm When a certain name was said; But the form, And the tread, And the charm Of name said, Were the wrong ones for her, and ever would be so, While the heritor of the right it would have saved her soul to know!

AN AUTUMN RAIN-SCENE

THERE trudges one to a merry-making With a sturdy swing, On whom the rain comes down.

To fetch the saving medicament Is another bent, On whom the rain comes down.

One slowly drives his herd to the stall Ere ill befall, On whom the rain comes down.

This bears his missives of life and death With quickening breath, On whom the rain comes down.

One watches for signals of wreck or war From the hill afar, On whom the rain comes down.

No care if he gain a shelter or none, Unhired moves one, On whom the rain comes down.

And another knows nought of its chilling fall Upon him at all, On whom the rain comes down.

_October_ 1904.

MEDITATIONS ON A HOLIDAY (A NEW THEME TO AN OLD FOLK-JINGLE)

’TIS May morning, All-adorning, No cloud warning Of rain to-day. Where shall I go to, Go to, go to?— Can I say No to Lyonnesse-way?

Well—what reason Now at this season Is there for treason To other shrines? Tristram is not there, Isolt forgot there, New eras blot there Sought-for signs!

Stratford-on-Avon— Poesy-paven— I’ll find a haven There, somehow!— Nay—I’m but caught of Dreams long thought of, The Swan knows nought of His Avon now!

What shall it be, then, I go to see, then, Under the plea, then, Of votary? I’ll go to Lakeland, Lakeland, Lakeland, Certainly Lakeland Let it be.

But—why to that place, That place, that place, Such a hard come-at place Need I fare? When its bard cheers no more, Loves no more, fears no more, Sees no more, hears no more Anything there!

Ah, there is Scotland, Burns’s Scotland, And Waverley’s. To what land Better can I hie?— Yet—if no whit now Feel those of it now— Care not a bit now For it—why I?

I’ll seek a town street, Aye, a brick-brown street, Quite a tumbledown street, Drawing no eyes. For a Mary dwelt there, And a Percy felt there Heart of him melt there, A Claire likewise.

Why incline to _that_ city, Such a city, _that_ city, Now a mud-bespat city!— Care the lovers who Now live and walk there, Sit there and talk there, Buy there, or hawk there, Or wed, or woo?

Laughters in a volley Greet so fond a folly As nursing melancholy In this and that spot, Which, with most endeavour, Those can visit never, But for ever and ever Will now know not!

If, on lawns Elysian, With a broadened vision And a faint derision Conscious be they, How they might reprove me That these fancies move me, Think they ill behoove me, Smile, and say:

“What!—our hoar old houses, Where the past dead-drowses, Nor a child nor spouse is Of our name at all? Such abodes to care for, Inquire about and bear for, And suffer wear and tear for— How weak of you and small!”

_May_ 1921.

AN EXPERIENCE

WIT, weight, or wealth there was not In anything that was said, In anything that was done; All was of scope to cause not A triumph, dazzle, or dread To even the subtlest one, My friend, To even the subtlest one.

But there was a new afflation— An aura zephyring round, That care infected not: It came as a salutation, And, in my sweet astound, I scarcely witted what Might pend, I scarcely witted what.

The hills in samewise to me Spoke, as they grayly gazed, —First hills to speak so yet! The thin-edged breezes blew me What I, though cobwebbed, crazed, Was never to forget, My friend, Was never to forget!

THE BEAUTY

O DO not praise my beauty more, In such word-wild degree, And say I am one all eyes adore; For these things harass me!

But do for ever softly say: “From now unto the end Come weal, come wanzing, come what may, Dear, I will be your friend.”

I hate my beauty in the glass: My beauty is not I: I wear it: none cares whether, alas, Its wearer live or die!

The inner I O care for, then, Yea, me and what I am, And shall be at the gray hour when My cheek begins to clam.

_Note_.—“The Regent Street beauty, Miss Verrey, the Swiss confectioner’s daughter, whose personal attractions have been so mischievously exaggerated, died of fever on Monday evening, brought on by the annoyance she had been for some time subject to.”—London paper, October 1828.

THE COLLECTOR CLEANS HIS PICTURE

Fili hominis, ecce ego tollo a te desiderabile oculorum tuorom in plaga.—EZECH. xxiv. 16.

HOW I remember cleaning that strange picture! I had been deep in duty for my sick neighbour— His besides my own—over several Sundays, Often, too, in the week; so with parish pressures, Baptisms, burials, doctorings, conjugal counsel— All the whatnots asked of a rural parson— Faith, I was well-nigh broken, should have been fully Saving for one small secret relaxation, One that in mounting manhood had grown my hobby.

This was to delve at whiles for easel-lumber, Stowed in the backmost slums of a soon-reached city, Merely on chance to uncloak some worthy canvas, Panel, or plaque, blacked blind by uncouth adventure, Yet under all concealing a precious art-feat. Such I had found not yet. My latest capture Came from the rooms of a trader in ancient house-gear Who had no scent of beauty or soul for brushcraft. Only a tittle cost it—murked with grime-films, Gatherings of slow years, thick-varnished over, Never a feature manifest of man’s painting.

So, one Saturday, time ticking hard on midnight Ere an hour subserved, I set me upon it. Long with coiled-up sleeves I cleaned and yet cleaned, Till a first fresh spot, a high light, looked forth, Then another, like fair flesh, and another; Then a curve, a nostril, and next a finger, Tapering, shapely, significantly pointing slantwise. “Flemish?” I said. “Nay, Spanish . . . But, nay, Italian!” —Then meseemed it the guise of the ranker Venus, Named of some Astarte, of some Cotytto. Down I knelt before it and kissed the panel, Drunk with the lure of love’s inhibited dreamings.

Till the dawn I rubbed, when there gazed up at me A hag, that had slowly emerged from under my hands there, Pointing the slanted finger towards a bosom Eaten away of a rot from the lusts of a lifetime . . . —I could have ended myself in heart-shook horror. Stunned I sat till roused by a clear-voiced bell-chime, Fresh and sweet as the dew-fleece under my luthern. It was the matin service calling to me From the adjacent steeple.

THE WOOD FIRE (A FRAGMENT)

“THIS is a brightsome blaze you’ve lit good friend, to-night!” “—Aye, it has been the bleakest spring I have felt for years, And nought compares with cloven logs to keep alight: I buy them bargain-cheap of the executioners, As I dwell near; and they wanted the crosses out of sight By Passover, not to affront the eyes of visitors.

“Yes, they’re from the crucifixions last week-ending At Kranion. We can sometimes use the poles again, But they get split by the nails, and ’tis quicker work than mending To knock together new; though the uprights now and then Serve twice when they’re let stand. But if a feast’s impending, As lately, you’ve to tidy up for the corners’ ken.